TIMESTAMP
stringlengths 27
27
| ContextTokens
int64 3
7.44k
| GeneratedTokens
int64 6
1.9k
| text
stringlengths 9
41.5k
| time_delta
float64 0
3.44k
|
|---|---|---|---|---|
2023-11-16 18:59:49.8884770 | 147 | 14 |
Produced by David Widger
MY LITERARY PASSIONS
By William Dean Howells
1895
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL.
I. THE BOOKCASE AT HOME
II. GOLDSMITH
III. CERVANTES
IV. IRVING
V. FIRST FICTION AND DRAMA
VI. LONGFELLOW'S "SPANISH STUDENT"
VII. SCOTT
VIII. LIGHTER FANCIES
IX. POPE
X. VARIOUS PREFERENCES
XI. UNCLE TOM'S CABIN
XII. OSSIAN
| 2,565.908517 |
2023-11-16 18:59:58.1342810 | 1,398 | 13 |
Produced by Pat Castevans and David Widger
CONISTON
By Winston Churchill
BOOK III
CHAPTER I
One day, in the November following William Wetherell's death, Jethro Bass
astonished Coniston by moving to the little cottage in the village which
stood beside the disused tannery, and which had been his father's. It was
known as the tannery house. His reasons for this step, when at length
discovered, were generally commended: they were, in fact, a
disinclination to leave a girl of Cynthia's tender age alone on Thousand
Acre Hill while he journeyed on his affairs about the country. The Rev.
Mr. Satterlee, gaunt, red-faced, but the six feet of him a man and a
Christian, from his square-toed boots to the bleaching yellow hair around
his temples, offered to become her teacher. For by this time Cynthia had
exhausted the resources of the little school among the birches.
The four years of her life in the tannery house which are now briefly to
be chronicled were, for her, full of happiness and peace. Though the
young may sorrow, they do not often mourn. Cynthia missed her father; at
times, when the winds kept her wakeful at night, she wept for him. But
she loved Jethro Bass and served him with a devotion that filled his
heart with strange ecstasies--yes, and forebodings. In all his existence
he had never known a love like this. He may have imagined it once, back
in the bright days of his youth; but the dreams of its fulfilment had
fallen far short of the exquisite touch of the reality in which he now
spent his days at home. In summer, when she sat, in the face of all the
conventions of the village, reading under the butternut tree before the
house, she would feel his eyes upon her, and the mysterious yearning in
them would startle her. Often during her lessons with Mr. Satterlee in
the parlor of the parsonage she would hear a noise outside and perceive
Jethro leaning against the pillar. Both Cynthia and Mr. Satterlee knew
that he was there, and both, by a kind of tacit agreement, ignored the
circumstance.
Cynthia, in this period, undertook Jethro's education, too. She could
have induced him to study the making of Latin verse by the mere asking.
During those days which he spent at home, and which he had grown to value
beyond price, he might have been seen seated on the ground with his back
to the butternut tree while Cynthia read aloud from the well-worn books
which had been her father's treasures, books that took on marvels of
meaning from her lips. Cynthia's powers of selection were not remarkable
at this period, and perhaps it was as well that she never knew the effect
of the various works upon the hitherto untamed soul of her listener.
Milton and Tennyson and Longfellow awoke in him by their very music
troubled and half-formed regrets; Carlyle's "Frederick the Great" set up
tumultuous imaginings; but the "Life of Jackson" (as did the story of
Napoleon long ago) stirred all that was masterful in his blood.
Unlettered as he was, Jethro had a power which often marks the American
of action--a singular grasp of the application of any sentence or
paragraph to his own life; and often, about this time, he took away the
breath of a judge or a senator by flinging at them a chunk of Carlyle or
Parton.
It was perhaps as well that Cynthia was not a woman at this time, and
that she had grown up with him, as it were. His love, indeed, was that of
a father for a daughter; but it held within it as a core the revived love
of his youth for Cynthia, her mother. Tender as were the manifestations
of this love, Cynthia never guessed the fires within, for there was in
truth something primeval in the fierceness of his passion. She was his
now--his alone, to cherish and sweeten the declining years of his life,
and when by a chance Jethro looked upon her and thought of the suitor who
was to come in the fulness of her years, he burned with a hatred which it
is given few men to feel. It was well for Jethro that these thoughts came
not often.
Sometimes, in the summer afternoons, they took long drives through the
town behind Jethro's white horse on business. "Jethro's gal," as Cynthia
came to be affectionately called, held the reins while Jethro went in to
talk to the men folk. One August evening found Cynthia thus beside a
poplar in front of Amos Cuthbert's farmhouse, a poplar that shimmered
green-gold in the late afternoon, and from the buggy-seat Cynthia looked
down upon a thousand purple hilltops and mountain peaks of another state.
The view aroused in the girl visions of the many wonders which life was
to hold, and she did not hear the sharp voice beside her until the woman
had spoken twice. Jethro came out in the middle of the conversation,
nodded to Mrs. Cuthbert, and drove off.
"Uncle Jethro," asked Cynthia, presently, "what is a mortgage?"
Jethro struck the horse with the whip, an uncommon action with him, and
the buggy was jerked forward sharply over the boulders.
"Er--who's b'en talkin' about mortgages, Cynthy?" he demanded.
"Mrs. Cuthbert said that when folks had mortgage held over them they had
to take orders whether they liked them or not. She said that Amos had to
do what you told him because there was a mortgage. That isn't so is it?"
Jethro did not speak. Presently Cynthia laid her hand over his.
"Mrs. Cuthbert is a spiteful woman," she said. "I know the reason why
people obey you--it's because you're so great. And Daddy used to tell me
so."
A tremor shook Jethro's frame and the hand on which hers rested, and all
the way down the mountain valleys to Coniston village he did not speak
again. But Cynthia was used to his silences, and respected | 2,574.154321 |
2023-11-16 18:59:58.1346470 | 1,030 | 12 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Eric Eldred, Charles
Franksand the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE PURPLE LAND
Being the Narrative of One Richard Lamb's Adventures in The Banda
Oriental, in South America, as Told By Himself
By W. H. Hudson
ILLUSTRATED BY
Keith Henderson
[Illustration: RICHARD]
Second Edition, 1904
NEW YORK
PREFACE
This work was first issued in 1885, by Messrs. Sampson Low, in two slim
volumes, with the longer, and to most persons, enigmatical title of _The
Purple Land That England Lost_. A purple land may be found in almost
any region of the globe, and 'tis of our gains, not our losses, we keep
count. A few notices of the book appeared in the papers, one or two of
the more serious literary journals reviewing it (not favourably) under
the heading of "Travels and Geography"; but the reading public cared
not to buy, and it very shortly fell into oblivion. There it might have
remained for a further period of nineteen years, or for ever, since the
sleep of a book is apt to be of the unawakening kind, had not certain
men of letters, who found it on a forgotten heap and liked it in spite
of its faults, or because of them, concerned themselves to revive it.
We are often told that an author never wholly loses his affection for a
first book, and the feeling has been likened (more than once) to that of
a parent towards a first-born. I have not said it, but in consenting to
this reprint I considered that a writer's early or unregarded work is
apt to be raked up when he is not standing by to make remarks. He may
be absent on a journey from which he is not expected to return. It
accordingly seemed better that I should myself supervise a new edition,
since this would enable me to remove a few of the numerous spots and
pimples which decorate the ingenious countenance of the work before
handing it on to posterity.
Besides many small verbal corrections and changes, the deletion of
some paragraphs and the insertion of a few new ones, I have omitted
one entire chapter containing the Story of a Piebald Horse, recently
reprinted in another book entitled _El Ombu_. I have also dropped the
tedious introduction to the former edition, only preserving, as an
appendix, the historical part, for the sake of such of my readers as may
like to have a few facts about the land that England lost.
W. H. H.
_September, 1904._
[FOR THE SECOND EDITION]
[Illustration: MARGARITA]
[Illustration: DOLORES]
[Illustration: PAQUITA]
[Illustration: TORIBIA]
[Illustration: MONICA]
[Illustration: ANITA]
[Illustration: SANTA COLOMA]
[Illustration: CANDELARIA]
[Illustration: DEMETRIA]
[Illustration: HILARIO]
CHAPTER I
Three chapters in the story of my life--three periods, distinct and well
defined, yet consecutive--beginning when I had not completed twenty-five
years and finishing before thirty, will probably prove the most eventful
of all. To the very end they will come back oftenest to memory and seem
more vivid than all the other years of existence--the four-and-twenty I
had already lived, and the, say, forty or forty-five--I hope it may
be fifty or even sixty--which are to follow. For what soul in this
wonderful, various world would wish to depart before ninety! The dark as
well as the light, its sweet and its bitter, make me love it.
Of the first of these three a word only need be written. This was the
period of courtship and matrimony; and though the experience seemed
to me then something altogether new and strange in the world, it must
nevertheless have resembled that of other men, since all men marry. And
the last period, which was the longest of the three, occupying fully
three years, could not be told. It was all black disaster. Three years
of enforced separation and the extremest suffering which the cruel law
of the land allowed an enraged father to inflict on his child and the
man who had ventured to wed her against his will. Even the wise may be
driven mad by oppression, and I that was never wise, but lived in and
was led by the passions and illusions and the unbounded self-confidence
of youth, what must it have been for me when we were cruelly torn
asunder; when I was cast into | 2,574.154687 |
2023-11-16 18:59:58.1365620 | 572 | 19 |
Produced by David Starner, Tiffany Vergon, William Patterson
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE
ESPERANTO TEACHER,
A SIMPLE COURSE FOR
NON-GRAMMARIANS.
BY
HELEN FRYER.
TENTH EDITION.
(B.E.A. PUBLICATIONS FUND--No. 3).
All profits from the sale of this book are devoted to the
propaganda of Esperanto.
LONDON:
BRITISH ESPERANTO ASSOCIATION (Incorporated),
17, Hart Street, W.C.I.
* * * * *
PRESENTATION.
Perhaps to no one is Esperanto of more service than to the
non-grammarian. It gives him for a minimum expenditure of time and money
a valuable insight into the principles of grammar and the meaning of
words, while enabling him, after only a few months of study, to get into
communication with his fellow men in all parts of the world.
To place these advantages within easy reach of all is the aim of this
little book. Written by an experienced teacher, revised by Mr. E. A.
Millidge, and based on the exercises of Dr. Zamenhof himself, it merits
the fullest confidence of the student, and may be heartily commended to
all into whose hands it may come.
W. W. PADFIELD.
PREFACE.
This little book has been prepared in the hope of helping those who,
having forgotten the lessons in grammar which they received at school,
find some difficulty in learning Esperanto from the existing textbooks.
It is hoped it will be found useful not only for solitary students, but
also for class work.
The exercises are taken chiefly from the "Ekzercaro" of Dr. Zamenhof.
The compiler also acknowledges her indebtedness especially to the
"Standard Course of Esperanto," by Mr. G. W. Bullen, and to the
"Esperanto Grammar and Commentary," by Major-General Geo. Cox, and while
accepting the whole responsibility for all inaccuracies and crudenesses,
she desires to thank all who have helped in the preparation, and
foremost among them Mr. W. W. Padfield, of Ipswich, for advice and
encouragement throughout the work, and to Mr. E. A. Millidge, for his
unfailing kindness and invaluable counsel and help in its preparation
and revision.
MANNER OF USING THE BOOK.
The student is strongly advised to cultivate the habit of thinking in
Esperanto from the very beginning of the study. To do this he should
try to realise the idea | 2,574.156602 |
2023-11-16 18:59:58.1367220 | 178 | 12 |
Produced by D. Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
MARCO PAUL'S
ADVENTURES
IN PURSUIT OF KNOWLEDGE.
FORESTS OF MAINE.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
ROLLO, JONAS, AND LUCY BOOKS.
BOSTON:
T. H. CARTER & COMPANY,
118 1/2 WASHINGTON STREET.
1843.
Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1843,
BY T. H. CARTER,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts.
STEREOTYPED BY
GEORGE A. CURTIS,
N. ENGLAND TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOUN | 2,574.156762 |
2023-11-16 18:59:58.1375900 | 7,436 | 15 |
Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
THE BLUE AND THE GRAY
OR,
THE CIVIL WAR
AS SEEN BY A BOY
A Story of Patriotism and Adventure in Our War for the Union
By A. R. White
With Over 150 War Photographs And Original Drawings
Illustrated by Frank Beard
`"We live for freedom; let us clasp each other by the hand;
`In love and unity abide, a firm, unbroken band;
`We cannot live divided--the Union is secure!
`God grant that while men live and love, this nation may endure."
--DR. FRED A. PALMER,
[Illustration: 0001]
[Illustration: 0008]
[Illustration: 0011]
[Illustration: 0013]
[Illustration: 0014]
1898
BY
K. T. BOLAND.
TO THE SONS AND THE DAUGHTERS OF THE VETERANS OF THE CIVIL WAR;
TO THOSE WHO FOUGHT ITS BATTLES AND LIVED TO INSTIL ITS LESSONS OF
PATRIOTISM IN THE HEARTS OF THEIR CHILDREN; TO THOSE OF ALL CLIMES WHO
LOVE LIBERTY AND THE NOBLE LAND WHERE FREEDOM HAD HER BIRTH; TO THE
MEMORY OF THE HEROES OF NORTH AND SOUTH WHO FELL IN battle; TO ONE
UNITED COUNTRY,
BOTH NORTH AND SOUTH, FOREVER ONE IN ALL NOBLE AND LOFTY PURPOSES AND
AIMS; TO THE HOMES OF AMERICA; THIS BOOK IS LOVINGLY DEDICATED BY YOURS
SINCERELY
THE AUTHOR.
CALEB B. SMITH, Secretary of Interior.
EDWIN M. STANTON, Secretary of War.
GIDEON WELLES, Secretary of Navy.
WILLIAM H. SEWARD, Secretary of State.
EDWARD BATES, Attorney-General.
SIMON P. CHASE, Secretary of Treasury.
MONTGOMERY BLAIR, Postmaster-General.
JUDAH P. BENJAMIN, Attorney-General, War, State.
ROBERT TOOMBS, Secretary of State.
LEROY P. WALKER, Secretary of War.
STEPHEN R. MALLORY, Secretary of the Navy.
CHRISTOPHER G. MEMMINGER. Secretary of Treasury.
JOHN H. REAGAN, Postmaster-General.
[Illustration: 9015]
HE scenes of the war, related by a boy who followed the flag from
the beginning to the end of the war, must carry with them a sense of
accuracy, for they are the recollections of actual service. Those books
which have been written upon the war have, with very few exceptions,
been penned from the standpoint of mature opinions and experiences. In
this work the views and struggles of a boy who went into the army, from
an honest desire to do right, are portrayed. To fight was abhorrent to
his nature, but there was a call for men who were willing to defend the
institutions of his beloved land. And that defense was only possible
through bloodshed and conflict. Tenderly instructed by a loving and
gentle mother, whose early home was in the South, it was almost a
wrenching of her cherished opinions, to give him up to fight against
her kindred. But her boy did not enter the contest with a thought of
conquering his fellow-beings, but as a duty which, though painful,
must be performed. How that dear mother gave him to his country, how he
marched, and fought, and endured hardships, are here set forth in the
colors of truth, for it is a true story.
And that the boys and girls of to-day and their fathers and mothers may
follow the varying fortunes of the boy of our story, thus ushered into
the conflict, with pleasure and profit, is the heartfelt hope of
The Author.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
Abraham Lincoln and His Cabinet.........................008
A Business Street in Manila.............................389
A Cuban Home............................................371
Allan Pinkerton and Secret Service Officers.............073
An Alexandria Anti-bellum Relic.........................069
Appomattox Court House..................................227
Artillery Going to the Front............................126
Asking for Furlough.....................................095
A Southern Mansion......................................086
A Stolen Child..........................................338
A Sugar Factory in Manila...............................377
Attack on Fredericksburg................................145
Attack on the Mail......................................337
A Typical <DW52> Boy...................................080
Battle of Bull Run......................................051
Battle of Chancellorsville..............................298
Battle of Malvern Hill-Lee's Attack.....................076
Battle of Phillipi......................................046
Battle of Shiloh........................................194
Bearing Dispatches......................................106
Burning of Chicago......................................328
Burnside Bridge.........................................135
Burying Old Bill........................................142
Camp Douglas............................................159
Camp Fire Songs.........................................117
Camp Life-In the Kitchen................................071
Camp Life on Monday.....................................077
Camp of the Army of the Potomac.........................104
Capitol at Richmond.....................................065
Captain John L Worden Commanding the Monitor............175
Capture of a White Child................................340
Caring for the Dead.....................................055
Charge of a Confederate Cavalry at Trevalian Station... 221
Colonel John S Mosby and a Group of His Raiders.........211
Confederate Soldiers' Monument--Richmond, Va............259
Crossing Big Black River................................191
Custer's Last Charge....................................347
Death of Sitting Bull...................................343
Decoration Day--Gettysburg..............................262
Destruction of Cervera's Fleet..........................385
Devil's Den.............................................208
Dewey's Victorious Battle...............................375
Diamond Joe and Aunt Judah When Young...................082
"Do Any of You Know Peter Hall?"........................123
Drinking from the Same Canteen..........................245
Earthquake at Charleston................................334
Episcopal Church at Alexandria, Va......................088
Fairfax Court House.....................................027
Fall of General James B McPherson near Atlanta..........215
Federal Gunboat--Foraging...............................072
Foraging................................................197
Fort Donelson...........................................161
Fortress Monroe.........................................022
Fort Sumter.............................................019
Franklin Buchanan Commanding the Merrimac...............172
Fremont's Body Guard....................................101
Fun in Camp.............................................119
Garfield Lying in State.................................314
Garfield's Struggle with Death..........................316
General Grant's Birthplace..............................309
General Hancock and Friends.............................153
General Lee on His Favorite Horse.......................295
General Longstreet Wounded by His Own Men...............213
General Meade's Headquarters............................298
General Miles...........................................393
Gettysburg Cemetery Gate................................212
Grant's Tomb-New York...................................258
Grant Breaking a Horse..................................311
Grant Plowing at the Age of 11..........................310
Hailing the Troops......................................064
Harper's Ferry..........................................040
Horticultural Hall, Philadelphia........................323
House Where Lee Surrendered.............................242
Indian Chief............................................349
Indian Dance............................................339
Indian Schools of To-day................................341
Indian Scout............................................350
Interior of Hospital....................................249
In Winter Quarters......................................105
Jefferson Davis and His Cabinet.........................010
Joe Hiding in the Woods.................................083
John Brown's Capture....................................042
Location of the Union Troops--Henry House...............053
Making a Military Road Through a Swamp..................198
Map-Battlefields of the Great Civil War.................147
Map-Loyal and Seceding States...........................052
Map--Showing the Seat of War............................132
Map-The Shenandoah Valley...............................121
McLean House............................................232
National Cemetery at Richmond, Va.......................217
<DW64> Village in Georgia................................036
Off for the War.........................................018
Old Aunt Judah..........................................081
Old City Hall-New Orleans...............................113
On Board the Hartford-Battle of Mobile Bay..............168
On the March............................................039
Picket Off Duty Forever.................................059
Proposed Monument to Jefferson Davis....................260
Portrait-Alexander H Stephens...........................024
Portrait-Abraham Lincoln................................236
Portrait-Admiral Cervera................................381
Portrait--Benjamin F Butler.............................043
Portrait-Brigadier-General Neal Dow.....................222
Portrait-Buffalo Bill, a Foe of the Indians.............342
Portrait-Belle Boyd.....................................257
Portrait-Charles A Dana.................................133
Portrait-Captain Charles Wilke..........................203
Portrait-Capt Raphael Semmes............................218
Portrait-Commander David D Porter.......................186
Portrait-Christopher Carson.............................351
Portrait-Colonel Charles W Le Gendre....................214
Portrait-Florence Nightingale...........................255
Portrait-Frances Willard................................358
Portrait-General Ambrose E Burnside.....................125
Portrait-General Custer.................................218
Portrait-General George B McClellan.....................047
Portrait-General George E Meade.........................151
Portrait-General Grant..................................163
Portrait-General Grant..................................231
Portrait-General Hooker.................................154
Portrait-General John A Dix.............................025
Portrait-General James Longstreet, C S A................062
Portrait-General Joseph E Johnston......................091
Portrait-General John C Fremont.........................100
Portrait-General John A Logan...........................190
Portrait-General James B McPherson......................196
Portrait-James Abram Garfield...........................315
Portrait-General Lee....................................399
Portrait-General Lew Wallace............................127
Portrait-General Oliver O Howard........................220
Portrait-General P T G Beauregard.......................045
Portrait-General Phil Kearney...........................139
Portrait-General Pickett................................209
Portrait-General Rosecrans..............................136
Portrait-General Stonewall Jackson......................182
Portrait-General Winfield Scott.........................030
Portrait-General Winfield Hancock.......................152
Portrait-General William Tecumseh Sherman...............189
Portrait-General Wade Hampton...........................205
Portrait-General Robert Anderson........................292
Portrait-Harriet B Stowe................................206
Portrait-Henry Ward Beecher.............................021
Portrait-Hobson.........................................383
Portrait-Honorable Charles Sumner.......................087
Portrait-Horace Greeley.................................204
Portrait-James Murray Mason.............................020
Portrait-John Slidell...................................020
Portrait-John Brown.....................................041
Portrait-Jennie Wade....................................209
Portraits (from Photographs)-John M Morgan and Wife.....216
Portrait-John A Winslow.................................219
Portrait-John B Gordon..................................229
Portrait-Jefferson Davis................................230
Portrait-John Wilkes Booth..............................237
Portrait-Lee's Surrender................................239
Portrait-General Montgomery Meigs.......................026
Portrait-Major-General Philip H Sheridan................226
Portrait-Miss Nellie M Taylor...........................251
Portrait-Miss Hattie A Dana.............................252
Portrait-Mrs Mary D Wade................................252
Portrait-Miss Clara Barton..............................253
Portrait-Major-General Fitzhugh Lee, C S A..............094
Portrait-Miss Louisa M Alcott...........................256
Portrait-Mrs Mary Livermore.............................254
Portrait-Miss Margaret Breckenridge.....................256
Portrait-Robert E Lee...................................078
Portrait-Rear Admiral David G Farragut..................186
Portrait-Thomas A Edison................................325
Portrait--Walter Q Gresham..............................223
Portrait--William H Seward..............................320
Portrait-William McKinley...............................356
Portrait-William J Bryan................................356
Pickets Examining Passes................................175
Prayer in Stonewall Jackson's Camp......................183
Prayer at the Funeral of the Maine's Victims............369
Punishment in the Army..................................207
Ralph and the Officer...................................029
Ralph's Good-Bye........................................032
Recruiting Office, New York City Hall Park..............181
Rejoicing...............................................066
Review of Soldiers-Washington...........................241
Ruins of the House......................................085
Sharp Shooters..........................................107
Sheridan Reconnoitering at Five Forks...................224
Siege Gun...............................................020
Soldiers Near Santiago..................................395
The Art Palace, World's Fair............................353
The Battle of Atlanta, Ga...............................097
Stand of Flags..........................................170
The Death of Ellsworth..................................043
The Frigate Cumberland Rammed by the Merrimac...........173
The Sister's Farewell...................................277
Thomas A Edison and His Talking Machine.................326
The Soldier's Farewell..................................180
Troops Going to Manila..................................373
Uncle Ned...............................................149
United States Military Wagon............................035
Warning the Inhabitants.................................332
Wesley Merritt and His Staff............................199
West Point..............................................293
What Caused the War-The <DW64> and Cotton................057
Wounding of General Stonewall Jackson...................178
INTRODUCTION.
[Illustration: 9021]
OOKS without number have been written upon the Civil War. There will
probably be many more, for it is a fruitful theme. Many of them are
faithful and accurate presentations of the great deeds done in that
war. But whether large or small, they are all imbued with a desire
to perpetuate that love of our country which should become one of the
absorbing passions of the soul. It is a truth worth remembering--that
the man who is a traitor to his country will be a traitor to all the
relations of life.
Our land, young as it is, has received an awful baptism of fire and
blood. It sprang into being amid the anguish of the Revolution, and
before it had achieved a century of freedom, it was plunged into one
of the saddest conflicts which ever desolated a nation--the conflict
between brothers, speaking the same tongue, living under the same
government, and enjoying the same great privileges. But from that
terrible ordeal it has emerged, and we are once more one in aim and
purpose, and have taken our stand among the proudest nations of the
earth, their equal in intelligent achievements, religion and progress.
The little book we offer our young readers is the simple story, told
in plain language, of a boy who was really in the army--one who left a
pleasant home, as did thousands of others, a mere lad, loving his native
land, knowing her need of strong hands and willing hearts to defend her.
His purpose was noble, his mind fresh and ready for impressions; the
scenes of those days are as ineffaceable as though written on marble,
and not even the corroding touch of time can eat them away. So the
present volume has been penned, that the boys and girls who read its
pages may know of the hardships and self-sacrifice of the boys of those
days--how cheerfully they enlisted to uphold the "starry flag," whose
folds shall ever "float o'er the land of the free, and the home of the
brave."
There are other lessons to be taught, as well as that of courage alone;
the lessons of patriotism, of sacrifice, of respect for a government
that offers to all its protection so long as they obey its just and
equitable laws. No one doubts the courage of our boys, but they must
remember that there is a higher quality than mere bravery--regard for
human life, that' it be not destroyed wantonly, a respect for others'
rights and opinions, a readiness to submit to discipline, a willingness
to yield up life when honor and duty demand it. All these thoughts were
impressed upon the boy of our story, and made him a grander man for
their lessons, when the pursuits of peace claimed him.
To the boys and girls whose fathers and friends fought that a great
principle should live, to those whose dear ones fell in battle, or died
of wounds, to all who read this true history of one boy's life in the
army, we send forth this picture, the type of a true soldier, who did
not love war for its noise and glitter, but who conscientiously
fought the battles of his country because he revered her beneficent
institutions. It was there that he was taught what true freedom meant,
and through all his trials, his privations, he kept his faith in God and
humanity undimmed.
Such was our boy, and of such material heroes are made.
The Publishers
THE CIVIL WAR AS SEEN BY A BOY.
CHAPTER I. THE BEGINNING OF WAR.
[Illustration: 9023]
HE early {017}spring days of 1861 were dreams of beauty. The skies
smiled blandly upon the earth, and every heart was glad that the long
winter was over, and the charms of outdoor life could be enjoyed once
more. Surely nature had done her part in making men happy.
A spirit of unrest and uncertainty, however, brooded in the air. The
long conflict between opposing ideas, which had waged so long and
bitterly in politics and churches, and through the columns of the press,
had come to a focus, and dread murmurs were abroad, of an impending war,
and its attendant horrors. Men looked in each other's faces, and asked,
with sad forebodings--"What is coming next?"
The South made ample preparations to seize two South Carolina forts,
Moultrie and Sumter, as early as December, 1860.
Lieutenant-Colonel Gardner was the commander of Fort Moultrie, and,
loyal to the government, he sent to Washington asking for reinforcements
to help him hold that fort. This request offended the Southern members
of Congress, who construed it into an insult, and demanded his removal.
This demand was acceded to by Secretary of War Floyd, and Major Robert
Anderson of Kentucky was appointed to supersede Colonel Gardner.
Major Anderson, {018}faithful to the trust reposed in him by the
government, soon decided that Fort Moultrie could not be held against
a vigorous assault, and he moved his garrison secretly to Sumter, a
fortress across the harbor. This fort could not be approached by land,
and, consequently, from this fact, was deemed more secure against any
opposing force. The undertaking was a dangerous one. The harbor was full
of guard boats, vigilant and watchful, and only their supposition that
the little rowboats containing Major Anderson and his men were laborers
going to the other fort to work on it, prevented their detection and
arrest.
[Illustration: 0024]
Moultrie's guns had been trained to protect this transfer in case the
Major's intention was discovered, and the fort, whose defense rendered
the gallant Anderson immortal, was occupied by his troops at only twenty
minutes' notice! We think that was the quickest "moving time" on record.
A siege gun which was turned upon Fort Sumter is shown on page 20.
Its carriage is broken, and it was thus rendered useless by the
Confederates, when they abandoned the fort in 1864.
France {019}and England would not acknowledge the South as an
independent nation, but the Confederate government did all possible to
bring this about by sending Messrs. James M. Mason of Virginia and John
Slidell of Louisiana to London and Paris with the hope that their claims
would be recognized. Henry Ward Beecher, when in the height of his fame,
afterward went to England, addressing immense audiences, and setting
forth the true condition of American affairs.
[Illustration: 0025]
The hope of the Southerners was that the government would allow a
peaceable withdrawal of the dissatisfied States, and that no bloodshed
would be necessary, but as time went by and the most active preparations
for keeping them in the Union were made by the general government, they
commenced hostilities, and the first gun of the war was fired by the
Confederates under General Beauregard on the morning of April 12, and
while the officers and men within the fort were eating their breakfast,
a perpetual bursting {020}of shells and shot kept them awake to the fact
that the peace had been broken, and war had begun.
[Illustration: 0026]
After breakfast the force was divided up into firing parties and
the first reply on the part of the Union was made by Captain Abner
{021}Doubleday. But their guns were very light.
A bombardment followed, and on the 14th of April, 1861, General Robert
Anderson evacuated the fort.
[Illustration: 0027]
Blockade running was so common it became necessary to fit out out an
expedition to close the most valuable of the openings, Hatteras Inlet.
The first expedition projected for this purpuse was fitted out near
Fortress Monroe and was under the command of Flag Officer Silas H.
Stringham. The engagement lasted three hours with a complete victory for
Stringham, and several blockade runners entered the inlet and were
captured.
The news fell like a pall upon the North. It was impossible so many and
old man urged, that Americans, our own people could be so disloyal. Why
had they done it? What did it mean? And when, in consequence of this
act, President Lincoln ordered them to disperse within twenty days, and
called for 75,000 men from the various States, to enlist to "suppress
this combination against the laws," the response came swiftly.
In every town and village the patriotic fires were kindled, and boys and
old men pressed on, side by side, willing to give their lives, if need
be, to uphold their country's flag.
{022}
[Illustration: 0028]
Many {023}a smooth-cheeked lad, loved dearly and tenderly reared, went
forth from his home, never again to enter its portal. Alas, for those
sad days!
[Illustration: 9029]
Recruiting went swiftly on. Speech-making and passionate appeals to the
people were heard in every quarter of the North.
Women could not fight, but they could organize sewing societies, and
work untiringly for those who had gone to the front. Many an article
found its way to the army that was useful, and when blood had been
spilled, these same patient and tearful women sent lint, and bandages,
and medicines, for the sick and wounded.
As the call for soldiers awoke the boys and men of the North, so did a
like summons from their leaders arouse the spirit of the South. They had
orators in their midst, whose tones swayed them, and they, too, enlisted
to form an army which should repel the "encroachments" of those whom
they deemed their enemies.
Boys went forth from luxurious homes, and stood shoulder to shoulder
with the humblest, clad in the gray, all equally ready to sacrifice life
and home to their idea of duty.
One {024}lad, in his Western home, a dreamer thus far, the light of his
widowed mother's life, heard the war cry, and the blood tingled in his
veins as he listened to stirring arguments day by day, and saw one after
another of his companions leave their homes to join the forces that were
being hurried forward to headquarters.
[Illustration: 0030]
He felt that{025} he must go with them. Why not? His eye was as keen,
his brain as clear, his arm as strong to do whatever his country
required of him, as were theirs.
[Illustration: 0031]
This longing haunted him by day and night, until it became unbearable.
He went to his mother, and with earnest words begged her to send him.
Alas, that mother was not equal to the task. {026}She was loving,
gentle and shrinking, and when he urged her to let him go, her answer
was--"Ralph, you know not what you ask. Do you forget that I am a
Southern woman, whose childhoods days were spent in that beautiful
country? All my people are there. Would you have me send my boy away to
fight those I love, and whose feelings I must share? You are asking too
great a sacrifice at my hands."
"Mother, it is true that you were born and educated there. But did
you not love my father so dearly that you left your home and all your
friends to come to the North with him, where I was born?"
[Illustration: 9032]
A tender smile flitted across her still beautiful face. "Yes, I did love
him," she said softly to herself, "and I honor his memory. What shall I
do?--I cannot forget my dear childhood's home. It is too hard a question
for me to decide."
"Let me decide for you, mother. You surely love your Northern home and
friends. The people of the South have fired upon our forts in Charleston
harbor, and driven the garrison away. I, too, am a Southerner in many
ways. Are you not my mother, and do you not know I honor every thought
or wish of yours?"
"There must be some other way to bring them back, rather than by
fighting. War is a cruel and unnatural alternative. Why, they will be
firing upon their own people--like brothers in one family falling out,
and seeking to do each other deadly harm." {027}
[Illustration: 0033]
Ralph {028}was silent. His heart burned with patriotic fire, and it
seemed to him that it was his duty to help swell the numbers of those
who were ready to respond to the President's call. But he also knew that
his mother loved her early home, and that it seemed to her unnatural
for him to be so ready to take up arms against "her people," and he
respected her too deeply to wound her willingly. That mother had been
gently born, and when she met the young Northern lawyer, she had loved
him from the first, and cheerfully shared his humble but peaceful home.
She was now left alone in the world, with her three girls and this boy,
the youngest. The fortunes of war were too varying. She might never see
him again, and how could she live without him?
To Ralph was presented a problem that he was called unexpectedly to
solve. He pondered over it in the silence of night, and in the busy
hours of day. Was it right to fly in the face of his beloved mother's
prejudices by joining the Federal forces? On the one hand he felt that
he, too, was Southern in feeling and in birth. His father was a Northern
man, and he would uphold the old flag; but which side it was his duty to
join, he could not determine. He was resolved to go into one of the two
armies. In the crisis that had come, it was clearly every one's duty to
come to the front.
The boy talked with every one whom he could interest. He was not able
to study out the problem alone. One of his schoolmates had the proud
distinction of having an uncle who was a commissioned officer, and he
took the bold step of meeting him one day when he was walking past his
home.
"Sir," he said timidly, "may I speak to you?"
"Certainly," the officer replied. And then and there he poured forth his
doubts, his desire to do what was right, his mother's objections--all,
he told the waiting gentleman whose opinion he so desired.
The officer laid his hand kindly on the boy's shoulder.
"Your wish does you credit. The fortunes of war are too varying for me
to decide for you. Try and work out the proper answer yourself, and may
you be helped to make a wise decision."
Alas, {029}the question was too hard for a boy like him to answer. He
was humbly trying to see where his duty lay, and then he was ready to
enlist on whichever side called him. On one hand was his mother and her
early teachings, on the other his dead father, with all his views. "What
side would _he_ choose were he here?" was the ever-recurring thought in
his anxious brain.
[Illustration: 8035]
But after weeks of this long, weary struggle, he decided to join the
Union army. His mother saw that he believed he was shirking a duty, and
that he longed for action.
She thought she would make one more effort to change his purpose. She
said to him suddenly one day, when she saw his troubled face: "Ralph,
you are only seventeen. You have never been away from your home, and
know nothing about hardships and privations. Do you think you could face
a cannon, and know that its deadly mouth might lay you low on the field,
mangled and torn?"
"Oh, mother, I never think of such things. If I enlist, I must take my
chances with the rest. I want to go with the other boys. Eddie Downing
and George Martin have and are going into camp to-morrow, at Readville."
"But will the government accept you? Eddie and George are three or four
years older than you. There are plenty of men, without taking a boy who
is his mother's chief comfort."
{030}
[Illustration: 0036]
"I am strong and well. When I come back, you will be the proudest
mother in the land, to think you sent your boy away. I may go with your
blessing, may I not? That will protect me."
The {031}boy's eyes were moist with emotion. His mother, with a sigh,
gave her reluctant consent, and though many a bitter tear was shed in
the loneliness of her room, she bravely hid them from the boy she loved.
Now that the decision was final, she made every preparation for the
comfort of the boy who was to leave them so soon. His sisters wept
continually--not a very cheerful parting, but Ralph was the idol of his
home.
"Mother," he said to her a day or two after she had given her consent,
"do not worry about me. I shall do my duty. This war _can't_ last long.
Then I'll come back to you, and stay at home as long as I live, depend
on that."
His beaming face half reassured her, and she began to share his
enthusiasm. He was enrolled as a soldier. Although his youth was at
first objected to, his earnestness carried the day, and he was told to
report at Camp Hale at once.
He was a real soldier at last! A genuine soldier, who must fight. He
did not belong to the would-be soldiers, such as they used to call the
"militia," who simply paraded on the open green, or turned out on dress
occasions, with the curious for an audience, who would watch and be
astonished at their evolutions and their showy uniforms, when the Fourth
of July or kindred days made their demands upon them.
In his neat-fitting suit of blue, the cap setting jauntily upon his
head, his musket in hand, and his belt with its bayonet buckled around
him, he looked so manly that a thrill of pride flashed o'er his mothers
face, as she looked at her boy, her Ralph, in his "soldier clothes."
But when the day came for him to leave the only home he had ever known,
and he turned to take a last look at its plain walls, his heart almost
failed him. His beloved mother stood in the doorway, her hands pressed
over her face, while she strove to keep back the choking sobs, as she
bade her boy--"Good-bye, and may God bless and protect you." Those
solemn words came back to Ralph in many a lonely hour, and brought him
consolation and support.
Thus, {032}in many homes, both North and South, were the heartstrings
torn, as mothers and sisters bade farewell to the boys in blue and gray,
who went to the front, to lay down their lives for duty's sake.
Ralph was a proud boy when he joined his companions in camp, wearing
the blue uniform, with its shining buttons bearing the U. S. stamp upon
them.
[Illustration: 0038]
{033}
[Illustration: 0039]
He was naturally retiring, but now he felt as if the eyes of the world
were upon him. He had taken an important step, and he would show his
friends and that great big world that he knew exactly what he was doing.
Camp life was one continual drill--so it seemed to him. Readville was a
quiet little town, but its people were ablaze with patriotism, and the
"boys in blue" were the recipients of perpetual admiration. Every move
they made was noticed and approved, and it is not to be wondered at if
some of them did greedily swallow considerable flattery, which led them
to assume quite lofty airs.
The sameness of life in camp soon wearied, and Ralph longed for
something more stirring. When the bugle call rang out, every man sprang
up, and, after a hasty ablution, at a second call they made a charge
upon their breakfast with vehemence, and tin cups and plates rattled in
a most discordant fashion. Then the drill began; first with musket and
rifle, and then with the bayonet. A bayonet charge was a fierce reminder
of the real thing. When men meet the enemy with fixed bayonets, a
dreadful slaughter may always be counted on. This drilling was kept up
at intervals, all through the day; first in squads and companies, and
then the entire regiment would take part in the use of these weapons,
and the various evolutions that the drill-master taught.
Ralph was very anxious to become proficient in their use, and while many
of the older men grumbled at this work, he kept on, learning at each
repetition something more of their actual value.
"You'll have to know all about this," said Lieutenant Hopkins to them,
or you'll be in a nice hole when | 2,574.15763 |
2023-11-16 18:59:58.1377400 | 2,720 | 13 |
E-text prepared by David Garcia, Paul Ereaut, and the project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net/) from page
images generously made available by the Kentuckiana Digital Library
(http://kdl.kyvl.org/)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 18721-h.htm or 18721-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/7/2/18721/18721-h/18721-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/8/7/2/18721/18721-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through the
Kentuckiana Digital Library. See
http://kdl.kyvl.org/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=kyetexts;cc=kyetexts;xc=1&idno=B92-201-30752212&view=toc
Transcriber's note:
Variations in spelling and hyphenation have been made consistent.
THE VICTIM
A Romance of the Real Jefferson Davis
by
THOMAS DIXON
Illustrated by J. N. Marchand
BOOKS BY THOMAS DIXON
The Victim
The Southerner
The Sins of the Father
The Leopard's Spots
The Clansman
The Traitor
The One Woman
Comrades
The Root of Evil
The Life Worth Living
[Illustration: "The man in front gave a short laugh and advanced
on the girl" [Page 300]]
THE VICTIM
"_A majestic soul has passed_"--Charles A. Dana
[Illustration: Colophon]
New York and London
D. Appleton and Company
1914
Copyright, 1914, by
Thomas Dixon
All rights reserved, including that of translation into all
foreign languages, including the Scandinavian
Printed in the United States of America
TO
THE BRAVE WHO DIED
FOR WHAT THEY BELIEVED
TO BE RIGHT
_Fold up the banners! Smelt the guns!
Love rules. Her gentle purpose runs.
A mighty mother turns in tears
The pages of her battle years
Lamenting all her fallen sons!_
THOMPSON
TO THE READER
_In the historical romance which I have woven of the dramatic events of
the life of Jefferson Davis I have drawn his real character unobscured
by passion or prejudice. Forced by his people to lead their cause, his
genius created an engine of war so terrible in its power that through it
five million Southerners, without money, without a market, without
credit, withstood for four years the shock of twenty million men of
their own blood and of equal daring, backed by boundless resources._
_The achievement is without a parallel in history, and adds new glory to
the records of our race._
_The scenes have all been drawn from authentic records in my possession.
I have not at any point taken a liberty with an essential detail of
history._
Thomas Dixon.
CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
I The Curtain Rises
II The Parting
III A Midnight Session
IV A Friendly Warning
V Boy and Girl
VI God's Will
VII The Best Man Wins
VIII The Storm Center
IX The Old Regime
X The Gauge of Battle
XI Jennie's Vision
XII A Little Cloud
XIII The Closing of the Ranks
XIV Richmond in Gala Dress
XV The House on Church Hill
XVI The Flower-Decked Tent
XVII The Fatal Victory
XVIII The Aftermath
XIX Socola's Problem
XX The Anaconda
XXI Gathering Clouds
XXII Jennie's Recruit
XXIII The Fatal Blunder
XXIV The Sleeping Lioness
XXV The Bombardment
XXVI The Irreparable Loss
XXVII The Light that Failed
XXVIII The Snare of the Fowler
XXIX The Panic in Richmond
XXX The Deliverance
XXXI Love and War
XXXII The Path of Glory
XXXIII The Accusation
XXXIV The Turn of the Tide
XXXV Suspicion
XXXVI The Fatal Deed
XXXVII The Raiders
XXXVIII The Discovery
XXXIX The Conspirators
XL In Sight of Victory
XLI The Fall of Richmond
XLII The Capture
XLIII The Victor
XLIV Prison Bars
XLV The Master Mind
XLVI The Torture
XLVII Vindication
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"The man in front gave a short laugh and advanced on the girl"
"'You have given me new eyes--'"
"'We have won, sir!' was the short curt answer"
"Dick saluted and sprang into the saddle--'I understand, sir'"
"Jennie thrust her trembling little figure between the two men and
confronted Dick"
"'Do your duty--put them on him!'"
LEADING CHARACTERS OF THE STORY
_The Prologue_
1814-1853
Lt. Jefferson Davis, Of the U. S. Army.
Joseph E. Davis, His Big Brother.
Colonel Zachary Taylor, "Old Rough and Ready."
Sarah Knox Taylor, His Daughter.
James Pemberton, A Faithful Slave.
_The Story_
1860-1867
Hon. Roger Barton, An Original Secessionist.
Jennie, His Daughter.
Dick Welford, A Confederate Soldier.
Joseph Holt, A Renegade Southerner.
Henrico Socola, A Soldier of Fortune.
The President, Of the Confederacy.
Mrs. Davis, His Wife.
Burton Harrison, His Secretary.
Joseph E. Johnston, A Master of Retreat.
P. G. T. Beauregard, The First Hero.
Stonewall Jackson, Of the "Foot Cavalry."
Robert E. Lee, The Southern Commander.
U. S. Grant, The Bull Dog Fighter.
Nelson A. Miles, A Jailer.
John C. Underwood, A Reconstruction Judge.
THE VICTIM
The Prologue
THE VICTIM
PROLOGUE
I
KIDNAPPED
The hot sun of the South was sinking in red glow through the giant
tree-tops of a Mississippi forest beyond the village of Woodville.
A slender girl stood in the pathway watching a boy of seven trudge
manfully away beside his stalwart brother.
Her lips trembled and eyes filled with tears.
"Wait--wait!" she cried.
With a sudden bound she snatched him to her heart.
"Don't, Polly--you hurt!" the little fellow faltered, looking at her
with a feeling of sudden fear. "Why did you squeeze me so hard?"
"You shouldn't have done that, honey," the big brother frowned.
"I know," the sister pleaded, "but I couldn't help it."
"What are you crying about?" the boy questioned.
Again the girl's arm stole around his neck.
"What's the matter with her, Big Brother?" he asked with a brave attempt
at scorn.
The man slowly loosened the sister's arms.
"I'm just going home with you, ain't I?" the child went on, with a
quiver in his voice.
The older brother led him to a fallen log, sat down, and held his hands.
"No, Boy," he said quietly. "I'd as well tell you the truth now. I'm
going to send you to Kentucky to a wonderful school, taught by learned
men from the Old World--wise monks who know everything. You want to go
to a real school, don't you?"
"But my Mamma don't know--"
"That's just it, Boy. We can't tell her. She wouldn't let you go."
"Why?"
"Well, she's a good Baptist, and it's a long, long way to the St. Thomas
monastery."
"How far?"
"A thousand miles, through these big woods--"
The blue eyes dimmed.
"I want to see my Mamma before I go--" his voice broke.
The man shook his head.
"No, Boy; it won't do. You're her baby--"
The dark head sank with a cry.
"I want to see her!"
"Come, come, Jeff Davis, you're going to be a soldier. Remember you're
the son of a soldier who fought under General Washington and won our
freedom. You're named after Thomas Jefferson, the great President. Your
three brothers have just come home from New Orleans. Under Old Hickory
we drove the British back into their ships and sent 'em flying home to
England. The son of a soldier--the brother of soldiers--can't cry--"
"I will if I want to!"
"All right!" the man laughed--"I'll hold my hat and you can cry it
full--"
He removed his hat and held it smilingly under the boy's firm little
chin. The childish lips tightened and the cheeks flushed with anger.
His bare toes began to dig holes in the soft rich earth. The appeal to
his soldier blood had struck into the pride of his heart and the insult
of a hat full of tears had hurt.
At last, he found his tongue:
"Does Pa know I'm goin'?"
"Yes. He thinks you're a very small boy to go so far, but knows it's for
the best."
"That's why he kissed me when I left?"
"Yes."
"I thought it was funny," he murmured with a half sob; "he never kissed
me before--"
"He's quiet and reserved, Boy, but he's wise and good and loves you.
He's had a hard time out here in the wilderness fighting his way with a
wife and ten children. He never had a chance to get an education and the
children didn't either. Some of us are too old now. There's time for
you. We're going to stand aside and let you pass. You're our baby
brother, and we love you."
The child's hand slowly stole into the rough one of the man.
"And I love you, Big Brother--" the little voice faltered, "and all the
others, too, and that's-why-I'm-not-goin'!"
"I'm so glad!" The girl clapped her hands and laughed.
"Polly!--"
"Well, I am, and I don't care what you say. He's too little to go so far
and you know he is--"
The man grasped her hand and whispered:
"Hush!"
The brother slipped his arm around the Boy and drew him on his knee. He
waited a moment until the hard lines at the corners of the firm mouth
had relaxed under the pressure of his caress, pushed the tangled hair
back from his forehead and looked into the fine blue-gray eyes. His
voice was tender and his speech slow.
"You must make up your mind to go, Boy. I don't want to force you. I
like to see your eyes flash when you say you _won't_ go. You've got the
stuff in you that real men are made of. That's why it's worth while to
send you. I've seen that since you could toddle about the house and
stamp your feet when things didn't suit you. Now, listen to me. I've
made a vow to God that you shall have as good a chance as any man to
make your way to the top. We're going to be the greatest nation in the
world. I saw it in the red flash of guns that day at New Orleans as I
lay there in the trench and watched the long lines of Red Coats go down
before us. Just a lot of raw recruits with old flintlocks! The men who
charged us, the picked veterans of England's grand army. But we cut 'em
to pieces, Boy! I fired a cannon loaded with grape shot that mowed a
lane straight through 'em. It must have killed two hundred men. They
burned our Capitol at Washington and the Federalist traitors at Hartford
were firin' on us in the rear, but Old Hickory showed the world that we
could lick England with one hand tied behind our back. And we did it. We
drove 'em like sheep--drove 'em into the sea.
"There's but one name on every lip in this country now, Boy, and that's
Old Hickory. He'd be President next time--but for | 2,574.15778 |
2023-11-16 18:59:58.1408530 | 2,976 | 7 |
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:
"Doctor McTeague. Dental Parlors. Gas Given"; but that was all. It was
his ambition, his dream, to have projecting from that corner window a
huge gilded tooth, a molar with enormous prongs, something gorgeous and
attractive. He would have it some day, on that he was resolved; but as
yet such a thing was far beyond his means.
When he had finished the last of his beer, McTeague slowly wiped his
lips and huge yellow mustache with the side of his hand. Bull-like, he
heaved himself laboriously up, and, going to the window, stood looking
down into the street.
The street never failed to interest him. It was one of those cross
streets peculiar to Western cities, situated in the heart of the
residence quarter, but occupied by small tradespeople who lived in the
rooms above their shops. There were corner drug stores with huge jars
of red, yellow, and green liquids in their windows, very brave and gay;
stationers' stores, where illustrated weeklies were tacked upon bulletin
boards; barber shops with cigar stands in their vestibules; sad-looking
plumbers' offices; cheap restaurants, in whose windows one saw piles of
unopened oysters weighted down by cubes of ice, and china pigs and cows
knee deep in layers of white beans. At one end of the street McTeague
could see the huge power-house of the cable line. Immediately opposite
him was a great market; while farther on, over the chimney stacks of the
intervening houses, the glass roof of some huge public baths glittered
like crystal in the afternoon sun. Underneath him the branch post-office
was opening its doors, as was its custom between two and three
o'clock on Sunday afternoons. An acrid odor of ink rose upward to him.
Occasionally a cable car passed, trundling heavily, with a strident
whirring of jostled glass windows.
On week days the street was very lively. It woke to its work about seven
o'clock, at the time when the newsboys made their appearance together
with the day laborers. The laborers went trudging past in a straggling
file--plumbers' apprentices, their pockets stuffed with sections of
lead pipe, tweezers, and pliers; carpenters, carrying nothing but their
little pasteboard lunch baskets painted to imitate leather; gangs of
street workers, their overalls soiled with yellow clay, their picks and
long-handled shovels over their shoulders; plasterers, spotted with lime
from head to foot. This little army of workers, tramping steadily in
one direction, met and mingled with other toilers of a different
description--conductors and "swing men" of the cable company going on
duty; heavy-eyed night clerks from the drug stores on their way home to
sleep; roundsmen returning to the precinct police station to make their
night report, and Chinese market gardeners teetering past under their
heavy baskets. The cable cars began to fill up; all along the street
could be seen the shopkeepers taking down their shutters.
Between seven and eight the street breakfasted. Now and then a waiter
from one of the cheap restaurants crossed from one sidewalk to the
other, balancing on one palm a tray covered with a napkin. Everywhere
was the smell of coffee and of frying steaks. A little later, following
in the path of the day laborers, came the clerks and shop girls,
dressed with a certain cheap smartness, always in a hurry, glancing
apprehensively at the power-house clock. Their employers followed
an hour or so later--on the cable cars for the most part whiskered
gentlemen with huge stomachs, reading the morning papers with great
gravity; bank cashiers and insurance clerks with flowers in their
buttonholes.
At the same time the school children invaded the street, filling the air
with a clamor of shrill voices, stopping at the stationers' shops, or
idling a moment in the doorways of the candy stores. For over half an
hour they held possession of the sidewalks, then suddenly disappeared,
leaving behind one or two stragglers who hurried along with great
strides of their little thin legs, very anxious and preoccupied.
Towards eleven o'clock the ladies from the great avenue a block above
Polk Street made their appearance, promenading the sidewalks leisurely,
deliberately. They were at their morning's marketing. They were handsome
women, beautifully dressed. They knew by name their butchers and grocers
and vegetable men. From his window McTeague saw them in front of the
stalls, gloved and veiled and daintily shod, the subservient provision
men at their elbows, scribbling hastily in the order books. They all
seemed to know one another, these grand ladies from the fashionable
avenue. Meetings took place here and there; a conversation was begun;
others arrived; groups were formed; little impromptu receptions were
held before the chopping blocks of butchers' stalls, or on the sidewalk,
around boxes of berries and fruit.
From noon to evening the population of the street was of a mixed
character. The street was busiest at that time; a vast and prolonged
murmur arose--the mingled shuffling of feet, the rattle of wheels, the
heavy trundling of cable cars. At four o'clock the school children
once more swarmed the sidewalks, again disappearing with surprising
suddenness. At six the great homeward march commenced; the cars were
crowded, the laborers thronged the sidewalks, the newsboys chanted the
evening papers. Then all at once the street fell quiet; hardly a soul
was in sight; the sidewalks were deserted. It was supper hour. Evening
began; and one by one a multitude of lights, from the demoniac glare of
the druggists' windows to the dazzling blue whiteness of the electric
globes, grew thick from street corner to street corner. Once more the
street was crowded. Now there was no thought but for amusement. The
cable cars were loaded with theatre-goers--men in high hats and
young girls in furred opera cloaks. On the sidewalks were groups and
couples--the plumbers' apprentices, the girls of the ribbon counters,
the little families that lived on the second stories over their shops,
the dressmakers, the small doctors, the harness-makers--all the various
inhabitants of the street were abroad, strolling idly from shop window
to shop window, taking the air after the day's work. Groups of girls
collected on the corners, talking and laughing very loud, making remarks
upon the young men that passed them. The tamale men appeared. A band of
Salvationists began to sing before a saloon.
Then, little by little, Polk Street dropped back to solitude. Eleven
o'clock struck from the power-house clock. Lights were extinguished. At
one o'clock the cable stopped, leaving an abrupt silence in the air.
All at once it seemed very still. The ugly noises were the occasional
footfalls of a policeman and the persistent calling of ducks and geese
in the closed market. The street was asleep.
Day after day, McTeague saw the same | 2,574.160893 |
2023-11-16 18:59:58.1409320 | 430 | 71 |
Produced by Chris Whitehead, RichardW, 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 SAVAGE SOUTH SEAS by Ernest Way Elkington
AGENTS
America The Macmillan Company
64 & 66 Fifth Avenue, New York
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 1: OFF TO THE DUBU DANCE, BRITISH NEW GUINEA]
THE SAVAGE
SOUTH SEAS
PAINTED BY NORMAN H. HARDY
DESCRIBED BY E. WAY ELKINGTON
PUBLISHED BY A. & C. BLACK
SOHO SQUARE · LONDON · MCMVII
[Illustration]
NOTE
There are various ways of spelling some of the place-names of the South
Sea Islands, _e.g._ Samari, Tupusuli, and Elevera are so spelt in this
book, but the forms Samarai, Tupuselei, and Ela-Vara are commonly met
with. Ambryn, however, is a misprint for Ambrym.
CONTENTS
PART I
BRITISH NEW GUINEA
I • Chiefly historical—Concerning certain discoverers,
their aims and ambitions—The story of New Guinea, the
Solomons and New Hebrides, and some things that might be
altered • 3
II • New Guinea natives—Port Moresby and its two native
villages—Huts on poles and trees—Native superstition and
its result on two tribes • 13
III • Natives who grow crops of hair—A word or two about
the women—Duties of married women—How they carry their
| 2,574.160972 |
2023-11-16 18:59:58.2406590 | 3,427 | 9 |
Produced by Douglas B. Killings
HESIOD, THE HOMERIC HYMNS, AND HOMERICA
This file contains translations of the following works:
Hesiod: "Works and Days", "The Theogony", fragments of "The Catalogues
of Women and the Eoiae", "The Shield of Heracles" (attributed to
Hesiod), and fragments of various works attributed to Hesiod.
Homer: "The Homeric Hymns", "The Epigrams of Homer" (both attributed to
Homer).
Various: Fragments of the Epic Cycle (parts of which are sometimes
attributed to Homer), fragments of other epic poems attributed to Homer,
"The Battle of Frogs and Mice", and "The Contest of Homer and Hesiod".
This file contains only that portion of the book in English; Greek texts
are excluded. Where Greek characters appear in the original English
text, transcription in CAPITALS is substituted.
PREPARER'S NOTE: In order to make this file more accessible to the
average computer user, the preparer has found it necessary to re-arrange
some of the material. The preparer takes full responsibility for his
choice of arrangement.
A few endnotes have been added by the preparer, and some additions have
been supplied to the original endnotes of Mr. Evelyn-White's. Where this
occurs I have noted the addition with my initials "DBK". Some endnotes,
particularly those concerning textual variations in the ancient Greek
text, are here omitted.
PREFACE
This volume contains practically all that remains of the post-Homeric
and pre-academic epic poetry.
I have for the most part formed my own text. In the case of Hesiod I
have been able to use independent collations of several MSS. by Dr.
W.H.D. Rouse; otherwise I have depended on the apparatus criticus of
the several editions, especially that of Rzach (1902). The arrangement
adopted in this edition, by which the complete and fragmentary poems are
restored to the order in which they would probably have appeared had
the Hesiodic corpus survived intact, is unusual, but should not need
apology; the true place for the "Catalogues" (for example), fragmentary
as they are, is certainly after the "Theogony".
In preparing the text of the "Homeric Hymns" my chief debt--and it is a
heavy one--is to the edition of Allen and Sikes (1904) and to the series
of articles in the "Journal of Hellenic Studies" (vols. xv.sqq.) by T.W.
Allen. To the same scholar and to the Delegates of the Clarendon Press I
am greatly indebted for permission to use the restorations of the "Hymn
to Demeter", lines 387-401 and 462-470, printed in the Oxford Text of
1912.
Of the fragments of the Epic Cycle I have given only such as seemed to
possess distinct importance or interest, and in doing so have relied
mostly upon Kinkel's collection and on the fifth volume of the Oxford
Homer (1912).
The texts of the "Batrachomyomachia" and of the "Contest of Homer and
Hesiod" are those of Baumeister and Flach respectively: where I have
diverged from these, the fact has been noted.
Hugh G. Evelyn-White, Rampton, NR. Cambridge. Sept. 9th, 1914.
INTRODUCTION
General
The early Greek epic--that is, poetry as a natural and popular, and not
(as it became later) an artificial and academic literary form--passed
through the usual three phases, of development, of maturity, and of
decline.
No fragments which can be identified as belonging to the first period
survive to give us even a general idea of the history of the earliest
epic, and we are therefore thrown back upon the evidence of analogy
from other forms of literature and of inference from the two great
epics which have come down to us. So reconstructed, the earliest period
appears to us as a time of slow development in which the characteristic
epic metre, diction, and structure grew up slowly from crude elements
and were improved until the verge of maturity was reached.
The second period, which produced the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey", needs
no description here: but it is very important to observe the effect
of these poems on the course of post-Homeric epic. As the supreme
perfection and universality of the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey" cast into
oblivion whatever pre-Homeric poets had essayed, so these same qualities
exercised a paralysing influence over the successors of Homer. If they
continued to sing like their great predecessor of romantic themes, they
were drawn as by a kind of magnetic attraction into the Homeric style
and manner of treatment, and became mere echoes of the Homeric voice: in
a word, Homer had so completely exhausted the epic genre, that after him
further efforts were doomed to be merely conventional. Only the rare
and exceptional genius of Vergil and Milton could use the Homeric medium
without loss of individuality: and this quality none of the later epic
poets seem to have possessed. Freedom from the domination of the great
tradition could only be found by seeking new subjects, and such freedom
was really only illusionary, since romantic subjects alone are suitable
for epic treatment.
In its third period, therefore, epic poetry shows two divergent
tendencies. In Ionia and the islands the epic poets followed the Homeric
tradition, singing of romantic subjects in the now stereotyped heroic
style, and showing originality only in their choice of legends hitherto
neglected or summarily and imperfectly treated. In continental Greece
[1101], on the other hand, but especially in Boeotia, a new form of
epic sprang up, which for the romance and PATHOS of the Ionian School
substituted the practical and matter-of-fact. It dealt in moral and
practical maxims, in information on technical subjects which are
of service in daily life--agriculture, astronomy, augury, and the
calendar--in matters of religion and in tracing the genealogies of men.
Its attitude is summed up in the words of the Muses to the writer of the
"Theogony": `We can tell many a feigned tale to look like truth, but we
can, when we will, utter the truth' ("Theogony" 26-27). Such a poetry
could not be permanently successful, because the subjects of which it
treats--if susceptible of poetic treatment at all--were certainly not
suited for epic treatment, where unity of action which will sustain
interest, and to which each part should contribute, is absolutely
necessary. While, therefore, an epic like the "Odyssey" is an organism
and dramatic in structure, a work such as the "Theogony" is a merely
artificial collocation of facts, and, at best, a pageant. It is not
surprising, therefore, to find that from the first the Boeotian school
is forced to season its matter with romantic episodes, and that later
it tends more and more to revert (as in the "Shield of Heracles") to the
Homeric tradition.
The Boeotian School
How did the continental school of epic poetry arise? There is little
definite material for an answer to this question, but the probability is
that there were at least three contributory causes. First, it is likely
that before the rise of the Ionian epos there existed in Boeotia a
purely popular and indigenous poetry of a crude form: it comprised,
we may suppose, versified proverbs and precepts relating to life in
general, agricultural maxims, weather-lore, and the like. In this sense
the Boeotian poetry may be taken to have its germ in maxims similar to
our English
'Till May be out, ne'er cast a clout,'
or
'A rainbow in the morning
Is the Shepherd's warning.'
Secondly and thirdly we may ascribe the rise of the new epic to the
nature of the Boeotian people and, as already remarked, to a spirit of
revolt against the old epic. The Boeotians, people of the class of which
Hesiod represents himself to be the type, were essentially unromantic;
their daily needs marked the general limit of their ideals, and, as a
class, they cared little for works of fancy, for pathos, or for fine
thought as such. To a people of this nature the Homeric epos would
be inacceptable, and the post-Homeric epic, with its conventional
atmosphere, its trite and hackneyed diction, and its insincere
sentiment, would be anathema. We can imagine, therefore, that among
such folk a settler, of Aeolic origin like Hesiod, who clearly was
well acquainted with the Ionian epos, would naturally see that the
only outlet for his gifts lay in applying epic poetry to new themes
acceptable to his hearers.
Though the poems of the Boeotian school [1102] were unanimously assigned
to Hesiod down to the age of Alexandrian criticism, they were clearly
neither the work of one man nor even of one period: some, doubtless,
were fraudulently fathered on him in order to gain currency; but it is
probable that most came to be regarded as his partly because of their
general character, and partly because the names of their real authors
were lost. One fact in this attribution is remarkable--the veneration
paid to Hesiod.
Life of Hesiod
Our information respecting Hesiod is derived in the main from notices
and allusions in the works attributed to him, and to these must be added
traditions concerning his death and burial gathered from later writers.
Hesiod's father (whose name, by a perversion of "Works and Days", 299
PERSE DION GENOS to PERSE, DION GENOS, was thought to have been Dius)
was a native of Cyme in Aeolis, where he was a seafaring trader and,
perhaps, also a farmer. He was forced by poverty to leave his native
place, and returned to continental Greece, where he settled at Ascra
near Thespiae in Boeotia ("Works and Days", 636 ff.). Either in Cyme or
Ascra, two sons, Hesiod and Perses, were born to the settler, and these,
after his death, divided the farm between them. Perses, however, who is
represented as an idler and spendthrift, obtained and kept the larger
share by bribing the corrupt 'lords' who ruled from Thespiae ("Works
and Days", 37-39). While his brother wasted his patrimony and ultimately
came to want ("Works and Days", 34 ff.), Hesiod lived a farmer's life
until, according to the very early tradition preserved by the author of
the "Theogony" (22-23), the Muses met him as he was tending sheep on
Mt. Helicon and 'taught him a glorious song'--doubtless the "Works and
Days". The only other personal reference is to his victory in a poetical
contest at the funeral games of Amphidamas at Chalcis in Euboea, where
he won the prize, a tripod, which he dedicated to the Muses of Helicon
("Works and Days", 651-9).
Before we go on to the story of Hesiod's death, it will be well to
inquire how far the "autobiographical" notices can be treated as
historical, especially as many critics treat some, or all of them,
as spurious. In the first place attempts have been made to show that
"Hesiod" is a significant name and therefore fictitious: it is only
necessary to mention Goettling's derivation from IEMI to ODOS (which
would make 'Hesiod' mean the 'guide' in virtues and technical arts),
and to refer to the pitiful attempts in the "Etymologicum Magnum" (s.v.
{H}ESIODUS), to show how prejudiced and lacking even in plausibility
such efforts are. It seems certain that 'Hesiod' stands as a proper name
in the fullest sense. Secondly, Hesiod claims that his father--if not
he himself--came from Aeolis and settled in Boeotia. There is fairly
definite evidence to warrant our acceptance of this: the dialect of the
"Works and Days" is shown by Rzach [1103] to contain distinct Aeolisms
apart from those which formed part of the general stock of epic poetry.
And that this Aeolic speaking poet was a Boeotian of Ascra seems even
more certain, since the tradition is never once disputed, insignificant
though the place was, even before its destruction by the Thespians.
Again, Hesiod's story of his relations with his brother Perses have been
treated with scepticism (see Murray, "Anc. Gk. Literature", pp. 53-54):
Perses, it is urged, is clearly a mere dummy, set up to be the target
for the poet's exhortations. On such a matter precise evidence is
naturally not forthcoming; but all probability is against the sceptical
view. For 1) if the quarrel between the brothers were a fiction, we
should expect it to be detailed at length and not noticed allusively and
rather obscurely--as we find it; 2) as MM. Croiset remark, if the
poet needed a lay-figure the ordinary practice was to introduce some
mythological person--as, in fact, is done in the "Precepts of Chiron".
In a word, there is no more solid ground for treating Perses and his
quarrel with Hesiod as fictitious than there would be for treating
Cyrnus, the friend of Theognis, as mythical.
Thirdly, there is the passage in the "Theogony" relating to Hesiod and
the Muses. It is surely an error to suppose that lines 22-35 all refer
to Hesiod: rather, the author of the "Theogony" tells the story of his
own inspiration by the same Muses who once taught Hesiod glorious song.
The lines 22-3 are therefore a very early piece of tradition about
Hesiod, and though the appearance of Muses must be treated as a graceful
fiction, we find that a writer, later than the "Works and Days" by
perhaps no more than three-quarters of a century, believed in the
actuality of Hesiod and in his life as a farmer or shepherd.
Lastly, there is the famous story of the contest in song at Chalcis. In
later times the modest version in the "Works and Days" was elaborated,
first by making Homer the opponent whom Hesiod conquered, while a later
period exercised its ingenuity in working up the story of the contest
into the elaborate form in which it still survives. Finally the contest,
in which the two poets contended with hymns to Apollo [1104],
was transferred to Delos. These developments certainly need no
consideration: are we to say the same of the passage in the "Works and
Days"? Critics from Plutarch downwards have almost unanimously rejected
the lines 654-662, on the ground that Hesiod's Amphidamas is the hero
of the Lelantine Wars between Chalcis and Eretria, whose death may | 2,574.260699 |
2023-11-16 18:59:58.2430280 | 2,535 | 7 |
Produced by Giovanni Fini and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
EXPERIMENTS
ON
_THE NERVOUS SYSTEM_,
WITH OPIUM AND METALLINE SUBSTANCES;
MADE CHIEFLY WITH THE VIEW OF DETERMINING THE
_NATURE AND EFFECTS_
OF
ANIMAL ELECTRICITY.
BY ALEXANDER MONRO, M. D.
PROFESSOR OF MEDICINE, ANATOMY AND SURGERY IN THE UNIVERSITY
OF EDINBURGH; FELLOW OF THE ROYAL COLLEGE OF PHYSICIANS,
AND OF THE ROYAL SOCIETY OF EDINBURGH, AND OF
THE ROYAL ACADEMY OF SURGERY IN PARIS.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY ADAM NEILL AND COMPANY,
FOR BELL & BRADFUTE, AND T. DUNCAN;
AND J. JOHNSON, LONDON.
M.DCC.XCIII.
CONTENTS.
_Page_
INTRODUCTION, 5
Observations on the Circulating and Nervous Systems of Frogs, 6
Experiments with Opium, 9
Corollaries from the above Facts and Experiments, 12
Summary of Experiments made on Animals with Metalline Substances, 17
Summary of Facts proved by the foregoing Experiments, 35
Resemblance of the Fluid put in Motion by the foregoing
Experiments to the Electrical Fluid, 38
The Nervous Fluid or Energy not the same with the Electrical, nor
with the Fluid put in Motion by the foregoing Experiments, 40
General Conclusions, 42
INTRODUCTION.
WHEN, in November last, I began to make Experiments on Animal
Electricity, of which I read some account to the Royal Society on the
3d of December; I was not only much hurried with business, but could
not procure a sufficient number of Frogs for the purpose. During the
last winter and spring, I prosecuted the subject more fully and with
greater attention; and, on the third day of June, I read a second paper
to the Royal Society, to which I have, since that time, made additions.
I shall now state a summary of the chief circumstances I have observed,
with a few Remarks.
OBSERVATIONS ON THE CIRCULATING AND NERVOUS SYSTEMS OF FROGS.
AS my Experiments with Opium, as well as those on Animal Electricity,
have been performed on Frogs chiefly; I shall premise some observations
on their Circulating and Nervous Systems.
THEIR Heart consists of one Auricle and one Ventricle only, their Aorta
supplying their Air Vesicles or Lungs, as well as all their other
Organs; and, of course, their Venæ Cavæ return the Blood from all
parts to the Heart. The Ventricle of their Heart contracts about sixty
times in a minute; and the purple colour of the Blood which is seen
within it, disappears after each contraction, or the Blood is entirely
expelled by its contraction. For upwards of an hour after cutting out
its Heart, a Frog can crawl or jump; and, for upwards of half an hour
longer, it contracts its Legs when the Toes are hurt, though not with
sufficient force to more its Body from the place where it is laid.
THEIR Encephalon consists of Brain and Cerebellum, each of which, on
its upper part, is divided into two Hemispheres; and, below, they
are conjoined by thick Crura, which form the Medulla Oblongata and
Spinal Marrow, both of which are proportionally larger than in Man,
and more evidently consist of two Cords. There are nine true Vertebræ;
and at the sixth of these, the Spinal Marrow terminates in the Cauda
Equina. The Sciatic Nerves are formed by three pairs of Nerves, sent
out below the seventh, eighth and ninth Vertebræ, and by one pair from
the Os Sacrum. A Nerve, resembling our great Sympathetic Nerve, passes
downwards from the Abdomen into the Pelvis.
TWO days after cutting off the Head of a Frog at its joining with
the first Vertebra, I found it sitting with its Legs drawn up, in
their usual posture; and when its Toes were hurt, it jumped with very
considerable force. Its Heart likewise continued to beat about forty
times in a minute, and so strongly as to empty itself and circulate the
Blood.
IN several Frogs, after cutting off the back part of the six undermost
true Vertebræ, I took out all that part of the Spinal Marrow with the
Cauda Equina which they cover. The lower Extremities were rendered
insensible to common injuries, and lay motionless, yet the Frogs
lived several months thereafter, and the wounded parts of their Backs
cicatrised; and the Bones of their Legs, which I fractured, were
re-united, the Blood circulating freely in their Vessels.
IT is universally known, that if, after amputating the Limb of a warm
blooded Animal, we repeatedly irritate the Nerves which terminate
in Muscles, repeated Convulsions of the Muscles are for some time
produced; and that in Frogs, and other cold blooded Animals, the Nerves
retain this power still longer.
BUT it has been commonly supposed, that, after irritating the Nerve a
given number of times, the effect ceases, Authors conceiving that there
is lodged in the Nerve some fluid, or other energy which is exhausted
by repeated explosions. Instead of this, I have found that the time the
Nerves preserve their power is the same, whether we irritate them or
not; or that their energy is not exhausted by irritation, unless the
irritation be such as sensibly alters their texture.
EXPERIMENTS WITH OPIUM.
I CUT one hole in the fore and upper part of the Cranium and Dura Mater
of a Frog, and another in the back part of the lowermost Vertebræ, and
then injected, from the one hole to the other, a small syringe full
of water, in five ounces of which one ounce of Opium had been infused
for three days. The infusion, by this means brought into contact
with the whole surface of the Encephalon and Spinal Marrow, produced
almost instantly universal convulsions; and, in less than two minutes
thereafter, the Animal was incapable of moving its body from the place
where it was laid. A quarter of an hour thereafter, I found the Heart
beating twenty-five times only in the minute; and so feebly, that it
could not entirely expel the Blood. When, half an hour thereafter,
the Sciatic Nerves were pinched, a light tremor only was excited in
the Muscles of the Leg; and Animal Electricity produced but feeble
twitchings of the Muscles.
THE infusion of Opium, injected in the same manner in Rabbits and in a
Pig, produced similar effects.
I HAD long ago[1] observed, that an infusion of Opium, poured into
the Cavity of the Abdomen of a Frog, after cutting out its Heart,
occasioned, in a few minutes, convulsions of its hind Legs. I have
since found, that, after cutting off the Head, and cutting out the
Heart of a Frog, its hind Legs are considerably weakened by pouring an
infusion of Opium into the Cavity of its Abdomen.
ALTHOUGH an infusion of Opium poured into the Auricle and Ventricle
of the Heart of a Frog, instantly renders that Organ incapable of
contraction, and, even after the Aorta has been previously cut,
occasions convulsions of the Legs, yet I have not found that by Opium
applied to the Brain, the Spinal Marrow, the Heart, or Abdominal
Viscera, the Muscles of the Legs were so entirely killed as not to
perform some motion when their Nerves were pinched, or when they were
acted on by Animal Electricity.
AFTER taking out the lower half of the Spinal Marrow, and likewise
cutting transversely all the parts at the Pelvis, except the Crural
Arteries and Veins and Lymphatics, which probably accompany them, I
found that an infusion of Opium, applied to the Skin and Muscles of
the Legs, affected the superior parts of the Body[2]: more probably,
in my opinion, by absorption, than through any minute remanent
branches of the Nerves, especially as I do not find, on laying the
Vessels so prepared over a gold probe, and touching with it Zinc
laid under the Spine, that convulsions of the Legs can be excited.
At the same time, the quantity of Opium absorbed is so small, that I
could not distinguish its smell or taste in the Blood; nor did I find
these distinguishable, in other Experiments, in which the Frogs were
violently convulsed after applying the infusion to the surface of their
Skin.
ANIMAL Electricity or different metals applied to the Head of a Frog,
or to any part of its Spine above its sixth Vertebra, do not occasion
convulsions of its hind Legs.
COROLLARIES FROM THE ABOVE FACTS AND EXPERIMENTS.
FROM the above Facts and Experiments, it appears,
1. THAT the Frog, after its Head is cut off, feels pain, and, in
consequence of feeling, moves its Body and Limbs.
2. AS the Nerves of the hind Legs are not affected by Animal
Electricity, unless it be applied lower than the fifth Vertebra, these
Nerves do not seem to be derived solely or chiefly from the Brain or
Cerebellum.
3. AS Opium, after the Circulation ceases, affects Organs distant from
those to which it is applied, it is beyond doubt, that the latter
suffer in consequence of Sympathy of Nerves.
4. IT appears that, in this Animal, there is Sympathy of Nerves after
the Head is cut off; or that Sympathy of Nerves does not, in this
Animal, depend entirely on the connection of Nerves within the Head.
5. AS, after cutting off the Head, this Animal is susceptible of pain,
and, in consequence of that, performs voluntary motion, it appears
that, in it, the Brain is not the sole seat of the _Sensorium Commune_.
6. SEVERAL weeks after I had taken out the lowermost half of the Spinal
Marrow, and with it the Cauda Equina, I daily applied, for four days
running, Animal Electricity to the Sciatic Nerves, by passing a gold
Probe between them and the Os Sacrum, and excited several hundreds
of convulsions of the Thighs and Legs, and yet found that, on laying
bare the Femoral Nerves, and pinching them, the Muscles were slightly
convulsed.
HENCE, I apprehend, additional force is given to an opinion I ventured
many years ago to propose[3], that the Nerves do not receive their
energy wholly from the Head and Spinal Marrow, but that the texture of
every branch of a Nerve is such as to furnish it, or that | 2,574.263068 |
2023-11-16 18:59:58.3340780 | 2,698 | 13 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Emmy and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE BOYHOOD OF JESUS
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED BY
DAVID C. COOK PUBLISHING COMPANY
Factory and Shipping Rooms, Elgin, Illinois
Try to be like Jesus.
The Bible tells of Jesus,
So gentle and so meek;
I’ll try to be like Jesus
In ev’ry word I speak.
For Jesus, too, was loving,
His words were always kind;
I’ll try to be like Jesus
In thought and word and mind.
I long to be like Jesus,
Who said “I am the Truth;”
Then I will give my heart to him,
Now, in my early youth.
—_Lillian Payson._
COPYRIGHT, 1905,
BY DAVID C. COOK PUBLISHING COMPANY.
[Illustration: THE BABY JESUS.]
The Little Lord Jesus.
Away in a manger,
No crib for a bed,
The little Lord Jesus
Laid down his sweet head.
The stars in the sky
Looked down where he lay—
The little Lord Jesus
Asleep on the hay.
The cattle are lowing,
The poor baby wakes,
But little Lord Jesus
No crying he makes.
I love thee, Lord Jesus;
Look down from the sky,
And stay by my cradle
To watch Lullaby.
—_Luther’s Cradle Hymn._
The Child Promised.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THERE was once a time when there was no Christmas at all. There were
no beautiful Christmas trees and happy songs and stockings filled with
presents. No one shouted “Merry Christmas!” or “Christmas Gift!” No
one told the sweet story of Jesus, because Jesus had not come into
the world and so there was no Christmas. You see Christmas is Jesus’
birthday, and before he came, of course people could not keep his
birthday. You have heard of how wicked and unhappy the people were long
ago. Although God loved them and tried to make them do right, they
forgot about him and did so many naughty, disobedient things that they
were very miserable. Then God sent a wonderful message to them. He told
them that some day he would send them his own Son, who should be their
King and teach them how to do right. He said that his Son would come as
a little child to grow up among them to love and help them. God even
told them what they should call this baby who was to be their King. God
said that Christ would be like a beautiful light showing them where to
go. It would be as though some people stumbling sorrowfully along a
dark street should suddenly see a bright light shining ahead of them,
making everything cheerful and pleasant. They would be joyful like
people who gather in the harvest. Jesus makes his children happy, and
he wants them to shine out and make others happy. These people who were
so unhappy before Jesus came, were very glad to know that some day he
would come. They talked about him and waited a long, long time before
he came and brought Christmas light into the world.
[Illustration: THE BABE IN BETHLEHEM.]
The Coming of Jesus.
LONG ago there lived a good man named Joseph, a carpenter of Nazareth,
who built houses and made many useful things for people. He also loved
to read God’s Gift Book, and tried to obey its rules. One day the king
of the land where Joseph lived ordered everyone to write his name in a
book, and pay a tax, in his own city. So Joseph and Mary his wife got
ready to take a long journey to their old home, Bethlehem. There were
no cars for them to ride in, so they must either walk or ride a donkey.
As the fashion was there, Mary wore a long, white veil which covered
her beautiful face.
The streets were full of people, walking, or traveling on mules,
donkeys, or camels—all going to be taxed. It was winter, but in a warm
country, and they went through valleys of figs, olives, dates, oranges
and other good things.
[Illustration]
They must have been very tired when they reached Bethlehem’s gates,
for they had come a long distance, and the dust of the road, the
bustle of traveling, and the strangeness of it all, seemed to add
to their trials. The people of Bethlehem had opened their homes and
welcomed the strangers, until every house was full, and still the
people kept coming. They could scarcely go up the steep hill, they were
so weary, and Joseph tried to get a place to rest, but there was no
kind invitation, no welcome in any house for them, and the inns were
crowded. The inns were not like our hotels for travelers; they were
flat-roofed stone buildings, without windows. There were no warm rooms
with carpets, and soft beds for tired travelers to lie on. There were
only bare floors, and everyone had to bring his own bed and food. The
courtyard was full of animals—donkeys, mules, camels, sheep and cows.
After Joseph had tried and failed to get a resting place, as there
was no room anywhere, some kind friend told him of a cave on the
hillside which was used as a stable, and to this they gladly went.
Sweet-smelling hay was all around, and the floor was covered with
straw; possibly mild-eyed cows and gentle sheep were sleeping in their
stalls. Along the walls were mangers, or boxes to hold the grain and
hay when the animals were fed. Here Mary and Joseph found a shelter
and a sleeping place; indeed, they were thankful to be led there to
rest upon the hay. In the night a wonderful thing took place: God sent
the baby Gift Child into the world. This gift had been promised long
before to Adam and Eve, and now it had come—the most beautiful and
dearest Baby ever held in a mother’s arms. The night grew dark, the
house-lights went out one by one, and the people in Bethlehem slept.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE ANGELS’ SONG.]
The Angels’ Joy.
THE happiest song that was ever sung was sung on the first and best
Christmas of all. There was a time when there was no Christmas. Can you
think how glad you would be if you had no Christmas, and then one day
all at once you had the first and best one of all?
This song was sung and the first Christmas came one night long years
ago, far over the sea, near a little town called Bethlehem. It did not
come first to kings and great people, but to some shepherds who were
sitting up all night watching their sheep.
Outside of the city were beautiful sloping green fields where the
shepherds let their sheep run about and eat the grass. The weather
there is very pleasant at Christmas time; not at all like our weather.
The shepherds can sit out on the grass all night, watching their sheep.
[Illustration]
Did you ever see a sheep or a lamb? Do you know that your mittens and
jackets and nice warm dresses are made of the wool which the sheep have
to spare for us? The shepherds have to stay out with the sheep all
night because they are very gentle and timid animals. They cannot fight
for themselves, and if they were left alone the wolves would catch them.
One night about 1900 years ago some shepherds were watching their sheep
in those fields. Very likely the shepherds were some of the people who
were hoping that Jesus would soon come; perhaps they were talking about
him, and wondering how they would know if he did come.
All at once a bright light shone about them, and they saw an angel and
heard him speak to them. Very kind and beautiful the angel looked, but
the shepherds were frightened.
The angel said to them, “Fear not; for behold, I bring you good tidings
of great joy, which shall be to all people; for unto you is born this
day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this
shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe, wrapped in swaddling
clothes, lying in a manger.”
