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THE VOYAGE OF THE
_OREGON_
FROM SAN FRANCISCO
TO SANTIAGO IN
1898
_AS TOLD BY_
ONE OF THE CREW
_PRIVATELY PRINTED_
THE MERRYMOUNT PRESS
_BOSTON_
1908
[_One hundred and twenty-five copies printed_]
To the Reader
_Almost ten years have passed since the country followed, in scanty
telegram from port to port, the Oregon speeding down one side of a
continent and up the other to Bahia; then came two anxious, silent
weeks when apprehension and fear pictured four Spanish cruisers with a
pack of torpedo boats sailing out into the west athwart the lone ship's
course, the suspense ending only when tidings came of her arrival at
Jupiter Inlet; then off Santiago, after a month of waiting, there is
the outcoming of Cervera's squadron, when this splendid ship, with
steam all the time up, leaps to the front of her sisters of the fleet,
like an unleashed hound, and joins the historic company of the Bon
Homme Richard, the Constitution, the Hartford, in our naval annals.
From the start at the Golden Gate to the beaching of the Colon is a
succession of events full of thrilling merit and vitality which
official bickerings and envyings cannot change or obscure._
_The story has been told from the standpoint of the quarter-deck, the
court room, and the department bureau. Here we have the artless journal
of an unlettered sailor, written between decks, without the least
notion that it would ever be read apart from his own family circle. The
pages of his record give an insight into the mutual regard and
confidence existing between the captain and his crew which made the
voyage the memorable achievement that it was. Admiral Clark would be
made of stolid stuff were he indifferent to the enthusiasm and loyalty
manifest in the narrative in various ways, in none, however, more
hearty and sincere than in the endearing designations of the "old gent"
and "the old man." He was in fact fifty-four years of age when he
became captain of the Oregon. Shortly before, he had been on special
duty in the North Pacific at the head of a fleet of seven men-of-war,
at that time the largest cruising fleet in our navy since the conflict
with the Confederacy. Starting as midshipman at the Naval Academy in_
1860, _he had seen thirty-eight years of active and varied service in
all seas. In the contest with Spain the commanders of the various
warships were his associates at the academy. Sampson had been his
instructor there; Gridley, who opened the battle of Manila, and Cook,
who received the surrender of the Colon, were classmates; and Dayton,
who rendered distinguished service at San Juan, was a relative. In the
transition from wood to iron in naval architecture he has had command
in every type of fighting craft beginning with the wooden Ossipee, when
he took part at Mobile Bay in ramming the ironclad Tennessee, and, as
ensign in charge of the forward guns, was the first to exchange words
with the latter's commander as he came out of the casemate to surrender
his ship, and ending with the Oregon._
_The narrative which follows of the voyage from San Francisco to
Santiago in_ 1898 _was called to light by a communication of Admiral
Clark to the press in the winter of_ 1907 _relating | 3,418.480141 |
2023-11-16 19:14:02.5299500 | 3,108 | 10 |
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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]
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
DEAR ENEMY
DADDY LONG LEGS
JUST PATTY
PATTY AND PRISCILLA
THE FOUR POOLS MYSTERY
JERRY
MUCH ADO ABOUT PETER
LONDON
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE
WHEAT PRINCESS
By
JEAN WEBSTER
Author of 'Daddy Long Legs,' 'Just Patty,' 'Dear Enemy'
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LIMITED LONDON
------------------------------------------------------------------------
O. HENRY
"The time is coming, let us hope, when the whole
English-speaking world will recognise in O. HENRY one
of the greatest masters of modern fiction."
STEPHEN LEACOCK.
HODDER & STOUGHTON publish all the
books by O. HENRY in their famous
Popular Series
THE FOUR MILLION
THE TRIMMED LAMP
SIXES AND SEVENS
STRICTLY BUSINESS
ROADS OF DESTINY
CABBAGES AND KINGS
HEART OF THE WEST
THE GENTLE GRAFTER
OPTIONS
WHIRLIGIGS
THE VOICE OF THE CITY
ROLLING STONES
Cloth
LONDON: HODDER AND STOUGHTON
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PROLOGUE
IF you leave the city by the Porta Maggiore and take the Via
Praenestina, which leads east into the Sabine hills, at some thirty-six
kilometers' distance from Rome you will pass on your left a grey-walled
village climbing up the hillside. This is Palestrina, the old Roman
Praeneste; and a short distance beyond--also on the left--you will find
branching off from the straight Roman highway a steep mountain road,
which, if you stick to it long enough, will take you, after many
windings, to Castel Madama and Tivoli.
Several kilometers along this road you will see shooting up from a bare
crag above you a little stone hamlet crowned by the ruins of a
mediaeval fortress. The town--Castel Vivalanti--was built in the days
when a stronghold was more to be thought of than a water-supply, and
its people, from habit or love, or perhaps sheer necessity, have lived
on there ever since, going down in the morning to their work in the
plain and toiling up at night to their homes on the hill. So steep is
its site that the doorway of one house looks down on the roof of the
house below, and its narrow stone streets are in reality flights of
stairs. The only approach is from the front, by a road which winds and
unwinds like a serpent and leads at last to the Porta della Luna,
through which all of the traffic enters the town. The gate is
ornamented with the crest of the Vivalanti--a phoenix rising out of the
flame, supported by a heavy machicolated top, from which, in the old
days, stones and burning oil might be dropped upon the heads of the
unwelcome guests.
The town is a picturesque little affair--it would be hard to find a
place more so in the Sabine villages, it is very, very poor. In the
march of the centuries it has fallen out of step and been left far
behind; to look at it, one would scarcely dream that on the clear days
the walls and towers of modern Rome are in sight on the horizon. But in
its time Castel Vivalanti was not insignificant. This little hamlet has
entertained history within its walls. It has bodily outfaced robber
barons and papal troops. It has been besieged and conquered, and, alas,
betrayed--and that by its own prince. Twice has it been razed to the
ground and twice rebuilt. In one way or another, though, it has
weathered the centuries, and it stands to-day grey and forlorn,
clustering about the walls of its donjon and keep.
Castel Vivalanti, as in the middle ages, still gives the title to a
Roman prince. The house of Vivalanti was powerful in its day, and the
princes may often be met with--not always to their credit--in the
history of the Papal States. They were oftener at war than at peace
with the holy see, and there is the story of one pope who spent four
weary months watching the view from a very small window in Vivalanti's
donjon. But, in spite of their unholy quarrels, they were at times
devout enough, and twice a cardinal's hat has been worn in the family.
The house of late years has dwindled somewhat, both in fortune and
importance; but, nevertheless, Vivalanti is a name which is still
spoken with respect among the old nobles of Rome.
The lower <DW72>s of the hill on which the village stands are well
wooded and green with stone-pines and cypresses, olive orchards and
vineyards. Here the princes built their villas when the wars with the
popes were safely at an end and they could risk coming down from their
stronghold on the mountain. The old villa was built about a mile below
the town, and the gardens were laid out in terraces and parterres along
the <DW72> of the hill. It has long been in ruin, but its foundations
still stand, and the plan of the gardens may easily be traced. You will
see the entrance at the left of the road--a massive stone gateway
topped with moss-covered urns and a double row of cone-shaped cypresses
bordering a once stately avenue now grown over with weeds. If you pause
for a moment--and you cannot help doing so--you will see, between the
portals at the end of the avenue, some crumbling arches, and even, if
your eyes are good, the fountain itself.
Any contadino that you meet on the road will tell you the story of the
old Villa Vivalanti and the 'Bad Prince' who was (by the grace of God)
murdered two centuries ago. He will tell you--a story not uncommon in
Italy--of storehouses bursting with grain while the peasants were
starving, and of how, one moonlight night, as the prince was strolling
on the terrace contentedly pondering his wickednesses of the day, a
peasant from his own village up on the mountain, creeping behind him,
quiet as a cat, stabbed him in the back and dropped his body in the
fountain. He will tell you how the light from the burning villa was
seen as far as Rocca di Papa in the Alban hills; and he will add, with
a laugh and a shrug, that some people say when the moon is full the old
prince comes back and sits on the edge of the fountain and thinks of
his sins, but that, for himself, he thinks it an old woman's tale.
Whereupon he will cast a quick glance over his shoulder at the dark
shadow of the cypresses and covertly cross himself as he wishes you,
'_A revederla_.'
You cannot wonder that the young prince (two centuries ago) did not
build his new villa on the site of the old; for even had he, like the
brave contadino, cared nothing for ghosts, still it was scarcely a
hallowed spot, and lovers would not care to stroll by the fountain. So
it happens that you must travel some distance further along the same
road before you reach the gates of the new villa, built anno domini
1693, in the pontificate of his Holiness Innocent XII. Here you will
find no gloomy cypresses: the approach is bordered by spreading
plane-trees. The villa itself is a rambling affair, and, though
slightly time-worn, is still decidedly imposing, with its various
wings, its balconies and loggia and marble terrace.
The new villa--for such one must call it--faces west and north. On the
west it looks down over olive orchards and vineyards to the Roman
Campagna, with the dome of St. Peter's a white speck in the distance,
and, beyond it, to a narrow, shining ribbon of sea. On the north it
looks up to the Sabine mountains, with the height of Soracte rising
like an island on the horizon. For the rest, it is surrounded by laurel
and ilex groves with long shady walks and leafy arbors, with fountains
and cascades and broken statues all laid out in the stately formality
of the seventeenth century. But the trees are no longer so carefully
trimmed as they were a century ago; the sun rarely shines in these
green alleys, and the nightingales sing all day. Through every season,
but especially in the springtime, the garden-borders are glowing with
colour. Hedges of roses, oleanders and golden laburnum, scarlet
pomegranate blossoms and red and white camellias, marguerites and
lilies and purple irises, bloom together in flaming profusion. And
twice a year, in the spring and the autumn, the soft yellow walls of
the villa are covered with lavender wistaria and pink climbing roses,
and every breeze is filled with their fragrance.
It is a spot in which to dream of old Italy, of cardinals and pages and
gorgeous lackeys, of gallant courtiers and beautiful ladies, of Romeos
and Juliets trailing back and forth over the marble terrace and making
love under the Italian moon. But if there have been lovers, as is
doubtless the case, there have also been haters among the Vivalanti,
and you may read of more than one prince murdered by hands other than
those of his peasants. The walls of the new villa, in the course of
their two hundred years, have looked down on their full share of
tragedies, and the Vivalanti annals are grim reading withal.
And now, having pursued the Vivalanti so far, you may possibly be
disappointed to hear that the story has nothing to do with them. But if
you are interested in learning more of the family you can find his
Excellency Anastasio di Vivalanti, the present prince and the last of
the line, any afternoon during the season in the casino at Monte Carlo.
He is a slight young man with a dark, sallow face and many fine lines
under his eyes.
Then why, you may ask, if we are not concerned with the Vivalanti, have
we lingered so long in their garden? Ah--but the garden does concern
us, though the young prince may not; and it is a pleasant spot, you
must acknowledge, in which to linger. The people with whom we are
concerned are (I hesitate to say it for fear of destroying the glamour)
an American family. Yes, it is best to confess it boldly--are American
millionaires. It is out--the worst is told! But why, may I ask in my
turn, is there anything so inherently distressing in the idea of an
American family (of millionaires) spending the summer in a
seventeenth-century Italian villa up in the Sabine hills--especially
when the rightful heir prefers _trente-et-un_ at Monte Carlo? Must they
of necessity spoil the romance? They are human, and have their passions
like the rest of us; and one of them at least is young, and men have
called her beautiful--yes, in this very garden.
CHAPTER I
IT was late and the studio was already well filled when two new-comers
were ushered into the room--one a woman still almost young, and still
(in a kindly light) beautiful; the other a girl emphatically young, her
youth riding triumphant over other qualities which in a few years would
become significant. A slight, almost portentous, hush had fallen over
the room as they crossed the threshold and shook hands with their host.
In a group near the door a young man--it was Laurence Sybert, the first
secretary of the American Embassy--broke off in the middle of a
sentence with the ejaculation: 'Ah, the Wheat Princess!'
'Be careful, Sybert! She will hear you,' the grey-haired
consul-general, who stood at his elbow, warned.
Sybert responded with a laugh and a half-shrug; but his tones, though
low, had carried, and the girl flashed upon the group a pair of vivid
hazel eyes containing a half-puzzled, half-questioning light, as though
she had caught the words but not the meaning. Her vague expression
changed to one of recognition; she nodded to the two diplomats as she
turned away to welcome a delegation of young lieutenants, brilliant in
blue and gold and shining boots.
'Who is she?' another member of the group inquired as he adjusted a
pair of eye-glasses and turned to scrutinize the American girl--she was
American to the most casual observer, from the piquant details of her
gown to the masterly fashion in which she handled her four young men.
'Don't you know?' There was just a touch of irony in Sybert's tone.
'Miss Marcia Copley, the daughter of the American Wheat King--I fancy
you've seen his name mentioned in the papers.'
'Well, well! And so that's Willard Copley's daughter?' He readjusted
his glasses and examined her again from this new point of view. 'She
isn't bad-looking,' was his comment. 'The Wheat Princess!' He repeated
the phrase with a laugh. 'I suppose she has come over to marry an
Italian prince and make the title good?'
The originator of the phrase shrugged anew, with the intimation that it
was nothing to him who Miss Marcia Copley married.
' | 3,418.54999 |
2023-11-16 19:14:02.5381750 | 1,034 | 13 |
Produced by David Edwards, Martin Mayer and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
[A Transcribers' Note follows the text.]
[Illustration: _Photo by Brady._ _Eng^d by Geo E Perine N.Y._
Albert D. Richardson]
THE
SECRET SERVICE,
THE FIELD, THE DUNGEON,
AND
THE ESCAPE.
"Wherein I spoke of most disastrous chances,
Of moving accidents, by flood and field;
Of hairbreadth'scapes i' the imminent deadly breach;
Of being taken by the insolent foe,
And sold to slavery; of my redemption thence."
OTHELLO.
BY
ALBERT D. RICHARDSON,
TRIBUNE CORRESPONDENT.
Hartford, Conn.,
AMERICAN PUBLISHING COMPANY.
JONES BROS. & CO., PHILADELPHIA, PA., AND CINCINNATI, OHIO.
R. C. TREAT, CHICAGO, ILL.
1865.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865,
BY ALBERT D. RICHARDSON,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for
the District of Connecticut.
TO
Her Memory
WHO WAS NEAREST AND DEAREST,
WHOSE LIFE WAS FULL OF BEAUTY AND OF PROMISE,
THIS VOLUME
IS TENDERLY INSCRIBED.
List of Illustrations.
I.--PORTRAIT OF THE AUTHOR Facing Title-page.
II.--A GROUP OF ARMY CORRESPONDENTS: Facing page 17
Portraits of Messrs.
Charles C. Coffin, Boston _Journal_;
Junius H. Browne, New York _Tribune_;
Thomas W. Knox, New York _Herald_;
Richard T. Colburn, New York _World_;
L. L. Crounse, New York _Times_;
William E. Davis, Cincinnati _Gazette_, and
William D. Bickham, Cincinnati _Commercial_
III.--THE MISSISSIPPI CONVENTION VIEWED BY A Opposite page 83
TRIBUNE CORRESPONDENT
IV.--OPENING OF THE BATTLE OF ANTIETAM.--GENERAL Opposite page 281
HOOKER
V.--FACSIMILE OF AN AUTOGRAPH LETTER OF PRESIDENT page 321
LINCOLN
VI.--THE CAPTURE, WHILE RUNNING THE REBEL BATTERIES Opposite page 343
AT VICKSBURG
VII.--INTERIOR VIEW OF A HOSPITAL IN THE SALISBURY Opposite page 415
PRISON
VIII.--THE MASSACRE OF UNION PRISONERS ATTEMPTING Opposite page 419
TO ESCAPE FROM SALISBURY, NORTH CAROLINA
IX.--ESCAPING PRISONERS FED BY <DW64>s IN THEIR Opposite page 441
MASTER'S BARN
X.--FORDING A STREAM Opposite page 471
XI.--"THE NAMELESS HEROINE" PILOTING THE ESCAPING Opposite page 501
PRISONERS OUT OF A REBEL AMBUSH
CONTENTS.
I.--THE SECRET SERVICE.
CHAPTER I. 17
Going South in the Secret Service.--Instructions from
the Managing Editor.--A Visit to the Mammoth Cave of
Kentucky.--Nashville, Tennessee.--Alabama Unionists.--How
the State was Precipitated into the Rebellion.--Reaching
Memphis.--Abolitionists Mobbed and Hanged.--Brutalities of
Slavery.
CHAPTER II. 31
In Memphis.--How the Secessionists Carried the Day.--Aims
of the Leading Rebels.--On the Railroad.--A Northerner
Warned.--An Amusing Dialogue.--Talk about Assassinating
President Lincoln.--Arrival in New Orleans.--Hospitality
from a Stranger.--An Ovation to General Twiggs.--Braxton
Bragg.--The Rebels Anxious for War.--A Glance at the
Louisiana Convention.
CHAPTER III. 43
Association with Leading Secessionists.--Their Hatred of
New England.--Admission to the Democratic Club.--Abuse of
President Lincoln.--Sinking Buildings, Cellars and Walls
Impossible.--Cemeteries above Ground.--Monument of a
Pirate.--Canal Street.--The Great French Markets.--Dedication
of a Secession Flag in the Catholic Church.--The Cotton
Presses.--Visit to the Jackson Battle-ground.--The
Creoles.--Jackson's Head-Quarters.--A Fire in the
Rear.--A Life Saved by a Cigar | 3,418.558215 |
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Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://www.archive.org/details/nosurrender00wern
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
3. The author's name E. Werner is a pseudonym for
Elisabeth Buerstenbinder.
NO SURRENDER.
NO SURRENDER.
FROM THE GERMAN OF
E. WERNER.
BY
CHRISTINA TYRRELL.
_A NEW EDITION_.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON,
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen.
1881.
[_All Rights Reserved_.]
NO SURRENDER.
CHAPTER I.
The whole landscape lay in bright sunshine. Clear as a mirror gleamed
the broad smooth surface of the lake, faithfully reflecting the image
of the town which rose in picturesque beauty on its shores, whilst in
the distance, vividly distinct, appeared the jagged peaks and dazzling
summits of the snow-mountains.
A suburb rich in villas and gardens lined the shore. In its midst stood
a pretty, detached habitation of modest aspect. It was a one-storied
cottage, by no means spacious, and showing signs of no special luxury
within or without. An open vine-traceried veranda formed well-nigh its
sole ornament; yet there was an air of refinement about the little
place, and it had a right friendly pleasant look, thanks to its fresh
white walls and green jalousies; while the surrounding garden, not very
large, truly, but highly cultivated, and stretching away to the border
of the lake, had a peculiar charm of its own, and greatly added to the
general attractiveness of the little country-house.
In the veranda, which afforded ample protection from the sun's ardent
rays, and where, even at noonday, a certain degree of coolness might be
enjoyed, two gentlemen were pacing, talking as they walked.
The elder of the two was a man of, it might be, about fifty years; but
old age seemed to have come upon him prematurely, for his form was bent
and his hair as grey as it could well be. The deeply-furrowed face,
too, bore evidence of bygone struggles, perhaps of sorrows and
sufferings of many kinds endured in the past, and the sharp, bitter
lines about the mouth gave a harsh and almost hostile expression to a
countenance which must once have been bright with ardour and
intelligence. In the eye alone there still blazed a fire which neither
years nor the hard experiences of life had had power to quench, and
which was in singular contrast with the silvered head and drooping
carriage.
His companion was much younger; a man slender of build and of average
height, with features which, though not strictly regular, were yet in
the highest degree attractive, and grave, earnest blue eyes. His light
chestnut hair waved over a fine open forehead. There was that slight
paleness of complexion which tells not of sickliness, but of keen
intellectual activity and a constant mental strain; and the predominant
expression was one of quiet steadfastness, such as is but rarely
stamped on a face at seven or eight and twenty. There could hardly be a
sharper contrast than that afforded by these two men.
"So you are really going to leave us already George?" asked the elder,
in a regretful tone.
The young man smiled.
"Already? I think I have made claim enough on your hospitality, Doctor.
When I came, I had no intention of staying on for weeks; but you
received me with such hearty kindness, I might have been some near and
dear relation, instead of a stranger who could only boast a college
friendship with your son. I shall never forget----"
"Pray do not thank me for that which has been a pleasure to myself,"
the Doctor interrupted him. "I only fear that at home you may have to
pay a penalty for the hospitality you have here enjoyed. To have stayed
at my house will be accounted a crime in Assessor Winterfeld--a crime
which will hardly meet with forgiveness. I have never concealed from
you the fact that your visit here is a venture which may compromise
your whole position."
The ironical tone of this warning called up a transient flush to young
Winterfeld's brow, and accounted for the vivacity with which he
answered:
"I think I have shown you that I am capable of maintaining my own
independence under all and any circumstances. My position, I should
hope, lays me under no obligation to avoid friendly relations which are
of a purely private nature."
"You think not? I am convinced of the contrary. On your return we shall
see which of us is right. Remember this, George; you are under Baron
von Raven's regime."
"I do not imagine that my chief troubles himself greatly about the
holiday excursions of his officials," said George, quietly. "He is
severe, inexorable even, in all matters relating to the service, but he
never interferes in our private concerns. That justice I must do
him, though I do not rank among his friends, I am, as you know, a
thorough-going opponent of the tendencies he represents, and therefore
personally opposed to himself; albeit, as his subordinate, I find
myself for the time being compelled to silence and obedience."
"For the time being?" echoed the Doctor, sarcastically. "I tell you, he
means to teach you lasting silence and obedience, and if you do not
show yourself teachable he will crush and ruin you. That is his way, as
it is the way of all such despicable parvenus."
George shook his head gravely,
"You go too far. The Baron has many enemies, and I do not doubt that in
secret much hatred and bitterness are entertained towards him, but as
yet no one has ventured to speak his name with contempt."
"Well, I venture it then," said the Doctor, with sudden vehemence;
"and, truly, not without good grounds."
The young man looked at him in silence, then, after a pause of a
second, he laid his hand on his arm.
"Dr. Brunnow, forgive me if I ask you a question which may, perhaps,
seem indiscreet. What is this matter between you and my chief? Whenever
his name is mentioned, you betray an amount of bitterness which cannot
possibly have its origin in mere political opposition. You seem to know
him intimately."
Brunnow's lips twitched:
"We were friends once," he answered, in a low voice; "young men
together."
"Impossible!" exclaimed George. "You and----"
"His Excellency Baron Arno von Raven, Governor of the Province of
R----, and closest friend and confidant of our present rulers,"
completed the Doctor, laying a sharp, scornful emphasis on each word.
"That surprises you, does it not?"
"Certainly. I had no notion of any such acquaintance between you."
"How should you? it dates almost half a generation back. In those days
he was only plain Arno Raven, and as poor and unknown as myself. We
learned to know each other in stormy, troubled times, meeting in the
ranks of the party to which we both belonged. Raven with his splendid
talents and restless energy soon worked to the front, and became leader
of us all. We followed him with blind confidence--I more especially,
for I loved him as I have loved no human being since, not even my wife
or child. All the enthusiasm of my youth was lavished on him. He was
my hero, to whom I looked up with ardent admiration--my ideal, my
pride--until the day when he betrayed and deserted us all, when he
sacrificed honour to ambition, and sold himself body and soul to our
enemies, giving us up at the same time to perdition. They call me
'misanthropic,' those wise folk who have never had their illusions
rudely dispelled--who have never met despair face to face. If indeed I
am a misanthrope, my nature was warped to bitterness on that day when,
losing my friend, I lost with him all faith in mankind."
He turned away in great agitation. Evidently the memory of that long
bygone event still shook the man's whole being to its depths.
"So there is some foundation for those reports which hint at a dark
spot in the Baron's past," remarked George, thoughtfully. "I have heard
rumours and vague allusions, but no one ever appeared to have any
positive knowledge on the subject. The matter must always have escaped
publicity, for Raven is only known as the energetic, unyielding
representative of the government."
"Renegades are ever the most untiring persecutors of the faith they
have abandoned," said Brunnow, gloomily; "and there was always a
dangerous element at work in Arno Raven, a fierce, consuming,
all-mastering ambition. This was his ruling passion, the true
mainspring of his actions; and this it was which finally brought about
his fall. His thoughts were constantly running on power and greatness
to be achieved in the future; he longed to govern, to command, cost
what it might, and he has obtained his heart's desire. His career is
absolutely unexampled. From poverty and obscurity he has risen step by
step from one dignity, from one high distinction to another. On
becoming the son-in-law of the minister whose acknowledged favourite he
had ever been, he was exalted to the rank of Baron, and at this moment
he is the well-nigh omnipotent governor of one of the principal
provinces of the land. He stands on the lofty pinnacle whereof he used
to dream; but I, whom he drove into prison and into banishment, who can
look back only on a weary course of years full of the most bitter
disappointments, and who, standing now on the threshold of old age,
have still to wrestle with the material cares of life--I would not
exchange my lowly lot for his greatness. He has paid for it a heavy
price--the price of his honour."
The speaker was terribly agitated. He broke off, and, turning, strode a
few times up and down the veranda, striving to conquer his emotion.
After a while he came back to George, who was standing silent and full
of thought.
"I have not touched on this subject for years," he began again; "but I
owed it to you to speak frankly. You are no blind, ductile instrument,
such as Raven requires, such as alone he suffers about him; and I fear
an hour may come when you will find yourself compelled to refuse him
obedience, if you wish to remain true to your principles, and to quit
yourself as an honourable man. What your after-fate may be beyond that
turning-point is indeed another question. Stand fast, George! Through
all the dislike and antagonism you nurture in your heart towards him,
there runs a subtle, secret vein of admiration for this man, and I can
understand it but too well. He has ever exercised a really magic
influence over all who have come into contact with him. You yourself
cannot altogether escape it, and for this reason I have thought it
necessary to enlighten you on the subject of Baron von Raven. You know
now what manner of man he is."
"I thought so, I declare! There they are again in the thick of their
politics, or immersed in some other interminable debate," said a voice
behind them. "I have been hunting for you all over the house, George.
Good-morning, father."
The speaker, who now stepped into the veranda, was, apparently,
George's junior by some years, but taller and of stronger build than
his friend--a fresh-looking, vigorous young man, with a frank open
face, clear eyes, and a plentiful crop of curly light hair. He cast one
scrutinizing glance at his father's face, still crimsoned by agitation,
and then went on:
"You should not excite yourself so much with your discussions, father.
You know how injurious it is to you; moreover, you have been hard at
work already this morning, I see."
So saying, he walked up to a table covered with books and papers, which
stood at a little distance, and began turning over some written pages.
"Let that alone, Max," said his father, impatiently. "You will
disarrange the manuscript, and you take no interest in these abstruse
scientific studies."
"Because I have no time for them," answered Max, quietly laying down
the papers. "A young assistant-surgeon at a hospital cannot sit all day
poring over his books. You know I have my hands pretty full."
"Time might be found," remarked Brunnow. "What you lack is
inclination."
"Well, inclination too, if you like. Practice is my study, and I dare
say it will get me on as far."
"As far as your ambition takes you, no doubt." There was an
unmistakable slight in the father's tone. "You will very probably found
an extensive practice, and look on your calling altogether in the light
of a lucrative profession. I do not question it in the least."
At this Max evidently had to fight down some rising irritation, but he
answered with tolerable calm:
"I shall certainly found a practice of my own at the earliest
opportunity. You might have done the same twenty years ago, but you
preferred to write medical works which bring you in very little money,
and, at the best, only obtain recognition from some few choice spirits
among your colleagues. Tastes differ."
"As our conception of life differs. You do not know what it means to
sacrifice yourself--to live for science."
"I sacrifice myself for nobody," said Max, defiantly. "I intend
conscientiously to fulfil my duties in life, and shall think that,
in so doing, I have done enough. You have a fancy for useless
self-immolation, father. I have none."
"Leave this incorrigible realist to his errors, Doctor," struck in
George, who from the irritated tone of both men began to fear a scene,
such as was not unf | 3,418.558276 |
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Produced by Charlie Howard and the Online Distributed
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produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
[Illustration: _Frontispiece._ THE LIFE SAVERS. _Page 185_]
THE LIFE SAVERS
A STORY OF THE UNITED STATES
LIFE-SAVING SERVICE
BY
JAMES OTIS
AUTHOR OF "AN AMATEUR FIREMAN," ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
E. P. DUTTON & COMPANY
31 WEST TWENTY-THIRD STREET
COPYRIGHT, 1899
BY
E. P. DUTTON & CO.
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. INTRODUCTORY 1
II. A BOY AND A DOG 9
III. BENNY'S STORY 23
IV. ON PATROL 40
V. FROM THE "AMAZONIA" 60
VI. ROUTINE DUTY 80
VII. SAVING LIFE 98
VIII. FLUFF A HERO 115
IX. OFFICIAL PERMISSION 134
X. THE UNIFORM 155
XI. THE STRANDED STEAMER 172
XII. IN THE SURF 187
XIII. "NUMBER EIGHT" 204
XIV. THE WRECKERS 222
XV. LIVELY WORK 239
XVI. CAST ASHORE 259
XVII. A LETTER 278
XVIII. A CONSULTATION 298
XIX. THE DECISION 313
THE LIFE SAVERS.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTORY.
The development of the American Life-Saving Service covers nearly a
century.
"... The initiatory movement was the organization by a few
benevolent persons of the Massachusetts Humane Society in
1786. In attempting to alleviate the miseries of shipwreck
on the Massachusetts coast, small huts were built; and in
1807 the first life-boat station was established at Cohasset.
The Society depended upon voluntary crews, but so much was
accomplished of value that some pecuniary aid was received, as
time wore on, from both State and general governments.
"The magnificent work of the Coast Survey, begun in earnest in
1832, absorbed the resources of Congress for a decade and a
half, during which period nothing was attempted in the way of
life-saving except through voluntary societies. A few public
vessels were, indeed, authorized in 1837 to cruise near the
coast for the assistance of shipping in distress, but it was
through the movement in aid of commerce, which extended to the
lighthouse system.
"In 1847, five thousand dollars were appropriated by Congress
toward furnishing lighthouses on the Atlantic with the
facilities for aiding shipwrecked mariners. The money, after
remaining in the Treasury two years unused, was permitted to be
expended by the Massachusetts society upon Cape Cod.
"In the summer of 1848, the Hon. William A. Newell, then a
member of the House of Representatives from New Jersey, incited
by some terrible shipwrecks on the coast of that State, induced
Congress, through his eloquence, to appropriate ten thousand
dollars for providing surf-boats and other appliances 'for the
protection of life and property from shipwreck on the coast
between Sandy Hook and Little Egg Harbor.' During the next
session a still larger appropriation was obtained. Twenty-two
station-houses were erected on the coasts of New Jersey and
Long Island, and although no persons were paid or authorized
to take charge of them, and they were manned by extemporized
crews, their value in several cases of shipwreck was so great
that Congress made further appropriations from year to year,
and stations and life-boats gradually multiplied.
"Through the pressure of a shocking event in 1854--the loss
of three hundred lives off the New Jersey coast--a local
superintendent was employed, a keeper assigned to each station,
and bonded custodians placed in charge of the life-boats, which
had been repeatedly stolen; but the absence of drilled and
disciplined crews, of general regulations, and of energetic
central administration rendered the record of the institution
unsatisfactory, and its benefits checkered by the saddest
failures.
"In the year 1871, Sumner I. Kimball succeeded to the head of
the Revenue Marine Bureau of the Treasury Department, under
the charge of which were the life-saving stations. He made
it his first business to ascertain their condition. Captain
John Faunce was detailed to make a tour of inspection, and was
accompanied a portion of the way by Mr. Kimball himself. The
buildings were found neglected and dilapidated, the apparatus
rusty or broken, portable articles had been carried off,
the salaried keepers were often living at a distance from
their posts, some of them too old for service, and others
incompetent, and the volunteer crews were in a quarrelsome
temper with each other and with the coast population.
"Then commenced that vigorous prosecution of reform which has
crowned the humane work with unprecedented success. Making the
most of slender appropriations, and in the face of perpetual
discouragements, this one man, the chief of a bureau, pushed
on by philanthropic impulses and guided by unerring judgment,
brought a complete and orderly system into effect. It was
not the work of a day, nor of a year. It required patience,
sagacity, and rare powers of organization and government. He
knew no office hours, working day and night at what many were
pleased to consider a hopeless task. In his brain originated
the idea of guarding the entire coasts of the nation through
the planting of a chain of fortresses to be garrisoned by
disciplined conquerors of the sea. It is a matter of public
record, and generally known to the country, that through
his practical devotion to the cause this has been so nearly
accomplished.
"In reorganizing what there was of the Service, he prepared
a code of regulations for its absolute control. The duties
of every man employed were minutely defined. The lazy, the
careless, and the unworthy were dismissed, and men chosen
to fill their places with sole reference to integrity and
professional fitness. Politics was abolished. That is, experts
in the surf were regarded as of more consequence to drowning
victims than voters of any particular political ticket. The
station-houses were repaired, and increased in numbers as fast
as the means afforded by Congress would allow; the appliances
for life-saving were restored, and improved from year to year
through the best inventions and discoveries in this or any
other country, and a rigid system of inspection and of patrol
was inaugurated....
"The record of the first season on the New York and New Jersey
coasts, where the new system first went into actual operation,
showed that every person imperiled by shipwreck was saved.
Consequently a commission, consisting of Mr. Kimball, Captain
Faunce, and Captain J. H. Merryman, of the Revenue Marine,
surveyed in 1873, by order of Congress, the vast and varied
coasts of the oceans and lakes, investigating personally the
characteristics of the dangerous localities, and holding
consultations with underwriters, shipowners, captains of
vessels, and veteran surfmen. The report of this commission
placed before Congress a minute account of the disasters to
vessels on every mile of coast for the previous ten years; a
bill based upon it, prepared by Mr. Kimball, became a law June
20, 1874. It provided for the extension of the field of this
great national work of humanity; for the bestowal of medals
of honor upon persons risking their lives to save others; and
empowered the collection and tabulation of statistics of
disaster to shipping, which, by reference to the periodicity of
marine casualties, aided in determining the points most needing
protection, and in various other ways benefited both government
and maritime interests....
"The life-saving stations on the Atlantic seaboard are now
within an average distance of five miles of each other, each
crew consisting of a keeper and six surfmen. At sunset two
men start from each station, one going to the right and the
other to the left. They are equipped with lanterns and Coston
signals, and each pursues his solitary and perilous way
through the soft sand, in spite of flooding tides, bewildering
snowfalls, overwhelming winds, and bitter cold....
"The night is divided into four watches. The keeper is required
to register in his log-book the name of each patrolman, his
hours on patrol,... the direction and force of the wind at
sunrise, noon, sunset, and midnight, together with the events
of each day. This record is sent to the chief of the Service at
Washington at the end of every week....
"The stations consist of three classes, severally denominated
life-saving stations, life-boat stations, and houses of
refuge. Each of the twelve districts is provided with a local
superintendent, who must be a resident of the district and
familiarly acquainted with its inhabitants....
"The stations are visited frequently, and the men examined
in the exercises of the apparatus drill, and obliged to give
verbal reasons for every step in their operations. They are
trained with their life-boats in the surf, in the use of the
life-dress, in saving drowning persons by swimming to their
relief, in the methods of restoring the partially drowned, and
in signalling. When a wreck is attended with loss of life,
a rigid examination follows to see if any of the men have
been guilty of misconduct or neglect of duty. The keepers are
empowered to protect the interests of the government from
smuggling, and they guard all property that comes ashore from
a wreck until its rightful owners appear. They are charged
with the care and order of the stations, and the boats and
apparatus; and they must keep accurate accounts of all receipts
and expenditures, journalize all transactions, and maintain
all necessary correspondence with superior officers. Thus
it appears they must possess a certain amount of education
and high integrity, as well as surfmanship, intrepidity, and
commanding qualities...."--_Harper's Magazine_, February, 1882.
At the close of the year 1894 the total number of stations in the
Life-Saving Establishment was 247. Of this number, 182 were situated
on the Atlantic and Gulf coasts, 51 on the coasts of the Great Lakes,
13 on the Pacific Coast, and 1 at the Falls of the Ohio, Louisville,
Kentucky. Their distribution by life-saving districts was as follows:
First District (coasts of Maine and New Hampshire) 12
Second District (coast of Massachusetts) 24
Third District (coasts of Rhode Island and Long
Island) 39
Fourth District (coast of New Jersey) 41
Fifth District (coast from Cape Henlopen to
Cape Charles) 17
Sixth District (coast from Cape Henry to Cape
Fear River) 29
Seventh District (coasts of South Carolina,
Georgia, and Eastern Florida) 12
Eighth District (Gulf Coast) 8
Ninth District (Lakes Erie and Ontario, including
Louisville Station) 12
Tenth District (Lakes Huron and Superior) 15
Eleventh District (Lake Michigan) 25
Twelfth District (Pacific Coast) 13
---
Total 247
--Report of the United States Life-Saving Service.
[Illustration: THE LIGHTHOUSE NEAR THE STATION. _Page 8_]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
A BOY AND A DOG.
It was on the afternoon of December 23d, in the year 1893, that one of
the life-saving crews in the First District was completely prepared for
work, although neither vessel nor wreck was to be seen.
The wind was from the northeast and the driving sleet and snow shut out
from view all that portion of the rocky coast save in the immediate
vicinity of the station. During the afternoon the gale had increased in
force until it was what a mariner would call "stiff"; the sea had risen
with equal pace, and every indication confirmed the prediction made
among the surfmen, that an ugly winter storm was at hand.
At such a time the gallant life-saving crews along the coast are ever
ready for, and expecting, the signal which calls them to their perilous
work; but not ordinarily do they stand by their apparatus as on this
afternoon, for, fortunately, many a winter tempest fails in its harvest
of death.
At noon on this day information was sent to the station that the
patrol several miles down the coast had sighted a large ship so nearly
inshore that, under the adverse condition of wind and sea, she could
not tack, and there was not sufficient room to wear. Unless her course
was speedily changed, so ran the information received,--and in the
teeth of the fierce northeast tempest and the shoreward heaving of the
tremendous sea that seemed impossible,--it was certain she must strike
somewhere nearabout this particular station.
