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Produced by Chuck Greif, MWS and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
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[Illustration: _The Cameo Series_]
A Minor Poet
[Illustration: portrait of Amy Levy]
A Minor Poet
And other Verse
by
AMY LEVY
CAMEO SERIES
T.FISHER UNWIN PATERNOSTER SQ.
LONDON E.C. MDCCCXCI.
[Illustration: text decoration]
_Second Edition_
This volume is a reprint of that issued in 1884, with the addition of a
sonnet and a translation, from a volume published in Cambridge in 1881,
and now out of print.
[Illustration: text decoration]
_Contents._
[Illustration: text decoration]
PAGE
_To a Dead Poet_ 11
A MINOR POET 13
XANTIPPE 23
MEDEA 35
SINFONIA EROICA 58
TO SYLVIA 60
A GREEK GIRL 62
MAGDALEN 65
CHRISTOPHER FOUND 69
A DIRGE 74
THE SICK MAN AND THE NIGHTINGALE 76
TO DEATH 77
A JUNE-TIDE ECHO 78
TO LALLIE 80
IN A MINOR KEY 83
A FAREWELL 86
A CROSS-ROAD EPITAPH 87
EPITAPH 88
SONNET 89
TRANSLATED FROM GEIBEL 90
[Illustration: text decoration]
_To a Dead Poet._
_I knew not if to laugh or weep;_
_They sat and talked of you--_
_“’Twas here he sat; ’twas this he said!_
_’Twas that he used to do._
_“Here is the book wherein he read,_
_The room, wherein he dwelt;_
_And he” (they said) “was such a man,_
_Such things he thought and felt.”_
_I sat and sat, I did not stir;_
_They talked and talked away._
_I was as mute as any stone,_
_I had no word to say._
_They talked and talked; like to a stone_
_My heart grew in my breast--_
_I, who had never seen your face_
_Perhaps I knew you best._
[Illustration: text decoration]
_A Minor Poet._
“_What should such fellows as I do,_
_Crawling between earth and heaven?_”
[Illustration: text decoration]
Here is the phial; here I turn the key
Sharp in the lock. Click!--there’s no doubt it turned.
This is the third time; there is luck in threes--
Queen Luck, that rules the world, befriend me now
And freely I’ll forgive you many wrongs!
Just as the draught began to work, first time,
Tom Leigh, my friend (as friends go in the world),
Burst in, and drew the phial from my hand,
(Ah, Tom! ah, Tom! that was a sorry turn!)
And lectured me a lecture, all compact
Of neatest, newest phrases, freshly culled
From works of newest culture: “common good;”
“The world’s great harmonies;” “must be content
With knowing God works all things for the best,
And Nature never stumbles.” Then again,
“The common good,” and still, “the common, good;”
And what a small thing was our joy or grief
When weigh’d with that of thousands. Gentle Tom,
But you might wag your philosophic tongue
From morn till eve, and still the thing’s the same:
I am myself, as each man is himself--
Feels his own pain, joys his own joy, and loves
With his own love, no other’s. Friend, the world
Is but one man; one man is but the world.
And I am I, and you are Tom, that bleeds
When needles prick your flesh (mark, yours, not mine).
I must confess it; I can feel the pulse
A-beating at my heart, yet never knew
The throb of cosmic pulses. I lament
The death of youth’s ideal in my heart;
And, to be honest, never yet rejoiced
In the world’s progress--scarce, indeed, discerned;
(For still it seems that God’s a Sisyphus
With the world for stone).
You shake your head. I’m base,
Ignoble? Who is noble--you or I?
_I was not once thus?_ Ah, my friend, we are
As the Fates make us.
This time is the third;
The second time the flask fell from my hand,
Its drowsy juices spilt upon the board;
And there my face fell flat, and all the life
Crept from my limbs, and hand and foot were bound
With mighty chains, subtle, intangible;
While still the mind held to its wonted use,
Or rather grew intense and keen with dread,
An awful dread--I thought I was in Hell.
In Hell, in Hell! Was ever Hell conceived
By mortal brain, by brain Divine devised,
Darker, more fraught with torment, than the world
For such as I? A creature maimed and marr’d
From very birth. A blot, a blur, a note
All out of tune in this world’s instrument.
A base thing, yet not knowing to fulfil
Base functions. A high thing, yet all unmeet
For work that’s high. A dweller on the earth,
Yet not content to dig with other men
Because of certain sudden sights and sounds
(Bars of broke music; furtive, fleeting glimpse
Of angel faces ’thwart the grating seen)
Perceived in Heaven. Yet when I approach
To catch the sound’s completeness, to absorb
The faces’ full perfection, Heaven’s gate,
Which then had stood ajar, sudden falls to,
And I, a-shiver in the dark and cold,
Scarce hear afar the mocking tones of men:
“He would not dig, forsooth; but he must strive
For higher fruits than what our tillage yields;
Behold what comes, my brothers, of vain pride!”
Why play with figures? trifle prettily
With this my grief which very simply ’s said,
“There is no place for me in all the world”?
The world’s a rock, and I will beat no more
A breast of flesh and blood against a rock....
A stride across the planks for old time’s sake.
Ah, bare, small room that I have sorrowed in;
Ay, and on sunny days, haply, rejoiced;
We know some things together, you and I!
Hold there, you rangèd row of books! In vain
You beckon from your shelf. You’ve stood my friends
Where all things else were foes; yet now I’ll turn
My back upon you, even as the world
Turns it on me. And yet--farewell, farewell!
You, lofty Shakespere, with the tattered leaves
And fathomless great heart, your binding’s bruised
Yet did I love you less? Goethe, farewell;
Farewell, triumphant smile and tragic eyes,
And pitiless world-wisdom!
For all men
These two. And ’tis farewell with you, my friends,
More dear because more near: Theokritus;
Heine that stings and smiles; Prometheus’ bard;
(I’ve grown too coarse for Shelley latterly:)
And one wild singer of to-day, whose song
Is all aflame with passionate bard’s blood
Lash’d into foam by pain and the world’s wrong.
At least, he has a voice to cry his pain;
For him, no silent writhing in the dark,
No muttering of mute lips, no straining out
Of a weak throat a-choke with pent-up sound,
A-throb with pent-up passion....
Ah, my sun!
That’s you, then, at the window, looking in
To beam farewell on one who’s loved you long
And very truly. Up, you creaking thing,
You squinting, cobwebbed casement!
So, at last,
I can drink in the sunlight. How it falls
Across that endless sea of London roofs,
Weaving such golden wonders on the grey,
That almost, for the moment, we forget
The world of woe beneath them.
Underneath,
For all the sunset glory, Pain is king.
Yet, the sun’s there, and very sweet withal;
And I’ll not grumble that it’s only sun,
But open wide my lips--thus--drink it in;
Turn up my face to the sweet evening sky
(What royal wealth of scarlet on the blue
So tender toned, you’d almost think it green)
And stretch my hands out--so--to grasp it tight.
Ha, ha! ’tis sweet awhile to cheat the Fates,
And be as happy as another man.
The sun works in my veins like wine, like wine!
’Tis a fair world: if dark, indeed, with woe,
Yet having hope and hint of such a joy,
That a man, winning, well might turn aside,
Careless of Heaven....
O enough; I turn
From the sun’s light, or haply I shall hope.
I have hoped enough; I would not hope again:
’Tis hope that is most cruel.
Tom, my friend,
You very sorry philosophic fool;
’Tis you, I think, that bid me be resign’d,
Trust, and be thankful.
Out on you! Resign’d?
I’m not resign’d, not patient, not school’d in
To take my starveling’s portion and pretend
I’m grateful for it. I want all, all, all;
I’ve appetite for all. I want the best:
Love, beauty, sunlight, nameless joy of life.
There’s too much patience in the world, I think.
We have grown base with crooking of the knee.
Mankind--say--God has bidden to a feast;
The board is spread, and groans with cates and drinks;
In troop the guests; each man with appetite
Keen-whetted with expectance.
In they troop,
Struggle for seats, jostle and push and seize.
What’s this? what’s this? There are not seats for all!
Some men must stand without the gates; and some
Must linger by the table, ill-supplied
With broken meats. One man gets meat for two,
The while another hungers. If I stand
Without the portals, seeing others eat
Where I had thought to satiate the pangs
Of mine own hunger; shall I then come forth
When all is done, and drink my Lord’s good health
In my Lord’s water? Shall I not rather turn
And curse him, curse him for a niggard host?
O, I have hungered, hungered, through the years,
Till appetite grows craving, then disease;
I am starved, wither’d, shrivelled.
Peace, O peace!
This rage is idle; what avails to curse
The nameless forces, the vast silences
That work in all things.
This time is the third,
I wrought before in heat, stung mad with pain,
Blind, scarcely understanding; now I know
What thing I do.
There was a woman once;
Deep eyes she had, white hands, a subtle smile,
Soft speaking tones: she did not break my heart,
Yet haply had her heart been otherwise
Mine had not now been broken. Yet, who knows?
My life was jarring discord from the first:
Tho’ here and there brief hints of melody,
Of melody unutterable, clove the air.
From this bleak world, into the heart of night,
The dim, deep bosom of the universe,
I cast myself. I only crave for rest;
Too heavy is the load. I fling it down.
EPILOGUE.
We knocked and knocked; at last, burst in the door,
And found him as you know--the outstretched arms
Propping the hidden face. The sun had set,
And all the place was dim with lurking shade.
There was no written word to say farewell,
Or make more clear the deed.
I search’d and search’d;
The room held little: just a row of books
Much scrawl’d and noted; sketches on the wall,
Done rough in charcoal; the old instrument
(A violin, no Stradivarius)
He played so ill on; in the table drawer
Large schemes of undone work. Poems half-writ;
Wild drafts of symphonies; big plans of fugues;
Some scraps of writing in a woman’s hand:
No more--the scattered pages of a tale,
A sorry tale that no man cared to read.
Alas, my friend, I lov’d him well, tho’ he
Held me a cold and stagnant-blooded fool,
Because I am content to watch, and wait
With a calm mind the issue of all things.
Certain it is my blood’s no turbid stream;
Yet, for all that, haply I understood
More than he ever deem’d; nor held so light
The poet in him. Nay, I sometimes doubt
If they have not, indeed, the better part--
These poets, who get drunk with sun, and weep
Because the night or a woman’s face is fair.
Meantime there is much talk about my friend.
The women say, of course, he died for love;
The men, for lack of gold, or cavilling
Of carping critics. I, Tom Leigh, his friend
I have no word at all to say of this.
Nay, I had deem’d him more philosopher;
For did he think by this one paltry deed
To cut the knot of circumstance, and snap
The chain which binds all being?
_Xantippe._
(A FRAGMENT.)
_“Xantippe” has appeared in the_ University Magazine, _and in a
collection of Verse published at Cambridge._
[Illustration: text decoration]
What, have I waked again? I never thought
To see the rosy dawn, or ev’n this grey,
Dull, solemn stillness, ere the dawn has come.
The lamp burns low; low burns the lamp of life:
The still morn stays expectant, and my soul,
All weighted with a passive wonderment,
Waiteth and watcheth, waiteth for the dawn.
Come hither, maids; too soundly have ye slept
That should have watched me; nay, I would not chide--
Oft have I chidden, yet I would not chide
In this last hour;--now all should be at peace.
I have been dreaming in a troubled sleep
Of weary days I thought not to recall;
Of stormy days, whose storms are hushed long since;
Of gladsome days, of sunny days; alas
In dreaming, all their sunshine seem’d so sad,
As though the current of the dark To-Be
Had flow’d, prophetic, through the happy hours.
And yet, full well, I know it was not thus;
I mind me sweetly of the summer days,
When, leaning from the lattice, I have caught
The fair, far glimpses of a shining sea;
And, nearer, of tall ships which thronged the bay,
And stood out blackly from a tender sky
All flecked with sulphur, azure, and bright gold;
And in the still, clear air have heard the hum
Of distant voices; and methinks there rose
No darker fount to mar or stain the joy
Which sprang ecstatic in my maiden breast
Than just those vague desires, those hopes and fears,
Those eager longings, strong, though undefined,
Whose very sadness makes them seem so sweet.
What cared I for the merry mockeries
Of other maidens sitting at the loom?
Or for sharp voices, bidding me return
To maiden labour? Were we not apart--
I and my high thoughts, and my golden dreams,
My soul which yearned for knowledge, for a tongue
That should proclaim the stately mysteries
Of this fair world, and of the holy gods?
Then followed days of sadness, as I grew
To learn my woman-mind had gone astray,
And I was sinning in those very thoughts--
For maidens, mark, such are not woman’s thoughts--
(And yet, ’tis strange, the gods who fashion us
Have given us such promptings)....
Fled the years,
Till seventeen had found me tall and strong,
And fairer, runs it, than Athenian maids
Are wont to seem; I had not learnt it well--
My lesson of dumb patience--and I stood
At Life’s great threshold with a beating heart,
And soul resolved to conquer and attain....
Once, walking ’thwart the crowded market-place,
With other maidens, bearing in the twigs
White doves for Aphrodite’s sacrifice,
I saw him, all ungainly and uncouth,
Yet many gathered round to hear his words,
Tall youths and stranger-maidens--Sokrates--
I saw his face and marked it, half with awe,
Half with a quick repulsion at the shape....
The richest gem lies hidden furthest down,
And is the dearer for the weary search;
We grasp the shining shells which strew the shore,
Yet swift we fling them from us; but the gem
We keep for aye and cherish. So a soul,
Found after weary searching in the flesh
Which half repelled our senses, is more dear,
For that same seeking, than the sunny mind
Which lavish Nature marks with thousand hints
Upon a brow of beauty. We are prone
To overweigh such subtle hints, then deem,
In after disappointment, we are fooled....
And when, at length, my father told me all,
That I should wed me with great Sokrates,
I, foolish, wept to see at once cast down
The maiden image of a future love,
Where perfect body matched the perfect soul.
But slowly, softly did I cease to weep;
Slowly I ’gan to mark the magic flash
Leap to the eyes, to watch the sudden smile
Break round the mouth, and linger in the eyes;
To listen for the voice’s lightest tone--
Great voice, whose cunning modulations seemed
Like to the notes of some sweet instrument.
So did I reach and strain, until at last
I caught the soul athwart the grosser flesh.
Again of thee, sweet Hope, my spirit dreamed!
I, guided by his wisdom and his love,
Led by his words, and counselled by his care,
Should lift the shrouding veil from things which be,
And at the flowing fountain of his soul
Refresh my thirsting spirit....
And indeed,
In those long days which followed that strange day
When rites and song, and sacrifice and flow’rs,
Proclaimed that we were wedded, did I learn,
In sooth, a-many lessons; bitter ones
Which sorrow taught me, and not love inspired,
Which deeper knowledge of my kind impressed
With dark insistence on reluctant brain;--
But that great wisdom, deeper, which dispels
Narrowed conclusions of a half-grown mind,
And sees athwart the littleness of life
Nature’s divineness and her harmony,
Was never poor Xantippe’s....
I would pause
And would recall no more, no more of life,
Than just the incomplete, imperfect dream
Of early summers, with their light and shade,
Their blossom-hopes, whose fruit was never ripe;
But something strong within me, some sad chord
Which loudly echoes to the later life,
Me to unfold the after-misery
Urges, with plaintive wailing in my heart.
Yet, maidens, mark; I would not that ye thought
I blame my lord departed, for he meant
No evil, so I take it, to his wife.
’Twas only that the high philosopher,
Pregnant with noble theories and great thoughts,
Deigned not to stoop to touch so slight a thing
As the fine fabric of a woman’s brain--
So subtle as a passionate woman’s soul.
I think, if he had stooped a little, and cared,
I might have risen nearer to his height,
And not lain shattered, neither fit for use
As goodly household vessel, nor for that
Far finer thing which I had hoped to be....
Death, holding high his retrospective lamp,
Shows me those first, far years of wedded life,
Ere I had learnt to grasp the barren shape
Of what the Fates had destined for my life
Then, as all youthful spirits are, was I
Wholly incredulous that Nature meant
So little, who had promised me so much.
At first I fought my fate with gentle words,
With high endeavours after greater things;
Striving to win the soul of Sokrates,
Like some slight bird, who sings her burning love
To human master, till at length she finds
Her tender language wholly misconceived,
And that same hand whose kind caress she sought,
With fingers flippant flings the careless corn....
I do remember how, one summer’s eve,
He, seated in an arbour’s leafy shade,
Had bade me bring fresh wine-skins....
As I stood
Ling’ring upon the threshold, half concealed
By tender foliage, and my spirit light
With draughts of sunny weather, did I mark
An instant the gay group before mine eyes.
Deepest in shade, and facing where I stood,
Sat Plato, with his calm face and low brows
Which met above the narrow Grecian eyes,
The pale, thin lips just parted to the smile,
Which dimpled that smooth olive of his cheek.
His head a little bent, sat Sokrates,
With one swart finger raised admonishing,
And on the air were borne his changing tones.
Low lounging at his feet, one fair arm thrown
Around his knee (the other, high in air
Brandish’d a brazen amphor, which yet rained
Bright drops of ruby on the golden locks
And temples with their fillets of the vine),
Lay Alkibiades the beautiful.
And thus, with solemn tone, spake Sokrates:
“This fair Aspasia, which our Perikles
Hath brought from realms afar, and set on high
In our Athenian city, hath a mind,
I doubt not, of a strength beyond her race;
And makes employ of it, beyond the way
Of women nobly gifted: woman’s frail--
Her body rarely stands the test of soul;
She grows intoxicate with knowledge; throws
The laws of custom, order,’neath her feet,
Feasting at life’s great banquet with wide throat.”
Then sudden, stepping from my leafy screen,
Holding the swelling wine-skin o’er my head,
With breast that heaved, and eyes and cheeks aflame,
Lit by a fury and a thought, I spake:
“By all great powers around us! can it be
That we poor women are empirical?
That gods who fashioned us did strive to make
Beings too fine, too subtly delicate,
With sense that thrilled response to ev’ry touch
Of nature’s, and their task is not complete?
That they have sent their half-completed work
To bleed and quiver here upon the earth?
To bleed and quiver, and to weep and weep,
To beat its soul against the marble walls
Of men’s cold hearts, and then at last to sin!”
I ceased, the first hot passion stayed and stemmed
And frighted by the silence: I could see,
Framed by the arbour foliage, which the sun
In setting softly gilded with rich gold,
Those upturned faces, and those placid limbs;
Saw Plato’s narrow eyes and niggard mouth,
Which half did smile and half did criticise,
One hand held up, the shapely fingers framed
To gesture of entreaty--“Hush, I pray,
Do not disturb her; let us hear the rest;
Follow her mood, for here’s another phase
Of your black-browed Xantippe....”
Then I saw
Young Alkibiades, with laughing lips
And half-shut eyes, contemptuous shrugging up
Soft, snowy shoulders, till he brought the gold
Of flowing ringlets round about his breasts.
But Sokrates, all slow and solemnly,
Raised, calm, his face to mine, and sudden spake:
“I thank thee for the wisdom which thy lips
Have thus let fall among us: prythee tell
From what high source, from what philosophies
Didst cull the sapient notion of thy words?”
Then stood I straight and silent for a breath,
Dumb, crushed with all that weight of cold contempt;
But swiftly in my bosom there uprose
A sudden flame, a merciful fury sent
To save me; with both angry hands I flung
The skin upon the marble, where it lay
Spouting red rills and fountains on the white;
Then, all unheeding faces, voices, eyes,
I fled across the threshold, hair unbound--
White garment stained to redness--beating heart
Flooded with all the flowing tide of hopes
Which once had gushed out golden, now sent back
Swift to their sources, never more to rise....
I think I could have borne the weary life,
The narrow life within the narrow walls,
If he had loved me; but he kept his love
For this Athenian city and her sons;
And, haply, for some stranger-woman, bold
With freedom, thought, and glib philosophy....
Ah me! the long, long weeping through the nights,
The weary watching for the pale-eyed dawn
Which only brought fresh grieving: then I grew
Fiercer, and cursed from out my inmost heart
The Fates which marked me an Athenian maid.
Then faded that vain fury; hope died out;
A huge despair was stealing on my soul,
A sort of fierce acceptance of my fate,--
He wished a household vessel--well ’twas good,
For he should have it! He should have no more
The yearning treasure of a woman’s love,
But just the baser treasure which he sought.
I called my maidens, ordered out the loom,
And spun unceasing from the morn till eve;
Watching all keenly over warp and woof,
Weighing the white wool with a jealous hand.
I spun until, methinks, I spun away
The soul from out my body, the high thoughts
From out my spirit; till at last I grew
As ye have known me,--eye exact to mark
The texture of the spinning; ear all keen
For aimless talking when the moon is up,
And ye should be a-sleeping; tongue to cut
With quick incision, ’thwart the merry words
Of idle maidens....
Only yesterday
My hands did cease from spinning; I have wrought
My dreary duties, patient till the last.
The gods reward me! Nay, I will not tell
The after years of sorrow; wretched strife
With grimmest foes--sad Want and Poverty;--
Nor yet the time of horror, when they bore
My husband from the threshold; nay, nor when
The subtle weed had wrought its deadly work.
Alas! alas! I was not there to soothe
The last great moment; never any thought
Of her that loved him--save at least the charge,
All earthly, that her body should not starve....
You weep, you weep; I would not that ye wept;
Such tears are idle; with the young, such grief
Soon grows to gratulation, as, “her love
Was withered by misfortune; mine shall grow
All nurtured by the loving,” or, “her life
Was wrecked and shattered--mine shall smoothly sail.”
Enough, enough. In vain, in vain, in vain!
The gods forgive me! Sorely have I sinned
In all my life. A fairer fate befall
You all that stand there....
Ha! the dawn has come;
I see a rosy glimmer--nay! it grows dark;
Why stand ye so in silence? throw it wide,
The casement, quick; why tarry?--give me air--
O fling it wide, I say, and give me light!
_Medea._
(A FRAGMENT IN DRAMA FORM, AFTER EURIPIDES.)
πάντων δ’ ὅσ’ ἔστ’ ἔμψυχα καὶ
γνώμην ἔχει γυναῖκές ἐσμεν
ἀθλιώτατον φυτόν:
[Illustration: text decoration]
PERSONS.
MEDEA.}
ÆGEUS.} Citizens of Corinth.
JASON.}
NIKIAS.}
_Scene_: _Before_ MEDEA’S _House_.
[_Enter_ MEDEA.]
MEDEA.
To-day, to-day, I know not why it is,
I do bethink me of my Colchian home.
To-day, that I am lone and weary and sad,
I fain would call back days of pride and hope;
Of pride in strength, when strength was all unprov’d,
Of hope too high, too sweet, to be confined
In limits of conception.
I am sad
Here in this gracious city, whose white walls
Gleam snow-like in the sunlight; whose fair shrines
Are filled with wondrous images of gods;
Upon whose harbour’s bosom ride tall ships,
Black-masted, fraught with fragrant merchandise;
Whose straight-limbed people, in fair stuffs arrayed,
Do throng from morn till eve the sunny streets.
For what avail fair shrines and images?
What, cunning workmanship and purple robes?
Light of sweet sunlight, play and spray of waves?
When all around the air is charged and chill,
And all the place is drear and dark with hate?
Alas, alas, this people loves me not!
This strong, fair people, marble-cold and smooth
As modelled marble. I, an alien here,
That well can speak the language of their lips,
The language of their souls may never learn.
And in their hands, I, that did know myself
Ere now, a creature in whose veins ran blood
Redder, more rapid, than flows round most hearts,
Do seem a creature reft of life and soul.
If they would only teach the subtle trick
By which their hearts are melted into love,
I’d strive to learn it. I am very meek.
They think me proud, but I am very meek,
Ready to do their bidding. Hear me, friends!
Friends, I am very hungry, give me love!
’Tis all I ask! is it so hard to give?
You stand and front me with your hostile eyes;
You only give me hatred?
Yet I know
Ye are not all unloving. Oft I see
The men and women walking in the ways,
Hand within hand, and tender-bated breath,
On summer evenings when the sky is fair.
O men and women, are ye then so hard?
Will ye not give a little of your love
To me that am so hungry?
[_Enter_ ÆGEUS _and_ NIKIAS, _on the opposite side_. MEDEA _steps
back on the threshold and pauses_.]
Ha, that word!
’Tis Jason’s name they bandy to and fro.
I know not why, whene’er his name is spoke,
Once name of joy and ever name of love,
I wax white and do tremble; sudden seized
With shadowy apprehension. May’t forbode
No evil unto him I hold so dear;
And ever dearer with the waxing years:--
For this indeed is woman’s chiefest curse,
That still her constant heart clings to its love
Through all time | 2,670.955207 |
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Produced by Al Haines
ALL ABOARD
A STORY FOR GIRLS
BY FANNIE E. NEWBERRY
_Author of "The Odd One," "Not for Profit," "Bubbles," "Joyce's
Investments," "Sara a Princess," etc., etc._
"Our Faith, a star, shone o'er a rocky height;
The billows rose, and she was quenched in night."
NEW YORK:
A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS.
COPYRIGHT, 1898.
By A. I. BRADLEY & CO
IN MEMORY
OF A HAPPY VISIT,
LET ME DEDICATE TO YOU, MY COUSINS
H. S. AND W. FASSETT,
THIS LITTLE BOOK
WITH MY AFFECTIONATE REGARDS
CONTENTS.
CHAP.
I. Debby has a Caller
II. The Leave-taking
III. New Surroundings
IV. Introductions
V. "On the Bay of Biscay, O!"
VI. Portuguese Towns and Heroes
VII. Kite-flying and Gibraltar
VIII. Nightmare and Gossip
IX. A Game of Gromets
X. Mrs. Windemere's Dinner
XI. A Sunday at Sea
XII. The Story of a Wreck
XIII. Algiers and Andy
XIV. Guesswork
XV. Tropical Evenings
XVI. Danger
XVII. Lady Moreham Speaks
XVIII. Last Days Together
XIX. Old Ties and New
XX. In Old Bombay
XXI. Friends Ashore
XXII. In Elephanta's Caves
"ALL ABOARD!"
CHAPTER I.
DEBBY HAS A CALLER.
"And they're twins, you say?"
"Yes'm, two of 'em, and as putty as twin blooms on a stalk,'m."
The second speaker was a large, corpulent woman, with a voluminous
white apron tied about her voluminous waist. She stood deferentially
before the prospective roomer who had asked the question, to whom she
was showing the accommodations of her house, with interpolations of a
private nature, on a subject too near her heart, to-day, to be ignored
even with strangers. As she stood nodding her head with an emphasis
that threatened to dislodge the smart cap with purple ribbons, which
she had rather hastily assumed when summoned to the door, the caller
mentally decided that here was a good soul, indeed, but rather
loquacious to be the sole guardian of two girls "putty as twin blooms."
She, herself, was tall and slender, and wore her rich street costume
with an easy elegance, as if fine clothing were too much a matter of
course to excite her interest. But upon her face were lines which
showed that, at some time, she had looked long and deeply into the
hollow eyes of trouble, possibly despair. Even the smile now curving
her well-turned lips lacked the joyousness of youth, though in years
she seemed well on the sunny side of early middle age. She was
evidently in no hurry this morning, and finding her possible landlady
so ready to talk, bent an attentive ear that was most flattering to the
good creature.
"I knew," she said, sinking into a rattan chair tied up with blue
ribbons, like an over-dressed baby, "that these rooms had an air which
suggested youth and beauty. I don't wonder your heart is sore to lose
them."
"Ah, it's broke it is,'m!" the voice breaking in sympathy, "for I've
looked upon 'em as my own, entirely, and it's nigh to eighteen year,
now. Their mother, just a slip of a girl herself,'m, had only time
for a long look at her babbies before she begun to sink, and when she
see, herself, 'twas the end, she whispered, 'Debby'--I was right over
her,'m, leaving the babbies to anybody, for little they were to me
then, beside the dear young mistress--so she says, says she, 'Debby!'
and I says, very soft-like, 'Yes, Miss Helen,'--'cause, mind you, I'd
been her maid afore she was merrit at all, and I allays forgot when I
wasn't thinkin', and give her the old name--and I says, 'Yes, Miss
Helen?' And then she smiles up at me just as bright as on her wellest
days,'m, and says, 'Call 'em Faith and Hope,' Debby; that's what they
would be to me if--and not rightly onderstandin' of her, I breaks in,
'Faith and Hope? Call _what_ faith and hope?' For, thinkses I,'she
may be luny with the fever.' But no, she says faint-like, but clear
and sound as a bell, 'Call my babies so. Let their names be Faith and
Hope, and when their poor father comes home, say it was my wish, and he
must not grieve too much, for he will have Faith and Hope always with
him.' And then the poor dear sinks off again and never rightly comes
to, till she's clean gone."
"And their father was on a voyage, then?"
"Yes'm, second mate of the 'International.' He's cap'n now,'m, with
an interest in the steamship, and they do say they ain't many that's so
dreadfully much finer in the big P. & O. lines--leastwise so I've heerd
tell,'m, and I guess they ain't no mistake about it | 2,671.620857 |
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Distributed Proofreading Canada Team at
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CATALOGUE No. 40.
MICROSCOPES
AND
ACCESSORY APPARATUS.
ERNST LEITZ
WETZLAR
GERMANY.
Founded in 1850.
Branch Offices:
NEW-YORK: CHICAGO: BERLIN NW.
411 West 59th Str. 32-38 Clark Str. 45 Luisenstrasse.
30 East 18th Street.
1903.
="Highest award"= Worlds Columbian Exhibition =Chicago 1893=.
Contents.
New constructions 5
Objectives and Eye-pieces 7
Stands 16
Illuminating Apparatus 20
Complete Microscope Outfits 24
Microscopes for Mineralogical Research 57
Dissecting Microscopes and Lupes 62
Apparatus for Blood Examinations 70
Micrometers 73
Drawing Apparatus 74
Mechanical Stages 78
Photo-micrographic Apparatus 82
Projection Apparatus (Edinger) 84
The Large Projection Apparatus 87
Microtomes 92
Miscellaneous Accessories 99
Publications 104
Index 105
Notice.
All previous editions of this catalogue are superceded by the present
one, which should be exclusively used in ordering.
Orders will be filled at once after their receipt.
In ordering care should be taken to give the =number= of each article
desired and to state listprice.
To avoid delay and misunderstandings, we request that name and address
be plainly written.
Goods are forwarded at the expense and risk of the purchaser.
Our instruments for use in =Universities, Colleges, Schools= &c. of the
=United States= are by law free of duty and we shall be pleased to make
specially low quotations for such orders.
ERNST LEITZ.
New Constructions.
Since issueing our last catalogue, a number of new apparatus and
accessories have been added. The following are the more important ones:
1. A completely =new stand "A"= with extra fine micrometerscrew
transmitting its movement directly to the tube. The stand is of elegant
appearance and large dimensions, making it especially well adapted for
work in photo-micrography.
2. =Stand I= is now fitted out with the new special fine adjustment (each
division {1/1000} mm).
3. =Stand II= with round centering stage.
4. =Stand IV= is replaced by a model of larger size.
5. =Photo-micrographic apparatus= for use in horizontal and vertical
position, having joint for inclination, large size bellows and
plateholder.
6. =Large projection-apparatus= for electric lamp of 30 Ampere with triple
collecting lens of 210 mm aperture.
7. =Objective 1 a= with adjustable mounting and changeable magnification.
It is an excellent objective of low power for general purposes, having a
comparatively short working distance.
8. =Objective 1 b= with changeable magnification of lowest power, as far
down as two diameters. It serves for drawing extended sections and
specimens.
9. =Saccharimeter after Mitcherlich= improved form.
10. =Trichinoscope=, projection-apparatus of strong and simple
construction.
=Preface.=
Our American Branch house in New-York under the management of Mr. Wm.
Krafft has now been established for over 10 years. This period has
witnessed a gradual development of our business in the United States,
making it necessary to establish some years ago a Western Branch in
Chicago of which Mr. R. Gibson has charge.
The cordial reception our firm received has been most gratifying and we
take this opportunity to thank our many patrons for their kind
consideration.
It is our aim to co-operate with the scientists and construct new
apparatus to meet their needs or improve others wherever this is
possible.
The foregoing list of additions and improvements made since issueing our
last catalogue is proof that we spare no time nor labor to hold pace
with the increased wants of modern times.
We have now manufactured and sold over 71000 compound microscopes and
31000 oil immersion objectives, a large number of which are used in the
laboratories of Universities, Colleges, and other Educational
Institutions of the United States.
We are prepared at New-York and Chicago to repair our instruments or
make alterations at short notice and at lowest prices. The optical part
of a microscope should invariably be sent to the maker, as he is best in
a position to repair same and has an added interest to bring a lens back
to its original quality or even improve it.
Microscopes, bacteriological apparatus and all other scientific
instruments or preparations expressly imported for use in educational
institutions are exempt from duty.
Catalogues may be had on application by addressing:
=ERNST LEITZ,=
NEW-YORK CHICAGO
411 West 59th Street 32 Clark, Cor. Lake Street.
=Objectives and Eye-pieces.=
In the manufacture of our objectives only such glass is employed as has
been subjected to the most rigid scientific tests. By these the exact
index of refraction and the exact degree of dispersion of the glass are
determined, and with these data available it is possible to very
perfectly correct both spherical and chromatic aberrations while still
making use of wide angular apertures in the objectives.
The precise mathematical calculation, combined with accurate
systematical working and testing methods, make it possible for us to
guarantee our objectives to be all of equal and excellent quality.
Every objective before leaving our hands, is subjected to the most
careful test, and only such lenses as are of the highest grade, are sent
out.
For the past seventeen years we have used glasses manufactured by Schott
& Co. of Jena. This glass has many points to recommend it for the
construction of optical instruments, and only such kinds are employed by
us, which have for many years been thoroughly tested as to their
durability.
Our lenses are therefore absolutely permanent. Objectives of the earlier
type which have become cloudy, we shall gladly repair.
[Illustration]
The three illustrations given above afford an idea of the plan of
construction of our achromatic objectives.
The first figure represents the plan of our low power objectives, and it
will be noted that they consist of two doublets, or triplets each
carefully corrected.
The central figure shows the construction of our high power dry
objectives. A hemispherical front lens is combined with two doublets or
sometimes triplets. The front lens is the chief magnifier of the
combination, while the other lenses serve to correct the various
aberrations.
The Oil-immersion, represented by the last illustration consists of a
front lens, hemispherical, behind which is a meniscus, which is in turn
followed by a doublet and a triplet, these latter acting as the
correcting lenses of the combination.
We manufacture both =Achromatic= and =Apochromatic objectives=. They differ
in that the glasses made use of in the apochromatics and the manner in
which they are combined permit a more perfect correction of chromatic
aberration. This advantage is not gained without a certain sacrifice of
simplicity in construction; by avoiding the use of flint glass having a
high refractive index and substituting materials to take the place of
crownglass. The apochromatics as a matter of fact do resolve the fine
markings of test objects (butterfly scales and diatomes) somewhat more
clearly than the achromatics, but the difference is slight and in
ordinary stained microscope preparations is hardly detectable.
The correction of both achromatics and apochromatics is complete. The
ordinary Huyghenian eye-pieces are consequently well adapted for use
with the objectives of either construction. Only with the highest powers
is it desirable to make use of the so-called "compensation" eye-pieces.
The achromatics and Huyghenian eye-pieces are also well adapted to the
requirements of photomicrography, special objectives being unnecessary
for this purpose. This statement is substantiated by the excellent
results obtained with our achromatic objectives, as shown in the
photomicrographs accompanying our brochure on
Photomicrography:--"Anleitung zur Mikrophotographie".
In making use of the higher power objectives--from No. 5 on--it should
be remembered, that the lenses are corrected for cover glasses of 0,17
mm in thickness and for a microscope tube-length of 170 mm. When using
the oil-immersion objectives it is particularly desirable, that this
exact tube length should be employed. With a view to facilitate the
adjustment of the tube-length the draw tubes of all our larger stands
are graduated in millimeters, the scale indicating the exact length of
the microscope tube in any given position of the draw tube. In this
connection it should be remembered, that the width of the collar of the
nose-pieces is 15 millimeters, and that consequently, when a nose-piece
is attached to the tube the reading of the draw tube scale should be 155
mm instead of 170 when the adjustment is proper.
[Illustration: Figure comparative merits of the dry and immersion
systems.]
The above sketch may serve to make clear the advantages of the immersion
objectives over those of the dry series. It is intended to represent
diagrammatically a section through a cover-glass and the front lens of
an objective, one half of the figure representing the conditions present
in the case of the Oil-immersion, the other those which are present in
the dry objectives. It will be noticed that by the interposition of a
drop of oil of the same index of refraction as the glass between the
cover-glass and the objective the refraction which occurs in the dry
system when the light leaves the upper surface of the cover-glass is
done away with. Since this second refraction is attended with much loss
of light it must be evident, that in the immersion system a much greater
quantity of light enters the objective than is possible, other things
being equal, in objectives of the dry system.
If we let _u_ represent one half the angular aperture of an objective,
represented in the diagram by _D'BN_ in the case of the immersion, and
_n_ the index of refraction of the medium interposed between the
cover-glass and the objective we have in the formula _n_ sin. _u_ a
mathematical expression of the optic power of the various systems of
lenses, or in other words for what is designated the numerical aperture.
The following table gives the numerical apertures of objectives of the
various systems and of various angular apertures. In the dry system
_n._, representing the index of refraction of air is taken as 1.00; in
the immersion systems _n_ equals 1.33 for water, 1.52 for cedar oil and
1.66 for monobromnaphthalin. A glance at the table will suffice to show
the great advantage which the immersion objectives have over those of
| 2,671.774187 |
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Produced by Helene de Mink, Bryan Ness, Music transcribed
by Anne Celnick, Linda Cantoni, and the DP Music Team 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: Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the
original document have been preserved. Obvious typographical errors
have been corrected.
LETTERS
OF
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY
FROM
ITALY AND SWITZERLAND.
TRANSLATED BY LADY WALLACE.
WITH A BIOGRAPHICAL NOTICE
BY JULIE DE MARGUERITTES.
[Illustration: logo]
BOSTON:
OLIVER DITSON & CO., 277 WASHINGTON STREET.
NEW YORK: C. H. DITSON & CO.
FELIX MENDELSSOHN BARTHOLDY.
Felix Mendelssohn Bartholdy was born at Hamburg, on the third of
February, 1809. The name to which he was destined to add such
lustre, was already high in the annals of fame. Moses Mendelssohn,
his grandfather, a great Jewish philosopher, one of the most
remarkable men of his time, was the author of profound Metaphysical
works, written both in German and Hebrew. To this great power of
intellect, Moses Mendelssohn added a purity and dignity of
character worthy of the old stoics. The epigraph on the bust of
this ancestor of the composer, shows the esteem in which he was
held by his contemporaries:
"Faithful to the religion of his fathers, as wise as Socrates, like
Socrates teaching the immortality of the soul, and like Socrates
leaving a name that is immortal."
One of Moses Mendelssohn's daughters married Frederick Schlegel,
and swerving from the religion in which both had been brought up,
both became Roman Catholics.
Joseph Mendelssohn, the eldest son of this great old man, was also
distinguished for his literary taste, and has left two excellent
works of very different characters, one on Dante, the other on the
system of a paper currency.
In conjunction with his brother, Abraham, he founded the
banking-house of Mendelssohn & Company at Berlin, still flourishing
under the management of the sons of the original founders, the
brothers and cousins of Felix, the subject of this memoir.
George Mendelssohn the son of Joseph, was also a distinguished
political writer and Professor in the University at Bonn.
With such an array of intellectual ancestry, the Mendelssohn of our
day came into the world at Hamburg, on the third of February,1809.
He was named Felix, and a more appropriate name could not have been
found for him, for in character, circumstance and endowment, he was
supremely happy. Goethe, speaking of him, said "the boy was born on
a lucky day." His first piece of good fortune, was in having not
only an excellent virtuous woman for his mother, but a woman who,
besides these qualities, possessed extraordinary intellect and had
received an education that fitted her to be the mother of children
endowed as hers were. She professed the Lutheran creed, in which
her children were brought up. Being of a distinguished commercial
family and an heiress, her husband added her name of Bartholdy to
his own. Mme. Mendelssohn Bartholdy's other children were, Fanny
her first-born, whose life is entirely interwoven with that of her
brother Felix, and Paul and Rebecca, born some years later.
When yet a boy, Felix removed with his parents to Berlin, probably
at the time of the formation of the banking house. The Prussian
capital has often claimed the honor of being his birthplace, but
that distinction really belongs to Hamburg.
His extraordinary musical talent was not long in developing itself.
His sister Fanny, his "soul's friend" and constant companion,
almost as richly endowed as himself, aroused his emulation, and
they studied music together first as an art, and then as a science,
to be the foundation of future works of inspiration and genius.
Zelter, severe and classic, profoundly scientific, inexorable for
all that was not true science, became the teacher of these two
gifted children in composition and in counterpoint. For piano-forte
playing, Berger was the professor, though some years later
Moscheles added the benefit of his counsels, and Felix was fond of
calling himself the pupil of Moscheles, with whom in after life he
contracted a close friendship. Zelter was exceedingly proud of his
pupil, soon discovering that instead of an industrious and
intelligent child, one of the greatest musical geniuses ever known
was dawning on the world. When he was but fifteen, Zelter took the
young musician to Weimar, and secured for him the acquaintance and
good will of Goethe, which as long as Goethe lived, seemed to be
the necessary consecration of all talent in Germany. By this time
not only was he an admirable performer on the piano, possessed of
a talent for improvisation and a memory so wonderful, that not only
could he play almost all Bach, Haendel, Haydn, Mozart and Beethoven
by heart, but he could also without hesitation accompany a whole
opera from memory, provided he had but seen the score once. The
overture to Midsummer Night's Dream, so popular now in every
country, was composed before he was seventeen, and was played for
the first time as a duet on the piano by his sister Fanny and
himself on the 19th November, 1826. This is indeed the inspiration
of youth with its brilliancy, its buoyancy, its triumphant joy,
full of the poetry of a young heart, full of the imagination of a
mind untainted by the world. It was not till some years after, that
Mendelssohn completed the music to Shakspeare's great play. In
1827, Felix left the University of Berlin with great honors. He was
a profound classical scholar, and has left as a specimen of his
knowledge, a correct, graceful and elegant translation of Terence's
comedy of Andria, a work greatly approved of by Goethe. He excelled
in gymnastics, was an elegant rider, and like Lord Byron, a bold
and accomplished swimmer. The year he left the University, he went
to England, where Henrietta Sonntag was in the height of her fame.
He played in several | 2,671.856618 |
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Transcriber's Note: As originally printed, there are two cattle brands
represented by pictographs. A pictograph of two stars side by side is
represented in this text by "[double star]" and a pictograph of a
diamond is represented by "[diamond]."
[Illustration: "There's a great big God--just such a God as you and I
have knelt to when we were bits of kiddies."]
THE ONE-WAY TRAIL
A Story of the Cattle Country
By Ridgwell Cullum
Author | 2,672.15422 |
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THE DAY OF HIS YOUTH
By
ALICE BROWN
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
M DCCC XCVII
COPYRIGHT, 1897
BY ALICE BROWN
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
THE RIVERSIDE PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, MASS., U.S.A.
ELECTROTYPED AND PRINTED BY
H. O. HOUGHTON AND CO.
THE DAY OF HIS YOUTH
The life of Francis Hume began in an old yet very real tragedy. His
mother, a lovely young woman, died at the birth of her child: an event
of every-day significance, if you judge by tables of mortality and the
probabilities of being. She was the wife of a man well-known among
honored American names, and her death made more than the usual ripple
of nearer pain and wider condolence. To the young husband it was an
afflicting calamity, entirely surprising even to those who were
themselves acquainted with grief. He was not merely rebellious and
wildly distraught, in the way of mourners. He sank into a cold
sedateness of change. His life forsook its accustomed channels. Vividly
alive to the one bright point still burning in the past, toward the
present world he seemed absolutely benumbed. Yet certain latent
conceptions of the real values of existence must have sprung up in him,
and protested against days to be thereafter dominated by artificial
restraints. He had lost his hold on life. He had even acquired a sudden
distaste for it; but his previous knowledge of beauty and perfection
would not suffer him to shut himself up in a cell of reserve, and
isolate himself thus from his kind. He could become a hermit, but only
under the larger conditions of being. He had the firmest conviction
that he could never grow any more; yet an imperative voice within bade
him seek the highest out-look in which growth is possible. He had
formed a habit of beautiful living, though in no sense a living for any
other save the dual soul now withdrawn; and he could not be satisfied
with lesser loves, the makeshifts of a barren life. So, turning from
the world, he fled into the woods; for at that time Nature seemed to
him the only great, and he resolved that Francis, the son, should be
nourished by her alone.
One spring day, when the boy was eight years old, his father had said
to him:--
"We are going into the country to sleep in a tent, catch our own fish,
cook it ourselves, and ask favors of no man."
"Camping!" cried the boy, in ecstasy.
"No; living."
The necessities of a simple life were got together, and supplemented by
other greater necessities,--books, pictures, the boy's violin,--and
they betook themselves to a spot where the summer visitor was yet
unknown, the shore of a lake stretching a silver finger toward the
north. There they lived all summer, shut off from human intercourse
save with old Pierre, who brought their milk and eggs and constituted
their messenger-in-ordinary to the village, ten miles away. When autumn
came, Ernest Hume looked into his son's brown eyes and asked,--
"Now shall we go back?"
"No! no! no!" cried the boy, with a child's passionate cumulation of
accent.
"Not when the snow comes?"
"No, father."
"And the lake is frozen over?"
"No, father."
"Then," said Hume, with a sigh of great content, "we must have a
log-cabin, lest our bones lie bleaching on the shore."
Next morning he went into the woods with Pierre and two men hastily
summoned from the village, and there they began to make axe-music, the
requiem of the trees. The boy sat by, dreaming as he sometimes did for
hours before starting up to throw himself into the active delights of
swimming, leaping, or rowing a boat. Next day, also, they kept on
cutting into the heart of the forest. One dryad after another was
despoiled of her shelter; one after another, the green tents of the
bird and the wind were folded to make that sacred tabernacle--a home.
Sometimes Francis chopped a little with his hatchet, not to be left out
of the play, and then sat by again, smoothing the bruised fern-forests,
or whistling back the squirrels who freely chattered out their opinions
on invasion. Then came other days just as mild winds were fanning the
forest into gold, when the logs went groaning through the woods, after
slow-stepping horses, to be piled into symmetry, tightened with
plaster, and capped by a roof. This, windowed, swept and garnished,
with a central fireplace wherein two fires could flame and roar, was
the log-cabin. This was home. The hired builders had protested against
its primitive form; they sighed for a snug frame house, French roof and
bay windows. "'Ware the cold!" was their daily croak.
"We'll live in fur and toughen ourselves," said Ernest Hume. And
turning to his boy that night, when they sat together by their own
fire, he asked,--
"Shall we fashion our muscles into steel, our skin into armor? Shall we
make our eyes strong enough to face the sun by day, and pure enough to
meet the chilly stars at night? Shall we have Nature for our only love?
Tell me, sir!"
And Francis, who hung upon his father's voice, even when the words were
beyond him, answered, "Yes, father, please!" and went on feeding birch
strips to the fire, where they turned from vellum to mysterious missals
blazoned by an unseen hand.
The idyl continued unbroken for twelve years. Yet it was not wholly
idyllic, for, even with money multiplying for them out in the world,
there were hard personal conditions against which they had to fight.
Ernest Hume delighted in the fierceness of the winter wind, the cold
resistance of the snow; cut off, as he honestly felt himself to be,
from spiritual growth, he had great joy in strengthening his physical
being until it waxed into insolent might. Francis, too, took so happily
to the stern yet lovely phases of their life that his father never
thought of possible wrong to him in so shaping his early years. As for
Ernest Hume, he had bound himself the more irrevocably to right living
by renouncing artificial bonds. He had removed his son from the world,
and he had thereby taken upon himself the necessity of becoming a
better world. Therefore he did not allow himself in any sense to rust
out. He did a colossal amount of mental burnishing; and, a gentleman by
nature, he adopted a daily purity of speech and courtesy of manner
which were less like civilized life than the efflorescence of chivalry
at its best. He had chosen for himself a part; by his will, a Round
Table sprang up in the woods, though two knights only were to hold
counsel there.
The conclusion of the story--so far as a story is ever concluded--must
be found in the words of Francis Hume. Before he was twenty, his
strength began stirring within him, and he awoke, not to any definite
discontent, but to that fever of unrest which has no name. Possibly a
lad of different temperament might not have kept housed so long; but he
was apparently dreamy, reflective, in love with simple pleasures, and,
though a splendid young animal, inspired and subdued by a thrilling
quality of soul. And he woke up. How he awoke may be learned only from
his letters.
These papers have, by one of the incredible chances of life, come into
my hands. I see no possible wrong in their publication, for now the
Humes are dead, father and son; nay, even the name adopted here was not
their own. They were two slight bubbles of being, destined to rise, to
float for a time, and to be again resolved into the unknown sea. Yet
while they lived, they were iridescent; the colors of a far-away sun
played upon them, and they sent him back his gleams. To lose them
wholly out of life were some pain to those of us who have been
privileged to love them through their own written confessions. So here
are they given back to the world which in no other way could adequately
know them.
[Sidenote: _Francis Hume to the Unknown Friend_[1]]
[1] This title is adopted by the editor that the narrative may be
at least approximately clear. The paragraphs headed thus were
scribblings on loose sheets: a sort of desultory journal.
I never had a friend! Did any human creature twenty years old ever
write that before, unless he did it in a spirit of bitterness because
he was out of humor with his world? Yet I can say it, knowing it to be
the truth. My father and I are one, the oak and its branch, the fern
and its fruitage; but for somebody to be the mirror of my own thoughts,
tantalizingly strange, intoxicatingly new, where shall I look? Ah, but
I know! I will create him from my own longings. He shall be born of the
blood and sinew of my brain and heart. Stand forth, beautiful one, made
in the image of my fancy, and I will tell thee all--all I am ashamed to
tell my father, and tired of imprisoning in my own soul. What shall I
call thee? Friend: that will be enough, all-comprehending and rich in
joy. To-day I have needed thee more than ever, though it is only to-day
that I learned to recognize the need. All the morning a sweet languor
held me, warm, like the sun, and touched with his fervor, so that I
felt within me darts of impelling fire. I sat in the woods by the
spring, my eyes on the dancing shadows at my feet, not thinking, not
willing, yet expectant. I felt as if something were coming, and that I
must be ready to meet it when the great moment should strike. Suddenly
my heart beat high in snatches of rhythm; my feet stirred, my ears woke
to the whir of wings, and my eyes to flickering shade. My whole self
was whelmed and suffocated in a wave of sweet delight. And then it was
that my heart cried out for another heart to beat beside it and make
harmony for the two; then it was that thou, dear one, wast born from my
thought. I am not disloyal in seeking companionship. My father is
myself. Let me say that over and over. When I tell him my fancies, he
smiles sadly, saying they are the buds of youth, born never to flower.
To him Nature is goddess and mother; he turns to her for sustenance by
day, and lies on her bosom at night. After death he will be content to
rest in her arms and become one flesh with her mould. But I--I! O, is
it because I am young; and will the days chill out this strange, sweet
fever, as they have in him? Two years ago--yes, a year--I had no higher
joy than to throw myself, body and soul, into motion: to row, fish,
swim, to listen, in a dream of happiness, while my father read old
Homer to me in the evening, or we masterfully swept through
duets--'cello and violin--that my sleep was too dreamless to repeat to
me. And now the very world is changed; help me to understand it, my
friend; or, if I am to blame, help me to conquer myself.
II
I have much to tell thee, my friend! and of a nature never before known
in these woods and by this water. Last night, at sunset, I stood on the
Point waiting for my father to come in from his round about the island,
when suddenly a boat shot out from Silver Stream and came on toward me,
rowed to the accompaniment of a song I never heard. I stood waiting,
for the voices were beautiful, one high and strong (and as I listened,
it flashed upon me that my father had said the 'cello is like a woman
singing), another, deep and rich. There were two men, as I saw when
they neared me, and two women; and all were young. The men--what were
they like? I hardly know, except that they made me feel ashamed of my
roughness. And the women! One was yellow-haired and pale; she had a
fairy build, I think, and her shoulders were like the birch-tree. Her
head was bare, and the sun--he had stayed to do it--had turned all the
threads to gold. She was so white! white as the tiarella in the spring.
When I saw her, I bent forward; they looked my way, and I drew back
behind the tree. I had been curious, and I was ashamed; it seemed to me
they might stop and say, "Who is this fellow who lives in the woods and
stares at people like an owl by night?" But the oars dipped, and the
boat and song went on. The song! if I but knew it! It called my feet to
dancing. It was like laughter and the play of the young squirrels. I
watched for them to go back, and in an hour they did, still singing in
jubilant chorus; and after that came my father. As soon as I saw him, I
knew something had happened. I have never seen him so sad, so weary. He
put his hand on my shoulder, after we had beached the boat and were
walking up to the cabin.
"Francis," he said, "our good days are over."
"Why?" I asked.
It appeared to me, for some reason, that they had just begun; perhaps
because the night was so fragrant and the stars so near. The world had
never seemed so homelike and so warm. I knew how a bird feels in its
own soft nest.
"Because some people have come to camp on the Bay Shore. I saw their
tents, and asked Pierre. He says they are here for the summer. Fool!
fool that I was, not to buy that land!"
"But perhaps we shall like them!" I said, and my voice choked in the
saying, the world seemed so good, so strange. He grasped my shoulder,
and his fingers felt like steel. "Boy! boy!" he whispered. For a
minute, I fancied he was crying, as I cried once, years ago, when my
rabbit died. "I knew it would come," he said. "Kismet! I bow the neck.
Put thy foot upon it gently, if may be."
We went on to the cabin, but somehow we could not talk; and it was not
long before my father sought his tent. I went also to mine, and lay
down as I was: but not to sleep. Those voices sang in my ears, and my
heart beat till it choked me. Outside, the moon was at full flood, and
I could bear it no longer. I crept softly out of my tent, and
ran--lightly, so that my father should not hear, but still swiftly--to
the beach. I pushed off a boat, grudging every grating pebble, and
dipped my oars carefully, not to be heard. My father would not have
cared, for often I go out at midnight; but I felt strangely. Yet I knew
I must see those tents. Out of his earshot, I rowed in hot haste, and
every looming tree on the wooded bank seemed to whisper "Hurry! hurry!"
I rounded the Point in a new agony lest I should never hear those
singing voices again; and there lay | 2,672.284198 |
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Produced by Andrew Templeton, Juliet Sutherland, Charlie
Kirschner and PG Distributed Proofreaders
DELIA
BLANCHFLOWER
BY
MRS. HUMPHRY WARD
AUTHOR "LADY ROSE'S DAUGHTER," ETC.
Frontispiece in color by
WILL FOSTER
DELIA BLANCHFLOWER
Chapter I
"Not a Britisher to be seen--or scarcely! Well, I can do without 'em
for a bit!"
And the Englishman whose mind shaped these words continued his
leisurely survey of the crowded salon of a Tyrolese hotel, into which a
dining-room like a college hall had just emptied itself after the
mid-day meal. Meanwhile a German, sitting near, seeing that his tall
neighbour had been searching his pockets in vain for matches, offered
some. The Englishman's quick smile in response modified the German's
general opinion of English manners, and the two exchanged some remarks
on the weather--a thunder shower was splashing outside--remarks which
bore witness at least to the Englishman's courage in using such
knowledge of the German tongue as he possessed. Then, smoking
contentedly, he leant against the wall behind him, still looking on.
He saw a large room, some seventy feet long, filled with a
miscellaneous foreign crowd--South Germans, Austrians, Russians,
Italians--seated in groups round small tables, smoking, playing cards
or dominoes, reading the day's newspapers which the funicular had just
brought up, or lazily listening to the moderately good band which was
playing some Rheingold selection at the farther end.
To his left was a large family circle--Russians, according to
information derived from the headwaiter--and among them, a girl,
apparently about eighteen, sitting on the edge of the party and
absorbed in a novel of which she was eagerly turning the pages. From
her face and figure the half savage, or Asiatic note, present in the
physiognomy and complexion of her brothers and sisters, was entirely
absent. Her beautiful head with its luxuriant mass of black hair, worn
low upon the cheek, and coiled in thick plaits behind, reminded the
Englishman of a Greek fragment he had admired, not many days before, in
the Louvre; her form too was of a classical lightness and perfection.
The Englishman noticed indeed that her temper was apparently not equal
to her looks. When her small brothers interrupted her, she repelled
them with a pettish word or gesture; the English governess addressed
her, and got no answer beyond a haughty look; even her mother was
scarcely better treated.
Close by, at another table, was another young girl, rather younger than
the first, and equally pretty. She too was dark haired, with a delicate
oval face and velvet black eyes, but without any of the passionate
distinction, the fire and flame of the other. She was German,
evidently. She wore a plain white dress with a red sash, and her little
feet in white shoes were lightly crossed in front of her. The face and
eyes were all alive, it seemed to him, with happiness, with the mere
pleasure of life. She could not keep herself still for a moment. Either
she was sending laughing signals to an elderly man near her, presumably
her father, or chattering at top speed with another girl of her own
age, or gathering her whole graceful body into a gesture of delight as
the familiar Rheingold music passed from one lovely _motif_ to another.
"You dear little thing!" thought the Englishman, with an impulse of
tenderness, which passed into foreboding amusement as he compared the
pretty creature with some of the matrons sitting near her, with one in
particular, a lady of enormous girth, whose achievements in eating and
drinking at meals had seemed to him amazing. Almost all the middle-aged
women in the hotel were too fat, and | 2,672.356463 |
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Produced by 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)
The Motor Boat Club at the Golden Gate
OR
A Thrilling Capture in the Great Fog
By
H. IRVING HANCOCK
Author of The Motor Boat Club of the Kennebec, The Motor Boat Club at
Nantucket, The Motor Boat Club off Long Island, The Motor Boat Club and
the Wireless, The Motor Boat Club in Florida, etc., etc.
Illustrated
PHILADELPHIA
HENRY ALTEMUS COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY HOWARD E. ALTEMUS
[Illustration: "I Trust You, But I'll Hold Onto the Pitcher."
_Frontispiece._]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. TOM HALSTEAD, KNIGHT OF THE OVERLAND MAIL, 7
II. HAZING, M. B. C. K. STYLE, 22
III. CAPTAIN TOM'S NEW COMMAND, 34
IV. HALSTEAD IS LET INTO A SECRET, 52
V. A HUNT IN THE UNDER-WORLD, 59
VI. FACING THE YELLOW BARRIER, 68
VII. DICK TAKES THE RESCUE BOAT TRICK, 81
VIII. THE REAL KENNEBEC WAY, 94
IX. THE CHASE OF THEIR LIVES, 100
X. COMING TO CLOSE, DANGEROUS QUARTERS, 111
XI. GASTON GIDDINGS MAKES TROUBLE, 122
XII. TOO-WHOO-OO! IS THE WORD, 129
XIII. THE CALL FROM OUT OF THE FOG, 136
XIV. MR. CRAGTHORPE IS MORE THAN TROUBLESOME, 146
XV. THE MIDNIGHT ALARM, 155
XVI. THE FIRE DRILL IN EARNEST, 164
XVII. CRAGTHORPE INTRODUCES HIS REAL SELF, 172
XVIII. A TRICK MADE FOR TWO, 183
XIX. TED DYER, SAILOR BY MARRIAGE, 196
XX. THE FIND IN THE FOREHOLD, 206
XXI. ON A BLIND TRAIL OF THE SEA, 213
XXII. A STERN LOOMS UP IN THE FOG, 222
XXIII. ROLLINGS'S LAST RUSE, 228
XXIV. CONCLUSION, 243
The Motor Boat Club at The Golden Gate
CHAPTER I
TOM HALSTEAD, KNIGHT OF THE OVERLAND MAIL
"I feel it in my bones," announced Joe Dawson, quietly though
positively.
"That's no talk for an engineer," jibed Tom Halstead. "Tell me, instead,
that you read it in your gauge."
"Oh, laugh, if you want to," nodded Dawson, showing no offense. "But
you'll find that I'm right. You know, I don't often make predictions."
"Yet, this time, you feel that something disastrous is going to happen
before this train rolls out on the mole at Oakland? In other words,
before we set foot in San Francisco?"
"No, I don't say quite that," objected Joe, thoughtfully. "There's a
heap of the navigator about you, Tom Halstead, and you're pinning me
down to the map and the chronometer. I won't predict quite as closely as
that. But, either before we reach 'Frisco, or mighty soon after we get
there, something is going to happen."
"And it's going to be a disaster?" questioned Tom, closely.
"For someone, yes; and we're going to be in it, at great risk."
"Well, it's a comfort to have it narrowed down even as closely as that,"
smiled Tom Halstead. "I hope it isn't going to be another earthquake,
though."
"No," agreed Joe, thoughtfully.
"Oh, well, that much of your prediction will comfort the people of San
Francisco, anyway."
"Now, you're laughing at me again," grinned Joe, good-naturedly.
"No; I'm not," protested Halstead, but belied himself by the twinkle in
his eyes, and by whistling softly the air of a popular song that the
boys had heard in a New York theatre just before leaving for the West.
At the present moment both boys were sitting comfortably facing each
other in their section in a sleeping car on the luxurious Overland Mail.
It was early forenoon. They had left Sacramento behind some time before,
on the last stretch of the run across the state of California.
Joe Dawson was riding facing forward. Tom Halstead, in the seat
opposite, half lolled at the window-ledge, with his back toward the
engine. Both boys had slept well on their last night out from San
Francisco. Both had breakfasted heartily, that morning, in the dining
car now left behind at the state capital. The next thing that would
interest them, so far as they could now guess, would be their arrival at
Oakland, and the subsequent ferry trip that would land them in San
Francisco.
It may seem a curious fact to the reader, but neither Tom Halstead nor
Joe Dawson knew just what new phases of life awaited them in the City by
the Golden Gate. They were engaged to enter the employment of a man who
owned a motor yacht. The owner had agreed to their own terms in the way
of salary, and he was paying all their expenses on this luxurious trip
westward. Moreover, the same owner had engaged some of the other members
of the Motor Boat Club of the Kennebec, as will soon be told.
Readers of the preceding volumes of this series are already well
acquainted with bright, energetic, loyal and capable Tom Halstead, who,
from the start, had held the post of fleet captain of the Motor Boat
Club. The same readers are equally familiar with the career of Joe
Dawson, fleet engineer of the Club.
As narrated in "THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OF THE KENNEBEC," Tom and Joe were
two boys of seafaring stock, and natives of Maine, having been born
near the mouth of the Kennebec River. That first volume detailed how the
two young men served aboard the "Sunbeam," the motor yacht of a Boston
broker, and how the boys aided the Government officers in solving the
mystery of Smugglers' Island. Out of those adventures arose the founding
of the Club, with Tom and Joe at its head.
In "THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT NANTUCKET" the two boys were again seen to
great advantage. There they had some most lively sea adventures, all
centering around the abduction of the Dunstan heir. Next, as told in
"THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB OFF LONG ISLAND," the motor boat boys played an
exciting part in the balking of a great Wall Street conspiracy. In
recognition of their services at this time, the man whom they most
helped presented them with a fifty-five foot cruising motor boat, which
the two proud young owners named the "Restless." Afterwards they
installed a wireless telegraph apparatus on the boat, and then came one
of their truly famous cruises, as related in "THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AND
THE WIRELESS," wherein wireless telegraphy was employed in ferreting out
one of the great mysteries of the sea.
"THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB IN FLORIDA" described the sea wanderings of Captain
Tom and Engineer Joe in the Gulf waters, and their subsequent
adventures in the Everglades and at Tampa, including the laying of the
Ghost of Alligator Swamp.
From time to time other seafaring boys, whose experience aboard motor
yachts qualified them, were elected members of the Motor Boat Club, an
organization which now boasted some forty members along the Atlantic
seaboard. Several of these boys had made themselves barely less famous
than had Halstead and Dawson.
Broker George Prescott, of Boston, their first employer and founder of
the Club, was still their staunch friend. So, too, in scarcely less
degree, was Francis Delavan, a Wall Street financier to whom Tom and Joe
had rendered most valuable services.
It was through Mr. Delavan that Halstead and Dawson had secured their
present engagement, the details of which they did not yet know. This
engagement had come just as the young men were leaving Florida waters in
January, preparatory to making their way to New York, near which great
city the "Restless" was now laid up, out of commission at present,
though as seaworthy a boat as ever.
Tom had been allowed to engage Jeff Randolph, the Florida member of the
Club, for this new, unknown enterprise. Jeff was believed to be either
on his way, or already in San Francisco, at the Palace Hotel, on Market
Street, which was to be the meeting place of the motor boat boys.
Yet there were other old friends due to meet the fleet captain and fleet
engineer. Mr. Delavan had also engaged, by wire, Dick Davis and Ab
Perkins, of Maine, now back from a famous trip to Brazil as told in "THE
MOTOR BOAT CLUB AND THE WIRELESS." Jed Prentiss, a Nantucket member of
the Club, was also on his way to or in San Francisco to join them,
thanks to Mr. Prescott's interest. How Jed joined the Club, and proved
himself more than worthy, was all told in "THE MOTOR BOAT CLUB AT
NANTUCKET."
The name of the San Francisco man who had engaged six members of the
Motor Boat Club to cross the continent was Joseph Baldwin. Beyond this
the boys knew nothing of him, save that Francis Delavan had vouched for
him. That was enough. Not even the name of Baldwin's craft was known to
the seafaring boys who were crossing the continent.
"I wonder if Mr. Baldwin will be at Oakland, to meet us?" asked Joe, as
the train sped evenly, swiftly along.
"It isn't likely," replied Tom. "He has told | 2,672.854145 |
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Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
THE ADVENTURES OF PETER COTTONTAIL
By Thornton W. Burgess
Author of "The Adventures of Reddy Fox"
"Old Mother West Wind," etc.
With Illustrations by Harrison Cady
Boston
Little, Brown, And Company
1917
THE ADVENTURES OF PETER COTTONTAIL
I. PETER RABBIT DECIDES TO CHANGE HIS NAME
|PETER RABBIT! Peter Rabbit! I don't see what Mother Nature ever gave
me such a common sounding name as that for. People laugh at me, but if I
had a fine sounding name they wouldn't laugh. Some folks say that a name
doesn't amount to anything, but it does. If I should do some wonderful
thing, nobody would think anything of it. No, Sir, nobody would think
anything of it at all just because--why just because it was done by
Peter Rabbit."
Peter was talking out loud, but he was talking to himself. He sat in the
dear Old Briar-patch with an ugly scowl on his usually happy face. The
sun was shining, the Merry Little Breezes of Old Mother West Wind were
dancing over the Green Meadows, the birds were singing, and happiness,
the glad, joyous happiness of springtime, was everywhere but in Peter
Rabbit's heart. There there seeded to be no room for anything but
discontent. And such foolish discontent--discontent with his name! And
yet, do you know, there are lots of people just as foolish as Peter
Rabbit.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?"
The voice made Peter Rabbit jump and turn around hastily. There was
Jimmy Skunk poking his head in at the opening of one of Peter's private
little paths. He was grinning, and Peter knew by that grin that Jimmy
had heard what he had said. Peter didn't know what to say. He hung his
head in a very shame-faced way.
"You've got something to learn," said Jimmy Skunk.
"What is it?" asked Peter.
"It's just this," replied Jimmy.
"There's nothing in a name except
Just what we choose to make it.
It lies with us and no one else
How other folks shall take it.
It's what we do and what we say
And how we live each passing day
That makes it big or makes it small
Or even worse than none at all.
A name just stands for what we are;
It's what we choose to make it.
And that's the way and only way
That other folks will take it."
Peter Rabbit made a face at Jimmy Skunk. "I don't like being preached
to."
"I'm not preaching; I'm just telling you what you ought to know without
being told," replied Jimmy Skunk. "If you don't like your name, why
don't you change it?"
"What's that?" cried Peter sharply.
"If you don't like your name, why don't you change it?" repeated Jimmy.
Peter sat up and the disagreeable frown had left his face. "I--I--hadn't
thought of that," he said slowly. "Do you suppose I could, Jimmy Skunk?"
"Easiest thing in the world," replied Jimmy Skunk. "Just decide what
name you like and then ask all your friends to call you by it."
"I believe I will!" cried Peter Rabbit.
"Well, let me know what it is when you have decided," said Jimmy, as
he started for home. And all the way up the Crooked Little Path, Jimmy
chuckled to himself as he thought of foolish Peter Rabbit trying to
change his name.
II. PETER FINDS A NAME
|PETER RABBIT had quite lost his appetite. When Peter forgets to eat you
may make up your mind that Peter has something very important to
think about. At least he has something on his mind that he thinks is
important. The fact is, Peter had fully made up his mind to change his
name. He thought Peter Rabbit too common a name. But when he tried to
think of a better one, he found that no name that he could think of
really pleased him any more. So he thought and he thought and he thought
and he thought. And the more he thought the less appetite he had.
Now Jimmy Skunk was the only one to whom Peter had told how discontented
he was with his name, and it was Jimmy who had suggested to Peter that
he change it. Jimmy thought it a great joke, and he straightway passed
the word along among all the little meadow and forest people that Peter
Rabbit was going to change his name. Everybody laughed and chuckled over
the thought of Peter Rabbit's foolishness, and they planned to have
a great deal of fun with Peter as soon as he should tell them his new
name.
Peter was sitting on the edge of the Old Briar-patch one morning when
Ol' Mistah Buzzard passed, flying low. "Good mo'ning, Brer Cottontail,"
said Ol' Mistah Buzzard, with a twinkle in his eye.
At first Peter didn't understand that Ol' Mistah Buzzard was speaking
to him, and by the time he did it was too late to reply, for Ol' Mistah
Buzzard was way, way up in the blue, blue sky. "Cottontail, Cottontail."
said Peter over and over to himself and began to smile. Every time he
said it he liked it better.
[Illustration: 0024]
"Cottontail, Peter Cottontail! How much better sounding that is than
Peter Rabbit! That sounds as if I really was somebody. Yes, Sir, that's
the very name I want. Now I must send word to all my friends that
hereafter I am no longer Peter Rabbit, but Peter Cottontail."
Peter kicked up his heels in just the funny way he always does when he
is pleased. Suddenly he remembered that such a fine, long, high-sounding
name as Peter Cottontail demanded dignity. So he stopped kicking up his
heels and began to practise putting on airs. But first he called to the
Merry Little Breezes and told them about his change of name and asked
them to tell all his friends that in the future he would not answer to
the name of Peter Rabbit, but only to the name of Peter Cottontail. He
was very grave and earnest and important as he explained it to the Merry
Little Breezes. The Merry Little Breezes kept their faces straight while
he was talking, but as soon, as they had left him to carry his message
they burst out laughing. It was such a joke!
And they giggled as they delivered this message to each of the little
forest and meadow people:
"Peter Rabbit's changed his name.
In the future without fail
You must call him, if you please,
Mr. Peter Cottontail."
While they were doing this, Peter was back in the Old Briar-patch
practising new airs and trying to look very high and mighty and
important, as became one with such a fine sounding name as Peter
Cottontail.
III. THERE'S NOTHING LIKE THE OLD NAME AFTER ALL
|BOBBY <DW53> and Jimmy Skunk had their heads together. Now when these
two put their heads together, you may make up your mind that they are
planning mischief. Yes, Sir, there is sure to be mischief afoot when
Bobby <DW53> and Jimmy Skunk put their heads together as they were doing
now. Had Peter Rabbit seen them, he might not have felt so easy in his
mind as he did. But Peter didn't see them. He was too much taken up with
trying to look as important as his new name sounded. He was putting on
airs and holding his head very high as he went down to the Smiling Pool
to call on Jeny Muskrat.
Whenever any one called him by his old name, Peter pretended not to
hear. He pretended that he had never heard that name and didn't know
that he was being spoken to. Bobby <DW53> and Jimmy Skunk thought it a
great joke and they made up their minds that they would have some fun
with Peter and perhaps make him see how very foolish he was. Yes, Sir,
they planned to teach Peter a lesson. Bobby <DW53> hurried away to find
Reddy Fox and tell him that Peter had gone down to the Smiling Pool, and
that if he hid beside the path, he might catch Peter on the way back.
Jimmy Skunk hunted up Blacky the Crow and Sammy Jay and told them of his
plan and what he wanted them to do to help. Of course they promised that
they would. Then he went to Ol' Mistah Buzzard and told him. Ol' Mistah
Buzzard grinned and promised that he would do his share. Then Bobby <DW53>
and Jimmy Skunk hid where they could see all that would happen.
Peter had reached the Smiling Pool and now sat on the bank admiring his
own reflection in the water and talking to Jerry Muskrat. He had just
told Jerry that when his old name was called out he didn't hear it any
more when along came Blacky the Crow.
"Hello, Peter Rabbit! You're just the fellow I am looking for; I've a
very important message for you," shouted Blacky.
Peter kept right on talking with Jerry Muskrat just as if he didn't
hear, although he was burning with curiosity to know what the message
was.
"I say, Peter Rabbit, are you deaf?" shouted Blacky the Crow.
Jerry Muskrat looked up at Blacky and winked. "Peter Rabbit isn't here,"
said he. "This is Peter Cottontail."
[Illustration: 0030]
"Oh!" said Blacky. "My message is for Peter Rabbit, and it's something
he really ought to know. I'm sorry | 2,673.258269 |
2023-11-16 19:01:37.4354010 | 2,840 | 14 |
E-text prepared by the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by
Internet Archive/American Libraries
(http://www.archive.org/details/americana)
More: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
http://www.archive.org/details/lifeofrobertburn00carl
LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS.
Mostly by
THOMAS CARLYLE.
New York:
Delisser & Procter, 508 Broadway.
1859.
EDITOR'S PREFACE.
The readers of the "Household Library" will certainly welcome a Life of
Burns. That his soul was of the real heroic stamp, no one who is familiar
with his imperishable lyric poetry, will deny.
This Life of the great Scottish bard is composed of two parts. The first
part, which is brief, and gives merely his external life, is taken from
the "Encyclopedia Britannica." The principle object of it, in this place,
is to prepare the reader for what follows. The second part is a grand
spiritual portrait of Burns, the like of which the ages have scarcely
produced; the equal of which, in our opinion, does not exist. In fact,
since men began to write and publish their thoughts in this world, no one
has appeared who equals Carlyle as a spiritual-portrait painter; and,
taken all in all, this of his gifted countryman Burns is his master-piece.
I should not dare to say how many times I have perused it, and always with
new wonder and delight. I once read it in the Manfrini Palace, at Venice,
sitting before Titian's portrait of Ariosto. Great is the contrast between
the Songs of Burns and the _Rime_ of the Italian poet, between the fine
spiritual perception of Carlyle's mind and the delicate touch of Titian's
hand, between picturesque expression and an expressive picture; yet this
very antithesis seemed to prepare my mind for the full enjoyment of both
these famous portraits; the sombre majesty of northern genius seemed to
heighten and be heightened by the sunset glow of the genius of the south.
Besides giving the article from the "Encyclopedia Britannica," as a kind
of frame for the portrait of Burns, we will here add, from the "English
Cyclopedia," a sketch of Carlyle's life. A severe taste may find it a
little out of place, yet we must be allowed to consult the wishes of those
for whom these little volumes are designed.
* * * * *
Carlyle, (Thomas,) a thinker and writer, confessedly among the most
original and influential that Britain has produced, was born in the parish
of Middlebie, near the village of Ecclefechan, in Dumfries-shire,
Scotland, on the 4th of December, 1795. His father, a man of remarkable
force of character, was a small farmer in comfortable circumstances; his
mother was also no ordinary person. The eldest son of a considerable
family, he received an education the best in its kind that Scotland could
then afford--the education of a pious and industrious home, supplemented
by that of school and college. (Another son of the family, Dr. John A.
Carlyle, a younger brother of Thomas, was educated in a similar manner,
and, after practising for many years as a physician in Germany and Rome,
has recently become known in British literature as the author of the best
prose translation of Dante.) After a few years spent at the ordinary
parish school, Thomas was sent, in his thirteenth or fourteenth year, to
the grammar school of the neighboring town of Annan; and here it was that
he first became acquainted with a man destined, like himself, to a career
of great celebrity. "The first time I saw Edward Irving," writes Mr.
Carlyle in 1835, "was six-and-twenty years ago, in his native town, Annan.
He was fresh from Edinburgh, with college prizes, high character, and
promise: he had come to see our school-master, who had also been his. We
heard of famed professors--of high matters, classical, mathematical--a
whole Wonderland of knowledge; nothing but joy, health, hopefulness
without end, looked out from the blooming young man." Irving was then
sixteen years of age, Carlyle fourteen; and from that time till Irving's
sad and premature death, the two were intimate and constant friends. It
was not long before Carlyle followed Irving to that "Wonderland of
Knowledge," the University of Edinburgh, of which, and its "famed
professors," he had received such tidings. If the description of the
nameless German university, however, in "Sartor Resartus," is to be
supposed as allusive also to Mr. Carlyle's own reminiscences of his
training at Edinburgh, he seems afterwards to have held the more formal or
academic part of that training in no very high respect. "What vain jargon
of controversial metaphysic, etymology, and mechanical manipulation,
falsely named science, was current there," says Teufelsdroeckh; "I indeed
learned better perhaps than most." At Edinburgh, the professor of
"controversial metaphysic" in Carlyle's day, was Dr. Thomas Brown, Dugald
Stewart having then just retired; physical science and mathematics, were
represented by Playfair and Sir John Leslie, and classical studies by men
less known to fame. While at college, Carlyle's special bent, so far as
the work of the classes was concerned, seems to have been to mathematics
and natural philosophy. But it is rather by his voluntary studies and
readings, apart from the work of the classes, that Mr. Carlyle, in his
youth, laid the foundation of his vast and varied knowledge. The college
session in Edinburgh extends over about half the year, from November to
April; and during these months, the college library, and other such
libraries as were accessible, were laid under contribution by him to an
extent till then hardly paralleled by any Scottish student. Works on
science and mathematics, works on philosophy, histories of all ages, and
the great classics of British literature, were read by him miscellaneously
or in orderly succession; and it was at this period, also, if we are not
mistaken, he commenced his studies--not very usual then in Scotland--in
the foreign languages of modern Europe. With the same diligence, and in
very much the same way, were the summer vacations employed, during which
he generally returned to his father's house in Dumfries-shire, or rambled
among the hills and moors of that neighborhood.
Mr. Carlyle had begun his studies with a view to entering the Scottish
Church. About the time, however, when these studies were nearly ended, and
when, according to the ordinary routine, he might have become a preacher,
a change of views induced him to abandon the intended profession. This
appears to have been about the year 1819 or 1820, when he was twenty-four
years of age. For some time, he seems to have been uncertain as to his
future course. Along with Irving, he employed himself for a year or two,
as a teacher in Fifeshire; but gradually it became clear to him, that his
true vocation was that of literature. Accordingly, parting from Irving,
about the year 1822, the younger Scot of Annandale, deliberately embraced
the alternative open to him, and became a general man of letters. Probably
few have ever embraced that profession with qualifications so wide, or
with aims so high and severe. Apart altogether from his diligence in
learning, and from the extraordinary amount of acquired knowledge of all
kinds, which was the fruit of it, there had been remarked in him, from the
first, a strong originality of character, a noble earnestness and fervor
in all that he said or did, and a vein of inherent constitutional contempt
for the mean and the frivolous, inclining him, in some degree, to a life
of isolation and solitude. Add to this, that his acquaintance with German
literature, in particular, had familiarized him with ideas, modes of
thinking, and types of literary character, not then generally known in
this country, and yet, in his opinion, more deserving of being known than
much of a corresponding kind that was occupying and ruling British
thought.
The first period of Mr. Carlyle's literary life may be said to extend from
1822 to 1827, or from his twenty-sixth to his thirty-second year. It was
during this period that he produced (besides a translation of Legendre's
"Geometry," to which he prefixed an "Essay on Proportion,") his numerous
well-known translations from German writers, and also his "Life of
Schiller." The latter and a considerable proportion of the former, were
written by him during the leisure afforded him by an engagement he had
formed in 1823, as tutor to Charles Buller, whose subsequent brilliant
though brief career in the politics of Britain, gives interest to this
connection. The first part of the "Life of Schiller" appeared originally
in the "London Magazine," of which John Scott was editor, and Hazlitt,
Charles Lamb, Allan Cunningham, De Quincey, and Hood, were the best known
supporters; and the second and third parts, were published in the same
magazine in 1824. In this year appeared also the translation of Goethe's
"Wilhelm Meister," which was published by Messrs. Oliver and Boyd, of
Edinburgh, without the translator's name. This translation, the first real
introduction of Goethe to the reading world of Great Britain, attracted
much notice. "The translator," said a critic in "Blackwood," "is, we
understand, a young gentleman in this city, who now for the first time
appears before the public. We congratulate him on his very promising
debut; and would fain hope to receive a series of really good translations
from his hand. He has evidently a perfect knowledge of German; he already
writes English better than is at all common, even at this time; and we
know of no exercise more likely to produce effects of permanent advantage
upon a young mind of intellectual ambition." The advice here given to Mr.
Carlyle by his critic, was followed by him in so far that, in 1827, he
published in Edinburgh, his "Specimens of German Romance," in four
volumes; one of these containing "Wilhelm Meister's Wanderjahre," as a
fresh specimen of Goethe; the others containing tales from Jean Paul,
Tieck, Musaeus, and Hoffman. Meanwhile, in 1825, Mr. Carlyle had revised
and enlarged his "Life of Schiller," and given it to the world in a
separate form, through the press of Messrs. Taylor and Hessay, the
proprietors of the "London Magazine." In the same year, quitting his
tutorship of Charles Buller, he had married a lady fitted in a pre-eminent
degree to be the wife of such a man. (It is interesting to know that Mrs.
Carlyle, originally Miss Welch, is a lineal descendent of the Scottish
Reformer, Knox.) For some time after the marriage, Mr. Carlyle continued
to reside in Edinburgh; but before 1827 he removed to Craigenputtoch, a
small property in the most solitary part of Dumfries-shire.
The second period of Mr. Carlyle's literary life, extending from 1827 to
1834, or from his thirty-second to his thirty-ninth year, was the period
of the first decided manifestations of his extraordinary originality as a
thinker. Probably the very seclusion in which he lived helped to develope,
in stronger proportions, his native and peculiar tendencies. The following
account of his place and mode of life at this time was sent by him, in
1828, to Goethe, with whom he was then in correspondence, and was
published by the great German in the preface to a German translation of
the "Life of Schiller," executed under his immediate care:--"Dumfries is a
pleasant town, containing about fifteen thousand inhabitants, and to be
considered the centre of the trade and judicial system of a district which
possesses some importance in the sphere of Scottish activity. Our
residence is not in the town itself, but fifteen miles to the northwest of
it, among the granite hills and the black morasses which stretch westward
through Galloway almost to the Irish Sea. In this wilderness of heath and
rock, our estate stands forth a green oasis, a tract of ploughed, partly
inclosed and planted ground, where corn ripens and trees afford a shade,
although surrounded by sea-mews and rough-woolled sheep. Here, with no
small effort, have we built and furnished a neat, substantial dwelling;
here, in the absence of a professional or other office, we live to | 2,673.455441 |
2023-11-16 19:01:37.4355110 | 7,436 | 43 |
Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by Google Books.
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
https://books.google.com/books?id=QKYxAQAAMAAJ
(Cornell University)
COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
=============
VOL. 966.
THE RED COURT FARM.
BY
MRS. HENRY WOOD.
IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOL. 2.
LEIPZIG: BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.
PARIS: C. REINWALD & CIE, 15, RUE DES SAINTS-PÈRES.
PARIS: THE GALIGNANI LIBRARY, 224, RUE DE RIVOLI,
AND AT NICE, 48, QUAI ST. JEAN BAPTISTE.
_This Collection is, published with copyright for Continental
circulation, but all purchasers are earnestly requested not to
introduce the volumes into England or into any British Colony_.
COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS.
VOL. 966.
---------
THE RED COURT FARM BY MRS. HENRY WOOD.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
THE
RED COURT FARM.
A NOVEL.
BY
MRS. HENRY WOOD,
AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "TREVLYN HOLD," ETC.
_COPYRIGHT EDITION_.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1868.
_The Right of Translation is reserved_.
CONTENTS
OF VOLUME II.
CHAP.
I. At School in London.
II. Captain Copp.
III. Isaac Thornycroft's Stratagem.
IV. In Love.
V. Wilful Disobedience.
VI. The Half-moon Beach.
VII. My Lady at the Red Court.
VIII. A Last Interview.
IX. The Crowd in the Early Morning.
X. Shot down from the Heights.
XI. The Coroner's Inquest.
XII. Robert Hunter's Funeral.
XIII. Curious Rumours.
XIV. Robert Hunter's Ghost.
XV. In the Churchyard Porch.
XVI. In the Dog-cart to Jutpoint.
XVII. Ladies disputing.
XVIII. Disclosing it to Justice Thornycroft.
THE RED COURT FARM.
PART THE THIRD.
CHAPTER I.
At School in London.
Two years have gone by, and it is June again.
A good, substantial house in one of the western suburbs of the
metropolis--Kensington. By the well-rubbed brass plate on the iron
gate of the garden, and the lady's name on it--"Miss Jupp"--it may be
taken for a boarding-school. In fact, it is one: a small select school
(as so many schools proclaim themselves now; but this really is such);
and, kept by Miss Jupp, once of Katterley. That is, by Miss Jupp and
two of her sisters, but she wisely calls it by her own name singly,
avoiding the ugly style of the plural "Miss Jupp's establishment."
Fortune changes with a great many of us; every day, every hour of our
lives, some are going up, others down. When death removed old Mr. Jupp
(an event that occurred almost close upon poor Mrs. Lake's), then his
daughters found that they had not enough to get along in the world.
Wisely taking time and circumstances by the forelock, the three elder
ones, Mary, Margaret, and Emma, removed to London, took a good house
at Kensington, and by the help of influential friends very soon had
pupils in it. Dorothy and Rose were married; Louisa remained at
Katterley with her widowed mother. They professed to take ten pupils
only: once or twice the number had been increased to twelve; the terms
were high, but the teaching was good, and the arrangements were really
first-class. It was with the Miss Jupps that Mary Anne Thornycroft had
been placed. And she did not run away from them.
Quite the contrary. The summer holidays have just set in, and she is
to go home for them; as she did the previous midsummer; but she is
expressing a half wish, now as she stands before Miss Margaret Jupp,
that she could spend them where she is, in London. Long and long ago
has she grown reconciled to the regularity of a school life, and to
regard Miss Jupp's as a second and happy home. She spent the first
Christmas holidays with them; the second Christmas (last) at
Cheltenham with her stepmother; she and her brother Cyril.
Lady Ellis (retaining still the name) is in very ill health now.
Almost simultaneously with quitting the Red Court after her marriage,
a grave inward disorder manifested itself. Symptoms of it indeed had
been upon her for some time, even before leaving India; but--as is the
case with many other symptoms--they had been entirely disregarded,
their grave nature unsuspected. Instead of leading a gay life at the
gay inland watering-place, flaunting her charms and her fashion in the
eyes of other sojourners, Lady Ellis found herself compelled to live a
very quiet one. She has a small villa, an establishment of two
servants only; and she does not wish for more. In heart, in nature,
she is growing altered, and the refining, holy influence that very
often--God be praised!--changes the whole heart and spirit with a
change which is not of this world, is coming over her. Two visits only
has she paid to the Red Court Farm, staying about six weeks each time,
and Mr. Thornycroft goes to Cheltenham two or three times a year. Miss
Thornycroft and her stepmother are civil to each other now, not to say
friendly; and when she invited the young lady and her brother Cyril
for the holidays last Christmas, they went. The previous midsummer
they had spent together at Coastdown, it having been one of the
periods of my lady's two visits. Fortune had contrived well for Lady
Ellis, and her marriage with the wealthy master of the Red Court Farm
enabled her to enjoy every substantial comfort in her hour of need.
Two other young ladies connected in a degree with this history are at
Miss Jupp's this evening; the rest of the pupils have left. One of the
two we have met before, one not. They are in the room now, and you may
look at them. All three, including Miss Thornycroft, are about the
same age--between eighteen and nineteen. She, Mary Anne, is the same
tall, stately, fair, handsome, and (it must be owned) haughty girl
that you knew before; the fine face is resolute as ever, the cold blue
eyes as honest and uncompromising. She had been allowed to dress as
expensively at Miss Jupp's as her inclination leads: to-day she wears
a rich pale-blue silk; blue ribbons are falling from her fair hair.
She is standing doing nothing: but sitting in a chair by her side,
toying with a bit of fancy-work, is a plain, dark, merry-looking girl
in a good useful nut-brown silk, Susan Hunter. She is the sister of
Robert Hunter, several years his junior, and has been sent up from
Yorkshire by her aunt, with whom she lives, to have two years of
"finish" at a London school. Accident--not their having once known
something of her brother--led to the school fixed on being Miss
Jupp's. And now for the last.
In a grey alpaca dress, trimmed with a little ribbon velvet of the
same hue, her head bent patiently over a pile of drawings that she is
touching up, sits the third. A very different footing in the school,
hers, from that of the other two; _they_ pay the high, full terms;
_she_ pays nothing, but works out her board with industry. Have you
forgotten that pale, gentle face, one of the sweetest both in feature
and expression ever looked upon, with the fine silky chestnut hair
modestly braided round it, and the soft brown eyes that take all the
best feelings of a genuine heart by storm? The weary look telling of
incessant industry, the pile of work that she does not look up from,
the cheap holiday-dress (her best) costing little, all proclaim
sufficiently her dependent position in the house--a slight, graceful
girl of middle height, with a sort of drooping look in her figure, as
if she were, and had been all her life, in the habit of being pushed
into the background?
It is Anna Chester. Her life since we saw her has been like that
of a dray horse. Mrs. Chester placed her at an inferior school as
pupil-teacher, where she had many kinds of things to do, and the
mistress's own children to take care of in the holidays. For a year
and a half she stayed at it, doing her best patiently, and then the
Miss Jupps took her. She has to work very much still, and her health
is failing. Captain and Mrs. Copp have invited her to Coastdown for a
change, and she goes down to-morrow with Miss Thornycroft. Miss Hunter
spends the holidays at school.
Mrs. Chester? Mrs. Chester quitted Guild, to set up a fashionable
boarding-house in London. It did not answer; the mass of people
remained cruelly indifferent to its advertisements; and the few who
tried it ran away and never paid her. She then removed to Paris, where
(as some friends assured her) a good English boarding-house was much
wanted; and, if her own reports are to be trusted, she is likely to do
pretty well at it.
There remains only one more person to mention of those we formerly
knew; and that is Robert Hunter. Putting his shoulder to the wheel in
earnest, as only a resolute and capable man can put it; I had almost
said as one only who has some expiation to work out; his days are
spent in hard industry. He is the practical energetic man of business;
never spending a moment in waste, never willingly allowing himself
recreation. The past folly, the past idleness of that time, not so
very long gone by, recurs to his memory less frequently than it used,
but ever with the feeling of a nightmare. He is still with the same
firm, earning a liberal salary. Since a day or two only has he been in
London, but there's some talk of his remaining in it now. Nothing
seems to be further from his thoughts than any sort of pleasure: it
would seem that he has one vocation alone in life--work.
These three young ladies were going out this afternoon. To a grand
house, too: Mrs. Macpherson's. The professor, good simple man, had
been content, socially speaking, with a shed on the top of Aldgate
pump: not so madam. As the professor rose more and more into
distinction, _she_ rose; and the residence in Bloomsbury was exchanged
for a place at Kensington. Possibly the calling occasionally on the
Miss Jupps, had put it into her head. A house as grand as its name
in the matter of decoration; but not of undue size: Mrs. Macpherson
had good common sense, and generally exercised it. A dazzling white
front with a pillared portico and much ornamentation outside and
in--"Majestic Villa." The professor had wanted to change the name, but
madam preferred to retain it. It was not very far from Miss Jupp's,
and these young ladies were going there to spend the evening.
In all the glory of her large room, with its decorations of white and
gold, its mirrors, its glittering cabinets, its soft luxurious carpet,
its chairs of delicate green velvet, sat Mrs. Macpherson, waiting for
these young guests. In all her own glory of dress, it may be said, for
that was not less conspicuous than of yore, and that of to-day looked
just as if it were chosen to accord with the hangings--a green satin
robe with gold leaves for trimmings, and a cap that could not be seen
for sprays and spangles. In her sense of politeness--and she possessed
an old-fashioned stock of it--Mrs. Macpherson had dressed herself
betimes, not to leave the young ladies alone after they came. Thus,
when they arrived, under the convoy of Miss Emma Jupp, who left them
at the door, Mrs. Macpherson was ready to receive them.
It was the first time they had been there for many weeks; for the
professor had been abroad on a tour in connexion with some of the
ologies, as his wife expressed it, in which she had accompanied him.
The result of this was, that Mrs. Macpherson had no end of Parisian
novelties, in the shape of dress, to display to them in her chamber.
"I know what girls like," she said, in her hearty manner, "and that
is, to look at new bonnets and mantles, and try 'em on."
But Mary Anne Thornycroft--perhaps because she could indulge in such
articles at will--cared not a jot for these attractions, and said she
should go down to see the professor.
He had some rooms at the back of the house, where his collection of
scientific curiosities--to call things by a polite name--had been
stowed. And here the professor, when not out, spent his time. Mary
Anne quite loved the man, so simple-minded and yet great-minded at one
and the same time, and never failed to penetrate to his rooms when
occasion offered. Quickly wending her way through the passages, she
opened the door softly.
It was not very easy to distinguish clearly at first, what with the
crowd of things darkening the windows, and the mass of objects
generally. At a few yards' distance, slightly bending over a sort of
upright desk, as if writing something, stood a gentleman; but
certainly not the professor. His back was towards her; he had
evidently not heard her enter, and a faint flush of surprise dawned on
Mary Anne's face, for in that first moment she thought it was her
brother Cyril. It was the same youthful, supple, slender figure; the
same waving hair, of a dark auburn, clustering round the head above
the collar of the coat. Altogether, seen in this way, there was a
certain resemblance; and that was the first primary link in the chain
that attracted Mary Anne to him. The door, which she had left open,
closed with a slight bang, and the gentleman spoke, without lifting
his head.
"I have worked it out at last. You were right about its being less
than the other."
"Is Dr. Macpherson not here?"
He turned sharply at the words, a pencil in his hand, surprise on his
face. A good face; for its old gay careless look had departed for
ever, and the dark blue eyes--darker even than of yore--wore a serious
gravity that never left them, a gravity born of remorse. The face was
older than the figure, and not in the least like Cyril Thornycroft's;
it looked fully its seven-and-twenty years--nay, looked nearer thirty;
but all its expression was merged in surprise. No wonder; to see a
beautiful girl in blue silk, with blue ribbons in her fair hair,
standing there; when he had only expected the professor, in his old
threadbare coat and spectacles. It was Robert Hunter.
"I beg your pardon," he said, coming forward. "Can I do anything for
you?"
"I thought Dr. Macpherson was here. I came to see him."
Never losing her calm self-possession on any occasion, as so many
young ladies do on no occasion at all, Miss Thornycroft stepped up to
the side glass cases to examine the curiosities, talking as easily to
him as though she had known him all her life. Without being in the
least free, there was an openness of manner about her, an utter
absence of tricks and affectation, a straightforward independence,
rather remarkable in a young lady. For Robert Hunter it possessed a
singular charm.
Before the professor came in, who had forgotten himself down in his
cellar, where he had gone after a cherished specimen in the frog line;
before Mr. Hunter had pointed out to her a quarter of the new
acquisitions in the glass cases--animal, vegetable, and mineral--they
knew all about each other: that he was Susan Hunter's brother, and
that she was Miss Thornycroft of Coastdown. At mention of her name, a
brief vision connected with the past floated across Robert Hunter's
brain--of a certain summer evening when he was returning to Guild with
his poor young wife, and saw the back of a high open carriage bowling
away from his sister's gate, which he was told contained Mr. and Miss
Thornycroft. Never since that had he heard the name or thought of the
people.
"Do you know, when I came into the room just now, and you were
standing with your back to me, I nearly took you for one of my
brothers. At the back you are just like him."
Robert Hunter smiled slightly. "And not in the face?"
"Not at all--except, perhaps, a little in the forehead. Cyril has
hazel eyes and small features. The hair is exactly like his, the same
colour, and grows just as his does in front, leaving the forehead
square. If you were to hide your face, showing only the top of the
forehead and the hair, I should say you were Cyril."
The professor appeared, and they went into the more habitable part of
the house. Robert had not seen his sister since she was a little girl;
he had not seen Anna since they parted at Guild. It was altogether an
acceptable meeting; but he looked at Anna's face somewhat anxiously.
"Have you been working very much, Anna?" he took occasion to ask,
drawing her for a moment aside.
"I am always working very hard," she answered, with her sweet smile of
patient endurance. "There is a great deal to be done in schools, you
know; but I am well off at Miss Jupp's compared to what I was at the
other place. They are very kind to me."
"You have a look upon you as if you felt tired always. It is a curious
impression to draw though, perhaps, considering I have seen you but
for ten minutes."
"I do feel tired nearly always," acknowledged Anna. "The Miss Jupps
think London does not agree with me. I am going to Coastdown for a
change for the holidays; I shall get better there."
He thought she would require a longer change than a few holiday weeks.
Never in the old days had it struck him that Anna looked _fragile_;
but she certainly did now.
"And now, Robert Hunter, you'll stay with us, as these young ladies
are here?" said hospitable Mrs. Macpherson.
He hesitated before replying. Very much indeed would he have liked to
remain, but he had made an appointment with a gentleman.
"Put it off," said Mrs. Macpherson.
"There's no time for that. Certainly--if I am not at the office when
he comes, one of the partners would see him. But--"
"But what?" asked the professor. "Would not that be a solution of the
difficulty?"
"A way out of the mess," put in the professor's wife.
Mr. Hunter laughed. "I was going to say that I have never put away any
business for my own convenience since--since I took to it again."
The attraction, or whatever it might be, however, proved too strong
for business this afternoon, and Robert Hunter remained at the
professor's. When he and Miss Thornycroft parted at night, it seemed
that they had known each other for years.
It was very singular; a thing of rare occurrence. We have heard of
this sudden mutual liking, the nameless affinity that draws one soul
to another; but believe me it is not of very frequent experience. The
thought that crossed Robert Hunter's mind that evening more than once
was--"I wish that girl was my sister." Any idea of another sort of
attachment would be a very long while yet before it penetrated to him
as even a possibility.
In the evening, when they got home, at an early hour--Miss Jupp had
only given them until eight o'clock, for there was packing to do--Mary
Anne Thornycroft went into a fever of indignation to think that no
message had been left by or from any of her brothers.
"It is so fearfully careless of them! That is just like my brothers.
Do they expect we are to travel alone?"
"My dear, do not put yourself out," said Miss Jupp. "Two young ladies
can travel alone very well. You will get there quite safely."
"So far as that goes, ma'am, I could travel alone fearlessly to the
end of the world," spoke Mary Anne. "But that is not the question;
neither does it excuse their negligence. For all they know, I might
have spent all my money, and have none to take me down."
Miss Emma Jupp laughed. "They would suppose that we should supply
you."
"Yes, Miss Emma, no doubt. But they had no business to send me word
that one of them would be in London to-day to take charge of me home,
unless--"
The words were brought to a sudden standstill by the opening of the
door. One of the maids appeared at it to announce a guest.
"Mr. Isaac Thornycroft."
There entered the same noble-looking young man, noble in his towering
height and strength, that we knew two years ago at Coastdown; he came
in with a smile on his bright face--on its fair features, in its blue
eyes. Miss Emma Jupp's first thought was, what a likeness he bore to
his sister; her second that she had never in her whole life seen any
one half so good-looking. It happened that she had never seen him
before. Mary Anne began to reproach him for carelessness. He received
it all with the most ineffable good humour, the smile brightening on
his sunny face.
"I know it is too late, quite wrong of me, but I missed the train at
Jutpoint, and had to come by a later one. Which of these two young
ladies is Miss Chester?" he added, turning to the two girls who stood
together. "I have a--a trifle for her from Captain Copp."
"You shall guess," interposed Mary Anne. "One of them _is_ Anna
Chester. Now guess."
It was not difficult. Miss Hunter met his glance fearlessly in a merry
spirit; Anna blushed and let fall her eyes. Isaac Thornycroft smiled.
"This is Miss Chester."
"It is all through your stupid shyness, Anna," said Mary Anne in a
cross tone. Which of course only increased her confusion. Isaac
crossed the room, his eyes bent on the sweet blushing face, as he held
out the "trifle" forwarded by Captain Copp.
"Will you accept it, Miss Chester? Captain Copp charged me to take
particular care of it, and not to touch it myself."
It was a travelling wickered bottle, holding about a pint. Anna looked
at it with curiosity, and Emma Jupp took it out of her hand.
"What can it be?"
"Take out the cork and smell it," suggested Mr. Isaac Thornycroft.
Miss Emma did so; giving a strong sniff. "Dear me! I think it is rum."
"Rum-and-water," corrected Isaac. "Captain Copp begged me to assure
Miss Chester that it was only half-and-half, she being a young lady.
It is for her refreshment as she goes down to-morrow."
"If that's not exactly like Sam Copp!" exclaimed Miss Jupp with some
asperity, while the laugh against Anna went round. "He will never
acquire an idea beyond his old sea notions; never. _I_ remember what
he was before his leg came off."
"He came all the way to Jutpoint in the omnibus after me when I had
driven over, to make sure, I believe, that Mrs. Copp should not be
privy to the transaction. It was through his injunctions as to the
wicker bottle that I missed my train," concluded Isaac--his eyes, that
were bent on Anna Chester, dancing with mirth. At which hers fell
again.
If all of us estimated people alike, especially in regard to that
subtle matter of "liking" or "disliking" on first impression, what a
curious world it would be! Miss Emma Jupp considered Isaac Thornycroft
the best-looking, the most attractive man she had ever seen. Mary Anne
Thornycroft, on the contrary, was thinking the same of somebody else.
"I never saw anybody I liked half so much at first sight as Robert
Hunter," she softly said to herself, as she laid her head on her
pillow.
CHAPTER II.
Captain Copp.
Captain Copp was a true sailor, gifted with more good nature than
common sense. On the rare occasion of receiving a young lady visitor
under his roof, his hospitality and his heart alike ran riot. Anna
Chester, the pretty, friendless girl whom he had heard of but never
seen, was coming to him and his wife to be nursed into strength and
health, and the captain anticipated the arrival as something to be
made a fête of.
A feast too, by appearances. It was a bright summer morning, with a
fresh breeze blowing from the sea; and the captain was abroad betimes
with some flowing purple ribbons fastened round his glazed hat.