[Illustration]
As the angel was speaking, the shepherds saw with him a great number of
beautiful, shining angels. Then was sung for the first time this grand
song, for Christmas had come. I do not know the tune, but the very
words are in the Bible: “Glory to God in the highest, and on earth
peace, good-will toward men.” Glory to God, for the greatest gift that
ever came; peace on earth, for all who love this Savior.
As soon as the angels finished the song they went back to heaven, and
left the shepherds alone.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE SHEPHERDS VISIT JESUS.]
The Shepherds Visit Jesus.
WHAT would you do if you had been one of those shepherds to whom the
angels brought the good news of Jesus’ birth? I will tell you what they
did. They left their sheep to take care of themselves, and hurried off
to Bethlehem, for that was the city the angels meant.
[Illustration]
They went in the gate and at last found the right place. It was called
a stable.
They soon found the dear little baby Jesus, just as the angels had
said, lying in a manger, and Mary his mother and Joseph taking care of
him.
The little manger was in the stable, and there the shepherds stood
beside it and looked into the face of the babe.
Do you think the dear little baby had a nice bed to lie in? It looked
like a block hollowed out. It was the box out of which the cows ate.
It was warm and soft, because his mother had put nice soft hay in it,
and wrapped him all up with a long strip of cloth. They were in a
stable because so many people were in the city that there was not a bit
of room left. I think it must have been a clean place, with lots of
nice, sweet new hay.
When the shepherds saw the baby they knew that he was really Jesus
their Savior. They knelt at his feet and worshiped him. They were so
happy that they could hardly say what they felt. They soon went away
and told the good news to every one they met. They were very glad
because Jesus had come. He came as a little baby so he would know
how to love and help all other babies and little children, and be an
example for them to follow as they grew older.
We are glad Jesus came, and we love to keep his birthday, because he
gives us joy and peace, fills our hearts with love, and helps us to be
good and happy here and to get ready to be happy in heaven.
God, our Father in heaven, sent to us this wonderful Christmas Gift.
Think of the great love he must have for us, to give us his Son. Think
of the great love Jesus had for us, that he could leave his beautiful
home in heaven to come and help us and show us how to live. Let us
thank him every day for his great love. “For God so loved the world,
that he gave his only begotten Son” to be our Savior.
[Illustration: THE BABY JESUS IN THE TEMPLE.]
The Child in the Temple.
JOSEPH, and Mary the mother of Jesus, stayed in Bethlehem for a while.
When Jesus was only eight days old he received his name; he was called
“Jesus,” as the angel had told Mary. It was the custom of the Jews to
take their first son to the temple and present him to God, so Joseph
and Mary went to Jerusalem to present Jesus to God in the temple.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
At the time when Jesus was born, there was an old man, named Simeon,
living in Jerusalem. He was a good man and was looking and wishing for
Jesus, the promised Messiah, to come. God’s Holy Spirit had told him
that he should not die until he had seen | 2,574.354118 |
2023-11-16 18:59:58.3364470 | 1,028 | 9 |
Produced by Melissa McDaniel, Emmy and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
_LITTLE SUNBEAMS._
VI.
NELLIE'S HOUSEKEEPING.
By the Author of this Volume.
I.
LITTLE SUNBEAMS.
By JOANNA H. MATHEWS, Author of the "Bessie Books."
6 vols. In a box $6.00
_Or, separately_:--
I. BELLE POWERS' LOCKET. 16mo 1.00
II. DORA'S MOTTO. 16mo 1.00
III. LILY NORRIS' ENEMY 1.00
IV. JESSIE'S PARROT 1.00
V. MAMIE'S WATCHWORD 1.00
VI. NELLIE'S HOUSEKEEPING 1.00
II.
THE FLOWERETS.
A series of Stories on the Commandments. 6 vols. In a box $3.60
"Under the general head of 'Flowerets,' this charming
author has grouped six little volumes, being a series
of stories on the Commandments. 'Our folks' are in love
with them, and have made off with them all before we
could get the first reading."--_Our Monthly._
III.
THE BESSIE BOOKS.
6 vols. In a box $7.50
"We can wish our young readers no greater pleasure than
an acquaintance with dear, cute little Bessie and her
companions, old and young, brute and human."--_American
Presbyterian._
ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS,
_New York_
NELLIE'S HOUSEKEEPING.
"Be good, sweet child, and let who will be clever:
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long;
So shalt thou make life, death, and that vast for ever.
One grand, sweet song."--KINGSLEY.
BY
JOANNA H. MATHEWS,
AUTHOR OF THE "BESSIE BOOKS" AND THE "FLOWERETS."
NEW YORK:
ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS,
530 BROADWAY.
1882.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by
ROBERT CARTER AND BROTHERS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. HARD AT WORK 7
II. A TALK WITH PAPA 25
III. NELLIE A HOUSEKEEPER 50
IV. A COURTSHIP 70
V. WHITE MICE 94
VI. THE GRAY MICE 113
VII. THE BLACK CAT 136
VIII. DAISY'S SACRIFICE 157
IX. MAKING GINGER-CAKES 181
X. FRESH TROUBLES 204
XI. A NIGHT OF IT 224
XII. AN ALARM 236
XIII. LAST OF THE SUNBEAMS 245
[Illustration]
NELLIE'S HOUSEKEEPING.
I.
_HARD AT WORK._
"NELLIE, will you come down to the beach now?"
"No!" with as much shortness and sharpness as the little word of two
letters could well convey.
"Why not?"
"Oh! because I can't. Don't bother me."
And, laying down the pencil with which she had been writing, Nellie
Ransom pushed back the hair from her flushed, heated face, drew a long,
weary sigh, took up the Bible which lay at her elbow, and, turning
over the leaf, ran her finger slowly and carefully down the page before
her.
Carrie stood with one elbow upon the corner of the table at which her
sister sat, her chin resting in her palm as she discontentedly watched
Nellie, while with the other hand she swung back and forth by one
string the broad straw hat she was accustomed to wear when playing out
of doors.
"I think you might," she said presently. "Mamma says I can't go if you
don't, and I want to go so."
"I can't help it," said Nellie, still without taking her eyes from her
Bible. "I wish you'd stop shaking the table so."
"How soon will you come?" persisted Carrie, taking her elbow from the
table.
"When I'm ready, and not before," snapped N | 2,574.356487 |
2023-11-16 18:59:58.3373600 | 4,273 | 19 |
E-text prepared by Chris Curnow, Christina, Joseph Cooper, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
MAURINE AND OTHER POEMS
by
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
W. B. Conkey Company
Chicago
Copyright, 1888
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
_I step across the mystic border-land,_
_And look upon the wonder-world of Art._
_How beautiful, how beautiful its hills!_
_And all its valleys, how surpassing fair!_
_The winding paths that lead up to the heights_
_Are polished by the footsteps of the great._
_The mountain-peaks stand very near to God:_
_The chosen few whose feet have trod thereon_
_Have talked with Him, and with the angels walked._
_Here are no sounds of discord--no profane_
_Or senseless gossip of unworthy things--_
_Only the songs of chisels and of pens._
_Of busy brushes, and ecstatic strains_
_Of souls surcharged with music most divine._
_Here is no idle sorrow, no poor grief_
_For any day or object left behind--_
_For time is counted precious, and herein_
_Is such complete abandonment of Self_
_That tears turn into rainbows, and enhance_
_The beauty of the land where all is fair._
_Awed and afraid, I cross the border-land._
_Oh, who am I, that I dare enter here_
_Where the great artists of the world have trod--_
_The genius-crowned aristocrats of Earth?_
_Only the singer of a little song;_
_Yet loving Art with such a mighty love_
_I hold it greater to have won a place_
_Just on the fair land's edge, to make my grave,_
_Than in the outer world of greed and gain_
_To sit upon a royal throne and reign._
CONTENTS
Maurine 9
Two Sunsets 122
Unrest 124
"Artist's Life" 125
Nothing but Stones 126
The Coquette 128
Inevitable 129
The Ocean of Song 130
"It Might Have Been" 132
If 132
Gethsemane 134
Dust-Sealed 135
"Advice" 136
Over the Banisters 137
Momus, God of Laughter 138
I Dream 140
The Past 141
The Sonnet 142
Secrets 142
A Dream 143
Uselessness 143
Will 144
Winter Rain 145
Applause 145
Life 146
Burdened 146
The Story 147
Let Them Go 148
The Engine 149
Nothing New 151
Dreams 152
Helena 153
Nothing Remains 155
Lean Down 156
Comrades 157
What Gain? 158
Life 159
To the West 160
The Land of Content 161
A Song of Life 163
Warning 164
The Christian's New Year Prayer 164
In the Night 166
God's Measure 167
A March Snow 167
After the Battles are Over 168
Noblesse Oblige 174
And They Are Dumb 175
Night 177
All for Me 178
Philosophy 179
"Carlos" 180
The Two Glasses 182
Through Tears 184
Into Space 185
Through Dim Eyes 187
La Mort d'Amour 188
The Punished 189
Half Fledged 190
Love's Sleep 191
True Culture 192
The Voluptuary 193
The Year 194
The Unattained 195
In the Crowd 196
Life and I 198
Guerdon 199
Snowed Under 200
Platonic 201
What We Need 203
"Leudemann's-on-the-River" 204
In the Long Run 206
Plea to Science 207
Love's Burial 208
Little Blue Hood 209
No Spring 211
Lippo 212
Midsummer 213
A Reminiscence 214
Respite 216
A Girl's Faith 217
Two 218
Slipping Away 219
Is it Done? 220
A Leaf 221
AEsthetic 222
Poems of the Week 224
Ghosts 226
Fleeing Away 227
All Mad 228
Hidden Gems 229
By-and-By 230
Over the May Hill 231
A Song 232
Foes 234
Friendship 235
MAURINE
_PART I._
I sat and sewed, and sang some tender tune,
Oh, beauteous was that morn in early June!
Mellow with sunlight, and with blossoms fair:
The climbing rose-tree grew about me there,
And checked with shade the sunny portico
Where, morns like this, I came to read, or sew.
I heard the gate click, and a firm quick tread
Upon the walk. No need to turn my head;
I would mistake, and doubt my own voice sounding,
Before his step upon the gravel bounding.
In an unstudied attitude of grace,
He stretched his comely form; and from his face
He tossed the dark, damp curls; and at my knees,
With his broad hat he fanned the lazy breeze,
And turned his head, and lifted his large eyes,
Of that strange hue we see in ocean dyes,
And call it blue sometimes, and sometimes green
And save in poet eyes, not elsewhere seen.
"Lest I should meet with my fair lady's scorning,
For calling quite so early in the morning,
I've brought a passport that can never fail,"
He said, and, laughing, laid the morning mail
Upon my lap. "I'm welcome? so I thought!
I'll figure by the letters that I brought
How glad you are to see me. Only one?
And that one from a lady? I'm undone!
That, lightly skimmed, you'll think me _such_ a bore,
And wonder why I did not bring you four.
It's ever thus: a woman cannot get
So many letters that she will not fret
O'er one that did not come."
"I'll prove you wrong,"
I answered gayly, "here upon the spot!
This little letter, precious if not long,
Is just the one, of all you might have brought,
To please me. You have heard me speak, I'm sure,
Of Helen Trevor: she writes here to say
She's coming out to see me; and will stay
Till Autumn, maybe. She is, like her note,
Petite and dainty, tender, loving, pure.
You'd know her by a letter that she wrote,
For a sweet tinted thing. 'Tis always so:--
Letters all blots, though finely written, show
A slovenly person. Letters stiff and white
Bespeak a nature honest, plain, upright.
And tissuey, tinted, perfumed notes, like this,
Tell of a creature formed to pet and kiss."
My listener heard me with a slow, odd smile;
Stretched in abandon at my feet, the while,
He fanned me idly with his broad-brimmed hat.
"Then all young ladies must be formed for that!"
He laughed, and said.
"Their letters read, and look,
As like as twenty copies of one book.
They're written in a dainty, spider scrawl,
To 'darling, precious Kate,' or 'Fan,' or 'Moll.'
The 'dearest, sweetest' friend they ever had.
They say they 'want to see you, oh, so bad!'
Vow they'll 'forget you, never, _never_, oh!'
And then they tell about a splendid beau--
A lovely hat--a charming dress, and send
A little scrap of this to every friend.
And then to close, for lack of something better,
They beg you'll'read and burn this horrid letter.'"
He watched me, smiling. He was prone to vex
And hector me with flings upon my sex.
He liked, he said, to have me flash and frown,
So he could tease me, and then laugh me down.
My storms of wrath amused him very much:
He liked to see me go off at a touch;
Anger became me--made my color rise,
And gave an added luster to my eyes.
So he would talk--and so he watched me now,
To see the hot flush mantle cheek and brow.
Instead, I answered coolly, with a smile,
Felling a seam with utmost care, meanwhile.
"The caustic tongue of Vivian Dangerfield
Is barbed as ever, for my sex, this morn.
Still unconvinced, no smallest point I yield.
Woman I love, and trust, despite your scorn.
There is some truth in what you say? Well, yes!
Your statements usually hold more or less.
Some women write weak letters--(some men do;)
Some make professions, knowing them untrue.
And woman's friendship, in the time of need,
I own, too often proves a broken reed.
But I believe, and ever will contend,
Woman can be a sister woman's friend,
Giving from out her large heart's bounteous store
A living love--claiming to do no more
Than, through and by that love, she knows she can;
And living by her professions, _like a man_.
And such a tie, true friendship's silken tether,
Binds Helen Trevor's heart and mine together.
I love her for her beauty, meekness, grace;
For her white lily soul and angel face.
She loves me, for my greater strength, may be;
Loves--and would give her heart's best blood for me
And I, to save her from a pain, or cross,
Would suffer any sacrifice or loss.
Such can be woman's friendship for another.
Could man give more, or ask more from a brother?"
I paused: and Vivian leaned his massive head
Against the pillar of the portico,
Smiled his slow, skeptic smile, then laughed, and said:
"Nay, surely not--if what you say be so.
You've made a statement, but no proof's at hand.
Wait--do not flash your eyes so! Understand
I think you quite sincere in what you say:
You love your friend, and she loves you, to-day;
But friendship is not friendship at the best
Till circumstances put it to the test.
Man's, less demonstrative, stands strain and tear,
While woman's, half profession, fails to wear.
Two women love each other passing well--
Say Helen Trevor and Maurine La Pelle,
Just for example.
Let them daily meet
At ball and concert, in the church and street,
They kiss and coo, they visit, chat, caress;
Their love increases, rather than grows less;
And all goes well, till 'Helen dear' discovers
That 'Maurine darling' wins too many lovers.
And then her 'precious friend,' her 'pet,' her'sweet,'
Becomes a'minx,' a 'creature all deceit.'
Let Helen smile too oft on Maurine's beaux,
Or wear more stylish or becoming clothes,
Or sport a hat that has a longer feather--
And lo! the strain has broken 'friendship's tether.'
Maurine's sweet smile becomes a frown or pout;
'She's just begun to find that Helen out'
The breach grows wider--anger fills each heart;
They drift asunder, whom 'but death could part.'
You shake your head? Oh, well, we'll never know!
It is not likely Fate will test you so.
You'll live, and love; and, meeting twice a year,
While life shall last, you'll hold each other dear.
I pray it may be so; it were not best
To shake your faith in woman by the test.
Keep your belief, and nurse it while you can.
I've faith in woman's friendship too--for man!
They're true as steel, as mothers, friends, and wives:
And that's enough to bless us all our lives.
That man's a selfish fellow, and a bore,
Who is unsatisfied, and asks for more."
"But there is need of more!" I here broke in.
"I hold that woman guilty of a sin,
Who would not cling to, and defend another,
As nobly as she would stand by a brother.
Who would not suffer for a sister's sake,
And, were there need to prove her friendship, make
'Most any sacrifice, nor count the cost.
Who would not do this for a friend is lost
To every nobler principle."
"Shame, shame!"
Cried Vivian, laughing, "for you now defame
The whole sweet sex; since there's not one would do
The thing you name, nor would I want her to.
I love the sex. My mother was a woman--
I hope my wife will be, and wholly human.
And if she wants to make some sacrifice,
I'll think her far more sensible and wise
To let her husband reap the benefit,
Instead of some old maid or senseless chit.
Selfish? Of course! I hold all love is so:
And I shall love my wife right well, I know.
Now there's a point regarding selfish love,
You thirst to argue with me, and disprove.
But since these cosy hours will soon be gone
And all our meetings broken in upon,
No more of these rare moments must be spent
In vain discussions, or in argument.
I wish Miss Trevor was in--Jericho!
(You see the selfishness begins to show.)
She wants to see you?--So do I: but she
Will gain her wish, by taking you from me.
'Come all the same?' that means I'll be allowed
To realize that 'three can make a crowd.'
I do not like to feel myself _de trop_.
With two girl cronies would I not be so?
My ring would interrupt some private chat.
You'd ask me in and take my cane and hat,
And speak about the lovely summer day,
And think--'The lout! I wish he'd kept away.'
Miss Trevor'd smile, but just to hide a pout
And count the moments till I was shown out.
And, while I twirled my thumbs, I would sit wishing
That I had gone off hunting birds, or fishing.
No, thanks, Maurine! The iron hand of Fate,
(Or otherwise Miss Trevor's dainty fingers,)
Will bar my entrance into Eden's gate;
And I shall be like some poor soul that lingers
At heaven's portal, paying the price of sin,
Yet hoping to be pardoned and let in."
He looked so melancholy sitting there,
I laughed outright. "How well you act a part;
You look the very picture of despair!
You've missed your calling, sir! suppose you start
Upon a starring tour, and carve your name
With Booth's and Barrett's on the heights of Fame.
But now, tabooing nonsense, I shall send
For you to help me entertain my friend,
Unless you come without it. 'Cronies?' True,
Wanting our 'private chats' as cronies do
And we'll take those, while you are reading Greek,
Or writing 'Lines to Dora's brow' or 'cheek.'
But when you have an hour or two of leisure,
Call as you now do, and afford like pleasure.
For never yet did heaven's sun shine on,
Or stars discover, that phenomenon,
In any country, or in any clime:
Two maids so bound, by ties of mind and heart.
They did not feel the heavy weight of time
In weeks of scenes wherein no man took part.
God made the sexes to associate:
Nor law of man, nor stern decree of Fate,
Can ever undo what His hand has done,
And, quite alone, make happy either one.
My Helen is an only child:--a pet
Of loving parents: and she never yet
Has been denied one boon for which she pleaded.
A fragile thing, her lightest wish was heeded.
Would she pluck roses? they must first be shorn,
By careful hands, of every hateful thorn.
And loving eyes must scan the pathway where
Her feet may tread, to see no stones are there.
She'll grow dull here, in this secluded nook,
Unless you aid me in the pleasant task
Of entertaining. Drop in with your book--
Read, talk, sing for her sometimes. What I ask,
Do once, to please me: then there'll be no need
For me to state the case again, or plead.
There's nothing like a woman's grace and beauty
To waken mankind to a sense of duty."
"I bow before the mandate of my queen:
Your slightest wish is law, Ma Belle Maurine,"
He answered smiling, "I'm at your command;
Point but one lily finger, or your wand,
And you will find a willing slave obeying.
There goes my dinner bell! I hear it saying
I've spent two hours here, lying at your feet,
Not profitable, maybe--surely sweet.
All time is money; now were I to measure
The time I spend here by its solid pleasure,
And that were coined in dollars, then I've laid
Each day a fortune at your feet, fair maid.
There goes that bell again! I'll say good-bye,
Or clouds will shadow my domestic sky.
I'll come again, as you would have me do,
And see your friend, while she is seeing you.
That's like by proxy being at a feast;
Unsatisfactory, to say the least."
He drew his fine shape up, and trod the land
With kingly grace. Passing the gate, his hand
He lightly placed the garden wall upon,
Leaped over like a leopard, and was gone.
And, going, took the brightness from the place,
Yet left the June day with a sweeter grace,
And my young soul so steeped in happy dreams,
Heaven itself seemed shown to me in gleams.
There is a time with lovers, when the heart
First slowly rouses from its dreamless sleep,
To all the tumult of a passion life,
Ere yet have wakened jealousy and strife.
Just as a young, untutored child will start
Out of a long hour's slumber, sound and deep,
And lie and smile with rosy lips, and cheeks,
In a sweet, restful trance, before it speaks.
A time when yet no word the spell has broken,
Save what the heart unto the soul has spoken,
In quickened throbs, and sighs but half suppressed.
A time when that sweet truth, all unconfessed,
Gives added fragrance to the summer flowers,
A golden glory to the passing hours,
A hopeful beauty to the plainest face,
And lends to life a new and tender grace.
When the full heart has climbed the heights of bliss,
And, smiling, looks back o'er the golden past,
I think it finds no sweeter hour than this
In all love-life. For, later, when the last
Translucent drop o'erflows the cup of joy,
And love, more mighty than the heart's control,
Surges in | 2,574.3574 |
2023-11-16 18:59:58.3420800 | 2,348 | 71 |
Produced by Suzanne Shell, 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/Canadian Libraries)
Transcriber's note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Words printed in italics in the original document are represented|
here between underscores, as in _text_;
THE STORY
OF LOUIE
BY
OLIVER ONIONS
Author of "In Accordance With the Evidence,"
"The Debit Account," etc.
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
NEW YORK
_Publishers in America for Hodder & Stoughton_
TO
GWLADYS
CONTENTS
PAGE
PROLOGUE 9
PART ONE
RAINHAM PARVA 25
PART TWO
SUTHERLAND PLACE 109
PART THREE
MORTLAKE ROAD 175
PART FOUR
PILLAR TO POST 213
PART FIVE
THE CONSOLIDATION 259
ENVOI 356
PROLOGUE
I
In an old number of _Punch_, under the heading "Society's New Pet: The
Artist's Model," is to be found a drawing by Du Maurier, of which the
descriptive text runs:
"And how did you and Mr. Sopley come to quarrel, dear Miss
Dragon?"
"Well, your Grace, it was like this: I was sitting to him in a
cestus for 'The Judgment of Paris,' when someone called as wished
to see him most particular; so he said: 'Don't move, Miss Dragon,
or you'll disturb the cestus.' 'Very good, sir,' I said, and off
he went; and when he come back in an hour and a 'alf or so he
said: 'You've moved, Miss Dragon!' 'I 'aven't!' I said. 'You
'_ave_!' he said. 'I 'AVEN'T!' I said--and no more I 'adn't, your
Grace. And with that I off with his cestus an' wished him
good-morning, an' I never been near him since!"
Du Maurier may or may not have been wrong about the newness of this
craze of "Society's." If he was right, the Honourable Emily
Scarisbrick becomes at once a pioneer. Let there be set down, here in
the beginning, the plain facts of how, a good ten years before the
indignant Miss Dragon "offed with" Mr. Sopley's cestus, the Honourable
Emily found a way to bridge the gulf that lies between Bohemia and
Mayfair.
Except in the case of one person not yet born into these pages, the
report that the lady had engaged herself, early in the year 1869, to
"Mr. Buckley, her drawing-master," had only a short currency. It was
probably devised by the Honourable Emily herself in order to soften
the blow for her brother, Lord Moone. The real name of the man to whom
she engaged herself was James Buckley Causton. Under this name he
appears on the rolls of the 4th Dragoon Guards as a trooper in the
years 1862-1867; and as "Buck" Causton he attained some celebrity
when, in the last-named year, he vanquished one Piker Betteridge in
the prize ring, in a battle which, beginning with gloves and ending
with bare knuckles, lasted for nearly nine hours.
For all we know, it may have been Miss Dragon's Mr. Sopley who, seeing
the magnificent Buck in the ring, first put it into the ex-trooper's
head to become an artists' model. However it was, an artists' model he
did become, and, as such, the rage. No doubt Sopley, if it were he,
would gladly have kept his discovery to himself; but a neck like a
sycamore and a thorax capable of containing nine-hours-contest lungs
cannot be hid when Academy time comes round. Sopley's measure was
known. If Sopley painted an heroic picture it was certain he had had a
hero as model. The Academy opens in May; before June was out Sopley's
find was no longer his own. Sir Frederick Henson, the artist who moved
so in the world that in him the tradition of the monarch who picked up
the painter's brush for him might almost have been said to live again,
saw Buck, marked Buck down as his own, and presently had sole
possession of Buck.
The Honourable Emily Scarisbrick already had possession of Sir
Frederick. To be sure, it neither needed a Sir Frederick Henson to
teach her the stippling of birds' eggs and the copying of castles for
the albums of her friends, nor was the great Academician accustomed to
stooping to the office of salaried drawing-master; but--the Honourable
Emily was a Scarisbrick, of Mallard Bois.
In Henson's studio the Honourable Emily first saw Buck Causton.
To say that she fell in love with him would demand a definition of the
term. Certainly she fell in something with him. Perhaps that something
was the something that at the last thrusts baronies and Mallard Boises
aside as hindrances to a design even larger than that in which they
play so important a part; but we have nothing to do with large designs
here. Call it what you will: something proper enough to legend, but of
little enough propriety in a modern lady's life; a feeble echo of
Romance, perhaps, but never itself to become Romance unless, of it or
present scandal, it should prove the stronger. At any rate, it was a
very different thing from anything she felt, or ever had felt, for
Captain Cecil Chaffinger, of the White Hussars, her brother's nominee
for her hand.
It was a word dropped by the gallant Captain, himself a follower of
the fancy, that led her to the discovery that the hero of some feat or
other of extraordinary skill and endurance, and the young Ajax, all
chest and grey eyes and brown curls, who did odd jobs about the studio
in the intervals of posing for Henson's demigodlike canvases, were one
and the same person. Her already throbbing pulse bounded. She herself
was twenty-eight, a small, dark, febrile woman, given over to
discontents based on nothing save on an irremediably spoiled
childhood, and perhaps hankering after an indiscretion in the
conviction that indiscretions were of two kinds--indiscretions, and
the indiscretions of the Scarisbricks. Naturally she became conscious
of a quickened interest in her art.
The first indication that this interest passed beyond birds eggs and
castles was that she began "Lessons in Drapery." If here for a few
moments her story becomes a little technical, it may be none the less
interesting on that account.
The study of Drapery _as_ Drapery has not much interest for anybody
unless perhaps for a student of mechanics. For all that, it is, or
then was, regarded by drawing-masters as a self-contained subject, to
be tackled, ticked off, and thenceforward possessed. To the study of
Drapery in this unrelated sense the Honourable Emily apparently
inclined. Seeing her therefore, in this fundamental error, Sir
Frederick, a master of Drapery, took from her the "copies" which had
already supplanted the "copies" of castles in her portfolio, and
good-humouredly began to tell her what she really wanted. What she
really wanted, he said, was to rid her mind of the idea that folds
existed for their own sake, and to endeavour to realise that their
real significance lay in the thing enfolded. Miss Scarisbrick thanked
him.
So, at first from the lay figure, and then from Henson's model, she
began to draw Drapery with special reference to the thing draped.
About this time she gave Captain Chaffinger for an answer a "No" which
he refused to take. His devotion, he said, forbade him. If by his
devotion he meant his devotion to his creditors, his constancy
remained at their service. In the meantime he was still able to pay
his old debts by contracting new ones.
The Honourable Emily's studies became diligent.
There is little to be said about these things except that they do
happen. A word now about Buck's attitude.
Had the Honourable Emily's maid thrown herself at his head he would
have known what to do. His sense of the holiness of social degrees
would have received no shock. But the Honourable Emily, who could
command her maid, could not command what in all probability her maid
would not have had to ask twice for. The most she got (when after much
that is omitted here, it did at last dawn on the bashful Buck that she
had any will in the matter at all) was a blush so sudden and violent
that it compelled an embarrassed reddening of her own cheeks also.
Buck was not personally outraged. It was his sense of Order that was
outraged. He remembered the lady's station for her, and, stammeringly
but reverentially, put her back into it.
Now to be merely reverential to a woman who is in love with you is to
provoke impatience, anger and tears. On the other hand, to see a woman
in tears because you will not permit her to humiliate herself is to
have the other half of an impossible situation. It was one
luncheon-time (the Honourable Emily now lunched frequently at the
studio) that the tears came.
"Oh, you don't care for me--you don't care for me!" she sobbed.
Buck could not truthfully have said that he did care for her; but
there she was before him, in tears.
"If it were that Dragon girl, now----"
Buck, while not failing to see the force of this, could only make
imploring movements for the Honourable Emily to calm herself.
Presently she did calm herself, sufficiently to change her tone to one
of irony.
"Do you read your Bible?" she shot over her shoulder.
"Yes, miss," said Buck--"that is--I mean----"
The reason for Buck's hesitation was that he had suddenly doubted
whether the Honourable Emily would know | 2,574.36212 |
2023-11-16 18:59:58.4386240 | 3,985 | 8 |
Produced by Stan Goodman, Charles Franks, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team
GUNS AND SNOWSHOES
Or
The Winter Outing of the Young Hunters
by CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL
AUTHOR of "FOUR BOY HUNTERS," "FOR THE LIBERTY OF TEXAS," "THE WINNING
RUN," "FLAG OF FREEDOM SERIES," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
BOY HUNTERS SERIES
By Captain Ralph Bonehill
FOUR BOY HUNTERS
Or The Winter Outing of the Young Hunters.
GUNS AND SNOWSHOES
Or The Outing of the Gun Club
GUNS AND SNOWSHOES
CONTENTS
I. INTRODUCING FOUR BOYS
II. A QUARREL IN THE SNOW
III. THE RESULTS OF SNOWBALLING
IV. THE EXPLOSION
V. OFF FOR CAMP
VI. CHICKENS AND MINCE PIE
VII. A DISMAYING DISCOVERY
VIII. THE FIRST NIGHT IN CAMP
IX. INTO A HOLE AND OUT
X. OUT AFTER DEER
XI. SNOWBOUND
XII. A CRY FOR HELP
XIII. IN CAMP ONCE MORE
XIV. IN WHICH A TRAMP DISAPPEARS
XV. SOMETHING OF A CHASE
XVI. AN EVIL COMPACT
XVII. FUN IN THE CAMP
XVIII. AN UNEXPECTED PERIL
XIX. THE FIGHT WITH THE BUCK
XX. SHOOTING WILD DUCKS
XXI. A TOUCH OF A BLIZZARD
XXII. A REMARKABLE CHRISTMAS
XXIII. IN TROUBLE ONCE MORE
XXIV. A DISAGREEABLE MEETING
XXV. AT THE CAMP ONCE AGAIN
XXVI. THE TRAIL THROUGH THE SNOW
XXVII. THE CAPTURE OF THE TRAMP
XVIII. FOUR BOYS AND A BEAR
XXIX. UNEXPECTED VISITORS
XXX. A SURPRISE--GOOD-BYE
PREFACE.
My DEAR LADS:
This story is complete in itself, but forms volume two of a set known
under the general title of the "Boy Hunters Series," taking the heroes
through various adventures while out hunting and fishing, in the woods
and mountains, and on rivers and lakes.
The boys are bright, lively lads of to-day, with a strong liking for a
life in the open air and a keen taste for hunting both big and little
game, and for fishing in various ways. In the former volume, entitled,
"Four Boy Hunters," they organized their little dun Club and obtained
permission to go a number of miles from home and establish a camp on
the edge of a lake. From this spot they were driven by enemies, and
then settled at another camp, where they had various adventures and
not a little fun, and in the end cleared up a mystery which had
bothered them not a little.
In the present story we have the same boys and almost the same
locality, but the time is now winter, and in the pages which follow
are related the sport the boys had in the snow and on the ice, and
something about a new mystery, which ended in rather a surprising
fashion.
As I have said before, hunting, especially in our eastern states, is
not what it was years ago. Almost all of the big game has disappeared,
and the fellow who can get a deer or a moose without going a good many
weary miles for the game is lucky. Yet in some sections small game is
still fairly plentiful, and a bag full of rabbits or wild ducks is
much better than nothing.
With best wishes to all who love the woods and waters, a gun, a dog,
and a rousing campfire, I remain,
Your sincere friend,
CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL.
GUNS AND SNOWSHOES.
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCING FOUR BOYS
"Hurrah, boys, it's snowing at last! Aren't you glad?"
"Glad? You bet I'm glad, Snap! Why I've been watching for this storm
for about six months!"
"There you go, Whopper!" answered Charley Dodge, with a grin. "Six
months indeed! Why, we haven't been home six months."
"Well, it seems that long anyway," said Frank Dawson, who was usually
called Whopper by his chums, because of his exaggerations when
speaking. "I've just been aching to see it snow."
"So that we can take that trip we proposed," put in Sheppard Reed,
quickly. "I guess we are all waiting for that."
"I am anyway," came from Will Caslette, the smallest lad of the four,
who had gathered at their usual meeting place in the town where they
resided. "Our camping out last summer was immense. If only we have
half as much fun this winter!"
"We will have, Giant," broke in the boy called Whopper. "Didn't I tell
you I was going to bring down sixteen deer, twenty bears, two hundred
wild turkeys, a boatload of wolves, and--"
"Phew, Whopper! Every time you name 'em over the list gets longer!"
cried Charley Dodge. "If you bring down so much game there won't be
anything left for other hunters."
"Well, I'll leave you a bear or two," said Whopper cheerfully.
"Thanks awfully."
"Leave me one lone wild turkey, Whopper dear," came mournfully from
Shep Reed.
"Say, if you're going to talk like that I won't leave anything," burst
out Frank.
"Whopper may bring down all the game, but I'll wager he can't throw a
snowball as straight as I can," said Charley, taking up some snow.
"See that spot on the fence yonder? Here goes for it!"
The snowball was launched forth with swiftness and with a thud struck
the spot directly in the center.
"Hurrah! A bull's-eye for Snap!"
"Humph! I can do that too!" cried Whopper, and forthwith proceeded to
make a good hard snowball. Then he took aim, let drive, and the ball
landed directly on the top of the one Charley had thrown.
"Good for you, Whopper!" said Charley enthusiastically.
"Ah, I could do that a thousand times in succession," answered the
youth given to exaggeration, coolly. "Why, don't you know that one day
there were six Tom cats on a fence and I took a snowball and hit 'em
all?"
"What, with one snowball?" queried the little lad called Giant.
"Sure thing, Giant."
"But how?"
"Why, I made the snowball bounce from the head of one Tom cat to the
head of the next," answered Whopper, unabashed.
"Well, if that isn't the worst yet!" roared Shep. "Say, we ought to
roll Whopper in the snow for that!"
"Right you are!" cried Snap. "Come on!"
"Hi! hold on!" yelled Whopper in alarm, but before he could resist he
was landed on his back in the snow, and the others proceeded to roll
him over "good," as Shep expressed it. The rolling process at an end,
a general snowball fight ensued between all of the boys, and also
several others who chanced to be passing.
The scene was the town of Fairview, a place containing a main street
and also another thoroughfare running to the tidy little railroad
depot, where eight trains stopped daily. The town was made up of
fifteen stores and shops, three churches, a hotel, and a livery
stable, while just outside were a saw mill and several other
industries. The place was located on the Rocky River, which, ten miles
below, flowed into a beautiful sheet of water called Lake Cameron.
To those who have read a previous volume of mine entitled, "Four Boy
Hunters," the lads skylarking in the snow need no special
introduction. For the benefit of others let me state that Charley
Dodge was the son of one of the most influential men of that district,
a gentleman who was a school trustee and also part owner of a big
summer hotel and one of the saw mills. Sheppard Reed was the son of
the best-known local physician, and he and Charley,--always called
Snap, why nobody could tell--were such chums they were often spoken of
as the Twins.
Frank Dawson had come to Fairview a little over two years before, and
had speedily made himself a prime favorite. As we have seen, he loved
to exaggerate when telling things, yet with it all Whopper, so called,
was as truthful as anybody. As Snap said, "you could always tell
Whopper's whoppers a mile off," which I think was something of a
whopper in itself, don't you?
The youngest lad of the four was Will Gaslette, always called Billy or
Giant. He was the son of a French widow lady, who thought the world of
her offspring. Although Will was small in size, he was sturdy and
self-reliant, and promised to become all that his mother hoped for
him.
During the previous summer the four boys had organized the Fairview
Gun Club and obtained permission to go camping for a few weeks in the
vicinity of Lake Cameron. They had started in high spirits, and after
a number of minor adventures located on the shore of the lake. From
this spot, however, they were driven by a saw mill owner named Andrew
Felps, who ran a company that was a rival to the concern in which Mr.
Dodge had an interest. The boys were made to give up their comfortable
camp, and then they went to Firefly Lake, a mile away. Here they
hunted and fished to their heart's content, being joined in some of
their sports by Jed Sanborn, an old hunter and trapper who lived in
the mountains between the lakes. They had some trouble with Ham Spink,
a dudish youth from Fairview, who, with some cronies, located a rival
camp across the lake, but this was quickly quelled. Then, during a
forest fire, they captured a long-wanted criminal, and came home at
last loaded down with game, and with the firm determination to go out
camping again during the winter.
"We couldn't spend our time more pleasantly," was what Snap said.
"Just think of a cozy camp in the snow, with a roaring camp-fire, and
plenty of game on all sides of you! Um! um! It's enough to make a
fellow's mouth water!"
"Oh, we'll have to go!" had been Shep's answer. "Of course we'll have
to go to school, but we are going to have a long vacation around the
holidays--"
"And we can ask for our Christmas presents in advance," Giant had
interrupted. "If we go out, I know what I want?"
"What, Giant?"
"A pair of snowshoes."
"Oh, we'll all want those," had come from Whopper. "And sleds,
too--for our traps."
"That's right."
"And another shot-gun."
"Yes, and plenty of blankets. It's no fun to camp out in winter if you
can't keep warm."
And so the talk had run on, until the winter outing of the Gun Club
became almost a certainty to them. But there were certain
restrictions, one of which, placed on all of the boys by their
parents, was that they should end the term at school with good
averages in all their lessons.
"You must get at least eighty-five per cent. out of a possible hundred
in all your lessons," said Doctor Reed to Shep, "otherwise you cannot
go," and the other parents said practically the same thing to Snap,
Whopper and Giant. And then the boys pitched in with a will, resolved
to come out ahead, "or know the reason why," as Snap said.
CHAPTER II
A QUARREL IN THE SNOW
The snow lay on the ground to the depth of four inches and was still
coming down thickly. It was the first fall of the season, and was
late,--so late, in fact, that the boys had been afraid there might
come no fall at all. Fast and furiously flew the snowballs and each
lad was hit many times.
"How is that?" sang out Whopper, as he planted a snowball directly in
Snap's ear.
"And how's that?" returned Snap quickly, and sent a chunk of soft snow
down Frank's collar.
"Wuow!" spluttered Whopper. "Hi! that isn't fair! Oh, my poor
backbone!"
"Here you are, Giant!" called out Shep, and hit the little lad in the
back. "Sorry, but it can't be helped. I--Oh, my!" and Shep bent double
as a snowball thrown by Giant with much force took him directly in the
stomach.
"Just to remember me by!" sang out Giant. "Here's another," and the
ball struck Shep in the elbow. "Small favors thankfully received and
big ones granted in return. There you are!" And still another snowball
landed on Shep's neck.
Five other boys had come up, and now the contestants were lined up on
both sides of the street not far from a corner, where there was a turn
running down to the depot. As the snowballing went on a distant
locomotive whistle sounded out and the afternoon train from the East
rolled into the station. Several passengers alighted and among the
number was Andrew Felps, of the Felps Lumber Company, the man who had
caused the boy hunters so much trouble the summer previous.
Mr. Andrew Felps was in a bad humor. He had gone to the city on
business and matters had not turned out as he had expected. Now he had
gotten back, dressed in his best, and wearing a new silk hat, and he
had no umbrella with which to protect himself from the snow-storm.
More than this, his coachman, who generally met him when he came in on
the train, was not in sight.
"Bah! I'll have to walk I suppose," muttered the saw mill owner, as he
looked around for a carriage and found none. "Just the time you want a
rig you can't find one. I'll discharge Johnson as soon as I reach
home."
With his coat buttoned up around his neck, and his head bent low to
escape the scudding snow, Andrew Felps hurried away from the depot and
up to the main street of Fairview. Then he made another turn,
presently reaching the spot where our heroes and the other lads were
having their sport.
"Hi! here comes old Felps!" cried Giant. "We ought to give him
something to remember us by!"
"Don't you do it!" returned Snap quickly. "He doesn't know what fun
is, and he'd be sure to make trouble."
Some other boys were coming up, and the snowballs began to fly more
furiously than ever. Snap, Shep, Whopper and Giant were on one side,
and a boy named Carl Dudder and five other town lads on the other
side. In the midst of the rallies came a yell of alarm, followed by
several loud cries of rage.
"Hullo! look there!" exclaimed Whopper. "Old Felps has been knocked
into the middle of next month. There goes his hat in the snow too! Who
threw at him?"
"I didn't," answered Giant, promptly.
"Neither did I," came from Snap.
"Nor I," added Shep.
The saw mill owner was flat on his back, his silk hat on one side of
him and a package of books and papers on the other.
"Maybe he slipped on some ice," suggested Snap.
"Hi! hi! who threw that snowball!" roared Andrew Felps, savagely, as
he arose to his feet. "You young villains! I'll have the law on you
for this!"
He scrambled to his feet and glared around him. All of the boys had
stopped throwing at once and gazed at him curiously.
"Ha! I know you!" went on Andrew Felps, striding up to Snap. "It was
you who hit me in the ear and knocked me down!"
"No, sir, I did not," answered Charley.
"I know better! I saw you do it!"
"You are mistaken, Mr. Felps! I was throwing across the street."
"Don't tell me! I know better, Dodge. You hit me and you did it on
purpose."
At this Snap merely shrugged his shoulders.
"I'll have the law on you," fumed Andrew Felps.
"Snap didn't hit you," said Shep.
"Ha! then perhaps you threw the snowball," said the saw mill owner
suspiciously.
"I did not."
"I know you boys, and I have not forgotten your work against me last
summer," growled Andrew Felps.
"And we haven't forgotten you," answered Snap, coldly. "You have no
right to accuse me of something I didn't do."
"Bah! If I find out who hit me I'll make it warm for him!" And having
thus delivered himself Andrew Felps picked up his silk hat and his
bundle and went on his way, in a worse humor than ever.
"Isn't he a darling?" observed Whopper sarcastically. "How I would
love to own him for a brother!"
"I wonder who did hit him?" mused Snap. "The snowball couldn't have
come from over here."
"I know who hit him," said a little boy named Benny Grime.
"Who was it, Benny?"
"Ham Spink."
"Ham Spink!" cried Snap and Shep in concert.
"Yes."
"Why, he isn't here," said Whopper.
"He just came up, threw one snowball, and ran away. I guess he meant
to hit somebody else and the snowball hit Mr. Felps instead," went on
the small boy. "Don | 2,574.458664 |
2023-11-16 18:59:58.4396270 | 1,570 | 62 |
Produced by Neville Allen, Malcolm Farmer and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 147
SEPTEMBER 9, 1914.
CHARIVARIA.
The _Deutsche Tageszeitung_ says:--"Our present war with England shall
not be done by halves; it is no war to be stopped by 'notice,' but by a
proper settlement. Otherwise the peace we all desire would be both
rotten and dangerous." Your wish shall be respected, _Deutsche
Tageszeitung_.
* * *
The fines which Germany has been imposing so lavishly on towns and
provinces will, a commercial friend informs us, ultimately prove to be
what are known in City circles as "temporary loans."
* * *
By the way, _The Globe_ tells us that the KAISER was once known to his
English relatives as "The Tin Soldier." In view of his passion for
raising tin by these predatory methods this title might be revived.
* * *
The German threat that they will make "_Gurken-salad_" of the Goorkhas,
leaves these cheery little sportsmen undismayed.
* * *
We give the rumour for what it is worth. It is said that, overcome with
remorse at the work of his vandals at Louvain, the KAISER has promised
when the war is over to present the city with a colossal monument of
himself.
* * *
Meanwhile President WILSON is being urged by innumerable tourist
agencies in his country to stop the war before any more historical
buildings are demolished.
* * *
A number of the more valuable of the pictures in the Louvre have, with a
view to their safety, been placed in cellars. _La Gioconda_ is to be
interned at an extra depth, as being peculiarly liable to be run away
with.
* * *
Strangely enough, the most heroic single-handed feat of the war seems
only to have been reported in one paper, _The Express_. We refer to the
following announcement:--
"AUSTRIAN WARSHIP SUNK
By J. A. SINCLAIR POOLEY
_Express_ Correspondent."
* * *
It is stated that the German barque _Excelsior_, bound for Bremen with a
valuable cargo, has been captured by one of our cruisers. It speaks well
for the restraint of our Navy that, with so tempting a name, she was not
blown up.
* * *
A proposal has been made in _The Globe_ that all "alien enemies" in this
country shall be confined within compounds until the end of the War.
Suggested alteration in the National Anthem: "Compound his enemies."
* * *
"Carry on" is no doubt an admirable motto for these times, but the
Special Constable who was surprised by his wife while carrying on with a
cook (which he thought to be part of his professional duty) complains
that it is misleading.
* * *
We hear that some of our Nuts have volunteered to serve as regimental
pets.
* * *
Partridge shooting began last week, but poor sport is recorded. The
birds declare that it is not their fault. They turned up in large
numbers, but there were not enough guns to make it worth while.
* * *
Illustration: _The Thinker._ "YOU SAY THIS WAR DON'T AFFECT YOU: BUT
'OW, INSTEAD OF A BRITISH COPPER SAYIN', 'GIT AHT OF IT,' WOULD YER LIKE
ONE O' THEM GERMAN JOHNDARMS TO KEEP PRODDIN' AT YER WIF 'IS BAYNIT?"
* * * * *
The Gibraltar Manner.
"GIBRALTAR LIFE NORMAL.
Ladies Making Garments."
* * * * *
THE TWO GERMANIES.
Marvellous the utter transformation
Of the spirit of the German nation!
Once the land of poets, seers and sages,
Who enchant us in their deathless pages,
Holding high the torch of Truth, and earning
Endless honour by their zeal for learning.
Such the land that in an age uncouther
Bred the soul-emancipating LUTHER.
Such the land that made our debt the greater
By the gift of _Faust_ and _Struwwelpeter_.
* * *
Now the creed of NIETZSCHE, base, unholy,
Guides the nation's brain and guides it solely.
Now MOZART'S serene and joyous magic
Yields to RICHARD STRAUSS, the haemorrhagic.[1]
Now the eagle changing to the vulture
Preaches rapine in the name of culture.
Now the Prussian _Junker_, blind with fury,
Claims to be God's counsel, judge and jury.
While the authentic German genius slumbers,
Cast into the limbo of back numbers.
[Footnote 1: Great play is made in STRAUSS'S _Elektra_ with the
"slippery blood" motive.]
* * * * *
The Late "Kaiser Wilhelm der Grosse."
_First Student of the War._ Why did they call it "Kaiser William the
Grocer?"
_Second Student._ Don't know. I should have described him as a Butcher.
* * * * *
"PETROGRAD.
NEW NAME FOR THE RUSSIAN CAPITAL.
PETROGRAUD (St. Petersburg), Tuesday.
By Imperial order, the city of St. Petersburg will henceforth be
known as Petrograu."
_Evening Standard._
It looks more like three new names.
* * * * *
_Q._ I hear the Sugar Refiners are raising cane?
_A._ That's because they haven't yet got the German beet.
[_Awarded Gold Medal and Banana Skin for worst joke of the war._]
* * * * *
FOR THE RED CROSS.
Ye that have gentle hearts and fain
To succour men in need,
There is no voice could ask in vain,
With such a cause to plead--
The cause of those that in your care,
Who know the debt to honour due,
Confide the wounds they proudly wear,
The wounds they took for you.
Out of the shock of shattering spears,
Of screaming shell and shard,
Snatched from the smoke that blinds and sears,
They come with bodies scarred,
And count the hours that idly toll,
Restless until their hurts be healed,
And they may fare, made strong and whole,
To face another field.
And yonder where the battle's waves
Broke yesterday o'erhead,
Where now the swift and shallow graves
Cover our English dead,
Think how your sisters play their part,
Who serve as in a holy shrine,
Tender of hand and brave of heart,
Under the Red Cross sign.
Ah, by that symbol, worshipped still,
| 2,574.459667 |
2023-11-16 19:00:02.1388760 | 1,451 | 13 |
Produced by David Edwards, Emmy and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
[Illustration: THE.LITTLE.BROWN.HEN.HEARS THE.SONG.OF.THE.NIGHTINGALE
By Jasmine Stone Van Dresser]
[Illustration: AND.WITH.THE.LENGTHENING. EVENING.SHADOWS.]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Little Brown Hen
Hears the Song of the
Nightingale
& The Golden Harvest
By Jasmine Stone Van Dresser
Author of "How to Find Happyland"
With an Introduction by Margaret Beecher White
The Illustrations by William T. Van Dresser
[Illustration: THE.LOUDEST.TALKERS.ARE.NOT.ALWAYS.WISEST..]
Paul Elder and Company
San Francisco and New York
_Copyright, 1908_ _by_ Paul Elder and Company
TO
WILLIAM T. VAN DRESSER
BUT FOR WHOM THE STORIES
WOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN WRITTEN
THIS LITTLE BOOK IS LOVINGLY
DEDICATED BY THE
AUTHOR
FOREWORD.
It is the duty of all good, useful stories to give a message to their
readers. The two dainty stories contained in this little volume each
carries its message of truth. Pure, simple and wholesome in quality,
they cannot fail to refresh as well as instruct those who receive them.
In the _Golden Harvest_ the lesson of patience taught by the little
apple tree's experience will bear rich fruit I do not doubt, and the
wisdom of the little brown hen cannot help but teach us all to listen
for the nightingale's song of harmony in our own lives.
MARGARET BEECHER WHITE.
The Little Brown Hen Hears the Song of the Nightingale
[Illustration]
A POMPOUS old gander who lived in a barn-yard thought himself wiser than
the rest of the creatures, and so decided to instruct them.
He called together all the fowls in the barn-yard, and the pigeons off
the barn-roof, and told them to listen to him.
They gathered around and listened very earnestly, for they thought they
would learn a great deal of wisdom.
"The first thing for you to learn," said the gander, "is to speak my
language. It is very silly for you to chatter as you do. Now we will all
say, 'honk!' one, two, three,--'honk!'"
The creatures all tried very hard to say "honk!" but the sounds they
made were so remarkable that I cannot write them, and none of them
sounded like "honk!"
The gander was very angry.
"How stupid you are!" he cried. "Now you all must practise till you
learn it. Do not let me hear a peep or cluck or a coo! You must all
'honk' when you have anything to say."
So they obediently tried to do as he said.
When the little brown hen laid an egg, instead of making the fact known
with her sharp little "cut--cut--cut-cut-ah-cut!" as a well-ordered hen
should do, she ran around the barn-yard trying to say, "honk! honk!"
But nobody heard her, and nobody came to look for the egg.
The guinea-fowls way down in the pasture ceased calling "la croik! la
croik!" and there was no way of finding where they had hid their nests.
In the afternoon, when their shrill cries should have warned the farmers
that it was going to rain, they were still honking, or trying to, so
the nicely dried hay got wet.
Next morning chanticleer, instead of rousing the place with his lusty
crow, made an effort at honking that could not be heard a stone's throw
away, and so the whole farm overslept.
All day there was a Babel of sounds in the barn-yard. The turkeys left
off gobbling and made a queer sound that they thought was "honk!" the
ducks left off quacking, the chicks left off peeping, and said nothing
at all, for "honk!" was too big a mouthful for them; and the soft
billing and cooing of the doves were turned into an ugly harsh sound.
Things were indeed getting into a dreadful state, and they grew worse,
instead of better.
The hens forgot to lay eggs, the doves became proud and pompous like
the gander, and as for the turkey gobblers, they kept the place in an
uproar, for they thought they could really honk! and they never ceased
from morning till night.
There's no telling what it all would have come to if there hadn't been
one in the barn-yard, with an ear that could hear something besides the
dreadful discords.
One night the little brown hen was roosting alone in the top of the
hen-house. All at once she was awakened by the sweetest song she had
ever heard.
She called to her chicks and to some of her companions to wake up and
listen; but they were sleepy and soon dozed off again, so the little
brown hen was left listening alone.
"I will ask the gander what this beautiful song means," she said. "He
knows everything."
So she awoke the gander and asked him who was singing the beautiful
song, and what it meant.
The gander said gruffly: "It is the nightingale. I do not know what her
song means. She should learn to honk!" And he tucked his head back under
his wing.
"Ah!" thought the little brown hen, "if learning the gander's language
does not help me to understand this beautiful song, I do not think it is
worth bothering with. I shall never try to say 'honk!' again."
So she went back to her roost and listened till the nightingale's song
ceased. Then she tucked her head under her little brown wing and went to
sleep, her little heart singing within her.
At daylight she awoke, and hopping down sought her companions, eager to
tell them the wonderful thing that was singing in her heart.
"This is a beautiful, simple world," she cried, "and I have learned a
very wonderful thing!"
But to her surprise, the creatures had no desire to hear what it was,
for they were all in a flurry getting ready for their next lesson in
honking.
"Indeed, you need not bother about honking," cried the little brown hen,
but nobody paid | 2,578.158916 |
2023-11-16 19:00:02.3361020 | 198 | 6 |
E-text prepared by Charles Franks, Delphine Lettau, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
THE IMAGINARY INVALID.
(LE MALADE IMAGINAIRE.)
by
MOLIERE,
Translated into English Prose.
With Short Introductions and Explanatory Notes.
by
CHARLES HERON WALL.
This is the last comedy written by Moliere. He was very ill, nearly
dying, at the time he wrote it. It was first acted at the Palais Royal
Theatre, on February 10, 1673.
Moliere acted the part of Argan.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
ARGAN, _an imaginary invalid_.
BELINE, _second wife to_ ARGAN.
ANGELIQUE, _daughter to_ ARGAN, _in love with_ CLEANTE.
LOUISON, ARGAN'S _young daughter, sister | 2,578.356142 |
2023-11-16 19:00:02.3442050 | 600 | 19 |
Produced by Jeannie Howse, Claudine Corbasson, Irma pehar
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]
A SOUVENIR OF SAN FRANCISCO BAY
Within the Golden Gate
BY
LAURA YOUNG PINNEY
ILLUSTRATED BY ELLA N. PIERCE
SAN FRANCISCO:
FROM THE PRESS OF THE SAN FRANCISCO PRINTING COMPANY
411 MARKET STREET
1893
Copyright 1893, by L. Y. PINNEY AND E. N. PIERCE
HALF TONE ENGRAVINGS
BY UNION PHOTO-ENGRAVING CO.
[Illustration]
AUTUMNAL skies were fair, and blue,
And soft and mild the morning breeze;
With sails unfurled--a joyous crew--
We sought Pacific's tranquil seas,
And entered there, a gate that stands,
Unbarred to ships of many lands.
And as we passed its portal grand,
Our hearts were glad, our spirits light,
And we rejoiced, and eager scanned
The scenes that came before our sight.
Near Alcatraz, an island bold,
We paused to hear this story told:
[Illustration]
GRIM Alcatraz! Thou sentinel
That watch hath kept, thro' ages past,
Over this shining way to sea,
O where's the ship, with towering mast,
That bore my loved one far from me?
Thou sentry, with thy guarded wall,
Thou saw'st him pass and sail away,
To thread the trackless, distant sea.
Where rides the good "St. George" to-day.
That brings not back my love to me?
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
Care'st thou, that some, who pass thee by,
In morning time, with laugh and song,
With evening shades, return no more,
Tho' sad ones count the hours so long,
And lone ones wait upon the shore?
THE singer in a little boat,
Whose snowy sail gleamed in the sun,
Paused there, until the last fond note
Was sung, then swiftly sped away,
Like some sweet bird whose plaintive cry
Ere pity wakes, hath soared on high.
Our eyes then sought, thro' changing light,
A distant mount's majestic form,
'Twas Tamalpais, whose lofty height,
Doth rise above the fog and storm;
While, neath its brow fair valleys bloom,
Untouched by frost or winter's gloom.
FAR up the | 2,578.364245 |
2023-11-16 19:00:02.4388670 | 2,698 | 7 |
Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive/Canadian
Libraries)
Barbara Weinstock Lectures on The Morals of Trade
SOCIAL JUSTICE WITHOUT SOCIALISM.
By John Bates Clark.
THE CONFLICT BETWEEN PRIVATE MONOPOLY AND GOOD CITIZENSHIP.
By John Graham Brooks.
COMMERCIALISM AND JOURNALISM.
By Hamilton Holt.
THE BUSINESS CAREER IN ITS PUBLIC RELATIONS.
By Albert Shaw.
SOCIAL JUSTICE WITHOUT SOCIALISM
BY
JOHN BATES CLARK
PROFESSOR OF POLITICAL ECONOMY AT
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1914
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY THE REGENTS OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published April 1914_
BARBARA WEINSTOCK
LECTURES ON THE MORALS OF TRADE
This series will contain essays by representative scholars and men of
affairs dealing with the various phases of the moral law in its bearing
on business life under the new economic order, first delivered at the
University of California on the Weinstock foundation.
SOCIAL JUSTICE WITHOUT SOCIALISM
It is currently reported that the late King Edward once said, "We are
all Socialists, now": and if the term "Socialism" meant to-day what His
Majesty probably meant by it, many of us could truthfully make a
similar statement. Without any doubt, we could do so if we attached to
the term the meaning which it had when it was first invented. It came
into use in the thirties of the last century, and expressed a certain
disappointment over the result of political reform. The bill which gave
more men the right to vote did not give them higher wages. The
conditions of labor were deplorable before the Reform Bill was passed
and they continued to be so for some time afterwards. A merely
political change, therefore, was not all that was wanted, and it was
necessary to carry democracy into a social sphere in order to improve
the condition of the poorer classes. The term "Socialism," therefore,
was chosen to describe a play of forces that would act in this way on
society itself, and was an excellent term for describing this right and
just tendency. The name was quickly adopted by those with whose
practical plans most of us do not agree; but its original idea was
democracy carried into business, and at present that is the dominant
tendency of all successful parties. For six months we have been living
under what may be called "triumphant democracy," not because the
Democratic Party has beaten its rivals and come into control of the
Government, but for a much deeper reason, namely, that a democracy
carried into industrial life is the dominating principle of every
political body that can hope for success. Every party must show by its
action that it values the man more than the dollar. To this extent we
are all democrats and wish the Government to act for the people as well
as to be controlled by the people.
When we differ, it is in deciding on the means to carry out our common
purpose; and here we differ very widely. Some would use the power of
the State to correct and improve our system of industry, and these
constitute a party of reform. Others would abolish that system and
substitute something untried. For private capital they would put public
capital and for private management, public management--either in the
whole field of industry or in that great part of it where large capital
rules. These are Socialists in the modern and current sense of the
term.
One difference of view which was formerly very sharp is now scarcely
traceable. Every one knows that we must invoke the aid of the State in
order to make industry what it should be. The rule that would bid the
State keep its hands off the entire field of business, the extreme
_laissez-faire_ policy once dominant in literature and thought, now
finds few persons bold enough to advocate it or foolish enough to
believe in it. In a very chastened form, however, the spirit that would
put a reasonable limit on what the State shall be asked to do happily
does survive and is powerful. It seeks a golden mean between letting
the State do nothing and asking it to do everything. It is this plan of
action that I shall try to outline, and it will appear that even this
plan requires that the State should do very much. Under an inert
government the industrial system would suffer irreparably.
The thing first to be rescued is competition--meaning that healthful
rivalry between different producers which has always been the guaranty
of technical progress. That such progress has gone on with bewildering
rapidity since the invention of the steam engine is nowhere denied; and
neither is it denied that competition of the normal kind--the effort of
rivals to excel in productive processes--has caused it. It has
multiplied the product of labor here tenfold, there, twentyfold, and
elsewhere a hundredfold and more.
This increased power to produce has rescued us from an appalling evil.
Without it, such a crowding of population as some countries have
experienced would have carried their peoples to and below the
starvation level. Machinery now enables us to live; and if
world-crowding were to go on in the future as it has done, and the
technical progress should cease, many of us could not live. Poverty
would increase till its cruelest effects would be realized and lives
enough would be crushed out to enable the survivors to get a living. Of
all conditions of human happiness, the one which is most underestimated
is progress in power to produce. Hardly any of those who would
revolutionize the industrial State, and not all of those who would
reform it, have any conception of the importance of this progress. It
is the _sine qua non_ of any hopeful outlook for the future of mankind.
I am to speak, however, of _justice_ in the business relations of life,
and it might seem that this shut out the mere question of general
prosperity. The most obvious issue between different social classes
concerns the division of whatever income exists. Whatever there is, be
it large or small, may be divided rightly or wrongly; but I am not able
to see that the mere division of it exhausts the application of the
principle of justice. While it is clearly wrong for one party to
plunder another, it is almost as clearly wrong for one party to reduce
the general income and so, in a sense, rob everybody. A party that
should systematically hinder production and reduce its fruits would rob
a myriad of honest laborers who are ill prepared to stand this loss and
have a perfect right to be protected from it.
Every man, woman, and child has a right to demand that the powers that
be remove hindrances in the way of production, and not only allow the
general income to be large and grow larger, but do everything that they
possibly can do to make it grow larger. It is an unjust act to reduce
general earnings, even though no one is singled out for particular
injury. On this ground we insist on trust legislation, tariff reform,
the conservation of natural resources, etc. I am prepared to claim that
it is in this spirit that we demand that private initiative, which has
given us the amount of prosperity that we have thus far obtained, shall
be enabled to continue its work without being supplanted by monopoly.
In a general way I should include public monopoly as well as private
among the things which would put a damper on the progress of
improvement and lessen the income on which the comfort of laborers in
the near future will be dependent. Monopoly of any sort is hostile to
improvement, and in this chiefly lies the menace which it holds for
mankind.
It is a fairly safe prediction that, if a public monopoly were to exist
in every part of the industrial field, the _per capita_ income would
grow less, and that it would be only a question of time, and a short
time at that, when the laborers would be worse off than they are now.
Though, at the outset, they might absorb the entire incomes of the
well-to-do classes, the amount thus gained would shrink in their hands
until their position would be worse than their present one. They would
have pulled down the capitalists without more than a momentary benefit
for themselves and with a prospect of soon sinking to a lower level
than as a class they have thus far reached.
The impulse to revolutionize the system comes from the belief that it
is irreclaimably bad. The first thing to be done is to see how much
reclaiming the system is capable of; and the only sure way to test this
question is to use all our power in the effort to improve it. When all
such efforts shall have failed, it will be time for desperate measures.
Our industrial system has many faults:--here we are happily agreed. It
is the inferences we draw from this fact that are different. The one
that I draw is like one which is recorded in a famous case in
antiquity. When the Macedonian armies seemed about to overwhelm Greece,
Demosthenes encouraged the Athenians by this very sound bit of
philosophy: "The worst fact in our past affords the brightest hope for
our future. It is the fact that our misfortunes have come because of
our own faults. If they had come when we were doing our best, there
would be no hope for us." Now the evils of our own social system which
result from mistakes or faults are just such a ground of hope. Every
such evil which can be cited describes one possible reform, and the
longer the list of evils, the greater is the sum total of gain which we
can make by doing away with them. If we cite them all _seriatim_, what
impression shall we get? Will it merely show how badly off we are? Will
it make us despair for our future? On the contrary, it should fill us
with hope for the future. We start from the fact that we have thus far
survived in spite of the faults. The worst off among us is above
starvation and most of us are in a tolerable state. If we can remove
the evils that exist, we shall make our state very much more than
tolerable. The greatness of the evils measures the gain from removing
them. Every single one that is removed improves the status of our
people. We can take, as it were, a social account of stock, measure our
present state, measure the extent to which we can improve it by putting
an end to one bad influence, count the number of such bad influences,
and so get an estimate of the gains of carrying out a complete
reformatory programme. It will show an enormous possibility of
improvement.
In the struggle for reforms we have the great middle class with us. All
honest capitalists, great and small alike, are natural allies of honest
labor, and they are interested mainly in the same reforms as are the
members of the working-class. If we recognize a necessity for a
struggle of classes, it is not one that marshals labor against all
wealth. The contention is rather between honest wealth allied with
honest labor, on the one hand, and dishonest wealth on the other; and
in a contest so aligned, victory for the former party means social
justice.
There is a preliminary reform to be carried through as a condition of
securing most of the others. Who can estimate the benefit which would
come from merely making our Government what it purports to
be--government by the people? The initiative, the referendum, the
recall, the short ballot, direct primaries, and proportionate
representation are all designed to transfer power from rings and bosses
to the people themselves. If they actually do it, as sooner or later
those or kindred measures probably will, they will so far restore the
democracy of our earlier and simpler days as to make us look back on
the rule of rings and bosses as on a nightmare of the past. When the
Government is thus really controlled by the people we can count on
having its full power exerted for them.
What are a few of the things that we shall then try to get?
The working day is too long. In some occupations it covers far too many
hours, and | 2,578.458907 |
2023-11-16 19:00:02.5407600 | 2,823 | 15 |
Produced by Ernest Schaal 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)
CAMPOBELLO
* * * * *
AN HISTORICAL SKETCH
BY
KATE GANNETT WELLS
For those who are desirous of exact knowledge concerning the "Story
of the Boundary Line," and the political history of Eastport and its
vicinity, there is no more comprehensive work than that by William Henry
Kilby, Esq., entitled, "Eastport and Passamaquoddy." To him, and also to
two friends who kindly gave me the names of a few of the Island flowers,
do I express my gratitude.
Campobello.
THE mysterious charms of ancestry and yellow parchment, of petitions to
the admiralty and royal grants of land, of wild scenery and feudal
loyalty, of rough living and knightly etiquette, have long clustered
round a little island off the coast of Maine, called on the charts
Passamaquoddy Outer Island, but better known under the more pleasing
name of Campobello.
=Its Discovery.= It belongs to the region first discovered by the
French, who, under Sieur De Monts, in the spring of 1604, sailed along
the shores of Nova Scotia, and gave the name of Isle of Margos (magpies)
to the four perilous islands now called The Wolves; beheld Manthane (now
Grand Manan); sailed up the St. Croix; and established themselves on one
of its islands, which they called the Isle of St. Croix. The severity of
the winter drove them in the following summer to Annapolis, and for more
than a hundred and fifty years little was known of this part of the
country, though the River St. Croix first formed the boundary between
Acadia and New England, and later the boundary between the Provinces of
Nova Scotia and Massachusetts Bay.
Campobello itself could scarcely be said to have a history till towards
the end of the eighteenth century. Moose roamed over the swamps and
looked down from the bold headlands; Indians crossed from the mainland
and shot them; straggling Frenchmen, dressing in skins, built huts along
the northern and southern shores, till civilization dawned through the
squatter sovereignty of two men, Hunt and Flagg. They planted the apple
trees whose gnarled branches still remain to tell of the winter storms
that howled across the plains, and converted the moose-yards into a
field of oats, for the wary, frightened animals vacated their hereditary
land in favor of these usurpers. Their mercantile skill taught them how
to use, for purposes of trade rather than for private consumption, the
shoals of fish which it was firmly believed Providence sent into the
bay.
=Post Office.= There were not enough inhabitants to justify the
maintenance of a post office till 1795; then the mails came once in two
weeks. Lewis Frederic Delesdernier was the resonant, high sounding name
of the first postmaster who lived at Flagg's Point (the Narrows). But
when a post office was opened in Eastport, in 1805, this little Island
one was abandoned, or rather it dwindled out of existence before the
larger one established by Admiral Owen at Welsh Pool.
=Welsh Pool.= The Narrows, because of its close proximity to the
mainland, was a favorite place of abode in those early days. Yet Friar's
Bay, two miles to the north, was a safe place for boats in easterly
storms; and thus, before the advent of the Owens, a hamlet had clustered
around what is now called Welsh Pool. A Mr. Curry was the pioneer. The
house opposite the upper entrance to the Owen domain was called Curry
House until it became "the parsonage," a name abandoned when the present
rectory was built. Curry traded with the West Indies, and owned, it is
said, two brigs and a bark.
People also gathered at the upper end of the Island, Wilson's Beach, and
on the road between Sarawac and Conroy's Bridge, where there were
several log houses.
=Garrison's Grandparents.= That some kind of a magistrate or minister
even then was on the Island is attested by the fact that William Lloyd
Garrison's grandparents, Andrew Lloyd and Mary Lawless, chanced to come
to Nova Scotia on the same ship from Ireland, and were married to each
other "the day after they had landed at Campobello, March 30, 1771."
Lloyd became a commissioned pilot at Quoddy, and died in 1813. His wife
was the first person buried in Deer Island. Their daughter Fanny was
Garrison's mother.
Many of the early inhabitants were Tories from New York. Some were of
Scotch origin, especially those who lived on the North Road.
=Captain Storrow.= Among these settlers was a young British officer,
Captain Thomas Storrow, who, while he was prisoner of war, fell in love
with Ann Appleton, a young girl of Portsmouth, N.H. In vain did her
family object, "British officers being less popular then than now; but
young love prevailed," and the marriage, which took place in 1777, "was
a happy one." Captain Storrow took his bride to England; but after a
while sailed for Halifax, where they remained "nearly two years." In
1785 they went to St. Andrews. Through the courtesy of their grandson,
Colonel Thomas Wentworth Higginson, the following extract is given from
a manuscript sketch of the life of Mrs. Storrow, prepared by her niece,
Mrs. Norman Williams:--
=False Sale.= "Soon after this (1785) they removed to Campobello, which
had been purchased by Mr. Butler and Captain Storrow. There were two
houses on the Island, one for each family, and here they lived very
happily and pleasantly. There was always a garrison at St. Andrews, and
a ship of war stationed near Campobello; so Captain Storrow had
congenial society, and they had many pleasant lady friends, and, as
their hospitality was unbounded, they were seldom without company at one
or the other of the houses.... All was bright and prosperous. But a
change came. In 1790 or 1791 the Butlers and Captain Storrow had gone to
Halifax on business, and Mrs. Storrow was left alone with her children
on the Island, when a notice was served to her that she must quit the
Island immediately, as it had been sold to them under a false title, and
the real owner had come to take possession. The Island had been granted
by William Pitt to his former tutor, David Owen, a hard man who would
not move from the position he had taken. Mrs. Storrow sent to my father,
who was her husband's lawyer, and he, with some other gentlemen,
chartered a sloop and brought the family to St. Andrews, where a house
was already prepared for them. Here they remained a year or more. But
Capt. Storrow's finances were so crippled by the loss of Campobello that
he and his family sailed for Jamaica, where he had a small estate."
=William Owen.= David Owen, to whom this manuscript referred, was a
cousin of William Owen, through whom the Island became connected by
royal gift and by romance with the fortunes of his immediate
descendants. As naval officer William Owen had been "in all the service
and enterprise where ships, boats, and seamen were employed," had
labored at Bengal for the re-establishment of the affairs of the East
India Company, and had fought under Clive. At the blockade of
Pondicherry he lost his right arm, and the Sunderland, to which he
belonged, having foundered, he was ordered to England. Broken in spirit
and weak in body, the copy of what was presumably his memorial to the
Admiralty in 1761 has a piteous sound. It begins:--
=His Petition.= "My Lord, permit me, with the most profound respect, to
lay by your Lordship a true State of my past service, with the accidents
that happened to me during the same, praying your Lordship not to judge
hard of me, in being reduced to the disagreeable necessity of doing that
myself which would appear in a much more favorable light were any of my
Friends in Town who could take the Liberty of Introducing me to your
Lordship." After recounting the services he rendered, and the injuries
he received, he ends with these words: "I beg you will be pleased to
represent to the Right Honorable the Lords of the Admiralty that I am
the person mentioned in Admiral Steuen's [the spelling is illegible]
Letter to have lost my Right Arm, when I had the Honor of Commanding one
of the Divisions of Boats ordered by him to cut out the Two French
Ships, La Baline and Hermione, from under the Guns of Pondicherry, on
the 7th of October last, and that I had been wounded before in that
country with a Musket Ball, which lodged in my Body above three years
and a half. My long service in the East Indies, together with the Wounds
I received, having greatly impaired my health, lays me under a necessity
to be the more urgent with you on this occasion, that I may the sooner
go into the Country to endeavor to re-establish the same, as well as to
see my Friends, from whom I have been above nine years absent. Let me,
therefore, Sir, entreat you to move their Lordships in my behalf, humbly
praying that they will be pleased to direct something to be done for me,
either by Gratuity, Pension, or Preferment, such as their Lordships may
deem me to deserve."
=Sir William Campbell.= In November of the same year he writes to Lord
William Campbell: "I arrived in London above four months ago. After long
attendance and great solicitations, I am at length put off with a
pitiful Pension, with which I am going to retire into the Country among
my Relations for the remainder of my days, unless somewhat unexpected
happens to enable me to obtain the promotion I think I have a right
to.... I have spent a great deal of money in Town, have no Fortune, and
want a sum soon on a very urgent Occasion.... I hope, notwithstanding
the disparity between us in point of Rank and Fortune, that your
Lordship will honor me with a Continuance of the Friendship and Regard
which I had reason to imagine subsisted between us during the five years
we Messed together."
This beseeching letter must have been effectual; for in course of time
he did receive, not only thanks and promise of promotion, but through
the intercession of his friend, Sir William Campbell, who was Governor
General of Nova Scotia, he obtained possession of the Island which Hunt
and Flagg had ruled.
=Royal Grant.= As it embraced more land than could then be granted to
one person, Owen induced others to join him in asking for the grant,
that the whole Island might eventually be under control of the Owen
family.
=Origin of Name.= Consequently, in 1767, the Island was deeded to
William Owen and his cousins, Arthur Davies, David and William Owen,
Jr., who, in grateful compliment to Campbell, changed its name from
Passamaquoddy Outer Island to Campobello, thus "punning on the donor's
name, and also expressing the beauty of the natural scenery." It was
like the Admiral to invent a name which should include both a joke and a
subtle allusion to his classical learning.
=First Colony.= William Owen immediately brought over from the mother
country a colony of seventy persons; stationed his ship at Havre De
Lute, a Franco-Indian corruption of Harbor of the Otter; and, having
settled his people according to his liking, returned to England; but
soon left it again on public service, and died with the rank of Admiral.
=David Owen.= David Owen acted as agent for the grantees, and was a
veritable lord of the Island, always interested in protecting the
fisheries. His house, near the site of the cottage now owned by James
Roosevelt, Esq., had even more roof than the usual sloping, barn-like
home of former days. He built a rude church, read the service, and
preached. What matter if the sermon was oft repeated, or now and then
was original! Could not he, though a layman, best tell the needs of his
congregation? He played the fiddle for dances, married the people,
scolded them as a self-constituted judge, and kept a journal of Island
events in microscopic chirography. | 2,578.5608 |
2023-11-16 19:00:02.7391250 | 3,631 | 6 |
Produced by David Schwan. HTML version by Al Haines.
The Vigilance Committee of '56.
By a Pioneer California Journalist
[James O'Meara]
Chapter I.
Many accounts of the Vigilance Committee of San Francisco have been
published, but all of them, so far as I have seen, were from the pen of
members of that organization, or else from persons who favored it. As a
consequence their accounts of it were either partial, to a greater or
less degree, or imperfect otherwise; and much has been omitted as well
as misstated and misrepresented otherwise. I was not a member of the
Vigilance Committee, nor was I a member of the opposing organization,
known as the Law and Order body, of which General Sherman was the head
and Volney E. Howard next in rank. I have never been in favor of mob or
lynch-law in any form, and, therefore, had neither sympathy with nor
disposition to join the Vigilance Committee. And while I was earnestly
in support of Law and Order, I did not feel that I could better subserve
that cause by joining the organization formed at that time, for the
avowed purpose of maintaining the one and enforcing the other. I had
many friends on each side, and I also knew many in each organization who
were unworthy of fellowship in any good or honorable cause or
association; and some of these bore prominent rank in each organization.
As was said of the Regulators of Texas, who directed their energies
chiefly against horse thieves and robbers, that some of the worst and
most guilty of them hastened to join the band, in order to save
themselves from arrest and the rope or bullet, likewise were there some
prominent in the Vigilance Committee of 1856, who undoubtedly joined it
for similar reasons--to escape the terrors of the organization; and the
Executive Committee was not exempt from these infamous characters.
The Executive Committee, forty-one in number, was thus composed in
membership: William T. Coleman, James Dows, Thomas J. L. Smiley, John P.
Monrow, Charles Doane, James N. Olney, Isaac Bluxome, Jr., William
Meyers, Charles Ludlow,--Christler, Richard M. Jessup, Charles J.
Dempster, George R. Ward, E. P. Flint, Wm. Rogers, Aaron M. Burns, Miers
F. Truitt, W. H. Tillinghast, W. Arrington, Charles L. Case, J. D.
Farwell, W. T. Thompson, Eugene Dellesert, J. K. Osgood, J. W. Brittan,
Jules David, C. V. Gillespie, Calvin Nutting, E. Gorham, N. O.
Arrington, F. W. Page, O. B. Crary, L. Bassange, D. Tubbs, Emile Grisar,
E. B. Goddard, Henry M. Hale, Chas. Ludlow, M. J. Burke, J. H. Fish, C.
P. Hutchings, J. Seligman.
W. T. Coleman was President, Thomas J. L. Smiley Vice-President and
Prosecuting Attorney, John P. Morrow, Judge Associate, James Dows,
Treasurer, Wm. Meyer, Deputy Treasurer, Isaac Bluxome, Jr. the notorious
"33"--Secretary. Charles Doane was Grand Marshall, James N. Olney,
Deputy Grand Marshall, R. T. Wallace was Chief of Police, John L.
Durkee, Deputy Chief.
The military organization of the Vigilance Committee, rank and file,
numbered nearly 5,000 men. Several of the Executive Committee were alien
residents who never became citizens; and in the Committee, serving as
troops, as police, and in other lines, were a large number of aliens,
not naturalized, many of whom had not acquired sufficient proficiency in
the English language to speak it or understand it. The military body
comprised four regiments--infantry and artillery--together with
battalions of cavalry, pistol companies and guard of citizens. A medical
staff was duly organized. The roster, as here given, is copied from a
recent publication in the Alta, stated to be authentic. The dashes which
mark omission of the names, appear as they are placed in the Alta:
Charles Doane, Major-General. Staff officers: N. W. Coles,
Quartermaster-General and Colonel of Cavalry; R. M. Jessup,
Commissary-General and Colonel of Infantry; Aaron M. Burns, Deputy
Commissary-General and Lieutenant-Colonel of Infantry; James Dows,
Paymaster-General and Lieutenant-Colonel of Infantry; William Meyer and
Eugene Dellesert, Paymaster-Generals and Majors of Infantry; Cyrus G.
Dwyer, Adjutant and Inspector-General and Major of Infantry: Henry
Baker, Quartermaster and Major of Infantry; R. R. Pearce and M. McManus,
Assistant Quartermasters and Captains of Infantry; J. W. Farrington,
Assistant Commissary and Captain of Infantry; R. Beverly Cole, Surgeon
of the staff and Major of Infantry; Geo. C. Potter, aid to Major-General
and Major of Cavalry; N. B. Stone, A. M. Ebbetts, T. M. Wood, O. P.
Blackman, George R. Morris, T. A. Wakeman, Felix Brissac, C. H. Vail and
George R. Ward, aids to Major-General and Majors of Infantry, James B.
Hubbell, John M. Schapp and B. F. Mores, aids and secretaries to
Major-General and Captains of Infantry, J. N. Olney, Jr., aid and
secretary to Major-General and First Lieutenant of Infantry; James N.
Olney, Brigadier-General; R. S. Tammot, Henry Jones and R. M. Cox, aids
and Captains of Infantry.
Artillery--Thomas D. Johns, Colonel; J. F. Curtis, Lieutenant-Colonel;
R. B. Hampton, Major; Company A, J. Mead Huxley, Captain; Company B,
James Richit, Captain; Company C, H. C. F. Behrens, Captain; Company D,
J. H. Hasty, Captain; James F. Curtiss, Lieutenant-Colonel, commanding
Reserved Artillery.
Battallion Cavalry--Frank Baker, Major; First Squadron, G. G. Bradt,
Captain; Second Squadron, J. Sewell Read, Captain.
Infantry--First Regiment,--Colonel; J. S. Ellis, Lieutenant-Colonel;
John A. Clark, Major; J. P. H., Wentworth, Quartermaster; H. H. Thrall,
Adjutant; L. S. Wilder, Commissary; R. M. Cox, Sergeant-Major; H. W. F.
Hoffman, Quartermaster's Sergeant and composed of eight companies, viz:
Company A, W. C. Allen, Lieutenant commanding; Company B, H. L. Twiggs,
Captain; Company C, A. L. Loring, Captain; Company D, J. V. McElwee,
Captain; Company One,, J. M. Taylor, Captain; Company Two (Riflemen), L.
W. Parks, Captain; Company Three, Jonathan Gavat, Captain, Company
Seven, Geo. H. Hossefros, Captain.
Battallion Citizens Guard--Belonging to First Regiment, composed of A,
B, C, and D, G. F. Watson, Major.
Second Regiment--J. B. Badger, Colonel; J. S. Hill, Lieutenant-Colonel;
A. H. Clark, Major, Giles H. Gray, Quartermaster; E. B. Gibbs, Adjutant;
F. A. Howe, Commissary;--Sergeant-Major; Judah Alden;
Quartermaster-Sergeant, and composed of eight companies, viz: Company
Six, W. R. Doty, Captain; Company Twelve, C. G. Bailey, Captain; Company
Eight, -- Godfrey, Captain; Company Four, A. H. King, Captain; Company
Five, C. R. Bond, Captain; Company Ten, J. Wightman, Lieutenant
commanding; Company Eleven, George Gates, Captain; Company Nine, J.
Wood, Captain.
Third Regiment--H. S. Fitch, Colonel; Caleb Clapp Lieutenant Colonel;--,
Major;--, Quartermaster;--, Adjutant;--, Commissary;--,
Sergeant-Major;--, Quartermaster-Sergeant, and composed of eight
companies, viz: Company Thirteen, E. J. Smith, Lieutenant commanding;
Company Fourteen, W. E. Keyes, Captain; Company Fifteen,--, Lieutenant
commanding; Company Sixteen, B. S. Bryan, Captain; Company Seventeen
(Riflemen), C. E. S. McDonald, Captain; Company Eighteen, P. W.
Shepheard, Captain; Company Nineteen, R. H. Bennett, Captain; Company
Twenty, S. Gutte, Captain.
Fourth Regiment--Francis J. Lippitt, Colonel; John D. G. Quirk,
Lieutenant-Colonel, ----, Major; ----, Quartermaster; B. L. West,
Adjutant;----, Commissary;----, Sergeant-Major;----, Quartermaster's
Sergeant, and composed of eight companies, viz: Company Twenty-five, J.
