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2023-11-16 18:50:07.1782770 | 7,091 | 92 |
Produced by Amy E. Zelmer
CRITICISMS ON "THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES"
'The Natural History Review', 1864
[1]
By Thomas H. Huxley
In the course of the present year several foreign commentaries upon Mr.
Darwin's great work have made their appearance. Those who have perused
that remarkable chapter of the 'Antiquity of Man,' in which Sir Charles
Lyell draws a parallel between the development of species and that of
languages, will be glad to hear that one of the most eminent philologers
of Germany, Professor Schleicher, has, independently, published a most
instructive and philosophical pamphlet (an excellent notice of which is
to be found in the 'Reader', for February 27th of this year) supporting
similar views with all the weight of his special knowledge and
established authority as a linguist. Professor Haeckel, to whom
Schleicher addresses himself, previously took occasion, in his splendid
monograph on the 'Radiolaria' [2], to express his high appreciation of,
and general concordance with, Mr. Darwin's views.
But the most elaborate criticisms of the 'Origin of Species' which
have appeared are two works of very widely different merit, the one
by Professor Kolliker, the well-known anatomist and histologist of
Wurzburg; the other by M. Flourens, Perpetual Secretary of the French
Academy of Sciences.
Professor Kolliker's critical essay 'Upon the Darwinian Theory' is,
like all that proceeds from the pen of that thoughtful and accomplished
writer, worthy of the most careful consideration. It comprises a brief
but clear sketch of Darwin's views, followed by an enumeration of the
leading difficulties in the way of their acceptance; difficulties which
would appear to be insurmountable to Professor Kolliker, inasmuch as
he proposes to replace Mr. Darwin's Theory by one which he terms the
'Theory of Heterogeneous Generation.' We shall proceed to consider first
the destructive, and secondly, the constructive portion of the essay.
We regret to find ourselves compelled to dissent very widely from many
of Professor Kolliker's remarks; and from none more thoroughly than from
those in which he seeks to define what we may term the philosophical
position of Darwinism.
"Darwin," says Professor Kolliker, "is, in the fullest sense of the
word, a Teleologist. He says quite distinctly (First Edition, pp.
199, 200) that every particular in the structure of an animal has been
created for its benefit, and he regards the whole series of animal forms
only from this point of view."
And again:
"7. The teleological general conception adopted by Darwin is a mistaken
one.
"Varieties arise irrespectively of the notion of purpose, or of utility,
according to general laws of Nature, and may be either useful, or
hurtful, or indifferent.
"The assumption that an organism exists only on account of some definite
end in view, and represents something more than the incorporation of a
general idea, or law, implies a one-sided conception of the universe.
Assuredly, every organ has, and every organism fulfils, its end, but its
purpose is not the condition of its existence. Every organism is also
sufficiently perfect for the purpose it serves, and in that, at least,
it is useless to seek for a cause of its improvement."
It is singular how differently one and the same book will impress
different minds. That which struck the present writer most forcibly on
his first perusal of the 'Origin of Species' was the conviction that
Teleology, as commonly understood, had received its deathblow at Mr.
Darwin's hands. For the teleological argument runs thus: an organ or
organism (A) is precisely fitted to perform a function or purpose (B);
therefore it was specially constructed to perform that function. In
Paley's famous illustration, the adaptation of all the parts of the
watch to the function, or purpose, of showing the time, is held to be
evidence that the watch was specially contrived to that end; on the
ground, that the only cause we know of, competent to produce such an
effect as a watch which shall keep time, is a contriving intelligence
adapting the means directly to that end.
Suppose, however, that any one had been able to show that the watch had
not been made directly by any person, but that it was the result of the
modification of another watch which kept time but poorly; and that this
again had proceeded from a structure which could hardly be called a
watch at all--seeing that it had no figures on the dial and the hands
were rudimentary; and that going back and back in time we came at last
to a revolving barrel as the earliest traceable rudiment of the whole
fabric. And imagine that it had been possible to show that all these
changes had resulted, first, from a tendency of the structure to vary
indefinitely; and secondly, from something in the surrounding world
which helped all variations in the direction of an accurate time-keeper,
and checked all those in other directions; then it is obvious that the
force of Paley's argument would be gone. For it would be demonstrated
that an apparatus thoroughly well adapted to a particular purpose might
be the result of a method of trial and error worked by unintelligent
agents, as well as of the direct application of the means appropriate to
that end, by an intelligent agent.
Now it appears to us that what we have here, for illustration's sake,
supposed to be done with the watch, is exactly what the establishment of
Darwin's Theory will do for the organic world. For the notion that every
organism has been created as it is and launched straight at a purpose,
Mr. Darwin substitutes the conception of something which may fairly be
termed a method of trial and error. Organisms vary incessantly; of these
variations the few meet with surrounding conditions which suit them and
thrive; the many are unsuited and become extinguished.
According to Teleology, each organism is like a rifle bullet fired
straight at a mark; according to Darwin, organisms are like grapeshot of
which one hits something and the rest fall wide.
For the teleologist an organism exists because it was made for the
conditions in which it is found; for the Darwinian an organism exists
because, out of many of its kind, it is the only one which has been able
to persist in the conditions in which it is found.
Teleology implies that the organs of every organism are perfect and
cannot be improved; the Darwinian theory simply affirms that they
work well enough to enable the organism to hold its own against such
competitors as it has met with, but admits the possibility of indefinite
improvement. But an example may bring into clearer light the profound
opposition between the ordinary teleological, and the Darwinian,
conception.
Cats catch mice, small birds and the like, very well. Teleology tells
us that they do so because they were expressly constructed for so
doing--that they are perfect mousing apparatuses, so perfect and so
delicately adjusted that no one of their organs could be altered,
without the change involving the alteration of all the rest. Darwinism
affirms on the contrary, that there was no express construction
concerned in the matter; but that among the multitudinous variations of
the Feline stock, many of which died out from want of power to resist
opposing influences, some, the cats, were better fitted to catch mice
than others, whence they throve and persisted, in proportion to the
advantage over their fellows thus offered to them.
Far from imagining that cats exist 'in order' to catch mice well,
Darwinism supposes that cats exist 'because' they catch mice
well--mousing being not the end, but the condition, of their existence.
And if the cat type has long persisted as we know it, the interpretation
of the fact upon Darwinian principles would be, not that the cats
have remained invariable, but that such varieties as have incessantly
occurred have been, on the whole, less fitted to get on in the world
than the existing stock.
If we apprehend the spirit of the 'Origin of Species' rightly, then,
nothing can be more entirely and absolutely opposed to Teleology, as it
is commonly understood, than the Darwinian Theory. So far from being a
"Teleologist in the fullest sense of the word," we would deny that he
is a Teleologist in the ordinary sense at all; and we should say that,
apart from his merits as a naturalist, he has rendered a most remarkable
service to philosophical thought by enabling the student of Nature to
recognise, to their fullest extent, those adaptations to purpose which
are so striking in the organic world, and which Teleology has done
good service in keeping before our minds, without being false to the
fundamental principles of a scientific conception of the universe.
The apparently diverging teachings of the Teleologist and of the
Morphologist are reconciled by the Darwinian hypothesis.
But leaving our own impressions of the 'Origin of Species,' and turning
to those passages especially cited by Professor Kolliker, we cannot
admit that they bear the interpretation he puts upon them. Darwin, if we
read him rightly, does 'not' affirm that every detail in the structure
of an animal has been created for its benefit. His words are (p. 199):--
"The foregoing remarks lead me to say a few words on the protest lately
made by some naturalists against the utilitarian doctrine that every
detail of structure has been produced for the good of its possessor.
They believe that very many structures have been created for beauty in
the eyes of man, or for mere variety. This doctrine, if true, would be
absolutely fatal to my theory--yet I fully admit that many structures
are of no direct use to their possessor."
And after sundry illustrations and qualifications, he concludes (p.
200):--
"Hence every detail of structure in every living creature (making some
little allowance for the direct action of physical conditions) may be
viewed either as having been of special use to some ancestral form,
or as being now of special use to the descendants of this form--either
directly, or indirectly, through the complex laws of growth."
But it is one thing to say, Darwinically, that every detail observed
in an animal's structure is of use to it, or has been of use to its
ancestors; and quite another to affirm, teleologically, that every
detail of an animal's structure has been created for its benefit. On the
former hypothesis, for example, the teeth of the foetal Balaena have
a meaning; on the latter, none. So far as we are aware, there is not
a phrase in the 'Origin of Species', inconsistent with Professor
Kolliker's position, that "varieties arise irrespectively of the notion
of purpose, or of utility, according to general laws of Nature, and may
be either useful, or hurtful, or indifferent."
On the contrary, Mr. Darwin writes (Summary of Chap. V.):--
"Our ignorance of the laws of variation is profound. Not in one case out
of a hundred can we pretend to assign any reason why this or that part
varies more or less from the same part in the parents.... The external
conditions of life, as climate and food, etc., seem to have induced some
slight modifications. Habit, in producing constitutional differences,
and use, in strengthening, and disuse, in weakening and diminishing
organs, seem to have been more potent in their effects."
And finally, as if to prevent all possible misconception, Mr. Darwin
concludes his Chapter on Variation with these pregnant words:--
"Whatever the cause may be of each slight difference in the offspring
from their parents--and a cause for each must exist--it is the steady
accumulation, through natural selection of such differences, when
beneficial to the individual, that gives rise to all the more important
modifications of structure which the innumerable beings on the face of
the earth are enabled to struggle with each other, and the best adapted
to survive."
We have dwelt at length upon this subject, because of its great general
importance, and because we believe that Professor Kolliker's criticisms
on this head are based upon a misapprehension of Mr. Darwin's
views--substantially they appear to us to coincide with his own. The
other objections which Professor Kolliker enumerates and discusses are
the following [3]:--
"1. No transitional forms between existing species are known; and
known varieties, whether selected or spontaneous, never go so far as to
establish new species."
To this Professor Kolliker appears to attach some weight. He makes the
suggestion that the short-faced tumbler pigeon may be a pathological
product.
"2. No transitional forms of animals are met with among the organic
remains of earlier epochs."
Upon this, Professor Kolliker remarks that the absence of transitional
forms in the fossil world, though not necessarily fatal to Darwin's
views, weakens his case.
"3. The struggle for existence does not take place."
To this objection, urged by Pelzeln, Kolliker, very justly, attaches no
weight.
"4. A tendency of organisms to give rise to useful varieties, and a
natural selection, do not exist.
"The varieties which are found arise in consequence of manifold external
influences, and it is not obvious why they all, or partially, should be
particularly useful. Each animal suffices for its own ends, is perfect
of its kind, and needs no further development. Should, however, a
variety be useful and even maintain itself, there is no obvious
reason why it should change any further. The whole conception of the
imperfection of organisms and the necessity of their becoming perfected
is plainly the weakest side of Darwin's Theory, and a 'pis aller'
(Nothbehelf) because Darwin could think of no other principle by which
to explain the metamorphoses which, as I also believe, have occurred."
Here again we must venture to dissent completely from Professor
Kolliker's conception of Mr. Darwin's hypothesis. It appears to us to be
one of the many peculiar merits of that hypothesis that it involves no
belief in a necessary and continual progress of organisms.
Again, Mr. Darwin, if we read him aright, assumes no special tendency of
organisms to give rise to useful varieties, and knows nothing of
needs of development, or necessity of perfection. What he says is, in
substance: All organisms vary. It is in the highest degree improbable
that any given variety should have exactly the same relations to
surrounding conditions as the parent stock. In that case it is either
better fitted (when the variation may be called useful), or worse
fitted, to cope with them. If better, it will tend to supplant the
parent stock; if worse, it will tend to be extinguished by the parent
stock.
If (as is hardly conceivable) the new variety is so perfectly adapted
to the conditions that no improvement upon it is possible,--it will
persist, because, though it does not cease to vary, the varieties will
be inferior to itself.
If, as is more probable, the new variety is by no means perfectly
adapted to its conditions, but only fairly well adapted to them, it will
persist, so long as none of the varieties which it throws off are better
adapted than itself.
On the other hand, as soon as it varies in a useful way, i.e. when the
variation is such as to adapt it more perfectly to its conditions, the
fresh variety will tend to supplant the former.
So far from a gradual progress towards perfection forming any necessary
part of the Darwinian creed, it appears to us that it is perfectly
consistent with indefinite persistence in one estate, or with a gradual
retrogression. Suppose, for example, a return of the glacial epoch and a
spread of polar climatal conditions over the whole globe. The operation
of natural selection under these circumstances would tend, on the whole,
to the weeding out of the higher organisms and the cherishing of the
lower forms of life. Cryptogamic vegetation would have the advantage
over Phanerogamic; Hydrozoa over Corals; Crustacea over Insecta, and
Amphipoda and Isopoda over the higher Crustacea; Cetaceans and Seals
over the Primates; the civilization of the Esquimaux over that of the
European.
"5. Pelzeln has also objected that if the later organisms have proceeded
from the earlier, the whole developmental series, from the simplest to
the highest, could not now exist; in such a case the simpler organisms
must have disappeared."
To this Professor Kolliker replies, with perfect justice, that the
conclusion drawn by Pelzeln does not really follow from Darwin's
premisses, and that, if we take the facts of Palaeontology as they
stand, they rather support than oppose Darwin's theory.
"6. Great weight must be attached to the objection brought forward by
Huxley, otherwise a warm supporter of Darwin's hypothesis, that we know
of no varieties which are sterile with one another, as is the rule among
sharply distinguished animal forms.
"If Darwin is right, it must be demonstrated that forms may be produced
by selection, which, like the present sharply distinguished animal
forms, are infertile, when coupled with one another, and this has not
been done."
The weight of this objection is obvious; but our ignorance of the
conditions of fertility and sterility, the want of carefully conducted
experiments extending over long series of years, and the strange
anomalies presented by the results of the cross-fertilization of many
plants, should all, as Mr. Darwin has urged, be taken into account in
considering it.
The seventh objection is that we have already discussed ('supra', p.
178).
The eighth and last stands as follows:--
"8. The developmental theory of Darwin is not needed to enable us to
understand the regular harmonious progress of the complete series of
organic forms from the simpler to the more perfect.
"The existence of general laws of Nature explains this harmony, even if
we assume that all beings have arisen separately and independent of one
another. Darwin forgets that inorganic nature, in which there can be no
thought of genetic connexion of forms, exhibits the same regular plan,
the same harmony, as the organic world; and that, to cite only one
example, there is as much a natural system of minerals as of plants and
animals."
We do not feel quite sure that we seize Professor Kolliker's meaning
here, but he appears to suggest that the observation of the general
order and harmony which pervade inorganic nature, would lead us to
anticipate a similar order and harmony in the organic world. And this is
no doubt true, but it by no means follows that the particular order
and harmony observed among them should be that which we see. Surely the
stripes of dun horses, and the teeth of the foetal 'Balaena', are not
explained by the "existence of general laws of Nature." Mr. Darwin
endeavours to explain the exact order of organic nature which exists;
not the mere fact that there is some order.
And with regard to the existence of a natural system of minerals; the
obvious reply is that there may be a natural classification of any
objects--of stones on a sea-beach, or of works of art; a natural
classification being simply an assemblage of objects in groups, so as
to express their most important and fundamental resemblances and
differences. No doubt Mr. Darwin believes that those resemblances and
differences upon which our natural systems or classifications of animals
and plants are based, are resemblances and differences which have been
produced genetically, but we can discover no reason for supposing that
he denies the existence of natural classifications of other kinds.
And, after all, is it quite so certain that a genetic relation may not
underlie the classification of minerals? The inorganic world has not
always been what we see it. It has certainly had its metamorphoses,
and, very probably, a long "Entwickelungsgeschichte" out of a nebular
blastema. Who knows how far that amount of likeness among sets of
minerals, in virtue of which they are now grouped into families and
orders, may not be the expression of the common conditions to which that
particular patch of nebulous fog, which may have been constituted by
their atoms, and of which they may be, in the strictest sense, the
descendants, was subjected?
It will be obvious from what has preceded, that we do not agree with
Professor Kolliker in thinking the objections which he brings forward
so weighty as to be fatal to Darwin's view. But even if the case were
otherwise, we should be unable to accept the "Theory of Heterogeneous
Generation" which is offered as a substitute. That theory is thus
stated:--
"The fundamental conception of this hypothesis is, that, under the
influence of a general law of development, the germs of organisms
produce others different from themselves. This might happen (1) by
the fecundated ova passing, in the course of their development, under
particular circumstances, into higher forms; (2) by the primitive and
later organisms producing other organisms without fecundation, out of
germs or eggs (Parthenogenesis)."
In favour of this hypothesis, Professor Kolliker adduces the well-known
facts of Agamogenesis, or "alternate generation"; the extreme
dissimilarity of the males and females of many animals; and of the
males, females, and neuters of those insects which live in colonies: and
he defines its relations to the Darwinian theory as follows:--
"It is obvious that my hypothesis is apparently very similar to
Darwin's, inasmuch as I also consider that the various forms of animals
have proceeded directly from one another. My hypothesis of the creation
of organisms by heterogeneous generation, however, is distinguished
very essentially from Darwin's by the entire absence of the principle
of useful variations and their natural selection: and my fundamental
conception is this, that a great plan of development lies at the
foundation of the origin of the whole organic world, impelling the
simpler forms to more and more complex developments. How this law
operates, what influences determine the development of the eggs and
germs, and impel them to assume constantly new forms, I naturally cannot
pretend to say; but I can at least adduce the great analogy of the
alternation of generations. If a 'Bipinnaria', a 'Brachialaria', a
'Pluteus', is competent to produce the Echinoderm, which is so widely
different from it; if a hydroid polype can produce the higher Medusa;
if the vermiform Trematode 'nurse' can develop within itself the very
unlike 'Cercaria', it will not appear impossible that the egg, or
ciliated embryo, of a sponge, for once, under special conditions, might
become a hydroid polype, or the embryo of a Medusa, an Echinoderm."
It is obvious, from these extracts, that Professor Kolliker's hypothesis
is based upon the supposed existence of a close analogy between the
phenomena of Agamogenesis and the production of new species from
pre-existing ones. But is the analogy a real one? We think that it is
not, and, by the hypothesis, cannot be.
For what are the phenomena of Agamogenesis, stated generally? An
impregnated egg develops into an asexual form, A; this gives rise,
asexually, to a second form or forms, B, more or less different from A.
B may multiply asexually again; in the simpler cases, however, it does
not, but, acquiring sexual characters, produces impregnated eggs from
whence A, once more, arises.
No case of Agamogenesis is known in which, 'when A differs widely from
B', it is itself capable of sexual propagation. No case whatever is
known in which the progeny of B, by sexual generation, is other than a
reproduction of A.
But if this be a true statement of the nature of the process of
Agamogenesis, how can it enable us to comprehend the production of
new species from already existing ones? Let us suppose Hyaenas to have
preceded Dogs, and to have produced the latter in this way. Then the
Hyena will represent A, and the Dog, B. The first difficulty that
presents itself is that the Hyena must be asexual, or the process will
be wholly without analogy in the world of Agamogenesis. But passing over
this difficulty, and supposing a male and female Dog to be produced at
the same time from the Hyaena stock, the progeny of the pair, if the
analogy of the simpler kinds of Agamogenesis [4] is to be followed,
should be a litter, not of puppies, but of young Hyenas. For the
Agamogenetic series is always, as we have seen, A: B: A: B, etc.;
whereas, for the production of a new species, the series must be A:
B: B: B, etc. The production of new species, or genera, is the extreme
permanent divergence from the primitive stock. All known Agamogenetic
processes, on the other hand, end in a complete return to the primitive
stock. How then is the production of new species to be rendered
intelligible by the analogy of Agamogenesis?
The other alternative put by Professor Kolliker--the passage of
fecundated ova in the course of their development into higher
forms--would, if it occurred, be merely an extreme case of variation in
the Darwinian sense, greater in degree than, but perfectly similar in
kind to, that which occurred when the well-known Ancon Ram was developed
from an ordinary Ewe's ovum. Indeed we have always thought that Mr.
Darwin has unnecessarily hampered himself by adhering so strictly to his
favourite "Natura non facit saltum." We greatly suspect that she does
make considerable jumps in the way of variation now and then, and that
these saltations give rise to some of the gaps which appear to exist in
the series of known forms.
Strongly and freely as we have ventured to disagree with Professor
Kolliker, we have always done so with regret, and we trust without
violating that respect which is due, not only to his scientific eminence
and to the careful study which he has devoted to the subject, but to the
perfect fairness of his argumentation, and the generous appreciation of
the worth of Mr. Darwin's labours which he always displays. It would be
satisfactory to be able to say as much for M. Flourens.
But the Perpetual Secretary of the French Academy of Sciences deals with
Mr. Darwin as the first Napoleon would have treated an "ideologue;"
and while displaying a painful weakness of logic and shallowness of
information, assumes a tone of authority, which always touches upon the
ludicrous, and sometimes passes the limits of good breeding.
For example (p. 56):--
"M. Darwin continue: 'Aucune distinction absolue n'a ete et ne pout etre
etablie entre les especes et les varietes.' Je vous ai deja dit que vous
vous trompiez; une distinction absolue separe les varietes d'avec les
especes."
"Je vous ai deja dit; moi, M. le Secretaire perpetuel de l'Academie des
Sciences: et vous
'Qui n'etes rien, Pas meme Academicien;'
what do you mean by asserting the contrary?' Being devoid of the
blessings of an Academy in England, we are unaccustomed to see our
ablest men treated in this fashion, even by a "Perpetual Secretary."
Or again, considering that if there is any one quality of Mr. Darwin's
work to which friends and foes have alike borne witness, it is his
candour and fairness in admitting and discussing objections, what is to
be thought of M. Flourens' assertion, that
"M. Darwin ne cite que les auteurs qui partagent ses opinions." (P. 40.)
Once more (p. 65):--
"Enfin l'ouvrage de M. Darwin a paru. On ne peut qu'etre frappe du
talent de l'auteur. Mais que d'idees obscures, que d'idees fausses! Quel
jargon metaphysique jete mal a propos dans l'histoire naturelle, qui
tombe dans le galimatias des qu'elle sort des idees claires, des idees
justes! Quel langage pretentieux et vide! Quelles personifications
pueriles et surannees! O lucidite! O solidite de l'esprit Francais, que
devenez-vous?"
"Obscure ideas," "metaphysical jargon," "pretentious and empty
language," "puerile and superannuated personifications." Mr. Darwin has
many and hot opponents on this side of the Channel and in Germany,
but we do not recollect to have found precisely these sins in the long
catalogue of those hitherto laid to his charge. It is worth while,
therefore, to examine into these discoveries effected solely by the aid
of the "lucidity and solidity" of the mind of M. Flourens.
According to M. Flourens, Mr. Darwin's great error is that he has
personified Nature (p. 10), and further that he has
"imagined a natural selection: he imagines afterwards that this power of
selection (pouvoir d'lire) which he gives to Nature is similar to the
power of man. These two suppositions admitted, nothing stops him: he
plays with Nature as he likes, and makes her do all he pleases." (P. 6.)
And this is the way M. Flourens extinguishes natural selection:
"Voyons donc encore une fois, ce qu'il peut y avoir de fonde dans ce
qu'on nomme election naturelle.
"L'election naturelle n'est sous un autre nom que la nature. Pour un
etre organise, la nature n'est que l'organisation, ni plus ni moins.
"Il faudra donc aussi personnifier l'organisation, et dire que
l'organisation choisit l'organisation. L'election naturelle est cette
forme substantielle dont on jouait autrefois avec tant de facilite.
Aristote disait que 'Si l'art de batir etait dans le bois, cet art
agirait comme la nature.' A la place de l'art de batir M. Darwin met
l'election naturelle, et c'est tout un: l'un n'est pas plus chimerique
que l'autre." (P.31.)
And this is really all that M. Flourens can make of Natural Selection.
We have given the original, in fear lest a translation should be
regarded as a travesty; but with the original before the reader, we
may try to analyse the passage. "For an organized being, Nature is only
organization, neither more nor less."
Organized beings then have absolutely no relation to inorganic nature: a
plant does not, depend on soil or sunshine, climate, depth in the
ocean, height above it; the quantity of saline matters in water have no
influence upon animal life; the substitution of carbonic acid for oxygen
in our atmosphere would hurt nobody! That these are absurdities no one
should know better than M. Flourens; but they are logical deductions
from the assertion just quoted, and from the further statement that
natural selection means only that "organization chooses and selects
organization."
For if it be once admitted (what no sane man denies) that the chances of
life of any given organism are increased by certain conditions (A) and
diminished by their opposites (B), then it is mathematically certain
that any change of conditions in the direction of (A) will exercise a
selective influence in favour of that organism, tending to its increase
and multiplication, while any change in the direction of (B) will
exercise a selective influence against that organism, tending to its
decrease and extinction.
Or, on the other hand, conditions remaining the same, let a given
organism vary (and no one doubts that they do vary) in two directions:
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not be reproduced in any form without permission.
Made in the United States of America
----------------------------------------------------------------------
Somerset, Mass.
Dear Priscilla:
You have taken such a fancy to little Clematis that we hope other
children may like her, too. We may not be able to buy you all the
ponies, and goats, and dogs, and cats that you would like, but we
will dedicate the book to you, and then you can play with all the
animals Clematis has, any time you wish.
With much love, from
Bertha B. and Ernest Cobb.
To Miss Priscilla Cobb.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
Chapter Page
1. Lost in a Big City 1
2. The Children's Home 16
3. The First Night 28
4. Who is Clematis? 41
5. Clematis Begins to Learn 52
6. Clematis Has a Hard Row to Hoe 61
7. What Clematis Found 72
8. A Visitor 86
9. The Secret 97
10. Two Doctors 109
11. A Long, Anxious Night 121
12. Getting Well 134
13. Off for Tilton 145
14. The Country 160
15. Clematis Tries to Help 172
16. Only a Few Days More 186
17. Where is Clematis? 200
18. Hunting for Clematis 215
19. New Plans 230
20. The True Fairy Story 237
----------------------------------------------------------------------
ILLUSTRATIONS
1. "Are you going to sit here all day, little girl?"
2. "I don't want to stay here if you're going to throw my cat away."
3. With Katie in the kitchen.
4. Thinking of the land of flowers.
5. Clematis held out her hand.
6. Clematis is better.
7. Off for Tilton.
8. In the country at last.
9. The little red hen.
10. Clematis watched the little fishes by the shore.
11. "I shan't be afraid."
12. A little girl was coming up the path.
13. Deborah was very hungry.
14. "Didn't you ever peel potatoes?"
15. "What are you sewing?"
16. Clematis stuck one hand out.
17. She could see the little fish.
18. In Grandfather's house.
----------------------------------------------------------------------
CLEMATIS
CHAPTER I
LOST IN THE BIG CITY
It was early Spring. A warm sun shone down upon the city street. On
the edge of the narrow brick sidewalk a little girl was sitting.
Her gingham dress was old and shabby. The short, brown coat had lost
all its buttons, and a rusty pin held it together.
A faded blue cap partly covered her brown hair, which hung in short,
loose curls around her face.
She had been sitting there almost an hour when a policeman came
along.
"I wonder where that girl belongs," he said, as he looked down at
her. "She is a new one on Chambers Street."
He walked on, but he looked back as he walked, to see if she went
away.
The child slowly raised her big, brown eyes to look after him. She
watched him till he reached the corner by the meat shop; then she
looked down and began to kick at the stones with her thin boots.
At this moment a bell rang. A door opened in a building across the
street, and many children came out.
As they passed the little girl, some of them looked at her. One
little boy bent down to see her face, but she hid it under her arm.
"What are you afraid of?" he asked. "Who's going to hurt you?"
She did not answer.
Another boy opened his lunch box as he passed, and shook out the
pieces of bread, left from his lunch.
Soon the children were gone, and the street was quiet again.
The little girl kicked at the stones a few minutes; then she looked
up. No one was looking at her, so she reached out one little hand
and picked up a crust of bread.
In a wink the bread was in her mouth. She reached out for another,
brushed off a little dirt, and ate that also.
Just then the policeman came down the street from the other corner.
The child quickly bent her head and looked down.
This time he came to where she sat, and stopped.
"Are you going to sit here all day, little girl?" he asked.
She did not answer.
"Your mother will be looking for you. You'd better run home now,
like a good girl. Where do you live, anyway?"
He bent down and lifted her chin, so she had to look up at him.
"Where do you live, miss? Tell us now, that's a good girl."
"I don't know." The child spoke slowly, half afraid.
"O come now, of course you know, a big girl like you ought to know.
What's the name of the street?"
"I don't know."
"Ah, you're only afraid of me. Don't be afraid of Jim Cunneen now.
I've a little girl at home just about your age."
He waited for her to answer, but she said nothing.
"Come miss, you must think. How can I take you home if you don't
tell me where you live?"
"I don't know."
"Oh, dear me! That is all I get for an answer. Well then, I'll have
to take you down to the station. May be you will find a tongue down
there."
As he spoke, he took hold of her arm to help her up. Then he tried
one more question.
"What is your name?"
"My name is Clematis."
As she spoke she moved her arm, and out from the coat peeped a
kitten. It was white, with a black spot over one eye.
"There, that is better," answered the policeman. "Now tell me your
last name."
"That is all the name I have, just Clematis."
"Well then, what is your father's name?"
"I haven't any father."
"Ah, that is too bad, dear. Then tell me your mother's name." He
bent down lower to hear her reply.
"I haven't any mother, either."
"No father? No mother?" The policeman lifted her gently to her feet.
"Well miss, we won't stay here any longer. It is getting late."
Just then the kitten stuck its head out from her coat and said,
"Miew."
It seemed very glad to move on.
"What's that now, a cat? Where did you get that?"
"It is my kitty, my very own, so I kept it. I didn't steal it. Its
name is Deborah, and it is my very own."
"Ah, now she is finding her tongue," said the policeman, smiling;
while Clematis hugged the kitten.
But the little girl could tell him no more, so he led her along the
street toward the police station.
Before they had gone very far, they passed a baker's shop.
In the window were rolls, and cookies, and buns, and little cakes
with jam and frosting on them.
The smell of fresh bread came through the door.
"What is the matter, miss?" The man looked down, as Clematis stood
still before the window.
She was looking through the glass, at the rolls, and cakes, and
cookies.
[Illustration: "I don't want to stay here if you are going to
throw my cat away"]
The policeman smelled the fresh bread, and it made him hungry.
"Are you hungry, little girl?" he asked, looking down with a smile.
"Wouldn't you be hungry if you hadn't had anything to eat all day
long?" Clematis looked up at him with tears in her big brown eyes.
"Nothing to eat all day? Why, you must be nearly starved!" As he
spoke, the policeman started into the store, pulling Clematis after
him.
She was so surprised that she almost dropped her kitten.
"Miew," said poor Deborah, as if she knew they were going to starve
no longer. But it was really because she was squeezed so tight she
couldn't help it.
"Now, Miss Clematis, do you see anything | 1,983.203664 |
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Universal Brotherhood
Universal Brotherhood
A MAGAZINE
DEVOTED TO THE BROTHERHOOD OF HUMANITY
THE THEOSOPHICAL MOVEMENT
PHILOSOPHY SCIENCE AND ART
Founded in 1886 under the title of THE PATH by
WILLIAM Q JUDGE
VOLUME XIII. No. 11.
FEBRUARY, 1899.
CONTENTS
Henry Clay Alexander Wilder, 585
M.D.
Richard Wagner’s Basil Crump 593
Prose Works
Alphonse de Alexander Wilder, 596
Lamartine: IV. Poet, M.D.
Diplomat, Traveller
Passage to India Walt Whitman 607
(_Extracts
Selected_)
The Human Cell Arthur A. Beale, 609
M.B.
The Sokratic Club Solon 614
Students’ Column Conducted by J. H. 621
Fussell
Young Folks’
Department:
The Weston Ten Margaret S. Lloyd 623
Brotherhood 627
Activities
Editors:—=Katherine A. Tingley=, =E. Aug. Neresheimer=
$2.00 PER YEAR. ISSUED MONTHLY. PER COPY 20 CENTS.
Entered as second-class matter at New York Post-office.
Copyright, 1899.
BUSINESS NOTICE.
=Universal Brotherhood= is published on the twenty-fifth day of the
month preceding date of issue.
=Main Office=: Theosophical Publishing Co., 144 Madison Avenue, New York
City.
=London=: Theosophical Book Company, 3 Vernon Place, Bloomsbury Square.
W. C.
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=Annual Subscription= for the United States, Canada and Mexico, $2.00; 6
months $1.00; 3 months 50 cents; single copy, 20 cents. Foreign
countries in the Postal Union, 9s. per annum; six months 4s. 6d.; single
copy, 1s. Payable in advance.
=Remittances= should be made by draft, check, post office order or
registered letter. All remittances should be made payable and sent to
Theosophical Publishing Company.
=Change of Address.= No change of address will be made within ten days
previous to mailing day.
=Manuscripts= must be accompanied by postage for return if found
unavailable.
=Advertising Rates=, which are moderate, may be obtained on application
to the publishers.
=Agents.=—Active Agents are desired in every part of the world, to whom
liberal inducements will be offered.
=Communications= intended for the Editorial Department should be
addressed “Editor, Universal Brotherhood, 144 Madison Avenue, New York
City,” and should include no other matter. Those intended for the
Business and Publishing Department should be addressed to “Theosophical
Publishing Co., 144 Madison Avenue, New York City.” It is particularly
requested that this notice be complied with.
The Editors are not responsible for signed or unsigned articles in this
Magazine, to which neither of their names are attached.
ANNOUNCEMENT.
UNIVERSAL BROTHERHOOD is a Magazine devoted to the promulgation of the
principles of the Brotherhood of Humanity in the widest sense. It is an
organ whose aim is to show that the Unity or Brotherhood of Mankind is
an actual fact in nature. If this principle were better understood by
the multitude or even by certain classes of Society there would be less
strife and competition and more sympathy and co-operation.
The demonstration of these broad ideas from the Ethical, Scientific and
Practical points of view will prove that there is much agreement between
these systems on this topic, and that it is an underlying ground-work by
means of which all Religions and all Philosophies agree also.
This magazine will endeavor to show the great similarity between the
Religions of the world, in their fundamental beliefs and doctrines as
also the value of studying other systems than our own.
A sound basis for ethics should be found.
Those who would assist the cause of Brotherhood should realize that it
is of the first importance to discover as much as possible concerning
the nature of man and man’s relation to the world around him. The laws
that govern his physical, mental, moral and spiritual being should be
studied and investigated.
It is hoped that every sympathizer with the cause of brotherhood will
endeavor to assist us in enlarging the circulation of this magazine.
Subscribers will greatly oblige by sending us the names and addresses of
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All writers who are interested in the above objects are invited to
contribute articles.
It is | 1,983.205485 |
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A Thief in the Night
[A Book of Raffles' Adventures]
by
E. W. Hornung
Contents
Out of Paradise
The Chest of Silver
The Rest Cure
The Criminologists' Club
The Field of Phillipi
A Bad Night
A Trap to Catch a Cracksman
The Spoils of Sacrilege
The Raffles Relics
Out of Paradise
If I must tell more tales of Raffles, I can but back to our earliest
days together, and fill in the blanks left by discretion in existing
annals. In so doing I may indeed fill some small part of an infinitely
greater blank, across which you may conceive me to have stretched my
canvas for the first frank portrait of my friend. The whole truth
cannot harm him now. I shall paint in every wart. Raffles was a
villain, when all is written; it is no service to his memory to glaze
the fact; yet I have done so myself before to-day. I have omitted
whole heinous episodes. I have dwelt unduly on the redeeming side.
And this I may do again, blinded even as I write by the gallant glamour
that made my villain more to me than any hero. But at least there
shall be no more reservations, and as an earnest I shall make no
further secret of the greatest wrong that even Raffles ever did me.
I pick my words with care and pain, loyal as I still would be to my
friend, and yet remembering as I must those Ides of March when he led
me blindfold into temptation and crime. That was an ugly office, if
you will. It was a moral bagatelle to the treacherous | 1,983.30078 |
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Internet Archive)
THE IDOL OF THE BLIND
BOOKS BY T. GALLON.
Each, 12mo, cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
The Idol of the Blind.
"No person well posted in current fiction lets a story by Mr. Gallon
pass unnoticed."--_Buffalo Commercial._
The Kingdom of Hate.
"The whole story is told with an appearance of honest, straightforward
sincerity that is very clever and well sustained, and the suspicion of
satire will only dawn on the reader when the story is well advanced,
and he is thoroughly interested in the tumultuous swing."--_Chicago
Chronicle._
Dicky Monteith. A Love Story.
"A good story, told in an engaging style."--_Philadelphia Press._
"A refreshing example of everything that a love story ought to
be."--_San Francisco Call._
A Prince of Mischance.
"The story is a powerful one, and holds the reader from the
start."--_Boston Budget._
"An admirable story."--_London Telegraph._
Tatterly.
"A charming love story runs through the book, which is written in a
bright and lively style.... The book is worth reading."--_New York Sun._
"We believe in 'Tatterly' through thick and thin. We could not
recommend a better story."--_London Academy._
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
THE IDOL
OF THE BLIND
_A NOVEL_
BY
TOM GALLON
AUTHOR OF
TATTERLY, A PRINCE OF MISCHANCE,
DICKY MONTEITH, ETC.
"When pious frauds and holy shifts
Are dispensations and gifts."
HUDIBRAS
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1899
COPYRIGHT, 1899,
BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--COMETHUP ENTERS LIFE DISASTROUSLY 1
II.--AND MAKES DISCOVERIES 10
III.--THE GHOST OF A LITTLE CHILD 20
IV.--THE CAPTAIN PLAYS THE KNIGHT-ERRANT 40
V.--TELLS OF AN ERRING WOMAN 55
VI.--THE CAPTAIN IN STRANGE COMPANY 62
VII.--IN WHICH SEPARATIONS ARE SUGGESTED 79
VIII.--COMETHUP SUFFERS A LOSS 88
IX.--THE COMING OF AUNT CHARLOTTE 100
X.--COMETHUP LEAVES THE OLD LIFE 115
XI.--AND BECOMES A PERSONAGE 131
XII.--THE CAPTAIN SPEAKS HIS MIND 141
XIII.--A RETROSPECT--AND A FLUTTERING OF HEARTS 158
XIV.--AN INCUBUS, AND THE DEMON OF JEALOUSY 175
XV.--COMETHUP PRACTISES DECEPTION 183
XVI.--COMETHUP IS SHADOWED 199
XVII.--THE BEGINNINGS OF A GENIUS 214
XVIII.--AUNT CHARLOTTE IS SYMPATHETIC 231
XIX.--GENIUS ASSERTS ITSELF 247
XX.--THE DESERTION OF A PARENT 262
XXI.--GENIUS AND THE DOMESTIC VIRTUES 276
XXII.--A SECOND DESERTION 286
XXIII.--COMETHUP DRIVES A BARGAIN 301
XXIV.--UNCLE ROBERT HAS AN INSPIRATION 311
XXV.--THE FALL OF PRINCE CHARMING 327
XXVI.--BRIAN PAYS HIS DEBTS 332
XXVII.--THE PLEADING OF THE CAPTAIN 351
XXVIII.--MEDMER MELTS A SILVER SPOON 361
XXIX.--COMETHUP LEARNS THE TRUTH 369
XXX.--AUNT CHARLOTTE ATTENDS A CELEBRATION 374
THE IDOL OF THE BLIND.
CHAPTER I.
COMETHUP ENTERS LIFE DISASTROUSLY.
"My dear" had looked her last upon a troublesome world. She had taken
life sighingly, in little frightened gasps, as it were, with the fear
upon her, even from childhood, that unknown horrors lurked for her
in each day to which she was awakened. It can scarcely be said that
she had clung to life with any tenacity--rather with the instinct of
living; and she had fluttered out of it resignedly enough, a little
sorry, perhaps, that she had left any one behind to grieve for her. And
yet, with the inconsistency which had marked her life, she had died at
the very moment when life had actually begun to be worth living for her.
"My dear" was one of those who wait long for the happiness, if any,
that is to come to them, and find it a little tasteless when it is
at last given to them. She had been the younger child of a stern and
unbending man, who bent or broke to his code of rules those who were
weak enough to be bent or broken, and thrust sternly aside those whose
strength opposed itself to his. He had found in his little daughter
one who smilingly and timidly obeyed in everything, and worshipped him
without question--up to a certain point. That point was determined by
the arrival of David Willis.
It was an old and a very ordinary story; such stories are played out
to their bitter end day after day around us. David Willis was poor,
and had absolutely no expectations; so far as old Robert Carlaw was
concerned he simply did not exist--except as many other people existed,
as a part of the world with which he had nothing to do. David, for
his part, was as patient and long-suffering as the girl who loved
him; and so they solemnly and pitifully plighted their troth, and
agreed to wait. Boldness or resource of action was not in either of
them; the girl, despite her love for the man, and the sort of humble,
patient faithfulness with which she was endowed, would not have risked
her father's anger on any account. So, in a poor, half-ridiculous,
half-heroic fashion, they parted and waited.
They waited, strange as it may seem, for nearly twenty years; until
the man had entered the forties and the woman was nearing them. She
was still a pretty woman, soft-eyed and gentle of voice, with a great
mine of tenderness hidden away in her which no one had been able to
discover. When, on her father's death, she married David Willis, there
seemed a prospect that the mine would be discovered, but the time had
gone past; life had been so long a flat and stale and unprofitable
thing that the old fierce heart-beats at the thought of her lover, the
old hunger of love for him, had died away into a mere tremulous wonder
as to whether he would be good to her, or whether he might have moments
of harshness and sternness, like her father. She had hung too long
expectant on hope to believe that the world was going to be very good
to her now; she was only a little glad, for her lover's sake, that his
time of waiting was ended.
David Willis was a musician and a dreamer; not a very great musician,
and certainly a dreamer whose dreams brought him no profit. He had
filled the place of organist in one or two minor churches, living
simply and contentedly. By the very irony of things, when the woman
he loved was able to come to him and put her hands in his, and tell
him that there was no further bar to their happiness, he was out of
an engagement, and had scarcely a penny in the world. But, with a
childlike faith which, even at their years, came near to the sublime,
they married first and tried to be worldly afterward. Fortunately
for them, her brother was a man of property in a small, old-fashioned
town near the coast of Kent; and, having considerable influence in the
place, he offered, through the clergyman of the parish, the vacant post
of organist in the parish church to David Willis, after first roundly
abusing his sister for having married a pauper.
It was a quaint old town, a place of red roofs and winding streets and
strange old buildings; a very paradise to the dreamer and the woman who
had waited so long for him. Her brother's house stood at the far end
of the town, in the newer part of it; but they saw little of him, and
had, indeed, no particular desire to do so. They had their own quiet
dwelling-place, a little house nestling under the frowning shadows of
the church wherein he worked; a strange old place, with low ceilings
and black beams, with a garden of roses stretching right along under
the gray old church wall. Her life, for a few months at least, was a
sweet and shadowed thing; people said afterward--people who had never
known her--that they had seen her sitting often in the old church,
with her mild eyes looking upward at a great rose window over the
porch, while her husband practised for the services on the wheezy old
organ; had seen her wandering in her garden among the roses, singing to
herself in a subdued voice--the voice of one who has long been forced
to be silent, or to subdue any natural mirth that might be in her.
The summer went by, while David Willis played on his organ, and his
wife sang among her roses; and with the autumn came a new light in the
eyes of the woman--a light as of one who waits and hopes for something.
Poor, trembling, wistful creature, what dreams were hers then! What
dreams when she sat by her husband's side in the twilight, looking out
over the town where the lights were beginning to twinkle one by one
like sleepy eyes! What dreams of a little life that was to recompense
her for all she had missed, and all she never could find in any other
way! Childish hands were to draw all that mine of tenderness out of
her, as no other hands could have done; childish words were to wake
echoing words in her dull heart, and stir it to life again. She dreamed
tremblingly of all she would do; of all she would teach the child; saw
it walking by her side among the roses; fluttered into church proudly,
braving the eyes of younger women with the mite beside her.
Those were dreams which never came true. She had waited, through dull
and spiritless years, for her chance of life; it was written, in that
book which no man shall read, that her life in that fuller sense was
to be but a short one. She gave birth to her child--a boy--and knew
her fate even before they told her. She sank slowly, drifting out of
life with as little effort to retain it as she had shown throughout her
days. Almost the last thing she did was to take her husband's hand, as
he sat speechless with grief beside her, and put it to her lips, and
draw it up against her cheek.
"We waited--a long time--Davie," she whispered. "I wish--I
might--have--stayed." She did not speak again; she held his hand in
that position until the last breath fluttered out of her lips.
David Willis was utterly incapable of appreciating anything except
the magnitude of his loss. He wandered desolately from room to room,
picking up things that had belonged to her and putting his lips to
them, and weeping, in a hopeless, despairing fashion, like a child.
Fortunately for that other child who had been the direct cause of the
disaster, there were kindly people about the place who cared for it,
and found a nurse for it--a young and healthy woman who had but just
lost a child of her own, and who was installed in the house of David
Willis at once. From that big house in the newer part of the town came
Mr. Robert Carlaw, the brother of the dead woman, hushing his loud and
blustering voice a little as he crossed the threshold of the place of
mourning.
He had an air with him, this Robert Carlaw; a sense of saying, when he
entered a room, that it was something poorer and meaner than before he
came; a magnificent air of proprietorship in every one he honoured by
a nod or a handshake; the very town through which he walked became,
not a sweet and beautiful old place which seemed to have been dropped
clean out of the middle ages, but an awkward, badly built little place
in which Robert Carlaw was good enough to live. The swing of him was so
fine that the skirts of his coat brushed the houses as he went down the
street; other passengers humbly took the roadway.
He was very kind and sympathetic with David Willis, with the kindness
and sympathy of a patron to a dependent who has suffered a loss; he had
scarcely seen his sister since she was a child, and knew absolutely
nothing of her. He seated himself in an armchair--the chair which had
been hers--opposite to where David Willis sat with his head bowed in
his hands; he coughed, with a little shade of annoyance in the cough,
as of one who is not receiving proper attention. David Willis looked up
without speaking.
"Bad business, this," said Mr. Carlaw, with a jerk of the head which
was meant to convey that he referred to what was lying upstairs. "A man
feels these things; I know _I_ did. Cut me up dreadfully."
"Yes," said David, in a low voice.
"She was never strong, you know," went on the brother; "not like the
others, I mean. And then she married late, which tries a woman, I'm
told."
"Yes," replied the other again in the same tone.
"She was just the sort that would give in without making what I call a
kick for it. Hadn't half enough of the devil in her. Not a bit like her
brother in that respect. Why, I assure you, they've positively _tried_
to kill me, half a dozen times; given me over for dead. But they didn't
know Bob Carlaw; he's always proved one too many for 'em. There's a lot
of life in Bob."
David Willis got up slowly. "Would you like to see her?" he asked.
"No, no; I don't think so. It wouldn't--wouldn't do any good, and the
sight of any one dead always upsets me. No, I don't think I'll see
her; I only--only called in case I could do anything. A man needs
sympathy at such a time." He got up and took his hat, and swung toward
the door. Turning there, he said abruptly, "What about the kid?"
"The----" said David, looking at him blankly.
"The child; is it alive?"
"Yes," replied David; "doing well, they tell me."
"Ah--that's bad--for you, I mean." He paused a moment, coughed
uncomfortably, and stuck his hat sideways on his head; then remembered
himself, and took it off and frowned at it. Finally he got out of the
door awkwardly, and swung himself out through the garden of the roses
and went up the street, trying hard not to whistle.
It was on the day of the funeral that David Willis first seemed to
grasp the idea of his responsibility in regard to his infant son. He
had had no thought of that before; had listened to the sympathizing
remarks of the few friends he had with indifference, and had scarcely
appeared to realize that there was a new element in his life at all. He
grasped things slowly at all times, and required time to digest them;
he had room for nothing else in his mind then but the thought of his
loss. The day that saw her committed to the earth in the old churchyard
within sight of the garden where she had walked was a day which passed
for him like a troubled dream; he had a vague remembrance that people
were very kind to him, and helped him, and told him what to do and
where to stand. It was while he stood beside the grave that some words
from the burial service broke upon his ears as though nothing had been
said before; he saw in them something new and fresh and hopeful.
"Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to live, and is full
of misery. He cometh up and----"
He lost all that followed; with those final words came a new thought
into his mind. The woman he had loved, for whom he had waited and
hungered so patiently, was to sleep her last sleep in that quiet place,
to sleep as calmly and as gently as she had lived. But there was
something more than this, something to comfort him. God had, after all,
been very merciful; so, in his simple mind, he told himself. The poor,
frail woman was gone; in her place had come a little child. The words
were true; he applied them at once to the baby. "He cometh up--like a
flower." Surely that was true; his eyes brightened as he thought of it;
the bitterness fell away from his heart; he almost longed to leave her
sleeping there and to get back to the child. He scarcely seemed to have
seen the child yet--to know what it was like.
As he crossed the churchyard to his house the thing was forced more
clearly and strongly upon him; he saw, with the fine instinct of love,
that this was what she would have wished, that the child must grow up
to think well of her, and to take her place. A man of rare singleness
of life and purpose, he had been capable only of single emotions; and
those emotions must, of necessity, be great. His dogged patience in
waiting for one woman through all the best years of his life had had in
it much of heroism; that was ended, and he turned now to something else
to fill his days. The child should do it; the child had been sent for
that very purpose. Over and over again the words came back to him, "He
cometh up--like a flower." That was very beautiful; it seemed strange
that he had not thought of that before. He dreamed a dream, even as the
woman had done, of all that the child was to be to him.
He went into the room where the scrap of humanity lay sleeping against
the strange woman's breast; the woman glanced up at him almost
resentfully as he bent over the child; just such another child had lain
warm against her, and this one filled the void in her heart a little.
She was a humble creature, of no subtle emotions whatever; her sense of
motherhood, so recently awakened, was the strongest feeling in her.
The man touched the baby's cheek with a hesitating forefinger, and
then turned away and walked out of the room. He saw quite clearly how
the child would grow up, knowing only him, desiring no one else to
fill its world. Before another hour had passed, the solitary man had
mapped out the seat the child should take in the house and in church;
had wandered in fancy over the fields through which the child should
accompany him. There was no disloyalty to the dead woman in all this;
the child had sprung out of the woman, in every sense, and took her
place quite naturally in the deep heart of the man.
That evening David Willis received an unexpected visitor. The visitor
came slowly and timidly, and yet with a certain forced air of defiance
upon him, up the garden path, and knocked at the door of the little
house. The one servant the house boasted, and who did not sleep there,
had gone to her own home at the other end of the town; David Willis
opened the door, and stared out into the twilight at the visitor.
The caller was a little man--very alert and very upright, with a
tightly buttoned frock coat, and an old-fashioned silk hat with a
curly brim. He carried something in one hand behind him. David Willis
remembered to have seen him once or twice in the streets, walking very
erect, and swinging a cane with a tassel attached to it; and always in
church on Sundays, where he occupied a little odd pew in one corner,
and gave the responses in a very loud and sonorous voice not at all
fitting to his stature. David held the door in one hand, and looked out
wonderingly at the little man.
"My name is Garraway-Kyle--Captain Garraway-Kyle--late of her Majesty's
service. You are in trouble, sir, your wife"--he stopped abruptly and
coughed and frowned, and tugged at one end of his white mustache with
his disengaged hand--"your wife, sir, was good enough to admire my
flowers; used to stop sometimes to look at them. I thought perhaps----"
His sunburned face took on a deeper tinge, and he brought his hand from
behind him and showed a carefully arranged bunch of flowers.
David Willis came out into the little path, and closed the door behind
him; his voice was rather unsteady when he spoke. "Thank you, sir," he
said. "Would you like me to go with you and point out the--the grave?"
"I know it. I was there this afternoon," replied the captain, shortly.
"But I should like you to come with me." So the two men went in silence
out of the garden, and by the little gate into the churchyard, David
Willis having no hat, and the captain carrying his in his hand.
At the grave the captain knelt stiffly, as though it were an effort
for him to do so, and put the flowers at the head of the new mound. He
remained for nearly half a minute kneeling, and then drew himself up
and faced the other. "She was a sweet and gentle woman, sir; I have
seen her often; I have ventured to peep over the wall when she was in
her own garden. She was very fond of flowers."
"Yes," replied David, "very."
"I wished sometimes that I might have offered her some of mine, the
finest garden in the town, sir. But, of course, I did not know her. I
am sorry to have had to give them to her like this."
"You are very good," said David, softly.
Captain Garraway-Kyle turned away and looked up for a moment at the
sombre church which rose above them. "You had not been married long, I
think, Mr. Willis?"
"Not quite a year," replied David.
"Ah! The child lives, I think?"
"Yes."
They walked back together to the gate which led to the cottage; and
there the captain held out his hand. "Thank you," he said, stiffly; and
then, "I am very sorry. By the way--boy or girl?"
"Oh, it's a boy," replied David.
The captain had gone a few paces down the street when he turned on his
heel and came back again. "I beg your pardon, Mr. Willis, but what will
you call him?"
It was almost an idle question, prompted in the captain's mind for
want of something better to say; but it set the old train of thought
running in David Willis's mind as it had run all that afternoon. The
words he had heard at the grave-side seemed to sound in his ears again;
the sudden thought struck him to give the boy some name that should
keep in memory his mother, and the purpose for which he came into
the world, and all that he meant to his father. He faced about, and
looked at his visitor with a new light in his eyes. "I shall call him
'Comethup,'" he said, slowly.
"I beg your pardon----" The captain looked a little startled.
"'Comethup,'" said David again, half to himself. "Yes, that's the name."
"Oh, I see; family name, I presume?" said the other.
"Yes," replied David Willis, "a family name. Good-night." And he went
inside, and sat down in the darkness to think about it.
CHAPTER II.
AND MAKES DISCOVERIES.
David Willis stuck to his determination, so suddenly made on that night
of the captain's visit, and the child was duly baptized under the name
of Comethup Willis. Simple David Willis chuckled to himself a little
over his ingenuity; he grew to like the quaintness of the name, and it
was a constant reminder--if such were necessary--of the tragedy which
belonged to the boy's birth. He always spoke the name rapidly when
addressing the child or when referring to it to any one else, slurring
the cumbrous name that he might hide the secret of it; only to himself
did he ever speak it slowly with the added words, "as a flower." It was
a never-ceasing source of joy to him to think how cleverly the name
had been conceived; he dwelt upon it lovingly, with the pride of the
inventor; and it became on his tongue a caress whenever it was uttered.
Apart from the mere name, the child filled his life and his thoughts to
a greater extent than he had ever even dared to hope. He grew rapidly,
and shook off the childish ailments which came with his years with
greater ease than most children; he had about him, even as a little
fellow, the grave, shy tenderness of his mother. Captain Garraway-Kyle
murmured once, as he held him at arms'-length and looked critically at
him, that he had his mother's eyes.
It was a strange life for the child, alone with a dreamy man in that
old house under the shadow of the church; if he could have written down
his impressions of life and those about him at that time, they would
have made curious reading. He remembered when it was possible for him,
by a great effort, to get both hands up to the door knob, and to twist
it round and stagger backward, pulling the door with him; understood
fully what a steep and treacherous affair the stone step was which led
down to the garden; and what a proud and wonderful day it was when he
summoned courage to step straight down upon it, instead of manipulating
the descent with one small bare knee on the stone and the foot of the
other leg feeling for the earth below. He knew his mother's garden by
heart, and all the wondrous corners of it, where strange things hid
which no one saw but himself. He learned early that the roses which
grew there, and nodded in a friendly fashion to him as he passed, only
grew there for a small boyish nose to be poked up at them to get their
scent, and were not to be pulled except on rare occasions, when his
father went round the garden with a basket, and gathered the choicest,
and tied them into a rude kind of wreath. Comethup knew then that a
great expedition was on foot; that they would go out of the gate at the
farthest end of the garden, and that he would stumble--holding fast by
his father's hand--through a place where the grass was very soft and
very green, and where some of it was raised in long hillocks higher
than the rest; a place where large flat stones with curious marks
upon them, and little babies' heads with wings cut on some, cropped up
out of the earth. On one of these hillocks the little homely wreath
would be laid, and his father would kneel and seem to whisper something
behind his hand. He knew that his mother slept there, and that she
would never wake up again, and never walk with him, as his father
walked, in the garden of the roses. Child though he was, he always felt
a little sadness as he stumbled back over the hillocks to the garden
gate, because the mother he had never seen lay, an inscrutable mystery,
out of his sight under the grass.
There was one never-to-be-forgotten day when he first learned of
something outside his own small world. It was Sunday, and the heavy old
bells were swinging, and his father had gone out through the sunlight
with books under his arm to the church. It struck suddenly upon the
child that this day was different from all the rest; that the little
maid-servant had a cleaner face and a whiter apron, and that his own
tiny suit was one which was laid by in a tall old press all the rest of
the week. Most of our impressions, whatever age we may be, come to us
through the sense of smell, and Comethup's impression of the day came
to him through the scent of the clothes. They bore the same scent as
the big best bedroom upstairs--a room in which no one ever slept and
into which he had peeped one day when the door was open; just such a
scent as that which hung about it had been wafted out to his nostrils
then. He began to see that there must be something "best" about this
day also, as there was about everything connected with it.
When David Willis came back from church, the child had got his
questions ready, and knew exactly what answers he required, as a child
always unerringly does. He asked why all the shops along the other side
of the street were closed, and why the bells rang on that day, and why
the people sang in the big church which loomed above them. And then
he heard for the first time of that other world into which we try so
hard to peer; of that dread Presence--dread to a child--beyond the
skies that shuts in our vision. He was puzzled to understand how his
mother could be right above him, watching to see if he were a good
boy or a bad; and why, in that case, those flowers were put upon that
grass-covered bed of hers out in the churchyard. He pondered the matter
deeply, and was much disconcerted to think that the God of whom every
one seemed so much afraid was all round him and could see everything he
did.
He went one day into the church with his father--an experience indeed!
It was quite empty, save for themselves, and the first thought
that occurred to him was to wonder where the roof was; and why his
voice rumbled and rattled and sprang at him from far above when he
incautiously spoke in his usual shrill treble. The phrase which his
father used--"the house of God"--awed him; he understood why the roof
was so much higher than that of their own house. A lovely pattern of
many colours on the stone pavement at his feet arrested his attention.
He followed the shafts of light upward to the great rose window high
up in the wall over the porch. His heart went a little quicker, and he
gripped his father's hand with his baby fingers. That surely must be
the eye of God looking down at him.
He went home tremblingly to think the matter over; saw in the childish
wonder of discovery something that no one had found before; screwed his
courage to make further inquiries of his father concerning this dread
Being. It was a terror to him to learn that the Being was everywhere,
not alone in the great place where people went in their best clothes to
worship him. He crept up to his tiny bedroom under the roof that night,
and hurriedly closed the door and drew the curtains, and lay in bed
quakingly triumphant at the thought that he had shut It out, only to
wake up with a start in a little while at the remembrance that It must
have been in the room before his precautions were taken. He climbed out
of bed, and pattered across to the window; pulled back the curtains,
and pushed open the casement. All the benign influence of a summer
starlight night was about him; the lights were twinkling sleepily and
safely down in the town; and he could hear calm, slow country voices in
the street beyond the garden. Life--great and wonderful to his childish
mind, although bounded by | 1,983.302649 |
2023-11-16 18:50:07.2840700 | 7,435 | 10 |
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[Illustration: LEONARDO DA VINCI]
Leonardo da Vinci
A PSYCHOSEXUAL STUDY OF AN
INFANTILE REMINISCENCE
BY
PROFESSOR DR. SIGMUND FREUD, LL.D.
(UNIVERSITY OF VIENNA)
TRANSLATED BY
A. A. BRILL, PH.B., M.D.
Lecturer in Psychoanalysis and Abnormal
Psychology, New York University
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY
1916
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY
MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY
ILLUSTRATIONS
Leonardo Da Vinci _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
Mona Lisa 78
Saint Anne 86
John the Baptist 94
LEONARDO DA VINCI
I
When psychoanalytic investigation, which usually contents itself with
frail human material, approaches the great personages of humanity, it is
not impelled to it by motives which are often attributed to it by
laymen. It does not strive "to blacken the radiant and to drag the
sublime into the mire"; it finds no satisfaction in diminishing the
distance between the perfection of the great and the inadequacy of the
ordinary objects. But it cannot help finding that everything is worthy
of understanding that can be perceived through those prototypes, and it
also believes that none is so big as to be ashamed of being subject to
the laws which control the normal and morbid actions with the same
strictness.
Leonardo da Vinci (1452-1519) was admired even by his contemporaries as
one of the greatest men of the Italian Renaissance, still even then he
appeared as mysterious to them as he now appears to us. An all-sided
genius, "whose form can only be divined but never deeply fathomed,"[1]
he exerted the most decisive influence on his time as an artist; and it
remained to us to recognize his greatness as a naturalist which was
united in him with the artist. Although he left masterpieces of the art
of painting, while his scientific discoveries remained unpublished and
unused, the investigator in him has never quite left the artist, often
it has severely injured the artist and in the end it has perhaps
suppressed the artist altogether. According to Vasari, Leonardo
reproached himself during the last hour of his life for having insulted
God and men because he has not done his duty to his art.[2] And even if
Vasari's story lacks all probability and belongs to those legends which
began to be woven about the mystic master while he was still living, it
nevertheless retains indisputable value as a testimonial of the judgment
of those people and of those times.
What was it that removed the personality of Leonardo from the
understanding of his contemporaries? Certainly not the many sidedness of
his capacities and knowledge, which allowed him to install himself as a
player of the lyre on an instrument invented by himself, in the court of
Lodovico Sforza, nicknamed Il Moro, the Duke of Milan, or which allowed
him to write to the same person that remarkable letter in which he
boasts of his abilities as a civil and military engineer. For the
combination of manifold talents in the same person was not unusual in
the times of the Renaissance; to be sure Leonardo himself furnished one
of the most splendid examples of such persons. Nor did he belong to that
type of genial persons who are outwardly poorly endowed by nature, and
who on their side place no value on the outer forms of life, and in the
painful gloominess of their feelings fly from human relations. On the
contrary he was tall and symmetrically built, of consummate beauty of
countenance and of unusual physical strength, he was charming in his
manner, a master of speech, and jovial and affectionate to everybody. He
loved beauty in the objects of his surroundings, he was fond of wearing
magnificent garments and appreciated every refinement of conduct. In his
treatise[3] on the art of painting he compares in a significant passage
the art of painting with its sister arts and thus discusses the
difficulties of the sculptor: "Now his face is entirely smeared and
powdered with marble dust, so that he looks like a baker, he is covered
with small marble splinters, so that it seems as if it snowed on his
back, and his house is full of stone splinters, and dust. The case of
the painter is quite different from that; for the painter is well
dressed and sits with great comfort before his work, he gently and very
lightly brushes in the beautiful colors. He wears as decorative clothes
as he likes, and his house is filled with beautiful paintings and is
spotlessly clean. He often enjoys company, music, or some one may read
for him various nice works, and all this can be listened to with great
pleasure, undisturbed by any pounding from the hammer and other noises."
It is quite possible that the conception of a beaming jovial and happy
Leonardo was true only for the first and longer period of the master's
life. From now on, when the downfall of the rule of Lodovico Moro forced
him to leave Milan, his sphere of action and his assured position, to
lead an unsteady and unsuccessful life until his last asylum in France,
it is possible that the luster of his disposition became pale and some
odd features of his character became more prominent. The turning of his
interest from his art to science which increased with age must have also
been responsible for widening the gap between himself and his
contemporaries. All his efforts with which, according to their opinion,
he wasted his time instead of diligently filling orders and becoming
rich as perhaps his former classmate Perugino, seemed to his
contemporaries as capricious playing, or even caused them to suspect him
of being in the service of the "black art." We who know him from his
sketches understand him better. In a time in which the authority of the
church began to be substituted by that of antiquity and in which only
theoretical investigation existed, he the forerunner, or better the
worthy competitor of Bacon and Copernicus, was necessarily isolated.
When he dissected cadavers of horses and human beings, and built flying
apparatus, or when he studied the nourishment of plants and their
behavior towards poisons, he naturally deviated much from the
commentators of Aristotle and came nearer the despised alchemists, in
whose laboratories the experimental investigations found some refuge
during these unfavorable times.
The effect that this had on his paintings was that he disliked to handle
the brush, he painted less and what was more often the case, the things
he began were mostly left unfinished; he cared less and less for the
future fate of his works. It was this mode of working that was held up
to him as a reproach from his contemporaries to whom his behavior to his
art remained a riddle.
Many of Leonardo's later admirers have attempted to wipe off the stain
of unsteadiness from his character. They maintained that what is blamed
in Leonardo is a general characteristic of great artists. They said that
even the energetic Michelangelo who was absorbed in his work left many
incompleted works, which was as little due to his fault as to Leonardo's
in the same case. Besides some pictures were not as unfinished as he
claimed, and what the layman would call a masterpiece may still appear
to the creator of the work of art as an unsatisfied embodiment of his
intentions; he has a faint notion of a perfection which he despairs of
reproducing in likeness. Least of all should the artist be held
responsible for the fate which befalls his works.
As plausible as some of these excuses may sound they nevertheless do not
explain the whole state of affairs which we find in Leonardo. The
painful struggle with the work, the final flight from it and the
indifference to its future fate may be seen in many other artists, but
this behavior is shown in Leonardo to highest degree. Edm. Solmi[4]
cites (p. 12) the expression of one of his pupils: "Pareva, che ad ogni
ora tremasse, quando si poneva a dipingere, e pero no diede mai fine ad
alcuna cosa cominciata, considerando la grandezza dell'arte, tal che
egli scorgeva errori in quelle cose, che ad altri parevano miracoli."
His last pictures, Leda, the Madonna di Saint Onofrio, Bacchus and St.
John the Baptist, remained unfinished "come quasi intervenne di tutte le
cose sue." Lomazzo,[5] who finished a copy of The Holy Supper, refers in
a sonnet to the familiar inability of Leonardo to finish his works:
"Protogen che il penel di sue pitture
Non levava, agguaglio il Vinci Divo,
Di cui opra non e finita pure."
The slowness with which Leonardo worked was proverbial. After the most
thorough preliminary studies he painted The Holy Supper for three years
in the cloister of Santa Maria delle Grazie in Milan. One of his
contemporaries, Matteo Bandelli, the writer of novels, who was then a
young monk in the cloister, relates that Leonardo often ascended the
scaffold very early in the morning and did not leave the brush out of
his hand until twilight, never thinking of eating or drinking. Then days
passed without putting his hand on it, sometimes he remained for hours
before the painting and derived satisfaction from studying it by
himself. At other times he came directly to the cloister from the palace
of the Milanese Castle where he formed the model of the equestrian
statue for Francesco Sforza, in order to add a few strokes with the
brush to one of the figures and then stopped immediately.[6] According
to Vasari he worked for years on the portrait of Monna Lisa, the wife of
the Florentine de Gioconda, without being able to bring it to
completion. This circumstance may also account for the fact that it was
never delivered to the one who ordered it but remained with Leonardo who
took it with him to France.[7] Having been procured by King Francis I,
it now forms one of the greatest treasures of the Louvre.
When one compares these reports about Leonardo's way of working with the
evidence of the extraordinary amount of sketches and studies left by
him, one is bound altogether to reject the idea that traits of
flightiness and unsteadiness exerted the slightest influence on
Leonardo's relation to his art. On the contrary one notices a very
extraordinary absorption in work, a richness in possibilities in which a
decision could be reached only hestitatingly, claims which could hardly
be satisfied, and an inhibition in the execution which could not even be
explained by the inevitable backwardness of the artist behind his ideal
purpose. The slowness which was striking in Leonardo's works from the
very beginning proved to be a symptom of his inhibition, a forerunner of
his turning away from painting which manifested itself later.[8] It was
this slowness which decided the not undeserving fate of The Holy
Supper. Leonardo could not take kindly to the art of fresco painting
which demands quick work while the background is still moist, it was for
this reason that he chose oil colors, the drying of which permitted him
to complete the picture according to his mood and leisure. But these
colors separated themselves from the background upon which they were
painted and which isolated them from the brick wall; the blemishes of
this wall and the vicissitudes to which the room was subjected seemingly
contributed to the inevitable deterioration of the picture.[9]
The picture of the cavalry battle of Anghiari, which in competition with
Michelangelo he began to paint later on a wall of the Sala de Consiglio
in Florence and which he also left in an unfinished state, seemed to
have perished through the failure of a similar technical process. It
seems here as if a peculiar interest, that of the experimenter, at first
reenforced the artistic, only later to damage the art production.
The character of the man Leonardo evinces still some other unusual
traits and apparent contradictions. Thus a certain inactivity and
indifference seemed very evident in him. At a time when every individual
sought to gain the widest latitude for his activity, which could not
take place without the development of energetic aggression towards
others, he surprised every one through his quiet peacefulness, his
shunning of all competition and controversies. He was mild and kind to
all, he was said to have rejected a meat diet because he did not
consider it just to rob animals of their lives, and one of his special
pleasures was to buy caged birds in the market and set them free.[10] He
condemned war and bloodshed and designated man not so much as the king
of the animal world, but rather as the worst of the wild beasts.[11] But
this effeminate delicacy of feeling did not prevent him from
accompanying condemned criminals on their way to execution in order to
study and sketch in his notebook their features, distorted by fear, nor
did it prevent him from inventing the most cruel offensive weapons, and
from entering the service of Cesare Borgia as chief military engineer.
Often he seemed to be indifferent to good and evil, or he had to be
measured with a special standard. He held a high position in Cesare's
campaign which gained for this most inconsiderate and most faithless of
foes the possession of the Romagna. Not a single line of Leonardo's
sketches betrays any criticism or sympathy of the events of those days.
The comparison with Goethe during the French campaign cannot here be
altogether rejected.
If a biographical effort really endeavors to penetrate the understanding
of the psychic life of its hero it must not, as happens in most
biographies through discretion or prudery, pass over in silence the
sexual activity or the sex peculiarity of the one examined. What we know
about it in Leonardo is very little but full of significance. In a
period where there was a constant struggle between riotous
licentiousness and gloomy asceticism, Leonardo presented an example of
cool sexual rejection which one would not expect in an artist and a
portrayer of feminine beauty. Solmi[12] cites the following sentence
from Leonardo showing his frigidity: "The act of procreation and
everything that has any relation to it is so disgusting that human
beings would soon die out if it were not a traditional custom and if
there were no pretty faces and sensuous dispositions." His posthumous
works which not only treat of the greatest scientific problems but also
comprise the most guileless objects which to us do not seem worthy of so
great a mind (an allegorical natural history, animal fables, witticisms,
prophecies),[13] are chaste to a degree--one might say abstinent--that
in a work of _belle lettres_ would excite wonder even to-day. They evade
everything sexual so thoroughly, as if Eros alone who preserves
everything living was no worthy material for the scientific impulse of
the investigator.[14] It is known how frequently great artists found
pleasure in giving vent to their phantasies in erotic and even grossly
obscene representations; in contradistinction to this Leonardo left only
some anatomical drawings of the woman's internal genitals, the position
of the child in the womb, etc.
It is doubtful whether Leonardo ever embraced a woman in love, nor is it
known that he ever entertained an intimate spiritual relation with a
woman as in the case of Michelangelo and Vittoria Colonna. While he
still lived as an apprentice in the house of his master Verrocchio, he
with other young men were accused of forbidden homosexual relations
which ended in his acquittal. It seems that he came into this suspicion
because he employed as a model a boy of evil repute.[15] When he was a
master he surrounded himself with handsome boys and youths whom he took
as pupils. The last of these pupils Francesco Melzi, accompanied him to
France, remained with him until his death, and was named by him as his
heir. Without sharing the certainty of his modern biographers, who
naturally reject the possibility of a sexual relation between himself
and his pupils as a baseless insult to this great man, it may be thought
by far more probable that the affectionate relationships of Leonardo to
the young men did not result in sexual activity. Nor should one
attribute to him a high measure of sexual activity.
The peculiarity of this emotional and sexual life viewed in connection
with Leonardo's double nature as an artist and investigator can be
grasped only in one way. Of the biographers to whom psychological
viewpoints are often very foreign, only one, Edm. Solmi, has to my
knowledge approached the solution of the riddle. But a writer, Dimitri
Sergewitsch Merejkowski, who selected Leonardo as the hero of a great
historical novel has based his delineation on such an understanding of
this unusual man, and if not in dry words he gave unmistakable
utterance in plastic expression in the manner of a poet.[16] Solmi
judges Leonardo as follows: "But the unrequited desire to understand
everything surrounding him, and with cold reflection to discover the
deepest secret of everything that is perfect, has condemned Leonardo's
works to remain forever unfinished."[17] In an essay of the Conferenze
Fiorentine the utterances of Leonardo are cited, which show his
confession of faith and furnish the key to his character.
"_Nessuna cosa si puo amare ne odiare, se_
_prima no si ha cognition di quella._"[18]
That is: One has no right to love or to hate anything if one has not
acquired a thorough knowledge of its nature. And the same is repeated by
Leonardo in a passage of the Treaties on the Art of Painting where he
seems to defend himself against the accusation of irreligiousness:
"But such censurers might better remain silent. For that action is the
manner of showing the workmaster so many wonderful things, and this is
the way to love so great a discoverer. For, verily great love springs
from great knowledge of the beloved object, and if you little know it
you will be able to love it only little or not at all."[19]
The value of these utterances of Leonardo cannot be found in that they
impart to us an important psychological fact, for what they maintain is
obviously false, and Leonardo must have known this as well as we do. It
is not true that people refrain from loving or hating until they have
studied and became familiar with the nature of the object to whom they
wish to give these affects, on the contrary they love impulsively and
are guided by emotional motives which have nothing to do with cognition
and whose affects are weakened, if anything, by thought and reflection.
Leonardo only could have implied that the love practiced by people is
not of the proper and unobjectionable kind, one should so love as to
hold back the affect and to subject it to mental elaboration, and only
after it has stood the test of the intellect should free play be given
to it. And we thereby understand that he wishes to tell us that this was
the case with himself and that it would be worth the effort of everybody
else to treat love and hatred as he himself does.
And it seems that in his case it was really so. His affects were
controlled and subjected to the investigation impulse, he neither loved
nor hated, but questioned himself whence does that arise, which he was
to love or hate, and what does it signify, and thus he was at first
forced to appear indifferent to good and evil, to beauty and ugliness.
During this work of investigation love and hatred threw off their
designs and uniformly changed into intellectual interest. As a matter of
fact Leonardo was not dispassionate, he did not lack the divine spark
which is the mediate or immediate motive power--_il primo motore_--of
all human activity. He only transmuted his passion into
inquisitiveness. He then applied himself to study with that
persistence, steadiness, and profundity which comes from passion, and on
the height of the psychic work, after the cognition was won, he allowed
the long checked affect to break loose and to flow off freely like a
branch of a stream, after it has accomplished its work. At the height of
his cognition when he could examine a big part of the whole he was
seized with a feeling of pathos, and in ecstatic words he praised the
grandeur of that part of creation which he studied, or--in religious
cloak--the greatness of the creator. Solmi has correctly divined this
process of transformation in Leonardo. According to the quotation of
such a passage, in which Leonardo celebrated the higher impulse of
nature ("O mirabile necessita... ") he said: "Tale trasfigurazione
della scienza della natura in emozione, quasi direi, religiosa, e uno
dei tratti caratteristici de manoscritti vinciani, e si trova cento e
cento volte espressa...."[20]
Leonardo was called the Italian Faust on account of his insatiable and
indefatigable desire for investigation. But even if we disregard the
fact that it is the possible retransformation of the desire for
investigation into the joys of life which is presupposed in the Faust
tragedy, one might venture to remark that Leonardo's system recalls
Spinoza's mode of thinking.
The transformation of psychic motive power into the different forms of
activity is perhaps as little convertible without loss, as in the case
of physical powers. Leonardo's example teaches how many other things one
must follow up in these processes. Not to love before one gains full
knowledge of the thing loved presupposes a delay which is harmful. When
one finally reaches cognition he neither loves nor hates properly; one
remains beyond love and hatred. One has investigated instead of having
loved. It is perhaps for this reason that Leonardo's life was so much
poorer in love than those of other great men and great artists. The
storming passions of the soul-stirring and consuming kind, in which
others experience the best part of their lives, seem to have missed
him.
There are still other consequences when one follows Leonardo's dictum.
Instead of acting and producing one just investigates. He who begins to
divine the grandeur of the universe and its needs readily forgets his
own insignificant self. When one is struck with admiration and becomes
truly humble he easily forgets that he himself is a part of that living
force, and that according to the measure of his own personality he has
the right to make an effort to change that destined course of the world,
the world in which the insignificant is no less wonderful and important
than the great.
Solmi thinks that Leonardo's investigations started with his art,[21] he
tried to investigate the attributes and laws of light, of color, of
shades and of perspective so as to be sure of becoming a master in the
imitation of nature and to be able to show the way to others. It is
probable that already at that time he overestimated the value of this
knowledge for the artist. Following the guide-rope of the painter's
need, he was then driven further and further to investigate the objects
of the art of painting, such as animals and plants, and the proportions
of the human body, and to follow the path from their exterior to their
interior structure and biological functions, which really also express
themselves in their appearance and should be depicted in art. And
finally he was pulled along by this overwhelming desire until the
connection was torn from the demands of his art, so that he discovered
the general laws of mechanics and divined the history of the
stratification and fossilization of the Arno-valley, until he could
enter in his book with capital letters the cognition: _Il sole non si
move_ (The sun does not move). His investigations were thus extended
over almost all realms of natural science, in every one of which he was
a discoverer or at least a prophet or forerunner.[22] However, his
curiosity continued to be directed to the outer world, something kept
him away from the investigation of the psychic life of men; there was
little room for psychology in the "Academia Vinciana," for which he drew
very artistic and very complicated emblems.
When he later made the effort to return from his investigations to the
art from which he started he felt that he was disturbed by the new paths
of his interest and by the changed nature of his psychic work. In the
picture he was interested above all in a problem, and behind this one he
saw emerging numerous other problems just as he was accustomed in the
endless and indeterminable investigations of natural history. He was no
longer able to limit his demands, to isolate the work of art, and to
tear it out from that great connection of which he knew it formed part.
After the most exhausting efforts to bring to expression all that was in
him, all that was connected with it in his thoughts, he was forced to
leave it unfinished, or to declare it incomplete.
The artist had once taken into his service the investigator to assist
him, now the servant was stronger and suppressed his master.
When we find in the portrait of a person one single impulse very
forcibly developed, as curiosity in the case of Leonardo, we look for
the explanation in a special constitution, concerning its probable
organic determination hardly anything is known. Our psychoanalytic
studies of nervous people lead us to look for two other expectations
which we would like to find verified in every case. We consider it
probable that this very forcible impulse was already active in the
earliest childhood of the person, and that its supreme sway was fixed by
infantile impressions; and we further assume that originally it drew
upon sexual motive powers for its reenforcement so that it later can
take the place of a part of the sexual life. Such person would then,
e.g., investigate with that passionate devotion which another would give
to his love, and he could investigate instead of loving. We would
venture the conclusion of a sexual reenforcement not only in the impulse
to investigate, but also in most other cases of special intensity of an
impulse.
Observation of daily life shows us that most persons have the capacity
to direct a very tangible part of their sexual motive powers to their
professional or business activities. The sexual impulse is particularly
suited to yield such contributions because it is endowed with the
capacity of sublimation, i.e., it has the power to exchange its nearest
aim for others of higher value which are not sexual. We consider this
process as proved, if the history of childhood or the psychic
developmental history of a person shows that in childhood this powerful
impulse was in the service of the sexual interest. We consider it a
further corroboration if this is substantiated by a striking stunting in
the sexual life of mature years, as if a part of the sexual activity had
now been replaced by the activity of the predominant impulse.
The application of these assumptions to the case of the predominant
investigation-impulse seems to be subject to special difficulties, as
one is unwilling to admit that this serious impulse exists in children
or that children show any noteworthy sexual interest. However, these
difficulties are easily obviated. The untiring pleasure in questioning
as seen in little children demonstrates their curiosity, which is
puzzling to the grown-up, as long as he does not understand that all
these questions are only circumlocutions, and that they cannot come to
an end because they replace only one question which the child does not
put. When the child becomes older and gains more understanding this
manifestation of curiosity suddenly disappears. But psychoanalytic
investigation gives us a full explanation in that it teaches us that
many, perhaps most children, at least the most gifted ones, go through a
period beginning with the third year, which may be designated as the
period of _infantile sexual investigation_. As far as we know, the
curiosity is not awakened spontaneously in children of this age, but is
aroused through the impression of an important experience, through the
birth of a little brother or sister, or through fear of the same
endangered by some outward experience, wherein the child sees a danger
to his egotistic interests. The investigation directs itself to the
question whence children come, as if the child were looking for means
to guard against such undesired event. We were astonished to find that
the child refuses to give credence to the information imparted to it,
e.g., it energetically rejects the mythological and so ingenious
stork-fable, we were astonished to find that its psychic independence
dates from this act of disbelief, that it often feels itself at serious
variance with the grown-ups, and never forgives them for having been
deceived of the truth on this occasion. It investigates in its own way,
it divines that the child is in the mother's womb, and guided by the
feelings of its own sexuality, it formulates for itself theories about
the origin of children from food, about being born through the bowels,
about the role of the father which is difficult to fathom, and even at
that time it has a vague conception of the sexual act which appears to
the child as something hostile, as something violent. But as its own
sexual constitution is not yet equal to the task of producing children,
his investigation whence come children must also run aground and must be
left in the lurch as unfinished. The impression of this failure at the
first attempt of intellectual independence seems to be of a persevering
and profoundly depressing nature.[23]
If the period of infantile sexual investigation comes to an end through
an impetus of energetic sexual repression, the early association with
sexual interest may result in three different possibilities for the
future fate of the investigation impulse. The investigation either
shares the fate of the sexuality, the curiosity henceforth remains
inhibited and the free activity of intelligence may become narrowed for
life; this is especially made possible by the powerful religious
inhibition of thought, which is brought about shortly hereafter through
education. This is the type of neurotic inhibition. We know well that
the so acquired mental weakness furnishes effective support for the
outbreak of a neurotic disease. In a second type the intellectual
development is sufficiently strong to withstand the sexual repression
pulling at it. Sometimes after the disappearance of the infantile sexual
investigation, it offers its support to the old association in order to
elude the sexual repression, and the suppressed sexual investigation
comes back from the unconscious as compulsive reasoning, it is naturally
distorted and not free, but forceful enough to sexualize even thought
itself and to accentuate the intellectual operations with the pleasure
and fear of the actual sexual processes. Here the investigation becomes
sexual activity and often exclusively so, the feeling of settling the
problem and of explaining things in the mind is put in place of sexual
gratification. But the indeterminate character of the infantile
investigation repeats itself also in the fact that this reasoning never
ends, and that the desired intellectual feeling of the solution
constantly recedes into the distance. By virtue of a special disposition
the third, which is the most rare and most perfect type, escapes the
inhibition of thought and the compulsive reasoning. Also here sexual
repression takes place, it is unable, however, to direct a partial
impulse of the sexual pleasure into the unconscious, but the libido
withdraws from the fate of the repression by being sublimated from the
beginning into curiosity, and by reenforcing the powerful investigation
impulse. Here, too, the investigation becomes more or less compulsive
and a substitute of the sexual activity, but owing to the absolute
difference of the psychic process behind it (sublimation in place of the
emergence from the unconscious) the character of the neurosis does not
manifest itself, the subjection to the original complexes of the
infantile sexual investigation disappears, and the impulse can freely
put itself in the service of the intellectual interest. It takes account
of the sexual repression which made it so strong in contributing to it
sublimated libido, by avoiding all occupation with sexual themes.
In mentioning the concurrence in Leonardo of the powerful investigation
impulse with the stunting of his sexual life which was limited to the
so-called ideal homosexuality, we feel inclined to consider him as a
model example of our third type. The most essential point of his
character and the secret of it seems to lie in the fact, that after
utilizing the infantile activity of curiosity in the service of sexual
interest he was able to sublimate the greater part of his libido into
the impulse of investigation. But to be sure the proof of this
conception is not easy to produce. To do this we would have to have an
insight into the psychic development of his first childhood years, and
it seems foolish to hope for such material when the reports concerning
his life are so meager and so uncertain; and moreover, when we deal with
information which even persons of our own generation withdraw from the
attention of the observer.
We know very little concerning Leonardo's youth. He was born in 1452 in
the little city of Vinci between Florence and Empoli; he was an
illegitimate child which was surely not considered a great popular stain
in that time. His father was Ser Piero da Vinci, a notary and descendant
of notaries and farmers, who took their name from the place Vinci; his
mother, a certain Caterina, probably a peasant girl, who later married
another native of Vinci. Nothing else about his mother | 1,983.30411 |
2023-11-16 18:50:07.2890960 | 2,474 | 15 |
Produced by David Edwards, Louise Setzer, Mary Meehan and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
BAT WING BOWLES
BY DANE COOLIDGE
AUTHOR OF "HIDDEN WATER" AND "THE TEXICAN"
Illustrated by D. C. Hutchison
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY
STREET & SMITH, NEW YORK
_All rights reserved, including that of translation
into foreign languages_
_March, 1914_
[Illustration: "'WHY, HELLO THERE, COWBOY!' SHE CHALLENGED BLUNTLY"]
CONTENTS
I MR. BOWLES
II THE FAR WEST
III THE BAT WING RANCH
IV BRIGHAM
V WA-HA-LOTE
VI THE ROUND-UP
VII THE QUEEN AT HOME
VIII A COWBOY'S LIFE
IX REDUCED TO THE RANKS
X THE FIRST SMILE
XI CONEY ISLAND
XII PROMOTED
XIII A LETTER FROM THE POSTMISTRESS
XIV THE ENGLISH LORD
XV BURYING THE HATCHET
XVI THE STRAW-BOSS
XVII AND HIS SQUIRREL STORY
XVIII THE ROUGH-RIDERS
XIX A COMMON BRAWL
XX THE DEATH OF HAPPY JACK
XXI A CALL
XXII THE HORSE THAT KILLED DUNBAR
XXIII THE CUSTOM OF THE COUNTRY
ILLUSTRATIONS
"'Why, hello there, cowboy!' she challenged bluntly"
"Only Bowles, the man from the East, rose and took off his hat"
"'You want to be careful how you treat these Arizona girls!'"
"The man-killer charged at him through the dust"
BAT WING BOWLES
CHAPTER I
MR. BOWLES
It was a fine windy morning in March and Dixie Lee, of Chula Vista,
Arizona, was leaving staid New York at the gate marked "Western
Limited." A slight difference with the gatekeeper, who seemed to doubt
every word she said, cast no cloud upon her spirits, and she was
cheerfully searching for her ticket when a gentleman came up from
behind. At sight of the trim figure at the wicket, he too became
suddenly happy, and it looked as if the effete East was losing two of
its merriest citizens.
"Oh, good-morning, Miss Lee!" he said, bowing and smiling radiantly as
she glanced in his direction. "Are you going out on this train?"
"Why--yes," she replied, gazing into her handbag with a preoccupied
frown. "That is, if I can find my ticket!"
She found it on the instant, but the frown did not depart. She had
forgotten the young man's name. It was queer how those New York names
slipped her memory--but she remembered his face distinctly. She had met
him at some highbrow affair--it was a reception or some such social
maelstrom--and, yes, his name was Bowles!
"Oh, thank you, Mr. Bowles," she exclaimed as he gallantly took her bag;
but a furtive glance at his face left her suddenly transfixed with
doubts. Not that his expression changed--far from that--but a fleeting
twinkle in his eyes suggested some hidden joke.
"Oh, isn't your name Bowles?" she stammered. "I met you at the
Wordsworth Club, you know, and----"
"Oh, yes--quite right!" he assured her politely. "You have a wonderful
memory for names, Miss Lee. Shall we go on down to your car?"
Dixie Lee regarded the young man questioningly and with a certain
Western disfavor. He was one of those trim and proper creatures that
seemed to haunt Wordsworth societies, welfare meetings, and other
culture areas known only to the cognoscente and stern-eyed Eastern
aunts. In fact, he seemed to personify all those qualities of breeding
and education which a long winter of compulsory "finishing" had taught
her to despise; and yet--well, if it were not for his clothes and
manners and the way he dropped his "r's" he might almost pass for human.
But she knew his name wasn't Bowles.
There had been a person there by the name of Bowles, but the hostess had
mumbled when she presented this one--and they had talked quite a little,
too. She glanced at him again and a question trembled on her lips; but
names were nothing out where she came from, and she let it go for
Bowles.
The hypothetical Mr. Bowles was a tall and slender young man, of a type
that ordinarily maddened her beyond all reason and prompted her to say
cruel things which she was never sorry for afterward. He had a clear
complexion, a Cupid's bow mouth, and eyes as innocent as a girl's. They
were of a deep violet hue, very soft and soulful, and had a truly
cultured way of changing--when he talked--to mirror a thousand shades of
interest, courtesy and concern; but the way they had flickered when he
took over the name of Bowles suggested a real man behind the veil. His
manners, of course, were irreproachable; and not even a haberdasher
could take exception to his clothes. He was, in fact, attired strictly
according to the mode, in a close-fitting suit of striped gray, with
four-inch cuffs above his box-toed shoes, narrow shoulders, and a
low-crowned derby hat, now all the rage but affected for many years only
by Dutch comedians.
When he removed this hat, which he did whenever he stood in her
presence, he revealed a very fine head of hair which had been brushed
straight back from his forehead until each strand knew its separate
place; and yet, far from being pleased at this final evidence of
conscientious endeavor, Dixie May received him almost with a sniff.
"And are you really on your way to Arizona, Miss Lee?" he inquired,
carefully leaving the "r" out of "are" and putting the English on
"really." "Why, how fortunate! I am going West myself! Perhaps we can
renew our acquaintance on the way. Those were jolly stories you were
telling me at the Wordsworth Club--very improperly, to be sure, but all
the more interesting on that account. About the round-up cook, you know,
and the man who couldn't say 'No.' Nothing like that in California, I
suppose. I'm off for Los Angeles, myself."
"All right," answered Dixie Lee, waving California airily aside;
"Arizona is good enough for me! Say, I'm going to ask this man where my
section is."
She fished out her Pullman ticket and showed it to a waiting porter, who
motioned her down the train.
"The fourth car, lady," he said. "Car Number Four!"
"Car Four!" cried Bowles, setting down the suitcase with quite a
dramatic start. "Why--why, isn't this remarkable, Miss Lee? To think
that we should take the same train--on the same day--and then have the
very same car! But, don't you know, you never finished that last story
you were telling me--about the cowboy who went to the picnic--and now I
shall demand the end of it. Really, Miss Lee, I enjoyed your tales
immensely--but don't let me keep you waiting!"
He hurried on, still commenting upon the remarkable coincidence; and as
a memory of the reception came back to her and she recalled the avid way
in which this same young man had hung upon her words, a sudden doubt, a
shrewd questioning, came over the mind of Dixie Lee. Back in Arizona,
now, a man with any git-up-and-git to him might--but, pshaw, this was
not Arizona! And he was not that kind of man! No, indeed! The idea of
one of these New York Willies doing the sleuth act and tagging her to
the train!
At the same time Dixie Lee had her misgivings about this correct young
man, because she _knew_ his name was not Bowles. More than that, his
language displeased her, reminding her as it did of her long winter's
penance among the culturines. Three days more of highbrow conversation
would just about finish her off--she must be stern, very stern, if she
would avert the impending disaster! So she stabbed her neatly-trimmed
little sombrero with a hatpin and waited for Mr. Bowles.
"Lovely weather we've been having, isn't it?" he purled as he made bold
to sit down beside her.
"Yes, indeed," she answered, showing her white teeth in a simpering
smile. "Simply heavenly. Don't you know, it reminds me of those lines in
Wordsworth--you remember--I think it was in his 'Idiot Boy.' Oh, how do
they go?"
She knitted her brows and Mr. Bowles regarded her thoughtfully.
"Perhaps it was in his 'Lines Written in Early Spring,'" he suggested
guardedly.
"No," she insisted. "It was in 'The Idiot Boy'--either that or in 'Lines
Written to the Same Dog.' I forget which. Anyway, it told all about the
rain, you know, and the clouds--and all that. Don't you remember? I
thought you were full of Wordsworth."
This last, was thrown out for a bait, to get Mr. Bowles to extend
himself, but it failed of its effect. A somber smile took the place of
the expected frenzy and he muttered half to himself as he gazed out of
the window.
"What's that you say?" she questioned sharply.
"Oh, pardon me," he exclaimed, recovering himself with a sudden access
of manner; "I was talking to myself, don't you know? But, really, I _am_
pretty full of Wordsworth; so, if you don't mind, we'll talk about
something else. My aunt, you know, is a great devotee of all the nature
poets, and I attend the meetings to please her. It's an awful bore
sometimes, too, I assure you; that's why your face was so welcome to me
when I chanced to see you at the club-rooms. That lecturer was such a
conceited ass and those women were so besotted in their admiration of
him that I looked around to see if there was a single sane and
reasonable creature in the room--and there you were, as stern and
uncompromising as an angel and--oh, well, I formed a different
conception of angels, right there. You were so delightfully humorous
too, when Mrs. Melvine introduced us--and, well, really, Miss Lee, you
are partly responsible for my leaving New York. I never fully realized
before what our Western country must be like; I never dreamed that there
was a place to flee to when the conventions of society | 1,983.309136 |
2023-11-16 18:50:07.3778490 | 7,093 | 26 |
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THE LIFE EVERLASTING
A REALITY OF ROMANCE
BY MARIE CORELLI
AUTHOR OF THELMA, ETC.
CONTENTS
AUTHOR'S PROLOGUE
I. THE HEROINE BEGINS HER STORY
II. THE FAIRY SHIP
III. THE ANGEL OF A DREAM
IV. A BUNCH OF HEATHER
V. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING
VI. RECOGNITION
VII. MEMORIES
VIII. VISIONS
IX. DOUBTFUL DESTINY
X. STRANGE ASSOCIATIONS
XI. ONE WAY OF LOVE
XII. A LOVE-LETTER
XIII. THE HOUSE OF ASELZION
XIV. CROSS AND STAR
XV. A FIRST LESSON
XVI. SHADOW AND SOUND
XVII. THE MAGIC BOOK
XVIII. DREAMS WITHIN A DREAM
XIX. THE UNKNOWN DEEP
XX. INTO THE LIGHT
THE LIFE EVERLASTING
A REALITY OF ROMANCE
AUTHOR'S PROLOGUE
In the Gospels of the only Divine Friend this world has ever had or
ever will have, we read of a Voice, a 'Voice in the Wilderness.' There
have been thousands of such Voices;--most of them ineffectual. All
through the world's history their echoes form a part of the universal
record, and from the very beginning of time they have sounded forth
their warnings or entreaties in vain. The Wilderness has never cared to
hear them. The Wilderness does not care to hear them now.
