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Produced by Adrian Mastronardi, Graeme Mackreth and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
THE EVOLUTION OF STATES
AN INTRODUCTION TO ENGLISH POLITICS
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._
ESSAYS TOWARDS A CRITICAL METHOD.
NEW ESSAYS TOWARDS A CRITICAL METHOD.
WINNOWINGS FROM WORDSWORTH.
WALT WHITMAN: An Appreciation.
MONTAIGNE AND SHAKESPEARE. (Second Edition, with additional Essays on
cognate subjects.)
BUCKLE AND HIS CRITICS: a Sociological Study.
THE SAXON AND THE CELT: a Sociological Study.
MODERN HUMANISTS: Essays on Carlyle, Mill, Emerson, Arnold, Ruskin, and
Spencer. (Fourth Edition.)
THE FALLACY OF SAVING: a Study in Economics.
THE EIGHT HOURS QUESTION: a Study in Economics. (Second Edition.)
THE DYNAMICS OF RELIGION: an Essay in English Culture-History.
By "M.W. Wiseman."
A SHORT HISTORY OF FREETHOUGHT, Ancient and Modern | 2,191.945776 |
2023-11-16 18:53:35.9258310 | 1,402 | 12 |
Produced by Pauline J. Iacono and David Widger
McTEAGUE
A Story of San Francisco
by Frank Norris
CHAPTER 1
It was Sunday, and, according to his custom on that day, McTeague took
his dinner at two in the afternoon at the car conductors' coffee-joint
on Polk Street. He had a thick gray soup; heavy, underdone meat, very
hot, on a cold plate; two kinds of vegetables; and a sort of suet
pudding, full of strong butter and sugar. On his way back to his office,
one block above, he stopped at Joe Frenna's saloon and bought a pitcher
of steam beer. It was his habit to leave the pitcher there on his way to
dinner.
Once in his office, or, as he called it on his signboard, "Dental
Parlors," he took off his coat and shoes, unbuttoned his vest, and,
having crammed his little stove full of coke, lay back in his operating
chair at the bay window, reading the paper, drinking his beer, and
smoking his huge porcelain pipe while his food digested; crop-full,
stupid, and warm. By and by, gorged with steam beer, and overcome by the
heat of the room, the cheap tobacco, and the effects of his heavy meal,
he dropped off to sleep. Late in the afternoon his canary bird, in its
gilt cage just over his head, began to sing. He woke slowly, finished
the rest of his beer--very flat and stale by this time--and taking down
his concertina from the bookcase, where in week days it kept the company
of seven volumes of "Allen's Practical Dentist," played upon it some
half-dozen very mournful airs.
McTeague looked forward to these Sunday afternoons as a period of
relaxation and enjoyment. He invariably spent them in the same fashion.
These were his only pleasures--to eat, to smoke, to sleep, and to play
upon his concertina.
The six lugubrious airs that he knew, always carried him back to the
time when he was a car-boy at the Big Dipper Mine in Placer County, ten
years before. He remembered the years he had spent there trundling the
heavy cars of ore in and out of the tunnel under the direction of his
father. For thirteen days of each fortnight his father was a steady,
hard-working shift-boss of the mine. Every other Sunday he became an
irresponsible animal, a beast, a brute, crazy with alcohol.
McTeague remembered his mother, too, who, with the help of the Chinaman,
cooked for forty miners. She was an overworked drudge, fiery and
energetic for all that, filled with the one idea of having her son rise
in life and enter a profession. The chance had come at last when the
father died, corroded with alcohol, collapsing in a few hours. Two or
three years later a travelling dentist visited the mine and put up his
tent near the bunk-house. He was more or less of a charlatan, but he
fired Mrs. McTeague's ambition, and young McTeague went away with him
to learn his profession. He had learnt it after a fashion, mostly by
watching the charlatan operate. He had read many of the necessary books,
but he was too hopelessly stupid to get much benefit from them.
Then one day at San Francisco had come the news of his mother's death;
she had left him some money--not much, but enough to set him up in
business; so he had cut loose from the charlatan and had opened his
"Dental Parlors" on Polk Street, an "accommodation street" of small
shops in the residence quarter of the town. Here he had slowly
collected a clientele of butcher boys, shop girls, drug clerks, and car
conductors. He made but few acquaintances. Polk Street called him the
"Doctor" and spoke of his enormous strength. For McTeague was a young
giant, carrying his huge shock of blond hair six feet three inches
from the ground; moving his immense limbs, heavy with ropes of muscle,
slowly, ponderously. His hands were enormous, red, and covered with a
fell of stiff yellow hair; they were hard as wooden mallets, strong
as vises, the hands of the old-time car-boy. Often he dispensed with
forceps and extracted a refractory tooth with his thumb and finger.
His head was square-cut, angular; the jaw salient, like that of the
carnivora.
McTeague's mind was as his body, heavy, slow to act, sluggish. Yet there
was nothing vicious about the man. Altogether he suggested the draught
horse, immensely strong, stupid, docile, obedient.
When he opened his "Dental Parlors," he felt that his life was a
success, that he could hope for nothing better. In spite of the name,
there was but one room. It was a corner room on the second floor over
the branch post-office, and faced the street. McTeague made it do for
a bedroom as well, sleeping on the big bed-lounge against the wall
opposite the window. There was a washstand behind the screen in the
corner where he manufactured his moulds. In the round bay window were
his operating chair, his dental engine, and the movable rack on which
he laid out his instruments. Three chairs, a bargain at the second-hand
store, ranged themselves against the wall with military precision
underneath a steel engraving of the court of Lorenzo de' Medici, which
he had bought because there were a great many figures in it for the
money. Over the bed-lounge hung a rifle manufacturer's advertisement
calendar which he never used. The other ornaments were a small
marble-topped centre table covered with back numbers of "The American
System of Dentistry," a stone pug dog sitting before the little stove,
and a thermometer. A stand of shelves occupied one corner, filled with
the seven volumes of "Allen's Practical Dentist." On the top shelf
McTeague kept his concertina and a bag of bird seed for the canary. The
whole place exhaled a mingled odor of bedding, creosote, and ether.
But for one thing, McTeague would have been perfectly contented. Just
outside his window was his signboard--a modest affair--that read | 2,191.945871 |
2023-11-16 18:53:35.9288050 | 4,434 | 12 |
Produced by David Widger
THE WORKS OF ROBERT G. INGERSOLL
"THE CLERGY KNOW, THAT I KNOW, THAT THEY KNOW, THAT THEY DO NOT KNOW."
IN TWELVE VOLUMES, VOLUME II.
LECTURES
1900
THE DRESDEN EDITION
TO
MRS. SUE. M. FARRELL,
IN LAW MY SISTER,
AND IN FACT MY FRIEND,
THIS VOLUME,
AS A TOKEN OF RESPECT AND LOVE, IS DEDICATED.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.
SOME MISTAKES OF MOSES.
(1879.)
Preface--I. He who endeavors to control the Mind by Force is a
Tyrant, and he who submits is a Slave--All I Ask--When a Religion
is Founded--Freedom for the Orthodox Clergy--Every Minister an
Attorney--Submission to the Orthodox and the Dead--Bounden Duty of
the Ministry--The Minister Factory at Andover--II. Free Schools--No
Sectarian Sciences--Religion and the Schools--Scientific
Hypocrites--III. The Politicians and the Churches--IV. Man and Woman the
Highest Possible Titles--Belief Dependent on Surroundings--Worship of
Ancestors--Blindness Necessary to Keeping the Narrow Path--The Bible the
Chain that Binds--A Bible of the Middle Ages and the Awe it Inspired--V.
The Pentateuch--Moses Not the Author--Belief out of which Grew
Religious Ceremonies--Egypt the Source of the Information of Moses--VI.
Monday--Nothing, in the Light of Raw Material--The Story of Creation
Begun--The Same Story, substantially, Found in the Records of Babylon,
Egypt, and India--Inspiration Unnecessary to the Truth--Usefulness of
Miracles to Fit Lies to Facts--Division of Darkness and Light--VII.
Tuesday--The Firmament and Some Biblical Notions about it--Laws of
Evaporation Unknown to the Inspired Writer--VIII. Wednesday--The Waters
Gathered into Seas--Fruit and Nothing to Eat it--Five Epochs in the
Organic History of the Earth--Balance between the Total Amounts of
Animal and Vegetable Life--Vegetation Prior to the Appearance of the
Sun--IX. Thursday--Sun and Moon Manufactured--Magnitude of the Solar
Orb--Dimensions of Some of the Planets--Moses' Guess at the Size of Sun
and Moon--Joshua's Control of the Heavenly Bodies--A Hypothesis Urged
by Ministers--The Theory of "Refraction"--Rev. Henry Morey--Astronomical
Knowledge of Chinese Savants--The Motion of the Earth Reversed by
Jehovah for the Reassurance of Ahaz--"Errors" Renounced by Button--X.
"He made the Stars Also"--Distance of the Nearest Star--XI.
Friday--Whales and Other Living Creatures Produced--XII.
Saturday--Reproduction Inaugurated--XIII. "Let Us Make Man"--Human
Beings Created in the Physical Image and Likeness of God--Inquiry as
to the Process Adopted--Development of Living Forms According to
Evolution--How Were Adam and Eve Created?--The Rib Story--Age of
Man Upon the Earth--A Statue Apparently Made before the World--XIV.
Sunday--Sacredness of the Sabbath Destroyed by the Theory of Vast
"Periods"--Reflections on the Sabbath--XV. The Necessity for a Good
Memory--The Two Accounts of the Creation in Genesis I and II--Order
of Creation in the First Account--Order of Creation in the Second
Account--Fastidiousness of Adam in the Choice of a Helpmeet--Dr.
Adam Clark's Commentary--Dr. Scott's Guess--Dr. Matthew Henry's
Admission--The Blonde and Brunette Problem--The Result of Unbelief and
the Reward of Faith--"Give Him a Harp"--XVI. The Garden--Location of
Eden--The Four Rivers--The Tree of Knowledge--Andover Appealed
To--XVII. The Fall--The Serpent--Dr. Adam Clark Gives a Zoological
Explanation--Dr. Henry Dissents--Whence This Serpent?--XVIII.
Dampness--A Race of Giants--Wickedness of Mankind--An Ark Constructed--A
Universal Flood Indicated--Animals Probably Admitted to the Ark--How Did
They Get There?--Problem of Food and Service--A Shoreless Sea Covered
with Innumerable Dead--Drs. Clark and Henry on the Situation--The Ark
Takes Ground--New Difficulties--Noah's Sacrifice--The Rainbow as a
Memorandum--Babylonian, Egyptian, and Indian Legends of a Flood--XIX.
Bacchus and Babel--Interest Attaching to Noah--Where Did Our First
Parents and the Serpent Acquire a Common Language?--Babel and the
Confusion of Tongues--XX. Faith in Filth--Immodesty of Biblical
Diction--XXI. The Hebrews--God's Promises to Abraham--The Sojourning
of Israel in Egypt--Marvelous Increase--Moses and Aaron--XXII.
The Plagues--Competitive Miracle Working--Defeat of the Local
Magicians--XXIII. The Flight Out of Egypt--Three Million People in a
Desert--Destruction of Pharaoh ana His Host--Manna--A Superfluity of
Quails--Rev. Alexander Cruden's Commentary--Hornets as Allies of the
Israelites--Durability of the Clothing of the Jewish People--An Ointment
Monopoly--Consecration of Priests--The Crime of Becoming a Mother--The
Ten Commandments--Medical Ideas of Jehovah--Character of the God of
the Pentateuch--XXIV. Confess and Avoid--XXV. "Inspired" Slavery--XXVI.
"Inspired" Marriage-XXVII. "Inspired" War-XXVIII. "Inspired" Religious
Liberty--XXIX. Conclusion.
SOME REASONS WHY.
(1881.)
I--Religion makes Enemies--Hatred in the Name of Universal
Benevolence--No Respect for the Rights of Barbarians--Literal
Fulfillment of a New Testament Prophecy--II. Duties to God--Can we
Assist God?--An Infinite Personality an Infinite Impossibility-Ill.
Inspiration--What it Really Is--Indication of Clams--Multitudinous
Laughter of the Sea--Horace Greeley and the Mammoth Trees--A Landscape
Compared to a Table-cloth--The Supernatural is the Deformed--Inspiration
in the Man as well as in the Book--Our Inspired Bible--IV. God's
Experiment with the Jews--Miracles of One Religion never astonish the
Priests of Another--"I am a Liar Myself"--V. Civilized Countries--Crimes
once regarded as Divine Institutions--What the Believer in the
Inspiration of the Bible is Compelled to Say--Passages apparently
written by the Devil--VI. A Comparison of Books--Advancing a Cannibal
from Missionary to Mutton--Contrast between the Utterances of Jehovah
and those of Reputable Heathen--Epictetus, Cicero, Zeno,
Seneca--the Hindu, Antoninus, Marcus Aurelius--The Avesta--VII.
Monotheism--Egyptians before Moses taught there was but One God
and Married but One Wife--Persians and Hindoos had a Single Supreme
Deity--Rights of Roman Women--Marvels of Art achieved without the
Assistance of Heaven--Probable Action of the Jewish Jehovah incarnated
as Man--VIII. The New Testament--Doctrine of Eternal Pain brought to
Light--Discrepancies--Human Weaknesses cannot be Predicated of
Divine Wisdom--Why there are Four Gospels according to Irenaeus--The
Atonement--Remission of Sins under the Mosaic Dispensation--Christians
say, "Charge it"--God's Forgiveness does not Repair an Injury--Suffering
of Innocence for the Guilty--Salvation made Possible by Jehovah's
Failure to Civilize the Jews--Necessity of Belief not taught in the
Synoptic Gospels--Non-resistance the Offspring of Weakness--IX. Christ's
Mission--All the Virtues had been Taught before his Advent--Perfect and
Beautiful Thoughts of his Pagan Predecessors--St. Paul Contrasted
with Heathen Writers--"The Quality of Mercy"--X. Eternal Pain--An
Illustration of Eternal Punishment--Captain Kreuger of the Barque
Tiger--XI. Civilizing Influence of the Bible--Its Effects on the
Jews--If Christ was God, Did he not, in his Crucifixion, Reap what
he had Sown?--Nothing can add to the Misery of a Nation whose King is
Jehovah
ORTHODOXY.
(1884.)
Orthodox Religion Dying Out--Religious Deaths and Births--The Religion
of Reciprocity--Every Language has a Cemetery--Orthodox Institutions
Survive through the Money invested in them--"Let us tell our Real
Names"--The Blows that have Shattered the Shield and Shivered the Lance
of Superstition--Mohammed's Successful Defence of the Sepulchre of
Christ--The Destruction of Art--The Discovery of America--Although
he made it himself, the Holy Ghost was Ignorant of the Form of this
Earth--Copernicus and Kepler--Special Providence--The Man and the Ship
he did not Take--A Thanksgiving Proclamation Contradicted--Charles
Darwin--Henry Ward Beecher--The Creeds--The Latest Creed--God as
a Governor--The Love of God--The Fall of Man--We are Bound
by Representatives without a Chance to Vote against Them--The
Atonement--The Doctrine of Depravity a Libel on the Human Race--The
Second Birth--A Unitarian Universalist--Inspiration of the
Scriptures--God a Victim of his own Tyranny--In the New Testament
Trouble Commences at Death--The Reign of Truth and Love--The Old
Spaniard who Died without an Enemy--The Wars it Brought--Consolation
should be Denied to Murderers--At the Rate at which Heathen are being
Converted, how long will it take to Establish Christ's Kingdom on
Earth?--The Resurrection--The Judgment Day--Pious Evasions--"We shall
not Die, but we shall all be Hanged"--"No Bible, no Civilization"
Miracles of the New Testament--Nothing Written by Christ or his
Contemporaries--Genealogy of Jesus--More Miracles--A Master of
Death--Improbable that he would be Crucified--The Loaves and Fishes--How
did it happen that the Miracles Convinced so Few?--The Resurrection--The
Ascension--Was the Body Spiritual--Parting from the Disciples--Casting
out Devils--Necessity of Belief--God should be consistent in the
Matter of forgiving Enemies--Eternal Punishment--Some Good Men who are
Damned--Another Objection--Love the only Bow on Life's dark Cloud--"Now
is the accepted Time"--Rather than this Doctrine of Eternal Punishment
Should be True--I would rather that every Planet should in its Orbit
wheel a barren Star--What I Believe--Immortality--It existed long before
Moses--Consolation--The Promises are so Far Away, and the Dead are so
Near--Death a Wall or a Door--A Fable--Orpheus and Eurydice.
MYTH AND MIRACLE.
(1885.)
I. Happiness the true End and Aim of Life--Spiritual People and
their Literature--Shakespeare's Clowns superior to Inspired
Writers--Beethoven's Sixth Symphony Preferred to the Five Books of
Moses--Venus of Milo more Pleasing than the Presbyterian Creed--II.
Religions Naturally Produced--Poets the Myth-makers--The Sleeping
Beauty--Orpheus and Eurydice--Red Riding Hood--The Golden Age--Elysian
Fields--The Flood Myth--Myths of the Seasons--III. The Sun-god--Jonah,
Buddha, Chrisnna, Horus, Zoroaster--December 25th as a Birthday of
Gods--Christ a Sun-God--The Cross a Symbol of the Life to Come--When
Nature rocked the Cradle of the Infant World--IV. Difference between
a Myth and a Miracle--Raising the Dead, Past and Present--Miracles
of Jehovah--Miracles of Christ--Everything Told except the Truth--The
Mistake of the World--V. Beginning of Investigation--The Stars as
Witnesses against Superstition--Martyrdom of Bruno--Geology--Steam and
Electricity--Nature forever the Same--Persistence of Force--Cathedral,
Mosque, and Joss House have the same Foundation--Science the
Providence of Man--VI. To Soften the Heart of God--Martyrs--The God was
Silent--Credulity a Vice--Develop the Imagination--"The Skylark" and
"The Daisy"--VII. How are we to Civilize the World?--Put Theology out
of Religion--Divorce of Church and State--Secular Education--Godless
Schools--VIII. The New Jerusalem--Knowledge of the Supernatural
possessed by Savages--Beliefs of Primitive Peoples--Science is
Modest--Theology Arrogant--Torque-mada and Bruno on the Day of
Judgment--IX. Poison of Superstition in the Mother's Milk--Ability
of Mistakes to take Care of Themselves--Longevity of Religious
Lies--Mother's religion pleaded by the Cannibal--The Religion of
Freedom--O Liberty, thou art the God of my Idolatry
PREFACE.
For many years I have regarded the Pentateuch simply as a record of a
barbarous people, in which are found a great number of the ceremonies
of savagery, many absurd and unjust laws, and thousands of ideas
inconsistent with known and demonstrated facts. To me it seemed almost
a crime to teach that this record was written by inspired men; that
slavery, polygamy, wars of conquest and extermination were right, and
that there was a time when men could win the approbation of infinite
Intelligence, Justice, and Mercy, by violating maidens and by butchering
babes. To me it seemed more reasonable that savage men had made these
laws; and I endeavored in a lecture, entitled "Some Mistakes of Moses,"
to point out some of the errors, contradictions, and impossibilities
contained in the Pentateuch. The lecture was never written and
consequently never delivered twice the same. On several occasions it was
reported and published without consent, and without revision. All these
publications were grossly and glaringly incorrect As published, they
have been answered several hundred times, and many of the clergy are
still engaged in the great work. To keep these reverend gentlemen from
wasting their talents on the mistakes of reporters and printers, I
concluded to publish the principal points in all my lectures on this
subject. And here, it may be proper for me to say, that arguments cannot
be answered by personal abuse; that there is no logic in slander, and
that falsehood, in the long run, defeats itself. People who love their
enemies should, at least, tell the truth about their friends. Should it
turn out that I am the worst man in the whole world, the story of the
flood will remain just as improbable as before, and the contradictions
of the Pentateuch will still demand an explanation.
There was a time when a falsehood, fulminated from the pulpit, smote
like a sword; but, the supply having greatly exceeded the demand,
clerical misrepresentation has at last become almost an innocent
amusement. Remembering that only a few years ago men, women, and even
children, were imprisoned, tortured and burned, for having expressed
in an exceedingly mild and gentle way, the ideas entertained by me, I
congratulate myself that calumny is now the pulpit's last resort. The
old instruments of torture are kept only to gratify curiosity; the
chains are rusting away, and the demolition of time has allowed even the
dungeons of the Inquisition to be visited by light. The church, impotent
and malicious, regrets, not the abuse, but the loss of her power, and
seeks to hold by falsehood what she gained by cruelty and force, by
fire and fear. Christianity cannot live in peace with any other form of
faith. If that religion be true, there is but one savior, one inspired
book, and but one little narrow grass-grown path that leads to heaven.
Such a religion is necessarily uncompromising, unreasoning, aggressive
and insolent. Christianity has held all other creeds and forms in
infinite contempt, divided the world into enemies and friends, and
verified the awful declaration of its founder--a declaration that
wet with blood the sword he came to bring, and made the horizon of a
thousand years lurid with the fagots' flames.
Too great praise challenges attention, and often brings to light a
thousand faults that otherwise the general eye would never see. Were we
allowed to read the Bible as we do all other books, we would admire its
beauties, treasure its worthy thoughts, and account for all its absurd,
grotesque and cruel things, by saying that its authors lived in rude,
barbaric times. But we are told that it was written by inspired men;
that it contains the will of God; that it is perfect, pure, and true in
all its parts; the source and standard of all moral and religious truth;
that it is the star and anchor of all human hope; the only guide for
man, the only torch in Nature's night. These claims are so at variance
with every known recorded fact, so palpably absurd, that every free
unbiased soul is forced to raise the standard of revolt.
We read the pagan sacred books with profit and delight. With myth and
fable we are ever charmed, and find a pleasure in the endless repetition
of the beautiful, poetic, and absurd. We find, in all these records of
the past, philosophies and dreams, and efforts stained with tears,
of great and tender souls who tried to pierce the mystery of life and
death, to answer the eternal questions of the Whence and Whither, and
vainly sought to make, with bits of shattered glass, a mirror that
would, in very truth, reflect the face and form of Nature's perfect
self.
These myths were born of hopes, and fears, and tears, and smiles, and
they were touched and by all there is of joy and grief between
the rosy dawn of birth, and deaths sad night. They clothed even the
stars with passion, and gave to gods the faults and frailties of the
sons of men. In them, the winds and waves were music, and all the lakes,
and streams, and springs,--the mountains, woods and perfumed dells were
haunted by a thousand fairy forms. They thrilled the veins of Spring
with tremulous desire; made tawny Summer's billowed breast the throne
and home of love; filled Autumn's arms with sun-kissed grapes, and
gathered sheaves; and pictured Winter as a weak old king who felt,
like Lear upon his withered face, Cordelia's tears. These myths, though
false, are beautiful, and have for many ages and in countless ways,
enriched the heart and kindled thought. But if the world were taught
that all these things are true and all inspired of God, and that eternal
punishment will be the lot of him who dares deny or doubt, the sweetest
myth of all the Fable World would lose its beauty, and become a scorned
and hateful thing to every brave and thoughtful man.
Robert G. Ingersoll.
Washington, D. C., Oct. 7th, 1879.
SOME MISTAKES OF MOSES.
HE WHO ENDEAVORS TO CONTROL THE MIND BY FORCE IS A TYRANT, AND HE WHO
SUBMITS IS A SLAVE.
I.
| 2,191.948845 |
2023-11-16 18:53:36.1257460 | 444 | 14 |
Produced by Bryan Ness, Rose Mawhorter and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcription notes:
p 170. Period added at the end of the first sentence.
p xi. Period added after 1892 entry.
Both bare-footed and barefooted were in text. This has been retained.
Both bread-winner and breadwinner were in text. This has been retained.
Both egg-shells and eggshell were in text. This has been retained.
Both God-men and god-men were in text. This has been retained.
Subtitution scheme for non-ascii characters:
[:o] was used to indicate o with an umlaut diacritical mark
['E] was used to indicate E with an acute diacritical mark
['e] was used to indicate e with an acute diacritical mark
[~n] was used to indicate n with a tilde diacritical mark
[L] was used to indicated the British pound sign
* * * * *
The Story of Mary Slessor
THE WHITE QUEEN
of
OKOYONG
[Illustration: THE CANOE WAS ATTACKED BY A HUGE HIPPOPOTAMUS]
THE STORY OF MARY SLESSOR
FOR YOUNG PEOPLE
THE WHITE QUEEN
OF OKOYONG
A TRUE STORY OF ADVENTURE
HEROISM AND FAITH
BY
W. P. LIVINGSTONE
AUTHOR OF "MARY SLESSOR OF CALABAR"
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1917,
BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
TO
ALL GIRLS AND BOYS
WHO ARE
LOOKING FORWARD
AND
DREAMING DREAMS
"She left all and followed Him."
| 2,192.145786 |
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Produced by Tom Cosmas (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber's Notes
The fractions one half and three quarters were shown respectively as
1-2 and 3-4 which was retained herein.
+=========================+
| |
| FACTS AND FIGURES |
| |
| |
| |
| CONCERNING |
| |
| |
| |
| THE HOOSAC TUNNEL. |
| |
| |
| ----------- |
| By JOHN J. PIPER. |
| ----------- |
| |
| |
| FITCHBURG: |
| |
| JOHN J. PIPER, PRINTER. |
| |
| 1866. |
| |
+=========================+
FACTS AND FIGURES
CONCERNING
THE HOOSAC TUNNEL.
By JOHN J. PIPER.
FITCHBURG:
JOHN J. PIPER, PRINTER.
1866.
THE HOOSAC TUNNEL.
In his inaugural address to the Legislature, Governor Bullock says,
"There can be no doubt that _new facilities_ and new avenues for
transportation between the West and the East are now absolutely needed.
Our lines of prosperity and growth are the parallels of latitude which
connect us with the young, rich empire of men, and stock, and produce
lying around the lakes and still beyond. The people of Massachusetts,
compact, manufacturing and commercial, must have more thoroughfares
through which the currents of trade and life may pass to and fro,
unobstructed and ceaseless, between the Atlantic and the national
granaries, or decay will at no distant period touch alike her wharves
and her workshops. Let us avert the day in which our Commonwealth shall
become chiefly a school-house for the West, and a homestead over which
time shall have drawn silently and too soon the marks of dilapidation.
Any policy which is not broad enough to secure to us a New England,
having a proper share in the benefits of this new opening era of the
West, be assured, will not receive the approval of the next generation."
This important recommendation is what the public had reason to expect
from a man so keenly alive to the interests and welfare of the
Commonwealth as Governor Bullock, whose close observation and
discernment had long since discovered the danger, and disposed him to
take a deep interest in any adequate enterprise by means of which it
could be averted. The reasons which have induced His Excellency's
convictions on this subject, and caused the apprehensions he has
expressed, are very clearly set forth in the following articles from the
Buffalo Commercial Advertiser of November 25th and 28th, 1865:--
"To-day, the Western States are far more bountifully provided with
avenues of transportation than the extreme East. This is peculiarly
anomalous and inexplicable when we consider the boasted enterprise,
wealth and shrewdness of New England, and the dependence which
always exists upon the part of a manufacturing district toward that
section which furnishes it with a market, and from which it obtains
its breadstuff. It is fortunate for New England that it does not
lie in the line of transit between the West and _its_ market, or it
would have drawn about its head a storm of indignation which it
could not have resisted. The State of New York has contributed an
hundred fold what New England has towards providing the required
facilities of traffic, for the great West. Our Yankee friends have
done much toward facilitating intercommunication among themselves,
but very little toward direct communication with the West.
It is not a little strange that, with all the ambitious effort of
Boston to become a mercantile emporium, rivaling New York, and with
its vast manufacturing interest, it should have but a single direct
avenue of traffic with the West. Yet such is the fact. The Western
Railroad between Albany and Boston is the sole route now in
existence except those circuitous lines via New York City or
through Canada. Our down-east friends, usually so keen and
enterprising, seem to have exhausted their energies in the
construction of that road twenty-five years ago, and the
consequence is that to-day the business interests of all New
England are suffering for lack of the timely investment of a few
millions.
Strange as it may seem, it is nevertheless true that Boston is now
virtually cut off from its trade communication with the West for
want of facilities of transportation. For weeks past the Grand
Trunk Railroad has ceased to take Boston freight, by reason of its
being blocked up with other through and way freights at Sarnia. The
swollen tide of freight via the New York Central has exceeded the
capacity of the Western Road between Albany and Boston, and the
consequence has been felt in an increased charge by the New York
Central of twenty cents a barrel above New York City rates, and,
finally, that road has been obliged to refuse Boston freight
altogether, simply by reason of the accumulation and delay
occasioned by the inability of the Western Road to forward it to
its destination. In like manner, Boston freight going forward by
canal is hindered and accumulated at Albany. A similar state of
things exists in regard to most of the westward bound Boston
freight, as Boston jobbers are finding out to their cost. Merchants
at the West, who purchase in Boston, are six and eight weeks in
getting their heavy goods.
We are informed upon reliable authority that flour can be sent from
Chicago to New York, by lake and rail for $1.90 per barrel, while
very limited quantities only can be sent to Boston at $2.25, and
that by the "Red Line" $3 a barrel is demanded.
New England depends upon the West for its bread, and also for its
market for its imports and manufactures. If the state of things to
which we refer, continues much longer, it will be compelled to go
to New York both for its bread and its customers.
The West complains of New York, because, forsooth, it is tardy in
enlarging its canals to meet the anticipated necessities of its
future growth, and Boston has had the assurance to join in the
thoughtless and unfounded clamor. Yet the great State of
Massachusetts has supinely stood still for twenty-five years
without making an effort to overcome the barrier between it and the
great West. During that time the Western road has grown rich, and
paid large dividends from a business which has been greater than it
could transact, and to-day there exists an almost total blockade of
Boston freight at Albany.
Surely, this does not reflect favorably on New England shrewdness
and enterprise, neither does it tally with New England interest.
Besides, it is detrimental to the business interests of the West.
As the case now stands the fault rests with Massachusetts alone, in
not providing railroad accommodations east of the Hudson river. It
is also nonsense to assert, as some will, that the capacity of the
Erie canal is inadequate. During the past season it has not been
taxed to half its capacity, and yet it has found the Western Road
unable to dispose of what Boston freight was offered.
Western merchants and shippers ought to know where the fault lies,
and to the end that they may be informed we have penned this
article. Their true remedy is to buy in New York, and to ship their
produce to that city, until Massachusetts shall provide adequate
facilities of transportation.
Boston is the natural eastern terminus of the great northern line
of transportation, and we should have been glad to have seen her
citizens and those of the great state of Massachusetts realize the
fact. Their supineness, however, has lost to them for the present,
if not forever, the great commercial prize which nature intended
for them. It remains to be seen whether they will realize their
position, and make an effort to retrieve their "penny wise and
pound foolish policy."
* * * * *
"In a recent article we took occasion to point out the importance
to the country at large of the construction of adequate facilities
for the accommodation of the traffic exchanges between the
different sections; and to call the attention of our readers to the
remarkable fact that while the whole country, and particularly the
West, had undergone a wonderful development requiring for its
accommodation a corresponding increase of commercial facilities,
that New England had stood still for a quarter of a century. The
fact that a great State like Massachusetts, with a great emporium
like Boston, should have but a single line of direct communication
with the West, and that it should supinely stand still and refuse
to add to it, notwithstanding the yearly demonstrations of its
growing inadequacy, seemed so strange as to justify remark. The
other fact that the transit of freight to and from Boston should be
almost stopped by the inability of that single railroad to handle
it--thereby increasing rates and compelling purchasers as well as
sellers to go to New York--also seemed to be inconsistent with our
traditional ideas of eastern shrewdness. Our remarks have received
additional force by the fact, subsequently learned by us, that
there are at the present time between four and five hundred
car-loads of Boston-bound freight lying at Albany and Greenbush
awaiting cars for its movement to its destination, while there
exists no stoppage whatever of New York freight, thus demonstrating
clearly the inadequacy of the Western road to answer the demands
made upon it.
Since that article was penned, information has reached us to the
effect that our Massachusetts neighbors have at last waked up to
the importance of the subject, and are about to enter vigorously
upon the work of providing another avenue of trade between Boston
and the West, by what is known as the Greenfield route which
embraces the long talked of Hoosac Tunnel. This great enterprise
has enlisted the energies of the engineers and railroad men of
Massachusetts for more than thirty years, with constantly varying
prospects of success, and at last seems in a fair way of being
accomplished.
The high range of hills which runs along the whole western line of
Massachusetts, for a long time baffled the efforts of railroad
engineers; and the rival claims of competing routes distracted the
popular mind, and delayed the construction of either. The most
eminent engineers preferred the Northern, or Greenfield
route--involving the Hoosac Tunnel--as being the most direct and
feasible. In the struggle which followed, the Southern route was
successful, and the Western road was built and opened in 1842. The
other route was also constructed after a time, upon either side of
the proposed tunnel, but for lack of the completion of that great
work, has never been anything but an avenue for local travel and
traffic.
The whole length of the proposed tunnel is 25,574 feet, and the
estimated cost of construction is about three and a quarter
millions. When we consider the vital interest which the citizens of
Massachusetts have in the completion of this work, and the enormous
interests to be served by it, the sum required seems absolutely
trivial, and the withholding of it really parsimonious as well as
foolish. We are | 2,192.456579 |
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by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries.)
HENRY THE SIXTH
CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS
C. F. CLAY, MANAGER
LONDON: FETTER LANE, E.C. 4
NEW YORK: G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
BOMBAY }
CALCUTTA } MACMILLAN AND CO., LTD.
MADRAS }
TORONTO: J. M. DENT AND SONS, LTD.
TOKYO: MARUZEN-KABUSHIKI-KAISHA
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Henry the Sixth
A REPRINT OF
JOHN BLACMAN'S MEMOIR
WITH TRANSLATION
AND NOTES
BY
M. R. JAMES, LITT. D., F.B.A., F.S.A.
PROVOST OF ETON
FORMERLY PROVOST OF KING'S COLLEGE
CAMBRIDGE
AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS
1919
CONTENTS
PREFACE PAGE vii
TEXT 1
TRANSLATION 23
NOTES 45
SPECIAL NOTES
I. A PRAYER TO HENRY VI IN ENGLISH VERSE 50
II. ON THE MANUSCRIPT MIRACLES OF HENRY VI. 51
III. ON JOHN BLACMAN'S BOOKS 55
PREFACE
The tract on the Personality of King Henry VI (as I may perhaps be
allowed to call it), which is here reprinted, has hitherto been almost
inaccessible to ordinary students. It is not known to exist at all in
manuscript. We depend ultimately for our knowledge of it upon a printed
edition issued by Robert Coplande of London, of which the date is said
to be 1510. Of this there may be two copies in existence. This text was
reprinted by Thomas Hearne in 1732, in his edition of the Chronicles of
Thomas Otterbourne and John Whethamstede, of which 150 copies were
issued.
I have here reprinted Hearne's text, and have collated it with
Coplande's. This I was enabled to do through the great kindness of the
authorities of St Cuthbert's College at Ushaw, who most generously lent
me a copy of the tract preserved in their Library. This copy I will
endeavour to describe.
It is in a modern binding lettered: _Hylton's Lives of British Saints.
Blackman's Life of Henry VI_. The pressmark is
XVIII
C 4
7
The size is 185 x 130 mm. There are 32 lines to a full page.
_Collation_: A6 B4.
_Signatures_: A I (2 not signed): A III (4-6 not signed).
B I (2 not signed): B III (4 not signed). Ab I _a_ has the title at
top:
¶Collectarium Mansuetudinum et bono-
rum morum regis Henrici. VI. ex col-
lecti[=o]e magistri Joannis blak
man bacchalaurei theo
logie / et post Car
tusie monachi
Londini.
Below this is a woodcut measuring 99 x 76, and representing a bearded
king in hat with crown about it, clad in ermine tippet, and dalmatic
over long robe. He holds a closed book in his _R._ hand, a sceptre in
his _L._: on the _L._ wrist is a maniple. His head is turned towards
_R._ On _R._ a tree, plants across the foreground: a mound on _L._ with
two trees seen over it.
I feel confident that the woodcut is not intended for a portrait of
Henry VI, and that it really represents some Old Testament personage:
but I have not attempted to trace it in other books.
It has a border in three pieces. Those on _R._ and _L._ are 115 mm. in
height and contain small figures of prophets standing on tall shafts:
that at bottom was designed to be placed vertically, and contains a
half-length figure of a prophet springing out of foliage, and with
foliage above.
On A I _b_ the woodcut is repeated without the border.
Then follows the text as given by me. After it, on B IV _a_, is Robert
Coplande's device, measuring 80 x 95; a wreath of roses and leaves,
comprised within two concentric circles: within it the printer's mark.
Outside in the upper _L._ corner a rose slipped and leaved: in the upper
_R._ corner, a pomegranate.
Below, a scroll inscribed: Robert (_rose_) Coplande.
On B IV _b_ the woodcut of the king, without border.
Below it, in a neat hand:
R. Johnson. prec. 1d.
1523.
For the rest, the volume contains:
Capgrave's _New Legende_, beginning imperfectly in the Table
De S. Esterwino abbate. fo. xxxviii.
This is preceded by two inserted leaves of paper: on the first are the
missing items of the Table, supplied in a rough hand of cent. XVI. On
the second, in a hand of cent. XVIII, is:
Printed at London by Richard Pynson
Printer to the Kings Noble Grace the 20th
day of February 1516. Vid. Page 133.
Newcastle upon Tyne.
This book was found in the Town Clerk's
Office about the latter end (of) the year 1765.
(?) A P G.
At the end of the Table (before A I) is written in a hand of cent. XVI:
The abbridgement of henry the syxthes lyfe ys fastned to the ende
of this booke.
At top of A I (cent. XVI) is: T. T. Collected by Caxton.
On A VIII _b_, B II _a_ is the name (cent. XVI):
Alexander Ridley of ye brom hills.
He has written a good many marginal notes in the book.
_Collation_: Table 2 ff. A8 B4 C8 D4 E8 F4 G8 H4 I8 K4 L8
(i-iii signed) M4 N8 (as L) O4 (i-iii signed) P8 (as L) Q4 R8 (as
L) S4 (i-iii signed: ii, iii both numbered i) T8 (+ 1: 4 leaves
CIX-CXII on the 11000 Virgins inserted after CVII* instead of after
CVIII) U6 (6 blank unnumbered) X8 (Life of S. Byrgette) Y6.
Followed by tract of Walter Hylton: 'to a deuoute man in temperall
estate howe he shulde rule hym' etc. A8 B8 (leaves not numbered).
On CXIX _b_ is Pynson's device: no date.
On CXXXIII _a_ (Life of S. Byrgette) the date M.CCCCCXVI. XX Feb. On the
verso Pynson's device with break in lower border.
At the end of Hylton's tract B VIII _a_ the date MCCCCCXVI last daye of
Feb.
On the verso Pynson's device with break in lower border.
Hearne's preface to _Otterbourne_ (I, p. xliv) contains some interesting
matter bearing on the tract, which I summarize here.
No one, he says, except John Blakman has yet written a special
life of Henry VI, and Blakman's is not an _opus absolutum_ but a
"fragmentum duntaxat operis longe majoris alicubi forte nunc etiam
latentis."
Vita haecce qualiscunque in lucem prodiit Londini A.D. M.D.X. a
Roberto Coplandio... excusus. Eiusdem exemplaria adeo rara sunt ut
vix reperias in bibliothecis etiam instructissimis. Penes se autem
habet amicus excultissimus Jacobus Westus, qui pro necessitudine
illa quae inter nos intercedit, non tantum mutuo dedit, sed et
licentiam concessit exscribendi. Id quod feci.
West had acquired his copy by purchase, among a number of printed books
formerly the property of Archbishop Sancroft.
On p. xlix Hearne tells us that Sancroft had written the following note
in his copy of the tract:
Hunc libellum conscribendum curavit Henricus VIIus, cum Julio papa
II agens de Henrico VI in Sanctorum numerum referendo. De quo vide
Jac. Waraei annales H. 7. Aº 1504.
Ware (and Hearne) print the Bull of Julius, directing an inquiry into
Henry's sanctity and miracles. I may add that some part of the results
of this negotiation may be seen in the manuscript collection of Henry
VIth's miracles preserved in the Royal MS. 13. C. VIII and in the MS.
Harley 423 (a partial copy of the other), both in the British Museum.[1]
Furthermore Hearne reprints what is properly called a _Memoria_ of King
Henry VI such as is to be found in a fairly large number of Books of
Hours or Primers both manuscript and printed. Hearne's text is taken
from _Horae_ printed by Wynkyn de Worde 1510, f. cli _a_, and is as
follows.
_A prayer to holy kynge Henry._
Rex Henricus sis amicus nobis in angustia
Cuius prece nos a nece saluemur perpetua
Lampas morum spes egrorum ferens medicamina
Sis tuorum famulorum ductor ad celestia.
Pax in terra non sit guerra orbis per confinia
Virtus crescat et feruescat charitas per omnia
Non sudore uel dolore moriamur subito
Sed viuamus et plaudamus celis sine termino.
_Ver._ Ora pro nobis deuote rex Henrice.
_Resp._ Ut per te cuncti superati sint inimici.
Oremus. Presta, quesumus, omnipotens et misericors deus, ut qui
deuotissimi regis Henrici merita miraculis fulgentia pie mentis
affectu recolimus in terris, eius et omnium sanctorum tuorum
intercessionibus ab omni per te febre, morbo, ac improuisa morte
ceterisque eruamur malis, et gaudia sempiterna adipisci mereamur.
Per Christum dominum nostrum. Amen.
Here is another form, which occurs in the Fitzwilliam MS. 55 (a Norfolk
book of about 1480):
_Antiphon_. Rex Henricus pauper(um?) et ecclesie defensor ad
misericordiam semper pronus in caritate feruidus pietati deditus
clerum decorauit, quem deus sic beatificauit.
_Vers._ Ora pro nobis deuote Henrice.
_Resp._ Ut digni efficiamur promissionibus Christi.
Oremus. Deus sub cuius ineffabili maiestate vniuersi reges
regnant et imperant, qui deuotissimum Henricum Anglorum regem
caritate feruidum, miseris et afflictis semper compassum, omni
bonitate clemenciaque conspicuum, ut pio (pie) creditur inter
angelos connumerare dignatus es: concede propicius ut eo cum
omnibus sanctis interuenientibus hostium nostrorum superbia
conteratur, morbus et quod malum est procul pellatur, palma
donetur et gratia sancti spiritus nobis misericordiam tuam
poscentibus ubique adesse dignetur. Qui uiuis, etc.
Yet another form is seen in a manuscript (V. III. 7) in Bishop Cosin's
Library at Durham, of cent. XV late: it is written, with a good many
other miscellaneous verses, at the end of the book.
O rex Henrice vincas virtute pudice
Anglorum vere cum recto nomine sexte
[Es] wynsorie natus et ibi de fonte leuatus
Atque coronatus in Westm(ynster) veneratus
Et post ffrancorum rex es de iure creatus
Post mortem carnis miracula plurima pandis
Confirmante deo qui te preelegit ab euo
Et tibi concessit plures sanare per illum
Cecos et claudos cum debilitate retentos
Atque paraliticos egrotos spasmaticosque
In neruis plures contracti te mediante
In te sperantes sanantur et auxiliantur
Et laudes domino per te semper tribuantur.
Ora pro nobis dei electe rex Anglie Henrice sexte.
Ut digni, etc.
Oremus. Omnipotens eterne deus qui electis tuis multa mirabilia
operaris: concede quaesumus ut electi tui Anglorum regis Henrici
sexti meritis et precibus mediantibus et intercedentibus mereamur
ab omnibus angustiis anime et doloribus membrorum liberemur(-ari).
Et cum illo in vita perpetua gloriari. Per, etc.
These three forms of _Memoriae_ are probably not all that exist; but
they will suffice as representative specimens of the popular devotions
used in honour of our Founder.
Besides the _Memoria_ Hearne gives two prayers, attributed to the King
himself, and largely identical in language with that which is prefixed
to Blakman's tract. He takes them from the same printed _Horae_ of 1510
whence the _Memoria_ comes. They are on p. lv _a_ and run thus:
_Two lytell prayers whiche King Henry the syxte made._
Domine Ihesu Christe, qui me creasti, redemisti, et preordinasti
ad hoc quod sum: tu scis quid de me facere vis: fac de me secundum
voluntatem tuam cum misericordia.
Domine Ihesu Christe, qui solus es sapientia: tu scis que michi
peccatori expediunt: prout tibi placere[2] et sicut in oculis tue
maiestatis videtur, de me ita fiat cum misericordia tua. Amen.
Pater noster. Aue Maria.
Of John Blacman or Blakman, the author of our tract, not a great deal is
known. He was admitted Fellow of Merton College, Oxford, in 1436, and of
Eton in 1447: he was Cantor of Eton College, and, as we read in the
title of his book, a bachelor of Divinity, and later a Carthusian monk.
But before he 'entered religion' he held an important post in University
circles, for, in 1452, on the death of Nicholas Close, he was appointed
by the Provosts of Eton and King's (who at that time owned this piece of
patronage) Warden of King's Hall at Cambridge, that royal foundation
which was eventually absorbed into Trinity College | 2,192.549182 |
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THE NE'ER-DO-WELL
By REX BEACH
Author of "THE SILVER HORDE" "THE SPOILERS" "THE IRON TRAIL" Etc.
Illustrated
TO
MY WIFE
CONTENTS
I. VICTORY
II. THE TRAIL DIVIDES
III. A GAP
IV. NEW ACQUAINTANCES
V. A REMEDY IS PROPOSED
VI. IN WHICH KIRK ANTHONY IS GREATLY SURPRISED
VII. THE REWARD OF MERIT
VIII. EL COMANDANTE TAKES A HAND
IX. SPANISH LAW
X. A CHANGE OF PLAN
XI. THE TRUTH ABOUT MRS. CORTLANDT
XII. A NIGHT AT TABOGA
XIII. CHIQUITA
XIV. THE PATH THAT LED NOWHERE
XV. ALIAS JEFFERSON LOCKE
XVI. "8838"
XVII. GARAVEL THE BANKER
XVIII. THE SIEGE OF MARIA TORRES
XIX. "LA TOSCA"
XX. AN AWAKENING
XXI. THE REST OF THE FAMILY
XXII. A CHALLENGE AND A CONFESSION
XXIII. A PLOT AND A SACRIFICE
XXIV. A BUSINESS PROPOSITION
XXV. CHECKMATE!
XXVI. THE CRASH
XXVII. A QUESTION
XXVIII. THE ANSWER
XXIX. A LAST APPEAL
XXX. DARWIN K ANTHONY
THE NE'ER-DO-WELL
I
VICTORY
It was a crisp November night. The artificial brilliance of Broadway
was rivalled by a glorious moonlit sky. The first autumn frost was in
the air, and on the side-streets long rows of taxicabs were standing,
their motors blanketed, their chauffeurs threshing their arms to rout
the cold. A few well-bundled cabbies, perched upon old-style hansoms,
were barking at the stream of hurrying pedestrians. Against a
background of lesser lights myriad points of electric signs flashed
into everchanging shapes, winking like huge, distorted eyes; fanciful
designs of liquid fire ran up and down the walls or blazed forth in
lurid colors. From the city's canons came an incessant clanging roar,
as if a great river of brass and steel were grinding its way toward the
sea.
Crowds began to issue from the theatres, and the lines of waiting
vehicles broke up, filling the streets with the whir of machinery and
the clatter of hoofs. A horde of shrill-voiced urchins pierced the
confusion, waving their papers and screaming the football scores at the
tops of their lusty lungs, while above it all rose the hoarse tones of
carriage callers, the commands of traffic officers, and the din of
street-car gongs.
In the lobby of one of the playhouses a woman paused to adjust her
wraps, and, hearing the cries of the newsboys, petulantly exclaimed:
"I'm absolutely sick of football. That performance during the third act
was enough to disgust one."
Her escort smiled. "Oh, you take it too seriously," he said. "Those
boys don't mean anything. That was merely Youth--irrepressible Youth,
on a tear. You wouldn't spoil the fun?"
"It may have been Youth," returned his companion, "but it sounded more
like the end of the world. It was a little too much!"
A bevy of shop-girls came bustling forth from a gallery exit.
"Rah! rah! rah!" they mimicked, whereupon the cry was answered by a
hundred throats as the doors belched forth the football players and
their friends. Out they came, tumbling, pushing, jostling; greeting
scowls and smiles with grins of insolent good-humor. In their hands
were decorated walking-sticks and flags, ragged and tattered as if from
long use in a heavy gale. Dignified old gentlemen dived among them in
pursuit of top-hats; hysterical matrons hustled daughters into
carriages and slammed the doors.
"Wuxtry! Wuxtry!" shrilled the newsboys. "Full account of the big game!"
A youth with a ridiculous little hat | 2,192.845515 |
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NINE UNLIKELY TALES
_By_
E. NESBIT
_Illustrated by_
H. R. MILLAR
AND
CLAUDE A. SHEPPERSON
ERNEST BENN LIMITED
LONDON
COWARD-McCANN INC
NEW YORK
IRIDI MEAE
HOC ET COR MEUM
CONTENTS
I THE COCKATOUCAN _page_ 1
II WHEREYOUWANTOGOTO 49
III THE BLUE MOUNTAIN 85
IV THE PRINCE, TWO MICE, AND SOME KITCHEN-MAIDS 129
V MELISANDE: OR LONG AND SHORT DIVISION 159
VI FORTUNATUS REX AND CO 193
VII THE SUMS THAT CAME RIGHT 223
VIII THE TOWN IN THE LIBRARY, IN THE TOWN IN THE LIBRARY 243
IX THE PLUSH USURPER 267
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_Matilda swung her legs miserably_ _page_ 5
_He waved away the eightpence_ 11
_The top part of Pridmore turned into painted iron
and glass_ 17
_The Princess was like a yard and a half of white tape_ 21
_The King sent his army, and the enemy were crushed_ 31
_The King had turned into a villa residence_ 37
_Four men came wheeling a great red thing on a barrow_ 43
_They bounced through the suburbs_ 59
_The seal was very kind and convenient_ 63
_Suddenly, out of nothing and nowhere, appeared a large,
stern housemaid_ 69
_A long, pointed thing came slowly up out of the sand_ 73
_It is difficult to play when any one is watching you,
especially a policeman_ 79
_The people of Antioch were always in a hurry and
generally angry_ 89
_Off they all went, King, court, and men-at-arms_ 99
_Tony was stamped on by the great seal, who was very
fierce_ 103
_The giant-little-girl_ 107
_Tony among the rocks in the bread-and-milk basin_ 115
_“Everything you say will be used against you” said the
public persecutor_ 121
_He was growing, growing, growing_ 125
_Malevola’s dress was not at all the thing for a
christening_ 135
_There stood up a Prince and a Princess_ 155
_Trains of Princes bringing nasty things in bottles and
round wooden boxes_ 173
_The Princess grew so big that she had to go and sit on
the common_ 181
_The Princess in one scale and her hair in the other_ 189
“_Welcome! Welcome!_” 273
“_Poor benighted, oppressed people, follow me!_” 279
NINE UNLIKELY TALES
_THE COCKATOUCAN_
_OR GREAT AUNT WILLOUGHBY_
MATILDA’S ears were red and shiny. So were her cheeks. Her hands were
red too. This was because Pridmore had washed her. It was not the usual
washing, which makes you clean and comfortable, but the “thorough good
wash,” which makes you burn and smart till you wish you could be like
the poor little savages who do not know anything, and run about bare in
the sun, and only go into the water when they are hot.
Matilda wished she could have been born in a savage tribe instead of at
Brixton.
“Little savages,” she said, “don’t have their ears washed thoroughly,
and they don’t have new dresses that are prickly in the insides round
their arms, and cut them round the neck. Do they, Pridmore?”
But Pridmore only said, “Stuff and nonsense,” and then she said, “don’t
wriggle so, child, for goodness’ sake.”
Pridmore was Matilda’s nursemaid. Matilda sometimes found her trying.
Matilda was quite right in believing that savage children do not
wear frocks that hurt. It is also true that savage children are not
over-washed, over-brushed, over-combed, gloved, booted, and hatted and
taken in an omnibus to Streatham to see their Great-aunt Willoughby.
This was intended to be Matilda’s fate. Her mother had arranged it.
Pridmore had prepared her for it. Matilda, knowing resistance to be
vain, had submitted to it.
But Destiny had not been consulted, and Destiny had plans of its own
for Matilda.
When the last button of Matilda’s boots had been fastened (the
button-hook always had a nasty temper, especially when it was hurried,
and that day it bit a little piece of Matilda’s leg quite spitefully)
the wretched child was taken downstairs and put on a chair in the hall
to wait while Pridmore popped her own things on.
“I shan’t be a minute,” said Pridmore. Matilda knew better. She
seated herself to wait, and swung her legs miserably. She had been
to her Great-aunt Willoughby’s before, and she knew exactly what to
expect. She would be asked about her lessons, and how many marks she
had, and whether she had been a good girl. I can’t think why grown-up
people don’t see how impertinent these questions are. Suppose you were
to answer, “I’m top of my class, Auntie, thank you, and I’m very good.
And now let’s have a little talk about you. Aunt, dear, how much money
have you got, and have you been scolding the servants again, or have
you tried to be good and patient as a properly brought up aunt should
be, eh, dear?”
[Illustration: MATILDA SWUNG HER LEGS MISERABLY.]
Try this method with one of your aunts next time she begins asking you
questions, and write and tell me what she says.
Matilda knew exactly what the Aunt Willoughby’s questions would be,
and she knew how, when they were answered, her aunt would give her a
small biscuit with carraway seeds in it, and then tell her to go with
Pridmore and have her hands and face washed again.
Then she would be sent to walk in the garden—the garden had a gritty
path, and geraniums and calceolarias and lobelias in the beds. You
might not pick anything. There would be minced veal at dinner, with
three-cornered bits of toast round the dish, and a tapioca pudding.
Then the long afternoon with a book, a bound volume of the “Potterer’s
Saturday Night”—nasty small print—and all the stories about children
who died young because they were too good for this world.
Matilda wriggled wretchedly. If she had been a little less
uncomfortable she would have cried, but her new frock was too tight and
prickly to let her forget it for a moment, even in tears.
When Pridmore came down at last, she said, “Fie, for shame! What a
sulky face!”
And Matilda said, “I’m not.”
“Oh, yes you are,” said Pridmore, “you know you are, you don’t
appreciate your blessings.”
“I wish it was your Aunt Willoughby,” said Matilda.
“Nasty, spiteful little thing!” said Pridmore, and she shook Matilda.
Then Matilda tried to slap Pridmore, and the two went down the steps
not at all pleased with each other. They went down the dull road to
the dull omnibus, and Matilda was crying a little.
Now Pridmore was a very careful person, though cross, but even the
most careful persons make mistakes sometimes—and she must have taken
the wrong omnibus, or this story could never have happened, and where
should we all have been then? This shows you that even mistakes are
sometimes valuable, so do not be hard on grown-up people if they are
wrong sometimes. You know after all, it hardly ever happens.
It was a very bright green and gold omnibus, and inside the cushions
were green and very soft. Matilda and her nursemaid had it all to
themselves, and Matilda began to feel more comfortable, especially as
she had wriggled till she had burst one of her shoulder-seams and got
more room for herself inside her frock.
So she said, “I’m sorry I was cross, Priddy dear.”
Pridmore said, “So you ought to be.” But she never said _she_ was sorry
for being cross. But you must not expect grown-up people to say that.
It was certainly the wrong omnibus because instead of jolting slowly
along dusty streets, it went quickly and smoothly down a green lane,
with flowers in the hedges, and green trees overhead. Matilda was
so delighted that she sat quite still, a very rare thing with her.
Pridmore was reading a penny story called “The Vengeance of the Lady
Constantia,” so she did not notice anything.
“I don’t care. I shan’t tell her,” said Matilda, “she’d stop the ’bus
as likely as not.”
At last the ’bus stopped of its own accord. Pridmore put her story in
her pocket and began to get out.
“Well, I never!” she said, and got out very quickly and ran round to
where the horses were. They were white horses with green harness, and
their tails were very long indeed.
“Hi, young man!” said Pridmore to the omnibus driver, “you’ve brought
us to the wrong place. This isn’t Streatham Common, this isn’t.”
The driver was the most beautiful omnibus driver you ever saw, and his
clothes were like him in beauty. He had white silk stockings and a
ruffled silk shirt of white, and his coat and breeches were green and
gold. So was the three-cornered hat which he lifted very politely when
Pridmore spoke to him.
[Illustration: HE WAVED AWAY THE EIGHTPENCE.]
“I fear,” he said kindly, “that you must have taken, by some
unfortunate misunderstanding, the wrong omnibus.”
“When does the next go back?”
“The omnibus does not go back. It runs from Brixton here once a month,
but it doesn’t go back.”
“But how does it get to Brixton again, to start again, I mean,” asked
Matilda.
“We start a new one every time,” said the driver, raising his
three-cornered hat once more.
“And what becomes of the old ones?” Matilda asked.
“Ah,” said the driver, smiling, “that depends. One never knows
beforehand, things change so nowadays. Good morning. Thank you so much
for your patronage. No, on no account, Madam.”
He waved away the eightpence which Pridmore was trying to offer him for
the fare from Brixton, and drove quickly off.
When they looked round them, no, this was certainly not Streatham
Common. The wrong omnibus had brought them to a strange village—the
neatest, sweetest, reddest, greenest, cleanest, prettiest village in
the world. The houses were grouped round a village green, on which
children in pretty loose frocks or smocks were playing happily.
Not a tight armhole was to be seen, or even imagined in that happy
spot. Matilda swelled herself out and burst three hooks and a bit more
of the shoulder seam.
The shops seemed a little queer, Matilda thought. The names somehow did
not match the things that were to be sold. For instance, where it said
“Elias Groves, Tinsmith,” there were loaves and buns in the window, and
the shop that had “Baker” over the door, was full of perambulators—the
grocer and the wheelwright seemed to have changed names, or shops, or
something—and Miss Skimpling, Dressmaker or Milliner, had her shop
window full of pork and sausage meat.
“What a funny, nice place,” said Matilda. “I am glad we took the wrong
omnibus.”
A little boy in a yellow smock had come up close to them.
“I beg your pardon,” he said very politely, “but all strangers are
brought before the king at once. Please follow me.”
“Well, of all the impudence,” said Pridmore. “Strangers, indeed! And
who may you be, I should like to know?”
“I,” said the little boy, bowing very low, “am the Prime Minister. I
know I do not look it, but appearances are deceitful. It’s only for a
short time. I shall probably be myself again by to-morrow.”
Pridmore muttered something which the little boy did not hear. Matilda
caught a few words. “Smacked,” “bed,” “bread and water”—familiar words
all of them.
“If it’s a game,” said Matilda to the boy, “I should like to play.”
He frowned.
“I advise you to come at once,” he said, so sternly that even Pridmore
was a little frightened. “His Majesty’s Palace is in this direction.”
He walked away, and Matilda made a sudden jump, dragged her hand out
of Pridmore’s, and ran after him. So Pridmore had to follow, still
grumbling.
The Palace stood in a great green park dotted with white-flowered
may-bushes. It was not at all like an English palace, St. James’s or
Buckingham Palace, for instance, because it was very beautiful and very
clean. When they got in they saw that the Palace was hung with green
silk. The footmen had green and gold liveries, and all the courtiers’
clothes were the same colours.
Matilda and Pridmore had to wait a few moments while the King changed
his sceptre and put on a clean crown, and then they were shown into the
Audience Chamber. The King came to meet them.
“It is kind of you to have come so far,” he said. “Of _course_ you’ll
stay at the Palace?” He looked anxiously at Matilda.
“Are you _quite_ comfortable, my dear?” he asked doubtfully.
Matilda was very truthful—for a girl.
“No,” she said, “my frock cuts me round the arms——”
“Ah,” said he, “and you brought no luggage—some of the Princess’s
frocks—her old ones perhaps—yes—yes—this person—your maid, no doubt?”
A loud laugh rang suddenly through the hall. The King looked uneasily
round, as though he expected something to happen. But nothing seemed
likely to occur.
“Yes,” said Matilda, “Pridmore is—Oh, dear!”
For before her eyes she saw an awful change taking place in Pridmore.
In an instant all that was left of the original Pridmore were the boots
and the hem of her skirt—the top part of her had changed into painted
iron and glass, and even as Matilda looked the bit of skirt that was
left got flat and hard and square. The two feet turned into four feet,
and they were iron feet, and there was no more Pridmore.
[Illustration: THE TOP PART OF PRIDMORE TURNED INTO PAINTED IRON AND
GLASS.]
“Oh, my poor child,” said the King, “your maid has turned into an
Automatic Machine.”
It was too true. The maid had turned into a machine such as those which
you see in a railway station—greedy, gras | 2,193.04901 |
2023-11-16 18:53:37.2259750 | 3,601 | 25 |
Produced by Louise Hope, David Edwards and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
[Transcriber's Note:
This e-text is based on the 1851 Boston edition of _Alonzo and Melissa_.
The story originally appeared in 1804 as a serial in the weekly
_Political Barometer_ of Poughkeepsie, N.Y., written by the newspaper's
editor, Isaac Mitchell. Pirated versions began to appear in 1811,
giving Daniel Jackson, Jr., as author.
The book was printed as a single unit, without chapter divisions.
The breaks in the e-text represent the 22 installments of the serial
version.
Note that the standard punctuation for dialogue is
"To this place, said Melissa, have I taken many a solitary walk...."
The following are listed at the end of the e-text:
Chronology of the Story
Quotations
Other Editions
Errors and Inconsistencies]
ALONZO AND MELISSA,
or
THE UNFEELING FATHER.
An
AMERICAN TALE.
In every varied posture, place, and hour,
How widowed every thought of every joy!
YOUNG.
BY DANIEL JACKSON, Jr.
Boston:
Printed for the Publishers.
1851.
PREFACE
Whether the story of Alonzo and Melissa will generally please, the
writer knows not; if, however, he is not mistaken, it is not unfriendly
to religion and to virtue.--One thing was aimed to be shown, that a firm
reliance on Providence, however the affections might be at war with its
dispensations, is the only source of consolation in the gloomy hours of
affliction; and that generally such dependence, though crossed by
difficulties and perplexities, will be crowned with victory at last.
It is also believed that the story contains no indecorous stimulants;
nor is it filled with unmeaning and inexplicated incidents sounding upon
the sense, but imperceptible to the understanding. When anxieties have
been excited by involved and doubtful events, they are afterwards
elucidated by the consequences.
The writer believes that generally he has copied nature. In the ardent
prospects raised in youthful bosoms, the almost consummation of their
wishes, their sudden and unexpected disappointment, the sorrows of
separation, the joyous and unlooked for meeting--in the poignant
feelings of Alonzo, when, at the grave of Melissa, he poured the
feelings of his anguished soul over her miniature by the "moon's pale
ray;"----when Melissa, sinking on her knees before her father, was
received to his bosom as a beloved daughter risen from the dead.
If these scenes are not imperfectly drawn, they will not fail to
interest the refined sensibilities of the reader.
ALONZO AND MELISSA.
A TALE.
In the time of the late revolution, two young gentlemen of Connecticut,
who had formed an indissoluble friendship, graduated at Yale College in
New-Haven: their names were Edgar and Alonzo. Edgar was the son of a
respectable farmer. Alonzo's father was an eminent merchant. Edgar was
designed for the desk, Alonzo for the bar; but as they were allowed some
vacant time after their graduation before they entered upon their
professional studies, they improved this interim in mutual, friendly
visits, mingling with select parties in the amusements of the day, and
in travelling through some parts of the United States.
Edgar had a sister who, for some time, had resided with her cousin at
New-London. She was now about to return, and it was designed that Edgar
should go and attend her home. Previous to the day on which he was to
set out, he was unfortunately thrown from his horse, which so much
injured him as to prevent his prosecuting his intended journey: he
therefore invited Alonzo to supply his place; which invitation he
readily accepted, and on the day appointed set out for New-London, where
he arrived, delivered his introductory letters to Edgar's cousin, and
was received with the most friendly politeness.
Melissa, the sister of Edgar, was about sixteen years of age. She was
not what is esteemed a striking beauty, but her appearance was
pleasingly interesting. Her figure was elegant; her aspect was
attempered with a pensive mildness, which in her cheerful moments would
light up into sprightliness and vivacity. Though on first impression,
her countenance was marked by a sweet and thoughtful serenity, yet she
eminently possessed the power to
"Call round her laughing eyes, in playful turns,
The glance that lightens, and the smile that burns."
Her mind was adorned with those delicate graces which are the first
ornaments of female excellence. Her manners were graceful without
affectation, and her taste had been properly directed by a suitable
education.
Alonzo was about twenty-one years old; he had been esteemed an excellent
student. His appearance was manly, open and free. His eye indicated a
nobleness of soul; although his aspect was tinged with melancholy, yet
he was naturally cheerful. His disposition was of the romantic cast;
"For far beyond the pride and pomp of power,
He lov'd the realms of nature to explore;
With lingering gaze Edinian spring survey'd;
Morn's fairy splendours; night's gay curtained shade,
The high hoar cliff, the grove's benighting gloom,
The wild rose, widowed o'er the mouldering tomb;
The heaven embosom'd sun; the rainbow's dye,
Where lucid forms disport to fancy's eye;
The vernal flower, mild autumn's purpling glow,
The summer's thunder and the winter's snow."
It was evening when Alonzo arrived at the house of Edgar's cousin.
Melissa was at a ball which had been given on a matrimonial occasion in
the town. Her cousin waited on Alonzo to the ball, and introduced him to
Melissa, who received him with politeness. She was dressed in white,
embroidered and spangled with rich silver lace; a silk girdle, enwrought
and tasseled with gold, surrounded her waist; her hair was unadorned
except by a wreath of artificial flowers, studded by a single diamond.
After the ball closed, they returned to the house of Edgar's cousin.
Melissa's partner at the ball was the son of a gentleman of independent
fortune in New-London. He was a gay young man, aged about twenty-five.
His address was easy, his manners rather voluptuous than refined;
confident, but not ungraceful. He led the ton in fashionable circles;
gave taste its zest, and was quite a favorite with the ladies generally.
His name was Beauman.
Edgar's cousin proposed to detain Alonzo and Melissa a few days, during
which time they passed in visiting select friends and social parties.
Beauman was an assiduous attendant upon Melissa. He came one afternoon
to invite her to ride out;--she was indisposed and excused herself. At
evening she proposed walking out with her cousin and his lady; but they
were prevented from attending her by unexpected company. Alonzo offered
to accompany her. It was one of those beautiful evenings in the month of
June, when nature in those parts of America is arrayed in her richest
dress. They left the town and walked through fields adjoining the
harbour.--The moon shone in full lustre, her white beams trembling upon
the glassy main, where skiffs and sails of various descriptions were
passing and repassing. The shores of Long-Island and the other islands
in the harbour, appeared dimly to float among the waves. The air was
adorned with the fragrance of surrounding flowers; the sound of
instrumental music wafted from the town, rendered sweeter by distance,
while the whippoorwill's sprightly song echoed along the adjacent
groves. Far in the eastern horizon hung a pile of brazen clouds, which
had passed from the north, over which, the crinkling red lightning
momentarily darted, and at times, long peals of thunder were faintly
heard. They walked to a point of the beach, where stood a large rock
whose base was washed by every tide. On this rock they seated
themselves, and enjoyed a while the splendours of the scene--the drapery
of nature. "To this place, said Melissa, have I taken many a solitary
walk, on such an evening as this, and seated on this rock, have I
experienced more pleasing sensations than I ever received in the most
splendid ball-room." The idea impressed the mind of Alonzo; it was
congenial with the feeling of his soul.
They returned at a late hour, and the next day set out for home. Beauman
handed Melissa into the carriage, and he, with Edgar's cousin and his
lady, attended them on their first day's journey. They put up at night
at the house of an acquaintance in Branford. The next morning they
parted; Melissa's cousin, his lady and Beauman, returned to New-London;
Alonzo and Melissa pursued their journey, and at evening arrived at her
father's house, which was in the westerly part of the state.
* * * * *
Melissa was received with joyful tenderness by her friends. Edgar soon
recovered from his fall, and cheerfulness again assumed its most
pleasing aspect in the family.--Edgar's father was a plain Connecticut
farmer. He was rich, and his riches had been acquired by his diligent
attention to business. He had loaned money, and taken mortgages on lands
and houses for securities; and as payment frequently failed, he often
had opportunities of purchasing the involved premises at his own price.
He well knew the worth of a shilling, and how to apply it to its best
use; and in casting interest, he was sure never to lose a farthing.
He had no other children except Edgar and Melissa, on whom he
doated.--Destitute of literature himself, he had provided the means of
obtaining it for his son, and as he was a rigid presbyterian, he
considered that Edgar could no where figure so well, or gain more
eminence, than in the sacred desk.
The time now arrived when Edgar and Alonzo were to part. The former
repaired to New-York, where he was to enter upon his professional
studies. The latter entered in the office of an eminent attorney in his
native town, which was about twenty miles distant from the village in
which lived the family of Edgar and Melissa. Alonzo was the frequent
guest of this family; for though Edgar was absent, there was still a
charm which attracted him hither. If he had admired the manly virtues of
the brother, could he fail to adore the sublimer graces of the sister?
If all the sympathies of the most ardent friendship had been drawn forth
towards the former, must not the most tender passions of the soul be
attracted by the milder and more refined excellencies of the other?
Beauman had become the suitor of Melissa; but the distance of residence
rendered it inconvenient to visit her often. He came regularly once in
two or three months; of course Alonzo and he sometimes met. Beauman had
made no serious pretensions, but his particularity indicated something
more than fashionable politeness.
His manners, his independent situation, his family, entitled him to
respect. "It is not probable therefore that he will be objectionable to
Melissa's friends or to Melissa herself," said Alonzo, with an
involuntary sigh.
But as Beauman's visits to Melissa became more frequent, an increasing
anxiety took place in Alonzo's bosom. He wished her to remain single;
the idea of losing her by marriage, gave him inexpressible regret. What
substitute could supply the happy hours he had passed in her company?
What charm could wing the lingering moments when she was gone? In the
recess of his studies, he could, in a few hours, be at the seat of her
father: there his cares were dissipated, and the troubles of life, real
or imaginary, on light pinions, fleeted away.--How different would be
the scene when debarred from the unreserved friendship and conversation
of Melissa; And unreserved it could not be, were she not exclusively
mistress of herself. But was there not something of a more refined
texture than friendship in his predilection for the company of Melissa?
If so, why not avow it? His prospects, his family, and of course his
pretensions might not be inferior to those of Beauman. But perhaps
Beauman was preferred. His opportunities had been greater; he had formed
an acquaintance with her. Distance proved no barrier to his addresses.