Sanfrignon, Captain; Company Twenty-eight, L. Armand, Captain; French
Legion,---- Villaseque, Major; Company Twenty-four, W. H. Patten,
Captain; Company Twenty-seven, C. H. Gough, Captain; Company Twenty-one,
S. Meyerbock Captain; Company Twenty-three, J. T. Little, Captain;
Company Thirty, W. O. Smith, Captain; Company Twenty-two, J. L. Folger,
Captain; Company Twenty-nine, S. L. Harrison, Captain; Company
Twenty-six,----, Captain.
Pistol Battalion--Two companies, commanded respectively by Captains
Webb and E. S. Gibbs.
The roll of Division No. 4 is thus given:
J. A. Collins, Commander, Geo. G. Whitney, 1st Lieut. W. H. Parker, 2d
L't, J. H. Mallett, Orderly Sergeant, R. R. H. Rogers, Second Orderly
Sergeant, Wm. H. Wood, Third Orderly Sergeant, Charles D. Cushman,
Fourth Orderly Sergeant. Privates--D. Morgan, Jr., P. G. Partridge,
John Burns, E. W. Travers. Giles H. Gray, Martin Prag, John Wright,
James Wells, Jas. W. White, Judah Alden, Alfred Rix, J. W. Farrington,
W. L. Waters, W. F. Hall, J. T. Bowers, J. L. N. Shepard, Lucius Hoyt,
David Laville, H. A. Russell, E. Stevens, Theo. B. Cunningham, M.
McMannis, Wm. H. Gibson, Edmund Keyes, George T. Bohen, I. M. Bachelder,
R. T. Holmes, W. F. Shankland, B. Argyras, John R. Chute, John S.
Davies, James McCeny, Geo. H. Tay, Sohn Bensley, L. Bartlett, Joseph W.
Housley, Robert Wells, Samuel Fullerton, Newell Hosmer, J. J. Lomax, G.
K. Fitch, Wm. Hayes, Robert A. Parker, Samuel Soule, A. Wardwell, Isaac
E. Davis, M. McIntyre, F. E. Foote, Thomas A. Ayres, William K.
Blanchard, J. F. Eaton, J. Frank Swift, J. O. Rountree.
These names of Secretaries of the Committees of the Executive Committee
are added: On Evidence--J. H. Titcomb and D. McK Baker; on
Qualification--E. T. Beals.
First, as to the cause or pretence for the organization of the Vigilance
Committee: It is declared by its ex-members and supporters, or
apologists, that it was necessary for the reason that the law was not
duly administered; that the Courts, the fountains of justice, were
either corrupted or neglectful of their duties; that Juries were packed
with unworthy men in important criminal cases, that there were gross
frauds in elections, by which the will of the people was defied and
defeated, and improper and dishonest men, some of them notorious rogues,
were counted in and installed in public office; and that there was a
class of turbulent offenders who had the countenance, if not the support
of judges and officials in high places, and who, therefore, felt
themselves to be above or exempt from the law. Tennyson has well
remarked that there is no lie so baneful as one which is half truth. So
it is in respect to these alleged reasons for the organization of that
Vigilance Committee. It is not true that the Courts were corrupt,
neglectful or remiss. Judge Hager presided in the Fourth District Court,
and his integrity and judicial qualifications, or judgments, have never
been questioned or impeached. Judge Freelon presided as County judge;
the same can be remarked of him. There was no material fault alleged
against the Police Court. It is true, however, that in important
criminal cases, and sometimes in civil suits, the juries were often
packed. But why? I will state: Merchants and business men generally had
great aversion to serve on juries, particularly, in important criminal
cases, which are usually protracted; and the jury were kept in
comparative close condition, because their time was too valuable, and
their business interests required their constant attention. They
preferred, therefore, to pay the fine imposed, in case they were unable
to prevail upon the Judge to excuse them. Jury fees were inconsiderable
in comparison with their daily profits; but it was the loss of time from
their business which mainly actuated them. Yet these fees were
sufficient to pay a day's board and lodging, and to the many who were
out of employment, serving on a jury was the means to both. There is, in
every large community, the class known as professional jurymen--hangers
about the Court, eagerly waiting to be called. There were men of this
kind then; there are more than enough of them still loitering about the
Courts, civil and criminal. San Francisco is not the only city in the
United States in which defendants in grave criminal cases have recourse
to every conceivable and possible means, without scruple, to procure
their own acquittal, or the utmost modification of the penalty, by
proving extenuating circumstances, or that the indictment magnifies the
crimes. This was true of 1856; here, as elsewhere in the land; it is
equally true now. Had the merchants and solid citizens then drawn as
jurors, fulfilled their duty to the cause of justice, to the
conservation and maintenance of law and order, they would have had no
cause or pretence for the organization which they formed. The initial
fault was attributable to themselves; the jury-packing they complained
of was the direct consequence of their own neglect of that essential
duty to the State, in the preservation of law and order; and they cannot
reasonably or justly shift the onus from themselves upon the Courts.
Concerning the frauds in election: yes, there were frauds, outrageous
frauds, at every election; repeaters, bullies, ballot-box stuffing, and
false counts of the ballots to count out this candidate and count in the
one favored of the "boys." More than one member of the Vigilance
Executive Committee had thorough knowledge of all this, for the very
conclusive reason that more than one of them had engaged in these
frauds, had not only participated in them directly and indirectly, but
had actually proposed them; employed the persons who had committed the
frauds, and paid these tools round sums for the infamous service. The
reward of these employers and accessories before, during and after the
frauds, was the office that was coveted; and the "Hon." prefixed to
their names was as the gilt which the watch st | 2,578.759165 |
2023-11-16 19:00:02.7402020 | 1,570 | 51 |
Produced by David T. Jones, Ross Cooling and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at
http://www.pgdpcanada.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet
Archive/American Libraries.)
A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN
BY
ROBERT
LOUIS
STEVENSON
ILLUSTRATED
BY
A. S. BOYD
[Illustration]
A LOWDEN SABBATH MORN
[Illustration: THE PRAYER p. 16]
A LOWDEN
SABBATH MORN
BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
ILLUSTRATED BY A. S. BOYD
& PUBLISHED AT LONDON BY
CHATTO & WINDUS MCMIX
First Illustrated Edition published 1898, and a Second Impression in
the same year.
New Edition in 1907; and with Coloured Frontispiece in 1909.
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
At the Ballantyne Press, Edinburgh
TO
THE MEMORY OF
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED
BY
THE ILLUSTRATOR
A Lowden Sabbath Morn
I
The clinkum-clank o' Sabbath bells
Noo to the hoastin' rookery swells,
Noo faintin' laigh in shady dells,
Sounds far an' near,
An' through the simmer kintry tells
Its tale o' cheer.
II
An' noo, to that melodious play,
A' deidly awn the quiet sway--
A' ken their solemn holiday,
Bestial an' human,
The singin' lintie on the brae,
The restin' plou'man.
III
He, mair than a' the lave o' men,
His week completit joys to ken;
Half-dressed, he daunders out an' in,
Perplext wi' leisure;
An' his raxt limbs he'll rax again
Wi' painfue' pleesure.
IV
The steerin' mither strang afit
Noo shoos the bairnies but a bit;
Noo cries them ben, their Sinday shueit
To scart upon them,
Or sweeties in their pouch to pit,
Wi' blessin's on them.
V
The lasses, clean frae tap to taes,
Are busked in crunklin' underclaes;
The gartened hose, the weel-filled stays,
The nakit shift,
A' bleached on bonny greens for days
An' white's the drift.
VI
An' noo to face the kirkward mile:
The guidman's hat o' dacent style,
The blackit shoon, we noo maun fyle
As white's the miller:
A waefue' peety tae, to spile
The warth o' siller.
VII
Our Marg'et, aye sae keen to crack,
Douce-stappin' in the stoury track,
Her emeralt goun a' kiltit back
Frae snawy coats,
White-ankled, leads the kirkward pack
Wi' Dauvit Groats.
VIII
A thocht ahint, in runkled breeks,
A' spiled wi' lyin' by for weeks,
The guidman follows closs, an' cleiks
The sonsie missis;
His sarious face at aince bespeaks
The day that this is.
IX
And aye an' while we nearer draw
To whaur the kirkton lies alaw,
Mair neebours, comin' saft an' slaw
Frae here an' there,
The thicker thrang the gate, an' caw
The stour in air.
X
But hark! the bells frae nearer clang;
To rowst the slaw, their sides they bang;
An' see! black coats a'ready thrang
The green kirkyaird;
And at the yett, the chestnuts spang
That brocht the laird.
XI
The solemn elders at the plate
Stand drinkin' deep the pride o' state:
The practised hands as gash an' great
As Lords o' Session;
The later named, a wee thing blate
In their expression.
XII
The prentit stanes that mark the deid,
Wi' lengthened lip, the sarious read;
Syne wag a moraleesin' heid,
An' then an' there
Their hirplin' practice an' their creed
Try hard to square.
XIII
It's here our Merren lang has lain,
A wee bewast the table-stane;
An' yon's the grave o' Sandy Blane;
An' further ower,
The mither's brithers, dacent men!
Lie a' the fower.
XIV
Here the guidman sall bide awee
To dwall amang the deid; to see
Auld faces clear in fancy's e'e;
Belike to hear
Auld voices fa'in saft an' slee
On fancy's ear.
XV
Thus, on the day o' solemn things,
The bell that in the steeple swings
To fauld a scaittered faim'ly rings
Its walcome screed;
An' just a wee thing nearer brings
The quick an' deid.
XVI
But noo the bell is ringin' in;
To tak their places, folk begin;
The minister himsel' will shuene
Be up the gate,
Filled fu' wi' clavers about sin
An' man's estate.
XVII
The tuenes are up--_French_, to be shuere,
The faithfue' _French_, an' twa-three mair;
The auld prezentor, hoastin' sair,
Wales out the portions,
An' yirks the tuene into the air
Wi' queer contortions.
XVIII
Follows the prayer, the readin' next,
An' than the fisslin' for the text--
The twa-three last to find it, vext
But kind o' proud;
An' than the peppermints are raxed,
An' southernwood.
XIX
For noo's the time whan pows are seen
Nid-noddin' like a mandareen;
When tenty mithers stap a preen
In sleepin' weans;
An' nearly half the | 2,578.760242 |
2023-11-16 19:00:04.0455720 | 2,250 | 10 |
Produced by Emmy, Juliet Sutherland and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE CHAUTAUQUAN.
_A MONTHLY MAGAZINE DEVOTED TO THE PROMOTION OF TRUE CULTURE.
ORGAN OF THE CHAUTAUQUA LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC CIRCLE._
VOL. V. MARCH, 1885. NO. 6.
Officers of the Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle.
_President_, Lewis Miller, Akron, Ohio. _Chancellor_, J. H. Vincent,
D.D., New Haven, Conn. _Counselors_, The Rev. Lyman Abbott, D.D.,
the Rev. J. M. Gibson, D.D.; Bishop H. W. Warren, D.D.; Prof. W. C.
Wilkinson, D.D.; Edward Everett Hale. _Office Secretary_, Miss Kate
F. Kimball, Plainfield, N. J. _General Secretary_, Albert M. Martin,
Pittsburgh, Pa.
Contents
Transcriber’s Note: This table of contents of this periodical was created
for the HTML version to aid the reader.
REQUIRED READING FOR MARCH.
Temperance Teachings of Science; or, The Poison Problem
Chapter VI.—Subjective Remedies 311
Sunday Readings
[_March 1_] 314
[_March 8_] 315
[_March 15_] 315
[_March 22_] 315
[_March 29_] 316
Studies in Kitchen Science and Art
VI. Cabbages, Turnips, Carrots, Beets and Onions 316
The Circle of the Sciences 320
Home Studies in Chemistry and Physics
Fire—Physical Properties 323
The Mohammedan University of Cairo 327
As Seeing the Invisible 329
National Aid to Education 329
A Trip to the Land of Dreams 333
The Homelike House
Chapter III.—The Dining Room 335
Mexico 338
Two Seas 339
New Orleans World’s Exposition 340
Geography of the Heavens for March 342
How to Win 343
Notes on Popular English 345
The Chautauqua School of Liberal Arts 348
Outline of Required Readings, March, 1885 350
Programs for Local Circle Work 350
Local Circles 351
The C. L. S. C. Classes 356
Questions and Answers 357
The Trustees Reorganize Chautauqua 358
Editor’s Outlook 360
Editor’s Note-Book 362
C. L. S. C. Notes on Required Readings for March 365
Notes on Required Readings in “The Chautauquan” 367
Talk About Books 369
Paragraphs from New Books 370
Special Notes 372
REQUIRED READING FOR MARCH.
TEMPERANCE TEACHINGS OF SCIENCE;
OR, THE POISON PROBLEM.
PART VI.
BY FELIX L. OSWALD, M.D.
CHAPTER VI.—SUBJECTIVE REMEDIES.
“Deeprooted evils can not be abolished by striking at the
branches.”—_Boerhave._[1]
The history of the temperance movement has demonstrated the sad futility
of palliative remedies. We have seen that the malady of the poison vice
is not a self-limited, but a necessarily progressive evil. The half-way
measures of “restrictive” legislation have resulted only in furnishing
additional proof that prevention is better, because less impossible, than
control.[A] The regulation of the poison traffic, the redress of the
unavoidably resulting mischief, the cure and conversion of drunkards, in
order to be effectual, would impose intolerable and never ending burdens
on the resources even of the wealthiest communities, while the advocates
of prohibition would forestall the evils both of the remedy and the
disease.
But we should not overlook the truth that, in our own country at least,
the poison plant of intemperance springs from a composite root. In
southern Spain, under the dominion of the Saracens,[2] the poison vice
was almost unknown during a series of centuries.[B] The moral code and
the religion of the inhabitants discountenanced intemperance. The virtue
of dietetic purity ranked with chastity and cleanliness. An abundance
of harmless amusements diverted from vicious pastimes. Under such
circumstances the absence of direct temptations constituted a sufficient
safeguard against the vice of the poison habit; but in a country like
ours the efficacy of prohibition depends on the following supplementary
remedies:
1. INSTRUCTION.—In the struggle against the powers of darkness light
often proves a more effective weapon than might or right. Even the
limited light of human reason might help us to avoid mistakes that have
undoubtedly retarded the triumph of our cause. We must enlighten, as
well as admonish our children, if we would save them from the snares of
the tempter; among the victims of intemperance, even among those who can
speak from experience and can not deny that their poison has proved the
curse of their lives, only a small portion is at all able to comprehend
the necessary connection of cause and result. They ascribe their ruin to
the spite of fortune, to the machinations of an uncharitable world, to
abnormally untoward circumstances, rather than to the normal effects of
the insidious poison. Intoxication they admit to be an evil, but defend
the moderate use of a liquor as infallibly injurious in the smallest
as in the largest dose; they underrate the progressive tendency of
their vice and overrate their power of resistance; they cling to the
tradition that alcohol, discreetly enjoyed, may prove a blessing instead
of a curse. We must banish that fatal delusion. We must reveal the true
significance of the poison habit before we can hope to suppress it as
a life blighting vice. Our text-books should be found in every college
and every village school from Florida to Oregon. Every normal school
should graduate teachers of temperance. The law of the State of New York
providing for the introduction of primers on the effects of alcoholic
beverages was attacked by one of our leading scientific periodicals,
with more learning than insight, on the ground that the physiological
action of alcohol is as yet obscure even to our ablest pathologists,
and therefore not a fit subject for a common school text-book. The same
objection might be urged against every other branch of physiology and
the natural history of the organic creation. “Every vital process is a
miracle,” says Lorenz Oken,[3] “that is, in all essential respects an
unexplained phenomenon.” A last question will always remain unanswered
wherever the marvelous process of life is concerned, but our ignorance,
as well as our knowledge, of that phenomenon has its limits, and in
regard to the effects of alcoholic beverages it is precisely the most
knowable and most fully demonstrated part of the truth which it behooves
every child to know, but of which at present nine tenths of the adults,
even in the most civilized countries, remain as ignorant as the natives
of Kamtschatka who worship a divinity in the form of a poisonous
toadstool. A boy may be brought to comprehend the folly of gambling
even before he has mastered the abstruse methods of combination and
permutation employed in the calculus of probable loss and gain. We need
not study Bentham[4] to demonstrate that honesty is an essential basis
of commerce and social intercourse. By the standard of usefulness, too,
temperance primers might well take precedence of many other text-books.
Our school boys hear all sorts of things about the perils encountered by
the explorers of African deserts and Arctic seas, but next to nothing
about the pitfalls in their own path—no room for the discussion of
such subjects in a curriculum that devotes years to the study of dead
languages. Is the difference between the archaic and pliocene form of a
Greek verb so much more important than the difference between food and
poison?
With such a text as the monster curse of intemperance and its impressive
practical lessons, a slight commentary would suffice to turn thousands of
young observers into zealous champions of our cause, just as in Germany a
few years of gymnastic training have turned nearly every young man into
an advocate of physical education. The work begun in the school room
should be continued on the lecture platform, but we should not dissemble
the truth that in a crowded hall ninety per cent. of the visitors have
generally come to hear an _orator_ rather than a teacher, and enjoy
an eloquence that stirs up their barrenest emotions as much as if it
had fertilized the soil of their intelligence, just as the unrepentant
gamesters of a Swiss watering place used to applaud the sensational
passages of a drama written expressly to set forth the evils of the
gambling hell. Enthusiasm and impressiveness are valuable qualifications
of a public speaker, but he should possess the talent of making those
agencies the vehicles of instruction. The great mediæval reformers, as
well as certain political agitators of a later age, owe their success to
their natural or acquired skill in the act of stirring their hearers into
an intellectual ferment that proved the leaven of a whole community—for
that skill is a talent that can be developed on a basis of pure common
sense and should be more assiduously cultivated for the purposes of our
reform. A modern philanthropist could hardly confer a greater benefit on
his fellow-citizens than by founding a professorship of temperance, or
endowing a college with the special condition of a proviso for a weekly
lecture on such topics as “The Stimulant Delusion,” “Alcoholism,” “The
History of the Temperance Movement.”
Pamphlets, too, may subserve an important didactic purpose, and in the
methods of their distribution we might learn a useful lesson from our
adversaries, the manufacturers of alcoholic nostrums | 2,580.065612 |
2023-11-16 19:00:05.1371380 | 1,547 | 8 |
Produced by Andrea Ball, David Starner, Charles Franks,
Juliet Sutherland, and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team
EZRA POUND: HIS METRIC AND POETRY
By T. S. Eliot
BOOKS BY EZRA POUND
PROVENCA, being poems selected from Personae, Exultations, and
Canzoniere. (Small, Maynard, Boston, 1910)
THE SPIRIT OF ROMANCE: An attempt to define somewhat the charm
of the pre-renaissance literature of Latin-Europe. (Dent,
London, 1910; and Dutton, New York)
THE SONNETS AND BALLATE OF GUIDO CAVALCANTI. (Small, Maynard,
Boston, 1912)
RIPOSTES. (Swift, London, 1912; and Mathews, London, 1913)
DES IMAGISTES: An anthology of the Imagists, Ezra Pound,
Aldington, Amy Lowell, Ford Maddox Hueffer, and others
GAUDIER-BRZESKA: A memoir. (John Lane, London and New York,
1916)
NOH: A study of the Classical Stage of Japan with Ernest
Fenollosa. (Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1917; and Macmillan,
London, 1917)
LUSTRA with Earlier Poems. (Alfred A. Knopf, New York, 1917)
PAVANNES AHD DIVISIONS. (Prose. In preparation: Alfred A. Knopf,
New York)
EZRA POUND: HIS METRIC AND POETRY
I
"All talk on modern poetry, by people who know," wrote Mr. Carl
Sandburg in _Poetry_, "ends with dragging in Ezra Pound
somewhere. He may be named only to be cursed as wanton and
mocker, poseur, trifler and vagrant. Or he may be classed as
filling a niche today like that of Keats in a preceding epoch.
The point is, he will be mentioned."
This is a simple statement of fact. But though Mr. Pound is well
known, even having been the victim of interviews for Sunday
papers, it does not follow that his work is thoroughly known.
There are twenty people who have their opinion of him for every
one who has read his writings with any care. Of those twenty,
there will be some who are shocked, some who are ruffled, some
who are irritated, and one or two whose sense of dignity is
outraged. The twenty-first critic will probably be one who knows
and admires some of the poems, but who either says: "Pound is
primarily a scholar, a translator," or "Pound's early verse was
beautiful; his later work shows nothing better than the itch for
advertisement, a mischievous desire to be annoying, or a
childish desire to be original." There is a third type of
reader, rare enough, who has perceived Mr. Pound for some years,
who has followed his career intelligently, and who recognizes
its consistency.
This essay is not written for the first twenty critics of
literature, nor for that rare twenty-second who has just been
mentioned, but for the admirer of a poem here or there, whose
appreciation is capable of yielding him a larger return. If the
reader is already at the stage where he can maintain at once the
two propositions, "Pound is merely a scholar" and "Pound is
merely a yellow journalist," or the other two propositions,
"Pound is merely a technician" and "Pound is merely a prophet of
chaos," then there is very little hope. But there are readers of
poetry who have not yet reached this hypertrophy of the logical
faculty; their attention might be arrested, not by an outburst
of praise, but by a simple statement. The present essay aims
merely at such a statement. It is not intended to be either a
biographical or a critical study. It will not dilate upon
"beauties"; it is a summary account of ten years' work in
poetry. The citations from reviews will perhaps stimulate the
reader to form his own opinion. We do not wish to form it for
him. Nor shall we enter into other phases of Mr. Pound's
activity during this ten years; his writings and views on art
and music; though these would take an important place in any
comprehensive biography.
II
Pound's first book was published in Venice. Venice was a halting
point after he had left America and before he had settled in
England, and here, in 1908, "A Lume Spento" appeared. The
volume is now a rarity of literature; it was published by the
author and made at a Venetian press where the author was able
personally to supervise the printing; on paper which was a
remainder of a supply which had been used for a History of the
Church. Pound left Venice in the same year, and took "A Lume
Spento" with him to London. It was not to be expected that a
first book of verse, published by an unknown American in Venice,
should attract much attention. The "Evening Standard" has the
distinction of having noticed the volume, in a review summing it
up as:
wild and haunting stuff, absolutely poetic, original,
imaginative, passionate, and spiritual. Those who do not
consider it crazy may well consider it inspired. Coming
after the trite and decorous verse of most of our decorous
poets, this poet seems like a minstrel of Provence at a
suburban musical evening.... The unseizable magic of poetry
is in the queer paper volume, and words are no good in
describing it.
As the chief poems in "A Lume Spento" were afterwards
incorporated in "Personae," the book demands mention only as a
date in the author's history. "Personae," the first book
published in London, followed early in 1909. Few poets have
undertaken the siege of London with so little backing; few books
of verse have ever owed their success so purely to their own
merits. Pound came to London a complete stranger, without either
literary patronage or financial means. He took "Personae" to Mr.
Elkin Mathews, who has the glory of having published Yeats'
"Wind Among the Reeds," and the "Books of the Rhymers' Club," in
which many of the poets of the '90s, now famous, found a place.
Mr. Mathews first suggested, as was natural to an unknown
author, that the author should bear part of the cost of
printing. "I have a shilling in my pocket, if that is any use to
you," said the latter. "Well," said Mr. Mathews, "I want to
publish it anyway." His acumen was justified. The book was, it
is true, received with opposition, but it was received. There
were a few appreciative critics, notably Mr. Edward Thomas, the
poet (known also as "Edward Eastaway"; he has | 2,581.157178 |
2023-11-16 19:00:05.3392870 | 1,023 | 35 |
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Emmy and the PG Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.(www.pgdp.net)
A
REVERSIBLE
SANTA CLAUS
BY
MEREDITH NICHOLSON
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
FLORENCE H. MINARD
BOSTON and NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1917
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY MEREDITH NICHOLSON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published October 1917_
By Meredeth Nicholson
A REVERSIBLE SANTA CLAUS. Illustrated.
THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING. Illustrated.
THE POET. Illustrated.
OTHERWISE PHYLLIS. With frontispiece in color.
THE PROVINCIAL AMERICAN AND OTHER PAPERS.
A HOOSIER CHRONICLE. With illustrations.
THE SIEGE OF THE SEVEN SUITORS. With illustrations.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
A Reversible Santa Claus
[Illustration: "DO YOU MIND TELLING ME JUST WHY YOU READ THAT NOTE?"
_(Page 78)_]
Illustrations
"DO YOU MIND TELLING ME JUST WHY YOU READ THAT NOTE?" _Frontispiece_
THE HOPPER GRINNED, PROUD OF HIS SUCCESS,
WHICH MARY AND HUMPY VIEWED WITH GRUDGING ADMIRATION 44
THE FAINT CLICK OF A LATCH MARKED THE PROWLER'S PROXIMITY TO A HEDGE 116
THE THREE MEN GATHERED ROUND THEM, STARING DULLY 150
_From Drawings by F. Minard_
* * * * *
[Illustration]
A Reversible Santa Claus
I
Mr. William B. Aikins, _alias_ "Softy" Hubbard, _alias_ Billy The Hopper,
paused for breath behind a hedge that bordered a quiet lane and peered out
into the highway at a roadster whose tail light advertised its presence to
his felonious gaze. It was Christmas Eve, and after a day of unseasonable
warmth a slow, drizzling rain was whimsically changing to snow.
The Hopper was blowing from two hours' hard travel over rough country. He
had stumbled through woodlands, flattened himself in fence corners to
avoid the eyes of curious motorists speeding homeward or flying about
distributing Christmas gifts, and he was now bent upon committing himself
to an inter-urban trolley line that would afford comfortable
transportation for the remainder of his journey. Twenty miles, he
estimated, still lay between him and his domicile.
The rain had penetrated his clothing and vigorous exercise had not greatly
diminished the chill in his blood. His heart knocked violently against his
ribs and he was dismayed by his shortness of wind. The Hopper was not so
young as in the days when his agility and genius for effecting a quick
"get-away" had earned for him his sobriquet. The last time his Bertillon
measurements were checked (he was subjected to this humiliating
experience in Omaha during the Ak-Sar-Ben carnival three years earlier)
official note was taken of the fact that The Hopper's hair, long carried
in the records as black, was rapidly whitening.
At forty-eight a crook--even so resourceful and versatile a member of the
fraternity as The Hopper--begins to mistrust himself. For the greater part
of his life, when not in durance vile, The Hopper had been in hiding, and
the state or condition of being a fugitive, hunted by keen-eyed agents of
justice, is not, from all accounts, an enviable one. His latest experience
of involuntary servitude had been under the auspices of the State of
Oregon, for a trifling indiscretion in the way of safe-blowing. Having
served his sentence, he skillfully effaced himself by a year's siesta on
a pine-apple plantation in Hawaii. The island climate was not wholly
pleasing to The Hopper, and when pine-apples palled he took passage from
Honolulu as a stoker, reached San Francisco (not greatly chastened in
spirit), and by a series of characteristic hops, skips, and jumps across
the continent landed in Maine by way of the Canadian provinces. The Hopper
needed money. He was not without a certain crude philosophy, and it had
been his dream to acquire by some brilliant _coup_ a sufficient fortune
upon which to retire and live as a decent, law-abiding citizen for the
remainder of his days. This ambition, or at least the means to its
fulfillment, can hardly be defended | 2,581.359327 |
2023-11-16 19:00:05.4359010 | 1,573 | 12 |
Produced by Adrian Mastronardi, Martin Mayer, The Philatelic
Digital Library Project at http://www.tpdlp.net 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.)
[A transcriber's note follows the text.]
THE BRITISH STATE
TELEGRAPHS
[Illustration: MacMillan Company logo]
THE BRITISH STATE
TELEGRAPHS
A STUDY OF THE PROBLEM OF A LARGE BODY OF
CIVIL SERVANTS IN A DEMOCRACY
BY
HUGO RICHARD MEYER
SOMETIME ASSISTANT PROFESSOR OF POLITICAL ECONOMY IN THE
UNIVERSITY OF CHICAGO, AUTHOR OF "GOVERNMENT
REGULATION OF RAILWAY RATES;" "MUNICIPAL
OWNERSHIP IN GREAT BRITAIN"
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
1907
_All right reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1907
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
Set up and electrotyped. Published October 1907
THE MASON-HENRY PRESS
SYRACUSE, NEW YORK
TO MY BROTHER
PREFACE
In order to keep within reasonable limits the size of this volume, the
author has been obliged to reserve for a separate volume the story of
the Telephone in Great Britain. The series of books promised in the
Preface to the author's _Municipal Ownership in Great Britain_ will,
therefore, number not four, but five.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION 3
Scope of the inquiry.
CHAPTER II
THE ARGUMENT FOR THE NATIONALIZATION OF THE TELEGRAPHS 13
The indictment of the telegraph companies. The argument
from foreign experience. The promise of reduced tariffs
and increased facilities. The alleged financial success of
foreign State telegraphs: Belgium, Switzerland and France. The
argument from English company experience.
CHAPTER III
THE ALLEGED BREAK-DOWN OF LAISSEZ-FAIRE 36
Early history of telegraphy in Great Britain. The adequacy of
private enterprise. Mr. Scudamore's loose use of statistics.
Mr. Scudamore's test of adequacy of facilities. Telegraphic
charges and growth of traffic in Great Britain. The alleged
wastefulness of competition. The telegraph companies' proposal.
CHAPTER IV
THE PURCHASE OF THE TELEGRAPHS 57
Upon inadequate consideration the Disraeli Ministry estimates
at $15,000,000 to $20,000,000 the cost of nationalization.
Political expediency responsible for Government's inadequate
investigation. The Government raises its estimate to
$30,000,000; adding that it could afford to pay $40,000,000
to $50,000,000. Mr. Goschen, M. P., and Mr. Leeman, M. P.,
warn the House of Commons against the Government's estimates,
which had been prepared by Mr. Scudamore. The Gladstone
Ministry, relying on Mr. Scudamore, estimates at $3,500,000
the "reversionary rights" of the railway companies, for which
rights the State ultimately paid $10,000,000 to $11,000,000.
CHAPTER V
NONE OF MR. SCUDAMORE'S FINANCIAL FORECASTS WERE REALIZED 77
The completion of the telegraph system costs $8,500,000;
Mr. Scudamore's successive estimates had been respectively
$1,000,000 and $1,500,000. Mr. Scudamore's brilliant forecast
of the increase of traffic under public ownership. Mr.
Scudamore's appalling blunder in predicting that the State
telegraphs would be self-supporting. Operating expenses on the
average exceed 92.5% of the gross earnings, in contrast to
Mr. Scudamore's estimate of 51% to 56%. The annual telegraph
deficits aggregate 26.5% of the capital invested in the plant.
The financial failure of the State telegraphs is not due to
the large price paid to the telegraph companies and railway
companies. The disillusionment of an eminent advocate of
nationalization, Mr. W. Stanley Jevons.
CHAPTER VI
THE PARTY LEADERS IGNORE THEIR FEAR OF AN ORGANIZED CIVIL
SERVICE 94
Mr. Disraeli, Chancellor of the Exchequer, opposes the
enfranchisement of the civil servants. Mr. Gladstone, Leader
of the Opposition, assents to enfranchisement, but expresses
grave apprehensions of evil results.
CHAPTER VII
THE HOUSE OF COMMONS IS RESPONSIBLE FOR THE FINANCIAL FAILURE OF
THE STATE TELEGRAPHS 99
Sir S. Northcote, Chancellor of the Exchequer in Mr.
Disraeli's Ministry of 1874 to 1880, is disillusioned. The
State telegraphs become self-supporting in 1879-80. The House
of Commons, under the leadership of Dr. Cameron, M. P., for
Glasgow, overrides the Ministry and cuts the tariff almost in
two. In 1890-91 the State telegraphs would again have become
self-supporting, had not the House of Commons, under pressure
from the civil service unions, increased wages and salaries.
The necessity of making money is the only effective incentive
to sound management.
CHAPTER VIII
THE STATE TELEGRAPHS SUBSIDIZE THE NEWSPAPER PRESS 113
Why the newspaper press demanded nationalization. Mr.
Scudamore gives the newspaper press a tariff which he deems
unprofitable. Estimates of the loss involved in transmitting
press messages, made by responsible persons in the period from
1876 to 1900. The State telegraphs subsidize betting on horse
races.
CHAPTER IX
THE POST OFFICE EMPLOYEES PRESS THE HOUSE OF COMMONS FOR INCREASES
OF WAGES AND SALARIES 127
British Government's policy as to wages and salaries for
routine work, as distinguished from work requiring a high
order of intelligence. The Fawcett revision of wages, 1881.
Lord Frederick Cavendish, Financial Secretary to the Treasury,
on pressure exerted on Members of Parliament by the telegraph
employees. Sir S. A. Blackwood, Permanent Secretary to the
Post Office, on the Fawcett revision of 1881. Evidence as to
civil servants' pressure on Members of Parliament presented
to the Royal Commission on Civil Establishments, 1888. The
Raikes revision of 1890-91; based largely on the Report of the
Committee on the Indoor Staff, which Committee had recommended
increases in order "to end agitation." The Earl Compton, | 2,581.455941 |
2023-11-16 19:00:05.4371190 | 2,257 | 11 |
Produced by Al Haines.
THE DIARY
_of a_ FRESHMAN
_By_
CHARLES MACOMB FLANDRAU
Author of "Harvard Episodes"
_NEW YORK_
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE AND COMPANY
_MDCCCCI_
_Copyright, 1900, by_
The Curtis Publishing Co.
_Copyright, 1901, by_
Doubleday, Page & Company
University Press
John Wilson and Son
Cambridge, U.S.A.
_TO THE_
"_For Ever Panting and For Ever Young._"
_Courteous acknowledgment is here
made to the Saturday Evening
Post, Philadelphia, in which these
papers first saw the light._
_*THE*_*
DIARY *_*of a*_* FRESHMAN*
*I*
Mamma left for home this afternoon. As I want to be perfectly truthful
in my diary, I suppose I must confess that before she actually went away
I sometimes thought I should be rather relieved when she was no longer
here. Mamma has a fixed idea that I came to college for the express
purpose of getting my feet wet by day, and sleeping in a draught by
night. She began the furnishing of my rooms by investing in a pair of
rubber boots,--the kind you tie around your waist with a string. The
clerk in the shop asked her if I was fond of trout-fishing, and she
explained to him that I had always lived in the West where the climate
was dry, and that she didn't know how I would stand the dampness of the
seacoast. Mamma thought the clerk was so interested in my last attack
of tonsillitis I didn't have the heart to tell her that all the time he
was looking sympathetic with his right eye, he was winking at me with
his left.
Now that she is gone, however, I don't see how I could have thought,
even for a moment, that I should be glad, and I've been sitting here
for an hour just looking at my room and all the nice things she advised
me about and helped me to choose--wishing she could see how cosey it is
late at night with the green lamp lighted and a little fire going. (It
isn't really cool enough for a fire; I had to take my coat off for a
while, the room got so warm--but I was anxious to know how the andirons
looked with a blaze behind them.) I suppose she is lying awake in the
sleeping-car thinking of me. She made me move my bed to the other side
of the room, so that it wouldn't be near the window. I moved it back
again; but I think now I 'll change it again to the way she liked it.
Of course I was disappointed last May when I found I hadn't drawn a room
in one of the college buildings. I had an idea that if you didn't live
in one of the buildings owned by the college you wouldn't feel,
somehow, as if you "belonged." Before I arrived in Cambridge I worried
a good deal over it. The old Harvard men at home were most
unsatisfactory about this when I asked their advice. The ones who had
lived in the Yard when they were in college seemed to think there was
n't any particular use in going to college at all unless you could live
either in their old rooms or some in the same building; and the ones who
had lived outside as I am going to do (this year, anyhow) said the
college buildings were nice enough in their way, but if I could only get
the dear old place (which was pulled down fifteen years ago) where James
Russell Lowell had scratched his name on the window-pane, and where
somebody else (I've forgotten who it was) crawled up the big chimney
when the sheriff came to arrest him for debt and was discovered because
he did not crawl far enough, I should be all right.
I don't see how the good times and the advantages of a place like this
hold out for so long; everybody who has been here speaks as if he had
about used them up.
Well, we found rooms pleading to be rented; every other house in
Cambridge has a "Student's Room to Let" card in the window. Even some
of the rooms in the Yard had been given up at the last minute by fellows
who flunked their exams. Mamma said she felt very sorry for the poor
boys; and after that the enormity of my having been conditioned in
physics and solid geometry decreased considerably. The trouble (there
were four days full of it) wasn't in finding a good place, but in trying
to decide on some one place. For a while it looked as though I should
either have to live in five separate houses--some of them over a mile
apart--or give up going to college. We dragged up and down all the
quiet side streets within a reasonable distance of the Yard, ringing
bells and asking questions until the words "I should like to look at"
and "What is the price of?" began to sound like some kind of a silly
English Meisterschaft system. Several times when we were very tired we
wandered by mistake into houses we had been to before. This made the
landladies exceedingly peevish; but mamma said it was just as well,
because now we knew what their true characters really were.
We found that we could rent some of the rooms lighted and heated; but
most of them were merely "lit and het."
All the houses in Cambridge and many of the buildings in the Yard seemed
to be disgorging roomfuls of old furniture and consuming cartloads of
new, and everywhere we went we met strings of cheerful, energetic
mothers with tired, rather cross-looking sons. I've seen only one
fellow with his father so far, and they sort of apologized for the fact
by being dressed in deep mourning.
At the end of three days we 'd picked out five rooms. Considered in a
lump, they seemed fine; but tackling them separately, mamma couldn't
decide which one was least objectionable. One was in a part of town
that "looked damp"--a man across the street unfortunately sneezed just
as we were passing a stone wall covered with green moss. The second
smelt of cooking. On the steps of the third a groceryman was waiting to
deliver several gallons of gasoline (this one was almost struck off the
list). The fourth was near the river (we had the bad luck to be in that
part of town when the tide was out), and from the windows of the fifth
there was a merry little view of a graveyard. We simply couldn't make
up our minds, and were standing in the middle of a narrow, rather shabby
little street two or three blocks below the Square discussing the
matter, when a door behind us opened and a mother and son (we turned to
look) came out, followed by a gray-haired woman--evidently the
landlady--who was doing the talking, in a very New England voice, for
all three. The mother was slim and pretty, and had on a beautiful dress
that went swish-swash-swish when she walked away, and the fellow looked
like her; he was very handsome.
"Well, I'm real glad to know you," the landlady said to the fellow's
mother. "Jus' seems's if I couldn't rest till I knew the young men's
folks; dustin' their photographs every day makes it sort of different.
It do--don't it? Oh, yes--I 'll take care of him. They get real mad at
me, the young men do, sometimes, for makin' them change their shoes when
it's snow-in' and makin' them wear their rubber coats when it's
rai-nin'. _They're_ in too much of a hurry, _they_ are. That's what's
the matter with _them_." She gave the fellow a roguish look, and he and
his mother walked up the street laughing as if they were very much
pleased.
"I think," said mamma (who had become strangely animated on hearing of
the change of shoes)--"I think that before we decide on one of these
five rooms we 'll go in there." So we went up to the gray-haired woman,
who had lingered outside to talk baby talk to a cat that was making
gothic arches of itself all over the piazza, and in about seven minutes
by the watch we 'd signed the lease of the last vacant rooms in the
house.
A short, steep staircase like the companionway of a ship leads up to a
landing about the size of a kitchen table. The edges of the steps are
covered with tin and are terribly slippery. The door on the left opens
into my study, and at the end of that is my bedroom, and next to that is
a great big bathroom (it's bigger than the other two) with a porcelain
tub and a shower which I am to share with the fellow who lives just
across the staircase on the right. Mrs. Chester, the landlady, says:
"All the young men thinks an awful lot of that bathroom."
The study is so small that we didn't have to buy as much furniture as
we expected to. I have an oak desk with a rolling top that makes a noise
like some one shovelling coal when you open and shut it, and usually
sticks half-way. Of course, when we finally got it out from town
(Boston is about four miles from Cambridge, and it takes anywhere from
three days to a week for an express wagon to make the trip), we found
that it was much too large to go up the staircase. But Mrs. Chester
said we could take out the back of the house and have it swung up to the
room on ropes--the "young men" always did that when they wanted pianos
or sofas, or desks like mine. I wasn't present at the operation, as I
had to go in town to lunch with mamma, but it was successfully performed
(by "a real handy gentleman from down Gloucester way, who | 2,581.457159 |
2023-11-16 19:00:05.5410130 | 177 | 8 |
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 15. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 10, 1840. VOLUME I.
[Illustration: THE TOWN AND CASTLE OF LEIXLIP, COUNTY OF KILDARE.]
Localities are no less subject to the capricious mutations of fashion in
taste, than dress, music, or any other of the various objects on which
it displays its extravagant vagaries. The place which on account of its
beauties is at one period the chosen resort of pleased and admiring
crowds, at another becomes abandoned and unthought of, | 2,581.561053 |
2023-11-16 19:00:05.7392750 | 1,025 | 11 |
Produced by Curtis A. Weyant, Stan Goodman, Charles Franks,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
BELINDA
An April Folly in Three Acts
BY
A. A. MILNE
CHARACTERS
Produced by Mr. Dion Boucioault at the New Theatre, London, on April 8,
1918, with the following cast:--
BELINDA TREMAYNE.......... _Irene Vanbrugh_.
DELIA (her Daughter)...... _Isabel Elsom_.
HAROLD BAXTER............. _Dion Boucicault_.
CLAUDE DEVENISH........... _Dennis Neilson-Terry_.
JOHN TREMAYNE............. _Ben Webster_.
BETTY..................... _Anne Walden_.
The action takes place in Belinda's country-house in Devonshire at the
end of April, the first act in the garden and the second and last acts
in the hall
[Illustration]
BELINDA
ACT I
_It is a lovely April afternoon--a foretaste of summer--in_
BELINDA'S _garden_.
BETTY, _a middle-aged servant, is fastening a hammock--its first
appearance this year--to a tree down_ L. _In front there is a
garden-table, with a deck-chair on the right of it and a straight-backed
one to the left. There are books, papers, and magazines on the
table_. BELINDA, _of whom we shall know more presently, is on the
other side of the open windows which look on to the garden, talking
to_ BETTY, _who crosses to_ R. _of hammock, securing it to
tree_ C.
BELINDA (_from inside the house_). Are you sure you're tying it up
tightly enough, Betty?
BETTY (_coming to front of hammock_). Yes, ma'am; I think it's
firm.
BELINDA. Because I'm not the fairy I used to be.
BETTY (_testing hammock_). Yes, ma'am; it's quite firm this end
too.
BELINDA (_entering from portico with sunshade open_). It's not the
ends I'm frightened of; it's the middle where the weight's coming.
(_Comes down_ R. _and admiring_.) It looks very nice. (_She crosses
at back of wicker table, hanging her hand-bag on hammock. Closes and
places her sunshade at back of tree_ C.)
BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
BELINDA (_trying the middle of it with her hand_). I asked them at
the Stores if they were quite _sure_ it would bear me, and they
said it would take anything up to--I forget how many tons. I know I
thought it was rather rude of them. (_Looking at it anxiously, and
trying to get in, first with her right leg and then her left_.) How
does one get in! So trying to be a sailor!
BETTY. I think you sit in it, ma'am, and then (_explaining with her
hands_) throw your legs over.
BELINDA. I see. (_She sits gingerly in the hammock, and then, with a
sudden flutter of white, does what_ BETTY _suggests_.) Yes.
(_Regretfully_.) I'm afraid that was rather wasted on you, Betty.
We must have some spectators next time.
BETTY. Yea, ma'am
BELINDA. Cushions.
(BETTY _moves to and takes a cushion from deck-chair_. BELINDA
_assists her to place it at back of her head_. BETTY _then goes
to back of hammock and arranges_ BELINDA'S _dress_.)
There! Now then, Betty, about callers.
BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
BELINDA. If Mr. Baxter calls--he is the rather prim gentleman--
BETTY. Yea, ma'am; the one who's been here several times before.
(_Moves to below and_ L. _of hammock_.)
BELINDA (_giving_ BETTY _a quick look_). Yes. Well, if he
calls, you'll say, "Not at home."
BETTY. Yes, ma'am.
BELINDA. He will say (_imitating_ MR. BAXTER), "Oh--er--oh--er--
really." Then you'll smile very sweetly and say, "I beg your pardon, was
it Mr_. BAXTER_?" And he'll say, "Yes!" and you'll say, "Oh, I beg
your pardon, sir; _this_ way | 2,581.759315 |
2023-11-16 19:00:05.7629610 | 974 | 79 |
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Daughters of a Genius, by Mrs George de Horne Vaizey.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
THE DAUGHTERS OF A GENIUS, BY MRS GEORGE DE HORNE VAIZEY.
CHAPTER ONE.
UNKNOWN COUSINS.
"What is your letter, my dear? You seem annoyed. _No_ bad news, I
hope," said the master of Chedworth Manor, looking across the table to
where his wife eat behind the urn, frowning over the sheet which she
held in her hand. She was a handsome, well-preserved woman, with
aquiline features, thin lips, and eyes of a pale, indefinite blue. She
looked up as he spoke, then threw down the letter with a sigh of
impatience.
"Oh, bad news, of course! When did we ever return from a holiday
without finding something of the sort awaiting us? It's from Stephen
Charrington. He says he would have written before, but heard that we
were abroad, and did not know where to direct. Edgar is dead. He died
a fortnight ago, and the funeral was on Friday week. I never knew a man
who married improvidently and had a huge family who did _not_ die before
he reached middle age. It seems a judgment on them; and here is another
instance. Forty-nine his last birthday! He ought to have lived for
another twenty years at least."
Mrs Loftus spoke with an air of injury which seemed to imply that the
deceased gentleman had died out of pure perversity, and her husband
knitted his brows in disapproving fashion. Even after twenty-five years
of married life his wife's heartless selfishness could give him a twinge
of shocked surprise when, as now, it was obtrusively displayed. He
himself made no claims to philanthropy, but one expected some natural
feeling from a woman; and with all his faults, Edgar Charrington had had
close claim on her sympathy.
"He was your brother, my dear," he said dryly. "I suppose the poor
fellow would not have died if he could have helped it. We have not seen
anything of him for a long time, but he used to be a most attractive
fellow. I thought he would have made his mark. Never met a man with so
many gifts--painting, music, writing; he used to take them up in turn,
and do equally well in each."
"But excel in nothing! That was the undoing of Edgar; he had not the
application to keep to one thing at a time, but must always be flying
off to something new. That disastrous marriage was like a millstone
round his neck, and practically doomed him to failure. Oh, I know what
you are going to say. There was nothing against Elma; and you admired
her, of course, because she was pretty and helpless; but I shall always
maintain that it was practically suicide for Edgar, with his Bohemian
nature, to many a penniless girl, with no influence to help him on in
the world. How they have managed to live at all I can't imagine. He
never confided in me, and I made a point of not inquiring. To tell the
truth, I lived in dread of his wanting to borrow money, and one has
enough to do with one's own claims. I think he was offended because we
never invited the children, for I have scarcely heard from him for the
last five years. Really, it was too great an experiment I can't imagine
what they must be like, brought up in that little village, with next to
no education. Social savages, I should say."
"How many children were there? I've forgotten how they come after the
first two. Stephen and Philippa visited us once long ago, and I
remember thinking her an uncommonly handsome child, with a spirit of her
own, which will probably stand her in good stead now. The boy was not
so interesting. How many are there besides these two?"
"Oh, I don't know. Dozens! There was always a baby, I remember,"
returned Mrs Loftus impatiently. "Goodness knows what is to become of
them now that they are left orphans, with practically no means of
support. Stephen seems quite bewildered | 2,581.783001 |
2023-11-16 19:00:05.7981560 | 867 | 34 |
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 Ontario Readers.
THIRD READER.
AUTHORIZED FOR USE IN THE PUBLIC SCHOOLS
OF ONTARIO BY THE MINISTER OF
EDUCATION.
TORONTO:
THE W. J. GAGE COMPANY (LIMITED).
Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada in the
Office of the Minister of Agriculture by the Minister of
Education for Ontario, in the year of our Lord one thousand
eight hundred and eighty-five.
PREFACE.
The plan of the Third Reader is the same as that of the Second, with
the exception that a few historical lessons have been introduced, and
two lessons which may serve as an introduction to Physical Science.
The botanical lessons supplement those given in the Second Reader.
These, and the lessons on Canadian trees, and all lessons relating to
things in nature, should be made the subjects of conversation between
the teacher and his class, and should form a basis for scientific
instruction. The pupils should be led to study nature directly. To this
end they should be required to obtain (wherever possible) the natural
objects which are described in the lessons, and to examine them, and to
form opinions for themselves concerning them.
Similarly, every lesson should form the subject of conversation--before
reading, during the progress of the reading, and after reading:--the
teacher eliciting from his pupils clear statements of their knowledge
of it, correcting any wrong notions they may have of it, throwing
them back upon their own experience or reading, and leading them to
observe, compare, and judge, and to state in words the results of their
observations, comparisons, and judgments. Some of these statements
should be written on the blackboard, and then be made the subject
of critical conversation; others might be written by the pupils at
their desks, and afterwards be reviewed in class. In this incidental
teaching, it should be the teacher’s aim to develop the previous
imperfect knowledge of the pupils concerning a lesson into a full and
complete knowledge. This can best be effected by judicious questioning
and conversation.
The illustrations of the lessons, as in the Second Reader, are intended
to aid the pupils in obtaining real conceptions of the ideas involved
in the lessons. Children vary greatly in capacity for imagination. It
is essential, however, to the proper understanding of a lesson, and
hence to the proper reading of it, that a child be able to imagine the
persons, actions, objects, described in it. The illustrations will
aid in developing this power of imagination, and the teacher by his
questions and appropriate criticisms, and by a judicious use of his own
greater knowledge and experience, will aid still more in developing it.
In the poetry great care has been taken to select not only such pieces
as children can easily comprehend, but also such as are in themselves
good literature. Many old favorites have been retained, their worth as
reading lessons having been proved with generations of school children.
In the reading of poetry the teacher must constantly assure himself
that the pupils clearly understand what they read. Children have a
natural ear for rhythm, and a fondness for rhyme. Hence they easily
learn to read verse being insensibly charmed by its melody. But they
cannot, with equal facility, comprehend the poetical meanings, the
terse expressions, and the inverted constructions, with which verse
abounds. Much more time, therefore, should be spent by the teacher,
in poetry than in prose, in eliciting from his pupils the meanings
of words, phrases, and sentences. He should not rest satisfied until
the pupils can substitute for every more important word, phrase, and
sentence of a poem, an equivalent of their own finding. He must be
certain too that they understand the substitutions which they offer.
Conversation and questioning will here, as elsewhere in school work,
help him in effecting his purpose.
The exercises which are put at the end of | 2,581.818196 |
2023-11-16 19:00:06.0616420 | 2,276 | 470 |
Produced by David Edwards, Stephen Hutcheson, 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 Books project.)
[Illustration: "The Toad Woman stopped fanning and looked at her." Page
125.]
ADVENTURES
IN
Shadow-Land.
CONTAINING
Eva's Adventures in Shadow-Land.
By MARY D. NAUMAN.
AND
The Merman and The Figure-Head.
By CLARA F. GUERNSEY.
TWO VOLUMES IN ONE.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS._
PHILADELPHIA
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
1874.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Lippincott's Press,
Philadelphia.
EVA'S ADVENTURES
IN
SHADOW-LAND.
TO
MY FRIEND
E. W.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
What Eva saw in the Pond 9
CHAPTER II.
Eva's First Adventure 15
CHAPTER III.
The Gift of the Fountain 23
CHAPTER IV.
The First Moonrise 30
CHAPTER V.
What Aster was 36
CHAPTER VI.
The Beginning of the Search 45
CHAPTER VII.
Aster's Misfortunes 52
CHAPTER VIII.
What Aster did 63
CHAPTER IX.
The Door in the Wall 73
CHAPTER X.
The Valley of Rest 80
CHAPTER XI.
The Magic Boat 92
CHAPTER XII.
Down the Brook 104
CHAPTER XIII.
The Enchanted River 119
CHAPTER XIV.
The Green Frog 130
CHAPTER XV.
In the Grotto 145
CHAPTER XVI.
Aster's Story 151
CHAPTER XVII.
The Last of Shadow-Land 162
EVA'S ADVENTURES
IN SHADOW-LAND.
CHAPTER I.
_WHAT EVA SAW IN THE POND._
She had been reading fairy-tales, after her lessons were done, all the
morning; and now that dinner was over, her father gone to his office,
the baby asleep, and her mother sitting quietly sewing in the cool
parlor, Eva thought that she would go down across the field to the old
mill-pond; and sit in the grass, and make a fairy-tale for herself.
There was nothing that Eva liked better than to go and sit in the tall
grass; grass so tall that when the child, in her white dress, looped on
her plump white shoulders with blue ribbons, her bright golden curls
brushed back from her fair brow, and her blue eyes sparkling, sat down
in it, you could not see her until you were near her, and then it was
just as if you had found a picture of a little girl in a frame, or
rather a nest of soft, green grass.
All through this tall, wavy grass, down to the very edge of the pond,
grew many flowers,--violets, and buttercups, and dandelions, like little
golden suns. And as Eva sat there in the grass, she filled her lap with
the purple and yellow flowers; and all around her the bees buzzed as
though they wished to light upon the flowers in her lap; on which, at
last,--so quietly did she sit,--two black-and-golden butterflies
alighted; while a great brown beetle, with long black feelers, climbed
up a tall grass-stalk in front of her, which, bending slightly under his
weight, swung to and fro in the gentle breeze which barely stirred Eva's
golden curls; and the field-crickets chirped, and even a snail put his
horns out of his shell to look at the little girl, sitting so quietly in
the grass among the flowers, for Eva was gentle, and neither bee, nor
butterfly, beetle, cricket, or snail were afraid of her. And this is
what Eva called making a fairy-tale for herself.
But sitting so quietly and watching the insects, and hearing their low
hum around her, at last made Eva feel drowsy; and she would have gone to
sleep, as she often did, if all of a sudden there had not sounded, just
at her feet, so that it startled her, a loud
Croak! croak!
But it frightened the two butterflies; for away they went, floating off
on their black-and-golden wings; and the brown beetle was in so much of
a hurry to run away that he tumbled off the grass-stalk on which he had
been swinging, and as soon as he could regain his legs, crept, as fast
as they could carry him, under a friendly mullein-leaf which grew near,
and hid himself; and the crickets were silent; and the bees all flew
away to their hive; and the snail drew himself and his horns into his
house, so that he looked like nothing in the world but a shell; for when
beetles, and butterflies, and crickets, and bees, and snails hear this
croak! croak! they know that it is time for them to get out of the way.
And when Eva looked down, there, just at her feet, sat a great green
toad.
She gave him a little push with her foot to make him go away; but
instead of that he only hopped the nearer, and again came--
Croak! croak!
He was entirely too near now for comfort, so the little girl jumped up,
dropping all the flowers she had gathered; and as she stood still for a
moment she thought that she heard the green toad say:
"Go to the pond! Go to the pond!"
It seemed so funny to Eva to hear a toad talk that she stood as still as
a mouse looking at him; and as she looked at him, she heard him say
again, as plain as possible:
"Go to the pond! Go to the pond!"
And then Eva did just exactly what either you or I would have done if we
had heard a great green toad talking to us. She went slowly through the
tall grass down to the very edge of the pond.
But instead of the fishes which used to swim about in the pretty clear
water, and which would come to eat the crumbs of bread she always threw
to them, and the funny, croaking frogs which used to jump and splash in
the water, she saw nothing but the same great green toad, which had
hopped down faster than she had walked, and which was now sitting on a
mossy stone near the bank. And when Eva would have turned away he
croaked again:
"Stay by the pond! Stay by the pond!"
And whether Eva wished it or not, she stood by the pond--for she really
could not help it--and looked. And it seemed to her that the sky grew
dark and the water black, as it always does before a rain; and then the
child grew frightened, and would have run away, but that just then, in
the very blackest part of the pond, she saw shining and looking up at
her a little round full moon, with a face in it; and it seemed to her,
strange though you may think it, that the eyes of the face in the moon
winked at her; and then it was gone.
And again Eva would have left the pond, but the green toad, which she
thought had suddenly grown larger, croaked more loudly:
"Stay by the pond! Stay by the pond!"
And Eva obeyed, as indeed she could not help doing; and then again, in
the pond, there came and went the little moon-face, only that this time
it was larger, and the eyes winked longer.
For the third time the child would have turned away, frightened at all
these strange doings in the pond; but for the third time the green toad,
larger than ever, croaked:
"Stay by the pond! Stay by the pond!"
So, for the third time, Eva looked at the pond; and there, for the third
time, was the shining moon-face, as large now as a real full moon,
though, when Eva looked up, there was no moon shining in the sky to be
reflected in the pond; and then the eyes in the moon-face looked harder
at her, and the toad winked at her; and then the toad was the moon and
the moon was the toad, and both seemed to change places with each other;
and at last both of them shone and winked so that Eva could not tell
them apart; and before she knew what she was doing she lay down quietly
in the tall grass, and the moon in the pond and the green toad winked at
her until she fell asleep.
Then the moon-eyes closed and the shining face faded; and the green toad
slipped quietly off his stone into the water; and still Eva slept
soundly.
And that was what Eva saw in the pond.
CHAPTER II.
_EVA'S FIRST ADVENTURE._
How long she lay there asleep the child did not know. It might only have
been for a few minutes; it might have been for hours. Yet, when she did
awake, and think it was time for her to go home, she did not understand
where she could be. The place seemed the same, yet not the same,--as
though some wonderful change had come over it during her sleep. There
was the pond, to be sure, but was it the same pond? Tall trees grew
round it, yet their branches were bare and leafless. A little brook ran
into the pond, which she was sure that she never had seen there before.
Was she still asleep? No. She was wide awake. She sprang to her feet and
looked around. The green toad was gone, so was the moon-face; her
father's house was nowhere to be seen; there was no sun, but it was not
dark, for a light seemed to come from the earth, and yet the earth
itself did | 2,582.081682 |
2023-11-16 19:00:06.1609690 | 975 | 22 |
Produced by Demian Katz and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Images courtesy
of the Digital Library@Villanova University
(http://digital.library.villanova.edu/))
A BOOK OF
BRYN MAWR
STORIES
EDITED BY
MARGARETTA MORRIS AND
LOUISE BUFFUM CONGDON
[Illustration]
=PHILADELPHIA= GEORGE W JACOBS
AND COMPANY =ANNO DOMINI MCMI=
Copyright, 1901, by
GEORGE W. JACOBS & CO.
A Book of Bryn Mawr Stories
Preface
In compiling a volume of Bryn Mawr stories, the editors have been
conscious that such a book could never adequately represent the college
life. Its strong subtle character that commands the devotion of every
Bryn Mawr student is something difficult if not impossible to depict.
Yet there comes a time in the life of a college, as of an individual,
when self-expression is inevitable. Such a time, the editors believe,
has come for Bryn Mawr. And this conviction has induced them to bring
out the present volume.
Until now the literary efforts of the students have concerned themselves
with external matters rather than with introspection. Perhaps this is
due to an instinctive reticence we Bryn Mawrtyrs have wherever our
feelings are deeply stirred. We can joke about ourselves and our
traditions as we do in _The Fortnightly Philistine_. But when we come to
speak seriously to the outside world, as in _The Lantern_, we confine
ourselves for the most part to subjects of general literary interest,
practically ignoring the college atmosphere. At last, however, the ice
is broken, and Bryn Mawr talks about herself.
In the earliest days, when the college had only two buildings and
forty-four students, even in that first year it had a character and a
spirit all its own. And fifteen years of rapid growth have seemed but to
strengthen its individuality. To show the college unity in diversity the
editors have carefully chosen authors from the older and younger alumnae
and from the undergraduates. They hope that in this way a truer
impression of the college life may be given than would be possible if
the whole book were written by one person.
Some readers may ask which of the many heroines in these tales is the
typical Bryn Mawr girl. The reply is no one, but all. Bryn Mawr students
come from all parts of the country, from all sorts of different
surroundings, and on entering college they do not, popular prejudice to
the contrary, immediately drop their individuality and become samples of
a type. We have among our number the pedant, the coquette, the athlete,
the snob, the poser, the girl who loves dress and prettiness, and she
who affects mannish simplicity, the all-round girl, the serious-minded,
and the frivolous. Yet none of these is the Bryn Mawr girl _par
excellence_. That mythical personage can be known only by comparing and
contrasting her various incarnations.
This book is an attempt to show some of her incarnations and some
typical scenes of Bryn Mawr life. College life is not dramatic and
college stories have no great dramatic interest, unless they introduce
elements foreign to the campus. Those who look to these stories,
therefore, for entertainment may be disappointed, since most of them are
serious in tone, and in their appeal to the reader depend largely upon
the charm of local colour.
If in the mind of any one the spirit portrayed in this book is unworthy,
if it falls short of the ideal of what college life should be, let it be
remembered that this is a first attempt, and let the expression be
blamed but not the Bryn Mawr spirit.
All of the following stories are new, and were written for this book,
except _Studies in College Colour_, which are reprinted from _The
Lantern_ of 1893. One of these studies, the description of Chapel, has
appeared also in _Cap and Gown in Prose_. For permission to use this
last the editors are indebted to the courtesy of Messrs. L. C. Page &
Company.
_M. M. 1900._
_L. B. C. 1900 | 2,582.181009 |
2023-11-16 19:00:06.1611690 | 1,571 | 12 |
Produced by Darleen Dove, Sharon Verougstraete and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
LIVES
OF
POOR BOYS WHO BECAME FAMOUS.
BY
SARAH K. BOLTON.
"_There is properly no History, only Biography._"
--EMERSON.
_Human portraits, faithfully drawn, are of all pictures the
welcomest on human walls._
--CARLYLE.
_FORTY-FIRST THOUSAND._
NEW YORK
THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.
PUBLISHERS
_Copyright,_
BY THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.
1885.
Norwood Press:
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith.
Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
TO
MY ONLY SISTER,
Mrs. Halsey D. Miller,
IN REMEMBRANCE OF
MANY HAPPY HOURS.
PREFACE.
These characters have been chosen from various countries and from varied
professions, that the youth who read this book may see that poverty is
no barrier to success. It usually develops ambition, and nerves people
to action. Life at best has much of struggle, and we need to be cheered
and stimulated by the careers of those who have overcome obstacles.
If Lincoln and Garfield, both farmer-boys, could come to the Presidency,
then there is a chance for other farmer-boys. If Ezra Cornell, a
mechanic, could become the president of great telegraph companies, and
leave millions to a university, then other mechanics can come to fame.
If Sir Titus Salt, working and sorting wool in a factory at nineteen,
could build one of the model towns of the world for his thousands of
workingmen, then there is encouragement and inspiration for other
toilers in factories. These lives show that without WORK and WILL no
great things are achieved.
I have selected several characters because they were the centres of
important historical epochs. With Garibaldi is necessarily told the
story of Italian unity; with Garrison and Greeley, the fall of slavery;
and with Lincoln and Sheridan, the battles of our Civil War.
S. K. B.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
GEORGE PEABODY Merchant 1
BAYARD TAYLOR Traveller 13
Captain JAMES B. EADS Civil Engineer 26
JAMES WATT Inventor 33
Sir JOSIAH MASON Manufacturer 46
BERNARD PALISSY Potter 54
BERTEL THORWALDSEN Sculptor 65
WOLFGANG MOZART Composer 72
SAMUEL JOHNSON Author 83
OLIVER GOLDSMITH Poet and Writer 90
MICHAEL FARADAY Scientist 96
Sir HENRY BESSEMER Maker of Steel 112
Sir TITUS SALT Philanthropist 124
JOSEPH MARIE JACQUARD Silk Weaver 130
HORACE GREELEY Editor 138
WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON Reformer 156
GIUSEPPE GARIBALDI Patriot 172
JEAN PAUL RICHTER Novelist 187
LEON GAMBETTA Statesman 204
DAVID G. FARRAGUT Sailor 219
EZRA CORNELL Mechanic 238
Lieut.-General SHERIDAN Soldier 251
THOMAS COLE Painter 270
OLE BULL Violinist 284
MEISSONIER Artist 303
GEO. W. CHILDS Journalist 313
DWIGHT L. MOODY Evangelist 323
ABRAHAM LINCOLN President 342
[Illustration: GEORGE PEABODY.]
GEORGE PEABODY.
If America had been asked who were to be her most munificent givers in
the nineteenth century, she would scarcely have pointed to two grocer's
boys, one in a little country store at Danvers, Mass., the other in
Baltimore; both poor, both uneducated; the one leaving seven millions to
Johns Hopkins University and Hospital, the other nearly nine millions to
elevate humanity. George Peabody was born in Danvers, Feb. 18, 1795. His
parents were respectable, hard-working people, whose scanty income
afforded little education for their children. George grew up an
obedient, faithful son, called a "mother-boy" by his companions, from
his devotion to her,--a title of which any boy may well be proud.
At eleven years of age he must go out into the world to earn his living.
Doubtless his mother wished to keep her child in school; but there was
no money. A place was found with a Mr. Proctor in a grocery-store, and
here, for four years, he worked day by day, giving his earnings to his
mother, and winning esteem for his promptness and honesty. But the boy
at fifteen began to grow ambitious. He longed for a larger store and a
broader field. Going with his maternal grandfather to Thetford, Vt., he
remained a year, when he came back to work for his brother in a
dry-goods store in Newburyport. Perhaps now in this larger town his
ambition would be satisfied, when, lo! the store burned, and George was
thrown out of employment.
His father had died, and he was without a dollar in the world. Ambition
seemed of little use now. However, an uncle in Georgetown, D.C., hearing
that the boy needed work, sent for him, and thither he went for two
years. Here he made many friends, and won trade, by his genial manner
and respectful bearing. His tact was unusual. He never wounded the
feelings of a buyer of goods, never tried him with unnecessary talk,
never seemed impatient, and was punctual to the minute. Perhaps no one
trait is more desirable than the latter. A person who breaks his
appointments, or keeps others waiting for him, loses friends, and
business success as well.
A young man's habits are always observed. If he is worthy, and has
energy, the world has a place for him, and sooner or later he will find
it. A wholesale dry-goods dealer, Mr. Riggs, had been watching young
Peabody. He desired a partner of energy, perseverance, and honesty.
Calling on the young clerk, he asked him to put his labor against his,
Mr. Riggs's, capital. "But I am only nineteen years of age," was the
reply.
This was considered no objection, and the partnership was formed. A year
later, the business was moved to Baltimore. The boyish partner travelled
on horseback through the western wilds of New York, Pennsylvania,
| 2,582.181209 |
2023-11-16 19:00:06.2608920 | 6,125 | 13 |
E-text prepared by Charlie Howard, sp1nd, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive (http://archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 40923-h.htm or 40923-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/40923/40923-h/40923-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/40923/40923-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
http://archive.org/details/cu31924028287724
BRITISH POLITICAL LEADERS
* * * * *
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._
IN THE
"Story of the Nations" Series.
Each volume large crown 8vo, cloth, fully Illustrated, 5s.
MODERN ENGLAND BEFORE THE REFORM BILL.
MODERN ENGLAND UNDER QUEEN VICTORIA.
_IN PREPARATION._
PORTRAITS OF THE SIXTIES.
Demy 8vo, cloth, Illustrated, 16s.
LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Photograph copyright by Elliott & Fry
ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR]
BRITISH POLITICAL LEADERS
by
JUSTIN McCARTHY
With Portraits
[Illustration]
London
T. Fisher Unwin
Paternoster Square
1903
[All rights reserved.]
CONTENTS
1. ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR 1
2. LORD SALISBURY 25
3. LORD ROSEBERY 49
4. JOSEPH CHAMBERLAIN 73
5. HENRY LABOUCHERE 99
6. JOHN MORLEY 125
7. LORD ABERDEEN 151
8. JOHN BURNS 177
9. SIR MICHAEL HICKS-BEACH 203
10. JOHN E. REDMOND 229
11. SIR WILLIAM HARCOURT 255
12. JAMES BRYCE 281
13. SIR HENRY CAMPBELL-BANNERMAN 307
ARTHUR JAMES BALFOUR
My first acquaintance with Mr. Arthur J. Balfour, who recently became
Prime Minister of King Edward VII., was made in the earliest days of my
experience as a member of the House of Commons. The Fourth party, as it
was called, had just been formed under the inspiration of the late Lord
Randolph Churchill. The Fourth party was a new political enterprise. The
House of Commons up to that time contained three regular and recognized
political parties--the supporters of the Government, the supporters of
the Opposition, and the members of the Irish Nationalist party, of whom
I was one. Lord Randolph Churchill created a Fourth party, the business
of which was to act independently alike of the Government, the
Opposition, and the Irish Nationalists. At the time when I entered
Parliament the Conservatives were in power, and Conservative statesmen
occupied the Treasury Bench. The members of Lord Randolph's party were
all Conservatives so far as general political principles were concerned,
but Lord Randolph's idea was to lead a number of followers who should be
prepared and ready to speak and vote against any Government proposal
which they believed to be too conservative or not conservative enough;
to support the Liberal Opposition in the rare cases when they thought
the Opposition was in the right; and to support the Irish Nationalists
when they believed that these were unfairly dealt with, or when they
believed, which happened much more frequently, that to support the
Irishmen would be an annoyance to the party in power.
The Fourth party was made up of numbers exactly corresponding with the
title which had been given to it. Four men, including the leader,
constituted the whole strength of this little army. These men were Lord
Randolph Churchill, Arthur J. Balfour, John Gorst (now Sir John Gorst),
and Sir Henry Drummond Wolff, who has during more recent years withdrawn
altogether from parliamentary life and given himself up to diplomacy, in
which he has won much honorable distinction. Sir John Gorst has recently
held office in the Government, and is believed to have given and felt
little satisfaction in his official career. He is a man of great ability
and acquirements, but these have been somewhat thrown away in the
business of administration.
The Fourth Party certainly did much to make the House of Commons a
lively place. Its members were always in attendance--the whole four of
them--and no one ever knew where, metaphorically, to place them. They
professed and made manifest open scorn for the conventionalities of
party life, and the parliamentary whips never knew when they could be
regarded as supporters or opponents. They were all effective debaters,
all ready with sarcasm and invective, all sworn foes to dullness and
routine, all delighting in any opportunity for obstructing and
bewildering the party which happened to be in power. The members of the
Fourth party had each of them a distinct individuality, although they
invariably acted together and were never separated in the division
lobbies. A member of the House of Commons likened them once in a speech
to D'Artagnan and his Three Musketeers, as pictured in the immortal
pages of the elder Dumas. John Gorst he described as Porthos, Sir Henry
Drummond Wolff as Athos, and Arthur Balfour as the sleek and subtle
Aramis. When I entered Parliament I was brought much into companionship
with the members of this interesting Fourth party. One reason for this
habit of intercourse was that we sat very near to one another on the
benches of the House. The members of the Irish Nationalist party then,
as now, always sat on the side of the Opposition, no matter what
Government happened to be in power, for the principle of the Irish
Nationalists is to regard themselves as in perpetual opposition to every
Government so long as Ireland is deprived of her own national
legislature. Soon after I entered the House a Liberal Government was the
result of a general election, and the Fourth party, as habitually
conservative, sat on the Opposition benches. The Fourth party gave
frequent support to the Irish Nationalists in their endeavors to resist
and obstruct Government measures, and we therefore came into habitual
intercourse, and even comradeship, with Lord Randolph Churchill and his
small band of followers.
Arthur Balfour bore little resemblance, in appearance, in manners, in
debating qualities, and apparently in mould of intellect, to any of the
three men with whom he was then constantly allied. He was tall,
slender, pale, graceful, with something of an almost feminine
attractiveness in his bearing, although he was as ready, resolute, and
stubborn a fighter as any one of his companions in arms. He had the
appearance and the ways of a thoughtful student and scholar, and one
would have associated him rather with a college library or a professor's
chair than with the rough and boisterous ways of the House of Commons.
He seemed to have come from another world of thought and feeling into
that eager, vehement, and sometimes rather uproarious political
assembly. Unlike his uncle, Lord Salisbury, he was known to enjoy social
life, but he was especially given to that select order of aesthetic
social life which was "sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought," a
form of life which was rather fashionable in society just then. But it
must have been clear even to the most superficial observer that he had a
decided gift of parliamentary capacity. He was a fluent and a ready
speaker and could bear an effective part in any debate at a moment's
notice, but he never declaimed, never indulged in any flight of
eloquence, and seldom raised his clear and musical voice much above the
conversational pitch. His choice of language was always happy and
telling, and he often expressed himself in characteristic phrases which
lived in the memory and passed into familiar quotation. He had won some
distinction as a writer by his "Defense of Philosophic Doubt," by a
volume of "Essays and Addresses," and more lately by his work entitled
"The Foundations of Belief." The first and last of these books were
inspired by a graceful and easy skepticism which had in it nothing
particularly destructive to the faith of any believer, but aimed only at
the not difficult task of proving that a doubting ingenuity can raise
curious cavils from the practical and argumentative point of view
against one creed as well as against another. The world did not take
these skeptical ventures very seriously, and they were for the most part
regarded as the attempts of a clever young man to show how much more
clever he was than the ordinary run of believing mortals. Balfour's
style was clear and vigorous, and people read the essays because of the
writer's growing position in political life, and out of curiosity to see
how the rising young statesman could display himself as the avowed
advocate of philosophic skepticism.
Arthur Balfour took a conspicuous part in the attack made upon the
Liberal Government in 1882 on the subject of the once famous Kilmainham
Treaty. The action which he took in this instance was avowedly inspired
by a desire to embarrass and oppose the Government because of the
compromise into which it had endeavored to enter with Charles Stewart
Parnell for some terms of agreement as to the manner in which
legislation in Ireland ought to be administered. The full history of
what was called the Kilmainham Treaty has not, so far as I know, been
ever correctly given to the public, and it is not necessary, when
surveying the political career of Mr. Balfour, to enter into any
lengthened explanation on the subject. Mr. Parnell was in prison at the
time when the arrangement was begun, and those who were in his
confidence were well aware that he was becoming greatly alarmed as to
the state of Ireland under the rule of the late W. E. Forster, who was
then Chief Secretary to the Lord Lieutenant, and under whose operations
leading Irishmen were thrown into prison on no definite charge, but
because their general conduct left them open in the mind of the Chief
Secretary to the suspicion that their public agitation was likely to
bring about a rebellious movement. Parnell began to fear that the state
of the country would become worse and worse if every popular movement
were to be forcibly repressed at the time when the leaders in whom the
Irish people had full confidence were kept in prison and their guidance,
control, and authority withdrawn from the work of pacification. The
proposed arrangement, whether begun by Mr. Parnell himself or suggested
to him by members of his own party or of the English Radical party, was
simply an understanding that if the leading Irishmen were allowed to
return to their public work the country might at least be kept in peace
while English Liberalism was devising some measures for the better
government of Ireland. The arrangement was in every sense creditable
alike to Parnell and to the English Liberals who were anxious to
cooperate with him in such a purpose. But it led to some disturbance in
Mr. Gladstone's government and to Mr. Forster's resignation of his
office. In 1885, when the Conservatives again came into power and formed
a government, Balfour was appointed President of the Local Government
Board and afterwards became Chief Secretary to the Lord Lieutenant--in
other words, Chief Secretary for Ireland. He had to attempt a difficult,
or rather, it should be said, an impossible task, and he got through it
about as well as, or as badly as, any other man could have done whose
appointed mission was to govern Ireland on Tory principles for the
interests of the landlords and by the policy of coercion.
Balfour, it should be said, was never, even at that time, actually
unpopular with the Irish National party. We all understood quite well
that his own heart did not go with the sort of administrative work which
was put upon him; his manners were always courteous, agreeable, and
graceful; he had a keen, quiet sense of humor, was on good terms
personally with the leading Irish members, and never showed any
inclination to make himself needlessly or wantonly offensive to his
opponents. He was always readily accessible to any political opponent
who had any suggestion to make, and his term of office as Chief
Secretary, although of necessity quite unsuccessful for any practical
good, left no memories of rancor behind it in the minds of those whom he
had to oppose and to confront. More lately he became First Lord of the
Treasury and Leader of the House of Commons, and the remainder of his
public career is too well known to call for any detailed description
here. My object in this article is rather to give a living picture of
the man himself as we all saw him in public life than to record in
historical detail the successive steps by which he ascended to his
present high position, or rather, it should be said, of the successive
events which brought that place within his reach and made it necessary
for him to accept it. For it is only fair to say that, so far as outer
observers could judge, Mr. Balfour never made his career a struggle for
high positions. So clever and gifted a man must naturally have had some
ambition in the public field to which he had devoted so absolutely his
time and his talents. But he seemed, so far as one could judge, to have
in him none of the self-seeking qualities which are commonly seen in the
man whose purpose is to make his parliamentary work the means of
arriving at the highest post in the government of the State. On the
contrary, his whole demeanor seemed to be rather that of one who is
devoting himself unwillingly to a career not quite congenial. He always
appeared to me to be essentially a man of literary, scholarly, and even
retiring tastes, who has a task forced upon him which he does not feel
quite free to decline, and who therefore strives to make the best of a
career which he has not chosen, but from which he does not feel at
liberty to turn away. Most men who have attained the same political
position give one the idea that they feel a positive delight in
parliamentary life and warfare, and that nature must have designed them
for that particular field and for none other. The joy in the strife
which men like Palmerston, like Disraeli, and like Gladstone evidently
felt never showed itself in the demeanor of Arthur Balfour. There was
always something in his manner which spoke of a shy and shrinking
disposition, and he never appeared to enter into debate for the mere
pleasure of debating. He gave the idea of one who would much rather not
make a speech were he altogether free to please himself in the matter,
and as if he were only constraining himself to undertake a duty which
most of those around him were but too glad to have an opportunity of
attempting.
There are instances, no doubt, of men gifted with an absolute genius for
eloquent speech who have had no natural inclination for debate and would
rather have been free from any necessity for entering into the war of
words. I have heard John Bright say that he would never make a speech if
he did not feel it a duty imposed upon him, and that he would never
enter the House of Commons if he felt free to keep away from its
debates. Yet Bright was a born orator and was, on the whole, I think,
the greatest public and parliamentary orator I have ever heard in
England, not excluding even Gladstone himself. Bright had all the
physical qualities of the orator. He had a commanding presence and a
voice of the most marvelous intonation, capable of expressing in musical
sound every emotion which lends itself to eloquence--the impassioned,
the indignant, the pathetic, the appealing, and the humorous. Then I can
recall an instance of another man, not, indeed, endowed with Bright's
superb oratorical gifts, but who had to spend the greater part of his
life since he attained the age of manhood in the making of speeches
within and outside the House of Commons. I am thinking now of Charles
Stewart Parnell. I know well that Parnell would never have made a speech
if he could have avoided the task, and that he even felt a nervous
dislike to the mere putting of a question in the House. But no one
would have known from Bright's manner when he took part in a great
debate that he was not obeying in congenial mood the full instinct and
inclination of a born orator. Nor would a stranger have guessed from
Parnell's clear, self-possessed, and precise style of speaking that he
was putting a severe constraint upon himself when he made up his mind to
engage in parliamentary debate. There is something in Arthur Balfour's
manner as a speaker which occasionally reminds me of Parnell and his
style. The two men had the same quiet, easy, and unconcerned fashion of
utterance, always choosing the most appropriate word and finding it
without apparent difficulty; each man seemed, as I have already said of
Balfour, to be thinking aloud rather than trying to convince the
listeners; each man spoke as if resolved not to waste any words or to
indulge in any appeal to the mere emotions of the audience. But the
natural reluctance to take any part in debate was always more
conspicuous in the manner of Balfour than even in that of Parnell.
Balfour is a man of many and varied tastes and pursuits. He is an
advocate of athleticism and is especially distinguished for his devotion
to the game of golf. He obtained at one time a certain reputation in
London society because of the interest he took in some peculiar phases
of fanciful intellectual inventiveness. He was for a while a leading
member, if not the actual inventor, of a certain order of psychical
research whose members were described as The Souls. More than one
novelist of the day made picturesque use of this singular order and
enlivened the pages of fiction by fancy portraits of its leading
members. Such facts as these did much to prevent Balfour from being
associated in the public mind with only the rivalries of political
parties and the incidents of parliamentary warfare. One sometimes came
into social circles where Balfour was regarded chiefly as the man of
literary tastes and somewhat eccentric intellectual developments. All
this cast a peculiar reflection over his career as a politician and
filled many observers with the idea that he was only playing at
parliamentary life, and that his other occupations were the genuine
realities for him. Even to this day there are some who persist in
believing that Balfour, despite his prolonged and unvarying attention to
his parliamentary duties, has never given his heart to the prosaic and
practical work of administrative office and the business of maintaining
his political party. Yet it has always had to be acknowledged that no
man attended more carefully and more closely to such work when he had to
do it, and that the most devoted worshiper of political success could
not have been more regular and constant in his attention to the business
of the House of Commons. People said that he was lazy by nature, that he
loved long hours of sleep and of general rest, and that he detested the
methodical and mechanical routine of official work. But I have not known
any Minister of State who was more easy of approach and more ready to
enter into the driest details of departmental business than Arthur
Balfour. I may say, too, that, whenever appeal was made to him to
forward any good work or to do any act of kindness, he was always to be
found at his post and was ever ready to lend a helping hand if he could.
I remember one instance of this kind which I have no hesitation in
mentioning, although I am quite sure Mr. Balfour had little inclination
for its obtaining publicity. Not very many years ago it was brought to
my knowledge that an English literary woman who had won much and
deserved distinction as a novel-writer had been for some time sinking
into ill health, had been therefore prevented from going on with her
work, and had in the mean time been perplexed by worldly difficulties
and embarrassments which interfered sadly with her prospects and made
her a subject of well-merited sympathy. Some friends of the authoress
were naturally anxious, if possible, to give her a helping hand, and the
idea occurred to them that she would be a most fitting recipient of
assistance to be bestowed by a department of the State. One of her
friends, himself a distinguished novelist, who happened to be also a
friend of mine, spoke to me with this object, assuming that, as an old
parliamentary hand, I knew more than most writers of books would be
likely to know about the manner in which such help might be obtained.