Greatly to the grievance of Mrs. Copp: who had ventured to say that
Anna was not a captured prize-ship, or a battle won, or even a
wedding, that she should be rejoiced over to the extent of streamers.
All of which Captain Copp was deaf to. He started by the ten o'clock
omnibus for Jutpoint, having undertaken first of all to send home
provisions for dinner. A pair of soles and two pounds of veal cutlet
had been meekly suggested by Mrs. Copp.
The morning wore on. Sarah, the middle-aged, hard-featured,
sensible-looking, thoroughly capable woman-servant, who was bold
enough to dispute with her master, and not in the least to care at
being likened to pirates and other disrespectful things, stood in the
kitchen making a gooseberry pudding, when the butcher-boy came in
without the ceremony of announcing himself; unless a knocking and
pushing of his tray against the back-door posts, through awkwardness,
could be called such.
"Some dishes, please," said he.
"Dishes!" retorted Sarah, who had one of the strongest tongues in
Coastdown. "Dishes for what?"
"For this here meat. The captain have just been in and bought it, and
master have sent it up."
He displayed some twelve or fifteen pounds of meat--beef, veal,
lamb. Sarah's green eyes--good, honest, pleasant eyes in the
main--glistened.
"Then your master's a fool. Didn't I tell him not to pay attention to
the captain when he took these freaks in his head?" she demanded.
"When he goes and buys up the whole shop--as he did one day last
winter because he was expecting a old mate of his down--your master's
not to notice him no more nor if he was a child. An uncommon soft
_you_ must be, to bring up all them joints! Did you think you was
supplying the Red Court? Just you march back with 'em."
There was an interruption. While the boy stood staring at the meat,
hardly knowing what to do, and rubbing his fingers amidst his shining
black hair, Mrs. Copp entered the kitchen, and became acquainted with
the state of affairs. She wore a pale muslin gown, as faded as her
gentle self, with pale green ribbons.
"Dear me," she meekly cried, "all that meat! We could not get through
the half of it while it was good? Do you think, James, your master
would have any objection to take it back?"
"Objection! He'll take it back, ma'am, whether he has any objection or
not," cried the positive Sarah. "Now then! who's this?"
Somebody seemed to be clattering up in clogs. A woman with the fish:
three pairs of large soles and a score or two of herrings, which the
captain had bought and paid for. Mrs. Copp, fearing what else might be
coming, looked inclined to cry. The exasperated Sarah, more practical,
took her hands out of the paste, wiped the flour off them on her check
apron, and went darting across the heath without bonnet to the
butcher's shop, the boy and his tray of rejected meat slowly following
her. There she commenced a wordy war with the butcher, accusing him of
being an idiot, with other disparaging epithets, and went marching
home in triumph carrying two pounds of veal cutlet.
"And that's too much for us," she cried to her mistress, "with all
that stock of fish and the pudding. What on earth is to be done with
the fish, I don't know. If I fry a pair for dinner, and pickle the
herrings, there'll be two pair left. _They_ won't pickle. One had need
to have poor folk coming here as they do at the Red Court. Master's
gone off with purple streamers flying from his hat; I think he'd more
need to put on bells."
Scarcely had she got her hands into the flour again, when another
person arrived. A girl with a goose. It was in its feathers, just
killed.
"If you please, ma'am," said she to Sarah, with a curtsey, "mother
says she'll stick the other as soon as ever she can catch him; but
he's runned away over the common. Mother sent me up with this for
'fraid you should be waiting to pluck him. The captain said they was
to come up sharp."
Sarah could almost have found in her heart to "stick" her master. She
was a faithful servant, and the waste of money vexed her. Mrs. Copp,
quite unable to battle with the petty ills of life, left the
strong-minded woman to fight against these, and ran away to her
parlour.
The respected cause of all this, meanwhile, had reached Jutpoint, he
and his streamers. There he had to wait a considerable time, but the
train came in at last, and brought the travellers.
They occupied a first-class compartment in the middle of the train.
There had been a little matter about the tickets at starting. Isaac
Thornycroft procured them, and when they were seated, Anna took out
her purse to repay him, and found she had not enough money in it. A
little more that she possessed was in her box. Accustomed to travel
second-class, even third, the cost of the ticket was more than she had
thought for. Eighteenpence short!
"If you will please to take this, I will repay you the rest as soon as
I can get to my box," she said, with painful embarrassment--an
embarrassment that Isaac could not fail to notice and to wonder at.
Reared as she had been, money wore to her an undue value; to want it
in a time of need seemed little short of a crime. She turned the
silver about in her hands, blushing painfully. Miss Thornycroft
discerned somewhat of the case.
"Never mind, Anna. I dare say you thought to travel second-class. You
can repay my brother later."
Isaac's quick brain took in the whole. This poor friendless girl, kept
at the Miss Jupps' almost out of charity, had less money in a year for
necessities than he would sometimes spend in an hour in frivolity.
Anna held out the silver still, with the rose-coloured flush deepening
on her delicate cheeks.
"What is it, Miss Chester?" he suddenly said. "Why do you offer me
your money?"
"You took my ticket, did you not?"
"Certainly," he answered, showing the three little pieces of card in
his waistcoat. "But I held the money for yours beforehand. Put up your
purse."
"Did you," she answered, in great relief, but embarrassed still. "Did
Mrs. Copp give it you?--or--Miss Jupp?--or--or the captain?" Isaac
laughed.
"You had better not inquire into secrets, Miss Chester. All I can tell
you is, I had the money for your ticket in my pocket. Where is that
important article--the wicker bottle? Captain Copp will expect it
returned to him--empty."
"It is empty now; Miss Jupp poured out the rum-and-water," she
answered, laughing. "I have it all safe."
She put up her purse as she spoke, inquiring no further as to the
donor in her spirit of implicit obedience, but concluded it must have
been Miss Jupp. And she never knew the truth until--until it was too
late to repay Isaac.
At the terminus, side by side with the captain and his streamers,
stood Justice Thornycroft. Anna remembered him well; the tall, fine,
genial-natured man whom she had seen three years before in the day's
visit to Mrs. Chester. All thought of her had long ago passed from his
memory, but he recognised the face--the pale, patient, gentle face,
which, even then, had struck Mr | 2,673.455551 |
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors
have been corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences
within the text and consultation of external sources.
More detail can be found at the end of the book.
Revolutionary Reader
REMINISCENCES AND
INDIAN LEGENDS
COMPILED BY
SOPHIE LEE FOSTER
STATE REGENT
DAUGHTERS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION OF GEORGIA
ATLANTA, GA.:
BYRD PRINTING COMPANY
1913
_COPYRIGHTED 1913_
_BY_
_SOPHIE LEE FOSTER_
_DEDICATION_
_As my work has been a labor of love, I therefore affectionately
dedicate this book to the Daughters of the
American Revolution of Georgia._
September 4, 1913.
MRS. SHEPPARD W. FOSTER,
Atlanta, Georgia.
My Dear Mrs. Foster:--To say that I am delighted with your
Revolutionary Reader is to state the sheer truth in very mild
terms. It is a marvel to me how you could gather together so many
charmingly written articles, each of them illustrative of some
dramatic phase of the great struggle for independence. There
is much in this book of local interest to each section. There
is literally nothing which does not carry with it an appeal of
the most profound interest to the general reader, whether in
Georgia or New England. You have ignored no part of the map. I
congratulate you upon your wonderful success in the preparation of
your Revolutionary Reader. It is marvelously rich in contents and
broadly American in spirit.
Sincerely your friend,
(Signed) LUCIAN LAMAR KNIGHT.
September 8, 1913.
MRS. S. W. FOSTER,
711 Peachtree Street.
I like very much your plan of a Revolutionary reader. I hope it
will be adopted by the school boards of the various states as a
supplementary reader so that it may have a wide circulation.
Yours sincerely,
JOSEPH T. DERRY.
CONTENTS
PAGE
America 11
Washington's Name 12
Washington's Inauguration 13
Important Characters of the Revolutionary Period in American
History 14
Battle of Alamance 20
Battle of Lexington 22
Signers of Declaration 35
Life at Valley Forge 37
Old Williamsburg 46
Song of the Revolution 52
A True Story of the Revolution 53
Georgia Poem 55
Forts of Georgia 56
James Edward Oglethorpe 59
The Condition of Georgia During the Revolution 61
Fort Rutledge of the Revolution 65
The Efforts of LaFayette for the Cause of American
Independence 72
James Jackson 77
Experiences of Joab Horne 79
Historical Sketch of Margaret Katherine Barry 81
Art and Artists of the Revolution 84
"Uncle Sam" Explained Again 87
An Episode of the War of the Revolution 88
State Flowers 93
Georgia State History, Naming of the Counties 95
An Historic Tree 100
Independence Day 101
Kitty 102
Battle of Kettle Creek 108
A Daring Exploit of Grace and Rachael Martin 111
A Revolutionary Puzzle 112
South Carolina in the Revolution 112
Lyman Hall 118
A Romance of Revolutionary Times 120
Fort Motte, South Carolina 121
Peter Strozier 123
Independence Day 125
Sarah Gilliam Williamson 127
A Colonial Hiding Place 129
A Hero of the Revolution 131
John Paul Jones 132
The Real Georgia Cracker 135
The Dying Soldier 136
When Benjamin Franklin Scored 139
A Revolutionary Baptising 139
George Walton 140
Thomas Jefferson 143
Orators of the American Revolution 150
The Flag of Our Country (Poem) 154
The Old Virginia Gentleman 155
When Washington Was Wed (Poem) 160
Rhode Island in the American Revolution 162
Georgia and Her Heroes in the Revolution 168
United States Treasury Seal 173
Willie Was Saved 174
Virginia Revolutionary Forts 175
Uncrowned Queens and Kings as Shown Through Humorous
Incidents of the Revolution 185
A Colonial Story 192
Molly Pitcher for Hall of Fame 195
Revolutionary Relics 196
Tragedy of the Revolution Overlooked by Historians 197
John Martin 204
| 2,673.585476 |
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[Illustration: "_She dragged off the engagement ring, and dashed it on
the floor in front of his feet._" _See p._ 335.]
PRINCE FORTUNATUS
A Novel
BY
WILLIAM BLACK
AUTHOR OF "A PRINCESS OF THULE" "MACLEOD OF DARE"
"IN FAR LOCHABER" ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE
1905
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A REHEARSAL 5
II. THE GREAT GOD PAN 21
III. NINA 37
IV. COUNTRY AND TOWN 55
V. WARS AND RUMORS 78
VI. A DEPARTURE 90
VII. IN STRATHAIVRON 106
VIII. THE TWELFTH 123
IX. VENATOR IMMEMOR 142
X. AIVRON AND GEINIG 159
XI. THE PHANTOM STAG 174
XII. A GLOBE OF GOLD-FISH 192
XIII. A NEW EXPERIENCE 207
XIV. A MAGNANIMOUS RIVAL 225
XV. "LET THE STRUCKEN DEER GO WEEP" 243
XVI. AN AWAKENING 259
XVII. A CRISIS 276
XVIII. AN INVOCATION 294
XIX. ENTRAPPED 310
XX. IN DIRER STRAITS 326
XXI. IN A DEN OF LIONS, AND THEREAFTER 342
XXII. PRIUS DEMENTAT 359
XXIII. A MEMORABLE DAY 376
XXIV. FRIENDS IN NEED 393
XXV. CHANGES 410
XXVI. TOWARDS THE DAWN 425
XXVII. A REUNION 430
ILLUSTRATIONS.
"SHE DRAGGED OFF THE ENGAGEMENT-RING, AND DASHED
IT ON THE FLOOR IN FRONT OF HIS FEET" _Frontispiece._
"'YOU SAY AT YOUR FEET THAT I WEPT IN DESPAIR'" _Facing p._ 18
"WHEN THEY HAD FINISHED SUPPER, LIONEL MOORE
LIT A CIGARETTE, AND HIS FRIEND A BRIAR-ROOT PIPE" " 34
"THEY PASSED IN THROUGH THE GATE, AND FOUND THE
DOOR LEFT OPEN FOR THEM" " 64
"AND YET HERE WAS THIS GIRL WATCHING COOLLY
AND CRITICALLY THE MOTION OF THE LINE" " 116
"CAUTIOUSLY OLD ROBERT CREPT DOWN. WHEN HE
WAS CLOSE TO THE WATER, HE BARED HIS RIGHT
ARM AND GRASPED THE GAFF BY THE HANDLE" " 170
"ROBERT GOT THE SMALL PARCELS AND THE DRINKING-CUPS
OUT OF THE BAG, AND ARRANGED THEM ON THE WARM TURF" " 198
"AND NINA, HANGING SOME WAY BACK, COULD SEE
THEM BEING PRESENTED TO MISS BURGOYNE" " 252
"'WHY, YOU SEEM TO KNOW EVERYBODY, MR. MOORE!'
SHE SAID TO HIM, WITH A SMILE" " 264
"HE THREW HIS ARMS ON THE TABLE BEFORE HIM,
AND HID HIS FACE" " 310
"AND AGAIN SHE FILLED UP HIS GLASS, WHICH HE HAD
NOT EMPTIED" " 322
"THERE WAS A SLIGHT TOUCH OF COLOR VISIBLE ON
THE GRACIOUS FOREHEAD WHEN SHE OFFERED HIM HER HAND" " 346
"HE UTTERED A LOUD SHRIEK, AND STRUGGLED
WILDLY TO RAISE HIMSELF" " 394
"SHE THREW HERSELF ON HER KNEES BY THE BEDSIDE
AND SEIZED HIS HAND" " 400
"MAURICE WALKED BACK UNTIL HE FOUND A GATE,
ENTERED, AND WENT FORWARD AND OVERTOOK HER" " 420
"I HAVE AN EXTREMELY IMPORTANT LETTER TO SEND OFF" " 430
PRINCE FORTUNATUS.
CHAPTER I.
A REHEARSAL.
When the curtain fell on the last act of "The Squire's Daughter," the
comedy-opera that had taken all musical London by storm, a tall and
elegant young English matron and her still taller brother rose from
their places in the private box they had been occupying, and made ready
to depart; and he had just assisted her to put on her long-skirted coat
of rose-red plush when an attendant made his appearance.
"Mr. Moore's compliments, your ladyship, and will you please to step
this way?"
The box was close to the stage. Lady Adela Cunyngham and her brother,
Lord Rockminster, followed their guide through a narrow little door, and
almost at once found themselves in the wings, amid the usual motley
crowd of gas-men, scene-shifters, dressers, and the like. But the
company were still fronting the footlights; for there had been a general
recall, and the curtain had gone up again; and probably, during this
brief second of scrutiny, it may have seemed odd to these two strangers
to find themselves looking, not at rows of smiling faces on the stage,
but at the backs of the heads of the performers. However, the curtain
once more came down; the great wedding-party in the squire's hall grew
suddenly quite business-like and went their several ways as if they had
no longer any concern with one another; and then it was that the
squire's daughter herself--a piquant little person she was, in a
magnificent costume of richly flowered white satin, and with a
portentous head-gear of powdered hair and brilliants and strings of
pearls--was brought forward by a handsome young gentleman who wore a
tied wig, a laced coat and ruffles, satin knee-breeches, shining silken
stockings, and silver-buckled shoes.
"Lady Adela," said he, "let me introduce you to Miss Burgoyne. Miss
Burgoyne has been kind enough to say she will take you into her room for
a little while, until I get off my war-paint. I sha'n't keep you more
than a few minutes."
"It is very good of you," said the tall young matron in the crimson coat
to this gorgeous little white bride, whose lips were brilliant with
cherry-paste, and whose bright and frank eyes were surrounded by such a
mighty mass of make-up.
"Not at all," she answered, pleasantly enough, and therewith she led the
way down some steps into a long, white-tiled corridor, from which
branched the various dressing-rooms. "I'm afraid I can't give you any
tea now; but there's some lemonade, of my own making--it has become very
popular in the theatre--you would hardly believe the number of callers I
have of an evening."
By this time Lionel Moore, who was responsible for these strangers being
in the theatre, had gone quickly off to his own dressing-room to change
his attire, so that when the two ladies reached a certain half-open door
where the prima-donna's maid was waiting for her, Lord Rockminster
naturally hung back and would have remained without. Miss Burgoyne
instantly turned to him.
"Oh, but you may come in too!" she said, with great complaisance.
Somewhat timorously he followed these two into a prettily furnished
little sitting-room, where he was bidden to take a seat and regale
himself with lemonade, if he was so minded; and then Miss Burgoyne drew
aside the curtain of an inner apartment, and said to her other guest:
"_You_ may come in here, if you like. Mr. Moore said you wished to
know about stage make-up and that kind of thing--I will show you all the
dreadful secrets--Jane!" Thereupon these three disappeared behind the
curtain, and Lord Rockminster was left alone.
But Lord Rockminster liked being left alone. He was a great thinker, who
rarely revealed his thoughts, but who was quite happy in possessing
them. He could sit for an hour at a club-window, calmly gazing out into
the street, and be perfectly content. It is true that the pale
tobacco-tinge that overspread the young man's fair complexion seemed to
speak of an out-of-door life; but he had long ago emancipated himself
from the tyranny of field-sports. That thraldom had begun early with
him, as with most of his class. He had hardly been out of his Eton
jacket when gillies and water-bailiffs got hold of him, and made him
thrash salmon-pools with a seventeen-foot rod until his back was
breaking; and then keepers and foresters had taken possession of him,
and compelled him to crawl for miles up wet gullies and across
peat-hags, and then put a rifle in his hand, expecting him to hit a
bewildering object on the other side of a corrie when, as a matter of
fact, his heart was like to burst with excitement and fear. But the
young man had some strength of character. He rebelled; he refused to be
driven like a slave any longer; he struck for freedom and won it. There
was still much travelling to be encountered; but when he had got that
over, when he had seen everything and done everything, and there was
nothing more to do or to see, then he became master of himself and
conducted himself accordingly. Contemplation, accompanied by a
cigarette, was now his chief good. What his meditations were no one
knew, but they sufficed unto himself. He had attained Nirvana. He lived
in a region of perpetual thought.
But there was one active quality that Lord Rockminster certainly did
possess: he was a most devoted brother, as all the town knew. He was
never tired of going about with his three beautiful sisters, or with any
one of them; he would fetch and carry for them with the most amiable
assiduity; "Rock" they called him, as if he were a retriever. Then the
fact that they followed very different pursuits made all the greater
demand on his consideration. His youngest sister, Lady Rosamund Bourne,
painted indefatigably in both water and oils, and had more than once
exhibited in Suffolk Street; Lady Sybil devoted herself to music, and
was a well-known figure at charitable concerts; while the eldest sister,
Lady Adela, considered literature and the drama as more particularly
under her protection, nor had she ceased to interest herself in these
graceful arts when she married Sir Hugh Cunyngham, of the Braes, that
famous breeder of polled cattle. The natural consequence of all this was
that Lord Rockminster found himself called to a never-ending series of
concerts, theatres, private views, and the like, and always with one or
other of his beautiful, tall sisters as his companion; while on a
certain occasion (for it was whispered that Lady Adela Cunyngham was
engaged in the composition of a novel, and her brother was the soul of
good-nature) he had even gone the length of asking a publisher to dine
at his club. And here he was seated in an actress's room, alone, while
his sister was inspecting powder-puffs, washes, patches, and paste
jewelry; and not only that, but they were about to take an actor home to
supper with them. What he thought about it all he never said. He sat and
stroked his small yellow moustache; his eyes was absent; and on his
handsome, almost Greek, features there dwelt a perfect and continuous
calm.
Presently the door was opened, and the smart-looking young baritone who
had stolen away the hearts of half the women in London made his
appearance. He was a young fellow of about eight-and-twenty,
pleasant-featured, his complexion almost colorless, his eyes gray with
dark lashes, his eyebrows also dark. In figure he was slight and wiry
rather than muscular; but where he gave evidence of strength was in his
magnificent throat and in the set of his head and shoulders. It may be
added that he possessed, what few stage-singers appear to possess, a
remarkably well-formed leg--a firm-knit calf tapering to a small ankle
and a shapely foot; but, as he had now doffed his professional sil | 2,673.776491 |
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GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
VOL. XXXIV. April, 1849. No. 4.
Table of Contents
The Poet Lí
The Naval Officer
Victory and Defeat
To Mother
On a Diamond Ring
The Recluse. No. I.
Rome
The Missionary, Sunlight
Thermopylæ
Lost Treasures
The Brother’s Tempt | 2,673.854699 |
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THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.
VOL. 19. No. 547.] SATURDAY, MAY 19, 1832 [PRICE 2d.
* * * * *
WILTON CASTLE.
[Illustration: Wilton Castle.]
Here is one of the ivy-mantled relics that lend even a charm to romantic
nature on the banks of the Wye. Its shattered tower and crumbling wall,
combine with her wild luxuriance, to form a scene of great picturesque
beauty, though, as Gilpin observes, "the scene wants accompaniments to
give it grandeur."
These ruins stand opposite to Ross, on the western bank of the Wye. The
Castle was for several centuries the baronial residence of the Greys of
the south, who derived from it their first title, and who became owners
in the time of Edward the First. It may therefore be presumed to have
been one of the strongholds, in the great struggles for feudal
superiority with Wales, which were commenced by Edward, whose "active
and splendid reign may be considered as an attempt to subject the whole
island of Great Britain to his sway."[1] Or, in earlier times, being
situated on the ancient barrier between England and Wales, it may have
been a station of some importance, from its contiguity to Hereford,
which city was destroyed by the Welsh, but rebuilt and fortified by
Harold, who also strengthened the castle. The whole district is of
antiquarian interest, since, at the period of the Roman invasion,
Herefordshire was inhabited by the Silures, who also occupied the
adjacent counties of Radnor, Monmouth, and Glamorgan, together with that
part of Gloucestershire which lies westward of the Severn. The Silures,
in conjunction with the Ordovices, or inhabitants of North Wales,
retarded, for a considerable period, the progress of the Roman victors,
whose grand object seems to have been the conquest of these nations, who
had chosen the gallant Caractacus as their chieftain, and resolutely
exhausted every effort in defence of the independence of their country.
[1] Mackintosh's Hist. England, vol. i, p. 247.
The present demolished state of the Castle is referred to the Royalist
Governors of Hereford, by whose orders it was burnt to the bare walls
during the reign of Charles I. in the absence of its then possessor, Sir
J. Brydges.
The scenery of the WYE, at this point is thus described by tourists:
"From Hereford to Ross, its features occasionally assume greater
boldness; though more frequently their aspect is placid; but at the
latter town wholly emerging from its state of repose," it resumes the
brightness and rapidity of its primitive character, as it forms the
admired curve which the churchyard of Ross commands. The celebrated
spire of Ross church, peeping over a noble row of elms, here fronts the
ruined Castle of Wilton, beneath the arches of whose bridge, the Wye
flows through a charming succession of meadows, encircling at last the
lofty and well-wooded hill, crowned with the majestic fragments of
Gooderich Castle, and opposed by the waving eminences of the forest of
Dean. The mighty pile, or peninsula, of Symonds' Rock succeeds, round
which the river flows in a circuit of seven miles, though the opposite
points of the isthmus are only one mile asunder. Shortly afterwards, the
Wye quits the county, and enters Monmouthshire at the New Wear.
The Rev. Mr. Gilpin, in his charming little volume on Picturesque
Beauty,[2] has a few appropriate observations: after passing Wilton--
[2] Observations on the River Wye, &c. By William Gilpin,
M.A.--Fifth Edition.
"We met with nothing for some time during our voyage but grand, woody
banks, one rising behind another; appearing and vanishing by turns, as
we doubled the several capes. But though no particular objects
characterized these different scenes, yet they afforded great variety of
pleasing views, both as we wound round the several promontories, which
discovered new beauties as each scene opened, and when we kept the same
scene a longer time in view, stretching along some lengthened reach,
where the river is formed into an irregular vista by hills shooting out
beyond each other and going off in perspective."
We ought not to forget to mention Ross, and its association with one of
the noblest works of GOD--honest John Kyrle, celebrated as the Man of
Ross. Pope, during his visits at Holm-Lacey, in the vicinity, obtained
sufficient knowledge of his beneficence, to render due homage to his
worth in one of the brightest pages of the records of human character.
* * * * *
"MOTHER CAREY'S CHICKENS"--EGGS.
(_For the Mirror._)
In a paper on the _Superstitions of the Sea_, a few years ago,[3] I
slightly alluded to the nautical belief that the appearance of the
Stormy Petrel, and other marine birds at sea, was often considered to be
the forerunner of peril and disaster; and as your excellent
correspondent, _M.L.B._, in a recent number, expresses a wish to know
the origin of the _soubriquet_ of _Mother Carey's Chickens_, which the
former birds have obtained, I now give it with all the brevity which is
consistent with so important a narration. It appears that a certain
outward-bound Indiaman, called the _Tiger_, (but in what year I am
unable to state,) had encountered one continued series of storms, during
her whole passage; till on nearing the Cape of Good Hope, she was almost
reduced to a wreck. Here, however, the winds and waves seemed bent on
her destruction; in the midst of the storm, flocks of strange looking
birds were seen hovering and wheeling in the air around the devoted
ship, and one of the passengers, a woman called "Mother Carey," was
observed by the glare of the lightning to laugh and smile when she
looked at these foul-weather visitants; on which she was not only set
down as a witch, but it was also thought that they were her familiars,
whom she had invoked from the _Red Sea_; and "all hands" were seriously
considering on the propriety of getting rid of the old beldam, (as is
usual in such cases,) by setting her afloat, when she saved them the
trouble, and at that moment jumped overboard, surrounded by flames; on
which the birds vanished, the storm cleared away, and the tempest-tossed
_Tiger_ went peacefully on her course! Ever since the occurrence of this
"astounding yarn," the birds have been called "Mother Carey's Chickens,"
and are considered by our sailors to be the most unlucky of all the
feathered visitants at sea.
[3] See Mirror, No. 205, vol. xi.
To turn by a not unnatural transition from _birds_ to _eggs_, permit me
to inform your Scottish correspondent, _S.S._ (see No. 536,) where he
asserts that the plan of rubbing eggs with grease in order to preserve
them, "is not so much as known in our own boasted land of stale eggs and
bundlewood;" that the said _discovery_ has long been known and practised
in many parts of old England; and that the repeated experience of
several friends warrants me in giving a decided negative to his
assertion that eggs so prepared "_will keep any length of time perfectly
fresh_." If kept for a considerable period, though they do not become
absolutely bad, yet they turn _very stale_. I happen to know something
of Scotland, and was never before aware that the raw clime of our
northern neighbours was so celebrated for its poultry. _M.L.B._ is
certainly misinformed in speaking of the trade in _Scotch_ eggs to
_America_. The importation of eggs from the continent into England is
very extensive: the duty in 1827 amounted at the rate of 10_d_. per 120,
to 23,062_l_. 19_s_. 1_d_.; since which period there has, we believe,
been an increase. The importation of eggs from Ireland is also very
large. If _S.S._ resides in London, he may have occasion to sneer at
"our boasted land of stale eggs;" but he should rather sneer at the
preserved French eggs, with which the London dealers are principally
supplied.
VYVYAN.
* * * * *
THE CURFEW BELL.
(To the Editor.)
In addition to the remarks made by _Reginald_, in No. 543, and by
_M.D._, and _G.C._, in No. 545 of _The Mirror_, let me add that the
Curfew is rung every night at eight, in my native town, (Winchester,)
and the bell, a large one, weighing 12 cwt., is appropriated for the
purpose, (not belonging to a church) but affixed in the tower of the
Guildhall, and used only for this occasion, or on an alarm of fire.
In that city the Curfew was first established under the command of the
Conqueror, and the practice has continued to the present day. I have
been assured by many old residents, that it formerly was the custom to
ring the bell every morning at four o'clock, but the practice being
found annoying to persons living near, the Corporation ordered it to be
discontinued.
To such of your readers who, like myself, are fond of a solitary ramble
along the sea shore by moonlight, I would say, go to Southampton or the
Isle of Wight; take an evening walk from Itchen through the fields to
Netley, thence to the Abbey and Fort ruins, under woods that for a
considerable distance skirt the coast; or on the opposite side, through
the Forest of Oaks, from Eling to Dibden, and onwards over the meadows
to Hythe: there they may, in either, find ample food for reflection,
connected with the Curfew Bell.
Seated on a fragment of the towers of Netley Abbey, whose pinnacles were
so often hailed by seamen as well known landmarks, but whose Curfew has
for centuries been quiet, the spectator may see before him the crumbling
remains of a fort, erected hundreds of years ago. On the left is an
expanse of water as far as the eye can reach, and in his front the
celebrated New Forest,--
Majestic woods of ever vigorous green,
Stage above stage, high waving o'er the bills;
Or to the far horizon wide diffus'd,
A boundless deep immensity of shade--
the scene of William's tyranny and atrocity, the spot where his children
met their untimely end, and where may be seen the _tumuli_ erected over
the remains of the Britons who fell in defence of their country.
In the deep recesses of a wood in the south-east prospect, the eye may
faintly distinguish the mouldering remains of the Abbey of Beaulieu,
famed in days | 2,673.855319 |
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Philippine Bureau of Agriculture.
Farmer's Bulletin No. 2.
CACAO CULTURE IN THE PHILIPPINES
By
WILLIAM S. LYON,
In charge of seed and plant introduction.
Prepared under the direction of the Chief of the Bureau.
Manila:
Bureau of Public Printing.
1902.
CONTENTS.
Page.
Letter of transmittal 4
Introduction 5
Climate 6
The plantation site 7
The soil 7
Preparation of the soil 8
Drainage 8
Forming the plantation 9
Selection of varieties 10
Planting 11
Cultivation 13
Pruning 13
Harvest 16
Enemies and diseases 18
Manuring 19
Supplemental notes 21
New varieties 21
Residence 21
Cost of a cacao plantation 22
LETTER OF TRANSMITTAL.
Sir: I submit herewith an essay on the cultivation of cacao, for the
use of planters in the Philippines. This essay is prompted first,
because much of the cacao grown here is of such excellent quality as
to induce keen rivalry among buyers to procure it at an advance of
quite 50 per cent over the common export grades of the Java bean,
notwithstanding the failure on the part of the local grower to
"process" or cure the product in any way; second, because in parts
of Mindanao and <DW64>s, despite ill treatment or no treatment, the
plant exhibits a luxuriance of growth and wealth of productiveness
that demonstrates its entire fitness for those regions and leads us
to believe in the successful extension of its propagation throughout
these Islands; and lastly because of the repeated calls upon the Chief
of the Agricultural Bureau for literature or information bearing upon
this important horticultural industry.
The importance of cacao-growing in the Philippines can hardly be
overestimated. Recent statistics place the world's demand for cacao
(exclusive of local consumption) at 200,000,000 pounds, valued at
more than $30,000,000 gold.
There is little danger of overproduction and consequent low prices
for very many years to come. So far as known, the areas where cacao
prospers in the great equatorial zone are small, and the opening and
development of suitable regions has altogether failed to keep pace
with the demand.
The bibliography of cacao is rather limited, and some of the best
publications, [2] being in French, are unavailable to many. The leading
English treatise, by Professor Hart, [3] admirable in many respects,
deals mainly with conditions in Trinidad, West Indies, and is fatally
defective, if not misleading, on the all-important question of pruning.
The life history of the cacao, its botany, chemistry, and statistics
are replete with interest, and will, perhaps, be treated in a future
paper.
Respectfully,
Wm. S. Lyon,
In Charge of Seed and Plant Introduction.
Hon. F. Lamson-Scribner,
Chief of the Insular Bureau of Agriculture.
CACAO CULTURE IN THE PHILIPPINES.
INTRODUCTION.
Cacao in cultivation exists nearly everywhere in the Archipelago. I
have observed it in several provinces of Luzon, in Mindanao, Jolo,
Basilan, Panay, and <DW64>s, and have well-verified assurances of its
presence in Cebu, Bohol, and Masbate, and it is altogether reasonable
to predicate its existence upon all the larger islands anywhere under
an elevation of 1,000 or possibly 1,200 meters. Nevertheless, in many
localities the condition of the plants is such as not to justify the
general extension of cacao cultivation into all regions. The presence
of cacao in a given locality is an interesting fact, furnishing a
useful guide for investigation and agricultural experimentation, but,
as the purpose of this paper is to deal with cacao growing from a
commercial standpoint, it is well to state that wherever reference is
made to the growth, requirements, habits, or cultural treatment of the
plant the commercial aspect is alone considered. As an illustration,
attention is called to the statement made elsewhere, that "cacao exacts
a minimum temperature of 18 deg."; although, as is perfectly well known
to the writer, its fruit has sometimes matured where the recorded
temperatures have fallen as low as 10 deg.. There is much to be learned
here by experimentation, for as yet the cultivation is primitive
in the extreme, pruning of any kind rudimentary or negative, and
"treatment" of the nut altogether unknown.
Elsewhere in cacao-producing countries its cultivation has long passed
the experimental stage, and the practices that govern the management
of a well-ordered cacao plantation are as clearly defined as those
of an orange grove in Florida or a vineyard in California.
In widely scattered localities the close observer will find many
young trees that in vigor, color, and general health leave nothing
to be desired, but before making final selection for a plantation he
should inspect trees of larger growth for evidences of "die back" of
the branches. If "die back" is present, superficial examination will
generally determine if it is caused by neglect or by the attacks
of insects. If not caused by neglect or insect attacks, he may
assume that some primary essential to the continued and successful
cultivation of the tree is wanting and that the location is unsuited
to profitable plantations.
With due regard to these preliminary precautions and a close
oversight of every subsequent operation, there is no reason why the
growing of cacao may not ultimately become one of the most profitable
horticultural enterprises that can engage the attention of planters
in this Archipelago.
CLIMATE.
It is customary, when writing of any crop culture, to give precedence
to site and soil, but in the case of cacao these considerations are
of secondary importance, and while none of the minor operations of
planting, pruning, cultivation, and fertilizing may be overlooked,
they are all outweighed by the single essential--climate.
In general, a state of atmospheric saturation keeps pace with heavy
rainfall, and for that reason we may successfully look for the highest
relative humidity upon the eastern shores of the Archipelago, where
the rainfall is more uniformly distributed over the whole year,
than upon the west.
There are places where the conditions are so peculiar as to challenge
especial inquiry. We find on the peninsula of Zamboanga a recorded
annual mean rainfall of only 888 mm., and yet cacao (unirrigated)
exhibits exceptional thrift and vigor. It is true that this rain is
so evenly distributed throughout the year that every drop becomes
available, yet the total rainfall is insufficient to account for
the very evident and abundant atmospheric humidity indicated by
the prosperous conditions of the cacao plantations. The explanation
of this phenomenon, as made to me by the Rev. Father Algue, of the
Observatory of Manila, is to the effect that strong equatorial ocean
currents constantly prevail against southern Mindanao, and that their
influence extend north nearly to the tenth degree of latitude. These
currents, carrying their moisture-laden atmosphere, would naturally
affect the whole of this narrow neck of land and influence as well
some of the western coast of Mindanao, and probably place it upon
the same favored hygrometric plane as the eastern coast, where the
rainfall in some localities amounts to 4 meters a year.
While 2,000 mm. of mean annual rainfall equably distributed is ample
to achieve complete success, it seems almost impossible to injure
cacao by excessive precipitation. It has been known to successfully
tide over inundation of the whole stem up to the first branches for
a period covering nearly a month.
Irrigation must be resorted to in cases of deficient or unevenly
distributed rainfall, and irrigation is always advantageous whenever
there is suspension of rain for a period of more than fifteen days.
Concerning temperatures the best is that with an annual mean of 26 deg.
to 28 deg., with 20 deg. as the mean minimum where any measure of success
may be expected. A mean temperature of over 30 deg. is prejudicial to
cacao growing.
The last but not least important of the atmospheric phenomena for
our consideration are the winds. Cacao loves to "steam and swelter in
its own atmosphere" and high winds are inimical, and even refreshing
breezes are incompatible, with the greatest success. As there are but
few large areas in these Islands that are exempt from one or other
of our prevailing winds, the remedies that suggest themselves are:
The selection of small sheltered valleys where the prevailing winds
are directly cut off by intervening hills or mountains; the plantation
of only small groves in the open, and their frequent intersection by
the plantation of rapid growing trees; and, best of all, plantings
made in forest clearings, where the remaining forested lands will
furnish the needed protection.
LOCATION.
It is always desirable to select a site that is approximately level
or with only enough fall to assure easy drainage. Such sites may
be planted symmetrically and are susceptible to the easiest and
most economical application of the many operations connected with
a plantation.
Provided the region is well forested and therefore protected from
sea breezes, the plantation may be carried very near to the coast,
provided the elevation is sufficient to assure the grove immunity from
incursions of tide water, which, however much diluted, will speedily
cause the death of the plants.
Excavations should be made during the dry season to determine that
water does not stand within 1 1/2 meters of the surface, a more
essential condition, however, when planting is made "at stake" than
when nursery reared trees are planted.
Hillsides, when not too precipitous, frequently offer admirable shelter
and desirable soils, but their use entails a rather more complicated
system of drainage, to carry away storm water without land washing,
and for the ready conversion of the same into irrigating ditches during
the dry season. Further, every operation involved must be performed
by hand labor, and in the selection of such a site the planter must
be largely influenced by the quantity and cost of available labor.
The unexceptionable shelter, the humidity that prevails, and the
inexhaustible supply of humus that is generally found in deep
forest ravines frequently lead to their planting to cacao where
the <DW72> is even as great as 45 deg.. Such plantations, if done upon
a considerable commercial scale, involve engineering problems and
the careful terracing of each tree, and, except for a dearth of more
suitable locations, is a practice that has little to commend it to
the practical grower.
THE SOIL.
Other things being equal, preference should be given to a not too
tenacious, clayey loam. Selection, in fact, may be quite successfully
made through the process of exclusion, and by eliminating all soils
of a very light and sandy nature, or clays so tenacious that the
surface bakes and cracks | 2,673.960284 |
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SEASONING OF WOOD
A TREATISE ON THE NATURAL AND ARTIFICIAL
PROCESSES EMPLOYED IN THE PREPARATION
OF LUMBER FOR MANUFACTURE,
WITH DETAILED EXPLANATIONS OF ITS
USES, CHARACTERISTICS AND PROPERTIES
_ILLUSTRATIONS_
BY
JOSEPH B. WAGNER
AUTHOR OF "COOPERAGE"
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
D. VAN NOSTRAND COMPANY
25 PARK PLACE
1917
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY
D. VAN NOSTRAND COMPANY
THE.PLIMPTON.PRESS
NORWOOD.MASS.U.S.A
PREFACE
The seasoning and kiln-drying of wood is such an important process in
the manufacture of woods that a need for fuller information regarding
it, based upon scientific study of the behavior of various species at
different mechanical temperatures, and under different drying
processes is keenly felt. Everyone connected with the woodworking
industry, or its use in manufactured products, is well aware of the
difficulties encountered in properly seasoning or removing the
moisture content without injury to the timber, and of its
susceptibility to atmospheric conditions after it has been thoroughly
seasoned. There is perhaps no material or substance that gives up its
moisture with more resistance than wood does. It vigorously defies the
efforts of human ingenuity to take away from it, without injury or
destruction, that with which nature has so generously supplied it.
In the past but little has been known of this matter further than the
fact that wood contained moisture which had to be removed before the
wood could be made use of for commercial purposes. Within recent
years, however, considerable interest has been awakened among
wood-users in the operation of kiln-drying. The losses occasioned in
air-drying and improper kiln-drying, and the necessity for getting the
material dry as quickly as possible after it has come from the saw, in
order to prepare it for manufacturing purposes, are bringing about a
realization of the importance of a technical knowledge of the subject.
Since this particular subject has never before been represented by any
technical work, and appears to have been neglected, it is hoped that
the trade will appreciate the endeavor in bringing this book before
them, as well as the difficulties encountered in compiling it, as it
is the first of its kind in existence. The author trusts that his
efforts will present some information that may be applied with
advantage, or serve at least as a matter of consideration or
investigation.
In every case the aim has been to give the facts, and wherever a
machine or appliance has been illustrated or commented upon, or the
name of the maker has been mentioned, it has not been with the
intention either of recommending or disparaging his or their work, but
has been made use of merely to illustrate the text.
The preparation of the following pages has been a work of pleasure to
the author. If they prove beneficial and of service to his
fellow-workmen he will have been amply repaid.
THE AUTHOR.
September, 1917
CONTENTS
SECTION I
TIMBER
PAGES
Characteristics and Properties of Same--Structure
of Wood--Properties of Wood--Classes of Trees 1-7
SECTION II
CONIFEROUS TREES
Wood of Coniferous Trees--Bark and Pith--Sapwood and Heartwood--The
Annual or Yearly Ring--Spring- and Summer-Wood--Anatomical
Structure--List of Important Coniferous Trees 8-30
SECTION III
BROAD-LEAVED TREES
Wood of Broad-leaved Trees--Minute Structure--List of Most
Important Broad-leaved Trees--Red Gum--Range of Red Gum--Form
of Red Gum--Tolerance of Red Gum--Its Demands upon Soil and
Moisture--Reproduction of Red Gum--Second-growth Red Gum--Tupelo
Gum--Uses of Tupelo Gum--Range of Tupelo Gum 31-85
SECTION IV
GRAIN, COLOR, ODOR, WEIGHT, AND FIGURE IN WOOD
Different Grains of Wood--Color and Odor of Wood--Weight of
Wood--Weight of Kiln-dried Wood of Different Species--Figure in
Wood 86-97
SECTION V
ENEMIES OF WOOD
General Remarks--Ambrosia or Timber Beetles--Round-headed
Borers--Flat-headed Borers--Timber Worms--Powder Post
Borers--Conditions Favorable for Insect Injury--Crude
Products--Round Timber with Bark on--How to Prevent
Injury--Saplings--Stave, Heading, and Shingle Bolts--Unseasoned
Products in the Rough--Seasoned Products in the Rough--Dry
Cooperage Stock and Wooden Truss Hoops--Staves and Heads
of Barrels Containing Alcoholic Liquids 98-113
SECTION VI
WATER IN WOOD
Distribution of Water in Wood--Seasonal Distribution of Water in
Wood--Composition of Sap--Effects of Moisture on Wood--The
Fibre-Saturation Point in Wood 114-118
SECTION VII
WHAT SEASONING IS
What Seasoning Is--Difference Between Seasoned and Unseasoned
Wood--Manner of Evaporation of Water--Absorption of Water
by Dry Wood--Rapidity of Evaporation--Physical Properties
that Influence Drying 119-127
SECTION VIII
ADVANTAGES OF SEASONING
Advantages of Seasoning--Prevention of Checking and
Splitting--Shrinkage of Wood--Expansion of Wood--Elimination of
Stain and Mildew 128-137
SECTION IX
DIFFICULTIES OF DRYING WOOD
Difficulties of Drying Wood--Changes Rendering Drying
Difficult--Losses Due to Improper Kiln-drying--Properties of
Wood that Effect Drying--Unsolved Problems in Kiln-drying 138-144
SECTION X
HOW WOOD IS SEASONED
Methods of Drying--Drying at Atmospheric Pressure--Drying Under
Pressure and Vacuum--Impregnation Methods--Preliminary
Treatments--Out-of-door Seasoning 145-155
SECTION XI
KILN-DRYING OF WOOD
Advantages of Kiln-drying over Air Drying--Physical Conditions
Governing the Drying of Wood--Theory of Kiln-drying--Requirements
in a Satisfactory Dry Kiln--Kiln-drying--Remarks--Underlying
Principles--Objects of Kiln-drying--Conditions of Success--Different
Treatments According to Kind--Temperature Depends--Air
Circulation--Humidity--Kiln-drying--Pounds of Water Lost in Drying
100 Pounds of Green Wood in the Kiln--Kiln-drying Gum--Preliminary
Steaming--Final Steaming--Kiln-drying of Green Red Gum 156-184
SECTION XII
TYPES OF DRY KILNS
Different types of Dry Kilns--The "Blower" or "Hot Blast" Dry
Kiln--Operating the "Blower" or "Hot Blast" Dry Kiln--The
"Pipe" or "Moist-Air" Dry Kiln--Operating the "Pipe" or
"Moist-Air" Dry Kiln--Choice of Drying Method--Kilns of
Different Types--The "Progressive" Dry Kiln--The "Apartment"
Dry Kiln--The "Pocket" Dry Kiln--The "Tower" Dry Kiln--The
"Box" Dry Kiln 185-205
SECTION XIII
DRY KILN SPECIALTIES
Kiln Cars and Method of Loading Same--The "Cross-wise" Piling
Method--The "End-wise" Piling Method--The "Edge-wise"
Piling Method--The Automatic Lumber Stacker--The Unstacker
Car--Stave Piling--Shingle Piling--Stave Bolt Trucks--Different
Types of Kiln Cars--Different Types of Transfer Cars--Dry Kiln
Doors--Different Types of Kiln Door Carriers 206-236
SECTION XIV
HELPFUL APPLIANCES IN KILN DRYING
The Humidity Diagram--Examples of Use--The Hygrodeik--The
Recording Hygrometer--The Registering Hygrometer--The
Recording Thermometer--The Registering Thermometer--The
Recording Steam Gauge--The Troemroid Scalometer--Test
Samples--Weighing--Examples of Use--Records of Moisture
Content--Saw Mills--Factories--The Electric Heater 237-250
SECTION XV
Bibliography--Glossary--Index of Latin Names--Index of Common
Names 251-257
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
FIG. PAGE
1. Board of pine 13
2. Wood of spruce 14
3. Group of fibres from pine wood 15
4. Block of oak 31
5. Board of oak 32
6. Cross-section of oak highly magnified 32
7. Highly magnified fibres of wood 33
8. Isolated fibres and cells of wood 34
9. Cross-section of basswood 35
10. A large red gum 52
11. A tupelo gum slough 53
12. Second growth red gum 57
13. A cypress slough in dry season 58
14. A large cottonwood 78
15. Spiral grain in wood 87
16. Alternating spiral grain in cypress 87
17. Wavy grain in beech 88
18. Section of wood showing position of the grain at base of limb 89
19. Cross-section of a group of wood fibres 91
20. Isolated fibres of wood 91
21. Orientation of wood samples | 2,674.09652 |
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THE WEB OF THE GOLDEN SPIDER
by
FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT
Author of "Joan of the Alley," etc.
Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Charles M. Relyea
[Illustration: "_With pretty art and a woman's instinctive desire to
please, she had placed the candle on a chair and assumed something of a
pose._" [Page 20]]
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Copyright, 1909
by Small, Maynard & Company
(Incorporated)
Entered at Stationers' Hall
The University Press, Cambridge, U.S.A.
TO
MY WIFE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE CLOSED DOOR OPENS 1
II CHANCE PROVIDES 13
III A STRANGER ARRIVES 28
IV THE GOLDEN GOD SPEAKS 40
V IN THE DARK 53
VI BLIND MAN'S BUFF 63
VII THE GAME CONTINUES 75
VIII OF GOLD AND JEWELS LONG HIDDEN 89
IX A STERN CHASE 100
X STRANGE FISHING 113
XI WHAT WAS CAUGHT 124
XII OF LOVE AND QUEENS 136
XIII OF POWDER AND BULLETS 149
XIV IN THE SHADOW OF THE ANDES 164
XV GOOD NEWS AND BAD 172
XVI THE PRIEST TAKES A HAND 185
XVII 'TWIXT CUP AND LIP 200
XVIII BLIND ALLEYS 214
XIX THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 225
XX IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF QUESADA 237
XXI THE HIDDEN CAVE 253
XXII THE TASTE OF ROPE 265
XXIII THE SPIDER SNAPS 274
XXIV THOSE IN THE HUT 286
XXV WHAT THE STARS SAW 296
XXVI A LUCKY BAD SHOT 308
XXVII DANGEROUS SHADOWS 320
XXVIII A DASH FOR PORT 330
XXIX THE OPEN DOOR CLOSES | 2,674.795474 |
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EARLY
DOUBLE MONASTERIES
A Paper read before the Heretics' Society
on December 6th, 1914
BY
CONSTANCE STONEY
NEWNHAM COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE
CAMBRIDGE:
DEIGHTON, BELL & CO., LIMITED.
LONDON:
G. BELL & SONS, LIMITED.
1915
EARLY DOUBLE MONASTERIES.
The system of double monasteries, or monasteries for both men and women,
is as old as that of Christian monasticism itself, though the phrase
"monasteria duplicia"[1] dates from about the C6. The term was also
sometimes applied to twin monasteries for men; Bede uses it in this
sense with reference to Wearmouth and Yarrow, while he generally speaks
of a double monastery as "monasterium virginum."
The use of the word "double" is important. The monastery was not mixed;
men and women did not live or work together, and in many cases did not
use the same Church; and though the chief feature of the system was
association, there was in reality very little, when compared with the
amount of separation. In time, the details of organisation varied, such,
for example, as whether an abbot or an abbess ruled the whole monastery,
though it was generally the latter. Details of the rule of the community
naturally altered at different times and in different places, but the
essential character remained the same.
As to the object of such an arrangement, opinions differ. Some have
regarded it as a sort of moral experiment; others have seen in it only
the natural outcome of the necessity for having priests close at hand to
celebrate Mass, hear confessions and minister in general to the
spiritual needs of the nuns. There is, too, the practical side of the
plan--namely, that each side of the community was economically dependant
on the other, as will be seen later. However this may be, the practice
of placing the two together under one head seems to be as ancient as
monasticism itself.
The double monastery in its simplest form was that organisation said to
have been founded in the C4 by S. Pachomius,[2] an Egyptian monk. He
settled with a number of men, who had consecrated themselves to the
spiritual life, at Tabenna, by the side of the Nile. About the same
time, his sister Mary went to the opposite bank of the Nile, and began
to gather round her women disciples.
This settlement soon became a proper nunnery under the control of the
superior of the monks, who delegated elderly men to care for its
discipline. With the exception of regulations concerning dress, both
monks and nuns observed the same rule which S. Pachomius wrote for
them[3]. It was very simple. There were to be twelve prayers said
during the day, twelve at twilight, twelve at night, and a psalm at each
meal. Mass was celebrated on Saturday and Sunday. Meals were to be eaten
all together and the amount of food was unlimited. A monk could eat or
fast as he pleased, but the more he ate, the more work must he do. They
were to sleep three in a cell. No formal vows were to be taken, but the
period of probation before entry into the community, was to be three
years. The men provided the food, and did the rough work for the women,
building their dwellings, etc., while the women made clothes for the
men. When a nun died her companions brought her body to the river bank
and then retired; presently some monks fetched away the body, rowed back
across the Nile, and buried it in their cemetery.[4]
That the communities of S. Basil and his sister Macrina (also in the C4)
were of this type, may be seen from the rule of S. Basil. The
communities, like those of Pachomius, were on opposite banks of a
river--in this case, the Iris; and Macrina's nunnery is supposed to have
been in the village of Annesi, near Neo-Caesarea, and founded 357 A.D.
In her nunnery lived her mother and her younger brother Peter, who
afterwards became a priest. The life of this saintly family and the
relation between the two communities may be learned from the charmingly
written Life of S. Macrina by her brother Gregory of Nyssa.[5]
The Rule of S. Basil is written in the form of question and answer, and
much of it refers to the relations between monks and nuns, while all
impress upon the religious the duty of giving no occasion to the enemy
to blaspheme. "May the head of the monastery speak often with the
abbess? May he speak with any of the sisters other than the abbess, on
matters of faith? May the abbess be angry if a priest orders the sisters
to do anything without her knowledge? If a sister refuses to sing the
psalms, is she to be compelled to do so?" All the answers urge both
parts of the community to avoid giving ground for scandal. The nuns, in
this case, seem to have had a separate church, for Gregory speaks of the
"Chorus of Virgins" who awaited him when he came to visit his sister
Macrina on her death bed. There were, too, schools for boys and girls
attached to S. Basil's house, for he makes regulations concerning their
education.
There is practically no evidence for double monasteries in the C5, but
at the opening of the C6 we find them again. In the West the earliest
monastic communities had been founded by S. Martin of Tours, first at
Milan in 371 and afterwards in Gaul, which from then became the chief
monastic centre.
It is here, then, that another brother and sister figure as the founders
of a double monastery. S. Caesarius, Bishop of Arles,[6] persuaded his
sister Caesaria to leave Marseilles, where she was in a convent, and
join him at Arles to preside over the women who had gathered there to
live under his guidance; and the rule which he afterwards wrote for
these nuns is the first Western rule for nuns, and was afterwards
followed in many double monasteries.[7] He arranged it, as he himself
says, according to the teachings of the fathers of the Church. He
stipulates that all joining the community shall, on their entry,
renounce all claims to outside property. Only those women are to enter
who accept the rule of their own accord and are prepared to live in
perfect equality and without servants. Much attention is paid in the
rule to the instruction of the nuns; they were to devote considerable
time to music, as being an art through which God could fittingly be
praised; to be taught reading and writing; to practice cooking, and
weaving both of Church vestments and their own clothing.
They were to attend to the sick and infirm, and above all they were not
to quarrel. They were not entirely cut off from the outside world, since
they were permitted to entertain women from other convents; but, says
the Rule, "Dinners and entertainments shall not be provided for
churchmen, laymen and friends." We have only indirect evidence that
Arles was a double monastery. The confusion, for example in Caesarius's
will between his two foundations of S. John's and S. Mary's, resolves
itself, if we suppose that the monks were at the one, and the nuns at
the other, and that they associated in the great church in the
monastery, described by the authors of the Life of S. Caesarius, as
being dedicated to S. Mary, S. John and S. Martin.[8] Such an
arrangement was common in later double monasteries.
Another famous C6 monastery in Gaul now supposed to have been double was
that of S. Rhadagund at Poitiers about 566.[9] S. Rhadagund was married
to King Clothair against her will, and their life together was a series
of quarrels. She was so devoted to charitable work, we are told, that
she often annoyed the King by keeping him waiting at meals, left him
whenever possible and behaved in such a way that the king declared that
he was married to a nun rather than a queen. Finally the murder of her
young brother, at the instigation of the king, determined her to leave
the court, and flying to the protection of Bishop Medardus, she
demanded to be consecrated a nun.[10]
After some natural hesitation on the part of the Bishop, she was made a
Deaconess--a term applying to anyone who, without belonging to any
special order, was under the protection of the Church.[11] She devoted
herself to the relief of every kind of distress, bodily and spiritual;
and at length the desire came to her to provide permanently for the men
and women who came to her for help. So, on an estate which she owned at
Poitiers, she founded a nunnery dedicated to the Holy Name, and,
probably at the same time, the house for men, separated from the convent
by the town wall and dedicated to the Blessed Virgin Mary. It was in S.
Mary's that Rhadagund was buried and after her death, her name was added
to the dedication. Beside this evidence of association between the two
houses, the only other is the correspondence of Rhadagund and the Abbess
Agnes with the poet Fortunatus, who was probably a monk of S. Mary's. He
certainly seems to have been the director and counsellor of the nuns,
and to have been often engaged in business for them; but he did not live
in the same house with them for in one of his letters he laments the
fact. His letters and verses addressed to the two women throw a strong
light on the friendship, and real affection which existed among the
three friends. He says that he will work day and night for Rhadagund,
draw the water, tend the vines and the garden, cook, wash dishes,
anything, rather than that she should do the heavy and menial work of
the house. He begs the abbess Agnes to talk often of him with the
sisters that he may feel more really that she is his mother. He sends
gifts of flowers for their sanctuary, and baskets which he has plaited;
and with a basket of violets he sends the following charming verses.[12]
(I give a translation which must necessarily be inadequate.)
"If the season had yielded me white lilies, according to its wont, or
red roses with sweet smelling savour, I had plucked them from the
countryside, or from the turf of my little garden, and had sent them,
small gifts for great ladies! But since I lack the first, I e'en pay the
second, for he presents roses in the eyes of love, who offers only
violets. Yet, these violets I send are, among perfumed herbs, of noble
stock, and with equal grace breathe in their royal purple, while
fragrance with beauty vies to steep their petals. May you, likewise,
both have each charm that these possess, and may the perfume of your
future reward be a glory that blooms everlastingly."
The nuns of Ste. Croix, too, seem not to have been lacking in
generosity. Fortunatus frequently thanks them for gifts of eggs, fruit,
milk, etc.; and on one occasion he receives more dishes than one servant
could carry. He must have stood in some official relation to Rhadagund,
for such freedom of intercourse to be possible; and if his verses
sometimes suggest the courtier rather than the monk, it must be
remembered that they are the work of a poet who had first been a friend
of princes and was among the most fashionable men of letters of his day
in Ravenna; and that they are addressed to a woman who was, after all, a
queen.
In 587 Rhadagund died and Bishop Gregory of Tours tells how greatly she
was mourned by the whole community, and how some 200 women crowded round
her bier, bewailing their loss. One of them, the nun Baudonivia, several
years afterwards, cannot, she says, even speak of the death of Rhadagund
without being choked with sobs.[13]
It will be seen from these examples, that in all probability, the
origin of the double monastery need not be sought, as has been supposed,
in Ireland, since it seems to have been known in Gaul before S.
Columbanus and his Irish disciples landed there and preached a great
religious revival, at the end of the C6. Indeed, though there are
scattered notices in the lives of the Irish saints, which seem to
suggest that there were double monasteries in Ireland in very early
times, there is no definite evidence until the description in
Cogitosus's "Life of S. Bridget," of one at Kildare, probably in the C8.
The monasteries actually founded by S. Columbanus himself, were all for
men.
On the other hand, the double monastery seems always to have flourished
wherever the fervour of the Irish missionaries penetrated. Perhaps, as
Montalembert[14] suggests, the ideal atmosphere of divine simplicity and
single-mindedness which characterised them, was particularly favorable
to the growth of such an institution.
S. Columbanus dedicated Burgundofara, or Fara, as a child, to the
religious life; and she afterwards founded the monastery of Brie to the
south-east of Paris, which we learn from Jonas, who was a monk there,
and from Bede, was a double monastery.
It is clear that this house was one of those ruled by an abbess, for
Jonas says that no distinction was recognised between the sexes, and
that the abbess treated both alike. The discipline here, however, seems
to have been very severe, for he adds that some of the new nuns tried to
escape by ladders from the dormitory. Brie is interesting to us as
forming one of the links between Continental and English monasticism at
this time. Bede says of the daughter of Erconberht, King of Kent, "She
was a most virtuous maiden, always serving God in a monastery in France,
built by a most noble abbess, Fara by name, at a place called Brie; for
at that time, but few monasteries being built in the country of the
Angles, many were wont, for the sake of monastic conversation, to repair
to the monasteries of the Franks or Gauls; and they also sent their
daughters there to be educated and given to their Heavenly Bridegroom,
especially in the monasteries of Brie, Chelles, and Andelys."[15]
He adds that two daughters of King Anna of East Anglia, "though
strangers, were for their virtue made abbesses of the monastery of
Brie."
Little is known of Andelys, except that it was founded by Queen
Clotilda. At Chelles, founded by Queen Bathilda in 662, ten miles from
Paris, on the river Marne, many famous persons, both men and women,
received their education. Among them was a Northumbrian princess,
Hereswith, whose sister was Hild, the most famous of English abbesses.
The prevalence and influence of the double monastery in England may
perhaps be better understood by a reference to the position of women
generally in Anglo-Saxon society. Nothing astonished the Romans more
than the austere chastity of the Germanic women, and the religious
respect paid by men to them, and nowhere has their influence been more
fully recognised or more enduring than among the Anglo-Saxons. This fact
largely accounts for the extreme importance attached by them to marriage
alliances, particularly those between members of royal houses.[16] These
unions gave to the princess the office of mediatrix; in Beowulf she is
called Freothowebbe, "the peace-weaver."[17] From this rose the high
position held by queens. Their signatures appear in acts of foundation,
decrees of councils, charters, etc. Sometimes they reigned with full
royal authority, as did Seaxburg, Queen of the West Saxons, after the
death of her husband.[18] From the beginning of Christianity in England,
the women, and particularly these royal women, were as active and
persevering in furthering the Faith, as their men. "Christianity," says
Montalembert,[19] "came to a people which had preserved the instinct
and sense of the necessity for venerating things above," and "they at
least honoured the virtue which they did not themselves always
practise."
Consequently, when the young Anglo-Saxon women, having been initiated
into the life of the cloister abroad, returned to England to found
monasteries in their own land, they were received by their countrymen
with reverence and respect. This respect soon expressed itself in the
national law, which placed under the safeguard of severe penalties the
honour and freedom of those whom it called the "Brides of God."
Princesses, royal widows, sometimes reigning queens, began to found
monasteries, where they lived on terms of equality with the daughters of
ceorls and bondmen; and perhaps it is fair to say that it was not the
lowest in rank who made the greatest sacrifice.
But the influence of these women did not cease with their retirement to
the cloister. When one of them, by the choice of her companions, or the
nomination of the bishops, became invested with the right of governing
the community, she was also given the liberties and privileges of the
highest rank. Abbesses often had the retinue and state of princesses.
They were present at most great religious and national gatherings, and
often affixed their signatures to the charters granted on these
occasions.[20]
I have already referred to one of the greatest of these abbesses, Hild
of Whitby. She was the grandniece of Edwin, the first Christian King of
Northumbria and had been baptised with her uncle at York in 627 by the
Roman Missionary Paulinus.[21] Bede says that, before consecrating her
life to religion, "she had lived thirty-three years very nobly among her
family." When she realised her vocation, she went into East Anglia where
her brother-in-law was king, intending to cross over to the continent
and take the veil at Chelles. She spent a year here in preparation, but
before she could accomplish her purpose, Bishop Aidan invited her to the
north, to take charge of the double monastery of Hartlepool, which had
been founded by Heiu, the first nun in England. "When," says Bede, "she
had for some years governed this monastery, wholly intent upon
establishing the regular life, it happened that she also undertook the
construction or arrangement of a monastery in the place which is called
Streonesheal (Whitby), and diligently accomplished the work enjoined
upon her. For in this monastery, as in the first, she established the
discipline of the regular life, and indeed, she taught there also,
justice, piety, chastity, and other virtues, but especially the guarding
of peace and charity; so that, after the example of the primitive
church, no one there was rich and none poor, all things were common to
all and no one had property. So great was her prudence, moreover, that
not only ordinary persons in their necessity, but even kings and princes
sought and received counsel of her. She made those who were under her
direction give so much time to the reading of the Divine Scriptures, and
exercise themselves so much in the works of righteousness, that many
could readily be met with there, who were fit to take up ecclesiastical
office, that is, the service of the altar." Bede goes on to mention six
men from Hild's monastery, who afterwards became bishops. The most
famous was perhaps S. John of Beverley, who was first bishop of Hexham,
and afterwards of York, and who was noted for his piety and learning.
Aetta held the see of Dorchester for a time. Bosa, another scholarly
disciple of Hild, became Archbishop of York, and Tatfrith was elected
bishop of the Hwicce, though he died before his consecration.
None of these, however, have a greater claim to be remembered than the
cow-herd Caedmon, the first English poet, and the story as given by Bede
is perhaps one of the most charming in his Ecclesiastical History.[22]
Apart from the literary interest attaching to the story, his life shows
some of the details in outward organisation of these great double
monasteries. Before his entry into the monastery, says Bede, he was
advanced in years, and yet had so little skill in music that he was
unable to take his turn at feasts in singing and playing on the harp, an
accomplishment common to high and low among the Anglo-Saxons and kindred
nations.
The story is familiar: on one occasion when the feast was over, he left
the hall as soon as he saw the harp being passed, according to custom,
from hand to hand. He went out to the cattle-sheds, tended the beasts
and lay down to sleep. In a dream he heard a voice, "Caedmon, sing me
something." He answered, "I know not how to sing; and for this cause I
came out from the feast and came hither because I knew not how." Again
he who spoke with him said, "Nevertheless, thou canst sing me
something." Caedmon said, "What shall I sing?" He answered, "Sing me the
Creation." Then Bede relates how the cow-herd sang songs before unknown
to him, in praise of "the Creator, the Glorious Father of men, who first
created for the sons of earth, the heaven for a roof, and then the
middle world as a floor for men, the Guardian of the Heavenly Kingdom."
When the abbess Hild heard of the miracle, she instructed him in the
presence of many learned men to turn into verse a portion of the
Scriptures. He took away his task and brought it to them again
"composed in the choicest verse." Thereupon the abbess, says Bede,
"embracing and loving the gift of God in the man, entreated him to leave
the secular, and take upon him the monastic life, and ordered him to be
instructed in sacred history." So he was received into Whitby monastery
with all his family "and," continues the story, "all that he could learn
he kept in memory, and like a clean beast chewing the cud, he turned it
all into the sweetest verse, so pleasant to hear, that even his teachers
wrote and learned at his lips."
The story throws a good deal of light on the way in which a large double
monastery was organised. One gathers from it that not only isolated
monks and nuns were received into the community but sometimes whole
families. Caedmon entered "cum omnibus suis," which is generally taken
to mean that his whole family were received with him. We see from it,
too, how earnest was the desire of the superiors of the monasteries to
instruct the ignorant; how rich and poor alike in the C7 might aspire to
the monastic life, the only passport being the honest desire to serve
God in the best possible way.
Again in the latter part of the story, dealing with Caedmon's sickness
and death, there is evidence of how the aged, the sick and the dying
were tended with special care.
Whitby was not only an important religious but also political centre
and the abbesses took by no means a small part in controversy. At the
Synod of Whitby[23] held here in 664, when the respective claims of
Irish and Roman ecclesiastical discipline were discussed, Hild took the
side of the Irish Church; while her successor, Aelflaed, interested
herself in the doings of her brother, King Egfrith. Hild reigned thirty
years at Whitby and died after many years of suffering, during which she
never failed to teach her flock, both in public and in private. All that
we know of her character, indicates a strong and vivid personality, a
mind keenly alive to the necessities of the age, and a will vigorous
enough to be successful in providing for them where opportunity
occurred. She had a worthy successor in Aelflaed, a friend of the holy S.
Cuthbert. Bede says of her that "she added to the lustre of her princely
birth the brighter glory of exalted virtue," and that she was "inspired
with much love toward Cuthbert, the holy man of God."[24]
On one occasion she had fallen seriously ill, and expressed a wish that
something belonging to S. Cuthbert could be sent to her. "For then," she
said, "I know I should soon be well." A linen girdle was sent from the
Saint, and the abbess joyfully put it on. The next morning she could
stand on her feet and the third day she was restored to perfect health.
Later, a nun was cured of a headache by the same girdle, but when next
it was wanted, it could nowhere be found. Bede argues quaintly that its
disappearance was also an act of Divine Providence, since some of the
sick who flocked to it might be unworthy, and, not being cured, might
doubt its efficacy, while in reality, their own unworthiness was to
blame. "Thus," he concludes, "was all matter for detraction removed from
the malice of the unrighteous."
A contemporary of Hild's was Aebbe, a princess of the rival dynasty of
Bernicia, and sister of the royal saint, King Oswald, and of Oswy, the
reigning king. Her brother intended to give her in marriage to the king
of the Scots, but she herself was opposed to the alliance. Her family
had embraced the Christian religion in exile, and she determined to
follow the monastic life.
Accordingly, she built a double monastery, apparently in imitation of
Whitby, at Coldingham on the promontory still called S. Abb's Head. She
does not seem, however, to have maintained, like Hild, the discipline
and fervour of which she herself gave an example; for Bede notes here a
rare example of those disorders of which there were certainly far fewer
in England at this time than anywhere else.[25] Aebbe was apparently in
ignorance of the relaxation of discipline in her monastery until she
was warned of it by an Irish monk of her community, named Adamnan.
As he was walking with the abbess through the great and beautiful house
which she had built, he lamented with tears, "All that you see here so
beautiful and so grand will soon be laid in ashes!" The astonished
abbess begged an explanation. "I have seen in a dream," said the monk,
"an unknown one who has revealed to me all the evil done in this house
and the punishment prepared for it."
And what, one naturally asks, are these crimes for which nothing short
of total destruction of the splendid house is a severe enough visitation
from Heaven? Adamnan continues "The unknown one has told me that he
visited each cell and each bed, and found the monks, either wrapt in
slothful sleep, or awake, eating irregular meals and engaged in
senseless gossip; while the nuns employ their leisure in wearing
garments of excessive fineness, either to attire themselves, as if they
were the brides of men, or to bestow them on people outside." One must
admit that here and there in the writings of the period, there are
references to this worldliness in some monasteries; but whatever may
have been the state of things at a later date, there does not seem to be
evidence of graver misdeeds in these early years of monasticism in
England. Bede uses perhaps unnecessary severity in speaking of renegade
monks and nuns so-called, since he is admittedly speaking from hearsay
and not about disorders which came under his own observation. Whatever
the sins of Coldingham may have been, the community at a later date
atoned for them, for in the C9, when the Danes invaded Northumbria, and
killed the men of this monastery, among others, the nuns are said to
have mutilated their faces in order to escape the marauders. The Danes,
in fury at the loss of their prey, burned the monastery to the ground,
and all that remains to mark the site is a small ruined chapel.
At Ely there was also a double monastery founded by Aethelthryth,[26]
later known as S. Awdrey. She was the daughter of Anna, King of the East
Angles, and therefore a niece of the great abbess Hild. She was married,
for the second time, probably for political reasons, when over thirty
years old to King Egfrith of Northumbria, then a boy of fifteen. After
living with him for twelve years, she left him and went to Coldingham,
where she received the veil. Whether Egfrith agreed to this or not, it
is impossible to say. There are reasons for believing that he was, at
any rate, unwilling; for Bede says that she had long requested the king
to permit her to lay aside worldly cares and serve God in a monastery
and that she at length, with great difficulty, prevailed.
She remained at Coldingham for a year and then went to Ely, the island
in the fens given to her by her first husband; and there she built a
monastery, of which she became abbess.
She renounced all the splendours and even ordinary comforts of her
former royal life. Bede says that from the time that she entered the
monastery, she wore no linen, but only woollen garments, rarely washed
in a hot bath, unless just before any of the great festivals, such as
Easter, Whitsuntide, and the Epiphany; and then she did it last of all,
after having, with the assistance of those about her, first washed the
other nuns.
After presiding over the monastery six or seven years, she died of a
tumour in her throat, which she used to say was sent as a punishment for
her excessive love of wearing necklaces in her youth. Hence the "tawdrey
lace" of "The Winter's Tale" and elsewhere, which was a necklace bought
at S. Awdrey's Fair, held on the day of her festival, October 17th. She
was succeeded by her sister, Seaxburh, the widow of Erconberht, King of
Kent, who had founded a double monastery at Sheppey, of which she was
the first abbess. There is no mention of monks as well as nuns before
her reign. Her daughter, Ermengild, succeeded her as Abbess of Sheppey,
and at her mother's death, of Ely. Ermengild's daughter, Werburh (the
famous S. Werburh of Chester), also became abbess of Sheppey and Ely in
succession.
In the same way, Minster in Thanet remained in the family of its
foundress, Eormenburg or Domneva, as she is sometimes called, the wife
of the Mercian prince Merewald. According to tradition she received the
land from Egbert of Kent, as wergild for the murder of her two brothers.
She asked for as much land as her tame deer could cover in one course,
and she thus obtained about ten thousand acres, on which she built her
monastery. Her daughter, Mildred, who succeeded her as abbess, acquired
greater fame. She was educated at Chelles, and was there cruelly
ill-treated by the abbess, who was inappropriately named Wilcona, or
Welcome. She wished to marry Mildred to one of her relatives, and when
the girl refused, she put her into a furnace. When that punishment
failed, she pulled her hair out. Mildred adorned her psalter with the
ravished hair and sent it to her mother. Finally she escaped and
returned home. Her name is among the five abbesses who signed a charter
granting church privileges at a Kentish Witanagemot.[27] Her successor,
Eadburg, or Bugga, built a splendid new church in the monastery, which
is described in a poem attributed to Aldhelm.[28] The high altar was
hung with tapestries of cloth of gold, and ornamented with silver and
precious stones. The chalice, too, was of gold, and set with jewels;
there were glass windows, and from the roof there hung a silver censer.
Mention is made of the united singing of the monks and nuns in the
church.
Eadburg and her mother, a certain Abbess Eangyth, were both friends of
Boniface, the great English missionary bishop of Mainz, the "Apostle of
Germany." Eangyth writes to him of her troubles as abbess of a double
monastery, of the quarrels among the monks, the poverty of the house,
and the excessive dues which had to be paid to the king and his
officials. In one letter Boniface thanks Eadburg for books and clothes,
and asks if she will write out for him in gold letters the Epistles of
S. | 2,674.976795 |
2023-11-16 19:01:39.0095250 | 684 | 9 |
Produced by David Schwan
A SKETCH OF THE CAUSES, OPERATIONS AND RESULTS OF THE SAN FRANCISCO
VIGILANCE COMMITTEE IN 1856
By Stephen Palfrey Webb
1874
Stephen Palfrey Webb was born in Salem on March 20, 1804, the son of
Capt. Stephen and Sarah (Putnam) Webb. He was graduated from Harvard
in 1824, and studied law with Hon. John Glen King, after which he
was admitted to the Essex Bar. He practiced law in Salem, served as
Representative and Senator in the Massachusetts Legislature, and was
elected Mayor of Salem in 1842, serving three years. He was Treasurer of
the Essex Railroad Company in the late forties.
About 1853, he went to San Francisco, where he resided several years,
serving as Mayor of that city in 1854 and 1855. It was during this time
that he witnessed the riotous mobs following the Gold Rush of 1849, and
upon his return Salem made notes for a lecture, which he delivered in
Salem; and later, with many additions, prepared this sketch, probably
about 1874. He was again elected Mayor of Salem, 1860-1862, and City
Clerk, 1863-1870. He died in Salem on September 29, 1879. On May 26,
1834, he married Hannah H. B. Robinson of Salem.
There have been several accounts of the activities of the Vigilance
Committee, but this is firsthand information from one who was on the
ground at the time, and for this reason it is considered a valuable
contribution to the history of those troublous days. It certainly is a
record of what a prominent, intelligent and observing eye-witness saw
regarding this important episode in the history of California. The
original paper is now in the possession of his granddaughter, Mrs.
Raymond H. Oveson of Groton, Massachusetts.
Many of the evils which afflicted the people of San Francisco may be
traced to the peculiar circumstances attendant upon the settlement of
California. The effect all over the world of the discovery of gold at
Sutter's Mill in 1848 was electric. A movement only paralleled by that
of the Crusades at once commenced. Adventurers of every character and
description immediately started for the far away land where gold was to
be had for the gathering. The passage round Cape Horn, which from the
earliest times had been invested with a dreamy horror, and had inspired
a vague fear in every breast, was now dared with an audacity which only
the all absorbing greed for gold could have produced. Old condemned
hulks which, at other times, it would not have been deemed safe to
remove from one part of the harbor to another, were hastily fitted up,
and with the aid of a little paint and a few as deceptive assurances of
the owners, were instantly filled with eager passengers and dispatched
to do battle, as they might, with the storms and perils of the deep
during the tedious months through which the passage extended. The
suffering and distress consequent upon the packing | 2,675.029565 |
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Produced by Rose Mawhorter, Jeff G. 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 MESSIAH
IN
MOSES AND THE PROPHETS.
BY
ELEAZAR LORD.
NEW-YORK:
CHARLES SCRIBNER, 145 NASSAU STREET.
1853.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by
ELEAZAR LORD,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New-York.
TO THE DESCENDANTS OF ISRAEL.
From the earliest periods a belief has prevailed among Jews and
Gentiles, that in one mode or another the Supreme Being has appeared
visibly on earth. In the Eastern World, Divine incarnations are taught
in the Brahminical and other systems.
For the origin of such a belief we must undoubtedly recur to the Divine
appearances recorded in Moses and the prophets. Such visible appearances
and the doctrine of the incarnation are taught in the Hebrew as well as
in the Christian Scriptures.
It is the object of the ensuing pages to show that He who truly became
incarnate, and is announced as Jesus, the Christ, and also as Jehovah,
Immanuel, _God with us_, is the same who in the Hebrew oracles is often
called Jehovah and Elohim, and designated also by official titles, as
the Messiah, the Messenger, Adonai, the Elohe of Abraham; and that,
under various designations, he appeared visibly in a form like that of
man to the Patriarchs, and to Moses, and others. In Him, in accordance
with their Scriptures, the descendants of Israel will at length discern
the True Messiah, who took man's nature, and in his stead, and as his
substitute, was slain a sacrifice for sin, the Just for the unjust; who
rose from the dead, and ascended on high in his glorified body; and who
will come again, visibly, to sit and rule as King on the throne of
David; to destroy the great Adversary and his works; to vindicate his
earlier administration; to accomplish the ancient predictions concerning
the SEED of Abraham, the land promised as an everlasting inheritance,
and his own sacerdotal, prophetic, and regal offices; and to receive due
homage of the universe as Creator, Ruler, and Redeemer.
Of him as Jehovah and as the Messenger, it is affirmed that he led the
children of Israel out of Egypt. (See Exodus ii. and Judges i.) And,
after the lapse of nine hundred years, He himself proclaimed to their
dispersed and afflicted descendants: "Behold the days come, saith
Jehovah, that it shall no more be said, Jehovah liveth that brought up
the children of Israel out of the land of Egypt; but, Jehovah liveth
that brought up the children of Israel from the land of the north, and
from all the lands whither he had driven them: and I will bring them
again into _their land that I gave_ _unto their fathers_. For mine eyes
are upon all their ways: they are not hid from my face:--and they shall
know that my name is Jehovah." Jer. xvi. 14, 15, 17, 21.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Reasons for examining the Hebrew Records of the Messiah.
CHAPTER II.
The Messiah announced by Malachi, as Adonai, even Melach, the Messenger
of the Covenant--His appearance to Jacob at Bethel; and to Isaiah,
Abraham, Moses, Gideon, and others, under various designations, as
Adonai, Melach, a Man, Jehovah Zebaoth, the Holy One, El-Shadai, &c.
CHAPTER III.
Reasons for rendering | 2,675.414482 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: The first Legislative Assembly of Vancouver Island
_Back Row_--J. W. M'Kay, J. D. Pemberton, J. Porter (Clerk)
_Front Row_--T. J. Skinner, J. S. Helmcken, M. D., James Yates
After a Photograph]
THE
CARIBOO TRAIL
A Chronicle of the Gold-fields
of British Columbia
BY
AGNES C. LAUT
TORONTO
GLASGOW, BROOK & COMPANY
1916
_Copyright in all Countries subscribing to
the Berne Convention_
{v}
CONTENTS
Page
I. THE 'ARGONAUTS'............. 1
II. THE PROSPECTOR ............. 16
III. CARIBOO................. 33
IV. THE OVERLANDERS............. 53
V. CROSSING THE MOUNTAINS ......... 68
VI. QUESNEL AND KAMLOOPS .......... 80
VII. LIFE AT THE MINES............ 88
VIII. THE CARIBOO ROAD ............ 99
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE .......... 110
INDEX.................. 112
{vii}
ILLUSTRATIONS
THE FIRST LEGISLATIVE ASSEMBLY OF
VANCOUVER ISLAND................... _Frontispiece_
After a photograph.
THE CARIBOO COUNTRY ................. _Facing page_ 1
Map by Bartholomew.
S | 2,675.530586 |
2023-11-16 19:01:39.6343720 | 7,436 | 11 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team
AMELIA
Complete
By Henry Fielding
Edited By George Saintsbury
With Illustrations By Herbert Railton & E. J. Wheeler.
MDCCCXCIII
INTRODUCTION
DEDICATION TO RALPH ALLEN, ESQ
BOOK I.
CHAPTER I. Containing the exordium, &c.
CHAPTER II. The history sets out. Observations on the excellency of the
English constitution and curious examinations before a justice of peace
CHAPTER III. Containing the inside of a prison
CHAPTER IV. Disclosing further secrets of the prison-house
CHAPTER V. Containing certain adventures which befel Mr. Booth in the
prison
CHAPTER VI. Containing the extraordinary behaviour of Miss Matthews
on her meeting with Booth, and some endeavours to prove, by reason and
authority, that it is possible for a woman to appear to be what she
really is not
CHAPTER VII. In which Miss Matthews begins her history
CHAPTER VIII. The history of Miss Matthews continued
CHAPTER IX. In which Miss Matthews concludes her relation
CHAPTER X. Table-talk, consisting of a facetious discourse that passed
in the prison
BOOK II.
CHAPTER I. In which Captain Booth begins to relate his history
CHAPTER II. Mr. Booth continues his story. In this chapter there are
some passages that may serve as a kind of touchstone by which a young
lady may examine the heart of her lover. I would advise, therefore, that
every lover be obliged to read it over in the presence of his mistress,
and that she carefully watch his emotions while he is reading
CHAPTER III. The narrative continued. More of the touchstone
CHAPTER IV. The story of Mr. Booth continued. In this chapter the reader
will perceive a glimpse of the character of a very good divine, with
some matters of a very tender kind
CHAPTER V. Containing strange revolutions of fortune
CHAPTER VI. Containing many surprising adventures
CHAPTER VII. The story of Booth continued--More surprising adventures
CHAPTER VIII. In which our readers will probably be divided in their
opinion of Mr. Booth's conduct
CHAPTER IX. Containing a scene of a different kind from any of the
preceding
BOOK III.
CHAPTER I. In which Mr. Booth resumes his story
CHAPTER II. Containing a scene of the tender kind
CHAPTER III. In which Mr. Booth sets forward on his journey
CHAPTER IV A sea piece
CHAPTER V. The arrival of Booth at Gibraltar, with what there befel him
CHAPTER VI. Containing matters which will please some readers
CHAPTER VII. The captain, continuing his story, recounts some
particulars which, we doubt not, to many good people, will appear
unnatural
CHAPTER VIII. The story of Booth continued
CHAPTER IX. Containing very extraordinary matters
CHAPTER X. Containing a letter of a very curious kind
CHAPTER XI. In which Mr. Booth relates his return to England
CHAPTER XII. In which Mr. Booth concludes his story
BOOK IV.
CHAPTER I. Containing very mysterious matter
CHAPTER II. The latter part of which we expect will please our reader
better than the former
CHAPTER III. Containing wise observations of the author, and other
matters
CHAPTER IV. In which Amelia appears in no unamiable light
CHAPTER V. Containing an eulogium upon innocence, and other grave
matters
CHAPTER VI. In which may appear that violence is sometimes done to the
name of love
CHAPTER VII. Containing a very extraordinary and pleasant incident
CHAPTER VIII. Containing various matters
CHAPTER IX. In which Amelia, with her friend, goes to the oratorio
BOOK V.
CHAPTER I. In which the reader will meet with an old acquaintance
CHAPTER I. Containing a brace of doctors and much physical matter
CHAPTER II. In which Booth pays a visit to the noble lord
CHAPTER III. Relating principally to the affairs of serjeant Atkinson
CHAPTER IV. Containing matters that require no preface
CHAPTER V. Containing much heroic matter
CHAPTER VI. In which the reader will find matter worthy his
consideration
CHAPTER VII. Containing various matters
CHAPTER VIII. The heroic behaviour of Colonel Bath
CHAPTER IX. Being the last chapter of the fifth book
BOOK VI.
CHAPTER I. Panegyrics on beauty, with other grave matters
CHAPTER II. Which will not appear, we presume, unnatural to all married
readers
CHAPTER III. In which the history looks a little backwards
CHAPTER IV. Containing a very extraordinary incident
CHAPTER V. Containing some matters not very unnatural
CHAPTER VI. A scene in which some ladies will possibly think Amelia's
conduct exceptionable
CHAPTER VII. A chapter in which there is much learning
CHAPTER VIII. Containing some unaccountable behaviour in Mrs.. Ellison
CHAPTER IX. Containing a very strange incident
BOOK VII.
CHAPTER I. A very short chapter, and consequently requiring no preface
CHAPTER II. The beginning of Mrs. Bennet's history
CHAPTER III. Continuation of Mrs. Bennet's story
CHAPTER IV. Farther continuation
CHAPTER V. The story of Mrs. Bennet continued
CHAPTER VI. Farther continued
CHAPTER VII. The story farther continued
CHAPTER VIII. Farther continuation
CHAPTER IX. The conclusion of Mrs. Bennet's history
CHAPTER X. Being the last chapter of the seventh book
BOOK VIII.
CHAPTER I. Being the first chapter of the eighth book
CHAPTER II. Containing an account of Mr. Booth's fellow-sufferers
CHAPTER III. Containing some extraordinary behaviour in Mrs. Ellison
CHAPTER IV. Containing, among many matters, the exemplary behaviour of
Colonel James
CHAPTER V. Comments upon authors
CHAPTER VI. Which inclines rather to satire than panegyric
CHAPTER VII. Worthy a very serious perusal
CHAPTER VIII. Consisting of grave matters
CHAPTER IX. A curious chapter, from which a curious reader may draw
sundry observations
CHAPTER X. In which are many profound secrets of philosophy
BOOK IX.
CHAPTER I In which the history looks backwards
CHAPTER II. In which the history goes forward
CHAPTER III. A conversation between Dr Harrison and others
CHAPTER IV. A dialogue between Booth and Amelia
CHAPTER V. A conversation between Amelia and Dr Harrison, with the
result
CHAPTER VI. Containing as surprising an accident as is perhaps recorded
in history
CHAPTER VII. In which the author appears to be master of that profound
learning called the knowledge of the town
CHAPTER VIII. In which two strangers make their appearance
CHAPTER IX. A scene of modern wit and humour
CHAPTER X. A curious conversation between the doctor, the young
clergyman, and the young clergyman's father
BOOK X.
CHAPTER I. To which we will prefix no preface
CHAPTER II. What happened at the masquerade
CHAPTER III. Consequences of the masqtierade, not uncommon nor
surprizing
CHAPTER IV. Consequences of the masquerade
CHAPTER V. In which Colonel Bath appears in great glory
CHAPTER VI. Read, gamester, and observe
CHAPTER VII. In which Booth receives a visit from Captain Trent
CHAPTER VIII. Contains a letter and other matters
CHAPTER IX. Containing some things worthy observation
BOOK XI
CHAPTER I. Containing a very polite scene
CHAPTER II. Matters political
CHAPTER III. The history of Mr. Trent
CHAPTER IV. Containing some distress
CHAPTER V. Containing more wormwood and other ingredients
CHAPTER VI. A scene of the tragic kind
CHAPTER VII. In which Mr. Booth meets with more than one adventure
CHAPTER VIII. In which Amelia appears in a light more amiable than gay
CHAPTER IX. A very tragic scene
BOOK XII.
CHAPTER I. The book begins with polite history
CHAPTER II. In which Amelia visits her husband
CHAPTER III. Containing matter pertinent to the history
CHAPTER IV. In which Dr Harrison visits Colonel James
CHAPTER V. What passed at the bailiff's house
CHAPTER VI. What passed between the doctor and the sick man
CHAPTER VII. In which the history draws towards a conclusion
CHAPTER VIII. Thus this history draws nearer to a conclusion
CHAPTER IX. In which the history is concluded
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
FIELDING'S BIRTHPLACE, SHARPHAM PARK
SHE THEN GAVE A LOOSE TO HER PASSION
THEY OPENED THE HAMPER
HE SEIZED HIM BY THE COLLAR
AMELIA AND HER CHILDREN
COLONEL BATH
LAWYER MURPHY
LEANING BOTH HIS ELBOWS ON THE TABLE, FIXED HIS EYES ON HER
BOOTH BETWEEN A BLUE DOMINO AND A SHEPHERDESS
DR HARRISON
INTRODUCTION.
Fielding's third great novel has been the subject of much more
discordant judgments than either of its forerunners. If we take the
period since its appearance as covering four generations, we find
the greatest authority in the earliest, Johnson, speaking of it with
something more nearly approaching to enthusiasm than he allowed himself
in reference to any other work of an author, to whom he was on the whole
so unjust. The greatest man of letters of the next generation, Scott
(whose attitude to Fielding was rather undecided, and seems to speak
a mixture of intellectual admiration and moral dislike, or at least
failure in sympathy), pronounces it "on the whole unpleasing," and
regards it chiefly as a sequel to _Tom Jones_, showing what is to
be expected of a libertine and thoughtless husband. But he too
is enthusiastic over the heroine. Thackeray (whom in this special
connection at any rate it is scarcely too much to call the greatest
man of the third generation) overflows with predilection for it, but
chiefly, as it would seem, because of his affection for Amelia herself,
in which he practically agrees with Scott and Johnson. It would be
invidious, and is noways needful, to single out any critic of our own
time to place beside these great men. But it cannot be denied that the
book, now as always, has incurred a considerable amount of hinted
fault and hesitated dislike. Even Mr. Dobson notes some things in it
as "unsatisfactory;" Mr. Gosse, with evident consciousness of temerity,
ventures to ask whether it is not "a little dull." The very absence
of episodes (on the ground that Miss Matthews's story is too closely
connected with the main action to be fairly called an episode) and of
introductory dissertations has been brought against it, as the presence
of these things was brought against its forerunners.
I have sometimes wondered whether _Amelia_ pays the penalty of an
audacity which, _a priori_, its most unfavourable critics would
indignantly deny to be a fault. It begins instead of ending with the
marriage-bells; and though critic after critic of novels has exhausted
his indignation and his satire over the folly of insisting on these as
a finale, I doubt whether the demand is not too deeply rooted in the
English, nay, in the human mind, to be safely neglected. The essence
of all romance is a quest; the quest most perennially and universally
interesting to man is the quest of a wife or a mistress; and the
chapters dealing with what comes later have an inevitable flavour of
tameness, and of the day after the feast. It is not common now-a-days to
meet anybody who thinks Tommy Moore a great poet; one has to encounter
either a suspicion of Philistinism or a suspicion of paradox if one
tries to vindicate for him even his due place in the poetical hierarchy.
Yet I suspect that no poet ever put into words a more universal
criticism of life than he did when he wrote "I saw from the beach," with
its moral of--
"Give me back, give me back, the wild freshness of morning--Her smiles
and her tears are worth evening's best light."
If we discard this fallacy boldly, and ask ourselves whether _Amelia_ is
or is not as good as _Joseph Andrews_ or _Tom Jones_, we shall I think
be inclined to answer rather in the affirmative than in the negative.
It is perhaps a little more easy to find fault with its characters
than with theirs; or rather, though no one of these characters has the
defects of Blifil or of Allworthy, it is easy to say that no one of them
has the charm of the best personages of the earlier books. The idolaters
of Amelia would of course exclaim at this sentence as it regards that
amiable lady; and I am myself by no means disposed to rank amiability
low in the scale of things excellent in woman. But though she is by no
means what her namesake and spiritual grand-daughter. Miss Sedley, must,
I fear, be pronounced to be, an amiable fool, there is really too
much of the milk of human kindness, unrefreshed and unrelieved of its
mawkishness by the rum or whisky of human frailty, in her. One could
have better pardoned her forgiveness of her husband if she had in the
first place been a little more conscious of what there was to forgive;
and in the second, a little more romantic in her attachment to him. As
it is, he was _son homme_; he was handsome; he had broad shoulders;
he had a sweet temper; he was the father of her children, and that was
enough. At least we are allowed to see in Mr. Booth no qualities other
than these, and in her no imagination even of any other qualities. To
put what I mean out of reach of cavil, compare Imogen and Amelia, and
the difference will be felt.
But Fielding was a prose writer, writing in London in the eighteenth
century, while Shakespeare was a poet writing in all time and all space,
so that the comparison is luminous in more ways than one. I do not think
that in the special scheme which the novelist set himself here he can be
accused of any failure. The life is as vivid as ever; the minor sketches
may be even called a little more vivid. Dr Harrison is not perfect. I do
not mean that he has ethical faults, for that is a merit, not a defect;
but he is not quite perfect in art. His alternate persecution and
patronage of Booth, though useful to the story, repeat the earlier fault
of Allworthy, and are something of a blot. But he is individually
much more natural than Allworthy, and indeed is something like what
Dr Johnson would have been if he had been rather better bred, less
crotchety, and blessed with more health. Miss Matthews in her earlier
scenes has touches of greatness which a thousand French novelists
lavishing "candour" and reckless of exaggeration have not equalled; and
I believe that Fielding kept her at a distance during the later scenes
of the story, because he could not trust himself not to make her more
interesting than Amelia. Of the peers, more wicked and less
wicked, there is indeed not much good to be said. The peer of the
eighteenth-century writers (even when, as in Fielding's case, there was
no reason why they should "mention him with _Kor_," as Policeman X. has
it) is almost always a faint type of goodness or wickedness dressed out
with stars and ribbons and coaches-and-six. Only Swift, by combination
of experience and genius, has given us live lords in Lord Sparkish and
Lord Smart. But Mrs. Ellison and Mrs. Atkinson are very women, and the
serjeant, though the touch of "sensibility" is on him, is excellent;
and Dr Harrison's country friend and his prig of a son are capital; and
Bondum, and "the author," and Robinson, and all the minor characters,
are as good as they can be.
It is, however, usual to detect a lack of vivacity in the book, an
evidence of declining health and years. It may be so; it is at least
certain that Fielding, during the composition of _Amelia,_ had much less
time to bestow upon elaborating his work than he had previously had,
and that his health was breaking. But are we perfectly sure that if the
chronological order had been different we should have pronounced the
same verdict? Had _Amelia_ come between _Joseph_ and _Tom,_ how many
of us might have committed ourselves to some such sentence as this: "In
_Amelia_ we see the youthful exuberances of _Joseph Andrews_ corrected
by a higher art; the adjustment of plot and character arranged with
a fuller craftsmanship; the genius which was to find its fullest
exemplification in _Tom Jones_ already displaying maturity"? And do
we not too often forget that a very short time--in fact, barely three
years--passed between the appearance of _Tom Jones_ and the appearance
of _Amelia?_ that although we do not know how long the earlier work had
been in preparation, it is extremely improbable that a man of Fielding's
temperament, of his wants, of his known habits and history, would have
kept it when once finished long in his desk? and that consequently
between some scenes of _Tom Jones_ and some scenes of _Amelia_ it is not
improbable that there was no more than a few months' interval? I do not
urge these things in mitigation of any unfavourable judgment against the
later novel. I only ask--How much of that unfavourable judgment ought
in justice to be set down to the fallacies connected with an imperfect
appreciation of facts?
To me it is not so much a question of deciding whether I like _Amelia_
less, and if so, how much less, than the others, as a question what part
of the general conception of this great writer it supplies? I do not
think that we could fully understand Fielding without it; I do not think
that we could derive the full quantity of pleasure from him without
it. The exuberant romantic faculty of Joseph Andrews and its pleasant
satire; the mighty craftsmanship and the vast science of life of _Tom
Jones;_ the ineffable irony and logical grasp of _Jonathan Wild_,
might have left us with a slight sense of hardness, a vague desire
for unction, if it had not been for this completion of the picture.
We should not have known (for in the other books, with the possible
exception of Mrs. Fitzpatrick, the characters are a little too
determinately goats and sheep) how Fielding could draw _nuances_, how
he could project a mixed personage on the screen, if we had not had Miss
Matthews and Mrs. Atkinson--the last especially a figure full of the
finest strokes, and, as a rule, insufficiently done justice to by
critics.
And I have purposely left to the last a group of personages about whom
indeed there has been little question, but who are among the triumphs of
Fielding's art--the two Colonels and their connecting-link, the wife of
the one and the sister of the other. Colonel Bath has necessarily united
all suffrages. He is of course a very little stagey; he reminds us that
his author had had a long theatrical apprenticeship: he is something too
much _d'une piece_. But as a study of the brave man who is almost more
braggart than brave, of the generous man who will sacrifice not only
generosity but bare justice to "a hogo of honour," he is admirable, and
up to his time almost unique. Ordinary writers and ordinary readers have
never been quite content to admit that bravery and braggadocio can go
together, that the man of honour may be a selfish pedant. People have
been unwilling to tell and to hear the whole truth even about Wolfe and
Nelson, who were both favourable specimens of the type; but Fielding the
infallible saw that type in its quiddity, and knew it, and registered it
for ever.
Less amusing but more delicately faithful and true are Colonel James and
his wife. They are both very good sort of people in a way, who live in
a lax and frivolous age, who have plenty of money, no particular
principle, no strong affection for each other, and little individual
character. They might have been--Mrs. James to some extent is--quite
estimable and harmless; but even as it is, they are not to be wholly
ill spoken of. Being what they are, Fielding has taken them, and, with a
relentlessness which Swift could hardly have exceeded, and a good-nature
which Swift rarely or never attained, has held them up to us as
dissected preparations of half-innocent meanness, scoundrelism, and
vanity, such as are hardly anywhere else to be found. I have used the
word "preparations," and it in part indicates Fielding's virtue, a
virtue shown, I think, in this book as much as anywhere. But it does not
fully indicate it; for the preparation, wet or dry, is a dead thing, and
a museum is but a mortuary. Fielding's men and women, once more let
it be said, are all alive. The palace of his work is the hall, not of
Eblis, but of a quite beneficent enchanter, who puts burning hearts into
his subjects, not to torture them, but only that they may light up for
us their whole organisation and being. They are not in the least the
worse for it, and we are infinitely the better.
[Illustration.]
[Illustration.]
DEDICATION.
To RALPH ALLEN, ESQ.
SIR,--The following book is sincerely designed to promote the cause of
virtue, and to expose some of the most glaring evils, as well public as
private, which at present infest the country; though there is scarce, as
I remember, a single stroke of satire aimed at any one person throughout
the whole.
The best man is the properest patron of such an attempt. This, I
believe, will be readily granted; nor will the public voice, I think, be
more divided to whom they shall give that appellation. Should a letter,
indeed, be thus inscribed, DETUR OPTIMO, there are few persons who would
think it wanted any other direction.
I will not trouble you with a preface concerning the work, nor endeavour
to obviate any criticisms which can be made on it. The good-natured
reader, if his heart should be here affected, will be inclined to pardon
many faults for the pleasure he will receive from a tender sensation:
and for readers of a different stamp, the more faults they can discover,
the more, I am convinced, they will be pleased.
Nor will I assume the fulsome stile of common dedicators. I have not
their usual design in this epistle, nor will I borrow their language.
Long, very long may it be before a most dreadful circumstance shall make
it possible for any pen to draw a just and true character of yourself
without incurring a suspicion of flattery in the bosoms of the
malignant. This task, therefore, I shall defer till that day (if I
should be so unfortunate as ever to see it) when every good man shall
pay a tear for the satisfaction of his curiosity; a day which, at
present, I believe, there is but one good man in the world who can think
of it with unconcern.
Accept then, sir, this small token of that love, that gratitude, and
that respect, with which I shall always esteem it my GREATEST HONOUR to
be,
Sir,
Your most obliged, and most obedient humble servant,
HENRY FIELDING.
_Bow Street, Dec. 2, 1751._
[Illustration.]
AMELIA.
VOL. I
BOOK I.
Chapter i.
_Containing the exordium, &c._
The various accidents which befel a very worthy couple after their
uniting in the state of matrimony will be the subject of the following
history. The distresses which they waded through were some of them so
exquisite, and the incidents which produced these so extraordinary,
that they seemed to require not only the utmost malice, but the utmost
invention, which superstition hath ever attributed to Fortune: though
whether any such being interfered in the case, or, indeed, whether
there be any such being in the universe, is a matter which I by no means
presume to determine in the affirmative. To speak a bold truth, I am,
after much mature deliberation, inclined to suspect that the public
voice hath, in all ages, done much injustice to Fortune, and hath
convicted her of many facts in which she had not the least concern.
I question much whether we may not, by natural means, account for the
success of knaves, the calamities of fools, with all the miseries
in which men of sense sometimes involve themselves, by quitting
the directions of Prudence, and following the blind guidance of a
predominant passion; in short, for all the ordinary phenomena which are
imputed to Fortune; whom, perhaps, men accuse with no less absurdity in
life, than a bad player complains of ill luck at the game of chess.
But if men are sometimes guilty of laying improper blame on this
imaginary being, they are altogether as apt to make her amends by
ascribing to her honours which she as little deserves. To retrieve the
ill consequences of a foolish conduct, and by struggling manfully with
distress to subdue it, is one of the noblest efforts of wisdom and
virtue. Whoever, therefore, calls such a man fortunate, is guilty of no
less impropriety in speech than he would be who should call the statuary
or the poet fortunate who carved a Venus or who writ an Iliad.
Life may as properly be called an art as any other; and the great
incidents in it are no more to be considered as mere accidents than the
several members of a fine statue or a noble poem. The critics in all
these are not content with seeing anything to be great without knowing
why and how it came to be so. By examining carefully the several
gradations which conduce to bring every model to perfection, we learn
truly to know that science in which the model is formed: as histories of
this kind, therefore, may properly be called models of _human life_,
so, by observing minutely the several incidents which tend to the
catastrophe or completion of the whole, and the minute causes whence
those incidents are produced, we shall best be instructed in this most
useful of all arts, which I call the _art_ of _life_.
Chapter ii
_The history sets out. Observations on the excellency of the English
constitution and curious examinations before a justice of peace._
On the first of April, in the year ----, the watchmen of a certain
parish (I know not particularly which) within the liberty of Westminster
brought several persons whom they had apprehended the preceding night
before Jonathan Thrasher, Esq., one of the justices of the peace for
that liberty.
But here, reader, before we proceed to the trials of these offenders,
we shall, after our usual manner, premise some things which it may be
necessary for thee to know.
It hath been observed, I think, by many, as well as the celebrated
writer of three letters, that no human institution is capable of
consummate perfection. An observation which, perhaps, that writer at
least gathered from discovering some defects in the polity even of this
well-regulated nation. And, indeed, if there should be any such defect
in a constitution which my Lord Coke long ago told us "the wisdom of
all the wise men in the world, if they had all met together at one time,
could not have equalled," which some of our wisest men who were met
together long before said was too good to be altered in any particular,
and which, nevertheless, hath been mending ever since, by a very great
number of the said wise men: if, I say, this constitution should
be imperfect, we may be allowed, I think, to doubt whether any such
faultless model can be found among the institutions of men.
It will probably be objected, that the small imperfections which I
am about to produce do not lie in the laws themselves, but in the ill
execution of them; but, with submission, this appears to me to be no
less an absurdity than to say of any machine that it is excellently
made, though incapable of performing its functions. Good laws should
execute themselves in a well-regulated state; at least, if the same
legislature which provides the laws doth not provide for the execution
of them, they act as Graham would do, if he should form all the parts of
a clock in the most exquisite manner, yet put them so together that the
clock could not go. In this case, surely, we might say that there was a
small defect in the constitution of the clock.
To say the truth, Graham would soon see the fault, and would easily
remedy it. The fault, indeed, could be no other than that the parts were
improperly disposed.
Perhaps, reader, I have another illustration which will set my intention
in still a clearer light before you. Figure to yourself then a family,
the master of which should dispose of the several economical offices in
the following manner; viz. should put his butler in the coach-box, his
steward behind his coach, his coachman in the butlery, and his footman
in the stewardship, and in the same ridiculous manner should misemploy
the talents of every other servant; it is easy to see what a figure such
a family must make in the world.