Why, then, do I add an undesired note to the chorus of rejected appeal?
How dare I lift up my voice in the Wilderness, when other voices, far
stronger and sweeter, are drowned in the laughter of fools and the
mockery of the profane? Truly, I do not know. But I am sure that I am
not moved by egotism or arrogance. It is simply out of love and pity
for suffering human kind that I venture to become another Voice
discarded--a voice which, if heard at all, may only serve to awaken the
cheap scorn and derision of the clowns of the piece.
Yet, should this be so, I would not have it otherwise, I have never at
any time striven to be one with the world, or to suit my speech
pliantly to the conventional humour of the moment. I am often attacked,
yet am not hurt; I am equally often praised, and am not elated. I have
no time to attend to the expression of opinions, which, whether good or
bad, are to me indifferent. And whatever pain I have felt or feel, in
experiencing human malice, has been, and is, in the fact that human
malice should exist at all,--not for its attempted wrong towards
myself. For I, personally speaking, have not a moment to waste among
the mere shadows of life which are not Life itself. I follow the
glory,--not the gloom.
So whether you, who wander in darkness of your own making, care to come
towards the little light which leads me onward, or whether you prefer
to turn away from me altogether into your self-created darker depths,
is not my concern. I cannot force you to bear me company. God Himself
cannot do that, for it is His Will and Law that each human soul shall
shape its own eternal future. No one mortal can make the happiness or
salvation of another. I, like yourselves, am in the 'Wilderness,'--but
I know that there are ways of making it blossom like the rose!
Yet,--were all my heart and all my love outpoured upon you, I could not
teach you the Divine transfiguring charm,--unless you, equally with all
your hearts and all your love, resolutely and irrevocably WILLED to
learn.
Nevertheless, despite your possible indifference,--your often sheer
inertia--I cannot pass you by, having peace and comfort for myself
without at least offering to share that peace and comfort with you.
Many of you are very sad,--and I would rather you were happy. Your ways
of living are trivial and unsatisfactory--your so-called 'pleasant'
vices lead you into unforeseen painful perplexities--your ideals of
what may be best for your own enjoyment and advancement fall far short
of your dreams,--your amusements pall on your over-wearied
senses,--your youth hurries away like a puff of thistledown on the
wind,--and you spend all your time feverishly in trying to live without
understanding Life. Life, the first of all things, the essence of all
things,--Life which is yours to hold and to keep, and to RE-CREATE over
and over again in your own persons,--this precious jewel you throw
away, and when it falls out of your possession by your own act, you
think such an end was necessary and inevitable. Poor unhappy mortals!
So self-sufficient, so proud, so ignorant! Like some foolish rustic,
who, finding a diamond, sees no difference between it and a bit of
glass, you, with the whole Universe sweeping around you in mighty
beneficent circles of defensive, protective and ever re-creative
power,--power which is yours to use and to control--imagine that the
entire Cosmos is the design of mere blind unintelligent Chance, and
that the Divine Life which thrills within you serves no purpose save to
lead you to Death! Most wonderful and most pitiful it is that such
folly, such blasphemy should still prevail,--and that humanity should
still ascribe to the Almighty Creator less wisdom and less love than
that with which He has endowed His creatures. For the very first lesson
in the beginning of knowledge is that Life is the essential Being of
God, and that each individual intelligent outcome of Life is deathless
as God Himself.
The 'Wilderness' is wide,--and within it we all find ourselves,--some
wandering far astray--some crouching listlessly among shadows, too
weary to move at all--others, sauntering along in idle indifference,
now and then vaguely questioning how soon and where the journey will
end,--and few ever discovering that it is not a 'Wilderness' at all,
but a garden of sweet sights and sounds, where every day should be a
glory and every night a benediction. For when the veil of mere
Appearances has been lifted we are no longer deceived into accepting
what Seems for what Is. The Reality of Life is Happiness;--the Delusion
of Life, which we ourselves create by improper balance and imperfect
comprehension of our own powers, must needs cause Sorrow, because in
such self-deception we only dimly see the truth, just as a person born
blind may vaguely guess at the beauty of bright day. But for the Soul
that has found Itself, there are no more misleading lights or shadows
between its own everlastingness and the everlastingness of God.
All the world over there are religions of various kinds, more or less
suited to the various types and races of humanity. Most of these forms
of faith have been evolved from the brooding brain of Man himself, and
have nothing 'divine,' in them. In the very early ages nearly all the
religious creeds were mere methods for terrorising the ignorant and the
weak--and some of them were so revolting, so bloodthirsty and brutal,
that one cannot now read of them without a shudder of repulsion.
Nevertheless, from the very first dawn of his intelligence, man appears
always to have felt the necessity of believing in something stronger
and more lasting than himself,--and his first gropings for truth led
him to evolve desperate notions of something more cruel, more
relentless, and more wicked than himself, rather than ideals of
something more beautiful, more just, more faithful and more loving than
he could be. The dawn of Christianity brought the first glimmering
suggestion that a gospel of love and pity might be more serviceable in
the end to the needs of the world, than a ruthless code of slaughter
and vengeance--though history shows us that the annals of Christianity
itself are stained with crime and shamed by the shedding of innocent
blood. Only in these latter days has the world become faintly conscious
of the real Force working behind and through all things--the soul of
the Divine, or the Psychic element, animating and inspiring all visible
and invisible Nature. This soul of the Divine--this Psychic element,
however, is almost entirely absent from the teaching of the Christian
creed to-day, with the result that the creed itself is losing its
power. I venture to say that a very small majority of the millions of
persons worshipping in the various forms of the Christian Church really
and truly believe what they publicly profess. Clergy and laity alike
are tainted with this worst of all hypocrisies--that of calling God to
witness their faith when they know they are faithless. It may be asked
how I dare to make such an assertion? I dare, because I know! It would
be impossible to the people of this or any other country to honestly
believe the Christian creed, and yet continue to live as they do. Their
lives give the lie to their avowed religion, and it is this daily
spectacle of the daily life of governments, trades, professions and
society which causes me to feel that the general aspect of Christendom
at the present day, with all its Churches and solemn observances, is
one of the most painful and profound hypocrisy. You who read this
page,--(possibly with indignation) you call yourself a Christian, no
doubt. But ARE you? Do you truly think that when death shall come to
you it is really NOT death, but the simple transition into another and
better life? Do you believe in the actual immortality of your soul, and
do you realise what it means? You do? You are quite sure? Then, do you
live as one convinced of it? Are you quite indifferent to the riches
and purely material advantages of this world?--are you as happy in
poverty as in wealth, and are you independent of social esteem? Are you
bent on the very highest and most unselfish ideals of life and conduct?
I do not say you are not; I merely ask if you ARE. If your answer is in
the affirmative, do not give the lie to your creed by your daily
habits, conversation and manners; for this is what thousands of
professing Christians do, and the clergy are by no means exempt.
I know very well, of course, that I must not expect your appreciation,
or even your attention, in matters purely spiritual. The world is too
much with you, and you become obstinate of opinion and rooted in
prejudice. Nevertheless, as I said before, this is not my concern. Your
moods are not mine, and with your prejudices I have nothing to do. My
creed is drawn from Nature--Nature, just, invincible, yet
tender--Nature, who shows us that Life, as we know it now, at this very
time and in this very world, is a blessing so rich in its as yet unused
powers and possibilities, that it may be truly said of the greater
majority of human beings that scarce one of them has ever begun to
learn HOW to live.
Shakespeare, the greatest human exponent of human nature at its best
and worst,--the profound Thinker and Artist who dealt boldly with the
facts of good and evil as they truly are,--and did not hesitate to
contrast them forcibly, without any of the deceptive 'half-tones' of
vice and virtue which are the chief stock-in-trade of such modern
authors as we may call 'degenerates,'--makes his Hamlet exclaim:--
"What a piece of work is man!--how noble in
reason!--how infinite in faculty!--in form and moving
how express and admirable!--in action how like an
angel!--in apprehension how like a god!"
Let us consider two of these designations in particular: 'How infinite
in faculty!'--and 'In apprehension how like a god!' The sentences are
prophetic, like so many of Shakespeare's utterances. They foretell the
true condition of the Soul of Man when it shall have discovered its
capabilities. 'Infinite in faculty'--that is to say--Able to do all it
shall WILL to do. There is no end to this power,--no hindrance in
either earth or heaven to its resolute working--no stint to the
life-supplies on which it may draw unceasingly. And--'in apprehension
how like a god!' Here the word 'apprehension' is used in the sense of
attaining knowledge,--to learn, or to 'apprehend' wisdom. It means, of
course, that if the Soul's capability of 'apprehending' or learning the
true meaning and use of every fact and circumstance which environs its
existence, were properly perceived and applied, then the 'Image of God'
in which the Creator made humanity, would become the veritable likeness
of the Divine.
But, as this powerful and infinite faculty of apprehension is seldom if
ever rightly understood, and as Man generally concentrates his whole
effort upon ministering to his purely material needs, utterly ignoring
and wilfully refusing to realise those larger claims which are purely
spiritual, he presents the appearance of a maimed and imperfect
object,--a creature who, having strong limbs, declines to use the same,
or who, possessing incalculable wealth, crazily considers himself a
pauper. Jesus Christ, whom we may look upon as a human Incarnation of
Divine Thought, an outcome and expression of the 'Word' or Law of God,
came to teach us our true position in the scale of the great Creative
and Progressive Purpose,--but in the days of His coming men would not
listen,--nor will they listen even now. They say with their mouths, but
they do not believe with their hearts, that He rose from the dead,--and
they cannot understand that, as a matter of fact, He never died, seeing
that death for Him (as for all who have mastered the inward
constitution and commingling of the elements) was impossible. His real
LIFE was not injured or affected by the agony on the Cross, or by His
three days' entombment; the one was a torture to His physical frame,
which to the limited perception of those who watched Him 'die,' as they
thought, appeared like a dissolution of the whole Man,--the other was
the mere rest and silence necessary for what is called the'miracle' of
the Resurrection, but which was simply the natural rising of the same
Body, the atoms of which were re-invested and made immortal by the
imperishable Spirit which owned and held them in being. The whole life
and so-called 'death' of Christ was and is a great symbolic lesson to
mankind of the infinite power of THAT within us which we call
SOUL,--but which we may perhaps in these scientific days term an
eternal radio-activity,--capable of exhaustless energy and of
readjustment to varying conditions. Life is all Life. There is no such
thing as Death in its composition,--and the intelligent comprehension
of its endless ways and methods of change and expression, is the Secret
of the Universe.
It appears to be generally accepted that we are not to know this
Secret,--that it is too vast and deep for our limited capacities,--and
that even if we did know it, it would be of no use to us, as we are
bound hard and fast by certain natural and elemental laws over which we
have no control. Old truisms are re-stated and violently
asserted--namely, that our business is merely to be born, to live,
breed and arrange things as well as we can for those who come after us,
and then to die, and there an end,--a stupid round of existence not one
whit higher than that of the silkworm. Is it for such a monotonous,
commonplace way of life and purpose as this, that humanity has been
endowed with 'infinite faculty'? Is it for such poor aims and ends as
these that we are told in the legended account of the beginning of
things, to 'Replenish the earth and subdue it'? There is great meaning
in that command--'Subdue it!' The business of each one of us who has
come into the knowledge and possession of his or her own Soul, is to
'subdue' the earth,--that is, to hold it and all it contains under
subjection,--not to allow Its forces, whether interior or exterior, to
subdue the Soul. But it may perhaps be said:--"We do not yet understand
all the forces with which we have to contend, and in this way they
master us." That may be so,--but if it is so with any of you, it is
quite your own fault. Your own fault, I say,--for there is no power,
human or divine, that compels you to remain in ignorance. Each one of
you has a master--talisman and key to all locked doors. No State
education can do for you what you might do for yourselves, if you only
had the WILL. It is your own choice entirely if you elect to live in
subjection to the earth, instead of placing the earth under subjection
to your dominance.
Then, again, you have been told to 'Replenish the earth'--as well as to
subdue it. In these latter days, through a cupidity as amazing as
criminal, you are not'replenishing' so much as impoverishing the
earth, and think you that no interest will be exacted for your reckless
plunder? You mistake! You complain of the high taxes imposed upon you
by your merely material and ephemeral Governments,--but you forget that
the Everlasting Government of all Worlds demands an even higher rate of
compensation for such wrong or injurious uses as you make of this
world, which was and is intended to serve as a place of training for
the development and perfection of the whole human race, but which,
owing to personal greed and selfishness, is too often turned into a
mere grave for the interment of faulty civilisations.
In studying the psychic side of life it should be well and distinctly
understood that THERE IS AN EVER LIVING SPIRIT WITHIN EACH ONE OF
US;--a Spirit for which there is no limited capacity and no
unfavourable surroundings. Its capacity is infinite as God,--and its
surroundings are always made by Itself. It is its own Heaven,--and once
established within that everlasting centre, it radiates from the Inward
to the Outward, thus making its own environment, not only now but for
ever. It is its own Life,--and in the active work of perpetually
re-generating and re-creating itself, knows nothing of Death.
* * *
* *
*
I must now claim the indulgence of those among my readers who possess
the rare gift of patience, for anything that may seem too personal in
the following statement which I feel it almost necessary to make on the
subject of my own "psychic" creed. I am so often asked if I believe
this or that, if I am "orthodox," if I am a sceptic, materialist or
agnostic, that I should like, if possible, to make things clear between
myself and these enquirers. Therefore I may say at once that my belief
in God and the immortality of the Soul is absolute,--but that I did not
attain to the faith I hold without hard training and bitter suffering.
This need not be dwelt upon, being past. I began to write when I was
too young to know anything of the world's worldly ways, and when I was
too enthusiastic and too much carried away by the splendour and beauty
of the spiritual ideal to realise the inevitable derision and scorn
which are bound to fall upon untried explorers into the mysteries of
the unseen; yet it was solely on account of a strange psychical
experience which chanced to myself when I stood upon the threshold of
what is called 'life' that I found myself producing my first book, "A
Romance of Two Worlds." It was a rash experiment, but it was the direct
result of an initiation into some few of the truths behind the veil of
the Seeming Real. I did not then know why I was selected for such an
'initiation'--and I do not know even now. It arose quite naturally out
of a series of ordinary events which might happen to anyone. I was not
compelled or persuaded into it, for, being alone in the world and more
or less friendless, I had no opportunity to seek advice or assistance
from any person as to the course of life or learning I should pursue.
And I learned what I did learn because of my own unwavering intention
and WILL to be instructed.
I should here perhaps explain the tenor of the instruction which was
gradually imparted to me in just such measures of proportion as I was
found to be receptive. The first thing I was taught was how to bring
every feeling and sense into close union with the spirit of Nature.
Nature, I was told, is the reflection of the working-mind of the
Creator--and any opposition to that working-mind on the part of any
living organism It has created cannot but result in disaster. Pursuing
this line of study, a wonderful vista of perpetual revealment was
opened to me. I saw how humanity, moved by gross egoism, has in every
age of the world ordained laws and morals for itself which are the very
reverse of Nature's teaching--I saw how, instead of helping the wheel
of progress and wisdom onward, man reverses it by his obstinacy and
turns it backward even on the very point of great attainment--and I was
able to perceive how the sorrows and despairs of the world are caused
by this one simple fact--Man working AGAINST Nature--while Nature, ever
divine and invincible, pursues her God-appointed course, sweeping her
puny opponents aside and inflexibly carrying out her will to the end.
And I learned how true it is that if Man went WITH her instead of
AGAINST her, there would be no more misunderstanding of the laws of the
Universe, and that where there is now nothing but discord, all would be
divinest harmony.
My first book, "A Romance of Two Worlds," was an eager, though crude,
attempt to explain and express something of what I myself had studied
on some of these subjects, though, as I have already said, my mind was
unformed and immature, and, therefore, I was not permitted to disclose
more than a glimmering of the light I was beginning to perceive. My own
probation--destined to be a severe one--had only just been entered
upon; and hard and fast limits were imposed on me for a certain time. I
was forbidden, for example, to write of radium, that wonderful
'discovery' of the immediate hour, though it was then, and had been for
a long period, perfectly well known to my instructors, who possessed
all the means of extracting it from substances as yet undreamed of by
latter-day scientists. I was only permitted to hint at it under the
guise of the word 'Electricity'--which, after all, was not so much of a
misnomer, seeing that electric force displays itself in countless
millions of forms. My "Electric Theory of the Universe" in the "Romance
of Two Worlds" foreran the utterance of the scientist who in the
"Hibbert Journal" for January, 1905, wrote as follows:--"The last years
have seen the dawn of a revolution in science as great as that which in
the sphere of religion overthrew the many gods and crowned the One.
Matter, as we have understood it, there is none, nor probably anywhere
the individual atom. The so-called atoms are systems of ELECTRONIC
corpuscles, bound together by their mutual forces too firmly for any
human contrivance completely to sunder them,--alike in their electric
composition, differing only in the rhythms of their motion. ELECTRICITY
is all things, and all things are ELECTRIC."
THIS WAS PRECISELY MY TEACHING IN THE FIRST BOOK I EVER WROTE. I was
ridiculed for it, of course,--and I was told that there was no
'spiritual' force in electricity. I differ from this view; but
'radio-activity' is perhaps the better, because the truer term to
employ in seeking to describe the Germ or Embryo of the Soul, for--as
scientists have proved--"Radium is capable of absorbing from
surrounding bodies SOME UNKNOWN FORM OF ENERGY which it can render
evident as heat and light." This is precisely what the radio-activity
in each individual soul of each individual human being is ordained to
do,--to absorb an 'unknown form of energy which it can render evident
as heat and light.' Heat and Light are the composition of Life;--and
the Life which this radio-activity of Soul generates IN itself and OF
itself, can never die. Or, as I wrote in "A Romance of Two Worlds
"--"Like all flames, this electric (or radiant) spark can either be
fanned into a fire, or allowed to escape in air,--IT CAN NEVER BE
DESTROYED." And again, from the same book: "All the wonders of Nature
are the result of LIGHT AND HEAT ALONE." Paracelsus, as early as about
1526, made guarded mention of the same substance or quality, describing
it thus:--"The more of the humour of life it has, the more of the
spirit of life abounds in that life." Though truly this vital
radio-active force lacks all fitting name. To material science radium,
or radium chloride, is a minute salt crystal, so rare and costly to
obtain that it may be counted as about three thousand times the price
of gold in the market. But of the action of PURE radium, the knowledge
of ordinary scientific students is nil. They know that an infinitely
small spark of radium salt will emit heat and light continuously
without any combustion or change in its own structure. And I would here
quote a passage from a lecture delivered by one of our prominent
scientists in 1904. "Details concerning the behaviour of several
radio-active bodies were detected, as, for example, their activity was
not constant; it gradually grew in strength, BUT THE GROWN PORTION OF
THE ACTIVITY COULD BE BLOWN AWAY, AND THE BLOWN AWAY PART RETAINED ITS
ACTIVITY ONLY FOR A TIME. It decayed in a few days or weeks,--WHEREAS
THE RADIUM ROSE IN STRENGTH AGAIN AT THE SAME RATE THAT THE OTHER
DECAYED. And so on constantly. It was as if a NEW FORM of matter was
constantly being produced, and AS IF THE RADIO-ACTIVITY WAS A
CONCOMITANT OF THE CHANGE OF FORM. It was also found that radium kept
on producing heat de novo so as to keep itself always a fraction of a
degree ABOVE THE SURROUNDING TEMPERATURE; also that it spontaneously
PRODUCED ELECTRICITY."
Does this teach no lesson on the resurrection of the dead? Of the
'blown away part' which decays in a few days or weeks?--of the 'Radia'
or 'Radiance' of the Soul, rising in strength again AT THE SAME RATE
that the other, the Body, or 'grown portion of the activity,' decays?
Of the 'new form of matter' and the 'radio-activity as a concomitant of
the CHANGE OF FORM'? Does not Science here almost unwittingly verify
the words of St. Paul:--"It is sown a natural body; it is raised a
spiritual body. There is a natural body, and there is a spiritual
body"? There is nothing impossible or'miraculous' in such a
consummation, even according to modern material science,--it is merely
the natural action of PURE radio-activity or that etherical composition
for which we have no name, but which we have vaguely called the SOUL
for countless ages.
To multitudes of people this expression 'the Soul' has become
overfamiliar by constant repetition, and conveys little more than the
suggestion of a myth, or the hint of an Imaginary Existence. Now there
is nothing in the whole Universe so REAL as the Vital Germ of the
actual Form and Being of the living, radiant, active Creature within
each one of us,--the creature who, impressed and guided by our Free
Will, works out its own delight or doom. The WILL of each man or woman
is like the compass of a ship,--where it points, the ship goes. If the
needle directs it to the rocks, there is wreck and disaster,--if to the
open sea, there is clear sailing. God leaves the WILL of man at perfect
liberty. His Divine Love neither constrains nor compels. We must
Ourselves learn the ways of Right and Wrong, and having learned, we
must choose. We must injure Ourselves. God will not injure us. We
invite our own miseries. God does not send them. The evils and sorrows
that afflict mankind are of mankind's own making. Even in natural
catastrophes, which ruin cities and devastate countries, it is well to
remember that Nature, which is the MATERIAL EXPRESSION of the mind of
God, will not tolerate too long a burden of human iniquity. Nature
destroys what is putrescent; she covers it up with fresh earth on which
healthier things may find place to grow.
I tried to convey some hint of these truths in my "Romance of Two
Worlds." Some few gave heed,--others wrote to me from all parts of the
world concerning what they called my 'views' on the subjects treated
of,--some asked to be 'initiated' into my 'experience' of the
Unseen,--but many of my correspondents (I say it with regret) were
moved by purely selfish considerations for their own private and
particular advancement, and showed, by the very tone of their letters,
not only an astounding hypocrisy, but also the good opinion they
entertained of their own worthiness, their own capabilities, and their
own great intellectuality, forgetful of the words:--"Except ye become
as little children, ye shall not enter into the Kingdom of Heaven."
Now the spirit of a little child is receptive and trustful. It has no
desire for argument, and it is instinctively confident that it will not
be led into unnecessary difficulty or danger by its responsible
guardians. This is the spirit in which, if we are sincere in our
seeking for knowledge, we should and must approach the deeper
psychological mysteries of Nature. But as long as we interpose the
darkness of personal doubt and prejudice between ourselves and the
Light Eternal no progress can be made,--and every attempt to penetrate
into the Holy of Holies will be met and thrust back by that 'flaming
Sword' which from the beginning, as now, turns every way to guard the
Tree of Life.
Knowing this, and seeing that Self was the stumbling-block with most of
my correspondents, I was anxious to write another book at once, also in
the guise of a romance, to serve as a little lamp of love whereby my
readers might haply discover the real character of the obstacle which
blocked their way to an intelligent Soul-advancement. But the publisher
I had at the time (the late Mr. George Bentley) assured me that if I
wrote another'spiritualistic' book, I should lose the public hearing I
had just gained. I do not know why he had formed this opinion, but as
he was a kindly personal friend, and took a keen interest in my career,
never handing any manuscript of mine over to his'reader,' | 1,983.397889 |
2023-11-16 18:50:07.4877700 | 7,436 | 11 |
Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
_The_ SECRET WITNESS
BY GEORGE GIBBS
AUTHOR OF "PARADISE GARDEN," "THE YELLOW DOVE," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY GEORGE BREHM
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
NEW YORK LONDON
1917
Copyright, 1917, by the Curtis Publishing Company
Published in the United States of America
TO MY FRIEND
MAJOR R. TAIT McKENZIE, R.A.M.C.
[Illustration: "Your veil--quick," he stammered breathlessly.]
CONTENTS
I. JUNE 12, 1914
II. COURT SECRETS
III. THE HABSBURG HAVEN
IV. SECRET INFORMATION
V. TWO INTRUDERS
VI. HERR WINDT
VII. THE GREEN LIMOUSINE
VIII. AN ESCAPE AND A CAPTURE
IX. CAPTAIN GORITZ
X. DIAMOND CUTS DIAMOND
XI. THE MAN IN BLACK
XII. FLIGHT
XIII. TRAGEDY
XIV. THE HARIM
XV. THE LIGHTED WINDOWS
XVI. THE BEG OF RATAJ
XVII. THE MAN IN ARMOR
XVIII. NUMBER 28
XIX. DISGUISE
XX. RENWICK QUESTIONS
XXI. AN IMPERSONATION
XXII. THE NEEDLE IN THE HAYSTACK
XXIII. SCHLOSS SZOLNOK
XXIV. PRISONER AND CAPTIVE
XXV. THE RIFT IN THE ROCK
XXVI. THE DEATH GRIP
XXVII. BESIEGED
IN REGARD TO THE EVIDENCE IN THE CASE
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"Your veil--quick," he stammered breathlessly.
"It is too late," she murmured. "They would see us."
"Who are you?" she asked.
His Excellency rose and bowed over her hand--
"Be quiet. People are watching you," said Goritz sternly.
"Thank you," she said simply. "I believe you."
THE SECRET WITNESS
CHAPTER I
JUNE 12, 1914
The Countess Marishka was fleet of foot. She was straight and slender
and she set a pace for Renwick along the tortuous paths in the rose
gardens of the Archduke which soon had her pursuer gasping. She ran like
a boy, her dark hair falling about her ears, her draperies like Nike's
in the wind, her cheeks and eyes glowing, a pretty quarry indeed and
well worthy of so arduous a pursuit. For Renwick was not to be denied
and as the girl turned into the path which led to the thatched arbor, he
saw that she was breathing hard and the half-timorous laugh she threw
over her shoulder at him only spurred him on to new endeavor. He reached
the hedge as she disappeared, but his instinct was unerring and he
leaped through the swaying branches just in time to see the hem of her
skirt in the foliage on the other side and plunging through caught her
in his arms just as she sank, laughing breathlessly, to the spangled
shadows of the turf beyond.
"Marishka," he cried joyously, "did you mean it?"
But she wouldn't reply.
"You said that if I caught you----"
"The race--isn't always--to the swift--" she protested falteringly in
her pretty broken English.
"Your promise----"
"I made no promise."
"You'll make it now, the one I've waited for--for weeks--Marishka. Lift
up your head."
"No, no," she stammered.
"Then I----"
Renwick caught her in his arms again and turned her chin upward. Her
eyes were closed, but as their lips met her figure relaxed in his arms
and her head sank upon his shoulder.
"You run very fast, Herr Renwick," she whispered.
"You'll marry me, Marishka?"
"Who shall say?" she evaded.
"Your own lips. You've given them to me----"
"No, no. You have taken them----"
"It is all the same. They are mine." And Renwick took them again.
"Oh," she gasped, "you are so persistent--you English. You always wish
to have your own way."
He laughed happily.
"Would you have me otherwise? My way and your way, Marishka, they go
together. You wish it so, do you not?"
She was silent a while, the wild spirit in her slowly submissive, and at
last a smile moved her lips, her dark eyes were upturned to his and she
murmured a little proudly:
"It is a saying among the women of the House of Strahni that where the
lips are given the heart must follow."
"Your heart, Marishka! Mine, for many weeks. I know it. It is the lips
which have followed."
"What matters it now, beloved," she sighed, "since you have them both?"
Renwick smiled.
"Nothing. I only wondered why you've kept me dangling so long."
She was silent a moment.
"I--I have been afraid."
"Of what?"
"I do not know. It is the Tzigane in my blood which reads into the
future----"
She paused and he laughed gayly.
"Because I am a foreigner----"
"I have not always loved the English. I have thought them cold,
different from my people."
He kissed her again.
"And I could let you believe me that!"
She laughed. "Oh, no.... But you have shown me enough." And, pushing him
gently away, "I am convinced, _mon ami_...."
"As if you couldn't have read it in my eyes----"
"Alas! One reads--and one runs----"
"You couldn't escape me. It was written."
"Yes," she said dreamily, "I believe that now." And then, "But if
anything should come between us----"
"What, Marishka?" he smiled.
"I don't know. I have always thought that love would not come to me
without bitterness."
"What bitterness, _liebchen_?"
She settled softly closer to him and shrugged lightly. "How should I
know?"
He smiled at her proudly and caught her brown hand to his lips.
"You are dyed in the illusions of your race,--mystery--fatalism. They
become you well. But here among the roses of Konopisht there is no room
in my heart or yours for anything but happiness. See how they nod to
each other in the sunlight, Marishka. Like us, they love and are loved.
June comes to Bohemia but once a year--or to us. Let us bloom in the
sunlight like them--happy--happy----"
"Blood red, the roses," she said pensively. "The white ones please me
better. But they are so few. The Archduke likes the red ones best. What
is the verse?
"I sometimes think that never blows so red
The Rose as where some buried Caesar bled."
"What matter Caesar or Kaiser to us, Marishka? Our own kingdom----"
"Yes, yes," she sighed. "And I am happy in it. You know it, _nicht
wahr_?"
Silence, except for the drowsy hum of the bees and the songs of the
birds. No fatalism is long proof against the call of love and June.
Marishka was content that her flight had ended in capture and sat
dreamily gazing at the white clouds floating overhead while she listened
to the voice at her ear, replying to it in monosyllables, the language
of acquiescence and content. The moments passed. Konopisht was no longer
a garden. Enchanted their bower and even the red roses forgotten.
Suddenly the girl started upright to her knees, and peered wide-eyed
through an opening in the foliage.
"What is it, Marishka?"
She put a finger to her lips in token of silence, and Renwick followed
her gaze down the graveled path which led toward the arbor. As
under-secretary of the British Embassy in Vienna, he had been trained to
guard his emotions against surprises, but the sight of the three figures
which were approaching them down the path left him bereft for the moment
of all initiative. In the center walked the Archduke, pulling
deliberately at his heavy dark mustaches while he listened to the figure
upon his right, a man of medium stature, who wore a hunting suit and a
jaeger hat with a feather in it. He carried his left hand, concealing a
defect of his arm, in the pocket of his shooting jacket, while with his
free right hand he swung an ebony cane. His mustaches were turned
straight upward from the corners of his mouth and the aggressive chin
shot outward as he glanced right and left, talking meanwhile with his
companions. The third figure was very tall, topping even the Archduke,
who was by no means small of stature, by at least six inches; his hair,
or as much of it as could be seen beneath the soft hat, was gray, and a
long beard, almost white in the patches at either side of the chin,
descended in two long points half of the way to his waist.
Renwick recognized the visitors at once, and turned toward his startled
companion, his own mind as to the propriety of his situation at once
made up.
"Marishka," he whispered, "we must go."
"It is too late," she murmured. "They would see us."
[Illustration: "It is too late," she murmured. "They would see us."]
"And what does that matter?"
"I forgot," she breathed helplessly. "I was told I was not to come today
into the rose garden. I wondered why. Sh----! Sit still. Crouch lower.
Perhaps they will pass on and then----"
Renwick obeyed somewhat dubiously and sank, scarcely daring to breathe,
beneath the thick foliage beside the arbor which concealed his
companion. She seized his hand and he felt her fingers trembling in his
own, but he pressed them gently--aware that the tremors of the girl's
fingers as the footsteps approached the arbor were being unpleasantly
communicated to his own. The breach of hospitality to the household of
the Archduke, upon whose land he was, was as nothing beside the breach
of etiquette to the Empire by his Chief. Renwick's nerves were good but
he trembled with Marishka. The friendship of nations depended upon the
security of his concealment--more than that--and less than that--his own
fate and the girl's. And so Renwick crouched beside her and silently
prayed in English, a language he thought more fitted to the desperate
nature of his desires, that the three figures would pass on to another
part of the garden, that they, the luckless lovers, might flee to the
abandoned tennis court in innocence and peace.
But Renwick's prayers were not to be answered. Had he known at the
moment how deeply the two of them were to be enmeshed in the skein of
Europe's destiny he would have risen and faced the anger of his host,
or, risking detection, incontinently fled. But Marishka's hand clasped
his own, and lucklessly, he waited.
The three men reached the gate of the arbor, the smaller one entering
first, the giant with the gray beard, at a gesture from their host,
following, and they all sat in chairs around the small iron table.
Renwick was paralyzed with fear and Marishka's chill fingers seemed
frozen to his. There had been rumors in the chancellories of Europe of
this visit to Konopisht to see the most wonderful rose garden in Bohemia
in mid-June, but Renwick knew, as did every other diplomat in Vienna,
that the visit to the roses of Konopisht was a mere subterfuge. If there
had been any doubt in the Englishman's mind as to the real nature of the
visit, the grave expressions upon the faces of the men in the arbor
would speedily have set him right. The Archduke opened a cigarette case
and offered it to his companions who helped themselves with some
deliberation.
"A wonderful rose garden, truly, my friend," said the man in the jaeger
hat with a smile which broke the grave lines of his face into pleasant
wrinkles. "I will give your gardener twice what you offer him to come to
me."
The Archduke showed his white teeth in a smile. "_Majestaet_ has but to
request----"
"A jest, my friend. It would be unmannerly. It is Her Highness that I
would also rob, for roses, after all, are more a woman's pleasure than a
man's."
"The Duchess spends many hours here----"
"The _Arch_ Duchess," corrected the other vehemently.
The Archduke shrugged. "She will always hold that rank in my heart," he
said quietly.
"And with me and my House," said the other quickly.
"It is a pity that my own family should not be of the same mind."
"It matters nothing," said the other. "Nothing. You shall see."
The Archduke examined the ash of his cigarette, but said nothing.
"You must realize, my great and good friend," continued the man in the
hunting suit, "that I did not come to Konopisht only to see your roses."
The Archduke nodded attentively.
"The fortunes of your family are linked to mine by ties deeper than
those of blood,--a community of interest and of fortune which involves
the welfare, happiness and progress of many millions of people. The
history of civilization in Europe has reached a new page, one which must
be written by those who have in keeping the Divine destiny of the
Germanic race. It is not a time to falter before the graveness of our
responsibility and the magnitude of our undertakings. I spoke of these
things at Eckartsau. I think you understand."
The Archduke nodded gravely.
"I will not shirk any responsibility. I hesitated once. That hour has
passed. Sophie--Maximilian--Ernest----"
"They must have their heritage."
The man in the jaeger hat got up and paced impatiently the length of the
arbor, at one moment within three yards of the terrified lovers in the
foliage.
"Are we alone, your Highness?" he asked of the Archduke.
"I gave orders that no one should enter the rose garden at any time this
afternoon," replied his host.
"It is well." He sent a quick glance toward the tall man who had risen.
"You understand, Admiral, _nicht wahr_?"
A guttural sound came from the old man's throat.
"The destinies of Europe, _meine Herren_," he went on.
"_Majestaet_ may speak on," said the Archduke coolly, "without fear of
eavesdroppers."
Renwick, crouched beneath the foliage, was incapable of motion. All his
will power was used in the effort to control his breathing, and reduce
his body to absolute inertness. But as the moments passed, and the men
in the arbor gave no sign of suspicion he gained confidence, all his
professional instincts aroused at the import of this secrecy and the
magnificence of the impending revelations. He was England, waiting,
alert, on guard, for the safety and peace of Europe. He did not dare to
look at Marishka, for fear of the slightest motion or sound which might
betray them. Only their hands clasped, though by this time neither of
them was conscious of the contact.
"At Eckartsau, my brother," went on the smaller man, "you and I came to
an understanding. Maximilian and Ernest are growing toward manhood. And
what is that manhood to be? Habsburg blood flows in their veins as it
flows in you, the Heir Presumptive, but the Family Law debars them. Not
even the Este estates can pass to your children. They will become
pensioners upon the bounty of those who hate their mother."
"Impossible!" whispered the Archduke tensely. "It must not be. I will
find a way----"
"Listen, Franz, my brother. A magnificent horizon spreads before you.
Look at it. Part of the Duchy of Posen, the ancient Kingdom of Poland
with Lithuania and the Ukraine, the Poland of the Jagellons, stretching
from the Baltic to the Black Sea. Yours. And after you, Maximilian's.
For Ernest, Bohemia, Hungary, the Southern Slav lands of Austria,
Serbia, the Slav coast of the Eastern Adriatic and Saloniki;--two
Empires in one. And the states of those who have despised Sophie
Chotek----" he paused expressively and snapped his jaws, "the Austrian
Erblaender will come into the Confederated German Empire." He paused
again and then went on more quietly, "Between us two a close and
perpetual military and economic alliance, to be the arbiters of Europe
under the Divine will, dominating the West and commanding the road to
the East." He paused and took a fresh cigarette from the box on the
table.
"It is what I have dreamed," murmured the deep voice of the Archduke.
"And yet it is no dream, but reality. Fate plays into my hands. At no
time have we been in a better position."
It was the turn of the Archduke to walk the floor of the arbor with long
strides, his hands behind him, his gaze bent before him.
"Yes, civilization, progress--all material things. But the Church--you
forget, _Majestaet_, that your people and mine are of different faiths.
Some assurance I must have that there will be no question----"
"Willingly," said the other, rising. "Do not my people serve God as they
choose? For you, if you like, the Holy Roman Empire reconstituted with
you as its titular head, the sovereignty of central Europe intact--all
the half formulated experiments of the West, at the point of the sword.
This is your mission--and mine!"
The two men faced each other, eye to eye, but the smaller dominated.
"A pact, my brother," said the man in the hunting-suit, extending his
hand.
The Archduke hesitated but a moment longer, and then thrust forward. The
hands clasped, while beside the two, the tall man stood like a Viking,
his great head bent forward, his forked beard wagging over the table.
"A pact," repeated the Archduke, "which only Death may disrupt."
They stood thus in a long moment of tension. It was he they called
_Majestaet_ who first relaxed.
"Death?" he smiled. "Who knows? God defends the Empire. It lives on in
my sons and yours."
"Amen!" said the Archduke solemnly.
"For the present," continued the other quietly, "silence! I shall advise
you. You can rely upon Von Hoetzendorf?"
"Utterly. In two weeks I shall attend the grand maneuvers at Savajevo."
"Oh, yes, of course. You shall hear from me." He took a few steps toward
the door of the arbor. "It does not do to stay here too long. We must
join the others. Berchtold, you said, is coming?"
The Archduke nodded with a frown, and followed with the Admiral into the
garden. The sun had declined and the warm glow of late afternoon fell
upon the roses, dyeing them with a deeper red. But along the crimson
alleys the three men walked calmly, the smaller one still gesturing with
his ebony cane. Presently the sound of their footsteps upon the gravel
diminished and in a moment they disappeared beyond the hedge by the
greenhouses.
Renwick in his place of concealment trembled again. The reaction had
come. He drew a long breath, moved his stiffened limbs and glanced at
his companion. Her face was like wax, pale as death and as colorless.
Her fingers in his were ice-cold. Her eyes, dark with bewilderment,
sought his blankly like those of a somnambulist. Renwick rose stiffly to
his knees and peered through the bushes.
"They have gone," he muttered.
"The Archduke!" she gasped. "You heard?"
He nodded.
"Have we dreamed? I cannot believe----"
Renwick was thinking quickly. Marishka--their position--his duty--a way
of escape--one thought crowded another in his mind. He glanced about
through the foliage behind them and then rose to his feet.
"I must get back to Vienna, at once," he said hoarsely.
Marishka stood beside him, clinging to his arm.
"And I--I know not what to do. I could not look Her Highness in the
face. But I too must go to Vienna. I am not versed in politics, but the
secret that we share is terrible. It oppresses me. Austria--my country!"
She hid her face in her hands and stood silent a moment, in the throes
of a struggle, still trembling violently. At the touch of Renwick's
fingers upon her arm, she straightened, lowered her hands, her face now
quite composed.
"I too must leave here at once," she said quietly. "I have an allegiance
stronger than my duty to Sophie Chotek. I am going----"
"Where?" he asked.
"To Schoenbrunn."
"But Marishka, have you thought----?"
"I pray that you will waste no words. As you love me, Hugh, you will do
what I ask and be silent."
"What can I do?"
"Go with me to Vienna tonight."
"That would be most imprudent. Your reputation----"
"I care nothing. Will you accompany me?"
Renwick shrugged. "Of course."
"Then do as I bid you. I will show you a way out to a small gate from
the garden by which you can reach the public road. Go to your Inn. Make
arrangements for an automobile. I will join you tonight." She peered in
all directions through the foliage and then led the way through the
bushes in a direction opposite to that by which they had come. Renwick
followed silently, his mind turbulent. What was his duty? And where did
it conflict with Marishka's mad plan? What would his Ambassador have
wished him to do? And in what could he serve England best? He must have
time to think. For the present at least Marishka should have her way.
Indeed, had he wished, he saw no means of dissuading her. He would go
with her to Vienna, make a clean breast of things to his Chief, before
Marishka could carry out her plan. After that the matter would be out of
his hands.
The girl descended some steps to a narrow gate in the hedge. Here
Renwick paused a moment to clasp her in his arms.
"Beloved," she whispered, "not now. Go. Follow the path to the wall. You
must climb it. Let no one see you descend. Au revoir. God be with you."
And she was gone.
CHAPTER II
COURT SECRETS
Hugh Renwick lay flat upon the coping of the wall for a moment peering
up and down the road until sure at last that the way was clear, when he
let himself down and walked rapidly in the direction of the village. The
events of the last hour were of a nature to disturb the equanimity of an
existence less well ordered than his. The winning of the Countess
Marishka, an achievement upon which he had set his whole soul for many
uncertain weeks in which hope and fear had fought a daily battle in his
heart--that in itself had been enough to convince him that the gods
looked upon him with favor--but this other _coup de foudre_! Whatever
the means by which his information had been obtained, the mere
possession of it and the revelation of it to his Ambassador was a
diplomatic achievement of the highest importance. There had long been
rumors of an _entente_ between Archduke and Kaiser, but _this_! He
rubbed his eyes to make sure that he was awake.
Hugh Renwick was merely the average Englishman of good family and
wealth, who because of his education in a German university had found
the offer of the post of Vienna singularly attractive. He had filled his
position with circumspection, if not with brilliancy, and had made
himself sufficiently popular in court circles to be sure that if not a
triumphant success in the drudgery of the office, he was at least not
altogether a social failure. Good looking, wealthy, talented though he
was, it was something indeed to have won Marishka Strahni, who, apart
from her high position in Vienna and the success of a season, was, as he
well knew, the finest girl in all Austria. Even yet he doubted his good
fortune. He had come to Konopisht, where the girl was visiting the
Duchess of Hohenberg, who had been a childhood friend of her mother's.
As everyone in Vienna knew, Sophie Chotek was ineligible for the high
position she occupied as consort of the Heir Presumptive. Though a
member of an ancient Bohemian family, that of Chotek and Wognin, the law
of the Habsburg's that archdukes may marry only those of equal rank,
forbade that the Duchess of Hohenberg and her children should share the
position of husband and father. She had been snubbed upon all the
occasions of her appearance at court functions, and had at last retired
to the Archduke's estates at Konopisht, where she led the secluded life
of the _ebenburtige_, still chafing, rumor had it, and more than ever
jealous and ambitious for the future of the children.
Upon the occasion of a previous visit of the Countess Marishka to
Konopisht, Renwick had spent a week end at the castle, but he thanked
his stars that he was now stopping at the village inn. It would have
been difficult to go through the formality of leave-taking with the
shadow of this impending tragedy to Europe hanging over him. He pitied
Marishka from the bottom of his heart for he had seen the beginnings of
the struggle between her devotion to the Duchess and her duty to her
sovereign. But he knew enough of her quality to be sure that she would
carry out her plan at whatever the cost to her own feelings.
As Renwick approached the gates which led into the Castle grounds, he
had an actual sense of the consequence of the Archduke's guests in the
appearance of soldiery and police which were to be seen in every
direction, and while he waited in the village road two automobiles came
out of the gate and dashed past him in the direction of the railroad
station, in the foremost of which he recognized Archduke Franz and his
guests of the rose garden.
"The roses of Konopisht," he muttered, thinking of Marishka's fatalism.
"Were they symbols, those innocent red blossoms?" And then with an
inward smile, "Marishka! What bitterness could the roses of Konopisht
bring between Marishka and him?"
A sense of the grave importance of his mission came over Renwick with a
rush. He looked at his watch. Six o'clock. It would have been hazardous
to use the wire to reach the Embassy even had he possessed a code. He
knew enough of the activities of the Austrian secret service to be sure
that in spite of his entree at the Castle, his presence at Konopisht at
this time might be marked. He sauntered down the street with an air of
composure he was far from feeling. There was nothing for it but to obey
Marishka's injunctions and wait, upon his guard against surprises, but
ready to go to any extreme to reach Vienna and the Embassy with a sound
skin. He found the owner of a motor car, and telling the man that he was
traveling by night, he paid its owner in advance and engaged it to be at
a certain place by nightfall, promising a further payment if the matter
were kept secret. Then he went to the inn, took supper, and lighting his
pipe, paced the cobbles and waited.
As the summer dusk fell slowly upon the streets of the little village,
Renwick found himself a prey to renewed apprehensions as to Marishka.
Had her presence and his in the rose garden been discovered by one of
the Archduke's retainers? And was she now a prisoner in the castle where
a few hours ago she had been so free a guest? She was clever, as he
knew, but the burden of her secret had marked its shadows upon her face.
What excuse would she offer the Duchess for her sudden departure? The
girl was dear to him, dearer than anything in the world but England, and
the thought of making a choice between her safety and the performance of
his duty was bitterly painful to him. Eight o'clock passed--nine. He had
gone inside the house again, for the actions of any stranger in
Konopisht were sure to be conspicuous and he felt himself already an
object of notice. But at last unable to bear the suspense inactive, he
went out, crossed the road and stood, his teeth clenched upon his
extinguished pipe, his gaze upon the road which led to the gates of the
Park.
There she came to him, out of the darkness. At the touch of her fingers
he started, for he had not been expecting her from this direction, but
the sound of her voice fell like the balm of her presence upon his
spirit.
"Thank God," he gasped. "Marishka, I was afraid----"
"I came as soon as I could," she whispered rapidly in English. "It was
difficult. I could make no excuses for leaving. I pleaded fatigue and
went to my room. And when the opportunity offered, stole out through the
garden."
"And your absence will not be discovered----?"
"Not until tomorrow--when, please the Holy Virgin, I shall be at
Schoenbrunn."
He took her in his arms and kissed her warmly, but he felt the restraint
in her caress.
"Hugh, beloved, let us wait upon duty for our own happiness. I cannot
rest until I have told our dreadful secret. You have a motor car?"
"Come," he said. And taking her small valise with his own, he led the
way to the spot where the machine was awaiting them. Marishka gave
directions and in a few moments they were off. The danger of detection,
once beyond the village, was slight, and their purpose to reach the
railroad at Budweis and take a late train to Vienna was not difficult of
accomplishment. The machine was none too good, but the road for the main
part was excellent. Renwick's arm was about the girl, and they sat
discussing their plans for the immediate future.
"You have no fear for what you are about to do?" he asked.
"What should I fear?" she said lightly. "I am only doing my duty."
"There will be difficulties, will there not?"
"Perhaps. But I shall succeed. Prince Montenuovo, the High Chamberlain
of the Court will listen to me."
"But you will not tell him all."
"Not unless it is necessary. You, Hugh, will take me to him."
Renwick was silent for a moment.
"Marishka," he said at last, "we share a terrible duty, yours to
Austria, and mine to England----"
"But mine--is it not the greater?" she pleaded. "You must not speak,
Hugh, until I have given you permission."
Renwick folded his arms and gazed stolidly into the darkness.
"I must tell what I know to Sir Herbert," he said firmly. "You must not
ask me to be silent."
He noticed the change in her voice as she replied, "Is my happiness so
slight a thing that you can refuse the first request I make of you?"
He caught her hand to his lips.
"Marishka, you know----"
"My first request----"
"There is nothing in the world that I would not do for you. You would
think little of me if I did not do my duty."
"And of your duty to me----? Is that nothing?"
Renwick smiled into the darkness. Had he been told six months ago that
he would be bandying the interests of England against the plans of a
pretty woman he would have laughed the idea to scorn.
"What do you wish me to do, Marishka?" he asked gently.
With a swift impulse, she threw her arms about his neck, whispering in
his ear.
"O Hugh, I cannot bear that there should be a difference between us,
today, the first of our _fiancailles_. It will perhaps make no great
difference that you should tell what we have heard, for your country,
thank the Holy Virgin, is at friendship with mine. If you would but wait
until I give you permission."
"And if something happened to me in the meanwhile----?"
"Nothing can happen. No one at Konopisht can know. I am sure of
that--sure."
Perhaps the moment of danger that had threatened their happiness had
made each more considerate, and the two great secrets that they
possessed, their own and the other more terrible one had strengthened
the bond between them.
"I will wait until you have been to Schoenbrunn," he decided.
"Until I give you permission," she insisted.
He kissed her. She believed it to be a promise and the tight pressure of
her hand rewarded him. In that moment of _rapprochement_, the destinies
| 1,983.50781 |
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Produced by James Rusk and David Widger
THE BLACK ROBE
by Wilkie Collins
BEFORE THE STORY.
FIRST SCENE.--BOULOGNE-SUR-MER.--THE DUEL.
I.
THE doctors could do no more for the Dowager Lady Berrick.
When the medical advisers of a lady who has reached seventy years of age
recommend the mild climate of the South of France, they mean in plain
language that they have arrived at the end of their resources. Her
ladyship gave the mild climate a fair trial, and then decided (as
she herself expressed it) to "die at home." Traveling slowly, she had
reached Paris at the date when I last heard of her. It was then the
beginning of November. A week later, I met with her nephew, Lewis
Romayne, at the club.
"What brings you to London at this time of year?" I asked.
"The fatality that pursues me," he answered grimly. "I am one of the
unluckiest men living."
He was thirty years old; he was not married; he was the enviable
possessor of the fine old country seat, called Vange Abbey; he had no
poor relations; and he was one of the handsomest men in England. When I
add that I am, myself, a retired army officer, with a wretched income, a
disagreeable wife, four ugly children, and a burden of fifty years on
my back, no one will be surprised to hear that I answered Romayne, with
bitter sincerity, in these words:
"I wish to heaven I could change places with you!"
"I wish to heaven you could!" | 1,983.604366 |
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Produced by Suzanne Shell, Emmy 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.) Music by monkeyclogs.
[Illustration: BY THE SEA.]
FIVE MICE IN A MOUSE-TRAP, BY THE MAN IN THE MOON.
_DONE IN VERNACULAR,
FROM THE LUNACULAR,_
BY LAURA E. RICHARDS,
_Author of "Babyhood," Etc._
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
_KATE GREENAWAY_, _ADDIE LEDYARD_, _AND OTHERS_.
* * * * *
BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY ESTES AND LAURIAT,
299 TO 305 WASHINGTON STREET,
1881.
_Copyright,_
BY ESTES & LAURIAT,
1880.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
THE MAN IN THE MOON, 9
CHAPTER II.
THE MOUSE-TRAP, 14
CHAPTER III.
THE MICE, 19
CHAPTER IV.
JOLLYKALOO, 45
CHAPTER V.
TOMTY, 64
CHAPTER VI.
A NIGHT JOURNEY, 79
CHAPTER VII.
A RAINY DAY AND WHAT CAME OF IT, 97
CHAPTER VIII.
A STORY CHAPTER, 109
CHAPTER IX.
A PICNIC, 123
CHAPTER X.
THE CARRIAGE CLOUD, 138
CHAPTER XI.
A BIRTHDAY PARTY, 154
| 1,983.703419 |
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Produced by Chris Whitehead, Charlene Taylor and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Yule-Tide Yarns
[Illustration: "The quartermaster fired his two pistols, and the man
fell."
_Page 181._
]
Yule-Tide Yarns
Edited by
G. A. Henty
With Forty-five Illustrations
[Illustration]
Longmans, Green, and Co.
39 Paternoster Row, London
New York and Bombay
1899
_All rights reserved_
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHÂTEAU AND SHIP. By G. A. HENTY 1
_Illustrated by_ GORDON BROWNE.
ADVENTURES OF A NIGHT. By JOHN BLOUNDELLE-BURTON 54
_Illustrated by_ ENOCH WARD.
AN OUTLAW'S FORTUNES. By W. C. WHISTLER 90
_Illustrated by_ J. FINNEMORE.
"A FLIGHT FROM JUSTICE." By Lieut.-Col. PERCY GROVES 123
_Illustrated by_ J. B. GREENE.
LONGITUDE TEN DEGREES. By ROBERT LEIGHTON 160
_Illustrated by_ W. S. STACEY.
A SOLDIER'S VOW. By DAVID KER 193
_Illustrated by_ J. A. SYMINGTON.
IN LUCK'S WAY. By FRED. WHISHAW 228
_Illustrated by_ R. WHEELWRIGHT.
"SAMANA KAY." By HARRY COLLINGWOOD 268
_Illustrated by_ LANCELOT SPEED.
"HARI RAM," THE DACOIT. By E. F. POLLARD 296
_Illustrated by_ F. FEELER.
A JUNGLE DRAMA. By GEORGE MANVILLE FENN 332
_Illustrated by_ LANCELOT SPEED.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"The quartermaster fired his two pistols,
and the man fell" _Frontispiece_
PAGE
"The two valets had at night carried off his body" 4
"Lower your flag or I will sink you" 10
"It is I, Peter Vignerolles" 14
"Running forward, stepped into the water" 29
"Open the cover a little way to look at the compass" 36
"At them, lads" 39
"We buried them at the spot that we agreed on" 48
"Stab you under the shoulder in a dark alley" 61
"Kiss my hand--do something lover-like" 68
"I want your company" 74
"Fighting across the body of a third who lay prone and
prostrate with Giles' foot upon his body" 83
"This is the son of your king. I charge you with his care" 96
"Master Peel," she cried; "the house is empty and all in
disorder" 108
"I shouted, and tried to reach my dagger" 116
"I got a fair blow at him from aloft" 119
"Knocked him fairly off his legs" 131
"I shall try to stop them" 137
"Major Warrington?" he said 146
"You are our prisoner" 155
"The sight and sounds that met him were such as he had never
before encountered" 167
"The woman shrank from him" 174
"The quartermaster fired his two pistols, and the man fell" 180
"You have come back to your senses, eh?" 189
"That hand no good--cut thumb off" 198
"Jist tie my 'ands agin, will yer, Tom?" 203
"The two men met like conflicting whirlwinds" 215
"Is it a h'angel?" 222
"Kittie, who played a much stronger game" 230
"You may have a visit from the blackguards before the
night's out" 235
"The passing of a body of Mashona or Matabele warriors
on the warpath" 245
"Bruce felt impelled to look upon Uncle Ben's body once more
before leaving it" 255
"The lad picked up a stone to throw at the evil-looking
creature" 265
"Suddenly there arose a wild yell aloft of 'Man overboard!'" 272
"Ned seemed to stumble or throw himself backwards over the
gunwale of the boat" 285
"I met with nothing remarkable until I reached its farther
extremity" 291
"You'll know me when you next see me" 305
"Good sport! good sport!" 310
"In a second he would have torn Lindsay to pieces" 315
"He shall not be hanged" 323
"Hari Rām, if you make one step forward, I will shoot you
like a dog" 326
"They walked down to the bamboo landing-stage at the
riverside" 335
"Of course: we must go on" 343
"The butt of his double gun crashed against the side of the
tyrant's head" 361
"The girls dashed along the bank" 363
"Crack!" 365
CHÂTEAU AND SHIP
_A TALE OF THE TERROR_
BY G. A. HENTY
The _Alert_, a handsome schooner of some 200 tons burden, was in April
1793 cruising along the southern shore of France. She had been captured
a fortnight before by his Majesty's frigate _Tartar_, a week after the
declaration of war between France and England. As she was a very fast
vessel, the captain of the _Tartar_ had placed thirty men on board her,
under the command of his senior midshipman, Vignerolles, in order that
he might gather news of the movements of any hostile craft from Toulon
or Marseilles, and pick up any French merchantmen returning from abroad
and ignorant that war had begun. The young commander was standing on
the quarter-deck with his glass fixed upon a large château standing
some four miles back from the sea on a lofty eminence.
"The baron must be mad," he said, as he lowered the glass, "to remain
there with his wife and two daughters, when he might long ago have
managed to escape with them across the frontier into Italy. If he is
so pig-headed as to determine to stop there himself, and have his head
chopped off by the guillotine, he might at least have sent _them_ to a
place of safety. I have been brought up to admire the French nobles,
but upon my word, if they are all like him they well deserve the fate
that is falling upon them. Of course those who emigrate have their
estates forfeited, but it is a good deal better to lose your estate
than your estate and head also."
Vignerolles belonged to an old Huguenot family which had emigrated
to England upon the revocation of the edict of Nantes. They had sold
their property, and possessed considerable means when they arrived
in England. Chiefly for the sake of assisting the many exiles of
their religion, they had joined two or three others in erecting a
silk manufactory at Spitalfields. As time went on, the heirs of those
who had joined them in the enterprise had gone out of it, and the
de Vignerolles of the time had become sole proprietor of the silk
factory. It had gone down from father to son in unbroken succession.
The younger sons had gone out into the world and made their ways
in other directions, but it had become a tradition that the eldest
son should take the business, which was now a very flourishing one.
They had dropped the French prefix, and now simply called themselves
Vignerolles. Their branch of the family had been the younger one. The
Barons de Vignerolles had remained Catholics, and had possessed their
wide estates in peace, being among the largest landowners in Provence.
The connection between the two branches had been always maintained,
and from time to time members of the English branch went out for a
visit to the ancestral château, where they were always hospitably
entertained; the fact that they had gone into trade, which would have
been considered a terrible disgrace in France, being condoned on the
ground that being among a nation of traders it was only natural they
should do as their neighbours did.
Once or twice only had members of the senior branch paid a visit to
London, and then not from any desire for travel, but simply because
they were members of their embassy in London. These had brought back
news that the Vigner | 1,983.707375 |
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Produced by David Widger
THE DIARY OF SAMUEL PEPYS M.A. F.R.S.
CLERK OF THE ACTS AND SECRETARY TO THE ADMIRALTY
TRANSCRIBED FROM THE SHORTHAND MANUSCRIPT IN THE PEPYSIAN LIBRARY
MAGDALENE COLLEGE CAMBRIDGE BY THE REV. MYNORS BRIGHT M.A. LATE FELLOW
AND PRESIDENT OF THE COLLEGE
(Unabridged)
WITH LORD BRAYBROOKE'S NOTES
EDITED WITH ADDITIONS BY
HENRY B. WHEATLEY F.S.A.
DIARY OF SAMUEL PEPYS.
AUGUST
1665
August 1st. Slept, and lay long; then up and my Lord [Crew] and Sir G.
Carteret being gone abroad, I first to see the bridegroom and bride, and
found them both up, and he gone to dress himself. Both red in the face,
and well enough pleased this morning with their night's lodging. Thence
down and Mr. Brisband and I to billiards: anon come my Lord and Sir G.
Carteret in, who have been looking abroad and visiting some farms that Sir
G. Carteret hath thereabouts, and, among other things, report the greatest
stories of the bigness of the calfes they find there, ready to sell to the
butchers, as big, they say, as little Cowes, and that they do give them a
piece of chalke to licke, which they hold makes them white in the flesh
within. Very merry at dinner, and so to talk and laugh after dinner, and
up and down, some to [one] place, some to another, full of content on all
sides. Anon about five o'clock, Sir G. Carteret and his lady and I took
coach with the greatest joy and kindnesse that could be from the two
familys or that ever I saw with so much appearance, and, I believe,
reality in all my life. Drove hard home, and it was night ere we got to
Deptford, where, with much kindnesse from them to me, I left them, and
home to the office, where I find all well, and being weary and sleepy, it
being very late, I to bed.
2nd. Up, it being a publique fast, as being the first Wednesday of the
| 1,983.803654 |
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Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org
(Images generously made available by the Hathi Trust.)
DODO
A DETAIL OF THE DAY
BY
E.F. BENSON
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. I
FOURTH EDITION
METHUEN & CO
LONDON
1893
And far out, drifting helplessly on that grey, angry sea, I
saw a small boat at the mercy of the winds and waves. And my
guide said to me, 'Some call the sea "Falsehood," and that
boat "Truth," and others call the sea "Truth," and the boat
"Falsehood;" and, for my part, I think that one is right as the
other | 1,983.803748 |
2023-11-16 18:50:07.7837660 | 47 | 6 |
Produced by Mark C. Orton and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
[Illustr | 1,983.803806 |
2023-11-16 18:50:07.7847200 | 7,431 | 10 |
Produced by Robert Connal, Henry Gardiner and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by the Bibliotheque nationale de France (BnF/Gallica) at
http://gallica.bnf.fr)
* * * * *
Transcriber's Note: The original publication has been replicated
faithfully except as shown in the TRANSCRIBER'S AMENDMENTS at the end of
the text. This etext presumes a mono-spaced font on the user's device,
such as Courier New. Words in italics are indicated like _this_. Footnotes
are located near the end of the work.
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Lestevenon de Berkenroode._]
[Illustration: Decoration.]
THE
MEMOIRS
OF
_CHARLES-LEWIS_,
Baron de POLLNITZ.
BEING
The OBSERVATIONS He made in his
late TRAVELS from _Prussia_, through
_POLAND_,
_GERMANY_,
_ITALY_,
_FRANCE_,
_SPAIN_,
_FLANDERS_,
_HOLLAND_,
_ENGLAND_, &c.
Discovering not only the PRESENT STATE
of the Chief CITIES and TOWNS;
BUT
The CHARACTERS of the PRINCIPAL PERSONS
at the Several COURTS.
VOL. IV.
_LONDON_:
Printed for DANIEL BROWNE, at the _Black Swan_,
without _Temple-Bar_; and JOHN BRINDLEY, at
the _King's-Arms_, in _New Bond-street_.
M. DCC. XXXVIII.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
MEMOIR 1
APPENDIX 301
INDEX 356
[Illustration: Decoration.]
MEMOIRS
OF THE
Baron DE POLLNITZ.
VOL. IV.
_To Madame_ DE ----.
The Conduct of the Court of _Spain_, tho' it really made the Court of
_Vienna_ uneasy, did not hinder the Emperor from carrying on the War
against the _Turks_ with Vigour: And Heaven so prosper'd the Imperial
Arms, that in 1718 Prince _Eugene_ gain'd the most signal Victory near
_Belgrade_ that the Christians could have hop'd for. Soon after that
Battle the victorious Troops reduc'd _Belgrade_, and at length the _Turks_
were forc'd to sue for a Peace: While every Thing seem'd to have a
Tendency that way, _Spain_ put to Sea the most formidable Fleet she had
ever equipp'd since that unfortunate one call'd, _The Invincible Armado_;
and sent it to the Coast of _Sicily_, where it put a numerous Army on
Shore, under Command of the Marquis _de Lede_. The Count _de Maffei_
Viceroy of the Kingdom for the Duke of _Savoy_, who was King of _Sicily_,
made all the Resistance possible, considering the Weakness of his Army;
and tho' not able to save the Island, yet he made such a Defence as
hinder'd the _Spanish_ Army from pushing its Conquests farther by giving
Time to Admiral _Bing_, who commanded the _English_ Fleet, to enter the
_Mediterranean_, and execute the Orders he had to attack the _Spanish_
Fleet. These Orders imported, that he was to act in a friendly manners in
case that _Spain_ desisted from its Enterprizes against the Neutrality of
_Italy_; but otherwise to make a vigorous Resistance. Admiral _Bing_
communicated these Orders to Cardinal _Alberoni_, who answer'd him
gravely, _That he had nothing to do but to put them in Execution_. The
Admiral did so with a Vengeance; for on the 11th of _August_ he gave
Battle to the _Spanish_ Fleet, and intirely defeated it. As soon as the
Duke Regent was inform'd of the News, he sent away a Courier to the
_French_ Ambassador at _Madrid_, with Letters from the Earl of _Stairs_ to
the _English_ Ambassador Earl _Stanhope_. The Design of his Royal Highness
was to engage the latter to return to _Madrid_, from whence he set out on
the 27th of _August_, that he might make fresh Instances there for a Peace
with Cardinal _Alberoni_, who to be sure was a little stunn'd at this
Reverse of Fortune. But the Earl, whether he did not meet the Courier, or
whether he did not think it proper to return to _Spain_, arriv'd at
_Paris_ on the 9th of _September_.
Mean Time the War betwixt the Emperor and the _Turks_ was at an End, and
Orders were actually given for sending the Imperial Troops into _Italy_.
The Regent despairing at that Time of persuading the King of _Spain_ to a
Peace, order'd the Abbat _du Bois_, the _French_ Ambassador at _London_,
to sign the Treaty commonly call'd _The Quadruple Alliance_, in
Conjunction with the Ambassadors of _England_ and the Emperor. He also
repeated his Orders to the Duke of _St. Aignan_, to try all the means
imaginable to prevail on the King of _Spain_ to accede to the Terms that
were propos'd to him by the Quadruple Alliance; but his Catholic Majesty
persisted so long in his Refusal, that his Royal Highness resolv'd to
declare War against him, and the Duke of _St. Aignan_ had Orders to demand
his Audience of Leave.
At that Time the Regent happily discover'd a Conspiracy that was form'd
against him in the very Heart of the Kingdom. The King of _England_ had
before appriz'd him, that there was some Contrivance on Foot; but the
Names of the Conspirators, and what they were to do, was a Secret. Mean
time the Regent suspecting that all these Intrigues were only fomented by
the Minister of _Spain_, he caus'd the Prince _de la Cellamare_,
Ambassador from that Crown, to be so narrowly watch'd that he was soon let
into the Secret of the whole Intrigue carrying on against him, which was
in short no less than to remove him from the Regency. The _Spanish_
Minister for the better Success had caus'd a Body of Troops to be
assembled in _France_, where they stroll'd about like Fellows that dealt
in unlicens'd Salt, and other Contraband Goods; but upon a particular Day
they were to enter _Paris_, invest the Royal Palace, and to secure the
Person of the Regent. The Conspiracy was detected almost at the same
Instant that it was to have been executed; and of this the Prince _de
Cellamare_ himself was partly the Cause; not that I suspect him of having
betray'd the _Spanish_ Minister, but probably he was too credulous of
every one that came to him; for I was told, that the Pacquet containing
the whole Mystery of the Conspiracy, and the Names of the Conspirators,
was put into the Hands of the Abbat _Portocarrero_, in Presence of a
Couple of Domesticks, whose infidelity was not perhaps Proof against the
Lewidors of the Royal Palace. Besides, this Abbat, tho' a Person of Merit,
had not perhaps Experience or Wisdom enough to behave as was absolutely
necessary in so ticklish an Affair. Be this as it will, he set out for
_Madrid_ with such Dispatches committed to his Care as contain'd the
Fortunes of a great Number of People. He had not travell'd far, when, as
he was passing a Ford, his Chaise broke, and he had like to have been
drown'd; but notwithstanding the Danger of his Person, he seem'd to be
more in Pain for his Trunk than for his Life. This Earnestness for the
Preservation of his Trunk gave a Suspicion to those who attended him; and
the Spies whom the Regent had planted upon him, advertis'd that Prince of
it time enough for him to give his Orders to the Commandant of _Poictiers_
to cause him to be arrested, and his Trunk to be secur'd. The Abbat was
accordingly arrested[1], and brought back to _Paris_. The Prince _de
Cellamare_, being inform'd of what had pass'd, claim'd the Trunk, saying
it contain'd the Memoirs of his Embassy: He was given to understand, that
his Word was not to be taken, and the Trunk being open'd at the Royal
Palace, there was all the Scheme of the Conspiracy, and the List of the
Persons that were enter'd into it. The Thing that gave the Regent most
Vexation was, to see the Names of Persons there, upon whom he had heap'd
his Favours. His Royal Highness acted in this delicate Conjuncture with
all the Moderation possible, and his Behaviour was in every Respect so
discreet, that it was hardly discernible that any Thing extraordinary was
passing in _France_; he caus'd the Abbat _Portocarrero_ to be releas'd, as
an insignificant Tool; but as to the Prince _de Cellamare_, he was invited
to a Conference at the Royal Palace, to which he no sooner arriv'd, but
Messengers were sent to clap a Seal on his Effects. The Ministers went
with him afterwards to his own House, where he was surpriz'd to find a
Guard that was charg'd to be answerable for his Person. Some Days after
this, all his Papers were examin'd, and Three Boxes were fill'd with them
in his Presence, which were seal'd and carry'd to the _Louvre_, there to
be kept till the King of _Spain_ sent Persons that he could confide in to
fetch them. At length on the 13th of _December_, the Prince _de Cellamare_
set out from _Paris_ with a Guard: As for the Smugglers, they vanish'd as
soon as the Conspiracy was brought to Light: All this pass'd in the Month
of _December_, 1718.
The 29th of the same Month the Duke and Duchess of _Maine_ were arrested:
The Duke had been the Day before to pay a Visit to the Duchess of
_Orleans_ at the Royal Palace, and stay'd there Three Hours, after which
he return'd to lye at _Seaux_; where next Morning a Lieutenant of the
Guards came and told him, that he had Orders to carry him under a strong
Guard to the Castle of _Dourlens_. The same Day at Seven in the Morning,
the Marquis _D'Ancenis_, who was Captain of the Guards after the Death of
his Father the Duke of _Charost_, during whose Life he had the Post in
Reversion, had an Order to arrest the Duchess of _Maine_: This Officer had
supp'd but the Night before with the Princess, and stayed with her very
late; guess then how he must be surpriz'd when he came Home, and found the
_Letter de Cachet_ or Warrant, which put him upon an Office that he would
have been glad to be excused from serving; but the Order must be obeyed,
and therefore he went next Day to the Princess's Apartment, who was then
in Bed, as were also her Ladies; so that the Servants were very much
startled to see M. _D'Ancenis_ there again so early, and scrupled at first
to awake the Duchess; but, as they imagined the Marquis was come about an
Affair of great Consequence, the Ladies let him in: The Princess, being
wak'd out of her Sleep by the Noise of the Door, as it open'd, ask'd, Who
was there? M. _D'Ancenis_ having told her his Name, she said to him
hastily, _Oh! my God! What have I done to you, that you should disturb me
so soon in the Morning?_ He then told her the melancholy Commission that
he was sent upon. They say, her Ladyship was much more provok'd at this
Disgrace than the Duke her Husband; and she could not help dropping some
Words which shew'd plain enough that she was impatient under her
Misfortune. However, she was quickly dress'd, and getting into a Coach
with Three of her Waiting-Women, she was conducted to the Castle of
_Dijon_: All her chief Domestics were committed, some to the _Bastille_,
and others to _Vincennes_. The Prince of _Dombes_ and the Count _de Eu_
were banish'd to _Eu_, where they had so much Liberty however, that this
Change of Fortune had not altogether the Air of Disgrace. As for
_Maidemoiselle de Maine_, the Princess of _Conty_ took her Home with her.
The Cardinal _de Polignac_, who was very much attach'd to the Family of
_Maine_, also shar'd their Fate; for he was banish'd to his Abbey of
_Anchin_, and had but Two Hours allow'd him to set his Affairs in Order.
While these Things pass'd in _France_, the King of _Spain_, or rather his
Minister, caus'd the Duke of _St. Aignan_, the Ambassador of _France_, to
be very ill treated, who having taken Leave of the King and Queen, stay'd
some Days longer to settle his domestic Affairs, perhaps also to see what
Turn Things would take, in case the King of _Spain_, who was then
dangerously ill, should die. I am assur'd that the King having told him,
that by his Will he left the Regency to the Queen and Cardinal _Alberoni_,
the Ambassador made Answer, That his Testamentary Settlement might
probably be of as little Effect as _Lewis_ XIV's was. This Answer
displeas'd the Cardinal, who thought of nothing but of being reveng'd; and
indeed some time after, the Marquis _de Grimaldo_, Secretary of State,
went to the Duke of _St. Aignan_, and signify'd an Order to him from the
King, to leave _Madrid_ in Twenty-four Hours, and the Kingdom in Twelve
Days. 'Twas 10 o'Clock at Night when this Order was notify'd, and next
Day, _viz._ the 14th of _December_, at 7 o'Clock in the Morning, the
Ambassador's House was surrounded by a Party of Life-Guards, commanded by
an Exempt, who having plac'd Centinels at all the Doors of his Lodging,
enter'd the Duke's Apartment, who was still a-bed with his Duchess, made
them dress themselves with all Speed, and then conducted them out of the
City.
Cardinal _Alberoni_, who did not yet know, that the Plot he had laid was
discover'd, wrote with Speed to the Prince of _Cellamare_, that he might
guess what to expect after the Treatment that had been shewn to the
Ambassador of _France_; tho' he told him, that ought not to be a Reason
for using him in the same manner, and that the Duke _de St. Aignan_'s
Misbehaviour had made it necessary to take that Course with him. He
exhorted him not to stir from _Paris_, till he was compell'd to it by
Force, nor even then, till he had made all the convenient Protests. He
said to him in the Conclusion, _Put the Case that your Excellency be
oblig'd to go, you will first set Fire to all your Mines_. Little did he
think how terribly they were at that Time countermin'd!
This Letter, which was a farther Confirmation of the Prince _de
Cellamare_'s Conspiracy, and the Affront put upon the Ambassador of the
most Christian King, intirely convinc'd the Regent, that the _Spanish_
Minister was resolv'd to go all Lengths. War was declar'd on both Sides,
in which _Spain_ did not come off with Honour. I shall have further
Occasion to speak of it to you some Time hereafter.
I am next to give you an Account, how it far'd with myself at this Time:
Tho' I had no Hand in this Plot, yet I was shrewdly suspected; for several
Conferences were held at my House: I was intimate with those who were
deepest in the Secret, and in Fine, whether it proceeded from Prudence,
or from a Panic, I resolv'd to take Care of myself. I set out from _Paris_
in a very great Hurry, with a Design to repair to the Palatine Court, and
stay there till the Storm was quite over. I went to _Germany_ thro'
_Lorrain_, but had much ado to get thither, because I had no Passport, and
Orders were arriv'd from Court, to stop all that travell'd without one; I
therefore thought of the following Stratagem.
* * * * *
About a League from _Toul_, which is the last Place in _France_, I feign'd
myself sick, that I might have some colour for halting there, and
dismissing my Postilion. At that Village I lay all Night, and rising very
early next Morning, I told my Landlady that I would go to _Toul_ on Foot,
and desir'd her to send my Boots according to a Direction I left with her.
My Design was to go into _Toul_ as a Townsman; for I hop'd, that my being
on Foot, and not having the Air of a Traveller, I should pass without
Molestation; but I was quite mistaken; for the Guard stopp'd me, and ask'd
me, Who I was, and, Wither I was bound? I said, That I was a _German_,
that I had been the _Valet de Chambre_ of a _German_ Nobleman, who dy'd at
_Paris_, and that I was returning from thence Homewards. The Officer
carry'd me before the King's Lieutenant, who, I thought, was a mere Brute;
yet I think I should be in the Wrong to complain, for I gave myself out
for a Footman, and really as such he treated me: He put several Questions
to me, which I always made Answer to like a most submissive Lackey, in
Hopes of soothing his sullen Humour; but nothing could defend me from his
Reproaches: _You are not a Footman_, said he, _I rather believe you are
some Bankrupt; therefore tell me the Truth, or I'll instantly throw you
into a Dungeon._ I still affirm'd, that I was a Footman; but the
Lieutenant, not well pleas'd with my Answer, committed me to the
Guard-House, where he left me Five or Six Hours, and then sent me Word,
that I might go to an Inn: I was conducted thither by a Soldier, who was
always a Guard upon me, and next Day carry'd me again before the King's
Lieutenant, who took me into his Closet, and told me, 'Twas to no Purpose
for me to think of concealing myself any longer from him; for that he was
just inform'd who I was, by a Person who knew me. I own, _Madame_, that I
began to be afraid, yet I stood to my Text still, with all the Assurance
that could be. He then call'd one of his Domestics, and bid him fetch the
Man that knew me; but 'twas well for me, that this Person had no Existence
but in his Imagine. Mean Time he seem'd to be out of Patience that he did
not come; and at last told me, that I must return to the Guard-House, and
not stir from thence till I had fully satisfy'd him who and what I was.
Then I happen'd to hit upon an Expedient which prov'd a lucky one; I told
him, That I was very willing to remain in Custody till I had receiv'd an
Answer from the Landlady of the Inn where my Master dy'd, who would make
good what I had affirm'd. Upon this he order'd Paper to be given me; and I
wrote in short to my Landlady at _Paris_, by the Name of a _Valet de
Chambre_, whom I left there when I came away. As she was a Woman of quick
Apprehension, and knew my Hand-Writing, I persuaded myself that she would
easily comprehend the Meaning of it. When my Letter was finish'd, I shew'd
it to the King's Lieutenant, who read it, and told me, That he would
undertake both for its Delivery, and an Answer to it. In the mean Time he
remanded me back to my Inn, and in Two Hours after, sent to tell me, that
I might pursue my Journey. You will naturally imagine, that I took him at
the first Word. I accordingly walk'd out of _Toul_ on Foot, but I hir'd a
Horse at a Village belonging to the Principality of _Elboeuf_, and went to
_Nancy_, where I had the Precaution to provide myself with a Passport,
which the Innkeeper, where I lay, procur'd me, by the Name of a certain
Merchant of that City. I did not think fit to go to _Strasbourg_, where
perhaps I might have been known; but went to _Haguenau_; from thence to
_Fort Louis_, where I pass'd the _Rhine_; and at last arriv'd at
_Heidelberg_ in the Beginning of the Year 1719.
* * * * *
The Palatine Court resided at _Heidelberg_[2], but 'twas not the same
Elector that I had the Honour to mention to you before, for he was dead,
and was succeeded by his Brother Prince _Charles_, who kept a numerous and
magnificent Court, and was the Darling of all his Family. He was so good
to his Domestics, that there are few such to be found among Princes; and
yet without debasing his Rank, of which he understood every Part of its
Dignity, and perfectly knew how to have the Respect paid that was due to
him: Being withal generous, good-natur'd, affable and charitable; he lov'd
People should speak to him with Freedom. He was very regular in his
Conduct, even to a Degree of Devotion, yet in no respect an Enemy to
Pleasures; on the contrary, he often procured them for his Court; and he
was especially fond of Dancing, which he perform'd indeed too well for a
Prince.
The Elector has had Two Wives, but he has had only one Child, a Daughter,
marry'd to the Hereditary Prince of _Sultzbach_, who is the Elector's
presumptive Heir. She is a very lovely Princess, tho' somewhat pitted with
the Small Pox; she is not tall, but perfectly well-shap'd; she is complete
Mistress of every Thing which young Princesses are usually taught; she
dances and sings with a very good Grace, and especially the _Italian_
Airs, which she plays at the same time to Perfection upon the Harpsichord.
The Prince her Husband was a clever handsome Man, and his Outside was a
sufficient Indication of his Endowments: He had so grave an Air, that one
would be apt to suspect him of a little Austerity, yet this did not render
him a whit the less polite; and, above all Things, he was very civil to
Foreigners. He shew'd an extraordinary Respect to the Elector, who, on his
Part, gave him all the possible Marks of a Tenderness for him. This young
Prince had a Son by this Marriage, who dwelt at _Neubourg_, where he had
been brought up; it being apprehended that the Fatigues of Travelling
would be hurtful to his Health, but, notwithstanding this Precaution, the
young Prince dy'd in 1724.
The Elector was a very early Riser; as soon as he was up, he spent some
Time in Prayer; then the Great Chamberlain or Grand Master of the Wardrobe
talk'd to him about Affairs of State, or such as were Domestic; when those
Gentlemen were retir'd, the Prince employed himself in reading Dispatches,
or in Writing; after which he dress'd himself: About 11 o'Clock he went
to Mass, accompany'd by the Prince his Son-in-Law, and the Princess his
Daughter: When he held a Council there, 'twas after Mass was over: Upon
other Days he play'd at Billiards till Dinner-time, which held a long
while, and sometimes a little too much was drank at it; which indeed they
could not well help, the Wine there was so delicious. After Dinner was
over, his Electoral Highness went with the Princess his Daughter to her
Apartment, where he stay'd a little while, and then retir'd to his own,
where he caus'd himself to be undress'd, and went to Bed for a few Hours.
About 5 or 6 o'Clock in the Evening he was dress'd, after which he gave
public Audiences, or else apply'd himself to something in his Study. At 7
o'Clock he went into the Assembly Room, where he found the Princess and
the whole Court; and after having chatted some Time, he sate down to
Picquet, or to a Pair of Tables; but when the Game was over, he retired,
and the Princess went to Supper.
In the Afternoon, when the Elector was withdrawn, the Princess went into
her Lady of Honour's Apartment, where there was always a great Assembly,
and often a Concert, in which the Princess sung some _Italian_ Song or
other, together with _Signora Claudia_, one of her Waiting-Women. This
little Concert was made up also of some Musicians selected out of the
Elector's Band, and is one of the completest that I ever heard. The Prince
of _Sultzbach_ assisted at it sometimes; but he most commonly retir'd to
his Apartment at the same Time that the Elector did to his.
As these Two Princes shew'd me great Marks of their Goodness, the
Courtiers too, in Imitation of their Masters, were mighty civil to me: I
was invited to the best Houses, and treated every Day with grand Feasts,
and fresh Parties of Pleasure; and in a Word I pass'd the little Time I
stay'd at _Heidelberg_ very pleasantly. I was so charm'd with that Court,
that I had a great Mind to put in for some Employment there; and for that
end I engag'd some Persons, who I thought could do me most Service; but
notwithstanding the Courtiers seem'd so fond of me, I found a Cabal in my
Way, which was powerful enough to hinder me from obtaining my Wish. These
were, to my Misfortune, Persons of very good Credit, who did not care to
see any body in Place, but such, as they knew, would truckle to them. The
Great Chamberlain, to whom I plainly saw I was not acceptable, was one of
those who made the greatest Opposition to my Advancement. 'Tis true, that
I drew his Resentment upon me by my own Rashness and Folly: For one Day,
as I was attending the Elector from the Princess's Apartment to his own, I
went into a Room which, according to the Custom of the Court, no body was
permitted to enter, except the Great Chamberlain; but this was more than I
then knew, and therefore I went boldly into the Room, when a Harbinger of
the Court came, and, with a very impertinent Air, bad me _turn out_----I
ask'd him, Whether he had his Order for saying so from the Elector? He
said, No; but from the Great Chamberlain: I then made him an Answer in a
Style that surpriz'd him, and bad him tell the Grand Chamberlain something
that I knew he would not be pleas'd with: At the same time I talk'd both
against the Chamberlain and his Emissary in such a manner as gave Vent to
my Spleen, but excluded me from the Service of one of the best Princes in
the World. I took Leave afterwards of the Elector, who bad me Farewel,
made me a considerable Present, and moreover gave me Letters of
Recommendation to _Vienna_, where I intended to solicit some Employment.
I shall now give you a brief Account of the City and Castle of
_Heidelberg_: The City stands on the Banks of the _Neckar_, with high
Mountains on each Side, and only a narrow Passage between them, from which
however there's a Prospect of the noblest Plain in _Germany_. In this City
there was formerly a famous University, founded by _Rupert the Ruddy_,
Count Palatine and Duke of _Bavaria_ in 1346. Here was to be seen one of
the finest Libraries in _Europe_, but General _Tilly_ carry'd it off in
1622, and sent it to _Rome_, where it makes a considerable Part of the
_Vatican_ Library. _Lewis_ the Dauphin of _France_, Grandfather of _Lewis_
XV. made himself Master of _Heidelberg_ by a Capitulation in 1698.
nevertheless, all manner of Disorders were committed in it; a Part of the
Electoral Palace was blown up, the City was burnt, and the very Corpses of
the Electors, which were in the Coffins with the Ornaments of their
Dignity, were dragg'd out of their Graves into the Square: And the
_French_ would undoubtedly have committed greater Cruelties, if the Army
of the Empire had not advanc'd towards _Heidelberg_, of which the
_Germans_ made themselves Masters; and the Governor was prosecuted for
Treachery, and sentenc'd to have his Choice, Whether to die by the Sword,
or to have his Coat of Arms defac'd, his Sword broke, to be kick'd by the
Hangman, and turn'd out of the Army with his Life: But he was so
mean-spirited, as to prefer Infamy to Death, and retir'd to _Hildesheim_,
where he has the Misfortune to be still living.
Some Time after this, the Marshal _de Lorge_ attack'd _Heidelberg_, but he
could not master it, tho' the Place was defenceless. A Song was made upon
him, the Burden of which was, _He would have taken_ Heidelberg, _if he had
found the Door open_. There's no Sign now that _Heidelberg_ was ever
ruin'd; 'tis well rebuilt; and if the present Elector had continued his
Residence in it, would have been one of the finest Towns in _Germany_; but
'twas owing to the Protestants, that the Elector remov'd to _Manheim_.
What gave Occasion to it was this: The Protestants of _Heidelberg_ and the
Catholics have one Church between them, where the Nave of it belongs to
the Protestants, and the Choir to the Catholics. When the present Elector
had fix'd his Residence at _Heidelberg_, he desir'd that this Church, in
which the Electors are interr'd, might be intirely Catholic; and for this
end he made a Proposal to the Protestants, to give up the Nave, and
engag'd that another Church should be built for them. The Inhabitants were
very willing to consent to it, but the Ministers oppos'd it, and
represented to the Citizens, that 'twas of dangerous Consequence to resign
that Church, which was included in the Treaty of _Westphalia_, and in all
the Treaties that had been made with the Princes of _Neubourgh_, on their
Accession to the Electorate; that, after such a Resignation was once made,
they could no longer expect the Protection of the Powers of their own
Communion; and finally, that even the new Church, which was promis'd to be
built for them, might with very great Ease be taken from them. The Elector
having declar'd that he would be obey'd, the Ministers apply'd to the
Protestant Body at the Dyet of the Empire. The Affair made a great Noise;
and the Elector threatened the Inhabitants to abandon them; but they did
not seem to be much concern'd at it, because they imagin'd, that if the
Court went, the Regency and the Courts of Justice would remain with them,
as they did in the Time of the late Elector. Nevertheless they were out in
their Calculation, and the Elector, justly incens'd at the Disrespect of
his Subjects, abandon'd them, and transfer'd his Court and all the
Tribunals to _Manheim_; so that the Citizens, whose sole Dependance was on
the Court, or the Officers of those Tribunals, are now very poor. They
were quickly sensible of the Error they had committed, and went and threw
themselves at the Elector's Feet; but the Prince | 1,983.80476 |
2023-11-16 18:50:07.7848830 | 7,029 | 17 |
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Whole and fractional numbers as: 1-1/2
THE
NURSERY-BOOK
A COMPLETE GUIDE
TO THE
Multiplication and Pollination of Plants
_By L. H. BAILEY_
New York:
The Rural Publishing Company
1891
_By the Same Author._
Horticulturist's Rule-Book.
A Compendium of Useful Information for Fruit Growers, Truck Gardeners,
Florists and others. New edition, completed to the close of 1890. Pp.
250. Library edition, cloth, $1. Pocket edition, paper, 50 cents.
Annals of Horticulture
FOR THE YEARS 1889 AND 1890.
A Witness of Passing Events, and a Record of Progress. Being records
of introductions during the year, of new methods and discoveries in
horticulture, of yields and prices, horticultural literature and work
of the experiment stations, necrology, etc. _Illustrated._ 2 vols.
Library edition, cloth, $1 per vol. Pocket edition, paper, 50 cents per
vol.
COPYRIGHTED 1891,
BY L. H. BAILEY.
ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED
BY J. HORACE M'FARLAND, HARRISBURG, PA.
PREFACE.
This little handbook aims at nothing more than an account of the
methods commonly employed in the propagation and crossing of plants,
and its province does not extend, therefore, to the discussion of
any of the ultimate results or influences of these methods. All such
questions as those relating to the formation of buds, the reciprocal
influences of cion and stock, comparative advantages of whole and piece
roots, and the results of pollination, do not belong here.
In its preparation I have consulted freely all the best literature
of the subject, and I have been aided by many persons. The entire
volume has been read by skilled propagators, so that even all such
directions as are commonly recommended in other countries have also
been sanctioned, if admitted, as best for this. In the propagation of
trees and shrubs and other hardy ornamentals, I have had the advice of
the head propagator of one of the largest nurseries in this country.
The whole volume has also passed through the hands of B. M. Watson,
Jr., of the Bussey Institution of Harvard University, a teacher of
unusual skill and experience in this direction, and who has added
greatly to the value of the book. The articles upon orchids and upon
most of the different genera of orchids in the Nursery List, have been
contributed by W. J. Bean, of the Royal Gardens, Kew, who is well
known as an orchid specialist. I have drawn freely upon the files of
magazines, both domestic and foreign, and I have made particular use
of Nicholson's Illustrated Dictionary of Gardening, Vilmorin's Les
Fleurs de Pleine Terre, Le Bon Jardinier, and Rümpler's Illustriertes
Gartenbau-Lexikon.
It is believed that the Nursery List contains all the plants which are
ordinarily grown by horticulturists in this country either for food
or ornament. But in order to give some clew to the propagation of any
which are omitted, an ordinal index has been added, by which one can
search out plants of a given natural order or family. It cannot be
hoped that the book is complete, or that the directions are in every
case best for all regions, and any corrections or additions which will
be useful in the preparation of a second edition are solicited.
L. H. BAILEY.
Ithaca, N. Y., _Jan. 1, 1891_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Seedage 9-24
Regulation of Moisture 9
Requirements of Temperature 14
Preparatory Treatment of Seeds 15
Sowing 19
Miscellaneous Matters 21
Spores 24
CHAPTER II.
Separation 25-31
CHAPTER III.
Layerage 32-38
CHAPTER IV.
Cuttage 39-62
Devices for Regulating Heat and Moisture 39
Soils and General Methods 46
Particular Methods--Kinds of Cuttings 51
1. Tuber Cuttings 52
2. Root Cuttings 53
3. Stem Cuttings 54
4. Leaf Cuttings 60
CHAPTER V.
Graftage 63-96
General Considerations 63
Particular Methods 67
Budding 67
Grafting 76
Grafting Waxes 92
CHAPTER VI.
The Nursery List 97-285
CHAPTER VII.
Pollination 286-298
General Requirements 287
Methods 291
Crossing of Flowerless Plants 297
[Illustration]
NURSERY.--_An establishment for the rearing of plants. In America the
word is commonly used in connection with the propagation of woody
plants only, as fruit-trees and ornamental trees and shrubs. This is
erroneous. The word properly includes the propagation of all plants by
whatever means, and in this sense it is used in this book._
Tabular Statement of the Ways in which Plants are Propagated.
_A._ By Seeds.--_Seedage._
{ { { Root-tips.
{ { { Runners.
{ { 1. By { Layers proper:
{ { undetached { Simple.
{ { parts.-- { Serpentine.
{ { _Layerage._ { Mound.
{ { { Pot or Chinese.
{ {
{ I. On their { { 1. By undivided parts.--
{ own roots. { { _Separation_ (Bulbs, corms,
{ { { bulbels, bulblets,
{ { { bulb-scales, tubers, etc).
{ { {
{ { 2. By detached { { Division.
{ { parts. { 2. By divided { Cuttings
{ { { parts.-- { proper:
{ { { _Cuttage._ { Of tubers.
_B._ { { { { Of roots.
By Buds. { { { { Of stems.
{ { { { Of leaves.
{
{ { { I. Budding: Shield, flute,
{ { { veneer, ring, annular,
{ { { whistle or tubular.
{ { {
{ { { II. Grafting:
{ { { Whip.
{ II. On roots { { Saddle.
{ of other { 1. By detached { Splice.
{ plants.-- { scions. { Veneer.
{ _Graftage._ { { Cleft.
{ { { Bark.
{ { { Herbaceous.
{ { { Seed.
{ { { Double.
{ { { Cutting.
{ { 2. By undetached scions.--Inarching.
CHAPTER I.
SEEDAGE.
=Seedage.=--The process or operation of propagating by seeds or spores,
or the state or condition of being propagated by seeds or spores.
There are three external requisites to the germination of
seeds--moisture, free oxygen, and a definite temperature. These
requisites are demanded in different degrees and proportions by seeds
of different species, or even by seeds of the same species when
differing widely in age or degree of maturity. The supply of oxygen
usually regulates itself. It is only necessary that the seeds shall not
be planted too deep, that the soil is porous and not overloaded with
water. Moisture and temperature, however, must be carefully regulated.
[Illustration: Fig. 1. Double Seed-Pot.]
=Regulation of Moisture.=--Moisture is the most important factor
in seedage. It is usually applied to the seeds by means of soil or
some similar medium, as moss or cocoanut fiber. Fresh and vigorous
seeds endure heavy waterings, but old and poor seeds must be treated
sparingly. If there is reason to suspect that the seeds are weak,
water should not be applied to them directly. A favorite method of
handling them is to sow them in a pot of loose and sandy loam which
is set inside a larger pot, the intermediate space being filled with
moss, to which, alone, the water is applied. This device is illustrated
in Fig. 1. The water soaks through the walls of the inner pot and is
supplied gradually and constantly to the soil. Even in this case it
is necessary to prevent soaking the moss too thoroughly, especially
with very weak seeds. When many pots are required, they may be simply
plunged in moss with the same effect. The soil should be simply very
slightly moist, never wet. Moisture is sometimes supplied by setting
the seed-pot in a shallow saucer of water, or it may be sufficient to
simply place it in the humid atmosphere of a propagating-box. Large
seeds may be laid upon the surface of the soil in a half-filled pot,
covered with thin muslin, and then covered with loose and damp loam.
Every day the pot is inverted, the covering taken off and fresh soil
is added. A modification of this plan for small seeds can be made by
placing the seeds between two layers of thin muslin and inserting them
in damp loam, which is frequently renewed to avoid the extremes which
would result from watering or from allowing the soil to become dry.
In these last operations, no water is applied to the seeds and they
constitute one of the most satisfactory methods of dealing with seeds
of low vitality. They are essentially the methods long ago used by
Knight, who laid such seeds between two sods cut from an old and dry
pasture.
Even sound and strong seeds should be watered with care. Drenchings
usually weaken or destroy them. The earth should be kept simply damp.
To insure comparative dryness in in-door culture, some loose material,
as pieces of broken pots or clinkers, should be placed in the bottom of
the pot or box to afford drainage. It should be borne in mind, however,
that the seed bed should be approximately equally moist throughout its
depth. The waterings should therefore be copious enough to moisten the
soil throughout. A wet or moist surface over a dry substratum should
always be avoided. Error is common here. It is usually best to apply
water with a watering-pot, as watering with a hose is apt to wash out
the seeds and to pack the soil, and the quantity of water is not so
easily regulated.
At first thought, it would appear that the apparently good results
following soaking of seeds in many cases, are a contradiction of these
statements that seeds may be over-watered. But soaking is usually
beneficial only when practiced for a comparatively short time. It is
not good practice to soak delicate seeds before sowing, and it is of
doubtful utility in most other cases, unless it is necessary to soften
the integuments of hard-shelled species, as discussed on page 17. The
gain in rapidity of germination following soaked, as compared with dry
seeds, is really fictitious, inasmuch as germination actually begins in
the soaked seeds before the dry samples are sown. The soaked seeds are
sown in water rather than in soil, and as conditions are more uniform
there, a gain apparently due to soaking may result. In the case of
strong seeds which must be planted out-doors in cold or uncongenial
soil, a preliminary soaking of from 12 to 24 hours may be beneficial,
as it lessens the period which the seeds would otherwise pass in
untoward conditions. But soaked seeds, unless of very hardy species,
should never be sown out-doors until the soil has become rather dry and
warm.