From the moment such information was received the patrol on the beach
had been doubled, and, knowing full well how difficult it would be,
under all the circumstances, for any craft to escape the perils to
which it was said this ship was exposed, the crew were keenly on the
alert for the first token of wreck.
At seven o'clock in the evening no further news of the vessel had been
obtained; therefore the men whose mission it is to save life understood
that the ship was still fighting against the gale, and knew full well
every moment gained by her increased the chances of escape, even though
it had seemed impossible she could weather the point.
Half an hour later Surfman Samuel Hardy, breathless and panting,
literally burst his way into the station, as he cried:
"Joe Cushing has just lighted his signal!"
All members of life-saving crews carry, while patrolling the shore on
the lookout for signs of danger to others, what is known as a "Coston
signal," an ingenious contrivance which can be lighted by concussion,
and, therefore, may be displayed regardless of the weather.
No further information was necessary; the crew knew full well that the
ship previously reported as being in peril, and which had made such a
gallant fight against the elements, had at last been conquered.
Before Sam Hardy could take his station at the beach-wagon, in which is
transported all the apparatus necessary for the work of the crew when a
wreck is close inshore, Joseph Cushing arrived:
"She has struck just off the west spit!"
"Then it is the ship?" Keeper Thomas Downey asked; and before the
question could be answered he gave in rapid succession the orders
necessary for beginning the work of rescue.
"Open boat-room doors!"
"Man the beach-wagon!"
"Forward!"
These commands were superfluous, for the crew, after long experience at
such work, both during tempests when human life was to be saved, and at
drill in fair weather, moved as if by instinct.
The last word had no more than been spoken before the heavy wagon
rolled down the platform to the sand, every man fully aware of the
fact that now had come the time when the span of many lives might be
measured by seconds if they faltered or delayed.
From the official report is taken the following account of the disaster:
"It appears that the ship had been laboring heavily, the
wind constantly heading her off after nightfall, and the
master, although he kept up a stout heart, must have been
well aware that he was constantly losing more and more of the
narrow margin that lay between possible safety and inevitable
destruction. Whatever misgivings the crew may have experienced,
the survivor states that the first intimation they had of
their immediate proximity to the shore was when they saw the
breakers, and the captain, who was below at the moment, rushed
on deck with the ominous outcry, 'She has struck!'
"The boats were still on the bridge where they had been
originally stowed for the voyage, their covers and lashings
intact and the tackles unhooked, but Captain Clark instantly
gave the order to clear them away, and, together with the men,
set about the work. The ship lay with her starboard side to the
waves, which the next instant lifted her farther shoreward and
then fell crashing on board.
"The most of the sailors fled to the mizzen shrouds, but a few,
more daring or desperate than the rest, still struggled to
clear the boats.
"Another run of towering breakers was now about to leap on
board, and the brave men were compelled to give over and
quickly join their shipmates in the rigging. At this moment
the red glare of the patrolman's signal gleamed through the
darkness, and a cheer broke forth from the shipwrecked men.
"Up to this time the master had found no difficulty in
controlling the movements of the crew, who appear to have been
able and obedient sailors; but now there was no longer any
occasion for the exercise of authority, and in the dreadful
situation it behooved every man to look out for himself.
"Within ten minutes from the flash of the signal the great iron
hull parted amidships, and the mainmast toppled over, carrying
with it the mizzen-topmast. The entire ship's company, except
the captain, were at this time in the mizzen-rigging, where
they were able to hold on only a few minutes, when all were
washed overboard together. The captain, when last seen was
standing on the ladder at the quarter-deck, supporting himself
with a hand on each rail.
"The beach-apparatus was on the ground and ready for service;
but the ship was only now and then faintly visible, and there
was little reason to believe the crew's efforts would be of any
avail.
"However, the gun was aimed as well as possible in the
direction of the wreck, which was discernible only as a black
shadow that seemed a little darker than the surrounding gloom,
and the shot was fired.
"That the line fell across the hulk there is no reason to
doubt. That it lodged with considerable firmness somewhere was
conclusive to the keeper in charge, for it resisted the slight
strain put upon it to determine whether it was fast, but no
pull or manipulation on the offshore end could be detected, and
after waiting in vain some considerable time for that always
welcome sign that the line has been found by the shipwrecked,
the life-savers hauled hard on it until it finally parted under
the heavy strain.
"The keeper was now satisfied that there was no living being on
board the wreck. Nothing could be accomplished by additional
efforts to effect communication by means of the gun, and the
fury of the surf was so overwhelming that none of the men,
familiar as they were with the conditions, of long experience
on the coast, and brave as they had often proved themselves,
even so much as entertained the thought of launching the boat.
It was out of question, absolutely and beyond all possibility
of cavil. The slatting of the distant sails is described as
sounding like peals of thunder, and the crashing of blocks
and chains as they were flung back and forth against the wire
rigging and iron foremast, sent out volumes of blazing sparks
that seemed like signals of distress.
"It is the custom on occasions of this kind to build a fire on
the shore as a beacon of hope to encourage the shipwrecked,
and although there was believed to be nobody on the vessel,
this would nevertheless have been done, if possible. But the
gale blew with such force that a fire could not be | 3,418.579737 |
2023-11-16 19:14:02.5604480 | 76 | 32 |
Produced by Larry B. Harrison and The Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
THE FALL
OF THE
GREAT REPUBLIC.
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1886.
| 3,418.580488 |
2023-11-16 19:14:02.5606290 | 1,061 | 7 |
Produced by Martin Robb
THE LION OF THE NORTH
A Tale of the Times of Gustavus Adolphus,
By G. A. Henty
PREFACE.
MY DEAR LADS,
You are nowadays called upon to acquire so great a mass of learning
and information in the period of life between the ages of twelve and
eighteen that it is not surprising that but little time can be spared
for the study of the history of foreign nations. Most lads are,
therefore, lamentably ignorant of the leading events of even the most
important epochs of Continental history, although, as many of these
events have exercised a marked influence upon the existing state of
affairs in Europe, a knowledge of them is far more useful, and, it
may be said, far more interesting than that of the comparatively petty
affairs of Athens, Sparta, Corinth, and Thebes.
Prominent among such epochs is the Thirty Years' War, which arose from
the determination of the Emperor of Austria to crush out Protestantism
throughout Germany. Since the invasion of the Huns no struggle which
has taken place in Europe has approached this in the obstinacy of the
fighting and the terrible sufferings which the war inflicted upon the
people at large. During these thirty years the population of Germany
decreased by nearly a third, and in some of the states half the towns
and two-thirds of the villages absolutely disappeared.
The story of the Thirty Years' War is too long to be treated in one
volume. Fortunately it divides itself naturally into two parts. The
first begins with the entry of Sweden, under her chivalrous monarch
Gustavus Adolphus, upon the struggle, and terminates with his death and
that of his great rival Wallenstein. This portion of the war has been
treated in the present story. The second period begins at the point when
France assumed the leading part in the struggle, and concluded with the
peace which secured liberty of conscience to the Protestants of Germany.
This period I hope to treat some day in another story, so that you may
have a complete picture of the war. The military events of the present
tale, the battles, sieges, and operations, are all taken from the best
authorities, while for the account of the special doings of Mackay's,
afterwards Munro's Scottish Regiment, I am indebted to Mr. J. Grant's
Life of Sir John Hepburn.
Yours sincerely,
G. A. HENTY
CHAPTER I THE INVITATION
It was late in the afternoon in the spring of the year 1630; the
hilltops of the south of Scotland were covered with masses of cloud, and
a fierce wind swept the driving rain before it with such force that it
was not easy to make way against it. It had been raining for three days
without intermission. Every little mountain burn had become a boiling
torrent, while the rivers had risen above their banks and flooded the
low lands in the valleys.
The shades of evening were closing in, when a lad of some sixteen years
of age stood gazing across the swollen waters of the Nith rushing past
in turbid flood. He scarce seemed conscious of the pouring rain; but
with his lowland bonnet pressed down over his eyes, and his plaid
wrapped tightly round him, he stood on a rising hummock of ground at the
edge of the flood, and looked across the stream.
"If they are not here soon," he said to himself, "they will not get
across the Nith tonight. None but bold riders could do so now; but
by what uncle says, Captain Hume must be that and more. Ah! here they
come."
As he spoke two horsemen rode down the opposite side of the valley and
halted at the water's edge. The prospect was not a pleasant one. The
river was sixty or seventy feet wide, and in the centre the water swept
along in a raging current.
"You cannot cross here," the boy shouted at the top of his voice. "You
must go higher up where the water's deeper."
The wind swept his words away, but his gestures were understood.
"The boy is telling us to go higher up," said one of the horsemen.
"I suppose he is," the other replied; "but here is the ford. You see the
road we have travelled ends here, and I can see it again on the other
side. It is getting dark, and were we to cross higher up we might lose
our way and get bogged; it is years since I was here. What's the boy
going to do now? Show us a place for crossing?"
The lad, on seeing the hesitation of the horsemen, had run along the
bank up the stream, and to their surprise, when he had gone a little
more than a hundred yards he dashed into the water. For a time the water
was shallow, and he waded out until he reached the edge of the regular
bank | 3,418.580669 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Kilgorman
A Story of Ireland in 1798
By Talbot Baines Reed
________________________________________________________________________
This was Reed's last book, written even as he lay dying, presumably from
cancer. It is a very well-written book, and is very interesting, even
though as in the works of Kingston and Collingwood there are a lot of
swimming episodes.
The time of the story is in the 1790s, during the French Revolution,
which we see at close quarters during our hero's time in France. We
also visit Rotterdam, in Holland. But most of the action, at least that
which takes place on dry land, takes place in Donegal, that long wild
part of Ireland that lies to its extreme north-west.
There are several lines of the story. One of these is the great love
that exists between the hero and his twin brother. Another is the
question, Are they brothers? For only one person actually knows, and
she is far away: the hint that there is a problem is given in a dying
note by the woman that passed | 3,418.58168 |
2023-11-16 19:14:02.6280620 | 393 | 307 |
E-text prepared by Barbara Kosker and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from digital material
generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries
(http://www.archive.org/details/americana)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 30264-h.htm or 30264-h.zip:
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(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/30264/30264-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
http://www.archive.org/details/ligeonlineofma00bige
LIEGE
ON THE LINE OF MARCH
[Illustration: GLENNA L. BIGELOW]
LIEGE
ON THE LINE OF MARCH
An American Girl's Experiences When the Germans Came Through Belgium
by
GLENNA LINDSLEY BIGELOW
New York: John Lane Company
London: John Lane, The Bodley Head
MCMXVIII
Copyright, 1918, by
John Lane Company
_TO THE KING OF THE BELGIANS_
_Multitudes upon multitudes they throng
And thicken: who shall number their array?
They bid the peoples tremble and obey:
Their faces are set forward, all for wrong.
They trample on the covenant and are strong
And terrible. Who shall dare to say them nay?
How shall a little nation bar the way
Where that resistless host is borne along?_
_You never thought, O! gallant King, to bow
To overmastering force and stand aside.
Safe and secure you might have reigned | 3,418.648102 |
2023-11-16 19:14:02.6347840 | 649 | 6 |
Produced by Curtis Weyant, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
THE
LIFE AND PUBLIC SERVICES
OF
JAMES A. GARFIELD,
TWENTIETH PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.
INCLUDING
_FULL AND ACCURATE DETAILS OF HIS EVENTFUL ADMINISTRATION,
ASSASSINATION, LAST HOURS, DEATH, Etc._
TOGETHER WITH
NOTABLE EXTRACTS FROM HIS SPEECHES AND LETTERS
BY E. E. BROWN.
BOSTON
D. LOTHROP COMPANY
32 FRANKLIN STREET
COPYRIGHT, 1881,
BY D. LOTHROP & CO.
DEDICATION.
"To one who joined with us in sorrow true,
And bowed her crowned head above our slain."
INTRODUCTION.
BY REV. A. J. GORDON, D. D.
More eloquent voices for Christ and the gospel have never come from the
grave of a dead President than those which we hear from the tomb of our
lamented chief magistrate.
Twenty six years ago this summer a company of college students had gone
to the top of Greylock Mountain, in Western Massachusetts, to spend the
night. A very wide outlook can be gained from that summit. But if you
will stand there with that little company to-day, you can see farther
than the bounds of Massachusetts or the bounds of New England, or the
bounds of the Union. James A. Garfield is one of that band of students,
and as the evening shades gather, he rises up among the group and says,
"Classmates, it is my habit to read a portion of God's Word before
retiring to rest. Will you permit me to read aloud?" And then taking in
his hand a pocket Testament, he reads in that clear, strong voice a
chapter of Holy Writ, and calls upon a brother student to offer prayer.
"How far the little candle throws its beams!" It required real principle
to take that stand even in such a company. Was that candle of the Lord
afterward put out amid the dampening and unfriendly influences of a long
political life? It would not be strange. Many a Christian man has had
his religious testimony smothered amid the stifling and vitiated air of
party politics, till instead of a clear light, it has given out only
the flicker and foulness of a "smoking wick."
But pass on for a quarter of a century. The young student has become a
man. He has been in contact for years with the corrupting influences of
political life. Let us see where he stands now. In the great Republican
Convention at Chicago he is a leading figure. The meetings have been
attended with unprecedented excitement through the week. Sunday has
come, and such is the strain of rivalry between contending factions that
most of the politicians spend the entire day in pushing the interests of
their favorite candidates. But on that Lord's day morning Mr. Garfield
is seen quietly wending his way to the house of God. | 3,418.654824 |
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Produced by Turgut Dincer (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet Archive
and Hathi Trust)
THE DIARY OF A TURK
[Illustration: PRINCES IN LANCERS' UNIFORM.]
THE DIARY OF A
TURK
BY
HALIL HALID, M.A., M.R.A.S.
CONTAINING EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS
LONDON
ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK
1903
TO THE MEMORY OF
E. F. W. GIBB
ORIENTAL SCHOLAR, AND THE AUTHOR OF "A HISTORY OF OTTOMAN POETRY"
PREFACE
ALTHOUGH no Western Power has ever played a greater part in the
problems of the Ottoman Empire than Great Britain, yet in no other
country in Western Europe is Turkey more grossly misunderstood. I have
been many times asked by my English acquaintances to write a book on
Turkey from a Turkish point of view, and two ways of writing were
suggested to me: the one was to compile a detailed work, the other
to write a small and light book. To take the former advice was not
possible to me, as I found myself incapable of producing a great and
technical work. Besides, I thought that after all a small and lightly
written volume would have a larger circle of readers, and by its help I
could to some extent correct some of the mistaken ideas prevailing in
England about Turkey. Therefore I began to write this little volume in
the form of a book of travel, and I now bring it out under the title of
_The Diary of a Turk_. By this means I have been able to talk a little
on many matters connected with Turkey. Let the critic find other points
in this book on which to express his opinion, but do not let him charge
me with ignorance of the fact that the somewhat unexciting experiences
of an unknown man may be | 3,418.684216 |
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Produced by Curtis Weyant, Joseph R. Hauser and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
+--------------------------------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber's Note: |
| This text uses UTF-8 (unicode) file encoding. If the apostrophes |
| and quotation marks in this paragraph appear as garbage, you may |
| have an incompatible browser or unavailable fonts. First, make sure|
| that your browser's "character set" or "file encoding" is set to |
| Unicode (UTF-8). You may also need to change the default font. |
| |
+--------------------------------------------------------------------+
Hansford:
A TALE OF BACON'S REBELLION.
BY ST. GEORGE TUCKER.
Rebellion! foul dishonouring word--
Whose wrongful blight so oft has stained
The holiest cause that, tongue or sword
Of mortal ever lost or gained.
How many a spirit, born to bless,
Hath sank beneath that withering name;
Whom but a day's, an hour's success,
Had wafted to eternal fame!
MOORE.
RICHMOND, VA.:
PUBLISHED BY GEORGE M. WEST
BOSTON: PHILLIPS, SAMPSON & CO.
1857.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1857,
BY GEORGE M. WEST,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Virginia.
PREFACE.
It is the design of the author, in the following pages, to illustrate
the period of our colonial history, to which the story relates, and to
show that this early struggle for freedom was the morning harbinger of
that blessed light, which has since shone more and more unto the perfect
day.
Most of the characters introduced have their existence in real
history--Hansford lived, acted and died in the manner here narrated, and
a heart as pure and true as Virginia Temple's mourned his early doom.
In one of those quaint old tracts, which the indefatigable antiquary,
Peter Force, has rescued from oblivion, it is stated that Thomas
Hansford, although a son of Mars, did sometimes worship at the shrine of
Venus. It was his unwillingness to separate forever from the object of
his love that led to his arrest, while lurking near her residence in
Gloucester. From the meagre materials furnished by history of the
celebrated rebellion of Nathaniel Bacon the following story has been
woven.
It were an object to be desired, | 3,418.686015 |
2023-11-16 19:14:02.6660790 | 1,535 | 8 |
This eBook was converted to HTML and given additional editing by
Jose Menendez from the text edition produced by Geoffrey Cowling
[email protected]. Illustrations added by Eric Eldred.
Computer-generated MP3 audio was generated by Bud Alverson.
___________________________________________________________________
SOUTH!
THE STORY OF
SHACKLETON'S LAST EXPEDITION
1914-1917
BY SIR ERNEST SHACKLETON C.V.O.
TO
MY COMRADES
WHO FELL IN THE WHITE WARFARE
OF THE SOUTH AND ON THE
RED FIELDS OF FRANCE
AND FLANDERS
CONTENTS
I. INTO THE WEDDELL SEA
II. NEW LAND
III. WINTER MONTHS
IV. LOSS OF THE 'ENDURANCE'
V. OCEAN CAMP
VI. THE MARCH BETWEEN
VII. PATIENCE CAMP
VIII. ESCAPE FROM THE ICE
IX. THE BOAT JOUY
X. ACROSS SOUTH GEORGIA
XI. THE RESCUE
XII. ELEPHANT ISLAND
XIII. THE ROSS SEA PARTY
XIV. WINTERING IN McMURDO SOUND
XV. LAYING THE DEPOTS
XVI. THE 'AURORA'S' DRIFT
XVII. THE LAST RELIEF
XVIII. THE FINAL PHASE
APPENDIX I:
SCIENTIFIC WORK
SEA-ICE NOMENCLATURE
METEOROLOGY
PHYSICS
SOUTH ATLANTIC WHALES AND WHALING
APPENDIX II:
THE EXPEDITION HUTS AT McMURDO SOUND
INDEX
PREFACE
After the conquest of the South Pole by Amundsen, who, by a narrow
margin of days only, was in advance of the British Expedition under
Scott, there remained but one great main object of Antarctic
journeyings--the crossing of the South Polar continent from sea to sea.
When I returned from the 'Nimrod' Expedition on which we had to turn
back from our attempt to plant the British flag on the South Pole,
being beaten by stress of circumstances within ninety-seven miles of
our goal, my mind turned to the crossing of the continent, for I was
morally certain that either Amundsen or Scott would reach the Pole on
our own route or a parallel one. After hearing of the Norwegian
success I began to make preparations to start a last great journey--so
that the first crossing of the last continent should be achieved by a
British Expedition.
We failed in this object, but the story of our attempt is the subject
for the following pages, and I think that though failure in the actual
accomplishment must be recorded, there are chapters in this book of
high adventure, strenuous days, lonely nights, unique experiences, and,
above all, records of unflinching determination, supreme loyalty, and
generous self-sacrifice on the part of my men which, even in these days
that have witnessed the sacrifices of nations and regardlessness of
self on the part of individuals, still will be of interest to readers
who now turn gladly from the red horror of war and the strain of the
last five years to read, perhaps with more understanding minds, the
tale of the White Warfare of the South. The struggles, the
disappointments, and the endurance of this small party of Britishers,
hidden away for nearly two years in the fastnesses of the Polar ice,
striving to carry out the ordained task and ignorant of the crises
through which the world was passing, make a story which is unique in
the history of Antarctic exploration.
Owing to the loss of the 'Endurance' and the disaster to the 'Aurora',
certain documents relating mainly to the organization and preparation
of the Expedition have been lost; but, anyhow, I had no intention of
presenting a detailed account of the scheme of preparation, storing,
and other necessary but, to the general reader, unimportant affairs, as
since the beginning of this century, every book on Antarctic
exploration has dealt fully with this matter. I therefore briefly
place before you the inception and organization of the Expedition, and
insert here the copy of the programme which I prepared in order to
arouse the interest of the general public in the Expedition.
"The Trans-continental Party.
"The first crossing of the Antarctic continent, from sea to sea via
the Pole, apart from its historic value, will be a journey of great
scientific importance.
"The distance will be roughly 1800 miles, and the first half of this,
from the Weddell Sea to the Pole, will be over unknown ground. Every
step will be an advance in geographical science. It will be learned
whether the great Victoria chain of mountains, which has been traced
from the Ross Sea to the Pole, extends across the continent and thus
links up (except for the ocean break) with the Andes of South America,
and whether the great plateau around the Pole dips gradually towards
the Weddell Sea.
"Continuous magnetic observations will be taken on the journey. The
route will lead towards the Magnetic Pole, and the determination of the
dip of the magnetic needle will be of importance in practical
magnetism. The meteorological conditions will be carefully noted, and
this should help to solve many of our weather problems.
"The glaciologist and geologist will study ice formations and the
nature of the mountains, and this report will prove of great scientific
interest.
"Scientific Work by Other Parties.
"While the Trans-continental party is carrying out, for the British
Flag, the greatest Polar journey ever attempted, the other parties will
be engaged in important scientific work.
"Two sledging parties will operate from the base on the Weddell Sea.
One will travel westwards towards Graham Land, making observations,
collecting geological specimens, and proving whether there are
mountains in that region linked up with those found on the other side
of the Pole.
"Another party will travel eastward toward Enderby Land, carrying out
a similar programme, and a third, remaining at the base, will study the
fauna of the land and sea, and the meteorological conditions.
"From the Ross Sea base, on the other side of the Pole, another party
will push southward and will probably await the arrival of the Trans-
continental party at the top of the Beardmore Glacier, near Mount
Buckley, where the first seams of coal were discovered in the
Antarctic. This region is of great importance to the geologist, who
will be enabled to read much of the history of the Antarctic in the
rocks.
"Both the ships of the Expedition will be equipped for dredging,
sounding, and every variety of hydrographical work. The Weddell Sea
ship will endeavour to trace the unknown coast-line of Graham Land, and
from both the vessels, with their scientific staffs, important results
may be expected.
"The several shore parties and the two ships will thus carry out
| 3,418.686119 |
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Produced by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Chuck Greif and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was made using scans of public domain works
from the University of Michigan Digital Libraries.)
HISTORY OF JULIUS CAESAR.
VOL. I.
The Publishers hereby announce that all rights of translation and
reproduction abroad are reserved.
This volume was entered at the office of the Minister of the Interior
(_depose au Ministere de l'Interieur_) in March, 1865.
The only Editions and Translations sanctioned by the Author are the
following:
_French._--HENRI PLON, Printer and Publisher of the "_History of Julius
Caesar_," 8 Rue Garanciere, Paris.
_English._--CASSELL, PETTER, and GALPIN, Publishers, La Belle Sauvage
Yard, Ludgate Hill, London, E.C.
_American._--HARPER and BROTHERS, Franklin Square, New York. (Authorized
by the English Publishers.)
_German._--CHARLES GEROLD, FILS, Printers and Publishers, Vienna.
_Italian._--LEMONNIER, Printer and Publisher, Florence.
_Portuguese._--V. AILLAUD, GUILLARD, and Co., Paris, Publishers, and
Agents for Portugal and Brazil.
_Russian._--B. M. WOLFF, Bookseller and Publisher, St. Petersburg.
_Danish_, _Norwegian_, _Swedish._--CARL B. LORCK, Consul General for
Denmark, Bookseller and Publisher, Leipsic.
_Hungarian._--MAURICE RATH, Bookseller and Publisher, Pesth.
[Illustration: CAIVS JVLIVS CAESAR
New York: Harper & Brothers.]
HISTORY OF JULIUS CAESAR.
VOL. I.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1866.
CONTENTS.
BOOK I.
ROMAN HISTORY BEFORE CAESAR.
CHAPTER I.
ROME UNDER THE KINGS.
PAGE
I. THE KINGS FOUND THE ROMAN INSTITUTIONS 1
II. SOCIAL ORGANISATION 3
III. POLITICAL ORGANISATION 6
IV. RELIGION 15
V. RESULTS OBTAINED BY ROYALTY 20
CHAPTER II.
ESTABLISHMENT OF THE CONSULAR REPUBLIC (244-416).
I. ADVANTAGE OF THE REPUBLIC 25
II. INSTITUTIONS OF THE REPUBLIC 31
III. TRANSFORMATION OF THE ARISTOCRACY 36
IV. ELEMENTS OF DISSOLUTION 42
V. RESUME 53
CHAPTER III.
CONQUEST OF ITALY (416-488).
I. DESCRIPTION OF ITALY 62
II. DISPOSITIONS OF THE PEOPLE OF ITALY IN REGARD TO ROME 65
III. TREATMENT OF THE VANQUISHED PEOPLES 68
IV. SUBMISSION OF LATIUM AFTER THE FIRST SAMNITE WAR 75
V. SECOND SAMNITE WAR 78
VI. THIRD SAMNITE WAR--COALITION OF SAMNITES, ETRUSCANS, UMBRIANS,
AND HERNICI (443-449) 82
VII. FOURTH SAMNITE WAR--SECOND COALITION OF THE SAMNITES,
ETRUSCANS, UMBRIANS, AND GAULS (456-464) 85
VIII. THIRD COALITION OF THE ETRUSCANS, GAULS, LUCANIANS, AND
TARENTUM (469-474) 88
IX. PYRRHUS IN ITALY--SUBMISSION OF TARENTUM (474-488) 89
X. PREPONDERANCE OF ROME 92
XI. STRENGTH OF THE INSTITUTIONS 97
CHAPTER IV.
PROSPERITY OF THE BASIN OF THE MEDITERRANEAN BEFORE THE PUNIC WARS.
I. COMMERCE OF THE MEDITERRANEAN 104
II. NORTHERN AFRICA 105
III. SPAIN 110
IV. SOUTHERN GAUL 114
V. LIGURIA, CISALPINE GAUL, VENETIA, AND ILLYRIA 115
VI. EPIRUS 118
VII. GREECE 119
VIII. MACEDONIA 124
IX. ASIA MINOR 126
X. KINGDOM OF PONTUS 127
XI. BITHYNIA 130
XII. CAPPADOCIA 131
XIII. KINGDOM OF PERGAMUS 132
XIV. CARIA, LYCIA, AND CILICIA 135
XV. SYRIA 137
XVI. EGYPT 143
XVII. CYRENAICA 146
XVIII. CYPRUS 147
XIX. CRETE 148
XX. RHODES 148
XXI. SARDINIA 151
XXII. CORSICA 152
XXIII. SICILY 152
CHAPTER V.
PUNIC WARS AND WARS OF MACEDONIA AND ASIA (488-621).
I. COMPARISON BETWEEN ROME AND CARTHAGE 155
II. FIRST PUNIC WAR (490-513) 158
III. WAR OF ILLYRIA (525) 165
IV. INVASION OF THE CISALPINES (528) 167
V. SECOND PUNIC WAR (536-552) 169
VI. RESULTS OF THE SECOND PUNIC WAR 182
VII. THE MACEDONIAN WAR (554) 189
VIII. WAR AGAINST ANTIOCHUS (563) 194
IX. THE WAR IN THE CISALPINE (558-579) 196
X. WAR AGAINST PERSIA (583) 199
XI. MODIFICATION OF ROMAN POLICY 204
XII. THIRD PUNIC WAR (605-608) 212
XIII. GREECE, MACEDONIA, NUMANTIA, AND PERGAMUS REDUCED TO PROVINCES 215
XIV. SUMMARY 219
CHAPTER VI.
THE GRACCHI, MARIUS, AND SYLLA (621-676).
I. STATE OF THE REPUBLIC 224
II. TIBERIUS GRACCHUS (621) 232
III. CAIUS GRACCHUS (631) 238
IV. WAR OF JUGURTHA (637) 246
V. MARIUS (647) 249
VI. WARS OF THE ALLIES 256
VII. SYLLA (666) 262
VIII. EFFECTS OF SYLLA'S DICTATORSHIP 278
* * * * *
BOOK II.
HISTORY OF JULIUS CAESAR.
CHAPTER I.
(654-684.)
I. FIRST YEARS OF CAESAR 281
II. CAESAR PERSECUTED BY SYLLA (672) 290
III. CAESAR IN ASIA (673, 674) 293
IV. CAESAR ON HIS RETURN TO ROME ( | 3,418.785671 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
+-------------------------------------------------------------------+
| |
| TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES: |
| |
| |
|Formatting and coding information: |
| - Text in italics is marked with underscores as in _text_. |
| - Bold-face text is marked =text=. |
| - Superscript x and subscript x are represented as ^{x} and _{x},|
| respectively. |
| - sqrt(x) represents the square root of x. |
| - [oe] and [OE] represent the oe-ligatures. |
| - Greek letters are written between square brackets, as in [tau] |
| or [theta]. |
| - Overlined 1 is represented as [=1]. |
| - [<] represents a 'rotated [Delta]'. |
| |
|General remarks: |
| - Footnotes have been moved to directly below the paragraph they |
| refer to. |
| - In-line multiple line formulas have been changed to in-line |
| single-line formulas, with brackets added when needed. |
| - The Table of Contents has been corrected to conform to the text|
| rather than to the original Table of Contents. |
| - The table on operating costs of trains gives 'Other expenses |
| per square mile.' This has been changed to 'Per mile' the same |
| as the other expenses. |
| - The table on dimensions of farm and road locomotives gives the |
| diameter of the boiler shell as 30 feet, which seems unlikely. |
| - Feet are sometimes used as unit of area, both knots and knots |
| per hour as unit of speed. |
| |
|Changes in text: |
| - Reference letters in the text have in several cases been |
| changed to conform to the letters used in the illustrations. |
| - Minor typographical errors have been corrected. |
| - Except when mentioned here, inconsistencies in spelling |
| and hyphenation have not been corrected. Exceptions: |
| 'Desagulier' to 'Desaguliers' |
| 'Seguin' to 'Seguin' |
| 'Goldworthy Gurney' to 'Goldsworthy Gurney' |
| 'Ctesibus' to 'Ctesibius' |
| 'i.e.' to 'i. e.' |
| 'Warmetheorie' to 'Waermetheorie' |
| 'tour a tour' to 'tour a tour' |
| 'the beam passes to the' to 'the steam passes to the' |
| 'Desagulier' to 'Desaguliers' |
| 'elever' to 'elever'. |
| - 'As early as 1743' moved to new paragraph. |
| - 'A = 6.264035' changed to 'a = 6.264035.' |
| |
+-------------------------------------------------------------------+
THE INTERNATIONAL SCIENTIFIC SERIES.
VOLUME XXIV.
THE
INTERNATIONAL SCIENTIFIC SERIES.
EACH BOOK COMPLETE IN ONE VOLUME, 12MO, AND BOUND IN CLOTH.
1. FORMS OF WATER: A Familiar Exposition of the Origin and Phenomena
of Glaciers. By J. TYNDALL, LL. D., F. R. S. With 25 Illustrations.
$1.50.
2. PHYSICS AND POLITICS; Or, Thoughts on the Application of the
Principles of "Natural Selection" and "Inheritance" to Political
Society. By WALTER BAGEHOT. $1.50.
3. FOODS. By EDWARD SMITH, M. D., LL. B., F. R. S. With numerous
Illustrations. $1.75.
4. MIND AND BODY: The Theories of their Relation. By ALEXANDER BAIN,
LL. D. With 4 Illustrations. $1.50.
5. THE STUDY OF SOCIOLOGY. By HERBERT SPENCER. $1.50.
6. THE NEW CHEMISTRY. By Professor J. P. COOKE, of Harvard University.
With 31 Illustrations. $2.00.
7. ON THE CONSERVATION OF ENERGY. By BALFOUR STEWART, M. A., LL. D.,
F. R. S. With 14 Illustrations. $1.50.
8. ANIMAL LOCOMOTION; or, Walking, Swimming, and Flying. By J. B.
PETTIGREW, M. D., F. R. S., etc. With 130 Illustrations. $1.75.
9. RESPONSIBILITY IN MENTAL DISEASE. By HENRY MAUDSLEY, M. D. $1.50.
10. THE SCIENCE OF LAW. By Professor SHELDON AMOS. $1.75.
11. ANIMAL MECHANISM: A Treatise on Terrestrial and Aerial Locomotion.
By Professor E. J. MAREY. With 117 Illustrations. $1.75.
12. THE HISTORY OF THE CONFLICT BETWEEN RELIGION AND SCIENCE. By J. W.
DRAPER, M. D., LL. D. $1.75.
13. THE DOCTRINE OF DESCENT AND DARWINISM. By Professor OSCAR SCHMIDT
(Strasburg University). With 26 Illustrations. $1.50.
14. THE CHEMICAL EFFECTS OF LIGHT AND PHOTOGRAPHY. By Dr. HERMANN
VOGEL (Polytechnic Academy of Berlin). Translation thoroughly revised.
With 100 Illustrations. $2.00.
15. FUNGI: Their Nature, Influences, Uses, etc. By M. C. COOKE, M. A.,
LL. D. Edited by the Rev. M. J. Berkeley, M. A., F. L. S. With 109
Illustrations. $1.50.
16. THE LIFE AND GROWTH OF LANGUAGE. By Professor WILLIAM DWIGHT
WHITNEY, of Yale College. $1.50.
17. MONEY AND THE MECHANISM OF EXCHANGE. By W. STANLEY JEVONS, M | 3,418.786625 |
2023-11-16 19:14:02.7667570 | 7,434 | 37 |
Produced by Douglas B. Killings
HESIOD, THE HOMERIC HYMNS, AND HOMERICA
This file contains translations of the following works:
Hesiod: "Works and Days", "The Theogony", fragments of "The Catalogues
of Women and the Eoiae", "The Shield of Heracles" (attributed to
Hesiod), and fragments of various works attributed to Hesiod.
Homer: "The Homeric Hymns", "The Epigrams of Homer" (both attributed to
Homer).
Various: Fragments of the Epic Cycle (parts of which are sometimes
attributed to Homer), fragments of other epic poems attributed to Homer,
"The Battle of Frogs and Mice", and "The Contest of Homer and Hesiod".
This file contains only that portion of the book in English; Greek texts
are excluded. Where Greek characters appear in the original English
text, transcription in CAPITALS is substituted.
PREPARER'S NOTE: In order to make this file more accessible to the
average computer user, the preparer has found it necessary to re-arrange
some of the material. The preparer takes full responsibility for his
choice of arrangement.
A few endnotes have been added by the preparer, and some additions have
been supplied to the original endnotes of Mr. Evelyn-White's. Where this
occurs I have noted the addition with my initials "DBK". Some endnotes,
particularly those concerning textual variations in the ancient Greek
text, are here omitted.
PREFACE
This volume contains practically all that remains of the post-Homeric
and pre-academic epic poetry.
I have for the most part formed my own text. In the case of Hesiod I
have been able to use independent collations of several MSS. by Dr.
W.H.D. Rouse; otherwise I have depended on the apparatus criticus of
the several editions, especially that of Rzach (1902). The arrangement
adopted in this edition, by which the complete and fragmentary poems are
restored to the order in which they would probably have appeared had
the Hesiodic corpus survived intact, is unusual, but should not need
apology; the true place for the "Catalogues" (for example), fragmentary
as they are, is certainly after the "Theogony".
In preparing the text of the "Homeric Hymns" my chief debt--and it is a
heavy one--is to the edition of Allen and Sikes (1904) and to the series
of articles in the "Journal of Hellenic Studies" (vols. xv.sqq.) by T.W.
Allen. To the same scholar and to the Delegates of the Clarendon Press I
am greatly indebted for permission to use the restorations of the "Hymn
to Demeter", lines 387-401 and 462-470, printed in the Oxford Text of
1912.
Of the fragments of the Epic Cycle I have given only such as seemed to
possess distinct importance or interest, and in doing so have relied
mostly upon Kinkel's collection and on the fifth volume of the Oxford
Homer (1912).
The texts of the "Batrachomyomachia" and of the "Contest of Homer and
Hesiod" are those of Baumeister and Flach respectively: where I have
diverged from these, the fact has been noted.
Hugh G. Evelyn-White, Rampton, NR. Cambridge. Sept. 9th, 1914.
INTRODUCTION
General
The early Greek epic--that is, poetry as a natural and popular, and not
(as it became later) an artificial and academic literary form--passed
through the usual three phases, of development, of maturity, and of
decline.
No fragments which can be identified as belonging to the first period
survive to give us even a general idea of the history of the earliest
epic, and we are therefore thrown back upon the evidence of analogy
from other forms of literature and of inference from the two great
epics which have come down to us. So reconstructed, the earliest period
appears to us as a time of slow development in which the characteristic
epic metre, diction, and structure grew up slowly from crude elements
and were improved until the verge of maturity was reached.
The second period, which produced the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey", needs
no description here: but it is very important to observe the effect
of these poems on the course of post-Homeric epic. As the supreme
perfection and universality of the "Iliad" and the "Odyssey" cast into
oblivion whatever pre-Homeric poets had essayed, so these same qualities
exercised a paralysing influence over the successors of Homer. If they
continued to sing like their great predecessor of romantic themes, they
were drawn as by a kind of magnetic attraction into the Homeric style
and manner of treatment, and became mere echoes of the Homeric voice: in
a word, Homer had so completely exhausted the epic genre, that after him
further efforts were doomed to be merely conventional. Only the rare
and exceptional genius of Vergil and Milton could use the Homeric medium
without loss of individuality: and this quality none of the later epic
poets seem to have possessed. Freedom from the domination of the great
tradition could only be found by seeking new subjects, and such freedom
was really only illusionary, since romantic subjects alone are suitable
for epic treatment.