As ridiculous as this may seem, I have often considered some of the
lower officers in our civil government to be disposed in this very
manner. To begin, I think, as low as I well can, with the watchmen in
our metropolis, who, being to guard our streets by night from thieves
and robbers, an office which at least requires strength of body, are
chosen out of those poor old decrepit people who are, from their want
of bodily strength, rendered incapable of getting a livelihood by work.
These men, armed only with a pole, which some of them are scarce able
to lift, are to secure the persons and houses of his majesty's subjects
from the attacks of gangs of young, bold, stout, desperate, and
well-armed villains.
Quae non viribus istis
Munera conveniunt.
If the poor old fellows should run away from such enemies, no one I
think can wonder, unless it be that they were able to make their escape.
The higher we proceed among our public officers and magistrates, the
less defects of this kind will, perhaps, be observable. Mr. Thrasher,
however, the justice before whom the prisoners above mentioned were now
brought, had some few imperfections in his magistratical capacity.
I own, I have been sometimes inclined to think that this office of a
justice of peace requires some knowledge of the law: for this simple
reason; because, in every case which comes before him, he is to judge
and act according to law. Again, as these laws are contained in a great
variety of books, the statutes which relate to the office of a justice
of peace making of themselves at least two large volumes in folio; and
that part of his jurisdiction which is founded on the common law
being dispersed in above a hundred volumes, I cannot conceive how this
knowledge should by acquired without reading; and yet certain it is, Mr.
Thrasher never read one syllable of the matter.
This, perhaps, was a defect; but this was not all: for where mere
ignorance is to decide a point between two litigants, it will always be
an even chance whether it decides right or wrong: but sorry am I to
say, right was often in a much worse situation than this, and wrong hath
often had five hundred to one on his side before that magistrate; who,
if he was ignorant of the law of England, was yet well versed in the
laws of nature. He perfectly well understood that fundamental principle
so strongly laid down in the institutes of the learned Rochefoucault,
by which the duty of self-love is so strongly enforced, and every man is
taught to consider himself as the centre of gravity, and to attract
all things thither. To speak the truth plainly, the justice was never
indifferent in a cause but when he could get nothing on either side.
Such was the justice to whose tremendous bar Mr. Gotobed the constable,
on the day above mentioned, brought several delinquents, who, as we have
said, had been apprehended by the watch for diverse outrages.
The first who came upon his trial was as bloody a spectre as ever the
imagination of a murderer or a tragic poet conceived. This poor wretch
was charged with a battery by a much stouter man than himself; indeed
the accused person bore about him some evidence that he had been in an
affray, his cloaths being very bloody, but certain open sluices on his
own head sufficiently shewed whence all the scarlet stream had issued:
whereas the accuser had not the least mark or appearance of any wound.
The justice asked the defendant, What he meant by breaking the king's
peace?----To which he answered----"Upon my shoul I do love the king very
well, and I have not been after breaking anything of his that I do know;
but upon my shoul this man hath brake my head, and my head did brake his
stick; that is all, gra." He then offered to produce several witnesses
against this improbable accusation; but the justice presently
interrupted him, saying, "Sirrah, your tongue betrays your guilt. You
are an Irishman, and that is always sufficient evidence with me."
The second criminal was a poor woman, who was taken up by the watch as a
street-walker. It was alleged against her that she was found walking the
streets after twelve o'clock, and the watchman declared he believed her
to be a common strumpet. She pleaded in her defence (as | 2,675.654412 |
2023-11-16 19:01:39.6441730 | 7,436 | 7 |
Produced by Dagny; John Bickers
UNCLE WILLIAM
THE MAN WHO WAS SHIF'LESS
By Jennette Lee
TO GERALD STANLEY LEE
"Let him sing to me
Who sees the watching of the stars above the day,
Who hears the singing of the sunrise
On its way
Through all the night.
* * * * *
Let him sing to me
Who is the sky-voice, the thunder-lover,
Who hears above the winds' fast flying shrouds
The drifted darkness, the heavenly strife,
The singing on the sunny sides of all the clouds
Of his own life."
UNCLE WILLIAM
I
"Yes, I'm shif'less. I'm gen'ally considered shif'less," said William
Benslow. He spoke in a tone of satisfaction, and hitched his trousers
skilfully into place by their one suspender.
His companion shifted his easel a little, squinting across the harbor
at the changing light. There was a mysterious green in the water that he
failed to find in his color-box.
William Benslow watched him patiently. "Kind o' ticklish business, ain't
it?" he said.
The artist admitted that it was.
"I reckon I wouldn't ever 'a' done for a painter," said the old man,
readjusting his legs. "It's settin'-work, and that's good; but you have
to keep at it steady-like--keep a-daubin' and a-scrapin' and a-daubin'
and a-scrapin', day in and day out. I shouldn't like it. Sailin''s more
in my line," he added, scanning the horizon. "You have to step lively
when you do step, but there's plenty of off times when you can set and
look and the boat just goes skimmin' along all o' herself, with the
water and the sky all round you. I've been thankful a good many times
the Lord saw fit to make a sailor of me."
The artist glanced a little quizzically at the tumble-down house on
the cliff above them and then at the old boat, with its tattered maroon
sail, anchored below. "There's not much money in it?" he suggested.
"Money? Dunno's there is," returned the other. "You don't reely need
money if you're a sailor."
"No, I suppose not--no more than an artist."
"Don't you need money, either?" The old man spoke with cordial interest.
"Well, occasionally--not much. I have to buy canvas now and then, and
colors--"
The old man nodded. "Same as me. Canvas costs a little, and color. I dye
mine in magenta. You get it cheap in the bulk--"
The artist laughed out. "All right, Uncle William, all right," he said.
"You teach me to trust in the Lord and I'll teach you art. You see that
color out there,--deep green like shadowed grass--"
The old man nodded. "I've seen that a good many times," he said.
"Cur'us, ain't it?--just the color of lobsters when you haul 'em."
The young man started. He glanced again at the harbor. "Hum-m!" he said
under his breath. He searched in his color-box and mixed a fresh color
rapidly on the palette, transferring it swiftly to the canvas. "Ah-h!"
he said, again under his breath. It held a note of satisfaction.
Uncle William hitched up his suspender and came leisurely across the
sand. He squinted at the canvas and then at the sliding water, rising
and falling across the bay. "Putty good," he said approvingly. "You've
got it just about the way it looks--"
"Just about," assented the young man, with quick satisfaction. "Just
about. Thank you."
Uncle William nodded. "Cur'us, ain't it? there's a lot in the way you
see a thing."
"There certainly is," said the painter. His brush moved in swift strokes
across the canvas. "There certainly is. I've been studying that water
for two hours. I never thought of lobsters." He laughed happily.
Uncle William joined him, chuckling gently. "That's nateral enough," he
said kindly. "You hain't been seein' it every day for sixty year, the
way I hev." He looked at it again, lovingly, from his height.
"What's the good of being an artist if I can't see things that you
can't?" demanded the young man, swinging about on his stool.
"Well, what _is_ the use? I dunno; do you?" said Uncle William,
genially. "I've thought about that a good many times, too, when I've
been sailin'," he went on--"how them artists come up here summer after
summer makin' picters,--putty poor, most on 'em,--and what's the use?
I can see better ones settin' out there in my boat, any day.--Not but
that's better'n some," he added politely, indicating the half-finished
canvas.
The young man laughed. "Thanks to you," he said. "Come on in and make
a chowder. It's too late to do any more to-day--and that's enough." He
glanced with satisfaction at the glowing canvas with its touch of green.
He set it carefully to one side and gathered up his tubes and brushes.
Uncle William bent from his height and lifted the easel, knocking it
apart and folding it with quick skill.
The artist looked up with a nod of thanks. "All right," he said, "go
ahead."
Uncle William reached out a friendly hand for the canvas, but the artist
drew it back quickly. "No, no," he said. "You'd rub it off."
"Like enough," returned the old man, placidly. "I gen'ally do get in
a muss when there's fresh paint around. But I don't mind my clothes.
They're ust to it--same as yourn."
The young man laughed anxiously. "I wouldn't risk it," he said. "Come
on."
They turned to the path that zigzagged its way up the cliff, and with
bent backs and hinged knees they mounted to the little house perched on
its edge.
II
The old man pushed open the door with a friendly kick. "Go right along
in," he said. "I'll be there's soon as I've got an armful of wood."
The artist entered the glowing room. Turkey-red blazed at the windows
and decorated the walls. It ran along the line of shelves by the fire
and covered the big lounge. One stepped into the light of it with a
sudden sense of crude comfort.
The artist set his canvas carefully on a projecting beam and looked
about him, smiling. A cat leaped down from the turkey-red lounge and
came across, rubbing his legs. He bent and stroked her absently.
She arched her back to his hand. Then, moving from him with stately
step, she approached the door, looking back at him with calm, imperious
gaze.
"All right, Juno," he said. "He'll be along in a minute. Don't you
worry."
She turned her back on him and, seating herself, began to wash her face
gravely and slowly.
The door opened with a puff, and she leaped forward, dashing upon
the big leg that entered and digging her claws into it in ecstasy of
welcome.
Uncle William, over the armful of wood, surveyed her with shrewd eyes.
He reached down a long arm and, seizing her by the tail, swung her clear
of his path, landing her on the big lounge. With a purr of satisfaction,
she settled herself, kneading her claws in its red softness.
He deposited the wood in the box and stood up. His bluff, kind gaze
swept the little room affectionately. He took off the stove-lid and
poked together the few coals that glowed beneath. "That's all right," he
said. "She'll heat up quick." He thrust in some light sticks and pushed
forward the kettle. "Now, if you'll reach into that box behind you and
get the potatoes," he said, "I'll do the rest of the fixin's."
He removed his hat, and taking down a big oil-cloth apron, checked red
and black, tied it about his ample waist. He reached up and drew from
behind the clock a pair of spectacles in steel bows. He adjusted them to
his blue eyes with a little frown. "They're a terrible bother," he said,
squinting through them and readjusting them. "But I don't dare resk
it without. I got hold of the pepper-box last time. Thought it was the
salt--same shape. The chowder _was_ hot." He chuckled. "I can see a boat
a mile off," he said, lifting the basket of clams to the sink, "but
a pepper-box two feet's beyond me." He stood at the sink, rubbing the
clams with slow, thoughtful fingers. His big head, outlined against the
window, was not unlike the line of sea-coast that stretched below, far
as the eye could see, rough and jagged. Tufts of hair framed his shining
baldness and tufts of beard embraced the chin, losing themselves in the
vast expanse of neckerchief knotted, sailor fashion, about his throat.
Over the clams and the potatoes and the steaming kettles he hovered
with a kind of slow patience,--in a smaller man it would have been
fussiness,--and when the fragrant chowder was done he dipped it out with
careful hand. The light had lessened, and the little room, in spite
of its ruddy glow, was growing dark. Uncle William glanced toward the
window. Across the harbor a single star had come out. "Time to set my
light," he said. He lighted a ship's lantern and placed it carefully in
the window.
The artist watched him with amused eyes. "You waste a lot of oil on the
government, Uncle William," he said laughingly. "Why don't you apply for
a salary?"
Uncle William smiled genially. "Well, I s'pose the guvernment would say
the' wa'n't any reel need for a light here. And I don't s'pose the' is,
_myself_--not any _reel_ need. But it's a comfort. The boys like to see
it, comin' in at night. They've sailed by it a good many year now, and
I reckon they'd miss it. It's cur'us how you do miss a thing that's a
comfort--more'n you do one 't you reely _need_ sometimes." He lighted
the lamp swinging, ship fashion, from a beam above, and surveyed the
table. He drew up his chair. "Well, it's ready," he said, "such as it
is."
"That's all airs, Uncle William," said the young man, drawing up. "You
know it's fit for a king."
"Yes, it's good," said the old man, beaming on him. "I've thought a good
many times there wa'n't anything in the world that tasted better
than chowder--real good clam chowder." His mouth opened to take in a
spoonful, and his ponderous jaws worked slowly. There was nothing gross
in the action, but it might have been ambrosia. He had pushed the big
spectacles up on his head for comfort, and they made an iron-gray bridge
from tuft to tuft, framing the ruddy face.
"There was a man up here to Arichat one summer," he said, chewing
slowly, "that e't my chowder. And he was sort o' possessed to have me go
back home with him."
The artist smiled. "Just to make chowder for him?"
The old man nodded. "Sounds cur'us, don't it? But that was what he
wanted. He was a big hotel keeper and he sort o' got the idea that if he
could have chowder like that it would be a big thing for the hotel. He
offered me a good deal o' money if I'd go with him--said he'd give
me five hunderd a year and keep." The old man chuckled. "I told him I
wouldn't go for a thousand--not for two thousand," he said emphatically.
"Why, I don't s'pose there's money enough in New York to tempt me to
live there.
"Have you been there?"
"Yes, I've been there a good many times. We've put in for repairs and
one thing and another, and I sailed a couple of years between there and
Liverpool once. It's a terrible shet-in place," he said suddenly.
"I believe you're right," admitted the young man. He had lighted his
pipe and was leaning back, watching the smoke. "You _do_ feel shut
in--sometimes. But there are a lot of nice people shut in with you."
"That's what I meant," he said, quickly. "I can't stan' so many folks."
"You're not much crowded here." The young man lifted his head. Down
below they could hear the surf beating. The wind had risen. It rushed
against the little house whirlingly.
The old man listened a minute. "I shall have to go down and reef her
down," he said thoughtfully. "It's goin' to blow."
"I should say it _is_ blowing," said the young man.
"Not yet," returned Uncle William. "You'll hear it blow afore mornin'
if you stay awake to listen--though it won't sound so loud up the shore
where you be. This is the place for it. A good stiff blow and nobody on
either side of you--for half a mile." A kind of mellow enthusiasm held
the tone.
The young man smiled. "You _are_ a hermit. Suppose somebody should build
next you?"
"They can't."
"Why not?"
"I own it."
"A mile?"
The old man nodded. "Not the shore, of course. That's free to all. But
where anybody could build I own." He said it almost exultantly. "I
guess maybe I'm part Indian." He smiled apologetically. "I can't seem to
breathe without I have room enough, and it just come over me once, how
I should feel if folks crowded down on me too much. So I bought it. I'm
what they call around here 'land-poor.'" He said it with satisfaction.
"I can't scrape together money enough to buy a new boat, and it's's
much as I can do to keep the _Jennie_ patched up and going. But I'm
comfortable. I don't really want for anything."
"Yes, you're comfortable." The young man glanced about the snug room.
"There ain't a lot of folks shying up over the rocks at me." He got up
with deliberation, knocking the ashes from his pipe. "I'm goin' to make
things snug and put down the other anchor," he said. "You stay till I
come back and we'll have suthin' hot."
He put on his oil-skin hat and coat, and taking the lantern from its
hook, went out into the night.
Within, the light of the swinging lamp fell on the turkey-red. It
glowed. The cat purred in its depths.
III
The artist had been dreaming. In his hand he held an open locket. The
face within it was dark, like a boy's, with careless hair brushed from
the temples, and strong lines. The artist knew the lines by heart, and
the soft collar and loose-flowing tie and careless dress. He had been
leaning back with closed eyes, watching the lithe figure, tall and
spare, with the rude grace of the Steppes, the freshness of the wind.
... How she would enjoy it--this very night--the red room perched
aloft in the gale!
A fresh blast struck the house and it creaked and groaned, and righted
itself. In the lull that followed, steps sounded up the rocky path. With
a snap, the young man closed the locket and sat up. The door opened on
Uncle William, shining and gruff. The lantern in his hand had gone out.
His hat and coat were covered with fine mist. He came across to the
fire, shaking it off.
"It's goin' to blow all right," he said, nodding to the artist.
"And it's raining. You're wet."
"Well, not _wet_, so to speak." He took off his hat, shaking it lightly
over the stove. A crackling and fine mist rose from the hot drops. Juno
lifted her head and yawned. She purred softly. The old man hung his hat
and coat on the wooden pegs behind the door and seated himself by the
stove, opening wide the drafts. A fresh blaze sprang up. The artist
leaned forward, holding out his hands to it.
"You were gone a good while," he said. The locket had slipped from his
fingers and hung lightly on its steel chain, swinging a little as he
bent to the fire.
The old man nodded. "I see the _Andrew Halloran_ had dragged her anchor
a little, as I went out, and I stopped to fix her. It took quite a
spell. I couldn't find the extry anchor. He'd got it stowed away for'ard
somewheres, and by the time I found it she was driftin' putty bad. I
found a good bottom for her and made things fast before I left. I reckon
she'll hold."
"Won't he be down himself to look after her?"
"Mebbe not. It's a goodish step, from his place, down and back. He knows
I keep an eye out for her.
"Why doesn't he anchor up there," said the artist, "near by?"
The old man shook his head. "He's a kind o' set man, Andy is--part Irish
and part Scotch. He al'ays _has_ anchored here and I reckon he al'ays
_will_. I told him when I bought the land of him he was welcome to."
"It was his land, then?"
"Most on it--I do' know as he _wanted_ to sell reely, but I offered him
more'n he could stan'. He's a little near--Andy is." He chuckled.
The artist laughed out. "So he keeps the anchorage and right of way and
you look after his boat. I don't see but he's fairly well fixed."
"Yes, he's putty well fixed," said the old man, slowly. "'S fur as
_this_ world's goods go Andy is comf'tably provided for." His eyes
twinkled a little, but most of the big face was sober. "We've been
neighbors, Andy 'n' me, ever sence we was boys," he said. "I guess there
ain't a mean thing about Andy that I don't know, and he the same about
me. I should feel kind o' lonesome nights not to hev his boat to look
after--and know, like as not, in the mornin' he'll come down, cussin'
and swearin' 'cause she wa'n't fixed jest right." He peered into the
kettle on the stove. "'Most empty." He filled it from the pail by the
sink, and resumed his seat, stretching his great legs comfortably. Juno
sprang from the lounge and perched herself on his knee. He tumbled her a
little, in rough affection, and rubbed his big fingers in her neck. She
purred loudly, kneading her claws with swift strokes in the heavy cloth.
He watched her benignly, a kind of detached humor in his eyes. "Wimmen
folks is a good deal alike," he remarked dryly. "They like to be
comf'tabul."
"Some of them," assented the artist.
The old man looked up with a swift twinkle. "So-o?" he said.
The artist sat up quickly. The locket swayed on its chain and his hand
touched it. "What do you mean?" he said.
"Why, nuthin', nuthin'," said Uncle William, soothingly. "Only I thought
you was occupied with art and so on--"?
"I am."
Uncle William said nothing.
Presently the artist leaned forward. "Do you want to see her?" he said.
He was holding it out.
Uncle William peered at it uncertainly. He rose and took down the
spectacles from behind the clock and placed them on his nose. Then he
reached out his great hand for the locket. The quizzical humor had gone
from his face. It was full of gentleness.
Without a word the artist laid the locket in his hand.
The light swung down from the lamp on it, touching the dark face. The
old man studied it thoughtfully. On the stove the kettle had begun to
hum. Its gentle sighing filled the room. The artist dreamed.
Uncle William pushed up his spectacles and regarded him with a satisfied
look. "You've had a good deal more sense'n I was afraid you'd have," he
said dryly.
The artist woke. "You can't tell--from that." He held out his hand.
Uncle William gave it up, slowly. "I can tell more'n you'd think,
perhaps. Wimmen and the sea are alike--some ways a good deal alike. I've
lived by the sea sixty year, you know, and I've watched all kinds of
doings. But what I'm surest of is that it's deeper'n we be." He chuckled
softly. "Now, I wouldn't pertend to know all about her,"--he waved his
hand,--"but she's big and she's fresh--salt, too--and she makes your
heart big just to look at her--the way it ought to, I reckon. There's
things about her I don't know," he nodded toward the picture. "She may
not go to church and I don't doubt but what she has tantrums, but she's
better'n we be, and she--What did you say her name was?"
"Sergia Lvova."
"Sergia Lvova," repeated the old man, slowly, yet with a certain ease.
"That's a cur'us name. I've heard suthin' like it, somewhere--"
"She's Russian."
"Russian--jest so! I might'n' known it! I touched Russia once, ran up
to St. Petersburg. Now there's a country that don't hev breathin' space.
She don't hev half the sea room she'd o't to. Look at her--all hemmed
in and froze up. You hev to squeeze past all the nations of the earth to
get to her--half choked afore you fairly get there. Yes, I sailed there
once, up through Skager Rack and Cattegat along up the Baltic and the
Gulf of Finland, just edging along--" He held out his hand again for the
locket, and studied it carefully. "Russian, is she? I might 'a' known
it," he said nodding. "She's the sort--same look--eager and kind o'
waitin'." He looked up. "How'd you come to know her? You been there?"
"In Russia? No. She's not there now. She's in New York. She lives
there."
"Is that so? Poor thing!" Uncle William looked at the pictured face with
compassion.
The artist smiled. "Oh, it's not so bad. She's happy."
"Yes, she's happy. I can see that easy enough. She's the kind that's
goin' to be happy." He looked again at the clear, fearless eyes. "You
couldn't put her anywheres she wouldn't sing--"
"She _does_ sing. How did you know?"
Uncle William's eyes twinkled to the boyish face. "Well, I didn't _know_
it--not jest that way. I didn't know as she sung songs on a platform,
dressed up, like I've heard 'em. What I meant was, her heart kind o'
bubbles and sings--"
"Yes"--the artist leaned forward--"that is Sergia. It's the way she
is. She doesn't sing in public. But her voice"--his eyes grew dark--"it
makes you want to laugh and cry. It's like the wind and the sun
shining--" He broke off, listening.
The old man's eyes dwelt on him kindly. "She's with her folks, is she?"
He roused himself. "She hasn't any. They all died over there--her father
and brother in the riots, her mother after that. She has no one. She
teaches music--piano and violin--night and day. Sometimes she gives a
recital with her pupils--and she has me." He laughed a little bitterly.
"It isn't an exciting life."
"I dunno's I'd say jest that," said Uncle William, slowly. "It ain't
exactly the things that happen--" He broke off, looking at something
far away. "Why, I've had things happen to me--shipwreck, you know--winds
a-blowin' and sousin' the deck--and a-gettin' out the boats and yellin'
and shoutin'--Seems's if it ought to 'a' been excitin'. But Lord!
'twa'n't nuthin' to what I've felt other times--times when it was all
still-like on the island here--and big--so's 't you kind o' hear suthin'
comin' to ye over the water. Why, some days it's been so's I'd feel's if
I'd _bust_ if I didn't do suthin'--suthin' to let off steam."
The young man nodded. "You ought to be an artist. That's the way they
feel--some of them."
Uncle William beamed on him. "You don't say so! Must be kind o' hard
work, settin' still and doin' art when you feel like that. I gen'ally go
clammin', or suthin'."
The artist laughed out, boyishly. He reached out a hand for the locket.
But Uncle William held it a moment, looking down at it. "Things happen
to _her_--every day," he said. "You can see that, plain enough. She
don't hev to be most drowned to hev feelin's." He looked up. "When you
goin' to be married?"
"Not till we can afford it--years." The tone was somber.
Uncle William shook his head. "Now, I wouldn't talk like that, Mr.
Woodworth!" He handed back the locket and pushed up his spectacles
again, beaming beneath them. "Seems to me," he said slowly, studying the
fire--"seems to me I wouldn't wait. I'd be married right off--soon's I
got back."
"What would you live on?" said the artist.
Uncle William waited. "There's resk," he said at last--"there's resk in
it. But there's resk in'most everything that tastes good. I meant to
get married once," he said after a pause. "I didn't. I guess it's about
the wust mistake I ever made. I thought this house wa'n't good enough
for her." He looked about the quaint room. "'T wa'n't, neither," he
added with conviction. "But she'd 'a' rather come--I didn't know it
then," he said gently.
The artist waited, and the fire crackled between them.
"If I'd 'a' married her, I'd 'a' seen things sooner," went on the old
man. "I didn't see much beauty them days--on sea or land. I was all for
a good ketch and makin' money and gettin' a better boat. And about that
time she died. I begun to learn things then--slow-like--when I hadn't
the heart to work. If I'd married Jennie, I'd 'a' seen 'em sooner,
bein' happy. You learn jest about the same bein' happy as you do bein'
miserable--only you learn it quicker."
"I can't give up my art," said the young man. He was looking at Uncle
William with the superior smile of youth, a little lofty yet kind. "You
don't allow for art," he said.
"I dunno's I do," returned Uncle William. "It's like makin' money, I
guess--suthin' extry, thrown in, good enough if you get it, but not
necessary--no, not necessary. Livin's the thing to live for, I reckon."
He stopped suddenly, as if there were no more to be said.
The artist looked at him curiously. "That's what all the great artists
have said," he commented.
Uncle William nodded. "Like enough. I ain't an artist. But I've had
sixty year of livin', off and on."
"But you'll die poor," said the artist, with a glance about the little
room. He was thinking what a dear old duffer the man was--with his
curious, impracticable philosophy of life and his big, kind ways.
"You'll die poor if you don't look out," he said again.
"Yes, I s'pose I shall," said Uncle William, placidly, "'thout I make my
fortune aforehand. That hot water looks to me just about right." He eyed
the tea-kettle critically. "You hand over them glasses and we'll mix a
little suthin' hot, and then we'll wash the dishes and go to bed."
The artist looked up with a start. "I must be getting back." He glanced
at the dark window with its whirling sleet.
"You won't get back anywheres to-night," said Uncle William. "You
couldn't hear yourself think out there--let alone findin' the path. I'll
jest shake up a bed for ye here on the lounge,--it's a fust-rate bed;
I've slep' on it myself, time and again,--and then in the mornin' you'll
be on hand to go to work--save a trip for ye. Hand me that biggest glass
and a teaspoon. I want that biggest there--second one--and a teaspoon.
We'll have things fixed up fust-rate here."
Far into the night the artist watched the ruddy room. Gleams from the
fire darted up the wall and ran quivering along the red. Outside the
wind struck the house and beat upon it and went back, hoarse and slow.
Down the beach the surf boomed in long rolls, holding its steady beat
through the uproar. When the wind lulled for a moment the house creaked
mysteriously, whispering, and when the gale returned a sound of flying
missiles came with it. Now and then something struck the roof and
thudded to the ground with heavier crash.
About three o'clock Uncle William's round face was thrust through
the crack of the door. "You can go to sleep all right, now," he said
soothingly. "There wa'n't but seven bricks left in the chimney, anyhow,
and the last one's jest come down. I counted 'em fallin'."
IV
The artist stood on the beach, his hands in his pockets. Near by, seated
on a bit of driftwood, a man was cleaning fish. For a few minutes the
artist watched the swift motion of the knife, flashing monotonously.
Then he glanced at the harbor and at the two sailboats bobbing and
pulling their ropes. He was tired with a long strain of work. The summer
was almost done. For weeks--since the night of the big storm--he had
worked incessantly. A new light had come over things,--"The light that
never was on sea or land," he called it,--and he had worked feverishly.
He saw the water and the rugged land as Uncle William saw them. Through
his eyes, he painted them. They took on color and bigness--simplicity.
"They will call it my third style," said the artist, smiling, as he
worked. "They ought to call it the Uncle William style. I didn't do
it--I shall never do it again," and he worked fast.
But now the sketches were done. They were safely packed and corded.
To-morrow he was going. To-day he would rest himself and do the things
he would like to remember.
He looked again at the man cleaning fish. "Pretty steady work," he said,
nodding toward the red pile.
The man looked up with a grunt. "Everything's steady--that pays," he
said indifferently.
The artist's eyebrows lifted a little. "So?"
"Yep." The man tossed aside another fish. "Ye can't earn money stan'in'
with your hands in your pockets."
"I guess that's so," said the artist, cheerfully. He did not remove the
hands. The fingers found a few pennies in the depths and jingled them
merrily.
"There's Willum," said the man, aggressively, sweeping his red knife
toward the cliff. "He's poor--poor as poverty--an' he al'ays will be."
"What do you think is the reason?" asked the artist. The | 2,675.664213 |
2023-11-16 19:01:39.7502600 | 1,425 | 8 | DEAN'S WATCH ***
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Emile Erckmann]
[Illustration: Title page]
*ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN*
*Brigadier Frederick*
*AND*
*The Dean's Watch*
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH
WITH A CRITICAL INTRODUCTION
BY PROF. RICHARD BURTON, OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF MINNESOTA
A FRONTISPIECE AND NUMEROUS
OTHER PORTRAITS WITH
DESCRIPTIVE NOTES BY
OCTAVE UZANNE
P. F. COLLIER & SON
NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1902
BY D. APPLETON & COMPANY
*ERCKMANN-CHATRIAN*
Fashions change in literature, but certain things abide. There may be
disputes from generation to generation, even from decade to decade, as
to what is aesthetic, or what is beautiful; there is less as to what is
human. The work of the French writers, whose duality is quite lost in
the long-time association of their names for the purposes of story
making, seems at the least to make this claim to outlast its authors: it
is delightfully saturated with humanity.
And this humanity is of the sort that, since it can be understood of all
men, is therefore very widely acceptable. It is well to emphasize the
point in an attempt to explain the popularity of Erckmann-Chatrian,
immediate or remote. There are other reasons, to be sure: but this one
is at the door, knocking to be heard. But to speak of the essential
humanity of these books is not to deny or ignore their art; that they
have in abundance--quite as truly indeed as the work of your most
insistent advocate of "art for art"; but it is art for life's sake. In
the best sense, the verisimilitude of the Erckmann-Chatrian stories is
admirable, impressive. They are, as a rule, exquisitely in key. They
produce a cumulative effect by steadily, unobtrusively clinging to a
single view-point, that of the speaker who is an eye-witness, and the
result is a double charm--that of reality and that of illusion. One
sees life, not through the eyes of the authors, but through the eyes of
the characters; hence the frequent setting-forth of principles is
relieved from didacticism by the careful way in which the writers
refrain from expressing their own opinion. So artistic are they that
they even indulge in the delicate ruse of opposing the views which are
really their own, thereby producing a still stronger effect of
fair-mindedness and detachment.
Yet, as the world knows, in the most justly famed of their books, the
so-called National Novels, it is their purpose to preach against war;
they are early advocates of the principles of the Peace Congress at The
Hague, forerunners, in their own fashion, of the ideas expressed in art
and literature by later men like Tolstoy and Verestchagin.
The local colour--one still uses the phrase as convenient--is remarkable
for its sympathetic fidelity; the style well-nigh a model of prose whose
purpose it is to depict in homely yet picturesque terms the passage of
great events, seen by humble, it may be Philistine, folk, and hence not
seen _couleur de rose_. When a heartfelt sympathy for average
human-kind rises to the surface of the author's feeling, some candid,
cordial phrase is ever found to express it.
The work of Erckmann-Chatrian, voluminous as it is, can be easily
classified: it mainly consists of the idyl and the picture of war;
_L'lllustre Docteur Matheus_, their first success, happily illustrates
the former _genre_; any one of the half dozen tales making up the
National Novel series may be taken to represent the latter. Both veins
turned out to be gold mines, so rich were they in the free-milling ore
of popular favour. Such stories as _L'Ami Fritz_ and _The Brigadier
Frederick_ are types of the two kinds of fiction which panned out most
richly also for the world. In the idyl dealing with homely provincial
life--the life of their home province--these authors are, of a truth,
masters. The story is naught, the way of telling it, all that breeds
atmosphere and innuendo, is everything. In _L'Ami Fritz_ the plot may
be told in a sentence: 'tis the wooing and winning of a country lass,
daughter of a farmer, by a well-to-do jovial bachelor of middle age in a
small town; _voila tout_; yet the tale makes not only delicious reading,
it leaves a permanent impression of pleasure--one is fain to re-read it.
It is rich in human nature, in a comfortable sense of the good things of
the earth; food and drink, soft beds, one's seat at the tavern, spring
sunlight, and the sound of a fiddle playing dance tunes at the fair:
and, on a higher plane, of the genial joys of comradeship and the stanch
belief in one's native land. When the subtler passion of love comes in
upon this simple pastoral scene, the gradual discovery of Friend Fritz
that the sentiment he has always ridiculed has him at last in its
clutch, is portrayed with a sly unction, a kindly humour overlying an
unmistakable tenderness of heart, which give the tale great charm.
Sweetness and soundness are fundamentals of such literature.
This tale is a type of them all, though deservedly the best liked. Love
of nature and of human nature, a knowledge of the little, significant
things that make up life, an exquisite realism along with a sort of
temperamental optimism which assumes good of men and women--these blend
in the provincial stories in such a way that one's sense of art is
charmed while in no less degree one's sense of life is quickened and
comforted. Erckmann-Chatrian introduced to French readers the genuine
Alsatian, not the puppet of the vaudeville stage. Their books are,
among other things, historical documents. From their sketches and tales
better than in any other way one can gain an understanding of the
present German provinces of Alsace | 2,675.7703 |
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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)
[Illustration: “‘Lord, these are the lambs of thy flock.’”]
Jessica’s First Prayer
Jessica’s Mother
Hesba Stretton
New York
H. M. Caldwell Co.
Publishers
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
The Coffee-Stall and its Keeper PAGE 5
CHAPTER II.
Jessica’s Temptation 15
CHAPTER III.
An Old Friend in a New Dress 23
CHAPTER IV.
Peeps into Fairy-land 35
CHAPTER V.
A New World Opens 44
CHAPTER VI.
The First Prayer 50
CHAPTER VII.
Hard Questions 54
CHAPTER VIII.
An Unexpected Visitor 60
CHAPTER IX.
Jessica’s First Prayer Answered 69
CHAPTER X.
The Shadow of Death 82
Jessica’s First Prayer.
CHAPTER I.
THE COFFEE-STALL AND ITS KEEPER.
In a screened and secluded corner of one of the many railway-bridges
which span the streets of London there could be seen, a few years
ago, from five o’clock every morning until half-past eight, a tidily
set out coffee-stall, consisting of a trestle and board, upon which
stood two large tin cans with a small fire of charcoal burning under
each, so as to keep the coffee boiling during the early hours of the
morning when the work-people were thronging into the city on their
way to their daily toil. The coffee-stall was a favorite one, for
besides being under shelter, which was of great consequence upon rainy
mornings, it was also in so private a niche that the customers taking
their out-of-door breakfast were not too much exposed to notice; and,
moreover, the coffee-stall keeper was a quiet man, who cared only
to serve the busy workmen without hindering them by any gossip. He
was a tall, spare, elderly man, with a singularly solemn face and a
manner which was grave and secret. Nobody knew either his name or
dwelling-place; unless it might be the policeman who strode past the
coffee-stall every half-hour and nodded familiarly to the solemn man
behind it. There were very few who cared to make any inquiries about
him; but those who did could only discover that he kept the furniture
of his stall at a neighboring coffee-house, whither he wheeled his
trestle and board and crockery every day not later than half-past
eight in the morning; after which he was wont to glide away with a
soft footstep and a mysterious and fugitive air, with many backward
and sidelong glances, as if he dreaded observation, until he was lost
among the crowds which thronged the streets. No one had ever had the
persevering curiosity to track him all the way to his house, or to find
out his other means of gaining a livelihood; but in general his stall
was surrounded by customers, whom he served with silent seriousness,
and who did not grudge to pay him his charge for the refreshing coffee
he supplied to them.
For several years the crowd of work-people had paused by the
coffee-stall under the railway-arch, when one morning, in a partial
lull of his business, the owner became suddenly aware of a pair of very
bright dark eyes being fastened upon him and the slices of bread and
butter on his board, with a gaze as hungry as that of a mouse which has
been driven by famine into a trap. A thin and meagre face belonged to
the eyes, which was half hidden by a mass of matted hair hanging over
the forehead and down the neck--the only covering which the head or
neck had; for a tattered frock, scarcely fastened together with broken
strings, was slipping down over the shivering shoulders of the little
girl. Stooping down to a basket behind his stall, he caught sight of
two bare little feet curling up from the damp pavement, as the child
lifted up first one and then other and laid them one over another to
gain a momentary feeling of warmth. Whoever the wretched child was, she
did not speak; only at every steaming cupful which he poured out of his
can her dark eyes gleamed hungrily, and he could hear her smack her
thin lips as if in fancy she was tasting the warm and fragrant coffee.
“Oh, come now,” he said at last, when only one boy was left taking his
breakfast leisurely, and he leaned over his stall to speak in a low and
quiet tone, “why don’t you go away, little girl? Come, come; you’re
staying too long, you know.”
“I’m just going, sir,” she answered, shrugging her small shoulders to
draw her frock up higher about her neck; “only it’s raining cats and
dogs outside; and mother’s been away all night, and she took the key
with her; and it’s so nice to smell the coffee; and the police has left
off worriting me while I’ve been here. He thinks I’m a customer taking
my breakfast.” And the child laughed a shrill laugh of mockery at
herself and the policeman.
“You’ve had no breakfast, I suppose,” said the coffee-stall keeper, in
the same low and confidential voice, and leaning over his stall till
his face nearly touched the thin, sharp features of the child.
“No,” she replied, coolly, “and I shall want my dinner dreadful bad
afore I get it, I know. You don’t often feel dreadful hungry, do you,
sir? I’m not griped yet, you know; but afore I taste my dinner it’ll be
pretty bad, I tell you. Ah! very bad indeed!”
She turned away with a knowing nod, as much as to say she had one
experience in life to which he was quite a stranger; but before she had
gone half a dozen steps she heard the quiet voice calling to her in
rather louder tones, and in an instant she was back at the stall.
“Slip in here,” said the owner, in a cautious whisper; “here’s a little
coffee left and a few crusts. There. You must never come again, you
know. I never give to beggars; and if you’d begged I’d have called the
police. There; put your poor feet towards the fire. Now, aren’t you
comfortable?”
The child looked up with a face of intense satisfaction. She was seated
upon an empty basket, with her feet near the pan of charcoal, and a cup
of steaming coffee on her lap; but her mouth was too full for her to
reply except by a very deep nod, which expressed unbounded delight.
The man was busy for a while packing up his crockery; but every now and
then he stopped to look down upon her, and to shake his head.
“What’s your name?” he asked, at length; “but there, never mind! I
don’t care what it is. What’s your name to do with me, I wonder?”
“It’s Jessica,” said the girl: “but mother and every body calls me
Jess. You’d be tired of being called Jess, if you were me. It’s Jess
here, and Jess there: and every body wanting me to go errands. And they
think nothing of giving me smacks, and kicks, and pinches. Look here!”
Whether her arms were black and blue from the cold or from ill-usage
he could not tell; but he shook his head again seriously and the child
felt encouraged to go on.
“I wish I could stay here for ever and ever, just as I am!” she cried.
“But you’re going away, I know; and I’m never to come again, or you’ll
set the police on me!”
“Yes,” said the coffee-stall keeper very softly; and looking round to
see if there were any other ragged children within sight, “if you’ll
promise not to come again for a whole week, and not to tell any body
else, you may come once more. I’ll give you one other treat. But you
must be off now.”
“I’m off, sir,” she said, sharply; “but if you’ve a errand I could go
on I’d do it all right, I would. Let me carry some of your things.”
“No, no,” cried the man; “you run away, like a good girl; and, mind!
I’m not to see you again for a whole week.”
“All right,” answered Jess, setting off down the rainy street at a
quick run, as if to show her willing agreement to the bargain; while
the coffee-stall keeper, with many a cautious glance around him,
removed his stock in trade to the coffee-house near at hand, and
was seen no more for the rest of the day in the neighborhood of the
railway-bridge.
CHAPTER II.
JESSICA’S TEMPTATION.
Her part of the bargain Jessica faithfully kept; and though the solemn
and silent man under the dark shadow of the bridge looked for her every
morning as he served his customers, he caught no glimpse of her wan
face and thin little frame. But when the appointed time was finished
she presented herself at the stall, with her hungry eyes fastened
again upon the piles of buns and bread and butter, which were fast
disappearing before the demands of the buyers. The business was at its
height, and the famished child stood quietly on one side watching for
the throng to melt away. But as soon as the nearest church clock had
chimed eight she drew a little nearer to the stall, and at a signal
from its owner she slipped between the trestles of his stand and took
up her former position on the empty basket. To his eyes she seemed even
a little thinner, and certainly more ragged, than before; and he laid a
whole bun, a stale one which was left from yesterday’s stock, upon her
lap, as she lifted the cup of coffee to her lips with both her benumbed
hands.
“What’s your name?” she asked, looking up to him with her keen eyes.
“Why,” he answered, hesitatingly, as if he was reluctant to tell so
much of himself, “my christened name is Daniel.”
“And where do you live, Mr. Dan’el?” she inquired.
“Oh, come now!” he exclaimed, “if you’re going to be impudent, you’d
better march off. What business is it of yours where I live? I don’t
want to know where you live, I can tell you.”
“I didn’t mean no offence,” said Jess humbly; “only I thought I’d like
to know where a good man like you lived. You’re a very good man, aren’t
you, Mr. Dan’el?”
“I don’t know,” he answered uneasily; “I’m afraid I’m not.”
“Oh, but you are, you know,” continued Jess. “You make good
coffee; prime! And buns too! And I’ve been watching you hundreds of
times afore you saw me, and the police leaves you alone, and never
tells you to move on. Oh, yes! you must be a very good man.”
Daniel sighed, and fidgeted about his crockery with a grave and
occupied air, as if he were pondering over the child’s notion of
goodness. He made good coffee, and the police left him alone! It was
quite true; yet still as he counted up the store of pence which had
accumulated in his strong canvas bag, he sighed again still more
heavily. He purposely let one of his pennies fall upon the muddy
pavement, and went on counting the rest busily, while he furtively
watched the little girl sitting at his feet. Without a shade of change
upon her small face she covered the penny with her foot and drew it in
carefully towards her, while she continued to chatter fluently to him.
For a moment a feeling of pain shot a pang through Daniel’s heart;
and then he congratulated himself on having entrapped the young thief.
It was time to be leaving now; but before he went he would make her
move her bare foot and disclose the penny concealed beneath it, and
then he would warn her never to venture near his stall again. This was
her gratitude, he thought; he had given her two breakfasts and more
kindness than he had shown to any fellow-creature for many a long year,
and at the first chance the young jade turned upon him and robbed him!
He was brooding over it painfully in his mind when Jessica’s uplifted
face changed suddenly, a dark flush crept over her pale cheeks, and the
tears started to her eyes. She stooped down, and picking up the coin
from among the mud she rubbed it bright and clean upon her rags and
laid it upon the stall close to his hand, but without speaking a word.
Daniel looked down upon her solemnly and searchingly.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Please, Mr. Dan’el,” she answered, “it dropped, and you didn’t hear
it.”
“Jess,” he said sternly, “tell me all about it.”
“Oh, please,” she sobbed, “I never had a penny of my own but once; and
it rolled close to my foot; and you didn’t see it; and I hid it up
sharp; and then I thought how kind you’d been, and how good the coffee
and buns are, and how you let me warm myself at your fire; and, please,
I couldn’t keep the penny any longer. You’ll never let me come again, I
guess.”
Daniel turned away for a moment, busying himself with putting his cups
and saucers into the basket, while Jessica stood by trembling, with
the large tears rolling slowly down her cheeks. The snug, dark corner,
with its warm fire of charcoal and its fragrant smell of coffee, had
been a paradise to her for these two brief spans of time; but she had
been guilty of the sin which would drive her from it. All beyond the
railway-arch the streets stretched away, cold and dreary, with no
friendly face to meet hers and no warm cups of coffee to refresh her;
yet she was only lingering sorrowfully to hear the words spoken which
should forbid her to return to this pleasant spot. Mr. Daniel turned
round at last, and met her tearful gaze, with a look of strange emotion
upon his own solemn face.
“Jess,” he said, “I could never have done it myself. But you may come
here every Wednesday morning, as this is a Wednesday, and there’ll
always be a cup of coffee for you.”
She thought he meant that he could not have hidden the penny under his
foot, and she went away a little saddened and subdued, notwithstanding
her great delight in the expectation of such a treat every week; while
Daniel, pondering over the struggle that must have passed through her
childish mind, went on his way, from time to time shaking his head,
muttering to himself, “I couldn’t have done it myself: I never could
have done it myself.”
CHAPTER III.
AN OLD FRIEND IN A NEW DRESS.
Week after week, through the three last months of the year, Jessica
appeared every Wednesday at the coffee-stall and, after waiting
patiently till the close of the breakfasting business, received her
pittance from the charity of her new friend. After a while Daniel
allowed her to carry some of his load to the coffee-house, but he
never suffered her to follow him farther, and he was always particular
to watch | 2,675.854418 |
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
ROMANTIC CITIES OF PROVENCE
[Illustration: CLOISTERS OF ST. TROPHINE, ARLES.
_By E. M. Synge._]
ROMANTIC CITIES OF PROVENCE
by
MONA CAIRD
Illustrated from Sketches by
Joseph Pennell and Edward M. Synge
New York: Charles Scribner's Sons
London: T. Fisher Unwin
TO
MARGUERITE HAMILTON SYNGE
[All rights reserved.]
Preface
This volume can hardly be said to have been written: it came about. The
little tour in the South of France which is responsible for its existence,
happened some years ago, and was undertaken for various reasons, health
and rest among others, and the very last idea which served as a motive
for the journey was that of writing about the country whose history is
so voluminous and so incalculably ancient. Nobody but a historian and a
scholar already deeply versed in the subject could dream of attempting
to treat it in any serious or complete fashion. But this fact did
not prevent the country from instantly making a profound and singular
impression upon a mind entirely unprepared by special study or knowledge
to be thus stirred. The vividness of the impression, therefore, was not
to be accounted for by associations of facts and scenes already formed
in the imagination. True, many an incident of history and romance now
found its scene and background, but before these corresponding parts
of the puzzle had been fitted together the potent charm had penetrated,
giving that strange, baffling sense of home-coming which certain lands
and places have for certain minds, remaining for ever mysterious, yet
for ever familiar as some haunt of early childhood.
An experience of that sort will not, as a rule, allow itself to be set
aside. It works and troubles and urges, until, sooner or later, some
form of transmutation must take place, some condensing into form of the
formless, some passing of impulse into expression, be it what it may.
And thus the first stray notes and sketches were made without ultimate
intention. But the charm imposed itself, and the notes grew and grew.
Then a more definite curiosity awoke and gradually the scene widened:
history and imagination took sisterly hands and whispered suggestions,
explanations of the secret of the extraordinary magic, till finally the
desultory sketches began to demand something of order in their undrilled
ranks. The real toil then began.
The subject, once touched upon, however slightly, is so unendingly
vast and many-sided, so entangled with scholarly controversy, that the
few words possible to say in a volume of this kind seem but to cause
obscurity, and worst of all, to falsify the general balance of impression
because of the innumerable other things that must perforce be left
unsaid. An uneasy struggle is set up in the mind to avoid, if possible,
that most fatal sort of misrepresentation, viz., that which contains a
certain proportion of truth.
And how to choose among varying accounts and theories, one contradicting
the other? Authorities differ on important points as radically and as
surely as they differ about the spelling of the names of persons and
places. There is conflict even as to the names in use at the present
day, as, for instance, the little mountain range of the Alpilles, which
some writers persistently spell _Alpines_, out of pure pigheadedness or
desire to make themselves conspicuous, as it seems to the weary seeker
after textual consistency. Where doctors disagree what can one do who is
not a doctor, but try to give a general impression of the whole matter
and leave the rest to the gods?
As for dates----!
Now there are two things with which no one who has not been marked out by
Providence by a special and triumphant gift ought to dream of attempting
to deal, namely, dates and keys--between which evanescent, elusive and
fundamentally absurd entities there is a subtle and deep-seated affinity.
If meddled with at all, they must be treated in a large spirit: no
meticulous analysis; no pursuit of a pettifogging date sharpening the
point of accuracy down to a paltry twelve months. And correspondingly,
as regards the smaller kind of keys, no one who values length of days
should ever touch them! They are the vehicles of demoniac powers. Of
course the good, quiet, well-developed cellar or stable-door key is
another matter; and thus (to pursue the parallel) dates can be dealt with
in a broadly synthetic fashion, in centuries and group of centuries, so
that while the author gains in peace of mind, the reader is spared the
painful experience of being stalked and hunted from page to page, and
confronted round every corner by quartets of dreary figures, minutely
defining moments of time which are about as much to him as they are to
Hecuba!
The chronology in this volume, therefore, may be described as frugal
rather than generous in character, but what there is of it is handled
in the "grand manner."
Such, then, is the history of the volume which still retains the character
of its irregular origin. Historically it attempts nothing but the roughest
outline of the salient points of the story about which a traveller
interested in the subject at all is at once curious for information.
The one thing on which it lays stress is the quality of the country as
distinguished from its outward features. For to many (for example, to
our severe critic whose impressions are recorded in Chapter III.) these
external features are devoid of all attraction. It is necessary to keep
this fact in mind.
A wide plain bounded by mountains of moderate height and an insignificant
chain of bare limestone hills (the Alpilles); cities ancient indeed, but
small, shabby, not too clean, with dingy old hotels, and no particular
advantages of situation--such a description of Provence would be accurate
for those who are not among its enthusiasts. To traverse the country
in an express train, especially with the eyes still full of the more
obvious beauties of the Pyrenees and the Alps, is to see all the wonder
of the land of the troubadours reduced to the mere flatness of a map.
In a few minutes the "rapide" had darted past some of its most ancient
and romantic cities--quiet and simple they stand, merged into the very
soil, with no large or striking features to catch the eye; only a patch
of grey masonry in the landscape and a few towers upon the horizon,
easily missed in the quick rush of the train.
A deeper sound in the rumble of the flying wheels for a couple of minutes
announces the crossing of some river: long stretches of waste land,
covered for miles and miles with sunburnt stones, and again stretches
of country, low-lying, God-forsaken, scarcely cultivated, with a few
stunted, melancholy trees, a farmstead on the outskirts here and there:
these are the "features of the country," as they might be described
without departure from bare, literal, all-deceiving fact.
How many travellers of the thousands who pass along this line every year
are interested in such a scene or guess its profound and multitudinous
experiences? How many realise as they rattle past, that in this arid land
of the vine and the cypress were born and fostered the sentiments, the
unwritten laws and traditions on which is built all that we understand
by civilised life? How many say to themselves as they pass: "But for
the men and women who dreamt and sang and suffered in this Cradle of
Chivalry, the world that I live in would never have been born, the
thoughts I think and the emotions to which I am heir would never have
arisen out of the darkness?"
But, indeed, the strange, many-sided country gives little aid or
suggestion for such realisations: it has reticently covered itself with
a mantle; it seems to crouch down out of sight while the monster engine
thunders by with its freight of preoccupied passengers.
A bare, flat, sun-scorched land.
Yes, these are the "facts," but ah! how different from the magic truth!
With facts, therefore, this volume has only incidentally to do. It
is a "true and veracious history," but by no means a literal one. As
to the mere accidents of travel, these are treated lightly. Exactly
in which order the cities were visited no reader need count upon
certainly knowing--and indeed it concerns him nothing--when and where
the observations were made by "Barbara," or the "severe critic," or the
landlady of the Hotel de Provence and so forth, the following pages may
or may not accurately inform him (with the exception, indeed, of the
curious, self-revelation of Raphael of Tarascon, which is given almost
word for word as it occurred, for here accident and essence chanced to
coincide); but he may be sure that though Barbara possibly did not speak
or act as represented then and there, she did or might have so spoken
or acted elsewhere and at another time. The irrelevancies of chance and
incident have been ignored in the interests of the essential. Barbara
may not recognise all her observations when she sees them. _Tant pis
pour Barbara!_ They are true in the spirit if not in the letter. And so
throughout.
From the moment that the original "notes" began to be written, the one and
sole impulse and desire has been to suggest, to hint to the imagination
that which can never be really told of the poetry, the idealism, the
glory, the sadness, and the great joy of this wondrous land of Sun and
Wind and Dream.
Contents
PAGE
PREFACE 7
CHAPTER
I. THE SPELL OF PROVENCE 17
II. AVIGNON 29
III. A SEVERE CRITIC--UZÈS AND BARBENTANE 49
IV. PETRARCH AND LAURA 67
V. THE CITIES OF THE LAGOONS 81
VI. THE BIRTH OF CHIVALRY 93
VII. THE GAY SCIENCE 111
VIII. ORANGE AND MARTIGUES 131
IX. ROMANTIC LOVE 143
X. ARLES 159
XI. SONG, DANCE, AND LEGEND 171
XII. TARASCON 189
XIII. THE PONT DU GARD 209
XIV. A HUMAN DOCUMENT 219
XV. BEAUCAIRE AND ITS LOVE-STORY 229
XVI. CARCASSONNE, THE ALBIGENSES AND PIERRE VIDAL 241
XVII. MAGUELONNE 261
XVIII. THE SPIRIT OF THE WILDERNESS 269
XIX. ROSES OF PROVENCE 283
XX. AN INN PARLOUR 295
XXI. LES BAUX 307
XXII. RAIMBAUT DE VACQUEIRAS AND GUILHELM DES
BAUX 321
XXIII. THE SORCERESS OF THE ALPILLES 335
XXIV. ACROSS THE AGES 349
XXV. THE SONG OF THE RHONE 373
XXVI. THE CAMARGUE 385
XXVII. "ARTISTS IN HAPPINESS" 401
List of Illustrations
CLOISTERS OF ST. TROPHINE, ARLES (_E. M. Synge_) _Frontispiece_
PAGE
A PROVENÇAL ROAD (_Joseph Pennell_) 19
PONT DE ST. BENÉZET, AVIGNON (_E. M. Synge_) 32
PALACE OF THE POPES AND CATHEDRAL " 35
CHARTREUSE DU VAL-DE-BÉNÉDICTION,
VILLENEUVE-LES-AVIGNON " 43
CASTLE OF ST. ANDRÉ,
VILLENEUVE-LES-AVIGNON " 45
CHATEAUNEUF, NEAR AVIGNON " 53
RIENZI'S TOWER, AVIGNON " 57
STREET AT UZÈS " 61
GATEWAY, BARBENTANE " 63
VALE AND SOURCE OF THE SORGUE, VAUCLUSE " 71
MILL IN VALE OF THE SORGUE AT VAUCLUSE " 78
ON THE DURANCE " 85
AIGUES MORTES FROM THE CAMARGUE " 86
AT THE PORT OF AIGUES MORTES " 96
CHURCH AT BARBENTANE (_E. M. Synge_) 101
CASTLE OF MONTMAJOUR, ARLES " 106
VIEW FROM ST. GILLES, IN THE CAMARGUE " 115
FAÇADE OF CHURCH, ST. GILLES (_Joseph Pennell_) 117
OUTSIDE THE CHURCH, SAINTES MARIES " 119
THE CHURCH OF LES SAINTES MARIES AT
NIGHT " 122
FARM IN PROVENCE " 126
ROMAN GATEWAY AT ORANGE (ON THE
LYONS ROAD) " 134
LOOKING DOWN THE GRANDE RUE, MARTIGUES " 135
ON THE GRAND CANAL, MARTIGUES " 137
CHURCH AT MARTIGUES " 138
BOATS, MARTIGUES " 139
THE PORTAL OF THE CHURCH, MARTIGUES " 140
A SQUARE AT NIMES " 145
IN THE CAMARGUE, FROM THE RAILWAY (_E. M. Synge_) 149
OLD BRIDGE AT ST. GILLES " 155
ST. TROPHIME, ARLES (_Joseph Pennell_) 161
LES ALISCAMPS, ARLES " 166
ARLES FROM THE RIVER " 169
ROMAN THEATRE, ARLES (_E. M. Synge_) 170
TARASCON FROM BEAUCAIRE, SHOWING KING RENÉ'S
CASTLE " 192
THE CHÂTEAU OF KING RENÉ,
TARASCON (_Joseph Pennell_) 198
ENTRANCE TO KING RENÉ'S CASTLE,
TARASCON (_E. M. Synge_) 205
THE PONT DU GARD (_E. M. Synge_) 213
THE ROMAN TOUR MAGNE, NIMES, FROM THE
FOUNTAIN GARDEN (_Joseph Pennell_) 215
VIEW FROM VISIGOTH TOWER,
BEAUCAIRE (_E. M. Synge_) 232
VISIGOTH TOWER, CASTLE OF BEAUCAIRE " 235
BEAUCAIRE FROM TARASCON (_Joseph Pennell_) 238
ROMAN FOUNTAIN AT NIMES " 244
ENTRANCE TOWERS, CARCASSONNE (_E. M. Synge_) 247
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
This is Volume 2 of 3. The first volume can be found in Project
Gutenberg at: http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/57016
The List of Illustrations has been copied from Volume I. This list
describes six illustrations, two in each volume.
As the Editor notes in his Preface in Volume I, “Some, though very
few, coarse expressions, have been suppressed by the Editor, and the
vacant spaces filled up by asterisks.” There is one such occurrence
in this volume (on page 205). Some omitted text is indicated by * * *
(on page 416.)
The Editor has also inserted the occasional [word] in brackets, when
that makes the passage more sensible.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
A superscript is denoted by ^x or ^{xx}, for example M^R.
Footnote anchors are denoted by [number], and the footnotes have been
placed at the end of each chapter.
Some minor changes to the text are noted at the end of the book.
MEMOIRS
OF THE REIGN OF
KING GEORGE THE SECOND.
VOL. II.
[Illustration: M^R. FOX.
London, Henry Colburn, 1846.]
MEMOIRS
OF THE REIGN OF
KING GEORGE THE SECOND.
BY
HORACE WALPOLE,
YOUNGEST SON OF SIR ROBERT WALPOLE, EARL OF ORFORD.
EDITED, FROM THE ORIGINAL MSS.
WITH A PREFACE AND NOTES,
BY THE LATE
LORD HOLLAND.
Second Edition, Revised.
_WITH THE ORIGINAL MOTTOES._
VOL. II.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, PUBLISHER,
GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET.
1847.
CONTENTS
OF
THE SECOND VOLUME.
CHAPTER I.
A. D. PAGE
1755. Endeavours for Peace with France in vain 2
Duke of Dorset removed; Lord Hartington made
Lord-Lieutenant 3
Debate on King Charles’s Martyrdom _ib._
Affair of Sheriffs-Depute in Scotland, and Debates
thereon 4
Ireland 10
History of the Mitchel Election 11
Scotch Sheriff-Depute Bill 14
History of Earl Poulet 18
Preparations for War 19
Ireland _ib._
Preparations for War in France 20
King’s Journey to Hanover _ib._
Duke of Cumberland at head of Regency 21
Prospects of War 22
Affairs of Ireland 23
CHAPTER II.
1755. Commencement of the War 27
War with France 28
War in America 29
Author avoids detailing Military events minutely 30
Defeat and Death of General Braddock 31
Events at Sea 32
Spain neutral 33
Fears for Hanover _ib._
Negotiations at Hanover. Treaties made there 34
Dissensions in Ministry and Royal Family 36
Disunion of Fox and Pitt 37
Affairs of Leicester House 39
King arrives _ib._
Ministers endeavour to procure support in Parliament 41
Fox made Secretary of State 43
Resignations and Promotions 44
Both Ministers insincere and discontented 45
Sir William Johnson’s Victory 46
Accession of Bedford Party _ib._
The Parliament meets 47
Address in Lords 48
New Opposition of Pitt, &c. 50
Debates on the Treaties _ib._
Pitt &c. dismissed 62
Sir George Lyttelton Chancellor of the Exchequer 63
Complaint of Mr. Fox’s Circular to Members of
Parliament _ib._
Debate on Fox’s Circular Letter 65
Debates on number of Seamen 67
CHAPTER III.
1755. Earthquake at Lisbon 77
Debates on a Prize Bill 78
Death of the Duke of Devonshire 86
Debates on the Army _ib._
Remarks on the above Debate 96
Debates on a new Militia Bill 97
CHAPTER IV.
1755. Debates on the Treaties 103
Affair of Hume Campbell and Pitt 107
Changes in the Administration settled 139
Lord Ligonier and Duke of Marlborough _ib._
Further Changes and new Appointments 140
Lord Barrington and Mr. Ellis 141
Pensions granted to facilitate Changes in Ministry 143
Parliamentary Eloquence _ib._
History of Oratory. Account and comparison of Orators 144
CHAPTER V.
1756. Parliament 150
Negotiations with France _ib._
Accommodation with the King of Prussia 152
Parliament _ib._
Affair of Admiral Knowles _ib._
Supplies 153
Grants to North America 154
Parliament and Parties _ib._
Hessians sent for 155
Mischiefs produced by Marriage Act _ib._
Prevot’s Regiment 156
Debate on Prevot’s Regiment 157
Author’s Speech on Swiss Regiments 163
Debate on Swiss Regiments continued 170
Affair of Fox and Charles Townshend 172
Divisions 174
Swiss Regiment Bill opposed in all its stages _ib._
Swiss Regiment Bill passed the Commons and Lords 175
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THE NURSERY
_A Monthly Magazine_
FOR YOUNGEST READERS.
VOLUME XIII.--No. 3
BOSTON:
JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET.
1873.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873,
BY JOHN L. SHOREY,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
BOSTON:
RAND, AVERY, & CO., STEREOTYPERS AND PRINTERS.
[Illustration: Contents]
IN PROSE.
PAGE.
The Pigeons and their Friend 65
The Obedient Chickens 69
John Ray's Performing Dogs 71
Ellen's Cure for Sadness 75
Kitty and the Bee 78
Little Mischief 82
How the Wind fills the Sails 85
Ida's Mouse 88
Almost Lost 91
Little May 93
An Important Disclosure 95
IN VERSE.
Rowdy-Dowdy 67
The Sliders 74
Mr. Prim 77
Minding Baby 80
Deeds, not Words 84
Molly to her Dolly 87
Timothy Tippens (_with music_) 96
[Illustration: Decoration]
[Illustration: THE PIGEONS AND THEIR FRIEND.]
THE PIGEONS AND THEIR FRIEND.
A TRUE STORY.
[Illustration: W]HEN I was in Boston about a year ago, I stopped one day
at the corner of Washington Street and Franklin Street to witness a
pretty sight.
Here, just as you turn into Franklin Street, on the right, a poor
peddler used to stand with a few baskets of oranges or apples or
peanuts, which he offered for sale to the passers-by.
The street-pigeons had found in him a good friend; for he used to feed
them with bits of peanuts, crumbs of bread, and seed: and every day, at
a certain hour, they would fly down to get their food.
On the day when I stopped to see them, the sun shone, and the street was
crowded; and many people stopped, like myself, to see the pretty sight.
The pigeons did not seem to be at all disturbed or frightened by the
noise of carriages or the press of people; but would fly down, and light
on the peddler's wrist, and peck the food from the palm of his hand.
He had made them so tame, that they would often light on his shoulders
or on his head; and, if he put food in his mouth, they would try to get
it even from between his teeth.
The children would flock round to see him; and even the busy newsboy
would pause, and forget the newspapers under his arm, while he watched
these interviews between the birds and their good friend.
A year afterwards I was in Boston again; but the poor peddler and his
birds were not to be seen. All Franklin Street, and much of the eastern
side of Washington Street, were in ruins. There had been a great fire
in Boston,--the largest that was ever known there; and more than fifty
acres, crowded with buildings, had been made desolate, so that nothing
but smoking ruins was left. This was in November, 1872.
I do not know where the poor peddler has gone; but I hope that his
little friends, the pigeons, have found him out, and that they still fly
down to bid him good-day, and take their dinner from his open hand.
The picture is an actual drawing from life, made on the spot, and not
from memory. The likeness of the peddler is a faithful one; and I thank
the artist for reproducing the scene so well to my mind. Folks _do_ say
that he has hit off _my_ likeness also in the man standing behind the
taller of the two little girls.
ALFRED SELWYN.
ROWDY-DOWDY.
ROWDY-DOWDY loves a noise;
Cannot play with quiet boys;
Cannot play with quiet toys:
Rowdy-dowdy loves a noise!
In the street he takes delight,--
In the street from morn till night:
Don't I tell the story right,
Rowdy-dowdy, noisy sprite?
Rowdy-dowdy's full of fun;
Never walks if he can run;
Never likes the setting sun:
That stops Rowdy-dowdy's fun.
[Illustration]
He is full of prankish ways;
Never still one moment stays;
Boys are fond of boyish plays:
These are Dowdy's rowdy days.
Out at elbows, out at toes,
Out at knees, the urchin goes:
Still he laughs, and still he grows
Rowdier, dowdier, I suppose.
Rowdy-dowdy, don't you see,
Full of noisy, boys-y glee,
Is as sweet as he can be,
For the sprite belongs to me!
He is mine to have and hold,
Worth his weight in solid gold:
Ah! I've not the heart to scold
Rowdy-dowdy, brave and bold!
JOSEPHINE POLLARD.
[Illustration]
THE OBEDIENT CHICKENS.
WHEN I was a little girl, I had a nice great Shanghai hen given to me.
She soon laid a nest full of eggs; and then I let her sit on them, till,
to my great joy, she brought out a beautiful brood of chickens.
They were big fellows even at first, and had longer legs and fewer
feathers than the other little yellow roly-poly broods that lived in our
barn-yard. But, although I could see that they were not quite so pretty
as the others, I made great pets of them.
They were a lively, stirring family, and used to go roving all over the
farm; but never was there a better behaved, or more thoroughly trained
set of children. If a hawk, or even a big robin, went sailing over head,
how quickly they scampered, and hid themselves at their mother's note of
warning! and how meekly they all trotted roost-ward at the first sound
of her brooding-call! I wish all little folks were as ready to go to bed
at the right time.
One day when the chickens were five or six weeks' old, I saw them all
following their mother into an old shed near the house. She led them up
into one corner, and then, after talking to them for a few minutes in
the hen language, went out and left them all huddled together.
She was gone for nearly an hour; and never once did they stir away from
the place where she left them. Then she came back, and said just as
plain as your mother could say it, only in another way, "Cluck, cluck,
cluck! You've all been good chickens while I was away; have you? Well,
now, we'll see what a good dinner we can pick up."
Out they rushed, pell-mell, as glad to be let out of their prison, and
as pleased to see their mother again, as so many boys and girls would
have been.
Well, day after day, this same thing happened. It came to be a regular
morning performance; and we hardly knew what to make of it, until one
day we followed old Mother Shanghai, and discovered her secret.
She had begun to lay eggs again, and was afraid some harm would come to
her young family if she left them out in the field while she was in the
barn on her nest. So she took this way of keeping them out of danger.
Of course, what she said to her brood when she left them must have been,
"My dears, my duties now call me away from you for a little while; and
you must stay right here, where no harm can come to you, till I come
back. Good-by!" And then off she would march as dignified and earnest as
you please.
She did this for a number of weeks, until she thought her young folks
were old and wise enough to be trusted out alone. Then she let them take
care of themselves.
This is a true story.
EAST DORSET, VT. M. H. F.
[Illustration]
JOHN RAY'S PERFORMING DOGS.
THERE was once a little boy whose name was John Ray, and who lived near
a large manufacturing town in England. When only seven years old, he
fell from a tree, and was made a <DW36> for life.
His father, who was a sailor, was lost at sea soon afterwards; and
then, John's mother dying, the little boy was left an orphan. He was
nine years of age when he went to live with Mrs. Lamson, his aunt,--a
poor woman with a large family of young children.
It was a sad thought to John that he could not work so as to help his
good aunt. It was his frequent prayer that he might do something so as
not to be a burden to her; but for a long time he could not think of any
thing to do.
One day a stray dog came to the house; and John gave him a part of his
dinner. The dog liked the attention so well, that he staid near the
house, and would not be driven off. Every day John gave him what he
could spare.
One day, John said to him, "Doggie, what is your name? Is it Fido? Is it
Frisk? Is it Nero? Is it Nap? Is it Tiger? Is it Toby? Is it Plato? Is
it Pomp?"
When John uttered the word "Pomp," the dog began to bark; and John said,
"Well, sir, then your name shall be Pomp." Then John began to play with
him, and found that Pomp was not only acquainted with a good many
tricks, but was quick to learn new ones.
Pomp would walk on his hind-legs better than any dog that John ever saw.
Pomp would let John dress him up in an old coat and a hat; and would sit
on a chair, and hold the reins that were put in his paws, just as if he
were a coachman.
Pomp learned so well, and afforded such amusement to those who saw his
tricks, that the thought occurred to John, "What if I try to earn some
money by exhibiting Pomp?"
So John exhibited him in a small way, to some of the neighbors, and with
so much success, that he bought another dog and a monkey, and began to
teach all three to play tricks together.
A kind lady, who had been informed of his efforts to do something for
his aunt, made some nice dresses for the dogs and the monkey. The
pictures will show you how the animals looked when dressed up for an
exhibition.
[Illustration]
The kind lady did still more: she hired a hall in which John could show
off his dogs; and then she sold five hundred tickets for a grand
entertainment. It was so successful, that John was called upon to repeat
it many times.
Oh! was he not a proud and happy little boy when he found himself so
rich that he could put a twenty-pound note in the hands of his aunt as a
token that he was grateful for all her care of him?
It was more money than the poor woman had had at any one time in her
whole life before; and she kissed her little nephew, and called him the
best boy in the world.
John and his dogs grew to be so famous, that he had to go to other
cities to show them; and soon he earned money enough to keep him till he
could learn to be a watchmaker.
As he was a diligent, faithful workman, he at last became the owner of a
nice house, and then took his aunt and some of her children to live with
him.
UNCLE CHARLES.
[Illustration]
THE SLIDERS.
COME Clara and Jane, Frank and Tom, come along;
We'll watch the boys sliding, and listen their song:
You'll hear it ring out like the notes of a horn,
In the clear, frosty air of this cold winter's morn.
THE SONG.
Oh! how pleasant it is when the snow's on the ground,
And the icicles hang on the eaves all around,
O'er the white winter-carpet our way to pursue,
With our schoolmates and friends ever hearty and true!
When we come to the place of the jolly long slide,
With a run and a jump o'er the ice we will glide:
Look out for the engine! keep off of the rail!
Don't you hear the steam-whistle? make way for the mail!
We laugh at cold weather; we laugh at mishaps;
We will slide till we're warm from our shoes to our caps;
And the quick bounding blood as it mantles and glows
Shall paint all our cheeks like the fresh, ruddy rose.
So we'll keep the pot boiling; now up the long slide,
And then down on the other that runs by its side,--
There's nothing like _tiring_, there's nothing like _rest_,--
Till the broad yellow sun is far down in the west.
GEORGE BENNETT.
ELLEN'S CURE FOR SADNESS.
OUR little Ellen is never in a good temper when she comes down late to
breakfast, and finds the things cleared away. First she complains that
her bowl of bread and milk is too hot; and then, when Aunt Alice pours
in some water to cool it, Ellen says, "It is now too cold."
I think the fault is in herself. She is five years old,--quite old
enough to know that she ought to get up when the first bell rings, and
come down to breakfast. She knows she is in fault. She has missed papa's
kiss, for he had to leave home early on business; and this adds to her
grief.
But, after she had eaten her bread and milk on the day I am speaking of,
she asked Aunt Alice what she should do to cure herself of her
"sadness." "I think that the best plan, in such cases, is to try to do
some good to somebody," said Aunt Alice. "The best way to cheer
yourself is to cheer another."
[Illustration]
This made Ellen thoughtful; and she stood at the window, looking out on
the street, long after Aunt Alice had left the room. It was a cold,
cloudy day, and there were flakes of snow in the air. Ellen stood
watching a poor woman at the corner, who was trying to sell
shoe-strings; but nobody stopped to buy of her.
"That poor woman looks sad and discouraged," said Ellen to herself:
"she must be almost as sad as I am. How can I comfort her? Why, by
buying some of her shoestrings, of course."
Ellen had some money of her own put away in a box. She ran and got it,
then, putting on her bonnet, went out and bought a whole bunch of
shoestrings. Then, with her aunt's consent, she asked the poor woman to
come in and get some luncheon.
The poor woman gladly accepted the invitation; and Ellen soon had her
seated by a nice fire in the kitchen, chatting and laughing with the
maids as merrily as if she had no care in the world.
"Have I made you happy?" asked Ellen. "That you have, you darling," said
the poor woman, with a tear in her eye. "And so you have made _me_
happy," replied Ellen. Yes, she had found that Aunt Alice was in the
right. "The best way to cheer yourself is to cheer another."
EMILY CARTER.
[Illustration]
MR. PRIM sat on the bank from twelve o'clock till four:
He caught one fish--he caught a cold--and then--caught nothing more.
KITTY AND THE BEE.
[Illustration]
THERE were no mice for kitty, and what could she do? She could not sit
still. She saw the little soft white chickens running about in the
grass, and she thought she would try to catch one.
So she crouched down, and, without making a bit of noise, was getting
ready for a spring.
[Illustration]
But the chickens had a dear mother who loved them. When she saw kitty
creeping along, she knew that they were in danger: so she flew at kitty,
and made a dreadful noise that scared her away.
[Illustration]
Then kitty saw a great butterfly flying along in the air. By and by it
flew down upon a flower. Kitty sprang and caught it in her mouth.
[Illustration]
Then she saw a pretty bird on a bush, singing as hard as he could sing.
Kitty crept along under the bush, like a sly little rogue. But the bird
saw her coming, and flew away.
[Illustration]
One day a bee was coming home with honey. Kitty saw the bee, and caught
it in her mouth. I think she will not try to catch any more bees. Can
you guess why?
W. O. C.
MINDING BABY.
NURSE.
ROCK the cradle
Just a minute;
Rock it gently,
Baby's in it.
If he's sleeping,
Do not wake him;
If he rouses,
Nurse will take him.
Sing him now
Some little ditty,
Sweet and bird-like,
Low and pretty.
He will hear it
In his slumbers,
And will feel
Its soothing numbers.
Sound and sounder
He'll be sleeping
In the angels'
Holy keeping;
For they always,
Darling Carrie,
Near to infants
Watch and tarry.
CARRIE.
Baby, baby,
Stop your play now,
And to sleep-land
Go away now.
As the bee's rocked
In the lily,
I will rock you,
Little Willy.
As the May-bough
Rocks the nest-bird,
I will rock you,
Mother's best bird.
Boys, at play there,
Hush your clatter!
Don't wake baby
With your chatter!
In the garden
Do not play now:
Go and frolic
On the hay-mow.
I am minding
Baby-brother;
For, you see, I'm
Little mother.
GEORGE BENNET.
[Illustration: MINDING BABY.]
[Illustration]
LITTLE MISCHIEF.
VIII.
BESSIE went into the parlor one day, and noticed that the clock did not
tick. "I must wind it up," thought she. "It must be very easy, for you
only have to turn the key round and round."
So Bessie began to turn the key. At first it would not move; but then
she tried it the other way, and it went round and round quite easily.
She was determined to do it thoroughly while she was about it: so she
went on winding and winding, and was charmed to hear it begin to tick.
But all at once it made a noise,--burr-r-r-r,--and then it stopped
ticking.
[Illustration]
IX.
The hands, too, that had been going so fast, stood still. What could be
the reason of it? Had it really stopped? Bessie put her ear quite near,
and listened. Yes, there was not a sound.
She began to feel frightened, and to think that perhaps, after all, she
had better have left it alone. Her mother came into the room and said,
"What are you doing, Bessie? You must have broken the mainspring of the
clock."
"I saw it was not going, mamma, and so I wound it up," sobbed out
Bessie: "I did not mean to break it." That was all she could say.
[Illustration]
DEEDS, NOT WORDS.
BENNY says he'll be a soldier:
He will march to fife and drum,
With a musket on his shoulder;
Never stouter heart nor bolder,
Where the shots the thickest come.
(Yet I've seen the speckled hen
Put to rout brave Captain Ben!)
Willie longs to be sailor:
He will cross the farthest seas;
'Mid the terror and commotion
Of the dark, tempestuous ocean,
He will pace his deck at ease.
(_Storms_ are _certain_ when we scrub
Willie in his bathing-tub.)
Nellie hears with awe and wonder
Of the perils they will seek;
Weeps at thought of cruel slaughter;
Prays for seamen on the water;
Blushes for her courage weak:
(Yet the best thing, Nellie dear,
Is to _do_ the duty near.)
A. D. W.
HOW THE WIND FILLS THE SAILS.
"WHAT makes the vessel move on the river?" asked little Anna one day of
her brother Harry.
"Why," said Harry, "it's the wind, of course, that fills the sails, and
that pushes the vessel on. Come out on the bank, and I will show you how
it is done."
So Anna, Harry, and Bravo, all ran out on the lawn. Bravo was a dog; but
he was always curious to see what was going on.
When they were on the lawn, Harry took out his handkerchief, and told
Anna to hold it by two of the corners while he held the other two.
As soon as they had done this, the wind made it swell out, and look just
like a sail.
"Now you see how the wind fills the sails," said Harry.
[Illustration]
"Yes; but how does it make the ship go?" asked Anna.
"Well, now let go of the handkerchief, and see what becomes of it," said
Harry.
So they both let go of it; and off the wind bore it up among the bushes
by the side of the house.
In order to explain the matter still further to his sister, Harry made a
little flat boat out of a shingle, and put in it a mast, and on the mast
a paper sail.
Then they went down to the river and launched it; and, much to Anna's
delight, the wind bore it far out towards the middle of the stream.
Bravo swam out, took it in his mouth, and brought it back; and Anna was
at last quite satisfied that she knew how it is that the wind makes the
vessel go on the river.
DORA BURNSIDE.
[Illustration]
MOLLY TO HER DOLLY.
WELL, dolly, here I am again,
Just home from school, you see:
Let's come down to our cubby-house
Beneath the willow-tree.
There, dolly, now we're snug and safe,
Away from horrid boys;
Oh! don't we hate their teasing tricks,
Their rudeness and their noise!
Come, let me press your little cheek,
So rosy and so cool;
And I will tell you all about
The times I had at school.
I said my tables pretty well,
But missed on five times seven:
In spelling I went to the head
(The word, dear, was e-lev-en).
At recess, Nelly Fay and I
A splendid "teter" made:
O dolly! we went up so high,
_You_ would have been afraid.
And Nelly promised she would come
And spend this afternoon:
So, dolly, I must change your dress,
For she will be here soon.
She'll bring with her her stylish doll,
(Miss Maud May Rosalie)
Who wears real ear-rings and a watch
(As vain as she can be)!
Ah, dolly! by her Paris dress
Yours will look plain, I fear;
But you have twice as sweet a face,
My _ownty_ darling dear!
[Illustration]
IDA'S MOUSE.
ONE morning when Ida went to the closet for the birdseed to feed her
canary, she found a wee brown mouse in the bottom of the bottle where
the seed was kept. Instead of screaming and running away, Ida clapped
her fat little hand over the mouth of the bottle, and mousie was a
prisoner.
[Illustration]
Mamma said mousie should be drowned; but Ida begged so hard to keep him,
that mamma got a glass jar, put mousie into it, with a bit of bread and
cheese to keep him company, tied a piece of tin, all pricked with
little holes, over the mouth of the jar, and set it on the shelf.
Ida spent half the day in watching the mouse.
[Illustration]
When papa came home at night, he brought a funny little tin house for
mousie's cage. Mousie was put into it; and he soon began to make the
wire-wheel go round. He turned the wheel so fast and so long, that he
soon made his nose sore. Ida thought he was very tame; but I think he
only wanted to get out and run away.
[Illustration]
One day mousie managed to get his door open and scamper off. Then Ida
cried and cried, and was afraid her dear mousie would starve. But after
a day or two, as grandma was going up stairs, she saw little mousie
hopping up ahead of her.
He ran into Ida's closet. Ida brought the cage; and mamma and grandma
made mousie run into it.
"Perhaps it is not the same mouse," said grandma.
[Illustration]
"Oh, yes, it is!" said Ida. "I know him by his sore nose."
Ida took good care of mousie till warm weather came, and it was time to
go into the country for the summer. Then she took the cage outside the
back-gate, and opened mousie's door. Mousie was very quiet at first; but
soon he peeped out, and, seeing nothing to hinder, he ran away as fast
as his little legs could carry him.
I am glad that he was set free; for I do not think he was happy in the
cage. I hope he will keep away from traps and cats, and live to a good
old age.
AUNTIE MAY.
[Illustration]
ALMOST LOST.
SOON after school had commenced, it began snowing so, that the mistress
dismissed all the scholars, and they started for their homes.
Among the girls were two little sisters, Julia and Emily Burns, who
lived a mile and a half from the schoolhouse, and had to cross a wide
field, and pass through a wood, before they could reach the well-known
road that led up to their own house.
They had an umbrella with them; and Julia, the elder sister, had a
leather bag on her arm, containing their luncheon. Soon the snow began
to fall with blinding force: the wind blew, and they could not see their
way.
They were by this time near the entrance to the wood. Emily began to cry
with alarm; but Julia said, "Do not be afraid. See! there is the little
old shanty where the wood-choppers used to go in winter to eat their
dinners. We will go in there, and stop till somebody comes for us."
So they went in; and, as good luck would have it, Julia found some
matches in an old box on the shelf. There were plenty of pine-chips,
too, lying in the corner of the one room, which was all that the shanty
afforded.
Soon Julia had a merry fire blazing on the hearth; then Emily began to
laugh. They sat down on a log, and warmed themselves; and Julia drew
forth their luncheon from the leather bag, and they ate a hearty meal.
What do you suppose the sisters did after that? Why, they began to sing
songs, and tell stories, and repeat riddles; and they were in the midst
of this, when they heard the sound of voices.
"Oh, dear! what's that?" cried Emily.
"It sounds very much like papa's voice," said Julia; "and that bow-wow
sounds like the voice of old Tiger. Yes, here they come."
And the next moment the children's father, with two big boys, sons of
one of their neighbors, burst into the room; and papa exclaimed, "Why,
you little rogues, how I have worried about you! And here you are as
comfortable as a mouse in a meal-bag!"
Then old Tiger began to frisk round them, and to jump up as if to kiss
them. "Down, old fellow!" said Mr. Burns: "you told us where they were;
didn't you, old Tiger?"
Tiger barked loudly, as much as to say, "Yes, I told you where they
were; and I think I am the smartest dog that ever lived. Bow-wow! Of all
the dogs ever told about in 'The Nursery,' I am the wisest, the bravest,
the handsomest, and the best. Bow-wow!"
MARY ELMORE.
[Illustration]
LITTLE MAY.
THERE were pigs and chickens and cows and a good old gray pony on the
farm where little May lived.
May loved them all; and they all seemed to love her.
The cows, as they lay chewing their cud, would let the little girl pat
them as much as she pleased. They never shrank from the touch of her
soft little hands. Sometimes papa would let May stand beside him when he
milked. Then she would be sure to get a good saucer of milk to feed the
kittens with. She was a great friend of all the cats.
She took great delight in feeding the chickens; and she even liked to
throw bits to the pigs. It made her laugh to see piggy, with one foot in
the trough, champing his food with such a relish.
Once she saw her papa scratch piggy's back with an old broom. So, a few
days after, she thought she would try it; but, instead of getting an
_old_ broom, she took a nice new one, and, reaching over the side of the
pen, managed to touch the pig's back with it.
Now, what do you think that ungrateful animal did? He caught the broom
in his mouth, and began to chew it.
Off went May to her mother as fast as her little feet could carry her.
"Mamma, mamma!" said she, "come quick. Oh, dear, dear! piggy is eating
the broom."
To be sure, there was mamma's best carpet-broom all chewed down to a
stub; and the pig was still eating away.
May cried then; but it was so very funny, that mamma only laughed, and
by and by May laughed too. When papa got home, he was told the story,
and it made him laugh.
May was almost ready to cry again; for she felt sorry, and she did not
like to be laughed at. "There's nothing to cry about, darling," said her
papa; "but don't try to scratch the pig's back again until I show you
how to do it."
AUNTY MAY.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
AN IMPORTANT DISCLOSURE.
"I WANT to tell you something, Tommy."
"What is it?"
"The country is going to ruin."
"You don't say so! What's the matter?"
"Rag currency is the matter."
"What's that?"
"I'll explain. You paid for that kettle of milk ten cents. You paid in
rag currency. Did you ever see a silver dime?"
"No, Billy; but my big brother has seen one."
"Well, that is specie. Now, what we want is specie payment."
"How do you know?"
"My father says so."
_Carlo the dog listens attentively, and seems to be absorbed in a
profound reflection upon the currency question._
[Illustration: TIMOTHY TIPPENS.]
T. CRAMPTON
[Illustration: Music]
_Lively_.
VOICE AND PIANO.
1
Timothy Tippens drove a cart
To a market up the town, oh!
He carried a lot of turnip tops,
And sold for half a crown, oh!
His waistcoat was red and so was his head,
But his little coat was brown, oh!
2
Timothy Tippens's horse was blind,
Because he couldn't see, oh!
He'd two legs in front, and two behind;
And that's one more than three, oh!
Though if two be be-four, and behind two more,
It looks very like six to me, oh!
3
Timothy Tippens's horse he died,
And Tim cried, "Gee," and "Woe," oh!
And sold his cart to his neighbor Jack,
Because it wouldn't go, oh!
Without a horse: and you know, of course,
It was likely it should be so, oh!
* * * * *
Transcriber's Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Page 96, the final line of the second verse was not indented in the
original text.
This issue was part of an omnibus. The | 2,676.595599 |
2023-11-16 19:01:40.6362690 | 12 | 8 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Reiner | 2,676.656309 |
2023-11-16 19:01:40.7372370 | 2,425 | 8 |
Transcribed from the 1860 William Tinsley edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
ABOUT LONDON.
* * * * *
BY
J. EWING RITCHIE,
Author of "Night Side of London;" "The London Pulpit;"
"Here and There in London," &c.
* * * * *
* * * * *
"The boiling town keeps secrets ill."--AURORA LEIGH.
* * * * *
* * * * *
LONDON:
WILLIAM TINSLEY, 314, STRAND.
1860.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The author of the following pages, must plead as his apology for again
trespassing on the good nature of the public, the success of his other
books. He is aware that, owing to unavoidable circumstances, the volume
here and there bears marks of haste, but he trusts that on the whole it
may be considered reliable, and not altogether unworthy of the public
favour.
* * * * *
FINCHLEY,
_June_ 16_th_, 1860.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. PAGE.
NEWSPAPER PEOPLE 1
CHAPTER II.
SPIRITUALISM 12
CHAPTER III.
ABOUT COAL 23
CHAPTER IV.
HIGHGATE 44
CHAPTER V.
TOM TIDDLER'S GROUND 60
CHAPTER VI.
WESTMINSTER ABBEY 68
CHAPTER VII.
LONDON CHARITIES 76
CHAPTER VIII.
PEDESTRIANISM 84
CHAPTER IX.
OVER LONDON BRIDGE 92
CHAPTER X.
THE HOUSE OF COMMONS AND THE EARLY-CLOSING MOVEMENT 101
CHAPTER XI.
TOWN MORALS 110
CHAPTER XI.
THE SAME SUBJECT CONTINUED 121
CHAPTER XII.
LONDON MATRIMONIAL 131
CHAPTER XIII.
BREACH OF PROMISE CASES 141
CHAPTER XIV.
COMMERCIAL LONDON 149
CHAPTER XV.
LONDON GENTS 158
CHAPTER XVI.
THE LONDON VOLUNTEERS 165
CHAPTER XVII.
CRIMINAL LONDON 174
CHAPTER XVIII.
CONCERNING CABS 185
CHAPTER XIX.
FREE DRINKING FOUNTAINS 193
CHAPTER XX.
CONCLUSION 203
CHAPTER I.
NEWSPAPER PEOPLE.
What would the Englishman do without his newspaper I cannot imagine. The
sun might just as well refuse to shine, as the press refuse to turn out
its myriads of newspapers. Conversation would cease at once. Brown,
with his morning paper in his hand, has very decided opinions
indeed,--can tell you what the French Emperor is about,--what the Pope
will be compelled to do,--what is the aim of Sardinia,--and what is
Austria's little game. I dined at Jenkins's yesterday, and for three
hours over the wine I was compelled to listen to what I had read in that
morning's _Times_. The worst of it was, that when I joined the ladies I
was no better off, as the dear creatures were full of the particulars of
the grand Rifle Ball. When I travel by the rail, I am gratified with
details of divorce cases--of terrible accidents--of dreadful
shipwrecks--of atrocious murders--of ingenious swindling, all brought to
light by means of the press. What people could have found to talk about
before the invention of newspapers, is beyond my limited comprehension.
They must have been a dull set in those dark days; I suppose the farmers
and country gentlemen talked of bullocks, and tradespeople about trade;
the ladies about fashions, and cookery, and the plague of bad servants.
We are wonderfully smarter now, and shine, though it be with a borrowed
light.
A daily newspaper is, to a man of my way of thinking, one of the most
wonderful phenomena of these latter days. It is a crown of glory to our
land. It is true, in some quarters, a contrary opinion is held. "The
press," Mr. David Urquhart very seriously tells us, "is an invention for
the development of original sin." In the opinion of that amiable cynic,
the late Mr. Henry Drummond, a newspaper is but a medium for the
circulation of gossip; but, in spite of individuals, the general fact
remains that the press is not merely a wonderful organization, but an
enormous power in any land--in ours most of all, where public opinion
rules more or less directly. Our army in the Crimea was saved by the
_Times_. When the _Times_ turned, free-trade was carried. The _Times_
not long since made a panic, and securities became in some cases utterly
unsaleable, and some seventy stockbrokers were ruined. The _Times_ says
we don't want a Reform Bill, and Lord John can scarce drag his measure
through the Commons. But it is not of the power, but of the organization
of the press I would speak. According to geologists, ages passed away
before this earth of ours became fit for human habitation; volcanic
agencies were previously to be in action--plants and animals, that exist
not now, were to be born, and live, and die--tropical climates were to
become temperate, and oceans, solid land. In a similar way, the
newspaper is the result of agencies and antecedents almost equally
wondrous and remote. For ages have science, and nature, and man been
preparing its way. Society had to become intellectual--letters had to be
invented--types had to be formed--paper had to be substituted for
papyrus--the printing-press had to become wedded to steam--the
electric-telegraph had to be discovered, and the problem of liberty had
to be solved, in a manner more or less satisfactory, before a newspaper,
as we understand the word, could be; and that we have the fruit of all
this laid on our breakfast-table every morning, for at the most
five-pence, and at the least one-penny, is wonderful indeed. But,
instead of dwelling on manifest truisms, let us think awhile of a
newspaper-office, and those who do business there. Externally, there is
nothing remarkable in a newspaper-office. You pass by at night, and see
many windows lighted with gas, that is all. By daylight there is nothing
to attract curiosity, indeed, in the early part of the day, there is
little going on at a newspaper-office. When you and I are hard at work,
newspaper people are enjoying their night; when you and I are asleep,
they are hard at work for us. They have a hot-house appearance, and are
rarely octogenarians. The conscientious editor of a daily newspaper can
never be free from anxiety. He has enough to do to keep all to their
post; he must see that the leader-writers are all up to the mark--that
the reporters do their duty--that the literary critic, and the theatrical
critic, and the musical critic, and the city correspondent, and the
special reporter, and the host of nameless contributors, do not
disappoint or deceive the public, and that every day the daily sheet
shall have something in it to excite, or inform, or improve. But while
you and I are standing outside, the editor, in some remote suburb, is, it
may be, dreaming of pleasanter things than politics and papers. One man,
however, is on the premises, and that is the manager. He represents the
proprietors, and is, in his sphere, as great a man as the editor. It is
well to be deferential to the manager. He is a wonder in his
way,--literary man, yet man of business. He must know everybody, be able
at a moment's notice to pick the right man out, and send him, it may be,
to the Antipodes. Of all events that are to come off in the course of
the year, unexpected or the reverse, he must have a clear and distinct
perception, that he may have eye-witnesses there for the benefit of the
British public. He, too, must contrive, so that out-goings shall not
exceed receipts, and that the paper pays. He must be active, wide-awake,
possessed of considerable tact, and if, when an Irish gentleman, with a
big stick, calls and asks to see the editor or manager, he knows how to
knock a man down, so much the better. Of course, managers are not
required for the smaller weeklies. In some of the offices there is very
little subdivision of labour. The editor writes the leaders and reviews,
and the sub-editor does the paste-and-scissors work. But let us return
to the daily paper;--outside of the office of which we have been so rude
as to leave the reader standing all this while.
At present there is no sign of life. It is true, already the postman has
delivered innumerable letters from all quarters of the globe--that the
electric telegraph has sent its messages--that the railways have brought
their despatches--that the publishers have furnished books of all sorts
and sizes for review--and that tickets from all the London exhibitions
are soliciting a friendly notice. There let them lie unheeded, till the
coming man appears. Even the publisher, who was here at five o'clock in
the morning, has gone home: only a few clerks, connected with the
financial department of the paper, or to receive advertisements, are on
the spot. We may suppose that somewhere between one and two the first
editorial visit will be paid, and that then this chaos is reduced to
order; and that the ideas, which are to be represented in the paper of
to-morrow, are discussed, and the daily organs received, and gossip of
all sorts from the clubs--from the house--from the city--collected and
condensed; a little later perhaps assistants arrive--one to cull all the
sweets from the provincial journals--another to look over the files of
foreign papers--another it may be to translate important documents. The
great machine is now getting steadily at work. Up in the composing-room
are printers already fingering their types.
In the law-courts, a briefless barrister is taking notes--in the
police-courts, reporters are at work, and far away in the city, "our city
correspondent" is collecting the commercial news of the hour--and in all
parts of London penny-a-liners, like eagles scenting carrion, are
ferreting out for the particulars of the last "extraordinary elopement | 2,676.757277 |
2023-11-16 19:01:40.9424020 | 1,373 | 18 | OR THE EAST SUFFOLK, REGIMENT OF FOOT, CONTAINING AN ACCOUNT OF THE
FORMATION OF THE REGIMENT IN 1685, AND OF ITS SUBSEQUENT SERVICES TO
1847***
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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: SEPT^R). Multiple superscripted characters are
enclosed by curly brackets (example: 13^{TH}).
More detail can be found at the end of the book.
HISTORICAL RECORD
OF
THE TWELFTH, OR THE EAST SUFFOLK,
REGIMENT OF FOOT,
CONTAINING
AN ACCOUNT OF THE FORMATION OF THE
REGIMENT IN 1685,
AND OF ITS SUBSEQUENT SERVICES
TO 1847.
Compiled by
RICHARD CANNON, ESQ.
Adjutant-General's Office, Horse Guards.
Illustrated with Plates.
London:
Parker, Furnivall & Parker,
30 Charing Cross.
M DCCC XLVIII.
London: Printed by W. Clowes & Sons, Stamford Street,
for Her Majesty's Stationery Office.
GENERAL ORDERS.
_HORSE-GUARDS_,
_1st January, 1836_.
His Majesty has been pleased to command that, with a view of doing
the fullest justice to Regiments, as well as to Individuals who
have distinguished themselves by their Bravery in Action with the
Enemy, an Account of the Services of every Regiment in the British
Army shall be published under the superintendence and direction
of the Adjutant-General; and that this Account shall contain the
following particulars, viz.:--
---- The Period and Circumstances of the Original Formation of
the Regiment; The Stations at which it has been from time to time
employed; The Battles, Sieges, and other Military Operations
in which it has been engaged, particularly specifying any
Achievement it may have performed, and the Colours, Trophies,
&c., it may have captured from the Enemy.
---- The Names of the Officers and the number of Non-Commissioned
Officers and Privates Killed or Wounded by the Enemy, specifying
the Place and Date of the Action.
---- The Names of those Officers who, in consideration of their
Gallant Services and Meritorious Conduct in Engagements with the
Enemy, have been distinguished with Titles, Medals, or other
Marks of His Majesty's gracious favour.
---- The Names of all such Officers, Non-Commissioned Officers,
and Privates, as may have specially signalized themselves in
Action.
And,
---- The Badges and Devices which the Regiment may have been
permitted to bear, and the Causes on account of which such Badges
or Devices, or any other Marks of Distinction, have been granted.
By Command of the Right Honourable
GENERAL LORD HILL,
_Commanding-in-Chief_.
JOHN MACDONALD,
_Adjutant-General_.
PREFACE.
The character and credit of the British Army must chiefly depend
upon the zeal and ardour by which all who enter into its service
are animated, and consequently it is of the highest importance that
any measure calculated to excite the spirit of emulation, by which
alone great and gallant actions are achieved, should be adopted.
Nothing can more fully tend to the accomplishment of this desirable
object than a full display of the noble deeds with which the
Military History of our country abounds. To hold forth these bright
examples to the imitation of the youthful soldier, and thus to
incite him to emulate the meritorious conduct of those who have
preceded him in their honourable career, are among the motives that
have given rise to the present publication.
The operations of the British Troops are, indeed, announced in the
"London Gazette," from whence they are transferred into the public
prints: the achievements of our armies are thus made known at the
time of their occurrence, and receive the tribute of praise and
admiration to which they are entitled. On extraordinary occasions,
the Houses of Parliament have been in the habit of conferring on
the Commanders, and the Officers and Troops acting under their
orders, expressions of approbation and of thanks for their skill
and bravery; and these testimonials, confirmed by the high honour
of their Sovereign's approbation, constitute the reward which the
soldier most highly prizes.
It has not, however, until late years, been the practice (which
appears to have long prevailed in some of the Continental armies)
for British Regiments to keep regular records of their services
and achievements. Hence some difficulty has been experienced in
obtaining, particularly from the old Regiments, an authentic
account of their origin and subsequent services.
This defect will now be remedied, in consequence of His Majesty
having been pleased to command that every Regiment shall, in
future, keep a full and ample record of its services at home and
abroad.
From the materials thus collected, the country will henceforth
derive information as to the difficulties and privations which
chequer the career of those who embrace the military profession. In
Great Britain, where so large a number of persons are devoted to
the active concerns of agriculture, manufactures, and commerce, and
where these pursuits have, for so long a period, been undisturbed
by the _presence of war_, which few other countries have escaped,
comparatively little is known of the vicissitudes of active
service, and of the casualties of climate, to | 2,676.962442 |
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Produced by Keith Edkins and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
A caret character is used to denote superscription: a bracketed group
following the caret is superscripted (example: ^{16 88} - these are page
number references in the original). Page numbers enclosed by curly braces
(example: {25}) have been incorporated to facilitate the use of these
references and the Index.
* * * * *
THE NEW YORK OBELISK
Cleopatra's Needle
_WITH A PRELIMINARY SKETCH OF THE HISTORY
ERECTION, USES, AND SIGNIFICATION
OF OBELISKS_
BY
CHARLES E. MOLDENKE, A.M., PH.D.
NEW YORK
ANSON D. F. RANDOLPH AND CO.
38 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET
1891
_Copyright_, 1891,
BY CHARLES E. MOLDENKE.
University Press:
PRESSWORK BY
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
{iii}TABLE OF CONTENTS.
Chapter I. Obelisks--where found, and when, and by whom
erected. 1-11
§1. The present site of obelisks. 1-5.
§2. By whom obelisks were erected. 5-7.
§3. By whom obelisks were ransported. 7-8.
§4. List of obelisks. 8-11.
I. Erect Obelisks. 9-10. II. Prostrate Obelisks. 10-11.
Chapter II. The quarrying, transporting, and raising of obelisks. 12-17
§1. How obelisks were quarried. 12-15.
§2. How obelisks were transported. 15-17.
§3. How obelisks were raised. 17.
Chapter III. The form, name, dimensions, invention, material,
and use of obelisks. 18-25
§1. The form of the obelisk and the pyramidion. 18-21.
§2. The derivation of the name "obelisk". 21-22.
§3. The dimensions of obelisks. 22-23.
§4. The material of obelisks. 23-24.
§5. The invention of obelisks and the use they were put to.
24-25.
Chapter IV. The signification of the obelisk and the worship
of the sun. 26-34
Chapter V. The history of the New York Obelisk, and its removal
from Alexandria. 35-45
§1. History of the New York Obelisk. 35-40.
§2. The removal of the obelisk to New York City. 40-45.
Chapter VI. The inscriptions of the New York Obelisk. 46-78
I. Inscriptions of Thothmes III. 46-61.
The Pyramidion. 46-55. The Obelisk Proper. 56-61.
II. Inscriptions of Ramses II. 62-71. {iv}
Vertical columns. 62-70. The base. 71.
III. Inscriptions of Osarkon I. 71-72.
IV. Inscriptions of Augustus. 72-74.
The full translation of the obelisk. 74-78.
Chapter VII. Notes on the translation and the crabs. 79-83
§1. Arabic and other translations of the New York Obelisk.
79-81.
§2. The crabs of the obelisk and the inscriptions on them.
81-83.
Chapter VIII. Egypt: its geographical divisions and its cities. 84-92
Upper Egypt. 84-90.
Lower Egypt. 90-92.
A Glossary of names and terms occurring in this book and
pertaining to Egyptological subjects. 93-154
List of the Egyptian dynasties. 108-111.
The Coptic alphabet. 113.
The Demotic alphabet. 116.
The Hieratic alphabet. 124.
A Glossary of hieroglyphs occurring in this book, together
with their pronunciation and determinative value. 155-173
A Glossary of the Egyptian words occurring on the New York
Obelisk. 174-190
Index of Proper Names. 191-202
{v}EXPLANATION OF THE VIGNETTES AT THE HEAD OF THE CHAPTERS.
CHAPTER I. (Page 1.) The goddess of victory in the form of a vulture
holding a flabellum or fan of feathers and a signet-ring in each claw.
CHAPTER II. (Page 12.) The goddess Nekheb, the tutelary deity of kings,
represented as a vulture carrying the Atef-crown on its head and holding
a flabellum or fan of feathers and a signet-ring in each claw.
CHAPTER III. (Page 18.) The winged Uræus-snake or cobra, the tutelary
goddess of Upper and Lower Egypt.
CHAPTER IV. (Page 26.) The symbol of the god Horus of Edfu, represented
as the winged disk of the sun encircled by two Uræus-snakes or cobras.
CHAPTER V. (Page 35.) Ancient Alexandria reconstructed.
{vii}PREFATORY.
The oldest nation on the globe sends her greeting to her youngest sister.
The "Setting Sun" has shed its last rays on the Old World from Egypt's
sunny land and now appears on this western shore as a brilliant "Rising
Sun". In the metropolis of the Western Hemisphere one of Egypt's grandest
treasures meets our eyes and, though silent, reminds us of her former
greatness. Here stands a monument of two of her greatest Pharaohs, lords
and conquerors, scourges | 2,677.057948 |
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Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: Frontispiece]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Frontispiece by
Walter King Stone
THE LOG OF THE SUN
A Chronicle of Nature's Year
By WILLIAM BEEBE
Garden City Publishing Co., Inc.
Garden City, New York
------------------------------------------------------------------------
COPYRIGHT, 1906,
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
PRINTED IN THE
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO MY
Mother and Father
WHOSE ENCOURAGEMENT AND SYMPATHY
GAVE IMPETUS AND PURPOSE TO
A BOY'S LOVE OF NATURE
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE
In the fifty-two short essays of this volume I have presented familiar
objects from unusual points of view. Bird's-eye glances and insect's-eye
glances, at the nature of our woods and fields, will reveal beauties which
are wholly invisible from the usual human view-point, five feet or more
above the ground.
Who follows the lines must expect to find moods as varying as the seasons;
to face storm and night and cold, and all other delights of what wildness
still remains to us upon the earth.