To prevent too rapid drying out, the soil should be firmly pressed
about the seeds. The pot or box should be given a shady place, or some
covering may be applied to check evaporation. A pane of glass is often
placed over the box, being tilted a little at intervals to allow of
ventilation and to prevent the soil from becoming soggy or "sour." A
seed-case, with a glass cover, as shown in Fig. 2, is neat and handy in
the treatment of small seeds. A thin covering of fine moss is sometimes
given, or a newspaper may be thrown over the soil.
[Illustration: Fig. 2. Seed-Case.]
In out-door culture, only a naturally dry and well-drained soil should
be chosen for all ordinary seeds, especially for such as are sown
in the fall or remain in the ground a long time before germinating.
Soils which contain a liberal amount of sand or gravel are especially
valuable for this purpose.
To prevent drying in out-door culture, it is important that the earth
be well firmed over the seeds. Walking on the row, placing one foot
directly ahead of the other, is usually the most expeditious and
satisfactory operation, at least with large seeds. Or the earth may
be firmed with a hoe or the back of a spade, or a board may be placed
upon the row and then be thoroughly settled by walking over it. In
the sowing of celery and other small and slow seeds, it is a frequent
practice to leave the board on the row until the seeds appear in order
to hold the moisture. This is a doubtful expedient, however, for the
young plants are apt to be quickly dispatched by the sun when the board
is removed. If the board is employed, it should be raised an inch or
two from the ground as soon as the plants begin to appear. But the
shade of the board is too dense and plants do not grow stocky under it.
It is better to use brush or lath screens if protection is desired;
or fine litter, if free from weed seeds, may be used. In most cases,
however, screens will not be needed by celery and similar seeds if the
ground is in the proper condition and is well firmed at planting time.
It is always advisable, nevertheless, to place the beds for slow and
small seeds where they can be watered occasionally.
[Illustration: Fig. 3. Lath Screen.]
There are many kinds of screens in use to prevent the drying out of
small seeds in out-door seedage and to protect the young seedlings.
These are used also in the shading of cuttings. The common lath screen
(Fig. 3) is the most useful for general purposes. It is simply a square
frame made from common laths laid at right angles in a double series.
The interstices between the laths are equal in width to the laths
themselves. These screens are laid horizontally upon a light frame-work
a few inches above the seeds. The passage of the sun constantly moves
the shadows over the bed, and sufficient shade is afforded while
thorough ventilation is allowed. This and all other elevated screens
are useful in shading and protecting the young plants as well, but when
used for this purpose they are usually raised a greater distance above
the beds. A brush screen consisting of a low frame covered with boughs,
is often used, as shown in Fig. 4. This is cheaper than the lath
screens, and is equally as good for most purposes. The brush is often
laid directly upon the ground, especially in large beds. This answers
the purpose of shading, but it does not allow of weeding and it must
be taken off soon after the seeds germinate, or slender plants will be
injured in its removal. Brush screens are sometimes raised three or
four feet to allow of weeding. A screen for frames is shown in Fig.
5. It is a simple covering of muslin stretched over the top and sides
of a rough frame-work. The cloth is usually omitted from the front
side. This style of screens is much used by nurserymen, especially for
cutting beds. Whitewashing the sashes also affords good shading. A more
elaborate and permanent screen is shown in Fig. 6. It is built of
slats, usually 3-inch stuff. This shed screen is oftenest used for the
protection of tender plants, but it affords an exceedingly useful and
convenient place for the storage of pots and boxes of slow-germinating
seeds.
[Illustration: Fig. 4. Brush Screen.]
[Illustration: Fig. 5. Screen for Frames.]
[Illustration: Fig. 6. Shed Screen.]
Various frames and covers are employed for in-door seedage, but
they are designed to regulate atmospheric moisture and to control
temperature. They are more commonly employed in the growing of
cuttings, and are therefore described in Chapter IV.
=Requirements of Temperature.=--Variations in temperature exercise less
influence upon seeds than variations in moisture. Yet it is important
that the extremes of temperature should not be great, especially in
small, delicate or weak seeds. Seeds will endure greater extremes of
temperature when dry than when moist. This indicates that germinating
seeds must be kept in a comparatively uniform temperature. For this
reason it is poor practice to place seed-boxes in a window in full
sunlight. Partial or complete shade serves the double purpose of
preventing too great heat and too rapid evaporation. Various covered
seed-boxes are used for the purpose of maintaining approximately the
required temperature, but as they are oftener used in bud-propagation,
they are discussed in that connection.
Bottom heat is helpful to germination in most seeds, but, except in
the case of certain tropical species, it should not be strong. It is a
common practice to place the seed-boxes on moderately cool pipes under
benches in a greenhouse. Seeds of hardy annuals and perennials do not
require bottom heat, although they may be benefitted by it. If the
soil in seed beds should become too cool, watering with warm or tepid
water will be found helpful.
It is impossible to give rules for the determination of the proper
temperature for different kinds of seeds. In general, it may be said
that seeds germinate most rapidly at a temperature a few degrees above
that required for the best development of the plant itself. Hardy
plants require a temperature of from 50° to 70°, conservatory plants
from 60° to 75° or 80°, and tropical or stove plants from 75° to 95°.
The plantlets should be removed from these highest temperatures, as a
rule, as soon as germination is completed.
In out-door culture, depth of planting has a direct relation to
temperature. Seeds may be planted deeper late in the season than early,
when the soil is cold and damp. Deep planting probably as often kills
seeds because of the absence of sufficient heat as from the lack of
oxygen or the great depth of earth through which the plantlet is unable
to push.
=Preparatory Treatment of Seeds.=--Many seeds demand some treatment
preparatory to sowing. Nearly all hard and bony seeds fail to
germinate, or at least germinate very irregularly, if their contents
are allowed to become thoroughly dry and hard. The shells must also be
softened or broken in many cases before the embryo can grow. Nature
treats such seeds by keeping them constantly moist under leaves or
mold, and by cracking them with frost. This suggests the practice
known to gardeners as _stratification_, an operation which consists in
mixing seeds with earth and exposing them to frost or to moisture for a
considerable time.
Stratification is practiced, as a rule, with all nuts, the seeds of
forest trees, shrubs, the pips of haws and often of roses, and in
many cases with the seeds of common fruits. It should be performed as
soon as possible after the seeds are mature. Small seeds are usually
placed in thin layers in a box alternating with an inch or two of sand.
Sometimes the seeds are mixed indiscriminately in the sand, but unless
they are large it is difficult to separate them out at sowing time.
The sand is often sown with the seeds, however, but it is difficult
in such cases to distribute the seeds evenly, and in sowing large
quantities the handling of the sand entails a considerable burden and
becomes an item of expense. It is advisable to pass the sand through a
sieve of finer mesh than the seeds, and the seeds can then be sifted
out at sowing time. If the seeds are very small or very few in number
they may be placed between folds of thin muslin, which is then laid
in the sand. Any shallow box, like a gardener's "flat," is useful in
making stratifications, or with small lots of seeds pots may be used.
A flat four inches deep might contain two or three layers or strata of
seeds the size of peas.
The disposition of the boxes when filled varies with different
operators. Some prefer to bury them. In this case a well-drained sandy
<DW72> is chosen. The flats are placed in a trench from one to two feet
deep, covered with a single thickness of boards, and the trench is
then filled with earth. The seeds usually freeze somewhat, although
freezing is not considered necessary unless in the case of nut-like
seeds. The object attained in burying is to keep the seeds moist and
fresh, inducing the rotting or softening of the coverings, while they
are buried so deep that they will not sprout. Seeds of most forest
trees should be treated in this manner. They are commonly left in the
ground until the second spring, when they are taken up and sown in
drills in mellow ground. If good loam to which has been added a little
well-rotted manure is used, the seeds or nuts of hardy trees and shrubs
may be allowed to germinate and grow for one season in the flats. At
the end of the season or the next spring the plants can be transplanted
without losing one. This is, perhaps, the best way to handle rare and
difficult subjects.
Many growers place the boxes on the surface in some protected place, as
under trees or in a shed, and cover them a foot deep with clean straw
or leaves. This is a good method for all seeds which are to be sown the
following spring, as those of many fruits. If boxes are piled on top
each other they should be mulched with moss, else the under ones may
become too dry. Or the boxes may be placed without covering in a shed,
but they must be examined occasionally to see that they do not become
too dry. Precaution must also be taken to keep away mice, squirrels,
blue-jays and other intruders.
Large nut-like seeds or fruits, like peach-pits, walnuts and
hickory-nuts, are usually buried in sand or light loam where they will
freeze. Or sometimes the large nuts are thrown into a pile with earth
and allowed to remain on the surface. Freezing serves a useful purpose
in aiding to crack the shells, but it is not essential to subsequent
germination, as is commonly supposed. All seeds, so far as known, can
be grown without the agency of frost if properly handled.
Fall sowing amounts to stratification, but unless the soil is mellow
and very thoroughly drained the practice is not advisable. The seeds
are liable to be heaved or washed out, eaten by vermin, and the soil is
apt to bake over them. Under proper conditions, however, the seeds of
fruits and many forest trees thrive well under fall sowing. The seeds
should be sown as soon as they are ripe, even if in mid-summer; or if
the ground is not ready for them at that time, they may be temporarily
stratified to prevent too great hardening of the parts. It is best,
however, to allow all green or moist seeds to dry off a few days before
they are stratified. Fall sown seeds should always be mulched.
Some seeds rarely germinate until the second year after maturity,
even with the best of treatment. The thorns, mountain ash, hollies,
viburnums, some roses, and many others belong to this category. Some
growers sow them regularly as soon as they are ripe and allow the beds
to remain until the seeds appear. This is a waste of land and of labor
in weeding, and the best way is to stratify them and allow them to
remain until the second spring before sowing.
Partial substitutes for stratification are soaking and scalding the
seeds. Soaking may be advantageously practiced in the case of slow and
hard seeds, which are not enclosed in bony shells, and which have been
allowed to become dry. Seeds of apple, locust and others of similar
character, are sometimes treated in this manner. They are soaked for 24
or 36 hours, and it is commonly supposed that if they are exposed to a
sharp frost in the meantime, better results will follow. While still
wet the seeds are sown. Scalding water may be poured over locust and
other seeds to soften their covering. But seeds should not be boiled,
as sometimes recommended.
[Illustration: Fig. 7. Bored Seed.]
The germination of bony seeds is often facilitated by filing or cutting
away the shell very carefully near the germ, or by boring them. A bored
nelumbium seed is shown in Fig. 7.
Treatment with various chemicals has been recommended for the purpose
of softening integuments, and also for some power which strong
oxidizing agents are supposed to exert in hastening germination
itself, but the advantages are mostly imaginary. Secret and patented
"germinator" compounds had better be avoided.
Pulpy and fleshy coverings should be removed from seeds before sowing.
Soft fruits, like berries, are broken up or ground into a pulp and
the seeds are then washed out. This separation may be performed
immediately in some cases, but when the pulp adheres to the seed,
the whole mass is usually allowed to stand until fermentation and
partial decay has liberated the seeds. The pulp will then rise, in
most instances, leaving the seeds at the bottom of the vessel. Seeds
can be liberated quickly by adding a stick of caustic potash to each
pail of water. After the mass has stood an hour or so, the seeds can
be rubbed out easily. Even tomato seeds can be cleaned with safety in
this manner. Seeds which have thin coverings, as the viburnums and many
haws, can be prepared by rubbing them through the hands with sharp
sand. Or the scant pulp of such seeds may be allowed to rot off in the
stratification box. Fleshy coverings of hard and bony seeds may be
removed by maceration. Allow them to stand in water at a temperature
of about 75° for one to three weeks, and then wash them out. Resinous
coverings are sometimes removed by mixing the seeds with fresh ashes or
lime, or by treating them with lye. Hard, thick-walled seeds are rarely
injured by the decay of the pulpy covering, but thin-walled seeds
should be cleaned, to avoid the possibility of damaging them.[A]
[A] An admirable paper upon the propagation of hardy trees and shrubs
from seeds and the treatment of the young seedlings, by Jackson Dawson,
may be found in Trans. Mass. Hort. Soc. 1885, part 1, 145, and also in
Rep. Sec. Mass. Bd. Agr. 1885, 468.
=Sowing.=--The soil in which seeds are sown, especially in in-door
culture, should be such as to allow of perfect drainage and at the same
time to hold moisture. Good potting soil, with a liberal allowance of
sharp sand, is the best for general purposes. Pure sand becomes too
dense, and leaf mold alone is usually too loose and open. A proper
combination of the two corrects both faults. It is impossible to
describe a good potting or seed-bed soil. Some experience is essential
to the best results in preparing it. It should be of such character
that when a damp portion is firmly compressed in the hand it will fall
apart when released. It should never bake. Good old garden loam, to
which an equal quantity of sand has been added, is usually a good soil
for common in-door seedage. There should be no manure in soil used for
seeds which produce a delicate growth, as rhododendrons and kalmias. In
all such cases, rotted sod or leafy peat forms the best basis. The soil
should be sifted and thoroughly fined before seeds are put into it.
Seeds usually require lighter soil than that in which the growing plant
will flourish. Cocoanut fiber is sometimes used in place of the soil,
as it holds moisture, allows of almost perfect drainage, and does not
become "sour." Fine dead sphagnum moss may also be used. Orchid seeds
are usually sown on the live moss in which the parent plant is growing;
or they may be sown on damp wood or cork. (See under Orchids, Chap.
VI.) Small seeds, like those of cineraria and calceolaria, germinate
well in very old cow-dung obtained from a pasture; the unctuous
matters have disappeared, leaving a fibrous remainder. But all things
considered, well-prepared soil is the most satisfactory medium which
can be used. Seeds of aquatic plants which are to be sown in a pond may
be placed in a ball of clay and dropped into the water.
Shallow boxes or "flats" and earthen seed-pans and lily-pans are
usually preferable to pots in which to grow seeds. They give more
surface in proportion to their contents and require less attention in
drainage. If pots are used, the four to six inch sizes are best.
If delicate seeds are sown out-doors, they should be given some
protection, if possible. An ordinary hot-bed frame gives the best
results. In warm weather or a sunny exposure it will be found desirable
to substitute a cloth screen for the sash. A thin or medium water-proof
plant cloth, either commercial or home-made, is excellent for this
purpose. It may be tacked upon a simple and light rectangular frame
which is strengthened at the corners by iron "carriage-corners." These
cloth-covered frames are handy for many purposes, particularly for
protecting and supplying some warmth to seed-pans and young seedlings.
It is essential that good drainage be given all in-door seed-pots or
seed-beds. A layer of broken pots or other coarse material is placed on
the bottom. Many growers place a thin layer of fine dead sphagnum moss
or of peat over this drainage material, and it certainly makes a useful
addition. It is particularly useful in isolated pots or small boxes,
as it holds enough moisture to prevent too rapid drying out, while all
surplus water is quickly taken off by the coarse material beneath. Over
the moss coarse siftings from the soil may be placed, while on top only
the finest and best soil should be used. The smaller the seeds, the
more care must be exercised in the sowing.
The proper depth for sowing | 1,983.804923 |
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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 vivid impression is of seeing land, which we sighted at
sunset, and I remember very distinctly just how it looked. It has never
looked the same since. The western sky was a mass of crimson and gold
clouds, which took on the shapes of strange and beautiful things. To
me it seemed that we were entering heaven. I remember also the doctors
coming on board to examine us, and I can still see a line of big
Irishmen standing very straight and holding out their tongues for
inspection. To a little girl only four years old their huge, open mouths
looked appalling.
On landing a grievous disappointment awaited us; my father did not
meet us. He was in New Bedford, Massachusetts, nursing his grief and
preparing to return to England, for he had been told that the John Jacob
Westervelt had been lost at sea with every soul on board. One of the
missionaries who met the ship took us under his wing and conducted us
to a little hotel, where we remained until father had received his
incredible news and rushed to New York. He could hardly believe that
we were really restored to him; and even now, through the mists of more
than half a century, I can still see the expression in his wet eyes as
he picked me up and tossed me into the air.
I can see, too, the toys he brought me--a little saw and a hatchet,
which became the dearest treasures of my childish days. They were
fatidical gifts, that saw and hatchet; in the years ahead of me I was to
use tools as well as my brothers did, as I proved when I helped to build
our frontier home.
We went to New Bedford with father, who had found work there at his old
trade; and here I laid the foundations of my first childhood friendship,
not with another child, but with my next-door neighbor, a ship-builder.
Morning after morning this man swung me on his big shoulder and took
me to his shipyard, where my hatchet and saw had violent exercise as I
imitated the workers around me. Discovering that my tiny petticoats were
in my way, my new friend had a little boy's suit made for me; and thus
emancipated, at this tender age, I worked unwearyingly at his side all
day long and day after day. No doubt it was due to him that I did not
casually saw off a few of my toes and fingers. Certainly I smashed them
often enough with blows of my dull but active hatchet. I was very, very
busy; and I | 1,983.897554 |
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Produced by Audrey Longhurst, Emanuela Piasentini and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
+------------------------------------------------------------+
|Transcriber's note. |
| |
|The original punctuation, language and spelling have been |
|retained, except where noted at the end of the text. |
|Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.|
| |
|The [oe] ligature has been rendered as oe. |
| |
|Alternative spellings: |
|chateau: chateau |
|camerara: camarera |
|Fenelon: Fenelon |
|Ferte-Senneterre: Ferte-Senneterre |
|Hotel: Hotel |
|Leganez: Leganez |
|Orleans: Orleans |
|Querouialle: Querouialle |
|Saint-Megrin: Saint-Megrin |
|Sevigne: Sevigne, Sevigne |
|Tremouille: Tremouille |
|Tarent: Tarente |
+------------------------------------------------------------+
POLITICAL WOMEN.
BY
SUTHERLAND MENZIES,
AUTHOR OF "ROYAL FAVOURITES," ETC.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
HENRY S. KING & CO.,
65, CORNHILL, AND 12, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON.
1873.
[_All rights reserved._]
CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.
BOOK V.--_continued._
PAGE
CHAP. III.--The struggle between Conde and Turenne--Noble
conduct of Mademoiselle de Montpensier--Fall of
the Fronde 3
IV.--The Duke de Nemours slain in a duel by his
brother-in-law Beaufort 12
V.--Triumph of Mazarin 16
BOOK VI.
CHAP. I.--Closing scenes--Madame de Longueville 35
II.--Madame de Chevreuse 49
III.--The Princess Palatine 54
IV.--Madame de Montbazon 61
V.--Mademoiselle de Montpensier 69
VI.--The Wife of the Great Conde 80
PART II.
The Duchess of Portsmouth 93
PART III.
BOOK I.
PRINCESS DES URSINS.
CHAP. I.--Two ladies of the Bedchamber during _the war of
the Spanish Succession_--Lady Churchill and the
Princess des Ursins--Political motives for their
elevation in England and Spain 127
II.--The Princess des Ursins--The married life of
Anne de la Tremouille--She becomes the centre of
contemporary politics in Rome 131
III.--Madame des Ursins aspires to govern Spain--Her
manoeuvres to secure the post of Camerara-Mayor 141
IV.--The Princess assumes the functions of
Camerara-Mayor to the young Queen of Spain--An
unpropitious royal wedding 148
V.--Onerous and incongruous duties of the
Camerara-Mayor--She renders Marie Louise popular
with the Spaniards--The policy adopted by the
Princess for the regeneration of Spain--Character
of Philip and Marie Louise--Two political systems
combated by Madame des Ursins--She effects the
ruin of her political rivals and reigns
absolutely in the Councils of the Crown 161
VI.--The Princess makes a false step in her
Statecraft--A blunder and an imbroglio 175
VII.--The Princess quits Madrid by command of Louis
XIV.--After a short exile, she receives
permission to visit Versailles 184
VIII.--The Princess triumphs at Versailles 192
BOOK II.
CHAP. I.--Sarah Jennings and John Churchill 207
II.--State of parties in action on the accession of
Queen Anne--Harley and Bolingbroke aim at
overthrowing the sway of the female
"Viceroy"--Abigail Hill becomes the instrument
of the Duchess's downfall--Squabbles between
| 1,983.9027 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
THE STOKER'S CATECHISM
THE
STOKER'S CATECHISM
BY
W. J. CONNOR.
[Device]
London:
E. & F. N. SPON, LIMITED, 57 HAYMARKET
New York:
SPON & CHAMBERLAIN, 123 LIBERTY STREET
1906
Transcriber's Note:
Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. Variant
spellings have been retained. The oe ligature is shown as [oe].
PREFACE.
There is no trade or calling that a working man is more handicapped in
than that of a Steam Boiler Stoker; there are no books on stoking; the
man leaving his situation is not anxious to communicate with the man who
is taking his place anything that might help or instruct him; and the
new man will be shy of asking for information for fear of being thought
incapable for the post he is seeking; and the transfer takes place
almost in silence, and the new man has to find out all the ways and
means at his own risk, sometimes at his employer's expense.
My object is to instruct that man in his business without his knowing
it, or hurting his very sensitive opinion on stoking and other matters;
for I am well aware that it is only the least experienced who are the
hardest to convince, or instruct--against their will. I have therefore
ventured to devise this simple method of question and answer, which I
have named "The Stoker's Catechism," which I hope may instruct and
interest him.
I will not encumber this preface with my personal qualifications for
this little work--the answers to the questions might suffice.
W. J. C.
THE STOKER'S CATECHISM.
1. _Question._--How would you proceed to get steam up in a boiler?
_Answer._--Having filled the boiler with water to the usual height, that
is to say, about four inches over the crown of the fire-tube, I throw in
several shovelfuls of coal or coke towards the bridge, left and right,
keeping the centre clear; then I place the firewood in the centre, throw
some coals on it, light up, and shut the door. Then I open the
side | 1,983.904407 |
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BY JOSEPH C. LINCOLN
Author of "The Depot Master," "Cap'n Warrens Wards,"
"Cap'n Eri," "Mr. Pratt," etc.
_With Four Illustrations_
_By_ HOWARD HEATH
A. L. BURT COMPANY
_Publishers New York_
_Copyright, 1912, by_
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
Copyright, 1911, 1912, by the Curtis Publishing Company
Copyright, 1911, 1912, by the Ainslee Magazine Company
Copyright, 1912, by the Ridgeway Company
Published, April, 1912
Printed in the United States of America
----
[Illustration: _Seems to me I never saw her look prettier._]
----
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I--I MAKE TWO BETS--AND LOSE ONE OF 'EM
CHAPTER II--WHAT A "PULLET" DID TO A PEDIGREE
CHAPTER III--I GET INTO POLITICS
CHAPTER IV--HOW I MADE A CLAM CHOWDER; AND WHAT A CLAM CHOWDER MADE
OF ME
CHAPTER V--A TRAP AND WHAT THE "RAT" CAUGHT IN IT
CHAPTER VI--I RUN AFOUL OF COUSIN LEMUEL
CHAPTER VII--THE FORCE AND THE OBJECT
CHAPTER VIII--ARMENIANS AND INJUNS; LIKEWISE BY-PRODUCTS
CHAPTER IX--ROSES--BY ANOTHER NAME
CHAPTER X--THE SIGN OF THE WINDMILL
CHAPTER XI--COOKS AND CROOKS
CHAPTER XII--JIM HENRY STARTS SCREENIN'
CHAPTER XIII--WHAT CAME THROUGH THE SCREEN
CHAPTER XIV--THE EPISTLE TO ICHABOD
CHAPTER XV--HOW IKE'S LOSS TURNED OUT TO BE MY GAIN
CHAPTER XVI--I PAY MY OTHER BET
----
THE POSTMASTER
----
CHAPTER I--I MAKE TWO BETS--AND LOSE ONE OF 'EM
"So you're through with the sea for good, are you, Cap'n Zeb," says Mr.
Pike.
"You bet!" says I. "Through for good is just _what_ I am."
"Well, I'm sorry, for the firm's sake," he says. "It won't seem natural
for the _Fair Breeze_ to make port without you in command. Cap'n, you're
goin' to miss the old schooner."
"Cal'late I shall--some--along at fust," I told him. "But I'll get over
it, same as the cat got over missin' the canary bird's singin'; and I'll
have the cat's consolation--that I done what seemed best for me."
He laughed. He and I were good friends, even though he was ship-owner
and I was only skipper, just retired.
"So you're goin' back to Ostable?" he says. "What are you goin' to do
after you get there?"
"Nothin'; thank you very much," says I, prompt.
"No work at _all_?" he says, surprised. "Not a hand's turn? Goin' to be
a gentleman of leisure, hey?"
"Nigh as I can, with my trainin'. The 'leisure' part'll be all right,
anyway."
He shook his head and laughed again.
"I think I see you," says he. "Cap'n, you've been too busy all your life
even to get married, and--"
"Humph!" I cut in. "Most married men I've met have been a good deal
busier than ever I was. And a good deal more worried when business was
dull. No, sir-ee! 'twa'n't that that kept me from gettin' married. I've
been figgerin' on the day when I could go home and settle down. If I'd
had a wife all these years I'd have been figgerin' on bein' able to
settle up. I ain't goin' to Ostable to get married."
"I'll bet you do, just the same," says he. "And I'll bet you somethin'
else: I'll bet a new hat, the best one I can buy, that inside of a year
you'll be head over heels in some sort of hard work. It may not be
seafarin', but it'll be somethin' to keep you busy. You're too good a
man to rust in the scrap heap. Come! I'll bet the hat. What do you say?"
"Take you," says I, quick. "And if you want to risk another on my
marryin', I'll take that, too."
"Go you," says he. "You'll be married inside of three years--or five,
anyway."
"One year that I'll be at work--steady work--and five that I'm married.
You're shipped, both ways. And I wear a seven and a quarter, soft hat,
black preferred."
"If I don't win the first bet I will the second, sure," he says,
confident. "'Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands,' you know.
Well, good-by, and good luck. Come in and see us whenever you get to New
York."
We shook hands, and I walked out of that office, the office that had
been my home port ever since I graduated from fust mate to skipper. And
on the way to the Fall River boat I vowed my vow over and over again.
"Zebulon Snow," I says to myself--not out loud, you understand; for,
accordin' to Scriptur' or the Old Farmers' Almanac or somethin', a
feller who talks to himself is either rich or crazy and, though I was
well enough fixed to keep the wolf from the door, I wa'n't by no means
so crazy as to leave the door open and take chances--"Zebulon Snow,"
says I, "you're forty-eight year old and blessedly single. All your life
you've been haulin' ropes, or bossin' fo'mast hands, or tryin' to make
harbor in a fog. Now that you've got an anchor to wind'ard--now that the
one talent you put under the stock exchange napkin has spread out so
that you have to have a tablecloth to tote it home in, don't you be a
fool. Don't plant it again, cal'latin' to fill a mains'l next time,
'cause you won't do it. Take what you've got and be thankful--and
careful. You go ashore at Ostable, where you was born, and settle down
and be somebody."
That's about what I said to myself, and that's what I started to do. I
made Ostable on the next mornin's train. The town had changed a whole
lot since I left it, mainly on account of so many summer folks buyin'
and buildin' everywhere, especially along the water front. The few
reg'lar inhabitants that I knew seemed to be glad to see me, which I
took as a sort of compliment, for it don't always foller by a
consider'ble sight. I got into the depot wagon--the same horse was
drawin' it, I judged, that Eben Hendricks had bought when I was a
boy--and asked to be carted to the Travelers' Inn. It appeared that
there wa'n't any Travelers' Inn now, that is to say, the name of it had
been changed to the Poquit House; "Poquit" bein' Injun or Portygee or
somethin' foreign.
But the name was the only thing about that hotel that was changed. The
grub was the same and the wallpaper on the rooms they showed to me
looked about the same age as I was, and wa'n't enough handsomer to
count, either. I hired a couple of them rooms, one to sleep in and smoke
in, and t'other to entertain the parson in, if he should call,
which--unless the profession had changed, too--I judged he would do
pretty quick. I had the rooms cleaned and papered, bought some dyspepsy
medicine to offset the meals I was likely to have, and settled down to
be what Mr. Pike had called a "gentleman of leisure."
Fust three months 'twas fine. At the end of the second three it
commenced to get a little mite dull. In about two more I found my mind
was shrinkin' so that the little mean cat-talks at the breakfast table
was beginnin' to seem interestin' and important. Then I knew 'twas time
to doctor up with somethin' besides dyspepsy pills. Ossification was
settin' in and I'd got to do somethin' to keep me interested, even if I
paid for Pike's hats for the next generation.
You see, there was such a sameness to the programme. Turn out in the
mornin', eat and listen to gossip, go out and take a walk, smoke, talk
with folks I met--more gossip--come back and eat again, go over and
watch the carpenters on the latest summer cottage, smoke some more, eat
some more, and then go down to the Ostable Grocery, Dry Goods, Boots and
Shoes and Fancy Goods Store, or to the post-office, and set around with
the gang till bedtime. That may be an excitin' life for a jellyfish, or
a reg'lar Ostable loafer--but it didn't suit me.
I was feelin' that way, and pretty desperate, the night when Winthrop
Adams Beanblossom--which wa'n't the critter's name but is nigh enough to
the real one for him to cruise under in this yarn--told me the story of
his life and started me on the v'yage that come to mean so much to me. I
didn't know 'twas goin' to mean much of anything when I started in. But
that night Winthrop got me to paddlin', so's to speak, and, later on,
come Jim Henry Jacobs to coax me into deeper water; and, after that, the
combination of them two and Miss Letitia Lee Pendlebury shoved me in all
under, so 'twas a case of stickin' to it or swimmin' or drownin'.
I was in the Ostable Store that evenin', as usual. 'Twas almost nine
o'clock and the rest of the bunch around the stove had gone home. I was
fillin' my pipe and cal'latin' to go, too--if you can call a tavern like
the Poquit House a home. Beanblossom was in behind the desk, his funny
little grizzly-gray head down over a pile of account books and papers,
his specs roostin' on the end of his thin nose, and his pen scratchin'
away like a stray hen in a flower bed.
"Well, Beanblossom," says I, gettin' up and stretchin', "I cal'late it's
time to shed the partin' tear. I'll leave you to figger out whether to
spend this week's profits in government bonds or trips to Europe and go
and lay my weary bones in the tomb, meanin' my private vault on the
second floor of the Poquit. Adieu, Beanblossom," I says; "remember me at
my best, won't you?"
He didn't seem to sense what I was drivin' at. He lifted his head out of
the books and papers, heaved a sigh that must have started somewheres
down along his keelson, and says, sorrowful but polite--he was always
polite--"Er--yes? You were addressin' me, Cap'n Snow?"
"Nothin' in particular," I says. "I was just askin' if you intended
spendin' your profits on a trip to Europe this summer."
Would you believe it, that little storekeepin' man looked at me through
his specs, his pale face twitchin' and workin' like a youngster's when
he's tryin' not to cry, and then, all to once, he broke right down,
leaned his head on his hands and sobbed out loud.
I looked at him. "For the dear land sakes," I sung out, soon's I could
collect sense enough to say anything, "what is the matter? Is anybody
dead or--"
He groaned. "Dead?" he interrupted. "I wish to heaven, I was dead."
"Well!" I gasps. "_Well!_"
"Oh, why," says he, "was I ever born?"
That bein' a question that I didn't feel competent to answer, I didn't
try. My remark about goin' to Europe was intended for a joke, but if my
jokes made grown-up folks cry I cal'lated 'twas time I turned serious.
"What _is_ the matter, Beanblossom?" I says. "Are you in trouble?"
For a spell he wouldn't answer, just kept on sobbin' and wringin' his
thin hands, but, after consider'ble of such, and a good many
unsatisfyin' remarks, he give in and told me the whole yarn, told me all
his troubles. They were complicated and various.
Picked over and b'iled down they amounted to this: He used to have an
income and he lived on it--in bachelor quarters up to Boston. Nigh as I
could gather he never did any real work except to putter in libraries
and collect books and such. Then, somehow or other, the bank the heft of
his money was in broke up and his health broke down. The doctors said he
must go away into the country. He couldn't afford to go and do nothin',
so he has a wonderful inspiration--he'll buy a little store in what he
called a "rural community" and go into business. He advertises, "Country
Store Wanted Cheap," or words to that effect. Abial Beasley's widow had
the "Ostable Grocery, Dry Goods, Boots and Shoes and Fancy Goods Store"
on her hands. She answers the ad and they make a dicker. Said dicker
took about all the cash Beanblossom had left. For a year he had been
fightin' along tryin' to make both ends meet, but now they was so fur
apart they was likely to | 1,983.904531 |
2023-11-16 18:50:07.9848650 | 2,477 | 10 |
Produced by C. P. Boyko
The Theatrocrat
A TRAGIC PLAY OF CHURCH AND STAGE
BY
JOHN DAVIDSON
LONDON
E. GRANT RICHARDS
1905
TO THE GENERATION KNOCKING AT THE DOOR
Break--break it open; let the knocker rust:
Consider no "shalt not", and no man's "must":
And, being entered, promptly take the lead,
Setting aside tradition, custom, creed;
Nor watch the balance of the huckster's beam;
Declare your hardiest thought, your proudest dream:
Await no summons; laugh at all rebuff;
High hearts and youth are destiny enough.
The mystery and the power enshrined in you
Are old as time and as the moment new:
And none but you can tell what part you play,
Nor can you tell until you make assay,
For this alone, this always, will succeed,
The miracle and magic of the deed.
John Davidson.
INTRODUCTION
WORDSWORTH'S IMMORALITY AND MINE
Poetry is immoral. It will state any and every morality. It has done
so. There is no passion of man or passion of Matter outside its
province. It will expound with equal zest the twice incestuous
intrigue of Satan, Sin, and Death, and the discarnate adoration of
Dante for the most beatified lady in the world's record. There is no
horror of deluge, fire, plague, or war it does not rejoice to utter;
no evanescent hue, or scent, or sound, it cannot catch, secure, and
reproduce in word and rhythm. The worship of Aphrodite and the
worship of the Virgin are impossible without its ministration. It
will celebrate the triumph of the pride of life riding to victory
roughshod over friend and foe, and the flame-clad glory of the martyr
who lives in obloquy and dies in agony for an idea or a dream. Poetry
is a statement of the world and of the Universe as the world can know
it. Sometimes it is of its own time: sometimes it is ahead of time,
reaching forward to a new and newer understanding and
interpretation. In the latter case poetry is not only immoral in the
Universal order; but also in relation to its own division of time: a
great poet is very apt to be, for his own age and time, a great
immoralist. This is a hard saying in England, where the current
meaning of immorality is so narrow, nauseous, and stupid. I wish to
transmute this depreciated word, to make it so eminent that men shall
desire to be called immoralists. To be immoral is to be different:
that says it precisely, stripped of all accretions, barnacles and
seaweed, rust and slime: the keen keel swift to furrow the deep. The
difference is always one of conduct: there is no other difference
between man and man: from the first breath to the last, life in all
its being and doing is conduct. The difference may be as slight as a
change in the form of poetical expression or the mode of wearing the
hair; or it may be as important as the sayings of Christ, as vast
and significant as the French Revolution and the career of Napoleon.
Nothing in life is interesting except that differentiation which is
immorality: the world would be a putrid stagnation without it, and
greatness and glory impossible. Morality would never have founded the
British Empire in India; it was English piracy that wrested from
Iberia the control of the Spanish Main and the kingdom of the sea.
War is empowered immorality: poetry is a warfare.
What I mean by Wordsworth's immorality begins to appear. This most
naive and majestic person, leading the proudest, cleanest, sweetest
of lives, was, during all his poetical time, immoralist _sans tache_.
In his boyhood he can think of no other atonement for a slight
indignity done him than suicide; he is perverse and obstinate, defies
chastisement--is rather proud of it, and slashes his whip through
the family portrait; he breathes "among wild appetites and blind
desires": delights and exults in "motions of savage instinct":
sullen, wayward, intractable, nothing fascinates him except
"dangerous feats." Even when his poetical time is spent, he can still
do the thing that Wordsworth should do. Milton's watch being handed
round, he takes out his own, a procedure that makes the company
uneasy; and it is remembered against him by vulgar people who were
present and felt foolish; but Wordsworth would not have been
Wordsworth had he left this undone. In Paris of the Revolution he
"ranges the streets with an ardour previously unfelt," and
remembers that the destiny of man has always hung upon a few
individuals. Why should not he lead the Jacobins, carry freedom
through Europe, and be the master of the world? He withdraws,
however, and tells himself at the time it is lack of means; but "The
Prelude," that miracle of self-knowledge and inferior blank verse,
is more explicit:--
"An insignificant stranger and obscure,
And one moreover little graced with power
Of eloquence even in my native speech,
And all unfit for turmoil or intrigue."
Another "insignificant stranger and obscure," as "little graced
with power of eloquence," ranged the streets of Paris devouring his
heart about the same time as Wordsworth--devouring his heart and
considering whether the Seine at once might not be his best goal. Had
Wordsworth remained in Paris to contest the dictatorship with
Napoleon? It is a dazzling might-have-been. Carlyle's remark on
Wordsworth comes to mind at once:--
"He was essentially a cold, hard, silent, practical man, who, if
he had not fallen into poetry, would have done effectual work of some
sort in the world. This was the impression one got of him as he
looked out of his stern blue eyes superior to men and circumstances
... a man of immense head and great jaws like a crocodile's, cast
in a mould designed for prodigious work."
Carlyle's hatred of pleasure--an experience constitutionally
impossible to himself; and his dyspeptic, neurasthenic distrust of
happiness generally, corrupt all his judgments of men, and especially
stultify his opinions of poets and poetry. His insane jealousy of all
his contemporaries, which gave him a vision of Tennyson "sitting
among his dead dogs"; in fine, his damnable Scotch-peasant's
hypocrisy and agonized self-conceit as of a sinless and impotent
Holy Willy, require to be cancelled ruthlessly after a scrupulous
calculation, if we wish to disengage the actual features from the
masterful caricature, lurid colour, violent gesture, false lights and
falser shades, that mark his portraits. Having struck out Carlyle's
contempt of Wordsworth as poet--poetry being an art Thomas
himself had failed in; and having perceived the coldness, the
hardness, the silence, and the stern look in the blue eyes, to be the
necessary configuration of Wordsworth's intercourse with a
personality so antagonistic to his own as Carlyle's, we have
remaining a being of great power and presence, whose magnitude and
influence are more convincing in Carlyle's sketch than in any other
account of the man, because of the limner's absolute standard,
because of his passionate veracity, and because of the deep grudge
overcome. Could Wordsworth, then, have been in any effective way
the rival of Napoleon? Could he even have held together a strong
opposition to be the bulwark of Napoleon's power? the cradle, nursery
and academe of an enduring Napoleonic dynasty? It is the debated
question of genius: is genius the gift of perfect conduct that may be
bestowed, as circumstances determine, in war or poetry, in art or
commerce? Men of the greatest ability have thought so, or said so,
Carlyle among them, and therefore it is that I pause a moment,
although on the very swell of this last interrogation--made, also,
as if I had never inquired it of the fates before--I felt the answer
to be an everlasting no. Caesar wrote good journalistic prose, being
his own war-correspondent, but his hexameters were of the same mark
as Cicero's; Dante possessed all the eloquence Wordsworth lacked,
and in his "De Monarchia" exhibits the very soul of sovereignty, but
his diplomacy and soldiership ended in bitter bread and death by
heartbreak; therefore Caesar could have indited a monumental poem,
and Dante could have conquered Gaul and overthrown Pompey!
It is not probable that Wordsworth at any period in his youth
would rather have been Caesar than Dante. To have the world at one's
absolute commandment for power and pleasure is the desire of most
virile natures, and a desire seldom renounced by the highest
intelligences, however closely disgrace and misery may dog them to
the end. Accordingly, when intellect, health, and strength abdicate
their heritage of the world we look for some tragic circumstance
compulsive. In the case of Wordsworth we look in vain. The worst that
befell him was the failure of his hopes in the French Revolution. He
never sent down a personal root into the busy world at all: but had
from the beginning a primitive-Christian contempt for power and
wealth. His reluctance--it lasted for two years--to take up the
burden of poetry is to be ascribed to the shame and horror of their
destiny which great poets feel. A great poet fights against his fate
as high women fight against passion. There is degradation and dismay
in the ministration of poetry as in "the ruddy offices of love"; but
both the woman and the poet yield: for love and poetry, being of the
race, are stronger than the individual.
Wordsworth's immorality, like all dynamic immorality, was what
is called a return to nature. He wrote with perfect insight
concerning poetry. There are many pregnant and convincing passages in
his letters and prefaces: but I question if he ever found the terms
characteristic of his own innovation. He said: "It may be safely
affirmed that there neither is nor can be any essential difference
between the language of prose and metrical composition." Boldly, but
not safely; and the substitution of "metrical composition" for
"poetry" is distinctly equivocal. The discovery Wordsworth made was
this:--That poetry is the least artificial of the arts; that,
compared with music, painting, sculpture, architecture, poetry is not
an art at all. Given an artist, the first condition of the arts
proper is the possession of mechanical means. But the poet requires
none; no pencils, colours, canvas, compasses, strings, or pipes.
Language, the vehicle of his no-art, is part of the poet's, as of all
men's, birthright; like food and air, he has it. And when he requires
to supplement the language with which the conditions of existence
endue him, the founts are ready | 1,984.004905 |
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E-text prepared by Andrew Turek and revised and annotated by Joseph E.
Loewenstein, M.D.
THE KELLYS AND THE O'KELLYS
by
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
Contents
I. The Trial
II. The Two Heiresses
III. Morrison's Hotel
IV. The Dunmore Inn
V. A Loving Brother
VI. The Escape
VII. Mr Barry Lynch Makes a Morning Call
VIII. Mr Martin Kelly Returns to Dunmore
IX. Mr Daly, the Attorney
X. Dot Blake's Advice
XI. The Earl of Cashel
XII. Fanny Wyndham
XIII. Father and Son
XIV. The Countess
XV. Handicap Lodge
XVI. Brien Boru
XVII. Martin Kelly's Courtship
XVIII. An Attorney's Office in Connaught
XIX. Mr Daly Visits the Dunmore Inn
XX. Very Liberal
XXI. Lord Ballindine at Home
XXII. The Hunt
XXIII. Dr Colligan
XXIV. Anty Lynch's Bed-Side; Scene the First
XXV. Anty Lynch's Bed-Side; Scene the Second
XXVI. Love's Ambassador
XXVII. Mr Lynch's Last Resource
XXVIII. Fanny Wyndham Rebels
XXIX. The Countess of Cashell in Trouble
XXX. Lord Kilcullen Obeys His Father
XXXI. The Two Friends
XXXII. How Lord Kilcullen Fares in His Wooing
XXXIII. Lord Kilcullen Makes Another Visit to the Book-Room
XXXIV. The Doctor Makes a Clean Breast of It
XXXV. Mr Lynch Bids Farewell to Dunmore
XXXVI. Mr Armstrong Visits Grey Abbey on a Delicate Mission
XXXVII. Veni; Vidi; Vici
XXXVIII. Wait Till I Tell You
XXXIX. It Never Rains but It Pours
XL. Conclusion
I. THE TRIAL
During the first two months of the year 1844, the greatest possible
excitement existed in Dublin respecting the State Trials, in which
Mr O'Connell, [1] his son, the Editors of three different repeal
newspapers, Tom Steele, the Rev. Mr Tierney--a priest who had taken
a somewhat prominent part in the Repeal Movement--and Mr Ray, the
Secretary to the Repeal Association, were indicted for conspiracy.
Those who only read of the proceedings in papers, which gave them as
a mere portion of the news of the day, or learned what was going on
in Dublin by chance conversation, can have no idea of the absorbing
interest which the whole affair created in Ireland, but more especially
in the metropolis. Every one felt strongly, on one side or on the
other. Every one had brought the matter home to his own bosom, and
looked to the result of the trial with individual interest and
suspense.
[FOOTNOTE 1: The historical events described here form a backdrop
to the novel. Daniel O'Connell (1775-1847) came from
a wealthy Irish Catholic family. He was educated in
the law, which he practiced most successfully, and
developed a passion for religious and political
liberty. In 1823, together with Lalor Sheil and
Thomas Wyse, he organized the Catholic Association,
whose major goal was Catholic emancipation. This was
achieved by act of parliament the following year.
O'Connell served in parliament in the 1830's and was
active in the passage of bills emancipating the Jews
and outlawing slavery. In 1840 he formed the Repeal
Association, whose goal was repeal of the 1800 Act
of Union which joined Ireland to Great Britain. In
1842, after serving a year as Lord Mayor of Dublin,
O'Connell challenged the British government by
announcing that he intended to achieve repeal within
a year. Though he openly opposed violence, Prime
Minister Peel's government considered him a threat
and arrested O'Connell and his associates in 1843
on trumped-up charges of conspiracy, sedition, and
unlawfule assembly. They were tried in 1844, and all
but one were convicted, although the conviction was
later overturned in the House of Lords. O'Connell did
serve some time in jail and was considered a martyr
to the cause of Irish independence.]
Even at this short interval Irishmen can now see how completely they
put judgment aside, and allowed feeling and passion to predominate in
the matter. Many of the hottest protestants, of the staunchest foes
to O'Connell, now believe that his absolute imprisonment was not to
be desired, and that whether he were acquitted or convicted, the
Government would have sufficiently shown, by instituting his trial, its
determination to put down proceedings of which they did not approve. On
the other hand, that class of men who then styled themselves Repealers
are now aware that the continued imprisonment of their leader--the
persecution, as they believed it to be, of "the Liberator" [2]--would
have been the one thing most certain to have sustained his influence,
and to have given fresh force to their agitation. Nothing ever so
strengthened the love of the Irish for, and the obedience of the Irish
to O'Connell, as his imprisonment; nothing ever so weakened his power
over them as his unexpected enfranchisement [3]. The country shouted
for joy when he was set free, and expended all its enthusiasm in the
effort.
[FOOTNOTE 2: The Irish often referred to Daniel O'Connell as
"the liberator."]
[FOOTNOTE 3: enfranchisement--being set free. This is a political
observation by Trollope.]
At the time, however, to which I am now referring, each party felt the
most intense interest in the struggle, and the most eager desire for
success. Every Repealer, and every Anti-Repealer in Dublin felt that
it was a contest, in which he himself was, to a certain extent,
individually engaged. All the tactics of the opposed armies, down to
the minutest legal details, were eagerly and passionately canvassed in
every circle. Ladies, who had before probably never heard of "panels"
in forensic phraseology, now spoke enthusiastically on the subject;
and those on one side expressed themselves indignant at the fraudulent
omission of certain names from the lists of jurors; while those on the
other were capable of proving the legality of choosing the jury from
the names which were given, and stated most positively that the
omissions were accidental.
"The traversers" [4] were in everybody's mouth--a term heretofore
confined to law courts, and lawyers' rooms. The Attorney-General,
the Commander-in-Chief of the Government forces, was most virulently
assailed; every legal step which he took was scrutinised and abused;
every measure which he used was base enough of itself to hand down his
name to everlasting infamy. Such were the tenets of the Repealers. And
O'Connell and his counsel, their base artifices, falsehoods, delays,
and unprofessional proceedings, were declared by the Saxon party to be
equally abominable.
[FOOTNOTE 4: traversers--Trollope repeatedly refers to the
defendants as "traversers." The term probably comes
from the legal term "to traverse," which is to deny
the charges against one in a common law proceeding.
Thus, the traversers would have been those who pled
innocent.]
The whole Irish bar seemed, for the time, to have laid aside the
habitual _sang froid_ [5] and indifference of lawyers, and to have
employed their hearts as well as their heads on behalf of the different
parties by whom they were engaged. The very jurors themselves for a
time became famous or infamous, according to the opinions of those
by whom their position was discussed. Their names and additions were
published and republished; they were declared to be men who would stand
by their country and do their duty without fear or favour--so said the
Protestants. By the Roman Catholics, they were looked on as perjurors
determined to stick to the Government with blind indifference to their
oaths. Their names are now, for the most part, forgotten, though so
little time has elapsed since they appeared so frequently before the
public.
[FOOTNOTE 5: sang froid--(French) coolness in a trying situation,
lack of excitability]
Every day's proceedings gave rise to new hopes and fears. The evidence
rested chiefly on the reports of certain short-hand writers, who had
been employed to attend Repeal meetings, and their examinations and
cross-examinations were read, re-read, and scanned with the minutest
care. Then, the various and long speeches of the different counsel,
who, day after day, continued to address the jury; the heat of one,
the weary legal technicalities of another, the perspicuity of a third,
and the splendid forensic eloquence of a fourth, were criticised,
depreciated and admired. It seemed as though the chief lawyers of the
day were standing an examination, and were candidates for some high
honour, which each was | 1,984.006997 |
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Produced by David Widger
THE DIARY OF SAMUEL PEPYS M.A. F.R.S.
CLERK OF THE ACTS AND SECRETARY TO THE ADMIRALTY
TRANSCRIBED FROM THE SHORTHAND MANUSCRIPT IN THE PEPYSIAN LIBRARY
MAGDALENE COLLEGE CAMBRIDGE BY THE REV. MYNORS BRIGHT M.A. LATE FELLOW
AND PRESIDENT OF THE COLLEGE
(Unabridged)
WITH LORD BRAYBROOKE'S NOTES
EDITED WITH ADDITIONS BY
HENRY B. WHEATLEY F.S.A.
DIARY OF SAMUEL PEPYS.
MARCH
1666-1667
March 1st. Up, it being very cold weather again after a good deal of warm
summer weather, and to the office, where I settled to do much business
to-day. By and by sent for to Sir G. Carteret to discourse of the
business of the Navy, and our wants, and the best way of bestowing the
little money we have, which is about L30,000, but, God knows, we have need
of ten times as much, which do make my life uncomfortable, I confess, on
the King's behalf, though it is well enough as to my own particular, but
the King's service is undone by it. Having done with him, back again to
the | 1,984.007924 |
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Transcribed from the 1862 Wertheim, Macintosh and Hunt edition by David
Price, email [email protected]
THOUGHTS
ON
A REVELATION.
BY
S. J. JERRAM, M.A.,
VICAR OF CHOBHAM, SURREY.
* * * * *
LONDON:
WERTHEIM, MACINTOSH AND HUNT,
24, PATERNOSTER ROW,
AND 23, HOLLES STREET, CAVENDISH SQUARE.
1862.
ABSTRACT OF CONTENTS.
PAGE.
Introductory: proposed mode of treating the subject 1-4
1.--Knowledge of God needful 4
,,,,,, cannot be obtained by direct perception of 5
God
,,,,,, cannot be obtained, to a sufficient extent, 6
by exercise of natural faculties
,,,,,, cannot be obtained by any implanted idea 6
,,,,,, therefore must be revealed 8
Objection arising from non-universality of a 8
Revelation answered
2.--Conditions under which a Revelation may be expected 9
to be _given_
Revelation must have a distinctive character 9
,,,,,, must be authenticated to original recipients 10
,,,,,, cannot convey a perfect knowledge of God 12
,,,,,, must be limited by the object designed 12
,,,,,, must be limited also by the state of 14
knowledge existing at the time when made
,,,,,, must be, in some degree, phenomenal 15
Such a Revelation appears to be the only one in 16
accordance with man's position, and also adequate
Words as a medium of Revelation must be limited by 18
ideas already existing, which ideas are also limited by
experience
Anthropomorphic notions of God; the Infinite and 19
Absolute
Ideas as a medium of Revelation; ideas and perceptions 20
distinguished, etc.
Perception as a medium of Revelation; not in itself 22
adequate
3.--Conditions under which a Revelation may be expected 26
to be _recorded_, etc.
Exact verbal record considered; difference of 26
languages, etc.
Distinction drawn as to meaning of "exact verbal 29
record"
Divine and human elements in a Revelation; variety of 29
style, etc.
Considerations as to the precise manner of recording a 31
Revelation
4.--Conditions under which a Revelation may be expected 32
to be _transmitted_
5.--Some considerations as to the conditions under which 34
a professed Revelation may be properly _accepted_
Evidence to contemporaries: miracles, doctrines, etc. 34
Evidence to others 37
Observations as to believing: aid derived from others, 37
rapidity of mental processes, intuitions
6.--Some considerations as to the Bible, as a professed 41
Revelation
Its pure morality, hold on public opinion, etc., mark 43
it out as _different_ from other books
Why a candid spirit is _especially_ needful for the 43
study of it
Its offer of supernatural aid considered 45
Its offer of supernatural aid is in accordance with 46
the general beliefs as to Providence, and prayer
THOUGHTS ON A REVELATION.
Few persons can have observed attentively the various phases of public
opinion on religious subjects during the last twenty years or more,
without noticing a growing tendency to the accumulation of difficulties
on the subject of Revelation. Geology, ethnology, mythical
interpretation, critical investigation, and inquiries of other kinds,
have raised their several difficulties; and, in consequence, infidels
have rejoiced, candid inquirers have been perplexed, and even those who
have held with firmness decided views on the distinctive character of the
inspiration of the Bible, have sometimes found it difficult to satisfy
their minds entirely, and to see clearly the grounds of their
conclusions.
The writer of these pages does not propose to attempt a detailed reply to
the various difficulties which have been raised. Answers to objections
arising from the pursuit of particular sciences are most effectually
given by those, who have made those sciences their study; nor can | 1,984.104307 |
2023-11-16 18:50:08.1833820 | 3,214 | 6 |
Produced by Sandra Eder, Martin Pettit and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
ALCOHOL AND THE HUMAN BRAIN.
BY
REV. JOSEPH COOK.
NEW YORK:
National Temperance Society and Publication House,
58 READE STREET.
1879.
ALCOHOL AND THE HUMAN BRAIN.
BY REV. JOSEPH COOK.
Cassio's language in Othello is to-day adopted by cool physiological
science: "O God, that men should put an enemy in their mouths to steal
away their brains! That we should, with joy, revel, pleasure and
applause, transform ourselves into beasts! To be now a sensible man, by
and by a fool, and presently a beast! O strange! Every inordinate cup is
unbless'd, and the ingredient is the devil."--Shakespeare, _Othello_,
Act II., Scene iii.
Central in all the discussion of the influence of intoxicating drink
upon the human brain is the fact that albuminous substances are hardened
by alcohol. I take the white of an egg, and, as you see, turn it out in
a fluid condition into a goblet. The liquid is a viscous, glue-like
substance, largely composed of albumen. It is made up of pretty nearly
the same chemical ingredients that constitute a large part of the brain
and the nervous system, and of many other tissues of the body. Forty per
cent of the matter in the corpuscles of the blood is albumen. I am about
to drench this white of an egg with alcohol. I have never performed this
experiment before, and it may not succeed, but so certain am I that it
will, that I purpose never to put the bottle to my lips and introduce
into my system a fiend to steal away my brain. Edmund Burke, when he
heard William Pitt say in Parliament that England would stand till the
day of judgment, rose and replied; "What I fear is the day of _no_
judgment." When Booth was about to assassinate Lincoln, his courage
failed him, and he rushed away from the theater for an instant into the
nearest restaurant and called for brandy. Harden the brain by drenching
it in alcohol and you harden the moral nature.
If you will fasten your attention on the single fact, that alcohol
hardens this albuminous substance with which I place it in contact, you
will have in that single strategic circumstance an explanation of most
of its ravages upon the blood and nerves and brain. I beg you to notice
that the white of an egg in the goblet does not become hardened by
exposure to the air. I have allowed it to remain exposed for a time, in
order that you may see that there is no legerdemain in this experiment.
[Laughter.] I now pour alcohol upon this albuminous fluid, and if the
result here is what it has been in other cases, I shall pretty soon be
able to show you a very good example of what coagulated albumen is in
the nervous system and blood corpuscles. You will find this white of an
egg gradually so hardened that you can take it out without a fork. I
notice already that a mysterious change in it has begun. A strange
thickening shoots through the fluid mass. This is your moderate
drunkard that I am stirring up now. There is your tippler, a piece of
him, [holding up a portion of the coagulated mass upon the glass
pestle]. The coagulation of the substance of the brain and of the
nervous system goes on. I am stirring up a hard drinker now. The
infinitely subtle laws of chemistry take their course. Here is a man
[holding up a part of the coagulated mass] whose brain is so leathery
that he is a beast, and kicks his wife to death. I am stirring up in
this goblet now the brain of a hardened sot. On this prongless glass
rod, I hold up the large part of the white of an egg which you saw
poured into this glass as a fluid. Here is your man [holding up a larger
mass] who has benumbed his conscience and his reason both, and has begun
to be dangerous to society from the effects of a diseased brain.
Wherever alcohol touches this albuminous substance, it hardens it, and
it does so by absorbing and fixing the water it contains. I dip out of
the goblet now your man in delirium tremens. Here is what was once a
fluid, rolling easily to right and left, and now you have the leathery
brain and the hard heart.
Distortions of blood discs taken from the veins of drunkards have been
shown to you here by the stereopticon and the best microscope in the
United States. All the amazing alterations you saw in the shape, color,
and contents of the blood discs are produced by the affinity of alcohol
for the water in the albuminous portion of the globules.
I am speaking here in the presence of expert chemists. You say I have no
business to know anything about these topics. Well, the new professor
in Andover on the relations between religion and science has no business
to know them. The new professor at Edinburgh University and in Princeton
has no business to know them. The lectureship at the Union Theological
Seminary in New York has no right to teach on these themes. There is
getting to be a tolerably large company of us who are intending to look
into these matters at the point of the microscope and the scalpel. In a
wiser generation than ours the haughty men who will not speak themselves
of the relations of religion and science, and will not allow others to
speak--veritable dogs in the manger--will be turned as dogs out of the
manger. I speak very strongly, for I have an indignation that can not be
expressed when it is said that men who join hands with physicians, and
are surrounded by experts to teach them the facts, have no right to make
inferences. Men educated and put into professorships to discuss as a
specialty the relation of religion and science have no right to discuss
these themes! We have a right as lawyers to discuss such topics before
juries, when we bring experts in to help us. I bring experts before you
as a jury. I assert the right of Andover, and Princeton, and New Haven,
and Edinburgh, and even of this humble platform to tell you what God
does in the brain, and to exhibit to you the freshest discoveries there
of both His mercy and wrath.
My support of temperance reform I would base upon the following
propositions:
1. Scars in the flesh do not wash out nor grow out, but, in spite of
the change of all the particles of the body, are accurately reproduced
without alteration by the flux of its particles.
Let us begin with an incontrovertible proposition. Everybody knows that
the scars of childhood are retained through life, and that we are buried
with them. But we carry into the grave no particle of the flesh that we
had in youth. All the particles of the body are in flux and are changed
every few years. There is, however, something in us that persists. I am
I; and therefore I am praiseworthy or blameworthy for things I did a
score of years since, although there is not a particle of my body here
now that was here then. The sense of the identity persisting in all the
flux of the particles of the system, proves there is something else in
man besides matter. This is a very unsubstantial consideration, you say;
but the acute and profound German finds in this one fact of the
persistence of the sense of identity in spite of the flux of the
particles of the body, the proof of the separateness of matter and mind.
Something reproduces these scars as the system throws off and changes
its particles. That something must have been affected by the scarring.
There is a strange connection between scars and the immaterial portion
of us. It is a mysterious fact, right before us daily, and absolutely
incontrovertible, that something in that part of us which does not
change reproduces these scars. Newton, when the apple fell on his
head--according to the fable, for I suppose that story is not
history--found in it the law of the universe; and so in the simple fact
that scars will not wash out or grow out, although the particles of the
flesh are all changed, we find two colossal propositions; the one is
that there is somewhat in us that does not change, and is not matter;
the other is, that this somewhat is connected mysteriously with the
inerasability of scars, which, therefore, may be said to exist in some
sense in the spiritual as well as in the material substance of which we
are made.
2. It is as true of scars on the brain and nervous system as of those on
any less important parts of the body, that they will not wash out, nor
grow out.
3. Scars on the brain or nervous system may be made by physical or
mental habits, and are the basis of the self-propagative power of
habits.
4. When the scars or grooves in which a habit runs are made deep, the
habit becomes automatic or self-acting and perhaps involuntary.
5. The grooves worn or scars made by good and bad habits may be
inherited.
Physical identity of parent and offspring, spiritual identity of parent
and offspring--these mysteries we have discussed here; and this two-fold
identity is concerned in the transmission of the thirst for drink. When
the drunkard who has had an inflamed stomach, is the father of a child
that brings into the world with it an inflamed stomach, you have a case
of the transmission of alcoholic scars.
6. While self-control lasts, a bad habit is a vice; when self-control is
lost, a bad habit is a disease.
7. When a bad habit becomes a disease, the treatment of it belongs to
physicians; while it is a vice, the treatment of it belongs to the
Church.
8. In probably nine cases out of ten, among the physical difficulties
produced by the use of alcohol, and not inherited, the trouble is a vice
and not a disease.
9. Alcohol, by its affinity for water, hardens all the albuminous or
glue-like substances in the body.
10. It thus paralyzes the small nerves, produces arterial relaxation,
and deranges the circulation of the blood.
11. It produces thus an increased quickness in the beating of the heart,
and ruddiness of countenance which are not signs of health, but of
disease.
Pardon me if I dwell a moment on this proposition, which was not made
clear by science until a a few years ago. You say that moderate drinking
quickens the pulse and adds ruddiness to the countenance, and that,
therefore, you have some reason to believe that it is a source of
health. I can hardly pardon myself for not having here a set of the
chemical substances that partially paralyze the small nerves. I have a
list of them before me, and it includes ether and the whole series of
nitrites, and especially the nitrite of amyl. If I had the latter
substance here, I might, by lifting it to the nostrils, produce this
flushing of the face that you call a sign of health in moderate
drinking. There are five or six chemical agents that produce paralysis
of the vessels of the minute circulation, and among them is alcohol. A
blush is produced by a slight paralysis of the small nerves in the
interlacing ends of the arteries and veins. If I had ether here, and
could turn it on the back of my hand and evaporate it, I could
partially freeze the skin, and then, removing the ether, you would see a
blush come to the back of the hand. That is because the little nerves
that help constrict and keep up the proper tone of the circulating
organs, are temporarily paralyzed. A permanent blush in the face of a
drunkard indicates a permanent injury to the blood vessels by alcohol.
The varicose vein is often produced in this way by the paralysis of some
of the nerves that are connected with the fine parts of the circulatory
organs. When the face blushes permanently in the drunkard the injury
revealed is not a local one, but is inflicted on every organ throughout
the whole system.
After moderate drinking you feel the heart beating faster, to be sure,
but it beats more rapidly because of the paralysis of the delicate
nerves connected with the arteries, and because of the consequent
arterial relaxation. The blood meets with less resistance in passing
through the relaxed circulatory organs, and so, with no additional force
in the heart, that organ beats more rapidly. It beats faster simply
because it has less force to overcome. The quickened pulse is a proof of
disease and not of health. (_See_ Dr. Richardson, Cantor Lectures on
Alcohol.)
12. Alcohol injures the blood by changing the color and chemical
composition of its corpuscles.
In the stereopticon illustrations, you saw that the red discs of blood
are distorted in shape by the action of alcohol. You saw that the
arrangement of the coloring matter in the red discs is changed. You saw
that various adulterations appeared to come into the blood, or at least
into visibility there, under the influence of alcohol. Lastly, you saw,
most terrible of all, an absolutely new growth occurring there--a sprout
protruding itself from the side of the red corpuscle in the vital
stream. Last year I showed you what some of the diseases of leprosy did
for the blood, and you see how closely alcoholism in the blood resembles
in physical effects the most terrific diseases known to man.
Here are the diseases that are the great red seal of God Almighty's
wrath against sensuality; and when we apply the microscope to them, we
find in the blood discs these sprouts, that greatly resemble each other
in the inebriate and in the leper. Dr. Harriman has explained, with the
authority of an expert, these ghastly growths. These sprouts shoot out
of the red discs, and he tells you that, after having been called before
jury after jury as an expert, sometimes in cases where life was at
stake, he has studied alcoholized blood, and that a certain kind of
spore, a peculiar kind of sprout, which you have seen here, he never saw
except in the veins of a confirmed drunkard. I think the day is coming
when, by microscopic examination of the blood discs, we can tell what
disease a man has | 1,984.203422 |
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Produced by Mardi Desjardins
POEMS
by
"Josiah Allen's Wife,"
(Marietta Holley)
DEDICATION.
When I wrote many of these verses I was much younger than I am now,
and the "sweetest eyes in the world" would brighten over them,
through the reader's love for me. I dedicate them to her memory
--the memory of
MY MOTHER.
Contents
WHAT MAKES THE SUMMER?
THE BROTHERS
A RICH MAN'S REVERIE
GLORIA THE TRUE
THE DEACON'S DAUGHTER
SONGS OF THE SWALLOW
THE COQUETTE
LITTLE NELL
THE FISHER'S WIFE
THE LAND OF LONG AGO
LEMOINE
SLEEP
THE LADY MAUD
THE HAUNTED CASTLE
THE STORY OF GLADYS
FAREWELL
THE KNIGHT OF NORMANDY
SOMETIME
MOTIVES
NIGHTFALL
HIS PLACE
A DREAM OF SPRING
WAITING
A SONG FOR TWILIGHT
THE FLIGHT
COMFORT
JENNY ALLEN
THE UNSEEN CITY
THE WAGES OF SIN
ISABELLE AND I
GOOD-BY
THE SEA-CAPTAIN'S WOOING
IONE
SUMMER DAYS
THE LADY CECILE
HOME
STEPS WE CLIMB
SQUIRE PERCY'S PRIDE
ROSES OF JUNE
MAGDALENA
MY ANGEL
GRIEF
WILD OATS
AUTUMN
THE FAIREST LAND
THE MESSENGER
SLEEP
THE SONG OF THE SIREN
EIGHTEEN SIXTY-TWO
AWEARY
TOO LOW
AT LAST
TWILIGHT
THE SEWING-GIRL
HARRY THE FIRST
THE CRIMINAL'S BETROTHED
GONE BEFORE
A WOMAN'S HEART
WARNING
GENIEVE TO HER LOVER
THE WILD ROSE
OUR BIRD
THE TIME THAT IS TO BE
PREFACE.
All through my busy years of prose writing I have occasionally
jotted down idle thoughts in rhyme. Imagining ideal scenes,
ideal characters, and then, as is the way, I suppose, with more
ambitious poets, trying to put myself inside the personalities
I have invoked, trying to feel as they would be likely to, speak
the words I fancied they would say.
The many faults of my verses I can see only too well; their merits,
if they have any, I leave with the public--which has always been
so kind to me--to discover.
And half-hopefully, half-fearfully, I send out the little craft
on the wide sea strewn with so many wrecks. But thinking it must
be safer from adverse winds because it carries so low a sail, and
will cruise along so close to the shore and not try to sail out
in the deep waters.
And so I bid the dear little wanderer (dear to me), God-speed, and
bon voyage.
Marietta Holley.
New York, June, 1887.
WHAT MAKES THE SUMMER?
It is not the lark's clear tone
Cleaving the morning air with a soaring cry,
Nor the nightingale's dulcet melody all the balmy night--
Not these alone
Make the sweet sounds of summer;
But the drone of beetle and bee, the murmurous hum of the fly
And the chirp of the cricket hidden out of sight--
These help to make the summer.
Not roses redly blown,
Nor golden lilies, lighting the dusky meads,
Nor proud imperial <DW29>s, nor queen-cups quaint and rare--
Not these alone
Make the sweet sights of summer
But the countless forest leaves, the myriad wayside weeds
And slender grasses, springing up everywhere--
These help to make the summer.
One heaven bends above;
The lowliest head ofttimes has sweetest rest;
O'er song-bird in the pine, and bee in the ivy low,
Is the same love, it is all God's summer;
Well pleased is He if we patiently do our best,
So hum little bee, and low green grasses grow,
You help to make the summer.
THE BROTHERS.
High on a rocky cliff did once a gray old castle stand,
From whence rough-bearded chieftains led their vassals--ruled
the land.
For centuries had dwelt here sire and son, till it befell,
Last of their ancient line, two brothers here alone did dwell.
The eldest was stern-visaged, but the youngest smooth and fair
Of countenance; both zealous, men who bent the knee in prayer
To God alone; loved much, read much His holy word,
And prayed above all gifts desired, that they might see
their Lord.
For this the elder brother carved a silent cell of stone,
And in its deep and dreary depths he entered, dwelt alone,
And strove with scourgings, vigils, fasts, to purify his gaze,
And sought amidst these shadows to behold the Master's face.
And from the love of God that smiles on us from bright
lipped flowers,
And from the smile of God that falls in sunlight's golden showers,
That thrills earth's slumbering heart so, where its warm rays fall
That it laughs out in beauty, turned he as from tempters all.
From bird-song running morn's sweet-scented chalice o'er
with cheer,
The child's light laughter, lifting lowliest souls heaven near,
From tears and glad smiles, linked light and gloom of
the golden day,
He counting these temptations all, austerely turned away.
And thus he lived alone, unblest, and died unblest, alone,
Save for a brother monk, who held the carved cross of stone
In his cold, rigid clasp, the while his dying eyes did wear
A look of mortal striving, mortal agony, and prayer.
Though at the very last, as his stiff fingers dropped the cross,
A gleam as from some distant city swept his face across,
The clay lips settled into calm--thus did the monk attest,
A look of one who through much peril enters into rest.
Not thus did he, the younger brother, seek the Master's face;
But in earth's lowly places did he strive his steps to trace,
Wherever want and grief besought with clamorous complaint,
There he beheld his Lord--naked, athirst, and faint.
And when his hand was wet with tears, wrung with a grateful grasp,
He lightly felt upon his palm the Elder Brother's clasp;
And when above the loathsome couch of woe and want bent he,
A low voice thrilled his soul, "So have ye done it unto Me."
Despised he not the mystic ties of blood, yet did he claim
The broader, wider brotherhood, with every race and name;
To his own kin he kind and loyal was in truth, yet still,
His mother and his brethren were all who did God's will
All little ones were dear to him, for light from Paradise
Seemed falling on him through their pure and innocent eyes;
The very flowers that fringed cool streams, and gemmed
the dewy sod,
To his rapt vision seemed like the visible smiles of God.
The deep's full heart that throbs unceasing against the silent
ships,
The waves together murmuring with weird, mysterious lips
To hear their untranslated psalm, drew down his anointed ear,
And listening, lo! he heard God's voice, to Him was he so near.
The happy hum of bees to him made summer silence sweet,
Not lightly did he view the very grass beneath his feet,
It paved His presence-chamber, where he walked a happy guest,
Ah! slight the veil between, in very truth his life was blest.
And when on a still twilight passed he to the summer land,
Those whom he had befriended, weeping, clinging to his hand,
The west gleamed with a sudden glory, and from out the glow
Trembled the semblance of a crown, and rested on his brow.
And with wide, eager eyes he smiled, and stretched his hands
abroad,
As if his dearest friend were welcoming him to his abode;
Eternal silence sealed that wondrous smile as he cried--
"Thy face! Thy face, dear Lord!" and, saying this, he died.
But legends tell that on his grave fell such a strange, pure
light,
That wine-red roses planted thereupon would spring up white,
Holding such mystic healing in their cool snow bloom, that lain
On aching brows or sorrowful hearts, they would ease their pain.
A RICH MAN'S REVERIE.
The years go by, but they little seem
Like those within our dream;
The years that stood in such luring guise,
Beckoning us into Paradise,
To jailers turn as time goes by
Guarding that fair land, By-and-By,
Where we thought to blissfully rest,
The sound of whose forests' balmy leaves
Swaying to dream winds strangely sweet,
We heard in our bed 'neath the cottage eaves,
Whose towers we saw in the western skies
When with eager eyes and tremulous lip,
We watched the silent, silver ship
Of the crescent moon, sailing out and away
O'er the land we would reach some day, some day.
But years have flown, and our weary feet
Have never reached that Isle of the Blest;
But care we have felt, and an aching breast,
A lifelong struggle, grief, unrest,
That had no part in our boyish plans;
And yet I have gold, and houses, and lands,
And ladened vessels a white-winged fleet,
That fly at my bidding across the sea;
And hats are doffed by willing hands
As I tread the village street;
But wealth and fame are not to me
What I thought that they would be.
I turn from it all to wander back
With Memory down the dusty track
Of the years that lie between,
To the farm-house old and brown,
Shaded with poplars dusky green,
I pause at its gate, not a bearded man,
But a boy with earnest eyes.
I stand at the gate and look around
At the fresh, fair world that before me lies.
The misty mountain-top aglow
With love of the sun, and the pleasant ground
Asleep at its feet, with sunny dreams
Of milk-white flowers in its heart, and clear
The tall church-spire in the distance gleams
Pointing up to the tranquil sky's
Blue roof that seems so near.
And up from the woods the morning breeze
Comes freighted with all the rich perfume
That from myriad spicy cups distils,
Loitering along o'er the locust-trees.
Scattering down the plum-trees' bloom
In flakes of crimson snow--
Down on the gold of the daffodils
That border the path below.
And the silver thread of the rivulet
Tangled and knotted with fern and sedge.
And the mill-pond like a diamond set
In the streamlet's emerald edge;
And over the stream on the gradual hill,
Its headstones glimmering palely white,
Is the graveyard quiet and still.
I wade through its grasses rank and deep,
Past slanting marbles mossy and dim,
Carven with lines from some old hymn,
To one where my mother used to lean
On Sunday noons and weep.
That tall white shape I looked upon
With a mysterious dread,
Linking unto the senseless stone
The image of the dead--
The father I never had seen;
I remember on dark nights of storm,
When our parlor was bright and warm,
I would turn away from its glowing light,
And look far out in the churchyard dim,
And with infinite pity think of him
Shut out alone in the dismal night.
And the ruined mill by the waterfall,
I see again its crumbling wall,
And I hear the water's song.
It all comes back to me--
Its song comes back to me,
Floating out like a spirit's call
The drowsy air along;
Blending forever with my name
Wonderful prophecies, dreamy talk,
Of future paths when I should walk
Crowned with manhood, and honor, and fame.
I shut my eyes and the rich perfume
Of the tropical lily fills the room
From its censer of frosted snow;
But it seems to float to me through the night
From those apple-blossoms red and white
That starred the orchard's fragrant gloom;
Those old boughs hanging low,
Where my sister's swing swayed to and fro
Through the scented aisles of the air;
While her merry voice and her laugh rung out
Like a bird's, to answer my brother's shout,
As he shook the boughs o'er her curly head,
Till the blossoms fell in a rosy rain
On her neck and her shining hair.
Oh, little Belle!
Oh, little sister, I loved so well;
It seems to me almost as if she died
In that lost time so gay and fair,
And was buried in childhood's sunny plain;
And she who walks the street to-day,
Or in gilded carriage sweeps through the town
Staring her humbler sisters down,
With her jewels gleaming like lucent flame,
Proud of her grandeur and fine array,
Is only a stranger, who bears her name.
And the little boy who played with me,
Hunting birds'-nests in sheltered nooks,
Trudging at nightfall after the cows,
Exploring the barn-loft, fording the brooks,
Ending, in school-time, puzzled brows
Over the same small lesson books;
Who knelt by my side in the twilight dim,
Praying "the Lord our souls to keep,"
Then on the same pillow fell asleep,
Hushed by our mother's evening hymn;
Whose heart and mine kept such perfect time,
Such loving cadence, such tender rhyme,
Blent in child grief, and perfected in glee--
We meet on the street and we clasp the hand,
And our names on charitable papers stand
Side by side, and we go and bow
Our two gray heads with prayer and vow,
In the same grand church, and hasty word
Of anger, has never our bosoms stirred.
Yet a whole wide world is between us now;
How broad and deep does the gulf appear
Between the hearts that were so near!
I have pleasure grounds and mansions grand,
Low-voiced servants come at my call,
From Senate my name sounds over the land
In "ayes" and "nays" so solemnly read;
They call me "Honorable," "General," and all,
But to-night I am only Charley again,
I am Charley, and want to lay my head
On my mother's heart and rest,
With her soft hand pressed upon my brow
Curing its weary pain.
But never, nevermore will it be,
For mould and marble rises now
Between my head and that loving breast;
And death has a cruel power to part--
Forever gone and lost to me
That true and tender heart.
Oh, mother, I've never found love like thine,
Never have eyes looked into mine
With such proud love, such perfect trust.
Never have hands been so true and kind,
To lead me into the path of right--
Hands so gentle, and soft, and white,
That on my head like a blessing lay,
And led me a child and guided my youth;
To-night 'tis a dreary thought, in truth,
That those gentle hands are dust.
That I may be blamed, and you not be sad,
That I may be praised, and you not be glad;
'Tis a dreary thought to your boy to-night,
That over your sweet smile, over your brow,
The clay-cold turf is pressing now,
That never again as the twilight falls
You will welcome your boy to the old brown walls
Of the homestead far away.
The homestead is ruined--gone to decay,
But we read of a house not made with hands,
Whose firm foundation forever stands;
And there is a twilight soft and sweet.
Will she not stand with outstretched hands
My homesick eyes to meet--
To welcome her boy as in days before,
To home, and to rest, forevermore?
But the years come and the years go,
And they lay on her grave as they silently pass,
Red summer buds and wreaths of snow,
And springing and fading grass.
And far away in an English town,
In the secluded, tranquil shade
Of an old Cathedral quaint and brown,
Another grave is made--
A small grave, yet so high
It shadowed all the world to me,
And darkened earth and sky.
But only for a time; it passed,
The unreasoning agony,
Like a cloud that drops its rain;
And light shone into our hearts at last.
And patience born of pain.
And now like a breath of healing balm
The sweet thought comes to me,
That my child has reached the Isle of Calm,
Over the silent sea--
That my pure little Blanche is safe in truth,
Safe in immortal beauty and youth.
When she left us in the twilight gloom,
When she left her empty nest,
And the aching hearts below;
Full well, full well I know,
What tender-eyed angel bent
Down for my brown-eyed little bird,
From the shining battlement.
I know with what fond caressing,
And loving smile and word,
And look of tender blessing,
She took her to her breast,
And led her into some quiet room,
In the mansions of the blest.
Oh, mother, beloved, oh, child so dear,
Not by a wish, would I lure you here.
My son is a bright, brave boy, with a grace
Of beauty caught from his mother's face,
And his mother and he in truth are dear,
Full tenderly, and fond, and near
My heart is bound to my wife and child;
But the summer of life is not its May,
And dreams and hopes that our youth beguiled,
Are but pallid forms of clay.
There's the boy's first love and passionate dream,
A face like a morning star, a gleam
Of hair the hue of a robin's wing--
Brown hair aglow with a golden sheen,
And eyes the sweetest that ever were seen.
Mary, we have been parted long,
You were proud, and we both were wrong,
But 'tis over and past, no living gleam
Can come again to the dear, dead dream.
It is dead, so let it lie,
But nothing, nothing can ever be
Like that old dream to you or to me.
I think we shall know, shall know at last,
All that was strange in all the past,
Shall one day know, and shall haply see
That the sorrows and ills, that with tears and sighs,
We vainly endeavored to flee,
Were angels who, veiled in sorrow's guise
Came to us only to bless.
Maybe we shall kneel and kiss their feet,
With grateful tears, when we shall meet
Their unveiled faces, pure and sweet,
Their eyes' deep tenderness.
We shall know, perchance, had these angels come
Like mendicants unto a kingly gate
When we sat in joy's royal state,
We had barred them from our home.
But when in our doorway one appears
Clothed in the purple of sorrow's power,
He will enter in, no prayers or tears
Avail us in that hour.
So what we call our pains and losses
We may not always count aright,
The rough bars of our heavy crosses
May change to living light.
GLORIA THE TRUE.
Gayly a knight set forth against the foe,
For a fair face had shone on him in dreams;
A voice had stirred the silence of his sleep,
"Go win the battle, and I will be thine."
So, for the love of those appealing eyes,
Led by low accents of fair Gloria's voice,
He wound the bugle down his castle's steep,
And gayly rode to battle in the morn.
And none were braver in the tented field,
Like lightning heralding the doomful bolt;
The enemy beheld his snowy plume,
And death-lights flashed along his glancing spear.
But in the lonesome watches of the night,
An angel came and warned him with clear voice,
Against high God his rash right arm was raised,
Was rashly raised against the true, the right.
He strove to drown the angel voice with song
And merry laughter with his princely peers;
But still the angel bade him with clear voice,
"Go join the ranks you rashly have opposed."
"Oh, Angel!" cried he, "they are few and weak,
They may not stand before the press of knights;"
But still the angel bade him with clear voice,
"Go help the weak against the mighty wrong."
At last the words sunk deep within his heart,
With god-like courage cried he out at last,
"Oh, Gloria, beautiful, I can lose thee,
Lose life and thee, to battle for the right."
And when he joined the brave and stalwart ranks,
Like Saul amid his brethren he stood,
Braver and seemlier than all his peers,
And nobly did he battle for the right.
Gentlest unto the weak, and in the fray,
So dauntless, none--no fear of man had he;
He wrought dismay in Error's blackened ranks
So nobly did he battle for the right.
But at the last he lay on a lost field;
Couched on a broken spear, he pallid lay;
With dying lips he murmured Gloria's name,
"The field is lost, and thou art lost to me."
When lo! she stood beside him, pure and fair,
With tender eyes that blessed him as he lay;
And lo! she knelt and clasped his dying hands,
And murmured, "I am thine, am thine at last."
With wondering eyes, he moaned, "All--all is lost,
And I am dying." "Ah, not so," she cried,
"Nothing is lost to him who dare be true;
Who gives his life shall find it evermore."
"Methought I saw the spears beat down like grain,
And the ranks reel before the press of knights;
The level ground ran gory with our wounds;
Methought the field was lost, and then I fell."
"Be calm," she cried, "the right is never lost,
Though spear, and shield, and cross may shattered be,
Out of their dust shall spring avenging blades
That yet shall rid us of some giant wrong.
"And all the blood that falls in righteous cause,
Each crimson drop shall nourish snowy flowers
And quicken golden grain, bright sheaves of good,
That under happier skies shall yet be reaped.
"When right opposes wrong, shall evil win?
Nay, never--but the year of God is long,
And you are weary, rest ye now in peace,
For so He giveth His beloved sleep."
He smiled, and murmured low, "I am content,"
With blissful tears that hid the battle's loss;
So, held to her true heart he closed his eyes,
In quietest rest that ever he had known.
THE DEACON'S DAUGHTER.
The spare-room windows wide were raised,
And you could look that summer day
On pastures green, and sunny hills,
And low rills wandering away.
Near by, the square front yard was sweet
With rose and caraway.
Upon a couch drawn near the light,
The Deacon's only daughter lay,
Bending upon the distant hills
Her eyes of dark and thoughtful gray;
The blue veins on her forehead shone
'Twas wasted so away.
She moved, and from her slender hand
Fell off her mother's wedding-ring;
She smiled into her father's face--
"So drops from me each earthly thing;
My hands are free to hold the flowers
Of the eternal spring."
She had ever walked in quiet ways,
Not over beds of flowery ease,
But Sundays in the village choir
She sweetly sang of "ways of peace,"
Of "ways of peace and pleasantness,"
She trod such paths as these.
No sweeter voice in all the choir
Praised God in innocence and truth,
The Deacon in his straight-backed pew
Had dreams of her he lost in youth,
And thought of fair-faced Hebrew maids--
Of Rachel, and of Ruth.
But she had faded, day by day,
Growing more mild, and pure, and sweet,
As nearer to her ear there came
A distant sea's mysterious beat,
Till now this summer afternoon,
Its waters touched her feet.
Upon the painted porch without
Two women stood, and whispered low,
They thought "she'd go out with the day,"
They said, "the Deacon's wife went so."
And then they gently pitied him--
"It was a dreadful blow."
"But she was good, she was prepared,
She would be better off than here,"
And then they thought "'twas strange that he,
Her father, had not shed a tear,"
And then they talked of news, and all
The promise of the year.
Her father sat beside the bed,
Holding her cold hands tenderly,
And to the everlasting hills
He mutely turned his eyes away:
"My God, my Shelter, and my Rock,
Oh shadow me to-day!"
He knew not when she crossed the stream,
And passed into the land unseen,
So gently did she go from him
Into its pastures still and green;
Into the land of pure delight,
And Jordan rolled between.
Then knelt he down beside his dead,
His white locks lit with sunset's flame:
"My God! oh leave me not alone--
But blessed be Thy holy name."
The golden gates were lifted up
The King of Glory came.
SONGS OF THE SWALLOW.
SPRING.
The sides of the hill were brown, but violet buds had started
In gray and hidden nooks o'erhung by feathery ferns and heather,
And a bird in an April morn was never lighter-hearted
Than the pilot swallow we saw convoying sunny weather,
And sunshine golden, and gay-voiced singing-birds into the land;
And this was the song--the clear, shrill song of the swallow,
That it carolled back to the southern sun, and his brown
winged band,
Clear it arose, "Oh, follow me--come and follow--and follow."
A tender story was in his eyes, he wished to tell me I knew,
As he stood in the happy morn by my side at the garden-gate;
But I fancy the tall rose branches that bent and touched his brow,
Were whispering to him, "Wait, impatient heart, oh, wait,
Before the bloom of the rose is the tender green of the leaf;
Not rash is he who wisely followeth patient Nature's ways,
The lily-bud of love should be swathed in a silken sheaf,
Unfolding at will to summer bloom in the warm and perfect days."
So silently sailed the early sun, through clouds of fleecy white;
So stood we in dreamy silence, enwrapped in a tender spell;
But the pulses of soft Spring air were quickened to fresh delight,
For I read in his eye the story sweet, he longed, yet feared
to tell;
It spoke from his heart to mine, and needed no word from his mouth,
And high o'er our heads rang out the happy song of the swallow;
It cried to the sunshine and beauty and bloom of the South,
Exultingly carolling clear, "Oh, follow me--oh, follow."
SPRING SONG OF THE SWALLOW.
Oh, the days are growing longer;
So rang the jubilant song of the swallow;
I come a-bringing beauty into the land,
The sky of the West grows warm and yellow,
Oh, gladness comes with my light-winged band,
And the days are growing longer.
Oh, the days are growing longer,
The wavy gleam of fluttering wings,
Touching the silent earth so lightly,
Will wake all the sleeping, beautiful things,
The world will glow so brightly--brightly;
And the days are growing longer.
Oh, the days are growing longer,
All the rivulets dumb will laugh, and run
Over the meadows with dancing feet;
Following the silvery plough of the sun,
Will be furrows filled with wild flowers sweet:
And the days are growing longer.
Oh, the days are growing longer;
Over whispering streams will rushes lean,
To answer the waves' soft murmurous call;
The lily will bend from its watch-tower green,
To list to the lark's low madrigal,
And the days are growing longer.
Oh, the days are growing longer;
When they lengthen to ripe and perfect prime,
Then, oh, then, I will build my happy nest;
And all in that pleasant and balmy time,
There never will be a bird so blest;
And the days are growing longer.
* * * * *
SUMMER.
Now sinks the Summer sun into the sea;
Sure never such a sunset shone as this,
That on its golden wing has borne such bliss;
Dear Love to thee and me.
Ah, life was drear and lonely, missing thee,
Though what my loss I did not then divine;
But all is past--the sweet words, thou art mine,
Make bliss for thee and me.
How swells the light breeze o'er the blossoming lea,
Sure never winds swept past so sweet and low,
No lonely, unblest future waiteth now;
Dear Love for thee and me.
Look upward o'er the glowing West, and see,
Surely the star of evening never shone
With such a holy radiance--oh, my own,
Heaven smiles on thee and me.
SUMMER SONG OF THE SWALLOW.
You will journey many a weary day and long,
Ere you will see so restful and sweet a place,
As this, my home, my nest so downy and warm,
The labor of many happy and hopeful days;
But its low brown walls are laid and softly lined,
And oh, full happily now my rest I take,
And care not I when it lightly rocks in the wind,
For the branch above though it bends will never break;
And close by my side rings out the voice of my mate--my lover;
Oh, the days are long, and the days are bright--and
Summer will last forever.
Now the stream that divides us from perfect bliss
Seems floating past so narrow--so narrow,
You could span its wave such a morn as this,
With a moment winged like a golden arrow,
And the sweet wind waves all the tasselled broom,
And over the hill does it loitering come,
Oh, the perfect light--oh, the perfect bloom,
And the silence is thrilled with the murmurous hum
Of the bees a-kissing the red-lipped clover;
Oh, the days are long, and the days are bright--and
Summer will last forever.
When the West is a golden glow, and lower
The sun is sinking large and round,
Like a golden goblet spilling o'er,
Glittering drops that drip to the ground--
Then I spread my lustrous wings and cleave the air
Sailing high with a motion calm and slow,
Far down the green earth lies like a picture fair,
Then with rapid wing I sink in the shining glow;
A-chasing the glinting, gleaming drops; oh, a diver
Am I in a clear and golden sea, and Summer will last forever.
The leaves with a pleasant rustling sound are stirred
Of a night, and the stars are calm and bright;
And I know, although I am only a little bird,
One large serious star is watching me all the night,
For when the dewy leaves are waved by the breeze,
I see it forever smiling down on me.
So I cover my head with my wing, and sleep in peace,
As blessed as ever a little bird can be;
And the silver moonlight falls over land and sea and river,
And the nights are cool, and the nights are still, and
Summer will last forever.
I think you would journey many and many a day,
Ere you so contented and blest a bird would see;
Not all the wealth of the world could lure my love away,
For my brown little nest is all the world to me;
And care not I if brighter bowers there are | 1,984.206107 |
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[Illustration: Cronkey Gudehart
[Page 103
THE FIRST GLOOMSTER]
THE DREAMERS
A Club. _Being a More or Less Faithful
Account of the Literary Exercises
of the First Regular Meeting
of that Organization, Reported by_
JOHN KENDRICK BANGS
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS_
_By_ EDWARD PENFIELD
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1899
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
PEEPS AT PEOPLE. Passages from the Writings of Anne Warrington
Witherup, Journalist. Illustrated by EDWARD PENFIELD. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, Uncut Edges and Top, $1.25.
GHOSTS I HAVE MET, AND SOME OTHERS. With Illustrations by NEWELL,
FROST, and RICHARDS. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.
A HOUSE-BOAT ON THE STYX. Being Some Account of the Divers Doings
of the Associated Shades. Illustrated by PETER NEWELL. 16mo, Cloth,
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THE PURSUIT OF THE HOUSE-BOAT. Being Some Further Account of the
Doings of the Associated Shades, under the Leadership of Sherlock
Holmes, Esq. Illustrated by PETER NEWELL. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental,
$1.25.
PASTE JEWELS. Being Seven Tales of Domestic Woe. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental $1.00.
THE BICYCLERS, AND THREE OTHER FARCES. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.25.
A REBELLIOUS HEROINE. A Story. Illustrated by W. T. SMEDLEY. 16mo,
Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut Edges, $1.25.
MR. BONAPARTE OF CORSICA. Illustrated by H. W. MCVICKAR. 16mo,
Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.
THE WATER GHOST, AND OTHERS. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental,
$1.25.
THE IDIOT. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.00.
THREE WEEKS IN POLITICS. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, Ornamental, 50
cents.
COFFEE AND REPARTEE. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, Ornamental, 50
cents.
NEW YORK AND LONDON:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS.
Copyright, 1899, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
Dedicated
WITH ALL
DUE RESPECT AND PROPER APOLOGIES
TO
RICHARD HARDING DAVIS
JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
RUDYARD KIPLING
HALL CAINE
SUNDRY MAGAZINE POETS
ANTHONY HOPE
THE WAR CORRESPONDENTS
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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.
VOL. XIV, NO. 407.] DECEMBER 24, 1829. [PRICE 2d.
CONTAINING
ORIGINAL ESSAYS
HISTORICAL NARRATIVES; BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIRS; SKETCHES OF
SOCIETY; TOPOGRAPHICAL DESCRIPTIONS; NOVELS
AND TALES; ANECDOTES;
SELECT EXTRACTS
FROM
NEW AND EXPENSIVE WORKS;
_POETRY, ORIGINAL AND SELECTED;_
The Spirit of the Public Journals;
DISCOVERIES IN THE ARTS AND SCIENCES;
_USEFUL DOMESTIC HINTS;_
_&c. &c. &c._
========
VOL. XIV.
========
London,
PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY J. LIMBIRD, 143, STRAND,
(_Near Somerset House_.)
____
1829
PREFACE
Wassailing, prefaces, and waits, are nearly at a stand-still; and in
these days of universality and everything, we almost resolved to leave
this page blank, and every reader to write his own preface, had we not
questioned whether the custom would be more honoured in the breach than
the observance.
My Public--that is, our readers--we have served you seven years, through
fourteen volumes; in each renewing our professions of gratitude, and
study for your gratification; and we hope we shall not presume on your
liberal disposition by calculating on your continued patronage. We have
endeavoured to keep our engagements with you--_to the letter_[1]--as
they say in weightier matters; and, as every man is bound to speak of
the fair as he has found his market in it, we ought to acknowledge the
superabundant and quick succession of literary novelties for the present
volume. There is little of our own; because we have uniformly taken Dr.
Johnson's advice in life--"to play for much, and stake little" This will
extenuate our assuming that "from castle to cottage we are regularly
taken in:" indeed, it would be worse than vanity to suppose that price
or humble pretensions should exclude us; it would be against the very
economy of life to imagine this; and we are still willing to abide by
such chances of success.
[1] This is not intended exclusively for the _new type_ of the
present volume.
Cheap Books, we hope, will never be an evil; for, as "the same care and
toil that raise a dish of peas at Christmas, would give bread to a whole
family during six months;" so the expense of a gay volume at this season
will furnish a moderate circle with amusive reading for a twelvemonth.
We do not draw this comparison invidiously, but merely to illustrate the
advantages of literary economy.
The number _Seven_--the favourite of Swift, (and how could it be
otherwise than odd?) has, perhaps, led us into this rambling monologue
on our merits; but we agree with Yorick in thinking gravity an errant
scoundrel.
A proportionate Index will guide our accustomed readers to any
particular article in the present volume; but for those of shorter
acquaintance, a slight reference to its principal points may be useful.
Besides, a few of its delights may have been choked by weeds and
crosses, and their recollection lost amidst the lights and shadows
of busy life.
The zeal of our Correspondents is first entitled to honourable mention;
and many of their contributions to these pages must have cost them much
time and research; for which we beg them to accept our best thanks.
Of the Selections, generally, we shall only observe, that our aim has
been to convey information and improvement in the most amusing form.
When we sit down to the pleasant task of cutting open--not cutting
_up_--a book, we say, "If this won't turn out something, another will;
no matter--'tis an essay upon human nature. (We) get (our) labour for
(our) pains--'tis enough--the pleasure of the experiment has kept (our)
senses, and the best part of (our) blood awake, and laid the gross to
sleep." In this way we find many good things, and banish the rest;
we attempt to "boke something new," and revive others. Thus we have
described the Siamese Twins in a single number; and in others we
have brought to light many almost forgotten antiquarian rarities.