His visits became more and more frequent. Was it not then highly
probable that he had secured her affections? Thus reasoned Alonzo, but
the reasoning tended not to allay the tempest which was gathering in his
bosom. He ordered his horse, and was in a short time at the seat of
Melissa's father.
It was summer, and towards evening when he arrived. Melissa was sitting
by the window when he entered the hall. She arose and received him with
a smile. "I have just been thinking of an evening's walk, said she, but
had no one to attend me, and you have come just in time to perform that
office. I will order tea immediately, while you rest from the fatigues
of your journey."
When tea was served up, a servant entered the room with a letter which
he had found in the yard. Melissa received it.--"'Tis a letter, said
she, which I sent by Beauman, to a lady in New-London, and the careless
man has lost it." Turning to Alonzo, "I forgot to tell you that your
friend Beauman has been with us a few days; he left us this morning."
"My friend!" replied Alonzo, hastily.
"Is he not your friend?" enquired Melissa.
"I beg pardon, madam," answered he, "my mind was absent."
"He requested us to present his respects to his friend Alonzo," said
she. Alonzo bowed and turned the conversation.
They walked out and took a winding path which led along pleasant fields
by a gliding stream, through a little grove and up a sloping eminence,
which commanded an extensive prospect of the surrounding country; Long
Island, and the sound between that and the main land, and the opening
thereof to the distant ocean.
A soft and silent shower had descended; a thousand transitory gems
trembled upon the foliage glittering the western ray.--A bright rainbow
sat upon a southern cloud; the light gales whispered among the branches,
agitated the young harvest to billowy motion, or waved the tops of the
distant deep green forest with majestic grandeur. Flocks, herds, and
cottages were scattered over the variegated landscape.
Hills piled on hills, receding, faded from the pursuing eye, mingling
with the blue mist which hovered around the extreme verge of the
horizon. "This is a most delightful scene," said Melissa.
"It is indeed, replied Alonzo; can New-London boast so charming a
prospect?"
Melissa. No--yes; indeed I can hardly say. You know, Alonzo, how I am
charmed with the rock at the point of the beach.
Alonzo. You told me of the happy hours you had passed at that place.
Perhaps the company which attended you there, gave the scenery its
highest embellishment.
Melissa. I know not how it happened; but you are the only person who
ever attended me there.
Alonzo. That is a little surprising.
Mel. Why surprising?
Al. Where was Beauman?
Mel. Perhaps he was not fond of solitude. Besides he was not always my
Beauman.
Al. Sometimes.
Mel. Yes, sometimes.
Al. And now always.
Mel. Not this evening.
Al. He formerly.
Mel. Well.
Al. And will soon claim the exclusive privilege so to do.
Mel. That does not follow of course.
Al. Of | 2,193.246015 |
2023-11-16 18:53:37.3273660 | 1,204 | 10 |
E-text prepared by sp1nd, Paul Clark, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 42839-h.htm or 42839-h.zip:
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Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/populartales00guiz
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
POPULAR TALES.
Reed and Pardon, Printers, Paternoster-Row, London.
[Illustration: Scaramouche, p. 27.]
POPULAR TALES.
by
MADAME GUIZOT.
Translated from the French by Mrs. L. Burke.
London:
George Routledge & Co.,
Farringdon Street.
1854.
PREFACE.
The favourable reception accorded to our first introduction of Madame
Guizot's Tales to the English Public, leads us to hope that our
youthful readers will welcome with pleasure another volume from the pen
of that talented writer.
This new series will be found in no respect inferior to the former;
one of its tales, certainly, has even a deeper interest than anything
contained in that volume, while the same sound morality, elevation
of sentiment and general refinement of thought, which so strongly
recommend the "Moral Tales" to the sympathies of the Parent and
Teacher, will be found equally to pervade the present series.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
PAGE
SCARAMOUCHE 1
CECILIA AND NANETTE 37
THREE CHAPTERS FROM THE LIFE OF NADIR 98
THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER 116
THE DIFFICULT DUTY--MORAL DOUBTS 139
NEW YEAR'S NIGHT 169
THE CURE OF CHAVIGNAT 171
THE DOUBLE VOW 231
POOR JOSE 237
CAROLINE; OR, THE EFFECTS OF A MISFORTUNE 307
SCARAMOUCHE.
It was a village fair, and Punch with his usual retinue--Judy, the
Beadle, and the Constable--had established himself on one side of the
green; while on the other were to be seen, Martin, the learned ass, and
Peerless Jacquot, the wonderful parrot. Matthieu la Bouteille (such
was the nickname bestowed upon the owner of the ass, a name justified
by the redness of his nose) held Martin by the bridle, while Peerless
Jacquot rested on his shoulder, attached by a chain to his belt. His
wife, surnamed _La Mauricaude_, had undertaken to assemble the company,
and to display Martin's talents. Thomas, the son of La Mauricaude,
a child of eleven years of age, covered with a few rags, which had
once been a pair of trowsers and a shirt, collected, in the remnant
of a hat, the voluntary contributions of the spectators; while in the
background, sad and silent, stood Gervais, a lad of between fourteen
and fifteen years of age, Matthew's son by a former marriage.
"Come, ladies and gentlemen," exclaimed La Mauricaude, in her hoarse
voice, "come and see Martin; he will tell you, ladies and gentlemen,
what you know and what you don't know. Come, ladies and gentlemen, and
hear Peerless Jacquot; he will reply to what you say to him, and to
what you do not say to him." And this joke, constantly repeated by La
Mauricaude in precisely the same tone, always attracted an audience of
pretty nearly the same character.
"Now then, Martin," continued La Mauricaude, as soon as the circle was
formed, "tell this honourable company what o'clock it is." Martin,
whether he did not understand, or did not choose to reply, still
remained motionless. La Mauricaude renewed the question: Martin shook
his ears. "Do you say, Martin, that you cannot see the clock at this
distance?" continued La Mauricaude. "Has any one a watch?" Immediately
an enormous watch was produced from the pocket of a farmer, and placed
under the eyes of Martin, who appeared to consider it attentively.
The whole assembly, like Martin himself, stretched forward with
increased attention. It was just noon by the watch; after a few
moments' reflection, Martin raised his head and uttered three vigorous
_hihons_, to which the crowd responded by a burst of laughter, which
did not in the least appear to disturb Martin. "Oh, oh! Martin," cried
La Mauricaude, "I see you are thinking of three o'clock, the time for
having your oats; but you must wait, so what say you to a game of
cards, in order to pass the time?" And a pack of cards, almost effaced
by dirt, was immediately extracted from a linen bag which hung at La
Mauricaude's right side, and spread out in the midst of the circle,
which drew in closer, in order to enjoy a nearer view of the spectacle
about to be afforded by | 2,193.347406 |
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Produced by Rose Koven, Juliet Sutherland and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: STORY-TELLING TIME
George Cruikshank]
STORIES TO TELL TO
CHILDREN
FIFTY-FOUR STORIES WITH SOME
SUGGESTIONS FOR TELLING
BY
SARA CONE BRYANT
AUTHOR OF "HOW TO TELL STORIES TO CHILDREN"
[Illustration]
LONDON
GEORGE G. HARRAP & CO. LTD.
2 & 3 PORTSMOUTH STREET KINGSWAY W.C.
1918
THE RIVERSIDE PRESS LIMITED, EDINBURGH
GREAT BRITAIN
PREFACE
This little book came into being at the instance of my teaching friends.
Their requests for more stories of the kind which were given in _How to
Tell Stories to Children_, and especially their urging that the stories
they liked, in my telling, should be set down in print, seemed to
justify the hope that the collection would be genuinely useful to them.
That it may be, is the earnest desire with which it is offered. I hope
it will be found to contain some stories which are new to the teachers
and friends of little children, and some which are familiar, but in an
easier form for telling than is usual. And I shall indeed be content if
its value to those who read it is proportionate to the pleasure and
mental stimulus which has come to me in the work among pupils and
teachers which accompanied its preparation.
Among the publishers and authors whose kindness enabled me to quote
material are Mr John Murray and Miss Mary Frere, to whom I am indebted
for the four stories of the Little Jackal; Messrs Little, Brown &
Company and the Alcott heirs, who allowed me the use of Louisa Alcott's
poem, _My Kingdom_; and Dr Douglas Hyde, whose letter of permission to
use his Irish material was in itself a literary treasure. To the
charming friend who gave me the outline of _Epaminondas_, as told her by
her own "Mammy," I owe a deeper debt, for _Epaminondas_ has carried joy
since then into more schools and homes than I dare to enumerate.
And to all the others,--friends in whom the child-heart lingers,--my
thanks for the laughs we have had, the discussions we have warmed to,
the helps you have given. May you never lack the right story at the
right time, or a child to love you for telling it!
SARA CONE BRYANT
CONTENTS
PAGE
SOME SUGGESTIONS FOR THE STORY-TELLER
Additional Suggestions for Method--Two Valuable
Types of Story--A Graded List of Stories to dramatise
and retell 11
STORY-TELLING IN TEACHING ENGLISH
Importance of Oral Methods--Opportunity of the
Primary Grades--Points to be observed in dramatising
and retelling, in connection with English 27
STORIES TO TELL TO CHILDREN
TWO LITTLE RIDDLES IN RHYME 43
THE LITTLE YELLOW TULIP 43
THE COCK-A-DOO-DLE-DOO 45
THE CLOUD 46
THE LITTLE RED HEN 48
THE GINGERBREAD MAN 49
THE LITTLE JACKALS AND THE LION 55
THE COUNTRY MOUSE AND THE CITY MOUSE 58
LITTLE JACK ROLLAROUND 62
HOW BROTHER RABBIT FOOLED THE WHALE AND THE ELEPHANT 66
THE LITTLE HALF-CHICK 70
THE BLACKBERRY-BUSH 74
THE FAIRIES 78
THE ADVENTURES OF THE LITTLE FIELD MOUSE 80
ANOTHER LITTLE RED HEN 83
THE STORY OF THE LITTLE RID HIN 87
THE STORY OF EPAMINONDAS AND HIS AUNTIE 92
THE BOY WHO CRIED "WOLF!" 96
THE FROG KING 97
THE SUN AND THE WIND 99
THE LITTLE JACKAL AND THE ALLIGATOR 100
THE LARKS IN THE CORNFIELD 106
A TRUE STORY ABOUT A GIRL (Louisa Alcott) 108
MY KINGDOM 113
PICCOLA 115
THE LITTLE FIR TREE 116
HOW MOSES WAS SAVED 122
THE TEN FAIRIES 126
THE ELVES AND THE SHOEMAKER 130
WHO KILLED THE OTTER'S BABIES? 133
EARLY 136
THE BRAHMIN, THE TIGER, AND THE JACKAL 137
THE LITTLE JACKAL AND THE CAMEL 144
THE GULLS OF SALT LAKE 147
THE NIGHTINGALE 150
MARGERY'S GARDEN 159
THE LITTLE COTYLEDONS 171
THE TALKATIVE TORTOISE 176
ROBERT OF SICILY 178
THE JEALOUS COURTIERS 185
PRINCE CHERRY 189
THE GOLD IN THE ORCHARD 199
MARGARET OF NEW ORLEANS 200
THE DAGDA'S HARP 204
THE TAILOR AND THE THREE BEASTS 208
HOW THE SEA BECAME SALT 215
THE CASTLE OF FORTUNE 220
DAVID AND GOLIATH 227
THE SHEPHERD'S SONG 233
THE HIDDEN SERVANTS 236
LITTLE GOTTLIEB 243
HOW THE FIR TREE BECAME THE CHRISTMAS TREE 246
THE DIAMOND AND THE DEWDROP 248
SOME SUGGESTIONS FOR THE STORY-TELLER
Concerning the fundamental points of method in telling a story, I have
little to add to the principles which I have already stated[1] as
necessary, in my opinion, in the book of which this is, in a way, the
continuation. But in the two years which have passed since that book was
written, I have had the happiness of working on stories and the telling
of them, among teachers and students in many parts, and in that
experience certain secondary points of method have come to seem more
important, or at least more in need of emphasis, than they did before.
As so often happens, I had assumed that "those things are taken for
granted"; whereas, to the beginner or the teacher not naturally a
story-teller, the secondary or implied technique is often of greater
difficulty than the mastery of underlying principles. The few
suggestions which follow are of this practical, obvious kind.
Take your story seriously. No matter how riotously absurd it is, or how
full of inane repetition, remember, if it is good enough to tell, it is
a real story, and must be treated with respect. If you cannot feel so
toward it, do not tell it. Have faith in the story, and in the attitude
of the children toward it and you. If you fail in this, the immediate
result will be a touch of shamefacedness, affecting your manner
unfavourably, and, probably, influencing your accuracy and imaginative
vividness.
Perhaps I can make the point clearer by telling you about one of the
girls in a class which was studying stories last winter; I feel sure if
she or any of her fellow-students recognises the incident, she will not
resent being made to serve the good cause, even in the unattractive
guise of a warning example.
A few members of the class had prepared the story of _The Fisherman and
his Wife_. The first girl called on was evidently inclined to feel that
it was rather a foolish story. She tried to tell it well, but there were
parts of it which produced in her the touch of shamefacedness to which I
have referred.
When she came to the rhyme,--
"O man of the sea, come, listen to me,
For Alice, my wife, the plague of my life,
Has sent me to beg a boon of thee,"
she said it rather rapidly. At the first repetition she said it still
more rapidly; the next time she came to the jingle she said it so fast
and so low that it was unintelligible; and the next recurrence was too
much for her. With a blush and a hesitating smile she said, "And he said
that same thing, you know!" Of course everybody laughed, and of course
the thread of interest and illusion was hopelessly broken for everybody.
Now, anyone who chanced to hear Miss Shedlock?[A] tell that same story
will remember that the absurd rhyme gave great opportunity for
expression, in its very repetition; each time that the fisherman came to
the water's edge his chagrin and unwillingness were greater, and his
summons to the magic fish mirrored his feeling. The jingle _is_ foolish;
that is a part of the charm. But if the person who tells it _feels_
foolish, there is no charm at all! It is the same principle which
applies to any assemblage: if the speaker has the air of finding what he
has to say absurd or unworthy of effort, the audience naturally tends to
follow his lead, and find it not worth listening to.
Let me urge, then, take your story seriously.
Next, "take your time." This suggestion needs explaining, perhaps. It
does not mean license[A] to dawdle. Nothing is much more annoying in a
speaker than too great deliberateness[A] or than hesitation of speech.
But it means a quiet[A] realisation of the fact that the floor is yours,
everybody wants to hear you, there is time[A] enough for every point and
shade of meaning, and no one will think the story too long. This mental
attitude must underlie proper control of speed | 2,193.348869 |
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Produced by Camille Bernard & Marc D'Hooghe at
http://www.freeliterature.org
THE FREEBOOTERS.
A Story of the Texan War.
BY
GUSTAVE AIMARD,
AUTHOR OF "BORDER RIFLES," "THE INDIAN SCOUT," ETC.
LONDON:
WARD AND LOCK,
158, FLEET STREET.
MDCCCLXI.
PREFACE.
Apart from the thrilling interest of Aimard's new story, which I
herewith offer to English readers, I think it will be accepted with
greater satisfaction, as being an historical record of the last great
contest in which the North Americans were engaged. As at the present
moment everything is eagerly devoured that may tend to throw light on
the impending struggle between North and South, I believe that the story
of "THE FREEBOOTERS," which is rigorously true in its details, will
enable my readers to form a correct opinion of the character of the
Southerners.
The series, of which this volume forms a second link, will be completed
in a third volume, to be called "THE WHITE SCALPER," which contains an
elaborate account of the liberation of Texas, and the memorable battle
of San Jacinto, together with personal adventures of the most
extraordinary character.
L.W.
7, DRAYTON TERRACE,
WEST BROMPTON.
CONTENTS.
I. FRAY ANTONIO
II. INDIAN DIPLOMACY
III. DOWN THE PRECIPICE
IV. TWO ENEMIES
V. GENERAL RUBIO
VI. THE HUNTER'S COUNCIL
VII. AN OLD FRIEND
VIII. QUONIAM'S RETURN
IX. HOSPITALITY
X. THE LARCH-TREE HACIENDA
XI. A METAMORPHOSIS
XII. THE SUMMONS
XIII. THE SIEGE
XIV. THE PROPOSAL
XV. A THUNDERBOLT
XVI. THE CONSPIRATORS
XVII. THE SPY
XVIII. THE PULQUERIA
XIX. AT SEA
XX. THE PRIZE
XXI. A STRANGE LEGEND
XXII. THE SURPRISE
XXIII. EL SALTO DEL FRAYLE
XXIV. THE LANDING
XXV. FORWARD!
CHAPTER I.
FRAY ANTONIO.
All the wood rangers have noticed, with reference to the immense virgin
forests which still cover a considerable extent of the soil of the New
World, that, to the man who attempts to penetrate into one of these
mysterious retreats which the hand of man has not yet deformed, and
which preserve intact the sublime stamp which Deity has imprinted on
them, the first steps offer almost insurmountable difficulties, which
are gradually smoothed down more and more, and after a little while
almost entirely disappear. It is as if Nature had desired to defend by a
belt of thorns and spikes the mysterious shades of these aged forests,
in which her most secret arcana are carried out.
Many times, during our wanderings in America, we were in a position to
appreciate the correctness of the remark we have just made: this
singular arrangement of the forests, surrounded, as it were, by a
rampart of parasitic plants entangled one in the other, and thrusting in
every direction their shoots full of incredible sap, seemed a problem
which offered a certain degree of interest from various points of view,
and especially from that of science.
It is evident to us that the circulation of the air favours the
development of vegetation. The air which circulates freely round a large
extent of ground covered with lofty trees, and is driven by the various
breezes that agitate the atmosphere, penetrates to a certain depth into
the clumps of trees it surrounds, and consequently supplies nourishment
to all the parasitical shrubs vegetation presents to it. But, on
reaching a certain depth under the covert, the air, less frequently
renewed, no longer supplies carbonic acid to all the vegetation that
covers the soil, and which, through the absence of that aliment, pines
away and dies.
This is so true, that those accidents of soil which permit the air a
more active circulation in certain spots, such as the bed of a torrent
or a gorge between two eminences, the entrance of which is open to the
prevailing wind, favour the development of a more luxuriant vegetation
than in flat places.
It is more than probable that Fray Antonio[1] made none of the
reflections with which we begin this chapter, while he stepped silently
and quietly through the trees, leaving the man who had helped him, and
probably saved his life, to struggle as he could with the crowd of
Redskins who attacked him, and against whom he would indubitably have
great difficulty in defending him.
Fray Antonio was no coward; far from it: in several critical
circumstances he had displayed true bravery; but he was a man to whom
the existence he led offered enormous advantages and incalculable
delights. Life seemed to him good, and he did all in his power to spend
it jolly and free from care. Hence, through respect for himself, he was
extremely prudent, only facing danger when it was absolutely necessary;
but at such times, like all men driven into a corner, he became terrible
and really dangerous to those who, in one way or the other, had provoked
in him this explosion of passion.
In Mexico, and generally throughout Spanish America, as the clergy are
only recruited from the poorest class of the population, their ranks
contain men of gross ignorance, and for the most part of more than
doubtful morality. The religious orders, which form nearly one-third of
the population, living nearly independent of all subjection and control,
receive among them people of all sorts, for whom the religious dress
they don is a cloak behind which they give way with perfect liberty to
their vices, of which the most venial are indubitably indolence, luxury,
and intoxication.
Enjoying a great credit with the civilized Indian population, and
greatly respected by them, the monks impudently abuse that halo of
sanctity which surrounds them, in order to shamefully plunder these poor
people under the slightest excuses.
Indeed, blackguardism and demoralisation have attained such a pitch in
these unhappy countries, which are old and decrepit without ever having
been young, that the conduct of the monks, offensive it may seem in the
sight of Europeans, has nothing at all extraordinary for those among
whom they live.
Far from us the thought of leading it to be supposed that among the
Mexican clergy, and even the monks we have so decried, there are not men
worthy of the gown they wear, and convinced of the sanctity of their
mission; we have, indeed, known many of that character; but
unfortunately they form so insignificant a minority, that they must be
regarded as the exception.
Fray Antonio was assuredly no better or worse than the other monks whose
gown he wore; but, unluckily for him, for some time past fatality
appeared to have vented its spite on him, and mixed him up, despite his
firm will, in events, not only opposed to his character but to his
habits, which led him into a multitude of tribulations each more
disagreeable than the other, and which were beginning to make him
consider that life extremely bitter, which he had hitherto found so
pleasant.
The atrocious mystification of which John Davis had rendered the poor
monk a victim, had especially spread a gloomy haze over his hitherto so
gay mind; a sad despondency had seized upon him; and it was with a heavy
and uncertain step that he fled through the forest, although, excited by
the sounds of combat that still reached his ear, he made haste to get
off, through fear of falling into the hands of the Redskins, if they
proved the victors.
Night surprised poor Fray Antonio ere he had reached the skirt of this
forest, which seemed to him interminable. Naturally anything but
hard-working, and not at all used to desert life, the monk found himself
greatly embarrassed when he saw the sun disappear on the horizon in a
mist of purple and gold, and the darkness almost instantaneously cover
the earth. Unarmed, without means of lighting a fire, half-dead with
hunger and alarm, the monk took a long glance of despair around him, | 2,193.451898 |
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Produced by David Widger
THE ADVENTURE OF ELIZABETH MOREY, OF NEW YORK
From "The Tapu Of Banderah and Other Stories"
By Louis Becke
C. Arthur Pearson Ltd.
1901
In the sea story of Australia, from the days of Captain Phillip in 1788,
to the end of the "fifties" in the present century, American ships and
seamen have no little part. First they came into the harbour of Sydney
Cove as traders carrying provisions for sale to the half-starved
settlers, then as whalers, and before another thirty years had passed,
the starry banner might be met with anywhere in the Pacific, from the
sterile shores of the Aleutian Islands to the coasts of New Zealand and
Tasmania.
Early one morning in October, 1804, the American ship _Union_ sailed in
through Sydney Heads, and dropped anchor in the Cove. She was last from
Tongatabu, the principal island of the Friendly Group. As soon as she
had been boarded by the naval officer in charge of the port, and her
papers examined, the master stated that he had had a very exciting
adventure with the Tongatabu natives, who had attempted to cut off the
ship, and that there was then on board a young woman named Elizabeth
Morey, whom he had rescued from captivity among the savages.
In a few minutes the young woman made her appearance in the main cabin,
and was introduced to the officer. Her age was about six-and-twenty,
and her manners "extremely engaging;" yet whilst she expressed her
willingness to tell the story of her adventures among the islanders, she
declined to say anything of her birth or parentage beyond the fact that
she was a native of New York, and some years previously had made her way
to the Cape of Good Hope.
Her extraordinary narrative was borne out in all details as far as her
rescue was concerned by the master of the _Union_, who, she said, had
treated her with undeviating kindness and respect.
This is her story:--
In February of the year 1802, when she was living at the Cape of Good
Hope, she made the acquaintance of a Captain Melton, the master of
the American ship _Portland_. His dashing appearance, his command of
apparently unlimited money, and his protestations of affection for the
unfortunate girl soon led her to respond to his advances, and ultimately
to consent to accompany him on a voyage to the islands of the South
Pacific.
After a prosperous voyage the _Portland_ arrived at what is now known as
Nukualofa Harbour, on the Island of Tongatabu. Within a few hours after
anchoring, Captain Melton received a note from a white man named Doyle,
who was the only European living on the island, asking him to come on
shore and visit the chief, who particularly wished to see him and secure
his aid in repelling an invasion from the neighbouring group of islands
known as Haabai. Had Melton known that this man Doyle was an escaped
convict from Van Dieman's Land, he would at least have been careful; had
he known that the man was, in addition, a treacherous and bloodthirsty
villain, he would have hove-up anchor, and, sailing away, escaped his
fate. But Doyle, in his note, enumerated the advantages that would
accrue to him (Melton) by assisting the chief, and the seaman fell into
the trap. "You must try," said the writer of the letter, "to send at
least one boat's crew well armed."
Melton was a man with an elastic conscience. Without troubling his head
as to the right or wrong side of this quarrel among savages, he promptly
complied with the request of the beachcomber, and called for volunteers;
the whole of the ship's company responded. The chief mate, Gibson,
picked four men; Anderson, the second officer, eight men, and these were
at once despatched on shore by the captain.
The engagement came off on the following day, and the American allies
of the chief (whom Miss Morey calls Ducara) inflicted fearful slaughter
upon the enemy, and returned to the ship highly satisfied with
themselves, and their native friends, who promised them every indulgence
likely to gratify their tastes.
In the evening Ducara himself came on board, and politely thanked the
captain for his assistance. He slept all night in the cuddy, attended
by Doyle, his minister of destruction, and took his leave early in the
morning, promising to send ample refreshments on board in part return
for favours received, and requesting that boats should be sent that
evening to convey his gifts to the ship. Within a few hours after the | 2,193.950662 |
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Text file produced by Jonathan Ingram, David Widger and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team
HELEN
By Maria Edgeworth
Tales And Novels
In Ten Volumes
With Engravings On Steel
Vol. X.
1857
CONTENTS
HELEN
VOLUME THE FIRST.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
VOLUME THE SECOND.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV.
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII.
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII.
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
CHAPTER XVI.
VOLUME THE THIRD.
CHAPTER I.
CHAPTER II.
CHAPTER III.
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V.
CHAPTER VI.
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII.
CHAPTER IX.
CHAPTER X.
CHAPTER XI.
CHAPTER XII.
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV.
CHAPTER XV.
HELEN
VOLUME THE FIRST.
CHAPTER I.
“There is Helen in the lime-walk,” said Mrs. Collingwood to her husband,
as she looked out of the window. The slight figure of a young person in
deep mourning appeared between the trees,--“ | 2,194.045518 |
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Produced by Pat McCoy, Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
TRANSCRIBER NOTES:
Words in italics are indicated with an underscore (_) at the begining
and end. Words in bold are indicated with an equal sign (=) at the
begining and end. Subscripts contained in chemical notations are
indicated as _{ }.
The table on page 32 has been modified to fit by the use of
keys to replace some of the information.
U. S. DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE.
BUREAU OF PLANT INDUSTRY--BULLETIN NO. 129.
B. T. GALLOWAY, _Chief of Bureau_.
BARIUM, A CAUSE OF THE
LOCO-WEED DISEASE.
BY
ALBERT C. CRAWFORD,
PHARMACOLOGIST, POISONOUS-PLANT INVESTIGATIONS.
ISSUED AUGUST 22, 1908.
[Illustration]
WASHINGTON:
GOVERNMENT PRINTING OFFICE.
1908.
BUREAU OF PLANT INDUSTRY.
_Physiologist and Pathologist, and Chief of Bureau_,
Beverly T. Galloway.
_Physiologist and Pathologist, and Assistant Chief of Bureau_,
Albert F. Woods.
_Laboratory of Plant Pathology_,
Erwin F. Smith, Pathologist in Charge.
_Investigations of Diseases of Fruits_,
Merton B. Waite, Pathologist in Charge.
_Laboratory of Forest Pathology_,
Haven Metcalf, Pathologist in Charge.
_Cotton and Truck Diseases and Plant Disease Survey_,
William A. Orton, Pathologist in Charge.
_Plant Life History Investigations_,
Walter T. Swingle, Physiologist in Charge.
_Cotton Breeding Investigations_,
Archibald D. Shamel and Daniel N. Shoemaker, Physiologists in
Charge.
_Tobacco Investigations_,
Archibald D. Shamel, Wightman W. Garner, and Ernest H. Mathewson,
in Charge.
_Corn Investigations_,
Charles P. Hartley, Physiologist in Charge.
_Alkali and Drought Resistant Plant Breeding Investigations_,
Thomas H. Kearney, Physiologist in Charge.
_Soil Bacteriology and Water Purification Investigations_,
Karl F. Kellerman, Physiologist in Charge.
_Bionomic Investigations of Tropical and Subtropical Plants_,
Orator F. Cook, Bionomist in Charge.
_Drug and Poisonous Plant Investigations and Tea Culture
Investigations_, Rodney H. True, Physiologist in Charge.
_Physical Laboratory_,
Lyman J. Briggs, Physicist in Charge.
_Crop Technology and Fiber Plant Investigations_,
Nathan A. Cobb, Crop Technologist in Charge.
_Taxonomic and Range Investigations_,
Frederick V. Coville, Botanist in Charge.
_Farm Management Investigations_,
William J. Spillman, Agriculturist in Charge.
_Grain Investigations_,
Mark Alfred Carleton, Cerealist in Charge.
_Arlington Experimental Farm_,
Lee C. Corbett, Horticulturist in Charge.
_Vegetable Testing Gardens_,
William W. Tracy, sr., Superintendent.
_Sugar-Beet Investigations_,
Charles O. Townsend, Pathologist in Charge.
_Western Agricultural Extension Investigations_,
Carl S. Scofield, Agriculturist in Charge.
_Dry-Land Agriculture Investigations_,
E. Channing Chilcott, Agriculturist in Charge.
_Pomological Collections_,
Gustavus B. Brackett, Pomologist in Charge.
_Field Investigations in Pomology_,
William A. Taylor and G. Harold Powell, Pomologists in Charge.
_Experimental Gardens and Grounds_,
Edward N. Byrnes, Superintendent.
_Foreign Seed and Plant Introduction_,
David Fairchild, Agricultural Explorer in Charge.
_Forage Crop Investigations_,
Charles V. Piper, Agrostologist in Charge.
_Seed Laboratory_,
Edgar Brown, Botanist in Charge.
_Grain Standardization_,
John D. Shanahan, Crop Technologist in Charge.
_Subtropical Laboratory and Garden, Miami, Fla._,
Ernst A. Bessey, Pathologist in Charge.
_Plant Introduction Garden, Chico, Cal._,
W. W. Tracy, jr., Assistant Botanist in Charge.
_South Texas Garden, Brownsville, Tex._,
Edward C. Green, Pomologist in Charge.
_Farmers' Cooperative Demonstration Work_,
Seaman A. Knapp, Special Agent in Charge.
_Seed Distribution_ (Directed by Chief of Bureau),
Lisle Morrison, Assistant in General Charge.
_Editor_, J. E. Rockwell.
_Chief Clerk_, James E. Jones.
POISONOUS-PLANT INVESTIGATIONS.
SCIENTIFIC STAFF.
Rodney H. True, _Physiologist in Charge_.
C. Dwight Marsh, _Expert in Charge of Field Investigations_.
Albert C. Crawford, _Pharmacologist_.
Arthur B. Clawson, _Expert in Field Investigations_.
Ivar Tidestrom, _Assistant Botanist, in Cooperation with Forest
Service_.
LETTER OF TRANSMITTAL.
U. S. DEPARTMENT OF AGRICULTURE,
BUREAU OF PLANT INDUSTRY,
OFFICE OF THE CHIEF,
_Washington, D. C., April 10, 1908_.
SIR: I have the honor to transmit herewith the manuscript of a technical
bulletin entitled "Barium, a Cause of the Loco-Weed Disease," prepared
by Dr. A. C. Crawford, Pharmacologist, under the direction of Dr. Rodney
H. True, Physiologist in Charge of Poisonous-Plant Investigations, and
to recommend that it be published as Bulletin No. 129 of the series of
this Bureau.
For many years the stockmen in many parts of the West have reported
disastrous consequences following the eating of so-called loco weeds
characteristic of the regions involved. While many have doubted any
causal relation between the plants | 2,194.045738 |
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Produced by Paul Marshall, Malcolm Farmer and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 107.
August 11, 1894.
LORD ORMONT'S MATE AND MATEY'S AMINTA.
BY G***GE M*R*D*TH.
VOLUME III.
And now the climax comes not with tongue-lolling sheep-fleece wolves,
ears on top remorselessly pricked for slaughter of the bleating imitated
lamb, here a fang pointing to nethermost pit not of stomach but of
Acheron, tail waving in derision of wool-bearers whom the double-rowed
desiring mouth soon shall grip, food for mamma-wolf and baby-wolf,
papa-wolf looking on, licking chaps expectant of what shall remain; and
up goes the clamour of flocks over the country-side, and up goes howling
of shepherds shamefully tricked by AEsop-fable artifice or doggish
dereliction of primary duty; for a watch has been set through which the
wolf-enemy broke paws on the prowl; and the King feels this, and the
Government, a slab-faced jubber-mubber of contending punies,
party-voters to the front, conscience lagging how far behind no man can
tell, and the country forgotten, a lout dragging his chaw-bacon hobnails
like a flask-fed snail housed safely, he thinks, in unbreakable shell
soon to be broken, and no man's fault, while the slow country sinks to
the enemy, ships bursting, guns jammed, and a dull shadow of defeat on a
war-office drifting to the tide-way of unimagined back-stops on a lumpy
cricket-field of national interests. But this was a climax revealed to
the world. The Earl was deaf to it. Lady CHARLOTTE dumbed it
surprisingly. Change the spelling, put a for u and n for b in the
dumbed, and you have the way MORSFIELD mouthed it, and MATEY swimming
with BROWNY full in the Harwich tide; head under heels up down they go
in Old Ocean, a glutton of such embraces, lapping softly on a pair of
white ducks tar-stained that very morning and no mistake.
"I have you fast!" cried MATEY.
"Two and two's four," said BROWNY. She slipped. "_Are_ four," corrected
he, a tutor at all times, boys and girls taken in and done for, and no
change given at the turnstiles.
"Catch as catch can," was her next word. Plop went a wave full in the
rosy mouth. "Where's the catch of this?" stuttered the man.
"A pun, a pun!" bellowed the lady. "But not by four-in-hand from
London."
She had him there. He smiled a blue acquiescence. So they landed, and
the die was cast, ducks changed, and the goose-pair braving it in dry
clothes by the kitchen fire. There was nothing else to be done; for the
answer confessed to a dislike of immersions two at a time, and the hair
clammy with salt like cottage-bacon on a breakfast-table.
Lord ORMONT sat with the jewels seized from the debating, unbeaten
sister's grasp.
"She is at Marlow," he opined.
"Was," put in Lady CHARLOTTE.
The answer blew him for memory.
"MORSFIELD's dead," his lordship ventured; "jobbed by a foil with button
off."
"And a good job too."
Lady CHARLOTTE was ever on the crest-wave of the moment's humour. He
snicked a back-stroke to the limits, shaking the sparse hair of
repentance to the wind of her jest. But the unabashed one continued.
"I'll not call on her."
"You shall," said he.
"Shan't," was her lightning-parry.
"You shall," he persisted.
"Never. Her head is a water-flower that speaks at ease in the open sea.
How call on a woman with a head like that?"
The shock struck him fair and square.
"We wait," he said, and the conflict closed with advantage to the
petticoat.
A footman bore a letter. His step was of the footman order, calves
stuffed to a longed-for bulbousness, food for donkeys if any such should
chance: he presented it.
"I wait," he murmured.
"Whence and whither comes it?"
"Postmark may tell."
"Best open it," said the cavalry general, ever on the dash for open
country where squadrons may deploy right shoulders up, serre-files in
rear, and a hideous clatter of serjeant-majors spread over all. He
opened it. It was AMINTA's letter. She announced a French leave-taking.
The footman still stood. Lord ORMONT broke the silence.
"Go and be----" the words quivered into completion, supply the blank who
will.
But her punishment was certain. For it must be thus. Never a lady left
her wedded husband, but she must needs find herself weighted with charge
of his grand-nephew. Cuckoo-tutor sits in General's nest, General's wife
to bear him company, and lo! the General brings a grand-nephew to the
supplanter, convinced of nobility beyond petty conventions of
divorce-court rigmarole. So the world wags wilful to the offshoot,
lawn-mowers grating, grass flying, and perspiring gardener slow in his
shirt-sleeves primed with hope of beer that shall line his lean ribs at
supper-time, nine o'clock is it, or eight--parishes vary, and a wife at
home has rules. A year later he wrote--
"SIR,--Another novel is on hand. Likely you will purchase. Readers gape
for it. Better than acrostics, they say, fit for fifty puzzle-pages.
What price?
"G***GE M*R*D*TH."
THE END.
* * * * *
[Illustration: NO END TO HIS INIQUITIES.
(_From a Yorkshire Moor._)
_Sportsman (awaiting the morrow, and meeting Keeper as he strolls
round)._ "WELL, RODGERS, THINGS LOOK FAIRLY HOPEFUL FOR TOMORROW, EH?"
_Rodgers (strong Tory)._ "WELL, SIR, MIDLIN', PRETTY MIDLIN'. BUT, OH
DEAR, IT'S AWK'ARD THIS 'ERE TWELFTH BEIN' FIXED OF A SUNDAY!" (_With
much wisdom._) "NOW, MIGHT MR. GLADSTONE HA' HAD HANYTHING TO DO WI'
THAT ARRANGEMENT, SIR?" ]
* * * * *
THE MARCH OF CIVILISATION.
(_From a Record in the Far East._)
_Step One._--The nation takes to learning the English language.
_Step Two._--Having learned the English language, the nation begins to
read British newspapers.
_Step Three._--Having mastered the meaning of the leaders, the nation
start a Parliament.
_Step Four._--Having got a Parliament, the nation establishes school
boards, railways, stockbrokers, and penny ices.
_Step Five._--Having become fairly civilised, the nation takes up art
and commerce.
_Step Six._--Having realised considerable wealth, the nation purchases
any amount of ironclads, heavy ordnance, and ammunition.
_Step Seven._--Having the means within reach, the nation indulges in a
terrific war.
_Step Eight and Last._--Having lost everything, the nation returns with
a sigh of relief to old-fashioned barbarism.
[Illustration: THE TRIUMPH OF CIVILISATION!]
* * * * *
[Illustration: A HINT TO THE POSTAL AUTHORITIES.
THE EMPLOYMENT OF GOOD-LOOKING AND ATTRACTIVE YOUNG MEN IN CLEARING THE
LETTER-BOXES UNDOUBTEDLY RESULTS IN FREQUENT DETENTION OF THE MAILS.]
* * * * *
EASTWARD HO!
"Oh East is East, and West is West," says strenuous RUDYARD KIPLING,
And what has the West taught to the East,
save the science of war, and tippling?
To ram, and to torpedo, and to drain Drink's poisoned flagons?
And Civilisation sees her work in--armour-plated Dragons!
The saurians of primeval slime they fought with tooth and claw,
And SHO-KI'S dragon, though possessed of wondrous powers of jaw,
And MIOCHIN'S scaly monster, whereat SHO-KI'S pluck might melt,
And the dragon speared by stout St. George in the bold cartoons
of SKELT,--
These were but simple monsters, like the giants slain by JACK,
But your dragon cased in armour-plate with turrets on his back,
And a charged torpedo twisted in his huge and horrid tail.
Is a thing to stagger Science, and to make poor Peace turn pale!
Yes, East is East, and West is West; but the West looks on the East,
And sees the bold <DW61> summoning to War's wild raven-feast
The saffron-faced Celestial; and the game they're going to play
(With a touch of Eastern goriness) in the wicked Western way.
For the yellow-man has borrowed from the white-man all that's bad,
From shoddy and fire-water, to the costly Ironclad.
He will not have our Bibles, but he welcomes our Big Guns,
And he blends with the wild savagery of Vandals, Goths or Huns,
The scientific slaughter of the Blood-and-Iron Teuton!--
A sight that Civilisation would right willingly be mute on.
But these armour-plated dragons that infest the Yellow Sea
Are worse than the Norse "Dragons" whose black raven flag flew free
O'er fiord and ocean-furrow in the valorous Viking days.
Heathen Chinee and Pagan <DW61> have learned our Western ways
Of multitudinous bloodshed; every slaughtering appliance,
Devices of death-dealing skill, and deviltries of Science
Strengthen the stealthy Mongol and the sanguinary Turk;
And Civilisation stands, and stares, and cries,
"Is this _my_ work?"
* * * * *
Mem. by a Muddled One.
"Poems in Prose" seem all the go.
_They_'re bad enough, but worse
The dreary hotch-potch we all know
Too sadly;--prose in verse!
* * * * *
OLD THREE-VOL.
There rose two Book-Kings in the West,
Two Kings both great and high;
And they have sworn a solemn oath
Good old Three-Vol. shall die.
They took a pen and wrote him down,
Piled sins upon his head;
And they have sworn a solemn oath
Good old Three-Vol. is dead.
But when "the Season" comes once more,
And folks for fiction call,
Old Three-Vol. _may_ rise up again,
And sore surprise them all!
* * * * *
REMNANTS.
(_A Pindaric Fragment._)
In the young season's prime
Yon remnant felt its major portion reft,
And waited for the surplus time
Ingloriously left.
For it no glories of the lawn,
No whirling in the valse that greets the dawn,
No record in the fleeting roll of fame
That gives the wearer's name,
And tells a waiting world what gown she wore;
While that which went before
No cheaply-sober destiny has found
But graced fair Fashion's ground,
Where Pleasure, gaily deck'd,
Within the fancied circle of select,
Watches the Polo cavalry at war,
The victim pigeons tumbled in their gore,
The rival Blues at Lord's, the racing steeds
On Ascot's piney meads,
Or where luxuriant Goodwood's massy trees
Murmur to no common breeze,
And see afar the glint of England's summer seas.
Impute no fault, ye proud, nor grandeur mock,
If frugal Elegance, discreet and fair,
The aftermath of lavish Fashion reap,
And, having waited long with nought to wear,
Get the same goods, though late, and get them cheap.
Next year the daintiest gowns by lawn and lock
May haply be the fruit of surplus summer stock.
* * * * *
POPE FOR THE EMANCIPATED SEX.--"The understudy of mankind is woman."
* * * * *
LYRE AND LANCET.
(_A Story in Scenes._)
PART VI.--ROUND PEGS IN SQUARE HOLES.
SCENE IX.--_The Entrance Hall at Wyvern._
_Tredwell_ (_to_ Lady CANTIRE). This way, if you please, my lady. Her
ladyship is in the Hamber Boudwore.
_Lady Cantire._ Wait. (_She looks round._) What has become of that young
Mr. ANDROM----? (_Perceiving_ SPURRELL, _who has been modestly
endeavouring to efface himself._) Ah, _there_ he is! Now, come along,
and be presented to my sister-in-law. She'll be enchanted to know you!
_Spurrell._ But indeed, my lady I--I think I'd better wait till she
sends for me.
_Lady Cant._ Wait? Fiddlesticks! What! A famous young man like you!
Remember _Andromeda_, and don't make yourself so ridiculous!
_Spurr._ (_miserably_). Well, Lady CANTIRE, if her ladyship _says_
anything, I hope you'll bear me out that it wasn't----
_Lady Cant._ Bear you out? My good young man, you seem to need somebody
to bear you _in_! Come, you are under My wing. _I_ answer for your
welcome--so do as you're told.
_Spurr._ (_to himself, as he follows resignedly_). It's my belief
there'll be a jolly row when I _do_ go in; but it's not my fault!
_Tred._ (_opening the door of the Amber Boudoir_), Lady CANTIRE and Lady
MAISIE MULL. (_To_ SPURRELL.) What name, if you please, Sir?
_Spurr._ (_dolefully_). You can say "JAMES SPURRELL"--you needn't
_bellow_ it, you know!
_Tred._ (_ignoring this suggestion_). Mr. JAMES SPURRELL.
_Spurr._ (_to himself, on the threshold_). If I don't get the chuck for
this, I _shall_ be surprised, that's all!
[_He enters._
[Illustration: "What name, if you please, Sir?"]
SCENE X.--_In a Fly._
_Undershell_ (_to himself_). Alone with a lovely girl, who has no
suspicion, as yet, that I am the poet whose songs have thrilled her with
admiration! _Could_ any situation be more romantic? I think I must keep
up this little mystification as long as possible.
_Phillipson_ (_to herself_). I wonder who he is. _Somebody's_ Man, I
suppose. I do believe he's struck with me. Well, I've no objection. I
don't see why I shouldn't forget JIM now and then--he's quite forgotten
me! (_Aloud._) They might have sent a decent carriage for us instead of
this ramshackle old summerhouse. We shall be _hours_ getting to the
house at this rate!
_Und._ (_gallantly_). For my part, I care not how long we may be. I feel
so unspeakably content to be where I am.
_Phill._ (_disdainfully_). In this mouldy, lumbering old concern? You
must be rather easily contented, then!
_Und._ (_dreamily_). It travels only too swiftly. To me it is a
veritable enchanted car, drawn by a magic steed.
_Phill._ I don't know whether he's magic--but I'm sure he's lame. And I
shouldn't call stuffiness _enchantment_ myself.
_Und._ I'm not prepared to deny the stuffiness. But cannot you guess
what has transformed this vehicle for me--in spite of its undeniable
shortcomings--or must I speak more plainly still?
_Phill._ Well, considering the shortness of our acquaintance, I must say
you've spoken quite plainly enough as it is!
_Und._ I know I must seem unduly expansive, and wanting in reserve; and
yet that is not my true disposition. In general, I feel an almost
fastidious shrinking from strangers----
_Phill._ (_with a little laugh_). Really, I shouldn't have thought it!
_Und._ Because, in the present case, I do not--I cannot--feel as if we
_were_ strangers. Some mysterious instinct led me, almost from the
first, to associate you with a certain Miss MAISIE MULL.
_Phill._ Well, I wonder how you discovered _that_. Though you shouldn't
have said "Miss"--_Lady_ MAISIE MULL is the name.
_Und._ (_to himself_). Lady MAISIE MULL! I attach no meaning to
titles--and yet nothing but rank could confer such perfect ease and
distinction. (_Aloud._) I should have said _Lady_ MAISIE MULL,
undoubtedly--forgive my ignorance. But at least I have divined you. Does
nothing tell you who and what _I_ may be?
_Phill._ Oh, I think I can give a tolerable guess at what _you_ are.
_Und._ You recognise the stamp of the Muse upon me, then?
_Phill._ Well, I shouldn't have taken you for a _groom_ exactly.
_Und._ (_with some chagrin_). You are really too flattering!
_Phill._ Am I? Then it's your turn now. You might say you'd never have
taken me for a _lady's maid_!
_Und._ I might--if I had any desire to make an unnecessary and insulting
remark.
_Phill._ Insulting? Why, it's what I _am_! I'm maid to Lady MAISIE. I
thought your mysterious instinct told you all about it?
_Und._ (_to himself--after the first shock_). A lady's maid! Gracious
Heaven! What have I been saying--or rather, what _haven't_ I? (_Aloud._)
To--to be sure it did. Of course, I quite understand _that_. (_To
himself_). Oh, confound it all, I wish we were at Wyvern!
_Phill._ And, after all, you've never told me who _you_ are. Who _are_
you?
_Und._ (_to himself_). I must not humiliate this poor girl! (_Aloud._)
I? Oh--a very insignificant person, I assure you! (_To himself._) This
is an occasion in which deception is pardonable--even justifiable!
_Phill._ Oh, I knew _that_. But you let out just now you had to do with
a Mews. You aren't a rough-rider, are you?
_Und._ N--not _exactly_--not a _rough_-rider. (_To himself._) Never on a
horse in my life!--unless I count my _Pegasus_. (_Aloud._) But you are
right in supposing I am connected with a muse--in one sense.
_Phill._ I _said_ so, didn't I? Don't you think it was rather clever of
me to spot you, when you're not a bit horsey-looking?
_Und._ (_with elaborate irony_). Accept my compliments on a power of
penetration which is simply phenomenal!
_Phill._ (_giving him a little push_). Oh, go along--it's all talk with
you--I don't believe you mean a word you say!
_Und._ (_to himself_). She's becoming absolutely vulgar. (_Aloud._) I
don't--I _don't_; it's a manner I have; you mustn't attach any
importance to it--none whatever!
_Phill._ What! Not to all those high-flown compliments? Do you mean to
tell me you're only a gay deceiver, then?
_Und._ (_in horror_). Not a _deceiver_, no; and decidedly not _gay_. I
mean I _did_ mean the _compliments_, of course. (_To himself._) I
mustn't let her suspect anything, or she'll get talking about it; it
would be too horrible if this were to get round to Lady MAISIE or the
CULVERINS--so undignified; and it would ruin all my _prestige_! Ive only
to go on playing a part for a few minutes, and--maid or not--she's a
most engaging girl!
[_He goes on playing the part, with the unexpected result of sending
Miss_ PHILLIPSON _into fits of uncontrollable laughter._
SCENE XI.--_The Back Entrance at Wyvern._
_The Fly has just set down_ PHILLIPSON _and_ UNDERSHELL.
_Tredwell_ (_receiving_ PHILLIPSON). Lady MAISIE'S maid, I presume? I'm
the butler here--Mr. TREDWELL. Your ladies arrived some time back. I'll
take you to the housekeeper, who'll show you their rooms, and where
yours is, and I hope you'll find everything comfortable. (_In an
undertone, indicating_ UNDERSHELL, _who is awaiting recognition in the
doorway._) Do you happen to know who it is _with_ you?
_Phillipson_ (_in a whisper_). I can't quite make him out he's so
flighty in his talk. But he _says_ he belongs to some Mews or other.
_Tred._ Oh, then _I_ know who he is. We expect him right enough. He's a
partner in a crack firm of Vets. We've sent for him special. I'd better
see to him, if you don't mind finding your own way to the Housekeeper's
Room, second door to the left, down that corridor. (PHILLIPSON
_departs_.) Good morning to you, Mr.--ah--Mr.----?
_Undershell_ (_coming forward_). Mr. UNDERSHELL. Lady CULVERIN expects
me, I believe.
Tred. Quite correct, Mr. UNDERSHELL, Sir. She do. Leastwise, I shouldn't
say myself she'd require to see you--well, not _before_ to-morrow
morning--but you won't mind _that_, I daresay.
_Und._ (_choking_). Not mind that! Take me to her at once!
_Tred._ Couldn't take it on myself, Sir, really. There's no particular
'urry. I'll let her ladyship know you're 'ere; and if she wants you,
she'll send for you; but, with a party staying in the 'ouse, and others
dining with us to-night, it ain't likely as she'll have time for you
till to-morrow.
_Und._ Oh then, whenever her ladyship should find leisure to recollect
my existence, will you have the goodness to inform her that I have taken
the liberty of returning to town by the next train?
_Tred._ Lor! Mr. UNDERSHELL, you aren't so pressed as all _that_, are
you? I know my lady wouldn't like you to go without seeing you
personally; no more wouldn't Sir RUPERT. And I understood you was coming
down for the Sunday!
_Und._ (_furious_). So did _I_--but not to be treated like this!
_Tred._ (_soothingly_). Why, _you_ know what ladies are. And you
couldn't see _Deerfoot_--not properly, to-night, either.
_Und._ I have seen enough of this place already. I intend to go back by
the next train, I tell you.
_Tred._ But there _ain't_ any next train up to-night--being a loop
line--not to mention that I've sent the fly away, and they can't spare
no one at the stables to drive you in. Come Sir, make the best of it.
I've had my horders to see that you're made comfortable, and Mrs.
POMFRET and me will expect the pleasure of your company at supper in the
'ousekeeper's room, 9.30 sharp. I'll send the Steward's Room Boy to show
you to your room.
[_He goes, leaving_ UNDERSHELL _speechless._
_Und._ (_almost foaming_). The insolence of these cursed aristocrats!
Lady CULVERIN will see me when she has time, forsooth! I am to be
entertained in the servants' hall! _This_ is how our upper classes
honour poetry! I won't stay a single hour under their infernal roof.
I'll walk. But where _to_? And how about my luggage?
[PHILLIPSON _returns._
_Phill._ Mr. TREDWELL says you want to go already! It _can't_ be true!
Without even waiting for supper?
_Und._ (_gloomily_). Why should I wait for supper in this house?
_Phill._ Well, _I_ shall be there; I don't know if _that_'s any
inducement.
[_She looks down._
_Und._ (_to himself_). She is a singularly bewitching creature; and I'm
starving. Why _shouldn't_ I stay--if only to shame these CULVERINS? It
will be an experience--a study in life. I can always go afterwards. I
_will_ stay. (_Aloud._) You little know the sacrifice you ask of me, but
enough; I give way. We shall meet--(_with a gulp_)--in the housekeeper's
room!
_Phill._ (_highly amused_). You _are_ a comical little man. You'll be
the death of me if you go on like that!
[_She flits away._
_Und._ (_alone_). I feel disposed to be the death of _somebody!_ Oh,
Lady MAISIE MULL, to what a bathos have you lured your poet by your
artless flattery--a banquet with your aunt's butler!
* * * * *
[Illustration: ARTFUL.
_Mamma (to Johnny, who has been given a Pear with Pills artfully
concealed in it)._ "WELL, DEAR, HAVE YOU FINISHED YOUR PEAR?"
_Johnny._ "YES, MAMMA, ALL BUT THE SEEDS!"]
* * * * *
A BETTING MAN ON CRICKET.
Cricket may be a _game_, but I can't call it sport,
For "the odds" at it aren't to be reckoned.
There the last's often first ere you come into port,
While the first is quite frequently second.
| 2,194.04813 |
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Produced by Camille Bernard and Marc D'Hooghe at
http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made
available by the Oxford Bodleian Library)
THE BEE HUNTERS
A TALE OF ADVENTURE
BY
GUSTAVE AIMARD
AUTHOR OF "STONEHEART," "SMUGGLER CHIEF," ETC., ETC.
LONDON:
CHARLES HENRY CLARKE, 13 PATERNOSTER ROW.
1865
CONTENTS.
I. A MEETING IN THE FAR WEST
II. IN THE FOREST
III. THE CALLI
IV. SUPERFICIAL REMARKS
V. CONFIDENTIAL CHAT
VI. THE JOURNEY
VII. THE SKIRMISH
VIII. THE PUEBLO (THE TOWN)
IX. DONA HERMOSA
X. EL AS DE COPAS (THE ACE OF HEARTS)
XI. THE RANCHO
XII. THE REDSKINS
XIII. THE MIDNIGHT MEETING
XIV. DON ESTEVAN DIAZ
XV. DON GUZMAN DE RIBERA
XVI. THE POST HOUSE IN THE PAMPAS
XVII. A DELICATE FEDERAL ATTENTION
XVIII. TREACHERY
XIX. THE END OF THE STORY
CHAPTER I.
A MEETING IN THE FAR WEST.
Since the discovery of the goldfields in California and on the
Fraser River, North America has entered into a phase of such active
transformation, civilisation has advanced with such giant strides,
that only one region is still extant--a region of which very little
is known--where the poet, or the dreamer who delights in surrounding
himself with the glories of nature, can revel in the grandeur and
majesty, which are the great characteristics of the mysterious
savannahs.
It is the only country, nowadays, where such men can sate themselves
with the contemplation of those immense oceans of alternate verdure and
sand, which spread themselves out in striking contrast, yet wonderful
harmony,--expanding, boundless, solemn, silent, and threatening, under
the eye of the omnipotent Creator.
This region, in which the sound of the squatter's axe has not yet
roused the slumbering echoes, is called the Far West.
Here the Indians still reign as masters, tracing paths on rapid
mustangs, as untamed as their riders, through the vast solitudes, whose
mysteries are known only to themselves; hunting the bison and wild
horse, waging war with each other, or pursuing with deadly enmity, the
white hunters and trappers daring enough to venture into this last
formidable refuge of the redskins.
On the 27th July, 1858, about three hours before sunset, a cavalier,
mounted on a magnificent mustang, was carelessly following the banks of
the Rio Bermejo, a tributary of the Rio Grande del Norte, into which
it falls after a course of from seventy to eighty leagues across the
desert.
This cavalier, clad in the leather dress worn by Mexican hunters, was,
as far as one could judge, a man not more than thirty years of age,
of tall and well-knit frame, and graceful in manner and action. His
face was proud and determined; and his hardy features, stamped with
an expression of frankness and good nature, inspired, at first sight,
respect and sympathy.
His blue eyes, soft and mild as a woman's; the thick curls of blonde
hair, which escaped in masses from under the brim of his cap of vicuna
skin, and wantoned in disorder on his shoulders; the sallowish white
of his skin, very different from the olive tint, approaching to bronze,
peculiar to the Mexicans,--all these would lead one to surmise that he
had not first seen the light under the hot sun of Spanish America.
This man, who was to all appearance so peaceable and so little to be
dreaded, concealed, under a slightly effeminate exterior, a courage
which nothing could daunt, nor even startle: the delicate and almost
diaphanous skin of his white hands, with their rosy nails, served as a
covering to nerves of steel.
At the moment of which we speak this personage seemed to be half-asleep
in his saddle, and allowed his mustang to choose his own pace; and the
beast, profiting by a liberty to which he was not accustomed, nibbled
off with the tips of his lips the blades of sun-dried grass he met with
on his road.
The place where our cavalier found himself was a plain of tolerable
extent, cut into two nearly equal parts by the Rio Bermejo, whose banks
were steep, and here and there strewn with bare, gray rocks.
This plain was enclosed between two chains of hills, rising to right
and left in successive undulations, until they formed at the horizon
high peaks covered with snow, on which the purple splendours of sunset
were playing.
However, in spite of the real or pretended somnolence of the cavalier,
his eyes half opened occasionally and, without turning his head,
he cast a searching glance around him, but betrayed no symptom of
apprehension, which nevertheless would have been quite pardonable in a
district where the jaguar is the least formidable of man's enemies.
The traveller, or hunter,--for | 2,194.345747 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE MENTOR 1916.05.01, No. 106,
American Pioneer Prose Writers
LEARN ONE THING
EVERY DAY
MAY 1 1916 SERIAL NO. 106
THE
MENTOR
AMERICAN PIONEER
PROSE WRITERS
By HAMILTON W. MABIE
Author and Editor
DEPARTMENT OF VOLUME 4
LITERATURE NUMBER 6
FIFTEEN CENTS A COPY
Fame In Name Only
What do we really know of them--these library gods of ours? We know
them by name; their names are household words. We know them by fame;
their fame is immortal. So we pay tribute to them by purchasing their
books--and, too often, rest satisfied with that. The riches that they
offer us are within arm’s length, and we leave them there. We go our
ways seeking for mental nourishment, when our larders at home are full.
* * * * *
Three hundred years ago last week William Shakespeare died, but
Shakespeare, the poet, is more alive today than when his bones were
laid to rest in Stratford. It was not until seven years after his
death that the first collected edition of his works was published.
Today there are thousands of editions, and new ones appear each year.
It seems that we must all have Shakespeare in our homes. And why? Is
it simply to give character to our bookshelves; or is it because we
realize that the works of Shakespeare and of his fellow immortals are
the foundation stones of literature, and that we want to be near them
and know them?
* * * * *
We value anniversaries most of all as occasions for placing fresh
wreaths of laurel on life’s altars. In the memory of Shakespeare, then,
let us pledge ourselves anew to our library gods. Let us turn their
glowing pages again--and read once more those inspired messages of mind
and heart in which we find life’s meaning.
[Illustration: JONATHAN EDWARDS]
American Pioneer Prose Writers
JONATHAN EDWARDS
Monograph Number One in The Mentor Reading Course
Jonathan Edwards was one of the most impressive figures of his time.
He was a deep thinker, a strong writer, a powerful theologian, and
a constructive philosopher. He was born on October 5, 1703, at East
(now South) Windsor, Connecticut. His father, Timothy Edwards, was a
minister of East Windsor, and also a tutor. Jonathan, the only son, was
the fifth of eleven children.
Even as a boy he was thoughtful and serious minded. It is recorded that
he never played the games, or got mixed up in the mischief that the
usual boy indulges in. When he was only ten years old he wrote a tract
on the soul. Two years later he wrote a really remarkable essay on the
“Flying Spider.” He entered Yale and graduated at the head of his class
as valedictorian. The next two years he spent in New Haven studying
theology. In February, 1727, he was ordained minister at Northampton,
Massachusetts. In the same year he married Sarah Pierrepont, who was an
admirable wife and became the mother of his twelve children.
In 1733 a great revival in religion began in Northampton. So intense
did this become in that winter that the business of the town was
threatened. In six months nearly 300 were admitted to the church. Of
course Edwards was a leading spirit in this revival. The orthodox
leaders of the church had no sympathy with it. At last a crisis came in
Edwards’ relations with his congregation, which finally ended in his
being driven from the church.
Edwards and his family were now thrown upon the world with nothing
to live on. After some time he became pastor of an Indian mission at
Stockbridge, Massachusetts. He preached to the Indians through an
interpreter, and in every way possible defended their interests against
the whites, who were trying to enrich themselves at the expense of the
red men.
President Burr of the College of New Jersey (now Princeton University)
died in 1757. Five years before he had married one of Edwards’
daughters. Jonathan Edwards was elected to his place, and installed
in February, 1758. There was smallpox in Princeton at this time, and
the new president was inoculated for it. His feeble constitution could
not bear the shock, and he died on March 22. He was buried in the old
cemetery at Princeton.
Edwards in personal appearance was slender and about six feet tall,
with an oval, gentle, almost feminine face which made him look the
scholar and the mystic. But he had a violent temper when aroused, and
was a strict parent. He did not allow his boys out of doors after nine
o’clock at night, and if any suitor of his daughter remained beyond
that hour he was quietly but forcibly informed that it was time to lock
up the house.
Jonathan Edwards would not be called an eloquent speaker today; but his
sermons were forceful, and charged with his personality. These sermons
were written in very small handwriting, with the lines close together.
It was Edwards’ invariable habit to read them. He leaned with his left
elbow on the cushion of the pulpit, and brought the finely written
manuscript close to his eyes. He used no gestures; but shifted from
foot to foot while reading.
PREPARED BY THE EDITORIAL STAFF OF THE MENTOR ASSOCIATION
ILLUSTRATION FOR THE MENTOR, VOL. 4, No. 6, SERIAL No. 106
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY THE MENTOR ASSOCIATION, INC.
[Illustration: BENJAMIN FRANKLIN]
American Pioneer Prose Writers
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN
Monograph Number Two in The Mentor Reading Course
Probably no American of humble origin ever attained to more enduring
fame than many-sided Benjamin Franklin. The secret of his rise can be
tersely told. He had ceaseless energy, guided by a passion for the
improvement of mankind. A recital of his accomplishments sounds like a
round of the old counting game, “doctor, lawyer, merchant, chief.” He
was, in fact, all the list except the “thief.”
Boston gave him to America on January 17, 1706, but Philadelphia
claimed him early, and he stamped himself upon the Quaker City almost
as definitely as did William Penn.
Passing over his precocious boyhood, when he wrote for the Boston
publication of his brother James with a skill that at the time was held
astonishing, the day he reached Philadelphia he was a great, overgrown
boy, his clothes most unsightly; for he had been wrecked trying to make
an economical trip from New York by sailboat. With the exception of a
single Dutch dollar he was penniless. As he trudged about the streets,
his big eyes drinking in the sights, his cupid-bow mouth ready to smile
at the slightest provocation, he munched a roll of bread. His reserve
food supply was a loaf under each arm.
He was an expert printer, and printers were wanted in Philadelphia. He
soon got a job, after which he found a boarding place in the home of
one Read, with whose daughter, Deborah, he promptly fell in love.
After a few years the governor of Pennsylvania urged him to go to
London to purchase a printing plant of his own. The official had
promised to send letters and funds aboard the ship in the mail-bag; but
at the critical moment forgot all about it. So young Franklin landed in
London without a cent, and played a short engagement as “beggar man.”
Again his skill as a printer saved him from want, and he remained five
years, having a most interesting time, meeting many of the great men of
England, all of whom were charmed with his wit and philosophy.
In all that period he did not write a single letter to Deborah Read;
yet he seemed surprised and hurt on his return to Philadelphia to find
the young woman married to another. But Deborah’s husband, who had
treated her cruelly, quite civilly left her a widow, so that Franklin,
careless but faithful, was able ultimately to claim her as his wife.
For the next twenty years Franklin did something new at almost every
turn. He flew a kite in a thunder shower, drew down electricity,
and invented the lightning rod, to the salvation of generations of
rural sales agents. He invented a stove that still holds his name. He
organized the first fire company in America, and founded the first
public library. All the while he was publishing “Poor Richard’s
Almanac,” which to this day ranks as an epigrammatic masterpiece.
American politics soon claimed Franklin as an ideal diplomatist.
English and Scottish universities honored him with degrees for his
discoveries and writings. In Paris he became the most popular man of
the period, and was overwhelmed with attention from all classes.
He was one of the first signers of the Declaration of Independence; and
he rounded out his political career as governor of Pennsylvania and one
of the framers of the Constitution. He died in Philadelphia in April,
1790, in some respects the greatest of Americans.
PREPARED BY THE EDITORIAL STAFF OF THE MENTOR ASSOCIATION
ILLUSTRATION FOR THE MENTOR, VOL. 4, No. 6, SERIAL No. 106
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY THE MENTOR ASSOCIATION, INC.
[Illustration: CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN]
American Pioneer Prose Writers
CHARLES BROCKDEN BROWN
Monograph Number Three in The Mentor Reading Course
Charles Brockden Brown has often been called the earliest American
novelist; but today his books are very rarely read. All of them are
romantic and weird, with incidents bordering on the supernatural. They
are typical of the kind of novel general at the time Brown lived.
He was born on January 17, 1771, in Philadelphia. His parents were
Quakers. As a boy his health was bad, and since he was not able to
join with other boys in outdoor sports he spent most of his time in
study. His principal amusement was the invention of ideal architectural
designs, planned on the most extensive and elaborate scale. Later this
bent for construction developed into schemes for ideal commonwealths.
Still later it showed itself in the elaborate plots of his novels.
Brown planned in the early part of his life to study law; but his
constitution was too feeble for this arduous work. He had his share of
the youthful dreams of great literary conquests. He planned a great
epic on the discovery of America, with Columbus as his hero; another
with the adventures of Pizarro for the subject; and still another
upon the conquests of Cortes. However, as with the case of many great
dreams, they were given up.
When he was still a boy he wrote a romance called “Carsol,” which
was not published, however, until after his death. The next thing he
wrote was an essay on the question of women’s rights and liberties.
This question was already becoming an important one in England, where
William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft were publishing their writings.
Brown was much influenced by the works of both.
Although Brown’s books make heavy reading, yet his companionships were
of the liveliest. It was said that no man ever had truer friends or
loved these friends better. One of his closest friends was Dr. Eli
Smith, a literary man. It was through him that Brown was introduced
into the Friendly Club of New York City, where he met many other
workers in the literary field. And it was under their influence that he
produced his first, important work.
This was a novel published in 1798, called “Wieland, or the
Transformation.” A mystery, seemingly inexplicable, is solved as a
case of ventriloquism, which at that time was just beginning to be
understood thoroughly. His next book was “Arthur Mervyn,” remarkable
for its description of the epidemic of yellow fever in Philadelphia.
“Edgar Huntley,” a romance rich in local color, followed this. An
effective use is made of somnambulism, and in it Brown anticipates
James Fenimore Cooper’s introduction of the American Indian into
fiction.
The novelist then wrote two novels dealing with ordinary life; but they
proved to be failures. Then he began to compile a general system of
geography, to edit a periodical, and to write political pamphlets; but
all the time his health was failing. On February 22, 1810, he died of
tuberculosis.
His biographer, William Dunlap, who was the novelist’s friend, says
that Brown was the purest and most amiable of men, due perhaps to his
Quaker education. His manner was at times a little stiff and formal;
but in spite of this he was deeply loved by his friends.
PREPARED BY THE EDITORIAL STAFF OF THE MENTOR ASSOCIATION
ILLUSTRATION FOR THE MENTOR, VOL. 4, No. 6, SERIAL No. 106
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY THE MENTOR ASSOCIATION, INC.
[Illustration: WASHINGTON IRVING]
American Pioneer Prose Writers
WASHINGTON IRVING
Monograph Number Four in The Mentor Reading Course
A bankruptcy produced one of the greatest American writers. If the
business house with which Washington Irving was associated had not
failed, he might never have seriously attempted to take up literature.
Washington Irving was born in New York City on April 3, 1783. He was
named after George Washington, who at that time was the idol of the
American people. Both his parents were immigrants from Great Britain.
His father was a prosperous merchant at the time of Irving’s birth.
Irving was a mischievous boy. Perhaps this was due to the fact that
Deacon Irving was a severe father. He detested the theater, and
permitted no reading on Sunday except the Bible and the Catechism.
Washington was permitted on weekdays to read only Gulliver’s Travels
and Robinson Crusoe. Nevertheless, in spite of his father’s strictness,
the boy managed to steal away from home to attend the theater.
Irving intended to be a lawyer; but his health gave way, and he had
to take a voyage to Europe. In this journey he went as far as Rome,
and in England made the acquaintance of Washington Allston, the famous
American painter, who was then living there. On his return he was
admitted to the bar; but he made little effort at practising.
In the meanwhile, however, he, his brother William, and J. K. Paulding
wrote some humorous sketches called “Salmagundi Papers,” which were
quite successful.
About this time came the single romance of Irving’s life. Judge
Hoffman, in whose law office he was, had a daughter named Matilda.
The young lawyer fell in love with her; but this romance was brought
to a tragic end by her death. Irving never married, remaining true
throughout life to the memory of this early attachment.
Irving’s first important piece of writing was the Knickerbocker History
of New York. It was a clever parody of a history of the city published
by Dr. Samuel Mitchell. The book was received with enthusiasm by the
public, and Irving’s reputation was made.
His health, never of the best, again gave way. In 1815 he revisited
Europe, and made the acquaintance of many important people there,
including Disraeli, Campbell, and Scott. The business in which he was
a silent partner fell into bad conditions and ended with a bankruptcy
which left Irving virtually without resources. His brother, who was
an influential member of Congress, secured for him a secretaryship in
the United States Navy Department with a salary of $2,500 a year; but
Irving declined this, with the intention of writing for a living.
From that time he was successful. All his books were eagerly received,
and it was not long before he was considered America’s leading writer.
He went to Spain as attaché of the American legation in 1826. When he
returned to the United States he found his name a household word. Then
| 2,194.947318 |
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THE SWOOP!
or
How Clarence Saved England
_A Tale of the Great Invasion_
by P. G. Wodehouse
1909
PREFACE
It may be thought by some that in the pages which follow I have painted
in too lurid colours the horrors of a foreign invasion of England.
Realism in art, it may be argued, can be carried too far. I prefer to
think that the majority of my readers will acquit me of a desire to be
unduly sensational. It is necessary that England should be roused to a
sense of her peril, and only by setting down without flinching the
probable results of an invasion can this be done. This story, I may
mention, has been written and published purely from a feeling of
patriotism and duty. Mr. Alston Rivers' sensitive soul will be jarred
to its foundations if it is a financial success. So will mine. But in a
time of national danger we feel that the risk must be taken. After all,
at the worst, it is a small sacrifice to make for our country.
P. G. WODEHOUSE.
_The Bomb-Proof Shelter,_ _London, W._
Part One
Chapter 1
AN ENGLISH BOY'S HOME
_August the First, 19--_
Clarence Chugwater looked around him with a frown, and gritted his
teeth.
"England--my England!" he moaned.