In its third period, therefore, epic poetry shows two divergent
tendencies. In Ionia and the islands the epic poets followed the Homeric
tradition, singing of romantic subjects in the now stereotyped heroic
style, and showing originality only in their choice of legends hitherto
neglected or summarily and imperfectly treated. In continental Greece
[1101], on the other hand, but especially in Boeotia, a new form of
epic sprang up, which for the romance and PATHOS of the Ionian School
substituted the practical and matter-of-fact. It dealt in moral and
practical maxims, in information on technical subjects which are
of service in daily life--agriculture, astronomy, augury, and the
calendar--in matters of religion and in tracing the genealogies of men.
Its attitude is summed up in the words of the Muses to the writer of the
"Theogony": `We can tell many a feigned tale to look like truth, but we
can, when we will, utter the truth' ("Theogony" 26-27). Such a poetry
could not be permanently successful, because the subjects of which it
treats--if susceptible of poetic treatment at all--were certainly not
suited for epic treatment, where unity of action which will sustain
interest, and to which each part should contribute, is absolutely
necessary. While, therefore, an epic like the "Odyssey" is an organism
and dramatic in structure, a work such as the "Theogony" is a merely
artificial collocation of facts, and, at best, a pageant. It is not
surprising, therefore, to find that from the first the Boeotian school
is forced to season its matter with romantic episodes, and that later
it tends more and more to revert (as in the "Shield of Heracles") to the
Homeric tradition.
The Boeotian School
How did the continental school of epic poetry arise? There is little
definite material for an answer to this question, but the probability is
that there were at least three contributory causes. First, it is likely
that before the rise of the Ionian epos there existed in Boeotia a
purely popular and indigenous poetry of a crude form: it comprised,
we may suppose, versified proverbs and precepts relating to life in
general, agricultural maxims, weather-lore, and the like. In this sense
the Boeotian poetry may be taken to have its germ in maxims similar to
our English
'Till May be out, ne'er cast a clout,'
or
'A rainbow in the morning
Is the Shepherd's warning.'
Secondly and thirdly we may ascribe the rise of the new epic to the
nature of the Boeotian people and, as already remarked, to a spirit of
revolt against the old epic. The Boeotians, people of the class of which
Hesiod represents himself to be the type, were essentially unromantic;
their daily needs marked the general limit of their ideals, and, as a
class, they cared little for works of fancy, for pathos, or for fine
thought as such. To a people of this nature the Homeric epos would
be inacceptable, and the post-Homeric epic, with its conventional
atmosphere, its trite and hackneyed diction, and its insincere
sentiment, would be anathema. We can imagine, therefore, that among
such folk a settler, of Aeolic origin like Hesiod, who clearly was
well acquainted with the Ionian epos, would naturally see that the
only outlet for his gifts lay in applying epic poetry to new themes
acceptable to his hearers.
Though the poems of the Boeotian school [1102] were unanimously assigned
to Hesiod down to the age of Alexandrian criticism, they were clearly
neither the work of one man nor even of one period: some, doubtless,
were fraudulently fathered on him in order to gain currency; but it is
probable that most came to be regarded as his partly because of their
general character, and partly because the names of their real authors
were lost. One fact in this attribution is remarkable--the veneration
paid to Hesiod.
Life of Hesiod
Our information respecting Hesiod is derived in the main from notices
and allusions in the works attributed to him, and to these must be added
traditions concerning his death and burial gathered from later writers.
Hesiod's father (whose name, by a perversion of "Works and Days", 299
PERSE DION GENOS to PERSE, DION GENOS, was thought to have been Dius)
was a native of Cyme in Aeolis, where he was a seafaring trader and,
perhaps, also a farmer. He was forced by poverty to leave his native
place, and returned to continental Greece, where he settled at Ascra
near Thespiae in Boeotia ("Works and Days", 636 ff.). Either in Cyme or
Ascra, two sons, Hesiod and Perses, were born to the settler, and these,
after his death, divided the farm between them. Perses, however, who is
represented as an idler and spendthrift, obtained and kept the larger
share by bribing the corrupt 'lords' who ruled from Thespiae ("Works
and Days", 37-39). While his brother wasted his patrimony and ultimately
came to want ("Works and Days", 34 ff.), Hesiod lived a farmer's life
until, according to the very early tradition preserved by the author of
the "Theogony" (22-23), the Muses met him as he was tending sheep on
Mt. Helicon and 'taught him a glorious song'--doubtless the "Works and
Days". The only other personal reference is to his victory in a poetical
contest at the funeral games of Amphidamas at Chalcis in Euboea, where
he won the prize, a tripod, which he dedicated to the Muses of Helicon
("Works and Days", 651-9).
Before we go on to the story of Hesiod's death, it will be well to
inquire how far the "autobiographical" notices can be treated as
historical, especially as many critics treat some, or all of them,
as spurious. In the first place attempts have been made to show that
"Hesiod" is a significant name and therefore fictitious: it is only
necessary to mention Goettling's derivation from IEMI to ODOS (which
would make 'Hesiod' mean the 'guide' in virtues and technical arts),
and to refer to the pitiful attempts in the "Etymologicum Magnum" (s.v.
{H}ESIODUS), to show how prejudiced and lacking even in plausibility
such efforts are. It seems certain that 'Hesiod' stands as a proper name
in the fullest sense. Secondly, Hesiod claims that his father--if not
he himself--came from Aeolis and settled in Boeotia. There is fairly
definite evidence to warrant our acceptance of this: the dialect of the
"Works and Days" is shown by Rzach [1103] to contain distinct Aeolisms
apart from those which formed part of the general stock of epic poetry.
And that this Aeolic speaking poet was a Boeotian of Ascra seems even
more certain, since the tradition is never once disputed, insignificant
though the place was, even before its destruction by the Thespians.
Again, Hesiod's story of his relations with his brother Perses have been
treated with scepticism (see Murray, "Anc. Gk. Literature", pp. 53-54):
Perses, it is urged, is clearly a mere dummy, set up to be the target
for the poet's exhortations. On such a matter precise evidence is
naturally not forthcoming; but all probability is against the sceptical
view. For 1) if the quarrel between the brothers were a fiction, we
should expect it to be detailed at length and not noticed allusively and
rather obscurely--as we find it; 2) as MM. Croiset remark, if the
poet needed a lay-figure the ordinary practice was to introduce some
mythological person--as, in fact, is done in the "Precepts of Chiron".
In a word, there is no more solid ground for treating Perses and his
quarrel with Hesiod as fictitious than there would be for treating
Cyrnus, the friend of Theognis, as mythical.
Thirdly, there is the passage in the "Theogony" relating to Hesiod and
the Muses. It is surely an error to suppose that lines 22-35 all refer
to Hesiod: rather, the author of the "Theogony" tells the story of his
own inspiration by the same Muses who once taught Hesiod glorious song.
The lines 22-3 are therefore a very early piece of tradition about
Hesiod, and though the appearance of Muses must be treated as a graceful
fiction, we find that a writer, later than the "Works and Days" by
perhaps no more than three-quarters of a century, believed in the
actuality of Hesiod and in his life as a farmer or shepherd.
Lastly, there is the famous story of the contest in song at Chalcis. In
later times the modest version in the "Works and Days" was elaborated,
first by making Homer the opponent whom Hesiod conquered, while a later
period exercised its ingenuity in working up the story of the contest
into the elaborate form in which it still survives. Finally the contest,
in which the two poets contended with hymns to Apollo [1104],
was transferred to Delos. These developments certainly need no
consideration: are we to say the same of the passage in the "Works and
Days"? Critics from Plutarch downwards have almost unanimously rejected
the lines 654-662, on the ground that Hesiod's Amphidamas is the hero
of the Lelantine Wars between Chalcis and Eretria, whose death may be
placed circa 705 B.C.--a date which is obviously too low for the
genuine Hesiod. Nevertheless, there is much to be said in defence of
the passage. Hesiod's claim in the "Works and Days" is modest, since
he neither pretends to have met Homer, nor to have sung in any but an
impromptu, local festival, so that the supposed interpolation lacks
a sufficient motive. And there is nothing in the context to show that
Hesiod's Amphidamas is to be identified with that Amphidamas whom
Plutarch alone connects with the Lelantine War: the name may have been
borne by an earlier Chalcidian, an ancestor, perhaps, of the person to
whom Plutarch refers.
The story of the end of Hesiod may be told in outline. After the contest
at Chalcis, Hesiod went to Delphi and there was warned that the 'issue
of death should overtake him in the fair grove of Nemean Zeus.' Avoiding
therefore Nemea on the Isthmus of Corinth, to which he supposed
the oracle to refer, Hesiod retired to Oenoe in Locris where he was
entertained by Amphiphanes and Ganyetor, sons of a certain Phegeus. This
place, however, was also sacred to Nemean Zeus, and the poet, suspected
by his hosts of having seduced their sister [1105], was murdered there.
His body, cast into the sea, was brought to shore by dolphins and buried
at Oenoe (or, according to Plutarch, at Ascra): at a later time his
bones were removed to Orchomenus. The whole story is full of miraculous
elements, and the various authorities disagree on numerous points of
detail. The tradition seems, however, to be constant in declaring that
Hesiod was murdered and buried at Oenoe, and in this respect it is at
least as old as the time of Thucydides. In conclusion it may be worth
while to add the graceful epigram of Alcaeus of Messene ("Palatine
Anthology", vii 55).
"When in the shady Locrian grove Hesiod lay dead, the Nymphs
washed his body with water from their own springs, and
heaped high his grave; and thereon the goat-herds sprinkled
offerings of milk mingled with yellow-honey: such was the
utterance of the nine Muses that he breathed forth, that old
man who had tasted of their pure springs."
The Hesiodic Poems
The Hesiodic poems fall into two groups according as they are didactic
(technical or gnomic) or genealogical: the first group centres round the
"Works and Days", the second round the "Theogony".
I. "The Works and Days":
The poem consists of four main sections. a) After the prelude, which
Pausanias failed to find in the ancient copy engraved on lead seen by
him on Mt. Helicon, comes a general exhortation to industry. It begins
with the allegory of the two Strifes, who stand for wholesome Emulation
and Quarrelsomeness respectively. Then by means of the Myth of Pandora
the poet shows how evil and the need for work first arose, and goes on
to describe the Five Ages of the World, tracing the gradual increase in
evil, and emphasizing the present miserable condition of the world, a
condition in which struggle is inevitable. Next, after the Fable of the
Hawk and Nightingale, which serves as a condemnation of violence
and injustice, the poet passes on to contrast the blessing which
Righteousness brings to a nation, and the punishment which Heaven
sends down upon the violent, and the section concludes with a series
of precepts on industry and prudent conduct generally. b) The second
section shows how a man may escape want and misery by industry and care
both in agriculture and in trading by sea. Neither subject, it should
be carefully noted, is treated in any way comprehensively. c) The third
part is occupied with miscellaneous precepts relating mostly to actions
of domestic and everyday life and conduct which have little or no
connection with one another. d) The final section is taken up with
a series of notices on the days of the month which are favourable or
unfavourable for agricultural and other operations.
It is from the second and fourth sections that the poem takes its name.
At first sight such a work seems to be a miscellany of myths, technical
advice, moral precepts, and folklore maxims without any unifying
principle; and critics have readily taken the view that the whole is a
canto of fragments or short poems worked up by a redactor. Very probably
Hesiod used much material of a far older date, just as Shakespeare
used the "Gesta Romanorum", old chronicles, and old plays; but close
inspection will show that the "Works and Days" has a real unity and that
the picturesque title is somewhat misleading. The poem has properly no
technical object at all, but is moral: its real aim is to show men
how best to live in a difficult world. So viewed the four seemingly
independent sections will be found to be linked together in a real bond
of unity. Such a connection between the first and second sections is
easily seen, but the links between these and the third and fourth are no
less real: to make life go tolerably smoothly it is most important to
be just and to know how to win a livelihood; but happiness also largely
depends on prudence and care both in social and home life as well, and
not least on avoidance of actions which offend supernatural powers and
bring ill-luck. And finally, if your industry is to be fruitful, you
must know what days are suitable for various kinds of work. This
moral aim--as opposed to the currently accepted technical aim of the
poem--explains the otherwise puzzling incompleteness of the instructions
on farming and seafaring.
Of the Hesiodic poems similar in character to the "Works and Days", only
the scantiest fragments survive. One at least of these, the "Divination
by Birds", was, as we know from Proclus, attached to the end of the
"Works" until it was rejected by Apollonius Rhodius: doubtless it
continued the same theme of how to live, showing how man can avoid
disasters by attending to the omens to be drawn from birds. It is
possible that the "Astronomy" or "Astrology" (as Plutarch calls it) was
in turn appended to the "Divination". It certainly gave some account of
the principal constellations, their dates of rising and setting, and the
legends connected with them, and probably showed how these influenced
human affairs or might be used as guides. The "Precepts of Chiron" was
a didactic poem made up of moral and practical precepts, resembling the
gnomic sections of the "Works and Days", addressed by the Centaur Chiron
to his pupil Achilles.
Even less is known of the poem called the "Great Works": the title
implies that it was similar in subject to the second section of the
"Works and Days", but longer. Possible references in Roman writers
[1106] indicate that among the subjects dealt with were the cultivation
of the vine and olive and various herbs. The inclusion of the judgment
of Rhadamanthys (frag. 1): 'If a man sow evil, he shall reap evil,'
indicates a gnomic element, and the note by Proclus [1107] on "Works
and Days" 126 makes it likely that metals also were dealt with. It is
therefore possible that another lost poem, the "Idaean Dactyls", which
dealt with the discovery of metals and their working, was appended to,
or even was a part of the "Great Works", just as the "Divination by
Birds" was appended to the "Works and Days".
II. The Genealogical Poems:
The only complete poem of the genealogical group is the "Theogony",
which traces from the beginning of things the descent and vicissitudes
of the families of the gods. Like the "Works and Days" this poem has no
dramatic plot; but its unifying principle is clear and simple. The gods
are classified chronologically: as soon as one generation is catalogued,
the poet goes on to detail the offspring of each member of that
generation. Exceptions are only made in special cases, as the Sons of
Iapetus (ll. 507-616) whose place is accounted for by their treatment
by Zeus. The chief landmarks in the poem are as follows: after the
first 103 lines, which contain at least three distinct preludes,
three primeval beings are introduced, Chaos, Earth, and Eros--here an
indefinite reproductive influence. Of these three, Earth produces
Heaven to whom she bears the Titans, the Cyclopes and the hundred-handed
giants. The Titans, oppressed by their father, revolt at the instigation
of Earth, under the leadership of Cronos, and as a result Heaven and
Earth are separated, and Cronos reigns over the universe. Cronos knowing
that he is destined to be overcome by one of his children, swallows each
one of them as they are born, until Zeus, saved by Rhea, grows up and
overcomes Cronos in some struggle which is not described. Cronos is
forced to vomit up the children he had swallowed, and these with Zeus
divide the universe between them, like a human estate. Two events mark
the early reign of Zeus, the war with the Titans and the overthrow of
Typhoeus, and as Zeus is still reigning the poet can only go on to give
a list of gods born to Zeus by various goddesses. After this he formally
bids farewell to the cosmic and Olympian deities and enumerates the sons
born of goddess to mortals. The poem closes with an invocation of the
Muses to sing of the 'tribe of women'.
This conclusion served to link the "Theogony" to what must have been
a distinct poem, the "Catalogues of Women". This work was divided into
four (Suidas says five) books, the last one (or two) of which was known
as the "Eoiae" and may have been again a distinct poem: the curious
title will be explained presently. The "Catalogues" proper were a series
of genealogies which traced the Hellenic race (or its more important
peoples and families) from a common ancestor. The reason why women are
so prominent is obvious: since most families and tribes claimed to be
descended from a god, the only safe clue to their origin was through a
mortal woman beloved by that god; and it has also been pointed out that
'mutterrecht' still left its traces in northern Greece in historical
times.
The following analysis (after Marckscheffel) [1108] will show the
principle of its composition. From Prometheus and Pronoia sprang
Deucalion and Pyrrha, the only survivors of the deluge, who had a son
Hellen (frag. 1), the reputed ancestor of the whole Hellenic race. From
the daughters of Deucalion sprang Magnes and Macedon, ancestors of the
Magnesians and Macedonians, who are thus represented as cousins to the
true Hellenic stock. Hellen had three sons, Dorus, Xuthus, and Aeolus,
parents of the Dorian, Ionic and Aeolian races, and the offspring
of these was then detailed. In one instance a considerable and
characteristic section can be traced from extant fragments and notices:
Salmoneus, son of Aeolus, had a daughter Tyro who bore to Poseidon two
sons, Pelias and Neleus; the latter of these, king of Pylos, refused
Heracles purification for the murder of Iphitus, whereupon Heracles
attacked and sacked Pylos, killing amongst the other sons of Neleus
Periclymenus, who had the power of changing himself into all manner of
shapes. From this slaughter Neleus alone escaped (frags. 13, and
10-12). This summary shows the general principle of arrangement of the
"Catalogues": each line seems to have been dealt with in turn, and the
monotony was relieved as far as possible by a brief relation of famous
adventures connected with any of the personages--as in the case of
Atalanta and Hippomenes (frag. 14). Similarly the story of the Argonauts
appears from the fragments (37-42) to have been told in some detail.
This tendency to introduce romantic episodes led to an important
development. Several poems are ascribed to Hesiod, such as the
"Epithalamium of Peleus and Thetis", the "Descent of Theseus into
Hades", or the "Circuit of the Earth" (which must have been
connected with the story of Phineus and the Harpies, and so with the
Argonaut-legend), which yet seem to have belonged to the "Catalogues".
It is highly probable that these poems were interpolations into the
"Catalogues" expanded by later poets from more summary notices in the
genuine Hesiodic work and subsequently detached from their contexts
and treated as independent. This is definitely known to be true of the
"Shield of Heracles", the first 53 lines of which belong to the
fourth book of the "Catalogues", and almost certainly applies to other
episodes, such as the "Suitors of Helen" [1109], the "Daughters of
Leucippus", and the "Marriage of Ceyx", which last Plutarch mentions as
'interpolated in the works of Hesiod.'
To the "Catalogues", as we have said, was appended another work, the
"Eoiae". The title seems to have arisen in the following way [1110]:
the "Catalogues" probably ended (ep. "Theogony" 963 ff.) with some such
passage as this: 'But now, ye Muses, sing of the tribes of women with
whom the Sons of Heaven were joined in love, women pre-eminent above
their fellows in beauty, such as was Niobe (?).' Each succeeding heroine
was then introduced by the formula 'Or such as was...' (cp. frags. 88,
92, etc.). A large fragment of the "Eoiae" is extant at the beginning of
the "Shield of Heracles", which may be mentioned here. The "supplement"
(ll. 57-480) is nominally Heracles and Cycnus, but the greater part
is taken up with an inferior description of the shield of Heracles, in
imitation of the Homeric shield of Achilles ("Iliad" xviii. 478 ff.).
Nothing shows more clearly the collapse of the principles of the
Hesiodic school than this ultimate servile dependence upon Homeric
models.
At the close of the "Shield" Heracles goes on to Trachis to the house
of Ceyx, and this warning suggests that the "Marriage of Ceyx" may have
come immediately after the 'Or such as was' of Alcmena in the "Eoiae":
possibly Halcyone, the wife of Ceyx, was one of the heroines sung in
the poem, and the original section was 'developed' into the "Marriage",
although what form the poem took is unknown.
Next to the "Eoiae" and the poems which seemed to have been developed
from it, it is natural to place the "Great Eoiae". This, again, as we
know from fragments, was a list of heroines who bare children to the
gods: from the title we must suppose it to have been much longer that
the simple "Eoiae", but its extent is unknown. Lehmann, remarking that
the heroines are all Boeotian and Thessalian (while the heroines of
the "Catalogues" belong to all parts of the Greek world), believes the
author to have been either a Boeotian or Thessalian.
Two other poems are ascribed to Hesiod. Of these the "Aegimius" (also
ascribed by Athenaeus to Cercops of Miletus), is thought by Valckenaer
to deal with the war of Aegimus against the Lapithae and the aid
furnished to him by Heracles, and with the history of Aegimius and
his sons. Otto Muller suggests that the introduction of Thetis and of
Phrixus (frags. 1-2) is to be connected with notices of the allies of
the Lapithae from Phthiotis and Iolchus, and that the story of Io was
incidental to a narrative of Heracles' expedition against Euboea. The
remaining poem, the "Melampodia", was a work in three books, whose plan
it is impossible to recover. Its subject, however, seems to have been
the histories of famous seers like Mopsus, Calchas, and Teiresias, and
it probably took its name from Melampus, the most famous of them all.
Date of the Hesiodic Poems
There is no doubt that the "Works and Days" is the oldest, as it is the
most original, of the Hesiodic poems. It seems to be distinctly earlier
than the "Theogony", which refers to it, apparently, as a poem already
renowned. Two considerations help us to fix a relative date for the
"Works". 1) In diction, dialect and style it is obviously dependent
upon Homer, and is therefore considerably later than the "Iliad" and
"Odyssey": moreover, as we have seen, it is in revolt against the
romantic school, already grown decadent, and while the digamma is still
living, it is obviously growing weak, and is by no means uniformly
effective.
2) On the other hand while tradition steadily puts the Cyclic poets
at various dates from 776 B.C. downwards, it is equally consistent in
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SOME
JEWISH WITNESSES
FOR
CHRIST.
BY
Rev. A. BERNSTEIN, B.D.
_Price One Shilling and Sixpence._
PRINTED AT THE
OPERATIVE JEWISH CONVERTS' INSTITUTION,
PALESTINE HOUSE, BODNEY ROAD, LONDON, N.E.
1909.
PREFACE.
This book has grown very considerably in the making, and what was
expected to form a comparatively small pamphlet has become quite a
substantial volume. It is probable that if still more time could have
been spent upon it, its size would have been greatly increased, for the
fact of the matter is that there have been and are many more Jewish
witnesses for Christ than can readily be enumerated. But the author has
all along been very desirous that his work should appear in the
Centenary Year of the London Society for Promoting Christianity amongst
the Jews, the same year which has seen the production of the History of
that Society written by its gifted and deeply lamented Secretary, the
late Rev. W. T. Gidney. The two books are companion works of reference,
and in relation to Jewish missions they are both of inestimable value.
In some degree the one supplements the other, because the biographies
indicate many of the results of the various missionary enterprises
recorded in the History.
That Hebrew Christians should publish the arguments which have convinced
them that Jesus is the Messiah, not merely for their own vindication,
but rather to lead others to the same conviction, is not at all
surprising. It is, however, peculiarly noteworthy that their literary
efforts have not been limited to those of an apologetic nature, but
that, on the contrary, they have made valuable contributions to almost
all the departments of human knowledge. The learned author has rendered
this one of the most pleasing features of his work, and it has evidently
afforded him no little gratification to exhibit clearly the vast
erudition of his numerous brethren.
The Rev. F. L. Denman, the other Secretary of the Society, has read the
proofs, and has done all in his power to secure accuracy, yet as many
authorities have been consulted, and all are not of equal reliability,
it is probable that some errors have been overlooked, and those to which
readers kindly draw attention will be corrected in any future edition.
H. O. ALLBROOK,
_Principal of the Operative Jewish
Converts' Institution._
JEWISH WITNESSES FOR CHRIST.
INTRODUCTION.
THE history of the Mission to the Jews is coeval with the history of the
Christian Church. The names of Christ's disciples mentioned in the
Gospels are nearly all those of Jews, and in the Epistles a great many
of them are of Jewish converts. But the general reader of the New
Testament does not realize the fact, because it was the fashion among
the Jews at that time to assume Greek names. For instance, several of
St. Paul's relatives bearing Greek names became Christians, but we
should not know that they were Jews if the Apostle had not written,
"Andronicus and Junia, my kinsmen." Again, "Lucius, and Jason, and
Sosipater, my kinsmen" (Rom. xvi. 7 and 21). Whilst where we have not
this information with regard to other such names, we take it for granted
that they were Gentiles. For instance, Zenas, mentioned in Titus iii.
13, is naturally taken by the general reader for a Greek, yet scholars
maintain that he had formerly been a Jewish scribe or lawyer.
The aim of this work is to shew that God had at all times in the history
of the Christian Church a considerable number of believing Israelites
who, after their conversion to Christianity, rendered good service to
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Heath's Pedagogical Library--4
EMILE:
OR, CONCERNING EDUCATION
BY
JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU
EXTRACTS
_CONTAINING THE PRINCIPAL ELEMENTS OF PEDAGOGY FOUND IN THE FIRST THREE
BOOKS; WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES BY_
JULES STEEG, DEPUTE, PARIS, FRANCE
TRANSLATED BY
ELEANOR WORTHINGTON
FORMERLY OF THE COOK COUNTY (ILL.) NORMAL SCHOOL
D. C. HEATH & CO., PUBLISHERS
BOSTON -- NEW YORK -- CHICAGO
Entered, according to Act of Congress, In the year 1888, by
GINN, HEATH, & CO.,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Printed in U. S. A.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
M. Jules Steeg has rendered a real service to French and American
teachers by his judicious selections from Rousseau's Emile. For the
three-volume novel of a hundred years ago, with its long disquisitions
and digressions, so dear to the heart of our patient ancestors, is now
distasteful to all but lovers of the curious in books.
"Emile" is like an antique mirror of brass; it reflects the features of
educational humanity no less faithfully than one of more modern
construction. In these few pages will be found the germ of all that is
useful in present systems of education, as well as most of the
ever-recurring mistakes of well-meaning zealots.
The eighteenth century translations of this wonderful book have for
many readers the disadvantage of an English style long disused. It is
hoped that this attempt at a new translation may, with all its defects,
have the one merit of being in the dialect of the nineteenth century,
and may thus reach a wider circle of readers.
INTRODUCTION.
Jean Jacques Rousseau's book on education has had a powerful influence
throughout Europe, and even in the New World. It was in its day a kind
of gospel. It had its share in bringing about the Revolution which
renovated the entire aspect of our country. Many of the reforms so
lauded by it have since then been carried into effect, and at this day
seem every-day affairs. In the eighteenth century they were unheard-of
daring; they were mere dreams.
Long before that time the immortal satirist Rabelais, and, after him,
Michael Montaigne, had already divined the truth, had pointed out
serious defects in education, and the way to reform. No one followed
out their suggestions, or even gave them a hearing. Routine went on
its way. Exercises of memory,--the science that consists of mere
words,--pedantry, barren and vain-glorious,--held fast their "bad
eminence." The child was treated as a machine, or as a man in
miniature, no account being taken of his nature or of his real needs;
without any greater solicitude about reasonable method--the hygiene of
mind--than about the hygiene of the body.
Rousseau, who had educated himself, and very badly at that, was
impressed with the dangers of the education of his day. A mother
having asked his advice, he took up the pen to write it; and, little by
little, his counsels grew into a book, a large work, a pedagogic
romance.
This romance, when it appeared in 1762, created a great noise and a
great scandal. The Archbishop of Paris, Christophe de Beaumont, saw in
it a dangerous, mischievous work, and gave himself the trouble of
writing a long encyclical letter in order to point out the book to the
reprobation of the faithful. This document of twenty-seven chapters is
a formal refutation of the theories advanced in "Emile."
The archbishop declares that the plan of education proposed by the
author, "far from being in accordance with Christianity, is not fitted
to form citizens, or even men." He accuses Rousseau of irreligion and
of bad faith; he denounces him to the temporal power as animated "by a
spirit of insubordination and of revolt." He sums up by solemnly
condemning the book "as containing an abominable doctrine, calculated
to overthrow natural law, and to destroy the foundations of the
Christian religion; establishing maxims contrary to Gospel morality;
having a tendency to disturb the peace of empires, to stir up subjects
to revolt against their sovereign; as containing a great number of
propositions respectively false, scandalous, full of hatred toward the
Church and its ministers, derogating from the respect due to Holy
Scripture and the traditions of the Church, erroneous, impious,
blasphemous, and heretical."
In those days, such a condemnation was a serious matter; its
consequences to an author might be terrible. Rousseau had barely time
to flee. His arrest was decreed by the parliament of Paris, and his
book was burned by the executioner. A few years before this, the
author would have run the risk of being burned with his book.
As a fugitive, Rousseau did not find a safe retreat even in his own
country. He was obliged to leave Geneva, where his book was also
condemned, and Berne, where he had sought refuge, but whence he was
driven by intolerance. He owed it to the protection of Lord Keith,
governor of Neufchatel, a principality belonging to the King of
Prussia, that he lived for some time in peace in the little town of
Motiers in the Val de Travera.
It was from this place that he replied to the archbishop of Paris by an
apology, a long-winded work in which he repels, one after another, the
imputations of his accuser, and sets forth anew with greater urgency
his philosophical and religious principles. This work, written on a
rather confused plan but with impassioned eloquence, manifests a lofty
and sincere spirit. It is said that the archbishop was deeply touched
by it, and never afterward spoke of the author of "Emile" without
extreme reserve, sometimes even eulogizing his character and his
virtues.
The renown of the book, condemned by so high an authority, was immense.
Scandal, by attracting public attention to it, did it good service.
What was most serious and most suggestive in it was not, perhaps,
seized upon; but the "craze" of which it was the object had,
notwithstanding, good results. Mothers were won over, and resolved to
nurse their own infants; great lords began to learn handicrafts, like
Rousseau's imaginary pupil; physical exercises came into fashion; the
spirit of innovation was forcing itself a way.
It was not among ourselves, however, that the theories of Rousseau were
most eagerly experimented upon; it was among foreigners, in Germany, in
Switzerland, that they found more resolute partisans, and a field more
ready to receive them.
Three men above all the rest are noted for having popularized the
pedagogic method of Rousseau, and for having been inspired in their
labors by "Emile." These were Basedow, Pestalozzi, and Froebel.
Basedow, a German theologian, had devoted himself entirely to dogmatic
controversy, until the reading of "Emile" had the effect of enlarging
his mental horizon, and of revealing to him his true vocation. He
wrote important books to show how Rousseau's method could be applied in
different departments of instruction, and founded at Dessau, in 1774,
an institution to bring that method within the domain of experience.
This institution, to which he gave the name of "Philanthropinum," was
secular in the true sense of the word; and at that time this was in
itself a novelty. It was open to pupils of every belief and every
nationality, and proposed to render study easy, pleasant, and
expeditious to them, by following the directions of nature itself. In
the first rank of his disciples may be placed Campe, who succeeded him
in the management of the Philanthropinum.
Pestalozzi of Zuerich, one of the foremost educators of modern times,
also found his whole life transformed by the reading of "Emile," which
awoke in him the genius of a reformer. He himself also, in 1775,
founded a school, in order to put in practice there his progressive and
professional method of teaching, which was a fruitful development of
seeds sown by Rousseau in his book. Pestalozzi left numerous
writings,--romances, treatises, reviews,--all having for sole object
the popularization of his ideas and processes of education. The most
distinguished among his disciples and continuators is Froebel, the
founder of those primary schools or asylums known by the name of
"kindergartens," and the author of highly esteemed pedagogic works.
These various attempts, these new and ingenious processes which, step
by step, have made their way among us, and are beginning to make their
workings felt, even in institutions most stoutly opposed to progress,
are all traceable to Rousseau's "Emile."
It is therefore not too much for Frenchmen, for teachers, for parents,
for every one in our country who is interested in what concerns
teaching, to go back to the source of so great a movement.
It is true that "Emile" contains pages that have outlived their day,
many odd precepts, many false ideas, many disputable and destructive
theories; but at the | 3,418.888102 |
2023-11-16 19:14:02.9690990 | 7,380 | 16 |
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THE DAUGHTER OF A MAGNATE
by
FRANK H. SPEARMAN
Author of
Whispering Smith,
Doctor Bryson, Etc.
[Frontispiece: Gertrude used her glass constantly.]
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers : : New York
Copyright, 1903, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
Published, October, 1903
To
WESLEY HAMILTON PECK, M.D.
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. A JUNE WATER
II. AN ERROR AT HEADQUARTERS
III. INTO THE MOUNTAINS
IV. AS THE DESPATCHER SAW
V. AN EMERGENCY CALL
VI. THE CAT AND THE RAT
VII. TIME BEING MONEY
VIII. SPLITTING THE PAW
IX. A TRUCE
X. AND A SHOCK
XI. IN THE LALLA ROOKH
XII. A SLIP ON A SPECIAL
XIII. BACK TO THE MOUNTAINS
XIV. GLEN TARN
XV. NOVEMBER
XVI. NIGHT
XVII. STORM
XVIII. DAYBREAK
XIX. SUSPENSE
XX. DEEPENING WATERS
XXI. PILOT
XXII. THE SOUTH ARETE
XXIII. BUSINESS
The Daughter of a Magnate
CHAPTER I
A JUNE WATER
The train, a special, made up of a private car and a diner, was running
on a slow order and crawled between the bluffs at a snail's pace.
Ahead, the sun was sinking into the foothills and wherever the eye
could reach to the horizon barren wastes lay riotously green under the
golden blaze. The river, swollen everywhere out of its banks, spread
in a broad and placid flood of yellow over the bottoms, and a hundred
shallow lakes studded with willowed islands marked its wandering course
to the south and east. The clear, far air of the mountains, the glory
of the gold on the June hills and the illimitable stretch of waters
below, spellbound the group on the observation platform.
"It's a pity, too," declared Conductor O'Brien, who was acting as
mountain Baedeker, "that we're held back this way when we're covering
the prettiest stretch on the road for running. It is right along here
where you are riding that the speed records of the world have been
made. Fourteen and six-tenths miles were done in nine and a half
minutes just west of that curve about six months ago--of course it was
down hill."
Several of the party were listening. "Do you use speed recorders out
here?" asked Allen Harrison.
"How's that?"
"Do you use speed recorders?"
"Only on our slow trains," replied O'Brien. "To put speed recorders on
Paddy McGraw or Jimmie the Wind would be like timing a teal duck with
an eight-day clock. Sir?" he asked, turning to another questioner
while the laugh lingered on his side. "No; those are not really
mountains at all. Those are the foothills of the Sleepy Cat
range--west of the Spider Water. We get into that range about two
hundred miles from here--well, I say they are west of the Spider, but
for ten days it's been hard to say exactly where the Spider is. The
Spider is making us all the trouble with high water just now--and we're
coming out into the valley in about a minute," he added as the car gave
an embarrassing lurch. "The track is certainly soft, but if you'll
stay right where you are, on this side, ladies, you'll get the view of
your lives when we leave the bluffs. The valley is about nine miles
broad and it's pretty much all under water."
Beyond the curve they were taking lay a long tangent stretching like a
steel wand across a sea of yellow, and as their engine felt its way
very gingerly out upon it there rose from the slow-moving trucks of
their car the softened resonance that tells of a sounding-board of
waters.
Soon they were drawn among wooded knolls between which hurried little
rivers tossed out of the Spider flood into dry waterways and brawling
with surprised stones and foaming noisily at stubborn root and
impassive culvert. Through the trees the travellers caught passing
glimpses of shaded eddies and a wilderness of placid pools. "And
this," murmured Gertrude Brock to her sister Marie, "this is the
Spider!" O'Brien, talking to the men at her elbow, overheard.
"Hardly, Miss Brock; not yet. You haven't seen the river yet. This is
only the backwater."
They were rising the grade to the bridge approach, and when they
emerged a few moments later from the woods the conductor said, "There!"
The panorama of the valley lay before them. High above their level and
a mile away, the long thread-like spans of Hailey's great bridge
stretched from pier to pier. To the right of the higher ground a fan
of sidetracks spread, with lines of flat cars and gondolas loaded with
stone, brush, piling and timbers, and in the foreground two hulking
pile-drivers, their leads, like rabbits' ears laid sleekly back,
squatted mysteriously. Switch engines puffed impatiently up and down
the ladder track shifting stuff to the distant spurs. At the river
front an army of men moved like loaded ants over the dikes. Beyond
them the eye could mark the boiling yellow of the Spider, its winding
channel marked through the waste of waters by whirling driftwood,
bobbing wreckage and plunging trees--sweepings of a thousand angry
miles. "There's the Spider," repeated the West End conductor,
pointing, "out there in the middle where you see things moving right
along. That's the Spider, on a twenty-year rampage." The train,
moving slowly, stopped. "I guess we've got as close to it as we're
going to, for a while. I'll take a look forward."
It was the time of the June water in the mountains. A year earlier the
rise had taken the Peace River bridge and with the second heavy year of
snow railroad men looked for new trouble. June is not a month for
despair, because the mountain men have never yet scheduled despair as a
West End liability. But it is a month that puts wrinkles in the right
of way clear across the desert and sows gray hairs in the roadmasters'
records from McCloud to Bear Dance. That June the mountain streams
roared, the foothills floated, the plains puffed into sponge, and in
the thick of it all the Spider Water took a man-slaughtering streak and
started over the Bad Lands across lots. The big river forced Bucks'
hand once more, and to protect the main line Glover, third of the
mountain roadbuilders, was ordered off the high-line construction and
back to the hills where Brodie and Hailey slept, to watch the Spider.
The special halted on a tongue of high ground flanking the bridge and
extending upstream to where the river was gnawing at the long dike that
held it off the approach. The delay was tedious. Doctor Lanning and
Allen Harrison went forward to smoke. Gertrude Brock took refuge in a
book and Mrs. Whitney, her aunt, annoyed her with stories. Marie Brock
and Louise Donner placed their chairs where they could watch the
sorting and unloading of never-ending strings of flat cars, the
spasmodic activity in the lines of laborers, the hurrying of the
foremen and the movement of the rapidly shifting fringe of men on the
danger line at the dike.
The clouds which had opened for the dying splendor of the day closed
and a shower swept over the valley; the conductor came back in his
raincoat--his party were at dinner. "_Are_ we to be detained much
longer?" asked Mrs. Whitney.
"For a little while, I'm afraid," replied the trainman diplomatically.
"I've been away over there on the dike to see if I could get permission
to cross, but I didn't succeed."
"Oh, conductor!" remonstrated Louise Donner.