There is in England a fund--a very small fund, truly--at the disposal of
the Government for the help of deserving authors who happen to be in
distress. This fund is at the disposal of the First Lord of the
Treasury, the office which was then, as now, held by Arthur Balfour. I
was still at that time a member of the House of Commons, and my friend
suggested that, as I knew something about the whole business, I might be
a suitable person to represent the case to the First Lord of the
Treasury and make appeal for his assistance. My friend's belief was that
the application might come with more effect from one who had been for a
long time a member of Parliament, and whose name would therefore be
known to the First Lord of the Treasury, than from a literary man who
had nothing to do with parliamentary life. Nothing could give me greater
pleasure than to become the medium through which the appeal might be
brought under the notice of the First Lord, but I felt some difficulty
and doubt because of the conditions of the time. England was then in the
most distracting period of the South African war. We were hearing every
day of fresh mishaps and disasters in the campaign. Arthur Balfour was
Leader of the House of Commons, and had to deal every day with
questions, with demands for explanation, with arguments and debates
turning on the events of the war. It seemed to me to be rather a
venturesome enterprise to attempt to gain the attention of a minister
thus perplexingly occupied for a matter of merely private and individual
concern. I feared that an overworked statesman might feel naturally
inclined to remit the subject to the care of some mere official, and
that time might thus be lost and the needed helping hand be long
delayed. I undertook the task, however, and I wrote to Mr. Balfour at
once. I received the very next day a reply written in Mr. Balfour's own
hand, expressing his cordial willingness to consider the subject, his
sympathy with the purpose of the appeal, and his hope that some help
might be given to the distressed novelist. Mr. Balfour promptly took the
matter in hand, and the result was that a grant was made from the State
fund to secure the novelist against any actual distress. Now, I do not
want to make too much of this act of ready kindness done by Mr. Balfour.
The appeal was made for a most deserving object; the fund from which
help was to be given was entirely at Mr. Balfour's disposal; and it is
probable that any other First Lord in the same circumstances would have
come to the same decision. But how easy it would have been for Mr.
Balfour to put the whole matter into the hands of some subordinate, and
not to add a new trouble to his own intensely busy life at such an
exciting crisis by entering into the close consideration of a mere
question of State beneficence! I certainly should not have been
surprised if I had not received an answer to my letter for several days
after I had sent it, and if even then it had come from some subordinate
in the Government department. But in the midst of all his incessant and
distracting occupations at a most exciting period of public business Mr.
Balfour found time to consider the question himself, to reply with his
own hand, and to see that the desired help was promptly accorded. I must
say that I think this short passage of personal history speaks highly
for the kindly nature and the sympathetic promptitude of Arthur Balfour.
For a long time there had been much speculation in these countries
concerning the probable successor to Lord Salisbury, whenever Lord
Salisbury should make up his mind to resign the position of Prime
Minister. We all knew that that resignation was sure to come soon,
although very few of us had any idea that it was likely to come quite so
soon. The general opinion was that the country would not be expected,
for some time at least, to put up again with a Prime Minister in the
House of Lords. If, therefore, the new Prime Minister had to be found in
the House of Commons, there seemed to be only a choice between two men,
Arthur Balfour and Joseph Chamberlain. It would be hard to find two men
in the House of Commons more unlike each other in characteristic
qualities and in training than these two. They are both endowed with
remarkable capacity for political life and for parliamentary debate,
"but there," as Byron says concerning two of whom one was a Joseph, "I
doubt all likeness ends between the pair." Balfour is an aristocrat of
aristocrats; Chamberlain is essentially a man of the British middle
class--even what is generally called the lower middle class. Balfour has
gone through all the regular course of university education; Chamberlain
was for a short time at University College School in London, a popular
institution of modern origin which does most valuable educational work,
but is not largely patronized by the classes who claim aristocratic
position. Balfour is a constant reader and student of many literatures
and languages; "Mr. Chamberlain," according to a leading article in a
London daily newspaper, "to put it mildly, is not a bookworm." Balfour
loves open-air sports and is a votary of athleticism; Chamberlain never
takes any exercise, even walking exercise, when he can possibly avoid
the trouble. Balfour is an aesthetic lover of all the arts; Chamberlain
has never, so far as I know, given the slightest indication of interest
in any artistic subject. Balfour is by nature a modest and retiring man;
Chamberlain is always "Pushful Joe." The stamp and character of a
successful municipal politician are always evident in Chamberlain, while
Balfour seems to be above all other things the university scholar and
member of high society. I suppose it must have been a profound
disappointment to Chamberlain that he was not offered the place of Prime
Minister, but it would be hardly fair to expect that such a place would
not be offered to the First Lord of the Treasury and Leader of the House
of Commons, even if that First Lord did not happen to be a nephew of the
retiring Prime Minister.
It would be idle just now to enter into any speculation as to whether
Mr. Arthur Balfour will long continue to hold the office. If he should
make up his mind, as was at one time thought possible by many observers,
to accept a peerage and become Prime Minister in the House of Lords,
such a step would undoubtedly be a means of pacifying the partisans of
Chamberlain, for Chamberlain would then become, almost as a matter of
course, the leader of the Conservative government in the House of
Commons, and this elevation might well satisfy his ambition and give his
pushful energy work | 2,582.280932 |
2023-11-16 19:00:06.2683570 | 1,135 | 10 |
Produced by David Edwards, Demian Katz and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Images
courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University
(http://digital.library.villanova.edu/))
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING
ADVENTURE
MOTOR
FICTION
NO. 7
APR. 10, 1909
FIVE
CENTS
MOTOR MATT'S
CLUE
THE PHANTOM
AUTO
_by STANLEY R. MATTHEWS_.
[Illustration: "Look a leedle oudt!" yelled
Carl, as Motor Matt made a
quick jump for the phantom
auto.]
_STREET & SMITH,
PUBLISHERS,
NEW YORK._
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
_Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Entered according to
Act of Congress in the year 1909, in the Office of the Librarian of
Congress, Washington, D. C., by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Avenue,
New York, N. Y._
No. 7. NEW YORK, April 10, 1909. Price Five Cents.
Motor Matt's Clue;
OR,
THE PHANTOM AUTO.
By the author of "MOTOR MATT."
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. A NIGHT MYSTERY.
CHAPTER II. DICK FERRAL.
CHAPTER III. LA VITA PLACE.
CHAPTER IV. THE HOUSE OF WONDER.
CHAPTER V. SERCOMB.
CHAPTER VI. THE PHANTOM AUTO AGAIN.
CHAPTER VII. SURROUNDED BY ENEMIES.
CHAPTER VIII. THE KETTLE CONTINUES TO BOIL.
CHAPTER IX. ORDERED AWAY.
CHAPTER X. A NEW PLAN.
CHAPTER XI. A DARING LEAP.
CHAPTER XII. DESPERATE VILLAINY.
CHAPTER XIII. TIPPOO.
CHAPTER XIV. IN THE NICK OF TIME.
CHAPTER XV. A STARTLING INTERRUPTION.
CHAPTER XVI. THE PRICE OF TREACHERY.
CHAPTER XVII. THE LUCK OF DICK FERRAL.
BILL, THE BOUND BOY.
A WINTER STORY OF COLORADO.
CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.
=Matt King=, concerning whom there has always been a mystery--a lad
of splendid athletic abilities, and never-failing nerve, who has won
for himself, among the boys of the Western town, the popular name of
"Mile-a-minute Matt."
=Carl Pretzel=, a cheerful and rollicking German lad, who is led by a
fortunate accident to hook up with Motor Matt in double harness.
=Uncle Jack=, a wealthy Englishman, with ways and means of his own
for accomplishing things, who leads a hermit's life in the wilds of
New Mexico.
=Dick Ferral=, a Canadian boy and a favorite of Uncle Jack; has
served his time in the King's navy, and bobs up in New Mexico where
he falls into plots and counter-plots, and comes near losing his life.
=Ralph Sercomb=, a cousin of Dick Ferral, and whose sly, treacherous
nature is responsible for Dick's troubles.
=Joe Mings=, } three unscrupulous friends of Sercomb, all
=Harry Packard=,} motor-drivers, and who come from Denver to help
=Balt Finn=, } Sercomb in his nefarious plans.
CHAPTER I.
A NIGHT MYSTERY.
"Oh, py shiminy! Look at dere, vonce! Vat it iss, Matt? Br-r-r! I feel
like I vould t'row some fits righdt on der shpot! It's a shpook, you
bed you!"
A strange event was going forward, there under the moon and stars of
that New Mexico night. The wagon-road followed the base of a clifflike
bank, and at the outer edge of the road there was a precipitous fall
into Stygian darkness.
A second road entered the first through a narrow gully. A few yards
beyond the point where the thoroughfares joined an automobile was
halted, its twin acetylene lamps gleaming like the eyes of some fabled
monster in the semigloom.
Two boys were on the front seat of the automobile, and one of them had
leaned over and gripped the arm of the lad who had his hands on the
steering-wheel. The eyes of the two in the car were staring ahead.
What the boys saw was sufficiently startling, in all truth.
Out of the gully, directly in advance of them, had rolled a white
automobile--springing ghostlike out of the darkness as it came under
the glare of the acetylene lights.
The white car was a runabout, with two seats in front and an abnormally
high deck behind. It carried no lamps, moved with weird silence, and,
strangest of all, _there was no one | 2,582.288397 |
2023-11-16 19:00:06.3617320 | 608 | 22 |
Produced by Michael Ciesielski, Christine D. and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Transcriber's notes:
Original spelling and puctuation were retained, including u/v and
i/j substitution. Text has been put on the left side of the dividing
line and notes on the right to make the plain text version easier to
work with. Some of the Latin note text was illegible, many thanks to
the Distributed Proofreaders Volunteers who helped look up the
references in various internet sources.]
THE PRAISE OF A
GODLY WOMAN.
A Sermon preached at the Solemne Funerall
of the Right Honourable Ladie, the Ladie
FRANCES ROBERTS, at _Lanhide-rock-Church_
in _Cornwall_ the tenth of
August, 1626.
By
HANNIBALL GAMON, Minister of the word
of God, at S^t. _Maugan_ in the same Countie.
_1 Cor. 4. 5._
Therefore iudge nothing before the time, vntill the Lord come, who
will bring to light the hidden things of darknesse, and will manifest
the counsells of the hearts, and then shall euery man haue praise of
God.
_Galath. 3. 28._
{ Neither Iew nor Greek,
There is { Neither Bond nor Free,
{ Neither Male nor Female, for yee are all one in Christ Iesus.
S^t. Hierom. Eustoch.
_----In seruitute Christi nequaquam Differentia sexuum valet,
sed mentium._
Idem ad Principiam.
_Non facie vllam inter Sanctas Feminas Differentiam, quod Nonnulli
inter Sanctos Viros & Ecclesiarum Principes, stulte facere
consueverunt._
LONDON,
Printed by _I.H._ for _Iohn Grismond_, and are to be sold at his shop in
_Ivie-Lane_ at the signe of the Gunne. 1627.
TO THE TRVLY
NOBLE IOHN ROBERTS,
Son and Heire to the Right
Honourable RICHARD _Lord_ ROBERTS
of _Truro_: the Vnualuable Riches of
sincere Grace here, and of Eternall
Glory hereafter.
HONOVRABLE SIR,
Although it bee true (which a |
worthy Diuine[a] obserueth) that | [Note a: M^r. _Bolter_ | 2,582.381772 |
2023-11-16 19:00:06.4616420 | 210 | 22 |
Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
[Illustration]
_THE REPENTANT HUSBAND_
_Jacques no longer had the strength to spurn him; Edouard approached
Adeline and threw himself at her feet, placing his head against the
ground, and sobbing piteously._
NOVELS
BY
Paul de Kock
VOLUME XVII
BROTHER JACQUES
[Illustration: PRINTED BY ARRANGEMENT WITH
GEORGE BARRIE'S SONS]
THE JEFFERSON PRESS
BOSTON NEW YORK
I
A WEDDING PARTY AT THE CADRAN-BLEU.--THE MURVILLE FAMILY
It is midnight; whence come these joyful shouts, these bursts of
laughter, these outcries, this music, this singing, this uproar? | 2,582.481682 |
2023-11-16 19:00:06.8604720 | 1,827 | 25 |
Produced by David Edwards, Emmy and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
DEAR ENEMY
DADDY LONG LEGS
JUST PATTY
PATTY AND PRISCILLA
THE FOUR POOLS MYSTERY
JERRY
MUCH ADO ABOUT PETER
LONDON
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE
WHEAT PRINCESS
By
JEAN WEBSTER
Author of 'Daddy Long Legs,' 'Just Patty,' 'Dear Enemy'
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LIMITED LONDON
------------------------------------------------------------------------
O. HENRY
"The time is coming, let us hope, when the whole
English-speaking world will recognise in O. HENRY one
of the greatest masters of modern fiction."
STEPHEN LEACOCK.
HODDER & STOUGHTON publish all the
books by O. HENRY in their famous
Popular Series
THE FOUR MILLION
THE TRIMMED LAMP
SIXES AND SEVENS
STRICTLY BUSINESS
ROADS OF DESTINY
CABBAGES AND KINGS
HEART OF THE WEST
THE GENTLE GRAFTER
OPTIONS
WHIRLIGIGS
THE VOICE OF THE CITY
ROLLING STONES
Cloth
LONDON: HODDER AND STOUGHTON
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PROLOGUE
IF you leave the city by the Porta Maggiore and take the Via
Praenestina, which leads east into the Sabine hills, at some thirty-six
kilometers' distance from Rome you will pass on your left a grey-walled
village climbing up the hillside. This is Palestrina, the old Roman
Praeneste; and a short distance beyond--also on the left--you will find
branching off from the straight Roman highway a steep mountain road,
which, if you stick to it long enough, will take you, after many
windings, to Castel Madama and Tivoli.
Several kilometers along this road you will see shooting up from a bare
crag above you a little stone hamlet crowned by the ruins of a
mediaeval fortress. The town--Castel Vivalanti--was built in the days
when a stronghold was more to be thought of than a water-supply, and
its people, from habit or love, or perhaps sheer necessity, have lived
on there ever since, going down in the morning to their work in the
plain and toiling up at night to their homes on the hill. So steep is
its site that the doorway of one house looks down on the roof of the
house below, and its narrow stone streets are in reality flights of
stairs. The only approach is from the front, by a road which winds and
unwinds like a serpent and leads at last to the Porta della Luna,
through which all of the traffic enters the town. The gate is
ornamented with the crest of the Vivalanti--a phoenix rising out of the
flame, supported by a heavy machicolated top, from which, in the old
days, stones and burning oil might be dropped upon the heads of the
unwelcome guests.
The town is a picturesque little affair--it would be hard to find a
place more so in the Sabine villages, it is very, very poor. In the
march of the centuries it has fallen out of step and been left far
behind; to look at it, one would scarcely dream that on the clear days
the walls and towers of modern Rome are in sight on the horizon. But in
its time Castel Vivalanti was not insignificant. This little hamlet has
entertained history within its walls. It has bodily outfaced robber
barons and papal troops. It has been besieged and conquered, and, alas,
betrayed--and that by its own prince. Twice has it been razed to the
ground and twice rebuilt. In one way or another, though, it has
weathered the centuries, and it stands to-day grey and forlorn,
clustering about the walls of its donjon and keep.
Castel Vivalanti, as in the middle ages, still gives the title to a
Roman prince. The house of Vivalanti was powerful in its day, and the
princes may often be met with--not always to their credit--in the
history of the Papal States. They were oftener at war than at peace
with the holy see, and there is the story of one pope who spent four
weary months watching the view from a very small window in Vivalanti's
donjon. But, in spite of their unholy quarrels, they were at times
devout enough, and twice a cardinal's hat has been worn in the family.
The house of late years has dwindled somewhat, both in fortune and
importance; but, nevertheless, Vivalanti is a name which is still
spoken with respect among the old nobles of Rome.
The lower <DW72>s of the hill on which the village stands are well
wooded and green with stone-pines and cypresses, olive orchards and
vineyards. Here the princes built their villas when the wars with the
popes were safely at an end and they could risk coming down from their
stronghold on the mountain. The old villa was built about a mile below
the town, and the gardens were laid out in terraces and parterres along
the <DW72> of the hill. It has long been in ruin, but its foundations
still stand, and the plan of the gardens may easily be traced. You will
see the entrance at the left of the road--a massive stone gateway
topped with moss-covered urns and a double row of cone-shaped cypresses
bordering a once stately avenue now grown over with weeds. If you pause
for a moment--and you cannot help doing so--you will see, between the
portals at the end of the avenue, some crumbling arches, and even, if
your eyes are good, the fountain itself.
Any contadino that you meet on the road will tell you the story of the
old Villa Vivalanti and the 'Bad Prince' who was (by the grace of God)
murdered two centuries ago. He will tell you--a story not uncommon in
Italy--of storehouses bursting with grain while the peasants were
starving, and of how, one moonlight night, as the prince was strolling
on the terrace contentedly pondering his wickednesses of the day, a
peasant from his own village up on the mountain, creeping behind him,
quiet as a cat, stabbed him in the back and dropped his body in the
fountain. He will tell you how the light from the burning villa was
seen as far as Rocca di Papa in the Alban hills; and he will add, with
a laugh and a shrug, that some people say when the moon is full the old
prince comes back and sits on the edge of the fountain and thinks of
his sins, but that, for himself, he thinks it an old woman's tale.
Whereupon he will cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the dark
shadow of the cypresses and covertly cross himself as he wishes you,
'_A revederla_.'
You cannot wonder that the young prince (two centuries ago) did not
build his new villa on the site of the old; for even had he, like the
brave contadino, cared nothing for ghosts, still it was scarcely a
hallowed spot, and lovers would not care to stroll by the fountain. So
it happens that you must travel some distance further along the same
road before you reach the gates of the new villa, built anno domini
1693, in the pontificate of his Holiness Innocent XII. Here you will
find no gloomy cypresses: the approach is bordered by spreading
plane-trees. The villa itself is a rambling affair, and, though
slightly time-worn, is still decidedly imposing, with its various
wings, its balconies and loggia and marble terrace.
The new villa--for such one must call | 2,582.880512 |
2023-11-16 19:00:06.9645150 | 359 | 7 |
Produced by David Edwards, Ryan Cowell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
BOOKS BY ELSIE SINGMASTER
When Sarah Saved the Day
When Sarah Went to School
Gettysburg
Katy Gaumer
Emmeline
The Long Journey
The Life of Martin Luther
John Baring's House
Basil Everman
Ellen Levis
Bennett Malin
The Hidden Road
A Boy at Gettysburg
Bred in the Bone
Keller's Anna Ruth
'Sewing Susie'
What Everybody Wanted
Virginia's Bandit
You Make Your Own Luck
A Little Money Ahead
WHEN SARAH SAVED
THE DAY
[Illustration: SARAH DID NOT SPEAK, SHE ONLY HID HER EYES (page 126)]
WHEN SARAH SAVED
THE DAY
BY ELSIE SINGMASTER
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY ELSIE SINGMASTER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED INCLUDING THE RIGHT TO REPRODUCE
THIS BOOK OR PARTS THEREOF IN ANY FORM
_Published October 1909_
PRINTED IN THE U.S.A.
TO CAROLINE HOOPES SINGMASTER
CONTENTS
I. Uncle Daniel's Offer 1
II. The Rebels take to Arms | 2,582.984555 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.0596960 | 19 | 43 |
Produced by Project Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
Miss Theodosia's Heartstrings | 2,583.079736 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.1365870 | 3,273 | 13 |
Produced by David Schwan. HTML version by Al Haines.
California
Romantic and Resourceful
A plea for the Collection Preservation and Diffusion of Information
Relating to Pacific Coast History
By
John F. Davis
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.--David Starr Jordan in "California and the
Californians."
As we transmit our institutions, so we shall transmit our blood and our
names to future ages and populations. What altitudes shall throng these
shores, what cities shall gem the borders of the sea! Here all peoples
and all tongues shall meet. Here shall be a more perfect civilization, a
more thorough intellectual development, a firmer faith, a more reverent
worship. Perhaps, as we look back to the struggle of an earlier age, and
mark the steps of our ancestors in the career we have traced, some
thoughtful man of letters in ages yet to come may bring light the
history of this shore or of this day. I am sure, Ludlow citizens, that
whoever shall hereafter read it will perceive that our pride and joy are
dimmed by no stain of selfishness. Our pride is for humanity; our joy is
for the world; and amid all the wonders of past achievement and all the
splendors of present success, we turn with swelling hearts to gaze into
the boundless future, with the earnest conviction that will develop a
universal brotherhood of man.
--E. D. Baker, Atlantic Cable Address.
To
Charles Stetson Wheeler
An Able Advocate
A Good Citizen, A Devoted Husband and Father
A Loyal Friend
This Little Book is
Affectionately Dedicated
Preface
This plea is an arrow shot into the air. It is the result of an address
which I made at Colton Hall, in Monterey, upon the celebration of
Admission Day, 1908, and another which I made at a luncheon meeting of
the Commonwealth Club, at the Palace Hotel, San Francisco, on April 12,
1913. These addresses have been amplified and revised, and certain
statistics contained in them have been brought down to the end of 1913.
In this form they go forth to a larger audience, in the earnest hope
that they may meet a kind reception, and somewhere find a generous
friend.
The subject of Pacific Coast history is one of surpassing interest to
Californians. Some fine additions to our store of knowledge have been
made of late years, notably the treatise of Zoeth S. Eldredge on "The
Beginnings of San Francisco," published by the author, in San Francisco,
in 1912; the treatise of Irving Berdine Richman on "California under
Spain and Mexico, 1535-1847," published by the Houghton Mifflin Company,
of Boston and New York, in 1911; the warm appreciation of E. D. Baker,
by Elijah R. Kennedy, entitled "The Contest for California in 1861,"
published by the Houghton Mifflin Company, in Boston and New York, in
1912; the monumental work on "Missions and Missionaries of California,"
by Fr. Zephyrin Engelhardt, published by the James H. Barry Company, of
San Francisco, 1908-1913, and the "Guide to Materials for the History of
the United States in the Principal Archives of Mexico," by Herbert E.
Bolton, Ph. D., Professor of American History in the University of
California, the publication of which by the Carnegie Institution of
Washington, at Washington, D. C., in 1913, is an event of epochal
historical importance. All of these works and the recent activities in
Spain of Charles E. Chapman, the Traveling Fellow of the University of
California, the publications of the Academy of Pacific Coast History, at
Berkeley, edited by F. J. Teggart, and the forthcoming publication at
San Francisco of "A Bibliography of California and the Pacific West," by
Robert Ernest Cowan, only emphasize the importance of original research
work in Pacific Coast history, and the necessity for prompt action to
preserve the remaining sources of its romantic and inspiring story.
John F. Davis.
San Francisco, July 1, 1914.
Table of Contents
California Romantic and Resourceful
The Love-Story of Concha Argueello
Concepcion Argueello (Bret Harte)
List of Illustrations
Discovery of San Francisco Bay by Portola
Carmel Mission
Sutter's Mill at Coloma
Old Colton Hall and Jail, Monterey
Commodore Sloat's General Order
Comandante's Residence, San Francisco
Baptismal Record of Concepcion Argueello
California Romantic and Resourceful
One of the most important acts of the Grand Parlor of the Native Sons of
the Golden West which met at Lake Tahoe in 1910 was the appropriation of
approximately fifteen hundred dollars for the creation of a traveling
fellowship in Pacific Coast history at the State University. In
pursuance of the resolution adopted, a committee of five was appointed
by the head of the order to confer with the authorities of the
university in the matter of this fellowship. The university authorities
were duly notified, both of the appropriation for the creation of the
fellowship and of the appointment of the committee, and the plan was put
into practical operation. In 1911 this action was reaffirmed, and a
resident fellowship was also created, making an appropriation of three
thousand dollars, which has been repeated each year since. Henry Morse
Stephens, Sather Professor of History, and Herbert E. Bolton, Professor
of American History, and their able assistants in the history department
of the university have hailed with delight this public-spirited movement
on the part of that organization.
The object and design of these fellowships is to aid in the collection,
preservation and publication of information and material relating to the
history of the Pacific Coast. Archives at Queretaro and Mexico City, in
Mexico, at Seville, Simancas and Madrid, in Spain, and in Paris, London
and St. Petersburg are veritable treasure mines of information
concerning our early Pacific Coast history, and the correspondence of
many an old family and the living memory of many an individual pioneer
can still furnish priceless records of a later period. Professor
Stephens has elaborated a practical scheme for making available all
these sources of historical information through the providence of these
fellowships, as far as they reach.
The perpetuation of these traditions, the preservation of this history,
is of the highest importance. Five years ago, at Monterey, upon the
celebration of the anniversary of Admission Day, I took occasion to urge
this view, and I have not ceased to urge it ever since. If we take any
pride in our State, if the tendrils of affection sink into the soil
where our fathers wrought, and where we ourselves abide and shall leave
sons and daughters after us, if we know and feel any appreciation of
local color, or take any interest in the drama of life that is being
enacted on these Western shores, then the preservation of every shred of
it is of vital importance to us--at least as Californians.
The early history of this coast came as an offshoot of a civilization
whose antiquity was already respectable. "A hundred years before John
Smith saw the spot on which was planted Jamestown," says Hubert H.
Bancroft, "thousands from Spain had crossed the high seas, achieving
mighty conquests, seizing large portions of the two Americas and placing
under tribute their peoples."
The past of California possesses a wealth of romantic interest, a
variety of contrast, a novelty of resourcefulness and an intrinsic
importance that enthralls the imagination. I shall not attempt to speak
of the hardship and high endeavor of the splendid band of navigators,
beginning with Cabrillo in 1542, who discovered, explored and reported
on its bays, outlets, rivers and coast line; whose exploits were as
heroic as anything accomplished by the Norsemen in Iceland, or the
circumnavigators of the Cape of Good Hope. I do not desire to picture
the decades of the pastoral life of the hacienda and its broad acres,
that culminated in "the splendid idle forties." I do not intend to
recall the miniature struggles of Church and State, the many political
controversies of the Mexican regime, or the play of plot and counterplot
that made up so much of its history "before the Gringo came." I shall not
try to tell the story of the discovery of gold and its world-thrilling
incidents, nor of the hardships and courage of the emigrant trail, nor
of the importance of the mission of the Pathfinder, and the excitement
of the conquest, each in itself an experience that full to the brim.
Let me rather call attention to three incidents of our history, ignoring
all the rest, to enforce the point of its uniqueness, its variety, its
novelty, its importance, as entitling it to its proper proportionate
place in the history of the nation.
And first of all, the story of the missions. The story of the missions
is the history of the beginning of the colonization of California. The
Spanish Government was desirous of providing its ships, on the return
trip from Manila, with good harbors of supply and repairs, and was also
desirous of promoting a settlement of the north as a safeguard against
possible Russian aggression. The Franciscans, upon the expulsion of the
Jesuits in 1767, had taken charge of the missions, and, in their zeal
for the conversion of the Indians, seconded the plans of the government.
"The official purpose here, as in older mission undertakings," says Dr.
Josiah Royce, "was a union of physical and spiritual conquest, soldiers
under a military governor co-operating to this end with missionaries and
mission establishments. The natives were to be overcome by arms in so
far as they might resist the conquerors, were to be attracted to the
missions by peaceable measures in so far as might prove possible, were
to be instructed in the faith, and were to be kept for the present under
the paternal rule of the clergy, until such time as they might be ready
for a free life as Christian subjects. Meanwhile, Spanish colonists were
to be brought to the new land as circumstances might determine, and, to
these, allotments of land were to be made. No grants of lands, in a
legal sense, were made or promised to the mission establishments, whose
position was to be merely that of spiritual institutions, intrusted with
the education of neophytes, and with the care of the property that
should be given or hereafter produced for the purpose. On the other
hand, if the government tended to regard the missions as purely
subsidiary to its purpose, the outgoing missionaries to this strange
land were so much the more certain to be quite uncorrupted by worldly
ambitions, by a hope of acquiring wealth, or by any intention to found a
powerful ecclesiastical government in the new colony. They went to save
souls, and their motive was as single as it was worthy of reverence. In
the sequel, the more successful missions of Upper California became, for
a time, very wealthy; but this was only by virtue of the gifts of nature
and of the devoted labors of the padres."
Such a scheme of human effort is so unique, and so in contradiction to
much that obtains today, that it seems like a narrative from another
world. Fortunately, the annals of these missions, which ultimately
extended from San Diego to beyond Sonoma--stepping-stones of
civilization on this coast--are complete, and their simple
disinterestedness and directness sound like a tale from Arcady. They
were signally successful because those who conducted them were true to
the trustee-ship of their lives. They cannot be held responsible if they
were unable in a single generation to eradicate in the Indian the
ingrained heredity of shiftlessness of all the generations that had gone
before. It is a source of high satisfaction that there was on the part
of the padres no record of overreaching the simple native, no failure to
respect what rights they claimed, no carnage and bloodshed, that have so
often attended expeditions sent nominally for civilization, but really
for conquest. Here, at least, was one record of missionary endeavor that
came to full fruition and flower, and knew no fear or despair, until it
attracted the attention of the ruthless rapacity and greed of the
Mexican governmental authority crouching behind the project of
secularization. The enforced withdrawal of the paternal hand before the
Indian had learned to stand and walk alone, coupled in some sections
with the dread scourge of pestilential epidemic, wrought dispersion,
decimation and destruction. If, however, the teeming acres are now
otherwise tilled, and if the herds of cattle have passed away and the
communal life is gone forever, the record of what was accomplished in
those pastoral days has linked the name of California with a new and
imperishable architecture, and has immortalized the name of Junipero
Serra[1]. The pathetic ruin at Carmel is a shattered monument above a
grave that will become a world's shrine of pilgrimage in honor of one of
humanity's heroes. The patient soul that here laid down its burden will
not be forgotten. The memory of the brave heart that was here consumed
with love for mankind will live through the ages. And, in a sense, the
work of these missions is not dead--their very ruins still preach the
lesson of service and of sacrifice. As the fishermen off the coast of
Brittany tell the legend that at the evening hour, as their boats pass
over the vanished Atlantis, they can still hear the sounds of its
activity at the bottom of the sea, so every Californian, as he turns the
pages of the early history of his State, feels at times that he can hear
the echo of the Angelus bells of the missions, and amid the din of the
money-madness of these latter days, can find a response in "the better
angels of his nature."
In swift contrast to this idyllic scene, which is shared with us by few
other sections of this country, stands the history of a period where for
nearly two years this State was without authority of American civil law,
and where, in practice, the only authority was such as sprang from the
instinct of self-preservation. No more interesting phase of history in
America can be presented than that which arose in California immediately
after the discovery of gold, with reference to titles upon the public
domain. James W. Marshall made the discovery of gold in the race of a
small mill at Coloma, in the latter part of January, 1848. Thereupon
took place an incident of history which demonstrated that Jason and his
companions were not the only Argonauts | 2,583.156627 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.2593940 | 3,720 | 15 |
Produced by David Widger
THE DIARY OF SAMUEL PEPYS M.A. F.R.S.
CLERK OF THE ACTS AND SECRETARY TO THE ADMIRALTY
TRANSCRIBED FROM THE SHORTHAND MANUSCRIPT IN THE PEPYSIAN LIBRARY
MAGDALENE COLLEGE CAMBRIDGE BY THE REV. MYNORS BRIGHT M.A. LATE FELLOW
AND PRESIDENT OF THE COLLEGE
(Unabridged)
WITH LORD BRAYBROOKE'S NOTES
EDITED WITH ADDITIONS BY
HENRY B. WHEATLEY F.S.A.
DIARY OF SAMUEL PEPYS.
OCTOBER
1665
October 1st (Lord's day). Called up about 4 of the clock and so dressed
myself and so on board the Bezan, and there finding all my company asleep
I would not wake them, but it beginning to be break of day I did stay upon
the decke walking, and then into the Maister's cabbin and there laid and
slept a little, and so at last was waked by Captain Cocke's calling of me,
and so I turned out, and then to chat and talk and laugh, and mighty
merry. We spent most of the morning talking and reading of "The Siege of
Rhodes," which is certainly (the more I read it the more I think so) the
best poem that ever was wrote. We breakfasted betimes and come to the
fleete about two of the clock in the afternoon, having a fine day and a
fine winde. My Lord received us mighty kindly, and after discourse with
us in general left us to our business, and he to his officers, having
called a council of wary, we in the meantime settling of papers with Mr.
Pierce and everybody else, and by and by with Captain Cuttance. Anon
called down to my Lord, and there with him till supper talking and
discourse; among other things, to my great joy, he did assure me that he
had wrote to the King and Duke about these prize-goods, and told me that
they did approve of what he had done, and that he would owne what he had
done, and would have me to tell all the world so, and did, under his hand,
give Cocke and me his certificate of our bargains, and giving us full
power of disposal of what we have so bought. This do ease my mind of all
my fear, and makes my heart lighter by L100 than it was before. He did
discourse to us of the Dutch fleete being abroad, eighty-five of them
still, and are now at the Texell, he believes, in expectation of our
Eastland ships coming home with masts and hempe, and our loaden Hambrough
ships going to Hambrough. He discoursed against them that would have us
yield to no conditions but conquest over the Dutch, and seems to believe
that the Dutch will call for the protection of the King of France and come
under his power, which were to be wished they might be brought to do under
ours by fair means, and to that end would have all Dutch men and familys,
that would come hither and settled, to be declared denizens; and my Lord
did whisper to me alone that things here must break in pieces, nobody
minding any thing, but every man his owne business of profit or pleasure,
and the King some little designs of his owne, and that certainly the
kingdom could not stand in this condition long, which I fear and believe
is very true. So to supper and there my Lord the kindest man to me,
before all the table talking of me to my advantage and with tenderness too
that it overjoyed me. So after supper Captain Cocke and I and Temple on
board the Bezan, and there to cards for a while and then to read again in
"Rhodes" and so to sleep. But, Lord! the mirth which it caused me to be
waked in the night by their snoaring round about me; I did laugh till I
was ready to burst, and waked one of the two companions of Temple, who
could not a good while tell where he was that he heard one laugh so, till
he recollected himself, and I told him what it was at, and so to sleep
again, they still snoaring.
2nd. We having sailed all night (and I do wonder how they in the dark
could find the way) we got by morning to Gillingham, and thence all walked
to Chatham; and there with Commissioner Pett viewed the Yard; and among
other things, a teame of four horses come close by us, he being with me,
drawing a piece of timber that I am confident one man could easily have
carried upon his back. I made the horses be taken away, and a man or two
to take the timber away with their hands. This the Commissioner did see,
but said nothing, but I think had cause to be ashamed of. We walked, he
and I and Cocke, to the Hill-house, where we find Sir W. Pen in bed and
there much talke and much dissembling of kindnesse from him, but he is a
false rogue, and I shall not trust him, but my being there did procure his
consent to have his silk carried away before the money received, which he
would not have done for Cocke I am sure. Thence to Rochester, walked to
the Crowne, and while dinner was getting ready, I did there walk to visit
the old Castle ruines, which hath been a noble place, and there going up I
did upon the stairs overtake three pretty mayds or women and took them up
with me, and I did 'baiser sur mouches et toucher leur mains' and necks to
my great pleasure: but, Lord! to see what a dreadfull thing it is to look
down the precipices, for it did fright me mightily, and hinder me of much
pleasure which I would have made to myself in the company of these three,
if it had not been for that. The place hath been very noble and great and
strong in former ages. So to walk up and down the Cathedral, and thence
to the Crowne, whither Mr. Fowler, the Mayor of the towne, was come in his
gowne, and is a very reverend magistrate. After I had eat a bit, not
staying to eat with them, I went away, and so took horses and to
Gravesend, and there staid not, but got a boat, the sicknesse being very
much in the towne still, and so called on board my Lord Bruncker and Sir
John Minnes, on board one of the East Indiamen at Erith, and there do find
them full of envious complaints for the pillageing of the ships, but I did
pacify them, and discoursed about making money of some of the goods, and
do hope to be the better by it honestly. So took leave (Madam Williams
being here also with my Lord), and about 8 o'clock got to Woolwich and
there supped and mighty pleasant with my wife, who is, for ought I see,
all friends with her mayds, and so in great joy and content to bed.
3rd. Up, and to my great content visited betimes by Mr. Woolly, my uncle
Wight's cozen, who comes to see what work I have for him about these East
India goods, and I do find that this fellow might have been of great use,
and hereafter may be of very great use to me, in this trade of prize
goods, and glad I am fully of his coming hither. While I dressed myself,
and afterwards in walking to Greenwich we did discourse over all the
business of the prize goods, and he puts me in hopes I may get some money
in what I have done, but not so much as I expected, but that I may
hereafter do more. We have laid a design of getting more, and are to talk
again of it a few days hence. To the office, where nobody to meet me, Sir
W. Batten being the only man and he gone this day to meet to adjourne the
Parliament to Oxford. Anon by appointment comes one to tell me my Lord
Rutherford is come; so I to the King's Head to him, where I find his lady,
a fine young Scotch lady, pretty handsome and plain. My wife also, and
Mercer, by and by comes, Creed bringing them; and so presently to dinner
and very merry; and after to even our accounts, and I to give him tallys,
where he do allow me L100, of which to my grief the rogue Creed has
trepanned me out of L50. But I do foresee a way how it may be I may get a
greater sum of my Lord to his content by getting him allowance of interest
upon his tallys. That being done, and some musique and other diversions,
at last away goes my Lord and Lady, and I sent my wife to visit Mrs.
Pierce, and so I to my office, where wrote important letters to the Court,
and at night (Creed having clownishly left my wife), I to Mrs. Pierces and
brought her and Mrs. Pierce to the King's Head and there spent a piece
upon a supper for her and mighty merry and pretty discourse, she being as
pretty as ever, most of our mirth being upon "my Cozen" (meaning my Lord
Bruncker's ugly mistress, whom he calls cozen), and to my trouble she
tells me that the fine Mrs. Middleton is noted for carrying about her body
a continued sour base smell, that is very offensive, especially if she be
a little hot. Here some bad musique to close the night and so away and
all of us saw Mrs. Belle Pierce (as pretty as ever she was almost) home,
and so walked to Will's lodging where I used to lie, and there made shift
for a bed for Mercer, and mighty pleasantly to bed. This night I hear
that of our two watermen that use to carry our letters, and were well on
Saturday last, one is dead, and the other dying sick of the plague. The
plague, though decreasing elsewhere, yet being greater about the Tower and
thereabouts.
4th. Up and to my office, where Mr. Andrews comes, and reckoning with him
I get L64 of him. By and by comes Mr. Gawden, and reckoning with him he
gives me L60 in his account, which is a great mercy to me. Then both of
them met and discoursed the business of the first man's resigning and the
other's taking up the business of the victualling of Tangier, and I do not
think that I shall be able to do as well under Mr. Gawden as under these
men, or within a little as to profit and less care upon me. Thence to the
King's Head to dinner, where we three and Creed and my wife and her woman
dined mighty merry and sat long talking, and so in the afternoon broke up,
and I led my wife to our lodging again, and I to the office where did much
business, and so to my wife. This night comes Sir George Smith to see me
at the office, and tells me how the plague is decreased this week 740, for
which God be praised! but that it encreases at our end of the town still,
and says how all the towne is full of Captain Cocke's being in some ill
condition about prize-goods, his goods being taken from him, and I know
not what. But though this troubles me to have it said, and that it is
likely to be a business in Parliament, yet I am not much concerned at it,
because yet I believe this newes is all false, for he would have wrote to
me sure about it. Being come to my wife, at our lodging, I did go to bed,
and left my wife with her people to laugh and dance and I to sleep.
5th. Lay long in bed talking among other things of my sister Pall, and my
wife of herself is very willing that I should give her L400 to her
portion, and would have her married soon as we could; but this great
sicknesse time do make it unfit to send for her up. I abroad to the
office and thence to the Duke of Albemarle, all my way reading a book of
Mr. Evelyn's translating and sending me as a present, about directions for
gathering a Library;
[Instructions concerning erecting of a Library, presented to my
Lord the President De Mesme by Gilbert Naudeus, and now interpreted
by Jo. Evelyn, Esquire. London, 1661: This little book was
dedicated to Lord Clarendon by the translator. It was printed while
Evelyn was abroad, and is full of typographical errors; these are
corrected in a copy mentioned in Evelyn's "Miscellaneous Writings,"
1825, p. xii, where a letter to Dr. Godolphin on the subject is
printed.]
but the book is above my reach, but his epistle to my Lord Chancellor is a
very fine piece. When I come to the Duke it was about the victuallers'
business, to put it into other hands, or more hands, which I do advise in,
but I hope to do myself a jobb of work in it. So I walked through
Westminster to my old house the Swan, and there did pass some time with
Sarah, and so down by water to Deptford and there to my Valentine.
[A Mrs. Bagwell. See ante, February 14th, 1664-65]
Round about and next door on every side is the plague, but I did not value
it, but there did what I would 'con elle', and so away to Mr. Evelyn's to
discourse of our confounded business of prisoners, and sick and wounded
seamen, wherein he and we are so much put out of order.
[Each of the Commissioners for the Sick and Wounded was appointed to
a particular district, and Evelyn's district was Kent and Sussex.
On September 25th, 1665, Evelyn wrote in his Diary: "My Lord Admiral
being come from ye fleete to Greenewich, I went thence with him to
ye Cockpit to consult with the Duke of Albemarle. I was peremptory
that unlesse we had L10,000 immediately, the prisoners would starve,
and 'twas proposed it should be rais'd out of the E. India prizes
now taken by Lord Sandwich. They being but two of ye Commission,
and so not impower'd to determine, sent an expresse to his Majesty
and Council to know what they should do."]
And here he showed me his gardens, which are for variety of evergreens,
and hedge of holly, the finest things I ever saw in my life.
[Evelyn purchased Sayes Court, Deptford, in 1653, and laid out his
gardens, walks, groves, enclosures, and plantations, which
afterwards became famous for their beauty. When he took the place
in hand it was nothing but an open field of one hundred acres, with
scarcely a hedge in it.]
Thence in his coach to Greenwich, and there to my office, all the way
having fine discourse of trees and the nature of vegetables. And so to
write letters, I very late to Sir W. Coventry of great concernment, and so
to my last night's lodging, but my wife is gone home to Woolwich. The
Bill, blessed be God! is less this week by 740 of what it was the last
week. Being come to my lodging I got something to eat, having eat little
all the day, and so to bed, having this night renewed my promises of
observing my vowes as I used to do; for I find that, since I left them
off, my mind is run a'wool-gathering and my business neglected.
6th. Up, and having sent for Mr. Gawden he come to me, and he and I
largely discoursed the business of his Victualling, in order to the adding
of partners to him or other ways of altering it, wherein I find him ready
to do anything the King would have him do. So he and I took his coach and
to Lambeth and to the Duke of Albemarle about it, and so back again, where
he left me. In our way discoursing of the business and contracting a
great friendship with him, and I find he is a man most worthy | 2,583.279434 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.2608830 | 976 | 77 |
Produced by Judith Boss. HTML version by Al Haines.
The Picture of Dorian Gray
by
Oscar Wilde
THE PREFACE
The artist is the creator of beautiful things. To reveal art and
conceal the artist is art's aim. The critic is he who can translate
into another manner or a new material his impression of beautiful
things.
The highest as the lowest form of criticism is a mode of autobiography.
Those who find ugly meanings in beautiful things are corrupt without
being charming. This is a fault.
Those who find beautiful meanings in beautiful things are the
cultivated. For these there is hope. They are the elect to whom
beautiful things mean only beauty.
There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well
written, or badly written. That is all.
The nineteenth century dislike of realism is the rage of Caliban seeing
his own face in a glass.
The nineteenth century dislike of romanticism is the rage of Caliban
not seeing his own face in a glass. The moral life of man forms part
of the subject-matter of the artist, but the morality of art consists
in the perfect use of an imperfect medium. No artist desires to prove
anything. Even things that are true can be proved. No artist has
ethical sympathies. An ethical sympathy in an artist is an
unpardonable mannerism of style. No artist is ever morbid. The artist
can express everything. Thought and language are to the artist
instruments of an art. Vice and virtue are to the artist materials for
an art. From the point of view of form, the type of all the arts is
the art of the musician. From the point of view of feeling, the
actor's craft is the type. All art is at once surface and symbol.
Those who go beneath the surface do so at their peril. Those who read
the symbol do so at their peril. It is the spectator, and not life,
that art really mirrors. Diversity of opinion about a work of art
shows that the work is new, complex, and vital. When critics disagree,
the artist is in accord with himself. We can forgive a man for making
a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for
making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely.
All art is quite useless.
OSCAR WILDE
CHAPTER 1
The studio was filled with the rich odour of roses, and when the light
summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden, there came through
the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate
perfume of the pink-flowering thorn.
From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was
lying, smoking, as was his custom, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry
Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-
blossoms of a laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to
bear the burden of a beauty so flamelike as theirs; and now and then
the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long
tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window,
producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of
those pallid, jade-faced painters of Tokyo who, through the medium of
an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of
swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their
way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous
insistence round the dusty gilt horns of the straggling woodbine,
seemed to make the stillness more oppressive. The dim roar of London
was like the bourdon note of a distant organ.
In the centre of the room, clamped to an upright easel, stood the
full-length portrait of a young man of extraordinary personal beauty,
and in front of it, some little distance away, was sitting the artist
himself, Basil Hallward, whose sudden disappearance some years ago
caused, at the time, such public excitement and gave rise to so many
strange conjectures.
As the painter looked at the gracious and comely form he had so
skilfully mirrored in his art, a smile of pleasure passed across his
face, and seemed about to linger there. But he suddenly started up,
and closing his eyes, placed his fingers upon the lids, as though he | 2,583.280923 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.3389460 | 2,348 | 7 |
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Laurel Walk
By Mrs Molesworth
Illustrations by J. Steeple Davis
Published by Drexel Biddle, Philadelphia.
This edition dated 1899.
The Laurel Walk, by Mrs Molesworth.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
THE LAUREL WALK, BY MRS MOLESWORTH.
CHAPTER ONE.
A RAINY EVENING.
There was a chemist's shop at Craig Bay, quite a smart chemist's shop,
with plate-glass windows and the orthodox "purple" and other coloured
jars of Rosamund fame. It was one of the inconsistencies of the place,
of which there were several. For Craig Bay was far from being a town;
it was not even a big village, and the two or three shops of its early
days were of the simplest and quaintest description, emporiums of a
little of everything, into which you made your way by descending two or
three steps below the level of the rough pavement outside. The
chemist's shop was the first established, I think, of the new order of
things, when the place and neighbourhood suddenly rose into repute as
peculiarly bracing and healthy from the mingling of sea and hill air
with which they were favoured. It was kept in countenance now by
several others, a draper's, a stationer's, a photographer's, of course,
besides the imperative butcher's, fishmonger's, and so on, some of which
subsided into closed shutters and vacancy after the "season" was over
and the visitors had departed. For endeavours which had been made to
introduce a _winter_ season had not been crowned with success. The
place was too out-of-the-way, the boasted mildness of climate not
altogether to be depended upon. But the chemist's shop stood faithfully
open all the year round, doing a little business in wares not, strictly
speaking, belonging to it, such as note-paper and even books, when the
library-and-stationer's in one had gone to sleep for the time.
On a cold raw evening in late November, Betty Morion stood waiting for
her sister Frances on the door-step of the shop. It would have been
warmer inside, but Betty had her fancies, like many other people, and
one of them was a dislike to the smell of drugs, with which "inside,"
naturally, was impregnated. And she was thickly clad and fairly well
used to cold and to damp--even to rain--for to-night it was drizzling
depressingly.
"I wish Francie would be quick," thought the girl more than once during
the first few moments of her waiting, though she knew it was certainly
not poor Frances' fault. Their father's prescriptions had always some
very special and peculiar directions accompanying them, and Betty knew
of old that the waiting for them was apt to be a long affair.
And she was not of an impatient nature. After a while she forgot about
the tiresomeness, and fell to watching the reflections of the brilliant
colours of the jars in the puddles and on the surface of the wet
pavement just below her, as she had often watched them before. They
were pretty--in a sense--and yet somehow they made the surrounding
dreariness drearier.
"I wonder if it does rain more here than anywhere else," she said to
herself dreamily. "What a splashing walk home we shall have! I wish we
did not live up a hill--at least I think I wish we didn't, though
perhaps if our house was down here I should wish it was higher up!
Perhaps it doesn't really rain more at Craig Bay than at other places,
but we notice it more. For nearly everything pleasant that ever comes
to us depends on the weather." And Betty sighed. "I could fancy," she
went on, "living in a way that would make one scarcely care what it was
like out of doors. A beautiful big house with ferneries and
conservatories, and lovely rooms to wander about in, and a library full
of delightful books, and lots of people to stay with us and--well, yes,
of course, it would be nice to go drives and rides and walks too, and to
have exquisite gardens. But still life might be very pleasant even when
it did rain," and again Betty sighed. "It needn't be anything so _very_
tremendous, after all," she added to herself. "Craig-Morion might be--"
but a gentle touch on her shoulder made her turn. It was her sister,
packages in hand, and rather embarrassed by her umbrella.
"Can you open it for me, dear?" she said, and Betty hastened to do so.
"I am so afraid," Frances went on, when Betty's own umbrella was ready
for business too, and they were both under way, "I am so afraid of
dropping any of these things. Papa is so anxious to have them at once.
Do you remember the day that Eira dropped the bottle of red ink--wasn't
it dreadful?" and Frances laughed a little at the recollection.
Her laugh was very sweet, but scarcely merry. There are laughs which
tell of sadness more quickly almost than tears. But it was not that
kind either; it was the laugh of one who is resolutely cheerful, who has
learnt by experience the wisdom of making the best of things--a lesson
not often learnt by the young while young, though by some it is acquired
so gradually and unconsciously that on looking back from the table-land
of later years they do not realise it had ever been a lesson to be
learnt at all.
For its roots lie deeper than philosophy. They are to be found in
unselfishness, in self-forgetting, and earnest longing to carry the
burdens of others, or at least to share them.
And Frances Morion was still young, though twenty-seven. She by no
means looked her age. Her life in many ways had been a healthy one in
its material surroundings, and she herself had made it so in other ways.
Betty scarcely laughed in return. It is doubtful if she heard what her
sister said.
"Isn't it _horribly_ wet?" she said. "I was really wondering just now
if it rains more here than anywhere else, or if--" and after a moment's
hesitation--"if we notice it more, Francie, because, you see, there is
so little else to notice."
Miss Morion turned quickly and glanced at her sister, forgetting that it
was far too dark to discern the girl's features. She always felt
troubled when Betty spoke in that way, when her voice took that
particular tone. She could be philosophical for herself far more easily
than for her younger sisters.
"Well, on the other hand," she said cheerfully, "doesn't it show that we
have no very great troubles to bear if we have leisure to think so much
about small ones?"
"I don't say we _have_ any very big troubles to bear," said Betty. "I--
I almost sometimes find myself wishing we had--"
"Oh, Betty, _don't_," said her sister quickly, "don't wish anything like
that!"
"No," said Betty, "I wasn't going to say quite what you thought. I mean
I wish anything big would come into our lives! Anything really
interesting, and--well, yes! I may as well own it--anything exciting!
It is all on such a dull, dead level, and has always been the same, and
always will be, it seems to me. And when one is no longer very young
the spring and buoyancy seem to go. When I was seventeen or eighteen
I'd all sorts of happy fancies and expectations, but now--why, Francie,
I'm twenty-four, and _nothing_ has come."
For a moment or two Frances walked on in silence.
"I dare say," she said at last, "if we knew more of other lives, we
should find a good many something like ours. And after all, Betty,
one's real life is what one is oneself."
Betty laughed slightly. Her laugh was not bitter, but without any ring
of joyousness.
"I know that," she said. "But it doesn't do me any good. It's just
_myself_ that depresses me. I'm not big enough, nor brave enough, nor
anything enough, to rise above circumstances, as people talk about. I
want circumstances to help me a little! And I don't ask anything very
extravagant, I know.
"No, Frances," she added, "you're not--not quite right. I think I could
bear things better and feel more spirit if you would allow that our
lives _are_ exceptional in some ways."
"Perhaps so," the elder sister agreed.
"You know," continued Betty, "it isn't fallings in love or marriage that
I'm talking about. I really and truly very seldom think of anything of
that kind, though of course, in the abstract, I can see that a home of
one's own, and the feeling oneself a centre, is the ideal life; but
heaps of girls don't marry, and there are plenty, lots of other
interests and objects to live for, which we _are_ unusually without!"
Frances opened her mouth with an intention of remonstrating, but the
words died away before she gave them utterance. There was so much truth
in what Betty said, and Frances was too thorough-going to believe in the
efficacy of any consolation without a genuine root, so she said nothing.
"And I'm afraid," pursued Betty, who certainly could not be accused this
evening of having donned rose-coloured spectacles, "I'm afraid," she
repeated, "that it's coming over Eira too, though she has kept her
youngness marvellously, so far."
In her turn Frances gave a little laugh which could scarcely be called
mirthful.
"Betty dear," she said, "you are rather unmerciful to-night, piling on
the agony! You think me very philosophical, but I must confess I am not
proof against our present depressing circumstances. I don't think I've
ever come up the hill in such rain and darkness, and so horribly cold
too." And in spite of herself she shivered a little.
In a moment Betty's mood had changed to penitence.
"Oh, Frances, I'm a brute," she exclaimed, "for I know you were tired
before we came out; reading aloud to papa for so long together is really
| 2,583.358986 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.3592630 | 794 | 9 |
Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Greg Weeks, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
This is only an excerpt from the novel.
All-Story Weekly
_July 13-August 10, 1918_
PALOS OF THE DOG
STAR PACK
by J. U. Giesy
* * * * *
1. OUT OF THE STORM
It was a miserable night which brought me first in touch with Jason
Croft. There was a rain and enough wind to send it in gusty dashes
against the windows. It was the sort of a night when I always felt
glad to cast off coat and shoes, don a robe and slippers, and sit down
with the curtains drawn, a lighted pipe, and the soft glow of a lamp
falling across the pages of my book. I am, I admit, always strangely
susceptible to the shut-in sense of comfort afforded by a pipe, the
steady yellow of a light, and the magic of printed lines at a time of
elemental turmoil and stress.
It was with a feeling little short of positive annoyance that I heard
the door-bell ring. Indeed, I confess, I was tempted to ignore it
altogether at first. But as it rang again, and was followed by a rapid
tattoo of rapping, as of fists pounded against the door itself, I
rose, laid aside my book, and stepped into the hall.
First switching on a porch-light, I opened the outer door, to reveal
the figure of an old woman, somewhat stooping, her head covered by a
shawl, which sloped wetly from her head to either shoulder, and was
caught and held beneath her chin by one bony hand.
"Doctor," she began in a tone of almost frantic excitement. "Dr.
Murray--come quick!"
Perhaps I may as well introduce myself here as anywhere else. I am Dr.
George Murray, still, as at the time of which I write, in charge of
the State Mental Hospital in a Western State. The institution was not
then very large, and since taking my position at the head of its staff
I had found myself with considerable time for my study along the lines
of human psychology and the various powers and aberrations of the
mind.
Also, I may as well confess, as a first step toward a better
understanding of my part in what followed, that for years before
coming to the asylum I had delved more or less deeply into such
studies, seeking to learn what I might concerning both the normal and
the abnormal manifestations of mental force.
There is good reading and highly entertaining, I assure you, in the
various philosophies dealing with life, religion, and the several
beliefs regarding the soul of man. I was therefore fairly conversant
not only with the Occidental creeds, but with those of the Oriental
races as well. And I knew that certain of the Eastern sects had
advanced in their knowledge far beyond our Western world. I had even
endeavored to make their knowledge mine, so far as I could, in certain
lines at least, and had from time to time applied some of that
knowledge to the treatment of cases in the institution of which I was
the head.
But I was not thinking of anything like that as I looked at the
shawl-wrapped face of the little bent woman, wrinkled and wry enough
to have been a very part of the storm which beat about her and blew
back the skirts of my lounging-robe and chilled my ankles. I lived in
a residence detached from the asylum buildings | 2,583.379303 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.4342460 | 177 | 13 |
Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
THE SORCERESS.
THE SORCERESS.
A Novel.
BY
MRS. OLIPHANT,
AUTHOR OF
“THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD,”
“THE CUCKOO IN THE NEST,”
ETC., ETC.
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOL. I.
LONDON:
F. V. WHITE & Co.,
31, SOUTHAMPTON STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1893.
(_ALL RIGHTS RESERVED_)
PRINTED BY
TILLOTSON AND SON, BOLTON,
| 2,583.454286 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.5362950 | 2,205 | 7 |
Produced by Odessa Paige Turner, Martin Pettit 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.)
30,000 LOCKED OUT.
THE GREAT STRIKE OF THE BUILDING TRADES IN CHICAGO.
BY JAMES C. BEEKS.
CHICAGO:
PRESS OF THE FRANZ GINDELE PRINTING CO.
1887.
INTRODUCTION.
The attention of the world has been called to the great strike and
lockout in the building trades in Chicago because it rested upon the
question of individual liberty--a question which is not only vital alike
to the employer and the employe, but which affects every industry, every
class of people, every city, state and country. It is a principle which
antagonizes no motive which has been honestly conceived, but upon which
rests--or should rest--the entire social, political and industrial
fabric of a nation. It underlies the very foundation of free
institutions. To antagonize it is to thrust at the beginning point of
that freedom for which brave men have laid down their lives in every
land since the formation of society. With this question prominently in
the fight, and considering the magnitude of the interests affected, it
is not at all surprising that the public has manifested interest in the
agitation of questions which have affected the pockets of thirty
thousand artisans and laborers, hundreds of employers, scores of
manufacturers and dealers in building materials, stopped the erection of
thousands of structures of all classes, and driven into the vaults of a
great city capital amounting to not less than $20,000,000.
The labor problem is not new. Neither is it without its perplexities and
its grievances. Its entanglements have puzzled the brightest intellects,
and its grievances have, on many occasions, called loudly for changes
which have been made for the purpose of removing fetters that have
bound men in a system of oppression that resembled the worst form of
slavery. These changes have come none too soon. And, no doubt, there yet
remain cases in which the oppressed should be speedily relieved of
burdens which have been put upon working men and women in every country
under the sun.
But, because these conditions exist with one class of people, it is no
justification for an unreasonable, or exacting demand by another class;
or, that they should be permitted to reverse the order of things and
inaugurate a system of oppression that partakes of a spirit of revenge,
and that one burden after another should be piled up until the exactions
of an element of labor become so oppressive that they are unbearable.
When this is the case, the individual who has been advocating the cause
of freedom--and who has been striving for the release and the elevation
of the laboring classes--becomes, in turn, an oppressor of the worst
kind. He stamps upon the very foundation on which he first rested his
cause. He tramples upon the great cause of individual liberty and
becomes a tyrant whose remorseless system of oppression would crush out
of existence not only the grand superstructure of freedom, but would
bury beneath his iron heel the very germ of his free existence.
The laborer is a necessity. If this is true the converse of the
proposition is equally true--the employer is a necessity. Without the
employer the laborer would be deprived of an opportunity to engage in
the avocation to which his faculties may have been directed. Without the
laborer the employer would be in no position to carry forward any
enterprise of greater or less magnitude.
All cannot be employers.
All cannot be employes.
There must be a directing hand as well as a hand to be directed. In
exercising the prerogative of a director the employer would be powerless
to carry to a successful termination any enterprise if liberty of
action should be entirely cut off, or his directing hand should be so
fettered that it could not exercise the necessary freedom of action to
direct. At the same time, if the employe should be so burdened that he
could not exercise his talents in a manner to compass the line of work
directed to be done, it would be unreasonable to expect from him the
accomplishment of the task to which he had been assigned. There is a
relation between the two around which such safeguards should be thrown
as will insure that free action on the part of both that will remove the
possibility of oppression, and at the same time retain, in its fullest
sense, the relation of employer and employe. The necessity of the one to
the other should not be forgotten.
That the employer should have the right to direct his business in a
manner that will make it successful, and for his interest, none should
have the right to question. The successful direction of an enterprise by
an employer results, necessarily, in the security of employment by the
employe.
A business which is unsuccessfully prosecuted, or which is fettered by
the employe in a manner which prevents its successful prosecution, must,
of necessity, result in displacing the most trusted servant, or the most
skilled artisan.
An employer, in the direction of his business, should not be denied the
right to decide for himself whom he shall employ, or to select those who
may be best fitted to accomplish his work.
An employe should expect employment according to his ability to perform
the work to be done.
A skillful artisan should not be expected to accept the reward of one
unskilled in the same trade.
An unskilled workman should not receive the same wages paid to a skilled
workman.
Had these rules been recognized by the bricklayers in Chicago there
would have been no strike, no lockout. The fight was against the right
of the employer to direct his own business. It was originated by a
class of men who claimed the right to demand that all bricklayers should
be paid the same rate per hour, regardless of their ability; that none
should be employed except those who were members of The United Order of
American Bricklayers and Stonemasons of Chicago; and that every edict
issued by this union should be obeyed by the Master Masons, including
the last one made viz: That the pay day should be changed from Monday,
or Tuesday, to Saturday.
NATIONAL ORGANIZATION.
The National Association of Builders convened in Chicago March 29th,
1887, and continued in session three days. This convention was composed
of representatives of the building trades from almost every section of
the country. They came together for the purpose of perfecting the
organization of a National Association in pursuance of a call which had
been made by a committee which met in Boston the previous January.
Delegates were present from twenty-seven cities, as follows:
Cleveland, Ohio: Thos. Simmons, H. Kickheim, John T. Watterson, S.
W. Watterson.
Milwaukee, Wis.: Thos. Mason, Garrett Dunck, John Laugenberger,
Richard Smith.
Charleston, S. C.: D. A. J. Sullivan, Henry Oliver.
Nashville, Tenn.: Daniel S. Wright.
Detroit, Mich.: Thos. Fairbairn, W. E. Avery, W. J. Stapleton, Jas.
Roche, W. G. Vinton.
Minneapolis, Minn.: Thos. Downs, F. B. Long, H. N. Leighton, Geo.
W. Libby, Herbert Chalker, F. S. Morton.
Baltimore Md.: John Trainor, John J. Purcell, Geo. W. Hetzell, Wm.
H. Anderson, Wm. Ferguson, Philip Walsh, Geo. Mann.
Chicago, Ill.: Geo. Tapper, P. B. Wight, Geo. C. Prussing, W. E.
Frost, F. V. Gindele, A. W. Murray, J. B. Sullivan.
St. Paul, Minn.: Edward E. Scribner, J. B. Chapman, E. F. Osborne,
G. J. Grant, J. H. Donahue, J. S. Burris, J. W. Gregg.
Buffalo, N. Y.: Chas. Berrick, John Feist, Chas. A. Rupp.
Cincinnati, Ohio: J. Milton Blair, L. H. McCammon, I. Graveson,
Jas. Allison, H. L. Thornton, J. C. Harwood, Wm. Schuberth, Jr.
Philadelphia, Pa.: John S. Stevens, Chas. H. Reeves, D. A.
Woelpper, Geo. Watson, Wm. Harkness, Jr., Geo. W. Roydhouse, Wm.
Gray.
Columbus, Ohio: Geo. B. Parmelee.
St. Louis Mo.: Andrew Kerr, H. C. Lindsley, John R. Ahrens, John H.
Dunlap, Anton Wind, Richard Walsh, Wm. Gahl.
Indianapolis, Ind.: John Martin, J. C. Adams, Fred Mack, G. Weaver,
C. <DW12>, Wm. P. Jungclaus, Peter Rautier.
New Orleans, La.: A. J. Muir, H. Hofield, F. H. West.
Boston, Mass.: Leander Greely, Ira G. Hersey, John A. Emery, Wm.
Lumb, J. Arthur Jacobs, Francis Hayden, Wm. H. Sayward.
New York City: A. J. Campbell, A. G. Bogert, John Byrns, John
McGlensey, Marc Eidlitz, John J. Tucker.
Troy, N. Y.: C. A. Meeker.
Albany, N. Y.: David M. Alexander
Worcester, Mass.: E. B. Crane, O. W. Norcross, Henry Mellen, O. S.
Kendall, Robt. S. Griffin, Geo. H. Cutting.
Grand Rapids, Mich.: John Rawson, James Curtis, H. E. Doren, J. D.
Boland, C. H. Pelton, W | 2,583.556335 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.5399800 | 1,574 | 10 | SCIENCE***
E-text prepared by Charlene Taylor, Paul Clark, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made
available by Internet Archive/American Libraries
(http://archive.org/details/americana)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 40706-h.htm or 40706-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/40706/40706-h/40706-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/40706/40706-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
http://archive.org/details/introductiontohi00libb
Transcriber's note:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as
faithfully as possible. Some changes have been made.
They are listed at the end of the text, apart from
some changes of puctuation in the Index.
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Characters enclosed by curly braces are subscripts
(example: H{2}O).
Dalton's symbols for the elements have been represented
as follows:
White circle ( ) Hydrogen
Circle with vertical bar (|) Nitrogen
Circle with central dot (.) Oxygen
Black cirle (*) Carbon
AN INTRODUCTION TO THE HISTORY OF SCIENCE
by
WALTER LIBBY, M.A., Ph.D.
Professor of the History of Science
in the Carnegie Institute of Technology
[Illustration]
Boston New York Chicago
Houghton Mifflin Company
The Riverside Press Cambridge
Copyright, 1917, by Walter Libby
All Rights Reserved
The Riverside Press
Cambridge. Massachusetts
U. S. A
TO MY STUDENTS OF THE LAST TWELVE YEARS IN THE CHICAGO AND
PITTSBURGH DISTRICTS THIS BOOK IS INSCRIBED IN FURTHERANCE OF THE
ENDEAVOR TO INCULCATE A DEMOCRATIC CULTURE, EVER MINDFUL OF THE
DAILY TASK, NOT ALTOGETHER IGNORANT OF THE ACHIEVEMENTS OF THE PAST
PREFACE
The history of science has something to offer to the humblest
intelligence. It is a means of imparting a knowledge of scientific facts
and principles to unschooled minds. At the same time it affords a simple
method of school instruction. Those who understand a business or an
institution best, as a contemporary writer on finance remarks, are those
who have made it or grown up with it, and the next best thing is to know
how it has grown up, and then watch or take part in its actual working.
Generally speaking, we know best what we know in its origins.
The history of science is an aid in scientific research. It places the
student in the current of scientific thought, and gives him a clue to
the purpose and necessity of the theories he is required to master. It
presents science as the constant pursuit of truth rather than the
formulation of truth long since revealed; it shows science as
progressive rather than fixed, dynamic rather than static, a growth to
which each may contribute. It does not paralyze the self-activity of
youth by the record of an infallible past.
It is only by teaching the sciences in their historical development that
the schools can be true to the two principles of modern education, that
the sciences should occupy the foremost place in the curriculum and that
the individual mind in its evolution should rehearse the history of
civilization.
The history of science should be given a larger place than at present in
general history; for, as Bacon said, the history of the world without a
history of learning is like a statue of Polyphemus with the eye out. The
history of science studies the past for the sake of the future. It is a
story of continuous progress. It is rich in biographical material. It
shows the sciences in their interrelations, and saves the student from
narrowness and premature specialization. It affords a unique approach to
the study of philosophy. It gives new motive to the study of foreign
languages. It gives an interest in the applications of knowledge, offers
a clue to the complex civilization of the present, and renders the mind
hospitable to new discoveries and inventions.
The history of science is hostile to the spirit of caste. It shows the
sciences rising from daily needs and occupations, formulated by
philosophy, enriching philosophy, giving rise to new industries, which
react in turn upon the sciences. The history of science reveals men of
all grades of intelligence and of all social ranks cooperating in the
cause of human progress. It is a basis of intellectual and social
homogeneity.
Science is international, English, Germans, French, Italians,
Russians--all nations--contributing to advance the general interests.
Accordingly, a survey of the sciences tends to increase mutual respect,
and to heighten the humanitarian sentiment. The history of science can
be taught to people of all creeds and colors, and cannot fail to enhance
in the breast of every young man, or woman, faith in human progress and
good-will to all mankind.
This book is intended as a simple introduction, taking advantage of the
interests of youth of from seventeen to twenty-two years of age (and
their intellectual compeers) in order to direct their attention to the
story of the development of the sciences. It makes no claim to be in any
sense complete or comprehensive. It is, therefore, a psychological
introduction, having the mental capacity of a certain class of readers
always in view, rather than a logical introduction, which would
presuppose in all readers both full maturity of intellect and
considerable initial interest in the history of science.
I cannot conclude this preface without thanking those who have assisted
me in the preparation of this book--Sir William Osler, who read the
first draft of the manuscript, and aided me with his counsel; Dr.
Charles Singer, who read all the chapters in manuscript, and to whom I
am indebted for advice in reference to the illustrations and for many
other valuable suggestions; the officers of the Bodleian Library, whose
courtesy was unfailing during the year I worked there; Professor Henry
Crew, who helped in the revision of two of the chapters by his judicious
criticism; Professor J. E. Rush, whose knowledge of bacteriology
improved the chapter on Pasteur; Professor L. O. Grondahl, who read one
of the chapters relating to the history of physics and suggested
important emendations; and Dr. John A. Brashear, who contributed
valuable information in reference to the activities of Samuel Pierpont
Langley. I wish to express my gratitude also to Miss Florence Bonnet for
aid in the correction of the manuscript.
W. LIBBY.
February 2, 1917.
CONTENTS
I. SCIENCE AND PRACTICAL NEEDS--EGYPT AND BABYLONIA 1
II. THE INFLUENCE OF ABSTRACT THOUGHT--GREECE: ARISTOTLE 15
III. SCIENTIFIC THEORY SUBORDINATED TO APPLICATION--ROME:
| 2,583.56002 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.6400140 | 2,679 | 61 |
Produced by Greg Bergquist and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
HISTORIC HIGHWAYS OF AMERICA
VOLUME 8
[Illustration: THE OLD VINCENNES TRACE NEAR XENIA, ILLINOIS]
HISTORIC HIGHWAYS OF AMERICA
VOLUME 8
Military Roads of the
Mississippi Basin
The Conquest of the Old Northwest
BY
ARCHER BUTLER HULBERT
_With Maps and Illustrations_
[Illustration]
THE ARTHUR H. CLARK COMPANY
CLEVELAND, OHIO
1904
COPYRIGHT, 1904
BY
THE ARTHUR H. CLARK COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFACE 11
I. THE CLARK ROUTES THROUGH ILLINOIS 15
II. MIAMI VALLEY CAMPAIGNS 72
III. ST. CLAIR'S CAMPAIGN 108
IV. WAYNE AND FALLEN TIMBER 160
APPENDIXES 219
ILLUSTRATIONS
I. THE OLD VINCENNES TRACE NEAR XENIA, ILLINOIS _Frontispiece_
II. SKETCH MAP OF PART OF ILLINOIS, SHOWING CLARK'S
ROUTES 21
III. HUTCHINS'S SKETCH OF THE WABASH IN 1768 (showing
trace of the path to Kaskaskia; from the original
in the British Museum) 35
IV. THE ST. LOUIS TRACE NEAR LAWRENCEVILLE, ILLINOIS 62
V. A PART OF ARROWSMITH'S MAP OF THE UNITED STATES,
1796 (showing the region in which Wilkinson, Scott,
Harmar, St. Clair, and Wayne operated) 117
VI. DR. BELKNAP'S MAP OF WAYNE'S ROUTE IN THE MAUMEE
VALLEY, 1794 (from the original in the Library of
Harvard University) 197
PREFACE
This volume treats of five of the early campaigns in the portion of
America known as the Mississippi Basin--Clark's campaigns against
Kaskaskia and Vincennes in 1778 and 1779; and Harmar's, St. Clair's, and
Wayne's campaigns against the northwestern Indians in 1790, 1791, and
1793-94.
Much as has been written concerning Clark's famous march through the
"drowned lands of the Wabash," the important question of his route has
been untouched, and the story from that standpoint untold. The history
of the campaign is here made subservient to a study of the route and to
an attempted identification of the various places, and a determination
of their present-day names. Four volumes of the Draper Manuscripts in
the library of the State Historical Society of Wisconsin give a vast
deal of information on this subject. They are referred to by the library
press-mark.
Turning to the study of Harmar's, St. Clair's, and Wayne's routes into
the Northwest, the author found a singular lack of detailed description
of these campaigns, and determined to combine with the study of the
military roadway a comparatively complete sketch of each campaign,
making use, in this case as in that of Clark's campaigns, of the Draper
Manuscripts.
A great debt of thanks is due to Mr. Reuben Gold Thwaites, Secretary of
the State Historical Society of Wisconsin, for assistance and advice; to
Josiah Morrow of Lebanon, Ohio, the author is indebted for help in
determining portions of Harmar's route; and to Francis E. Wilson,
President of the Greenville Historical Society, many thanks are due for
help in questions concerning the pathway of the intrepid leader known to
the East as "Mad Anthony" Wayne, but remembered in the West as the
"Blacksnake" and the "Whirlwind," because he doubled his track like a
blacksnake and swept over his roads like a whirlwind.
A. B. H.
MARIETTA, OHIO, September 14, 1903.
Military Roads of the Mississippi Basin
The Conquest of the Old Northwest
CHAPTER I
THE CLARK ROUTES THROUGH ILLINOIS
On the twenty-fourth of June, 1778, George Rogers Clark, with about one
hundred and seventy-five patriot adventurers, left the little pioneer
settlement on Corn Island, in the Ohio River, opposite the present site
of Louisville, Kentucky, for the conquest of the British posts of
Kaskaskia and Vincennes in the "Illinois country."[1]
The boats running day and night, the party reached Clark's first
stopping-place, an island in the Ohio near the mouth of the Tennessee
River, in four days. Just below this island was the site of old Fort
Massac--now occupied by Metropolis, Massac County, Illinois--built
probably by a vanguard from Fort Duquesne, a generation before, when
the French clearly foresaw the end of their reign on the upper Ohio.
Here, almost a century before that, was the old trading-station of
Juchereau and the mission of Mermet--the subsequent "soul of the mission
of Kaskaskia," as Bancroft describes him. The situation was strategic on
two accounts: it was a site well out of the reach of the Ohio floods,
and it was near the mouths of both the Tennessee and Cumberland
Rivers--valleys known of old to the Shawanese and Cherokees. As a coign
of vantage for traders and missionaries, it had been of commanding
importance. It was, likewise, near the Ohio terminus of several old
buffalo routes across Illinois, roads which became connecting links
between Kaskaskia, on the river bearing that name near the Mississippi,
and the mission at Fort Massac. The old paths of the buffalo, long known
as hunting traces, offered the traveler from the Ohio to the old-time
metropolis of Illinois a short-cut by land, saving thrice the distance
by water, and obviated stemming the swift tides of the Mississippi. One
of the principal backbones of Illinois was threaded by these primeval
routes, and high ground between the vast cypress swamps and mist-crowned
drowned lands of Illinois was a boon to any traveler, especially that
first traveler, the bison. This high ground ran between Kaskaskia and
Shawneetown, on the Ohio River, the course becoming later a famous state
highway. Its earliest name was the "Kaskaskia Trace."
Clark's spies, sent out to Illinois a year before, undoubtedly advised
him to land at Fort Massac and, gaining from there this famous highway,
to pursue it to Kaskaskia. His plan of surprising the British post
necessitated his pursuing unexpected courses. It was well known that the
British watched the Mississippi well; therefore he chose the land route.
Here, at the mouth of the Tennessee, his men brought in a canoe full of
white traders who had recently been in Kaskaskia; certain of these were
engaged to guide Clark thither. The party dropped down to Massac Creek,
which enters the Ohio just above the site of the old fort, and in that
inlet secreted their flat-boats ready to begin their intrepid march of
one hundred and twenty miles across country.[2]
As this little company of eight or nine score adventurers drew around
their fires on Massac Creek, they little dreamed, we may be sure, of the
fame they were to gain from this plucky excursion into the prairies of
Illinois. It was impossible for them to lift their eyes above the
commonplaces of the journey and the possibilities of the coming
encounter, and see in true perspective what the capture of Illinois
meant to poor Kentucky. It is not less difficult for us to turn our eyes
from these general results, which were so brilliant, and get a clear
insight into the commonplaces of this memorable little campaign--to hear
the talk of the tired men about the fires as they cleaned the heavy
clods of mud from shoes and moccasins, examined their guns, viewed the
night, and then talked softly of the possibilities of the morrow, and
dreamed, in the ruddy firelight, of those at home. Of all companies of
famous campaigners on the Indian trails of America, this company was the
smallest and the most picturesque. Clark had but little over half the
force which Washington commanded at Fort Necessity in 1754.
Little Massac Creek is eleven miles in length but drains seventy square
miles of territory. This fact is a significant description of the nature
of the northern and central portions of Massac County. From the Cache
River a string of lakes extends in a southeast and then northeast
direction to Big Bay River, varying in width from one to four miles;
around the lakes lies a much greater area of cypress swamps and
treacherous "sloughs" altogether impassable. The water of these lakes
drains sometimes into the Cache and at other times into the Big
Bay--depending upon the stage of water in the Ohio.[3]
There were three routes from Fort Massac toward Kaskaskia; one, which
may well be called the Moccasin Gap route, circled to the eastward to
get around the lakes and swamps of Massac County; it passed eastward
into Pope County, where it struck the Kaskaskia-Shawneetown highway.
This route ran two and one-half miles west of Golconda, Pope County, and
on to Sulphur or Round Spring. From thence through Moccasin Gap, section
3, township 12, range 4E, Johnson County; thence it ran directly for the
prairie country to the northward. As noted, this route merged into the
famous old Kaskaskia and Shawneetown route across Illinois--what was
known as the Kaskaskia Trace--in Pope County. It was this course which
in earliest times had been blazed by the French as the safest common
highway between Kaskaskia and the trading and mission station (and later
fort) at Massac. The trees along the course were marked with the proper
number of miles by means of a hot iron, the figures then being painted
red. "Such I saw them," records Governor Reynolds, "in 1800. This road
made a great curve to the north to avoid the swamps and rough country on
the sources of the Cash [Cache] river, and also to obtain the prairie
country as soon as possible. This road... was called the old Massac
road by the Americans."
[Illustration: SKETCH MAP OF PART OF ILLINOIS
Showing Routes of George Rogers Clark]
The second route circled the Massac County lakes to the westward,
cutting in between them and the canyons of the Cache River, near what is
familiarly known as Indian Point (section 33, township 13, range 3E,
Massac County), or one mile south of the northwest corner of Massac
County; thence, running north of northwest, it crossed the Little Cache
(Dutchman's Creek) one and one-half miles north of Forman. Thence the
route is up the east side of the Cache and through Buffalo Gap, section
25, township 11, range 2E, Johnson County, to the prairie land beyond.
The third route follows the second through Massac County.
It is important to note here that the Illinois of Clark's day--as is
partly true now--was composed of three kinds of land: swampy or
"drowned" lands, prairie land, and timber land. Being practically a
level country, the forests became as prominent landmarks as mountains
and hills are in rugged districts. Routes of travel clung to the
prairies; and camping-places, if water could be had in the neighborhood,
were always chosen on the edge of a forest where wood could be obtained.
Between wood and water, of | 2,583.660054 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.6419190 | 1,077 | 9 |
Produced by sp1nd, obstobst and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
TALES OF NORTHUMBRIA
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
BORDERLAND STUDIES
THE MARK O' THE DEIL
THE WHITE-FACED PRIEST
TALES OF
NORTHUMBRIA
BY
HOWARD PEASE
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.
LONDON
1899
TO
EARL GREY
EVER KEENLY INTERESTED IN WHATEVER
CONCERNS HIS NATIVE COUNTY
THESE SKETCHES OF NORTHUMBRIAN CHARACTER
ARE DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR
CONTENTS
PAGE
NORTHUMBERLAND 1
'A LONG MAIN' 7
THE SQUIRE'S LAST RIDE 29
[`A] L'OUTRANCE 41
'T'OWD SQUIRE' 59
AN 'AMMYTOOR' DETECTIVE 79
'IN MEMORIOV'M' 109
'THE HECKLER' UPON WOMENFOLK 121
THE 'CALEB JAY' 133
GEORDIE ARMSTRONG 'THE JESU-YTE' 147
'GEORDIE RIDE-THE-STANG' 165
YANKEE BILL AND QUAKER JOHN 187
THE PROT['E]G['E] 209
THE SPANISH DOUBLOON 243
The tales that go to make up this small volume have already appeared
in print: the first part of the Introduction, 'A Long Main,' 'In
Memoriov'm,' in the _National Observer_; 'The Prot['e]g['e],' in the
_Queen_; 'Quaker John and Yankee Bill,' 'T'Owd Squire,' 'An Ammytoor
Detective,' in the _Newcastle Courant_; '[`A] l'Outrance,' in the
_Newcastle Weekly Chronicle_; and the remaining six in the _Newcastle
Daily Leader_. I desire to tender my thanks herewith to the various
editors concerned.
TALES OF NORTHUMBRIA
NORTHUMBERLAND
It is generally admitted that your Northumbrian pre-eminently
possesses the quality which the pious but worldly Scotchman was used
to pray for, namely, 'a guid conceit o' hissel'.'
It is the more unfortunate, therefore, that of late years a
considerable landslip should have taken place in the ground whereon
his reputation rested.
The local poet no longer hymns the 'Champions o' Tyneside,' for
Chambers and Renforth and other heroes have long since departed,
leaving 'no issue.'
Advancing civilization, again, has, it is to be feared, made havoc of
the proud insularity of the Northumbrian squirearchy. No longer are
they content, like the Osbaldistones of yore, to devote themselves to
cellar and stable, to stay at home, contemptuous of London and its
politics, of travel and of new ideas. 'Markham's Farriery' and the
'Guide to Heraldry' have lost their pristine charm, and the
Northumbrian is, as a consequence, foregoing his ancient
characteristics merely to become provincial.
'Geordie Pitman' alone makes a stand against all modern innovation.
Firm in his pele tower of ancient superiority, he is still convinced
of the superiority of all things Northumbrian.
'Champions' may have died out elsewhere, and patriotism be decayed in
the higher social ranks, but in the pit-village there still lingers an
admirable quantity of the old self-love.
In each separate village you may find some half-dozen self-styled
'champions' who will match themselves against 'any man in the world'
for [GBP]10 or [GBP]15 a side at their own particular hobby or pastime.
Defeat has little effect upon a 'champion': like Antaeus, he picks
himself up the stronger for a fall, and having advertised himself in
the papers as 'not being satisfied' with his beating, challenges
another attempt forthwith.