Clarence was a sturdy lad of some fourteen summers. He was neatly, but
not gaudily, dressed in a flat-brimmed hat, a handkerchief, a
flannel shirt, a bunch of ribbons, a haversack, football shorts, brown
boots, a whistle, and a hockey-stick. He was, in fact, one of General
Baden-Powell's Boy Scouts.
Scan him closely. Do not dismiss him with a passing glance; for you are
looking at the Boy of Destiny, at Clarence MacAndrew Chugwater, who
saved England.
To-day those features are familiar to all. Everyone has seen the
Chugwater Column in Aldwych, the equestrian statue in Chugwater Road
(formerly Piccadilly), and the picture-postcards in the stationers'
windows. That bulging forehead, distended with useful information; that
massive chin; those eyes, gleaming behind their spectacles; that
_tout ensemble_; that _je ne sais quoi_.
In a word, Clarence!
He could do everything that the Boy Scout must learn to do. He could
low like a bull. He could gurgle like a wood-pigeon. He could imitate
the cry of the turnip in order to deceive rabbits. He could smile and
whistle simultaneously in accordance with Rule 8 (and only those who
have tried this know how difficult it is). He could spoor, fell trees,
tell the character from the boot-sole, and fling the squaler. He did
all these things well, but what he was really best at was flinging the
squaler.
* * * * *
Clarence, on this sultry August afternoon, was tensely occupied
tracking the family cat across the dining-room carpet by its
foot-prints. Glancing up for a moment, he caught sight of the other
members of the family.
"England, my England!" he moaned.
It was indeed a sight to extract tears of blood from any Boy Scout. The
table had been moved back against the wall, and in the cleared space
Mr. Chugwater, whose duty it was to have set an example to his
children, was playing diabolo. Beside him, engrossed in cup-and-ball,
was his wife. Reggie Chugwater, the eldest son, the heir, the hope of
the house, was reading the cricket news in an early edition of the
evening paper. Horace, his brother, was playing pop-in-taw with his
sister Grace and Grace's _fiance_, Ralph Peabody. Alice, the other
Miss Chugwater, was mending a Badminton racquet.
Not a single member of that family was practising with the rifle, or
drilling, or learning to make bandages.
Clarence groaned.
"If you can't play without snorting like that, my boy," said Mr.
Chugwater, a little irritably, "you must find some other game. You made
me jump just as I was going to beat my record."
"Talking of records," said Reggie, "Fry's on his way to his eighth
successive century. If he goes on like this, Lancashire will win the
championship."
"I thought he was playing for Somerset," said Horace.
"That was a fortnight ago. You ought to keep up to date in an important
subject like cricket."
Once more Clarence snorted bitterly.
"I'm sure you ought not to be down on the floor, Clarence," said Mr.
Chugwater anxiously. "It is so draughty, and you have evidently got a
nasty cold. _Must_ you lie on the floor?"
"I am spooring," said Clarence with simple dignity.
"But I'm sure you can spoor better sitting on a chair with a nice
book."
"_I_ think the kid's sickening for something," put in Horace
critically. "He's deuced roopy. What's up, Clarry?"
"I was thinking," said Clarence, "of my country--of England."
"What's the matter with England?"
"_She's_ all right," murmured Ralph Peabody.
"My fallen country!" sighed Clarence, a not unmanly tear bedewing the
glasses of his spectacles. "My fallen, stricken country!"
"That kid," said Reggie, laying down his paper, "is talking right
through his hat. My dear old son, are you aware that England has never
been so strong all round as she is now? Do you _ever_ read the
papers? Don't you know that we've got the Ashes and the Golf
Championship, and the Wibbley-wob Championship, and the Spiropole,
Spillikins, Puff-Feather, and Animal Grab Championships? Has it come to
your notice that our croquet pair beat America last Thursday by eight
hoops? Did you happen to hear that we won the Hop-skip-and-jump at the
last Olympic Games? You've been out in the woods, old sport."
Clarence's heart was too full for words. He rose in silence, and
quitted the room.
"Got the pip or something!" said Reggie. "Rum kid! I say, Hirst's
bowling well! Five for twenty-three so far!"
Clarence wandered moodily out of the house. The Chugwaters lived in a
desirable villa residence, which Mr. Chugwater had built in Essex. It
was a typical Englishman's Home. Its name was Nasturtium Villa.
As Clarence walked down the road, the excited voice of a newspaper-boy
came to him. Presently the boy turned the corner, shouting, "Ker-lapse
of Surrey! Sensational bowling at the Oval!"
He stopped on seeing Clarence.
"Paper, General?"
Clarence shook | 2,195.149296 |
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Produced by David Edwards and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive.)
THE ADVENTURES OF BUFFALO BILL
[Illustration: HE SAW THE FEATHERED HEAD OF AN INDIAN POKE OVER THE BANK
BEFORE HIM.]
The Adventures of
Buffalo Bill
BY COL. WILLIAM F. CODY
(BUFFALO BILL)
HARPER & ROW, PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK, EVANSTON, and LONDON
_Harper's Young People's Series_
New Large Type Edition
Illustrated--Jackets Printed in Colors
TOBY TYLER. By James Otis
MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER. By James Ot | 2,195.346291 |
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Produced by David A. Schwan. HTML version by Al Haines.
California and the Californians
By
David Starr Jordan
President Stanford University
The Californian loves his state because his state loves him. He returns
her love with a fierce affection that to men who do not know California
is always a surprise. Hence he is impatient of outside criticism. Those
who do not love California cannot understand her, and, to his mind,
their shafts, however aimed, fly wide of the mark. Thus, to say that
California is commercially asleep, that her industries are gambling
ventures, that her local politics is in the hands of professional
pickpockets, that her small towns are the shabbiest in Christendom, that
her saloons control more constituents than her churches, that she is the
slave of corporations, that she knows no such thing as public opinion,
that she has not yet learned to distinguish enterprise from highway
robbery, nor reform from blackmail,--all these statements, and others
even more unpleasant, the Californian may admit in discussion, or may
say for himself, but he does not find them acceptable from others. They
may be more or less true, in certain times and places, but the
conditions which have permitted them will likewise mend them. It is said
in the Alps that "not all the vulgar people who come to Chamouny can
ever make Chamouny vulgar." For similar reasons, not all the sordid
people who drift overland can ever vulgarize California. Her fascination
endures, whatever the accidents of population.
The charm of California has, in the main, three sources--scenery,
climate, and freedom of life.
To know the glory of California scenery, one must live close to it
through the changing years. From Siskiyou to San Diego, from Alturas to
Tia Juana, from Mendocino to Mariposa, from Tahoe to the Farallones,
lake, crag, or chasm, forest, mountain, valley, or island, river, bay,
or jutting headland, every one bears the stamp of its own peculiar
beauty, a singular blending of richness, wildness and warmth. Coastwise
everywhere sea and mountains meet, and the surf of the cold Japanese
current breaks in turbulent beauty against tall "rincones" and jagged
reefs of rock. Slumbering amid the hills of the Coast Range,
"A misty camp of mountains pitched tumultuously",
lie golden valleys dotted with wide-limbed oaks, or smothered under
over-weighted fruit trees. Here, too, crumble to ruins the old
Franciscan | 2,195.346331 |
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E-text prepared by Carlo Traverso, Claudio Paganelli, Barbara Magni, and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page
images generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)
Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/lapromessasposad00scot
All three volumes are included in this one book.
Project Gutenberg has the other two volumes of this work.
Volume I: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42881
Volume II: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42882
ROMANZI STORICI
DI
WALTER SCOTT
_TOMO TERZO_
LA PROMESSA SPOSA
DI
LAMMERMOOR
O NUOVI RACCONTI DEL MIO OSTIERE
RACCOLTI E PUBBLICATI
DA JEDEDIAH CLEISHBOTHAM
MAESTRO DI SCUOLA, E SAGRESTANO
DELLA PARROCCHIA DI GANDERCLEUGH
VOLGARIZZATI
_DAL PROFESSORE_
GAETANO BARBIERI
_TOMO III._
FIRENZE
TIPOGRAFIA COEN E COMP.
MDCCCXXVI.
LA PROMESSA SPOSA DI LAMMERMOOR
CAPITOLO PRIMO.
„ Tal de' suoi figli al numeroso stuolo
Segnò d'angosce miserando calle
Il primo padre! Almen compagna al duolo
In questo dell'esilio amara valle
Ebbe una sposa; io derelitto e solo
All'albergo natio volgo le spalle. „
_Waller._
Non m'arresterò a descrivere, perchè superiori ad ogni descrizione, i
sentimenti di sdegno e di cordoglio che si straziavano a vicenda il
cuore del sere di Ravenswood nell'allontanarsi dal castello de' suoi
antenati. Il biglietto di lady Asthon era concepito in termini sì
sgradevoli, che non gli sarebbe stato permesso il rimanere un istante
di più entro il recinto di quelle mura, e mostrarsi consentaneo a
quella alterezza, che in lui anche | 2,195.645803 |
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Produced by Donald Lainson
THE FATAL BOOTS.
by William Makepeace Thackeray
THE FATAL BOOTS:--
January.--The Birth of the Year
February.--Cutting Weather
March.--Showery
April.--Fooling
May.--Restoration Day
June.--Marrowbones and Cleavers
July.--Summary Proceedings
August.--Dogs have their Days
September.--Plucking a Goose
October.--Mars and Venus in Opposition
November.--A General Post Delivery
December.--"The Winter of Our Discontent"
THE FATAL BOOTS
JANUARY.--THE BIRTH OF THE YEAR.
Some poet has observed, that if any man would write down what has really
happened to him in this mortal life, he would be sure to make a good
book, though he never had met with a single adventure from his birth to
his burial. How much more, then, must I, who HAVE had adventures, most
singular, pathetic, and unparalleled, be able to compile an instructive
and entertaining volume for the use of the public.
I don't mean to say that I have killed lions, or seen the wonders of
travel in the deserts of Arabia or Prussia; or that I have been a very
fashionable character, living with dukes and peeresses, and writing my
recollections of them, as the way now is. I never left this my native
isle, nor spoke to a lord (except an Irish one, who had rooms in our
house, and forgot to pay three weeks' lodging and extras); but, as our
immortal bard observes, I have in the course of my existence been so
eaten up by the slugs and harrows of outrageous fortune, and have been
the object of such continual and extraordinary ill-luck, that I believe
it would melt the heart of a milestone to read of it--that is, if a
milestone had a heart of anything but stone.
Twelve of my adventures, suitable for meditation and perusal during the
twelve months of the year, have been arranged by me for this work. They
contain a part of the history of a great, and, confidently I may say,
a GOOD man. I was not a spendthrift like other men. I never wronged any
man of a shilling, though I am as sharp a fellow at a bargain as any in
Europe. I never injured a fellow-creature; on the contrary, on
several occasions, when injured myself, have shown the most wonderful
forbearance. I come of a tolerably good family; and yet, born to
wealth--of an inoffensive disposition, careful of the money that I
had, and eager to get more,--I have been going down hill ever since
my journey of life began, and have been pursued by a complication of
misfortunes such as surely never happened to any man but the unhappy Bob
Stubbs.
Bob Stubbs is my name; and I haven't got a shilling: I have borne the
commission of lieutenant in the service of King George, and am NOW--but
never mind what I am now, for the public will know in a few pages more.
My father was of the Suffolk Stubbses--a well-to-do gentleman of Bungay.
My grandfather had been a respected attorney in that town, and left my
papa a pretty little fortune. I was thus the inheritor of competence,
and ought to be at this moment a gentleman.
My misfortunes may be said to have commenced about a year before my
birth, when my papa, a young fellow pretending to study the law in
London, fell madly in love with Miss Smith, the daughter of a tradesman,
who did not give her a sixpence, and afterwards became bankrupt. My papa
married this Miss Smith, and carried her off to the country, where I was
born, in an evil hour for me.
Were I to attempt to describe my early years, you would laugh at me as
an impostor; but the following letter from mamma to a friend, after her
marriage, will pretty well show you what a poor foolish creature she
was; and what a reckless extravagant fellow was my other unfortunate
parent:--
"TO MISS ELIZA KICKS, IN GRACECHURCH STREET, LONDON.
"OH, ELIZA! your Susan is the happiest girl under heaven! My Thomas is
an angel! not a tall grenadier-like looking fellow, such as I always
vowed I would marry:--on the contrary, he is what the world would call
dumpy, and I hesitate not to confess, that his eyes have a cast in them.
But what then? when one of his eyes is fixed on me, and one on my babe,
they are lighted up with an affection which my pen cannot describe, and
which, certainly, was never bestowed upon any woman so strongly as upon
your happy Susan Stubbs.
"When he comes home from shooting, or the farm, if you COULD see dear
Thomas with me and our dear little Bob! as I sit on one knee, and baby
on the other, and as he dances us both about. I often wish that we had
Sir Joshua, or some great painter, to depict the group; for sure it is
the prettiest picture in the whole world, to see three such loving merry
people.
"Dear baby is the most lovely little creature that CAN POSSIBLY
BE,--the very IMAGE of papa; he is cutting his teeth, and the delight
of EVERYBODY. Nurse says that, when he is older he will get rid of his
squint, and his hair will get a GREAT DEAL less red. Doctor Bates is
as kind, and skilful, and attentive as we could desire. Think what a
blessing to have had him! Ever since poor baby's birth, it has never had
a day of quiet; and he has been obliged to give it from three to four
doses every week;--how thankful ought we to be that the DEAR THING is
as well as it is! It got through the measles wonderfully; then it had
a little rash; and then a nasty hooping-cough; and then a fever, and
continual pains in its poor little stomach, crying, poor dear child,
from morning till night.
"But dear Tom is an excellent nurse; and many and many a night has he
had no sleep, dear man! in consequence of the poor little baby. He walks
up and down with it FOR HOURS, singing a kind of song (dear fellow, he
has no more voice than a tea-kettle), and bobbing his head backwards and
forwards, and looking, in his nightcap and dressing-gown, SO DROLL. Oh,
Eliza! how you would laugh to see him.
"We have one of the best nursemaids IN THE WORLD,--an Irishwoman, who is
as fond of baby almost as his mother (but that can NEVER BE). She takes
it to walk in the park for hours together, and I really don't know why
Thomas dislikes her. He says she is tipsy, very often, and slovenly,
which I cannot conceive;--to be sure, the nurse is sadly dirty, and
sometimes smells very strong of gin.
"But what of that?--these little drawbacks only make home more pleasant.
When one thinks how many mothers have NO nursemaids: how many poor dear
children have no doctors: ought we not to be thankful for Mary Malowney,
and that Dr. Bates's bill is forty-seven pounds? How ill must dear baby
have been, to require so much physic!
"But they are a sad expense, these dear babies, after all. Fancy, Eliza,
how much this Mary Malowney costs us. Ten shillings every week; a glass
of brandy or gin at dinner; three pint-bottles of Mr. Thrale's best
porter every day,--making twenty-one in a week, and nine hundred and
ninety in the eleven months she has been with us. Then, for baby, there
is Dr. Bates's bill of forty-five guineas, two guineas for christening,
twenty for a grand christening supper and ball (rich uncle John mortally
offended because he was made godfather, and had to give baby a silver
cup: he has struck Thomas out of his will: and old Mr. Firkin quite as
much hurt because he was NOT asked: he will not speak to me or Thomas
in consequence) twenty guineas for flannels, laces, little gowns, caps,
napkins, and such baby's ware: and all this out of 300L. a year! But
Thomas expects to make A GREAT DEAL by his | 2,195.747088 |
2023-11-16 18:53:39.7303640 | 452 | 13 | ****The Project Gutenberg Etext of Pathology of Lying, Etc.****
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Pathology of Lying, Etc.
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Gutenberg.
CASTES AND TRIBES
OF
SOUTHERN INDIA
By
EDGAR THURSTON, C.I.E.,
Superintendent, Madras Government Museum; Correspondant Etranger,
Societe d'Anthropologie de Paris; Socio Corrispondante, Societa,
Romana di Anthropologia.
Assisted by
K. Rangachari, M.A.,
of the Madras Government Museum.
Volume V--M to P
Government Press, Madras
1909.
CASTES AND TRIBES OF SOUTHERN INDIA.
VOLUME V.
MARAKK | 2,195.845863 |
2023-11-16 18:53:40.1258600 | 569 | 34 |
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. 717. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 22, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
BURIAL ECCENTRICITIES.
In all times and countries there have been queer notions about
burial. We here offer to our readers a few instances of this kind of
eccentricity.
Mr Wilkinson, one of the founders of the iron manufacture in Great
Britain, loved iron so well that he resolved to carry it to the grave
with him. He had himself buried in his garden in an iron coffin, over
which was an iron tomb of twenty tons' weight. In order to make all
right and secure, he caused the coffin and tomb to be constructed
while he was yet alive; he delighted to shew them to his friends and
visitors--possibly more to his pleasure than theirs. But there were
sundry little tribulations to encounter. When he died, it was found
that the coffin was too small; he was temporarily laid in the ground
while a new one was made; when buried, it was decided that the coffin
was too near the surface, and it was therefore transferred to a cavity
dug in a rock; lastly, when the estate was sold many years afterwards,
the family directed the coffin to be transferred to the churchyard.
Thus Mr Wilkinson had the exceptional honour of being buried three or
four times over. Mr Smiles tells us that, in 1862, a man was living who
had assisted at all these interments. Mr Wilkinson was quite pleased
to make presents of iron coffins to any friends who wished to possess
such mementos of death and iron. In a granite county such as Cornwall,
it is not surprising to read that the Rev. John Pomeroy, of St Kew, was
buried in a granite coffin which he had caused to be made.
Some persons have had a singular taste for providing their coffins
long beforehand, and keeping them as objects pleasant to look at, or
morally profitable as reminders of the fate of all, or useful for
everyday purposes until the last and solemn use supervenes. A slater
in Fifeshire, about forty years ago, made his own coffin, decorated it
with shells, and displayed it among other fancy shell-work in a room
he called his grotto. Another North Briton, a cartwright, made his own
coffin | 2,196.1459 |
2023-11-16 18:53:40.4255890 | 1,585 | 38 |
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. 713. SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
A STRANGE FAMILY HISTORY.
For the following curious episode of family history we are indebted to
a descendant of one of the chief personages involved; his story runs as
follows.
Somewhat less than one hundred years ago, a large schooner, laden with
oranges from Spain, and bound for Liverpool, was driven by stress of
weather into the Solway Firth, and after beating about for some time,
ran at last into the small port of Workington, on the Cumberland
coast. For several previous days some of the crew had felt themselves
strangely 'out of sorts,' as they termed it; were depressed and
languid, and greatly inclined to sleep; but the excitement of the
storm and the instinct of self-preservation had kept them to their
duties on deck. No sooner, however, had the vessel been safely moored
in the harbour than a reaction set in; the disease which had lurked
within them proclaimed its power, and three of them betook themselves
to their hammocks more dead than alive. The working-power of the ship
being thus reduced and the storm continuing, the master determined to
discharge and sell his cargo on the spot. This was done. But his men
did not recover; he too was seized with the same disease; and before
many days were past most of them were in the grave. Ere long several of
the inhabitants of the village were similarly affected, and some died;
by-and-by others were smitten down; and in less than three weeks after
the arrival of the schooner it became evident that a fatal fever or
plague had broken out amongst the inhabitants of the village.
The authorities of the township took alarm; and under the guidance of
Squire Curwen of Workington Hall, all likely measures were taken to
arrest or mitigate the fatal malady. Among other arrangements, a band
of men was formed whose duties were to wait upon the sick, to visit
such houses as were reported or supposed to contain victims of the
malady, and to carry the dead to their last home.
Among the first who fell under this visitation was a man named John
Pearson, who, with his wife and a daughter, lived in a cottage in
the outskirts of the village. He was employed as a labourer in an
iron foundry close by. For some weeks his widow and child escaped the
contagion; but ere long it was observed that their cottage window was
not opened; and a passer-by stopping to look at the house, thought
he heard a feeble moan as from a young girl. He at once made known
his fears to the proper parties, who sent two of the 'plague-band'
to examine the case. On entering the abode it was seen that poor Mrs
Pearson was a corpse; and her little girl, about ten years old, was
lying on her bosom dreadfully ill, but able to cry: 'Mammy, mammy!' The
poor child was removed to the fever hospital, and the mother to where
her husband had been recently taken. How long the plague continued
to ravage the village, I am not able to say; but as it is about the
Pearson family, and not about the plague I am going to write, such
information may be dispensed with.
The child, Isabella Pearson, did not die; she conquered the foe, and
was left to pass through a more eventful life than that which generally
falls to the lot of a poor girl. Although an orphan, she was not
without friends; an only and elder sister was with relatives in Dublin,
and her father's friends were well-to-do farmers in Westmoreland.
Nor was she without powerful interest in the village of her birth:
Lady Curwen, of the Hall, paid her marked attention, as she had done
her mother, because that mother was of noble descent, as I shall now
proceed to shew.
Isabella Pearson (mother of the child we have just spoken of), whose
maiden name was Day, was a daughter of the Honourable Elkanah Day
and of his wife Lady Letitia, daughter of the Earl of Annesley. How
she came to marry John Pearson forms one of the many chapters in
human history which come under the head of Romance in Real Life,
or Scandal in High Life, in the newspaper literature of the day.
Isabella's parents were among those parents who believe they are at
liberty to dispose of their daughters in marriage just as they think
fit, even when the man to whom the girl is to be given is an object
of detestation to her. Heedless of their daughter's feelings in the
matter, they had bargained with a man of their acquaintance, to whom
they resolved that Isabella should give her hand--be her heart never
so unwilling. The person in question was a distant relative of their
noble house, had a considerable amount of property in Ireland, and was
regarded, by the scheming mother especially, as a most desirable match
for her daughter. But what if the young lady herself should be of a
contrary opinion? In the instance before us the reader will be enabled
to see.
Captain Bernard O'Neil, the bridegroom elect, was nearly twice the
age of Isabella Day; and although not an ill-looking man, was yet one
whom no virtuous or noble-minded girl could look upon with respect,
for he was known to be addicted to the vice of gambling, to be able to
consume daily an enormous quantity of wine, and to be the slave of all
sorts of debauchery. So habituated had O'Neil become to these degrading
vices, that no sensible girl could hope to reclaim and reform him. The
gratification of his propensities had been spread over so long a time
that his entailed estate had become heavily burdened with debt, whilst
his creditors, even his dependents, were clamorous for the money which
he owed them.
Such being the man to whom the Honourable Elkanah Day and his noble
wife had agreed to give their daughter, can it be wondered at that
that daughter should not only be indisposed to comply with their wish,
but should also be so disgusted and indignant at its expression as to
give way to her feelings in words and acts which in themselves are
incapable of justification? One day the captain had called at the house
by appointment to arrange for the marriage, being anxious to have it
consummated, that he might be helped out of a pressing embarrassment
through the portion which he knew would be given to his bride. Isabella
had been present at the interview. Her father and mother knew full well
that she was far from being pleased with the match, but of this they
took little heed, believing that once married, their daughter would
reconcile herself to her lot, even if she did not derive much felicity
from the union. The girl herself knew that no language of hers, whether | 2,196.445629 |
2023-11-16 18:53:40.5256210 | 6,140 | 10 |
Produced by Dagny, and David Widger. HTML version by Al Haines.
THE THREE CITIES
PARIS
BY
EMILE ZOLA
TRANSLATED BY ERNEST A. VIZETELLY
BOOK III
I
THE RIVALS
ON the Wednesday preceding the mid-Lent Thursday, a great charity bazaar
was held at the Duvillard mansion, for the benefit of the Asylum of the
Invalids of Labour. The ground-floor reception rooms, three spacious
Louis Seize _salons_, whose windows overlooked the bare and solemn
courtyard, were given up to the swarm of purchasers, five thousand
admission cards having been distributed among all sections of Parisian
society. And the opening of the bombarded mansion in this wise to
thousands of visitors was regarded as quite an event, a real
manifestation, although some people whispered that the Rue
Godot-de-Mauroy and the adjacent streets were guarded by quite an army of
police agents.
The idea of the bazaar had come from Duvillard himself, and at his
bidding his wife had resigned herself to all this worry for the benefit
of the enterprise over which she presided with such distinguished
nonchalance. On the previous day the "Globe" newspaper, inspired by its
director Fonsegue, who was also the general manager of the asylum, had
published a very fine article, announcing the bazaar, and pointing out
how noble, and touching, and generous was the initiative of the Baroness,
who still gave her time, her money, and even her home to charity, in
spite of the abominable crime which had almost reduced that home to
ashes. Was not this the magnanimous answer of the spheres above to the
hateful passions of the spheres below? And was it not also a peremptory
answer to those who accused the capitalists of doing nothing for the
wage-earners, the disabled and broken-down sons of toil?
The drawing-room doors were to be opened at two o'clock, and would only
close at seven, so that there would be five full hours for the sales. And
at noon, when nothing was as yet ready downstairs, when workmen and women
were still decorating the stalls, and sorting the goods amidst a final
scramble, there was, as usual, a little friendly _dejeuner_, to which a
few guests had been invited, in the private rooms on the first floor.
However, a scarcely expected incident had given a finishing touch to the
general excitement of the house: that very morning Sagnier had resumed
his campaign of denunciation in the matter of the African Railway Lines.
In a virulent article in the "Voix du Peuple," he had inquired if it were
the intention of the authorities to beguile the public much longer with
the story of that bomb and that Anarchist whom the police did not arrest.
And this time, while undertaking to publish the names of the thirty-two
corrupt senators and deputies in a very early issue, he had boldly named
Minister Barroux as one who had pocketed a sum of 200,000 francs. Mege
would therefore certainly revive his interpellation, which might become
dangerous, now that Paris had been thrown into such a distracted state by
terror of the Anarchists. At the same time it was said that Vignon and
his party had resolved to turn circumstances to account, with the object
of overthrowing the ministry. Thus a redoubtable crisis was inevitably at
hand. Fortunately, the Chamber did not meet that Wednesday; in fact, it
had adjourned until the Friday, with the view of making mid-Lent a
holiday. And so forty-eight hours were left one to prepare for the
onslaught.
Eve, that morning, seemed more gentle and languid than ever, rather pale
too, with an expression of sorrowful anxiety in the depths of her
beautiful eyes. She set it all down to the very great fatigue which the
preparations for the bazaar had entailed on her. But the truth was that
Gerard de Quinsac, after shunning any further assignation, had for five
days past avoided her in an embarrassed way. Still she was convinced that
she would see him that morning, and so she had again ventured to wear the
white silk gown which made her look so much younger than she really was.
At the same time, beautiful as she had remained, with her delicate skin,
superb figure and noble and charming countenance, her six and forty years
were asserting themselves in her blotchy complexion and the little
creases which were appearing about her lips, eyelids and temples.
Camille, for her part, though her position as daughter of the house made
it certain that she would attract much custom as a saleswoman, had
obstinately persisted in wearing one of her usual dresses, a dark
"carmelite" gown, an old woman's frock, as she herself called it with a
cutting laugh. However, her long and wicked-looking face beamed with some
secret delight; such an expression of wit and intelligence wreathing her
thin lips and shining in her big eyes that one lost sight of her
deformity and thought her almost pretty.
Eve experienced a first deception in the little blue and silver
sitting-room, where, accompanied by her daughter, she awaited the arrival
of her guests. General de Bozonnet, whom Gerard was to have brought with
him, came in alone, explaining that Madame de Quinsac had felt rather
poorly that morning, and that Gerard, like a good and dutiful son, had
wished to remain with her. Still he would come to the bazaar directly
after _dejeuner_. While the Baroness listened to the General, striving to
hide her disappointment and her fear that she would now be unable to
obtain any explanation from Gerard that day, Camille looked at her with
eager, devouring eyes. And a certain covert instinct of the misfortune
threatening her must at that moment have come to Eve, for in her turn she
glanced at her daughter and turned pale as if with anxiety.
Then Princess Rosemonde de Harn swept in like a whirlwind. She also was
to be one of the saleswomen at the stall chosen by the Baroness, who
liked her for her very turbulence, the sudden gaiety which she generally
brought with her. Gowned in fire-hued satin (red shot with yellow),
looking very eccentric with her curly hair and thin boyish figure, she
laughed and talked of an accident by which her carriage had almost been
cut in halves. Then, as Baron Duvillard and Hyacinthe came in from their
rooms, late as usual, she took possession of the young man and scolded
him, for on the previous evening she had vainly waited for him till ten
o'clock in the expectation that he would keep his promise to escort her
to a tavern at Montmartre, where some horrible things were said to occur.
Hyacinthe, looking very bored, quietly replied that he had been detained
at a seance given by some adepts in the New Magic, in the course of which
the soul of St. Theresa had descended from heaven to recite a love
sonnet.
However, Fonsegue was now coming in with his wife, a tall, thin, silent
and generally insignificant woman, whom he seldom took about with him. On
this occasion he had been obliged to bring her, as she was one of the
lady-patronesses of the asylum, and he himself was coming to lunch with
the Duvillards in his capacity as general manager. To the superficial
observer he looked quite as gay as usual; but he blinked nervously, and
his first glance was a questioning one in the direction of Duvillard, as
if he wished to know how the latter bore the fresh thrust directed at him
by Sagnier. And when he saw the banker looking perfectly composed, as
superb, as rubicund as usual, and chatting in a bantering way with
Rosemonde, he also put on an easy air, like a gamester who had never lost
but had always known how to compel good luck, even in hours of treachery.
And by way of showing his unconstraint of mind he at once addressed the
Baroness on managerial matters: "Have you now succeeded in seeing M.
l'Abbe Froment for the affair of that old man Laveuve, whom he so warmly
recommended to us? All the formalities have been gone through, you know,
and he can be brought to us at once, as we have had a bed vacant for
three days past."
"Yes, I know," replied Eve; "but I can't imagine what has become of Abbe
Froment, for he hasn't given us a sign of life for a month past. However,
I made up my mind to write to him yesterday, and beg him to come to the
bazaar to-day. In this manner I shall be able to acquaint him with the
good news myself."
"It was to leave you the pleasure of doing so," said Fonsegue, "that I
refrained from sending him any official communication. He's a charming
priest, is he not?"
"Oh! charming, we are very fond of him."
However, Duvillard now intervened to say that they need not wait for
Duthil, as he had received a telegram from him stating that he was
detained by sudden business. At this Fonsegue's anxiety returned, and he
once more questioned the Baron with his eyes. Duvillard smiled, however,
and reassured him in an undertone: "It's nothing serious. Merely a
commission for me, about which he'll only be able to bring me an answer
by-and-by." Then, taking Fonsegue on one side, he added: "By the way,
don't forget to insert the paragraph I told you of."
"What paragraph? Oh! yes, the one about that _soiree_ at which Silviane
recited a piece of verse. Well, I wanted to speak to you about it. It
worries me a little, on account of the excessive praise it contains."
Duvillard, but a moment before so full of serenity, with his lofty,
conquering, disdainful mien, now suddenly became pale and agitated. "But
I absolutely want it to be inserted, my dear fellow! You would place me
in the greatest embarrassment if it were not to appear, for I promised
Silviane that it should."
As he spoke his lips trembled, and a scared look came into his eyes,
plainly revealing his dismay.
"All right, all right," said Fonsegue, secretly amused, and well pleased
at this complicity. "As it's so serious the paragraph shall go in, I
promise you."
The whole company was now present, since neither Gerard nor Duthil was to
be expected. So they went into the dining-room amidst a final noise of
hammering in the sale-rooms below. The meal proved somewhat of a
scramble, and was on three occasions disturbed by female attendants, who
came to explain difficulties and ask for orders. Doors were constantly
slamming, and the very walls seemed to shake with the unusual bustle
which filled the house. And feverish as they all were in the dining-room,
they talked in desultory, haphazard fashion on all sorts of subjects,
passing from a ball given at the Ministry of the Interior on the previous
night, to the popular mid-Lent festival which would take place on the
morrow, and ever reverting to the bazaar, the prices that had been given
for the goods which would be on sale, the prices at which they might be
sold, and the probable figure of the full receipts, all this being
interspersed with strange anecdotes, witticisms and bursts of laughter.
On the General mentioning magistrate Amadieu, Eve declared that she no
longer dared to invite him to _dejeuner_, knowing how busy he was at the
Palace of Justice. Still, she certainly hoped that he would come to the
bazaar and contribute something. Then Fonsegue amused himself with
teasing Princess Rosemonde about her fire-hued gown, in which, said he,
she must already feel roasted by the flames of hell; a suggestion which
secretly delighted her, as Satanism had now become her momentary passion.
Meantime, Duvillard lavished the most gallant politeness on that silent
creature, Madame Fonsegue, while Hyacinthe, in order to astonish even the
Princess, explained in a few words how the New Magic could transform a
chaste young man into a real angel. And Camille, who seemed very happy
and very excited, from time to time darted a hot glance at her mother,
whose anxiety and sadness increased as she found the other more and more
aggressive, and apparently resolved upon open and merciless warfare.
At last, just as the dessert was coming to an end, the Baroness heard her
daughter exclaim in a piercing, defiant voice: "Oh! don't talk to me of
the old ladies who still seem to be playing with dolls, and paint
themselves, and dress as if they were about to be confirmed! All such
ogresses ought to retire from the scene! I hold them in horror!"
At this, Eve nervously rose from her seat, and exclaimed apologetically:
"You must forgive me for hurrying you like this. But I'm afraid that we
shan't have time to drink our coffee in peace."
The coffee was served in the little blue and silver sitting-room, where
bloomed some lovely yellow roses, testifying to the Baroness's keen
passion for flowers, which made the house an abode of perpetual spring.
Duvillard and Fonsegue, however, carrying their cups of steaming coffee
with them, at once went into the former's private room to smoke a cigar
there and chat in freedom. As the door remained wide open, one could
hear their gruff voices more or less distinctly. Meantime, General de
Bozonnet, delighted to find in Madame Fonsegue a serious, submissive
person, who listened without interrupting, began to tell her a very long
story of an officer's wife who had followed her husband through every
battle of the war of 1870. Then Hyacinthe, who took no
coffee--contemptuously declaring it to be a beverage only fit for
door-keepers--managed to rid himself of Rosemonde, who was sipping some
kummel, in order to come and whisper to his sister: "I say, it was very
stupid ofyou to taunt mamma in the way you did just now. I don't care
a rap about it myself. But it ends by being noticed, and, I warn you
candidly, it shows ill breeding."
Camille gazed at him fixedly with her black eyes. "Pray don't _you_
meddle with my affairs," said she.
At this he felt frightened, scented a storm, and decided to take
Rosemonde into the adjoining red drawing-room in order to show her a
picture which his father had just purchased. And the General, on being
called by him, likewise conducted Madame Fonsegue thither.
The mother and daughter then suddenly found themselves alone and face to
face. Eve was leaning on a pier-table, as if overcome; and indeed, the
least sorrow bore her down, so weak at heart she was, ever ready to weep
in her naive and perfect egotism. Why was it that her daughter thus hated
her, and did her utmost to disturb that last happy spell of love in which
her heart lingered? She looked at Camille, grieved rather than irritated;
and the unfortunate idea came to her of making a remark about her dress
at the very moment when the girl was on the point of following the others
into the larger drawing-room.
"It's quite wrong of you, my dear," said she, "to persist in dressing
like an old woman. It doesn't improve you a bit."
As Eve spoke, her soft eyes, those of a courted and worshipped handsome
woman, clearly expressed the compassion she felt for that ugly, deformed
girl, whom she had never been able to regard as a daughter. Was it
possible that she, with her sovereign beauty, that beauty which she
herself had ever adored and nursed, making it her one care, her one
religion--was it possible that she had given birth to such a graceless
creature, with a dark, goatish profile, one shoulder higher than the
other, and a pair of endless arms such as hunchbacks often have? All her
grief and all her shame at having had such a child became apparent in the
quivering of her voice.
Camille, however, had stopped short, as if struck in the face with a
whip. Then she came back to her mother and the horrible explanation began
with these simple words spoken in an undertone: "You consider that I
dress badly? Well, you ought to have paid some attention to me, have seen
that my gowns suited your taste, and have taught me your secret of
looking beautiful!"
Eve, with her dislike of all painful feeling, all quarrelling and bitter
words, was already regretting her attack. So she sought to make a
retreat, particularly as time was flying and they would soon be expected
downstairs: "Come, be quiet, and don't show your bad temper when all
those people can hear us. I have loved you--"
But with a quiet yet terrible laugh Camille interrupted her. "You've
loved me! Oh! my poor mamma, what a comical thing to say! Have you ever
loved _anybody_? You want others to love _you_, but that's another
matter. As for your child, any child, do you even know how it ought to be
loved? You have always neglected me, thrust me on one side, deeming me so
ugly, so unworthy of you! And besides, you have not had days and nights
enough to love yourself! Oh! don't deny it, my poor mamma; but even now
you're looking at me as if I were some loathsome monster that's in your
way."
From that moment the abominable scene was bound to continue to the end.
With their teeth set, their faces close together, the two women went on
speaking in feverish whispers.
"Be quiet, Camille, I tell you! I will not allow such language!"
"But I won't be quiet when you do all you can to wound me. If it's wrong
of me to dress like an old woman, perhaps another is rather ridiculous in
dressing like a girl, like a bride."
"Like a bride? I don't understand you."
"Oh! yes, you do. However, I would have you know that everybody doesn't
find me so ugly as you try to make them believe."
"If you look amiss, it is because you don't dress properly; that is all I
said."
"I dress as I please, and no doubt I do so well enough, since I'm loved
as I am."
"What, really! Does someone love you? Well, let him inform us of it and
marry you."
"Yes--certainly, certainly! It will be a good riddance, won't it? And
you'll have the pleasure of seeing me as a bride!"
Their voices were rising in spite of their efforts to restrain them.
However, Camille paused and drew breath before hissing out the words:
"Gerard is coming here to ask for my hand in a day or two."
Eve, livid, with wildly staring eyes, did not seem to understand.
"Gerard? why do you tell me that?"
"Why, because it's Gerard who loves me and who is going to marry me! You
drive me to extremities; you're for ever repeating that I'm ugly; you
treat me like a monster whom nobody will ever care for. So I'm forced to
defend myself and tell you the truth in order to prove to you that
everybody is not of your opinion."
Silence fell; the frightful thing which had risen between them seemed to
have arrested the quarrel. But there was neither mother nor daughter left
there. They were simply two suffering, defiant rivals. Eve in her turn
drew a long breath and glanced anxiously towards the adjoining room to
ascertain if anyone were coming in or listening to them. And then in a
tone of resolution she made answer:
"You cannot marry Gerard."
"Pray, why not?"
"Because I won't have it; because it's impossible."
"That isn't a reason; give me a reason."
"The reason is that the marriage is impossible that is all."
"No, no, I'll tell you the reason since you force me to it. The reason is
that Gerard is your lover! But what does that matter, since I know it and
am willing to take him all the same?"
And to this retort Camille's flaming eyes added the words: "And it is
particularly on that account that I want him." All the long torture born
of her infirmities, all her rage at having always seen her mother
beautiful, courted and adored, was now stirring her and seeking vengeance
in cruel triumph. At last then she was snatching from her rival the lover
of whom she had so long been jealous!
"You wretched girl!" stammered Eve, wounded in the heart and almost
sinking to the floor. "You don't know what you say or what you make me
suffer."
However, she again had to pause, draw herself erect and smile; for
Rosemonde hastened in from the adjoining room with the news that she was
wanted downstairs. The doors were about to be opened, and it was
necessary she should be at her stall. Yes, Eve answered, she would be
down in another moment. Still, even as she spoke she leant more heavily
on the pier-table behind her in order that she might not fall.
Hyacinthe had drawn near to his sister: "You know," said he, "it's simply
idiotic to quarrel like that. You would do much better to come
downstairs."
But Camille harshly dismissed him: "Just _you_ go off, and take the
others with you. It's quite as well that they shouldn't be about our
ears."
Hyacinthe glanced at his mother, like one who knew the truth and
considered the whole affair ridiculous. And then, vexed at seeing her so
deficient in energy in dealing with that little pest, his sister, he
shrugged his shoulders, and leaving them to their folly, conducted the
others away. One could hear Rosemonde laughing as she went off below,
while the General began to tell Madame Fonsegue another story as they
descended the stairs together. However, at the moment when the mother and
daughter at last fancied themselves alone once more, other voices reached
their ears, those of Duvillard and Fonsegue, who were still near at hand.
The Baron from his room might well overhear the dispute.
Eve felt that she ought to have gone off. But she had lacked the strength
to do so; it had been a sheer impossibility for her after those words
which had smote her like a buffet amidst her distress at the thought of
losing her lover.
"Gerard cannot marry you," she said; "he does not love you."
"He does."
"You fancy it because he has good-naturedly shown some kindness to you,
on seeing others pay you such little attention. But he does not love
you."
"He does. He loves me first because I'm not such a fool as many others
are, and particularly because I'm young."
This was a fresh wound for the Baroness; one inflicted with mocking
cruelty in which rang out all the daughter's triumphant delight at seeing
her mother's beauty at last ripening and waning. "Ah! my poor mamma, you
no longer know what it is to be young. If I'm not beautiful, at all
events I'm young; my eyes are clear and my lips are fresh. And my hair's
so long too, and I've so much of it that it would suffice to gown me if I
chose. You see, one's never ugly when one's young. Whereas, my poor
mamma, everything is ended when one gets old. It's all very well for a
woman to have been beautiful, and to strive to keep so, but in reality
there's only ruin left, and shame and disgust."
She spoke these words in such a sharp, ferocious voice that each of them
entered her mother's heart like a knife. Tears rose to the eyes of the
wretched woman, again stricken in her bleeding wound. Ah! it was true,
she remained without weapons against youth. And all her anguish came from
the consciousness that she was growing old, from the feeling that love
was departing from her now, that like a fruit she had ripened and fallen
from the tree.
"But Gerard's mother will never let him marry you," she said.
"He will prevail on her; that's his concern. I've a dowry of two
millions, and two millions can settle many things."
"Do you now want to libel him, and say that he's marrying you for your
money?"
"No, indeed! Gerard's a very nice and honest fellow. He loves me and he's
marrying me for myself. But, after all, he isn't rich; he still has no
assured position, although he's thirty-six; and there may well be some
advantage in a wife who brings you wealth as well as happiness. For, you
hear, mamma, it's happiness I'm bringing him, real happiness, love that's
shared and is certain of the future."
Once again their faces drew close together. The hateful scene,
interrupted by sounds around them, postponed, and then resumed, was
dragging on, becoming a perfect drama full of murderous violence,
although they never shouted, but still spoke on in low and gasping
voices. Neither gave way to the other, though at every moment they were
liable to some surprise; for not only were all the doors open, so that
the servants might come in, but the Baron's voice still rang out gaily,
close at hand.
"He loves you, he loves you"--continued Eve. "That's what you say. But
_he_ never told you so."
"He has told me so twenty times; he repeats it every time that we are
alone together!"
"Yes, just as one says it to a little girl by way of amusing her. But he
has never told you that he meant to marry you."
"He told it me the last time he came. And it's settled. I'm simply
waiting for him to get his mother's consent and make his formal offer."
"You lie, you lie, you wretched girl! You simply want to make me suffer,
and you lie, you lie!"
Eve's grief at last burst forth in that cry of protest. She no longer
knew that she was a mother, and was speaking to her daughter. The woman,
the _amorosa_, alone remained in her, outraged and exasperated by a
rival. And with a sob she confessed the truth: "It is I he loves! Only
the last time I spoke to him, he swore to me--you hear me?--he swore upon
his honour that he did not love you, and that he would never marry you!"
A faint, sharp laugh came from Camille. Then, with an air of derisive
compassion, she replied: "Ah! my poor mamma, you really make me sorry for
you! What a child you are! Yes, really, you are the child, not I. What!
you who ought to have so much experience, you still allow yourself to be
duped by a man's protests! That one really has no malice; and, indeed,
that's why he swears whatever you want him to swear, just to please and
quiet you, for at heart he's a bit of a coward."
"You lie, you lie!"
"But just think matters over. If he no longer comes here, if he didn't
come to _dejeuner_ this morning, it is simply because he's had enough of
you. He has | 2,196.545661 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Jana Srna and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[ Transcriber's Notes:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully
as possible, including inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation,
and ellipsis usage. Some corrections of spelling and punctuation
have been made. They are listed at the end of the text.
Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
]
ROYAL HIGHNESS
Translated from the German of
THOMAS MANN
by A. Cecil Curtis
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers
by arrangement with Alfred A. Knopf
COPYRIGHT, 1909, S. FISCHER, VERLAG
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
Prelude vii
CHAPTER I
The Constriction 1
CHAPTER II
The Country 25
CHAPTER III
Hinnerke the Shoemaker 37
CHAPTER IV
Doctor Ueberbein 64
CHAPTER V
Albrecht II 110
CHAPTER VI
The Lofty Calling 146
CHAPTER VII
Imma 168
CHAPTER VIII
The Fulfilment 265
CHAPTER IX
The Rose-Bush 328
PRELUDE
The scene is the Albrechtstrasse, the main artery of the capital, which
runs from Albrechtsplatz and the Old Schloss to the barracks of the
Fusiliers of the Guard. The time is noon on an ordinary week-day; the
season of the year does not matter. The weather is fair to moderate. It
is not raining, but the sky is not clear; it is a uniform light grey,
uninteresting and sombre, and the street lies in a dull and sober light
which robs it of all mystery, all individuality. There is a moderate
amount of traffic, without much noise and crowd, corresponding to the
not over-busy character of the town. Tram-cars glide past, a cab or two
rolls by, along the pavement stroll a few residents, colourless folk,
passers-by, the public--"people."
Two officers, their hands in the slanting pockets of their grey
great-coats, approach each other; a general and a lieutenant. The
general is coming from the Schloss, the lieutenant from the direction of
the barracks. The lieutenant is quite young, a mere stripling, little
more than a child. He has narrow shoulders, dark hair, and the wide
cheek-bones so common in this part of the world, blue rather
tired-looking eyes, and a boyish face with a kind but reserved
expression. The general has snow-white hair, is tall and
broad-shouldered, altogether a commanding figure. His eyebrows look like
cotton-wool, and his moustache hangs right down over his mouth and chin.
He walks with slow deliberation, his sword rattles on the asphalt, his
plume flutters in the wind, and at every step he takes the big red lapel
of his coat flaps slowly up and down.
And so these two draw near each other. Can this rencontre lead to any
complication? Impossible. Every observer can foresee the course this
meeting will naturally take. We have on one side and the other age and
youth, authority and obedience, years of services and docile
apprenticeship--a mighty hierarchical gulf, rules and prescriptions,
separate the two. Natural organization, take thy course! And, instead,
what happens? Instead, the following surprising, painful, delightful,
and topsy-turvy scene occurs.
The general, noticing the young lieutenant's approach, alters his
bearing in a surprising manner. He draws himself up, yet at the same
time seems to get smaller. He tones down with a jerk, so to speak, the
splendour of his appearance, stops the clatter of his sword, and, while
his face assumes a cross and embarrassed expression, he obviously cannot
make up his mind where to turn his eyes, and tries to conceal the fact
by staring from under his cotton-wool eyebrows at the asphalt straight
in front of him.
The young lieutenant too betrays to the careful observer some slight
embarrassment, which however, strange to say, he seems to succeed,
better than the grey-haired general, in cloaking with a certain grace
and self-command. The tension of his mouth is relaxed into a smile at
once modest and genial, and his eyes are directed with a quiet and
self-possessed calm, seemingly without an effort, over the general's
shoulder and beyond.
By now they have come within three paces of each other. And, instead of
the prescribed salute, the young lieutenant throws his head slightly
back, at the same time draws his right hand--only his right, mark
you--out of his coat-pocket and makes with this same white-gloved right
hand a little encouraging and condescending movement, just opening the
fingers with palm upwards, nothing more. But the general, who has
awaited this sign with his arms to his sides, raises his hand to his
helmet, steps aside, bows, making a half-circle as if to leave the
pavement free, and deferentially greets the lieutenant with reddening
cheeks and honest modest eyes. Thereupon the lieutenant, his hand to his
cap, answers the respectful greeting of his superior officer--answers | 2,196.547676 |
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Transcribed from the 1889 Cassell & Company edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
[Picture: Book cover]
CASSELL’S NATIONAL LIBRARY.
* * * * *
RASSELAS
PRINCE OF ABYSSINIA
* * * * *
BY
SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D.
[Picture: Decorative image]
CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED:
LONDON, PARIS & MELBOURNE.
1889.
INTRODUCTION.
RASSELAS was written by Samuel Johnson in the year 1759, when his age was
fifty. He had written his _London_ in 1738; his _Vanity of Human Wishes_
in 1740; his _Ramb | 2,196.547859 |
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Produced by RichardW and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by the Library of Congress)
HOCUS POCUS; OR THE WHOLE ART OF LEGERDEMAIN, IN PERFECTION. BY HENRY
DEAN.
[Illustration:
Strange feats are herein taught by slight of hand,
With which you may amuse yourself and friend,
The like in print was never seen before,
And so you’ll say when once you’ve read it o’er.
]
HOCUS POCUS;
OR THE WHOLE ART OF
_LEGERDEMAIN_,
IN PERFECTION.
By which the meaneſt capacity may perform the
whole without the help of a teacher.
_Together with the Uſe of all the Inſtruments_
_belonging thereto._
TO WHICH IS NOW ADDED,
Abundance of New and Rare Inventions.
BY HENRY DEAN.
_The ELEVENTH EDITION, with large_
_Additions and Amendments._
PHILADELPHIA:
PRINTED FOR MATHEW CAREY, NO. 118,
MARKET-STREET.
1795.
THE PREFACE TO THE READER.
KIND READER,
Having _in my former_ book _of_ LEGERDEMAIN, _promiſed you farther
improvements, accordingly I have diſcovered herein to you the greateſt
and moſt wonderful ſecrets of this_ ART, _never written or publiſhed
by any man before: therefore I do not doubt but herein you will find
pleaſure to your full ſatisfaction; which is all my deſire_.
HENRY DEAN.
The Whole ART of LEGERDEMAIN; OR, HOCUS POCUS IN PERFECTION, &c.
Legerdemain is an operation whereby one may seem to work wonderful,
impossible, and incredible things, by agility, nimbleness, and slight
of hand. The parts of this ingenious art, are principally four.
First, In conveyance of balls.
Secondly, In conveyance of money.
Thirdly, In cards,
Fourthly, In confederacy.
_A Description of the Operation._
1. He must be one of a bold and undaunted resolution, so as to set a
good face upon the matter.
2. He must have strange terms, and emphatical words, to grace and adorn
his actions; and the more to amaze and astonish the beholders.
3. And lastly, He must use such gestures of body, as may take off the
spectators eyes from a strict and diligent beholding his manner of
performance.
_How to pass the Balls through the Cups._
You must place yourself at the farther end of the table, and then you
must provide yourself three cups, made of tin, and then you must have
your black sticks of magic to shew your wonders withal; then you must
provide four small cork balls to play with; but do not let more than
three of them be seen upon the table.
Note. Always conceal one ball in the right hand, between your middle
finger and ring finger: and be sure make yourself perfect to hold it
there, for, by this means, all the tricks of the cups are done.
Then say as followeth.
_Gentlemen, three cups—’tis true_
_They are but tin, the reason why,_
_Silver is something dear._
_I’ll turn them in gold, if I live, &c._
_No equivocation at all:_
_But if your eyes are not as quick as my hands_
_I shall deceive you all._
_View them within,_
_View them all round about,_
_Where there is nothing in,_
_There’s nothing can come out._
Then take your four balls privately between your fingers, and so sling
one of them upon the table, and say thus,
_The first trick that e’er learn’d to do,_
_Was, out of one ball to make it into two:_
_Ah! since it cannot better be,_
_One of these two, I’ll divide them into three,_
_Which is call’d the first trick of dexterity._
So then you have three balls on the table to play with, and one left
between the fingers of your right hand.
_The Operation of the Cups is thus._
[Illustration]
Lay your three balls on the table, then say, Gentlemen, you see here
are three balls, and here are three cups, that is, a cup for each ball,
and a ball for each cup. Then, taking that ball that you had in your
right hand, (which you are always to keep private) and clapping it
under the first cup, then taking up one of the three balls, with your
right hand, seeming to put it into your left hand, but retain it still
in your right, shutting your left hand in due time, then say, _Presto,
be gone_.
[Illustration]
Then taking the second cup up, say, Gentlemen, you see there is nothing
under my cup; so clap the ball that you have in your right hand under
it, and then take the second ball up with your right hand, and seem to
put it into your left, but retain it in your right hand, shutting your
left in due time, as before, saying, _Verda, be gone_.
[Illustration]
Then take the third cup, saying, Gentlemen, you see there is nothing
under my last cup; then clapping the ball you have in your right hand
under it, then take the third ball up with your right hand, and seeming
to put it into your left hand, but retain it in your right; shutting
your left hand in due time, as before, saying, _Presto, make haste_; so
you have your three balls come under your three cups, as thus: and so
lay your three cups down on the table.
[Illustration]
Then with your right hand take up the first cup, and there clap that
ball under, that you have in your right hand; then saying, Gentlemen,
this being the first ball, I will put it into my pocket; but that you
must still keep in your hand to play withal.
[Illustration]
So take up the second cup with your right hand, and clap that ball you
have concealed under it, and then take up the second ball with your
right hand, and say, this likewise, I take and put into my pocket.
[Illustration]
Likewise, take up the third cup, and clapping the cup down again,
convey that ball you have in your right hand under the cup, then taking
the third ball, say, Gentlemen, this being the last ball, I take and
put this into my pocket. Afterwards say to the company, Gentlemen, by
a little of my fine powder of experience, I will command these balls
under the cups again. As thus,
[Illustration]
So lay them all along upon the table to the admiration of all the
beholders.
Then take up the first cup, and clap the ball you have in your right
hand under it, then taking the first ball up with your right hand, seem
to put the same into your left hand, but retain it still in your right,
then say, _Vade, quick be gone when I bid you, and run under the cup_.
[Illustration]
Then taking that cup up again, and flinging that you have in your
right hand under it, you must take up the second ball, and seem to
put it into your left hand, but retain it in your right hand, saying,
Gentlemen, see how the ball runs on the table.
So seemingly fling it away, and it will appear as thus.
[Illustration]
So taking the same cup again, then clapping the ball under again, as
before, then taking the third ball in your right hand, and seem to put
it under your left, but still retain it in your right, then with your
left hand seem to fling it in the cup, and it will appear thus; all the
three balls to be under one cup.
[Illustration]
And if you can perform these actions with the cups, you may change the
balls into apples pears, or plumbs, or to living birds, to what your
fancy leads you to. I would have given you more examples, but I think
these are sufficient for the ingenious, so that, by these means, you
may perform all manner of actions with the cups.
Note. The artificial cups cannot well be described by words, but you
may have them of me, for they are accounted the greatest secrets in
this art: therefore, I advise you to keep them as such, for this was
never known to the world before.
_How to shew the wonderful_ Magic Lanthorn.
This is the magic lanthorn that has made so much wonder in the world,
and that which Friar Bacon used to shew all his magical wonders withal.
This lanthorn is called magic, with respect to the formidable
apparitions that by virtue of light it shews upon the white wall of a
dark room. The body of it is generally made of tin, and of a shape of
the lamp; towards the back part, is a concave looking glass of metal,
which may either be spherical or parabolical, and which, by a grove
made in the bottom of the lanthorn, may either be advanced nearer or
put farther back from the lamp, in which is oil or spirit of wine, and
the match ought to be a little thick, that when it is lighted, it may
cast a good light that may easily reflect from the glass to the fore
part of the lanthorn, where there is an aperture with the perspective
in it, composed of two glasses that make the rays converge and magnify
the object.
When you mean to make use of this admirable machine, light the lamp,
the light of which will be much augmented by the looking glass at a
reasonable distance. Between the fore-part of the lanthorn, and the
perspective glass, you have a trough, made on purpose, in which you are
to run a long, flat thin frame with different figures, painted with
transparent colours upon glass; then all these little figures passing
successively before the perspective glass, thro’ which passes the light
of the lamp, will be painted, and represented with the same colours
upon the wall of a darkroom, in a gigantic and monstrous manner.
By this Lanthorn you may shew what man, or woman, or birds, or beasts,
and all sorts of fish that are in the sea: so if any gentleman has a
desire to furnish themselves with one of these lanthorns, I have the
best that can be made.
_The figure is as follows._
[Illustration]
_To seem to swallow a long pudding made of tin._
This pudding must be made of tin, consisting of twelve or thirteen
little hoops made as in the figure following, so as they may almost
seem to fall one through another, having little holes made at the
biggest end thereof, that it may not hurt your mouth, hold this pudding
(for so it is called) privately in your left hand, with the hole end
uppermost, and with your right hand take a ball out of your pocket,
and say, ‘If here is ever a maid, that has lost her maidenhead or an
old woman that is out of conceit with herself, because her neighbours
deem her not so young as she would be, let them come to me, for this
ball is a present remedy:’ then seem to put the ball into your left
hand, but let it slip into your lap, and clap your pudding into your
mouth, which will be thought to be the ball that you shewed them; then
decline your head, and open your mouth, and the pudding will slip
down at its full length, which with your right hand you may strike it
into your mouth again, doing this three or four times, then you may
discharge it into your hand, and clap it into your pocket without any
suspicion, by making three or four wry faces after it, as tho’ it stuck
in your throat, and if you practise smiting easily upon your throat
with your fist on each side, the pudding will seem to chink; as if it
were flying there; then say, ‘Thus they eat puddings in High Germany,
they fling it down their throats before their teeth can take possession
of it.’
[Illustration]
_To seem to eat knives and forks._
Desire any one of the spectators to lend you a knife, which when you
get hold of, so that you may cover the whole with both hands, the
end of the haft excepted, and setting the point to your eye, saying,
“Some body strike it with your fist,” but nobody will, because it is so
dangerous a thing; then setting your hand on the side of the table and
looking about you, ask, “What will nobody strike it in?” in which time
let the knife slip into your lap, then make as if you chop it hastily
into your mouth, or to hold it with one hand, and to strike it in with
the other nimbly, making three or four wry faces, saying, “Some drink,
some drink,” or else, “Now let somebody put his finger into my mouth,
and pull it out again,” some will cry, “You will bite me,” say, “I
will assure you I will not:” then when he hath put his finger in, he
will pull it out and cry, There is nothing; this is time sufficient to
convey the knife into your pocket; then say, Why, you have your finger
again: so, by this means, you may swallow knives and forks.
_To put a lock upon a man’s mouth._
You must have a lock made for this purpose, according to the figure;
one side of its bow must be immovable, as that marked with A, the other
side is noted with B, and must be pinned to the body of the lock, as
appears at E, I say it must be pinned that it may play to and fro with
ease; this side of the bow must have a leg as at C, and then turn it
into the lock; this leg must have two notches filled in the inner
side, which must be so ordered, that one may lock or hold the two sides
of the bow as close together as may be, and the other notch to hold the
said part of the bow a proportionable distance asunder, that, being
locked upon the cheek, it may neither pinch too hard, nor yet hold it
so slight that it may be drawn off; let there be a key fixed to it, to
unlock it, as you see at D, and lastly, let the bow have divers notches
filled in it, so that the place of the partition, when the lock is shut
home, will the least of all be suspected in the use of the lock; you
must get one to hold a tester edge long between his teeth, then take
another tester, and with your left hand proffer to set it edge-ways
between a second man’s teeth, pretending that your intent is to turn
both into which of their mouths they shall desire, by virtue of your
words: which he shall no sooner consent to do, but you, by holding your
lock privately in your right hand, with your fore-finger may flip it
over his cheek, and lock it by pressing your fore-finger a little down,
after some store of words, and the lock, having hung on a while, seem
to pull the key out of his nose.
You may have those locks neatly made, at my house, near the
watch-house, on little Tower-hill, Postern-row, a bookseller’s shop.
[Illustration]
_How to shew the magic bell and bushel._
This feat may well be called magical, for really it is very amazing, if
it be well handled. This device was never known to the public before.
This bushel must be turned neatly like unto the egg-boxes, so that they
cannot find out where it opens, and you must have a false lid to clap
on and off; upon that false lid glue some bird-feed, and then you must
have a true lid made to clap neatly upon the false one, now you must
have your artificial bell to shew with your bushel.
You may make your bell with wood or brass, your bell must be made to
unscrew at the top, that it may hold as much seed as your bushel will
when it is filled, and you must have the handle of your bell made with
a spring, so as to let the seed fall down at your word of command.
The manner how to use them is as followeth: Note, you must be sure to
fill the top of your bell with seed before you begin to shew; then
saying, Gentlemen, you see I have nothing in my bell (which they
cannot, if you hold it by the handle) nor have I any thing in my
bushel, therefore I will fill my bushel with seed, and, in filling it,
clap on the false lid, and no man can tell the contrary.
Then ask any body in the company to hold that seed in their hands and
you will command it all under the magical bell; so clap the true lid
on, and then ring your bell, and the seed will be gone out of your
bushel into your bell, to the admiration of all the beholders.
If you cannot rightly conceive this by words, you may have them of the
newest fashions, ready made, at my house.
[Illustration]
_How to put a ring through one’s cheek._
You must have two rings made of silver, or brass, or what you please,
of one bigness, colour, and likeness, saving that one must have a
notch through, and the other must be whole, without a notch; shew the
whole ring, and conceal that which hath the notch, and say, Now I will
put this ring through my check, and privately slip the notch over one
side of your mouth; then take a small stick which you must have in
readiness, and slip the whole ring upon it, holding your hand over it
about the middle of the stick; then bid somebody hold fast the stick at
both ends; and say, see this ring in my cheek, it turns round; then,
while you perceive them fasten their eyes upon that ring, on a sudden
whip it out, and smite upon the stick therewith, instantly concealing
it, and whirling the other ring, you hold your hand over round about
the stick, and it will be thought that you have brought that ring upon
the stick which was upon your cheek.
[Illustration]
_How to shew the Hen and Egg-bag, and out of an empty bag to bring out
above an hundred eggs, and afterwards to bring out a living hen._
[Illustration]
You must go and buy two or three yards of calico, or printed linen,
and make a double bag, and on the mouth of the bag, on that side next
to you, you must make four or five little purses, in which you must
put two or three eggs in a purse; and do so till you have filled that
side next to you; and have a hole made at one end of your bag, that
no more than two or three eggs come out at once; then you must have
another bag, like unto that exactly, that one must not be known from
the other; and then put a living hen into that bag, and hang it on a
hook on that side you stand. The manner of performing it is thus: take
the egg-bag, and put both your hands in it, and turn it inside out, and
say, Gentlemen, you see there is nothing in my bag; and, in turning it
again, you must slip some of the eggs out of the purses, as many as you
think fit, and then turn your bag again and shew the company that it is
empty; and, in turning it again, you command more eggs to come out, and
when all is come out but one, you must take that egg and shew it to the
company; and then drop your egg-bag, and take up your hen-bag, and so
shake your hen, pidgeon, or any other fowl. This is a noble fancy, if
well handled.
_How to cut the blowing book._
Take a book seven inches long, and about five inches broad, and let
there be forty-nine leaves, that is, seven times seven, contained
therein, so as you may cut upon the edges of each leaf six notches,
each notch in depth of a quarter of an inch, with a gouge made for that
purpose, and let them be one inch distant; paint every thirteenth and
fourteenth page, which is the end of every sixth leaf and beginning of
every seventh, with like colours, or pictures; cut off with a pair of
sheers, every notch of the first leaf, leaving only one inch of paper,
which will remain half a quarter of an inch above that leaf; leave
another like inch in the second part of the second leaf, clipping
away an inch of paper in the highest place above it, and all notches
below the same, and orderly to the third and fourth, and so as there
shall rest upon each leaf only one nick of paper above the rest, one
high uncut, an inch of paper must answer to the first directly, so as
when you have cut the first seven leaves in such a manner as I have
described, you are to begin the self same order at the eighth leaf,
descending the same manner to the cutting the other seven leaves to
twenty-one, until you are past through every leaf all the thickness of
your book, &c.
This feat is sooner learn’d by demonstrative means, than taught by
words of instruction; so, if any person wants to be furnished with
these blowing books, they may have them at my shop on Little-towerhill,
aforesaid.
_To shew the trick with the Funnel._
[Illustration]
You must get a double funnel, that is, two funnels soddered one within
the other, so that you may, at the little end, pour in a quantity of
wine or water; this funnel you may have ready filled before-hand, with
whatsoever liquor you please, and call for | 2,196.646961 |
2023-11-16 18:53:40.6270350 | 1,877 | 31 |
The Academic Questions,
Treatise De Finibus.
and
Tusculan Disputations
Of
M. T. Cicero
With
A Sketch of the Greek Philosophers Mentioned by Cicero.
Literally Translated by
C. D. Yonge, B.A.
London: George Bell and Sons
York Street
Covent Garden
Printed by William Clowes and Sons,
Stamford Street and Charing Cross.
1875
CONTENTS
A Sketch of the Greek Philosophers Mentioned by Cicero.
Introduction.
First Book Of The Academic Questions.
Second Book Of The Academic Questions.
A Treatise On The Chief Good And Evil.
First Book Of The Treatise On The Chief Good And Evil.
Second Book Of The Treatise On The Chief Good And Evil.
Third Book Of The Treatise On The Chief Good And Evil.
Fourth Book Of The Treatise On The Chief Good And Evil.
Fifth Book Of The Treatise On The Chief Good And Evil.
The Tusculan Disputations.
Introduction.
Book I. On The Contempt Of Death.
Book II. On Bearing Pain.
Book III. On Grief Of Mind.
Book IV. On Other Perturbations Of The Mind.
Book V. Whether Virtue Alone Be Sufficient For A Happy Life.
Footnotes
A SKETCH OF THE GREEK PHILOSOPHERS MENTIONED BY CICERO.
In the works translated in the present volume, Cicero makes such constant
references to the doctrines and systems of the ancient Greek Philosophers,
that it seems desirable to give a brief account of the most remarkable of
those mentioned by him; not entering at length into the history of their
lives, but indicating the principal theories which they maintained, and
the main points in which they agreed with, or differed from, each other.
The earliest of them was _Thales_, who was born at Miletus, about 640 B.C.
He was a man of great political sagacity and influence; but we have to
consider him here as the earliest philosopher who appears to have been
convinced of the necessity of scientific proof of whatever was put forward
to be believed, and as the originator of mathematics and geometry. He was
also a great astronomer; for we read in Herodotus (i. 74) that he
predicted the eclipse of the sun which happened in the reign of Alyattes,
king of Lydia, B.C. 609. He asserted that water is the origin of all
things; that everything is produced out of it, and everything is resolved
into it. He also asserted that it is the soul which originates all motion,
so much so, that he attributes a soul to the magnet. Aristotle also
represents him as saying that everything is full of Gods. He does not
appear to have left any written treatises behind him: we are uncertain
when or where he died, but he is said to have lived to a great age--to 78,
or, according to some writers, to 90 years of age.
_Anaximander_, a countryman of Thales, was also born at Miletus, about 30
years later; he is said to have been a pupil of the former, and deserves
especial mention as the oldest philosophical writer among the Greeks. He
did not devote himself to the mathematical studies of Thales, but rather
to speculations concerning the generation and origin of the world; as to
which his opinions are involved in some obscurity. He appears, however, to
have considered that all things were formed of a sort of matter, which he
called {~GREEK SMALL LETTER TAU~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMICRON WITH VARIA~} {~GREEK SMALL LETTER ALPHA WITH PSILI AND OXIA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER PI~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER EPSILON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER IOTA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER RHO~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMICRON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER NU~}, or The Infinite; which was something everlasting and
divine, though not invested with any spiritual or intelligent nature. His
own works have not come down to us; but, according to Aristotle, he
considered this "Infinite" as consisting of a mixture of simple,
unchangeable elements, from which all things were produced by the
concurrence of homogeneous particles already existing in it,--a process
which he attributed to the constant conflict between heat and cold, and to
affinities of the particles: in this he was opposed to the doctrine of
Thales, Anaximenes, and Diogenes of Apollonia, who agreed in deriving all
things from a single, not _changeable_, principle.
Anaximander further held that the earth was of a cylindrical form,
suspended in the middle of the universe, and surrounded by water, air, and
fire, like the coats of an onion; but that the interior stratum of fire
was broken up and collected into masses, from which originated the sun,
moon, and stars; which he thought were carried round by the three spheres
in which they were respectively fixed. He believed that the moon had a
light of her own, not a borrowed light; that she was nineteen times as
large as the earth, and the sun twenty-eight. He thought that all animals,
including man, were originally produced in water, and proceeded gradually
to become land animals. According to Diogenes Laertius, he was the
inventor of the gnomon, and of geographical maps; at all events, he was
the first person who introduced the use of the gnomon into Greece. He died
about 547 B.C.
_Anaximenes_ was also a Milesian, and a contemporary of Thales and
Anaximander. We do not exactly know when he was born, or when he died; but
he must have lived to a very great age, for he was in high repute as early
as B.C. 544, and he was the tutor of Anaxagoras, B.C. 480. His theory was,
that air was the first cause of all things, and that the other elements of
the universe were resolvable into it. From this infinite air, he imagined
that all finite things were formed by compression and rarefaction,
produced by motion, which had existed from all eternity; so that the earth
was generated out of condensed air, and the sun and other heavenly bodies
from the earth. He thought also that heat and cold were produced by
different degrees of density of this primal element, air; that the clouds
were formed by the condensing of the air; and that it was the air which
supported the earth, and kept it in its place. Even the human soul he
believed to be, like the body, formed of air. He believed in the eternity
of matter, and denied the existence of anything immaterial.
_Anaxagoras_, who, as has been already stated, was a pupil of Anaximenes,
was born at Clazomenae, in Ionia, about B.C. 499. He removed to Athens at
the time of the Persian war, where he became intimate with Pericles, who
defended him, though unsuccessfully, when he was prosecuted for impiety:
he was fined five talents, and banished from the city; on which he retired
to Lampsacus, where he died at the age of 72. He differed from his
predecessors of the Ionic School, and sought for a higher cause of all
things than matter: this cause he considered to be {~GREEK SMALL LETTER NU~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMICRON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER UPSILON WITH PERISPOMENI~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER FINAL SIGMA~}, _intelligence_,
or _mind_. Not that he thought this {~GREEK SMALL LETTER NU~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMICRON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER UPSILON WITH PERISPOMENI~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER FINAL SIGMA~} to be the creator of the world,
but only that principle which arranged it, and gave it motion; for his
idea was, that matter had existed from all eternity, but that, before the
{~GREEK SMALL LETTER NU~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMICRON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER UPSILON WITH PERISPOMENI~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER FINAL SIGMA~} arranged it, it was all in a state of chaotic confusion, and full of
an infinite number of homogeneous and heterogeneous parts; then the {~GREEK SMALL LETTER NU~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMICRON~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER UPSILON | 2,196.647075 |
2023-11-16 18:53:40.6294510 | 1,229 | 10 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, S. R. Ellison, Ted Garvin,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
A DOG OF FLANDERS
By Louisa De La Rame
(Ouida)
_Illustrated In Color By_ Maria L. Kirk
ILLUSTRATIONS
NELLO, AWAKENED FROM HIS SLEEP, RAN TO HELP WITH THE REST
THEN LITTLE NELLO TOOK HIS PLACE BESIDE THE CART
NELLO DREW THEIR LIKENESS WITH A STICK OF CHARCOAL
THE PORTALS OF THE CATHEDRAL WERE UNCLOSED AFTER THE MIDNIGHT MASS
A DOG OF FLANDERS
A STORY OF NOeEL
[Illustration]
Nello and Patrasche were left all alone in the world.