Emphasis has been laid upon the weak points in our knowledge of things
about us, and the principal desire of the author is to inspire enthusiasm
in those whose eyes are just opening to the wild beauties of God's
out-of-doors, to gather up and follow to the end some of these frayed-out
threads of mystery.
Portions of the text have been published at various times in the pages of
"Outing," "Recreation," "The Golden Age," "The New York Evening Post," and
"The New York Tribune."
C. W. B.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
JANUARY
Birds of the Snow 3
Winter Marvels 10
Cedar Birds and Berries 16
The Dark Days of Insect Life 20
Chameleons in Fur and Feather 25
FEBRUARY
February Feathers 31
Fish Life 37
Tenants of Winter Birds' Nests 44
Winter Holes 48
MARCH
Feathered Pioneers 55
The Ways of Meadow Mice 61
Problems of Bird Life 65
Dwellers in the Dust 71
APRIL
Spring Songsters 75
The Simple Art of Sapsucking 81
Wild Wings 85
The Birds in the Moon 88
MAY
The High Tide of Bird Life 91
Animal Fashions 97
Polliwog Problems 102
Insect Pirates And Submarines 105
The Victory Of The Nighthawk 109
JUNE
The Gala Days Of Birds 113
Turtle Traits 118
A Half-Hour In A Marsh 124
Secrets Of The Ocean 129
JULY
Birds In A City 153
Night Music Of The Swamp 160
The Coming Of Man 167
The Silent Language Of Animals 170
Insect Music 176
AUGUST
The Gray Days Of Birds 181
Lives Of The Lantern Bearers 188
A Starfish And A Daisy 191
The Dream Of The Yellow-Throat 195
SEPTEMBER
The Passing Of The Flocks 199
Ghosts Of The Earth 204
Muskrats 207
Nature's Geometricians 210
OCTOBER
Autumn Hunting With A Field Glass 217
A Woodchuck And A Grebe 223
The Voice of Animals 227
The Names Of Animals, Frogs, and Fish 234
The Dying Year 246
NOVEMBER
November's Birds of the Heavens 249
A Plea for the Skunk 255
The Lesson Of The Wave 258
We Go A-Sponging 262
DECEMBER
New Thoughts About Nests 269
Lessons From An English Sparrow 275
The Personality Of Trees 281
An Owl Of The North 297
------------------------------------------------------------------------
A fiery mist and a planet,
A crystal and a cell;
A jelly fish and a saurian,
And the caves where the cave men dwell;
Then a sense of law and beauty
And a face turned from the clod,
Some call it evolution,
And others call it God.
W. H. Carruth.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
JANUARY
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BIRDS OF THE SNOW
No fact of natural history is more interesting, or more significant of the
poetry of evolution, than the distribution of birds over the entire
surface of the world. They have overcome countless obstacles, and adapted
themselves to all conditions. The last faltering glance which the Arctic
explorer sends toward his coveted goal, ere he admits defeat, shows flocks
of snow buntings active with warm life; the storm-tossed mariner in the
midst of the sea, is followed, encircled, by the steady, tireless flight
of the albatross; the fever-stricken wanderer in tropical jungles listens
to the sweet notes of birds amid the stagnant pools; while the thirsty
trav | 2,677.369502 |
2023-11-16 19:01:41.4361160 | 7,435 | 14 |
Produced by Gary Rees, Linda Cantoni, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
[Transcriber's Note: Obvious printer errors have been corrected
without note; obsolete and inconsistent spelling, punctuation,
hyphenation, and capitalization have been preserved as they appear
in the original. Errors that appear in the original Errata list
are noted as [Errata: text]. Less obvious errors are marked with a
[Transcriber's Note].
This e-book was created from a presentation copy from the printers
to John Adams, now in the John Adams Library at the Boston Public
Library, and available in digitized form at the Internet Archive,
https://archive.org/details/novanglusmassach00adam.]
NOVANGLUS,
AND
MASSACHUSETTENSIS;
OR
POLITICAL ESSAYS,
PUBLISHED
IN THE YEARS 1774 AND 1775,
ON THE PRINCIPAL POINTS OF CONTROVERSY, BETWEEN GREAT BRITAIN AND HER
COLONIES.
THE FORMER BY
JOHN ADAMS,
LATE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES;
THE LATTER BY
JONATHAN SEWALL,
THEN KING'S ATTORNEY GENERAL OF THE PROVINCE OF MASSACHUSETTS BAY.
_TO WHICH ARE ADDED_
A NUMBER OF LETTERS, LATELY WRITTEN BY
PRESIDENT ADAMS,
TO
THE HONOURABLE WILLIAM TUDOR;
SOME OF WHICH WERE NEVER BEFORE PUBLISHED.
BOSTON:
PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY HEWS & GOSS,
1819.
DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS, TO WIT,
_District Clerk's Office._
BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the thirtieth day of March, A. D. 1819,
and of the Forty-fourth Year of the Independence of the United
States of America, HEWS & GOSS, of the said District, have deposited
in this Office, the title of a Book, the Right whereof they claim
as Proprietors, in the words following, to wit:--"Novanglus and
Massachusettensis; or Political Essays, published in the years 1774
and 1775, on the principal points of controversy, between Great
Britain and her colonies. The former by John Adams, late President
of the United States; the latter by Jonathan Sewall, then king's
Attorney General of the Province of Massachusetts Bay. To which are
added a number of letters, lately written by President Adams, to the
Hon. William Tudor; some of which were never before published."
In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States,
entitled "An Act for the Encouragement of Learning, by securing the
Copies of Maps, Charts and Books, to the Authors and Proprietors of
such Copies, during the times therein mentioned;" and also to an Act,
entitled "An Act, supplementary to an Act, entitled, An Act for the
Encouragement of Learning, by securing the Copies of Maps, Charts
and Books, to the Authors and Proprietors of such Copies, during the
times therein mentioned; and extending the benefits thereof to the
Arts of Designing, Engraving and Etching Historical and other Prints."
JOHN W. DAVIS, Clerk of the District of Massachusetts.
TO THE PUBLIC.
For the last twenty years, our political opinions have partaken
so much of feeling, in the contest between the two great European
rivals, that the happiness, the interests, and even the character
of America seem to have been almost forgotten. But the spirit of
party has now most happily so far subsided, that a disposition to
look into, and examine the history of our own dear country, and its
concerns, very generally prevails. Perhaps there is no part of that
history, that is more interesting, than the controversy between Great
Britain and her colonies, which produced the war of the revolution,
and their final separation.
It is important, that the rising generation should be well acquainted
with the principles and justice of that cause, which eventuated in
our Independence, and to which we are indebted for our present envied
state of prosperity and happiness.
The principles of that controversy were ably discussed by various
writers, both in England and America; but it has been supposed,
that the sentiments and conduct of each party were more elaborately
displayed, in certain essays published in Boston, a short time
previous to the commencement of hostilities, over the signatures of
_Novanglus_ and _Massachusettensis_, than in any other productions
whatever.
The former were written by JOHN ADAMS, then a distinguished
citizen of Boston, one of the noblest assertors of the rights and
privileges of the colonies, and who has since been elected to the
most important and honourable offices in the gift of the nation.
The latter were written by JONATHAN SEWALL, then king's
Attorney General of the province of Massachusetts; a gentleman of
education and talents--the champion--and possessing the confidence of
what were then called the government party.
By an attentive perusal of these essays, a correct judgment may be
formed of all the principal and leading points of the controversy,
between the colonies and the mother country.
Confiding in the correctness of these sentiments, and the patronage
of an enlightened public, we have re-published the above mentioned
essays; to which are added, all those interesting letters, written
by President ADAMS, and addressed to the Hon. WILLIAM TUDOR, lately
printed in the Boston Daily Advertiser, together with others never
before published.
The venerable and patriotic author of _Novanglus_, now lives to
behold and enjoy the blessed fruits of his labours, and that of his
compatriots, and possesses, in the highest degree, the intellect of
his most intellectual days.
In offering this volume to the public, we please ourselves with
the hope, that it will be a valuable acquisition to all classes of
citizens, who wish to become acquainted with those principles of
civil liberty, for which our ancestors so nobly, and so successfully
contended. To the gentlemen of the bar, to legislators, and to
politicians generally, we conceive it will be an inestimable treasure.
We are forcibly impressed with the wonderful effect the essays
of Novanglus must have produced, in the times in which they were
published, by convincing the great body of the people, that the
_parliament_ of Great Britain had no right to tax the colonies in
America. But in reflecting on the CONSEQUENCES of that glorious
revolution which these essays greatly tended to produce, the mind
is imperatively drawn to a contemplation of the present political
condition of Europe. Representative governments are gradually
introducing themselves into every part of that country; and we hope
the day is not far distant, when the whole world shall be emancipated
from tyranny. As AMERICANS we feel a _conscious_ pride, that the
resistance which our ancestors made to the arbitrary machinations of
an Hutchinson, a Bute, a Mansfield and a North, will terminate in the
civil and political freedom of ALL MANKIND.
HEWS & GOSS.
BOSTON, JULY 1, 1819.
_ERRATA._
PAGE. LINE.
24 26 from the top, for _procreations_, read _procurations_.
32 14 from the top, for _terms_ read _terrors_.
18 from the bottom, read _more_ after _much_.
44 9 from the top, for _their_ read _these_.
55 20 from the top, for _shewing_ read _knowing_.
69 1 from the bottom, for _articles_ read _artifices_
[Transcriber's Note: original already reads 'artifices'].
100 12 from the top, for _knew_ read _know_, and for _know_ read _knew_.
100 2 from the bottom, for _amity_ read _anxiety_.
120 7 from the bottom [Transcriber's Note: top], _dele-suo_.
120 6 from the bottom, for _compact_ read _conquest_.
240 8 from the bottom, for _expected_ read _respected_.
PREFACE.
Jonathan Sewall was descended from Mitchills and Hulls and
Sewalls, and I believe Higginsons, _i. e._ from several of the
ancient and venerable of New England families. But, as I am no
genealogist, I must refer to my aged classmate and highly esteemed
friend Judge Sewall of York, whose researches will, one day, explain
the whole.
Mr. SEWALL's father was unfortunate; died young, leaving his
son destitute; but as the child had discovered a pregnant genius, he
was educated by the charitable contribution of his friends, of whom
Dr. Samuel Cooper was one of the most active and successful, among
his opulent parishoners. Mr. SEWALL graduated at college
in 1748; kept a Latin school in Salem, till 1756, when Chambers
Russell, of Lincoln, a Judge of the Supreme Court and a Judge of
Admiralty, from a principle of disinterested benevolence, received
him into his family; instructed him in law; furnished him with books
and introduced him to the practise at the bar. In 1757 and 1758,
he attended the Supreme Court in Worcester, and spent his evenings
with me in the office of Colonel James Putnam, a gentleman of great
acuteness of mind, and very extensive and successful in practise, and
an able lawyer; in whose family I boarded and under whose auspices
I studied law. Here commenced between Mr. SEWALL and me,
a personal friendship, which continued, with none but political
interruptions, till his death. He commenced practice in Charlestown,
in the County of Middlesex, I, in that parish of the ancient town of
Braintree, now called Quincy, then in the County of Suffolk, now of
Norfolk. We attended the Courts in Boston, Cambridge, Charlestown,
and Concord; lived together, frequently slept in the same chamber,
and not seldom, in the same bed. Mr. SEWALL was then a patriot;
his sentiments were purely American. To James Otis, who took a
kind notice of us both, we constantly applied for advice in any
difficulty, and he would attend to us, advise us, and look into books
for us, and point out authorities to us, as kindly as if we had been
his pupils or his sons.
After the surrender of Montreal in 1759, rumours were every where
spread that the English would now new model the Colonies, demolish
the charters and reduce all to royal governments. These rumours I had
heard as often as he had. One morning I met him, accidentally, on the
floor of the old Town House. "John" said he, "I want to speak with
you;" he always called me John, and I him Jonathan, and often said to
him, I wish my name were David. He took me to a window seat and said;
"these Englishmen are going to play the devil with us. They will
overturn every thing. We must resist them and that by force. I wish
you would write in the Newspapers, and urge a general attention to
the Militia, to their exercises and discipline, for we must resist in
arms." I answered, "All this I fear is true; but why do you not write
yourself? You are older than I am; have more experience than I have,
are more intimate with the grandees than I am, and you can write ten
times better than I can." There had been a correspondence between
us, by which I knew his refined style as well as he knew my coarse
one. "Why," said Mr. SEWALL, "I would write, but Goffe will
find me out and I shall grieve his righteous soul, and you know
what influence he has in Middlesex." This Goffe had been Attorney
General for twenty years, and commanded the practise in Middlesex and
Worcester and several other Counties. He had power to crush, by his
frown or his nod any young Lawyer in his County. He was afterwards
Judge Trowbridge, but at that time as ardent as any of Hutchinson's
disciples, though he afterwards became alienated from his pursuits
and principles.
In December 1760, or January 1761, Stephen Sewall, Chief Justice
died, deeply lamented, though insolvent. My friend JONATHAN,
his nephew, the son of his brother, who tenderly loved and deeply
revered his uncle, could not bear the thought, that the memory of
the Chief Justice should lie under the imputation of bankruptcy. At
that time bankruptcy was infamous; now it is scarcely disgraceful.
JONATHAN undertook the administration of his uncle's estate.
Finding insolvency inevitable, he drew a petition to the General
Court to grant a sum of money, sufficient, to pay the Chief Justice's
debts. If my friend had known the character of his countrymen, or
the nature of that Assembly, he never would have conceived such a
project; but he did conceive it and applied to James Otis, and his
father, Colonel Otis, to patronize and support it. The Otis's knew
their countrymen better than he did. They received and presented
the petition, but without much hope of success. The petition was
rejected, and my friend SEWALL conceived a suspicion, that
it was not promoted with so much zeal, by the Otis's, as he thought
they might have exerted. He imputed the failure to their coldness;
was much mortified and conceived a violent resentment, which he
expressed with too much freedom and feeling in all companies.
Goffe, Hutchinson and all the courtiers soon heard of it and
instantly fastened their eyes upon SEWALL; courted his society;
sounded his fame; promoted his practise, and soon after made him
Solicitor General by creating a new office, expressly for him. Mr.
SEWALL, had a soft, smooth, insinuating eloquence, which gliding
imperceptibly into the minds of a Jury, gave him as much power over
that tribunal as any lawyer ought ever to possess. He was also
capable of discussing before the court, any intricate question
of law, which gave him, at least, as much influence there as was
consistent with an impartial administration of justice. He was a
gentleman and a scholar; had a fund of wit, humour and satire,
which he used with great discretion at the bar, but poured out
with unbounded profusion in the newspapers. Witness his voluminous
productions in the newspapers, signed _long J._ and _Philanthropos_.
These accomplishments richly qualified him to serve the purposes of
the gentlemen, who courted him into their service.
Mr. SEWALL soon fell in love with Miss Esther Quincy, the
fourth daughter of Edmund Quincy, Esq. an eminent merchant and
magistrate, and a grand daughter of that Edmund Quincy, who was
eighteen years a Judge of the Superior Court, who died of the small
pox in the agency of the province at the Court of St. James's,
and whose monument was erected, at the expense of the Province,
in Bun-hill-fields, London. This young lady, who was celebrated
for her beauty, her vivacity and spirit, lived with her father in
this parish, now called Quincy. Mr. SEWALL's courtship was extended
for several years, and he came up very constantly on Saturdays and
remained here until Mondays; and I was sure to be invited to meet him
on every Sunday evening. During all these years, there was a constant
correspondence between us, and he concealed nothing from me, so that
I knew him by his style whenever he appeared in print.
In 1766, he married the object of his affections, and an excellent
wife he found her. He was soon appointed Attorney General. In 1768,
he was employed by Governor Barnard to offer me the office of
Advocate General, in the Court of Admiralty, which I decidedly and
peremptorily though respectfully refused.
We continued our friendship and confidential intercourse, though
professedly in boxes of politics, as opposite as East and West,
until the year 1774, when we both attended the Superior Court in
Falmouth, Casco-bay, now Portland. I had then been chosen a delegate
to Congress. Mr. SEWALL invited me to take a walk with him, very
early in the morning, on the great hill. In the course of our rambles
he very soon begun to remonstrate against my going to Congress. He
said "that Great Britain was determined on her system; her power was
irresistible and would certainly be destructive to me, and to all
those who should persevere in opposition to her designs." I answered,
"that I knew Great Britain was determined on her system, and that
very determination, determined me on mine; that he knew I had been
constant and uniform in opposition to all her measures; that the die
was now cast; I had passed the Rubicon; swim or sink, live or die,
survive or perish with my country, was my unalterable determination."
The conversation was protracted into length, but this was the
substance of the whole. It terminated in my saying to him, "I see we
must part, and with a bleeding heart I say, I fear forever; but you
may depend upon it, this adieu is the sharpest thorn on which I ever
sat my foot." I never conversed with him again 'till the year 1788.
Mr. SEWALL retired in 1775 to England, where he remained and resided
in Bristol.
On my return from Congress in the month of November 1774, I found
the Massachusetts Gazette teeming with political speculations, and
Massachusettensis shining like the moon among the lesser stars.
I instantly knew him to be my friend SEWALL, and was told he excited
great exultation among the tories and many gloomy apprehensions among
the whigs. I instantly resolved to enter the lists with him, and this
is the history of the following volume.
In 1788, Mr. SEWALL came to London to embark for Halifax. I
enquired for his lodgings and instantly drove to them, laying aside
all etiquette, to make him a visit. I ordered my servant to announce
John Adams, was instantly admitted, and both of us forgetting that we
had ever been enemies, embraced each other as cordially as ever. I
had two hours conversation with him in a most delightful freedom upon
a multitude of subjects. He told me he had lived for the sake of his
two children; he had spared no pains nor expense in their education,
and he was going to Halifax in hope of making some provision for
them. They are now two of the most respectable gentlemen in Canada.
One of them a Chief Justice; the other an Attorney General. Their
father lived but a short time after his return to America; evidently
broken down by his anxieties and probably dying of a broken heart. He
always lamented the conduct of Great Britain towards America. No man
more constantly congratulated me, while we lived together in America,
upon any news, true or false, favorable to a repeal of the obnoxious
Statutes and a redress of our grievances; but the society in which he
lived had convinced him that all resistance was not only useless but
ruinous.
More conscious than ever of the faults in the style and arrangement,
if not in the matter of my part of the following papers, I shall see
them in print with more anxiety than when they were first published.
The principles however are those on which I then conscientiously
acted, and which I now most cordially approve.
To the candour of an indulgent nation, whom I congratulate on their
present prosperity and pleasing prospects, and for whose happiness I
shall offer up my dying supplications to Heaven, I commit the volume
with all its imperfections.
JOHN ADAMS.
_Quincy_, _January_ 1, 1819.
ADDRESSED
_To the Inhabitants of the Colony of Massachusetts Bay_,
January 23, 1775.
MY FRIENDS,
A writer, under the signature of Massachusettensis, has addressed
you, in a series of papers, on the great national subject of the
present quarrel between the British administration and the Colonies.
As I have not in my possession, more than one of his Essays, and that
is in the Gazette of December 26, I will take the liberty, in the
spirit of candor, and decency, to bespeak your attention, upon the
same subject.
There may be occasion, to say very severe things, before I shall have
finished what I propose, in opposition to this writer but there ought
to be no reviling. _Rem ipsam dic, mitte male loqui_, which may be
justly translated, speak out the whole truth boldly, but use no bad
language.
It is not very material to enquire, as others have done, who is the
author of the speculations in question. If he is a disinterested
writer, and has nothing to gain or to lose, to hope or to fear, for
himself more than other individuals of your community; but engages
in this controversy from the purest principles, the noblest motives
of benevolence to men, and of love to his country, he ought to have
no influence with you, further than truth and justice will support
his argument. On the other hand, if he hopes to acquire or preserve
a lucrative employment, to screen himself from the just detestation
of his countrymen, or whatever other sinister inducement he may have,
as far as the truth of facts and the weight of argument, are in his
favor, he ought to be duly regarded.
He tells you "that the temporal salvation of this province depends
upon an entire and speedy change of measures, which must depend upon
a change of sentiments respecting our own conduct and the justice of
the British nation."
The task, of effecting these great changes, this courageous writer,
has undertaken in a course of publications in a newspaper. _Nil
desperandum_ is a good motto, and _Nil admirari_, is another. He is
welcome to the first, and I hope will be willing that I should assume
the last. The public, if they are not mistaken in their conjecture,
have been so long acquainted with this gentleman, and have seen him
so often disappointed, that if they were not habituated to strange
things, they would wonder at his hopes, at this time to accomplish,
the most unpromising project of his whole life. In the character
of Philanthrop, he attempted to reconcile you to Mr. Bernard. But
the only fruit of his labor was, to expose his client to more
general examination, and consequently to more general resentment
and aversion. In the character of Philalethes, he essayed to prove
Mr. Hutchinson a patriot, and his letters not only innocent, but
meritorious. But the more you read and considered, the more you
were convinced of the ambition and avarice, the simulation and
dissimulation, the hypocricy and perfidy of that destroying angel.
This illfated and unsuccessful, though persevering writer, still
hopes to change your sentiments and conduct--by which it is
supposed that he means to convince you that the system of Colony
administration, which has been pursued for these ten or twelve
years past, is a wise, righteous and humane plan; that sir Francis
Bernard and Mr. Hutchinson, with their connections, who have been the
principal instruments of it, are your best friends;--and that those
gentle in this province, and in all the other Colonies, who have been
in opposition to it, are from ignorance, error, or from worse and
baser causes, your worst enemies.
This is certainly an inquiry that is worthy of you; and I promise to
accompany this writer, in his ingenious labours to assist you in it.
And I earnestly intreat you, as the result of all shall be, to change
your sentiments or persevere in them, as the evidence shall appear to
you, upon the most dispassionate and impartial consideration, without
regard to his opinion or mine.
He promises to avoid personal reflections, but to penetrate the
arcana, and expose the wretched policy of the whigs. The cause of
the whigs is not conducted by intrigues at a distant court, but
by constant appeals to a sensible and virtuous people; it depends
intirely on their good will, and cannot be pursued a single step
without their concurrence, to obtain which of all designs, measures,
and means, are constantly published to the collective body. The
whigs therefore can have no arcana; but if they had, I dare say they
were never so left, as to communicate them to this writer; you will
therefore be disappointed if you expect from him any thing which is
true, but what has been as public as records and newspapers could
make it.
I, on my part, may perhaps in a course of papers, penetrate arcana
too. Shew the wicked policy of the tories--trace their plan from its
first rude sketches to its present complete draught. Shew that it
has been much longer in contemplation, than is generally known,--who
were the first in it--their views, motives and secret springs of
action--and the means they have employed. This will necessarily
bring before your eyes many characters, living and dead. From such
a research and detail of facts, it will clearly appear, who were
the aggressors--and who have acted on the defensive from first to
last--who are still struggling, at the expense of their ease,
health, peace, wealth and preferment, against the encroachments of
the tories on their country--and who are determined to continue
struggling, at much greater hazards still, and like the Prince of
Orange, resolve never to see its entire subjection to arbitrary
power, but rather to die fighting against it, in the last ditch.
It is true, as this writer observes, "that the bulk of the people
are generally, but little versed in the affairs of State; that they
left the affairs of government where accident has placed them." If
this had not been true, the designs of the tories had been many years
ago, entirely defeated. It was clearly seen, by a few, more than ten
years since, that they were planning and pursuing the very measures,
we now see executing. The people were informed of it, and warned of
their danger: But they had been accustomed to confide in certain
persons, and could never be persuaded to believe, until prophecy,
became history. Now they see and feel, that the horrible calamities
are come upon them, which were foretold so many years ago, and they
now sufficiently execrate the men who have brought these things upon
them. Now alas! when perhaps it is too late. If they had withdrawn
their confidence from them in season, they would have wholly disarmed
them.
The same game, with the same success, has been played in all ages
and countries as Massachusettensis observes. When a favourable
conjuncture has presented, some of the most intrigueing and powerful
citizens have conceived the design of enslaving their country, and
building their own greatness on its ruins. Philip and Alexander,
are examples of this in Greece--Caesar in Rome--Charles the fifth in
Spain--Lewis the eleventh in France--and ten thousand others.
"There is a latent spark in the breasts of the people capable of
being kindled into a flame, and to do this has always been the
employment of the disaffected." What is this latent spark? The love
of Liberty? _a Deo hominis est indita naturae._ Human nature itself is
evermore an advocate for liberty. There is also in human nature, a
resentment of injury, and indignation against wrong. A love of truth
and a veneration for virtue.
These amiable passions, are the "latent spark" to which those whom
this writer calls the "disaffected" apply. If the people are capable
of understanding, seeing and feeling the difference between true and
false, right and wrong, virtue and vice, to what better principle can
the friends of mankind apply, than to the sense of this difference.
Is it better to apply as this writer and his friends do, to the
basest passions in the human breast to their fear, their vanity,
their avarice, ambition, and every kind of corruption? I appeal to
all experience, and to universal history, if it has ever been in
the power of popular leaders, uninvested with other authority than
what is conferred by the popular suffrage, to persuade a large
people, for any length of time together, to think themselves wronged,
injured, and oppressed, unless they really were, and saw and felt it
to be so.
"They," the popular leaders, "begin by reminding the people of the
elevated rank they hold in the universe as men; that all men by
nature are equal; that kings are but the ministers of the people;
that their authority is delegated to them by the people, for their
good, and they have a right to resume it, and place it in other
hands, or keep it themselves, whenever it is made use of to oppress
them. Doubtless there have been instances, when these principles have
been inculcated to obtain a redress of real grievances, but they have
been much oftener perverted to the worst of purposes."
These are what are called revolution principles. They are the
principles of Aristotle and Plato, of Livy and Cicero, and Sydney,
Harrington and Locke. The principles of nature and eternal reason.
The principles on which the whole government over us, now stands.
It is therefore astonishing, if any thing can be so, that writers,
who call themselves friends of government, should in this age and
country, be so inconsistent with themselves, so indiscreet, so
immodest, as to insinuate a doubt concerning them.
Yet we find that these principles stand in the way of
Massachusettensis, and all the writers of his class. The veteran, in
his letter to the officers of the army, allows them to be noble, and
true, but says the application of them to particular cases is wild
and utopian. How they can be in general true, and not applicable to
particular cases, I cannot comprehend. I thought their being true in
general, was because they were applicable in most particular cases.
Gravity is a principle in nature. Why? because all particular bodies
are found to gravitate. How would it sound to say, that bodies in
general are heavy; yet to apply this to particular bodies and say,
that a guinea, or a ball is heavy, is wild, &c.--"Adopted in private
life," says the honest amiable veteran, "they would introduce
perpetual discord." This I deny, and I think it plain, that there
never was an happy private family where they were not adopted. "In
the State perpetual discord." This I deny, and affirm that order,
concord and stability in this State, never was or can be preserved
without them. "The least failure in the reciprocal duties of worship
and obedience in the matrimonial contract would justify a divorce."
This is no consequence from those principles,--a total departure from
the ends and designs of the contract it is true, as elopement and
adultery, would by these principles justify a divorce, but not the
least failure, or many smaller failures in the reciprocal duties,
&c. "In the political compact, the smallest defect in the Prince a
revolution"--By no means. But a manifest design in the Prince, to
annul the contract on his part, will annul it on the part of the
people. A settled plan to deprive the people of all the benefits,
blessings and ends of the contract, to subvert the fundamentals
of the constitution, to deprive them of all share in making and
executing laws, will justify a revolution.
The author of a "Friendly Address to all reasonable Americans,"
discovers his rancour against these principles, in a more explicit
manner, and makes no scruples to advance the principles of Hobbs and
Filmer, boldly, and to pronounce damnation, _ore rotundo_, on all
who do not practice implicit passive obedience, to an established
government, of whatever character it may be. It is not reviling, it
is not bad language, it is strictly decent to say, that this angry
bigot, this ignorant dogmatist, this foul mouthed scold, deserves no
other answer than silent contempt. Massachusettensis and the veteran,
I admire, the first for his art, the last for his honesty.
Massachusettensis, is more discreet than either of the others;
sensible that these principles would be very troublesome to him, yet
conscious of their truth, he has neither admitted nor denied them.
But we have a right to his opinion of them, before we dispute with
him. He finds fault with the application of them. They have been
invariably applied in support of the revolution and the present
establishment--against the Stuart's, the Charles' and the James',--in
support of the reformation and the Protestant religion, against the
worst tyranny, that the genius of toryism, has ever yet invented, I
mean the Roman superstition. Does this writer rank the revolution and
present establishment, the reformation and Protestant religion among
his worst of purposes? | 2,677.456156 |
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Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1896, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, JANUARY 7, 1896. FIVE | 2,677.456234 |
2023-11-16 19:01:41.4362550 | 2,494 | 10 |
The Lost and Hostile Gospels
An Essay
On the Toledoth Jeschu, and the Petrine and Pauline Gospels of the First
Three Centuries of Which Fragments Remain.
By
Rev. S. Baring-Gould, M.A.
Author of "The Origin and Development of Religious Belief," "Legendary
Lives of the Old Testament Characters." Etc.
Williams and Norgate
London, Edinburgh
1874
CONTENTS
Preface.
Part I. The Jewish Anti-Gospels.
I. The Silence Of Josephus.
II. The Cause Of The Silence Of Josephus.
III. The Jew Of Celsus.
IV. The Talmud.
V. The Counter-Gospels.
VI. The First Toledoth Jeschu.
VII. The Second Toledoth Jeschu.
Part II. The Lost Petrine Gospels.
I. The Gospel Of The Hebrews.
1. The Fragments extant.
2. Doubtful Fragments.
3. The Origin of the Gospel of the Hebrews.
II. The Clementine Gospel.
III. The Gospel Of St. Peter.
IV. The Gospel Of The Egyptians.
Part III. The Lost Pauline Gospels.
I. The Gospel Of The Lord.
II. The Gospel Of Truth.
III. The Gospel Of Eve.
IV. The Gospel Of Perfection.
V. The Gospel Of St. Philip.
VI. The Gospel Of Judas.
Footnotes
[Cover Art]
[Transcriber's Note: The above cover image was produced by the submitter
at Distributed Proofreaders, and is being placed into the public domain.]
PREFACE.
It is advisable, if not necessary, for me, by way of preface, to explain
certain topics treated of in this book, which do not come under its title,
and which, at first thought, may be taken to have but a remote connection
with the ostensible subject of this treatise. These are:
1. The outbreak of Antinomianism which disfigured and distressed primitive
Christianity.
2. The opposition of the Nazarene Church to St. Paul.
3. The structure and composition of the Synoptical Gospels.
The consideration of these curious and important topics has forced its way
into these pages; for the first two throw great light on the history of
those Gospels which have disappeared, and which it is not possible to
reconstruct without a knowledge of the religious parties to which they
belonged. And these parties were determined by the fundamental question of
Law or No-law, as represented by the Petrine and ultra-Pauline Christians.
And the third of these topics necessarily bound up with the consideration
of the structure and origin of the Lost Gospels, as the reader will see if
he cares to follow me in the critical examination of their extant
fragments.
Upon each of these points a few preliminary words will not, I hope, come
amiss, and may prevent misunderstanding.
1. The history of the Church, as the history of nations, is not to be read
with prejudiced eyes, with penknife in hand to erase facts which fight
against foregone conclusions.
English Churchmen have long gazed with love on the Primitive Church as the
ideal of Christian perfection, the Eden wherein the first fathers of their
faith walked blameless before God, and passionless towards each other. To
doubt, to dissipate in any way this pleasant dream, may shock and pain
certain gentle spirits. Alas! the fruit of the tree of {~GREEK SMALL LETTER GAMMA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER NU~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMEGA WITH PERISPOMENI~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER SIGMA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER IOTA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER FINAL SIGMA~}, if it opens
the eyes, saddens also and shames the heart.
History, whether sacred or profane, hides her teaching from those who
study her through glasses. She only reveals truth to those who
look through the cold clear medium of passionless inquiry, who seek the
Truth without determining first the masquerade in which alone they will
receive it.
It exhibits a strange, a sad want of faith in Truth thus to constrain
history to turn out facts according to order, to squeeze it through the
sieve of prejudice. And what indeed is Truth in history but the voice of
God instructing the world through the vices, follies, errors of the past?
A calm, patient spirit of inquiry is an attitude of the modern mind alone.
To this mind History has made strange disclosures which she kept locked up
through former ages. The world of Nature lay before the men of the past,
but they could not, would not read it, save from left to right, or right
to left, as their prejudices ran. The wise and learned had to cast aside
their formulae, and sit meekly at the feet of Nature, as little children,
before they learned her laws. Nor will History submit to hectoring. Only
now is she unfolding the hidden truth in her ancient scrolls.
It is too late to go back to conclusions of an uncritical age, though it
was that of our fathers; the time for denying the facts revealed by
careful criticism is passed away as truly as is the time for explaining
the shadows in the moon by the story of the Sabbath-breaker and his <DW19>
of sticks.
And criticism has put a lens to our eyes, and disclosed to us on the
shining, remote face of primitive Christianity rents and craters undreamt
of in our old simplicity.
That there was, in the breast of the new-born Church, an element of
antinomianism, not latent, but in virulent activity, is a fact as capable
of demonstration as any conclusion in a science which is not exact.
In the apostolic canonical writings we see the beginning of the trouble;
the texture of the Gospels is tinged by it; the Epistles of Paul on one
side, of Jude and Peter on the other, show it in energetic operation;
ecclesiastical history reveals it in full flagrance a century later.
Whence came the spark? what material ignited? These are questions that
must be answered. We cannot point to the blaze in the sub-apostolic age,
and protest that it was an instantaneous combustion, with no smouldering
train leading up to it,--to the rank crop of weeds, and argue that they
sprang from no seed. We shall have to look up the stream to the fountains
whence the flood was poured.
The existence of antinomianism in the Churches of Greece and Asia Minor,
synchronizing with their foundation, transpires from the Epistles of St.
Paul. It was an open sore in the life-time of the Twelve; it was a sorrow
weighing daily on the great soul of the Apostle of the Gentiles. It called
forth the indignant thunder of Jude and Peter, and the awful denunciations
in the charges to the Seven Churches.
The apocryphal literature of the sub-apostolic period carries on the sad
story. Under St. John's presiding care, the gross scandals which defiled
Gentile Christianity were purged out, and antinomian Christianity deserted
Asia Minor for Alexandria. There it made head again, as revealed to us by
the controversialists of the third century. And there it disappeared for a
while.
Yet the disease was never eradicated. Its poison still lurked in the veins
of the Church, and again and again throughout the Middle Ages heretics
emerged fitfully, true successors of Nicolas, Cerdo, Marcion and
Valentine, shaking off the trammels of the moral law, and seeking
justification through mystic exaltation or spiritual emotion. The Papacy
trod down these ugly heretics with ruthless heel. But at the Reformation,
when the restraint was removed, the disease broke forth in a multitude of
obscene sects spotting the fair face of Protestantism.
Nor has the virus exhausted itself. Its baleful workings, if indistinct,
are still present and threatening.
But how comes it that Christianity has thus its dark shadow constantly
haunting it? The cause is to be sought in the constitution of man. Man,
moving in his little orbit, has ever a face turned away from the earth and
all that is material, looking out into infinity,--a dark, unknown side,
about whose complexion we may speculate, but which we can never map. It is
a face which must ever remain mysterious, and ever radiate into mystery.
As the eye and ear are bundles of nerves through which the inner man goes
out into, and receives impressions from, the material world, so is the
soul a marvellous tissue of fibres through which man is placed _en
rapport_ with the spiritual world, God and infinity. It is the existence
of this face, these fibres--take which simile you like--which has
constituted mystics in every age all over the world: Schamans in frozen
Siberia, Fakirs in burning India, absorbed Buddhists, ecstatic Saints,
Essenes, Witches, Anchorites, Swedenborgians, modern Spiritualists.
Man, double-faced by nature, is placed by Revelation under a sharp,
precise external rule, controlling his actions and his thoughts.
To this rule spirit and body are summoned to do homage. But the spirit has
an inherent tendency towards the unlimited, by virtue of its nature, which
places it on the confines of the infinite. Consequently it is never easy
under a rule which is imposed on it conjointly with the body; it strains
after emancipation, strives to assert its independence of what is
external, and to establish its claim to obey only the movements in the
spiritual world. It throbs sympathetically with the auroral flashes in
that realm of mystery, like the flake of gold-leaf in the magnetometer.
To be bound to the body, subjected to its laws, is degrading; to be
unbounded, unconditioned, is its aspiration and supreme felicity.
Thus the incessant effort of the spirit is to establish its law in the
inner world of feeling, and remove it from the material world without.
Moreover, inasmuch as the spirit melts into the infinite, cut off from it
by no sharply-defined line, it is disposed to regard itself as a part of
God, a creek of the great Ocean of Divinity, and to suppose that all its
emotions are the pulsations of the tide in the all-embracing Spirit. It
loses the consciousness of its individuality; it deifies itself.
A Suffee fable representing God and the human soul illustrates this well.
"One knocked at the Beloved's door, and a voice from within cried, 'Who is
there?' Then the soul answered, 'It is I.' And the voice of God said,
'This house will not hold me and thee.' So the door remained shut. Then
the soul went away into a wilderness, and after long fasting and prayer it
returned, and knocked once again at the door. And again the voice demanded
'Who is there?' Then he said, 'It is THOU,' and at once the door opened to
him."
Thus the mystic always regards his unregulated wishes as divine
revelations, his random impulses as heavenly inspirations. He has no law
but his own will; and therefore, in mysticism, there, is no curb against
the grossest licence.
The existence of that evil which | 2,677.456295 |
2023-11-16 19:01:41.5389770 | 859 | 17 |
Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Stephen Blundell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by the Library of Congress)
[Illustration: MAY KELLOGG SULLIVAN IN ALASKA DRESS.]
A WOMAN WHO
WENT ----
TO ALASKA
By May Kellogg Sullivan
ILLUSTRATED
Boston:
James H. Earle & Company
178 Washington Street
_Copyright, 1902_
_By MAY KELLOGG SULLIVAN_
_All Rights Reserved_
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I Under Way 9
II Midnight on a Yukon Steamer 19
III Dawson 28
IV The Rush 36
V At The Arctic Circle 48
VI Companions 58
VII Going to Nome 78
VIII Fresh Danger 81
IX Nome 94
X The Four Sisters 109
XI Life in a Mining Camp 131
XII Bar-Room Disturbances 149
XIII Off For Golovin Bay 162
XIV Life at Golovin 184
XV Winter in the Mission 199
XVI The Retired Sea Captain 215
XVII How the Long Days Passed 231
XVIII Swarming 247
XIX New Quarters 261
XX Christmas in Alaska 275
XXI My First Gold Claims 292
XXII The Little Sick Child 311
XXIII Lights and Shadows of the Mining Camp 325
XXIV An Unpleasant Adventure 340
XXV Stones and Dynamite 354
XXVI Good-bye to Golovin Bay 374
XXVII Going Outside 379
Transcriber's Note
Obvious printer errors have been corrected. All other
inconsistencies remain as printed.
A list of illustrations, though not present in the original, has
been provided below:
MAY KELLOGG SULLIVAN IN ALASKA DRESS.
DAWSON, Y. T.
CITY HALL AT SKAGWAY.
PORCUPINE CANYON, WHITE PASS.
MILES CANYON.
UPPER YUKON STEAMER.
FIVE FINGER RAPIDS.
GOING TO DAWSON IN WINTER.
A KLONDYKE CLAIM.
EAGLE CITY, ON THE YUKON, IN 1899.
YUKON STEAMER "HANNAH."
FELLOW TRAVELERS.
ESKIMOS.
UNALASKA.
STEAMSHIP ST. PAUL.
NOME.
LIFE AT NOME.
CLAIM NUMBER NINE, ANVIL CREEK.
CLAIM NUMBER FOUR, ANVIL CREEK, NOME.
MAP OF ALASKA.
ESKIMO DOGS.
WINTER PROSPECTING.
AT CHINIK. THE MISSION.
CLAIM ON BONANZA CREEK.
ON BONANZA CREEK.
SKAGWAY RIVER, FROM THE TRAIN.
PREFACE
This unpretentious little book is the outcome of my own experiences and
adventures in Alaska. Two trips, covering a period of eighteen months
and a distance of over twelve thousand miles were made practically
alone.
In answer to the oft-repeated question of why I went to Alaska I can
only give the same reply that so many others give: I wanted to go in
search of my fortune which had been successfully eluding my grasp for a
good many years. Neither home nor children claimed my attention. No good
reason, I thought, stood in the way of my going to Alaska; for my
husband, traveling constantly at his work | 2,677.559017 |
2023-11-16 19:01:41.6341940 | 7,435 | 43 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Reiner Ruf, James Adcock
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note
##################
This e-text is based on a reproduction of the original 1897 edition.
All modern material has been removed.
Italic text in the original version has been placed between underscores
(_text_); passages in small caps have been symbolised by forward
slashes (/small caps/). [oe] symbolises the corresponding ligature.
Subscript numerals have been placed between curly braces ({2}).
Inconsistencies in hyphenation and spelling (to-morrow/tomorrow;
aerial/aerial, etc.), as well as incorrectly used phrases in Van
Helsing's speech have been retained. A number of obvious errors in
punctuation and inconsistencies in single/double quotation have been
tacitly removed.
The following typographical errors, have been corrected:
# p. vi/vii: header word "Page" has been moved from page vii to
page vi.
# p. vii: "Chapter VXVII" --> "Chapter XVIII"; "Chapter XXI" -->
"Chapter XXVII"; "320" --> "324"
# p. 16: "a long" --> "along"
# p. 30: "W[oe]" --> "Woe"
# p. 44: "wondow" --> "window"
# p. 43: "that" --> "than"
# p. 58: "number One" --> "number one"
# p. 63: "Hopwood" --> "Holmwood"
# p. 82: "role of paper" --> "roll of paper"
# p. 98: "dreadul" --> "dreadful"
# p. 99: "pounts" --> "pounds"
# p. 112: "Holmmood" --> "Holmwood"
# p. 133: "pharmacop[oe][oe]ia" --> "pharmacop[oe]ia"
# p. 147: "do do" --> "to do"
# p. 157: "confortable" --> "comfortable"; "everthing" -->
"everything"
# p. 186: "greatful" --> "grateful"
# p. 212: "Arther" --> "Arthur"
# p. 241: "next the Professor" --> "next to the Professor"
# p. 257: "gloated with fresh blood" --> "bloated with fresh blood"
# p. 286: "Rat, rats, rats!" --> "Rats, rats, rats!"
# p. 339: "preceeded" --> "preceded"
# p. 358: "the bit box" --> "the big box"
# p. 380: "they mean fight" --> "they mean to fight"
# p. 384: "respulsive" --> "repulsive"
BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
"Under the Sunset."
"The Snake's Pass."
"The Watter's Mou'."
"The Shoulder of Shasta."
DRACULA
BY
BRAM STOKER
Constable. London
First published by Archibald Constable and Company, 1897
TO
MY DEAR FRIEND
HOMMY-BEG
CONTENTS.
Page
/Chapter I./
Jonathan Harker's Journal 1
/Chapter II./
Jonathan Harker's Journal 15
/Chapter III./
Jonathan Harker's Journal 28
/Chapter IV./
Jonathan Harker's Journal 41
/Chapter V./
Letters--Lucy and Mina 55
/Chapter VI./
Mina Murray's Journal 64
/Chapter VII./
Cutting from "The Dailygraph," 8 August 77
/Chapter VIII./
Mina Murray's Journal 91
/Chapter IX./
Mina Murray's Journal 106
/Chapter X./
Mina Murray's Journal 120
/Chapter XI./
Lucy Westenra's Diary 135
/Chapter XII./
Dr. Seward's Diary 148
/Chapter XIII./
Dr. Seward's Diary 166
/Chapter XIV./
Mina Harker's Journal 182
/Chapter XV./
Dr. Seward's Diary 198
/Chapter XVI./
Dr. Seward's Diary 212
/Chapter XVII./
Dr. Seward's Diary 223
/Chapter XVIII./
Dr. Seward's Diary 237
/Chapter XIX./
Jonathan Harker's Journal 254
/Chapter XX./
Jonathan Harker's Journal 267
/Chapter XXI./
Dr. Seward's Diary 282
/Chapter XXII./
Jonathan Harker's Journal 297
/Chapter XXIII./
Dr. Seward's Diary 310
/Chapter XXIV./
Dr. Seward's Phonograph Diary, spoken by Van Helsing 324
/Chapter XXV./
Dr. Seward's Diary 339
/Chapter XXVI./
Dr. Seward's Diary 354
/Chapter XXVII./
Mina Harker's Journal 372
How these papers have been placed in sequence will be made manifest
in the reading of them. All needless matters have been eliminated, so
that a history almost at variance with the possibilities of later-day
belief may stand forth as simple fact. There is throughout no statement
of past things wherein memory may err, for all the records chosen are
exactly contemporary, given from the standpoints and within the range
of knowledge of those who made them.
DRACULA.
CHAPTER I.
/Jonathan Harker's Journal./
(_Kept in shorthand._)
_3 May. Bistritz._--Left Munich at 8.35 p.m. on 1st May, arriving at
Vienna early next morning; should have arrived at 6.46, but train was
an hour late. Buda-Pesth seems a wonderful place, from the glimpse
which I got of it from the train and the little I could walk through
the streets. I feared to go very far from the station, as we had
arrived late and would start as near the correct time as possible. The
impression I had was that we were leaving the West and entering the
East; the most Western of splendid bridges over the Danube, which is
here of noble width and depth, took us among the traditions of Turkish
rule.
We left in pretty good time, and came after nightfall to Klausenburgh.
Here I stopped for the night at the Hotel Royale. I had for dinner,
or rather supper, a chicken done up some way with red pepper, which
was very good but thirsty. (_Mem._, get recipe for Mina.) I asked the
waiter, and he said it was called "paprika hendl," and that, as it
was a national dish, I should be able to get it anywhere along the
Carpathians. I found my smattering of German very useful here; indeed,
I don't know how I should be able to get on without it.
Having some time at my disposal when in London, I had visited the
British Museum, and made search among the books and maps of the library
regarding Transylvania; it had struck me that some foreknowledge of
the country could hardly fail to have some importance in dealing with
a noble of that country. I find that the district he named is in the
extreme east of the country, just on the borders of three states,
Transylvania, Moldavia, and Bukovina, in the midst of the Carpathian
mountains; one of the wildest and least known portions of Europe. I was
not able to light on any map or work giving the exact locality of the
Castle Dracula, as there are no maps of this country as yet to compare
with our own Ordnance Survey maps; but I found that Bistritz, the post
town named by Count Dracula, is a fairly well-known place. I shall
enter here some of my notes, as they may refresh my memory when I talk
over my travels with Mina.
In the population of Transylvania there are four distinct
nationalities: Saxons in the south, and mixed with them the Wallachs,
who are the descendants of the Dacians; Magyars in the west; and
Szekelys in the east and north. I am going among the latter, who claim
to be descended from Attila and the Huns. This may be so, for when the
Magyars conquered the country in the eleventh century they found the
Huns settled in it. I read that every known superstition in the world
is gathered into the horseshoe of the Carpathians, as if it were the
centre of some sort of imaginative whirlpool; if so my stay may be very
interesting. (_Mem._, I must ask the Count all about them.)
I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had
all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my
window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have
been the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe,
and was still thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the
continuous knocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping
soundly then. I had for breakfast more paprika, and a sort of porridge
of maize flour which they said was "mamaliga," and egg-plant stuffed
with forcemeat, a very excellent dish, which they call "impletata."
(_Mem._, get recipe for this also.) I had to hurry breakfast, for
the train started a little before eight, or rather it ought to have
done so, for after rushing to the station at 7.30 I had to sit in the
carriage for more than an hour before we began to move. It seems to me
that the further East you go the more unpunctual are the trains. What
ought they to be in China?
All day long we seemed to dawdle through a country which was full of
beauty of every kind. Sometimes we saw little towns or castles on the
top of steep hills such as we see in old missals; sometimes we ran by
rivers and streams which seemed from the wide stony margin on each side
of them to be subject to great floods. It takes a lot of water, and
running strong, to sweep the outside edge of a river clear. At every
station there were groups of people, sometimes crowds, and in all sorts
of attire. Some of them were just like the peasants at home or those
I saw coming through France and Germany, with short jackets and round
hats and home-made trousers; but others were very picturesque. The
women looked pretty, except when you got near them, but they were very
clumsy about the waist. They had all full white sleeves of some kind or
other, and most of them had big belts with a lot of strips of something
fluttering from them like the dresses in a ballet, but of course
petticoats under them. The strangest figures we saw were the Slovaks,
who are more barbarian than the rest, with their big cowboy hats, great
baggy dirty-white trousers, white linen shirts, and enormous heavy
leather belts, nearly a foot wide, all studded over with brass nails.
They wore high boots, with their trousers tucked into them, and had
long black hair and heavy black moustaches. They are very picturesque,
but do not look prepossessing. On the stage they would be set down at
once as some old Oriental band of brigands. They are, however, I am
told, very harmless and rather wanting in natural self-assertion.
It was on the dark side of twilight when we got to Bistritz, which is
a very interesting old place. Being practically on the frontier--for
the Borgo Pass leads from it into Bukovina--it has had a very stormy
existence, and it certainly shows marks of it. Fifty years ago a
series of great fires took place, which made terrible havoc on five
separate occasions. At the very beginning of the seventeenth century it
underwent a siege of three weeks and lost 13,000 people, the casualties
of war proper being assisted by famine and disease.
Count Dracula had directed me to go to the Golden Krone Hotel, which I
found, to my delight, to be thoroughly old-fashioned, for of course I
wanted to see all I could of the ways of the country. I was evidently
expected, for when I got near the door I faced a cheery-looking elderly
woman in the usual peasant dress--white undergarment with long double
apron, front and back, of stuff fitting almost too tight for
modesty. When I came close she bowed, and said: "The Herr Englishman?"
"Yes," I said, "Jonathan Harker." She smiled, and gave some message
to an elderly man in white shirt-sleeves, who had followed her to the
door. He went, but immediately returned with a letter:--
"/My Friend/,--Welcome to the Carpathians. I am anxiously expecting
you. Sleep well to-night. At three to-morrow the diligence will start
for Bukovina; a place on it is kept for you. At the Borgo Pass my
carriage will await you and will bring you to me. I trust that your
journey from London has been a happy one, and that you will enjoy your
stay in my beautiful land.
"Your friend,
"/Dracula./"
_4 May._--I found that my landlord had got a letter from the Count,
directing him to secure the best place on the coach for me; but on
making inquiries as to details he seemed somewhat reticent, and
pretended that he could not understand my German. This could not be
true, because up to then he had understood it perfectly; at least, he
answered my questions exactly as if he did. He and his wife, the old
lady who had received me, looked at each other in a frightened sort
of way. He mumbled out that the money had been sent in a letter, and
that was all he knew. When I asked him if he knew Count Dracula, and
could tell me anything of his castle, both he and his wife crossed
themselves, and, saying that they knew nothing at all, simply refused
to speak further. It was so near the time of starting that I had no
time to ask any one else, for it was all very mysterious and not by any
means comforting.
Just before I was leaving, the old lady came up to my room and said in
a very hysterical way:
"Must you go? Oh! young Herr, must you go?" She was in such an excited
state that she seemed to have lost her grip of what German she knew,
and mixed it all up with some other language which I did not know at
all. I was just able to follow her by asking many questions. When I
told her that I must go at once, and that I was engaged on important
business, she asked again:
"Do you know what day it is?" I answered that it was the fourth of May.
She shook her head as she said again:
"Oh, yes! I know that, I know that! but do you know what day it is?" On
my saying that I did not understand, she went on:
"It is the eve of St. George's Day. Do you not know that to-night, when
the clock strikes midnight, all the evil things in the world will have
full sway? Do you know where you are going, and what you are going
to?" She was in such evident distress that I tried to comfort her, but
without effect. Finally she went down on her knees and implored me not
to go; at least to wait a day or two before starting. It was all very
ridiculous, but I did not feel comfortable. However, there was business
to be done, and I could allow nothing to interfere with it. I therefore
tried to raise her up, and said, as gravely as I could, that I thanked
her, but my duty was imperative, and that I must go. She then rose and
dried her eyes, and taking a crucifix from her neck offered it to me.
I did not know what to do, for, as an English Churchman, I have been
taught to regard such things as in some measure idolatrous, and yet
it seemed so ungracious to refuse an old lady meaning so well and in
such a state of mind. She saw, I suppose, the doubt in my face, for she
put the rosary round my neck, and said, "For your mother's sake," and
went out of the room. I am writing up this part of the diary whilst I
am waiting for the coach, which is, of course, late; and the crucifix
is still round my neck. Whether it is the old lady's fear, or the many
ghostly traditions of this place, or the crucifix itself, I do not
know, but I am not feeling nearly as easy in my mind as usual. If this
book should ever reach Mina before I do, let it bring my good-bye. Here
comes the coach!
_5 May. The Castle._--The grey of the morning has passed, and the sun
is high over the distant horizon, which seems jagged, whether with
trees or hills I know not, for it is so far off that big things and
little are mixed. I am not sleepy, and, as I am not to be called till
I awake, naturally I write till sleep comes. There are many odd things
to put down, and, lest who reads them may fancy that I dined too well
before I left Bistritz, let me put down my dinner exactly. I dined on
what they call "robber steak"--bits of bacon, onion, and beef, seasoned
with red pepper, and strung on sticks and roasted over the fire, in the
simple style of the London cat's-meat! The wine was Golden Mediasch,
which produces a queer sting on the tongue, which is, however, not
disagreeable. I had only a couple of glasses of this, and nothing else.
When I got on the coach the driver had not taken his seat, and I
saw him talking with the landlady. They were evidently talking of
me, for every now and then they looked at me, and some of the people
who were sitting on the bench outside the door--which they call by a
name meaning "word-bearer"--came and listened, and then they looked
at me, most of them pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often
repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the
crowd; so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked
them out. I must say they were not cheering to me, for amongst them
were "Ordog"--Satan, "pokol"--hell, "stregoica"--witch, "vrolok" and
"vlkoslak"--both of which mean the same thing, one being Slovak and
the other Servian for something that is either were-wolf or vampire.
(_Mem._, I must ask the Count about these superstitions.)
When we started, the crowd round the inn door, which had by this
time swelled to a considerable size, all made the sign of the cross
and pointed two fingers towards me. With some difficulty I got a
fellow-passenger to tell me what they meant; he would not answer at
first, but on learning that I was English, he explained that it was a
charm or guard against the evil eye. This was not very pleasant for
me, just starting for an unknown place to meet an unknown man; but
every one seemed so kind-hearted, and so sorrowful, and so sympathetic
that I could not but be touched. I shall never forget the last glimpse
which I had of the inn-yard and its crowd of picturesque figures,
all crossing themselves, as they stood round the wide archway, with
its background of rich foliage of oleander and orange trees in green
tubs clustered in the centre of the yard. Then our driver, whose wide
linen drawers covered the whole front of the box-seat--"gotza" they
call them--cracked his big whip over his four small horses, which ran
abreast, and we set off on our journey.
I soon lost sight and recollection of ghostly fears in the beauty of
the scene as we drove along, although had I known the language, or
rather languages, which my fellow-passengers were speaking, I might
not have been able to throw them off so easily. Before us lay a green
sloping land full of forests and woods, with here and there steep
hills, crowned with clumps of trees or with farmhouses, the blank gable
end to the road. There was everywhere a bewildering mass of fruit
blossom--apple, plum, pear, cherry; and as we drove by I could see the
green grass under the trees spangled with the fallen petals. In and out
amongst these green hills of what they call here the "Mittel Land" ran
the road, losing itself as it swept round the grassy curve, or was shut
out by the straggling ends of pine woods, which here and there ran down
the hillsides like tongues of flame. The road was rugged, but still we
seemed to fly over it with a feverish haste. I could not understand
then what the haste meant, but the driver was evidently bent on losing
no time in reaching Borgo Prund. I was told that this road is in
summer-time excellent, but that it had not yet been put in order after
the winter snows. In this respect it is different from the general run
of roads in the Carpathians, for it is an old tradition that they are
not to be kept in too good order. Of old the Hospadars would not repair
them, lest the Turk should think that they were preparing to bring
in foreign troops, and so hasten the war which was always really at
loading point.
Beyond the green swelling hills of the Mittel Land rose mighty <DW72>s
of forest up to the lofty steeps of the Carpathians themselves. Right
and left of us they towered, with the afternoon sun falling upon them
and bringing out all the glorious colours of this beautiful range, deep
blue and purple in the shadows of the peaks, green and brown where
grass and rock mingled, and an endless perspective of jagged rock and
pointed crags, till these were themselves lost in the distance, where
the snowy peaks rose grandly. Here and there seemed mighty rifts in
the mountains, through which, as the sun began to sink, we saw now and
again the white gleam of falling water. One of my companions touched
my arm as we swept round the base of a hill and opened up the lofty,
snow-covered peak of a mountain, which seemed, as we wound on our
serpentine way, to be right before us:--
"Look! Isten szek!"--"God's seat!"--and he crossed himself reverently.
As we wound on our endless way, and the sun sank lower and lower
behind us, the shadows of the evening began to creep round us. This
was emphasised by the fact that the snowy mountain-top still held the
sunset, and seemed to glow out with a delicate cool pink. Here and
there we passed Cszeks and Slovaks, all in picturesque attire, but I
noticed that goitre was painfully prevalent. By the roadside were many
crosses, and as we swept by, my companions all crossed themselves. Here
and there was a peasant man or woman kneeling before a shrine, who did
not even turn round as we approached, but seemed in the self-surrender
of devotion to have neither eyes nor ears for the outer world. There
were many things new to me: for instance, hay-ricks in the trees and
here and there very beautiful masses of weeping birch, their white
stems shining like silver through the delicate green of the leaves. Now
and again we passed a leiterwagon--the ordinary peasant's cart, with
its long, snake-like vertebra, calculated to suit the inequalities of
the road. On this were sure to be seated quite a group of home-coming
peasants, the Cszeks with their white, and the Slovaks with their
, sheepskins, the latter carrying lance-fashion their long
staves, with axe at end. As the evening fell it began to get very cold,
and the growing twilight seemed to merge into one dark mistiness the
gloom of the trees, oak, beech, and pine, though in the valleys which
ran deep between the spurs of the hills, as we ascended through the
Pass, the dark firs stood out here and there against the background
of late-lying snow. Sometimes, as the road was cut through the pine
woods that seemed in the darkness to be closing down upon us, great
masses of greyness, which here and there bestrewed the trees, produced
a peculiarly weird and solemn effect, which carried on the thoughts
and grim fancies engendered earlier in the evening, when the falling
sunset threw into strange relief the ghost-like clouds which amongst
the Carpathians seem to wind ceaselessly through the valleys. Sometimes
the hills were so steep that, despite our driver's haste, the horses
could only go slowly. I wished to get down and walk up them, as we do
at home, but the driver would not hear of it. "No, no," he said; "you
must not walk here; the dogs are too fierce!" and then he added, with
what he evidently meant for grim pleasantry--for he looked round to
catch the approving smile of the rest--"and you may have enough of such
matters before you go to sleep." The only stop he would make was a
moment's pause to light his lamps.
When it grew dark there seemed to be some excitement amongst the
passengers, and they kept speaking to him, one after the other, as
though urging him to further speed. He lashed the horses unmercifully
with his long whip, and with wild cries of encouragement urged them on
to further exertions. Then through the darkness I could see a sort of
patch of grey light ahead of us, as though there were a cleft in the
hills. The excitement of the passengers grew greater; the crazy coach
rocked on its great leather springs, and swayed like a boat tossed on a
stormy sea. I had to hold on. The road grew more level, and we appeared
to fly along. Then the mountains seemed to come nearer to us on each
side and to frown down upon us; we were entering the Borgo Pass. One by
one several of the passengers offered me gifts, which they pressed upon
me with earnestness which would take no denial; these were certainly of
an odd and varied kind, but each was given in simple good faith, with a
kindly word, and a blessing, and that strange mixture of fear-meaning
movements which I had seen outside the hotel at Bistritz--the sign of
the cross and the guard against the evil eye. Then, as we flew along,
the driver leaned forward, and on each side the passengers, craning
over the edge of the coach, peered eagerly into the darkness. It was
evident that something very exciting was either happening or expected,
but though I asked each passenger, no one would give me the slightest
explanation. This state of excitement kept on for some little time;
and at last we saw before us the Pass opening out on the eastern
side. There were dark, rolling clouds overhead, and in the air the
heavy, oppressive sense of thunder. It seemed as though the mountain
range had separated two atmospheres, and that now we had got into
the thunderous one. I was now myself looking out for the conveyance
which was to take me to the Count. Each moment I expected to see the
glare of lamps through the blackness; but all was dark. The only light
was the flickering rays of our own lamps, in which steam from our
hard-driven horses rose in a white cloud. We could now see the sandy
road lying white before us, but there was on it no sign of a vehicle.
The passengers drew back with a sigh of gladness, which seemed to mock
my own disappointment. I was already thinking what I had best do, when
the driver, looking at his watch, said to the others something which
I could hardly hear, it was spoken so quietly and in so low a tone; I
thought it was, "An hour less than the time." Then, turning to me, he
said in German worse than my own:--
"There is no carriage here. The Herr is not expected, after all. He
will now come on to Bukovina, and return to-morrow or the next day;
better the next day." Whilst he was speaking the horses began to neigh
and snort and plunge wildly, so that the driver had to hold them up.
Then, amongst a chorus of screams from the peasants and a universal
crossing of themselves, a caleche, with four horses, drove up behind
us, overtook us, and drew up beside the coach. I could see from the
flash of our lamps, as the rays fell on them, that the horses were
coal-black and splendid animals. They were driven by a tall man, with a
long brown beard and a great black hat, which seemed to hide his face
from us. I could only see the gleam of a pair of very bright eyes,
which seemed red in the lamplight, as he turned to us. He said to the
driver:--
"You are early to-night, my friend." The man stammered in reply:--
"The English Herr was in a hurry," to which the stranger replied:--
"That is why, I suppose, you wished him to go on to Bukovina. You
cannot deceive me, my friend; I know too much, and my horses are
swift." As he spoke he smiled, and the lamplight fell on a hard-looking
mouth, with very red lips and sharp-looking teeth, as white as ivory.
One of my companions whispered to another the line from Burger's
"Lenore:"--
"Denn die Todten reiten schnell."--
("For the dead travel fast.")
The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a
gleaming smile. The passenger turned his face away, at the same time
putting out his two fingers and crossing himself. "Give me the Herr's
luggage," said the driver; and with exceeding alacrity my bags were
handed out and put in the caleche. Then I descended from the side of
the coach, as the caleche was close alongside, the driver helping me
with a hand which caught my arm in a grip of steel; his strength must
have been prodigious. Without a word he shook his reins, the horses
turned, and we swept into the darkness of the Pass. As I looked back I
saw the steam from the horses of the coach by the light of the lamps,
and projected against it the figures of my late companions crossing
themselves. Then the driver cracked his whip and called to his horses,
and off they swept on their way to Bukovina.
As they sank into the darkness I felt a strange chill, and a lonely
feeling came over me; but a cloak was thrown over my shoulders, and a
rug across my knees, and the driver said in excellent German:--
"The night is chill, mein Herr, and my master the Count bade me take
all care of you. There is a flask of slivovitz [the plum brandy of the
country] underneath the seat, if you should require it." I did not take
any, but it was a comfort to know it was there, all the same. I felt a
little strange, and not a little frightened. I think had there been any
alternative I should have taken it, instead of prosecuting that unknown
night journey. The carriage went at a hard pace straight along, then we
made a complete turn and went along another straight road. It seemed
to me that we were simply going over and over the same ground again;
and so I took note of some salient point, and found that this was so.
I would have liked to have asked the driver what this all meant, but
I really feared to do so, for I thought that, placed as I was, any
protest would have had no effect in case there had been an intention
to delay. By and by, however, as I was curious to know how time was
passing, I struck a match, and by its flame looked at my watch; it was
within a few minutes of midnight. This gave me a sort of shock, for I
suppose the general superstition about midnight was increased by my
recent experiences. I waited with a sick feeling of suspense.
Then a dog began to howl somewhere in a farmhouse far down the road--a
long, agonised wailing, as if from fear. The sound was taken up by
another dog, and then another and another, till, borne on the wind
which now sighed softly through the Pass, a wild howling began, which
seemed to come from all over the country, as far as the imagination
could grasp it through the gloom of the night. At the first howl
the horses began to strain and rear, but the driver | 2,677.654234 |
2023-11-16 19:01:41.6344130 | 1,375 | 40 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Irma Spehar and the Online
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THE
WITCHES OF NEW YORK,
AS ENCOUNTERED BY
Q. K. PHILANDER DOESTICKS, P. B.
NEW YORK: RUDD & CARLETON, 310 BROADWAY. MDCCCLIX.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1858, by
RUDD & CARLETON,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for
the Southern District of New York.
R. CRAIGHEAD,
Printer, Stereotyper, and Electrotyper,
Carton Building,
_81, 83, and 85 Centre Street_.
PREFACE.
What the Witches of New York City personally told me, Doesticks,
you will find written in this volume, without the slightest
exaggeration or perversion. I set out now with no intention of
misrepresenting anything that came under my observation in
collecting the material for this book, but with an honest desire
to tell the simple truth about the people I encountered, and the
prophecies I paid for.
So far from desiring to do any injustice to the Fortune Tellers
of the Metropolis, I sincerely hope that my labors may avail
something towards making their true deservings more widely
appreciated, and their fitting reward more full and speedy. I am
satisfied that so soon as their character is better understood,
and certain peculiar features of their business more thoroughly
comprehended by the public, they will meet with more attention
from the dignitaries of the land than has ever before been
vouchsafed them.
I thank the public for the flattering consideration paid to what
I have heretofore written, and respectfully submit that if they
would increase the obligation, perhaps the readiest way is to buy
and read the present volume.
THE AUTHOR.
_Sept. 20th, 1858._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. is simply Explanatory so far as regards the
book, but in it the author takes occasion to pay himself
several merited compliments on the score of honesty, ability,
&c., &c., &c. 15
CHAPTER II. is devoted to the glorification of Madame Prewster,
of No. 373 Bowery, the Pioneer Witch of New York. The "Individual"
also herein bears his testimony that she is oily and water-proof. 27
CHAPTER III. wherein are related divers strange things of Madame
Bruce, the "Mysterious Veiled Lady," of No. 513 Broome Street. 51
CHAPTER IV. Relates the marvellous performances of Madame
Widger, of No. 3 First Avenue, and how she looks into the
future through a paving-stone. 73
CHAPTER V. Discourses of Mrs. Pugh, of No. 102 South First
Street, Williamsburgh, and tells what that Nursing Sorceress
communicated to the Cash Customer. 99
CHAPTER VI. in which are narrated the wonderful workings of
Madame Morrow, the "Astonisher," of No. 76 Broome Street, and how
by a Crinolinic Stratagem the "Individual" got a sight of his
"Future Husband." 123
CHAPTER VII. contains a full account of the interview of the Cash
Customer with Doctor Wilson, the Astrologer, of No. 172 Delancey
Street. The Fates decree that he shall "pizon his first wife."
HOORAY! 147
CHAPTER VIII. gives a history of how Mrs. Hayes, the Clairvoyant,
of No. 176 Grand Street, does the Conjuring Trick. 169
CHAPTER IX. tells all about Mrs. Seymour, the Clairvoyant,
of No. 110 Spring Street, and what she had to say. 195
CHAPTER X. describes Madame Carzo, the "Brazilian Astrologist,"
and gives all the romantic adventures of the "Individual"
with the gay South American Maid. 215
CHAPTER XI. In which is set down the prophecy of Madame
Leander Lent, of No. 163 Mulberry Street; and how she
promised her customer numerous wives and children. 239
CHAPTER XII. Wherein are described all the particulars of a
visit to the "Gipsy Girl," of No. 207 Third Avenue; with
an allusion to Gin, and other luxuries dear to the heart of
that beautiful Rover. 261
CHAPTER XIII. contains a true account of the Magic Establishment
of Mrs. Fleury, of No. 263 Broome Street; and also shows the
exact amount of Witchcraft that snuffy personage can afford for
one dollar. 281
CHAPTER XIV. describes an interview with the "Cullud" Seer Mr.
Grommer, of No. 34 North Second Street, Williamsburgh, and what
that respectable Whitewasher and Prophet told his visitor. 305
CHAPTER XV. How the Individual called on Madame Clifton
of No. 185 Orchard Street, and how that amiable and gifted
"Seventh daughter of a Seventh daughter," prophesied his
speedy death and destruction--together with all about the
"Chinese Ruling Planet Charm." 327
CHAPTER XVI. details the particulars of a morning call on
Madame Harris, and how she covered up her beautiful head
in a black bag. 353
CHAPTER XVII. Treats of the peculiarities of Several Witches
in a single batch. 371
CHAPTER XVIII. Conclusion. 395
CHAPTER I.
Which is simply explanatory, so far as regards the book, but in
which the author takes occasion to pay himself several merited
compliments, on the score of honesty, ability, etc.
CHAPTER I.
WHICH IS MERELY EXPLANATORY.
The first undertaking of the author of these pages will be to
convince his readers that he has not set about making a merely
funny book, and that the subject of which he writes is one that
challenges their serious and earnest attention. Whatever of
humorous description may be found in the succeeding chapters | 2,677.654453 |
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[Illustration]
THE CHILDREN’S LIB | 2,678.082147 |
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Produced by V. L. Simpson, S.D., 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.)
ELEMENTARY THEOSOPHY
L. W. ROGERS
LOS ANGELES
THEOSOPHICAL BOOK CONCERN
1917
Copyright
By
L. W. Rogers
1917
PREFACE
To comprehend the significance of great world changes, before Time has
fully done his work, is difficult. While mighty events are still in
their formative period the future is obscure. But our inability to
outline the future cannot blind us to the unmistakable trend of the
evolutionary forces at work. One thing that is clear is that our boasted
Christian civilization is the theater in which has been staged the most
un-Christian war of recorded history and in which human atrocity has
reached a point that leaves us vaguely groping for a rational
explanation of it. Another obvious fact is that the more than twenty
nations involved have been forced into measures and methods before
unknown and which wholly transform the recognized function and powers of
governments. With these startling facts of religious and political
significance before us thoughtful people are beginning to ask if we are
not upon the threshold of a complete breaking down of modern
civilization and the birth of a new order of things, in which direct
government by the people throughout the entire world will be coincident
with the rise of a universal religion based on the brotherhood of man.
In such a time any contribution to current literature that will help to
clear the ground of misconceptions and to bring to the attention of
those interested in such things, that set of fundamental natural truths
known as theosophy, may perhaps be helpful. Whether or not the world is
about to recast its ethical code there can at least be no doubt that it
is eagerly seeking reliable evidence that we live after bodily death and
that it will welcome a hypothesis of immortality that is inherently
reasonable and therefore satisfies the intellect as well as the heart.
Those who are dissatisfied with the old answers to the riddle of
existence and demand that Faith and Reason shall walk hand in hand, may
find in the following pages some explanation of the puzzling things in
life--an explanation that disregards neither the intuitions of religion
nor the facts of science.
Of course no pretension is made of fully covering the ground. The book
is a student's presentation of some of the phases of theosophy as he
understands them. They are presented with no authority whatever, and are
merely an attempt to discuss in simple language some of the fundamental
truths about the human being. No claim is made to originality but it is
hoped that by putting the old truths in a somewhat different way, with
new illustrations and arguments, they may perhaps be seen from a new
viewpoint. The intention has been to present elementary theosophy simply
and clearly and in the language familiar to the ordinary newspaper
reader. All technical terms and expressions have been avoided and the
reader will not find a single foreign word in the book.
L. W. R.
CONTENTS
I. THEOSOPHY 9
II. THE IMMANENCE OF GOD 15
III. THE EVOLUTION OF THE SOUL 23
IV. LIFE AFTER BODILY DEATH 29
V. THE EVOLUTIONARY FIELD 43
VI. THE MECHANISM OF CONSCIOUSNESS 49
VII. DEATH 59
VIII. THE ASTRAL WORLD 69
IX. REBIRTH: ITS REASONABLENESS 103
X. REBIRTH: ITS JUSTICE 135
XI. REBIRTH: ITS NECESSITY 153
XII. WHY WE DO NOT REMEMBER 167
XIII. VICARIOUS ATONEMENT 181
XIV. THE FORCES WE GENERATE 187
XV. SUPERPHYSICAL EVOLUTION 205
CHAPTER I.
THEOSOPHY
Rediscovery is one of the methods of progress. Very much that we believe
to be original with us at the time of its discovery or invention proves
in time to have been known to earlier civilizations. The elevator, or
lift, is a very modern invention and we supposed it to be a natural
development of our civilization, with its intensive characteristics,
until an antiquarian startled us with the announcement that it was used
in Rome over two thousand years ago; not, of course, as we use it, but
for the same purpose, and involving the same principles. A half century
ago our scientific men were enthusiastic over the truths of evolution
that were being discovered and placed before western civilization. But
as we learn more and more of the thought and intellectual life of the
Orient it becomes clear that the idea of evolution permeated that part
of the world centuries ago. Even the most recent and startling
scientific discoveries occasionally serve to prove that what we supposed
to be the fantastic beliefs of the ancients were really truths of nature
that we were not yet able to comprehend! The transmutation of metals is
an example. We have already gone far enough in that direction to show
that the alchemists of old were not the foolish and superstitious people
we supposed them to be. We have given far too little credit to past
civilizations and we are coming to understand now that we have rated
them too low. Our modesty must necessarily increase as it becomes
clearer that much of our supposed contribution to the world's progress
is not invention but rediscovery. We are beginning to see that it is not
safe to put aside without careful examination an idea or a belief that
was current in the world thousands of years ago. Like the supposed folly
of the alchemists it may contain profound truths of nature that have
thus far been foreign to our modes of thinking.
Theosophy is both very old and very new--very old because the principles
it contains were known and taught in the oldest civilizations, and very
new because it includes the latest investigations of the present day. It
is sometimes said by those who desire to speak lightly of it that it is
a philosophy borrowed from | 2,678.19673 |
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Produced by Louise Hope, PM for Bureau of American
Ethnology, The Internet Archive (American Libraries) and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by the BibliothA"que nationale
de France (BnF/Gallica) at http://gallica.bnf.fr) Music
transcribed by the PG Finale Team.
[Transcriber's Notes:
This text is intended for users whose text readers cannot use the
"real" (Unicode/UTF-8) version of the file. Some compromises were made
in character display:
--Vowels with macron or "long" mark (rare) are shown instead with
circumflex: a, e. The circumflex accent does not occur anywhere else.
--The "oe" ligature (also rare) is shown as two letters.
--A handful of other letters have been "unpacked" and shown
in brackets.
--For chi and kra, see under "Orthography".
Parenthetical question marks (?) are in the original. Italics are shown
conventionally with _lines_. In the Glossary (only) small capitals are
shown with #marks#.
Orthography is explained early in the article. Modern (ICI) forms should
be deducible from Boas's spellings. These are based on Kleinschmidt,
but with q in place of [kra]. Note that long vowels are rarely marked,
except in the Glossary and in figure captions. Words are often written
with nasalized finals: n for t sometimes, ng for k almost always,
irn (only) for iq. Medial q was usually written as Greek chi,
representing the fricative pronunciation: "E[ch]aluin" and similar.
As a compromise for this Latin-1 text, chi is shown as q in the main
text, and as [ch] in the Glossary.
Missing punctuation in Figure captions and the Glossary has been
silently supplied. Other typographical errors are listed at the end of
the e-text.]
Smithsonian Institution----Bureau Of Ethnology.
THE CENTRAL ESKIMO.
by
DR. FRANZ BOAS
CONTENTS.
Page.
Introduction 409
Authorities quoted 410
Orthography 413
Geography of Northeastern America 414
Distribution of the tribes 419
General observations 419
Baffin Land 421
The Sikosuilarmiut 421
The Akuliarmiut 421
The Qaumauangmiut 421
The Nugumiut 422
The Oqomiut 424
The Padlimiut and the Akudnirmiut 440
The Aggomiut 442
The Iglulirmiut 444
The Pilingmiut 444
The Sagdlirmiut 444
Western shore of Hudson Bay 444
The Aivillirmiut 445
The Kinipetu or Agutit | 2,678.456757 |
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E-text prepared by Steven desJardins and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
JOLLY SALLY PENDLETON
Or
The Wife who was Not a Wife
by
LAURA JEAN LIBBEY
[Illustration: Jolly Sally Pendleton by Laura Jean Libbey]
Hart Series No. 43
Copyright 1897 by George Munro's Sons.
Published by
The Arthur Westbrook Company
Cleveland, O., U. S. A.
INDEX
CHAPTER PAGE
I. BOTH GIRLS WERE SO STUNNINGLY PRETTY, AND WORE 5
SUCH ODD, BEWITCHING COSTUMES ON THEIR TANDEM,
THAT THE PEOPLE WHO STOPPED TO WATCH THE BEAUTIES
AS THEY WHIRLED BY NICKNAMED THEM "THE HEAVENLY
TWINS."
II. IT IS ONE THING TO ADMIRE A PRETTY GIRL, QUITE 10
ANOTHER THING TO FALL IN LOVE WITH HER.
III. THE TERRIBLE WAGER AT THE GREAT RACE. 13
IV. WHICH WON? 19
V. "SHALL WE BREAK THIS BETROTHAL, THAT WAS MADE ONLY 23
IN FUN?"
VI. THE WAY OF WOMEN THE WHOLE WORLD OVER. 26
VII. BERNARDINE. 31
VIII. "OH, I AM SO GLAD THAT YOU HAVE COME, DOCTOR!" 36
IX. "WHAT A LONELY LIFE FOR THIS BEAUTIFUL YOUNG 38
GIRL!"
X. WHAT IS LIFE WITHOUT LOVE? 40
XI. A SHADOW DARKENS THE PEACEFUL HOME OF THE 45
BASKET-MAKER.
XII. "YOU ARE FALSE AS YOU ARE FAIR, BERNARDINE!" 48
XIII. HE WISHED HE COULD TELL SOME ONE HIS UNFORTUNATE 52
LOVE STORY.
XIV. "HAVE I BROKEN YOUR HEART, MY DARLING?" 58
XV. "I LOVE YOU! I CAN NOT KEEP THE SECRET ANY 61
LONGER!"
XVI. "WHERE THERE IS NO JEALOUSY THERE IS LITTLE LOVE!" 64
XVII. 70
XVIII. FATE WEAVES A STRANGE WEB. 74
XIX. "TRUE LOVE NEVER DOES RUN SMOOTH." 80
XX. "IT WOULD BE WISER TO MAKE A FRIEND THAN AN ENEMY 84
OF ME."
XXI. JASPER WILDE MEETS WITH AN ADVENTURE. 87
XXII. 92
XXIII. 95
XXIV. 98
XXV. 102
XXVI. 105
XXVII. 109
XXVIII. 114
XXIX. 117
XXX. 125
XXXI. 130
XXXII. 135
XXXIII. 141
XXXIV. 145
XXXV. 148
XXXVI. 151
XXXVII. 156
XXXVIII. 161
XXXIX. 165
XL. 170
XLI. 176
XLII. 177
XLIII. 182
XLIV. 187
XLV. 191
XLVI. 196
XLVII. 200
XLVIII. 205
XLIX. 210
L. 215
LI. 219
LII. 224
LIII. 229
LIV. 232
LV. 235
LVI. 240
LVII. 244
LVIII. 249
JOLLY SALLY PENDLETON
OR
THE WIFE WHO WAS NOT A WIFE
CHAPTER I.
BOTH GIRLS WERE SO STUNNINGLY PRETTY, AND WORE SUCH
ODD, BEWITCHING COSTUMES ON THEIR TANDEM, THAT THE
PEOPLE WHO STOPPED TO WATCH THE BEAUTIES AS THEY
WHIRLED BY NICKNAMED THEM "THE HEAVENLY TWINS."
As Jay Gardiner drove down the village street behind his handsome pair
of prancing bays, holding the ribbons skillfully over them, all the
village maidens promenading up the village street or sitting in groups
on the porches turned to look at him.
He was certainly a handsome fellow; there was no denying that. He was
tall, broad-shouldered, with a fair, handsome face, laughing blue eyes,
a crisp, brown, curling mustache, and, what was better still, he was
heir to two millions of money.
He was passing the summer at the fashionable little village of Lee,
among the Berkshire Hills of Massachusetts.
That did more to advertise the place than all the glowing newspaper
items the proprietor of the Summerset House could have paid for.
Every mother of a marriageable daughter who had heard of the millionaire
managed to rake and scrape together enough money to pass the season at
Lee.
It was laughable to see how adroitly these mothers managed to secure an
introduction, upon one pretext or another, to the handsome millionaire.
Then the daughters were duly brought forward and presented.
Every one knew the story of Jay Gardiner. His lady-mother and elder
sister lived in what was called the Castle, the grandest and most famous
homestead by far in Great Barrington.
With all the millions at her command, haughty Mrs. Gardiner had but one
great sorrow, and that was that her handsome son could not be induced to
remain at home and lead the life of a fashionable young gentleman of
leisure.
At college he had declared his intention of studying medicine. He had
graduated with high honors, and, much to his mother's annoyance, had
established himself as a full-fledged M. D.
If he had been poor, perhaps patients might not have come to him so
readily; but as it was, he found himself launched at once into a
lucrative practice.
This particular summer upon which our story opens, his grand lady-mother
was unusually incensed against handsome Jay. He had refused to spend his
vacation at the Castle, because, as he explained, there was a bevy of
fashionable girls invited there for him to fall in love with, and whom
he was expected to entertain.
"The long and the short of it is, mother, I shall not do it," he
decisively declared. "I shall simply run over to Lee and take up my
quarters in some unpretentious boarding-house, where I can come down to
my meals and lounge about in a _neglige_ shirt, and read my papers and
smoke my cigars swinging in a hammock, without being disturbed by
girls."
In high dudgeon his lady-mother and sister had sailed off to Europe, and
they lived all their after-lives to rue it, and to bemoan the fact that
they had not stayed at home to watch over the young man, and to guard
the golden prize from the band of women who were on the lookout for just
such an opportunity.
Jay Gardiner found just such an ideal boarding-house as he was looking
for. Every woman who came to the village with a marriageable daughter
tried to secure board at that boarding-house, but signally failed.
They never dreamed that the handsome, debonair young millionaire paid
the good landlady an exorbitant price to keep women out.
Good Widow Smith did her duty faithfully.
When Mrs. Pendleton, of New York, heard of the great attraction at Lee,
Massachusetts, she decided that that was the place where she and her two
daughters, Lou and Sally, should spend the summer.
"If either of you girls come home engaged to this millionaire," Mrs.
Pendleton had declared, "I shall consider it the greatest achievement of
my life. True, we live in a fine mansion on Fifth Avenue, and we are
supposed to be very wealthy; but not one of our dear five hundred
friends has discovered that the house we live in is merely rented, nor
that your father's business is mortgaged to the full extent. We will
have a hard time to pull through, and keep up appearances, until you two
are married off."
Mrs. Pendleton established herself at the Summerset House, with her two
daughters. Every Saturday afternoon the pompous old broker went out to
Lee, to make a show for the girls.
"The next question is," said Mrs. Pendleton, after the trunks were
unpacked, and the pretty clothes hung up in the various closets, "which
one of you two will Mr. Gardiner prefer?"
"Me!" said jolly Sally, with a mischievous laugh, complacently gazing at
the lovely face reflected in the mirror.
"It might be as well to wait until after he is introduced to us before
you answer that question," said Lou. "But how are we to meet him?"
"Your father will attend to that part of the business," said Mrs.
Pendleton. "He understands what he has to do, and will find a way to
accomplish it. Having marriageable daughters always sharpens a man's
wits. Your father will find some way to get in with young Mr. Gardiner,
depend upon that."
It required three weeks for Mr. Pendleton to secure an introduction to
the young man. On the following day the two sisters, dressed in their
best, and hanging on their father's arms, paraded up and down the
village streets until they espied the object of their search.
Introductions naturally followed; but, much to the chagrin of the girls,
their father, after chatting for a moment with handsome Mr. Gardiner,
dragged them along.
"I did not have a chance to say one word to him," said Lou,
disappointedly.
"Nor I," said Sally, poutingly.
"Don't make a dead set for a man the first time you see him,"
recommended Mr. Pendleton, grimly. "Take matters easy."
The proudest moment of their lives was when Jay Gardiner called upon
them at their hotel one afternoon. The girls were squabbling up in their
room when his card was handed them.
"Did he say which one of us he wishes to see?" cried Lou, breathlessly.
"The Misses Pendleton," replied the bell-boy.
There was a rush for their best clothes, and an exciting time for the
mother in getting the girls into them.
A moment later, two girls, both pretty as pictures, with their arms
lovingly twined about each other, glided into the parlor. Handsome Jay
turned from the window, thinking to himself that he had never beheld a
fairer picture.
There was half an hour's chat, and then he took his departure. He never
| 2,678.463826 |
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Under Fire
The Story of a Squad
By
Henri Barbusse
(1874-1935)
Translated by Fitzwater Wray
To
the memory of
the comrades who fell by my side
at Crouy and on Hill 119
January, May, and September 1915
Contents
I. The Vision
II. In the Earth
III. The Return
IV. Volpatte and Fouillade
V. Sanctuary
VI. Habits
VII. Entraining
VIII. On Leave
IX. The Anger of Volpatte
X. Argoval
XI. The Dog
XII. The Doorway
XIII. The Big Words
XIV. Of Burdens
XV. The Egg
XVI. An Idyll
XVII. The Sap
XVIII. A Box of Matches
XIX. Bombardment
XX. Under Fire
XXI. The Refuge
XXII. Going About
XXIII. The Fatigue-Party
XXIV. The Dawn
UNDER FIRE
I
The Vision
MONT BLANC, the Dent du Midi, and the Aiguille Verte look across at the
bloodless faces that show above the blankets along the gallery of the
sanatorium. This roofed-in gallery of rustic wood-work on the first
floor of the palatial hospital is isolated in Space and overlooks the
world. The blankets of fine wool--red, green, brown, or white--from
which those wasted cheeks and shining eyes protrude are quite still. No
sound comes from the long couches except when some one coughs, or that
of the pages of a book turned over at long and regular intervals, or
the undertone of question and quiet answer between neighbors, or now
and again the crescendo disturbance of a daring crow, escaped to the
balcony from those flocks that seem threaded across the immense
transparency like chaplets of black pearls.
Silence is obligatory. Besides, the rich and high-placed who have come
here from all the ends of the earth, smitten by the same evil, have
lost the habit of talking. They have withdrawn into themselves, to
think of their life and of their death.
A servant appears in the balcony, dressed in white and walking softly.
She brings newspapers and hands them about.
"It's decided," says the first to unfold his paper. "War is declared."
Expected as the news is, its effect is almost dazing, for this audience
feels that its portent is without measure or limit. These men of
culture and intelligence, detached from the affairs of the world and
almost from the world itself, whose faculties are deepened by suffering
and meditation, as far remote from their fellow men as if they were
already of the Future--these men look deeply into the distance, towards
the unknowable land of the living and the insane.
"Austria's act is a crime," says the Austrian.
"France must win," says the Englishman.
"I hope Germany will be beaten," says the German.
They settle down again under the blankets and on the pillows, looking
to heaven and the high peaks. But in spite of that vast purity, the
silence is filled with the dire disclosure of a moment before.
War!
Some of the invalids break the silence, and say the word again under
their breath, reflecting that this is the greatest happening of the
age, and perhaps of all ages. Even on the lucid landscape at which they
gaze the news casts something like a vague and somber mirage.
The tranquil expanses of the valley, adorned with soft and smooth
pastures and hamlets rosy as the rose, with the sable shadow-stains of
the majestic mountains and the black lace and white of pines and
eternal snow, become alive with the movements of men, whose multitudes
swarm in distinct masses. Attacks develop, wave by wave, across the
fields and then stand still. Houses are eviscerated like human beings
and towns like houses. Villages appear in crumpled whiteness as though
fallen from heaven to earth. The very shape of the plain is changed by
the frightful heaps of wounded and slain.
Each country whose frontiers are consumed by carnage is seen tearing
from its heart ever more warriors of full blood and force. One's eyes
follow the flow of these living tributaries to the River of Death. To
north and south and west afar there are battles on every side. Turn
where you will, there is war in every corner of that vastness.
One of the pale-faced clairvoyants lifts himself on his elbow, reckons
and numbers the fighters present and to come--thirty millions of
soldiers. Another stammers, his eyes full of slaughter, "Two armies at
death-grips--that is one great army committing suicide."
"It should not have been," says the deep and hollow voice of the first
in the line. But another says, "It is the French Revolution beginning
again." "Let thrones beware!" says another's undertone.
The third adds, "Perhaps it is the last war of all." A silence follows,
then some heads are shaken in dissent whose faces have been blanched
anew by the stale tragedy of sleepless night--"Stop war? Stop war?
Impossible! There is no cure for the world's disease."
Some one coughs, and then the Vision is swallowed up in the huge sunlit
peace of the lush meadows. In the rich colors of the glowing kine, the
black forests, the green fields and the blue distance, dies the
reflection of the fire where the old world burns and breaks. Infinite
silence engulfs the uproar of hate and pain from the dark swarmings of
mankind. They who have spoken retire one by one within themselves,
absorbed once more in their own mysterious malady.
But when evening is ready to descend within the valley, a storm breaks
over the mass of Mont Blanc. One may not go forth in such peril, for
the last waves of the storm-wind roll even to the great veranda, to
that harbor where they have taken refuge; and these victims of a great
internal wound encompass with their gaze the elemental convulsion.
They watch how the explosions of thunder on the mountain upheave the
level clouds like a stormy sea, how each one hurls a shaft of fire and
a column of cloud together into the twilight; and they turn their wan
and sunken faces to follow the flight of the eagles that wheel in the
sky and look from their supreme height down through the wreathing
mists, down to earth.
"Put an end to war?" say the watchers.--"Forbid the Storm!"
Cleansed from the passions of party and faction, liberated from
prejudice and infatuation and the tyranny of tradition, these watchers
on the threshold of another world are vaguely conscious of the
simplicity of the present and the yawning possibilities of the future.
The man at the end of the rank cries, "I can see crawling things down
there"--"Yes, as though they were alive"--"Some sort of plant,
perhaps"--"Some kind of men"--
And there amid the baleful glimmers of the storm, below the dark
disorder of the clouds that extend and unfurl over the earth like evil
spirits, they seem to see a great livid plain unrolled, which to their
seeing is made of mud and water, while figures appear and fast fix
themselves to the surface of it, all blinded and borne down with filth,
like the dreadful castaways of shipwreck. And it seems to them that
these are soldiers.
The streaming plain, seamed and seared with long parallel canals and
scooped into water-holes, is an immensity, and these castaways who
strive to exhume themselves from it are legion. But the thirty million
slaves, hurled upon one another in the mud of war by guilt and error,
uplift their human faces and reveal at last a bourgeoning Will. The
future is in the hands of these slaves, and it is clearly certain that
the alliance to be cemented some day by those whose number and whose
misery alike are infinite will transform the old world.
II
In the Earth
THE great pale sky is alive with thunderclaps. Each detonation reveals
together a shaft of red falling fire in what is left of the night, and
a column of smoke in what has dawned of the day. Up there--so high and
so far that they are heard unseen--a flight of dreadful birds goes
circling up with strong and palpitating cries to look down upon the
earth.
The earth! It is a vast and water-logged desert that begins to take
shape under the long-drawn desolation of daybreak. There are pools and
gullies where the bitter breath of earliest morning nips the water and
sets it a-shiver; tracks traced by the troops and the convoys of the
night in these barren fields, the lines of ruts that glisten in the
weak light like steel rails, mud-masses with broken stakes protruding
from them, ruined trestles, and bushes of wire in tangled coils. With
its slime-beds and puddles, the plain might be an endless gray sheet
that floats on the sea and has here and there gone under. Though no
rain is falling, all is drenched, oozing, washed out and drowned, and
even the wan light seems to flow.
Now you can make out a network of long ditches where the lave of the
night still lingers. It is the trench. It is carpeted at bottom with a
layer of slime that liberates the foot at each step with a sticky
sound; and by each dug-out it smells of the night's excretions. The
holes themselves, as you stoop to peer in, are foul of breath.
I see shadows coming from these sidelong pits and moving about, huge
and misshapen lumps, bear-like, that flounder and growl. They are "us."
We are muffled like Eskimos. Fleeces and blankets and sacking wrap us
up, | 2,678.472511 |
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Produced by Marcia Brooks, Ross Cooling and the Online
| 2,678.757083 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Anne Storer and the Online
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file was produced from images generously made available
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[Illustration: THE SISTINE MADONNA.--RAPHAEL.]
CHILD-LIFE IN ART
BY
ESTELLE M. HURLL, M.A.
Illustrated
Children are God's apostles, day by day
Sent forth to preach of love and hope and peace.
LOWELL.
BOSTON
JOSEPH KNIGHT COMPANY
1895
_Copyright, 1894,_
BY JOSEPH KNIGHT COMPANY.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
PREFACE.
The subject of this little book is its best claim upon public favor.
Child-life in every form appeals with singular force to the sympathies
of all. In palace and in cottage, in the city and in the country,
childhood reigns supreme by the divine right of love. No monarch rules
more mightily than the infant sovereign in the Kingdom of Home, and none
more beneficently. His advent brings a bit of heaven into our midst, and
we become more gentle and tender for the sacred influence. Every phase
of the growing young life is beautiful and interesting to us. Every new
mood awakens in us a sense of awe before unfolding possibilities for
good or evil.
The poetry of childhood is full of attractiveness to the artist,
and many and varied are the forms in which he interprets it. The
Christ-child has been his highest ideal. All that human imagination
could conceive of innocence and purity and divine loveliness has been
shown forth in the delineation of the Babe of Bethlehem. The influence
of such art has made itself felt upon all child pictures. It matters not
whether the subject be a prince or a street-waif; the true artist sees
in him something which is lovable and winning, and transfers it to his
canvas for our lasting pleasure.
Art has produced so many representations of children that it would be a
hopeless task to attempt a complete enumeration of them, and the book
makes no pretensions to exhaustiveness. The aim has been merely to
suggest a convenient outline of classification, and to describe a few
characteristic examples in each group. The nature of the undertaking
has, of course, necessitated consulting the works of many standard
authorities, to whom I gratefully acknowledge my indebtedness. The names
of the most prominent are included in the bibliographical list. While
faithfully studying their opinions, I have always reserved the right of
forming an independent estimate of any painting considered, especially
when, as in many cases, I have myself seen the original. I am under
great obligations to my friend Professor Anne Eugenia Morgan of
Wellesley for first showing me, through her philosophical
art-interpretations, the true meaning and value of the works of
the masters. From these interpretations I have drawn many of the
suggestions which are embodied in the descriptions of the following
pages.
While addressing lovers of children primarily, I have also hoped to
interest students in the history of art. I have therefore added a few
notes containing further details in regard to some of the subjects.
E. M. H.
NEW BEDFORD, MASS., June 1, 1894.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. CHILDHOOD IN IDEAL TYPES 3
II. CHILDREN BORN TO THE PURPLE 29
III. THE CHILDREN OF FIELD AND VILLAGE 57
IV. THE CHILD-LIFE OF THE STREETS 87
V. CHILD-ANGELS 115
VI. THE CHRIST-CHILD 141
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
SISTINE MADONNA Raphael _Frontispiece_
THE STRAWBERRY GIRL Reynolds 7
PENELOPE BOOTHBY Reynolds 15
ANGEL HEADS Reynolds 19
_From the original painting in the National Gallery, London._
NATURE Lawrence 23
PORTRAIT OF PRINCE JAMES, DUKE OF YORK Van Dyck 33
_From a painting in San Luca, Rome, after the Turin portrait
by Van Dyck._
PORTRAIT OF PRINCESS MARY STUART AND
PRINCE WILLIAM II. OF ORANGE Van Dyck 39
_From the original painting in Amsterdam._
PORTRAIT OF THE INFANTA MARIA THERESA Velasquez 45
_From the original painting in the Prado, Madrid._
PORTRAIT OF THE INFANTA MARGUERITE Velasquez 49
_From the original painting in the Louvre, Paris._
RUSTIC CHILDREN Gainsborough 59
LA CRUCHE CASSEE (The Broken Pitcher) Greuze 71
_From the original painting in the Louvre, Paris._
CHILD'S HEAD Bouguereau 77
THE LITTLE RABBIT SELLER Meyer von Bremen 81
BEGGAR BOYS Murillo 89
_From the original painting in the Pinacothek, Munich._
STREET ARABS Dorothy Tennant Stanley 98
THE MEETING Marie Bashkirtseff 103
_From the original painting in the Luxembourg, Paris._
CASTLES IN SPAIN J. G. Brown 107
GROUP OF ANGELS. From the Assumption Titian 119
_From the original painting in the Academy, Venice._
PIPING ANGEL. Detail of Frari Madonna Bellini 127
_From the original painting in Venice._
ANGEL. From Madonna and Child Luigi Vivarini 131
_From the original painting in the Church of Redentore, Venice._
ANGEL. From the Vision of Saint Bernard Filippino Lippi 135
_From the original painting in the Badia, Florence._
MADONNA OF THE CASA TEMPI Raphael | 2,679.060542 |
2023-11-16 19:01:43.0407200 | 7,436 | 127 |
Produced by Joyce Wilson and David Widger
THE BROKEN CUP
By Johann Heinrich Daniel Zschokke
Translated by P. G.
Copyright, 1891, by The Current Literature Publishing Company
Author's Note.--There is extant under this name a short piece by the
author of "Little Kate of Heilbronn." That and the tale which here
follows originated in an incident which took place at Bern in the year
1802. Henry von Kleist and Ludwig Wieland, the son of the poet, were
both friends of the writer, in whose chamber hung an engraving called
_La Cruche Cassee_, the persons and contents of which resembled the
scene set forth below, under the head of The Tribunal. The drawing,
which was full of expression, gave great delight to those who saw it,
and led to many conjectures as to its meaning. The three friends agreed,
in sport, that they would each one day commit to writing his peculiar
interpretation of its design. Wieland promised a satire; Von Kleist
threw off a comedy; and the author of the following tale what is here
given.
MARIETTA.
NAPOULE, it is true, is only a very little place on the bay of Cannes;
yet it is pretty well known through all Provence. It lies in the shade
of lofty evergreen palms, and darker orange trees; but that alone would
not make it renowned. Still they say that there are grown the most
luscious grapes, the sweetest roses, and the handsomest girls. I don't
know but it is so; in the mean time I believe it most readily. Pity that
Napoule is so small, and can not produce more luscious grapes, fragrant
roses, and handsome maidens; especially, as we might then have some of
them transplanted to our own country.
As, ever since the foundation of Napoule, all the Napoulese women have
been beauties, so the little Marietta was a wonder of wonders, as the
chronicles of the place declare. She was called the _little_ Marietta; yet
she was not smaller than a girl of seventeen or thereabout ought to be,
seeing that her forehead just reached up to the lips of a grown man.
The chronicles aforesaid had very good ground for speaking of Marietta.
I, had I stood in the shoes of the chronicler, would have done the
same. For Marietta, who until lately had lived with her mother Manon
at Avignon, when she came back to her birthplace, quite upset the whole
village. Verily, not the houses, but the people and their heads; and not
the heads of all the people, but of those particularly whose heads and
hearts are always in danger when in the neighborhood of two bright eyes.
I know very well that such a position is no joke.
Mother Manon would have done much better if she had remained at Avignon.
But she had been left a small inheritance, by which she received at
Napoule an estate consisting of some vine-hills, and a house that lay in
the shadow of a rock, between certain olive trees and African acacias.
This is a kind of thing which no unprovided widow ever rejects; and,
accordingly, in her own estimation, she was as rich and happy as though
she were the Countess of Provence or something like it.
So much the worse was it for the good people of Napoule. They never
suspected their misfortune, not having read in Homer how a single pretty
woman had filled all Greece and Lesser Asia with discord and war.
HOW THE MISFORTUNE CAME ABOUT.
Marietta had scarcely been fourteen days in the house, between the olive
trees and the African acacias, before every young man of Napoule knew
that she lived there, and that there lived not, in all Provence, a more
charming girl than the one in that house.
Went she through the village, sweeping lightly along like a dressed-up
angel, her frock, with its pale-green bodice, and orange leaves and
rosebuds upon the bosom of it, fluttering in the breeze, and flowers
and ribbons waving about the straw bonnet, which shaded her beautiful
features--yes, then the grave old men spake out, and the young ones were
struck dumb. And everywhere, to the right and left, little windows and
doors were opened with a "Good morning," or a "Good evening, Marietta,"
as it might be, while she nodded to the right and left with a pleasant
smile.
If Marietta walked into church, all hearts (that is, of the young
people) forgot Heaven; all eyes turned from the saints, and the
worshiping finger wandered idly among the pearls of the rosary. This
must certainly have provoked much sorrow, at least, among the more
devout.
The maidens of Napoule particularly became very pious about this time,
for they, most of all, took the matter to heart. And they were not to
be blamed for it; for since the advent of Marietta more than one
prospective groom had become cold, and more than one worshipper of some
beloved one quite inconstant. There were bickerings and reproaches on
all sides, many tears, pertinent lectures, and even rejections. The talk
was no longer of marriages, but of separations. They began to return
their pledges of troth, rings, ribbons, etc. The old persons took part
with their children; criminations and strife spread from house to house;
it was most deplorable.
Marietta is the cause of all, said the pious maidens first; then the
mothers said it; next the fathers took it up; and finally all--even the
young men. But Marietta, shielded by her modesty and innocence, like
the petals of the rosebud in its dark-green calix, did not suspect
the mischief of which she was the occasion, and continued courteous to
everybody. This touched the young men, who said, "Why condemn the pure
and harmless child--she is not guilty!" Then the fathers said the same
thing; then the mothers took it up, and finally all--even the pious
maidens. For, let who would talk with Marietta, she was sure to gain
their esteem. So before half a year had passed, everybody had spoken to
her, and everybody loved her. But she did not suspect that she was the
object of such general regard, as she had not before suspected that she
was the object of dislike. Does the violet, hidden in the downtrodden
grass, think how sweet it is?
Now every one wished to make amends for the injustice they had done
Marietta. Sympathy deepened the tenderness of their attachment. Marietta
found herself greeted everywhere in a more friendly way than ever; she
was more cordially welcomed; more heartily invited to the rural sports
and dances.
ABOUT THE WICKED COLIN.
All men, however, are not endowed with tender sympathy; some have
hearts hardened like Pharaoh's. This arises, no doubt, from that natural
depravity which has come upon men in consequence of the fall of Adam, or
because, at their baptism, the devil is not brought sufficiently under
subjection.