"And we don't get to Medicine Bend to-night," said Doctor Lanning.
"What we need is a man of influence," suggested Harrison. "We ought
never to have let your 'pa' go," he added, turning to Gertrude Brock,
beside whom he sat.
"Can't we really get ahead?" Gertrude lifted her brows reproachfully
as she addressed the conductor. "It's becoming very tiresome."
O'Brien shook his head.
"Why not see someone in authority?" she persisted.
"I have seen the man in authority, and nearly fell into the river doing
it; then he turned me down."
"Did you tell him who we were?" demanded Mrs. Whitney.
"I made all sorts of pleas."
"Does he know that Mr. Bucks _promised_ we should be In Medicine Bend
to-night?" asked pretty little Marie Brock.
"He wouldn't in the least mind that."
Mrs. Whitney bridled. "Pray who is he?"
"The construction engineer of the mountain division is the man in
charge of the bridge just at present."
"It would be a very simple matter to get orders over his head,"
suggested Harrison.
"Not very."
"Mr. Bucks?"
"Hardly. No orders would take us over that bridge to-night without
Glover's permission."
"What an autocrat!" sighed Mrs. Whitney. "No matter; I don't care to
go over it, anyway."
"But I do," protested Gertrude. "I don't feel like staying in this
water all night, if you please."
"I'm afraid that's what we'll have to do for a few hours. I told Mr.
Glover he would be in trouble if I didn't get my people to Medicine
Bend to-night."
"Tell him again," laughed Doctor Lanning.
Conductor O'Brien looked embarrassed. "You'd like to ask particular
leave of Mr. Glover for us, I know," suggested Miss Donner.
"Well, hardly--the second time--not of Mr. Glover." A sheet of rain
drenched the plate-glass windows. "But I'm going to watch things and
we'll get out just as soon as possible. I know Mr. Glover pretty well.
He is all right, but he's been down here now a week without getting out
of his clothes and the river rising on him every hour. They've got
every grain bag between Salt Lake and Chicago and they're filling them
with sand and dumping them in where the river is cutting."
"Any danger of the bridge going?" asked the doctor.
"None in the world, but there's a lot of danger that the river will go.
That would leave the bridge hanging over dry land. The fight is to
hold the main channel where it belongs. They're getting rock over the
bridge from across the river and strengthening the approach for fear
the dike should give way. The track is busy every minute, so I
couldn't make much impression on Mr. Glover."
There was light talk of a deputation to the dike, followed by the
resignation of travellers, cards afterward, and ping-pong. With the
deepening of the night the rain fell harder, and the wind rising in
gusts drove it against the glass. When the women retired to their
compartments the train had been set over above the bridge where the
wind, now hard from the southeast, sung steadily around the car.
Gertrude Brock could not sleep. After being long awake she turned on
the light and looked at her watch; it was one o'clock. The wind made
her restless and the air in the stateroom had become oppressive. She
dressed and opened her door. The lights were very low and the car was
silent; all were asleep.
At the rear end she raised a window-shade. The night was lighted by
strange waves of lightning, and thunder rumbled in the distance
unceasingly. Where she sat she could see the sidings filled with cars,
and when a sharper flash lighted the backwater of the lakes, vague
outlines of far-off bluffs beetled into the sky.
She drew the shade, for the continuous lightning added to her disquiet.
As she did so the rain drove harshly against the car and she retreated
to the other side. Feeling presently the coolness of the air she
walked to her stateroom for her Newmarket coat, and wrapping it about
her, sunk into a chair and closed her eyes. She had hardly fallen
asleep when a crash of thunder split the night and woke her. As it
rolled angrily away she quickly raised the window-curtain.
The heavens were frenzied. She looked toward the river. Electrical
flashes charging from end to end of the angry sky lighted the bridge,
reflected the black face of the river and paled flickering lights and
flaming torches where, on vanishing stretches of dike, an army of dim
figures, moving unceasingly, lent awe to the spectacle.
She could see smoke from the hurrying switch engines whirled viciously
up into the sweeping night and above her head the wind screamed. A
gale from the southwest was hurling the Spider against the revetment
that held the eastern shore and the day and the night gangs together
were reinforcing it. Where the dike gave under the terrific pounding,
or where swiftly boiling pools sucked under the heavy piling, Glover's
men were sinking fresh relays of mattresses and loading them with stone.
At moments laden flat cars were pushed to the brink of the flood, and
men with picks and bars rose spirit-like out of black shadows to
scramble up their sides and dump rubble on the sunken brush. Other men
toiling in unending procession wheeled and slung sandbags upon the
revetment; others stirred crackling watchfires that leaped high into
the rain, and over all played the incessant lightning and the angry
thunder and the flying night.
She shut from her eyes the strangely moving sight, returned to her
compartment, closed her door and lay down. It was quieter within the
little room and the fury of the storm was less appalling.
Half dreaming as she lay, mountains shrouded in a deathly lightning
loomed wavering before her, and one, most terrible of all, she strove
unwillingly to climb. Up she struggled, clinging and slipping, a
cramping fear over all her senses, her ankles clutched in icy fetters,
until from above, an apparition, strange and threatening, pushed her,
screaming, and she swooned into an awful gulf.
"Gertrude! Gertrude! Wake up!" cried a frightened voice.
The car was rocking in the wind, and as Gertrude opened her door Louise
Donner stumbled terrified into her arms. "Did you hear that awful,
awful crash? I'm sure the car has been struck."
"No, no, Louise."
"It surely has been. Oh, let us waken the men at once, Gertrude; we
shall be killed!"
The two clung to one another. "I'm afraid to stay alone, Gertrude,"
sobbed her companion.
"Stay with me, Louise. Come." While they spoke the wind died and for
a moment the lightning ceased, but the calm, like the storm, was
terrifying. As they stood breathless a report like the ripping of a
battery burst over their heads, a blast shook the heavy car and howled
shrilly away.
Sleep was out of the question. Gertrude looked at her watch. It was
four o'clock. The two dressed and sat together till daylight. When
morning broke, dark and gray, the storm had passed and out of the
leaden sky a drizzle of rain was falling. Beside the car men were
moving. The forward door was open and the conductor in his stormcoat
walked in.
"Everything is all right this morning, ladies," he smiled.
"All right? I should think everything all wrong," exclaimed Louise.
"We have been frightened to death."
"They've got the cutting stopped," continued O'Brien, smiling. "Mr.
Glover has left the dike. He just told me the river had fallen six
inches since two o'clock. We'll be out of here now as quick as we can
get an engine: they've been switching with ours. There was
considerable wind in the night----"
"Considerable _wind_!"
"You didn't notice it, did you? Glover loaded the bridge with freight
trains about twelve o'clock and I'm thinking it's lucky, for when the
wind went into the northeast about four o'clock I thought it would take
my head off. It snapped like dynamite clear across the valley."
"Oh, we heard!"
"When the wind jumped, a crew was dumping stone into the river. The
men were ordered off the flat cars but there were so many they didn't
all get the word at once, and while the foreman was chasing them down
he was blown clean into the river."
"Drowned?"
"No, he was not. He crawled out away down by the bridge, though a man
couldn't have done it once in a thousand times. It was old Bill
Dancing--he's got more lives than a cat. Do you remember where we
first pulled up the train in the afternoon? A string of ten box cars
stood there last night and when the wind shifted it blew the whole
bunch off the track."
"Oh, do let us get away from here," urged Gertrude. "I feel as if
something worse would happen if we stayed. I'm sorry we ever left
McCloud yesterday."
The men came from their compartments and there was more talk of the
storm. Clem and his helpers were starting breakfast in the dining-car
and the doctor and Harrison wanted to walk down to see where the river
had cut into the dike. Mrs. Whitney had not appeared and they asked
the young ladies to go with them. Gertrude objected. A foggy haze
hung over the valley.
"Come along," urged Harrison; "the air will give you an appetite."
After some remonstrating she put on her heavy coat, and carrying
umbrellas the four started under the conductor's guidance across to the
dike. They picked their steps along curving tracks, between material
piles and through the debris of the night. On the dike they spent some
time looking at the gaps and listening to explanations of how the river
worked to undermine and how it had been checked. Watchers hooded in
yellow stickers patrolled the narrow jetties or, motionless, studied
the eddies boiling at their feet.
Returning, the party walked around the edge of the camp where cooks
were busy about steaming kettles. Under long, open tents wearied men
lying on scattered hay slept after the hardship of the night. In the
drizzling haze half a dozen men, assistants to the engineer--rough
looking but strong-featured and quick-eyed--sat with buckets of
steaming coffee about a huge campfire. Four men bearing a litter came
down the path. Doctor Lanning halted them. A laborer had been pinched
during the night between loads of piling projecting over the ends of
flat cars and they told the doctor his chest was hurt. A soiled
neckcloth covered his face but his stertorous breathing could be heard,
and Gertrude Brock begged the doctor to go to the camp with the injured
man and see whether something could not be done to relieve him until
the company surgeon arrived. The doctor, with O'Brien, turned back.
Gertrude, depressed by the incident, followed Louise and Allen Harrison
along the path which wound round a clump of willows flanking the
campfire.
On the sloping bank below the trees and a little out of the wind a man
on a mattress of willows lay stretched asleep. He was clad in leather,
mud-stained and wrinkled, and the big brown boots that cased his feet
were strapped tightly above his knees. An arm, outstretched, supported
his head, hidden under a soft gray hat. Like the thick gloves that
covered his clasped hands, his hat and the handkerchief knotted about
his neck were soaked by the rain, falling quietly and trickling down
the furrows of his leather coat. But his attitude was one of
exhaustion, and trifles of discomfort were lost in his deep respiration.
"Oh!" exclaimed Gertrude Brock under her breath, "look at that poor
fellow asleep in the rain. Allen?"
Allen Harrison, ahead, was struggling to hold his umbrella upright
while he rolled a cigarette. He turned as he passed the paper across
his lips.
"Throw your coat over him, Allen."
Harrison pasted the paper roll, and putting it to his mouth felt for
his matchcase. "Throw _my_ coat over him!"
"Yes."
Allen took out a match. "Well, I like that. That's like you,
Gertrude. Suppose you throw your coat over him."
Gertrude looked silently at her companion. There is a moment when
women should be humored; not all men are fortunate enough to recognize
it. Louise, still walking ahead, called, "Come on," but Gertrude did
not move.
"Allen, throw your coat over the poor fellow," she urged. "You
wouldn't let your dog lie like that in the rain."
"But, Gertrude--do me the kindness"--he passed his umbrella to her that
he might better manage the lighting--"he's not my dog."
If she made answer it was only in the expression of her eyes. She
handed the umbrella back, flung open her long coat and slipped it from
her shoulders. With the heavy garment in her hands she stepped from
her path toward the sleeper and noticed for the first time an utterly
disreputable-looking dog lying beside him in the weeds. The dog's long
hair was bedraggled to the color of the mud he curled in, and as he
opened his eyes without raising his head, Gertrude hesitated; but his
tail spoke a kindly greeting. He knew no harm was meant and he watched
unconcernedly while, determined not to recede from her impulse,
Gertrude stepped hastily to the sleeper's side and dropped her coat
over his shoulders.
Louise was too far ahead to notice the incident. After breakfast she
asked Gertrude what the matter was.
"Nothing. Allen and I had our first quarrel this morning."
As she spoke, the train, high in the air, was creeping over the Spider
bridge.
CHAPTER II
AN ERROR AT HEADQUARTERS
When the Brock-Harrison party, familiarly known--among those with whom
they were by no means familiar--as the Steel Crowd, bought the
transcontinental lines that J. S. Bucks, the second vice-president and
general manager, had built up into a system, their first visit to the
West End was awaited with some uneasiness. An impression prevailed that
the new owners might take decided liberties with what Conductor O'Brien
termed the "personal" of the operating department.
But week after week followed the widely heralded announcement of the
purchase without the looked-for visit from the new owners. During the
interval West End men from the general superintendent down were
admittedly on edge--with the exception of Conductor O'Brien. "If I go, I
go," was all he said, and in making the statement in his even,
significant way it was generally understood that the trainman that ran
the pay-cars and the swell mountain specials had in view a
superintendency on the New York Central. On what he rested his
confidence in the opening no one certainly knew, though Pat Francis
claimed it was based wholly on a cigar in a glass case once given to the
genial conductor by Chauncey M. Depew when travelling special to the
coast under his charge.
Be that as it may, when the West End was at last electrified by the
announcement that the Brock-Harrison syndicate train had already crossed
the Missouri and might be expected any day, O'Brien with his usual luck
was detailed as one of the conductors to take charge of the visitors.
The pang in the operating department was that the long-delayed inspection
tour should have come just at a time when the water had softened things
until every train on the mountain division was run under slow-orders.
At McCloud Vice-president Bucks, a very old campaigner, had held the
party for two days to avoid the adverse conditions in the west and turned
the financiers of the party south to inspect branches while the road was
drying in the hills. But the party of visitors contained two distinct
elements, the money-makers and the money-spenders--the generation that
made the investment and the generation that distributed the dividends.
The young people rebelled at branch line trips and insisted on heading
for sightseeing and hunting straight into the mountains. Accordingly, at
McCloud the party split, and while Henry S. Brock and his business
associates looked over the branches, his private cars containing his
family and certain of their friends were headed for the headquarters of
the mountain division, Medicine Bend.
Medicine Bend is not quite the same town it used to be, and
disappointment must necessarily attend efforts to identify the once
familiar landmarks of the mountain division. Improvement, implacable
priestess of American industry, has well-nigh obliterated the picturesque
features of pioneer days. The very right of way of the earliest overland
line, abandoned for miles and miles, is seen now from the car windows
bleaching on the desert. So once its own rails, vigorous and aggressive,
skirted grinning heaps of buffalo bones, and its own tangents were spiked
across the grave of pony rider and Indian brave--the king was: the king
is.
But the Sweetgrass winds are the same. The same snows whiten the peaks,
the same sun dies in western glory, and the mountains still see nestling
among the tracks at the bend of the Medicine River the first headquarters
building of the mountain division, nicknamed The Wickiup. What, in the
face of continual and unrelenting changes, could have saved the Wickiup?
Not the fact that the crazy old gables can boast the storm and stress of
the mad railroad life of another day than this--for every deserted curve
and hill of the line can do as much. The Wickiup has a better claim to
immortality, for once its cracked and smoky walls, raised solely to house
the problems and perplexities of the operating department, sheltered a
pair of lovers, so strenuous in their perplexities that even yet in the
gleam of the long night-fires of the West End their story is told.
In that day the construction department of the mountain division was
cooped up at one end of the hall on the second floor of the building.
Bucks at that time thought twice before he indorsed one of Glover's
twenty-thousand-dollar specifications. Now, with the department
occupying the entire third floor and pushing out of the dormer windows, a
million-dollar estimate goes through like a requisition for postage
stamps.
But in spite of his hole-in-the-wall office, Glover, the construction
engineer of that day, was a man to be reckoned with in estimates of West
End men. They knew him for a captain long before he left his mark on the
Spider the time he held the river for a straight week at twenty-eight
feet, bitted and gagged between Hailey's piers, and forced the yellow
tramp to understand that if it had killed Hailey there were equally bad
men left on the mountain pay-roll. Glover, it may be said, took his
final degrees in engineering in the Grand Canyon; he was a member of the
Bush party, and of the four that got back alive to Medicine one was Ab
Glover.
Glover rebuilt the whole system of snowsheds on the West End, practically
everything from the Peace to the Sierras. Every section foreman in the
railroad Bad Lands knew Glover. Just how he happened to lose his
position as chief engineer of the system--for he was a big man on the
East End when he first came with the road--no one certainly knew. Some
said he spoke his mind too freely--a bad trait in a railroad man; others
said he could not hold down the job. All they knew in the mountains was
that as a snow fighter he could wear out all the plows on the division,
and that if a branch line were needed in haste Glover would have the
rails down before an ordinary man could get his bids in.
Ordinarily these things are expected from a mountain constructionist and
elicit no comment from headquarters, but the matter at the Spider was one
that could hardly pass unnoticed. For a year Glover had been begging for
a stenographer. Writing, to him, was as distasteful as soda-water, and
one morning soon after his return from the valley flood a letter came
with the news that a competent stenographer had been assigned to him and
would report at once for duty at Medicine Bend.
Glover emerged from his hall-office in great spirits and showed the
letter to Callahan, the general superintendent, for congratulations.
"That is right," commented Callahan cynically. "You saved them a hundred
thousand dollars last month--they are going to blow ten a week on you.
By the way, your stenographer is here."
"He is?"
"She is. Your stenographer, a very dignified young lady, came in on
Number One. You had better go and get shaved. She has been in to
inquire for you and has gone to look up a boarding-place. Get her
started as soon as you can--I want to see your figures on the Rat Canyon
work."
A helper now would be a boon from heaven. "But she won't stay long after
she sees this office," Glover reflected ruefully as he returned to it.
He knew from experience that stenographers were hard to hold at Medicine
Bend. They usually came out for their health and left at the slightest
symptoms of improvement. He worried as to whether he might possibly have
been unlucky enough to draw another invalid. And at the very moment he
had determined he would not lose his new assistant if good treatment
would keep her he saw a trainman far down the gloomy hall pointing a
finger in his direction--saw a young lady coming toward him and realized
he ought to have taken time that morning to get shaved.
There was nothing to do but make the best of it; dismissing his
embarrassment he rose to greet the newcomer. His first reflection was
that he had not drawn an invalid, for he had never seen a fresher face in
his life, and her bearing had the confidence of health itself.
"I heard you had been here," he said reassuringly as the young lady
hesitated at his door.
"Pardon me?"
"I heard you had been here," he repeated with deference.
"I wish to send a despatch," she replied with an odd intonation. Her
reply seemed so at variance with his greeting that a chill tempered his
enthusiasm. Could they possibly have sent him a deaf stenographer?--one
worn in the exacting service at headquarters? There was always a fly
somewhere in his ointment, and so capable and engaging a young lady
seemed really too good to be true. He saw the message blank in her hand.
"Let me take it," he suggested, and added, raising his voice, "It shall
go at once." The young lady gave him the message and sitting down at his
desk he pressed an electric call. Whatever her misfortunes she enlisted
his sympathy instantly, and as no one had ever accused him of having a
weak voice he determined he would make the best of the situation. "Be
seated, please," he said. She looked at him curiously. "Pray, be
seated," he repeated more firmly.
"I desire only to pay for my telegram."
"Not at all. It isn't necessary. Just be seated!"
In some bewilderment she sat down on the edge of the chair beside which
she stood.
"We are cramped for room at present in the construction department," he
went on, affixing his frank to the telegram. "Here, Gloomy, rush this,
my boy," said he to the messenger, who came through a door connecting
with the operator's room. "But we have the promise of more space soon,"
he resumed, addressing the young lady hopefully. "I have had your desk
placed there to give you the benefit of the south light | 3,418.989139 |
2023-11-16 19:14:03.2691640 | 246 | 13 |
Produced by David Widger
THE DORE GALLERY OF BIBLE ILLUSTRATIONS
Illustrated by Gustave Dore
Complete
This volume, as its title indicates, is a collection of engravings
illustrative of the Bible--the designs being all from the pencil of the
greatest of modern delineators, Gustave Dore. The original work, from
which this collection has been made, met with an immediate and warm
recognition and acceptance among those whose means admitted of its
purchase, and its popularity has in no wise diminished since its first
publication, but has even extended to those who could only enjoy it
casually, or in fragmentary parts. That work, however, in its entirety,
was far too costly for the larger and ever-widening circle of M. Dore's
admirers, and to meet the felt and often-expressed want of this class,
and to provide a volume of choice and valuable designs upon sacred
subjects for art-loving Biblical students generally, this work was
projected and has been carried forward. The aim has been to introduce
subjects of general interest--that is, those relating to the most
| 3,419.289204 |
2023-11-16 19:14:03.3617270 | 1,126 | 11 |
Produced by MWS, Les Galloway and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
THE
HISTORY
OF
CHEMISTRY.
BY
THOMAS THOMSON, M. D.
F.R.S. L. & E.; F.L.S.; F.G.S., &c.
REGIUS PROFESSOR OF CHEMISTRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF GLASGOW.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1831.
C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE, STRAND.
CONTENTS
OF
THE SECOND VOLUME.
CHAPTER I. Page
Of the foundation and progress of scientific chemistry in Great
Britain 1
CHAPTER II.
Of the progress of philosophical chemistry in Sweden 26
CHAPTER III.
Progress of scientific chemistry in France 75
CHAPTER IV.
Progress of analytical chemistry 190
CHAPTER V.
Of electro-chemistry 251
CHAPTER VI.
Of the atomic theory 277
CHAPTER VII.
Of the present state of chemistry 309
HISTORY OF CHEMISTRY.
CHAPTER I.
OF THE FOUNDATION AND PROGRESS OF SCIENTIFIC CHEMISTRY IN GREAT BRITAIN.
While Mr. Cavendish was extending the bounds of pneumatic chemistry,
with the caution and precision of a Newton, Dr. Priestley, who had
entered on the same career, was proceeding with a degree of rapidity
quite unexampled; while from his happy talents and inventive faculties,
he contributed no less essentially to the progress of the science, and
certainly more than any other British chemist to its popularity.
Joseph Priestley was born in 1733, at Fieldhead, about six miles from
Leeds in Yorkshire. His father, Jonas Priestley, was a maker and
dresser of woollen cloth, and his mother, the only child of Joseph
Swift a farmer in the neighbourhood. Dr. Priestley was the eldest
child; and, his mother having children very fast, he was soon committed
to the care of his maternal grandfather. He lost his mother when he
was only six years of age, and was soon after taken home by his father
and sent to school in the neighbourhood. His father being but poor,
and encumbered with a large family, his sister, Mrs. Keighley, a woman
in good circumstances, and without children, relieved him of all care
of his eldest son, by taking him and bringing him up as her own. She
was a dissenter, and her house was the resort of all the dissenting
clergy in the country. Young Joseph was sent to a public school in
the neighbourhood, and, at sixteen, had made considerable progress in
Latin, Greek, and Hebrew. Having shown a passion for books and for
learning at a very early age, his aunt conceived hopes that he would
one day become a dissenting clergyman, which she considered as the
first of all professions; and he entered eagerly into her views: but
his health declining about this period, and something like phthisical
symptoms having come on, he was advised to turn his thoughts to trade,
and to settle as a merchant in Lisbon. This induced him to apply to the
modern languages; and he learned French, Italian, and German, without a
master. Recovering his health, he abandoned his new scheme and resumed
his former plan of becoming a clergyman. In 1752 he was sent to the
academy of Daventry, to study under Dr. Ashworth, the successor of Dr.
Doddridge. He had already made some progress in mechanical philosophy
and metaphysics, and dipped into Chaldee, Syriac, and Arabic. At
Daventry he spent three years, engaged keenly in studies connected with
divinity, and wrote some of his earliest theological tracts. Freedom
of discussion was admitted to its full extent in this academy. The two
masters espoused different sides upon most controversial subjects, and
the scholars were divided into two parties, nearly equally balanced.
The discussions, however, were conducted with perfect good humour
on both sides; and Dr. Priestley, as he tells us himself, usually
supported the heterodox opinion; but he never at any time, as he
assures us, advanced arguments which he did not believe to be good,
or supported an opinion which he did not consider as true. When he
left the academy, he settled at Needham in Suffolk, as an assistant
in a small, obscure dissenting meeting-house, where his income never
exceeded 30_l._ a-year. His hearers fell off, in consequence of their
dislike of his theological opinions; and his income underwent a
corresponding diminution. He attempted a school; but his scheme failed
of success, owing to the bad opinion which his neighbours entertained
of his orthodoxy. His situation would have been desperate, had he not
been occasionally relieved by sums out of charitable funds, procured | 3,419.381767 |
2023-11-16 19:14:03.3686570 | 5,636 | 42 |
Produced by Louise Hope, Carlo Traverso and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by the Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF/Gallica) at
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[Transcriber’s Note:
The printed book had two kinds of headnote: keyword and mileage.
“Keyword” headers, noting the places and subjects mentioned on the page,
have been placed before the most appropriate paragraph.
Each itinerary gives the “miles from” {starting point} and “miles to”
{ending point}, with the numbers printed in the left and right corners
of each paragraph. For this e-text the numbers are shown in {braces}
before the beginning of each paragraph; the place names are given at
the beginning of the itinerary, and repeated as needed. Paragraphs
describing side excursions do not have mileage information.
The hotel rating symbols are explained at several random points in the
text, though not in the introductory section:
Those with the figure ¹ are first-class houses, with ² second-class.
The asterisk signifies that they are especially good of their class.
Errors and inconsistencies are listed at the end of the text.]
[Map:
Index and Railway Map of France]
SOUTH OF FRANCE
EAST HALF
GUIDES BY C. B. BLACK.
SPAS of CHELTENHAM and BATH, with Maps and Plan of BATH. 1s.
TOURIST’S CAR GUIDE in the pleasant Islands of JERSEY, GUERNSEY,
ALDERNEY and SARK. Illustrated with 6 Maps and Plan of the Town of
SAINT HELIER. Second edition. 1s.
CORSICA, with large Map of the Island. 1s.
BELGIUM, including ROTTERDAM, FLUSHING, MIDDELBURG, SCHIEDAM and
LUXEMBOURG. Illustrated by 10 Plans and 5 Maps. 2s. 6d.
NORTH FRANCE, LORRAINE AND ALSACE, including the MINERAL WATERS OF
CONTREXÉVILLE, VITTEL, MARTIGNY, PLOMBIÈRES, LUXEUIL, AIX-LA-CHAPELLE,
etc. Illustrated with 5 Maps and 7 Plans. Third Edition. 2s. 6d.
TOURAINE, NORMANDY and BRITTANY. Illustrated with 14 Maps and 15
Plans. Eighth edition. 5s.
The above two contain the NORTH HALF of France; or France from the
Loire to the North Sea and from the Bay of Biscay to the Rhine.
THE RIVIERA, or the coast of the Mediterranean from MARSEILLES to
LEGHORN, including LUCCA, PISA and FLORENCE. Illustrated with 8 Maps
and 6 Plans. Second edition. 2s. 6d.
FRANCE--SOUTH-EAST HALF--including the whole of the VALLEY OF THE
RHÔNE in France, with the adjacent Departments; the VALLEY OF THE
UPPER LOIRE, with the adjacent Departments; the RIVIERA; the PASSES
between France and Italy; and the Italian towns of TURIN, PIACENZA,
MODENA, BOLOGNA, FLORENCE, LEGHORN and PISA. Illustrated with numerous
Maps and Plans. Fourth edition. 5s.
From “Scotsman,” June 2, 1884.
“_C. B. Black’s Guide-books have a character of their own; and that
character is a good one. Their author has made himself personally
acquainted with the localities with which he deals in a manner in
which only a man of leisure, a lover of travel, and an intelligent
observer of Continental life could afford to do. He does not ‘get up’
the places as a mere hack guide-book writer is often, by the necessity
of the case, compelled to do. Hence he is able to correct common
mistakes, and to supply information on minute points of much interest
apt to be overlooked by the hurried observer._”
The
SOUTH OF FRANCE
EAST HALF
Including the Valleys of
THE RHÔNE, DRÔME AND DURANCE
The BATHS of
VICHY, ROYAT, AIX, MONT-DORE AND BOURBOULE
The Whole of the
RIVIERA FROM CETTE TO LEGHORN
With the Inland Towns of
TURIN, BOLOGNA, PARMA, FLORENCE AND PISA
and
THE PASSES BETWEEN FRANCE AND ITALY
Illustrated with Maps and Plans
FOURTH EDITION
C. B. BLACK
EDINBURGH: ADAM AND CHARLES BLACK
1885
_Printed by R. & R. CLARK, Edinburgh_.
PREFACE.
This Guide-book consists of _Routes_ which follow the course of the main
Railways. To adapt these Routes as far as possible to the requirements
of every one the Branch Lines are also pointed out, together with the
stations from which the Coaches run, in connection with the trains, to
towns distant from the railway. The description of the places on these
branch lines is printed either in a closer or in a smaller letter than
that of the towns on the main lines.
Each Route has the _Map_ indicated on which it is to be found. By aid of
these maps the traveller can easily discover his exact situation, and
either form new routes for himself, or follow those given.
The _Arrangement_ of the Routes is such that they may be taken either
from the commencement to the end, or from the end to the commencement.
The Route from Paris to Marseilles, for example, does equally well for
Marseilles to Paris.
The _Distance_ of towns from the place of starting to the terminus is
expressed by the figures which accompany them on each side of the
margin; while the distance of any two towns on the same route from each
other is found by subtracting their marginal figures on either side from
each other.
In the _Description_ of towns the places of interest have been taken in
the order of their position, so that, if a cab be engaged, all that is
necessary is to mention to the driver their names in succession. Cabs on
such occasions should be hired by the hour. To guard against omission,
the traveller should underline the names of the places to be visited
before commencing the round. In France the Churches are open all the
day. In Italy they close at 12; but most of them reopen at 2 P.M. All
the Picture-Galleries are open on Sundays, and very many also on
Thursdays. When not open to the public, admission is generally granted
on payment of a franc.
In “Table of Contents” the Routes are classified and explained. For the
Time-tables recommended, and for the mode of procedure on the
Continental Railways, see “Preliminary Information.”
Before commencing our description of the Winter Resorts on the
Mediterranean, with the best routes towards them, let it be clearly
understood that not even in the very mildest of these stations is it
safe for the invalid to venture out either in the early morning or after
sunset without being well protected with warm clothing; and that, even
with this precaution, the risk run of counteracting the beneficial
influences of a sojourn in these regions is so great as to render it
prudent to determine from the first to spend those hours always within
doors. On the other hand, it is most conducive to health, during the
sunny hours of the day, to remain as much as possible in the open air,
walking and driving along the many beautiful terraces and roads with
which these places abound; and if the day be well employed in such
exercise, it will be no great hardship to rest at home in the evening.
Nor is it necessary to remain in the same town during the entire season;
indeed a change of scene is generally most beneficial, for which the
railway as well as the steamers affords every facility. “I would
strongly advise every person who goes abroad for the recovery of his
health, whatever may be his disease or to what climate soever he may go,
to consider the change as placing him merely in a more favourable
situation for the removal of his disease; in fact, to bear constantly in
mind that the beneficial influence of travelling, of sailing, and of
climate requires to be aided by such dietetic regimen and general mode
of living, and by such remedial measures as would have been requisite in
his case had he remained in his own country. All the circumstances
requiring attention from the invalid at home should be equally attended
to abroad. If in some things greater latitude may be permitted, others
will demand even a more rigid attention. It is, in truth, only by a due
regard to all these circumstances that the powers of the constitution
can be enabled to throw off, or even materially mitigate, in the best
climate, a disease of long standing.
“It may appear strange that I should think it requisite to insist so
strongly on the necessity of attention to these directions; but I have
witnessed the injurious effects of a neglect of them too often not to
deem such remarks called for in this place. It was, indeed, matter of
surprise to me, during my residence abroad, to observe the manner in
which many invalids seemed to lose sight of the object for which they
left their own country--the recovery of their health. This appeared to
arise chiefly from too much being expected from climate.
“The more common and more injurious deviations from that system of
living which an invalid ought to adopt, consist in errors of diet,
exposure to cold, over-fatigue, and excitement in what is called
‘sight-seeing,’ frequenting crowded and over-heated rooms, and keeping
late hours. Many cases fell under my observation in which climate
promised the greatest advantage, but where its beneficial influence was
counteracted by the operation of these causes.” --_Sir James Clark on
the Sanative Influence of Climate._
SEE MAP PAGE 27, AND MAP ON FLY-LEAF.
Many after leaving the Riviera are the better of making a short stay
at some of the baths, such as Vichy (p. 359), Vals (p. 93), Mont-Dore
(p. 378), Bourboule (p. 383), Aix-les-Bains (p. 283),
Bourbon-l’Archambault (p. 357), or Bourbon-Lancy (p. 358). If at the
eastern end of the Riviera, the nearest way to them is by rail from
Savona (pp. 209 and 183), or from Genoa (pp. 212 and 279) to Turin
(p. 292). From Turin a short branch line extends to Torre-Pèllice
(p. 305), situated in one of the most beautiful of the Waldensian
valleys.
If the journey from Turin to Aix-les-Bains, 128 miles, be too long,
a halt may be made for the night at Modane (p. 290); where, however,
on account of the elevation, 3445 ft., the air is generally rather
sharp and bracing.
From the western end of the Riviera the best way north and to the
baths is by the valley of the Rhône (map, p. 27), in which there are
many places of great interest, such as Arles (p. 68), Avignon (p. 58),
Orange (p. 51), and Lyons (p. 29). From Lyons take the western branch
by Montbrison (p. 349) for Vichy, Mont-Dore, and Bourboule. For
Aix-les-Bains take the eastern by Ambérieux (p. 281) and Culoz
(p. 282). From Avignon, Carpentras (p. 54), Pont-St. Esprit (p. 98),
Montélimart (p. 48), La Voulte (p. 82), Crest (p. 46) and Grenoble
(p. 324), interesting and picturesque excursions are made. From
Carpentras Mont Ventoux (p. 56) is visited. From La Voulte, Ardechè
(p. 45) is entered. From Crest diligences run to the towns and
villages between it and Aspres (pp. 47 and 345). From Grenoble the
roads and railways diverge which lead to the lofty peaks of the
western Alps and to the mountain passes between France and Italy.
None should go abroad without a passport. Even where several are
travelling together in one party, each should have his own passport.
They are easily procured and easily carried, and may be of great use.
The best hotels in the places frequented by the Americans and English
cost per day from 12 to 22 frs., and the pensions from 9 to 15 frs.,
including wine (often sour) in both. The general charge in the hotels of
the other towns throughout France is from 8 to 9 frs. per day. Meat
breakfast, 2 to 3 frs.; dinner, 3 to 4 frs.; service, ½ fr.; “café au
lait,” with bread and butter, 1½ fr. The omnibus between the hotel and
the station costs each from 6 to 10 sous. The driver in most cases loads
and unloads the luggage himself at the station, when he expects a small
gratuity from 2 to 10 sous, according to the quantity of bags and
trunks. The omnibuses of the Riviera hotels cost from 1½ to 2 frs. each,
and although the conductor does not unload the luggage he expects a
gratuity.
Neither jewellery nor money should be carried in portmanteaus. When a
stay of merely a day or two is intended, the bulky and heavy luggage
should be left in depôt at the station. Some companies charge 1, others
2 sous for each article (colis) per day. See “Railways” in “Preliminary
Information.”
C. B. B.
PRELIMINARY INFORMATION.
THE LANDING-PLACES ON THE FRENCH SIDE OF THE CHANNEL.
The six principal ports on the French side of the English Channel
connected by railroad with Paris are:--
Dieppe--distant from Paris 125 miles; passing Clères Junction, 100 m.;
Rouen, 85 m.; Gaillon, 58 m.; Mantes Junction, 36 m.; and Poissy,
17 m. from Paris. Arrives at the station of the Chemins de Fer de
l’Ouest, Saint Lazare. Time, 4½ hours. Fares--1st class, 25 frs.; 2d
cl. 19 frs.; 3d cl. 14 frs.
London to Paris _via_ Newhaven and Dieppe (240 miles):--tidal; daily,
except Sunday, from Victoria Station and London Bridge Station.
Fare--1st class, 31s.; 2d cl. 23s.; 3d cl. 16s. 6d. Sea journey, 60
miles; time, 8 hours. Time for entire journey, 16 hours. For tickets,
etc., in Paris apply to Chemin de Fer de l’Ouest, Gare St. Lazare, Rue
St. Lazare 110, ancien 124. Bureau spécial, agent, M. Marcillet, Rue
de la Paix, 7. A. Collin et Cie., 20 Boulevard Saint Denis.
From Dieppe another line goes to Paris by Arques, Neufchâtel,
Serqueux, Forges-les-Eaux, Gournay, Gisors, and Pontoise. Distance,
105 miles. Time by ordinary trains, 5 hours 10 minutes. Fares--1st
class, 21 frs.; 2d, 15½ frs.; 3d, 11¼ frs. Arrives at the St. Lazare
station of the Chemins de Fer de l’Ouest.
From Tréport a railway extends to Paris by Eu, Gamaches, Aumale,
Abancourt, Beauvais, and Creil. Distance, 119¼ miles. Time, 8 hours 40
minutes. Fares, 1st class, 24 frs.; 2d, 18 frs.; 3d, 13 frs. Arrives
at the station of the Chemin de Fer du Nord. There are few through
trains by this line.
BOULOGNE--distant 158 miles from Paris; passing Montreuil, 134 m.;
Abbeville, 109 m.; Amiens, 82 m.; Clermont, 41 m.; and Creil, 32 m.
from Paris. Arrives at the station of the Chemin de Fer du Nord, No.
18 Place Roubaix. Time by express, 4½ hours. Fares--1st class, 31 frs.
25 c.; 2d cl. 23 frs. 45 c.; 3d cl. 17 frs. 20 c.
London to Paris, _via_, Folkestone and Boulogne (255 miles):--tidal
route; from Charing Cross, Cannon Street, or London Bridge. Express
trains daily to Folkestone, and from Boulogne, first and second class.
Sea journey, 27 miles; time of crossing, 1 hour 40 minutes. Fares from
London to Paris by Boulogne--1st class, 56s.; 2d cl. 42s. Time for the
entire journey, 10 hours. For tickets, etc., in Paris apply to the
railway station of the Chemin de Fer du Nord.
CALAIS--185 miles from Paris; by Boulogne, 158 m.; Montreuil, 134 m.;
Abbeville, 109 m.; Amiens, 82 m.; Clermont, 41 m.; and Creil, 32 m.
from Paris. Arrives at the station of the Chemin de Fer du Nord, No.
18 Place Roubaix. Time by express, 5½ hours. Fares--1st class, 36 frs.
55 c.; 2d cl. 27 frs. 40 c.
London to Paris, _via_ Dover and Calais (mail route, distance 283
miles);--departing from Charing Cross, Cannon Street, or London
Bridge. Sea journey, 21 miles; time about 80 minutes. First and second
class, express. Fares--60s.; 2d cl. 45s. Total time, London to Paris,
10 hours. Luggage is registered throughout from London, and examined
in Paris. Only 60 lbs. free. For tickets, etc., in Paris apply at the
railway station of the Chemins de Fer du Nord.