Of Engravings, Paper, and Print, we need say but little: each speaks
_prima facie,_ for itself. Improvement has been studied in all of
them; and in the Cuts, both interest and execution have been cardinal
points. Milan Cathedral; Old Tunbridge Wells and its Old Visitors;
Clifton; Gurney's Steam Carriage; and the Bologna Towers; are perhaps
the best specimens: and by way of varying architectural embellishments,
a few of the Wonders of Nature have been occasionally introduced.
Owen Feltham would call this "a cart-rope" Preface: therefore, with
promises of future exertion, we hope our next Seven Years may be as
successful as the past.
143, _Strand, Dec._ 24, 1829.
[Illustration: Thomas Campbell, Esq.]
* * * * *
MEMOIR OF THOMAS CAMPBELL, ESQ.
Of the subject of this memoir, it has been remarked, "that he has not,
that we know of, written one line, which, dying, he could wish to blot."
These few words will better illustrate the fitness of Mr. Campbell's
portrait for our volume, than a laudatory memoir of many pages. He has
not inaptly been styled the Tyrtaeus of modern English poetry, and one
of the most chaste and tender as well as original of poets. He owes less
than any other British poet to his predecessors and contemporaries.
He has lived to see his lines quoted like those of earlier poets in the
literature of his day, lisped by children, and sung at public festivals.
The war-odes of Campbell have scarcely anything to match them in-the
English language for energy and fire, while their condensation and the
felicitous selection of their versification are in remarkable harmony.
Campbell, in allusion to Cymon, has been said to have "conquered both
on land and sea," from his Naval Odes and "Hohenlinden" embracing both
scenes of warfare.
Scotland gave birth to Thomas Campbell. He is the son of a second
marriage, and was born at Glasgow, in 1777. His father was born in 1710,
and was consequently nearly seventy years of age when the poet, his son,
was ushered into the world. He was sent early to school, in his native
place, and his instructor was Dr. David Alison, a man of great celebrity
in the practice of education. He had a method of instruction in the
classics purely his own, by which he taught with great facility, and
at the same time rejected all harsh discipline, substituting kindness
for terror, and alluring rather than compelling the pupil to his duty.
Campbell began to write verse when young; and some of his earliest
attempts at poetry are yet extant among his friends in Scotland. For his
place of education he had a great respect, as well as for the memory of
his masters, of whom he always spoke in terms of great affection. He was
twelve years old when he quitted school for the University of Glasgow.
There he was considered an excellent Latin scholar, and gained high
honour by a contest with a candidate twice as old as himself, by which
he obtained a bursary. He constantly bore away the prizes, and every
fresh success only seemed to stimulate him to more ambitious exertions.
In Greek he was considered the foremost student of his age; and some
of his translations are said to be superior to any before offered for
competition in the University. While there he made poetical paraphrases
of the most celebrated Greek poets; of Aeschylus, Sophocles, and
Aristophanes, which were thought efforts of extraordinary promise.
Dr. Millar at that time gave philosophical lectures in Glasgow. He was
a highly gifted teacher, and excellent man. His lectures attracted the
attention of young Campbell, who became his pupil, and studied with
eagerness the principles of sound philosophy; the poet was favoured
with the confidence of his teacher, and partook much of his society.
Campbell quitted Glasgow to remove into Argyleshire, where a situation
in a family of some note was offered and accepted by him. It was in
Argyleshire,[2] among the romantic mountains of the north, that his
poetical spirit increased, and the charms of verse took entire
possession of his mind. Many persons now alive remember him wandering
there alone by the torrent, or over the rugged heights of that wild
country, reciting the strains of other poets aloud, or silently
composing his own. Several of his pieces which he has rejected in his
collected works, are handed about in manuscript in Scotland. We quote
one of these wild compositions which has hitherto appeared only in
periodical publications.
[2] For a view of this retreat, see the MIRROR No. 337.
* * * * *
DIRGE OF WALLACE.
They lighted a taper at the dead of night,
And chanted their holiest hymn;
But her brow and her bosom were damp with affright
Her eye was all sleepless and dim!
And the lady of Elderslie wept for her lord,
When a death-watch beat in her lonely room,
When her curtain had shook of its own accord;
And the raven had flapp'd at her window-board,
To tell of her warrior's doom!
Now sing you the death-song, and loudly pray
For the soul of my knight so dear;
And call me a widow this wretched day,
Since the warning of God is here!
For night-mare rides on my strangled sleep:
The lord of my bosom is doomed to die:
His valorous heart they have wounded deep;
And the blood-red tears shall his country weep,
For Wallace of Elderslie!
Yet knew not his country that ominous hour,
Ere the loud matin bell was rung,
That a trumpet of death on an English tower
Had the dirge of her champion sung!
When his dungeon light look'd dim and red
On the high-born blood of a martyr slain,
No anthem was sung at his holy death-bed;
No weeping was there when his bosom bled--
And his heart was rent in twain!
Oh, it was not thus when his oaken spear
Was true to that knight forlorn;
And the hosts of a thousand were scatter'd like deer,
At the blast of the hunter's horn;
When he strode on the wreck of each well-fought field
With the yellow-hair'd chiefs of his native land;
For his lance was not shiver'd on helmet or shield--
And the sword that seem'd fit for Archangel to wield,
Was light in his terrible hand!
Yet bleeding and bound, though her Wallace wight
For his long-lov'd country die,
The bugle ne'er sung to a braver knight
Than Wallace of Elderslie!
But the day of his glory shall never depart,
His head unentomb'd shall with glory be balm'd,
From its blood-streaming altar his spirit shall start;
Though the raven has fed on his mouldering heart,
A nobler was never embalm'd!
From Argyleshire, where his residence was not a protracted one, Campbell
removed to Edinburgh. There he soon became introduced to some of the
first men of the age, whose friendship and kindness could not fail
to stimulate a mind like that of Campbell. He became intimate with the
late Dugald Stewart; and almost every other leading professor of the
University of Edinburgh was his friend. While in Edinburgh, he brought
out his celebrated "Pleasures of Hope," at the age of twenty-one. It is
perhaps not too much to say of this work, that no poet of this country
ever produced, at so early an age, a more elaborate and finished
performance. For this work, which for twenty years produced the
publishers between two and three hundred pounds a year, the author
received at first but L10, which was afterwards increased by an
additional sum, and by the profits of a quarto edition of the work. By
a subsequent act of the legislature, extending the term of copyright,
it reverted again to the author; but with no proportional increase of
profit. Campbell's pecuniary circumstances are said to have been by no
means easy at this time and a pleasant anecdote is recorded of him, in
allusion to the hardships of an author's case, somewhat similar to his
own: he was desired to give a toast at a festive moment when the
character of Napoleon was at its utmost point of disesteem in England.
He gave "Bonaparte." The company started with astonishment. "Gentlemen,"
said he, "here is Bonaparte in his character of executioner of the
booksellers." Palm, the bookseller, had just been executed in Germany,
by the orders of the French.
After residing nearly three years in Edinburgh, Campbell quitted his
native country for the Continent. He sailed for Hamburgh, and there made
many acquaintances among the more enlightened circles, both of that
city and Altona. At that time there were numerous Irish exiles in the
neighbourhood of Hamburgh, and some of them fell in the way of the
poet, who afterwards related many curious anecdotes of them. There
were sincere and honest men among them, who, with the energy of their
national character, and enthusiasm for liberty, had plunged into the
desperate cause of the rebellion two years before, and did not, even
then, despair of freedom and equality in Ireland. Some of them were
in private life most amiable persons, and their fate was altogether
entitled to sympathy. The poet, from that compassionate feeling which
is an amiable characteristic of his nature, wrote _The Exile of Erin_,
from the impression their situation and circumstances made upon his
mind. It was set to an old Irish air, of the most touching pathos,
| 1,984.30087 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE MENTOR 1916.03.01, No. 102,
Chinese Rugs
LEARN ONE THING
EVERY DAY
MARCH 1 1916 SERIAL NO. 102
THE
MENTOR
[Illustration: A RUG OF MIXED DESIGNS
The Center Is a Faded Magenta Red.
The Border Ground Is Pale Yellow]
CHINESE RUGS
By JOHN K. MUMFORD
Author and Expert on Oriental Rugs
DEPARTMENT OF VOLUME 4
FINE ARTS NUMBER 2
FIFTEEN CENTS A COPY
A Thing of Beauty
No word in the language is more abused than “beauty.” A pretty thing is
a thing of _beauty_; a pretty picture is a picture of _beauty_; and so
following. Lacking a proper descriptive term for anything attractive,
we, too often, employ the word “beauty.” What term have we then with
which to pay just tribute to true beauty?
* * * * *
The real, final test of beauty is that it _wears well_--not in a
material way, but in the qualities that are truly beautiful. The rose
is fragile material and its life is brief, but rose beauty is lasting
and rose fragrance clings sweetly to the memory--so that the rose has
become a synonym of beauty. The message of true beauty is enduring and,
oft repeated, grows in charm. “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.”
* * * * *
A distinguishing attribute of true beauty is _authority_. A thing of
beauty bears on its very forefront the stamp of authority. It does
not plead for recognition--it commands it. The snow-capped summit at
sundown, the Madonna face on a master’s canvas, the poet’s “lofty
rhyme,” the fragrant flower, the harmonious symphony, the “frozen
music” of architecture--the countless varied forms of beauty in nature,
art and life ask no favor nor do they play to the fancy of the moment.
Created in intelligence, sincerity and truth, and inspired by lofty
devotion, they compel a lasting homage.
[Illustration: PLATE I
LOANED BY MR. CARLL TUCKER
ANTIQUE CHINESE RUG]
CHINESE RUGS
ANTIQUE CHINESE RUG
Monograph Number One in The Mentor Reading Course
Length, nine feet nine inches.
Width, five feet five inches.
Forty-two hand-tied knots to the square inch.
This attractive rug is representative of a very admirable class of
Chinese floor fabrics, and illustrates in the clearest manner some
interesting and important features in the rug weaving art of China.
The knottage, as will be learned from the specification above, is
not great. A Mohammedan sedjadeh with only 42 knots to the square
inch would be held of small merit, unless it came from one of two or
three districts in Asia Minor--Bergamo for example, or else had some
individual element of value, such as great age, phenomenal color, or
uncommon design. In China, however, as has been pointed out in the
accompanying text, high textures are not accounted of large importance.
This rug is not of great antiquity, nor yet is it of very recent
manufacture. It might with safety be attributed to the Kien Lung
time, or some reign immediately thereafter. The best artistic tenets
of Persia--so far as they appertain to rug weaving--have been
conscientiously followed. The Mohammedan influence is not difficult
to trace, and yet at no time can a foreign or vagrant note be
discovered. The rug is thoroughly Chinese, not only in spirit but in
every detail. It will bear careful study in the light of what has
been said regarding the absorbent and adaptive quality of Chinese art
in all ages. The border area is relatively narrow, wherein marked
deference is paid to the oldest and best Chinese standards, and for
all a distinctly floral character prevails, the utmost simplicity is
maintained. It is a notably consistent rug. There is perfect harmony
between border and center, and the most perfect manifestation of the
Chinese artistic sense, perhaps, lies in the fact that, to the end of
preserving simplicity and balance, the weaver has carefully refrained
from “cluttering up” the border section with “guard stripes” requiring
additional patterns, which in a rug of this character would have been
superfluous and therefore disturbing.
Throughout the field of the rug, despite a decidedly ornate touch,
there is still a careful avoidance of excess. Only two elements
appear--the emblematic butterfly and floral devices, which not only
are combined to form the fine medallion, but which, with the utmost
refinement of handling, suffice for all | 1,984.301837 |
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Transcribed from the 1913 Thomas J. Wise pamphlet, email [email protected]
KING DIDERIK
AND THE FIGHT BETWEEN THE
LION AND DRAGON
AND OTHER BALLADS
BY
GEORGE BORROW
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR PRIVATE CIRCULATION
1913
_Copyright in the United States of America_
_by Houghton_, _Mifflin & Co. for Clement Shorter_.
KING DIDERIK AND THE LION’S FIGHT WITH THE DRAGON
From Bern rode forth King Diderik,
A stately warrior form;
Engaged in fray he found in the way
A lion and laidly worm. {5}
They fought for a day, they fought for two,
But ere the third was flown,
The worm outfought the beast, and brought
To earth the lion down.
Then cried the lion in his need
When he the warrior saw:
“O aid me quick, King Diderik,
To ’scape the Dragon’s claw.
“O aid me quick, King Diderik,
For the mighty God thou fearest;
A lion save for the lion brave,
Which on thy shield thou bearest.
“Come to my rescue, thou noble King,
Help, help me for thy name;
Upon thy targe I stand at large,
Glittering like a flame.”
Long, long stood he, King Diderik,
Deep musing thereupon;
At length he cried: “Whate’er betide
I’ll help thee, noble one.”
It was Sir King Diderik,
His good sword bare he made:
With courage fraught, the worm he fought,
Till blood tinged all the blade.
The gallant lord would not delay
So fast his blows he dealt;
He hacked and gored until his sword
Was sundered at the hilt.
The Lindworm took him upon her back,
The horse beneath her tongue;
To her mountain den she hurried then
To her eleven young.
The horse she cast before her young,
The man in a nook she throws:
“Assuage your greed upon the steed,
But I will to repose.
“I pray ye feed upon the steed,
At present no more I can;
When I upleap, refreshed, from sleep,
We’ll feast upon the man.”
It was Sir King Diderik,
In the hill he searched around;
Then, helped by the Lord, the famous sword
Called Adelring he found.
Aye there he found so sharp a sword,
And a knife with a golden heft:
“King Sigfred be God’s grace with thee,
For here thy life was reft!
“I’ve been with thee in many a fight,
In many an inroad too,
But that thy doom had been in this tomb
I never, never knew.”
It was Sir King Diderik,
Would prove the faulchion’s might;
He hewed upon the flinty stone
’Till all around was light.
It was the youngest Lindworm saw
The sparks the hill illume:
“Who dares awake the fiery snake
In her own sleeping room?”
The Lindworm gnashed its teeth with rage,
Its grinning fangs it show’d:
“Who dares awake the mother snake
Within her own abode?”
Then spake the other little ones,
From the dark nooks of the hill:
“If from her sleep the old one leap,
’Twill fare with thee but ill.”
Then answered Sir King Diderik,
His eyes with fury gleam:
“I will awake your mother snake
With chilly, chilly dream.
“Your mother she King Sigfred slew,
A man of noble line;
I’ll on ye all avenge his fall
With this good hand of mine.”
And then awaked the Lindworm old,
And on her fell such fear:
“Who thus with riot disturbs my quiet?
What noise is this I hear?”
Then said King Diderik: “’Tis I,
And this have I to say:
O’er hill and dale, ’neath thy crooked tail,
Thou brought’st me yesterday.”
“O hew me not, King Diderik,
I’ll give thee all my hoard;
’Twere best that we good friends should be,
So cast away thy sword.”
“I pay no trust to thy false device,
Befool me thou wouldst fain;
Full many hast thou destroyed ere now,
Thou never shalt again.”
“Hear me, Sir King Diderik,
Forbear to do me ill,
And thee I’ll guide to thy plighted bride,
She’s hidden in the hill.
“Above by my head, King Diderik,
Is hung the little key;
Below by my feet to the maiden sweet
Descend thou fearlessly.”
“Above by thy head, thou serpent curst,
To begin I now intend;
Below by thy feet, as is full meet,
I soon shall make an end.”
Then first the laidly worm he slew,
And then her young he smote;
But in vain did he try from the mountain to fly,
For tongues of snakes thrust out.
So then with toil in the rocky soil
He dug a trench profound,
That in the flood of serpent blood
And bane he might not be drowned.
Then bann | 1,984.301894 |
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Produced by Richard Tonsing, 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)
_The_ ART & PRACTICE _of_
TYPOGRAPHY
[Illustration:
THE FIRST PRINTED DECLARATION
Fac-simile in reduced size (original type form about twelve by
seventeen inches) of the Declaration of Independence officially
printed about July 5, 1776. It was this setting of the Declaration
that was read before Washington’s army. Reproduced direct from the
original in the Congressional minute book of July 4, 1776
]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
_The_ ART & PRACTICE _of_
TYPOGRAPHY
_A Manual of American Printing_
INCLUDING A BRIEF HISTORY UP TO THE TWENTIETH CENTURY, WITH
REPRODUCTIONS OF THE WORK OF EARLY MASTERS OF THE CRAFT, AND A PRACTICAL
DISCUSSION AND AN EXTENSIVE DEMONSTRATION OF THE MODERN USE OF
TYPE-FACES AND METHODS OF ARRANGEMENT
Second Edition
[Illustration]
_By_
EDMUND G. GRESS
EDITOR THE AMERICAN PRINTER
AUTHOR THE AMERICAN HANDBOOK OF PRINTING
NEW YORK·OSWALD PUBLISHING COMPANY·1917
[Illustration]
Copyright, 1917, by the
Oswald Publishing Company
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO THE TYPOGRAPHERS OF THE PAST WHO
MADE THE ART HONORED AMONG MEN AND
TO THE TYPOGRAPHERS OF THE PRESENT
WHO ARE RESTORING TO PRINTING ITS
ANCIENT DIGNITY THIS BOOK IS
DEDICATED
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
AUTHOR’S PREFACE vii
SYNOPSIS OF CONTENTS ix
LIST OF REPRODUCTIONS xvi
LIST OF DESIGNERS xx
WHEN BOOKS WERE WRITTEN 1
THE ORIGIN OF TYPOGRAPHY 7
THE SPREAD OF TYPOGRAPHY 13
TYPOGRAPHY IN COLONIAL DAYS 19
TYPOGRAPHY IN THE 19TH CENTURY 27
THE “LAYOUT” MAN 35
HARMONY AND APPROPRIATENESS 41
TONE AND CONTRAST 47
PROPORTION, BALANCE AND SPACING 53
ORNAMENTATION 59
THE TYPOGRAPHY OF BOOKS 67
BOOKLETS, PAMPHLETS, BROCHURES, LEAFLETS 75
CATALOGS 83
PROGRAMS 91
ANNOUNCEMENTS 99
TICKETS 107
LETTERHEADS AND ENVELOPS 111
BILLHEADS AND STATEMENTS 119
PACKAGE LABELS 123
BUSINESS CARDS 127
THE BLOTTER 131
POSTERS, CAR CARDS, WINDOW CARDS 135
ADVERTISEMENTS 139
NEWSPAPERS 147
PERIODICALS 151
HOUSE-ORGANS 161
TYPE-FACES 169
IMPRINTS 195
APPENDIX—GREETING CARDS
[Illustration]
AUTHOR’S PREFACE
In the preface to the first edition of “The Art and Practice of
Typography,” the author stated that he did not “anticipate again having
the pleasure of producing a book as elaborate as this one,” but the
favor with which the volume was received made another edition advisable,
and in consequence he has had the additional pleasure of enlarging and
revising it and of producing a volume even more elaborate and with a
better selection of examples.
The task of rewriting and replanning the second edition was near
completion when America entered the war against Germany, and now, a few
months later, the book is presented to the public. The first edition was
published in February, 1910. Work on the new edition was begun by the
author in the latter part of 1913, and so great has been the task, in
addition to his customary editorial labors, that almost four years have
passed.
The extent of the work will be comprehended when it is mentioned that
there are twenty-eight chapters, in which the illustrations or
typographic arrangements, numbering six hundred and fifteen, include
forty full-page specially-printed inserts. Most of these illustrations
or typographic arrangements are in color. The text matter, which makes
direct reference to the examples, totals nearly one hundred thousand
words.
That these examples are mostly high-class and by many of the best
typographers in America (Europe also being represented), is due to the
fact that the author during his connection with _The American Printer_
has received several thousand pieces of printing, from which selections
were made for this work.
Great care was exercised in the choice of examples in order that the
book would not become obsolete, and it is believed that most of the type
arrangements shown will be considered good for a hundred years to come.
That this is possible is proved by the Whittingham titles on page 32,
one of which is sixty-eight and the other seventy-three years old at
this writing. These titles were set up when most typography was poor,
yet few other type arrangements of that time would meet approval today;
which indicates that it is not _when_ printing is done, but _how_ it is
done that makes it good or bad.
Attention should be called to the plan of this volume. There are two
parts, the first having to do with typography of the past and the second
with typography of the present. Good printing of the present has a basic
connection with that of the past, and for this reason one part is
incomplete without the other.
The entire first part should be studied before any of the ideas in the
second part are applied to present-day problems, and especially should
the chapter on Type-Faces be patiently read and studied. The printer
should first know type-faces and then learn how to use them.
In the chapters on Harmony, Tone, Proportion, Ornamentation and other
art principles the author does not intend to advocate that his readers
shall make pictures with type or build pages that are merely beautiful.
The first requirement of typography is that it shall be easy to read;
the second is that it shall be good to look at. The efficient
typographer studies the copy and arranges it so that the reader’s task
is an easy and pleasant one.
* * * * *
In planning the second edition the general style of the first edition
was retained. However, an effort was made to change the style,
especially of the binding, but so satisfactory was the original that it
was again adopted.
The historical chapters in the first part have been revised and slightly
altered, but they are practically as before. Extensive changes have been
made in the second part. The text has been thoroly revised, and better
typographic examples substituted in many cases. These chapters
especially have been greatly altered: Booklets, Catalogs, Announcements,
Letterheads, Billheads, Business Cards, Posters, Advertisements,
Imprints.
The chapter on Type-Faces is all new and has been enlarged from ten to
twenty-four pages. New chapters on the following subjects have been
added: Package Labels, Blotters, Newspapers, Periodicals, House-Organs.
In place of the medley of contest specimens in the appendix of the first
edition, there are halftone reproductions of more than one hundred
attractive holiday greetings.
No one realizes more than does the author the minor defects in
typography, presswork and other details that are present in this volume,
yet the effort of a Hercules and the patience of a Job have been
expended in making everything as correct as possible. As the book now
stands, it is a reaching after the ideal, with human inability to attain
perfection. It is needless to point out imperfections; the reader will
discover them.
In his selection of examples and recommendation of type-faces the author
has been entirely free from pressure from any source. If certain
type-faces are favored, it is because the author believes he is doing
something for the cause of good printing by favoring them. What has been
written has been written with sincerity.
* * * * *
It is well to mention that the “Pilgrim’s Progress” title on page 21 is
not genuine. Having seen the book on exhibition at the New York Public
Library, the author arranged to have it photographed and included in
this work. The sequel to this is interesting and rather humorous. When
the chapter on Type-Faces was being written and Caslon types were being
studied, the author was startled to find that the types used on the
“Pilgrim’s Progress” page were the same as those William Caslon was
supposed to have designed forty-four years later. Greatly puzzled, the
author made a trip to the library and examined the original. He
immediately saw that the type-face used on the body of the book differed
from that on the title. Discovering a note on the fly-leaf signed by
William Pickering, the explanation dawned on him. The book was probably
owned by Pickering in the middle of the last century and the title-page
being missing a new one was set up, printed and inserted when the book
was rebound. It was Whittingham, Pickering’s printer, who revived the
Caslon types about that time, and he naturally used these types as the
nearest approach to the English types of the period, 1678, when
“Pilgrim’s Progress” was first published.
* * * * *
It is impossible to mention by name all of those who have in one way or
another assisted and encouraged the author in the production of this
volume. A list of acknowledgments would include typographers of
international note and typographers-to-be whose prentice hands need
guidance. It would include office associates and those of the workrooms
whose interest and attention to technical details helped much in the
effort to make the work worthy.
There is one, however, were such a list printed, whose name would lead
all the rest, the man who, back in 1903, conceived the idea of this
book; without whose business support this elaborate and costly work
would have been impossible; whose ideals have been an inspiration; whose
confidence and encouragement generated the energy and enthusiasm that
have attended the author during the fourteen years in which this work
has been building. It is a privilege to pay this tribute to John Clyde
Oswald.
EDMUND G. GRESS.
New York, July, 1917.
SYNOPSIS OF CONTENTS
PART ONE
WHEN BOOKS WERE WRITTEN
_Page 1_
The printer and typography—Definitions and derivations of trade words—
Printing with separate types practiced between 1450–1455—Books
previously written by hand or printed from wood—The Middle and Dark
Ages—Latin in written books kept knowledge alive—Meaning of
“manuscript”—Writing materials—Arrow-shaped writing of the Chaldeans—
Papyrus rolls of the Egyptians—Ink, paper and block-printing supposedly
invented by the Chinese—Dressed skins and palm leaves used by Hindoos—
The Hebrews wrote upon stones and animal skins—We owe the present Roman
alphabet to the Phœnicians—The word “alphabet” derived from the first
two letters of the Greek alphabet, Alpha and Beta—The bards of Greece—
Manuscripts written by slaves—Papyrus imported from Egypt—Development of
parchment, and what it is—The great Alexandrian library—Length of rolls—
Story of “Septuagint”—Destruction of the Alexandrian library—Rome
supersedes Alexandria as an intellectual center—Cæsar credited as the
founder of the first newspaper—“Short-hand” writing—The period of
Emperor Augustus a memorable one in literature—Producing large editions
of manuscript rolls—Books were plentiful and cheap—Elaborate parchment
rolls—Origin of flat-sheet books—Hinged waxed tablets—Destruction of the
library at Constantinople—Drift of literature toward the East—
Transcribing and decorating holy writings in the monasteries of Europe—
Monopoly of learning gave power to Church of Rome—Since the seventh
century monastery manuscripts in Latin, the official language of that
church—Translation of Bible into “Vulgar tongue” forbidden—William
Tyndale’s English translation—Martin Luther’s German translation—Making
of manuscript books in the Middle Ages—St. Benedict sets the monks to
work copying manuscripts—Popularity of cloisters—The scriptorium and the
rules governing scribe or copyist—Tools and materials—Rubrics—
Illuminating—The copyist at work—A beautiful Irish book—Illuminators’
colors and binding of manuscript books—Missal, Psalter, Book of Hours—
Donatus, books associated with the Middle Ages—First types were
imitations of current Gothic lettering—Types cut in style of Roman
lettering—Ancient Roman writing all capitals—Evolution of Roman capitals
into small or lower-case letters—The uncial and half-uncial—Minuscule
and majuscule—Development of writing toward both heavy pointed Gothic
and the Roman style used by Nicholas Jenson—Cursive, a “script” letter.
THE ORIGIN OF TYPOGRAPHY
_Page 7_
The invention of typography marked the beginning of a new civilization—
The beginning and end of the Middle Ages—Printing with separate metal
types an evolution—Demand for playing cards and sacred pictures—Engraved
wood blocks—Block books, and method of printing them—Coloring cards and
pictures by means of stencils—The oldest dated specimen of printing—The
first block books probably Latin grammars—The “Art of Dying,” the “Bible
of the Poor,” and the “Mirror of Human Salvation”—When, where and by
whom was typography invented?—The inventor failed to print his name on
his product—Almost every European country claimed the honor—All claims
disproved excepting those of Germany and Holland—Weight of evidence is
with Germany—Typography was practiced by Gutenberg at Mainz some time
during 1450–1455—Claims of priority for Coster of Haarlem—Story of the
invention by Ulrich Zell the earliest testimony on the subject—Dierick
Coornhert’s version—The unfaithful servant—Dignified gray heads point
out the house of “the first printer”—Hadrian Junius and his “Coster
Legend”—Fashioning the bark of a beech tree in the form of letters—
Changing the letters to lead and then to tin—Old wine flagons melted
into type—A workman, John Faust, steals the type-making instruments—
Cornelis, an old book binder—The story dissected—Peter Scriverius has
another version—A clap of thunder—Confusion of dates—A statue erected to
Coster in Haarlem—“True and rational account” by one Leiz—Gerard
Meerman’s story—The sheriff who printed with wooden types—Robbed by a
brother of Johann Gutenberg—Jacob Koning awarded a prize for his essay
on the invention—Makes researches in Haarlem archives—Corroborates some
details in preceding stories—For many years Coster given equal honor
with Gutenberg—Investigations by Dr. Anton Van der Linde—Forgeries and
misrepresentations revealed—Haarlem practically surrenders its claim and
alters its school books—Records of Louwerijs Janszoon and Laurens
Janszoon Coster—Van der Linde goes to Germany, alters his name and
writes a book—Hessels translates the book into English, and afterward
becomes a Haarlem advocate—Coster proofs are weak—Haarlem claimants
unable to agree as to Coster’s identity—Gutenberg a tangible human
being, and probable inventor of the art—Parentage of Gutenberg—The
family removes from Mainz presumably to Strassburg—Was the new art
practiced at Strassburg?—Records of a lawsuit—Gutenberg agreed to teach
Andrew Dritzehen certain trade secrets—Fust lends money to Gutenberg and
takes a mortgage on his printing office—Fust seizes all types, presses
and books—Records of this suit evidence of Gutenberg’s invention—The
famous Forty-two Line Bible—Gutenberg again establishes himself as a
printer—An appointment from the Bishop of Mainz—Dies about 1468—H. Noel
Humphrey’s tribute—Peter Schœffer—Copies books at the University of
Paris—Becomes Gutenberg’s assistant—Assumes charge after his master’s
death—Marries Fust’s daughter—The new firm publishes a Psalter—First
book with a printed date—Features of the book.
THE SPREAD OF TYPOGRAPHY
_Page 13_
The city of Mainz—A conflict between two archbishops—The city is set
afire—Fust and Schœffer’s printing office burned—The workmen flee to
various parts of Europe—A table of the spread of typography from Mainz—
In Germany—John Mentel at Strassburg—Albrecht Pfister at Bamberg—Ulrich
Zell at Cologne never printed a book in the German language—Arnold Ter
Hoorne first to use Arabic numerals—Gunther Zainer at Augsburg first in
Germany to print with Roman characters—Heinrich Keffer at Nuremberg—John
Sensenschmidt at Nuremberg and Bamberg—The Bamberg Missal—Anthony
Koburger at Nuremberg had twenty-four presses in operation—In Italy—
First type printing done in the monastery at Subiaco—Conrad Schweinheim
and Arnold Pannartz brought from Germany—Ulrich Hahn first printer in
city of Rome proper—John de Spira first typographer at Venice and had
exclusive right—Nicholas Jenson comes to Venice and uses a new Roman
type-face—Story of his introduction to the art—The first page of
displayed type composition—J, U and W not in books printed by Jenson—His
office passes to Aldus Manutius—Italic introduced—Aldus reduces the size
of books and suggests the printing of a polyglot Bible—Works of Peter
Paul Porrus and Augustin Justinian—Aldus assisted by scholar-refugees
from Constantinople—His complete name—Venetian printing offices and
their product—Bernardo Cennini at Florence—Johann Numeister at Foligno—
In Switzerland—Bertold Ruppel at Basel—This city gave France its first
typographers—John Froben at Basel—Erasmus has him print his books—In
France—Ulrich Gering, Martin Crantz and Michel Friburger at Paris—Gering
becomes rich—Sectional wood border on book printed by Philip Pigouchet
for Simon Vostre—Henry Estienne at Paris—First of illustrious family of
typographers—Robert Estienne best known and most scholarly—Flees to
Geneva, Switzerland, for safety—Dies there after a labor of love—In the
Netherlands—A press erected at Utrecht—Colard Mansion and William Caxton
at Bruges produce the first book printed in English—Van der Goes at
Antwerp—Christopher Plantin at Antwerp gave renown to that city—His
printing office now a museum—A polyglot Bible his greatest work—Louis
Elzevir, founder of a family of learned printers, at Leyden—The second
Louis Elzevir at Amsterdam—Johannes Andriesson at Haarlem—In England—
William Caxton the first to set type in that country—Apprenticed to a
merchant and goes to Bruges—Becomes Governor—Enters the service of the
Duchess of Burgundy—Translates a “Historie of Troye” and learns how to
print it—Returns to England and sets up a press at Westminster Abbey—
Peculiarities of Caxton’s work—Wynken de Worde succeeds to Caxton’s
business—Introduced the Roman letter into England—Richard Pynson at
London—Richard Grafton as a printer of English Bibles translated by
William Tyndale and Miles Coverdale—Tyndale suffers death—Grafton
imprisoned for printing the “Great Bible”—Edward Whitechurch his
partner—John Daye also imprisoned—Fox’s “Acts and Monuments”—In
Scotland—Androw Myllar and Walter Chepman at Edinburgh—In Ireland—
Humphrey Powell at Dublin—In North America—John Cromberger at Mexico
City—In the United States—Stephen Daye at Cambridge, Mass.
TYPOGRAPHY IN COLONIAL DAYS
_Page 19_
Martyrs in typographic history—Ecclesiastical and political conditions
in Europe from the sixteenth to eighteenth centuries—A book of treaties
on the intended marriage of Queen Elizabeth—Oliver Cromwell encourages
printing and literature—First edition of Milton’s “Paradise Lost”—Thomas
Roycroft prints Brian Walton’s Polyglot Bible—The first book published
in England by subscription—Paper for the work allowed to come in duty
free—Cardinal Mazarin discovers a copy of Gutenberg’s Forty-two Line
Bible—Chap-books and something about them—Poor representatives of the
art of typography—Woodcuts and type battered and worn—Peddled by
chapmen—Dicey books—Broadsides—Puritans land at Charlestown and begin to
settle Cambridge and Boston—Rev. Jesse Glover solicits money for press
and types—Contracts with Stephen Daye to come to new country—Rev. Glover
dies—Daye reaches Cambridge with outfit—Begins printing in 1639—The
first work—The first book—Poorly printed—President Dunster of Harvard
College appoints Samuel Green to succeed Daye—Another press and types
added—An inventory—The printing office discontinued—Printing in the
colonies of Massachusetts and Virginia—Pennsylvania second English
colony to have typography—William Bradford prints an almanac—Bradford
arrested in Philadelphia for printing an address—Type pages as evidence—
“Pied” by a juryman—Bradford goes to New York—First printshop there—
Official printer—Publishes the first New York newspaper—Benjamin
Franklin—Indentured to his brother James—The New England “Courant”—James
is imprisoned—Benjamin becomes the publisher—The brothers disagree—
Benjamin ships to New York—Meets William Bradford and goes to
Philadelphia—Secures employment with Samuel Keimer—Leaves for England to
buy printing equipment—Goes to work in London—Returns to Philadelphia
and starts a printing office—One of the first jobs—Publishes “Poor
Richard’s Almanack”—Proverbs widely quoted—Sells his shop to David Hall—
Quaintness of Colonial typography—Comments on reproductions—Page from a
Caslon specimen book of 1764—The work of Bodoni.
TYPOGRAPHY IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
_Page 27_
William Morris’s declaration—The first printed book a testimony to
genius—The first cylinder press and first linotype were crudely
constructed—Typography at its highest point—Italian and German styles
contrasted—These styles blended into the Colonial—Franklin as a
typographer compared to Aldus and Plantin—Beginning of the nineteenth
century—Utility and art—William Nicholson plans a cylinder press—Dr.
Kinsley constructs a model—A new roman type-face designed—Ornaments and
borders discarded—Style of typography becoming uninteresting—Transition
illustrated by four title-pages—Charles Whittingham and William
Pickering—Artistic qualities introduced—Punches of Caslon Oldstyle
recovered—A page in Colonial style—Punctuation marks omitted—Fifty years
ahead of their time—Job printing of modern development—Newspaper, book
and job work—Typography should be based upon art foundations—A Book of
Common Prayer—Title-pages without ornamentation—Job printers take to
fancy typography—Imitations of copperplate engravers’ work—A business
card and a bill of fare—Changing styles applied to commercial headings—
MacKellar, Smiths & Jordan—A card with apologies—A longing for pictures,
color and decoration—Brass rule and tint blocks—Remarkable skill
exhibited—The “Modern Renaissance”—Machinery led typography away from
art—Printers thought they were doing artistic work—Inspiration wrongly
interpreted—Forming of a curious chain of events—The Kelmscott Press—
William Morris, artist, poet, designer and craftsman—Franklin and the
Franklin stove—Morris and the Morris chair—The influence of Morris on
house furnishing and typography—His home—Learned to print and to make
paper—Designs type-faces—“Golden”—“Troy”—Draws decorative initials and
borders—Additional designs by Burne-Jones—Morris criticised—
Revolutionizes typography—Aubrey Beardsley—Will Bradley—A country
printer—Studies art in Chicago—The “Wayside Press”—“Bradley: His Book”—
Inspired by both past and present—A new typography—Combines with the
University Press—Becomes an interesting subject for discussion—An
opinion by George French—Attempts another new style of typography—
Profuse ornamentation—Works rapidly—Bradley and his clients—His
personality—Influence upon the American style of typography—Other
influences-Theodore L. De Vinne—Has a college degree—Apprentice in a
country printshop—Job compositor with Francis Hart—Takes charge of the
business—A writer on printing subjects—Exponent of the conservative and
dignified in typography—Should be no conflict between the styles of
Morris, De Vinne and Bradley—For different purposes—The compositor must
decide—De Vinne a leader in perfecting modern methods—Designs a
type-face—Persuades printers to group wording—Charles T. Jacobi—Has done
much for typography in England—Responsibilities of the modern
typographer—Underrating the value of history—All knowledge is valuable.
[_The chapters following are devoted to the consideration of
typography as practiced in the twentieth century._]
PART TWO
THE “LAYOUT” MAN
_Page 35_
Typography in the twentieth century—Compared with the past—Perfection
not attainable—The spirit of the master craftsman—Inspired work—The
necessity of careful preparation—Every printshop should have a layout
man—When a building is erected—Quality printing is not accidental—Shop
style—Layout men in large and small shops—Please the customer—Typography
essentially a business vocation—Orders obtained thru “dummies”
submitted—Selecting a layout man—Type equipment should be appropriate
and sufficient—A working outfit for the layout man—Portfolio of sample
sheets—Laying out a small booklet—Paper, margins, type page and size of
type—Words to a square inch—Arrangement of title-page—Specimen pages in
available body type—Use of crayon and pencil—Dummy submitted to
customer—Duplicating it in the workrooms—Dummy sheets for periodicals
and large catalogs—Incorporating illustrations in the text matter—
Marking copy for machine composition—The average stationery job—A
patchwork of typographic styles—Different results if handled by a layout
man—Studying color harmony—Determining color combinations—The colder
color should predominate—Indicating the finished result—Proofs in the
colors and on the stock to be used—Blending paper stock—Laying out
advertisements.
HARMONY AND APPROPRIATENESS
_Page 41_
“Leit-motif”—The central idea in composition—Harmony and
appropriateness—Undervaluing their importance—What is appropriate?—
Discriminating judgment required—Discreet selection of type, ink and
paper—It makes a difference—As to type-faces—As to inks—As to papers—
Simplicity synonymous with good typography—The ideal printshop—
Harmonious type-faces, ink colors and paper stock—Certain amount of
contrast desirable—All capitals or all lower-case—Harmony of type-faces
and borders illustrated—Typographic sins—In typography there should be a
motive—“Is it appropriate?”—An architectural motive—In which strength is
the motive—Design suggested by an old lock-plate—Typographic motive
found in woodcut borders and initials of early printers—A millinery
booklet cover—A page severely plain and non-sentimental—A program for a
church service appropriate to the environment—A page in keeping with a
festive spirit—Typographers should give support to artists—The Colonial
arch and a title-page—The better the typographer, the more restraint
will he exercise.
TONE AND CONTRAST
_Page 47_
A story of white and black—A combination popular with writers, printers
and readers—Uniformity of tone or depth of color—A mixture of irregular
gray and black tones inexcusable—Art principles too often ignored—
Contrast necessary, but uniformity should not be sacrificed—Art makes
concession to utility—A right way and a wrong way—Unjust blaming of the
customer—A German example of uniform tone—Practical demonstration of
uniform tone—Four ornaments, upon which four pages are constructed—
Contrast, from the viewpoints of art and utility—Lessening the contrast
between print and paper—A compromise—Impressing the print firmly on
antique paper—Setting the print daintily upon glossy paper—Lack of
artistic feeling responsible for unpleasant contrasts—Great contrast is
eccentricity—Mark Twain and contrasts—Cover-page should be darker than
title-page—The tone of a massed page—Controlled by spacing—Duplicating
the tone of a pen-and-ink illustration—A spotted black tone—Equalizing
the tone by using lighter ink—Spaced capitals and open-line
illustration—A classic interpretation of uniform tone—Characteristics
and tone superbly blended—Initial and headpiece should approach the tone
of the type page—Uniform tone between display line and border—Catalog
illustrations should stand out in relief—Outline type-faces to obtain
gray tone on newspaper page—Letterspacing—All lines should be similarly
spaced—An unusual heading.
PORTION, BALANCE AND SPACING
_Page 53_
Symmetry is necessary to beauty—What has art to do with printing?—Two
views—The book printer and the job printer—Pleasing the few or being all
things to all men—Printing as a business and as an art—Art is essential
to printing—Study of art arouses ambition—Unfolds a new world—
Proportion—Book pages—The width and length of a page—Position of the
page—Margins—The job printer and proportion—Relation of shape of
type-face to page—Condensed types for narrow pages—Extended types for
wide pages—Architecture as an example—Vertical and horizontal lines—The
relation of lines to proportion—A page with ornament, type-face and page
design in proportion—Irregularity and when it may be introduced—A type
line large or small by contrast—The happy medium—Balance, an important
subject—Type lines horizontally centered—Safety from blunders—
Out-of-the-center balance—The point of vertical balance above center—
Testing balance to the limit—Diagonal arrangements show lack of
imagination—Spacing—Its proper apportionment—An important feature when
letters are designed—The capital L—Emphasis by means of spacing—The
effect of separate lines—Should be an even page tone—Distributing
display lines over the entire page—Grouping them at the | 1,984.30299 |
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METHODS OF AUTHORS
ERICHSEN
WP Co
COPYRIGHT, 1894,
BY WILLIAM H. HILLS.
_All Rights Reserved._
_To
R. E. FRANCILLON,
who is admired and loved by novel-readers on
both sides of the Atlantic,
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED,
by his permission, with sincere regard, by
the Author._
PREFACE.
When I began to gather the material for this volume I was quite doubtful
as to whether the public would be interested in a work of this kind or
not. As my labor progressed, however, it became evident that not only
the body of the people, but authors themselves, were deeply interested
in the subject, and would welcome a book treating of it. Not only M.
Jules Claretie, the celebrated Parisian literarian, but the late Dr.
Meissner and many others assured me of this fact.
Nor is this very surprising. Who, after reading a brilliant novel, or
some excellent treatise, would not like to know how it was written?
So far as I know, this volume is a novelty, and Ben Akiba is outwitted
for once. Books about authors have been published by the thousands, but
to my knowledge, up to date, none have been issued describing their
methods of work.
In the preparation of this book I have been greatly aided by the works
of Rev. Francis Jacox, an anonymous article in _All the Year Round_, and
R. E. Francillon's essay on "The Physiology of Authorship," which
appeared first in the _Gentleman's Magazine_.
I was also assisted in my labor by numerous newspaper clippings and many
letters from writers, whose names appear in this volume, and to all of
whom I return my sincere thanks.
H. E.
DETROIT, Mich.
CONTENTS.
I. Eccentricities in Composition.
II. Care in Literary Production.
III. Speed in Writing.
IV. Influence upon Writers of Time and Place.
V. Writing under Difficulties.
VI. Aids to Inspiration--Favorite Habits of Work.
VII. Goethe, Dickens, Schiller, and Scott.
VIII. Burning Midnight Oil.
IX. Literary Partnership.
X. Anonymity in Authorship.
XI. System in Novel Writing.
XII. Traits of Musical Composers.
XIII. The Hygiene of Writing.
XIV. A Humorist's Regimen.
METHODS OF AUTHORS.
I.
Eccentricities in Composition.
The public--that is, the reading world made up of those who love the
products of authorship--always takes an interest in the methods of work
adopted by literary men, and is fond of gaining information about
authorship in the act, and of getting a glimpse of its favorite, the
author, at work in that "sanctum sanctorum"--the study. The modes in
which men write are so various that it would take at least a dozen
volumes to relate them, were they all known, for:--
"Some wits are only in the mind
When beaux and belles are 'round them prating;
Some, when they dress for dinner, find
Their muse and valet both in waiting;
And manage, at the self-same time,
To adjust a neckcloth and a rhyme.
"Some bards there are who cannot scribble
Without a glove to tear or nibble;
Or a small twig to whisk about--
As if the hidden founts of fancy,
Like wells of old, were thus found out
By mystic tricks of rhabdomancy.
"Such was the little feathery wand,
That, held forever in the hand
Of her who won and wore the crown
Of female genius in this age,
Seemed the conductor that drew down
Those words of lightning to her page."
This refers to Madame de Stael, who, when writing, wielded a "little
feathery wand," made of paper, shaped like a fan or feather, in the
manner and to the effect above described.
Well may the vivacious penman of "Rhymes on the Road" exclaim:--
"What various attitudes, and ways,
And tricks we authors have in writing!
While some write sitting, some, like Bayes,
Usually stand while they're inditing.
Poets there are who wear the floor out,
Measuring a line at every stride;
While some, like Henry Stephens, pour out
Rhymes by the dozen while they ride.
Herodotus wrote most in bed;
And Richerand, a French physician,
Declares the clockwork of the head
Goes best in that reclined position.
If you consult Montaigne and Pliny on
The subject, 'tis their joint opinion
That thought its richest harvest yields
Abroad, among the woods and fields."
M. de Valois alleges that Plato produced, like Herodotus, "his glorious
visions all in bed"; while
"'Twas in his carriage the sublime
Sir Richard Blackmore used to rhyme."
But little is known of the habits of the earliest writers. The great
Plato, whose thoughts seemed to come so easy, we are told, toiled over
his manuscripts, working with slow and tiresome elaboration. The opening
sentence of "The Republic" on the author's tablets was found to be
written in thirteen different versions. When death called him from his
labor the great philosopher was busy at his desk, "combing, and curling,
and weaving, and unweaving his writings after a variety of fashions."
Virgil was wont to pour forth a quantity of verses in the morning, which
he decreased to a very small number by incessant correction and
elimination. He subjected the products of his composition to a process
of continual polishing and filing, much after the manner, as he said
himself, of a bear licking her cubs into shape. Cicero's chief pleasure
was literary work. He declared that he would willingly forego all the
wealth and glory of the world to spend his time in meditation or study.
The diversity in the methods adopted by authors is as great as the
difference in their choice of subjects. A story is often cited in
illustration of the different characteristics of three great
nationalities which equally illustrates the different paths which may be
followed in any intellectual undertaking.
An Englishman, a Frenchman, and a German, competing for a prize offered
for the best essay on the natural history of the camel, adopted each his
own method of research upon the subject. The German, providing himself
with a stock of tobacco, sought the quiet solitude of his study in order
to evolve from the depths of his philosophic consciousness the primitive
notion of a camel. The Frenchman repaired to the nearest library, and
overhauled its contents in order to collect all that other men had
written upon the subject. The Englishman packed his carpet-bag and set
sail for the East, that he might study the habits of the animal in its
original haunts.
The combination of these three methods is the perfection of study; but
the Frenchman's method is not unknown even among Americans. Nor does it
deserve the condemnation it usually receives. The man who peruses a
hundred books on a subject for the purpose of writing one bestows a real
benefit upon society, in case he does his work well. But some excellent
work has been composed without the necessity either of research or
original investigation. Anthony Trollope described his famous
archdeacon without ever having met a live archdeacon. He never lived in
any cathedral city except London; Archdeacon Grantly was the child of
"moral consciousness" alone; Trollope had no knowledge, except
indirectly, about bishops and deans. In fact, "The Warden" was not
intended originally to be a novel of clerical life, but a novel which
should work out a dramatic situation--that of a trustworthy, amiable man
who was the holder, by no fault of his own, of an endowment which was in
itself an abuse, and on whose devoted head should fall the thunders of
those who assailed the abuse.
Bryan Waller Proctor, the poet (who, I believe, is better known under
the name of "Barry Cornwall"), had never viewed the ocean when he
committed to paper that beautiful poem, "The Sea." Many of his finest
lyrics and songs were composed mentally while he was riding daily to
London in an omnibus. Schiller had never been in Switzerland, and had
only heard and read about the country, when he wrote his "William Tell."
Harrison Ainsworth, the Lancashire novelist, when he composed "Rookwood"
and "Jack Sheppard," depended entirely on his ability to read up and on
his facility of assimilation, for during his lifetime he never came in
personal contact with thieves at all. It is said that when he wrote the
really admirable ride of Turpin to York he only went at a great pace
over the paper, with a road-map and description of the country in front
of him. It was only when he heard | 1,984.304958 |
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THE GILDED AGE
A Tale of Today
by Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner
1873
Part 1.
PREFACE.
This book was not written for private circulation among friends; it was
not written to cheer and instruct a diseased relative of the author's;
it was not thrown off during intervals of wearing labor to amuse an idle
hour. It was not written for any of these reasons, and therefore it is
submitted without the usual apologies.
It will be seen that it deals with an entirely ideal state of society;
and the chief embarrassment of the writers in this realm of the
imagination has been the want of illustrative examples. In a State where
there is no fever of speculation, no inflamed desire for sudden wealth,
where the poor are all simple-minded and contented, and the rich are all
honest and generous, where society is in a condition of primitive purity
and politics is the occupation of only the capable and the patriotic,
there are necessarily no materials for such a history as we have
constructed out of an ideal commonwealth.
No apology is needed for following the learned custom of placing
attractive scraps of literature at the heads of our chapters. It has
been truly observed by Wagner that such headings, with their vague
suggestions of the matter which is to follow them, pleasantly inflame the | 1,984.399751 |
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CENTRE
for
REFORMATION
and
RENAISSANCE
STUDIES
VICTORIA
UNIVERSITY
TORONTO
FIFTEENTH CENTURY
PROSE AND VERSE
_AN ENGLISH GARNER_
FIFTEENTH CENTURY
PROSE AND VERSE
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
ALFRED W. POLLARD
WESTMINSTER
ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE AND CO., LTD.
1903
Edinburgh: Printed by T. and A. CONSTABLE.
PREFACE
Of the contents of the present volume about a half now appears in the
ENGLISH GARNER for the first time. Professor Arber (whose ready
acquiescence in my meddlings I wish cordially to acknowledge) had
gathered his good corn wherever he could find it without concerning
himself with the claims of the different centuries; and his specimens of
Lydgate and Hoccleve, Robin Hood Ballads, and trials for Lollardy,
needed as much more added to them to make up a homogeneous volume in the
arrangement now adopted. My additions consist of some Christmas Carols,
a Miracle Play, a Morality, and a number of the interesting prologues
and epilogues of William Caxton; also two extracts on the art of
translation and the need for its exercise, and some depositions in a
theatrical lawsuit. The extracts are of the end of the fourteenth
century, but are germane to our period as heralding the numerous
translations by which it was distinguished; the lawsuit is of the
sixteenth century, but throws light on the transition from municipal to
private enterprise in theatrical matters which had then been for some
time in progress. As these pieces are included for their matter, not for
their style, I hope they will not be considered intrusions in a volume
essentially devoted to the fifteenth century, though the extracts on
translation have led me in my Introduction to an excursus on the
authorship of the Wycliffite translations of the Bible, which can only
be excused on the pleas that Purvey and Trevisa both lived on into the
fifteenth century, and that it was in the early years of that century
that the Bibles were most in circulation.
In editing my texts I have availed myself of the help of the edition of
the play of the Coventry Shearmen and Tailors in Professor Manly's
_Specimens of the Pre-Shaksperean Drama_ (Ginn, 1897), of Dr. Henri
Logeman's _Elckerlijk and Everyman_ (Librairie Clemm, Gand, 1892), of
Professor Ewald Fluegel's transcript of the Balliol College Carols
published in the Festschrift presented to Professor Hildebrand in 1894,
of the Caxton Prefaces printed in Blades's _Life of Caxton_, of Mr.
Henry Plomer's transcript of the pleadings in Rastell _v._ Walton in
vol. iv. of the Transactions of the Bibliographical Society, and of
Forshall and Madden's Wyclif Bible. In Professor Arber's text of the
Robin Hood Ballads I have ventured to make a few corrections by the
light of the excellent edition (based on the work of Professor Child),
printed by Professor Gummere in his _Old English Ballads_ (Ginn, 1894).
That of Hoccleve's _Letter of Cupid_, originally printed from Urry's
text, has been revised with the aid of the collations published by
Professor Skeat in his _Chaucerian and Other Pieces_. Professor Arber's
other texts are reprinted substantially as they stood.
In accordance with the plan adopted throughout the _English Garner_, the
extracts in this volume are given in modern spelling. I should have
preferred myself to re-write them in the educated spelling of their own
period, which would offer no obstacle of any kind to a modern reader.
Not only, however, for the sake of uniformity, but because I am so
convinced that this is the right method of dealing with badly spelt
texts that I wish the experiment to be made for the first time by a
better philologist than myself, I have fallen back on modern spelling.
Whatever its disadvantages, they seem to me as nothing compared with the
absurdity of preserving in texts printed for the second, third, and
fourth time the vagaries of grossly ignorant scribes. In the play of the
Shearmen holiness is spelt _whollenes_, merry _myrre_, voice _woise_,
signification _syngnefocacion_, celestial _seylesteall_, and so on.
These spellings are as demonstrably wrong as those of _consepeet_
(concipiet) and _Gloria in exselsis_, with which the scribe favours us.
It is ungracious to find fault with Professor Manly after appropriating
some of his stage directions and his identifications of some French
words, but I cannot think an editor is right in reprinting a text of
which he is obliged to confess 'in general, the sound will be a better
guide to the meaning than the spelling.' In any case I am sure that this
is not the way to win new readers for our earlier literature.
As a matter of literary honesty, as well as for my own comfort, I may be
permitted to state that this is the only volume of the new edition of
the _Garner_ for which I am responsible or can take credit. I have eaten
at least one dinner intended for my friend Mr. A.F. Pollard; my
wastepaper basket has received applications for subscriptions which
prove his reputation for generosity; I have even received a cheque,
which the fact that it is reckoned forgery under some circumstances for
a man to sign his own name forbade my cashing; and I have recently been
more congratulated as the author of his _Henry VIII._ than I have ever
been on any book of my own. So far from being identical, I regret to say
that we are not even related; but as we seem to be as much mistaken as
the two Dromios, I hope that our appearance side by side in this new
edition of the _Garner_ may help to distinguish rather than further
confound us.
ALFRED W. POLLARD.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE, iii
INTRODUCTION, vii
John Lydgate (?). The Siege of Harfleur and the Battle of Agincourt, 1
Thomas Occleve. The Letter of Cupid, 14
A Little Geste of Robin Hood and his Meiny and of the proud Sheriff
of Nottingham, 35
English Carols. From a Manuscript at Balliol College, Oxford, 83
The Examination of Master William Thorpe, priest, of heresy, before
Thomas Arundell, Archbishop of Canterbury, 1407, 90
The Examination of Sir John Oldcastle, 175
On Translating the Bible. Chapter XV. of the Prologue to the second
recension of the Wycliffite version, 193
John Trevisa. Dialogue between a Lord and a Clerk upon Translation, 203
William Caxton. Prefaces and Epilogues:--
The Recuyell of the Histories of Troy, 213
Dictes and Sayings of the Philosophers, 218
Boethius de Consolatione Philosophiae, 222
Golden Legend, 225
Caton 227
AEsop, 230
Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, second edition, 232
Malory's King Arthur, 234
Eneydos, 239
A Miracle Play of the Nativity. The Pageant of the Shearmen and
Tailors, from the Coventry Corpus Christi Plays, 245
Everyman: A Moral Play, 277
Pleadings in Rastell _v._ Walton, a Theatrical Lawsuit, temp. Henry
VIII., 307
BRIEF GLOSSARY, 323
INTRODUCTION
In the world of politics and statecraft a nation which has once begun to
decline seldom, perhaps never, recovers itself. There are too many other
dogs about for the bone which has once been relinquished to be resumed
later on. It is luck, indeed, if there are any decent scraps to be found
on the platter when it is revisited. In the world of literature and
thought the dogs are better bred, showing each other new
hunting-grounds, and by example and precept often helping to restore a
famished comrade to sleekness and vigour. Political conditions may not
be gainsaid. A nation which has once lost its ideals cannot again
produce a fresh, strong, and manly literature. But the possibilities of
literature remain immense, and we cannot foretell in what country it may
not revive and win fresh triumphs. Hence | 1,984.404978 |
2023-11-16 18:50:08.3850960 | 37 | 6 |
Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Elizabeth Oscanyan and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously | 1,984.405136 |
2023-11-16 18:50:08.5803750 | 2,058 | 10 |
Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Suzanne Shell, 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: "THAT OF A HAND HOLDING A BOTTLE"]
ONE OF MY SONS
BY
ANNA KATHARINE GREEN
(MRS. CHARLES ROHLFS)
AUTHOR OF "THE LEAVENWORTH CASE," "HAND AND RING,"
"MARKED 'PERSONAL,'" "THAT AFFAIR NEXT DOOR," ETC.
[Illustration]
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
THE KNICKERBOCKER PRESS
1901
COPYRIGHT, 1901
BY
ANNA KATHARINE ROHLFS
* * * * *
CONTENTS
BOOK I
THE SHADOW
PAGE
I.--THE CHILD, AND WHAT SHE LED ME INTO 1
II.--THE YOUNG DOCTOR AND THE OLD 6
III.--WHAT A DOOR HID 21
IV.--"HE DRANK IT ALONE" 32
V.--HOPE 38
VI.--A HAPPY INSPIRATION 50
VII.--THE ELDERLY GENTLEMAN BY THE NEWEL-POST 54
VIII.--THE MAN BEHIND THE SCREEN 71
IX.--THE CLOCK THAT HAD RUN DOWN 88
X.--THE PENCIL 96
XI.--SOMETHING TO THINK ABOUT 101
XII.--GOSSIP 104
XIII.--INDICATIONS 110
XIV.--A SUDDEN TURN 127
XV.--THE MISSING POCKET 139
XVI.--IN THE PARLOUR AT MRS. PENRHYN'S 147
BOOK II
THE MAN
PAGE
XVII.--THE MONOGRAM 157
XVIII.--THE PHIAL 176
XIX.--I MAKE MY FIRST MOVE 187
XX.--THE LITTLE HOUSE IN NEW JERSEY 192
XXI.--MILLE-FLEURS 201
XXII.--A DISAGREEABLE HOUR WITH A DISAGREEABLE MAN 212
XXIII.--IN MY OFFICE 224
XXIV.--AN OLD CATASTROPHE IS RECALLED 239
XXV.--A SUMMONS 255
XXVI.--FERRY LIGHTS 262
XXVII.--RAIN 272
XXVIII.--BY THE LIGHT OF A GUTTERING CANDLE 282
XXIX.--THE QUIET HOUR 313
XXX.--AN UNEXPECTED ALLY 320
XXXI.--SWEETWATER HAS AN IDEA 327
XXXII.--WITH THE SHADE DOWN 336
XXXIII.--IN WHICH WE CAN PARDON MR. GRYCE HIS
UNFORTUNATE ILLNESS 344
XXXIV.--"IT WAS THE SHOCK!" 352
XXXV.--ROSES 363
* * * * *
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"_That of a hand holding a bottle_" Frontispiece
"_One hand was pressed against his heart_" 4
"_Crouched against the farther wall, with
wide-extended eyes fixed full upon
us_" 30
"_I saw her wild figure jump out and
plunge away in the direction of the
river_" 186
"_In two minutes I was under that open
window_" 276
"_She glided into our presence in one rapturous
whirl_" 296
* * * * *
ONE OF MY SONS
BOOK I
THE SHADOW
I
THE CHILD, AND WHAT SHE LED ME INTO
I was walking at a rapid pace up the avenue one raw, fall evening,
when somewhere near the corner of Fifty----Street I was brought to a
sudden stand-still by the sound of a child's voice accosting me from
the stoop of one of the handsome houses I was then passing.
"O sir!" it cried, "please come in. Please come to grandpa. He's sick
and wants you."
Surprised, for I knew no one on the block, I glanced up and saw
bending from the open doorway the trembling figure of a little girl,
with a wealth of curly hair blowing about her sweet, excited face.
"You have made a mistake," I called up to her. "I am not the person
you suppose. I am a stranger. Tell me whom you know about here and I
will see that someone comes to your grandpa."
But this did not satisfy her. Running down the stoop, she seized me by
the arm with childish impetuosity, crying: "No, no. There isn't time.
Grandpa told me to bring in the first man I saw going by. You are the
first man. Come!"
There was urgency in her tones, and unconsciously I began to yield to
her insistence, and allow myself to be drawn towards the stoop.
"Who is your grandpa?" I asked, satisfied from the imposing look of
the house that he must be a man of some prominence. "If he is sick
there are the servants"--But here her little foot came down in
infantile impatience.
"Grandpa never waits!" she cried, dragging me with her small hands up
the stoop and into the open door. "If you don't hurry he'll think I
didn't do as he told me."
What man would not have yielded? The hall, as seen from the entrance,
was wide and unusually rich. Indeed, an air of the highest
respectability, as well as of unbounded wealth, characterised the
whole establishment; and however odd the adventure appeared, it
certainly offered nothing calculated to awaken distrust. Entering with
her, I shut the door behind me. In an instant she was half-way down
the hall.
"Here! here!" she cried, pausing before a door near its end.
The confidence with which she summoned me (I sometimes wonder if my
countenance conveys more than the ordinary amount of good nature) and
the pretty picture she made, standing in the flood of light which
poured from the unseen apartment toward which she beckoned me, lured
me on till I reached her side, and stood in full view of a scene which
certainly justified her fear if not the demand she made upon a passing
stranger.
In the midst of a small room, plain as any office, I saw an elderly
gentleman standing who, even to my unaccustomed eyes, seemed to be not
simply ill, but in the throes of actual dissolution.
Greatly disturbed, for I had anticipated nothing so serious, I turned
to fly for assistance, when the little child, rushing by me, caught
her grandfather by the knees and gave me such a look, I had not the
heart to leave her.
Indeed it would have been cruel to do so. The appearance and attitude
of the sick man were startling even to me. Though in a state bordering
on death, he was, as I have said, standing, not lying, and his tall
figure swaying against the large table to which he clung, formed a
picture of mental and physical suffering such as I had never before
seen, and can never in all my life to come, forget. One hand was
pressed against his heart, but the other, outspread in a desperate
attempt to support his weight, had fallen on some half-dozen sheets or
so of typewritten paper, which, slipping under the pressure put upon
them, kept him tottering, though he did not fall. He was looking my
way, and as I advanced into the room, his collapsing frame shook with
sudden feeling, and the hand which he held clenched over his heart
opened slightly, revealing a scrap of paper crushed between his
fingers.
Struck with compassion, for the contrast was pitiful between his
naturally imposing appearance and his present helplessness, I murmured
some words of sympathy and encouragement, and then supposing him to be
alone in the house with his grandchild, inquired what I could do to
serve him.
He cast a meaning glance down at his hand, then seeing that I did not
understand him, made a super-human effort and held that member out,
uttering some inarticulate words which I was able to construe into a
prayer to take from him the paper which his stiffening clutch made it
difficult for him to release.
Touched by his extremity, and anxious to afford him all the solace his
desperate case demanded, I drew the paper from between his fingers. As
I did so I noted, first, that it was a portion of one of the sheets I
saw scattered about on every side, and, secondly, that it was folded
together as if intended for someone's private perusal.
"What shall I do with this?" I asked, consulting his eye over which a
glaze was fast forming.
He let his own glance wander eagerly till it fell upon some envelopes,
then it became fixed, and I understood.
Drawing out one, I placed the slip in it, and fastening the envelope,
consulted his face with a smile.
He answered with | 1,984.600415 |
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This etext was transcribed by Les Bowler.
[Picture: Book cover]
[Picture: Being thrown by Paprika]
AZALEA’S
SILVER WEB
BY
ELIA W. PEATTIE
Author of Azalea; Annie Laurie and Azalea;
Azalea at Sunset Gap, etc.
_Illustrations by_
_E. R. Kirkbride_
* * * * *
[Picture: Publisher logo]
* * * * *
The Reilly & Britton Co.
Chicago
* * * * *
Copyright, 1915
by
The Reilly & Britton Co.
* * * * *
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I GROWN GIRLS 9
II NEW RELATIONS 27
III OWN FOLK 46
IV MADAM GRANDMOTHER 64
V MALLOWBANKS 82
VI MY BALL 101
VII GETTING SETTLED 120
VIII THE PORTRAIT 139
IX GRANDMOTHER’S STORY 158
X “THE WATERS OF QUIET” 177
XI A FRIEND 195
XII A TRAVEL LOG 212
XIII CROSSROADS 231
XIV “WHERE THERE IS A WILL” 250
XV “RING, HAPPY BELLS” 267
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
So, in a moment more I felt myself—I who had never _Frontispiece_
been thrown in my life—going over Paprika’s head
We stepped back in the shrubbery and kept very 84
still while they passed. Grandmother was weeping
like a hurt child
Azalea’s Coming Out Party 114
It was Keefe O’Connor who stood there holding out 276
his hands to me
CHAPTER I
GROWN GIRLS
Tennyson Mountain, N. C.,
October 6.
_Carin_, _dear and far_:
So you are back at your beloved Vassar! Does it seem as wonderful as it
did last year? Or more so? More so, I expect. You were a little lonely
and strange last year, you know. But now it will be different. The
girls will seem like old friends to you now that you are coming back to
them. But, Carin, girl, they cannot _possibly_ be such old friends as I
am, or as Annie Laurie is. Don’t dare to like one of them better than
you like us. I can imagine, and really spend too much time imagining,
just how lovely and cultivated and surprising some of them are. But,
please, aren’t some of them quite stupid, too? I hope so. Annie Laurie
hopes so. We want still to be the brightest stars in your sky.
Lest you should think we are not, we keep polishing ourselves. Annie
Laurie, when she is not attending to her dairy, will take university
extension work. And I, your own ever adoring, ever grateful Azalea, will
keep hammering away at the books that dear Barbara Summers lends, and
Keefe O’Connor sends down from New York, and those that your own library
at the Shoals furnishes.
I have the heart to read, Carin, but not the time. That’s the truth.
Or, come to think of it, perhaps it is a matter of eyelids. I have a
queer, self-closing pair. If they would stay up after nine o’clock at
night I could learn something. But, no, they appear to be attached to a
wheel or a ratchet in the clock, and when nine strikes, down they go and
down they stay.
What can I do?
Nothing, except kiss dearest Mother McBirney good night, trying not to
yawn in her face as I do it, and after paying my respects to Father
McBirney and “brother” Jim, slip away up to my darling loft.
Now, there, Carin! You see I’m nicer than your other friends, more
unusual and surprising. (You told me the last time I saw you that you
liked your friends to be unusual and surprising.) Well, have you any
other friend who goes up to her bedroom by means of an outside pair of
stairs and who sleeps in a loft, with a tame bat for company? You have
not, Carin Carson, and you know it. And, Oh, | 1,984.601268 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: He took her hand, testing its quality and texture Page
52]
*THE HEART LINE*
_A DRAMA OF SAN FRANCISCO_
_By_
GELETT BURGESS
Author of
The White Cat, Vivette
A Little Sister of Destiny, etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
LESTER RALPH
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1907
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
OCTOBER
TO MAYSIE
WHO KNEW THE PEOPLE
AND
LOVED THE PLACE
IN MEMORY OF
THE CITY THAT WAS
*CONTENTS*
CHAPTER
Prologue
I The Palmist and Fancy Gray
II Tuition and Intuition
III The Spider's Nest
IV The Paysons
V The Rise and Fall of Gay P. Summer
VI Side Lights
VII The Weaving of the Web
VIII Illumination
IX Coming On
X A Look Into the Mirror
XI The First Turning to the Left
XII The First Turning to the Right
XIII The Bloodsucker
XIV The Fore-Honeymoon
XV The Re-Entrant Angle
XVI Tit for Tat
XVII The Materializing Seance
XVIII A Return to Instinct
XIX Fancy Gray Accepts
XX Masterson's Manoeuvers
XXI The Sunrise
Epilogue
*THE HEART LINE*
*PROLOG | 1,984.697549 |
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Produced by Charles Keller
POLLY OF THE CIRCUS
By Margaret Mayo
To My "_KLEINE MUTTER_"
Chapter I
The band of the "Great American Circus" was playing noisily. The
performance was in full swing.
Beside a shabby trunk in the women's dressing tent sat a young,
wistful-faced girl, chin in hand, unheeding the chatter of the women
about her or the picturesque disarray of the surrounding objects. Her
eyes had been so long accustomed to the glitter and tinsel of circus
fineries that she saw nothing unusual in a picture that might have held
a painter spellbound.
Circling the inside of the tent and forming a double line down the
centre were partially unpacked trunks belching forth impudent masses
of satins, laces, artificial hair, paper flowers, and paste jewels.
The scent of moist earth mingled oddly with the perfumed odours of the
garments heaped on the grass. Here and there high circles of lights
threw a strong, steady glare upon the half-clad figure of a robust
acrobat, or the thin, drooping shoulders of a less stalwart sister.
Temporary ropes stretched from one pole to another, were laden with
bright- stockings, gaudy, spangled gowns, or dusty street
clothes, discarded by the performers before slipping into their circus
attire. There were no nails or hooks, so hats and veils were pinned to
the canvas walls.
The furniture was limited to one camp chair in front of each trunk,
the till of which served as a tray for the paints, powders and other
essentials of "make-up."
A pail of water stood by the side of each chair, so that the performers
might wash the delicately shaded tights, handkerchiefs and other small
articles not to be entrusted to the slow, careless process of the
village laundry. Some of these had been washed to-night and hung to dry
on the lines between the dusty street garments.
Women whose "turns" came late sat about half-clothed reading, crocheting
or sewing, while others added pencilled eyebrows, powder or rouge to
their already exaggerated "make-ups." Here and there a child was putting
her sawdust baby to sleep in the till of her trunk, before beginning
her part in the evening's entertainment. Young and old went about their
duties with a systematic, business-like air, and even the little knot
of excited women near Polly--it seemed that one of the men had upset a
circus tradition--kept a sharp lookout for their "turns."
"What do you think about it, Polly?" asked a handsome brunette, as she
surveyed herself in the costume of a Roman charioteer.
"About what?" asked Polly vacantly.
"Leave Poll alone; she's in one of her trances!" called a motherly,
good-natured woman whose trunk stood next to Polly's, and whose business
was to support a son and three daughters upon stalwart shoulders, both
figuratively and literally.
"Well, _I_ ain't in any trance," answered the dark girl, "and _I_ think
it's pretty tough for him to take up with a rank outsider, and expect
us to warm up to her as though he'd married one of our own folks." She
tossed her head, the pride of class distinction welling high in her
ample bosom.
"He ain't asking us to warm up to her," | 1,984.707241 |
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Produced by Tapio Riikonen and David Widger
ATHENS: ITS RISE AND FALL
by Edward Bulwer Lytton
DEDICATION.
TO HENRY FYNES CLINTON, ESQ., etc., etc. AUTHOR OF "THE FASTI
HELLENICI."
My Dear Sir,
I am not more sensible of the distinction conferred upon me when you
allowed me to inscribe this history with your name, than pleased with
an occasion to express my gratitude for the assistance I have derived
throughout the progress of my labours from that memorable work, in
which you have upheld the celebrity of English learning, and afforded
so imperishable a contribution to our knowledge of the Ancient World.
To all who in history look for the true connexion between causes and
effects, chronology is not a dry and mechanical compilation of barren
dates, but the explanation of events and the philosophy of facts. And
the publication of the Fasti Hellenici has thrown upon those times, in
which an accurate chronological system can best repair what is
deficient, and best elucidate what is obscure in the scanty
authorities bequeathed to us, all the light of a profound and
disciplined intellect, applying the acutest comprehension to the
richest erudition, and arriving at its conclusions according to the
true spirit of inductive reasoning, which proportions the completeness
of the final discovery to the caution of the intermediate process. My
obligations to that learning and to those gifts which you have
exhibited to the world are shared by all who, in England or in Europe,
study the history or cultivate the literature of Greece. But, in the
patient kindness with which you have permitted me to consult you
during the tedious passage of these volumes through the press--in the
careful advice--in the generous encouragement--which have so often
smoothed the path and animated the progress--there are obligations
peculiar to myself; and in those obligations there is so much that
honours me, that, were I to enlarge upon them more, the world might
mistake an acknowledgment for a boast.
With the highest consideration and esteem,
Believe me, my dear sir,
Most sincerely and gratefully yours,
EDWARD LYTTON BULWER
London, March, 1837.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The work, a portion of which is now presented to the reader, has
occupied me many years--though often interrupted in its progress,
either by more active employment, or by literary undertakings of a
character more seductive. These volumes were not only written, but
actually in the hands of the publisher before the appearance, and
even, I believe, before the announcement of the first volume of Mr.
Thirlwall's History of Greece, or I might have declined going over any
portion of the ground cultivated by that distinguished scholar [1].
As it is, however, the plan I have pursued differs materially from
that of Mr. Thirlwall, and I trust that the soil is sufficiently
fertile to yield a harvest to either labourer.
Since it is the letters, yet more than the arms or the institutions of
Athens, which have rendered her illustrious, it is my object to
combine an elaborate view of her literature with a complete and
impartial account of her political transactions. The two volumes now
published bring the reader, in the one branch of my subject, to the
supreme administration of Pericles; in the other, to a critical
analysis of the tragedies of Sophocles. Two additional volumes will,
I trust, be sufficient to accomplish my task, and close the records of
Athens at that period when, with the accession of Augustus, the annals
of the world are merged into the chronicle of the Roman empire. In
these latter volumes it is my intention to complete the history of the
Athenian drama--to include a survey of the Athenian philosophy--to
describe the manners, habits, and social life of the people, and to
conclude the whole with such a review of the facts and events narrated
as may constitute, perhaps, an unprejudiced and intelligible
explanation of the causes of the rise and fall of Athens.
As the history of the Greek republics has been too often corruptly
pressed into the service of heated political partisans, may I be
pardoned the precaution of observing that, whatever my own political
code, as applied to England, I have nowhere sought knowingly to
pervert the lessons of a past nor analogous time to fugitive interests
and party purposes. Whether led sometimes to censure, or more often
to vindicate the Athenian people, I am not conscious of any other
desire than that of strict, faithful, impartial justice. Restlessly
to seek among the ancient institutions for illustrations (rarely
apposite) of the modern, is, indeed, to desert the character of a
judge for that of an advocate, and to undertake the task of the
historian with the ambition of the pamphleteer. Though designing this
work not for colleges and cloisters, but for the general and
miscellaneous public, it is nevertheless impossible to pass over in
silence some matters which, if apparently trifling in themselves, have
acquired dignity, and even interest, from brilliant speculations or
celebrated disputes. In the history of Greece (and Athenian history
necessarily includes nearly all that is valuable in the annals of the
whole Hellenic race) the reader must submit to pass through much that
is minute, much that is wearisome, if he desire to arrive at last at
definite knowledge and comprehensive views. In order, however, to
interrupt as little as possible the recital of events, I have
endeavoured to confine to the earlier portion of the work such details
of an antiquarian or speculative nature as, while they may afford to
the general reader, not, indeed, a minute analysis, but perhaps a
sufficient notion of the scholastic inquiries which have engaged the
attention of some of the subtlest minds of Germany and England, may
also prepare him the better to comprehend the peculiar character and
circumstances of the people to whose history he is introduced: and it
may be well to warn the more impatient that it is not till the second
book (vol. i., p. 181) that disquisition is abandoned for narrative.
There yet remain various points on which special comment would be
incompatible with connected and popular history, but on which I
propose to enlarge in a series of supplementary notes, to be appended
to the concluding volume. These notes will also comprise criticisms
and specimens of Greek writers not so intimately connected with the
progress of Athenian literature as to demand lengthened and elaborate
notice in the body of the work. Thus, when it is completed, it is my
hope that this book will combine, with a full and complete history of
Athens, political and moral, a more ample and comprehensive view of
the treasures of the Greek literature than has yet been afforded to
the English public. I have ventured on these remarks because I thought
it due to the reader, no less than to myself, to explain the plan and
outline of a design at present only partially developed.
London, March, 1837.
CONTENTS.
BOOK I
CHAPTER
I Situation and Soil of Attica.--The Pelasgians its earliest
Inhabitants.--Their Race and Language akin to the Grecian.--
Their varying Civilization and Architectural Remains.--
Cecrops.--Were the earliest Civilizers of Greece foreigners
or Greeks?--The Foundation of Athens.--The Improvements
attributed to Cecrops.--The Religion of the Greeks cannot
be reduced to a simple System.--Its Influence upon their
Character and Morals, Arts and Poetry.--The Origin of
Slavery and Aristocracy.
II The unimportant consequences to be deduced from the admission
that Cecrops might be Egyptian.--Attic Kings before
Theseus.--The Hellenes.--Their Genealogy.--Ionians and
Achaeans Pelasgic.--Contrast between Dorians and Ionians.--
Amphictyonic League.
III The Heroic Age.--Theseus.--His legislative Influence upon
Athens.--Qualities of the Greek Heroes.--Effect of a
Traditional Age upon the Character of a People.
IV The Successors of Theseus.--The Fate of Codrus.--The
Emigration of Nileus.--The Archons.--Draco.
V A General Survey of Greece and the East previous to the
Time of Solon.--The Grecian Colonies.--The Isles.--Brief
account of the States on the Continent.--Elis and the
Olympic Games.
VI Return of the Heraclidae.--The Spartan Constitution and
Habits.--The first and second Messenian War.
VII Governments in Greece.
VIII Brief Survey of Arts, Letters, and Philosophy in Greece,
prior to the Legislation of Solon.
BOOK II
CHAPTER
I The Conspiracy of Cylon.--Loss of Salamis.--First Appearance
of Solon.--Success against the Megarians in the Struggle for
Salamis.--Cirrhaean War.--Epimenides.--Political State of
Athens.--Character of Solon.--His Legislation.--General View
of the Athenian Constitution.
II The Departure of Solon from Athens.--The Rise of Pisistratus.
--Return of Solon.--His Conduct and Death.--The Second and
Third Tyranny of Pisistratus.--Capture of Sigeum.--Colony
In the Chersonesus founded by the first Miltiades.--Death of
Pisistratus.
III The Administration of Hippias.--The Conspiracy of Harmodius
and Aristogiton.--The Death of Hipparchus.--Cruelties of
Hippias.--The young Miltiades sent to the Chersonesus.--The
Spartans Combine with the Alcmaeonidae against Hippias.--The
fall of the Tyranny.--The Innovations of Clisthenes.--His
Expulsion and Restoration.--Embassy to the Satrap of Sardis.
--Retrospective View of the Lydian, Medean, and Persian
Monarchies.--Result of the Athenian Embassy to Sardis.--
Conduct of Cleomenes.--Victory of the Athenians against the
Boeotians and Chalcidians.--Hippias arrives at Sparta.--The
Speech of Sosicles the Corinthian.--Hippias retires to
Sardis.
IV Histiaeus, Tyrant of Miletus, removed to Persia.--The
Government of that City deputed to Aristagoras, who invades
Naxos with the aid of the Persians.--Ill Success of that
Expedition.--Aristagoras resolves upon Revolting from the
Persians.--Repairs to Sparta and to Athens.--The Athenians
and Eretrians induced to assist the Ionians.--Burning of
Sardis.--The Ionian War.--The Fate of Aristagoras.--Naval
Battle of Lade.--Fall of Miletus.--Reduction of Ionia.--
Miltiades.--His Character.--Mardonius replaces Artaphernes
in the Lydian Satrapy.--Hostilities between Aegina and
Athens.--Conduct of Cleomenes.--Demaratus deposed.--Death
Of Cleomenes.--New Persian Expedition.
V The Persian Generals enter Europe.--Invasion of Naxos,
Carystus, Eretria.--The Athenians Demand the Aid of Sparta.
--The Result of their Mission and the Adventure of their
Messenger.--The Persians advance to Marathon.--The Plain
Described.--Division of Opinion in the Athenian Camp.--The
Advice of Miltiades prevails.--The Drear of Hippias.--The
Battle of Marathon.
BOOK III
CHAPTER
I The Character and Popularity of Miltiades.--Naval expedition.
--Siege of Paros.--Conduct of Miltiades.--He is Accused and
Sentenced.--His Death.
II The Athenian Tragedy.--Its Origin.--Thespis.--Phrynichus.--
Aeschylus.--Analysis of the Tragedies of Aeschylus.
III Aristides.--His Character and Position.--The Rise of
Themistocles.--Aristides is Ostracised.--The Ostracism
examined.--The Influence of Themistocles increases.--The
Silver--mines of Laurion.--Their Product applied by
Themistocles to the Increase of the Navy.--New Direction
given to the National Character.
IV The Preparations of Darius.--Revolt of Egypt.--Dispute for
The Succession to the Persian Throne.--Death of Darius.--
Brief Review of the leading Events and Characteristics of
his Reign.
V Xerxes conducts an Expedition into Egypt.--He finally resolves
on the Invasion of Greece.--Vast Preparations for the
Conquest of Europe.--Xerxes arrives at Sardis.--Despatches
Envoys to the Greek States, demanding Tribute.--The Bridge
of the Hellespont.--Review of the Persian Armament at
Abydos.--Xerxes encamps at Therme.
VI The Conduct of the Greeks.--The Oracle relating to Salamis.--
Art of Themistocles.--The Isthmian Congress.--Embassies to
Argos, Crete, Corcyra, and Syracuse.--Their ill Success.--
The Thessalians send Envoys to the Isthmus.--The Greeks
advance to Tempe, but retreat.--The Fleet despatched to
Artemisium, and the Pass of Thermopylae occupied.--Numbers
of the Grecian Fleet.--Battle of Thermopylae.
VII The Advice of Demaratus to Xerxes.--Themistocles.--Actions off
Artemisium.--The Greeks retreat.--The Persians invade
Delphi, and are repulsed with great Loss.--The Athenians,
unaided by their Allies, abandon Athens, and embark for
Salamis.--The irresolute and selfish Policy of the
Peloponnesians.--Dexterity and Firmness of Themistocles.--
Battle of Salamis.--Andros and Carystus besieged by the
Greeks.--Anecdotes of Themistocles.--Honours awarded to him
in Sparta.--Xerxes returns to Asia.--Olynthus and Potidaea
besieged by Artabazus.--The Athenians return Home.--The
Ostracism of Aristides is repealed.
VIII Embassy of Alexander of Macedon to Athens.--The Result of his
Proposals.--Athenians retreat to Salamis.--Mardonius
occupies Athens.--The Athenians send Envoys to Sparta.--
Pausanias succeeds Cleombrotus as Regent of Sparta.--Battle
of Plataea.--Thebes besieged by the Athenians.--Battle of
Mycale.--Siege of Sestos.--Conclusion of the Persian War.
BOOK IV
CHAPTER
I Remarks on the Effects of War.--State of Athens.--Interference
of Sparta with respect to the Fortifications of Athens.--
Dexterous Conduct of Themistocles.--The New Harbour of the
Piraeus.--Proposition of the Spartans in the Amphictyonic
Council defeated by Themistocles.--Allied Fleet at Cyprus
and Byzantium.--Pausanias.--Alteration in his Character.--
His ambitious Views and Treason.--The Revolt of the Ionians
from the Spartan Command.--Pausanias recalled.--Dorcis
replaces him.--The Athenians rise to the Head of the Ionian
League.--Delos made the Senate and Treasury of the Allies.--
Able and prudent Management of Aristides.--Cimon succeeds
To the Command of the Fleet.--Character of Cimon.--Eion
besieged.--Scyros colonized by Atticans.--Supposed Discovery
of the Bones of Theseus.--Declining Power of Themistocles.
--Democratic Change in the Constitution.--Themistocles
ostracised.--Death of Aristides.
II Popularity and Policy of Cimon.--Naxos revolts from the
Ionian League.--Is besieged by Cimon.--Conspiracy and
Fate of Pausanias.--Flight and Adventures of Themistocles.
--His Death.
III Reduction of Naxos.--Actions off Cyprus.--Manners of
Cimon.--Improvements in Athens.--Colony at the Nine Ways.
--Siege of Thasos.--Earthquake in Sparta.--Revolt of Helots,
Occupation of Ithome, and Third Messenian War.--Rise and
Character of Pericles.--Prosecution and Acquittal of Cimon.
--The Athenians assist the Spartans at Ithome.--Thasos
Surrenders.--Breach between the Athenians and Spartans.--
Constitutional Innovations at Athens.--Ostracism of Cimon.
IV War between Megara and Corinth.--Megara and Pegae garrisoned
by Athenians.--Review of Affairs at the Persian Court.--
Accession of Artaxerxes.--Revolt of Egypt under Inarus.--
Athenian Expedition to assist Inarus.--Aegina besieged.--The
Corinthians defeated.--Spartan Conspiracy with the Athenian
Oligarchy.--Battle of Tanagra.--Campaign and Successes of
Myronides.--Plot of the Oligarchy against the Republic.--
Recall of Cimon.--Long Walls completed.--Aegina reduced.--
Expedition under Tolmides.--Ithome surrenders.--The
Insurgents are settled at Naupactus.--Disastrous Termination
of the Egyptian Expedition.--The Athenians march into
Thessaly to restore Orestes the Tagus.--Campaign under
Pericles.--Truce of five Years with the Peloponnesians.--
Cimon sets sail for Cyprus.--Pretended Treaty of Peace with
Persia.--Death of Cimon.
V Change of Manners in Athens.--Begun under the Pisistratidae.--
Effects of the Persian War, and the intimate Connexion with
Ionia.--The Hetaerae.--The Political Eminence lately
acquired by Athens.--The Transfer of the Treasury from Delos
to Athens.--Latent Dangers and Evils.--First, the Artificial
Greatness of Athens not supported by Natural Strength.--
Secondly, her pernicious Reliance on Tribute.--Thirdly,
Deterioration of National Spirit commenced by Cimon in the
Use of Bribes and Public Tables.--Fourthly, Defects in
Popular Courts of Law.--Progress of General Education.--
History.--Its Ionian Origin.--Early Historians.--Acusilaus.
--Cadmus.--Eugeon.--Hellanicus.--Pherecides.--Xanthus.--View
of the Life and Writings of Herodotus.--Progress of
Philosophy since Thales.--Philosophers of the Ionian and
Eleatic Schools.--Pythagoras.--His Philosophical Tenets and
Political Influence.--Effect of these Philosophers on
Athens.--School of Political Philosophy continued in Athens
from the Time of Solon.--Anaxagoras.--Archelaus.--Philosophy
not a thing apart from the ordinary Life of the Athenians.
BOOK V
CHAPTER
I Thucydides chosen by the Aristocratic Party to oppose
Pericles.--His Policy.--Munificence of Pericles.--Sacred
War.--Battle of Coronea.--Revolt of Euboea and Megara--
Invasion and Retreat of the Peloponnesians.--Reduction of
Euboea.--Punishment of Histiaea.--A Thirty Years' Truce
concluded with the Peloponnesians.--Ostracism of Thucydides.
II Causes of the Power of Pericles.--Judicial Courts of the
dependant Allies transferred to Athens.--Sketch of the
Athenian Revenues.--Public Buildings the Work of the People
rather than of Pericles.--Vices and Greatness of Athens had
the same Sources.--Principle of Payment characterizes the
Policy of the Period.--It is the Policy of Civilization.--
Colonization, Cleruchia.
III Revision of the Census.--Samian War.--Sketch of the Rise and
Progress of the Athenian Comedy to the Time of Aristophanes.
IV The Tragedies of Sophocles.
ATHENS: ITS RISE AND FALL
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
Situation and Soil of Attica.--The Pelasgians its earliest
Inhabitants.--Their Race and Language akin to the Grecian.--Their
varying Civilization and Architectural Remains.--Cecrops.--Were the
earliest Civilizers of Greece foreigners or Greeks?--The Foundation of
Athens.--The Improvements attributed to Cecrops.--The Religion of the
Greeks cannot be reduced to a simple System.--Its Influence upon their
Character and Morals, Arts and Poetry.--The Origin of Slavery and
Aristocracy.
I. To vindicate the memory of the Athenian people, without disguising
the errors of Athenian institutions;--and, in narrating alike the
triumphs and the reverses--the grandeur and the decay--of the most
eminent of ancient states, to record the causes of her imperishable
influence on mankind, not alone in political change or the fortunes of
fluctuating war, but in the arts, the letters, and the social habits,
which are equal elements in the history of a people;--this is the
object that I set before me;--not unreconciled to the toil of years,
if, serving to divest of some party errors, and to diffuse through a
wider circle such knowledge as is yet bequeathed to us of a time and
land, fertile in august examples and in solemn warnings--consecrated
by undying names and memorable deeds.
II. In that part of earth termed by the Greeks Hellas, and by the
Romans Graecia [2], a small tract of land known by the name of Attica,
extends into the Aegaean Sea--the southeast peninsula of Greece. In
its greatest length it is about sixty, in its greatest breadth about
twenty-four, geographical miles. In shape it is a rude triangle,--on
two sides flows the sea--on the third, the mountain range of Parnes
and Cithaeron divides the Attic from the Boeotian territory. It is
intersected by frequent but not lofty hills, and, compared with the
rest of Greece, its soil, though propitious to the growth of the
olive, is not fertile or abundant. In spite of painful and elaborate
culture, the traces of which are yet visible, it never produced a
sufficiency of corn to supply its population; and this, the
comparative sterility of the land, may be ranked among the causes
which conduced to the greatness of the people. The principal
mountains of Attica are, the Cape of Sunium, Hymettus, renowned for
its honey, and Pentelicus for its marble; the principal streams which
water the valleys are the capricious and uncertain rivulets of
Cephisus and Ilissus [3],--streams breaking into lesser brooks,
deliciously pure and clear. The air is serene--the climate healthful
--the seasons temperate. Along the hills yet breathe the wild thyme,
and the odorous plants which, everywhere prodigal in Greece, are more
especially fragrant in that lucid sky;--and still the atmosphere
colours with peculiar and various taints the marble of the existent
temples and the face of the mountain landscapes.
III. I reject at once all attempt to penetrate an unfathomable
obscurity for an idle object. I do not pause to inquire whether,
after the destruction of Babel, Javan was the first settler in Attica,
nor is it reserved for my labours to decide the solemn controversy
whether Ogyges was the contemporary of Jacob or of Moses. Neither
shall I suffer myself to be seduced into any lengthened consideration
of those disputes, so curious and so inconclusive, relative to the
origin of the Pelasgi (according to Herodotus the earliest inhabitants
of Attica), which have vainly agitated the learned. It may amuse the
antiquary to weigh gravely the several doubts as to the derivation of
their name from Pelasgus or from Peleg--to connect the scattered
fragments of tradition--and to interpret either into history or
mythology the language of fabulous genealogies. But our subtlest
hypotheses can erect only a fabric of doubt, which, while it is
tempting to assault, it is useless to defend. All that it seems to me
necessary to say of the Pelasgi is as follows:--They are the earliest
race which appear to have exercised a dominant power in Greece. Their
kings can be traced by tradition to a time long prior to the recorded
genealogy of any other tribe, and Inachus, the father of the Pelasgian
Phoroneus, is but another name for the remotest era to which Grecian
chronology can ascend [4]. Whether the Pelasgi were anciently a
foreign or a Grecian tribe, has been a subject of constant and
celebrated discussion. Herodotus, speaking of some settlements held
to be Pelaigic, and existing in his time, terms their language
"barbarous;" but Mueller, nor with argument insufficient, considers
that the expression of the historian would apply only to a peculiar
dialect; and the hypothesis is sustained by another passage in
Herodotus, in which he applies to certain Ionian dialects the same
term as that with which he stigmatizes the language of the Pelasgic
settlements. In corroboration of Mueller's opinion we may also
observe, that the "barbarous-tongued" is an epithet applied by Homer
to the Carians, and is rightly construed by the ancient critics as
denoting a dialect mingled and unpolished, certainly not foreign. Nor
when the Agamemnon of Sophocles upbraids Teucer with "his barbarous
tongue," [6] would any scholar suppose that Teucer is upbraided with
not speaking Greek; he is upbraided with speaking Greek inelegantly
and rudely. It is clear that they who continued with the least
adulteration a language in its earliest form, would seem to utter a
strange and unfamiliar jargon to ears accustomed to its more modern
construction. And, no doubt, could we meet with a tribe retaining the
English of the thirteenth century, the language of our ancestors would
be to most of us unintelligible, and seem to many of us foreign. But,
however the phrase of Herodotus be interpreted, it would still be
exceedingly doubtful whether the settlements he refers to were really
and originally Pelasgic, and still more doubtful whether, if Pelasgia
they had continued unalloyed and uncorrupted their ancestral language.
I do not, therefore, attach any importance to the expression of
Herodotus. I incline, on the contrary, to believe, with the more
eminent of English scholars, that the language of the Pelasgi
contained at least the elements of that which we acknowledge as the
Greek;--and from many arguments I select the following:
1st. Because, in the states which we know to have been peopled by the
Pelasgi (as Arcadia and Attica), and whence the population were not
expelled by new tribes, the language appears no less Greek than that
of those states from which the Pelasgi were the earliest driven. Had
they spoken a totally different tongue from later settlers, I conceive
that some unequivocal vestiges of the difference would have been
visible even to the historical times.
2dly. Because the Hellenes are described as few at first--their
progress is slow--they subdue, but they do not extirpate; in such
conquests--the conquests of the few settled among the many--the
language of the many continues to the last; that of the few would
influence, enrich, or corrupt, but never destroy it.
3dly. Because, whatever of the Grecian language pervades the Latin
[7], we can only ascribe to the Pelasgic colonizers of Italy. In
this, all ancient writers, Greek and Latin, are agreed. The few words
transmitted to us as Pelasgic betray the Grecian features, and the
Lamina Borgiana (now in the Borgian collection of Naples, and
discovered in 1783) has an inscription relative to the Siculi or
Sicani, a people expelled from their Italian settlements before any
received date of the Trojan war, of which the character is Pelasgic--
the language Greek.
IV. Of the moral state of the Pelasgi our accounts are imperfect and
contradictory. They were not a petty horde, but a vast race,
doubtless divided, like every migratory people, into numerous tribes,
differing in rank, in civilization [8], and in many peculiarities of
character. The Pelasgi in one country might appear as herdsmen or as
savages; in another, in the same age, they might appear collected into
cities and cultivating the arts. The history of the East informs us
with what astonishing rapidity a wandering tribe, once settled, grew
into fame and power; the camp of to-day--the city of to-morrow--and
the "dwellers in the wilderness setting up the towers and the palaces
thereof." [9] Thus, while in Greece this mysterious people are often
represented as the aboriginal race, receiving from Phoenician and
Egyptian settlers the primitive blessings of social life, in Italy we
behold them the improvers in agriculture [10] and first teachers of
letters. [11]
Even so early as the traditional appearance of Cecrops among the
savages of Attica, the Pelasgians in Arcadia had probably advanced
from the pastoral to the civil life; and this, indeed, is the date
assigned by Pausanias to the foundation of that ancestral Lycosura, in
whose rude remains (by the living fountain and the waving oaks of the
modern Diaphorte) the antiquary yet traces the fortifications of "the
first city which the sun beheld." [12] It is in their buildings that
the Pelasgi have left the most indisputable record of their name.