A remarkable example of this hardness of heart was given by one Colin,
the richest farmer and proprietor in Napoule, whose vineyards and olive
gardens, whose lemon and orange trees could hardly be counted in a day.
One thing particularly demonstrates the perverseness of his disposition;
he was twenty-seven years old, and had never yet asked for what purpose
girls had been created!
True, all the people, especially damsels of a certain age, willingly
forgave him this sin, and looked upon him as one of the best young men
under the sun. His fine figure, his fresh, unembarrassed manner, his
look, his laugh, enabled him to gain the favorable opinion of the
aforesaid people, who would have forgiven him, had there been occasion,
any one of the deadly sins. But the decision of such judges is not
always to be trusted. While both old and young at Napoule had become
reconciled to the innocent Marietta, and proffered their sympathies
to her, Colin was the only one who had no pity upon the poor child. If
Marietta was talked of he became as dumb as a fish. If he met her in the
street he would turn red and white with anger, and cast sidelong glances
at her of the most malicious kind.
If at evening the young people met upon the seashore near the old castle
ruins for sprightly pastimes, or rural dances, or to sing catches,
Colin was the merriest among them. But as soon as Marietta arrived the
rascally fellow was silent, and all the gold in the world couldn't
make him sing.--What a pity, when he had such a fine voice! Everybody
listened to it so willingly, and its store of songs was endless.
All the maidens looked kindly upon Colin, and he was friendly with all
of them. He had, as we have said, a roguish glance, which the lasses
feared and loved; and it was so sweet they would like to have had it
painted. But, as might naturally be expected, the offended Marietta
did not look graciously upon him. And in that he was perfectly right.
Whether he smiled or not, it was all the same to her. As to his roguish
glance, why she would never hear it mentioned; and therein too she
was perfectly right. When he told a tale (and he knew thousands) and
everybody listened, she nudged her neighbor, or perhaps threw tufts of
grass at Peter or Paul, and laughed and chattered, and did not listen to
Colin at all. This behavior quite provoked the proud fellow, so that he
would break off in the middle of his story and stalk sullenly away.
Revenge is sweet. The daughter of Mother Manon well knew how to triumph.
Yet Marietta was a right good child and quite too tenderhearted. If
Colin was silent, it gave her pain. If he was downcast, she laughed no
more. If he went away, she did not stay long behind: but hurried to her
home, and wept tears of repentance, more beautiful than those of the
Magdalen, although she had not sinned like the Magdalen.
THE CUP.
Father Jerome, the pastor of Napoule, was an old man of seventy, who
possessed all the virtues of a saint, and only one failing; which was,
that by reason of his advanced years, he was hard of hearing. But, on
that very account, his homilies were more acceptable to the children of
his baptism and blessing. True, he preached only of two subjects, as if
they comprehended the whole of religion. It was either "Little children,
love one another," or it was "Mysterious are the ways of Providence."
And truly there is so much Faith, Love, and Hope in these that one might
at a pinch be saved by them. The little children loved one another most
obediently, and trusted in the ways of Providence. Only Colin, with his
flinty heart, would know nothing of either: for even when he professed
to be friendly, he entertained the deepest malice.
The Napoulese went to the annual market or fair of the city of Vence.
It was truly a joyful time, and though they had but little gold to buy
with, there were many goods to look at. Now Marietta and Mother Manon
went to the fair with the rest, and Colin was also there. He bought a
great many curiosities and trifles for his friends--but he would not
spend a farthing for Marietta. And yet he was always at her elbow,
though he did not speak to her, nor she to him. It was easy to see that
he was brooding over some scheme of wickedness.
Mother Manon stood gazing before a shop, when she suddenly exclaimed:
"Oh! Marietta, see that beautiful cup! A queen would not be ashamed to
raise it to her lips. Only see: the edge is of dazzling gold, and the
flowers upon it could not bloom more beautifully in the garden, although
they are only painted. And in the midst of this Paradise! pray see,
Marietta, how the apples are smiling on the trees. They are verily
tempting. And Adam cannot withstand it, as the enchanting Eve offers
him one for food! And do see how prettily the little frisking lamb skips
around the old tiger, and the snow-white dove with her golden throat
stands there before the vulture, as if she would caress him."
Marietta could not satisfy herself with looking. "Had I such a cup,
mother!" said she, "it is far too beautiful to drink out of: I would
place my flowers in it and constantly peep into Paradise. We are at the
fair in Vence, but when I look on the picture I feel as if I were in
Paradise."
So spoke Marietta, and called her companions to the spot, to share her
admiration of the cup: but the young men soon joined the maidens, until
at length almost half the inhabitants of Napoule were assembled before
the wonderfully beautiful cup. But miraculously beautiful was it mainly
from its inestimable, translucent porcelain, with gilded handles and
glowing colors. They asked the merchant timidly: "Sir, what is the price
of it?" And he answered: "Among friends, it is worth a hundred livres."
Then they all became silent, and went away in despair. When the
Napoulese were all gone from the front of the shop, Colin came there by
stealth, threw the merchant a hundred livres upon the counter, had the
cup put in a box well packed with cotton, and then carried it off. What
evil plans he had in view no one would have surmised.
Near Napoule, on his way home, it being already dusk, he met old
Jacques, the Justice's servant, returning from the fields. Jacques was a
very good man, but excessively stupid.
"I will give thee money enough to get something to drink, Jacques," said
Colin, "if thou wilt bear this box to Manon's house, and leave it there;
and if any one should see thee, and inquire from whom the box came, say
'A stranger gave it to me.' But never disclose my name, or I will always
detest thee."
Jacques promised this, took the drink-money and the box, and went with
it toward the little dwelling between the olive trees and the African
acacias.
THE CARRIER.
Before he arrived there he encountered his master, Justice Hautmartin,
who asked; "Jacques, what art thou carrying?"
"A box for Mother Manon. But, sir, I cannot say from whom it comes."
"Why not?"
"Because Colin would always detest me."
"It is well that thou canst keep a secret. But it is already late; give
me the box, for I am going to-morrow to see Mother Manon; I will deliver
it to her and not betray that it came from Colin. It will save thee a
walk, and furnish me a good excuse for calling on the old lady."
Jacques gave the box to his master, whom he was accustomed to obey
implicitly in all things. The justice bore it into his chamber, and
examined it by the light with some curiosity. On the lid was neatly
written with red chalk: "For the lovely and dear Marietta." But Monsieur
Hautmartin well knew that this was some of Colin's mischief, and that
some knavish trick lurked under the whole. He therefore opened the box
carefully for fear that a mouse or rat should be concealed within.
When he beheld the wondrous cup, which he had seen at Vence, he was
dreadfully shocked, for Monsieur Hautmartin was a skilful casuist, and
knew that the inventions and devices of the human heart are evil from
our youth upward. He saw at once that Colin designed this cup as a
means of bringing misfortune upon Marietta: perhaps to give out, when it
should be in her possession, that it was the present of some successful
lover in the town, or the like, so that all decent people would
thereafter keep aloof from Marietta. Therefore Monsieur Hautmartin
resolved, in order to prevent any evil reports, to profess himself
the giver. Moreover, he loved Marietta, and would gladly have seen her
observe more strictly toward himself the sayings of the gray-headed
priest Jerome, "Little children, love one another." In truth, Monsieur
Hautmartin was a little child of fifty years old, and Marietta did
not think the saying applied particularly to him. Mother Manon, on the
contrary, thought that the justice was a clever little child, he had
gold and a high reputation from one end of Napoule to the other. And
when the justice spoke of marriage, and Marietta ran away in affright,
Mother Manon remained sitting, and had no fear for the tall, staid
gentleman. It must also be confessed there were no faults in his person.
And although Colin might be the handsomest man in the village, yet the
justice far surpassed him in two things, namely, in the number of years,
and in a very, very big nose. Yes, this nose, which always went before
the justice like a herald to proclaim his approach, was a real elephant
among human noses.
With this proboscis, his good purpose, and the cup, the justice went the
following morning to the house between the olive trees and the African
acacias.
"For the beautiful Marietta," said he, "I hold nothing too costly.
Yesterday you admired the cup at Vence; to-day allow me, lovely
Marietta, to lay it and my devoted heart at your feet."
Manon and Marietta were transported beyond measure when they beheld the
cup. Manon's eyes glistened with delight, but Marietta turned and said:
"I can neither take your heart nor your cup."
Then Mother Marion was angry, and cried out: "But I accept both heart
and cup. Oh, thou little fool, how long wilt thou despise thy good
fortune! For whom dost thou tarry? Will a count of Provence make thee
his bride, that thou scornest the Justice of Napoule? I know better how
to look after my interests. Monsieur Hautmartin, I deem it an honor to
call thee my son-in-law."
Then Marietta went out and wept bitterly, and hated the beautiful cup
with all her heart.
But the justice, drawing the palm of his flabby hand over his nose,
spoke thus judiciously:
"Mother Manon, hurry nothing. The dove will at length, when it learns
to know me better, give way. I am not impetuous. I have some skill among
women, and before a quarter of a year passes by I will insinuate myself
into Marietta's good graces."
"Thy nose is too large for that," whispered Marietta, who listened
outside the door and laughed to herself. In fact, the quarter of a year
passed by and Monsieur Hautmartin had not yet pierced the heart even
with the tip of his nose.
THE FLOWERS.
During this quarter of a year Marietta had other affairs to attend to.
The cup gave her much vexation and trouble, and something else besides.
For a fortnight nothing else was talked of in Napoule, and every one
said it is a present from the justice, and the marriage is already
agreed upon. Marietta solemnly declared to all her companions that she
would rather plunge to the bottom of the sea than marry the justice,
but the maidens continued to banter her all the more, saying: "Oh, how
blissful it must be to repose in the shadow of his nose!" This was her
first vexation.
Then Mother Manon had the cruelty to force Marietta to rinse out the
cup every morning at the spring under the rock and to fill it with fresh
flowers. She hoped by this to accustom Marietta to the cup and heart of
the giver. But Marietta continued to hate both the gift and giver, and
her work at the spring became an actual punishment.
Second vexation.
Then, when in the morning, she came to the spring, twice every week she
found on the rock, immediately over it, some most beautiful flowers,
handsomely arranged, all ready for the decoration of the cup. And on the
flower-stalks a strip of paper was always tied, on which was written,
"Dear Marietta." Now no one need expect to impose upon little Marietta
as if magicians and fairies were still in the world. Consequently she
knew that both the flowers and papers must have come from Monsieur
Hautmartin. Marietta, indeed, would not smell them because the living
breath from out of the justice's nose had perfumed them. Nevertheless
she took the flowers, because they were finer than wild flowers, and
tore the slip of paper into a thousand pieces, which she strewed upon
the spot where the flowers usually lay. But this did not vex Justice
Hautmartin, whose love was unparalleled in its kind as his nose was in
its kind. Third vexation.
At length it came out in conversation with Monsieur Hautmartin that
he was not the giver of the beautiful flowers. Then who could it be?
Marietta was utterly astounded at the unexpected discovery. Thenceforth
she took the flowers from the rock more kindly; but, further, Marietta
was--what maidens are not wont to be--very inquisitive. She conjectured
first this and then that young man in Napoule. Yet her conjectures were
in vain. She looked and listened far into the night; she rose earlier
than usual But she looked and listened in vain. And still twice a week
in the morning the miraculous flowers lay upon the rock, and upon the
strip of paper wound round them she always read the silent sigh, "Dear
Marietta!" Such an incident would have made even the most indifferent
inquisitive. But curiosity at length became a burning pain. Fourth
vexation.
WICKEDNESS UPON WICKEDNESS.
Now Father Jerome, on Sunday, had again preached from the text:
"Mysterious are the dispensations of Providence." And little Marietta
thought, if Providence would only dispense that I might at length find
out who is the flower dispenser. Father Jerome was never wrong.
On a summer night, when it was far too warm to rest, Marietta awoke very
early, and could not resume her sleep. Therefore she sprang joyously
from her couch as the first streaks of dawn flashed against the window
of her little chamber, over the waves of the sea and the Lerinian Isles,
dressed herself, and went out to wash her forehead, breast, and arms in
the cool spring. She took her hat with her, intending to take a walk by
the sea-shore, as she knew of a retired place for bathing.
In order to reach this retired spot, it was necessary to pass over the
rocks behind the house, and thence down through the orange and palm
trees. On this occasion Marietta could not pass through them; for,
under the youngest and most slender of the palms lay a tall young man
in profound sleep--near him a nosegay of most splendid flowers. A white
paper lay thereon, from which probably a sigh was again breathing. How
could Marietta get by there?
She stood still, trembling with fright. She would go home again. Hardly
had she retreated a couple of steps, ere she looked again at the sleeper
and remained motionless. Yet the distance prevented her from recognizing
his face. Now the mystery was to be solved, or never. She tripped
lightly nearer to the palms; but he seemed to stir--then she ran again
toward the cottage. His movements were but the fearful imaginings of
Marietta. Now she returned again on her way toward the palms; but his
sleep might perhaps be only dissembled--swiftly she ran toward the
cottage--but who would flee for a mere probability? She trod more boldly
the path toward the palms.
With these fluctuations of her timid and joyous spirit, between fright
and curiosity, with these to-and-fro trippings between the house and
the palm-trees, she at length nearly approached the sleeper; at the same
time curiosity became more powerful than fear.
"What is he to me? My way leads me directly past him. Whether he sleeps
or wakes, I will go straight on." So thought Manon's daughter. But
she passed not by, but stood looking directly in the face of the
flower-giver, in order to be certain who it was. Besides, he slept as if
it were the first time in a month. And who was it? Now, who else should
it be but the archwicked Colin.
So it was _he_ who had annoyed the gentle maiden, and given her so much
trouble with Monsieur Hautmartin, because he bore a grudge against her;
he had been the one who had teased her with flowers, in order to torture
her curiosity. Wherefore? He hated Marietta. He behaved himself always
most shamefully toward the poor child. He avoided her when he could; and
when he could not, he grieved the good-natured little one. With all the
other maidens of Napoule he was more chatty, friendly, courteous, than
toward Marietta. Consider--he had never once asked her to dance, and yet
she danced bewitchingly.
Now there he lay, surprised, taken in the act. Revenge swelled in
Marietta's bosom. What disgrace could she subject him to? She took the
nosegay, unloosened it, strewed his present over the sleeper in scorn.
But the paper, on which appeared again the sigh, "Dear Marietta!" she
retained, and thrust quickly into her bosom. She wished to preserve this
proof of his handwriting. Marietta was sly. Now she would go away. But
her revenge was not yet satisfied. She could not leave the place without
returning Colin's ill-will.
She took the violet-colored silken ribbon from her hat, and threw it
lightly around the sleeper's arm and around the tree, and with three
knots tied Colin fast. Now when he awoke, how astonished he would be!
How his curiosity would torment him to ascertain who had played him this
trick! He could not possibly know. So much the better; it served him
right. She seemed to regret her work when she had finished it. Her bosom
throbbed impetuously. Indeed, I believe that a little tear filled her
eye, as she compassionately gazed upon the guilty one. Slowly
she retreated to the orange grove by the rocks--she looked around
often--slowly ascended the rocks, looking down among the palm trees as
she ascended. Then she hastened to Mother Manon, who was calling her.
THE HAT BAND.
That very day Colin practised new mischief. What did he? He wished to
shame the poor Marietta publicly. Ah! she never thought that every one
in Napoule knew her violet-colored ribbon! Colin remembered it but too
well. Proudly he bound it around his hat, and exhibited it to the gaze
of all the world as a conquest. And male and female cried out: "He has
received it from Marietta."--And all the maidens said angrily: "The
reprobate!" And all the young men who liked to see Marietta cried out:
"The reprobate!"
"How! Mother Manon?" shrieked the Justice Hautmartin when he came to her
house, and he shrieked so loudly that it re-echoed wonderfully through
his nose. "How! do you suffer this? my betrothed presents the young
proprietor Colin with her hat-band! It is high time that we celebrate
our nuptials. When that is over, then I shall have a right to speak."
"You have a right!" answered Mother Manon, "if things are so, the
marriage must take place forthwith. When that is done, all will go
right."
"But, Mother Manon, Marietta always refuses to give me her consent."
"Prepare the marriage feast."
"But she will not even look kindly at me; and when I seat myself at her
side, the little savage jumps up and runs away."
"Justice, only prepare the marriage feast."
"But if Marietta resists--"
"We will take her by surprise. We will go to Father Jerome on Monday
morning early, and he shall quietly celebrate the marriage. This we can
easily accomplish with him. I am her mother, you the first judicial
person in Napoule. He must obey. Marietta need know nothing about it.
Early on Monday morning I will send her to Father Jerome all alone, with
a message so that she will suspect nothing. Then the priest shall speak
earnestly to her. Half an hour afterward we two will come. Then swiftly
to the altar. And even if Marietta should then say No, what does it
matter? The old Priest can hear nothing. But till then, mum to Marietta
and all Napoule."
So the secret remained with the two. Marietta dreamed not of the good
luck which was in store for her. She thought only of Colin's wickedness,
which had made her the common talk of the whole place. Oh! how she
repented her heedlessness about the ribbon; and yet in her heart she
forgave the reprobate his crime. Marietta was far too good. She told her
mother, she told all her playmates, "Colin has found my lost hat band. I
never gave it to him. He only wishes to vex me with it. You all know
that Colin was always ill-disposed towards me, and always sought to
mortify me!"
Ah! the poor child! she knew not what new abomination the malicious
fellow was again contriving.
THE BROKEN CUP.
Early in the morning Marietta went to the spring with the cup. There
were no flowers yet on the rock. It was still quite too early; for the
sun had scarcely risen from the sea.
Footsteps were heard. Colin came in sight, the flowers in his hand.
Marietta became very red. Colin stammered out "good morning, Marietta,"
but the greeting came not from his heart, he could hardly bring it over
his lips.
"Why dost thou wear my ribbon so publicly, Colin?" said Marietta, and
placed the cup upon the rock. "I did not give it thee."
"Thou didst not give it to me, dear Marietta?" asked he, and inward rage
made him deadly pale.
Marietta was ashamed of the falsehood, drooped her eyelids, and said
after a while, "Well, I did give it to thee, yet thou shouldst not have
worn it so openly. Give it me back again."
Slowly he untied it; his anger was so great that he could not prevent
the tears from filling his eyes, nor the sighs from escaping his
breast.--"Dear Marietta, leave thy ribbon with me," said he softly.
"No," answered she.
Then his suppressed passion changed into desperation. Sighing, he looked
towards Heaven, then sadly on Marietta, who, silent and abashed, stood
by the spring with downcast eyes.
He wound the violet coloured ribbon around the stalks of the flowers,
said "there, take them all," and threw the flowers so spitefully against
the magnificent cup upon the rock, that it was thrown down and dashed to
pieces. Maliciously he fled away.
Mother Manon lurking behind the window, had seen and heard all. When the
cup broke, hearing and sight left her. She was scarcely able to speak
for very horror. And as she pushed with all her strength against the
narrow window, to shout after the guilty one, it gave way, and with one
crash fell to the earth and was shattered in pieces.
So much ill luck would have discomposed any other woman. But Manon soon
recovered herself. "How lucky that I was a witness to this roguery!"
exclaimed she; "he must to the Justice.--He shall replace both cup and
window-sash with his gold. It will give a rich dowry to Marietta But
when Marietta brought in the fragments of the shattered cup, when Manon
saw the Paradise lost, the good man Adam without a head, and of Eve not
a solitary limb remaining, the serpent unhurt, triumphing, the tiger
safe, but the little lamb gone even to the very tail, as if the tiger
had swallowed it, then Mother Manon screamed forth curses against Colin,
and said: 'One can easily see that this _fall_ came from the hand of the
devil.'"
THE TRIBUNAL.
She took the cup in one hand, Marietta in the other, and went, about
nine o'clock, to when Monsieur Hautmartin was wont to sit in judgment.
She there made a great outcry, and showed the broken cup and the
Paradise lost. Marietta wept bitterly.
The justice, when he saw the broken cup and his beautiful bride in
tears, flew into so violent a rage toward Colin that his nose was
as violet-colored as Marietta's well-known hat-band, He immediately
despatched his bailiffs to bring the criminal before him.
Colin came, overwhelmed with grief. Mother Manon now repeated
her complaint with great eloquence before justice, bailiffs, and
scribes.--But Colin listened not. He stepped to Marietta and whispered
to hen "Forgive me, dear Marietta, as I forgive thee. I broke thy cup
unintentionally; | 2,679.06076 |
2023-11-16 19:01:43.0445760 | 7,436 | 9 |
Produced by Martin Ward
Weymouth New Testament in Modern Speech, Revelation
Third Edition 1913
R. F. Weymouth
Book 66 Revelation
001:001 The revelation given by Jesus Christ, which God granted Him,
that He might make known to His servants certain events
which must shortly come to pass: and He sent His angel
and communicated it to His servant John.
001:002 This is the John who taught the truth concerning the Word
of God and the truth told us by Jesus Christ--a faithful
account of what he had seen.
001:003 Blessed is he who reads and blessed are those who listen to the
words of this prophecy and lay to heart what is written in it;
for the time for its fulfillment is now close at hand.
001:004 John sends greetings to the seven Churches in the province of Asia.
May grace be granted to you, and peace, from Him who is
and was and evermore will be; and from the seven Spirits
which are before His throne;
001:005 and from Jesus Christ, the truthful witness, the first of the dead
to be born to Life, and the Ruler of the kings of the earth.
To Him who loves us and has freed us from our sins with
His own blood,
001:006 and has formed us into a Kingdom, to be priests to God, His Father--
to Him be ascribed the glory and the power until the Ages
of the Ages. Amen.
001:007 He is coming in the clouds, and every eye will see Him,
and so will those who pierced Him; and all the nations
of the earth will gaze on Him and mourn. Even so. Amen.
001:008 "I am the Alpha and the Omega," says the Lord God, "He who is
and was and evermore will be--the Ruler of all."
001:009 I John, your brother, and a sharer with you in the sorrows
and Kingship and patient endurance of Jesus, found myself
in the island of Patmos, on account of the Word of God
and the truth told us by Jesus.
001:010 In the Spirit I found myself present on the day of the Lord,
and I heard behind me a loud voice which resembled the blast
of a trumpet.
001:011 It said, "Write forthwith in a roll an account of what you see,
and send it to the seven Churches--to Ephesus, Smyrna,
Pergamum, Thyateira, Sardis, Philadelphia and Laodicea."
001:012 I turned to see who it was that was speaking to me; and then
I saw seven golden lampstands,
001:013 and in the center of the lampstands some One resembling
the Son of Man, clothed in a robe which reached to His feet,
and with a girdle of gold across His breast.
001:014 His head and His hair were white, like white wool--as white as snow;
and His eyes resembled a flame of fire.
001:015 His feet were like silver-bronze, when it is white-hot in a furnace;
and His voice resembled the sound of many waters.
001:016 In His right hand He held seven stars, and a sharp,
two-edged sword was seen coming from His mouth; and His glance
resembled the sun when it is shining with its full strength.
001:017 When I saw Him, I fell at His feet as if I were dead.
But He laid His right hand upon me and said, "Do not be afraid:
I am the First and the Last, and the ever-living One.
001:018 I died; but I am now alive until the Ages of the Ages,
and I have the keys of the gates of Death and of Hades!
001:019 Write down therefore the things you have just seen,
and those which are now taking place, and those which are
soon to follow:
001:020 the secret meaning of the seven stars which you have seen
in My right hand, and of the seven lampstands of gold.
The seven stars are the ministers of the seven Churches,
and the seven lampstands are the seven Churches.
002:001 "To the minister of the Church in Ephesus write as follows:
"'This is what He who holds the seven stars in the grasp of His
right hand says--He who walks to and fro among the seven
lampstands of gold.
002:002 I know your doings and your toil and patient suffering.
And I know that you cannot tolerate wicked men, but have put
to the test those who say that they themselves are Apostles
but are not, and you have found them to be liars.
002:003 And you endure patiently and have borne burdens for My sake
and have never grown weary.
002:004 Yet I have this against you--that you no longer love Me as you
did at first.
002:005 Be mindful, therefore, of the height from which you have fallen.
Repent at once, and act as you did at first, or else I
will surely come and remove your lampstand out of its place--
unless you repent.
002:006 Yet this you have in your favor: you hate the doings of
the Nicolaitans, which I also hate.
002:007 "'Let all who have ears give heed to what the Spirit is
saying to the Churches. To him who overcomes I will give
the privilege of eating the fruit of the Tree of Life,
which is in the Paradise of God.'
002:008 "To the minister of the Church at Smyrna write as follows:
"'This is what the First and the Last says--He who died
and has returned to life.
002:009 Your sufferings I know, and your poverty--but you are rich--
and the evil name given you by those who say that they
themselves are Jews, and are not, but are Satan's synagogue.
002:010 Dismiss your fears concerning all that you are about to suffer.
I tell you that the Devil is about to throw some of you into
prison that you may be put to the test, and for ten days you
will have to endure persecution. Be faithful to the End,
even if you have to die, and then I will give you the victor's
Wreath of Life.
002:011 "'Let all who have ears give heed to what the Spirit is saying
to the Churches. He who overcomes shall be in no way hurt
by the Second Death.'
002:012 "To the minister of the Church at Pergamum write as follows:
"'This is what He who has the sharp, two-edged sword says.
I know where you dwell.
002:013 Satan's throne is there; and yet you are true to Me, and did
not deny your faith in Me, even in the days of Antipas My
witness and faithful friend, who was put to death among you,
in the place where Satan dwells.
002:014 Yet I have a few things against you, because you have with you
some that cling to the teaching of Balaam, who taught Balak
to put a stumbling-block in the way of the descendants of Israel--
to eat what had been sacrificed to idols, and commit fornication.
002:015 So even you have some that cling in the same way to the teaching
of the Nicolaitans.
002:016 Repent, at once; or else I will come to you quickly, and will
make war upon them with the sword which is in My mouth.
002:017 "'Let all who have ears give heed to what the Spirit is saying
to the Churches. He who overcomes--to him I will give some
of the hidden Manna, and a white stone; and--written upon
the stone and known only to him who receives it--a new name.'
002:018 "To the minister of the Church at Thyateira write as follows:
"'This is what the Son of God says--He who has eyes like a flame
of fire, and feet resembling silver-bronze.
002:019 I know your doings, your love, your faith, your service,
and your patient endurance; and that of late you have toiled
harder than you did at first.
002:020 Yet I have this against you, that you tolerate the woman Jezebel,
who calls herself a prophetess and by her teaching leads
astray My servants, so that they commit fornication and eat
what has been sacrificed to idols.
002:021 I have given her time to repent, but she is determined not
to repent of her fornication.
002:022 I tell you that I am about to cast her upon a bed of sickness,
and I will severely afflict those who commit adultery with her,
unless they repent of conduct such as hers.
002:023 Her children too shall surely die; and all the Churches shall come
to know that I am He who searches into men's inmost thoughts;
and to each of you I will give a requital which shall be
in accordance with what your conduct has been.
002:024 But to you, the rest of you in Thyateira, all who do not
hold this teaching and are not the people who have learnt
the "deep things," as they call them (the deep things of Satan!)--
to you I say that I lay no other burden on you.
002:025 Only that which you already possess, cling to until I come.
002:026 "'And to him who overcomes and obeys My commands to the very end,
I will give authority over the nations of the earth.
002:027 And he shall be their shepherd, ruling them with a rod of iron,
just as earthenware jars are broken to pieces; and his power
over them shall be like that which I Myself have received
from My Father;
002:028 and I will give him the Morning Star.
002:029 Let all who have ears give heed to what the Spirit is saying
to the Churches.'
003:001 "To the minister of the Church at Sardis write as follows:
"'This is what He who has the seven Spirits of God and the seven
stars says. I know your doings--you are supposed to be alive,
but in reality you are dead.
003:002 Rouse yourself and keep awake, and strengthen those things
which remain but have well-nigh perished; for I have found
no doings of yours free from imperfection in the sight
of My God.
003:003 Be mindful, therefore, of the lessons you have received and heard.
Continually lay them to heart, and repent. If, however,
you fail to rouse yourself and keep awake, I shall come upon
you suddenly like a thief, and you will certainly not know
the hour at which I shall come to judge you.
003:004 Yet you have in Sardis a few who have not soiled their garments;
and they shall walk with Me in white; for they are worthy.
003:005 "'In this way he who overcomes shall be clothed in white garments;
and I will certainly not blot out his name from the Book
of Life, but will acknowledge him in the presence of My Father
and His angels.
003:006 Let all who have ears give heed to what the Spirit is saying
to the Churches.'
003:007 "To the minister of the Church at Philadelphia write as follows:
"'This is what the holy One and the true says--He who has
the key of David--He who opens and no one shall shut,
and shuts and no one shall open.
003:008 I know your doings. I have put an opened door in front of you,
which no one can shut; because you have but a little power,
and yet you have guarded My word and have not disowned Me.
003:009 I will cause some belonging to Satan's synagogue who say
that they themselves are Jews, and are not, but are liars--
I will make them come and fall at your feet and know for certain
that I have loved you.
003:010 Because in spite of suffering you have guarded My word,
I in turn will guard you from that hour of trial which is soon
coming upon the whole world, to put to the test the inhabitants
of the earth.
003:011 I am coming quickly: cling to that which you already possess,
so that your wreath of victory be not taken away from you.
003:012 "'He who overcomes--I will make him a pillar in the sanctuary
of My God, and he shall never go out from it again.
And I will write on him the name of My God, and the name
of the city of My God, the new Jerusalem, which is to come
down out of Heaven from My God, and My own new name.
003:013 Let all who have ears give heed to what the Spirit is saying
to the Churches.'
003:014 "And to the minister of the Church at Laodicea write as follows:
"'This is what the Amen says--the true and faithful witness,
the Beginning and Lord of God's Creation.
003:015 I know your doings--you are neither cold nor hot; I would
that you were cold or hot!
003:016 Accordingly, because you are lukewarm and neither hot nor cold,
before long I will vomit you out of My mouth.
003:017 You say, I am rich, and have wealth stored up, and I stand in need
of nothing; and you do not know that if there is a wretched
creature it is *you*--pitiable, poor, blind, naked.
003:018 Therefore I counsel you to buy of Me gold refined in the fire
that you may become rich, and white robes to put on,
so as to hide your shameful nakedness, and eye-salve to anoint
your eyes with, so that you may be able to see.
003:019 All whom I hold dear, I reprove and chastise; therefore be
in earnest and repent.
003:020 I am now standing at the door and am knocking. If any one listens
to My voice and opens the door, I will go in to be with him
and will feast with him, and he shall feast with Me.
003:021 "'To him who overcomes I will give the privilege of sitting
down with Me on My throne, as I also have overcome and have
sat down with My Father on His throne.
003:022 Let all who have ears give heed to what the Spirit is saying
to the Churches.'"
004:001 After all this I looked and saw a door in Heaven standing open,
and the voice that I had previously heard, which resembled
the blast of a trumpet, again spoke to me and said, "Come up here,
and I will show you things which are to happen in the future."
004:002 Immediately I found myself in the Spirit, and saw a throne
in Heaven, and some One sitting on the throne.
004:003 The appearance of Him who sat there was like jasper or sard;
and encircling the throne was a rainbow, in appearance
like an emerald.
004:004 Surrounding the throne there were also twenty-four other thrones,
on which sat twenty-four Elders clothed in white robes,
with victors' wreaths of gold upon their heads.
004:005 Out from the throne there came flashes of lightning, and voices,
and peals of thunder, while in front of the throne seven blazing
lamps were burning, which are the seven Spirits of God.
004:006 And in front of the throne there seemed to be a sea of glass,
resembling crystal. And midway between the throne and the Elders,
and surrounding the throne, were four living creatures,
full of eyes in front and behind.
004:007 The first living creature resembled a lion, the second an ox,
the third had a face like that of a man, and the fourth
resembled an eagle flying.
004:008 And each of the four living creatures had six wings,
and in every direction, and within, are full of eyes;
and day after day, and night after night, they never
cease saying, "Holy, holy, holy, Lord God, the Ruler of all,
who wast and art and evermore shalt be."
004:009 And whenever the living creatures give glory and honor and thanks
to Him who is seated on the throne, and lives until the Ages
of the Ages,
004:010 the twenty-four Elders fall down before Him who sits on the
throne and worship Him who lives until the Ages of the Ages,
and they cast their wreaths down in front of the throne,
004:011 saying, "It is fitting, O our Lord and God, That we should
ascribe unto Thee the glory and the honor and the power;
For Thou didst create all things, And because it was Thy
will they came into existence, and were created."
005:001 And I saw lying in the right hand of Him who sat on the throne
a book written on both sides and closely sealed with seven seals.
005:002 And I saw a mighty angel who was exclaiming in a loud voice,
"Who is worthy to open the book and break its seals?"
005:003 But no one in Heaven, or on earth, or under the earth,
was able to open the book or look into it.
005:004 And while I was weeping bitterly, because no one was found
worthy to open the book or look into it,
005:005 one of the Elders said to me, "Do not weep. The Lion which
belongs to the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has triumphed,
and will open the book and break its seven seals."
005:006 Then, midway between the throne and the four living creatures,
I saw a Lamb standing among the Elders. He looked as if He had
been offered in sacrifice, and He had seven horns and seven eyes.
The last-named are the seven Spirits of God, and have been
sent far and wide into all the earth.
005:007 So He comes, and now He has taken the book out of the right
hand of Him who is seated on the throne.
005:008 And when He had taken the book, the four living creatures
and the twenty-four Elders fell down before the Lamb,
having each of them a harp and bringing golden bowls full
of incense, which represent the prayers of God's people.
005:009 And now they sing a new song. "It is fitting," they say,
"that Thou shouldst be the One to take the book And break
its seals; Because Thou hast been offered in sacrifice,
And hast purchased for God with Thine own blood Some out
of every tribe and language and people and nation,
005:010 And hast formed them into a Kingdom to be priests to
our God, And they reign over the earth."
005:011 And I looked, and heard what seemed to be the voices of countless
angels on every side of the throne, and of the living
creatures and the Elders. Their number was myriads of myriads
and thousands of thousands,
005:012 and in loud voices they were singing, "It is fitting that
the Lamb which has been offered in sacrifice should receive
all power and riches and wisdom and might and honor and
glory and blessing."
005:013 And as for every created thing in Heaven and on earth and under
the earth and on the sea, and everything that was in any of these,
I heard them say, "To Him who is seated on the throne,
And to the Lamb, Be ascribed all blessing and honor And glory
and might, Until the Ages of the Ages!"
005:014 Then the four living creatures said "Amen," and the Elders
fell down and worshipped.
006:001 And when the Lamb broke one of the seven seals I saw it,
and I heard one of the four living creatures say, as if in
a voice of thunder, "Come."
006:002 And I looked and a white horse appeared, and its rider
carried a bow; and a victor's wreath was given to him;
and he went out conquering and in order to conquer.
006:003 And when the Lamb broke the second seal, I heard the second
living creature say, "Come."
006:004 And another horse came out--a fiery-red one; and power was given
to its rider to take peace from the earth, and to cause men
to kill one another; and a great sword was given to him.
006:005 When the Lamb broke the third seal, I heard the third living
creature say, "Come." I looked, and a black horse appeared,
its rider carrying a balance in his hand.
006:006 And I heard what seemed to be a voice speaking in the midst
of the four living creatures, and saying, "A quart of wheat
for a shilling, and three quarts of barley for a shilling;
but do not injure either the oil or the wine."
006:007 When the Lamb broke the fourth seal I heard the voice of
the fourth living creature say, "Come."
006:008 I looked and a pale-colored horse appeared. Its rider's name
was Death, and Hades came close behind him; and authority
was given to them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill
with the sword or with famine or pestilence or by means
of the wild beasts of the earth.
006:009 When the Lamb broke the fifth seal, I saw at the foot of the altar
the souls of those whose lives had been sacrificed because of
the word of God and of the testimony which they had given.
006:010 And now in loud voices they cried out, saying, "How long,
O Sovereign Lord, the holy One and the true, dost Thou delay
judgment and the taking of vengeance upon the inhabitants
of the earth for our blood?"
006:011 And there was given to each of them a long white robe,
and they were bidden to wait patiently for a short time longer,
until the full number of their fellow bondservants should
also complete--namely of their brethren who were soon to be
killed just as they had been.
006:012 When the Lamb broke the sixth seal I looked, and there was
a great earthquake, and the sun became as dark as sackcloth,
and the whole disc of the moon became like blood.
006:013 The stars in the sky also fell to the earth, as when a fig-tree,
upon being shaken by a gale of wind, casts its unripe figs
to the ground.
006:014 The sky too passed away, as if a scroll were being rolled up,
and every mountain and island was removed from its place.
006:015 The kings of the earth and the great men, the military chiefs,
the wealthy and the powerful--all, whether slaves or free men--
hid themselves in the caves and in the rocks of the mountains,
006:016 while they called to the mountains and the rocks, saying,
"Fall on us and hide us from the presence of Him who sits
on the throne and from the anger of the Lamb;
006:017 for the day of His anger--that great day--has come, and who is
able to stand?"
007:001 After this I saw four angels standing at the four corners
of the earth, and holding back the four winds of the earth
so that no wind should blow over the earth or the sea
or upon any tree.
007:002 And I saw another angel coming from the east and carrying
a seal belonging to the ever-living God. He called in a loud
voice to the four angels whose work it was to injure the earth
and the sea.
007:003 "Injure neither land nor sea nor trees," he said, "until we
have sealed the bondservants of our God upon their foreheads."
007:004 When the sealing was finished, I heard how many were
sealed out of the tribes of the descendants of Israel.
They were 144,000.
007:005 Of the tribe of Judah, 12,000 were sealed; Of the tribe
of Reuben, 12,000; Of the tribe of Gad, 12,000;
007:006 Of the tribe of Asher, 12,000; Of the tribe of Naphtali, 12,000;
Of the tribe of Manasseh, 12,000;
007:007 Of the tribe of Symeon, 12,000; Of the tribe of Levi, 12,000;
Of the tribe of Issachar, 12,000;
007:008 Of the tribe of Zebulun, 12,000; Of the tribe of Joseph, 12,000;
Of the tribe of Benjamin, 12,000.
007:009 After this I looked, and a vast host appeared which it was
impossible for anyone to count, gathered out of every nation
and from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before
the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in long white robes,
and carrying palm-branches in their hands.
007:010 In loud voices they were exclaiming, "It is to our God who is seated
on the throne, and to the Lamb, that we owe our salvation!"
007:011 All the angels were standing in a circle round the throne
and round the Elders and the four living creatures, and they
fell on their faces in front of the throne and worshipped God.
007:012 "Even so!" they cried: "The blessing and the glory
and the wisdom and the thanks and the honor and the power
and the might are to be ascribed to our God, until the Ages
of the Ages! Even so!"
007:013 Then, addressing me, one of the Elders said, "Who are these
people clothed in the long white robes? And where have
they come from?"
007:014 "My lord, you know," I replied. "They are those,"
he said, "who have just passed through the great distress,
and have washed their robes and made them white in the blood
of the Lamb.
007:015 For this reason they stand before the very throne of God,
and render Him service, day after day and night after night,
in His sanctuary, and He who is sitting upon the throne
will shelter them in His tent.
007:016 They will never again be hungry or thirsty, and never again
will the sun or any scorching heat trouble them.
007:017 For the Lamb who is in front of the throne will be their Shepherd,
and will guide them to watersprings of Life, and God will wipe
every tear from their eyes."
008:001 When the Lamb broke the seventh seal, there was silence
in Heaven for about half an hour.
008:002 Then I saw the seven angels who are in the presence of God,
and seven trumpets were given to them.
008:003 And another angel came and stood close to the altar,
carrying a censer of gold; and abundance of incense was given
to him that he might place it with the prayers of all God's
people upon the golden altar which was in front of the throne.
008:004 And the smoke of the incense rose into the presence of God from
the angel's hand, and mingled with the prayers of His people.
008:005 So the angel took the censer and filled it with fire from
the altar and flung it to the earth; and there followed
peals of thunder, and voices, and flashes of lightning,
and an earthquake.
008:006 Then the seven angels who had the seven trumpets made preparations
for blowing them.
008:007 The first blew his trumpet; and there came hail and fire,
mixed with blood, falling upon the earth; and a third part
of the earth was burnt up, and a third part of the trees
and all the green grass.
008:008 The second angel blew his trumpet; and what seemed to be a
great mountain, all ablaze with fire, was hurled into the sea;
and a third part of the sea was turned into blood.
008:009 And a third part of the creatures that were in the sea--those that
had life--died; and a third part of the ships were destroyed.
008:010 The third angel blew his trumpet; and there fell from Heaven
a great star, which was on fire like a torch. It fell upon
a third part of the rivers and upon the springs of water.
008:011 The name of the star is 'Wormwood;' and a third part of the waters
were turned into wormwood, and vast numbers of the people
died from drinking the water, because it had become bitter.
008:012 Then the fourth angel blew his trumpet; and a curse fell
upon a third part of the sun, a third part of the moon,
and a third part of the stars, so that a third part of them
were darkened and for a third of the day, and also of the night,
there was no light.
008:013 Then I looked, and I heard a solitary eagle crying in a loud voice,
as it flew across the sky, "Alas, alas, alas, for the inhabitants
of the earth, because of the significance of the remaining
trumpets which the three angels are about to blow!"
009:001 The fifth angel blew his trumpet; and I saw a Star which had
fallen from Heaven to the earth; and to him was given the key
of the depths of the bottomless pit,
009:002 and he opened the depths of the bottomless pit. And smoke came
up out of the pit resembling the smoke of a vast furnace,
so that the sun was darkened, and the air also, by reason
of the smoke of the pit.
009:003 And from the midst of the smoke there came locusts on to
the earth, and power was given to them resembling the power
which earthly scorpions possess.
009:004 And they were forbidden to injure the herbage of the earth, or any
green thing, or any tree. They were only to injure human beings--
those who have not the seal of God on their foreheads.
009:005 Their mission was not to kill, but to cause awful agony for
five months; and this agony was like that which a scorpion
inflicts when it stings a man.
009:006 And at that time people will seek death, but will by no possibility
find it, and will long to die, but death evades them.
009:007 The appearance of the locusts was like that of horses equipped
for war. On their heads they had wreaths which looked like gold.
009:008 Their faces seemed human and they had hair like women's hair,
but their teeth resembled those of lions.
009:009 They had breast-plates which seemed to be made of steel;
and the noise caused by their wings was like that of a vast
number of horses and chariots hurrying into battle.
009:010 They had tails like those of scorpions, and also stings;
and in their tails lay their power of injuring mankind
for five months.
009:011 The locusts had a king over them--the angel of the bottomless pit,
whose name in Hebrew is 'Abaddon,' while in the Greek
he is called 'Apollyon.'
009:012 The first woe is past; two other woes have still to come.
009:013 The sixth angel blew his trumpet; and I heard a single voice
speaking from among the horns of the golden incense altar
which is in the presence of God.
009:014 It said to the sixth angel--the angel who had the trumpet,
"Set at liberty the four angels who are prisoners near
the great river Euphrates."
009:015 And the four angels who had been kept in readiness for
that hour, day, month, and year, were set at liberty,
so that they might kill a third part of mankind.
009:016 The number of the cavalry was two hundred millions;
I heard their number.
009:017 And this was the appearance of the horses which I saw in my vision--
and of their riders. The body-armour of the riders was red,
blue and yellow; and the horses' heads were shaped like
the heads of lions, while from their mouths there came fire
and smoke and sulphur.
009:018 By these three plagues a third part of mankind were destroyed--
by the fire and the smoke, and by the sulphur which came
from their mouths.
009:019 For the power of the horses is in their mouths and in their tails;
their tails being like serpents, and having heads, and it
is with them that they inflict injury.
009:020 But the rest of mankind who were not killed by these plagues,
did not even then repent and leave the things they had made,
so as to cease worshipping the demons, and the idols of gold
and silver, bronze, stone, and wood, which can neither see
nor hear, nor move.
009:021 Nor did they repent of their murders, their practice of magic,
their fornication, or their thefts.
010:001 Then I saw another strong angel coming down from Heaven.
He was robed in a cloud, and over his head was the rainbow.
His face was like the sun, and his feet resembled pillars of fire.
010:002 In his hand he held a small scroll unrolled; and, planting his
right foot on the sea and his left foot on the land,
010 | 2,679.064616 |
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Produced by David Widger
SAILORS' KNOTS
By W.W. Jacobs
1909
DOUBLE DEALING
Mr. Fred Carter stood on the spacious common, inhaling with all the joy of
the holiday-making Londoner the salt smell of the sea below, and
regarding with some interest the movements of a couple of men who had
come to a stop a short distance away. As he looked they came on again,
eying him closely as they approached--a strongly built, shambling man of
fifty, and a younger man, evidently his son.
[Illustration: "Stood on the spacious common, inhaling the salt smell of
the sea below."]
"Good-evening," said the former, as they came abreast of Mr. Carter.
"Good-evening," he replied.
"That's him," said both together.
They stood regarding him in a fashion unmistakably hostile. Mr. Carter,
with an uneasy smile, awaited developments.
"What have you got to say for yourself?" demanded the elder man, at last.
"Do you call yourself a man?"
"I don't call myself anything," said the puzzled Mr. Carter. "Perhaps
you're mistaking me for somebody else."
"Didn't I tell you," said the younger man, turning to the other--"didn't
I tell you he'd say that?"
"He can say what he likes," said the other, "but we've got him now. If
he gets away from me he'll be cleverer than what he thinks he is."
"What are we to do with him now we've got him?" inquired his son.
The elder man clenched a huge fist and eyed Mr. Carter savagely. "If I
was just considering myself," he said, "I should hammer him till I was
tired and then chuck him into the sea."
His son nodded. "That wouldn't do Nancy much good, though," he remarked.
"I want to do everything for the best," said the other, "and I s'pose the
right and proper thing to do is to take him by the scruff of his neck and
run him along to Nancy."
"You try it," said Mr. Carter, hotly. "Who is Nancy?"
The other growled, and was about to aim a blow at him when his son threw
himself upon him and besought him to be calm.
"Just one," said his father, struggling, "only one. It would do me good;
and perhaps he'd come along the quieter for it."
"Look here!" said Mr. Carter. "You're mistaking me for somebody else,
that's what you are doing. What am I supposed to have done?"
"You're supposed to have come courting my daughter, Mr. Somebody Else,"
said the other, re-leasing himself and thrusting his face into Mr.
Carter's, "and, after getting her promise to marry you, nipping off to
London to arrange for the wedding. She's been mourning over you for four
years now, having an idea that you had been made away with."
"Being true to your memory, you skunk," said the son.
"And won't look at decent chaps that want to marry her," added the other.
"It's all a mistake," said Mr. Carter. "I came down here this morning
for the first time in my life."
"Bring him along," said the son, impatiently. "It's a waste of time
talking to him."
Mr. Carter took a step back and parleyed. "I'll come along with you of
my own free will," he said, hastily, "just to show you that you are
wrong; but I won't be forced."
He turned and walked back with them towards the town, pausing
occasionally to admire the view. Once he paused so long that an ominous
growl arose from the elder of his captors.
"I was just thinking," said Mr. Carter, eying him in consternation;
"suppose that she makes the same mistake that you have made? Oh, Lord!"
"Keeps it up pretty well, don't he, Jim?" said the father.
The other grunted and, drawing nearer to Mr. Carter as they entered the
town, stepped along in silence. Questions which Mr. Carter asked with
the laudable desire of showing his ignorance concerning the neighborhood
elicited no reply. His discomfiture was increased by the behavior of an
elderly boatman, who, after looking at him hard, took his pipe from his
mouth and bade him "Good-evening." Father and son exchanged significant
glances.
[Illustration: "An elderly boatman, who, after looking at him hard, took
his pipe from his mouth and bade him 'Good-evening.'"]
They turned at last into a small street, and the elder man, opening the
door of a neat cottage, laid his hand on the prisoner's shoulder and
motioned him in. Mr. Carter obeyed, and, entering a spotless living-
room, removed his hat and with affected composure seated himself in an
easy-chair.
"I'll go up and tell Nan," said Jim. "Don't let him run away."
He sprang up the stairs, which led from a corner of the room, and the
next moment the voice of a young lady, laboring under intense excitement,
fell on the ears of Mr. Carter. With a fine attempt at unconcern he rose
and | 2,679.257649 |
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Produced by Charlene Taylor, Jonathan Ingram, Keith Edkins
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Library of Early
Journals.)
Transcriber's note: A few typographical errors have been corrected: they
are listed at the end of the text.
* * * * *
{485}
NOTES AND QUERIES:
A MEDIUM OF INTER-COMMUNICATION FOR LITERARY MEN, ARTISTS, ANTIQUARIES,
GENEALOGISTS, ETC.
"When found, make a note of."--CAPTAIN CUTTLE.
* * * * *
No. 239.]
SATURDAY, MAY 27. 1854.
[Price Fourpence. Stamped Edition 5d.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
NOTES:-- Page
Reprints of Early Bibles, by the Rev. R. Hooper, M.A. 487
Marriage Licence of John Gower, the Poet, by W. H. Gunner 487
Aska or Asca 488
Legends of the County Clare, by Francis Robert Davies 490
Archaic Words 491
MINOR NOTES:--Inscriptions on Buildings--Epitaphs--Numbers--
Celtic Language--Illustration of Longfellow: "God's Acre" 492
QUERIES:--
John Locke 493
MINOR QUERIES:--"The Village Lawyer"--Richard Plantagenet,
Earl of Cambridge--Highland Regiment--Ominous Storms--Edward
Fitzgerald--Boyle Family--Inn Signs--Demoniacal Descent of
the Plantagenets--Anglo-Saxon Graves--Robert Brown the
Separatist--Commissions issued by Charles I. at Oxford 493
MINOR QUERIES WITH ANSWERS:--Hogmanay--Longfellow's
"Hyperion"--Sir Hugh Myddelton--Sangarede--Salubrity of
Hallsal, near Ormskirk, Lancashire--Athens--James Miller 495
REPLIES:--
Brydone, by Lord Monson 496
Coleridge's Unpublished MSS., by C. Mansfield Ingleby 496
Mr. Justice Talfourd and Dr. Beattie 497
Russian "Te Deum," by T. J. Buckton, &c. 498
Artesian Wells, by Henry Stephens, &c. 499
Dog-whippers 499
Cephas, a Binder, and not a Rock, by T. J. Buckton, &c. 500
Whittington's Stone 501
PHOTOGRAPHIC CORRESPONDENCE:--Photographic Experience--
Conversion of Calotype Negatives into Positives--Albumenized
Paper 501
REPLIES TO MINOR QUERIES:--Table-turning--Female Dress--
Office of Sexton held by one Family--Lyra's Commentary--
Blackguard--"Atonement"--Bible of 1527--Shrove Tuesday--
Milton's Correspondence--"Verbatim et literatim"--Epigrams 502
MISCELLANEOUS:--
Notes on Books, &c. 504
Books and Odd Volumes Wanted 505
Notices to Correspondents 505
* * * * *
On June 1, in One Large Volume, super-royal 8vo., price 2l. 12s. 6d. cloth
lettered.
CYCLOPAEDIA BIBLIOGRAPHICA: A Library Manual of Theological and General
Literature, and Guide to Books for Authors, Preachers, Students and
Literary Men, Analytical, Bibliographical, and Biographical. By JAMES
DARLING.
A PROSPECTUS, with Specimens and Critical Notices, sent Free on Receipt of
a Postage Stamp.
London: JAMES DARLING, 81. Great Queen Street, Lincoln's Inn Fields.
* * * * *
TO LITERARY MEN, PUBLISHERS, AND OTHERS.
MESSRS. HOPPER & CO., Record Agents, &c., beg to acquaint the Literary
World, that they undertake Searches among, and Transcripts from, the Public
Records, or other Ancient MSS., Translations from the Norman-French, Latin,
and other Documents, &c.
*** MSS. bought, sold, or valued.
4. SOUTHAMPTON STREET, CAMDEN TOWN.
* * * * *
THE ORIGINAL QUADRILLES, composed for the PIANO FORTE by MRS. AMBROSE
MERTON.
London: Published for the Proprietor, and may be had of C. LONSDALE, 26.
Old Bond Street; and by Order of all Music Sellers.
PRICE THREE SHILLINGS.
* * * * *
Now ready, No. VII. (for May), price 2s. 6d., published Quarterly.
RETROSPECTIVE REVIEW (New Series); consisting of Criticisms upon, Analyses
of, and Extracts from, Curious, Useful, Valuable, and Scarce Old Books.
Vol I., 8vo., pp. 436, cloth 10s. 6d., is also ready.
JOHN RUSSELL SMITH, 36. Soho Square, London.
* * * * *
This Day, with Woodcuts, fcp. 8vo., 5s.
THE OLD PRINTER AND THE MODERN PRESS, in relation to the important subject
of CHEAP POPULAR LITERATURE. By CHARLES KNIGHT.
Also, by the same Author, 2 vols. fcp. 8vo., 10s.
ONCE UPON A TIME.
"The old bees die, the young possess the hive."--_Shakspeare._
"They relate to all manner of topics--old folks, old manners, old
books; and take them all in all, they make up as charming a pair of
volumes as we have seen for many a long day."--_Fraser's Magazine._
"'Once upon a Time' is worth possessing."--_Examiner._
"This varied, pleasant, and informing collection of
Essays."--_Spectator._
"Mr. Charles Knight's entertaining little work is full of various
knowledge agreeably told."--_Quarterly Review._
"This pleasant gallery of popular antiquarianism."--_John Bull._
JOHN MURRAY, Albemarle Street.
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NEW WORK BY SIR DAVID BREWSTER.
This Day, fcp. 8vo., 6s.
MORE WORLDS THAN ONE; the CREED of the PHILOSOPHER and the HOPE of the
CHRISTIAN. by SIR DAVID BREWSTER.
JOHN MURRAY, Albemarle Street.
* * * * *
NEW WORK BY DEAN MILMAN.
Now ready, Vols. I. to III., 8vo., 36s.
HISTORY OF LATIN CHRISTIANITY, including that of THE POPES to the
PONTIFICATE of NICHOLAS V. By HENRY HART MILMAN, D.D., Dean of St. Paul's.
JOHN MURRAY, Albemarle Street.
* * * * *
ART AND ARTISTS IN ENGLAND.
Now ready, 3 vols. 8vo., 36s.
THE TREASURES OF ART IN GREAT BRITAIN. Being an Account of the Chief
Collections of Paintings, Sculptures, MSS., &c., in this Country. By DR.
WAAGEN, Director of the Royal Gallery of Pictures at Berlin.
JOHN MURRAY, Albemarle Street.
* * * * *
MURRAY'S RAILWAY READING.
Now ready, 2 vols. fcap. 8vo., 8s.
ESSAYS FROM "THE TIMES:" Being a Selection from the Literary Papers which
have appeared in that Journal, reprinted by permission.
CONTENTS:
Vol. I.
Nelson and Lady Hamilton.
Railway Novels.
Louis-Philippe and his Family.
John Howard.
Drama of the French Revolution.
Lord Holland's Reminiscences.
Robert Southey.
Dean Swift--Stella and Vanessa.
Reminiscences of Coleridge.
John Keats.
Grote's History of Greece.
Literature of the Rail.
Vol. II.
Lord Coke.
Discoveries at Nineveh.
Lord Mansfield.
Lion Hunting in Africa.
Jeremy Taylor.
Lord Clarendon and his Friends.
John Sterling.
Autobiography of a Chartist.
Americans in England.
Francis Chantrey.
Career of Lord Langdale.
Afghanistan.
The Greek Revolution.
Dickens and Thackeray.
*** Each Volume may be had separately.
JOHN MURRAY, Albemarle Street.
* * * * *
{486}
JUST PUBLISHED,
Price 11s. to Non-Members.
The TWENTY-SEVENTH VOLUME of the SURTEES SOCIETY PUBLICATIONS, being THE
PONTIFICAL OF EGBERT, ARCHBISHOP OF YORK, A.D. 732-766. Now first published
from a MS. of the Tenth Century in the Imperial Library, Paris.
The other Publications of the SOCIETY are as under:
I.
REGINALDI Monachi Dunelmensis Libellus de Admirandis BEATI CUTHBERTI
Virtutibus. 15s.
II.
WILLS and INVENTORIES, illustrative of the History, Manners, Language,
Statistics, &c., of the Northern Counties of England, from the Eleventh
Century downwards. [Chiefly from the Registry at Durham.] 15s.
III.
The TOWNELEY MYSTERIES. 15s.
IV.
TESTAMENTA EBORACENSIA; Wills illustrative of the History, Manners,
Language, Statistics, &c., of the Province of York, from 1300 downwards.
15s.
V.
SANCTUARIUM DUNELMENSE et SANCTUARIUM BEVERLACENSE; or Registers of the
Sanctuaries of Durham and Beverley. 15s.
VI.
THE CHARTERS OF ENDOWMENT, Inventories and Account Rolls of the PRIORY of
FINCHALE, in the County of Durham. 15s.
VII.
CATALOGI Veteres Librorum ECCLESIAE CATHEDRALIS DUNELM. Catalogues of the
Library of Durham Cathedral, at various periods, from the Conquest to the
Dissolution, including Catalogues of the | 2,679.257915 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE BROCHURE SERIES
Japanese Gardens
FEBRUARY, 1900
[Illustration: PLATE XI DAIMIO'S GARDEN AT SHINJIKU]
THE
BROCHURE SERIES
OF ARCHITECTURAL ILLUSTRATION.
1900. FEBRUARY No. 2.
JAPANESE GARDENS.
The Japanese garden is not a flower garden, neither is it made for
the purpose of cultivating plants. In nine cases out of ten there
is nothing in it resembling a flower-bed. Some gardens may contain
scarcely a sprig of green; some (although these are exceptional) have
nothing green at all and consist entirely of rocks, pebbles and sand.
Neither does the Japanese garden require any fixed allowance of space;
it may cover one or many acres, it may be only ten feet square; it
may, in extreme cases, be much less, and be contained in a curiously
shaped, shallow, carved box set in a veranda, in which are created tiny
hills, microscopic ponds and rivulets spanned by tiny humped bridges,
while queer wee plants represent trees, and curiously formed pebbles
stand for rocks. But on whatever scale, all true Japanese gardening is
landscape gardening; that is to say, it is a living model of an actual
Japanese landscape.
But, though modelled upon an actual landscape, the Japanese garden
is far more than a mere naturalistic imitation. To the artist every
natural view may be said to convey, in its varying aspects, some
particular mental impression or mood, such as the impression of
peacefulness, of wildness, of solitude, or of desolation; and the
Japanese gardener intends not only to present in his model the features
of the veritable landscape, but also to make it express, even more
saliently than the original, a dominant sentimental mood, so that
it may become not only a picture, but a poem. In other words, a
Japanese garden of the best type is, like any true work of art, the
representation of nature as expressed through an individual artistic
temperament.
Through long accumulation of traditional methods, the representation
of natural features in a garden model has come to be a highly
conventional expression, like all Japanese art; and the Japanese garden
bears somewhat the same relation to an actual landscape that a painting
of a view of Fuji-yama by the wonderful Hokusai does to the actual
scene--it is a representation based upon actual and natural forms, but
so modified to accord with accepted canons of Japanese art, so full
of mysterious symbolism only to be understood by the initiated, so
expressed, in a word, in terms of the national artistic conventions,
that it costs the Western mind long study to learn to appreciate its
full beauty and significance. Suppose, to take a specific example,
that in the actual landscape upon which the Japanese gardener chose
to model his design, a pine tree grew upon the side of a hill. Upon
the side of the corresponding artificial hill in his garden he would
therefore plant a pine, but he would not clip and trim its branches
to imitate the shape of the original, but rather, satisfied that by
so placing it he had gone far enough toward the imitation of nature,
he would clip his garden pine to make it correspond, as closely as
circumstances might permit, with a conventional ideal pine tree shape
(such a typical ideal pine tree is shown in the little drawing on
page 25), a shape recognized as the model for a beautiful pine by
the artistic conventions of Japan for centuries, and one familiar to
every Japanese of any pretensions to culture whatsoever. And, as there
are recognized ideal pine tree shapes, there are also ideal mountain
shapes, ideal lake shapes, ideal water-fall shapes, ideal stone shapes,
and innumerable other such ideal shapes.
[Illustration: PLATE XII "RIVER VIEW," KORAKU-EN, KOISHIKAWA]
In like manner in working out his design the gardener must take
cognizance of a multitude of religious and ethical conventions. The
flow of his streams must, for instance, follow certain cardinal
directions; in the number and disposition of his principal rocks he
must symbolize the nine spirits of the Buddhist pantheon. Some
tree and stone combinations are regarded as fortunate, and | 2,679.257922 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
ROBIN HOOD
ILLUSTRATED BY N. C. WYETH
[Illustration]
DAVID MCKAY, PUBLISHER
PHILADELPHIA MCMXVII
ILLUSTRATIONS
Facing Page
ROBIN AND HIS MOTHER GO TO NOTTINGHAM FAIR 18
The road wound in and about the forest, and at noon they
came to a part where the trees nigh shut out the sky
ROBIN WRESTLES WILL STUTELEY AT GAMEWELL 53
"Catch him by the middle," he shouted. "Now you have
him, lording, fairly. Throw him pret | 2,679.260496 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Lesley Halamek and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
THROUGH | 2,679.454317 |
2023-11-16 19:01:43.5375480 | 1,066 | 12 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Robert Prince, Charles
Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team, from
images generously made available by the Canadian Institute
for Historical Microreproductions.
THE COMING OF THE PRINCESS; AND OTHER POEMS.
BY
KATE SEYMOUR MACLEAN, KINGSTON, ONTARIO.
AN INTRODUCTION, BY THE EDITOR OF "THE CANADIAN MONTHLY."
INTRODUCTION.
BY G MERCER ADAM.
The request of the author that I should write a few words of
preface to this collection of poems must be my excuse for obtruding
myself upon the reader. Having frequently had the pleasure as
editor of _The Canadian Monthly_, of introducing many of Mrs.
MacLean's poems to lovers of verse in the Dominion it was thought
not unfitting that I should act as foster father to the collection
of them here made and to bespeak for the volume at the hands at
least of all Canadians the appreciative and kindly reception due to a
Child of the first winds and suns of a nation.
Accepting the task assigned to me the more readily as I discern the
high and sustained excellence of the collection as a whole let me
ask that the volume be received with interest as a further and most
meritorious contribution to the poetical literature of our young
country (the least that can be said of the work), and with sympathy
for the intellectual and moral aspirations that have called it into
being.
There is truth, doubtless, in the remark, that we are enriched less
by what we have than by what we hope to have. As the poetic art in
Canada has had little of an appreciable past, it may therefore be
thought that the songs that are to catch and retain the ear of the
nation lie still in the future, and are as yet unsung. Doubtless
the chords have yet to be struck that are to give to Canada the
songs of her loftiest genius; but he would be an ill friend of the
country's literature who would slight the achievements of the
present in reaching solely after what, it is hoped, the coming time
will bring.
But whatever of lyrical treasure the future may enshrine in
Canadian literature, and however deserving may be the claims of the
volumes of verse that have already appeared from the native press,
I am bold to claim for these productions of Mrs. MacLean's muse a
high place in the national collection and a warm corner in the
national heart.
To discern the merit of a poem is proverbially easier than to say
how and in what manner it is manifested. In a collection the task
of appraisement is not so difficult. Lord Houghton has said: "There
is in truth no critic of poetry but the man who enjoys it, and the
amount of gratification felt is the only just measure of
criticism." By this test the present volume will, in the main, be
judged. Still, there are characteristics of the author's work which
I may be permitted to point out. In Mrs. MacLean's volume what
quickly strikes one is not only the fact that the poems are all of
a high order of merit, but that a large measure of art and instinct
enters into the composition of each of them. As readily will it be
recognized that they are the product of a cultivated intellect, a
bright fancy, and a feeling heart. A rich spiritual life breathes
throughout the work, and there are occasional manifestations of
fervid impulse and ardent feeling. Yet there is no straining of
expression in the poems nor is there any loose fluency of thought.
Throughout there is sustained elevation and lofty purpose. Her
least work, moreover, is worthy of her, because it is always honest
work. With a quiet simplicity of style there is at the same time a
fine command of language and an earnest beauty of thought. The
grace and melody of the versification, indeed, few readers will
fail to appreciate. Occasionally there are echoes of other
poets--Jean Ingelow and Mrs. Barrett Browning, in the more
subjective pieces, being oftenest suggested. But there is a voice
as well as an echo--the voice of a poet in her own right. In an age
so bustling and heedless as this, it were well sometimes to stop
and listen to the voice In its fine spiritualizations we shall at
least be soothed and may be bettered.
But I need not dwell on the vocation of poetry or on the excellence
of the poems here introduced. The one is well known to the reader,
the other may soon be. Happily there is promise that Canada will
ere long be rich in her poets. They stand in the vanguard of the
country's benefactors, and so should be cherished and encouraged.
Of late our serial literature has given us more than blossomings.
The present volume enshrines some of the maturer fruit. May it be
its mission to nourish the poetic | 2,679.557588 |
2023-11-16 19:01:43.6354330 | 7,436 | 15 |
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Michael and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
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the Google Print project. Map reproduced by permission of
the Trustees of the National Library of Scotland.
[Illustration: FLOWERDALE HOUSE, GAIRLOCH,
WEST COAST RESIDENCE OF THE BARONETS OF GAIRLOCH.]
GAIRLOCH
IN NORTH-WEST ROSS-SHIRE
ITS RECORDS, TRADITIONS, INHABITANTS, AND NATURAL HISTORY
WITH A
GUIDE TO GAIRLOCH AND LOCH MAREE
AND A MAP AND ILLUSTRATIONS
By JOHN H. DIXON, F.S.A. Scot.
INCLUDING CHAPTERS BY
_WILLIAM JOLLY, F.G.S., F.R.S.E.; THE REV. JOHN McMURTRIE, M.A.;
AND PROFESSOR W. IVISON MACADAM, F.C.S., F.I.C., M.M.S., &c.,
EDINBURGH_
EDINBURGH
CO-OPERATIVE PRINTING COMPANY LIMITED
1886
[_Entered at Stationers' Hall._]
EDINBURGH
CO-OPERATIVE PRINTING COMPANY LIMITED,
BRISTO PLACE.
TO
_SIR KENNETH S. MACKENZIE_,
SIXTH BARONET AND THIRTEENTH LAIRD OF GAIRLOCH,
AND
HER MAJESTY'S LIEUTENANT OF ROSS-SHIRE,
Is Dedicated
THIS ACCOUNT OF THE ROMANTIC HIGHLAND PARISH
WITH WHICH, DURING FOUR CENTURIES,
HE AND HIS ANCESTORS HAVE BEEN SO INTIMATELY ASSOCIATED.
PREFACE.
The preparation of the following account of Gairloch has been prompted
by regard--almost affection--for this beautiful and interesting Highland
parish. It is published in the hope that it may not only assist the
tourist, but also be found to constitute a volume worthy of a nook in
the great library of local history. Here and there some few general
remarks on the subjects dealt with have necessarily been introduced by
way of explanation or illustration, but in the main this book relates
solely to Gairloch. I have tried to make short chapters, and to dispense
with footnotes.
Without much assistance the work could not have been satisfactorily
completed. The necessary help has been given with the greatest freedom
and kindness. Sir Kenneth S. Mackenzie, Bart. of Gairloch, has himself
furnished much valuable and accurate information, and Lady Mackenzie of
Gairloch has kindly assisted. From Mr Osgood H. Mackenzie of Inverewe,
youngest son of the late Sir Francis Mackenzie, Bart. of Gairloch, I
have received a large amount of personal aid. Much of the information
about the Mackenzies has been culled from the works of Mr Alexander
Mackenzie (a native of Gairloch) with his consent. He is the able author
of a copious history of the Mackenzies and other important books, and
the editor of the _Celtic Magazine_, from which last the memoir of John
Mackenzie of the "Beauties" and several of the traditions have been
mainly taken. From the MS. "Odd and End Stories" of Dr Mackenzie,
Eileanach, only surviving son of Sir Hector Mackenzie, Bart., eleventh
laird of Gairloch, numerous quotations will be found. These extracts are
published with the consent of Dr Mackenzie, as well as of Mr O. H.
Mackenzie to whom he has given his MS. volumes. With one exception,
wherever Dr Mackenzie is quoted the extract is taken from his "Odd and
End Stories." The Dowager Lady Mackenzie of Gairloch has been so good as
to prepare a short statement, from which extracts are made. Dr Arthur
Mitchell, C.B., Senior Commissioner in Lunacy for Scotland, has
permitted the use of his paper on the Isle Maree superstitions. Mr Jolly
has contributed three valuable chapters, and the Rev. J. M'Murtrie and
Professor W. Ivison Macadam have each given a chapter. To Mr William
Mackay of Craigmonie, Inverness, I am indebted for full notes on
ecclesiastical matters, and for extracts from the old records of the
Presbytery of Dingwall. The Rev. Alexander Matheson, minister of
Glenshiel, has supplied extracts from the records of the Presbytery of
Lochcarron. I have to thank Messrs Maclachlan & Stewart, of Edinburgh,
who in 1882 brought out a sumptuous edition of the "Beauties of Gaelic
Poetry," by the late John Mackenzie, a Gairloch man, for permission to
use the accounts of John Mackay (the blind piper), William Ross, William
Mackenzie, and Malcolm Maclean, contained in the "Beauties." James
Mackenzie, of Kirkton (brother of John Mackenzie of the "Beauties"), has
furnished a large chapter of Gairloch stories, besides a number of
facts, traditions, and anecdotes; wherever the name of James Mackenzie
occurs in these pages, it is this worthy Highlander who is referred to.
Other Gairloch traditions, stories, and information have been furnished
by Kenneth Fraser, Leac nan Saighead (through the medium of the _Celtic
Magazine_); Alexander Maclennan, Mossbank; Roderick Mackenzie (Ruaridh
an Torra), Lonmor; George and Kenneth Maclennan, Tollie Croft; John
Maclean (Iain Buidhe Taillear), Strath; Simon Chisholm, Flowerdale;
Roderick Campbell, Tollie; Donald Ross, Kenlochewe; Alexander Mackenzie
(Ali' Iain Ghlass), piper, Poolewe; George Maclennan, Londubh; and
Alexander Maclennan (Alie Uistean), Inveran, who especially has given me
considerable assistance. The legend of Ewan Mac Gabhar is mainly in the
form given in the works of James Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, supported
to some extent by several of the old people now living in Gairloch. That
enthusiastic friend of the Highlander, Professor Blackie, has kindly
contributed two English versions of Gaelic songs; and Mr William
Clements Good, of Aberdeen, has given similar aid. Professor W. Ivison
Macadam has communicated the results of his analyses of ores and slags,
and has assisted in examining the remains of the old ironworks. Mr D.
William Kemp, of Trinity, Edinburgh, has generously done a very great
deal to unravel the history of the ironworks, and in other ways.
Lieutenant Lamont, of Achtercairn, has procured the traditions given on
the authority of Ruaridh an Torra. Mr Mackintosh, postmaster, Poolewe,
has supplied some anecdotes and facts. The Glossary has been prepared
with the aid of Mr O. H. Mackenzie; the Rev. Ronald Dingwall, Free
Church minister, Aultbea; Mr Alexander Cameron, the Tournaig bard; and
Mr Alexander Maclennan, Inveran. The names of some others who have
rendered valuable help are stated where their information is utilised.
To all these ungrudging helpers, and to many others not mentioned by
name, I beg to offer my sincere thanks.
To render the natural history of Gairloch complete, lists are still
needed of the insects, sea-anemones, grasses, mosses, lichens, fungi,
sea-weeds, and fresh-water weeds. Any information on these and other
branches of natural history will be heartily welcomed, with a view to
insertion in a possible future edition.
The process of zincography, by which nearly all the illustrations have
been reproduced, has not in many cases realised my expectations, but it
has been thought best to issue the book at once rather than wait until
the illustrations could be rendered in a superior manner.
The profits, if any, from the sale of this book will be applied in aid
of the Poolewe Public Hall.
JOHN H. DIXON.
Inveran, Gairloch, _1st September 1886_.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
Flowerdale House, West Coast Residence of
the Baronets of Gairloch _Frontispiece_
Loch Maree, from Inveran 9
Crosses on the Graves of the Prince and Princess on Isle Maree 10
At Ardlair 15
On Craig Tollie 22
Island or Crannog on Loch Tollie 25
Gairloch, from Strath 35
Glen Grudidh, from Loch Maree 42
Beinn Lair, from Fionn Loch 54
Chapel of Sand of Udrigil 70
Sir George Hay, of Megginish, Knight, the Ironfounder of Loch
Maree _Facing_ 75
The Minister's Stone, Ardlair 81
Sir George Hay, First Earl of Kinnoull, High Chancellor of
Scotland, the Ironfounder of Loch Maree _Facing_ 82
On the Ewe 96
A Mutch 130
Cabar Lar, or Turf Parer 131
Tor-sgian, or Peat Knife 133
Cliabh Moine, or Peat Creel 134
Highland Hand-Plough called Cas-Chrom, or "crooked foot" 135
A Gairloch Man 216
Umbrella Fir, Glas Leitire 305
Above Grudidh Bridge 306
Leth Chreag, Tollie 314
Dunan, on Loch Tournaig 319
Near Grudidh 322
Slioch, from Rudha Aird an Anail 326
Natural Arch, Cove 334
Curious Rocks, Sand of Udrigil 338
Loch Maree, from Ardlair 340
Clach a Mhail, Ardlair 342
Uamh a Mhail, Ardlair 343
ANTIQUITIES
_From Drawings by Finlay Mackinnon. The numbers correspond with
those given on pp. 103, 104._
PAGE
1. Bronze Ring, found at Londubh 103
2. Hollow Bronze Ring, found at Londubh 104
3. Bronze Spear Head, found, along with a Stag's Horn, near
Inverewe House 104
4. Bronze Spear Head, found at Londubh 110
5. Bronze Celt, found at Slatadale 110
6. Stone Celt, found at Cove 113
7. Bronze Spear, found at Croft 117
8. Bronze Celt, found at Londubh 121
9. Stone Implement, found in Peat-Cutting between Inveran and
Kernsary 124
10. Quern or Trough, found in a Broch or Pictish Round House at
Tournaig 142
11. Fragment of Trough, found in a Broch or Pictish Round House
at Tournaig 146
12. Bronze Penannular Ring, found at Londubh 150
13. Cast Iron Appliance, probably part of Machinery, from the
Fasagh Ironworks 158
14. Tuyere, from the Fasagh Ironworks 163
NOTES.--The portraits of Sir George Hay, the Ironfounder of
Loch Maree, are lithographed reproductions from photographs
of pictures in Dupplin Castle, taken by permission of the
present Earl of Kinnoull.
All the illustrations are original, except No. 12 of the
Antiquities, which is reduced from that in Mr Jolly's paper
on "Bronze Weapons and other Remains found near Poolewe."
The sketches for the illustrations of Flowerdale House and
the Natural Arch at Cove are after photographs by Mr Fraser
of Reilig. In no case have published photographs been used
in the preparation of illustrations.
Map _At the end_
CONTENTS.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS xi
GLOSSARY OF GAELIC NAMES AND WORDS xxvii
INTRODUCTION.
Extent of Gairloch parish--Name--Curious muddle about "the
Gairloch"--Name used in four senses--Attractions of
Gairloch--Loch Maree--Superficial observation of
tourists--A party declare they have "seen Loch
Maree"--Inducements to longer visits--Credibility of old
traditions--Gaelic names--Pronunciation--Interference with
sportsmen and deer forests deprecated--Mountain
ascents--Drawbacks to them--Shorter climbs
recommended--Mania for exterminating plants--Instances xliii
PART I.--RECORDS AND TRADITIONS OF GAIRLOCH.
CHAPTER I.--EARLY HISTORY.
Absence of ancient records--Giants in those days--Fingalian
legends--Condition of Pictish aborigines--Their houses and
implements--Druids--Roman invasion--Pictish
monarchy--Introduction of Christianity--St
Maelrubha--Hermits of Isle Maree--Norse vikings--Norwegians
and Danes--End of Norwegian rule in 1263--The earls of
Ross--Donald of the Isles--The Mackenzies 3
CHAPTER II.--THE TRAGEDY OF ISLE MAREE.
Scene laid in Isle Maree--The hermit saint--Prince Olaf--His
fiery temper--Falls in love--Brings his bride to Isle
Maree--Is compelled to leave her on an expedition--The white
and black flags--Return of the prince--Jealousy of the
princess--Her scheme to test Olaf's affection--His madness
on seeing the black flag--Thinking her dead he kills
himself--The princess stabs herself and dies--Their graves
on Isle Maree 7
CHAPTER III.--THE MACKENZIES OF KINTAIL.
Two origins of the family of Mackenzie--The Cabar
Feidh--Angus Mac Mhathain--Kenneth, first lord of
Kintail--John, second lord, shelters Robert Bruce--Kenneth
of the Nose--Kenlochewe ravaged--Leod Mac
Gilleandreis--Black Murdo of the Cave--Joined by Gille
Riabhach--Comes to Kenlochewe--Slays Leod Mac Gilleandreis
and his followers--Ath nan Ceann--Fe Leoid--Black Murdo of
the Cave recovers Kintail--Murdo of the Bridge, fifth lord
of Kintail--Alexander the Upright, father of Hector Roy,
first laird of Gairloch--Skirmish of Beallach nam
Brog--Residences of lords of Kintail 11
CHAPTER IV.--EWAN MAC GABHAR, THE SON OF THE GOAT.
Ardlair--The cave of the king's son--Old Oighrig and her son
Kenneth--The goat Earba nourishes Ewan in the cave--Flora and
Ewan come to Letterewe--Ewan's sword and mantle of
state--The lord of Kintail comes to hunt--Flora and Ewan
suspected--Kenneth and Flora carried off to
Eileandonain--Oighrig and Ewan conveyed to Colin Mor
Gillespie--Colin Mor brings up Ewan--Great war against the
queen widow of Olamh Mor--Ewan gets a command--His slender
page--Mull plundered--The invaders surprised at night and
captured--The queen condemns the chiefs to death--Ewan led
forth to die--The execution arrested--Ewan identified and
proclaimed king--Prophecy fulfilled 14
CHAPTER V.--THE MACRAES OF KINTAIL AND GAIRLOCH.
The Macraes settle in Kintail--Become Mackenzie's "shirt of
mail"--The sons of Fortune--Assist in conquest of
Gairloch--List of Macraes who fought for Gairloch--Effigy
of Donald Odhair--Macraes renowned archers--Compared with
Turkish archers--The Macraes bore the dead bodies of their
chiefs to burial--The last occasion of this--Curious
statement 19
CHAPTER VI.--THE MACBEATHS.
MacBeaths from Assynt--Some still in Gairloch--Had several
strongholds--Lochan nan Airm--Kintail men come to Loch
Tollie--Shoot MacBeath's servant on the island--MacBeath
flies--Is struck by an arrow--Kintail men stay a night on
the island--Come through Gairloch--Report to their chief 21
CHAPTER VII.--THE M'LEODS OF GAIRLOCH.
The Siol Torquil--Claim to Gairloch--Legal title commenced
1430--MacBeaths expelled--The Tigh Dige--Strongholds of the
M'Leods--Eilean Ruaridh--Allan M'Leod, laird of
Gairloch--Murdered by his brothers at the "Hill of evil
counsel"--They also murder his two boys--The widow takes
their bloody shirts to her father--Hector Roy takes the
shirts to the king--Who gives Hector commission of fire and
sword against the M'Leods--The M'Leods confined to one-third
of Gairloch 24
CHAPTER VIII.--THE MACDONALDS IN GAIRLOCH.
Macdonalds, clansmen of Donald of the Isles--Probably some
settled in Gairloch--Still in Gairloch and Alligin--Mac
Gille Riabhaich--His cave--Story of his oak cudgel--The
soubriquet Darach--His descendant, Darroch of
Torridon--Donald Dubh Mac Gillechriosd Mhic Gille Riabhaich
--Threatens Hector Roy--Slays Buchanan after Flodden Field 27
CHAPTER IX.--HECTOR ROY MACKENZIE, FIRST LAIRD OF GAIRLOCH.
Vision of the great chief and his bodyguard--His appearance
and valour--Obtains charter to Gairloch--Slays three
M'Leods at "the Gairloch"--The battle of Park--Hector Roy
and Big Duncan of the Axe--Hector Roy at Sauchieburn--He
claims Kintail--Battle of Drum a Chait--Big Duncan again
assists--Hector Roy outlawed--Assists Mac Cailean--Kneels
before the king--Grasps his hand--Is pardoned--Abandons his
claim to Kintail--Fight with M'Leods at Beallach
Glasleathaid--Big Duncan and his son Dugal--Hector Roy
conquers part of Gairloch--Battle of Flodden--Clan Eachainn 29
CHAPTER X.--JOHN GLASSICH MACKENZIE AND HIS SONS.
John Glassich brought up in Strathglass--Claims
Kintail--Refuses to join the royal standard--Apprehended by
Kenneth of Kintail--Iain Gearr's pluck--Death of John
Glassich--Donald Gorme invades Kenlochewe--Hector and
Alexander, sons of John Glassich, both slain 36
CHAPTER XI.--JOHN ROY MACKENZIE.
John Roy resembled his grandfather Hector--His youth--Visits
his mother, wife of Mackay--Goes with a bodyguard to Iain
Liath at Glas Leitire--Lord Kintail abandons his hunt on the
Glas Leitire hills--John Roy and Iain Liath go to
Gairloch--Iain Dubh Mac Ruaridh M'Leod abandons the Gairloch
dun--Struggles with the M'Leods--John Roy's family--His
bodyguard composed of his twelve sons--Dealings with the
tithes of Gairloch--The Talladale ironworks--John Roy's
residence--Visits Mackay--Mackay's piper becomes John Roy's
piper--Lord Mackenzie summons John Roy to Torridon--He stays
the night with his lordship--Proposed assassination
deferred--John Roy's sons arrive and take him away--Allies
of Glengarry Macdonalds make an incursion to
Kenlochewe--Lord Mackenzie visits John Roy--John Roy granted
a remission by the crown 38
CHAPTER XII.--EXPULSION OF THE M'LEODS FROM GAIRLOCH.
Murchadh Riabhach na Cuirce--Slays Mac Iain Dhuibh
M'Leod--Ruaridh Mac Allan M'Leod assassinates Iain Mac
Ghille Challum M'Leod and his sons by Janet Mackenzie--John
Roy revenges the murder--Expels the M'Leods from
Gairloch--The Cnoc a Chrochadair--The affair at Leac nan
Saighead--Mor Ban persuades the M'Leods to invade
Gairloch--They come to Fraoch Eilean--Donald Odhar and his
brother shoot them from Leac nan Saighead--Only two M'Leods
escape in the birlinn--Donald Odhar's long shot from Craig a
Chait--Young M'Leod of Assynt asks John Roy's daughter for
his wife--Is refused--Fionnla Dubh na Saighead insults
him--The M'Leods return to take vengeance on Finlay--He and
Chisholm shoot many of them--Finlay pursues Neil M'Leod to
the Bac an Leth-choin and shoots him at the Druim Carn
Neill--Fight at Lochan an Fheidh--Affair at Raasay--Murdo
Mackenzie in his ship driven into Kirkton--Young M'Leod of
Raasay and his companions visit him--All the party get drunk
except four Gairloch men--A fight ensues--Murdo drowned--All
on board slain except three of the abstainers--They escape 43
CHAPTER XIII.--ALASTAIR BREAC, AND HIS SON AND GRANDSON.
Alastair Breac, a renowned warrior--Raids of cattle
lifters--Iain Geal Donn proposes a raid on
Gairloch--Alastair Buidhe Mackay intercepts him at
Scardroy--Slays him and all his men except one--Alastair
Breac sends the news to Lord Mackenzie--Cameron of Lochiel
plans a raid on Gairloch in revenge--Alastair Breac sends
eighty men to oppose him, but he has retired--Song composed
to the Guard of the Black Corrie--Colla Ban--In default of
blackmail threatens raid on Gairloch--His spies are
frightened by four Gairloch men at Luibmhor--Kenneth, sixth
laird of Gairloch, fined as a "malignant"--Alexander,
seventh laird of Gairloch 49
CHAPTER XIV.--THE BARONETS OF GAIRLOCH AND SOME OTHER
GAIRLOCH MACKENZIES.
Sir Kenneth, eighth laird of Gairloch--M.P. for
Ross-shire--Sir Alexander, ninth laird of Gairloch--Builds
Flowerdale--The "Forty-five"--Murder of the Gille Buidhe,
valet to Prince Charlie--Duncan Macrae conveys a keg of gold
for Prince Charlie's use--The "sian"--English man-of-war
fires at Flowerdale--Sir Alexander, tenth laird of
Gairloch--Builds Conan House--His son called "Fighting
Jack," the father of the British army--Sir Hector
Mackenzie--Lives at home--Lord-Lieutenant of Ross-shire--His
beloved lady--Sir Francis Mackenzie--Publishes his "Hints"
in 1838--Sir Kenneth, present baronet--Mackenzies of
Letterewe--Mackenzies of Lochend--Mackenzies of
Gruinard--Large family--Mackenzies of Kernsary--Summary of
Mackenzie History--Crest, Badge, Slogan, and Pipe tunes 53
CHAPTER XV.--GAIRLOCH ESTATES, AND OLD NAMES OF PLACES.
Kenlochewe--Gairloch--Description in protocol of
1494--Description in retour of 1566--Description in
1638--Names in Dutch map of 1662--Second half of the water
of Ewe bought in 1671--Strip on north of River Ewe acquired
in 1844--Letterewe originally Kintail property--Acquired by
Charles Mackenzie in 1696--Sold to Mr Bankes in
1835--Northern parts of Gairloch belonging to Gruinard
Mackenzies before 1655--Sold to Davidson of Tulloch in
1795--Afterwards acquired by Mr Bankes--Mr O. H. Mackenzie's
estate of Inverewe 60
CHAPTER XVI.--ECCLESIASTICAL HISTORY OF GAIRLOCH.
First church in Gairloch--Other early ecclesiastical
buildings--Rector of Gairloch at date of
Reformation--Presbyterianism--Tulchan bishops--Changes from
Episcopalianism to Presbyterianism--Rev. Alexander
Mackenzie--Rev. Farquhar Macrae--Rev. Roderick
Mackenzie--Rev. Kenneth Mackenzie of Kernsary--Rev. John
Morrison--Persecuted by Episcopalians--Anecdotes--His
turf-built church in Tollie Bay--Christmas story--Rev. James
Smith--First school in Gairloch--Anecdote of Rev. Mr
Sage--Rev. Æneas McAulay--Rev. John Dounie--Rev. James
Russell--His imperfect Gaelic--Poolewe made a separate
parish--The Disruption--Presbyteries of Dingwall,
Kenlochewe, Chanonry, Gairloch, and Loch Carron--Churches in
Gairloch--Manse and glebe at Achdistall, Cliff and
Strath--Free churches and their ministers 63
CHAPTER XVII.--ANCIENT GAIRLOCH IRONWORKS.
Two classes of remains of ironworks--Rev. Donald M'Nicol's
statement--Coin found near old Yorkshire ironworks--Iron
implements used by ancient inhabitants--Disappearance of
them accounted for--Other ancient remains in
Sutherlandshire, Ross-shire, and Inverness-shire--Bog iron
was the ore used of old in Gairloch--Processes of the
ancient ironworkers--Wasteful richness of their slags
accounted for--Charcoal was their fuel--The ancient forests
of timber--Their disappearance--Water power anciently
employed for working hammers 72
CHAPTER XVIII.--THE HISTORIC IRONWORKS OF LOCH MAREE.
The present series of Scottish ironworks commenced on Loch
Maree--The licence to Archibald Primrose for making iron
ratified in 1612--Spread of the iron industry in the
eighteenth century--Iron furnaces in Glengarry--Abernethy
furnaces of the York Buildings Company--The Bonawe
furnace--The Argyle Furnace Company--The Lorn Company--The
Carron ironworks--The Wilsonton works--Furnace at
Goatfield--Pennant's notice of the furnace near Poolewe--The
Fife Adventurers and the Lews--The Rev. Farquhar Macrae,
vicar of Gairloch--The Letterewe furnace established in 1607
by Sir George Hay--Previous history of Sir George--His
residence at Letterewe--His ironworks--The timber
consumed--The goods produced--The improvements he
effected--Act prohibiting the making of iron with
wood--Monopoly of iron manufacture granted to Sir
George--Ratified by Parliament--Proclamation restraining the
export of iron ore--Licence to Sir George to sell iron in
royal burghs--Sir George's probable acquaintance with John
Roy Mackenzie, laird of Gairloch--Sir George's friendship
with the Rev. Farquhar Macrae--The minister's stone--Sir
George leaves Letterewe--His distinguished
after-career--Created first Earl of Kinnoull--Continuance of
the ironworks--Tombstone of John Hay--His probable
relationship to Sir George--Discontinuance of the
ironworks--The artisans employed--Whence they came--The
Kemps--The Cladh nan Sasunnach--Condition of the ironworkers
in the then state of the Highlands--The Big Englishman 75
CHAPTER XIX.--THE IRON ORES USED IN GAIRLOCH.
References to local iron ore--Local bog iron used at ancient
bloomeries--Ferruginous rocks and shales--Traditional
quarries--Richness of bog iron--Places where it is still
found in Gairloch--Bog iron originally used by Sir George
Hay--He afterwards imported red hematite and clayband
ironstone--Mr Marr's description of these ores--They were
landed at Poolewe--Remains of them there--Mr Macadam's
analyses--Mixture with local ore--Classification of the ores 86
CHAPTER XX.--REMAINS OF IRONWORKS IN THE PARISH OF GAIRLOCH.
Mr Macadam's description of two classes of slag--List of six
localities of ironworks--Glen
Dochartie--Fasagh--Analyses--Lochan Cul na
Cathrach--Furnace, Letterewe--Talladale--Garavaig, on
Slatadale farm--Red Smiddy, near Poolewe--Iron articles
found--The borings at Cuil an Scardain--Chronological order
of the ironworks--Other supposed furnaces--Notices of
ironworks or mines in old Dutch map, and in "Present State
of Great Britain and Ireland"--Conclusion 90
CHAPTER XXI.--ANTIQUITIES.
Want of interesting remains of ancient buildings--Supposed
Druidical remains in Tollie wood--Druidical enclosure on
Isle Maree--The Island of Justice--Pictish round
houses--Vitrified fort--Ancient duns, strongholds, or
crannogs--Remains of churches--Gairloch church--Culinellan
church--Turf-built church in Tollie Bay--Church at Tollie
Croft, or Cruive End--Chapel of Inverewe--Chapel of Sand of
Udrigil--Old burial-grounds--Remains of other old
buildings--Remains on Isle Maree--On Eilean Ruaridh Beag--On
Eilean Suainne--The Tigh Dige--The Sabhal-Geal--The Temple
house--Old houses--Ancient weapons and implements--The Feill
Iudha--Caves 97
PART II.--INHABITANTS OF GAIRLOCH.
CHAPTER I.--ANCESTRY AND NAMES.
Highlanders different to Scotch--Gairloch people originally
Celtic--Admixture of blood--Mackenzies
predominant--Surnames little used--Mode of constructing
Gaelic names--Examples--Bynames--Curious names of girls 109
CHAPTER II.--WARFARE AND WEAPONS.
Gairloch a bone of contention--Broadsword and targe--Bows
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Transcribed from the 1888 Cassell & Company edition by Jane Duff, proofed
by David Price, email [email protected].
The Black Death
and
The Dancing Mania.
FROM THE GERMAN OF
J. F. C. HECKER.
TRANSLATED BY
B. G. BABINGTON.
CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED:
_LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_.
1888.
INTRODUCTION
Justus Friedrich Karl Hecker was one of three generations of
distinguished professors of medicine. His father, August Friedrich
Hecker, a most industrious writer, first practised as a physician in
Frankenhausen, and in 1790 was appointed Professor of Medicine at the
University of Erfurt. In 1805 he was called to the like professorship at
the University of Berlin. He died at Berlin in 1811.
Justus Friedrich Karl Hecker was born at Erfurt in January, 1795. He
went, of course--being then ten years old--with his father to Berlin in
1805, studied at Berlin in the Gymnasium and University, but interrupted
his studies at the age of eighteen to fight as a volunteer in the war for
a renunciation of Napoleon and all his works. After Waterloo he went
back to his studies, took his doctor's degree in 1817 with a treatise on
the "Antiquities of Hydrocephalus," and became privat-docent in the
Medical Faculty of the Berlin University. His inclination was strong
from the first towards the historical side of inquiries into Medicine.
This caused him to undertake a "History of Medicine," of which the first
volume appeared in 1822. It obtained rank for him at Berlin as
Extraordinary Professor of the History of Medicine. This office was
changed into an Ordinary professorship of the same study in 1834, and
Hecker held that office until his death in 1850.
The office was created for a man who had a special genius for this form
of study. It was delightful to himself, and he made it delightful to
others. He is regarded as the founder of historical pathology. He
studied disease in relation to the history of man, made his study yield
to men outside his own profession an important chapter in the history of
civilisation, and even took into account physical phenomena upon the
surface of the globe as often affecting the movement and character of
epidemics.
The account of "The Black Death" here translated by Dr. Babington was
Hecker's first important work of this kind. It was published in 1832,
and was followed in the same year by his account of "The Dancing Mania."
The books here given are the two that first gave Hecker a wide
reputation. Many other such treatises followed, among them, in 1865, a
treatise on the "Great Epidemics of the Middle Ages." Besides his
"History of Medicine," which, in its second volume, reached into the
fourteenth century, and all his smaller treatises, Hecker wrote a large
number of articles in Encyclopaedias and Medical Journals. Professor
J.F.K. Hecker was, in a more interesting way, as busy as Professor A.F.
Hecker, his father, had been. He transmitted the family energies to an
only son, Karl von Hecker, born in 1827, who distinguished himself
greatly as a Professor of Midwifery, and died in 1882.
Benjamin Guy Babington, the translator of these books of Hecker's,
belonged also to a family in which the study of Medicine has passed from
father to son, and both have been writers. B.G. Babington was the son of
Dr. William Babington, who was physician to Guy's Hospital for some years
before 1811, when the extent of his private practice caused him to
ret | 2,679.656224 |
2023-11-16 19:01:43.9369410 | 1,772 | 7 |
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.fadedpage.net
THE IDYL OF TWIN FIRES
[Illustration: "So that is why you wanted my brook to come from the
spring!"]
THE IDYL OF TWIN FIRES
BY
WALTER PRICHARD EATON
Illustrated by Thomas Fogarty
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers : : New York
Copyright, 1914, 1915, by Doubleday, Page & Company
All rights reserved, including that of translation
into foreign languages, including the Scandinavian
CONTENTS
I. I Buy a Farm on Sight 3
II. My Money Goes and My Farmer Comes 19
III. New Joy in an Old Orchard 34
IV. I Pump up a Ghost 47
V. I Am Humbled by a Drag Scraper 66
VI. The Hermit Sings at Twilight 77
VII. The Ghost of Rome in Roses 88
VIII. I Pick Paint and a Quarrel 102
IX. We Seat Thoreau in the Chimney Nook, and I
Write a Sonnet 113
X. We Climb a Hill Together 130
XI. Actaeon and Diana 143
XII. Shopping as a Dissipation 155
XIII. The Advent of the Pilligs 164
XIV. The First Lemon Pie 177
XV. A Pagan Thrush 192
XVI. I Go to New York for a Purpose 204
XVII. I Do Not Return Alone 220
XVIII. We Build a Pool 227
XIX. The Nice Other Things 237
XX. Callers 245
XXI. Autumn in the Garden 252
XXII. In Praise of Country Winter 264
XXIII. Spring in the Garden 275
XXIV. Some Rural Problems 282
XXV. _Horas Non Numero Nisi Serenas_ 297
ILLUSTRATIONS
"So that is why you wanted my brook to come from
the spring!" _Frontispiece_
She was sitting with a closed book on her knee,
gazing into the fire 124
"Well, well, you've got yourself a bookay,"
she said 174
"We are your neighbours... you are very
fortunate to have us for neighbours" 246
THE IDYL OF TWIN FIRES
Chapter I
I BUY A FARM ON SIGHT
I was sitting at a late hour in my room above the college Yard,
correcting daily themes. I had sat at a late hour in my room above
the college Yard, correcting daily themes, for it seemed an interminable
number of years--was it six or seven? I had no great love for it,
certainly. Some men who go into teaching, and of course all men who
become great teachers, do have a genuine love for their work. But I am
afraid I was one of those unfortunates who take up teaching as a
stop-gap, a means of livelihood while awaiting "wider opportunities."
These opportunities in my case were to be the authorship of an
epoch-making novel, or a great drama, or some similar masterpiece. I
had been accredited with "brilliant promise" in my undergraduate days,
and the college had taken me into the English department upon graduation.
Well, that was seven years ago. I was still correcting daily themes.
It was a warm night in early April. I had a touch of spring fever, and
wrote vicious, sarcastic comments on the poor undergraduate pages of
unexpressiveness before me, as through my open windows drifted up from
the Yard a snatch of song from some returning theatre party. Most of
these themes were hopeless. Your average man has no sense of literature.
Moreover, by the time he reaches college it is too late to teach him
even common, idiomatic expressiveness. That ought to be done in the
secondary schools--and isn't. I toiled on. Near the bottom of the
pile came the signature, James Robinson. I opened the sheet with relief.
He was one of the few in the class with the real literary instinct--a
lad from some nearby New England village who went home over Sunday and
brought back unconscious records of his changing life there. I enjoyed
the little drama, for I, too, had come from a suburban village, and knew
the first bitter awakening to its narrowness.
I opened the theme, and this is what I read:
"The April sun has come at last, and the first warmth of it
lays a benediction on the spirit, even as it tints the earth
with green. Our barn door, standing open, framed a picture
this morning between walls of golden hay--the soft rolling
fields, the fringe of woodland beyond veiled with a haze of
budding life, and then the far line of the hills. A horse
stamped in the shadows; a hen strolled out upon the floor,
cooting softly; there was a warm, earthy smell in the air, the
distant church bell sounded pleasantly over the fields, and
up the road I heard the rattle of Uncle Amos's carryall,
bearing the family to meeting. The strife of learning, the
pride of the intellect, the academic urge--where were they? I
found myself wandering out from the barnyard into the fields,
filled with a great longing to hold a plow in the furrow till
tired out, and then to lie on my back in the sun and watch
the lazy clouds."
So Robinson had spring fever, too! How it makes us turn back home! I
made some flattering comment or other on the paper (especially, I recall,
starring the verb _coot_ as good hen lore), and put it with the rest.
Then I fell to dreaming. Home! I, John Upton, academic bachelor, had
no home, no parents, no kith nor kin. I had my study lined with books,
my little monastic bedroom behind it, my college position, and a shabby
remnant of my old ambitions. The soft "coot, coot" of a hen picking up
grain on the old barn floor! I closed my eyes in delicious memory--memory
of my grandfather's farm down in Essex County. The sweet call of the
village church bell came back to me, the drone of the preacher, the
smell of lilacs outside, the stamp of an impatient horse in the horse
sheds where liniment for man and beast was advertised on tin posters!
"Why don't I go back to it, and give up this grind?" I thought. Then,
being an English instructor, I added learnedly, "and be a disciple of
Rousseau!"
It was a warm April night, and I was foolish with spring fever. I began
to play with the idea. I got up and opened my tin box, to investigate
the visible paper tokens of my little fortune. There was, in all, about
$30,000, the result of my legacy from my parents and my slender savings
from my slender salary, for I had never had any extravagances except
books and golf balls. I had heard of farms being bought for $1,500. That
would still leave me more than $1,200 a year. Perhaps, with the freedom
from this college grind, I could write some of those masterpieces at
last--even a best seller! I grew as rosy with hope as an undergraduate.
I looked at myself in the glass--not yet bald, face smooth, rather
academic, shoulders good, thanks to daily rowing. Hands hard, too! I
sought for a copy of the _Transcript_, and ran over the real estate
ads. Here was a gentleman's estate, with two butler's pantries and a
concrete garage--_that_ would hardly do! No, I should have to consult
somebody | 2,679.956981 |
2023-11-16 19:01:44.0413940 | 978 | 52 | STEAM MAN, OR, THE YOUNG INVENTOR'S TRIP TO THE FAR WEST***
E-text prepared by Richard Tonsing 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 53932-h.htm or 53932-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/53932/53932-h/53932-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/53932/53932-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/Frank_Reade_-_01
Transcriber’s note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
“Noname’s” Latest and Best Stories are Published in This Library.
[Illustration: FRANK READE LIBRARY]
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
_Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as Second Class
Matter._
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
=No. 1.= {=COMPLETE.=} FRANK TOUSEY, {=PRICE=} =Vol. I=
PUBLISHED, 34 & 36 {=5 CENTS.=}
NORTH MOORE STREET, NEW
YORK.
New York, ISSUED
September WEEKLY.
24, 1892.
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
_Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the year 1892, by FRANK
TOUSEY, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington,
D. C._
═════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════════
FRANK READE, JR., AND HIS NEW STEAM MAN;
OR, THE
YOUNG INVENTOR’S TRIP TO THE FAR WEST.
By “NONAME.”
[Illustration]
The Subscription Price of the FRANK READE LIBRARY by the Year is $2.50:
$1.25 per six months, post-paid. Address FRANK TOUSEY, PUBLISHER, 34 and
36 North Moore Street, New York. Box 2730.
Frank Reade Jr., and His New Steam Man;
OR,
THE YOUNG INVENTOR’S TRIP TO THE FAR WEST.
By “NONAME”,
Author of Frank Reade Jr.’s Electric Cyclone; or, Thrilling Adventures
in No Man’s Land, etc.
CHAPTER I.
A GREAT WRONG.
Frank Reade was noted the world over as a wonderful and distinguished
inventor of marvelous machines in the line of steam and electricity. But
he had grown old and unable to knock about the world, as he had been
wont once to do.
So it happened that his son, Frank Reade, Jr., a handsome and talented
young man, succeeded his father as a great inventor, even excelling him
in variety and complexity of invention. The son speedily outstripped his
sire.
The great machine shops in Readestown were enlarged by young Frank, and
new flying machines, electric wonders, and so forth, were brought into
being.
But the elder Frank would maintain that, inasmuch as electricity at the
time was an undeveloped factor, his invention of the Steam Man was
really the most wonderful of all.
“It cannot be improved upon,” he declared, positively. “Not if steam is
used as a motive power.”
Frank, Jr. laughed quietly, and patted his father on the back.
“Dad,” he said, with an affectionate, though bantering air, “what would
you think if I should produce a most remarkable improvement upon your
Steam Man?”
“You can’t do it!” declared the senior Reade.
Frank, Jr | 2,680.061434 |
2023-11-16 19:01:44.2341650 | 4,757 | 7 |
Produced by David Widger
THE DIARY OF SAMUEL PEPYS M.A. F.R.S.