They were friends in a friendship closer than brotherhood. Nello was
a little Ardennois--Patrasche was a big Fleming. They were both of the
same age by length of years, yet one was still young, and the other was
already old. They had dwelt together almost all their days: both were
orphaned and destitute, and owed their lives to the same hand. It
had been the beginning of the tie between them, their first bond of
sympathy; and it had strengthened day by day, and had grown with
their growth, firm and indissoluble, until they loved one another very
greatly. Their home was a little hut on the edge of a little village--a
Flemish village a league from Antwerp, set amidst flat breadths of
pasture and corn-lands, with long lines of poplars and of alders bending
in the breeze on the edge of the great canal which ran through it. It
had about a score of houses and homesteads, with shutters of bright
green or sky-blue, and roofs rose-red or black and white, and walls
white-washed until they shone in the sun like snow. In the centre of the
village stood a windmill, placed on a little moss-grown <DW72>: it was
a landmark to all the level country round. It had once been painted
scarlet, sails and all, but that had been in its infancy, half a century
or more earlier, when it had ground wheat for the soldiers of Napoleon;
and it was now a ruddy brown, tanned by wind and weather. It went
queerly by fits and starts, as though rheumatic and stiff in the joints
from age, but it served the whole neighborhood, which would have thought
it almost as impious to carry grain elsewhere as to attend any other
religious service than the mass that was performed at the altar of the
little old gray church, with its conical steeple, which stood opposite
to it, and whose single bell rang morning, noon, and night with that
strange, subdued, hollow sadness which every bell that hangs in the Low
Countries seems to gain as an integral part of its melody.
Within sound of the little melancholy clock almost from their birth
upward, they had dwelt together, Nello and Patrasche, in the little hut
on the edge of the village, with the cathedral spire of Antwerp rising
in the north-east, beyond the great green plain of seeding grass and
spreading corn that stretched away from them like a tideless, changeless
sea. It was the hut of a very old man, of a very poor man--of old Jehan
Daas, who in his time had been a soldier, and who remembered the wars
that had trampled the country as oxen tread down the furrows, and who
had brought from his service nothing except a wound, which had made him
a <DW36>.
When old Jehan Daas had reached his full eighty, his daughter had
died in the Ardennes, hard by Stavelot, and had left him in legacy her
two-year-old son. The old man could ill contrive to support himself,
but he took up the additional burden uncomplainingly, and it soon
became welcome and precious to him. Little Nello---which was but a pet
diminutive for Nicolas--throve with him, and the old man and the little
child lived in the poor little hut contentedly.
It was a very humble little mud-hut indeed, but it was clean and white
as a sea-shell, and stood in a small plot of garden-ground that yielded
beans and herbs and pumpkins. They were very poor, terribly poor--many a
day they had nothing at all to eat. They never by any chance had enough:
to have had enough to eat would have been to have reached paradise at
once. But the old man was very gentle and good to the boy, and the boy
was a beautiful, innocent, truthful, tender-hearted creature; and they
were happy on a crust and a few leaves of cabbage, and asked no more of
earth or heaven; save indeed that Patrasche should be always with them,
since without Patrasche where would they have been?
For Patrasche was their alpha and omega; their treasury and granary;
their store of gold and wand of wealth; their bread-winner and minister;
their only friend and comforter. Patrasche dead or gone from them, they
must have laid themselves down and died likewise. Patrasche was body,
brains, hands, head, and feet to both of them: Patrasche was their very
life, their very soul. For Jehan Daas was old and a <DW36>, and Nello
was but a child; and Patrasche was their dog.
[Illustration]
A dog of Flanders--yellow of hide, large of | 2,196.649491 |
2023-11-16 18:53:40.6322990 | 569 | 34 |
Produced by David Edwards, Chris Pinfield and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber's Note.
Apparent typographical errors have been corrected. The inconsistent
use of hyphens has been retained.
Italics are indicated by _underscores_. Small capitals have been
replaced by full capitals.
[Illustration: CONVENT OF SOLOVETSK IN THE FROZEN SEA.]
[Illustration: RUSSIAN INFANTRY ON EASTERN STEPPE ESCORTED BY KOZAKS
AND KIRGHIZ.]
FREE RUSSIA.
BY
WILLIAM HEPWORTH DIXON.
AUTHOR OF
"FREE AMERICA." "HER MAJESTY'S TOWER." &c.
[Illustration]
_NEW YORK_:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS.
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1870.
PREFACE.
_Svobodnaya_ Rossia--_Free_ Russia--is a word on every lip in that
great country; at once the Name and Hope of the new empire born of the
Crimean war. In past times Russia was free, even as Germany and France
were free. She fell before Asiatic hordes; and the Tartar system
lasted, in spirit, if not in form, until the war; but since that
conflict ended, the old Russia has been born again. This new
country--hoping to be pacific, meaning to be Free--is what I have
tried to paint.
My journeys, just completed, carried me from the Polar Sea to the Ural
Mountains, from the mouth of the Vistula to the Straits of Yeni Kale,
including visits to the four holy shrines of Solovetsk, Pechersk, St.
George, and Troitsa. My object being to paint the Living People, I
have much to say about pilgrims, monks, and parish priests; about
village justice, and patriarchal life; about beggars, tramps, and
sectaries; about Kozaks, Kalmuks, and Kirghiz; about workmen's artels,
burgher rights, and the division of land; about students' revolts and
soldiers' grievances; in short, about the Human Forces which underlie
and shape the external politics of our time.
Two journeys made in previous years have helped me to judge the
reforms which are opening out the Japan-like empire of Nicolas into
the Free Russia of the reigning prince.
_February | 2,196.652339 |
2023-11-16 18:53:41.0270640 | 251 | 7 |
Produced by Ted Garvin, Danny Wool and PG Distributed Proofreaders
A Roman Lawyer in Jerusalem
First Century
By
W.W. Story
A ROMAN LAWYER IN JERUSALEM
Marcus, abiding in Jerusalem,
Greeting to Caius, his best friend in Rome!
_Salve!_ these presents will be borne to you
By Lucius, who is wearied with this place,
Sated with travel, looks upon the East
As simply hateful--blazing, barren, bleak,
And longs again to find himself in Rome,
After the tumult of its streets, its trains
Of slaves and clients, and its villas cool
With marble porticoes beside the sea,
And friends and banquets--more than all, its games--
This life seems blank and flat. He pants to stand
In its vast circus all alive with heads
And quivering arms and floating robes--the air
Thrilled by the roaring _fremitus_ of men--
The sunlit awning heaving overhead,
Swollen and strained against its corded veins
| 2,197.047104 |
2023-11-16 18:53:41.0271460 | 2,298 | 70 |
Produced by Irma Spehar, Paul Dring and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
SIR WALTER RALEGH
_STEBBING_
HENRY FROWDE, M.A.
PUBLISHER TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD
[Illustration]
LONDON, EDINBURGH, AND NEW YORK
[Illustration: SIR WALTER RALEGH
_From the Duke of Rutland's Miniature_]
SIR WALTER RALEGH
A Biography
By
WILLIAM STEBBING, M.A.
FORMERLY FELLOW OF WORCESTER COLLEGE, OXFORD
AUTHOR OF
'SOME VERDICTS OF HISTORY REVIEWED'
_REISSUE_
_WITH A FRONTISPIECE AND A LIST OF AUTHORITIES_
Oxford
AT THE CLARENDON PRESS
1899
Oxford
PRINTED AT THE CLARENDON PRESS
BY HORACE HART, M.A.
PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE vii
LIST OF AUTHORITIES xiii
CORRIGENDA xxvii
CHAP.
I. GENEALOGY 1
II. IN SEARCH OF A CAREER (1552-1581) 6
III. ROYAL FAVOUR (1581-1582) 22
IV. OFFICES AND ENDOWMENTS (1582-1587) 32
V. VIRGINIA (1583-1587) 42
VI. PATRON AND COURTIER (1583-1590) 53
VII. ESSEX. THE ARMADA (1587-1589) 60
VIII. THE POET (1589-1593) 69
IX. THE REVENGE (September, 1591) 82
X. IN THE TOWER. THE GREAT CARACK (1592) 88
XI. AT HOME; AND IN PARLIAMENT (1592-1594) 100
XII. GUIANA (1594-1595) 108
XIII. CADIZ. THE ISLANDS VOYAGE (1596-1597) 125
XIV. FINAL FEUD WITH ESSEX (1597-1601) 141
XV. THE ZENITH (1601-1603) 155
XVI. COBHAM AND CECIL (1601-1603) 168
XVII. THE FALL (April-June, 1603) 180
XVIII. AWAITING TRIAL (July-November, 1603) 186
XIX. THE TRIAL (November 17) 207
XX. ITS JUSTICE AND EQUITY 222
XXI. REPRIEVE (December 10, 1603) 232
XXII. A PRISONER (1604-1612) 241
XXIII. SCIENCE AND LITERATURE (1604-1615) 265
XXIV. THE RELEASE (March, 1616) 287
XXV. PREPARING FOR GUIANA (1616-1617) 298
XXVI. THE EXPEDITION (May, 1617-June, 1618) 313
XXVII. RETURN TO THE TOWER (June-August, 1618) 331
XXVIII. A MORAL RACK (August 10-October 15) 343
XXIX. A SUBSTITUTE FOR A TRIAL (October 22, 1618) 359
XXX. RALEGH'S TRIUMPH (October 28-29, 1618) 371
XXXI. SPOILS AND PENALTIES 380
XXXII. CONTEMPORARY AND FINAL JUDGMENTS 394
INDEX 401
PREFACE
Students of Ralegh's career cannot complain of a dearth of materials.
For thirty-seven years he lived in the full glare of publicity. The
social and political literature of more than a generation abounds in
allusions to him. He appears and reappears continually in the
correspondence of Burleigh, Robert Cecil, Christopher Hatton, Essex,
Anthony Bacon, Henry Sidney, Richard Boyle, Ralph Winwood, Dudley
Carleton, George Carew, Henry Howard, and King James. His is a very
familiar name in the Calendars of Domestic State Papers. It holds its
place in the archives of Venice and Simancas. No family muniment room
can be explored without traces of him. Successive reports of the
Historical Manuscripts Commission testify to the vigilance with which
his doings were noted. No personage in two reigns was more a centre for
anecdotes and fables. They were eagerly imbibed, treasured, and
circulated alike by contemporary, or all but contemporary, statesmen and
wits, and by the feeblest scandal-mongers. A list comprising the names
of Francis Bacon, Sir John Harington, Sir Robert Naunton, Drummond of
Hawthornden, Thomas Fuller, Sir Anthony Welldon, Bishop Goodman, Francis
Osborn, Sir Edward Peyton, Sir Henry Wotton, John Aubrey, Sir William
Sanderson, David Lloyd, and James Howell, is far from exhausting the
number of the very miscellaneous purveyors and chroniclers.
Antiquaries, from the days of John Hooker of Exeter, the continuer of
Holinshed, Sir William Pole, Anthony a Wood, and John Prince, to those
of Lysons, Polwhele, Isaac D'Israeli, Payne Collier, and Dr. Brushfield,
have found boundless hunting-ground in his habits, acts, and motives.
Sir John Hawles, Mr. Justice Foster, David Jardine, Lord Campbell, and
Spedding have discussed the technical justice of his trials and
sentences. No historian, from Camden and de Thou, to Hume, Lingard,
Hallam, and Gardiner, has been able to abstain from debating his merits
and demerits. From his own age to the present the fascination of his
career, and at once the copiousness of information on it, and its
mysteries, have attracted a multitude of commentators. His character has
been repeatedly analysed by essayists, subtle as Macvey Napier, eloquent
as Charles Kingsley. There has been no more favourite theme for
biographers. Since the earliest and trivial account compiled by William
Winstanley in 1660, followed by the anonymous and tolerably industrious
narrative attributed variously to John, Benjamin, and James, Shirley in
1677, and Lewis Theobald's meagre sketch in 1719, a dozen or more lives
with larger pretensions to critical research have been printed, by
William Oldys in 1736, Thomas Birch in 1751, Arthur Cayley in 1805, Sir
Samuel Egerton Brydges in 1813, Mrs. A.T. Thomson in 1830, Patrick
Fraser Tytler in 1833, Robert Southey in 1837, Sir Robert Hermann
Schomburgk in 1848, C. Whitehead in 1854, S.G. Drake, of Boston, U.S.,
in 1862, J.A. St. John in 1868, Edward Edwards in the same year, Mrs.
Creighton in 1877, and Edmund Gosse in 1886.
Almost every one of this numerous company, down even to bookmaking
Winstanley the barber, has shed light, much or little, upon dark
recesses. By four, Oldys, Cayley, Tytler, and Edwards, the whole
learning of the subject, so far as it was for their respective periods
available, must be admitted to have been most diligently accumulated.
Yet it will scarcely be denied that there has always been room for a new
presentment of Ralegh's personality. That the want has remained
unsatisfied after all the efforts made to supply it is to be imputed
less to defects in the writers, than to the intrinsic difficulties of
the subject. Ralegh's multifarious activity, with the width of the area
in which it operated, is itself a disturbing element. It is confusing
for a biographer to be required to keep at once independent and in
unison the poet, statesman, courtier, schemer, patriot, soldier, sailor,
freebooter, discoverer, colonist, castle-builder, historian,
philosopher, chemist, prisoner, and visionary. The variety of Ralegh's
powers and tendencies, and of their exercise, is the distinctive note of
him, and of the epoch which needed, fashioned, and used him. A whole
band of faculties stood ready in him at any moment for action. Several
generally were at work simultaneously. For the man to be properly
visible, he should be shown flashing from more facets than a brilliant.
Few are the pens which can vividly reflect versatility like his. The
temptation to diffuseness and irrelevancy is as embarrassing and
dangerous. At every turn Ralegh's restless vitality involved him in a
web of other men's fortunes, and in national crises. A biographer is
constantly being beguiled into describing an era as well as its
representative, into writing history instead of a life. Within an
author's legitimate province the perplexities are numberless and
distracting. Never surely was there a career more beset with insoluble
riddles and unmanageable dilemmas. At each step, in the relation of the
most ordinary incidents, exactness of dates, or precision of events,
appears unattainable. Fiction is ever elbowing fact, so that it might be
supposed contemporaries had with one accord been conspiring to disguise
the truth from posterity. The uncertainty is deepened tenfold when
motives have to be measured and appraised. Ralegh was the best hated
personage in the kingdom. On a conscientious biographer is laid the
burden of allowing just enough, and not too much | 2,197.047186 |
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[Illustration: THE BOBBSEYS AND OTHERS WERE ROWED TO THE SHORE.]
THE BOBBSEY TWINS ON THE DEEP BLUE SEA
BY
LAURA LEE HOPE
AUTHOR OF "THE BOBBSEY TWINS," "THE BUNNY BROWN SERIES," "THE OUTDOOR
GIRLS SERIES," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
Copyright, 1918, by Grosset & Dunlap
CONTENTS:
CHAPTER I--ON THE RAFT
CHAPTER II--TO THE RESCUE
CHAPTER III--STRANGE NEWS
CHAPTER IV--GETTING READY
CHAPTER V--OFF FOR FLORIDA
CHAPTER VI--IN A PIPE
CHAPTER VII--THE SHARK
CHAPTER VIII--THE FIGHT IN THE BOAT
CHAPTER IX--IN ST. AUGUSTINE
CHAPTER X--COUSIN JASPER'S STORY
CHAPTER XI--THE MOTOR BOAT
CHAPTER XII--THE DEEP BLUE SEA
CHAPTER XIII--FLOSSIE'S DOLL
CHAPTER XIV--FREDDIE'S FISH
CHAPTER XV--"LAND HO!"
CHAPTER XVI--UNDER THE PALMS
CHAPTER XVII--A QUEER NEST
CHAPTER XVIII--THE "SWALLOW" IS GONE
CHAPTER XIX--AWAY AGAIN
CHAPTER XX--ORANGE ISLAND
CHAPTER XXI--LOOKING FOR JACK
CHAPTER XXII--FOUND AT LAST
CHAPTER I
ON THE RAFT
"Flossie! Flossie! Look at me! I'm having a steamboat ride! Oh, look!"
"I am looking, Freddie Bobbsey!"
"No, you're not! You're playing with your doll! Look at me splash,
Flossie!"
A little boy with blue eyes and light, curling hair was standing on a
raft in the middle of a shallow pond of water left in a green meadow
after a heavy rain. In his hand he held a long pole with which he was
beating the water, making a shower of drops that sparkled in the sun.
On the shore of the pond, not far away, and sitting under an apple tree,
was a little girl with the same sort of light hair and blue eyes as
those which made the little boy such a pretty picture. Both children
were fat and chubby, and you would have needed but one look to tell that
they were twins.
"Now I'm going to sail away across the ocean!" cried Freddie Bobbsey,
the little boy on the raft, which he and his sister Flossie had made
that morning by piling a lot of old boards and fence rails together.
"Don't you want to sail across the ocean, Flossie?"
"I'm afraid I'll fall off!" answered Flossie, who was holding her doll
off at arm's length to see how pretty her new blue dress looked. "I
might fall in the water and get my feet wet."
"Take off your shoes and stockings like I did, Flossie," said the little
boy.
"Is it very deep?" Flossie wanted to know, as she laid aside her doll.
After all she could play with her doll any day, but it was not always
that she could have a ride on a raft with Freddie.
"No," answered the little blue-eyed boy. "It isn't deep at all. That is,
I don't guess it is, but I didn't fall in yet."
"I don't want to fall in," said Flossie.
"Well, I won't let you," promised her brother, though how he was going
to manage that he did not say. "I'll come back and get you on the
steamboat," he went on, "and then I'll give you a ride all across the
ocean," and he began pushing the raft, which he pretended was a
steamboat, back toward the shore where his sister sat.
Flossie was now taking off her shoes and stockings, which Freddie had
done before he got on the raft; and it was a good thing, too, for the
water splashed up over it as far as his ankles, and his shoes would
surely have been wet had he kept them on.
"Whoa, there! Stop!" cried Flossie, as she came down to the edge of the
pond, after having placed her doll, in its new blue dress, safely in the
shade under a big burdock plant. "Whoa, there, steamboat! Whoa!"
"You mustn't say 'whoa' to a boat!" objected Freddie, as he pushed the
raft close to the bank, so his sister could get on. "You only say 'whoa'
to a horse or a pony."
"Can't you say it to a goat?" demanded Flossie.
"Yes, maybe you could say it to a goat," Freddie agreed, after thinking
about it for a little while. "But you can't say it to a boat."
"Well, I wanted you to stop, so you wouldn't bump into the shore," said
the little girl. "That's why I said 'whoa.'"
"But you mustn't say it to a boat, and this raft is the same as a boat,"
insisted Freddie.
"What must I say, then, when I want it to stop?"
Freddie thought about this for a moment or two while he paddled his bare
foot in the water. Then he said:
"Well, you could say 'Halt!' maybe."
"Pooh! 'Halt' is what you say to soldiers," declared Flossie. "We said
that when we had a snow fort, and played have a snowball fight in the
winter. 'Halt' is only for soldiers."
"Oh, well, come on and have a ride," went on Freddie. "I forget what you
say when you want a boat to stop."
"Oh, I know!" cried Flossie, clapping her hands.
"What?"
"You just blow a whistle. You don't say anything. You just go 'Toot!
Toot!' and the boat stops."
"All right," agreed Freddie, glad that this part was settled. "When you
want this boat to stop, you just whistle."
"I will," said Flossie. Then she stepped on the edge of the raft nearest
the shore. The boards and rails tilted to one side. "Oh! Oh!" screamed
the little girl. "It's sinking!"
"No it isn't," Freddie said. "It always does that when you first get on.
Come on out in the middle and it will be all right."
"But it feels so--so funny on my toes!" said Flossie, with a little
shiver. "It's tickly like."
"That's the way it was with me at first," Freddie answered. "But I like
it now."
Flossie wiggled her little pink toes in the water that washed up over
the top of the raft, and then she said:
"Well, I--I guess I like it too, now. But it felt sort of--sort
of--squiggily at first."
"Squiggily" was a word Flossie and Freddie sometimes used when they
didn't know else to say.
The little girl moved over to the middle of the raft and Freddie began
to push it out from shore. The rain-water pond was quite a large one,
and was deep in places, but the children did not know this. When they
were both in the center of the raft the water came only a little way
over their feet. Indeed there were so many boards, planks and rails in
the make-believe steamboat that it would easily have held more than the
two smaller Bobbsey twins. For there was a double set of twins, as I
shall very soon tell you.
"Isn't this nice?" asked Freddie, as he pushed the pretend boat farther
out toward the middle of the pond.
"Awful nice--I like it," said Flossie. "I'm glad I helped you make this
raft."
"It's a steamboat," said Freddie. "It isn't a raft."
"Well, steamboat, then," agreed Flossie. Then she suddenly went:
"Toot! Toot!"
"Here! what you blowin' the whistle now for?" asked Freddie. "We don't
want to stop here, right in the middle of the ocean."
"I--I was only just trying my whistle to see if it would toot,"
explained the little girl. "I don't want to stop now."
Flossie walked around the middle of the raft, making the water splash
with her bare feet, and Freddie kept on pushing it farther and farther
from shore. Yet Flossie was not afraid. Perhaps she felt that Freddie
would take care of her.
The little Bobbsey twins were having lots of fun, pretending they were
on a steamboat, when they heard some one shouting to them from the
shore.
"Hi there! Come and get us!" someone was calling to them.
"Who is it?" asked Freddie.
"It's Bert; and Nan is with him," answered Flossie, as she saw a larger
boy and girl standing on the bank, near the tree under which she had
left her doll. "I guess they want a ride. Is the raft big enough for
them too, Freddie?"
"Yes, I guess so," he answered. "You stop the steamboat, Flossie--and
stop calling it a raft--and I'll go back and get them. We'll pretend
they're passengers. Stop the boat!"
"How can I stop the boat?" the little girl demanded.
"Toot the whistle! Toot the whistle!" answered her brother. "Don't you
'member, Flossie Bobbsey?"
"Oh," said Flossie. Then she went on:
"Toot! Toot!"
"Toot! Toot!" answered Freddie. He began pushing the other way on the
pole and the raft started back toward the shore they had left.
"What are you doing?" asked Bert Bobbsey, as the mass of boards and
rails came closer to him. "What are you two playing?"
"Steamboat," Freddie answered. "If you want us to stop for you, why,
you've got to toot."
"Toot what?" asked Bert.
"Toot your whistle," Freddie replied. "This is a regular steamboat. Toot
if you want me to stop."
He kept on pushing with the pole until Bert, with a laugh, made the
tooting sound as Flossie had done. Then Freddie let the raft stop near
his older brother and sister.
"Oh, Bert!" exclaimed Nan Bobbsey, "are you going to get on?"
"Sure I am," he answered, as he began taking off his shoes and
stockings. "It's big enough for the four of us. Where'd you get it,
Freddie?"
"It was partly made--I guess some of the boys from town must have
started it. Flossie and I put more boards and rails on it, and we're
having a ride."
"I should say you were!" laughed Nan.
"Come on," said Bert to his older sister, as he tossed his shoes over to
where Flossie's and Freddie's were set on a flat stone. "I'll help you
push, Freddie."
Nan, who, like Bert, had dark hair and brown eyes, began to take off her
shoes and stockings, and soon all four of them were on the raft--or
steamboat, as Freddie called it.
Now you have met the two sets of | 2,197.44586 |
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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See 58523-h.htm or 58523-h.zip:
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https://archive.org/details/reminiscencesofp00pryoiala
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
[Illustration: GENERAL ROBERT E. LEE ON "TRAVELLER."
_From a photograph by Miley, Lexington, Va._]
REMINISCENCES OF PEACE AND WAR
by
MRS. ROGER A. PRYOR
Author of "The Mother of Washington and Her Times"
Revised And Enlarged Edition
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Copyright, 1904, 1905,
by the Macmillan Company.
Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1904. Reprinted
December, 1904; March, 1905.
New edition, with additions, September, 1905; April, 1908.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.—Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK TO THE MEMORY OF
My Son
WILLIAM RICE PRYOR, M.D.
WHO GAVE TO SUFFERING HUMANITY ALL THAT
GOD HAD GIVEN HIM
Preface
It will be obvious to the reader that this book affects neither the
"dignity of history" nor the authority of political instruction. The
causes which precipitated the conflict between the sections and the
momentous events which attended the struggle have been recounted by
writers competent to the task. But descriptions of battles and civil
convulsions do not exhibit the full condition of the South in the
crisis. To complete the picture, social characteristics and incidents of
private life are indispensable lineaments. It occurs to the author that
a plain and unambitious narrative of her recollections of Washington
society during the calm which preceded the storm, and of Virginia under
the afflictions and sorrows of the fratricidal strife, will not be
without interest in the retrospect of that memorable era. The present
volume recalls that era in the aspect in which it appeared to a woman
rather than as it appeared to a statesman or a philosopher.
ROGER A. PRYOR.
Contents
CHAPTER I
PAGE
Washington in the Fifties—Literary Society during Fillmore's
Administration—John P. Kennedy, G. P. R. James, Mrs. Gales,
and Mrs. Seaton—Anna Cora Mowatt 3
CHAPTER II
President Pierce's Inauguration—The New Cabinet—Mr. Marcy
prescribes Court Dress with Varying Results—Jefferson
Davis—Sam Houston—General Scott—Washington Irving—Adelina
Patti and Mrs. Glasgow—Advice of an "Old Resident" and its
Unfortunate Result 15
CHAPTER III
Mr. Buchanan and his Cabinet—Roger A. Pryor's Mission to
Greece—The Court of Athens—The Maid of Athens—The Ball at the
Hotel de Ville—Queen Victoria's Dress and Dancing—The Countess
Guiccioli—Early Housekeeping in Washington 38
CHAPTER IV
The President at Church—Levee at the White House—A Dinner
Party at the White House—Miss Harriet Lane—Lord and Lady
Napier—Ball in their Honor—Baron and Madame Stoëckle—Madame
Bodisco—The First Japanese Embassy to the United States 47
CHAPTER V
Great Names on the Rolls of the Supreme Court, Senate,
and House of Representatives—Pen Picture of Stephen A.
Douglas—Incident at a Ball—Mrs. Douglas—Vanity Fair, "Caps,
Gowns, Petticoats, and Petty Exhibitions"—_Décolleté_
Bodices—A Society Dame's Opinion thereon 66
CHAPTER VI
Beautiful Women in Washington during Mr. Buchanan's
Administration—Influence of Southern Women in
Society—Conversational Talent—Over the _Demi-tasse_ after
Dinner—Over the Low Tea-table—Hon. John Y. Mason and the Lady
who changed her Mind—The Evening Party—Brilliant Talkers and
Good Suppers 80
CHAPTER VII
The Thirty-sixth Congress—Stormy Scenes in the House of
Representatives—Abusive and Insulting Language—Rupture of
Social Relations—Visit from General Cass at Midnight—The
Midnight Conference of Southern Leaders—Nominations for
the Presidency—The Heated Campaign and the "Unusual Course"
of Stephen A. Douglas—Author of the Memorable Words of Mr.
Seward, "Irrepressible Conflict" 93
CHAPTER VIII
Memorable Days in the History of the Country—A Torch-light
Procession in Virginia—An Uninvited Listener to a Midnight
Speech—Wedding of Miss Parker and Mr. B | 2,197.546197 |
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THE LITTLE CLOWN
BY THOMAS COBB
AUTHOR OF 'THE BOUNTIFUL LADY,' 'COOPER'S FIRST TERM,' ETC.
LONDON: GRANT RICHARDS
1901
_CONTENTS_
1. _How it began_
2. _Jimmy goes to London_
3. _At Aunt Selina's_
4. _Aunt Selina at Home_
5. _At the Railway Station_
6. _The Journey_
7. _Jimmy is taken into Custody_
8. _Jimmy runs away_
9. _The Circus_
10. _On the Road_
11. _Jimmy runs away again_
12. _Jimmy sleeps in a Windmill_
13. _The Last_
The Little Clown
CHAPTER I
HOW IT BEGAN
Jimmy was nearly eight years of age when these strange things happened
to him. His full name was James Orchardson Sinclair Wilmot, and he had
been at Miss Lawson's small school at Ramsgate since he was six.
There were only five boys besides himself, and Miss Roberts was the only
governess besides Miss Lawson. The half-term had just passed, and they
did not expect to go home for the Christmas holidays for another four or
five weeks, until one day Miss Lawson became very ill, and her sister,
Miss Rosina, was sent for.
It was on Friday that Miss Rosina told the boys that she had written to
their | 2,197.645827 |
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Transcriber's Note
This version of the text is unable to reproduce certain typographic
features. Italics are delimited with the '_' character as _italic_.
Bold font is delimited with the '=' character as =bold=. Words printed
using "small capitals" are shifted to all upper-case.
The illustrations were each presented with a full page caption, and
were separated from the text by blank pages. In this text, these
illustrations were moved to fall at paragraph breaks and appear as,
for example:
[Illustration: SUNNINGDALE
_The tenth hole_]
Please consult the transcriber's notes at the end of this text for any
additional issues.
THE GOLF COURSES OF THE
BRITISH ISLES
[Illustration: ST. ANDREWS
_Looking back from the twelfth green_]
THE GOLF COURSES
OF THE
BRITISH ISLES
BY
BERNARD DARWIN
ILLUSTRATED BY
HARRY ROUNTREE
LONDON
DUCKWORTH & CO.
3 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN
_All rights reserved_
_Published 1910_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. LONDON COURSES (1) 1
II. LONDON COURSES (2) 23
III. KENT AND SUSSEX 44
IV. THE WEST AND SOUTH-WEST 68
V. EAST ANGLIA 93
VI. THE COURSES OF CHESHIRE AND LANCASHIRE 111
VII. YORKSHIRE AND THE MIDLANDS 130
VIII. OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE 147
IX. A LONDON COURSE 158
X. ST. ANDREWS, FIFE, AND FORFARSHIRE 165
XI. THE COURSES OF THE EAST LOTHIAN AND EDINBURGH 181
XII. WEST OF SCOTLAND: PRESTWICK AND TROON 202
XIII. IRELAND 215
XIV. WALES 231
INDEX 250
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
ST. ANDREWS _Frontispiece._
SUNNINGDALE _To face p._ 4
WALTON HEATH " 12
WOKING " 18
MID-SURREY " 24
STOKE POGES " 28
CASSIOBURY PARK " 30
SANDY LODGE " 32
NORTHWOOD " 34
ROMFORD " 36
BLACKHEATH " 38
WIMBLEDON COMMON " 40
MITCHAM COMMON " 42
SANDWICH " 44
SANDWICH ("HADES") " 46
DEAL " 50
PRINCE'S " 54
LITTLESTONE " 56
RYE " 58
EASTBOURNE " 62
ASHDOWN FOREST " 64
WESTWARD HO! " 70
BUDE " 78
BURNHAM " 80
BROADSTONE " 84
BOURNEMOUTH " 88
BEMBRIDGE " 90
FELIXSTOWE " 94
CROMER " 98
SHERINGHAM " 100
BRANCASTER " 102
HUNSTANTON " 106
SKEGNESS " 108
HOYLAKE (1) " 112
HOYLAKE (2) " 116
FORMBY " 120
WALLASEY " 122
LYTHAM AND ST. ANNE'S " 124
TRAFFORD PARK " 126
GANTON " 130
FIXBY " 134
HOLLINWELL " 138
SANDWELL PARK " 142
HANDSWORTH " 144
FRILFORD HEATH " 148
WORLINGTON " 154
ST. ANDREWS " 166
CARNOUSTIE " 178
GULLANE " 182
MUIRFIELD " 184
NORTH BERWICK " 190
MUSSELBURGH " 196
BARNTON " 200
PRESTWICK " 204
TROON " 212
DOLLYMOUNT " 216
PORTMARNOCK (1) " 220
PORTMARNOCK (2) " 222
PORTRUSH " 224
NEWCASTLE " 228
ABERDOVEY " 232
HARLECH " 238
PORTHCAWL " 244
SOUTHERNDOWN " 246
CHAPTER I.
LONDON COURSES (1).
Some dozen or fifteen years ago the historian of the London golf
courses would have had a comparatively easy task. He would have said
that there were a few courses upon public commons, instancing, as he
still would to-day, Blackheath and Wimbledon. He might have dismissed
in a line or two a course that a few mad barristers were trying to
carve by main force out of a swamp thickly covered with gorse and
heather near Woking. All the other courses would have been lumped
together under some such description as that they consisted of fields
interspersed by trees and artificial ramparts, the latter mostly
built by Tom Dunn; that they were villainously muddy in winter, of an
impossible and adamantine hardness in summer, and just endurable in
spring and autumn; finally, that the muddiest and hardest and most
distinguished of them all was Tooting Bec.
All this is changed now, and the change is best exemplified by the
fact that although the club has removed to new quarters, poor Tooting
itself is now as Tadmor in the wilderness. I passed by the spot the
other day, and should never have recognized it had not an old member
pointed it out to me in a voice husky with emotion. The ground is now
covered with a tangle of red houses, which cannot be termed attractive,
and such glory as belonged to it has altogether departed. Peace to its
ashes! it could never, by the wildest stretch of imagination, have been
called anything but a bad course, and yet it held its head high in its
heyday. Prospective members by the score jostled each other eagerly on
the waiting list, and parliamentary golfers distinguished the course
above its fellows by cutting their divots from its soft and yielding
mud. I still recollect the thrill I experienced on first being taken
to play there; it was a distinct moment in my golfing life. It was
exceedingly muddy, but it was not so muddy as the course at Cambridge
on which I usually disported myself, and on the whole I thought it
worthy of its fame; people were not so difficult to please in the
matter of inland golf in those days.
Tooting is no more, but there are many courses like it still to
be found, most of them in a flourishing condition, near London.
Meanwhile, however, a new star, the star of sand and heather, has
arisen out of the darkness, and a whole generation of new courses,
which really are golf and not a good or even bad imitation of it,
have sprung into being. Here are some of them, and they make an
imposing list--Sunningdale, Walton Heath, Woking, Worplesdon, Byfleet,
Bleakdown, Westhill, Bramshot and Combe Wood. The idea of hacking and
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MEXICAN COPPER TOOLS:
THE USE OF COPPER BY THE MEXICANS BEFORE THE CONQUEST;
AND
THE KATUNES OF MAYA HISTORY,
A CHAPTER IN THE
EARLY HISTORY OF CENTRAL AMERICA,
WITH SPECIAL REFERENCE TO THE PIO PEREZ MANUSCRIPT.
BY
PHILIPP J. J. VALENTINI, PH.D.
[TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN, BY STEPHEN SALISBURY, JR.]
WORCESTER, MASS.:
PRESS OF CHARLES HAMILTON.
1880.
[PROCEEDINGS OF AMERICAN ANTIQUARIAN SOCIETY, APRIL 29, AND OCTOBER 21,
1879.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
MEXICAN COPPER TOOLS 5
THE KATUNES OF MAYA HISTORY 45
NOTE BY COMMITTEE OF PUBLICATION 47
_Introductory Remarks_ 49
_The Maya Manuscript and Translation_ 52
_History of the Manuscript_ 55
_Elements of Maya Chronology_ 60
_Table of the 20 Days of the Maya Month_ 62
_Table of the 18 Months of the Maya Year_ 63
_Table of Maya Months and Days_ 64
_Translation of the Manuscript by Señor Perez_ 75
_Discussion of the Manuscript_ 77
_Concluding Remarks_ 92
_Sections of the Perez Manuscript Expressed in Years_ 96
_Table of Maya Ahaues Expressed in Years_ 100
_Results of the Chronological Investigation_ 102
Illustrations.
PAGE.
COPPER AXES IN THE ARMS OF TEPOZTLA, TEPOZTITLA AND 12
TEPOZCOLULA
COPPER AXES, THE TRIBUTE OF CHILAPA 13
COPPER AXES AND BELLS, THE TRIBUTE OF CHALA 14
MEXICAN GOLDSMITH SMELTING GOLD 18
YUCATAN COPPER AXES 30
COPPER CHISEL FOUND IN OAXACA 33
MEXICAN CARPENTER’S HATCHET | 2,197.950112 |
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SERAPHITA
By Honore De Balzac
Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley
DEDICATION
To Madame Eveline de Hanska, nee Comtesse Rzewuska.
Madame,--Here is the work which you asked of me. I am happy, in
thus dedicating it, to offer you a proof of the respectful
affection you allow me to bear you. If I am reproached for
impotence in this attempt to draw from the depths of mysticism a
book which seeks to give, in the lucid transparency of our
beautiful language, the luminous poesy of the Orient, to you the
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BOHN’S STANDARD LIBRARY
THE POEMS OF HEINE
GEORGE BELL AND SONS
LONDON: PORTUGAL ST., LINCOLN’S INN.
CAMBRIDGE: DEIGHTON, BELL AND CO.
NEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN CO.
BOMBAY: A. H. WHEELER AND CO.
THE POEMS OF HEINE
COMPLETE
TRANSLATED INTO THE ORIGINAL METRES
WITH A SKETCH OF HIS LIFE
BY
EDGAR ALFRED BOWRING, C.B.
[Illustration: colophon]
LONDON
GEORGE BELL AND SONS
1908
[_Reprinted from Stereotype plates._]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION viii
PREFACE ix
MEMOIR OF HEINRICH HEINE xi
EARLY POEMS.
SONGS OF LOVE
Love’s Salutation 1
Love’s Lament 1
Yearning 2
The White Flower 3
Presentiment 4
MISCELLANEOUS POEMS
GERMANY, 1815 6
DREAM, 1816 9
THE CONSECRATION 11
THE MOOR’S SERENADE 12
DREAM AND LIFE 13
THE LESSON 14
TO FRANCIS V. Z---- 14
A PROLOGUE TO THE HARTZ-JOURNEY 15
DEFEND NOT 15
A PARODY 16
WALKING FLOWERS AT BERLIN 16
EVENING SONGS 16
SONNETS
To Augustus William von Schlegel 17
To the Same 17
To Councillor George S----, of Göttingen 19
To J. B. Rousseau 19
The Night Watch on the Drachenfels. To Fritz von B---- 20
In Fritz Steinmann’s Album 20
To Her 21
Goethe’s Monument at Frankfort-on-the-Main, 1821 21
Dresden Poetry 21
Beardless Art 22
BOOK OF SONGS
PREFACE 23
YOUTHFUL SORROWS (1817-1821)
VISIONS 24
SONGS 39
ROMANCES 43
The Mournful One 43
The Mountain Echo 43
The Two Brothers 44
Poor Peter 44
The Prisoner’s Song 45
The Grenadiers 46
The Message 46
Taking the Bride Home 46
Don Ramiro 47
Belshazzar 52
The Minnesingers 53
Looking from the Window 54
The Wounded Knight 54
The Sea Voyage 54
The Song of Repentance 55
To a Singer (on her singing an old romance) 56
The Song of the Ducats 57
Dialogue on Paderborn Heath 57
Life’s Salutations (from an album) 59
Quite True 59
SONNETS
To A. W. von Schlegel 59
To my Mother, B. Heine, _née_ von Geldern 60
To H. S. 61
FRESCO SONNETS to Christian S---- 61
LYRICAL INTERLUDE (1822-23)
PROLOGUE 65
LYRICS 66
THE GOD’S TWILIGHT 89
RATCLIFF 91
DONNA CLARA 94
ALAMANSOR 96
THE PILGRIMAGE TO KEVLAAR 100
THE DREAM (from _Salon_) 102
NEW POEMS
SERAPHINA 102
ANGELICA 107
DIANA 112
HORTENSE 113
CLARISSA 115
YOLANTE AND MARY 119
EMMA 121
FREDERICA 122
CATHERINE 124
SONGS OF CREATION 129
ABROAD 131
TRAGEDY 132
THE TANNHÄUSER, A Legend 133
ROMANCES
A Woman 139
Celebration of Spring 139
Childe Harold 140
The Exorcism 140
Extract from a letter 141
The Evil Star 142
Anno 1829 142
Anno 1839 143
At Dawn 144
Sir Olave 144
The Water Nymphs 146
Bertrand de Born 147
Spring 147
Ali Bey 148
Psyche 149
The Unknown One 149
The Change 150
Fortune 150
Lamentation of an old German Youth 150
Away! 151
Madam Mette (from the Danish) 151
The Meeting 153
King Harold Harfagar 154
The Lower World 155
MISCELLANIES
Muledom 158
The Symbol of Madness 158
Pride 160
Away! 161
Winter 161
The Old Chimney-piece 162
Longing 162
Helena 163
The Wise Stars 163
The Angels 163
POEMS FOR THE TIMES
Sound Doctrine 164
Adam the First 164
Warning 165
To a Quondam Follower of Goethe (1832) 165
The Secret 166
On the Watchman’s Arrival in Paris 166
The Drum Major 167
Degeneracy 169
Henry 169
Life’s Journey 170
The New Jewish Hospital at Hamburg 170
George Herwegh 171
The Tendency 172
The Child 173
The Primrose 173
The Changeling 174
The Emperor of China 174
Church-Counsellor Prometheus 175
To the Watchman 176
Consoling thoughts 176
The World Turned Upside Down 177
Enlightenment 178
Wait Awhile! 179
Night Thoughts 179
NEW SPRING
PROLOGUE 180
LYRICS 180
PICTURES OF TRAVEL
THE RETURN HOME (1823-24) 195
THE HARTZ-JOURNEY (1821) 229
THE BALTIC (1825-26)
PART I. (1825)
Evening Twilight 237
Sunset 237
The Night on the Strand 239
Poseidon 240
Homage 242
Declaration 242
In the Cabin at Night 243
The Storm 245
Calm at Sea 246
The Ocean-Spectre 247
Purification 249
Peace 249
PART II. (1826)
Sea Salutation 251
Thunderstorm 253
The Shiprecked One 253
Sunset 254
The Song of the Oceanides 256
The Gods of Greece 258
Questions 260
The Phœnix 261
Echo 261
Sea-Sickness 262
In Harbour 263
Epilogue 265
Monologue (from book Le Grand) 1826 266
ATTA TROLL, a Summer Night’s Dream 267
GERMANY, a Winter Tale 326
ROMANCERO
BOOK I. HISTORIES
Rhampsenitus 380
The White Elephant 382
Knave of Bergen 387
The Valkyres 388
Hastings’ Battle-field 389
Charles I. 392
Marie Antoinette 393
The Silesian Weavers 395
Pomare 395
The Apollo God 398
Hymn to King Louis 401
Two Knights 402
Our Marine (_A Nautical Tale_) 404
The Golden Calf 405
King David 405
King Richard 406
The Asra 406
The Nuns 407
Palgravine Jutta 408
The Moorish King 409
Geoffrey Rudèl and Melisanda of Tripoli 411
The Poet Ferdusi 412
Voyage by Night 417
The Prelude 418
Vitzliputzli 420
BOOK II. LAMENTATIONS
Wood Solitude 434
Spanish Lyrics 438
The Ex-living One 445
The Ex-Watchman 446
Mythology 449
In Matilda’s Album 449
To the Young 449
The Unbeliever 450
Whither Now? 450
An Old Song 451
Ready Money 452
The Old Rose 452
Auto-da-Fe 452
LAZARUS
The Way of the World 453
Retrospect 453
Resurrection 454
The Dying One 455
Rascality 455
Retrospect 456
Imperfection 456
Pious Warning 457
The Cooled-down One 457
Solomon 458
Lost Wishes 458
The Anniversary 459
Meeting Again 460
Mrs. Care 460
To the Angels 461
In October, 1849 461
Evil Dreams 463
It Goes Out 464
The Will 464
Enfant Perdu 465
BOOK III. HEBREW MELODIES
Princess Sabbath 466
Jehuda Ben Halevy 470
Disputation 492
LATEST POEMS (1853-54)
MISCELLANEOUS
Peace Yearning 504
In May 504
Body and Soul 505
Red Slippers 506
Babylonian Sorrows 507
The Slave Ship 508
Affrontenburg 512
Appendix to “Lazarus” 514
The Dragon Fly 520
Ascension 521
The Affianced Ones 524
The Philanthropist 525
The Whims of the Amorous 527
Mimi 529
Good Advice 530
Reminiscences of Hammonia 531
The Robbers 533
The Young Cats’ Club for Poetry-Music 533
Hans Lack-Land 535
Recollections from Krähwinkel’s Days of Terror 537
The Audience (an old Fable) 538
Kobes I. 539
Epilogue
ADDENDA
The Song of Songs 545
The Suttler’s Song (from the Thirty Years’ War) 546
POSTHUMOUS POEMS
Horse and Ass 548
The Ass-Election 550
Bertha 552
In the Cathedral 552
The Dragon-fly 553
Old Scents 554
Miserere 555
To Matilda 556
For the “Mouche” 556
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
A new edition of this work having been called for, owing to the first
edition having been for some time out of print, I have taken advantage
of the opportunity to add translations of a remarkable collection of
Poems by Heine, published for the first time since the appearance of my
work in 1859. They consist of as many as twelve hundred lines, described
partly as “Early Poems,” which will be found at the beginning of the
volume, and partly as “Posthumous Poems,” which are placed at the end.
The metres of the original have been again retained throughout.
Various errors discovered by me in the first edition have now been
corrected; and it only remains for me to express my thanks for the kind
manner in which the critical and the general public, both in England and
abroad, have received the work, and for the indulgence extended by them
to its many imperfections.
E. A. B.
PREFACE.
It may perhaps be thought that I exhibit something of the
brazen-facedness of a hardened offender in venturing once more (but, I
hope, for the last time) to present myself to the public in the guise of
a translator,--and, what is more, a translator of a great poet. The
favourable reception, however, that my previous translations of the
Poems of Schiller and Goethe have met with at the hands of the public,
may possibly be admitted as some excuse for this new attempt to make
that public acquainted with the works of a third great German minstrel.
Comparatively little known and little appreciated in England, the name
of Heine is in Germany familiar as a household word; and while, on the
one hand, many of his charming minor poems have become dear to the
hearts of thousands and tens of thousands of his fellow-countrymen, and
are sung alike in the palace and the cottage, in the country and the
town, on the other his sterner works have done much to influence the
political and religious tendencies of the modern German school.
Having prefixed to this Volume a brief memoir of Heine, accompanied by a
few observations on his various works and their distinguishing
characteristics, I will here confine myself to stating that I have
adhered with the utmost strictness to the principles laid down by me for
my guidance in the case of the previous translations attempted by
me,--those principles being (1) As close and literal an adherence to the
original as is consistent with good English and with poetry, and (2) the
preservation throughout the work of the original metres, of which Heine
presents an almost unprecedented variety. I have, on the occasion of my
former publications, fully explained my reasons for adopting this
course, and will not weary the reader with repeating them. I have
sufficient evidence before me of the approval of the public in this
respect to induce me to frame my translation of Heine’s Poems on the
same model.
In addition to thus preserving both the language and the metre of the
original, I have in one other respect endeavoured to reproduce my author
precisely as I found him, and that is in the important particular of
_completeness_. There are doubtless many poems written by Heine that one
could wish had never been written, and that one would willingly refrain
from translating. But the omission of these would hide from the reader
some of Heine’s chief peculiarities, and would tend to give him an
incomplete if not incorrect notion of what the poet was. A translator no
more assumes the responsibility of his author’s words than a faithful
Editor does, and he goes beyond his province if he omits whatever does
not happen to agree with his own notions.
In claiming for the present work (extending over more than 20,000
verses) the abstract merits of literalness, completeness, and rigid
adherence to the metrical peculiarities of the original, it is very far
from my intention to claim any credit for the _manner_ in which I have
executed that difficult task, or to pretend that I have been successful
in it. That is a question for the reader alone to decide. The credit of
conscientiousness and close application in the matter is all that I
would venture to assert for myself. All beyond is left exclusively to
the candid, and, I would fain hope, generous, appreciation of those whom
I now voluntarily constitute my judges.
HEINRICH HEINE.
Although little more than three years have elapsed since Heinrich Heine
was first numbered amongst the dead, his name has long been enrolled in
the lists of fame. Even during his lifetime he had the good
fortune,--and, in a poet, the most unusual good fortune,--of being
generally accepted as a Representative Man, and of passing as the
National Bard of Young Germany. Although perhaps scarcely entitled to
rank with Goethe and Schiller in the very highest order of poets, the
name of Heine will assuredly always occupy a prominent place amongst the
minstrels not only of Germany, but of the world.
It is only recently that his works have been for the first time
published in an absolutely complete form, the poetry extending over more
than two of the six volumes of which they consist. Universally known and
read in his native land, and highly popular in France, which was for so
many years his adopted country, the works of Heine are to the generality
of Englishmen (as stated in the Preface) almost entirely unknown. As the
present volume is, as far as I am aware, the only attempt that has been
made to bring the far-famed poems of Heine in their integrity before the
English reader,[1] it seems desirable to preface it by a brief sketch of
his life, so that in seeing _what_ Heine is as a poet, we may be able to
form some idea as to _who_ he was as a man. One who has been compared in
turns to Aristophanes, Rabelais, Burns, Cervantes, Sterne, Jean Paul,
Voltaire, Swift, Byron, and Béranger (and to all these has he been
likened), can be of no common stamp. The discrepancies both as to facts
and dates that occur between the various biographies of Heine are,
however, so numerous, that it has been no easy task to avoid error in
the following brief sketch of his life.
Heinrich (or Henry) Heine was born in the Bolkerstrasse, at Dusseldorf,
on the 12th of December, 1799; but, singularly enough, the exact date of
his birth was, until recently, unknown to his biographers, who, on the
authority of a saying of his own, assigned it to the 1st of January,
1800, which he boasted made him “the first man of the century.” In
reply, however, to a specific inquiry addressed to him by a friend on
this subject a few years before his death, he stated that he was really
born on the day first mentioned, and that the date of 1800 usually given
by his biographers was the result of an error voluntarily committed by
his family in his favour at the time of the Prussian invasion, in order
to exempt him from the service of the king of Prussia.
By birth he was a Jew, both of his parents having been of that
persuasion. He was the eldest of four children, and his two brothers are
(or were recently) still alive, the one being a physician in Russia, and
the other an officer in the Austrian service. The famous Solomon Heine,
the banker of Hamburg, whose wealth was only equalled by his
philanthropy, was his uncle. His father, however, was far from being in
opulent circumstances. When quite a child, he took delight in reading
Don Quixote, and used to cry with anger at seeing how ill the heroism of
that valiant knight was requited. He says somewhere, speaking of his
boyish days, “apple-tarts” were then my passion. Now it is love, truth,
freedom, and “crab-soup.” He received his earliest education at the
Franciscan convent in his native town, and while there had the
misfortune to be the innocent cause of the death by drowning of a
schoolfellow, an incident recorded in one of the poems in his
“Romancero.” He mentions the great effect produced upon him by the
sorrowful face of a large wooden Christ which was constantly before his
eyes in the Convent. Even at that early age the germs of what has been
called “his fantastic sensibility, the food for infinite irony,” seem
to have been developing themselves. A visit of the Emperor Napoleon to
Dusseldorf when he was a boy affected him in a singular manner, and had
probably much to do with the formation of those imperialist tendencies
which are often to be noticed in his character and writings. He was next
placed in the Lyceum of Dusseldorf, and in 1816 was sent to Hamburg to
study commerce, being intended for mercantile pursuits. In 1819 he was
removed to the University at Bonn which had been founded in the previous
year, and there he had the advantage of studying under Augustus
Schlegel. He seems, however, to have remained there only six months, and
to have then gone to the University of Göttingen, where, as he tells us,
he was rusticated soon after matriculation. He next took up his abode at
Berlin, where he applied himself to the study of philosophy, under the
direction of the great Hegel, whose influence, combined with that of the
works of Spinosa, undoubtedly had much to do with the formation of
Heine’s mind, and also determined his future career. From this time we
hear no more of his turning merchant; and it is from the date of his
residence at Berlin that we may date the rise of that spirit of
universal indifference and reckless daring that so strongly
characterizes the writings of Heine. Amongst his associates at this
period may be mentioned, in addition to Hegel, Chamisso, Varnhagen von
Ense and his well-known wife Rachel, Bopp the philologist, and Grabbe,
the eccentricities of whose works were only equalled by the
eccentricities of his life.
Heine’s first volume of poetry, entitled “Gedichte” or Poems, was
published in 1822, the poems being those which, under the name of
“Youthful Sorrows,” now form the opening of his “Book of Songs.”
Notwithstanding the extraordinary success afterwards obtained by this
latter work, his first publication was very coldly received. Some of the
poems in it were written as far back as 1817,[2] and originally
appeared in the Hamburg periodical “Der Wachter” or “Watchman.” Offended
at this result, he left Berlin and returned to Göttingen in 1823, where
he took to studying law, and received the degree of Doctor in 1825. He
was baptized into the Lutheran Church in the same year, at
Heiligenstadt, near that place. He afterwards said jocularly that he
took this course to prevent M. de Rothschild treating him too
_fa-millionairely_. It is to be feared, however, from the tone of all
his works, that his nominal religious opinions sat very lightly upon him
through life. He writes as follows on this subject in 1852: “My
ancestors belonged to the Jewish religion, but I was never proud of this
descent; neither did I ever set store upon my quality of Lutheran,
although I belong to the evangelical confession quite as much as the
greatest devotees amongst my Berlin enemies, who always reproach me with
a want of religion. I rather felt humiliated at passing for a purely
human creature,--I whom the philosophy of Hegel led to suppose that I
was a god. How proud I then was of my divinity! What an idea I had of my
grandeur! Alas! that charming time has long passed away, and I cannot
think of it without sadness, now that I am lying stretched on my back,
whilst my disease is making terrible progress.”
Previous to this date, and whilst living at Berlin, Heine published (in
1823) his only two plays, “Almanzor” and “Ratcliff,” which were equally
unsuccessful on the stage and in print, and which are certainly the
least worthy of all his works. Between these two plays he inserted a
collection of poetry entitled “Lyrical Interlude,” which attracted
little attention at the time. In the year 1827, however, he republished
this collection at Hamburg, in conjunction with his “Youthful Sorrows,”
giving to the whole the title of the “Book of Songs.” In proportion to
the indifference with which his poems had been received on their first
appearance, was the enthusiasm which they now excited. They were read
with avidity in every direction, especially in the various universities,
where their influence upon the minds of the students was very great. In
the year 1852, this work had reached the tenth edition.
Heine’s next great work, his “Reisebilder,” or Pictures of Travel,
written partly in poetry and partly in prose, was published at Hamburg
at various intervals from 1826 to 1831, and, as its name implies, is
descriptive of his travels in different countries, especially in England
and Italy. The poetical portion of the “Reisebilder,” the whole of which
is translated in this volume, is divided into three parts,--“The Return
Home,” the “Hartz-Journey,” and “The Baltic,” written between 1823 and
1826. This work again met with an almost unprecedented success, and from
the date of its publication and that of the “Book of Songs,” may be
reckoned the commencement of a new era in German literature. These
remarkable poems exhibit the whole nature of Heine, free from all
disguise. The striking originality, the exuberance of fancy, and, above
all, the singular beauty and feeling of the versification that
characterize nearly the whole of them, stand out in as yet unheard-of
contrast to the intense and bitter irony that pervades them,--an irony
that spared nobody, that spared nothing, not even the most sacred
subjects being exempt from the poet’s mocking sarcasm. This
characteristic of Heine only increased as years passed on. In the later
years of his life, which were one long-continued agony, his bodily
sufferings offer some excuse, it may be, for what would otherwise have
been inexcusable in the writings of a great poet. There was doubtless
much affectation in the want of all religious and political faith that
is so signally apparent in the works of Heine, and yet they betray a
real bitterness of feeling that cannot be mistaken. At every page may be
traced the malicious pleasure felt by him in exciting the sympathy and
admiration of the reader to the highest pitch, and then with a few
words,--with the last line or the last verse of a long poem, it may
be,--rudely insulting them, and | 2,198.048408 |
2023-11-16 18:53:42.1264780 | 193 | 130 |
Produced by Josep Cols Canals, Lisa Reigel, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
Transcriber's Notes: Words in italics in the original are surrounded
with _underscores_. Variations in spelling and hyphenation remain as
in the original. The Table of Contents is at the end of this volume. A
complete list of corrections as well as other notes follows the text.
Amadis of Gaul,
by
VASCO LOBEIRA.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. IV.
LONDON:
Printed by N. Biggs, Crane-court, Fleet-street,
FOR T. N. LONGMAN AND O. REES, PATERNOSTER
ROW.
1803.
_AM | 2,198.146518 |
2023-11-16 18:53:42.6278120 | 414 | 18 |
Produced by Anne Grieve and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber’s Note: This text is reproduced with its original printing
errors intact, save for minor amendments to punctuation, capitalisation
and word spacing. The author was prone to misquoting poetry, the
typesetter was apparently not being paid enough to ensure accuracy, and
it doesn’t seem a proofreader was asked to participate at all. The best
laid schemes o’ “mince” and men have indeed gone aft agley.
OAT MEAL
THE
War Winner
[Illustration]
BY
J. R. Grieve, M. D.
Acting Assistant Surgeon
U. S. Army, 1865
Copyright Applied for. Price Ten Cents.
“OATMEAL”
BEING GLIMPSES AN REMINISENCES OF SCOTLAND AND ITS PEOPLE.
By J. R. Grieve, M.D.
INTRODUCTION.
At the present time when every one is being urged to bend every energy
toward the conservation of food supplies, it is surprising to me that so
little has been written in behalf of the extraordinary value of oatmeal
as a diet on which people can live and continue more healthy than on any
other cereal in the world.
I wish to present =facts=, not =theories=. I wish to tell of what I know
personally on this subject. I have not consulted any of the laboratories
of research or taken for granted any data from the many-published
statistics of individual food sufficiency for sustaining life, but I have
only taken =facts= and invite my readers to form their own conclusions.
My father was a successful farmer in Perthshire, Scotland, and employed
quite a number of ploughmen. His men were always big str | 2,198.647852 |
2023-11-16 18:53:42.7256300 | 195 | 31 |
Produced by Amy E Zelmer, Sue Asscher, and Robert Prince
SEJANUS: HIS FALL
By Ben Jonson
Transcriber's note: This play is based on events that happened a
millennium and a half before Jonson wrote it. Jonson added 247
scholarly footnotes to this play; all were in Latin (except
for a scattering of Greek). They, and the Greek quotation which
forms Tiberius Caesar's tag line in Scene II, Act II, have been
elided.
INTRODUCTION
THE greatest of English dramatists except Shakespeare, the first
literary dictator and poet-laureate, a writer of verse, prose,
satire, and criticism who most potently of all the men of his time
affected the subsequent course of English letters: such was Ben
Jonson, and as such his strong personality assumes an interest to
us almost | 2,198.74567 |
2023-11-16 18:53:42.7275600 | 2,535 | 12 |
Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
THE FORTUNE OF THE LANDRAYS
By Vaughn Kester
Illustrated by The Kinneys
New York: McClure Phillips and Company
1905
[Illustration: 0001]
[Illustration: 0008]
[Illustration: 0009]
CHAPTER ONE
THE boy on the box was surfeited with travel. Glancing back over the
swaying top of the coach, he had seen miles upon miles of hot dusty
road, between banked-up masses of forests or cultivated fields, dwindle
to a narrow thread of yellow. Day after day there had been the same
tiresome repetition of noisy towns and sleepy cross-road villages, each
one very like the other and all having a widely different appearance
from that which he conceived Benson would present.
The wonderful life of the road, varied and picturesque, no longer
claimed his attention. The black dot a mile distant was unnoticed. It
was a long line of freight wagons north-bound to some lake port, laden
with pork, flour and hides. Presently, these wagons would be passed by
a party of mounted traders, travelling south to Baltimore for supplies,
with their sacks of Spanish dollars loaded upon pack horses. Next they
would journey for a little space with a cattle dealer and his men, who
were taking a drove of Marino sheep across the state to Indiana. But the
boy's curiosity had been more than satisfied; he had only to close his
eyes to see again the vivid panorama of the road in the blaze of that
hot June sun.
They had changed drivers so many times he had lost all count of them;
and with the changing drivers a wearisome succession of passengers had
come and gone; but to-day he and his father rode alone upon the box.
That morning, the latter had told him they would reach Benson by
noon, yet strangely enough his interest flagged; the miles seemed
endless--interminable. He was sore and stiff; his little legs ached
from their cramped position, and at last utterly weary he fell into
a troubled sleep, his head resting on his father's arm, and his small
hands, moist and warm, clasped idly in his lap.
His father, grim, motionless, and predisposed to silence, gave brief
replies to such questions as Mr. Bartlett, the driver, saw fit to
ask;--for Mr. Bartlett was frankly curious. As he said himself, he
always liked to know who his passengers were, where they came from,
where they were going, and if possible their business.
Now as they began the long descent of Landray's Hill, south of Benson,
Mr. Bartlett pushed forward his brake handle and said, "That's Benson
ahead of us, off yonder where you see the church spires; would you 'a
knowed it, do you think?"
Instantly the man at his side who had been sitting low in his seat, took
a more erect position, while a sudden light kindled in his dull eyes.
"Known it?" after a moment's survey of the scene before him. "Well, I
guess not." There was palpable regret in his tone, just touched by some
hidden emotion; a passing shade of feeling not anticipated, that moved
him.
"I allowed you wouldn't. Twenty years makes a heap of difference, don't
it? Gives you a turn?" interestedly.
"Well, sort of," with gentle sadness.
"I know how you feel. I been that way myself," said the driver. Mr.
Bartlett was short and stocky, with ruddy cheeks and great red hands.
As one who mingled muck with the world, he prided himself on his social
adaptability.
The stranger bestowed upon him a glance of frank displeasure. He felt
vaguely that the other's sentiment was distasteful to him. It smacked of
such fat complacency. At last he said, "I'd about made up my mind that I
wa'n't to see it again." here a violent fit of coughing interrupted him.
When it subsided, Mr. Bartlett remarked sympathetically:
"You ought to take something for that cough of your's. I would if it was
mine."
The stranger, still choking, shook his head.
"Where does it take you?"
"Here," resting a bony hand on his sunken chest.
"Lungs?"
The stranger's jaws grew rigid. He favoured the driver with a sinister
frown.
There was silence between them for a little space, which Mr. Bartlett
devoted to a thoughtful study of his companion. Under this close
scrutiny the stranger moved restlessly. A sense of the other's physical
health oppressed him; it seemed to take from his own slender stock of
vitality.
"Hope I ain't crowding you," said Mr. Bartlett. "Here, I'll make more
room for you. Well sir, Benson's about the healthiest place I know of.
When a man gets ready to die there, he has to move away to do it."
"Who the hell's talking about dying?" demanded the stranger savagely.
"There are plenty of graveyards where I came from."
"There are plenty of graveyards everywhere; yes sir, you'd have to do
a heap of travelling to get shut of them." admitted Mr. Bartlett
impartially.
"And all the thundering fools ain't buried yet," said the stranger
shortly.
Mr. Bartlett meditated on this apparently irrelevant remark in silence.
He had found the stranger taciturn and sullen, or given to flashes of
grim humour.
"Where's Landray's mill?" the latter now demanded, the glint of anger
slowly fading from his eyes.
"See that clump of willows down yonder, to the right of the road? It's
just back of them."
"Who's running it?"
"Old General Landray's sons, Bush and Steve," he spoke of them with easy
familiarity.
"I see you know them," said the stranger.
"It'd be funny if I didn't,--everybody knows 'em."
"I reckon so," said the stranger briefly.
"I allow you knowed the general?" remarked Mr. Bartlett.
"I recollect him well enough."
"He was right smart of a man in his day, and one of the old original
first settlers. I knowed him well myself," observed Mr. Bartlett.
"Powerful easy man to get acquainted with; awful familiar, wa'n't he?"
and the stranger grinned evilly.
"Well, I knowed him when I seen him," said Mr. Bartlett, with some
reserve; and he seemed willing to abandon the subject. "What you
laughing at?" he added quickly, for the stranger was chuckling softly to
himself.
"Oh, nothing much. Did you know him after he was took with the gout?
You're sort of fat; say now, did he ever cuss you for getting in his
way? It's likely that's what brought you to his notice," and he
exploded in a burst of harsh laughter. "Oh, yes, I reckon you knowed him
well--when you seen him."
This singular assault on his innocent pretensions had a marked and
chilling effect on the driver. He edged away from the stranger, and
there was a long pause; but silence was not to be where Mr. Bartlett
was concerned. He now asked, pointing to the sleeping child, "Ain't you
going to wake him up? He'll feel as if he'd missed something."
"I guess he'll have a chance to see all there is to see when we get
there. He's clean tired out. You say the Landray boys have the mill?
The old general used to own a distillery across the race from it; what
became of that?"
"It's there yet; Levi Tucker has it now. He's got the tavern, too, and I
don't suppose he'd care to part with either. He's his own best customer;
Colonel Sharp says he's producer and consumer both; I allow you didn't
know the colonel?"
Again the stranger shook his head, and the driver's placid voice just
pitched to carry above the rattle of wheels and the beat of hoofs,
droned on, a colourless monotone of sound.
"I didn't suppose you did, he's since your time, I guess; he's editor
of the _Pioneer_ at Benson, and a powerful public speaker; I reckon
near about as good as old Webster himself, only he ain't got the name.
I don't remember ever seeing him but what he had his left hand tucked
in at the top of his wes'-coat; yes, I reckon you might say he was a
natural born speaker; when he gets stumped for a word he just digs it
up from one of them dead languages, and everything he says is as full of
meat as an egg; it makes you puzzle and study, and think, and even then
you don't really get what he's driving at more than half the time. He's
a mighty strong tobacco chewer, too, and spits clean as a fox--why clean
as a fox I don't know," he added, but he was evidently much pleased with
this picturesque description of the colonel's favourite vice.
The stranger's glance had wandered down into the cool depths of the
valley. It was twenty years since his eyes had rested on its peace and
calm; its beauty of sun and shade and summer-time; much of his courage
and more of his hope had gone in those years; he was coming back, wasted
and worn, to the spot he had never ceased to speak of and to think of as
home. He had looked forward to this return for health, but he knew now
that the magic he had expected in his misery and home-sickness was not
there; but he was inarticulate in his suffering, and perhaps mercifully
enough did not know its depths, so even his own rude pity for himself
was after all but the burlesque of the tragedy he had lived. Yet there
still remained that greater purpose which was to make the road smooth
for the child at his side where it had been filled with difficulties for
him; there should be no more hardships, no more of those vast solitudes
that sapped the life that filtered into them, that crazed or brutalized;
these he had know; but these the boy should never know, for him there
should be ease and riches,--splendid golden riches; his ignorance could
scarce conceive their limit, the possibilities were so vast. Now he
leaned far forward in his seat, hunger for the sight of some familiar
object pinched his face with sudden longing.
"It's mighty pretty!" he said at last with a deep breath.
"Ain't it?" agreed Mr. Bartlett indulgently.
But the log cabins he had known were gone, and frame houses painted
an unvarying white with vivid green blinds closed to the sun had taken
their place. To the east and to the west of the town were waving fields
of grain; with here and there an island of dense shade where a strip of
woodland had been spared by the axe of the pioneer; on some of the more
rugged hillsides from which the timber had been but recently cleared
the blackened stumps were still standing. A blur of sound rose from the
valley, it was like the droning of bees.
"That's the old Bendy furnace I hear, ain't it?"
"That's what it is," said Mr. Bartlett.
The stranger sank back with a gesture of weariness, "It's a hell of a
ways to come," he said sourly. "It will be a lot easier when they get
the rail | 2,198.7476 |
2023-11-16 18:53:42.8256470 | 575 | 9 |
E-text prepared by deaurider, Paul Marshall, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
A carat character is used to denote superscription. A
single character following the carat is superscripted
(example: ^2).
Small capitals have been converted to ALL CAPITALS.
ANTHROPOLOGY AND THE CLASSICS
Six Lectures Delivered Before
the University of Oxford
by
ARTHUR J. EVANS
ANDREW LANG GILBERT MURRAY
F. B. JEVONS J. L. MYRES W. WARDE FOWLER
Edited by
R. R. MARETT
Secretary to the Committee for Anthropology
Oxford
At the Clarendon Press
MCMVIII
Henry Frowde, M.A.
Publisher to the University of Oxford
London, Edinburgh, New York
Toronto and Melbourne
PREFACE
Anthropology and the Humanities--on verbal grounds one might suppose
them coextensive; yet in practice they divide the domain of human
culture between them. The types of human culture are, in fact,
reducible to two, a simpler and a more complex, or, as we are wont to
say (valuing our own achievements, I doubt not, rightly), a lower and a
higher. By established convention Anthropology occupies itself solely
with culture of the simpler or lower kind. The Humanities, on the other
hand--those humanizing studies that, for us at all events, have their
parent source in the literatures of Greece and Rome--concentrate on
whatever is most constitutive and characteristic of the higher life of
society.
What, then, of phenomena of transition? Are they to be suffered to
form a no-man’s-land, a buffer-tract left purposely undeveloped,
lest, forsooth, the associates of barbarism should fall foul of the
friends of civilization? Plain | 2,198.845687 |
2023-11-16 18:53:43.5262350 | 358 | 6 |
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Mary Johnston]
*THE OLD
DOMINION*
BY
MARY JOHNSTON
Author of "By Order of the Company" "Audrey"
and "Sir Mortimer"
LONDON
ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE & CO LTD
1907
1st Impression, January, 1899
2nd " August, 1899
3rd " May, 1900
4th " July, 1900
5th " October, 1900
6th " February, 1901
7th " August, 1901
8th " August, 1902
9th " April, 1904
10th " (Pocket Edition) March, 1906
11th " " " Sept. 1907
TO MY FATHER
*CONTENTS*
CHAPTER
I. A Sloop comes in
II. Its Cargo
III. A Colonial Dinner Party
IV. The Breaking Heart
V. In the Three-Mile Field
VI. The Hut on the Marsh
VII. A Mender of Nets
VIII. The New Secretary
IX. An Interrupted Wooing
X. Landless pays the Piper
XI. Landless becomes a Conspirator
XII. A Dark Deed
XIII. In the Tobacco House
XIV. A Midnight Expedition
XV. The Waters of Chesapeake
XVI. The Face in the Dark
| 2,199.546275 |
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Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at Free Literature (Images
generously made available by the Internet Archive.)