CALAIS--204 miles from Paris; by Saint Omer, 177 m.; Hazebrouck,
165 m.; Arras, 119 m.; Amiens, 82 m.; Clermont, 41 m.; and Creil,
32 m. Arrives at the station, No. 18 Place Roubaix. Time, 7 hours 40
minutes. Fares--1st class, 36 frs. 55 c.; 2d cl. 27 frs. 40 c.; 3d
cl. 20 frs. 10 c.
DUNKERQUE--190 miles from Paris; by Bergues, 185 miles; Hazebrouck,
165 m., where it joins the line from Calais; Arras, 119 m.; Amiens,
81 m.; Clermont, 41 m.; and Creil, 32 m. Arrives at the station, No.
18 Place Roubaix. Time, 10½ hours. Fares--1st class, 37 frs. 55 c.; 2d
cl. 28 frs. 15 c.
England and Channel, _via_ Thames and Dunkirk (screw):--tidal; three
times a week from Fenning’s Wharf. Also from Leith, in 48 to 54 hours.
LE HAVRE--142 miles from Paris; by Harfleur, 138 m.; Beuzeville
Junction, 126 miles; Bolbec-Nointot, 123 m.; Yvetot, 111 m.; Rouen,
87 m.; Gaillon, 58 m.; Mantes Junction, 36 m.; and Poissy, 17 m. from
Paris. Arrives, as from Dieppe and Cherbourg, at the station of the
Chemin de Fer de l’Ouest, No. 124 Rue St. Lazare. Fares--1st class, 28
frs. 10 c.; 2d cl. 21 frs. 5 c.; 3d cl. 15 frs. 45 c. Time by express,
4 hours 50 minutes, and nearly 3 hours longer by the ordinary trains.
London and Channel, _via_ Southampton and Le Havre:--Monday,
Wednesday, and Friday, 9 P.M. from Waterloo Station, leaving
Southampton 11.45 P.M. Sea journey, 80 m.; time, 8 hours.
CHERBOURG--231 miles from Paris; by Lison, 184 m.; Bayeux, 167 m.;
Caen, 149 m.; Mezidon Junction, 134 m.; Lisieux, 119 m.; Serquigny
Junction, 93 m.; Evreux, 67 m.; Mantes Junction, 36 m.; and Poissy,
17 m. from Paris. Time by express, 8½ hours; slow trains, nearly 13
hours.
FRENCH, BELGIAN, AND GERMAN RAILWAYS.
On these railways the rate of travelling is slower than in England,
but the time is more accurately kept.
To each passenger is allowed 30 kilogrammes, or 66 lbs. weight of
luggage free.
_Railway Time-Tables._
Time-tables or Indicateurs. For France the most useful and only
official time-tables are those published by Chaix and Cie., and sold
at all the railway stations. Of these excellent publications there are
various kinds. The most complete and most expensive is the
“Livret-Chaix Continental,” which, besides the time-tables of the
French railways, gives those also of the whole Continent, and is
furnished with a complete index; size 18mo, with about 800 pages. The
“Livret-Chaix Continental” is sold at the station bookstalls. Price
2 frs.
Next in importance is the “Indicateur des Chemins de Fer,” sold at
every station; size 128 small folio pages, price 60 c. It contains the
time-tables of the French railways alone, and an index and railway
map.
The great French lines of the “Chemins de Fer de l’Ouest,” of the
“Chemins de Fer d’Orleans,” of the “Chemins de Fer de Paris à Lyon et
à la Méditerranée,” of the “Chemins de Fer du Nord,” and of the
“Chemins de Fer de l’Est,” have each time-tables of their own, sold at
all their stations. Price 40 c. Size 18me. With good index.
For Belgium, the best time-tables are in the “Guide Officiel sur tous
les Chemins de Fer de Belgique.” Sold at the Belgian railway stations.
Size 18me. Price 30 c. It contains a good railway map of Belgium.
For Italy, use “L’Indicatore Ufficiale delle Strade Ferrate d’Italia.”
Containing excellent maps illustrating their circular tours. Price
1 fr.
In Spain use the “Indicador de los Ferro-Carriles,” sold at the
stations. The distances are, as in the French tables, in kilometres,
of which 8 make 5 miles. _Lleg._ or _Llegada_ means “arrival”;
_Salida_, “departure.”
In England consult the “Continental Time-tables of the London,
Chatham, and Dover Railway,” sold at the Victoria Station, Pimlico,
price 2d.; or those of the London and South-Eastern, 1d.
_In the Railway Station._
Before going to the station, it is a good plan to turn up in the index
of the “Livret-Chaix Continental” the place required, to ascertain the
fare and the time of starting, which stations are supplied with
refreshment rooms (marked B), and the time the train hal | 3,419.388697 |
2023-11-16 19:14:03.4690260 | 2,646 | 83 |
Produced by Jo Churcher
THE STORY OF THE TREASURE SEEKERS
by E. Nesbit
Being the adventures of the Bastable children in search of a fortune
TO OSWALD BARRON Without whom this book could never have been written
The Treasure Seekers is dedicated in memory of childhoods identical but
for the accidents of time and space
CONTENTS
1. The Council of Ways and Means
2. Digging for Treasure
3. Being Detectives
4. Good Hunting
5. The Poet and the Editor
6. Noel's Princess
7. Being Bandits
8. Being Editors
9. The G. B.
10. Lord Tottenham
11. Castilian Amoroso
12. The Nobleness of Oswald
13. The Robber and the Burglar
14. The Divining-rod
15. 'Lo, the Poor Indian!'
16. The End of the Treasure-seeking
CHAPTER 1. THE COUNCIL OF WAYS AND MEANS
This is the story of the different ways we looked for treasure, and I
think when you have read it you will see that we were not lazy about the
looking.
There are some things I must tell before I begin to tell about the
treasure-seeking, because I have read books myself, and I know how
beastly it is when a story begins, "'Alas!" said Hildegarde with a deep
sigh, "we must look our last on this ancestral home"'--and then some one
else says something--and you don't know for pages and pages where the
home is, or who Hildegarde is, or anything about it. Our ancestral home
is in the Lewisham Road. It is semi-detached and has a garden, not a
large one. We are the Bastables. There are six of us besides Father. Our
Mother is dead, and if you think we don't care because I don't tell you
much about her you only show that you do not understand people at all.
Dora is the eldest. Then Oswald--and then Dicky. Oswald won the Latin
prize at his preparatory school--and Dicky is good at sums. Alice
and Noel are twins: they are ten, and Horace Octavius is my youngest
brother. It is one of us that tells this story--but I shall not tell you
which: only at the very end perhaps I will. While the story is going
on you may be trying to guess, only I bet you don't. It was Oswald
who first thought of looking for treasure. Oswald often thinks of very
interesting things. And directly he thought of it he did not keep it
to himself, as some boys would have done, but he told the others, and
said--
'I'll tell you what, we must go and seek for treasure: it is always what
you do to restore the fallen fortunes of your House.'
Dora said it was all very well. She often says that. She was trying to
mend a large hole in one of Noel's stockings. He tore it on a nail when
we were playing shipwrecked mariners on top of the chicken-house the day
H. O. fell off and cut his chin: he has the scar still. Dora is the only
one of us who ever tries to mend anything. Alice tries to make things
sometimes. Once she knitted a red scarf for Noel because his chest
is delicate, but it was much wider at one end than the other, and he
wouldn't wear it. So we used it as a pennon, and it did very well,
because most of our things are black or grey since Mother died; and
scarlet was a nice change. Father does not like you to ask for new
things. That was one way we had of knowing that the fortunes of the
ancient House of Bastable were really fallen. Another way was that there
was no more pocket-money--except a penny now and then to the little
ones, and people did not come to dinner any more, like they used to,
with pretty dresses, driving up in cabs--and the carpets got holes in
them--and when the legs came off things they were not sent to be mended,
and we gave _up_ having the gardener except for the front garden, and
not that very often. And the silver in the big oak plate-chest that is
lined with green baize all went away to the shop to have the dents
and scratches taken out of it, and it never came back. We think Father
hadn't enough money to pay the silver man for taking out the dents and
scratches. The new spoons and forks were yellowy-white, and not so heavy
as the old ones, and they never shone after the first day or two.
Father was very ill after Mother died; and while he was ill his
business-partner went to Spain--and there was never much money
afterwards. I don't know why. Then the servants left and there was only
one, a General. A great deal of your comfort and happiness depends on
having a good General. The last but one was nice: she used to make jolly
good currant puddings for us, and let us have the dish on the floor
and pretend it was a wild boar we were killing with our forks. But the
General we have now nearly always makes sago puddings, and they are
the watery kind, and you cannot pretend anything with them, not even
islands, like you do with porridge.
Then we left off going to school, and Father said we should go to a good
school as soon as he could manage it. He said a holiday would do us all
good. We thought he was right, but we wished he had told us he couldn't
afford it. For of course we knew.
Then a great many people used to come to the door with envelopes with
no stamps on them, and sometimes they got very angry, and said they
were calling for the last time before putting it in other hands. I asked
Eliza what that meant, and she kindly explained to me, and I was so
sorry for Father.
And once a long, blue paper came; a policeman brought it, and we were
so frightened. But Father said it was all right, only when he went up
to kiss the girls after they were in bed they said he had been crying,
though I'm sure that's not true. Because only cowards and snivellers
cry, and my Father is the bravest man in the world.
So you see it was time we looked for treasure and Oswald said so, and
Dora said it was all very well. But the others agreed with Oswald. So we
held a council. Dora was in the chair--the big dining-room chair, that
we let the fireworks off from, the Fifth of November when we had the
measles and couldn't do it in the garden. The hole has never been
mended, so now we have that chair in the nursery, and I think it was
cheap at the blowing-up we boys got when the hole was burnt.
'We must do something,' said Alice, 'because the exchequer is empty.'
She rattled the money-box as she spoke, and it really did rattle because
we always keep the bad sixpence in it for luck.
'Yes--but what shall we do?' said Dicky. 'It's so jolly easy to say
let's do _something_.' Dicky always wants everything settled exactly.
Father calls him the Definite Article.
'Let's read all the books again. We shall get lots of ideas out of
them.' It was Noel who suggested this, but we made him shut up, because
we knew well enough he only wanted to get back to his old books. Noel
is a poet. He sold some of his poetry once--and it was printed, but that
does not come in this part of the story.
Then Dicky said, 'Look here. We'll be quite quiet for ten minutes by
the clock--and each think of some way to find treasure. And when we've
thought we'll try all the ways one after the other, beginning with the
eldest.'
'I shan't be able to think in ten minutes, make it half an hour,' said
H. O. His real name is Horace Octavius, but we call him H. O. because of
the advertisement, and it's not so very long ago he was afraid to pass
the hoarding where it says 'Eat H. O.' in big letters. He says it was
when he was a little boy, but I remember last Christmas but one, he woke
in the middle of the night crying and howling, and they said it was the
pudding. But he told me afterwards he had been dreaming that they really
_had_ come to eat H. O., and it couldn't have been the pudding, when you
come to think of it, because it was so very plain.
Well, we made it half an hour--and we all sat quiet, and thought and
thought. And I made up my mind before two minutes were over, and I
saw the others had, all but Dora, who is always an awful time over
everything. I got pins and needles in my leg from sitting still so long,
and when it was seven minutes H. O. cried out--'Oh, it must be more than
half an hour!'
H. O. is eight years old, but he cannot tell the clock yet. Oswald could
tell the clock when he was six.
We all stretched ourselves and began to speak at once, but Dora put up
her hands to her ears and said--
'One at a time, please. We aren't playing Babel.' (It is a very good
game. Did you ever play it?)
So Dora made us all sit in a row on the floor, in ages, and then she
pointed at us with the finger that had the brass thimble on. Her silver
one got lost when the last General but two went away. We think she must
have forgotten it was Dora's and put it in her box by mistake. She was a
very forgetful girl. She used to forget what she had spent money on, so
that the change was never quite right.
Oswald spoke first. 'I think we might stop people on Blackheath--with
crape masks and horse-pistols--and say "Your money or your life!
Resistance is useless, we are armed to the teeth"--like Dick Turpin
and Claude Duval. It wouldn't matter about not having horses, because
coaches have gone out too.'
Dora screwed up her nose the way she always does when she is going to
talk like the good elder sister in books, and said, 'That would be
very wrong: it's like pickpocketing or taking pennies out of Father's
great-coat when it's hanging in the hall.'
I must say I don't think she need have said that, especially before the
little ones--for it was when I was only four.
But Oswald was not going to let her see he cared, so he said--
'Oh, very well. I can think of lots of other ways. We could rescue an
old gentleman from deadly Highwaymen.'
'There aren't any,' said Dora.
'Oh, well, it's all the same--from deadly peril, then. There's plenty
of that. Then he would turn out to be the Prince of Wales, and he would
say, "My noble, my cherished preserver! Here is a million pounds a year.
Rise up, Sir Oswald Bastable."'
But the others did not seem to think so, and it was Alice's turn to say.
She said, 'I think we might try the divining-rod. I'm sure I could do
it. I've often read about it. You hold a stick in your hands, and when
you come to where there is gold underneath the stick kicks about. So you
know. And you dig.'
'Oh,' said Dora suddenly, 'I have an idea | 3,419.489066 |
2023-11-16 19:14:04.0624940 | 695 | 10 |
Produced by David Garcia, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks,
and the Online Distributed Proofreaders Team
HOME LYRICS.
A Book of Poems.
BY
H. S. BATTERSBY.
VOLUME II.
PREFACE.
* * * * *
This second volume of HOME LYRICS has been published since the death of
the authoress, and in fulfilment of her last wishes, by her children,
and is by them dedicated to the memory of the dearest of mothers, whose
whole life was consecrated to their happiness and welfare and who fully
reciprocated her self-denial, devotion and love.
HER CHILDREN.
INDEX.
* * * * *
To the Memory of a Beloved Son who passed from Earth April 3rd, 1887
Birdies. For a Little Five Year Old
The Angel on War
In Memoriam
The Rink
A Binghampton Home
Mrs. Langtry as Miss Hardcastle in "She Stoops to Conquer"
The Shaker Girl
Ice Palace
The Fable of the Sphynx
Up, Sisters, Morn is Breaking
Oh! I Love the Free Air of the Grand Mountain Height
Sunrise
Love
To the Empress Eugenie on the Death of Her Son
Science
Christmas Morn
A Victim to Modern Inventions
It is but an Autumn Leaflet
Written on board the S. S. "Egypt," September 5th, 1884
Roberval. A Legend of Old France
The Brooklyn Catastrophe
The Naini Tal Catastrophe
To Our Polar Explorers
To the Inconstant
Thanksgiving
"Peace with Honour"
The New Year
Home
It is but a Faded Rosebud
Cleopatra's Needle
A Voice from St. George's Hall
To the Museum Committee, on opening Museums on Sundays
Only a Few Links Wanting
A Painful History
Self Denial
To a Faithful Dog
Flowers
A Welcome from Liverpool to the Queen
In Response to a Kind Gift of Flowers
Health
Ingratitude
Trees
To a Faithful Dog
Self Discipline
The Centenary of a Hero
Springbank
Recollections of Fontainebleau
The Tunbridge Wells Flower Show
HOME LYRICS.
TO THE MEMORY OF A BELOVED SON WHO PASSED FROM EARTH, APRIL 3rd, 1887.
I would gaze down the vista of past years,
In fancy see to-night,
A loved one passed from sight,
But whose blest memory my spirit cheers.
Shrined in the sacred temple of my soul,
He seems again to live,
And fond affection give,
His mother's heart comfort and console.
Perception of the beautiful and bright,
In nature and in art,
Evolved from his true heart
Perpetual beams like sunshine's cheering light.
A simple unsophisticated life,
With faith in action strong,
And perseverance long,
Made all he did with vigorous purpose rife.
Responsive to sweet sympathy's kind claim,
His quick impulsive heart
Loved to take active part
In mirthful joy or sorrowing grief and pain.
His manly face would glow with honest glee.
As with parental pride,
Which | 3,420.082534 |
2023-11-16 19:14:04.0639900 | 75 | 28 |
Produced by Anthony Matonac
TOM SWIFT AND HIS SUBMARINE BOAT
or
Under the Ocean for Sunken Treasure
by
VICTOR APPLETON
CONTENTS
I News of a Treasure Wreck
II Finishing the Submarine
III Mr. Berg Is Astonished
IV | 3,420.08403 |
2023-11-16 19:14:04.0641780 | 1,048 | 46 |
Produced by Marius Masi, Greg Bergquist and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
[Illustration]
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK. BOSTON. CHICAGO
ATLANTA. SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
LONDON. BOMBAY. CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
[Illustration: 1. LORD MINTO, VICEROY OF INDIA. _Frontispiece_]
TRANS-HIMALAYA
DISCOVERIES AND ADVENTURES IN TIBET
BY
SVEN HEDIN
WITH 388 ILLUSTRATIONS FROM PHOTOGRAPHS, WATER-COLOUR
SKETCHES, AND DRAWINGS BY THE AUTHOR
AND 10 MAPS
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. I
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1909
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1909,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
* * * * *
Set up and electrotyped. Published December, 1909.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
TO
HIS EXCELLENCY
THE EARL OF MINTO
VICEROY OF INDIA
WITH GRATITUDE AND ADMIRATION
FROM THE AUTHOR
PREFACE
In the first place I desire to pay homage to the memory of my patron,
King Oskar of Sweden, by a few words of gratitude. The late King showed
as warm and intelligent an interest in my plan for a new expedition as
he had on former occasions, and assisted in the fulfilment of my project
with much increased liberality.
I estimated the cost of the journey at 80,000 kronor (about L4400), and
this sum was subscribed within a week by my old friend Emmanuel Nobel,
and my patrons, Frederik Loewenadler, Oscar Ekman, Robert Dickson,
William Olsson, and Henry Ruffer, banker in London. I cannot adequately
express my thanks to these gentlemen. In consequence of the political
difficulties I encountered in India, which forced me to make wide
detours, the expenses were increased by about 50,000 kronor (L2800), but
this sum I was able to draw from my own resources.
As on former occasions, I have this time also to thank Dr. Nils Ekholm
for his great kindness in working out the absolute heights. The three
lithographic maps have been compiled from my original sheets with
painstaking care by Lieutenant C. J. Otto Kjellstroem, who devoted all
his furlough to this troublesome work. The astronomical points, nearly
one hundred, have been calculated by the Assistant Roth of the Stockholm
Observatory; a few points, which appeared doubtful, were omitted in
drawing the route on the map, which is based on points previously
determined. The map illustrating my narrative in the _Geographical
Journal_, April 1909, I drew roughly from memory without consulting the
original sheets, for I had no time to spare; the errors which naturally
crept in have been corrected on the new maps, but I wish to state here
the cause of the discrepancy. The final maps, which I hope to publish in
a voluminous scientific work, will be distinguished by still greater
accuracy and detail.
I claim not the slightest artistic merit for my drawings, and my
water-colours are extremely defective both in drawing and colouring. One
of the pictures, the lama opening the door of the mausoleum, I left
unfinished in my haste; it has been thrown in with the others, with the
wall-paintings and shading incomplete. To criticize these slight
attempts as works of art would be like wasting gunpowder on dead crows.
For the sake of variety several illustrations have been drawn by the
British artists De Haenen and T. Macfarlane, but it must not be assumed
that these are fanciful productions. Every one of them is based on
outline drawings by myself, a number of photographs, and a full
description of the scene. De Haenen's illustrations appeared in the
London _Graphic_, and were ordered when I was still in India.
Macfarlane's drawings were executed this summer, and I was able to
inspect his designs and approve of them before they were worked up.
As to the text, I have endeavoured to depict the events of the journey
as far as the limited space permitted, but I | 3,420.084218 |
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Produced by Emmy and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet Archive)
[Illustration:
_THE_
Compendious Emblematist;
_OR_
WRITING and DRAWING
made Easy,
_Amusing and Instructive_.
The Whole Engrav'd by the
BEST HANDS
W. Chinnery Sec.
_T Hutchinson_]
Writing and Drawing,
_made Easy_,
AMUSING and INSTRUCTIVE.
Containing
_The Whole Alphabet in all the Characters now us'd_
Both in Printing and Penmanship;
_Each illustrated by Emblematic Devices and Moral Copies,
Calculated for the Use of Schools, and_
Curiously Engrav'd, by the Best Hands.
_Let every Day some labour'd Line produce
Command of Hand is gain'd by constant use_
_LONDON._
Printed for and Sold by T. Bellamy, Bookseller at Kingston
upon Thames; as also
by most of the Book-sellers and Print-sellers in Town and Country.
SUBSCRIBERS NAMES.
A.
MR. Thomas Allen
B.
The _Rev._ Mr. Thomas Bellamy
Charles Betke, _Esq._
Mr. R. Bryan
_Miss_ Emma Maria Brocas
Mr. ---- Brookes, _Surgeon_
C.
James Clark, _Esq._
Mr. James Comber
Mr. Robert Chambers
Mr. Benjamin Cole
D.
Mr. Charles Delafoss
Mr. Christopher Goddard
Mr. John Frederick Duill
Mr. ---- Dupuis
F.
Mr. Charles Fleaureau
Mr. ---- Fulling
Mr. ---- Faden
G.
Richard Garbrand, _Esq._
Mr. John Glover
Miss Jane Gore
Mr. Abraham Goodwin
Mr. ---- Garvaise, 4 Books
Mrs. ---- Girardot
Mrs. ---- Garvaise
Mrs. Judith Garvaise
Mrs. Elizabeth Garvaise
H.
Thomas Howlett, _Esq._
Mr. John Halford, 2 Books
Mr. Thomas Hill
Mr. John Hardinge
Mr. William Hamilton
Mr. Thomas Harrache
Mr. Thomas Hemming
I.
Thomas Jones, _Esq._
K.
John Kirrill, _Esq._
Mrs. ---- Knipe, 2 Books
L.
Mr. Thomas Lupton
Mr. Charles Laggatt
Mrs. ---- Lawrence
Mrs. Easter Lacam
M.
_Right Hon. Lady_ Betty Montague
_Lady_ ---- Musgrove
---- Montague, _Esq._
Mr. Henry Morland
Mr. Charles M'Clarren
Mr. Samuel Mettayer
Mrs. Ann Mettayer
Mrs. ---- Montague
N.
James Norman, _Esq._
Mr. | 3,420.181473 |
2023-11-16 19:14:04.1646910 | 790 | 15 |
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: THE WOUNDED PIONEER.]
HEROES AND HUNTERS OF THE WEST:
COMPRISING SKETCHES AND ADVENTURES
OF
BOONE, KENTON, BRADY, LOGAN, WHETZEL,
FLEEHART, HUGHES, JOHNSTON, &c.
PHILADELPHIA:
H. C. PECK & THEO. BLISS.
1860.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853,
BY H. C. PECK & THEO. BLISS,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the Eastern District
of Pennsylvania.
CONTENTS.
Daniel Boone. 11
Simon Kenton. 19
George Rogers Clarke. 24
Benjamin Logan. 32
Samuel Brady. 38
Lewis Whetzel. 45
Caffree, M'Clure, and Davis. 58
Charles Johnston. 66
Joseph Logston. 74
Jesse Hughes. 81
Siege of Fort Henry. 87
Simon Girty. 103
Joshua Fleehart. 118
Indian Fight on the Little Muskingum. 129
Escape of Return J. Meigs. 137
Estill's Defeat. 144
A Pioneer Mother. 154
The Squatter's Wife and Daughter. 167
Captain William Hubbell. 173
Murder of Cornstalk and his Son. 185
The Massacre of Chicago. 189
The Two Friends. 211
Desertion of a young White Man, from a party of Indians. 219
Morgan's Triumph. 229
Massacre of Wyoming. 233
Heroic Women of the West. 243
Indian Strategem Foiled. 250
Blackbird. 265
A Desperate Adventure. 268
Adventure of Two Scouts. 276
A Young Hero of the West. 299
PREFACE.
To the lovers of thrilling adventure, the title of this work would alone
be its strongest recommendation. The exploits of the Heroes of the West,
need but a simple narration to give them an irresistible charm. They
display the bolder and rougher features of human nature in their noblest
light, softened and directed by virtues that have appeared in the really
heroic deeds of every age, and form pages in the history of this country
destined to be read and admired when much that is now deemed more
important is forgotten.
It is true, that, with the lights of this age, we regard many of the deeds
of our western pioneer as aggressive, barbarous, and unworthy of civilized
men. But there is no truly noble heart that will not swell in admiration
of the devotion and disinterestedness of Benjamin Logan, the self-reliant
energy of Boone and Whetzel, and the steady firmness and consummate
military skill of George Rogers Clarke. The people of this country need
records of the lives of such men, and we have attempted to present these
in an attractive form.
[Illustration: CAPTURE OF BOONE.]
HEROES OF THE WEST.
DANIEL BOONE.
In all notices of border life, the name of Daniel Boone appears first--as
the hero and the father of the west. In him were united those qualities
which make the accomplished frontiersman--daring, activity, and
circumspection, while he was fitted beyond most | 3,420.184731 |
2023-11-16 19:14:04.2603770 | 1,127 | 16 |
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: "I give you back the wedding ring."--_Page 400._]
THE BONDWOMAN
BY
MARAH ELLIS RYAN,
AUTHOR OF
"Told in the Hills," "A Pagan of the Alleghanies," etc.
CHICAGO AND NEW YORK:
RAND, McNALLY & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS.
MDCCCXCIX.
Copyright, 1899, by Rand, McNally & Co.
All rights reserved.
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London.
THE BONDWOMAN
CHAPTER I.
Near Moret, in France, where the Seine is formed and flows northward,
there lives an old lady named Madame Blanc, who can tell much of the
history written here--though it be a history belonging more to
American lives than French. She was of the Caron establishment when
Judithe first came into the family, and has charge of a home for aged
ladies of education and refinement whose means will not allow of them
providing for themselves. It is a memorial founded by her adopted
daughter and is known as the Levigne Pension. The property on which it
is established is the little Levigne estate--the one forming the only
dowery of Judithe Levigne when she married Philip Alain--Marquis de
Caron.
There is also a bright-eyed, still handsome woman of mature years,
who lives in our South and has charge of another memorial--or had
until recently--a private industrial school for girls of her own
selection. She calls herself a creole of San Domingo, and she also
calls herself Madame Trouvelot--she has been married twice since
she was first known by that name, for she was never the woman to live
alone--not she; but while the men in themselves suited her, their
names were uncompromisingly plain--did not attract her at all. She
married them, proved a very good wife, but while one was named
Johnson, and another Tuttle, the good wife persisted in being
called Madame Trouvelot, either through sentiment or a bit of irony
towards the owner of that name. But, despite her vanities, her
coquetries, and certain erratic phases of her life, she was
absolutely faithful to the trust reposed in her by the Marquise; and
who so capable as herself of finding the poor girls who stood most
in need of training and the shelter of charity? She, also, could
add to this history of the woman belonging both to the old world
and the new. There are also official records in evidence of much
that is told here--deeds of land, bills of sale, with dates of
marriages and deaths interwoven, changed as to names and places but--
There are social friends--gay, pleasure-loving people on both sides of
the water--who could speak, and some men who will never forget her.
One of them, Kenneth McVeigh, he was only Lieutenant McVeigh
then!--saw her first in Paris--heard of her first at a musicale in the
salon of Madame Choudey. Madame Choudey was the dear friend of the
Countess Helene Biron, who still lives and delights in recitals of
gossip belonging to the days of the Second Empire. The Countess Helene
and Mrs. McVeigh had been school friends in Paris. Mrs. McVeigh had
been Claire Villanenne, of New Orleans, in those days. At seventeen
she had married a Col. McVeigh, of Carolina. At forty she had been a
widow ten years. Was the mother of a daughter aged twelve, and a
six-foot son of twenty-two, who looked twenty-five, and had just
graduated from West Point.
As he became of special interest to more than one person in this
story, it will be in place to give an idea of him as he appeared in
those early days;--an impetuous boy held in check, somewhat, by
military discipline and his height--he measured six feet at
twenty--and also by the fact that his mother had persisted in looking
on him as the head of the family at an age when most boys are
care-free of such responsibilities.
But the responsibilities had a very good effect in many ways--giving
stability and seriousness to a nature prone, most of all, to
pleasure-loving if left untrammelled. His blue eyes had a slumberous
warmth in them; when he smiled they half closed and looked down on you
caressingly, and their expression proved no bar to favor with the
opposite sex. The fact that he had a little mother who leaned on him
and whom he petted extravagantly, just as he did his sister, gave him
a manner towards women in general that was both protecting and
deferential--a combination productive of very decided results. He was
intelligent without being intellectual, had a very clear appreciation
of the advantages of being born a McVeigh, proud and jealous where
family honor was concerned, a bit of an autocrat through being master
over extensive tracts of land | 3,420.280417 |
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Note: Images of the original pages, originally obtained from
the HathiTrust Digital Library, are available through
the Google Books Library Project. See
http://www.google.com/books?id=WVI6AQAAMAAJ
THE LADY OF PLEASVRE.
A COMEDIE,
As it was Acted by her Majesties
Servants, at the private
House in _Drury_ Lane.
Written by _James Shirly_.
[Illustration]
_LONDON_,
Printed by _Tho. Cates_, for _Andrew Crooke_,
and _William Cooke_.
1637.
Persons of the Comedy.
_Lord._
_Sir Thomas Bornewell._
_Sir William Sentlove._
_Mr. Alex. Kickshaw._
_Mr. John Littleworth._
_Mr. Hairecut._
_Mr. Fredericke._
Steward to the Lady _Aretina_.
Steward to the Lady _Celestina_.
_Secretary._
_Servants, &c._
_Aretina_, Sir _Thomas Bornwells_ Lady.
_Celestina_, a young Widow.
_Isabella._
_Mariana._
_Madam Decoy._
Scene the Strand.
[Illustration]
TO
THE RIGHT HONORABLE
RICHARD LORD
LOVELACE _of_ Hurley.
My Lord,
I _Cannot want encouragement to present a Poeme to your Lordship,
while you possesse so noble a breast, in which so many seedes of
honour, to the example and glory of your Name obtain'd, before your
yeares a happy maturity. This Comedy fortunate in the Scene, and
one that may challenge a place in the first forme of the Authors
compositions, most humbly addresseth it selfe to your honour, if it
meete your_ _gracious acceptance, and that you repent not to be a
Patron, your Lordshipps will onely crownes the imagination, and for
ever by this favour oblige_,
My Lord
_The most humble Services_
_of your Honourer_,
IAMES SHIRLY.
The Lady of Pleasure.
_The First Act._
_Enter_ Aretina _and her Steward_.
_Stew._ Be patient Madam, you may have your pleasure.
_Are._ Tis that I came to towne for, I wo'd not
Endure againe the countrey conversation,
To be the Lady of sixe shires I the men
So neare the Primitive making, they retaine
A sence of nothing but the earth, their braines
And barren heads standing as much in want
Of plowing as their ground, to heare a fellow
Make himselfe merry and his horse with whisteling
Sellingers round, to observe with what solemnitie
They keepe their Wakes, and throw for pewter Candlestickes,
How they become the Morris, whith whose bells
They ring all into Whitson Ales, and sweate,
Through twenty Scarffes and Napkins, till the Hobbyhorse
Tire, and the maide Marrian dissolv'd to a gelly,
Be kept for spoone meate.
_Ste._ These with your pardon are no Argument
To make the country life appeare so hatefull,
At least to your particular, who enjoy'd
A blessing in that calme; would you be pleasd
To thinke so, and the pleasure of a kingdome,
While your owne will commanded what should move
Delight, your husbands love and power joyned
To give your life more harmony, you liv'd there,
Secure and innocent, beloved of all,
Praisd for your hospitality, and praid for,
You might be envied, but malice knew
Not where you dwelt, I wo'd not prophecy
But leave to your owne apprehension
What may succeede your change.
_Are._ You doe imagine,
No doubt, you have talk'd wisely, and confuted,
London past all defence, your Master should
Doe well to send you backe into the countrie,
With title of Superintendent Baylie.
_Ste._ How Madam.
_Are._ Even so sir.
_Ste._ I am a Gentleman though now your servant.
_Are._ A country-gentleman,
By your affection to converse with stuble,
His tenants will advance your wit, and plumpe it so
With beefe and bag-pudding.
_Ste._ You may say your pleasure,
It becomes not me dispute.
_Are._ Complaine to the Lord of the soyle your master.
_Ste._ Y'are a woman of an ungovern'd passion, and I pitty you.
_Enter Sir Thomas Bornwell._
_Bor._ How how? Whats the matter?
_Ste._ Nothing Sir.
_Bor._ Angry sweeteheart?
_Are._ I am angry with my selfe,
To be so miserably restrained in things,
Wherein it doth concern your love and honour
To see me satisfied.
_Bor._ In what _Aretina_?
Dost thou accuse me | 3,420.281578 |
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available by The Internet Archive)
[Illustration: _Painted by J. J. Masquerier._
_Engraved by W. T. Fry._
_William Spence, Esq^r., F.L.S._]
_Published by Longman & C^o. London, July 1825._
AN
INTRODUCTION
TO
ENTOMOLOGY:
OR
ELEMENTS
OF THE
_NATURAL HISTORY OF INSECTS_:
WITH PLATES.
BY WILLIAM KIRBY, M.A. F.R. AND L.S.
RECTOR OF BARHAM,
AND
WILLIAM SPENCE, ESQ. F.L.S.
IN FOUR VOLUMES.
VOL. IV.
_FIFTH EDITION._
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR
LONGMAN, REES, ORME, BROWN, AND GREEN,
PATERNOSTER ROW.
1828.
PRINTED BY RICHARD TAYLOR,
RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.
CONTENTS OF VOL. IV.
Letter. Page.
XXXVII. Internal Anatomy and Physiology of
Insects. _Sensation_ 1-33
XXXVIII. Internal Anatomy and Physiology of
Insects continued. _Respiration_ 34-80
XXXIX. Internal Anatomy and Physiology of
Insects continued. _Circulation_ 81-101
XL. Internal Anatomy and Physiology of
Insects continued. _Digestion_ 102-126
XLI. Internal Anatomy and Physiology of
Insects continued. _Secretion_ 127-151
XLII. Internal Anatomy and Physiology of
Insects continued. _Reproduction_ 152-173
XLIII. Internal Anatomy and Physiology of
Insects concluded. _Motion_ 174-203
XLIV. Diseases of Insects 204-240
XLV. Senses of Insects 241-264
XLVI. Orismology, or Explanation of Terms 265-363
XLVII. System of Insects 364-428
XLVIII. History of Entomology 429-485
XLIX. Geographical Distribution of Insects;
their Stations and Haunts; Seasons;
Times of Action and Repose 486-527
L. On Entomological Instruments; and
the best Methods of collecting,
breeding, and preserving Insects 528-559
LI. Investigation of Insects 560-573
Appendix 575-584
Authors quoted 585-602
Explanation of the Plates 603-614
Indexes 615-683
AN
INTRODUCTION
TO
ENTOMOLOGY.
LETTER XXXVII.
_INTERNAL ANATOMY AND PHYSIOLOGY
OF INSECTS._
SENSATION.
Having given you this full account of the _external_ parts of
insects, and their most remarkable variations; I must next direct
your attention to such discoveries as have been made with regard
to their _Internal Anatomy and Physiology_: a subject still more
fertile, if possible, than the former in wonderful manifestations of
the POWER, WISDOM and GOODNESS of the CREATOR.
The vital system of these little creatures, in all its great features,
is perfectly analogous to that of the vertebrate animals. _Sensation_
and _perception_ are by the means of _nerves_ and a _common sensorium_;
the _respiration_ of air is evident, being received and expelled by
a particular apparatus; _nutrition_ is effected through a _stomach_
and _intestines_; the analogue of the _blood_ prepared by these organs
pervades every part of the body, and from it are secreted various
peculiar substances; _generation_ takes place, and an intercourse
between the sexes, by means of appropriate _organs_; and lastly,
_motion_ is the result of the action of _muscles_. Some of these
functions are, however, exercised in a mode apparently so dissimilar
from what obtains in the higher animals, that upon a first view we are
inclined to pronounce them the effect of processes altogether peculiar.
Thus, though insects respire _air_, they do not receive it by the
_mouth_, but through little orifices in the _sides_ of the body; and
instead of _lungs_, they are furnished with a system of air-vessels,
ramified _ad infinitum_, and penetrating to every part and organ of
their frame; and though they are nourished by a fluid prepared from
the food received into the stomach, this fluid, unlike the blood of
vertebrate animals, is _white_, and the mode in which it is distributed
to the different parts of the system, except in the case of the true
_Arachnida_, in which a circulation in the ordinary way has been
detected, is altogether obscure.
In order that you may more clearly understand the variations
that occur in insects, and in what respects they differ amongst
themselves, and from the higher animals, in the vital functions
and their organs, I shall consider them as to their organs of
_sensation_, _respiration_, _circulation_, _nutrition_, _generation_,
_secretion_, and _muscular motion_.
* * * * *
_Organs of Sensation._--The nervous system of animals is one of
the most wonderful and mysterious works of the CREATOR. Its pulpy
substance is the _visible_ medium by which the governing principle[1]
transmits its commands to the various organs of the body, and they
move instantaneously--yet this appears to be but the conductor of some
higher principle, which can be more immediately acted upon by the mind
and by the will. This principle, however, whatever it be, whether we
call it the nervous _fluid_, or the nervous _power_[2], has not been
detected, and is known only by its effects. The system of which we are
speaking may therefore be deemed the foundation and root of the animal,
the centre from which emanate all its powers and functions.