CLERK OF THE ACTS AND SECRETARY TO THE ADMIRALTY
TRANSCRIBED FROM THE SHORTHAND MANUSCRIPT IN THE PEPYSIAN LIBRARY
MAGDALENE COLLEGE CAMBRIDGE BY THE REV. MYNORS BRIGHT M.A. LATE FELLOW
AND PRESIDENT OF THE COLLEGE
(Unabridged)
WITH LORD BRAYBROOKE'S NOTES
EDITED WITH ADDITIONS BY
HENRY B. WHEATLEY F.S.A.
DIARY OF SAMUEL PEPYS.
MARCH
1663-1664
March 1st. Up and to the office, where we sat all the morning, and at
noon to the 'Change, and after much business and meeting my uncle Wight,
who told me how Mr. Maes had like to have been trapanned yesterday, but
was forced to run for it; so with Creed and Mr. Hunt home to dinner, and
after a good and pleasant dinner, Mr. Hunt parted, and I took Mr. Creed
and my wife and down to Deptford, it being most pleasant weather, and
there till night discoursing with the officers there about several things,
and so walked home by moonshine, it being mighty pleasant, and so home,
and I to my office, where late about getting myself a thorough
understanding in the business of masts, and so home to bed, my left eye
being mightily troubled with rheum.
2nd. Up, my eye mightily out of order with the rheum that is fallen down
into it, however, I by coach endeavoured to have waited on my Lord
Sandwich, but meeting him in Chancery Lane going towards the City I
stopped and so fairly walked home again, calling at St. Paul's
Churchyarde, and there looked upon a pretty burlesque poem, called
"Scarronides, or Virgile Travesty;" extraordinary good. At home to the
office till dinner, and after dinner my wife cut my hair short, which is
growne pretty long again, and then to the office, and there till 9 at
night doing business. This afternoon we had a good present of tongues and
bacon from Mr. Shales, of Portsmouth. So at night home to supper, and,
being troubled with my eye, to bed. This morning Mr. Burgby, one of the
writing clerks belonging to the Council, was with me about business, a
knowing man, he complains how most of the Lords of the Council do look
after themselves and their own ends, and none the publique, unless Sir
Edward Nicholas. Sir G. Carteret is diligent, but all for his own ends
and profit. My Lord Privy Scale, a destroyer of every body's business,
and do no good at all to the publique. The Archbishop of Canterbury
speaks very little, nor do much, being now come to the highest pitch that
he can expect. He tells me, he believes that things will go very high
against the Chancellor by Digby, and that bad things will be proved. Talks
much of his neglecting the King; and making the King to trot every day to
him, when he is well enough to go to visit his cozen Chief-Justice Hide,
but not to the Council or King. He commends my Lord of Ormond mightily in
Ireland; but cries out cruelly of Sir G. Lane for his corruption; and that
he hath done my Lord great dishonour by selling of places here, which are
now all taken away, and the poor wretches ready to starve. That nobody
almost understands or judges of business better than the King, if he would
not be guilty of his father's fault to be doubtfull of himself, and easily
be removed from his own opinion. That my Lord Lauderdale is never from
the King's care nor council, and that he is a most cunning fellow. Upon
the whole, that he finds things go very bad every where; and even in the
Council nobody minds the publique.
3rd. Up pretty early and so to the office, where we sat all the morning
making a very great contract with Sir W. Warren for provisions for the
yeare coming, and so home to dinner, and there was W. Howe come to dine
with me, and before dinner he and I walked in the garden, and we did
discourse together, he assuring me of what he told me the other day of my
Lord's speaking so highly in my commendation to my Lord Peterborough and
Povy, which speaks my Lord having yet a good opinion of me, and also how
well my Lord and Lady both are pleased with their children's being at my
father's, and when the bigger ladies were there a little while ago, at
which I am very glad. After dinner he went away, I having discoursed with
him about his own proceedings in his studies, and I observe him to be very
considerate and to mind his book in order to preferring himself by my
Lord's favour to something, and I hope to the outing of Creed in his
Secretaryship. For he tells me that he is confident my Lord do not love
him nor will trust him in any secret matter, he is so cunning and crafty
in all he do. So my wife and I out of doors thinking to have gone to have
seen a play, but when we came to take coach, they tell us there are none
this week, being the first of Lent. But, Lord! to see how impatient I
found myself within to see a play, I being at liberty once a month to see
one, and I think it is the best method I could have taken. But to my
office, did very much business with several people till night, and so
home, being unwilling to stay late because of my eye which is not yet well
of the rheum that is fallen down into it, but to supper and to bed.
4th. Up, my eye being pretty well, and then by coach to my Lord Sandwich,
with whom I spoke, walking a good while with him in his garden, which and
the house is very fine, talking of my Lord Peterborough's accounts,
wherein he is concerned both for the foolery as also inconvenience which
may happen upon my Lord Peterborough's ill-stating of his matters, so as
to have his gaine discovered unnecessarily. We did talk long and freely
that I hope the worst is past and all will be well. There were several
people by trying a new-fashion gun
[Many attempts to produce a satisfactory revolver were made in
former centuries, but it was not till the present one that Colt's
revolver was invented. On February 18th, 1661, Edward, Marquis of
Worcester, obtained Letters Patent for "an invencon to make certeyne
guns or pistolls which in the tenth parte of one minute of an houre
may, with a flaske contrived to that purpose, be re-charged the
fourth part of one turne of the barrell which remaines still fixt,
fastening it as forceably and effectually as a dozen thrids of any
scrue, which in the ordinary and usual way require as many turnes."
On March 3rd, 1664, Abraham Hill obtained Letters Patent for a "gun
or pistoll for small shott, carrying seaven or eight charges of the
same in the stocke of the gun."]
brought my Lord this morning, to shoot off often, one after another,
without trouble or danger, very pretty. Thence to the Temple, and there
taking White's boat down to Woolwich, taking Mr. Shish at Deptford in my
way, with whom I had some good discourse of the Navy business. At
Woolwich discoursed with him and Mr. Pett about iron worke and other
businesses, and then walked home, and at Greenwich did observe the
foundation laying of a very great house for the King, which will cost a
great deale of money.
[Building by John Webb; now a part of Greenwich Hospital. Evelyn
wrote in his Diary, October 19th, 1661: "I went to London to visite
my Lord of Bristoll, having been with Sir John Denham (his Mates
surveyor) to consult with him about the placing of his palace at
Greenwich, which I would have had built between the river and the
Queene's house, so as a large cutt should have let in ye Thames like
a bay; but Sir John was for setting it in piles at the very brink of
the water, which I did not assent to and so came away, knowing Sir
John to be a better poet than architect, tho' he had Mr. Webb (Inigo
Jones's man) to assist him."]
So home to dinner, and my uncle Wight coming in he along with my wife and
I by coach, and setting him down by the way going to Mr. Maes we two to my
Lord Sandwich's to visit my Lady, with whom I left my wife discoursing,
and I to White Hall, and there being met by the Duke of Yorke, he called
me to him and discoursed a pretty while with me about the new ship's
dispatch building at Woolwich, and talking of the charge did say that he
finds always the best the most cheape, instancing in French guns, which in
France you may buy for 4 pistoles, as good to look to as others of 16, but
not the service. I never had so much discourse with the Duke before, and
till now did ever fear to meet him. He found me and Mr. Prin together
talking of the Chest money, which we are to blame not to look after.
Thence to my Lord's, and took up my wife, whom my Lady hath received with
her old good nature and kindnesse, and so homewards, and she home, I
'lighting by the way, and upon the 'Change met my uncle Wight and told him
my discourse this afternoon with Sir G. Carteret in Maes' business, but
much to his discomfort, and after a dish of coffee home, and at my office
a good while with Sir W. Warren talking with great pleasure of many
businesses, and then home to supper, my wife and I had a good fowle to
supper, and then I to the office again and so home, my mind in great ease
to think of our coming to so good a respect with my Lord again, and my
Lady, and that my Lady do so much cry up my father's usage of her
children, and the goodness of the ayre there, found in the young ladies'
faces at their return thence, as she says, as also my being put into the
commission of the Fishery,
[There had been recently established, under the Great Seal of
England, a Corporation for the Royal Fishing, of which the Duke of
York was Governor, Lord Craven Deputy-Governor, and the Lord Mayor
and Chamberlain of London, for the time being, Treasurers, in which
body was vested the sole power of licensing lotteries ("The Newes,"
October 6th, 1664). The original charter (dated April 8th, 1664),
incorporating James, Duke of York, and thirty-six assistants as
Governor and Company of the Royal Fishing of Great Britain and
Ireland, is among the State Papers. The duke was to be Governor
till February 26th, 1665]
for which I must give my Lord thanks, and so home to bed, having a great
cold in my head and throat tonight from my late cutting my hair so close
to my head, but I hope it will be soon gone again.
5th. Up and to the office, where, though I had a great cold, I was forced
to speak much upon a publique meeting of the East India Company, at our
office; where our own company was full, and there was also my Lord George
Barkeley, in behalfe of the company of merchants (I suppose he is on that
company), who, hearing my name, took notice of me, and condoled my cozen
Edward Pepys's death, not knowing whose son I was, nor did demand it of
me. We broke up without coming to any conclusion, for want of my Lord
Marlborough. We broke up and I to the 'Change, where with several people
and my uncle Wight to drink a dish of coffee, and so home to dinner, and
then to the office all the afternoon, my eye and my throat being very bad,
and my cold increasing so as I could not speak almost at all at night. So
at night home to supper, that is a posset, and to bed.
6th (Lord's day). Up, and my cold continuing in great extremity I could
not go out to church, but sat all day (a little time at dinner excepted)
in my closet at the office till night drawing up a second letter to Mr.
Coventry about the measure of masts to my great satisfaction, and so in
the evening home, and my uncle and aunt Wight came to us and supped with
us, where pretty merry, but that my cold put me out of humour. At night
with my cold, and my eye also sore still, to bed.
7th. Up betimes, and the Duke being gone abroad to-day, as we heard by a
messenger, I spent the morning at my office writing fair my yesterday's
work till almost 2 o'clock (only Sir G. Carteret coming I went down a
little way by water towards Deptford, but having more mind to have my
business done I pretended business at the 'Change, and so went into
another boat), and then, eating a bit, my wife and I by coach to the
Duke's house, where we saw "The Unfortunate Lovers;" but I know not
whether I am grown more curious than I was or no, but I was not much
pleased with it, though I know not where to lay the fault, unless it was
that the house was very empty, by reason of a new play at the other house.
Yet here was my Lady Castlemayne in a box, and it was pleasant to hear an
ordinary lady hard by us, that it seems did not know her before, say,
being told who she was, that "she was well enough." Thence home, and I
ended and sent away my letter to Mr. Coventry (having first read it and
had the opinion of Sir W. Warren in the case), and so home to supper and
to bed, my cold being pretty well gone, but my eye remaining still snare
and rhumey, which I wonder at, my right eye ayling nothing.
8th. Up with some little discontent with my wife upon her saying that she
had got and used some puppy-dog water, being put upon it by a desire of my
aunt Wight to get some for her, who hath a mind, unknown to her husband,
to get some for her ugly face. I to the office, where we sat all the
morning, doing not much business through the multitude of counsellors, one
hindering another. It was Mr. Coventry's own saying to me in his coach
going to the 'Change, but I wonder that he did give me no thanks for my
letter last night, but I believe he did only forget it. Thence home,
whither Luellin came and dined with me, but we made no long stay at
dinner; for "Heraclius" being acted, which my wife and I have a mighty
mind to see, we do resolve, though not exactly agreeing with the letter of
my vowe, yet altogether with the sense, to see another this month, by
going hither instead of that at Court, there having been none conveniently
since I made my vowe for us to see there, nor like to be this Lent, and
besides we did walk home on purpose to make this going as cheap as that
would have been, to have seen one at Court, and my conscience knows that
it is only the saving of money and the time also that I intend by my
oaths, and this has cost no more of either, so that my conscience before
God do after good consultation and resolution of paying my forfeit, did my
conscience accuse me of breaking my vowe, I do not find myself in the
least apprehensive that I have done any violence to my oaths. The play
hath one very good passage well managed in it, about two persons
pretending, and yet denying themselves, to be son to the tyrant Phocas,
and yet heire of Mauritius to the crowne. The garments like Romans very
well. The little girle is come to act very prettily, and spoke the
epilogue most admirably. But at the beginning, at the drawing up of the
curtaine, there was the finest scene of the Emperor and his people about
him, standing in their fixed and different pastures in their Roman
habitts, above all that ever I yet saw at any of the theatres. Walked
home, calling to see my brother Tom, who is in bed, and I doubt very ill
of a consumption. To the office awhile, and so home to supper and to bed.
9th. Up pretty betimes to my office, where all day long, but a little at
home at dinner, at my office finishing all things about Mr. Wood's
contract for masts, wherein I am sure I shall save the King L400 before I
have done. At night home to supper and to bed.
10th. Up and to the office, where all the morning doing business, and at
noon to the 'Change and there very busy, and so home to dinner with my
wife, to a good hog's harslet,
[Harslet or haslet, the entrails of an animal, especially of a hog,
as the heart, liver, &c.]
a piece of meat I love, but have not eat of I think these seven years, and
after dinner abroad by coach set her at Mrs. Hunt's and I to White Hall,
and at the Privy Seale I enquired, and found the Bill come for the
Corporation of the Royall Fishery; whereof the Duke of Yorke is made
present Governor, and several other very great persons, to the number of
thirty-two, made his assistants for their lives: whereof, by my Lord
Sandwich's favour, I am one; and take it not only as a matter of honour,
but that, that may come to be of profit to me, and so with great content
went and called my wife, and so home and to the office, where busy late,
and so home to supper and to bed.
11th. Up and by coach to my Lord Sandwich's, who not being up I staid
talking with Mr. Moore till my Lord was ready and come down, and went
directly out without calling for me or seeing any body. I know not
whether he knew I was there, but I am apt to think not, because if he
would have given me that slighting yet he would not have done it to others
that were there. So I went back again doing nothing but discoursing with
Mr. Moore, who I find by discourse to be grown rich, and indeed not to use
me at all with the respect he used to do, but as his equal. He made me
known to their Chaplin, who is a worthy, able man. Thence home, and by and
by to the Coffee-house, and thence to the 'Change, and so home to dinner,
and after a little chat with my wife to the office, where all the
afternoon till very late at the office busy, and so home to supper and to
bed, hoping in God that my diligence, as it is really very useful for the
King, so it will end in profit to myself. In the meantime I have good
content in mind to see myself improve every day in knowledge and being
known.
12th. Lay long pleasantly entertaining myself with my wife, and then up
and to the office, where busy till noon, vexed to see how Sir J. Minnes
deserves rather to be pitied for his dotage and folly than employed at a
great salary to ruin the King's business. At noon to the 'Change, and
thence home to dinner, and then down to Deptford, where busy a while, and
then walking home it fell hard a raining. So at Halfway house put in, and
there meeting Mr. Stacy with some company of pretty women, I took him
aside to a room by ourselves, and there talked with him about the several
sorts of tarrs, and so by and by parted, and I walked home and there late
at the office, and so home to supper and to bed.
13th (Lord's day). Lay long in bed talking with my wife, and then up in
great doubt whether I should not go see Mr. Coventry or no, who hath not
been well these two or three days, but it being foul weather I staid
within, and so to my office, and there all the morning reading some Common
Law, to which I will allot a little time now and then, for I much want it | 2,680.254205 |
2023-11-16 19:01:44.5581460 | 862 | 13 |
Produced by Charles Keller
THE HISTORY OF THE TELEPHONE
By Herbert N. Casson
PREFACE
Thirty-five short years, and presto! the newborn art of telephony is
fullgrown. Three million telephones are now scattered abroad in foreign
countries, and seven millions are massed here, in the land of its birth.
So entirely has the telephone outgrown the ridicule with which, as many
people can well remember, it was first received, that it is now in
most places taken for granted, as though it were a part of the natural
phenomena of this planet. It has so marvellously extended the
facilities of conversation--that "art in which a man has all mankind for
competitors"--that it is now an indispensable help to whoever would
live the convenient life. The disadvantage of being deaf and dumb to
all absent persons, which was universal in pre-telephonic days, has now
happily been overcome; and I hope that this story of how and by whom it
was done will be a welcome addition to American libraries.
It is such a story as the telephone itself might tell, if it could speak
with a voice of its own. It is not technical. It is not statistical. It
is not exhaustive. It is so brief, in fact, that a second volume could
readily be made by describing the careers of telephone leaders whose
names I find have been omitted unintentionally from this book--such
indispensable men, for instance, as William R. Driver, who has signed
more telephone cheques and larger ones than any other man; Geo. S.
Hibbard, Henry W. Pope, and W. D. Sargent, three veterans who know
telephony in all its phases; George Y. Wallace, the last survivor of the
Rocky Mountain pioneers; Jasper N. Keller, of Texas and New England;
W. T. Gentry, the central figure of the Southeast, and the following
presidents of telephone companies: Bernard E. Sunny, of Chicago; E. B.
Field, of Denver; D. Leet Wilson, of Pittsburg; L. G. Richardson, of
Indianapolis; Caspar E. Yost, of Omaha; James E. Caldwell, of Nashville;
Thomas Sherwin, of Boston; Henry T. Scott, of San Francisco; H. J.
Pettengill, of Dallas; Alonzo Burt, of Milwaukee; John Kilgour, of
Cincinnati; and Chas. S. Gleed, of Kansas City.
I am deeply indebted to most of these men for the information which
is herewith presented; and also to such pioneers, now dead, as O. E.
Madden, the first General Agent; Frank L. Pope, the noted electrical
expert; C. H. Haskins, of Milwaukee; George F. Ladd, of San Francisco;
and Geo. F. Durant, of St. Louis.
H. N. C. PINE HILL, N. Y., June 1, 1910.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I THE BIRTH OF THE TELEPHONE
II THE BUILDING OF THE BUSINESS
III THE HOLDING OF THE BUSINESS
IV THE DEVELOPMENT OF THE ART
V THE EXPANSION OF THE BUSINESS
VI NOTABLE USERS OF THE TELEPHONE
VII THE TELEPHONE AND NATIONAL EFFICIENCY
VIII THE TELEPHONE IN FOREIGN COUNTRIES
IX THE FUTURE OF THE TELEPHONE
THE HISTORY OF THE TELEPHONE
CHAPTER I. THE BIRTH OF THE TELEPHONE
In that somewhat distant year 1875, when the telegraph and the Atlantic
cable were the most wonderful things in the world, a tall young
professor of elocution was desperately busy in a noisy machine-shop
that stood in one of the narrow streets of Boston, not far from Scollay
Square. It was a very hot afternoon in June, but the young professor had
forgotten the heat and the grime of the workshop. He | 2,680.578186 |
2023-11-16 19:01:44.9542450 | 1,450 | 25 |
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE LADY OF THE FOREST.
A STORY FOR GIRLS.
By L. T. MEADE
Author of "The Little Princess of Tower Hill,"
"A Sweet Girl Graduate," "The Palace Beautiful,"
"Polly," "A World of Girls," etc., etc.
"Tyde what may betyde,
Lovel shall dwell at Avonsyde."
ILLUSTRATED EDITION.
A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS, NEW YORK.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.--FAIR LITTLE MAIDS.
CHAPTER II.--MAKING TERMS.
CHAPTER III.--PREPARING FOR THE HEIR
CHAPTER IV.--A SPARTAN BOY.
CHAPTER V.--IN THE FOREST.
CHAPTER VI.--THE TOWER BEDROOM.
CHAPTER VII.--"BETYDE WHAT MAY."
CHAPTER VIII.--THE SACRED CUPBOARD.
CHAPTER IX.--A TRYSTING-PLACE.
CHAPTER X.--PROOFS.
CHAPTER XI.--THE LADY WHO CAME WITH A GIFT.
CHAPTER XII.--LOST IN THE NEW FOREST.
CHAPTER XIII.--ONE MORE SECRET.
CHAPTER XIV.--THE AUSTRALIANS.
CHAPTER XV.--WAS HE ACTING?
CHAPTER XVI.--LOST.
CHAPTER XVII.--LOOKING FOR THE TANKARD.
CHAPTER XVIII.--THE MARMADUKES.
CHAPTER XIX.--A TENDER HEART.
CHAPTER XX.--PUNISHED.
CHAPTER XXI.--WHAT THE HEIR OUGHT TO BE.
CHAPTER XXII.--RIGHT IS RIGHT.
CHAPTER XXIII.--FOREST LIFE.
CHAPTER XXIV.--A GREAT ALARM.
CHAPTER XXV.--A DREAM WITH A MEANING.
CHAPTER XXVI.--LOVE VERSUS GOLD.
CHAPTER XXVII.--TWO MOTHERS.
CHAPTER XXVIII.--THE LADY WHO CAME WITH A GIFT.
THE LADY OF THE FOREST.
"Tyde what may betyde
Lovel shall dwell at Avonsyde."
CHAPTER I.--FAIR LITTLE MAIDS.
"And then," said Rachel, throwing up her hands and raising her
eyebrows--"and then, when they got into the heart of the forest itself,
just where the shade was greenest and the trees thickest, they saw the
lady coming to meet them. She, too, was all in green, and she came on
and on, and----"
"Hush, Rachel!" exclaimed Kitty; "here comes Aunt Grizel."
The girls, aged respectively twelve and nine, were seated, one on a
rustic stile, the other on the grass at her feet; a background of
splendid forest trees threw their slight and childish figures into
strong relief. Rachel's hat was tossed on the ground and Kitty's parasol
lay unopened by her side. The sun was sending slanting rays through the
trees, and some of these rays fell on Kitty's bright hair and lit up
Rachel's dark little gypsy face.
"Aunt Grizel is coming," said Kitty, and immediately she put on a proper
and demure expression. Rachel, drawn up short in the midst of a very
exciting narrative, looked slightly defiant and began to whistle in a
boyish manner.
Aunt Griselda was seen approaching down a long straight avenue
overshadowed by forest trees of beech and oak; she held her parasol well
up, and her face was further protected from any passing gleams of
sunlight by a large poke-bonnet. She was a slender old lady, with a
graceful and dignified appearance. Aunt Griselda would have compelled
respect from any one, and as she approached the two girls they both
started to their feet and ran to meet her.
"Your music-master has been waiting for you for half an hour, Rachel.
Kitty, I am going into the forest; you can come with me if you choose."
Rachel did not attempt to offer any excuse for being late; with an
expressive glance at Kitty she walked off soberly to the house, and the
younger girl, picking up her hat, followed Aunt Griselda, sighing
slightly as she did so.
Kitty was an affectionate child, the kind of child who likes everybody,
and she would have tolerated Aunt Griselda--who was not particularly
affectionate nor particularly sympathetic--if she had not disturbed her
just at the moment when she was listening with breathless interest to a
wonderful romance.
Kitty adored fairy tales, and Rachel had a great gift in that direction.
She was very fond of prefacing her stories with some such words as the
following:
"Understand now, Kitty, that this fairy story is absolutely true; the
fairy was seen by our great-great-grandmother;" or "Our great-uncle
Jonas declares that he saw that brownie himself as he was going through
the forest in the dusk;" then Kitty's pretty blue eyes would open wide
and she would lose herself in an enchanted world. It was very trying to
be brought back to the ordinary everyday earth by Aunt Griselda, and on
the present occasion the little girl felt unusually annoyed.
Miss Griselda Lovel, or "Aunt Grizel" as her nieces called her, was a
taciturn old lady, and by no means remarked Kitty's silence. There were
many little paths through the forest, and the two soon found themselves
in comparative night. Miss Lovel walked quickly, and Kitty almost panted
as she kept up with her. Her head was so full of Rachel's fairy tale
that at last some unexpected words burst from her lips. They were
passing under a splendid forest tree, when Kitty suddenly clutched Aunt
Grizel's thin hand.
"Aunt Grizel--is it--is it about here that the lady lives?"
"What lady, child?" asked Miss Lovel.
"Oh, you know--the lady of the forest."
Aunt Grizel dropped Kitty's hand and laughed.
"What a foolish little girl you are, Kitty! Who has been putting such
nonsense into your head? See, my dear, I will wait for you here; run
down this straight path to the Eyres' cottage, and bring Mrs. Eyre back
with you--I want to speak to her. I have had a letter, my dear, and your
little cousin Philip Lovel is coming to Avonsyde to-morrow."
* * * * *
Avonsyde was one of the oldest places in the country; it was not
particularly large | 2,680.974285 |
2023-11-16 19:01:45.0340840 | 4,759 | 12 |
Produced by David Widger
MEMOIRS OF LOUIS XV. AND XVI.
Being Secret Memoirs of Madame du Hausset,
Lady's Maid to Madame de Pompadour,
and of an unknown English Girl
and the Princess Lamballe
BOOK 2.
Madame sent for me yesterday evening, at seven o'clock, to read something
to her; the ladies who were intimate with her were at Paris, and M. de
Gontaut ill. "The King," said she, "will stay late at the Council this
evening; they are occupied with the affairs of the Parliament again." She
bade me leave off reading, and I was going to quit the room, but she
called out, "Stop." She rose; a letter was brought in for her, and she
took it with an air of impatience and ill-humour. After a considerable
time she began to talk openly, which only happened when she was extremely
vexed; and, as none of her confidential friends were at hand, she said to
me, "This is from my brother. It is what he would not have dared to say
to me, so he writes. I had arranged a marriage for him with the daughter
of a man of title; he appeared to be well inclined to it, and I,
therefore, pledged my word. He now tells me that he has made inquiries;
that the parents are people of insupportable hauteur; that the daughter
is very badly educated; and that he knows, from authority not to be
doubted, that when she heard this marriage discussed, she spoke of the
connection with the most supreme contempt; that he is certain of this
fact; and that I was still more contemptuously spoken of than himself. In
a word, he begs me to break off the treaty. But he has let me go too
far; and now he will make these people my irreconcilable enemies. This
has been put in his head by some of his flatterers; they do not wish him
to change his way of living; and very few of them would be received by
his wife." I tried to soften Madame, and, though I did not venture to
tell her so, I thought her brother right. She persisted in saying these
were lies, and, on the following Sunday, treated her brother very coldly.
He said nothing to me at that time; if he had, he would have embarrassed
me greatly. Madame atoned for everything by procuring favours, which
were the means of facilitating the young lady's marriage with a gentleman
of the Court. Her conduct, two months after marriage, compelled Madame
to confess that her brother had been perfectly right.
I saw my friend, Madame du Chiron. "Why," said she, "is the Marquise so
violent an enemy to the Jesuits? I assure you she is wrong. All
powerful as she is, she may find herself the worse for their enmity." I
replied that I knew nothing about the matter. "It is, however,
unquestionably a fact; and she does not feel that a word more or less
might decide her fate."--"How do you mean?" said I. "Well, I will
explain myself fully," said she. "You know what took place at the time
the King was stabbed: an attempt was made to get her out of the Castle
instantly. The Jesuits have no other object than the salvation of their
penitents; but they are men, and hatred may, without their being aware of
it, influence their minds, and inspire them with a greater degree of
severity than circumstances absolutely demand. Favour and partiality
may, on the other hand, induce the confessor to make great concessions;
and the shortest interval may suffice to save a favourite, especially if
any decent pretext can be found for prolonging her stay at Court." I
agreed with her in all she said, but I told her that I dared not touch
that string. On reflecting on this conversation afterwards, I was
forcibly struck with this fresh proof of the intrigues of the Jesuits,
which, indeed, I knew well already. I thought that, in spite of what I
had replied to Madame du Chiron, I ought to communicate this to Madame de
Pompadour, for the ease of my conscience; but that I would abstain from
making any reflection upon it. "Your friend, Madame du Chiron," said
she, "is, I perceive, affiliated to the Jesuits, and what she says does
not originate with herself. She is commissioned by some reverend father,
and I will know by whom." Spies were, accordingly, set to watch her
movements, and they discovered that one Father de Saci, and, still more
particularly, one Father Frey, guided this lady's conduct. "What a
pity," said Madame to me, "that the Abbe Chauvelin cannot know this." He
was the most formidable enemy of the reverend fathers. Madame du Chiron
always looked upon me as a Jansenist, because I would not espouse the
interests of the good fathers with as much warmth as she did.
Madame is completely absorbed in the Abbe de Bernis, whom she thinks
capable of anything; she talks of him incessantly. Apropos, of this
Abbe, I must relate an anecdote, which almost makes one believe in
conjurors. A year, or fifteen months, before her disgrace, Madame de
Pompadour, being at Fontainebleau, sat down to write at a desk, over
which hung a portrait of the King. While she was, shutting the desk,
after she had finished writing, the picture fell, and struck her
violently on the head.. The persons who saw the accident were alarmed,
and sent for Dr. Quesnay. He asked the circumstances of the case, and
ordered bleeding and anodynes. Just, as she had been bled, Madame de
Brancas entered, and saw us all in confusion and agitation, and Madame
lying on her chaise-longue. She asked what was the matter, and was told.
After having expressed her regret, and having consoled her, she said, "I
ask it as a favour of Madame, and of the King (who had just come in),
that they will instantly send a courier to the Abbe de Bernis, and that
the Marquise will have the goodness to write a letter, merely requesting
him to inform her what his fortune-tellers told him, and to withhold
nothing from the fear of making her uneasy." The thing was, done as she
desired, and she then told us that La Bontemps had predicted, from the
dregs in the, coffee-cup, in which she read everything, that the, head of
her best friend was in danger, but that no fatal consequences would
ensue.
The next day, the Abbe wrote word that Madame Bontemps also said to him,
"You came into the world almost black," and that this was the fact. This
colour, which lasted for some time, was attributed to a picture which
hung at the foot of his, mother's bed, and which she often looked at. It
represented a Moor bringing to Cleopatra a basket of flowers, containing
the asp by whose bite she destroyed herself. He said that she also told
him, "You have a great deal of money about you, but it does not belong to
you;" and that he had actually in his pocket two hundred Louis for the
Duc de La Valliere. Lastly, he informed us that she said, looking in the
cup, "I see one of your friends--the best--a distinguished lady,
threatened with an accident;" that he confessed that, in spite of all his
philosophy, he turned pale; that she remarked this, looked again into the
cup, and continued, "Her head will be slightly in danger, but of this no
appearance will remain half an hour afterwards." It was impossible to
doubt the facts. They appeared so surprising to the King, that he
desired some inquiry to be made concerning the fortune-teller. Madame,
however, protected her from the pursuit of the Police.
A man, who was quite as astonishing as this fortune-teller, often visited
Madame de Pompadour. This was the Comte de St. Germain, who wished to
have it believed that he had lived several centuries.
[St. Germain was an adept--a worthy predecessor of Cagliostro, who
expected to live five hundred years. The Count de St. Germain pretended
to have already lived two thousand, and, according to him, the account
was still running. He went so far as to claim the power of transmitting
the gift of long life. One day, calling upon his servant to, bear
witness to a fact that went pretty far back, the man replied, "I have no
recollection of it, sir; you forget that I have only had the honour of
serving you for five hundred years."
St. Germain, like all other charlatans of this sort, assumed a theatrical
magnificence, and an air of science calculated to deceive the vulgar.
His best instrument of deception was the phantasmagoria; and as, by means
of this abuse of the science of optics, he called up shades which were
asked for, and almost always recognised, his correspondence with the
other world was a thing proved by the concurrent testimony of numerous
witnesses.
He played the same game in London, Venice, and Holland, but he constantly
regretted Paris, where his miracles were never questioned.
St. Germain passed his latter days at the Court of the Prince of Hesse
Cassel, and died at Plewig, in 1784, in the midst of his enthusiastic
disciples, and to their infinite astonishment at his sharing the common
destiny.]
One day, at her toilet, Madame said to him, in my presence, "What was the
personal appearance of Francis I.? He was a King I should have
liked."--"He was, indeed, very captivating," said St. Germain; and he
proceeded to describe his face and person as one does that of a man one
has accurately observed. "It is a pity he was too ardent. I could have
given him some good advice, which would have saved him from all his
misfortunes; but he would not have followed it; for it seems as if a
fatality attended Princes, forcing them to shut their ears, those of the
mind, at least, to the best advice, and especially in the most critical
moments."--"And the Constable," said Madame, "what do you say of
him?"--"I cannot say much good or much harm of him," replied he. "Was
the Court of Francis I. very brilliant?"--"Very brilliant; but those of
his grandsons infinitely surpassed it. In the time of Mary Stuart and
Margaret of Valois it was a land of enchantment--a temple, sacred to
pleasures of every kind; those of the mind were not neglected. The two
Queens were learned, wrote verses, and spoke with captivating grace and
eloquence." Madame said, laughing, "You seem to have seen all this."--"I
have an excellent memory," said he, "and have read the history of France
with great care. I sometimes amuse myself, not by making, but by letting
it be believed that I lived in old times."--"You do not tell me your age,
however, and you give yourself out for very old. The Comtesse de Gergy,
who was Ambassadress to Venice, I think, fifty years ago, says she knew
you there exactly what you are now."--"It is true, Madame, that I have
known Madame de Gergy a long time."--"But, according to what she says,
you would be more than a hundred"--"That is not impossible," said he,
laughing; "but it is, I allow, still more possible that Madame de Gergy,
for whom I have the greatest respect, may be in her dotage."--"You have
given her an elixir, the effect of which is surprising. She declares that
for a long time she has felt as if she was only four-and-twenty years of
age; why don't you give some to the King?"--"Ah! Madame," said he, with a
sort of terror, "I must be mad to think of giving the King an unknown
drug." I went into my room to write down this conversation. Some days
afterwards, the King, Madame de Pompadour, some Lords of the Court, and
the Comte de St. Germain, were talking about his secret for causing the
spots in diamonds to disappear. The King ordered a diamond of middling
size, which had a spot, to be brought. It was weighed; and the King said
to the Count, "It is valued at two hundred and forty louis; but it would
be worth four hundred if it had no spot. Will you try to put a hundred
and sixty louis into my pocket?" He examined it carefully, and said, "It
may be done; and I will bring it you again in a month." At the time
appointed, the Count brought back the diamond without a spot, and gave it
to the King. It was wrapped in a cloth of amianthus, which he took off.
The King had it weighed, and found it but very little diminished. The
King sent it to his jeweller by M. de Gontaut, without telling him
anything of what had passed. The jeweller gave three hundred and eighty
louis for it. The King, however, sent for it back again, and kept it as
a curiosity. He could not overcome his surprise, and said that M. de St.
Germain must be worth millions, especially if he had also the secret of
making large diamonds out of a number of small ones. He neither said
that he had, nor that he had not; but he positively asserted that he
could make pearls grow, and give them the finest water. The King, paid
him great attention, and so did Madame de Pompadour. It was from her I
learnt what I have just related. M. Queanay said, talking of the pearls,
"They are produced by a disease in the oyster. It is possible to know
the cause of it; but, be that as it may, he is not the less a quack,
since he pretends to have the elixir vitae, and to have lived several
centuries. Our master is, however, infatuated by him, and sometimes
talks of him as if his descent were illustrious."
I have seen him frequently: he appeared to be about fifty; he was neither
fat nor thin; he had an acute, intelligent look, dressed very simply, but
in good taste; he wore very fine diamonds in his rings, watch, and
snuff-box. He came, one day, to visit Madame de Pompadour, at a time
when the Court was in full splendour, with knee and shoe-buckles of
diamonds so fine and brilliant that Madame said she did not believe the
King had any equal to them. He went into the antechamber to take them
off, and brought them to be examined; they were compared with others in
the room, and the Duc de Gontaut, who was present, said they were worth
at least eight thousand louis. He wore, at the same time, a snuff-box of
inestimable value, and ruby sleeve-buttons, which were perfectly
dazzling. Nobody could find out by what means this man became so rich
and so remarkable; but the King would not suffer him to be spoken of with
ridicule or contempt. He was said to be a bastard son of the King of
Portugal.
I learnt, from M. de Marigny, that the relations of the good little
Marechale (de Mirepoix) had been extremely severe upon her, for what they
called the baseness of her conduct, with regard to Madame de Pompadour.
They said she held the stones of the cherries which Madame ate in her
carriage, in her beautiful little hands, and that she sate in the front
of the carriage, while Madame occupied the whole seat in the inside. The
truth was, that, in going to Crecy, on an insupportably hot day, they
both wished to sit alone, that they might be cooler; and as to the matter
of the cherries, the villagers having brought them some, they ate them to
refresh themselves, while the horses were changed; and the Marechal
emptied her pocket-handkerchief, into which they had both thrown the
cherry-stones, out of the carriage window. The people who were changing
the horses had given their own version of the affair.
I had, as you know, a very pretty room at Madame's hotel, whither I
generally went privately. I had, one day, had visits from two or three
Paris representatives, who told me news; and Madame, having sent for me,
I went to her, and found her with M. de Gontaut. I could not help
instantly saying to her, "You must be much pleased, Madame, at the noble
action of the Marquis de ------." Madame replied, drily, "Hold your
tongue, and listen to what I have to say to you." I returned to my
little room, where I found the Comtesse d'Amblimont, to whom I mentioned
Madame's reception of me. "I know what is the matter," said she; "it has
no relation to you. I will explain it to you. The Marquis de -------has
told all Paris, that, some days ago, going home at night, alone, and on
foot, he heard cries in a street called Ferou, which is dark, and, in
great part, arched over; that he drew his sword, and went down the
street, in which he saw, by the light of a lamp, a very handsome woman,
to whom some ruffians were offering violence; that he approached, and
that the woman cried out, 'Save me! save me!' that he rushed upon the
wretches, two of whom fought him, sword in hand, whilst a third held the
woman, and tried to stop her mouth; that he wounded one in the arm; and
that the ruffians, hearing people pass at the end of the street, and
fearing they might come to his assistance, fled; that he went up to the
lady, who told him that they were not robbers, but villains, one of whom
was desperately in love with her; and that the lady knew not how to
express her gratitude; that she had begged him not to follow her, after
he had conducted her to a fiacre; that she would not tell him her name,
but that she insisted on his accepting a little ring, as a token of
remembrance; and that she promised to see him again, and to tell him her
whole history, if he gave her his address; that he complied with this
request of the lady, whom he represented as a charming person, and who,
in the overflowing of her gratitude, embraced him several times. This is
all very fine, so far," said Madame d'Amblimont, "but hear the rest. The
Marquis de exhibited himself everywhere the next day, with a black ribbon
bound round his arm, near the wrist, in which part he said he had
received a wound. He related his story to everybody, and everybody
commented upon it after his own fashion. He went to dine with the
Dauphin, who spoke to him of his bravery, and of his fair unknown, and
told him that he had already complimented the Duc de C---- on the affair.
I forgot to tell you," continued Madame d'Amblimont, "that, on the very
night of the adventure, he called on Madame d'Estillac, an old gambler,
whose house is open till four in the morning; that everybody there was
surprised at the disordered state in which he appeared; that his bagwig
had fallen off, one skirt of his coat was cut, and his right hand
bleeding. That they instantly bound it up, and gave him some Rota wine.
Four days ago, the Duc de C---- supped with the King, and sat near M. de
St. Florentin. He talked to him of his relation's adventure, and asked
him if he had made any inquiries concerning the lady. M. de St.
Florentin coldly answered, 'No!' and M. de C---- remarked, on asking him
some further questions, that he kept his eyes firmed on his plate,
looking embarrassed, and answered in monosyllables. He asked him the
reason of this, upon which M. de Florentin told him that it was extremely
distressing to him to see him under such a mistake. 'How can you know
that, supposing it to be the fact?' said M. de ------, 'Nothing is more
easy to prove,' replied M. de St. Florentin. 'You may imagine that, as
soon as I was informed of the Marquis de ------'s adventure, I set on
foot inquiries, the result of which was, that, on the night when this
affair was | 2,681.054124 |
2023-11-16 19:01:45.2341800 | 1,376 | 8 |
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
"Her glance, quick yet soft, was much the prettiest thing
of the sort Sir Percy had ever seen" (Page 33)
(missing from book)...... _Frontispiece_
THE WHIRL
A ROMANCE OF
WASHINGTON SOCIETY
BY
FOXCROFT DAVIS
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
HARRISON FISHER AND
B. MARTIN JUSTICE
NEW YORK
DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
1909
COPYRIGHT, 1907
BY THE WASHINGTON HERALD COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1909
BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
Published, May, 1909
*ILLUSTRATIONS*
"Her glance, quick yet soft, was much the prettiest thing of the sort
Sir Percy had ever seen" (page 33) (missing from book)......
_Frontispiece_
"'It is the old story. You are worthy to marry her, but I am not worthy
to speak to her'"
"'I shall leave this house to-morrow morning, never to re-enter it'"
*I*
Few men have the goal of their ambition in sight at thirty-eight years
of age. But Sir Percy Carlyon had, when he was appointed First
Secretary of the British Embassy at Washington, with a very
well-arranged scheme worked out by which, at the end of four years, he
was to succeed his uncle, Lord Baudesert, the present Ambassador. This
realisation of his dreams came to Sir Percy on a December afternoon dark
and sharp, as he tramped over the frozen ground through the stark and
leafless woods, which may yet be found close to Washington.
He was a great walker, this thin, sinewy Englishman with a sun-browned
skin, burnt by many summers in India and weather-beaten by many winters
in the snowbound depths of the Balkans. He had the straight features
and clear, scintillant eyes which are the marks of race among his kind,
but no one would have been more surprised than Sir Percy if he had been
called handsome. Within him, on this bleak December afternoon, was a
sensation strange to him after many years: the feeling of hope and
almost of joy. He stopped in the silent heart of the woods, and,
leaning against the gnarled trunk of a live oak, thrust his hands into
his pockets and glanced, with brightening eyes, towards the west. A
faint, rosy line upon the horizon was visible through the naked woods;
all else in sky and earth was dun-.
To Sir Percy Carlyon this thread of radiance was a promise of the
future. This was, to him, almost the first moment of retrospection
since the day, two months before, when, in the Prime Minister's rooms in
Downing Street, a new life in a new country opened before him. Since
then--amid the official and personal preparations necessary to take up
his post, his seven days on the Atlantic, during which he worked hard on
pressing business, the necessary first visits upon his arrival--Sir
Percy had scarcely enjoyed an hour to himself. He had found the Embassy
overwhelmed with affairs, about which his uncle, Lord Baudesert, coolly
refused to bother himself, but which Sir Percy, as a practical man, felt
obliged to take up and carry through. That day, only, had he, by hard
and systematic work, caught up what was called by Lord Baudesert, with a
grin, the "unfinished business" at the British Embassy, but which really
meant the neglected business of a lazy, clever old diplomatist who never
did to-day what he could put off until to-morrow.
Lord Baudesert had been many years at Washington, and had a thorough
knowledge not only of the affairs of the American people, but of their
temper, their prejudices and their passions. In an emergency his
natural abilities, and a kind of superhuman adroitness which he
possessed, together with the vast fund of knowledge that he had
accumulated, but rarely used, made him a valuable person to the Foreign
Office. However, as soon as the emergency passed Lord Baudesert
returned to his usual occupation of studying the American newspapers and
anything else which could add to the already vast stock of knowledge
which he possessed, but rarely condescended to use.
The Embassy was presided over by Lord Baudesert's widowed sister, Mrs.
Vereker, an amiable old sheep of the early Victorian type. Then there
were three lamb-like Vereker girls, Jane, Sarah and Isabella, all
likewise early Victorian, who regarded their uncle as a combination of
Bluebeard and Solomon, and altogether the most important and the most
terrifying person on this planet. Lord Baudesert's favourite instrument
of torture to the ladies of his family was the threat to marry an
American widow with billions of money. How this would have unfavourably
affected her the excellent Mrs. Vereker could not have told to save her
life--but the mere hint always gave her acute misery.
The secretaries of the Embassy were very well-meaning young men, who
attended to their work as well as they knew how, but as Lord Baudesert
seldom took the trouble to read a document, and would not sign his name
to anything which he had not read, it was difficult to get business
transacted. When Sir Percy Carlyon was getting his instructions from
the Prime Minister concerning his post of First Secretary at Washington
the Premier had remarked:
"Your uncle, you know, is the laziest man God ever made, but he is also
one of the cleverest. No living Englishman knows as much about American
affairs as Lord Baudesert, or has ever made himself so acceptable to the
American people, but when he isn't doing us the greatest service in the
world, he lets everything go hang. We are sending you to Washington to
get some work done. I hear you can bully Lord Baudes | 2,681.25422 |
2023-11-16 19:01:45.2509000 | 7,436 | 8 |
Produced by Eve Sobol. HTML version by Al Haines.
MAJOR BARBARA
BERNARD SHAW
ACT I
It is after dinner on a January night, in the library in
Lady Britomart Undershaft's house in Wilton Crescent. A large and
comfortable settee is in the middle of the room, upholstered in
dark leather. A person sitting on it [it is vacant at present]
would have, on his right, Lady Britomart's writing table, with
the lady herself busy at it; a smaller writing table behind him
on his left; the door behind him on Lady Britomart's side; and a
window with a window seat directly on his left. Near the window
is an armchair.
Lady Britomart is a woman of fifty or thereabouts, well dressed
and yet careless of her dress, well bred and quite reckless of
her breeding, well mannered and yet appallingly outspoken and
indifferent to the opinion of her interlocutory, amiable and yet
peremptory, arbitrary, and high-tempered to the last bearable
degree, and withal a very typical managing matron of the upper
class, treated as a naughty child until she grew into a scolding
mother, and finally settling down with plenty of practical
ability and worldly experience, limited in the oddest way with
domestic and class limitations, conceiving the universe exactly
as if it were a large house in Wilton Crescent, though handling
her corner of it very effectively on that assumption, and being
quite enlightened and liberal as to the books in the library, the
pictures on the walls, the music in the portfolios, and the
articles in the papers.
Her son, Stephen, comes in. He is a gravely correct young man
under 25, taking himself very seriously, but still in some awe of
his mother, from childish habit and bachelor shyness rather than
from any weakness of character.
STEPHEN. What's the matter?
LADY BRITOMART. Presently, Stephen.
Stephen submissively walks to the settee and sits down. He takes
up The Speaker.
LADY BRITOMART. Don't begin to read, Stephen. I shall require all
your attention.
STEPHEN. It was only while I was waiting--
LADY BRITOMART. Don't make excuses, Stephen. [He puts down The
Speaker]. Now! [She finishes her writing; rises; and comes to the
settee]. I have not kept you waiting very long, I think.
STEPHEN. Not at all, mother.
LADY BRITOMART. Bring me my cushion. [He takes the cushion from
the chair at the desk and arranges it for her as she sits down on
the settee]. Sit down. [He sits down and fingers his tie
nervously]. Don't fiddle with your tie, Stephen: there is nothing
the matter with it.
STEPHEN. I beg your pardon. [He fiddles with his watch chain
instead].
LADY BRITOMART. Now are you attending to me, Stephen?
STEPHEN. Of course, mother.
LADY BRITOMART. No: it's not of course. I want something much
more than your everyday matter-of-course attention. I am going to
speak to you very seriously, Stephen. I wish you would let that
chain alone.
STEPHEN [hastily relinquishing the chain] Have I done anything to
annoy you, mother? If so, it was quite unintentional.
LADY BRITOMART [astonished] Nonsense! [With some remorse] My poor
boy, did you think I was angry with you?
STEPHEN. What is it, then, mother? You are making me very uneasy.
LADY BRITOMART [squaring herself at him rather aggressively]
Stephen: may I ask how soon you intend to realize that you are a
grown-up man, and that I am only a woman?
STEPHEN [amazed] Only a--
LADY BRITOMART. Don't repeat my words, please: It is a most
aggravating habit. You must learn to face life seriously,
Stephen. I really cannot bear the whole burden of our family
affairs any longer. You must advise me: you must assume the
responsibility.
STEPHEN. I!
LADY BRITOMART. Yes, you, of course. You were 24 last June.
You've been at Harrow and Cambridge. You've been to India and
Japan. You must know a lot of things now; unless you have wasted
your time most scandalously. Well, advise me.
STEPHEN [much perplexed] You know I have never interfered in the
household--
LADY BRITOMART. No: I should think not. I don't want you to order
the dinner.
STEPHEN. I mean in our family affairs.
LADY BRITOMART. Well, you must interfere now; for they are
getting quite beyond me.
STEPHEN [troubled] I have thought sometimes that perhaps I ought;
but really, mother, I know so little about them; and what I do
know is so painful--it is so impossible to mention some things to
you--[he stops, ashamed].
LADY BRITOMART. I suppose you mean your father.
STEPHEN [almost inaudibly] Yes.
LADY BRITOMART. My dear: we can't go on all our lives not
mentioning him. Of course you were quite right not to open the
subject until I asked you to; but you are old enough now to be
taken into my confidence, and to help me to deal with him about
the girls.
STEPHEN. But the girls are all right. They are engaged.
LADY BRITOMART [complacently] Yes: I have made a very good match
for Sarah. Charles Lomax will be a millionaire at 35. But that is
ten years ahead; and in the meantime his trustees cannot under
the terms of his father's will allow him more than 800 pounds a
year.
STEPHEN. But the will says also that if he increases his income
by his own exertions, they may double the increase.
LADY BRITOMART. Charles Lomax's exertions are much more likely to
decrease his income than to increase it. Sarah will have to find
at least another 800 pounds a year for the next ten years; and
even then they will be as poor as church mice. And what about
Barbara? I thought Barbara was going to make the most brilliant
career of all of you. And what does she do? Joins the Salvation
Army; discharges her maid; lives on a pound a week; and walks in
one evening with a professor of Greek whom she has picked up in
the street, and who pretends to be a Salvationist, and actually
plays the big drum for her in public because he has fallen head
over ears in love with her.
STEPHEN. I was certainly rather taken aback when I heard they
were engaged. Cusins is a very nice fellow, certainly: nobody
would ever guess that he was born in Australia; but--
LADY BRITOMART. Oh, Adolphus Cusins will make a very good
husband. After all, nobody can say a word against Greek: it
stamps a man at once as an educated gentleman. And my family,
thank Heaven, is not a pig-headed Tory one. We are Whigs, and
believe in liberty. Let snobbish people say what they please:
Barbara shall marry, not the man they like, but the man I like.
STEPHEN. Of course I was thinking only of his income. However, he
is not likely to be extravagant.
LADY BRITOMART. Don't be too sure of that, Stephen. I know your
quiet, simple, refined, poetic people like Adolphus--quite
content with the best of everything! They cost more than your
extravagant people, who are always as mean as they are second
rate. No: Barbara will need at least 2000 pounds a year. You see
it means two additional households. Besides, my dear, you must
marry soon. I don't approve of the present fashion of philandering
bachelors and late marriages; and I am trying to arrange something
for you.
STEPHEN. It's very good of you, mother; but perhaps I had better
arrange that for myself.
LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! you are much too young to begin
matchmaking: you would be taken in by some pretty little nobody.
Of course I don't mean that you are not to be consulted: you know
that as well as I do. [Stephen closes his lips and is silent].
Now don't sulk, Stephen.
STEPHEN. I am not sulking, mother. What has all this got to do
with--with--with my father?
LADY BRITOMART. My dear Stephen: where is the money to come from?
It is easy enough for you and the other children to live on my
income as long as we are in the same house; but I can't keep four
families in four separate houses. You know how poor my father is:
he has barely seven thousand a year now; and really, if he were
not the Earl of Stevenage, he would have to give up society. He
can do nothing for us: he says, naturally enough, that it is
absurd that he should be asked to provide for the children of a
man who is rolling in money. You see, Stephen, your father must
be fabulously wealthy, because there is always a war going on
somewhere.
STEPHEN. You need not remind me of that, mother. I have hardly
ever opened a newspaper in my life without seeing our name in it.
The Undershaft torpedo! The Undershaft quick firers! The
Undershaft ten inch! the Undershaft disappearing rampart gun! the
Undershaft submarine! and now the Undershaft aerial battleship!
At Harrow they called me the Woolwich Infant. At Cambridge it was
the same. A little brute at King's who was always trying to get
up revivals, spoilt my Bible--your first birthday present to
me--by writing under my name, "Son and heir to Undershaft and
Lazarus, Death and Destruction Dealers: address, Christendom and
Judea." But that was not so bad as the way I was kowtowed to
everywhere because my father was making millions by selling
cannons.
LADY BRITOMART. It is not only the cannons, but the war loans
that Lazarus arranges under cover of giving credit for the
cannons. You know, Stephen, it's perfectly scandalous. Those two
men, Andrew Undershaft and Lazarus, positively have Europe under
their thumbs. That is why your father is able to behave as he
does. He is above the law. Do you think Bismarck or Gladstone or
Disraeli could have openly defied every social and moral
obligation all their lives as your father has? They simply
wouldn't have dared. I asked Gladstone to take it up. I asked The
Times to take it up. I asked the Lord Chamberlain to take it up.
But it was just like asking them to declare war on the Sultan.
They WOULDN'T. They said they couldn't touch him. I believe they
were afraid.
STEPHEN. What could they do? He does not actually break the law.
LADY BRITOMART. Not break the law! He is always breaking the law.
He broke the law when he was born: his parents were not married.
STEPHEN. Mother! Is that true?
LADY BRITOMART. Of course it's true: that was why we separated.
STEPHEN. He married without letting you know this!
LADY BRITOMART [rather taken aback by this inference] Oh no. To
do Andrew justice, that was not the sort of thing he did.
Besides, you know the Undershaft motto: Unashamed. Everybody
knew.
STEPHEN. But you said that was why you separated.
LADY BRITOMART. Yes, because he was not content with being a
foundling himself: he wanted to disinherit you for another
foundling. That was what I couldn't stand.
STEPHEN [ashamed] Do you mean for--for--for--
LADY BRITOMART. Don't stammer, Stephen. Speak distinctly.
STEPHEN. But this is so frightful to me, mother. To have to speak
to you about such things!
LADY BRITOMART. It's not pleasant for me, either, especially if
you are still so childish that you must make it worse by a
display of embarrassment. It is only in the middle classes,
Stephen, that people get into a state of dumb helpless horror
when they find that there are wicked people in the world. In our
class, we have to decide what is to be done with wicked people;
and nothing should disturb our self possession. Now ask your
question properly.
STEPHEN. Mother: you have no consideration for me. For Heaven's
sake either treat me as a child, as you always do, and tell me
nothing at all; or tell me everything and let me take it as best
I can.
LADY BRITOMART. Treat you as a child! What do you mean? It is
most unkind and ungrateful of you to say such a thing. You know I
have never treated any of you as children. I have always made you
my companions and friends, and allowed you perfect freedom to do
and say whatever you liked, so long as you liked what I could
approve of.
STEPHEN [desperately] I daresay we have been the very imperfect
children of a very perfect mother; but I do beg you to let me
alone for once, and tell me about this horrible business of my
father wanting to set me aside for another son.
LADY BRITOMART [amazed] Another son! I never said anything of the
kind. I never dreamt of such a thing. This is what comes of
interrupting me.
STEPHEN. But you said--
LADY BRITOMART [cutting him short] Now be a good boy, Stephen,
and listen to me patiently. The Undershafts are descended from a
foundling in the parish of St. Andrew Undershaft in the city.
That was long ago, in the reign of James the First. Well, this
foundling was adopted by an armorer and gun-maker. In the course
of time the foundling succeeded to the business; and from some
notion of gratitude, or some vow or something, he adopted another
foundling, and left the business to him. And that foundling did
the same. Ever since that, the cannon business has always been
left to an adopted foundling named Andrew Undershaft.
STEPHEN. But did they never marry? Were there no legitimate sons?
LADY BRITOMART. Oh yes: they married just as your father did; and
they were rich enough to buy land for their own children and
leave them well provided for. But they always adopted and trained
some foundling to succeed them in the business; and of course
they always quarrelled with their wives furiously over it. Your
father was adopted in that way; and he pretends to consider
himself bound to keep up the tradition and adopt somebody to
leave the business to. Of course I was not going to stand that.
There may have been some reason for it when the Undershafts could
only marry women in their own class, whose sons were not fit to
govern great estates. But there could be no excuse for passing
over my son.
STEPHEN [dubiously] I am afraid I should make a poor hand of
managing a cannon foundry.
LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! you could easily get a manager and pay
him a salary.
STEPHEN. My father evidently had no great opinion of my capacity.
LADY BRITOMART. Stuff, child! you were only a baby: it had
nothing to do with your capacity. Andrew did it on principle,
just as he did every perverse and wicked thing on principle. When
my father remonstrated, Andrew actually told him to his face that
history tells us of only two successful institutions: one the
Undershaft firm, and the other the Roman Empire under the
Antonines. That was because the Antonine emperors all adopted
their successors. Such rubbish! The Stevenages are as good as the
Antonines, I hope; and you are a Stevenage. But that was Andrew
all over. There you have the man! Always clever and unanswerable
when he was defending nonsense and wickedness: always awkward and
sullen when he had to behave sensibly and decently!
STEPHEN. Then it was on my account that your home life was broken
up, mother. I am sorry.
LADY BRITOMART. Well, dear, there were other differences. I
really cannot bear an immoral man. I am not a Pharisee, I hope;
and I should not have minded his merely doing wrong things: we
are none of us perfect. But your father didn't exactly do wrong
things: he said them and thought them: that was what was so
dreadful. He really had a sort of religion of wrongness just as
one doesn't mind men practising immorality so long as they own
that they are in the wrong by preaching morality; so I couldn't
forgive Andrew for preaching immorality while he practised
morality. You would all have grown up without principles, without
any knowledge of right and wrong, if he had been in the house.
You know, my dear, your father was a very attractive man in some
ways. Children did not dislike him; and he took advantage of it
to put the wickedest ideas into their heads, and make them quite
unmanageable. I did not dislike him myself: very far from it; but
nothing can bridge over moral disagreement.
STEPHEN. All this simply bewilders me, mother. People may differ
about matters of opinion, or even about religion; but how can
they differ about right and wrong? Right is right; and wrong is
wrong; and if a man cannot distinguish them properly, he is
either a fool or a rascal: that's all.
LADY BRITOMART [touched] That's my own boy [she pats his cheek]!
Your father never could answer that: he used to laugh and get out
of it under cover of some affectionate nonsense. And now that you
understand the situation, what do you advise me to do?
STEPHEN. Well, what can you do?
LADY BRITOMART. I must get the money somehow.
STEPHEN. We cannot take money from him. I had rather go and live
in some cheap place like Bedford Square or even Hampstead than
take a farthing of his money.
LADY BRITOMART. But after all, Stephen, our present income comes
from Andrew.
STEPHEN [shocked] I never knew that.
LADY BRITOMART. Well, you surely didn't suppose your grandfather
had anything to give me. The Stevenages could not do everything
for you. We gave you social position. Andrew had to contribute
something. He had a very good bargain, I think.
STEPHEN [bitterly] We are utterly dependent on him and his
cannons, then!
LADY BRITOMART. Certainly not: the money is settled. But he
provided it. So you see it is not a question of taking money from
him or not: it is simply a question of how much. I don't want any
more for myself.
STEPHEN. Nor do I.
LADY BRITOMART. But Sarah does; and Barbara does. That is,
Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins will cost them more. So I must
put my pride in my pocket and ask for it, I suppose. That is your
advice, Stephen, is it not?
STEPHEN. No.
LADY BRITOMART [sharply] Stephen!
STEPHEN. Of course if you are determined--
LADY BRITOMART. I am not determined: I ask your advice; and I am
waiting for it. I will not have all the responsibility thrown on
my shoulders.
STEPHEN [obstinately] I would die sooner than ask him for another
penny.
LADY BRITOMART [resignedly] You mean that I must ask him. Very
well, Stephen: It shall be as you wish. You will be glad to know
that your grandfather concurs. But he thinks I ought to ask
Andrew to come here and see the girls. After all, he must have
some natural affection for them.
STEPHEN. Ask him here!!!
LADY BRITOMART. Do not repeat my words, Stephen. Where else can I
ask him?
STEPHEN. I never expected you to ask him at all.
LADY BRITOMART. Now don't tease, Stephen. Come! you see that it
is necessary that he should pay us a visit, don't you?
STEPHEN [reluctantly] I suppose so, if the girls cannot do
without his money.
LADY BRITOMART. Thank you, Stephen: I knew you would give me the
right advice when it was properly explained to you. I have asked
your father to come this evening. [Stephen bounds from his seat]
Don't jump, Stephen: it fidgets me.
STEPHEN [in utter consternation] Do you mean to say that my
father is coming here to-night--that he may be here at any
moment?
LADY BRITOMART [looking at her watch] I said nine. [He gasps. She
rises]. Ring the bell, please. [Stephen goes to the smaller
writing table; presses a button on it; and sits at it with his
elbows on the table and his head in his hands, outwitted and
overwhelmed]. It is ten minutes to nine yet; and I have to
prepare the girls. I asked Charles Lomax and Adolphus to dinner
on purpose that they might be here. Andrew had better see them in
case he should cherish any delusions as to their being capable of
supporting their wives. [The butler enters: Lady Britomart goes
behind the settee to speak to him]. Morrison: go up to the
drawingroom and tell everybody to come down here at once.
[Morrison withdraws. Lady Britomart turns to Stephen]. Now
remember, Stephen, I shall need all your countenance and
authority. [He rises and tries to recover some vestige of these
attributes]. Give me a chair, dear. [He pushes a chair forward
from the wall to where she stands, near the smaller writing
table. She sits down; and he goes to the armchair, into which he
throws himself]. I don't know how Barbara will take it. Ever
since they made her a major in the Salvation Army she has
developed a propensity to have her own way and order people about
which quite cows me sometimes. It's not ladylike: I'm sure I
don't know where she picked it up. Anyhow, Barbara shan't bully
me; but still it's just as well that your father should be here
before she has time to refuse to meet him or make a fuss. Don't
look nervous, Stephen, it will only encourage Barbara to make
difficulties. I am nervous enough, goodness knows; but I don't
show it.
Sarah and Barbara come in with their respective young men,
Charles Lomax and Adolphus Cusins. Sarah is slender, bored, and
mundane. Barbara is robuster, jollier, much more energetic. Sarah
is fashionably dressed: Barbara is in Salvation Army uniform.
Lomax, a young man about town, is like many other young men about
town. He is affected with a frivolous sense of humor which
plunges him at the most inopportune moments into paroxysms of
imperfectly suppressed laughter. Cusins is a spectacled student,
slight, thin haired, and sweet voiced, with a more complex form
of Lomax's complaint. His sense of humor is intellectual and
subtle, and is complicated by an appalling temper. The lifelong
struggle of a benevolent temperament and a high conscience
against impulses of inhuman ridicule and fierce impatience has
set up a chronic strain which has visibly wrecked his constitution.
He is a most implacable, determined, tenacious, intolerant person
who by mere force of character presents himself as--and indeed
actually is--considerate, gentle, explanatory, even mild and
apologetic, capable possibly of murder, but not of cruelty or
coarseness. By the operation of some instinct which is not merciful
enough to blind him with the illusions of love, he is obstinately
bent on marrying Barbara. Lomax likes Sarah and thinks it will be
rather a lark to marry her. Consequently he has not attempted to
resist Lady Britomart's arrangements to that end.
All four look as if they had been having a good deal of fun in
the drawingroom. The girls enter first, leaving the swains
outside. Sarah comes to the settee. Barbara comes in after her
and stops at the door.
BARBARA. Are Cholly and Dolly to come in?
LADY BRITOMART [forcibly] Barbara: I will not have Charles called
Cholly: the vulgarity of it positively makes me ill.
BARBARA. It's all right, mother. Cholly is quite correct
nowadays. Are they to come in?
LADY BRITOMART. Yes, if they will behave themselves.
BARBARA [through the door] Come in, Dolly, and behave yourself.
Barbara comes to her mother's writing table. Cusins enters
smiling, and wanders towards Lady Britomart.
SARAH [calling] Come in, Cholly. [Lomax enters, controlling his
features very imperfectly, and places himself vaguely between
Sarah and Barbara].
LADY BRITOMART [peremptorily] Sit down, all of you. [They sit.
Cusins crosses to the window and seats himself there. Lomax takes
a chair. Barbara sits at the writing table and Sarah on the
settee]. I don't in the least know what you are laughing at,
Adolphus. I am surprised at you, though I expected nothing better
from Charles Lomax.
CUSINS [in a remarkably gentle voice] Barbara has been trying to
teach me the West Ham Salvation March.
LADY BRITOMART. I see nothing to laugh at in that; nor should you
if you are really converted.
CUSINS [sweetly] You were not present. It was really funny, I
believe.
LOMAX. Ripping.
LADY BRITOMART. Be quiet, Charles. Now listen to me, children.
Your father is coming here this evening. [General stupefaction].
LOMAX [remonstrating] Oh I say!
LADY BRITOMART. You are not called on to say anything, Charles.
SARAH. Are you serious, mother?
LADY BRITOMART. Of course I am serious. It is on your account,
Sarah, and also on Charles's. [Silence. Charles looks painfully
unworthy]. I hope you are not going to object, Barbara.
BARBARA. I! why should I? My father has a soul to be saved like
anybody else. He's quite welcome as far as I am concerned.
LOMAX [still remonstrant] But really, don't you know! Oh I say!
LADY BRITOMART [frigidly] What do you wish to convey, Charles?
LOMAX. Well, you must admit that this is a bit thick.
LADY BRITOMART [turning with ominous suavity to Cusins] Adolphus:
you are a professor of Greek. Can you translate Charles Lomax's
remarks into reputable English for us?
CUSINS [cautiously] If I may say so, Lady Brit, I think Charles
has rather happily expressed what we all feel. Homer, speaking of
Autolycus, uses the same phrase.
LOMAX [handsomely] Not that I mind, you know, if Sarah don't.
LADY BRITOMART [crushingly] Thank you. Have I your permission,
Adolphus, to invite my own husband to my own house?
CUSINS [gallantly] You have my unhesitating support in everything
you do.
LADY BRITOMART. Sarah: have you nothing to say?
SARAH. Do you mean that he is coming regularly to live here?
LADY BRITOMART. Certainly not. The spare room is ready for him if
he likes to stay for a day or two and see a little more of you;
but there are limits.
SARAH. Well, he can't eat us, I suppose. I don't mind.
LOMAX [chuckling] I wonder how the old man will take it.
LADY BRITOMART. Much as the old woman will, no doubt, Charles.
LOMAX [abashed] I didn't mean--at least--
LADY BRITOMART. You didn't think, Charles. You never do; and the
result is, you never mean anything. And now please attend to me,
children. Your father will be quite a stranger to us.
LOMAX. I suppose he hasn't seen Sarah since she was a little kid.
LADY BRITOMART. Not since she was a little kid, Charles, as you
express it with that elegance of diction and refinement of
thought that seem never to desert you. Accordingly--er-- [impatiently]
Now I have forgotten what I was going to say. That comes of your
provoking me to be sarcastic, Charles. Adolphus: will you kindly
tell me where I was.
CUSINS [sweetly] You were saying that as Mr Undershaft has not
seen his children since they were babies, he will form his
opinion of the way you have brought them up from their behavior
to-night, and that therefore you wish us all to be particularly
careful to conduct ourselves well, especially Charles.
LOMAX. Look here: Lady Brit didn't say that.
LADY BRITOMART [vehemently] I did, Charles. Adolphus's
recollection is perfectly correct. It is most important that you
should be good; and I do beg you for once not to pair off into
opposite corners and giggle and whisper while I am speaking to
your father.
BARBARA. All right, mother. We'll do you credit.
LADY BRITOMART. Remember, Charles, that Sarah will want to feel
proud of you instead of ashamed of you.
LOMAX. Oh I say! There's nothing to be exactly proud of, don't
you know.
LADY BRITOMART. Well, try and look as if there was.
Morrison, pale and dismayed, breaks into the room in unconcealed
disorder.
MORRISON. Might I speak a word to you, my lady?
LADY BRITOMART. Nonsense! Show him up.
MORRISON. Yes, my lady. [He goes].
LOMAX. Does Morrison know who he is?
LADY BRITOMART. Of course. Morrison has always been with us.
LOMAX. It must be a regular corker for him, don't you know.
LADY BRITOMART. Is this a moment to get on my nerves, Charles,
with your outrageous expressions?
LOMAX. But this is something out of the ordinary, really--
MORRISON [at the door] The--er--Mr Undershaft. [He retreats in
confusion].
Andrew Undershaft comes in. All rise. Lady Britomart meets him in
the middle of the room behind the settee.
Andrew is, on the surface, a stoutish, easygoing elderly man,
with kindly patient manners, and an engaging simplicity of
character. But he has a watchful, deliberate, waiting, listening
face, and formidable reserves of power, both bodily and mental,
in his capacious chest and long head. His gentleness is partly
that of a strong man who has learnt by experience that his
natural grip hurts ordinary people unless he handles them very
carefully, and partly the mellowness of age and success. He is
also a little shy in his present very delicate situation.
LADY BRITOMART. Good evening, Andrew.
UNDERSHAFT. How d'ye do, my dear.
LADY BRITOMART. You look a good deal older.
UNDERSHAFT [apologetically] I AM somewhat older. [With a touch of
courtship] Time has stood still with you.
LADY BRITOMART [promptly] Rubbish! This is your family.
UNDERSHAFT [surprised] Is it so large? I am sorry to say my
memory is failing very badly in some things. [He offers his hand
with paternal kindness to Lomax].
LOMAX [jerkily shaking his hand] Ahdedoo.
UNDERSHAFT. I can see you are my eldest. I am very glad to meet
you again, my boy.
LOMAX [remonstrating] No but look here don't you know--[Overcome]
Oh I say!
LADY BRITOMART [recovering from momentary speechlessness] Andrew:
do you mean to say that you don't remember how many children you
have?
UNDERSHAFT. Well, I am afraid I--. They have grown so much--er.
Am I making any ridiculous mistake? I may as well confess: | 2,681.27094 |
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EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR
By Ben Jonson
INTRODUCTION
THE greatest of English dramatists except Shakespeare, the first
literary dictator and poet-laureate, a writer of verse, prose,
satire, and criticism who most potently of all the men of his time
affected the subsequent course of English letters: such was Ben
Jonson, and as such his strong personality assumes an interest to
us almost unparalleled, at least in his age.
Ben Jonson came of the stock that was centuries after to give to
the world Thomas Carlyle; for Jonson's grandfather was of
Annandale, over the Solway, whence he migrated to England.
Jonson's father lost his estate under Queen Mary, "having been cast
into prison and forfeited." He entered the church, but died a
month before his illustrious son was born, leaving his widow and
child in poverty. Jonson's birthplace was Westminster, and the
time of his birth early in 1573. He was thus nearly ten years
Shakespeare's junior, and less well off, if a trifle better born.
But Jonson did not profit even by this slight advantage. His
mother married beneath her, a wright or bricklayer, and Jonson was
for a time apprenticed to the trade. As a youth he attracted the
attention of the famous antiquary, William Camden, then usher at
Westminster School, and there the poet laid the solid foundations
of his classical learning. Jonson always held Camden in
veneration, acknowledging that to him he owed,
"All that I am in arts, all that I know;"
and dedicating his first dramatic success, "Every Man in His
Humour," to him. It is doubtful whether Jonson ever went to either
university, though Fuller says that he was "statutably admitted
into St. John's College, Cambridge." He tells us that he took no
degree, but was later "Master of Arts in both the universities, by
their favour, not his study." When a mere youth Jonson enlisted as
a soldier, trailing his pike in Flanders in the protracted wars of
William the Silent against the Spanish. Jonson was a large and
raw-boned lad; he became by his own account in time exceedingly
bulky. In chat with his friend William Drummond of Hawthornden,
Jonson told how "in his service in the Low Countries he had, in the
face of both the camps, killed an enemy, and taken opima spolia
from him;" and how "since his coming to England, being appealed to
the fields, he had killed his adversary which had hurt him in the
arm and whose sword was ten inches longer than his." Jonson's
reach may have made up for the lack of his sword; certainly his
prowess lost nothing in the telling. Obviously Jonson was brave,
combative, and not averse to talking of himself and his doings.
In 1592, Jonson returned from abroad penniless. Soon after he
married, almost as early and quite as imprudently as Shakespeare.
He told Drummond curtly that "his wife was a shrew, yet honest";
for some years he lived apart from her in the household of Lord
Albany. Yet two touching epitaphs among Jonson's "Epigrams," "On
my first daughter," and "On my first son," attest the warmth of the
poet's family affections. The daughter died in infancy, the son of
the plague; another son grew up to manhood little credit to his
father whom he survived. We know nothing beyond this of Jonson's
domestic life.
How soon Jonson drifted into what we now call grandly "the
theatrical profession" we do not know. In 1593, Marlowe made his
tragic exit from life, and Greene, Shakespeare's other rival on the
popular stage, had preceded Marlowe in an equally miserable death
the year before. Shakespeare already had the running to himself.
Jonson appears first in the employment of Philip Henslowe, the
exploiter of several troupes | 2,849.710668 |
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THE
NURSERY
_A Monthly Magazine_
FOR YOUNGEST READERS.
VOLUME XIV.--No. 2
BOSTON:
JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36, BROMFIELD STREET.
1873.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by
JOHN L. SHOREY,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
BOSTON:
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY RAND, AVERY, & CO.
[Illustration: CONTENTS.]
IN PROSE.
PAGE.
Clear the Coast 161
A Letter to Santa Claus 165
The Boy and the Nuts 166
Eddy's Thanksgiving 167
Benny's Arithmetic Lesson 170
Grandpa's Boots 171
What Jessie Cortrell did 173
The Balloon 178
The Starling and the Sparrows 181
The Sprained Ankle 187
IN VERSE.
PAGE.
Who is it? 164
The Acorns 175
Grandmother's Birthday 176
What the Cat said to the Monkey 180
The Tea-Party 185
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "CLEAR THE COAST."]
"CLEAR THE COAST!"
"[Illustration: C]LEAR the coast! clear the coast!" cried Albert and
Frank, as they came down hill swiftly on Frank's new sled.
"Look out for that woman!" cried little Harry, who was standing at the
top of the hill.
A poor German woman was crossing the road. She had a large basket full
of bundles, which she carried on her head. In her right hand she had an
umbrella and a tin pail, and on her arm another basket. Truly, seeing
that the roads were slippery, she had more than her share of burdens.
She tried to get out of the way; but Frank's new sled was such a swift
runner, that it came near striking her, and caused her to nearly lose
her balance, putting her at the same time into a great fright.
"You bad boys, you almost threw me down!" she exclaimed, when she
recovered from the start they had given her, and looked around to see if
she had dropped any of her bundles.
But down the hill they rushed on their sled, Frank losing his hat in
their descent, but little caring for that in his delight. The two boys,
after reaching the foot of the hill, turned, and began to drag their
sled up again.
"That woman," said Frank, "called us bad boys. Let us tell her that we
are not bad boys. We did not mean to run her down."
"Here comes Harry, running. What has he got to say?" asked Albert.
"I tell you what, boys," said Harry, "you'll be taken up if you run
people down in that way."
"Why didn't she clear the coast when I told her to?" said Albert.
"Why didn't you steer your sled out of the way?" returned Harry.
"I didn't hit her, did I?" said Albert.
"No; but you were trying to see how near you could come without hitting
her," replied Harry. "It's too bad to treat a poor old woman so!"
"So it was," said Frank. "What shall we do about it?"
"That's for Albert to say," exclaimed Harry.
"Well," replied Albert, "the right thing will be to offer to drag her
bundles for her on the sled."
"That's it!" said the other two boys.
By this time they had reached the place where the poor woman was moving
slowly along under her heavy burdens. She seemed very tired, and sighed
often as she picked her way timidly over the frozen snow.
"We are sorry we frightened you," said Albert. "We did not mean to do
any harm. Put your baskets on this sled, and we will drag them for you
as far as you want to go."
"Well, you are little gentlemen, after all," said the woman, "and I'm
sorry I was so vexed with you."
"You had cause," said Frank: "we were to blame."
Then she put her two baskets and the tin pail on the sled; and the three
boys escorted her to her home, where she thanked them heartily for the
way in which they had made amends for Albert's bad steering.
UNCLE CHARLES.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
WHO IS IT?
SURELY a step on the carpet I hear,
Some quiet mouse that is creeping so near.
Two little feet mount the rung of my chair:
True as I live, there is somebody there!
Ten lily fingers are over my eyes,
Trying to take me by sudden surprise;
Then a voice, calling in merriest glee,
"Who is it? Tell me, and you may go free."
"Who is it? Leave me a moment to guess.
Some one who loves me?" The voice answers, "Yes."
"Some one who's fairer to me than the flowers,
Brighter to me than the sunshiny hours?
Darling, whose white little hands make me blind
Unto all things that are dark and unkind;
Sunshine and blossoms, and diamond and pearl,--
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BAR-20 DAYS
By Clarence E. Mulford
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED TO "M. D."
BAR-20 DAYS
CHAPTER I
ON A STRANGE RANGE
Two tired but happy punchers rode into the coast town and dismounted in
front of the best hotel. Putting up their horses as quickly as possible
they made arrangements for sleeping quarters and then hastened out to
attend to business. Buck had been kind to delegate this mission to them
and they would feel free to enjoy what pleasures the town might afford.
While at that time the city was not what it is now, nevertheless it was
capable of satisfying what demands might be made upon it by two very
active and zealous cow-punchers. Their first experience began as they
left the hotel.
"Hey, you cow-wrastlers!" said a not unpleasant voice, and they turned
suspiciously as it continued: "You've shore got to hang up them guns
with the hotel clerk while you cavorts around on this range. This is
_fence_ country."
They regarded the speaker's smiling face and twinkling eyes and laughed.
"Well, yo're the foreman if you owns that badge," grinned Hopalong,
cheerfully. "We don't need no guns, nohow, in this town, we don't.
Plumb forgot we was toting them. But mebby you can tell us where lawyer
Jeremiah T. Jones grazes in daylight?"
"Right over yonder, second floor," replied the marshal. "An' come
to think of it, mebby you better leave most of yore cash with the
guns--somebody'll take it away from you if you don't. It'd be an awful
temptation, an' flesh is weak."
"Huh!" laughed Johnny, moving back into the hotel to leave his gun,
closely followed by Hopalong. "Anybody that can turn that little trick
on me an' Hoppy will shore earn every red cent; why, we've been to
Kansas City!"
As they emerged again Johnny slapped his pocket, from which sounded a
musical jingling. "If them weak people try anything on us, we may come
between them and _their_ money!" he boasted.
"From the bottom of my heart I pity you," called the marshal, watching
them depart, a broad smile illuminating his face. "In about twenty-four
hours they'll put up a holler for me to go git it back for 'em," he
muttered. "An' I almost believe I'll do it, too. I ain't never seen none
of that breed what ever left a town without empty pockets an' aching
heads--an' the smarter they think they are the easier they fall." A
fleeting expression of discontent clouded the smile, for the lure of the
open range is hard to resist when once a man has ridden free under
its sky and watched its stars. "An' I wish I was one of 'em again," he
muttered, sauntering on.
Jeremiah T. Jones, Esq., was busy when his door opened, but he leaned
back in his chair and smiled pleasantly at their bow-legged entry,
waving them towards two chairs. Hopalong hung his sombrero on a letter
press and tipped his chair back against the wall; Johnny hung grimly to
his hat, sat stiffly upright until he noticed his companion's pose,
and then, deciding that everything was all right, and that Hopalong was
better up in etiquette than himself, pitched his sombrero dexterously
over the water pitcher and also leaned against the wall. Nobody could
lose him when it came to doing the right thing.
"Well, gentlemen, you look tired and thirsty. This is considered good
for all human ailments of whatsoever nature, degree, or wheresoever
located, in part or entirety, _ab initio_," Mr. Jones remarked, filling
glasses. There was no argument and when the glasses were empty, he
continued: "Now what can I do for you? From the Bar-20? Ah, yes; I was
expecting you. We'll get right at it," and they did. Half an hour later
they emerged on the street, free to take in the town, or to have the
town take them in,--which was usually the case.
"What was that he said for us to keep away from?" asked Johnny with keen
interest.
"Sh! Not so loud," chuckled Hopalong, winking prodigiously.
Johnny pulled tentatively at his upper lip but before he could reply his
companion had accosted a stranger.
"Friend, we're pilgrims in a strange land, an' we don't know the trails.
Can you tell us where the docks are?"
"Certainly; glad to. You'll find them at the end of this street," and he
smilingly waved them towards the section of the town which Jeremiah T.
Jones had specifically and earnestly warned them to avoid.
"Wonder if you're as thirsty as me?" solicitously inquired Hopalong of
his companion.
"I was just wondering the same," replied Johnny. "Say," he confided in
a lower voice, "blamed if I don't feel sort of lost without that Colt.
Every time I lifts my right laig she goes too high--don't feel natural,
nohow."
"Same here; I'm allus feeling to see | 2,849.940802 |
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Ethnology, The Internet Archive: American Libraries and
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generously made available by the Bibliothèque nationale
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[This text is intended for users whose text readers cannot use the
"real" (Unicode/UTF-8) version, or even the simplified Latin-1 version.
Major changes include:
all fractions have been unpacked to 1/2, 1/3 and so on
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ANCIENT ART
of the
PROVINCE OF CHIRIQUI, COLOMBIA.
by
WILLIAM H. HOLMES.
CONTENTS.
Page.
Introduction 13
Geography 13
Literature 14
Peoples 15
The cemeteries 16
The graves 17
Human remains 20
Placing of relics 21
Objects of art 21
Stone 21
Pictured rocks 21
Columns 22
Images 23
Mealing stones 25
Stools 27
Celts &c. 29
Spearheads 34
Arrowpoints 34
Ornaments 34
Metal 35
Gold and copper 35
Bronze 49
Clay: Pottery 53
Preliminary 53
How found 55
Material 55
Manufacture 56
Color 57
Use 57
Forms of vessels 58
Decoration 62
Unpainted ware 66
Terra cotta group 67
Black incised group 80
Painted ware 84
Scarified group 87
Handled group 90
Tripod group 97
Maroon group 107
Red line group 109
White line group 111
Lost color group 113
Alligator group 130
Polychrome group 140
Unclassified 147
Clay: Miscellaneous objects 149
Spindle whorls 149
Needlecases 150
Figurines 151
Stools 154
Musical instruments 156
Rattles 156
Drums 157
Wind instruments 160
Life forms in vase painting 171
Resume 186
[Index]
ILLUSTRATIONS.
Page.
PLATE I. Map of Chiriqui 13
Fig. 1. Section of oval grave 17
2. Section of a quadrangular grave 18
3. Grave with pillars 18
4. Compound cist 19
5. Southwest face of the pictured stone 22
6. A goddess of the ancient Chiriquians 23
7. A god of the ancient Chiriquians 24
8. Fragmentary human figure in gray basaltic rock 25
9. Mealing stone with large tablet ornamented with
animal heads 26
10. Puma shaped metate 27
11. Stool shaped object 28
12. Stool with columnar base 28
13. Stool with perforated base 29
14. Large partially polished celt 30
15. Celt of hexagonal section 31
16. Small wide bladed celt 31
17. Celt with heavy shaft 31
18. Celt or ax with constriction near the top 31
19. Flaked and partially polished celt 32
20. Well polished celt 32
21. Narrow pointed celt 32
22. Narrow pointed celt 32
23. Cylindrical celt with narrow point 33
24. Leaf shaped objects suggesting spearpoints 34
25. Arrowpoints 34
26. Human figure, formed of copper-gold alloy 41
27. Grotesque human figure in gold 42
28. Rudely shaped human figure in gold 42
29. Grotesque human figure in nearly pure copper 43
30. Grotesque human figure in nearly pure gold 43
31. Rudely executed image of a bird in gold 44
32. Image of a bird in gold 45
33. Puma shaped figure in gold 45
34. Puma shaped figure in base metal 45
35. Quadruped with grotesque face in base metal 46
36. Figure of a fish in gold 46
37. Large figure of a frog, in base metal plated
with gold 47
38. Small figure of a frog, in base metal plated
with gold 47
39. Figure of an alligator in gold 48
40. Animal figure, in base metal plated with gold 48
41. Bronze bells plated or washed with gold 50
42. Bronze bell with human features 50
43. Triple bell or rattle found on the Rio Grande 51
44. Ancient Mexican bell 51
45. Fundamental forms of vases--convex outlines 58
46. Fundamental forms of vases--angular outlines 59
47. Vases of complex outlines--exceptional forms 59
48. Vases of compound forms 59
49. Square lipped | 2,850.409059 |
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MILDRED ARKELL.
A Novel.
BY MRS. HENRY WOOD,
AUTHOR OF "EAST LYNNE," "LORD OAKBURN'S DAUGHTERS," "TREVLYN HOLD," ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND
1865.
_All rights of Translation and Reproduction are reserved._
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. WHICH IS NOTHING BUT AN INTRODUCTION 1
II. THE MISS HUGHES'S HOME 21
III. THE ADVENT OF CHARLOTTE TRAVICE 34
IV. ROBERT CARR'S REQUEST 50
V. THE FLIGHT 68
VI. A MISERABLE MISTAKE 87
VII. A HEART SEARED 107
VIII. BETSEY TRAVICE 124
IX. DISPLEASING EYES 147
X. GOING OUT AS LADY'S MAID 160
XI. MR. CARR'S OFFER 179
XII. MARRIAGES IN UNFASHIONABLE LIFE 194
XIII. GOING ON FOR LORD MAYOR 213
XIV. OLD YEARS BACK AGAIN 228
XV. THE DEAN'S DAUGHTER 249
XVI. A CITY'S DESOLATION 269
XVII. A DIFFICULTY ABOUT TICKETS 288
XVIII. THE CONCERT 303
MILDRED ARKELL.
CHAPTER I.
WHICH IS NOTHING BUT AN INTRODUCTION.
I am going to tell you a story of real life--one of those histories that
in point of fact are common enough; but, hidden within themselves as
they generally are, are thought to be so rare, and, if proclaimed to the
world in all their strange details, are looked upon as a romance, not
reality. Some of the actors in this one are living now, but I have the
right to tell it, if I please.
A fair city is Westerbury; perhaps the fairest of the chief towns in all
the midland counties. Its beautiful cathedral rises in the midst, the
red walls of its surrounding prebendal houses looking down upon the
famed river that flows gently past; a cathedral that shrouds itself in
its unapproachable exclusiveness, as if it did not belong to the busy
town outside. For that town is a manufacturing one, and the aristocracy
of the clergy, with that of the few well-born families time had gathered
round them, and the democracy of trade, be it ever so irreproachable, do
not, as you know, assimilate. In the days gone by--and it is to them we
must first turn--this feeling of exclusiveness, this line of
demarcation, if you will, was far more conspicuous than it is now: it
was indeed carried to a pitch that would now scarcely be believed in.
There were those of the proud old prebendaries, who would never have
acknowledged to knowing a manufacturer by sight; who would not have
spoken to one in the street, had it been to save their stalls. You don't
believe me? I said you would not. Nevertheless, I am telling you the
simple truth. And yet, some of those manufacturers, in their intrinsic
worth, in their attainments, ay, and in their ancestors, if you come to
that, were not to be despised.
In those old days no town was more flourishing than Westerbury. Masters
and workmen were alike enjoying the fruits of their skill and industry:
the masters in amassing a rich competency; the workmen, or operatives,
as it has become the fashion to call them of late years, in earning an
ample living, and in bringing up their children without a struggle. But
those times changed. The opening of our ports to foreign goods brought
upon Westerbury, if not destruction, something very like it; and it was
only the more wealthy of the manufacturers who could weather the storm.
They lost, as others did, a very great deal; but they had (at least,
some few of them) large resources to fall back upon, and their business
was continued as before, when the shock was over; and none in the outer
world knew how deep it had been, or how far it had shaken them.
Conspicuous amidst this latter class was Mr. George Arkell. He had made
a great deal of money--not by the griping hand of extortion; by
badly-paid, or over-tasked workmen; but by skill, care, industry, and
honourable dealing. In all high honour he worked on his way; he could
not have been guilty of a mean action; to take an unfair advantage of
another, no matter how he might have benefited himself, would have been
foreign to his nature. And this just dealing in trade, as in else, let
me tell you, generally answers in the end. A better or more benevolent
man than George Arkell did not exist, a more just or considerate master.
His rate of wages was on the highest scale--and there were high and low
scales in the town--and in the terrible desolation hinted at above, he
had _never_ turned from the poor starving men without a helping hand.
It could not be but that such a man should be beloved in private life,
respected in public; and some of those grand old cathedral clergy, who,
with their antiquated and obsolete notions, were fast dropping off to a
place not altogether swayed by exclusiveness, might have made an
exception in favour of Mr. Arkell, and condescended to admit their
knowledge, if questioned, that a man of that name did live in
Westerbury.
George Arkell had one son: an only child. No expense had been spared
upon William Arkell's education. Brought up in the school attached to
the cathedral, the college school as it was familiarly called, he had
also a private tutor at home, and private masters. In accordance with
the good old system obtaining in the past days--and not so very long
past either, as far as the custom is concerned--the college school
confined its branches of instruction to two: Greek and Latin. To teach a
boy to read English and to spell it, would have been too derogatory.
History, geography, any common branch you please to think of;
mathematics, science, modern languages, were not so much as recognised.
Such things probably did exist, but certainly nothing was known of them
in the college school. Mr. Arkell--perhaps a little in advance of his
contemporaries--believed that such acquirements might be useful to his
son, and a private tutor had been provided for him. Masters for every
accomplishment of the day were also given him; and those
accomplishments were less common then than now. It was perhaps
excusable: William Arkell was a goodly son: and he grew to manhood not
only a thoroughly well-read classical scholar and an accomplished man,
but a gentleman. "I should like you to choose a profession, William,"
Mr. Arkell had said to him, when his schooldays were nearly over. "You
shall go to Oxford, and fix upon one while there; there's no hurry."
William laughed; "I don't care to go to Oxford," he said; "I think I
know quite enough as it is; and I intend to come into the manufactory to
you."
And William maintained his resolution. Indulged as he had been, he was
somewhat accustomed to like his own way, good though he was by nature,
dutiful and affectionate by habit. Perhaps Mr. Arkell was not sorry for
the decision, though he laughingly told his son that he was too much of
a gentleman for a manufacturer. So William Arkell was entered at the
manufactory; and when the proper time came he was taken into partnership
with his father, the firm becoming "George Arkell and Son."
Mr. George Arkell had an elder brother, Daniel; rarely called anything
but Dan. _He_ had not prospered. He had had the opportunity of
prospering just as much as his brother had, but he had not done it. A
fatal speculation into which Dan always said he was "drawn," but which
everybody else said he had plunged into of himself with confiding
eagerness, had gone very far towards ruining him. He did not fail; he
was of the honourable Arkell nature; and he paid every debt he owed to
the uttermost penny--paid grandly and liberally; but it left him with no
earthly possession except the house he lived in, and that he couldn't
part with. Dan was a middle-aged man then, and he was fain to accept a
clerkship in the city bank at a hundred a year salary; and he abjured
speculation for the future, and lived quietly on in the old house with
his wife and two children, Peter and Mildred. But wealth, as you are
aware, is always bowed down to, and Westerbury somehow fell into the
habit of calling the wealthy manufacturer "Mr. Arkell," and the elder
"Mr. Dan."
How contrary things run in this world! The one cherished dream of Peter
Arkell's life was to get to the University, for his heart was set on
entering the Church; and poor Peter could not get to it. His cousin
William, who might have gone had it cost thousands, declined to go;
Peter, who had no thousands--no, nor pounds, either, at his command, was
obliged to relinquish it. It is possible that had Mr. Arkell known of
this strong wish, he might have smoothed the way for his nephew, but
Peter never told it. He was of a meek, reticent, somewhat shy nature;
and even his own father knew not how ardently the wish had been
cherished.
"You must do something for your living, Peter," Mr. Dan Arkell had said,
when his son quitted the college school in which he had been educated.
"The bank has promised you a clerkship, and thirty pounds a year to
begin with; and I think you can't do better than take it."
Poor, shy, timid Peter thought within himself he could do a great deal
better, had things been favourable; but they were not favourable, and
the bank and the thirty pounds carried the day. He sat on a high stool
from nine o'clock until five, and consoled himself at home in the
evenings with his beloved classics.
Some years thus passed on, and about the time that William Arkell was
taken into partnership by his father, Mr. Daniel Arkell died, and Peter
was promoted to the better clerkship, and to the hundred a year salary.
He saw no escape now; he was a banker's clerk for life.
And now that all this preliminary explanation is over--and I assure you
I am as glad to get it over as you can be--let us go on to the story.
In one of the principal streets of Westerbury, towards the eastern end
of the town, you might see a rather large space of ground, on which
stood a handsome house and other premises, the whole enclosed by iron
gates and railings, running level with the foot pavement of the street.
Removed from the bustle of the town, which lay higher up, the street was
a quiet one, only private houses being in it--no shops. It was, however,
one of the principal streets, and the daily mails and other
stage-coaches, not yet exploded, ran through it. The house mentioned lay
on the right hand, going towards the town, and not far off, behind
various intervening houses, rose the towers of the cathedral. This house
lay considerably back from the street--on a level with it, at some
distance, was a building whose many windows proclaimed it what it was--a
manufactory; and at the back of the open-paved yard, lying between the
house and the manufactory, was a coach-house and stable--behind all, was
a large garden.
Standing at the door of that house, one autumn evening, the red light of
the setting sun falling sideways athwart his face, was a gentleman in
the prime of life. Some may demur to the expression--for men estimate
the stages of age differently--and this gentleman must have seen
fifty-five years; but in his fine, unwrinkled, healthy face, his
slender, active, upright form, might surely be read the indications that
he was yet in his prime. It was the owner of the house and its
appendages--the principal of the manufactory, George Arkell.
He was drawing on a pair of black gloves as he stood there, and the
narrow crape-band on his hat proclaimed him to be in slight mourning. It
was the fashion to remain in mourning longer then than now. Daniel
Arkell had been dead twelve months, but the Arkell family had not put
away entirely the signs. Suddenly, as Mr. Arkell looked towards the iron
gates--both standing wide open--a gentlemanly young man turned in, and
came with a quick step across the yard.
There was not much likeness between the father and son, save in the
bright dark eyes, and in the expression of the countenance--_that_ was
the same in both; good, sensitive, benevolent. William was taller than
his father, and very handsome, with a look of delicate health on his
refined features, and a complexion almost as bright as a girl's. At the
same moment that he was crossing the yard, an open carriage, well built
and handsome, but drawn by only one horse, was being brought round from
the stables. Nearly every afternoon of their lives, Sundays excepted,
Mr. and Mrs. Arkell went out for a drive in this carriage, the only one
they kept.
"How late you are starting!" exclaimed William to his father.
"Yes; I have been detained. I had to go into the manufactory after tea,
and since then Marmaduke Carr called, and he kept me."
"It is hardly worth while going now."
"Yes, it is. Your mother has a headache, and the air will do her good;
and we want to call in for a minute on the Palmers."
The carriage had come to a stand-still midway from the stables. There
was a small seat behind for the groom, and William saw that it was open;
when the groom did not attend them, it remained closed. Never lived
there a man of less pretension than George Arkell; and the taking a
servant with him for show would never have entered his imagination. They
kept but this one man--he was groom, gardener, anything; his state-dress
(in which he was attired now) being a long blue coat with brass buttons,
drab breeches, and gaiters.
"You are going to take Philip to-night?" observed William.
"Yes; I shall want him to stay with the horse while we go in to the
Palmers'. Heath Hall is a goodish step from the road, you know."
"I will tell my mother that the carriage is ready," said William,
turning into the house.
But Mr. Arkell put up his finger with a detaining movement.
"Stop a minute, William. Marmaduke Carr's visit this evening had
reference to you. He came to complain."
"To complain!--of me?" echoed William Arkell, his tone betraying his
surprise. "What have I done to him?"
"At least, it sounded very like a complaint to my ears," resumed the
elder man; "and though he did not say he came purposely to prefer it,
but introduced the subject in an incidental sort of manner, I am sure he
did come to do it."
"Well, what have I done?" repeated William, an amused expression
mingling with the wonder on his face.
"After conversing on other topics, he began speaking of his son, and
that Hughes girl. He has come to the determination, he says, of putting
a final stop to it, and he requests it as a particular favour that you
won't mix yourself up in the matter and will cease from encouraging
Robert in it."
"_I!_" echoed William. "That's good. I don't encourage it."
"Marmaduke Carr says you do encourage it. He tells me you were strolling
with the girl and Robert last Sunday afternoon in the fields on the
other side the water. I confess I was surprised to hear this, William."
William Arkell raised his honest eyes, so clear and truthful, straight
to the face of his father.
"How things may be distorted!" he exclaimed. "Do you remember, sir, my
mother asked me, as we left the cathedral after service, to go and
inquire whether there was any change for the better in Mrs. Pembroke?"
"I remember it quite well."
"Well, I went. Coming back, I chose the field way, and I had no sooner
got into the first field, than I overtook Robert Carr and Martha Ann
Hughes. I walked with him through the fields until we came to the
bridge, and then I came on alone. Much 'encouragement' there was in
that!"
"It was countenancing the thing, at any rate, if not encouraging it,"
remarked Mr. Arkell.
"There's no harm in it; none at all."
"Do you mean in the affair itself, or in your having so far lent
yourself to it?"
"In both," fearlessly answered William. "I wonder who it is that carries
these tales to old Carr! We did not meet a soul, that I remember; he
must have spies at work."
The remark rather offended Mr. Arkell.
"William," he gravely asked, "do you consider it fitting that Robert
Carr should marry that girl?"
William's eyes opened rather wide at the remark.
"He is not likely to do that, sir; he would not make a simpleton of
himself."
"Then you consider that he should choose the other alternative, and turn
rogue?" rejoined Mr. Arkell, indignation in his suppressed tone.
"William, had anyone told me this of you, I would not have believed it."
William Arkell's sensitive cheek flushed red.
"Sir, you are entirely mistaking me; I am sure you are mistaking the
affair itself. I believe that the girl is as honest and good a girl as
ever lived; and Robert Carr knows she is."
"Then what is it that he proposes to himself in frequenting her society?
If he has no end at all in view, why does he do it?"
"I don't think he _has_ any end in view. There is really nothing in
it--as I believe; we all form acquaintances and drop them. Marmaduke
Carr need not put himself in a fever."
"We form acquaintances in our own sphere of life, mind you, young sir;
they are the safer ones. I wonder some of the ladies don't give a hint
to the two Miss Hughes's to take better care of their sister--she's but
a young thing. At any rate, William, do not you mix yourself up in it."
"I have not done it, indeed, sir. As to my walking through the fields
with them, when we met, as I tell you, accidentally, I could not help
myself, friendly as I am with Robert Carr. There was no harm in it; I
should do it again to-morrow under the circumstances; and if old Carr
speaks to me, I shall tell him so."
The carriage came up, and no more was said. Philip had halted to do
something to the harness. Mrs. Arkell came out.
She was tall, and for her age rather an elegant woman. Her face must
once have been delicately beautiful: it was easy to be seen whence
William had inherited his refined features; but she was simple in manner
as a child.
"What have you been doing, William? Papa was speaking crossly to you,
was he not?"
She sometimes used the old fond word to him, "papa." She looked fondly
at her son, and spoke in a joking manner. In truth, William gave them
little cause to be "cross" with him; he was a good son, in every sense
of the term.
"Something a little short of high treason," replied William, laughing,
as he helped her in; "Papa can tell you, if he likes."
Mr. Arkell took the reins, Philip got up behind, and they drove out of
the yard. William Arkell went indoors, put down a roll of music he had
been carrying, and then left the house again.
Turning to his right hand as he quitted the iron gates, he continued his
way up the street towards the busier portion of the city. It was not his
intention to go so far as that now. He crossed over to a wide, handsome
turning on the left, and was speedily close upon the precincts of the
cathedral. It was almost within the cathedral precincts that the house
of Mrs. Daniel Arkell was situated. Not a large house, as was Mr.
Arkell's, but a pretty compact red-brick residence, with a small garden
lying before the front windows, which looked out on the Dean's garden
and the cathedral elm-trees.
William Arkell opened the door and entered. In a little bit of a room on
the left, sat Peter Arkell, deep in some abstruse Greek play. This
little room was called Peter's study, for it had been appropriated to
the boy and his books ever since he could remember. William looked in,
just gave him a nod, and then entered the room on the other side the
entrance-passage.
Two ladies sat in this, both of them in mourning: Mrs. Daniel Arkell, a
stout, comfortable-looking woman, in widow's weeds; Mildred in a pretty
dress of black silk. Peter and William were about the same age; Mildred
was two years younger. She was a quiet, sensible, lady-like girl, with a
gentle face and the sweetest look possible in her soft brown eyes. She
had not been educated fashionably, according to the custom of the
present day; she had never been to school, but had received, as we are
told of Moses Primrose, a "sort of miscellaneous education at home." She
possessed a thorough knowledge of her own language, knew a good deal of
Latin, insensibly acquired through being with Peter when he took his
earlier lessons in it from his father, read aloud beautifully, wrote an
excellent letter, and was a quick arithmetician, made shirts and pastry
to perfection, and was well read in our best authors. Not a single
accomplishment, save dancing, had she been taught; and yet she was in
mind and manners essentially a gentlewoman.
If Mildred was loved by her own mother, so was she by Mrs. George
Arkell. Possessing no daughter of her own, Mrs. George seemed to cling
to Mildred as one. She cherished within her heart a secret wish that her
son might sometime call Mildred his wife. This may be marvelled at--it
may seem strange that Mrs. George Arkell should wish to unite her
attractive, wealthy, and accomplished son with his portionless and
comparatively homely cousin; but _she_ knew Mildred's worth and the
sunshine of happiness she would bring into any home. Mrs. George Arkell
never breathed a hint of this wish: whether wisely or not, perhaps the
sequel did not determine.
And what thought Mildred herself? She knew nothing of this
secretly-cherished scheme; but if ever there appeared to her a human
being gifted with all earthly perfections, it was William Arkell.
Perhaps the very contrast he presented to her brother--a contrast
brought palpably before her sight every day of her life--enhanced the
feeling. Peter was plain in person, so tall as to be ungainly, thin as a
lath, and stooping perpetually, and in manner shy and awkward; whilst
William was all ease and freedom; very handsome, though with a look of
delicate health on his refined features; danced minuets with Mildred to
perfection--relics of the old dancing days, which pleased the two elder
ladies; breathed love-songs to her on his flute, painted her pretty
landscapes in water-colours, with which she decorated the walls of her
own little parlour, drove her out sometimes in his father's
carriage--the one you have just seen start on its expedition; passed
many an evening reading to her, and quoting Shakespeare; and, in short,
made love to her as much as it was possible to make it, not in words.
But the misfortune of all this was, that while it told upon _her_ heart,
and implanted there its never-dying fruit, he only regarded her as a
cousin or a sister. Brought up in this familiar intercourse with
Mildred, he never gave a thought to any warmer feeling on either side,
or suspected that such intimacy might lead to one, still less that it
had, even then, led to it on hers. Had he been aware of his mother's
hope of uniting them, it is impossible to say whether he would have
yielded to it: he had asked himself the question many a time in his
later life, _and he could never answer_.