* * * * *
Now this self-satisfaction--though somewhat decayed of late--is
probably one of the oldest strains in the Northumbrian character,
having been developed, doubtless, in the first instance, under stress
of constant raid and foray, and but little affected thereafter--owing
to the remoteness of the county both from the universities and from
London--by the higher standards of softer and more civilized centres.
After this, the next most predominant trait is a love of sport, | 2,583.661959 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.7362890 | 588 | 49 |
Produced by Larry B. Harrison 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 FALL
OF THE
GREAT REPUBLIC.
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1886.
_Copyright_, 1885,
BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
THE FALL
OF THE
GREAT REPUBLIC.
(1886–88.)
BY
SIR HENRY STANDISH COVERDALE
(_Intendant for the Board of European Administration
in the Province of New York._)
“O Liberty! Liberty! How many crimes are committed
in thy name!”
_By Permission of the Bureau of Press Censorship._
NEW YORK:
1895.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
I. INTRODUCTORY.--THE “HARD TIMES”
OF 1882–1887 7
II. THE MORAL INTERREGNUM 15
III. THE SOCIALISTIC POISON 27
IV. THE RULE OF IRELAND IN AMERICA 32
V. THE FIRST ERUPTION 51
VI. ANXIOUS FOREBODINGS 77
VII. THE REVOLUTIONISTS’ MASTER-STROKE 86
VIII. THE REIGN OF ANARCHY 96
IX. ATTEMPTS TO SAVE THE GOVERNMENT 103
X. THE LAST PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED
STATES 115
XI. A PRECIOUS TRIUMVIRATE 124
XII. WAR WITH ENGLAND 128
XIII. CAPTURE OF BOSTON 141
XIV. THE EUROPEAN COALITION 159
XV. THE ALLIES ATTACK NEW YORK 171
XVI. THE FINAL STRUGGLE 192
XVII. FOREIGN OCCUPATION 198
APPENDIX.
I. THE SOCIALISTIC SPIRIT IN 1885 207
II. A REVOLUTION NEAR AT HAND.--“IT
MUST COME” 209
III. A FEMALE SOCIALIST’S ADVICE 211
IV. ATHEISM, COMMUNISM, AND ANARCHY 212
V. THE FORCES ARRAYED AGAINST CIVILIZATION 213
VI. THE PROSPECTS OF AN ALLIANCE BETWEEN
DYNAMITERS AND COMMUNISTS 214
VII. TWO CONTEMP | 2,583.756329 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.7362950 | 1,169 | 35 |
Produced by Mary Starr and Martin Robb. HTML version by Al Haines.
THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME
by
JOHN FOX, JR.
To
CURRIE DUKE
DAUGHTER OF THE CHIEF
AMONG
MORGAN'S MEN
KENTUCKY, APRIL, 1898
CONTENTS
1. TWO RUNAWAYS FROM LONESOME
2. FIGHTING THEIR WAY
3. A "BLAB SCHOOL" ON KINGDOM COME
4. THE COMING OF THE TIDE
5. OUT OF THE WILDERNESS
6. LOST AT THE CAPITAL
7. A FRIEND ON THE ROAD
8. HOME WITH THE MAJOR
9. MARGARET
10. THE BLUEGRASS
11. A TOURNAMENT
12. BACK TO KINGDOM COME
13. ON TRIAL FOR HIS LIFE
14. THE MAJOR IN THE MOUNTAINS
15. TO COLLEGE IN THE BLUEGRASS
16. AGAIN THE BAR SINISTER
17. CHADWICK BUFORD, GENTLEMAN
18. THE SPIRIT OF '76 AND THE SHADOW OF '61
19. THE BLUE OR THE GRAY
20. OFF TO THE WAR
21. MELISSA
22. MORGAN'S MEN
23. CHAD CAPTURES AN OLD FRIEND
24. A RACE BETWEEN DIXIE AND DAWN
25. AFTER DAWS DILLON--GUERILLA
26. BROTHER AGAINST BROTHER AT LAST
27. AT THE HOSPITAL OF MORGAN'S MEN
28. PALL-BEARERS OF THE LOST CAUSE
29. MELISSA AND MARGARET
30. PEACE
31. THE WESTWARD WAY
THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME
CHAPTER 1
TWO RUNAWAYS FROM LONESOME
The days of that April had been days of mist and rain. Sometimes, for
hours, there would come a miracle of blue sky, white cloud, and yellow
light, but always between dark and dark the rain would fall and the
mist creep up the mountains and steam from the tops--only to roll
together from either range, drip back into the valleys, and lift,
straightway, as mist again. So that, all the while Nature was trying to
give lustier life to every living thing in the lowland Bluegrass, all
the while a gaunt skeleton was stalking down the Cumberland--tapping
with fleshless knuckles, now at some unlovely cottage of faded white
and green, and now at a log cabin, stark and gray. Passing the mouth of
Lonesome, he flashed his scythe into its unlifting shadows and went
stalking on. High up, at the source of the dismal little stream, the
point of the shining blade darted thrice into the open door of a cabin
set deep into a shaggy flank of Black Mountain, and three spirits,
within, were quickly loosed from aching flesh for the long flight into
the unknown.
It was the spirit of the plague that passed, taking with it the breath
of the unlucky and the unfit: and in the hut on Lonesome three were
dead--a gaunt mountaineer, a gaunt daughter, and a gaunt son. Later,
the mother, too, "jes' kind o' got tired," as little Chad said, and
soon to her worn hands and feet came the well-earned rest. Nobody was
left then but Chad and Jack, and Jack was a dog with a belly to feed
and went for less than nothing with everybody but his little master and
the chance mountaineer who had sheep to guard. So, for the fourth time,
Chad, with Jack at his heels, trudged up to the point of a wooded spur
above the cabin, where, at the foot of a giant poplar and under a
wilderness of shaking June leaves, were three piles of rough boards,
loosely covering three hillocks of rain-beaten earth; and, near them,
an open grave. There was no service sung or spoken over the dead, for
the circuit-rider was then months away; so, unnoticed, Chad stood
behind the big poplar, watching the neighbors gently let down into the
shallow trench a home-made coffin, rudely hollowed from the half of a
bee-gum log, and, unnoticed, slipped away at the first muffled stroke
of the dirt--doubling his fists into his eyes and stumbling against the
gnarled bodies of laurel and rhododendron until, out in a clear sunny
space, he dropped on a thick, velvet mat of moss and sobbed himself to
sleep. When he awoke, Jack was licking his face and he sat up, dazed
and yawning. The sun was dropping fast, the ravines were filling with
blue shadows, luminous and misty, and a far drowsy tinkling from the
valley told him that cows were starting homeward. From habit, he spr | 2,583.756335 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.7429400 | 180 | 7 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Christina and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Tildes are used to denote text in small caps.
AMERICAN SOCIETY OF CIVIL ENGINEERS
INSTITUTED 1852
TRANSACTIONS
Paper No. 1191
WATER PURIFICATION PLANT, WASHINGTON, D. C.
RESULTS OF OPERATION.[1]
~By E. D. Hardy, M. Am. Soc. C. E.~
~With Discussion by Messrs. Allen Hazen, George A. Johnson,
Morris Knowles, George C. Whipple, F. F. Longley, and E. D. Hardy.~
The Washington filtration plant has already been fully described.[2]
At the time that paper was written | 2,583.76298 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.8362360 | 1,026 | 63 |
Produced by Michael Roe and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
produced from scanned images of public domain material
from the Google Print project.)
The New Poetry Series
PUBLISHED BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
IRRADIATIONS. SAND AND SPRAY. JOHN GOULD FLETCHER.
SOME IMAGIST POETS.
JAPANESE LYRICS. Translated by LAFCADIO HEARN.
AFTERNOONS OF APRIL. GRACE HAZARD CONKLING.
THE CLOISTER: A VERSE DRAMA. EMILE VERHAEREN.
INTERFLOW. GEOFFREY C. FABER.
STILLWATER PASTORALS AND OTHER POEMS. PAUL SHIVELL.
IDOLS. WALTER CONRAD ARENSBERG.
TURNS AND MOVIES, AND OTHER TALES IN VERSE. CONRAD AIKEN.
ROADS. GRACE FALLOW NORTON.
GOBLINS AND PAGODAS. JOHN GOULD FLETCHER.
SOME IMAGIST POETS. _1916._
A SONG OF THE GUNS. GILBERT FRANKAU.
MOTHERS AND MEN. HAROLD T. PULSIFER.
SOME IMAGIST POETS, _1916_
SOME IMAGIST POETS
_1916_
AN ANNUAL ANTHOLOGY
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1916
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published May 1916_
THIRD IMPRESSION
PREFACE
In bringing the second volume of _Some Imagist Poets_ before the
public, the authors wish to express their gratitude for the interest
which the 1915 volume aroused. The discussion of it was widespread,
and even those critics out of sympathy with Imagist tenets accorded
it much space. In the Preface to that book, we endeavoured to present
those tenets in a succinct form. But the very brevity we employed has
lead to a great deal of misunderstanding. We have decided, therefore,
to explain the laws which govern us a little more fully. A few people
may understand, and the rest can merely misunderstand again, a result
to which we are quite accustomed.
In the first place "Imagism" does not mean merely the presentation of
pictures. "Imagism" refers to the manner of presentation, not to the
subject. It means a clear presentation of whatever the author wishes
to convey. Now he may wish to convey a mood of indecision, in which
case the poem should be indecisive; he may wish to bring before his
reader the constantly shifting and changing lights over a landscape,
or the varying attitudes of mind of a person under strong emotion,
then his poem must shift and change to present this clearly. The
"exact" word does not mean the word which exactly describes the
object in itself, it means the "exact" word which brings the effect
of that object before the reader as it presented itself to the poet's
mind at the time of writing the poem. Imagists deal but little with
similes, although much of their poetry is metaphorical. The reason
for this is that while acknowledging the figure to be an integral
part of all poetry, they feel that the constant imposing of one
figure upon another in the same poem blurs the central effect.
The great French critic, Remy de Gourmont, wrote last Summer in _La
France_ that the Imagists were the descendants of the French
_Symbolistes_. In the Preface to his _Livre des Masques_, M. de
Gourmont has thus described _Symbolisme_: "Individualism in
literature, liberty of art, abandonment of existing forms.... The
sole excuse which a man can have for writing is to write down
himself, to unveil for others the sort of world which mirrors itself
in his individual glass.... He should create his own aesthetics--and
we should admit as many aesthetics as there are original minds, and
judge them for what they are and not what they are not." In this
sense the Imagists are descendants of the _Symbolistes_; they are
Individualists.
The only reason that Imagism has seemed so anarchaic and strange to
English and American reviewers is that their minds do not easily and
quickly suggest the steps by which modern art has arrived at its
present position. Its immediate prototype cannot be found in English
or American literature, we must turn to Europe for it. With Debussy
and Stravinsky in music, and Gauguin and Matisse in painting, it
should | 2,583.856276 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.8401550 | 81 | 21 |
Produced by Shaun Pinder, Chuck Greif 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 SUNKEN GARDEN
This is the second book issued by the Beaumont Press 20 copies have been
printed on Japanese vellum signed | 2,583.860195 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.8401890 | 1,829 | 9 |
Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by Google Books
SLAVES OF FREEDOM
By Coningsby Dawson
New York: Henry Holt And Company
1916
[Illustration: 0003]
[Illustration: 0007]
A SLAVE OF FREEDOM
The Night slips his arm about the Moon
And walks till the skies grow gray;
But my Love, when I speak of love,
Has never a word to say.
I set my dreams at her feet as lamps
For which all my hope must pay;
But my Love, when I speak of love,
Has never a word to say.
I fill her hands with a gleaming soul
For her plaything night and day;
But she, when I speak to her of love,
Has never a word to say.
I give my life, which is hers to kill
Or to keep with her alway;
And still, when I speak to her of love,
She’s never a word to say.
_The Night slips his arm about the Moon
And walks till the skies grow gray;
But my Love, when I speak of love,
Has never a word to say._
BOOK I--LIFE TILL TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER I--MRS. SHEERUG’S GARDEN
Nother bucket o’ mortar, Mr. Ooze.”
The excessively thin man glanced up from the puddle of lime that he
was stirring and regarded the excessively fat man with a smile of meek
interrogation.
“‘Nother bucket o’ mortar, Willie Ooze, and don’t you put your ’ead on
one side at me like a bloomin’ cockatoo.”
Mr. William Hughes stuttered an apology. “I was thin-thinking.”
“Thin-thinking!” The fat man laughed good-naturedly. Turning his back
on his helper, he gave the brick which he had just laid an extra tap to
emphasize his incredulity. “’Tisn’t like you.”
The thin man’s feelings were wounded. To the little boy who looked on
this was evident from the way he swallowed. His Adam’s-apple took a
run up his throat and, at the last moment, thought better of it. “But I
_was_ thinking,” he persisted; “thinking that I’d learnt something from
stirring up this gray muck. If ever I was to kill somebody--you, for
instance, or that boy--I’d know better than to bury you in slaked lime.”
“Uml Urn!” The fat man gulped with surprise. He puckered his vast chin
against his collar so that his voice came deep and strangled. “It’s
scraps o’ knowledge like that as saves men from the gallers. If ’alf
the murderers that is ’anged ’ad come to me first, they wouldn’t be
’anging. But--but----” He seemed at last to realize the unkind
implication of Mr. Hughes’s naive confession. “But I’d make four o’ you,
Willyum! You couldn’t kill me, however you tried.”
In the face of contradiction Mr. Hughes forgot his nervousness. “I
could.” he pleaded earnestly. “I’ve often thought about it. I’d put off
till you was stooping, and then jump. What with you being so short of
breath and me being so long in the arms and legs, why-----------! I’ve
planned it out many times, you and me being such good friends and so
much alone together.”
The face of the fat man grew serious with disapproval. “You?
’ave, ’ave you! You’ve got as far as that! You’re a nice domestic
pet, I must say, to keep unchained to play with the children.” He
attempted to go on with his bricklaying, but the memory of Mr. Hughes’s
long arms and legs so immediately behind him was disturbing. He swung
round holding his trowel like a weapon. “Don’t like your way of talking;
don’t like it. O’ course you’ve ‘ad your troubles; for them I make
allowances. But I don’t like it, and I don’t mind telling you. Um! Um!”
The thin man was crestfallen; he had hoped to give pleasure. “But I
thought you liked murders.”
“Like ’em! I enjoy them--so I do.” The fat man spoke tartly. “But when
you make me the corpse of your conversations, you presoom, Mr. Ooze, and
I don’t mind telling you--you really do. Let that boy be the corpse next
time; leave me out of it---- ’Nother bucket o’ mortar.”
_That_ boy, who was sole witness to this quarrel, was very small--far
smaller than his age. In the big walled garden of Orchid Lodge he felt
smaller than usual. Everything was strange; even the whispered sigh of
dead leaves was different as they swam up and swirled in eddies. In his
own garden, only six walls distant, their sigh was gentle as Dearie’s
footstep--but something had happened to Dearie; Jimmie Boy had told
him so that morning. “Teddy, little man, it’s happened again”--the
information had left Teddy none the wiser. All he knew was that Jane had
told the milkman that something was expected, and that the milkman had
told the cook at Orchid Lodge. The result had been the intrusion at
breakfast of the remarkable Mrs. Sheerug.
For a long while Mrs. Sheerug had been a staple topic of conversation
between Dearie and Jimmie Boy. They had wondered who she was. They
had made up the most preposterous tales about her and had told them to
Teddy. They would watch for her to come out of her house six doors away,
so that as she passed their window in Eden Row Jimmie Boy might make
rapid sketches of her trotting balloon-like figure. He had used her more
than once already in books which he had been commissioned to illustrate.
She was the faery-godmother in his _Cinderella and Other Ancient Tales:
With!6 Plates in color by James Gurney_. She was Mother Santa Claus in
his _Christmas Up to Date_. They had rather wanted to get to know her,
this child-man and woman who seemed no older than their little son
and at times, even to their little son, not half as sensible. They had
wanted to get to know her because she was always smiling, and because
she was always upholstered in such hideously clashing colors, and
because she was always setting out burdened on errands from which she
returned empty-handed. The attraction of Mrs. Sheerug was heightened by
Jane’s, the maid-of-all-work’s, discoveries: Orchid Lodge was heavily
in debt to the local tradesmen and yet (it was Dearie who said “And yet.”
with a sigh of envy), and yet its mistress was always smiling.
When Mrs. Sheerug had invaded Teddy’s father that morning, she had come
arrayed for conquest. She had worn a green plush mantle, a blue bonnet
and, waving defiance from the blue bonnet, a yellow feather.
“I’m a total stranger,” she had said. “Go on with your breakfast, Mr.
Gurney, I’ve had mine. I’ll watch you. Well, _I’ve heard_, and so I’ve
dropped in to see what I can do. You mustn’t mind me; trying to be a
mother to everyone’s my foible. Now, first of all, you can’t have that
boy in the house--boys are nice, but a nuisance. They’re noisy.”
“But Teddy, I mean Theo, isn’t.”
It was just like Jimmie Boy to call him Theo before a stranger and to
assume the rôle of a respected parent.
Mrs. Sheerug refused to be contradicted. She was cheerful, but emphatic.
“If he never made a noise before, he will now. As soon as I’ve made Theo
comfortable, I’ll come back to take care of you.”
Making Theo comfortable had consisted in leading him down the
old-fashioned, little-traveled street, on one side of which the river
ran, guarded by iron spikes like spears set up on end, and turning him
loose in the strange garden, | 2,583.860229 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.8434130 | 431 | 184 | PLANTS UNDER DOMESTICATION, VOLUME II (OF 2)***
E-text prepared by Steven Gibbs, Keith Edkins, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Transcriber's note:
A few typographical errors have been corrected: they are listed
at the end of the text. The Errata on page viii, which were in
the original book, have been applied to this e-text.
Page numbers within curly brackets (such as {iii} and {27}
have been included so that the reader might use the index.
THE VARIATION OF ANIMALS AND PLANTS UNDER DOMESTICATION.
by
CHARLES DARWIN, M.A., F.R.S., &c.
IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. II.
With Illustrations.
LONDON:
John Murray, Albemarle Street.
1868.
The right of Translation is reserved.
London: Printed by William Clowes and Sons, Stamford Street, and Charing
Cross.
{iii}
CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.
CHAPTER XII.
INHERITANCE.
WONDERFUL NATURE OF INHERITANCE--PEDIGREES OF OUR DOMESTICATED
ANIMALS--INHERITANCE NOT DUE TO CHANCE--TRIFLING CHARACTERS
INHERITED--DISEASES INHERITED--PECULIARITIES IN THE EYE INHERITED--DISEASES
IN THE HORSE--LONGEVITY AND VIGOUR--ASYMMETRICAL DEVIATIONS OF
STRUCTURE--POLYDACTYLISM AND REGROWTH OF SUPERNUMERARY DIGITS AFTER
AMPUTATION--CASES OF SEVERAL CHILDREN SIMILARLY AFFECTED FROM NON-AFFECTED
PARENTS--WEAK AND FLUCTUATING INHERITANCE: IN WEEPING TREES, IN DWARFNESS,
COLOUR OF FRUIT AND FLOWERS, COLOUR OF HORSES--NON-INHER | 2,583.863453 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.8599070 | 4,118 | 149 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Mary Akers and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber's note:
Minor spelling and punctuation inconsistencies have been
harmonized. Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
Obvious typos have been corrected.
COMPANION VOLUME BY THE SAME AUTHOR
CHATS ON OLD FURNITURE
_Illustrated by 72 Full-page Plates._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE RENAISSANCE ON THE CONTINENT
II. THE ENGLISH RENAISSANCE
III. STUART OR JACOBEAN (Early Seventeenth Century)
IV. STUART OR JACOBEAN (Late Seventeenth Century)
V. QUEEN ANNE AND EARLY GEORGIAN STYLES
VI. FRENCH FURNITURE: THE PERIOD OF LOUIS XIV.
VII. FRENCH FURNITURE: THE PERIOD OF LOUIS XV.
VIII. FRENCH FURNITURE: THE PERIOD OF LOUIS XVI.
IX. FRENCH FURNITURE: THE FIRST EMPIRE STYLE
X. CHIPPENDALE AND HIS STYLE
XI. ADAM, HEPPLEWHITE, AND SHERATON STYLES
XII. HINTS TO COLLECTORS
CHATS ON
COTTAGE AND
FARMHOUSE FURNITURE
BOOKS FOR COLLECTORS
_With Frontispieces and many Illustrations._
_Large Crown 8vo, cloth._
CHATS ON ENGLISH CHINA.
By ARTHUR HAYDEN.
CHATS ON OLD FURNITURE.
By ARTHUR HAYDEN.
CHATS ON OLD PRINTS.
By ARTHUR HAYDEN.
CHATS ON COSTUME.
By G. WOOLLISCROFT RHEAD.
CHATS ON OLD LACE AND NEEDLEWORK.
By E. L. LOWES.
CHATS ON ORIENTAL CHINA.
By J. F. BLACKER.
CHATS ON MINIATURES.
By J. J. FOSTER.
CHATS ON ENGLISH EARTHENWARE.
By ARTHUR HAYDEN.
(Companion Volume to "Chats on English China.")
CHATS ON AUTOGRAPHS.
By A. M. BROADLEY.
CHATS ON OLD PEWTER.
By H. J. L. J. MASSE, M.A.
CHATS ON POSTAGE STAMPS.
By FRED J. MELVILLE.
CHATS ON OLD JEWELLERY AND TRINKETS.
By MACIVER PERCIVAL.
CHATS ON COTTAGE AND FARMHOUSE FURNITURE.
By ARTHUR HAYDEN.
(Companion Volume to "Chats on Old Furniture.")
LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN.
NEW YORK: F. A. STOKES COMPANY.
[Illustration: SIDEBOARD OF CARVED OAK. ENGLISH, SEVENTEENTH
CENTURY.
(_In the Victoria and Albert Museum._)
_Frontispiece._]
CHATS ON COTTAGE
AND
FARMHOUSE FURNITURE
BY
ARTHUR HAYDEN
AUTHOR OF "CHATS ON OLD FURNITURE," ETC.
WITH A CHAPTER ON
OLD ENGLISH CHINTZES
BY HUGH PHILLIPS
AND SEVENTY-THREE FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS
NEW YORK
FREDERICK A. STOKES COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
(_All rights reserved._)
TO
MY OLD FRIEND
FREDERIC ARUP
I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME
IN MEMORY OF A HAPPY LABOUR
OF LOVE COMPLETED
PREFACE
The number of works dealing with old English furniture has grown
rapidly during the last ten years. Not only has the subject been
broadly treated from the historic or from the collector's point
of view, but latterly everything has been scientifically reduced
into departments of knowledge, and individual periods have received
detailed treatment at the hands of specialists.
Museums and well-known collections, noblemen's seats and country
houses have furnished photographs of the finest examples, and these,
now well-known, pieces have appeared again and again as illustrations
to volumes by various hands.
It is obviously essential in the study of the history and evolution
of furniture-making in this country that superlative specimens
be selected as ideal types for the student of design or for the
collector, but such pieces must always be beyond the means of the
average collector.
The present volume has been written for that large class of
collectors, who, while appreciating the beauty and the subtlety of
great masterpieces of English furniture, have not long enough purses
to pay the prices such examples bring after fierce competition in the
auction-room.
The field of minor work affords peculiar pleasure and demands
especial study. The character of the cottage and farmhouse furniture
is as sturdy and independent as that of the persons for whom it
was made. For three centuries unknown cabinet-makers in towns and
in villages produced work unaffected by any foreign influences.
Linen-chests, bacon-cupboards, Bible-boxes, gate tables, and other
tables, dressers, and chairs possess particular styles of treatment
in different districts. The eighteenth-century cabinet-makers
scattered up and down the three kingdoms and in America found in
Chippendale's "Director" a design-book which stimulated them to
produce furniture of compelling interest to the collector.
The examples of such work illustrated in this volume have been taken
from a wide area and are such as may come under the hand of the
diligent collector in various parts of the country.
In view of the increased love of collecting homely furniture
suitable for modern use, it is my hope that this book may find a
ready welcome, especially nowadays, when so many of the picturesque
architectural details of old homesteads are being reproduced in the
garden suburbs of great cities.
It is possible that the authorities of local museums may find in
this class of furniture a field for special research, as undoubtedly
specimens of local work should be secured for permanent exhibition
before they are dispersed far and wide and their identity with
particular districts lost for ever.
In regard to the scientific study of farmhouse and cottage furniture,
the ideal arrangement is that followed at Skansen, Stockholm, and
at Lyngby, near Copenhagen. In the former a series of buildings
have been erected in the open air, in connection with the Northern
Museum, gathered from every part of Sweden, retaining their exterior
character and fitted with the furniture of their former occupants. It
was the desire of the founder, Dr. Hazelius, to present an epitome
of the national life. Similarly at Lyngby, an adjunct of the _Dansk
Folkemuseum_ at Copenhagen, the life-work of Hr. Olsen has been given
to gathering together and re-erecting a large number of old cottages
and farmhouses from various districts in Denmark, from Iceland, the
Faroe Islands, and from Norway and Sweden. These have their obsolete
agricultural implements, and old methods of fencing and quaint styles
of storage. The furniture stands in these specimen homes exactly as
if they were occupied. It is a remarkable open-air museum, and the
idea is worthy of serious consideration in this country. Old cottages
and farmhouses are fast disappearing, and the preservation of these
beauties of village and country life should appeal to all lovers of
national monuments.[1]
[1] Those interested in the method pursued in Sweden and Denmark
and the grave necessity for speedy measures to preserve our
national cottages and farmhouses from effacement will find
illuminating articles on the subject from the pen of "Home
Counties" in the _World's Work_, August, October, and November,
1910, and in the American _Educational Review_, February, 1911,
in an article by Lucy M. Salmon. "Old West Surrey," by Gertrude
Jekyll (Longmans & Co.), 1904, contains a wealth of suggestive
material relating to cottage furniture and articles of daily use
of old-style country life now passing away.
In connexion with farmhouse furniture, old chintzes is a subject
never before written upon. A chapter in this volume is contributed
by Mr. Hugh Phillips, whose special studies concerning this little
known field enable him to present much valuable information which has
never before been in print, together with illustrations of chintzes
actually taken from authentic examples of old furniture.
A brief survey is made of miscellaneous articles associated with
cottage and farmhouse furniture. Some specimens of Sussex firebacks
are illustrated, together with fenders, firedogs, pot-hooks,
candle-holders, and brass and copper candlesticks.
The illustrations have been selected in order to convey a broad
outline of the subject. My especial thanks are due to Messrs.
Phillips, of the Manor House, Hitchin, for placing at my disposal
the practical experience of many years' collecting in various parts
of the country, and by enriching the volume with illustrations of
many fine examples of great importance and rarity never before
photographed.
To Messrs. A. B. Daniell & Sons I am indebted for photographs of
specimens in their galleries.
In presenting this volume it is my intention that it should be a
companion volume to my "Chats on Old Furniture," which records the
history and evolution of the finer styles of English furniture,
showing the various foreign influences on English craftsmen who made
furniture for the wealthy classes.
ARTHUR HAYDEN.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
INTRODUCTORY NOTE 25
The minor collector--The originality of the village
cabinet-maker--His freedom from foreign influences--The
traditional character of his work--Difficult to establish dates
to cottage and farmhouse furniture--Oak the chief wood
employed--Beech, elm, and ash used in lieu of mahogany and
satinwood--Village craftsmanship not debased by early-Victorian
art--Its obliteration in the age of factory-made furniture--The
conservation of old farmhouses with their furniture in
Sweden and in Denmark--The need for the preservation
and exhibition of old cottages and farmhouses in Great
Britain.
CHAPTER II
SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY STYLES 43
Typical Jacobean furniture--Solidity of English joiners'
work--Oak general in its use--The oak forests of England--Sturdy
independence of country furniture--Chests of
drawers--The slow assimilation of foreign styles--The
changing habits of the people.
CHAPTER III
THE GATE-LEG TABLE 83
Its early form--Transitional and experimental stages--Its
establishment as a permanent popular type--The gate-leg
table in the Jacobean period--Walnut and mahogany varieties--Its
utility and beauty contribute to its long survival--Its
adoption in modern days.
CHAPTER IV
THE FARMHOUSE DRESSER 113
The days of the late Stuarts--Its early table form with
drawers--The decorated type with shelves--William and
Mary style with double cupboards--The Queen Anne
cabriole leg--Mid-eighteenth-century types.
CHAPTER V
THE BIBLE-BOX, THE CRADLE, THE SPINNING-WHEEL,
AND THE BACON-CUPBOARD 137
The Puritan days of the seventeenth century--The Protestant
Bible in every home--The variety of carving found in
Bible-boxes--The Jacobean cradle and its forms--The
spinning-wheel--The bacon-cupboard.
CHAPTER VI
EIGHTEENTH-CENTURY STYLES 155
The advent of the cabriole leg--The so-called Queen Anne
style--The survival of oak in the provinces--The influence
of walnut on cabinet-making--The early-Georgian types--Chippendale
and his contemporaries.
CHAPTER VII
THE EVOLUTION OF THE CHAIR 189
Early days--The typical Jacobean oak chair--The evolution
of the stretcher--The chair-back and its development--Transition
between Jacobean and William and Mary forms--Farmhouse
styles contemporary with the cane-back chair--The
Queen Anne splat--Country Chippendale, Hepplewhite,
and Sheraton--The grandfather chair--Ladder-back types--The
spindle-back chair--Corner chairs.
CHAPTER VIII
THE WINDSOR CHAIR 243
Early types--The stick legs without stretcher--The tavern
chair--Eighteenth-century pleasure gardens--The rail-back
variety--Chippendale style Windsor chairs--The survival of
the Windsor chair.
CHAPTER IX
LOCAL TYPES 265
Welsh carving--Scottish types--Lancashire dressers, wardrobes,
and chairs--Hertfordshire, Bedfordshire, Cambridge,
and Essex tables--Isle of Man tables.
CHAPTER X
MISCELLANEOUS IRONWORK, ETC. 285
The rushlight-holder--The dipper--The chimney crane--The
Scottish crusie--Firedogs--The warming-pan--Sussex
firebacks--Grandfather clocks.
CHAPTER XI
OLD ENGLISH CHINTZES. (By Hugh Phillips) 315
The charm of old English chintz--Huguenot cloth-printers
settle in England--Jacob Stampe at the sign of the Calico
Printer--The Queen Anne period--The Chippendale period--The
age of machinery.
INDEX 343
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
SIDEBOARD OF CARVED OAK (ENGLISH,
SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY) _Frontispiece_
CHAPTER I--INTRODUCTORY NOTE
PAGE
CHESTS (SIXTEENTH CENTURY) 29
ELIZABETHAN CHAIR 35
CHEST (SEVENTEENTH CENTURY) 35
INTERIOR OF FARMHOUSE PARLOUR 39
INTERIOR OF COTTAGE 39
CHAPTER II
MONK'S BENCH 53
OAK CHEST WITH DRAWERS UNDERNEATH 53
JOINT STOOLS 57
OAK TABLE 57
CHEST (RESTORATION PERIOD) 63
EARLY OAK TABLE (MIDDLE SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY) 63
SMALL OAK TABLE (_c._ 1680) 65
JACOBEAN CHEST OF DRAWERS (_c._ 1660) 65
CHESTS OF DRAWERS 69
CHEST OF DRAWERS (CABRIOLE FEET) 73
WILLIAM AND MARY TABLE (_c._ 1670) 73
CHILDREN'S STOOLS 77
RARE BEDSTEAD (_c._ 1700) 77
CHAPTER III
TRIANGULAR GATE TABLE 87
OAK SIDE-TABLE 87
SMALL GATE TABLE (VERY EARLY TYPE) 91
GATE TABLE (MIDDLE SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY) 91
RARE TABLE WITH DOUBLE GATES 93
RARE TABLE WITH DOUBLE GATES AND ONLY ONE FLAP 93
GATE-LEG TABLE (RESTORATION PERIOD) 97
GATE-LEG TABLE (YORKSHIRE TYPE) 97
GATE-LEG TABLE WITH SIX LEGS ("BARLEY-SUGAR"
TURNING) 99
GATE-LEG TABLE (BALL TURNING) 99
COLLAPSIBLE TABLE WITH RARE =X= STRETCHER 101
PRIMITIVE GATE-LEG TABLE 101
WILLIAM AND MARY GATE-LEG TABLE 105
SQUARE-TOP GATE-LEG TABLES 105
MAHOGANY GATE-LEG TABLES 109
CHAPTER IV
OAK DRESSER (ABOUT 1680) 117
OAK DRESSER (PERIOD OF JAMES II.) 117
OAK DRESSER (EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY) 119
OAK DRESSER, URN-SHAPED LEGS (RESTORATION PERIOD) 119
MIDDLE-JACOBEAN DRESSER 123
WILLIAM AND MARY OAK DRESSER 127
OAK DRESSER. SQUARE-LEG TYPE 127
UNIQUE DRESSER AND CLOCK COMBINED 131
OAK DRESSER. QUEEN ANNE CABRIOLE LEGS 135
LANCASHIRE OAK DRESSER 135
CHAPTER V
BIBLE-BOXES. EARLY EXAMPLES 143
BIBLE-BOXES (MIDDLE SEVENTEENTH-CENTURY AND
ORDINARY TYPE) 145
OAK CRADLES 149
YARN-WINDER AND SPINNING-WHEEL 151
BUCKINGHAMSHIRE BOBBINS 151
CHAPTER VI
LANCASHIRE OAK SETTLES 159
CUPBOARD WITH DRAWERS 163
QUEEN ANNE BUREAU BOOKCASE 163
OAK TABLES (EARLY EIGHTEENTH CENTURY) 165
QUEEN ANNE GLASS- OR CHINA-CUPBOARD 171
GEORGIAN CORNER-CUPBOARD 171
OAK TABLES 173
OAK TABLES, WITH TYPICAL COUNTRY CABRIOLE LEGS 177
QUEEN ANNE TEA-TABLE 181
OAK REVOLVING BOOK-STAND 181
COUNTRY CHIPPENDALE TABLE 181
SQUARE MAHOGANY FLAP-TABLE 183
TRIPOD TABLE (_c._ 1760) 183
COUNTRY CHIPPENDALE AND COUNTRY ADAM TABLES 187
CHAPTER VII
OAK ARM-CHAIRS (ONE DATED 1650) 191 | 2,583.879947 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.8650510 | 17 | 9 |
Produced by David Widger
THE BACHELOR'S OWN BOOK | 2,583.885091 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.9341350 | 2,825 | 11 |
Produced by Col Choat. HTML version by Al Haines.
DOT AND THE KANGAROO
by
Ethel C. Pedley
To the
children of Australia
in the hope of enlisting their sympathies
for the many
beautiful, amiable, and frolicsome creatures
of their fair land,
whose extinction, through ruthless destruction,
is being surely accomplished
CHAPTER I.
Little Dot had lost her way in the bush. She knew it, and was very
frightened. She was too frightened in fact to cry, but stood in the
middle of a little dry, bare space, looking around her at the scraggy
growths of prickly shrubs that had torn her little dress to rags,
scratched her bare legs and feet till they bled, and pricked her hands
and arms as she had pushed madly through the bushes, for hours, seeking
her home. Sometimes she looked up to the sky. But little of it could
be seen because of the great tall trees that seemed to her to be trying
to reach heaven with their far-off crooked branches. She could see
little patches of blue sky between the tangled tufts of her way in the
and was very drooping leaves, and, as the dazzling sunlight had faded,
she began to think it was getting late, and that very soon it would be
night.
The thought of being lost and alone in the wild bush at night, took her
breath away with fear, and made her tired little legs tremble under
her. She gave up all hope of finding her home, and sat down at the foot
of the biggest blackbutt tree, with her face buried in her hands and
knees, and thought of all that had happened, and what might happen yet.
It seemed such a long, long time since her mother had told her that she
might gather some bush flowers while she cooked the dinner, and Dot
recollected how she was bid not to go out of sight of the cottage. How
she wished now she had remembered this sooner! But whilst she was
picking the pretty flowers, a hare suddenly started at her feet and
sprang away into the bush, and she had run after it. When she found
that she could not catch the hare, she discovered that she could no
longer see the cottage. After wandering for a while she got frightened
and ran, and ran, little knowing that she was going further away from
her home at every step.
Where she was sitting under the blackbutt tree, she was miles away from
her father's selection, and it would be very difficult for anyone to
find her. She felt that she was a long way off, and she began to think
of what was happening at home. She remembered how, not very long ago,
a neighbour's little boy had been lost, and how his mother had come to
their cottage for help to find him, and that her father had ridden off
on the big bay horse to bring men from all the selections around to
help in the search. She remembered their coming back in the darkness;
numbers of strange men she had never seen before. Old men, young men,
and boys, all on their rough-coated horses, and how they came indoors,
and what a noise they made all talking together in their big deep
voices. They looked terrible men, so tall and brown and fierce, with
their rough bristly beards; and they all spoke in such funny tones to
her, as if they were trying to make their voices small.
During many days, these men came and went, and every time they were
more sad, and less noisy. The little boy's mother used to come and
stay, crying, whilst the men were searching the bush for her little
son. Then, one evening, Dot's father came home alone, and both her
mother and the little boy's mother went away in a great hurry. Then,
very late, her mother came back crying, and her father sat smoking by
the fire looking very sad, and she never saw that little boy again,
although he had been found.
She wondered now if all these rough, big men were riding into the bush
to find her, and if, after many days, they would find her, and no one
ever see her again. She seemed to see her mother crying, and her
father very sad, and all the men very solemn. These thoughts made her
so miserable that she began to cry herself.
Dot does not know how long she was sobbing in loneliness and fear, with
her head on her knees, and with her little hands covering her eyes so
as not to see the cruel wild bush in which she was lost. It seemed a
long time before she summoned up courage to uncover her weeping eyes,
and look once more at the bare, dry earth, and the wilderness of scrub
and trees that seemed to close her in as if she were in a prison. When
she did look up, she was surprised to see that she was no longer alone.
She forgot all her trouble and fear in her astonishment at seeing a big
grey Kangaroo squatting quite close to her, in front of her.
What was most surprising was the fact that the Kangaroo evidently
understood that Dot was in trouble, and was sorry for her; for down the
animal's nice soft grey muzzle two tiny little tears were slowly
trickling. When Dot looked up at it with wonder in her round blue eyes,
the Kangaroo did not jump away, but remained gazing sympathetically at
Dot with a slightly puzzled air. Suddenly the big animal seemed to
have an idea, and it lightly hopped off into the scrub, where Dot could
just see it bobbing up and down as if it were hunting for something.
Presently back came the strange Kangaroo with a spray of berries in her
funny black hands. They were pretty berries. Some were green, some
were red, some blue, and others white. Dot was quite glad to take them
when the Kangaroo offered them to her; and as this friendly animal
seemed to wish her to eat them, she did so gladly, because she was
beginning to feel hungry.
After she had eaten a few berries a very strange thing happened. While
Dot had been alone in the bush it had all seemed so dreadfully still.
There had been no sound but the gentle stir of a light, fitful breeze
in the far-away tree-tops. All around had been so quiet, that her
loneliness had seemed twenty times more lonely. Now, however, under
the influence of these small, sweet berries, Dot was surprised to hear
voices everywhere. At first it seemed like hearing sounds in a dream,
they were so faint and distant, but soon the talking grew nearer and
nearer, louder and clearer, until the whole bush seemed filled with
talking.
They were all little voices, some indeed quite tiny whispers and
squeaks, but they were very numerous, and seemed to be everywhere.
They came from the earth, from the bushes, from the trees, and from the
very air. The little girl looked round to see where they came from,
but everything looked just the same. Hundreds of ants, of all kinds
and sizes, were hurrying to their nests; a few lizards were scuttling
about amongst the dry twigs and sparse grasses; there were some
grasshoppers, and in the trees birds fluttered to and fro. Then Dot
knew that she was hearing, and understanding, everything that was being
said by all the insects and creatures in the bush.
All this time the Kangaroo had been speaking, only Dot had been too
surprised to listen. But now the gentle, soft voice of the kind animal
caught her attention, and she found the Kangaroo was in the middle of a
speech.
"I understood what was the matter with you at once," she was saying,
"for I feel just the same myself. I have been miserable, like you,
ever since I lost my baby Kangaroo. You also must have lost something.
Tell me what it is?"
"I've lost my way," said Dot; rather wondering if the Kangaroo would
nderstand her.
"Ah!" said the Kangaroo, quite delighted at her own cleverness, "I knew
you had lost something! Isn't it a dreadful feeling? You feel as if
you had no inside, don't you? And you're not inclined to eat
anything--not even the youngest grass. I have been like that ever
since I lost my baby Kangaroo. Now tell me," said the creature
confidentially, "what your way is like. I may be able to find it for
you."
Dot found that she must explain what she meant by saying she had "lost
her way," and the Kangaroo was much interested.
"Well," said she, after listening to the little girl, "that is just
like you Humans; you are not fit for this country at all! Of course,
if you have only one home in one place, you must lose it! If you made
your home everywhere and anywhere, it would never be lost. Humans are
no good in our bush," she continued. "Just look at yourself now. How
do you compare with a Kangaroo? There is your ridiculous sham coat.
Well, you have lost bits of it all the way you have come to-day, and
you're nearly left in your bare skin. Now look at my coat. I've done
ever so much more hopping than you to-day, and you see I'm none the
worse. I wonder why all your fur grows upon the top of your head," she
said reflectively, as she looked curiously at Dot's long flaxen curls.
"It's such a silly place to have one's fur the thickest! You see, we
have very little there; for we don't want our heads made any hotter
under the Australian sun. See how much better off you would be, now
that nearly all your sham coat is gone, if that useless fur had been
chopped into little, short lengths and spread all over your poor bare
body. I wonder why you Humans are made so badly," she ended, with a
puzzled air.
Dot felt for a moment as if she ought to apologise for being so unfit
for the bush, and for having all the fur on the top of her head. But,
somehow, she had an idea that a little girl must be something better
than a kangaroo, although the Kangaroo certainly seemed a very superior
person; so she said nothing, but again began to eat the berries.
"You must not eat any more of these berries," said the Kangaroo,
anxiously.
"Why?" asked Dot, "they are very nice, and I'm very hungry."
The Kangaroo gently took the spray out of Dot's hand, and threw it
away. "You see," she said, "if you eat too many of them, you'll know
too much."
"One can't know too much," argued the little girl.
"Yes you can, though," said the Kangaroo, quickly. "If you eat too
many of those berries, you'll learn too much, and that gives you
indigestion, and then you become miserable. I don't want you to be
miserable any more, for I'm going to find your lost way."
The mention of finding her way reminded the little girl of her sad
position, which, in her wonder at talking with the Kangaroo, had been
quite forgotten for a little while. She became sad again; and seeing
how dim the light was getting, her thoughts went back to her parents.
She longed to be with them to be kissed and cuddled, and her blue eyes
filled with tears.
"Your eyes just now remind me of two fringed violets, with the morning
dew on them, or after a shower," said the Kangaroo. "Why are you
crying?"
"I was thinking," said Dot.
"Oh! don't think!" pleaded the Kangaroo; "I never do myself."
"I can't help it!" explained the little girl. "What do you do
instead?" she asked.
"I always jump to conclusions," said the Kangaroo, and she promptly
bounded ten feet at one hop. Lightly springing back again to her
position in front of the child, she added, "and that's why I never have
a headache."
"Dear Kangaroo," said Dot, "do you know where I can get some water?
I'm very thirsty!"
"Of course you are," said her friend; "everyone is at sundown. I'm
thirsty myself. But the nearest water-hole is a longish way off, so we
had better start at once."
Little Dot got up with an effort. After her long run and fatigue, she
was very stiff, and her little legs were so tired and weak, that after
a few steps she staggered and fell.
The Kangaroo looked at the child compassionately. " | 2,583.954175 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.9359800 | 1,067 | 8 |
Produced by Norman M. Wolcott
The Blockade Runners by Jules Verne
[Redactor's Note: _The Blockade Runners_ (number V008 in the T&M
numerical listing of Verne's works) is a translation of _Les forceurs
de blocus_ (1871). _The Blockade Runners_, a novella, was included
along with _A Floating City_ in the first english and french editions
of this work. This translation, which follows that of Sampson and Low
(UK) and Scribners (US) is by "N. D'Anvers", pseudonymn for Mrs. Arthur
Bell (d. 1933) who also translated other Verne books. It is also
included in the fifteen volume Parke edition of the works of Jules
Verne (1911). There is another translation by Henry Frith which was
published by Routledge (1876).
Both of these stories are about ships; _Floating City_ about the
largest ship of the time, the _Great Eastern_, and _Blockade Runners_
about one of the fastest, the _Dolphin_.
This text version was prepared from public domain sources by Norman M.
Wolcott, 2003, [email protected]]
The Blockade Runners
Table of Contents
I THE _DOLPHIN_
II GETTING UNDER SAIL
III THINGS ARE NOT WHAT THEY SEEM
IV CROCKSTON'S TRICK
V THE SHOT FROM THE _IROQUOIS,_ AND MISS JENNY'S ARGUMENTS
VI SULLIVAN ISLAND CHANNEL
VII A SOUTHERN GENERAL
VIII THE ESCAPE
IX BETWEEN TWO FIRES
X ST. MUNGO
THE BLOCKADE RUNNERS
Chapter I
THE _DOLPHIN_
The Clyde was the first river whose waters were lashed into foam by a
steam-boat. It was in 1812 when the steamer called the _Comet_ ran
between Glasgow and Greenock, at the speed of six miles an hour. Since
that time more than a million of steamers or packet-boats have plied
this Scotch river, and the inhabitants of Glasgow must be as familiar
as any people with the wonders of steam navigation.
However, on the 3rd of December, 1862, an immense crowd, composed of
shipowners, merchants, manufacturers, workmen, sailors, women, and
children, thronged the muddy streets of Glasgow, all going in the
direction of Kelvin Dock, the large shipbuilding premises belonging to
Messrs. Tod & MacGregor. This last name especially proves that the
descendants of the famous Highlanders have become manufacturers, and
that they have made workmen of all the vassals of the old clan
chieftains.
Kelvin Dock is situated a few minutes' walk from the town, on the right
bank of the Clyde. Soon the immense timber-yards were thronged with
spectators; not a part of the quay, not a wall of the wharf, not a
factory roof showed an unoccupied place; the river itself was covered
with craft of all descriptions, and the heights of Govan, on the left
bank, swarmed with spectators.
There was, however, nothing extraordinary in the event about to take
place; it was nothing but the launching of a ship, and this was an
everyday affair with the people of Glasgow. Had the _Dolphin_,
then--for that was the name of the ship built by Messrs. Tod &
MacGregor--some special peculiarity? To tell the truth, it had none.
It was a large ship, about 1,500 tons, in which everything combined to
obtain superior speed. Her engines, of 500 horse-power, were from the
workshops of Lancefield Forge; they worked two screws, one on either
side the stern-post, completely independent of each other. As for the
depth of water the _Dolphin_ would draw, it must be very
inconsiderable; connoisseurs were not deceived, and they concluded
rightly that this ship was destined for shallow straits. But all these
particulars could not in any way justify the eagerness of the people:
taken altogether, the _Dolphin_ was nothing more or less than an
ordinary ship. Would her launching present some mechanical difficulty
to be overcome? Not any more than usual. The Clyde had received many a
ship of heavier tonnage, and the launching of the _Dolphin_ would take
place in the usual manner.
In fact, when the water was calm, the moment the ebb-tide set in, the
workmen began to operate. Their mallets kept perfect time falling on
the wedges meant to raise the ship's keel: soon a shudder | 2,583.95602 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.9368140 | 1,547 | 8 |
E-text prepared by Steven Gibbs, Les Galloway, 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.
See 52902-h.htm or 52902-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/52902/52902-h/52902-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/52902/52902-h.zip)
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
A carat character is used to denote superscription. A
single character following the carat is superscripted
(example: D^o). Multiple superscripted characters are
enclosed by curly brackets (example: 15^{inch}).
A
Naval Expositor,
_Shewing and Explaining
The Words and Terms of Art belonging to
the Parts, Qualities and Proportions of Building,
Rigging, Furnishing, & Fitting a Ship for Sea_.
Also
_All Species that are received into the Magazines,
and on what Services they are Used and Issued._
Together with
_The Titles of all the Inferior Officers belonging to a Ship,
with an Abridgment of their respective Duties._
_By Thomas Riley Blanckley._
_LONDON Printed by E. Owen, in Warwick Lane, and
Engraved by Paul Fourdrinier at Charing Cross._
MDCCL.
_To the Right Honourable the Lords Commissioners for Executing the
Office of Lord High Admiral of_ Great Britain _and_ Ireland, _and of
all His Majesty's Plantations_, &c.
As the following Sheets have been published by your Lordships
Approbation, they are, with the greatest Submission and Gratitude,
dedicated to your Lordships,
_By,
My Lords,
Your Lordships
Most Obedient,
Most Dutiful,
and
Most Humble Servant_,
Thomas Riley Blanckley.
A LIST OF THE SUBSCRIBERS.
A.
Right Honourable the Lords of the _Admiralty_ (as a Board.)
Joseph Allin, _Esq_; _Surveyor of His Majesty's Navy_.
Governors and Company of the _Royal Exchange Assurance Office_.
Capt. Mariot Arbuthnot.
Capt. Thomas Andrewes.
George Atkins, _Esq_;
William Allix, _Esq_;
Charles Alexander, _Esq_;
Michael Atkins, _Esq_;
Roger Altham, _Esq_;
William Allix, _Esq_; _Commissioner of the Six-penny Office_.
Mr Gabriel Acworth.
Mr John Andrews.
Mr Elias Arnaud.
Mr Thomas Adney.
Mr Charles Allen.
Mr Samuel Allin.
Mr Williams Arthur.
Mr D. H. S. Augier.
Mr George Allen.
Lieutenant John Angier.
Mr William Atwick.
Mr James Atkins.
Mr Edward Allin.
B.
His Grace the Duke of Bedford, _Principal Secretary of State_.
Right Honourable Lord Viscount Barrington, _Lord of the Admiralty_,
6 Books.
Charles Brown, _Esq_; _Commissioner of the Navy at Chatham_.
Capt. Wm. Bladwell, 2 Books.
Capt. Patrick Baird.
Capt. Henry Barnfley.
Capt. Mathew Buckle.
Sir William Baird, _Bart_.
George Bellas, _Esq_; 14 Books.
James Bankes, _Esq_;
Edward Busby, _Esq_;
Robert Bennett, _Esq_;
Charles Burley, _Esq_;
Mr Edward Bentham.
Mr Richard Bowers.
Mr John Barker.
Mr James Bucknall.
Mr William Bruce.
Mr Jonas Botting.
Mr Bryan Bentham.
Mr John Baynard.
Mr William Bately.
Mr John Bately.
Mr John Bannick.
Mr Jonas Benjamin.
Mr Thomas Barnfield.
Mr Owen Bird.
Mr Richard Burry.
Mr Daniel Baverstock.
Lieut. Thomas Burnett.
Mr Pentecost Barker.
Mr Nathaniel Bishop.
Mr Robert Bogg.
Mr Charles Bowes.
Mr Thomas Brewer.
Mr Francis Benson.
Mr John Bromfall.
Mr Richard Brett.
C.
Right Honourable Lord Viscount Cobham.
Right. Hon. Lord Colville.
Thomas Corbett, _Esq_; _Secretary of the Admiralty_, 2 Books.
John Clevland, _Esq_; _Secretary of the Admiralty_, 2 Books.
Capt. John Cokburne.
Capt. Alexander Campbell.
Lieut. Col. Mordaunt Cracherode.
Richard Owen Cambridge, _Esq_; 2 Books.
Robert Chapman, _L. L. D._
Claude Crespigny, _Esq_;
Philip Crespigny, _Esq_;
John Spencer Colepeper, _Esq_;
John Carter, _Esq_;
Edmund Clark, _Esq_;
Thomas Colby, _Esq_;
John Crookshanks, _Esq_;
Lieut. Christopher Coles.
Lieut. John Clark.
Mr Francis Colepeper.
Mr John Cogswell.
Mr Ulick Cormick.
Mr Edward Collingwood.
Mr William Cookson.
Mr George Crisp.
Mr Thomas Crabtree.
Mr John Cæfar.
Mr Richard Cheslyn.
Mr Robert Calland.
Mr Joseph Champion.
Mr Raphael Courteville.
D.
His Grace the Duke of Devonshire.
Rt. Hon. Ld. Viscount Duncannon, _Lord of the Admiralty_, 6 Books.
Capt. Digby Dent.
Capt. James Douglass.
Capt. Cotton Dent.
Capt. Thomas Dove.
Andrew Coltee Ducarell, _L. L. D._
Jacob Dias, _Esq_;
Arthur Dobbins, _Esq_;
Lieut. John Dunkley.
Mr Windham Deverell.
Mr Elias Dunsterville.
Mr Thomas Dobbins.
Mr Henry Daniel.
E.
Hon. Capt. Geo. Edgcumbe.
Capt. John Evans.
Capt. Michael Everitt.
Mr John Elliott.
Mr John Holland Ecles.
Mr John Etherington.
F.
Hon. John Forbes, _Esq_; _Rear Admiral of the White Squadron of His
Majesty's Fleet_.
Thomas Fox, _Esq_; _Rear Admiral_.
Capt. Thomas Frankland.
Capt. John Fawler.
Capt. William Fortescue.
Capt. Thomas Foley.
Josias Farrer, _Esq_;
Lieut. Robert Frankland.
Mr Thomas Fellowes.
Mr Joseph Fletcher.
Mr James Forrester.
| 2,583.956854 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.9400450 | 1,166 | 7 |
Produced by David Widger from page images generously provided by the
Internet Archive
IN THE LEVANT.
By Charles Dudley Warner,
Twenty Fifth Impression
Boston: Houghton, Mifflin And Company
1876
TO WILLIAM D. HOWELLS THESE NOTES OF ORIENTAL TRAVEL ARE FRATERNALLY
INSCRIBED.
CONTENTS
PREFACE
IN THE LEVANT.
I.—FROM JAFFA TO JERUSALEM.
II.—JERUSALEM.
III.—HOLY PLACES OP THE HOLY CITY.
IV.—NEIGHBORHOODS OF JERUSALEM.
V.—GOING DOWN TO JERICHO.
VI.—BETHLEHEM AND MAR SABA.
VII.—THE FAIR OF MOSES; THE ARMENIAN PATRIARCH.
VIII.—DEPARTURE FROM JERUSALEM.
IX.—ALONG THE SYRIAN COAST.
X.—BEYROUT.—OVER THE LEBANON.
XI.—BA'ALBEK.
XII.—ON THE ROAD TO DAMASCUS.
XIII.—THE OLDEST OF CITIES.
XIV.—OTHER SIGHTS IN DAMASCUS.
XV.—SOME PRIVATE HOUSES.
XVI.—SOME SPECIMEN TRAVELLERS.
XVII.—INTO DAYLIGHT AGAIN.—AN EPISODE OF TURKISH JUSTICE.
XVIII.—CYPRUS.
XIX.—THROUGH SUMMER SEAS.—RHODES.
XX.—AMONG THE ÆGEAN ISLANDS.
XXI.—SMYRNA AND EPHESUS.
XII.—THE ADVENTURERS.
XXIII.—THROUGH THE DARDANELLES.
XIV.—CONSTANTINOPLE.
XXV.—THE SERAGLIO AND ST. SOPHIA, HIPPODROME, etc.
XXVI.—SAUNTERINGS ABOUT CONSTANTINOPLE.
XXVII.—FROM THE GOLDEN HORN TO THE ACROPOLIS.
XXVIII.—ATHENS.
XXIX.—ELEUSIS, PLATO'S ACADEME, ETC.
XXX.—THROUGH THE GULF OF CORINTH.
PREFACE
IN the winter and spring of 1875 the writer made the tour of Egypt and
the Levant. The first portion of the journey is described in a volume
published last summer, entitled “My Winter on the Nile, among Mummies
and Moslems”; the second in the following pages. The notes of the
journey were taken and the books were written before there were any
signs of the present Oriental disturbances, and the observations made
are therefore uncolored by any expectation of the existing state of
affairs. Signs enough were visible of a transition period, extraordinary
but hopeful; with the existence of poverty, oppression, superstition,
and ignorance were mingling Occidental and Christian influences, the
faint beginnings of a revival of learning and the stronger pulsations of
awakening commercial and industrial life. The best hope of this revival
was their, as it is now, in peace and not in war. C. D. W.
Hartford, November 10,1876.
IN THE LEVANT.
I.—FROM JAFFA TO JERUSALEM.
SINCE Jonah made his short and ignominious voyage along the Syrian
coast, mariners have had the same difficulty in getting ashore that
the sailors experienced who attempted to land the prophet; his tedious
though safe method of disembarking was not followed by later navigators,
and the landing at Jaffa has remained a vexatious and half the time an
impossible achievement.
The town lies upon the open sea and has no harbor. It is only in
favorable weather that vessels can anchor within a mile or so from
shore, and the Mediterranean steamboats often pass the port without
being able to land either freight or passengers, In the usual condition
of the sea the big fish would have found it difficult to discharge Jonah
without stranding itself, and it seems that it waited three days for the
favorable moment. The best chance for landing nowadays is in the early
morning, in that calm period when the winds and the waves alike await
the movements of the sun. It was at that hour, on the 5th of April,
1875, that we arrived from Port Said on the French steamboat Erymanthe.
The night had been pleasant and the sea tolerably smooth, but not to the
apprehensions of some of the passengers, who always declare that they
prefer, now, a real tempest to a deceitful groundswell. On a recent trip
a party had been prevented from landing, owing to the deliberation
of the ladies in making their toilet; by the time they had attired
themselves in a proper manner to appear in Southern Palestine, the
golden hour had slipped away, and they were able only to look upon the
land which their beauty and clothes would have adorned. None of us were
caught in a like delinquency. At the moment the anchor went down we
were bargaining with a villain to take us ashore, a bargain in which the
yeasty and waxingly uneasy sea gave the boatman all the advantage.
Our little company of four is guided by the philosopher and dragoman
Mohammed Abd-el-Atti, of Cairo, who has served us during the long voyage
of the Nile. He is assisted in his task by the Abyssinian boy Ahman
Ab | 2,583.960085 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.9401540 | 178 | 19 | The Project Gutenberg Etext of NEVER AGAIN! by Edward Carpenter
Copyright laws are changing all over the world, be sure to check
the laws for your country before redistributing these files!!!
Please take a look at the important information in this header.
We encourage you to keep this file on your own disk, keeping an
electronic path open for the next readers.
Please do not remove this.
This should be the first thing seen when anyone opens the book.
Do not change or edit it without written permission. The words
are carefully chosen to provide users with the information they
need about what they can legally do with the texts.
**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts**
**Etexts Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971**
*These Etexts Prepared By Hundreds of Volunteers and Donations*
Information on contacting Project Gutenberg | 2,583.960194 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.9412460 | 1,173 | 35 |
Produced by Curtis Weyant, Christine D. and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by the Posner Memorial Collection
(http://posner.library.cmu.edu/Posner/))
Transcriber's Note
Led by the belief that the spelling and punctuation of each
entry is based directly on the original title pages no
intentional 'corrections' have been made to the content. The
text in this e-book is as close to the original printed text
as pgdp proofing and postprocessing could get it. In some
entries larger spaces are used as spacers between
bibliographic fields instead of punctuation. These have been
retained to the best of our ability and are represented as
non-breaking spaces.
A CATALOGUE OF
Books in English
later than 1700, forming
a portion of the Library
of Robert Hoe New
York 1905
EX
LIBRIS
ROBERT
HOE
VOLUME II
CATALOGUE
VOLUME II
ONE HUNDRED COPIES ONLY, INCLUDING
THREE UPON IMPERIAL
JAPANESE VELLUM--PRINTED BY
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE
A Catalogue of Books
in English
Later than 1700
Forming a Portion of the Library
of Robert Hoe
[Illustration]
VOLUME II
Privately Printed
New York. 1905
THIS CATALOGUE WAS COMPILED BY
CAROLYN SHIPMAN
THE CATALOGUE
HADEN, SIR FRANCIS SEYMOUR.--The Etched Work of Rembrandt critically
considered. By Francis Seymour Haden,... 1877. 110 copies privately
printed for the Author. [London, Metchim & Son] _4to, paper._
First edition. Three photogravure plates.
HADEN, SIR FRANCIS SEYMOUR.--About Etching. Part I. Notes by Mr. Seymour
Haden on a collection of etchings and engravings by the great masters
lent by him to the Fine Art Society to illustrate the subject of
etching. Part II. An annotated catalogue of the examples exhibited of
etchers and painter-engravers' work. Illustrated with An original
Etching by Mr. Seymour Haden, and fifteen facsimiles of Etchings.
[London] The Fine Art Society... 1879. _4to, half brown morocco, gilt
top, uncut edges._
First edition.
HAEBLER, KONRAD.--The Early Printers of Spain and Portugal By Konrad
Haebler London printed for the Bibliographical Society at the Chiswick
Press March 1897 for 1896. _Royal 4to, original paper wrappers, uncut
edges._
Woodcut frontispiece and thirty-three plates.
No. IV. of Illustrated Monographs issued by the Bibliographical Society.
HAFIZ.--The D[=i]v[=a]n, written in the fourteenth century, by [Persian
name] Khw[=a]ja Shamsu-d-D[=i]n Muham-mad-i [H.][=a]fi[z:]-i-Sh[=i]r[=a]z[=i]
otherwise known as Lis[=a]nu-l-[.Gh=]aib and Tarjum[=a]nu-l-Asr[=a]r.
Translated for the first time out of the Persian into English prose, with
critical and explanatory remarks, with an introductory preface, with a
note on S[=u]f[=i],ism, and with a life of the author, by Lieut.-Col. H.
Wilberforce Clarke,... [Calcutta] 1891. _4to, two volumes, cloth._
HAGGARD AND LANG.--The World's Desire by H. Rider Haggard and Andrew
Lang. London: Longmans, Green, and Co. 1890. _Crown 8vo, cloth, uncut
edges._
First edition.
HALIBURTON, THOMAS CHANDLER.--The Letter Bag of the Great Western; or,
Life in a Steamer.... By the author of "The Sayings and Doings of
Samuel Slick." London: Richard Bentley,... 1840. _Crown 8vo, cloth,
uncut edges._
First English edition.
HALIBURTON, THOMAS CHANDLER.--The Attache; or, Sam Slick in England. By
the author of "The Clockmaker; or, Sayings and Doings of Sam Slick," &c.
... Second edition. [First Series] London: Richard Bentley,...
1843. _Crown 8vo, two volumes, cloth, uncut edges._
HALIBURTON, THOMAS CHANDLER.--The Attache; or, Sam Slick in England. By
the author of "The Clockmaker; or, Sayings and Doings of Sam Slick,"...
Second and last series.... London: Richard Bentley,... 1844.
_Crown 8vo, | 2,583.961286 |
2023-11-16 19:00:07.9673000 | 1,137 | 10 |
Produced by MFR 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: _Nine Little Tar Heels._]
_Tar Heel Tales_
_By
H. E. C. Bryant_
“_Red Buck_”
_Stone & Barringer Co.
Charlotte, N. C.
1910_
COPYRIGHT, 1909,
BY STONE & BARRINGER CO.
TO JOSEPH PEARSON CALDWELL
MOST OF THESE STORIES YOU HAVE SEEN, SOME YOU HAVE PRAISED, WHILE
OTHERS, NEWLY WRIT, YOU HAVE NOT BEEN ABLE TO SEE ON ACCOUNT OF YOUR
UNFORTUNATE ILLNESS, BUT, TO YOU, THE PRINCE OF TAR HEELS, I DEDICATE
ALL, IN LOVING REMEMBRANCE OF FIFTEEN YEARS OF INTIMATE ACQUAINTANCE,
FAITHFUL FRIENDSHIP, AND MOST DELIGHTFUL COMPANIONSHIP.
PREFACE
These tales, concerning all sorts and conditions of people, were written
by H. E. C. Bryant, better known as Red Buck. As staff correspondent
of The Charlotte Observer, Mr. Bryant visited every corner of North
Carolina, and in his travels over the state wrote many stories of human
interest, depicting life and character as he found it. His first impulse
to publish his stories in book form resulted from an appreciation of
his work by the lamented Harry Myrover, a very scholarly writer of
Fayetteville, who said:
“I have been struck frequently at how the predominant mental
characteristic sticks out in Mr. Bryant. His sense of humor is as keen as
a razor. He sees a farce while other men are looking at a funeral, and
this exquisite sense of humor is liable to break out at any time--even in
church. One may read after him seriously, as he reports the proceedings
of a big event but toward the last the whole thing is likely to burst
out in an irrepressible guffaw, at some very quaint, funny reflection or
criticism, or an inadversion. All this shows out, too, from the personal
side of the man, making him delightful in talk, and altogether one of the
most entertaining fellows one will meet in many a day’s journey.
“I really think there is more individuality about his writings, than
about those of any other writer of the state. Every page sparkles and
bubbles with the humor of the man, and it is a clean, wholesome humor,
there being nothing in it to wound, but everything to cheer and please.”
These words honestly spoken by Mr. Myrover encouraged Mr. Bryant. Red
Buck’s dialect stories soon obtained a state wide reputation, and as
Mr. J. P. Caldwell, the gifted editor of The Charlotte Observer, truly
said: “His <DW64> dialect stories are equal to those of Joel Chandler
Harris--Uncle Remus.”
His friends will be delighted to know that he has collected some of the
best of his stories, and that they are presented here.
In North Carolina there is no better known man than Red Buck. A letter
addressed to “Red Buck, North Carolina,” would be delivered to H. E.
C. Bryant, at Charlotte. Everybody in the state knows the big hearted,
auburn haired Scotch-Irishman of the Mecklenburg colony, who, on leaving
college went to work on The Charlotte Observer and, on account of his
cardinal locks, rosy complexion and gay and game way, was dubbed “Red
Buck” by the editor, Mr. Caldwell. It was an office name for a time. Then
it became state property, and the name “Bryant” perished.
Red Buck has traveled all over the state of North Carolina and written
human interest stories from every sand-hill and mountain cove. Many Tar
Heels know him by no other name than Red Buck. In fact there is a Red
Buck fad in the state, which has resulted in a Red Buck brand of whiskey,
a Red Buck cigar, a Red Buck mule, a Red Buck pig, and a Red Buck
rooster, although the man for whom they are named drinks not, neither
does he smoke.
This book of Tar Heel tales is from Mr. Bryant’s cleverest work.
THOMAS J. PENCE.
Washington Press Gallery.
December, 1909.
CONTENTS
PAGE
_Uncle Ben’s Last Fox Race_ 1
_Forty Acres and a Mule_ 11
_The Spaniel and the Cops_ 33
_A Hound of the Old Stock_ 43
_Minerva--The Owl_ 58
_Uncle Derrick in Washington_ 68
_And the Signs Failed Not_ 79
_The Irishman’s Game Cock_ 97
_Strange Vision of Arabella_ 112
_A <DW64> and His Friend_ 125
_Faithful Unto Death_ 142
_“Red Buck”: Where I Came By It | 2,583.98734 |
2023-11-16 19:00:08.0401070 | 1,908 | 36 |
Produced by deaurider 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 NORTH-WEST AMAZONS
[Illustration: BORO MEDICINE MAN, WITH MY RIFLE]
THE NORTH-WEST
AMAZONS
NOTES OF SOME MONTHS SPENT
AMONG CANNIBAL TRIBES
BY
THOMAS WHIFFEN
F.R.G.S., F.R.A.I.
CAPTAIN H.P. (14TH HUSSARS)
NEW YORK
DUFFIELD AND COMPANY
1915
_Printed in Great Britain_
TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE
DR. ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE, O.M.
THESE NOTES ARE DEDICATED
PREFACE
In presenting to the public the results of my journey through the lands
about the upper waters of the Amazon, I make no pretence of challenging
conclusions drawn by such experienced scientists as Charles Waterton,
Alfred Russel Wallace, Richard Spruce, and Henry Walter Bates, nor to
compete with the indefatigable industry of those recent explorers Dr.
Koch-Grünberg and Dr. Hamilton Rice.
Some months of the years 1908 and 1909 were passed by me travelling in
regions between the River Issa and the River Apaporis where white men had
scarcely penetrated previously. In the remoter parts of these districts
the tribes of nomad Indians are frankly cannibal on occasion, and provide
us with evidence of a condition of savagery that can hardly be found
elsewhere in the world of the twentieth century. It will be noted that
this area includes the Putumayo District.
With regard to the references in footnotes and appendices, I have
inserted them to suggest where similarities of culture or variations of
a given custom are to be found. These notes may be of some use to the
student of such problems as the question of cultural contact with Pacific
peoples, and at the least they represent the evidence on which I have
based my own conclusions.
THOMAS WHIFFEN.
LONDON, 1914.
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
Introductory 1
CHAPTER II
Topography--Rivers--Floods and rainfall--Climate--Soil--Animal
and vegetable life--Birds--Flowers--Forest
scenery--Tracks--Bridges--Insect pests--Reptiles--Silence in
the forest--Travelling in the bush--Depressing effects of the
forest--Lost in the forest--Starvation the crowning horror 17
CHAPTER III
The Indian homestead--Building--Site and plan of
_maloka_--Furniture--Inhabitants of the house--Fire--Daily
life--Insect inhabitants--Pets 40
CHAPTER IV
Classification of Indian races--Difficulties of
tabulating--Language-groups and tribes--Names--Sources
of confusion--Witoto and Boro--Localities of
language-groups--Population of districts--Intertribal
strife--Tribal enemies and friends--Reasons
for endless warfare--Intertribal trade and
communications--Relationships--Tribal organisation--The
chief, his position and powers--Law--Tribal
council--Tobacco-drinking--Marriage system and
regulations--Position of women--Slaves 53
CHAPTER V
Dress and ornament--Geographical and tribal
differentiations--Festal attire--Feather
ornaments--Hair-dressing--Combs--Dance
girdles--Beads--Necklaces--Bracelets--Leg
rattles--Ligatures--Ear-rings--Use of labret--Nose
pins--Scarification--Tattoo--Tribal marks--Painting 71
CHAPTER VI
Occupations--Sexual division and tabu--Tribal manufactures--Arts
and crafts--Drawing--Carving--Metals--Tools and implements--No
textile fabrics--Pottery--Basket-making--Hammocks--Cassava-squeezer
and grater--Pestle and mortar--Wooden vessels--Stone axes--Methods
of felling trees--Canoes--Rafts--Paddles 90
CHAPTER VII
Agriculture--Plantations--Preparation of ground in
the forest--Paucity of agricultural instruments--Need
for diligence--Women’s incessant toil--No special
harvest-time--Maize the only grain grown--No use for
sugar--Manioc cultivation--Peppers--Tobacco--Coca
cultivation--Tree-climbing methods--Indian wood-craft--Indian
tracking--Exaggerated sporting yarns--Indian sense of locality
and accuracy of observation--Blow-pipes--Method of making
blow-pipes--Darts--Indian improvidence--Migration of game--Traps
and snares--Javelins--Hunting and fishing rights--Fishing--Fish
traps--Spearing and poisoning fish 102
CHAPTER VIII
The Indian armoury--Spears--Bows and arrows--Indian
strategy--Forest tactics and warfare--Defensive measures--Secrecy
and safety--The Indian’s science of war--Prisoners--War
and anthropophagy--Cannibal tribes--Reasons for cannibal
practices--Ritual of vengeance--Other causes--No intra-tribal
cannibalism--The anthropophagous feast--Human relics--Necklaces
of teeth--Absence of salt--Geophagy 115
CHAPTER IX
The food quest--Indians omnivorous eaters--Tapir and other animals
used for food--Monkeys--The peccary--Feathered game--Vermin--Eggs,
carrion, and intestines not eaten--Honey--Fish--Manioc--Preparation
of cassava--Peppers--The Indian hot-pot--Lack of salt--Indian
meals--Cooking--Fruits--Cow-tree milk 126
CHAPTER X
Drinks, drugs, and poisons: their use and preparation--Unfermented
drinks--_Caapi_--Fermented drinks--_Cahuana_--Coca: its
preparation, use, and abuse--_Parica_--Tobacco--Poison and
poison-makers 138
CHAPTER XI
Small families--Birth tabu--Birth customs--Infant
mortality--Infanticide--Couvade--Name-giving--Names--Tabu on
names--Childhood--Lactation--Food restrictions--Child-life and
training--Initiation 146
CHAPTER XII
Marriage regulations--Monogamy--Wards and
wives--Courtship--Qualifications for matrimony--Preparations
for marriage--Child marriages--Exception to patrilocal
custom--Marriage ceremonies--Choice of a mate--Divorce--Domestic
quarrels--Widowhood 159
CHAPTER XIII
Sickness--Death by poison--Infectious diseases--Cruel treatment of
sick and aged--Homicide--Retaliation for murder--Tribal and
personal quarrels--Diseases--Remedies--Death--Mourning--Burial 168
CHAPTER XIV
The medicine-man, a shaman--Remedies and cures--Powers and
duties of the medicine-man--Virtue of breath--Ceremonial
healing--Hereditary office--Training--Medicine-man and
tigers--Magic-working--Properties--Evil always due to bad
magic--Influence of medicine-man--Method of magic-working--Magical
cures 178
CHAPTER XV
Indian dances--Songs without meaning--Elaborate preparations--The
Chief’s invitation--Numbers assembled--Dance step--Reasons
for dances--Special dances--Dance staves--Arrangement of
dancers--Method of airing a grievance--Plaintiff’s song of
complaint--The tribal “black list”--Manioc-gathering dance and
song--Muenane Riddle Dance--A discomfited dancer--Indian riddles
and mimicry--Dance intoxication--An unusual incident--A favourite
dance--The cannibal dance--A mad festival of savagery--The strange
fascination of the Amazon | 2,584.060147 |
2023-11-16 19:00:08.0628480 | 5,275 | 11 |
Produced by David Edwards, Ernest Schaal, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
LITTLE WOMEN LETTERS
FROM THE
HOUSE OF ALCOTT
[Illustration: _Frontispiece._
ORCHARD HOUSE, THE ALCOTT HOMESTEAD.]
LITTLE WOMEN
LETTERS
FROM THE
HOUSE OF ALCOTT
SELECTED BY
JESSIE BONSTELLE
AND
MARIAN DEFOREST
[Illustration]
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1914
_Copyright, 1914_,
BY JOHN S. P. ALCOTT.
_All rights reserved_
Published, September, 1914
Set up and electrotyped by J. S. Cushing Co., Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
Presswork by S. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, Mass., U.S.A.
FOREWORD
NEXT to the joy of giving to the Alcott-loving public "Little Women" as
a play, is the privilege and pleasure of offering this book of letters,
revealing the childhood and home life of the beloved Little Women.
May they bring help and happiness to many mothers and inspiration and
love to many children.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE "REALLY, TRULY" TRUE 1
II. THE ALCOTT BOY; THE ALCOTT MAN 10
III. THE ALCOTT CHILDREN 28
IV. THE ALCOTT BABY BOOK 39
V. LETTERS AND CONVERSATIONS WITH CHILDREN 59
VI. THE MOTHER'S INFLUENCE 98
VII. CHILDREN'S DIARIES 122
VIII. GIRLHOOD AND WOMANHOOD 140
IX. FRIENDSHIPS AND BELIEFS 162
CHRONOLOGY 195
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Orchard House, the Alcott Homestead _Frontispiece_
PAGE
A. Bronson Alcott at the age of 53, from
the portrait by Mrs. Hildreth 54
Facsimile of Mr. Alcott's Letter to
Louisa, Nov. 29, 1839 82
Facsimile of Mr. Alcott's Letter to Louisa, June 21, 1840 86
Facsimile of Mr. Alcott's Letter to Elizabeth, 1840 92
Abigail May, Mrs. A. Bronson Alcott, from a
Daguerreotype 106
Anna Bronson Alcott, from a Daguerreotype 122
Abba May Alcott, from a Photograph 142
Louisa May Alcott, from a Daguerreotype 160
LITTLE WOMEN
LETTERS FROM THE HOUSE
OF ALCOTT
CHAPTER I
THE "REALLY, TRULY" TRUE
WHEN "Little Women," the play, reopened to many readers the pages of
"Little Women," the book, that delightful chronicle of family life,
dramatist and producer learned from many unconscious sources the depth
of Louisa M. Alcott's human appeal. Standing one night at the back of
the theater as the audience was dispersing, they listened to its
comments on the play.
"A wonderful picture of home life, only we don't have such homes," said
a big, prosperous-looking man to his wife, with a touch of regret in his
voice.
"Yes," agreed his young daughter, a tall, slender, graceful girl, as she
snuggled down cosily into her fur coat and tucked a bunch of violets
away from the touch of the frosty night, "it is beautiful; but, daddy,
it isn't real. There never was such a family."
But it is real; there was such a family, and in letters, journals, and
illustration this little book gives the history of the four Little
Women, the Alcott girls, whom Louisa immortalized in her greatest story:
Anna, who is Meg in "Little Women"; Louisa, the irrepressible and
ambitious Jo; Elizabeth, the little Beth of the book; and Abba May, the
graceful and statuesque Amy.
Rare influences were at work in this ideal American home, where the
intellectual and brilliant father was gifted in all ways except those
that led to material success, and the wise and gentle mother combined
with her loyalty and devotion to her husband a stanch, practical common
sense, which more than once served to guide the frail Alcott bark
through troubled seas.
Following her remarkable success as a writer of short stories, Louisa M.
Alcott was asked for a book. She said at first it was impossible, but
repeated requests from her publishers brought from her the announcement
that the only long story she could write would be about her own family.
"Little Women" resulted, and, in erecting this House of Delight for
young and old, Louisa Alcott builded better than she knew. Her Jo has
been the inspiration of countless girls, and the many-sidedness of her
character is indicated by the widely diverging lines of endeavor which
Jo's example has suggested to the girl readers of the story.
In the case of the two editors, both from early childhood found their
inspiration in Jo. One, patterning after her idol, sought success in a
stage career, beginning to "act" before a mirror, with a kitchen apron
for a train and a buttonhook for a dagger. The other, always with a
pencil in hand, first copied Jo by writing "lurid tales" for the weekly
sensation papers, and later emerged into Newspaper Row.
It was more than a year after the success of "Little Women" as a play
had become a part of theatrical history that they visited the scenes
hallowed by the memories of the Little Women. They wished to see Concord
together, so they made a Sentimental Journey to the House of Alcott.
The sun was shining, and the air was crisp--just such a day as Miss
Alcott described in the Plumfield harvest home, the last chapter in
"Little Women." They spent hours in Orchard House, touching reverently
the small personal effects of Louisa M. Alcott, seeing the shelf
between the windows in that little upper room, where she wrote and
dreamed. They even climbed to the garret and wondered which window was
her favorite scribbling seat, with a tin kitchen for her manuscripts, a
pile of apples for her refreshment, and Scrabble, the bewhiskered rat,
for her playfellow.
Through the woods back of Orchard House they followed the winding
pathway to the Hall of Philosophy, half hidden among the trees, where
Bronson Alcott had his Conversations, where Emerson and Thoreau were
often heard, and the most intellectual debates of the century took
place.
At sunset they visited Sleepy Hollow, the resting place of the Alcotts,
with Emerson, Thoreau, and Hawthorne close by--a goodly company,
neighbors still as they were for so many years when they made Concord
America's literary shrine.
Evening came, and the two pilgrims read together the Alcott journals and
letters. The ink was faded, the quaint, old-fashioned writing was hard
to decipher, but, beginning with a letter to Louisa written by Bronson
Alcott when his daughter was seven years old, they read on until the
dawn.
Only one result could be expected from such an experience. They asked
permission to publish the letters and such portions of the journals as
would most completely reveal the rare spiritual companionship existing
between the Alcott parents and children. And, asking, they were refused,
because of a feeling that the letters and journals were intimate family
records, to be read, not by the many, but by the few. This same
sentiment withheld the dramatization of "Little Women" for many years.
"You forget," they argued, holding fast to the dimly written pages,
"that Bronson Alcott and Louisa Alcott are a part of America's literary
heritage. They belong to the nation, to the world, not alone to you."
This course of reasoning finally prevailed, but not without many months
of waiting. And thus, with the consent of the Alcott heirs, the book of
"Little Women Letters from the House of Alcott" came to be.
CHAPTER II
I
THE ALCOTT BOY
ONCE upon a time in the little town of Wolcott, Connecticut, was born a
boy destined to offer to the world new and beautiful thoughts. He was
laughed at and misunderstood; but the thoughts were truth, and they have
lived, although the boy grew weary and old and passed on.
The boy was Amos Bronson Alcott. He was a country lad, used from infancy
to the rugged life of the farm, with its self-denial and makeshifts. The
seeming disadvantage, however, proved quite the opposite. His close
communion with Nature brought him nearer to the truths of life. For him
God ceased to be a mythical object to be studied and read about on
Sunday; but, as he roamed the fields and climbed the hills, the lad
found Him in the rocks and the woodlands, and in the sparkling streams.
He became a reality. The boy and God were friends.
Of schooling he had little. When work at the farm permitted, he attended
the country school near his father's house. "Our copies," he told his
little daughters, "were set by the schoolmaster in books made of a few
sheets of foolscap, stitched together and ruled with a leather plummet.
We used ink made of maple and oak bark, which we manufactured ourselves.
With this I began keeping a diary of my doings."
This was when the boy was twelve. His hours at school were few, but as
he went about his daily tasks on the farm, his thoughts grew and grew
until his mental stature far exceeded his physical. He read as he guided
the plow along the furrow, sometimes unmindful of his work until a
sudden punch from a neglected handle, as the plow struck a stone, would
bring him back to earth with a thump. He sowed seeds in the moist, sweet
earth, but his face was turned to the skies, and he knew the clouds and
the stars. When he gathered firewood, his eyes were keen for the soft,
dainty mosses, the clinging lichens. As he picked berries for the home
table, he never missed the whirr of a bird wing or passed unnoticed the
modest flowers half hidden in the soil. Nature was his library, and she
spread out her choicest treasures to this growing boy.
A love for all of God's creations characterized him. He was fond, not
only of the growing things in the wood, but of all life. His love for
animals amounted almost to a passion, one reason for his being a strict
vegetarian and insisting upon bringing up his little family on a
vegetable diet. But in boyhood it was not always clear whether humanity
or the craving for knowledge made him so considerate of the plodding
team in the field. Never was team more carefully tended. Many were its
hours of grazing, when the noonday sun rode high in the heavens, and the
Alcott boy, book in hand, curled up under the shade of a gigantic elm
and read until the shadows began to lengthen. But these lapses were only
occasional, for the lad was faithful to his tasks, except when he
yielded to the lure of the printed page.