Comparative anatomists have considered the nervous system of
animals as formed upon _four_ primary types, which may be
called the _molecular_, the _filamentous_, the _ganglionic_,
and _cerebro-spinal_[3]. The _first_ is where invisible nervous
molecules are dispersed in a gelatinous body, the existence of
which has only been ascertained by the nervous irritability of such
bodies, their fine sense of touch, their perceiving the movements
of the waters in which they reside, and from their perfect sense
of the degrees of light and heat[4]. Of this description are the
infusory animals, and the _Polypi_. The nervous molecules in these
are conjectured to constitute so many ganglions, or centres of
sensation and vitality[5]. The _second_, the filamentous, is where
the nervous system consists of nervous threads radiating from the
mouth, as in the _Radiata_, or star-fish and sea-urchins[6]. The
_third_, the ganglionic, is where the nervous system consists of
a series of ganglions connected by nervous threads or a medullary
chord, placed, except the first ganglion, below the intestines, from
which proceed nerves to the various parts of the body. This system
may be considered as divisible into two--the _proper ganglionic_,
in which it is ganglionic with the ganglions arranged in a series
with a double spinal chord. This prevails in the classes _Insecta_,
_Crustacea_, _Arachnida_, &c., and the _improper ganglionic_, in
which it is ganglionic with the ganglions dispersed irregularly,
but connected by nervous threads, as in the _Mollusca_[7]. In the
_fourth_, the cerebro-spinal, the nervous tree may be said to be
double, or to consist of _two_ systems--the first taking its origin
in a brain formed of two hemispheres contained in the cavity of the
head, from which posteriorly proceeds a spinal marrow, included
in a dorsal vertebral column. These send forth numerous nerves to
the organs of the senses and the muscles of the limbs. The second
consists of two principal ventral chords, which by their ganglions,
but without any direct communication, anastomose with the spinal
nerves and some of those of the brain, and run one on each side from
the base of the skull to the extremity of the _sacrum_. This system
consists of an assemblage of nervous filaments bearing numerous
ganglions, from which nervous threads are distributed to the organs
of nutrition and reproduction[8]. Its chords are called the _great
sympathetic_, the _intercostal_, or _trisplanchnic_ nerves[9].
While the first of these two systems is the messenger of the will,
by means of the organs of the senses connects us with the external
world, and is subject to have its agency interrupted by sleep or
disease[10]; the latter is altogether independent of the will and of
the intellect, is confined to the internal organic life, its agency
continues uninterrupted during sleep, and is subject to no paralysis.
While the former is the seat of the intellectual powers, the latter
has no relation to them, but is the focus from whence _instincts_
exclusively emanate: from it proceed spontaneous impulses and
sympathies, and those passions and affections that excite the agent
to acts in which the will and the judgement have no concern[11].
It is probable, though the above appear to exhibit the _primary_ types
of nervous systems, that others exist of an _intermediate_ nature, with
which future investigators may render us better acquainted[12]: but as
our business is solely with that upon which _insects_ in this respect
have been modelled, without expatiating further in this interesting
field, I shall therefore now confine myself to them.
We have before seen[13] that the nervous system of insects belongs to
the _ganglionic_ type: but it requires a more full description, and
this is the place for it. It originates in a small brain placed in
the head, and consisting almost universally of two lobes, sometimes
extremely distinct. It is placed over or upon the _oesophagus_ or
gullet, and from its posterior part proceeds a double nervous chord,
which embracing that organ as a collar dips below the intestines, and
proceeds towards the anus, forming knots or ganglions at intervals,
in many cases corresponding in number with the segments of the body,
and sending forth nerves in pairs, the ramifications of which are
distributed to every part of the frame. In the perfect insect the
bilobed ganglion of the head or the brain is usually of greater volume
than in the larva, and the ganglions of the spinal chord are fewer,
which gives a more decided character of _centricity_ to the whole
nervous system[14]. This may be considered more particularly with
respect to its _substance_ and _colour_; its _tunics_, and _parts_.
I. _Substance and Colour._--The nervous apparatus of insects is
stated by those who have examined it most narrowly, though consisting
of a cortical and medullary part, the latter more delicate and
transparent than the former, to be less tender and less easy to
separate than the human brain[15]. It has a degree of tenacity,
and does not break without considerable tension; in general, it
is clammy and flabby, and under a microscope a number of minute
grains are discoverable in it, and when left to dry upon glass, it
appears to contain a good deal of oil, which does not dry with the
rest[16]. That of the ganglions differs from the substance of the
rest of the spinal chord, in being filled with very fine aerial
vessels, which are not discoverable in the latter[ | 3,420.282315 |
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Libraries.)
A ROUND DOZEN.
[Illustration: TOINETTE AND THE ELVES.
Down on the ground beside her, a tiny figure became visible, so small
that Toinette had to kneel and stoop her head to see it.--PAGE 234.]
A ROUND DOZEN.
BY
SUSAN COOLIDGE,
AUTHOR OF "THE NEW YEAR'S BARGAIN," "WHAT KATY DID," "WHAT KATY
DID AT SCHOOL," "MISCHIEF'S THANKSGIVING," "NINE LITTLE
GOSLINGS," "EYEBRIGHT," "CROSS-PATCH,"
"A GUERNSEY LILY."
[Illustration: QUI LEGIT REQIT]
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1892.
_Copyright, 1883_,
BY ROBERTS BROTHERS.
UNIVERSITY PRESS:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
TO
V V V V V
_Five little buds grouped round the parent stem,
Growing in sweet airs, beneath gracious skies,
Watched tenderly from sunrise to sunrise,
Lest blight, or chill, or evil menace them._
_Five small and folded buds, just here and there
Giving a hint of what the bloom may be,
When to reward the long close ministry
The buds shall blossom into roses fair._
_Soft dews fall on you, dears, soft breezes blow,
The noons be tempered and the snows be kind,
And gentle angels watch each stormy wind,
And turn it from the garden where you grow._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE LITTLE WHITE DOOR 9
LITTLE KAREN AND HER BABY 34
HELEN'S THANKSGIVING 47
AT FIESOLE 67
QUEEN BLOSSOM 93
A SMALL BEGINNING 115
THE SECRET DOOR 135
THE TWO WISHES 156
BLUE AND PINK 183
A FORTUNATE MISFORTUNE 198
TOINETTE AND THE ELVES 232
JEAN'S MONEY, AND WHAT IT BOUGHT 259
HOW THE STORKS CAME AND WENT 277
THE LITTLE WHITE DOOR.
I SUPPOSE that most boys and girls who go to school and study geography
know, by sight at least, the little patch of pale pink which is marked
on the map as "Switzerland." I suppose, too, that if I asked, "What can
you tell me about Switzerland?" a great many of them would cry out, "It
is a mountainous country, the Alps are there, Mont Blanc is there, the
highest land in Europe." All this is true; but I wonder if all of those
who know even so much have any idea what a beautiful country | 3,420.380612 |
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Produced by Tapio Riikonen and David Widger
THE ADVENTURES OF FERDINAND COUNT FATHOM
by Tobias Smollett
COMPLETE IN TWO PARTS
PART I.
With the Author's Preface, and an Introduction by G. H. Maynadier, Ph.D.
Department of English, Harvard University.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
PREFATORY ADDRESS
CHAPTER
I Some sage Observations that naturally introduce our important
History
II A superficial View of our Hero's Infancy
III He is initiated in a Military Life, and has the good Fortune
to acquire a generous Patron
IV His Mother's Prowess and Death; together with some Instances
of his own Sagacity
V A brief Detail of his Education
VI He meditates Schemes of Importance
VII Engages in Partnership with a female Associate, in order to
put his Talents in Action
VIII Their first Attempt; with a Digression which some Readers
may think impertinent
IX The Confederates change their Battery, and achieve a remarkable
Adventure
X They proceed to levy Contributions with great Success, until
our Hero sets out with the young Count for Vienna, where he
enters into League with another Adventurer
XI Fathom makes various Efforts in the World of Gallantry
XII He effects a Lodgment in the House of a rich Jeweller
XIII He is exposed to a most perilous Incident in the Course of his
Intrigue with the Daughter
XIV He is reduced to a dreadful Dilemma, in consequence of an
Assignation with the Wife
XV But at length succeeds in his Attempt upon both
XVI His Success begets a blind Security, by which he is once again
well-nigh entrapped in his Dulcinea's Apartment
XVII The Step-dame's Suspicions being awakened, she lays a Snare
for our Adventurer, from which he is delivered by the
Interposition of his Good Genius
XVIII Our Hero departs from Vienna, and quits the Domain of Venus
for the rough Field of Mars
XIX He puts himself under the Guidance of his Associate, and
stumbles upon the French Camp, where he finishes his
Military Career
XX He prepares a Stratagem, but finds himself countermined--
Proceeds on his Journey, and is overtaken by a terrible
Tempest
XXI He falls upon Scylla, seeking to avoid Charybdis.
XXII He arrives at Paris, and is pleased with his Reception
XXIII Acquits himself with Address in a Nocturnal Riot
XXIV He overlooks the Advances of his Friends, and smarts severely
for his Neglect
XXV He bears his Fate like a Philosopher; and contracts
acquaintance with a very remarkable Personage
XXVI The History of the Noble Castilian
XXVII A flagrant Instance of Fathom's Virtue, in the Manner of his
Retreat to England
XXVIII Some Account of his Fellow-Travellers
XXIX Another providential Deliverance from the Effects of the
Smuggler's ingenious Conjecture
XXX The singular Manner of Fathom's Attack and Triumph over the
Virtue of the fair Elenor
XXXI He by accident encounters his old Friend, with whom he holds
a Conference, and renews a Treaty
XXXII He appears in the great World with universal Applause and
Admiration
XXXIII He attracts the Envy and Ill Offices of the minor Knights of
his own Order, over whom he obtains a complete Victory
XXXIV He performs another Exploit, that conveys a true Idea of his
Gratitude and Honour
XXXV He repairs to Bristol Spring, where he reigns paramount during
the whole Season
XXXVI He is smitten with the Charms of a Female Adventurer, whose
Allurements subject him to a new Vicissitude of Fortune
XXXVII Fresh Cause for exerting his Equanimity and Fortitude
XXXVIII The Biter is Bit
INTRODUCTION
The Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom, Smollett's third novel, was
given to the world in 1753. Lady Mary Wortley Montagu, writing to her
daughter, the Countess of Bute, over a year later [January 1st, 1755],
remarked that "my friend Smollett. . . has certainly a talent for
invention, though I think it flags a little in his last work." Lady Mary
was both right and wrong. The inventive power which we commonly think of
as Smollett's was the ability to work over his own experience into
realistic fiction. Of this, Ferdinand Count Fathom shows comparatively
little. It shows relatively little, too, of Smollett's vigorous
personality, which in his earlier works was present to give life and
interest to almost every chapter, were it to describe a street brawl, a
ludicrous situation, a whimsical character, or with venomous prejudice to
gibbet some enemy. This individuality--the peculiar spirit of the author
which can be felt rather than described--is present in the dedication of
Fathom to Doctor ------, who is no other than Smollett himself, and a
candid revelation of his character, by the way, this dedication contains.
It is present, too, in the opening chapters, which show, likewise, in the
picture of Fathom's mother, something of the author's peculiar "talent
for invention." Subsequently, however, there is no denying that the
Smollett invention and the Smollett spirit both flag. And yet, in a way,
Fathom displays more invention than any of the author's novels; it is
based far less than any other on personal experience. Unfortunately
such thorough-going invention was not suited to Smollett's genius. The
result is, that while uninteresting as a novel of contemporary manners,
Fathom has an interest of its own in that it reveals a new side of its
author. We think of Smollett, generally, as a rambling storyteller, a
rational, unromantic man of the world, who fills his pages with his own
oddly-metamorphosed acquaintances and experiences. The Smollett of Count
Fathom, on the contrary, is rather a forerunner of the romantic school,
who has created a tolerably organic tale of adventure out of his own
brain. Though this is notably less readable than the author's earlier
works, still the wonder is that when the man is so far "off his beat," he
should yet know so well how to meet the strange conditions which confront
him. To one whose idea of Smollett's genius is formed entirely by Random
and Pickle and Humphry Clinker, Ferdinand Count Fathom will offer many
surprises.
The first of these is the comparative lifelessness of the book. True,
here again are action and incident galore, but generally unaccompanied by
that rough Georgian hurly-burly, common in Smollett, which is so
interesting to contemplate from a comfortable distance, and which goes so
far towards making his fiction seem real. Nor are the characters, for
the most part, life-like enough to be interesting. There is an apparent
exception, to be sure, in the hero's mother, already mentioned, the
hardened camp-follower, whom we confidently expect to become vitalised
after the savage fashion of Smollett's characters. But, alas! we have no
chance to learn the lady's style of conversation, for the few words that
come from her lips are but partially characteristic; we have only too
little chance to learn her manners and customs. In the fourth chapter,
while she is making sure with her dagger that all those on the field of
battle whom she wishes to rifle are really dead, an officer of the
hussars, who has been watching her lucrative progress, unfeelingly puts a
brace of bullets into the lady's brain, just as she raises her hand to
smite him to the heart. Perhaps it is as well that she is thus removed
before our disappointment at the non-fulfilment of her promise becomes
poignant. So far as we may judge from the other personages of Count
Fathom, even this interesting Amazon would sooner or later have turned
into a wooden figure, with a label giving the necessary information as to
her character.
Such certainly is her son, Fathom, the hero of the book. Because he is
placarded, "Shrewd villain of monstrous inhumanity," we are fain to
accept him for what his creator intended; but seldom in word or deed is
he a convincingly real villain. His friend and foil, the noble young
Count de Melvil, is no more alive than he; and equally wooden are Joshua,
the high-minded, saint-like Jew, and that tedious, foolish Don Diego.
Neither is the heroine alive, the peerless Monimia, but then, in her
case, want of vitality is not surprising; the presence of it would amaze
us. If she were a woman throbbing with life, she would be different from
Smollett's other heroines. The "second lady" of the melodrama,
Mademoiselle de Melvil, though by no means vivified, is yet more real
than her sister-in-law.
The fact that they are mostly inanimate figures is not the only surprise
given us by the personages of Count Fathom. It is a surprise to find few
of them strikingly whimsical; it is a surprise to find them in some cases
far more distinctly conceived than any of the people in Roderick Random
or Peregrine Pickle. In the second of these, we saw Smollett beginning
to understand the use of incident to indicate consistent development of
character. In Count Fathom, he seems fully to understand this principle
of art, though he has not learned to apply it successfully. And so, in
spite of an excellent conception, Fathom, as I have said, is unreal.
After all his villainies, which he perpetrates without any apparent
qualms of conscience, it is incredible that he should honestly repent of
his crimes. We are much inclined to doubt when we read that "his vice
and ambition was now quite mortified within him," the subsequent
testimony of Matthew Bramble, Esq., in Humphry Clinker, to the contrary,
notwithstanding. Yet Fathom up to this point is consistently drawn, and
drawn for a purpose:--to show that cold-blooded roguery, though
successful for a while, will come to grief in the end. To heighten the
effect of his scoundrel, Smollett develops parallel with him the virtuous
Count de Melvil. The author's scheme of thus using one character as the
foil of another, though not conspicuous for its originality, shows a
decided advance in the theory of constructive technique. Only, as I have
said, Smollett's execution is now defective.
"But," one will naturally ask, "if Fathom lacks the amusing, and not
infrequently stimulating, hurly-burly of Smollett's former novels; if its
characters, though well-conceived, are seldom divertingly fantastic and
never thoroughly animate; what makes the book interesting?" The surprise
will be greater than ever when the answer is given that, to a large
extent, the plot makes Fathom interesting. Yes, Smollett, hitherto
indifferent to structure, has here written a story in which the plot
itself, often clumsy though it may be, engages a reader's attention. One
actually wants to know whether the young Count is ever going to receive
consolation for his sorrows and inflict justice on his basely ungrateful
pensioner. And when, finally, all turns out as it should, one is amazed
to find how many of the people in the book have helped towards the
designed conclusion. Not all of them, indeed, nor all of the adventures,
are indispensable, but it is manifest at the end that much, which, for
the time, most readers think irrelevant--such as Don Diego's history--is,
after all, essential.
It has already been said that in Count Fathom Smollett appears to some
extent as a romanticist, and this is another fact which lends interest to
the book. That he had a powerful imagination is not a surprise. Any one
versed in Smollett has already seen it in the remarkable situations which
he has put before us in his earlier works. These do not indicate,
however, that Smollett possessed the imagination which could excite
romantic interest; for in Roderick Random and in Peregrine Pickle, the
wonderful situations serve chiefly to amuse. In Fathom, however, there
are some designed to excite horror; and one, at least, is eminently
successful. The hero's night in the wood between Bar-le-duc and Chalons
was no doubt more blood-curdling to our eighteenth-century ancestors than
it is to us, who have become acquainted with scores of similar situations
in the small number of exciting romances which belong to literature, and
in the greater number which do not. Still, even to-day, a reader, with
his taste jaded by trashy novels, will be conscious of Smollett's power,
and of several thrills, likewise, as he reads about Fathom's experience
in the loft in which the beldame locks him to pass the night.
This situation is melodramatic rather than romantic, as the word is used
technically in application to eighteenth and nineteenth-century
literature. There is no little in Fathom, however, which is genuinely
romantic in the latter sense. Such is the imprisonment of the Countess
in the castle-tower, whence she waves her handkerchief to the young
Count, her son and would-be rescuer. And especially so is the scene in
the church, when Renaldo (the very name is romantic) visits at midnight
the supposed grave of his lady-love. While he was waiting for the sexton
to open the door, his "soul. . . was wound up to the highest pitch of
enthusiastic sorrow. The uncommon darkness,. . . the solemn silence,
and lonely situation of the place, conspired with the occasion of his
coming, and the dismal images of his fancy, to produce a real rapture of
gloomy expectation, which the whole world could not have persuaded him to
disappoint. The clock struck twelve, the owl screeched from the ruined
battlement, the door was opened by the sexton, who, by the light of a
glimmering taper, conducted the despairing lover to a dreary aisle, and
stamped upon the ground with his foot, saying, 'Here the young lady lies
interred.'"
We have here such an amount of the usual romantic machinery of the
"grave-yard" school of poets--that school of which Professor W. L. Phelps
calls Young, in his Night Thoughts, the most "conspicuous exemplar"--that
one is at first inclined to think Smollett poking fun at it. The
context, however, seems to prove that he was perfectly serious. It is
interesting, then, as well as surprising, to find traces of the romantic
spirit in his fiction over ten years before Walpole's Castle of Otranto.
It is also interesting to find so much melodramatic feeling in him,
because it makes stronger the connection between him and his
nineteenth-century disciple, Dickens.
From all that I have said, it must not be thought that the usual Smollett
is always, or almost always, absent from Count Fathom. I have spoken of
the dedication and of the opening chapters as what we might expect from
his pen. There are, besides, true Smollett strokes in the scenes in the
prison from which Melvil rescues Fathom, and there is a good deal of the
satirical Smollett fun in the description of Fathom's ups and downs,
first as the petted beau, and then as the fashionable doctor. In
chronicling the latter meteoric career, Smollett had already observed the
peculiarity of his countrymen which Thackeray was fond of harping on in
the next century--"the maxim which universally prevails among the English
people. . . to overlook,. . . on their return to the metropolis,
all the connexions they may have chanced to acquire during their
residence at any of the medical wells. And this social disposition is
so scrupulously maintained, that two persons who live in the most
intimate correspondence at Bath or Tunbridge, shall, in four-and-twenty
hours. . . meet in St. James's Park, without betraying the least
token of recognition." And good, too, is the way in which, as Dr. Fathom
goes rapidly down the social hill, he makes excuses for his declining | 3,420.381381 |
2023-11-16 19:14:04.3624120 | 7,436 | 19 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Julia Neufeld and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Text enclosed by plus signs is Greek transliteration (+semnotes+).
Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.
* * * * *
[Illustration: titlepage]
The Potter and the
Clay
By the
Right Rev.
Arthur F. Winnington Ingram, D.D.
Lord Bishop of London
The Young Churchman Co.
484 Milwaukee Street
Milwaukee, Wis.
Contents
I.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE POTTER'S VESSEL 3
II. THE SPLENDOUR OF GOD 15
III. GOD THE KING OF THE WORLD 27
IV. MISSIONARY WORK THE ONLY FINAL CURE FOR WAR 40
V. GOD THE CHAMPION OF RIGHTEOUSNESS 57
VI. THE KNOCKING AT THE DOOR 75
VII. IMMORTALITY 91
VIII. THE PEACE OF JERUSALEM 108
II.--TO THE CLERGY
I. MESSENGERS 123
II. PHYSICIANS 145
III. FISHERS OF MEN 160
III.--TO GIRLS
WHAT A GIRL CAN DO IN A DAY OF GOD 179
IV.--TO BOYS
THE EFFECT OF THE HOLY GHOST ON HUMAN CHARACTER 199
V.
THE WAR AND RELIGION 213
PREFACE
Another year, and we are still at War! But we must not mind, for we
must see this thing through to the end. As Mr. Oliver said in his
letter on "What we are fighting for," published this week: "We are
fighting for Restitution, Reparation, and Security, and the greatest
of these is Security." He means security that this horror shall not
happen again, and that these crimes shall not again be committed;
and he adds: "To get this security _we must destroy the power of the
system which did these things_."
Now it is clear that this power is not yet destroyed, and to make
peace while it lasts is to betray our dead, and to leave it to the
children still in the cradle to do the work over again, if, indeed,
it will be possible for them to do it if we in our generation fail.
This book, then, is an answer to the question asked me very often
during the past two years, and very pointedly from the trenches this
very Christmas Day: "How can you reconcile your belief in a good
GOD, who is also powerful, with the continuance of this desolating
War? How can we still believe the Christian message of Peace on
earth with War all around?"
It is with the hope that this book may comfort some mourning hearts,
and bring some light to doubting minds, that I send forth "The
Potter and the Clay."
A. F. LONDON.
_Feast of the Epiphany_, 1917.
I
I
THE POTTER'S VESSEL[1]
[1] Preached at St. Giles's, Cripplegate. The argument in this
sermon, stated shortly during dinner-hour in a City church, is
developed at length in the lecture which comes last in this book.
"Arise, and go down to the potter's house, and there I will
cause thee to hear My words. Then I went down to the potter's
house, and, behold, he wrought a work on the wheels. And the
vessel that he made of clay was marred in the hand of the
potter: so he made it again another vessel, as seemed good to
the potter to make it."--JER. xviii. 2-4.
I suppose there is no metaphor in Holy Scripture that has been so
much misunderstood and led to more mischief than this metaphor of
the potter and the clay. Do not you know how, if any of us dared to
vindicate the ways of GOD to men, again and again we were referred
to the words of St. Paul: "Who art thou that repliest against GOD?
Shall the thing formed say to Him that formed it: Why hast Thou
made me thus? Hath not the potter power over the clay, of the same
lump to make one vessel unto honour, and another unto dishonour?"
And so the offended human conscience was silenced but not
satisfied. There is no doubt that the monstrous misrepresentation
of Christianity which we call Calvinism arose chiefly from this
metaphor; and few things have done more harm to the religion of the
world than Calvinism. Those who believe that GOD is an arbitrary
tyrant who simply works as a potter is supposed to work on clay,
irrespective of character or any plea for mercy--how can such a
person love GOD, or care for GOD, or wish to go to church or even
pray? You cannot do it!
Thus there sprang up in some men's minds just such a picture of GOD
as is described by that wonderful genius, Browning. Some of you
may have read the poem called "Caliban on Setebos," in which the
half-savage Caliban pictures to himself what sort of a person GOD
is. He had never been instructed, he knew nothing; but he imagined
that GOD would act towards mankind as he acted towards the animals
and the living creatures on his island; and this is a quotation from
that poem:
"Thinketh, such shows nor right nor wrong in Him.
Nor kind, nor cruel: He is strong and Lord.
Am strong myself compared to yonder crabs
That march now from the mountain to the sea;
Let twenty pass, and stone the twenty-first,
Loving not, hating not, just choosing so.
Say the first straggler that boasts purple spots
Shall join the file, one pincer twisted off?
Say, this bruised fellow shall receive a worm,
And two worms he whose nippers end in red;
As it likes me each time, so I do: so He."
In other words, his picture of GOD was that of an arbitrary tyrant
who rejoiced in his power, who did what he liked, who enjoyed
tormenting, who would have looked down in glee upon the pictures
that have so touched us in the paper of a woman, as she taught a
Bible-class, killed by a Zeppelin bomb; and most touching of all of
the little child who, with the stump of his arm, ran in and said:
"They've killed daddy and done this to me." These things stir our
deepest feelings; but such a GOD as Caliban pictured his Setebos to
be would have rejoiced at them and laughed to see them.
No wonder that this picture of GOD which has grown up in some
minds produces absolute despair. People say, "If GOD is like that,
what is the good of my doing anything? GOD will do what He likes,
irrespective of what I do." Or, again, it produces a spirit of
fatalism: "I'm made like that! It's not my fault." Like Aaron when
reproached about the golden calf--"I cast the gold they gave me into
the fire, and there came out this calf." And all this produces in
the mind of mankind a kind of rebellion--nay, a hatred of GOD ("I
hate GOD," said a man once to me)--which makes it quite impossible
for any religion or trust or desire to pray to exist in the human
soul. It is well worth while, then, to run this metaphor of the
potter and the clay back to its source.
Here in Jeremiah is the original passage about the potter and the
clay. Now if you read for yourself this passage in the eighteenth
chapter of Jeremiah, you will find an absolutely different picture
given. If you go with Jeremiah to the potter's house you find a
humble, patient man at work dealing with refractory clay, patiently
trying to make the best he can out of it, and when he is defeated in
producing one object he makes another. If he cannot make a porcelain
vase he will make a bowl; if he cannot produce a beautiful work of
art he makes a flower-pot.
The potter has three things to notice about him. First of all, there
is his patience. Then there is the fact that he is checked in his
design by the clay at every moment. He has no arbitrary power; he
is checked because he has to deal with a certain substance. And the
last beautiful thing about the potter is his resourcefulness; he has
always got the alternative of a second best. Though something has
wrecked his first plan he has got another. This is the picture of
GOD, these are the characteristics of GOD which we are to carry away
from the potter and the clay.
1. Now just see, if this is so, what a tremendous light this throws
upon the war. There are many to-day who do not think things out
deeply, who look on this war as the breakdown of Christianity
altogether. They say: All we have been taught, why, look how vain
it is! Here are seven Christian nations at war and dragging in the
rest of the world. All you have taught us about GOD, all you say
about Christianity, is shown to be futile. We see the breakdown of
Christianity indeed.
But wait a moment. Look at the potter and the clay, and see if you
do not get some light from this. Here is the Potter, our great GOD;
the great Potter knows what is in His mind; He has in His mind a
world of universal peace. He is planning a porcelain vase in which
the world is at peace. He meant men to be all of one mind. He made
people of one blood to be of one mind in CHRIST JESUS. That is
clearly His plan, His design, and we do well to pray for--
"... the promised time
When war shall be no more,
And lust, oppression, crime,
Shall flee Thy face before."
That is His plan, that is His design, and some day He
will see it accomplished. "He shall see of the travail of His soul
and shall be satisfied."
Meanwhile, because He acts like a potter, He is defeated again and
again by the character of the clay, for He will not run counter
to the free will of the individual or of a nation. If a great
and powerful nation deliberately turns back from Christianity to
Paganism, if that nation deliberately declares regret that it took
up Christianity in the fourth century, if it has adopted the gospel
that Might is Right, if the people turn to Odin as their ideal
instead of to CHRIST, they defeat the plan of the great Potter; and
so He cannot have the porcelain vase of universal peace. You have no
right to blame GOD; it is the work of the Devil. GOD is hindered at
every moment by the Devil and all his works; you cannot therefore
blame our great and glorious GOD for the defeat of His design. The
great Potter is not to be blamed because of the refractoriness of
the clay.
But here comes the splendid resourcefulness of the great Potter.
Although He cannot get out His first design of the porcelain vase of
universal peace, He is not defeated. He has got a second-best; He
will have a beautiful bowl of universal service--a people offering
themselves out of sheer patriotism for the service of their
country. And that is what He has produced to-day. Who would have
thought that five millions of men would have volunteered to fight
for their country? Who would have thought that every woman would
feel herself disgraced if not doing something for her country as
nurse, physician, or in a canteen? Why, the spirit of service abroad
to-day among men and women is something we have not seen in our
country for a hundred years. The great Potter, then, has produced
something from the clay; He has produced the beautiful bowl of
service. Let us thank Him for that!
2. But it is not only upon the war that the picture of the potter
and the clay throws such light; it also shows what we have to
do with our country. There are some people who imagine it is
inconsistent to say two things at the same time. People blame me for
declaring two things in the same breath. One is that we never have
had such a righteous cause; that we are fighting for the freedom of
our country, for the freedom of the world; that we are fighting for
international honour, for the future brotherhood of nations; we are
fighting for the "nailed hand against the mailed fist." But, on the
other hand, are we to speak as if we had no faults of our own? Are
we to take the tone of Pharisees and say, "We thank GOD we are not
as other men, even as these Germans"? We have to admit that we have
grave national sins ourselves, and if we want to shorten the war we
have to put these national sins away. That is why we are going to
have a national mission this autumn, and we are preparing for it now.
The Church is going to preach this great national mission,
and--please GOD--our Non-conformist brethren will fall in on their
own lines and do the same. We have great national sins, and we have
to put those away if we would shorten the war. What a disgrace it is
still to have a National Drink Bill of 180 millions! What a disgrace
it is that we have not yet more thoroughly mastered immorality
in London! What shame it is that still there is so much love of
comfort, and that there are people making all they can out of the
war!
We have to get rid of all this; we must have the spirit of sacrifice
from one end of the nation to the other. We have to ask the great
Potter to remake the country, to give the Empire a new spirit.
Why was it that, when I had myself pressed a Bill to diminish the
licensing hours on Sunday from six to three--a harmless reform,
you would have thought--to give the barmen and barmaids a chance
of Sunday rest, that was shelved in the long run? Why was it that
we could not raise the age for the protection of girls even to
eighteen? There is much to be purged out of our country, and there
could be no greater calamity than for this war to end and England
still to be left with her national sins.
Therefore the great Potter must remake us. He may have to break
some nations to pieces like a potter's vessel. It is possible for
a nation to be so stiffened in national sins that there may be
nothing for it but to break it in pieces. We pray GOD that we may
not be so far gone as that, that we may still be plastic clay in the
hands of the Potter. That is our prayer, that is our ideal, to be a
new England, a new British Empire, and that GOD may use us as His
instrument in freeing the world.
3. But--and let this be my last word--we ourselves _individually_
must be re-created. Have you ever thought, brother or sister,
that the great Potter had a design for you? That, when He planned
you, He planned a devoted man who would be a powerful influence
in the world; that He planned you, my sister, to be an example of
attractive goodness. How many people have you brought to CHRIST? How
powerful a witness do you give in this city? Suppose that you, who
were meant individually to be powerful instruments in GOD'S hand,
vessels He could use, have become middle-aged cynics, or sneer at
the religion you profess to believe in, there is only one thing
to be done. You must get back to the design the great Potter had
for you. We have all some reason to admit that we have been marred
in the hands of the Potter, and to ask the Potter to make us into
another vessel as it may seem good to the Potter to make us. In this
there are only two conditions--to look up and to trust heaven's
wheel and not earth's wheel.
"Look not thou down, but up!
To uses of a cup,
The festal board, lamp's flash and trumpet's peal,
The new wine's foaming flow,
The master's lips aglow!
Thou, heaven's consummate cup, what needst thou with earth's wheel?"[2]
[2] Browning. "Rabbi Ben Ezra."
We have to realise this, that we can be remade, that GOD'S power
can do anything; but that we may go on for ever as we are unless we
really put ourselves in the hands of GOD. What, then, I ask every
one of you, is to take the clay of your nature with the prayer,
"Just as I am, without one plea," and place it in the great Potter's
hands, that He may re-create you into the man or woman GOD meant you
to be. Nothing can more effectually shorten the days for our boys in
the trenches.
II
THE SPLENDOUR OF GOD
"O GOD, wonderful art Thou in Thy holy places: Thou wilt give
strength and power unto Thy people. Blessed be GOD."--Ps.
lxviii. 35.
At the great Convention of all the clergy of London in Advent, 1915,
we saw reasons for thinking that what the world had been losing
sight of was the _majesty_ of GOD; the lowered sense of sin, the
neglect of worship, the uppishness of man, the pessimism of the day,
and the querulous impatience under discomfort, are all signs of the
loss of the sense of the majesty of GOD.
But I want now to go farther than this; I want to prove that the
only way to revive praise, hope, peace, sacrifice, and courage, is
to revive a belief, not only in the majesty, but in the splendour of
GOD. It was said not long ago that even good Christians believed
all the Creed except the first clause of it.
But if we leave out the first clause, "I believe in GOD," see what
happens.
1. Prayer becomes unreal. It is only a delight when it is felt to be
communion with a very noble and splendid person.
"LORD, what a change within us one short hour
Spent in Thy presence can prevail to make!"[3]
is only true if that short and glorious hour is spent with an
inspiring and glorious personality. When, like Moses, our faces
should shine as we come down from the mount.
[3] Trench.
2. Praise becomes practically impossible. Sometimes we say, "We
really must praise GOD more." But we cannot _make_ ourselves praise,
any more than we can move a boat by swinging up and down in it.
We must pull against something to make it move. What we want is
an adequate idea of the splendour of GOD. When we come in sight
of Mont Blanc or Niagara, or when we hear of some gallant deed on
the battlefield, we say "How splendid!" quite naturally. We shall
praise quite naturally when we catch sight--if only for a moment--of
the true character of GOD, or believe He has done something great.
3. Religion, which means something which _binds_ us to GOD, becomes
an uninspiring series of detailed scruples about ourselves.
Self-examination is most necessary; but it was well said by an
experienced guide of souls that, "for every time we look at
ourselves, we ought to look nine times at GOD."
Do some of you feel as I speak that your religion does not help you;
that, while you have not given up your prayers, or coming to church,
it is rather a burden than a help, or at any rate not such a help as
it might be? It is because you have lost sight of the splendour of
GOD.
4. Or, again, are you suffering from depression? You hardly know
why, but everything seems to go wrong; you seem oppressed with what
old writers called "accidie." Your will has lost its spring; the
note of your life has lost its hope and its joyousness. You drag
through life rather than "rise up with wings like an eagle" or
"run," or even "walk." This is all because you have lost faith or
never had faith in the splendour of GOD.
5. Or, on the contrary, you are busy from morning till night,
and you are too busy for prayer or church; you are immersed in a
thousand schemes for making money for yourself or for your family or
for the good of mankind. And yet, with all your business abilities,
you don't inspire people; you are conscious of a want yourself, and
other people are more conscious of it. It is simply that you are
without the one thing which matters; you are the planet trying to
shine without its sun; you are ignoring the splendour of GOD.
I. For consider how splendid GOD is! These writers of the psalms
had many limitations. They had a very inadequate belief in the life
after the grave; they knew nothing about the Incarnation; they had
no Christmas Day, Easter Day, Ascension Day, or Whit Sunday, to
inspire them. But they are bursting with glorious song, because of
their sense of the splendour of GOD. "Before the mountains were
brought forth, or ever the earth and the world were made, Thou art
GOD from everlasting, and world without end."
1. He is splendid, first, in His wonderful _Power_. I should not
think of arguing with you as to the existence of GOD; although, to
any thinking mind, the marvellous intricacy of the whole creation,
from the largest sun to the smallest insect, demands a Thinking
Mind; the thunder of the four hundred million consciences of mankind
demands a Righteous Person. And a Creator who is at once wise and
good is a GOD. No! it is not only His existence which should mean so
much to us, but His astonishing power.
I remember when I was at Niagara being taken down to the great
power-station, and through that power-station the power of Niagara
Falls lighted, among other things, the whole of the great province
of Ontario so that the solitary worker in some small town was
working with the light from a great power-station which he had never
seen, and in which he only, perhaps, partly believed.
But think of the Power-Station which works the whole universe; which
gives the light to twenty million suns which have been counted and
GOD knows how many which have never been seen, and yet which gives
strength to the boy far from home as he leaps across the parapet
into the battle. Well may another psalmist cry: "O GOD, wonderful
art Thou in Thy holy places: Thou shalt give strength and power unto
Thy people. Blessed be GOD."
And, surely, even if there were no other characteristic of the
splendour of GOD, this ought to encourage us more than it does. To
believe that in prayer you are in touch with unfathomable strength;
that if you co-operate with GOD you have at your disposal His
unrivalled and incomparable power--this ought to put heart into the
most timid. We understand what Archbishop Trench meant when he said:
"We kneel how weak; we rise how full of power!"
2. But the power of GOD is really only the beginning of it. The
next characteristic of the splendour of GOD is in His _Generosity_.
"Thou openest Thine Hand, and fillest all things living with
plenteousness," says the psalmist. You could scarcely get a more
beautiful description of the open-handedness of GOD, and the ease
with which GOD showers His gifts upon the world.
(_a_) When you come to think of it, there is no explanation of man's
possession of life, except the open-handedness of GOD. He simply
_gave_ him life, and there is nothing more to be said about it.
It is at present still a scientific truth that "Life only comes
from life." Life has never been yet spontaneously generated. When
men thought they had succeeded in creating life, it was discovered
that some previous germ of life had been left in the hermetically
sealed vessel. But even if, in the years to come, some sort of life
was produced from apparently dead matter, would it really have any
bearing on the age-long belief that this free, joyous life of man
and animal has come from GOD? When you ask why He gave life, there
is only one answer: That so many more living, sentient beings might
sun themselves in the sunshine of His own happiness, He opened His
Hand and life came out.
(_b_) But He was not content with giving life. He gave all the
colour of life; He painted the most glorious world out of the
riches of His marvellous imagination; every variety of flower;
every plumage of bird; every species of tree--often brought to the
best by the slow process of evolution. He gave it all; He flung it
out in all the exuberance of delight in what was "very good." He
gave colour to our own life. He gave us our warm friendships; our
keen intellectual interest in problems; the love of mother, wife,
husband, father, child. He flung it all out, like a joyous giver;
"He filled all things living with plenteousness."