The last remains of the setting sun threw a glow on the room, for the
house faced the west. It was a middling-sized, comfortable apartment,
with a sort of bright look about it. They rarely sat in any other. There
was a drawing-room above, but it was seldom used.
"Well, aunt! well, Mildred! How are you this evening?"
Mildred looked up from her work at the well-known, cheery voice; the
soft colour had already mantled in her cheek at the well-known step.
William took a book from his pocket, wrapped in paper.
"I got it for you this afternoon, Mildred. Mind and don't spoil your
eyes over it: its print is curiously small."
She looked at him with a smile amidst her glow of blushing thanks; she
always smiled when he gave her the same caution. Her sight was
remarkably strong--William's, on the contrary, was not so, and he was
already obliged to use glasses when trying fresh pieces of music.
"William, my dear," began Mrs. Daniel, "I have a favour to ask your
father. Will you carry it to him for me?"
"It's granted already," returned William, with the free confidence of
an indulged son. "What is it?"
"I want to get over to see those children, the Carrs. Poor Mrs. John,
when she was dying, asked me if I would go over now and then, and I feel
as if I were neglecting the promise, for it is full six months since I
was there. The coaches start so early in the morning, and I thought, if
your father would let me have the carriage for the day, and Philip to
drive me; Mildred can sit in the back seat----"
"I'll drive you, aunt," interrupted William. "Fix your own day, and
we'll go."
But Mildred had looked up, a vivid blush of annoyance on her cheek.
"I do not care to go, mamma; I'd rather not go to Squire Carr's."
"You be quiet, Mildred," said William. "You are not going to see the
squire, you are going to see the squire's grandchildren. Talking about
the Carrs, aunt, I have just been undergoing a lecture on their score."
"On the score of the Carrs?"
"It's true. I happened on Sunday to be crossing the opposite fields, on
my way from Mrs. Pembroke's, and came upon Robert Carr and Miss Martha
Ann Hughes, and walked with them to the bridge. Somebody carried the
news to old Marmaduke, and he came down this evening | 2,850.608225 |
2023-11-16 19:04:34.6981290 | 830 | 12 |
Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S YOUNG PEOPLE]
* * * * *
VOL. II.--NO. 80. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, May 10, 1881. Copyright, 1881, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50 per
Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration: PAUL REVERE AT LEXINGTON.--DRAWN BY HOWARD PYLE.]
HOURS WITH THE OCTOGENARIANS.
BY BENSON J. LOSSING.
Between thirty and forty years ago I went on a pilgrimage to places
hallowed by events of the great and successful struggle of Americans for
freedom and independence.
I there found many things and persons remaining as mementos of that
contest. All were hoary with age, and some were crumbling and tottering
ruins. All were rapidly passing within the veil of human forgetfulness,
for houses, fortifications, battle-fields, and men and women would soon
become only pictures on Memory's wall.
From the lips of the venerable men and women whom I saw I heard
thrilling narratives of their experience in those days of strife. In
hidden recesses of memory and in written notes I preserved those
narratives for the entertainment and instruction of the youth of this
generation, hoping to be with them to tell the tales myself. Here I am,
and I propose to relate to the readers of YOUNG PEOPLE some of the
stories I then received from living lips. I will begin with the story of
THE FIFER OF LEXINGTON.
Lexington! Concord! What American boy or girl has not heard of these two
little villages in Massachusetts, where the first blow was struck for
independence, and where the hot flames of the Revolution first burst
out, on the 19th of April, 1775? One of my first pilgrimages was to
these villages.
It was a bright, sunny morning in October, 1848, when I travelled by
railway from Boston to Concord--a distance of seventeen miles northwest
of the New England capital. There I spent an hour with Major Barrett and
his wife, who "saw the British scamper," and had lived together almost
sixty years. The Major was hale at eighty-seven, and his wife, almost as
old, seemed as nimble of foot as a matron in middle life. She was a
vivacious little woman, well-formed, and retained traces of the beauty
of her girlhood.
After visiting the place of the skirmish at Concord, I rode in a private
vehicle to Lexington, six miles eastward, through a picturesque and
fertile country, and entered the famous village at the Green whereon
that skirmish occurred, and where a commemorative monument now stands.
After a brief interview with two or three aged persons there, we drove
to the house of Jonathan Harrington, in East Lexington, who, a lad
seventeen years old, had opened the ball of the Revolution on the
memorable April morning with the war-notes of the shrill fife.
As we halted before the house of Mr. Harrington, at a little past noon,
we saw an old man wielding an axe vigorously in splitting fire-wood in
his yard. I entered the gate, and introduced myself and my errand. The
old man was the venerable fifer.
"Come in and rest yourself," he said, kindly, as he led the way into the
house.
Although he was then past ninety years of age, he appeared no older than
many men do at seventy. His form was nearly erect, his voice was firm,
his complexion was fair, his placid face was lighted by mild blue eyes,
| 2,850.718169 |
2023-11-16 19:04:34.7434810 | 2,411 | 9 |
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Hollowdell Grange, by George Manville Fenn.
________________________________________________________________________
This is one of Fenn's earliest books. The theme is that a boy from
London goes down to stay in the country with his cousins, where the way
of life is so very different, and challenging, from all that he had
known in the great city. The descriptions of country life of those days
are very well done, but we must make one warning--that many of the
countrymen we meet in the story speak with a strong Lincolnshire accent,
and the author has done his best to represent these sounds with what
must very often look like mistakes in transcription.
There are all sorts of country situations to be encountered, from
working with animals, to meeting the various village characters, to a
near drowning, and even, at the very end to an attempted rescue, one
that failed, of a drowning boy caught in a sluice on the beach.
There may well be a few mistakes, because the copy used was very old,
and the pages very browned, while at the same time not very well
printed. But we have done our best and at least what we offer here is
better than what you would have got from the book itself in its aged
condition. As so often with this kind of book it makes a very good
audio-book, and listening to it is a great pleasure.
________________________________________________________________________
HOLLOWDELL GRANGE, BY GEORGE MANVILLE FENN.
CHAPTER ONE.
A FISH OUT OF WATER.
It was such a fine hot Midsummer day at Hollowdell station, that the
porter had grown tired of teasing the truck-driver's dog, and fallen
fast asleep--an example which the dog had tried to follow, but could
not, because there was only one shady spot within the station-gates, and
that had been taken possession of by the porter; so the poor dog had
tried first one place, and then another, but they were all so hot and
stifling, and the flies kept buzzing about him so teasingly, that he
grew quite cross, and barked and snapped so at the tiresome insects,
that at last he woke Jem Barnes, the porter, who got up, stretched
himself, yawned very rudely and loudly, and then, looking in at the
station-clock, he saw that the 2:30 train from London was nearly due, so
he made up his mind not to go to sleep again until it had passed.
It _was_ a hot day--so hot that the great black tarpaulins over the
goods-waggons were quite soft, and came off all black upon Jem Barnes's
hands. The air down the road seemed to quiver and dance over the white
chalky dust; while all the leaves upon the trees, and the grass in the
meadows, drooped beneath the heat of the sun. As to the river, it shone
like a band of silver as it wound in and out, and here and there; and
when you looked you could see the reflection of the great dragon-flies
as they flitted and raced about over the glassy surface. The reeds on
the bank were quite motionless; while, out in the middle, the fat old
chub could be seen basking in the sunshine, wagging their great broad
fantails in the sluggish stream, too lazy even to snap up the flies that
passed over their heads. All along the shallows the roach and dace lay
in shoals, flashing about, every now and then, in the transparent water
like gleams of silver light. Down in the meadows, where the ponds were,
and the shady trees grew, the cows were so hot that they stood up to
their knees in the muddy water, chewing their grass with half-shut eyes,
and whisking their long tails about to keep the flies at a distance.
But it was of no use to whisk, for every now and then a nasty, spiteful,
hungry fly would get on some poor cow's back, creep beneath the hair,
and force its horny trunk into the skin so sharply, that the poor animal
would burst out into a doleful lowing, and, sticking its tail up, go
galloping and plunging through the meadow in such a clumsy way as only a
cow can display. A few fields off the grass was being cut, and the
sharp scythes of the mowers went tearing through the tall, rich, green
crop, and laid it low in long rows as the men, with their regular
strokes, went down the long meadows. Every now and then, too, they
would make the wood-side re-echo with the musical ringing sound of the
scythes, as the gritty rubbers glided over the keen edges of the bright
tools.
Hot, hot, hot!--how the sun glowed in the bright blue sky! and how the
down train puffed and panted, while the heat of the weather made even
the steam from the funnel transparent as it streamed backwards over the
engine's green back! The driver and stoker were melting, for they had
the great roaring fire of the engine just in front of them, and the sun
scorching their backs; the guard was hot with stopping at so many
stations, and putting out so much luggage; while the passengers, in the
carriages said they were almost stifled, and looked out with longing
eyes at the shady green woods they passed. One passenger in particular,
a sharp-featured and rather sallow youth about twelve years old, kept
looking at the time-table, and wondering how long it would be before he
arrived at Hollowdell, for that was the name printed upon the ticket
Fred Morris held in his hand.
But just at this time there were other people travelling towards
Hollowdell station, and that too by the long dusty chalky road that came
through the woods and over the wooden bridge right up to the railway
crossing; and these people were no others than Fred Morris's country
cousins, and the old man-servant--half groom, half gardener--who was
driving the pony chaise with Harry Inglis by his side, while Fred's
other cousin Philip was cantering along upon his donkey close behind--
such a donkey! with thin legs, and a thin tail that he kept closely
tucked in between the hind pair, as if he was afraid the crupper would
pull it off. He wanted no beating, although he could be obstinate
enough when he liked, and refuse to pass the green paddock where he
grazed; but he wanted no beating, while with his young master on his
back: he would trot off with his little hoofs going pitter-patter,
twinkle-twinkle over the road, at a rate that it used to puzzle old
Dumpling, the fat pony, to keep up with.
Harry and Philip Inglis were rather different-looking boys to their
cousin, for, stouter in build, they bore upon their good-tempered faces
the brown marks made by many a summer's sun. And now, upon this
occasion, they were all impatience to get to the station to meet Cousin
Fred, who was coming down to spend the Midsummer holidays. The visit
had been long talked about, and now the boys were in a state of the
greatest excitement lest any disappointment might take place.
"Oh! do drive faster, Sam," said Harry, making a snatch at the reins; "I
know he'll be there first. Tiresome old thing, you! Why didn't you
start an hour sooner?"
"What for?" said Sam, grumbling, and holding tightly to the reins; "what
was I to come an hour sooner for? Think I don't know how long it takes
to drive over to station?"
"But," said Philip, from his donkey, "I'm sure we shall be late.
There!" he continued, "I can hear the train now!"
"Nonsense!" said Sam. "Where's the steam? Why, you can see the steam
for two miles before the train gets in, and Dumps here could get in long
before the train."
But Philip was right, for just then the loud and shrill whistle of the
engine was heard as it started again, after setting down one solitary
little passenger in the shape of Fred Morris, who looked sadly
disappointed to find no one there to receive him but Jem Barnes, the
porter, who stared very hard at the young stranger from Lunnun.
Dumpling galloped, and Neddy went off at a double trot, upon hearing the
railway-whistle, spinning along at such a rate that before Fred Morris
had learned which path he was to take across the fields to go the
shortest way to Squire Inglis's, of the Grange, Hollowdell--and all of
which information he was getting very slowly out of Jem Barnes--Harry
had jumped out of the chaise. Philip leaped off his donkey, and they
were one on each side of Fred, heartily shaking hands with him.
"I say, ain't you our cousin?" said Harry, breathlessly.
"Our cousin from London, you know," said Philip, "that was to come by
this train?"
"My name is Morris," said the traveller, rather pompously, "and I'm
going on a visit to Mr Inglis's at Hollowdell."
"Yes, to be sure!" said Harry. "You're Cousin Fred, and I'm Harry, and
that's Phil. Come along into the chaise. Here Sam--Jem! bring the box
and let's be off. But I say, Fred, isn't it hot?"
Fred replied that it was, seeming hardly to know what to make of the
rough, hearty manners of his cousins, and he looked, if anything, rather
disappointed when he was met by the rough grin of Sam, who was of
anything but a smooth exterior, and altogether a very different man to
his father's well-brushed livery-servant, who had seen him safely off to
the station in the morning.
"I've come," said Fred at last, when they were fairly started with
Philip and Fred in the chaise, and Harry this time upon the donkey
bringing up the rear--"I've come because Papa said you would not like it
if I did not; but I'd much rather you had both come up to me in London.
One can find something to do there, and there's something to see. I
can't think how you people manage to live down here."
"Oh! we find something to do, don't we, Harry?" said Philip, laughing.
But Harry was very busy with Neddy, who had taken it into his head to go
down a lane which led to the pound--a place where he had been more than
once locked up; and it was as much as ever the lad could do to stop him;
so Philip's question remained unanswered. "I say," continued Philip at
last, after | 2,850.763521 |
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Produced by Suzanne Shell, Project Gutenberg Beginners
Projects, Riikka Talonpoika, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team
LOVE AT SECOND SIGHT
by ADA LEVERSON
First published London, 1916
(Book Three of THE LITTLE OTTLEYS)
TO TACITUS
CHAPTER I
An appalling crash, piercing shrieks, a loud, unequal quarrel on a
staircase, the sharp bang of a door....
Edith started up from her restful corner on the blue sofa by the fire,
where she had been thinking about her guest, and rushed to the door.
'Archie--Archie! Come here directly! What's that noise?'
A boy of ten came calmly into the room.
'It wasn't me that made the noise,' he said, 'it was Madame Frabelle.'
His mother looked at him. He was a handsome, fair boy with clear grey
eyes that looked you straight in the face without telling you anything
at all, long eyelashes that softened, but gave a sly humour to his
glance, a round face, a very large forehead, and smooth straw-coloured
hair. Already at this early age he had the expressionless reserve of the
public school where he was to be sent, with something of the suave | 2,850.986224 |
2023-11-16 19:04:35.6756280 | 852 | 8 |
Produced by sp1nd and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
MASTERPIECES IN COLOUR
EDITED BY--T. LEMAN HARE
WHISTLER
1834-1903
IN THE SAME SERIES
ARTIST. AUTHOR.
VELAZQUEZ. S. L. BENSUSAN.
REYNOLDS. S. L. BENSUSAN.
TURNER. C. LEWIS HIND.
ROMNEY. C. LEWIS HIND.
GREUZE. ALYS EYRE MACKLIN.
BOTTICELLI. HENRY B. BINNS.
ROSSETTI. LUCIEN PISSARRO.
BELLINI. GEORGE HAY.
FRA ANGELICO. JAMES MASON.
REMBRANDT. JOSEF ISRAELS.
LEIGHTON. A. LYS BALDRY.
RAPHAEL. PAUL G. KONODY.
HOLMAN HUNT. MARY E. COLERIDGE.
TITIAN S. L. BENSUSAN.
MILLAIS. A. LYS BALDRY.
CARLO DOLCI. GEORGE HAY.
GAINSBOROUGH. MAX ROTHSCHILD.
TINTORETTO. S. L. BENSUSAN.
LUINI. JAMES MASON.
FRANZ HALS. EDGCUMBE STALEY.
VAN DYCK. PERCY M. TURNER.
LEONARDO DA VINCI. M. W. BROCKWELL.
RUBENS. S. L. BENSUSAN.
WHISTLER. T. MARTIN WOOD.
HOLBEIN. S. L. BENSUSAN.
BURNE-JONES. A. LYS BALDRY.
VIGEE LE BRUN. C. HALDANE MACFALL.
CHARDIN. PAUL G. KONODY.
FRAGONARD. C. HALDANE MACFALL.
MEMLINC. W. H. J. & J. C. WEALE.
CONSTABLE. C. LEWIS HIND.
RAEBURN. JAMES L. CAW.
JOHN S. SARGENT T. MARTIN WOOD.
_Others in Preparation._
[Illustration: PLATE I.--OLD BATTERSEA BRIDGE. Frontispiece
(In the National Gallery)
This nocturne was bought by the National Collections Fund from
the Whistler Memorial Exhibition. It was one of the canvases
brought forward during the cross-examination of the artist in the
Whistler v. Ruskin trial.]
Whistler
BY T. MARTIN WOOD
ILLUSTRATED WITH EIGHT REPRODUCTIONS IN COLOUR
[Illustration]
LONDON: T. C. & E. C. JACK
NEW YORK: FREDERICK A. STOKES CO.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Plate
I. Old Battersea Bridge Frontispiece
In the National Gallery
Page
II. Nocturne, St. Mark's, Venice 14
In the possession of John J. Cowan, Esq.
III. The Artist's Studio 24
In the possession of Douglas Freshfield, Esq.
IV. Portrait of my Mother 34
In the Luxembourg Galleries, Paris
V. Lillie in Our Alley 40
In the possession of John J. Cowan, Esq.
VI. Nocturne, | 2,851.695668 |
2023-11-16 19:04:36.0596400 | 271 | 16 |
Produced by John Young Le Bourgeois
A BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH
of the
LIFE AND CHARACTER
of
JOSEPH CHARLESS,
IN A SERIES OF LETTERS TO HIS GRANDCHILDREN.
Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever
things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are
lovely, whatsoever things are of good report; if there be any virtue,
and if there be any praise, think on these things. Phil., chap.4,
verse 8.
SAINT LOUIS:
A. F. COX, PRINTER, OFFICE OF THE MISSOURI PRESBYTERIAN.
1869.
Letter One
MY DEAR GRANDCHILDREN:
We are reminded daily of the uncertainty of human life: for the
young and the old, the gay and the grave, the good and the wicked, are
subject to death. Young people do not realize this, but it is
nevertheless true, and before you are old enough, my children, to
understand and lay to heart all that your mother would tell you of her
dearly beloved father, she may be asleep with grandma, close beside him
in Bellefontaine. An earthly inheritance is highly esteemed among men.
For this reason great | 2,852.07968 |
2023-11-16 19:04:36.1911890 | 332 | 64 |
Produced by Brian Coe 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: Minor typographical errors have been corrected
without note. Irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have
been retained as printed.
Words printed in italics are marked with underlines: _italics_. Words
printed in bold are marked with tildes: ~bold~.
The Daily Telegraph
WAR BOOKS
THE BATTLES IN FLANDERS
The Daily Telegraph
WAR BOOKS
Cloth
1/-net each
Post free
1/3 each
~HOW THE WAR BEGAN~ By W. L. COURTNEY, LL.D., and J. M. KENNEDY
~THE FLEETS AT WAR~ By ARCHIBALD HURD
~THE CAMPAIGN OF SEDAN~ By GEORGE HOOPER
~THE CAMPAIGN ROUND LIEGE~ By J. M. KENNEDY
~IN THE FIRING LINE~ By A. ST. JOHN ADCOCK
~GREAT BATTLES OF THE WORLD~ By STEPHEN CRANE
~BRITISH REGIMENTS AT THE FRONT~
~THE RED CROSS IN WAR~ By Miss MARY FRANCES BILLINGTON
~FORTY YEARS AFTER~ The Story of the Franco-German War By H. C.
BAILEY With an Introduction by W. L. COURTNEY, LL | 2,852.211229 |
2023-11-16 19:04:36.2592420 | 3,705 | 6 |
Produced by Suzanne Shell and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
The Golden Key
OR
A HEART’S SILENT WORSHIP
_By_ MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON
AUTHOR OF
“Thrice Wedded,” “Little Miss Whirlwind,”
“The Magic Cameo,” “A Hoiden’s
Conquest,” “Mona,” etc.
[Illustration]
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
POPULAR BOOKS
By MRS. GEORGIE SHELDON
In Handsome Cloth Binding
Price per Volume, 60 Cents
Audrey’s Recompense
Brownie’s Triumph
Churchyard Betrothal, The
Dorothy Arnold’s Escape
Dorothy’s Jewels
Earl Wayne’s Nobility
Edrie’s Legacy
Esther, the Fright
Faithful Shirley
False and The True, The
For Love and Honor
Sequel to Geoffrey’s Victory
Forsaken Bride, The
Geoffrey’s Victory
Girl in a Thousand, A
Golden Key, The
Grazia’s Mistake
Heatherford Fortune, The
Sequel to The Magic Cameo
He Loves Me For Myself
Sequel to the Lily of Mordaunt
Helen’s Victory
Her Faith Rewarded
Sequel to Faithful Shirley
Her Heart’s Victory
Sequel to Max
Heritage of Love, A
Sequel to The Golden Key
His Heart’s Queen
Hoiden’s Conquest, A
How Will It End
Sequel to Marguerite’s Heritage
Lily of Mordaunt, The
Little Marplot, The
Little Miss Whirlwind
Lost, A Pearle
Love’s Conquest
Sequel to Helen’s Victory
Love Victorious, A
Magic Cameo, The
Marguerite’s Heritage
Masked Bridal, The
Max, A Cradle Mystery
Mona
Mysterious Wedding Ring, A
Nameless Dell
Nora
Queen Bess
Ruby’s Reward
Shadowed Happiness, A
Sequel to Wild Oats
Sibyl’s Influence
Stella Roosevelt
That Dowdy
Thorn Among Roses, A
Sequel to a Girl in a Thousand
Threads Gathered Up
Sequel to Virgie’s Inheritance
Thrice Wedded
Tina
Trixy
True Aristocrat, A
True Love Endures
Sequel to Dorothy Arnold’s Escape
True Love’s Reward
Sequel to Mona
True to Herself
Sequel to Witch Hazel
Two Keys
Virgie’s Inheritance
Wedded By Fate
Welfleet Mystery, The
Wild Oats
Winifred’s Sacrifice
Witch Hazel
With Heart so True
Sequel to His Heart’s Queen
Woman’s Faith, A
Sequel to Nameless Dell
For Sale by all Booksellers or will be sent postpaid on receipt of price
A. L. BURT COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
52 Duane Street New York
Copyright 1896, 1897, 1905
BY STREET & SMITH
THE GOLDEN KEY
THE GOLDEN KEY.
PROLOGUE.
A RESPONSIVE HEART.
“Nannie, I cannot bear it!”
“Hush, Alice; you must not give way to such wild grief--the
excitement will be very bad for you.”
“But what will Adam say? It will be a terrible blow; his heart was
so set upon the fulfilment of his hopes, and now----”
A heart-broken wail completed the sentence as the pale, beautiful
woman, resting upon the snowy pillows of an old-fashioned canopied
bed, covered her face with her delicate hands and fell to sobbing
with a wild sorrow which shook her slight frame from head to foot.
“Alice! Alice! don’t! Adam will come home to find that he has lost
both wife and child if you do not try to control yourself.”
The latter speaker, a tall, muscular woman, with a kindly but
resolute face, which bespoke a strong character as well as a
tender heart, knelt beside the bed, and laid her cheek against
the colorless one upon the pillow with motherly tenderness and
sympathy. But her appealing words only seemed to increase the
violence of the invalid’s grief, and, with a look of anxiety
sweeping over her countenance, the woman arose, after a moment,
when, pouring a few drops from a bottle into a spoon, she briefly
informed her charge that it was time for her medicine.
The younger woman meekly swallowed the potion, although her bosom
continued to heave with sobs, and tears still rained over her
hueless cheeks.
Her companion sat down near her, an expression of patient endurance
on her face, and in the course of fifteen or twenty minutes she was
rewarded by seeing the invalid fall into a profound slumber.
“Thank Heaven!” she muttered at last, with a sigh of relief, “there
will be an interval of rest, but I dread the awakening.”
Miss Nancy Porter was a spinster, upward of forty, and one of those
stanch, reliable women who always seem like a bulwark of strength,
and equal to any emergency.
She was, by profession, a trained nurse, having, many years
previous, served her time in the Massachusetts General Hospital,
of Boston, after which her experience was wide and varied, winning
for herself encomiums from both surgeons and physicians, and the
unbounded confidence of those who were fortunate enough to secure
her services in the sick-room.
She had her own home in one of the suburban towns of Boston, where
she lived with her one trusty maid in a quiet, restful way, when
her services were not in demand elsewhere.
It was into this peaceful home that her only sister had come,
about a month previous, to remain until the return of her husband,
who had been called abroad upon urgent business.
Adam Brewster was a wealthy banker of New York City.
He was several years older than sweet Alice Porter, whom he had met
and fallen in love with some two years previous, and who had been
his idolized wife for little more than twelve months.
It had been a great trial that he could not take his dear one to
Europe with him; but her physician utterly prohibited such a trip
for the young wife, and thus she had gone to spend the interval
of her husband’s absence with her sister, in the home of her
childhood, and where a tiny little girl was born into the world,
only to breathe faintly for a few moments, and them slip away into
the great unknown.
For hours after the birth and death of her little one, Alice
Brewster had lain in a state of unconsciousness, which caused the
heart of her faithful nurse and sister to quake with fear.
But, when consciousness returned, and the youthful mother called
for her little one, and she was obliged to tell her that she was
childless, her heart almost failed her again, in view of the bitter
disappointment and violent sorrow which once more threatened to
snap the slender thread of life.
She could only temporarily quell these outbursts of grief by
administering powerful narcotics to induce sleep and oblivion, with
the hope that calmness and resignation would come with returning
strength.
On the afternoon of the third day the storm, which had prevented
the sending of a doctor, cleared, and about five o’clock Miss
Porter went down-stairs into the kitchen, where her servant was
quietly engaged with her domestic duties.
“Sarah, I’m going to town to see Doctor Bowman,” she remarked, in
grave, subdued tones, an anxious expression in her mild, gray eyes.
“Mrs. Brewster is sleeping, but I want you to go up and sit by her
until I return, which won’t be very long, and if she wakes, give
her two teaspoonfuls of the medicine in the glass that is on the
mantel.”
“Yes, marm,” responded Sarah, as she changed her calico apron for a
white one, preparatory to going up-stairs.
“And--if any one comes in,” pursued Miss Porter thoughtfully,
“tell them nothing! you can simply say I am out, and Mrs. Brewster
is lying down. I don’t want any gossip started. I’ll tell my own
story.”
“Yes, marm,” said Sarah again, and her mistress hurried away.
She was just in time to catch the five-twenty express for town,
where she arrived just on the stroke of six, when she proceeded
directly to the waiting-room to leave her waterproof and umbrella
with the woman in charge, while she made a visit to her physician.
She did not find her in the outer room, and so went on into the
ladies’ private siting-room, which she found to be empty, quite an
unusual occurrence, although doubtless the recent tempest was the
reason why so few people were abroad.
At least Miss Porter thought the place was empty, until a faint
sound greeted her ear, when she started forward and peeped around
a corner, to find only an animated bundle wrapped in a gray shawl
lying upon the great square table standing there.
“It’s a baby!” muttered Miss Porter in astonishment, “but where on
earth is the mother?”
Prompted by both curiosity and interest, she went to the child,
and, parting the shawl, which was closely wrapped about it,
discovered an infant, which her practised eye told her could not be
over a week old, if, indeed, it had seen as many days as that.
Her first thought was that the mother, or whoever had the child in
charge, had left it just for the moment sleeping upon the table;
then, suddenly, a terrible shock, which set every nerve in her body
quivering with a painful thrill, went through her as she caught
sight of a note that had been pinned to the fine flannel blanket
that was wrapped about the infant under the shawl.
“Good heavens! it is an abandoned baby!” she breathed, as she
mechanically but tenderly gathered it into her strong arms and
tried to hush it upon her breast.
Evidently, the child had been drugged, for it dropped off to sleep
almost immediately, and then Miss Porter, with trembling fingers
and two scarlet spots upon her cheeks, denoting great mental
excitement, detached the note from the blanket, and, opening it,
read:
“Will some kind woman take this child, or see that it finds
a good home where it will be well reared? Nothing but direst
necessity compels her abandonment. She is well and honorably
born, and yet relentless fate makes her an outcast from her own
kindred. A peculiar-shaped golden key, in the form of a pin, is
fastened to her clothing--it is her only heritage. Will whoever
responds to this appeal insert in an early issue of the Boston
_Transcript_ under the head of personals, the following: ‘X. Y.
Z.--The golden key has unlocked a responsive heart,’ and relieve
the writer of this of a heavy burden?”
“H’m!” ejaculated Miss Porter, as she refolded the note, and began
to look for the golden key.
She found it pinned to the yoke of the child’s dainty dress--an
oddly fashioned trinket, the thumb-piece ornamented with a small
<DW29>, in the heart of which there flashed a tiny but flawless
diamond.
“Well! for once I have had a genuine adventure in my plodding,
practical life!” the woman muttered to herself. “Everything about
this child shows that she was born of a wealthy mother--some rich
girl, maybe, whose good name was more to her than the life and
welfare of her own flesh and blood. Oh, dear, what a world it is!
Those who yearn for these little ones are deprived of them, while
there is no place, no love for others. It is a beautiful babe,
too,” she continued, bending over the little sleeper and noting
the soft, curling rings of glossy brown hair on the small head,
the delicate, regular features of the little face, and the dainty,
perfect hands that were folded on the gently heaving breast. “Poor
little waif! what shall I do with you?” she concluded, with a
long-drawn, regretful sigh.
Then she sat suddenly erect, her face becoming almost as rigid as
that of a statue, while she scarcely seemed to breathe, so absorbed
had she become in her own startled reflections.
“Nancy Porter, I wonder if you could manage it?--I wonder if you
dare do it?” she breathed at last, with lips in which there was not
an atom of color. “Alice would never survive another such tax upon
her delicate constitution; Adam Brewster would never be content
without an heir to his great fortune. Well, I’m going to try it,
and save her heart from breaking.”
With a resolute gleam in her gray eyes, a settled purpose in every
line of her strong, honest face, she began to wrap the child in
the soft, warm shawl which she had partially removed, paying no
attention to the woman in charge--who at that moment came into the
room and began to busily brandish a great feather duster--although
she was uncomfortably conscious that she was being regarded with a
curious, questioning glance.
But Miss Nancy Porter had run many a difficult gauntlet, and faced
many emergencies, during her checkered life, and her stanch heart
and brave front did not fail her now.
Having arranged everything about her charge to her satisfaction,
she arose and deliberately walked from the room, passed out of the
nearest door of the one beyond, and, joining the hurrying crowd
that surging toward the outward-bound trains, without giving
another thought to the errand which had brought her to town, found
herself just in season to board a return local.
She did not see in the car a person whom she knew; yet, knowing
that there might be acquaintances on the train, she decided to
leave it at a station two miles below her own town, and about a
mile and a half from her home, which was located between the two
villages.
It was dark when she alighted, and it was with a deep sigh of
satisfaction that she slipped away in the gloom.
She did not meet a single person on the way--it was a lonely road,
with only a few scattered farmhouses to be passed--and arrived
at her own door just as the old-fashioned clock of a previous
generation standing in the hall solemnly tolled off the hour of
eight.
A glance in at the kitchen window as she passed had told her that
Sarah was still upstairs with her patient, and, passing softly
around to the front door, which she noiselessly opened with a
latchkey, she walked through the “best room” to the “parlor
bedroom,” where she laid her charge upon the bed, thankful for the
potency of the drug which still held its senses locked in slumber,
and glad to have her aching arms relieved of their burden.
Then, closing both doors after her, she passed up-stairs to the
sick-room, removing her bonnet and wrap as she went, when she
dismissed Sarah to her interrupted work in the kitchen below, and
then sat down to rest and await the awakening of the frail sleeper
upon the bed.
An hour later, Miss Porter suddenly appeared in her bright,
cheerful kitchen, bearing a beautiful babe in her arms, while a
tender expression seemed to have softened and illumined her usually
grave, almost austere face.
“Goodness sakes, alive!” exclaimed Sarah, springing to her feet,
with a startled air, her wild eyes fastened upon the infant.
“Hush!” said Miss Porter authoritatively. “Has any one been here
since I left home?”
“Not a soul,” said the girl, but with still gaping eyes and mouth.
“Good!” returned the mistress in a satisfied tone; “and now, Sarah,
you are to remember that a baby girl was born here on Monday night,
October 2. No one save you and I and Mrs. Brewster know of the fact
as yet; but I shall have it recorded to-morrow morning, when a
letter will also be mailed to Mr. Brewster, announcing that he has
a fine little daughter.”
“But----” began Sarah, looking dazed and troubled.
“There are no ‘buts,’ Sarah,” curtly interposed Miss Porter;
“the last forty-eight hours must become a blank; you are to know
nothing, except that on the second of this month my sister gave
birth to a beautiful little girl | 2,852.279282 |
2023-11-16 19:04:36.3591000 | 7,435 | 19 |
Produced by David Widger
MEN, WOMEN, AND GODS,
AND
OTHER LECTURES.
By Helen H. Gardener.
With An Introduction By Robert G. Ingersoll.
Twelfth Edition.
New York:
The Truth Seeker Company,
28 Lafayette Place.
Copyright, By Helen H. Gardener,
1885.
THIS LITTLE VOLUME
is
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED
WITH THE LOVE OF THE AUTHOR, TO
MRS. EVA INGERSOLL,
THE BRAVE, HAPPY WIFE OF AMERICA'S GREATEST ORATOR,
AND WOMAN'S TRUEST FRIEND.
IN HER BEAUTIFUL HOME-LIFE SUPERSTITION AND FEAR HAVE NEVER
ENTERED; HUMAN EQUALITY AND FREEDOM HAVE
THEIR HIGHEST ILLUSTRATION;
AND
TIME HAS DEEPENED YOUTHFUL LOVE INTO A DIVINER WORSHIP
THAN ANGELS OFFER OR THAN GODS INSPIRE.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION.
MEN, WOMEN, AND GODS.
ACCIDENT INSURANCE.
CHIEFLY WOMEN.
WHY WOMEN SUPPORT IT.
WHAT IT TEACHES.
THE FRUIT OF THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE.
KNOWLEDGE NOT A CRIME.
AS MUCH INSPIRED AS ANY OF IT.
VICARIOUS ATONEMENT.
FEAR.
BEGINNING TO THINK.
CREEDS.
SELF-CONTROL WHAT WE NEED.
VICARIOUS ATONEMENT NOT A CHRISTIAN INVENTION.
TWIN MONSTERS INHERITED FROM INTELLECTUAL PIGMIES.
GEOGRAPHICAL RELIGION.
REVELATION.
EVIDENCE OF FAITH.
DID HE TALK?
WHAT YOU MAY THINK.
INTELLECTUAL GAG-LAW.
THE VICARIOUS THEORY THE CAUSE OF CRIME.
REVISION.
THE CHURCH'S MONEY-BOX.
SHALL PROGRESS STOP?
HISTORICAL FACTS AND THEOLOGICAL FICTIONS.
CHURCH FICTIONS.
HISTORICAL FACTS.
CIVILIZATION.
COMPARATIVE STATUS.
WOMEN AS PERSONS.
EDUCATION.
AS WIVES.
NOT WOMAN'S FRIEND.
MORALS.
INTRODUCTION.
Nothing gives me more pleasure, nothing gives greater promise for the
future, than the fact that woman is achieving intellectual and physical
liberty. It is refreshing to know that here, in our country, there are
thousands of women who think and express their own thoughts--who are
thoroughly free and thoroughly conscientious--who have neither been
narrowed nor corrupted by a heartless creed--who do not worship a being
in heaven whom they would shudderingly loathe on earth. Women who do
not stand before the altar of a cruel faith with downcast eyes of timid
acquiescence, and pay to impudent authority the tribute of a thoughtless
yes. They are no longer satisfied with being told. They examine for
themselves. They have ceased to be the prisoners of society--the
satisfied serfs of husbands or the echoes of priests. They demand the
rights that naturally belong to intelligent human beings. If wives, they
wish to be the equals of husbands--if mothers, they wish to rear their
children in the atmosphere of love, liberty and philosophy. They believe
that woman can discharge all her duties without the aid of superstition,
and preserve all that is true, pure and tender without sacrificing in
the temple of absurdity the convictions of the soul.
Woman is not the intellectual inferior of man. She has lacked--not
mind--but opportunity. In the long night of barbarism physical strength,
and the cruelty to use it, were the badges of superiority. Muscle was
more than mind. In the ignorant age of Faith the loving nature of woman
was abused, her conscience was rendered morbid and diseased. It might
almost be said that she was betrayed by her own virtues. At best, she
secured, not opportunity, but flattery, the preface to degradation. She
was deprived of liberty and without that nothing is worth the having.
She was taught to obey without question, and to believe without thought.
There were universities for men before the alphabet had been taught
to woman. At the intellectual feast there were no places for wives and
mothers. Even now they sit at the second table and eat the crusts and
crumbs. The schools for women, at the present time, are just far
enough behind those for men to fall heirs to the discarded. On the same
principle, when a doctrine becomes too absurd for the pulpit, it is
given to the Sunday School. The ages of muscle and miracle--of fists and
faith--are passing away. Minerva occupies at last a higher niche than
Hercules. Now, a word is stronger than a blow.
At last we see women who depend upon themselves--who stand self poised
the shocks of this sad world without leaning for support against a
church--who do not go to the literature of barbarism for consolation,
nor use the falsehoods and mistakes of the past for the foundation of
their hope--women brave enough and tender enough to meet and bear the
facts and fortunes of this world.
The men who declare that woman is the intellectual inferior of man, do
not, and cannot, by offering themselves in evidence, substantiate their
declaration.
Yet, I must admit that there are thousands of wives who still have
faith in the saving power of superstition--who still insist on attending
church while husbands prefer the shores, the woods, or the fields. In
this way families are divided. Parents grow apart, and unconsciously
the pearl of greatest price is thrown away. The wife ceases to be
the intellectual companion of the husband. She reads the "Christian
Register," sermons in the Monday papers, and a little gossip about
folks and fashions, while he studies the works of Darwin, Haeckel and
Humboldt. Their sympathies become estranged. They are no longer mental
friends. The husband smiles at the follies of the wife and she weeps for
the supposed sins of the husband. Such wives should read this book.
They should not be satisfied to remain forever in the cradle of thought,
amused with the toys of superstition.
The parasite of woman is the priest.
It must also be admitted that there are thousands of men who believe
that superstition is good for women and children--who regard falsehood
as the fortress of virtue, and feel indebted to ignorance for the purity
of daughters and the fidelity of wives. These men think of priests
as detectives in disguise, and regard God as a policeman who prevents
elopements. Their opinions about religion are as correct as their
estimate of woman.
The church furnishes but little food for the mind. People of
intelligence are growing tired of the platitudes of the pulpit--the
iterations of the itinerants. The average sermon is "as tedious as a
twice-told tale vexing the ears of a drowsy man."
One Sunday a gentleman who is a great inventor called at my house. Only
a few words had passed between us, when he arose, saying that he must
go as it was time for church. Wondering that a man of his mental wealth
could enjoy the intellectual poverty of the pulpit, I asked for an
explanation, and he gave me the following: "You know that I am an
inventor. Well, the moment my mind becomes absorbed in some difficult
problem, I am afraid that something may happen to distract my attention.
Now, I know that I can sit in church for an hour without the slightest
danger of having the current of my thought disturbed."
Most women cling to the Bible because they have been taught that to give
up that book is to give up all hope of another life--of ever meeting
again the loved and lost. They have also been taught that the Bible is
their friend, their defender, and the real civilizer of man.
Now if they will only read this book--these three lectures, without
fear, and then read the Bible, they will see that the truth or falsity
of the dogma of inspiration has nothing to do with the question of
immortality. Certainly the Old Testament does not teach us that there is
another life, and upon that question, even the New is obscure and vague.
The hunger of the heart finds only a few small and scattered crumbs.
There is nothing definite, solid, and satisfying. United with the idea
of immortality we find the absurdity of the resurrection. A prophecy
that depends for its fulfillment upon an impossibility, cannot satisfy
the brain or heart.
There are but few who do not long for a dawn beyond the night. And
this longing is born of, and nourished by, the heart. Love wrapped
in shadow--bending with tear-filled eyes above its dead, convulsively
clasps the outstretched hand of hope.
I had the pleasure of introducing Helen H. Gardener to her first
audience, and in that introduction said a few words that I will repeat,
"We do not know, we can not say whether death is a wall or a door, the
beginning or end of a day, the spreading of pinions to soar, or the
folding forever of wings. The rise or the set of a sun, of an endless
life that brings rapture and love to every one.
"Under the seven-hued arch of hope let the dead sleep."
They will also discover, as they read the "Sacred Volume," that it is
not the friend of woman. They will find that the writers of that book,
for the most part, speak of woman as a poor beast of burden--a serf, a
drudge, a kind of necessary evil--as mere property. Surely a book that
upholds polygamy is not the friend of wife and mother.
Even Christ did not place woman on an equality with man. He said not
one word about the sacredness of home, the duties of the husband to the
wife--nothing calculated to lighten the hearts of those who bear the
saddest burdens of this life.
They will also find that the Bible has not civilized mankind. A book
that establishes and defends slavery and wanton war is not calculated to
soften the hearts of those who believe implicitly that it is the work of
God. A book that not only permits, but commands religious persecution,
has not in my judgment developed the affectional nature of man. Its
influence has been bad and bad only. It has filled the world with
bitterness, revenge, and crime, and retarded in countless ways the
progress of our race.
The writer of this little volume has read the Bible with open eyes. The
mist of sentimentality has not clouded her vision.
She has had the courage to tell the result of her investigations. She
has been quick to discover contradictions. She appreciates the humorous
side of the stupidly solemn. Her heart protests against the cruel, and
her brain rejects the childish, the unnatural, and absurd. There is no
misunderstanding between her head and heart. She says what she thinks,
and feels what she says.
No human being can answer her arguments. There is no answer. All the
priests in the world cannot explain away her objections. There is no
explanation. They should remain dumb, unless they can show that the
impossible is the probable--that slavery is better than freedom--that
polygamy is the friend of woman--that the innocent can justly suffer for
the guilty, and that to persecute for opinion's sake is an act of love
and worship.
Wives who cease to learn--who simply forget and believe, will fill the
evening of their lives with barren sighs and bitter tears. The mind
should outlast youth.
If, when beauty fades, Thought, the deft and unseen sculptor, hath not
left his subtle lines upon the face, then all is lost. No charm is left.
The light is out. There is no flame within to glorify the wrinkled clay.
ROBERT G. INGERSOLL.
Hoffman House,
New York, July 22, 1885.
MEN, WOMEN, AND GODS.
IT is thought strange and particularly shocking by some persons for a
woman to question the absolute correctness of the Bible. She is supposed
to be able to go through this world with her eyes shut, and her mouth
open wide enough to swallow Jonah and the Garden of Eden without making
a wry face. It is usually recounted as one of her most beautiful traits
of character that she has faith sufficient to float the Ark without
inspecting the animals.
So it is thought strange that a woman should object to any of the
teachings of the Patriarchs. I claim, however, that if she honestly
thinks there is anything wrong about them, she has a right to say so. I
claim that I have a right to offer my objections to the Bible from the
standpoint of a woman. I think that it is fair, at least, to put the
case before you as it looks to me, using the Bible itself as my chief
witness. That Book I think degrades and belittles women, and I claim
the right to say why I think so. The opposite opinion has been stated by
hundreds of people, hundreds of times, for hundreds of years, so that it
is only fair that I be allowed to bring in a minority report.
Women have for a long time been asking for the right to an education,
for the right to live on an equal footing with their brothers, and
for the right to earn money honestly; while at the same time they have
supported a book and a religion which hold them as the inferiors of
their sons and as objects of contempt and degradation with Jehovah. They
have sustained a so-called "revelation" which holds them as inferior
and unclean things. Now it has always seemed to me that these women are
trying to stand on both sides of the fence at the same time--and that
neither foot touches.
I think they are making a mistake. I think they are making a mistake to
sustain any religion which is based upon faith. Even though a religion
claim a superhuman origin--and I believe they all claim that--it must
be tested by human reason, and if our highest moral sentiments revolt at
any of its dictates, its dictates must go. For the only good thing about
any religion is its morality, and morality has nothing to do with faith.
The one has to do with right actions in this world; the other with
unknown quantities in the next. The one is a necessity of Time; the
other a dream of Eternity. Morality depends upon universal evolution;
Faith upon special "revelation;" and no woman can afford to accept any
"revelation" that has yet been offered to this world.
That Moses or Confucius, Mohammed or Paul, Abraham or Brigham Young
asserts that his particular dogma came directly from God, and that
it was a personal communication to either or all of these favored
individuals, is a fact that can have no power over us unless their
teachings are in harmony with our highest thought, our noblest purpose,
and our purest conception of life. Which of them can bear the test?
Not one "revelation" known to man to-day can look in the face of
the nineteenth century and say, "I am parallel with your richest
development; I still lead your highest thought; none of my teachings
shock your sense of justice." Not one.
It is faith in "revelation" that makes a mother tear from her arms a
tender, helpless child and throw it in the Ganges--to appease the gods!
It is a religion of faith that teaches the despicable principle of
caste--and that religion was invented by those who profited by caste. It
was our religion of faith that sustained the institution of slavery--and
it had for its originators dealers in human flesh. It is the Mormon's
religion of faith, his belief in the Bible and in the wisdom of Solomon
and David, that enables the monster of polygamy to flaunt its power and
its filth in the face of the morality of the nineteenth century, which
has outgrown the Jehovah of the Jews.
Every religion must be tried at the bar of human justice, and stand or
fall by the verdict there. It has no right to crouch behind the theory
of "inspiration" and demand immunity from criticism; and yet that is
just what every one of them does. They all claim that we have no right
to use our reason on their inventions. But evil cannot be made good by
revelation, and good cannot be made evil by persecution.
A "revelation" that teaches us to trample on purity, or bids us despise
beauty--that gives power to vice or crushes the weak--is an evil. The
dogma that leads us to ignore our humanity, that asks us to throw away
our pleasures, that tells us to be miserable here in order that we may
be happy hereafter, is a doctrine built upon a false philosophy, cruel
in its premises and false in its promises. And the religion that teaches
us that believing Vice is holier than unbelieving Virtue is a grievous
wrong. Credulity is not a substitute for morality. Belief is not a
question of right or wrong, it is a question of mental organization. Man
cannot believe what he will, he must believe what he must. If his brain
tells him one thing and his catechism tells him another, his brain ought
to win. You don't leave your umbrella at home during a storm, simply
because the almanac calls for a clear day.
A religion that teaches a mother that she can be happy in heaven, with
her children in hell--in everlasting torment--strikes at the very roots
of family affection. It makes the human heart a stone. Love that means
no more than that, is not love at all. No heart that has ever loved can
see the object of its affection in pain and itself be happy. The thing
is impossible. Any religion that can make that possible is more to be
dreaded than war or famine or pestilence or death. It would eat out all
that is great and beautiful and good in this life. It would make life a
mockery and love a curse.
I once knew a case myself, where an eldest son who was an unbeliever
died. He had been a kind son and a good man. He had shielded his widowed
mother from every hardship. He had tried to lighten her pain and relieve
her loneliness. He had worked early and late to keep her comfortable and
happy. When he died she was heartbroken. It seemed to her more than
she could bear. As she sat and gazed at his dear face in a transport of
grief, the door opened and her preacher came in to bring her the comfort
of religion. He talked with her of her loss, and finally he said, "But
it would not be so hard for you to bear if he had been a Christian. If
he had accepted what was freely offered him you would one day see him
again. But he chose his path, he denied his Lord, and he is lost. And
now, dear madam, place your affections on your living son, who is,
thank God, saved." That was the comfort he brought her. That was the
consolation of his religion. I am telling you of an actual occurrence.
This is all a fact. Well, a few years later that dear old lady died in
her son's house, where she had gone on a visit. He broke her will--this
son who was saved--and brought in a bill against her estate for her
board and nursing while she was ill! Which one of those boys do you
think would be the best company for her in the next world?
It has always seemed to me that I would rather go to hell with a good
son than to heaven with a good Christian. I may be wrong, but with
my present light that is the way it looks to me; and for the sake of
humanity I am glad that it looks that way.
ACCIDENT INSURANCE.
A church member said to me some time ago that even though the Bible were
not "the word of God," even though it were not necessary to believe in
the creed in order to go to heaven, it could not do any harm to believe
it; and he thought it was "best to be on the safe side, for," said he,
"suppose after all it should happen to be true!"
So he carries a church-membership as a sort of accident insurance
policy.
I do not believe we have a right to work upon that basis. It is not
honest. I do not believe that any "suppose it should be" gives us the
right to teach "I know that it is." I do not believe in the honesty
and right of any cause that has to prop up its backbone with faith, and
splinter its legs with ignorance. I do not believe in the harmlessness
of any teaching that is not based upon reason, justice, and truth. I do
not believe that it is harmless to uphold any religion that is not noble
and elevating in itself. I do not believe that it is "just as well" to
spread any dogma that stultifies reason and ignores common-sense. I
do not believe that it is ever well to compromise with dishonesty and
pretence. And I cannot admit that it "can do no harm" to teach a belief
in the goodness of a God who sends an Emerson or a Darwin to hell
because Eve was fond of fruit, and who offers a reserved seat in heaven
to Christine Cox because a mob murdered Jesus Christ. It does not seem to
me good morals, and it is certainly poor logic.
And speaking of logic, I heard a funny story the other day about one of
those absurdly literal little girls who, when she heard people say they
"wanted to be an angel," did not know it was a joke.. She thought it was
all honor-bright. She was standing by the window killing flies, and
her mother called her and said, "My child, don't you know that is very
wicked? Don't you know that God made those dear little flies, and that
he loves them?" (Just imagine an infinite God in love with a blue-bottle
fly!) Well, the little girl thought that was queer taste, but she was
sorry, and said that she would not do it any more. By and by, however,
a great lazy fly was too tempting, and her plump little finger began to
follow him around slowly on the glass, and she said, "Oh you nice big
fly, did dod made you? And does dod love you? And does you love dod?"
(Down came the finger.) "_Well, you shall see him_."
Yet we all know Christians who love God better than anything else--"with
all their hearts and soul and strength"--who prefer to postpone seeing
him till the very last minute. They say it is because they have not
"fulfilled their allotted time." Why not be honest and say it is because
they like to live? They "long to put on immortality;" but their sleep is
sounder if they live next door to a good doctor.
People say that men are infidels because it is easier--to rid themselves
of responsibility. But it seems to me that anyone who advances the
doctrine of "morality and works" instead of that of "repentance and
faith," on the ground that it is easier, is laboring under a mistake. I
don't see how any one could ask for an easier way of getting rid of his
sins than the plan that simply unloads them on to another man. I fail to
see anything hard about that--except for the man who catches the load;
and I am unable to see anything commendable about it either. But it is
not always easy for a man to be brave enough to be responsible for his
own mistakes or faults. It is not always easy for a man to say "I did
it, and I will suffer the penalty." That is not always easy, but it is
always just. No one but a coward or a knave needs to shift his personal
responsibility on to the shoulders of the dead. Honest men and women
do not need to put "Providence" up between themselves and their own
motives.
A short time ago the wife of a very devout man apparently died, but her
body remained so lifelike and her color so natural that her relatives
decided that she could not be dead, and they summoned a physician. The
husband, however, refused to have him administer any restoratives. He
said that if the Lord had permitted her to go into a trance and was
anxious to bring her out alive he would do it. Meanwhile he did not
intend to meddle with Providence. His maxim was, "Whatever else you do,
don't interfere with Providence. Give Providence a good chance and if it
doesn't come round all right for Betsy, I think I can bear it--and she
will have to."
If we take care of our motives toward each other, "Providence" will take
care of itself.
Did you ever know a pious man do a real mean thing--that succeeded--who
did not claim that Providence had a finger in it? The smaller the trick,
the bigger the finger. He is perfectly honest in his belief too. He is
the sort of man that never has a doubt about hell--and that most people
go there. Thinks they all deserve it. Has entire confidence that God is
responsible for every word in the Bible, and that all other Bibles and
all other religions are the direct work of the devil. Probably prays for
people who don't believe that way. He is perfectly honest in it. That is
simply his size, and he usually pities anybody who wears a larger hat.
CHIEFLY WOMEN.
But they say this is not a matter of reason. This is outside of reason,
it is all a matter of faith. But whenever a superstition claims to be
so holy that you must not use your reason about it, there is something
wrong some place. Truth is not afraid of reason, nor reason of truth.
I am going to say something to-night about why I do not believe in a
religion of faith. I am going to tell you some of the reasons why I do
not believe that the Bible is "inspired;" why I, as a woman, don't
want to think it is the word of God; why I think that women, above all
others, should not believe that it is. And since women are the bulwarks
of the churches to-day, it seems to me they have the right, and that it
is a part of their duty, to ask themselves why. Since about seven-tenths
of all church-members are women, surely the churches should not deny
them the right to use their reason (or whatever serves them in that
capacity) in regard to their own work.
I saw some ladies begging the other day for money to pay off the debt of
a $200,000 church, on the corner-stone of which were cut the words,
"My kingdom is not of this world;" and I wondered at the time what the
property would have been like if the kingdom had been of this world. It
seemed to me that a few hundred such untaxed houses would be a pretty
fair property almost anywhere.
One of our prominent bishops, when speaking recently of
church-membership, said, "The Church must recruit her ranks hereafter
almost entirely with children;" and he added, "the time has passed
when she can recruit her ranks with grown men." Good! And the New York
_Evangelist_ (one of the strongest church papers) says, "Four-fifths of
the earnest young men of this country are sceptics, distrust the clergy,
and are disgusted with evangelical Christianity." Good again.
The Congregational Club of Boston has recently been discussing the
question how to win young men to Christianity. The Rev. R. R. Meredith
said: "The churches to-day do not get the best and sharpest young
men. They get the goody-goody ones easily enough; but those who do the
thinking are not brought into the church in great numbers. You cannot
reach them by the Bible. How many did Moody touch in this city during
his revival days? You can count them on your fingers. The man who wants
them cannot get them with the Bible under his arm. He must be like them,
sharp. They cannot be gathered by sentimentality. If you say to them,
'Come to Jesus,' very likely they will reply, ''Go to thunder.' [In
Boston!] The thing to be done with such a man is to first get into his
heart, and then lead him into salvation before he knows it."
I don't know how good this recipe is, but I should infer that it is a
double-back-action affair of some sort that could get into a man's heart
and lead him into salvation before he knew it, and that if the Church
can just get a patent on that she is all right; otherwise I suspect that
the goody-goody ones are likely to be about all she will get in large
numbers.
Do I need any stronger, plainer evidence than this to show that the
thought of the world is against it, and that it is time for women to ask
themselves whether a faith that can hold its own only by its grasp
upon the ignorance and credulity of children, a faith that has
made four-fifths of the earnest men sceptics, a faith that has this
deplorable effect upon Boston manners, is one that does honor to the
intellect and judgment of the women of to-day?
We hear women express indignation that the law classes them with idiots
and children; but from these orthodox statements it would seem that in
the Church they voluntarily accept about this classification themselves.
If only these church-people go to heaven, what a queer kindergarten
it will be, to be sure, with only a few male voices to join in the
choruses--and most of those tenor.
This religion and the Bible require of woman everything, and give her
nothing. They ask her support and her love, and repay her with contempt
and oppression. No wonder that four-fifths of the earnest men are
against it, for it is not manly and it is not just; and such men are
willing to free women from the ecclesiastical bondage that makes her
responsible for all the ills of life, for all the pains of deed and
creed, while it allows her no choice in their formation, no property in
their fruition. Such men are outgrowing the petty jealousies and musty
superstitions of narrow-minded dogmatists sufficiently to look upon the
question not as one of personal preference, but as one of human justice.
They do not ask, "Would _I_ like to see woman do thus or thus?"
but, "Have _I_ a right to dictate the limit of her efforts or her
energy?"--not, "Am I benefited by her ecclesiastical bondage and
credulity? Does it give me unlimited power over her?" but, "Have I
a right to keep in ignorance, have I a right to degrade, any human
intellect?" And they have answered with equal dignity and impersonal
judgment that it is the birthright of no human being to dominate or
enslave another; that it is the just lot of no human being to be born
subject to the arbitrary will or dictates of any living soul; and that
it is, after all, as great an injustice to a _man_ to make him a tyrant
as it is to make him a slave.
Whenever a man rises high enough to leave his own personality out of
the question, he has gone beyond the stage of silly platitudes. His own
dignity is too secure, his title to respect too far beyond question,
for him to need such little subterfuges to guard his position, either
as husband, as household-king, or as public benefactor. His home life is
not founded upon compulsory obedience; but is filled with the perfume of
perfect trust, the fragrance of loving admiration and respect. It is the
domestic tyrant, the egotistic mediocre, and the superstitious Church
that are afraid for women to think, that fear to lose her as worshipper
and serf.
You need go only a very little way back in history to learn that the
Church decided that a woman who learned the alphabet overstepped all
bounds of propriety, and that she would be wholly lost to shame who
should so far forget her modesty as to become acquainted with the
multiplication table.
And to-day, if she offers her opinion and her logic for what they are
worth, the clergy preach doleful sermons about her losing her beautiful
home character, about her innocence being gone, about their idea of her
glorious exaltation as wife and mother being destroyed. Then they grow
florid and exclaim that "man is after all subject to her, that he is
born for the rugged path and she for the couch of flowers!"*
* "A pertinacious adversary, pushed to extremities, may say
that husbands indeed are willing to be reasonable, and to
make fair concessions to their partners without being
compelled to it, but that wives are not; that if allowed any
rights of their own, they will acknowledge no rights at all
in any one else, and never will yield in anything, unless
they can be compelled, by the man's mere authority, to yield
in everything. This would have been said by many persons
some generations ago, when satires on women were in vogue,
and men thought it a clever thing to insult women for being
what men made them. But it will be said by no one now who
is worth replying to. It is not the doctrine of the present
day that women are less susceptible of good feeling and
consideration for those with whom they are united by the
strongest ties, than men are. On the contrary, we are
perpetually told that women are better than men by those who
are totally opposed | 2,852.37914 |
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Produced by Barbara Tozier, V. L. Simpson, Bill Tozier and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
[Transcribers' Note:
A detailed listing of changes and anomalies is at the end
of this file.]
[Illustration: Pl. 1.]
ROMAN ANTIQUITIES,
AND
ANCIENT MYTHOLOGY;
FOR CLASSICAL SCHOOLS.
BY
CHARLES K. DILLAWAY,
PRINCIPAL OF THE PUBLIC LATIN SCHOOL IN BOSTON.
SECOND EDITION.
BOSTON:
LINCOLN, EDMANDS & CO.
CARTER, HENDEE AND CO. BOSTON; COLLINS AND HANNAY,
NEW YORK; KEY AND MEILKE, PHILADELPHIA;
CUSHING AND SONS, BALTIMORE.
1833.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1833, By Lincoln,
Edmands & Co. In the Clerk's office of the District Court of
Massachusetts.
POSITION OF THE PLATES.
No. 1, before the title page.
2, before page 27.
3, " " 71.
4, " " 78.
5, " " 82.
6, " " 90.
7, " " 106.
8, " " 133.
PREFACE.
The editor has endeavored in the following pages to give some account of
the customs and institutions of the Romans and of ancient Mythology in a
form adapted to the use of classical schools.
In making the compilation he has freely drawn from all creditable
sources of information within his reach, but chiefly from the following:
Sketches of the institutions and domestic customs of the Romans,
published in London a few years since; from the works of Adams, Kennett,
Lanktree, Montfaucon, Middleton and Gesner: upon the subject of
Mythology, from Bell, Spense, Pausanias, La Pluche, Plutarch, Pliny,
Homer, Horace, Virgil, and many others to whom reference has been
occasionally made.
_Boston, July, 1832._
* * * * *
In the second edition now offered to the public much has been added to
the department of Antiquities. A more comprehensive chapter upon the
weights, measures and coins of the Romans has been substituted in the
place of the former one, and many other improvements made which it is
hoped will be found acceptable. As it was not thought expedient to
increase the size of the volume, the additions have been made by
excluding the questions.
_Boston, May, 1833._
CONTENTS.
Chap. Page.
1. Foundation of Rome and division of inhabitants 9
2. The Senate 13
3. Other divisions of the Roman people 18
4. Gentes and Familiae, Names of the Romans 19
5. Private rights of Roman citizens 21
6. Public rights of Roman citizens 23
7. Places of worship 24
8. Other public buildings 26
9. Porticos, arches, columns, and trophies 30
10. Bagnios, aqueducts, sewers, and public ways 32
11. Augurs and Auguries 33
12. Aruspices, Pontifices, Quindecemviri, Vestals, &c. 34
13. Religious ceremonies of the Romans 37
14. The Roman year 39
15. Roman games 42
16. Magistrates 44
17. Of military affairs 49
18. Assemblies, judicial proceedings, and punishments of the Romans 53
19. Roman dress 57
20. Fine arts and literature 59
21. Roman houses 61
22. Marriages and funerals 63
23. Customs at meals 66
24. Weights, measures, and coins 67
MYTHOLOGY.
1. Celestial Gods 71
2. Celestial Goddesses 77
3. Terrestrial Gods 82
4. Terrestrial Goddesses 87
5. Gods of the woods | 2,852.380568 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
[Illustration: _Frontispiece_ COLLIE CHASED HIM AWAY _Page 138_]
AMONG THE NIGHT PEOPLE
BY
CLARA DILLINGHAM PIERSON
Author of "Among the Meadow People," "Pond People," etc.
Illustrated by F. C. GORDON
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY
31 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET
COPYRIGHT, 1902
by
E. P. DUTTON & CO.
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
TO
RACHEL W. PIERSON
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
[Illustration]
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE BLACK SPANISH CHICKENS 1
THE WIGGLERS BECOME MOSQUITOES 15
THE NAUGHTY RACCOON CHILDREN 30
THE TIMID LITTLE GROUND HOG 43
THE YOUNG RACCOONS GO TO A PARTY 55
THE SKUNKS AND THE OVEN-BIRD'S NEST 68
THE LAZY CUT-WORMS 82
THE NIGHT-MOTH'S PARTY 94
THE LONELY OLD BACHELOR MUSKRAT 110
THE GREEDY RED FOX 131
THE UNFORTUNATE FIREFLIES 148
THE KITTENS COME TO THE FOREST 160
THE INQUISITIVE WEASELS 176
THE THRIFTY DEER-MOUSE 190
THE HUMMING-BIRD AND THE HAWK-MOTH 208
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
THEY WERE FREE TO GO WHERE THEY CHOSE 6
KNOCKED HIS BROTHER DOWN 40
HE STARTED OFF FOR A NIGHT'S RAMBLE 72
THEY LIVED IN THE FOREST AFTER THAT 109
THE MARSH SEEMED SO EMPTY AND LONELY 127
COLLIE CHASED HIM AWAY _Frontispiece_ 138
TWINKLING WITH HUNDREDS OF TINY LIGHTS 157
IN WINTER THEY TURNED WHITE 178
THE MICE MAKE WINTER THEIR PLAYTIME 195
THE HUMMING-BIRD AND THE HAWK-MOTH 218
[Illustration]
MY DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS:--You can never guess how much I have enjoyed
writing these stories of the night-time, and I must tell you how I first
came to think of doing so. I once knew a girl--and she was not a very
little girl, either,--who was afraid of the dark. And I have known three
boys who were as brave as could be by daylight, but who would not run on
an errand alone after the lamps were lighted. They never seemed to think
what a beautiful, restful, growing time the night is for plants and
animals, and even for themselves. I thought that if they knew more of
what happens between sunset and sunrise they would love the night as
well as I.
It may be that you will never see Bats flying freely, or find the Owls
flapping silently among the trees without touching even a twig. Perhaps
while these things are happening you must be snugly tucked in bed. But
that is no reason why you should not be told what they do while you are
dreaming. Before this, you know, I have told you more of what is done by
daylight in meadow, forest, farmyard, and pond. It would be a very queer
world if we could not know about things without seeing them for
ourselves, and | 2,852.780561 |
2023-11-16 19:04:36.7640110 | 4,123 | 25 |
Produced by Charles Aldarondo. HTML version by Al Haines.
AMERICAN PIONEERS AND PATRIOTS.
DAVID CROCKETT:
HIS
LIFE AND ADVENTURES
BY
JOHN S. C. ABBOTT
ILLUSTRATED.
PREFACE.
David Crockett certainly was not a model man. But he was a
representative man. He was conspicuously one of a very numerous class,
still existing, and which has heretofore exerted a very powerful
influence over this republic. As such, his wild and wondrous life is
worthy of the study of every patriot. Of this class, their modes of
life and habits of thought, the majority of our citizens know as little
as they do of the manners and customs of the Comanche Indians.
No man can make his name known to the forty millions of this great and
busy republic who has not something very remarkable in his character or
his career. But there is probably not an adult American, in all these
widespread States, who has not heard of David Crockett. His life is a
veritable romance, with the additional charm of unquestionable truth.
It opens to the reader scenes in the lives of the lowly, and a state of
semi-civilization, of which but few of them can have the faintest idea.
It has not been my object, in this narrative, to defend Colonel
Crockett or to condemn him, but to present his peculiar character
exactly as it was. I have therefore been constrained to insert some
things which I would gladly have omitted.
JOHN S. C. ABBOTT.
FAIR HAVEN, CONN.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
Parentage and Childhood.
The Emigrant.--Crossing the Alleghanies.--The Boundless
Wilderness.--The Hut on the Holston.--Life's Necessaries.--The
Massacre.--Birth of David Crockett.--Peril of the
Boys.--Anecdote.--Removal to Greenville; to Cove Creek.--Increased
Emigration.--Loss of the Mill.--The Tavern.--Engagement with the
Drover.--Adventures in the Wilderness.--Virtual Captivity.--The
Escape.--The Return.--The Runaway.--New Adventures.... 7
CHAPTER II.
Youthful Adventures.
David at Gerardstown.--Trip to Baltimore.--Anecdotes.--He ships for
London.--Disappointment.--Defrauded of his Wages.--Escapes.--New
Adventures.--Crossing the River.--Returns Home.--His Reception.--A Farm
Laborer.--Generosity to his Father.--Love Adventure.--The Wreck of his
Hopes.--His School Education.--Second Love adventure.--Bitter
Disappointment.--Life in the Backwoods.--Third Love Adventure.... 35
CHAPTER III.
Marriage and Settlement.
Rustic Courtship.--The Rival Lover.--Romantic Incident. The Purchase of
a Horse.--The Wedding.--Singular Ceremonies.--The Termagant.--Bridal
Days.--They commence Housekeeping.--The Bridal mansion and
Outfit.--Family Possessions.--The Removal to Central Tennessee.--Mode
of Transportation.--The New Income and its Surroundings.--Busy
Idleness.--The Third Move.--The Massacre at Fort Mimms.... 54
CHAPTER IV.
The Soldier Life.
War with the Creeks.--Patriotism of Crockett.--Remonstrances of his
Wife.--Enlistment.--The Rendezvous.--Adventure of the Scouts.--Friendly
Indians,--A March through the Forest.--Picturesque Scene.--The Midnight
Alarm.--March by Moonlight.--Chagrin of Crockett.--Advance into
Alabama.--War's Desolations.--Indian Stoicism.--Anecdotes of Andrew
Jackson.--Battles, Carnage, and Woe.... 93
CHAPTER V.
Indian Warfare.
The Army at Fort Strother.--Crockett's Regiment.--Crockett at
Home.--His Reenlistment.--Jackson Surprised.--Military Ability of the
Indians.--Humiliation of the Creeks.--March to Florida.--Affairs at
Pensacola.--Capture of the City.--Characteristics of Crockett.--The
Weary March,--Inglorious Expedition.--Murder of Two
Indians.--Adventures at the Island.--The Continued March.--Severe
Sufferings.--Charge upon the Uninhabited Village.... 124
CHAPTER VI.
The Camp and the Cabin.
Deplorable Condition of the Army.--Its wanderings.--Crockett's
Benevolence.--Cruel Treatment of the Indians.--A Gleam of Good
Luck.--The Joyful Feast.--Crockett's Trade with the Indian.--Visit to
the Old Battlefield.--Bold Adventure of Crockett.--His Arrival
Home.--Death of his Wife.--Second Marriage.--Restlessness.--Exploring
Tour.--Wild Adventures.--Dangerous Sickness.--Removal to the West.--His
New Home.... 155
CHAPTER VII.
The Justice of Peace and the Legislator.
Vagabondage.--Measures of Protection.--Measures of
Government.--Crockett's Confession.--A Candidate for Military
Honors.--Curious Display of Moral Courage.--The Squirrel Hunt.--A
Candidate for the Legislature.--Characteristic
Electioneering.--Specimens of his Eloquence.--Great Pecuniary
Calamity.--Expedition to the Far West.--Wild Adventures.--The Midnight
Carouse.--A Cabin Reared.... 183
CHAPTER VIII.
Life on the Obion.
Hunting Adventures.--The Voyage up the River.--Scenes in the
Cabin.--Return Home.--Removal of the Family.--Crockett's Riches.--A
Perilous Enterprise.--Reasons for his Celebrity.--Crockett's
Narrative.--A Bear-Hunt.--Visit to Jackson.--Again a Candidate for the
Legislature.--Electioneering and Election.... 212
CHAPTER IX.
Adventures in the Forest, on the River, and in the City
The Bear Hunter's Story.--Service in the Legislature.--Candidate for
Congress.--Electioneering.--The New Speculation.--Disastrous
Voyage.--Narrow Escape.--New Electioneering Exploits.--Odd
Speeches.--The Visit to Crockett's Cabin.--His Political Views.--His
Honesty.--Opposition to Jackson.--Scene at Raleigh.--Dines with the
President.--Gross Caricature.--His Annoyance.... 240
CHAPTER X.
Crockett's Tour to the North and the East.
His Reelection to Congress.--The Northern Tour.--First Sight of a
Railroad.--Reception in Philadelphia.--His First Speech.--Arrival in
New York.--The Ovation there.--Visit to Boston.--Cambridge and
Lowell.--Specimens of his Speeches.--Expansion of his Ideas.--Rapid
Improvement.... 267
CHAPTER XI.
The Disappointed Politician.--Off for Texas.
Triumphal Return.--Home Charms Vanish.--Loses His Election.--Bitter
Disappointment.--Crockett's Poetry.--Sets out for Texas.--Incidents of
the Journey.--Reception at Little Rock.--The Shooting Match.--Meeting a
Clergyman.--The Juggler.--Crockett a Reformer.--The Bee Hunter.--The
Rough Strangers.--Scene on the Prairie.... 290
CHAPTER XII.
Adventures on the Prairie.
Disappearance of the Bee Hunter.--The Herd of Buffalo Crockett
lost.--The Fight with the Cougar.--Approach of Savages.--Their
Friendliness.--Picnic on the Prairie.--Picturesque Scene.--The Lost
Mustang recovered.--Unexpected Reunion.--Departure of the
Savages.--Skirmish with the Mexicans.--Arrival at the Alamo....312
CHAPTER XIII.
Conclusion.
The Fortress of Alamo.--Colonel Bowie.--Bombardment of the
Fort.--Crockett's Journal.--Sharpshooting.--Fight outside of the
Fort.--Death of the Bee Hunter.--Kate of Nacogdoches.--Assault on the
Citadel.--Crockett a Prisoner.--His Death.... 340
DAVID CROCKETT.
CHAPTER I.
Parentage and Childhood.
The Emigrant.--Crossing the Alleghanies.--The boundless
Wilderness.--The Hut on the Holston.--Life's Necessaries.--The
Massacre.--Birth of David Crockett.--Peril of the
Boys.--Anecdote.--Removal to Greenville; to Cove Creek.--Increased
Emigration.--Loss of the Mill.--The Tavern.--Engagement with the
Drover.--Adventures in the Wilderness.--Virtual Captivity.--The
Escape.--The Return.--The Runaway.--New Adventures.
A little more than a hundred years ago, a poor man, by the name of
Crockett, embarked on board an emigrant-ship, in Ireland, for the New
World. He was in the humblest station in life. But very little is known
respecting his uneventful career excepting its tragical close. His
family consisted of a wife and three or four children. Just before he
sailed, or on the Atlantic passage, a son was born, to whom he gave the
name of John. The family probably landed in Philadelphia, and dwelt
somewhere in Pennsylvania, for a year or two, in one of those slab
shanties, with which all are familiar as the abodes of the poorest
class of Irish emigrants.
After a year or two, Crockett, with his little family, crossed the
almost pathless Alleghanies. Father, mother, and children trudged along
through the rugged defiles and over the rocky cliffs, on foot. Probably
a single pack-horse conveyed their few household goods. The hatchet and
the rifle were the only means of obtaining food, shelter, and even
clothing. With the hatchet, in an hour or two, a comfortable camp could
be constructed, which would protect them from wind and rain. The
camp-fire, cheering the darkness of the night, drying their often wet
garments, and warming their chilled limbs with its genial glow, enabled
them to enjoy that almost greatest of earthly luxuries, peaceful sleep.
The rifle supplied them with food. The fattest of turkeys and the most
tender steaks of venison, roasted upon forked sticks, which they held
in their hands over the coals, feasted their voracious appetites. This,
to them, was almost sumptuous food. The skin of the deer, by a rapid
and simple process of tanning, supplied them with moccasons, and
afforded material for the repair of their tattered garments.
We can scarcely comprehend the motive which led this solitary family to
push on, league after league, farther and farther from civilization,
through the trackless forests. At length they reached the Holston
River. This stream takes its rise among the western ravines of the
Alleghanies, in Southwestern Virginia. Flowing hundreds of miles
through one of the most solitary and romantic regions upon the globe,
it finally unites with the Clinch River, thus forming the majestic
Tennessee.
One hundred years ago, this whole region, west of the Alleghanies, was
an unexplored and an unknown wilderness. Its silent rivers, its
forests, and its prairies were crowded with game. Countless Indian
tribes, whose names even had never been heard east of the Alleghanies,
ranged this vast expanse, pursuing, in the chase, wild beasts scarcely
more savage than themselves.
The origin of these Indian tribes and their past history are lost in
oblivion. Centuries have come and gone, during which joys and griefs,
of which we now can know nothing, visited their humble lodges.
Providence seems to have raised up a peculiar class of men, among the
descendants of the emigrants from the Old World, who, weary of the
restraints of civilization, were ever ready to plunge into the wildest
depths of the wilderness, and to rear their lonely huts in the midst of
all its perils, privations, and hardships.
This solitary family of the Crocketts followed down the northwestern
banks of the Hawkins River for many a weary mile, until they came to a
spot which struck their fancy as a suitable place to build their Cabin.
In subsequent years a small village called Rogersville was gradually
reared upon this spot, and the territory immediately around was
organized into what is now known as Hawkins County. But then, for
leagues in every direction, the solemn forest stood in all its
grandeur. Here Mr. Crockett, alone and unaided save by his wife and
children, constructed a little shanty, which could have been but little
more than a hunter's camp. He could not lift solid logs to build a
substantial house. The hard-trodden ground was the only floor of the
single room which he enclosed. It was roofed with bark of trees piled
heavily on, which afforded quite effectual protection from the rain. A
hole cut through the slender logs was the only window. A fire was built
in one corner, and the smoke eddied through a hole left in the roof.
The skins of bears, buffaloes, and wolves provided couches, all
sufficient for weary ones, who needed no artificial opiate to promote
sleep. Such, in general, were the primitive homes of many of those bold
emigrants who abandoned the comforts of civilized life for the
solitudes of the wilderness.
They did not want for most of what are called the necessaries of life.
The river and the forest furnished a great variety of fish and game.
Their hut, humble as it was, effectually protected them from the
deluging tempest and the inclement cold. The climate was genial in a
very high degree, and the soil, in its wonderful fertility, abundantly
supplied them with corn and other simple vegetables. But the silence
and solitude which reigned are represented, by those who experienced
them, as at times something dreadful.
One principal motive which led these people to cross the mountains, was
the prospect of an ultimate fortune in the rise of land. Every man who
built a cabin and raised a crop of grain, however small, was entitled
to four hundred acres of land, and a preemption right to one thousand
more adjoining, to be secured by a land-office warrant.
In this lonely home, Mr. Crockett, with his wife and children, dwelt
for some months, perhaps years--we know not how long. One night, the
awful yell of the savage was heard, and a band of human demons came
rushing upon the defenceless family. Imagination cannot paint the
tragedy which ensued. Though this lost world, ever since the fall of
Adam, has been filled to repletion with these scenes of woe, it causes
one's blood to curdle in his veins as he contemplates this one deed of
cruelty and blood.
The howling fiends were expeditious in their work. The father and
mother were pierced by arrows, mangled with the tomahawk, and scalped.
One son, severely wounded, escaped into the forest. Another little boy,
who was deaf and dumb, was taken captive and carried by the Indians to
their distant tribe, where he remained, adopted into the tribe, for
about eighteen years. He was then discovered by some of his relatives,
and was purchased back at a considerable ransom. The torch was applied
to the cabin, and the bodies of the dead were consumed in the crackling
flames.
What became of the remainder of the children, if there were any others
present in this midnight scene of conflagration and blood, we know not.
There was no reporter to give us the details. We simply know that in
some way John Crockett, who subsequently became the father of that
David whose history we now write, was not involved in the general
massacre. It is probable that he was not then with the family, but that
he was a hired boy of all work in some farmer's family in Pennsylvania.
As a day-laborer he grew up to manhood, and married a woman in his own
sphere of life, by the name of Mary Hawkins. He enlisted as a common
soldier in the Revolutionary War, and took part in the battle of King's
Mountain. At the close of the war he reared a humble cabin in the
frontier wilds of North Carolina. There he lived for a few years, at
but one remove, in point of civilization, from the savages around him.
It is not probable that either he or his wife could read or write. It
is not probable that they had any religious thoughts; that their minds
ever wandered into the regions of that mysterious immortality which
reaches out beyond the grave. Theirs was apparently purely an animal
existence, like that of the Indian, almost like that of the wild
animals they pursued in the chase.
At length, John Crockett, with his wife and three or four children,
unintimidated by the awful fate of his father's family, wandered from
North Carolina, through the long and dreary defiles of the mountains,
to the sunny valleys and the transparent skies of East Tennessee. It
was about the year 1783. Here he came to a rivulet of crystal water,
winding through majestic forests and plains of luxuriant verdure. Upon
a green mound, with this stream flowing near his door, John Crockett
built his rude and floorless hut. Punching holes in the soil with a
stick, he dropped in kernels of corn, and obtained a far richer harvest
than it would be supposed such culture could produce. As we have
mentioned, the building of this hut and the planting of this crop made
poor John Crockett the proprietor of four hundred acres of land of
almost inexhaustible fertility.
In this lonely cabin, far away in the wilderness, David Crockett was
born, on the 17th of August, 1786. He had then four brothers.
Subsequently four other children were added to the family.
His childhood's home was more humble than the majority of the readers
of this volume can imagine. It was destitute of everything which, in a
higher state of civilization, is deemed essential to comfort. The
wigwam of the Indian afforded as much protection from the weather, and
was as well furnished, as the cabin of logs and bark which sheltered
his father's family. It would seem, from David Crockett's
autobiography, that in his childhood he went mainly without any
clothing, like the pappooses of an Indian squaw. These facts of his
early life must be known, that we may understand the circumstances by
which his peculiar character was formed.
He had no instruction whatever in religion, morals, manners, or mental
culture. It cannot be supposed that his illiterate parents were very
gentle in their domestic discipline, or that their example could have
been of any essential advantage in preparing him | 2,852.784051 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, David Garcia
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE INN AT THE RED OAK
BY LATTA GRISWOLD
1917
[Illustration: "It's a treasure right enough!" cried Dan.]
CONTENTS
PART I
THE OLD MARQUIS
I THE MARQUIS ARRIVES AT THE INN
II THE LION'S EYE
III THE MARQUIS AT NIGHT
IV THE OAK PARLOUR
V THE WALK THROUGH THE WOODS
PART II
THE TORN SCRAP OF PAPER
VI THE HALF OF AN OLD SCRAP OF PAPER
VII A DISAPPEARANCE
VIII GREEN LIGHTS
IX RECOLLECTIONS OF A FRENCH EXILE
X MIDNIGHT VIGILS
PART III
THE SCHOONER IN THE COVE
XI THE SOUTHERN CROSS
XII TOM TURNS THE TABLES
XIII MADAME DE LA FONTAINE
XIV IN THE FOG
XV NANCY
XVI MADAME AT THE INN
XVII THE MARQUIS LEAVES THE INN
PART IV
THE ATTACK ON THE INN
XVIII THE AVENUE OF MAPLES
XIX THE ATTACK
XX THE OAK PARLOUR
XXI THE TREASURE
The Inn at the Red Oak
PART I
THE OLD MARQUIS
CHAPTER I
THE MARQUIS ARRIVES AT THE INN
By the end of the second decade of the last century Monday Port had
passed the height of prosperity as one of the principal depots for the
West Indian trade. The shipping was rapidly being transferred to New York
and Boston, and the old families of the Port, having made their fortunes,
in rum and tobacco as often as not, were either moving away to follow the
trade or had acquiesced in the changed conditions and were settling down
to enjoy the fruit of their labours. The harbour now was frequently
deserted, except for an occasional coastwise trader; the streets began to
wear that melancholy aspect of a town whose good days are more a memory
than a present reality; and the old stage roads to Coventry and Perth
Anhault were no longer the arteries of travel they once had been.
To the east of Monday Port, across Deal Great Water, an estuary of the
sea that expanded almost to the dignity of a lake, lay a pleasant rolling
wooded country known in Caesarea as Deal. It boasted no village, scarcely
a hamlet. Dr. Jeremiah Watson, a famous pedagogue and a graduate of
Kingsbridge, had started his modest establishment for "the education of
the sons of gentlemen" on Deal Hill; there were half-a-dozen prospering
farms, Squire Pembroke's Red Farm and Judge Meath's curiously lonely but
beautiful House on the Dunes among them; a little Episcopalian chapel on
the shores of the Strathsey river, a group of houses at the cross roads
north of Level's Woods, and the Inn at the Red Oak,--and that was all.
In its day this inn had been a famous hostelry, much more popular with
travellers than the ill-kept provincial hotels in Monday Port; but now
for a long time it had scarcely provided a livelihood for old Mrs. Frost,
widow of the famous Peter who for so many years had been its popular
host. No one knew when the house had been built; though there was an old
corner stone on which local antiquarians professed to decipher the
figures "1693," and that year was assigned by tradition as the date of
its foundation.
It was a long crazy building, with a great sloping roof, a wide porch
running its entire length, and attached to its sides and rear in all
sorts of unexpected ways and places were numerous out houses and offices.
Behind its high brick chimneys rose the thick growth of Lovel's Woods,
crowning the ridge that ran between Beaver Pond and the Strathsey river
to the sea. The house faced southwards, and from the cobbled court before
it meadow and woodland sloped to the beaches and the long line of sand
dunes that straggled out and lost themselves in Strathsey Neck. To the
east lay marshes and the dunes and beyond them the Strathsey, two miles
wide where its waters met those of the Atlantic; west lay the great
curve, known as the Second Beach, the blue surface of Deal Bay, and a
line of rocky shore, three miles in length, terminated by Rough Point,
near which began the out-lying houses of Monday Port.
The old hostelry took its name from a giant oak which grew at its
doorstep just to one side of the maple-lined driveway that led down to
the Port Road, a hundred yards or so beyond. This enormous tree spread
its branches over the entire width and half the length of the roof.
Ordinarily, of course, its foliage was as green as the leaves on the
maples of the avenue or on the neighbouring elms, and the name of the Inn
might have seemed to the summer or winter traveller an odd misnomer; but
in autumn when the frost came early and the great mass of green flushed
to a deep crimson it could not have been known more appropriately than as
the Inn at the Red Oak.
It was a solidly-built house, such as even in the early part of the
nineteenth century men were complaining they could no longer obtain;
built to weather centuries of biting southeasters, and--the legend
ran--to afford protection in its early days against Indians. At the time
of the Revolution it had been barricaded, pierced with portholes, and had
served, like innumerable other houses from Virginia to Massachusetts, as
Washington's headquarters. When Tom Pembroke knew it best, its old age
and decay had well set in.
Pembroke was the son of the neighbouring squire, whose house, known as
the Red Farm, lay In the little valley on the other side of the Woods at
the head of Beaver Pond. From the time he had been able to thread his way
across the woodland by its devious paths--Tom had been at the Inn almost
every day to play with Dan Frost, the landlord's son. They had played in
the stables, then stocked with a score of horses, where now there were
only two or three; in the great haymows of the old barn in the clearing
back of the Inn; in the ramshackle garret under that amazing roof; or,
best of all, in the abandoned bowling-alley, where they rolled
dilapidated balls at rickety ten-pins.
When Tom and Dan were eighteen--they were born within a day of each
other one bitter February--old Peter died, leaving the Inn to his wife.
Mrs. Frost pretended to carry on the business, but the actual task of
doing so soon devolved upon her son. And in this he was subjected to
little interference; for the poor lady, kindly inefficient soul that she
was, became almost helpless with rheumatism. But indeed it was rather on
the farm than to the Inn that more and more they depended for their
living. In the social hierarchy of Caesarea the Pembrokes held
themselves as vastly superior to the Frosts; but thanks to the
easy-going democratic customs of the young republic, more was made of
this by the women than the men.
The two boys loved each other devotedly, though love is doubtless the
last word they would have chosen to express their relation. Dan was tall,
dark, muscular; he had a well-shaped head on his square shoulders; strong
well-cut features; a face that the sun had deeply tanned and dark hair
that it had burnished with gold. Altogether he was a prepossessing lad,
though he looked several years older than he was, and he was commonly
treated by his neighbours with a consideration that his years did not
merit. Tom Pembroke was fairer; more attractive, perhaps, on first
acquaintance; certainly more boyish in appearance and behaviour. He was
quicker in his movements and in his mental processes; more aristocratic
in his bearing. His blue eyes were more intelligent than Dan's, but no
less frank and kindly. Young Frost admired his friend almost as much as
he cared for him; for Dan, deprived of schooling, had a reverence for
learning, of which Tom had got a smattering at Dr. Watson's establishment
for "the sons of gentlemen" on the nearby hill.
One stormy night in early January, the eve of Dan Frost's twenty-second
birthday, the two young men had their supper together at the Inn, and
afterwards sat for half-an-hour in the hot, stove-heated parlour until
Mrs. Frost began to nod over her knitting.
"Off with you, boys," she said at length; "you will be wanting to smoke
your dreadful pipes. Nancy will keep me company."
They took instant advantage of this permission and went into the deserted
bar, where they made a roaring fire on the great hearth, drew their
chairs near, filled their long clay pipes with Virginia tobacco, and fell
to talking.
"Think of it!" exclaimed young Frost, as he took a great whiff at his
pipe; "here we are--the middle of the winter--and not a guest in the
house. Why we used to have a dozen travellers round the bar here, and the
whole house bustling. I've known my father to serve a hundred and more
with rum on a night like this. Now we do a fine business if we serve as
many in a winter. Times have changed since we were boys."
"Aye," Tom agreed, "and it isn't so long ago, either. It seemed to me as
if the whole county used to be here on a Saturday night."
"I'm thinking," resumed Dan musingly, "of throwing up the business,
what's the use of pretending to keep an inn? If it wasn't for mother
and for Nancy, I'd clear out, boy; go off and hunt my fortune. As it is,
with what I make on the farm and lose on the house, I just pull through
the year."
"By gad," exclaimed Tom, "I'd go with you, Dan. I'm tired to my soul with
reading law in father's office. Why, you and I haven't been farther than
Coventry to the county fair, or to Perth Anhault to make a horse trade.
I'd like to see the world, go to London and Paris. I've wanted to go to
France ever since that queer Frenchman was here--remember?--and told us
those jolly tales about the Revolution and the great Napoleon. We were
hardly more than seven or eight then, I guess."
"I would like to go, hanged if I wouldn't," said Dan. "I'm getting more
and more discontented. But there's not much use crying for the moon, and
France might as well be the moon, for all of me." He relapsed then into a
brooding silence. It was hard for an inn-keeper to be cheerful in
midwinter with an empty house. Tom too was silent, dreaming vividly, if
vaguely, of the France he longed to see.
"Hark!" exclaimed Dan presently. "How it blows! There must be a big sea
outside to-night."
He strode to the window, pushed back the curtains of faded chintz, and
stared out into the darkness. The wind was howling in the trees and about
the eaves of the old inn, the harsh roar of the surf mingled with the
noise of the storm, and the sleet lashed the window-panes in fury.
"You will not be thinking of going home tonight, Tom?"
"Not I," Pembroke answered, for he was as much at home in Dan's enormous
chamber as he was in his own little room under the roof at the Red Farm.
As he turned from the window, the door into the parlour opened, and a
young girl quietly slipped in and seated herself in the chimney-corner.
"Hello, Nance," Dan exclaimed, as she entered; "come close, child; you
need to be near the fire on a night like this."
"Mother is asleep," the girl answered briefly, and then, resting her
chin upon her hands, she fixed her great dark eyes upon the glowing
logs. She was Dan's foster-sister, eighteen years of age, though she
looked hardly more than sixteen; a shy, slender, girl, lovely with a
wild, unusual charm. To Tom she had always been a silent elfin
creature, delightful as their playmate when a child, but now though
still so familiar, she seemed in an odd way, to grow more remote.
Apparently she liked to sit with them on these winter evenings in the
deserted bar, when Mrs. Frost had gone to bed; and to listen to their
conversation, though she took little part in it.
As Dan resumed his seat, he looked at her with evident concern, for she
was shivering as she sat so quietly by the fireside.
"Are you cold, Nance?" he asked.
"A little," she replied. "I was afraid in the parlour with Mother asleep,
and the wind and the waves roaring so horribly."
"Afraid?" exclaimed Tom, with an incredulous laugh. "I never knew you to
be really afraid of anything in the world, Nancy."
She turned her dark eyes upon him for the moment, with a sharp
inquisitive glance which caused him to flush unaccountably. An answering
crimson showed in her cheeks, and she turned back to the fire. The colour
fled almost as quickly as it had come, and left her pale, despite the
glow of firelight.
"I was afraid--to-night," she said, after a moment's silence.
Suddenly there came the sound of a tremendous knocking on the door which
opened from the bar into the outer porch, and all three started in
momentary alarm.
Dan jumped to his feet. "Who's that?" he cried.
Again came the vigorous knocking. He ran across the room, let down the
great oaken beam, and opened the door to the night and storm.
"Come in, travellers." A gust of wind and sleet rushed through the
opening and stung their faces. With the gust there seemed to blow in the
figure of a little old man wrapped in a great black coat, bouncing into
their midst as if he were an India rubber ball thrown by a gigantic hand.
Behind him strode in Manners, the liveryman of Monday Port.
"Here's a guest for you, Mr. Frost. I confess I did my best to keep him
in town till morning, but nothing 'd do; he must get to the Inn at the
Red Oak to-night. We had a hellish time getting here too, begging the
lady's pardon; but | 2,852.87885 |
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THE PUBLICATIONS OF
THE CHAMPLAIN
SOCIETY
VI
THE
PUBLICATIONS OF
THE CHAMPLAIN
SOCIETY
HEARNE:
A JOURNEY FROM PRINCE OF
WALES'S FORT IN HUDSON'S BAY
TO THE NORTHERN OCEAN
[Illustration]
TORONTO
THE CHAMPLAIN SOCIETY
_Five Hundred and Twenty Copies of
this Volume have been printed. Twenty
are reserved for Editorial purposes.
The remaining Five Hundred are
supplied only to Members of the
Society and to Subscribing Libraries.
This copy is No. 229_
A JOURNEY
FROM PRINCE OF WALES'S
FORT IN HUDSON'S BAY TO
THE NORTHERN OCEAN
In the Years 1769, 1770, 1771, and 1772
BY
SAMUEL HEARNE
NEW EDITION
WITH INTRODUCTION, NOTES, AND ILLUSTRATIONS, BY
J. B. TYRRELL, M.A.
TORONTO
THE CHAMPLAIN SOCIETY
1911
_All rights reserved._
PREFACE
BY SIR EDMUND WALKER
_President of the Champlain Society_
When the Champlain Society was first organised in 1905 one of the works
on its list of proposed publications was the _Journal_ of Samuel Hearne.
This book, written with great literary charm, is the first account
preserved to us of an attempt to explore the interior of far-northern
Canada from a base on Hudson Bay. The natives had brought to Fort Prince
of Wales glowing reports of a vast store of copper at the mouth of a
river which flowed into the Arctic Ocean. An attempt to find it was
inevitable. Twice Hearne failed, but his third effort succeeded and,
after a laborious journey, he reached the mouth of the Coppermine River.
Soon after he was promoted to command at Fort Prince of Wales, now
Churchill, on Hudson Bay. France had joined Britain's revolted colonies
in their war on the mother land, and one day, in 1782, a French
squadron, under the well-known seaman, La Perouse, dropped anchor before
Fort Prince of Wales. Hearne, mightier with the pen than with the sword,
surrendered meekly enough in spite of his massive walls from thirty to
forty feet thick. Thus ingloriously he dies out of history.
Hearne's _Journal_, published after his early death, has become a rather
rare book. Besides the narrative of what he did, it contains copious
notes on the natural history of the region which he was the first white
man to make known. A new edition has long been needed. Yet to secure
competent editing was a difficult task, since few knew the remote
country which Hearne explored. It may be regarded as fortunate that the
new edition has been delayed, for only now are we able to present
Hearne's story with the annotations necessary to give it the last
possible elucidation. The needed knowledge is supplied by Mr. J. B.
Tyrrell and Mr. E. A. Preble, two writers pre-eminently suited for their
task by journeys in the regions described by Hearne, on parts of which
so few white men have set eyes.
Mr. J. B. Tyrrell began his work of exploring in North Western Canada in
1883, and during the ensuing fifteen years he made many important
additions to our knowledge of the geology and geography of what is still
the least known part of Canada. In 1893, accompanied by his brother, Mr.
J. W. Tyrrell, as his assistant, he traversed the so-called Barren
Grounds from Lake Athabasca eastward to Chesterfield Inlet, and from
there his party paddled in canoes down the west shore of Hudson Bay to
Fort Churchill. Of the 3200 miles thus traversed, 1650 were previously
unsurveyed and unmapped. From Fort Churchill Mr. Tyrrell walked eight or
nine hundred miles on snowshoes to the southern end of Lake Winnipeg. In
1894 he again crossed the Barren Grounds, this time travelling from the
north end of Reindeer Lake to a point on Hudson Bay, about 200 miles
south-west of Chesterfield Inlet. Thence he went to Churchill as before
in canoes along the open coast. From Churchill Mr. Tyrrell again, but by
another route, walked on showshoes to the southern end of Lake Winnipeg.
On this journey he travelled about 2900 miles, of which 1750 were by
canoe and 750 on snowshoes. Almost the whole journey was through
previously unexplored country. For the geographical work done in these
two years he was awarded the Back Premium by the Royal Geographical
Society of London.
In response to an enquiry whether any other white man has visited the
regions described by Hearne, Mr. Tyrrell writes:--
"I happen to be the only one since Hearne who has conducted
explorations in the country lying between Fort Churchill and the
eastern end of Great Slave Lake and south of latitude 63 deg. N.
Except Hearne, I and those who accompanied and assisted me are
the only white men who have crossed that great stretch of
country, north of a line between the mouth of the Churchill
River and Lake Athabasca and a line between the east end of
Great Slave Lake and Chesterfield Inlet. Absolutely the only
information that I had about the region when I visited it, other
than what I had secured in conversation with Indians, was
contained in Hearne's book. My last journey was made sixteen
years ago, and no white man has since travelled across that
country. With the building of the railroad to Fort Churchill, it
will doubtless soon be visited. Since I made a survey of
Chesterfield Inlet and its vicinity, my brother, Mr. J. W.
Tyrrell, has crossed from the east end of Great Slave Lake by
the Hanbury River to Chesterfield Inlet, making a survey as he
went, and the Royal North West Mounted Police have sent parties
from the | 2,852.979545 |
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Produced by Sonya | 2,853.312792 |
2023-11-16 19:04:37.5018130 | 6,557 | 14 |
Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: CHAMBERS'S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 695. SATURDAY, APRIL 21, 1877. PRICE 1-1/2_d._]
A MARVEL OF ARTISTIC GENIUS.
Coggeshall in Essex is a small market-town, which, in days past was of
some slight importance as a busy little manufacturing place, but which
of later years has been drained of population, like many another place,
to supply material for the great 'centres.' It now has little to boast
of but its fine church, one of the three finest in the county, and some
most interesting ruins, well known to antiquaries; it takes, however, a
great pride in owning the parentage of the subject of this notice.
John Carter was the only son of a respectable labourer in Coggeshall,
but was himself brought up to silk-weaving, that being the staple
trade of the town. He was educated in the usual way at the national
school; but at the age of thirteen was transferred to Sir R. Hitcham's
grammar-school, where he continued about two years. During this
period he was chiefly remarkable for his aptitude for getting into
mischief; and the only sign given of the latent talent which was
afterwards so strangely developed in him was in drawing horses and
dogs of questionable beauty on his slates and copy-books; the walls of
his cottage also were frequently put under requisition for the same
purpose; a mark of talent which his mother in those days could have
readily dispensed with, as not tending to improve the look of her
humble apartment, which she always kept most scrupulously neat and
clean. He was a bright intelligent boy, and this and his high spirits
made him a general favourite, but proved also a great snare to him. He
became acquainted with a set of wild young men, and soon, naturally
enough, became the ringleader in all sorts of daring enterprise.
When Carter was about twenty he married; but though his wife was a
quiet and respectable young woman, his marriage does not appear to have
steadied him. He and his wild companions used to meet at one of the
public-houses and there talk over and arrange their operations. One
of the projects which these choice spirits agreed upon was a rooking
expedition, the young rooks being then in season. It was in the month
of May 1836. The place agreed on was Holfield Grange, there being there
a fine old avenue of elms, in which the rooks from time immemorial had
comfortably settled. The avenue was disused; and as it was some little
way from the house and away from the road and preserves, there was
little chance of their being interrupted by watchmen or gamekeepers.
They arranged to meet in a field outside the town with a given signal,
by which they might know friend from foe; this was to avoid leaving the
town in a body, which might have suggested suspicions of mischief, and
induced a little watching. Midnight found them all at the rendezvous,
and little more than half an hour's walking brought them to the chosen
spot. Carter, foremost as usual, was the first to climb one of the
tall trees, and was soon busy enough securing the young birds. The
trees in the avenue are very old, and stand somewhat close together,
their gnarled and massive boughs frequently interlacing, making it
quite possible for an expert climber to pass from one tree to another.
In attempting to perform this, Carter deceived either in the distance
or strength of a bough, missed his hold and fell to the ground, a
distance of about forty feet. He had fallen apparently on his head, for
it was crushed forwards on to his chest. For a time he lay perfectly
senseless, and the dismay of his wretched companions may be imagined.
Their position was an unenviable one, to say the least. What were they
to do? A mile and a half from the town, in the dead of night, in the
midst of their depredations, which must now inevitably become known,
and with one of their party dying or dead, they knew not which.
After a time, Carter seems to have recovered consciousness partially,
and made them understand, though his speech was so much affected as to
be almost unintelligible, that he wanted them to 'pull him out!' This
rough surgery they therefore tried, some taking his head and some his
feet, and pulled till he could once more speak plainly; and having done
that, seemed to think that there was nothing more they could do.
Would one or two more judicious tugs have fitted the dislocated bones
together again, or would they have broken the spinal marrow? Who can
tell? In either case the world would have lost one striking case of
latent talent developed by a misfortune which seemed indeed only one
remove from death; so we will not complain.
Finding that no further improvement took place in the poor fellow, and
that he had lapsed into unconsciousness, his companions procured a
hurdle, and laying him on it with all the skill and gentleness of which
they were capable, retraced their steps to the town, and bore him to
the home which he had left a few hours before in the full strength and
health of early manhood. They laid him on his bed and then slunk away,
glad to shut out from their sight the terrible result of their headlong
folly, one only remaining to tell to the poor wife the sad story of the
disaster. The doctor was sent for; and the result of his examination
was the terrible verdict that Carter had not in all probability many
days or even hours to live; in any case, whether he lived or not, he
was paralysed without hope of recovery.
He did not recover consciousness entirely till the following night;
and we who have the full enjoyment of our limbs and health can hardly
realise what that poor fellow must have suffered in learning that,
even if life were granted to him at all, it was under such terrible
conditions as at first to seem to him less a boon than a burden. He
would never again be able to move hand or foot, the only power of
movement remaining to him being in the neck, which just enabled him
to raise or turn round his head; that was _all_--there was not even
feeling in the rest of his body. What a dreary blank in the future!
What wonder if the undisciplined soul cried out aloud with repining,
like a wild bird beating against the bars of a cage; what wonder if in
the bitterness of his heart he cried: 'Of what good is my life to me!
Better that I had never been born, since all that makes life sweet is
taken from me.'
Anguish unknown, terrors too great for words, must that poor soul
have met and overcome, ere he had learned the great lesson of sorrow,
that life, true life, does not consist in mere physical capabilities
and enjoyments, but that there is a far higher, nobler life, the
life of the soul and mind, which is as infinitely above the other as
heaven is above earth. His mind being now no longer overridden by his
superabundant physical nature, began to work and put forth its powers
and energies; but it was long ere he found any object on which to
expend those powers; not till he had, through several long and heavy
years of suffering, learned the great and most difficult lesson of
patience--patience, without which he would never have accomplished the
wonderful work which we will now proceed to describe.
Having read one day of some young woman who, deprived of the use of
her hands, had learned to draw little things with her _mouth_, he was
seized with a desire to try the same thing, and was not content till
he had made his first attempt. Deprived of the use of his hands, why
not try his mouth! A butterfly that had fluttered into the cottage
was caught and transfixed; a rough desk extemporised, and with such
materials as a sixpenny box of paints afforded, he made a sketch of the
insect. Delighted with his success, he determined to persevere. A light
deal desk was made after his own directions, on which to fix his paper;
the picture he was about to copy being fastened above, or if large,
hung from the top of the bed by tapes; he always drew in bed, his head
being slightly raised by pillows. A pencil about six inches long and
bound round with thread was put in his mouth, and with this he sketched
his subject. A saucer of Indian ink was prepared, and a fine camel-hair
brush was dipped and placed in his mouth by the attendant; these
brushes were sometimes not more than four inches long. In this way he
produced the most exquisite drawings, equal to fine line engravings,
which were sold for him by his friends and patrons, some of them
finding their way into the highest quarters; and thus he was enabled to
experience the delight of feeling that paralysed as he was, he was not
a mere burden, but was able to contribute to his own support.
Several of the most beautiful of his works are now in America, and we
believe we are right in saying that as much as twenty-five and fifty
pounds apiece have been given for them. Another very fine work, a copy
of 'St John and the Angel,' about eighteen inches by twelve, is in the
possession of Robert Hanbury, Esq., of Poles Ware, Hertfordshire, and
is wonderful in its power and delicacy. In the copies from Rembrandt,
Carter has so completely caught the peculiar touch and style of the
great master, that even a connoisseur would have some difficulty in
distinguishing them from the original.