When scarcely more than a child he began to keep a record of his books
and his reading, showing the first traces of the reflective,
introspective quality of mind which later led him to set down in letters
and unpublished manuscripts his inmost thoughts. He cultivated the same
habits of thought in his children, one reason, doubtless, for Louisa's
accurate and realistic descriptions of the lives of the four Little
Women of the Alcott family.
His favorite books in boyhood, and, for that matter, in manhood, were
the Bible and Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress," which he read and reread
and commented upon. Years later he mentions in his journal that he made
it a practice to read "Pilgrim's Progress" every year, which is a
remarkable record to the modern boy and girl who find it difficult to
struggle through that wonderful allegory even once.
Bronson Alcott took his chance and made a stepping-stone of every
difficulty. Each obstacle he encountered in getting an education created
in him an even stronger determination to gain one. The modern boy has
the world of books opened wide to him through the library and the free
school. The treasures of art are spread out before him in the museums.
He is surrounded by helps. The boy of to-day is studied as an entity.
The boy of the last century could tell quite a different story.
So the Alcott boy, passing long hours in the woods, reading, thinking,
getting close to Nature and to God, walked as one apart, seeing the
invisible. While still a boy, he began casting off the garment of a
conventional creed and to think for himself of God, the creation, of
life, unconsciously putting from him the trammeling, cumbersome
conventions with which man has often hidden truth.
Out of this the man Alcott emerged--a great soul.
II
THE ALCOTT MAN
With Bronson Alcott the craving for knowledge was scarcely stronger than
the craving for adventure, so it is not surprising that in the first
flush of young manhood he did not settle down to life on the farm. He
longed for the great world lying beyond the hills and valleys of
peaceful New England. He wanted experience, and experience he had.
He went South, hoping to teach school, as he had original ideas on the
training of children. Unsuccessful in this, he decided to be a peddler,
naively remarking that "honesty of purpose could dignify any
profession."
Think of the courage of this boy, for he was scarcely more than a boy, a
philosopher at heart, living in a world of dreams and books, his
ambitions all for intellectual rather than material achievement,
tramping the southern countryside, undauntedly peddling buttons,
elastic, pins and needles, and supplying all the small wants of the
country housewife! Often he encountered rebuffs, sometimes he had a
hearty welcome, for the visit of the country peddler was eagerly awaited
by the children. At times, when night came and he was far from the
shelter of an inn, he had to beg a lodging from some planter. On one
such occasion, as he entered the grounds, he saw a huge sign, "Beware
the dog." A shout from the house also warned him, and he saw dashing
toward him a savage-looking dog, powerful enough to have torn to pieces
the slender young peddler-student. But his love for animals triumphed.
Alcott stretched out his hand. The huge creature stopped short; then,
recognizing a friend and a fearless one, he bounded on, tail wagging,
barking joyously, snuggling his nose into the young man's palm, which he
licked as he escorted his new-found friend to the house. Animals always
recognized in Alcott an understanding comrade.
From most of these trips Alcott brought back money to add to the scanty
funds at home, but on one memorable occasion the love of finery proved
stronger than the necessity for saving, and he returned to the farm
penniless, but dressed in the latest fashion, having used his savings
for a wardrobe that was the wonder of the countryside. That one debauch
of clothes satisfied him for life; after that his tastes were markedly
simple. With him the "dandy period" was short-lived indeed. That he
repented bitterly of this one excess of folly is shown in his journals,
where he sets down minutely what to him was a mistake that amounted
almost to a sin. As a rule, he was singularly free from folly. His
thoughts were too high, his ideals too lofty, for him to be long
concerned with trifles such as clothes, and the next expenditure
mentioned in his journal is for the "Vicar of Wakefield" and Johnson's
"Rasselas." Ever impractical, one likes him the better for the little
human moment when the vanities of the world overcame him.
At last he secured a school, and then began the realization of his
ideals regarding the teaching of children. His methods were original and
highly successful, especially with the very young. He established a
mental kindergarten, and the fame of his teaching spread abroad. Through
his work as a teacher he achieved his greatest happiness, for it led to
his meeting with the woman who was destined to become his wife.
As the result of correspondence between himself and Mr. May of
Brooklyn, Connecticut, whose attention had been attracted to the work
of the young teacher, Alcott, then twenty-eight years old, drove from
the Wolcott home to Brooklyn, where he met Abigail May of Boston, who
was visiting her brother. With both it was love at first sight, a love
that grew into a perfect spiritual union.
It seemed almost providential that Bronson Alcott should have come into
Abigail May's life at just this time, when her heart had been touched by
its first great sorrow--the loss of her mother. Hitherto she had been a
light-hearted girl, fond of dancing and of the material side of life.
The young philosopher, with his dreams and his ideals, brought a new
interest into her now lonely life, and all that was spiritual in her
nature responded as he freely discussed his plans and ambitions with
her. In her he found both sympathy and understanding.
A year of letter-writing, a frank and honest exchange of thought,
brought out the harmony of their natures and developed in both a sense
of oneness, laying a firm foundation for the comradeship which was not
broken through all the years, even when the wife and mother passed into
the Great Beyond.
The Alcott-May courtship was ideal. Retaining the heaven that lay about
him in his infancy, keeping his close companionship with God and God's
great laboratory, Nature, Bronson Alcott demanded something more than
mere physical attraction in choosing his wife. A certain quaint
circumspection characterized their love-making. Abigail May once wrote:
"Mr. Alcott's views on education were very attractive, and I was charmed
by his modesty," and long after their engagement she spoke of her lover
as "her friend." He was, and so he continued to be in the highest sense
of the word.
So satisfying were those friendship-courtship days, that apparently both
were loath to end them, for another twelvemonth passed before the
announcement of their betrothal, and it was nearly three years from the
date of their first meeting before their marriage in King's Chapel,
Boston, where the brother who had been the means of bringing them
together performed the ceremony.
As their marriage day approached, there was little festivity and none of
the rush that usually precedes a modern wedding. Everything was simple,
quiet, and sure.
This is Bronson Alcott's letter, asking a friend to act as best man at
his wedding.
Dear Sir:
Permit me to ask the favor of your calling at Col. May's at 4
o'clock precisely on Sunday afternoon next, to accompany me and
my friend Miss May to King's Chapel.
With esteem,
A. B. Alcott
Thursday, May 20,
112 Franklin St. 1830.
So began the Alcott pilgrimage, their fortune consisting of love and
faith and brains. In these they were rich indeed, and thus closed
another chapter in the life of the gentle philosopher, of whom Ralph
Waldo Emerson once said: "Our Alcott has only just missed being a
seraph."
CHAPTER III
THE ALCOTT CHILDREN
FOR some months after their marriage the Alcotts lived in Boston, where
the young enthusiast taught a school for infants. Again his fame as a
teacher traveled, and he received an offer from the Quakers of
Philadelphia to start a school there, an offer so tempting that the
Alcotts moved to Germantown, Pennsylvania, where Anna and Louisa were
born.
Eugenics and prenatal influence were not discussed then as they are
to-day, but in the Alcott family nearly a century ago they were being
thought and lived. Bronson Alcott and his wife considered children an
expression, not of themselves, but of divinity, and as such to be
accepted as a trust, rather than as a gratification of their own human
longing for fatherhood and motherhood. They felt it their parental
privilege rather than their duty to aid the human development of the
child and thus further the fulfillment of its destiny. Each little soul
was humbly asked for and reverently prepared for. From the moment they
knew their prayer had been granted, the individuality and rights of that
soul were respected. It was considered as a little guest that must be
made happy and comfortable, carefully cherished, mentally and
physically, while its fleshly garment was being prepared and the little
personality made ready for its earthly appearance. How careful they were
of every thought and influence, for to both parents this period was the
most sacred and wonderful in their lives and in the lives of their
children.
The depth of his joy and the simplicity of his faith are exquisitely
expressed in the lines which Bronson Alcott wrote before the birth of
his first child, Anna:
TO AN EXPECTANT MOTHER
The long advancing hour draws nigh--the hour
When life's young pulse begins its mystic play,
And deep affection's dreams of Form or Joy
Shall be unveiled, a bodily presence
To thy yearning heart and fond maternal eye,
The primal Soul, a semblance of thine own,
Its high abode shall leave and dwell in day,
Thyself its forming Parent. A miracle, indeed,
Shall nature work. Thou shalt become
The bearing mother of an Infant Soul--
Its guardian spirit to its home above.
But yet erewhile the lagging moments come
That layeth the living, conscious, burden down,
Firm faith may rest in hope. Accordant toils
Shall leave no time for fear, nor doubt, nor gloom.
Love, peace, and virtue, are all born of Pain,
And He who rules o'er these is ever good.
The joyous promise is to her who trusts,
Who trusting, gains the vital boon she asks,
And meekly asking, learns to trust aright.
Louisa, the second child, born on her father's birthday, was the most
intellectual and the most resourceful of the Alcott children, reflecting
in her own buoyant personality the happy conditions existing before and
at the time of her birth, when her father had attained his greatest
material prosperity and was also realizing his mental ambitions in his
little school, and her mother was temporarily relieved from the cares
that so often weighed heavily upon her.
Shortly before the birth of Elizabeth the father makes this entry in his
journal:
THE ADVENT COMETH
Daily am I in expectation of beholding with the eye of sense,
the spirit that now lingers on the threshold of this terrestrial
life, and only awaits the bidding of the Reaper within, to usher
itself into the presence of mortals. It standeth at the door and
waiteth for admission to the exterior scene of things.... Let
the time come. Two little ones in advance await its coming; and
greetings of joy shall herald its approach.
The birth of Elizabeth is followed by this entry in his journal:
At sunset this day | 2,584.082888 |
2023-11-16 19:00:08.1361250 | 3,192 | 9 |
Produced by David Kline, Greg Bergquist and The Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: BATTLE OF ANTIETAM.]
Edition d'Elite
Historical Tales
The Romance of Reality
By
CHARLES MORRIS
_Author of "Half-Hours with the Best American Authors," "Tales from the
Dramatists," etc._
IN FIFTEEN VOLUMES
Volume II
American
2
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
Copyright, 1904, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
Copyright, 1908, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
_CONTENTS._
PAGE
PONCE DE LEON AND THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH 7
DE SOTO AND THE FATHER OF WATERS 13
THE LOST COLONY OF ROANOKE 23
THE THRILLING ADVENTURE OF CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH 29
THE INDIAN MASSACRE IN VIRGINIA 40
THE GREAT REBELLION IN THE OLD DOMINION 49
CHEVALIER LA SALLE THE EXPLORER OF THE MISSISSIPPI 62
THE FRENCH OF LOUISIANA AND THE NATCHEZ INDIANS 76
THE KNIGHTS OF THE GOLDEN HORSESHOE 88
HOW OGLETHORPE SAVED GEORGIA FROM SPAIN 95
A BOY'S WORKING HOLIDAY IN THE WILDWOOD 104
PATRICK HENRY, THE HERALD OF THE REVOLUTION 113
GOVERNOR TRYON AND THE CAROLINA REGULATORS 124
LORD DUNMORE AND THE GUNPOWDER 135
THE FATAL EXPEDITION OF COLONEL ROGERS 145
HOW COLONEL CLARK WON THE NORTHWEST 153
KING'S MOUNTAIN AND THE PATRIOTS OF TENNESSEE 166
GENERAL GREENE'S FAMOUS RETREAT 171
ELI WHITNEY, THE INVENTOR OF THE COTTON-GIN 185
HOW OLD HICKORY FOUGHT THE CREEKS 193
THE PIRATES OF BARATARIA BAY 206
THE HEROES OF THE ALAMO 217
HOW HOUSTON WON FREEDOM FOR TEXAS 225
CAPTAIN ROBERT E. LEE AND THE LAVA-BEDS 231
A CHRISTMAS DAY ON THE PLANTATION 241
CAPTAIN GORDON AND THE RACCOON ROUGHS 252
STUART'S FAMOUS CHAMBERSBURG RAID 261
FORREST'S CHASE OF THE RAIDERS 277
EXPLOITS OF A BLOCKADE-RUNNER 291
FONTAIN, THE SCOUT, AND THE BESIEGERS OF VICKSBURG 302
GORDON AND THE BAYONET CHARGE AT ANTIETAM 311
THE LAST TRIUMPH OF STONEWALL JACKSON 319
JOHN MORGAN'S FAMOUS RAID 331
HOME-COMING OF GENERAL LEE AND HIS VETERANS 347
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
AMERICAN. VOLUME II.
PAGE
BATTLE OF ANTIETAM _Frontispiece._
ALONG THE COAST OF FLORIDA 9
DE SOTO DISCOVERING THE MISSISSIPPI 19
POCAHONTAS 32
JAMESTOWN RUIN 54
COALING A MOVING BOAT ON THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER 73
OLD SPANISH FORT, ST. AUGUSTINE 98
HOME OF MARY WASHINGTON, FREDERICKSBURG, VA 108
HOME OF PATRICK HENRY DURING HIS LAST TWO
TERMS AS GOVERNOR OF VIRGINIA 114
ST. JOHN'S CHURCH 122
OLD MAGAZINE AT WILLIAMSBURG 138
VIEW IN THE NORTHWESTERN MOUNTAINS 155
COTTON-GIN 186
JACKSON'S BIRTHPLACE 198
THE ALAMO 218
COTTON FIELD ON SOUTHERN PLANTATION 242
COLONIAL MANSION 262
GORDON HOUSE 316
TRIUMPH OF STONEWALL JACKSON 323
LEE'S HOUSE AT RICHMOND 348
_PONCE DE LEON AND THE FOUNTAIN OF YOUTH._
A golden Easter day was that of the far-away year 1513, when a small
fleet of Spanish ships, sailing westward from the green Bahamas, first
came in sight of a flower-lined shore, rising above the blue Atlantic
waves, and seeming to smile a welcome as the mariners gazed with eyes of
joy and hope on the inviting arcades of its verdant forest depths. Never
had the eyes of white men beheld this land of beauty before. English
ships had sailed along the coast to the north, finding much of it bleak
and uninviting. The caravels of Columbus had threaded the glowing line
of tropic isles, and later ships had borne settlers to these lands of
promise. But the rich southlands of the continent had never before been
seen, and well was this unknown realm of beauty named Florida by the
Spanish chief, whether by this name he meant to call it the "land of
flowers" or referred to the Spanish name for Easter, Pascua Florida.
However that be, he was the first of the discoverers to set foot on the
soil of the great coming republic of the United States, and it is of
interest that this was done within the domain of the sunny South.
The weight of half a century of years lay upon the shoulders of Juan
Ponce de Leon, the discoverer, but warm hope burned in his heart, that
of winning renewed boyhood and youthful strength, for it was a magic
vision that drew him to these new shores, in whose depths he felt sure
the realm of enchantment lay. Somewhere amid those green copses or along
those liquid streams, he had been told, a living fountain sprang up
clear and sparkling from the earth, its waters of such a marvellous
quality that whoever should bathe in them would feel new life coursing
through his veins and the vigor of youth bounding along his limbs. It
was the Fountain of Youth he sought, that fabled fountain of which men
had dreamed for centuries, and which was thought to lie somewhere in
eastern Asia. Might not its waters upspring in this new land, whose
discovery was the great marvel of the age, and which men looked upon as
the unknown east of Asia? Such was the new-comer's dream.
Ponce de Leon was a soldier and cavalier of Spain in those days when
Spain stood first among the nations of Europe, first in strength and
enterprise and daring. Brave as the bravest, he had fought with
distinguished courage against the Moors of Granada at the time when
Columbus was setting out on his famous voyage over the unknown seas of
the West. Drawn by the fame of the discovery of the New World, De Leon
sailed with Columbus in his second voyage, and proved himself a gallant
soldier in the wars for the conquest of Hispaniola, of whose eastern
half he was made governor.
To the eastward lay another island, the fair tropic land ever since
known as Porto Rico. De Leon could see from the high hills of Hispaniola
the far green shores of this island, which he invaded and finally
subdued in 1509, making himself its governor. A stern oppressor of the
natives, he won great wealth from his possessions here and in
Hispaniola. But, like many men in his position, his heart was sore from
the loss of the youthful vigor which would have enabled him to enjoy to
the full his new-found wealth.
[Illustration: ALONG THE COAST OF FLORIDA.]
Could he but discover the wondrous fountain of youth and plunge in its
life-giving waters! Was not this the region in which it was said to lie?
He eagerly questioned the Indians about it, and was told by them that
they had often heard of such a fountain somewhere not far to the north.
It is probable enough that the Indians were ready to tell anything,
false or true, that would rid them of the unwelcome Spaniards; but it
may be that among their many fables they believed that such a fountain
existed. However that may be, De Leon gladly heard their story, and lost
no time in going forth like a knight errant in quest of the magic fount.
On March 3, 1513, he sailed with three ships from Porto Rico, and, after
threading the fair Bahama Islands, landing on those of rarest tropic
charm, he came on Easter Sunday, March 27, in sight of the beautiful
land to which he gave the name of Florida.
Bad weather kept him for a time from the shore, and it was not until
April 9 that he was able to land. It was near the mouth of the St. John
River, not far from where St. Augustine now stands, that he set foot on
shore, the first white man's foot to tread the soil of the coming United
States since the days of the Northmen, five centuries before. He called
his place of landing the Bay of the Cross, and took possession of the
land for the king of Spain, setting up a stone cross as a sign of
Spain's jurisdiction.
And now the eager cavalier began the search for that famous fount which
was to give him perpetual youth. It is not likely he was alone in this,
probably most of his followers being as eager as he, for in those days
magic was firmly believed in by half of mankind, and many wild fancies
were current which no one now accepts. Deep into the dense woodland they
plunged, wandering through verdant miles, bathing in every spring and
stream they met, led on and on by the hope that some one of these might
hold the waters of youth. Doubtless they fancied that the fountain
sought would have some special marks, something to distinguish it from
the host of common springs. But this might not be the case. The most
precious things may lie concealed under the plainest aspect, like the
fabled jewel in the toad's forehead, and it was certainly wisest to let
no waters pass untried.
Months passed on. Southward along the coast they sailed, landing here
and there and penetrating inland, still hopeful of finding the enchanted
spring. But wherever it might lie hidden, they found it not, for the
marks of age which nature had brought clung to them still, and a
bitterly disappointed man was Juan Ponce de Leon when he turned the
prows of his ships away from the new-found shores and sailed back to
Porto Rico.
The Will-o'-the-wisp he sought had baffled him, yet something of worth
remained, for he had made a discovery of importance, the "Island of
Florida," as he called it and thought it to be. To Spain he went with
the news of his voyage, and told the story of his discovery to King
Ferdinand, to whom Columbus had told his wonderful tale some twenty
years before. The king at once appointed him governor of Florida, and
gave him full permission to plant a colony in the new land--continent or
island as it might prove to be.
De Leon may still have nourished hopes in his heart of finding the
fabled fountain when, in 1521, he returned to plant the colony granted
by the king. But the natives of Florida had seen enough of the Spaniards
in their former visit, and now met them with arrows instead of flowers
and smiles. Fierce fights ensued, and their efforts to establish
themselves on the new shores proved in vain. In the end their leader
received so severe an arrow wound that he withdrew and left to the
victorious Indians the ownership of their land. The arrow was poisoned,
and his wound proved mortal. In a short time after reaching Cuba he
died, having found death instead of youth in the land of flowers.
We may quote the words of the historian Robertson in support of the
fancy which led De Leon in the path of discovery: "The Spaniards, at
that period, were engaged in a career of activity which gave a romantic
turn to their imagination and daily presented to them strange and
marvellous objects. A new world was opened to their view. They visited
islands and continents of whose existence mankind in former ages had no
conception. In those delightful countries nature seemed to assume
another form; every tree and plant and animal was different from those
of the ancient hemisphere. They seemed to be transported into enchanted
ground; and, after the wonders which they had seen, nothing, in the
warmth and novelty of their imagination, appeared to them so
extraordinary as to be beyond belief. If the rapid succession of new and
striking scenes made such impression on the sound understanding of
Columbus that he boasted of having found the seat of Paradise, it will
not appear strange that Ponce de Leon should dream of discovering the
fountain of youth."
All we need say farther is that the first attempt to colonize the shores
of the great republic of the future years ended in disaster and death.
Yet De Leon's hope was not fully amiss, for in our own day many seek
that flowery land in quest of youthful strength. They do not now hope to
find it by bathing in any magic fountain, but it comes to them by
breathing its health-giving atmosphere and basking in its magic clime.
_DE SOTO AND THE FATHER OF WATERS._
America was to the Spaniards the land of gold. Everywhere they looked
for the yellow metal, more precious in their eyes than anything else the
earth yields. The wonderful adventures of Cortez in Mexico and of
Pizarro in Peru, and the vast wealth in gold found by those sons of
fame, filled their people with hope and avarice, and men of enterprise | 2,584.156165 |
2023-11-16 19:00:08.1424660 | 1,028 | 15 |
Produced by David Edwards, Charlie Howard, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
CONSTABLE’S MISCELLANY,
VOLS. LIII. LIV.
Will appear on the 3d and 17th April, containing,
THE LIFE
OF
SIR WILLIAM WALLACE,
OF
ELDERSLIE.
BY JOHN D. CARRICK.
THE BUGLE NE’ER SUNG TO A BRAVER KNIGHT
THAN WILLIAM OF ELDERSLIE.
THOMAS CAMPBELL.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
EDINBURGH:
CONSTABLE AND CO., 19, WATERLOO PLACE;
AND HURST, CHANCE, AND CO., LONDON.
BOURRIENNE.
Preparing for immediate Publication
IN
CONSTABLE’S MISCELLANY,
MEMOIRS
OF
NAPOLEON BONAPARTE,
FROM THE FRENCH
OF
M. DE BOURRIENNE,
PRIVATE SECRETARY TO THE EMPEROR.
BY JAMES S. MEMES, LL.D.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
CONSTABLE’S MISCELLANY,
OF
ORIGINAL AND SELECTED PUBLICATIONS
“A real and existing Library of Useful and Entertaining knowledge.”
LITERARY GAZETTE.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The unlimited desire of knowledge which now pervades every class
of Society, suggested the design, of not only reprinting, without
abridgment or curtailment, in a cheap form, several interesting and
valuable Publications, hitherto placed beyond the reach of a great
proportion of readers, but also of issuing, in that form, many Original
Treatises, by some of the most Distinguished Authors of the age. Such
is the object of the present Work, which is publishing in a series of
Volumes, under the general title of “CONSTABLE’S MISCELLANY OF ORIGINAL
AND SELECTED PUBLICATIONS, IN THE VARIOUS DEPARTMENTS OF LITERATURE,
SCIENCE, AND THE ARTS.”
Immediately after its commencement, in January 1827, this Miscellany
met with extensive encouragement, which has enabled the Publishers
to bring forward a series of works of the very highest interest, and
at unparalleled low prices. Fifty-two volumes are already before
the Public, forming thirty-four distinct works, any of which may be
purchased separately. Every volume contains a Vignette Title-page;
and numerous other illustrations, such as Maps, Portraits, &c. are
occasionally given.
Being intended for all ages as well as ranks, Constable’s Miscellany is
printed in a style and form which combine at once the means of giving
much matter in a small space, with the requisites of great clearness
and facility.
A Volume, containing at least 324 pages, appears every three weeks,
price 3s. 6d., a limited number being printed on fine paper, with early
impressions of the Vignettes, price 5s.
EDINBURGH:
PUBLISHED BY CONSTABLE AND CO.; AND HURST, CHANCE, AND CO., LONDON.
ORIGINAL WORKS
PREPARING FOR
CONSTABLE’S MISCELLANY.
I. LIFE of K. JAMES the FIRST. By R. CHAMBERS, Author of “The
Rebellions in Scotland,” &c. 2 vols.
II. The ACHIEVEMENTS of the KNIGHTS of MALTA, from the
Institution of the Hospitallers of St John, in 1099, till the
Political Extinction of the Order, by Napoleon, in 1800. By ALEX.
SUTHERLAND, Esq. 2 vols.
III. LIFE of FRANCIS PIZZARO, and an ACCOUNT of the CONQUEST of
PERU, &c. By the Author of the “Life of Hernan Cortes.” 1 vol.
IV. HISTORY of MODERN GREECE, and the Ionian Islands; including
a detailed Account of the late Revolutionary War. By THOMAS
KEIGHTLEY, Esq., Author of “Fairy Mythology,” &c. 2 vols.
V. A TOUR in SICILY, &c. By J. S. MEMES, Esq. LL.D., Author of
the “History of Sculpture, Painting, and Architecture,” &c. 1 vol.
VI. MEMOIRS of the IRISH REBELLIONS; By J. MCCAUL | 2,584.162506 |
2023-11-16 19:00:08.1425370 | 3,140 | 6 |
Produced by Paul Haxo from a copy generously made available
by the University of California, Davis, and with special
thanks to the Victorian Plays Project.
"WANTED, A YOUNG LADY"--
_A Farce_,
IN ONE ACT.
BY
W. E. SUTER,
AUTHOR OF
The Pirates of the Savannah, Idiot of the Mountain, Syren of Paris,
Angel of Midnight, Old House on the Bridge, Outlaw of the Adriatic,
Sarah's Young Man, A Quiet Family, John Wopps, Rifle Volunteer,
Brother Bill and Me, Highwayman's Holiday, Accusing Spirit, First
Love, Our New Man, Fan-fan, the Tulip, &c., &c.
THOMAS HAILES LACY,
89, STRAND, LONDON.
"WANTED, A YOUNG LADY."
_Characters._
ADELAIDE STIRLING (_First Comedy_)
FRANK MITCHELL (_First Comedy_)
SIMON SNOOZLE (_Low Comedy_)
_Costumes._
FRANK. _First Dress_--Travelling suit. _Second_--Old lady's hood, silk
gown, shawl, spectacles, and stick. _Third_--Same as first.
SIMON. _First Dress_--Half livery. _Second_--Velvet cap and silk
dressing gown.
ADELAIDE. _First Dress_--Travelling dress. _Second_--Silk bonnet,
veil, spectacles, shawl, and stick.
_Time in Representation_--40 _Minutes._
"WANTED, A YOUNG LADY"--
SCENE.--_Interior of an old Country Mansion; door, C.; door, R.; door
L.; easy chairs; couch, L.; fire-place, R.; clock, C.; chairs, &c.;
table, R., on it a lighted lamp; closet at back, L._
SIMON. (_entering, door C._) Yes, yes, godfather, make your mind easy,
you may sleep quietly on both sides of your face. (_advancing_) That's
a saying in our parts; but I have tried it, and I couldn't do it.
(_looking at clock_) Seven o'clock! what a litter this room is in.
(_placing chairs, &c._) And look here. (_indicating clothes scattered
over an easy chair_) What's all this? Oh, old master's morning gown.
(_places it in the closet_) I have an idea that this place of mine
suits me very well. I am boarded and lodged and washed, eight pounds a
year, and the key of the cellar. I fancy I shall soon get my nose red
in this house. (_sits_) This here easy chair is uncommon comfortable.
FRANK. (_entering, C. door, a portmanteau in his hand_) I don't see a
soul about. (_seeing SIMON_) Eh! halloa, my friend! (_shaking him_)
What are you doing there?
SIMON. (_all aback_) Me, sir! I--I'm a doing my work.
FRANK. Doing what?
SIMON. (_rising_) What do you please to want?
FRANK. I wish to see Mr. or Mrs. Mitchell.
SIMON. Oh! either of them would do, then?
FRANK. (L. C.) Yes.
SIMON. (R. C.) That's lucky, for they are both gone out.
FRANK. Out! then I will await their return.
SIMON. I don't think you will, sir.
FRANK. How do you mean?
SIMON. Why, when master and missus went away this morning, they said
they were going on a visit, and should be away nine or ten days--and
the same number of nights too, no doubt.
FRANK. (_aside_) Pleasant information! all this distance from London,
and not a shilling in my pocket. (_to SIMON_) Are you alone here?
SIMON. Yes, I'm quite alone in the house, except my godfather, who
lives at the bottom of the garden.
FRANK. The surly old brute I met in the park?
SIMON. Yes, that's godfather.
FRANK. Agreeable society! Well, I must teach myself resignation.
(_offering portmanteau_) Go and prepare a chamber for me.
SIMON. You are labouring under a mistake, sir; the Golden Lion is on
the other side of----
FRANK. Ah, true! you do not know me. I am Fra----(_checking himself_)
No, I mean Harry Mitchell, your master's grandson.
SIMON. Really! well, how lucky! I have a letter for your brother.
FRANK. For my brother Frank?
SIMON. Yes, here it is. (_drawing a letter from his pocket_) I have
been ordered to post it.
FRANK. (_aside_) I know what are its contents--the old story--you are
a good-for-nothing fellow, and I shall not give you a sixpence.
(_aloud, taking letter and putting it into his pocket_) All right, I
will take care he has it.
SIMON. And so you are Master Harry, eh? You are the favourite, you
are.
FRANK. How did you learn that?
SIMON. Godfather has made me acquainted with all the family matters,
for I am quite fresh, I am.
FRANK. You are quite fresh! what do you mean?
SIMON. I mean I was quite new this morning. Godfather brought me here
and showed me to your grandmother just as she was stepping into the
old family coach; she had only just time to say, "Oh! this is the
stupid animal you have told me about." You see, she is so old that she
doesn't always know what she is talking about.
FRANK. I think, though, her faculties were pretty clear this morning.
But, as you say, she is rather old--eighty-two. Considerably wrinkled,
I should think.
SIMON. Her face is just like a little apple that has been dried in the
sun.
FRANK. And my grandfather?
SIMON. He is like a little pear that has been baked in an oven.
FRANK. I am certain I should not recognize them; they must be very
dull here, all by themselves.
SIMON. Godfather says that they sometimes yawn till they get a
lock-jaw; that's why they have just advertised in the papers for
somebody to read to them.
FRANK. Read to them!
SIMON. Yes, a young lady.
FRANK. (_quickly_) Ah, there is a young lady here?
SIMON. No, sir, she hasn't come yet.
FRANK. What a pity!
SIMON. And they won't want a young lady now they have engaged me.
FRANK. (_laughing_) But you are not a young lady.
SIMON. No, and I can't read, but----
FRANK. Idiot! go and prepare my chamber.
SIMON. (_going, L._) Yes, Master Harry.
FRANK. Stop a moment; is there anything to eat in the pantry?
SIMON. I saw the plate chest there; but I'll go and see, Master Harry.
Ah! if you were Mr. Frank.
FRANK. Well?
SIMON. I shouldn't be able to find anything. (_confidentially_)
Godfather says that you are a pet, and that your brother is a bad lot;
old folks won't have him at any price.
FRANK. (_aside_) I know it but too well. (_aloud_) You will find some
cigars in my portmanteau, with my pipe and tobacco. Stay; have you got
the keys of the cellar?
SIMON. Yes, sir.
FRANK. Then bring me some champagne.
SIMON. I will. (_aside_) He'll help me, I can see, to redden my nose!
_Exit, with portmanteau, door, L._
FRANK. Have I done well to present myself here under my brother's
name, because I know their great preference for him, and that they
treat me like a Cinderella of the male sex. This is the way I
discovered that I was no favourite; one day I wrote to them for money,
and didn't get it: while Harry, who had also written for some, did:
then I questioned myself as to what I had done, and as to what I had
not done. I said to myself, it is nearly twelve years since Harry and
I quitted the old people; we are of the same figure, considerably
resemble each other; I could easily impose upon my grandmother, who is
nearly blind, and ditto upon my grandfather, who is quite deaf, and so
I will go to them and say here is your darling Harry, and express my
willingness to receive as much money as they choose to give me; if my
brother were to write I should be there to suppress his letters.
Wasn't that a clever idea? not particularly honest, but remarkably
clever; that will teach parents to have a preference, to all
respectable grandfathers one grandson is as good as another.
_Enter ADELAIDE, door, C., a cloak over her arm, a small carpet bag in
her hand._
ADELAIDE. Mrs. Mitchell, if you please, sir.
FRANK. (L. C.) Yes, this is her house, but she is gone from home for
nine or ten days.
ADELA. (R. C.) How unfortunate! And Mr. Mitchell?
FRANK. That's me. I am Mr. Mitchell; Fra----I mean Harry Mitchell.
ADELA. (_aside_) Harry! It is he!
FRANK. Will you have the goodness to take a seat?
ADELA. I thank you. But the Mr. Mitchell of whom I asked you is the
husband of Mrs. Mitchell, and I do not suppose that----
FRANK. No, certainly; I have not married my grandmother, that sort of
thing is not allowed, you know. (_aside_) She is deucedly pretty.
(_aloud_) Will you have the goodness to take a seat?
ADELA. Then your grandfather is also absent.
FRANK. For nine or ten days. I am quite alone here, but that makes no
difference. (_again offering chair_) Will you have the goodness to----
ADELA. No, thank you. I believe I cannot do better than make my way
back to the railway station, and return to London. (_going up_)
FRANK. (_following and bringing her back_) But, excuse me, may I be
allowed to enquire----
ADELA. I believed I had been recommended to them by Mr. Dunstable, as
a companion to----
FRANK. Certainly, quite correct. (_aside_) She mustn't go, I want a
companion, dreadfully. (_aloud_) They are expecting you, madam, very
impatiently, I assure you!
ADELA. Well, but, since they are not at home----
FRANK. Certainly, will you allow me to--(_he takes her cloak and
carpet bag_) They are in the park, they take a little walk there every
evening, but they will be back directly; will you have the goodness
to-- (_taking a chair and seating himself close beside her_)
ADELA. (_shifting her chair, aside_) This Mr. Harry is very forward.
(_aloud_) And you think, sir, that I shall suit your grandmother?
FRANK. Certainly, you will suit her nicely--and you will suit my
grandmother capitally--and you will suit my grandfather capitally--and
you suit me beautifully--and you will suit my brother deli----
ADELA. Ah, you have a brother?
FRANK. Yes, Harry--hem, no--I mean, Frank--I am Harry.
ADELA. But, according to what Mr. Dunstable told me, one of you is a
very bad fellow.
FRANK. It isn't me; I assure you, it's my brother.
ADELA. Are you quite certain?
FRANK. Quite certain that I am not my brother--oh, yes. But, after
all, Frank is really a capital fellow; he is, I assure you, I like him
very much; I do, indeed--may have been a little wild, but----
ADELA. Pardon me, sir, but your grandmother does not return.
FRANK. She is taking a little walk in the park, and perhaps her corns
are troublesome--she has several, besides two or three bunions! but
perhaps she has come in and gone to bed--she is subject to--to--to the
whooping cough----
ADELA. The what, sir?
FRANK. (_aside_) Confound it! I can't think of--(_aloud_) I mean the
gout--and she always goes to bed early when--but you will see her
to-morrow.
ADELA. (_taking her portmanteau from FRANK'S hand_) To-morrow? in
that case I will go to the Golden Lion Hotel, which is near the
railway station.
FRANK. (_again taking portmanteau from her hand_) No, no--grandmother
would be so angry--she has caused a chamber to be prepared for you.
ADELA. Indeed!
FRANK. Yes, and supper, for she thought you would arrive late.
_Enter SIMON, L. door._
SIMON. The chamber is ready, sir.
FRANK. (_to ADELAIDE_) There, you hear! what did I tell you? (_to
SIMON_) Very well.
SIMON. (_L., aside_) Eh? that woman is a female!
FRANK. (_to SIMON_) And the supper?
ADELA. Thank you, but I am not hungry.
SIMON. The supper is ready, too. (_aside to FRANK_) But, sir--
FRANK. (_giving him a sly kick_) Be quiet!
ADELA. (_taking her cloak and portmanteau from FRANK_) I will go to my
apartment. (_L., to SIMON_) I beg you will let me know immediately
that Mr. and Mrs. Mitchell have returned from their walk?
SIMON. (_C., astonished_) Eh, returned from their walk?
FRANK. (_kicking as before, and crossing to L. C._) Hold your tongue.
(_to ADELAIDE_) Oh, yes, directly they return, you may depend | 2,584.162577 |
2023-11-16 19:00:08.2354930 | 181 | 6 |
Produced by Fulvia Hughes, Suzanne Shell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber's Note:
Bold text is denoted by =equal signs=.
The upside-down asterisms are denoted by *.*
The list of the corrected items is at the end of this e-book.
=Edgar Fawcett's Novels.=
_Mr. Fawcett is a novelist who does a service that greatly needs to be
done,--a novelist who writes of the life with which he is closely
acquainted, and who manfully emphasizes his respect for his native land,
and his contempt for the weakness and affectation of those who are
ashamed of their country._--New York | 2,584.255533 |
2023-11-16 19:00:08.2403980 | 3,270 | 6 |
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 16. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 17, 1840. VOLUME I.
[Illustration: THE CASTLE AND LAKE OF INCHIQUIN, COUNTY OF CLARE.]
Connemara itself, now so celebrated for its lakes and mountains, was not
less unknown a few years since than the greater portion of the county
of Clare. Without roads, or houses of entertainment for travellers, its
magnificent coast and other scenery were necessarily unvisited by the
pleasure tourists, and but little appreciated even by their inhabitants
themselves. But Clare can no longer be said to be an unvisited district:
the recent formation of roads has opened to observation many features of
interest previously inaccessible to the traveller, and its singular coast
scenery--the most sublimely magnificent in the British islands, if not in
Europe--has at least been made known to the public by topographical and
scientific explorers--it has become an attractive locality to artists and
pleasure tourists, and will doubtless be visited by increasing numbers of
such persons in each successive year.
There is however as yet in this county too great a deficiency in the
number of respectable houses of entertainment suited to the habits
of pleasure tourists; for though the wealthier and more educated
classes in the British empire are becoming daily a more travelling and
picturesque-hunting genus, they will not be content to live on fine
scenery, but must have food for the body as well as for the mind; and
truly they must be enthusiastic lovers of the picturesque, who, to
gratify their taste, will subject themselves to the vicissitudes of such
an uncertain climate as ours, without the certainty of such consoling
comforts as are afforded in a clean and comfortable inn.
Yet we do not despair of seeing this want soon supplied. Wherever there
is a demand for a commodity it will not be long wanting; and the people
of Clare are too sagacious not to perceive, however slowly, the practical
wisdom of holding out every inducement of this kind to those who might
be disposed to visit them and spend their money among them. The first
step necessary, however, to produce such results in any little frequented
district, is to make its objects of interest known to the public by the
pencil and the pen--the rest will follow in due course; and our best
efforts, such as they are, shall not be unexerted towards effecting such
an important good as well for Clare as for many other as yet little known
localities of our country.
Clare is indeed on many accounts deserving of greater attention than
it has hitherto received. It is a county rich in attractions for the
geologist and naturalist, and interesting in the highest degree to
the lovers of the picturesque. With a surface singularly broken and
diversified, full of mountains, hills, lakes, and rivers, dotted all over
with every class of ancient remains, its scenery is peculiarly Irish, and
though of a somewhat melancholy aspect, it is never wanting in a poetic
and historic interest. Such a district is not indeed exactly suited to
the tastes of the common scenery-hunter, for it possesses but little of
that woody and artificially adorned scenery which he requires, and can
alone enjoy; and hence it has usually been described by tourists and
topographers with a coldness which shows how little its peculiarities had
impressed their feelings, and how incompetent they were to communicate to
others a just estimate of its character. Let us take as an example the
notice given by the writers of Lewis’s Topographical Dictionary, of one
of the Clare beauties of which the natives are most proud--the caverns
called the To-meens or To-mines, near Kiltanan:--
“At Kiltanan is a succession of limestone caverns, through which a
rivulet takes its course: these are much visited in summer; many
petrified shells are found in the limestone, some of which are nearly
perfect, and--_very curious_!”
This it must be confessed is cold enough; but the description of the same
locality given by our friend the author of the Guide through Ireland, is,
as our readers will see, not a whit warmer. It is as follows:--
“A mile from Tulla is Kiltanan, the handsome residence of James Moloney,
Esq.; and in addition to the pleasure of a well-kept residence, in a
naked and sadly neglected country, _some interest_ is excited by the
subterraneous course of the rivulet called the To-meens, which waters
this demesne!”
Now, would any person be induced by such descriptions as those to
visit the said To-meens? We suspect not. But hear with what delight a
native writer of this county actually revels in a description of these
remarkable caves:--
“About a mile N. W. of Tulla lies the river of Kiltanan, and Milltown,
famous for its ever-amazing and elegant subterraneous curiosities,
called the To-mines: they form a part of the river, midway between
Kiltanan House and the Castle of Milltown, extending under ground for a
space, which (from its invisible winding banks and crystal meanders) may
reasonably be computed a quarter of an English mile: they are vaulted,
and sheltered with a solid rock, transmitting a sufficiency of light and
air by intermediate chinks and apertures gradually offering at certain
intervals.
At each side of this Elysian-like river are roomy passages or rather
apartments, freely communicating one with the other, and scarcely
obvious to any inclemency whatsoever: they are likewise decorated with
a sandy beach level along to walk on, whilst the curious spectators are
crowned with garlands of ivy, hanging in triplets from the impending
rocky shades: numbers of the sporting game, the wily fox, the wary hare,
and the multiplying rabbit, &c. merrily parading in view of their own
singular and various absconding haunts and retreats. Ingenious nature
thus entertains her welcome visitants from the entrance to the extremity
of the To-mines. Lo! when parting liberally rewarded, and amply satisfied
with such egregious and wonderful exhibitions, a bridge or arch over
the same river, curiously composed of solid stone, appears to them as a
lively representation of an artificial one.
What can the much boasted of Giants’ Causeway, in the north of this
kingdom, produce but scenes of horror and obscurity? whilst the To-mines
of the barony of Tulla, like unto the artificial beauties of the Latomi
of Syracuse, freely exhibit the most natural and pleasing appearances.
Let the literati and curious, after taking the continental tour of
Europe, praise and even write of the imaginary beauties and natural
curiosities of Italy and Switzerland--pray, let them also, on a cool
reflection, repair to the county of Clare, view and touch upon the truly
subterraneous and really unartificial curiosities of the To-mines: they
will impartially admit that these naturally enchanting rarities may be
freely visited, and generously treated of, by the ingenious and learned
of this and after ages.”--_A Short Tour, or an Impartial and Accurate
Description of the County of Clare, by John Lloyd, Ennis; 1780._
Excellent. Mr Lloyd! Your style is indeed a _little_ peculiar, and
what some would think extravagant and grotesque; but you describe with
feeling, and we shall certainly visit your To-meens next summer. But
in the mean time we must notice another Clare lion, of which you have
given us no account--the lake and castle, which we have drawn as an
embellishment to our present number. This is a locality respecting the
beauty of which there can be no difference of opinion: it has all the
circumstances which give interest to a landscape--wood, water, lake,
mountain, and ancient ruin--and the effect of their combination is
singularly enhanced by the surprise created by the appearance of a scene
so delightful in a district wild, rocky, and unimproved.
The lake of Inchiquin is situated in the parish of Kilnaboy, barony
of Inchiquin, and is about two miles and a half in circumference. It
is bounded on its western side by a range of hills rugged but richly
wooded, and rising abruptly from its margin; and on its southern side,
the domain surrounding the residence of the Burton family, and the
ornamental grounds of Adelphi, the residence of W. and F. Fitzgerald,
Esqrs. contribute to adorn a scene of remarkable natural beauty. One
solitary island alone appears on its surface, unless that be ranked as
one on which the ancient castle is situated, and which may originally
have been insulated, though no longer so. The castle, which is situated
at the northern side of the lake, though greatly dilapidated, is still a
picturesque and interesting ruin, consisting of the remains of a barbican
tower, keep, and old mansion-house attached to it; and its situation on
a rocky island or peninsula standing out in the smooth water, with its
grey walls relieved by the dark masses of the wooded hills behind, is
eminently striking and imposing.
It is from this island or peninsula that the barony takes its name; and
from this also the chief of the O’Briens, the Marquis of Thomond, derives
his more ancient title of Earl of Inchiquin. For a long period it was the
principal residence of the chiefs of this great family, to one of whom it
unquestionably owes its origin; but we have not been able to ascertain
with certainty the name of its founder, or date of its erection. There
is, however, every reason to ascribe its foundation to Tiege O’Brien,
king or lord of Thomond, who died, according to the Annals of the Four
Masters, in 1466, as he is the first of his name on record who made
it his residence, and as its architectural features are most strictly
characteristic of the style of the age in which he flourished.
But though the erection of this castle is properly to be ascribed to the
O’Briens, it is a great error in the writers of Lewis’s Topographical
Dictionary to state that it has been from time immemorial the property
of the O’Brien family. The locality, as its name indicates, and as
history and tradition assure us, was the ancient residence of the
O’Quins, a family of equal antiquity with the O’Briens, and of the same
stock--namely, the Dal Cas or descendants of Cormac Cas, the son of
Ollioll Oluim, who was monarch of Ireland in the beginning of the third
century. The O’Quins were chiefs of the clan called Hy-Ifearnan, and
their possessions were bounded by those of the O’Deas on the east, the
O’Loughlins and O’Conors (Corcomroe) on the west and north-west, the
O’Hynes on the north, and the O’Hehirs on the south. At what period or
from what circumstance the O’Quins lost their ancient patrimony, we have
not been able to discover; but it would appear to have been about the
middle or perhaps close of the fourteenth century, to which time their
genealogy as chiefs is recorded in that invaluable repository of Irish
family history, the Book of Mac Firbis; and it would seem most probable
that they were transplanted by the O’Briens about this period to the
county of Limerick, in which they are subsequently found. Their removal
is indeed differently accounted for in a popular legend still current in
the barony, and which, according to our recollections of it, is to the
following effect:
In the youth of the last O’Quin of Inchiquin, he saw from his residence a
number of swans of singular beauty frequenting the west side of the lake,
and wandering along its shore. Wishing, if possible, to possess himself
of one of them, he was in the habit of concealing himself among the rocks
and woods in its vicinity, hoping that he might take them by surprise,
and he was at length successful: one of them became his captive, and was
secretly carried to his residence, when, to his amazement and delight,
throwing off her downy covering, she assumed the form of a beautiful
woman, and shortly after became his wife. Previous to the marriage,
however, she imposed certain conditions on her lover as the price of
her consent, to which he willingly agreed. These were--first, that
their union should be kept secret; secondly, that he should not receive
any visitors at his mansion, particularly those of the O’Briens; and,
lastly, that he should wholly abstain from gambling. For some years these
conditions were strictly adhered to; they lived in happiness together,
and two children blessed their union. But it happened unfortunately
at length that at the neighbouring races at Cood he fell in with the
O’Briens, by whom he was hospitably treated; and being induced to indulge
in too much wine, he forgot his engagements to his wife, and invited
them to his residence on a certain day to repay their kindness to him.
His wife heard of this invitation with sadness, but proceeded without
remonstrance to prepare the feast for his guests. But she did not grace
it with her presence; and when the company had assembled, and were
engaged in merriment, she withdrew to her own apartment, to which she
called her children, and after embracing them in a paroxysm of grief,
which they could not account for, she took her original feathery covering
from a press in which it had been kept, arrayed herself in it, and
assuming her pristine shape, plunged into the lake, and was never seen
afterwards. On the same night, O’Quin, again forgetful of the promises
he had made her, engaged in play with Tiege-an-Cood O’Brien, the most
distinguished of his guests, and lost the whole of his property.
The reader is at liberty to believe as much or as little of this story
as he pleases: but at all events the legend is valuable in a historical
point of view, as indicating the period when the lands of Inchiquin
passed into the hands of the O’Brien family; nor is it wholly improbable
that under the guise of a wild legend may be concealed some indistinct
tradition of such a real occurrence as that O’Quin made a union long kept
hidden, with a person of inferior station, and that its discovery drew
down upon his head the vengeance of his proud com | 2,584.260438 |
2023-11-16 19:00:08.2598780 | 978 | 22 |
Produced by Giovanni Fini, Chris Curnow and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
—Obvious print and punctuation errors were corrected.
—Bold text have been rendered as =bold text=.
[Illustration:
POPULAR
PASTIMES
For
Field & Fireside.]
Popular Pastimes
FOR
Field and Fireside,
OR
Amusements for Young and Old.
CAREFULLY COMPILED BY
AUNT CARRIE.
SPRINGFIELD, MASS.:
PUBLISHED BY MILTON BRADLEY & CO.
1867.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by
MILTON BRADLEY & COMPANY,
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the District
of Massachusetts.
SAMUEL BOWLES AND COMPANY.
Printers, Binders and Electrotypers.
AUNT CARRIE
DEDICATES
TO HER YOUNG FRIENDS
THIS BOOK,
IN THE HOPE THAT IT WILL ADD
TO THEIR
HOME PLEASURES.
Preface.
I WOULD like to make a few suggestions on “home influence,” before I
commence a list of amusements. They may be superfluous; if so, I trust
you will pardon me.
All parents, I am sure, must feel a deep interest in this subject, and
I think will agree with me that judicious praise is quite as necessary
in the training of a child as wholesome correction. But if we wish
our children to have a genuine love for us, and our homes, we must
sympathize with them, and never forget we were once children, and loved
childish things.
Mothers have by nature far more sympathy and patience than most
fathers. Some fathers are apt to think that home is only a place in
which to eat, sleep, and be generally comfortable; but as to giving
any of their valuable time to entertaining their own children, why,
the very idea is preposterous! A wife is presuming to expect it! Let
me appeal to your selfish instincts. You all wish to be loved and
revered, and are gratified if your children are attentive to your
comforts. Can you expect such manifestations, unless you set them an
example, and prove by a real interest in their pleasures, that you
sincerely love them? Is it not better to devote at least an hour a day
to your children, than to spend every moment in earning money for them,
which, unless you rightly direct and train them, will surely prove
their ruin?
There is no time in the day when home is so pleasant as at twilight,
or in the early evening hour. Then all are gathered (or should
be) together at home. In the country it is after tea; in cities,
particularly New York, it is after dinner. Then, I entreat you, fathers
and mothers, assemble your children around you, devote your time for
an hour or two in being children with them, join heartily in all their
plays; let them tell what has interested them during the day; draw them
out, and encourage them to open their little hearts freely and confide
in you.
Some think it childish and silly to play games. Yet if we would only
keep our hearts young and happy, we should retain our youth longer, and
love our friends and homes better. A good hearty laugh is wholesome.
Mothers, I intreat you to train your own children. Do not leave them to
servants. Hire them to relieve you of the care of your house, and to
do your sewing; but give your time to your children. “Verily, you will
have your reward.”
I have compiled this book to assist you in your home amusements. May it
carry to your home circle that spirit of enjoyment which is natural to
the young heart, and which should not be absent from the more mature.
Contents.
PAGE
PREFACE, v
CROQUET.
MATERIALS used in the Game—Preparation of the
Ground—Choice of Sides—General Principles of the
Game—Arrangement of the Bridges—Diagrams—Rules of
the Game—Striking the Ball—Running a Bridge—Striking
Out—The Rover—Roquet—Croquet and Roquet-C | 2,584.279918 |
2023-11-16 19:00:08.3357890 | 3,141 | 9 |
E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by
Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries
(http://www.archive.org/details/toronto)
Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries. See
http://www.archive.org/details/songsofwomanhood00almauoft
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold).
SONGS OF WOMANHOOD
* * * * *
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR._
_Uniform with this Volume._
REALMS OF UNKNOWN KINGS.
=The Athenaeum.=--'_In this volume the critic recognises with sudden
joy the work of a true poet._'
=The Saturday Review.=--'_It is a book in which deep feeling speaks
... and it has something of that essentially poetical thought, the
thought that sees, which lies deeper than feeling._'
LONDON: GRANT RICHARDS.
* * * * *
SONGS OF WOMANHOOD
by
LAURENCE ALMA TADEMA
Grant Richards
48 Leicester Square
London
1903
Edinburgh: Printed by T. and A. Constable
A great number of the following verses are already known to readers of
_The Herb o' Grace_, and of the little reprint, _Songs of Childhood_.
As these pamphlets, however, did not reach the public, it has been
thought advisable to re-issue the verses in book-form, together with
three or four more collected from various reviews, and a number that
are here printed for the first time.
L.A.T.
Contents
PAGE
CHILDHOOD
KING BABY 3
A BLESSING FOR THE BLESSED 5
TO RAOUL BOUCHARD 8
TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW 10
THE NESTING HOUR 11
THE LITTLE SISTER--Bath-time 12
Bed-time 13
A TWILIGHT SONG 14
A WINTRY LULLABY 15
THE WARM CRADLE 16
THE DROOPING FLOWER 17
MOTHERS IN THE GARDEN--I. 18
II. 19
THE GRAVEL PATH 20
THE NEW PELISSE 21
SOLACE 22
STRANGE LANDS 23
MARCH MEADOWS--A Lark 24
Lambs 25
THE ROBIN 26
THE MOUSE 27
THE BAT 28
THE SWALLOW 29
SNOWDROPS 30
FROST 32
APPLES 33
LONELY CHILDREN--I. 34
II. 35
PLAYGROUNDS 36
FAIRINGS 38
THE FLOWER TO THE BUD 40
SIX SONGS OF GIRLHOOD
LOVE AND THE MAIDENS 43
AWAKENINGS 44
THE CLOUDED SOUL 46
THE HEALER 47
THE OPEN DOOR 48
THE FUGITIVE 49
THE FAITHFUL WIFE 53
WOMANHOOD
A WOMAN TO HER POET 63
THE INFIDEL 64
LOVE WITHIN VOWS 65
THE EXILE 66
THE SCAR INDELIBLE 67
REVULSION 68
THE CAPTIVE 69
POSSESSION'S ANGUISH 70
TREASURES OF POVERTY 72
SOLITUDE 73
THE HEART ASLEEP 74
ADVERSITY 75
FACES OF THE DEAD 76
THE SLEEPER 80
STARS 81
TRELAWNY'S GRAVE 82
V.R.I.--JANUARY 22, 1901 83
LINES ON A PICTURE BY MARY GOW 84
TO SERENITY 85
ELEVEN SONNETS 89
THE OPEN AIR
SUNSHINE IN FEBRUARY 103
THE CUCKOO 104
A SONG IN THE MORNING 107
IN A LONDON SQUARE 109
THE CALL OF THE GREEN 111
SUMMER ENDING 112
NEAR AUTUMN 114
NOVEMBER 115
THE COMMON WEALTH 117
CHILDHOOD
King Baby
King Baby on his throne
Sits reigning O, sits reigning O!
King Baby on his throne
Sits reigning all alone.
His throne is Mother's knee,
So tender O, so tender O!
His throne is Mother's knee,
Where none may sit but he.
His crown it is of gold,
So curly O, so curly O!
His crown it is of gold,
In shining tendrils rolled.
His kingdom is my heart,
So loyal O, so loyal O!
His kingdom is my heart,
His own in every part.
Divine are all his laws,
So simple O, so simple O!
Divine are all his laws,
With Love for end and cause.
King Baby on his throne
Sits reigning O, sits reigning O!
King Baby on his throne
Sits reigning all alone.
A Blessing for the Blessed
When the sun has left the hill-top,
And the daisy-fringe is furled,
When the birds from wood and meadow
In their hidden nests are curled,
Then I think of all the babies
That are sleeping in the world....
There are babies in the high lands
And babies in the low,
There are pale ones wrapped in furry skins
On the margin of the snow,
And brown ones naked in the isles,
Where all the spices grow.
And some are in the palace
On a white and downy bed,
And some are in the garret
With a clout beneath their head,
And some are on the cold hard earth,
Whose mothers have no bread.
O little men and women,
Dear flowers yet unblown!
O little kings and beggars
Of the pageant yet unshown!
Sleep soft and dream pale dreams now,
To-morrow is your own....
Though some shall walk in darkness,
And others in the light,
Though some shall smile and others weep
In the silence of the night,
When Life has touched with many hues
Your souls now clear and white:
God save you, little children!
And make your eyes to see
His finger pointing in the dark
Whatever you may be,
Till one and all, through Life and Death,
Pass to Eternity....
To Raoul Bouchard
Dear were your kisses, baby boy,
Your weight upon my arm:
Gay were your tuneful cries of joy
As I danced you round the farm:
And sweet your softness when we lay
Laughing and cooing in the hay.
The summer sun will shine again,
Old arms will mow and reap;
There'll be new flowers on the plain,
New lambs among the sheep;
But never in this world of men
Shall we two be as we were then.
Your feet have touched the ground, my bird,
And now your wondering eyes
Will gaze no more as if they heard
A seraph in the skies:
A little boy, with leap and shout
You'll wildly chase your dreams about.
But when you are a man, soft thing,
And life has made you stern,
May we who watched you in your spring
Still feel our babe return
In hallowed moments, such as shine
When thought or deed makes man divine.
To-day and To-morrow
Little hands--what will you grasp
When you leave this nest, O?
Little arms--what will you clasp
Against that tender breast, O?
Cling to mother's finger, babe,
Throw sweet arms about me!
Here no noons may linger, babe,
Soon you'll love without me.
Little toes--where will you turn,
East or south or west, O?
Little feet--what sands that burn
Will you soon have pressed, O?
Lie on mother's knee, my own,
Dance your heels about me!
Apples leave the tree, my own,
Soon you'll live without me....
The Nesting Hour
Robin-friend has gone to bed,
Little wing to hide his head--
Mother's bird must slumber too
Just as baby Robins do--
When the stars begin to rise,
Birds and babies close their eyes.
The Little Sister
BATH-TIME:
Baby's got no legs at all,
They're soft and pinky, crumpled things;
If he stood up he'd only fall:
But then, you see, he's used to wings.
BED-TIME:
Baby baby bye,
Close your little eye!
When the dark begins to creep,
Tiny-wees must go to sleep.
Lammy lammy lie,
I am seven, I;
Little boys must sleep and wait,
If they want their bed-time late.
Fidgy fidgy fie,
There's no need to cry!
Soon you'll never dress in white,
But sit up working half the night....
A Twilight Song
Baby moon, 'tis time for bed,
Owlet leaves his nest now;
Hide your little horned head
In the twilight west now;
When you're old and round and bright,
You shall stay and shine all night.
Baby girl is going too
In her bed to creep now;
She is little, just like you,
Time it is to sleep now;
When she's old and tired and wise,
She'll be glad to close her eyes.
A Wintry Lullaby
Blow, wind, blow,
The fields are white with snow--
Sleeping daisies, deep and warm,
Cannot hear the Winter storm.
Freeze, air, freeze,
The rime is on the trees--
Sleeping buds within the bough,
Dream of spring and cuckoos now.
Turn, earth, turn,
The flames of life do burn--
Sleeping girl, my baby dove,
Knows no world but mother's love.
The Warm Cradle
Hush, baby, hush,
Sweet robin's in the bush--
All the birdies lie so quiet,
Won't my little dicky try it?
Hush, baby, hush.
Sleep, baby, sleep,
The lammies love the sheep--
Woolly babes all nestle cosy,
Lie, my lambkin, warm and rosy,
Sleep, baby, sleep.
Dream, baby, dream,
Our feet are in the stream--
Stones below but stars above, child,
Life is warm so long we love, child,
Dream, baby, dream.
The Drooping Flower
Baby's rather ill to-night,
Little face is long and white,
Eyes are all too large and bright--
What shall mother do now?
Never leave him out of sight,
Hold him warm and still and tight,
Make him well with all her might,
That's what she will do now.
Mothers in the Garden
I
Wagtail--pied Wagtail--
What tremor's in your breast?
On nimble feet, when we draw near,
You run about to hide your fear,
As if to say: There's nothing here,
I have no nest....
Wagtail--pied Wagtail--
We too their voices heard;
Away then to the water-side,
And fetch the food for which they cried;
From us there is no need to hide,
My dainty bird.
II
The thrushes' nest has fallen
From the ivy on the wall:
The dear blue eggs are broken,
All broken by the fall.
But we heard a song at sundown
That said: O tears are vain!--
And babe and I ceased grieving:
We think they will build again.
The Gravel Path
Tiny mustn't frown
When she tumbles down;
If the wind should change--Ah me,
What a face her face would be!
Rub away the dirt,
Say she wasn't hurt;
What a world 'twould be--O my,
If all who fell began to cry!
The New Pelisse
Baby's got a new pelisse,
Very soft and very neat--
Like a lammy in her fleece
She's all white from head to feet.
Thirty lambs each gave a curl,
Mother sewed them, stitch by stitch--
All to clothe a baby-girl:
Don't you think she's very rich?
Solace
Whom does Miss belong to?
Just to Mother, Mother only:
That's whom Miss belongs to,
--And Mother's never lonely.
Whom's this little song to?
Just to Baby, Baby only:
That's whom little song's to,
--And Baby's never lonely.
Strange Lands
Where do you come from, Mr. Jay?--
'From the land of Play, from the land of Play.'
And where can that be, Mr. Jay?--
'Far away--far away.'
Where do you come from, Mrs. Dove?--
'From the land of Love, from the land of Love.'
And how do you get there, Mrs. Dove?--
'Look above--look above.'
Where do you come from, Baby Miss?--
'From the land of Bliss, from the land of Bliss.'
And what is the way there, Baby Miss?--
'Mother's kiss--mother's kiss.'
March | 2,584.355829 |
2023-11-16 19:00:08.3367910 | 181 | 6 |
Produced by K. Nordquist, Diane Monico, 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.)
WHITTIER-LAND
_SAMUEL T. PICKARD_
[Illustration]
By Samuel T. Pickard
WHITTIER-LAND. Illustrated. 12mo, $1.00 _net_. Postage 9 cents.
LIFE AND LETTERS OF JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER. With Portraits and other
Illustrations. 2 vols. crown 8vo, gilt top, $4.00.
_One-Volume Edition_. Illustrated. Crown 8vo, $2.50.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
WHITTIER-LAND | 2,584.356831 |
2023-11-16 19:00:08.4591650 | 6,591 | 59 |
E-text prepared by Graeme Mackreth 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/bondmanstoryofti00oneirich
THE LIBRARY OF ROMANCE.
Edited
by LEITCH RITCHIE.
VOL. V.
THE BONDMAN.
London:
Smith, Elder and Co., 65, Cornhill.
1833.
Printed by Stewart and Co., Old Bailey.
THE BONDMAN.
A Story of the Times of Wat Tyler.
London:
Smith, Elder and Co., 65, Cornhill;
1833.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The idea of the following tale was suggested on reading the first
volume of Robertson's Charles the Fifth, on the Feudal Policy of
Germany; and the picture of moral and political debasement presented in
those pages, whether as regards the oppressor or the oppressed. Those
revolting distinctions have, however, passed away--villein is but a
thing that was. But if the old chronicles are to be credited, the monk,
whom the author has endeavoured to pourtray in the course of this tale,
was the first who whispered in the ear of an English serf, that slavery
was not his birthright.
It may, perhaps, be superfluous to add, that all the legal information
scattered through the volume, is strictly correct; and every historical
event, as nearly so as the machinery of the tale permitted. The
critical reader, whose indulgence the writer solicits, will immediately
perceive from whence the information has been derived.
THE BONDMAN.
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I.
About a quarter of a mile south of Winchcombe, on the summit of a
gentle elevation, are still the remains of a castle, which, as Fuller
says, "was of subjects' castles the most handsome habitation, and of
subjects' habitations the strongest castle."
In the month of August, in the year thirteen hundred and seventy-four,
this distinguished place, called Sudley Castle, presented an
interesting scene--the then owner, in consequence of his father's
death, holding his first court for receiving the homage and fealty of
his vassals.
The court-yards were thronged with the retainers of the Baron,
beguiling the hour until the ceremony called them into the hall. This
apartment, which corresponded in magnificence and beauty with the
outward appearance of the noble pile, was of an oblong shape. Carved
representations of battles adorned the lofty oaken ceiling, and
suspended were banners and quarterings of the Sudley and De Boteler
families. Ancestral statues of oak, clad in complete armour, stood
in niches formed in the thick walls. The heavy linked mail of the
Normans, with the close helmet, or skull cap, fastened under the chin,
and leaving the face exposed, encased those who represented the early
barons of Sudley; while those of a later period were clad in the more
convenient, and more beautiful armour of the fourteenth century. The
walls were covered with arms, adapted to the different descriptions of
soldiers of the period, and arranged so, as each might provide himself
with his proper weapons, without delay or confusion.
The hall had a tesselated pavement, on which the arms of the united
families of Sudley and De Boteler (the latter having inherited by
marriage, in consequence of a failure of male issue in the former)
were depicted with singular accuracy and beauty. About midway from
the entrance, two broad steps of white marble led to the part of the
hall exclusively appropriated to the owner of the castle. The mosaic
work of this privileged space was concealed on the present occasion
by a covering of fine crimson cloth. A large arm chair, covered with
crimson velvet, with the De Boteler arms richly emblazoned on the high
back, over which hung a velvet canopy fringed with gold, was placed
in the centre of the elevation; and several other chairs with similar
coverings and emblazonings, but wanting canopies, were disposed around
for the accommodation of the guests.
The steward at length appeared, and descended the steps to classify
the people for the intended homage, and to satisfy himself that none
had disobeyed the summons.
The tenantry were arranged in the following order:--
First--the steward and esquire stood on either side next the steps.
Then followed the vassals who held lands for watching and warding the
castle. These were considered superior to the other vassals from the
peculiar nature of their tenure, as the life-guards, as it were, of
their lord.
Then those who held lands in chivalry, namely, by performing stated
military services, the perfection of whose tenures was homage.
The next were those who held lands by agricultural or rent service, and
who performed fealty as a memorial of their attachment and dependence.
The bondmen, or legally speaking, the villeins, concluded the array.
These were either attached to the soil or to the person. The former
were designated _villeins appendant_, because following the transfer
of the ground, like fixtures of a freehold, their persons, lands, and
goods, being the property of the lord; they might be chastised, but not
maimed. They paid a fine on the marriage of females; who obtained their
freedom on marriage with a free man, but returned again to bondage
on surviving their husband. The latter class were called _villeins
in gross_, and differed nothing from the others except in name; the
term signifying that they were severed from the soil, and followed the
person of the lord. Neither of the classes were permitted to leave the
lands of their owner; and on flight or settlement in towns or cities,
might be pursued and reclaimed. An action for damages lay against those
who harboured them, or who refused to deliver them up,--the law also
provided a certain form of writ by which the sheriff was commanded
to seize, or obtain them by force. There was one mode, however, of
nullifying the right of capture. If the runaway resided on lands of the
king, for a year and a day, without claim, he could not be molested
for the future; although he was still liable, if caught beyond the
precincts of the royal boundary, to be retaken.
The classification had just finished, when a door at the upper end of
the hall was thrown open, and the Baron of Sudley entered, attended by
his guests, and followed by a page.
Roland de Boteler was a man about six-and-twenty, of a tall,
well-proportioned figure, with an open, handsome countenance; but
there was a certain boldness or freedom in the laughing glance of
his large black eyes, and in the full parted lips, blended with an
expression, which though not perhaps exactly haughty or cruel, yet told
distinctly enough that he was perfectly regardless of the feelings
of his dependants, and considered them merely as conducive to his
amusement, or to the display of military power. A doublet of crimson
cloth, embroidered with gold, was well chosen to give advantage to his
dark complexion. His tunic composed of baudykin, or cloth of gold,
was confined round the waist by a girdle, below which it hung in full
plaits, nearly to the knee,--thus allowing little of his trunk hose,
of rich velvet, corresponding in colour with the doublet, to be seen.
Over his dress he wore a surcoat or mantle of fine violet-
cloth, fastened across the breast, with a gold clasp, and lined with
minever. His hair, according to the fashion introduced by the Black
Prince, when he brought over his royal captive, John of France, fell
in thick short curls below a cap in colour and material resembling
his mantle, and edged with minever; and the lip and chin wore neither
mustachio nor beard.
His eye fell proudly for a moment on the assembled yeomen, as he
took his seat for the first time as Lord of Sudley; but speedily the
ceremony commenced.
The individual first summoned from among the group, was a tall athletic
young man of about twenty-five, with a complexion fair but reddened
through exposure to the seasons. His hair was light-brown, thick and
curly, and there was a good-humoured expression in the clear grey eyes,
and in the full, broad, well marked countenance, that would give one
the idea of a gay, thoughtless spirit--had it not been for the bold
and firm step, and the sudden change of feature from gay to grave as
he advanced to the platform, and met unabashed the Baron's scrutiny,
at once indicating that the man possessed courage and decision when
occasion required these qualities to be called into action.
Stephen Holgrave ascended the marble steps, and proceeded on till he
stood at the baron's feet. He then unclasped the belt of his waist, and
having his head uncovered, knelt down, and holding up both his hands.
De Boteler took them within his own, and the yeoman said in a loud,
distinct voice--
"Lord Roland de Boteler, I become your man from this day forward, of
life and limb and earthly worship, and unto you shall be true and
faithful, and bear to you faith, for the lands that I claim to hold of
you, saving the faith that I owe unto our sovereign lord the king."
The baron then bent his head forward and kissed the young man's
forehead; and unloosing his hands, Holgrave arose, and bending his
head, stood to hear what De Boteler might say.
"You have spoken well, Holgrave," said De Boteler, looking
good-humouredly upon the yeoman, "and, truly, if the life of Roland de
Boteler is worth any thing, you have earned your reward; and, here, in
the presence of this good company, I covenant for myself and my heirs,
that you and your heirs, shall hold the land for ever, in chivalry,
presenting every feast of the Holy Baptist, a pair of gloves."
"Calverley," said the baron, as Holgrave retired, and while addressing
his esquire, his features assumed a peculiar expression: "What a pity
it is that a yeoman should reap the reward of a service that _should_
have been performed by you had your health permitted!"
The sarcastic smile that accompanied these words, called up a glow even
deeper than envy had done; yet, in a calm voice, Calverley replied,
"The land, my lord, though the gift be fair, is of little account in
comparison with the honour of the deed; but I may humbly say, that if
Thomas Calverley had witnessed his master's peril, he would have been
found as valiant in his defence as the yeoman, whose better fortune it
was to be present."
"Aye, aye, my good'squire," said the baron, still in a laughing
tone, "your illness, I am told, gave you a most outrageous
appetite--doubtless your feeble constitution needed strengthening!
Come, come, man, it is but a joke--never look so blank; yet, if _we_
laugh, there is no reason why those knaves should stand grinning there
from ear to ear. Bid the senior vassal advance."
The vassals who were to perform homage then prepared to go through the
customary form; and an old grey-headed man advanced first from the
group to do fealty, and, standing before the baron, pronounced after
him the following oath, holding his right hand on the gospels:--
"I, John Hartwell, will be to you, my Lord Roland de Boteler, true and
faithful, and bear to you fealty and faith for the lands and tenements
which I hold of you; and I will truly do and perform the customs and
services that I ought to do to you, so help me God!" The old man then
kissed the book, and retired to give place to the next; and so on till
all who owed fealty had gone through the ceremony.
Lastly advanced from among the bondmen, or villeins, the oldest
servitor, and, holding his right hand over the book, pronounced after
De Boteler--
"Hear you, my Lord de Boteler, that I, William Marson, from this day
forth unto you shall be true and faithful, and shall owe you fealty for
the land which I may hold of you in villeinage, and shall be justified
by you both in body and goods, so help me God and all the saints."
After kissing the book he withdrew; and the bondmen successively
renewed their servile compact.
While the vassals were retiring from the hall, the Lord de Boteler
turned to the gentleman near him--
"Sir Robert," said he, "you saw that vassal who first did homage?--to
that base-born churl I owe my life. I had engaged hand to hand with a
French knight, when my opponent's esquire treacherously attacked me
from behind. This was observed by my faithful follower, who struck down
the coward with his axe, and, in a moment more, rid me of the knight by
a blow that cleft his helmet and entered his brain. He also, by rare
chance, I know not how, slew the bearer of that banner yonder, and,
when the battle was over, laid it at my feet."
"You have made him a freeman since then?" inquired Sir Robert.
"No; he received his freedom from my father when a boy for some
juvenile service--I hardly remember what. Yet I shall never forget the
look of the varlet--as if it mattered to such as he whether they were
free or not! He stared for an instant at my father--the tears trembling
in his eyes, and all the blood in his body, I verily believe, reddening
his face, and he looked as if he would have said something; but my
father and I did not care to listen, and we turned away. As for the
land he has now received, I promised it him on the field of battle, and
I could not retract my word."
"No, baron," said Sir Robert; "the man earned it by his bravery: and
surely the life of the Lord de Boteler is worth more than a piece of
dirty land."
De Boteler, not caring to continue so uninteresting a subject,
discoursed upon other matters; and the business of the morning having
concluded, he retired with his guests from the hall.
It was about a fortnight after this court day that the fortunate yeoman
one morning led his mother, Edith Holgrave, to the cottage he had built
on the land that was now his own.
Edith entered the cottage, her hand resting for support upon the
shoulder of her son--for she was feeble, though not so much from age
as from a weak constitution. As she stepped over the threshold she
devoutly crossed herself; and when they stood upon the earthen floor,
she withdrew her left hand from the arm that supported her, and,
sinking upon her knees, and raising up her eyes, exclaimed--
"May He, in whose hands are the ends of the earth, preserve thee, my
son, from evil. And oh! may He bless this house!"
While she spoke, her eyes brightened, and her pale face for a short
time glowed with the fervor of her soul.
"Stephen, my son," she continued (as with his aid she arose and seated
herself upon a wooden stool), "many days of sorrow have I seen, but
this proud day is an atonement for all. _My_ father was a freeman,
but _thy_ father was a serf;--but all are alike in _His_ eyes, who
oftentimes gives the soul of a churl to him who dwelleth in castles,
and quickens the body of the base of birth with a spirit that might
honour the wearer of crimson and gold. My husband was a villein, but
his soul spurned the bondage; and oftentimes, my son, when you have
been an infant in my arms, thy father wished that the free-born breast
which nourished you, could infuse freedom into your veins. _He_ did not
live to see it; but oh! what a proud day was that for me, when my son
no longer bore the name of slave! I had prayed--I had yearned for that
day; and it at length repaid me for all the taunts of our neighbours,
who reviled me because my spirit was not such as theirs!"
"Come, come, mother," interrupted Holgrave, "don't agitate yourself;
there is time to talk of all this by-and-bye."
"And so there is, child--but I am old; and the aged, as well as the
young, love to be talking. Stephen, you must bear with your mother."
"Aye, that I will, mother," replied Holgrave, kissing her cheek which
had assumed its accustomed paleness; "and ill befall the son that will
not!"
Leaving his mother to attend to the visitors who crowded in to drink
success to the new proprietor in a cup of ale, Stephen Holgrave stole
unobserved out of the cottage towards nightfall.
Passing through Winchcombe, he arrived at a small neat dwelling, in a
little sequestered valley, about a quarter of a mile from the town--the
tenant of which lowly abode is of no small consequence to our story.
Like Holgrave, Margaret was the offspring of the bond and the free. Her
father had been a bondman attached to the manor of Sudley; and her
mother a poor friendless orphan, with no patrimony save her freedom.
Such marriages were certainly of rare occurrence, because women
naturally felt a repugnance to become the mother of serfs; but still,
that they did occur, is evidenced by the law of villeinage, ordaining
that the children of a bondman and free woman should in no wise partake
of their mother's freedom.
It might be, perhaps, that this similarity in their condition had
attracted them towards each other; or it might be that, as Margaret
had been motherless since her birth, and Edith had nursed and reared
her till she grew to womanhood, from the feelings natural to long
association, love had grown and strengthened in Stephen's heart.
Indeed, there were not many of her class who could have compared with
this young woman. Her figure was about the middle height of her sex,
and so beautifully proportioned, that even the close kerchief and
russet gown could not entirely conceal the symmetrical formation of
the broad white shoulders, the swelling bust, and the slender waist.
Plain braids of hair of the darkest shade, and arched brows of the same
hue, gave an added whiteness to a forehead smooth and high; and her
full intelligent eyes, with a fringe as dark as her hair, were of a
clear deep blue. The feminine occupation of a sempstress had preserved
the delicacy of her complexion, and had left a soft flickering
blush playing on her cheek. Such was Margaret the beloved--the
betrothed--whom Holgrave was now hastening to invite, with all the
simple eloquence of honest love, to become the bride of his bosom--the
mistress of his home.
The duskiness of the twilight hour was lightened by the broad beams of
an autumn moon; and as the moonlight, streaming full upon the thatch,
revealed distinctly the little cot that held his treasure, all the high
thoughts of freedom and independence, all the wandering speculative
dreamings that come and go in the heart of man, gave place, for a
season, to one engrossing feeling. Margaret was not this evening, as
she was wont to be, sitting outside the cottage door awaiting his
approach. The door was partly opened--he entered--and beheld a man
kneeling before her, and holding one of her hands within his own!
"Stephen Holgrave!" cried the devotee, jumping up, "what brings you
here at such an hour?"
"What brings me, Calverley!" replied Holgrave, furiously, "who are you,
to ask such a question? What brings _you_ here?"
"My own will, Stephen Holgrave," answered Calverley in a calm tone;
"and mark you--this maiden has no right to plight her troth except with
her lord's consent. She is Lord de Boteler's bondwoman, and dares not
marry without his leave--which will never be given to wed with you."
"You talk boldly, sir, of my lord's intents," answered the yeoman
sulkily.
"I speak but the truth," replied Calverley. "You have been rewarded
well for the deed you did; and think not that your braggart speech
will win my lord. This maid is no meet wife for such as you. My lord
has offered me fair lands and her freedom if I choose to wed her: and
though many a free dowered maid would smile upon the suit of Thomas
Calverley, yet have I come to offer wedlock to Margaret."
"Margaret!" said Holgrave fiercely, "can this be true? answer me! Has
Calverley spoken of marriage to you?--why do you not answer? Have I
loved a false one?"
"No, Stephen," replied Margaret, in a low trembling voice.
Holgrave's mind was relieved as Margaret spoke, for he had confidence
in her truth. He knew, however, that Calverley stood high in the favour
of De Boteler, and he determined not to trust himself with further
words.
"Margaret," said Calverley suddenly, "I leave Sudley Castle on the
morrow to attend my lord to London. At my return I shall expect that
this silence be changed into language befitting the chosen bride of the
Baron de Boteler's esquire. Remember you are not yet free!--and now,
Stephen Holgrave, I leave not this cottage till you depart. The maiden
is my lord's nief, the cottage is his, and here I am privileged--not
you."
Fierce retorts and bitter revilings were on Holgrave's tongue; but the
sanctuary of a maiden's home was no place for contention. He knew that
Calverley did possess the power he vaunted; and, without uttering a
word, he crossed the threshold, and stood on the sod just beyond the
door.
Calverley paused a moment gazing on the blanched beauty of the agitated
girl, her cheek looking more pale from the moonlight that fell upon
it; and then, in the soft insinuating tone he knew so well how to
assume--
"Forgive me, Margaret," said he, "for what I have said. But oh," he
continued, taking her hand, and pressing it passionately to his bosom,
"You know not how much I love you!--Come, sir, will you walk?" Then
kissing the damsel's hand he relinquished it; and Margaret, with
streaming eyes and a throbbing heart, watched till the two receding
figures were lost in the distance.
Holgrave and Calverley pursued their path in sullen silence. There
were about a dozen paces between them, but neither were one foot in
advance of the other. On they went through Winchcombe and along the
road, till they came to where a footpath from the left intersected
the highway. Here they both, as if by mutual agreement, made a sudden
pause, and stood doggedly eyeing each other. At considerably less than
a quarter of a mile to the right was Sudley Castle; and at nearly the
same distance to the left was Holgrave's new abode. After the lapse of
several minutes, Calverley leaped across a running ditch to the right;
and Holgrave, having thus far conquered, turned to the left on his
homeward path.
The reader will, perhaps, feel some surprise that an esquire of the
rich and powerful Lord de Boteler should be thus competing with the
yeoman for the hand of a portionless humble nief; but it is necessary
to observe, in the first place, that in the fifteenth century esquires
were by no means of the consideration they had enjoyed a century
before. Some nobles, indeed, who were upholders of the ancient system,
still regarded an esquire as but a degree removed from a knight, but
these were merely exceptions;--the general rule, at the period we
are speaking of, was to consider an esquire simply as a principal
attendant, without the least claim to any distinction beyond. Such a
state of things accorded well with the temper of De Boteler;--he could
scarcely have endured the equality, which, in some measure, formerly
subsisted between the esquire and his lord. With him the equal might
be familiar, but the inferior must be submissive; and it was, perhaps,
the humility of Calverley's deportment that alone had raised him to the
situation he now held. Calverley, besides, had none of the requisites
of respectability which would have entitled him to take a stand among a
class such as esquires had formerly been.
About ten years before the commencement of our tale, a pale emaciated
youth presented himself one morning at Sudley Castle, desiring the
hospitality that was never denied to the stranger. Over his dress,
which was of the coarse monks' cloth then generally worn by the
religious, he wore a tattered cloak of the dark russet peculiar to the
peasant. That day he was fed, and that night lodged at the castle; and
the next morning, as he stood in a corner of the court-yard, apparently
lost in reflection as to the course he should next adopt, the young
Roland de Boteler, then a fine boy of fifteen, emerged from the stone
arch-way of the stable mounted on a spirited charger. The glow on his
cheek, the brightness of his eyes, and the youthful animation playing
on his face, and ringing in the joyous tones of his voice, seemed
to make the solitary dejected being, who looked as if he could claim
neither kindred nor home, appear even more care-worn and friendless.
The youth gazed at the young De Boteler, and ran after him as he rode
through the gateway followed by two attendants.
He then wandered about with a look of still deeper despondence, till
the trampling of the returning horses sent a transient tinge across
his cheek. He followed Roland's attendants, and again entered the
court-yard. By some chance, as the young rider was alighting, his eye
fell on the dejected stranger, who was standing at a little distance
fixing an anxious gaze upon the heir.
"Who is that sickly-looking carle, Ralph?" enquired De Boteler.
The attendant did not know. The youth interpreted the meaning of
Roland's glance, and approached, and, with a humble yet not ungraceful
obeisance--
"Noble young lord," said he, "may a wanderer crave leave to abide for a
time in this castle?"
"You have my leave," replied the boy in the consequential tone that
youth generally assumes when conferring a favour. "Indeed, you don't
look very fit to wander farther;--Ralph, see that this knave is
attended to."
The stranger was now privileged to remain, and a week's rest and
good cheer considerably improved his appearance. He did not presume,
however, to approach the part of the castle inhabited by the owners;
but never did the young Roland enter the court-yard, or walk abroad,
but the silent homage of the grateful stranger greeted him.