(_c_) But not content with this life, He had another ready when this
was over. He knew the boys wanted life, and that this life would not
be enough to satisfy them, especially if they died early; so He had
another ready for them. And here, again, another psalmist dashes in
with his word of praise: "He asked life of Thee, and Thou gavest him
a long life, even for ever."
This is our glorious hope to-day. It is only when we have grasped
the splendour of the generosity of GOD that we can really appraise
the meanness of man.
Nearly all the ills of our life on earth--the poverty, the class
hatred, the wars--come from an unfair grasping at an unfair share of
the gifts of the generous GOD.
"They ask no thrones; they only ask to share
The common liberty of earth and air,"
some poet sang of the gipsies.
GOD gave plenty of land, and plenty of water, and plenty of air,
and if the New Testament motto had been followed, "Having food and
raiment, with these we shall have enough," the generosity of GOD
would have been mirrored in the generosity of man.
3. But even this marvellous power and generosity would not excite
the passionate love of mankind, but for His _Humility_. Power may
only awe; the merely generous Lord or Lady Bountiful, kind as they
often are, are sometimes felt to do it in a spirit of patronage and
self-pleasing; they like to be thought bountiful and kind, and have
their reward in the grateful looks and even obsequious demeanour of
the recipients of their bounty. But it is Christmas which really
stirs the blood. That this powerful, generous Being should manifest
His power and shower down His gifts was wonderful; but that He
should give Himself--this was sublime! This is what stirred heaven
to its depths--"Glory to GOD in the highest!"
The crowning splendour of GOD was His Humility. He was great when He
said, "Let there be light, and there was light." He was mighty when
He opened His Hand and filled all things living with plenteousness.
But He was greatest of all when He lay as a babe in the manger. Well
may the adoring Christian look up at Christmas and salute this third
revelation of the splendour of GOD:
"Thou didst leave Thy throne and Thy kingly crown
When Thou camest to earth for me....
Oh, come to my heart, LORD JESUS:
There is room in my heart for Thee!"
II. What, then, ought this belief in the splendid power, generosity,
and humility of GOD to produce in us?
1. It must produce Praise. It must make us say: "Praise GOD in His
holiness; praise Him in the firmament of His power."
You have caught sight of Mont Blanc and you have seen Niagara, and
you say quite naturally, "How splendid!"
2. It produces Hope. War, slaughter, misery, can't be the end, if
such a GOD exists. It may be inevitable from man's lust, ambition,
and greed; but it can't be the end--if GOD'S people work with GOD:
there must be a kingdom coming at last in which dwelleth, not
ambition, tyranny, or cruelty, but "righteousness, peace, and joy in
the HOLY GHOST."
3. It produces Peace. Once believe in the splendour of GOD, and
you get "the peace of GOD, which passeth all understanding." "Thou
wilt keep him," says the prophet, "in perfect peace, whose mind is
stayed on Thee." The world is not out of GOD'S Hand, as some people
would persuade us, nor any individual in the world. "The very hairs
of your head are all numbered," and "ye are of more value than many
sparrows."
4. And it produces answering Sacrifice and Courage. What we want
to-day is "the warrior's mind," which gives and does not heed the
cost, which fights and does not heed the wounds; and we can only be
nerved for this by the splendid self-sacrifice of GOD Himself.
If man is GOD'S child, then it must be a case of "Like Father, like
son," and the splendour of GOD must be answered by the nobility of
man. To know such a GOD is to live, to serve such a GOD is to reign;
with such a faith, death loses its sting, and the grave its terrors.
For to die is to pass into the presence of One who has shown Himself
powerful and generous and humble. And the response of the grateful
soul, with ten times the conviction of the psalmist, when he thinks
of what happened on Christmas Day, will be the same words uttered so
many thousand years ago:
"O GOD, wonderful art Thou in Thy holy places.... He will give
strength and power unto His people. Blessed be GOD."
III
GOD THE KING OF THE WORLD[4]
[4] Preached in St. Margaret's Church, Westminster, in connection
with the Annual Conference of the National Union of Women Workers.
"GOD is my King of old; the help that is done upon earth He
doeth it Himself."--Ps. lxxiv. 12.
GOD is either non-existent or His existence is the greatest fact in
the universe. Either the secularist is right, and there is nothing
but the strong hand and the keen brain of man and woman to better
the condition of world, or, if there be a Person who created the
great blazing suns that we call stars, whose imagination is so vast
that He controls the movements of history, and yet whose knowledge
is so detailed that the welfare of the smallest child in a great
city is of infinite interest to Him, then the existence of that
Person is the greatest fact in all the world. No question is so
urgent as what He thinks about a problem; nothing is so vitally
important as to know what His mind is, for instance, as to the issue
of a great war. No one is quite so foolish as the man or woman who
either plans his or her own life, or who propounds schemes for
the improvement of the world, without taking the greatest Fact in
all the world into account, or keeping in touch with what must be
on this hypothesis the ultimate Source and Fount of all power and
the Mainspring of all energy. If there be such a Person at all,
the wires might as well expect to convey a message apart from the
electric current as for the human instrument to avail without GOD.
Now, I think it is quite likely that among so many busy people,
whose brains are all full of practical schemes, there may be some
whose minds may have but little hold on GOD, and may be troubled by
doubts, such as I remember my own mind was in the days of my youth.
After all, one mind is very much like another; and in speaking to
women I have long learnt to speak as if I was speaking to men, and
in this I never found myself very much astray. If I tell you, then,
how the reality of GOD gradually dawned upon one mind, it is only in
the hope that through what may be similar clouds of vagueness and
doubt the light may shine upon another.
1. I think undoubtedly that _Nature_ was, and always will be to
most minds, the first help. It does seem more and more impossible
that the ordered universe can have been produced by chance. To use
an illustration I have often used, especially on Sunday afternoons
at the open-air meetings in the parks of East London, if a box of
letters cannot throw themselves into a play of Shakespeare because
there is clearly the mark of mind in the play, how little credible
is it that the atoms of the universe have thrown themselves into
the universe as we see it to-day! We feel inclined to add to the
trenchant questions in the Book of Job the further question: Who
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GOSLINGS
By
J. D. BERESFORD
Author of "The Hampdenshire Wonder," etc.
London
William Heinemann
1913
BOOK I
THE NEW PLAGUE
I--THE GOSLING FAMILY
1
"Where's the gels gone to?" asked Mr Gosling.
"Up the 'Igh Road to look at the shops. I'm expectin' 'em in every
minute."
"Ho!" said Gosling. He leaned against the dresser; the kitchen was
hot with steam, and he fumbled | 3,420.483179 |
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from the Google Print project.)
RELIGION AND THEOLOGY
A SERMON FOR THE TIMES
PREACHED IN THE
PARISH CHURCH OF CRATHIE, 5TH SEPTEMBER
AND IN THE
COLLEGE CHURCH, ST ANDREWS
BY
JOHN TULLOCH, D.D.
PRINCIPAL AND PROFESSOR OF THEOLOGY, ST MARY'S COLLEGE, IN THE
UNIVERSITY OF ST ANDREWS, AND ONE OF HER MAJESTY'S
CHAPLAINS IN ORDINARY IN SCOTLAND
SECOND EDITION
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS
EDINBURGH AND LONDON
MDCCCLXXV
_WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR._
I.
HISTORY OF RATIONAL THEOLOGY
AND
CHRISTIAN PHILOSOPHY IN ENGLAND
IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.
Second Edition, 2 vols. 8vo, L1, 8s.
Edinburgh Review.
The pleasure with which Principal Tulloch explores this
comparatively unknown field communicates itself to his readers,
and the academic groves of Oxford and Cambridge are invested
with the freshness of a new glory.
Athenaeum.
It is rich in pregnant and suggestive thought.
Saturday Review.
Here we must take our respectful leave of this large-minded,
lively, and thoughtful work, which deserves to the full the
acceptance it cannot fail to receive.
Spectator.
Every thoughtful and liberal Englishman who reads these volumes
will feel that Principal Tulloch has laid him under obligations
in writing them.
British Quarterly Review.
Ample scholarship, well-disciplined powers, catholic sympathies,
and a masculine eloquence, give it a high place among modern
contributions to theological science.
Nonconformist.
From his lively portraits they will learn to know some of the
finest spirits England has produced; while from his able and
comprehensive summaries of the works they left behind them, any
reader of quick intelligence may acquaint himself with their
leading thoughts.
II.
THEISM:
THE WITNESS OF REASON AND NATURE TO AN ALL-WISE AND BENEFICENT
CREATOR.
Octavo, 10s. 6d.
Christian Remembrancer.
Dr Tulloch's Essay, in its masterly statement of the real nature
and difficulties of the subject, its logical exactness in
distinguishing the illustrative from the suggestive, its lucid
arrangement of the argument, its simplicity of expression, is
quite unequalled by any work we have seen on the subject.
WILLIAM BLACKWOOD & SONS, EDINBURGH AND LONDON.
RELIGION AND THEOLOGY.
2 Cor. xi. 3.--"The simplicity that is in Christ."
There is much talk in the present time of the difficulties of
religion. And no doubt there is a sense in which religion is always
difficult. It is hard to be truly religious--to be humble, good, pure,
and just; to be full of faith, hope, and charity, so that our conduct
may be seen to be like that of Christ, and our light to shine before
men. But when men speak so much nowadays of the difficulties of
religion, they chiefly mean intellectual and not practical
difficulties. Religion is identified with the tenets of a Church
system, or of a theological system; and it is felt that modern
criticism has assailed these tenets in many vulnerable points, and
made it no longer easy for the open and well-informed mind to believe
things that were formerly held, or professed to be held, without
hesitation. Discussions and doubts which were once confined to a
limited circle when they were heard of at all, have penetrated the
modern mind through many avenues, and affected the whole tone of
social intelligence. This is not to be denied. For good or for evil
such a result has come about; and we live in times of unquiet
thought, which form a real and painful trial to many minds. It is not
my intention at present to deplore or to criticise this modern
tendency, but rather to point out how it may be accepted, and yet
religion in the highest sense saved to us, if not without struggle
(for that is always impossible in the nature of religion), yet without
that intellectual conflict for which many minds are entirely unfitted,
and which can never be said in itself to help religion in any minds.
The words which I have taken as my text seem to me to suggest a train
of thought having an immediate | 3,420.551084 |
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Produced by Sue Asscher and Col Choat
EXPLORATIONS IN AUSTRALIA.
THE JOURNALS
OF
JOHN McDOUALL STUART
DURING THE YEARS
1858, 1859, 1860, 1861, & 1862,
WHEN HE FIXED THE CENTRE OF THE CONTINENT AND
SUCCESSFULLY CROSSED IT FROM SEA TO SEA.
EDITED FROM MR. STUART'S MANUSCRIPT
BY WILLIAM HARDMAN, M.A., F.R.G.S., &c.
With Maps, a Photographic Portrait of Mr. Stuart, and twelve Engravings
drawn on wood by George French Angas, from Sketches taken during
the different expeditions.
(SANS CHANGER.
S.O. AND CO.)
SECOND EDITION.
1865.
ADVERTISEMENT
TO THE
SECOND EDITION.
Since the first edition of this work was published Mr. Stuart has arrived
in England, and at a recent meeting of the Geographical Society he
announced that, taking advantage of his privilege as a discoverer, he had
christened the rich tract of country which he has opened up to the South
Australians Alexandra Land.
December 1st, 1864.
PREFACE BY THE EDITOR.
The explorations of Mr. John McDouall Stuart may truly be said, without
disparaging his brother explorers, to be amongst the most important in
the history of Australian discovery. In 1844 he gained his first
experiences under the guidance of that distinguished explorer, Captain
Sturt, whose expedition he accompanied in the capacity of draughtsman.
Leaving Lake Torrens on the left, Captain Sturt and his party passed up
the Murray and the Darling, until finding that the latter would carry him
too far from the northern course, which was the one he had marked out for
himself, he turned up a small tributary known to the natives as the
Williorara. The water of this stream failing him, he pushed on over a
barren tract, until he suddenly came upon a fruitful and well-watered
spot, which he named the Rocky Glen. In this picturesque glen they were
detained for six months, during which time no rain fell. The heat of the
sun was so intense that every screw in their boxes was drawn, and all
horn handles and combs split into fine laminae. The lead dropped from
their pencils, their finger-nails became as brittle as glass, and their
hair, and the wool on their sheep, ceased to grow. Scurvy attacked them
all, and Mr. Poole, the second in command, died. In order to avoid the
scorching rays of the sun, they had excavated an underground chamber, to
which they retired during the heat of the day.
When the long-expected rain fell, they pushed on for fifty miles to
another suitable halting-place, which was called Park Depot. From this
depot Captain Sturt made two attempts to reach the Centre of the
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BIRDS AND ALL NATURE.
ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR | 3,420.649204 |
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Produced by David Widger
BIBLE STUDIES
ESSAYS ON PHALLIC WORSHIP AND OTHER CURIOUS RITES AND CUSTOMS
By J. M. Wheeler
"There is nothing unclean of itself: but to him that
esteemeth anything to be unclean, to him it is unclean."
--Paul (Romans xiv. 14).
1892.
Printed and Published By G. W. Foote
PREFACE.
My old friend Mr. Wheeler asks me to launch this little craft, and I do
so with great pleasure. She is not a thunderous ironclad, nor a gigantic
ocean liner; but she is stoutly built, well fitted, and calculated to
weather all the storms of criticism. My only fear is that she will not
encounter them.
During the sixteen years of my friend's collaboration with me in
many enterprises for the spread of Freethought and the destruction of
Superstition, he has written a vast variety of articles, all possessing
distinctive merit, and some extremely valuable. From these he and I have
made the following selection. The articles included deal with the Bible
from a special standpoint; the standpoint of an Evolutionist, who reads
the Jewish Scriptures in the light of anthropology, and finds infinite
illustrations in them of the savage origin of religion.
Literary and scientific criticism of the Old Testament have their
numerous votaries. Mr. Wheeler's mind is given to a different study
of the older half of the Bible. He is bent on showing what it really
contains; what religious ideas, rites, and customs prevailed among the
ancient Jews and find expression in their Scriptures. This is a fruitful
method, especially in _our_ country, if it be true, as Dr. Tylor
observes, that "the English mind, not readily swayed by rhetoric, moves
freely under the pressure of facts."
Careful readers of this little book will find it full of precious
information. Mr. Wheeler has a peculiarly wide acquaintance with the
literature of these subjects. He has gathered from far and wide, like
the summer bee, and what he yields is not an undigested mass of facts,
but the pure honey of truth.
Many readers will be astonished at what Mr. Wheeler tells them. We
have read the Bible, they will say, and never saw these things. That is
because they read it without knowledge, or without attention. Reading
is not done with the eyes only, but also with the brain; and the same
sentences will make various impressions, according as the brain is rich
or poor in facts and principles. Even the great, strong mind of Darwin
had to be plentifully stored with biological knowledge before he could
see the meaning of certain simple facts, and discover the wonderful law
of Natural Selection.
Those who have studied the works of Spencer, Tylor, Lubbock, Frazer, and
such authors, will _not_ be astonished at the contents of this volume.
But they will probably find some points they had overlooked; some
familiar points presented with new force; and some fresh views, whose
novelty is not their only virtue: for Mr. Wheeler is not a slavish
follower of even the greatest teachers, he thinks for himself, and shows
others what he has seen with his own eyes.
I hope this little volume will find many readers. Its doing so will
please the author, for every writer wishes to be read; why else, indeed,
should he write? Only less will be the pleasure of his friend who pens
this Preface. I am sure the book will be instructive to most of those
into whose hands it falls; to the rest, the few who really study and
reflect, it will be stimulating and suggestive. Greater praise the
author would not desire; so much praise cannot often be given with
sincerity.
G. W. Foote.
PHALLIC WORSHIP AMONG THE JEWS.
"The hatred of indecency, which appears to us so natural as
to be thought innate, and which is so valuable an aid to
chastity, is a modern virtue, appertaining exclusively, as
Sir G. Staunton remarks, to civilised life. This is shown by
the ancient religious rites of various nations, by the
drawings on the walls of Pompeii, and by the practices of
many savages."--C. Darwin, "Descent of Man" pt. 1, chap.
iv., vol. i., p. 182; 1888.
The study of religions is a department of anthropology, and nowhere is
it more important to remember the maxim of the pagan Terence, _Homo sum,
nihil humani a me alienum puto_. It is impossible to dive deep into any
ancient faiths without coming across a deal of mud. Man has often been
defined as a religious animal. He might as justly be termed a dirty and
foolish animal. His religions have been growths of earth, not gifts from
heaven, and they usually bear strong marks of their clayey origin.*
* The Contemporary Review for June 1888, says (p. 804) "when
Lord Dalhousie passed an Act intended to repress obscenity
(in India), a special clause in it exempted all temples and
religious emblems from its operation."
I am not one of those who find in phallicism the key to all the
mysteries of mythology. All the striking phenomena of nature--the
alternations of light and darkness, sun and moon, the terrors of the
thunderstorm, and of pain, disease and death, together with his
own dreams and imaginations--contributed to evoke the wonder and
superstition of early man. But investigation of early religion shows it
often nucleated around the phenomena of generation. The first and final
problem of religion concerns the production of things. Man's own body
was always nearer to him than sun, moon, and stars; and early man,
thinking not in words but in things, had to express the very idea of
creation or production in terms of his own body. It was so in Egypt,
where the symbol, from being the sign of production, became also
the sign of life, and of regeneration and resurrection. It was so in
Babylonia and Assyria, as in ancient Greece and Troy, and is so till
this day in India.
Montaigne says:
"Fifty severall deities were in times past allotted to this office. And
there hath beene a nation found which to allay and coole the lustful
concupiscence of such as came for devotion, kept wenches of purpose in
their temples to be used; for it was a point of religion to deale
with them before one went to prayers. _Nimirum propter continentiam
incontinentia neces-saria est, incendium ignibus extinguitur_: 'Belike
we must be incontinent that we may be continent, burning is quenched by
fire.' In most places of the world that part of our body was deified.
In that same province some flead it to offer, and consecrated a peece
thereof; others offered and consecrated their seed."
It is in India that this early worship maybe best studied at the present
day. The worshippers of Siva identify their great god, Maha Deva, with
the linga, and wear on their left arm a bracelet containing the linga
and yoni. The rival sect of followers of Vishnu have also a phallic
significance in their symbolism. The linga yoni (fig. 1) is indeed one
of the commonest of religious symbols in India. Its use extends from the
Himalayas to Cape Comorin. Major-General Forlong says the ordinary Maha
Deva of Northern India is the simple arrangement shown in fig. 2, in
which we see "what was I suspect the first Delphic tripod supporting a
vase of water over the Linga in Yona. Such may be counted by scores in
a day's march over Northern India, and especially at ghats or river
ferries, or crossings of any streams or roads; for are they not Hermae?"
The Linga Purana tells us that the linga was a pillar of fire in which
Siva was present. This reminds one of Jahveh appearing as | 3,420.681024 |
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[The chapters in the original book pass from CHAPTER FIVE to CHAPTER
SEVEN; there is no chapter numbered SIX. A list of typographical errors
corrected follows the etext. (note of etext transcriber)]
UNDER COVER
[Illustration: HE FOUND DENBY'S GUN UNDER HIS NOSE.
Frontispiece. _See page 266_.]
UNDER COVER
BY
ROI COOPER MEGRUE
NOVELIZED BY WYNDHAM MARTYN
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
WILLIAM KIRKPATRICK
[Illustration]
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1914
_Copyright_, _1914_,
BY ROI COOPER MEGRUE AND
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY.
_All rights reserved_
Published August, 1914
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. SIMONDS CO., BOSTON, U. S. A.
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
HE FOUND DENBY'S GUN UNDER HIS NOSE _Frontispiece_
HE TURNED TO AMY. "YOUNG WOMAN, YOU'RE UNDER ARREST" PAGE 105
"DO MAKE ANOTHER BREAK SOMETIME, WON'T YOU--DICK?" 186
"NOW WE UNDERSTAND ONE ANOTHER," HE SAID. "HERE'S YOUR MONEY" 288
UNDER COVER
CHAPTER ONE
Paris wears her greenest livery and puts on her most gracious airs in
early summer. When the National Fete commemorative of the Bastille's
fall has gone, there are few Parisians of wealth or leisure who remain
in their city. Trouville, Deauville, Etretat and other pleasure cities
claim them and even the bourgeoisie hie them to their summer villas.
The city is given up to those tourists from America and England whom
Paris still persists in calling _Les Cooks_ in memory of that
enterprising blazer of cheap trails for the masses. Your true Parisian
and the stranger who has stayed within the city's gates to know her
well, find themselves wholly out of sympathy with the eager crowds who
follow beaten tracks and absorb topographical knowledge from
guide-books.
Monty Vaughan was an American who knew his Paris in all months but those
two which are sacred to foreign travelers, and it irritated him one
blazing afternoon in late July to be persistently mistaken for a tourist
and offered silly useless toys and plans of the Louvre. The _camelots_,
those shrewd itinerant merchants of the Boulevards, pestered him
continually. These excellent judges of human nature saw in him one who
lacked the necessary harshness to drive them away and made capital of
his good nature.
He was a slim, pleasant-looking man of five and twenty, to whom the good
things of this world had been vouchsafed, with no effort on his part to
obtain them; and in spite of this he preserved a certain frank and
boyish charm which had made him popular all his life.
Presently on his somewhat aimless wanderings he came down the Avenue de
l'Opera and took a seat under the awning and ordered an innocuous drink.
He was in a city where he had innumerable friends, but they had all left
for the seashore and this loneliness was unpleasant to his friendly
spirit. But even in the Cafe de Paris he was not to be left alone and he
was regarded as fair game by alert hawkers. One would steal up to his
table and deposit a little measure of olives and plead for two sous in
exchange. Another would place some nuts by his side and demand a like
amount. And when they had been driven forth and he had lighted a
cigarette, he observed watching him with professional eagerness a
_ramasseur de megot_, one of those men who make a livelihood of picking
up the butts of cigars and cigarettes and selling them.
When Monty flung down the half-smoked cigarette in hope that the man
would go away he was annoyed to find that the fellow was congratulating
himself that here was a tourist worth following, who smoked not the
wispy attenuated cigarettes of the native but one worth harvesting. He
probed for it with his long stick under the table and stood waiting for
another.
The heat, the absence of his friends and the knowledge that he must
presently dine alone had brought the usually placid Monty into a wholly
foreign frame of mind and he rose abruptly and stalked down the Avenue.
A depressed-looking sandwich-man, bearing a device which read, "One can
laugh uproariously at the Champs Elysees every night during the summer
months," blocked his way, and permitted a woman selling fans of the kind
known to the _camelots_ as _les petits vents du nord_ to thrust one upon
him. "Monsieur does not comprehend our heat in Paris," she said. "Buy a
little north wind. Two sous for a little north wind."
Monty thrust a franc in her hand and turned quickly from her to carom
against a tall well-dressed man who was passing. As Monty began to utter
his apology the look of gloom dropped from his face and he seized the
stranger's hand and shook it heartily.
"Steve, old man!" he cried, "what luck to find you amid this mob! I've
been feeling like a poor shipwrecked orphan, and here you come to my
rescue again."
The man he addressed as Steve seemed just as pleased to behold Monty
Vaughan. The two were old comrades from the days at their preparatory
school and had met little during the past five years. Monty's ecstatic
welcome was a pleasant reminder of happy days that were gone.
"I might ask what you are doing here," Steven Denby returned. "I
imagined you to be sunning yourself in Newport or Bar Harbor, not doing
Paris in July."
"I've been living here for two years," Monty explained, when they were
sheltered from interruption at the cafe Monty had just left.
"Doing what?"
Monty looked at him with a diffident smile. "I suppose you'll grin just
like everybody else. I'm here to learn foreign banking systems. My
father says it will do me good."
Denby laughed. "I'll bet you know less about it than I do." The idea of
Monty Vaughan, heir to the Vaughan millions, working like a clerk in the
Credit Lyonnais was amusing.
"Does your father make you work all summer?" he demanded.
"I'm not working now," Monty explained. "I never do unless I feel like
it. I'm waiting for a friend who is sailing with me on the Mauretania
next week and I've just had a wire to say she'll be here to-morrow."
"She!" echoed Denby. "Have you married without my knowledge or consent?
Or is this a honey-moon trip you are taking?"
A look of sadness came into the younger man's face.
"I shall never marry," he returned.
But Steven Denby knew him too well to take such expressions of gloom as
final. "Nonsense," he cried. "You are just the sort they like. You're
inclined to believe in people too much if you like them, and a husband
who believes in his wife as you will in yours is a treasure. They'll
fight for you, Monty, when you get home again. For all you know the trap
is already baited."
"Trap!" Monty cried reproachfully. "I've been trying to make a girl
catch me for three years now and she won't."
"Do you mean you've been finally turned down?" Steven Denby asked
curiously. It was difficult to suppose that a man of his friend's wealth
and standing would experience much trouble in offering heart and
fortune.
"I haven't asked yet," Monty admitted. "I've been on the verge of it
hundreds of times, but she always laughs as I'm coming around to it, and
someone comes in or something happens and I've never done it." He sighed
with the deprecating manner of the devout lover. "If you'd only seen
her, Steve, you'd see what mighty little chance I stood. I feel it's a
bit of impertinence to ask a girl like that to marry me."
Steven patted him on the arm. "You're just the same," he said, "exactly
the silly old Monty I used to know. Next time you see your charmer, risk
being impertinent and ask her to marry you. Women hate modesty nowadays.
It's just a confession of failure and we're all hitched up to success. I
don't know the girl you are speaking of but when you get home again
instead of declaring your great unworthiness, tell her you've left Paris
and its pleasures simply to marry her. Say that the Bourse begged you to
remain and guide the nation through a financial panic, but you left
them weeping and flew back on a fast Cunarder."
"I believe you are right," Monty said. "I'll do it. I ought to have done
it years ago. Alice is frightfully disappointed with me."
"Who is Alice?" the other demanded. "The lady you're crossing with on
the Mauretania?"
"Yes," said Monty. "A good pal of mine; one of those up-to-date women of
the world who know what to do and say at the right moment. She's a sort
of elder sister to me. You'll like her, Steve."
Denby doubted it but pursued the subject no further. He conceived Alice
to be one | 3,420.686333 |
2023-11-16 19:14:04.7606520 | 3,990 | 18 |
Produced by Elizaveta Shevyakhova, Juliet Sutherland 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)
Castles and Chateaux of Old Touraine
and the Loire Country
_WORKS OF FRANCIS MILTOUN_
_The following, each 1 vol., library 12mo, cloth, gilt top,
profusely illustrated, $2.50_
_Rambles on the Riviera_
_Rambles in Normandy_
_Rambles in Brittany_
_The Cathedrals and Churches of the Rhine_
_The Cathedrals of Northern France_
_The Cathedrals of Southern France_
_The Cathedrals of Italy_ (_In preparation_)
_The following, 1 vol., square octavo, cloth, gilt top, profusely
illustrated. $3.00_
_Castles and Chateaux of Old Touraine and the Loire Country_
_L. C. PAGE & COMPANY New England Building, Boston, Mass._
[Illustration: A PEASANT GIRL OF TOURAINE]
Castles and Chateaux
OF
OLD TOURAINE
AND THE LOIRE COUNTRY
BY FRANCIS MILTOUN
Author of "Rambles in Normandy," "Rambles in Brittany,"
"Rambles on the Riviera," etc.
_With Many Illustrations
Reproduced from paintings made on the spot_
BY BLANCHE MCMANUS
[Illustration]
BOSTON
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
1906
_Copyright, 1906_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(Incorporated)
_All rights reserved_
First Impression, June, 1906
_COLONIAL PRESS_
_Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co._
_Boston, U. S. A._
[Illustration: Ed VELAY]
By Way of Introduction
This book is not the result of ordinary conventional rambles, of
sightseeing by day, and flying by night, but rather of leisurely
wanderings, for a somewhat extended period, along the banks of the Loire
and its tributaries and through the countryside dotted with those
splendid monuments of Renaissance architecture which have perhaps a more
appealing interest for strangers than any other similar edifices
wherever found.
Before this book was projected, the conventional tour of the chateau
country had been "done," Baedeker, Joanne and James's "Little Tour" in
hand. On another occasion Angers, with its almost inconceivably real
castellated fortress, and Nantes, with its memories of the "Edict" and
"La Duchesse Anne," had been tasted and digested _en route_ to a certain
little artist's village in Brittany.
On another occasion, when we were headed due south, we lingered for a
time in the upper valley, between "the little Italian city of Nevers"
and "the most picturesque spot in the world"--Le Puy.
But all this left certain ground to be covered, and certain gaps to be
filled, though the author's note-books were numerous and full to
overflowing with much comment, and the artist's portfolio was already
bulging with its contents.
So more note-books were bought, and, following the genial Mark Twain's
advice, another fountain pen and more crayons and sketch-books, and the
author and artist set out in the beginning of a warm September to fill
those gaps and to reduce, if possible, that series of rambles along the
now flat and now rolling banks of the broad blue Loire to something like
consecutiveness and uniformity; with what result the reader may judge.
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
BY WAY OF INTRODUCTION v
I. A GENERAL SURVEY 1
II. THE ORLEANNAIS 30
III. THE BLAISOIS AND THE SOLOGNE 56
IV. CHAMBORD 94
V. CHEVERNY, BEAUREGARD, AND CHAUMONT 110
VI. TOURAINE: THE GARDEN SPOT OF FRANCE 128
VII. AMBOISE 148
VIII. CHENONCEAUX 171
IX. LOCHES 188
X. TOURS AND ABOUT THERE 203
XI. LUYNES AND LANGEAIS 221
XII. AZAY-LE-RIDEAU, USSE, AND CHINON 241
XIII. ANJOU AND BRETAGNE 273
XIV. SOUTH OF THE LOIRE 301
XV. BERRY AND GEORGE SAND'S COUNTRY 313
XVI. THE UPPER LOIRE 330
INDEX 337
List of Illustrations
PAGE
A PEASANT GIRL OF TOURAINE _Frontispiece_
ITINERARY OF THE LOIRE (MAP) facing 1
A LACE-MAKER OF THE UPPER LOIRE facing 4
THE LOIRE CHATEAUX (MAP) 9
THE ANCIENT PROVINCES OF THE LOIRE VALLEY
AND THEIR CAPITALS (MAP) 15
THE LOIRE NEAR LA CHARITE facing 18
COIFFES OF AMBOISE AND ORLEANS facing 20
THE CHATEAUX OF THE LOIRE (MAP) facing 30
ENVIRONS OF ORLEANS (MAP) 39
THE LOIRET facing 42
THE LOIRE AT MEUNG facing 46
BEAUGENCY facing 50
ARMS OF THE CITY OF BLOIS 58
THE RIVERSIDE AT BLOIS facing 58
SIGNATURE OF FRANCOIS PREMIER 60
CYPHER OF ANNE DE BRETAGNE, AT BLOIS 62
ARMS OF LOUIS XII. 65
CENTRAL DOORWAY, CHATEAU DE BLOIS facing 66
THE CHATEAUX OF BLOIS (DIAGRAM) 71
CYPHER OF FRANCOIS PREMIER AND CLAUDE OF
FRANCE, AT BLOIS 72
NATIVE TYPES IN THE SOLOGNE 89
DONJON OF MONTRICHARD facing 92
ARMS OF FRANCOIS PREMIER, AT CHAMBORD 99
PLAN OF CHATEAU DE CHAMBORD 103
CHATEAU DE CHAMBORD facing 104
CHATEAU DE CHEVERNY facing 110
CHEVERNY-SUR-LOIRE 113
CHAUMONT facing 116
SIGNATURE OF DIANE DE POITIERS 118
THE LOIRE IN TOURAINE facing 134
THE VINTAGE IN TOURAINE facing 142
CHATEAU D'AMBOISE facing 148
SCULPTURE FROM THE CHAPELLE DE ST. HUBERT facing 164
CYPHER OF ANNE DE BRETAGNE, HOTEL DE
VILLE, AMBOISE 168
CHATEAU DE CHENONCEAUX facing 178
CHATEAU DE CHENONCEAUX (DIAGRAM) 179
LOCHES 189
LOCHES AND ITS CHURCH facing 192
SKETCH PLAN OF LOCHES 198
ST. OURS, LOCHES facing 198
TOURS facing 202
ARMS OF THE PRINTERS, _AVOCATS_, AND INNKEEPERS,
TOURS 205
SCENE IN THE QUARTIER DE LA CATHEDRALE,
TOURS facing 208
PLESSIS-LES-TOURS IN THE TIME OF LOUIS XI. 213
ENVIRONS OF TOURS (MAP) 219
A VINEYARD OF VOUVRAY facing 222
MEDIAEVAL STAIRWAY AND THE CHATEAU DE
LUYNES facing 224
RUINS OF CINQ-MARS facing 228
CHATEAU DE LANGEAIS facing 232
ARMS OF LOUIS XII. AND ANNE DE BRETAGNE 237
CHATEAU D'AZAY-LE-RIDEAU facing 244
CHATEAU D'USSE facing 248
THE ROOF-TOPS OF CHINON facing 252
RABELAIS 255
CHATEAU DE CHINON facing 258
CUISINES, FONTEVRAULT 265
CHATEAU DE SAUMUR facing 276
THE PONTS DE CE facing 284
CHATEAU D'ANGERS facing 288
ENVIRONS OF NANTES (MAP) 297
DONJON OF THE CHATEAU DE CLISSON facing 306
BERRY (MAP) 313
LA TOUR, SANCERRE 317
CHATEAU DE GIEN facing 318
CHATEAU DE VALENCAY facing 322
GATEWAY OF MEHUN-SUR-YEVRE facing 324
LE CARRIOR DORE, ROMORANTIN 325
EGLISE S. AIGNAN, COSNE 331
POUILLY-SUR-LOIRE facing 332
PORTE DU CROUX, NEVERS facing 334
[Illustration: ITINERARY OF THE LOIRE (MAP)]
Castles and Chateaux
of Old Touraine
and the Loire Country
CHAPTER I.
A GENERAL SURVEY
Any account of the Loire and of the towns along its banks must naturally
have for its chief mention Touraine and the long line of splendid feudal
and Renaissance chateaux which reflect themselves so gloriously in its
current.
The Loire possesses a certain fascination and charm which many other
more commercially great rivers entirely lack, and, while the element of
absolute novelty cannot perforce be claimed for it, it has the merit of
appealing largely to the lover of the romantic and the picturesque.
A French writer of a hundred years ago dedicated his work on Touraine to
"Le Baron de Langeais, le Vicomte de Beaumont, le Marquis de Beauregard,
le Comte de Fontenailles, le Comte de Jouffroy-Gonsans, le Duc de
Luynes, le Comte de Vouvray, le Comte de Villeneuve, _et als._;" and he
might have continued with a directory of all the descendants of the
_noblesse_ of an earlier age, for he afterward grouped them under the
general category of "_Proprietaires des fortresses et chateaux les plus
remarquables--au point de vue historique ou architectural_."
He was fortunate in being able, as he said, to have had access to their
"_papiers de famille_," their souvenirs, and to have been able to
interrogate them in person.
Most of his facts and his gossip concerning the personalities of the
later generations of those who inhabited these magnificent
establishments have come down to us through later writers, and it is
fortunate that this should be the case, since the present-day aspect of
the chateaux is ever changing, and one who views them to-day is
chagrined when he discovers, for instance, that an iron-trussed,
red-tiled wash-house has been built on the banks of the Cosson before
the magnificent chateau of Chambord, and that somewhere within the
confines of the old castle at Loches a shopkeeper has hung out his
shingle, announcing a newly discovered dungeon in his own basement,
accidentally come upon when digging a well.
Balzac, Rabelais, and Descartes are the leading literary celebrities of
Tours, and Balzac's "Le Lys dans la Vallee" will give one a more
delightful insight into the old life of the Tourangeaux than whole
series of guide-books and shelves of dry histories.
Blois and its counts, Tours and its bishops, and Amboise and its kings,
to say nothing of Fontevrault, redolent of memories of the Plantagenets,
Nantes and its famous "Edict," and its equally infamous "Revocation,"
have left vivid impress upon all students of French history. Others will
perhaps remember Nantes for Dumas's brilliant descriptions of the
outcome of the Breton conspiracy.
All of us have a natural desire to know more of historic ground, and
whether we make a start by entering the valley of the Loire at the
luxurious midway city of Tours, and follow the river first to the sea
and then to the source, or make the journey from source to mouth, or
vice versa, it does not matter in the least. We traverse the same ground
and we meet the same varying conditions as we advance a hundred
kilometres in either direction.
Tours, for example, stands for all that is typical of the sunny south.
Prune and palm trees thrust themselves forward in strong contrast to the
cider-apples of the lower Seine. Below Tours one is almost at the coast,
and the _tables d'hote_ are abundantly supplied with sea-food of all
sorts. Above Tours the Orleannais is typical of a certain well-to-do,
matter-of-fact existence, neither very luxurious nor very difficult.
Nevers is another step and resembles somewhat the opulence of Burgundy
as to conditions of life, though the general aspect of the city, as well
as a great part of its history, is Italian through and through.
The last great step begins at Le Puy, in the great volcanic _Massif
Centrale_, where conditions of life, if prosperous, are at least harder
than elsewhere.
Such are the varying characteristics of the towns and cities through
which the Loire flows. They run the whole gamut from gay to earnest and
solemn; from the ease and comfort of the country around Tours, almost
sub-tropical in its softness, to the grime and smoke of busy St.
Etienne, and the chilliness and rigours of a mountain winter at Le Puy.
[Illustration: _A Lace-maker of the Upper Loire_]
These districts are all very full of memories of events which have
helped to build up the solidarity of France of to-day, though the
Nantois still proudly proclaims himself a Breton, and the Tourangeau
will tell you that his is the tongue, above all others, which speaks the
purest French,--and so on through the whole category, each and every
citizen of a _petit pays_ living up to his traditions to the fullest
extent possible.
In no other journey in France, of a similar length, will one see as many
varying contrasts in conditions of life as he will along the length of
the Loire, the broad, shallow river which St. Martin, Charles Martel,
and Louis XI., the typical figures of church, arms, and state, came to
know so well.