Their handwriting is yet upon their walls! A restless and various
people--overrunning the whole of Greece, found northward in Dacia,
Illyria, and the country of the Getae, colonizing the coasts of Ionia,
and long the master-race of the fairest lands of Italy,--they have
passed away amid the revolutions of the elder earth, their ancestry
and their descendants alike unknown;--yet not indeed the last, if my
conclusions are rightly drawn: if the primitive population of Greece--
themselves Greek--founding the language, and kindred with the blood,
of the later and more illustrious Hellenes--they still made the great
bulk of the people in the various states, and through their most
dazzling age: Enslaved in Laconia--but free in Athens--it was their
posterity that fought the Mede at Marathon and Plataea,--whom
Miltiades led,--for whom Solon legislated,--for whom Plato thought,--
whom Demosthenes harangued. Not less in Italy than in Greece | 1,984.709128 |
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Produced by Steven desJardins and the Online Distributed
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CAD METTI,
The Female Detective Strategist;
OR,
DUDIE DUNNE AGAIN IN THE FIELD.
BY OLD SLEUTH.
Author of all the Famous "Old Sleuth" Stories.
CHAPTER I.
TWO SKILLFUL YOUNG DETECTIVES OVERMATCH A BRACE OF VILLAINS AND
PROVE WHAT NERVE AND COURAGE CAN DO.
"Let's duck him and steal the girl."
A young lady and gentleman were walking on the sands at Coney Island
beach. The lady was very handsomely attired, and by her side walked a
young man, a perfect type in appearance of an effeminate dude. Three
rough-looking men had been following the lady and gentleman at a
distance, and when the latter stopped at a remote part of the beach far
from any hotel the three men held a consultation, and one of them | 1,984.804256 |
2023-11-16 18:50:08.7850860 | 332 | 11 |
Produced by Les Bowler
CHILDE HAROLD'S PILGRIMAGE
By Lord Byron
List of Contents
To Ianthe
Canto the First
Canto the Second
Canto the Third
Canto the Fourth
TO IANTHE. {1}
Not in those climes where I have late been straying,
Though Beauty long hath there been matchless deemed,
Not in those visions to the heart displaying
Forms which it sighs but to have only dreamed,
Hath aught like thee in truth or fancy seemed:
Nor, having seen thee, shall I vainly seek
To paint those charms which varied as they beamed--
To such as see thee not my words were weak;
To those who gaze on thee, what language could they speak?
Ah! mayst thou ever be what now thou art,
Nor unbeseem the promise of thy spring,
As fair in form, as warm yet pure in heart,
Love's image upon earth without his wing,
And guileless beyond Hope's imagining!
And surely she who now so fondly rears
Thy youth, in thee, thus hourly brightening,
Beholds the rainbow of her future years,
Before whose heavenly hues all sorrow disappears.
Young Peri of the West!--'tis well for me
My years already doubly number thine;
My loveless eye unmoved may gaze on thee,
And safely view thy ripening beauties shine:
Happy, I ne'er shall see them in decline;
| 1,984.805126 |
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Produced by Brendan OConnor, Neville Allen, Jonathan Ingram
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
gener | 1,985.002927 |
2023-11-16 18:50:09.0794130 | 177 | 13 |
Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
[Illustration: Founding of St. Augustine By Pedro Menendez, September 8,
1565.]
[Illustration: Text decoration]
THE
UNWRITTEN
HISTORY _of_
Old St. Augustine
Copied from the Spanish Archives
in Seville, Spain, by Miss
A. M. Brooks and
Translated
by
Mrs. Annie Averette
[Illustration: Text decoration]
PREFACE
We take pleasure in presenting to our readers information connected with
St. Augustine never before published. It is composed largely of reports
and letters to the | 1,985.099453 |
2023-11-16 18:50:09.0796880 | 750 | 14 |
Produced by Winston Smith. Images provided by The Internet Archive.
OSCAR WILDE
This Edition consists of 500 copies.
Fifty copies have been printed on
hand-made paper.
[Illustration: 'HOW UTTER.']
Oscar Wilde
A STUDY
FROM THE FRENCH OF
ANDRÉ GIDE
WITH INTRODUCTION, NOTES AND BIBLIOGRAPHY
BY
STUART MASON
Oxford
THE HOLYWELL PRESS
MCMV
* * * * *
TO
DONALD BRUCE WALLACE,
OF NEW YORK,
IN MEMORY OF A VISIT LAST SUMMER TO
BAGNEUX CEMETERY,
A PILGRIMAGE OF LOVE WHEN WE
WATERED WITH OUR TEARS THE ROSES AND LILIES
WITH WHICH WE COVERED
THE POET'S GRAVE.
Oxford,
September, 1905.
[The little poem on the opposite page first saw the light in the pages
of the _Dublin University Magazine_ for September, 1876. It has not
been reprinted since. The Greek quotation is taken from the _Agamemnon_
of Æschylos, l. 120. ]
Αἴλινον, αἴινον εἰπὲ,
Τὸ δ᾽ ευ̉ νικάτω
O well for him who lives at ease
With garnered gold in wide domain,
Nor heeds the plashing of the rain,
The crashing down of forest trees.
O well for him who ne'er hath known
The travail of the hungry years,
A father grey with grief and tears,
A mother weeping all alone.
But well for him whose feet hath trod
The weary road of toil and strife,
Yet from the sorrows of his life
Builds ladders to be nearer God.
Oscar F. O'F. Wills Wilde.
_S. M. Magdalen College,_
_Oxford._
NOTE.
M. Gide's Study of Mr. Oscar Wilde (perhaps the best account yet
written of the poet's latter days) appeared first in _L'Ermitage_, a
monthly literary review, in June, 1902. It was afterwards reprinted
with some few slight alterations in a volume of critical essays,
entitled _Prétextes_, by M. Gide. It is now published in English for
the first time, by special arrangement with the author.
S. M.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Poem by Oscar Wilde.................................... xi
Introductory........................................... 1
Inscription on Oscar Wilde's Tombstone................. 11
Letters from M. André Gide............................. 12
Oscar Wilde: from the French of André Gide............. 15
Sonnet 'To Oscar Wilde,' by Augustus M. Moore.......... 89
List of Published Writings of Oscar Wilde.............. 93
Bibliographical Notes on The English Editions.......... 107
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Cartoon: 'How Utter'.......................... Frontispiece
(From a Cartoon published by Messrs. Shrimpton at
Oxford about 1880. By permission of Mr. Hubert
Giles, 23 Broad St., Oxford).
| 1,985.099728 |
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Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by the
Web Archive (University of Toronto)
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Web Archive
https://archive.org/details/ticonderogastory00jameuoft
(University of Toronto)
[Book Cover: Ticonderoga By G. P. R. JAMES]
[Illustration By J. Watson Davis:
As a tall dark figure gilded into the room, Lord H---- drew Edith
suddenly back and placed himself before her. Page 99.
_Frontispiece_. --_Ticonderoga_]
-----------------------------------------------------
_A Story of Early Frontier Life in the Mohawk Valley_
-----------------------------------------------------
_By G. P. R. JAMES_
_Author of "Darnley, A Romance of the times
of Henry VIII."; "Richelieu, A Tale of
France in the Reign of King Louis XIII_."
-----------------------------------------------------
A. L. BURT COMPANY,
PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK
-----------------------------------------------------
TICONDEROGA
CHAPTER I
The house was a neat, though a lowly one. It bore traces of newness,
for the bark on the trunks which supported the little veranda had not
yet mouldered away. Nevertheless, it was not built by the owner's own
hands; for when he came there he had much to learn in the rougher arts
of life; but with a carpenter from a village some nine miles off, he
had aided to raise the building and directed the construction by his
own taste. The result was satisfactory to him; and, what was more, in
his eyes, was satisfactory to the two whom he loved best--at least, | 1,985.105633 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE STRAND MAGAZINE
_An Illustrated Monthly_
EDITED BY GEORGE NEWNES
Vol VII., Issue 39.
March, 1894
[Illustration: MR. THOMAS SIDNEY COOPER, R.A.
_From a Photo. by Elliot & Fry._]
_Illustrated Interviews._
XXXI.--MR. T. SIDNEY COOPER, R.A.
[Illustration]
The first sight I obtained of Mr. Cooper was of considerable
interest. He lives in a beautiful spot, about a mile and a half from
Canterbury--at Vernon Holme, Harbledown; and as I entered the gate
I caught sight of Mr. Cooper before his easel in his studio, taking
advantage of the light of a glorious winter's day, and working away at
a canvas which I subsequently learnt was intended, with another, to
form his contribution to this year's exhibition at the Royal Academy.
I stood for a moment quietly and respectfully looking on before
ringing the bell at the front door. The canvas presented a landscape,
and the cattle were just outlined in with pencil. The painter was
working without the aid of glasses, and this for a man who is in his
ninety-first year may certainly be said to be highly respectable.
Somewhat below the medium height, with marvellously penetrating eyes,
scarcely the sign of the stoop of old age, a hand as steady as in '35,
when he was just beginning to make a name, and silvery white hair about
his head--it was an impressive picture. T. Sidney Cooper's brilliant
work of the past and to-day calls for all recognition of his gifts, but
it is only when one catches sight of him as I did--snow, nothing but
snow, everywhere outside, and the painter, now in the winter of life,
clinging with all the old love to his sheep and cattle--it is only then
that one realizes the great respect due to the Grand Old Academician.
[Illustration: VERNON HOLME--FROM THE POND. _From a Photo. by Elliott &
Fry._]
So I shook my snow-covered boots outside and entered the hall of Vernon
Holme. The artist left his easel. It was a hearty welcome to Vernon
Holme. There was no mistaking the man. He was living there a quiet,
happy, contented, and work-a-day life; rising at half-past seven every
morning in the winter, and in the summer months at seven o'clock.
Before breakfast the palettes are set and the paints made ready. He
will work steadily up to dusk. His recreation is his Bible, and twice
a day, after lunch and dinner, a chapter is read aloud. His voice is
clear, and he reads every word, and suggests its meaning. I heard
Sidney Cooper read. His birthdays are _thinking_ days--_thankful_ days
too, it would seem. The lines he wrote on September 26th, 1889, reveal
much. He calls them "Musings on My Eighty-sixth Birthday," and they
run:--
Another birthday dawns--the eighty-sixth,
How little take we note of fleeting time!
Since last this day of joyful glee was here
What blessings have been mine; alas! how oft
Have unrequited been! The cares of life
Engross my thoughts when holy things my heart
Should fill. Thou who hast made my way of life
So full of mercies, be Thou still my help.
When o'er this day of life the night shall fall,
And called my feet to pass thro' ways unknown,
Be near me still; be Thou my strength; and when
The walls decay leave not the tenant lone,
But by Thy Spirit comfort and uphold;
I have but Thee, I have no claim of Gate
Of Pearl, or Street of Glittering Gold, but thro'
Thy boundless grace, my good and bad are both
Forgiven. In humble fitting place among
The many mansions, where there is no sin,
And by Thy Crystal River flowing on
Through Heaven's green expanse, I'll learn the new
And holy song of Worthy is the Lamb,
And 'neath the Healing Tree shall find that life
Wished for so long!!!
Then he loves to take you about his house, for it is | 1,985.105715 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
*A PRINCE*
*OF*
*SWINDLERS*
BY
GUY BOOTHBY
ARTHUR WESTBROOK
COMPANY
CLEVELAND, OHIO, U. S. A.
Copyright, 1907, by Bainbridge Cayll
*CONTENTS.*
CHAPTER I.
A Criminal in Disguise
CHAPTER II.
The Den of Iniquity
CHAPTER III.
The Duchess of Wiltshire's Diamonds
CHAPTER IV.
How Simon Carne Won the Derby
CHAPTER V.
A Service to the State
CHAPTER VI.
A Visit in the Night
CHAPTER VII.
The Man of Many Crimes
CHAPTER VIII.
An Imperial Finale
*A PRINCE OF SWINDLERS*
*CHAPTER I.*
*A CRIMINAL IN DISGUISE.*
After no small amount of deliberation, I have come to the conclusion
that it is only fit and proper I should set myself right with the world
in the matter of the now famous 18--swindles. For, though I have never
been openly accused of complicity in those miserable affairs, yet I
cannot rid myself of the remembrance that it was I who introduced the
man who perpetrated them to London society, and that in more than one
instance I acted, innocently enough, Heaven knows, as his _Deus ex
machina_, in bringing about the very results he was so anxious to
achieve. I will first allude, in a few words, to the year in which the
crimes took place, and then proceed to describe the events that led to
my receiving the confession which has so strangely and unexpectedly come
into my hands.
Whatever else may be said on the subject, one thing at least is
certain--it will be many years before London forgets that season of
festivity. The joyous occasion which made half the sovereigns of Europe
our guests for weeks on end, kept foreign princes among us until their
faces became as familiar to us as those of our own aristocracy, rendered
the houses in our fashionable quarters unobtainable for love or money,
filled our hotels to repletion, and produced daily pageants the like of
which few of us have ever seen or imagined, can hardly fail to go down
to posterity as one of the most notable in English history. Small
wonder, therefore, that the wealth, then located in our great
metropolis, should have attracted swindlers from all parts of the globe.
That it should have fallen to the lot of one who has always prided
himself on steering clear of undesirable acquaintances, to introduce to
his friends one of the most notorious adventurers our capital has ever
seen, seems like the irony of fate. Perhaps, however, if I begin by
showing how cleverly our meeting was contrived, those who would
otherwise feel inclined to censure me, will pause before passing
judgment, and will ask themselves whether they would not have walked
into the snare as unsuspectedly as I did.
It was during the last year of my term of office as Viceroy, and while I
was paying a visit to the Governor of Bombay, that I decided upon making
a tour of the Northern Provinces, beginning with Peshawur, and winding
up with the Maharajah of Malar-Kadir. As the latter potentate is so well
known, I need not describe him. His forcible personality, his
enlightened rule, and the progress his state has made within the last
ten years, are well known to every student of the history of our
magnificent Indian Empire.
My stay with him was a pleasant finish to an otherwise monotonous
business, for his hospitality has a world-wide reputation. When I
arrived he placed his palace, his servants, and his stables at my
disposal to use just as I pleased. My time was practically my own. I
could be as solitary as a hermit if I so desired; on the other hand, I
had but to give the order, and five hundred men would cater for my
amusement. It seems therefore the more unfortunate that to this pleasant
arrangement I should have to attribute the calamities which it is the
purpose of this series of stories to narrate.
On the third morning of my stay I woke early. When I had examined my
watch I discovered that it wanted an hour of daylight, and, not feeling
inclined to go to sleep again, I wondered how I should employ my time
until my servant should bring me my _chota hazri_, or early breakfast.
On proceeding to my window I found a perfect morning, the stars still
shining, though in the east they were paling before the approach of
dawn. It was difficult to realize that in a few hours the earth which
now looked so cool and wholesome would be lying, burnt up and quivering,
beneath the blazing Indian sun.
I stood and watched the picture presented to me for some minutes, until
an overwhelming desire came over me to order a horse and go for a long
ride before the sun should make his appearance above the jungle trees.
The temptation was more than I could resist, so I crossed the room and,
opening the door, woke my servant, who was sleeping in the ante-chamber.
Having bidden him find a groom and have a horse saddled for me, without
rousing the household, I returned and commenced my toilet. Then,
descending by a private staircase to the great courtyard, I mounted the
animal I found awaiting me there, and set off.
Leaving the city behind me I made my way over the new bridge with which
His Highness has spanned the river, and, crossing the plain, headed
towards the jungle, that rises like a green wall upon the other side.
My horse was a _waler_ of exceptional excellence, as every one who knows
the Maharajah's stable will readily understand, and I was just in the
humor for a ride. But the coolness was not destined to last long, for
by the time I had left the second village behind me, the stars had given
place to the faint grey light of dawn. A soft, breeze stirred the palms
and rustled the long grass, but its freshness was deceptive; the sun
would be up almost before I could look round, and then nothing could
save us from a scorching day.
After I had been riding for nearly an hour it struck me that, if I
wished to be back in time for breakfast, I had better think of
returning. At the time I was standing in the center of a small plain,
surrounded by jungle. Behind me was the path I had followed to reach
the place; in front, and to the right and left, others leading whither I
could not tell. Having no desire to return by the road I had come, I
touched up my horse and cantered off in an easterly direction, feeling
certain that even if I had to make a divergence, I should reach the city
without very much trouble.
By the time I had put three miles or so behind me the heat had become
stifling, the path being completely shut in on either side by the
densest jungle I have ever known. For all I could see to the contrary,
I might have been a hundred miles from any habitation.
Imagine my astonishment, therefore, when, on turning a corner of the
track, I suddenly left the jungle behind me, and found myself standing
on the top of a stupendous cliff, looking down upon a lake of blue
water. In the center of this lake was an island, and on the island a
house. At the distance I was from it the latter appeared to be built of
white marble, as indeed I afterward found to be the case. Anything,
however, more lovely than the effect produced by the blue water, the
white building, and the jungle-clad hills upon the other side, can
scarcely be imagined. I stood and gazed at it in delighted amazement.
Of all the beautiful places I had hitherto seen in India this, I could
honestly say, was entitled to rank first. But how it was to benefit me
in my present situation I could not for the life of me understand.
Ten minutes later I had discovered a guide, and also a path down the
cliff to the shore, where, I was assured, a boat and a man could be
obtained to transport me to the palace. I therefore bade my informant
precede me, and after some minutes' anxious scrambling my horse and I
reached the water's edge.
Once there, the boatman was soon brought to light, and, when I had
resigned my horse to the care of my guide, I was rowed across to the
mysterious residence in question.
On reaching it we drew up at some | 1,985.105838 |
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HARDING OF ALLENWOOD
[Illustration: "'PICK UP YOUR SKIRT,' HE SAID BLUNTLY; 'IT GETS
STEEPER.'"--Page 32]
HARDING OF ALLENWOOD
BY HAROLD BINDLOSS
AUTHOR OF PRESCOTT OF SASKATCHEWAN,
WINSTON OF THE PRAIRIE, ETC
WITH FRONTISPIECE IN COLOR
[Illustration]
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Copyright, 1915, by
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
All rights reserved
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE PIONEERS 1
II PORTENTS OF CHANGE 14
III AT THE FORD 26
IV THE OPENING OF THE RIFT 36
V THE SPENDTHRIFT 48
VI THE MORTGAGE BROKER 56
VII AN ACCIDENT 67
VIII AN UNEXPECTED ESCAPE 79
IX A MAN OF AFFAIRS 92
X THE CASTING VOTE 103
XI THE STEAM PLOW 118
XII THE ENEMY WITHIN 132
XIII THE TRAITOR 145
XIV A BOLD SCHEME 156
XV HARVEST HOME 169
XVI THE BRIDGE 182
XVII A HEAVY BLOW 192
XVIII COVERING HIS TRAIL 203
XIX THE BLIZZARD 215
XX A SEVERE TEST 225
XXI THE DAY OF RECKONING 236
XXII THE PRICE OF HONOR 245
XXIII A WOMAN INTERVENES 255
XXIV A GREAT TRIUMPH 264
XXV THE REBUFF 276
XXVI DROUGHT 287
XXVII THE ADVENTURESS 298
XXVIII FIRE AND HAIL 308
XXIX A BRAVE HEART 318
XXX THE INHERITANCE 326
HARDING, OF ALLENWOOD
CHAPTER I
THE PIONEERS
It was a clear day in September. The boisterous winds which had swept
the wide Canadian plain all summer had fallen and only a faint breeze
stirred the yellowing leaves of the poplars. Against the glaring blue of
the northern sky the edge of the prairie cut in a long, straight line;
above the southern horizon rounded cloud-masses hung, soft and white as
wool. Far off, the prairie was washed with tints of delicate gray, but
as it swept in to the foreground the color changed, growing in strength,
to brown and ocher with streaks of silvery brightness where the withered
grass caught the light. To the east the view was broken, for the banks
of a creek that wound across the broad level were lined with
timber--birches and | 1,985.107496 |
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THE WORKS OF ANATOLE FRANCE
IN AN ENGLISH TRANSLATION
EDITED BY FREDERIC CHAPMAN
THE WHITE STONE
THE WHITE STONE
BY ANATOLE FRANCE
A TRANSLATION BY
CHARLES E. ROCHE
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY: MCMX
Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO, LIMITED
Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, London
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. 9
II. GALLIO 29
III. 107
IV. 147
V. THROUGH THE HORN
OR THE IVORY GATE 183
VI. 237
Καὶ ἔμοιγε δοκεῖτε ἐπὶ λευκάδα πέτρην καὶ δῆμον ὀνείρων
καταδαρθέντες τοσαῦτα ὀνειροπολεῖν ἐν ἀκαρεῖ τῆς νυκτὸς
οὔσης.
(Philopatris, xxi.)
And to me it seems that you have fallen asleep
upon a white rock, and in a parish of dreams, and
have dreamt all this in a moment while it was
night.
THE WHITE STONE
I
A few Frenchmen, united in friendship, who were spending the spring in
Rome, were wont to meet amid the ruins of the disinterred Forum. They
were Joséphin Leclerc, an Embassy Attaché on leave; M. Goubin, licencié
ès lettres, an annotator; Nicole Langelier, of the old Parisian family
of the Langeliers, printers and classical scholars; Jean Boilly, a
civil engineer, and Hippolyte Dufresne, a man of leisure, and a lover
of the fine arts.
Towards five o’clock of the afternoon of the first day of May, they
wended their way, as was their custom, through the northern door,
closed to the public, where Commendatore Boni, who superintended the
excavations, welcomed them with quiet amenity, and led them to the
threshold of his house of wood nestling in the shadow of laurel bushes,
privet hedges and cytisus, and rising above the vast trench, dug down
to the depth of the ancient Forum, in the cattle market of pontifical
Rome.
Here, they pause awhile, and look about them.
Facing them rise the truncated shafts of the Columnæ Honorariæ, and
where stood the Basilica of Julia, the eye rested on what bore the
semblance of a huge draughts-board and its draughts. Further south, the
three columns of the Temple of the Dioscuri cleave the azure of the
skies with their blue-tinted volutes. On their right, surmounting the
dilapidated Arch of Septimus Severus, the tall columns of the Temple
of Saturn, the dwellings of Christian Rome, and the Women’s Hospital
display in tiers, their facings yellower and muddier than the waters of
the Tiber. To their left stands the Palatine flanked by huge red arches
and crowned with evergreen oaks. At their feet, from hill to hill,
among the flagstones of the Via Sacra, narrow as a village street,
spring from the earth an agglomeration of brick walls and marble
foundations, the remains of buildings which dotted the Forum in the
days of Rome’s strength. Trefoil, oats, and the grasses of the field
which the wind has sown on their lowered tops, have covered them with
a rustic roof illumined by the crimson poppies. A mass of _débris_,
of crumbling entablatures, a multitude of pillars and altars, an
entanglement of steps and enclosing walls: all this indeed not stunted
but of a serried vastness and within limits.
Nicole Langelier was doubtless reviewing in his mind the host of
monuments confined in this famed space:
“These edifices of wise proportions and moderate dimensions,” he
remarked, “were separated from one another by narrow streets full of
shade. Here ran the _vicoli_ beloved in countries where the sun shines,
while the generous descendants of Remus, on their return from hearing
public speakers, found, along the walls of the temples, cool yet
foul-smelling corners, whence the rinds of water-melons and castaway
shells were never swept away, and where they could eat and enjoy their
siesta. The shops skirting the square must certainly have emitted the
pungent odour of onions, wine, fried meats, and cheese. The butchers’
stalls were laden with meats, to the delectation of the hardy citizens,
and it was from one of those butchers that Virginius snatched the knife
with which he killed his daughter. There also were doubtless jewellers
and vendors of little domestic tutelary deities, protectors of the
hearth, the ox-stall, and the garden. The citizens’ necessaries of life
were all centred in this spot. The market and the shops, the basilicas,
_i.e._, the commercial Exchanges and the civil tribunals; the Curia,
that municipal council which became the administrative power of the
universe; the prisons, whose vaults emitted their much dreaded and
fetid effluvia, and the temples, the altars, of the highest necessity
to the Italians who have ever some thing to beg of the celestial powers.
“Here it was, lastly, that during a long roll of centuries were
accomplished the vulgar or strange deeds, almost ever flat and dull,
oftentimes odious and ridiculous, at times generous, the agglomeration
of which constitutes the august life of a people.”
“What is it that one sees, in the centre of the square, fronting the
commemorative pedestals?” inquired M. Goubin, who, primed with an
eye-glass, had noticed a new feature in the ancient Forum, and was
thirsting for information concerning it.
Joséphin Leclerc obligingly answered him that they were the foundations
of the recently unearthed colossal statue of Domitian.
Thereupon he pointed out, one after the other, the monuments laid bare
by Giacomo Boni in the course of his five years’ fruitful excavations:
the fountain and the well of Juturna, under the Palatine Hill; the
altar erected on the site of Cæsar’s funeral pile, the base of which
spread itself at their feet, opposite the Rostra; the archaic stele and
the legendary tomb of Romulus over which lies the black marble slab of
the Comitium; and again, the Lacus Curtius.
The sun, which had set behind the Capitol, was striking with its
last shafts the triumphal arch of Titus on the towering Velia. The
heavens, where to the West the pearl-white moon floated, remained as
blue as at midday. An even, peaceful, and clear shadow spread itself
over the silent Forum. The bronzed navvies were delving this field of
stones, while, pursuing the work of the ancient Kings, their comrades
turned the crank of a well, for the purpose of drawing the water which
still forms the bed where slumbered, in the days of pious Numa, the
reed-fringed Velabrum.
They were performing their task methodically and with vigilance.
Hippolyte Dufresne, who had for several months been a witness of their
assiduous labour, of their intelligence and of their prompt obedience
to orders, inquired of the director of the excavations how it was that
he obtained such yeoman’s work from his labourers.
“By leading their life,” replied Giacomo Boni. “Together with them do I
turn over the soil; I impart to them what we are together seeking for,
and I impress on their minds the beauty of our common work. They feel
an interest in an enterprise the grandeur of which they apprehend but
vaguely. I have seen their faces pale with enthusiasm when unearthing
the tomb of Romulus. I am their everyday comrade, and if one of them
falls ill, I take a seat at his bedside. I place as great faith in them
as they do in me. And so it is that I boast of faithful workmen.”
“Boni, my dear Boni,” exclaimed Joséphin Leclerc, “you know full well
that I admire your labours, and that your grand discoveries fill me
with emotion, and yet, allow me to say so, I regret the days when
flocks grazed over the entombed Forum. A white ox, from whose massive
head branched horns widely apart, chewed the cud in the unploughed
field; a hind dozed at the foot of a tall column which sprang from the
sward, and one mused: Here was debated the fate of the world. The Forum
has been lost to poets and lovers from the day that it ceased to be the
Campo Formio.”
Jean Boilly dwelt on the value of these excavations, so methodically
carried out, as a contribution towards a knowledge of the past. Then,
the conversation having drifted towards the philosophy of the history
of Rome:
“The Latins,” he remarked, “displayed reason even in the matter of
their religion. Their gods were commonplace and vulgar, but full of
common sense and occasionally generous. If a comparison be drawn
between this Roman Pantheon composed of soldiers, magistrates, virgins,
and matrons and the deviltries painted on the walls of Etruscan tombs,
reason and madness will be found in juxtaposition. The infernal scenes
depicted in the mortuary chambers of Corneto represent the monstrous
creations of ignorance and fear. They seem to us as grotesque as
Orcagna’s _Day of Judgment_ in Santa Maria Novella at Florence, and the
_Dantesque Hell_ of the Campo Santo of Pisa, whereas the Latin Pantheon
reflects for ever the image of a well-organised society. The gods of
the Romans were like themselves, industrious and good citizens. They
were useful deities, each one having its proper function. The very
nymphs held civil and political offices.
“Look at Juturna, whose altar at the foot of the Palatine we have so
frequently contemplated. She did not seem fated by her birth, her
advent | 1,985.10924 |
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available by Villanova University Digital Library
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrated book cover.
See 48402-h.htm or 48402-h.zip:
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(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/48402/48402-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Villanova University Digital Library. See
http://digital.library.villanova.edu/Record/vudl:308331
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
Motor Stories
Thrilling Adventure Motor Fiction
No. 12
May 15, 1909
Five Cents
MOTOR MATT'S PERIL
OR CASTAWAY IN THE BAHAMAS
by
STANLEY R. MATTHEWS
[Illustration: The "Hawk" was doomed!
As quickly as he could, Motor Matt
made ready to follow Carl and Dick.]
Street & Smith,
Publishers,
New York.
MOTOR STORIES THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
_Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Entered according to
Act of Congress in the year 1909, in the Office of the Librarian of
Congress, Washington, D. C., by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Avenue,
New York, N. Y._
No. 12. NEW YORK, May 15, 1909. Price Five Cents.
MOTOR MATT'S PERIL
OR,
Cast Away in the Bahamas.
By the author of "MOTOR MATT."
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. CARL AS BUTTINSKY.
CHAPTER II. THE MOVING-PICTURE MAN MAKES A QUEER MOVE.
CHAPTER III. WARM WORK AT THE "INLET."
CHAPTER IV. PRISONERS ON A SUBMARINE.
CHAPTER V. THROUGH THE TORPEDO TUBE.
CHAPTER VI. THE CAPE TOWN MYSTERY.
CHAPTER VII. OFF FOR THE BAHAMAS.
CHAPTER VIII. AN ACCIDENT.
CHAPTER IX. MATT AND HIS CHUMS GO IT ALONE.
CHAPTER X. THE AIR SHIP SPRINGS A LEAK.
CHAPTER XI. WRECKED!
CHAPTER XII. LUCK--OR ILL-LUCK?
CHAPTER XIII. A MOVE AND A COUNTERMOVE.
CHAPTER XIV. MOTOR MATT'S SUCCESS.
CHAPTER XV. A FEW SURPRISES.
CHAPTER XVI. MATT TAKES TOWNSEND'S ADVICE.
NIGHT WATCHES FOR BIG GAME.
SPECIALISTS IN THE WOODS.
MISSOURI WILLOW FARM.
ANIMALS THAT DREAD RAIN.
CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.
=Matt King=, concerning whom there has always been a mystery--a lad
of splendid athletic abilities, and never-failing nerve, who has won
for himself, among the boys of the Western town, the popular name of
"Mile-a-minute Matt."
=Carl Pretzel=, a cheerful and rollicking German lad, who is led by a
fortunate accident to hook up with Motor Matt in double harness.
=Dick Ferral=, a Canadian boy who has served his time in the King's
navy, and bobs up in the States where he falls into plots and
counterplots, and comes near losing his life.
=Archibald Townsend=, otherwise "Captain Nemo, Jr.," of the submarine
boat _Grampus_, who proves himself a firm friend of Motor Matt.
=Lattimer Jurgens=, an unscrupulous person who, for some time, has
been at daggers drawn with Archibald Townsend.
=Whistler=, an able lieutenant of Lat Jurgens.
=Cassidy, Burke and Harris=, comprising the crew of the _Grampus_.
"=The Man from Cape Town=," who does not appear in the story but
whose influence is nevertheless made manifest.
=McMillan and Holcomb=, police officers.
CHAPTER I.
CARL AS BUTTINSKY.
"Py shinks, aber dot's funny! Dose fellers look like dey vas birates,
or some odder scalawags. Vat vas dey doing, anyvays, in a blace like
dis?"
It was on the beach at Atlantic City, New Jersey. Carl Pretzel was
there, in a bathing suit.
Those who know the Dutch boy will remember that he was fat, and there
is always something humorous about a fat person in a bathing suit.
Carl had been in the water. After swimming out as far as the end of the
steel pier, he had returned and climbed up on the beach. An Italian
happened to be passing with a pushcart loaded with "red-hots" and buns.
Carl had a dime pinned in the breast of his abbreviated costume. He
unpinned the dime, bought two "red-hots" and a bun, and fell down in
the sand to rest and enjoy himself. The Italian lingered near him,
staring with bulging eyes to a place on the beach a little way beyond
Carl. The Dutch boy, observing the trend of the Italian's curiosity,
looked in the same direction.
A girl was kneeling on the beach, tossing her arms despairingly. She
was a pretty girl, her clothes were torn and wet, and her long, dark
hair was streaming about her shoulders.
Certainly it was a curious sight, there in that densely populated
summer resort, to see a young woman acting in that manner. Up on the
board walk above the beach a gaping throng had gathered. A little
way from the board walk a man seemed to be doing something with a
photograph instrument.
Carl, intensely wrought up, floundered to his bare feet, a "red-hot"
in one hand and half a bun in the other. Any one in distress always
appealed to Carl--particularly a woman.
From the woman, Carl's eyes drifted toward the water. A boat was
pulling in, and was close to the shore. There were three men in
the boat, two at the oars and one standing in the bow. They were a
fierce-looking lot, those men. All were of swarthy hue, had fierce
black mustaches, gold rings in their ears, heads covered with knotted
handkerchiefs over which were drawn stocking caps, and all wore sashes
through which were thrust long, ancient-looking knives and pistols.
The man in | 1,985.20403 |
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:
Minor spelling inconsistencies have been silently corrected. Apart
from a few corrections listed at the end of the book, original
spelling was retained. Footnotes were sequentially numbered and
placed at the end of each chapter.
p. 300: in the words carpenter, majesty and merchaundise
letters [e macron] and [u with breve] are encoded as plain
[e and u] respectively.
p. 303: in the words mournfully, mournfuly, royalty
letters [u with breve], [u, a macron] are encoded as plain [u and a]
respectively.
p. 304: in the words Trumpington, love-sik and dangerus letters
[i macron] and [i, u with breve] are encoded as plain [i and u]
respectively.
p. 321-322: superscripts are preceded by the [^] sign and enclosed in
braces if more than one letter is in superscript.
p. 354: in the word Pusan letters [u macron] and [s with cedilla]
are encoded as plain [u and s] respectively.
Ligature [oe] is encoded as oe.
Mark up: _italics_
=bold=
*font change*
*Columbia University*
_STUDIES IN LITERATURE_
|===============================================================|
|*Columbia University* |
| |
|STUDIES IN LITERATURE |
| |
| |
| |
|=A HISTORY OF LITERARY CRITICISM IN |
| THE RENAISSANCE=: With Special Reference |
| to the Influence of Italy in the Formation and |
| Development of Modern Classicism. By JOEL |
| ELIAS SPINGARN. |
| |
| |
|_In Press:_ |
| |
| |
|=ROMANCES OF ROGUERY=: An Episode in the |
| Development of the Modern Novel, Part I. |
| The Picaresque Novel in Spain. By FRANK |
| WADLEIGH CHANDLER. |
| |
|=SPANISH LITERATURE IN ENGLAND UNDER |
| THE TUDORS=. By JOHN GARRETT |
| UNDERHILL. |
| |
| |
| * * * * * |
| |
|***_Other numbers of this series will be issued from |
|time to time, containing the results of literary research, |
|or criticism by the students or officers of |
|Columbia University, or others associated with them |
|in study, under the authorization of the Department |
|of Literature_, GEORGE EDWARD WOODBERRY _and_ |
|BRANDER MATTHEWS, _Professors_. |
|===============================================================|
A HISTORY
OF
LITERARY CRITICISM
IN THE RENAISSANCE
WITH SPECIAL REF | 1,985.302383 |
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THE HARBOR
THE HARBOR
BY
ERNEST POOLE
[Illustration: Publishers mark]
NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS
Published by Arrangement with The Macmillan Company.
COPYRIGHT, 1915,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Set up and electrotyped. Published February, 1915 Reprinted February,
1915 Twice. March, 1915 Three Times. April, 1915 Twice May, 1915. Twice
June, 1915. Twice July, 1915. August, 1915. September, October,
November, December, 1915. January, 1916. March, 1916
_TO M. A._
THE HARBOR
BOOK I
CHAPTER I
"You chump," I thought contemptuously. I was seven years old at the
time, and the gentleman to whom I referred was Henry Ward Beecher. What
it was that aroused my contempt for the man will be more fully
understood if I tell first of the grudge that I bore him.
I was sitting in my mother's pew in the old church in Brooklyn. I was
altogether too small for the pew, it was much too wide for the bend at
my knees; and my legs, which were very short and fat, stuck straight out
before me. I was not allowed to move, I was most uncomfortable, and for
this Sabbath torture I laid all the blame on the preacher. For my mother
had once told me that I was brought to church so small in order that
when I grew up I could say I had heard the great man preach before he
died. Hence the deep grudge that I bore him. Sitting here this morning,
it seemed to me for hours and hours, I had been meditating upon my hard
lot. From time to time, as was my habit when thinking or feeling deeply,
one hand would unconsciously go to my head and slowly stroke my bang. My
hair was short and had no curls, its only glory was this bang, which was
deliciously soft to my hand and shone like a mirror from much reflective
stroking. Presently my mother would notice and with a smile she would
put down my hand, but a few moments later up it would come and would
continue its stroking. For I felt both abused and puzzled. What was
there in the talk of the large white-haired old man in the pulpit to
make my mother's eyes so queer, to make her sit so stiff and still? What
good would it do me when I grew up to say that I had heard him?
"I don't believe I will ever say it," I reasoned doggedly to myself.
"And even if I do, I don't believe any other man will care whether I say
it to him or not." I felt sure my father wouldn't. He never even came to
church.
At the thought of my strange silent father, my mind leaped to his
warehouse, his dock, the ships and the harbor. Like him, they were all
so strange. And my hands grew a little cold and moist as I thought of
the terribly risky thing I had planned to do all by myself that very
afternoon. I thought about it for a long time with my eyes tight shut.
Then the voice of the minister brought me back, I found myself sitting
here in church and went on with this less shivery thinking.
"I wouldn't care myself," I decided. "If I were a man and another man
met me on the street and said, 'Look here. When I was a boy I heard
Henry Ward Beecher before he died,' I guess I would just say to him,
'You mind your business and I'll mind mine.'" This phrase I had heard
from the corner grocer, and I liked the sound of it. I repeated it now
with an added zest.
Again I opened my eyes and again I found myself here in church. Still
here. I heaved a weary sigh.
"If you were dead already," I thought as I looked up at the preacher,
"my mother wouldn't bring me here." I found this an exceedingly cheering
thought. I had once overheard our cook Anny describe how her old father
had dropped dead. I eyed the old minister hopefully.
But what was this he was saying! Something about "the harbor of life."
The harbor! In an instant I was listening hard, for this was something I
knew about.
"Safe into the harbor," I heard him say. "Home to the harbor at last to
rest." And then, while he passed on to something else, something I
_didn't_ know about, I settled disgustedly back in the pew.
"You chump," I thought contemptuously. To hear him talk you would have
thought the harbor was a place to feel quite safe in, a place to snuggle
down in, a nice little place to come home to at night. "I guess he has
never seen it much," I snorted.
For I had. From our narrow brownstone house on the Heights, ever since I
could remember (and let me tell you that seems a long time when you are
seven years old), I had looked down from our back windows upon a harbor
that to me was strange and terrible.
I was glad that our house was up so high. Its front was on a sedate old
street, and within it everything felt safe. My mother was here, and Sue,
my little sister, and old Belle, our nurse, our nursery, my games, my
animals, my fairy books, the small red table where I ate my supper, and
the warm fur rug by my bed, where I knelt for "Now I lay me."
But from the porch at the back of our house you went three steps down to
a long narrow garden--at least the garden seemed long to me--and if you
walked to the end of the garden and peered through the ivy-covered bars
of the fence, as I had done when I was so little that I could barely
walk alone, you had the first mighty thrill of your life. For you found
that through a hole in the ivy you could see a shivery distance straight
down through the air to a street below. You found that the two iron
posts, one at either end of the fence, were warm when you touched them,
had holes in the top, had smoke coming out--were chimneys! And slowly it
dawned upon your mind that this garden of yours was nothing at all but
the roof of a gray old building--which your nurse told you vaguely had
been a "warehouse" long ago when the waters of the harbor had come 'way
in to the street below. The old "wharves" had been down there, she said.
What was a "wharf?" It was a "dock," she told me. And she said that a
family of "dockers" lived in the building under our garden. They were
all that was left in it now but "old junk." Who was Old Junk, a man or a
woman? And what in the world were Dockers?
Pursuing my adventurous ways, I found at one place in the garden, hidden
by flowers near a side wall, a large heavy lid which was painted brown
and felt like tin. But how much heavier than tin. Tug as I might, I
could not budge it. Then I found it had an iron hook and was hooked down
tight to the garden. Yes, it was true, our whole garden was a roof! I
put my ear down to the lid and listened scowling, both eyes shut. I
heard nothing then, but I came back and tried it many times, until once
I jumped up and ran like mad. For faintly from somewhere deep down under
the flower beds I had heard a baby crying! What was this baby, a Junk or
a Docker? And who were these people who lived under flowers? To me they
sounded suspiciously like the goblins in my goblin book. Once when I was
sick in bed, Sue came shrieking into the house and said that a giant had
heaved up that great lid from below. Up had come his shaggy head, his
dirty face, his rolling eyes, and he had laughed and laughed at the
flowers. He was a drunken man, our old nurse Belle had told her, but Sue
was sure he was a giant.
"You are wrong," I said with dignity. "He is either a Junk or a Docker."
The lid was spiked down after that, and our visitor never appeared
again. But I saw him vividly in my mind's eye--his shaggy wild head
rising up among our flowers. Vaguely I felt that he came from the
| 1,985.30485 |
2023-11-16 18:50:09.2879240 | 98 | 20 |
Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger
THE EIGHTEENTH BRUMAIRE OF LOUIS BONAPARTE
by Karl Marx
Translator's Preface
"The Eighteenth Brumaire of Louis Bonaparte" is one of Karl Marx' most
profound and most brilliant monographs. It may be considered the best
work extant on the philosophy of history, with an eye especially upon
the history of the Movement of the | 1,985.307964 |
2023-11-16 18:50:09.2891530 | 751 | 7 |
Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 5. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, December 2, 1879. Copyright, 1879, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: FEEDING THE TWINS.
A QUEER PAIR OF HOUSEHOLD PETS.]
THE TWINS.
Young bears have always been great favorites as pets, being playful and
affectionate when kindly treated. They can be trained to perform all
kinds of amusing tricks; and their antics when playing together or with
children are very laughable. They have been taught to execute difficult
parts in theatrical displays; among other things, to ring bells, pretend
to fall dead when shot at, beat the drum, and go through the manual
exercise of the soldier with the musket.
But though playful and harmless when young, they can not be trusted when
their teeth and claws are full grown. Then their good nature can not be
counted on; and many instances have occurred in which they have repaid
friendly confidence with sudden treachery. It must be said in their
favor, however, that their wildness is often the result of bad treatment
or thoughtless teasing. There is a story in print of a planter in
Louisiana who once picked up a young cub that had either been abandoned
by its mother, or had run away from the parental den. He carried it home
and threw it down in the yard, where it was immediately adopted by the
little <DW64>s. It became a great favorite with them, sharing their
corn-bread, and taking part in all their sports. "Billy"--that was the
name given to him--thrived and grew large and stout, and learned to box
and wrestle with the boys so well that visitors to the plantation were
always entertained with these droll exhibitions.
But one day, in the spring, when he had been about a year in captivity,
Billy was detected in making free with the young cabbages in the garden.
A stout <DW64> man picked up a branch of rose-bush, and gave the marauder
a playful stroke. Filled with rage, Billy sprang upon the man, shook him
as if he had been a bundle of straw, and bit the poor fellow so severely
that he died. Billy was at once shot. A pet that could not control his
temper better than that was considered rather too dangerous to keep.
In a wild state, when in distress, young bears utter cries like those of
a child in trouble. During an overflow of the Mississippi the
inhabitants of a plantation were alarmed by the dreadful wailings, as
was supposed, of some children in a swamp. After a careful search two
little cubs were found in the hollow of an old tree, locked in each
other's arms. The mother bear had been drowned or shot, and these funny
little "babes in the woods" were crying with fright and hunger, and
appeared to welcome the protection of man with real joy.
Bears are very fond of whiskey and other kinds of strong drink, and when
intoxicated will act very much like a man in a similar condition.
[B | 1,985.309193 |
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Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
Gutenberg (This book was produced from scanned images of
public domain material from the Google Books project.)
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTICE
The medical knowledge represented in this book is several centuries
old. The publication of this book is for historical interest only,
and is not to be construed as medical advice by Project Gutenberg
or its volunteers. Medicinal plants should not be used without
consulting a trained medical professional. Medical science has made
considerable progress since this book was written. Recommendations
or prescriptions have been superseded by better alternatives, or
invalidated altogether. This book contains a number of prescriptions
that are very dangerous.
THE
TALEEF SHEREEF,
OR
INDIAN MATERIA MEDICA;
TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL.
BY
GEORGE PLAYFAIR, Esq.
SUPERINTENDING SURGEON, BENGAL SERVICE.
PUBLISHED BY
The Medical and Physical Society of Calcutta.
Calcutta:
PRINTED AT THE BAPTIST MISSION PRESS, CIRCULAR ROAD.
SOLD BY MESSRS. THACKER & CO. CALCUTTA; & BY MESSRS. PARBURY, ALLEN
& CO.
1833.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
In the course of a practice of upwards of twenty-six years in India,
I have often had occasion to regret, that I had no publication to
guide me, in my wish to become acquainted with the properties of
native medicines, which I had frequently seen, in the hands of the
Physicians of Hindoostan, productive of the most beneficial effects
in many diseases, for the cure of which our Pharmacopeia supplied no
adequate remedy; and the few which I had an opportunity of becoming
acquainted with, so far exceeded my expectations, that I determined
to make a Translation of the present work, for my own gratification
and future guidance.
Having finished the translation, I became convinced, that I should
not have fulfilled the whole of my duty if I did not make it public;
and ill calculated as I know myself for such an undertaking, I have
ventured to offer it to the world, with all its imperfections.
Conscious, that the liberal minded will give me credit for the best
of motives, I shall not dread criticism; and if it has the effect
of inducing those more competent to the task to an inquiry into
the properties of native medicines, my views will have been fully
accomplished.
In writing the names of the different medicines, I have followed the
Author's example, and have been guided solely by the pronunciation,
without altering the sound given to the letters in English, and have
not borrowed a single name from any work of Oriental literature. In
this I may have acted wrong, but I did so from the conviction, that by
this method, the names would be more familiar, and better understood,
by the Natives in researches after the different drugs.
I have inserted as many of the systematic names as I could trace,
both from Dr. Fleming's work, and those of others; but I regret,
that I was not honored in the acquaintance of any Botanist who could
have assisted me with more.
To the youth of the profession, I trust the work may be acceptable, by
leading them to the knowledge, that such medicines are in existence;
and my medical brethren of the higher grades may not deem further
inquiry into the properties of native drugs beneath their notice.
To the profession at large, then, I beg leave to dedicate this
Translation, with the hope, that they will make due allowance for
all faults, and that some of the more experienced will favor us with
another and better edition.
To my respected friends Messrs. Wilson and Twining, the profession is
indebted, that this little work ever saw light; and though they are
godfathers to none of its errors, yet without their encouragement and
aid, it must have slumbered in oblivion, and remained as was intended,
(after the failure of an attempt on the part of the translator,)
a manual for his own private use.
GLOSSARY.
Acouta, Herpes.
Aruk, Distilled liquid.
Boolbul, Indian Nightingale.
Badgola, Splenitis.
Coir, Fibrous substance surrounding the Cocoanut.
Daad, Impetigo.
Dhats, Component parts of the human frame.
Elaous, Disease of the Intestines. Introsusception.
Fetuck, Hernia.
Goor, Unrefined Sugar.
Juzam, Black Leprosy.
Jow, Barley.
Junglie Chuha, The Forest Rat.
Khoonadeer, Khoonazeer? Lupus, Cancer.
Kunzeer, Cancer.
Mootiabin, Total blindness, Gutta Serena.
Naringee, The Orange.
Nachoona, Opacity of the Cornea.
Neela Totha, Sulphate of Copper.
Nuffsoodum, Hæmoptysis.
Pilau, Poolau, Dish made of meat and rice, seasoned with spices.
Peshanee, The Forehead.
Paddy, Rice in the husk.
Panroque, Cold with Fever, also Jaundice.
Peendie, A formula for females.
Paan, A leaf, chewed by the Natives, with Catechu, Betel,
and Lime.
Raal, Gum Resin.
Rajerogue, Carbuncle.
Soonpat, Loss of sensation in parts of the body.
Soorkhbad, Erythema.
THE TALEEF SHEREEF,
OR
INDIAN MATERIA MEDICA.
TRANSLATED FROM
THE ORIGINAL, WITH ADDITIONS.
1 Am, Ambe, Anbe.--The Fruit, Mangifera Indica.
The produce of a large tree very common in Hindostan. The fruit is
about the size of, and very much resembling in shape, a goat's kidney,
and having the external appearance of an apple. When ripe, it sometimes
retains the green color, but oftener becomes yellow, or red and yellow.
The virtues ascribed to this tree, are as follows:--The bruised
leaves and young shoots applied to the hair, expedite its growth,
and considerably darken its color.
The bark of the trunk of the tree, and of its roots, is cooling and
astringent; the former powerfully so. The leaves are astringent,
and promote digestion; their ashes styptic.
The young flowers are cool and drying; have a pleasant aromatic scent,
and when taken internally, are cooling and astringent; recommended
for the cure of chronic Gonorrhoea or Gleet, purulent expectoration,
bilious foulness of the blood and boils. The young unripe fruit has
much acidity, and is drying; moderately used, it increases all the
animal secretions, and is beneficial in chronic affections of the
liver; it promotes appetite, and is lithonthriptic. The fruit, when
ripe, is sweet, cooling, mucilaginous and heavy, tending to allay
thirst, and useful in nervous affections; strengthens the system,
restores impaired appetite, (is said to moderate an increased secretion
of bile,) and improves the complexion. The fruit is of various sizes,
from a few drachms to a pound weight; but it is usually met with
weighing about 4 ounces. It becomes acid about a month after the fall
of the flower, in which state it is used as preserves, such as jellies,
pickles, &c.; at this time, too, it is used as seasoning for Pilaus,
and other dishes; for when the stone or kernel has become hard, it
is no longer fit for these purposes. When the fruit has attained its
full growth, and when nearly ripe, it is to be taken from the tree,
and put into dry grass, straw, or the leaves of the Palass tree, and
there allowed to become ripe; this process deprives it of all acidity,
and also prevents the formation of a resinous gum, which it contracts
when allowed to ripen on the tree, and which renders it too pungent
to be eaten with relish.
The fruit is in perfection in the hot winds, and when the rains
commence, it ripens very fast; before the cold weather it is usually
out of season.
There are some trees that blossom the whole year, and some few that
even produce fruit; but instances of this are very rare.
There is a variety of this tree on which the fruit is sweet from its
first formation; this requires to be used early, otherwise it will
in all probability become a prey to insects.
Some trees produce fruit only once in 4 years. In general, it produces
fruit in abundance every second year, and less in the alternate year;
some are even perfectly barren every alternate year.
There is a mode of manuring this tree, which it is said improves
the flavour of the fruit greatly; this is mixing the juice of its
fruit with milk, and pouring it over the roots. It is also said to
be possible to communicate the flavor of any particular fruit to the
mangoe, by its expressed juice being made use of, as an application
to the roots of the tree.
The kernel of the mangoe, roasted, is pleasant to the taste, and
grateful to the stomach; it is much recommended in laxities of the
bowels, and strengthens the primæ viæ; water drank after having eat
of this kernel, seems to possess a flavor peculiarly excellent. The
usual mode of preparing them, is to allow them to remain exposed to
the rains, till the shell shall have become decayed; by this process
it is deprived of any heating or irritating property. Prepared in this
manner, and kept a short time in lime juice, taken out, bruised and
mixed with salt, fennel, &c, it is much extolled for strengthening
the stomach, and promoting digestion.
If preserved for 3 years, pounded, and swallowed to the quantity of a
tolah, with a little water, no medicine is preferable for strengthening
bowels habitually lax.
In the acid state, the fruit is very prejudicial to those who have
any disorders in their teeth, a cough, an affection of the chest, or
who are subject to cholicky pain in the bowels, but very beneficial
when used in irritable habits. The best method of using them is
this. The acid unripe fruit, after the outer rind has been peeled
off, is to be cut into thin slices, and infused for some hours in
water; this water so impregnated, is to be drained off, mixed with
a sufficient proportion of sugar, and used as sherbet. It produces a
great relish for food, and is in other respects beneficial. The same
effects are produced by the unripe fruit, being roasted and allowed to
remain in water, as above mentioned. It is recommended in paralysis,
from coup de vent. Many physicians have considered the mangoe to be
of a cooling nature, but, in my opinion, it is heating in all its
stages. The Yunani physicians have stated the ripe fruit to be hot
in the 2d, and dry in the 3d degree.
Its virtues may be described in a few words. It strengthens the
system, gives tone to the kidnies, restores impaired appetite, &c. It
is aperient, improves the complexion, beneficial in piles, an useful
deobstruent, braces and increases the bulk of the solids, and removes
nervous affections. In some of these disorders I am inclined to doubt
of its good effects, but such virtues are attributed to it. It is
recommended, in order to prevent any bad effects from the fruit in
its unripe state, that raisins be eaten with it. Hukeem Alwee Khan,
a man of eminence in his profession in the reign of Mahommed Shah,
says, that if ever this fruit disagreed with the system, it must have
been eaten when unripe or green.
I had occasion to attend a gentleman of very high rank, who laboured
under dropsy; I cured him of the disease, but 3 years afterwards,
having eaten a large quantity of mangoes, the disease returned,
and I have observed the same effects in other cases.
Hukeem Alli Mughphoor, physician, states, that influenced by the
resemblance of the mangoe to the human kidney, he concluded that
it must be beneficial in that organ, (disorders of;) he therefore
prescribed it in a case of hectic fever, arising from diseased kidney,
and completely cured the disease. In this I differ from him entirely;
he must have mistaken the nature of the complaint, for a remedy given
expressly for the cure of a disease in the kidney, could not, at the
same time, have removed the fever, excepting appropriate medicines
had been administered along with it!!
The best mangoes are those having a thin juice, sweet and free from
fibres; and they ought to be cooled in water or in ice, especially
during the hot weather. It is preferable to use the juice of the fruit
without eating any of the fibrous parts; a neglect of this may produce
various disorders, such as indigestion, cholicky pains, &c. It is very
common to eat the expressed juice, mixed with sugar and other things,
with rice, or with bread, but this is great imprudence; for in the
most healthy subjects it may produce nausea, and general uneasiness.
Should any ill effects follow the use of the mangoe, milk, or the
kernel of the fruit, will be found a corrector. My father's opinion
is, that these are not the only remedies; for if it produces any
heating effect, curdled milk will give relief, or even cold water,
or acidulated sherbet, and he himself was always in the habit of
using the Phalsa sherbet on these occasions.
Should cholic be produced, the Oil of Almonds or other sweet oils,
will remove the complaint; and a diarrhoea is to be cured by the use of
the kernel; and a swelling of the abdomen, by milk, in which a little
ginger has been mixed; or even ginger by itself will have the effect
A substitute for mangoe, as a medicine, may be had in Chobe Cheenee.
In general, it will be adviseable to abstain from the use of the
mangoe, till 2 or 3 showers of rain have fallen; but those of a
cold phlegmatic or melancholic temperament do not require to be
so particular.
Those for whose complaints mangoes have been recommended, have in a
few months derived great benefit from their use, by eating them with
camel's milk. There are many kinds of this fruit, and their names
are as various; but the stronger the scent, the more effectual they
are as a medicine. In Persian it is called Nugzuck.
2 Aramsheetul.--Pungent and cooling; useful in bilious and catarrhal
complaints; also recommended in foulness of the blood.
3 Akaholie.--Vermifuge, also recommended in bilious and catarrhal
disorders, in seminal weakness and gonorrhoea.
4 Adki.--Vide Arhir.
5 Anula. (nasal N.)--Or Amle, (Phyllanthus emblica, W. Murray IV. 127,
Myrobolans.) The fruit round, like a plum. The tree like that of the
tamarind, of a pleasant acid, and sweetish astringent taste. It is
aperient, cooling, and drying; of great use in eruptions of the skin,
arising from a redundance of bile. Other virtues ascribed to this
fruit may be found in all Yunani works. It is also called Bidjee and
Dhatri Phill, used by the natives for cleansing the hair.
6 Aru.--A variety of plum, much resembling the common sort, both in
the tree and fruit; it however possesses more acidity, and is less
easy of digestion.
7 Abi.--Pyrus Cidonia. The Quince; slightly astringent, and cool in
a great degree; heavy and difficult of digestion, yet it is gently
laxative and expectorant, and is recommended for strengthening the
powers of virility. In Arabic Siffirjill, Persian Behi.
8 Aak.--Arug, Mudar, Asclepias gigantea. A milky shrub, very common
all over India; its pod resembles a mangoe, but rather longer in
proportion: when ripe it breaks, and is found filled with a white
substance, resembling silk, to which the seeds are fixed. The leaves
of the plant resemble the Dak, but are somewhat smaller: its height is
generally from 1 to 1 1/2 yard; when its leaves or stalk are broken,
a white milky liquid exudes. There are two kinds, white and red;
both are purgatives, violently so. It is said to be beneficial in
the following disorders. Foulness of the blood, bilious affections,
Juzam, Psora, Zærbad, boils, cuticular eruptions, diseases of the
liver, visceral obstructions, hæmorrhoids, all internal diseases,
dropsy and worms.
("Many and wonderful virtues are ascribed to this plant; but I must
refer those who have faith in charms to the original Taleef Shereef,
when their curiosity will be amply gratified." Translator.)
All the above virtues have been ascribed to this plant; my opinion
is, that the application of the leaves is useful in swellings,
promotes suppuration in indolent tumors, and cures eruptions on the
skin. The milk blisters, and if applied to the eye, it produces
swelling, itchiness, and loss of vision. The powder of the root,
mixed with goat's blood and fresh butter, and applied to the eye,
is said materially to strengthen vision. In other works it is said,
that the milk of every variety of this plant is poisonous, and
violently cathartic.
9 Aal.--Vide Mujeet, Rubia, Madder, a wood used for dyeing a red
color, and forming a principal article of commerce in some parts of
India. In the "Dhara Shakoi" it is called Mujeet, but I suspect that
they are different plants, as the Mujeet is thin, and of a fine red
color; whereas the Aal is blackish, with a tinge of yellow, though
not thicker than the other.
10 Aditt Bagut.--In Persian, Aftab Perust, Helianthus Annuus. The
sun-flower; the name of a flower called also Soorujmookee. The
stem grows straight about a man's height; the leaves are broad and
triangular, the flower circular, flat and yellow, with serrated edges,
and it is said to follow the sun in his diurnal progress. There are
two kinds, a small and greater; their medical properties the same;
they are bitter to the taste, and heating in a considerable degree. It
is beneficial in cholicks, dropsical affections, foulness of stomach,
and rheumatism; it also improves appetite, and promotes expectoration
in cases of cold, accompanied by fever.
11 Area.--A culinary fruit resembling the cucumber, and grows in
the rainy season; it is so cooling that it produces pains all over
the body; it is moreover difficult of digestion, and if taken in any
quantity produces fever.
12 Anwul (Nasal).--A large tree very common in India, which when
in flower, has a very beautiful appearance; its flowers are yellow,
resembling those of the Cassia. There are two kinds of this, one called
Mahedi Anwul. Of this also there are two varieties. It is cooling, and
the medicinal properties of all varieties are the same. It is used with
good effect in bilious vomitings, and also in leprous affections of the
skin. It is recommended in weakness of the eyes, asthma, affections
of the chest, and foulness of blood. It strengthens the weak and
emaciated, and braces the solids when relaxed by disease or otherwise.
13 Aruk.--This name is indiscriminately given to four different kinds
of trees; Nowa, Cutel, Burhil and Taar.
14 Aloo (Bochara).--A kind of plum.
15 Abnoos (Ebony).--A large tree, producing a sweet fruit like
grapes. Its leaves resemble those of the Sinobir, but are somewhat
broader: it is an evergreen, and its wood is, when good and full-grown,
dark-colored and durable; its leaves are smooth and glassy; its
properties said to be very active and deleterious; it is heating in
a considerable degree, and is said to be lithonthriptic. It dispels
flatulency, and cures tympanites. It is recommended in chronic
affections of the liver. Filings or raspings of the wood are styptic,
and its charcoal more so; a decoction of the wood, in spirits, is very
effectual in discussing scrophulous tumours, when externally applied.
The raspings of the wood, mixed with whites of eggs, is an excellent
application to scalds and burns; they are also famed for cleaning
deep foul ulcers, and inducing the growth of healthy granulation.
Taken internally, the dose is 10 1/2 Mashas, and should it disagree
with the stomach, which it often does, honey, or Gum Arabic, with
sweet basil, are correctors. The large Baer Tree, (Konar), is a good
substitute for the Abnoos; quality, hot 3, dry 2. Persian Awnoos.
16 Anbihildee.--Curcuma zedoaria, (Rox.) Amomum Zed. Wildenow. An
Indian root, hot and dry in the 2d degree; useful in herpes, and
foulness of the blood, and much esteemed as an external application
in wounds and bruises, for which it is also internally exhibited:
orange juice used as a vehicle, corrects, in some degree, its heating
quality; or if this be not procurable, Bapahic, or the seed of the
Penwur, or Turmeric, will have the same effect; the medicine may be
given to the quantity of 3 1/2 Masha.
17 Apurjeeta.--Clitoria ternatea, Crow's beak, a twining shrub. The
natives call it Kowwa Thontee, which literally signifies crow's
beak, also Neelisbund; the plant is about a foot and a half high,
and sometimes less, resembling the Cungheiy, only the leaves of the
latter are smooth and polished, while those of the former are rough and
hard; both the Apurjeeta and the variety Neelisbund, are cooling. It is
beneficial in weakness of sight, in clearing the voice and soreness of
the throat, and is useful in the poisonous bites of leeches. It is also
of use in rheumatic affections of the joints, Juzam, bilious disorders,
mucous discharge from the lungs or bowels; it allays general heat,
and is said to be an antidote to certain poisonous substances, and
of great efficacy in hard indolent tumours, and affections of the skin.
18 Abruc.--Talc, A fossil substance, beneficial in seminal weakness,
redundance of bile, mucus, &c. An antidote to poison. The physicians
of Hindostan prepare it for use by calcination. Arabic, Tulk.
19 Abhea.--A name for Hurr; it also signifies the water of life,
and a medicine called Guloe.
20 Aotungun.--A very common seed, resembling coriander. In powder
it is recommended as giving strength to the system, and rendering
Aphrodisie more permanent. It is a very favorite medicine in India. It
is, moreover, useful in Nephritia and liver complaints, and it is very
innocent in its operation. Some physicians describe it as hot and dry,
in a considerable degree, and disagreeing with the stomach; they,
therefore, recommend it to be taken with a proportion of sugar. In
all its properties the Maadentezerrubad states the Bonphilly to be
nearly the same; dose 4 1/4 Mashas.
21 Atees.--The root. Of this there are two kinds, a white and black,
and both are very common. The white kind resembles the Jedwaar; the
root is very irregular in thickness. It frequently is found resembling
the white Bahmen. Both kinds are bitter, astringent, pungent, and
heating; aiding digestion, useful in dysentery, vomiting, and piles.
22 Adjmode.--Bishop's Weed, Sisson Ammi, (Linn.) Amoos, (Arab.) Ajooan,
(Hind.) Nemkha, P. Ajamodum, S. A hot seed, stomachic cordial and
stimulant. (Ajmood, Parsley? Taylor. Apium Involucratum.) Apium
Involucratum, Rox. M. S. "Sp. Ch. Annual, glaucous, villous, superior
leaflets filiform, both general and partial, involucra, about 6
leaved." Bitter and pungent, light and heating, increases appetite,
induces costiveness, and strengthens the vital energy; increases
the seminal secretion, and removes pains and other disorders,
the consequence of colds; beneficial in nausea, is vermifuge,
relieves hiccup, and is useful in Dysuria, but it produces heat in
the abdomen. It is called Curufs, but it is only a variety of this,
and is something betwixt that and Aniseed, though this may be owing
to the difference of cultivation.
23 Adjwain.--"Anise Seed. In Arabic, Aneesoon. Pimpinella Anisum, Linn.
"Ujwain. The seed of a plant of the Dill kind, Taylor. Ligusticum
Adjwaen, Roxb. Sp. Ch. annual, erect, leaves super de compound,
with filiform leaflets, ridges and furrows of the seeds distinct
and scabrous. This is what is recommended to notice by Dr. Percival,
under the name Ajava seed."
A species of the above, of which there are two kinds, one of which is
called Juhar; both are bitter, pungent, and aromatic; it resembles the
Ajmode, but is smaller, and has a strong aromatic scent. It assists
digestion, improves appetite, is useful in rheumatism and catarrhal
affections; is vermifuge, beneficial in dropsy, dispels flatulence,
and is highly extolled in flatulent cholic. A. Nanchoa.
24 Adjwain. 25 Khorasanee. "Hyosciamus niger, Linn. Black
Henbane. Narcotic. Corrector, Vinegar."
This plant grows thick from the root, and is covered with a hairy
down. The seeds are contained within a hard thick shell, and the
leaves are like those of the pomegranate flower. The pod is filled
with seeds of a small irregular shape. There is a plant called Hulbeh,
which resembles this, but is smaller. A. Buzurulbunje.
26 Adjan.--Or Adjain, a large tree, with wide spreading branches,
in size approaching that of the mangoe; its leaves growing close,
and also resembling those of the mangoe tree, but longer and thinner;
the fruit is about 1 1/2 foot long, and very thin.
27 Akhroat.--"The Walnut, Juglans regia, Linn." This is a native
of hilly countries; its leaves are like the Terpat; the fruit is
sweet to the taste, heating, and heavy; it loosens the bowels, and
restores strength; it is useful in rheumatic affections, increases
mental energy and the powers of manhood, and gives relief in flying
pains in the stomach. A. Jouz.
28 Andaluck.--A kind of grain.
29 Aderuck.--"Ginger, Amomum zinziber, Linn. Amomum zinziber,
Wild. Adraca, S. Sonth (dried root,) H. Sunthi, S." A very common root,
the stem of which is knotty, and from every knot, a leaf is produced;
it is hot and heavy; promotes digestion if eaten before meals, mixed
with Lahore salt, (rock salt;) it prevents flatulent swellings in
the stomach and bowels. P. Zinzibeel tur. It is much extolled as a
stomachic when prepared as sweetmeats; but if the syrup be allowed to
dry, it spoils, becomes less grateful to the taste, and its heating
quality is much increased.
30 Arnee.--The name of a tree, in height that of the Peach tree, but
it is full of branches from the root upwards, and the leaves are like
those of the Sumhaloo; it is heating, and beneficial in rheumatic
complaints and swellings from cold. In the Dhintri it is described
as oleaginous and heavy; effectual in Jaundice, increasing appetite,
loosening the bowels, and removing flatulence.
31 Arhir or Toor.--"Cytisus cajan." Some consider these as distinct
species, but in my opinion Toor is only Arhir in an overgrown
state. The plant grows to the height of a yard and half; and the
taste of the pea of the Arhir is preferable to that of the Toor. Toor
is sown and cut down at the same time as the sugar-cane; whereas the
Arhir is sown, and cut with the barley. The pod of the Toor is larger
than that of the Arhir; and the former has an unpleasant smell, which
is wanting in the latter; they are both used very commonly as food,
all over India. It is in its properties cool and dry, and produces
costiveness; it is useful in bilious and catarrhal disorders,
and in foulness of the blood. It is even said to be an antidote
to poisons. In its taste it is sweet, like that of the Cassela. I
conceive it hot in the 2d, and dry in the 3d degree, and recommend it
for strengthening the stomach. When used as food it is heavy; but is
beneficial in complaints having their origin in cold. If twice scalded
in hot water, before it is boiled, it will cause less thirst; and if
boiled in milk, or whey, it becomes less heating. A decoction of the
leaves is recommended as a wash for the mouth, in cases of toothache,
and diseases of the teeth. P. Shakool.
32 Aord, or Aort, or Mash..--vide M. (Phaseolus Max.)
33 Arne'.--The wild buffaloe. Its flesh recommended in
Marasmus. P. Gowmeche Serhaie.
34 Arnd.--"The Castor, Ricinus communis, W. Palma Christi." Wildenow
says, "Planta semper annua, nunquam fructicosa vel arborea, nec in
calidissimis terræ plagis liguescit." But this is incorrect; for the
plant is perennial, and becomes a moderate sized tree. The natives,
however, have a prejudice against allowing it to grow beyond 3 or
4 years, and even this is only in solitary places. The chief reason
I fancy is, that it interferes with the cultivation of the soil, if
permitted to remain. They usually sow it with grain, and reap the grain
crop before it has attained its full height; this they can do annually,
but seed sown under its shelter the second year, would not succeed.
A shrub, with broad soft leaves, like the fig tree; it grows about 6
or 8 feet in height; the root is hollow, and without flaw or wrinkle;
the seed grows in bunches like grapes, and the shell of the pod,
which resembles gall-nuts, is covered with soft prickles. The seed is
like the coffee bean, and is stained with different colored spots,
so as to appear like marbled paper; the kernel is white, soft, and
oleaginous. There are two kinds of this; one with a red, the other
with a green pod; the former is culled Jongia Arnde; both varieties
are sweet, heating, and heavy. The oil of the kernel is useful in
removing obstinate constrictions of the intestines, when given warm;
also in flatulency; rheumatic swellings of the joints and lumbago;
in strangury, spasms in the urinary bladder, headaches, dropsy, and
feverish complaints. It is also recommended as an expectorant in
difficulty of breathing, and in cough; in affections of the skin,
and in superabundance of mucus in the intestines. It is a warm,
stimulating purgative; the dose one or two table spoonsful. Both
my father, uncle, and I, have used it with great success, in cases
of obstinate cholic from costiveness. They also used the leaves
moistened with ghee, as an external application in rheumatic pains
and swellings. If the seeds are bruised, and mixed with curdled milk,
| 1,985.309383 |
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Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. II--NO. 82. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, May 24, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE DEATH OF CARUS.]
A STORY OF THE COLOSSEUM.
BY MRS. LIZZIE W. CHAMPNEY.
In the days of the Emperor Caracalla the Colosseum had ceased to be used
for terrible conflicts between man and beast. But the young student
Valentinian could not forget that eighty thousand spectators at a time
had looked down from its seats, only a few years before, to see
Christian martyrs given to the lions to be torn in pieces.
And Valentinian was a Christian. The persecutions had ceased. No more
cruel Emperor than Caracalla had ever occupied the throne of Rome; but
his cruelty found its victims in his own family and among his political
enemies, and the Christians were overlooked and forgotten. Even
Caracalla may have been sick of the blood spilled in assassinations,
executions, and battle; and so, as a mere change of scene, ordered that
the sports at the Colosseum should be of a bloodless character. At any
rate, chariot races were now the vogue, the population of Rome were now
all "horsy" men, and betting was the popular way of gaining or losing
their fortunes.
The Emperor, as reigning over and above all like the air, chose white to
mark his horses; the steeds of the soldiers were designated by red
badges and trappings--red, the appropriate color of Mars, of blood and
flame; the sailors of course chose blue; and the landed proprietors,
farmers, citizens, etc., grouped under green. When the enthusiasm
extended thus to all classes, it was impossible that Valentinian should
not feel it too. He was a soldier's son, and though he felt that it
would be a crime even to enter the building in which the martyrs had
been murdered, he could not repress a throb of exultation when the
scarlet-spangled horses were led out with shoutings as victors in the
race.
Valentinian loved a fine horse, and, boy though he was, he owned one
that had long been the envy and admiration of the different racing
fraternities of Rome. Those who knew the animal's history did not wonder
that Valentinian and his mother, the stately lady Placidia, had refused
a noble's ransom for the magnificent creature. It was the beginning of
the warm season, and Placidia had removed to her summer villa in shady
Præneste. Valentinian still remained in Rome to prosecute his studies,
but in the cool of the evening the youth would frequently drive out to
see his mother, and the horse on every such visit was certain of being
decorated with garlands by the fair hand of its mistress. On one of
these occasions Rufinus accompanied his friend. Valentinian knew that
the visit was not prompted by any fondness for his mother, for the lady
Placidia did not regard Rufinus as a sufficiently refined companion for
her son, and the dislike was mutual. He gave Rufinus credit for a
feeling of good-fellowship toward himself, and for an appreciation of a
moonlight ride to Rome. But Rufinus had a deeper motive on this
occasion; he had determined to persuade Valentinian to join in the
races, and he thought wisely that the long, solitary ride would give him
a good opportunity for persuasion. He began skillfully by praising his
friend's horse, and then spoke with some surprise of the affection that
Placidia lavished upon it.
Valentinian replied that Carus deserved all the love and distinction
that he received, for he was indeed a hero; and then he told how as a
war-horse he had followed the Roman standards with honor throughout all
the late disastrous campaign in Britain, and though he had fled with the
legions from the battle on the river Carun, where Fingal and his
Caledonian troops sang their exultant chant of victory in the ears of
the cowardly Caracalla, it was not his fault, for he was only a horse.
When Carus had felt his master, Valentinian's father, fall wounded upon
his neck, the feeble hands entwined in his mane, and the warm life-blood
bathing his glossy side, the faithful animal, who until then had rushed
on inflamed with all the fury of conflict, joined the general retreat,
and paced swiftly but carefully from the battle-field. The Captain of
the Legion, whose stiffening fingers were tangled in Carus's mane, did
not hear the loud boast of the Britons, and when Carus knelt at the door
of his tent, and other soldiers of the great "King of the World" (as
Ossian calls the Roman Emperor) lifted the rider from the steed, the
Roman heart had poured out all its blood on British soil; the brave
Centurion was dead.
At the death of his father, the Emperor Severus, Caracalla gave up the
war in Britain, and, impatient to assume his new dignities, hurried back
to Rome. The war-horse Carus was brought back too, and entered the
imperial city marching riderless at the head of its dead master's troop.
As the army approached the gates of Rome, the broad imperial highway
became more and more crowded. The return of the army was known, and the
citizens of Rome, small and great, swarmed out in vehicles, on horses,
or on foot, soldiers and slaves, the aristocracy and the beggars, old
families of Rome and foreigners.
Painfully the army forced its way through the surging crowd, attending
Caracalla, who so little deserved this enthusiastic welcome, to the
porch of the imperial palace "the house of Cæsar." Then the cohorts,
with the exception of the imperial body-guard, returned to the great
Prætorium camp outside, the city walls. One knight, a member of the
Equites that the master of Carus had so lately commanded, led the
Centurion's horse to the aristocratic street of the Carinæ, which ran
along the <DW72> of the Esquiline Hill, until he reached a house whose
portal was decorated with laurel, and where, from the swarms of entering
guests, pastry-cooks, and musicians, one might judge a feast was in
progress. As the knight paused at the door, a boy bounded into the
street, and sprang upon the back of the war-horse, lavishing upon the
noble creature the most eager caresses. At the same moment a stately
Roman matron appeared at the door, and greeted the knight, while a glad
eager light shone in her eyes.
"Welcome, my good Galerius," said the lady. "Where is my husband? Is he
detained at the palace with the young Emperor?"
"Nay, madam," replied the knight, gravely, "thy husband was happy in
knowing no Emperor but Severus."
Then the unhappy lady knew that her husband would never come to the
welcoming feast which she had prepared, and the young Valentinian
slipped from his father's horse to hide the tears which would come, but
which he as a Roman felt were womanish and shameful.
Rufinus, though a mere cub of a young man, with very little
susceptibility, seemed touched by this story. "Where did your father get
Carus?" he asked. "He is certainly not of the common Italian breed,
neither does he resemble the light, swift African barbs."
"No," replied Valentinian. "He is a much heavier and more powerful
animal. My father captured him from a Goth at the battle of Lyons, where
his own horse had been killed under him. Some of our Roman jockeys
affect to despise the Gothic horses as big and lumpish, but they are
swift."
"They are the best horses for chariots," replied Rufinus. "The Equites
have one set of four which they will enter for the next race. They are
black as night, like Carus there, and are, so far as I know, the only
other Gothic horses in Rome. How fine they will look in their red
trappings! They are sure of winning. I have invested all my ready money
in bets, and I shall quadruple them all."
A few days later the following note was handed to Valentinian:
"LOVED VALENTINIAN,--I am ruined. The races are lost beforehand.
One of the Gothic horses has fallen lame. The team is pledged for
the race; we can only supply its place with a Roman beast, for we
know not of another Gothic horse to be obtained in Rome, and there
is no time to send to the provinces, else would we do it, for the
entire military order are interested; some, like myself, have
staked their all, and now see ruin stare them in the face. We have
sent in a petition, through the Empress Julia, to have the races
postponed until we can obtain another horse from Gaul, but there is
very little hope.
"_Later._--The Emperor has refused to postpone the races; he sees
here an opportunity to curb the rising power of the army, which he
has long feared. If many are in my desperate condition, the tyrant
may tremble. Does he not know that in Rome it is the army that
creates or dethrones the Emperor? Meantime I am lost. Farewell.
Thy frantic
"RUFINUS."
A wave of pity swept across Valentinian's compassionate heart, and he
sat down to write a hopeful, encouraging letter to Rufinus. When he had
finished it, a sentence from a letter written to the Roman and other
Churches, when persecution had scattered the members of the first
Christian Church at Jerusalem, flashed through his mind: "If a brother
or sister be naked and destitute of daily food, and one of you say unto
them, Depart in peace, be ye warmed and filled; notwithstanding ye give
them not those things which are needful, what doth it profit?"
Valentinian pushed the letter from him impatiently. How could he give
Rufinus the things which were needful? He could not pay his betting
debts and those of the whole army. "What am I to do?" he asked aloud,
and as an answer a gentle neigh floated up from Carus's stable. If he
lent his horse to the military club, the reds would probably gain the
race. What could be plainer? He would have nothing to do with bets and
bribes; he would not even see the race; surely every brotherly and
Christian instinct called upon him to rescue his friend's honor and
fortune, and that of the class to which his father had belonged. Was it
because he was so very sure of his duty that he did not drive out and
consult his mother? Perhaps, instead, it was a haunting suspicion that
she might not consider this a call of duty. He gave himself no time to
doubt, or even to think, but went at once to the Prætorian Prefect with
his offer.
Carus was accepted, the Prefect in his first burst of gratitude offering
Valentinian an important post in the army. This the youth declined; his
education had another aim, and he knew that it would break his mother's
heart to see him a soldier.
The morning of the races dawned at last. Valentinian had determined not
to attend them, and when Rufinus came with a band of gay young knights,
he refused to see them. From his window he could see the populace
flocking toward the Colosseum; and finding at last that he could not
read, he determined to take a walk to the suburbs. As he passed over the
Palatine Hill, he turned to enjoy the beautiful prospect--"with palaces
adorned, porches and theatres, baths, aqueducts, statues and trophies,
and triumphal arcs." Alas! the most prominent object of all was the
"gladiators' bloody circus," just at the foot of the hill; and
forgetting all his resolutions, he hurried to it, and entered among the
last.
He was so late that he could not find a seat in the circle near the
front, where he properly belonged, and he mounted to the upper tiers,
where he sat, crowded by such companions as beggars and slaves. He
looked for the first time upon the place where so many martyrs had
poured out their lives for their faith. He could just make out the
openings, closed with gratings, through which the wild beasts had been
admitted.
His thoughts were snatched suddenly from the martyrs and the past. At
the extreme left of the arena stood four four-horse chariots ready for
the start. He could tell the colors of the horses, but not, at this
distance, that of the trappings which distinguished the class to which
they belonged. The four milk-white steeds prancing impatiently before
the gilded car must be the Emperor's, and now, as the driver mounts and
takes the reins, the roar of applause that circles around the seats
tells that Caracalla is to drive in person. There are four bay horses:
these he knows have been imported from Asia by the sailors' club; but
the horses attached to both of the remaining chariots are black, and he
can not tell which belongs to the land-holders and which to the
soldiers. The signal for the start is given. The horses will be going
away from him for the first quarter of the race, then they will approach
him for half the distance. They keep nearly the same pace, and it seems
to him, at this distance, a very slow one. Ah! one chariot has fallen
behind; it stopped suddenly; there must have been some accident. One of
his neighbors suggests that a wheel has come off; but now they can not
even tell the color of the horses. The other three chariots are
approaching, but how slowly! Surely, if he were driving Carus there, he
could out-strip them all. Nearer, nearer, and now he knows that the
chariots just abreast are drawn, the one by black and the other by white
horses. The chariot gradually falling behind is drawn by black horses
too. The merchant-men will lose the profits of their last voyage, for it
was their chariot that halted at the outset.
Now the two that are leading the way are just in front of him, and
Valentinian realizes that they are really tearing along at a fearful
rate. It is only the distance which made them appear to move slowly. The
Emperor is bending far forward, lashing his white coursers terribly. He
is driving them across the track of the blacks at his side, and is
striving to gain the inside of the track. What a cloud of dust! He can
make out nothing but a general scramble. Another loud roar echoes from
the massive walls. What a frantic waving of scarfs, and eager movement
on the seats below! Valentinian can not understand it at all, and a
slave at his side explains that Caracalla has cut across the track of
the other | 1,985.398297 |
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Produced by Chuck Greif, Broward County Libraries and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: George William Curtis]
FROM THE
EASY CHAIR
BY
GEORGE WILLIAM CURTIS
_THIRD SERIES_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HARPER AND BROTHERS
MDCCCXCIV
Copyright, 1894, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
CONTENTS
PAGE
HAWTHORNE AND BROOK FARM 1
BEECHER IN HIS PULPIT AFTER THE DEATH OF LINCOLN 20
KILLING DEER 28
AUTUMN DAYS 37
FROM COMO TO MILAN DURING THE WAR OF 1848 43
HERBERT SPENCER ON THE YANKEE 56
HONOR 65
JOSEPH WESLEY HARPER 72
REVIEW OF UNION TROOPS, 1865 78
APRIL, 1865 88
WASHINGTON IN 1867 94
RECEPTION TO THE JAPANESE AMBASSADORS AT THE WHITE HOUSE 102
THE MAID AND THE WIT 112
THE DEPARTURE OF THE _GREAT EASTERN_ 120
CHURCH STREET 127
HISTORIC BUILDINGS 140
THE BOSTON MUSIC HALL 151
PUBLIC BENEFACTORS 162
MR. TIBBINS'S NEW-YEAR'S CALL 169
THE NEW ENGLAND SABBATH 178
THE REUNION OF ANTISLAVERY VETERANS, 1884 185
REFORM CHARITY 193
BICYCLE RIDING FOR CHILDREN 204
THE DEAD BIRD UPON CYRILLA'S HAT AN ENCOURAGEMENT OF "SLARTER" 210
CHEAPENING HIS NAME 214
CLERGYMEN'S SALARIES 221
HAWTHORNE AND BROOK FARM
In his preface to the _Marble Faun_, as before in that to _The
Blithedale Romance_, Hawthorne complained that there was no romantic
element in American life; or, as he expressed it, "There is as yet no
such Faery-land so like the real world that, in a suitable remoteness,
one cannot tell the difference, but with an atmosphere of strange
enchantment, beheld through which the inhabitants have a propriety of
their own." This he says in _The Blithedale_ preface, and then adds
that, to obviate this difficulty and supply a proper scene for his
figures, "the author has ventured to make free with his old and
affectionately remembered home at Brook Farm as being certainly the most
romantic episode of his own life, essentially a day-dream, and yet a
fact, and thus offering an available foothold between fiction and
reality." Probably a genuine Brook-Farmer doubts whether Hawthorne
remembered the place and his life there very affectionately, in the
usual sense of that word, and although in sending the book to one of
them, at least, he said that it was not to be considered a picture of
actual life or character. "Do not read it as if it had anything to do
with Brook Farm [which essentially it has not], but merely for its own
story and characters," yet it is plain that it is a very faithful
picture of the kind of impression that the enterprise made upon him.
Strangely enough, Hawthorne is likely to be the chief future authority
upon "the romantic episode" of Brook Farm. Those who had it at heart
more than he whose faith and hope and energy were all devoted to its
development, and many of whom have every ability to make a permanent
record, have never done so, and it is already so much of a thing of the
past that it will probably never be done. But the memory of the place
and of the time has been recently pleasantly refreshed by the lecture of
Mr. Emerson and the _Note-Book_ of Hawthorne. Mr. Emerson, whose mind
and heart are ever hospitable, was one of the chief, indeed the
chiefest, figure in this country of the famous intellectual
"Renaissance" of twenty-five years ago, which, as is generally the case,
is historically known by its nickname of "Transcendentalism," a
spiritual fermentation from which some of the best modern influences of
this country have proceeded.
In his late lecture upon the general subject, Mr. Emerson says that the
mental excitement began to take practical form nearly thirty years ago,
when Dr. Channing counselled with George Ripley upon the practicability
of bringing thoughtful and cultivated people together and forming a
society that should be satisfactory. "That good attempt," says Emerson,
with a sly smile, "ended in an oyster supper with excellent wines." But
a little later it was revived under better auspices, and as Brook Farm
made a name which will not be forgotten. Mr. Emerson was never a
resident, but he was sometimes a visitor and guest, and the more ardent
minds of the romantic colony were always much under his influence. With
his sensitively humorous eye he seizes upon some of the ludicrous
aspects of the scene and reports them with arch gravity. "The ladies
again," he says, "took cold on washing-days, and it was ordained that
the gentlemen shepherds should hang out the clothes, which they
punctually did; but a great anachronism followed in the evening, for
when they began to dance the clothes-pins dropped plentifully from their
pockets." And again: "One hears the frequent statement of the country
members that one man was ploughing all day and another was looking out
of the window all day--perhaps drawing his picture, and they both
received the same wages."
In Hawthorne's just published _Note-Book_ he records a great deal of his
daily experience at Brook Farm. But he was never truly at home there.
Hawthorne lived in the very centre of the Transcendental revival, and he
was the friend of many of its leaders, but he was never touched by its
spirit. He seems to have been as little affected by the great
intellectual influences of his time as Charles Lamb in England. The
Custom-house had become intolerable to him. He was obliged to do
something. The enterprise at Brook Farm seemed to him to promise
Arcadia. But he forgot that the kingdom of heaven is within you, and
when he went to the tranquil banks of the Charles he found himself in a
barn-yard shovelling manure, and not at all in Arcadia. "Before
breakfast I went out to the barn and began to chop hay for the cattle,
and with such 'righteous vehemence,' as Mr. Ripley says, did I labor,
that in the space of ten minutes I broke the machine. Then I brought
wood and replenished the fires, and finally went down to breakfast and
ate up a huge mound of buckwheat cakes. After breakfast Mr. Ripley put a
four-pronged instrument into my hands, which he gave me to understand
was called a pitchfork, and he and Mr. Farley being armed with similar
weapons, we all three commenced a gallant attack upon a heap of manure."
Hawthorne was a sturdy and resolute man, and any heap of manure that he
attacked must yield; but he had not come to Arcadia to sweat and blister
his hands, and his blank and amused disappointment is evident. He had a
subtle and pervasive humor, but no spirits. He sees the pleasantness of
the place and the beauty of the crops, having knowledge of them and a
new interest in them; and he has a quiet conscience because he feels
that he is really doing some of the manual work of the world; but he is
always a spectator, a critic. He went to Brook Farm as he might have
gone to an anchorite's cell; but the fervor that warms and adorns the
cold bare rock he does not have, and the mere consciousness of
well-doing is a chilly abstraction. "I do not believe that I should be
patient here if I were not engaged in a righteous and heaven-blessed way
of life. I fear it is time for me, sod-compelling as I am, to take the
field again. Even my Custom-house experience was not such a thraldom and
weariness; my mind and heart were free. Oh, labor is the curse of the
world, and nobody can meddle with it without becoming proportionally
brutified!" Very soon, of course, the pilgrim to Arcadia escapes from
the manure-yard, and declares as he runs that it was not he, it was a
spectre of him, who milked and hoed and toiled in the sun. Hawthorne
remained at Brook Farm but a few months, and after he left he never
returned thither, even for a visit.
_The Blithedale Romance_ shows that he was not unmindful of its poetic
aspect; but his genius was stirring in him, and he felt that he could
not work hard with his hands and write also. So he went off, and never
came back; and although he may have remembered certain persons kindly,
his memory of the place and of his life there could not have been very
affectionate. Probably there were other diaries kept at Brook Farm;
certainly there were many and many letters written thence, in which
still lie, and will forever lie, buried the material for its history.
But it is likely to become a tradition only, and upon its finer side
more and more unreal, because of such sketches as those of Hawthorne.
The most comical part of the whole was its impression--that is, such
impression as it made, and without exaggerating its extent or importance
upon the steady old conservatism of Boston, which was of the most
inflexible and antediluvian type. The enterprise was the more appalling
because it seemed somehow to be a natural product of the spirit of
society there. The hen of the tri-mountain had herself hatched this
inexpressible duckling. Dr. Channing, indeed, was the honored
intellectual chief; the culture of Boston had owed much to the liberal
theology; old Dr. Beecher had battered that theology in vain; but the
liberality of Boston was like the British Whiggery of the last century:
it was more intelligent and more patrician than Toryism itself.
Mr. Emerson, as we said, was practically the head--or, at least, the
accepted representative--of the new movement. His discourses before the
Phi Beta Kappa Society at Harvard College, his address to the divinity
students, and his noble Dartmouth oration, followed by his lectures in
Boston and his _Nature_ had set the barn-yard--not offensively to retain
the metaphor of the hen--into the most resonant cackle, in the midst of
Theodore Parker's South Boston sermon, and there was universal thunder.
The pulpits which Dr. Beecher had assaulted, and which had watched him
serenely, when they heard Parker thought that the very foundations of
things were going. The most distinguished chanticleers went to Mr.
Emerson's lectures, and when asked if they understood him, shook their
stately combs and replied, with caustic superiority, "No; but our
daughters do." And when the experiment began at Brook Farm there was no
doubt in conservative circles that for their sins this offshoot of
Bedlam was permitted in the neighborhood. What it was, what it was meant
to be, was inexplicable. Are they fools, knaves, madmen, or mere
sentimentalists?... Is this Coleridge and Southey again with their
Pantisocracy and Susquehanna Paradise? Is it a vast nursery of
infidelity; and is it true that "the abbe or religieux" sacrifices white
oxen to Jupiter in the back parlor? What may not be true, since it is
within Theodore Parker's parish, and his house, crammed with books, and
modest under the pines, is only a mile away?
These extraordinary and vague and hostile impressions were not relieved
by the appearance of such votaries of the new shrine as appeared in the
staid streets and halls of the city. There is always a certain amount of
oddity latent in society, which rushes into such an enterprise as a
natural vent, and in youth itself there is a similar latent and
boundless protest against the friction and apparent unreason of the
existing order. At the time of the Brook Farm enterprise this was
everywhere observable. The freedom of the anti-slavery reform and its
discussions had developed the "come-outers," who bore testimony at all
times and places against Church and State. Mr. Emerson mentions an
apostle of the gospel of love and no money, who preached zealously, but
never gathered a large church of believers. Then there were the
protestants against the sin of flesh-eating, refining into curious
metaphysics upon milk, eggs, and oysters. To purloin milk from the udder
was to injure the maternal instincts of the cow; to eat eggs was Feejee
cannibalism, and the destruction of the tender germ of life; to swallow
an oyster was to mask murder. A still selecter circle denounced the
chains that shackled the tongue and the false delicacy that clothed the
body. Profanity, they said, is not the use of forcible and picturesque
words; it is the abuse of such to express base passions and emotions. So
indecency cannot be affirmed of the model of all grace, the human body.
The fig-leaf is the sign of the fall. Man returning to Paradise will
leave it behind. The priests of this faith, therefore, felt themselves
called upon to rebuke true profanity and indecency by sitting at their
front doors upon Sunday morning with no other clothes than that of the
fig-leaf period, tranquilly but loudly conversing in the most
stupendous oaths, by way of conversational chiaro-oscuro, while a
deluded world went shuddering to church.
These were the harmless freaks and individual fantasies. But the time
was like the time of witchcraft. The air magnified and multiplied every
appearance, and exceptions and idiosyncrasies and ludicrous follies were
regarded as the rule, and as the logical masquerade of this foul fiend
Transcendentalism, which was evidently unappeasable, and was about to
devour manner, morals, religion, and common-sense. If Father Lamson or
Abby Folsom were borne by main force from an antislavery meeting, and
the non-resistants pleaded that those protestants had as good a right to
speak as anybody, and that what was called their senseless babble was
probably inspired wisdom, if people were only heavenly-minded enough to
understand it, it was but another sign of the impending anarchy. And
what was to be said--for you could not call them old dotards--when the
younger protestants of the time came walking through the sober streets
of Boston and seated themselves in concert-halls and lecture-rooms with
hair parted in the middle and falling to their shoulders, and clad in
garments such as no human being ever wore before--garments which seemed
to be a compromise between the blouse of the Paris workman and the
_peignoir_ of a possible sister? For tailoring underwent the sage
revision to which the whole philosophy of life was subjected, and one
ardent youth, asserting that the human form itself suggested the proper
shape of its garments, caused trousers to be constructed that closely
fitted the leg, and bore his testimony to the truth in coarse crash
breeches.
These were the ludicrous aspects of the intellectual and moral
fermentation or agitation that was called Transcendentalism. And these
were foolishly accepted by many as its chief and only signs. It was
supposed that the folly was complete at Brook Farm, and it was
indescribably ludicrous to observe reverend doctors and other dons
coming out to gaze upon the extraordinary spectacle, and going as
dainty ladies hold their skirts and daintily step from stone to stone in
a muddy street, lest they be soiled. The dons seemed to doubt whether
the mere contact had not smirched them. But droll in itself, it was a
thousandfold droller when Theodore Parker came through the woods and
described it. With his head set low upon his gladiatorial shoulders, and
his nasal voice in subtle and exquisite mimicry reproducing what was
truly laughable, yet all with infinite _bonhommie_ and a genuine
superiority to small malice, he was as humorous as he was learned, and
as excellent a mimic as he was noble and fervent and humane a preacher.
On Sundays a party always went from Brook Farm to Mr. Parker's little
country church. He was there just exactly what he was afterwards, when
he preached to thousands of eager people at the Boston Music Hall--the
same plain, simple, rustic, racy man. His congregation were his personal
friends. They loved him and were proud of him; and his geniality and
tender sympathy, his ample knowledge of things as well as of books, his
jovial manliness and sturdy independence, drew to him all ages and sexes
and conditions.
The society at Brook Farm was composed of every kind of person. There
were the ripest scholars, men and women of the most aesthetic culture and
accomplishment, young farmers, seamstresses, mechanics, preachers, the
industrious, the lazy, the conceited, the sentimental. But they
associated in such a spirit and under such conditions that, with some
extravagance, the best of everybody appeared, and there was a kind of
high _esprit de corps_--at least in the earlier or golden age of the
colony. There was plenty of steady, essential, hard work, for the
founding of an earthly paradise upon a New England farm is no pastime.