ANTON TCHEKHOV
AND OTHER ESSAIS
BY
LEON SHESTOV
TRANSLATED BY
S. KOTELIANSKY AND J. M. MURRY
MAUNSEL AND CO. LTD.
DUBLIN AND LONDON
1916
CONTENTS
ANTON TCHEKHOV (CREATION FROM THE VOID)
THE GIFT OF PROPHECY
PENULTIMATE WORDS
THE THEORY OF KNOWLEDGE
INTRODUCTION
It is not to be denied that Russian thought is chiefly manifested in
the great Russian novelists. Tolstoi, Dostoevsky, and Tchekhov made
explicit in their works conceptions of the world which yield nothing in
definiteness to the philosophic schemes of the great dogmatists of old,
and perhaps may be regarded as even superior to them in that by their
nature they emphasise a relation of which the professional philosopher
is too often careless--the intimate connection between philosophy and
life. They attacked fearlessly and with a high devotion of which we
English readers are slowly becoming sensible the fundamental problem of
all philosophy worthy the name. They were preoccupied with the answer
to the question: Is life worth living? And the great assumption which
they made, at least in the beginning of the quest, was that to live
life must mean to live it wholly. To live was not to pass by life on
the other side, not suppress the deep or even the dark passions of body
or soul, not to lull by some lying and narcotic phrase the urgent
questions of the mind, not to deny life. To them life was the sum of
all human potentialities. They accepted them all, loved them all, and
strove to find a place for them all in a pattern in which none should
be distorted. They failed, but not one of them fainted by the way,
and there was not one of them but with his latest breath bravely held
to his belief that there was a way and that the way might be found.
Tolstoi went out alone to die, yet more manifestly than he had lived,
a seeker after the secret; death overtook Dostoevsky in his supreme
attempt to wrest a hope for mankind out of the abyss of the imagined
future; and Tchekhov died when his most delicate fingers had been
finally eager in lighting _The Cherry Orchard_ with the tremulous glint
of laughing tears, which may perhaps be the ultimate secret of the
process which leaves us all bewildered and full of pity and wonder.
There were great men and great philosophers. It may be that this
cruelly conscious world will henceforward recognise no man as great
unless he has greatly sought: for to seek and not to think is the
essence of philosophy. To have greatly sought, I say, should be the
measure of man's greatness in the strange world of which there will be
only a tense, sorrowful, disillusioned remnant when this grim ordeal
is over. It should be so: and we, who are, according to our strength,
faithful to humanity, must also strive according to our strength to
make it so. We are not, and we shall not be, great men: but we have
the elements of greatness. We have an impulse to honesty, to think
honestly, to see honestly, and to speak the truth to ourselves in the
lonely hours. It is only an impulse, which, in these barren, bitter,
years, so quickly withers and dies. It is almost that we dare not be
honest now. Our hearts are dead: we cannot wake the old wounds again.
And yet if anything of this generation that suffered is to remain, if
we are to hand any spark of the fire which once burned so brightly,
if we are to be human still, then we must still be honest at whatever
cost. We--and I speak of that generation which was hardly man when the
war burst upon it, which was ardent and generous and dreamed dreams
of devotion to an ideal of art or love or life--are maimed and broken
for ever. Let us not deceive ourselves. The dead voices will never be
silent in our ears to remind us of that which we once were, and that
which we have lost. We shall die as we shall live, lonely and haunted
by memories that will grow stranger, more beautiful, more terrible,
and more tormenting as the years go on, and at the last we shall not
know which was the dream--the years of plenty or the barren years that
descended like a storm in the night and swept our youth away.
Yet something remains. Not those lying things that they who cannot feel
how icy cold is sudden and senseless death to all-daring youth, din in
our ears. We shall not be inspired by the memory of heroism. We shall
be shattered by the thought of splendid and wonderful lives that were
vilely cast away. What remains is that we should be honest as we shall
be pitiful. We shall never again be drunk with hope: let us never be
blind with fear. There can be in the lap of destiny now no worse thing
which may befall us. We can afford to be honest now.
We can afford to be honest: but we need to learn how, or to increase
our knowledge. The Russian writers will help us in this; and not the
great Russians only, but the lesser also. For a century of bitter
necessity has taught that nation that the spirit is mightier than the
flesh, until those eager qualities of soul that a century of social
ease has almost killed in us are in them well-nigh an instinct. Let
us look among ourselves if we can find a Wordsworth, a Shelley, a
Coleridge, or a Byron to lift this struggle to the stars as they did
the French Revolution. There is none.--It will be said: 'But that was
a great fight for freedom. Humanity itself marched forward with the
Revolutionary armies.' But if the future of mankind is not in issue
now, if we are fighting for the victory of no precious and passionate
idea, why is no voice of true poetry uplifted in protest? There is
no third way. Either this is the greatest struggle for right, or the
greatest crime, that has ever been. The unmistakable voice of poetry
should be certain either in protest or enthusiasm: it is silent or
it is trivial. And the cause must be that the keen edge of the soul
of those century-old poets which cut through false patriotism so
surely is in us dulled and blunted. We must learn honesty again:
not the laborious and meagre honesty of those who weigh advantage
against advantage in the ledger of their minds, but the honesty that
cries aloud in instant and passionate anger against the lie and the
half-truth, and by an instinct knows the authentic thrill of contact
with the living human soul.
The Russians, and not least the lesser Russians, may teach us this
thing once more. Among these lesser, Leon Shestov holds an honourable
place. He is hardly what we should call a philosopher, hardly again
what we would understand by an essayist. The Russians, great and small
alike, are hardly ever what we understand by the terms which we victims
of tradition apply to them. In a hundred years they have accomplished
an evolution which has with us slowly unrolled in a thousand. The very
foundations of their achievement are new and laid within the memory of
man. Where we have sharply divided art from art, and from science and
philosophy, and given to each a name, the Russians have still the sense
of a living connection between all the great activities of the human
soul. From us this connection is too often concealed by the tyranny
of names. We have come to believe, or at least it costs us great
pains not to believe, that the name is a particular reality, which to
confuse with another name is a crime. Whereas in truth the energies of
the human soul are not divided from each other by any such impassable
barriers: they flow into each other indistinguishably, modify, control,
support, and decide each other. In their large unity they are real;
isolated, they seem to be poised uneasily between the real and the
unreal, and become deceptive, barren half-truths. Plato, who first
discovered the miraculous hierarchy of names, though he was sometimes
drunk with the new wine of his discovery, never forgot that the unity
of the human soul was the final outcome of its diversity; and those
who read aright his most | 2,199.946945 |
2023-11-16 18:53:44.0257240 | 575 | 109 |
Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 3. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, November 18, 1879. Copyright, 1879, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE TOURNAMENT.--DRAWN BY JAMES E. KELLY.]
THE TOURNAMENT.
Great rivalry arose once between James and Henry, two school-mates and
warm friends, and all on account of a pretty girl who went to the same
school. Each one wanted to walk with her, and carry her books and lunch
basket; and as Mary was a bit of a coquette, and showed no preference
for either of her admirers, each tried to be the first to meet her in
the shady winding lane that led from her house to the school. At last
they determined to decide the matter in the old knightly manner, by a
tournament. Two stout boys consented to act as chargers, and the day for
the meeting was appointed.
It was Saturday afternoon, a half-holiday, when the rivals met in the
back yard of Henry's house, armed with old brooms for lances, and with
shields made out of barrel heads. The chargers backed up against the
fence, the champions mounted and faced each other from opposite sides of
the yard. The herald with an old tin horn gave the signal for the onset.
There was a wild rush across the yard, and a terrific shock as the
champions met. James's lance struck Henry right under the chin, and
overthrew him in spite of his gallant efforts to keep his seat.
The herald at once proclaimed victory for James; and Henry, before he
was allowed to rise from the ground, was compelled to renounce all
intention of walking to school with Mary in the future.
[Begun in No. 1 of HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE, Nov. 4.]
THE BRAVE SWISS BOY.
_II.--A PERILOUS ADVENTURE.--(Continued.)_
[Illustration: "WALTER AIMED TWO OR THREE BLOWS AT THE CREATURE'S
BREAST."]
In this dreadful crisis, Walter pressed as hard as he could against the
rocky crag, having but one hand at liberty to defend himself against the
furious attack of the bird. It was | 2,200.045764 |
2023-11-16 18:53:44.0277840 | 111 | 10 |
Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THEOLOGICAL ESSAYS AND OTHER PAPERS
By THOMAS DE QUINCEY, AUTHOR OF
_'CONFESSIONS OF AN ENGLISH OPIUM-EATER,' ETC. ETC._
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
CONTENTS
SECESSION FROM THE CHURCH OF SCOTLAND
TOILETTE OF THE HEBREW LADY
| 2,200.047824 |
2023-11-16 18:53:44.1275430 | 196 | 66 |
Produced by ellinora and The Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber’s Note
Obvious spelling and punctuation errors have been corrected.
Spelling variations have been kept as in the original.
Italic text is indicated by underscores surrounding the _italic text_.
Small capitals in the original have been converted to ALL CAPS.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE GREAT
TAXICAB ROBBERY
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration:
RHINELANDER WALDO
Commissioner of Police, New York City
]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE GREAT
TAXICAB ROBBERY
_A True Detective Story_
BY
JAMES H. COLLINS
WRITTEN FROM RECORDS AND PERSONAL ACCOUNTS
OF THE CASE FURNISHED BY THE NEW
| 2,200.147583 |
2023-11-16 18:53:44.2291590 | 2,304 | 12 |
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Josephine Paolucci, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations in color.
See 38790-h.htm or 38790-h.zip:
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(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/38790/38790-h.zip)
[Illustration: ST. PAUL'S FROM THE RIVER THAMES]
ENGLAND
by
FRANK FOX
Author of "Ramparts of Empire" "Peeps at the British Empire," "Australia
and Oceania"
With 32 Full-Page Illustrations in Colour
London
Adam and Charles Black
1914
AUTHOR'S PREFACE
To bring within the limits of one volume any detailed description of
England--her history, people, landscapes, cities--would be impossible. I
have sought in this book to give an impression of some of the most
"English" features of the land, devoting a little space first to an attempt
to explain the origins of the English people. Thus the English fields and
flowers and trees, the English homes and schools are given far more
attention than English cities, English manufactures; for they are more
peculiar to the land and the people. More markedly than in any superiority
of her material greatness England stands apart from the rest of the world
as the land of green trees and meadows, the land of noble schools and of
sweet homes:
Green fields of England! wheresoe'er
Across this watery waste we fare,
One image at our hearts we bear,
Green fields of England, everywhere.
Sweet eyes in England, I must flee
Past where the waves' last confines be,
Ere your loved smile I cease to see,
Sweet eyes in England, dear to me!
Dear home in England, safe and fast,
If but in thee my lot lie cast,
The past shall seem a nothing past
To thee, dear home, if won at last;
Dear Home in England, won at last.
That is the cry of an Englishman (Arthur Hugh Clough). On the same
note--the green fields, the dear homes--a sympathetic visitor to England
would shape his impressions on going away.
If, by chance, the reading of this book should whet the appetite for more
about England, or some particular part of the kingdom, there are available
in the same series very many volumes on different counties and different
features of England. To these I would refer the lover or student of England
wishing for closer details. My impression is necessarily a general one;
and it is that of a visitor from one of the overseas Dominions--not the
less interesting, I hope, certainly not the less sympathetic for that
reason.
FRANK FOX.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
THE MAKING OF ENGLAND--THE BRITONS AND THE ROMANS 1
CHAPTER II
THE MAKING OF ENGLAND--THE ANGLO-SAXONS AND THE NORMANS 16
CHAPTER III
THE ENGLISH LANDSCAPE AND THE ENGLISH LOVE OF IT 28
CHAPTER IV
THE TRAINING OF YOUNG ENGLAND 43
CHAPTER V
ENGLAND AT WORK 64
CHAPTER VI
ENGLAND AT PLAY 81
CHAPTER VII
THE CITIES OF ENGLAND 101
CHAPTER VIII
THE RIVERS OF ENGLAND 114
CHAPTER IX
ENGLAND'S SHRINES 125
CHAPTER X
THE POORER POPULATION 137
CHAPTER XI
THE ARTS IN ENGLAND 155
CHAPTER XII
POLITICAL LIFE IN ENGLAND 171
CHAPTER XIII
THE DEFENCE OF ENGLAND 187
INDEX 203
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. St. Paul's from the River Thames _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
2. The Chalk Cliffs of England 1
3. North Side, Canterbury Cathedral 8
4. Richmond, Yorkshire 17
5. Norman Staircase, King's School, Canterbury 24
6. A Kent Manor-House and Garden 33
7. A Sussex Village 40
8. The Bridge of Sighs, St. John's College, Cambridge 49
9. St. Magdalen Tower and College, Oxford 56
10. Broad Street, Oxford, looking West 59
11. Eton Upper School 62
12. Houses of Parliament and Westminster Bridge, London 65
13. Harvesting in Herefordshire 72
14. Football at Rugby School 81
15. Cricket at "Lord's" 88
16. Trout-fishing on the Itchen, Hampshire 97
17. Dean's Yard, Westminster 104
18. Sailing Boats on the Serpentine, Hyde Park, London 107
19. Watergate Street, Chester 110
20. The River Rother, Sussex 115
21. Thames at Richmond, Surrey 118
22. Spring by the Thames 121
23. Windsor Castle from Fellows' Eyot: Early Spring 124
24. Glastonbury Abbey, Somersetshire 128
25. Anne Hathaway's Cottage near Stratford-on-Avon 137
26. Gipsies on a Gloucestershire Common 144
27. The Tower from the Tower Bridge, looking West 153
28. Westminster Abbey from the end of the Embankment 160
29. Westminster and the Houses of Parliament 169
30. Hyde Park, London 176
31. Battleships Manoeuvring 193
32. Changing the Guard 200
[Illustration: THE CHALK CLIFFS OF ENGLAND--THE NEEDLES, ISLE OF WIGHT]
ENGLAND
CHAPTER I
THE MAKING OF ENGLAND--THE BRITONS AND THE ROMANS
When Europe, as it shows on the map to-day, was in the making, some great
force of Nature cut the British Islands off from the mainland. Perhaps it
was the result of a convulsive spasm as Mother Earth took a new wrinkle on
her face. Perhaps it was the steady biting of the Gulf Stream eating away
at chalk cliffs and shingle beds. Whatever the cause, as far back as man
knows the English Channel ran between the mainland of Europe and "a group
of islands off the coast of France"; and the chalk cliffs of the greatest
of these islands faced the newcomer to suggest to the Romans the name of
_Terra Alba_: perhaps to prompt in some admirer of Horace among them a
prophetic fancy that this white land was to make a "white mark" in the
Calendar of History.
Considered geographically, the British Islands, taking the sum of the whole
five thousand or so of them (counting islets), are of slight importance.
Yet a map of the world showing the possessions of Great Britain--the area
over which the people of these islands have spread their sway--shows a
whole continent, large areas of three other continents, and numberless
islands to be British. And when the astonishing disproportion between the
British Islands and the British Empire has been grasped, it can be made the
more astonishing by reducing the British Islands down to England as the
actual centre from which all this greatness has radiated. It is true that
the British Empire is the work of the British people: as the Roman Empire
was of the Italian people and not of Rome alone. But it was in England that
it had its foundation; and the English people made a start with the British
Empire by subduing or coaxing to their domain the Welsh, the Scottish, and
the Irish. Not to England all the glory: but certainly to England the first
glory.
There is at this day a justified resentment shown by Scots and Irish, not
to speak of Welshmen, when "England" is used as a term to embrace the whole
of the British Isles. (Similarly Canadians resent the term "America" being
arrogated by the United States.) A French wit has put very neatly the case
for that resentment by stating that ordinarily an inhabitant of the British
Isles is a British citizen until he does something disgraceful, when he is
identified in the English newspapers as a "Scottish murderer" or an "Irish
thief": but if he does something fine then he is "a gallant Englishman."
That is neat satire, founded on a slight foundation of truth. Very often
"England" is confounded with "Great Britain" when there is discussion of
Imperial greatness. I do not want to come under suspicion of inexactness,
which that confusion of terms shows. But writing of England, and England
alone, it is just to claim at the outset that the actual first beginning of
that great British power which has eclipsed all records of the world was in
England: and it is worth the while to inquire into the causes which made
for the growth of that power. It is necessary, indeed, to make that
inquiry and get to know something of English history before attempting to
look with an understanding eye upon English landscapes, English cities, and
the English people of to-day. The classic painters of the greatest age of
Art used landscape only as the background for portraiture. The human
interest to them was always paramount. And, whether one may or may not go
the whole way with these painters in the appraisement of the relative value
of the human or the natural, clear it is that a human interest heightens
the value of every scene; and there can be no full appreciation of a
country without a knowledge of its history.
"When a noble act is done--perchance in a scene of great natural beauty:
when Leonidas and his three hundred martyrs consume one day in dying, and
the sun and the moon come each and look upon them once in the steep defile
of Thermopylae: when Arnold Winkelried, in the high Alps, under the shadow
of the avalanche, gathers in his side a sheaf of Austrian spears to break
the line for his comrades; are not these heroes entitled to add the beauty
of the scene to the beauty of the deed?" Assuredly "yes" to that question
from Emerson, and assuredly, too, they pay back every day what they have
borrowed, giving to a noble landscape the added charm of its human
association with a | 2,200.249199 |
2023-11-16 18:53:44.2307170 | 256 | 70 | 1603-1649***
E-text prepared by Melissa McDaniel, Barry Abrahamsen, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images
generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)
Note: Images of the original pages are available through
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Text that was in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
STUDIES IN IRISH HISTORY, 1603-1649
Being a Course of Lectures
Delivered before the Irish Literary Society of London
Edited by
R. BARRY O’BRIEN
Second Series
Browne and Nolan, Limited
Dublin, Belfast & Cork
London: Simpkin, Marshall, Hamilton, Kent & Co., Ltd.
Stationers’ Hall Court, E.C.
1906
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Contents
PAGE
THE PLANTATION OF ULSTER 1
THE REV. S. A. COX, M.A.
STRAFFORD
PART I.—THE GRACES 69
PART | 2,200.250757 |
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E-text prepared by Glynn Burleson
and revised by Joseph E. Loewenstein, M.D.
SIXES AND SEVENS
by
O. HENRY
CONTENTS
I. THE LAST OF THE TROUBADOURS
II. THE SLEUTHS
III. WITCHES' LOAVES
IV. THE PRIDE OF THE CITIES
V. HOLDING UP A TRAIN
VI. ULYSSES AND THE DOGMAN
VII. THE CHAMPION OF THE WEATHER
VIII. MAKES THE WHOLE WORLD KIN
IX. AT ARMS WITH MORPHEUS
X. A GHOST OF A CHANCE
XI. JIMMY HAYES AND MURIEL
XII. THE DOOR OF UNREST
XIII. THE DUPLICITY OF HARGRAVES
XIV. LET ME FEEL YOUR PULSE
XV. OCTOBER AND JUNE
XVI. THE CHURCH WITH AN OVERSHOT-WHEEL
XVII. NEW YORK BY CAMP FIRE LIGHT
XVIII. THE ADVENTURES OF SHAMROCK JOLNES
XIX. THE LADY HIGHER UP
XX. THE GREATER CONEY
XXI. LAW AND ORDER
XXII. TRANSFORMATION OF MARTIN BURNEY
XXIII. THE CALIPH AND THE CAD
XXIV. THE DIAMOND OF KALI
XXV. THE DAY WE CELEBRATE
I
THE LAST OF THE TROUBADOURS
Inexorably Sam Galloway saddled his pony. He was going away from the
Rancho Altito at the end of a three-months' visit. It is not to be
expected that a guest should put up with wheat coffee and biscuits
yellow-streaked with saleratus for longer than that. Nick Napoleon,
the big <DW64> man cook, had never been able to make good biscuits.
Once before, when Nick was cooking at the Willow Ranch, Sam had been
forced to fly from his _cuisine_, after only a six-weeks' sojourn.
On Sam's face was an expression of sorrow, deepened with regret and
slightly tempered by the patient forgiveness of a connoisseur who
cannot be understood. But very firmly and inexorably he buckled his
saddle-cinches, looped his stake-rope and hung it to his saddle-horn,
tied his slicker and coat on the cantle, and looped his quirt on his
right wrist. The Merrydews (householders of the Rancho Altito), men,
women, children, and servants, vassals, visitors, employes, dogs, and
casual callers were grouped in the "gallery" of the ranch house, all
with faces set to the tune of melancholy and grief. For, as the coming
of Sam Galloway to any ranch, camp, or cabin between the rivers Frio
or Bravo del Norte aroused joy, so his departure caused mourning and
distress.
And then, during absolute silence, except for the bumping of a hind
elbow of a hound dog as he pursued a wicked flea, Sam tenderly and
carefully tied his guitar across his saddle on top of his slicker and
coat. The guitar was in a green duck bag; and if you catch the
significance of it, it explains Sam.
Sam Galloway was the Last of the Troubadours. Of course you know about
the troubadours. The encyclopaedia says they flourished between the
eleventh and the thirteenth centuries. What they flourished doesn't
seem clear--you may be pretty sure it wasn't a sword: maybe it was a
fiddlebow, or a forkful of spaghetti, or a lady's scarf. Anyhow, Sam
Galloway was one of 'em.
Sam put on a martyred expression as he mounted his pony. But the
expression on his face was hilarious compared with the one on his
pony's. You see, a pony gets to know his rider mighty well, and it is
not unlikely that cow ponies in pastures and at hitching racks had
often guyed Sam's pony for being ridden by a guitar player instead of
by a rollicking, cussing, all-wool cowboy. No man is a hero to his
saddle-horse. And even an escalator in a department store might be
excused for tripping up a troubadour.
Oh, I know I'm one; and so are you. You remember the stories you
memorize and the card tricks you study and that little piece on the
piano--how does it go?--ti-tum-te-tum-ti-tum--those little Arabian Ten
Minute Entertainments that you furnish when you go up to call on your
rich Aunt Jane. You should know that _omnae personae in tres partes
divisae sunt_. Namely: Barons, Troubadours, and Workers. Barons have no
inclination to read such folderol as this; and Workers have no time:
so I know you must be a Troubadour, and that you will understand Sam
Galloway. Whether we sing, act, dance, write, lecture, or paint, we
are only troubadours; so let us make the worst of it.
The pony with the Dante Alighieri face, guided by the pressure of
Sam's knees, bore that wandering minstrel sixteen miles southeastward.
Nature was in her most benignant mood. League after league of
delicate, sweet flowerets made fragrant the gently undulating
prairie. The east wind tempered the spring warmth; wool-white clouds
flying in from the Mexican Gulf hindered the direct rays of the April
sun. Sam sang songs as he rode. Under his pony's bridle he had tucked
some sprigs of chaparral to keep away the deer flies. Thus crowned,
the long-faced quadruped looked more Dantesque than before, and,
judging by his countenance, seemed to think of Beatrice.
Straight as topography permitted, Sam rode to the sheep ranch of old
man Ellison. A visit to a sheep ranch seemed to him desirable just
then. There had been too many people, too much noise, argument,
competition, confusion, at Rancho Altito. He had never conferred upon
old man Ellison the favour of sojourning at his ranch; but he knew he
would be welcome. The troubadour is his own passport everywhere. The
Workers in the castle let down the drawbridge to him, and the Baron
sets him at his left hand at table in the banquet hall. There ladies
smile upon him and applaud his songs and stories, while the Workers
bring boars' heads and | 2,200.250848 |
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Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced from
scanned images of public domain material from the Google
Print archive.
[Illustration: "HE TOOK OUT HIS EYEGLASS TO STUDY IT."]
BOSTON NEIGHBOURS
IN TOWN AND OUT
BY AGNES BLAKE POOR
[Illustration]
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1898
COPYRIGHT, 1898
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
PAGE
OUR TOLSTOI CLUB 1
A LITTLE FOOL 41
WHY I MARRIED ELEANOR 83
THE STORY OF A WALL-FLOWER 123
POOR MR. PONSONBY 187
MODERN VENGEANCE 239
THREE CUPS OF TEA 274
THE TRAMPS' WEDDING 300
* * * * *
The author and the publishers desire to make acknowledgment to the
publishers of the _Century Magazine_ and of the _New England Magazine_
for their courtesy in permitting the re-issue of certain stories which
were originally published in these periodicals.
[Illustration]
OUR TOLSTOI CLUB
I should be glad to tell a story if I only knew one, but I don't. Some
people say that one experience is as interesting as another, and that
any real life is worth hearing about; but I think it must make some
little difference who the person is. But if I really must tell one, and
since you all have told yours, and such nice ones, and anything is
better than nothing when we are kept in all the morning by a pouring
rain, with nothing to do, because we came only for a week, and did not
expect it to rain, I will try and tell you about our Tolstoi Club,
because that was rather like a story--at least it might have been like
one if things had turned out a little differently.
You know I live in a suburb of Boston, and a very charming, delightful
one it is. I cannot call it by its real name, because I am going to be
so very personal; so I will call it "Babyland," which indeed people
often do in fun. There never was such a place for children. The
population is mostly under seven years old, for it was about seven years
ago that young married people began to move into it in such numbers,
because it is so healthy; but it was always a great place for them even
when it was small. The old inhabitants are mostly grandfathers and
grandmothers now, and enjoy it very much; but they usually go into town
in the winter, with such unmarried children as they have left, to get a
little change; for there is no denying that there is a sameness about
it--the sidewalks are crowded with perambulators every pleasant day, and
at our parties the talk is apt to run too much on nursery-maids, and
milkmen and their cows, and drains, to be very interesting to those who
have not learned how terribly important such things are. So in winter
we--I mean the young married couples, of whom I am half a one--are left
pretty much to our own devices.
Though we are all so devoted to our infant families, we are not so much
so as to give up all rational pleasures or intellectual tastes; we could
not live so near Boston, you know, and do that. Our husbands go into
town every day to make money, and we go in every few days to spend it,
and in the evenings, if they are not too tired, we sometimes make them
take us in to the theatres and concerts. We all have a very nice social
circle, for Babyland is fashionable as well as respectable, and we are
asked out more or less, and go out; but for real enjoyment we like our
own clubs and classes the best. We feel so safe going round in the
neighbourhood, because we are so near the children, and can be called
home any time if necessary. There is our little evening dancing-club,
which meets round at one another's houses, where we all exchange
husbands--a kind of grown-up "puss-in-the-corner"; only, as the supply
of dancing husbands is not quite equal to that of wives, we have to get
a young man or two in if we can; and for the same reason we don't ask
any girls, who, indeed, are not very eager to come. Then there is the
musical club, and the sketching-club, and we have a great many morning
clubs for the women alone, where we bring our work (and it is splendid
to get so much time to sew), and read, or are read to, and then talk
over things. Sometimes we stay to lunch, and sometimes not; and we would
have an essay club, only we have no time to write the papers.
Now, many of these clubs meet chiefly at Minnie Mason's--Mrs. Sydney
Mason's. She gets them up, and is president: you see, she has more time,
because she has no children--the only woman in Babyland who hasn't, and
I don't doubt she feels dreadfully about it. She is not strong, and has
to lie on the sofa most of the time, and that is another reason why we
meet there so often; and then she lives right in the midst of us all,
and so close to the road that we can all of us watch our children, when
they are out for their airings, very conveniently. Minnie is very kind
and sympathetic, and takes such an interest in all our affairs, and if
she is somewhat inclined to gossip about them, poor dear, it is very
natural, when she has so few of her own to think about.
Well, in the autumn before last, Minnie said we must get up a Tolstoi
Club; she said the Russians were the coming race, and Tolstoi was their
greatest writer, and the most Christian of moralists (at least she had
read so), and that everybody was talking about him, and we should be
behindhand if we could not. So we turned one of our clubs, which had
nothing particular on hand just then, into one; and, besides Tolstoi, we
read other Russian novelists, Turgenieff and--that man whose name is so
hard to pronounce, who writes all about convicts and--and other
criminals. We did not read them all, for they are very long, and we can
never get through anything long; but we hired a very nice lady
"skimmer," who ran through them, and told us the plots, and all about
the authors, and read us bits. I forget a good deal, but I remember she
said that Tolstoi was the supreme realist, and that all previous
novelists were romancers and idealists, and that he drew life just as it
was, and nobody else had ever done anything like it, except indeed the
other Russians; and then we discussed. In discussion we are very apt to
stray off to other topics, but that day I remember Bessie Milliken
saying that the Russians seemed very queer people; she supposed that if
every one said these authors were so true to life, they must be, but she
had never known such an extraordinary state of things. Just as soon as
ever people were married--if they married at all--they seemed wild to
make love to some one else, or have some one else make love to them.
"They don't seem to do so here," said Fanny Deane.
"_We_ certainly do not," said Blanche Livermore. "I think the reason
must be that we have no time. I have scarcely time to see anything of my
own husband, much less to fall in love with any one else's."
We all laughed, but we felt that it was odd. In Babyland all went on in
an orderly and respectable fashion. The gayest girls, the fastest young
men, as soon as they were married and settled there, subsided at once
into quiet, domestic ways. At our dances each of us secretly thought
her own husband the most interesting person present, and he returned the
compliment, and after a peaceful evening of passing them about we were
always very thankful to get them back to go home with. Were we, then, so
unlike the rest of humanity?
"Are we sure?" asked Minnie Mason, always prone to speculation. "It is
not likely that we are utterly different from the rest of the world. Who
knows what dark tragedies lie hidden in the recesses of the heart? Who
knows all her neighbour's secret history?" This was being rather
personal, but no one took it home, for we never minded what Minnie said;
and as many of the club were, as always occurred, detained at home by
domestic duties, we thought it might apply to one of them. But I can't
deny that we, and especially Minnie, who had a relish for what was
sensational, and was pleased to find that realistic fiction, which she
had always thought must be dull, was really exciting, felt a little
ashamed at our being so behind the age--"provincial," as Mr. James would
call it; "obsolete," as Mr. Howells is fond of saying--at Babyland as
not to have the ghost of a scandal among us. None of us wished to give
cause for the scandal ourselves; but I think we might not have been as
sorry as we ought to be if one of our neighbours had been obliging
enough to do so. We did not want anything very bad, you know. Of course
none of us could ever have dreamed of running away with a fascinating
young man--like Anna Karenina--because in the first place we all liked
our husbands, and in the next place, who could be depended upon to go
into town to do the marketing, and to see that the children wore their
india-rubbers on wet days? But anything short of that we felt we could
bear with equanimity.
That same fall we were excited, though only in our usual harmless,
innocent way, by hearing that the old Grahame house was sold, and
pleased--though no more than was proper--that it was sold to the
Williamses. It was a pretty, old farm-house which had been improved upon
and enlarged, and had for many years been to let; and being as
inconvenient as it was pretty, it was always changing its tenants, whom
we despised as transients, and seldom called upon. But now it was
bought, and by none of your new people, who, we began to think, were
getting too common in Babyland. We all knew Willie Williams: all the men
were his old friends, and all the women had danced with him, and liked
him, and flirted with him; but I don't think it ever went deeper, for
somehow all the girls had a way of laughing at him, though he was a
handsome fellow, and had plenty of money, and was very well behaved,
and clever too in his way; but we could not help thinking him silly. For
one thing, he would be an artist, though you never saw such dreadful
daubs as all his pictures were. It was a mercy he did not have to live
by them, for he never sold any; he gave them away to his friends, and
Blanche Livermore said that was why he had so many friends, for of
course he could not work off more than one apiece on them. He was very
popular with all the other artists, for he was the kindest-hearted
creature, and always helped those who were poor, and admired those who
were great; and they never had anything to say against him, though they
could not get out anything more in his praise than that he was "careful
and conscientious in his work," which was very likely true. Then he was
vain; at least he liked his own good looks, and, being aesthetic in his
tastes, chose to display them to advantage by his attire. He wore his
hair, which was very light, long, and was seldom seen in anything less
fanciful than a boating-suit, or a bicycle-suit, though he was not given
to either exercise, but wanted an excuse for a blouse, and
knee-breeches, and tights, and a soft hat--and these were all of a more
startling pattern than other people's; while as to the velvet
painting-jackets and brocade dressing-gowns, in which he indulged in
his studio, I can only say that they made him a far more picturesque
figure than any in his pictures. It was a shame to waste such materials
on a man. Then he lisped when he was at all excited, which he often was;
and he had odd ways of walking, and standing, and sitting, which looked
affected, though I really don't think they were.
He made enthusiastic, but very brief, love to all of us in turn. I don't
know whether any of us could have had him; if one could, all could; but,
supposing we could, I don't believe any of us would have had the courage
to venture on Willie Williams. But we expected that his marriage would
be romantic and exciting, and his wedding something out of the common.
Opinions were divided as to whether his ardent love-making would induce
some lovely young Italian or Spanish girl of rank to run away from a
convent with him, or whether he would rashly take up with some artist's
model, or goose-girl, or beggar-maid. We were much disappointed when,
after all, he married in the most commonplace manner a very ordinary
girl named Loulie Latham.
We all knew Loulie too; she went to school at Miss Woodberry's, in the
class next below mine; and she was a nice girl, and we all liked her
well enough, but there never was a girl who had less in her. She was not
bad-looking, but no beauty; not at all the kind of looks to attract an
artist. Blanche Livermore said that he might have married her for her
red hair if only there had been more of it. The Lathams were very well
connected, and knew everybody, and she went about with the other girls,
and had a fair show of attention at parties; but she never had friends
or lovers. She had not much chance to have any, indeed, for she married
very young.
She was a very shy, quiet girl, and I used to think that perhaps it was
because she was so overcrowed by her mother. Mrs. Latham was a large,
striking-looking if not exactly handsome, lady-like though loud, woman,
who talked a great deal about everything. She was clever, but eccentric,
and took up all manner of fads and fancies, and though she was a
thoroughly good woman, and well born and well bred, she did know the
very queerest people--always hand in glove with some new crank. Hygiene,
as she called it, was her pet hobby. Fortunately she had a particular
aversion to dosing; but she dieted her daughter and herself, which, I
fear, was nearly as bad. All her bread had husks in it, and she was
always discovering that it was hurtful to eat any butter or drink any
water, and no end of such notions. She dressed poor Loulie so
frightfully that it was enough to take all the courage out of a girl:
with all her dresses very short in the skirt, and big at the waist, and
cut high, even in the evening, and thick shoes very queerly shaped, made
after her own orders by some shoemaker of her own, and loose cotton
gloves, and a mushroom hat down over her eyes. Finally she took up the
mind-cure, and Loulie was to keep thinking all the time how perfectly
well she was, which, I think, was what made her so thin and pale. Mrs.
Latham always said that no one ever need be ill, and indeed she never
was herself, for she was found dead in her bed one morning without any
warning.
This happened at Jackson, New Hampshire, where they were spending the
summer. Of course poor Loulie was half distracted with the shock and the
grief. There was no one in the house where they were whom she knew at
all, or who was very congenial, I fancy, and Willie Williams, whom they
knew slightly, was in the neighbourhood, sketching, and was very kind
and attentive, and more helpful than any one would ever have imagined he
could be. He saw to all the business, and telegraphed for some cousin or
other, and made the funeral arrangements; and the end of it was that in
three months he and Loulie Latham were married, and had sailed for
Europe on their wedding tour.
This was ten years ago, and they had never come back till now. They
meant to come back sooner, but one thing after another prevented. They
had no children for several years, and they thought it a good chance to
poke around in the wildest parts of Southern Europe--Corsica, and
Sardinia, and the Balearic Isles, and all that--and made their winter
quarters at Palermo. Then for the next six years they lived in less
out-of-the-way places. They had four children, and lost two; and one
thing or another kept them abroad, until they suddenly made up their
minds to come home.
We had not heard much of them while they were gone. Loulie had no one to
correspond with, and Willie, like most men, never wrote letters; but we
all were very curious to see them, and willing to welcome them, though
we did not know how much they were going to surprise us. Willie
Williams, indeed, was just the same as ever--in fact, our only surprise
in him was to see him look no older than when he went away; but as for
Mrs. Williams, she gave us quite a shock. For my part, I shall never
forget how taken aback I was, when, strolling down to the station one
afternoon with the children, with a vague idea of meeting Tom, who might
come on that train, but who didn't, I came suddenly upon a tall,
splendidly shaped, stately creature, in the most magnificent clothes;
at least they looked so, though they were all black, and the dress was
only cashmere, but it was draped in an entirely new way. She wore a
shoulder-cape embroidered in jet, and a large black hat and feather set
back over great masses of rich dark auburn hair; and, though so late in
the season, she carried a large black lace parasol. To be sure, it was
still very warm and pleasant. I never should have ventured to speak to
her, but she stopped at once, and said, "Perhaps you have forgotten me,
Mrs. White?"
"No--oh, no," I said, trying not to seem confused; "Mrs.--Mrs. Williams,
I believe?"
"You knew me better as Loulie Latham," she said pleasantly enough; but I
cannot say I liked her manner. There was something in it, though I could
not say what, that seemed like condescension, and she hardly mentioned
my children--and most people think them so pretty--though I saw her look
at them earnestly once or twice.
Willie was the same good-hearted, hospitable fellow as ever, and begged
us to come in, and go all over his house, and see his studio that he had
built on, and his bric-a-brac. And a lovely house it was, full of
beautiful things, for he knew them, if he could not paint them, and
indeed he had a great talent for amateur carpentering. We wished he
would come to our houses and do little jobs to show his good-will,
instead of giving us his pictures; but we tried to say something nice
about them, and the frames were most elegant. Of course we saw a good
deal of Mrs. Williams, but I don't think any of us took to her. She was
very quiet, as she always had been, but with a difference. She was
perfectly polite, and I can't say she gave herself airs, exactly; but
there was something very like it in her seeming to be so well satisfied
with herself and her position, and caring so little whether she pleased
us or not. Of course we all invited them, and they accepted most of our
invitations when they were asked together, though she showed no great
eagerness to do so; but she would not join one of our morning clubs, and
had no reason to give. It could not be want of time, for we used to see
her dawdling about with her children all the morning, though we knew
that she had brought over an excellent, highly trained, Protestant North
German nurse for them. When we asked her to the dancing-class, she said
she never danced, and we had better not depend on her, but Mr. Williams
enjoyed it, and would be glad to come without her. We did not relish
this indifference, though it gave us an extra man, and Minnie Mason said
that it was not a good thing for a man to get into the way of going
about without his wife.
"Why not?" said Mrs. Williams, opening her great eyes with such an air
of utter ignorance that it was impossible to explain. It was easy to see
that she need not be afraid of trusting her husband out of her sight,
for a more devoted and admiring one I never saw, whether with her or
away from her talking of "Loulou" and her charms, as if sure of
sympathy. But we had our doubts as to how much she returned his
attachment, and Minnie said it was easy to see that she only tolerated
him; and we all thought her unappreciative, to say the least. He was
very much interested in her dress, and spent a great deal of time in
choosing and buying beautiful ornaments and laces and stuffs for her,
which she insisted on having made up in her own way, languidly remarking
that it was enough for Willie to make her a fright on canvas, without
doing so in real life. Blanche Livermore said she must have some
affection for him, to sit so much to him, for he had painted about a
hundred pictures of her in different styles, each one worse than the
last. You would have thought her hideous if you had only seen them; but
Willie's artist friends, some of them very distinguished, had painted
her too, and had made her into a regular beauty. Opinions differed about
her looks; but those who liked her the least had to allow that she was
fine-looking, though some said it was greatly owing to her style of
dress. We all called it shockingly conspicuous at first, and then went
home and tried to make our things look as much like hers as we possibly
could, which was very little; for, as we afterwards found out, they came
from a modiste at Paris who worked for only one or two private
customers, and whose costumes had a kind of combination of the
fashionable and the artistic which it seemed impossible for any one here
to hit. We used to wonder how poor Mrs. Latham would feel, could she
rise from her grave, to behold her daughter's gowns, tight as a glove,
and in the evening low and long to a degree, her high-heeled French
shoes, and everything her mother had thought most sinful. Her hair had
grown a deeper, richer shade abroad, and she had matched it to
perfection, and one of Willie's pictures of her, with the real and false
all down her back together, looked like the burning bush. She was in
slight mourning for an old great-uncle who had left her a nice little
sum of money; and we thought, if she were so inimitable now, what would
she be when she put on colours?
We did better in modelling our children's clothes after hers, and I must
say she was very good-natured about lending us her patterns. She had a
boy and girl, beautiful little creatures, but they looked rather
delicate, which she did not seem to realise at all; she was very amiable
in her ways to them, but cool, just as she was to their father.
It must be confessed that we spent a great deal of time at our clubs in
discussing her, especially at the Tolstoi Club; for, as Minnie remarked,
she seemed very much in the Russian style, and it was not disagreeable,
after all, to think that we might have such a "type," as they call it,
among us.
Just as we had begun to get accustomed to Mrs. Williams's dresses, and
her beauty, and her nonchalance, and held up our heads again, she
knocked us all over with another ten-strike. It was after a little
dinner given for them at the Millikens', and a good many people had
dropped in afterward, as they were apt to do after our little dinners,
to which of course we could not ask all our set, however intimate. Mrs.
Reynolds had come out from Boston, and as she was by way of being very
musical, though she never performed, she eagerly asked Willie Williams,
when he mentioned having lived so long in Sicily, whether he had ever
seen Giudotti, the great composer, who had retired to the seclusion of
his native island in disgust with the world, which he thought was going,
musically speaking, to ruin. We listened respectfully, for most of us
did not remember hearing of the great Giudotti, but Willie replied
coolly:
"Oh, yes; we met him often; he was my wife's teacher. Loulou, I wish you
would sing that little thing of Mickiewicz, '_Panicz i Dziewczyna_,'
which Giudotti set for you."
Loulie was leaning back on a sofa across the room, lazily swaying her
big black lace fan. She had on a lovely gown of real black Spanish lace,
and a great bunch of yellow roses on her bosom, which you would not have
thought would have looked well with her red hair; but they suited her
"Venetian colouring," as her husband called it--
"Ni blanche ni cuivree, mais doree
D'un rayon de soleil."
Willie's strong point, or his weak point, as you may consider it, was in
quotations. She did not seem any too well pleased with the request, and
replied that she hardly thought people would care to hear any music; it
seemed a pity to stop the conversation--for all but herself were
chattering as fast as they could. But of course we all caught at the
idea, and the hostess was pressing, and after every mortal in the room
had entreated her, she rose, still reluctantly, and walked across the
room to the piano, saying that she hoped they really would not mind the
interruption.
It sounded fine to have something specially composed for her, but we
were accustomed to hear Fanny Deane, the most musical one among us, sing
things set for her by her teacher--indeed, rather more than we could
have wished; and I thought now to hear something of the same sort--some
weak little melody all on a few notes, in a muffled little voice, with a
word or two, such as "weinend," or "veilchen," or "fruehling," or
"stella," or "bella," distinguishable here and there, according as she
sang in German or Italian. So you may imagine how I, as well as all the
rest, was struck when, without a single note of prelude, her deep, low
voice thrilled through the whole room:
"Why so late in the wood,
Fair maid?"
I never felt so lonely and eery in my life; and then in a moment the
wildly ringing music of the distant chase came, faint but growing nearer
all the time from the piano, while her voice rose sweeter and sadder
above it, till our pleasure grew more delicious as it almost melted into
pain. The adventures of the fair | 2,200.346976 |
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FROM SKETCH-BOOK AND DIARY
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
LETTERS FROM THE HOLY LAND
CONTAINING 16 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR
FROM PAINTINGS BY THE AUTHOR
"Charmingly natural and spontaneous travel impressions with sixteen
harmonious illustrations. The glow, spaciousness and atmosphere of these
Eastern scenes are preserved in a way that eloquently attests the
possibilities of the best colour process work."--_Outlook_.
"The letters in themselves afford their own justification; the sketches
are by Lady Butler, and when we have said that we have said all.
Combined, they make a book that is at once a delight to the eye and a
pleasure to handle. The illustrations, marvellously well
reproduced, provide in a panoramic display faithful representations of
the Holy Land as it is seen to-day. They make a singularly attractive
collection, worthy of the distinguished artist who painted them."--_St.
James's Gazette_.
A. & C. BLACK, SOHO SQUARE LONDON
AGENTS
America The Macmillan Company
64 & 66 Fifth Avenue, New York
Australasia The Oxford University Press
205 Flinders Lane, Melbourne
Canada The Macmillan Company of Canada, Ltd.
27 Richmond Street West, Toronto
India Macmillan & Company, Ltd.
Macmillan Building, Bombay
309 Bow Bazaar Street, Calcutta
[Illustration: THE HOUR OF PRAYER, A SOUVENIR OF WADY HALFA]
FROM SKETCH-BOOK
AND DIARY
BY
ELIZABETH BUTLER
WITH TWENTY-EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR
AND TWENTY-ONE SMALL SKETCHES IN THE TEXT
BY THE AUTHOR
[Illustration: colophon]
LONDON
ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK, SOHO SQUARE, W.
BURNS AND OATES, 28 ORCHARD STREET, W.
1909
Dedication
TO MY SISTER, ALICE MEYNELL
I have an idea of writing to you, most sympathetic Reader, of certain
days and nights of my travels that have impressed themselves with
peculiar force upon my memory, and that have mostly rolled by since you
and I set out, at the Parting of the Ways, from the paternal roof-tree,
within three months of each other.
First, I want to take you to the Wild West Land of Ireland, to a glen in
Kerry, where, so far, the tourist does not come, and then on to remote
Clew Bay, in the County Mayo.
After that, come with me up the Nile in the time that saw the close of
the Gordon Relief Expedition, when the sailing "Dahabieh," most
fascinating of house-boats, was still the vogue for those who were not
in a hurry, and when again the tourist (of that particular year) was
away seeking safer picnic grounds elsewhere.
Then to the Cape and the voyage thither, which may not sound alluring,
but where you may find something to smile at.
I claim your indulgence, wherever I ask you to accompany me, for my
painter's literary crudities; but nowhere do I need it more than in
Italy, for you have trodden that field with me almost foot by foot. The
veil to which I trust for softening those asperities elsewhere must fall
asunder there.
I have made my Diary, and in the case of the Egyptian chapters, my
letters to our mother, the mainsprings from which to draw these
reminiscences.
Bansha CASTLE, _July_ 1909.
CONTENTS
I. IN THE WEST OF IRELAND
CHAPTER I
PAGE
GLANARAGH 3
CHAPTER II
COUNTY MAYO IN 1905 15
II. EGYPT
CHAPTER I
CAIRO 31
CHAPTER II
THE UPPER NILE 55
CHAPTER III
ALEXANDRIA 77
III. THE CAPE
CHAPTER I
TO THE CAPE 91
CHAPTER II
AT ROSEBANK, CAPE COLONY 105
IV. ITALY
CHAPTER I
VINTAGE-TIME IN TUSCANY 123
CHAPTER II
Sienna, Perugia, and Vesuvius 143
CHAPTER III
ROME 160
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
IN COLOUR
1. The Hour of Prayer, A Souvenir of Wady Halfa _Frontispiece_
IRELAND
FACING PAGE
2. Our Escort into Glenaragh 1
3. "A Chapel-of-Ease," Co. Kerry 8
4. Croagh Patrick 17
5. Clew Bay, Co. Mayo 20
6. A Little Irish River 24
EGYPT
7. In a Cairo Bazaar 33
8. The Camel Corps 40
9. The English General's Syces 49
10. Registering Fellaheen for the Conscription 56
11. "No Mooring To-night!" 59
12. The "Fostat" becalmed 62
13. At Philae 67
14. A "Lament" in the Desert 70
15. Abu Simbel at Sunrise 76
16. Madame's "At Home" Day; Servants at the Gate 81
17. Syndioor on the Lower Nile 88
THE CAPE
18. "In the Hollow of His Hand" 97
19. A Corner of our Garden at Rosebank 104
20. The Inverted Crescent 113
21. The Cape "Flats" 120
ITALY
22. Bringing in the Grapes 123
23. A Son of the Soil, Riviera di Levante 126
24. Ploughing in Tuscany 145
25. The Bersaglieri at the Fountain, Perugia 152
26. A Meeting on the Pincian: French and German
Seminarists 161
27. A Lenten Sermon in the Colosseum 164
28. The Start for the Horse Race, Rome 168
Also head and tail pieces in black and white on pp. 2, 3, 15, 27,
28, 30, 31, 54, 55, 76, 77, 88, 90, 91, 104, 105, 122, 123,
142, 143, and 160.
[Illustration: OUR ESCORT INTO GLENARAGH]
I
IN THE WEST OF IRELAND
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I
GLENARAGH
My diary must introduce you to Glenaragh, where I saw a land whose
beauty was a revelation to me; a new delight unlike anything I had seen
in my experiences of the world's loveliness. To one familiarized from
childhood with Italy's peculiar charm, a sudden vision of the Wild West
of Ireland produces a sensation of freshness and surprise difficult
adequately to describe.
"--_June_ '77.--At Killarney we left the train and set off on one of the
most enchanting carriage journeys I have ever made, passing by the
lovely Lough Leane by a road hedged in on both sides with masses of the
richest May blossom. For some distance the scenery was wooded and soft,
almost too perfect in composition of wood, lake, river, and mountain;
but by degrees we left behind us those scenes of finished beauty, and
entered upon tracts of glorious bog-land which, in the advancing
evening, impressed me beyond even my heart's desire by their breadth of
colour and solemn tones. I was beginning to taste the salt of the Wilds.
"The scenery grew more rugged still, and against ranges of distant
mountains jutted out the strong grey and brown rocks, the stone cairns
and cabins of the Wild West land.
"To be a figure-painter and full of interest in mankind does not mean
that one cannot enjoy, from the depths of one's heart, such scenes as
these, where what human habitations there are, are so like the stone
heaps that lie over the face of the land that they are scarcely
distinguishable from them. | 2,200.347108 |
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{229}
NOTES AND QUERIES:
A MEDIUM OF INTER-COMMUNICATION FOR LITERARY MEN, ARTISTS, ANTIQUARIES,
GENEALOGISTS, ETC.
"When found, make a note of."--CAPTAIN CUTTLE.
* * * * *
No. 175.]
SATURDAY, MARCH 5. 1853
[Price Fourpence. Stamped Edition 5d.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
NOTES:-- Page
Cowper and Tobacco Smoking, by William Bates, &c. 229
"Shakspeare in the Shades:" a Ballad, by Dr. E. F. Rimbault 230
Swedish Words current in England, by Charles Watkins 231
Sir David Lindsay's Viridarium, by Sir W. C. Trevelyan 231
MINOR NOTES:--Unlucky Days--The Pancake Bell--Quoits--The
Family of Townerawe--"History of Formosa"--Notes on
Newspapers 232
QUERIES:--
Wild Plants and their Names 233
Popular Sayings, by M. Aislabie Denham 233
MINOR QUERIES:--Hermit Queries--Derivation of "Cobb"--
Play-bills--Sir Edward Grymes, Bart.--Smollett's
"Strap"--The Iron Mask--Bland Family--Thomas Watson,
Bishop of St. David's, 1687-99, &c.--Crescent--"Quod
fuit esse"--"Coming home to men's business"--Thomas
Gibbes of Fenton--"The Whipping Toms" at Leicester--
The Trial of our Lord--Olney--Album--The Lisle Family--
Wards of the Crown--Tate, an Artist--Philip d'Auvergne--
Somersetshire Ballad--Lady High Sheriff--Major-General
Lambert--Hoyle, Meaning of; and Hoyle Family--Robert
Dodsley--Mary Queen of Scots--Heuristisch: Evristic 234
MINOR QUERIES WITH ANSWERS:--"Eugenia," by Hayes and
Carr--Claret--"Strike, but hear me"--Fever at Croydon--
"Gesmas et Desmas"--Satirical Medal 237
REPLIES:--
The Gookins of Ireland 238
"Stabat quocunque jeceris," by Dr. William Bell 239
"Pic-nics" 240
"Coninger" or "Coningry" 241
Names and Numbers of British Regiments, by Arthur Hamilton 241
Vicars-Apostolic in England 242
Smock Marriages: Scotch Law of Marriage 243
PHOTOGRAPHIC NOTES AND QUERIES:--Mr. Weld Taylor's
Process--Animal Charcoal in Photography--Sir W. Newton
on Use of Common Soda and Alum--Difficulties in
Photographic Practice 244
REPLIES TO MINOR QUERIES:--The Countess of Pembroke's
Letter--Ethnology of England--Drake the Artist--
Sparse--Genoveva of Brabant--God's Marks--Segantiorum
Portus--Rubrical Query--Rosa Mystica--Portrait of
Charles I.--"Time and I"--The Word "Party"--"Mater ait
natae," &c.--Gospel Place--Passage in Thomson--"Words
are given to man to conceal his thoughts"--Folger Family 245
MISCELLANEOUS:--
Notes on Books, &c. 248
Books and Odd Volumes wanted 249
Notices to Correspondents 249
Advertisements 250
* * * * *
Notes.
COWPER AND TOBACCO SMOKING.
The following genial and characteristic letter from the poet, having
escaped the research of the REV. T. S. GRIMSHAW, may be thought worthy of
transference from the scarce and ephemeral _brochure_ in which it has, as
far as I am aware, alone appeared, to your more permanent and attainable
repertory. The little work alluded to is entitled _Convivialia et
Saltatoria, or a few Thoughts upon Feasting and Dancing_, a poem in two
parts, &c., by G. Orchestikos: London, printed for the author, 1800, pp.
62. At | 2,200.746895 |
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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See 42140-h.htm or 42140-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/42140/42140-h/42140-h.htm)
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Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
http://archive.org/details/greuzeocad00mackuoft
Masterpieces in Colour
Edited by--T. Leman Hare
GREUZE
1725-1805
* * * * * *
"MASTERPIECES IN COLOUR" SERIES
ARTIST. AUTHOR.
BELLINI. GEORGE HAY.
BOTTICELLI. HENRY B. BINNS.
BOUCHER. C. HALDANE MACFALL.
BURNE-JONES. A. LYS BALDRY.
CARLO DOLCI. GEORGE HAY.
CHARDIN. PAUL G. KONODY.
CONSTABLE. C. LEWIS HIND.
COROT. SIDNEY ALLNUTT.
DA VINCI. M. W. BROCKWELL.
DELACROIX. PAUL G. KONODY.
DUERER. | 2,200.846353 |
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CHARACTER WRITINGS
OF THE
SEVENTEENTH CENTURY
EDITED BY
HENRY MORLEY, LL.D.
EMERITUS PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LANGUAGE AND LITERATURE
UNIVERSITY COLLEGE, LONDON
1891
CONTENTS.
CHARACTER WRITING BEFORE THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.
THEOPHRASTUS.
Stupidity
THOMAS HARMAN'S "Caveat for Cursitors"
A Ruffler
BEN JONSON'S "Every Man out of his Humour" and "Cynthia's Revels"
A Traveller
The True Critic.
The Character of the Persons in "Every Man out of his Humour"
CHARACTER WRITINGS OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.
Sir THOMAS OVERBURY
A Good Woman
A Very Woman
Her Next Part
A Dissembler
A Courtier
A Golden Ass
A Flatterer
An Ignorant Glory-Hunter
A Timist
An Amorist
An Affected Traveller
A Wise Man
A Noble Spirit
An Old Man
A Country Gentleman
A Fine Gentleman
An Elder Brother
A Braggadocio Welshman
A Pedant
A Serving-Man
An Host
An Ostler
The True Character of a Dunce
A Good Wife
A Melancholy Man
A Sailor
A Soldier
A Tailor
A Puritan
A Mere Common Lawyer
A Mere Scholar
A Tinker
An Apparitor
An Almanac-Maker
A Hypocrite
A Chambermaid
A Precisian
An Inns of Court Man
A Mere Fellow of a House
A Worthy Commander in the Wars
A Vainglorious Coward in Command
A Pirate
An Ordinary Fence
A Puny Clerk
A Footman
A Noble and Retired Housekeeper
An Intruder into Favour
A Fair and Happy Milkmaid
An Arrant Horse-Courser
A Roaring Boy
A Drunken Dutchman resident in England
A Phantastique: An Improvident Young Gallant
A Button-Maker of Amsterdam
A Distaster of the Time
A Mere Fellow of a House
A Mere Pettifogger
An Ingrosser of Corn
A Devilish Usurer
A Waterman
A Reverend Judge
A Virtuous Widow
An Ordinary Widow
A Quack-Salver
A Canting Rogue
A French Cook
A Sexton
A Jesuit
An Excellent Actor
A Franklin
A Rhymer
A Covetous Man
The Proud Man
A Prison
A Prisoner
A Creditor
A Sergeant
His Yeoman
A Common Cruel Jailer
What a Character is
The Character of a Happy Life
An Essay on Valour
JOSEPH HALL
HIS SATIRES--
A Domestic Chaplain
The Witless Gallant
HIS CHARACTERS OF VIRTUES AND VICES
I. _Virtues_--
Character of the Wise Man
Of an Honest Man
Of the Faithful Man
Of the Humble Man
Of a Valiant Man
Of a Patient Man
Of the True Friend
Of the Truly Noble
Of the Good Magistrate
Of the Penitent
The Happy Man
II. _Vices_--
Character of the Hypocrite
Of the Busybody
Of the Superstitious
Of the Profane
Of the Malcontent
Of the Inconstant
Of the Flatterer
Of the Slothful
Of the Covetous
Of the Vainglorious
Of the Presumptuous
Of the Distrustful
Of the Ambitious
Of the Unthrift
Of the Envious
JOHN STEPHENS
JOHN EARLE
MICROCOSMOGRAPHY----
A Child
A Young Raw Preacher
A Grave Divine
A Mere Dull Physician
An Alderman
A Discontented Man
An Antiquary
A Younger Brother
A Mere Formal Man
A Church-<DW7>
A Self-Conceited Man
A Too Idly Reserved Man
A Tavern
A Shark
A Carrier
A Young Man
An Old College Butler
An Upstart Country Knight
An Idle Gallant
A Constable
A Downright Scholar
A Plain Country Fellow
A Player
A Detractor
A Young Gentleman of the University
A Weak Man
A Tobacco-Seller
A Pot Poet
A Plausible Man
A Bowl-Alley
The World's Wise Man
A Surgeon
A Contemplative Man
A She Precise Hypocrite
A Sceptic in Religion
An Attorney
A Partial Man
A Trumpeter
A Vulgar-Spirited Man
A Plodding Student
Paul's Walk
A Cook
A Bold Forward Man
A Baker
A Pretender to Learning
A Herald
The Common Singing-Men in Cathedral Churches
A Shopkeeper
A Blunt Man
A Handsome Hostess
A Critic
A Sergeant or Catchpole
A University Dun
A Staid Man
A Modest Man
A Mere Empty Wit
A Drunkard
A Prison
A Serving-Man
An Insolent Man
Acquaintance
A Mere Complimental Man
A Poor Fiddler
A Meddling Man
A Good Old Man
A Flatterer
A High-Spirited Man
A Mere Gull Citizen
A Lascivious Man
A Rash Man
An Affected Man
A Profane Man
A Coward
A Sordid Rich Man
A Mere Great Man
A Poor Man
An Ordinary Honest Man
A Suspicious or Jealous Man
NICHOLAS BRETON
CHARACTERS UPON ESSAYS, MORAL AND DIVINE
Wisdom
Learning
Knowledge
Practice
Patience
Love
Peace
War
Valour
Resolution
Honour
Truth
Time
Death
Faith
Fear
THE GOOD AND THE BAD.
A Worthy King
An Unworthy King
A Worthy Queen
A Worthy Prince
An Unworthy Prince
A Worthy Privy Councillor
An Unworthy Councillor
A Nobleman
An Unnoble Man
A Worthy Bishop
An Unworthy Bishop
A Worthy Judge
An Unworthy Judge
A Worthy Knight
An Unworthy Knight
A Worthy Gentleman
An Unworthy Gentleman
A Worthy Lawyer
An Unworthy Lawyer
A Worthy Soldier
An Untrained Soldier
A Worthy Physician
An Unworthy Physician
A Worthy Merchant
An Unworthy Merchant
A Good Man
An Atheist or Most Bad Man
A Wise Man
A Fool
An Honest Man.
A Knave
An Usurer
A Beggar
A Virgin
A Wanton Woman
A Quiet Woman
An Unquiet Woman
A Good Wife
An Effeminate Fool
A Parasite
A Drunkard
A Coward
An Honest Poor Man
A Just Man
A Repentant Sinner
A Reprobate
An Old Man
A Young Man
A Holy Man
GEOFFREY MINSHULL
ESSAYS AND CHARACTERS OF A PRISON AND PRISONERS
A Character of a Prisoner
HENRY PARROTT [?]
A Scold
A Good Wife
MICROLOGIA, by R. M.
A Player
WHIMZIES, OR A NEW CAST OF CHARACTERS
A Corranto-Coiner
JOHN MILTON
On the University Carrier
WYE SALTONSTALL
PICTURAE LOQUENTES, OR PICTURES DRAWN FORTH IN CHARACTERS
The Term
DONALD LUPTON
LONDON AND COUNTRY CARBONADOED AND QUARTERED INTO SEVERAL CHARACTERS
The Horse
CHARACTERS PUBLISHED BETWEEN 1642 AND 1646, BY SIR FRANCIS WORTLEY, T.
FORD, AND OTHERS
T. Ford's Character of Pamphlets
JOHN CLEVELAND
The Character of a Country Committee-Man, with the Earmark of a
Sequestrator
The Character of a Diurnal-Maker
The Character of a London Diurnal
CHARACTERS PUBLISHED BETWEEN 1647 AND 1665
RICHARD FLECKNOE
FIFTY-FIVE ENIGMATICAL CHARACTERS
The Valiant Man
CHARACTERS PUBLISHED BETWEEN 1673 AND 1689
SAMUEL BUTLER
CHARACTERS--
Degenerate Noble, or One that is Proud of his Birth
A Huffing Courtier
A Court Beggar
A Bumpkin or Country
Squire
An Antiquary
A Proud Man
A Small Poet
A Philosopher
A Melancholy Man
A Curious Man
A Herald
A Virtuoso
An Intelligencer
A Quibbler
A Time-Server
A Prater
A Disputant
A Projector
A Complimenter
A Cheat
A Tedious Man
A Pretender
A Newsmonger
A Modern Critic
A Busy Man
A Pedant
A Hunter
An Aff | 2,200.947873 |
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THEOSOPHY AND LIFE'S
DEEPER PROBLEMS
_Copyright Registered_
All Rights Reserved
_Permission for translations will be given_
BY
THE THEOSOPHICAL PUBLISHING HOUSE
Adyar, Madras, India
THEOSOPHY AND LIFE'S
DEEPER PROBLEMS
_Being the four Convention Lectures delivered in Bombay
at the Fortieth Anniversary of the Theosophical
Society, December, 1915._
BY
ANNIE BESANT
_President of the Theosophical Society_
THEOSOPHICAL PUBLISHING HOUSE
ADYAR, | 2,201.245572 |
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"SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER"
by Oliver Goldsmith
She Stoops To Conquer; Or, The Mistakes Of A Night.
A Comedy.
To Samuel Johnson, LL.D.
Dear Sir,--By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean
so much to compliment you as myself. It may do me some honour to
inform the public, that I have lived many years in intimacy with you.
It may serve the interests of mankind also to inform them, that the
greatest wit may be found in a character, without impairing the most
unaffected piety.
I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to this
performance. The undertaking a comedy not merely sentimental was very
dangerous; and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various stages,
always thought it so. However, I ventured to trust it to the public;
and, though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have
every reason to be grateful.
I am, dear Sir, your most sincere friend and admirer,
OLIVER GOLDSMITH.
PROLOGUE,
By David Garrick, Esq.
Enter MR. WOODWARD, dressed in black, and holding a handkerchief
to his eyes.
Excuse me, sirs, I pray--I can't yet speak--
I'm crying now--and have been all the week.
"'Tis not alone this mourning suit," good masters:
"I've that within"--for which there are no plasters!
Pray, would you know the reason why I'm crying?
The Comic Muse, long sick | 2,201.246927 |
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THE SURVEY
Volume XXX, Number 1, Apr 5, 1913
THE COMMON WELFARE
RESPONSE TO FLOOD CALLS
For the first time in the history of our great disasters, the country's
machinery for relief has been found ready to move with that precision
and efficiency which only careful previous organization could make
possible. In the flood and tornado stricken regions of the Mississippi
valley the Red Cross has given splendid evidence of the effectiveness of
its scheme of organization and of its methods as worked out on the basis
of experience at San Francisco, and as tested by the Minnesota and
Michigan forest fires, the Cherry mine disaster, and the Mississippi
Floods of last year.
Utilizing the largest and ablest charity organization societies which
serve as "institutional members," a force of executives and trained
workers was instantly deployed. With foreknowledge of just what to do
and how to do it, and without friction, these men and women have
reinforced the spontaneous response to emergency of citizens and
officials in the stricken communities.
Omaha's tornado had scarcely died down when Eugene T. Lies of the
Chicago United Charities was on his way to the city. Ernest P. Bicknell,
director of the National Red Cross, had reached Chicago, en route to
Omaha, when news of the Ohio floods turned him back. The same news
summoned Edward T. Devine from New York. It was Mr. Devine who organized
the Red Cross relief work at San Francisco, following the earthquake and
fire of 1908. Mr. Bicknell established headquarters at Columbus, itself
badly in the grip of the waters. At Dayton Mr. Devine, C. M. Hubbard of
the St. Louis Provident Association and T. J. Edmonds of the Cincinnati
Associated Charities concentrated their services.
When Cincinnati and its vicinity needed help, Mr. Edmonds returned to
his home city. The Omaha situation by this time could spare Mr. Lies for
Dayton. To Piqua, Sidney and other Ohio and Indiana flood points went
James F. Jackson of the Cleveland Associated Charities and other workers
from various organizations. The news from the Ohio and other floods
almost swamped that of an isolated disaster in Alabama where a tornado
devastated the town of Lower Peachtree. To handle the relief at this
point the Red Cross dispatched William M. McGrath of the Birmingham
Associated Charities, who had seen service a year ago in the Mississippi
flood | 2,201.348062 |
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TOM CRINGLE'S LOG
By Michael Scott
(1789--1835)
CHAPTER I.--The Launching of the Log.
Dazzled by the glories of Trafalgar, I, Thomas Cringle, one fine morning
in the merry month of May, in the year one thousand eight hundred and so
and so, magnanimously determined in my own mind, that the United Kingdom
of Great Britain and Ireland should no longer languish under the want of a
successor to the immortal Nelson, and being then of the great
perpendicular altitude of four feet four inches, and of the mature age of
thirteen years, I thereupon betook myself to the praiseworthy task of
tormenting, to the full extent of my small ability, every man and woman
who had the misfortune of being in any way connected with me, until they
had agreed to exert all their interest, direct or indirect, and
concentrate the same in one focus upon the head and heart of Sir Barnaby
Blueblazes, vice-admiral of the red squadrons a Lord of the Admiralty,
and one of the old plain K.B.'s (for he flourished before the time when a
gallant action or two tagged half of the letters of the alphabet to a
man's name, like the tail of a paper kite), in order that he might be
graciously pleased to have me placed on the quarterdeck of one of his
Majesty's ships of war without delay.
The stone I had set thus recklessly a-rolling, had not been in motion
above a fortnight, when it fell with unanticipated violence, and crushed
the heart of my poor mother, while it terribly bruised that of me, Thomas;
for as I sat at breakfast with the dear old woman, one fine Sunday morning,
admiring my new blue jacket and snow white trowsers, and shining well
soaped face, and nicely brushed hair, in the pier glass over the chimney
piece, I therein saw the door behind me open, and Nicodemus, the waiting
man, enter and deliver a letter to the old lady, with a formidable looking
seal.
I perceived that she first ogled the superscription, and then the seal,
very ominously, and twice made as if she would have broken the missive
open, but her heart seemed as often to fail her. At length she laid it
down-heaved a long deep sigh--took off her spectacles, which appeared
dim-wiped them, put them on again, and making a sudden effort, tore open
the letter, read it hastily over, but not so rapidly as to prevent her hot
tears falling with a small tiny tap tap on the crackling paper.
Presently she pinched my arm, pushed the blistered manuscript under my
nose, and utterly unable to speak to me, rose, covered her face with her
hands, and left the room weeping bitterly. I could hear her praying in a
low, solemn, yet sobbing and almost inarticulate voice, as she crossed the
passage to her own dressing-room.--"Even as thou wilt, oh Lord--not mine,
but thy holy will be done--yet, oh! it is a bitter bitter thing for a
widowed mother to part with her only boy."
Now came my turn--as I read the following epistle three times over, with
a most fierce countenance, before thoroughly understanding whether I was
dreaming or awake--in truth, poor little fellow as I was, I was fairly
stunned.
"Admiralty, such a date.
"DEAR MADAM,
It gives me very great pleasure to say that your son is appointed to the
Breeze frigate, now fitting at Portsmouth for foreign service. Captain
Wigemwell is a most excellent officer, and a good man, and the
schoolmaster on board is an exceedingly decent person I am informed; so I
congratulate you on his good fortune in beginning his career, in which I
wish him all success, under such favourable auspices. As the boy is, I
presume, all ready, you had better send him down on Thursday next, at
latest, as the frigate will go to sea, wind and weather permitting,
positively on Sunday morning."
"I remain, my dear Madam,"
"Yours very faithfully,"
"BARNABY BLUEBLAZES, K.B."
However much I had been moved by my mother's grief, my false pride came to
my assistance, and my first impulse was to chant a verse of some old tune,
in a most doleful manner. "All right--all right," I then exclaimed, as I
thrust half a doubled up muffin into my gob, but it was all chew, chew,
and no swallow--not a morsel could I force down my parched throat, which
tightened like to throttle me.
Old Nicodemus had by this time again entered the room, unseen and unheard,
and startled me confoundedly, as he screwed | 2,201.446628 |
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and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
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THE KNICKERBOCKER.
VOL. X. SEPTEMBER, 1837. NO. 3.
SCANDINAVIAN LITERATURE AND ANTIQUITIES.
NUMBER ONE.
THE predominant taste for the study of ancient literature, and the
investigation of antiquity, has been the means of bringing to light
a vast quantity of matter, which, if written in modern times, would
hardly be regarded of sufficient value to preserve beyond the age in
which it was written. Elegance of style and composition is not the
distinguishing trait in _all_ the Grecian and Roman authors which
have come down to us; nor are the subjects of sufficient importance
to merit a preservation of twenty centuries; although it may be safe
to say, that these qualities in general constitute the beauty and
value of these writings; for we know that the ancients appreciated
the works of their great men, as well as we; and to this we must
owe their preservation. The philosophy of Plato and Socrates--the
histories of Herodotus and Livy--the poetry of Homer and Virgil--the
metaphysics of Aristotle--the geometry of Euclid, and the eloquence
of Cicero and Demosthenes, are not regarded now with more esteem
than they were in the period in which they were produced, although
the great mass of the people were far behind us in knowledge. Poetry
and eloquence are as attractive to the senses of a savage, as to him
who is civilized; and to this circumstance must be attributed the
preservation and transmission of many poems, of people who have left
no other memento of their existence.