Carter tried various styles--water-colour, chalks, mezzotint, and line
drawing; but it was the last in which he succeeded best, and which best
displayed his great delicacy of touch. The chalks required too great
pressure, and fatigued him so much that he was only able to finish two
or three pictures in this style, a masterly head of St Peter being one;
but the grand sweep of the unbroken lines in these shews, we think, his
talent more than any of his works.
He found many kind friends who interested themselves in his work, and
supplied him with subjects to copy; notably amongst these, Miss Hanbury
of Holfield Grange, now wife of the Dean of Winchester. Mr Richmond the
artist also came to see him on several occasions, and speaks of him
thus in a letter: 'The first time I saw him [Carter] I was taken to his
cottage by the Rev. Charles Forster, vicar of Stisted, Essex; and the
impression of that visit I shall never lose, for the contrast of the
utterly helpless body of the man with the bright and beaming expression
of his face, which only a peaceful and clear spirit could raise, was
a sight to do one good. It was as it were "the face of an angel,"
and I always think of him in connection with that passage.' This
latter remark is no exaggeration, for Carter was more than ordinarily
handsome, of that old Roman type so common amongst the agricultural
labourers in Essex, which ill-health and suffering had only improved
by adding refinement to his well-cut features; and the expression
of deep humility and patience was most touching in its earnestness.
Richmond, speaking elsewhere of his works, says: 'His power of
imitation was extraordinary--I mean it would have been extraordinary in
one possessing hands to execute his thought with; but to see him with
his short pencil between his lips executing with the greatest precision
and skill intricate forms and describing difficult curves, filled me
with wonder and admiration.'[1]
Carter lived for fourteen years in this helpless condition, during
which time he was a constant attendant at the church. A light frame and
mattress, on which he lay perfectly prostrate, was lifted on to a sort
of little wheel-carriage, and thus he was carried into the church, and
lay during the service. Useful for locomotion, this carriage, sad to
relate, was the cause of his death. One day, the lad who was wheeling
him about, lost his hold at the top of a hill; the carriage ran back
with violence against a wall, and upset the poor fellow into the road.
From that day he sank rapidly, and died on the 2d of June 1850.
There was a post-mortem examination; and the injured portion of the
spine was removed, and presented by Professor Hilton to the Museum of
the College of Surgeons, London, 'where it remains,' as he said in
lecturing on the case at the College, 'a typical specimen almost unique
in interest.'
[The sight of the drawing of the 'Virgin and Child,' by Carter, which
has been submitted to our inspection, is eminently suggestive of
what may be done in the most adverse circumstances, and also rouses
sentiments of profound regret at the sudden and unforeseen death of a
being so highly gifted with the light of genius.--ED.]
FOOTNOTES:
[1] See _Memoir of Carter_, with Illustrations, by Rev. W. J. Dampier.
Simpkin and Marshall. 1876.
THE LAST OF THE HADDONS.
CHAPTER XIX.--MRS CHICHESTER'S ARRANGEMENT.
When an hour later, I re-entered the drawing-room to make my adieu to
Miss Farrar, I found that the aspect of affairs had altogether changed.
She was lounging in her favourite attitude of negligent ease, in a low
chair, playing with the appendages to her watch-chain; and opposite to
her sat Mrs Chichester.
Marian did not give me time to speak, hurriedly commencing, with
haughty graciousness, the moment I entered the room.
'Oh, it is Miss Haddon.--Come in, Miss Haddon. I am sorry to disappoint
you; but I have been thinking the matter over since I spoke to you, and
have come to the conclusion that I shall not require your services.
The truth is I could not feel quite sure that you would suit me, and
therefore I have made another arrangement--a much more satisfactory
one.'
For a moment I did not quite comprehend the state of affairs, asking
myself if she could have so far misinterpreted my words as to suppose
that I had expressed a wish to remain with her. Then the truth flashed
upon me, and I calmly replied: 'It is quite possible I might not have
suited you, Miss Farrar. If, as I suppose, you have made an arrangement
for Mrs Chichester to reside with you, I believe you will find her much
more amenable and easy to get on with than I might prove to be.'
Marian looked at me doubtfully, not quite sure whether to interpret my
words favourably or not. Mrs Chichester's lips closed tightly for a
moment, then she said with her accustomed gentleness and suavity: 'The
arrangement between Miss Farrar and myself is so essentially different
from ordinary engagements, Miss Haddon; simply a friendly one.'
'Yes, indeed,' said Marian, with a grand air. 'Accepting an occasional
little offering' (here I knew she was quoting) 'is quite different from
receiving a salary, you know.'
I cheerfully agreed that it was different; and was mischievous enough
to congratulate 'Miss Farrar' upon having found so disinterested a
friend in the time of need.
With heightened colour, Mrs Chichester explained that she had only done
what any moderately good-natured person would do, in offering to stay
with one who had been deserted by those who ought not to have deserted
her.
'Yes; that's what I call it!' said Marian eagerly catching at the word.
'I've been deserted by those who ought not to have deserted me! And
here's Caroline, that I never cared for, and who I thought never cared
for me, turns out my best friend. Caroline had taken a great fancy
to me from the beginning, only she was afraid of shewing it, in case
Lilian should be jealous. But since my sister has chosen to desert me
as she has, she can't complain about my choosing a fresh friend. As
you know, I have done all I could to make things pleasant for Lilian.
No one in the world could act more generously than I have done to her.
Any one might tell that, by the heaps and heaps of things which have
been taken out of the house, without my saying a word. And then the
piano, when it was found that it would have to be sold on account of
being too large for the cottage, I paid the price it cost two years
ago. Two hundred and fifty pounds for a second-hand piano, Caroline!
I shouldn't mind if I'd been treated accordingly. But to go away like
this, without so much as saying thank you. As Caroline says, it is
treating one too bad; it really is!'
I glanced smilingly at Caroline's flushed face, and then wished them
good afternoon.
'I hear that you are going to stay at the cottage, Miss Haddon?'
'For three or four months I am, Mrs Chichester.'
'Until you find another engagement, I presume?' she asked, eyeing me
curiously.
'Until I make another engagement,' I smilingly replied.
But the 'three or four months' had aroused her suspicions, though I did
not perceive in what way.
'You have made the best of your sojourn at Fairview, Miss
Haddon'--softly.
'The very best, Mrs Chichester,' was my cheerful response; although I
did not see the whole of her meaning, as I was to see it later. I knew
enough to be sure the drift of it was not very friendly. One thing was
very palpable--I made no advance in Mrs Chichester's good graces.
They followed me to the hall with messages for Lilian.
'I can't forget that she's Pa's daughter, you know,' said Marian, once
more striving to be generous. 'Give my love to her, and tell her not to
hesitate about sending for anything she may require from the garden or
what not; she will miss things so at first, you know. And I don't see
why she shouldn't have milk; cook said we have more than she can use
just now. If we go on keeping two cows she shall always have it. And
say that the very first time we drive out I will call at the cottage.'
Saunders, who opened the door for me, drew his hand across his eyes as
he strove to stammer out a message to the 'dear young mistress.'
'Of course you will come to see her; she will be desirous to hear
how you are getting on, Saunders,' I replied, beginning to find some
difficulty in keeping up my own courage. But there was more to try me
yet. Before I could make my escape, every servant employed in or about
the house had crowded into the hall, down to Tom the garden-boy.
'Tell the dear young mistress our hearts ache for her.' 'Tell her there
isn't one here as wouldn't go barefoot to serve her. God bless her!'
'Tell her her kindness to mother will never be forgotten as long as I
live.' 'Why didn't she let us say good-bye, Miss Haddon?' 'Why didn't
she shake hands with us before she went, Miss?'--they asked one after
the other.
The wisdom of our getting her away as we did was manifest enough. 'It
would have been more than she could have borne,' I replied, in a broken
voice. 'But it will do her good to hear of your shewing so much kindly
feeling, though she never doubted your attachment to her. And of course
she expects that you will all go to see her.'
'Ay, that we will!'
Then I got my own share of parting good-wishes, as we shook hands all
round, not at all disturbed in the process by the sudden slamming of
the drawing-room door and the violent ringing of a bell.
Satisfactory as it all was from one point of view, I congratulated
myself upon having contrived to spare Lilian this scene, as well as the
final good-bye to the home that ought to have been her own.
I turned from the main road and walked slowly down across the fields
at the back of Fairview until I reached the stile at the end of the
lane. Then seating myself upon the cross step, I yielded to a little
sentiment, telling myself that there must be no such indulgence at the
cottage for some time to come. We needed our full share of common-sense
to keep the atmosphere healthy. It was all very well trying to assume
philosophic airs about wealth; it did very well in my own case, for
instance; but I really could not see that it was better for Lilian to
lose her large fortune--and so lose it. Into what different channels
would the money have passed from her hands, how different a class
of people would have been benefited from those who would now be the
recipients of it. Granted that Lilian herself might be as happy in
the future as though she possessed a large income, how many would be
the worse for her not possessing it. The other was already developing
a mean nature, and would grudge expenditure upon anything which did
not immediately minister to her own gratification. And so forth and
so forth I complained to myself in the short-sighted way with which
many of us are apt to judge when looking at a question from one point
of view only. I did not even take into consideration the fact that
the loss of fortune had already brought about one good effect--that
of making Arthur Trafford appear in his true colours, and so sparing
Lilian from much misery in the future.
'How did she bear it, Miss Haddon?'
I looked up to find Robert Wentworth standing on the other side the
stile. I rose, shook hands, and replied: 'As you might expect she
would. But we contrived to spare her a final parting scene;' going on
to tell him how we had managed it.
'A good idea. And Mrs Chichester has stepped in, has she?' he added
musingly. 'Well, I suppose that might have been expected too. Trafford
will have a useful ally.'
I told him of the offer I had received, smiling a little over the
recital.
'Fortunately you are not like other women; you can smile at that sort
of thing. And you will not, I trust, be again subjected to anything of
the kind. You will remain at the cottage as long as you need a home
now?'
'Yes,' I replied in a low voice, feeling the hot colour cover my face
in my confusion at hearing such an allusion from him; wondering not a
little how he had come to know what I had been so reticent, even to
those I loved best, about. His tone and look seemed, I thought, so
plainly to imply that he did know.
'But I suppose that is forbidden ground just at present?' he went on,
as I imagined answering my very thoughts.
'Yes,' I whispered stupidly; shy of talking about my love affair to
him, yet a little ashamed of my shyness, as more befitting a young
romantic girl than myself.
'I will obey'--glancing down at me with grave pleasantness--'if you
will consent that some limit shall be put to the restraint. Shall we
say three months?'
I smiled assent. He really did know then; even to the time Philip was
expected. I did not like to ask him how he had gained the knowledge,
as that might lead to more talk upon the subject than I cared to enter
into. In fact I was completely taken by surprise, and not quite equal
to the occasion.
But I soon contrived to account for his knowledge of my secret. My
engagement was well known to Philip's brother and the latter's friends;
and it was quite possible that Robert Wentworth might know some of
them. But however he had found it out, I was quite content that he
should have done so. It would be all the easier to pave the way towards
a friendship between Philip and him, by-and-by. For the present I
quietly returned to the subject which I believed to be most interesting
to him, and we talked over Lilian's prospects hopefully if a little
gravely, as we walked slowly on down the lane.
'You think there are really some grounds for hoping that she may forget
him?' he asked anxiously. 'I should not judge hers to be a changeable
mind.'
'Changeable! No; if she had really loved Arthur Trafford, as she
fancied she did, there would be indeed no hope.'
'Fancied?'
'Yes; I firmly believe it _was_ fancy. She never loved the real Arthur
Trafford; she is only just beginning to know him as he is.'
'Well, I suppose it is all right, so far as she is concerned; and
yet--constancy in love and friendship is part of my religion. One does
not like to have that faith disturbed?'--with what I fancied was a
questioning look.
'You forget that Lilian was almost a child when the acquaintance
commenced; barely sixteen. Though I hold that she will be constant to
her love, in even ceasing to care for Arthur Trafford. Do not you see
that she has never known the real man until now--that in fact she has
been in love with an ideal?' I replied, under the impression that he
was putting the questions which he wished to be combated, and willing
to indulge him so far.
'It must be rather hard upon a man to discover, after a long
engagement, that he does not accord with his lady-love's ideal--all
the harder if the discovery _does_ not happen to be made until after
marriage,' he said; '_and_ I think you will have to acknowledge that
the ideal you talk about ought to preserve a woman from falling in love
with the counterfeit, rather than lead her to it.'
'You are talking about a woman, and I a girl.'
'You must not forget that she was old enough to engage herself to him.
How if she had continued in her blindness until too late--how if she
had become his wife?'
'If she had become his wife before her eyes were opened, Lilian would
in time have recognised her own weakness in the matter, and blamed no
one else. Moreover, she would have made a good wife.'
'Yes; I suppose it would have been patched up that way; by the slow
heart-breaking process of smiling at grief and all the rest of it. And
of course you mean to imply that her fate would have its use, in the
way of serving as a warning to incautious youth against being in love
with ideals?'
'Of course I meant no such thing, and you know that I did not,' I
replied, laughing outright. 'I should think there is need for a great
deal of the ideal in all love, to keep it alive.'
'Ah, now we are getting on to fresh ground,' he said enjoyably. 'Let me
see, the proposition is that love needs a great deal of the ideal to
keep it alive; and yet'----
But I was not going to indulge him with a disquisition upon love;
giving him a Roland for an Oliver, in my own fashion: 'No one is more
glad that Lilian's has turned out to be only an ideal love, than
yourself.'
'Ah, that is not spoken with your usual accuracy of statement. Should
you not rather have said that no one could be more sorry than I that
her ideal did not preserve her from'----
'She _is_ preserved; and that is what you care most about.'
He smiled. 'Well, perhaps it is.'
When we arrived at the turn in the lane leading to the cottage, he took
leave of me. I did not invite him to go in with me, and I think he
quite understood my motive for not doing so, this first evening of our
entrance upon a new life. But he responded as heartily as I could wish,
when I expressed a hope that he would come as frequently as he could
to the cottage; adding that we should expect a great deal from him now
that he had shewn us how helpful he could be in times of emergency.
'Besides, it will be good for us, I suppose, to occasionally see one of
the lords of creation, lest we should come to forget that we are but
women.'
'Yes; you at least require to be occasionally taken down.'
'You must consider me very amiable to say that in my presence.'
'Did you hurt your hand when you struck it upon the seat the other day?
From the violence of the blow, I was afraid you would suffer a little
afterwards.'
'Surely you did not call that temper?'
'O dear, no; I did not venture to call it anything. What did you call
it?'
'Righteous indignation,' I calmly replied.
'Righteous indignation! O indeed. Then if I have cause to be angry with
a person, it is righteous indignation to attack his friend, and enforce
my arguments by blows upon a piece of wood?'
'You are worse than usual to-night; but come soon to see Mrs Tipper and
Lilian,' I said, smiling.
'Let us shake hands upon that.'
I stood looking after him a moment, as he walked away in the twilight
with the long, easy, swinging motion natural to one of a powerfully
built frame. Moreover I knew that his mental power was at least in | 2,853.521853 |
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UNEASY MONEY
By P. G. Wodehouse
1
In a day in June, at the hour when London moves abroad in quest
of lunch, a young man stood at the entrance of the Bandolero
Restaurant looking earnestly up Shaftesbury Avenue--a large young
man in excellent condition, with a pleasant, good-humoured, brown,
clean-cut face. He paid no attention to the stream of humanity
that flowed past him. His mouth was set and his eyes wore a
serious, almost a wistful expression. He was frowning slightly.
One would have said that here was a man with a secret sorrow.
William FitzWilliam Delamere Chalmers, Lord Dawlish, had no secret
sorrow. All that he was thinking of at that moment was the best
method of laying a golf ball dead in front of the Palace Theatre.
It was his habit to pass the time in mental golf when Claire
Fenwick was late in keeping her appointments with him. On one
occasion she had kept him waiting so long that he had been able to
do nine holes, starting at the Savoy Grill and finishing up near
Hammersmith. His was a simple mind, able to amuse itself with
simple things.
As he stood there, gazing into the middle distance, an individual
of dishevelled aspect sidled up, a vagrant of almost the maximum
seediness, from whose midriff there protruded a trayful of a
strange welter of collar-studs, shoe-laces, rubber rings,
buttonhooks, and dying roosters. For some minutes he had been
eyeing his lordship appraisingly from the edge of the kerb, and
now, secure in the fact that there seemed to be no policeman in
the immediate vicinity, he anchored himself in front of him and
observed that he had a wife and four children at home, all
starving.
This sort of thing was always happening to Lord Dawlish. There was
something about him, some atmosphere of unaffected kindliness,
that invited it.
In these days when everything, from the shape of a man's hat to
his method of dealing with asparagus, is supposed to be an index
to character, it is possible to form some estimate of Lord Dawlish
from the fact that his vigil in front of the Bandolero had been
expensive even before the advent of the Benedict with the studs
and laces. In London, as in New York, there are spots where it is
unsafe for a man of yielding disposition to stand still, and the
corner of Shaftesbury Avenue and Piccadilly Circus is one of them.
Scrubby, impecunious men drift to and fro there, waiting for the
gods to provide something easy; and the prudent man, conscious of
the possession of loose change, whizzes through the danger zone at
his best speed, 'like one that on a lonesome road doth walk in
fear and dread, and having once turned round walks on, and turns
no more his head, because he knows a frightful fiend doth close
behind him tread.' In the seven minutes he had been waiting two
frightful fiends closed in on Lord Dawlish, requesting loans of
five shillings till Wednesday week and Saturday week respectively,
and he had parted with the money without a murmur.
A further clue to his character is supplied by the fact that both
these needy persons seemed to know him intimately, and that each
called him Bill. All Lord Dawlish's friends called him Bill, and
he had a catholic list of them, ranging from men whose names were
in 'Debrett' to men whose names were on the notice boards of
obscure clubs in connexion with the non-payment of dues. He was
the sort of man one instinctively calls Bill.
The anti-race-suicide enthusiast with the rubber rings did not call
Lord Dawlish Bill, but otherwise his manner was intimate. His
lordship's gaze being a little slow in returning from the middle
distance--for it was not a matter to be decided carelessly and
without thought, this problem of carrying the length of Shaftesbury
Avenue with a single brassy shot--he repeated the gossip from the
home. Lord Dawlish regarded him thoughtfully.
'It could be done,' he said, 'but you'd want a bit of pull on it.
I'm sorry; I didn't catch what you said.'
The other obliged with his remark for the third time, with
increased pathos, for constant repetition was making him almost
believe it himself.
'Four starving children?'
'Four, guv'nor, so help me!'
'I suppose you don't get much time for golf then, what?' said Lord
Dawlish, sympathetically.
It was precisely three days, said the man, mournfully inflating a
dying rooster, since his offspring had tasted bread.
This did not touch Lord Dawlish deeply. He was not very fond of
bread. But it seemed to be troubling the poor fellow with the
studs a great deal, so, realizing that tastes differ and that
there is no accounting for them, he looked at him commiseratingly.
'Of course, if they like bread, that makes it rather rotten,
doesn't it? What are you going to do about it?'
'Buy a dying rooster, guv'nor,' he advised. 'Causes great fun and
laughter.'
Lord Dawlish eyed the strange fowl without enthusiasm.
'No,' he said, with a slight shudder.
There was a pause. The situation had the appearance of being at a
deadlock.
'I'll tell you what,' said Lord Dawlish, with the air of one who,
having pondered, has been rewarded with a great idea: 'the fact
is, I really don't want to buy anything. You seem by bad luck to
be stocked up with just the sort of things I wouldn't be seen dead
in a ditch with. I can't stand rubber rings, never could. I'm not
really keen on buttonhooks. And I don't want to hurt your
feelings, but I think that squeaking bird of yours is about the
beastliest thing I ever met. So suppose I give you a shilling and
call it square, what?'
'Gawd bless yer, guv'nor.'
'Not at all. You'll be | 2,853.61094 |
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A NATURALIST'S VOYAGE ROUND THE WORLD
By Charles Darwin
FIRST EDITION...MAY 1860.
SECOND EDITION...MAY 1870.
THIRD EDITION...FEBRUARY 1872.
FOURTH EDITION...JULY 1874.
FIFTH EDITION...MARCH 1876.
SIXTH EDITION...JANUARY 1879.
SEVENTH EDITION...MAY 1882.
EIGHTH EDITION...FEBRUARY 1884.
NINTH EDITION...AUGUST 1886.
TENTH EDITION...JANUARY 1888.
ELEVENTH EDITION...JANUARY 1890.
REPRINTED...JUNE 1913.
(FRONTISPIECE. H.M.S. BEAGLE IN STRAITS OF MAGELLAN. MT.
SARMIENTO IN THE DISTANCE.)
JOURNAL OF RESEARCHES
INTO THE
NATURAL HISTORY AND GEOLOGY
OF THE
COUNTRIES VISITED DURING THE VOYAGE
ROUND THE WORLD OF H.M.S. 'BEAGLE'
UNDER THE COMMAND OF CAPTAIN FITZ ROY, R | 2,853.725941 |
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Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by Cornell University Digital Collections)
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.
A MAGAZINE OF
_Literature, Science, Art, and Politics._
VOLUME XX.
[Illustration]
BOSTON: TICKNOR AND FIELDS, 124 TREMONT STREET.
1867.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1867, by
TICKNOR AND FIELDS,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
UNIVERSITY PRESS: WELCH, BIGELOW, & CO., CAMBRIDGE.
* * * * *
Transcriber's note: Minor typos have been corrected. Footnotes have been
moved to the end of the article.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
Page
Artist's Dream, An _T. W. Higginson_ 100
Autobiography of a Quack, The. I., II. 466, 586
Bornoo, A Native of 485
Bowery at Night, The _Charles Dawson Shanly_ 602
By-Ways of Europe. From Perpignan to Montserrat.
_Bayard Taylor_ 495
" " A Visit to the Balearic Islands. I.
_Bayard Taylor_ 680
Busy Brains _Austin Abbott_ 570
Canadian Woods and Waters _Charles Dawson Shanly_ 311
Cincinnati _James Parton_ 229
Conspiracy at Washington, The 633
Cretan Days _Wm. J. Stillman_ 533
Dinner Speaking _Edward Everett Hale_ 507
Doctor Molke _Dr. I. I. Hayes_ 43
Edisto, Up the _T. W. Higginson_ 157
Foster, Stephen C., and <DW64> Minstrelsy
_Robert P. Nevin_ 608
Fugitives from Labor _F. Sheldon_ 370
Grandmother's Story: The Great Snow 716
Gray Goth, In the _Miss E. Stuart Phelps_ 559
Great Public Character, A _James Russell Lowell_ 618
Growth, Limitations, and Toleration of Shakespeare's Genius
_E. P. Whipple_ 178
Guardian Angel, The. VII., VIII., IX., X., XI., XII.
_Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 1, 129, 257, 385, 513, 641
Hospital Memories. I., II.
_Miss Eudora Clark_ 144, 324
International Copyright _James Parton_ 430
Jesuits in North America, The _George E. Ellis_ 362
Jonson, Ben _E. P. Whipple_ 403
Longfellow's Translation of Dante's Divina Commedia 188
Liliput Province, A _W. Winwood Reade_ 247
Literature as an Art _T. W. Higginson_ 745
Little Land of Appenzell, The _Bayard Taylor_ 213
Minor Elizabethan Dramatists _E. P. Whipple_ 692
Minor Italian Travels _W. D. Howells_ 337
Mysterious Personage, A _John Neal_ 658
Opinions of the late Dr. Nott, respecting Books, Studies and Orators
_E. D. Sanborn_ 527
Pacific Railroads, Our _J. K. Medbery_ 704
Padua, At _W. D. Howells_ 25
Passage from Hawthorne's English Note-Books, A 15
Piano in the United States, The _James Parton_ 82
Poor Richard. II., III. _Henry James, Jr._ 32, 166
Prophetic Voices about America. A Monograph
_Charles Sumner_ 275
Religious Side of the Italian Question, The
_Joseph Mazzini_ 108
Rose Rollins, The. I., II. _Alice Cary_ 420, 545
Sunshine and Petrarch _T. W. Higginson_ 307
Struggle for Life, A _T. B. Aldrich_ 56
"The Lie" _C. J. Sprague_ 598
Throne of the Golden Foot, The _J. W. Palmer_ 453
T. Adolphus Trollope, Writings of
_H. T. Tuckerman_ 476
Tour in the Dark, A 670
Uncharitableness 415
Visit to Sybaris, My _Edward Everett Hale_ 63
Week's Riding, A 200
What we Feel _C. J. Sprague_ 740
Wife by Wager, A _E. H. House_ 350
Workers in Silver, Among the _James Parton_ 729
Young Desperado, A _T. B. Aldrich_ 755
POETRY.
Are the Children at Home? _Mrs. M. E. M. Sangster_ 557
Autumn Song, An _Edgar Fawcett_ 679
Blue and the Gray, The _F. M. Finch_ 369
Chanson without Music _Oliver Wendell Holmes_ 543
Dirge for a Sailor _George H. Boker_ 157
Ember-Picture, An _James Russell Lowell_ 99
Feast of Harvest, The _E. C. Stedman_ 616
Flight of the Goddess, The _T. B. Aldrich_ 452
Freedom in Brazil _John G. Whittier_ 62
Lost Genius, The _J. J. Piatt_ 228
Mona's Mother _Alice Cary_ 22
Mystery of Nature, The _Theodore Tilton_ 349
Nightingale in the Study, The
_James Russell Lowell_ 323
Sonnet _George H. Boker_ 744
Themistocles _William Everett_ 398
The Old Story _Alice Cary_ 199
Toujours Amour _E. C. Stedman_ 728
REVIEWS AND LITERARY NOTICES.
Browne's Land of Thor 256
Charlevoix's History of New France 125
Codman's Ten Months in Brazil 383
Cozzens's Sayings of Doctor Bushwhacker
and other Learned Men 512
Critical and Social Essays, from the New York "Nation" 384
Dall's (Mrs.) The College, the Market, and the Court 255
Du Chaill | 2,854.081815 |
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Produced by Jen Haines, 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:
This is an ASCII version of the text file. There is also a version
of this file available with all diacritics left in. In this file the
following replacements have been made:
['a] replaces a with acute accent
['e] replaces e with acute accent
[''a] relaces a umlaut
[''o] replaces o umlaut
[''u] replaces u umlaut
[`a] replaces a with grave accent
[`e] replaces e with grave accent
[^a] replaces a with circumflex accent
[^e] replaces e with circumflex accent
[^o] replaces o with circumflex accent
[ae] is the ae ligature
[oe] is the oe ligature
29[deg] replaces 29 followed by the degree symbol
THE GULLY OF BLUEMANSDYKE,
AND OTHER STORIES.
A small Edition of this Book was published
in 1889, under the Title of "Mysteries and
Adventures."
THE GULLY OF
BLUEMANSDYKE,
AND OTHER STORIES.
By A. CONAN DOYLE,
_Author of "Micah Clarke," "The White Company,"
"The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes," &c._
LONDON:
WALTER SCOTT, LTD., 24 WARWICK LANE,
PATERNOSTER ROW
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE GULLY OF BLUEMANSDYKE 7
THE PARSON OF JACKMAN'S GULCH 50
MY FRIEND THE MURDERER 79
THE SILVER HATCHET 114
THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL 144
THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX 188
A NIGHT AMONG THE NIHILISTS 226
_THE GULLY OF BLUEMANSDYKE._
A TRUE COLONIAL STORY.
Broadhurst's store was closed, but the little back room looked very
comfortable that night. The fire cast a ruddy glow on ceiling and walls,
reflecting itself cheerily on the polished flasks and shot-guns which
adorned them. Yet a gloom rested on the two men who sat at either side
of the hearth, which neither the fire nor the black bottle upon the
table could alleviate.
"Twelve o'clock," said old Tom, the storeman glancing up at the wooden
timepiece which had come out with him in '42. "It's a queer thing,
George, they haven't come."
"It's a dirty night," said his companion, reaching out his arm for a
plug of tobacco. "The Wawirra's in flood, maybe; or maybe their horses
is broke down; or they've put it off, perhaps. Great Lord, how it
thunders! Pass us over a coal, Tom."
He spoke in a tone which was meant to appear easy, but with a painful
thrill in it which was not lost upon his mate. He glanced uneasily at
him from under his grizzled eyebrows.
"You think it's all right, George?" he said, after a pause.
"Think what's all right?"
"Why, that the lads are safe."
"Safe! Of course they're safe. What the devil is to harm them?"
"Oh, nothing; nothing, to be sure," said old Tom. "You see, George,
since the old woman died, Maurice has been all to me; and it makes me
kinder anxious. It's a week since they started from the mine, and you'd
ha' thought they'd be here now. But it's nothing unusual, I s'pose;
nothing at all. Just my darned folly."
"What's to harm them?" repeated George Hutton again, arguing to convince
himself rather than his comrade. "It's a straight road from the diggin's
to Rathurst, and then through the hills past Bluemansdyke, and over the
Wawirra by the ford, and so down to Trafalgar by the bush track.
There's nothin' deadly in all that, is there? My son Allan's as dear to
me as Maurice can be to you, mate," he continued; "but they know the
ford well, and there's no other bad place. They'll be here to-morrow
night, certain."
"Please God they may!" said Broadhurst; and the two men lapsed into
silence for some time, moodily staring into the glow of the fire, and
pulling at their short clays.
It was indeed, as Hutton had said, a dirty night. The wind was howling
down through the gorges of the western mountains, and whirling and
eddying among the streets of Trafalgar; whistling through the chinks in
the rough wood cabins, and tearing away the frail shingles which formed
the roofs. The streets were deserted, save for one or two stragglers
from the drinking shanties, who wrapped their cloaks around them and
staggered home through the wind and rain towards their own cabins.
The silence was broken by Broadhurst, who was evidently still ill at
ease.
"Say, George," he said, "what's become of Josiah Mapleton?"
"Went to the diggin's."
"Ay; but he sent word he was coming back."
"But he never came."
"An' what's become of Jos Humphrey?" he resumed, after a pause.
"He went diggin', too."
"Well, did he come back?"
"Drop it, Broadhurst; drop it, I say," said Hutton, springing to his
feet and pacing up and down the narrow room. "You're trying to make a
coward of me! You know the men must have gone up country prospectin' or
farmin', maybe. What is it to us where they went? You don't think I have
a register of every man in the colony, as Inspector Burton has of the
lags."
"Sit down, George, and listen," said old Tom. "There's something queer
about that road; something I don't understand, and don't like. Maybe you
remember how Maloney, the one-eyed scoundrel, made his money in the
early mining days. He'd a half-way drinking shanty on the main road up
on a kind of bluff, where the Lena comes down from the hills. You've
heard, George, how they found a sort of wooden slide from his little
back room down to the river; an' how it came out that man after man had
had his drink doctored, and been shot down that into eternity, like a
bale of goods. No one will ever know how many were done away with there.
_They_ were all supposed to be farmin' and prospectin', and the like,
till their bodies were picked out of the rapids. It's no use mincing
matters, George; we'll have the troopers along to the diggin's if those
lads don't turn up by to-morrow night."
"As you like, Tom," said Hutton.
"By the way, talking of Maloney--it's a strange thing," said Broadhurst,
"that Jack Haldane swears he saw a man as like Maloney with ten years
added to him as could be. It was in the bush on Monday morning. Chance,
I suppose; but you'd hardly think there could be two pair of shoulders
in the world carrying such villainous mugs on the top of them."
"Jack Haldane's a fool," growled Hutton, throwing open the door and
peering anxiously out into the darkness, while the wind played with his
long grizzled beard, and sent a train of glowing sparks from his pipe
down the street.
"A terrible night!" he said, as he turned back towards the fire.
Yes, a wild, tempestuous night; a night for birds of darkness and for
beasts of prey. A strange night for seven men to lie out in the gully at
Bluemansdyke, with revolvers in their hands, and the devil in their
hearts.
* * * * *
The sun was rising after the storm. A thick, heavy steam reeked up from
the saturated ground, and hung like a pall over the flourishing little
town of Trafalgar. A bluish mist lay in wreaths over the wide track of
bushland around, out of which the western mountains loomed like great
islands in a sea of vapour.
Something was wrong in the town. The most casual glance would have
detected that. There was a shouting and a hurrying of feet. Doors were
slammed and rude windows thrown open. A trooper of police came
clattering down with his carbine unslung. It was past the time for Joe
Buchan's saw-mill to commence work, but the great wheel was motionless,
for the hands had not appeared.
There was a surging, pushing crowd in the main street before old Tom
Broadhurst's house, and a mighty clattering of tongues. "What was it?"
demanded the new-comers, panting and breathless. "Broadhurst has shot
his mate." "He has cut his own throat." "He has struck gold in the clay
floor of his kitchen." "No; it was his son Maurice who had come home
rich." "Who had not come back at all." "Whose horse had come back
without him." At last the truth had come out; and there was the old
sorrel horse in question whinnying and rubbing his neck against the
familiar door of the stable, as if entreating entrance; while two
haggard, grey-haired men held him by either bridle, and gazed blankly at
his reeking sides.
"God help me," said old Tom Broadhurst; "it is as I feared!"
"Cheer up, mate," said Hutton, drawing his rough straw hat down over his
brow. "There's hope yet."
A sympathetic and encouraging murmur ran through the crowd.
"Horse ran away, likely."
"Or been stolen."
"Or he's swum the Wawirra an' been washed off," suggested one Job's
comforter.
"He ain't got no marks of bruising," said another, more hopeful.
"Rider fallen off drunk, maybe," said a bluff old sheep-farmer. "I kin
remember," he continued, "coming into town 'bout this hour myself, with
my head in my holster, an' thinking I was a six-chambered
revolver--mighty drunk I was."
"Maurice had a good seat; he'd never be washed off."
"Not he."
"The horse has a weal on its off fore-quarter," remarked another, more
observant than the rest.
"A blow from a whip, maybe."
"It would be a darned hard one."
"Where's Chicago Bill?" said someone; "he'll know."
Thus invoked, a strange, gaunt figure stepped out in front of the crowd.
He was an extremely tall and powerful man, with the red shirt and high
boots of a miner. The shirt was thrown open, showing the sinewy throat
and massive chest. His face was seamed and scarred with many a conflict,
both with Nature and his brother man; yet beneath his ruffianly exterior
there lay something of the quiet dignity of the gentleman. This man was
a veteran gold-hunter; a real old Californian 'forty-niner, who had left
the fields in disgust when private enterprise began to dwindle before
the formation of huge incorporated companies with their ponderous
machinery. But the red clay with the little shining points had become to
him as the very breath of his nostrils, and he had come half-way round
the world to seek it once again.
"Here's Chicago Bill," he said; "what is it?"
Bill was naturally regarded as an oracle, in virtue of his prowess and
varied experience. Every eye was turned on him as Braxton, the young
Irish trooper of constabulary, said, "What do you make of the horse,
Bill?"
The Yankee was in no hurry to commit himself. He surveyed the animal for
some time with his shrewd little grey eye. He bent and examined the
girths; then he felt the mane carefully. He stooped once more and
examined the hoofs and then the quarters. His eye rested on the blue
wheal already mentioned. This seemed to put him on a scent, for he gave
a long, low whistle, and proceeded at once to examine the hair on either
side of the saddle. He saw something conclusive apparently, for, with a
sidelong glance under his shaggy eyebrows at the two old men beside him,
he turned and fell back among the crowd.
"Well, what d'ye think?" cried a dozen voices.
"A job for you," said Bill, looking up at the young Irish trooper.
"Why, what is it? What's become of young Broadhurst?"
"He's done what better men has done afore. He has sunk a shaft for gold
and panned out a coffin."
"Speak out, man! what have you seen?" cried a husky voice.
"I've seen the graze of a bushranger's bullet on the horse's quarter,
an' I've seen a drop of the rider's blood on the edge of the
saddle--Here, hold the old man up, boys; don't let him drop. Give him a
swig of brandy an' lead him inside. Say," he continued, in a whisper,
gripping the trooper by the wrist, "mind, I'm in it. You an' I play this
hand together. I'm dead on sich varmin. We'll do as they do in Nevada,
strike while the iron is hot. Get any men you can together. I s'pose
you're game to come yourself?"
"Yes, I'll come," said young Braxton, with a quiet smile.
The American looked at him approvingly. He had learned in his wanderings
that an Irishman who grows quieter when deeply stirred is a very
dangerous specimen of the genus _homo_.
"Good lad!" he muttered; and the two went down the street together
towards the station-house, followed by half-a-dozen of the more resolute
of the crowd.
* * * * *
One word before we proceed with our story, or our chronicle rather, as
every word of it is based upon fact. The colonial trooper of fifteen or
twenty years ago was a very different man from his representative of
to-day. Not that I would imply any slur upon the courage of the latter;
but for reckless dare-devilry and knight-errantry | 2,854.279559 |
2023-11-16 19:04:38.2608820 | 1,537 | 9 |
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Collection of The Ohio State University Libraries, and the
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Zula
BY H. ESSELSTYN LINDLEY
BROADWAY PUBLISHING COMPANY
835 BROADWAY : : NEW YORK
Copyright, 1905
by
H. ESSELSTYN LINDLEY
All Rights Reserved
TO THE HON. S. W. BURROUGHS AND GEO. W. MOORE OF DETROIT, MICH. AND TO
MY ESTEEMED FRIEND MR. W. A. ESSELSTYN OF NEW YORK IS THIS VOLUME MOST
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Arrest. 1
II. June's Pity. 10
III. The Chastisement. 19
IV. The Escape. 29
V. Zula's Friend. 35
VI. Silvery Waves. 39
VII. The Disaster. 48
VIII. Cruel Crisp. 53
IX. Free Again. 65
X. Scott's Valet. 70
XI. Scott's Wife. 78
XII. A Cloud. 86
XIII. A Bold Plot. 94
XIV. Bright Hopes. 103
XV. Rejected. 115
XVI. A Shadowed Home. 122
XVII. The Removal. 128
XVIII. The Interview. 132
XIX. A Fatal Step. 138
XX. Mr. Le Moyne of Paris. 144
XXI. Paul and Scott. 147
XXII. Looking for a Place. 152
XXIII. June's Reason--Letter From Paul. 162
XXIV. A Scene on the Water. 176
XXV. The Elopement. 184
XXVI. The Old House at Roxbury. 194
XXVII. Insane Bessie. 199
XXVIII. Bessie's Visit. 208
XXIX. The Fortune Teller. 216
XXX. Bessie's Sad Story. 227
XXXI. Repenting at Leisure. 235
XXXII. A Bitter Atonement. 248
XXXIII. Still at Work. 262
XXXIV. A Game of Hearts. 268
XXXV. A Sad Event. 278
XXXVI. Solving the Problem. 292
XXXVII. General Explanation. 312
CHAPTER I.
THE ARREST.
"Oh, you little wretch! What are you about? You dreadfully sinful
little creature. Police, police!"
The speaker, a richly dressed woman, was just entering the spacious
dining-room, as she caught sight of a dusky little form in the act of
taking a set of silver spoons from the heavy gold-lined holder. The
child raised a pair of coal-black eyes to the lady's face as she
turned to pass out of the dining-room door, which had been left open
to let in the cool June breeze; but as she was about to cross the
threshold she was seized by the strong hands of a policeman, who had
answered Mrs. Wilmer's call, and the silver was scattered in a dozen
different directions.
"Did you ever see such a bold little creature in all your life? Who
would have thought she would dare come in here, right in broad
daylight, and steal my spoons off the table? Why, it's awful!"
"It's lucky you caught her at it," said the officer, "for she is as
quick as a deer, and saucy enough, no doubt, but never mind, we'll put
the little jade where she won't steal anything again for a day or two,
at least." He took her roughly by the shoulder in the attempt to lead
her away.
"Oh, don't be too hard on her, mother," said a young man who had
followed her into the room, "perhaps she did not know just how wicked
it was."
His fine eyes looked pityingly on the child, who could not have been
more than ten years of age.
"Oh, nonsense, sir, that is too old a story. She is old enough to have
some sense, the young gypsy. I have seen too many of these young
burglars to be fooled by 'em. It won't do to encourage 'em."
"I'll give you a 'V' if you will let her go."
"Why, Scott," said Mrs. Wilmer, "are you crazy? Indeed you must do
nothing of the kind."
"By no means," said the policeman. "She mustn't be let go to do the
same thing without a lesson to teach her what it means."
The child turned her large black eyes full upon the face of the young
man. Every feature of his face was indelibly stamped upon her memory
in that one searching glance.
"Come, don't be looking back so eagerly," said the officer, "you won't
find anything more that you can get your little brown hands on; you
can't steal the gentleman's diamond pin if you do look so sharp at
it."
The black eyes flashed indignantly and the long purple-black braid
which hung down her back shook as she raised her eyes to the
officer's face, giving her head a proud toss, and with the sauciest
pucker of the small red mouth and a scornful ring in her voice, she
said:
"I didn't know he had a diamond pin. I was only looking at his face;
it looks so kind, I'm sure I couldn't steal that, but yours don't look
kind. I guess you like to punish little girls; you look like a great
cross bear."
"Take care, I'll let you know what I am. I don't have any notion of
being kind to such little imps as you are. There's a way to take care
of little burglars."
"I ain't a burglar. I'm just as good as you are, if I am poor. I'd
rather steal than be so ugly to little girls."
They had now reached the sidewalk, where they were met by June Wilmer,
a young girl of just ten years of age, who was about to enter the
gate. She was rightly named, for she looked like a fresh June rose,
with the pink flush on her cheeks, and her blue eyes full of innocent
mirth, but the expression changed to one of pity as she looked at the
little girl who was being led away like a dumb animal.
"Why, what is the matter?" she asked, "what have you done to be taken
away by a policeman, you poor little girl?"
"She was trying | 2,854.280922 |
2023-11-16 19:04:38.2609930 | 4,127 | 7 |
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[Illustration: "He tried to shoot once more, into the very face of the
oncoming brute."--FRONTISPIECE. _See Page 245._]
THE HEART OF THUNDER MOUNTAIN
By EDFRID A. BINGHAM
With Frontispiece in Colors
By ANTON OTTO FISHER
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by Arrangements with Little, Brown & Company
Copyright, 1916,
By Edfrid A. Bingham.
All rights reserved
Published, March, 1916
Reprinted, March, 1916 (twice)
July, 1916; August, 1916
April, 1917
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I The Forbidden Pasture 1
II The Road to Paradise 15
III Seth Huntington's Opportunity 26
IV The Highest Bidder 37
V "He Shall Tell Me!" 50
VI The Story of the Scar 60
VII The Way of a Maid With a Man 71
VIII The End of Her Stratagem 86
IX Hearts Insurgent 99
X Strictly Confidential 112
XI Avalanche 121
XII Sunnysides 133
XIII Hillyer's Dilemma 144
XIV Coals of Fire 155
XV The Valley of the Shadow 166
XVI Questions and Answers 176
XVII Interlude 186
XVIII The Challenge of the Brute 193
XIX Smythe's Last Budget 202
XX "The Trail Held True" 215
XXI In the Hollow of the Storm 228
XXII The Narrow Passage 238
XXIII The Miracle 252
XXIV Haig's Argument 264
XXV Diana 278
XXVI The Snow 288
XXVII The Voice in the Hurricane 302
XXVIII The Man Who Did Not Forget 316
XXIX Ghosts 330
XXX The Lamp Relighted 344
XXXI Sangre De Cristo 359
THE HEART OF THUNDER MOUNTAIN
CHAPTER I
THE FORBIDDEN PASTURE
She sat hunched up in the middle of the silent pasture, where the
tall, thin grass ran ripening before the breeze in waves the hue of
burnished bronze. Her cow pony grazed greedily a few yards away,
lifting his head now and then to gaze inquiringly at her, and then
returning to his gluttony with a satisfied snort, commendatory of this
long rest. The girl had removed her small sombrero to adjust the
masses of tawny hair that had become disordered in her morning ride;
and the breeze now played with it, and the sun sought out its glints
of gold. She was fair, of a curiously rich complexion with soft golden
tints beneath the skin, as if the rusty gold in her hair was just the
outcropping of what ran in solution in her veins. And there was a
certain air about her that contrasted strangely with the scene upon
which she now gazed intently, with her head bent forward, and her
hands clasped round her upthrust knees.
It was a little valley she had come upon by chance, snugly tucked away
among the hills. Below the bronze- <DW72> there were lush
meadows of a brilliant green, and a shallow, swift stream that
flashed over black bowlders and white sand; beyond the meadows lay
more shining pastures rising to pale-green aspen groves and then to
dark-green pines; and above all these the foothills climbed swiftly to
the mountains, and the mountains more swiftly to the sky. There were
faint blue mists in the foothills, fainter violet shadows on the
distant fields, an icy whiteness on the peaks; and in the sky no more
than two small puffs of cloud like eiderdown adrift in the depths of
blue. What at first had seemed an utter silence laid upon that summer
landscape had now become, as she looked and listened, a silence full
of sound; of that indefinable humming undertone of nature maturing in
the sun; of insects busy at their harvest; of birds in the distance
calling; of grasses rustling in the breeze; of pines on the long ridge
droning like an organ in the Recessional.
Yes, it was very beautiful, she thought. And sweet. And peaceful. She
had come a long way--halfway across the great continent--to find that
peace. But why should there be a touch of sadness in all that beauty?
And why should there be need to search for her handkerchief to press
against her eyes? For the first time since she had come to Paradise
Park she felt a little lonely, a little doubtful about the wisdom of
her brave revolt.
She sank back at last, and lay curled up in the grass with her head
pillowed on one bent arm. There, to her half-closed eyes, the grass
seemed like a fairy forest, soon peopled by her fancy, the fancy of a
girl who still retained the quick imagination of a child. An Indian
paintbrush flamed at her with barbaric passion; nodding harebells
tinkled purple melodies; and a Mariposa lily with a violet eye seemed
like a knight in white armor, bowing himself into her outstretched
hand. Her eyelids drooped more and more. The music of the pines and
the murmur of the pasture blended in a faint and fading lullaby....
* * * * *
Tuesday's shrill neigh awakened her. She sat up shivering, for the
warm air was underlaid with cold; and quivering, for the alarm had
fallen pat upon the climax of her dream. She rubbed her eyes, a little
blinded by the sunlight, and saw that Tuesday stood with head high and
nostrils distended, gazing past her toward the upper end of the
pasture. She was not surprised, being yet under the spell of her
dream-fairyland, to see a horseman galloping straight toward her. If
not the white knight, then--For some seconds she stared, awakening
slowly; and smiled at length at her childish fancy. It was only a
cowboy, doubtless, riding upon his own prosaic business. And yet--She
became gradually aware of something unusual, something disquieting in
the manner of the man's approach. The horse was leaping under the
spurs; the rider sat upright and alert in the saddle; and suddenly, as
she watched him, the man's hand went to his hip, and there was a gleam
of metal in the sun.
She was not afraid. Seth Huntington had assured her there was nothing
to be feared in Paradise Park. But for all that, it was not without
uneasiness that she hastily arranged the meager folds of her divided
skirt, and passed her hands quickly over the still disordered masses
of her hair. And then he was fairly upon her, reining up with a jerk
that brought the sweating pony back upon its haunches.
There was an angry glitter in the man's dark eyes, his face was black
with passion, and the bright object she had seen flashing in his hand
was the twin brother of Huntington's six-shooter. He was roughly, even
meanly, dressed. His coarse blue flannel shirt was unbuttoned at the
throat; his soiled brown corduroy trousers were thrust unevenly into
dusty and wrinkled boot tops; his old, gray hat was slouched over one
side of his forehead, shading his eyes. But the face beneath that
faded and disreputable hat, as Marion saw with a slight thrill of
curiosity, belonged to no ranch hand or cow-puncher. Whoever he might
be, and whatever he might be doing there scowling at her, she felt at
once that he was as foreign as herself to that neighborhood. But there
was no time at that moment to analyze her feeling, to formulate her
thought. And her next impression, following very swiftly, was one of
vague antagonism. She felt that she was going to hate him.
"What new trick is this?" he demanded angrily, when he had looked from
the girl to her pony, and at her again, with unconcealed suspicion.
For a moment she was undecided whether to answer him sharply or to
rebuke his incivility with silence.
"I don't know!" she replied at last, by way of compromise between her
two impulses, with a half-playful emphasis on the "I," accompanied by
a very solemn, shaking of the head and a very innocent widening of the
eyes.
There was a pause while he searched her face with a distrustful
scrutiny.
"You're not just the person I was looking for," he said finally, with
a touch of irony.
"How fortunate!" she replied, in a tone that was like a mocking echo
of his own.
Her eyes met his unflinchingly, a little impudently, telling him
nothing; then they slowly fell, and rested on the revolver in his
hand. With a shrug he thrust the weapon into its holster.
"Thank you!" she said sweetly. "You really won't need it."
He jerked his head impatiently.
"How did you get in here?" he demanded, quite as roughly as before.
There was no reason in the world why she should not have answered him
simply and directly; but she did not. She was exasperated, not so much
by his words as by his manner, and not so much by his manner even as
by something provocative in the man himself. He was rude, but it was
not his rudeness that most annoyed her. She scarcely knew what it
was,--perhaps a certain indifference, a certain cold contempt that she
detected underlying all his anger, a certain icy and impenetrable
reserve that, for all his hot words, and for all his lowering looks,
she resented most as being in some way personal to her. And instantly
the minx in her rose up for mischief.
"By aeroplane, of course!" she said tartly.
It was a silly speech, and she regretted it almost before it had left
her lips.
A faint flush came into the enemy's face.
"Spoken like a woman!" he retorted. "Always tragic over little things
and flippant over big ones."
That brought the color up into her face. But she was not subdued; for
the cat in woman also has nine lives--at least.
"There's my horse," she said, with a toss of her head. "You saw him."
"True! But cow ponies don't easily jump four-wire fences."
"Why should they when the fences are down?"
"Good! We arrive by the devious ways that women love. Perhaps you'll
give me the answer now that you should have given in the first place.
_How did you get in here?_"
She bit her lip, reflected a moment, and attempted a flank movement.
"My name is Marion Gaylord."
"I knew that."
"But you have never seen me before!"
"No. But that's one of Huntington's horses, and Miss Gaylord is a
guest at his house. You see, I am more courteous than you after all. I
answer your questions."
"Perhaps I'll answer yours when I know what right you have to ask
them."
A light began to dawn upon him.
"Do you mean--you don't know where you are?"
"No."
He gave her a long, searching look before he spoke again.
"My name is Philip Haig," he said, leaning forward with a curious
smile.
The result was all that he could have wished for. Until that moment
she had remained seated, firm in her determination not to be
disturbed by him. But now she rose slowly to her feet, her face
reddening, her lips parted, a frightened look in her eyes. The shoe
was on the other foot, with a vengeance.
He saw all this, and without compunction, seized his advantage.
With a grim smile he threw the reins over the pony's head, swung
himself out of the saddle, and stepped toward her. As he came on he
removed his dilapidated hat with a gesture that made her forget it
was dilapidated,--a mocking, insolent gesture though it was. In
spite of her embarrassment she let none of his features escape her
quickening interest. She saw that he was tall, erect, alert; handsome
in some strange and half-repellent way, with his pale dark face,
rather long in contour, and with his black, curly hair matted on
the broad forehead. But she almost recoiled when, on his drawing
nearer, she saw for the first time--it had been hidden by the shadow
of his slouched hat--an ugly scar that ran from the outer corner of
his left eye down to the jawbone below the ear. It gave to one
side of his face a singularly sinister expression that vanished when
he turned and disclosed a profile that was not without nobility
and charm.
Then suddenly her mystification was complete. Their eyes met, not as
before, but very near, so close had he come to her, still smiling. And
instantly, instinctively, she lowered hers; for she felt as if she had
been caught peering through a window at something she had no right to
see. Yet the next instant she was looking again, half-guiltily, but
irresistibly drawn. The eyes were of a curious color,--smoky black, or
dark gray-blue, or somber purple,--liquid and deep like a woman's,
but with a steady, dull glow in their depths that was unlike anything
she had ever seen or imagined. What was it that burned there?
Suffering? Hunger? Evil? Sorrow? Shame? It gave her something to think
about for many a day and night. Meanwhile--
"I see you have heard of me," he said mockingly.
She had no reply. She was realizing slowly that she had trespassed,
that she had perhaps seriously compromised her cousin, and, most
humiliating of all, that she had assumed quite the wrong attitude
toward the man.
"You really didn't know you were on my land?" he demanded, with a
little less offensiveness in his tone.
"No," she answered weakly.
"And Huntington didn't send you here?"
"No."
"I believe you, of course. But it's rather queer. How did you
happen--if you don't mind--"
She did not mind in the least--was eager, indeed, to explain her
presence there.
"I'm just learning to ride," she began impulsively.
"This was my first venture off the valley road, and I--"
"And you came straight to me!" he exclaimed, chuckling.
At that a strange thing happened. He had meant only that she, the
guest and cousin of Seth Huntington, his bitter foe, had blundered
straight into the camp of the enemy; and that was a rare joke on
Huntington. But she was a girl; her little adventure was already rosy
with romance; and the effect of his careless speech was as if he had
looked into her heart, and read aloud for her something she had not
known was there. To his surprise and wonder the girl's fair face
turned red to the roots of her tawny hair, and a look of helpless
confusion came into the clear, blue eyes that until now, for all her
embarrassment, had frankly met his own. She looked suddenly away from
him.
"You make me ashamed," she said at length, stealing a look at him.
"If you know anything about my difficulty with Huntington," he began,
"you'll understand that--"
"I do. I do understand!" she interrupted eagerly. "I don't know much
about it--the trouble. They haven't told me. I've only overheard some
talk--and I didn't ask. I rode down the valley this morning trying to
do it like a cowboy. And there was a branch road--and then the break
in the fence--and before I knew it I'd fallen asleep. That's
all--except--" She shot a half-mischievous glance at him "--you
spoiled a very beautiful dream."
But this was all lost upon him. His face was clouding again.
"Where is it--the break in the fence?"
Chagrined at the failure of her bit of coquetry, she merely pointed in
the direction whence she had come.
"Thank you!" he said. "At last!"
With that he went swiftly to his pony, mounted, and started to ride
away. But suddenly he reined up again, whirled his horse savagely
around, and faced Marion with the sunlight full upon the scarred side
of his face, now ugly with menace.
"If that fence has been cut," he said, in a hard and level tone, "it's
been cut by Huntington or his men. You tell him for me, please--and
you'll be doing _him_ a favor not to forget it--tell him that he's a
fool to anger me. I've been very patient in this business, but I don't
claim patience as one of my virtues. Do you hear? Tell him he's a fool
to anger me!"
She watched him gallop to the gap in the barb-wire fence; she watched
him dismount to examine the severed wires; she watched him leap on his
horse again, and ride furiously down the road until he was lost to
view below the dip in the <DW72> toward the valley. And still for some
minutes she stood staring at the place where he had disappeared. Then,
left alone with her pent-up emotions, she no longer resisted them.
Tears of vexation started in her eyes; chagrin, resentment, anger
swept over her in turn. She dug the heel of one small boot into the
unoffending soil--his soil--and thrust her clenched hands down at her
side.
"Oh! Oh! Oh!" she cried, over and over again, striding forward and
back across some yards of pasture, trampling lilies and harebells
under her heedless feet, turning her flaming face at intervals toward
the spot in the smiling landscape that had last held the figure of
Philip Haig.
The shame of it! She had never--never--never been treated so
outrageously. It was unendurable--and she had endured it! She flung
herself down on the ground and wept.
* * * * *
Marion was now facing life alone | 2,854.281033 |
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[ 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 lodgings with his little
son. But God gave Avdyeitch no luck with his children. As Kapitoshka
grew older, he began to help his father, and would have been a delight
to him, but a sickness fell on him, he went to bed, suffered a week, and
died. Martuin buried his son, and fell into despair. So deep was this
despair that he began to complain of God. Martuin fell into such a
melancholy state, that more than once he prayed to God for death, and
reproached God because He had not taken him who was an old man, instead
of his beloved only son. Avdyeitch also ceased to go to church.
And once a little old man from the same district came from Troitsa(1) to
see Avdyeitch; for seven years he had been wandering about. Avdyeitch
talked with him, and began to complain about his sorrows.
(1) Trinity, a famous monastery, pilgrimage to which is reckoned a
virtue. Avdyeitch calls this _zemlyak-starichok_, _Bozhi chelovyek_,
God's man.--Ed.
"I have no desire to live any longer," he said, "I only wish I was dead.
That is all I pray God for. I am a man without anything to hope for
now."
And the little old man said to him:--
"You don't talk right, Martuin, we must not judge God's doings. The
world moves, not by our skill, but by God's will. God decreed for your
son to die,--for you--to live. So it is for the best. And you are in
despair, because you wish to live for your own happiness."
"But what shall one live for?" asked Martuin.
And the little old man said:--
"We must live for God, Martuin. He gives you life, and for His sake you
must live. When you begin to live for Him, you will not grieve over
anything, and all will seem easy to you."
Martuin kept silent for a moment, and then said, "But how can one live
for God?"
And the little old man said:--
"Christ has taught us how to live for God. You know how to read? Buy a
Testament, and read it; there you will learn how to live for God.
Everything is explained there."
And these words kindled a fire in Avdyeitch's heart. And he went that
very same day, bought a New Testament in large print, and began to read.
At first Avdyeitch intended to read only on holidays; but as he began to
read, it so cheered his soul that he used to read every day. At times he
would become so absorbed in reading, that all the kerosene in the lamp
would burn out, and still he could not tear himself away. And so
Avdyeitch used to read every evening.
And the more he read, the clearer he understood what God wanted of him,
and how one should live for God; and his heart kept growing easier and
easier. Formerly, when he lay down to sleep, he used to sigh and groan,
and always thought of his Kapitoshka; and now his only exclamation
was:--
"Glory to Thee! glory to Thee, Lord! Thy will be done."
And from that time Avdyeitch's whole life was changed. In other days he,
too, used to drop into a public-house(2) as a holiday amusement, to
drink a cup of tea; and he was not averse to a little brandy, either. He
would take a drink with some acquaintance, and leave the saloon, not
intoxicated, exactly, yet in a happy frame of mind, and inclined to talk
nonsense, and shout, and use abusive language at a person. Now he left
off that sort of thing. His life became quiet and joyful. In the morning
he would sit down to work, finish his allotted task, then take the
little lamp from the hook, put it on the table, get his book from the
shelf, open it, and sit down to read | 2,854.329196 |
2023-11-16 19:04:38.6940760 | 915 | 6 |
THE LOG OF A NONCOMBATANT
by Horace Green
Staff Correspondent of the New York Evening Post
Special Correspondent of the Boston Journal
1915
Preface
In the following pages the ego is thickly spread. Their publication is
the result of persuasion from many sources that, before returning to
the war zone, I should put into connected form my personal
experiences as correspondent during the first year of the War of
Nations. A few of these adventures were mentioned in news letters
from the Continent, where I limited myself so far as possible to
descriptions of armies at war and peoples in time of stress; but the
greater part of them were merely jotted down from time to time for my
own benefit in "The Log of a Noncombatant."
Contents
I. From Broadway To Ghent
II. The Second Bombardment Of Termonde
III. Captive
IV. A Clog Dance On The Scheldt
V. The Bombardment Of Antwerp
VI. The Surrender Of Antwerp
VII. Spying On Spies
VIII. The Sorrow Of The People
Appendix: Atrocities
The Log Of A Noncombatant
Chapter I
From Broadway To Ghent
When the war broke out in August, 1914, I was at work in the City
Room of the "New York Evening Post." One morning, during the first
week of activities, the copy boy handed me a telegram which was
signed "Luther, Boston," and contained the rather cryptic message:
--"How about this fight?"
It was some moments before I could recall the time, more than two
years before, when I had last seen the writer, Willard B. Luther,
Boston lawyer, devotee of some, and critic of many kinds of sport.
We had been sitting on that previous occasion--a crowd of college
fellows, including Luther and myself--in a certain room in
Cambridge, Massachusetts, not far from the University in that
neighborhood where Luther had attended the Law School and the
rest of us, on our respective graduation days, had received valuable
pieces of parchment with the presidential signature attached. The
conversation had already run through the question of Votes for
Women, progressive politics, and prize-fights, and before the card
game began it had settled on the last-named, chiefly because of my
own vainglorious description of adventures at Reno, Nevada, at the
time of the Jeffries-Johnson battle for the heavyweight championship
of the world. I remember telling with some gusto of my first
newspaper interview--one with "Bob" Fitzsimmons, then the Old
Man of the ring, and "Gentleman" Jim Corbett, who was Jeffries'
trainer at Reno.
"I had always wanted to see that performance," said Luther, "and
would have gone in a flash if I could have got any one to make the
trip with me. But remember this fact: whenever the next big fight is
held I'm going with you." Later in the evening we shook hands on the
proposition.
At the time that Luther's telegram came I was planning to start for the
Continent as Staff Correspondent of the "New York Evening Post"
and Special Correspondent of the "Boston Journal." Remembering
that Cambridge agreement I immediately wired:--
"Yes. This fight will do."
So that is how it came to pass that Luther and myself boarded the
Campania together, landed in Liverpool, cast about for ways and
means of getting into the scrimmage, and for the first month and a
half of my four months of wandering on the Continent were brother
conspirators, until the duties of partnership called my friend home and
left me without a companion in adventure.
In London we absorbed to some extent a heavy British fog and to a
greater extent British public opinion. We marveled at the exterior calm
of a nation plunged in the greatest of wars, yet fighting, so it seemed
at the time, with its top hat on and its smile still undisturbed. Across
the English Channel three days later the Dutch steam packet
Princess Juliana carried us safely through mine fields and between
lanes of British torpedo boats and torpedo boat | 2,854.714116 |
2023-11-16 19:04:38.9713050 | 1,391 | 44 |
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/American
Libraries.)
NEW IRELAND PAMPHLETS. NUMBER THREE
PRICE TWOPENCE
THE ISSUE
The Case for Sinn Fein
BY LECTOR
AS PASSED BY CENSOR.
NEW IRELAND PUBLISHING COMPANY, Limited
13 FLEET STREET, DUBLIN
1918
THE ISSUE
=INDEPENDENCE.=
Does Ireland wish to be free? Do we alone among the ancient Nations of
Europe desire to remain slaves? That, and that alone, is the question
which every Irish elector has now to answer. Let us put everything else
out of our minds as irrelevant claptrap. Let nothing distract us from this
single issue of Liberty. We must turn a deaf ear to sentimental whining
about what this or that man did, his length of service, his "fighting on
the floor of the House," and so on. Whatever may have been done in the way
of small doles, petty grants, and big talk, the =fact= is that we are not
Free and the =issue= is, Do we want to be Free?
Why should we be afraid of Freedom? Would any sane adult voluntarily
prefer to be a slave, to be completely in the control and power of
another? Men do not willingly walk into jail; why, then, should a whole
people? The men who are =afraid= of national liberty are unworthy even of
personal liberty; they are the victims of that slave mentality which
English coercion and corruption have striven to create in Ireland. When
Mr. John Dillon, grown tremulous and garrulous and feeble, asked for a
national convention this autumn "to definitely forswear an Irish
Republic," he was asking Ireland to commit an act of national apostasy and
suicide. Would =you= definitely forswear your personal freedom? Will Mr.
John Dillon hand his cheque-book and property over to some stranger and
indenture himself as a serf or an idiot? When he does, but not till then,
we shall believe that the Irish Nation is capable of sentencing itself
cheerfully to penal servitude for all eternity.
It was not always thus. "I say deliberately," said Mr. John Dillon at
Moville in 1904, "that I should never have dedicated my life as I have
done to this great struggle, if I did not see at the end of it the
crowning and consummation of our work--A FREE AND INDEPENDENT IRELAND." It
is sad that, fourteen years later, when the end is in sight, Mr. Dillon
should be found a recreant and a traitor to his past creed. The
degeneration of such a man is a damning indictment of Westminsterism.
Parnell, too save for one short moment when he tried by compromise to fool
English Liberalism but was foiled, proclaimed his belief in Irish
Independence.
This is what Parnell said at Cincinatti on 23rd February, 1880:--
"When we have undermined English misgovernment, we have paved the way
for Ireland to take her place among the nations of the earth. And let
us not forget that that is the ultimate goal at which all we Irishmen
aim. None of us, whether we be in America or in Ireland, or wherever
we may be, will be satisfied =until we have destroyed the last link
which keeps Ireland bound to England=."
Were he alive to-day, when the last link is snapping, on what side would
Parnell be? Would he forswear an Irish Republic or would he proclaim once
more, as he said in Cork (21st Jan., 1885): "No man has a right to fix the
boundary of the march of a Nation. No man has a right to say: Thus far
shalt thou go and no farther. And we have never attempted to fix the _ne
plus ultra_ to the progress of Ireland's nationhood and we never shall."
=IRELAND AND SMALL NATIONS.=
At New York 31st August, 1904, John Redmond declared:--
"If it were in my power to-morrow by any honourable means to
absolutely emancipate Ireland, I would do it and feel it my duty to do
it. (1904, not 1914!) I believe it would be just as possible for
Ireland to have a prosperous and free separate existence as a nation
as Holland, Belgium, or Switzerland, or other small nationalities. And
if it were in the power of any man to bring that result about
to-morrow by honourable and brave means, he would be indeed a coward
and a traitor to the traditions of his race did he not do so."
If Holland and Poland and all the other little lands, why not Ireland? Put
that straight question to yourself and you must answer it as John Redmond
did in 1904. Are we alone among the nations created to be slaves and
helots? Are we so incompetent and incapable as not to be able to manage
our own country? Is a people of four millions to be in perpetual bondage
and tutelage to a solicitor and a soldier? Did God Almighty cast up this
island as a sandbank for Englishmen to walk on? Is it the sole mission of
Irish men and women to send beef and butter to John Bull?
Look at the other nations and ask yourself, Why not? Why is not Ireland
free? Are we too small in area? We are double Switzerland or Denmark,
nearly three times Holland or Belgium. Is our population too small--though
it was once double? We are as numerous as Serbia, our population is as
large as that of Switzerland and nearly double that of Denmark or Norway.
Does the difficulty lie in our poverty? Are we too poor to exist as a free
people? The revenue raised =per head= in Ireland is double that of any
other small nation, seven times that of Switzerland! The total revenue of
Ireland is ten times that of Switzerland, three times that of Norway, four
times that of Denmark, Serbia or Finland. Yet all these countries have
their own armies, consuls, etc.; they run themselves as free nations at
far below the cost of servile Ireland. Why? Because | 2,854.991345 |
2023-11-16 19:04:39.0223710 | 4,126 | 10 | MAGICAL MONARCH OF MO AND HIS PEOPLE***
E-text prepared by Michael Gray ([email protected])
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 16259-h.htm or 16259-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/6/2/5/16259/16259-h/16259-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/1/6/2/5/16259/16259-h.zip)
THE SURPRISING ADVENTURES OF THE MAGICAL MONARCH OF MO AND HIS PEOPLE
by
L. FRANK BAUM
With pictures by Frank Ver Beck
1903
To the Comrade of my
boyhood days
Dr. Henry Clay Baum
TO THE READER
This book has been written for children. I have no shame in
acknowledging that I, who wrote it, am also a child; for since I can
remember my eyes have always grown big at tales of the marvelous, and
my heart is still accustomed to go pit-a-pat when I read of impossible
adventures. It is the nature of children to scorn realities, which
crowd into their lives all too quickly with advancing years. Childhood
is the time for fables, for dreams, for joy.
These stories are not true; they could no be true and be so marvelous.
No one is expected to believe them; they were meant to excite laughter
and to gladden the heart.
Perhaps some of those big, grown-up people will poke fun of us--at you
for reading these nonsense tales of the Magical Monarch, and at me for
writing them. Never mind. Many of the big folk are still children--even
as you and I. We cannot measure a child by a standard of size or age.
The big folk who are children will be our comrades; the others we need
not consider at all, for they are self-exiled from our domain.
L. FRANK BAUM.
June, 1903.
CONTENTS
THE FIRST SURPRISE
The Beautiful Valley of Mo
THE SECOND SURPRISE
The Strange Adventures of the King's Head
THE THIRD SURPRISE
The Tramp Dog and the Monarch's Lost Temper
THE FOURTH SURPRISE
The Peculiar Pains of Fruit Cake Island
THE FIFTH SURPRISE
The Monarch Celebrates His Birthday
THE SIXTH SURPRISE
King Scowleyow and His Cast-Iron Man
THE SEVENTH SURPRISE
Timtom and the Princess Pattycake
THE EIGHTH SURPRISE
The Bravery of Prince Jollikin
THE NINTH SURPRISE
The Wizard and the Princess
THE TENTH SURPRISE
The Duchess Bredenbutta's Visit to Turvyland
THE ELEVENTH SURPRISE
Prince Fiddlecumdoo and the Giant
THE TWELFTH SURPRISE
The Land of the Civilized Monkeys
THE THIRTEENTH SURPRISE
The Stolen Plum-Pudding
THE FOURTEENTH SURPRISE
The Punishment of the Purple Dragon
_The First Surprise_
THE BEAUTIFUL VALLEY OF MO
I dare say there are several questions you would like to ask at the
very beginning of this history. First: Who is the Monarch of Mo? And
why is he called the Magical Monarch? And where _is_ Mo, anyhow? And
why have you never heard of it before? And can it be reached by a
railroad or a trolley-car, or must one walk all the way?
These questions I realize should be answered before we (that "we" means
you and the book) can settle down for a comfortable reading of all the
wonders and astonishing adventures I shall endeavor faithfully to
relate.
In the first place, the Monarch of Mo is a very pleasant personage
holding the rank of King. He is not very tall, nor is he very short; he
is midway between fat and lean; he is delightfully jolly when he is not
sad, and seldom sad if he can possibly be jolly. How old he may be I
have never dared to inquire; but when we realize that he is destined to
live as long as the Valley of Mo exists we may reasonably suppose the
Monarch of Mo is exactly as old as his native land. And no one in Mo
has ever reckoned up the years to see how many they have been. So we
will just say that the Monarch of Mo and the Valley of Mo are each a
part of the other, and can not be separated.
He is not called the Magical Monarch because he deals in magic--for he
doesn't deal in magic. But he leads such a queer life in such a queer
country that his history will surely seem magical to us who inhabit the
civilized places of the world and think that anything we can not find a
reason for must be due to magic. The life of the Monarch of Mo seems
simple enough to him, you may be sure, for he knows no other existence.
And our ways of living, could he know of them, would doubtless astonish
him greatly.
The land of Mo, which is ruled by the King we call the Magical Monarch,
is often spoken of as the "Beautiful Valley." If they would only put it
on the maps of our geographies and paint it pink or light green, and
print a big round dot where the King's castle stands, it would be easy
enough to point out to you its exact location. But I can not find the
Valley of Mo in any geography I have examined; so I suspect the men who
made these instructive books really know nothing about Mo, else it
would surely be on the maps.
Of one thing I am certain: that no other country included in the maps
is so altogether delightful as the Beautiful Valley of Mo.
The sun shines all the time, and its rays are perfumed. The people who
live in the Valley do not sleep, because there is no night. Everything
they can possibly need grows on the trees, so they have no use for
money at all, and that saves them a deal of worry.
There are no poor people in this quaint Valley. When a person desires a
new hat he waits till one is ripe, and then picks it and wears it
without asking anybody's permission. If a lady wishes a new ring, she
examines carefully those upon the ring-tree, and when she finds one
that fits her finger she picks it and wears it upon her hand. In this
way they procure all they desire.
There are two rivers in the Land of Mo, one of which flows milk of a
very rich quality. Some of the islands in Milk River are made of
excellent cheese, and the people are welcome to spade up this cheese
whenever they wish to eat it. In the little pools near the bank, where
the current does not flow swiftly, delicious cream rises to the top of
the milk, and instead of water-lilies great strawberry leaves grow upon
the surface, and the ripe, red berries lie dipping their noses into the
cream, as if inviting you to come and eat them. The sand that forms the
river bank is pure white sugar, and all kinds of candies and bonbons
grow thick on the low bushes, so that any one may pluck them easily.
These are only a few of the remarkable things that exist in the
Beautiful Valley.
The people are merry, light-hearted folk, who live in beautiful houses
of pure crystal, where they can rest themselves and play their games
and go in when it rains. For it rains in Mo as it does everywhere else,
only it rains lemonade; and the lightning in the sky resembles the most
beautiful fireworks; and the thunder is usually a chorus from the opera
of Tannhauser.
No one ever dies in this Valley, and the people are always young and
beautiful. There is the King and a Queen, besides several princes and
princesses. But it is not much use being a prince in Mo, because the
King can not die; therefore a prince is a prince to the end of his
days, and his days never end.
Strange things occur in this strange land, as you may imagine; and
while I relate some of these you will learn more of the peculiar
features of the Beautiful Valley.
_The Second Surprise_
THE STRANGE ADVENTURES OF THE KING'S HEAD
A good many years ago, the Magical Monarch of Mo became annoyed by the
Purple Dragon, which came down from the mountains and ate up a patch of
his best chocolate caramels just as they were getting ripe.
So the King went out to the sword-tree and picked a long, sharp sword,
and tied it to his belt and went away to the mountains to fight the
Purple Dragon.
The people all applauded him, saying one to another:
"Our King is a good King. He will destroy this naughty Purple Dragon
and we shall be able to eat the caramels ourselves."
But the Dragon was not alone naughty; it was big, and fierce, and
strong, and did not want to be destroyed at all.
Therefore the King had a terrible fight with the Purple Dragon and cut
it with his sword in several places, so that the raspberry juice which
ran in its veins squirted all over the ground.
It is always difficult to kill Dragons. They are by nature
thick-skinned and tough, as doubtless every one has heard. Besides, you
must not forget that this was a Purple Dragon, and all scientists who
have studied deeply the character of Dragons say those of a purple
color at the most disagreeable to fight with. So all the King's cutting
and slashing had no effect upon the monster other than to make him
angry. Forgetful of the respect due to a crowned King, the wicked
Dragon presently opening wide its jaws and bit his Majesty's head clean
off his body. Then he swallowed it.
Of course the King realized it was useless to continue to fight after
that, for he could not see where the Dragon was. So he turned and tried
to find his way back to his people. But at every other step he would
bump into a tree, which made the naughty Dragon laugh at him.
Furthermore, he could not tell in which direction he was going, which
is an unpleasant feeling under any circumstances.
At last some of the people came to see if the King had succeeded in
destroying the Dragon, and found their monarch running around in a
circle, bumping into trees and rocks, but not getting a step nearer
home. SO they took his hand and led him back to the palace, where every
one was filled with sorrow at the sad sight of the headless King.
Indeed, his devoted subjects, for the first time in their lives, came
as near to weeping as an inhabitant of the Valley of Mo can.
"Never mind," said the King, cheerfully; "I can get along very well
without a head; and, as a matter of fact, the loss has its advantages.
I shall not be obliged to brush my hair, or clean my teeth, or wash my
ears. So do not grieve, I beg of you, but be happy and joyful as you
were before." Which showed the King had a good heart; and, after all, a
good heart is better than a head, any say.
The people, hearing him speak out of his neck (for he had no mouth),
immediately began to laugh, which in a short time led to their being as
happy as ever.
But the Queen was not contented.
"My love," she said to him, "I can not kiss you any more, and that will
break my heart."
Thereupon the King sent word throughout the Valley that any one who
could procure for him a new head should wed one of the princesses.
The princesses were all exceedingly pretty girls, and so it was not
long before one man made a very nice head out of candy and brought it
to the King. It did not look exactly like the old head, but the efface
was very sweet, nevertheless; so the King put it on and the Queen
kissed it at once with much satisfaction.
The young man had put a pair of glass eyes in the head, with which the
King could see very well after he got used to them.
According to the royal promise, the young man was now called into the
palace and asked to take his pick of the princesses. There were all so
sweet and lady-like that he had some trouble in making a choice; but at
last he took the biggest, thinking that he would thus secure the
greatest reward, and they were married amid great rejoicing.
But, a few days afterward, the King was caught out in a rainstorm, and
before he could get home his new head had melted in the great shower of
lemonade that fell. Only the glass eyes were left, and these he put in
his pocket and went sorrowfully to tell the Queen of his new
misfortune.
Then another young man who wanted to marry a princess made the King a
head out of dough, sticking in it the glass eyes; and the King tried it
on and found that it fitted very well. So the young man was given the
next biggest princess.
But the following day the sun chance to shine extremely hot, and when
the King walked out it baked his dough head into bread, at which the
monarch felt very light-headed. And when the birds saw the bread they
flew down from the trees, perched upon the King's shoulder and quickly
ate up his new head. All but the glass eyes.
Again the good King was forced to go home to the Queen without a head,
and the lady firmly declared that this time her husband must have a
head warranted to last at least as long as the honeymoon of the young
man who made it; which was not at all unreasonable under the
circumstances.
So a request was sent to all loyal subjects throughout the Valley
asking them to find a head for their King that was neat and
substantial.
In the meantime the King had a rather hard time of it. When he wished
to go any place he was obliged to hold out in front of him, between his
thumbs and fingers, the glass eyes, that they might guide his
footsteps. This, as you may imagine, made his Majesty look rather
undignified, and dignity is very important to every royal personage.
At last a wood-chopper in the mountains made a head out of wood and
sent it to the King. It was neatly carved, besides being solid and
durable; moreover, it fitted the monarch's neck to the T. So the King
rummaged in his pocket and found the glass eyes, and when these were
put in the new head the King announced his satisfaction.
There was only one drawback--he couldn't smile, as the wooden face was
too stiff; and it was funny to hear his Majesty laughing heartily while
his face maintained a solemn expression. But the glass eyes twinkled
merrily and every one knew that he was the same kind-hearted monarch of
old, although he had become, of necessity, rather hard-headed.
Then the King sent word to the wood-chopper to come to the palace and
take his pick of the princesses, and preparations were at once begun
for the wedding.
But the wood-chopper, on his way to the court, unfortunately passed by
the dwelling of the Purple Dragon and stopped to speak to the monster.
Now it seems that when the Dragon had swallowed the King's head, the
unusual meal made the beast ill. It was more accustomed to berries and
caramels for dinner than to heads, and the sharp points of the King's
crown (which was firmly fastened to the head) pricked the Dragon's
stomach and made the creature miserable. After a few days of suffering
the Dragon disgorged the head, and, not knowing what else to do with
it, locked it up in a cupboard and put the key in its pocket.
When the Dragon met the wood-chopper and learned he had made a new head
for the King, and as a reward was to wed one of the princesses, the
monster became very angry. It resolved to do a wicked thing; which will
not surprise you when you remember the beast's purple color.
"Step into my parlor and rest yourself," said the Dragon, politely.
Wicked people are most polite when they mean mischief.
"Thank you, I'll stop for a few minutes," replied the wood-chopper;
"but I can not stay long, as I am expected at court."
When he had entered the parlor the Dragon suddenly opened its mouth and
snapped off the poor wood-chopper's head. Being warned by experience,
however, it did not swallow the head, but placed it in the cupboard.
Then the Dragon took from a shelf the King's head and glued it on the
wood-chopper's neck.
"Now," said the beast, with a cruel laugh, "you are the King! Go home
and claim your wife and your kingdom."
The poor wood-chopper was much amazed; for at first he did not really
know which he was, the King or the wood-chopper.
He looked in the mirror and, seeing the King, made a low bow. Then the
King's head thought: "Who am I bowing to? There is no one greater than
the King!" And so at once there began a conflict between the
wood-chopper's heart and the King's head.
The Dragon was mightily pleased at the result of its wicked stratagem,
and having pushed the bewildered wood-chopper out of the castle,
immediately sent him on his way to the court.
When the poor man neared the town the people ran out and said: "Why,
this is the King come back again. All hail, your Majesty!"
"All nonsense!" returned the wood-chopper. "I am only a poor man with
the King's head on my shoulders. You can easily see it isn't mine, for
it's crooked; the Dragon didn't glue it on straight."
"Where, then, is your own head?" they asked.
"Locked up in the Dragon's cupboard," replied the poor fellow,
beginning to weep.
"Here," cried the King's head; "stop this. You mustn't cry out of my
eyes! The King never weeps."
"I beg pardon, your Majesty," said the wood-chopper, meekly, "I'll not
do it again."
"Well, see that you don't," returned the head more cheerfully.
The people were greatly amazed at this, and took the wood-chopper to
the palace, where all was soon explained.
When the Queen saw the King's head she immediately kissed it; but the
King rebuked her, saying she must kiss only him.
"But it is your head," said the poor Queen.
"Probably it is," replied the King; "but it is on another man. You must
confine yourself to kissing my wooden head."
"I'm sorry," sighed the Queen, "for I like to kiss the real head best."
"And so you shall," said the King's head; "I don't approve your kissing
that | 2,855.042411 |
2023-11-16 19:04:39.3179080 | 3,251 | 11 |
Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Adventures of Hans Sterk, by Captain A.W. Drayson, R.A..
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
ADVENTURES OF HANS STERK, BY CAPTAIN A.W. DRAYSON, R.A..
PREFACE.
In the history of colonisation there is probably no example on record so
extraordinary as that of the emigration from the colony of the Cape of
Good Hope, in 1835, of nearly six thousand souls, who, without guides or
any definite knowledge of where they were going or what obstacles they
would encounter, yet placed their all in the lottery and journeyed into
the wilderness.
The cause of this emigration was to avoid what the emigrants considered
the oppression of the ruling Government, and the object was to found an
independent nationality in the interior of Africa.
These emigrants, shortly after quitting the neighbourhood of the Cape
colony, were attacked by the chief of a powerful tribe called the
Matabili, into whose country they had trespassed. Severe battles, in
which overwhelming numbers were brought against them, were fought by the
emigrants, the general results being victory to the white man.
Not satisfied with the situation which these victories might have
enabled them to secure, a party of the emigrants journeyed on towards
the east, in order to obtain a better position near the present district
of Natal. This party were shortly afterwards either treacherously
massacred by a Zulu chief named Dingaan, or were compelled to fight for
their lives and property during many months.
It is mainly amidst these scenes that the hero of the following tale
passed--scenes which brought out many cases of individual courage,
daring, and perseverance rarely equalled in any part of the world.
Around the bivouac fire, or in the ride over the far-spreading plains,
or whilst resting after a successful hunting track in the tangled
forest, the principal events of this tale have been recorded. From Zulu
and Boer, English emigrant and Hottentot driver, we have had various
accounts, each varying according to the peculiar views of the relater,
but all agreeing as regards the main facts here blended and interwoven
into a tale.
CHAPTER ONE.
INTRODUCTION TO THE HUNTERS--DEATH OF THE LION--DISCOVERY OF THE
ELEPHANTS BY HANS STERK.
Near the outskirts of a far-extending African forest, and close beside
some deep shady-pools, the only remnants of a once rapidly flowing
river, were seen one glowing summer's evening, shortly after sunset, a
party of some ten men; bronzed workmen-like fellows they were too, their
dress and equipment proclaiming them hunters of the first class. This
party were reclining on the turf, smoking, or giving the finishing touch
to their rifles and smooth-bore guns, which they had been engaged in
cleaning. Among this party there were two black men, fine,
stalwart-looking fellows, whose calm demeanour and bright steady gazing
eyes, proclaimed them men of nerve and energy. One tiny yellow man, a
Hottentot, was remarkable among the group on account of his smallness,
as he stood scarcely more than five feet in height, whereas all his
companions were tall heavy men. A fire was brightly blazing, and
several small tin vessels on this fire were steaming as their contents
hissed and bubbled. The white men who composed this party were Dutch
South African Boers, who were making an excursion into the favourite
feeding-grounds of the Elephant, in order to supply themselves with
ivory, this valuable commodity being to them a source of considerable
wealth.
"It will soon be very dark," exclaimed Bernhard, one of the Boers, "and
Hans will have difficulty in finding our lager; I will go on to the
headland and shoot."
"You may leave Sterk to take care of himself," said Heinrich, another
Boer, "for no man is less likely to lose himself than he is."
"I will go and shoot at all events," said Bernhard, "for it can do no
harm; and though Hans is quick and keen, watchful and careful, he may
for once be overtaken by a fog or the darkness, and he does not well
know this country."
With this excuse for his proceeding, the man called Bernhard grasped his
large-bored gun, and ascended a krantz which overhung the resting-place
of his party, when, having reached the summit, he placed the muzzle of
his gun within a foot of the ground, and fired both barrels in quick
succession. This is a common signal amongst African hunters, it being
understood to mean, that the resting-place at night is where the double
shot is fired from.
There being no reply to this double shot, Bernhard returned to his
companions, and the whole party then commenced their evening meal.
"So your sweetheart did not reply to you, Bernhard," said one of the
Boers, "though you did speak so loudly."
"Hans Sterk is my sworn friend, good and true," replied Bernhard; "and
no man speaks lightly of him before me."
"Quite right, Bernhard, stand to your friends, and they will stand to
you; and Hans is a good friend to all, and few of us have not been
indebted to him for some good turn or other; but what is Tembili the
Kaffir doing?"
At this remark, all eyes were directed towards one of the Kaffir men,
who had risen to his feet, and stood grasping his musket and looking
eagerly into the forest near, whilst his dark companion was gazing
fixedly in the same direction. It was a fine sight to observe this
bronzed son of the desert at home and on the watch, for he did seem at
home amidst the scenes around him. After a minute's intent watching, he
raised his hand, and in a low whisper said, "Leuew, Tao," (the Dutch and
Matabili names for a lion). "Leuew!" exclaimed each Boer, as he seized
his weapons, which were close at hand and stood ready for an emergency.
"Make up the fire, Piet," said Heinrich: "let us illuminate the
visitor." And a mass of dried grass and sticks thrown on the fire
caused a brilliant flame, which lighted up the branches and creepers of
the ancient forest.
As the flame rose and the sticks crackled, a low grumbling growl came
from the underwood in the forest, which at once indicated to the hunters
that the Kaffir's instincts had not misled him, but that a lion was
crouching in the bush near.
"Fire a shot, Karl," said one of the Dutchmen; "drive him away with
fear; we must not let him remain near us." And Karl, aiming among the
brushwood, fired. Amidst the noise and echoes of the Boer's musket, a
loud savage roar was audible, as the lion, thus disturbed, moved
sullenly away from what he had expected would have been a feast; whilst
the hunters, hearing him retreat, proceeded without any alarm with their
meal, the Kaffirs alone of the party occasionally stopping in their
eating to listen, and to watch the neighbouring bush.
The sun had set about three hours, and the moon, a few days past the
full, had risen; whilst the Boers, having finished their meal, were
rolled up in their sheepskin carosses, and sleeping on the ground as
calmly as though they were each in a comfortable bed. The Kaffirs,
however, were still quietly but steadily eating, and conversing in a low
tone, scarcely above a whisper.
"The lion will not leave us during the night," said the Kaffir called
Tembili, "I will not sleep unless you watch, 'Nquane."
"Yes, I will watch whilst you sleep, then you sleep whilst I watch,"
replied the Kaffir addressed as 'Nquane. "We shall shoot elephants
to-morrow, I think; and the young chief must be now close to them, that
is why he does not return."
"No: he would return to tell us if he could, I fear he must have lost
himself," replied Tembili.
"The `strong' lose himself," exclaimed 'Nquane, "no, as soon the vulture
lose his way in the air, or the springbok on the plains, or the elephant
in the forest, as the strong lose himself any where. He sees without
eyes and hears without ears. Hark! is that the lion?"
Both Kaffirs listened attentively for some minutes, when 'Nquane said,
"It is the lion moving up the krantz: he smells something or hears
something; he must have tasted man's flesh, to have stopped here so long
close to us. What can he hear now? Ah, there is something up high in
the bushes, a buck perhaps, the lion will soon feast on it, and that
will be the better for us, as when his belly is full he will not want to
eat you or me."
Attentively as the Kaffirs watched the bushes, and listened for some
sound indicative of the lion's position, they yet could hear nothing; so
quietly did the creature move, they had almost given up their attention
to eating, when a sudden flash of light burst from the bushes on the top
of the kloof, followed by a thundering roar which was succeeded by a
silence, broken only at intervals by the distant echoes of the report of
the gun, which at first had scarcely been audible in the midst of the
lion's roar, for such it proved to be.
As these sounds burst over the camp, each hunter started from his
slumber, and stood waiting for some fresh indication of danger, or cause
for action; for half a minute no man spoke, but then Bernhard
exclaimed--
"That must have been Hans, he must have met the lion in the dark;" and,
"Oh, Hans! Hans!" he shouted:
"Here so," replied a voice from the summit of the kloof; "is that
Bernhard?"
"Yes, Hans: are you hurt?"
"No, but the lion is: he is dying in a bush not far off. I don't like
to move, as I can't see him: could you bring some lighted branches
here?"
'Nquane, the Kaffir, and Bernhard each seized a large blazing branch,
and grasping their guns, ascended the steep <DW72> to the position
occupied by Hans.
"Up this way," said Hans, "the lion is to your right, and I think dead;
but we had better not go near him till we are certain. Now give me a
branch, I can light this grass, and go look for him." Saying this, Hans
advanced to some bushes and cast a handful of blazing grass before him.
"He's dead," exclaimed Hans, "so come, and we will skin him: he's a fine
fellow!"
"Come down to the camp and eat first, Hans," urged Bernhard, "and tell
us where you have been, then come and skin the lion."
"No, business first," exclaimed Hans. "The jackalls might spoil the
skin in a few minutes, and before the lion was cold; so we will first
free him of his coat, then I will eat."
It took Hans and his two companions only a short time to divest the lion
of its skin, when the three returned to camp, where the new-comer was
heartily welcomed, and where he was soon fully occupied in making a meal
from the remains of the supper left by his companions. Hans Sterk, as
he sat quietly eating his meal with an appetite that seemed to indicate
a long previous fast, did not give one the idea of a very remarkable
man. He was quite young--probably not more than two-and-twenty, and not
of very great size; he was, however, what is called well put together,
and seemed more framed for activity than strength; his eyes were
deep-set and small, with that earnest look about them which seemed to
plainly indicate that they saw a great deal more than most eyes. His
companions seemed quite to understand Hans' peculiarities, for they did
not address a word to him whilst he was eating, being fully aware that
had they done so they would have obtained no answer. When, however, he
had completely satisfied his hunger, Bernhard said--
"What have you seen and done, Hans? and why are you so late? We feared
you had lost the line for our resting-place before it got dark, and
would not reach us to-night."
"Lost the line," replied Hans; "that was not easy, considering you
stopped at the only river for ten miles round; but I was nearly stopping
away all night, only I remembered you had such good fat eland for
supper, and so I returned."
"And what made you nearly stop away, Hans?"
"Few men like to walk about among bushes and krantzes when man-eating
lions are on the look-out, and the sun has set for two hours," replied
Hans.
"Was there nothing else that kept you?" inquired Bernhard. "You left us
all of a sudden."
"Yes, there was something else kept me away."
"And that was--"
"This," said Hans, as he pulled from his coat pocket a small brown lump
like India-rubber, from which two or three long wire-like bristles
protruded.
"You came on elephants!" exclaimed several of the Boers. "What luck!
The first we have seen. Were they bulls or cows?"
"I came on fresh elephant's spoor soon after I left you," said Hans. "I
dared not come back to call you, and feared to miss you; so I went on
alone, and saw the spoor of four large bull elephants. This spoor I
followed for some distance, and then found that the creatures had
entered the forest. But the place was good; there were large trees, and
but little underwood; so I could see far, and walk easily. I came upon
the elephants; they were together, and knew not I was near till I had
fired, and the big bull dropped dead."
"Where did you hit him, Hans?"
"Between the eye and the ear, and he fell to the shot."
"The others escaped, then, Hans," said Heinrich.
"Not before I had hit one with fine tusks behind the shoulder."
"Then he escaped?"
"No, he went for two miles, then separated from the others, and stood in
the thick bush. I becrouped (stalked him) and gave him my bullet
between the eye and the ear, and he fell."
"Where | 2,855.337948 |
2023-11-16 19:04:39.8014450 | 3,252 | 16 | ANTIETAM***
E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Online
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THE YOUNG SHARPSHOOTER AT ANTIETAM
by
EVERETT T. TOMLINSON
Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1914
Copyright, 1914, by Everett T. Tomlinson
All Rights Reserved
Published September 1914
[Illustration: THEY WERE FALLING BY SCORES]
PREFACE
This story has been written with no desire to revive or even to keep
alive the spirit of the struggle between the States.
Nevertheless the facts which have made our history and the forces which
have entered into the making of the life of our country ought not to be
ignored or forgotten. The effect of the conflict was too great for that.
The Civil War is now far enough away to enable us to see the heroic,
dramatic, and even romantic elements that composed it; and all these,
too, free from the bitterness which naturally was characteristic of the
times.
To-day each side understands the other better, and with a more complete
knowledge is able to see more clearly the sterling qualities of both
contestants.
The appreciation of the importance of Lee's first attempt to invade the
North is necessary if one is to understand the struggle which followed.
The dash, spirit, and skill of the great Southern leader, as well as the
energy and the daring of his lieutenants, are seen to-day more clearly
than in the times when his effort was made. What the consequence would
have been if General Lee had succeeded, all can appreciate. The battle
of Antietam was almost a pivot of the great Civil War.
That my young readers may gain a more complete knowledge of the daring
advance of the great Southern general and the result which followed when
his army was turned back into Virginia, I have written this story. My
hope is that it will lead to a careful study of the conflict, and that
boys, North and South alike, may be led into an increased knowledge of
and interest in our common country.
EVERETT T. TOMLINSON.
ELIZABETH, NEW JERSEY.
CONTENTS
I. THE IRISHMAN AND HIS PIG 1
II. THE SUTLER'S GOODS 13
III. INTERCEPTED 27
IV. THE V IN THE FENCE 38
V. THE PLAN OF GENERAL LEE 47
VI. LONG JOHN 54
VII. CAUGHT 63
VIII. UNDER GUARD 72
IX. THE PLOT 83
X. INTO THE STORM 93
XI. NICK 102
XII. THE GIANT 113
XIII. FRIENDS OF THE UNION 124
XIV. THE SUTLER AS A GUIDE 135
XV. WARLIKE BEES 146
XVI. A HELPER 154
XVII. THE GUEST ROOM 166
XVIII. THE FIRE 177
XIX. AT THE FORK 188
XX. THE STACK OF STRAW 198
XXI. THE CARPET-BAG 207
XXII. A MYSTERY 217
XXIII. THE GUARD-HOUSE 227
XXIV. A FRUITLESS INTERVIEW 236
XXV. THE EXECUTION 248
XXVI. THE TEST 260
XXVII. THE SHARPSHOOTERS 270
XXVIII. THE PRESIDENT'S ACTION 280
XXIX. THE BATTLE 290
XXX. THE FOLLOWING DAY 302
XXXI. ANTIETAM 311
XXXII. CONCLUSION 323
ILLUSTRATIONS
THEY WERE FALLING BY SCORES (PAGE 303) _Frontispiece_
"DEY SAY YO' HAB HAWNS" 58
NOEL HEARD THE BULLET AS IT WHISTLED PAST 152
"WHO'S IN THERE?" 200
_From drawings by George Avison_
THE YOUNG SHARPSHOOTER AT ANTIETAM
CHAPTER I
THE IRISHMAN AND HIS PIG
"You're too noisy, Dennis."
"What's the harm?" replied Dennis O'Hara as he stopped a moment and
looked all about him. "There are no Johnnies around here."
"You don't know whether there are or not," retorted Noel Curtis sharply,
as he too glanced in either direction along the dusty road over which
the two young soldiers were tramping that September day in 1862. Both
were clad in the uniform of the Union army, and the manner in which they
carried their rifles gave evidence of the fact that both young soldiers
were well known in the army of General McClellan for their skill as
sharpshooters.
"'Tis nothing I'm afraid of now," said Dennis gleefully, as he shifted
from one shoulder to the other the body of a small pig which he had
secured in his foraging expedition with his companions.
The day was one to stir the souls of both young men, who were thoroughly
wearied by the routine of the camp life at Harper's Ferry, where they
had been stationed with about eight thousand other Union soldiers. There
was a haze in the distance that covered the summits of the hills and
even the waters of the near-by stream seemed to be subdued as they
rushed on their way to join the Potomac.
"'Tis a fine day," exclaimed Dennis; and at once he began to sing,--
"My rations are S.B.,
Taken from porkers three
Thousand years old;
And hard-tack cut and dried
Long before Noah died,--
From what wars left aside
Ne'er can be told."
"What do you mean by 'S.B.'?" laughed Noel.
"Sometimes 'tis said to mean'salt bacon,' and then again maybe 'tis
'salt beef,' and sometimes we call it'soaked beans.' Whatever it is I
have had my fill of it. Shure, Noel, me boy, it's you and I that will be
feasting ourselves on some roast pork before to-morrow mornin'."
"Look at those pickaninnies!" exclaimed Noel, as he pointed to a little
hut from which a stream of black-faced urchins appeared, who were
rushing to join their companions in the road and watch the two
approaching Union soldiers.
"Wait 'til I sing them a song, too," exclaimed Dennis; and once more he
began to sing,--
"Ole massa run, ha! ha!
De <DW54>s stay, ho! ho!
It must be now dat de kingdom's comin'
And de year of Jubilo."
In addition to the crowd of dusky-faced children several older <DW64>s
now joined the group to watch the passing Union soldiers. The boys in
blue were still such a novelty to many of the slaves that their
appearance usually served to summon speedily a band of the admiring
dusky spectators.
Dennis, unfamiliar with the <DW52> people and their ways, had never
ceased to express his dislike of them. Many a time in the camp when the
soldier boys had wanted to have a little sport they would call upon
Dennis to "cuss the <DW65>s," by which term they described Dennis's
oratorical efforts. Standing upon the head of a barrel, or mounting some
box near the quarters of the sutler, with his ready tongue Dennis
promptly poured forth a steady stream of almost meaningless words that
were supposed to be descriptive of his feeling of antipathy toward the
people for whose liberty he was fighting.
In the company of <DW64>s at this time assembled to watch the passing of
the two young soldiers there was one woman, manifestly an old
field-hand, whose size was so immense as to be impressive. The
admiration with which the woman gazed upon Dennis was returned in the
expression of astonishment with which the young Irish soldier stared at
this huge negress.
"Shure, Noel," he exclaimed to his friend in a loud whisper, "'tis not
an ounce liss than four hundred pounds she weighs."
Noel laughed and did not reply as he looked again at the strange woman.
Her cheeks hung down almost to her shoulders, and her immense lower lip,
which appeared to be nearly an inch in thickness, and her hair, which in
appearance was not unlike the tail of a horse after the animal has been
feeding in some field where cockles abound, increased the weird
expression with which she beamed upon the approaching boys.
All of the <DW64>s by this time were becoming more and more excited.
Their eyes seemed almost to protrude from their faces. They soon began
to sing and dance, and mingled with the strange noises were the wild and
weird shouts they occasionally uttered. The huge negress was the wildest
of all.
Neither of the approaching soldiers looked at the spectacle with any
other thought than that of curiosity. To both of them up to the time of
their enlistment a <DW64> had been a rare sight. Since they had entered
the army, of course they naturally had come frequently in contact with
the dusky slaves. And the contrabands also on many occasions had flocked
into the camps, confidently expecting to be sent North by their soldier
friends.
Suddenly the huge negress abruptly started toward the young soldiers.
Swinging her arms as she ran, she swiftly approached the boys, who had
stopped abruptly when they first discovered her action.
"Bress de Lor'! Bress de Lor'! Yo's de ones we's been prayin' fo' dese
fo' yeahs! Lor' bress ye, honey! I lub ye! I lub ye!" she added in her
excitement, as she lunged toward Dennis, who was the particular object
of her attack.
For a moment the startled young Irishman gazed in mingled disgust and
fear at the huge negress, who was rapidly approaching. Then without a
word of explanation Dennis O'Hara, who on the battle-field had been
brave almost beyond the power of description, abruptly turned and fled
from the excited negress. A wild shout from the assemblage followed his
unexpected departure, and even Noel was compelled to laugh when he saw
the huge woman start in swift and awkward pursuit of the fleeing
soldier.
Unwilling to let go his hold upon the pig, which he had secured in his
foraging, Dennis was greatly hampered in his flight. With long strides
the black woman gained rapidly upon him. Once Dennis emitted a loud
whoop of terror or warning, Noel was unable to decide which.
The excitement of the <DW64>s became more marked as it was seen that the
efforts of Dennis to escape were unavailing. Nearer and nearer came the
excited black woman, and in a brief time she flung her great arms about
Dennis, who was helpless to protect himself, as he still was unwilling
to let go his hold upon his prize.
"Lor' bress ye, honey!" shouted the woman as she clasped the unwilling
soldier in her arm. "Bress de Lor'! Bress de Lor'! We hab bin prayin'
fo' yo' dese fo' yeahs! M--m--m--"
Her grasp evidently became more vigorous and her enthusiasm more marked
as the plight of the helpless soldier became more manifest. The watching
<DW64>s, almost hilarious by this time, started toward the place where
the exciting scene was being enacted.
What the outcome might be now began to trouble even Noel, who rapidly
advanced to the side of his friend, and shouted to the approaching
blacks, "Keep back! Keep back!"
The <DW64>s, however, either were too excited or were unwilling at first
to heed the request, and in a screaming, laughing, shouting mob they
still pressed forward.
The negress, as has been said, apparently a field-hand, was possessed of
great physical strength, and it was plain that Dennis was unable to
protect or even release himself as long as he held to the body of the
pig.
As Noel approached, Dennis shouted excitedly to him, "Take the porker,
Noel, me boy! Take me gun, too! Help me out o' this!"
"Bress ye, honey! We hab bin waitin' fo' yeahs fo' yo' to come! We's
been prayin' all de time and when I hear yo' singin' about 'Ole massa
run, ha! ha!' and 'De <DW54>s stay, ho! ho!' den I des know de kingdom
was come shore 'nuff and de yeah of Jubilo was right yere!"
Too angry to respond, Dennis waited until Noel had relieved him of his
gun and the pig, and then with one violent effort freed himself from the
grasp of the excited black woman.
When she made as if she was about to approach him once more and renew
her expression of delight over the coming of the boys in blue, Dennis
suddenly seized the little pig that Noel was holding and swinging it
with all his strength struck the woman with it upon the side of her
face.
The effect of his effort, however, was plainly not more than to cause
the huge mass of flesh to stop a moment, but not to abandon the efforts
in which the negress was engaged. Again Dennis drew back the little pig
and again struck at his tormentor. His second effort, however, like his
first, was unable to check the fervor of the powerful woman. The
remaining <DW64>s now were almost upon the struggling pair. The fear in
Noel's heart that some harm might come to Dennis or to himself became
real.
"Stand back there!" he shouted. "Don't come any nearer!"
At his word the crowd halted and, quickly taking advantage of the
interval, Noel said, "This woman says you have been praying for four
years for us to come."
"Yas, suh! Yas, suh! We shore has! Dis yere is de Jubilo, shore 'nuff!
Shore 'nuff! Ole massa goin' to run, and de <DW54>s goin' to stay!"
"Do you know that song?" inquired Noel.
"We shore does! Yas, suh! Yas, suh! We knows it!"
"Then I want | 2,855.821485 |
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