But with the best intention, and much practical knowledge and industry
and devotion, there was in the nature of the case an inevitable lack of
method, and the economical failure was almost a foregone conclusion. But
there were never such witty potato patches and such sparkling cornfields
before or since. The weeds were scratched out of the ground to the
music of Tennyson or Browning, and the nooning was an hour as gay and
bright as any brilliant midnight at Ambrose's. But in the midst of it
all was one figure, the practical farmer, an honest neighbor who was not
drawn to the enterprise by any spiritual attraction, but was hired at
good wages to superintend the work, and who always seemed to be
regarding the whole affair with a most good-natured wonder as a
prodigious masquerade. Indeed, the description which Hawthorne gives of
him at a real masquerade of the farmers in the woods depicts his
attitude towards Brook Farm itself: "And apart, with a shrewd Yankee
observation of the scene, stands our friend Orange, a thick-set, sturdy
figure, enjoying the fun well enough, yet rather laughing with a
perception of its nonsensicalness than at all entering into the spirit
of the thing." That, indeed, was very much the attitude of Hawthorne
himself towards Brook Farm and many other aspects of human life.
But beneath all the glancing colors, the lights and shadows of its
surface, it was a simple, honest, practical effort for wiser forms of
life than those in which we find ourselves. The criticism of science,
the sneer of literature, the complaint of experience is that man is a
miserably half-developed being, the proof of which is the condition of
human society, in which the few enjoy and the many toil. But the
enjoyment cloys and disappoints, and the very want of labor poisons the
enjoyment. Man is made body and soul. The health of each requires
reasonable exercise. If every man did his share of the muscular work of
the world no other man would be overwhelmed with it. The man who does
not work imposes the necessity of harder toil upon him who does. Thereby
the first steals from the last the opportunity of mental culture, and at
last we reach a world of pariahs and patricians, with all the
inconceivable sorrow and suffering that surround us. Bound fast by the
brazen age, we can see that the way back to the age of gold lies through
justice, which will substitute co-operation for competition.
That some such generous and noble thought inspired this effort at
practical Christianity is most probable. The Brook-Farmers did not
interpret the words, "The poor ye have always with ye" to mean, "We must
keep always some of you poor." They found the practical Christian in him
who said to his neighbor, "Friend, come up higher." But apart from any
precise and defined intention, it was certainly a very alluring
prospect: that of life in a pleasant country, taking exercise in useful
toil, and surrounded with the most interesting and accomplished people.
Compared with other efforts upon which time and money and industry are
lavished, measured by Colorado and Nevada speculations, by California
gold-washing, by oil-boring, and by the Stock Exchange, Brook Farm was
certainly a very reasonable and practical enterprise, worthy of the hope
and aid of generous men and women. The friendships that were formed
there were enduring. The devotion to noble endeavor, the sympathy with
what is most useful to men, the kind patience and constant charity that
were fostered there, have been no more lost than grain dropped upon the
field. It is to the Transcendentalism that seemed to so many good souls
both wicked and absurd that some of the best influences of American life
to-day are due. The spirit that was concentrated at Brook Farm is
diffused but not lost. As an organized effort, after many downward
changes, it failed; but those who remember the Hive, the Eyrie, the
Cottage, when Margaret Fuller came and talked, radiant with bright
humor; when Emerson and Parker and Hedge joined the circle for a night
or day; when those who may not be named publicly brought beauty and wit
and social sympathy to the feast; when the practical possibilities of
life seemed fairer, and life and character were touched ineffaceably
with good influence, cherish a pleasant vision which no fate can harm,
and remember with ceaseless gratitude the blithe days at Brook Farm.
BEECHER IN HIS PULPIT AFTER THE DEATH OF LINCOLN
"Cross the Fulton Ferry and follow the crowd" was the direction which
was said to have been given humorously by Mr. Beecher himself to a
pilgrim who asked how to find his church in Brooklyn. The Easy Chair
remembered it on the Sunday morning after the return of the Fort Sumter
party; and crossing at an early hour in the beautiful spring day, he
stepped ashore and followed the crowd up the street. That at so early an
hour the current would set strongly towards the church he did not
believe. But he was mistaken. At the corner of Hicks Street the throng
turned and pushed along with hurrying eagerness as if they were already
too late, although it was but a little past nine o'clock. The street
was disagreeable like a street upon the outskirts of a city, but the
current turned from it again in two streams, one flowing to the rear and
the other to the front of Plymouth Church. The Easy Chair drifted along
with the first, and as he went around the corner observed just before
him a low brick tower, below which was an iron gate.
The gate was open, and we all passed rapidly in, going through a low
passage smoothly paved and echoing, with a fountain of water midway and
a chained mug--a kind thought for the wayfarer--and that little cheap
charity seemed already an indication of the humane spirit which
irradiates the image of Plymouth Church. The low passage brought us all
to the narrow walk by the side of the church, and to the back door of
the building. The crowd was already tossing about all the doors. The
street in front of the building was full, and occasionally squads of
enterprising devotees darted out and hurried up to the back door to
compare the chances of getting in.
The Easy Chair pushed forward, and was shown by a courteous usher to a
convenient seat. The church is a large white building, with a gallery on
both sides, two galleries in front, and an organ-loft and choir just
behind the pulpit. It is spacious and very light, with four long windows
on each side. The seats upon the floor converge towards the pulpit,
which is a platform with a mahogany desk, and there are no columns. The
view of the speaker is unobstructed from every part. The plain white
walls and entire absence of architectural ornamentation inevitably
suggest the bare cold barns of meeting-houses in early New England. But
this house is of a very cheerful, comfortable, and substantial aspect.
There were already dense crowds wedged about all the doors upon the
inside. The seats of the pew-holders were protected by the ushers, the
habit being, as the Easy Chair understood, for the holders who do not
mean to attend any service to notify the ushers that they may fill the
seats. Upon the outside of the pews along the aisles there are chairs
which can be turned down, enabling two persons to be seated side by
side, yet with a space for passage between, so that the aisle is not
wholly choked. On this Sunday the duties of the ushers were very
difficult and delicate, for the pressure was extraordinary. There was
still more than an hour before the beginning of the service, but the
building was rapidly filling; and everybody who sank into a seat from
which he was sure that he could not be removed wore an edifying
expression of beaming contentment which must have been rather
exasperating to those who were standing and struggling and dreadfully
squeezed around the doors.
Presently the seats were all full. The multitude seemed to be solid
above and below, but still the new-comers tried to press in. The
platform was fringed by the legs of those who had been so lucky as to
find seats there. There was loud talking and scuffling, and even
occasionally a little cry at the doors. One boy struggled desperately in
the crowd for his life, or breath. The ushers, courteous to the last,
smiled pitifully upon their own efforts to put ten gallons into a pint
pot. As the hour of service approached a small door under the choir and
immediately behind the mahogany desk upon the platform opened quietly,
and Mr. Beecher entered. He stood looking at the crowd for a little
time, without taking off his outer coat, then advanced to the edge of
the platform and gave some directions about seats. He indicated with his
hands that the people should pack more closely. The ushers evidently
pleaded for the pew-holders who had not arrived; but the preacher
replied that they could not get in, and the seats should be filled that
the service might proceed in silence. Then he removed his coat, sat
down, and opened the Hymn-Book, while the organ played. The impatient
people meantime had climbed up to the window-sills from the outside, and
the great white church was like a hive, with the swarming bees hanging
in clusters upon the outside.
The service began with an invocation. It was followed by a hymn, by the
reading of a chapter in the Bible, and a prayer. The congregation joined
in singing; and the organ, skilfully and firmly played, prevented the
lagging which usually spoils congregational singing. The effect was
imposing. The vast volume filled the building with solid sound. It
poured out at the open windows and filled the still morning air of the
city with solemn melody. Far upon every side those who sat at home in
solitary chambers heard the great voice of praise. Then amid the hush of
the vast multitude the preacher, overpowered by emotion, prayed
fervently for the stricken family and the bereaved nation. There was
more singing, before which Mr. Beecher appealed to those who were
sitting to sit closer, and for once to be incommoded that some more of
the crowd might get in; and as the wind blew freshly from the open
windows, he reminded the audience that a handkerchief laid upon the head
would prevent the sensitive from taking cold. Then opening the Bible he
read the story of Moses going up to Pisgah, and took the verses for his
text.
The sermon was written, and he read calmly from the manuscript. Yet at
times, rising upon the flood of feeling, he shot out a solemn adjuration
or asserted an opinion with a fiery emphasis that electrified the
audience into applause. His action was intense but not dramatic; and the
demeanor of the preacher was subdued and sorrowful. He did not attempt
to speak in detail of the President's character or career. He drew the
bold outline in a few words, and leaving that task to a calmer and
fitter moment, spoke of the lessons of the hour. The way of his death
was not to be deplored; the crime itself revealed to the dullest the
ghastly nature of slavery; it was a blow not at a man, but at the people
and their government; it had utterly failed; and, finally, though dead
the good man yet speaketh. The discourse was brief, fitting, forcible,
and tender with emotion. It was a manly sorrow and sympathy that cast
its spell upon the great audience, and it was good to be there. When
words have a man behind them, says a wise man, they are eloquent. There
was another hymn before the benediction, a peal of pious triumph, which
poured out of the heart of the congregation, and seemed to lift us all
up, up into the sparkling, serene, inscrutable heaven.
KILLING DEER
"What shall he have that kill'd the deer?" sang the foresters in Arden.
If you are in the wild woods of the Adirondacks you lie behind a log or
rock by which the animal is likely to pass; you scarcely breathe as you
wait with your hand grasping your rifle. The slow hours drag by, and you
are very wet, or the gnats and mosquitoes sting, or you are hungry,
cramped, or generally uncomfortable--but hark! What's that? A slight
rustle! You are all alert. Your heart beats. Your hands tingle.
Breathlessly you stare towards the sound. And then--nothing. A twig
dropped.
Ah well! that's nothing. Very cautiously you stretch the leg which has
the most stitch in it lest you should alarm the deer. The position and
the progress of affairs are a little monotonous; but if the day that
counts one glorious nibble is a day well spent, how much more so that
which gives you the chance of a deer! 'St! A slight but decided crashing
beyond the wood. A faint, startled, hurrying sound; and the next moment,
erect, alive in every hair, the proud antlers quivering, the eye wild
but soft, the form firm and exquisitely agile, the buck bounds into
view. Crack you go, you poor miserable skulker behind a rotten log, and
off he goes, the dappled noble of the forest!
Perhaps you hit him and kill him. You outwit him and murder him. Well,
in Venice the bravos hid in dark doorways and stabbed the gallants
hieing home from love and lady. Anybody can stab in the dark, or shoot
from an ambush. To kill an animal for sport is wretched enough; but if
you talk of manliness and use other fine words, be at least fair. Give
him a chance. Put your two legs, your two arms, a knife, and | 1,985.399166 |
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Produced by David T. Jones, Mardi Desjardins, Ross Cooling
& the online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at
http://www.pgdpcanada.net from page images generously made
available by the Internet Archive (https://archive.org)
PSYCHOLOGIES
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
BOOKS OF VERSE
PHILOSOPHIES
THE SETTING SUN
FABLES
NEW NOVEL
REVELS OF ORSERA
P S Y C H O L O G I E S
BY RONALD ROSS
[Illustration]
LONDON
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET, W.
1919
* * * * *
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
* * * * *
NOTE
These five studies are parts of a series of which I hope to publish more
examples at a later date.
The first two originally appeared in _The Nation_ of September 27th and
December 13th, 1913. The last piece contains passages from a drama
called _Edgar_, published in Madras in 1883. _The Marsh_ was intended to
be a melodrama, but the music for it has not yet been developed.
My thanks are due to Mr. John Masefield and Mr. Cloudesley Brereton for
helping me in the correction of the proofs.
THE AUTHOR.
* * * * | 1,985.498258 |
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Produced by Suzanne Shell, Walt Farrell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
THE BANDBOX
BY LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
The Bandbox
Cynthia-of-the-Minute
No Man's Land
The Fortune Hunter
The Pool of Flame
The Bronze Bell
The Black Bag
The Brass Bowl
The Private War
Terence O'Rourke
[Illustration: "Now, sir!" she exclaimed, turning
FRONTISPIECE. _See Page 83_]
The Bandbox
BY LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
Author of "The Brass Bowl," "The Bronze Bell,"
"Cynthia-of-the-Minute," etc.
With Four Illustrations
By ARTHUR I. KELLER
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
_Copyright, 1911, 1912,_
By Louis Joseph Vance.
_All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian_
Published, April, 1912
Reprinted, April, 1912 (three times)
TO
LEWIS BUDDY III
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I INTRODUCING MR. IFF 1
II THE BANDBOX 14
III TWINS 26
IV QUEENSTOWN 43
V ISMAY? 65
VI IFF? 87
VII STOLE AWAY! 109
VIII THE WRONG BOX 128
IX A LIKELY STORY 158
X DEAD O' NIGHT 177
XI THE COLD GREY DAWN 194
XII WON'T YOU WALK INTO MY PARLOUR? 216
XIII WRECK ISLAND 233
XIV THE STRONG-BOX 254
XV THE ENEMY'S HAND 275
XVI NINETY MINUTES 295
XVII HOLOCAUST 312
THE BANDBOX
I
INTRODUCING MR. IFF
At half-past two of a sunny, sultry afternoon late in the month of
August, Mr. Benjamin Staff sat at table in the dining-room of the
Authors' Club, moodily munching a morsel of cheese and a segment of
cast-iron biscuit and wondering what he must do to be saved from the
death-in-life of sheer ennui.
A long, lank gentleman, surprisingly thin, of a slightly saturnine cast:
he was not only unhappy, he looked it. He was alone and he was lonely;
he was an American and a man of sentiment (though he didn't look _that_)
and he wanted to go home; to sum up, he found himself in love and in
London at one and the same time, and felt precisely as ill at ease in
the one as in the other of these, to him, exotic circumstances.
Inconceivable as it may seem that any rational man should yearn for New
York in August, that and nothing less was what Staff wanted with all his
heart. He wanted to go home and swelter and be swindled by taxicab
drivers and snubbed by imported head-waiters; he wanted to patronise the
subway at peril of asphyxiation and to walk down Fifth Avenue at that
witching hour when electric globes begin to dot the dusk of
evening--pale moons of a world of steel and stone; he wanted to ride in
elevators instead of lifts, in trolley-cars instead of trams; he wanted
to go to a ball-game at the Polo Grounds, to dine dressed as he pleased,
to insult his intelligence with a roof-garden show if he felt so
disposed, and to see for himself just how much of Town had been torn
down in the two months of his exile and what they were going to put up
in its place. He wanted, in short, his own people; more specifically he
wanted just one of them, meaning to marry her if she'd have him.
Now to be homesick and lovesick all at once is a tremendously disturbing
state of affairs. So influenced, the strongest men are prone to folly.
Staff, for instance, had excellent reason to doubt the advisability of
leaving London just then, with an unfinished play on his hands; but he
was really no more than a mere, normal human being, and he did want very
badly to go home. If it was a sharp struggle, it was a short one that
prefaced his decision.
Of a sudden he rose, called for his bill and paid it, called for his hat
and stick, got them, and resolutely--yet with a furtive air, as one who
would throw a dogging conscience off the scent--fled the premises of his
club, shaping a course through Whitehall and Charing Cross to Cockspur
Street, where, with the unerring instinct of a homing pigeon, he dodged
hastily into the booking-office of a steamship company.
Now Mystery is where one finds it, and Romantic Adventure is as a rule
to be come upon infesting the same identical premises. Mr. Staff was not
seeking mysteries and the last role in the world in which he could fancy
himself was that of Romantic Adventurer. But in retrospect he can see
quite clearly that it was there, in the humdrum and prosaic setting of a
steamship booking-office, that he first stumbled (all unwittingly) into
the toils of his Great Adventure.
When he entered, there was but one other person on the outer or public
side of the booking-counter; and he, sticking close in a far corner and
inaudibly conferring with a clerk, seemed so slight and unpretending a
body that Staff overlooked his existence altogether until circumstances
obliged him to recognise it.
The ignored person, on the other hand, showed an instant interest in the
appearance of Mr. Staff. You might have thought that he had been waiting
for the latter to come in--absurd as this might seem, in view of the
fact that Staff had made up his mind to book for home only within the
last quarter-hour. None the less, on sight of him this other patron of
the company, who had seemed till then to be of two minds as to what he
wanted, straightened up and bent a freshened interest on the cabin-plot
which the clerk had spread out upon the counter for his advisement. And
a moment after Staff had audibly stated his wishes, the other prodded a
certain spot of the chart with a thin and fragile forefinger.
"I'll take this one," he said quietly.
"Upper'r lower?" enquired his clerk.
"Lower."
"Then-Q," said the clerk....
Meanwhile Staff had caught the eye of an impregnable young Englishman
behind the counter; and, the latter coming forward, he opened
negotiations with a succinct statement:
"I want to book on the Autocratic, sailing tomorrow from Liverpool, if
I'm not mistaken."
"Quite so," said his clerk, not without condescension. "For yourself,
may I awsk?"
"For myself alone."
"Then-Q." The clerk fetched a cabin-plot.
"I'm afraid, sir," he said, removing a pencil from behind his ear the
better to make his meaning clear, "there's not much choice. It's quite
late to book, you know; and this is the rush season for westbound
traffic; everything's just about full up."
"I understand; but still you can make room for me somewhere, I hope."
"Oh, yes. Quite so, indeed. It's only a question of what you'd like. Now
we have a _cabine de luxe_--"
"Not for me," said Staff firmly.
"Then-Q.... The only other accommodation I can offer you is a two-berth
stateroom on the main-deck."
"An outside room?"
"Yes, sir. You can see for yourself. Here it is: berths 432 and 433.
You'll find it quite cosy, I'm sure."
Staff nodded, eyeing the cubicle indicated by the pencil-point.
"That'll do," said he. "I'll take it."
"Then-Q. Upper'r lower berth, sir?"
"Both," said Staff, trying not to look conscious--and succeeding.
"Both, sir?"--in tones of pained expostulation.
"Both!"--reiterated in a manner that challenged curiosity.
"Ah," said the clerk wearily, "but, you see, I thought I understood you
to say you were alone."
"I did; but I want privacy."
"I see. Then-Q."--as who should say: _Another mad Amayrican_.
With this the clerk took himself off to procure a blank ticket.
While he waited, Staff was entertained by snatches of a colloquy at the
far end of the counter, where the other patron was being catechised as
to his pedigree by the other booking-clerk. What he heard ran something
to the following effect:
"What did you say the name was, sir?"
"_The_ name?"
"If you please--"
"What name?"
"Your name, sir."
"I didn't say, did I?"
"No, sir."
"Ah! I thought not."
Pause; then the clerk, patiently: "Do you mind giving me your name, sir,
so that I may fill in your ticket?"
"I'd r'ally rather not; but seein' as | 1,985.599396 |
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Produced by Judith Boss
THE TURN OF THE SCREW
by Henry James
[The text is take from the first American appearance of this book.]
THE TURN OF THE SCREW
The story had held us, round the fire, sufficiently breathless, but
except the obvious remark that it was gruesome, as, on Christmas Eve
in an old house, a strange tale should essentially be, I remember no
comment uttered till somebody happened to say that it was the only case
he had met in which such a visitation had fallen on a child. The case, I
may mention, was that of an apparition in just such an old house as had
gathered us for the occasion--an appearance, of a dreadful kind, to a
little boy sleeping in the room with his mother and waking her up in the
terror of it; waking her not to dissipate his dread and soothe him to
sleep again, but to encounter also, herself, before she had succeeded
in doing | 1,985.698607 |
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Produced by Judith B. Glad and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE MULE
A TREATISE ON THE BREEDING, TRAINING, AND USES TO WHICH HE MAY BE PUT.
BY HARVEY RILEY, SUPERINTENDENT OF THE GOVERNMENT CORRAL, WASHINGTON
D.C.
1867.
PREFACE.
There is no more useful or willing animal than the Mule. And perhaps
there is no other animal so much abused, or so little cared for. Popular
opinion of his nature has not been favorable; and he has had to plod and
work through life against the prejudices of the ignorant. Still, he has
been the great friend of man, in war and in peace serving him well and
faithfully. If he could tell man what he most needed it would be kind
treatment. We all know how much can be done to improve the condition and
advance the comfort of this animal; and he is a true friend of humanity
who does what he can for his benefit. My object in writing this book was
to do what I could toward working out a much needed reform in the
breeding, care, and treatment of these animals. Let me ask that what I
have said in regard to the value of kind treatment be carefully read and
followed. I have had thirty years' experience in the use of this animal,
and during that time have made his nature a study. The result of that
study is, that humanity as well as economy will be best served by
kindness.
It has indeed seemed to me that the Government might make a great saving
every year by employing only such teamsters and wagon-masters as had
been thoroughly instructed in the treatment and management of animals,
and were in every way qualified to perform their duties properly.
Indeed, it would seem only reasonable not to trust a man with a valuable
team of animals, or perhaps a train, until he had been thoroughly
instructed in their use, and had received a certificate of capacity from
the Quartermaster's Department. If this were done, it would go far to
establish a system that would check that great destruction of animal
life which costs the Government so heavy a sum every year.
H.R.
WASHINGTON, D.C., _April 12, 1867_.
NOTE.
I have, in another part of this work, spoken of the mule as being free
from splint. Perhaps I should have said that I had never seen one that
had it, notwithstanding the number I have had to do with. There are, I
know, persons who assert that they have seen mules that had it. I ought
to mention here, also, by way of correction, that there is another
ailment the mule does not have in common with the horse, and that is
quarter-crack. The same cause that keeps them from having quarter-crack
preserves them from splint--the want of front action.
A great many persons insist that a mule has no marrow in the bones of
his legs. This is a very singular error. The bone of the mule's leg has
a cavity, and is as well filled with marrow as the horse's. It also
varies in just the same proportion as in the horse's leg. The feet of
some mules, however, will crack and split, but in most cases it is the
result of bad shoeing. It at times occurs from a lack of moisture to the
foot; and is seen among mules used in cities, where there are no
facilities for driving them into running water every day, to soften the
feet and keep them moist.
CONTENTS.
Best Method of Breaking
Value of Kind Treatment
How to Harness
Injured by Working too Young
What the Mule can Endure
Color and Peculiar Habits
Mexican Mules, and Packing
The Agricultural Committee
Working Condition of Mules
Spotted Mules
Mule-Breeding and Raising
How Colts should be Handled
Packing Mules
Physical Constitution
Value of Harnessing Properly
Government Wagons
More about Breeding Mules
Ancient History of the Mule
Table of Statistics
14 Portraits of Celebrated Mules
Diseases Common to the Mule, and how they should be treated
CHAPTER I.
HOW MULES SHOULD BE TREATED IN BREAKING.
I have long had it in contemplation to write something concerning the
mule, in the hope that it might be of benefit to those who had to deal
with him, as well in as out of the army, and make them better acquainted
with his habits and usefulness. The patient, plodding mule is indeed an
animal that has served us well in the army, and done a great amount of
good for humanity during the late war. He was in truth a necessity to
the army and the Government, and performed a most important part in
supplying our army in the field. That he will perform an equally
important part in the future movements of our army is equally clear, and
should not be lost sight of by the Government. It has seemed to me
somewhat strange, then, that so little should have been written
concerning him, and so little pains taken to improve his quality. I have
noticed in the army that those who had most to do with him were the
least acquainted with his habits, and took the least pains to study his
disposition, or to ascertain by proper means how he could be made the
most useful. The Government might have saved hundreds of thousands of
dollars, if, when the war began, there had been a proper understanding
of this animal among its employees.
Probably no animal has been the subject of more cruel and brutal
treatment than the mule, and it is safe to say that no animal ever
performed his part better, not even the horse. In breaking the mule,
most persons are apt to get out of patience with him. I have got out of
patience with him myself. But patience is the great essential in
breaking, and in the use of it you will find that you get along much
better. The mule is an unnatural animal, and hence more timid of man
than the horse; and yet he is tractable, and capable of being taught to
understand what you want him to do. And when he understands what you
want, and has gained your confidence, you will, if you treat him kindly,
have little trouble in making him perform his duty.
In commencing to break the mule, take hold of him gently, and talk to
him kindly. Don't spring at him, as if he were a tiger you were in dread
of. Don't yell at him; don't jerk him; don't strike him with a club, as
is too often done; don't get excited at his jumping and kicking.
Approach and handle him the same as you would an animal already broken,
and through kindness you will, in less than a week, have your mule more
tractable, better broken, and kinder than you would in a month, had you
used the whip. Mules, with very few exceptions, are born kickers. Breed
them as you will, the moment they are able to stand up, and you put your
hand on them, they will kick. It is, indeed, their natural means of
defence, and they resort to it through the force of instinct. In
commencing to break them, then, kicking is the first thing to guard
against and overcome. The young mule kicks because he is afraid of a
man. He has seen those intrusted with their care beat and abuse the
older ones, and be very naturally fears the same treatment as soon as a
man approaches him. Most persons intrusted with the care of these young
and green mules have not had experience enough with them to know that
this defect of kicking is soonest remedied by kind treatment. Careful
study of the animal's nature and long experience with the animal have
taught me that, in breaking the mule, whipping and harsh treatment
almost invariably make him a worse kicker. They certainly make him more
timid and afraid of you. And just as long as you fight a young mule and
keep him afraid of you, just so long will you be in danger of his
kicking you. You must convince him through kindness that you are not
going to hurt or punish him. And the sooner you do this, the sooner you
are out of danger from his feet.
It may at times become necessary to correct the mule before he is
subdued; but before doing so he should be well bridle or halter-broken,
and also used to harness. He should also be made to know what you are
whipping him for. In harnessing up a mule that will kick or strike with
the forefeet, get a rope, or, as we term it in the army, a lariat.
Throw, or put the noose of this over his head, taking care at the same
time that it be done so that the noose does not choke him; then get the
mule on the near side of a wagon, put the end of the lariat through the
space between the spokes of the fore wheel, then pull the end through so
that you can walk back with it to the hinder wheel (taking care to keep
it tight), then pass it through the same, and pull the mule close to the
wagon. In this position you can bridle and harness him without fear of
being crippled. In putting the rope through the above places, it should
be put through the wheels, so as to bring it as high as the mule's
breast in front, and flanks in the rear. In making them fast in this
way, they frequently kick until they get over the rope, or lariat; hence
the necessity of keeping it as high up as possible. If you chance upon a
mule so wild that you cannot handle him in this way, put a noose of the
lariat in the mule's mouth, and let the eye, or the part where you put
the end of the lariat through, be so as to form another noose. Set this
directly at the root of the mule's ear, pull it tight on him, taking
care to keep the noose in the same place. But when you get it pulled
tight enough, let some one hold the end of the lariat, and, my word for
it, you will bridle the mule without much further trouble.
In hitching the mule to a wagon, if he be wild or vicious, keep the
lariat the same as I have described until you get him hitched up, then
slack it gently, as nearly all mules will buck or jump stiff-legged as
soon as you ease up the lariat; and be careful not to pull the rope too
tight when first put on, as by so doing you might split the mule's
mouth. Let me say here that I have broken thousands of four and six-mule
teams that not one of the animals had ever had a strap of harness on
when I began with them, and I have driven six-mule teams for years on
the frontier, but I have yet to see the first team of unbroken mules
that could be driven with any degree of certainty. I do not mean to say
that they cannot be got along the road; but I regard it no driving
worthy of the name when a driver cannot get his team to any place where
he may desire to go in a reasonable time--and this he cannot do with
unbroken mules. With green or unbroken mules, you must chase or herd
them along without the whip, until you get them to know that you want
them to pull in a wagon. When you have got them in a wagon, pull their
heads round in the direction you want them to go; then convince them by
your kindness that you are not going to abuse them, and in twelve days'
careful handling you will be able to drive them any way you please.
In bridling the young mule, it is necessary to have a bit that will not
injure the animal's mouth. Hundreds of mules belonging to the Government
are, in a measure, ruined by using a bridle bit that is not much thicker
than the wire used by the telegraph. I do not mean by this that the
bridle bit used by the Government in its blind bridles is not well
adapted to the purpose. If properly made and properly used, it is. Nor
do I think any board of officers could have gotten up or devised a
better harness and wagon for army purposes than those made in conformity
with the decision of the board of officers that recommended the harness
and wagon now used. The trouble with a great many of the bits is, that
they are not made up to the regulations, and are too thin. And this bit,
when the animal's head is reined up too tight, as army teamsters are
very likely to do, is sure to work a sore mouth.
There are few things in breaking the mule that should be so carefully
guarded against as this. For as soon as the animal gets a sore mouth, he
cannot eat well, and becomes fretful; then he cannot drink well, and as
his mouth keeps splitting up on the sides, he soon gets so that he
cannot keep water in it, and every swallow he attempts to take, the
water will spirt out of the sides, just above the bit. As soon as the
mule finds that he cannot drink without this trouble, he very naturally
pushes his nose into the water above where his mouth is split, and
drinks until the want of breath forces him to stop, although he has not
had sufficient water. The animal, of course, throws up its head, and the
stupid teamster, as a general thing, drives the mule away from the water
| 1,985.704668 |
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E-text prepared by Annie McGuire from scanned images of public domain
material generously made available by the Google Books Library Project
(http://books.google.com/)
Note: Project Gutenberg also | 1,985.802265 |
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E-text prepared by Ted Garvin, Beth Trapaga, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team
JACK ARCHER
A Tale of the Crimea
By G. A. HENTY
Author of "The Boy Knight," "With Clive in India,"
"True to the Old Flag," Etc., Etc.
CONTENTS
Chapter I. The Midshipman
Chapter II. An Adventure at Gib
Chapter III. The Escape
Chapter IV. Gallipoli
Chapter V. A Brush with the Enemy
Chapter VI. The Alma
Chapter VII. Before Sebastopol
Chapter VIII. Balaklava
Chapter IX. Inkerman
Chapter X. The Great Storm
Chapter XI. Taken Prisoners
Chapter XII. Prisoners on Parole
Chapter XIII. A | 1,985.803068 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Paul Clark 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:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible. Some changes of spelling and punctuation have been made.
They are listed at the end of the text.
Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
[Illustration:
J. C. BURROW, F.R.P.S. BREAGE CHURCH. Camborne.]
THE
Story of an Ancient Parish
BREAGE WITH GERMOE,
With some account of its
Armigers, Worthies and
Unworthies, Smugglers
and Wreckers, Its
Traditions and Superstitions
BY
H. R. COULTHARD, M.A.
1913.
THE CAMBORNE PRINTING AND STATIONERY COMPANY, LIMITED.
CAMBORNE, CORNWALL.
MR. J. A. D. BRIDGER, 112a and 112b, Market Jew Street. Penzance.
_I dedicate this small volume to the friends and neighbours who in the
first place suggested the writing of it to me by telling me stories of
the days of their fathers._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE CELTIC PERIOD 9
II. THE SAXONS 28
III. FROM THE NORMAN CONQUEST TO THE REFORMATION 35
IV. THE REFORMATION TO THE END OF THE COMMONWEALTH 59
V. RECENT TIMES 82
VI. THE GODOLPHINS 100
VII. THE ARUNDELLS, DE PENGERSICKS, MILTONS AND SPARNONS 115
VIII. WORTHIES AND UNWORTHIES 129
IX. PLACE NAMES AND SUPERSTITIONS 148
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Breage Church, Frontispiece 2
Celtic Cross in Breage Churchyard 24
Frescos in Breage Church 51
St. Germoe's Chair 55
Godolphin House 100
A Godolphin Helmet in Breage Church 103
Pengersick Castle 119
PREFACE.
The facts and thoughts which comprise this little book were many of
them, in the first instance, arranged for use in sermons on the Sundays
preceding our local Feast Day, as some attempt to interest Parishioners
in the story of our Church and parish.
I have to acknowledge with gratitude much information given me most
ungrudgingly, from his great store of antiquarian learning, by the
Reverend T. Taylor, Vicar of St. Just; likewise my thanks are due to Mr.
H. Jenner for kindly help and information upon the etymology of local
place names. I must also acknowledge the free use I have made of facts
bearing upon the history of Breage and Germoe taken from Mr.
Baring-Gould's "Historic Characters and Events in Cornwall," and at the
same time I have to express my thanks to the Reverend H. J. Warner,
Vicar of Yealmpton, the Reverend H. G. Burden, Vicar of Leominster, and
Mr. A. E. Spender for valuable information and assistance. I have been
greatly helped in my examination of the Parish Registers by the
excellent transcription of large parts of them made by Mrs. Jocelyn
Barnes. Finally I have to thank a great number of kind friends at
Breage, who have imparted to me the fast fading traditions of other
times, to whom I venture to dedicate this brief record of days that are
no more.
_Breage,
All Saints' Day, 1912._
Date of |
Insti- | LIST OF THE VICARS OF BREAGE.
tution. |
|--------------------------------+-------------------------------------
-- |WILLIAM, SON OF RICHARD |Died or resigned during the Interdict
1219 |WILLIAM, SON OF HUMPHREY |
1264 |MASTER ROBERT DE LA MORE |Resigned to become Canon of Glasney,
| | ultimately parson of Yeovil.
1264 |MASTER STEPHENUS DE ARBOR |
-- |SIR PASCASIUS |No date of Institution. Old, blind
| | and infirm in 1310.
1313 |SIR DAVID DE LYSPEIN |
-- |SIR JOHN YURL DE TREGESOU |No date of Institution.
1362 |HENRY CRETTIER |
-- |SIR WILLIAM PELLOUR |No date of Institution.
1393 |SIR JOHN GODE |Died at Breage.
1403 |MASTER WILLIAM PENSANS |Died at Breage.
1439 |SIR JOHN PATRY |Died at Breage.
1444 |SIR JOHN PEYTO |Died at Breage.
1445 |SIR WILLIAM LEHE |Died at Breage.
1466 |SIR WILLIAM PERS |Resigned to become Canon of Glasney.
1505 |MASTER THOMAS GODOLPHIN |Resigned.
1510 |MASTER JOHN JAKES, |
| Bachelor in Decrees |Died at Breage.
1536 |JOHN BERY, M.A. |Died at Breage.
1558 |SIR ALEXANDER DAWE |Died at Breage.
1595 |FRANCIS HARVEY, M.A. |Vicar also of St. Erth, buried in
| | Breage Churchyard.
1607 |WILLIAM COTTON, M.A. |Son of the Bishop of Exeter, resigned,
| | holder of many other benefices in
| | Devon and Cornwall.
1608 |WILLIAM ORCHARD, |
| "Preacher of the Word of God."|Resigned.
|JAMES INNES (ejected 1661) |Intruding Puritan Divine.
1661 |JAMES TREWINNARD, M.A. |Resigned on becoming Vicar of Mawgan,
| | at which place he lies buried.
1696 |HENRY BUTHNANCE |Died at Breage, lies buried beyond
| | the East wall of the chancel.
1720 |JAMES TREWINNARD, M.A. |Died at Breage, also Vicar of Mawgan.
1722 |EDWARD COLLINS, |Died at Breage, also Vicar of St. Erth,
| Bachelor of Laws | where he lies buried.
1755 |HENRY USTICKE, B.A. |Died at Breage, lies buried beyond
| | the East wall of the chancel.
1769 |EDWARD MARSHALL, M.A. |Died at Breage.
1803 |RICHARD GERVEYS GRYLLS, M.A. |Resigned.
1809 |RICHARD GERVEYS GRYLLS, |Died at Luxulian, which parish he
| M.A., the younger | held in conjunction with Breage.
1853 |EDWARD MORRIS PRIDMORE, M.A. |Died at Breage.
1889 |JOCELYN BARNES, M.A. |Died at Breage.
1904 |HARRY JOHN PETTY |Resigned.
1907 |HUGH ROBERT COULTHARD, M.A. |
THE CELTIC PERIOD.
CHAPTER I.
At the dawn of history, Cornwall, as in fact England generally, was
inhabited by a race of small, dark people, who, for the want of a better
name, have come to be called Ivernians. The blood of this ancient dark
race chiefly survives to-day in South Wales and Cornwall, especially in
our own western Cornwall along the coast line. In Breage, there are
continually to be met with faces and forms which suggest this small dark
race, and which show to what a large extent the ancient Ivernian blood
still survives in our midst.
The Ivernians must have been widely spread over Cornwall, judging by the
numerous chippings from the manufacture of their flint implements
scattered all over the County, which still may be collected in large
quantities. In spite of the continuous mining operations carried on all
over the Parish of Breage for endless generations, and the many
ploughings of the land which must have taken place in periods when the
growth of grain was profitable, these flint chippings can still be
gathered in many places in the parish, especially on the bare patches of
land where the gorse has been burnt, before the grass begins to spring.
In the earlier stages of their history the Ivernians used sharpened
fragments of flint rudely fashioned to the purpose, as knives, axes and
scrapers. In fact, for a long period of their history they were a people
living in and under the conditions of the Stone Age.
Long before the time of written records another race, called Celts,
found their way to Cornwall. This race was divided into two distinct
branches, the Goidels and the Brythons. The Goidels were much inferior
in culture to the Brythons; they were the first to enter Britain, and
upon the arrival of the Brythons they were slaughtered and driven before
them to the remote fastnesses of the West and North, just as in a later
age the Brythons themselves were driven before the Saxons. Under the
circumstances it might have been reasonable to conclude that the people
of Cornwall, in so far as they were not Ivernians, were mainly of
Goidelic blood. This conclusion is, however, not borne out by the
Cornish language which has come down to us in the form of a few miracle
plays and other fragments, which is undoubtedly Brythonic in character.
Of course, it may have been that, when the Brythons were driven into
Cornwall and Wales and across the Channel into Brittany in hordes by the
remorseless, exterminating Saxons, their tongue in these regions
gradually supplanted the more barbarous Goidelic speech.
The Celts, as they advanced westward, whether Goidel or Brython, would
exterminate or make slaves of the Ivernians, driving them before them as
they advanced into the extreme western parts of the County. We have all
heard a number of foolish stories of the Cornish folk in the fishing
villages being largely descended from Spanish soldiers and sailors who
were saved from wrecked battleships of the great Armada. These fisher
folk are dark and swarthy, not because they are descended from Spaniards
but because they are descended from the ancient Ivernians who took
refuge in the caves and rugged places along the coast, leaving the good
land to the conquering Celts.
The Celts, we imagine, would find the Ivernians professing a rude system
of natural religion much akin to their own, but perhaps not so highly
developed; indeed, a very large proportion of the human race at this far
distant time seems to have practised a religion of nature worship alike
in its main features. Here in Cornwall, as elsewhere, for instance,
they kept a great festival in the spring-time, when they celebrated the
coming to life again of the God of vegetation, whose name amongst the
Celts was Gwydian.[1] He was supposed to come to life again with the
coming of the green grass, the leaves and the flowers, and the singing
of the birds, having died in the previous autumn with the withering of
the leaves and the in-gathering of the harvest. Helston Flora Day is the
festival of his resurrection continued right down through the ages. As
in spring they rejoiced over the resurrection of the God of vegetation,
so in autumn they mourned over his death.[2] Most of us have heard the
old Cornish rhyme sung by the reapers at the cutting of the last sheaf,
which is a survival of this ancient custom of bewailing the death of
Gwydian.
"I'll have un, I'll have un, I'll have un,
What have'e, What have'e, What have'e,
What will'e, What will'e, What will'e,
Onec, Onec, Onec, O'hurro, O'hurro, O'hurro."
As this rhyme was repeated, all the harvesters stood round the farmer in
a circle, whilst he waved a sheaf in the air. This custom of mourning
the dead God of vegetation was very widely spread over the world.[3] No
one who has heard the mournful strain in which this chant of our ancient
harvest fields was sung can doubt that in its original use it was a song
of mourning.
The Celtic Priests or Druids knew a good deal of rude astronomy. They
used the stone circles, so many of which still survive, for purposes of
astronomical observations. By watching the alignment of the sun at
rising or setting, and also of certain stars, with the centre stone and
some stone on the circumference of the circle, they were able to
calculate the seasons of the year and the dates of their festivals.
Until a generation ago one of these ancient circles stood on Trewarvas
Head; it was pulled down by some foolish and ignorant people who thought
they might find hidden treasure under the great stones. From the top of
the high cliff overlooking the sea the Druid Priests would have a
splendid view of the far horizon. We can picture them making their
observations through the silent hours of some still star-lit night, with
the ceaseless slumbrous swell of the sea on the rocks far beneath them.
On Midsummer Eve the Druids lit a great fire on the summit of Tregoning
Hill. We know this, because the custom of lighting the fire survived
until very recent times. An old woman deplored its discontinuance to the
writer as a sign of the prevailing irreligion of the times. It seems
more than probable that at this Midsummer Festival human victims were
sometimes sacrificed in honour of the sun.
In the remote Highlands and Islands of Scotland this festival was
observed down to the early part of the eighteenth century, in a way
which clearly points to human sacrifice as the great central act of the
rite.[4] Numbers of men were in the habit of gathering on Midsummer Eve
in these remote parts of the kingdom round the ancient stone circles
midst the hills. A fire was lighted in the centre of the circle; pieces
of cake or bannock were then placed in some cavity where previously a
blackened and burnt fragment of the cake had been placed. Each person,
having first been blindfolded, then drew from the cavity a piece of the
broken cake; the man unfortunate enough to draw the blackened fragment
had to leap through the fire and pay a forfeit or fine. In the dim past
the drawer of the blackened fragment doubtless became the victim
offered to the God to ward off his anger from the community. This
ancient rite must have been practised in our Parish more than a thousand
years before the coming of Christ.
At the very dawn of human history we find all over the world, in Europe,
India, China and America, the ancient peoples keeping four great
festivals as a rule, at the summer and winter solstices and the two
equinoxes; in fact their religious culture in cardinal points was one
and the same.
One part of the faith of these ancient Ivernians and Celts that has
lingered on to our own times is the deeply cherished belief in Fairies.
How this belief came to be so widely spread and deeply cherished amongst
ancient peoples it is impossible to say. It has been suggested that, in
their wanderings over the world in search of pasturage and congenial
climate, they may have encountered in the recesses of primeval forests
or in lonely fastnesses of the mountains remnants of the slowly
vanishing pigmy race of neo-lithic cave men, and that they came to
regard them with something of superstitious awe, and that the memory of
these "little people" became a race memory, in the course of generations
becoming etherealised and woven into the woof of their religious
beliefs. On the other hand we have the possible view that our nomadic
forefathers may have had fitful glimpses, as some of their descendants
aver they have, of orders of beings beyond the ken of normal human
vision, of beings existing upon another plane. Taking into consideration
the exceeding aboundingness of human life within the radius of our poor
faculties, I confess that this view seems to present no inherent
difficulty.
Possibly in the way in which the people of each Cornish Parish possessed
in former generations a nickname, we have a vestige of still more
ancient rights, which carry us back to the very dawn of human culture.
We have Wendron goats, Mullion gulls, Madron bulls, St. Agnes cuckoos,
Mawgan owls, St. Keverne buccas[5] and many others. The following old
rhyme perpetuates the fading memory of the custom,
"Cambourne men are bull dogs,
Breage men are brags,
Germoe men can scat 'un all to rags."
An analogous custom to this Cornish system of nicknames prevails amongst
primitive people all the world over.[6] Each tribe or section of the
tribe has its Totem, an animal, bird or plant, with which it is supposed
to be in close and intimate relationship, and from which the tribe or
section of a tribe receives its name. Possibly Totemism may have had its
origin in crude attempts of primitive men to prevent too close
intermarriage, as men and women possessing the same Totem were not
allowed to marry, whilst on the other hand it has been suggested that
the custom was bound up with the view of primitive men with regard to
sacrifice and inter-communion with their Gods.
The Tin Mines of Cornwall had been known to the Greeks and possibly the
Phoenicians from the earliest times. Diodorus [7]Siculus gives a fragment
from the writings of the Greek traveller Poseidonius who visited
Cornwall possibly in the 3rd century B.C., which may be translated as
follows: "and stamping the tin into shapes of cubes or dice, they carry
it in great quantities in waggons into an island called Ictis lying off
Britain, when the parts between the Island and the main land became dry
land by the ebbing of the tide."
It has been suggested that Ictis was St. Michael's Mount and also the
Isle of Wight. It is impossible to accept the latter contention, unless
we take the view which has been put forward that great changes have
taken place in the depths of the channel separating the Isle of Wight
from the mainland, for which we have no evidence in history or
tradition. Also the Isle of Wight is not less than one hundred and fifty
miles from the tin mines of Cornwall, and at the period to which we are
referring the only roads that existed between the two were mere tracks,
for much of the distance no doubt impassable to waggons. If it had been
necessary to send Cornish tin to the Isle of Wight for transport abroad,
it would naturally have been taken to one or other of the many harbours
along the Cornish southern coast and transhipped by sea in the summer
time. The contention in favour of St. Michael's Mount is almost equally
difficult to accept. It is difficult to see what advantage could have
been gained by carting the tin from the mainland to that Island, when
the contiguous coast possessed several excellent natural harbours. The
most probable solution to the writer seems to be that the Island of
Ictis was the entire Penwith Peninsula. A walk from Marazion Station to
St. Erth along the low-lying belt of marsh land makes it clear that the
ocean at no very distant date must at high tide have encircled the
Penwith Peninsula.
In a later age it is possible that the first seeds of Christianity may
have come to Britain by way of Cornwall along the trade route created by
the exportation of the products of the Cornish Tin Mines to Marseilles.
Foreign merchants would visit Cornwall for the purpose of purchasing
tin, and numbers of foreign sailors would come to these shores in the
galleys that conveyed the tin to the coast of Gaul. Under the
circumstances it does not seem unreasonable to suppose that the first
seeds of Christianity were in this way brought into Britain through
Cornwall.
It seems in every way possible that a fair proportion of the tin
exported from the Island of Ictis to Greece, Italy and the East came
from what is now the Parish of Breage. We have been told by those
competent to speak on such matters that there are tin workings in the
neighbourhood of Wheal Vor which evince a very great antiquity. The name
of Wheal Vor itself means in the Celtic tongue "great work," but we
cannot build much as to the antiquity of the mine merely upon its Celtic
name, as the Cornish or Celtic language continued to be spoken in this
part of Cornwall even until the reign of Queen Anne or later.
At what date the Romans penetrated into Cornwall it is impossible to
say. It has been usual to regard their occupation of Cornwall as of a
somewhat shadowy and uncertain character, but this is not altogether
borne out by facts. Their camps, possibly of a not very permanent
character, are scattered all over our most western part of the County,
amongst other places there is one at St. Erth and another in the parish
of Constantine. The Roman Mile-stone, found in the foundations of St.
Hilary Church, at the restoration, and now preserved there, attests the
fact that a Roman road to the extreme West passed near St. Hilary
Church, probably following the same lines that the main road between
Penzance and Helston follows to-day. Along this road it is probable
would come the first real light and culture to Breage with the steady
tramp of the marching legionaries. It may well have been that
Christianity first travelled this way in their train. Roman coins and
Roman pottery have been from time to time found all over the County. In
1779 an urn containing copper coins weighing eight pounds was found on
Godolphin Farm by a ploughman who sold them to a Jew, and so all trace
of them was lost.
In whatever way Christianity was first brought to the remote Parish of
Breage, it was certainly not brought by St. Breaca, St. Germoe and the
rest of their companions, who only made their appearance at the end of
the fifth or beginning of the sixth century.
As early as the third century two great Christian writers, Tertullian
and Origen, speak of the Britons as having been won over to the religion
of Christ, and St. Chrysostom in the next century makes a similar
statement. St. Jerome also speaks of the British Pilgrims he had seen in
the Holy Land in the fourth century; British Bishops were present at the
Councils of Arles and Rimini in the fourth century, and were invited to
the OEcumenical Council of Nicaea, but could not go on account of their
poverty. Pieces of Roman pottery with the sacred monogram burnt upon it
were found at Padstow. Pelagius a Welshman, in the fourth century, set
the whole world in a blaze with his teachings about original sin. These
and many other facts make it quite clear that Christianity must have
been received by the Celts of Cornwall long before the coming of the
so-called Irish Missionaries to Cornwall, to two of whom the districts
of Breage and Germoe owe their names.
The Pagan Saxons landed on the east coast of England in the fifth
century and drove the Christian Brythons before them, putting all to the
sword who fell into their hands. Those who escaped took refuge either in
Cornwall, Wales or Brittany. It is from the Celts, therefore, with a
strong admixture of Ivernian blood, that the present inhabitants, at any
rate of Western Cornwall, are descended. As a result of the Saxon
invasion of Britain it came about that Wales and Cornwall were fully
Christian, whilst the rest of Britain became practically Pagan. The
Venerable Bede, the Anglo-Saxon historian monk of Jarrow, goes so far as
to blame the Celts of Cornwall and Wales for altogether neglecting the
conversions of the Anglo-Saxons to Christianity. Considering the nature
of the case, this was a most unreasonable complaint to make, as the
Saxons at once killed or enslaved any Celts unlucky enough to fall into
their hands. If further proof were needed that Wales and Cornwall were
Christian at this time, we have only to turn to the writings of
Gildas[8] and the Welsh Bards, Taliesin, Aneurin and Llwarch-Hen. The
memorials of these writers date from the sixth century and depict
incidentally Christianity in a highly organised condition among the
Celts of the West.
Leland the antiquarian, who visited Cornwall and consequently Breage in
the reign of Henry VIII, amongst other things of interest in the
Parishes of Breage and Germoe which he noticed, speaks of the ruins of
the ancient Castle or Stone Fort on the summit of Tregoning Hill. He
says: "The Castle of Conan stood on the hill of Pencair, there yet
appeareth two ditches, some say that Conan had a son called Tristrame."
The life of the chieftain Conan and all that he did have long since
faded into oblivion; all that survives of him are the mounds of stones
that mark the site of his rude stronghold, and his name which has
escaped oblivion in the name of the hill on which he lived and
ruled--Tregoning, "Tre Conan" the abode or settlement of Conan. Pencair,
the name which Leland gives to Tregoning Hill, merely means the Hill of
the Castle or Camp.
The two round camps on the eastern face of Tregoning Hill, formed by the
casting up of high banks of earth with a deep ditch on the outer side,
are the work of Brythons, or at any rate of people who had adopted their
method of fortification and defence; the Goidels made the breastwork of
their camps of stone. In those lawless days all communities had to
fortify themselves against the sudden attacks of enemies, just as, on
the north-western frontier of India, all the villages at the present day
are fortified against attack by high walls of mud. The two camps or
settlements on Tregoning are well chosen near an excellent water supply
and on the side of the hill sheltered from the blustering gales coming
up from the sea. Possibly at the time when these two camps were the
haunts of two populous communities the whole of the low lying land of
Breage and Germoe was covered with swamp, tangled scrub and undergrowth.
The first definite tradition bearing upon the history of the Parish is
the arrival of St. Breaca with St. Germoe, somewhere about 500. It is
said that they landed at the mouth of the Hayle River in company with
between seven and eight hundred Irish Saints, both men and women, who
are supposed to have come from the Province of Munster. From the legends
that have come down to us with regard to them we gather that they were
not altogether wanted by the Cornish. However, this was a minor
consideration to such a large band of enthusiastic Irish men and women;
they made a forcible landing and drove back the Cornish Chief Teudor and
his men who opposed their landing. The legends describe Teudor as a
cruel heathen, in which surely there must be some mistake, as Teudor is
a Christian name, being only Cornish for Theodore. The legends go on to
tell us that one of this great company of Saints, a woman called Cruenna
was killed at Crowan in trying to take forcible possession of the land
of one who was already a Christian, for the purpose of building a church
upon it. It seems very much as if these Irish men and women, with the
true impulsiveness, of their race, set out to Cornwall to convert the
inhabitants, without first taking the trouble to find out whether or no
they were Christians. We see instances of the same spirit at work
to-day, Methodist Missionaries in Rome to convert Roman Catholics, and
Roman Catholic Missionaries in England to convert Christians who are not
Roman Catholics.
It may be helpful, in considering this matter, to take a glance at the
condition of the people of the country whence these Missionaries came at
the time with which we are dealing. St. Patrick, who owed his knowledge
of Christianity to St. Ninian, a Briton, first brought Christianity to
Ireland not more than a hundred years before the arrival of the seven
hundred and seventy seven Saints in the Hayle River, whilst, as we have
seen, Cornwall had been under Christian influences for several
centuries. A candid view of Christianity in Ireland at this time can
only lead to the conclusion that it was more than half Pagan. The
tonsure of the Priests, or mode of cutting their hair, was exactly the
same as that of the Druid[9] Priests. It was not till the year 804 that
Monks and Clergy in Ireland were exempt from bearing arms,[9] that is
three hundred years after the coming of these Saints to Cornwall.
Women[9] were not exempt from fighting in the ranks till 500. In 672 a
battle was fought between the rival Monasteries of Clonmacnois and
Durrow. In 816 four hundred Monks and Nuns[9] were slain in a pitched
battle between two rival Monasteries. In 700 the Irish Clergy[9]
attended their Synods sword in hand, and fought with those who differed
from them on doctrinal points, leaving the ground strewn with
corpses. The Irish, no doubt with the wild unreasoning enthusiasm so
characteristic of the race, flung themselves into the new movement, and
the Monasteries were soon filled with Monks and Nuns with but a vague
realisation of what Christianity was; many no doubt would quickly weary
of the new life of rule, and yearn for one of greater variety; hence
possibly the swarming off to other lands in search of spiritual
adventures.
The theory has been suggested that our army of Irish Saints were
fugitives, worsted in battle, escaping from their enemies, as Ireland at
this period was devastated with petty tribal wars. This theory, to say
the least, seems most plausible.
Vague traditions have come down to us of incidents in the lives of the
Saints of this period which reveal something of the moral atmosphere in
which they lived and moved and had their being. At the end of Germoe
Lane there used to be a cairn of great stones, which an ignorant local
administration has long since cleared away. The legend of these stones
was that St. Keverne possessed a beautiful eucharistic chalice and
paten. St. Just the holy visited his friend and stole these sacred
vessels. St. Keverne discovered the loss and pelted the flying St. Just
with the great stones that fell at the end of Germoe Lane. The same
story appears in the life of St. Patrick where the annalist reveals his
bias in the words: "O wonderful deed! O the theft of a treasure of holy
things, the plunder of the most holy places of the world!" Straws show
the way in which the wind blows, and this fable and the comments of the
Irish annalist reveal the view of his age on the question of theft.
Of course, we fully admit that the Irish Monasteries did become for a
time the home of the learning of the age such as it was. We do not
forget their great foundations in Germany and Northern Italy, and their
exquisite skill in the work of illumination as in the books of Durrow
and Kells; what we contend is that the Irish Saints in coming to
Cornwall were coming to a land which possessed a Christianity older and
purer than their own. That the Irish Saints were sincere according to
their lights we do not doubt, and being true to the light they possessed
they are worthy of being held in honour.
It has been suggested as a solution for the reason of the Invasion of
the Irish Saints, that at the close of the fifth and the beginning of
the sixth century Cornwall was only partially christianized, that Pagans
and Christians were living side by side in amity, and that the Irish
Saints came to devote themselves to the conversion of the Pagans.
Whether this solution of the difficulty be true or no, at any rate it is
opposed to all that we can gather from the testimony of ancient writers
and hagiographers, and, if we accept it, we must reject their testimony
as utterly false and worthless.
Of course, a distinction must be made between the Hibernian Saints and
the many Saints who came over from Brittany and settled in Cornwall. The
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Fishing and
Shooting Sketches
BY
GROVER CLEVELAND
Illustrated by
HENRY S. WATSON
NEW YORK
THE OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY
1906
COPYRIGHT, 1901, 1902, 1903, 1904, BY THE CURTIS PUBLISHING CO.
COPYRIGHT, 1903, 1904, 1905, 1906, BY THE INDEPENDENT.
COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY THE PRESS PUBLISHING CO.
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY THE COUNTRY CALENDAR.
COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY THE OUTING PUBLISHING COMPANY.
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London, England.
_All Rights Reserved._
THE OUTING PRESS
DEPOSIT, N. Y.
[Illustration: From Copyright Photo, by Pach.
Yours truly
Grover Cleveland]
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE MISSION OF SPORT AND OUTDOOR LIFE 3
A DEFENSE OF FISHERMEN 19
THE SERENE DUCK HUNTER 49
THE MISSION OF FISHING AND FISHERMEN 79
SOME FISHING PRETENSES AND AFFECTATIONS 111
SUMMER SHOOTING 139
CONCERNING RABBIT SHOOTING 153
A WORD TO FISHERMEN 165
A DUCK HUNTING TRIP 179
QUAIL SHOOTING 197
The Mission of Sport and Outdoor Life
I am sure that it is not necessary for me, at this late day, to dwell
upon the fact that I am an enthusiast in my devotion to hunting and
fishing, as well as every other kind of outdoor recreation. I am so
proud of this devotion that, although my sporting proclivities have at
times subjected me to criticism and petty forms of persecution, I make
no claim that my steadfastness should be looked upon as manifesting the
courage of martyrdom. On the contrary, I regard these criticisms and
persecutions as nothing more serious than gnat stings suffered on the
bank of a stream--vexations to be borne with patience and afterward
easily submerged in the memory of abundant delightful accompaniments.
Thus, when short fishing excursions, in which I have sought relief
from the wearing labors and perplexities of official duty, have been
denounced in a mendacious newspaper as dishonest devices to cover
scandalous revelry, I have been able to enjoy a sort of pleasurable
contempt for the author of this accusation, while congratulating myself
on the mental and physical restoration I had derived from these
excursions. So, also, when people, more mistaken than malicious, have
wagged their heads in pitying fashion and deprecated my indulgence
in hunting and fishing frivolity, which, in high public service, I
have found it easy to lament the neglect of these amiable persons
to accumulate for their delectation a fund of charming sporting
reminiscence; while, at the same time, I sadly reflected how their
dispositions might have been sweetened and their lives made happier if
they had yielded something to the particular type of frivolity which
they deplored.
I hope it may not be amiss for me to supplement these personal
observations by the direct confession that, so far as my attachment to
outdoor sports may be considered a fault, I am, as related to this
especial predicament of guilt, utterly incorrigible and shameless. Not
many years ago, while residing in a non-sporting but delightfully
cultured and refined community, I found that considerable indignation
had been aroused among certain good neighbors and friends, because it
had been said of me that I was willing to associate in the field with
any loafer who was the owner of a dog and gun. I am sure that I did not
in the least undervalue the extreme friendliness of those inclined to
intervene in my defense; and yet, at the risk of doing an apparently
ungracious thing, I felt inexorably constrained to check their kindly
efforts by promptly conceding that the charge was too nearly true to be
denied.
There can be no doubt that certain men are endowed with a sort of
inherent and spontaneous instinct which leads them to hunting and
fishing indulgence as the most alluring and satisfying of all
recreations. In this view, I believe it may be safely said that the true
hunter or fisherman is born, not made. I believe, too, that those who
thus by instinct and birthright belong to the sporting fraternity and
are actuated by a genuine sporting spirit, are neither cruel, nor greedy
and wasteful of the game and fish they pursue; and I am convinced that
there can be no better conservators of the sensible and provident
protection of game and fish than those who are enthusiastic in their
pursuit, but who, at the same time, are regulated and restrained by the
sort of chivalric fairness and generosity, felt and recognized by every
true sportsman.
While it is most agreeable thus to consider hunting and fishing as
constituting, for those especially endowed for their enjoyment, the
most tempting of outdoor sports, it is easily apparent that there
is a practical value to these sports as well as all other outdoor
recreations, which rests upon a broader foundation. Though the
delightful and passionate love for outdoor sports and recreation is not
bestowed upon every one as a natural gift, they are so palpably related
to health and vigor, and so inseparably connected with the work of life
and comfort of existence, that it is happily ordained that a desire
or a willingness for their enjoyment may be cultivated to an extent
sufficient to meet the requirements of health and self-care. In other
words, all but the absolutely indifferent can be made to realize that
outdoor air and activity, intimacy with nature and acquaintanceship with
birds and animals and fish, are essential to physical and mental
strength, under the exactions of an unescapable decree.
Men may accumulate wealth in neglect of the law of recreation; but how
infinitely much they will forfeit, in the deprivation of wholesome
vigor, in the loss of the placid fitness for the quiet joys and
comforts of advancing years, and in the displacement of contented age by
the demon of querulous and premature decrepitude!
"For the good God who loveth us
He made and loveth all."
A Law not to Be Disobeyed
Men, in disobedience of this law, may achieve triumph in the world of
science, education and art; but how unsatisfying are the rewards thus
gained if they hasten the night when no man can work, and if the later
hours of life are haunted by futile regrets for what is still left
undone, that might have been done if there had been closer communion
with nature's visible forms!
In addition to the delight which outdoor recreations afford to those
instinctively in harmony with their enjoyment, and after a recognition
of the fact that a knowledge of their nerve- and muscle-saving
ministrations may be sensibly cultivated, there still remains another
large item that should be placed to their credit. Every individual, as a
unit in the scheme of civilized social life, owes to every man, woman
and child within such relationship an uninterrupted contribution to the
fund of enlivening and pleasurable social intercourse. None of us can
deny this obligation; and none of us can discharge it as we ought, if
our contributions are made in the questionable coin of sordidness and
nature's perversion. Our experience and observation supply abundant
proof that those who contribute most generously to the exhilaration and
charm of social intercourse will be found among the disciples of outdoor
recreation, who are in touch with nature and have thus kept fresh and
unperverted a simple love of humanity's best environment.
A Chance in the Open for All
It seems to me that thoughtful men should not be accused of exaggerated
fears when they deprecate the wealth-mad rush and struggle of American
life and the consequent neglect of outdoor recreation, with the
impairment of that mental and physical vigor absolutely essential to our
national welfare, and so abundantly promised to those who gratefully
recognize, in nature's adjustment to the wants of man, the care of "the
good God" who "made and loveth all."
Manifestly, if outdoor recreations are important to the individual and
to the nation, and if there is danger of their neglect, every
instrumentality should be heartily encouraged which aims to create and
stimulate their indulgence in every form.
Fortunately, the field is broad and furnishes a choice for all except
those wilfully at fault. The sky and sun above the head, the soil
beneath the feet, and outdoor air on every side are the indispensable
requisites.
A Defense of Fishermen
By way of introduction and explanation, it should be said that there is
no intention at this time to deal with those who fish for a livelihood.
Those sturdy and hard-working people need no vindication or defense.
Our concern is with those who fish because they have an occult and
mysterious instinct which leads them to love it, because they court the
healthful, | 1,985.807936 |
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THE SMUGGLER CHIEF
A NOVEL
BY
GUSTAVE AIMARD
AUTHOR OF "STRONGHAND," "BUCCANEER CHIEF," ETC.
LONDON
WARD AND LOCK, 158, FLEET STREET
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MIRK ABBEY,
By James Payn
The Author of “Lost Sir Massengberd;” “the Clyffards Of Glyffe;”
etc., etc.
In Three Volumes. Vol. I.
London: Hurst And Blackett, Publishers,
1866.
TO
Charles Dickens,
This Book Is, By Permission,
Cordially dedicated.
CHAPTER I. IN MY LADY'S CHAMBER.
|IT is an hour short of midnight, and the depth of winter. The morrow is
Christmas Day. Mirk Abbey bears snow everywhere; inches thick upon its
huge broad coping-stones; much even on its sloping roof, save on the
side where the north wind makes fitful rushes, and, wolf-like, tears and
worries the white fleeces. Mirk woods sway mournfully their naked arms,
and grind and moan without; the ivy taps unceasingly against the pane,
as though entreating shelter.
The whole earth lies cold and dead beneath its snow-shroud, and yet the
snow falls and falls, flake by flake, soft and noiseless in its white
malice, like a woman's hate upon her rival.
It hides the stars, it dims the moon, it dulls the murmur of the river
to which the Park <DW72>s down, and whose voice the frost has striven in
vain to hush these three weeks. Only the Christmas-bells are heard,
now faint, now full--that sound more laden with divine regret than
any other that falls on human ear. Like one who, spurring from the
battle-field, proclaims “The fight is ours, but our great chief is
slain!” there is sorrow in that message of good tidings; and not only
for pious Christian folk; in every bosom it stirs some sleeping memory,
and reminds it of the days that are no more. No wonder, then, that such
music should touch my Lady's heart--the widowed mistress of Mirk
Abbey. Those Christmas-bells which are also wedding-bells, remind her
doubtless of the hour when Sir Robert lifted her lace-veil aside, and
kissed her brow before all the people in the little church by the sea,
and called her for the first time his Wife. He will never do so more. He
has been dead for years. But what of that? Our dead are with us still.
Our acts, our dealings with the world, form but a portion of our lives;
our thoughts still dwell with those dear ones who have gone home before
us, and in our dreams they still are our companions. My Lady is not
alone in her private chamber, although no human being is there besides
herself. Her eyes are fixed upon the fire, and in its flame she sees a
once-loved face invisible to others, whose smile has power to move her
even to tears. How foolish are those who ascribe romance to Youth alone
--to Youth, that has scarcely learned to love, far less to lose! My Lady
is five-and-forty at the least, although still comely; and yet there are
memories at work within that broad white brow, which, for interest and
pathos, outweigh the fancies of a score of girls. Even so far as we--the
world--are acquainted with her past, it is a strange one, and may well
give her that thoughtful air.
Lady Lisgard, of Mirk Abbey, has looked at life from a far other
station than that which she now occupies. When a man of fortune does not
materially increase his property by marriage, we call the lady of his
choice, although she may have a few thousand pounds of her own, “a
girl without a sixpence.” But Sir Robert Lisgard did literally make
a match of this impecunious sort. Moreover, he married a very
“unsuitable young person;” by which expression you will understand
that he was blamed, not for choosing a bride very much junior to
himself, but for not selecting her from the proper | 1,985.900438 |
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THE ORIENTAL RUG
[Illustration:
PLATE I.
ANTIQUE LADIK
_Prayer Rug_
FROM THE COLLECTION OF MR. GEORGE H. ELLWANGER
Size: 3.10 x | 1,985.90066 |
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LONDON FILMS
BY W. D. HOWELLS
[Illustration: HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT]
CONTENTS
I. METEOROLOGICAL EMOTIONS
II. CIVIC AND SOCIAL COMPARISONS, MOSTLY ODIOUS
III. SHOWS AND SIDE-SHOWS OF STATE
IV. THE DUN YEAR'S BRILLIANT FLOWER
V. THE SIGHTS AND SOUNDS OF THE STREETS
VI. SOME MISGIVINGS AS TO THE AMERICAN INVASION
VII. IN THE GALLERY OF THE COMMONS
VIII. THE MEANS OF SOJOURN
IX. CERTAIN TRAITS OF THE LONDON SPRINGTIME
X. SOME VOLUNTARY AND INVOLUNTARY SIGHTSEEING
XI. GLIMPSES OF THE LOWLY AND THE LOWLIER
XII. TWICE-SEEN SIGHTS AND HALF-FANCIED FACTS
XIII. AN AFTERNOON AT HAMPTON COURT
XIV. A SUNDAY MORNING IN THE COUNTRY
XV. FISHING FOR WHITEBAIT
XVI. HENLEY DAY
XVII. AMERICAN ORIGINS--MOSTLY NORTHERN
XVIII. AMERICAN ORIGINS--MOSTLY SOUTHERN
XIX. ASPECTS AND INTIMATIONS
XX. PARTING GUESTS
ILLUSTRATIONS
HOUSES OF PARLIAMENT
FLEET STREET AND ST. DUNSTAN'S CHURCH
THE CARRIAGES DRAWN UP BESIDE THE SACRED CLOSE
SUNDAY AFTERNOON, HYDE PARK
ROTTEN ROW
A BLOCK IN THE STRAND
ST. PAUL'S CATHEDRAL
WESTMINSTER ABBEY
THE HORSE GUARDS, WHITEHALL
WESTMINSTER BRIDGE AND CLOCK TOWER
A HOUSE-BOAT ON THE THAMES AT HENLEY
THE CROWD OF SIGHT-SEERS AT HENLEY
THE TOWER OF LONDON
ST. OLAVE'S, TOOLEY STREET
LONDON BRIDGE
THE ANCIENT CHURCH OF ST. MAGNUS
THE EAST INDIA HOUSE OF CHARLES LAMB'S TIME
CHURCH OF THE DUTCH REFUGEES
BOW-BELLS (ST. MARY-LE-BOW, CHEAPSIDE)
STAPLE INN, HOLBORN
CLIFFORD'S INN HALL
ANCIENT CHURCH OF ST. MARTINS-IN-THE-FIELDS
HYDE PARK IN OCTOBER
THAMES EMBANKMENT
I
METEOROLOGICAL EMOTIONS
Whoever carries a mental kodak with him (as I suspect I was in the habit
of doing long before I knew it) must be aware of the uncertain value of
the different exposures. This can be determined only by the process of
developing, which requires a dark room and other apparatus not always at
hand; and so much depends upon the process that it might be well if it
could always be left to some one who makes a specialty of it, as in the
case of the real amateur photographer. Then one's faulty impressions
might be so treated as to yield a pictorial result of interest, or
frankly thrown away if they showed hopeless to the instructed eye.
Otherwise, one must do one's own developing, and trust the result,
whatever it is, to the imaginative kindness of the reader, who will
surely, if he is the right sort of reader, be able to sharpen the
blurred details, to soften the harsh lights, and blend the shadows in a
subordination giving due relief to the best meaning of the print. This
is what I fancy myself to be doing now, and if any one shall say that my
little pictures are superficial, I shall not be able to gainsay him. I
can only answer that most pictures represent the surfaces of things; but
at the same time I can fully share the disappointment of those who would
prefer some such result as the employment of the Roentgen rays would
have given, if applied to certain aspects of the London world.
Of a world so vast, only small parts can be known to a life-long
dweller. To the sojourner scarcely more will vouchsafe itself than to
the passing stranger, and it is chiefly to home-keeping folk who have
never broken their ignorance of London that one can venture to speak
with confidence from the cumulative misgiving which seems to sum the
impressions of many sojourns of differing lengths and dates. One could
have used the authority of a profound observer after the first few days
in 1861 and 1865, but the experience of weeks stretching to months in
1882 and 1883, clouded rather than cleared the air through which one
earliest saw one's London; and the successive pauses in 1894 and 1897,
with the longest and latest stays in 1904, have but served to confirm
one in the diffident inconclusion on all important points to which I
hope the pages following will bear witness.
What appears to be a fact, fixed and absolute amid a shimmer of
self-question, is that any one coming to London in the beginning
of April, after devious delays in the South and West of England,
is destined to have printed upon his mental films a succession of
meteorological changes quite past computation. Yet if one were as
willing to be honest as one is willing to be graphic, one would allow
that probably the weather on the other side of the Atlantic was then
behaving with quite as swift and reckless caprice. The difference is
that at home, having one's proper business, one leaves the weather
to look after its own affairs in its own way; but being cast upon the
necessary idleness of sojourn abroad, one becomes critical, becomes
censorious. If I were to be a little honester still, I should confess
that I do not know of any place where the month of April can be meaner,
more _poison_, upon occasion, than in New York. Of course it has its
moments of relenting, of showing that warm, soft, winning phase which is
the reverse of its obverse shrewishness, when the heart melts to it in
a grateful tenderness for the wide, high, blue sky, the flood of white
light, the joy of the flocking birds, and the transport of the buds
which you can all but hear bursting in an eager rapture. It is a sudden
glut of delight, a great, wholesale emotion of pure joy, filling the
soul to overflowing, which the more scrupulously adjusted meteorology of
England is incapable of at least so instantly imparting. Our weather is
of public largeness and universal application, and is perhaps rather for
the greatest good of the greatest number; admirable for the seed-time
and harvest, and for the growing crops in the seasons between. The
English weather is of a more private quality, and apportioned to the
personal preference, or the personal endurance. It is as if it were
influenced by the same genius which operates the whole of English life,
and allows each to identify himself as the object of specific care,
irrespective of the interests of the mass. This may be a little
too fanciful, and I do not insist that it is scientific or even
sociological. Yet I think the reader who rejects it might do worse than
agree with me that the first impression of a foreign country visited or
revisited is stamped in a sense of the weather and the season.
Nothing made me so much at home in England as reading, one day, that
there was a lower or a higher pressure in a part of Scotland, just as
I might have read of a lower or a higher pressure in the region of
the lakes. "Now," I said to myself, "we shall have something like real
weather, the weather that is worth telegraphing ahead, and is going
to be decisively this or that." But I could not see that the weather
following differed from the weather we had been having. It was the same
small, individual weather, offered as it were in samples of warm, cold,
damp and dry, but mostly cold and damp, especially in-doors. The day
often opened gray and cloudy, but by-and-by you found that the sun was
unobtrusively shining; then it rained, and there was rather a bitter
wind; but presently it was sunny again, and you felt secure of the
spring, for the birds were singing: the birds of literature, the lark,
the golden-billed blackbird, the true robin, and the various finches;
and round and over all the rooks were calling like voices in a dream.
Full of this certainty of spring you went in-doors, and found it winter.
If you can keep out-of-doors in England you are very well, and that
is why the English, who have been philosophizing their climate for a
thousand and some odd years, keep out-of-doors so much. When they go
indoors they take all the outer air they can with them, instinctively
realizing that they will be more comfortable with it than in the
atmosphere awaiting them. If their houses could be built reversible,
so as to be turned inside out in some weathers, one would be very
comfortable in them. Lowell used whimsically to hold that the English
rain did not wet you, and he might have argued that the English cold
would not chill you if only you stayed out | 1,985.901385 |
2023-11-16 18:50:09.8826770 | 7,437 | 12 |
Produced by sp1nd and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
IN THE FOREIGN LEGION
BY
ERWIN ROSEN
LONDON
DUCKWORTH & CO.
HENRIETTA ST. COVENT GARDEN
1910
_All rights reserved_
Printed by BALLANTYNE & CO. LIMITED
Tavistock Street, Covent Garden, London
PROLOGUE
Once upon a time there was a young student at a German University who
found life too fresh, too joyous, to care very much for professors and
college halls. Parental objections he disregarded. Things came to a
climax. And the very next "Schnelldampfer" had amongst its passengers a
boy in disgrace, bound for the country of unlimited possibilities in
search of a fortune....
The boy did not see very much of fortune, but met with a great deal of
hard work. His father did not consider New York a suitable place for
bad boys, and booked him a through passage to Galveston. There the
ex-student contracted hotel-bills, feeling very much out of place,
until a man who took a fancy to him gave him a job on a farm in Texas.
There the boy learnt a good deal about riding and shooting, but rather
less about cotton-raising. This was the beginning. In the course of
time he became translator of Associated Press Despatches for a big
German paper in St. Louis and started in newspaper life.
From vast New York to the Golden Gate his new profession carried him:
he was sent as a war correspondent to Cuba, he learned wisdom from the
kings of journalism, he paid flying visits to small Central American
republics whenever a new little revolution was in sight. Incidentally
he acquired a taste for adventure. Then the boy, a man now, was called
back to the Fatherland, to be a journalist, editor and novelist. He was
fairly successful. And a woman's love came into his life....
But he lost the jewel happiness. The continual fight for existence and
battling for daily bread of his American career, so full of ups and
downs, was hardly a good preparation for quiet respectability. Wise men
called him a fool, a fool unspeakable, who squandered his talents in
light-heartedness. And finally a time came when even his wife to be
could no more believe in him. The jewel happiness was lost....
The man at any rate recognised his loss; he recognised that life was no
longer worth living. A dull feeling of hopelessness came over him. And
in his hour of despair he remembered the blood of adventure in his
veins. A wild life he would have: he would forget.
He enlisted as a soldier in the French Foreign Legion.
* * * * *
That man was I. I had burned my boats behind me. Not a soul knew where
I was. Those who loved me should think that I was dead. I lived the
hard life of a legionnaire; I had no hopes, no aspirations, no thought
for the future; I worked and marched, slept, ate, and did what I was
ordered; suffered the most awful hardships and bore all kinds of
shameful treatment. And during sleepless nights I dreamed of love--love
lost for ever....
Some five hundred years I wore the uniform of the Legion. So at least
it seemed to me.
Then--the great change came. One day there was a letter for me.
Love had found me out across a continent. I read and read and read
again.
That was the turning-point of my life. I broke my fetters, and I fought
a hard fight for a new career....
Now the jewel happiness is mine.
ERWIN ROSEN
HAMBURG, 1909
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
LEGIONNAIRE!
In Belfort : Sunrays and fear : Madame and the waiter : The
French lieutenant : The enlistment office of the Foreign Legion
: Naked humanity : A surgeon with a lost sense of smell :
"Officier Allemand" : My new comrades : The lieutenant-colonel :
A night of tears 1
CHAPTER II
L'AFRIQUE
Transport of recruits on the railway : What our ticket did for
us and France : The patriotic conductor : Marseilles : The gate
of the French Colonies : The Colonial hotel : A study in blue
and yellow : On the Mediterranean : The ship's cook : The story
of the Royal Prince of Prussia at Saida : Oran : Wine and
legionnaires : How the deserter reached Spain and why he
returned 16
CHAPTER III
LEGIONNAIRE NUMBER 17889
French and American bugle-calls : Southward to the city of the
Foreign Legion : Sidi-bel-Abbes : The sergeant is not pleased :
A final fight with pride : The jokes of the Legion : The wise
<DW64> : Bugler Smith : I help a legionnaire to desert : The
Eleventh Company : How clothes are sold in the Legion : Number
17889 35
CHAPTER IV
THE FOREIGN LEGION'S BARRACKS
In the company's storeroom : Mr. Smith--American, legionnaire,
philosopher : The Legion's neatness : The favourite substantive
of the Foreign Legion : What the commander of the Old Guard said
at Waterloo : Old and young legionnaires : The canteen : Madame
la Cantiniere : The regimental feast : Strange men and strange
things : The skull : The prisoners' march : The wealth of
Monsieur Rassedin, legionnaire : "Rehabilitation" : The Koran
chapter of the Stallions 48
CHAPTER V
THE MILITARY VALUE OF THE FOREIGN REGIMENTS
A day's work as a recruit : Allez, hurry up! : The Legion's
etiquette : A morning's run : The "cercle d'enfer" and the lack
of soap : The main object of the Legion's training : Splendid
marchers : Independent soldiers : Forty kilometres a day :
Uniform, accoutrements, baggage, victualling : The training of
the legionnaire in detail : The legionnaire as a practical man :
Specialties of the Legion : Programme for a week in the Legion :
The legionnaire as a labourer 77
CHAPTER VI
"THE LEGION GETS NO PAY"
The money troubles of the Legion : Five centimes wages : The
cheapest soldiers of the world : Letters from the Legion : The
science of "decorating" : The industries of the legionnaires :
What the bugler did for a living : The man with the biscuits : A
thief in the night : Summary lynch law : Herr von Rader and la
Cantiniere : "The Legion works--the Legion gets no pay!" 105
CHAPTER VII
THE CITY OF THE FOREIGN LEGION
The daily exodus to town : Ben Mansur's coffee : The Ghetto :
The citizens of Sidi-bel-Abbes and the legionnaires : How the
Legion squared accounts with the civilians : A forbidden part of
the town : Primitive vice : A dance of a night : The gardens :
The last resting-place of the Legion's dead 117
CHAPTER VIII
A HUNDRED THOUSAND HEROES--A HUNDRED THOUSAND VICTIMS
The hall of honour : A collection of ruined talents : The battle
of Camaron : A skeleton outline of the Legion's history : A
hundred thousand victims : A psychological puzzle : True heroes
: How they are rewarded : The chances of promotion : The pension
system of the Foreign Legion 135
CHAPTER IX
"MARCH OR DIE!"
The Legion's war-cry : A night alarm : On the march : The
counting of the milestones : Under canvas : The brutality of the
marches : The legionnaire and the staff doctor : My fight for an
opiate : The "marching pig" : The psychology of the marches :
Excited nerves : The song of imprecations 155
CHAPTER X
THE MADNESS OF THE FOREIGN LEGION
An unpleasant occurrence : The last three coppers : The Roumanian
Jew from Berlin : Monsieur Viaisse : The Legion's atmosphere : The
Cafard demoniacs : Bismarck's double : Kruegerle's whim : The
madness of Legionnaire Bauer : Brutal humour : A tragedy 176
CHAPTER XI
THE DESERTERS
The Odyssey of going on pump : Death in the desert : The
Legion's deserters : A disastrous flight in a motor-car : The
tragic fate of an Austrian engineer : In the Ghetto of
Sidi-bel-Abbes : The business part of desertion : Oran and
Algiers : The Consulate as a trap : The financial side of
desertion : One hundred kilometres of suffering : Hamburg
steamers : Self-mutilation : Shamming : In the Suez Canal :
Morocco, the wonder-land 197
CHAPTER XII
A CHAPTER ON PUNISHMENTS
The return of the poumpistes : The scale of punishments in the
Legion : Of spiteful non-commissioned officers : The Legion's
axiom : Sad history of Little Jean : The punishment machine :
Lost years : A legionnaire's earnings in five years--francs,
127.75 : The prisons in the Foreign Legion : Pestilential
atmosphere : Human sardines : The general cells : Life in the
prison : On sentry duty among the prisoners 226
CHAPTER XIII
SOME TYPES OF VICE
A variety of human vices : The red wine of Algeria : Shum-Shum :
If there were no wine 248
CHAPTER XIV
MY ESCAPE
In the Arab prison : The letter : Days of suffering : Flight! :
The greedy "Credit Lyonnais" : Haggling in the Ghetto : The palm
grove as a dressing-room : On the railway track : Arab policemen
: Horrible minutes : Travelling to Oran : Small preparations :
On the steamer _St. Augustine_ : Marseilles : Ventimiglia : Free
255
CHAPTER XV
J'ACCUSE
Two years after : Shadows of the past : My vision : Public
opinion and the Foreign Legion : The political aspect of the
Foreign Legion : The moralist's point of view : The "Legion
question" in a nutshell : A question the civilised world should
have answered long ago : Quousque tandem...? 274
CHAPTER I
LEGIONNAIRE!
In Belfort : Sunrays and fear : Madame and the waiter : The French
lieutenant : The enlistment office of the Foreign Legion : Naked
humanity : A surgeon with a lost sense of smell : "Officier Allemand" :
My new comrades : The lieutenant-colonel : A night of tears
Another man, feeling as I felt, would have preferred a pistol-bullet as
a last resource. I went into the Foreign Legion....
It was evening when I arrived in the old fortress of Belfort, with the
intention of enlisting for the Legion. Something very like
self-derision made me spend the night in the best hotel.
Awakening was not pleasant. The sunrays played hide-and-seek upon the
lace of the cover, clambered to the ceiling, threw fantastic colours on
the white little faces of the stucco angels, climbed down again,
crowded together in a shining little heap, and gave the icy elegance of
the room a warm tone. Sleepily I stared at their play; sleepily I
blinked at the enormous bed with its splendid covering of lace, the
curious furniture, the wonderful Persian rug. Then I woke up with a
start and tried to think. A thousand thoughts, a thousand memories
crowded in upon me. Voices spoke to me; a woman's tears, the whispering
of love, a mothers sorrow. And some devil was perpetually drumming in
even measure: lost, lost, lost for ever....
For the second time in my life I felt the Great Fear. An indescribable
feeling, as if one had a great lump in one's throat, barring the air
from the lungs; as if one never could draw breath again. I had once
experienced this fear in the valley of Santiago de Cuba, when one of
the first Spanish shells from the blockhouse on San Juan Hill burst a
few feet from me. This time it was much worse.
Ah well, one must try to forget!
I dressed with ridiculous care, paid my bill in the "bureau," and
earned a lovely smile from madame for my gold piece. Ah, madame, you
would hardly flash your pretty eyes if you knew! The head waiter stood
expectant at the door, bending himself almost double in French fashion.
He reminded me of a cat in bad humour.
I gave him a rather large silver piece.
"Well, my son, you're the last man in this world who gets a tip from
me. Too bad, isn't it?"
"Je ne parle pas...."
"That's all right," said I.
I walked slowly through the quaint narrow streets and alleys of
Belfort. Shop after shop, store after store, and before each and every
one of them stood flat tables packed with things for sale, taking up
most of the pavement. Here was a good chance for a thief, I thought,
and laughed, marvelling that in my despair the affairs of the Belfort
storekeepers could interest me. Mechanically I looked about and saw a
house of wonderful blue; the city fathers of Belfort had built their
new market-hall almost wholly of sapphire-blue glass, which
scintillated in the rays of the sun, giving an effect such as no
painter has as yet been able to reproduce. I felt sorry that a building
of such beauty should be condemned to hold prosaic potatoes and
greenstuff. Vivacious Frenchmen and Frenchwomen hurried by hustling and
jostling each other in the crowded streets.... Don't hurry about so.
Life is certainly not worth the trouble!
Ironical thoughts could not alter matters, nor could even the most
wonderful blue help me to forget. I must get it over.
A very young-looking lieutenant came up the street. I spoke to him in
my rusty college French:
"Would you please to direct me to the recruiting office of the Foreign
Legion?"
The officer touched his "kepi" politely and seemed rather astonished.
"You can come with me, monsieur. I am on the way to the offices of the
fortress."
We went together.
"You seem to be German?" he said. "I may be able to assist you. I am
adjutant to the general commanding the fortress."
"Yes, I am German, and intend to enlist in the Foreign Legion," I said,
very, very softly. How terribly hard this first step was! I thought the
few words must choke me.
"Oh, la la...." said the officer, quite confounded.
He took a good look at me. I seemed to puzzle him. Then he chatted (the
boy was a splendid specimen of French courtesy) amiably about this and
that. Awfully interesting corps, this Foreign Legion. He hoped to be
transferred himself to the "etrangers" for a year or two. Ah, that
would be magnificent.
"The Cross of the Legion of Honour can be earned very easily in
Southern Algeria. Brilliant careers down there! Oh, la la! Eh bien,
monsieur--you shall wear the French uniform very soon. Have you
anything particular to tell me?"
Again that curious glance.
I answered in the negative.
"Really not?" the lieutenant asked in a very serious tone of voice.
"No, monsieur, absolutely nothing. I have been told that for the
Foreign Legion physical fitness is the only thing required, and that
the recruiting officers cared less than nothing about the past lives of
their recruits."
"You're quite right," said the lieutenant; "I asked in your own
interest only. If you had special military knowledge, for instance,
your way in the Legion could be made very easy for you."
Some time later I understood what he meant. Now I answered that I had
served in the army like all Germans.
Meanwhile we had reached a row of small buildings. Into one of them the
lieutenant went with me, up a flight of steep, rather dirty stairs,
into a dingy little office. At our entrance a corporal jumped up from
his seat and saluted, and the officer spoke to him in a low tone. Then
my little lieutenant left and the corporal turned to me.
"Eh, enter la Legion?" he said. "Mais, monsieur, you are not dressed
like a man desiring to gain bread by becoming legionnaire! Votre nom?"
I reflected for an instant whether I should give my right name or not.
I gave it, however. It did not matter much.
"Eh, venez avec moi to the others. The medecin major will be here in a
minute."
So saying the corporal opened a door and gave me a friendly push. I
drew back almost frightened. The atmosphere of the close little room
was unspeakable. It was foul with the smell of unwashed humanity,
sweat, dirt and old clothes. Long benches stood against the wall and
men sat there, candidates for the Foreign Legion, waiting for the
medical examination, waiting to know whether their bodies were still
worth five centimes daily pay. That is what a legionnaire gets--five
centimes a day. One of the men sat there naked, shivering in the chill
October air. It needed no doctor's eye to see that he was half starved.
His emaciated body told the story clearly enough. Another folded his
pants with almost touching care, although they had been patched so
often that they were now tired of service and in a state of continuous
strike. An enormous tear in an important part had ruined them
hopelessly. These pants and that tear had probably settled the question
of the wearer's enlisting in the Foreign Legion.
A third man, a strong boy, seemed very much ashamed of having to
undress. These poor men considered nudity a vile and ugly thing,
because, in their life of poverty and hunger, they had forgotten the
laws of cleanliness. They were ashamed, and every move of theirs told
it. There, in the corner, one of the men was shoving his shoes
furtively as far as possible under the bench, that the holes in them
might not be seen, and another made a small bundle of his tattered
belongings, thus defying inspection.
A dozen men were there. Some of them were mere boys, with only a shadow
of beard on their faces; youths with deep-set hungry eyes and deep
lines round their mouths; men with hard, wrinkled features telling the
old story of drink very plainly. Nobody dared to talk aloud. Occasional
words were spoken in a hushed undertone. The man beside me said softly,
the fear of refusal in his eyes:
"I've got varicose veins. D'you think they'll take me...?"
My God, the Foreign Legion meant hope for this man--the hope of regular
food! The daily five centimes were for him wages well worth having!
The atmosphere was loathsome. I stared at this miserable crowd of
hopeless men, at their filthy things, at their hungry faces; I felt
like a criminal in the dock. My clothes seemed a mockery....
After what seemed an eternity of waiting the officers came in. A fat
surgeon, an assistant and my lieutenant. I would have given something
to have asked this doctor why in all the world these men could not be
given a bath before examination....
First the doctor pointed at me.
"Undress!"
While I was undressing, the officers kept whispering together, very
softly, but I could hear that they were talking about me, and that the
lieutenant said something about "Officier Allemand."
I smiled as I listened. It was very funny to be taken for a quondam
German officer. I suppose they took me for a deserter; it certainly
must have been rather an unusual event to find a well-dressed man
enlisting in the Legion.
The well-dressed man felt annoyed at this curiosity, this openly shown
pity. It was absolute torture to me. How very ridiculous it all was--I
fumbled at my watch-chain, trying to take off the little gold
sovereign-case in order to open my waistcoat--I fumed at the stares of
the officers who should have been gentlemen.... The looks of the doctor
said plainly:
"Humph, the fellow actually wears fine underclothes!"
Why should they stare at me? Had I not the same right as these other
poor devils to go to perdition in my own way? Why should they make it
so hard for me in particular? Then I understood how human their
curiosity was, and how ridiculous my irritability. The first step was
made. I began slowly to understand what it meant to enlist in the
Foreign Legion as a last refuge.
I stood there naked before the medecin major, who adjusted his
eye-glass as if he had a good deal of time to spare, and who took a
long look at me. I stared quietly back at him. You may look as long as
you wish, I thought, you fat, funny old fellow with a snub nose. You
surely aren't going to complain of my physical condition.
"Bon," said the doctor.
A clerk wrote something in a book. This finished the ceremony. The
doctor did not bother about such trifles as examining the lungs, heart
or eyes. He was for simplifying things. Monsieur le major decided with
a short look in each case, as the other men took their turn. Three men
were refused. An old woman could have diagnosed their condition at a
glance--they were cases for a hospital, and their doing military
service was absolutely out of the question. The man with the varicose
veins, however, was at once accepted. Bon! I could see how happy he was
over his good fortune, and I envied him. The man had hope....
* * * * *
Before a small window in the wall we new recruits waited, half an hour,
an hour. At last the window was opened and the corporal put out his
head.
"Snedr!" he called.
Nobody answered.
"Snedr!!" he yelled, getting angry.
Still no reply.
Finally the lieutenant appeared beside the corporal, and looked over
his list.
"Oh," he said, "the man does not understand. Schneider!"
"Here!" answered one of my new comrades at once.
"Your name is Schneider?" the lieutenant asked.
"Yes, sir."
"Very well, in French your name is pronounced Snedr. Remember that!"
"Yes, sir."
"Sign your name here."
The man signed. One after the other the new recruits were called to the
little window, and each signed his name, without bothering to look at
what he signed. I came last this time. The lieutenant gave me a sheet
of hectographed paper, and I glanced quickly over its contents. It was
a formal contract for five years' service in the Foreign Legion between
the Republic of France and the man who was foolish enough to sign it.
There were a great many paragraphs and great stress was laid on the
fact that the "enlisting party" had no right upon indemnification in
case of sickness or disability, and no claim upon pension until after
fifteen years of service.
"Have you any personal papers?" the lieutenant asked me suddenly.
I almost laughed in his face--he was such a picture of curiosity. In my
German passport, however, I was described as "editor," and I had a
notion that this passport was much too good for an occasion like this.
While searching my portfolio for "personal papers" I happened to find
the application form of a life insurance company, with my name filled
out. I gave this to the lieutenant with a very serious countenance. It
was good enough for this. The officer looked at the thing and seemed
quite puzzled.
"Oh, that will do," he finally smiled, and gave me the pen to sign.
I signed. And under my name I wrote the date: October 6, 1905.
"The date was unnecessary," said the lieutenant.
"Pardon me," I answered. "I wrote unthinkingly--it's an important date
for me."
"By God, you're right," said he.
In single file we were marched to the barracks. One of the French
soldiers who met us on the way stopped, and threw up his hands in
laughing astonishment:
"Eh!"
And then, making a wry face, he yelled, in a coarse sing-song:
"Nous sommes les legionnaires d'Afrique...."
* * * * *
Half an hour later three new recruits of the Foreign Legion, the
recruit Schneider, the recruit Rader and the recruit Rosen, sat in a
little room belonging to the quarters of the 31st French Regiment of
Line. All three were Germans. Rader opened the conversation.
"My name's Rader. Pretty good name, ain't it, though it isn't my name,
of course. I might have called myself von Rader--Baron von Rader--while
I was at it, but I ain't proud. What's in a fine name, I say, if you've
got nothing to fill your stomach with? No, the suckers may call me
Rader. My real name is Mueller. Can't use it! Must have some regard for
the feelings of my people...."
"I mustn't hurt their delicate feelings," he repeated with a great roar
of laughter.
Then a long knife on the table attracted his attention. He took it up,
mimicked the pose of a grand tragedian, opened his mouth and swallowed
the knife, as if twelve-inch blades were his favourite repast. All at
once the knife lay upon the table again, only to vanish in the
coat-sleeve of Herr von Rader and appear again rather abruptly out of
his left trousers pocket.
"I'm an artist," Herr Rader, alias von Rader, alias Mueller said with a
condescending smile. "A good one, too. Strictly first class. Why, these
monkeys of Frenchmen don't know nothing about art! Would they
appreciate a true artist? Not a bit of it. Boys, since I hopped over
the frontier and made long nose at the German cop I left on the other
side with a long face, I haven't had much to eat. Remarkably less than
was good for my constitution. So Herr von Rader went to the dogs--to
the Foreign Legion, I meant to say. What's the difference--if they
don't treat me with proper respect, I'll be compelled to leave them
again. On French leave! Scoot, skin out, bunk it--see?"
Then Herr von Rader fished a number of mysterious little boxes out of
innumerable pockets, inspected them carefully, turned round to mask his
artistic preparations, turned to us again--and his wide-opened
satyr-mouth emitted a sheet of flame! Little Schneider (he was very
young) stared at the phenomenon with startled eyes.
"Grand, ain't it?" said Herr von Rader quietly. "I've a notion that
this <DW53> isn't going to waste his resources on French Africa. Oh no!