The wisdom of the ancient writers above named, was in advance
of the age in which they lived, yet they were appreciated; and
although kingdoms have risen and fallen, nations have been scattered
and annihilated, and language itself become corrupted or lost,
these memorials of learning and genius have been preserved, amid
the general devastation, and still appear in all their original
beauty and grandeur, more imperishable than the sculptured column
or trophied urn; models for nations yet unborn, and drawing forth
the admiration of the most accomplished scholars and profound
philosophers.
In addition to these, we possess many valuable histories, learned
dissertations, poetical effusions, specimens of the early drama,
etc., which, although they may rank lower in their style of
composition, are valuable from the light they throw upon the manners
and customs of the age in which they were penned, and make us better
acquainted with the private life, the tastes and occupations, of the
ancients.
Thus much may be said of the Greek and Roman people. Their origin,
their history, and their literature, are known in all civilized parts
of the world; and from the downfall of their respective kingdoms to
the present time, we are tolerably well acquainted with the leading
events of the history of their descendants, in the modern nations
of the south of Europe. Not so with the Teutonic people, who occupy
the middle and northern parts of that continent. The glory of their
ancestors has never been immortalized; no poet or historian arose
to transmit to posterity an account of their origin, or the fame
of their deeds, as letters were first known to the Goths in A. D.,
360. It is not the intention, in the present essay, to illustrate
the literature of the Germanic nations, but to take up that portion
embraced in the general term of _Scandinavian_, which embraces the
literature of Norway, Sweden, Denmark, and Iceland. It is also known
by the term _Old-Northern_ or _Norse_, and as _Icelandic literature_.
It is embodied in the Eddas and Historical Sagas as they are called,
in the countries of the north. The former consists of collections of
Icelandic poems, written upon parchment, or skins, in the language of
that country; and the latter, which include the most important part,
are relations of historical events which have occurred in Iceland and
other countries of the north, including Great Britain and Ireland.
They also extend to the affairs of Greenland, which we know was
colonized by the Scandinavians at an early period, and to accounts of
voyages made by them to an unknown land, called Vinland--supposed to
be America--and to various parts of Europe.
Such are the sources of Scandinavian literature. But before we
attempt to examine these treasures, which form the subject of our
remarks, it may be well to ask the question, which naturally arises
here: Who were this ancient people, who, from the earliest period,
have occupied the north of Europe? Whence came they? And to what
nation of more remote antiquity is their origin to be traced?
To answer these questions satisfactorily, would be a task as easily
accomplished, as that of stating with accuracy the origin of the
Egyptians. Several learned writers, of ancient as well as modern
times, have investigated the subject, without arriving at conclusions
which would agree in the most important points; and strange as it
may appear, it is not the less true, that we are better able, after
a lapse of ten or fifteen centuries, to determine the origin of
the people by whom Europe was populated, about the period of the
commencement of the Christian era, than writers were who flourished
ten centuries ago. At that period, the most noble of inventions had
not been brought to light, to treasure up passing events, and what
had been preserved by tradition. Letters were not cultivated in
Europe, and the intercourse between nations of kindred origin was not
sufficiently close, to have promoted such an inquiry.
The cultivation and advancement of the science of philology, or
system of universal grammar, has furnished us with a more unerring
guide by which to trace the origin of the nations of antiquity,
where sufficient of their languages remain, than history itself; for
the latter, being in a great degree traditionary, cannot be relied
upon, when treating of the origin of nations. The primitive history
of the Scandinavians, Romans, Greeks, Egyptians, and Hindoos, are
so interwoven with their mythology, that it is extremely difficult
to separate truth from fiction. In analyzing the various European
languages, on the principles adopted by philologists, we are enabled
to trace the affinities existing between them; and by a similarity
of grammatical structure, correspondence of words and phrases, and
analogies in the conjugations of verbs and declensions of nouns, to
classify the various languages, and ascertain from what family or
stock they are derived. All the living languages of Europe, with
the exception of the Biscayan, or Basque, and the Gaelic, have been
traced to Asia, and to languages which were spoken by the most
ancient people of which we have any record. It is now conceded,
that the Celts were one, if not the principal, of the primitive
nations of Europe, distinguished by different names in different
countries. The earliest historians of Europe agree, that they were,
in a remote period, settled in various parts of that continent--in
the mountainous regions of the Alps, and throughout Gaul, whence
they migrated to Great Britain and Ireland, and to the central and
western regions of Spain. At a later period, they inundated Italy,
Thrace, and Asia Minor. 'The Hibernians,' says Malte Brun, 'are an
old branch of the same people; and, according to some authors, the
Highlanders of Scotland are a colony of the native Irish. The _Erse_,
or Gaelic, is the only authentic monument of the Celtic language; but
it may be readily admitted, that a nation so widely extended must
have been incorporated with many states whose dialects are at present
extinct.'[1]
Another primitive nation was the ancestors of the Basques, a people
now dwindled to a few thousands, and confined to the western base of
the Pyrenees. They were closely allied to the Iberians, who occupied
eastern and southern Spain, and a part of Gaul. In the remnant of
this people is preserved one of the most remarkable languages that
philologists have ever yet investigated, exhibiting undoubted marks
of originality. 'It is preserved in a corner of Europe, the sole
remaining fragment of perhaps a hundred dialects, constructed on the
same plan, which probably existed, and were universally spoken, at a
remote period, in that quarter of the | 2,201.546215 |
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Transcriber's note: This story was first serialized in the _Boys of New
York_ story paper and was later reprinted as Vol. I, No. 70 in _The New
York Detective Library_ published November 16, 1883 by Frank Tousey.
This e-text is derived from the reprinted edition.
SHADOW,
THE MYSTERIOUS DETECTIVE.
By POLICE CAPTAIN HOWARD,
Author of "Old Mystery," "Young Sleuth," "The Silver Dagger,"
"A Piece of Paper," "The Broken Button," etc., etc.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTORY.
CHAPTER I. A MURDER.
CHAPTER II. MAT MORRIS.
CHAPTER III. SHADOW--WHO WAS HE?
CHAPTER IV. OUT OF THE LION'S JAWS.
CHAPTER V. HELEN DILT.
CHAPTER VI. THE REMEMBERED BILLS.
CHAPTER VII. A HAPPY MOMENT.
CHAPTER VIII. A NARROW ESCAPE.
CHAPTER IX. IN THE BLACK HOLE.
CHAPTER X. FAVORING FORTUNE.
CHAPTER XI. IN THE MAD-HOUSE.
CHAPTER XII. SHADOW.
CHAPTER XIII. IN A BAD BOX.
CHAPTER XIV. DICK STANTON.
CHAPTER XV. A FIEND IN HUMAN SHAPE.
CHAPTER XVI. DISAPPOINTED AGAIN.
CHAPTER XVII. HELEN'S TORTURE.
CHAPTER XVIII. PUZZLED.
CHAPTER XIX. IN DEADLY PERIL.
CHAPTER XX. STILL SEARCHING.
CHAPTER XXI. FUN!
CHAPTER XXII. OUT OF JEOPARDY.
CHAPTER XXIII. WEAVING THE NET.
CHAPTER XXIV. "HELP IS HERE!"
CHAPTER XXV. MAN OR WOMAN?
CHAPTER XXVI. CORNERED CRIMINALS.
CHAPTER XXVII. THE MYSTERY EXPLAINED.
INTRODUCTORY.
Again I have been called on to entertain my wide circle of young
friends, by relating another story of detective life. Before plunging
into my story, I have thought it best to address a few words to you
personally, and about myself.
It is held as a rule that an author should never introduce himself
into the story he is writing, and yet I find, on looking back, that in
nearly all of my recent stories I have described myself as playing a
more or less conspicuous part.
And yet I could not avoid doing so, as I can plainly see, without
having detracted somewhat of interest from the stories.
As I sit here now, prepared to commence, the question arises: "Shall I
keep myself in the background, out of sight, or shall I bring myself
in, just as I actually took part in the strange story of
"'SHADOW, THE MYSTERIOUS DETECTIVE?'"
Well, I don't know, but I think it may be just as well to introduce
myself when necessary, since when I write thus I feel that my pen is
talking to you instead of at you. And, besides, I think that to you the
story is more realistic.
Am I right?
Don't each of you feel now as if I had written you a personal letter?
And are you not satisfied that there is only one Police Captain Howard,
and he that one who now speaks to you?
I am sure of it.
And now for the story.
CHAPTER I.
A MURDER.
It was a dark and stormy night. The rain fell heavily and steadily, and
what wind there was roamed through the streets with a peculiar, moaning
sound.
It was after the midnight hour.
Not a light was to be seen in any of the houses, nor was there any
sound to be heard save that produced by the falling rain, and that
soughing of the wind--not unlike the sighs and moans of some uneasy
spirit unable to rest in the grave.
It was as disagreeable a night as I ever saw. And I could not help
shuddering as I hurried homeward through the storm, with bent head, for
I felt somewhat as if I were passing through a city of the dead.
This heavy silence--except for the noises mentioned--was very
oppressive; and, while I gave a start, I was also conscious of a sense
of relief, when I heard a human voice shouting:
"Help--help!"
I paused short.
My head having been bent, the cry coming so unexpectedly, I could not
locate its direction.
Presently it came again.
"Help, for Heaven's sake, help!"
Off I dashed to the rescue.
Crack!
Then came a wild wail.
Crack!
Then I heard a thud, as of a human being falling heavily to the
sidewalk. And as the person uttered no further cries, one of two things
must be the case--he was either insensible or dead.
I increased my pace, and presently turning a corner, saw a burly fellow
just dragging a body beneath a gas-lamp, the better to enable him to
secure the plunder on his | 2,201.645551 |
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by The Internet Archive)
RUBAIYAT OF DOC SIFERS
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
Other Books by
James Whitcomb Riley
POEMS HERE AT HOME.
NEGHBORLY POEMS.
SKETCHES IN PROSE AND OCCASIONAL VERSES.
AFTERWHILES.
PIPES O' PAN (Prose and Verse).
RHYMES OF CHILDHOOD.
FLYING ISLANDS OF THE NIGHT.
OLD-FASHIONED ROSES (English Edition).
GREEN FIELDS AND RUNNING BROOKS.
ARMAZINDY.
A CHILD-WORLD.
AN OLD SWEETHEART OF MINE.
[Illustration]
---------------------------
RUBAIYAT OF DOC SIFERS
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
---------------------------
ILLUSTRATED
BY
C. M. RELYEA
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED BY THE CENTURY CO.
NEW YORK M DCCC XC VII
Copyright, 1897,
BY THE CENTURY CO.
Copyright, 1897,
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
THE DE VINNE PRESS.
TO
DR. FRANKLIN W. HAYS
THE LOYAL CHUM OF MY LATEST YOUTH
AND LIKE FRIEND AND COMRADE STILL
WITH ALL GRATEFUL AFFECTION OF
THE AUTHOR.
_We found him in that Far-away_
_that yet to us seems near--_
_We vagrants of but yesterday_
_when idlest youth was here,--_
_When lightest song and laziest mirth_
_possessed us through and through,_
_And all the dreamy summer-earth_
_seemed drugged with morning dew:_
_When our ambition scarce had shot_
_a stalk or blade indeed:_
_Yours,--choked as in the garden-spot_
_you still deferred to "weed":_
_Mine,--but a pipe half-cleared of pith--_
_as now it flats and whines_
_In sympathetic cadence with_
_a hiccough in the lines._
_Aye, even then--O timely hour!--_
_the High Gods did confer_
_In our behalf:--And, clothed in power,_
_lo, came their Courier--_
_Not winged with flame nor shod with wind,--_
_but ambling down the pike_,
_Horseback, with saddlebags behind,_
_and guise all human-like._
_And it was given us to see,_
_beneath his rustic rind,_
_A native force and mastery_
_of such inspiring kind,_
_That half unconsciously we made_
_obeisance.--Smiling, thus_
_His soul shone from his eyes and laid_
_its glory over us._
* * * * *
_Though, faring still that Far-away_
_that yet to us seems near,_
_His form, through mists of yesterday,_
_fades from the vision here,_
_Forever as he rides, it is_
_in retinue divine,--_
_The hearts of all his time are his,_
_with your hale heart and mine._
[Illustration]
RUBAIYAT OF DOC SIFERS
BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY
[Illustration]
RUBAIYAT
OF
DOC SIFERS
I
Ef you don't know DOC SIFERS I'll
jes argy, here and now,
You've bin a mighty little while
about here, anyhow!
'Cause Doc he's rid these roads and woods--
er _swum_ 'em, now and then--
And practised in this neighberhood
sence hain't no tellin' when!
II
In radius o' fifteen mile'd,
all p'ints o' compass round,
No man er woman, chick er child,
er team, on top o' ground,
But knows _him_--yes, and got respects
and likin' fer him, too,
Fer all his so-to-speak dee-fects
o' genius showin' through!
III
Some claims he's absent-minded; some
has said they wuz afeard
To take his powders when he come
and dosed 'em out, and 'peared
To have his mind on somepin' else--
like County Ditch, er some
New way o' tannin' mussrat-pelts,
er makin' butter come.
[Illustration]
IV
He's cur'ous--they hain't no mistake
about it!--but he's got
Enough o' extry brains to make
a _jury_--like as not.
They's no _describin'_ Sifers,--fer,
when all is said and done,
He's jes _hisse'f Doc Sifers_--ner
they hain't no other one!
V
Doc's allus sociable, polite,
and 'greeable, you'll find--
Pervidin' ef you strike him right
and nothin' on his mind,--
Like in some _hurry_, when they've sent
fer Sifers _quick_, you see,
To 'tend some sawmill-accident,
er picnic jamboree;
VI
Er when the lightnin''s struck some hare-
brained harvest-hand; er in
Some 'tempt o' suicidin'--where
they'd ort to try ag'in!
I've _knowed_ Doc haul up from a trot
and talk a' hour er two
When railly he'd a-ort o' not
a-stopped fer "_Howdy-do!_"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
VII
And then, I've met him 'long the road,
_a-lopin'_,--starin' straight
Ahead,--and yit he never knowed
me when I hollered "_Yate,
Old Saddlebags!_" all hearty-like,
er "_Who you goin' to kill?_"
And he'd say nothin'--only hike
on faster, starin' still!
VIII
I'd bin insulted, many a time,
ef I jes wuzn't shore
Doc didn't mean a thing. And I'm
not tetchy any more
Sence that-air day, ef he'd a-jes
a-stopped to jaw with _me_,
They'd bin a little dorter less
in my own fambily!
IX
Times _now_, at home, when Sifers' name
comes up, I jes _let on_,
You know, 'at I think Doc's to _blame_,
the way he's bin and gone
And disapp'inted folks--'Ll-_jee_-mun-_nee_!
you'd ort to then
Jes hear my wife light into me--
"_ongratefulest o' men!_"
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
X
'Mongst _all_ the women--mild er rough,
splendifferous er plain,
Er them _with_ sense, er not enough
to come in out the rain,--
Jes ever' shape and build and style
o' women, fat er slim--
They all like Doc, and got a smile
and pleasant word fer _him_!
XI
Ner hain't no horse I've ever saw
but what'll neigh and try
To sidle up to him, and paw,
and sense him, ear-and-eye:
Then jes a tetch o' Doc's old pa'm,
to pat 'em, er to shove
Along their nose--and they're as ca'm
as any cooin' dove!
XII
And same with _dogs_,--take any breed,
er strain, er pedigree,
Er racial caste 'at can't concede
no use fer you er me,--
They'll putt all predju-dice aside
in _Doc's_ case and go in
Kahoots with him, as satisfied
as he wuz kith-and-kin!
XIII
And Doc's a wonder, trainin' pets!--
He's got a chicken-hawk,
In kind o' half-cage, where he sets
out in the gyarden-walk,
And got that wild bird trained so tame,
he'll loose him, and he'll fly
Clean to the woods!--Doc calls his name--
and he'll come, by-and-by!
[Illustration]
XIV
Some says no money down ud buy
that bird o' Doc.--Ner no
Inducement to the _bird_, says I,
'at _he'd_ let _Sifers_ go!
And Doc _he_ say 'at _he's_ content--
long as a bird o' prey
Kin 'bide _him_, it's a _compliment_,
and takes it thataway.
XV
But, gittin' back to _docterin'_--all
the sick and in distress,
And old and pore, and weak and small,
and lone and motherless,--
I jes tell _you_ I 'preciate
the man 'at's got the love
To "go ye forth and ministrate!"
as Scriptur' tells us of.
XVI
_Dull_ times, Doc jes _mi_anders round,
in that old rig o' his:
And hain't no tellin' where he's bound
ner guessin' where he is;
He'll drive, they tell, jes thataway
fer maybe six er eight
Days at a stretch; and neighbers say
he's bin clean round the State.
XVII
He picked a' old tramp up, one trip,
'bout eighty mile'd from here,
And fetched him home and k-yored his
hip, and kep' him 'bout a year;
And feller said--in all _his_ ja'nts
round this terreschul ball
'At no man wuz a _circumstance_
to _Doc_!--he topped 'em all!--
[Illustration]
XVIII
Said, bark o' trees's a' open book
to Doc, and vines and moss
He read like writin'--with a look
knowed ever' dot and cross:
Said, stars at night wuz jes as good
's a compass: said, he s'pose
You couldn't lose Doc in the woods
the darkest night that blows!
XIX
Said, Doc'll tell you, purty clos't,
by underbresh and plants,
How fur off _warter_ is,--and'most
perdict the sort o' chance
You'll have o' findin' _fish_; and how
they're liable to _bite_,
And whether they're a-bitin' now,
er only after night.
XX
And, whilse we're talkin' _fish_,--I mind
they formed a fishin'-crowd
(When folks _could_ fish 'thout gittin' _fined_,
and seinin' wuz allowed!)
O' leadin' citizens, you know,
to go and seine "Old Blue"--
But hadn't no big seine, and so--
w'y, what wuz they to do?...
XXI
And Doc he say he thought 'at _he_
could _knit_ a stitch er two--
"Bring the _materials_ to me--
'at's all I'm astin' you!"
And down he sets--six weeks, i jing!
and knits that seine plum done--
Made corks too, brails and ever'thing--
good as a boughten one!
[Illustration]
XXII
Doc's _public_ sperit--when the sick
's not takin' _all_ his time
And he's got _some_ fer politics--
is simple yit sublime:--
He'll _talk_ his _principles_--and they
air _honest_;--but the sly
Friend strikes him first, election-day,
he'd 'commodate, er die!
XXIII
And yit, though Doc, as all men knows,
is square straight up and down,
That vote o' his is--well, I s'pose--
the cheapest one in town;--
A fact 'at's sad to verify,
as could be done on oath--
I've voted Doc myse'f--_And I
was criminal fer both!_
XXIV
You kin corrupt the _ballot-box_--corrupt
_yourse'f_, as well--
Corrupt _some_ neighbers,--but
old Doc's as oncorruptible
As Holy Writ. So putt a pin
right there!--Let _Sifers_ be,
I jucks! he wouldn't vote agin
his own worst inimy!
XXV
When Cynthy Eubanks laid so low
with fever, and Doc Glenn
Told Euby Cynth 'ud haf to go--
they sends fer _Sifers_ then!...
Doc sized the case: "She | 2,201.853722 |
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Patty At Home
BY CAROLYN WELLS
AUTHOR OF TWO LITTLE WOMEN SERIES, THE MARJORIE SERIES, ETC.
1904
_To My very good friend, Ruth Pilling_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE DEBATE
II. THE DECISION
III. THE TEA CLUB
IV. BOXLEY HALL
V. SHOPPING
VI. SERVANTS
VII. DIFFERING TASTES
VIII. AN UNATTAINED AMBITION
IX. A CALLER
X. A PLEASANT EVENING
XI. PREPARATIONS
XII. A TEA CLUB TEA
XIII. A NEW FRIEND
XIV. THE NEIGHBOUR AGAIN
XV. BILLS
XVI. A SUCCESSFUL PLAY
XVII. ENTERTAINING RELATIVES
XVIII. A SAILING PARTY
XIX. MORE COUSINS
XX. A FAIR EXCHANGE
XXI. A GOOD SUGGESTION
XXII. AT THE SEASHORE
XXIII. AMBITIONS
XXIV. AN AFTERNOON DRIVE
CHAPTER I
THE DEBATE
In Mrs. Elliott's library at Vernondale a great discussion was going on.
It was an evening in early December, and the room was bright with
firelight and electric light, and merry with the laughter and talk of
people who were trying to decide a great and momentous question.
For the benefit | 2,201.945581 |
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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. 713. SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1877. PRICE 1½_d._]
A STRANGE FAMILY HISTORY.
For the following curious episode of family history we are indebted to
a descendant of one of the chief personages involved; his story runs as
follows.
Somewhat less than one hundred years ago, a large schooner, laden with
oranges from Spain, and bound for Liverpool, was driven by stress of
weather into the Solway Firth, and after beating about for some time,
ran at last into the small port of Workington, on the Cumberland
coast. For several previous days some of the crew had felt themselves
strangely 'out of sorts,' as they termed it; were depressed and
languid, and greatly inclined to sleep; but the excitement of the
storm and the instinct of self-preservation had kept them to their
duties on deck. No sooner, however, had the vessel been safely moored
in the harbour than a reaction set in; the disease which had lurked
within them proclaimed its power, and three of them betook themselves
to their hammocks more dead than alive. The working-power of the ship
being thus reduced and the storm continuing, the master determined to
discharge and sell his cargo on the spot. This was done. But his men
did not recover; he too was seized with the same disease; and before
many days were past most of them were in the grave. Ere long several of
the inhabitants of the village were similarly affected, and some died;
by-and-by others were smitten down; and in less than three weeks after
the arrival of the schooner it became evident that a fatal fever or
plague had broken out amongst the inhabitants of the village.
The authorities of the township took alarm; and under the guidance of
Squire Curwen of Workington Hall, all likely measures were taken to
arrest or mitigate the fatal malady. Among other arrangements, a band
of men was formed whose duties were to wait upon the sick, to visit
such houses as were reported or supposed to contain victims of the
malady, and to carry the dead to their last home.
Among the first who fell under this visitation was a man named John
Pearson, who, with his wife and a daughter, lived in a cottage in
the outskirts of the village. He was employed as | 2,202.007585 |
2023-11-16 18:53:46.6598680 | 583 | 33 | FLORIDA COAST ***
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
[Illustration: "Hallo!" cried Harold, his own voice husky with emotion.
.. Frontispiece]
THE
YOUNG MAROONERS ON
THE FLORIDA COAST
BY
F. R. GOULDING
WITH INTRODUCTION BY
JOEL CHANDLER HARRIS
(Uncle Remus)
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
1927
COPYRIGHT, 1862
BY F. R. GOULDING
COPYRIGHT, 1881
BY F. R. GOULDING
COPYRIGHT, 1887
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY
PRINTED IN U. S. A.
INTRODUCTION
I have been asked to furnish an introduction for a new edition of "The
Young Marooners." As an introduction is unnecessary, the writing of it
must be to some extent perfunctory. The book is known in many lands and
languages. It has survived its own success, and has entered into
literature. It has become a classic. The young marooners themselves
have reached middle age, and some of them have passed away, but their
adventures are as fresh and as entertaining as ever.
Dr. Goulding's work possesses all the elements of enduring popularity.
It has the strength and vigour of simplicity; its narrative flows
continuously forward; its incidents are strange and thrilling, and
underneath all is a moral purpose sanely put.
The author himself was surprised at the great popularity of his story,
and has written a history of its origin as a preface. The internal
evidence is that the book is not the result of literary ambition, but of
a strong desire to instruct and amuse his own children, and the story is
so deftly written that the instruction is a definite part of the
narrative. The art here may be unconscious, but it is a very fine art
nevertheless.
Dr. Goulding lived a busy life. He had the restless missionary spirit
which he inherited from the Puritans of Dorchester, England, who
established themselves in Dorchester, South Carolina, and in Dorchester,
Georgia, before the Revolutionary War. Devoting his life to good works,
he nevertheless found time to indulge his literary faculty; he also
found time to indulge his taste for mechanical invention. He invented
the first sewing-machine that was ever put in practical use in the
South. His family were using this machine a year before the Howe patents
| 2,202.679908 |
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Produced by Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation, diacritics, and spelling in the original
document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been
corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
On page 18, "sanpans" should possibly be "sampans".
[Illustration: THE WAY IN.]
INTIMATE
CHINA
The Chinese as I have
seen them. By Mrs.
Archibald Little, Author
of _A Marriage in China_
With 120 Illustrations
HUTCHINSON & CO.
Paternoster Row, London... 1899
PRINTED BY
| 2,202.865657 |
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Produced by Brownfox and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by JSTOR www.jstor.org)
THE IRISH PENNY JOURNAL.
NUMBER 12. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 19, 1840. VOLUME I.
[Illustration: THE TOWN OF ANTRIM.]
Travellers whose only knowledge of our towns is that derived in passing
through the principal street or streets, will be very apt to form an
erroneous estimate of the amount of picturesque beauty which they often
possess, and which is rarely seen save by those who go out of their way
expressly to look for it. This is particularly the case in our smaller
towns, in which the principal thoroughfare has usually a stiff and formal
character, the entrance on either side being generally a range of mud
cabins, which, gradually improving in appearance, merge at length into
houses of a better description, with a public building or two towards
the centre of the town. In these characteristics the highway of one town
is only a repetition of that of another, and in such there is rarely any
combination of picturesque lines or striking features to create a present
interest in the mind, or leave a pleasurable impression on the memory.
Yet in most instances, if we visit the suburbs of these towns, and more
particularly if they happen, as is usually the case, to be placed upon
a river, and we get down to the river banks, we shall most probably be
surprised and gratified at the picturesque combinations of forms, and the
delightful variety of effects, presented to us in the varied outline of
their buildings, contrasted by intervening masses of dark foliage, and
the whole reflected on the tranquil surface of the water, broken only by
the enlivening effect of those silvery streaks of light produced by the
eddies and currents of the stream.
Our prefixed view of the town of Antrim may be taken as an illustration
of the preceding remarks. As seen by the passing traveller, the town
appears situated on a rich, open, but comparatively uninteresting plain,
terminating the well-cultivated vale of the Six-mile-water towards the
flat shore of Loch Neagh; and with the exception of its very handsome
church and castellated entrance into Lord Ferrard’s adjoining demesne,
has little or no attraction; but viewed in connection with its river,
Antrim appears eminently picturesque from several points as well as from
that selected for our view--the prospect of the town looking from the
deer-park of Lord Massarene.
In front, the Six-mile-water river flowing placidly over a broad gravelly
bed, makes a very imposing appearance, not much inferior to that of the
Liffey at Island-bridge. The expanse of water at this point, however,
forms a contrast to the general appearance of the stream, which, although
it brings down a considerable body of water, flows in many parts of its
course between banks of not more than twenty feet asunder. The vale
which it waters is one of the most productive districts of the county,
and towards Antrim is adorned by numerous handsome residences rising
among the enlivening scenery of bleach-greens, for which manufacture
it affords a copious water-power. Scenes of this description impart a
peculiar beauty to landscapes in the north of Ireland. The linen webs of
a snowy whiteness, spread on green closely-shaven lawns sloping to the
sun, and generally bounded by a sparkling outline of running water, have
a delightfully _fresh_ and cheerful effect, seen as they usually are with
their concomitants of well-built factories and handsome mansions; and in
scenery of this description the neighbourhood of Antrim is peculiarly
rich. The Six-mile-water has also its own attraction for the antiquary,
being the _Ollarbha_ of our ancient Irish poems and romances, and flowing
within a short distance of the ancient fortress of Rathmore of Moylinny,
a structure which boasts an antiquity of upwards of 1700 years.
In our view the river appears crossed by a bridge, which through the
upper limbs of its lofty arches affords a pretty prospect of the river
bank beyond. In building a bridge in the same place, a modern county
surveyor would probably erect a less picturesque but more economical
structure, for the arches here are so lofty, that the river, to occupy
the whole space they afford for its passage, must rise to a height that
would carry its waters into an entirely new channel.
But the principal feature in our prospect is the church, the tower and
steeple of which are on so respectable a scale, and of such excellent
proportions, as to render it a very pleasing object as seen from any
quarter or approach of the town. It would be difficult to say in what the
true proportions of a spire consist, whether in its obvious and practical
utility as a penthouse roofing | 2,202.992191 |
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Life: Its True Genesis
By R. W. Wright
[Masoretic Hebrew.]--אֲׁשֶֽר זַרְעוׄ־בִל עַל־הָאָ֑רֶע׃.--
Οὗ τὸ σπέρμα αὐτοῦ ἐν αὐτῷ χατὰ γένος ἐπὶ τῆς γῆς. [Septuagint.]
"Whose general principle of life, each in itself after its own kind, is
upon the earth." [Correct Translation.]
Second Edition
1884
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
TO
ARTHUR E. HOTCHKISS, ESQ.
OF CHESHIRE, CONN.
Contents.
Prefatory
Chapter I. Introductory.
Chapter II. Life--Its True Genesis.
Chapter III. Alternations of Forest Growths.
Chapter IV. The Distribution and Vitality of Seeds.
Chapter V. Plant Migration and Interglacial Periods.
Chapter VI. Distribution and Permanence of Species.
Chapter VII. What Is Life? Its Various Theories.
Chapter VIII. Materialistic Theories of Life Refuted.
Chapter IX. Force-Correlation, Differentiation and Other Life Theories.
Chapter X. Darwinism Considered from a Vitalistic Stand-point.
Preface to Second Edition.
Here is the law of life, as laid down by the eagle-eyed prophet Isaiah, in
that remarkable chapter commencing, "Ho, every one that
thirsteth"--whether it be after knowledge, or any other earthly or
spiritual good--come unto me and I will give you that which you seek. This
is the spirit of the text, and these are the words at the commencement of
the tenth verse:
"As the rain cometh down, and the snow from heaven, and returneth not
thither, but watereth the earth, and maketh it (_the earth_) bring forth
and bud (_not first bud, bear seed, and then bring forth_), that it (_the
earth_) may give seed to the sower, and bread to the eater (_man being the
only sower of seed and eater of bread_): so shall my Word be (_the Word of
Life_) that goeth forth out of my mouth (_the mouth of the Lord_); it
shall not return unto me void (_i.e., lifeless_), but it shall accomplish
that which I (_the Lord Jehovah_) please, and it (_the living Word_) shall
prosper in the thing whereto I sent it."
This formula of life is as true now as it was over two thousand six
hundred years ago, when it was penned by the divinely inspired prophet,
and it is as true now as it was then, that "Instead of the thorn shall
come up the fir tree, and instead of the briar shall come up the myrtle
tree; and it shall be to the Lord for a name, for an everlasting sign that
shall not be cut off." That is, as the rains descend and the floods come
and change the face of the earth, a law, equivalent to the divine command,
"Let the earth bring forth," is forever operative, changing the face of
nature and causing it to give expression to new forms of life as the
conditions thereof are changed, and these forms are spoken into existence
by the divine fiat.
In all the alternations of forest growths that are taking place to-day, on
this continent or elsewhere, this one vital law is traceable everywhere.
In the course of the next year, it will be as palpable in the Island of
Java, recently desolated by the most disastrous earthquake recorded in
history, as in any other portion of the earth, however free from such
volcanic action. On the very spot where mountain ranges disappeared in a
flaming sea of fire, and other ranges were thrown up in parallel lines but
on different bases, and where it was evident that every seed, plant, tree,
and thing of life perished in one common vortex of ruin, animal as well as
vegetable life will make its appearance in obedience to this law, as soon
as the rains shall again descend, cool the basaltic and other rocks, and
the life-giving power referred to by Isaiah once more become operative.
There is no more doubt of this in the mind of the learned naturalist, than
in that of the most devout believer of the Bible, from which this most
remarkable formula is taken.
We have no disposition to arraign the American and European "Agnostics,"
as they are pleased to call themselves, for using the term "Nature"
instead of God, in their philosophical writings.
As long as they are evidently earnest seekers after _Truth_ as it is to be
found in nature--the work of God--they are most welcome into the temple of
science, and their theories deserve our thoughtful consideration. It is
only when they become dogmatic, and assert propositions that have no
foundation in truth, as we sincerely believe, that we propose to break a
lance at their expense, and lay bare their fallacies. We claim nothing
more for ourself, as a scientific writer, than we are willing and ready to
accord to them. Indeed, we would champion their right to be heard sooner
than we would our own, on the principle that it is our duty to be just to
others before we are generous to ourselves, or those of our own following.
But our Agnostic friends should remember that when they charge us with
being "dogmatic in science," the charge should be made good from a
scientific stand-point, and not merely by the bandying of words.
When they tell us, for instance, that a toad has hibernated for a million
years in any one of the stratified rocks near the surface of the ground,
we interpose the objection that none of these batrachian forms can exist
for a period of more than twelve months without air and food. And yet they
have been blasted out of cavities in the surface rocks of the earth, where
they have apparently lain for the period named by our scientific friends
referred to. The fault is not ours, but theirs, that they are in error.
Had they determined to study the subject of life, as we have done, from
the Bible as well as from nature, they would have commenced at these
toad-producing rocks, and worked their way upward to the source of all
life, and not downward to the vanishing point--that where animal life
ceases in the azoic rocks. The batrachians are low down in the scale of
nature, but they have a determinate period of existence, as do all other
forms of life. Try your experiments with them; see how long they will live
without light, air, and food. This you can do as well as ourself. Conform
to all the conditions required--the absolute exclusion of light, air, and
food--and you will find that the toughest specimen experimented with is a
dead batrachian inside of one year.
This experimental test should settle the question of lengthened vitality
between us. There is no miracle about this matter at all, and science
finds no stumbling-block in the way of a complete explication of this
riddle, if, in the light of nature, there be any such riddle. We claim
there is not, when we interpret nature in the light of nature's God. Let
the earth, or rather its silicious and other decaying rocks, bring forth
these batrachian forms. The command is imperative and not dependent upon
any "seed" previously scattered or sown in the earth itself.
The father of the writer was Superintendent of the Green Mountain Turnpike
Company, extending from Bellows Falls to Rutland, Vt., from 1812 to 1832,
and worked every rod of that road many times over. From our earliest
boyhood we accompanied him on these working trips, attended by a large
force of laboring men, and our attention was early called to the
characteristics of these toad-producing rocks. The rotting slates, shales,
sandstones, shists, and rocks of various kinds, were often ploughed up by
the road-sides, and the _débris_ scraped into the centre of the road-beds;
the heaviest ploughs of that day being used to cut through these wayside
rocks, and often requiring as many as six or eight yoke of oxen to break
the necessary furrow. In many of these decaying slates, shists, sandstones
etc., hundreds of young toads, many of them not more than half an inch in
length, were turned out at different seasons of the year, showing that
they were produced independently of any parent batrachian, there being no
trace of a mother toad in connection with them.
The parent toads bury themselves in the gardens and ploughed fields in the
early autumn, and if they survive the severity of the winter months, may
propagate their kind the second year, and probably for several years. But
they require remarkably favorable conditions to continue their life for
any considerable number of years in open-field propagation, while under no
circumstances whatever can they make their way into these decaying rocks
in order to propagate their species. The reason why such fresh specimens
appear under these circumstances, and in the cavities of the rocks named,
is conclusively that indicated by the prophet Isaiah, in the text quoted
by us; and when Professor Agassiz was forced to admit that trout must have
made their appearance in the fresh-water streams emptying into Lake
Superior, instead of originating elsewhere, it is to be regretted, for the
sake of science, that he did not boldly enunciate the formula of life as
taught by the eagle-eyed prophet of the Bible, and not as proclaimed by
the owl-eyed professors of the London University College.
What is true of the trout in these Lake Superior streams, is true of them
almost everywhere, even right in the town of Cheshire, Conn., where we are
inditing this preface, the 10th day of October, 1883. We recently visited
the Rev. David D. Bishop, in the northeastern portion of this township,
where that cultured gentleman was constructing an artificial trout-pond.
It was at a season of the greatest drought known for years in that portion
of the town.
The point selected for this trout-pond was at the farthest eastern source
of what is known as "Honey Pot" brook in Cheshire, a famous one for trout
in former years. Mr. Bishop | 2,203.056003 |
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Transcriber’s Notes
Sidenotes were printed in italics, but in the Plain Text format of this
eBook, they are indicated by diamonds: ♦text♦, either preceding their
paragraphs or within them. Other italic text is indicated by
_underscores_.
THE STORY OF
PAPER-MAKING
[Illustration: A MODERN PAPER-MILL]
THE STORY OF
PAPER-MAKING
AN ACCOUNT OF PAPER-MAKING
FROM ITS EARLIEST KNOWN RECORD
DOWN TO THE PRESENT TIME
_ILLUSTRATED_
J. W. BUTLER PAPER COMPANY
CHICAGO :: :: :: MDCCCCI
COPYRIGHTED
BY J. W. BUTLER PAPER COMPANY
JANUARY, 1901
THE ABSENCE OF NON-TECHNICAL WORKS UPON THIS INTERESTING
SUBJECT PROMPTS THE AUTHORS TO PRESENT A TREATISE FROM THE
STANDPOINT OF THE LAYMAN, AND FOR HIS USE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. ARTICLES SUPPLANTED BY PAPER 1
II. PAPYRUS AND PARCHMENT 12
III. ORIGIN AND EARLY HISTORY OF PAPER 20
IV. EARLY METHODS OF PAPER-MAKING 49
V. MODERN PAPER-MAKING 55
VI. WATER-MARKS AND VARIETIES OF PAPER 95
VII. EXTENT OF THE BUSINESS IN THE UNITED STATES 123
PREFACE
It is a rare privilege to stand as we do at the meeting-point of
the centuries, bidding a reluctant farewell to the old, while
simultaneously we cry “All hail!” to the new; first looking back over
the open book of the past, then straining eager eyes for a glimpse
of the mysteries that the future holds hidden, and which are to be
revealed only moment by moment, hour by hour, and day by day.
The nineteenth century, so preëminently one of progress in almost every
line of mental and material activity, has witnessed a marvelous growth
in the paper industry. It was in the early years of the century that
crude old methods, with their meager machinery, began yielding to the
pressure of advanced thought, and the development since has kept full
pace with the flying years. The hundred years that have written the
modern history of paper-making mark also the period during which the
J. W. BUTLER PAPER COMPANY, or its immediate predecessors, have been
associated with the industry in this country. It has therefore seemed
to the present representatives of the company that the closing year of
the century was an especially fitting time to put into story form the
history of the wonderful and valuable product evolved almost wholly
from seemingly useless materials, and they consider it their privilege,
as well as the fulfillment of a pleasant obligation, to present this
account to their friends and associates in the paper, printing, and
auxiliary trades. We
“Know not what the future hath
Of marvel and surprise,”
but we feel confident that the incoming century will bring changes and
improvements as wonderful as any the past has wrought, and we hope
that it may be our good fortune to in some measure be instrumental in
promoting whatever tends to a greater development of the industry with
which our name has been so long associated.
J. W. BUTLER PAPER COMPANY.
CHAPTER I
ARTICLES EARLY USED FOR PURPOSES NOW SUPPLIED BY PAPER
Full of dignity, significance, and truth is the noble conception which
finds expression in Tennyson’s verse, that we are the heirs of the
ages, the inheritors of all that has gone before us.
♦We are the heirs of the ages♦
Through countless cycles of time men have been struggling and aspiring;
now “mounting up with wings, as eagles,” now thrown back to earth by
the crushing weight of defeat, but always rising again, undaunted
and determined. “The fathers have wrought, and we have entered into
the reward of their labors.” We have profited by their striving and
aspiration. All the wisdom of the past, garnered by patient toil and
effort, all the wealth of experience gained by generations of men
through alternating defeat and triumph, belongs to us by right of
inheritance. It has been truly said, “We are what the past has made us.
The results of the past are ourselves.”
♦Tradition untrustworthy♦
But to what agency do we owe the preservation of our inheritance?
What conservator has kept our rich estate from being scattered to
the four winds of heaven? For the wealth that is ours to-day we are
indebted in large measure to man’s instinctive desire, manifested in
all ages, to perpetuate his knowledge and achievements. Before the
thought of a permanent record had begun to take shape in men’s minds,
oral tradition, passing from father to son, and from generation to
generation, sought to keep alive the memory of great achievements and
valorous deeds. But tradition proved itself untrustworthy. Reports were
often imperfect, misleading, exaggerated. Through dull ears, the spoken
words were received into minds beclouded by ignorance, and passed on
into the keeping of treacherous memories. As the races advanced in
learning and civilization, they realized that something more permanent
and accurate was necessary; that without written records of some sort
there could be little, if any, progress, since each generation must
begin practically where the preceding one had begun, and pass through
the same stages of ignorance and inexperience.
♦Hieroglyphic records♦
In this strait, men sought help from Nature, and found in the huge
rocks and bowlders shaped by her mighty forces a means of perpetuating
notable events in the histories of nations and the lives of
individuals. From the setting up of stones to commemorate great deeds
and solemn covenants, it was but a step to the hewing of obelisks, upon
which the early races carved their hieroglyphs, rude pictures of birds
and men, of beasts and plants. As early as four thousand years before
Christ, these slender shafts of stone were reared against the deep blue
of the Egyptian sky, and for ages their shadows passed with the sun
over the restless, shifting sands of the desert. Most of the ancient
obelisks have crumbled to dust beneath Time’s unsparing hand, but a few
fragmentary specimens are still in existence, while the British Museum
is so fortunate as to be in possession of one shaft of black basalt
that is in perfect condition. A part of it is covered with writing,
a part with bas-reliefs. In Egypt these hieroglyphs were employed
almost exclusively for religious writings--a purpose suggested by the
derivation of the word itself, which comes from the Greek, _ieros_, a
priest, and _glypha_, a carving.
♦Inscriptions on stone and clay♦
As the obelisk had taken the place of the rude stones and unwieldy
bowlders which marked man’s first effort to solve an ever-recurring
problem, so it in turn was superseded. The temples were sacred places,
and especially fitted to become the repositories of the records that
were to preserve for coming generations the deeds of kings and priests.
Accordingly, the pictured stories of great events were graven on stone
panels in the temple walls, or on slabs or tablets of the same enduring
material. Then came a forward step to the easier and cheaper method
of writing on soft clay. The monarchs, not being obliged to take into
consideration questions of ease or economy, continued to make use of
the stone tablets, but private individuals usually employed clay,
not only for literary and scientific writings, but in their business
transactions as well. A careful baking, either by artificial heat or
in the burning rays of a tropic sun, rendered the clay tablets very
enduring, so that many which have been dug from ancient ruins are now
in a remarkable state of preservation, bearing letters and figures as
clear as any of the inscriptions on marble, stone, or metal that have
come to us from the splendid days of Greece or Rome. The people of
Assyria and Chaldea recorded almost every transaction, whether public
or private in character, upon tablets of clay, forming thus a faithful
transcript of their daily lives and occupations, which may be read
to-day by those who hold the key; thus it is we bridge the gulf of
centuries. From the ruins of ancient Nineveh and Babylon, records of
almost every sort have been unearthed, all inscribed on indestructible
terra-cotta. There are bank-notes and notes of hand, deeds of property,
public records, statements of private negotiations, and memoranda of
astronomical observations. The life in which they played a part has
passed into history; the once proud and mighty cities lie prostrate,
and upon their ruins other cities have risen, only to fall as they
fell. The terra-cotta to which they committed their records is all that
is left, and the tablets that were fashioned and inscribed so long ago
give to us the best histories of Chaldea, Babylonia, and Assyria.
♦Assyrian, Babylonian and Chaldean records♦
One of the largest collections of these clay-writings is now in the
British Museum and was taken from a great edifice in Assyria, which was
probably the residence of Sennacherib. Several series of narratives
are comprehended in the collection; one referring to the language,
legends, and mythology of the Assyrians; another recording the story of
creation, in which “Water-deep” is said to be the creator of all forms
of life then in existence, while a third relates to the deluge and the
story of the Assyrian Moses. But however interesting these facts may be
in themselves, we refer to them only by way of illustration, since we
are dealing not so much with the writing itself as with the material on
which writing was done.
♦Inscriptions on prisms♦
Another form of tablet, a somewhat singular variation it may seem,
was in use among the Assyrians at a very early date. This was a
prism, having either six or eight sides, and made of exceedingly fine
terra-cotta. Such prisms were frequently deposited by the Assyrian
kings at the corners of temples, after having been inscribed with
accounts of the notable events in their lives, interspersed with
numerous invocations. Apparently the custom was similar to that
followed at the present day, and the ancient Assyrian tablets no doubt
served the same purpose as the records, newspapers, and documents that
are now deposited in the corner-stones of public or other important
buildings. The prisms used as tablets varied in length from a foot and
a half to three feet, and were covered very closely with small writing.
That the writers’ endeavor was to make the most of the space at their
disposal is suggested by the fact that upon a prism found in the ruins
of the ancient city of Ashur the inscriptions are so crowded that there
are thirty lines in the space of six inches, or five lines to the inch.
The prism recites the valiant deeds of Tiglath-Pileser I., who reigned
from 1120 to 1100 B. C., and undertook campaigns against forty-two
other nations and their kings. He was a monarch whose very name
inspired terror among the surrounding peoples, and his reign was filled
with stirring events and brilliant achievements. ♦Economy of space♦
Small wonder that it was necessary to crowd the inscriptions upon the
prism! Rawlinson’s “Ancient Monarchies,” in an account of the writings
that have come down to us from the earliest days of the world’s
recorded history, has this to say: “The clay tablets are both numerous
and curious. They are of various sizes, ranging from nine inches long
by six and a half wide to an inch and a half long by an inch wide, or
even less. Sometimes they are entirely covered by writings, while at
others they exhibit on a portion of their surface impressions of seals,
mythological emblems, and the like. Some thousands have been recovered.
Many are historical, and still more are mythological.” Their use in
writing and drawing was almost universal, and we read that the prophet
Ezekiel, when dwelling with “them of the captivity at Telabib, that
dwelt by the river of Chebar,” was commanded, “Take thee a tile and lay
it before thee, and portray upon it the city, even Jerusalem.” (Ezekiel
iv. 1.)
We get a glimpse of another side of that ancient | 2,203.100824 |
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Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
Transcriber's Note:
Page scan source:
http://www.archive.org/details/onheightsanovel01auergoog
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THE VILLA ON THE RHINE
Leisure Hour Series, 2 vols. 16mo. $2.00
HENRY HOLT & CO., NEW YORK
ON THE HEIGHTS
_A NOVEL_
BY
BERTHOLD AUERBACH
TRANSLATED BY
SIMON ADLER STERN
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1907
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by
HENRY HOLT,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
ON THE HEIGHTS.
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
Early mass was being celebrated in the chapel attached to the royal
summer palace.
The palace stood on a slight eminence in the center of the park. The
eastern <DW72> of the hill had been planted with vineyards, and its
crest was covered with mighty, towering beeches. The park abounded with
maples, plane-trees and elms, with their rich foliage, and firs of
various kinds, while the thick clusters of needles on the fir-leaved
mountain pine showed that it had become acclimated. On grassy lawns
there were solitary tall pines of perfect growth. A charming variety of
flowers and leaf plants lent grace to the picture which, in all its
details, showed evidence of artistic design and exquisite taste | 2,203.481596 |
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Produced by Elaine Laizure from images generously made
available from the Internet Archive.
[Transcriber's Note: Footnotes have been moved to the end of the
document.]
RITUAL CONFORMITY.
INTERPRETATIONS OF THE RUBRICS OF THE PRAYER-BOOK, AGREED UPON
BY A CONFERENCE HELD AT ALL SAINTS, MARGARET-STREET, 1880-1881.
PARKER AND CO.
OXFORD, AND 6 SOUTHAMPTON-STREET,
STRAND, LONDON.
1881.
PREFACE.
At a Conference of some friends interested in the subject of Ritual,
held on January 17, 1880, the following propositions were, amongst
others, agreed to:
I. That the evil of unnecessary Diversity in Ritual, as practised
in various Churches aiming at the maintenance of Catholic doctrine
and usage in the Church of England, is real and great.
II. That an effort to moderate it should be attempted, resting
mainly on the united opinion of some of those who have given
special attention to the theory and practice of Ritual, in their
private capacity of Students or Parish Priests.
III. That the effort should take the form of a body of Comments upon
the Rubrics of the Book of Common Prayer, and that these Comments
should include cautions against practices which are infractions of
the law and usage of the Church of England.
With the view of carrying these propositions into effect, it was
arranged that a series of meetings should be held; and the Vicar
of All Saints, Margaret-street, kindly provided a room at the
clergy-house for the meetings of the Conference.
Those who had met in the first instance were duly summoned, and
others were invited to join them. The meetings were held at first
on two consecutive days in alternate weeks, (since some of the
members came from a considerable distance). Latterly, in order to
expedite the work, meetings were held on three consecutive days in
alternate weeks. In all, forty-eight meetings were held between
January 17, 1880, and July 13, 1881.
It was thought possible that by the co-operation of several minds,
information might be collected from sources not commonly accessible,
and perhaps hardly within the reach of any one individual. Among
the members of the Conference also were those who had had experience
of parish-work, as well as those who had devoted time and attention
to historical enquiry into the origin and meaning of the Rubrics of
the Prayer-Book, or who had made ancient Liturgies their special
study: some, it may be added, combined these various qualifications.
A hope therefore was entertained, as the second proposition implies,
that by considering on very wide grounds (both practical and
historical), and not from any one point of view, the various
divergencies of ritual practice, some agreement might be arrived
at even on the most controverted points.
This hope has been realized. It was found that points which
seemed at first to afford no basis on which agreement was at
all probable, were settled, after long discussion, almost (if not
quite) unanimously; but this involved expenditure of time, and
much investigation into matters on which existing text-books were
often silent.
With regard to the actual diversities in ritual which came under
the attention of the Conference, some appeared to be such direct
infractions of the Rubrics that no explanation of the Rubrics could
make their irregularity more evident. Others seemed to arise from
well-meant attempts to interpret the Rubrics. These last formed
the chief subject of the labours of the Conference.
The main line of procedure laid down was a true and loyal adherence
to the spirit of the Prayer-Book. A mere literal interpretation of
the Rubric was found in many cases to be insufficient. Even if the
existing Prayer-Book had been composed for inaugurating some new
religious system, it would be scarcely reasonable to depend upon
the abstract meaning of the words employed, without any reference
to the circumstances under which the book had been written. But
when we remember that the Prayer-Book of 1662 was the last of
several revisions of the original English Prayer-Book of 1549,
which was itself avowedly based upon the Ancient Liturgies, and
carried on the existing and ancient worship of the Church of
England (with such reformation as was considered needful), no mode
of interpretation could be more misleading if rigorously insisted
on, or so likely to cause error in practice.
The Prayer-Book, however, in spite of the Revision of 1662, retains
many vestiges of the foreign Protestant influence, which affected
the Revision of 1552. With these the Conference have attempted to
deal in a loyal spirit. However much they may be regretted,
Churchmen are bound to accept them. For it must be clearly
understood that nothing was further from the intention of the
Conference, than to attempt Revision. So far from this, it was
hoped by some that a careful series of notes explaining the | 2,203.569189 |
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Produced by Marius Masi, Jonathan Ingram and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE WORKS OF
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
SWANSTON EDITION
VOLUME XIV
_Of this SWANSTON EDITION in Twenty-five
Volumes of the Works of ROBERT LOUIS
STEVENSON Two Thousand and Sixty Copies
have been printed, of which only Two Thousand
Copies are for sale._
_This is No._........
[Illustration: ALISON CUNNINGHAM, R. L. S.'S NURSE]
THE WORKS OF
ROBERT LOUIS
STEVENSON
VOLUME FOURTEEN
LONDON : PUBLISHED BY CHATTO AND
WINDUS : IN ASSOCIATION WITH CASSELL
AND COMPANY LIMITED : WILLIAM
HEINEMANN : AND LONGMANS GREEN
AND COMPANY MDCCCCXI
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
A CHILD'S GARDEN OF VERSES
PAGE
I. BED IN SUMMER 3
In winter I get up at night
II. A THOUGHT 3
It is very nice to think
III. AT THE SEA-SIDE 4
When I was down beside the sea
IV. YOUNG NIGHT THOUGHT 4
All night long, and every night
V. WHOLE DUTY OF CHILDREN 5
A child should always say what's true
VI. RAIN 5
The | 2,203.845564 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Suzanne L. Shell, Charles
Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
WHAT KATY DID
By
SUSAN COOLIDGE
With Frontispiece in Color by Ralph Pallen Coleman
TO FIVE.
Six of us once, my darlings, played together
Beneath green boughs, which faded long ago,
Made merry in the golden summer weather,
Pelted each other with new-fallen snow.
Did the sun always shine? I can't remember
A single cloud that dimmed the happy blue,--
A single lightning-bolt or peal of thunder,
To daunt our bright, unfearing lives: can you?
We quarrelled often, but made peace as quickly,
Shed many tears, but laughed the while they fell,
Had our small woes, our childish bumps and bruises,
But Mother always "kissed and made them well."
Is it long since?--it seems a moment only:
Yet here we are in bonnets and tail-coats,
Grave men of business, members of committees,
Our play-time ended: even Baby votes!
And star-eyed children, in whose innocent faces
Kindles the gladness which was once our own,
Crowd round our knees, with sweet and coaxing voices,
Asking for stories of that old-time home.
"Were _you_ once little too?" they say, astonished;
"Did you too play? How funny! tell us how."
Almost we start, forgetful for a moment;
Almost we answer, "We are little _now!_"
Dear friend and lover, whom to-day we christen,
Forgive such brief bewilderment,--thy true
And kindly hand we hold; we own thee fairest.
But ah! our yesterday was precious too.
So, darlings, take this little childish story,
In which some gleams of the old sunshine play,
And, as with careless hands you turn the pages,
Look back and smile, as here I smile to-day.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I THE LITTLE CARRS
II PARADISE
III THE DAY OF SCRAPES
IV KIKERI
V IN THE LOFT
VI INTIMATE FRIENDS
VII COUSIN HELEN'S VISIT
VIII TO-MORROW
IX DISMAL DAYS
X ST. NICHOLAS AND ST. VALENTINE
XI A NEW LESSON TO LEARN
XII TWO YEARS AFTERWARD
XIII AT LAST
CHAPTER I
THE LITTLE CARRS
I was sitting in the meadows one day, not long ago, at a place where
there was a small brook. It was a hot day. The sky was very blue, and
white clouds, like great swans, went floating over it to and fro. Just
opposite me was a clump of green rushes, with dark velvety spikes, and
among them one single tall, red cardinal flower, which was bending over
the brook as if to see its own beautiful face in the water. But the
cardinal did not seem to be vain.
The picture was so pretty that I sat a long time enjoying it. Suddenly,
close to me, two small voices began to talk--or to sing, for I couldn't
tell exactly which it was. One voice was shrill; the other, which was a
little deeper, sounded very positive and cross. They were evidently
disputing about something, for they said the same words over and over
again. These were the words--"Katy did." "Katy didn't." "She did." "She
didn't." "She did." "She didn't." "Did." "Didn't." I think they must
have repeated them at least a hundred times.
I got up from my seat to see if I could find the speakers; and sure
enough, there on one of the cat-tail bulrushes, I spied two tiny
pale-green creatures. Their eyes seemed to be weak, for they both wore
black goggles. They had six legs apiece,--two short ones, two not so
short, and two very long. These last legs had joints like the springs to
buggy-tops; and as I watched, they began walking up the rush, and then I
saw that they moved exactly like an old-fashioned gig. In fact, if I
hadn't been too big, I _think_ I should have heard them creak as they
went along. They didn't say anything so long as I was there, but the
moment my back was turned they began to quarrel again, and in | 2,204.003626 |
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Produced by Doug Levy
LOVE AND LIFE
An Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume
By Charlotte M. Yonge
Transcriber's note: There are numerous examples throughout this text
of words appearing in alternate spellings: madame/madam, practise/
practice, Ladyship/ladyship, &c. We can only wonder what the publisher
had in mind. I have left them unchanged.--D.L.
PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION.
The first edition of this tale was put forth without explaining the
old fable on which it was founded--a fable recurring again and again in
fairy myths, though not traceable in the classic world till a very late
period, when it appeared among the tales of Apuleius, of the province
of Africa, sometimes called the earliest novelist. There are, however,
fragments of the same story in the popular tales of all countries, so
that it is probable that Apuleius availed himself of an early form of
one of these. They are to be found from India to Scandinavia, adapted to
the manners and fancy of every country in turn, _Beauty and the Beast_
and the _Black Bull of Norroway_ are the most familiar forms of the
tale, and it seemed to me one of those legends of such universal
property that it was quite fair to put it into 18th century English
costume.
Some have seen in it a remnant of the custom of some barbarous tribes,
that the wife should not behold her husband for a year after marriage,
and to this the Indian versions lend themselves; but Apuleius himself
either found it, or adapted it to the idea of the Soul (the Life)
awakened by Love, grasping too soon and impatiently, then losing it,
and, unable to rest, struggling on through severe toils and labours till
her hopes are crowned even at the gates of death. Psyche, the soul or
life, whose emblem is the butterfly, thus even in heathen philosophy
strained towards the higher Love, just glimpsed at for a while.
Christians gave a higher meaning to the fable, and saw in it the Soul,
or the Church, to whom her Bridegroom has been for a while made known,
striving after Him through many trials, to be made one with Him after
passing through Death. The Spanish poet Calderon made it the theme of
two sacred dramas, in which the lesson of Faith, not Sight, was taught,
with special reference to the Holy Eucharist.
English poetry has, however, only taken up its simple classical aspect.
In the early part of the century, Mrs. Tighe wrote a poem in Spenserian
stanza, called _Psyche_, which was much admired at the time; and Mr.
Morris has more lately sung the story in his _Earthly Paradise_. This
must be my excuse for supposing the outline of the tale to be familiar
to most readers.
The fable is briefly thus:--
Venus was jealous of the beauty of a maiden named Psyche, the youngest
of three daughters of a king. She sent misery on the land and family,
and caused an oracle to declare that the only remedy was to deck his
youngest daughter as a bride, and leave her in a lonely place to become
the prey of a monster. Cupid was commissioned by his mother to destroy
her. He is here represented not as a child, but as a youth, who on
seeing Psyche's charms, became enamoured of her, and resolved to save
her from his mother and make her his own. He therefore caused Zephyr to
transport her to a palace where everything delightful and valuable was
at her service, feasts spread, music playing, all her wishes fulfilled,
but all by invisible hands. At night in the dark, she was conscious of
a presence who called himself her husband, showed the fondest affection
for her, and promised her all sorts of glory and bliss, if she would be
patient and obedient for a time.
This lasted till yearnings awoke to see her family. She obtained consent
with much difficulty and many warnings. Then the splendour in which she
lived excited the jealousy of her sisters, and they persuaded her that
her visitor was really the monster who would deceive her and devour her.
They thus induced her to accept a lamp with which to gaze on him when
asleep. She obeyed them, then beholding the exquisite beauty of the
sleeping god of love, she hung over him in rapture till a drop of the
hot oil fell on his shoulder and awoke him. He sprang up, sorrowfully
reproached her with having ruined herself and him, and flew away,
letting her fall as she clung to him.
The palace was broken up, the wrath of Venus pursued her; Ceres and all
the other deities chased her from their temples; even when she would
have drowned herself, the river god took her in his arms, and laid her
on the bank. Only Pan had pity on her, and counselled her to submit to
Venus, and do her bidding implicitly as the only hope of regaining her
lost husband.
Venus spurned her at first, and then made her a slave, setting her first
to sort a huge heap of every kind of grain in a single day. The ants,
secretly commanded by Cupid, did this for her. Next, she was to get
a lock of golden wool from a ram feeding in a valley closed in by
inaccessible rocks; but this was procured for her by an eagle; and
lastly, Venus, declaring that her own beauty had been impaired by
attendance on her injured son, commanded Psyche to visit the Infernal
Regions and obtain from Proserpine a closed box of cosmetic which was on
no account to be opened. Psyche thought death alone could bring her to
these realms, and was about to throw herself from a tower, when a voice
instructed her how to enter a cavern, and propitiate Cerberus with cakes
after the approved fashion.
She thus reached Proserpine's throne, and obtained the casket, but when
she had again reached the earth, she reflected that if Venus's beauty
were impaired by anxiety, her own must have suffered far more; and
the prohibition having of course been only intended to stimulate her
curiosity, she opened the casket, out of which came the baneful fumes of
Death! Just, however, as she fell down overpowered, her husband, who had
been shut up by Venus, came to the rescue, and finding himself unable
to restore her, cried aloud to Jupiter, who heard his prayer, reanimated
Psyche, and gave her a place among the gods.
CHAPTERS.
I. A SYLLABUB PARTY.
II. THE HOUSE OF DELAVIE.
III. AMONG THE COWSLIPS.
IV. MY LADY'S MISSIVE.
V. THE SUMMONS.
VI. DISAPPOINTED LOVE.
VII. ALL ALONE.
VIII. THE ENCHANTED CASTLE.
IX. THE TRIAD.
X. THE DARK CHAMBER.
XI. A VOICE FROM THE GRAVE.
XII. THE SHAFTS OF PHOEBE.
XIII. THE FLUTTER OF HIS WINGS.
XIV. THE CANON OF WINDSOR.
XV. THE QUEEN OF BEAUTY.
XVI. AUGURIES.
XVII. THE VICTIM DEMANDED.
XVIII. THE PROPOSAL.
XIX. WOOING IN THE DARK.
XX. THE MUFFLED BRIDEGROOM.
XXI. THE SISTER'S MEETING
XXII. A FATAL SPARK.
XXIII. WRATH AND DESOLATION.
XXIV. THE WANDERER.
XXV. VANISHED.
XXVI. THE TRACES.
XXVII. CYTHEREA'S BOWER.
XXVIII. THE ROUT.
XXIX. A BLACK BLONDEL.
XXX. THE FIRST TASK.
XXXI. THE SECOND TASK.
XXXII. LIONS.
XXXIII. THE COSMETIC.
XXXIV. DOWN THE RIVER.
XXXV. THE RETURN.
XXXVI. WAKING.
XXXVII. MAKING THE BEST OF IT.
LOVE AND LIFE.
CHAPTER I. A SYLLABUB PARTY.
Oft had I shadowed such a group
Of beauties that were born
In teacup times of hood and hoop,
And when the patch was worn;
And legs and arms with love-knots gay.
About me leaped and laughed
The modish Cupid of the day,
And shrilled his tinselled shaft.--Tennyson.
If times differ, human nature and national character vary but little;
and thus, in looking back on former times, we are by turns startled
by what is curiously like, and curiously unlike, our own sayings and
doings.
The feelings of a retired officer of the nineteenth century expecting
the return of his daughters from the first gaiety of the youngest
darling, are probably not dissimilar to those of Major Delavie, in the
earlier half of the seventeen hundreds, as he sat in the deep bay window
of his bed-room; though he wore a green velvet nightcap; and his whole
provision of mental food consisted of half a dozen worn numbers of the
_Tatler_, and a _Gazette_ a fortnight old. The chair on which he sat was
elbowed, and made easy with cushions and pillows, but that on which
his lame foot rested was stiff and angular. The cushion was exquisitely
worked in chain-stich, as were the quilt and curtains of the great
four-post bed, and the only carpeting consisted of three or four narrow
strips of wool-work. The walls were plain plaster, white-washed, and
wholly undecorated, except that the mantelpiece was carved with the
hideous caryatides of the early Stewart days, and over it were suspended
a long cavalry sabre, and the accompanying spurs and pistols; above them
the miniature of an exquisitely lovely woman, with a white rose in her
hair and a white favour on her breast.
The window was a deep one projecting far into the narrow garden below,
for in truth the place was one of those old manor houses which their
wealthy owners were fast deserting in favour of new specimens of
classical architecture as understood by Louis XIV., and the room in
which the Major sat was one of the few kept in habitable repair. The
garden was rich with white pinks, peonies, lilies of the valley, and
early roses, and there was a flagged path down the centre, between the
front door and a wicket-gate into a long lane bordered with hawthorn
hedges, the blossoms beginning to blush with the advance of the season.
Beyond, rose dimly the spires and towers of a cathedral town, one of
those county capitals to which the provincial magnates were wont to
resort during the winter, keeping a mansion there for the purpose, and
providing entertainment for the gentry of the place and neighbourhood.
Twilight was setting in when the Major began to catch glimpses of the
laced hats of coachman and footmen over the hedges, a lumbering made
itself heard, and by and by the vehicle halted at the gate. Such
a coach! It was only the second best, and the glories of its
landscape--painted sides were somewhat dimmed, the green and silver of
the fittings a little tarnished to a critical eye; | 2,204.046173 |
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Produced by Adrian Mastronardi, JoAnn Greenwood, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
THE NEAR EAST
[Illustration: THE MOSQUE OF SULEIMAN AT CONSTANTINOPLE]
THE
NEAR EAST
DALMATIA, GREECE
AND CONSTANTINOPLE
BY
ROBERT HICHENS
ILLUSTRATED BY
JULES GUERIN
AND WITH PHOTOGRAPHS
[Illustration]
LONDON
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
1913
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES BY THE DE VINNE PRESS
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
PICTURESQUE DALMATIA 1
CHAPTER II
IN AND NEAR ATHENS 49
CHAPTER III
THE ENVIRONS OF ATHENS 95
CHAPTER IV
DELPHI AND OLYMPIA 137
CHAPTER V
IN CONSTANTINOPLE 181
CHAPTER VI
STAMBOUL, THE CITY OF MOSQUES 225
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
The Mosque of Suleiman at Constantinople _Frontispiece_
From a painting by Jules Guerin
PAGE
The Roman Amphitheater at Pola 4
From a painting by Jules Guerin
The Market-Place at Spalato 9
From a painting by Jules Guerin
Zara--Piazza delle Erbe 14
The Harbor of Mezzo 17
Spalato--Peristilio 24
Trau--Vestibule of the Cathedral 27
Ragusa 32
The Rector's Palace and the Public Square at Ragusa 37
From a painting by Jules Guerin
The Jesuits' Church and the Military Hospital, Ragusa 45
The Parthenon at Athens 52
From a painting by Jules Guerin
The Acropolis, with a View of the Areopagus and Mount
Hymettus, from the West 55
The Theater of Dionysus on the southern <DW72> of the
Acropolis 62
The Temple of the Olympian Zeus at Athens 65
From a painting by Jules Guerin
In the Portico of the Parthenon 70
The Temple of Athene Nike at Athens 75
From a painting by Jules Guerin
The Stadium, Athens 82
The Academy, Mount Lycabettus in the background 87
The Acropolis at Athens, early morning 92
From a painting by Jules Guerin
The Temple of Poseidon and Athene at Sunium 98
From a painting by Jules Guerin
The Temple of Athene, Island of AEgina 103
From a painting by Jules Guerin
The Theater of Dionysus, Athens 108
The Plain of Marathon 113
A Monastery at the foot of Hymettus 120
Ruins of the Great Temple of the Mysteries at Eleusis 125
The Odeum of Herodes Atticus in Athens 133
From a painting by Jules Guerin
The Site of Ancient Delphi 140
From a painting by Jules Guerin
Delphi--Gulf of Corinth in the distance 143
The Lion of Chaeronea, the Acropolis and Mount Parnassus 150
Place of the famous Oracle, Delphi 154
View of Mount Parnassus 159
Ruins of the Temple of Apollo at Delphi 165
The Temple of Hera at Olympia 170
Olympia--Entrance to the Athletic Field 175
The Grand Bazaar in Constantinople 184
From a painting by Jules Guerin
The Bosphorous--Constantinople in the distance 190
Galata Bridge, which connects Galata and Pera 193
The Water-front of Stamboul, with Pera in the distance 200
Looking down Step Street, Constantinople 203
Public Letter-writers in a Constantinople Street 208
The Courtyard of the "Pigeon's Mosque" 213
From a painting by Jules Guerin
Street Scene in Constantinople 221
The Mosque of the Yeni-Valide-Jamissi, Constantinople 228
From a painting by Jules Guerin
The Royal Gate leading to the old Seraglio 231
From a painting by Jules Guerin | 2,204.047357 |
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Produced by Greg Bergquist, Matthew Wheaton 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: THE LAST STAND]
PONY TRACKS
_WRITTEN AND ILLUSTRATED BY_
FREDERIC REMINGTON
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
FRANKLIN SQUARE
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED TO THE FELLOWS WHO
RODE THE PONIES THAT MADE THE TRACKS
BY THE AUTHOR
CONTENTS
CHASING A MAJOR-GENERAL
LIEUTENANT CASEY'S LAST SCOUT
THE SIOUX OUTBREAK IN SOUTH DAKOTA
AN OUTPOST OF CIVILIZATION
A RODEO AT LOS OJOS
IN THE SIERRA MADRE WITH THE PUNCHERS
BLACK WATER AND SHALLOWS
COACHING IN CHIHUAHUA
STUBBLE AND SLOUGH IN DAKOTA
POLICING THE YELLOWSTONE
A MODEL SQUADRON
THE AFFAIR OF THE --TH OF JULY
THE COLONEL OF THE FIRST CYCLE INFANTRY
A MERRY CHRISTMAS IN A SIBLEY TEPEE
BEAR-CHASING IN THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE LAST STAND
| 2,204.273542 |
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Produced by Bryan Ness, Louise Pattison and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
book was produced from scanned images of public domain
material from the Google Print project.)
Transcriber's Note:
In the original, the speeches of H.R.H. the Prince of Wales are set in a
larger type face. In this e-text the larger type sections are represented
by indentation. Corrections are listed at the end of the book.
* * * * *
SPEECHES AND ADDRESSES
OF
H.R.H. THE PRINCE OF WALES:
1863-1888.
[Illustration: Albert Edward P.]
SPEECHES AND ADDRESSES
OF
H.R.H. THE PRINCE OF WALES:
1863-1888.
EDITED BY
JAMES MACAULAY, A.M., M.D. EDIN.,
AUTHOR OF "VICTORIA R.I., HER LIFE AND REIGN."
_WITH A PORTRAIT._
LONDON:
JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET.
1889.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
To the Memory of
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS
T H E P R I N C E C O N S O R T,
THE "NOBLE FATHER OF OUR KINGS TO BE,"
ALBERT THE WISE AND GOOD.
PREFACE.
The year 1888, that of the Silver Wedding of the Prince and Princess of
Wales, is also the 25th anniversary of the year when the Prince first
began to appear in public life. It is, therefore, a fit time to present
some record of events in which His Royal Highness has taken part, and of
services rendered by him to the nation, during the past quarter of a
century. The best and the least formal way of doing this seemed to be
the reproduction of his Speeches and Addresses, along with some account
of the occasions when they were delivered.