This strange youth was Thomas Calverley, and, by the end of a month,
Roland's eyes as instinctively sought for him when he needed an
attendant, as if he had been a regular domestic.
It was good policy in Calverley to propitiate the young De Boteler; for
had he presented himself to his father, although for a space he might
have been fed, he could never have presumed to obtrude himself upon his
notice.
There was a humility in the stranger which pleased Roland's imperious
temper; _he_ had granted the permission by which he abided in the
castle, and he seemed to feel a kind of interest in his protege; and
the envy of his attendants was often excited by their young lord
beckoning to Calverley to assist him to mount, or alight, or do him
any other little service. Calverley began now to be considered as a
kind of inmate in the castle, and various were the whispered tales
that went about respecting him. At length it was discovered that he
was a scholar--that is, he could read and write; and the circumstance,
though it abated nothing of the whisperings of idle curiosity, entirely
silenced the taunts he had been compelled to endure. If still disliked,
yet was he treated with some respect; for none of the unlettered
domestics would have presumed to speak rudely to one so far above them
in intellectual attainments.
Such a discovery could not long remain a secret;--the tale reached the
ears of young De Boteler, and, already prepossessed in his favour, it
was but a natural consequence that Calverley should rise from being
first an assistant, to be the steward, the page, and, at length,
the esquire to the heir to the barony of Sudley. But the progress
of his fortunes did but add to the malevolence of the detractor and
the tale-bearer; theft, sacrilege, and even murder were hinted at
as probable causes for a youth, who evidently did not belong to the
vulgar, being thus a friendless outcast. But the most charitable
surmise was, that he was the offspring of the unhallowed love of some
dame or damsel who had re | 2,584.479205 |
2023-11-16 19:00:08.5830030 | 1,571 | 19 |
Produced by Meredith Bach, Rene Anderson Benitz 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: Variations in hyphenation and spelling have been
retained as in the original. Minor printer errors have been amended
without note.
_By Ellen N. La Motte_
The Tuberculosis Nurse
The Backwash of War
The
Backwash of War
The Human Wreckage of the Battlefield
as Witnessed by an American
Hospital Nurse
By
Ellen N. La Motte
G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1916
Copyright, 1916
BY
ELLEN N. LA MOTTE
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
To
MARY BORDEN-TURNER
"The Little Boss"
TO WHOM I OWE MY EXPERIENCE IN
THE ZONE OF THE ARMIES
INTRODUCTION
This war has been described as "Months of boredom, punctuated by moments
of intense fright." The writer of these sketches has experienced many
"months of boredom," in a French military field hospital, situated ten
kilometres behind the lines, in Belgium. During these months, the
lines have not moved, either forward or backward, but have remained
dead-locked, in one position. Undoubtedly, up and down the long-reaching
kilometres of "Front" there has been action, and "moments of intense
fright" have produced glorious deeds of valour, courage, devotion, and
nobility. But when there is little or no action, there is a stagnant
place, and in a stagnant place there is much ugliness. Much ugliness is
churned up in the wake of mighty, moving forces. We are witnessing a
phase in the evolution of humanity, a phase called War--and the slow,
onward progress stirs up the slime in the shallows, and this is the
Backwash of War. It is very ugly. There are many little lives foaming up
in the backwash. They are loosened by the sweeping current, and float to
the surface, detached from their environment, and one glimpses them,
weak, hideous, repellent. After the war, they will consolidate again
into the condition called Peace.
After this war, there will be many other wars, and in the intervals
there will be peace. So it will alternate for many generations. By
examining the things cast up in the backwash, we can gauge the progress
of humanity. When clean little lives, when clean little souls boil up in
the backwash, they will consolidate, after the final war, into a peace
that shall endure. But not till then.
E. N. L. M.
CONTENTS
PAGE
HEROES 3
LA PATRIE RECONNAISSANTE 17
THE HOLE IN THE HEDGE 35
ALONE 49
A BELGIAN CIVILIAN 63
THE INTERVAL 77
WOMEN AND WIVES 95
POUR LA PATRIE 115
LOCOMOTOR ATAXIA 129
A SURGICAL TRIUMPH 143
AT THE TELEPHONE 159
A CITATION 167
AN INCIDENT 181
HEROES
When he could stand it no longer, he fired a revolver up through the
roof of his mouth, but he made a mess of it. The ball tore out his left
eye, and then lodged somewhere under his skull, so they bundled him into
an ambulance and carried him, cursing and screaming, to the nearest
field hospital. The journey was made in double-quick time, over rough
Belgian roads. To save his life, he must reach the hospital without
delay, and if he was bounced to death jolting along at breakneck speed,
it did not matter. That was understood. He was a deserter, and
discipline must be maintained. Since he had failed in the job, his life
must be saved, he must be nursed back to health, until he was well
enough to be stood up against a wall and shot. This is War. Things like
this also happen in peace time, but not so obviously.
At the hospital, he behaved abominably. The ambulance men declared that
he had tried to throw himself out of the back of the ambulance, that he
had yelled and hurled himself about, and spat blood all over the floor
and blankets--in short, he was very disagreeable. Upon the operating
table, he was no more reasonable. He shouted and screamed and threw
himself from side to side, and it took a dozen leather straps and four
or five orderlies to hold him in position, so that the surgeon could
examine him. During this commotion, his left eye rolled about loosely
upon his cheek, and from his bleeding mouth he shot great clots of
stagnant blood, caring not where they fell. One fell upon the immaculate
white uniform of the Directrice, and stained her, from breast to shoes.
It was disgusting. They told him it was _La Directrice_, and that he
must be careful. For an instant he stopped his raving, and regarded her
fixedly with his remaining eye, then took aim afresh, and again covered
her with his coward blood. Truly it was disgusting.
To the _Medecin Major_ it was incomprehensible, and he said so. To
attempt to kill oneself, when, in these days, it was so easy to die with
honour upon the battlefield, was something he could not understand. So
the _Medecin Major_ stood patiently aside, his arms crossed, his supple
fingers pulling the long black hairs on his bare arms, waiting. He had
long to wait, for it was difficult to get the man under the anaesthetic.
Many cans of ether were used, which went to prove that the patient was a
drinking man. Whether he had acquired the habit of hard drink before or
since the war could not be ascertained; the war had lasted a year now,
and in that time many habits may be formed. As the _Medecin Major_
stood there, patiently fingering the hairs on his hairy arms, he
calculated the amount of ether that was expended--five cans of ether, at
so many francs a can--however, the ether was a donation from America, so
it did not matter. Even so, it was wasteful.
At last they said he was ready. He was quiet. During his struggles, they
had broken out two big teeth with the mouth gag, and that added a little
more blood to the blood already choking him. Then the _Medecin Major_
did a very skilful operation. He trephined the skull, extracted the
bullet that had lodged beneath it, and bound back in place that erratic
eye. After which the man was sent over to the ward, while the surgeon
returned hungrily to his dinner, long overdue.
In the ward, the man was a bad patient. | 2,584.603043 |
2023-11-16 19:00:08.7095600 | 2,113 | 64 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Les Galloway and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Songs for the Little Ones
at Home
[Illustration: Mother with children]
Songs for the Little
Ones at Home
_REVISED EDITION_
_350th Thousand_
AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY
150 NASSAU STREET, NEW YORK
Copyright, 1884 and 1911, by
AMERICAN TRACT SOCIETY
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
HEART AND HEARTHSTONE 7
HOUR BY HOUR 47
LITTLE POOR RELATIONS 81
THE GREAT OUTDOORS 135
ON EARTH AS IN HEAVEN 175
THE CHRIST CHILD 219
HEROES AND PATRIOTS 231
INDEX 253
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Acknowledgments are made to Charles Scribner’s Sons for the use of _My
Shadow_, from A CHILD’S GARDEN OF VERSES:
To Houghton, Mifflin & Company for _The Leak in the Dike_, from THE
POEMS OF PHŒBE CARY:
To the American Book Company for _The Reindeer and the Rabbit_, from
the old MCGUFFEY SECOND ECLECTIC READER; and for _Young Soldiers_ and
_The Lord’s Prayer_, from the old MCGUFFEY THIRD ECLECTIC READER.
Thanks are also rendered to Mrs. Margaret E. Sangster for the use of
_Dear Little Heads in the Pew_; and to Professor Irsay de Irsa and
others for advice and encouragement.
HEART AND HEARTHSTONE
Some precious words are born of earth,
Some others by the angels given;
But sweetest of celestial birth
Are these: “My Mother,” “Home,” and “Heaven.”
[Music:
THE FATHER’S WILL
Air, with bass accompaniment
1. How sweet the home of Nazareth Where Mary mother smiled,
And flow’rs of daily duty bloom’d About the holy Child.
His Father’s will was all His task Within that earthly home,
That will for ever done in Heav’n Whence He so late had come.
2. Obedient, gentle, loving, meek, He worked at Joseph’s side;
Does nothing from that daily toil Thro’ all the years abide?
We scan the wide world o’er, nor find. In any clime or land,
One single, sacred, treasured thing Wrought out by Jesus’ hand.
3. But wheresoe’er a Christian child Does on the earth fulfil....
With humble, rev’rent, tender heart The heav’nly Father’s will,
The work, tho’ mean and poor to view With heav’nly grace is
fraught,
Since age to age it passes on The lesson Jesus taught.
]
HEART AND HEARTHSTONE
THE FATHER’S WILL
How sweet the home of Nazareth,
Where Mary mother smiled,
And flowers of duty daily bloomed
About the holy Child.
His Father’s will was all his task
Within that earthly home,
The will forever done in heaven,
Whence he so late had come.
Obedient, gentle, loving, meek,
He worked at Joseph’s side:
Does nothing from that daily toil
Through all the years abide?
We scan the wide world o’er, nor find,
In any clime or land,
One single, sacred, treasured thing
Wrought out by Jesus’ hand;
But wheresoe’er a Christian child
Does on the earth fulfil
With humble, reverent, tender heart,
The heavenly Father’s will,
The work, though mean and poor to view,
With heavenly grace is fraught,
Since age to age it passes on
The lesson Jesus taught.
WHEN FATHER COMES HOME
When my father comes home in the evening from work,
Then I will get up on his knee,
And tell him how many nice lessons I’ve learned,
And show him how good I can be.
He’ll ask me what number I know how to count,
I’ll tell him what words I can spell;
And if I can learn something new every day,
I hope soon to read very well.
[Illustration: Jesus, Mary and Joseph in carpenter’s shop]
I’ll repeat to him all the good verses I know,
And tell him how kind we must be,
That we never must hurt little creatures at all;
And he will be glad, and love me.
I’ll tell him we always must try to please God,
And never be cruel nor rude,
For God is the Father of all living things,
He cares for and blesses the good.
DEAR MAMMA
My own mamma; my dear mamma!
How happy shall I be
To-morrow night at candlelight,
When she comes home to me!
’Tis just one week since on my cheek
She pressed the parting kiss:
It seems like two; I never knew
So long a week as this.
My tangled hair she smoothed with care,
With water bathed my brow;
And all with such a gentle touch--
I wish she’d do it now.
But she will come; she’ll be at home
To-morrow night; and then
I hope that she will never be
So long away again.
MY MOTHER
My mother, my kind mother,
I hear thy gentle voice;
It always makes my little heart
Beat gladly and rejoice.
When I am ill it comes to me,
And kindly soothes my pain;
And when I sleep, then in my dreams
It sweetly comes again.
It always makes me happy,
Whene’er I hear its tone;
I know it is the voice of love,
From a heart that is my own.
My mother, my dear mother,
O may I never be
Unkind or disobedient,
In any way, to thee.
FOR MOTHER
I give my mother lots of kisses,
There’s really never one she misses:
A “wake-up kiss” right in the morning,
A “good-night kiss” when I am yawning,
A “sorry kiss” when I’ve been bad,
A “happy kiss” when I am glad.
Once she was sick; I went to stay
At auntie’s house, oh, miles away!
Then I sent kisses in a letter;
She said they truly made her better.
There’s never really one she misses,
Oh, I give mother lots of kisses.
PAPA IS COMING
I know he’s coming by this sign,—
The baby’s almost wild!
See how he laughs and crows and starts--
Heaven bless the merry child!
He’s father’s self in face and limb,
And father’s heart is strong in him.
Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands,
For father on the threshold stands.
MY FATHER BLESSED ME
My father raised his trembling hand
And laid it on my head;
“God bless thee, O my son, my son!”
Most tenderly he said.
He died, and left no gems or gold:
But still I was his heir,
For that rich blessing which he gave
Became a fortune rare.
WELCOME
Welcome, welcome, little stranger,
To this busy world of care;
Nothing can thy peace endanger,
Nothing now thy steps ensnare.
Mother’s heart is filled with pleasure,
All her feelings are awake;
Gladly would she, little treasure,
All thy pains and sufferings take.
Mayest thou, if designed by heaven
Future days and years to see,
Soothe her, make her passage even;
Let her heart rejoice in thee.
May her anxious cares and labors
Be repaid by filial love;
And thy soul be crowned with favors
From the boundless source above.
—_Taylor._
THE PRINCE COMES!
“What is this pretty little thing,
That nurse so carefully doth bring,
And round its head a blanket fling?
A baby!
“Oh, dear, how very soft its cheek;
Why, nurse, I cannot make it speak,
And it can’t walk, it is so weak.
A baby!
“Oh, I’m afraid that it will die;
Why can’t it eat as well as I,
And jump, and talk? Do let it try.
Poor baby!”
“Why, you were once a baby too,
And could not jump as now you do,
But good mamma took care of you,
Like baby.
“And then she taught your little feet
To pat along the carpet neat,
And called papa to come and meet
His baby.
“O dear mamma, to take such care,
And no kind pains and trouble spare
To feed and nurse you when you were
A baby.”
WHERE DID YOU COME FROM, BABY DEAR?
Where did you come from, baby dear?
Out of the everywhere into here.
Where did you get your eyes so blue?
Out of the sky as I came through.
Where did you get that little tear?
I found it waiting when I got here.
What makes your forehead so smooth and high?
A soft hand stroked it as I went by.
What makes your cheek like a warm, white rose?
| 2,584.7296 |
2023-11-16 19:00:08.7608330 | 3,985 | 8 |
Produced by David Widger
LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI
BY MARK TWAIN
Part 11.
Chapter 51 Reminiscences
WE left for St. Louis in the 'City of Baton Rouge,' on a delightfully
hot day, but with the main purpose of my visit but lamely accomplished.
I had hoped to hunt up and talk with a hundred steamboatmen, but got so
pleasantly involved in the social life of the town that I got nothing
more than mere five-minute talks with a couple of dozen of the craft.
I was on the bench of the pilot-house when we backed out and
'straightened up' for the start--the boat pausing for a 'good ready,' in
the old-fashioned way, and the black smoke piling out of the chimneys
equally in the old-fashioned way. Then we began to gather momentum, and
presently were fairly under way and booming along. It was all as natural
and familiar--and so were the shoreward sights--as if there had been no
break in my river life. There was a 'cub,' and I judged that he would
take the wheel now; and he did. Captain Bixby stepped into the pilot-
house. Presently the cub closed up on the rank of steamships. He made
me nervous, for he allowed too much water to show between our boat and
the ships. I knew quite well what was going to happen, because I could
date back in my own life and inspect the record. The captain looked on,
during a silent half-minute, then took the wheel himself, and crowded
the boat in, till she went scraping along within a hand-breadth of the
ships. It was exactly the favor which he had done me, about a quarter
of a century before, in that same spot, the first time I ever steamed
out of the port of New Orleans. It was a very great and sincere pleasure
to me to see the thing repeated--with somebody else as victim.
We made Natchez (three hundred miles) in twenty-two hours and a half--
much the swiftest passage I have ever made over that piece of water.
The next morning I came on with the four o'clock watch, and saw Ritchie
successfully run half a dozen crossings in a fog, using for his guidance
the marked chart devised and patented by Bixby and himself. This
sufficiently evidenced the great value of the chart.
By and by, when the fog began to clear off, I noticed that the
reflection of a tree in the smooth water of an overflowed bank, six
hundred yards away, was stronger and blacker than the ghostly tree
itself. The faint spectral trees, dimly glimpsed through the shredding
fog, were very pretty things to see.
We had a heavy thunder-storm at Natchez, another at Vicksburg, and still
another about fifty miles below Memphis. They had an old-fashioned
energy which had long been unfamiliar to me. This third storm was
accompanied by a raging wind. We tied up to the bank when we saw the
tempest coming, and everybody left the pilot-house but me. The wind bent
the young trees down, exposing the pale underside of the leaves; and
gust after gust followed, in quick succession, thrashing the branches
violently up and down, and to this side and that, and creating swift
waves of alternating green and white according to the side of the leaf
that was exposed, and these waves raced after each other as do their
kind over a wind-tossed field of oats. No color that was visible
anywhere was quite natural--all tints were charged with a leaden tinge
from the solid cloud-bank overhead. The river was leaden; all distances
the same; and even the far-reaching ranks of combing white-caps were
dully shaded by the dark, rich atmosphere through which their swarming
legions marched. The thunder-peals were constant and deafening;
explosion followed explosion with but inconsequential intervals between,
and the reports grew steadily sharper and higher-keyed, and more trying
to the ear; the lightning was as diligent as the thunder, and produced
effects which enchanted the eye and sent electric ecstasies of mixed
delight and apprehension shivering along every nerve in the body in
unintermittent procession. The rain poured down in amazing volume; the
ear-splitting thunder-peals broke nearer and nearer; the wind increased
in fury and began to wrench off boughs and tree-tops and send them
sailing away through space; the pilot-house fell to rocking and
straining and cracking and surging, and I went down in the hold to see
what time it was.
People boast a good deal about Alpine thunderstorms; but the storms
which I have had the luck to see in the Alps were not the equals of some
which I have seen in the Mississippi Valley. I may not have seen the
Alps do their best, of course, and if they can beat the Mississippi, I
don't wish to.
On this up trip I saw a little towhead (infant island) half a mile long,
which had been formed during the past nineteen years. Since there was so
much time to spare that nineteen years of it could be devoted to the
construction of a mere towhead, where was the use, originally, in
rushing this whole globe through in six days? It is likely that if more
time had been taken, in the first place, the world would have been made
right, and this ceaseless improving and repairing would not be necessary
now. But if you hurry a world or a house, you are nearly sure to find
out by and by that you have left out a towhead, or a broom-closet, or
some other little convenience, here and there, which has got to be
supplied, no matter how much expense and vexation it may cost.
We had a succession of black nights, going up the river, and it was
observable that whenever we landed, and suddenly inundated the trees
with the intense sunburst of the electric light, a certain curious
effect was always produced: hundreds of birds flocked instantly out from
the masses of shining green foliage, and went careering hither and
thither through the white rays, and often a song-bird tuned up and fell
to singing. We judged that they mistook this superb artificial day for
the genuine article. We had a delightful trip in that thoroughly well-
ordered steamer, and regretted that it was accomplished so speedily. By
means of diligence and activity, we managed to hunt out nearly all the
old friends. One was missing, however; he went to his reward, whatever
it was, two years ago. But I found out all about him. His case helped
me to realize how lasting can be the effect of a very trifling
occurrence. When he was an apprentice-blacksmith in our village, and I a
schoolboy, a couple of young Englishmen came to the town and sojourned a
while; and one day they got themselves up in cheap royal finery and did
the Richard III swordfight with maniac energy and prodigious powwow, in
the presence of the village boys. This blacksmith cub was there, and
the histrionic poison entered his bones. This vast, lumbering,
ignorant, dull-witted lout was stage-struck, and irrecoverably. He
disappeared, and presently turned up in St. Louis. I ran across him
there, by and by. He was standing musing on a street corner, with his
left hand on his hip, the thumb of his right supporting his chin, face
bowed and frowning, slouch hat pulled down over his forehead--imagining
himself to be Othello or some such character, and imagining that the
passing crowd marked his tragic bearing and were awestruck.
I joined him, and tried to get him down out of the clouds, but did not
succeed. However, he casually informed me, presently, that he was a
member of the Walnut Street theater company--and he tried to say it with
indifference, but the indifference was thin, and a mighty exultation
showed through it. He said he was cast for a part in Julius Caesar, for
that night, and if I should come I would see him. IF I should come! I
said I wouldn't miss it if I were dead.
I went away stupefied with astonishment, and saying to myself, 'How
strange it is! WE always thought this fellow a fool; yet the moment he
comes to a great city, where intelligence and appreciation abound, the
talent concealed in this shabby napkin is at once discovered, and
promptly welcomed and honored.'
But I came away from the theater that night disappointed and offended;
for I had had no glimpse of my hero, and his name was not in the bills.
I met him on the street the next morning, and before I could speak, he
asked--
'Did you see me?'
'No, you weren't there.'
He looked surprised and disappointed. He said--
'Yes, I was. Indeed I was. I was a Roman soldier.'
'Which one?'
'Why didn't you see them Roman soldiers that stood back there in a rank,
and sometimes marched in procession around the stage?'
'Do you mean the Roman army?--those six sandaled roustabouts in
nightshirts, with tin shields and helmets, that marched around treading
on each other's heels, in charge of a spider-legged consumptive dressed
like themselves?'
'That's it! that's it! I was one of them Roman soldiers. I was the next
to the last one. A half a year ago I used to always be the last one;
but I've been promoted.'
Well, they told me that that poor fellow remained a Roman soldier to the
last--a matter of thirty-four years. Sometimes they cast him for a
'speaking part,' but not an elaborate one. He could be trusted to go
and say, 'My lord, the carriage waits,' but if they ventured to add a
sentence or two to this, his memory felt the strain and he was likely to
miss fire. Yet, poor devil, he had been patiently studying the part of
Hamlet for more than thirty years, and he lived and died in the belief
that some day he would be invited to play it!
And this is what came of that fleeting visit of those young Englishmen
to our village such ages and ages ago! What noble horseshoes this man
might have made, but for those Englishmen; and what an inadequate Roman
soldier he DID make!
A day or two after we reached St. Louis, I was walking along Fourth
Street when a grizzly-headed man gave a sort of start as he passed me,
then stopped, came back, inspected me narrowly, with a clouding brow,
and finally said with deep asperity--
'Look here, HAVE YOU GOT THAT DRINK YET?'
A maniac, I judged, at first. But all in a flash I recognized him. I
made an effort to blush that strained every muscle in me, and answered
as sweetly and winningly as ever I knew how--
'Been a little slow, but am just this minute closing in on the place
where they keep it. Come in and help.'
He softened, and said make it a bottle of champagne and he was
agreeable. He said he had seen my name in the papers, and had put all
his affairs aside and turned out, resolved to find me or die; and make
me answer that question satisfactorily, or kill me; though the most of
his late asperity had been rather counterfeit than otherwise.
This meeting brought back to me the St. Louis riots of about thirty
years ago. I spent a week there, at that time, in a boarding-house, and
had this young fellow for a neighbor across the hall. We saw some of
the fightings and killings; and by and by we went one night to an armory
where two hundred young men had met, upon call, to be armed and go forth
against the rioters, under command of a military man. We drilled till
about ten o'clock at night; then news came that the mob were in great
force in the lower end of the town, and were sweeping everything before
them. Our column moved at once. It was a very hot night, and my musket
was very heavy. We marched and marched; and the nearer we approached the
seat of war, the hotter I grew and the thirstier I got. I was behind my
friend; so, finally, I asked him to hold my musket while I dropped out
and got a drink. Then I branched off and went home. I was not feeling
any solicitude about him of course, because I knew he was so well armed,
now, that he could take care of himself without any trouble. If I had
had any doubts about that, I would have borrowed another musket for him.
I left the city pretty early the next morning, and if this grizzled man
had not happened to encounter my name in the papers the other day in St.
Louis, and felt moved to seek me out, I should have carried to my grave
a heart-torturing uncertainty as to whether he ever got out of the riots
all right or not. I ought to have inquired, thirty years ago; I know
that. And I would have inquired, if I had had the muskets; but, in the
circumstances, he seemed better fixed to conduct the investigations than
I was.
One Monday, near the time of our visit to St. Louis, the 'Globe-
Democrat' came out with a couple of pages of Sunday statistics, whereby
it appeared that 119,448 St. Louis people attended the morning and
evening church services the day before, and 23,102 children attended
Sunday-school. Thus 142,550 persons, out of the city's total of 400,000
population, respected the day religious-wise. I found these statistics,
in a condensed form, in a telegram of the Associated Press, and
preserved them. They made it apparent that St. Louis was in a higher
state of grace than she could have claimed to be in my time. But now
that I canvass the figures narrowly, I suspect that the telegraph
mutilated them. It cannot be that there are more than 150,000 Catholics
in the town; the other 250,000 must be classified as Protestants. Out
of these 250,000, according to this questionable telegram, only 26,362
attended church and Sunday-school, while out of the 150,000 Catholics,
116,188 went to church and Sunday-school.
Chapter 52 A Burning Brand
ALL at once the thought came into my mind, 'I have not sought out Mr.
Brown.'
Upon that text I desire to depart from the direct line of my subject,
and make a little excursion. I wish to reveal a secret which I have
carried with me nine years, and which has become burdensome.
Upon a certain occasion, nine years ago, I had said, with strong
feeling, 'If ever I see St. Louis again, I will seek out Mr. Brown, the
great grain merchant, and ask of him the privilege of shaking him by the
hand.'
The occasion and the circumstances were as follows. A friend of mine, a
clergyman, came one evening and said--
'I have a most remarkable letter here, which I want to read to you,
if I can do it without breaking down. I must preface it with some
explanations, however. The letter is written by an ex-thief and
ex-vagabond of the lowest origin and basest rearing, a man all stained with
crime and steeped in ignorance; but, thank God, with a mine of pure gold
hidden away in him, as you shall see. His letter is written to a burglar
named Williams, who is serving a nine-year term in a certain State
prison, for burglary. Williams was a particularly daring burglar, and
plied that trade during a number of years; but he was caught at last and
jailed, to await trial in a town where he had broken into a house at
night, pistol in hand, and forced the owner to hand over to him $8,000
in government bonds. Williams was not a common sort of person, by any
means; he was a graduate of Harvard College, and came of good New
England stock. His father was a clergyman. While lying in jail, his
health began to fail, and he was threatened with consumption. This fact,
together with the opportunity for reflection afforded by solitary
confinement, had its effect--its natural effect. He fell into serious
thought; his early training asserted itself with power, and wrought with
strong influence upon his mind and heart. He put his old life behind
him, and became an earnest Christian. Some ladies in the town heard of
this, visited him, and by their encouraging words supported him in his
good resolutions and strengthened him to continue in his new life. The
trial ended in his conviction and sentence to the State prison for the
term of nine years, as I have before said. In the prison he became
acquainted with the poor wretch referred to in the beginning of my talk,
Jack Hunt, the writer of the letter which I am going to read. You will
see that the acquaintanceship bore fruit for Hunt. When Hunt's time was
out, he wandered to St. Louis; and from that place he wrote his letter
to Williams. The letter got no further than the office of the prison
warden, of course; prisoners are not often allowed to receive letters
from outside. The prison authorities read this letter, but did not
destroy it. They had not the heart to do it. They read it to several
persons, and eventually it fell into the hands of those ladies of whom I
spoke a while ago. The other day I came across an old friend of mine--a
clergyman--who had seen this letter, and was full of it. The mere
remembrance of it so moved him that he could not talk of it without his
voice breaking. He promised to get a | 2,584.780873 |
2023-11-16 19:00:08.7633880 | 797 | 6 | SERIES)***
E-text prepared by Charles Aldarondo, Tam, Tom Allen, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE FAITH OF THE MILLIONS
A SELECTION OF PAST ESSAYS
SECOND SERIES
BY
GEORGE TYRRELL, S.J.
1901
"AND SEEING THE MULTITUDES HE WAS MOVED WITH
COMPASSION ON THEM, FOR THEY WERE HARASSED AND
SCATTERED AS SHEEP HAVING NO SHEPHERD."
(Matthew ix. 36.)
_Nil Obstat:_
J. GERARD, S.J.
CENS. THEOL. DEPUTATUS.
_Imprimatur:_
HERBERTUS CARD. VAUGHAN,
ARCHIEP. WESTMON.
CONTENTS
XIII.--Juliana of Norwich
XIV.--Poet and Mystic
XV.--Two Estimates of Catholic Life
XVI.--A Life of De Lamennais
XVII.--Lippo, the Man and the Artist
XVIII.--Through Art to Faith
XIX.--Tracts for the Million
XX.--An Apostle of Naturalism
XXL.--"The Making of Religion"
XXII.--Adaptability as a Proof of Religion
XXIII.--Idealism in Straits
XIII.
JULIANA OF NORWICH.
"One of the most remarkable books of the middle ages," writes Father
Dalgairns, [1] "is the hitherto almost unknown work, titled, _Sixteen
Revelations of Divine Love made to a Devout Servant of God, called
Mother Juliana, an Anchoress of Norwich_" How "one of the most
remarkable books" should be "hitherto almost unknown," may be explained
partly by the fact to which the same writer draws attention, namely,
that Mother Juliana lived and wrote at the time when a certain mystical
movement was about to bifurcate and pursue its course of development,
one branch within the Church on Catholic lines, the other outside the
Church along lines whose actual issue was Wycliffism and other kindred
forms of heterodoxy, and whose logical outcome was pantheism. Hence,
between the language of these pseudo-mystics and that of the recluse of
Norwich, "there is sometimes a coincidence... which might deceive the
unwary." It is almost necessarily a feature of every heresy to begin by
using the language of orthodoxy in a strained and non-natural sense, and
only gradually to develop a distinctive terminology of its own; but, as
often as not, certain ambiguous expressions, formerly taken in an
orthodox sense, are abandoned by the faithful on account of their
ambiguity and are then appropriated to the expression of heterodoxy, so
that eventually by force of usage the heretical meaning comes to be the
principal and natural meaning, and any other interpretation to seem
violent and non-natural. "The few coincidences," continues Father
Dalgairns, "between Mother Juliana and Wycliffe are among the many
proofs that the same speculative view often means different things in
different systems. Both St. Augustine, Calvin, and Mahomet, believe in
predestination, yet an Augustinian is something utterly different from a
Scotch Cameronian or a Mahometan.... The idea which runs through the
whole of Mother Juliana is the very contradictory of Wycliffe's
Pantheistic Necessitarianism." Yet on account of the mere similarity of
expression we can well understand how in the course of time some of
Mother Juliana's utterances came to be more ill-sounding to faithful
ears in proportion as they came to be more | 2,584.783428 |
2023-11-16 19:00:08.8598110 | 4,058 | 6 |
Produced by Adrian Mastronardi, Rene Anderson Benitz, and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net.
Project Gutenberg has Volume II of this book. See
http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38957.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Obvious typos have been amended. Variations in spelling in the
original text have been retained, except where usage frequency was
used to determine the common spelling and/or hyphenation. These
amendments are listed at the end of the text. Minor printer errors
have been amended without note.
The INTRODUCTION has been added to this volume as per author intent
in the Preface to Volume II. Color plate notations of specified
birds have been relocated to follow the title of the bird.
The full INDEX from Volume II has been added to this volume. (It has
also been added to the Table of Contents.)
In this e-text the letters a and u with a macron are represented by
[=a] and [=u], respectively.
ARGENTINE ORNITHOLOGY.
A
DESCRIPTIVE CATALOGUE
OF THE
BIRDS OF THE
ARGENTINE REPUBLIC.
BY
P. L. SCLATER, M.A., Ph.D., F.R.S., Etc.
_WITH NOTES ON THEIR HABITS_
BY
W. H. HUDSON, C.M.Z.S.,
LATE OF BUENOS AYRES.
[Illustration: THE CARIAMA.]
VOLUME I.
LONDON:
R. H. PORTER, 6 TENTERDEN STREET, W.
1888.
[Illustration: (Printer's Mark) ALERE FLAMMAM.
PRINTED BY TAYLOR AND FRANCIS.
RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.]
ARGENTINE ORNITHOLOGY.
The Edition of this work being strictly limited
to +200+ copies for Subscribers, each copy is
numbered and signed by the Authors.
[Illustration: No. 6
Signed P L Sclater
W. H. Hudson]
PREFACE TO THE FIRST VOLUME.
The present volume contains an account of the Passeres of the Argentine
Republic, which, as at present known, number some 229 species. The
second volume, which it is hoped will be ready in the course of next
year, will be devoted to the history of the remaining Orders of Birds,
and will also contain the Introduction and Index, and complete the work.
All the personal observations recorded in these pages are due to Mr.
Hudson, while I am responsible for the arrangement, nomenclature, and
scientific portions of the work.
I have to acknowledge with many thanks a donation of L40 from the Royal
Society, which has enabled Mr. Hudson to devote a portion of his time to
the compilation of his interesting notes.
P. L. S.
_December 1, 1887._
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
Fam. I. TURDIDAE, or THRUSHES.
Page
1. _Turdus leucomelas_, Vieill. (Dusky Thrush.) 1
2. _Turdus rufiventris_, Vieill. (Red-bellied Thrush.) 3
3. _Turdus magellanicus_, King. (Magellanic Thrush.) 3
4. _Turdus fuscater_, d'Orb. et Lafr. (Argentine Blackbird.) 4
5. _Turdus nigriceps_, Cab. (Black-headed Thrush.) 4
6. _Mimus modulator_, Gould. (Calandria Mocking-bird.) 5
7. _Mimus patachonicus_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Patagonian
Mocking-bird.) 7
8. _Mimus triurus_ (Vieill.). (White-banded Mocking-bird.)
[Plate I.] 8
Fam. II. CINCLIDAE, or DIPPERS.
9. _Cinclus schulzi_, Cab. (Schulz's Dipper.) [Plate II.] 11
Fam. III. MUSCICAPIDAE, or FLYCATCHERS.
10. _Polioptila dumicola_ (Vieill.). (Brush-loving Fly-snapper.) 12
Fam. IV. TROGLODYTIDAE, or WRENS.
11. _Donacobius atricapillus_ (Linn.). (Black-headed Reed-Wren.) 13
12. _Troglodytes furvus_ (Gm.). (Brown House-Wren.) 13
13. _Troglodytes auricularis_, Cab. (Eared Wren.) 15
14. _Cistothorus platensis_ (Lath.). (Platan Marsh-Wren.) 15
Fam. V. MOTACILLIDAE, or WAGTAILS.
15. _Anthus correndera_, Vieill. (Cachila Pipit.) 17
16. _Anthus furcatus_, d'Orb. et Lafr. (Forked-tail Pipit.) 19
Fam. VI. MNIOTILTIDAE, or WOOD-SINGERS.
17. _Parula pitiayumi_ (Vieill.). (Pitiayumi Wood-singer.) 20
18. _Geothlypis velata_ (Vieill.). (Veiled Wood-singer.) 20
19. _Basileuterus auricapillus_, Sw. (Golden-crowned Wood-singer.) 21
20. _Setophaga brunneiceps_, d'Orb. et Lafr. (Brown-capped
Wood-singer.) 21
Fam. VII. VIREONIDAE, or GREENLETS.
21. _Vireosylvia chivi_ (Vieill.). (Chivi Greenlet.) 22
22. _Hylophilus poecilotis_, Max. (Brown-headed Wood-bird.) 23
23. _Cyclorhis ochrocephala_ (Tsch.). (Ochre-headed
Greenlet-Shrike.) [Plate III. fig. 1.] 23
24. _Cyclorhis altirostris_, Salvin. (Deep-billed Greenlet-Shrike.)
[Plate III. fig. 2.] 24
Fam. VIII. HIRUNDINIDAE, or SWALLOWS.
25. _Progne furcata_, Baird. (Purple Martin.) 24
26. _Progne chalybea_ (Gm.). (Domestic Martin.) 25
27. _Progne tapera_ (Linn.). (Tree-Martin.) 26
28. _Petrochelidon pyrrhonota_ (Vieill.). (Red-backed Rock-Martin.) 30
29. _Tachycineta leucorrhoa_ (Vieill.). (White-rumped Swallow.) 30
30. _Atticora cyanoleuca_ (Vieill.). (Bank-Swallow.) 33
31. _Atticora fucata_ (Temm.). (Brown Martin.) 35
32. _Stelgidopteryx ruficollis_ (Vieill.). (Red-necked Swallow.) 36
Fam. IX. TANAGRIDAE, or TANAGERS.
33. _Euphonia nigricollis_ (Vieill.). (Black-necked Tanager.) 37
34. _Euphonia chlorotica_ (Linn.). (Purple-and-Yellow Tanager.) 37
35. _Pipridea melanonota_ (Vieill.). (Dark-backed Tanager.) 37
36. _Stephanophorus leucocephalus_ (Vieill.). (White-capped
Tanager.) [Plate IV.] 38
37. _Tanagra sayaca_, Linn. (Blue Tanager.) 39
38. _Tanagra bonariensis_ (Gm.). (Blue-and-Yellow Tanager.) 39
39. _Pyranga azarae_, d'Orb. (Azara's Tanager.) 40
40. _Trichothraupis quadricolor_ (Vieill.). (Four- Tanager.) 40
41. _Thlypopsis ruficeps_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Red-capped Tanager.) 40
42. _Buarremon citrinellus_, Cab. (Yellow-striped Tanager.) 41
43. _Arremon orbignii_, Sclater. (D'Orbigny's Tanager.) 41
44. _Saltator similis_, d'Orb. et Lafr. (Allied Saltator.) 41
45. _Saltator caerulescens_, Vieill. (Greyish Saltator.) 42
46. _Saltator aurantiirostris_, Vieill. (Yellow-billed Saltator.) 42
Fam. X. FRINGILLIDAE, or FINCHES.
47. _Pheucticus aureiventris_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Black-and-Yellow
Thick-bill.) 43
48. _Guiraca cyanea_ (Linn.). (Indigo Finch.) 43
49. _Guiraca glaucocaerulea_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Glaucous Finch.) 44
50. _Oryzoborus maximiliani_, Cab. (Prince Max.'s Finch.) 44
51. _Spermophila palustris_, Barrows. (Marsh Finch.) 45
52. _Spermophila melanocephala_ (Vieill.). (Black-headed Finch.) 45
53. _Spermophila caerulescens_, Vieill. (Screaming Finch.) 46
54. _Paroaria cucullata_, Lath. (Cardinal Finch.) 47
55. _Paroaria capitata_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Lesser Cardinal Finch.) 48
56. _Coryphospingus cristatus_ (Gm.). (Red-crested Finch.) 48
57. _Lophospingus pusillus_ (Burm.). (Dark-crested Finch.) 48
58. _Donacospiza albifrons_ (Vieill.). (Long-tailed Reed-Finch.) 49
59. _Poospiza nigrorufa_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Black-and-Chestnut
Warbling Finch.) 49
60. _Poospiza whitii_, Scl. (White's Warbling Finch.) 50
61. _Poospiza erythrophrys_, Scl. (Red-browed Warbling Finch.) 50
62. _Poospiza assimilis_, Cab. (Red-flanked Warbling Finch.) 51
63. _Poospiza ornata_ (Landb.). (Pretty Warbling Finch.) 51
64. _Poospiza torquata_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Ringed Warbling Finch.) 51
65. _Poospiza melanoleuca_ (Vieill.). (White-and-Grey Warbling
Finch.) 52
66. _Phrygilus gayi_ (Eyd. et Gerv.). (Gay's Finch.) 52
67. _Phrygilus caniceps_ (Burm.). (Grey-headed Finch.) 53
68. _Phrygilus dorsalis_, Cab. (Red-backed Finch.) 53
69. _Phrygilus unicolor_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Slaty Finch.) 53
70. _Phrygilus fruticeti_ (Kittl.). (Mourning Finch.) 54
71. _Phrygilus carbonarius_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Blackish Finch.) 54
72. _Gubernatrix cristatella_ (Vieill.). (Yellow Cardinal.) 55
73. _Diuca grisea_ (Less.). (Diuca Finch.) 55
74. _Diuca minor_, Bp. (Lesser Diuca Finch.) 56
75. _Catamenia analis_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Red-stained Finch.) 57
76. _Catamenia inornata_ (Lafr.). (Plain- Finch.) 57
77. _Zonotrichia pileata_ (Bodd.). (Chingolo Song-Sparrow.) 58
78. _Zonotrichia canicapilla_, Gould. (Patagonian Song-Sparrow.) 59
79. _Zonotrichia strigiceps_, Gould. (Stripe-headed Song-Sparrow.) 60
80. _Zonotrichia hypochondria_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Red-flanked
Song-Sparrow.) 60
81. _Coturniculus peruanus_, Bp. (Yellow-shouldered Song-Sparrow.) 60
82. _Saltatricula multicolor_, Burm. (Many- Ground-Finch.)
[Plate V.] 61
83. _Embernagra platensis_ (Gm.). (Red-billed Ground-Finch.) 62
84. _Embernagra olivascens_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Olive
Ground-Finch.) 63
85. _Emberizoides sphenurus_ (Vieill.). (Wedge-tailed Ground-Finch.) 63
86. _Haemophila whitii_ (Sharpe). (White's Ground-Finch.) 64
87. _Chrysomitris icterica_ (Licht.). (Black-headed Siskin.) 64
88. _Chrysomitris atrata_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Half-black Siskin.) 65
89. _Sycalis pelzelni_, Scl. (Yellow House-Sparrow.) 66
90. _Sycalis lutea_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Yellow Seed-Finch.) 69
91. _Sycalis luteola_ (Sparrm.). (Misto Seed-Finch.) 69
92. _Orospina pratensis_, Cab. (Meadow Seed-Finch.) 71
Fam. XI. ICTERIDAE, or TROUPIALS.
93. _Amblycercus solitarius_ (Vieill.). (Solitary Cassique.) 72
94. _Molothrus bonariensis_ (Gm.). (Argentine Cow-bird.) 72
95. _Molothrus rufoaxillaris_, Cassin. (Screaming Cow-bird.)
[Plate VI. fig. 2.] 86
96. _Molothrus badius_ (Vieill.). (Bay-winged Cow-bird.)
[Plate VI. fig. 1.] 95
97. _Agelaeus thilius_ (Mol.). (Yellow-shouldered Marsh-bird.) 97
98. _Agelaeus flavus_ (Gm.). (Yellow-headed Marsh-bird.) 98
99. _Agelaeus ruficapillus_, Vieill. (Red-headed Marsh-bird.) 99
100. _Leistes superciliaris_, Bp. (Red-breasted Marsh-bird.) 100
101. _Amblyrhamphus holosericeus_ (Scop.). (Scarlet-headed
Marsh-bird.) 101
102. _Pseudoleistes virescens_ (Vieill.). (Yellow-breasted
Marsh-bird.) 102
103. _Trupialis militaris_ (Linn.). (Patagonian Marsh-Starling.) 104
104. _Trupialis defilippii_, Bp. (De Filippi's Marsh-Starling.) 105
105. _Icterus pyrrhopterus_, Vieill. (Chestnut-shouldered
Hang-nest.) 107
106. _Aphobus chopi_ (Vieill.). (Chopi Boat-tail.) 108
Fam. XII. CORVIDAE, or CROWS.
107. _Cyanocorax chrysops_ (Vieill.). (Urraca Jay.) 110
108. _Cyanocorax caeruleus_ (Vieill.). (Azure Jay.) 110
Fam. XIII. TYRANNIDAE, or TYRANTS.
109. _ | 2,584.879851 |
2023-11-16 19:00:09.0623660 | 2,176 | 12 |
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Golden Face
A Tale of the Wild West
By Bertram Mitford
Published by Trischler and Company, London.
This edition dated 1892.
Golden Face, by Bertram Mitford.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
GOLDEN FACE, BY BERTRAM MITFORD.
PREFACE.
An impression prevails in this country that for many years past the Red
men of the American Continent have represented a subdued and generally
deteriorated race. No idea can be more erroneous. Debased, to a
certain extent, they may have become, thanks to drink and other
"blessings" of civilisation; but that the warrior-spirit, imbuing at any
rate the more powerful tribes, is crushed, or that a semi-civilising
process has availed to render them other than formidable and dangerous
foes, let the stirring annals of Western frontier colonisation for the
last half-century in general, and the Sioux rising of barely a year ago
in particular, speak for themselves.
This work is a story--not a history. Where matters historical have been
handled at all the Author has striven to touch them as lightly as
possible, emphatically recognising that when differences arise between a
civilised Power and barbarous races dwelling within or beyond its
borders, there is invariably much to be said on both sides.
CHAPTER ONE.
THE WINTER CABIN.
"Snakes! if that ain't the war-whoop, why then old Smokestack Bill never
had to keep a bright lookout after his hair."
Both inmates of the log cabin exchanged a meaning glance. Other
movement made they none, save that each man extended an arm and reached
down his Winchester rifle, which lay all ready to his hand on the heap
of skins against which they were leaning. Within, the firelight glowed
luridly on the burnished barrels of the weapons, hardly penetrating the
gloomy corners of the hut. Without, the wild shrieking of the wind and
the swish and sough of pine branches furiously tossing to the eddying
gusts.
"Surely not," was the reply, after a moment of attentive listening.
"None of the reds would be abroad on such a night as this, let alone a
war-party. Why they are no fonder of the cold than we, and to-night we
are in for something tall in the way of blizzards."
"Well, it's a sight far down that I heard it," went on the scout,
shaking his head. "Whatever the night is up here, it may be as mild as
milk-punch down on the plain. There's scalping going forward
somewhere--mind me."
"If so, it's far enough away. I must own to having heard nothing at
all."
For all answer the scout rose to his feet, placed a rough screen of
antelope hide in front of the fire, and, cautiously opening the door,
peered forth into the night. A whirl of keen, biting wind, fraught with
particles of frozen snow which stung the face like quail-shot, swept
round the hut, filling it with smoke from the smouldering pine-logs;
then both men stepped outside, closing the door behind them.
No, assuredly no man, red or white, would willingly be abroad that
night. The icy blast, to which exposure--benighted on the open plain--
meant, to the inexperienced, certain death, was increasing in violence,
and even in the sheltered spot where the two men stood it was hardly
bearable for many minutes at a time. The night, though tempestuous, was
not blackly dark, and now and again as the snow-scud scattered wildly
before the wind, the mountain side opposite would stand unveiled; each
tall crag towering up, a threatening fantastic shape, its rocky front
dark against the driven whiteness of its base. And mingling with the
roaring of the great pines and the occasional thunder of masses of snow
dislodged from their boughs would be borne to the listeners' ears, in
eerie chorus, the weird dismal howling of wolves. It was a scene of
indescribable wildness and desolation, that upon which these two looked
forth from their winter cabin in the lonely heart of the Black Hills.
But, beyond the gruesome cry of ravening beasts and the shriek of the
gale, there came no sound, nothing to tell of the presence or movements
of man more savage, more merciless than they.
"Snakes! but I can't be out of it!" muttered the scout, as once more
within their warm and cosy shanty they secured the door behind them.
"Smokestack Bill ain't the boy to be out of it over a matter of an
Indian yelp. And he can tell a Sioux yelp from a Cheyenne yelp, and a
Kiowa yelp from a Rapaho yelp, with a store-full of Government
corn-sacks over his head, and the whole lot from a blasted wolfs yelp,
he can. And at any distance, too."
"I think you _are_ out of it, Bill, all the same;" answered his
companion. "If only that, on the face of things, no consideration of
scalps or plunder, or even she-captives, would tempt the reds to face
this little blow to-night."
"Well, well! I don't say you're wrong, Vipan. You've served your
Plainscraft to some purpose, you have. But if what I heard wasn't the
war-whoop somewhere--I don't care how far--why then I shall begin to
believe in what the Sioux say about these here mountains."
"What do they say?"
"Why, they say these mountains are chock full of ghosts--spirits of
their chiefs and warriors who have been scalped after death, and are
kept snoopin' around here because they can't get into the Happy
Hunting-Grounds. However, we're all right here, and 'live or dead, the
Sioux buck 'd have to reckon with a couple of Winchester rifles, who
tried to make us otherwise."
He who had been addressed as Vipan laughed good-humouredly, as he tossed
an armful of fat pine knots among the glowing logs, whence arose a blaze
that lit up the hut as though for some festivity. And its glare affords
us an admirable opportunity for a closer inspection of these two. The
scout was a specimen of the best type of Western man. His rugged,
weather-tanned face was far from unhandsome--frankness, self-reliance,
staunchness to his friends, intrepidity toward foes, might all be read
there. His thick russet beard was becoming shot with grey, but though
considerably on the wrong side of fifty, an observer would have credited
him with ten years to the good, for his broad, muscular frame was as
upright and elastic as if he were twenty-five. His companion, who might
have been fifteen years his junior, was about as fine a type of
Anglo-Saxon manhood as could be met with in many a day's journey. Of
tall, almost herculean, stature, he was without a suspicion of
clumsiness; quick, active, straight as a dart. His features, regular as
those of a Greek-sculpture, were not, however, of a confidence-inspiring
nature, for their expression was cold and reticent, and the lower half
of his face was hidden in a magnificent golden beard, sweeping to his
belt. The dress of both men was the regulation tunic and leggings of
dressed deerskin, of Indian manufacture, and profusely ornamented with
beadwork and fringes; that of Vipan being adorned with scalp-locks in
addition.
These two were bound together by the closest friendship, but there was
this difference between them. Whereas everyone knew Smokestack Bill,
whether as friend or foe, from Monterey to the British line, who he was
and all about him, not a soul knew exactly who Rupert Vipan was, nor did
Rupert Vipan himself, by word or hint, evince the smallest disposition
to enlighten them. That he was an Englishman was clear, his nationality
he could not conceal. Not that he ever tried to, but on the other hand,
he made no sort of attempt at airing it.
This winter cabin was a substantial log affair, run up by the two men
with some degree of trouble and with an eye to comfort. Built in a
hollow on the mountain face, it hung perched as an eyrie over a ravine
some thousands of feet in depth, in such wise that its occupants could
command every approach, and descry the advent of strangers, friendly or
equivocal, long before the latter could reach them. Behind rose the
jagged, almost precipitous mountain in a serrated ridge, and
inaccessible from the other side; so that upon the whole the position
was about as safe as any position could be in that insecure region,
where every man took his rifle to bed with him, and slept with one eye
open even then. The cabin was reared almost against the great trunk of
a stately pine, whose spreading boughs contributed in no slight degree
to its shelter. Not many yards distant stood another log-hut, similar
in design and dimensions; this had been the habitation of a French
Canadian and his two Sioux squaws, but now stood deserted by its former
owners.
Vipan flung himself on a soft thick bearskin, took a glowing stick from
the fire, and pressed it against the bowl of a long Indian pipe.
"By Jove, Bill," he said, blowing out a great cloud. "If this isn't the
true philosophy of life it's first cousin | 2,585.082406 |
2023-11-16 19:00:09.2880420 | 1,665 | 11 | ***
[Johann Sebastian Bach]
_Johann Sebastian Bach. About 1720. (From the picture by Johann Jakob
Ihle, in the Bach Museum, Eisenach)._
Johann Sebastian Bach
His Life, Art and Work. Translated from the German of Johann Nikolaus
Forkel. With notes and appendices by Charles Sanford Terry, Litt.D.
Cantab.
Johann Nikolaus Forkel and Charles Sanford Terry
Harcourt, Brace and Howe, New York
1920
CONTENTS
Introduction
FORKEL'S PREFACE
CHAPTER I. THE FAMILY OF BACH
Chapter II. THE CAREER OF BACH
CHAPTER IIA. BACH AT LEIPZIG, 1723-1750
CHAPTER III. BACH AS A CLAVIER PLAYER
CHAPTER IV. BACH THE ORGANIST
CHAPTER V. BACH THE COMPOSER
CHAPTER VI. BACH THE COMPOSER (continued)
CHAPTER VII. BACH AS A TEACHER
CHAPTER VIII. PERSONAL CHARACTERISTICS
CHAPTER IX. BACH'S COMPOSITIONS
CHAPTER X. BACH'S MANUSCRIPTS
CHAPTER XI. THE GENIUS OF BACH
APPENDIX I. CHRONOLOGICAL CATALOGUE OF BACH'S COMPOSITIONS
APPENDIX II. THE CHURCH CANTATAS ARRANGED CHRONOLOGICALLY
APPENDIX III. THE BACHGESELLSCHAFT EDITIONS OF BACH'S WORKS
APPENDIX IV. BIBLIOGRAPHY OF BACH LITERATURE
APPENDIX V. A COLLATION OF THE NOVELLO AND PETERS EDITIONS OF THE ORGAN
WORKS
APPENDIX VI. GENEALOGY OF THE FAMILY OF BACH
Footnotes
ILLUSTRATIONS
_Johann Sebastian Bach. About 1720. (From the picture by Johann Jakob
Ihle, in the Bach Museum, Eisenach)._
Bach's Home at Eisenach
The Church and School of St. Thomas, Leipzig, in 1723.
Johann Sebastian Bach, circa 1746. _From the picture by Haussmann._
Divided Harmony, Bach treatment
Divided Harmony, conventional treatment
The Bach Statue at Eisenach
Johann Sebastian Bach. _From the picture discovered by Professor Fritz
Volbach_
The Bach Statue at Leipzig
Genealogy Table, p. 303
Genealogy Table, p. 304
Genealogy Table, p. 305
Genealogy Table, p. 306
Genealogy Table, p. 307
Genealogy Table, p. 308
Genealogy Table, p. 309
Genealogy Table, p. 310
INTRODUCTION
Johann Nikolaus Forkel, author of the monograph of which the following
pages afford a translation, was born at Meeder, a small village in
Saxe-Coburg, on February 22, 1749, seventeen months before the death of
Johann Sebastian Bach, whose first biographer he became. Presumably he
would have followed the craft of his father, the village shoemaker, had
not an insatiable love of music seized him in early years. He obtained
books, and studied them with the village schoolmaster. In particular he
profited by the "Vollkommener Kapellmeister" of Johann Mattheson, of
Hamburg, the sometime friend of Handel. Like Handel, he found a derelict
Clavier in the attic of his home and acquired proficiency upon it.
Forkel's professional career, like Bach's half a century earlier, began at
Lueneburg, where, at the age of thirteen (1762), he was admitted to the
choir of the parish church. Thence, at the age of seventeen (1766), he
proceeded to Schwerin as "Chorpraefect," and enjoyed the favour of the
Grand Duke. Three years later he betook himself (1769), at the age of
twenty, to the University of Goettingen, which he entered as a law student,
though a slender purse compelled him to give music lessons for a
livelihood. He used his opportunity to acquire a knowledge of modern
languages, which stood him in good stead later, when his researches
required him to explore foreign literatures. Concurrently he pursued his
musical activities, and in 1774 published at Goettingen his first work,
_Ueber die Theorie der Musik,_ advocating the foundation of a music
lectureship in the University. Four years later (1778) he was appointed
its Director of Music, and from 1779 to 1815 conducted the weekly concerts
of the Sing-Akademie. In 1780 he received from the University the
doctorate of philosophy. The rest of his life was spent at Goettingen,
where he died on March 17, 1818, having just completed his sixty-ninth
year.
That Forkel is remembered at all is due solely to his monograph on Bach.
Written at a time when Bach's greatness was realised in hardly any
quarter, the book claimed for him pre-eminence which a tardily enlightened
world since has conceded him. By his generation Forkel was esteemed
chiefly for his literary activity, critical ability, and merit as a
composer. His principal work, _Allgemeine Geschichte der Musik,_ was
published in two volumes at Leipzig in 1788 and 1801. Carl Friedrich
Zelter, Goethe's friend and correspondent, dismissed the book
contemptuously as that of an author who had "set out to write a history of
music, but came to an end just where the history of music begins."
Forkel's work, in fact, breaks off at the sixteenth century. But the
curtailed _ History_ cleared the way for the monograph on Bach, a more
valuable contribution to the literature of music. Forkel already had
published, in three volumes, at Gotha in 1778, his _Musikalisch-kritische
Bibliothek,_ and in 1792 completed his critical studies by publishing at
Leipzig his _Allgemeine Literatur der Musik._
Forkel was also a student of the music of the polyphonic school. He
prepared for the press the scores of a number of sixteenth century Masses,
Motets, etc., and fortunately received proofs of them from the engraver.
For, in 1806, after the Battle of Jena, the French impounded the plates
and melted them down. Forkel's proofs are still preserved in the Berlin
Royal Library. He was diligent in quest of Bach's scattered MSS., and his
friendship with Bach's elder sons, Carl Philipp Emmanuel and Wilhelm
Friedemann, enabled him to secure precious relics which otherwise might
have shared the fate of too many of Bach's manuscripts. He took an active
interest in the proposal of Messrs. Hoffmeister and Kuehnel, predecessors
of C. F. Peters at Leipzig, to print a "kritisch-korrecte" edition of
Bach's Organ and Clavier works. Through his friend, Johann Gottfried
Schicht, afterwards Cantor at St. Thomas's, Leipzig, he was also
associated with Breitkopf and Haertel's publication of five of Bach's six
extant Motets in 1802-3.
As a composer Forkel has long ceased to be remembered. His works include
two Oratorios, _ Hiskias_ (1789) and _Die Hirten bey der Krippe_; four
| 2,585.308082 |
2023-11-16 19:00:09.2929440 | 6,127 | 22 |
Produced by Anne Grieve, Chuck Greif 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.)
ROUND THE SOFA.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
“Mary Barton,” “Life of Charlotte Bronte,” &c. &c.
TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, SON & CO., 47 LUDGATE HILL.
1859.
LONDON: PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET.
PREFACE.
Most of these Stories have already appeared in <i>Household Words</i>: one,
however, has never been published in England, and another has obtained
only a limited circulation.
ROUND THE SOFA.
Long ago I was placed by my parents under the medical treatment of a
certain Mr. Dawson, a surgeon in Edinburgh, who had obtained a
reputation for the cure of a particular class of diseases. I was sent
with my governess into lodgings near his house, in the Old Town. I was
to combine lessons from the excellent Edinburgh masters, with the
medicines and exercises needed for my indisposition. It was at first
rather dreary to leave my brothers and sisters, and to give up our merry
out-of-doors life with our country home, for dull lodgings, with only
poor grave Miss Duncan for a companion; and to exchange our romps in the
garden and rambles through the fields for stiff walks in the streets,
the decorum of which obliged me to tie my bonnet-strings neatly, and put
on my shawl with some regard to straightness.
The evenings were the worst. It was autumn, and of course they daily
grew longer: they were long enough, I am sure, when we first settled
down in those gray and drab lodgings. For, you must know, my father and
mother were not rich, and there were a great many of us, and the medical
expenses to be incurred by my being placed under Mr. Dawson’s care were
expected to be considerable; therefore, one great point in our search
after lodgings was economy. My father, who was too true a gentleman to
feel false shame, had named this necessity for cheapness to Mr. Dawson;
and in return, Mr. Dawson had told him of those at No. 6 Cromer Street,
in which we were finally settled. The house belonged to an old man, at
one time a tutor to young men preparing for the University, in which
capacity he had become known to Mr. Dawson. But his pupils had dropped
off; and when we went to lodge with him, I imagine that his principal
support was derived from a few occasional lessons which he gave, and
from letting the rooms that we took, a drawing-room opening into a
bed-room, out of which a smaller chamber led. His daughter was his
housekeeper: a son, whom we never saw, was supposed to be leading the
same life that his father had done before him, only we never saw or
heard of any pupils; and there was one hard-working, honest little
Scottish maiden, square, stumpy, neat, and plain, who might have been
any age from eighteen to forty.
Looking back on the household now, there was perhaps much to admire in
their quiet endurance of decent poverty; but at this time, their poverty
grated against many of my tastes, for I could not recognize the fact,
that in a town the simple graces of fresh flowers, clean white muslin
curtains, pretty bright chintzes, all cost money, which is saved by the
adoption of dust- moreen, and mud- carpets. There was
not a penny spent on mere elegance in that room; yet there was
everything considered necessary to comfort: but after all, such mere
pretences of comfort! a hard, slippery, black horse-hair sofa, which was
no place of rest; an old piano, serving as a sideboard; a grate,
narrowed by an inner supplement, till it hardly held a handful of the
small coal which could scarcely ever be stirred up into a genial blaze.
But there were two evils worse than even this coldness and bareness of
the rooms: one was that we were provided with a latch-key, which allowed
us to open the front door whenever we came home from a walk, and go
upstairs without meeting any face of welcome, or hearing the sound of a
human voice in the apparently deserted house--Mr. Mackenzie piqued
himself on the noiselessness of his establishment; and the other, which
might almost seem to neutralize the first, was the danger we were always
exposed to on going out, of the old man--sly, miserly, and
intelligent--popping out upon us from his room, close to the left hand
of the door, with some civility which we learnt to distrust as a mere
pretext for extorting more money, yet which it was difficult to refuse:
such as the offer of any books out of his library, a great temptation,
for we could see into the shelf-lined room; but just as we were on the
point of yielding, there was a hint of the “consideration” to be
expected for the loan of books of so much higher a class than any to be
obtained at the circulating library, which made us suddenly draw back.
Another time he came out of his den to offer us written cards, to
distribute among our acquaintance, on which he undertook to teach the
very things I was to learn; but I would rather have been the most
ignorant woman that ever lived than tried to learn anything from that
old fox in breeches. When we had declined all his proposals, he went
apparently into dudgeon. Once when we had forgotten our latch-key we
rang in vain for many times at the door, seeing our landlord standing
all the time at the window to the right, looking out of it in an absent
and philosophical state of mind, from which no signs and gestures of
ours could arouse him.
The women of the household were far better, and more really respectable,
though even on them poverty had laid her heavy left hand, instead of her
blessing right. Miss Mackenzie kept us as short in our food as she
decently could--we paid so much a week for our board, be it observed;
and if one day we had less appetite than another, our meals were docked
to the smaller standard, until Miss Duncan ventured to remonstrate. The
sturdy maid-of-all-work was scrupulously honest, but looked
discontented, and scarcely vouchsafed us thanks, when on leaving we gave
her what Mrs. Dawson had told us would be considered handsome in most
lodgings. I do not believe Phenice ever received wages from the
Mackenzies.
But that dear Mrs. Dawson! The mention of her comes into my mind like
the bright sunshine into our dingy little drawing-room came on those
days;--as a sweet scent of violets greets the sorrowful passer among the
woodlands.
Mrs. Dawson was not Mr. Dawson’s wife, for he was a bachelor. She was
his crippled sister, an old maid, who had, what she called, taken her
brevet rank.
After we had been about a fortnight in Edinburgh, Mr. Dawson said, in a
sort of half-doubtful manner to Miss Duncan--
“My sister bids me say, that every Monday evening a few friends come in
to sit round her sofa for an hour or so,--some before going to gayer
parties--and that if you and Miss Greatorex would like a little change,
she would only be too glad to see you. Any time from seven to eight
to-night; and I must add my injunctions, both for her sake, and for that
of my little patient’s, here, that you leave at nine o’clock. After all,
I do not know if you will care to come; but Margaret bade me ask you;”
and he glanced up suspiciously and sharply at us. If either of us had
felt the slightest reluctance, however well disguised by manner, to
accept this invitation, I am sure he would have at once detected our
feelings, and withdrawn it; so jealous and chary was he of anything
pertaining to the appreciation of this beloved sister.
But if it had been to spend an evening at a dentist’s, I believe I
should have welcomed the invitation, so weary was I of the monotony of
the nights in our lodgings; and as for Miss Duncan, an invitation to tea
was of itself a pure and unmixed honour, and one to be accepted with all
becoming form and gratitude: so Mr. Dawson’s sharp glances over his
spectacles failed to detect anything but the truest pleasure, and he
went on.
“You’ll find it very dull, I dare say. Only a few old fogies like
myself, and one or two good sweet young women: I never know who’ll
come. Margaret is obliged to lie in a darkened room,--only half-lighted
I mean,--because her eyes are weak,--oh, it will be very stupid, I dare
say: don’t thank me till you’ve been once and tried it, and then, if you
like it, your best thanks will be to come again every Monday, from
half-past seven to nine, you know. Good-bye, good-bye.”
Hitherto I had never been out to a party of grownup people; and no court
ball to a London young lady could seem more redolent of honour and
pleasure than this Monday evening to me.
Dressed out in new stiff book-muslin, made up to my throat,--a frock
which had seemed to me and my sisters the height of earthly grandeur and
finery--Alice, our old nurse, had been making it at home, in
contemplation of the possibility of such an event during my stay in
Edinburgh, but which had then appeared to me a robe too lovely and
angelic to be ever worn short of heaven--I went with Miss Duncan to Mr.
Dawson’s at the appointed time. We entered through one small lofty room,
perhaps I ought to call it an antechamber, for the house was
old-fashioned, and stately and grand, the large square drawing-room,
into the centre of which Mrs. Dawson’s sofa was drawn. Behind her a
little was placed a table with a great cluster candlestick upon it,
bearing seven or eight wax-lights; and that was all the light in the
room, which looked to me very vast and indistinct after our pinched-up
apartment at the Mackenzie’s. Mrs. Dawson must have been sixty; and yet
her face looked very soft and smooth and child-like. Her hair was quite
gray: it would have looked white but for the snowiness of her cap, and
satin ribbon. She was wrapped in a kind of dressing-gown of French grey
merino: the furniture of the room was deep rose-colour, and white and
gold,--the paper which covered the walls was Indian, beginning low down
with a profusion of tropical leaves and birds and insects, and gradually
diminishing in richness of detail till at the top it ended in the most
delicate tendrils and most filmy insects.
Mr. Dawson had acquired much riches in his profession, and his house
gave one this impression. In the corners of the rooms were great jars of
Eastern china, filled with flower-leaves and spices; and in the middle
of all this was placed the sofa, on which poor Mrs. Margaret Dawson
passed whole days, and months, and years, without the power of moving by
herself. By-and-by Mrs. Dawson’s maid brought in tea and macaroons for
us, and a little cup of milk and water and a biscuit for her. Then the
door opened. We had come very early, and in came Edinburgh professors,
Edinburgh beauties, and celebrities, all on their way to some other
gayer and later party, but coming first to see Mrs. Dawson, and tell her
their <i>bon-mots</i>, or their interests, or their plans. By each learned
man, by each lovely girl, she was treated as a dear friend, who knew
something more about their own individual selves, independent of their
reputation and general society-character, than any one else.
It was very brilliant and very dazzling, and gave enough to think about
and wonder about for many days.
Monday after Monday we went, stationary, silent; what could we find to
say to any one but Mrs. Margaret herself? Winter passed, summer was
coming, still I was ailing, and weary of my life; but still Mr. Dawson
gave hopes of my ultimate recovery. My father and mother came and went;
but they could not stay long, they had so many claims upon them. Mrs.
Margaret Dawson had become my dear friend, although, perhaps, I had
never exchanged as many words with her as I had with Miss Mackenzie, but
then with Mrs. Dawson every word was a pearl or a diamond.
People began to drop off from Edinburgh, only a few were left, and I am
not sure if our Monday evenings were not all the pleasanter.
There was Mr. Sperano, the Italian exile, banished even from France,
where he had long resided, and now teaching Italian with meek diligence
in the northern city; there was Mr. Preston, the Westmoreland squire,
or, as he preferred to be called, statesman, whose wife had come to
Edinburgh for the education of their numerous family, and who, whenever
her husband had come over on one of his occasional visits, was only too
glad to accompany him to Mrs. Dawson’s Monday evenings, he and the
invalid lady having been friends from long ago. These and ourselves kept
steady visitors, and enjoyed ourselves all the more for having the more
of Mrs. Dawson’s society.
One evening I had brought the little stool close to her sofa, and was
caressing her thin white hand, when the thought came into my head and
out I spoke it.
“Tell me, dear Mrs. Dawson,” said I, “how long you have been in
Edinburgh; you do not speak Scotch, and Mr. Dawson says he is not
Scotch.”
“No, I am Lancashire--Liverpool-born,” said she, smiling. “Don’t you
hear it in my broad tongue?”
“I hear something different to other people, but I like it because it is
just you; is that Lancashire?”
“I dare say it is; for, though I am sure Lady Ludlow took pains enough
to correct me in my younger days, I never could get rightly over the
accent.”
“Lady Ludlow,” said I, “what had she to do with you? I heard you talking
about her to Lady Madeline Stuart the first evening I ever came here;
you and she seemed so fond of Lady Ludlow; who is she?”
“She is dead, my child; dead long ago.”
I felt sorry I had spoken about her, Mrs. Dawson looked so grave and
sad. I suppose she perceived my sorrow, for she went on and said,
“My dear, I like to talk and to think of Lady Ludlow: she was my true,
kind friend and benefactress for many years; ask me what you like about
her, and do not think you give me pain.”
I grew bold at this.
“Will you tell me all about her then, please Mrs. Dawson?”
“Nay,” said she, smiling, “that would be too long a story. Here are
Signor Sperano, and Miss Duncan, and Mr. and Mrs. Preston are coming
to-night, Mr. Preston told me; how would they like to hear an old-world
story which, after all, would be no story at all, neither beginning, nor
middle, nor end, only a bundle of recollections.”
“If you speak of me, madame,” said Signor Sperano, “I can only say you
do me one great honour by recounting in my presence anything about any
person that has ever interested you.”
Miss Duncan tried to say something of the same kind. In the middle of
her confused speech, Mr. and Mrs. Preston came in. I sprang up; I went
to meet them.
“Oh,” said I, “Mrs. Dawson is just going to tell us all about Lady
Ludlow, and a great deal more, only she is afraid it won’t interest
anybody: do say you would like to hear it!”
Mrs. Dawson smiled at me, and in reply to their urgency she promised to
tell us all about Lady Ludlow, on condition that each one of us should,
after she had ended, narrate something interesting, which we had either
heard, or which had fallen within our own experience. We all promised
willingly, and then gathered round her sofa to hear what she could tell
us about my Lady Ludlow.
MY LADY LUDLOW.
CHAPTER I.
I am an old woman now, and things are very different to what they were
in my youth. Then we, who travelled, travelled in coaches, carrying six
inside, and making a two days’ journey out of what people now go over in
a couple of hours with a whizz and a flash, and a screaming whistle,
enough to deafen one. Then letters came in but three times a week:
indeed, in some places in Scotland where I have stayed when I was a
girl, the post came in but once a month;--but letters were letters then;
and we made great prizes of them, and read them and studied them like
books. Now the post comes rattling in twice a day, bringing short jerky
notes, some without beginning or end, but just a little sharp sentence,
which well-bred folks would think too abrupt to be spoken. Well, well!
they may all be improvements,--I dare say they are; but you will never
meet with a Lady Ludlow in these days.
I will try and tell you about her. It is no story: it has, as I said,
neither beginning, middle, nor end.
My father was a poor clergyman with a large family. My mother was always
said to have good blood in her veins; and when she wanted to maintain
her position with the people she was thrown among,--principally rich
democratic manufacturers, all for liberty and the French
Revolution,--she would put on a pair of ruffles, trimmed with real old
English point, very much darned to be sure,--but which could not be
bought new for love or money, as the art of making it was lost years
before. These ruffles showed, as she said, that her ancestors had been
Somebodies, when the grandfathers of the rich folk, who now looked down
upon her, had been Nobodies,--if, indeed, they had any grandfathers at
all. I don’t know whether any one out of our own family ever noticed
these ruffles,--but we were all taught as children to feel rather proud
when my mother put them on, and to hold up our heads as became the
descendants of the lady who had first possessed the lace. Not but what
my dear father often told us that pride was a great sin; we were never
allowed to be proud of anything but my mother’s ruffles: and she was so
innocently happy when she put them on,--often, poor dear creature, to a
very worn and thread-bare gown,--that I still think, even after all my
experience of life, they were a blessing to the family. You will think
that I am wandering away from my Lady Ludlow. Not at all. The Lady who
had owned the lace, Ursula Hanbury, was a common ancestress of both my
mother and my Lady Ludlow. And so it fell out, that when my poor father
died, and my mother was sorely pressed to know what to do with her nine
children, and looked far and wide for signs of willingness to help, Lady
Ludlow sent her a letter, proffering aid and assistance. I see that
letter now: a large sheet of thick yellow paper, with a straight broad
margin left on the left-hand side of the delicate Italian
writing,--writing which contained far more in the same space of paper
than all the sloping, or masculine hand-writings of the present day. It
was sealed with a coat of arms,--a lozenge,--for Lady Ludlow was a
widow. My mother made us notice the motto, “Foy et Loy,” and told us
where to look for the quarterings of the Hanbury arms before she opened
the letter. Indeed, I think she was rather afraid of what the contents
might be; for, as I have said, in her anxious love for her fatherless
children, she had written to many people upon whom, to tell truly, she
had but little claim; and their cold, hard answers had many a time made
her cry, when she thought none of us were looking. I do not even know
if she had ever seen Lady Ludlow: all I knew of her was that she was a
very grand lady, whose grandmother had been half-sister to my mother’s
great-grandmother; but of her character and circumstances I had heard
nothing, and I doubt if my mother was acquainted with them.
I looked over my mother’s shoulder to read the letter; it began, “Dear
Cousin Margaret Dawson,” and I think I felt hopeful from the moment I
saw those words. She went on to say,--stay, I think I can remember the
very words:
‘Dear Cousin Margaret Dawson,--I have been much grieved to hear of
the loss you have sustained in the death of so good a husband, and
so excellent a clergyman as I have always heard that my late cousin
Richard was esteemed to be.’
“There!” said my mother, laying her finger on the passage, “read that
aloud to the little ones. Let them hear how their father’s good report
travelled far and wide, and how well he is spoken of by one whom he
never saw. Cousin Richard, how prettily her ladyship writes! Go on,
Margaret!” She wiped her eyes as she spoke: and laid her finger on her
lips, to still my little sister, Cecily, who, not understanding
anything about the important letter, was beginning to talk and make a
noise.
‘You say you are left with nine children. I too should have had
nine, if mine had all lived. I have none left but Rudolph, the
present Lord Ludlow. He is married, and lives, for the most part,
in London. But I entertain six young gentlewomen at my house at
Connington, who are to me as daughters--save that, perhaps, I
restrict them in certain indulgences in dress and diet that might
be befitting in young ladies of a higher rank, and of more probable
wealth. These young persons--all of condition, though out of
means--are my constant companions, and I strive to do my duty as a
Christian lady towards them. One of these young gentlewomen died
(at her own home, whither she had gone upon a visit) last May. Will
you do me the favour to allow your eldest daughter to supply her
place in my household? She is, as I make out, about sixteen years
of age. She will find companions here who are but a little older
than herself. I dress my young friends myself, and make each of
them a small allowance for pocket-money. They have but few
opportunities for matrimony, as Connington is far removed from any
town. The clergyman is a deaf old widower; my agent is married; and
as for the neighbouring farmers, they are, of course, below the
notice of the young gentlewomen under my protection. Still, if any
young woman wishes to marry, and has conducted herself to my
satisfaction, I give her a wedding dinner, her clothes, and her
house-linen. And such as remain with me to my death, will find a
small competency provided for them in my will. I reserve to myself
the option of paying their travelling expenses,--disliking gadding
women, on the one hand; on the other, not wishing by too long
absence from the family home to weaken natural ties.
‘If my proposal pleases you and your daughter--or rather, if it
pleases you, for I trust your daughter has been too well brought up
to have a will in opposition to yours--let me know, dear cousin
Margaret Dawson, and I will make arrangements for meeting the young
gentlewoman at Cavistock, which is the nearest point to which the
coach will bring her.’
My mother dropped the letter, and sat silent.
“I shall not know what to do without you, Margaret.”
A moment before, like a young untried girl as I was, I had been pleased
at the notion of seeing a new place, and leading a new life. But
now,--my mother’s look of sorrow, and the children’s cry of
remonstrance: “Mother; I won’t go,” I said.
“Nay! but you had better,” replied she, shaking her head. “Lady Ludlow
has much power. She can help your brothers. It will not do to slight her
offer.”
So we accepted it, after much consultation. We were rewarded,--or so we
thought,--for, afterwards, when I came to know Lady Ludlow, I saw that
she would have done her duty by us, as helpless relations, however we
might have rejected her kindness,--by a presentation to Christ’s
Hospital for one of my brothers.
And this was how I came to know my Lady Ludlow.
I remember well the afternoon of my arrival at Hanbury Court. Her
ladyship had sent to meet me at the nearest post-town at which the
mail-coach stopped. There was an old groom inquiring for me, the ostler
said, if my name was Dawson--from Hanbury Court, he believed. I felt it
rather formidable; and first began to understand what was meant by going
among strangers, when I lost sight of the guard to whom my mother had
intrusted me. I was perched up in a high gig with a hood to it, such as
in those days was called a chair, and my companion was driving
deliberately through the most pastoral country I had ever yet seen.
By-and-by we ascended a long hill, and the man got out and walked at the
horse’s head. I should have liked to walk, too, very much indeed; but I
did not know how far I might do it; and, in fact, I dared not speak to
ask to be helped down the deep steps of the gig. We were at last at the
top,--on a long, breezy, sweeping, unenclosed piece of ground, called,
as I afterwards learnt, a Chase. The groom stopped, breathed, patted
his horse, and then mounted again to my side.
“Are we near Hanbury Court?” I asked.
“Near! Why, Miss! we’ve a matter of ten mile yet to go.”
Once launched into conversation, we went on pretty glibly. I fancy he
had been afraid of beginning to speak to me, just as I was to him; but
he got over his shyness with me sooner than I did mine with him. I let
him choose the subjects of conversation, although very often I could not
understand the points of interest in them: for instance, he talked for
more than a quarter of an hour of a famous race which a certain dog-fox
had given him, above thirty years before; and spoke of all the covers
and turns just as if I knew them as well as he did; and all the time I
was wondering what kind of an animal a dog-fox might be.
After we left the Chase, the road grew worse. No one in these days, who
has not seen the byroads of fifty years ago, can imagine what | 2,585.312984 |
2023-11-16 19:00:09.6103490 | 2,010 | 6 |
Produced by Roger Frank, Juliet Sutherland and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: The Figure Springs into the Air--See page 129.]
[Illustration: THE BOYS OWN BOOKSHELF]
OUR HOME IN THE SILVER WEST
A Story of Struggle and Adventure
BY
GORDON STABLES, C.M., M.D., R.N.
AUTHOR OF 'THE CRUISE OF THE SNOWBIRD,' 'WILD ADVENTURES ROUND THE POLE,'
ETC., ETC.
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
56, Paternoster Row; 65, St. Paul's Churchyard and 164 Piccadilly
Richard Clay and Sons, Limited,
London and Bungay.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Highland Feud. 11
II. Our Boyhood's Life. 23
III. A Terrible Ride. 30
IV. The Ring and the Book. 44
V. A New Home in the West. 54
VI. The Promised Land at Last. 64
VII. On Shore at Rio. 77
VIII. Moncrieff Relates His Experiences. 86
IX. Shopping and Shooting. 96
X. A Journey That Seems Like a Dream. 106
XI. The Tragedy at the Fonda. 115
XII. Attack by Pampa Indians. 125
XIII. The Flight and the Chase. 134
XIV. Life on an Argentine Estancia. 146
XV. We Build our House and Lay Out Gardens. 155
XVI. Summer in the Silver West. 165
XVII. The Earthquake. 175
XVIII. Our Hunting Expedition. 185
XIX. In the Wilderness. 197
XX. The Mountain Crusoe. 209
XXI. Wild Adventures on Prairie and Pampas. 221
XXII. Adventure With a Tiger. 231
XXIII. A Ride for Life. 244
XXIV. The Attack on the Estancia. 255
XXV. The Last Assault. 266
XXV Farewell to the Silver West. 279
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
The Figure Springs into the Air Frontispiece
Orla thrusts his Muzzle into my Hand 10
Ray lay Stark and Stiff 18
'Look! He is Over!' 33
He pointed his Gun at me 41
'I'll teach ye!' 74
Fairly Noosed 99
'Ye can Claw the Pat' 138
Comical in the Extreme 195
Tries to steady himself to catch the Lasso 203
Interview with the Orang-outang 214
On the same Limb of the Tree 236
The Indians advanced with a Wild Shout 268
[Illustration: Orla thrusts his Muzzle into my Hand]
OUR HOME IN THE SILVER WEST
CHAPTER I.
THE HIGHLAND FEUD.
Why should I, Murdoch M'Crimman of Coila, be condemned for a period of
indefinite length to the drudgery of the desk's dull wood? That is the
question I have just been asking myself. Am I emulous of the honour and
glory that, they say, float halo-like round the brow of the author? Have I
the desire to awake and find myself famous? The fame, alas! that authors
chase is but too often an _ignis fatuus_. No; honour like theirs I crave
not, such toil is not incumbent on me. Genius in a garret! To some the
words may sound romantic enough, but--ah me!--the position seems a sad
one. Genius munching bread and cheese in a lonely attic, with nothing
betwixt the said genius and the sky and the cats but rafters and tiles! I
shudder to think of it. If my will were omnipotent, Genius should never
shiver beneath the tiles, never languish in an attic. Genius should be
clothed in purple and fine linen, Genius should---- 'Yes, aunt, come in;
I'm not very busy yet.'
My aunt sails into my beautiful room in the eastern tower of Castle
Coila.
'I was afraid,' she says, almost solemnly, 'I might be disturbing your
meditations. Do I find you really at work?'
'I've hardly arrived at that point yet, dear aunt. Indeed, if the truth
will not displease you, I greatly fear serious concentration is not very
much in my line. But as you desire me to write our strange story, and as
mother also thinks the duty devolves on me, behold me seated at my table
in this charming turret chamber, which owes its all of comfort to your
most excellent taste, auntie mine.'
As I speak I look around me. The evening sunshine is streaming into my
room, which occupies the whole of one story of the tower. Glance where I
please, nothing is here that fails to delight the eye. The carpet beneath
my feet is soft as moss, the tall mullioned windows are bedraped with the
richest curtains. Pictures and mirrors hang here and there, and seem part
and parcel of the place. So does that dark lofty oak bookcase, the great
harp in the west corner, the violin that leans against it, the
_jardiniere_, the works of art, the arms from every land--the shields, the
claymores, the spears and helmets, everything is in keeping. This is my
garret. If I want to meditate, I have but to draw aside a curtain in
yonder nook, and lo! a little baize-covered door slides aside and admits
me to one of the tower-turrets, a tiny room in which fairies might live,
with a window on each side giving glimpses of landscape--and landscape
unsurpassed for beauty in all broad Scotland.
But it was by the main doorway of my chamber that auntie entered, drawing
aside the curtains and pausing a moment till she should receive my
cheering invitation. And this door leads on to the roof, and this roof
itself is a sight to see. Loftily domed over with glass, it is at once a
conservatory, a vinery, and tropical aviary. Room here for trees even, for
miniature palms, while birds of the rarest plumage flit silently from
bough to bough among the oranges, or lisp out the sweet lilts that have
descended to them from sires that sang in foreign lands. Yonder a
fountain plays and casts its spray over the most lovely feathery ferns.