Some fine day I'll give the <DW65>s of Central Africa a treat. I'll go
partners with some big chief and do the conjuring part of the business.
Heap big medicine! There's only one thing worrying me. How about
drinking arrangements? Palm-wine, ain't it? Boys, if only they have
such a thing as beer and kuemmel down there!--Say, old fellow (he turned
to me) what do you think about this French absinthe?"
I mumbled something.
"Awfully weak stuff!" said Herr von Rader sorrowfully. "No d--d good!"
If the comical fellow had known that, with his drollery and his
fantastic yarns, he was helping me to battle with my despair, I suppose
he would have been very much astonished....
There was a good deal of story-telling: about the hunger and the misery
of such "artistes" of the road; about the little tricks and "petty
larcenies," by means of which the ever-hungry and ever-thirsty Herr von
Rader had managed to eat occasionally, at least, on his wanderings over
the roads of many countries; about drinking and things unspeakable.
Most of the stories, however, told of hunger only, plain and simple
hunger.
Then Schneider's turn came. His story was very simple. A few weeks ago
he was wearing the uniform of a German infantry regiment garrisoned at
Cologne. He was then a recruit. One Sunday he had gone drinking with
some other recruits and together they made a great deal of noise in the
"Wirthshaus." The patrol came up. As the non-commissioned officer in
command put Schneider under arrest, the boy shoved his superior aside,
knocked some of the soldiers of the patrol down and took to his heels.
When he had slept off the effects of his carouse in a corner, he got
frightened and decided on flight. A dealer in second-hand clothes gave
him an old civilian suit in exchange for his uniform. As a tramp he
wandered till he reached the French frontier, and some other tramps
showed him how to get across the frontier-line on a dark night. In the
strange country hunger came and----
"We always talked about the Legion. All the other Germans on the road
wanted to enlist in the Legion. Anyway, I never could have gone home
again. My father would have killed me."
"No, he wouldn't," said Herr von Rader wisely. "You would have got all
sorts of good things. It's all in the Bible. Yes, it is...."
The door opened and a sergeant came in.
"Is the legionnaire Rosen here?"
I stood up.
"The lieutenant-colonel wishes to speak to you. Come along to the
parade-ground."
"... Keep your hat on," said the lieutenant-colonel. He spoke pure
German. "No, you need not stand at attention. I have heard of you and
would like to say a few words to you. I have served in the Foreign
Legion as a common soldier. I consider it an honour to have served in
this glorious corps. It all depends on yourself: men of talent and
intelligence have better chances of promotion in the Legion than in any
other regiment in the world. Educated men are valued in the Legion.
What was your profession?"
"Journalist..." I stuttered. I felt miserable.
The stern grey eyes looked at me searchingly. "Well, I can understand
that you do not care to talk about these things. However, I will give
you some advice: Volunteer for the first battalion of the Legion. You
have a much better chance there for active service. We are fighting a
battle for civilisation in Algeria and many a splendid career has been
won in the Legion. I wish you good luck!"
He gave me his hand. I believe this officer was a fine soldier and a
brave man.
* * * * *
Herr von Rader of the merry mind and the unquenchable thirst slept the
easy sleep of light-hearted men; I heard the German deserter groan in
his sleep and call for his mother. All night long I lay awake. The
events of my life passed before me in mad flight. I was once more a boy
at college; I saw my father standing by the dock at Bremerhaven and
heard his last good-bye and my mother's crying.... Back to America my
waking dreams carried me; I saw myself a young cub of a reporter, and
remembered in pain the enthusiasm of the profession, my enthusiasm--how
proud I was, when for the first time the city editor trusted me with a
"big thing," how I chased through San Francisco in cabs, how I
interviewed big men and wormed details out of secretive politicians...
how I loved this work and how sweet success had tasted. Lost, lost for
ever.
Forget I must--I tried to think of the time in Texas, the life on the
Brazos farm, where hundreds of <DW64>s had learned to respect me--after
a little shooting and more kindness shown them in their small troubles;
I tried to glory in remembrance of hard riding and straight shooting,
of a brutal but gloriously free life. Why should I not live a rough
life now? I should be on active service in the Legion. Crouching down
behind my rifle in the firing-line, waiting for the enemy. I would have
a life of excitement, a life of danger. Hurrah for the wild old life!
Grant me adventures, Dame Fortune!
But fickle Lady Fortune would not grant even a night's oblivion. During
the long night I fought with a wild desire to scream into the darkness
the beloved name.... I fought with my tears----
CHAPTER II
L'AFRIQUE
Transport of recruits on the railway : What our ticket did for us and
France : The patriotic conductor : Marseilles : The gate of the French
Colonies : The Colonial hotel : A study in blue and yellow : On the
Mediterranean : The ship's cook : The story of the Royal Prince of
Prussia at Saida : Oran : Wine and legionnaires : How the deserter
reached Spain and why he returned
Next morning we assembled on the parade-ground. A sergeant distributed
silver pieces amongst us, a franc for each man, that being the meagre
subsistence allowance given us for the long voyage to the
Mediterranean. Besides, each man was given a loaf of bread.
Then a corporal marched us to the railway station. The loaf of bread
under my arm prompted me to look persistently at the ground. I was
afraid of reading in the eyes of the passers-by wonder, surprise, or,
worse still, compassion.
The corporal took us to | 1,985.902717 |
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Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer
THE GOOD SOLDIER
By Ford Madox Ford
PART I
I
THIS is the saddest story I have ever heard. We had known the
Ashburnhams for nine seasons of the town of Nauheim with an extreme
intimacy--or, rather with an acquaintanceship as loose and easy and yet
as close as a good glove's with your hand. My wife and I knew Captain
and Mrs Ashburnham as well as it was possible to know anybody, and yet,
in another sense, we knew nothing at all about them. This is, I believe,
a state of things only possible with English people of whom, till today,
when I sit down to puzzle out what I know of this sad affair, I knew
nothing whatever. Six months ago I had never been to England, and,
certainly, I had never sounded the depths of an English heart. I had
known the shallows.
I don't mean to say that we were not acquainted with many English
people. Living, as we perforce lived, in Europe, and being, as we
perforce were, leisured Americans, which is as much as to say that we
were un-American, we were thrown very much into the society of the
nicer English. Paris, you see, was our home. Somewhere between Nice and
Bordighera provided yearly winter quarters for us, and Nauheim always
received us from July to September. You will gather from this statement
that one of us had, as the saying is, a "heart", and, from the statement
that my wife is dead, that she was the sufferer.
Captain Ashburnham also had a heart. But, whereas a yearly month or so
at Nauheim tuned him up to exactly the right pitch for the rest of the
twelvemonth, the two months or so were only just enough to keep
poor Florence alive from year to year. The reason for his heart was,
approximately, polo, or too much hard sportsmanship in his youth. The
reason for poor Florence's broken years was a storm at sea upon our
first crossing to Europe, and the immediate reasons for our imprisonment
in that continent were doctor's orders. They said that even the short
Channel crossing might well kill the poor thing.
When we all first met, Captain Ashburnham, home on sick leave from an
India to which he was never to return, was thirty-three; Mrs Ashburnham
Leonora--was thirty-one. I was thirty-six and poor Florence thirty.
Thus today Florence would have been thirty-nine and Captain Ashburnham
forty-two; whereas I am forty-five and Leonora forty. You will perceive,
therefore, that our friendship has been a young-middle-aged affair,
since we were all of us of quite quiet dispositions, the Ashburnhams
being more particularly what in England it is the custom to call "quite
good people".
They were descended, as you will probably expect, from the Ashburnham
who accompanied Charles I to the scaffold, and, as you must also expect
with this class of English people, you would never have noticed it.
Mrs Ashburnham was a Powys; Florence was a Hurlbird of Stamford,
Connecticut, where, as you know, they are more old-fashioned than even
the inhabitants of Cranford, England, could have been. I myself am a
Dowell of Philadelphia, Pa., where, it is historically true, there
are more old English families than you would find in any six English
counties taken together. I carry about with me, indeed--as if it
were the only thing that invisibly anchored me to any spot upon the
globe--the title deeds of my farm, which once covered several blocks
between Chestnut and Walnut Streets. These title deeds are of wampum,
the grant of an Indian chief to the first Dowell, who left Farnham in
Surrey in company with William Penn. Florence's people, as is so
often the case with the inhabitants of Connecticut, came from the
neighbourhood of Fordingbridge, where the Ashburnhams' place is. From
there, at this moment, I am actually writing.
You may well ask why I write. And yet my reasons are quite many. For it
is not unusual in human beings who have witnessed the sack of a city or
the falling to pieces of a people to desire to set down what they have
witnessed for the benefit of unknown heirs or of generations infinitely
remote; or, if you please, just to get the sight out of their heads.
Some one has said that the death of a mouse from cancer is the whole
sack of Rome by the Goths, and I swear to you that the breaking up
of our little four-square coterie was such another unthinkable event.
Supposing that you should come upon us sitting together at one of the
little tables in front of the club house, let us say, at Homburg, taking
tea of an afternoon and watching the miniature golf, you would have said
that, as human affairs go, we were an extraordinarily safe castle. We
were, if you will, one of those tall ships with the white sails upon a
blue sea, one of those things that seem the proudest and the safest of
all the beautiful and safe things that God has permitted the mind of men
to frame. Where better could one take refuge? Where better?
Permanence? Stability? I can't believe it's gone. I can't believe that
that long, tranquil life, which was just stepping a minuet, vanished in
four crashing days at the end of nine years and six weeks. Upon my word,
yes, our intimacy was like a minuet, simply because on every possible
occasion and in every possible circumstance we knew where to go, where
to sit, which table we unanimously should choose; and we could rise and
go, all four together, without a signal from any one of us, always to
the music of the Kur orchestra, always in the temperate sunshine, or, if
it rained, in discreet shelters. No, indeed, it can't be gone. You can't
kill a minuet de la cour. You may shut up the music-book, close the
harpsichord; in the cupboard and presses the rats may destroy the white
satin favours. The mob may sack Versailles; the Trianon may fall, but
surely the minuet--the minuet itself is dancing itself away into the
furthest stars, even as our minuet of the Hessian bathing places must
be stepping itself still. Isn't there any heaven where old beautiful
dances, old beautiful intimacies prolong themselves? Isn't there any
Nirvana pervaded by the faint thrilling of instruments that have
fallen into the dust of wormwood but that yet had frail, tremulous, and
everlasting souls?
No, by God, it is false! It wasn't a minuet that we stepped; it was a
prison--a prison full of screaming hysterics, tied down so that they
might not outsound the rolling of our carriage wheels as we went along
the shaded avenues of the Taunus Wald.
And yet I swear by the sacred name of my creator that it was true. It
was true sunshine; the true music; the true splash of the fountains from
the mouth of stone dolphins. For, if for me we were four people with the
same tastes, with the same desires, acting--or, no, not acting--sitting
here and there unanimously, isn't that the truth? If for nine years I
have possessed a goodly apple that is rotten at the core and discover
its rottenness only in nine years and six months less four days, isn't
it true to say that for nine years I possessed a goodly apple? So it may
well be with Edward Ashburnham, with Leonora his wife and with poor dear
Florence. And, if you come to think of it, isn't it a little odd that
the physical rottenness of at least two pillars of our four-square
house never presented itself to my mind as a menace to its security? It
doesn't so present itself now though the two of them are actually dead.
I don't know....
I know nothing--nothing in the world--of the hearts of men. I only know
that I am alone--horribly alone. No hearthstone will ever again witness,
for me, friendly intercourse. No smoking-room will ever be other than
peopled with incalculable simulacra amidst smoke wreaths. Yet, in the
name of God, what should I know if I don't know the life of the hearth
and of the smoking-room, since my whole life has been passed in those
places? The warm hearthside!--Well, there was Florence: I believe
that for the twelve years her life lasted, after the storm that seemed
irretrievably to have weakened her heart--I don't believe that for one
minute she was out of my sight, except when she was safely tucked up in
bed and I should be downstairs, talking to some good fellow or other in
some lounge or smoking-room or taking my final turn with a cigar before
going to bed. I don't, you understand, blame Florence. But how can she
have known what she knew? How could she have got to know it? To know it
so fully. Heavens! There doesn't seem to have been the actual time. It
must have been when I was taking my baths, and my Swedish exercises,
being manicured. Leading the life I did, of the sedulous, strained
nurse, I had to do something to keep myself fit. It must have been then!
Yet even that can't have been enough time to get the tremendously long
conversations full of worldly wisdom that Leonora has reported to
me since their deaths. And is it possible to imagine that during our
prescribed walks in Nauheim and the neighbourhood she found time to
carry on the protracted negotiations which she did carry on between
Edward Ashburnham and his wife? And isn't it incredible that during
all that time Edward and Leonora never spoke a word to each other in
private? What is one to think of humanity?
For I swear to you that they were the model couple. He was as devoted
as it was possible to be without appearing fatuous. So well set up,
with such honest blue eyes, such a touch of stupidity, such a warm
goodheartedness! And she--so tall, so splendid in the saddle, so fair!
Yes, Leonora was extraordinarily fair and so extraordinarily the real
thing that she seemed too good to be true. You don't, I mean, as a rule,
get it all so superlatively together. To be the county family, to look
the county family, to be so appropriately and perfectly wealthy; to be
so perfect in manner--even just to the saving touch of insolence that
seems to be necessary. To have all that and to be all that! No, it was
too good to be true. And yet, only this afternoon, talking over the
whole matter she said to me: "Once I tried to have a lover but I was
so sick at the heart, so utterly worn out that I had to send him away."
That struck me as the most amazing thing I had ever heard. She said "I
was actually in a man's arms. Such a nice chap! Such a dear fellow! And
I was saying to myself, fiercely, hissing it between my teeth, as they
say in novels--and really clenching them together: I was saying to
myself: 'Now, I'm in for it and I'll really have a good time for once in
my life--for once in my life!' It was in the dark, in a carriage, coming
back from a hunt ball. Eleven miles we had to drive! And then suddenly
the bitterness of the endless poverty, of the endless acting--it fell on
me like a blight, it spoilt everything. Yes, I had to realize that I had
been spoilt even for the good time when it came. And I burst out crying
and I cried and I cried for the whole eleven miles. Just imagine me
crying! And just imagine me making a fool of the poor dear chap like
that. It certainly wasn't playing the game, was it now?"
I don't know; I don't know; was that last remark of hers the remark of
a harlot, or is it what every decent woman, county family or not county
family, thinks at the bottom of her heart? Or thinks all the time for
the matter of that? Who knows?
Yet, if one doesn't know that at this hour and day, at this pitch of
civilization to which we have attained, after all the preachings of
all the moralists, and all the teachings of all the mothers to all the
daughters in saecula saeculorum... but perhaps that is what all mothers
teach all daughters, not with lips but with the eyes, or with heart
whispering to heart. And, if one doesn't know as much as that about the
first thing in the world, what does one know and why is one here?
I asked Mrs Ashburnham whether she had told Florence that and what
Florence had said and she answered:--"Florence didn't offer any comment
at all. What could she say? There wasn't anything to be said. With the
grinding poverty we had to put up with to keep up appearances, and the
way the poverty came about--you know what I mean--any woman would have
been justified in taking a lover and presents too. Florence once said
about a very similar position--she was a little too well-bred, too
American, to talk about mine--that it was a case of perfectly open
riding and the woman could just act on the spur of the moment. She said
it in American of course | 1,985.905653 |
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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.
| 1,986.008072 |
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Transcribed from the 1890 Longmans, Green, and Co. edition by David
Price, email [email protected]
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF A SLANDER
BY
EDNA LYALL
AUTHOR OF 'DONOVAN' 'WE TWO' 'IN THE GOLDEN DAYS'
'KNIGHT ERRANT' ETC.
_Trust not to each accusing tongue_,
_As most week persons do_;
_But still believe that story false_
_Which ought not to be true_
SHERIDAN
_NEW EDITION_
(THIRTY-NINTH TO FORTY-FIRST THOUSAND)
LONDON
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
AND NEW YORK: 15 EAST 16th STREET
1890
_All rights reserved_
DEDICATED
TO ALL
WHO IT MAY CONCERN
MY FIRST STAGE
At last the tea came up, and so
With that our tongues began to go.
Now in that house you're sure of knowing
The smallest scrap of news that's going.
We find it there the wisest way
To take some care of what we say.
_Recreation_. JANE TAYLOR.
I was born on the 2nd September, 1886, in a small, dull, country town.
When I say the town was dull, I mean, of course, that the inhabitants
were unenterprising, for in itself Muddleton was a picturesque place, and
though it laboured under the usual disadvantage of a dearth of bachelors
and a superfluity of spinsters, it might have been pleasant enough had it
not been a favourite resort for my kith and kin.
My father has long enjoyed a world-wide notoriety; he is not, however, as
a rule named in good society, though he habitually frequents it; and as I
am led to believe that my autobiography will possibly be circulated by
Mr. Mudie, and will lie about on drawing-room tables, I will merely
mention that a most representation of my progenitor, under his _nom de
theatre_, Mephistopheles, may be seen now in London, and I should
recommend all who wish to understand his character to go to the Lyceum,
though, between ourselves, he strongly disapproves of the whole
performance.
I was introduced into the world by an old lady named Mrs. O'Reilly. She
was a very pleasant old lady, the wife of a General, and one of those
sociable, friendly, talkative people who do much to cheer their
neighbours, particularly in a deadly-lively provincial place like
Muddleton, where the standard of social intercourse is not very high.
Mrs. O'Reilly had been in her day a celebrated beauty; she was now grey-
haired and stout, but still there was something impressive about her, and
few could resist the charm of her manner and the pleasant easy flow of
her small talk. Her love of gossip amounted almost to a passion, and
nothing came amiss to her; she liked to know everything about everybody,
and in the main I think her interest was a kindly one, though she found
that a little bit of scandal, every now and then, added a piquant flavour
to the homely fare provided by the commonplace life of the Muddletonians.
I will now, without further preamble, begin the history of my life.
* * * * *
"I assure you, my dear Lena, Mr. Zaluski is nothing less than a
Nihilist!"
The sound waves set in motion by Mrs. O'Reilly's words were tumultuously
heaving in the atmosphere when I sprang into being, a young but perfectly
formed and most promising slander. A delicious odour of tea pervaded the
drawing-room, it was orange-flower pekoe, and Mrs. O'Reilly was just
handing one of the delicate Crown Derby cups to her visitor, Miss Lena
Houghton.
"What a shocking thing! Do you really mean it?" exclaimed Miss Houghton.
"Thank you, cream but no sugar; don't you know, Mrs. O'Reilly, that it is
only Low-Church people who take sugar nowadays? But, really, now, about
Mr. Zaluski? How did you find it out?"
"My dear, I am an old woman, and I have learnt in the course of a
wandering life to put two and two together," said Mrs. O'Reilly. She had
somehow managed to ignore middle age, and had passed from her position of
renowned beauty to the position which she now firmly and constantly
claimed of many years and much experience. "Of course," she continued,
"like every one else, I was glad enough to be friendly and pleasant to
Sigismund Zaluski, and as to his being a Pole, why, I think it rather
pleased me than otherwise. You see, my dear, I have knocked about the
world and mixed with all kinds of people. Still, one must draw the line
somewhere, and I confess it gave me a very painful shock to find that he
had such violent antipathies to law and order. When he took Ivy Cottage
for the summer I made the General call at once, and before long we had
become very intimate with him; but, my dear, he's not what I thought
him--not at all!"
"Well now, I am delighted to hear you say that," said Lena Houghton, with
some excitement in her manner, "for it exactly fits in with what I always
felt about him. From the first I disliked that man, and the way he goes
on with Gertrude Morley is simply dreadful. If they are not engaged they
ought to be--that's all I can say."
"Engaged, my dear! I trust not," said Mrs. O'Reilly. "I had always
hoped for something very different for dear Gertrude. Quite between
ourselves, you know, my nephew John Carew is over head and ears in love
with her, and they would make a very good pair; don't you think so?"
"Well, you see, I like Gertrude to a certain extent," replied Lena
Houghton. "But I never raved about her as so many people do. Still, I
hope she will not be entrapped into marrying Mr. Zaluski; she deserves a
better fate than that."
"I quite agree with you," said Mrs. O'Reilly, with a troubled look. "And
the worst of it is, poor Gertrude is a girl who might very likely take up
foolish revolutionary notions; she needs a strong wise husband to keep
her in order and form her opinions. But is it really true that he flirts
with her? This is the first I have heard of it. I can't think how it
has escaped my notice."
"Nor I, for indeed he is up at the Morleys' pretty nearly every day. What
with tennis, and music, and riding, there is always some excuse for it. I
can't think what Gertrude sees in him, he is not even good-looking."
"There is a certain surface good-nature about him," said Mrs. O'Reilly.
"It deceived even me at first. But, my dear Lena, mark my words: that
man has a fearful temper; and I pray Heaven that poor Gertrude may have
her eyes opened in time. Besides, to think of that little gentle,
delicate thing marrying a Nihilist! It is too dreadful; really, quite
too dreadful! John would never get over it!"
"The thing I can't understand is why all the world has taken him up so,"
said Lena Houghton. "One meets him everywhere, yet nobody seems to know
anything about him. Just because he has taken Ivy Cottage for four
months, and because he seems to be rich and good-natured, every one is
ready to run after him."
"Well, well," said Mrs. O'Reilly, "we all like to be neighbourly, my
dear, and a week ago I should have been ready to say nothing but good of
him. But now my eyes have been opened. I'll tell you just how it was.
We were sitting here, just as you and I are now, at afternoon tea; the
talk had flagged a little, and for the sake of something to say I made
some remark about Bulgaria--not that I really knew anything about it, you
know, for I'm no politician; still, I knew it was a subject that would
make talk just now. My dear, I assure you I was positively frightened.
All in a minute his face changed, his eyes flashed, he broke into such a
torrent of abuse as I never heard in my life before."
"Do you mean that he abused you?"
"Dear me, no! but Russia and the Czar, and tyranny and despotism, and
many other things I had never heard of. I tried to calm him down and
reason with him, but I might as well have reasoned with the cockatoo in
the window. At last he caught himself up quickly in the middle of a
sentence, strode over to the piano, and began to play as he generally
does, you know, when he comes here. Well, would you believe it, my dear!
instead of improvising or playing operatic airs as usual, he began to
play a stupid little tune which every child was taught years ago, of
course with variations of his own. Then he turned round on the music-
stool with the oddest smile I ever saw, and said, "Do you know that air,
Mrs. O'Reilly?"
"Yes," I said; "but I forget now what it is.'"
"It was composed by Pestal, one of the victims of Russian tyranny," said
he. "The executioner did his work badly, and Pestal had to be strung up
twice. In the interval he was heard to mutter, 'Stupid country, where
they don't even know how to hang!'"
"Then he gave a little forced laugh, got up quickly, wished me good-bye,
and was gone before I could put in a word."
"What a horrible story to tell in a drawing-room!" said Lena Houghton. "I
envy Gertrude less than ever."
"Poor girl! What a sad prospect it is for her!" said Mrs. O'Reilly with
a sigh. "Of course, my dear, you'll not repeat what I have just told
you."
"Not for the world!" said Lena Houghton emphatically. "It is perfectly
safe with me."
The conversation was here abruptly ended, for the page threw open the
drawing-room door and announced 'Mr. Zaluski.'
"Talk of the angel," murmured Mrs. O'Reilly with a significant smile at
her companion. Then skilfully altering the expression of her face, she
beamed graciously on the guest who was ushered into the room, and Lena
Houghton also prepared to greet him most pleasantly.
I looked with much interest at Sigismund Zaluski, and as I looked I
partly understood why Miss Houghton had been prejudiced against him at
first sight. He had lived five years in England, and nothing pleased him
more than to be taken for an Englishman. He had had his silky black hair
closely cropped in the very hideous fashion of the present day; he wore
the ostentatiously high collar now in vogue; and he tried to be
sedulously English in every respect. But in spite of his wonderfully
fluent speech and almost perfect accent, there lingered about him
something which would not harmonise with that ideal of an English
gentleman which is latent in most minds. Something he lacked, something
he possessed, which interfered with the part he desired to play. The
something lacking showed itself in his ineradicable love of jewellery and
in a transparent habit of fibbing; the something possessed showed itself
in his easy grace of movement, his delightful readiness to amuse and to
be amused, and in a certain cleverness and rapidity of idea rarely, if
ever, found in an Englishman.
He was a little above the average height and very finely built; but there
was nothing striking in his aquiline features and dark grey eyes, and I
think Miss Houghton spoke truly when she said that he was 'Not even good-
looking.' Still, in spite of this, it was a face which grew upon most
people, and I felt the least little bit of regret as I looked at him,
because I knew that I should persistently haunt and harass him, and
should do all that could be done to spoil his life.
Apparently he had forgotten all about Russia and Bulgaria, for he looked
radiantly happy. Clearly his thoughts were engrossed with his own
affairs, which, in other words, meant with Gertrude Morley; and though,
as I have since observed, there are times when a man in love is an
altogether intolerable sort of being, there are other times when he is
very much improved by the passion, and regards the whole world with a
genial kindliness which contrasts strangely with his previous cool
cynicism.
"How delightful and home-like your room always looks!" he exclaimed,
taking the cup of tea which Mrs. O'Reilly handed to him. "I am horribly
lonely at Ivy Cottage. This house is a sort of oasis in the desert."
"Why, you are hardly ever at home, I thought," said Mrs. O'Reilly,
smiling. "You are the lion of the neighbourhood just now; and I'm sure
it is very good of you to come in and cheer a lonely old woman. Are you
going to play me something rather more lively to-day?"
He laughed.
"Ah! Poor Pestal! I had forgotten all about our last meeting."
"You were very much excited that day," said Mrs. O'Reilly. "I had no
idea that your political notions--"
He interrupted her
"Ah! no politics to-day, dear Mrs. O'Reilly. Let us have nothing but
enjoyment and harmony. See, now, I will play you something very much
more cheerful."
And sitting down to the piano, he played the bridal march from
'Lohengrin,' then wandered off into an improvised air, and finally
treated them to some recollections of the 'Mikado.'
Lena-Houghton watched him thoughtfully as she put on her gloves; he was
playing with great spirit, and the words of the opera rang in her ears:--
For he's going to marry Yum-yum, Yum-yum,
And so you had better be dumb, dumb, dumb!
I knew well enough that she would not follow this moral advice, and I
laughed to myself because the whole scene was such a hollow mockery. The
placid benevolent-looking old lady leaning back in her arm-chair; the
girl in her blue gingham and straw hat preparing to go to the afternoon
service; the happy lover entering heart and soul into Sullivan's charming
music; the pretty room with its Chippendale furniture, its aesthetic
hangings, its bowls of roses; and the sound of church bells wafted
through the open window on the soft summer breeze.
Yet all the time I lingered there unseen, carrying with me all sorts of
dread possibilities. I had been introduced into the world, and even if
Mrs. O'Reilly had been willing to admit to herself that she had broken
the ninth commandment, and had earnestly desired to recall me, all her
sighs and tears and regrets would have availed nothing; so true is the
saying, "Of thy word unspoken thou art master; thy spoken word is master
of thee."
"Thank you." "Thank you." "How I envy your power of playing!"
The two ladies seemed to vie with each other in making pretty speeches,
and Zaluski, who loved music and loved giving pleasure, looked really
pleased. I am sure it did not enter his head that his two companions
were not sincere, or that they did not wish him well. He was thinking to
himself how simple and kindly the Muddleton people were, and how great a
contrast this life was to his life in London; and he was saying to
himself that he had been a fool to live a lonely bachelor life till he
was nearly thirty, and yet congratulating himself that he had done so
since Gertrude was but nineteen. Undoubtedly, he was seeing blissful
visions of the future all the time that he replied to the pretty
speeches, and shook hands with Lena Houghton, and opened the drawing-room
door for her, and took out his watch to assure her that she had plenty of
time and need not hurry to church.
Poor Zaluski! He looked so kindly and pleasant. Though I was only a
slander, and might have been supposed to have no heart at all, I did feel
sorry for him when I thought of the future and of the grief and pain
which would persistently dog his steps.
MY SECOND STAGE
Bear not false witness, slander not, nor lie;
Truth is the speech of inward purity.
_The Light of Asia_.
In my first stage the reader will perceive that I was a comparatively
weak and harmless little slander, with merely that taint of original sin
which was to be expected in one of such parentage. But I developed with
great rapidity; and I believe men of science will tell you that this is
always the case with low organisms. That, for instance, while it takes
years to develop the man from the baby, and months to develop the dog
from the puppy, the baby monad will grow to maturity in an hour.
Personally I should have preferred to linger in Mrs. O'Reilly's pleasant
drawing-room, for, as I said before, my victim interested me, and I
wanted to observe him more closely and hear what he talked about. But I
received orders to attend evensong at the parish church, and to haunt the
mind of Lena Houghton.
As we passed down the High Street the bells rang out loud and clear, and
they made me feel the same slight sense of discomfort that I had felt
when I looked at Zaluski; however, I went on, and soon entered the
church. It was a fine old Gothic building, and the afternoon sunshine
seemed to flood the whole place; even the white stones in the aisle were
glorified here and there with gorgeous patches of colour from the stained
glass windows. But the strange stillness and quiet oppressed me, I did
not feel nearly so much at home as in Mrs. O'Reilly's drawing-room--to
use a terrestrial simile, I felt like a fish out of water.
For some time, too, I could find no entrance at all into the mind of Lena
Houghton. Try as I would, I could not distract her attention or gain the
slightest hold upon her, and I really believe I should have been
altogether baffled, had not the rector unconsciously come to my aid.
All through the prayers and psalms I had fought a desperate fight without
gaining a single inch. Then the rector walked over to the lectern, and
the moment he opened his mouth I knew that my time had come, and that
there was a very fair chance of victory before me. Whether this
clergyman had a toothache, or a headache, or a heavy load on his mind, I
cannot say, but his reading was more lugubrious than the wind in an
equinoctial gale. I have since observed that he was only a degree worse
than many other | 1,986.376904 |
2023-11-16 18:50:11.2591030 | 7,436 | 9 |
Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously
made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
GOSLINGS
By
J. D. BERESFORD
Author of "The Hampdenshire Wonder," etc.
London
William Heinemann
1913
BOOK I
THE NEW PLAGUE
I--THE GOSLING FAMILY
1
"Where's the gels gone to?" asked Mr Gosling.
"Up the 'Igh Road to look at the shops. I'm expectin' 'em in every
minute."
"Ho!" said Gosling. He leaned against the dresser; the kitchen was
hot with steam, and he fumbled for a handkerchief in the pocket of
his black tail coat. He produced first a large red bandanna with which
he blew his nose vigorously. "Snuff 'andkerchief; brought it 'ome to
be washed," he remarked, and then brought out a white handkerchief
which he used to wipe his forehead.
"It's a dirty 'abit snuff-taking," commented Mrs Gosling.
"Well, you can't smoke in the orfice," replied Gosling.
"Must be doin' somethin', I suppose?" said his wife.
When the recital of this formula had been accomplished--it was hallowed
by a precise repetition every week, and had been established now for
a quarter of a century--Gosling returned to the subject in hand.
"They does a lot of lookin' at shops," he said, "and then nothin' 'll
satisfy 'em but buyin' somethin'. Why don't they keep away from 'em?"
"Oh, well; sales begin nex' week," replied Mrs Gosling. "An' that's a
thing we 'ave to consider in our circumstances." She left the vicinity
of the gas-stove, and bustled over to the dresser. "'Ere, get out of
my way, do," she went on, "an' go up and change your coat. Dinner'll
be ready in two ticks. I shan't wait for the gells if they ain't in."
"Them sales is a fraud," remarked Gosling, but he did not stop to
argue the point.
He went upstairs and changed his respectable "morning" coat for a
short alpaca jacket, slipped his cuffs over his hands, put one inside
the other and placed them in their customary position on the chest of
drawers, changed his boots for carpet slippers, wetted his hair brush
and carefully plastered down a long wisp of grey hair over the top
of his bald head, and then went into the bathroom to wash his hands.
There had been a time in George Gosling's history when he had not been
so regardful of the decencies of life. But he was a man of position
now, and his two daughters insisted on these ceremonial observances.
Gosling was one of the world's successes. He had started life as
a National School boy, and had worked his way up through all the
grades--messenger, office-boy, junior clerk, clerk, senior clerk,
head clerk, accountant--to his present responsible position as head of
the counting-house, with a salary of £26 a month. He rented a house
in Wisteria Grove, Brondesbury, at £45 a year; he was a sidesman
of the church of St John the Evangelist, Kilburn; a member of Local
Committees; and in moments of expansion he talked of seeking election
to the District Council. A solid, sober, thoroughly respectable man,
Gosling, about whom there had never been a hint of scandal; grown
stout now, and bald--save for a little hair over the ears, and that
one persistent grey tress which he used as a sort of insufficient
wrapping for his naked skull.
Such was the George Gosling seen by his wife, daughters, neighbours,
and heads of the firm of wholesale provision merchants for whom he had
worked for forty-one years in Barbican, E.C. Yet there was another man,
hardly realized by George Gosling himself, and apparently so little
representative that even his particular cronies in the office would
never have entered any description of him, if they had been obliged
to give a detailed account of their colleague's character.
Nevertheless, if you heard Gosling laughing uproariously at some story
produced by one of those cronies, you might be quite certain that it
was a story he would not repeat before his daughters, though he might
tell his wife--if it were not too broad. If you watched Gosling in the
street, you would see that he took a strange, unaccountable interest in
the feet and ankles of young women. And if many of Gosling's thoughts
and desires had been translated into action, the Vicar of St John the
Evangelist would have dismissed his sidesman with disgust, the Local
Committees would have had no more of him, and his wife and daughters
would have regarded him as the most depraved of criminals.
Fortunately, Gosling had never been tempted beyond the powers of
his resistance. At fifty-five, he may be regarded as safe from
temptation. He seldom put any restraint upon his thoughts, outside
business hours; but he had an ideal which ruled his life--the ideal
of respectability. George Gosling counted himself--and others counted
him also--as respectable a man as could be found in the Metropolitan
Police area. There were, perhaps, a quarter of a million other men
in the same area, equally respectable.
2
As he was drying his hands, Gosling heard the front door slam and
his daughters' voices in the passage below, followed by a shrill
exhortation from the kitchen: "Now, gels, 'urry up, dinner's all
ready and your father's waitin'!"
Gosling trotted downstairs and received the usual salute from his two
girls. He noted that they were a shade more effusive than usual. "Want
more money for fal-lals," was his inward comment. They were always
wanting money for "fal-lals."
He adopted his usual line of defence through dinner and constantly
brought the subject of conversation back to the need for a reduction
of expenses. He did not see Blanche wink at Millie across the table,
during these strategic exercises; nor catch the glance of understanding
which passed between the girls and their mother. So, as his dinner
comforted and cheered him, Gosling began to relax into his usual
facetiousness; incredibly believing, despite the invariable precedents
of his family history, that his daughters had been convinced of the
hopelessness of approaching him for money that evening.
The credulous creature even allowed them to make their opening,
and then assisted them to a statement of their petition.
They were talking of a friend's engagement to be married, and Gosling
with an obtuseness he never displayed in business remarked, "Wish my
gels 'ud get married."
"Talking about us, father?" asked Blanche.
"Well, you're the only gels I've got--as I know of," said Gosling.
"Well, how can you expect us to get married when we haven't got a
decent thing to put on?" returned Blanche.
Gosling realized his danger too late. "Pooh! That don't make any
difference," he said hastily, adopting a thoroughly unsound line of
defence; "I never noticed what your mother was wearing when I courted
'er."
"Dessay you didn't," replied Millie, "I dessay most fellows couldn't
tell you what a girl was wearing, but it makes just all the difference
for all that."
"Of course it does," said Blanche. "A girl's got no chance these days
unless she can look smart. No fellow's going to marry a dowdy."
"It does make a big difference, there's no denyin'," put in Mrs
Gosling, as though she was being convinced against her will.
"And now the sales are just beginning----"
Poor Gosling knew the game was up. They had made no direct attack
upon his pocket, yet; but they would not relax their grip of this
fascinating subject till they had achieved their object. Blanche was
saying that she was ashamed to be seen anywhere; and procrastination
would be met at once by the argument--how well he knew it--based on
the premise that if you didn't buy at sale-time, you had to pay twice
as much later.
It was quite useless for Gosling to fidget, throw himself back in
his chair, frown, shake his head, and look horribly determined;
the course of progress was unalterable from the direct attack: "Do
you like to see us going about in rags, father?" through the stage
of "Well, well, 'ow much do you want? I simply can't afford----"
and the ensuing haggles down to the despairing sigh as the original
minimum demanded--in this case no less than five pounds--was forlornly
conceded, and clinched by Blanche's, "We must have it before the end
of the week, dad, the sales begin on Monday."
At the end of it all, he received what compensation they had to offer
him; hugs and kisses, offers to do all sorts of impossible things,
assistance in getting his armchair into precisely the right position,
and him into the chair, and the table cleared and the lamp in just
the right place for him to read his half-penny evening paper which
was fetched for him from the pocket of his overcoat. And, finally,
the crux of Gosling's whole position, a general air of complacency,
good-temper and comfort.
Gosling was an easy-going man, he hated rows.
"Mind you, you two," he remarked with a return to facetiousness as he
settled himself with his carpet slippers spread out to the fire--"mind
you, I look on this money as an investment. You two gels got to get
married; and quick or I shall be in the bankrup'cy Court. Don't you
forget as these 'fal-lals' is bought for a purpose."
"Oh, don't be so horrid, father," said Blanche, with a change of front;
"it sounds as if we were setting traps for men."
"Well, ain't you?" asked Gosling. "You said just now----"
"Not like that," interrupted Blanche. "It's very different just wanting
to look nice. Personally, I'm in no 'urry to get married, thank you."
"You wait till Mr Right comes along," put in Mrs Gosling, and then
turned the conversation by saying: "Well, father, what's the news
this evening?"
"Nothin' excitin'," replied Gosling. "Seems this new plague's spreadin'
in China."
"They're always inventin' new diseases, nowadays, or callin' old ones
by new names," said Mrs Gosling. The two girls were busy with a sheet
of note-paper and a stump of pencil that seemed to require frequent
lubrication; they were making calculations.
"This one's quite new, seemingly," returned Gosling. "It's only the
men as get it."
"No need for us to worry, then," put in Millie, more as a duty,
some slight return for benefits promised, than because she took any
interest in the subject. Blanche was absorbed; her unseeing gaze was
fixed on the mantelpiece and ever and again she removed the point of
the pencil from her mouth and wrote feverishly.
"Oh, ain't there?" replied Gosling. He turned his head in order to
argue from so strong a position. "And where'd you be, and all the
rest of the women, if you 'adn't got no men to look after you?"
"I expect we could get along pretty well, if we had to," said Millie.
Gosling winked at his wife, and indicated by an upward movement of
his chin that he was astounded at such innocence. "Who'd buy your
'fal-lals' for you, I should like to know?" he asked.
"We'd have to earn money for ourselves," said Millie.
"Ah! I'd like to see you or Blanche takin' over my job," replied her
father. "Why, I'll lay there's 'alf a dozen mistakes in the figurin'
she's doing at the present moment. Let me see!"
Blanche descended suddenly from visions of Paradise, and put her hand
over the sheet of note-paper. "You can't, father," she said.
Gosling looked sly. "Indeed?" he said, with simulated surprise. "And
why not? Ain't I to be allowed to judge of the nature of the investment
I'm goin' in for? I might give you an 'int or two from the gentleman's
point of view."
Blanche shook her head. "I haven't added it up yet," she said.
Gosling did not press the point; he returned to his original
position. "I dunno where you ladies 'ud be if you 'adn't no gentlemen
to look after you."
Mrs Gosling smirked. "We'll 'ope it won't come to that," she
said. "China's a long way off."
"Appears as there's been one case in Russia, though," remarked
Gosling. He saw that he had rather a good thing in this threat of male
extermination, a pleasant, harmless threat to hold over his feminine
dependents; a means to emphasize the facts of masculine superiority
and of the absolute necessity for masculine intelligence; facts that
were not sufficiently well realized in Wisteria Grove, at times.
Mrs Gosling yawned surreptitiously. She was doing her best to be
pleasant, but the subject bored her. She was a practical woman
who worked hard all day to keep her house clean, and received very
feeble assistance from the daughters for whom her one ambition was
an establishment conducted on lines precisely similar to her own.
Millie and Blanche had returned to their calculations and were
completely absorbed.
"In Russia? Just fancy," commented Mrs Gosling.
"In Moscow," said Gosling, studying his Evening News. "'E was an
official on the trans-Siberian Railway. 'As soon as the disease
was identified as a case of the new plague,'" read Gosling, "'the
patient was at once removed to the infectious hospital and strictly
isolated. He died within two hours of his admission. Stringent measures
are being taken to prevent the infection from spreading.'"
"Was 'e a married man?" asked Mrs Gosling.
"Doesn't say," replied her husband. "But the point is that if it once
gets to Europe, who knows where it'll stop?"
"They'll see to that, you may be sure," said Mrs Gosling, with a
beautiful faith in the scientific resources of civilization. "It said
somethin' about that in the bit you've just read."
Gosling was not to be done out of his argument. "Very like," he
said. "But now, just supposin' as this 'ere plague did spread to
London, and 'alf the men couldn't go to work; where d'you fancy
you'd be?"
Mrs Gosling was unable to grasp the intricacies of this
abstraction. "Well, of course, every one knows as we couldn't get on
without the men," she said.
"Ah! well there you are, got it in once," said Gosling. "And don't
you gels forget it," he added turning to his daughters.
Millie only giggled, but Blanche said, "All right, dad, we won't."
The girls returned to their calculations; they had arrived at the
stage of cutting out all those items which were not "absolutely
necessary." Five pounds had proved a miserably inadequate sum on paper.
Gosling returned to his Evening News, which presently slipped gently
from his hand to the floor. Mrs Gosling looked up from her sewing
and put a finger on her lips. The voices of Blanche and Millie were
subdued to sibilant whisperings.
Gosling had forgotten his economic problems, and his daring
abstractions concerning a world despoiled of male activity, especially
of that essential activity, as he figured it, the making of money--the
wage-earner was enjoying his after-dinner nap, hedged about, protected
and cared for by his womankind.
There may have been a quarter of a million wage-earners in Greater
London at that moment, who, however much they differed from Gosling
on such minor questions as Tariff Reform or the capabilities of the
then Chancellor of the Exchequer, would have agreed with him as a
matter of course, on the essentials he had discussed that evening.
3
At half-past nine the click of the letter-box, followed by a resounding
double-knock, announced the arrival of the last post. Millie jumped
up at once and went out eagerly.
Mr Gosling opened his eyes and stared with drunken fixity at the
mantelpiece; then, without moving the rest of his body, he began to
grope automatically with his left hand for the fallen newspaper. He
found it at last, picked it up and pretended to read with sleep-sodden
eyes.
"It's the post, dear," remarked Mrs Gosling.
Gosling yawned enormously. "Who's it for?" he asked.
"Millie! Millie!" called Mrs Gosling. "Why don't you bring the
letters in?"
Millie did not reply, but she came slowly into the room, in her hands
a letter which she was examining minutely.
"Who's it for, Mill?" asked Blanche, impatiently.
"Father," replied Millie, still intent on her study. "It's a foreign
letter. I seem to remember the writing, too, only I can't fix it
exactly."
"'Ere, 'and it over, my gel," said Gosling, and Millie reluctantly
parted with her fascinating enigma.
"I know that 'and, too," remarked Gosling, and he, also, would have
spent some time in the attempt to guess the puzzle without looking
up the answer within the envelope, but the three spectators, who were
not sharing his interest, manifested impatience.
"Well, ain't you going to open it, father?" asked Millie, and Mrs
Gosling looked at her husband over her spectacles and remarked,
"It must be a business letter, if it comes from foreign parts."
"Don't get business letters to this address," returned the head
of the house, "besides which it's from Warsaw; we don't do nothin'
with Warsaw."
At last he opened the letter.
The three women fixed their gaze on Gosling's face.
"Well?" ejaculated Millie, after a silence of several seconds. "Aren't
you going to tell us?"
"You'd never guess," said Gosling triumphantly.
"Anyone we know?" asked Blanche.
"Yes, a gentleman."
"Oh! tell us, father," urged the impatient Millie.
"It's from the Mr Thrale, as lodged with us once," announced Gosling.
"Oh! dear, our Mr Fastidious," commented Blanche, "I thought he was
dead long ago."
"It must be over four years since 'e left," put in Mrs Gosling.
"Getting on for five," corrected Blanche. "I remember I put my hair
up while he was here."
"What's he say?" asked Millie.
"'E says, 'Dear Mr Gosling, I expect you will be surprised to 'ear
from me after my five years' silence----'"
"I said it was five years," put in Blanche. "Go on, dad!"
Dad resumed "... 'but I 'ave been in various parts of the world and it
'as been quite impossible to keep up a correspondence. I am writing
now to tell you that I shall be back in London in a few days, and to
ask you whether you can find a room for me in Wisteria Grove?'"
"Well! I should 'ave thought he'd 'ave written to me to ask that!" said
Mrs Gosling.
"So 'e should 'ave, by rights," agreed Gosling. "But 'e's a queer
card is Mr Thrale."
"Bit dotty, if you ask me," said Blanche.
"'S that all?" asked Mrs Gosling.
"No, 'e says: 'I can't give you an address as I go on to Berlin
immediately, but I will look you up the evening after I arrive. Eastern
Europe is not safe at the present time. There 'ave been several
cases of the new plague in Moscow, but the authorities are doing
everything they can--which is much in Russia--to keep the news out
of the press, yours sincerely, Jasper Thrale,' and that's the lot,"
concluded Gosling.
"I do think he's a cool hand," commented Blanche. "Of course you
won't have him as a paying guest now?"
Gosling and his wife looked at each other, thoughtfully.
"Well----" hesitated Gosling.
"'E might bring the infection," suggested Mrs Gosling.
"Oh! no fear of that," returned her husband, "but I dunno as we want
a boarder now. Five years ago I 'adn't got my big rise----"
"Oh, no, father; what would the neighbours think of us if we started
to take boarders again?" protested Blanche.
"It wouldn't look well," agreed Mrs Gosling.
"Jus' what I was thinking," said the head of the house. "'Owever,
there's no 'arm in payin' us a friendly visit."
"O' course not," said Mrs Gosling, "though I do think it odd 'e
shouldn't 'ave written to me in the first place.
"He's dotty!" said Blanche.
Gosling shook his head. "Not by a very long chalk 'e ain't," was his
firm pronouncement....
"Well, girls, what about bed?" asked Mrs Gosling, putting away the
"bit of mending" she had been engaged upon.
Gosling yawned again, stretched himself, and rose grunting to his
feet. "I'm about ready for my bed," he remarked, and after another
yawn he started his nightly round of inspection.
When he returned to the sitting-room the others were all ready to
retire. Gosling kissed his daughters, and the two girls and their
mother went upstairs. Gosling carefully took off the larger pieces
of coal from the fire and put them under the grate, rolled up the
hearthrug, saw that the window was securely fastened, extinguished
the lamp and followed his "womenfolk."
As he was undressing his thoughts turned once more to the threat of
the new disease which was devastating China.
"Rum thing about that new plague," he remarked to his wife. "Seems
as it's only men as get it."
"They'd never let it spread to England," replied Mrs Gosling.
"Oh! there's no fear of that, none whatever," said Gosling, "but it's
rum that about women never catching it."
The attitude of the Goslings faithfully reflected that of the immense
majority of English people. The faith in the hygienic and scientific
resources which were at the disposal of the authorities, and the
implicit trust in the vigilance and energy of those authorities, were
sufficient to allay any fears that were not too imminent. It was some
one's duty to look after these things, and if they were not looked
after there would be letters in the papers about it. At last, without
question, the authorities would be roused to a sense of duty and the
trouble, whatever it was, would be stopped. Precisely what authority
managed these affairs none of the huge Gosling family knew. Vaguely
they pictured Medical Boards, or Health Committees; dimly they
connected these things with local government; at the top, doubtless,
was some managing authority--in Whitehall probably--something to
do with the supreme head of affairs, the much abused but eminently
paternal Government.
II--THE OPINIONS OF JASPER THRALE
1
"Lord, how I do envy you," said Morgan Gurney.
Jasper Thrale sat forward in his chair. "There's no reason why you
shouldn't do what I've done--and more," he said.
"Theoretically, I suppose not," replied Gurney. "It's just making
the big effort to start with. You see I've got a very decent berth
and good prospects, and it's comfortable and all that. Only when
some fellow like you comes along and tells one yarns of the world
outside, I get sort of hankerings after the sea and adventure, and
seeing the big things. It's only now and then--ordinary times I'm
contented enough." He stuck his pipe in the corner of his mouth and
stared into the fire.
"The only things that really count are feeling clean and strong and
able," said Thrale. "You never really have that feeling if you live
in the big cities."
"I've felt like that sometimes after a long bicycle ride," interpolated
Gurney.
"But then the feeling is wasted, you see," said Thrale. "When you
feel like that and there is something tremendous to spend it upon,
you get the great emotion as well."
"Like the glimmer of St Agnes' light, after you'd been eight weeks
out of sight of land?" reflected Gurney, going back to one of Thrale's
reminiscences.
"To feel that you are a part of life, not this dead, stale life of
the city, but the life of the whole universe," said Thrale.
"I know," replied Gurney. "To-night I've half a mind to chuck my job
and go out looking for mystery."
"But you won't do it," said Thrale.
Gurney sighed and began to analyse the instinct within himself,
to find precisely why he wanted to do it.
"Well, I must go," said Thrale, getting to his feet, "I've got to
find some sort of lodging."
"I thought you were going to stay with those Gosling people of yours,"
said Gurney.
"No! That's off. I went to see them last night and they won't have
me. The old man's making his £300 a year now, and the family's too
respectable to take boarders." Thrale picked up his hat and held out
his hand.
"But, look here, old chap, why the devil can't you stay here?" asked
Gurney.
"I didn't know that you'd anywhere to put me," said Thrale.
"Oh, yes. There's always a room to be had downstairs," said Gurney.
After a brief discussion the arrangement was made.
"It's understood I'm to pay my whack," said Thrale.
"Of course, if you insist----"
When Thrale had gone to fetch his luggage from the hotel, Gurney
sat pondering over the fire. He was debating whether he had been
altogether wise in pressing his invitation. He was wondering whether
the curiously rousing personality of Thrale, and the stories of those
still existent corners of the world outside the rules of civilization
were good for a civil servant with an income of £600 a year. Gurney,
faced with the plain alternatives, could only decide that he would be a
fool to throw up a congenial and lucrative occupation such as his own,
in order to face present physical discomfort and future penury. He
knew that the discomforts would be very real to him at first. His
friends would think him mad. And all for the sake of experiencing
some high emotion now and again, in order to feel clean and fresh
and be able to discover something of the unknown mystery of life.
"I suppose there is something of the poet in me," reflected
Gurney. "And I expect I should hate the discomforts. One's imagination
gets led away...."
2
During the next few evenings the conversations between these two
friends were many and protracted.
Thrale was the teacher, and Gurney was content to sit at his feet
and learn. He had a receptive mind, he was interested in all life,
but Uppingham, Trinity Hall, and the Home Civil had constricted his
mental processes. At twenty-nine he was losing flexibility. Thrale
gave him back his power to think, set him outside the formulas of
his school, taught him that however sound his deductions, there was
not one of his premises which could not be disputed.
Thrale was Gurney's senior by three years, and when Thrale left
Uppingham at eighteen, he had gone out into the world. He had a
patrimony of some £200 a year; but he had taken only a lump sum of
£100 and had started out to appease his furious curiosity concerning
life. He had laboured as a miner in the Klondike; had sailed, working
his passage as an ordinary seaman, from San Francisco to Southampton;
he had been a stockman in Australia, assistant to a planter in Ceylon,
a furnace minder in Kimberley and a tally clerk in Hong Kong. For
nearly nine years, indeed, he had earned a living in every country
of the world except Europe, and then he had come back to London and
invested the accumulation of income that his trustee had amassed for
him. The mere spending of money had no fascination for him. During
the six months he had remained in London he had lived very simply,
lodging with the Goslings in Kilburn, and, because he could not live
idly, exploring every corner of the great city and writing articles
for the journals. He might have earned a large income by this latter
means, for he had an originality of outlook and a freshness of style
that made his contributions eagerly sought after once he had obtained
a hearing--no difficult matter in London for anyone who has something
new to say. But experience, not income, was his desire, and at the
end of six months he had accepted an offer from the Daily Post as a
European correspondent--on space. He was offered £600 a year, but
he preferred to be free, and he had no wish to be confined to one
capital or country.
In those five years he had traversed Europe, sending in his articles
irregularly, as he required money. And during that time his chief
trustee--a lawyer of the soundest reputation--had absconded, and
Thrale found his private income reduced to about £40 a year, the
interest on one of the investments he had made, in his own name only,
with his former accumulation--two other investments made at the same
time had proved unsound.
This loss had not troubled him in any way. When he had read in a
London journal of his trustee's abscondence--he was later sentenced
to fourteen years' penal servitude--Thrale had smiled and dismissed
the matter from his mind. He could always earn all the money he
required, and had never, not even subconsciously, relied upon his
private fortune.
He had now come back to London with a definite purpose, he had come
to warn England of a great danger....
One other distinguishing mark of Jasper Thrale's life must be
understood, a mark which differentiated him from the overwhelming
majority of his fellow men--women had no fascination for him. Once in
his life, and once only, had he approached and tasted experience--with
a pretty little Melbourne cocotte. That experience he had undertaken
deliberately, because he felt that until it had been undergone one
great factor of life would be unknown to him. He had come away from
it filled with a disgust of himself that had endured for months....
3
Fragments of the long conversations between Thrale and Gurney,
the exchange of a few germane ideas among the irrelevant mass,
had a bearing upon their immediate future. There was, for instance,
a criticism of the Goslings, introduced on one occasion, which had
a certain significance in relation to subsequent developments.
Some question of Gurney's prompted Thrale to the opinion that the
Goslings were in the main precisely like half a million other families
of the same class.
"But that's just what makes them so interesting," said Gurney,
not because he believed it, but because at the moment he wanted to
lead the conversation into safe ground, away from the too appealing
attractions of the big world outside the little village of London.
Thrale laughed. "That's truer than you guess," he said. "Every
large generalization, however trite, is a valuable contribution to
knowledge--if it's more or less accurate."
"Generalize, then, mon vieux," suggested Gurney, "from the characters
and doings of your little geese."
"I've seen glimmerings of the immortal god in the old man," said
Thrale, "like the hint of sunlight seen through a filthy pane
of obscured glass. He's a prurient-minded old beast leading what's
called a respectable life, but if he could indulge his ruling desire
with absolute secrecy, no woman would be safe with him. In his world
he can't do that, or thinks he can't, which comes to precisely the
same thing. He is too much afraid of being caught, he sees danger
where none exists, he looks to all sorts of possibilities, and won't
take a million-to-one chance because he is risking his all--which is
included in the one word, respectability."
"Jolly good thing. What?" remarked Gurney.
"Good for society as a whole, apparently," replied Thrale, "but surely
not good for the man. I've told you that I have seen glimmerings of
the god in him, but outside the routine of his work the man's mind
is clogged. He's not much over fifty, and he has no outlet, now,
for his desires. He's like a man with choked pores, and his body is
poison | 1,987.279143 |
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Produced by Julia Miller, Greg | 1,988.478763 |
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Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 716. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 15, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
YOUTHFUL PRODIGIES.
A curious question has more than once been asked: have the most
remarkable works, in the various kinds of literary labour, been
produced in the flush of youth or the calmness of age? Are men
better fitted for vigorous exercise of the mind in the first half
or the second half of their existence? The spring and elasticity of
temperament, the warmth of feeling, the hopeful aspirations, the
activity of vital energy, the longing to throw the thoughts into some
kind of words or of music--all tempt one, at a first glance, to say
that early authorship is more probable than later.
Certainly the examples of young authorship are neither few nor
unimportant. Of course we may take Tristram Shandy's authority with
as many grains of allowance as we please; but the marvels told in his
colloquy are unique. Yorick declared that Vincent Quirinus, before he
was eight years old, pasted up in the public schools of Rome more than
four thousand five hundred theses on abstruse questions, and defended
them against all opponents. Mr Shandy capped this by citing one erudite
man who learned all the sciences and liberal arts without being taught
any of them.
Isaac D'Israeli, in his _Curiosities of Literature_, notices many
curious examples; and the subject was taken up by a pleasant writer
in the _Globe_ newspaper, a few months ago. Pope wrote some of his
_Pastorals_ at sixteen; and a large number of his works, including
the translation of Homer, were thrown off before he reached thirty.
Edgar Poe wrote his _Helen_, remarkable for its beauty of style, when
scarcely more than eleven years old. Cowley at fifteen published
his _Poetic Blossoms_; while his _Pyramus and Thisbe_, though not
published till his sixteenth year, is said to have been written when
he was only ten. Lord Bacon planned his great work, the _Novum Organum
Scientiarum_, when only sixteen, although the writing was the work of
maturer years. The late Bishop Thirlwall wrote his _Primitiæ_ when a
boy of only eleven years of age; he was one of the few who wrote both
early and late, a wonderful example of long-continued mental activity.
Dr Watts almost _thought_ in verse when a boy. Crabbe wrote both early
and late, but not much in middle life; he published his first poem at
twenty, and his _Village_ before thirty; then a silence of twenty years
was followed by a renewal of literary labour. Charlotte Bronté wrote
in very early life, 'because she could not help it.' Chatterton, the
scapegrace who applied so much of his marvellous powers to dishonest
or lying purposes, wrote minor pieces of poetry at fifteen, and soon
afterwards a pretended pedigree of a Bristol family. At sixteen he
published the alleged plays and poems of Rowley, described by him
as a priest or monk of the fifteenth century; at about seventeen he
brought forward some pretended old parchments, made to appear soiled
and timeworn, containing a fictitious description of an old bridge at
Bristol; and then wrote biographies of Bristol artists who never lived.
Coming to London, he wrote many satirical and political papers for the
press; and ended his extraordinary life before he had completed his
eighteenth year.
As a child (never so old as what we should call a 'lad'), Christian
Heineker was one of the most singular of whom we find record. He was
born at Lübeck about a century and a half ago. When only ten months old
he could (if we are to believe the accounts of him) repeat every word
said to him; at twelve months he knew much of Plutarch by heart; at
two years he knew the greater part of the Bible; at three could answer
most questions in universal history and geography (as then taught),
and began to learn French and Latin; before four he began theology and
church history, and expressed argumentative opinions thereon. This
precocious little pedant died before he had completed his fifth year.
The late John Stuart Mill 'had no recollection of the time when he
began to learn Greek;' but was told it was when he was only three years
old. Adanson began at thirteen to write notes on the Natural Histories
of Aristotle and Pliny. The calculating boys--Vito Mangiamele,
Jedediah Buxton, Zerah Colburn, and George Parker Bidder--illustrate a
remarkable phase of early mental activity.
On the other hand, many authors have produced their best works late
in life, and have begun new studies at an age when the majority long
for mental leisure. Izaak Walton wrote some of his most interesting
biographies in his eighty-fifth year, and edited a poetical work at
ninety. Hobbes published his version of the _Odyssey_ at eighty-seven,
and of the _Iliad_ at eighty-eight. Sir Francis Palgrave, under an
assumed name, published at eighty years old a French translation of a
Latin poem.
Isaac D'Israeli notes that Socrates learned to play a musical
instrument in his old age; that Cato learned Greek at eighty; that
Plutarch entered upon the study of Latin almost as late in life;
that Theophrastus began his _Characteristics_ at ninety; that Sir
Henry Spelman, a gentleman-farmer until fifty, at that age began to
study law, and became an eminent jurist and antiquary; that Colbert,
the distinguished statesman, resumed the study of Latin and of law
at sixty; that the Marquis de Saint Audaire began to write poetry
at seventy,'verses full of fire, delicacy, and sweetness;' that
Chaucer did not finish his _Canterbury Tales_ till he had reached
sixty-one; that Dryden felt his powers sufficiently in their strength
at sixty-eight to plan a complete translation of Homer's _Iliad_ into
English verse, although circumstances prevented him from giving effect
to his intentions; and (but this we must leave to the investigators who
advise us to disbelieve most of the stories we hear or read concerning
persons exceeding a century old) that Ludovico Monaldeschi wrote his
_Memoirs_ of his own times at the extraordinary age of a hundred and
fifteen!
Dipping into the literary annals of different ages and different
countries, there are not wanting abundant additional examples of men
continuing their literary work to an advanced period of life, or else
beginning _de novo_ at an age when most men would prefer to lay down
the pen and let the mind and the brain rest. Montfauçon, the learned
authority on artistic antiquities, continued his custom of writing for
eight hours a day nearly till his death at the age of eighty-seven.
His labours, too, had been of a very formidable kind; for he was
seventy-nine when he put the finishing touch to his _Monumens de la
Monarchie Française_, in five folio volumes; and eighty-five when he
published the _Bibliotheca Bibliothecarum_, in two tomes of similar
magnitude. John Britton and John Nichols, artistic and antiquarian
writers, both continued to drive the quill till past eighty. Sir
Isaac Newton worked on till death, in his eighty-fourth year, but did
not make scientific discoveries in the later period of his career.
Euler worked on at his abstruse mathematical writings till past
eighty. William Cowper, although he wrote a few hymns and letters in
early life, did not till after fifty begin those works on which his
fame chiefly rests--beginning with _Truth_, and going on to _Table
Talk_, _Expostulation_, _Error_, _Hope_, _Charity_, _Conversation_,
_Retirement_, _The Task_, _John Gilpin_, and the translation of Homer.
Gray wrote late and little, devoting seven years to polishing and
perfecting his famous _Elegy_. Alfieri, who was taught more French
than Italian when a boy, studied | 1,988.479808 |
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Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading team
PRINCE HAGEN
By Upton Sinclair
CHARACTERS (In order of appearance)
Gerald Isman: a poet.
Mimi: a Nibelung.
Alberich: King of the Nibelungs.
Prince Hagen: his grandson.
Mrs. Isman.
Hicks: a butler.
Mrs. Bagley-Willis: mistress of Society.
John Isman: a railroad magnate.
Estelle Isman: his daughter.
Plimpton: the coal baron.
Rutherford: lord of steel.
De Wiggleston Riggs: cotillon leader.
Lord Alderdyce: seeing America.
Calkins: Prince Hagen's secretary.
Nibelungs: members of Society.
ACT I
SCENE I. Gerald Isman's tent in Quebec.
SCENE 2. The Hall of State in Nibelheim.
ACT II
Library in the Isman home on Fifth Avenue: two years later.
ACT III
Conservatory of Prince Hagen's palace on Fifth Avenue. The wind-up
of the opening ball: four months later.
ACT IV
Living room in the Isman camp in Quebec: three months later.
ACT I
SCENE I
[Shows a primeval forest, with great trees, thickets in background,
and moss and ferns underfoot. A set in the foreground. To the left is a
tent, about ten feet square, with a fly. The front and sides are rolled
up, showing a rubber blanket spread, with bedding upon it; a rough
stand, with books and some canned goods, a rifle, a fishing-rod, etc.
Toward centre is a trench with the remains of a fire smoldering in it,
and a frying pan and some soiled dishes beside it. There is a log, used
as a seat, and near it are several books, a bound volume of music lying
open, and a violin case with violin. To the right is a rocky wall, with
a cleft suggesting a grotto.]
[At rise: GERALD pottering about his fire, which is burning badly,
mainly because he is giving most of his attention to a bound volume
of music which he has open. He is a young man of twenty-two, with wavy
auburn hair; wears old corduroy trousers and a grey flannel shirt,
open at the throat. He stirs the fire, then takes violin and plays the
Nibelung theme with gusto.]
GERALD. A plague on that fire! I think I'll make my supper on prunes and
crackers to-night!
[Plays again.]
MIMI. [Enters left, disguised as a pack-peddler; a little wizened up
man, with long, unkempt grey hair and beard, and a heavy bundle on his
back.] Good evening, sir!
GERALD. [Starts.] Hello!
MIMI. Good evening!
GERALD. Why... who are you?
M | 1,988.573623 |
2023-11-16 18:50:12.5591820 | 1,890 | 6 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Emmy and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive) In loving memory of Poppy Curnow, who
loved her herb garden.
[Transcriber's Note: As with any medicinal work first published in the
1600s and rewritten countless times, it should go without saying to not
attempt these recipes. Just in case, the transcriber has now said it.
Also, many and varied were the printing and publishing anomalies, for a
more complete explanation, see the extensive notes collected at the end
of this text.]
[Illustration: NICHOLAS CULPEPER, M.D.
Author of the Family Herbal.]
[Illustration: RED LION HOUSE, SPITALFIELDS
IN WHICH CULPEPER LIVED, STUDIED AND DIED]
THE
COMPLETE HERBAL;
TO WHICH IS NOW ADDED, UPWARDS OF
ONE HUNDRED ADDITIONAL HERBS,
WITH A DISPLAY OF THEIR
Medicinal and Occult Qualities
PHYSICALLY APPLIED TO
THE CURE OF ALL DISORDERS INCIDENT TO MANKIND:
TO WHICH ARE NOW FIRST ANNEXED, THE
ENGLISH PHYSICIAN ENLARGED,
AND
KEY TO PHYSIC.
WITH
RULES FOR COMPOUNDING MEDICINE ACCORDING TO THE TRUE SYSTEM OF NATURE.
FORMING A COMPLETE
FAMILY DISPENSATORY AND NATURAL SYSTEM OF PHYSIC.
————————————
BY NICHOLAS CULPEPER, M.D.
————————————
TO WHICH IS ALSO ADDED,
UPWARDS OF FIFTY CHOICE RECEIPTS,
SELECTED FROM THE AUTHOR’S LAST LEGACY TO HIS WIFE.
A NEW EDITION,
WITH A LIST OF THE PRINCIPAL DISEASES TO WHICH THE HUMAN BODY IS
LIABLE,
AND A GENERAL INDEX.
_Illustrated by Engravings of numerous British Herbs and Plants,
correctly from nature._
———————
“The Lord hath created Medicines out of the earth; and he that is
wise will not abhor them.”—_Ecc._ xxxviii. 4.
———————
LONDON:
THOMAS KELLY, 17, PATERNOSTER ROW.
———
MDCCCL.
LONDON;
A. CROSS, PRINTER, 89, PAUL STREET,
FINSBURY.
[Transcriber's Notes: All plates were done by: THOMAS KELLY, LONDON]
PLATE 1.
Alexander
Agrimony
Alkanet
Allheal
Amara Dulcis _or_ Bitter Sweet
Amaranthus
Adder's Tongue
Angelica
Alehoof _or_ Ground Ivy
PLATE 2.
Garden Arrach
Avens
Ars smart
Basil
Archangel
Beets
Yellow Bedstraw
White Bedstraw
Water Betony
PLATE 3.
Bird’s Foot
Bishop’s Weed
Bistort _or_ Snakeweed
White Briony
Borage
Brooklime
Bucks-horn Plantain
Brank Ursine
Blue Bottle
PLATE 4.
Burdock
Butter-bur
Wall Bugloss
Bugle
Camomile
Carraway
Centaury
Wild Carrot
Celandine
PLATE 5.
Chervill
Comfry
Cleavers
Coltsfoot
Crabs Claws _or_ Fresh water Soldier
Cowslip
Columbine
Shrub Cinquefoil
Costmary
PLATE 6.
Crowfoot
Cuckow Point
Water Cress
Cudweed
Crosswort
Dill
Dandelion
Daisy
Devils Bit
PLATE 7.
Eringo
Eyebright
Elecampane
Dock
Dragons
Dog’s Grass
Dropwort
Dove’s Foot
Bloody Dock
PLATE 8.
Foxglove
Flower-de-luce
Figwort
Fleawort
Fumitory
Fluellin
Fennel
Flaxweed
Feverfew
PLATE 9.
Wall Hawkweed.
Hart’s Tongue.
Mouse-ear Hawkweed.
Gentian.
Golden Rod.
Galingal.
Clove Gilliflower.
Groundsel.
Germander.
PLATE 10.
Longrooted Hawkweed
Hearts Ease
Hounds Tongue
Herb Robert
Marsh Pennywort
White Horehound
Henbane
Truelove
Hemlock
PLATE 11.
Knapweed
Lady’s Mantle
Ladysmock
Sea Lavender
Water Lily
Liquorice
Loosestrife or Willowherb
Liver Wort
Lily of the Valley
PLATE 12.
Lovage
Lungwort
Loosestrife _or_ Wood Willow-herb
Maidenhair
Field Madder
Marsh Mallow
Marigold
Melilot
Masterwort
PLATE 13.
Mouse Ear
Moon-wort
Field Mouse Ear
Yellow Money-wort
Black Mullein
Mother-wort
Mug-wort
White Mullein
White Mustard
PLATE 14.
Black Mustard
Common Nightshade
Deadly Nightshade
Nep
Nailwort
Orpine
Cow Parsnip
Rock Parsley
Wild Parsnip
PLATE 15.
Pellitory of the Wall
Periwinkle
Pepper-wort
Pimpernel
Plantain
Polypody
White Poppy
Corn Rose Poppy
Primrose
PLATE 16.
Privet
Queen of the Meadow
Meadow Rue
Cress Rocket
Rattle Grass
Rocket Cress
Ragwort
Rapture Wort
Saffron
PLATE 17.
Meadow Saxifrage
Great Sanicle
Samphire
Garden Scurvygrass
Scabious
Shepherd’s Purse
Saracen’s Confound
Self-heal
Burnet Saxifrage
PLATE 18.
Yellow Succory
Solomon’s Seal
Wild Succory
Spignel
Wood Sorrel
Common Sorrel
Smallage
Sow Thistle
Tansy
PLATE 19.
Treacle Mustard
Tustan
Thorough Wax
Tooth-wort
Trefoil
Tormentil
Lady’s Thistle
Wild Teazle
Cotton Thistle
PLATE 20.
Vervain
Valerian
Viper’s Bugloss
Woad
Woodbine
Wall Flower
Wormwood
Sea Wormwood
Yarrow
CULPEPER’S
ORIGINAL EPISTLE TO THE READER.
TAKE Notice, That in this Edition I have made very many Additions to
every sheet in the book: and, also, that those books of mine that are
printed of that Letter the small Bibles are printed with, are very
falsely printed: there being twenty or thirty gross mistakes in every
sheet, many of them such as are exceedingly dangerous to such as shall
venture to use them: And therefore I do warn the Public of them: I can
do no more at present; only take notice of these Directions by which
you shall be sure to know the _True one_ from the _False_.
_The first Direction._—The true one hath this Title over the head of
every Book, THE COMPLETE HERBAL AND ENGLISH PHYSICIAN ENLARGED. The
small Counterfeit ones have only this Title, THE ENGLISH PHYSICIAN.
_The second Direction._—The true one hath these words, GOVERNMENT
AND VIRTUES, following the time of the Plants flowering, &c. The
counterfeit small ones have these words, VIRTUES AND USE, following the
time of the Plants flowering.
_The third Direction._—The true one is of a larger Letter than the
counterfeit ones, which are in _Twelves | 1,988.579222 |
2023-11-16 18:50:12.5614750 | 293 | 48 | ***
Produced by Al Haines.
WHITE WINGS:
A Yachting Romance.
BY
*WILLIAM BLACK,*
AUTHOR OF "THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A PHAETON,"
"GREEN PASTURES AND PICCADILLY," ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES_
VOL. II.
London:
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1880.
_The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved._
LONDON:
R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR.
BREAD STREET HILL.
*CONTENTS.*
CHAPTER I.
VILLANY ABROAD
CHAPTER II.
AN ULTIMATUM
CHAPTER III.
THE NEW SUITOR
CHAPTER IV.
CHASING A THUNDERSTORM
CHAPTER V.
CHASING SEALS
CHAPTER VI.
"UNCERTAIN, COY, AND HARD TO PLEASE"
CHAPTER VII.
SECRET SCHEMES
CHAPTER VIII.
BEFORE BREAKFAST
CHAPTER IX.
A PROTECTOR
CHAPTER X.
"MARY, MARY!"
CHAPTER XI.
AN UNSPOKEN APPEAL
CHAPTER XII.
HIS LORDSHIP
CHAPTER XIII.
THE LAIRD'S PLANS
CHAPTER XIV.
A SUNDAY IN FAR SOLITUDES
CHAPTER | 1,988.581515 |
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ON THE EVE
A Novel
By Ivan Turgenev
Translated from the Russian By Constance Garnett
[With an introduction by Edward Garnett]
London: William Heinemann 1895
INTRODUCTION
This exquisite novel, first published in 1859, like so many great works
of art, holds depths of meaning which at first sight lie veiled under
the simplicity and harmony of the technique. To the English reader _On
the Eve_ is a charmingly drawn picture of a quiet Russian household,
with a delicate analysis of a young girl's soul; but to Russians it is
also a deep and penetrating diagnosis of the destinies of the Russia of
the fifties.
Elena, the Russian girl, is the central figure of the novel. In
comparing her with Turgenev's other women, the reader will remark that
he is allowed to come into closer spiritual contact with her than even
with Lisa. The successful portraits of women drawn by men in fiction are
generally figures for the imagination to play on; however much that is
told to one about them, the secret springs of their character are left
a little obscure, but when Elena stands before us we know all the
innermost secrets of her character. Her strength of will, her serious,
courageous, proud soul, her capacity for passion, all the play of her
delicate idealistic nature troubled by the contradictions, aspirations,
and unhappiness that the dawn of love brings to her, all this is
conveyed to us by the simplest and the most consummate art. The diary
(chapter xvi.) that Elena keeps is in itself a masterly revelation of
a young girl's heart; it has never been equalled by any other novelist.
How exquisitely Turgenev reveals his characters may be seen by an
examination of the parts Shubin the artist, and Bersenyev the student,
play towards Elena. Both young men are in love with her, and the
description of their after relations as friends, and the feelings of
Elena towards them, and her own self-communings are interwoven with
unfaltering skill. All the most complex and baffling shades of the
mental life, which in the hands of many latter-day novelists build up
characters far too thin and too unconvincing, in the hands of Turgenev
are used with deftness and certainty to bring to light that great
kingdom which is always lying hidden beneath the surface, beneath
the common-place of daily life. In the difficult art of literary
perspective, in the effective grouping of contrasts in character and
the criss-cross of the influence of the different individuals, lies the
secret of Turgenev's supremacy. As an example the reader may note how he
is made to judge Elena through six pairs of eyes. Her father's contempt
for his daughter, her mother's affectionate bewilderment, Shubin's
petulant criticism, Bersenyev's half hearted enthralment, Insarov's
recognition, and Zoya's indifference, being the facets for converging
light on Elena's sincerity and depth of soul. Again one may note
Turgenev's method for rehabilitating Shubin in our eyes; Shubin is
simply made to criticise Stahov; the thing is done in a few seemingly
careless lines, but these lines lay bare Shubin's strength and weakness,
the fluidity of his nature. The reader who does not see the art which
underlies almost every line of _On the Eve_ is merely paying the highest
tribute to that art; as often the clear waters of a pool conceal its
surprising depth. Taking Shubin's character as an example of creative
skill, we cannot call to mind any instance in the range of European
fiction where the typical artist mind, on its lighter sides, has been
analysed with such delicacy and truth as here by Turgenev. Hawthorne and
others have treated it, but the colour seems to fade from their artist
characters when a comparison is made between them and Shubin. And yet
Turgenev's is but a sketch of an artist, compared with, let us say, the
admirable figure of Roderick Hudson. The irresponsibility, alertness,
the whimsicality and mobility of Shubin combine to charm and irritate
the reader in the exact proportion that such a character affects him in
actual life; there is not the least touch of exaggeration, and all the
values are kept to a marvel. Looking at the minor characters, perhaps
one may say that the husband, Stahov, will be the most suggestive, and
not the least familiar character, to English households. His essentially
masculine meanness, his self-complacency, his unconscious indifference
to the opinion of others, his absurdity as '_un pere de famille_' is
balanced by the foolish affection and jealousy which his wife, Anna
Vassilyevna, cannot help feeling towards him. The perfect balance and
duality of Turgenev's outlook is here shown by the equal cleverness with
which he seizes on and quietly derides the typical masculine and typical
feminine attitude in such a married life as the two Stahovs'.
Turning to the figure of the Bulgarian hero, it is interesting to find
from the _Souvenirs sur Tourguenev_ (published in 1887) that Turgenev's
only distinct failure of importance in character drawing, Insarov, was
not taken from life, but was the legacy of a friend Karateieff, who
implored Turgenev to work out an unfinished conception. Insarov is a
figure of wood. He is so cleverly constructed, and the central idea
behind him is so strong, that his wooden joints move naturally, and the
spectator has only the instinct, not the certainty, of being cheated.
The idea he incarnates, that of a man whose soul is aflame with
patriotism, is finely suggested, but an idea, even a great one, does
not make an individuality. And in fact Insarov is not a man, he is an
automaton. To compare Shubin's utterances with his is to perceive that
there is no spontaneity, no inevitability in Insarov. He is a patriotic
clock wound up to go for the occasion, and in truth he is very useful.
Only on his deathbed, when the unexpected happens, and the machinery
runs down, do we feel moved. Then, he appears more striking dead than
alive--a rather damning testimony to the power Turgenev credits him
with. This artistic failure of Turgenev's is, as he no doubt recognised,
curiously lessened by the fact that young girls of Elena's lofty
idealistic type are particularly impressed by certain stiff types of
men of action and great will-power, whose capacity for moving straight
towards a certain goal by no means implies corresponding brain-power.
The insight of a Shubin and the moral worth of a Bersenyev are not so
valuable to the Elenas of this world, whose ardent desire to be made
good use of, and to seek some great end, is best developed by strength
of aim in the men they love.
And now to see what the novel before us means to the Russian mind, we
must turn to the infinitely suggestive background. Turgenev's genius was
of the same force in politics as in art; it was that of seeing aright.
He saw his country as it was, with clearer eyes than any man before
or since. If Tolstoi is a purer native expression of Russia's force,
Turgenev is the personification of Russian aspiration working with the
instruments of wide cosmopolitan culture. As a critic of his countrymen
nothing escaped Turgenev's eye, as a politician he foretold nearly all
that actually came to pass in his life, and as a consummate artist,
led first and foremost by his love for his art, his novels are undying
historical pictures. It is not that there is anything allegorical in
his novels--allegory is at the furthest pole from his method: it is
that whenever he created an important figure in fiction, that figure is
necessarily a revelation of the secrets of the fatherland, the soil, the
race. Turgenev, in short, was a psychologist not merely of men, but of
nations; and so the chief figure of _On the Eve_, Elena, foreshadows
and stands for the rise of young Russia in the sixties. Elena is young
Russia, and to whom does she turn in her prayer for strength? Not to
Bersenyev, the philosopher, the dreamer; not to Shubin, the man carried
outside himself by every passing distraction; but to the strong man,
Insarov. And here the irony of Insarov being made a foreigner, a
Bulgarian, is significant of Turgenev's distrust of his country's
weakness. The hidden meaning of the novel is a cry to the coming men
to unite their strength against the foe without and the foe within the
gates; it is an appeal to them not only to hasten the death of the
old regime of Nicolas I, but an appeal to them to conquer their
sluggishness, their weakness, and their apathy. It is a cry for Men.
Turgenev sought in vain in life for a type of man to satisfy Russia, and
ended by taking no living model for his hero, but the hearsay Insarov, a
foreigner. Russia has not yet produced men of this type. But the artist
does not despair of the future. Here we come upon one of the most
striking figures of Turgenev--that of Uvar Ivanovitch. He symbolises the
ever-predominant type of Russian, the sleepy, slothful Slav of to-day,
yesterday, and to-morrow. He is the Slav whose inherent force Europe is
as ignorant of as he is himself. Though he speaks only twenty sentences
in the book he is a creation of Tolstoian force. His very words are
dark and of practically no significance. There lies the irony of the
portrait. The last words of the novel, the most biting surely that
Turgenev ever wrote, contain the whole essence of _On the Eve_. On the
Eve of What? one asks. Time has given contradictory answers to the men
of all parties. The Elenas of to-day need not turn their eyes abroad
to find their counterpart in spirit; so far at least the pessimists are
refuted: but the note of death that Turgenev strikes in his marvellous
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ON THE INCUBUS, OR NIGHT-MARE.
J. M'Creery, Printer,
Black Horse Court, London.
A TREATISE ON THE INCUBUS,
OR
Night-Mare,
DISTURBED SLEEP, TERRIFIC DREAMS,
AND NOCTURNAL VISIONS.
WITH THE MEANS OF REMOVING THESE
DISTRESSING COMPLAINTS.
BY JOHN WALLER,
SURGEON OF THE ROYAL NAVY.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR E. COX AND SON, ST. THOMAS'S STREET,
BOROUGH.
1816.
INTRODUCTION.
The enjoyment of comfortable and undisturbed sleep, is certainly to be
ranked amongst the greatest blessings which heaven has bestowed on
mankind; and it may be considered as one of the best criterions of a
person enjoying perfect health. On the contrary, any disturbance which
occurs in the enjoyment of this invaluable blessing, may be considered a
decisive proof of some derangement existing in the animal economy, and a
consequent deviation from the standard of health. Indeed it is astonishing
how slight a deviation from that standard may be perceived, by paying
attention to the circumstance of our sleep and dreams. This may be more
clearly demonstrated by attending carefully to the state of persons on the
approach of any epidemic fever or other epidemic disease, and indeed of
every kind of fever, as I have repeatedly witnessed; when no other signs
of a deviation from health could be perceived, the patient has complained
of disturbed rest and frightful dreams, with Night-Mare, &c. Hence the
dread which the vulgar, in all ages and countries, have had of what they
call _bad_ dreams; experience having proved to them, that persons,
previously to being attacked with some serious or fatal malady, had been
visited with these kind of dreams. For this reason they always dread some
impending calamity either to themselves or others, whenever they occur;
and, so far as relates to themselves, often not without reason. Frightful
dreams, however, though frequently the forerunners of dangerous and fatal
diseases, will yet often occur when the disturbance of the system is
comparatively trifling, as they will generally be found to accompany every
derangement of the digestive organs, particularly of the stomach, of the
superior portion of the intestinal canal, and of the biliary system.
Children, whose digestive organs are peculiarly liable to derangement, are
also very frequently the subjects of frightful dreams, and partial
Night-Mares; which are frequently distressing enough to them. They are
still more so to grown up people, as they generally arise from a more
serious derangement of the system. Those who are subject to them will
agree with me in opinion, that they are by no means to be ranked amongst
the lesser calamities to which our nature is liable.
There are many persons in the world to whom it is no uncommon occurrence,
to rise from their bed in the morning more wearied and exhausted, both in
mind and body, than when they retired to it the evening before: to whom
sleep is frequently an object of terror rather than comfort, and who seek
in vain for relief from the means usually recommended by Physicians. To
such persons I dedicate this little work; for their information I have
laid down, in as clear terms as the subject will admit, the history of
those diseases, which, by depriving us of the benefit of sleep, and
driving rest from our couch, often render life itself miserable, and lay
the foundation of formidable, and sometimes of fatal diseases. Amongst
those affections which thus break in upon our repose, the most formidable
and the most frequent is the disease called Night-Mare; the history of
which, with its various modifications, I have endeavoured to give with as
much accuracy as possible, and have attempted also to investigate its
nature and immediate causes, as well as to point out the best mode of
obtaining relief. Very little assistance could be obtained in this
undertaking, from the writings of modern Physicians, who have paid little
or no attention to it: those of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries,
seem to have well understood both its causes and cure, but differed much
amongst themselves respecting its nature, as will ever be the case when
we attempt to reason on any subject which is above our comprehension. I
have availed myself of all the light which these illustrious men could
throw upon the subject, which is not a little; but my principal
information respecting it has arisen from a personal acquaintance with the
disease itself, for a long series of years, having been a victim to it
from my earliest infancy. I have never met with any person who has
suffered to so great an extent from this affection, or to whom it was
become so habitual. To eradicate thoroughly a disease so deeply rooted and
of so long duration, cannot be expected: but I have so far succeeded as to
bring it under great control, and to keep myself free from its attacks for
several months together; or indeed scarcely ever to be disturbed by it
at all, but when I have deviated from those rules which experience has
proved to be sufficient to secure me from all danger of it.
The various kinds of disturbed sleep taken notice of in this little work,
are all so many modifications of Night-Mare, and may be all remedied by
observing the rules here laid down, as they will be found to originate
from one or other of the causes here specified. The regimen and treatment
I have recommended are directed to the root of the disease, that is, to
the hypochondriac or hysteric temperament; for Night-Mare, disturbed
sleep, terrific dreams, &c. may be considered only as symptoms of great
nervous derangement, or hypochondriasis, and are a sure sign that this
disease exists to a great extent. Thus, while the patient is seeking, by
the means recommended, to get rid of his Night-Mare, he will find his
general health improving, and the digestive organs recovering their proper
tone.
THE INCUBUS, &c.
This disease, vulgarly called Night-Mare, was observed and described by
physicians and other writers at a very early period. It was called by the
Greeks, [Greek: ephialtes], and by the Romans, _Incubus_, both of which
names are expressive of the sensation of weight and oppression felt by the
persons labouring under it, and which conveys to them the idea of some
living _being_ having taken its position on the breast, inspiring terror,
and impeding respiration and all voluntary motion. It is not very
surprising that persons labouring under this extraordinary affection,
should ascribe it to the agency of some daemon, or evil spirit; and we
accordingly find that this idea of its immediate cause has generally
prevailed in all ages and countries. Its real nature has never been
satisfactorily explained, nor has it by any means met with that attention
from modern physicians which it merits: indeed it scarcely seems to be
considered by them as a disease, or to deserve at all the attention of a
physician. Those, however, who labour under this affection to any great
degree, can bear testimony to the distress and alarm which it occasions;
in many cases rendering the approach of night a cause of terror, and life
itself miserable, from the dread of untimely suffocation. The little
attention paid to this disease by medical men, has left the subjects of it
without a remedy, and almost without hope. Its nature and its cause have
been altogether misunderstood by those who have lately given any opinion
upon it. It appears a general opinion that it only happens to persons
lying upon the back, and who have eaten large suppers; the causes of it
have consequently been traced to mechanical pressure upon the lungs,
arising from a full stomach; and a change of position, together with the
avoiding eating any supper, has been thought all that was necessary to
prevent its attack. To those, however, who are unfortunately afflicted
with it to any degree, it is well known by experience, that no change of
position, or abstinence, will secure them from the attacks of this
formidable disturber of the night. As I have so long been an unfortunate
victim to this enemy of repose, and have suffered more from its repeated
attacks than any other person I have ever met with, I hope to be able to
throw some light on the nature of this affection, and to point out some
mode of relief to the unfortunate victims of it.
The late Dr. Darwin, who had an admirable talent for explaining the
phenomena of animal life in general, is of opinion, that this affection is
nothing more than sleeping too sound; in which situation of things the
power of volition, or command over the muscles of voluntary motion, is too
completely suspended; and that the efforts of the patient to recover this
power, constitute the disease we call Night-Mare. In order to reconcile
this hypothesis with the real state of things, he is obliged to have
recourse to a method not unusual amongst theoretic philosophers, both in
medicine and other sciences--that is, when the hypothesis does not exactly
apply to the phenomenon to be explained by it, to twist the phenomenon
itself into such a shape as will make it fit, rather than give up a
favourite hypothesis. Now, in order to mould the Night-Mare into the
proper form, to make this hypothesis apply to it, he asserts, first, that
it only attacks persons when very sound asleep; and secondly, that there
cannot exist any difficulty of breathing, since the mere suspension of
volition will not produce any, the respiration going on as well asleep as
awake; so that he thinks there must needs be some error in this part of
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THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE
[Illustration]
THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND HELOISE
_Translated from the original latin and now reprinted from the
edition of 1722: together with a brief account of their lives and
work_
RALPH FLETCHER SEYMOURA.CHICAGO
Copyright 1903
by
Ralph Fletcher Seymour
THE STORY OF ABELARD AND HELOISE.
It sometimes happens that Love is little esteemed by those who choose
rather to think of other affairs, and in requital He strongly
manifests His power in unthought ways. Need is to think of Abelard
and Heloise: how now his treatises and works are memories only, and
how the love of her (who in lifetime received little comfort
therefor) has been crowned with the violet crown of Grecian Sappho
and the homage of all lovers.
The world itself was learning a new love when these two met; was
beginning to heed the quiet call of the spirit of the Renaissance,
which, at its consummation, brought forth the glories of the
Quattrocento.
It was among the stone-walled, rose-covered gardens and clustered
homes of ecclesiastics, who served the ancient Roman builded pile of
Notre Dame, that Abelard found Heloise.
From his noble father's home in Brittany, Abelard, gifted and
ambitious, came to study with William of Champeaux in Paris. His
advancement was rapid, and time brought him the acknowledged
leadership of the Philosophic School of the city, a prestige which
received added lustre from his controversies with his later
instructor in theology, Anselm of Laon.
His career at this time was brilliant. Adulation and flattery, added
to the respect given his great and genuine ability, made sweet a life
which we can imagine was in most respects to his liking. Among the
students who flocked to him came the beautiful maiden, Heloise, to
learn of philosophy. Her uncle Fulbert, living in retired ease near
Notre Dame, offered in exchange for such instruction both bed and
board; and Abelard, having already seen and resolved to win her,
undertook the contract.
Many quiet hours these two spent on the green, river-watered isle,
studying old philosophies, and Time, swift and silent as the Seine,
sped on, until when days had changed to months they became aware of
the deeper knowledge of Love. Heloise responded wholly to this new
influence, and Abelard, forgetting his ambition, desired their
marriage. Yet as this would have injured his opportunities for
advancement in the Church Heloise steadfastly refused this formal
sanction of her passion. Their love becoming known in time to
Fulbert, his grief and anger were uncontrollable. In fear the two
fled to the country and there their child was born. Abelard still
urged marriage, and at last, outwearied with importunities, she
consented, only insisting that it be kept a secret. Such a course was
considered best to pacify her uncle, who, in fact, promised
reconciliation as a reward. Yet, upon its accomplishment he openly
declared the marriage. Unwilling that this be known lest the
knowledge hurt her lover, Heloise strenuously denied the truth. The
two had returned, confident of Fulbert's reaffirmed regard, and he,
now deeply troubled and revengeful, determined to inflict that
punishment and indignity on Abelard, which, in its accomplishment,
shocked even that ruder civilization to horror and to reprisal.
The shamed and mortified victim, caring only for solitude in which to
hide and rest, retired into the wilderness; returning after a time to
take the vows of monasticism. Unwilling to leave his love where by
chance she could become another's, he demanded that she become a nun.
She yielded obedience, and, although but twenty-two years of age,
entered the convent of Argenteuil.
Abelard's mind was still virile and, perhaps to his surprise, the
world again sought him out, anxious still to listen to his masterful
logic. But with his renewed influence came fierce persecution, and
the following years of life were filled with trials and sorrows.
Sixteen years passed after the lovers parted and then Heloise,
prioress of the Paraclete, found a letter of consolation, written by
Abelard to a friend, recounting his sad career. Her response is a
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THE HISTORY OF ANTIQUITY.
THE
HISTORY OF ANTIQUITY.
FROM THE GERMAN
OF
PROFESSOR MAX DUNCKER,
BY
EVELYN ABBOTT, M.A.,
_FELLOW AND TUTOR OF BALLIOL COLLEGE, OXFORD._
VOL. II.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY & SON, NEW BURLINGTON STREET,
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
1879.
Bungay:
CLAY AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS.
The present volume has been translated from the fifth
edition of the original, and has had, throughout, the
benefit of Professor Duncker's revision.
E. A.
_Oxford, Jan. 14, 1879._
CONTENTS.
BOOK III.
_ASSYRIA. PHOENICIA. ISRAEL._
CHAPTER I. PAGE
THE STORY OF NINUS AND SEMIRAMIS 1
CHAPTER II.
THE BEGINNINGS OF THE ASSYRIAN KINGDOM 26
CHAPTER III.
THE NAVIGATION AND COLONIES OF THE PHENICIANS 49
CHAPTER IV.
THE TRIBES OF ISRAEL 89
CHAPTER V.
THE ESTABLISHMENT OF THE MONARCHY IN ISRAEL 109
CHAPTER VI.
DAVID'S STRUGGLE AGAINST SAUL AND ISHBOSHETH 128
CHAPTER VII.
THE RULE OF DAVID 150
CHAPTER VIII.
KING SOLOMON 179
CHAPTER IX.
THE LAW OF THE PRIESTS 201
CHAPTER X.
JUDAH AND ISRAEL 227
CHAPTER XI.
THE CITIES OF THE PHENICIANS 262
CHAPTER XII.
THE TRADE OF THE PHENICIANS 294
CHAPTER XIII.
THE RISE OF ASSYRIA 308
BOOK III.
ASSYRIA. PHOENICIA. ISRAEL.
ASSYRIA.
CHAPTER I.
THE STORY OF NINUS AND SEMIRAMIS.
About the middle course of the Tigris, where the mountain wall of the
Armenian plateau steeply descends to the south, there is a broad stretch
of hilly country. To the west it is traversed by a few water-courses
only, which spring out of the mountains of Sindyar, and unite with the
Tigris; from the east the affluents are far more abundant. On the
southern shore of the lake of Urumiah the edge of the plateau of Iran
abuts on the Armenian table-land, and then, stretching to the
south-east, it bounds the river valley of the Tigris toward the east.
From its vast, successive ranges, the Zagrus of the Greeks, flow the
Lycus and Caprus (the Greater and the Lesser Zab), the Adhim and the
Diala. The water, which these rivers convey to the land between the
Zagrus and the Tigris, together with the elevation of the soil, softens
the heat and allows olive trees and vines to flourish in the cool air on
the hills, sesame and corn in the valleys between groups of palms and
fruit-trees. The backs of the heights which rise to the east are covered
by forests of oaks and nut trees. Toward the south the ground gradually
sinks--on the west immediately under the mountains of Sindyar, on the
east below the Lesser Zab--toward the course of the Adhim into level
plains, where the soil is little inferior in fertility to the land of
Babylonia. The land between the Tigris and the Greater Zab is known to
Strabo and Arrian as Aturia.[1] The districts between the Greater and
Lesser Zab are called Arbelitis and Adiabene by western writers.[2] The
region bounded by the Lesser Zab and the Adhim or the Diala is called
Sittacene, and the land lying on the mountains rising further toward the
east is Chalonitis. The latter we shall without doubt have to regard as
the Holwan[3] of later times.
According to the accounts of the Greeks, it was in these districts that
the first kingdom rose which made conquests and extended its power
beyond the borders of its native country. In the old time--such is the
story--kings ruled in Asia, whose names were not mentioned, as they had
not performed any striking exploits. The first of whom any memorial is
retained, and who performed great deeds, was Ninus, the king of the
Assyrians. Warlike and ambitious by nature, he armed the most vigorous
of his young men, and accustomed them by long and various exercises to
all the toils and dangers of war. After collecting a splendid army, he
combined with Ariaeus, the prince of the Arabs, and marched with numerous
troops against the neighbouring Babylonians. The city of Babylon was not
built at that time, but there were other magnificent cities in the land.