Some of these speeches, in more recent years, are known to all, and
their importance is universally recognised; such as those relating to
the various International Exhibitions, the foundation of the Royal
College of Music, and the establishment of the Imperial Institute. But
throughout the whole of the twenty-five years, there has been a
succession of speeches, on all manner of occasions, of many of which
there is no adequate record or remembrance. It is only due to the Prince
to recall the various services thus rendered by him, especially during
those earlier years when the loss of the Prince Consort was most deeply
felt, and when the Queen, whose Jubilee has been so splendidly
celebrated, was living in retirement. A new generation has come on the
stage since those days, and there are comparatively few who remember the
number and variety of occasions upon which Royalty was worthily
represented by the Prince of Wales, and the important and arduous duties
voluntarily and cheerfully undertaken by him.
Before carrying out this design, it was advisable to ascertain if there
might be any objection on the part of the Prince of Wales. There might,
for instance, be a purpose of official publication of these speeches. On
the matter being referred to the Prince, he not only made no objection,
but, in most kind and gracious terms, gave his sanction to the work, and
hoped it might be "useful to the various objects which he had publicly
advocated and supported."
The number and diversity of occasions on which the Prince has made these
public appearances will surprise those who have not personal
recollection of them. The speeches themselves will surprise no one. The
Prince has had education and culture such as few of any station obtain;
directed at first by such a father as the Prince Consort, and by tutors
who carried out the design of both his parents. Accomplished in Art, and
interested in Science, in Antiquities, and most branches of learning;
with some University training at Oxford, Cambridge, and Edinburgh, and
with his mind enlarged by foreign travel, we might expect the fruits of
such training to appear in his public addresses. Add to this the
kindliness which comes from a good natural disposition, the sympathetic
influence of a genial manner, and the grace which is given by a training
from childhood in the highest station, and we can understand how the
speeches even of the earliest years were heard with pleasure and
approval. Some of the speeches are very | 2,204.573255 |
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ITALIAN FANTASIES
[Illustration: AN ITALIAN FANTASY
BY STEFANO DA ZEVIO (VERONA).]
ITALIAN FANTASIES
BY
ISRAEL ZANGWILL
AUTHOR OF
“CHILDREN OF THE GHETTO”
“BLIND CHILDREN” “THE GREY WIG”
ETC. ETC.
[Illustration]
WITH FRONTISPIECE
LONDON
WILLIAM HEINEMANN
1910
_Copyright, London, 1910, by William Heinemann, and_
_Washington, U.S.A., by The Macmillan Company_
AUTHOR’S NOTE
The germ of this book may be found in three essays under the
same title published in “Harper’s Magazine” in 1903 and 1904,
which had the inestimable advantage of being illustrated by the
late Louis Loeb, “the joyous comrade” to whose dear memory this
imperfect half of what was planned as a joint labour of love
must now be dedicated.
I. Z.
ALL ROADS LEAD FROM ROME
CONTENTS
PAGE
OF BEAUTY, FAITH, AND DEATH: A RHAPSODY
BY WAY OF PRELUDE 1
FANTASIA NAPOLITANA: BEING A REVERIE OF
AQUARIUMS, MUSEUMS, AND DEAD CHRISTS 17
THE CARPENTER’S WIFE: A CAPRICCIO 43
THE EARTH THE CENTRE OF THE UNIVERSE: OR
THE ABSURDITY OF ASTRONOMY 77
OF AUTOCOSMS WITHOUT FACTS: OR THE
EMPTINESS OF RELIGIONS 84
OF FACTS WITHOUT AUTOCOSMS: OR THE
IRRELEVANCY OF SCIENCE 104
OF FACTS WITH ALIEN AUTOCOSMS: OR THE
FUTILITY OF CULTURE 120
ST. FRANCIS: OR THE IRONY OF
INSTITUTIONS 137
THE GAY DOGES: OR THE FAILURE OF SOCIETY
AND THE IMPOSSIBILITY OF SOCIALISM 159
THE SUPERMAN OF LETTERS: OR THE
HYPOCRISY OF POLITICS 172
LUCREZIA BORGIA: OR THE MYTH OF HISTORY 186
SICILY AND THE ALBERGO SAMUELE BUTLER:
OR THE FICTION OF CHRONOLOGY 195
INTERMEZZO 205
LACHRYMÆ RERUM AT MANTUA: WITH A
DENUNCIATION OF D’ANNUNZIO 214
OF DEAD SUBLIMITIES, SERENE
MAGNIFICENCES, AND GAGGED POETS 227
VARIATIONS ON A THEME 241
HIGH ART AND LOW 249
AN EXCURSION INTO THE GROTESQUE: WITH A
GLANCE AT OLD MAPS AND MODERN
FALLACIES 259
AN EXCURSION INTO HEAVEN AND HELL: WITH
A DEPRECIATION OF DANTE 280
ST. GIULIA AND FEMALE SUFFRAGE 298
ICY ITALY: WITH VENICE RISING FROM THE
SEA 307
THE DYING CARNIVAL 315
NAPOLEON AND BYRON IN ITALY: OR LETTERS
AND ACTION 320
THE CONSOLATIONS OF PHLEBOTOMY: A
PARADOX AT PAVIA 331 | 2,204.913742 |
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[Illustration: She truly did well in this performance. (Page 252)
_Frontispiece_]
THE
CORNER HOUSE GIRLS
IN A PLAY
HOW THEY REHEARSED
HOW THEY ACTED
AND WHAT THE PLAY BROUGHT IN
BY
GRACE BROOKS HILL
AUTHOR OF "THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS," "THE CORNER
HOUSE GIRLS AT SCHOOL," ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED BY
R. EMMETT OWEN_
NEW YORK
BARSE & HOPKINS
PUBLISHERS
BOOKS FOR GIRLS
The Corner House Girls Series
By Grace Brooks Hill
_12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Price per volume,
75 cents, postpaid._
THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS
THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS AT SCHOOL
THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS UNDER CANVAS
THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS IN A PLAY
THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS' ODD FIND
THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS ON A TOUR
(_Other volumes in preparation_)
BARSE & HOPKINS
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Copyright, 1916,
by
Barse & Hopkins
_The Corner House Girls in a Play_
VAIL-BALLOU COMPANY
BINGHAMTON AND NEW YORK
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE SOVEREIGNS OF ENGLAND 9
II THE LADY IN THE GRAY CLOAK 18
III BILLY BUMPS' BANQUET 27
IV THE BASKET BALL TEAM IN TROUBLE 42
V THE STONE IN THE POOL 57
VI JUST OUT OF REACH 66
VII THE CORE OF THE APPLE 75
VIII LYCURGUS BILLET'S EAGLE BAIT 84
IX BOB BUCKHAM TAKES A HAND 101
X SOMETHING ABOUT OLD TIMES 112
XI THE STRAWBERRY MARK 122
XII TEA WITH MRS. ELAND 134
XIII NEALE SUFFERS A SHORTENING PROCESS 145
XIV THE FIRST REHEARSAL 156
XV THE HALLOWE'EN PARTY 167
XVI THE FIVE-DOLLAR GOLD PIECE 175
XVII THE MYSTERIOUS LETTER 184
XVIII MISS PEPPERILL AND THE GRAY LADY 193
XIX A THANKSGIVING SKATING PARTY 198
XX NEALE'S ENDLESS CHAIN 206
XXI THE CORNER HOUSE THANKSGIVING 212
XXII CLOUDS AND SUNSHINE 217
XXIII SWIFTWING, THE HUMMINGBIRD 228
XXIV THE FINAL REHEARSAL 240
XXV A GREAT SUCCESS 247
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
She truly did well in this performance _Frontispiece_
At the moment the eagle dropped with spread talons,
the big dog leaped 103
They saw two huge pumpkin lanterns grinning a
welcome from the gateposts 173
The scaffolding pulled apart slowly, falling forward
through the drop 238
THE CORNER HOUSE GIRLS IN A PLAY
CHAPTER I
THE SOVEREIGNS OF ENGLAND
"I never can learn them in the wide, wide world! I just know I never
can, Dot!"
"Dear me! I'm dreadfully sorry for you, Tess," responded Dorothy
Kenway--only nobody ever called her by her full name, for she really was
too small to achieve the dignity of anything longer than "Dot."
"I'm dreadfully sorry for you, Tess," she repeated, hugging the
Alice-doll a little closer and wrapping the lace "throw" carefully about
the shoulders of her favorite child. The Alice-doll had never enjoyed
robust health since her awful experience of more than a year before,
when she had been buried alive.
Of course, Dot had not got as far in school as the sovereigns of
England. She had not as yet heard very much about the history of her own
country. She knew, of course, that Columbus discovered it, the Pilgrims
settled it, that George Washington was the father of it, and Abraham
Lincoln saved it.
Tess Kenway was usually very quick in her books, and she was now
prepared to enter a class in the lower grammar grade of the Milton
school in which she would have easy lessons in English history. She had
just purchased the history on High Street, for school would open for the
autumn term in a few days.
Mr. Englehart, one of the School Board and an influential citizen of
Milton, had a penchant for beginning at the beginning of things. As he
put it: "How can our children be grounded well in the history of our own
country if they are not informed upon the salient points of English
history--the Mother Country, from whom we obtained our first laws, and
from whom came our early leaders?"
As the two youngest Kenway girls came out of the stationery and book
store, Miss Pepperill was entering. Tess and Dot had met Miss Pepperill
at church the Sunday previous, and Tess knew that the rather
sharp-featured, bespectacled lady was to be her new teacher.
The girls whom Tess knew, who had already had experience with Miss
Pepperill called her "Pepperpot." She was supposed to be very irritable,
and she _did_ have red hair. She shot questions out at one in a most
disconcerting way, and Dot was quite amazed and startled by the way Miss
Pepperill pounced on Tess.
"Let's see your book, child," Miss Pepperill said, seizing Tess' recent
purchase. "Ah--yes. So you are to be in my room, are you?"
"Yes, ma'am," admitted Tess, timidly.
"Ah--yes! What is the succession of the sovereigns of England? Name
them!"
Now, if Miss Pepperill had demanded that Tess Kenway name the Pleiades,
the latter would have been no more startled--or no less able to reply
intelligently.
"Ah--yes!" snapped Miss Pepperill, seeing Tess' vacuous expression. "I
shall ask you that the first day you are in my room. Be prepared to
answer it. The succession of the sovereigns of England," and she swept
on into the store, leaving the children on the sidewalk, wonderfully
impressed.
They had walked over into the Parade Ground, and seated themselves on
one of the park benches in sight of the old Corner House, as Milton
people had called the Stower homestead, on the corner of Willow Street,
from time immemorial. Tess' hopeless announcement followed their sitting
on the bench for at least half an hour.
"Why, I can't never!" she sighed, making it positive by at least two
negatives. "I never had an idea England had such an awful long string of
kings. It's worse than the list of Presidents of the United States."
"Is it?" Dot observed, curiously. "It must be awful annoyable to have to
learn 'em."
"Goodness, Dot! There you go again with one of your big words,"
exclaimed Tess, in vexation. "Who ever heard of 'annoyable' before? You
must have invented that."
Dot calmly ignored the criticism. It must be confessed that she loved
the sound of long words, and sometimes, as Agnes said, "made an awful
mess of polysyllables." Agnes was the Kenway next older than Tess, while
Ruth was seventeen, the oldest of all, and had for more than three years
been the house-mother of the Kenway family.
Ruth and Agnes were at home in the old Corner House at this very hour.
There lived in the big dwelling, with the four Corner House Girls, Aunt
Sarah Maltby (who really was no relative of the girls, but a partial
charge upon their charity), Mrs. MacCall, their housekeeper, and old
Uncle Rufus, Uncle Peter Stower's black butler and general factotum, who
had been left to the care of the old man's heirs when he died.
The first volume of this series, called "The Corner House Girls," told
the story of the coming of the four sisters and Aunt Sarah Maltby to the
Stower homestead, and of their first adventures in Milton--getting
settled in their new home and making friends among their neighbors.
In "The Corner House Girls at School," the second volume, the four
Kenway sisters extended the field of their acquaintance in Milton and
thereabout, entered the local schools in the several grades to which
they were assigned, made more friends and found some few rivals. They
began to feel, too, that responsibility which comes with improved
fortunes, for Uncle Peter Stower had left a considerable estate to the
four girls, of which Mr. Howbridge, the lawyer, was administrator as
well as the girls' guardian.
Now the second summer of their sojourn at the old Corner House was just
ending, and the girls had but recently returned from a most delightful
outing at Pleasant Cove, on the Atlantic Coast, some distance away from
Milton, which was an inland town.
All the fun and adventure of that vacation are related in "The Corner
House Girls Under Canvas," the third volume of the series, and the one
immediately preceding the present story.
Tess was seldom vindictive; but after she had puzzled her poor brain for
this half hour, trying to pick out and to get straight the Williams and
Stephens and Henrys and Johns and Edwards and Richards, to say nothing
of the Georges, who had reigned over England, she was quite flushed and
excited.
"I know I'm just going to de-_test_ that Miss Pepperpot!" she exclaimed.
"I--I could throw this old history at her--I just could!"
"But you couldn't hit her, Tess," Dot observed placidly. "You know you
couldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because you can't throw anything straight--no straighter than Sammy
Pinkney's ma. I heard her scolding Sammy the other day for throwing
stones. She says, 'Sammy, don't you let me catch you throwing any more
stones.'"
"And did he mind her?" asked Tess.
"I don't know," Dot replied reflectively. "But he says to her: 'What'll
I do if the other fellers throw 'em at me?' 'Just you come and tell me,
Sammy, if they do,' says Mrs. Pinkney."
"Well?" queried Tess, as her sister seemed inclined | 2,205.458302 |
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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See 53932-h.htm or 53932-h.zip:
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Images of the original pages are available through
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https://archive.org/details/Frank_Reade_-_01
Transcriber’s note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
“Noname’s” Latest and Best Stories are Published in This Library.
[Illustration: FRANK READE LIBRARY]
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
_Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class
Matter._
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
=No. 1.= {=COMPLETE.=} FRANK TOUSEY, {=PRICE=} =Vol. I=
PUBLISHED, 34 & 36 {=5 CENTS.=}
NORTH MOORE STREET, NEW
YORK.
New York, ISSUED
September WEEKLY.
24, 1892.
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
_Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1892, by FRANK
TOUSEY, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington,
D. C._
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
FRANK READE, JR., AND HIS NEW STEAM MAN;
OR, THE
YOUNG INVENTOR’S TRIP TO THE FAR WEST.
By “NONAME.”
[Illustration]
The Subscription Price of the FRANK READE LIBRARY by the Year is $2.50:
$1.25 per six months, post-paid. Address FRANK TOUSEY, PUBLISHER, 34 and
36 North Moore Street, New York. Box 2730.
Frank Reade Jr., and His New Steam Man;
OR,
THE YOUNG INVENTOR’S TRIP TO THE FAR WEST.
By “NONAME”,
Author of Frank Reade Jr.’s Electric Cyclone; or, Thrilling Adventures
in No Man’s Land, etc.
CHAPTER I.
A GREAT WRONG.
Frank Reade was noted the world over as a wonderful and distinguished
inventor of marvelous machines in the line of steam and electricity. But
he had grown old and unable to knock about the world, as he had been
wont once to do.
So it happened that his son, Frank Reade, Jr., a handsome and talented
young man, succeeded his father as a great inventor, even excelling him
in variety and complexity of invention. The son speedily outstripped his
sire.
The great machine shops in Readestown were enlarged by young Frank, and
new flying machines, electric wonders, and so forth, were brought into
being.
But the elder Frank would maintain that, inasmuch as electricity at the
time was an undeveloped factor, his invention of the Steam Man was
really the most wonderful of all.
“It cannot be improved upon,” he declared, positively. “Not if steam is
used as a motive power.”
Frank, Jr. laughed quietly, and patted his father on the back.
“Dad,” he said, with an affectionate, though bantering air, “what would
you think if I should produce a most remarkable improvement upon your
Steam Man?”
“You can’t do it!” declared the senior Reade.
Frank, Jr., said no more, but smiled in a significant manner. One day
later, the doors of the secret draughting-room of design were tightly
locked and young Frank came forth only to his meals.
For three months this matter of closed doors continued. In the machine
shop department, where the parts of machinery were secretly put
together, the ring of hammers might have been heard, and a big sign was
upon the door:
No admittance!
Thus matters were when one evening Frank left his arduous duties to
spend a few hours with his wife and little boy.
But just as he was passing out of the yard, a <DW54>, short in stature
and of genial features, rushed excitedly up to him.
“Oh, Marse Frank,” cried the sable servitor, “Jes’ wait one moment!”
“Well, Pomp,” said Frank, pleasantly, “what can I do for you?”
The <DW54>, who was a faithful servant of the Reades, and had accompanied
both on their tours in foreign lands, ducked his head, with a grin, and
replied:
“Yo’ father wants yo’, Marse Frank, jes’ as quick as eber yo’ kin come!”
“My father,” exclaimed Frank, quickly. “What is it?”
“I don’t know nuffin’ ‘bout it tall, Marse Frank. He jes’ say fo’ me to
tell yo’ he want fo’ to see yo’.”
“Where is he?”
“In his library, sah.”
“All right, Pomp. Tell him I will come at once.”
The <DW54> darted away. Frank saw that the doors to the secret rooms were
locked. This was a wise precaution for hosts of cranks and demented
inventors were always hovering about the place and would quickly have
stolen the designs if they could have got at them.
Not ten minutes later Frank entered the library where his father was.
The elder Reade was pacing up and down in great excitement.
“Well, my son, you have come at last!” he cried. “I have much wanted to
see you.”
“I am at your service, father,” replied Frank. “What is it?”
“I want you to tell me what kind of a machine you have been getting up.”
“Come now, that’s not fair,” said Frank Jr. with twinkling eyes.
“Well, if it’s any kind of a machine that can travel over the prairies
tell me so,” cried the elder Reade, excitedly.
Frank, Jr., was at a loss to exactly understand what his father was
driving at. However, he replied:
“Well, I may safely say that it is. Now explain yourself.”
“I will,” replied the senior Reade. “I have a matter of great importance
to give you, Frank, my boy. If your invention is as good as my steam man
even, and does not improve upon it, it will yet perform the work which I
want it to do.”
A light broke across Frank, Jr.’s face.
“Ah!” he cried. “I see what you are driving at. You have an undertaking
for me and my new machine.”
Frank, Sr., looked steadily at Frank, Jr., and replied:
“You have hit the nail upon the head.”
“What is it?”
“First, I must tell you a story.”
“Well?”
“It would take me some time to go into the details, so I will not
attempt to do that but give you a simple statement of facts; in short,
the outline of the story.”
“All right. Let us have it.”
The senior Reade cleared his throat and continued:
“Many years ago when I was traveling in Australia I was set upon by
bushmen and would have been killed but for the sudden arrival upon the
scene of a countryman of mine, a man of about my own age and as plucky
as a lion.
“His name was Jim Travers, and I had known him in New York as the son of
a wealthy family. He was of a roving temperament, however, and this is
what had brought him to Australia.
“Well, Travers saved my life. He beat off my assailants, and nursing my
wounds brought me back to life.
“I have felt ever since that I owed | 2,205.483819 |
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TRANSLATIONS FROM THE GERMAN
BY
THOMAS CARLYLE.
UNIFORM WITH HIS COLLECTED WORKS.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
MUSAEUS, TIECK, RICHTER.
LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL (LIMITED),
| 2,205.963936 |
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produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
...THE...
MAN FROM MARS
HIS MORALS, POLITICS
AND RELIGION
BY
WILLIAM SIMPSON
THIRD EDITION
Revised and Enlarged by an Extended Preface and a
Chapter on Woman Suffrage
Press of
E. D. Beattie, 207 Sacramento St.
San Francisco
Copyright, 1900, by the Author.
TO THE MEMORY
OF
JAMES LICK
who, by his munificent bequests to
SCIENCE, INDUSTRY, CHARITY AND EDUCATION
has indicated in the manner of their disposal, that humanity, wisdom,
and enlightenment, arising out of the convictions of modern thought,
which holds these, his beneficiaries to be the noblest and divinest
pursuits of mankind, and the only possible agencies in the betterment
of society.
This Book is reverently inscribed
BY THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE TO THIRD EDITION.
Any one advanced in life who has enjoyed opportunities of knowledge
derived from association with men and books, and who has an inclination
to reach the bottom of things by his own independent thought, is apt to
arrive at conclusions regarding the world and society very different
from those which had been early impressed upon him by his superiors
and teachers. From a suspicion, at first reluctantly accepted, but
finally confirmed beyond a doubt, he finds that he has been deceived
in many things. The discovery arouses no indignation because he
knows that his early instructors were in most cases the victims of
misdirection themselves, and are therefore not to be held accountable
for the promulgation of errors which they had mistaken for truths. His
self-emancipation has so filled his mind with a better hope for the
future of the world, and a higher opinion of his fellow men, that the
delight and satisfaction of the discovery overcomes every sentiment
except pity for those who had been leading him astray, and if the
feeling of condemnation or censure comes to his mind at all, it is only
for those few who live and thrive upon those delusions having their
origin in the past, and whose chief purpose in life is to keep them
alive and to bolster them up among the multitude.
In the new light that has come to him, the world and society have
been transformed to his view and understanding. He discovers goodness
in many places where his teachers had denied its existence, and its
definition has become so changed, under his broader vision, that
humanity seems teeming with it everywhere, and is ruled by it, and
those departments of it most affecting society he observes to be
increasing, and that instead of like an exotic in uncongenial soil,
hard to be retained by mankind, it is perpetuated and cherished by
natural human impulses. He finds, also, that the sum of badness in
the world has been greatly exaggerated by his teachers, and that
those branches of it most interfering with the welfare of society are
gradually being lessened, and are likely to work out their extinction
by the penalties of public disapproval. These convictions make the
world seem a brighter and better dwelling place. They reveal to him
the possibilities of its future, and tend to divert his higher aims
from the obscure paths where tradition had been leading them, into more
fruitful channels. The truth will have at last dawned upon him, bearing
evidences in this age that none but the unenlightened can doubt, that
superstition, during many of the centuries past, has belittled the
world, and has discouraged humanity in improving it, under the mistaken
assumption of the world’s small comparative importance in the great
outcome; the circumstantial particulars, of which, it pretends to hold
by divine revelation. Having rid himself of these beliefs by a process
of reasoning, and the assistance of the available knowledge of his
time, he arrives at the conclusion that the best work of humanity is
not, altogether that taught by the creeds, and that its most divinely
inspired motives are those which tend to increase the knowledge of
worldly things, those which add to the sum of goodness in society by
exhibiting its practical effect toward happiness, and those also which
assist in the great end of equalizing the burdens and enjoyments of
life among all.
Having these conclusions firmly established in his mind, and the
undeserved reverence from early training removed, he becomes
especially fitted to examine these old beliefs, and to pass judgment
upon them, without that taint of blind devotional fervor which the
unremitted teaching of many centuries has rendered current in the
world. He observes of these old beliefs, that during their supremacy,
when their control of society was complete and unquestioned, the
material progress of mankind was least, without any compensating
condition to make up for the darkness, and dead mental activity that
had fallen upon it; except that apparent hypnotic influence from the
doctrines taught, which made men careless of their miseries, and
indifferent to the things of the earth. He observes, further, of
these old beliefs, that as modern knowledge reduces their hold of
authority among men, the world improves as it never did before. Even
charity, kindness, and good will to men, adopted, and long taught as an
inseparable part of them, multiply more rapidly as their weight in the
management of human affairs grow less. From these well attested facts
he arrives at the conviction that those religious societies, founded
upon, and which have for centuries labored to perpetuate these beliefs,
either are not possessed with all the elements of human progress,
or, that having many of such elements, they have others of such
neutralizing and retarding effect as to render the first futile for
such a purpose. That the latter is the case, every year added to his
experience of life removes the doubt, and explains to his understanding
why the religious societies of the world have failed in any great
degree to advance the material and intellectual condition of mankind.
With a moral code, every provision of which plainly indicates the
method of a better social state, these religious societies have
indissolubly associated in their teachings certain doctrinal beliefs,
originating in a semi-barbarous age, and laden with its superstitions,
with that fatal assumption of divine authority which demands their
acceptance every where and for all time. Beliefs of such unbending
rigidity, impossible adaption or amendment, and intolerance of dissent,
on account of their pretended sacred character, that the world has
been kept in a turmoil discussing them since their introduction, and
the more salutary lessons of morality and spiritual hope have been
outranked and submerged by these vain and profitless discussions.
These beautiful and attractive lessons of love, kindness, and charity,
exemplified and taught through a personality, whose gift of genius was
to see, above all other men, the needs of humanity, have attracted
men and women into these religious societies as the hungry are
attracted by stores of food. Once within their lines, and imbued with
the doctrines there found, they see but little abroad in the outside
world but the evil spirit of Sheol. To them, its shadow rests upon
much of the business of life, and with increased obscurity, upon many
of its pleasures. It even shows to them among those humanities which
are without their direction and cue. It is only however among the many
who openly deny their doctrines and authority that the evil spirit is
seen by them in all its hideous and malevolent personality, and their
especial mission is to give battle in that direction. Between he who
doubts, no matter how respectfully, and these religious societies, are
drawn their lines of kindness and charity, and with their sermons of
love, and their protestations of good will to mankind fresh upon them,
they are at any time, transformed, so far as their relations with a
doubter are concerned, into a band of hostile and relentless savages,
with inflictions of punishment, measured in degree by surrounding
enlightenment, from the actual barbaric torture of the savage, to mere
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* * * * *
Punch, or the London Charivari
Volume 105, December 16, 1893.
_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_
* * * * *
SEASONABLE SONNET.
(_By a Vegetarian._)
Yes, Christmas overtakes us yet once more.
The Cattle Show has vanished in the mists
Of time and Islington, but re-exists
In piecemeal splendour at the store.
Here, nightly, big boys blue are to the fore
With knives and choppers in their greasy fists;
And now, methinks, the wight who never lists
Yet hears the brass band on the proud first floor.
High over all rings "What d'ye buy, buy, buy?"
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PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI
VOLUME 104, MAY 27TH 1893
edited by Sir Francis Burnand
AN APPEAL FOR INSPIRATION.
[Mr. LEWIS MORRIS has been requested to write an ode
on the approaching Royal Marriage.]
AWAKE my Muse, inspire your LEWIS MORRIS
To pen an ode! to be another Horris!
"HORACE" I should have written, but in place of it
You see the word--well, I'm within an _ace_ of it.
Awake my muse! strike up! your bard inspire
To write this--"by particular desire."
Wet towels! Midnight oil! Here! Everything
That can induce the singing bard to sing.
Shake me, Ye Nine! I'm resolute, I'm bold!
Come, Inspiration, lend thy furious hold!
MORRIS on Pegasus! Plank money down!
I'll back myself to win the Laureate's Crown!
* * * * *
THE CHIEF SECRETARY'S MUSICAL PERFORMANCE, WITH ACCOMPANIMENT.
--Mr. JOHN MORLEY arrived last Friday at Kingston. He went to Bray.
He was "accompanied" by the Under Secretary. Surely the Leader of the
Opposition, now at Belfast, won't lose such a chance as this item of
news offers.
* * * * *
THE "WATER-CARNIVAL."--Good idea! But a very large proportion of those
whom the show attracts would be all the better for a Soap-and-Water
Carnival. Old Father Thames might be considerably improved by the
process.
* * * * *
[Illustration: A RESERVED SEAT.
_Mistress._ "WELL, JAMES, HOW DID YOU LIKE THE SHOW? I HOPE YOU GOT A
GOOD VIEW."
_Jim._ "YES THANKYE, M'M; I SAW IT FIRST-RATE. THERE WAS ROOM FUR FOUR
OR FIVE MORE WHERE I WAS."
_Mistress (surprised)._ "INDEED!--WHERE WAS THAT?"
_Jim._ "IN THE PARK, M'M,--UP A CHES'NUT TREE."]
* * * * *
ODDS BOBBILI!
(_The Rajah of Bobbili arrived by P.& O. at Marseilles, where he
was received by Col. Humphrey on behalf of the Queen._)
There was a gay Rajah of Bobbili
Who felt when a steamer on wobblely,
"Delighted," says he,
"Colonel HUMPHREY to see,"
So they dined and they drank hobby-nobbeley.
* * * * *
IS THE _TIMES_ ALSO AMONG THE PUNSTERS?--In its masterly, or rather
school-masterly, article last Saturday, on "The Divisions on the
Home-Rule Bill," written with the special intention of whipping up the
Unionist absentees, the _Times_ said, "There is an opinion that, with
a measure so far-reaching in its character as the Home-Rule Bill,
pairing should be resorted to as sparingly as possible." The eye
gifted with a three-thousand-joke-search-light power sees the pun at
once, and reproduces it italicised, to be read aloud, thus--"_Pairing_
should be resorted to _as pairingly_ as possible." What shall he have
who makes a pun in the _Times_? Our congratulations. Henceforth, to
the jest-detectors this new development may prove most interesting.
* * * * *
IMPERIAL INSTITUTE NOTICE AT THE RECEPTION.--"Guests must retain
their wraps and _Head Coverings_." Evidently no bald men admitted.
* * * * *
AUSTRALIAN SONG IN MINOR KEY FOR ANY NUMBER OF VOICES.
--"_I Know a Bank!_"
* * * * *
A BUSINESS LETTER.
["Marriage is daily becoming a more commercial affair."
--_A Society Paper._]
DEAR FRED,--Your favour of the 3rd,
Has had my very best attention,
But yet I cannot, in a word,
Accept you on the terms you mention;
Indeed, wherever you may try,
According to the last advices
You'll meet, I fear, the same reply--
"It can't be done, at current prices!"
In vain an ancient name you show,
In vain for intellect are noted,
Blue blood and brains, you surely know,
At nominal amounts are quoted;
And then, I see, you're weak enough
To offer "love, sincere, unstudied,"--
Why, Sir, with such Quixotic stuff
The market's absolutely flooded!
But--every day this fact confirms--
The time is over for romances,
And whether we can come to terms
Depends alone on your finances.
So, would you think me over-bold
If I, with deference, requested
A statement of what funds you hold?
In what securities invested?
For, candidly, in such affairs
A speedy bid your only chance is,
A boom in Yankee millionnaires
May soon result in marked advances;
With you I'd willingly be wed,
To like you well enough I'm able,
But first submit your bank-book, FRED,
To your (perhaps) devoted MABEL!
* * * * *
SUSPIRIA.
(_By a Fogey._)
I would I were a boy!
Not for the tarts we once were fain to eat,
The penny ice, the jumble sticky-sweet,
The tip's deciduous joy--
Not; for the keen delight
Of break-neck'scapes, the charm of getting wet,
The joy of battle (strongest when you get
Two other chaps to fight).
No! times have changed since then.
The social whirlpool has engulfed the boys;
Robb'd of their simple, hardy, rowdy joys,
They start from scratch as men.
The winners in the race!
Secure of worship, each his triumphs tells,
Weighing with faintly-praising syllables
The fairest form and face.
Once, in the mazy crush,
Ingenuous youth, half timid, and half proud,
By girlhood's pity had its claims allow'd,
And worshipp'd with a blush.
Time was when tender years
Would hug sweet sorrow to the heart, and blur
The cross-barr'd bliss of the confectioner
With crushed affection's tears.
That humbleness is sped,
The vivid blazon of self-conscious youth,
The unwilling witness to whole-hearted truth,
Ne'er troubles boyhood's head.
Now with a solemn pride,
Lord of the future's limitless expanse,
The Stoic stripling tolerates the dance
Weary, yet dignified.
Propping the mirror'd wall,
No joy of motion, no desire to please,
Thaws those high-collar'd Caryatides,
Inane, imperial.
Girls, with their collars too,
Their mannish maskings, and their unveil'd eyes,
Would feel, if girls can be surprised, surprise
Should courteous worship woo.
From their exalted place
The boys their favours dole, as seems them well,
Woman's calm tyrants, showing, truth to tell,
More tolerance than grace.
* * * * *
DOUBLE RIDDLE.--Why is a whist-player, fast asleep after his fifth
game, like one of the latest-patented cabs? Because he can be briefly
alluded to as "Rubber Tires." (_Riddle adaptable also to exhausted
manipulator in Turkish Bath after a hard day's work._)
* * * * *
[Illustration: THE MONEY-BOXING KANGAROO.
(_Knocked-Out--for the Time!_)]
Pity the sorrows of a poor "Old Man,"
Whose pouch is emptied of its golden store;
Whose girth seems dwindling to its shortest span,
Who needs relief, and needs it more and more.
_Punch's_ appeal for the marsupial martyr
Is based upon an ancient nursery model;
But he will find that he has caught a Tartar,
Who hints that _Punch_ is talking heartless twaddle.
Knocked out this round, and verily no wonder!
The Money-boxing Kangaroo is plucky:
But when a chance-blow smites the jaw like thunder,
A champion may succumb to fluke unlucky.
The Australian Cricketers in their first game
Went down; but BLACKHAM'S bhoys high hopes still foster;
Duffers who think 'twill always be the same,
Reckoned without their GIFFEN! Just ask GLO'STER!
So our pouched pugilist, though his chance _looks_ poor,
Will come up smiling soon, surviving failure;
And an admiring ring will shout once more,
(_Pardon the Cockney rhyme!_) "Advance, Australia!!!"
* * * * *
THE ARMS (AND LEGS) OF THE ISLE OF MAN.--At a discussion on
Sunday-trading, one day last month, there was an attempt made to raise
a question as to breach of privilege. The Speaker, however, stopped
this at the outset, advising them that they "hadn't a leg to stand
upon." Very little advantage in having three legs on such an occasion.
The odd part of these Manx-men's legs is that they are their arms.
It was originally selected as pictorially exhibiting the innocent
character of the Manx Islanders. For their greatest enemy must own
that "the strange device" of the three legs is utterly 'armless.
* * * * *
THE END OF THE DROUGHT.
(_By a Cab-horse._)
Don't talk to us in praise of rain!
When we are slipping once again;
This beastly shower
Has made wood-pavements thick with slime.
Suppose you try another time,
By mile or hour;
See how you'd like to trot and trip,
To stop and stagger, slide and slip,
Pulled up affrighted,
Urged madly on, then checked once more,
Whilst from some omnibus's door
Some lout alighted.
You would not find much cause to laugh,
Like us, you would not care for chaff
Were you such draggers;
Your shoes would soon be off, or worn,
You'd get, what we don't often, corn,
And end with staggers.
You'd long to be put out to grass,
Infrequent so far with your class--
NEBUCHADNEZZAR
Was quite an isolated case--
You would be tired of life's long-race;
Slaves who in Fez are,
On the Sahara could not bear
Such toil as falleth to our share,
For death would free them.
You say the farmer wants the wet
For meadows; pray do not forget
We never see them.
Philanthropists, why don't you walk?
Of slaves' hard lives you blandly talk,
Like "Uncle TOM"--nay,
You think what your own horses do,
But we--there, get along with you!
_Allez vous promener!_
* * * * *
CHANGE ITS NAME!--An estate in the Island of Fowlness, Essex, of 382
acres, was put up to auction last week, and, according to the _Daily
News_ there was only one bid at a little short of eight pounds per
acre. "The property was withdrawn." This step was judicious and
correct. It was an act of fairness to Fowlness. But then, does it
sound nice for anyone to say, "I'm living in the midst of Fowlness"?
It may be a Paradise, but it doesn't sound like it.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MISUNDERSTOOD.
_Little Girl._ "OH, MAMMA, I'M SO GLAD YOU HAD SUCH A PLEASANT DINNER
AT THE VICARAGE. AND--WHO TOOK YOU IN?"
_Mother._ "WHO TOOK _ME_ IN, DEAR CHILD! NO MAN EVER TOOK _ME_ IN.
NOT EVEN YOUR DEAR FATHER; FOR WHEN I MARRIED HIM, I KNEW ALL HIS
FAULTS!"]
* * * * *
The Mellor of the C.
AIR--_"The Miller of the Dee."_
There was a jolly MELLOR,
The Chairman of Com-mit_tee_;
They worried him from noon till night--
"No lark is this!" sighed he;
And this the burden of his song
For ever seems to be,
"I care for e-ve-rybody,--why
Does nobody care for me?"
* * * * *
VESTRIES, PLEASE COPY!--Sir RICHARD TEMPLE has announced a reduction
of the School-Board Rate by a farthing in the pound. May he never
become a ruined Temple owing to such economies! The Rate-payers will
be grateful for even a fraction of a penny, so long as it is not an
improper fraction. This sort of saving is far better than squabbling
over Theology. Says _Mr. Punch_ to Schoolboardmen, "Rate the public
lightly, and don't rate each other at all!"
* * * * *
NEW SARUM VERSION OF "_DERRY DOWN_."--"Derry _up!_ up! Up, Derry, up!"
* * * * *
Poor Letter H.
SCENE--_Undergraduate's Room in St. Boniface's College, Oxford.
Breakfast time._
_Servant._ I see, Sir, you don't like the butter. Summer _h_air will
get to it this 'ot weather.
_Testy Undergrad._ Confound it, LUKER, I don't mind the--ahem--hair,
but kindly let me have my butter bald the next time!
[_He had swallowed a hair._
* * * * *
_Under the Great Seal_ is a new work by Mr. JOSEPH HATTON. The Busy
Baron hath not yet had time to read it, but, from answers given to his
"fishing interrogatories," he gathers that international piscatorial
questions are ably discussed in the work. JOSEPH has lost a chance in
not dedicating it to SEALE-HAYNE, M.P., and, instead of being brought
out by HUTCHINSON & Co., it ought to have been published by SEELEY.
However, even JOSEPHUS HATTONENSIS can't think of everything, though
he does write on most things.
* * * * *
AT THE NEW GALLERY.
IN THE CENTRAL HALL.
_A Potential Purchaser (meeting a friend)._ Ha--just come in to take a
look round, eh? So did I. Fact is--(_with a mixture of importance
and apology_) I rather thought of _buying_ a picture here, if I see
anything that takes my _fancy_--y' know.
_His Friend (impressed)._ Not many who can afford to throw money away
on pictures, these hard times!
_The P. P. (anxious to disclaim any idea of recklessness)._ Just the
time to pick 'em up cheap, if you know what you're about. And you see,
we've had the drawing-room done up, and the wife wants something to
fill up the space over her writing-table, between the fireplace and
one of the windows. She was to have met me here, but she couldn't turn
up, so I shall have to do it all myself--unless you'll come and help
me through with it?
_His Friend._ Oh, if I can be of any use--What sort of thing do you
want?
_The P. P._ Well, that's the difficulty. She says it must match the
new paper. I've brought a bit in my pocket with me. His Friend. Then
you can't go _very_ far wrong!
_The P. P._ I don't know. It's a sort of paper that--here, I'd better
show it you. (_He produces a sample of fiery and untamed colour._)
That'll give you an _idea_ of it.
_His Friend (inspecting it dubiously)._ Um--yes. I see you'll have to
be _careful_.
_The P. P._ Careful, my dear fellow! I assure you I've been all
through the Academy, and there wasn't a thing there that could stand
it for a single moment--not even the R.A.'s!
[_They enter the West Room._
IN THE WEST ROOM.
_An Insipid Young Person (before_ Mr. TADEMA'S "_Unconscious
Rivals_"). Yes, that's _marble_, isn't it?
[_Smiles with pleasure at her own penetration._
_Her Mother (cautiously)._ I _imagine_ so. (_She refers to
Catalogue._) Oh! I see it's a Tadema, so of _course_ it's marble. He's
the great _man_ for it, you know!
_First Painter (who had nothing ready to send in this year)._ H'm,
yes. Can't say I care about the way he's placed his azalea. I should
have kept it more to the left, myself.
_Second Painter (who sent in, but is not exhibiting)._ Composition
wants bringing together, and the colour scheme is a little
unfortunate, but--(_generously_) I shouldn't call it altogether _bad_.
_First Painter (more grudgingly)._ Oh, you can see what he was
_trying_ for--only--well, it's not the way _I_ should have gone about
it.
[_They pass on tolerantly._
_The I. Y. P._ Can you make this picture out, Mamma? "_The Track of
the Strayed?_" The Strayed _what_?
_Her Mother._ Sheep, I should suppose, my dear--but it would have
been more satisfactory certainly if the animal had been shown _in_ the
picture.
_The I. Y. P._ Yes, ever so much. Oh, here's a portrait of Mr.
GLADSTONE reading the Lessons in Hawarden Church. I _do_ like
that--don't you?
_Her Mother._ I'm not sure that I do, my dear. I wonder they permitted
the Artist to paint any portrait--even Mr. GLADSTONE'S--during
service!
_The P. P. (before another canvas)._ Now that's about the size I want;
but I'm not sure that my wife would quite care about the _subject_.
_His Friend._ I'm rather fond of these allegorical affairs myself--for
a drawing-room, you know.
_The P. P._ Well, I'll just try the paper against it. (_He applies
the test, and shakes his head._) "There, you _see_--knocks it all to
pieces at once!"
[Illustration: "There, you _see_--knocks it all to pieces at once!"]
_His Friend._ I was afraid it would, y' know. How will _this_ do
you--_"A Naiad"?_
_The P. P._ I shouldn't object to it myself, but there's the Wife to
be considered--and then, a _Naiad_--eh?
_His friend._ She's half _in_ the water.
_The P. P._ Yes, but then--those lily-leaves in her hair, you know,
and--and coming up all dripping like that--no, it's hardly worth while
bringing out the paper again!
_The I. Y. P._ Isn't this queer--"_Neptune's Horses_"?--They _can't_
be intended to represent _waves_, surely!
_Her Mother._ It's impossible to tell what the Painter intended, my
dear, but I never saw waves so like horses as that.
IN THE NORTH ROOM.
_The I. Y. P. "Cain's First Crime."_ Why, he's only feeding a stork! I
don't see any crime in that.
_Her Mother._ He's giving it a live lizard, my dear.
_The I. Y. P._ But storks _like_ live lizards, don't they? And ADAM
and EVE are looking on, and don't seem to mind.
_Her Mother._ I expect that's the moral of it. If they'd taken it away
from him, and punished him at the time, he wouldn't have turned out so
badly as he did--but it's too late to think of that _now_!
_A Matter-of-fact Person (behind)._ I wonder, now, where he got his
_authority_ for that incident. It's new to _me_.
IN THE BALCONY.
_The Mother of the I. Y. P._ Oh, CAROLINE, _you_'ve got the
Catalogue--just see what No. 288 is, there's a dear. It seems to be
a country-house, and they're having dinner in the garden, and some
of the guests have come late, and without dressing, and there's the
hostess telling them it's of no consequence. What's the title--"_The
Uninvited Guests_," or "_Putting them at their Ease_," or what?
_The I. Y. P._ It only says, _"The Rose-Garden at Ashridge_
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[Illustration: Hazeley Family. Page 23.]
THE HAZELEY FAMILY
BY
Mrs. A. E. JOHNSON
_PHILADELPHIA_
American Baptist Publication Society
_1420 CHESTNUT STREET_
THE HAZELEY FAMILY
BY
MRS. A. E. JOHNSON
_Author of Clarence and Corinne_
PHILADELPHIA
AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY
1420 CHESTNUT STREET
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1894, by the
AMERICAN BAPTIST PUBLICATION SOCIETY,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
THE HAZELEY HOME, 5
CHAPTER II.
FLORA AT HOME, 15
CHAPTER III.
RUTH RUDD, 26
CHAPTER IV.
FLORA'S FIRST SUNDAY, 37
CHAPTER V.
THE BEGINNING, 46
CHAPTER VI.
SOME RESULTS, 58
CHAPTER VII.
A VISIT TO MAJOR JOE, 67
CHAPTER VIII.
MORE RESULTS, 79
CHAPTER IX.
RUTH'S NEW HOME, 89
CHAPTER X.
LOTTIE PIPER, 97
CHAPTER XI.
CHANGES, 106
CHAPTER XII.
LED AWAY, 117
CHAPTER XIII.
IN THE HOSPITAL AND OUT AGAIN, 124
CHAPTER XIV.
A CHAPTER OF WONDERS, 132
CHAPTER XV.
GOING HOME, 142
CHAPTER XVI.
LOTTIE'S TRIALS, 151
CHAPTER XVII.
MORE SURPRISES, 162
CHAPTER XVIII.
A CHRISTMAS INVITATION, 171
CHAPTER XIX.
A HOMELY WEDDING, 180
THE HAZELEY FAMILY.
CHAPTER I.
THE HAZELEY HOME.
Sixteen-year-old Flora Hazeley stood by the table in the dingy little
dining room, looking down earnestly and thoughtfully at a shapely,
yellow sweet potato.
It was only a potato, but the sight of it brought to its owner, not only
a crowd of pleasant memories, but a number of unpleasant anticipations.
Hence, the earnest, thoughtful expression on her young face.
Flora was the only daughter. She had two brothers, one older and one
younger than herself, Harry and Alec, aged respectively, eighteen and
thirteen. The mother was of an easy-going, careless disposition, and
seemed indifferent to the management of her household. Especially did
she dislike responsibility of any kind. She was well pleased, therefore,
to receive one day a letter from her sister, Mrs. Graham, a childless
widow, offering to take Flora, who was then just five years old,
promising to rear her as if she had been her own daughter.
Mrs. Graham was well off. In her case this meant that she lived in a
pretty home of her own, with a nice income, not only supporting herself
in comfort, but permitting her to provide a home for her elder sister
for many years, who had entire charge of the housekeeping. This sister,
Mrs. Sarah Martin, was also a widow and childless. The resemblance went
no further, for they differed, not only in manner, but opinions,
thoughts, and character.
Mrs. Graham, after a great deal of careful thought, had come to the
conclusion to adopt her little niece. In fact she had often thought it
over ever since the child first began to walk, and call her by name. She
was a sensible woman, and it always annoyed her when she would visit her
sister to see the careless way in which the children were being trained.
Seeing this, she had long wished to take and train Flora according to
her own idea of what constituted the education of a girl.
"It will be so much worse for her than for the boys," she had said one
day to Mrs. Martin. "I do dislike to see such a bright little child
brought up to be good for nothing; and that is just the way in which it
will be, if I do not take charge of her myself."
The latter clause was intended to draw indirectly from her sister an
opinion of such a proceeding, for Mrs. Martin was by no means partial to
children. However, it was received with the indifferent observation:
"Esther never did have any interest in children anyhow. She never had
any idea how to take care of herself, much less anybody else," to which
was added a remark to the effect that if her sister Bertha chose to
burden herself with a troublesome child, she was sure she had nothing to
do with the matter, and did not intend to have.
Mrs. Graham was rather surprised to have her suggestion received so
coolly. She had expected a great deal of trouble in getting Sarah to
consent, even provisionally. She was very glad to meet no more serious
opposition, for, although she had fully decided in her own mind
regarding the matter, yet her peace-loving nature dreaded unpleasant
scenes. She purposely and entirely overlooked the expression of stern
determination in the sharp-featured countenance of her sister, and
forthwith resolved to send for Flora without further loss of time.
Thus it was that Flora Hazeley changed homes. She was not legally
adopted by her aunt, but was simply taken with the understanding she
would be returned to her parents in case Mrs. Graham should in any way
change her mind, or weary of her charge. This provision was inserted by
Mrs. Martin, who determined, in spite of her seeming indifference, not
to be ignored by her sister, upon whose bounty she considered she had a
primary claim.
For eleven years Flora lived in the pretty home of her Aunt Bertha. Her
time was filled by various occupations, school, caring for the flowers
in the garden, and dreaming under the old peach tree, which never bore
any peaches, but grew on contentedly in the farthest corner of the yard.
However, these were by no means the only ways in which Flora spent her
time, for Mrs. Martin, notwithstanding her stern resolve not to have
anything to do with her, had suddenly taken an equally stern
determination to do her share toward "bringing sister Esther's child up
properly."
This was fortunate for Flora. Aunt Sarah instructed her thoroughly and
carefully in the details of housekeeping, cooking, serving, washing, in
fact, everything she knew herself. How fortunate it was that she learned
how to do these things, Flora realized some time afterward, as Mrs.
Martin had intended she should. While she was learning them, Flora's
progress was due rather more to the awe she felt of her stern aunt than
to the desire to excel.
Mrs. Martin was ever ready to scold and find fault. Mrs. Graham never
criticised, but always had a bright smile and something pleasant to say.
As a natural consequence, she was dearly loved by her niece.
Mrs. Hazeley, Flora's mother, delighted to be relieved of her
troublesome little girl, settled down more contentedly than ever, to
enjoy the quiet of her daughter's absence, and became daily more and
more indisposed to exert herself in order to make her home attractive.
It was usually pretty quiet now, because neither of the boys stayed in
the house a moment longer than necessity demanded. Mr. Hazeley was
employed on the railroad, and consequently was away from home a great
deal. Mrs. Hazeley did little but turn aimlessly about, making herself
believe that she was a very hard-working woman and then imagining
herself much fatigued, found it necessary to rest often and long. She
was at heart a good woman, when that organ could be reached, but
possessed a weak, vacillating disposition, entirely lacking the gentle
firmness of her sister, Mrs. Graham, or the uncompromising energy of
Mrs. Martin.
Mr. Hazeley had long ceased to complain of his home and its management,
for his words had no further effect than to bring upon himself a storm
of tearful scolding, which drove him out of the house to seek more
genial quarters. He was by nature a peaceable man, and when he found
that neither ease nor peace could be had at home, remained there as
little as possible. In fact, as Mrs. Hazeley's sisters had often said,
"if the whole family did not go to ruin, it would not be Esther's
fault."
Flora's life at her aunt's pleasant home had been a very happy one, and
the time passed rapidly away. She was nearly through school, and looked
eagerly forward into the future, that to her was so full of brightest
hopes. It was her ambition to be of some use in the world. Just what she
wanted to do, she did not know--she had not yet determined; but that it
was to be something great and good, she was confident, for small things
did not enter into her conception of usefulness.
Aunt Bertha was her confidante for all her plans, or rather, dreams; she
could do nothing without Aunt Bertha, for had not she the means? Flora
felt sure nothing great could be done without money, that is, nothing
she would care to do.
But, alas! Her summer sky, so promising and brilliant with hopes and
indefinite plans, was suddenly overcast. Aunt Bertha was taken ill one
day; the doctor said it was prostration, and he feared she might not
rally. Flora was told. Her Aunt Bertha, whom she loved so dearly, and
who loved her so much! Must she die? "I love her far more than my
mother," she whispered to herself. This seemed very disloyal in Flora.
But in truth, she had little cause to love the mother who had been so
eager to relinquish her claim, and who, in all these years, had never
expressed a wish to have her daughter at home.
During her sister's illness, Aunt Sarah spent her time in constant
attendance upon her. She was cold, stern, and unapproachable as ever,
giving the child little information in regard to the sick one who had
been so kind to her. She was not allowed to enter the sick room during
the first of her aunt's illness, although Mrs. Graham had often asked to
see her niece.
One day, just before the spirit passed away, the sick woman called her
sister, and said in a weak, trembling voice:
"Sister, I suppose you know I cannot live long, and that my will is
made."
Mrs. Martin silently nodded.
"Well," continued Mrs. Graham, "I have left everything to you--I thought
it would be best."
Again a silent nod.
"But, Sarah, I want you to promise one thing; that you will see Flora
has what she needs to carry out her plans. The dear child has so longed
to carry out some of her plans. I want her to have means to make
whatever she may decide upon a success. And one more thing," she
continued, pausing for breath, and looking pleadingly into the face
above her, "I do hope, Sarah, that you will keep Flora here with you. Do
not send her back to her home. I have left all I own in your hands, and
I trust to you, sister, to do what I wish."
This long expression of her wishes had so taxed the fast-failing
strength of the invalid, that she sank back, exhausted. No answer was
expected, and Mrs. Martin was silent; and silent too, because she had
not the slightest intention of doing as her sister wished. It was truly
heartless; but Mrs. Martin was one of those people who do not present
the harsh side of their nature in all its intensity until the reins of
power are placed in their hands. So long as Mrs. Graham held the
purse-strings, she acquiesced with as much grace as possible in her
sister's plans. Was not the money Mrs. Graham's to do with as she
pleased? It was quite a different thing, however, to feel that now
everything would be in her hands to use as she chose. No matter if the
donor was still looking into her face, her mind was made up that things
should be ordered in the future according to her good pleasure. It was
not at all her wish to burden herself with Esther's child, and forthwith
she decided that back to her home Flora should go. However, she did not
allow these unworthy thoughts to disturb the last moments of her
tender-hearted sister, by giving expression to them. So good Mrs. Graham
passed peacefully away.
Flora was allowed to see her shortly before she died. The kind voice
whispered words of comfort, telling her that Aunt Sarah would take care
of her. These words fell unnoticed at the time upon the ear of the
sobbing girl, who had been so accustomed to have Aunt Bertha think and
plan for her.
CHAPTER II.
FLORA AT HOME.
Mrs. Graham's life had been a quiet, unobtrusive, but truly Christian
one. She had neglected no opportunity to implant in her young niece a
love and reverence for holy things; and now that she was about to die,
she felt that she had nothing to regret, that she had left no duty
unfulfilled, so far as Flora's training was concerned. It was with a
heart full of peace that she commended her charge to the "One above all
others" and took her leave of earth.
Flora was almost inconsolable. She had no one to comfort her, for Aunt
Sarah was as distant as ever, being entirely too much occupied with
plans for the future to care about Flora. Her mother came to the
funeral, but neither was overjoyed to see the other after their long
separation. It could scarcely be otherwise. Natural affection had never
been conspicuous in the Hazeley home, and the influence of these years
apart had not helped matters at all. Indeed, they were little more to
each other than strangers.
After they returned from the cemetery, however, Aunt Sarah informed
Flora she was to return with her mother to her former, and as she deemed
it, rightful home. The feelings with which the girl received this
intelligence were by no means pleasant ones. But there was no use in
crying or fretting about it, for when Aunt Sarah said a thing, she meant
it, and could not be induced to alter her decision, even if Flora had
felt inclined to ask her to do so. This she had no thought of doing, for
she was not at all anxious to make her home with her cold, distant aunt.
"It is too bad!" she exclaimed, as she thought of all the bright helpful
plans she and Aunt Bertha had made together, and which they had hoped to
be able to carry out. "It is too bad!" she sobbed, as she bent over her
trunk in her pretty little bedroom, the tears falling on the tasteful
dresses, and the many loving tokens that had been given her by the dear
hands now at rest beneath the unfeeling earth in the churchyard.
Mrs. Martin was surprised that Flora's mother made no objection to
taking her daughter home. The truth was Mrs. Hazeley had been wanting
this very thing for some time. It was not, however, because of any
particularly affectionate or motherly feeling toward her child; but she
had been thinking that Flora, of whose ability she had heard much, would
be a very great help to her in caring for the house. Thus it was that
Flora returned to the home she had left eleven years before.
Just as the train was preparing to leave the station, Lottie Piper, one
of Flora's friends and admirers, came running to the car, and tossed
something through the open window into Flora's lap, saying hurriedly and
pantingly, as she pressed the hand held out to her:
"There, Flora, take that. Don't laugh. I raised it all myself, and I
want you to have it; but don't eat it! Keep it to remember me by.
Good-bye," she called, as the train moved off.
Flora waved her handkerchief out of the window to Lottie, until her arm
was tired. As she looked about the cars her attention was attracted by a
titter from the opposite side. At first she could not understand why the
girl who sat there should look at her and smile. As her neighbor gazed
at her lap, Flora's eyes followed, and there she saw the cause of the
merriment in Lottie's parting gift--a yellow sweet potato.
At first she felt inclined to be provoked with Lottie for bringing such
a thing and causing her to be laughed at. However, the remembrance of
her parting words, "I raised it all myself; but don't eat it!" made her
smile in spite of herself. This encouraged the girl opposite to slip
over to the seat beside Flora, as Mrs. Hazeley was occupying the one in
front, and the two girls, although entire strangers to each other,
chatted away busily, until the train stopped at one of the stations,
where the girl and her father, who sat farther back, left the car. Soon
after, Flora found herself at home, Bartonville and Brinton being but a
short distance apart.
This brings us to the opening of our story.
It was Lottie's potato that lay upon the table, and Flora had been
wondering what to do with it. The memories it awakened were of Brinton
and the many pleasant strolls and romps she had enjoyed with Lottie in
her father's fields, which joined Mrs. Graham's, of Aunt Bertha herself,
and much more.
"But what am I to do with the potato?" she questioned. "I am not to eat
it. I don't care to, either. Oh! I know, I will plant it in a jar of
water and let it grow. That would please Lottie, I guess."
She soon found a jar such as she wanted, and after washing it clean and
bright, filled it full of clear water, and carefully placed the potato,
end up, in it, and then looked about for a suitable place for it.
"That window has a good broad seat," she said to herself; "and it is
sunny, but the glass is so grimy! However, it will do. Better yet, I
will open the window."
This was more easily said than done, for, although the weather was still
warm--it being September--the window did not appear to have been opened
for some time.
Flora struggled and pushed, and at length succeeded in opening it,
making noise enough as she did so, to attract the attention of a young
girl who was passing. She stopped, looking up, inquiringly.
Flora was heated with her exertions and the thought of having attracted
attention, so that before she realized what she was doing, she was
smiling and saying:
"This old window was very hard to raise, but I was determined to do it."
"No," said the girl, looking as if she was not quite sure that it was
the right thing to say.
"What is that in the jar?" she asked, as she came closer, and looked at
the potato curiously, and then at Flora in a friendly way that pleased
her.
"This," said Flora, patting the vegetable; "it is a potato."
"But what have you put it in there for?" persisted the girl.
"To grow, to be sure."
"Will it grow?"
"Of course it will," replied Flora, with an important air. "See! water
is in this jar, and soon this potato will sprout, send roots down and
leaves up, and then--and then--it will just keep on growing, you know."
And Flora felt sure that she had put quite an artistic finish to her
description of potato culture.
"Oh, yes," cried her new acquaintance, with an intelligent light in her
eyes; "I know very well what will happen then."
"What?" asked Flora, rather dubiously.
"Why, little sweet potatoes will grow on the roots, of course."
"I--I don't think they will," said Flora, hesitatingly, not being well
versed on the subject.
"Yes; but they must--they always do," returned the girl, positively.
"Well, but there would be no room in the jar for potatoes to grow," said
Flora.
"That's so." And the girl looked puzzled; then they both laughed, not
knowing what else to do.
"What is your name?" asked Flora, by way of changing the subject, for
she was a little fearful she might be asked to explain why little sweet
potatoes would not grow in her jar.
"My name is Ruth Rudd," was the answer. "What is yours?"
"Flora Hazeley."
"Is it? Well, I live just back of your house, on the next street.
Good-bye. I guess I will see you some other time." And she hurried away.
"She is a real nice girl," Flora thought, as she turned away from the
window; "I hope I can see her again."
She stood for an instant looking about the room. It was nicely
furnished, but it looked neglected and untidy, and Flora, having been so
long accustomed to the attractiveness and order of her aunt's house,
felt home-sick. Her loneliness came over her in a great wave of
feeling, and running through the kitchen, out of the door, went into
the yard, which was a good-sized one, but so filled with rubbish and
piles of boards, scarcely noticed through her tears, that she met with
many a stumble before she reached the farther end. She wanted some quiet
place in which to sit and think, as she used to do under the old peach
tree at Brinton. She was sure she "could think of nothing in that
house," and the best she could do was to seat herself on an old block at
the very back of the yard. She felt she could think better out in the
open air, under the sky, for she was a great lover of nature, and loved
to look at the blue sky. The sun was under a cloud, but the air was warm
and pleasant.
How different were her thoughts now from what they had been under the
old peach tree! Then she had reveled in rose- dreams; now she was
confronted by gray realities. Her thoughts went rapidly over her life
since Aunt Bertha's death.
She had been here not quite a week, and she found it such a different
place from the home she had so lately left, that she was almost
unwilling to call it "home." But while she considered her present home
not very desirable, she had given no thought to the inmates, whether or
not they had found in _her_ a very desirable addition to the circle.
She was young, and she soon wearied of her sombre thoughts, which could
avail her nothing, and she glanced at the houses on each side of her
own. There was a marked difference. It was not in the style of the
building, for hers was the most attractive. It was, however, in the
general appearance, and Flora felt she would like to begin at the
topmost shingle and pull her home down to the ground. But the thought
came to her that then she would have no home. She knew there was no room
for her with Aunt Sarah, who was, no doubt, at this very moment enjoying
her absence.
"No, indeed, I do not want to live with Aunt Sarah," she thought; and
then began to wonder vaguely if she had not better go to work and try to
make her present home a more congenial one.
The more she thought about it, the better the idea pleased her. Just as
she was endeavoring to decide upon something definite to do, she was
startled by seeing a board in the fence, just behind her, pushed aside.
Before she could move, a round, fat, little face was thrust through the
opening, and a pair of inquisitive brown eyes were fastened upon her.
For a moment they looked, and then the owner squeezed through, and stood
still, eyeing Flora complacently.
"Well, and who are you? and what do you mean by coming in here that
way?" asked Flora, amused at the odd-looking little creature.
"I'm Jem," answered the <DW40>, coolly; "and I didn't mean nuffing."
"Jem? I thought you were a girl," said Flora, looking at the quaint,
short-waisted dress, that reached almost down to the copper toed shoes,
and the funny, little, short white apron, tied just under the fat arms,
which were squeezed into sleeves much too tight for them.
"So I am a girl," answered Jem, indignantly; "don't you see I've gut a
napron on wif pockets in?" And she thrust her chubby little fingers into
one of them.
"But you said your name was 'Jem,' and that's a boy's name," persisted
Flora, enjoying her odd companion.
"'Tain't none," was the sententious reply; "it's short for 'Jemima';
that's what my really name is."
"Well, Jemima, what do you want in here?"
"Nuffing."
"Nothing? Well, that isn't in here."
"There ain't anythin' else's I can see," retorted Jem, turning down the
corners of her mouth very far, and looking about disdainfully.
Flora laughed outright at this, but her visitor's countenance lost none
of its solemnity.
"You do not seem to admire my yard, Jem."
"Don't see anythin' to remire," retorted Jem. "You'd just ought to peep
in ours," and she moved over to the fence, and pulling away the board
with a triumphant air, motioned Flora to look. Flora looked, but the
first thing she saw was not the yard, but the young girl with whom she
had been talking not an hour since.
CHAPTER III.
RUTH RUDD.
Ruth, standing by a long wooden bench, in the neat, brick-paved yard,
was engaged in watering some plants that were her especial pride.
Hearing a noise at the fence, she turned, and recognizing Flora, smiled
and asked:
"Won't you come in?"
"Thank you," replied Flora, smiling in return. "I think I will."
Jem looked on wonderingly as her sister and the visitor, whom she
considered her especial property, chatted.
She could not understand how they knew each other. At length, as they
took no notice of her, she determined to assert herself; so, going up to
Flora, she demanded:
"What do you think of _my_ yard?"
"Oh," said Flora, recollecting for what purpose they had come, "I like
it very much indeed, Jem."
"It's a pretty good yard, I think," said Jem, with much emphasis on the
pronoun. "Come and look at the flowers, and I'll tell you the names of
them." And she drew Flora nearer the bench.
"This is a gibonia," she continued, pointing with her fat finger to the
flower named.
"You mean a 'begonia,' don't you, Jem?" said Flora.
"Yes," answered Jem, without changing countenance in the least, or
seeming in any way abashed; "and this is a gerangum."
"A geranium," corrected Flora. "Yes, I see."
"And this is a chipoonia," pointing to a petunia, "and--Oh, there's
Pokey!" and breaking away in the midst of her explanations, she gave
chase to a fat little gray kitten that just then scampered across the
yard, and into the house.
"What | 2,206.647271 |
2023-11-16 18:53:50.8632100 | 1,799 | 8 |
Produced by Alan, 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)
With the Dyaks of Borneo
BY Captain Brereton
=Kidnapped by Moors=: A Story of Morocco. 6_s._
=A Boy of the Dominion=: A Tale of Canadian Immigration. 5_s._
=The Hero of Panama=: A Tale of the Great Canal. 6_s._
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=A Hero of Sedan=: A Tale of the Franco-Prussian War. 6_s._
=How Canada was Won=: A Tale of Wolfe and Quebec. 6_s._
=With Wolseley to Kumasi=: The First Ashanti War. 6_s._
=Roger the Bold=: A Tale of the Conquest of Mexico. 6_s._
=Under the Chinese Dragon=: A Tale of Mongolia. 5_s._
=Indian and Scout=: A Tale of the Gold Rush to California. 5_s._
=John Bargreave's Gold=: Adventure in the Caribbean. 5_s._
=Roughriders of the Pampas=: Ranch Life in South America. 5_s._
=Jones of the 64th=: Battles of Assaye and Laswaree. 5_s._
=With Roberts to Candahar=: Third Afghan War. 5_s._
=A Hero of Lucknow=: A Tale of the Indian Mutiny. 5_s._
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=Tom Stapleton, the Boy Scout.= 3_s._ 6_d._
=With Shield and Assegai=: A Tale of the Zulu War. 3_s._ 6_d._
=Under the Spangled Banner=: The Spanish-American War. 3_s._ 6_d._
=With the Dyaks of Borneo=: A Tale of the Head Hunters. 3_s._ 6_d._
=A Knight of St. John=: A Tale of the Siege of Malta. 3_s._ 6_d._
=Foes of the Red Cockade=: The French Revolution. 3_s._ 6_d._
=In the King's Service=: Cromwell's Invasion of Ireland. 3_s._ 6_d._
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LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LTD., 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C.
[Illustration: THE PIRATES' STRONGHOLD]
With
The Dyaks of Borneo
A Tale of the Head Hunters
BY
CAPTAIN F. S. BRERETON
Author of "Kidnapped by Moors" "A Boy of the Dominion" "The Hero of
Panama" "Tom Stapleton, the Boy Scout" &c.
_ILLUSTRATED BY WILLIAM RAINEY, R.I_.
NEW EDITION
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
CONTENTS
CHAP. Page
I. TYLER RICHARDSON 9
II. EASTWARD HO! 24
III. PREPARING FOR A JOURNEY 40
IV. A TRAITOR AND A VILLAIN 58
V. ESCAPE FROM THE SCHOONER 76
VI. COURAGE WINS THE DAY 96
VII. FLIGHT ACROSS THE LAND 116
VIII. MEETING THE DYAKS 136
IX. ON FOOT THROUGH THE JUNGLE 156
X. THE PIRATE STRONGHOLD 176
XI. A MIDNIGHT ENCOUNTER 196
XII. CAPTAIN OF A FLEET 216
XIII. THE RAJAH OF SARAWAK 236
XIV. A DANGEROUS ENTERPRISE 256
XV. OFF TO THE RIVER SABEBUS 274
XVI. HEMMED IN 294
XVII. DANGER AND DIFFICULTY 314
XVIII. A NARROW ESCAPE 334
XIX. AN ATTACK UPON THE STOCKADES 354
XX. THE END OF THE CHASE 373
ILLUSTRATIONS
Page
THE PIRATES' STRONGHOLD _Frontispiece_ 185
THE FIGHT AT THE STERN 78
"HE SPRANG AT TYLER" 138
THE CONFERENCE WITH THE TRIBESMEN 150
ELUDING THE PIRATES 238
"HE LAUNCHED THE MISSILE AT THEM" 296
CHAPTER I
Tyler Richardson
It was a balmy autumn day four years after Queen Victoria ascended the
throne, and the neighbourhood of Southampton Water was looking perhaps
more brilliant and more beautiful than it had during the long summer
which had just passed. Already the leaves were covering the ground, and
away across the water pine-trees stood up like sentinels amidst others
which had already lost their covering. A dim blue haze in the distance
denoted the presence of Southampton, then as now a thriving seaport town.
Situated on a low eminence within some hundred yards of the sea, and
commanding an extended view to either side and in front, was a tiny
creeper-clad cottage with gabled roof and twisted chimneys. Behind the
little residence there was a square patch of kitchen-garden, in which
a grizzled, weather-beaten individual was toiling, whilst in front a
long strip of turf, in which were many rose beds, extended as far as the
wicket-gate which gave access to the main Portsmouth road.
Seated in the picturesque porch of the cottage, with a long clay pipe
between his lips, and a telescope of large dimensions beside him, was a
gray-headed gentleman whose dress at once betokened that in his earlier
days he had followed the sea as a calling. In spite of his sunken
cheeks, and general air of ill-health, no one could have mistaken him
for other than a sailor; and if there had been any doubt the clothes
he wore would have at once settled the question. But Captain John
Richardson, to give him his full title, was proud of the fact that he
had at one time belonged to the royal navy, and took particular pains
to demonstrate it to all with whom he came in contact. It was a little
vanity for which he might well be excused, and, besides, he was such a
genial good-natured man that no one would have thought of blaming him.
On this particular day some question of unusual importance seemed to
be absorbing the captain's whole attention. His eyes had a far-away
expression, his usually wrinkled brow was puckered in an alarming
manner, and the lips, between which rested the stem of his clay pipe,
were pursed up in the most thoughtful position. Indeed, so much was he
occupied that he forgot even to pull at his smoke, and in consequence
the tobacco had grown cold.
"That's the sixth time!" he suddenly exclaimed, with a muttered
expression of disgust, awaking suddenly from his reverie. "I've used
nearly half the box of matches already, and that is an extravagance
which I cannot afford. No, John Richardson, matches are dear to you at
least, for you are an unfortunate dog with scarcely enough to live on,
and with nothing in your pocket to waste. But I'd forego many little
luxuries, and willingly cut down my | 2,206.88325 |
2023-11-16 18:53:51.0254790 | 2,822 | 12 |
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Transcriber's Note: Page numbers, ie: {20}, are included in this
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with page numbers open or download the Latin-1 file 58585-8.txt.
THE PROPHET
By Kahlil Gibran
New York: Alfred A. Knopf
1923
_The Twelve Illustrations In This Volume
Are Reproduced From Original Drawings By
The Author_
“His power came from some great reservoir
of spiritual life else it could not have
been so universal and so potent, but the
majesty and beauty of the language with
which he clothed it were all his own?”