The roof is very spacious, and the conservatory occupies the greater part
of it, leaving room outside, however, for a delightful promenade. After
sunset lamps are often lit here, and the place then looks even
more lovely than before. All this, I need hardly say, was my aunt's
doing.
I wave my hand, and the lady sinks half languidly into a fauteuil.
'And so,' I say, laughingly, 'you have come to visit Genius in his
garret.'
My aunt smiles too, but I can see it is only out of politeness.
I throw down my pen; I leave my chair and seat myself on the bearskin
beside the ample fireplace and begin toying with Orla, my deerhound.
'Aunt, play and sing a little; it will inspire me.'
She needs no second bidding. She bends over the great harp and lightly
touches a few chords.
'What shall I play or sing?'
'Play and sing as you feel, aunt.'
'I feel thus,' my aunt says, and her fingers fly over the strings,
bringing forth music so inspiriting and wild that as I listen, entranced,
some words of Ossian come rushing into my memory:
'The moon rose in the East. Fingal returned in the gleam of his arms. The
joy of his youth was great, their souls settled as a sea from a storm.
Ullin raised the song of gladness. The hills of Inistore rejoiced. The
flame of the oak arose, and the tales of heroes were told.'
Aunt is not young, but she looks very noble now--looks the very
incarnation of the music that fills the room. In it I can hear the
battle-cry of heroes, the wild slogan of clan after clan rushing to the
fight, the clang of claymore on shield, the shout of victory, the wail for
the dead. There are tears in my eyes as the music ceases, and my aunt
turns once more towards me.
'Aunt, your music has made me ashamed of myself. Before you came I
recoiled from the task you had set before me; I longed to be out and away,
marching | 2,585.630389 |
2023-11-16 19:00:09.6363320 | 5,668 | 11 |
Produced by Adrian Mastronardi, Martin Pettit and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
CORNELL STUDIES IN PHILOSOPHY
No. 11
JOHN DEWEY'S LOGICAL THEORY
BY
DELTON THOMAS HOWARD, A.M.
FORMERLY FELLOW IN THE SAGE SCHOOL OF PHILOSOPHY
A THESIS
PRESENTED TO THE FACULTY OF THE GRADUATE SCHOOL OF
CORNELL UNIVERSITY IN PARTIAL FULFILMENT OF THE
REQUIREMENTS FOR THE DEGREE OF DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY
NEW YORK
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
1919
PRESS OF
THE NEW ERA PRINTING COMPANY
LANCASTER, PA.
PREFACE
It seems unnecessary to offer an apology for an historical treatment of
Professor Dewey's logical theories, since functionalism glories in the
genetic method. To be sure, certain more extreme radicals are opposed to
a genetic interpretation of the history of human thought, but this is
inconsistent. At any rate, the historical method employed in the
following study may escape censure by reason of its simple character,
for it is little more than a critical review of Professor Dewey's
writings in their historical order, with no discussion of influences and
connections, and with little insistence upon rigid lines of development.
It is proposed to "follow the lead of the subject-matter" as far as
possible; to discover what topics interested Professor Dewey, how he
dealt with them, and what conclusions he arrived at. This plan has an
especial advantage when applied to a body of doctrine which, like
Professor Dewey's, does not possess a systematic form of its own, since
it avoids the distortion which a more rigid method would be apt to
produce.
It has not been possible, within the limits of the present study, to
take note of all of Professor Dewey's writings, and no reference has
been made to some which are of undoubted interest and importance. Among
these may be mentioned especially his books and papers on educational
topics and a number of his ethical writings. Attention has been devoted
almost exclusively to those writings which have some important bearing
upon his logical theory. The division into chapters is partly arbitrary,
although the periods indicated are quite clearly marked by the different
directions which Professor Dewey's interests took from time to time. It
will be seen that there is considerable chance for error in
distinguishing between the important and the unimportant, and in
selecting the essays which lie in the natural line of the author's
development. But, _valeat quantum_, as William James would say.
The criticisms and comments which have been made from time to time, as
seemed appropriate, may be considered pertinent or irrelevant according
to the views of the reader. It is hoped that they are not entirely
aside from the mark, and that they do not interfere with a fair
presentation of the author's views. The last chapter is devoted to a
direct criticism of Professor Dewey's functionalism, with some comments
on the general nature of philosophical method.
Since this thesis was written, Professor Dewey has published two or
three books and numerous articles, which are perhaps more important than
any of his previous writings. The volume of _Essays in Experimental
Logic_ (1916) is a distinct advance upon _The Influence of Darwin on
Philosophy and Other Essays_, published six years earlier. Most of these
essays, however, are considered here in their original form, and the new
material, while interesting, presents no vital change of standpoint. It
might be well to call attention to the excellent introductory essay
which Professor Dewey has provided for this new volume. Some mention
might also be made of the volume of essays by eight representative
pragmatists, which appeared last year (1917) under the title, _Creative
Intelligence_. My comments on Professor Dewey's contribution to the
volume have been printed elsewhere.[1] It has not seemed necessary, in
the absence of significant developments, to extend the thesis beyond its
original limits, and it goes to press, therefore, substantially as
written two years ago.
I wish to express my gratitude to the members of the faculty of the Sage
School of Philosophy for many valuable suggestions and kindly
encouragement in the course of my work. I am most deeply indebted to
Professor Ernest Albee for his patient guidance and helpful criticism.
Many of his suggestions, both as to plan and detail, have been adopted
and embodied in the thesis, and these have contributed materially to
such logical coherence and technical accuracy as it may possess. The
particular views expressed are, of course, my own. I wish also to thank
Professor J. E. Creighton especially for his friendly interest and for
many suggestions which assisted the progress of my work, as well as for
his kindness in looking over the proofs.
D. T. HOWARD.
EVANSTON, ILLINOIS,
June, 1918.
FOOTNOTE:
[1] "The Pragmatic Method," _Journal of Philosophy, Psychology, and
Scientific Methods_, 1918, Vol. XV, pp. 149-156.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. "Psychology as Philosophic Method" 1
II. The Development of the Psychological Standpoint 15
III. "Moral Theory and Practice" 33
IV. Functional Psychology 47
V. The Evolutionary Standpoint 59
VI. "Studies in Logical Theory" 72
VII. The Polemical Period 88
VIII. Later Developments 105
IX. Conclusions 119
CHAPTER I
"PSYCHOLOGY AS PHILOSOPHIC METHOD"
Dewey's earliest standpoint in philosophy is presented in two articles
published in _Mind_ in 1886: "The Psychological Standpoint," and
"Psychology as Philosophic Method."[2] These articles appear to have
been written in connection with his _Psychology_, which was published in
the same year, and which represents the same general point of view as
applied to the study of mental phenomena. For the purposes of the
present study attention may be confined to the two articles in _Mind_.
Dewey begins his argument, in "The Psychological Standpoint," with a
reference to Professor Green's remark that the psychological standpoint
is what marks the difference between transcendentalism and British
empiricism. Dewey takes exception to this view, and asserts that the two
schools hold this standpoint in common, and, furthermore, that the
psychological standpoint has been the strength of British empiricism and
desertion of that standpoint its weakness. Shadworth Hodgson's comment
on this proposal testifies to its audacity. In a review of Dewey's
article, he says: "If for instance we are told by a competent writer,
that Absolute Idealism is not only a truth of experience but one
attained directly by the method of experiential psychology, we should
not allow our astonishment to prevent our examining the arguments, by
virtue of which English psychology attains the results of German
transcendentalism without quitting the ground of experience."[3]
Dewey defines his psychological standpoint as follows: "We are not to
determine the nature of reality or of any object of philosophical
inquiry by examining it as it is in itself, but only as it is an element
in our knowledge, in our experience, only as it is related to our mind,
or is an 'idea'.... Or, in the ordinary way of putting it, the nature
of all objects of philosophical inquiry is to be fixed by finding out
what experience says about them."[4] The implications of this definition
do not appear at first sight, but they become clearer as the discussion
proceeds.
Locke, Dewey continues, deserted the psychological standpoint because he
did not, as he proposed, explain the nature of such things as matter and
mind by reference to experience. On the contrary, he explained
experience through the assumption of the two unknowable substances,
matter and mind. Berkeley also deserted the psychological standpoint, in
effect, by having recourse to a purely transcendent Spirit. Even Hume
deserted it by assuming as the only reals certain unrelated sensations,
and by trying to explain the origin of experience and knowledge by their
combination. These reals were supposed to exist in independence of an
organized experience, and to constitute it by their association. It
might be argued that Hume's sensations are found in experience by
analysis, and this would probably be true. But the sensations are
nothing apart from the consciousness in which they are found. "Such a
sensation," Dewey says, "a sensation which exists only within and for
experience, is not one which can be used to account for experience. It
is but one element in an organic whole, and can no more account for the
whole, than a given digestive act can account for the existence of a
living body."[5]
So far Dewey is merely restating the criticism of English empiricism
that had been made by Green and his followers. Reality, as experienced,
is a whole of organically related parts, not a mechanical compound of
elements. Whatever is to be explained must be taken as a fact of
experience, and its meaning will be revealed in terms of its position
and function within the whole. But while Dewey employs the language of
idealism, it is doubtful whether he has grasped the full significance of
the "concrete universal" of the Hegelian school. The following passage
illustrates the difficulty: "The psychological standpoint as it has
developed itself is this: all that is, is for consciousness or
knowledge. The business of the psychologist is to give a genetic
account of the various elements within this consciousness, and thereby
fix their place, determine their validity, and at the same time show
definitely what the real and eternal nature of this consciousness
is."[6]
Consciousness (used here as identical with 'experience') is apparently
interpreted as a structure made up of elements related in a determinable
order, and having, consequently, a'real and eternal nature.' The result
is a'structural' view of reality, and the type of idealism for which
Dewey stands may fittingly be called'structural' idealism. This type of
idealism does, in fact, hold a position intermediate between English
empiricism and German transcendentalism. But it would not commonly be
considered a synthesis of the best characteristics of the two schools.
'Structural' idealism is, historically considered, a reversion to Kant
which retains the mechanical elements of the _Critique_, but fails to
reckon with the truly organic mode of interpretation in which it
culminates. As experience, from Kant's undeveloped position, is a
structure of sensations and forms, so Dewey's 'consciousness' is a
compound of separate elements or existences related in a'real and
eternal' order.
Dewey illustrates his method, in the discussion which follows, by
employing it, or showing how it should be employed, in the definition of
certain typical objects of philosophical inquiry. The first to be
considered are subject and object. In dealing with the relation of
subject to object, the psychological method will attempt to show how
consciousness differentiates itself, or'specifies' itself, into subject
and object. These terms will be viewed as related terms within the whole
of 'consciousness,' rather than as elements existing prior to or in
independence of the whole in which they are found.
There is a type of realism which illustrates the opposite or ontological
method. It is led, through a study of the dependence of the mind upon
the organism, to a position in which subject and object fall apart, out
of relation to each other. The separation of the two leads to the
positing of a third term, an unknown _x_, which is supposed to unite
them. The psychological method would hold that the two objects have
their union, not in an unknown'real,' but in the 'consciousness' in
which they appear. The individual consciousness as subject, and the
objects over against it, are elements at once distinguished and related
within the whole. All the terms are facts of experience, and none are to
be assumed as ontological reals.
Subjective idealism, Dewey continues, makes a similar error in failing
to discriminate between the ego, or individual consciousness, and the
Absolute Consciousness within which ego and object are differentiated
elements. It fails to see that subject and object are complements, and
inexplicable except as related elements in a larger whole. The
individual consciousness, again, and the universal 'Consciousness,' are
to be defined by reference to experience. It is not to be assumed at the
start, as the subjective idealists assume, that the nature of the
individual consciousness is known. The ego is to be defined, not
assumed, and this is the essence of the psychological method.
So far, two factors in Dewey's standpoint are clearly discernible. In
the first place, all noumena and transcendent reals are to be rejected
as means of explanation, and definition is to be wholly in terms of
experienced elements, as experienced. In the second place, experience is
to be regarded as a rational system of related elements, while
explanation is to consist in tracing out the relations which any element
bears to the whole. The universal 'Consciousness' is the whole, and the
individual mind, again, is an element within the whole, to be explained
by tracing out the relations which it bears to other elements and to the
whole system. It is not easy to avoid the conclusion that Dewey
conceives of 'consciousness' as a construct of existentially distinct
terms.
Dewey does not actually treat subject and object, individual and
universal consciousness, in the empirical manner for which he contends.
He merely outlines a method; and, while this has a negative bearing as
against transcendent modes of explanation, it has little content of its
own. But in spite of Dewey's lack of explicitness, it is evident that he
tends to view his 'objects of philosophical inquiry' as so many concrete
particular existences or things. The idea that they can be empirically
marked out and investigated seems to imply this. But subject, object,
individual, and universal are certainly not reducible to particular
sensations, even though it must be admitted that they have a reference
to particulars. These abstract concepts had been a source of difficulty
to the empiricists, because they had not been able to reduce them to
particular impressions, and Dewey's proposed method appears to involve
the same difficulty.
In his second article, on "Psychology as Philosophic Method," Dewey
proposes to show that his standpoint is practically identical with that
of transcendental idealism. This is made possible, he believes, through
the fact that, since experience or consciousness is the only reality,
psychology, as the scientific account of this reality, becomes identical
with philosophy.
In maintaining his position, Dewey finds it necessary to criticise the
tendency, found in certain idealists, to treat psychology merely as a
special science. This view of psychology is attained, Dewey observes, by
regarding man under two arbitrarily determined aspects. Taken as a
finite being acting amid finite things, a knowing, willing, feeling
phenomenon, man is said to be the object of a special science,
psychology. But in another aspect man is infinite, the universal
self-consciousness, and as such is the object of philosophy. This
distinction between the two aspects of man's nature, Dewey believes,
cannot be maintained. As a distinction, it must arise within
consciousness, and it must therefore be a psychological distinction.
Psychology cannot limit itself to anything less than the whole of
experience, and cannot, therefore, be a special science dependent, like
others, upon philosophy for its working concepts. On the contrary, the
method of psychology must be the method of philosophy.
Dewey reaches this result quite easily, because he makes psychology the
science of reality to begin with. "The universe," he says, "except as
realized in an individual, has no existence.... Self-consciousness means
simply an individualized universe; and if this universe has _not_ been
realized in man, if man be not self-conscious, then no philosophy
whatever is possible. If it _has_ been realized, it is in and through
psychological experience that this realization has occurred. Psychology
is the scientific account of this realization, of this individualized
universe, of this self-consciousness."[7]
It is difficult to understand exactly what these expressions meant for
Dewey. Granting that the human mind is both individual and universal,
what objection could be raised against the study of its individual or
finite aspects as the special subject-matter of a particular science?
All the sciences, as Dewey was aware, are abstract in method. Dewey's
position appears to be that the universal and individual aspects of
consciousness are nothing apart from each other, and must be studied
together. But 'consciousness' in Dewey's view is, in fact, two
consciousnesses. Reality as a whole is a Consciousness, and the
individual mind is another consciousness. A problem arises, therefore,
as to their connection. Dewey affirms that, unless they are united,
unless the universal is given in the individual consciousness, there can
be no science of the whole, and therefore no philosophy. The
epistemological problem of the relation of the mind to reality becomes,
accordingly, the _raison d'etre_ of his method. The problem was an
inheritance from subjective idealism. It may be pointed out that there
is some similarity between Dewey's standpoint and Berkeley's. Both
conceive of consciousness as a construct of elements, and Dewey's
'Consciousness in general' holds much the same relation to the finite
consciousness that the Divine Mind holds to the individual consciousness
in Berkeley's system. The similarity between the two standpoints must
not be overemphasized, but it is none the less suggestive and
interesting.
In attempting to determine the proper status of psychology as a science,
Dewey is led into a more detailed exposition of his standpoint. His
position in general is well indicated in the following passage: "In
short, the real _esse_ of things is neither their _percipi_, nor their
_intelligi_ alone; it is their _experiri_."[8] The science of the
_intelligi_ is logic, and of the _percipi_, philosophy of nature. But
these are abstractions from the _experiri_, the science of which is
psychology. If it be denied that the _experiri_, self-consciousness in
its wholeness, can be the subject-matter of psychology, then the
possibility of philosophy is also denied. "If man, as matter of fact,
does not realise the nature of the eternal and the universal _within_
himself, as the essence of his own being; if he does not at one stage of
his experience consciously, and in all stages implicitly, lay hold of
this universal and eternal, then it is mere matter of words to say that
he can give no account of things as they universally and eternally are.
To deny, therefore, that self-consciousness is a matter of psychological
experience is to deny the possibility of any philosophy."[9] Dewey
assures us again that his method alone will solve the epistemological
problem.
Self-consciousness, as that within which things exist _sub specie
aeternitatis_ and _in ordine ad universum_, must be the object of
psychology. The refusal to take self-consciousness as an experienced
fact, Dewey says, results in such failures as are seen in Kant, Hegel,
and even Green and Caird, to give any adequate account of the nature of
the Absolute. Kant, for purely logical reasons, denied that
self-consciousness could be an object of experience, although he
admitted conceptions and perceptions as matters of experience. As a
result of his attitude, conception and perception were never brought
into organic connection; the self-conscious, eternal order of the world
was referred to something back of experience. Dewey attributes Kant's
failure to his logical method, which led him away from the psychological
standpoint in which he would have found self-consciousness as a directly
presented fact.
This criticism of Kant's 'logical method' fails to take account of the
transitional nature of Kant's standpoint. Looking backward, it is easy
enough to ask why Kant did not begin with the organic view of experience
at which he finally arrived. But the answer must be that the organic
standpoint did not exist until Kant, by his 'logical method,' had
brought it to light. The Kantian interpretation of experience, in which,
as Dewey asserts, conception and perception were never brought into
organic relation, is a half-way stage between mechanism and organism.
But how does Dewey propose to improve upon Kant's position? He will
first of all put Kant's noumenal self back into experience, as a fact in
consciousness. But how will this help to bring perception and conception
into closer union? There seems to be no answer. Dewey's view appears to
be that organic relations are achieved whenever an object is made a part
of experience and so brought into connection with other experienced
facts. 'Organic relation' is interpreted as equivalent to'mental
relation.' But mental relations are not organic because they are mental.
It would be as easy to assert that they are mechanical. The test lies in
the nature of the relations which are actually found in the mental
sphere and the fitness of the organic categories to express them.
Dewey's 'consciousness,' as has been said before, appears to be a
structure, not an organism. Its parts are external to each other,
however closely they may be related. An organic view of experience would
begin with a denial of the actuality of bare facts or sensations, and
would not waver in maintaining that standpoint to the end.
Hegel's advance upon Kant, Dewey continues, "consisted essentially in
showing that Kant's _logical_ standard was erroneous, and that, as a
matter of logic, the only true criterion or standard was the organic
notion, or _Begriff_, which is a systematic totality, and accordingly
able to explain both itself and also the simpler processes and
principles."[10] The logical reformation which Hegel accomplished was
most important, but the work of Kant still needed to be completed by
"showing self-consciousness as a fact of experience, as well as
perception through organic forms and thinking through organic
principles."[11] This element is latent in Hegel, Dewey believes, but
needs to be brought out.
T. H. Green comes under the same criticism. He followed Kant's logical
method, and as a consequence arrived at the same negative results. The
nature of self-consciousness remains unknown to Green; he can affirm its
existence, but cannot describe its nature. Dewey quotes that passage
from the _Prolegomena to Ethics_ in which Green says:[12] "As to what
that consciousness in itself or in its completeness is, we can only
make negative statements. _That_ there is such a consciousness is
implied in the existence of the world; but _what_ it is we only know
through its so far acting in us as to enable us, however partially and
interruptedly, to have knowledge of a world or an intelligent
experience." If, Dewey observes, Green had begun with the latter point
of view, and had taken self-consciousness as at least partially realized
in finite minds, he would have been able to make some positive
statements about it. Dewey, however, has not given the most adequate
interpretation of Green's 'Spiritual Principle in Nature.' This was
evidently, for Green, a symbol of the intelligibility of the world as
organically conceived, an order which could not be comprehended by the
mechanical categories, but which was nevertheless real. As Green tended
to hypostatize the organic conception, so Dewey would make it a concrete
reality, with the further specification that it must be something given
to psychological observation.
The chief point of Dewey's criticism of the idealists is that they fail
to establish self-consciousness as an experienced fact; and, Dewey
maintains, it must be so established if it is to be anything real and
genuine. If it is anything that can be discussed at all, it must be an
element in experience; and if it is in experience, it must be the
subject-matter of psychology. It is inevitable, from Dewey's standpoint,
that transcendentalism should adopt his psychological method.
In the further development of his standpoint, Dewey considers (1) the
relations of psychology to the special sciences, and (2) the relation of
psychology to logic. Dewey's conception of the relation of psychology to
the special sciences is well illustrated in the following passage:
"Mathematics, physics, biology exist, because conscious experience
reveals itself to be of such a nature, that one may make virtual
abstraction from the whole, and consider a part by itself, without
damage, so long as the treatment is purely scientific, that is, so long
as the implicit connection with the whole is left undisturbed, and the
attempt is not made to present this partial science as metaphysic, or as
an explanation of the whole, as is the usual fashion of our uncritical
so-called'scientific philosophies.' Nay more, this abstraction of some
one sphere is itself a living function of the psychologic experience. It
is not merely something which it allows: it is something which it
_does_. It is the analytic aspect of its own activity, whereby it
deepens and renders explicit, realizes its own nature.... The analytic
movement constitutes the special sciences; the synthetic constitutes the
philosophy of nature; the self-developing activity | 2,585.656372 |
2023-11-16 19:00:09.7307440 | 796 | 7 | POLITICAL***
E-text prepared by MFR 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 58776-h.htm or 58776-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/58776/58776-h/58776-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/58776/58776-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/lifeofbismarckpr00hese
THE LIFE OF BISMARCK, PRIVATE AND POLITICAL.
“Mit Gott für König und Vaterland.”
[Illustration: COUNT OTTO VON BISMARCK.]
THE LIFE OF BISMARCK,
PRIVATE AND POLITICAL;
With Descriptive Notices of His Ancestry.
by
JOHN GEORGE LOUIS HESEKIEL,
Author of “Faust and Don Juan,” etc.
Translated and Edited,
With an Introduction, Explanatory Notes, and Appendices,
by Kenneth R. H. Mackenzie, F.S.A., F.A.S.L.
With Upward of One Hundred Illustrations by Diez, Grimm,
Pietsch, and Others.
New York:
Harper & Brothers, Publishers,
Franklin Square.
1870.
CONTENTS
EDITOR’S PREFACE. Page xv
Book the First.
THE BISMARCKS OF OLDEN TIME.
CHAPTER I.
NAME AND ORIGIN.
Bismarck on the Biese.—The Bismarck Louse.—Derivation of the
Name Bismarck.—Wendic Origin Untenable.—The Bismarcks in
Priegnitz and Ruppin.—Riedel’s Erroneous Theory.—The Bismarcks
of Stendal.—Members of City Guilds.—Claus von Bismarck of
Stendal.—Rise of the Family into the Highest Rank in the
Fourteenth Century. 31
CHAPTER II.
CASTELLANS AT BURGSTALL CASTLE.
[1270-1550.]
Rulo von Bismarck, 1309-1338.—Excommunicated.—Claus von
Bismarck.—His Policy.—Created Castellan of Burgstall,
1345.—Castellans.—Reconciliation with Stendal, 1350.—Councillor
to the Margrave, 1353.—Dietrich Kogelwiet, 1361.—His White
Hood.—Claus in his Service, while Archbishop of Magdeburg.—The
Emperor Charles IV.—The Independence of Brandenburg
threatened.—Chamberlain to the Margrave, 1368.—Subjection
of the Marks to Bohemia, 1373.—Claus retires into Private
Life.—Death about 1377.—Claus II., 1403.—Claus III. and
Henning.—Friedrich I. appoints Henning a Judge.—Ludolf.—His
Sons.—Pantaleon.—Henning III. _obiit circâ_ 1528.—Claus
Electoral Ranger, 1512.—Ludolf von Bismarck.—Electoral Sheriff
of Boetzow, 1513.—His Descendants. 36
CHAPTER III.
THE PERMUTATION.
[1550-1563.]
Changes.—The Electoral Prince John George and
| 2,585.750784 |
2023-11-16 19:00:09.7462900 | 5,279 | 11 |
Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "You must accept my word."]
INSIDE THE LINES
_By_
EARL DERR BIGGERS
AND
ROBERT WELLES RITCHIE
_Founded on Earl Derr Biggers'
Play of the Same Name_
INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1915
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PRESS OF
BRAUNWORTH & CO.
BOOKBINDERS AND PRINTERS
BROOKLYN. N. Y.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I Jane Gerson, Buyer
II From the Wilhelmstrasse
III Billy Capper at Play
IV 32 Queen's Terrace
V A Ferret
VI A Fugitive
VII The Hotel Splendide
VIII Chaff of War
IX Room D
X A Visit to a Lady
XI A Spy in the Signal Tower
XII Her Country's Example
XIII Enter, a Cigarette
XIV The Captain Comes to Tea
XV The Third Degree
XVI The Pendulum of Fate
XVII Three-Thirty A. M.
XVIII The Trap Is Sprung
XIX At the Quay
INSIDE THE LINES
CHAPTER I
JANE GERSON, BUYER
"I had two trunks--two, you ninny! Two! _Ou est l'autre?_"
The grinning customs guard lifted his shoulders to his ears and spread
out his palms. "_Mais, mamselle----_"
"Don't you '_mais_' me, sir! I had two trunks--_deux troncs_--when I
got aboard that wabbly old boat at Dover this morning, and I'm not
going to budge from this wharf until I find the other one. Where _did_
you learn your French, anyway? Can't you understand when I speak your
language?"
The girl plumped herself down on top of the unhasped trunk and folded
her arms truculently. With a quizzical smile, the customs guard looked
down into her brown eyes, smoldering dangerously now, and began all
over again his speech of explanation.
"_Wagon-lit?_" She caught a familiar word. "_Mais oui_; that's where
I want to go--aboard your wagon-lit, for Paris. _Voilà!_"--the girl
carefully gave the word three syllables--"_mon ticket pour Paree!_"
She opened her patent-leather reticule, rummaged furiously therein,
brought out a handkerchief, a tiny mirror, a packet of rice papers, and
at last a folded and punched ticket. This she displayed with a
triumphant flourish.
"_Voilà! Il dit_ 'Miss Jane Gerson'; that's me--_moi-meme_, I mean.
And _il dit 'deux troncs'_; now you can't go behind that, can you?
Where is that other trunk?"
A whistle shrilled back beyond the swinging doors of the station. Folk
in the customs shed began a hasty gathering together of parcels and
shawl straps, and a general exodus toward the train sheds commenced.
The girl on the trunk looked appealingly about her; nothing but bustle
and confusion; no Samaritan to turn aside and rescue a fair traveler
fallen among customs guards. Her eyes filled with trouble, and for an
instant her reliant mouth broke its line of determination; the lower
lip quivered suspiciously. Even the guard started to walk away.
"Oh, oh, please don't go!" Jane Gerson was on her feet, and her hands
shot out in an impulsive appeal. "Oh, dear; maybe I forgot to tip you.
Here, _attende au secours_, if you'll only find that other trunk before
the train----"
"Pardon; but if I may be of any assistance----"
Miss Gerson turned. A tallish, old-young-looking man, in a gray lounge
suit, stood heels together and bent stiffly in a bow. Nothing of the
beau or the boulevardier about his face or manner. Miss Gerson
accepted his intervention as heaven-sent.
"Oh, thank you ever so much! The guard, you see, doesn't understand
good French. I just can't make him understand that one of my trunks is
missing. And the train for Paris----"
Already the stranger was rattling incisive French at the guard. That
official bowed low, and, with hands and lips, gave rapid explanation.
The man in the gray lounge suit turned to the girl.
"A little misunderstanding, Miss--ah----"
"Gerson--Jane Gerson, of New York," she promptly supplied.
"A little misunderstanding, Miss Gerson. The customs guard says your
other trunk has already been examined, passed, and placed on the
baggage van. He was trying to tell you that it would be necessary for
you to permit a porter to take this trunk to the train before time for
starting. With your permission----"
The stranger turned and halloed to a porter, who came running. Miss
Gerson had the trunk locked and strapped in no time, and it was on the
shoulders of the porter.
"You have very little time, Miss Gerson. The train will be making a
start directly. If I might--ah--pilot you through the station to the
proper train shed. I am not presuming?"
"You are very kind," she answered hurriedly.
They set off, the providential Samaritan in the lead. Through the
waiting-room and on to a broad platform, almost deserted, they went. A
guard's whistle shrilled. The stranger tucked a helping hand under
Jane Gerson's arm to steady her in the sharp sprint down a long aisle
between tracks to where the Paris train stood. It began to move before
they had reached its mid-length. A guard threw open a carriage door,
in they hopped, and with a rattle of chains and banging of buffers the
Express du Nord was off on its arrow flight from Calais to the capital.
The carriage, which was of the second class, was comfortably filled.
Miss Gerson stumbled over the feet of a puffy Fleming nearest the door,
was launched into the lap of a comfortably upholstered widow on the
opposite seat, ricochetted back to jam an elbow into a French
gentleman's spread newspaper, and finally was catapulted into a vacant
space next to the window on the carriage's far side. She giggled,
tucked the skirts of her pearl-gray duster about her, righted the chic
sailor hat on her chestnut-brown head, and patted a stray wisp of hair
back into place. Her meteor flight into and through the carriage
disturbed her not a whit.
As for the Samaritan, he stood uncertainly in the narrow cross aisle,
swaying to the swing of the carriage and reconnoitering seating
possibilities. There was a place, a very narrow one, next to the fat
Fleming; also there was a vacant place next to Jane Gerson. The
Samaritan caught the girl's glance in his indecision, read in it
something frankly comradely, and chose the seat beside her.
"Very good of you, I'm sure," he murmured. "I did not wish to
presume----"
"You're not," the girl assured, and there was something so fresh, so
ingenuous, in the tone and the level glance of her brown eyes that the
Samaritan felt all at once distinctly satisfied with the cast of
fortune that had thrown him in the way of a distressed traveler. He
sat down with a lifting of the checkered Alpine hat he wore and a stiff
little bow from the waist.
"If I may, Miss Gerson--I am Captain Woodhouse, of the signal service."
"Oh!" The girl let slip a little gasp--the meed of admiration the
feminine heart always pays to shoulder straps. "Signal service; that
means the army?"
"His majesty's service; yes, Miss Gerson."
"You are, of course, off duty?" she suggested, with the faintest
possible tinge of regret at the absence of the stripes and buttons that
spell "soldier" with the woman.
"You might say so, Miss Gerson. Egypt--the Nile country is my station.
I am on my way back there after a bit of a vacation at home--London I
mean, of course."
She stole a quick side glance at the face of her companion. A
soldier's face it was, lean and school-hardened and competent. Lines
about the eyes and mouth--the stamp of the sun and the imprint of the
habit to command--had taken from Captain Woodhouse's features something
of freshness and youth, though giving in return the index of inflexible
will and lust for achievement. His smooth lips were a bit thin, Jane
Gerson thought, and the out-shooting chin, almost squared at the
angles, marked Captain Woodhouse as anything but a trifler or a flirt.
She was satisfied that nothing of presumption or forwardness on the
part of this hard-molded chap from Egypt would give her cause to regret
her unconventional offer of friendship.
Captain Woodhouse, in his turn, had made a satisfying, though covert,
appraisal of his traveling companion by means of a narrow mirror inset
above the baggage rack over the opposite seat. Trim and petite of
figure, which was just a shade under the average for height and
plumpness; a small head set sturdily on a round smooth neck; face the
very embodiment of independence and self-confidence, with its brown
eyes wide apart, its high brow under the parting waves of golden
chestnut, broad humorous mouth, and tiny nose slightly nibbed upward:
Miss Up-to-the-Minute New York, indeed! From the cocked red feather in
her hat to the dainty spatted boots Jane Gerson appeared in Woodhouse's
eyes a perfect, virile, vividly alive American girl. He'd met her kind
before; had seen them browbeating bazaar merchants in Cairo and riding
desert donkeys like strong young queens. The type appealed to him.
The first stiffness of informal meeting wore away speedily. The girl
tactfully directed the channel of conversation into lines familiar to
Woodhouse. What was Egypt like; who owned the Pyramids, and why didn't
the owners plant a park around them and charge admittance? Didn't he
think Rameses and all those other old Pharaohs had the right idea in
advertising--putting up stone billboards to last all time? The
questions came crisp and startling; Woodhouse found himself chuckling
at the shrewd incisiveness of them. Rameses an advertiser and the
Pyramids stone hoardings to carry all those old boys' fame through the
ages! He'd never looked on them in that light before.
"I say, Miss Gerson, you'd make an excellent business person, now,
really," the captain voiced his admiration.
"Just cable that at my expense to old Pop Hildebrand, of Hildebrand's
department store, New York," she flashed back at him. "I'm trying to
convince him of just that very thing."
"Really, now; a department shop! What, may I ask, do you have to do
for--ah--Pop Hildebrand?"
"Oh, I'm his foreign buyer," Jane answered, with a conscious note of
pride. "I'm over here to buy gowns for the winter season, you see.
Paul Poiret--Worth--Paquin; you've heard of those wonderful people, of
course?"
"Can't say I have," the captain confessed, with a rueful smile into the
girl's brown eyes.
"Then you've never bought a Worth?" she challenged. "For if you had
you'd not forget the name--or the price--very soon."
"Gowns--and things are not in my line, Miss Gerson," he answered
simply, and the girl caught herself feeling a secret elation. A man
who didn't know gowns couldn't be very intimately acquainted with
women. And--well--
"And this Hildebrand, he sends you over here alone just to buy pretties
for New York's wonderful women?" the captain was saying. "Aren't you
just a bit--ah--nervous to be over in this part of the world--alone?"
"Not in the least," the girl caught him up. "Not about the alone part,
I should say. Maybe I am fidgety and sort of worried about making good
on the job. This is my first trip--my very first as a buyer for
Hildebrand. And, of course, if I should fall down----"
"Fall down?" Woodhouse echoed, mystified. The girl laughed, and struck
her left wrist a smart blow with her gloved right hand.
"There I go again--slang; 'vulgar American slang,' you'll call it. If
I could only rattle off the French as easily as I do New Yorkese I'd be
a wonder. I mean I'm afraid I won't make good."
"Oh!"
"But why should I worry about coming over alone?" Jane urged. "Lots of
American girls come over here alone with an American flag pinned to
their shirt-waists and wearing a Baedeker for a wrist watch. Nothing
ever happens to them."
Captain Woodhouse looked out on the flying panorama of straw-thatched
houses and fields heavy with green grain. He seemed to be balancing
words. He glanced at the passenger across the aisle, a wizened little
man, asleep. In a lowered voice he began:
"A woman alone--over here on the Continent at this time; why, I very
much fear she will have great difficulties when the--ah--trouble comes."
"Trouble?" Jane's eyes were questioning.
"I do not wish to be an alarmist, Miss Gerson," Captain Woodhouse
continued, hesitant. "Goodness knows we've had enough calamity
shouters among the Unionists at home. But have you considered what you
would do--how you would get back to America in case of--war?" The last
word was almost a whisper.
"War?" she echoed. "Why, you don't mean all this talk in the papers
is----"
"Is serious, yes," Woodhouse answered quietly. "Very serious."
"Why, Captain Woodhouse, I thought you had war talk every summer over
here just as our papers are filled each spring with gossip about how
Tesreau is going to jump to the Feds, or the Yanks are going to be
sold. It's your regular midsummer outdoor sport over here, this
stirring up the animals."
Woodhouse smiled, though his gray eyes were filled with something not
mirth.
"I fear the animals are--stirred, as you say, too far this time," he
resumed. "The assassination of the Archduke Ferd----"
"Yes, I remember I did read something about that in the papers at home.
But archdukes and kings have been killed before, and no war came of it.
In Mexico they murder a president before he has a chance to send out
'At home' cards."
"Europe is so different from Mexico," her companion continued, the
lines of his face deepening. "I am afraid you over in the States do
not know the dangerous politics here; you are so far away; you should
thank God for that. You are not in a land where one man--or two or
three--may say, 'We will now go to war,' and then you go, willy-nilly."
The seriousness of the captain's speech and the fear that he could not
keep from his eyes sobered the girl. She looked out on the
sun-drenched plains of Pas de Calais, where toy villages, hedged
fields, and squat farmhouses lay all in order, established, seeming for
all time in the comfortable doze of security. The plodding manikins in
the fields, the slumberous oxen drawing the harrows amid the beet rows,
pigeons circling over the straw hutches by the tracks' side--all this
denied the possibility of war's corrosion.
"Don't you think everybody is suffering from a bad dream when they say
there's to be fighting?" she queried. "Surely it is impossible that
folks over here would all consent to destroy this." She waved toward
the peaceful countryside.
"A bad dream, yes. But one that will end in a nightmare," he answered.
"Tell me, Miss Gerson, when will you be through with your work in
Paris, and on your way back to America?"
"Not for a month; that's sure. Maybe I'll be longer if I like the
place."
Woodhouse pondered.
"A month. This is the tenth of July. I am afraid---- I say, Miss
Gerson, please do not set me down for a meddler--this short
acquaintance, and all that; but may I not urge on you that you finish
your work in Paris and get back to England at least in two weeks?" The
captain had turned, and was looking into the girl's eyes with an
earnest intensity that startled her. "I can not tell you all I know,
of course. I may not even know the truth, though I think I have a bit
of it, right enough. But one of your sort--to be caught alone on this
side of the water by the madness that is brewing! By George, I do not
like to think of it!"
"I thank you, Captain Woodhouse, for your warning," Jane answered him,
and impulsively she put out her hand to his. "But, you see, I'll have
to run the risk. I couldn't go scampering back to New York like a
scared pussy-cat just because somebody starts a war over here. I'm on
trial. This is my first trip as buyer for Hildebrand, and it's a case
of make or break with me. War or no war, I've got to make good.
Anyway"--this with a toss of her round little chin--"I'm an American
citizen, and nobody'll dare to start anything with me."
"Right you are!" Woodhouse beamed his admiration. "Now we'll talk
about those skyscrapers of yours. Everybody back from the States has
something to say about those famous buildings, and I'm fairly burning
for first-hand information from one who knows them."
Laughingly she acquiesced, and the grim shadow of war was pushed away
from them, though hardly forgotten by either. At the man's prompting,
Jane gave intimate pictures of life in the New World metropolis,
touching with shrewd insight the fads and shams of New York's denizens
even as she exalted the achievements of their restless energy.
Woodhouse found secret amusement and delight in her racy nervous
speech, in the dexterity of her idiom and patness of her
characterizations. Here was a new sort of for him. Not the languid
creature of studied suppression and feeble enthusiasm he had known, but
a virile, vivid, sparkling woman of a new land, whose impulses were as
unhindered as her speech was heterodox. She was a woman who worked for
her living; that was a new type, too. Unafraid, she threw herself into
the competition of a man's world; insensibly she prided herself on her
ability to "make good"--expressive Americanism, that,--under any
handicap. She was a woman with a "job"; Captain Woodhouse had never
before met one such.
Again, here was a woman who tried none of the stale arts and tricks of
coquetry; no eyebrow strategy or maidenly simpering about Jane Gerson.
Once sure Woodhouse was what she took him to be, a gentleman, the girl
had established a frank basis of comradeship that took no reckoning of
the age-old conventions of sex allure and sex defense. The
unconventionality of their meeting weighed nothing with her. Equally
there was not a hint of sophistication on the girl's part.
So the afternoon sped, and when the sun dropped over the maze of spires
and chimney pots that was Paris, each felt regret at parting.
"To Egypt, yes," Woodhouse ruefully admitted. "A dreary deadly 'place
in the sun' for me. To have met you, Miss Gerson; it has been
delightful, quite."
"I hope," the girl said, as Woodhouse handed her into a taxi, "I hope
that _if_ that war comes it will find you still in Egypt, away from the
firing-line."
"Not a fair thing to wish for a man in the service," Woodhouse
answered, laughing. "I may be more happy when I say my best wish for
you is that _when_ the war comes it will find you a long way from
Paris. Good-by, Miss Gerson, and good luck!"
Captain Woodhouse stood, heels together and hat in hand, while her taxi
trundled off, a farewell flash of brown eyes rewarding him for the
military correctness of his courtesy. Then he hurried to another
station to take a train--not for a Mediterranean port and distant
Egypt, but for Berlin.
CHAPTER II
FROM THE WILHELMSTRASSE
"It would be wiser to talk in German," the woman said. "In these times
French or English speech in Berlin----" she finished, with a lifting of
her shapely bare shoulders, sufficiently eloquent. The waiter speeded
his task of refilling the man's glass and discreetly withdrew.
"Oh, I'll talk in German quick enough," the man assented, draining his
thin half bubble of glass down to the last fizzing residue in the stem.
"Only just show me you've got the right to hear, and the good fat
bank-notes to pay; that's all." He propped his sharp chin on a hand
that shook slightly, and pushed his lean flushed face nearer hers. An
owlish caution fought the wine fancies in his shifting lynx eyes under
reddened lids; also there was admiration for the milk-white skin and
ripe lips of the woman by his side. For an instant--half the time of a
breath--a flash of loathing made the woman's eyes tigerish; but at once
they changed again to mild bantering.
"So? Friend Billy Capper, of Brussels, has a touch of the spy fever
himself, and distrusts an old pal?" She laughed softly, and one slim
hand toyed with a heavy gold locket on her bosom. "Friend Billy Capper
forgets old times and old faces--forgets even the matter of the Lord
Fisher letters----"
"Chop it, Louisa!" The man called Capper lapsed into brusk English as
he banged the stem of his wineglass on the damask. "No sense in raking
that up again--just because I ask you a fair question--ask you to
identify yourself in your new job."
"We go no further, Billy Capper," she returned, speaking swiftly in
German; "not another word between us unless you obey my rule, and talk
this language. Why did you get that message through to me to meet you
here in the Café Riche to-night if you did not trust me? Why did you
have me carry your offer to--to headquarters and come here ready to
talk business if it was only to hum and haw about my identifying
myself?"
The tenseness of exaggerated concentration on Capper's gaunt face began
slowly to dissolve. First the thin | 2,585.76633 |
2023-11-16 19:00:09.8834830 | 1,055 | 9 |
Produced by Donald Cummings, Adrian Mastronardi, Stephen
Hutcheson, 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)
[Illustration: A MISTY MORNING, NEWBY BRIDGE, WINDERMERE]
THE ENGLISH LAKES
PAINTED BY A. HEATON COOPER • DESCRIBED BY WM. T. PALMER • PUBLISHED BY
ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK • LONDON • MCMVIII
[Illustration: Lotus Logo]
AGENTS IN AMERICA
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
64 & 66 FIFTH AVENUE, NEW YORK
First Edition _July_, 1905
Second Edition _October_, 1908
CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION 1
CHAPTER II
BY STEAM YACHT ON WINDERMERE 9
CHAPTER III
BY WORDSWORTH’S ROTHAY 30
CHAPTER IV
RYDAL AND GRASMERE 36
CHAPTER V
ESTHWAITE WATER AND OLD HAWKSHEAD 49
CHAPTER VI
CONISTON WATER 60
CHAPTER VII
THE MOODS OF WASTWATER 79
CHAPTER VIII
THE GLORY OF ENNERDALE 98
CHAPTER IX
BY SOFT LOWESWATER 106
CHAPTER X
CRUMMOCK WATER 116
CHAPTER XI
BUTTERMERE 124
CHAPTER XII
THE CHARMS OF DERWENTWATER 137
CHAPTER XIII
BASSENTHWAITE 156
CHAPTER XIV
THIRLMERE FROM THE MAIN ROAD 165
CHAPTER XV
HAWESWATER AND THE BIRDS 178
CHAPTER XVI
ULLSWATER, HOME OF BEAUTY 185
CHAPTER XVII
MOUNTAIN TARNS 203
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. A Misty Morning, Newby Bridge, Windermere _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
2. Furness Abbey in the Vale of Nightshade 4
3. Windermere from Wansfell (sunset) 8
4. Swan Inn, Newby Bridge, Windermere 12
5. Near the Ferry, Windermere: Skating by Moonlight 16
6. The Old Ferry, Windermere 20
7. Old Laburnums at Newby Bridge, Windermere 24
8. Windermere and Langdale Pikes, from Lowwood 28
9. A Glimpse of Grasmere (evening sun) 30
10. Wild Hyacinths 32
11. Dungeon Ghyll Force, Langdale 34
12. Dove Cottage, Grasmere 36
13. Skelwith Force, Langdale 40
14. Sunset, Rydal Water 42
15. Grasmere Church 46
16. Esthwaite Water: Apple Blossom 50
17. An Old Street in Hawkshead 52
18. Sheep-Shearing, Esthwaite Hall Farm 56
19. Dawn, Coniston 60
20. Charcoal-Burners, Coniston Lake 62
21. Brantwood, Coniston Lake: Char-fishing 64
22. Coniston Village: the Old Butcher’s shop 66
23. Moonlight and Lamplight, Coniston 68
24. An Old Inn Kitchen, Coniston 70
25. The Shepherd, Yewdale, Coniston 72
26. Stepping-Stones, Seathwaite 74
27. Winter Sunshine, Coniston 76
28. Daffodils by the Banks of the Silvery Duddon 78
29. A Fell Fox-hunt, Head of Eskdale and Scawfell 80
30. Wastwater, from Strands 82
31. Wastwater and Scawfell 84
32. Wastdalehead and Great Gable (towards evening in autumn) 86
33. Wastwater Screes 88
34 | 2,585.903523 |
2023-11-16 19:00:10.0601270 | 2,009 | 9 | COLERIDGE, VOL. I (OF 2)***
E-text prepared by 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 44553-h.htm or 44553-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/44553/44553-h/44553-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/44553/44553-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/lettersofsamuelt01coleuoft
Project Gutenberg has the other volume of this work.
Volume II: see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/44554
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
The original text contains letters with diacritical marks
that are not represented in this text-file version.
The original text includes Greek characters that have been
replaced with transliterations in this text-file version.
LETTERS OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
[Illustration]
LETTERS OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
Edited by
ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE
In Two Volumes
VOL. I
London
William Heinemann
1895
[All rights reserved.]
The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A.
Printed by H. O. Houghton and Company.
INTRODUCTION
Hitherto no attempt has been made to publish a collection of Coleridge's
Letters. A few specimens were published in his lifetime, both in his own
works and in magazines, and, shortly after his death in 1834, a large
number appeared in print. Allsop's "Letters, Conversations, and
Recollections of S. T. Coleridge," which was issued in 1836, contains
forty-five letters or parts of letters; Cottle in his "Early
Recollections" (1837) prints, for the most part incorrectly, and in
piecemeal, some sixty in all, and Gillman, in his "Life of Coleridge"
(1838), contributes, among others, some letters addressed to himself, and
one, of the greatest interest, to Charles Lamb. In 1847, a series of early
letters to Thomas Poole appeared for the first time in the Biographical
Supplement to the "Biographia Literaria," and in 1848, when Cottle
reprinted his "Early Recollections," under the title of "Reminiscences of
Coleridge and Southey," he included sixteen letters to Thomas and Josiah
Wedgwood. In Southey's posthumous "Life of Dr. Bell," five letters of
Coleridge lie imbedded, and in "Southey's Life and Correspondence"
(1849-50), four of his letters find an appropriate place. An interesting
series was published in 1858 in the "Fragmentary Remains of Sir H. Davy,"
edited by his brother, Dr. Davy; and in the "Diary of H. C. Robinson,"
published in 1869, a few letters from Coleridge are interspersed. In 1870,
the late Mr. W. Mark W. Call printed in the "Westminster Review" eleven
letters from Coleridge to Dr. Brabant of Devizes, dated 1815 and 1816;
and a series of early letters to Godwin, 1800-1811 (some of which had
appeared in "Macmillan's Magazine" in 1864), was included by Mr. Kegan
Paul in his "William Godwin" (1876). In 1874, a correspondence between
Coleridge (1816-1818) and his publishers, Gale & Curtis, was contributed
to "Lippincott's Magazine," and in 1878, a few letters to Matilda Betham
were published in "Fraser's Magazine." During the last six years the vast
store which still remained unpublished has been drawn upon for various
memoirs and biographies. The following works containing new letters are
given in order of publication: Herr Brandl's "Samuel T. Coleridge and the
English Romantic School," 1887; "Memorials of Coleorton," edited by
Professor Knight, 1887; "Thomas Poole and his Friends," by Mrs. H.
Sandford, 1888; "Life of Wordsworth," by Professor Knight, 1889; "Memoirs
of John Murray," by Samuel Smiles, LL. D., 1891; "De Quincey Memorials,"
by Alex. Japp, LL. D., 1891; "Life of Washington Allston," 1893.
Notwithstanding these heavy draughts, more than half of the letters which
have come under my notice remain unpublished. Of more than forty which
Coleridge wrote to his wife, only one has been published. Of ninety
letters to Southey which are extant, barely a tenth have seen the light.
Of nineteen addressed to W. Sotheby, poet and patron of poets, fourteen to
Lamb's friend John Rickman, and four to Coleridge's old college friend,
Archdeacon Wrangham, none have been published. Of more than forty letters
addressed to the Morgan family, which belong for the most part to the
least known period of Coleridge's life,--the years which intervened
between his residence in Grasmere and his final settlement at
Highgate,--only two or three, preserved in the MSS. Department of the
British Museum, have been published. Of numerous letters written in later
life to his friend and amanuensis, Joseph Henry Green; to Charles
Augustus Tulk, M. P. for Sudbury; to his friends and hosts, the Gillmans;
to Cary, the translator of Dante, only a few have found their way into
print. Of more than forty to his brother, the Rev. George Coleridge, which
were accidentally discovered in 1876, only five have been printed. Of some
fourscore letters addressed to his nephews, William Hart Coleridge, John
Taylor Coleridge, Henry Nelson Coleridge, Edward Coleridge, and to his son
Derwent, all but two, or at most three, remain in manuscript. Of the
youthful letters to the Evans family, one letter has recently appeared in
the "Illustrated London News," and of the many addressed to John Thelwall,
but one was printed in the same series.
The letters to Poole, of which more than a hundred have been preserved,
those addressed to his Bristol friend, Josiah Wade, and the letters to
Wordsworth, which, though few in number, are of great length, have been
largely used for biographical purposes, but much, of the highest interest,
remains unpublished. Of smaller groups of letters, published and
unpublished, I make no detailed mention, but in the latter category are
two to Charles Lamb, one to John Sterling, five to George Cattermole, one
to John Kenyon, and many others to more obscure correspondents. Some
important letters to Lord Jeffrey, to John Murray, to De Quincey, to Hugh
James Rose, and to J. H. B. Williams, have, in the last few years, been
placed in my hands for transcription.
A series of letters written between the years 1796 and 1814 to the Rev.
John Prior Estlin, minister of the Unitarian Chapel at Lewin's Mead,
Bristol, was printed some years ago for the Philobiblon Society, with an
introduction by Mr. Henry A. Bright. One other series of letters has also
been printed for private circulation. In 1889, the late Miss Stuart placed
in my hands transcriptions of eighty-seven letters addressed by Coleridge
to her father, Daniel Stuart, editor of "The Morning Post" and "Courier,"
and these, together with letters from Wordsworth and Southey, were printed
in a single volume bearing the title, "Letters from the Lake Poets." Miss
Stuart contributed a short account of her father's life, and also a
reminiscence of Coleridge, headed "A Farewell."
Coleridge's biographers, both of the past and present generations, have
met with a generous response to their appeal for letters to be placed in
their hands for reference and for publication, but it is probable that
many are in existence which have been withheld, sometimes no doubt
intentionally, but more often from inadvertence. From his boyhood the poet
was a voluminous if an irregular correspondent, and many letters which he
is known to have addressed to his earliest friends--to Middleton, to
Robert Allen, to Valentine and Sam Le Grice, to Charles Lloyd, to his
Stowey neighbour, John Cruikshank, to Dr. Beddoes, and others--may yet be
forthcoming. It is certain that he corresponded with Mrs. Clarkson, but if
any letters have been preserved they have not come under my notice. It is
| 2,586.080167 |
2023-11-16 19:00:10.0601780 | 1,031 | 8 |
Produced by David Edwards, Demian Katz and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Images
courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University
(http://digital.library.villanova.edu/))
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING
ADVENTURE
MOTOR
FICTION
NO. 16
JUNE 12, 1909
FIVE
CENTS
MOTOR MATT'S
QUEST
_OR_ THREE CHUMS
IN STRANGE WATERS
_By THE AUTHOR OF "MOTOR MATT"_
[Illustration: _"HELUP, OR I VAS A GONER!" YELLED CARL,
LEAPING INTO THE WATER AS MOTOR MATT
MADE READY TO HURL THE HARPOON._]
_STREET & SMITH,
PUBLISHERS,
NEW YORK_
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
_Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Entered according to
Act of Congress in the year 1909, in the Office of the Librarian of
Congress, Washington, D. C., by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Avenue,
New York, N. Y._
No. 16. NEW YORK, June 12, 1909. Price Five Cents.
Motor Matt's Quest;
OR,
THREE CHUMS IN STRANGE WATERS.
By the author of "MOTOR MATT."
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. IN THE DEPTHS.
CHAPTER II. OUT OF THE JAWS OF DEATH.
CHAPTER III. THE SEALED ORDERS.
CHAPTER IV. THE AMERICAN CONSUL.
CHAPTER V. MOTOR MATT'S FORBEARANCE.
CHAPTER VI. "ON THE JUMP."
CHAPTER VII. THE LANDING PARTY.
CHAPTER VIII. CARL IN TROUBLE.
CHAPTER IX. A FRIEND IN NEED.
CHAPTER X. STRANGE REVELATIONS.
CHAPTER XI. ONE CHANCE IN TEN.
CHAPTER XII. BY A NARROW MARGIN.
CHAPTER XIII. WAITING FOR SOMETHING TO HAPPEN.
CHAPTER XIV. MOTOR MATT'S GREAT PLAY.
CHAPTER XV. ON THE WAY TO BELIZE.
CHAPTER XVI. A DASH OF TABASCO.
Mischievous Ned.
TERRIBLE FATE OF A DARING INDIAN.
STUMBLING UPON GOLD MINES.
YEAR OF THE COCK.
CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.
=Motor Matt=, a lad who is at home with every variety of motor, and
whose never-failing nerve serves to carry him through difficulties
that would daunt any ordinary young fellow. Because of his daring
as a racer with bicycle, motor-cycle and automobile he is known as
"Mile-a-minute Matt." Motor-boats, air ships and submarines come
naturally in his line, and consequently he lives in an atmosphere of
adventure in following up his "hobby."
=Dick Ferral=, a young sea dog from Canada, with all a sailor's
superstitions, but in spite of all that a royal chum, ready to stand
by the friend of his choice through thick and thin.
=Carl Pretzel=, a cheerful and rollicking German boy, stout of frame
as well as of heart, who is led by a fortunate accident to link his
fortunes with those of Motor Matt.
=Hays Jordan=, United States consul at Belize. A man of pluck and
determination, who furnishes valuable information about his friend,
Jeremiah Coleman, and even more valuable personal services during the
rescue of Coleman.
=Jeremiah Coleman=, another United States consul who has been
spirited away by Central American revolutionists in the hope of
driving a sharp bargain with the United States Government for the
release of a captured filibuster named James Sixty.
=Tirzal=, a half-breed mahogany-cutter who serves Jordan in the
capacity of spy, and who has been a pilot along the coast.
=Speake, Gaines and Clackett=, part of the crew of the _Grampus_.
=Cassidy=, mate of the _Grampus_ who, because of a fancied grievance,
takes the wrong trail at the forks of the road. An old friend whom
Matt found to be an enemy and then made a friend again.
=Abner Fingal=, skipper of the notorious schooner, _North Star_, and
brother of James Sixty, to whose evil nature Motor Matt owes most of
| 2,586.080218 |
2023-11-16 19:00:10.0635460 | 3,724 | 17 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Josephine Paolucci
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE ROVER BOYS AT COLLEGE
OR
THE RIGHT ROAD AND THE WRONG
BY
ARTHUR M. WINFIELD
Author of "The Rover Boys at School," "The Rover Boys on the Ocean,"
"The Rover Boys on Treasure Isle," Etc.
MCMX
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
* * * * *
THE ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL, THE ROVER BOYS ON THE OCEAN, THE ROVER BOYS ON
LAND AND SEA, THE ROVER BOYS IN CAMP, THE ROVER BOYS ON THE PLAINS, THE
ROVER BOYS IN SOUTHERN WATERS, THE ROVER BOYS ON TREASURE ISLE.
CONTENTS
I ON THE TRAIN
II AT THE SANDERSON HOUSE
III LIKE KNIGHTS OF OLD
IV WHAT HAPPENED AT THE CAMPUS FENCE
V GETTING ACQUAINTED
VI A HAZING, AND WHAT FOLLOWED
VII THE ARRIVAL OF SONGBIRD
VIII THE COLORS CONTEST
IX TOM IN TROUBLE
X SONGBIRD MAKES A DISCOVERY
XI HOW TOM ESCAPED PUNISHMENT
XII IN WHICH THE GIRLS ARRIVE
XIII THE ROWING RACE
XIV WILLIAM PHILANDER TUBES
XV AN AUTOMOBILING ADVENTURE
XVI SOMETHING ABOUT A CANE
XVII A MISUNDERSTANDING
XVIII THE GREAT FOOTBALL GAME
XIX MORE COMPLICATIONS
XX DAYS OF WAITING
XXI HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS
XXII WORD AT LAST
XXIII THE SPRINGTIME OF LIFE
XXIV AT THE HAUNTED HOUSE
XXV IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY
XXVI THE EVIDENCE AGAINST THEM
XXVII IN DISGRACE
XXVIII DARK DAYS
XXIX WHAT THE GIRLS DISCOVERED
XXX A BEGINNING AND AN ENDING
THE ROVER BOYS AT COLLEGE
CHAPTER I
ON THE TRAIN
"We're making time now, Tom."
"Making time?" repeated Tom Rover as he gazed out of the car window at
the telegraph poles flashing past. "I should say we were, Sam! Why, we
must be running sixty miles an hour!"
"If we are not we are making pretty close to it," came from a third
boy of the party in the parlor car. "I think the engineer is trying to
make up some of the time we lost at the last stop."
"That must be it, Dick," said Sam Rover. "Gracious, how we are
rocking!" he added as the train rushed around a sharp curve and nearly
threw him from his chair.
"I hope we get to Ashton on time," remarked Tom Rover. "I want to take
a look around the grounds before it gets dark."
"That's Tom, wanting to see it all before he sleeps!" cried Sam Rover
with a grin. "You look out, Tom, that you don't get into disgrace the
first thing, as you did when we went to Putnam Hall Don't you remember
that giant firecracker, and how Josiah Crabtree locked you up in a
cell for setting it off?"
"Ugh! Will I ever forget it!" groaned Tom, making a wry face. "But
I got the best of old Crabtree, didn't I?" he continued, his face
brightening.
"Wonder if we'll make as many friends at college as we did at Putnam
Hall," remarked Dick Rover. "Those were jolly times and no mistake!
Think of the feasts, and the hazings, and the baseball and football,
and the rackets with the Pornell students, and all that!"
"Speaking of hazing, I heard that some of the hazing at the college
we're bound for is fierce," came from Sam Rover.
"Well, we'll have to stand for what comes, Sam," answered his big
brother. "No crying quit' here."
"Right you are, Dick," said Tom, "At the same time if--Great Caesar's
ghost, what's up now!"
As Tom uttered the last words a shrill whistle from the locomotive
pierced the air. Then came the sudden gripping of the air brakes on
the car wheels, and the express came to a stop with a shock that
pitched all the passengers from their seats. Tom and Sam went
sprawling in a heap in the aisle and Dick came down on top of them.
"Hi, get off of me!" spluttered Sam, who was underneath.
"What's the matter? Have we run into another train?" asked Tom as he
pushed Dick to one side and arose.
"I don't know," answered the older brother. "Something is wrong,
that's certain."
"Are you hurt, Sam?" asked Tom as he helped the youngest Rover to his
feet.
"No--not much," was the panting reply. "Say, we stopped in a hurry all
right, didn't we?"
With the shock had come loud cries from the other people in the car,
and it was found that one young lady had fainted. Everybody wanted to
know what was the matter, but nobody could answer the question. The
colored porter ran to the platform and opened the vestibule door. Tom
followed the man and so did Sam and Dick.
"Freight train ahead, off the track," announced Tom. "We ran into the
last car."
"Let us go up front and see how bad it is," returned Dick. "Maybe this
will tie us up here for hours."
"Oh, I hope not," cried Sam. "I want to get to the college just as
soon as possible. I'm dying to know what it's like."
"We can be thankful we were not hurt, Sam," said his older brother.
"If our engineer hadn't stopped the train as he did we might have had
a fearful smashup."
"I know it," answered Sam soberly, and then the boys walked forward to
learn the full extent of the damage done and what prospects there were
of continuing their journey.
To my old readers the lads just mentioned will need no special
introduction, but for the benefit of those who have not read the
previous volumes in this "Rover Boys Series" let me state that the
brothers were three in number, Dick being the oldest, fun-loving Tom
coming next and Sam the youngest. They were the sons of one Anderson
Rover, a rich widower, and when at home lived with their father and an
aunt and an uncle on a beautiful farm called Valley Brook.
From the farm, and while their father was in Africa, the boys had been
sent by their Uncle Randolph to school, as related in the first book
of the series, called "The Rover Boys at School." At this place,
called Putnam Hall, they made many friends and also a few enemies and
had "the time of their lives," as Tom often expressed it.
A term at school had been followed by a short trip on the ocean, and
then the boys, in company with their uncle, went to the jungles of
Africa to rescue Mr. Rover, who was a captive of a savage tribe of
natives. After that came trips out West, and to the Great Lakes, and
to the mountains, and, returning to school, the lads went into camp
with the other cadets. Then they took another long trip on land and
sea and led a Crusoe-like life on an island of the Pacific Ocean.
"I think we'd better settle down now," said Dick on returning home
from being cast away, but this was not to be. They took a house-boat
trip down the Ohio and the Mississippi rivers, had a number of
adventures on the plains and then found themselves in southern waters,
where they solved the mystery of a deserted steam yacht.
They returned to the farm and to Putnam Hall, and for a time matters
went along quietly. On account of attending to some business for his
father, Dick had fallen somewhat behind in his studies, and Tom and
Sam did their best to catch up to him, and, as a consequence, all
three of the youths graduated from Putnam Hall at the same time.
"And now for college!" Sam had said, and all were anxious to know
where their parent intended to send them next But instead of settling
this question Mr. Rover came forward with a proposition that was as
novel as it was inviting. This was nothing less than to visit a spot
in the West Indies, known as Treasure Isle, and made a hunt for a
large treasure secreted there during a rebellion in one of the Central
American countries.
"A treasure hunt! Just the thing!" Dick had said, and his brothers
agreed with him. The lads were filled with excitement over the
prospect, and for the time being all thoughts of going to college were
thrust aside.
From Mr. Rover it was learned that the treasure belonged to the estate
of a Mr. Stanhope, who had died some years before. Mr. Stanhope's
widow was well known to the Rover boys, and Dick thought that Dora
Stanhope, the daughter, was the finest girl in the whole world. There
was also another relative, a Mrs. Laning--the late Mr. Stanhope's
sister--who was to share in the estate, and she had two daughters,
Grace and Nellie, two young ladies who were especial favorites with
Sam and Tom.
"Oh, we've got to find that treasure," said Tom. "Think of what it
means to the Stanhopes and the Lanings."
"They'll be rich--and they deserve to be," answered his brother Sam.
It may be added here that the Rovers were wealthy, so they did not
begrudge the treasure to others.
A steam yacht was chartered and a party was made up, consisting of the
Rovers, several of the boys' school chums, Mrs. Stanhope and Dora and
Mrs. Laning and Grace and Nellie. The steam yacht carried a fine crew
and also an old tar called Bahama Bill, who knew the exact location of
the treasure.
Before sailing it was learned that some rivals were also after the
treasure. One of these was a sharper named Sid Merrick, who had on
several occasions tried to get the best of the Rovers and failed. With
Merrick was Tad Sobber, his nephew, a youth who at Putnam Hall had
been a bitter foe to Dick, Tom and Sam. Sobber had sent the Rovers a
box containing a live poisonous snake, but the snake got away and bit
another pupil. This lad knew all about the sending of the reptile and
he exposed Tad Sobber, and the latter, growing alarmed, ran away from
the school.
The search for the treasure proved a long one, and Sid Merrick and Tad
Sobber did all in their power to keep the wealth from falling into the
hands of the Rovers and their friends. But the Rovers won out in the
quest and sailed away with the treasure on board the steam yacht. The
vessel of their enemies followed them, but a hurricane came up and the
other ship was lost with nearly all on board.
"Well, that's the end of Sid Merrick and Tad Sobber," said Dick when
he heard this news. "If they are at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean
they can't bother us any more." But Dick was mistaken in his surmise.
It was true that Sid Merrick had been drowned, but Tad Sobber was
alive, having been rescued by a schooner bound for London, and he
was now on his way back to the United States, more bitter than ever
against the Rovers, and with a determination to do all in his power
to bring Dick, Tom and Sam to grief and gain possession of the money
which he and his uncle had claimed belonged to them instead of to the
Stanhope estate.
On arriving at Philadelphia from the West Indies the treasure was
deposited in a strong box of a local trust company. From it the
expenses of the trip were paid, and the sailors who had aided in the
search were suitably rewarded. Later on the balance of the treasure
was divided according to the terms of Mr. Stanhope's will. This placed
a large sum of money in the hands of Mrs. Stanhope, both for herself
and Dora, and also a goodly amount in the hands of Mrs. Laning for
herself and Grace and Nellie.
The Stanhopes had always been fairly well off, but not so the Lanings.
John Laning was a farmer, and this sudden change to riches bewildered
him.
"Why, mother," he said to his wife, "whatever will you and the gals do
with the money?"
"Several things, John," she answered. "In the first place, you are not
going to work so hard and in the next place the girls are going to
have a better education."
"Well, I'm not afraid of work," answered the farmer. "About
eddication, if they want it--well, it's their money and they can have
all the learnin' they want."
"Dora is going to a boarding school and Nellie and Grace want to go
with her," went on Mrs. Laning.
"Where is Dora going?"
"To a place called Hope Seminary. Her mother knows the lady who is the
principal."
"Well, if it's a good place, I reckon the gals can go too. But it will
be terrible lonesome here without 'em."
"I know, John, but we want the girls to be somebody, now they have
money, don't we?"
"Sure we do," answered Mr. Laning readily.
So it was arranged that the three girls should go to Hope Seminary,
located several miles from the town of Ashton, in one of the Central
States. In the meantime the Rover boys were speculating on what
college they were to attend. Yale was mentioned, and Harvard and
Princeton, and also several institutions located in the Middle West.
"Boys, wouldn't you like to go to Brill College?" asked their father
one day. "That's a fine institution--not quite so large as some but
just as good." And he smiled in a peculiar manner.
"Brill? Where is that?" asked Dick.
"It is near the town of Ashton, about two miles from Hope Seminary,
the school Dora Stanhope and the Laning girls are going to attend."
And Mr. Rover smiled again.
"Brill College for mine," said Sam promptly and in a manner that made
his brothers laugh.
"Sam wants to be near Grace," said Tom.
"Well, don't you want to be near Nellie?" retorted the youngest Rover.
"Of course I do. And I reckon Dick won't be angry at being where he
can occasionally see Dora," went on the fun-loving Rover with a sly
wink. "Of course it's nice enough to write letters and send boxes of
chocolates by mail, but it's a good deal better to take a stroll in
the moonlight and hold hands, eh, Dick?"
"Is that what you do?" asked Dick, but his face grew very red as he
spoke.
"Never in the wide, wide world!" cried Tom.
"I leave that for my sentimental brothers, big and little."
"Who is sentimental?" exclaimed Sam. "Maybe I don't remember you and
Nellie on the deck of the steam yacht that moonlight night--"
"Aw, cut it out!" muttered Tom. He turned to his father, who had been
called from the room for a moment. "If you think Brill College a good
one, dad, it will suit me."
"And it will suit me, too," added Sam.
"I mentioned Brill for two reasons," explained Mr. Rover. "The one was
because it is near Hope Seminary and the other is because I happen to
know the president, Dr. John Wallington, quite well; in fact, we
went to school together. He is a fine gentleman--as fine a fellow as
Captain Putnam--and I am sure his college must be a good one."
"If it's as good as dear old Putnam Hall, I shall be well content,"
answered Dick.
"Then you are satisfied to go there, Dick?"
"Yes, sir."
So it was settled and arrangements were at once made for the three
boys to go to Brill. Fortunately it was found that their diplomas
from Putnam Hall would admit them to the freshmen class without
examination. All of the boys wrote letters to the girls and received
answers in return.
The college was to open two weeks before the seminary, so that to
journey to Ashton together would be out of the question.
"Well, we'll see the girls later, anyway," said Dick. "I hope they
like it at Hope and we like it at Brill; then we'll have some splendid
times together."
"Right you are," answered | 2,586.083586 |
2023-11-16 19:00:10.0635690 | 980 | 148 |
Produced by Don Lainson and Andrew Sly. HTML version by Al Haines.
An African Millionaire
Episodes in the Life of the Illustrious Colonel Clay
By Grant Allen
First published in 1897
CONTENTS
1. The Episode of the Mexican Seer
2. The Episode of the Diamond Links
3. The Episode of the Old Master
4. The Episode of the Tyrolean Castle
5. The Episode of the Drawn Game
6. The Episode of the German Professor
7. The Episode of the Arrest of the Colonel
8. The Episode of the Seldon Gold-Mine
9. The Episode of the Japanned Dispatch-Box
10. The Episode of the Game of Poker
11. The Episode of the Bertillon Method
12. The Episode of the Old Bailey
I
THE EPISODE OF THE MEXICAN SEER
My name is Seymour Wilbraham Wentworth. I am brother-in-law and
secretary to Sir Charles Vandrift, the South African millionaire and
famous financier. Many years ago, when Charlie Vandrift was a small
lawyer in Cape Town, I had the (qualified) good fortune to marry his
sister. Much later, when the Vandrift estate and farm near Kimberley
developed by degrees into the Cloetedorp Golcondas, Limited, my
brother-in-law offered me the not unremunerative post of secretary;
in which capacity I have ever since been his constant and attached
companion.
He is not a man whom any common sharper can take in, is Charles
Vandrift. Middle height, square build, firm mouth, keen eyes--the
very picture of a sharp and successful business genius. I have only
known one rogue impose upon Sir Charles, and that one rogue, as the
Commissary of Police at Nice remarked, would doubtless have imposed
upon a syndicate of Vidocq, Robert Houdin, and Cagliostro.
We had run across to the Riviera for a few weeks in the season. Our
object being strictly rest and recreation from the arduous duties
of financial combination, we did not think it necessary to take our
wives out with us. Indeed, Lady Vandrift is absolutely wedded to the
joys of London, and does not appreciate the rural delights of the
Mediterranean littoral. But Sir Charles and I, though immersed in
affairs when at home, both thoroughly enjoy the complete change from
the City to the charming vegetation and pellucid air on the terrace
at Monte Carlo. We _are_ so fond of scenery. That delicious view
over the rocks of Monaco, with the Maritime Alps in the rear, and
the blue sea in front, not to mention the imposing Casino in the
foreground, appeals to me as one of the most beautiful prospects in
all Europe. Sir Charles has a sentimental attachment for the place.
He finds it restores and freshens him, after the turmoil of London,
to win a few hundreds at roulette in the course of an afternoon
among the palms and cactuses and pure breezes of Monte Carlo. The
country, say I, for a jaded intellect! However, we never on any
account actually stop in the Principality itself. Sir Charles thinks
Monte Carlo is not a sound address for a financier's letters. He
prefers a comfortable hotel on the Promenade des Anglais at Nice,
where he recovers health and renovates his nervous system by taking
daily excursions along the coast to the Casino.
This particular season we were snugly ensconced at the Hotel des
Anglais. We had capital quarters on the first floor--salon, study,
and bedrooms--and found on the spot a most agreeable cosmopolitan
society. All Nice, just then, was ringing with talk about a curious
impostor, known to his followers as the Great Mexican Seer, and
supposed to be gifted with second sight, as well as with endless
other supernatural powers. Now, it is a peculiarity of my able
brother-in-law's that, when he meets with a quack, he burns to
expose him; he is so keen a man of business himself that it gives
him, so to speak, a disinterested pleasure to unmask and detect
imposture in others. Many ladies at the hotel, some of whom had met
and conversed with the Mexican Seer, were constantly telling us
strange stories of his doings. He had disclosed to one the present
whereabouts of a | 2,586.083609 |
2023-11-16 19:00:10.2405600 | 592 | 88 |
Produced by Gerard Arthus, Charlene Taylor, Jana Srna 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 Notes:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible, including any non-standard spelling.
Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
]
WHERE LOVE IS
THERE GOD IS ALSO
BY
LYOF N. TOLSTOI
TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN
BY
NATHAN HASKELL DOLE
NEW YORK
THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1887,
By Thomas Y. Crowell & Co.
WHERE LOVE IS THERE GOD IS ALSO
In the city lived the shoemaker, Martuin Avdyeitch. He lived in a
basement, in a little room with one window. The window looked out on the
street. Through the window he used to watch the people passing by;
although only their feet could be seen, yet by the boots, Martuin
Avdyeitch recognized the people. Martuin Avdyeitch had lived long in one
place, and had many acquaintances. Few pairs of boots in his district
had not been in his hands once and again. Some he would half-sole, some
he would patch, some he would stitch around, and occasionally he would
also put on new uppers. And through the window he often recognized his
work.
Avdyeitch had plenty to do, because he was a faithful workman, used good
material, did not make exorbitant charges, and kept his word. If it was
possible for him to finish an order by a certain time, he would accept
it; otherwise, he would not deceive you,--he would tell you so
beforehand. And all knew Avdyeitch, and he was never out of work.
Avdyeitch had always been a good man; but as he grew old, he began to
think more about his soul, and get nearer to God. Martuin's wife had
died when he was still living with his master. His wife left him a boy
three years old. None of their other children had lived. All the eldest
had died in childhood. Martuin at first intended to send his little son
to his sister in the village, but afterward he felt sorry for him; he
thought to himself:--
"It will be hard for my Kapitoshka to live in a strange family. I shall
keep him with me."
And Avdyeitch left his master, and went into lod | 2,586.2606 |
2023-11-16 19:00:10.4025020 | 1,057 | 43 |
Produced by Charlene Taylor, William Flis, Jonathan Ingram
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Library of Early
Journals.)
NOTES AND QUERIES:
A MEDIUM OF INTER-COMMUNICATION FOR LITERARY MEN, ARTISTS,
ANTIQUARIES, GENEALOGISTS, ETC.
* * * * *
"When found, make a note of."--CAPTAIN CUTTLE.
* * * * *
No. 60.] SATURDAY, DECEMBER 21. 1850. [Price Threepence. Stamped
Edition 4d.
* * * * *{489}
CONTENTS.
Notes:-- Page
Division of Intellectual Labour 489
On a Passage in "Love's Labour's Lost" 490
Treatise of Equivocation 490
Parallel Passages, by Albert Cohn 491
Minor Notes:--True or False Papal Bulls--Burning Bush
of Sinai--The Crocodile--Umbrella--Rollin's Ancient
History, and History of the Arts and Sciences--MSS.
of Locke--The Letter [gh]--A Hint to Publishers 491
Queries:--
Bibliographical Queries 492
Minor Queries:--Meaning of "Rab. Surdam"--Abbot Richard
of Strata Florida--Cardinal Chalmers--Armorial
Bearings--"Fiat Justitia"--Painting by C. Bega--Darcy
Lever Church--R. Ferrer--Writers on the
Inquisition--Buckden--True Blue--Passage in
"Hamlet"--Inventor of a secret Cypher--Fossil Elk of
Ireland--Red Sindon--Lights on the Altar--Child's
Book by Beloe 493
Replies:--
Mercenary Preacher, by Henry Campkin 495
"The Owl is abroad," by Dr. E.F. Rimbault 495
Old St. Pancras Church, by J. Yeowell 496
Replies to Minor Queries:--Cardinal Allen's
Admonition--Bolton's Ace--Portrait of Cardinal
Beaton--"He that runs may read"--Sir George
Downing--Burning to Death, or Burning of the
Hill--The Roscommon Peerage--The Word "after"
in the Rubric--Disputed Passage in the
"Tempest"--Lady Compton's Letter--Midwives
licensed--Echo Song--The Irish Brigade--To save
one's bacon--"The Times" Newspaper and the Coptic
Language--Luther's Hymns--Osnaburg Bishopric--Scandal
against Queen Elizabeth--Pretended reprint of Ancient
Poetry--Martin Family--Meaning of "Ge-ho"--Lady Norton 497
Miscellaneous:--
Notes on Books, Sales, Catalogues, &c. 501
Books and Odd Volumes Wanted 501
Notices to Correspondents 502
Advertisements 502
* * * * *
Notes.
DIVISION OF INTELLECTUAL LABOUR.
Every one confesses, I believe, the correctness of the _principle_
called "Division of labour." But if any one would form an adequate
estimate of the ratio of the effect produced, in this way, to the
labour which is expended, let him consult Dr. Adam Smith. I think he
states, as an example, that a single labourer cannot make more than
ten pins in a day; but if eight labourers are employed, and each of
them performs one of the eight separate processes requisite to the
formation of a pin, there will not merely be eight times the number of
pins formed in a day, but nearly eighty times the number. (Not having
the book by me, I cannot be certain of the exact statistics.)
If this principle is proved, then, to be of such extraordinary
utility, why should it not be made serviceable in other matters
besides the "beaver-like" propensity of amassing wealth and satisfying
our material desires? Why should not your periodical be instrumental
in transferring this invaluable principle to the labours of the
intellectual world? If your correspondents were to send you abstracts
or _precis_ of the books which they read, would there not accrue a
fourfold benefit? viz.:
1. A division of intellectual labour; so that the amount of knowledge
available to each person is multiplied in an increasing ratio.
2. Knowledge is thus presented in so condensed a form as to be more
easily comprehended at a glance; | 2,586.422542 |
2023-11-16 19:00:10.4446130 | 1,067 | 16 |
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Sporting Scenes amongst the Kaffirs of South Africa,
by Captain Alfred W. Drayson.
________________________________________________________________________
_______________________________________________________
________________ SPORTING SCENES AMONGST THE KAFFIRS OF SOUTH AFRICA,
BY CAPTAIN ALFRED W. DRAYSON.
PREFACE.
Nearly every person with whom I have conversed since my return from
South Africa, has appeared to take great interest in the Kaffirs, the
wild animals, and other inhabitants of that country.
I am not vain enough to suppose that my friends have merely pretended
this interest for the sole object of allowing me an opportunity of
talking, and have thereby deluded me into a belief of affording
amusement. But I really think that the opinions which they have
expressed are genuine, and that perhaps the same wish for information on
the subject of the Kaffirs, or the wild beasts of the Cape, may be more
widely extended than I have been able personally to prove.
Most men who have written on South Africa, have been either sporting
giants, scientific men, or travellers who have gone over ground never
before trodden by the white man. I am neither of these.
The first I am not, for the blood spilled by me was but a drop compared
to the ocean that many have caused to flow in this land.
Unfortunately I am not scientific; but, perhaps, from this very defect,
I may become the more intelligible to the general reader of the
following pages, who may comprehend my simple names for simple things,
rather than those of a polysyllabic character.
I know that I have sunk miserably in the opinion of _savants_, in
consequence of my inability to tell whether or not the _Terstraemiaceae_
grew luxuriantly in Africa. I only knew that the plains bore beautiful
flowers, and I learnt their Kaffir names; that the bush had fine trees,
some with, sweet-scented blossoms, others with fruit, and I knew which
fruit was good to eat.
By travellers, I may be considered presumptuous in attempting to write
on South Africa, when I never crossed the Vaal river or penetrated far
into the interior; but I must trust that they will pardon my temerity.
I was obliged, from circumstances, to pursue the game nearer my home,
which required "more patient search and vigil long," for the creatures
had become more wild or savage than those animals in the interior that
were seldom disturbed.
From sketches and a rough journal compiled on the spot, I have formed
this book.
CHAPTER ONE.
VOYAGE TO THE CAPE--DISCOMFORTS OF A LONG VOYAGE--THE WOLF TURNED LAMB--
PORPOISES AND PORTUGUESE MEN-OF-WAR--THE MATE'S STORY--CATCHING A
SHARK--AN ALBATROSS HOOKED--CAPE TOWN--ALGOA BAY--OX-WAGGON--
SOUTH-AFRICAN TRAVELLING--OBSTINACY CONQUERED--EXPEDITIOUS JOURNEYING--
FRONTIER OF THE COLONY.
To an indifferent sailor, a long voyage is not by any means a pleasant
thing; and I quite agree with the sage who said that a man on board a
ship was a prisoner, with the additional risk of being drowned. One
feels a continual yearning for the green fields, fresh butter and milk;
and the continual noise, confusion, and other disagreeables, are more
trying to temper and patience than can be imagined by a quiet
stay-at-home gentleman.
We left England in the coldest weather that had been remembered for
years. A month's daily skating on the Serpentine was a bad preparation
for a week's calm, under a burning sun, within a degree of the line,
twenty-seven days afterwards. The frames of Englishmen, however, appear
to be better adapted for the changes of climate than are those of the
inhabitants of any other country.
We passed the Bay of Biscay with the usual rough weather, had a distant
look at Madeira, and entered the trade-winds, without having met with
any other disaster than a sort of mutiny amongst the crew, who, headed
by a contumacious giant, refused to attend divine service on a
Sunday. A detachment of half a dozen men, with the captain and the mate
at their head, soon brought the gentleman in question to reason;
forty-eight hours in irons, on bread and water, entirely changed his
view of the matter, and he came out from the encounter a very lamb.
I frequently remained on deck in the first watches of the night, during
the pleasant sailing in the trade-winds, between the Canary Islands and
the west coast of Africa, a part of the world that has always been
remembered by me for its beautiful climate. The light breeze caused
little more than a ripple | 2,586.464653 |
Subsets and Splits
No saved queries yet
Save your SQL queries to embed, download, and access them later. Queries will appear here once saved.