The Babylonians were an unwarlike people, and he subdued them with
little trouble, took their king prisoner, slew him with his children,
and imposed a yearly tribute on the Babylonians. Then with a still
greater force he invaded Armenia and destroyed several cities. Barzanes,
the king of Armenia, perceived that he was not in a position to resist.
He repaired with costly presents to Ninus and undertook to be his
vassal. With great magnanimity Ninus permitted him to retain the throne
of Armenia; but he was to provide a contingent in war and contribute to
the support of the army. Strengthened by these means, Ninus turned his
course to Media. Pharnus, king of Media, came out to meet him with a
strong force, but he was nevertheless defeated, and crucified with his
wife and seven children, and Ninus placed one of his own trusty men as
viceroy over Media. These successes raised in Ninus the desire to
subjugate all Asia as far as the Nile and the Tanais. He conquered, as
Ctesias narrates, Egypt, Phoenicia, Coele Syria, Cilicia, Lycia and
Caria, Lydia, Mysia, Phrygia, Bithynia, and Cappadocia, and reduced the
nations on the Pontus as far as the Tanais. Then he made himself master
of the land of the Cadusians and Tapyrians, of the Hyrcanians,
Drangians, Derbiccians, Carmanians, Chorasmians, Barcians, and
Parthians. Beside these, he overcame Persia, and Susiana, and Caspiana,
and many other small nations. But in spite of many efforts he failed to
obtain any success against the Bactrians, because the entrance to their
land was difficult and the number of their men of war was great. So he
deferred the war against the Bactrians to another opportunity, and led
his army back, after subjugating in 17 years all the nations of Asia,
with the exception of the Indians and Bactrians. The king of the
Arabians he dismissed to his home with costly presents and splendid
booty; he began himself to build a city which should not only be greater
than any other then in existence, but should be such that no city in the
future could ever surpass it. This city he founded on the bank of the
Tigris,[4] in the form of an oblong, and surrounded it with strong
fortifications. The two longer sides measured 150 stades each, the two
shorter sides 90 stades each, so that the whole circuit was 480 stades.
The walls reached a height of 100 feet, and were so thick that there was
room in the gangway for three chariots to pass each other. These walls
were surmounted by 1500 towers, each of the height of 200 feet. As to
the inhabitants of the city, the greater number and those of the most
importance were Assyrians, but from the other nations also any who chose
could fix his dwelling here, and Ninus allotted to the settlers large
portions of the surrounding territory, and called the city Ninus, after
his own name.
When the city was built Ninus resolved to march against the Bactrians.
He knew the number and bravery of the Bactrians, and how difficult
their land was to approach, and therefore he collected the armies of all
the subject nations, to the number of 1,700,000 foot soldiers, 210,000
cavalry, and towards 10,600 chariots of war. The narrowness of the
passes which protect the entrance to Bactria compelled Ninus to divide
his army. Oxyartes, who at that time was king of the Bactrians, had
collected the whole male population of his country, about 400,000 men,
and met the enemy at the passes. One part of the Assyrian army he
allowed to enter unmolested; when a sufficient number seemed to have
reached the plains he attacked them and drove them back to the nearest
mountains; about 100,000 Assyrians were slain. But when the whole force
had penetrated into the land, the Bactrians were overcome by superior
numbers and scattered each to his own city. The rest of the cities were
captured by Ninus with little trouble, but Bactra, the chief city, where
the palace of the king lay, he could not reduce, for it was large and
well-provisioned, and the fortress was very strong.
When the siege became protracted, Onnes, the first among the counsellors
of the king and viceroy of Syria, who accompanied the king on this
campaign, sent for his wife Semiramis to the camp. Once when he was
inspecting the flocks of the king in Syria, he had seen at the dwelling
of Simmas, the keeper of these flocks, a beautiful maiden, and he was so
overcome with love for her that he sought and obtained her as a wife
from Simmas. She was the foster-child of Simmas. In a rocky place in the
desert his shepherds had found the maiden about a year old, fed by doves
with milk and cheese; as Simmas was childless he had taken the foundling
as his child, and given her the name of Semiramis Onnes took her to the
city of Ninus. She bore him two sons, Hyapates and Hydaspes, and as she
had everything which beauty requires, she made her husband her slave; he
did nothing without her advice, and everything succeeded admirably. She
also possessed intelligence and daring, and every other gift likely to
advance her. When requested by Onnes to come to the camp, she seized the
opportunity to display her power. She put on such clothing that it could
not be ascertained whether she was a man or a woman, and this succeeded
so well that at a later time the Medes, and after them the Persians
also, wore the robe of Semiramis. When she arrived in the camp she
perceived that the attack was directed only against the parts of the
city lying in the plain, not against the high part and the strong
fortifications of the citadel, and she also perceived that this
direction of the attack induced the Bactrians to be careless in watching
the citadel. She collected all those in the army who were accustomed to
climbing, and with this troop she ascended the citadel from a deep
ravine, captured a part of it, and gave the signal to the army which was
assaulting the walls in the plain. The Bactrians lost their courage when
they saw their citadel occupied, and the city was taken. Ninus admired
the courage of the woman, honoured her with costly presents, and was
soon enchained by her beauty; but his attempts to persuade Onnes to give
up Semiramis to him were in vain; in vain he offered to recompense him
by the gift of his own daughter Sosana in marriage. At length Ninus
threatened to put out his eyes if he did not obey his commands. The
terror of this threat and the violence of his own love drove Onnes out
of his mind. He hung himself. Thus Semiramis came to the throne of
Assyria. When Ninus had taken possession of the great treasures of gold
and silver which were in Bactra, and had arranged everything there, he
led his army back. At Ninus Semiramis bore him a son, Ninyas, and at his
death, when he had reigned 52 years, Ninus bequeathed to her the
sovereign power. She buried his corpse in the royal palace, and caused a
huge mound to be raised over the grave, 6000 feet in the circuit and
5400 feet high, which towered over the city of Ninus like a lofty
citadel, and could be seen far through the plain in which Ninus lay.
As Semiramis was ambitious, and desired to surpass the fame of Ninus,
she built the great city of Babylon, with mighty walls and towers, the
two royal citadels, the bridge over the Euphrates, and the temple of
Belus, and caused a great lake to be excavated to draw off the water of
the Euphrates. Other cities also she founded on the Euphrates and the
Tigris, and caused depots to be made for those who brought merchandise
from Media, Paraetacene, and the bordering countries. After completing
these works she marched with a great army to Media and planted the
garden near Mount Bagistanon. The steep and lofty face of this mountain,
more than 10,000 feet in height, she caused to be smoothed, and on it
was cut her picture surrounded by 100 guards; and an inscription was
engraved in Syrian letters, saying that Semiramis had caused the
pack-saddles of her beasts of burden to be piled on each other, and on
these had ascended to the summit of the mountain. Afterwards she made
another large garden near the city of Chauon, in Media,[5] and on a rock
in the middle of it she erected rich and costly buildings, from which
she surveyed the blooming garden and the army encamped in the plain.
Here she remained for a long time, and gave herself up to every kind of
pleasure. She was unwilling to contract another marriage from fear of
losing the sovereign power, but she lived with any of her warriors who
were distinguished for their beauty. All who had enjoyed her favours she
secretly put to death. After this retirement she turned her course to
Egbatana, caused a path to be cut through the rocks of Mount Zagrus, and
a short and convenient road to be made across them, in order to leave
behind an imperishable memorial of her reign. In Egbatana she erected a
splendid palace, and | 1,988.876993 |
2023-11-16 18:50:12.8569600 | 7,436 | 10 |
Produced by Cathy Maxam and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
[Illustration]
NOTES FROM THE JACKET DUSTCOVER OF THE FORGED NOTE:
It is sometimes asked what inspires people to begin to write. Many
reasons may be given, but in this particular instance, a brief statement
of the author's experiences might be of interest.
At the age of twenty-one he was a homesteader on the Rosebud Indian
Reservation, South Dakota, where he was about the only <DW64> settler. At
twenty-six he was prosperous; and when another strip of the famous
reservation was thrown open to settlement, he helped some of his
relatives to secure land by furnishing money with which to purchase
relinquishments on homesteads and other expenses. He also secured for a
young lady another homestead, upon which she made filings. Six months
later they were married and then went to live on her homestead.
She was the daughter of a minister in one of the leading <DW64> churches
and was well educated, loved her husband devotedly--to all
appearances--and they were happy.
Her father and husband represented beings with different points of view,
and on this account an enmity grew up between them. The husband had
often publicly criticised some of the leaders in his race as not being
sincere, particularly many of the preachers. A year after the marriage,
the preacher paid his second visit and when the husband was away, to
indicate his dislike for the pioneer, he had his daughter, who was sick
in bed, forge her husband's name to a check for a large sum, secured the
money and took his daughter to his home in Chicago.
The homestead had been contested previous to this, and the minister had
denounced the white man (a banker), who filed the contest, scathingly
for trying to beat his daughter out of her homestead. Left alone after
her departure, with only his ninety-year-old grandmother, who had raised
a family in the days of slavery, for company, Mr. Micheaux wrote his
first book. In the meantime, the case dragged through all the land
courts at Washington, being finally settled by Secretary of the Interior
Lane in her favor. About this time, the book appeared, and was called
"THE CONQUEST".
In this was told anonymously the story of a base intrigue on the part of
the preacher to vent his spite. The white banker, whose bank in the
meantime had failed, read the book, and understood.... He went to
Chicago and sent the preacher money to Cairo to come to Chicago, which
the preacher did. Although unsuccessful in his effort before the
government to beat Mr. Micheaux's wife out of her homestead, which had
cost Mr. Micheaux thirty-five hundred dollars and which at that time was
worth six thousand dollars, the banker succeeded in having the preacher
persuade his daughter to sell him the homestead, giving her in
consideration, only three hundred dollars.[A]
[A] NOTE--Until a homestead is commuted--proved up on--it may be
relinquished by the holder without any person's or persons' consent.
The woman, therefore, in this case could sell the homestead without
her husband's consent.
[Illustration: "Nice,--Hell! How long do you figure those church people
would kite you about, if I told them _what you were_ back in--you know
where?"]
THE FORGED NOTE
[Illustration: They stood together now upon the walkway, and suddenly he
gripped her hand.]
[Illustration: They regarded the clock strangely, and uttered audibly,
"Eighteen minutes left," and in the meantime it tick-tocked the fatal
minutes away.]
THE FORGED NOTE
_A Romance of the Darker Races_
BY
OSCAR MICHEAUX
_Author of_ "The Conquest"
_ILLUSTRATED BY C.W. HELLER_
Lincoln, Nebraska
WESTERN BOOK SUPPLY COMPANY
1915
[Illustration]
COPYRIGHT, 1915
BY
WOODRUFF BANK NOTE CO.
_All rights reserved_
[Illustration: "Has it occurred to you that you have told me nothing,
absolutely nothing, about yourself?" The look she gave him was severe;
but he only regarded her strangely.]
Press of the
Woodruff Bank Note Co.
Lincoln, Nebr.
[Illustration: Murphy conducted a blind tiger in his loft; he also ran a
crap game in connection; and it was his place that "Legs" visited
frequently.]
[Illustration: "I own the L. & N. Railroad."]
TO ONE WHOSE NAME DOES NOT APPEAR
I am leaving you and Dixie land tomorrow. It is customary perhaps to
say, "Dear Old Dixie" but, since I happen to be from that little place
off in the northwest, of which I have fondly told you, the _Rosebud
Country_, where I am returning at once, and which is the only place that
is dear to me, I could not conscientiously use the other term. Still, I
am grateful, and well I should be; for, had I not spent these eighteen
months down here, I could never have written _this_ story. No
imagination, positively not mine, could have created "Slim", "T. Toddy",
"Legs", "John Moore", et al. I really knew them. I haven't even changed
their names, since what's the use? They, unless by chance, will never
know, for, as I knew them, they never read. Only one of them I am sure
ever owned a book. That one did, however, and that I know, for he stole
my dictionary before I left the town. Whatever he expected to do with
it, is a puzzle to me, but since it was leather-bound, I think he
imagined it was a Bible. He was very fond of Bibles, and I recall that
was the only thing he read. He is in jail now, so I understand; which is
no surprise, since he visited there quite often in the six months I knew
him. As to "Legs", I have no word; but since summer time has come, I am
sure "Slim" has either gone into "business" or is "preaching." "T.
Toddy" was pretty shaky when I saw him last, and I wouldn't be surprised
if he were not now in Heaven. And still, with what he threatened to do
to me when he was informed that I had written of him in a book, he may
be in the other place, who knows! I recall it with a tremor. We were in
a restaurant some time after the first threat, but at that time, he
appeared to understand that I had written nothing bad concerning him,
and we were quite friendly. He told of himself and his travels, relating
a trip abroad, to Liverpool and London. In the course of his remarks, he
told that he used to run down from Liverpool to London every morning,
since it was just over the hill a mile, and could be seen from Liverpool
whenever the fog lifted. He advised me a bit remonstratingly, that,
since I had written of him in the book, if I had come to him in advance,
he would have told me something of himself to put into it that would
have interested the world. I suggested that it was not then too late,
and that he should make a copy of it. He intimated that it would be
worth something and I agreed with him, and told him I would give him
fifty cents. He said that would be satisfactory, but he wanted it then
in advance. I wouldn't agree to that, but told him that he would have to
give me a brief of his life, where and when he was born, if he had been,
also where and when he expected to die, etc. first. He got "mad" then
and threatened to do something "awful". Took himself outside and opened
a knife, the blade of which had been broken, and was then about a half
inch long, and told me to come out, whereupon he would show me my heart.
As he waited vainly for me, he took on an expression that made him
appear the worst man in all the world. I did not, of course go out, and
told him so--through the window.
That was the end of it--and of him, so far as I know. But you can
understand by this how near I have been to death in your Dixie Land.
When I come back it will not be for "color"; but--well, I guess you
know.
New Orleans, La., August 1, 1915.
O.M.
[Illustration: He awakened from a strange dream. The Bible had fallen to
the floor, and lay open at a chapter under which was written, "_THOU
SHALT NOT STEAL!_"]
BOOK ONE
WHICH DEALS WITH ORIGINALS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE BARRIER 15
II ATTALIA 31
III NEXT DAY--DISCOVERIES 40
IV AND HE NEVER KNEW 47
V B.J. DICKSON 51
VI "OH, YOU SELL BOOKS!" 59
VII IN THE OFFICE OF THE GRAND SECRETARY 63
VIII HENRY HUGH HODDER 67
IX "SWEET GENEVIEVE" 74
X "DO SOMETHING AND YOU'LL FIND OUT" 78
XI "JEDGE L'YLES' CO'T" 84
XII A JEW; A GENTILE; A MURDER--AND SOME MORE 93
XIII "'CAUSE NIGGA'S 'S GITTIN' SO RICH" 105
XIV AND THEN CAME SLIM 111
XV "SHOO FLY!" 124
XVI "WHY DO YOU LOOK AT ME SO STRANGELY?" 130
XVII "I'LL NEVER BE ANYTHING BUT A VAGABOND!" 140
BOOK TWO
THE BEAST AND THE JUNGLE
CONTENTS
I EFFINGHAM 149
II "THESE <DW64>s IN EFFINGHAM ARE NIGGA'S PROPER" 164
III "I HAVE BEEN MARRIED", SAID SHE 173
IV "EIDDER STUCK UP AH SHE'S A WITCH!" 181
V "A BIGGA LIAH THEY AIN'T IN TOWN!" 189
VI "YES--_MISS_ LATHAM!" 196
VII "IT ALL FALLS RIGHT BACK ON SOCIETY!" 202
VIII "WHERE ARE YOU FROM?" 206
IX "BUT SMITH IS NOT HIS REAL NAME" 211
X "WHEN YOU HAVE BEEN GRASS WIDOWED, IT'S DIFFERENT" 224
XI "I'M WORRIED ABOUT MILDRED" 232
XII AND THEN SHE BEGAN TO GROW OTHERWISE 241
XIII ENTER--MR. TOM TODDY! 243
XIV THE DISAPPEARING CHIN 256
XV "WILSON! WILSON! MILDRED HAS GONE!" 268
XVI THE BEAST AND THE JUNGLE 273
XVII "THIS IS MR. WINSLOW, MADAM!" 278
XVIII "THOU SHALT NOT STEAL" 285
XIX THEY TURNED HER OUT OF CHURCH 290
XX "I _LOVE_ YOU" 299
XXI "PLEASE GET D' OLE MAN OUTTA JAIL" 302
XXII "THIS MAN IS LOSING HIS MIND!" 309
XXIII "I'LL BRAND YOU AS A FAKER!" 317
XXIV THE ARRAIGNMENT 324
[Illustration: "A crooked mother can't raise a straight daughter. It's
up to the daughter--and I've failed!"]
BOOK THREE
A MATTER OF TWENTY-FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS
CONTENTS
I "THAT GAL'S CROOKED" 336
II "_IT WAS IN THAT CHURCH LAST SUNDAY!_" 344
III "UH! 'ES GOT 'IM A NIGGA!" 349
IV "PLEASE GO!" SHE CRIED HOARSELY 355
V THE TIME LIMIT 362
VI REMINISCENCES--CHARGE OF THE BLACK CAVALRY 369
VII "PLEASE STOP--AND SAVE ME!" 375
VIII WHAT HER EYES SAW 381
IX "WHA'S Y' MAN?" 386
X "KICK HIGHER DARE GAL!" 392
XI "MY WIFE--SICK--_HELL!_" 397
XII MID-NIGHT DECEMBER THIRTY-FIRST 407
XIII INTO THE INFINITE LONG AGO 412
XIV "GO, BROTHER! IN GOD'S NAME, GO!" 418
BOOK FOUR
THE QUEST ETERNAL
CONTENTS
I "'SCRIMINATIN' 'GINST NIGGA'S" 422
II AT LAST SHE DIDN'T CARE 432
III "THEY KNEW HE HAD WRITTEN THE TRUTH!" 439
IV THE WOMAN WITH THE THREE MOLES 446
V "HELLO BROWN SKIN" 450
VI "_WHO'RE YOU!_" SHE REPEATED 456
VII "AT LAST, OH LORD, AT LAST!" 462
VIII "WELL I'M GOING." AND SHE WENT 468
IX "I HOPE YOU--WON'T--BE--ANGRY" 473
X VELLUN PARISH--JEFFERSON BERNARD 478
XI "MILDRED, I'VE COME BACK" 495
XII THE SLAVE MARKET 504
XIII "RESTITUTION" 515
[Illustration: She had never felt that he would rebuke her, but now she
turned her head away to shut out the scorn in the look he had given
her.]
[Illustration: "Wha's yo' man?" "I--I have no _man_," Mildred replied,
turning her face away. "I am alone--alone in everything."]
[Illustration: "That last woman I married" said Slim, "was such a devil
she almost made me lose my religion."]
THE FORGED NOTE
CHARACTERS
SYDNEY WYETH, An Observer, Who had the Courage of His Convictions.
MILDRED LATHAM, A Girl of Mystery, Whose Fortunes are What We
Follow.
FURGESON AND THURMAN, Originals, Who Possessed some Wit and Humor.
B.J. DICKSON, An Editor, and a Fighter of the Right Sort.
V.R. COLEMAN, (SLIM) A Summertime Professor and "Business Man". (?)
"LEGS", a "Crap Shooter", Who Reformed and Became a Hero.
JOHN MOORE, A Character, Who Read the Bible--and did Other Things.
MISS PALMER, Grasswidow and School Teacher, Who Desired to Remarry.
DR. RANDALL, A Druggist, Who Knew Everybody's Business.
WILSON JACOBS, A Minister, Who Works for Uplift among Black People.
CONSTANCE JACOBS, His Sister, a Friend of the Girl of Mystery.
STEPHEN MYER, With a Heart, but a Sinner, Who Died and Went to----.
THE FORGED NOTE
BOOK I.
CHAPTER ONE
_The Barrier_
He sat at a desk in the small office he had taken. Before him were
papers and bills--unpaid--and letters too, he had not opened, while to
one side were others he had read, and had typed replies thereto. He had
paused in his work, and was gazing stupidly at the litter before him.
His name was Sidney Wyeth, and his home was away off in the great
northwest, in a strip of territory known as the _Rosebud Country_. As we
meet him now, however, he is located on the fifth floor of an office
building, slightly toward the outskirts of the business district of one
of our great American cities. He is by profession an author, which might
explain his presence at a desk. It happens, however, that he is not
there this time as a weaver of dreams, but attending to matter in
connection with the circulation of his work, for he is his own
publisher.
At that moment, however, he was nothing, for he was sick. For days he
had felt a strange illness. Obviously it had almost reached an acute
stage; for, apparently unable to maintain an upright position at the
desk, he presently stretched himself face downward.
He might have been in this position an hour, or it might have been only
a few minutes; but of a sudden he was brought to a position again erect,
with ears alert, since he was sure he had heard a sound without. He
strained his ears in silence.
Outside, a soft rain was falling. As he continued to listen, his gaze
wandered out over the city below, with its medley of buildings that rose
to various heights, and sparkled with electric lights. His gaze, in
drifting, presently surveyed the main street of the city, an unusually
wide thoroughfare, filled with the accustomed traffic. Beyond lay the
harbor, for the city is a great port, and the same was then filled with
innumerable vessels from far and near. A huge man-o-war arrested his
attention for a while, and then his gaze wandered further. A wind had
risen, from the way the water was dashed to spray against the windows.
The sound of a clock striking five resounded through the damp air, and
echoed in stentorian tones. It was late-winter, but, due perhaps to the
overcast skies, twilight was rapidly fading into darkness.
Failing to hear any further sound, he presently resumed his tired
position, and a few minutes later was lost in a sickly slumber.
There could be no mistake now! A step sounded in the hallway. It was a
light step, but firm and brisk and forward. It was unmistakably that of
a young woman. Onward it came in the direction of his small office.
There was a brief pause when the footsteps reached the door, and then a
knock, but without response from within. Presently the door was pushed
open, and the intruder entered the room lightly. Still, Sidney Wyeth,
unconscious of the presence of his visitor, did not move or speak.
The stranger paused hesitatingly, when once inside, and observed him
closely, where he sat with his face buried in his arms.
She was an attractive <DW52> girl, trimly dressed in a striking,
dark-blue tailored suit, cut in the latest fashion. A small hat reposed
jauntily upon her head, while a wealth of dark hair was gathered in a
heavy mass over her ears. Her delicately molded face, set off by a
figure seemingly designed by an artist, were sufficient to captivate the
most discriminating critic.
A thin dark strap extended over one shoulder, at the ends of which a
small case was attached. Presently she drew a book from this same case,
and crossed the room to where the man sat.
"Good evening," she ventured, pausing at his side, and fumbling the book
she had taken from the case, in evident embarrassment. He mumbled
something inaudible, but remained silent. His outwardly indifferent
reception had not a discouraging effect upon his visitor, however, for
no sooner had she caught the sound of his voice, than she fell into a
concentrated explanation of the book.
Soft and low, in spite of the rapid flow of words, her voice fell upon
his ears, and served to arouse him at last from his apparent lethargy;
but it was not that alone which made him rise to a half sitting posture,
and strain his ears. It was a peculiar familiarity in the tone. As he
continued to listen, he became convinced that somewhere, in the months
gone by, he had heard that voice before. "Where was it?" he whispered,
but, in his sluggish thoughts, he could not then recall. There was one
thing of which there was no doubt, however, and which added strangely to
the mystery. She was explaining his own book, _The Tempest_.
At last, in his morbid thoughts, he gave up trying to connect the voice
with a person he had once known, and, with a tired, long drawn sigh,
raised his hand wearily to his head, and grasped it as if in pain. The
flow of words ceased at once, and the voice now cried, with a note of
pain, and plainly embarrassed:
"You are ill and I have disturbed you! Oh, I'm _so_ sorry! Can you
overlook--pardon such an awkward blunder?" She clasped her hands
helplessly, and was plainly distressed. And then, as if seized with a
sudden inspiration, she cried, in a low, subdued voice: "I'll make a
light and bathe your forehead! You seem to have fever!"
Turning nimbly, and before he could object, had he wished to, she
crossed quickly to where a small basin hung from the wall; above this
was an electric button, which could be seen in the semi-darkness.
Touching this, whereupon the room became aglow with light, she caught up
a towel; and, dampening one end, she recrossed to where he sat,
strangely stupid, and, without hesitation, placed the wet end over his
burning forehead, and held it there for possibly a minute.
"Now," she inquired softly, in a tone of solicitous relief, "do you feel
better?"
As she concluded, she stepped where she could see his face more easily,
and sought his eyes anxiously. The next moment, both recoiled in sudden
recognition, as he cried:
"You!"
She was likewise astonished, and, after only a fraction of a moment, but
in which she regarded him with an expression that was akin to an appeal,
she likewise exclaimed:
"And _you_!" Quickly she became composed; and, catching up the book, as
though discovered in some misdemeanor, with a hurried, parting glance,
without another word, she abruptly left the room.
She was gone, but his brain was in a tumult.
And then the illness, that had been hovering over him for some time,
like a sinister ghost, suddenly came into its own, and a moment later,
with a convulsive gasp, he fell forward across the desk, deathly sick.
* * * * *
It had begun in Cincinnati more than a year before. Wyeth, accompanied
by an assistant, had come down from Dayton for the purpose of
advertising his book, _The Tempest_ in that city. It was just preceding
an election, that resulted in a change in the city government. And it
was then he became acquainted with Jackson.
Now, being of an observant turn of mind, Wyeth took an interest in the
state of affairs. He found the city very much worked up on his arrival.
He had not yet secured accommodation, but, while standing on a corner
after checking his luggage in a nearby drug-store, he was gazing up and
down the street taking in the sights.
"Gentlemen," said someone, and turning, Wyeth and his companion looked
upon a man. He was a large mulatto with curly hair, small eyes, a sharp
nose, a firm chin, and an unusually small mouth for a <DW64>. He was
dressed in a dark suit, the worse for wear, while his shoes appeared
never to have been shined--in fact, his appearance was not altogether
inviting. And yet, there was something about the man that drew Wyeth's
attention, and he listened carefully to what he said. "You seem to be
strangers in the city, and of co'se will requiah lodgin'. He'ah is my
ca'd," he said, extending the bit of paste board upon which Sidney read
at a glance
THE JACKSON HOUSE
FIRST CLASS ROOMS, TRANSIENT OR REGULAR
OPEN DAY AND NIGHT
"I'm the proprietor and the place is at yo' disposal. Supposin' you stop
with me while youah in the city. I'll sho treat y' right."
Sidney believed him, but his appearance made him hesitant. He looked
questioningly at his companion. The other's expression was unfavorable
to Jackson. So, after a pause and a perfunctory nod, they dismissed him
and proceeded to look further in quest of accommodation.
An hour or more was thus lost, and, being unable to find a room that
satisfied them, they at last, with some reluctance, found their way to
_The Jackson House_.
Inspection still left them dissatisfied, but it was getting late, so
they decided to spend the night. Jackson showed them to what he termed
his "best room." Wyeth looked with evident disfavor about the walls that
were heavy with cob webs, while the windowsill was as heavy with dust.
Jackson, following his gaze, hastily offered apology and excuse.
"Eve'thing needs a little dusting up, and the reason you happen to find
things as you do, is because I've been so busy with politics of late,
that I have jes' nach'elly neglected my business".
Ah! That was it, thought Sidney. He had felt this man was in some way
out of the ordinary. "So you're a politician?" he queried, observing him
carefully now.
"You hit it, son," he chuckled. "Yeh; that's my line, sho." Turning now,
with his face wreathed in smiles, he continued: "Big 'lection on in a
few days, too."
"So I understand," said Sidney. "I shall be glad to talk with you
regarding the same at your convenience later," and, paying him for the
room, they betook themselves to the street.
Election day was on, and Jackson was the busiest man in town. He was
what may be called a "good mixer," to say the least, and Sidney and he
had become good friends. So said Jackson that morning.
"Got a big job on t'day, kid; yeh, a big job."
"So...."
"Yeh; gotta vote thirty-five ah fo'ty nigga's, 'n', 'f youah 'quainted
wi' ouh fo'kes, you c'n 'preciate what I'm up ag'inst."
"Indeed...."
"Yeh; nigga's o'nry y' know; and lie lak dogs; but I'm 'n' ole han' at
the bus'ness, cause that's my line. Yeh. Been votin' nigga's in this
precinct now fo' mor'n thi'ty yeahs, so you'n see I autta know what I'm
'bout."
"I'd bet on that."
Jackson chuckled again. "The fust and wo'st difficulty is the dinge's
ig'nance". Drawing a sample ballot from somewhere, he displayed and
explained it at some length. "Now we gotta pu'ty faih line up on this
ticket this trip--'co'se the's a lotta suckers on it that I'd lak t' see
scratched; but we cain' affo'd to take the risk, 'cause it's lak this.
Nigga's so ig'nant 'n' pig headed they'd sho spile it all 'f we tried to
have them do any scratching. So the only sho thing is to instruct them
t' vote straight. Get me, Steve?"
Wyeth, listening carefully, nodded, and for a moment, a picture of the
titanic struggle of a half century before, rose before him; its cause,
its moral and more; it's sacrifice. Jackson was speaking again.
"Now we sho gotta win out this time; this 'lection has _got_ to put in
ouh candidates; 'cause 'f we don't--and this is between me 'n' you 'n'
that can a beah--things sho go'n break bad wi' me! But 'f things slide
through O.K.--'n my candidates walk in, it means a cole hund'd fo' muh;
think of it," he repeated, "a cole hund'd, Ah!" And, smacking his lips
after a long draught of beer, he emitted an exclamation to emphasize
what it _would_ mean to him, that wouldn't look very nice in print.
"What do these _others_ get if your candidates are elected?" asked
Wyeth, when Jackson paused.
"Aw, _them_ suckers gets theahs wether my men's 'lected a' not. That's
always my goal. 'f I could get them t' vote so much ah' nothin' I could
make a who' lot mo'; but we gotta fo'k out two dollahs a piece, win or
lose--and, a co'se, plenty of liquah; but we don' give a damn 'bout
that, as the saloon men furnish that, gratis."
"And you can depend upon them to vote as you wish--rather, instruct?"
ventured Wyeth. At this Jackson gave a low, short laugh as he replied:
"That's whe' I plays the high ca'd 'n' gets a hund'd," and, laughing
again in that peculiar fashion, he would say no more.
* * * * *
The polls had closed. Darkness had settled over the city. The saloons
had opened their doors. From the streets came forth hilarious sounds,
where the many hundreds, now steeped in liquor, reeled about. This
confusion, mingled with the crash of heavy wagons, and horse hoofs
hurrying over the cobblestones, filled the damp air with an almost
deafening noise.
Sidney Wyeth lay stretched across the bed in his room, listening idly to
the sounds that echoed and re-echoed through the frame building.
Presently, his attention was attracted by another noise, familiar, but
more noticeable on this day.
"T-click-i-lick-ilick--ah--ha dice! T-click-ilick-i-lick--ah--ha dice!"
"Aw, shake'm ole nigga, shake'm!"
"Yeh. Roll'm out. Don' let'm spin 'roun' on d' en' lak dat! Shake'm
up. Make music!"
"T-click-i-lick-i-lick--ah--ha dice!"
"Trowed eight!"
"Dime he'n make it!"
"Make it a nickel!"
"Ah fate yu'".
"Hu'ry up, ole shine! Git yu' bet down."
"Shoot um!"
"T-click-i-lick-i-lick--ah, ha dice!"
"Two bits 'ell seben!"
"Ah got yu'!"
"T-click-i-lick-i-lick-ah, eighty day-es!"
"Cain' make eight wid a one up!"
"Do'n' try no kiddin'."
"T-click-i-lick-ilick--ah--eighter from Decatur!"
"Make music nigga, make music!"
"Two bits I'n pass!"
"Ah got yu'!"
"T-click-i-lick-i-lick--ah--eighty day-es!"
"Trowed seben!"
"Gimme d' craps!"
"Now, dice; ah-seben ah 'leben!"
"Throwed craps!"
"Hole on! Hole on! You caught dem dice, ole nigga!"
"Caught Hell! You trowed craps, d'y 'e heah! Two big sixes!" A
scrambling, mingled with much swearing, ensued.
"Say, cut out dis awgun' 'n' squabblin'," interposed one.
"'E cain' take mah money lak dat," protested the loser.
"'F you don' git y' rough mit offa dat coin, yuh big lump a dough, I
g'in' finish spreadin' dat nose ovah y' face!"
"I'on lak dis-a-way a messin' wi' mah jingle!"
"Youse a cheap nigga, Bad Eye, 'n' y' know it. You all time buttin' int'
a game wid about a dime, den sta'tin' a big argerment."
"Hush! Ain' dat Jackson a-comin'?"
Silence for possibly a minute. A muttering began to go around as they
schuffled about.
"Ah done ca'ied out mah'structions 'n' now ah wants muh dough-rine,"
some one spat out ominously.
"Me, too," said another.
"Aw, be patient. Jack's all right," argued one.
"Sho", echoed another.
"Yeh, dat' all right,'s fur it goes; but I'n handle mah money bet'n
anybody else."
A heavy step sounded in the hallway, | 1,988.877 |
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Produced by Judith Boss and David Widger
[Note: See also etext #219 which is a different version of this eBook]
HEART OF DARKNESS
By Joseph Conrad
I
The Nellie, a cruising yawl, swung to her anchor without a flutter of
the sails, and was at rest. The flood had made, the wind was nearly
calm, and being bound down the river, the only thing for it was to come
to and wait for the turn of the tide.
The sea-reach of the Thames stretched before us like the beginning of
an interminable waterway. In the offing the sea and the sky were welded
together without a joint, and in the luminous space the tanned sails
of the barges drifting up with the tide seemed to stand still in red
clusters of canvas sharply peaked, with gleams of varnished sprits. A
haze rested on the low shores that ran out to sea in vanishing flatness.
The air was dark above Gravesend, and farther back still seemed
condensed into a mournful gloom, brooding motionless over the biggest,
and the greatest, town on earth.
The Director of Companies was our captain and our host. We four
affectionately watched his back as he stood in the bows looking to
seaward. On the whole river there was nothing that looked half so
nautical. He resembled a pilot, which to a seaman is trustworthiness
personified. It was difficult to realize his work was not out there in
the luminous estuary, but behind him, within the brooding gloom.
Between us there was, as I have already said somewhere, the bond of
the sea. Besides holding our hearts together through long periods of
separation, it had the effect of making us tolerant of each other's
yarns--and even convictions. The Lawyer--the best of old fellows--had,
because of his many years and many virtues, the only cushion on deck,
and was lying on the only rug. The Accountant had brought out already a
box of dominoes, and was toying architecturally with the bones. Marlow
sat cross-legged right aft, leaning against the mizzen-mast. He had
sunken cheeks, a yellow complexion, a straight back, an ascetic aspect,
and, with his arms dropped, the palms of hands outwards, resembled an
idol. The Director, satisfied the anchor had good hold, made his way
aft and sat down amongst us. We exchanged a few words lazily. Afterwards
there was silence on board the yacht. For some reason or other we did
not begin that game of dominoes. We felt meditative, and fit for nothing
but placid staring. The day was ending in a serenity of still and
exquisite brilliance. The water shone pacifically; the sky, without a
speck, was a benign immensity of unstained light; the very mist on the
Essex marshes was like a gauzy and radiant fabric, hung from the wooded
rises inland, and draping the low shores in diaphanous folds. Only the
gloom to the west, brooding over the upper reaches, became more somber
every minute, as if angered by the approach of the sun.
And at last, in its curved and imperceptible fall, the sun sank low, and
from glowing white changed to a dull red without rays and without heat,
as if about to go out suddenly, stricken to death by the touch of that
gloom brooding over a crowd of men.
Forthwith a change came over the waters, and the serenity became less
brilliant but more profound. The old river in its broad reach rested
unruffled at the decline of day, after ages of good service done to the
race that peopled its banks, spread out in the tranquil dignity of a
waterway leading to the uttermost ends of the earth. We looked at the
venerable stream not in the vivid flush of a short day that comes and
departs for ever, but in the august light of abiding memories. And
indeed nothing is easier for a man who has, as the phrase goes,
"followed the sea" with reverence and affection, than to evoke the
great spirit of the past upon the lower reaches of the Thames. The tidal
current runs to and fro in its unceasing service, crowded with memories
of men and ships it had borne to the rest of home or to the battles
of the sea. It had known and served all the men of whom the nation is
proud, from Sir Francis Drake to Sir John Franklin, knights all, titled
and untitled--the great knights-errant of the sea. It had borne all the
ships whose names are like jewels flashing in the night of time, from
the Golden Hind returning with her round flanks full of treasure, to be
visited by the Queen's Highness and thus pass out of the gigantic tale,
to the Erebus and Terror, bound on other conquests--and that never
returned. It had known the ships and the men. They had sailed from
Deptford, from Greenwich, from Erith--the adventurers and the settlers;
kings' ships and the ships of men on 'Change; captains, admirals, the
dark "interlopers" of the Eastern trade, and the commissioned "generals"
of East India fleets. Hunters for gold or pursuers of fame, they all
had gone out on that stream, bearing the sword, and often the torch,
messengers of the might within the land, bearers of a spark from the
sacred fire. What greatness had not floated on the ebb of that river
into the mystery of an unknown earth!... The dreams of men, the seed
of commonwealths, the germs of empires.
The sun set; the dusk fell on the stream, and lights began to appear
along the shore. The Chapman lighthouse, a three-legged thing erect on a
mud-flat, shone strongly. Lights of ships moved in the fairway--a great
stir of lights going up and going down. And farther west on the upper
reaches the place of the monstrous town was still marked ominously on
the sky, a brooding gloom in sunshine, a lurid glare under the stars.
"And this also," said Marlow suddenly, "has been one of the dark places
of the earth."
He was the only man of us who still "followed the sea." The worst that
could be said of him was that he did not represent his class. He was a
seaman, but he was a wanderer, too, while most seamen lead, if one may
so express it, a sedentary life. Their minds are of the stay-at-home
order, and their home is always with them--the ship; and so is their
country--the sea. One ship is very much like another, and the sea is
always the same. In the immutability of their surroundings the foreign
shores, the foreign faces, the changing immensity of life, glide past,
veiled not by a sense of mystery but by a slightly disdainful ignorance;
for there is nothing mysterious to a seaman unless it be the sea itself,
which is the mistress of his existence and as inscrutable as Destiny.
For the rest, after his hours of work, a casual stroll or a casual spree
on shore suffices to unfold for him the secret of a whole continent,
and generally he finds the secret not worth knowing. The yarns of seamen
have a direct simplicity, the whole meaning of which lies within the
shell of a cracked nut. But Marlow was not typical (if his propensity
to spin yarns be excepted), and to him the meaning of an episode was not
inside like a kernel but outside, enveloping the tale which brought it
out only as a glow brings out a haze, in the likeness of one of these
misty halos that sometimes are made visible by the spectral illumination
of moonshine.
His remark did not seem at all surprising. It was just like Marlow.
It was accepted in silence. No one took the trouble to grunt even; and
presently he said, very slow--
"I was thinking of very old times, when the Romans first came here,
nineteen hundred years ago--the other day.... Light came out of this
river since--you say Knights? Yes; but it is like a running blaze on
a plain, like a flash of lightning in the clouds. We live in the
flicker--may it last as long as the old earth keeps rolling! But
darkness was here yesterday. Imagine the feelings of a commander of
a fine--what d'ye call 'em?--trireme in the Mediterranean, ordered
s | 1,988.975088 |
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Produced by Adam Buchbinder, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)
THE PACE THAT KILLS
A Chronicle
By EDGAR SALTUS
"_Pourquoi la mort? Dites, plutot, pourquoi la vie?_"
--RADUSSON
CHICAGO, NEW YORK, AND SAN FRANCISCO
BELFORD, CLARKE & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
London: H. J. DRANE, Lovell's Court, Paternoster Row
Copyright, 1889,
BY EDGAR SALTUS.
TO
JOHN A. RUTHERFURD.
NEW YORK, _June 10, 1889_.
PART I.
I.
"I wish you a happy New Year, sir."
It was the servant, green of livery, the yellow waistcoat slashed with
black, bearing the coffee and fruit.
"Put it there, please," Roland answered. And then, in recognition of the
salutation, he added, "Thanks: the same to you."
"H'm," he mused, as the man withdrew, "I ought to have tipped him, I
suppose."
He leaned from the bed, poured some milk into a cup, and for a second
nibbled at a slice of iced orange. Through the transom came a faint odor
of home-made bread, and with it the rustle of a gown and a girl's clear
laugh. The room itself was small. It was furnished in a fashion which
was unsuggestive of an hotel, and yet did not resemble that of a
private house. The curtain had been already drawn. Beyond was a lake,
very blue in the sunlight, bulwarked by undulant hills. Below, on the
road, a dogcart fronted by a groom was awaiting somebody's pleasure.
"It is late," he reflected, and raised a napkin to his lips. As he did
so he noticed a package of letters which the napkin must have concealed.
He took up the topmost and eyed it. It had been addressed to the
Athenaeum Club, Fifth Avenue; but the original direction was erased, and
Tuxedo Park inserted in its stead. On the upper left-hand corner the
impress of a firm of tailors shone in blue. Opposite was the engraving
of a young woman supported by 2-1/2_d._ He put it down again and glanced
at the others. The superscriptions were characterless enough; each bore
a foreign stamp, and to one as practised as was he, each bore the token
of the dun.
"If they keep on bothering me like this," he muttered, "I shall
certainly place the matter in the hands of my attorney." And thereat,
with the air of a man who had said something insultingly original, he
laughed aloud, swallowed some coffee, and dashed his head in the pillow.
In and out of the corners of his mouth a smile still played; but
presently his fancy must have veered, for the muscles of his lips
compressed, and as he lay there, the arms clasped behind the head, the
pink silk of his sleeves framing and tinting his face, and in the eyes
the expression of one prepared to meet Fate and outwit it, a possible
observer who could have chanced that way would have sat himself down to
study and risen up perplexed.
Anyone who was at Columbia ten years ago will remember Roland
Mistrial,--Roland Mistrial 3d, if you please,--and will recall the wave
of bewilderment which swept the campus when that young gentleman, on the
eve of graduation, popularity on one side and honors on the other,
suddenly, without so much as a p. p. c., left everything where it was
and betook himself to other shores. The flight was indeed erratic, and
numerous were the rumors which it excited; but Commencement was at hand,
other issues were to be considered, bewilderment subsided as
bewilderment ever does, the college dispersed, and when it assembled
again the Mistrial mystery, though unelucidated, was practically forgot.
In the neighborhood of Washington Square, however, on the northwest
corner of Tenth Street and Fifth Avenue to be exact, there were others
whose memories were more retentive. Among them was Roland's grandfather,
himself a graduate, founder of the Mistrial fellowship, and judge of the
appellate court. And there was Roland's father, a graduate too, a
gentleman widely respected, all the more so perhaps because he had run
for the governorship and lost it. And again there was Roland's aunt, a
maiden lady of whom it is recorded that each day of her life she got
down on her knees and thanked God he had made her a Mistrial. In
addition to these, there were, scattered along the Hudson, certain
maternal relatives--the Algaroths, the Baxters, and the Swifts; Bishop
Algaroth in particular, who possessed such indomitable vigor that when
at the good old age of threescore and ten he decided to depart this
life, the impression prevailed that he had died very young for him. None
of these people readily forgot. They were a proud family and an
influential one--influential not merely in the social sense, but
influential in political, legal, in church and university circles as
well; a fact which may have had weight with the Faculty when it | 1,988.975914 |
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Transcribed from the 1887 Macmillan and Co. edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
THE DIARY OF A MAN OF FIFTY
by Henry James
Florence, _April 5th_, 1874.--They told me I should find Italy greatly
changed; and in seven-and-twenty years there is room for changes. But to
me everything is so perfectly the same that I seem to be living my youth
over again; all the forgotten impressions of that enchanting time come
back to me. At the moment they were powerful enough; but they afterwards
faded away. What in the world became of them? Whatever becomes of such
things, in | 1,988.981674 |
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Produced by Gary Sandino, from a scanned UC library book
kindly provided by the Internet Archive (www.archive.org.)
If this is borrowed by a friend
Right welcome shall he be
To read, to study, not to lend
But to return to me.
Not that imparted knowledge doth
Diminish learning's store
But books I find if often lent
Return to me no more.
The
Erie Train Boy
HORATIO ALGER,
JR.
Copyright, 1891,
UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY
(All Rights Reserved)
The Erie Train Boy
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. On the Erie Road 5
II. A Fair Exchange 11
III. Fred's Rich Relation 14
IV. Zebulon Mack 20
V. An Adventure on the Train 24
VI. Mr. Bascomb's Peril 30
VII. Ferdinand Morris 85
VIII. Mr. Bascomb's sad Plight 41
IX. A Long Trip 46
X. What Took Place in No. 21 51
XI. Fred Falls under a Terrible Suspicion 56
XII. Fred is a Prisoner 62
XIII. The Hotel Clerk's Mistake 67
XIV. The Missing Valise 73
XV. Mr. Palmer Walks into a Trap 78
XVI. Palmer's Malice 83
XVII. Two Young Lady Passengers at Odds 88
XVIII. Unsatisfactory Relations 94
XIX. Ruth Patton Calls on Mr. Ferguson 99
XX. A Friend in Need 104
XXI. Luella's Painful Discovery 109
XXII. Miss Ferguson Writes a Note 115
XXIII. Another Railroad Adventure 126
XXIV. Fred's Good Luck 125
XXV. Rose Wainwright's Party 131
XXVI. Fred Becomes a Newspaper Hero 136
XXVII. A Confidential Mission 141
XXVIII. St. Victor 146
XXIX. Fred Takes the First Step 154
XXX. A Hunting Excursion 157
XXXI. Fred has an Understanding with Sinclair 163
XXXII. Finding a Clue 168
XXXIII | 1,989.075866 |
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Produced by Roger Frank and the | 1,989.07675 |
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E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Graeme Mackreth, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
THE WIFE OF SIR ISAAC HARMAN
by
H. G. WELLS
New York
The Macmillan Company
1914
All rights reserved
Copyright, 1914,
By H. G. Wells.
Set up and electrotyped. Published September, 1914.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. INTRODUCES LADY HARMAN 1
II. THE PERSONALITY OF SIR ISAAC 30
III. LADY HARMAN AT HOME 51
IV. THE BEGINNINGS OF LADY HARMAN 83
V. THE WORLD ACCORDING TO SIR ISAAC 98
VI. THE ADVENTUROUS AFTERNOON 143
VII. LADY HARMAN LEARNS ABOUT HERSELF 198
VIII. SIR ISAAC AS PETRUCHIO 231
IX. MR. BRUMLEY IS TROUBLED BY DIFFICULT IDEAS 287
X. LADY HARMAN COMES OUT 343
XI. THE LAST CRISIS 427
XII. LOVE AND A SERIOUS LADY 496
THE WIFE OF SIR ISAAC HARMAN
CHAPTER THE FIRST
INTRODUCES LADY HARMAN
Sec.1
The motor-car entered a little white gate, came to a porch under a thick
wig of jasmine, and stopped. The chauffeur indicated by a movement of
the head that this at last was it. A tall young woman with a big soft
mouth, great masses of blue-black hair on either side of a broad, low
forehead, and eyes of so dark a brown you might have thought them black,
drooped forward and surveyed the house with a mixture of keen
appreciation and that gentle apprehension which is the shadow of desire
in unassuming natures....
The little house with the white-framed windows looked at her with a
sleepy wakefulness from under its blinds, and made no sign. Beyond the
corner was a glimpse of lawn, a rank of delphiniums, and the sound of a
wheel-barrow.
"Clarence!" the lady called again.
Clarence, with an air of exceeding his duties, decided to hear,
descended slowly, and came to the door.
"Very likely--if you were to look for a bell, Clarence...."
Clarence regarded the porch with a hostile air, made no secret that he
thought it a fool of a porch, seemed on the point of disobedience, and
submitted. His gestures suggested a belief that he would next be asked
to boil eggs or do the boots. He found a bell and rang it with the
needless violence of a man who has no special knowledge of ringing
bells. How was _he_ to know? he was a chauffeur. The bell did not so
much ring as explode and swamp the place. Sounds of ringing came from
all the windows, and even out of the chimneys. It seemed as if once set
ringing that bell would never cease....
Clarence went to the bonnet of his machine, and presented his stooping
back in a defensive manner against anyone who might come out. He wasn't
a footman, anyhow. He'd rung that bell all right, and now he must see to
his engine.
"He's rung so _loud!_" said the lady weakly--apparently to God.
The door behind the neat white pillars opened, and a little red-nosed
woman, in a cap she had evidently put on without a proper glass,
appeared. She surveyed the car and its occupant with disfavour over her
also very oblique spectacles.
The lady waved a pink paper to her, a house-agent's order to view. "Is
this Black Strands?" she shouted.
The little woman advanced slowly with her eyes fixed malevolently on the
pink paper. She seemed to be stalking it.
"This is Black Strands?" repeated the tall lady. "I should be so sorry
if I disturbed you--if it isn't; ringing the bell like that--and all.
You can't think----"
"This is Black _Strand_," said the little old woman with a note of deep
reproach, and suddenly ceased to look over her glasses and looked
through them. She looked no kindlier through them, and her eye seemed
much larger. She was now regarding the lady in the car, though with a
sustained alertness towards the pink paper. "I suppose," she said,
"you've come to see over the place?"
"If it doesn't disturb anyone; if it is quite convenient----"
"Mr. Brumley is _hout_," said the little old woman. "And if you got an
order to view, you got an order to view."
"If you think I might."
The lady stood up in the car, a tall and graceful figure of doubt and
desire and glossy black fur. "I'm sure it looks a very charming house."
"It's _clean_," said the little old woman, "from top to toe. Look as you
may."
"I'm sure it is," said the tall lady, and put aside her great fur coat
from her lithe, slender, red-clad body. (She was permitted by a sudden
civility of Clarence's to descend.) "Why! the windows," she said,
pausing on the step, "are like crystal."
"These very 'ands," said the little old woman, and glanced up at the
windows the lady had praised. The little old woman's initial sternness
wrinkled and softened as the skin of a windfall does after a day or so
upon the ground. She half turned in the doorway and made a sudden
vergerlike gesture. "We enter," she said, "by the 'all.... Them's Mr.
Brumley's 'ats and sticks. Every 'at or cap 'as a stick, and every stick
'as a 'at _or_ cap, and on the 'all table is the gloves corresponding.
On the right is the door leading to the kitching, on the left is the
large droring-room which Mr. Brumley 'as took as 'is study." Her voice
fell to lowlier things. "The other door beyond is a small lavatory
'aving a basing for washing 'ands."
"It's a perfectly delightful hall," said the lady. "So low and
wide-looking. And everything so bright--and lovely. Those long, Italian
pictures! And how charming that broad outlook upon the garden beyond!"
"You'll think it charminger when you see the garding," said the little
old woman. "It was Mrs. Brumley's especial delight. Much of it--with 'er
own 'ands."
"We now enter the droring-room," she proceeded, and flinging open the
door to the right was received with an indistinct cry suggestive of the
words, "Oh, _damn_ it!" The stout medium-sized gentleman in an artistic
green-grey Norfolk suit, from whom the cry proceeded, was kneeling on
the floor close to the wide-open window, and he was engaged in lacing up
a boot. He had a round, ruddy, rather handsome, amiable face with a sort
of bang of brown hair coming over one temple, and a large silk bow under
his chin and a little towards one ear, such as artists and artistic men
of letters affect. His profile was regular and fine, his eyes
expressive, his mouth, a very passable mouth. His features expressed at
first only the naive horror of a shy man unveiled.
Intelligent appreciation supervened.
There was a crowded moment of rapid mutual inspection. The lady's
attitude was that of the enthusiastic house-explorer arrested in full
flight, falling swiftly towards apology and retreat. (It was a
frightfully attractive room, too, full of the brightest colour, and with
a big white cast of a statue--a Venus!--in the window.) She backed over
the threshold again.
"I thought you was out by that window, sir," said the little old woman
intimately, and was nearly shutting the door between them and all the
beginnings of this story.
But the voice of the gentleman arrested and wedged open the closing
door.
"I----Are you looking at the house?" he said. "I say! Just a moment,
Mrs. Rabbit."
He came down the length of the room with a slight flicking noise due to
the scandalized excitement of his abandoned laces. The lady was reminded
of her not so very distant schooldays, when it would have been
considered a suitable answer to such a question as his to reply, "No, I
am walking down Piccadilly on my hands." But instead she waved that pink
paper again. "The agents," she said. "Recommended--specially. So sorry
if I intrude. I ought, I know, to have written first; but I came on an
impulse."
By this time the gentleman in the artistic tie, who had also the
artistic eye for such matters, had discovered that the lady was young,
delightfully slender, either pretty or beautiful, he could scarcely tell
which, and very, very well dressed. "I am glad," he said, with
remarkable decision, "that I was not out. _I_ will show you the house."
"'Ow _can_ you, sir?" intervened the little old woman.
"Oh! show a house! Why not?"
"The kitchings--you don't understand the range, sir--it's beyond you.
And upstairs. You can't show a lady upstairs."
The gentleman reflected upon these difficulties.
"Well, I'm going to show her all I can show her anyhow. And after that,
Mrs. Rabbit, you shall come in. You needn't wait."
"I'm thinking," said Mrs. Rabbit, folding stiff little arms and
regarding him sternly. "You won't be much good after tea, you know, if
you don't get your afternoon's exercise."
"Rendez-vous in the kitchen, Mrs. Rabbit," said Mr. Brumley, firmly, and
Mrs. Rabbit after a moment of mute struggle disappeared discontentedly.
"I do not want to be the least bit a bother," said the lady. "I'm
intruding, I know, without the least bit of notice. I _do_ hope I'm not
disturbing you----" she seemed to make an effort to stop at that, and
failed and added--"the least bit. Do please tell me if I am."
"Not at all," said Mr. Brumley. "I hate my afternoon's walk as a
prisoner hates the treadmill."
"She's such a nice old creature."
"She's been a mother--and several aunts--to us ever since my wife died.
She was the first servant we ever had."
"All this house," he explained to his visitor's questioning eyes, "was
my wife's creation. It was a little featureless agent's house on the
edge of these pine-woods. She saw something in the shape of the
rooms--and that central hall. We've enlarged it of course. Twice. This
was two rooms, that is why there is a step down in the centre."
"That window and window-seat----"
"That was her addition," said Mr. Brumley. "All this room
is--replete--with her personality." He hesitated, and explained further.
"When we prepared this house--we expected to be better off--than we
subsequently became--and she could let herself go. Much is from Holland
and Italy."
"And that beautiful old writing-desk with the little single rose in a
glass!"
"She put it there. She even in a sense put the flower there. It is
renewed of course. By Mrs. Rabbit. She trained Mrs. Rabbit."
He sighed slightly, apparently at some thought of Mrs. Rabbit.
"You--you write----" the lady stopped, and then diverted a question that
she perhaps considered too blunt, "there?"
"Largely. I am--a sort of author. Perhaps you know my books. Not very
important books--but people sometimes read them."
The rose-pink of the lady's cheek deepened by a shade. Within her pretty
head, her mind rushed to and fro saying "Brumley? Brumley?" Then she had
a saving gleam. "Are you _George_ Brumley?" she asked,--"_the_ George
Brumley?"
"My name _is_ George Brumley," he said, with a proud modesty. "Perhaps
you know my little Euphemia books? They are still the most read."
The lady made a faint, dishonest assent-like noise; and her rose-pink
deepened another shade. But her interlocutor was not watching her very
closely just then.
"Euphemia was my wife," he said, "at least, my wife gave her to me--a
kind of exhalation. _This_"--his voice fell with a genuine respect for
literary associations--"was Euphemia's home."
"I still," he continued, "go on. I go on writing about Euphemia. I have
to. In this house. With my tradition.... But it is becoming
painful--painful. Curiously more painful now than at the beginning. And
I want to go. I want at last to make a break. That is why I am letting
or selling the house.... There will be no more Euphemia."
His voice fell to silence.
The lady surveyed the long low clear room so cleverly prepared for life,
with its white wall, its Dutch clock, its Dutch dresser, its pretty
seats about the open fireplace, its cleverly placed bureau, its
sun-trap at the garden end; she could feel the rich intention of living
in its every arrangement and a sense of uncertainty in things struck
home to her. She seemed to see a woman, a woman like herself--only very,
very much cleverer--flitting about the room and making it. And then this
woman had vanished--nowhither. Leaving this gentleman--sadly left--in
the care of Mrs. Rabbit.
"And she is dead?" she said with a softness in her dark eyes and a fall
in her voice that was quite natural and very pretty.
"She died," said Mr. Brumley, "three years and a half ago." He
reflected. "Almost exactly."
He paused and she filled the pause with feeling.
He became suddenly very brave and brisk and businesslike. He led the way
back into the hall and made explanations. "It is not so much a hall as a
hall living-room. We use that end, except when we go out upon the
verandah beyond, as our dining-room. The door to the right is the
kitchen."
The lady's attention was caught again by the bright long eventful
pictures that had already pleased her. "They are copies of two of
Carpaccio's St. George series in Venice," he said. "We bought them
together there. But no doubt you've seen the originals. In a little old
place with a custodian and rather dark. One of those corners--so full of
that delightful out-of-the-wayishness which is so characteristic, I
think, of Venice. I don't know if you found that in Venice?"
"I've never been abroad," said the lady. "Never. I should love to go. I
suppose you and your wife went--ever so much."
He had a transitory wonder that so fine a lady should be untravelled,
but his eagerness to display his backgrounds prevented him thinking that
out at the time. "Two or three times," he said, "before our little boy
came to us. And always returning with something for this place. Look!"
he went on, stepped across an exquisite little brick court to a lawn of
soft emerald and turning back upon the house. "That Dellia Robbia
placque we lugged all the way back from Florence with us, and that stone
bird-bath is from Siena."
"How bright it is!" murmured the lady after a brief still appreciation.
"Delightfully bright. As though it would shine even if the sun didn't."
And she abandoned herself to the rapture of seeing a house and garden
that were for once better even than the agent's superlatives. And within
her grasp if she chose--within her grasp.
She made the garden melodious with soft appreciative sounds. She had a
small voice for her size but quite a charming one, a little live bird of
a voice, bright and sweet. It was a clear unruffled afternoon; even the
unseen wheel-barrow had very sensibly ceased to creak and seemed to be
somewhere listening....
Only one trivial matter marred their easy explorations;--his boots
remained unlaced. No propitious moment came when he could stoop and lace
them. He was not a dexterous man with eyelets, and stooping made him
grunt and his head swim. He hoped these trailing imperfections went
unmarked. He tried subtly to lead this charming lady about and at the
same time walk a little behind her. She on her part could not determine
whether he would be displeased or not if she noticed this slight
embarrassment and asked him to set it right. They were quite long
leather laces and they flew about with a sturdy negligence of anything
but their own offensive contentment, like a gross man who whistles a
vulgar tune as he goes round some ancient church; flick, flock, they
went, and flip, flap, enjoying themselves, and sometimes he trod on one
and halted in his steps, and sometimes for a moment she felt her foot
tether him. But man is the adaptable animal and presently they both
became more used to these inconveniences and more mechanical in their
efforts to avoid them. They treated those laces then exactly as nice
people would treat that gross man; a minimum of polite attention and all
the rest pointedly directed away from him....
The garden was full of things that people dream about doing in their
gardens and mostly never do. There was a rose garden all blooming in
chorus, and with pillar-roses and arches that were not so much growths
as overflowing cornucopias of roses, and a neat orchard with shapely
trees white-painted to their exact middles, a stone wall bearing
clematis and a clothes-line so gay with Mr. Brumley's blue and white
flannel shirts that it seemed an essential part of the design. And then
there was a great border of herbaceous perennials backed by delphiniums
and monkshood already in flower and budding hollyhocks rising to their
duty; a border that reared its blaze of colour against a hill-<DW72> dark
with pines. There was no hedge whatever to this delightful garden. It
seemed to go straight into the pine-woods; only an invisible netting
marked its limits and fended off the industrious curiosity of the
rabbits.
"This strip of wood is ours right up to the crest," he said, "and from
the crest one has a view. One has two views. If you would care----?"
The lady made it clear that she was there to see all she could. She
radiated her appetite to see. He carried a fur stole for her over his
arm and flicked the way up the hill. Flip, flap, flop. She followed
demurely.
"This is the only view I care to show you now," he said at the crest.
"There was a better one beyond there. But--it has been defiled.... Those
hills! I knew you would like them. The space of it! And... yet----.
This view--lacks the shining ponds. There are wonderful distant ponds.
After all I must show you the other! But you see there is the high-road,
and the high-road has produced an abomination. Along here we go. Now.
Don't look down please." His gesture covered the foreground. "Look right
over the nearer things into the distance. There!"
The lady regarded the wide view with serene appreciation. "I don't see,"
she said, "that it's in any way ruined. It's perfect."
"You don't see! Ah! you look right over. You look high. I wish I could
too. But that screaming board! I wish the man's crusts would choke
him."
And indeed quite close at hand, where the road curved about below them,
the statement that Staminal Bread, the True Staff of Life, was sold only
by the International Bread Shops, was flung out with a vigour of yellow
and Prussian blue that made the landscape tame.
His finger directed her questioning eye.
"_Oh!_" said the lady suddenly, as one who is convicted of a stupidity
and slightly.
"In the morning of course it is worse. The sun comes directly on to it.
Then really and truly it blots out everything."
The lady stood quite silent for a little time, with her eyes on the
distant ponds. Then he perceived that she was blushing. She turned to
her interlocutor as a puzzled pupil might turn to a teacher.
"It really is very good bread," she said. "They make it----Oh! most
carefully. With the germ in. And one has to tell people."
Her point of view surprised him. He had expected nothing but a docile
sympathy. "But to tell people _here_!" he said.
"Yes, I suppose one oughtn't to tell them here."
"Man does not live by bread alone."
She gave the faintest assent.
"This is the work of one pushful, shoving creature, a man named Harman.
Imagine him! Imagine what he must be! Don't you feel his soul defiling
us?--this summit of a stupendous pile of--dough, thinking of nothing
but his miserable monstrous profits, seeing nothing in the delight of
life, the beauty of the world but something that attracts attention,
draws eyes, something that gives him his horrible opportunity of getting
ahead of all his poor little competitors and inserting--_this!_ It's the
quintessence of all that is wrong with the world;--squalid, shameless
huckstering!" He flew off at a tangent. "Four or five years ago they
made this landscape disease,--a knight!"
He looked at her for a sympathetic indignation, and then suddenly
something snapped in his brain and he understood. There wasn't an
instant between absolute innocence and absolute knowledge.
"You see," she said as responsive as though he had cried out sharply at
the horror in his mind, "Sir Isaac is my husband. Naturally... I ought
to have given you my name to begin with. It was silly...."
Mr. Brumley gave one wild glance at the board, but indeed there was not
a word to be said in its mitigation. It was the crude advertisement of a
crude pretentious thing crudely sold. "My dear lady!" he said in his
largest style, "I am desolated! But I have said it! It isn't a pretty
board."
A memory of epithets pricked him. "You must forgive--a certain touch
of--rhetoric."
He turned about as if to dismiss the board altogether, but she remained
with her brows very faintly knit, surveying the cause of his offence.
"It isn't a _pretty_ board," she said. "I've wondered at times.... It
isn't | 1,989.280068 |
2023-11-16 18:50:13.3552220 | 2,903 | 10 |
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Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
[TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES. Unusual and inconsistent spelling, grammar
and punctuation have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors
have been silently corrected and the text has been changed
according to the errata listed at the end of the published text.
_Underscores_ are used to represent italics. Small capitals have
been converted to all capitals. The table of contents was added by
the transcriber.]
A SKETCH OF THE LIFE OF
ELIZABETH T. STONE,
AND OF HER PERSECUTIONS,
WITH AN APPENDIX
OF HER
_TREATMENT AND SUFFERINGS_
WHILE IN THE
CHARLESTOWN McLEAN ASSYLUM,
WHERE SHE WAS CONFINED UNDER THE
PRETENCE OF INSANITY.
1842:
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE. 3
REMARKS. 33
CLOSING REMARKS TO CHRISTIANS. 37
ERRATA. 42
PREFACE.
Feeling that the public is very much deceived concerning the treatment
and situation of a poor afflicted class of the human family, who are
placed in the McLean Assylum at Charlestown, by their relatives, and
are left in the hands of strangers, subjected to the treatment of those
whose hearts are hardened by being long accustomed to human suffering,
and who are ignorant and unqualified, I will expose this matter to the
public, in behalf of the afflicted, in connection with the _awful,
brutal outrage_ that has been committed upon me in consequence of
indisposition resulting from hard labor and persecution, so the public
may be warned against placing their friends there, especially if they
would not have them ill-treated or suffer unnecessarily.
First, I shall give a short sketch of my life down to the time when I
was carried to the Hospital; then an account of the CRIME in connection
with the treatment I received there, until I was taken out. I feel that
this should particularly interest the christian world; but whether it
is believed or not, I am determined to publish it, that the people of
God may take care of their own people in time of persecution at the
expense of one's life, whether father, mother, brother, or sister step
in between. The unconverted do not understand _spirituality_, therefore
a weak, persecuted christian should not be consigned to their hands. If
others who have suffered this cruelty before me (as Dr. Fox says that
both _male and female christians have been destroyed there before_)
had published and exposed the wicked crime to the world, I might have
been saved from suffering here and hereafter. It is covered up under
the garb of "derangement," but I am willing to let the world know it,
that others may be saved from these awful outrages of the wicked at
the present day. I know that the world in general is ignorant of this
crime--of the fact that Doctors do possess knowledge of giving medicine
to take away from a person the spirit of Christ,--but I have suffered
it.
I was born in Westford, Mass. My father was a mechanic, and poor; my
mother being often sick, with a family of 7 boys and 3 girls, we were
all sent out young upon the world, to get our own living. I being the
youngest girl, was left at home alone. The peculiar situation which
I sustained in the family, being early disowned by my father as his
lawful child, he being intemperate at the time, may be imagined. I was
often the object of his wrath, though in his sober hours I was kindly
treated by him, as he was a man of tender feelings. But my mother's
affections were always alienated from me, and I always felt the want of
a mother's love, and consequently became very unhappy. I determined to
seek my own living and share the same fate of the rest of the family by
buffeting a cold unfeeling world.
At the age of fifteen I resorted to the factories in Lowell, where I
found employment and became expert at the business. Knowing that I
had myself to take care of and no one to depend upon, I was ambitious
and often asked my overseer for the privilege of tending double work,
which was often granted; and as I had the means of providing for my
own wants and some to spare, I became restless and often wished I
had the means to go to school, as my mother often told her children
to get learning--it was what the world could not take from us; (but
O, alas! mine has been taken from me by medicine, being given to me
in an artful manner to harden my brains, and the brain is the seat
of the mind and the mind is the store-house of knowledge) and I felt
the want of it as I became advanced in years and went into society.
I soon began to make arrangments to place myself at some school. I
went home at the age of eighteen and went to the Academy in Westford
three or four months, and then, in the year 1834, the first of May,
I started for New Hampton in company with a young lady from Boston,
she being my only acquaintance. I found the school very pleasant, and
the teachers were ardently pious. It was now that I felt that God had
often called after me and I had refused to obey him for my teacher said
without the mind was enlightened by the Spirit of Christ it was not
prepared for knowledge. This increased the carnal state of my heart
against religion, for it appeared to me like foolishness, for there
was nothing but the simple religion of Jesus Christ, no disputing, no
sectarian spirit, and I was surrounded by the prayers of my teachers
and the pious scholars. But I withstood all the entreaties through
the summer term. I was determined not to get religion when there was
much said about it, for I looked upon it as excitement, as many others
foolishly call it. There were about one hundred and five scholars,
and at the end of the term all but three of us professed to have an
interest in Christ. During the vacation I could not throw off the
conviction that had seized hold of my mind, that God in his mercy had
spared my life, and permitted me to enjoy this last privilege. At the
commencement of the Fall term as usual, we all assembled on Sunday
morning--the professors in the Hall above, while the unconverted were
in the Hall below--to hear the Scriptures explained. Miss. Sleeper,
one of the teachers, that assembled with us, came directly to me after
the exercises were over and asked me if I felt as I did during the
last term. I told her no. She said she was very glad of it and hoped
I should not leave off seeking until I found the Savior. I felt that
I had committed myself, that I now could not draw back, that I must
persevere on and let the world know that I needed a Saviour to save me
from acting out the wicked state of my heart. I could not throw it
off. On Monday evening all the unconverted were invited by our much
loved teacher, Miss. Haseltine, to meet her at the Hall. Accordingly
I went in company with several other young ladies. After reading the
Scriptures and addressing us very affectionately, she asked us to kneel
down and join her in prayer. Accordingly I did so, but I thought I
was more hardened than ever; and felt ashamed that I was on my bended
knees; but wishing to act from principle and to prove whether there was
any reality in what my teacher said about religion, I was determined
to persevere on, although it was contrary to my carnal state of heart.
Accordingly I told every one that I meant to know the real religion
of Jesus Christ and live up to it, if it was what they said it was.
I attended all the meetings and was willing to do any thing that I
thought I ought to do; but I began to think that I had grieved the
Holy Spirit and was about giving up seeking any longer until I should
feel, as very often I did before in meetings and then I should have
religion. This was on Saturday, a fortnight after I was willing to own
that I felt the need of an interest in Christ. On my way home from
school, a young lady overtook me and inquired what was the state of my
feelings, I frankly told her what was my conclusion. She then told me
how she found the Saviour--how she sought three years; but all that
time she said she was seeking conviction when she ought to have sought
forgiveness and told me that I must seek for immediate forgiveness, and
asked me if I was willing to. I told her that I would, for I found that
I had been seeking conviction and was already convicted. Accordingly I
went home, and after dinner took my Bible and retired alone to a grove
not far distant, where I spent the afternoon in reading and praying,
but did not find any change in my feelings. I was summonds to tea by
the ringing of the bell. I went in and took my seat at the table, but
while sitting there I thought I was acting foolishly, that I ought
not to eat, drink, or sleep, until I found forgivness. I rose from
the table and retired to my room and knelt down and asked God what I
should do in order to be forgiven; then rose up and was sitting down
by the table with my head upon my hand wondering what I should do,
when something seemed to say to me, "open the door of your heart and
admit me." I immediately thought I could not without I was better, but
something said "_no, now_." I thought the next day being Sunday, I
would, after I had been to church; _but no_, the voice said _now_--that
I said I would. If _Christ_ would but receive me, I would _him_ just as
I was. I thought _I would_. I rose and walked across the room, and was
frightened to think what I had said; that I had entered into a covenant
with God. At that time a young lady, Mary Ann Burbank, entered the room
and asked me if I was going to meeting, as it was customary to have a
female prayer meeting at the hall on Saturday evening. I told her yes.
She said it was too late. I told her I was going, (I thought if they
were just coming out I would go.) I put on my things, and she said she
would go with me. Accordingly we went out of the house together and
said nothing to each other. I thought of nothing in particular; but
as we were walking and had got a rod or two from the house, I thought
how fast I was walking, and how earnest I was to get there. I spoke
to Miss Burbank and said that I never went to a place with so much
eagerness in my life. She asked me if I felt better. I told her that
I never was so happy in my life. She said she was glad; she had been
recently baptized. I had before not liked her very well, but now I
loved her with all my heart, because she had owned the Savior before
the world. I immediately thought of the balls and parties that I had
been to, and it seemed nothing to what it would be to get into a prayer
meeting. It seemed that the Bible I had never read and that I knew
nothing about it and when I tried to think of it the passages flowed
into my mind faster than I could repeat; the first passage I thought
of was the Greeks foolishness to the Jews, but to them that believe
Christ the power of God unto salvation, and many others. It seemed
that I stepped out of one world into another. I went into the hall
and they were singing, and then they knelt down and prayed. A young
lady prayed for me, seeing me on my knees. I longed to have her close
her prayer to tell them what God had done for me. As we rose I opened
my mouth and words flowed faster than I could speak, I blessed and
praised God and asked them all to forgive me for the opposition that I
had manifested towards them for their entreating me to be reconciled
to God. There was great rejoicing over me. Some wept, some prayed,
and some sang. It was a happy time. Some that were seeking seeing me
so happy said they were determined to find the Savior that night and
two young ladies that boarded with me did, to the joy of their souls.
I felt that I had a new life to live and was determined to live it. I
loved all the people of God, and my feelings soon began to be tried by
seeing the divisions that were among them; but I was determined not to
have any thing to do with it, but meant to keep the faith as it was
once delivered to the Saints, that is, to keep | 1,989.375262 |
2023-11-16 18:50:13.4538600 | 2,330 | 20 |
Produced by Annie R. McGuire. This book was produced from
scanned images of public domain material from the Internet
Archive.
[Illustration: Book Cover]
[Illustration: "COME RIGHT UP"--Page 47]
PEEPS AT
PEOPLE
_Being Certain Papers
from the Writings of_
ANNE WARRINGTON
WITHERUP. _Collected, by_
JOHN KENDRICK BANGS
_With Illustrations by_
EDWARD PENFIELD
[Illustration]
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
1899
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
* * * * *
GHOSTS I HAVE MET, AND SOME OTHERS. With Illustrations by NEWELL, FROST,
and RICHARDS. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.
PASTE JEWELS. Being Seven Tales of Domestic Woe. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.00.
THE PURSUIT OF THE HOUSE BOAT. Being Some Further Account of the Doings
of the Associated Shades, under the Leadership of Sherlock Holmes, Esq.
Illustrated by PETER NEWELL. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.25.
A HOUSE-BOAT ON THE STYX. Being Some Account of the Divers Doings of the
Associated Shades. Illustrated by PETER NEWELL. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental,
$1.25.
THE BICYCLERS, AND THREE OTHER FARCES. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.25.
A REBELLIOUS HEROINE. A Story. Illustrated by W. T. SMEDLEY. 16mo,
Cloth, Ornamental, Uncut Edges, $1.25.
MR. BONAPARTE OF CORSICA. Illustrated by H. W. MCVICKAR. 16mo, Cloth,
Ornamental, $1.25.
THE WATER GHOST, AND OTHERS. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental,
$1.25.
THE IDIOT. Illustrated. 16mo, Cloth, Ornamental, $1.00.
THREE WEEKS IN POLITICS. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, Ornamental, 50 cents.
COFFEE AND REPARTEE. Illustrated. 32mo, Cloth, Ornamental, 50 cents.
* * * * *
NEW YORK AND LONDON
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS.
* * * * *
Copyright, 1898, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
CONTENTS
PAGE
NANSEN 3
MR. HALL CAINE 17
EMPEROR WILLIAM 33
MR. ALFRED AUSTIN 45
ANDREW LANG 59
ZOLA 75
SIR HENRY IRVING 89
IAN MACLAREN 107
RUDYARD KIPLING 123
THE DE RESZKES 139
HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ 155
GENERAL WEYLER 171
ILLUSTRATIONS
"COME RIGHT UP" _Frontispiece_
"I BOARDED A PJINE RJAFT" _Facing p._ 6
"'MR. NANSEN?' SAID I" 8
"DINED WITH THE CABINET" 12
"'IS THIS GLOOMSTER ABBEY?' I ASKED" 18
HE APPEARED! 20
IN THE WORKSHOP 22
EXAMINING HIMSELF 36
THE IMPERIAL BAND 40
"'WE ARE HAVING OUR PORTRAITS PAINTED'" 42
"'A BEAUTIFUL WORKSHOP,' SAID I" 50
CONSULTING HIS CHINOMETER 54
TRADE-MARK. NONE GENUINE WITHOUT IT 60
IN THE MEREDITH SHOP 66
EDITING "HERRICK" 68
SEEKING ZOLA 76
CONSULTING "LA PATRIE" 78
"'SAVE ME!' SHE CRIED" 80
"I SAT QUIETLY IN THE BOX" 94
"'SEND THE PROPERTY-MAN HERE!' HE CRIED" 98
"'IT WAS ALL ARRANGED BEFOREHAND, MISS'" 102
DRESSED FOR THE PART 110
THE PURSUIT 112
AT HOME 116
INTERCEPTED THE STEAMER 124
ON THE LANYARD DECK 126
"HE WAS ERECTING A GRAND-STAND" 134
IT WAS A SUPERB BUILDING 142
READY FOR THE STORM 146
MELBA, THE DAIRY-MAID 148
ASKED A POLICEMAN 160
THE AUTHOR IN HIS STUDY 162
"ONE MUST BE INTRODUCED" 166
"A RATHER STUNNING BANDERILLO OPENED THE DOOR" 172
IN HIDING 174
"I AM TOO OLD A SPANIARD TO BE CAUGHT LIKE THAT" 178
PEEPS AT PEOPLE
NANSEN
It was in the early part of February last that, acting under
instructions from headquarters, I set forth from my office in London
upon my pilgrimage to the shrines of the world's illustrious. Readers
everywhere are interested in the home life of men who have made
themselves factors in art, science, letters, and history, and to these
people I was commissioned to go. But one restriction was placed upon me
in the pursuit of the golden Notoriety, and that was that I should spare
no expense whatever to attain my ends. At first this was embarrassing.
Wealth suddenly acquired always is. But in time I overcame such
difficulties as beset me, and soon learned to spend thousands of
dollars with comparative ease.
And first of all I decided to visit Nansen. To see him at home, if by
any possibility Nansen could be at home anywhere, would enable me to
open my series interestingly. I remembered distinctly that upon his
return from the North Pole he had found my own people too cold for
comfort. I called to mind that, having travelled for months seeking the
Pole, he had accused my fellow-countrymen of coming to see him out of
"mere curiosity," and I recalled at the same time that with remarkable
originality he had declared that we heated our railway trains to an
extent which suggested his future rather than his past. Wherefore I
decided to visit Nansen to hear what else he might have to say, while
some of the incidents of his visit were fresh in our minds.
The next thing to discover, the decision having been reached, was as to
Nansen's whereabouts. Nobody in London seemed to know exactly where he
might be found. I asked the manager of the house in which I dwelt, and
he hadn't an idea--he never had, for that matter. Then I asked a
policeman, and he said he thought he was dancing at the Empire, but he
wasn't sure. Next I sought his publishers and asked for his banker's
address. The reply included every bank in London, with several trust
companies in France and Spain. To my regret, I learned that we Americans
hold none of his surplus.
"But where do you send his letters?" I demanded of his publisher, in
despair.
"Dr. Nansen has authorized us to destroy them unopened," was the reply.
"They contain nothing but requests for his autograph."
"But your letters to him containing his royalties--where do they go?" I
demanded.
"We address them to him in our own care," was the answer.
"And then?" I queried.
"According to his instructions, they are destroyed unopened," said the
publisher, twisting his thumbs meditatively.
It seemed hopeless.
Suddenly an idea flashed across my mind. I will go, I thought, to the
coldest railway station in London and ask for a ticket for Nansen. A man
so fastidious as he is in the matter of temperature, I reasoned, cannot
have left London at any one of their moderately warm stations. Where the
temperature is most frigid, there Nansen must have gone when leaving, he
is such a stickler for temperature. Wherefore I went to the Waterloo
Station--it is the coldest railway station I know--and I asked the agent
for a ticket for Nansen.
He seemed nonplussed for a moment, and, to cover his embarrassment,
asked:
"Second or third class?"
"First," said I, putting down a five-pound note.
"Certainly," said he, handing me a ticket to Southampton. "Do you
think you people in the States will really have war with Spain?"
I will not dilate upon this incident. Suffice it to say that the ticket
man sent me to Southampton, where, he said, I'd be most likely to find a
boat that would carry me to Nansen. And he was right. I reached
Sjwjcktcwjch within twenty-four hours, and holding, as I did, letters of
introduction from President McKinley and her Majesty Queen Victoria,
from Richard Croker and Major Pond, Mr. Nansen consented to receive me.
[Illustration: "I BOARDED A PJINE RJAFT"]
He lived in an Esquimau hut on an ice-floe which was passing the winter
in the far-famed Maelstrom. How I reached it Heaven only knows. I
frankly confess that I do not. I only know that under the guidance of
Svenskjold Bjonstjon I boarded a plain pjine rjaft, such as the
Norwegians use, and was pjaddjled out into the seething whirlpool, in
the midst of which was Nansen's more or less portable cottage.
When I recovered I found myself seated inside the cottage, which, like
everything else in the Maelstrom, was waltzing about as if at a military
ball or Westchester County dance.
"Well," said my host, looking at me coldly. "You are here. _Why_ are you
here?"
[Illustration: "'MR. NANSEN?' SAID I"]
"Mr. Nansen?" said I.
"The very | 1,989.4739 |
2023-11-16 18:50:13.6566450 | 540 | 18 | TELEGRAPH***
E-text prepared by Chris Curnow, Stephen H. Sentoff, and the Online
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Images of the original pages are available through
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http://www.archive.org/details/storyofatlantict00fielrich
THE STORY OF THE ATLANTIC TELEGRAPH
by
HENRY M. FIELD
* * * * *
DR. FIELD'S BOOKS OF TRAVEL.
FROM THE LAKES OF KILLARNEY TO THE GOLDEN HORN. Crown 8vo,
$2.00.
FROM EGYPT TO JAPAN. Crown 8vo, $2.00.
ON THE DESERT. Crown 8vo, $2.00.
AMONG THE HOLY HILLS. With a map. Crown 8vo, $1.50.
THE GREEK ISLANDS, and Turkey after the War. With illustrations
and maps. Crown 8vo, $1.50.
OLD SPAIN AND NEW SPAIN. With map. Crown 8vo, $1.50.
BRIGHT SKIES AND DARK SHADOWS. With maps. Crown 8vo, $1.50
_The set, 7 vols., in a box, $12.00._
OUR WESTERN ARCHIPELAGO. Illustrated. Crown 8vo, $2.00.
THE BARBARY COAST. Illustrated. Crown 8vo, $2.00.
GIBRALTAR. Illustrated. Small 4to, $2.00.
THE STORY OF THE ATLANTIC TELEGRAPH. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.50.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Cyrus W. Field.]
THE STORY OF THE ATLANTIC TELEGRAPH
by
HENRY M. FIELD
"Since the discovery of Columbus, nothing has been done in any degree
comparable to the vast enlargement which has thus been given to | 1,989.676685 |
2023-11-16 18:50:13.6567020 | 910 | 20 |
Produced by Imran Ghory, Stan Goodman, Mary Meehan and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE YOUNG WOODSMAN
OR
Life in the Forests of Canada
BY J. MACDONALD OXLEY
Author of "Diamond Rock; or, On the Right Track," &c. &c.
1895
CONTENTS.
I. THE CALL TO WORK
II. THE CHOICE OF AN OCCUPATION
III. OFF TO THE WOODS
IV. THE BUILDING OF THE SHANTY
V. STANDING FIRE
VI. LIFE IN THE LUMBER CAMP
VII. A THRILLING EXPERIENCE
VIII. IN THE NICK OF TIME
IX. OUT OF CLOUDS, SUNSHINE
X. A HUNTING-TRIP
XI. THE GREAT SPRING DRIVE
XII. HOME AGAIN
THE YOUNG WOODSMAN.
CHAPTER I.
THE CALL TO WORK.
"I'm afraid there'll be no more school for you now, Frank darling. Will
you mind having to go to work?"
"Mind it! Why, no, mother; not the least bit. I'm quite old enough, ain't
I?"
"I suppose you are, dear; though I would like to have you stay at your
lessons for one more year anyway. What kind of work would you like best?"
"That's not a hard question to answer, mother. I want to be what father
was."
The mother's face grew pale at this reply, and for some few moments she
made no response.
* * * * *
The march of civilization on a great continent means loss as well as
gain. The opening up of the country for settlement, the increase and
spread of population, the making of the wilderness to blossom as the
rose, compel the gradual retreat and disappearance of interesting
features that can never be replaced. The buffalo, the beaver, and the elk
have gone; the bear, the Indian, and the forest in which they are both
most at home, are fast following.
Along the northern border of settlement in Canada there are flourishing
villages and thriving hamlets to-day where but a few years ago the
verdurous billows of the primeval forest rolled in unbroken grandeur. The
history of any one of these villages is the history of all. An open space
beside the bank of a stream or the margin of a lake presented itself to
the keen eye of the woodranger traversing the trackless waste of forest
as a fine site for a lumber camp. In course of time the lumber camp grew
into a depot from which other camps, set still farther back in the depths
of the "limits," are supplied. Then the depot develops into a settlement
surrounded by farms; the settlement gathers itself into a village with
shops, schools, churches, and hotels; and so the process of growth goes
on, the forest ever retreating as the dwellings of men multiply.
It was in a village with just such a history, and bearing the name of
Calumet, occupying a commanding situation on a vigorous tributary of the
Ottawa River--the Grand River, as the dwellers beside its banks are fond
of calling it--that Frank Kingston first made the discovery of his own
existence and of the world around him. He at once proceeded to make
himself master of the situation, and so long as he confined his efforts
to the limits of his own home he met with an encouraging degree of
success; for he was an only child, and, his father's occupation requiring
him to be away from home a large part of the year, his mother could
hardly be severely blamed if she permitted her boy to have a good deal of
his own way.
In the result, however, he was not spoiled. He came of sturdy, sensible
stock, and had inherited some of the best qualities from both sides of
the house. To his mother he owed his fair curly hair, his deep blue,
honest eyes, his impulsive and tender heart; to his father, his strong
symmetrical figure, his quick brain, and his eager ambition. He was a
good-looking, if not strikingly handsome | 1,989.676742 |
2023-11-16 18:50:13.7550850 | 295 | 57 |
Produced by Julia Miller 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
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. A list of corrections
is found at the end of the text. Inconsistencies in spelling and
hyphenation have been maintained. A list of inconsistently spelled
and hyphenated words is found at the end of the text. Oe ligatures have
been expanded.
Text surrounded with ~ was printed in Greek in the original book. Text
surrounded with = was originally printed in a black-letter typeface.
The following codes are used for characters that are not found in the
character set used for this version of the book.
*.* Asterism
[Rx] Rx symbol
# Pilcrow
_Harper's Stereotype Edition._
THE
COOK'S ORACLE;
AND
HOUSEKEEPER'S MANUAL.
CONTAINING
=Receipts for Cookery,=
AND
DIRECTIONS FOR CARVING.
ALSO,
THE ART OF COMPOSING THE MOST SIMPLE AND MOST HIGHLY FINISHED
BROTHS, GRAVIES, SOUPS, SAUCES, STORE SAUCES, AND FLAVOURING
| 1,989.775125 |
2023-11-16 18:50:13.7560530 | 1,153 | 8 |
Produced by Veronika Redfern, D Alexander, Juliet Sutherland
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD"
Contents of this Volume
_My Friend the Dutchman. By Frederick Hardman, Esq._
_My College Friends. No. II. Horace Leicester._
_The Emerald Studs. By Professor Aytoun._
_My College Friends. No. III. Mr W. Wellington Hurst._
_Christine: a Dutch Story. By Frederick Hardman, Esq._
_The Man in the Bell._
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
TALES FROM "BLACKWOOD."
MY FRIEND THE DUTCHMAN.
BY FREDERICK HARDMAN.
[_MAGA._ OCTOBER 1847.]
"And you will positively marry her, if she will have you?"
"Not a doubt of either. Before this day fortnight she shall be Madame
Van Haubitz."
"You will make her your wife without acquainting her with your true
position?"
"Indeed will I. My very position requires it. There's no room for a
scruple. She expects to live on my fortune; thinks to make a great catch
of the rich Dutchman. Instead of that I shall spend her salary. The old
story; going out for wool and returning shorn."
The conversation of which this is the concluding fragment, occurred in
the public room of the Hotel de Hesse, in the village of Homburg on the
Hill--then an insignificant handful of houses, officiating as capital
of the important landgravate of Hesse-Homburg. The table-d'hote had been
over some time; the guests had departed to repose in their apartments
until the hour of evening promenade should summon them to the excellent
band of music, provided by the calculating liberality of the
gaming-house keepers, and to loiter round the _brunnen_ of more or less
nauseous flavour, the pretext of resort to this rendezvous of idlers and
gamblers. The waiters had disappeared to batten on the broken meats from
the public table, and to doze away the time till the approach of supper
renewed their activity. My interlocutor, with whom I was alone in the
deserted apartment, was a man of about thirty years of age, whose dark
hair and mustaches, marked features, spare person, and complexion
bronzed by a tropical sun, entitled him to pass for a native of southern
Europe, or even of some more ardent clime. Nevertheless he answered to
the very Dutch patronymic of Van Haubitz, and was a native of Holland,
in whose principal city his father was a banker of considerable wealth
and financial influence.
It was towards the close of a glorious August, and for two months I had
been wandering in Rhine-land. Not after the fashion of deluded Cockneys,
who fancy they have seen the Rhine when they have careered from Cologne
to Mannheim astride of a steam-engine, gaping at objects passed as soon
as perceived; drinking and paying for indifferent vinegar as
Steinberger-Cabinet, eating vile dinners on the decks of steamers, and
excellent ones in the capital hotels which British cash and patronage
have raised upon the banks of the most renowned of German streams. On
the contrary, I had early dispensed with the aid of steam, to wander on
foot, with the occasional assistance of a lazy country diligence or
rickety _einspaenner_, through the many beautiful districts that lie upon
either bank of the river; pedestrianising in Rhenish Bavaria, losing
myself in the Odenwald, and pausing, when occasion offered, to pick a
trout out of the numerous streamlets that dash and meander through dell
and ravine, on their way to swell the waters of old Father Rhine. At
last, weary of solitude--scarcely broken by an occasional gossip with a
heavy German boor, village priest, or strolling student--I thirsted
after the haunts of civilisation, and found myself, within a day of the
appearance of the symptom, installed in a luxurious hotel in the free
city of Frankfort on the Maine. But Frankfort at that season is
deserted, save by passing tourists, who escape as fast as possible from
its lifeless streets and sun-baked pavements; so, after glancing over an
English newspaper at the Casino, taking one stroll in the beautiful
garden surrounding the city, and another through the Jew-quarter--always
interesting and curious, although anything but savoury at that warm
season--I gathered together my baggage and was off to Homburg. There I
could not complain of solitude, of deserted streets and shuttered
windows. It seemed impossible that the multitude of gaily dressed belles
and cavaliers, English, French, German, and Russ, who, from six in the
morning until sunset, lounged and flirted on the walks, watered
themselves at the fountains, and perilled their complexions in the
golden sunbeams, could ever bestow themselves in the two or three
middling hotels and few score shabby lodging-houses composing the town
of Homburg. | 1,989.776093 |
2023-11-16 18:50:14.1531200 | 1,037 | 6 |
Produced by Jonathan Ingram, S.R. Ellison, and Project
Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
QUEEN VICTORIA
STORY OF HER LIFE AND REIGN
1819-1901
[ILLUSTRATION: QUEEN VICTORIA. (From a Photograph by Russell & Son.)]
'Her court was pure, her life serene;
God gave her peace; her land reposed;
A thousand claims to reverence closed
In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen.'
TENNYSON.
'God bless the Queen for all her unwearied goodness! I admire her as a
woman, love her as a friend, and reverence her as a Queen. Her courage,
patience, and endurance are marvellous to me.'
NORMAN MACLEOD.
'A Prince indeed,
Beyond all titles, and a household name,
Hereafter, through all time, Albert the Good.'
TENNYSON.
PREFACE.
This brief life of Queen Victoria gives the salient features of her reign,
including the domestic and public life, with a glance at the wonderful
history and progress of our country during the past half-century. In the
space at command it has been impossible to give extended treatment. The
history is necessarily very brief, as also the account of the public and
private life, yet it is believed no really important feature of her life
and reign has been omitted.
It is a duty, incumbent on old and young alike, as well as a pleasing
privilege, to mark how freedom has slowly 'broadened down, from precedent
to precedent,' and how knowledge, wealth, and well-being are more widely
distributed to-day than at any former period of our history. And this
knowledge can only increase the gratitude of the reader for the golden
reign of Queen Victoria, of whom it has been truly written:
A thousand claims to reverence closed
In her as Mother, Wife, and Queen.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.--Reign of Queen Victoria--Outlook of Royalty in 1819--Duke and
Duchess of Kent--Birth of Victoria--Anecdotes.
CHAPTER II.--First Meeting with Prince Albert--Death of William
IV.--Accession of Queen Victoria--First Speech from the
Throne--Coronation--Life at Windsor--Personal Appearance--Betrothal to
Prince Albert--Income from the Country.
CHAPTER III.--Marriage--Family Habits--Birth of Princess Royal--Queen's
Views of Religious Training--Osborne and Balmoral--Death of the Duke of
Wellington.
CHAPTER IV.--Chief Public Events, 1837-49--Rebellion in Canada--Opium War
with China--Wars in North-west India--Penny Postage--Repeal of the
Corn-laws--Potato Famine--Free Trade-Chartism.
CHAPTER V.--The Crimean War, 1854-55--Interest of the Queen and Prince
Consort in the suffering Soldiers--Florence Nightingale--Distribution of
Victoria Crosses by the Queen.
CHAPTER VI.--The Indian Mutiny, 1857-58--The Queen's Letter to Lord
Canning.
CHAPTER VII.--Marriage of the Princess Royal--Twenty-first Anniversary of
Wedding-day--Death of the Prince-Consort.
CHAPTER VIII.--Death of Princess Alice--Illness of Prince of Wales--The
Family of the Queen--Opening of Indian Exhibition and Imperial
Institute--Jubilee--Death of Duke of Clarence--Marriage of Princess May.
CHAPTER IX.--The Queen as an Artist and Author--In her Holiday
Haunts--Norman Macleod--Letter to Mr Peabody--The Queen's
Drawing-room--Her pet Animals--A Model Mistress--Diamond Jubilee--Death of
the Queen.
CHAPTER X.--Summary of Public Events and Progress of the Nation.
CHAPTER I.
Reign of Queen Victoria--Outlook of Royalty in 1819--Duke and Duchess of
Kent--Birth of Victoria--Wisely trained by Duchess of Kent--Taught by
Fraeulein Lehzen--Anecdotes of this Period--Discovers that she is next to
the Throne.
The reign of Queen Victoria may be aptly described as a period of progress
in all that related to the well-being of the subjects of her vast empire.
In every department of science, literature, politics, and the practical
life of the nation, there has been steady improvement and progress. Our
ships circumnavigate the globe and do the chief carrying trade of the
world. The locomotive binds industrial centres, and abridges time and
space as it speeds along its iron pathway; whilst steam-power does the
work of thousands of hands in our large factories. The telegraph links us
to our colonies, and to the various nationalities of the world, in
commerce and in closer sympathy; and never was the hand and heart of
Benevol | 1,990.17316 |
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