--Claude Bragdon
THE BOOKS OF KAHLIL GIBRAN
The Madman. 1918 Twenty Drawings. 1919
The Forerunner. 1920 The Prophet. 1923
Sand and Foam. 1926 Jesus the Son of
Man. 1928 The Forth Gods. 1931 The
Wanderer. 1932 The Garden of the Prophet
1933 Prose Poems. 1934 Nymphs of the
Valley. 1948
CONTENTS
The Coming of the Ship.......7
On Love.....................15
On Marriage.................19
On Children.................21
On Giving...................23
On Eating and Drinking......27
On Work.....................31
On Joy and Sorrow...........33
On Houses...................37
On Clothes..................41
On Buying and Selling.......43
On Crime and Punishment.....45
On Laws.....................51
On Freedom..................55
On Reason and Passion.......57
On Pain.....................60
On Self-Knowledge...........62
On Teaching.................64
On Friendship...............66
On Talking..................68
On Time.....................70
On Good and Evil............72
On Prayer...................76
On Pleasure.................79
On Beauty...................83
On Religion.................87
On Death....................90
The Farewell................92
THE PROPHET
|Almustafa, the{7} chosen and the
beloved, who was a dawn unto his own
day, had waited twelve years in the city
of Orphalese for his ship that was to
return and bear him back to the isle of
his birth.
And in the twelfth year, on the seventh
day of Ielool, the month of reaping, he
climbed the hill without the city walls
and looked seaward; and he beheld his
ship coming with the mist.
Then the gates of his heart were flung
open, and his joy flew far over the sea.
And he closed his eyes and prayed in the
silences of his soul.
*****
But as he descended the hill, a sadness
came upon him, and he thought in his
heart:
How shall I go in peace and without
sorrow? Nay, not without a wound in the
spirit shall I leave this city. {8}Long
were the days of pain I have spent
within its walls, and long were the
nights of aloneness; and who can depart
from his pain and his aloneness without
regret?
Too many fragments of the spirit have I
scattered in these streets, and too many
are the children of my longing that walk
naked among these hills, and I cannot
withdraw from them without a burden and
an ache.
It is not a garment I cast off this
day, but a skin that I tear with my own
hands.
Nor is it a thought I leave behind me,
but a heart made sweet with hunger and
with thirst.
*****
Yet I cannot tarry longer.
The sea that calls all things unto her
calls me, and I must embark.
For to stay, though the hours burn in
the night, is to freeze and crystallize
and be bound in a mould.
Fain would I take with me all that is
here. But how shall I?
A voice cannot carry the tongue and
{9}the lips that gave it wings. Alone
must it seek the ether.
And alone and without his nest shall the
eagle fly across the sun.
*****
Now when he reached the foot of the
hill, he turned again towards the sea,
and he saw his ship approaching the
harbour, and upon her prow the mariners,
the men of his own land.
And his soul cried out to them, and he
said:
Sons of my ancient mother, you riders of
the tides,
How often have you sailed in my dreams.
And now you come in my awakening, which
is my deeper dream.
Ready am I to go, and my eagerness with
sails full set awaits the wind.
Only another breath will I breathe in
this still air, only another loving look
cast backward,
And then I shall stand among you, a
seafarer among seafarers. {10}And you,
vast sea, sleepless mother,
Who alone are peace and freedom to the
river and the stream,
Only another winding will this stream
make, only another murmur in this glade,
And then shall I come to you, a
boundless drop to a boundless ocean.
*****
And as he walked he saw from afar men
and women leaving their fields and their
vineyards and hastening towards the city
gates.
And he heard their voices calling his
name, and shouting from field to field
telling one another of the coming of his
ship.
And he said to himself:
Shall the day of parting be the day of
gathering?
And shall it be said that my eve was in
truth my dawn?
And what shall I give unto him who has
left his plough in midfurrow, or to
him who has stopped the wheel of his
winepress? {11}Shall my heart become a
tree heavy-laden with fruit that I may
gather and give unto them?
And shall my desires flow like a
fountain that I may fill their cups?
Am I a harp that the hand of the mighty
may touch me, or a flute that his breath
may pass through me?
A seeker of silences am I, and what
treasure have I found in silences that I
may dispense with confidence?
If this is my day of harvest, in what
fields have I sowed the seed, and in
what unremembered seasons?
If this indeed be the hour in which I
lift up my lantern, it is not my flame
that shall burn therein.
Empty and dark shall I raise my lantern,
And the guardian of the night shall fill
it with oil and he shall light it also.
*****
These things he said in words. But much
in his heart remained unsaid. For {12}he
himself could not speak his deeper
secret.
*****
[Illustration: 0020]
And when he entered into the city all
the people came to meet him, and they
were crying out to him as with one
voice.
And the elders of the city stood forth
and said:
Go not yet away from us.
A noontide have you been in our
twilight, and your youth has given us
dreams to dream.
No stranger are you among us, nor
a guest, but our son and our dearly
beloved.
Suffer not yet our eyes to hunger for
your face.
*****
And the priests and the priestesses said
unto him:
Let not the waves of the sea separate us
now, and the years you have spent in our
midst become a memory.
You have walked among us a spirit,
{13}and your shadow has been a light
upon our faces.
Much have we loved you. But speechless
was our love, and with veils has it been
veiled.
Yet now it cries aloud unto you, and
would stand revealed before you.
And ever has it been that love knows
not its own depth until the hour of
separation.
*****
And others came also and entreated him.
But he answered them not. He only bent
his head; and those who stood near saw
his tears falling upon his breast.
And he and the people proceeded towards
the great square before the temple.
And there came out of the sanctuary a
woman whose name was Almitra. And she
was a seeress.
And he looked upon her with exceeding
tenderness, for it was she who had first
sought and believed in him when he had
been but a day in their city. {14}And
she hailed him, saying:
Prophet of God, in quest of the
uttermost, long have you searched the
distances for your ship.
And now your ship has come, and you must
needs go.
Deep is your longing for the land of
your memories and the dwelling place
of your greater desires; and our love
would not bind you nor our needs hold
you.
Yet this we ask ere you leave us, that
you speak to us and give us of your
truth.
And we will give it unto our children,
and they unto their children, and it
shall not perish.
In your aloneness you have watched with
our days, and in your wakefulness you
have listened to the weeping and the
laughter of our sleep.
Now therefore disclose us to ourselves,
and tell us all that has been shown
you of that which is between birth and
death.
*****
And he answered,
People of Orphalese, of what can I
{15}speak save of that which is even now
moving within your souls?
***** *****
Then said Almitra, Speak to us of
_Love_.
And he raised his head and looked upon
the people, and there fell a stillness
upon them. And with a great voice he
said:
When love beckons to you, follow him,
Though his ways are hard and steep.
And when his wings enfold you yield to
him,
Though the sword hidden among his
pinions may wound you.
And when he speaks to you believe in
him,
Though his voice may shatter your dreams
as the north wind lays waste the garden.
For even as love crowns you so shall
he crucify you. Even as he is for your
growth so is he for your pruning.
Even as he ascends to your height and
{16}caresses your tenderest branches
that quiver in the sun,
So shall he descend to your roots and
shake them in their clinging to the
earth.
*****
Like sheaves of corn he gathers you unto
himself.
He threshes you to make you naked.
He sifts you to free you from your
husks.
He grinds you to whiteness.
He kneads you until you are pliant;
And then he assigns you to his sacred
fire, that you may become sacred bread
for God’s sacred feast.
*****
All these things shall love do unto you
that you may know the secrets of your
heart, and in that knowledge become a
fragment of Life’s heart.
But if in your fear you would seek only
love’s peace and love’s pleasure,
Then it is better for you that you
cover {17}your nakedness and pass out of
love’s threshing-floor,
Into the seasonless world where you
shall laugh, but not all of your
laughter, and weep, but not all of your
tears.
*****
Love gives naught but itself and takes
naught but from itself.
Love possesses not nor would it be
possessed;
For love is sufficient unto love.
When you love you should not say, “God
is in my heart,” but rather, “I am in
the heart of God.”
And think not you can direct the course
of love, for love, if it finds you
worthy, directs your course.
Love has no other desire but to fulfil
itself.
But if you love and must needs have
desires, let these be your desires:
To melt and be like a running brook that
sings its melody to the night. {18}To
know the pain of too much tenderness.
To be wounded by your own understanding
of love;
And to bleed willingly and joyfully.
To wake at dawn with a winged heart and
give thanks for another day of loving;
To rest at the noon hour and meditate
love’s ecstacy;
To return home at eventide with
gratitude;
And then to sleep with a prayer for
the beloved in your heart and a song of
praise upon your lips.
[Illustration: 0029]
***** *****
{19}Then Almitra spoke again and said,
And what of _Marriage_ master?
And he answered saying:
You were born together, and together you
shall be forevermore.
You shall be together when the white
wings of death scatter your days.
Aye, you shall be together even in the
silent memory of God.
But let | 2,207.045519 |
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Produced by Richard Tonsing 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: FRANK READE WEEKLY MAGAZINE Containing Stories of
Adventures on Land, Sea & in the Air]
_Issued Weekly—By Subscription $2.50 per year. Application
made for Second-Class Entry at N. Y. Post-Office._
No. 16. NEW YORK, FEBRUARY 13, 1903. Price 5 Cents.
[Illustration: FRANK READE, JR., AND HIS ENGINE OF THE CLOUDS; OR,
CHASED AROUND THE WORLD IN THE SKY. _By “NONAME.”_]
“Climb up that ladder to the
airship!” exclaimed the detective.
“Very well,” said Murdock, and up he
went. Frank and Reynard followed
him, and the ship sped on. Pomp
received the prisoner. “Wha’ yo’
gwine ter do wif him?” he asked
Frank.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
FRANK READE
WEEKLY MAGAZINE.
CONTAINING STORIES OF ADVENTURES ON LAND, SEA AND IN THE AIR.
_Issued Weekly—By Subscription $2.50 per year. Application made for
Second Class entry at the New York, N. Y. Post Office._ _Entered
according to Act of Congress in the year 1903, in the office of the
Librarian of Congress._ _Washington. D. C., by Frank Tousey. 24 Union
Square, New York._
No. 16. NEW YORK, FEBRUARY 13, 1903. Price 5 Cents.
Frank Reade, Jr., and His Engine of the Clouds;
OR,
Chased Around the World in the Sky.
By “NONAME.”
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. SHOT FOR MONEY.
CHAPTER II. THE ENGINE OF THE CLOUDS.
CHAPTER III. A STOWAWAY.
CHAPTER IV. A LIGHT FROM THE SKY.
CHAPTER V. FOUND AND LOST.
CHAPTER VI. FOILED AGAIN.
CHAPTER VII. SAVED FROM DEATH.
CHAPTER VIII. BAFFLED AGAIN AND AGAIN.
CHAPTER IX. THE OASIS IN THE DESERT.
CHAPTER X. BUYING A SHIP’S CREW.
CHAPTER XI. IN A TIGER’S JAWS.
CHAPTER XII. LOSS OF A WHEEL.
CHAPTER XIII. A BOMBSHELL.
CHAPTER XIV. CONCLUSION.
CHAPTER I.
SHOT FOR MONEY.
It was a bitterly cold night in March.
The bleak, gloomy streets of Chicago were almost deserted.
A poor little boy in rags was slinking along an aristocratic avenue,
shivering with the cold and looking very wretched.
His pallid, emaciated face showed poverty and privation, an air of utter
misery surrounded him, and he had a mournful look in his sunken eyes.
Nobody noticed poor Joe Crosby but the police.
He was then only one of the many waifs of the great city.
Tom Reynard, the detective, had seen him stealing along like a thief,
and the zealous officer became so suspicious of the boy’s actions that
he began to follow him.
Perhaps he was justified in doing this, for the hoodlums of Chicago were
a pretty bad set of rowdies, as a rule.
The detective was a middle aged, sharp, shrewd fellow, of medium size,
clad in a black suit and derby hat, his bony face clean shaven, his keen
blue eyes snapping with fire, and his reputation for ability the very
finest.
He kept the skulking boy well in view and was a little bit startled to
see him mount the stoop of a very handsome brown stone house, through
the parlor windows of which, partly open at the top, there gleamed a
dull light.
Instead of the poor little wretch making an attempt to break into the
house as the detective expected, he boldly rang the bell.
A servant answered the summons, and, seeing the boy, she cried:
“What! Joe Crosby—you back home again?”
“Yes, Nora,” the boy replied, in firm tones, “and I am going to stay,
too. My stepfather, Martin Murdock, is a wicked man. He lured me to a
wretched tenement in West Randolph street, where an Italian villain has
been keeping me a prisoner. But after a month of captivity I escaped
from there to-night, and now I have come back to make Martin Murdock
tell me why he did this?”
“Oh, the rascal!” indignantly cried the girl. “He told us that he sent
you off to boarding-school. Come in, Joe, come in.”
“Is my stepfather in the house?”
“Yes; you will find him in the front parlor.”
The boy entered the mansion and disappeared from the detective’s view.
Reynard vented a whistle expressive of intense astonishment.
“Holy smoke!” he muttered. “Here’s a daisy game! Never thought I was
going to drop onto a family affair of this kind. Wonder if I could hear
what goes on in the parlor if I get up on the stoop?”
He saw that the parlor windows were partly open at the top, and mounting
the stairs he crouched in the doorway.
Joe had gone into the parlor.
A well-built man, in stylish clothing, stood in the room.
It was Martin Murdock.
He was apparently about forty years of age and wore a black mustache,
had dark hair and black eyes, an aquiline nose, and upon his left cheek
a V-shaped, livid scar.
A cry of astonishment escaped his lips when he saw the boy.
“Free!” he gasped. “How did you get away, you whelp?”
“That is my business,” the boy replied, angrily. “You must explain why
you had me imprisoned in that vile den.”
“Oh, I must, eh?” sneered the man, with a nasty leer.
“I have thought it over,” said Joe, sharply. “You was a poor man when
you married my mother. When she died I know that she left me a large
fortune, for I heard the lawyer read her will. You was made my guardian
until I come of age, in five years. Now there was one point in the will
that would make you wish to see me dead. That was the clause which said
you would inherit all my money if I were to die before I am twenty-one.
Are you trying to put me out of the way so you can get that money,
Martin Murdock?”
He looked the man squarely in the eyes as he asked this question.
Murdock quailed before his victim’s reproachful burning glance for Joe
had correctly surmised the dark plot he had in view.
His nervousness only lasted a moment for he quickly recovered.
“Fool!” he hissed, getting enraged at the thought that his wicked scheme
was suspected. “How dare you hint that I’d do such a thing?”
“Because I know you are a villain.”
“What!” roared Murdock, furiously. “You insult me. I’ll pound the life
out of you, you infernal young scoundrel!”
And he sprang at the boy and dealt him a savage blow that knocked him
over upon the floor, rushed up to him and began to kick him about the
head.
Weak from past privations, and unable to defend himself, poor Joe
groaned in a heart-rending manner, and cried, piteously, as the hot
tears ran down his pale, thin cheeks:
“Oh, don’t—don’t, Mr. Murdock!”
“I’ll kill you!” yelled the brute.
“For pity’s sake! Oh, the pain! Stop—I can’t stand it!”
Just then the servant rushed in.
“Shame!” she cried, indignantly.
“Get out of here!” roared Murdock. “I’ll discharge you!”
“If you beat poor Joe any more I’ll have you arrested!” This threat
caused the broker to say, hastily:
“He provoked me to it. I don’t intend to hit him again.”
Satisfied with this assurance, the girl went out.
Poor Joe, cut, bleeding and black-and-blue, crept toward the door.
The man glared at him a moment and then hissed:
“Get up, there! Get up, I say! I’ll have a final settlement with you!
Put on your hat. It is eight o’clock now. The lawyer who has charge of
your money has gone home. He lives out of town. You come with me to his
house. You’ll get your money. Then you can clear out of here and never
trouble me again.”
“Gladly!” exclaimed Joe, in eager tones.
He knew that with plenty of money he could easily get along in the world
and be under no obligations to this fiend.
Murdock scowled at him and prepared to go out.
Hearing them coming the detective left the stoop and got behind an
adjacent tree where he was unseen.
He had scarcely concealed himself when he saw Martin Murdock come out
with Joe, hail a passing cab, get in and ride away.
The detective had overheard all they said in the parlor, and with his
suspicions of the broker aroused, he pursued the cab, resolved to see
the termination of the affair.
Murdock did not utter a word to the boy, but kept watching him and
deeply thinking over a dark scheme he had in view.
The boy feared this man, but he was so eager to have a final settlement
with him that he did not hesitate to go with him.
Reaching the railroad depot they embarked on a train.
“I’ll take him to an unfrequented place and put an end to him!” thought
Murdock, grimly. “He stands in my way to nearly a million. The stakes
are enormous. It is worth the risk. I’m bound to have the money.”
Unluckily for him, the detective was on the same train.
They were whirled away.
Several hours passed by, when the end of the road was reached.
“Readestown! All out! Last stop!” called the conductor.
Murdock and the boy were the only ones in that car, and they arose,
alighted and strode away.
Tom Reynard pursued them.
The place was a noted little city in which dwelt a celebrated young
inventor named Frank Reade, Jr.
Skirting the suburbs of the city, Murdock led his victim toward a
magnificent big mansion in which dwelt the inventor alluded to.
In the extensive grounds surrounding the house were a number of immense
workshops, in which the inventor constructed his marvelous contrivances.
“There’s where the lawyer lives,” Murdock said to the boy, as he pointed
at the mansion, although he had never been in Readestown before.
This information allayed any suspicions the poor boy might | 2,207.045671 |
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Produced by John Bickers and Dagny
THE CIVILIZATION OF CHINA
by Herbert A. Giles
Professor of Chinese in the University of Cambridge,
And sometime H.B.M. Consul at Ningpo
PREFACE
The aim of this work is to suggest a rough outline of Chinese
civilization from the earliest times down to the present period of rapid
and startling transition.
It has been written, primarily, for readers who know little or nothing
of China, in the hope that it may succeed in alluring them to a wider
and more methodical survey.
H.A.G.
Cambridge, May 12, 1911.
THE CIVILIZATION OF CHINA
CHAPTER I--THE FEUDAL AGE
It is a very common thing now-a-days to meet people who are going to
"China," which can be reached by the Siberian railway in fourteen or
fifteen days. This brings us at once to the question--What is meant by
the term China?
Taken in its widest sense, the term includes Mongolia, Manchuria,
Eastern Turkestan, Tibet, and the Eighteen Provinces, the whole being
equivalent to an area of some five million square miles, that is,
considerably more than twice the size of the United States of America.
But for a study of manners and customs and modes of thought of the
Chinese people, we must confine ourselves to that portion of the whole
which is known to the Chinese as the "Eighteen Provinces," and to us as
China Proper. This portion of the empire occupies not quite two-fifths
of the whole, covering an area of somewhat more than a million and a
half square miles. Its chief landmarks may be roughly stated as Peking,
the capital, in the north; Canton, the great commercial centre, in the
south; Shanghai, on the east; and the Tibetan frontier on the west.
Any one who will take the trouble to look up these four points on a
map, representing as they do central points on the four sides of a rough
square, will soon realize the absurdity of asking a returning traveller
the very much asked question, How do you like China? Fancy asking a
Chinaman, who had spent a year or two in England, how he liked Europe!
Peking, for instance, stands on the same parallel of latitude as Madrid;
whereas Canton coincides similarly with Calcutta. Within the square
indicated by the four points enumerated above will be found variations
of climate, flowers, fruit, vegetables and animals--not to mention human
beings--distributed in very much the same way as in Europe. The climate
of Peking is exceedingly dry and bracing; no rain, and hardly any snow,
falling between October and April. The really hot weather lasts only for
six or eight weeks, about July and August--and even then the nights are
always cool; while for six or eight weeks between December and February
there may be a couple of feet of ice on the river. Canton, on the other
hand, has a tropical climate, with a long damp enervating summer and a
short bleak winter. The old story runs that snow has only been seen
once in Canton, and then it was thought by the people to be falling
cotton-wool.
The northern provinces are remarkable for vast level plains, dotted
with villages, the houses of which are built of mud. In the southern
provinces will be found long stretches of mountain scenery, vying in
loveliness with anything to be seen elsewhere. Monasteries are built
high up on the hills, often on almost inaccessible crags; and there
the well-to-do Chinaman is wont to escape from the fierce heat of the
southern summer. On one particular mountain near Canton, there are
said to be no fewer than one hundred of such monasteries, all of which
reserve apartments for guests, and are glad to be able to add to their
funds by so doing.
In the north of China, Mongolian ponies, splendid mules, and donkeys are
seen in large quantities; also the two-humped camel, which carries heavy
loads across the plains of Mongolia. In the south, until the advent of
the railway, travellers had to choose between the sedan-chair carried
on the shoulders of stalwart coolies, or the slower but more comfortable
house-boat. Before steamers began to ply on the coast, a candidate for
the doctor's degree at the great triennial examination would take three
months to travel from Canton to Peking. Urgent dispatches, however, were
often forwarded by relays of riders at the rate of two hundred miles a
day.
The market in Peking is supplied, among other things, with excellent
mutton from a fat-tailed breed of sheep, chiefly for the largely
Mohammedan population; but the sheep will not live in southern China,
where the goat takes its place. The pig is found everywhere, and
represents beef in our market, the latter being extremely unpalatable to
the ordinary Chinaman, partly perhaps because Confucius forbade men to
slaughter the animal which draws the plough and contributes so much to
the welfare of mankind. The staple food, the "bread" of the people in
the Chinese Empire, is nominally rice; but this is too costly for the
peasant of northern China to import, and he falls back on millet as its
substitute. Apples, pears, grapes, melons, and walnuts grow abundantly
in the north; the southern fruits are the banana, the orange, the
pineapple, the mango, the pomelo, the lichee, and similar fruits of a
more tropical character.
Cold storage has been practised by the Chinese for centuries. Blocks of
ice are cut from the river for that purpose; and on a hot summer's day a
Peking coolie can obtain an iced drink at an almost infinitesimal cost.
G | 2,207.447561 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: "ALL DAY THE RIVALS FISHED UP THE STREAM"]
JEAN BAPTISTE
A STORY OF FRENCH CANADA
BY
J. E. LE ROSSIGNOL
Author of "Little Stories of Quebec"
LONDON & TORONTO
J. M. DENT & SONS LTD.
MCMXV
To
MY MOTHER
LA RIVE NATALE
O patrie! o rive natale.
Pleine d'harmonieuses voix!
Chants etranges que la rafale
Nous apporte du fond des bois!
O souvenirs de la jeunesse,
Frais comme un rayon du printemps!
O fleuve, temoin de l'ivresse
De nos jeunes coeurs de vingt ans!
O vieilles forets ondoyantes,
Teinte du sang de nos aieux!
O lacs! o plaines odorantes
Dont le parfum s'eleve aux cieux!
Bords, ou les tombeaux de nos peres
Nous racontent, le temps ancien,
Vous seuls possedez ces voix cheres
Qui font battre un coeur canadien!
OCTAVE CREMAZIE.
*CONTENTS*
CHAP.
I. The Vocation of Jean Baptiste
II. The Migration
III. The Sorcerer
IV. The Loup Garou
V. Castles in Spain
VI. The Habitant
VII. Her Majesty's Mail
VIII. The City Man
IX. The Loan
X. Blanchette
XI. La Folie
XII. Profit and Loss
XIII. The Return of Pamphile
XIV. The Triumph of Pamphile
XV. The Pastime of Love
XVI. The Temptation of Jean Baptiste
XVII. Vengeance
XVIII. Michel
XIX. Mother Sainte Anne
XX. The Robbery
XXI. Love and War
XXII. The Wilderness
XXIII. The Cure
XXIV. The Relapse
XXV. Treasure Trove
*JEAN BAPTISTE*
*CHAPTER I*
*THE VOCATION OF JEAN BAPTISTE*
"You may read, Jean," said Mademoiselle Angers; whereupon a breath of
renewed interest passed through the schoolroom, as Jean Baptiste Giroux
rose in his place and began to read, in a clear and resonant voice, the
story of that other Jean Baptiste, his patron saint.
"Saint John, dwelling alone in the wilderness beyond the Dead Sea,
prepared himself by self discipline and by constant communion with God,
for the wonderful office to which he had been divinely called. The very
appearance of the holy Baptist was of itself a lesson to his countrymen.
His dress was that of the old prophets--a garment of camel's hair
attached to his body by a leathern girdle. His food was such as the
desert afforded--locusts and wild honey. Because of his exalted
sanctity a great multitude came to him from every quarter. Brief and
startling was his final exhortation to them: 'Repent ye, for the Kingdom
of Heaven is at hand.'"
It was a simple and oft-repeated story, but there was something in the
voice and manner of Jean that compelled attention. All the children
listened; also the teacher; and the visitor, M. Paradis, cure of the
parish, was visibly impressed. He brought his horn-rimmed spectacles
down from the top of his head, set them firmly on the bridge of his
nose, and regarded Jean for some moments without saying a word.
Jean returned the gaze with a steady, respectful glance; then let his
eyes fall until they were looking at the floor just below the cure's
feet. It was not polite to stare at visitors, but one might look at
their boots. The boots of M. Paradis were covered with dust. He had
walked all the way from the presbytery, two miles or more--that was
evident.
"Ah, it is you, Jean," said the cure.
"Oui, Monsieur," said Jean,
"How old are you, Jean?"
"Sixteen years, Monsieur."
"Sixteen years! It seems like yesterday since you were baptized. How
the time goes! Sixteen years, you say? You are no longer a child,
Jean, no indeed. Well, it is high time to decide what we are going to
make of you, certainly. Tell me, Jean; you admire the character of your
patron saint, do you not?"
"Mais oui, Monsieur."
"In what respect, my son?"
"Oh, Monsieur, he was a hero, without fear and without reproach, like
Bayard."
"Bayard, Jean, what do you know of him?"
"He also was a hero, Monsieur. Mademoiselle Angers has told us about
him."
"Without doubt. But Jean, Jean Baptiste, would you not like to be a
hero like your patron saint?"
"Oui, Monsieur."
"Forerunner of the true God? Tell me that, Jean."
"Ah, Monsieur, as to that I do not know."
"You shall be, Jean, you shall be. Come, Jean, come with me this
instant. We will go to see your parents, that is to say, your mother.
Your father, Jean, was a good man; he rests in God. Pardon us,
Mademoiselle. I fear that we have transgressed. But it is a very
important matter and I wish to speak to Madame Giroux without delay.
Permit us, if you please, to go now. Will you not grant us this favour,
Mademoiselle?"
"With pleasure, Monsieur le cure," said the teacher. "And I hope that
you will find something suitable for Jean. He is a boy of great force
of character, one who might be very good or very bad."
"True, Mademoiselle; it is always thus. Adieu, Mademoiselle. Adieu, my
children."
"Jean," said the cure, as they walked along the winding valley road, "I
have known you for a long time, since you were a very small child; and I
think, yes, I quite think that you have the vocation, the divine call to
the service of God and His Church. Yes, it seems to me that you have
all the marks. See! _Probitas vitae_, innocence of life. I have not
heard of any real wickedness that you have done. Faults, perhaps, like
all boys; transgressions even, but nothing serious; venial sins, merely,
like all mortals.
"Again, _scientia conveniens_, scholarship. In that you are very strong
for your age, assuredly. Mademoiselle Angers has told me that you are by
far the most promising pupil in the school. Do not be proud, Jean; all
that comes from God. Be glad and humble.
"Finally, _recta intentio_, sincere desire, pure and holy zeal for the
glory of God, and the salvation of souls. Jean, Jean Baptiste, have you
really these desires, these aspirations? Are you willing to give
yourself to this holy work? Will you renounce the world, the flesh and
the devil, and consecrate yourself to the service of God? Tell me, my
son."
"My father," said Jean, hesitating and embarrassed, "I wish--I do not
know what I wish. I would do something, I know not what. For the glory
of God? Yes. For the good of man? Ah, yes. At least, for my
relations, the neighbours, the parish. But to be a priest? No,
Monsieur le cure, I cannot."
"But, Jean, you wish to attain the highest possible, do you not? I am
sure that you do."
"Mais oui, Monsieur."
"Good, Jean, that is good. Then you shall be a priest. It is the only
way to the excellence which you desire, unless you would follow the
religious life. But you have no vocation in that direction, as I
think."
"Monsieur!"
"Say no more, Jean. It is decided. Do not trouble. Here we are at
your place, and we shall see Madame, your mother. Ah, there she is.
Bonjour, Madame Giroux. We are making an early visit, are we not?"
"Mais non, Monsieur, you are always welcome. Be so good as to enter.
Your blessing, Monsieur le cure, on us and our poor house. It is a
great honour to have such a visit. Jean, place the armchair for
Monsieur Paradis. Marie, bring a glass of cordial for Monsieur; also
some of the cakes which you made yesterday. Monsieur Paradis, it is a
cordial which I made myself last summer of wild cherries, and it is
excellent for the stomach."
"Madame, the cordial is a veritable nectar, and the cakes are as the
bread of angels."
"It is Marie, Monsieur, who made the cakes. She is a treasure, that
girl. I wish that all mothers could have such a daughter in their old
age."
"You are indeed fortunate, Madame. And you have other
daughters--Marguerite, Sophie, Therese, Agathe--I remember them well."
"What a memory you have, Monsieur le cure! Yes, five daughters, all
married but this little Marie, and she will be going soon. Thus the
young birds leave us, Monsieur, and begin to build nests of their own."
"But what a fine family, Madame! Five daughters and six sons."
"Pardon, Monsieur, seven in all. Little Jean, here, is the baby, the
seventh."
"The seventh, Madame! That is lucky."
"Yes, Monsieur, the seventh son of a seventh. His father also was a
seventh son, of a family of Chateau Richer."
"Madame, that is most extraordinary. It is truly propitious. The
family Giroux, too, of Chateau--a well-known family in that parish,
distinguished, even, of a most honourable history. But the younger
sons, of course, must make their own way.
"Madame," continued Father Paradis, "this boy, Jean Baptiste, this
seventh son of a seventh, was born, I | 2,207.654153 |
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CATS: Their Points and Characteristics.
[Illustration: "SHIPMATES."]
"CATS:"
THEIR POINTS AND CHARACTERISTICS,
WITH CURIOSITIES OF CAT LIFE,
AND A CHAPTER ON FELINE AILMENTS.
BY _W. GORDON STABLES, M.D., C.M., R.N._,
AUTHOR OF
"MEDICAL LIFE IN THE NAVY," "WILD ADVENTURES IN THE FAR NORTH,"
THE "NEWFOUNDLAND AND WATCH DOG," IN WEBB'S BOOK ON DOGS,
ETC. ETC.
LONDON: DEAN & SON,
ST. DUNSTAN'S BUILDINGS, 160A, FLEET STREET, E.C.
CONTENTS.
VOL. I.
CHAPTER. PAGE
I. APOLOGETIC 1
II. PUSSY ON HER NATIVE HEARTH 3
III. PUSSY'S LOVE OF CHILDREN 26
IV. PUSSY "POLL" 36
V. SAGACITY OF CATS 44
VI. A CAT THAT KEEPS THE SABBATH 61
VII. HONEST CATS 64
VIII. THE PLOUGHMAN'S "MYSIE" 70
IX. TENACITY OF LIFE IN CATS 74
X. NOMADISM IN CATS 87
XI. "IS CATS TO BE TRUSTED?" 94
XII. PUSSY AS A MOTHER 109
XIII. HOME TIES AND AFFECTIONS 125
XIV. FISHING EXPLOITS 141
XV. THE ADVENTURES OF BLINKS 151
XVI. HUNTING EXPLOITS 190
XVII. COCK-JOCK AND THE CAT 200
XVIII. NURSING VAGARIES 209
XIX. PUSSY'S PLAYMATES 221
XX. PUSSY AND THE HARE 230
XXI. THE MILLER'S FRIEND. A TALE 235
ADDENDA. CONTAINING THE NAMES AND ADDRESSES OF THE
VOUCHERS FOR THE AUTHENTICITY OF THE
ANECDOTES 267
VOL. II.
CHAPTER. PAGE
I. ORIGIN AND ANTIQUITY OF THE DOMESTIC CAT 278
II. CLASSIFICATION AND POINTS 285
III. PUSSY'S PATIENCE AND CLEANLINESS 307
IV. TRICKS AND TRAINING 319
V. CRUELTY TO CATS 329
VI. PARLIAMENTARY PROTECTION FOR THE DOMESTIC CAT 356
VII. FELINE AILMENTS 366
VIII. ODDS AND ENDS 387
IX. THE TWO "MUFFIES." A TALE 410
X. BLACK TOM, THE SKIPPER'S IMP. A TALE 440
ADDENDA. CONTAINING THE NAMES AND ADDRESSES OF THE
VOUCHERS FOR THE AUTHENTICITY OF THE
ANECDOTES 479
SPRATT'S PATENT
CAT FOOD.
[Illustration: TRADE MARK.]
It has long been considered that the food given to that useful domestic
favourite, the CAT, is the sole cause of all the diseases it suffers from;
nearly all Cats in towns are fed on boiled horseflesh, in many cases
diseased and conveying disease.
This Food is introduced to entirely supersede the present unwholesome
practice; it is made from pure fresh beef and other sound materials, not
from horseflesh or other deleterious substances. It will be found the
cheapest food to preserve the health and invigorate the constitution,
prolong the existence, and extend the usefulness, gentleness, and
cleanliness of the Cat.
_Sold in 1d. Packets only. Each Packet contains sufficient to feed a Cat
for two days. The wrapper of every Packet is the same in colour, and bears
the Trade Mark as above, and the name of the Patentee, and no other Packet
is genuine._
DIRECTIONS FOR USE.
Mix the food with a little milk or water, making it crumbly moist, not
sloppy.
SPRATT'S PATENT MEAT FIBRINE DOG CAKES, 22_s._ per cwt., Carriage Paid.
SPRATT'S PATENT POULTRY FOOD, 22_s._ per cwt., Carriage Paid.
SPRATT'S PATENT GRANULATED PRAIRIE MEAT CRISSEL, 28_s._ per cwt., Carriage
Paid.
_Address--SPRATT'S PATENT_,
HENRY STREET, BERMONDSEY STREET, TOOLEY STREET, S.E.
TO
LADY MILDRED BERESFORD-HOPE,
AND
LADY DOROTHY NEVILL,
THIS WORK
Is dedicated
With feelings of regard and esteem,
BY
THE AUTHOR.
CAT MEDICINE CHEST,
_Beautifully fitted up with everything necessary
to keep Pussy in Health, or to Cure her when Ill._
The Medicines are done up in a new form, now
introduced for the first time, are easy to
administer, and do not soil the fur.
A NICELY FINISHED ARTICLE,
HIGHLY SUITABLE FOR A PRESENT.
PRICE, with Synopsis of Diseases of Cats and their
Treatment, 21s.
LONDON: DEAN & SON,
FACTORS, PUBLISHERS,
Valentine, Birthday, Christmas, and Easter Card
Manufacturers,
ST. DUNSTAN'S BUILDINGS, 160A, FLEET STREET.
CATS.
CHAPTER I.
[_See Note A, Addenda._]
APOLOGETIC.
"If ye mane to write a preface to your book, sure you must put it in the
end entoirely."
Such was the advice an Irish friend gave me, when I talked of an
introductory chapter to the present work on cats. I think it was a good
one. Whether it be owing to our style of living now-a-days, which tends
more to the development of brain than muscle; or whether it be, as Darwin
says, that we really are descended from the ape, and, as the years roll
on, are losing that essentially animal virtue--patience; certainly it is
true that we cannot tolerate prefaces, preludes, and long graces before
meat, as our grandfathers did. A preface, like Curacoa--and--B, before
dinner, ought to be short and sweet: something merely to give an edge to
appetite, or it had as well be put in the "end entoirely," or better
still, in the fire.
I presume, then, the reader is fond of the domestic cat; if only for the
simple reason that God made it. Yes; God made it, and man mars it. Pussy
is an ill-used, much persecuted, little understood, and greatly slandered
animal. It is with the view, therefore, of gaining for our little fireside
friend a greater meed of justice than she has hitherto obtained, of
removing the ban under which she mostly lives, and making her life a more
pleasant and happy one, that the following pages are written; and I shall
deem it a blessing if I am _in any way_ successful. I have tried to paint
pussy just as she is, without the aid of "putty and varnish;" and I have
been at no small pains to prove the authenticity of the various anecdotes,
and can assure the reader that they are all _strictly true_.
CHAPTER II.
[_See Note B, Addenda._]
PUSSY ON HER NATIVE HEARTH.
"It wouldn't have surprised me a bit, doctor," said my gallant captain to
me, on the quarter-deck of the saucy _Pen-gun_,--"It wouldn't have
surprised me a bit, if they had sent you on board, minus the head. A nice
thing that would have been, with so many hands sick."
"And rather unconvenient for me," I added, stroking my neck.
I had been explaining to the gentleman, that my reason for not being off
the night before, was my finding myself on the desert side of the gates of
Aden after sun-down. A strange motley cut-throat band I had found myself
among, too. Wild Somalis, half-caste Indian Jews, Bedouin Arabs, and burly
Persian merchants, all armed with sword and spear and shield, and long
rifles that, judging by their build, seemed made to shoot round corners.
Strings of camels lay on the ground; and round each camp-fire squatted
these swarthy sons of the desert, engaged in talking, eating, smoking, or
quarrelling, as the case might be. Unless at Falkirk tryst, I had never
been among such a parcel of rogues in my life. I myself was armed to the
teeth: that is, I had nothing but my tongue wherewith to defend myself. I
could not help a feeling of insecurity taking possession of me; there
seemed to be a screw that wanted tightening somewhere about my neck. Yet I
do not now repent having spent that night in the desert, as it has
afforded me the opportunity of settling that long-disputed question--the
origin of the domestic cat.
Some have searched Egyptian annals for the origin of their pet, some
Persian, and some assert they can trace its descent from the days of Noah.
I can go a long way beyond that. It is difficult to get over the flood,
though; but I suppose my typical cat belonged to some one of the McPherson
clan. McPhlail was telling McPherson, that he could trace his genealogy
from the days of Noah.
"And mine," said the rival clansman, "from nine hundred years before
that."
"But the flood, you know?" hinted the McPhlail.
"And did you ever hear of a Phairson that hadn't a boat of his own?" was
the indignant retort.
In the midst of a group of young Arabs, was one that attracted my special
attention. He was an old man who looked, with his snow-white beard, his
turban and robes, as venerable as one of Dore's patriarchs. In sonorous
tones, in his own noble language, he was reading from a book in his lap,
while one arm was coiled lovingly round a beautiful long-haired cat.
Beside this man I threw myself down. The fierceness of his first glance,
which seemed to resent my intrusion, melted into a smile as sweet as a
woman's, when I began to stroke and admire his cat. Just the same story
all the world over,--praise a man's pet and he'll do anything for you;
fight for you, or even lend you money. That Arab shared his supper with
me.
"Ah! my son," he said, "more than my goods, more than my horse, I love my
cat. She comforts me. More than the smoke she soothes me. Allah is great
and good; when our first mother and father went out into the mighty desert
alone, He gave them two friends to defend and comfort them--the dog and
the cat. In the body of the cat He placed the spirit of a gentle woman; in
the dog the soul of a brave man. It is true, my son; the book hath it."
After this I remained for some time speculatively silent.
The old man's story may be taken--according to taste--with or without a
grain of salt; but we must admit it is as good a way of accounting for
domestic pussy's origin as any other.
There really is, moreover, a great deal of the woman's nature in the cat.
Like a woman, pussy prefers a settled home to leading a roving life. Like
a true woman, she is fond of fireside comforts. Then she is so gentle in
all her ways, so kind, so loving, and so forgiving. On your return from
business, the very look of her honest face, as she sits purring on the
hearth-rug, with the pleasant adjuncts of a bright fire and hissing
tea-urn, tends to make you forget all the cares of the day. When you are
dull and lonely, how often does her "punky humour," her mirth-provoking
attitudes and capers banish ennui. And if you are ill, how carefully she
will watch by your bedside and keep you company. How her low song will
lull you, her soft caresses soothe you, giving you more real consolation
from the looks of concern exhibited on her loving little face, than any
language could convey.
On the other hand, like a woman, she is prying and curious. A locked
cupboard is often a greater source of care and thought to pussy | 2,207.658932 |
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THE GREAT
K. & A. TRAIN-ROBBERY
[Illustration: Frontispiece]
The
Great
K. & A.
Robbery
[Illustration: Trains]
By
Paul Leicester Ford
Author of The Honorable Peter Stirling
New York
Dodd, Mead and Company
1897
_Copyright, 1896,_
BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
_Copyright, 1897,_
BY DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
TO
MY TRAVELLING COMPANIONS
ON SPECIALS 218 AND 97
THIS ENDEAVOR TO WEAVE INTO A STORY SOME OF OUR
OVERLAND HAPPENINGS AND ADVENTURES
IS GRATEFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
* * * * *
_TO MISS GEORGE BARKER GIBBS._
_My dear George_:
_At your request I originally inscribed this skit to our whole
party. In its republication, however, I can but feel that the
dedication should be more particular. Written because you asked
it, first read aloud to beguile our ride across the great
American desert, and finally printed because you wished a copy as
a souvenir of our journeyings, no one can so naturally be called
upon to stand sponsor to the little tale. Should the story but
give its readers a fraction of the pleasure I owe to your
kindness, its success is assured._
_Faithfully yours,_
_PAUL LEICESTER FORD._
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE PARTY ON SPECIAL NO. 218 1
II THE HOLDING-UP OF OVERLAND NO. 3 17
III A NIGHT'S WORK ON THE ALKALI PLAINS 30
IV SOME RATHER QUEER ROAD AGENTS 43
V A TRIP TO THE GRAND CANYON 55
VI THE HAPPENINGS DOWN HANCE'S TRAIL 69
VII A CHANGE OF BASE 82
VIII HOW DID THE SECRET LEAK OUT? 93
IX A TALK BEFORE BREAKFAST 107
X WAITING FOR HELP 118
XI THE LETTERS CHANGE HANDS AGAIN 130
XII AN EVENING IN JAIL 140
XIII A LESSON IN POLITENESS 153
XIV "LISTENERS NEVER HEAR ANYTHING GOOD" 165
XV THE SURRENDER OF THE LETTERS 175
XVI A GLOOMY GOOD-BY 186
THE
Great K. & A. Train-Robbery
CHAPTER I
THE PARTY ON SPECIAL NO. 218
Any one who hopes to find in what is here written a work of
literature had better lay it aside unread. At Yale I should have
got the sack in rhetoric and English composition, let alone other
studies, had it not been for the fact that I played half-back on
the team, and so the professors marked me away up above where I
ought to have ranked. That was twelve years ago, but my life
since I received my parchment has hardly been of a kind to
improve me in either style or grammar. It is true that one woman
tells me I write well, and my directors never find fault with my
compositions; but I know that she likes my letters because,
whatever else they may say to her, they always say in some form,
"I love you," while my board approve my annual reports because
thus far I have been able to end each with "I recommend the
declaration of a dividend of -- per cent from the earnings of the
current year." I should therefore prefer to reserve my writings
for such friendly critics, if it did not seem necessary to make
public a plain statement concerning an affair over which there
appears to be much confusion. I have heard in the last five years
not less than twenty renderings of what is commonly called "the
great K. & A. train-robbery,"--some so twisted and distorted that
but for the intermediate versions I should never have recognized
them as attempts to narrate the series of events in which I
played a somewhat prominent part. I have read or been told that,
unassisted, the pseudo-hero captured a dozen desperadoes; that he
was one of the road agents himself; that he was saved from
lynching only by the timely arrival of cavalry; that the action
of the United States government in rescuing him from the civil
authorities was a most high-handed interference with State
rights; that he received his reward from a grateful railroad by
being promoted; that a lovely woman as recompense for his
villany--but bother! it's my business to tell what really
occurred, and not what the world chooses to invent. And if any
man thinks he would have done otherwise in my position, I can
only say that he is a better or a worse man than Dick Gordon.
Primarily, it was football which shaped my end. Owing to my skill
in the game, I took a post-graduate at the Sheffield Scientific
School, that the team might have my services for an extra two
years. That led to my knowing a little about mechanical
engineering, and when I left the "quad" for good I went into the
Alton Railroad shops. It wasn't long before I was foreman of a
section; next I became a division superintendent, and after | 2,207.776 |
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BRITISH POLICY IN THE ILLINOIS COUNTRY
1763-1768
BY
CLARENCE EDWIN CARTER
A. M., 1906 (UNIVERSITY OF WISCONSIN)
THESIS
SUBMITTED IN PARTIAL FULFILLMENT OF THE REQUIREMENTS
FOR THE
DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY IN HISTORY
IN THE
GRADUATE SCHOOL
OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
1908
UNIVERSITY OF ILLINOIS
June 1 1908
THIS IS TO CERTIFY THAT THE THESIS PREPARED UNDER MY SUPERVISION BY
Clarence Edwin Carter, A.M.
ENTITLED British Policy in the Illinois Country, 1763-1768
IS APPROVED BY ME AS FULFILLING THIS PART OF THE REQUIREMENTS
FOR THE DEGREE OF Doctor of Philosophy in History
Evarts B Greene
HEAD OF DEPARTMENT OF History.
BRITISH POLICY IN THE ILLINOIS COUNTRY
1763-1768
CHAPTER I.—Introductory Survey.
CHAPTER II.—The Occupation of Illinois.
CHAPTER III.—Status of the Illinois Country in the Empire.
CHAPTER IV.—Trade Conditions in Illinois, 1765-1775.
CHAPTER V.—Colonizing schemes in the Illinois.
CHAPTER VI.—Events in the Illinois Country, 1765-1768.
BIBLIOGRAPHY.—
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY SURVEY.
In 1763 Great Britain was confronted with the momentous problem of
the readjustment of all her colonial relations in order to meet the
new conditions resulting from the peace of Paris, when immense areas
of territory and savage alien peoples were added to the empire. The
necessity of strengthening the imperial ties between the old colonies
and the mother country and reorganizing the new acquisitions came to
the forefront at this time and led the government into a course soon
to end in the disruption of the empire. Certainly not the least of the
questions demanding solution was that of the disposition of the country
lying to the westward of the colonies, including a number of French
settlements and a broad belt of Indian nations. It does not, however,
come within the proposed limits of this study to discuss all the
different phases of the western policy of England, except in so far as
it may be necessary to make more clear her attitude towards the French
settlements in the Illinois country.
The European situation leading to the Seven Years War, which ended so
disastrously to French dominion, is too familiar to need repetition.
That struggle was the culmination of a series of continental and
colonial wars beginning towards the close of the seventeenth century
and ending with the definitive treaty of 1763. During the first quarter
of the century France occupied a predominating position among the
powers. Through the aggressiveness of Louis XIV and his ministers
her boundaries had been pushed eastward and westward, which seriously
threatened the balance of power on the continent. Until 1748 England
and Austria had been in alliance against their traditional enemy, while
in the Austrian Succession France had lent her aid to Prussia in the
dismemberment of the Austrian dominions,—at the same time extending
her own power in the interior of America and India. In the interval of
nominal peace after the treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle in 1748, preparations
were begun for another contest. The astute diplomacy of Kaunitz won
France from her traditional enmity and secured her as an open ally for
Maria Theresa in her war of revenge.[1] While the European situation
was giving occasion for new alignments of powers, affairs in America
were becoming more and more important as between France and England.
Here for over a century the two powers had been rivals for the
territorial and commercial supremacy.
In North America the pioneers had won for her the greater part of
the continent,—the extensive valleys of the St. Lawrence and the
Mississippi with all the land watered by their tributaries. The
French claim to this region was based almost entirely upon discovery
and exploration, for in all its extent less than one thousand
people were permanently settled. Canada at the north and the region
about New Orleans on the extreme south containing the bulk of the
population, while throughout the old Northwest settlements were few and
scattering.[2] Trading posts and small villages existed at Vincennes
on the Wabash River, at Detroit on a river of the same name, at
St. Joseph near Lake Michigan and other isolated places. Outside of
Detroit, the most important and populous settlement was situated along
the eastern bank of the Mississippi, in the southwestern part of the
present state of Illinois. Here were the villages of Kaskaskia, St.
Phillippe, Prairie du Rocher, Chartres village and Cahokia, containing
a population of barely two thousand people.
In contrast to this vast area of French territory and the sparseness
of its population were the British colonies, with more than a million
people confined to the narrow strip between the Alleghany mountains and
the Atlantic ocean. These provinces were becoming comparatively crowded
and many enterprising families of English, Scotch Irish, and German
extraction were pushing westward towards the mountains. Each year saw
the pressure on the western border increased; the great unoccupied
valley of the Ohio invited homeseekers and adventurers westward in
spite of hostile French and Indians. By the fifth decade the barriers
were being broken through by constantly increasing numbers, and the
French found their possession of the West and their monopoly of the fur
trade seriously threatened.
To prevent such encroachments the French sought to bind their
possessions together with a line of forts extending from the St.
Lawrence down the Ohio valley to the Gulf of Mexico. It had indeed been
the plan of such men as La Salle, Iberville, and Bienville to bring
this territory into a compact whole and limit the English colonies to
the line of mountains. New Orleans and Mobile gave France command of
the Gulf of Mexico and the Mississippi River; Louisburg, Niagara, and
Frontenac afforded protection for Canada. The weak point for France was
the Ohio valley, in the upper part of which Virginia and Pennsylvania
settlers had already located. Celoron, who went down the Ohio in 1749,
burying plates of lead to signify French dominion, warning English
settlers and traders, and persuading the Indians to drive out the
invaders of their hunting grounds, saw the inevitableness of the
conflict. The American phase of the final struggle for colonial empire
was to begin in this region.[3]
In the early years of the war Great Britain and her ally met with
serious reverses every where, and it seemed probable that France would
be able to hold her line of defense in America. The French colonies,
however, were fundamentally weak. Being wholly dependent upon the
mother country, when the latter became absorbed in the continental
struggle to the exclusion of her interests in her colonial possessions,
defeat was inevitable. By 1758 the tide was turning in America; this,
together with the victories of Clive in India and Frederick the Great
at Rossbach and Leuthen, started France on her downward road to ruin
as a world power, and with the transference of the American struggle
to Canada by the capture of Montreal and Quebec the war was at an end.
In 1762 the financial condition of France became so desperate that
Choiseul was anxious for peace and he found George III and Lord Bute
ready to abandon their Prussian ally, and even to give up the fruits
of some of the brilliant victories of 1762 which brought Spain to her
knees.[4]
The definitive treaty of Paris was signed February 10, 1763,[5] by
the terms of which France ceded to Great Britain all of Canada and gave
up her claim to the territory east of the Mississippi River, except the
city of New Orleans, adding to this the right of the free navigation of
the Mississippi. Spain received back Havana ceding Florida to England
in return. A few weeks before signing the definitive treaty, France, in
a secret treaty with Spain ceded to her the city of New Orleans and the
vast region stretching from the Mississippi towards the Pacific. Thus
was France divested of practically every inch of territory in America.
The French colony in the Illinois country had been originally
established with the view of forming a connecting link between the
colonies in Louisiana on the south and Canada at the northeast. La
Salle himself had recognized the possible strategic value of such
an establishment from both a commercial and military standpoint.[6]
Before any settlements had even been made on the lower Mississippi,
he and his associates had attempted in 1682 the formation of a colony
on the Illinois River, near the present site of Peoria.[7] This the
first attempt at western colonization was a failure. The opening of the
following century saw the beginning of a more successful and permanent
colony, when the Catholic missionaries from Quebec established their
missions at Kaskaskia and Cahokia,[8] near the villages of the Illinois
Indians. They were soon followed by hunters and fur traders, and
during the first two decades of the eighteenth century a considerable
number of families immigrated from Canada, thus assuring the permanancy
of the settlement.
Meanwhile the contemporaneous colony of Louisiana had grown to some
importance, and in 1717, when the Company of the West assumed control
of the province, the Illinois country was annexed. Prior to this time
it had been within the jurisdiction of Quebec. This gave the Illinois
country a period of prosperity, many new enterprizes being undertaken.
Shortly after its annexation to Louisiana, Pierre Boisbriant was given
a commission to govern the Illinois country, and among his instructions
was an order to erect a fort as a protection against possible
encroachments from the English and Spanish. About 1720 Fort Chartres
was completed and became thereafter the seat of government during the
French regime. In 1721 the Company of the West divided Louisiana into
nine districts,[9] extending east and west of the Mississippi River
between the lines of the Ohio and Illinois rivers. In 1732 Louisiana
passed out of the hands of the Company of the West Indies, and,
together with the Illinois dependency, became a royal province.[10] It
remained in this status until the close of the Seven Years War. During
this period its relation with Louisiana had become economic as well as
political, all of its trade being carried on through New Orleans, and
the southern colony often owed its existence to the large supplies of
flour and pork sent down the river from the Illinois country.[11]
CHAPTER II.
THE OCCUPATION OF ILLINOIS.
By the treaty of Paris the title to the Illinois region passed to Great
Britain, but Fort Chartres was not immediately occupied. Detachments
of British troops had taken possession of practically every other post
in the newly ceded territory as early as 1760. The occupation of the
forest posts of Green Bay, Mackinac, St. Joseph, Ouitanon, Detroit,
Fort Miami, Sandusky, Niagara and others seemed to indicate almost
complete British dominion in the West. The transfer of the Illinois
posts, however, remained to be effected, and although orders were
forwarded from France in the summer of 1763 to the officers commanding
in the ceded territory to evacuate as soon as the English forces
appeared,[12] almost three years elapsed before this was accomplished;
for soon after the announcement of the treaty of cession, that broad
belt of Indian tribes stretching from the fringe of the eastern
settlements to the Mississippi rose in open rebellion.[13] This
unexpected movement had to be reckoned with before any thought of the
occupation of the Illinois could be seriously entertained.
Of the two great northern Indian families, the Iroquois had generally
espoused the English cause during the recent war, while the Algonquin
nations, living in Canada, and the Lake and Ohio regions, had supported
the French. At the close of the war the greater portion of the French
had sworn fealty to the English crown; but the allegiance of their
allies, the Algonquins, was at best only temporary. It was thought
that, since the power of France had been crushed, there would be no
further motive for the Indian tribes to continue hostilities; but from
1761 there had been a growing feeling of discontent among the western
Indians. So long as France and Great Britain were able to hold each
other in check in America, the Indian nations formed a balance of
power, so to speak, between them. England and France vied with each
other to conciliate the savages and to retain their good will. As soon,
however, as English dominion was assured, this attitude was somewhat
changed. The fur trade under the French had been well regulated, but
its condition under the English from 1760 to 1763 was deplorable.[14]
The English traders were rash and unprincipled men[15] who did not
scruple to cheat and insult their Indian clients at every opportunity.
The more intelligent of the western and northern Indians perceived
that their hunting grounds would soon be overrun by white settlers
with a fixed purpose of permanent settlement.[16] This was probably
the chief cause of the Indian uprising. There remained in the forests
many French and renegade traders and hunters who constantly concocted
insidious reports as to English designs and filled the savage minds
with hope of succor from the King of France.[17] Many of the French
inhabitance had since 1760 emigrated beyond the Mississippi, because,
as the Indians thought, they feared to live under English rule.[18]
This doubtless contributed something toward the rising discontent of
the savages. Finally the policy of economy in expenses, which General
Amherst entered upon, by cutting off a large part of the Indian
presents, always so indispensable in dealing with that race, augured
poorly for the Indians's future.
On the part of the mass of the Indians the insurrection was probably
a mere outbreak of resentment; but Pontiac, the great chief of the
Ottawas, had a clearer vision. He determined to rehabilitate French
power in the west and to reunite all the Indian nations into one great
confederacy in order to ward off the approaching dangers. During the
years 1761-1762 the plot was developed. In 1762 Pontiac dispatched
his emissaries to all the Indian nations. The ramifications of the
conspiracy extended to all the Algonquin tribes, to some of the
nations on the lower Mississippi and even included a portion of the
Six Nations. The original aim of the plot was the destruction of the
garrisons on the frontier, after which the settlements were to be
attacked. The attack on the outposts, beginning in May, 1763, was
sudden and overwhelming; Detroit, Fort Pitt, and Niagara alone held
out, the remainder of the posts falling without an attempt at defense.
Had the proclamation of 1763, which aimed at the pacification of the
Indians by reserving to them the western lands, been issued earlier
in the year, this devastating might have been avoided. Peaceful
pacification was now out of the question. During the summers of 1763
and 1764 Colonel Bouquet raised the siege of Fort Pitt, penetrated into
the enemy's country in the upper Ohio valley region and completely
subdued the Shawnee and Delaware tribes upon whom Pontiac had placed
every dependence. Previous to Bouquet's second campaign, Colonel
Bradstreet had advanced with a detachment along the southern shore of
Lake Erie, penetrating as far west as Detroit, whence companies were
sent to occupy the posts in the upper lake region. In the campaign
as a whole the Bouquet expedition was the most effective. After the
ratification of a series of treaties, in which the Indians promised
allegiance to the English crown, the eastern portion of the rebellion
was broken.
It now remained to penetrate to the Illinois country in order to
relieve the French garrison. Pontiac had retired thither in 1764,
after his unsuccessful attempt upon Detroit; there he hoped to rally
the western tribes and sue for the support of the French. But as we
shall see, his schemes received a powerful blow upon the refusal of the
commandants to countenance his pleas.
To what extent Pontiac was assisted by French intriguers in the
development of his plans may never be positively known. As has already
been pointed out, French traders were constantly among the Indians,
filling their minds with hopes and fears. That the plot included French
officials may be doubted; although Sir William Johnson and General
Gage seemed convinced that such was the case.[19] Their belief,
however, was based almost wholly upon reports from Indian runners,
whose credibility as witnesses may well be questioned. A perusal of the
correspondence of the French officials[20] residing in Illinois and
Louisiana, and their official communications with the Indians during
this period goes far to clear them of complicity in the affair.[21]
General Gage, who succeeded Amherst as commander-in-chief of the
British army in America in November, 1763, was convinced that the early
occupation of the western posts was essential,[22] since it would in
a measure cut off the communication between the French and Indian
nations dwelling in that vicinity. The Indians, finding themselves
thus inclosed would be more easily pacified. But the participation in
the rebellion of the Shawnee and Delaware tribes of the upper Ohio
river region precluded for a time the possibility of reaching the
Mississippi posts by way of Fort Pitt, without a much larger force than
Gage had at his command in the east; and the colonies were already
avoiding the call for troops.[23] The only other available route
was by way of New Orleans and the Mississippi River whose navigation
had been declared open to French and English alike by the treaty of
Paris. Little opposition might be expected from the southern Indians
toward whom a much more liberal policy had been pursued than with the
northern tribes. Presents to the value of four or five thousand pounds
had been sent to Charleston in 1763 for distribution among the southern
nations which counter-acted in a large measure the machinations of the
French traders from New Orleans.[24] The Florida ports, Mobile and
Pensacola, were already occupied by English troops, and Gage and his
associates believed, that with the co-operation of the French Governor
of Louisiana a successful ascent could be made.[25]
Accordingly in January, 1764, Major Arthur Loftus, with a detachment
of three hundred and fifty-one men from the twenty-second regiment
embarked at Mobile for New Orleans, where preparations were to be made
for the voyage.[26] A company of sixty men from this regiment were to
be left at Fort Massac on the Ohio River, while the remainder were to
occupy Kaskaskia and Fort Chartres.[27] At New Orleans boats had to be
built, supplies and provisions procured, and guides and interpreters
provided.[28] The expedition set out from New Orleans February 27.
Three weeks later the flotilla was attacked by a band of Tonica Indians
near Davion's Bluff, or Fort Adams,[29] about two hundred and forty
miles above New Orleans. After the loss of several men in the boats
composing the vanguard, Loftus ordered a retreat, and the expedition
was abandoned. Depleted by sickness, death and desertion the regiment
made its way from New Orleans back to Mobile.[30]
Major Loftus placed the blame for the failure of his expedition upon
Governor D' Abadie and other French officials at New Orleans.[31] There
is probably sufficient evidence, however, to warrant the conclusion
that his accusations against the Governor were without foundation.
The correspondence of D' Abadie, Gage, and others indicates that
official aid was given the English in making their preparations for
the journey,[32] and letters were issued to the commandants of the
French posts on the Mississippi to render the English convoys all the
assistance in their power[33]. There may have been some justification
for the suspicion of Loftus that the intriguers were at work, for the
French as a whole were not in sympathy with the attempt; the success
of the English meant the cessation of the lucrative trade between New
Orleans and Illinois. They were no doubt delighted at the discomfiture
of the English officer, for when some of the chiefs engaged in the
ambuscade entered New Orleans they were said to have been publicly
received.[34]
Granting, however, the machinations of the French, the reason for
the failure of Loftus may be found in part in the almost total lack
of precautions adopted before undertaking the journey. Governor D'
Abadie had given the English officer warning of the bad disposition
of a number of tribes along the Mississippi River, among whom Pontiac
had considerable influence, and had assured him that unless he carried
presents for the Indians, he would be unable to proceed far up the
river.[35] The policy of sending advance agents with convoys of
presents for the Indians was successful the following year when the
Illinois posts were finally reached from the east; but no such policy
was adopted at this time.[36] No action was taken to counter-act any
possible intrigues on the part of the French. D' Abadie's advice
was not heeded, and his prophecy was fulfilled. General Gage in his
official correspondence implied that he did not think sufficient care
had been exercised to insure success, and expressed his belief that if
Loftus would make use of the "necessary precautions" he might get up
to the mouth of the Ohio with little interruption.[37] This want of
judgement, therefore, accounts in a large degree for the unfortunate
termination of the plans of an approach from the south.
The news of the defeat of Loftus had two results. First, it gave
Pontiac renewed hope that he might be able to rally again the western
and northern Indians, and, with French assistance, block the advance
of the English. In the second place it led General Gage to determine
upon an advance from the east, down the Ohio River, which was made
practicable by the recent submission of the Delaware Indians.
Meanwhile the Illinois country in 1764 presented an anomalous
situation. St. Ange was governing, in the name of Louis XV, a country
belonging to another king. He was under orders to surrender the place
as soon as possible to its rightful owner; but the prospect for such an
event seemed remote. He was surrounded by crowds of begging, thieving
savages; and the emissaries of the greatest of Indian chieftains,
Pontiac, were constantly petitioning for his active support against
the approaching English. A considerable portion of the French traders
of the villages were secretly, and sometimes openly, supporting the
Indian cause, which added greatly to the increasing embarrasment of the
commandant. So distressing became the situation that Neyon de Villiers,
St. Ange's predecessor, called the latter from Vincennes on the Wabash,
and left the country in disgust, taking with him to New Orleans sixty
soldiers and eighty of the French inhabitants.[38] He had shortly
before indignantly refused to countenance the proposals of Pontiac, and
had begged the Indians to lay down their arms and make peace with the
English.[39]
The news of Loftus' defeat aroused Pontiac the thought of the
possibility of meeting and repelling the advance from the east as
it had been met and repelled in the south. In spite of the news of
the defeat of his allies by Bouquet and the report that preparations
were being made by his victorious enemy to advance against him,
Pontiac determined to make a last supreme effort. By a series of
visits among the tribes dwelling in the Illinois, on the Wabash and
in the Miami country, he succeeded in arousing in them the instinct
of self-preservation, in firing the hearts of all the faltering
Indians and in winning the promise of their co-operation in his plan
of defense. He was in this temper when he met and turned back Captain
Thomas Morris in the Miami country early in the autumn of 1764. Morris
had been sent by Bradstreet from the neighborhood of Detroit with
messages to St. Ange in the Illinois country, whence he was to proceed
to New Orleans.[40] After being maltreated and threatened with the
stake, Morris effected an escape and made his way to Detroit.[41] It
was during his interview with Pontiac that the latter informed Morris
of the repulse of Loftus, of the journey of his emissaries to New
Orleans to seek French support, and of his determination and that of
his Indian allies to resist the English to the last.[42]
A few months later, in February, 1765, there arrived at Fort Chartres
an English officer, accompanied by a trader named Crawford. They were
probably the first Englishmen to penetrate thus far into the former
French territory since the beginning of the war.[43] They had been sent
from Mobile by Major Farmer, the commandant at that place, to bring
about the conciliation of the Indians in the Illinois.[44] Instead of
following the Mississippi, they worked their way northward through the
great Choctaw and Chicksaw nations to the Ohio, descended the latter
to the Mississippi and thence to the Illinois villages.[45] Although
St. Ange received them cordially[46] and did all in his power to
influence the savages to receive the English,[47] the mission of Ross
was a failure. The Indians had nothing but expressions of hatred and
defiance for the English; even the Missouri and Osages from beyond
the Mississippi had fallen under the influence of Pontiac.[48] Ross
and his companion remained with St. Ange nearly two months; but about
the middle of April they were obliged to go down the river to New
Orleans.[49]
During the winter of 1764-1765 preparations were made to send a
detachment of troops down the Ohio from Fort Pitt to relieve Fort
Chartres. To pave the way for the troops Gage dispatched two agents
in advance. He selected George Croghan, Sir William Johnson's deputy,
for the delicate and dangerous task of going among the Indians of
that country to assure them of the peaceful attitude of the English,
to promise them better facilities for trade and to accompany the
promise with substantial presents.[50] The second agent was Lieutenant
Fraser,[51] whose mission was to carry letters to the French commandant
and a proclamation for the inhabitants.[52] January 24, 1765, Fraser
and Croghan set out from Carlisle, Pennsylvania,[53] followed a few
days later by a large convoy of presents.[54] During the journey, the
convoy was attacked by a band of Pennsylvania borderers,[55] and a
large part of the goods destined for the Indians were destroyed,[56]
together with some valuable stores which certain Philadelphia merchants
were forwarding to Fort Pitt for the purpose of opening up the trade
as early as possible.[57] Croghan therefore found it necessary to
tarry at Fort Pitt to replenish his stores and to await the opening of
spring.[58] But another matter intervened which forced him to postpone
his departure for more than two months. A temporary defection had
arisen among the Shawnee and Delaware Indians.[59] They had failed to
fulfil some of the obligations imposed upon them by Bouquet in the
previous summer, and there was some fear lest they would not permit
Croghan to pass through their country. His influence was such, however,
that, in an assembly of the tribes at Fort Pitt, he not only received
their consent to a safe passage, but some of their number volunteered
to accompany him.[60]
Meanwhile Lieutenant Fraser, Croghan's companion, decided to proceed
alone, inasmuch as Gage's instructions to him were to be at the
Illinois early in April.[61] On March 23 he departed, accompanied
by two or three whites and a couple of Indians,[62] and reached the
Illinois posts in the latter part of April, shortly after the departure
of Lieutenant Ross and his party. Here Fraser found many of the
Indians in destitution and some inclined for peace.[63] Nevertheless,
instigated by the traders and encouraged by their secret supplies,
the savages as a whole would not listen to Fraser; they threatened
his life, and threw him into prison, and he was finally saved by the
intervention of Pont | 2,207.947723 |
2023-11-16 18:53:51.9406210 | 1,262 | 12 |
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Beginners Projects, Dave Morgan and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE WENDIGO
Algernon Blackwood
1910
I
A considerable number of hunting parties were out that year without
finding so much as a fresh trail; for the moose were uncommonly shy, and
the various Nimrods returned to the bosoms of their respective families
with the best excuses the facts of their imaginations could suggest. Dr.
Cathcart, among others, came back without a trophy; but he brought
instead the memory of an experience which he declares was worth all the
bull moose that had ever been shot. But then Cathcart, of Aberdeen, was
interested in other things besides moose--amongst them the vagaries of
the human mind. This particular story, however, found no mention in his
book on Collective Hallucination for the simple reason (so he confided
once to a fellow colleague) that he himself played too intimate a part
in it to form a competent judgment of the affair as a whole....
Besides himself and his guide, Hank Davis, there was young Simpson, his
nephew, a divinity student destined for the "Wee Kirk" (then on his
first visit to Canadian backwoods), and the latter's guide, Defago.
Joseph Defago was a French "Canuck," who had strayed from his native
Province of Quebec years before, and had got caught in Rat Portage when
the Canadian Pacific Railway was a-building; a man who, in addition to
his unparalleled knowledge of wood-craft and bush-lore, could also sing
the old _voyageur_ songs and tell a capital hunting yarn into the
bargain. He was deeply susceptible, moreover, to that singular spell
which the wilderness lays upon certain lonely natures, and he loved the
wild solitudes with a kind of romantic passion that amounted almost to
an obsession. The life of the backwoods fascinated him--whence,
doubtless, his surpassing efficiency in dealing with their mysteries.
On this particular expedition he was Hank's choice. Hank knew him and
swore by him. He also swore at him, "jest as a pal might," and since he
had a vocabulary of picturesque, if utterly meaningless, oaths, the
conversation between the two stalwart and hardy woodsmen was often of a
rather lively description. This river of expletives, however, Hank
agreed to dam a little out of respect for his old "hunting boss," Dr.
Cathcart, whom of course he addressed after the fashion of the country
as "Doc," and also because he understood that young Simpson was already
a "bit of a parson." He had, however, one objection to Defago, and one
only--which was, that the French Canadian sometimes exhibited what Hank
described as "the output of a cursed and dismal mind," meaning
apparently that he sometimes was true to type, Latin type, and suffered
fits of a kind of silent moroseness when nothing could induce him to
utter speech. Defago, that is to say, was imaginative and melancholy.
And, as a rule, it was too long a spell of "civilization" that induced
the attacks, for a few days of the wilderness invariably cured them.
This, then, was the party of four that found themselves in camp the last
week in October of that "shy moose year" 'way up in the wilderness north
of Rat Portage--a forsaken and desolate country. There was also Punk, an
Indian, who had accompanied Dr. Cathcart and Hank on their hunting trips
in previous years, and who acted as cook. His duty was merely to stay in
camp, catch fish, and prepare venison steaks and coffee at a few
minutes' notice. He dressed in the worn-out clothes bequeathed to him by
former patrons, and, except for his coarse black hair and dark skin, he
looked in these city garments no more like a real redskin than a stage
<DW64> looks like a real African. For all that, however, Punk had in him
still the instincts of his dying race; his taciturn silence and his
endurance survived; also his superstition.
The party round the blazing fire that night were despondent, for a week
had passed without a single sign of recent moose discovering itself.
Defago had sung his song and plunged into a story, but Hank, in bad
humor, reminded him so often that "he kep' mussing-up the fac's so, that
it was'most all nothin' but a petered-out lie," that the Frenchman had
finally subsided into a sulky silence which nothing seemed likely to
break. Dr. Cathcart and his nephew were fairly done after an exhausting
day. Punk was washing up the dishes, grunting to himself under the
lean-to of branches, where he later also slept. No one troubled to stir
the slowly dying fire. Overhead the stars were brilliant in a sky quite
wintry, and there was so little wind that ice was already forming
stealthily along the shores of the still lake behind them. The silence
of the vast listening forest stole forward and enveloped them.
Hank broke in suddenly with his nasal voice.
"I'm in favor of breaking new ground tomorrow, Doc," he observed with
energy, looking across at his employer. "We don't stand a dead <DW55>'s
chance around here."
"Agreed," said Cathcart, always a man of few words. "Think the idea's
good."
"Sure pop, it's good," Hank resumed with confidence. "S'pose, now, you
and I strike west, up Garden Lake way for a change! None of us ain't
touched that quiet bit o' land yet--"
"I'm with you."
"And you, Defago, | 2,207.960661 |
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