Du Bellay, a poet of the Renaissance, has sung the praises of the Loire
in a manner unapproached by any other topographical poet, if one may so
call him, for that is what he really was in this particular instance.
There is a great deal of patriotism in it all, too, and certainly no
sweet singer of the present day has even approached these lines, which
are eulogistic without being fulsome and fervent without being lurid.
The verses have frequently been rendered into English, but the following
is as good as any, and better than most translations, though it is one
of those fragments of "newspaper verse" whose authors are lost in
obscurity.
"Mightier to me the house my fathers made,
Than your audacious heads, O Halls of Rome!
More than immortal marbles undecayed,
The thin sad slates that cover up my home;
More than your Tiber is my Loire to me,
More Palatine my little Lyre there;
And more than all the winds of all the sea,
The quiet kindness of the Angevin air."
In history the Loire valley is rich indeed, from the days of the ancient
Counts of Touraine to those of Mazarin, who held forth at Nevers.
Touraine has well been called the heart of the old French monarchy.
Provincial France has a charm never known to Paris-dwellers. Balzac and
Flaubert were provincials, and Dumas was a city-dweller,--and there lies
the difference between them.
Balzac has written most charmingly of Touraine in many of his books, in
"Le Lys dans la Vallee" and "Le Cure de Tours" in particular; not always
in complimentary terms, either, for he has said that the Tourangeaux
will not even inconvenience themselves to go in search of pleasure. This
does not bespeak indolence so much as philosophy, so most of us will not
cavil. George Sand's country lies a little to the southward of Touraine,
and Berry, too, as the authoress herself has said, has a climate
"_souple et chaud, avec pluie abondant et courte_."
The architectural remains in the Loire valley are exceedingly rich and
varied. The feudal system is illustrated at its best in the great walled
chateau | 3,420.780692 |
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Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
Gutenberg (This book was produced from scanned images of
public domain material from the Google Print project.)
LUDWIG THE SECOND
KING OF BAVARIA
BY
CLARA TSCHUDI
AUTHOR OF "MARIE ANTOINETTE," "EUGÉNIE, EMPRESS OF THE FRENCH,"
"MARIA SOPHIA, QUEEN OF NAPLES," ETC. ETC.
TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN
BY
ETHEL HARRIET HEARN
"Certains caractères échappent à l'analyse logique."
George Sand.
WITH PORTRAIT
London
SWAN SONNENSCHEIN & CO. LIM.
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO.
1908
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. Descent and Education 1
II. Fundamental Traits of Ludwig's Character 11
III. "Le Roi est mort! Vive le Roi!" 17
IV. A Plan of Marriage 22
V. King Ludwig and Richard Wagner 25
VI. Ludwig's First Visit to Switzerland--Richard Wagner
leaves Munich 40
VII. The Political Situation--The Schleswig-Holstein Question
--The War of 1866 53
VIII. The King makes the Tour of his Kingdom 58
IX. Ludwig's Betrothal 63
X. The King goes to Paris--Disharmonies between the
Engaged Couple--Ludwig meets the Emperor Napoleon and the
Empress Eugénie in Augsburg--The King breaks his Promise
of Marriage 75
XI. After the Parting with Sophie--Episodes from the King's
Excursions in the Highlands 81
XII. The Empress of Russia visits Bavaria--The Duchess Sophie's
Engagement and Marriage--An Unexpected Meeting with the
Duchesse d'Alençon--A Last Attempt to forge the Links of
Hymen around Ludwig 86
XIII. Ludwig and the Artistes of the Stage--Josephine Schefzky 92
XIV. Prince Hohenlohe--Political Frictions 99
XV. A Meeting between Bismarck and Ludwig 108
XVI. Outbreak of the War with France 111
XVII. During the War--The German Empire is Proclaimed 118
XVIII. The Bavarian Troops Return to Munich--King Ludwig and
the Crown Prince of Germany 131
XIX. A Visit from the Emperor Wilhelm--Ludwig Withdraws more
and more from the World 138
XX. Prince Otto's Insanity--The King's Morbid Sensations 145
XXI. The Review of the Troops in 1875--Crown Prince Friedrich
of Prussia 151
XXII. King Ludwig and the Empress Elizabeth 158
XXIII. King Ludwig and Queen Marie 164
XXIV. State and Church--Ignaz von Döllinger--Ludwig's Letters
to his old Tutor 168
XXV. Ludwig II. in Daily Life 175
XXVI. Ludwig and Richard Wagner--The King's Visit to Bayreuth 180
XXVII. King Ludwig and the Artists of the Stage and Canvas 187
XXVIII. Private Performances at the Hof Theater at Munich 193
XXIX. King Ludwig and his Palaces 197
XXX. King Ludwig's Friendships 204
XXXI. The Actor Kainz 209
XXXII. A Journey to Switzerland 214
XXXIII. King Ludwig and his Servants 221
XXXIV. The Mad King 225
XXXV. The Last Meeting between Mother and Son 230
XXXVI. Pecuniary Distress 234
XXXVII. Plots 239
XXXVIII. Preparations to Imprison the King--The Peasantry Assemble
to his Rescue 244
XXXIX. A Friend in Need--Ludwig's Proclamation 250
XL. The King's Last Hours at Neuschwanstein 257
XLI. Schloss Berg--The King's Death 265
XLII. Conclusion 272
LUDWIG THE SECOND
KING OF BAVARIA
CHAPTER I
Descent and Education
At the birth of Ludwig II., enigmatic as he was unfortunate, of whom
I propose to give a sketch, his grandfather, the eccentric Ludwig I.,
was still King of Bavaria. His father, Maximilian Joseph, was the
Crown Prince. The latter had wedded, in 1842, the beautiful Princess
Marie of Prussia, who was | 3,420.781778 |
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Produced by Judy Boss
MICHAEL STROGOFF
OR, THE COURIER OF THE CZAR
by Jules Verne
BOOK I
CHAPTER I A FETE AT THE NEW PALACE
"SIRE, a fresh dispatch."
"Whence?"
"From Tomsk?"
"Is the wire cut beyond that city?"
"Yes, sire, since yesterday."
"Telegraph hourly to Tomsk, General, and keep me informed of all that
occurs."
"Sire, it shall be done," answered General Kissoff.
These words were exchanged about two hours after midnight, at the moment
when the fete given at the New Palace was at the height of its splendor.
During the whole evening the bands of the Preobra-jensky and Paulowsky
regiments had played without cessation polkas, mazurkas, schottisches,
and waltzes from among the choicest of their repertoires. Innumerable
couples of dancers whirled through the magnificent saloons of the
palace, which stood at a few paces only from the "old house of
stones"--in former days the scene of so many terrible dramas, the
echoes of whose walls were this night awakened by the gay strains of the
musicians.
The grand-chamberlain of the court, was, besides, well seconded in his
arduous and delicate duties. The grand-dukes and their aides-de-camp,
the chamberlains-in-waiting and other officers of the palace, presided
personally in the arrangement of the dances. The grand duchesses,
covered with diamonds, the ladies-in-waiting in their most exquisite
costumes, set the example to the wives of the military and civil
dignitaries of the ancient "city of white stone." When, therefore, the
signal for the "polonaise" resounded through the saloons, and the guests
of all ranks took part in that measured promenade, which on occasions
of this kind has all the importance of a national dance, the mingled
costumes, the sweeping robes adorned with lace, and uniforms covered
with orders, presented a scene of dazzling splendor, lighted by hundreds
of lusters multiplied tenfold by the numerous mirrors adorning the
walls.
The grand saloon, the finest of all those contained in the New Palace,
formed to this procession of exalted personages and splendidly dressed
women a frame worthy of the magnificence they displayed. The rich
ceiling, with its gilding already softened by the touch of time,
appeared as if glittering with stars. The embroidered drapery of the
curtains and doors, falling in gorgeous folds, assumed rich and varied
hues, broken by the shadows of the heavy masses of damask.
Through the panes of the vast semicircular bay-windows the light, with
which the saloons were filled, shone forth with the brilliancy of a
conflagration, vividly illuminating the gloom in which for some hours
the palace had been shrouded. The attention of those of the guests not
taking part in the dancing was attracted by the contrast. Resting in the
recesses of the windows, they could discern, standing out dimly in the
darkness, the vague | 3,420.781857 |
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Produced by D.R. Thompson
HISTORY OF FRIEDRICH II. OF PRUSSIA
FREDERICK THE GREAT
By Thomas Carlyle
Volume II. (of XXI.)
BOOK II. -- OF BRANDENBURG AND THE HOHENZOLLERNS. - 928-1417.
Chapter I. -- BRANNIBOR: HENRY THE FOWLER.
The Brandenburg Countries, till they become related to the Hohenzollern
Family which now rules there, have no History that has proved memorable
to mankind. There has indeed been a good deal written under that
title; but there is by no means much known, and of that again there is
alarmingly little that is worth knowing or remembering.
Pytheas, the Marseilles Travelling Commissioner, looking out for new
channels of trade, somewhat above 2,000 years ago, saw the country
actually lying there; sailed past it, occasionally landing; and
made report to such Marseillese "Chamber of Commerce" as there then
was:--report now lost, all to a few indistinct and insignificant
fractions. [_Memoires de l'Academie des Inscriptions,_ t. xix. 46,
xxxvii. 439, &c.] This was "about the year 327 before Christ," while
Alexander of Macedon was busy conquering India. Beyond question,
Pytheas, the first WRITING or civilized creature that ever saw Germany,
gazed with his Greek eyes, and occasionally landed, striving to speak
and inquire, upon those old Baltic Coasts, north border of the now
Prussian Kingdom; and reported of it to mankind we know not what. Which
brings home to us the fact that it existed, but almost nothing more:
A Country of lakes and woods, of marshy jungles, sandy wildernesses;
inhabited by bears, otters, bisons, wolves, wild swine, and certain
shaggy Germans of the Suevic type, as good as inarticulate to Pytheas.
After which all direct notice of it ceases for above three hundred
years. We can hope only that the jungles were getting cleared a little,
and the wild creatures hunted down; that the Germans were increasing
in number, and becoming a thought less shaggy. These latter, tall Suevi
Semnones, men of blond stern aspect _(oculi truces coerulei)_ and
great strength of bone, were known to possess a formidable talent for
fighting: [Tacitus, _De Moribus Germanorum,_ c. 45.] Drusus Germanicus,
it has been guessed, did not like to appear personally among them: some
"gigantic woman prophesying to him across the Elbe" that it might be
dangerous, Drusus contented himself with erecting some triumphal pillar
on his own safe side of the Elbe, to say that they were conquered.
In the Fourth Century of our era, when the German populations, on
impulse of certain "Huns expelled from the Chinese frontier," or for
other reasons valid to themselves, began flowing universally southward,
to take possession of the rich Roman world, and so continued flowing for
two centuries more; the old German frontiers generally, and especially
those Northern Baltic countries, were left comparatively vacant; so that
new immigrating populations from the East, all of Sclavic origin, easily
obtained footing and supremacy there. In the Northern parts, these
immigrating Sclaves were of the kind called Vandals, or Wends: they
spread themselves as far west as Hamburg and the Ocean, south also
far over the Elbe in some quarters; while other kinds of Sclaves
were equally busy elsewhere. With what difficulty in settling the new
boundaries, and what inexhaustible funds of quarrel thereon, is still
visible to every one, though no Historian was there to say the least
word of it. "All of Sclavic origin;" but who knows of how many kinds:
Wends here in the North, through the Lausitz (Lusatia) and as far as
Thuringen; not to speak of <DW69>s, Bohemian Czechs, Huns, Bulgars, and
the other dim nomenclatures, on the Eastern frontier. Five hundred
years of violent unrecorded fighting, abstruse quarrel with their new
neighbors in settling the marches. Many names of towns in Germany ending
in ITZ (Meuselwitz, Mollwitz), or bearing the express epithet _Windisch_
(Wendish), still give indication of those old sad circumstances; as
does the word SLAVE, in all our Western languages, meaning captured
SCLAVONIAN. What long-drawn echo of bitter rage and hate lies in that
small etymology!
These things were; but they have no History: why should they have any?
Enough that in those Baltic regions, there are for the time (Year 600,
and till long after Charlemagne is out) Sclaves in place of Suevi or of
Holstein Saxons and Angli; that it is now shaggy Wends who have the task
of taming the jungles, and keeping down the otters and wolves. Wends
latterly in a waning condition, much beaten upon by Charlemagne and
others; but never yet beaten out. And so it has to last, century after
century; Wends, wolves, wild swine, all alike dumb to us. Dumb, or
sounding only one huge unutterable message (seemingly of tragic import),
like the voice of their old Forests, of their old Baltic Seas:--perhaps
more edifying to us SO. Here at last is a definite date and event:--
"A.D. 928, Henry the Fowler, marching across the frozen bogs, took
BRANNIBOR, a chief fortress of the Wends;" [Kohler, _Reichs-Historie_
(Frankfurth und Leipzig, 1737), p. 63. Michaelis, _Chur-und Furstlichen
Hauser in Deutschland_ (Lemgo, 1759, 1760, 1785), i. 255.]--first
mention in human speech of the place now called Brandenburg: Bor or
"Burg of the Brenns" (if there ever was any TRIBE of Brenns,--BRENNUS,
there as elsewhere, being name for KING or Leader); "Burg of the Woods,"
say others,--who as little know. Probably, at that time, a town of clay
huts, with dit&h and palisaded sod-wall round it; certainly "a chief
fortress of the Wends,"--who must have been a good deal surprised at
sight of Henry on the rimy winter morning near a thousand years ago.
This is the grand old Henry, called, "the Fowler" _(Heinrich
der Vogler),_ because he was in his _Vogelheerde_ (Falconry or
Hawk-establishment, seeing his Hawks fly) in the upland Hartz Country,
when messengers came to tell him that the German Nation, through its
Princes and Authorities assembled at Fritzlar, had made him King; and
that he would have dreadful work henceforth. Which he undertook; and
also did,--this of Brannibor only one small item of it,--warring right
manfully all his days against Chaos in that country, no rest for him
thenceforth till he died. The beginning of German Kings; the first,
or essentially the first sovereign of united Germany,--Charlemagne's
posterity to the last bastard having died out, and only Anarchy, Italian
and other, being now the alternative.
"A very high King," says one whose Note-books I have got, "an
authentically noble human figure, visible still in clear outline in the
gray dawn of Modern History. The Father of whatever good has since been
in Germany. He subdued his DUKES, Schwaben, Baiern (Swabia, Bavaria) and
others, who were getting too HEREDITARY, and inclined to disobedience.
He managed to get back Lorraine; made TRUCE with the Hungarians, who
were excessively invasive at that time. Truce with the Hungarians;
and then, having gathered strength, made dreadful beating of them; two
beatings,--one to each half, for the invasive Savagery had split itself,
for better chance of plunder; first beating was at Sondershausen, second
was at Merseburg, Year 933;--which settled them considerably. Another
beating from Henry's son, and they never came back. Beat Wends, before
this,--'Brannibor through frozen bogs' five years ago. Beat, Sclavic
Meisseners (Misnians); Bohehemian Czechs, and took Prag; Wends again,
with huge slaughter; then Danes, and made 'King Worm tributary' (King
_Gorm the Hard,_ our KNUT'S or Canute's great-grand-father, Year
931);--last of all, those invasive Hungarians as above. Had sent
the Hungarians, when they demanded tribute or BLACK-MAIL of him
as heretofore, Truce being now out,--a mangy hound: There is your
black-mail, Sirs; make much of that!
"He had 'the image of St. Michael painted on his standard;' contrary to
wont. He makes, or RE-makes, Markgrafs (Wardens of the Marches), to be
under his Dukes,--and not too HEREDITARY. Who his Markgraves were? Dim
History counts them to the number of six; [Kohler, _Reich-Historie,_ p.
66. This is by no means Kohler's chief Book; but this too is good, and
does, in a solid effective way, what it attempts. He seems to me by far
the best Historical Genius the Germans have yet, produced, though I do
not find much mention of him in their Literary Histories and Catalogues.
A man of ample learning, and also of strong cheerful human sense and
human honesty; whom it is thrice-pleasant, to meet with in those ghastly
solitudes, populous chiefly with doleful creatures.] which take in their
order:--
"1. SLESWIG, looking over into the Scandinavian countries, and the
Norse Sea-kings. This Markgraviate did not last long under that title. I
guess, it, became _Stade-and-Ditmarsch_ afterwards.
"2. SOLTWEDEL,--which grows to be Markgraviate of BRANDENBURG by and by.
Soltwedel, now called Salzwedel, an old Town still extant, sixty miles
to west and north of Brandenburg, short way south of the Elbe, was as
yet headquarters of this second Markgraf; and any Warden we have at
Brandenburg is only a deputy of him or some other.
"3. MEISSEN (which we call Misnia), a country at that time still full of
Wends.
"4. LAUSITZ, also a very Wendish country (called in English maps
LUSATIA,--which is its name in Monk-Latin, not now a spoken language).
Did not long continue a Markgraviate; fell to Meissen (Saxony), fell to
Brandenburg, Bohemia, Austria, and had many tos and fros. Is now (since
the Thirty-Years-War time) mostly Saxon again.
"5. AUSTRIA (OEsterreich, Eastern-Kingdom, EASTERNREY as we might say);
to look after the Hungarians, and their valuable claims to black-mail.
"6. ANTWERP ('At-the-Wharf,' 'On-t'-Wharf,' so to speak), against the
French; which function soon fell obsolete.
"These were Henry's six Markgraviates (as my best authority enumerates
them); and in this way he had militia captains ranked all round his
borders, against the intrusive Sclavic element. He fortified
Towns; all Towns are to be walled and warded,--to be BURGS in fact; and
the inhabitants BURGhers, or men capable of defending Burgs. Everywhere
the ninth man is to serve as soldier in his Town; other eight in the
country are to feed and support him: _Heergeruthe_ (War-tackle, what is
called HERIOT in our old Books) descends to the eldest son of a fighting
man who had served, as with us. 'All robbers are made soldiers' (unless
they prefer hanging); and WEAPON-SHOWS and drill are kept up. This is a
man who will make some impression upon Anarchy, and its Wends and Huns.
His standard was St. Michael, as we have seen,--WHOSE sword is derived
from a very high quarter! A pious man;--founded Quedlinburg Abbey, and
much else in that kind, having a pious Wife withal, Mechtildis, who
took the main hand in that of Quedlinburg; whose LIFE is in Leibnitz,
[Leibnitz, _Scriptores Rerum Brunswicensium,_ &c. (Hanover, 1707), i.
196.] not the legiblest of Books.--On the whole, a right gallant King
and 'Fowler.' Died, A.D. 936 (at Memmleben, a Monastery on the Unstrut,
not far from Schulpforte), age sixty; had reigned only seventeen years,
and done so much. Lies buried in Quedlinburg Abbey:--any Tomb? I know
no LIFE of him but GUNDLING'S, which is an extremely inextricable Piece,
and requires mainly to be forgotten.--Hail, brave Henry: across the Nine
dim Centuries, we salute thee, still visible as a valiant Son of Cosmos
and Son of Heaven, beneficently sent us; as a man who did in grim
earnest'serve God' in his day, and whose works accordingly bear fruit
to our day, and to all days!"--
So far my rough Note-books; which require again to be shut for the
present, not to abuse the reader's patience, or lead him from his road.
This of Markgrafs (GRAFS of the Marches, MARKED Places, or Boundaries)
was a natural invention in that state of circumstances. It did not
quite originate with Henry; but was much perfected by him, he first
recognizing how essential it was. On all frontiers he had his GRAF
(Count, REEVE, G'REEVE, whom some think to be only GRAU, Gray, or
SENIOR, the hardiest, wisest steel-GRAY man he could discover) stationed
on the MARCK, strenuously doing watch and ward there: the post of
difficulty, of peril, and naturally of honor too, nothing of a sinecure
by any means. Which post, like every other, always had a tendency to
become hereditary, if the kindred did not fail in fit men. And hence
have come the innumerable Markgraves, Marquises, and such like, of
modern times: titles now become chimerical, and more or less mendacious,
as most of our titles are,--like so many BURGS changed into "Boroughs,"
and even into "Rotten Boroughs," with Defensive BURGhers of the known
sort: very mournful to discover. Once Norroy was not all pasteboard! At
the heart of that huge whirlwind of his, with its dusty heraldries, and
phantasmal nomenclatures now become mendacious, there lay, at first,
always an earnest human fact. Henry the Fowler was so happy as to have
the fact without any mixture of mendacity: we are in the sad reverse
case; reverse case not yet altogether COMPLETE, but daily becoming
so,--one of the saddest and strangest ever heard of, if we thought of
it!--But to go on with business.
Markgraviates there continued to be ever after,--Six in Henry's
time:--but as to the number, place, arrangement of them, all this varied
according to circumstances outward and inward, chiefly according to the
regress or the reintrusion of the circumambient hostile populations; and
underwent many changes. The sea-wall you build, and what main floodgates
you establish in it, will depend on the state of the outer sea. Markgraf
of SLESWIG grows into Markgraf of DITMARSCH and STADE; retiring over the
Elbe, if Norse Piracy get very triumphant. ANTWERP falls obsolete; so
does MEISSEN by and by. LAUSITZ and SALZWEDEL, in the third century
hence, shrink both into BRANDENBURG; which was long only a subaltern
station, managed by deputy from one or other of these. A Markgraf that
prospered in repelling of his Wends and Huns had evidently room to
spread himself, and could become very great, and produce change in
boundaries: observe what OESTERREICH (Austria) grew to, and what
BRANDENBURG; MEISSEN too, which became modern Saxony, a state once
greater than it now is.
In old Books are Lists of the primitive Markgraves of Brandenburg, from
Henry's time downward; two sets, "Markgraves of the Witekind race," and
of another: [Hubner, _Genealogische Tabellen_ (Leipzig, 1725-1728),
i. 172, 173. A Book of rare excellence in its kind.] but they are
altogether uncertain, a shadowy intermittent set of Markgraves, both the
Witekind set and the Non-Witekind; and truly, for a couple of centuries,
seem none of them to have been other than subaltern Deputies, belonging
mostly to LAUSITZ or SALZWEDEL; of whom therefore we can say nothing
here, but must leave the first two hundred years in | 3,420.784989 |
2023-11-16 19:14:04.7659310 | 1,198 | 7 | COLERIDGE, VOL. I (OF 2)***
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
The original text contains letters with diacritical marks
that are not represented in this text-file version.
The original text includes Greek characters that have been
replaced with transliterations in this text-file version.
LETTERS OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
[Illustration]
LETTERS OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
Edited by
ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE
In Two Volumes
VOL. I
London
William Heinemann
1895
[All rights reserved.]
The Riverside Press, Cambridge, Mass., U. S. A.
Printed by H. O. Houghton and Company.
INTRODUCTION
Hitherto no attempt has been made to publish a collection of Coleridge's
Letters. A few specimens were published in his lifetime, both in his own
works and in magazines, and, shortly after his death in 1834, a large
number appeared in print. Allsop's "Letters, Conversations, and
Recollections of S. T. Coleridge," which was issued in 1836, contains
forty-five letters or parts of letters; Cottle in his "Early
Recollections" (1837) prints, for the most part incorrectly, and in
piecemeal, some sixty in all, and Gillman, in his "Life of Coleridge"
(1838), contributes, among others, some letters addressed to himself, and
one, of the greatest interest, to Charles Lamb. In 1847, a series of early
letters to Thomas Poole appeared for the first time in the Biographical
Supplement to the "Biographia Literaria," and in 1848, when Cottle
reprinted his "Early Recollections," under the title of "Reminiscences of
Coleridge and Southey," he included sixteen letters to Thomas and Josiah
Wedgwood. In Southey's posthumous "Life of Dr. Bell," five letters of
Coleridge lie imbedded, and in "Southey's Life and Correspondence"
(1849-50), four of his letters find an appropriate place. An interesting
series was published in 1858 in the "Fragmentary Remains of Sir H. Davy,"
edited by his brother, Dr. Davy; and in the "Diary of H. C. Robinson,"
published in 1869, a few letters from Coleridge are interspersed. In 1870,
the late Mr. W. Mark W. Call printed in the "Westminster Review" eleven
letters from Coleridge to Dr. Brabant of Devizes, dated 1815 and 1816;
and a series of early letters to Godwin, 1800-1811 (some of which had
appeared in "Macmillan's Magazine" in 1864), was included by Mr. Kegan
Paul in his "William Godwin" (1876). In 1874, a correspondence between
Coleridge (1816-1818) and his publishers, Gale & Curtis, was contributed
to "Lippincott's Magazine," and in 1878, a few letters to Matilda Betham
were published in "Fraser's Magazine." During the last six years the vast
store which still remained unpublished has been drawn upon for various
memoirs and biographies. The following works containing new letters are
given in order of publication: Herr Brandl's "Samuel T. Coleridge and the
English Romantic School," 1887; "Memorials of Coleorton," edited by
Professor Knight, 1887; "Thomas Poole and his Friends," by Mrs. H.
Sandford, 1888; "Life of Wordsworth," by Professor Knight, 1889; "Memoirs
of John Murray," by Samuel Smiles, LL. D., 1891; "De Quincey Memorials,"
by Alex. Japp, LL. D., 1891; "Life of Washington Allston," 1893.
Notwithstanding these heavy draughts, more than half of the letters which
have come under my notice remain unpublished. Of more than forty which
Coleridge wrote to his wife, only one has been published. Of ninety
letters to Southey which are extant, barely a tenth have seen the light.
Of nineteen addressed to W. Sotheby, poet and patron of poets, fourteen to
Lamb's friend John Rickman, and four to Coleridge's old college friend,
Archdeacon Wrangham, none have been published. Of more than forty letters
addressed to the Morgan family, which belong for the most part | 3,420.785971 |
2023-11-16 19:14:04.8315930 | 1,672 | 9 |
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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
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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.D.
~A SCRAP OF PAPER~ By E. J. DILLON
~HOW THE NATIONS WAGED WAR~ By J. M. KENNEDY
~AIR-CRAFT IN WAR~ By S. ERIC BRUCE
~FAMOUS FIGHTS OF INDIAN NATIVE REGIMENTS~ By REGINALD HODDER
~THE FIGHTING RETREAT TO PARIS~ By ROGER INGPEN
~THE FIRST CAMPAIGN IN RUSSIAN POLAND~ By P. C. STANDEN
~THE BATTLES OF THE RIVERS~ By EDMUND DANE
~FROM HELIGOLAND TO KEELING ISLAND~ By ARCHIBALD HURD
~THE SLAV NATIONS~ By SRGJAN PL. TUCIC
~SUBMARINES, MINES AND TORPEDOES~ By A. S. DOMVILLE-FIFE
~WITH THE R.A.M.C. AT THE FRONT~ By E. C. VIVIAN
~MOTOR TRANSPORTS IN WAR~ By HORACE WYATT
~HACKING THROUGH BELGIUM~ By EDMUND DANE
~WITH THE FRENCH EASTERN ARMY~
~THE GERMAN NAVY~ By ARCHIBALD HURD
_OTHER VOLUMES IN PREPARATION_
PUBLISHED FOR THE DAILY TELEGRAPH
BY HODDER & STOUGHTON, WARWICK SQUARE,
LONDON, E.C.
THE BATTLES IN FLANDERS
FROM YPRES TO NEUVE CHAPELLE
BY
EDMUND DANE
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO
MCMXV
PREFATORY NOTE
Ever since the middle of November last there has been on the West
front in the present war what many have called and considered a
"deadlock." In the account which follows of that part of the campaign
represented by the battles in Flanders the true character of the
great and brilliant military scheme by means of which, and against
apparently impossible odds, the Allied commanders succeeded in
reducing the main fighting forces of Germany to impotence, and in
defeating the purposes of the invasion, will, I hope, become clear.
The success or failure of that scheme depended upon the issue of the
Battle of Ypres. Not only was that great battle the most prolonged,
furious, and destructive clash of arms yet known, but upon it also,
for reasons which in fact disclose the real history of this struggle,
hung the issue of the War as a whole. No accident merely of a despot's
desires caused the fury and the terror of Ypres. It was the big bid of
Prussian Militarism for supremacy. Equally in the terrible and ghastly
defeat it there sustained Prussian Militarism faced its doom.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE CRISIS OF OCTOBER 9
II. HOW THE CRISIS WAS MET 20
III. THE EVE OF YPRES 34
IV. THE BATTLE OF YPRES--FIRST PHASE 44
V. THE BATTLE OF YPRES--SECOND PHASE 58
VI. THE BATTLE OF YPRES--THE CRISIS 81
VII. THE BATTLE OF YPRES--FINAL PHASE 104
VIII. THE BATTLE ON THE YSER 120
IX. THE WINTER CAMPAIGN 144
X. NEUVE CHAPELLE 169
CHAPTER I
THE CRISIS OF OCTOBER
At the beginning of October there had arisen in the Western campaign a
crisis with which it needed the utmost skill and resource of the
Allied generals to grapple.
Both the nature of this crisis, and the necessity of reticence
concerning it at the time, ought to be made clear if we are to
appreciate either the momentous character of the Battle of Ypres, or
the profound effect which that glorious feat of the Allied arms has
had upon the fortunes of this War.
Into France at the beginning of the War the Germans threw their mighty
Expeditionary Force of twenty-eight army corps, disposed into eight
armies acting in co-operation. With the circumstances under which that
line of armies, in part held on the French fortified frontier, was
compelled to turn from Paris to the valley of the Marne and was there
defeated, I have dealt in "The Battle of the Rivers." For the reasons
there set out the original objective, the seizure of Paris, was seen
by the Germans when the army of General von Kluck reached Creil, to
have become impossible until the French fortified frontier was in
their hands. Their armies were directed upon the Marne with that aim.
In the manoeuvre they exposed the vulnerable point of their line,
its right flank, to the powerful onset, which General Joffre, who had
foreseen the situation, at once launched against it.
Defeated on the Marne, the Germans lost the military initiative--the
power to decide upon their movements and to compel the enemy to
conform to them. To the soldier the initiative is the practical
embodiment of military superiority. It is the first great step to
victory. In every war the struggle has been to seize and to hold it.
More than in any war has that been the motive in this. Campaigning
with armies, not only vast in point of numbers, but dependent upon a
huge, varied, and costly machinery of destruction, transport, and
supply, has made victory more than ever hang upon this power to direct
their complex organisation to the desired end.
All that the initiative implies. It can therefore be no matter of
surprise that Germany's long preparations were without exception
designed to seize the initiative at the outset, and to hold it if
possible. In that event the whole force of the German Empire would
with the least wastage and in the shortest possible time be applied to
the accomplishment of its Government's political aims. From the Great
Main Headquarters Staff down to the strategical railways, the depots,
the arsenals, and the military workshops, the German military | 3,420.851633 |
2023-11-16 19:14:04.9304860 | 874 | 19 |
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Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
MARY OF PLYMOUTH
A STORY OF THE PILGRIM SETTLEMENT
BY
JAMES OTIS
NEW YORK -:- CINCINNATI -:- CHICAGO
AMERICAN BOOK COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY
JAMES OTIS KALER
ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL, LONDON
FOREWORD
The purpose of this series of stories is to show the children, and
even those who have already taken up the study of history, the _home
life_ of the colonists with whom they meet in their books. To this end
every effort has been made to avoid anything savoring of romance, and
to deal only with facts, so far as that is possible, while describing
the daily life of those people who conquered the wilderness whether for
conscience sake or for gain.
That the stories may appeal more directly to the children, they are
told from the viewpoint of a child, and purport to have been related
by a child. Should any criticism be made regarding the seeming neglect
to mention important historical facts, the answer would be that these
books are not sent out as histories,--although it is believed that they
will awaken a desire to learn more of the building of the nation,--and
only such incidents as would be particularly noted by a child are used.
Surely it is entertaining as well as instructive for young people to
read of the toil and privations in the homes of those who came into a
new world to build up a country for themselves, and such homely facts
are not to be found in the real histories of our land.
JAMES OTIS.
CONTENTS
PAGE
Why This Story Was Written 9
The Leaking "Speedwell" 10
Searching for a Home 13
After the Storm 15
Wash Day 16
Finding the Corn 17
Attacked by the Savages 20
Building Houses 22
Miles Standish 24
The Sick People 26
The New Home 27
Master White and the Wolf 29
The Inside of the House 30
A Chimney Without Bricks 32
Building the Fire 33
Master Bradford's Chimney 34
Scarcity of Food 36
A Timely Gift 38
The First Savage Visitor 39
Squanto's Story 41
Living in the Wilderness 42
The Friendly Indians 44
Grinding the Corn 46
A Visit From Massasoit 47
Massasoit's Promise 50
Massasoit's Visit Returned 52
The Big House Burned 53
The "Mayflower" Leaves Port 54
Setting the Table 56
What and How We Eat 58
Table Rules 60
When the Pilgrim Goes Abroad 62
Making a Dugout 63
Governor Carver's Death 65
William Bradford Chosen Governor 67
Farming in Plymouth 68
Ways of Cooking Indian Corn 70
The Wedding 72
Making Maple Sugar 73
Decorating the Inside of the House 74
Trapping Wolves and Bagging Pigeons 76
Elder Brewster 77
The Visit to Massasoit 79
Keeping the Sabbath Holy 80
Making Clapboards | 3,420.950526 |
2023-11-16 19:14:05.3320320 | 7,436 | 19 |
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PATH FLOWER
_All rights reserved_
PATH FLOWER
AND
OTHER VERSES
BY
OLIVE T. DARGAN
[Device]
MCMXIV
LONDON: J. M. DENT & SONS LTD.
NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
CONTENTS
PAGE
PATH FLOWER 1
THE PIPER 6
TO A HERMIT THRUSH 8
THANKSGIVING 14
THE ROAD 16
LA DAME REVOLUTION 23
THE REBEL 24
THESE LATTER DAYS 25
ABNEGATION 26
THE LITTLE TREE 27
THE GAME 28
BALLAD 31
A DIRGE 37
HIS ARGUMENT 39
THE CONQUEROR 40
TO MOINA 41
"THERE'S ROSEMARY" 42
AT THE GRAVE OF HEINE 43
TO A LOST COMRADE 45
FOR M. L. P. 46
TO SLEEP 47
"LE PENSEUR" 48
VISION 49
SAFE 50
ON BOSWORTH FIELD 52
OLD FAIRINGDOWN 53
THE KISS 58
YOUTH 60
TO MIRIMOND 62
SOROLLA 63
IN THE BLUE RIDGE 66
YE WHO ARE TO SING 70
"AND THE LAST SHALL BE FIRST" 73
MAGDALEN TO HER POET 76
FRIENDS 85
TRYST 89
IN THE STUDIO 90
LOVERS' LEAP 91
HAVENED 94
MID-MAY 102
THE LOSS 104
CALLED 105
SONG OF TO-MORROW 108
LITTLE DAUGHTERS 110
_The author thanks the editors of "Scribner's Magazine," "The
Century," "The Atlantic Monthly," and "M'Clure's" for permission to
reprint the greater part of the verse included in this volume._
PATH FLOWER
A red-cap sang in Bishop's wood,
A lark o'er Golder's lane,
As I the April pathway trod
Bound west for Willesden.
At foot each tiny blade grew big
And taller stood to hear,
And every leaf on every twig
Was like a little ear.
As I too paused, and both ways tried
To catch the rippling rain,--
So still, a hare kept at my side
His tussock of disdain,--
Behind me close I heard a step,
A soft pit-pat surprise,
And looking round my eyes fell deep
Into sweet other eyes;
The eyes like wells, where sun lies too,
So clear and trustful brown,
Without a bubble warning you
That here's a place to drown.
"How many miles?" Her broken shoes
Had told of more than one.
She answered like a dreaming Muse,
"I came from Islington."
"So long a tramp?" Two gentle nods,
Then seemed to lift a wing,
And words fell soft as willow-buds,
"I came to find the Spring."
A timid voice, yet not afraid
In ways so sweet to roam,
As it with honey bees had played
And could no more go home.
Her home! I saw the human lair,
I heard the hucksters bawl,
I stifled with the thickened air
Of bickering mart and stall.
Without a tuppence for a ride,
Her feet had set her free.
Her rags, that decency defied,
Seemed new with liberty.
But she was frail. Who would might note
The trail of hungering
That for an hour she had forgot
In wonder of the Spring.
So shriven by her joy she glowed
It seemed a sin to chat.
(A tea-shop snuggled off the road;
Why did I think of that?)
Oh, frail, so frail! I could have wept,--
But she was passing on,
And I but muddled "You'll accept
A penny for a bun?"
Then up her little throat a spray
Of rose climbed for it must;
A wilding lost till safe it lay
Hid by her curls of rust;
And I saw modesties at fence
With pride that bore no name;
So old it was she knew not whence
It sudden woke and came;
But that which shone of all most clear
Was startled, sadder thought
That I should give her back the fear
Of life she had forgot.
And I blushed for the world we'd made,
Putting God's hand aside,
Till for the want of sun and shade
His little children died;
And blushed that I who every year
With Spring went up and down,
Must greet a soul that ached for her
With "penny for a bun!"
Struck as a thief in holy place
Whose sin upon him cries,
I watched the flowers leave her face,
The song go from her eyes.
Then she, sweet heart, she saw my rout,
And of her charity
A hand of grace put softly out
And took the coin from me.
A red-cap sang in Bishop's wood,
A lark o'er Golder's lane;
But I, alone, still glooming stood,
And April plucked in vain;
Till living words rang in my ears
And sudden music played:
_Out of such sacred thirst as hers
The world shall be remade._
Afar she turned her head and smiled
As might have smiled the Spring,
And humble as a wondering child
I watched her vanishing.
THE PIPER
I met a crone 'twixt wood and wood,
Who pointed down the piper's road
With shaken staff and fearsome glance,--
"Ware, ware the dance!"
But when the piper me did greet,
The wind, the wind was in my feet,
The rose and leaf on eager boughs
Unvestalled them of dew-writ vows,
And I as light as leaf and rose
Danced to the summer's close.
Now every tree is weary grown,
Of singing birds there is not one;
All, all the world droops into grey,--
O piper Love, must thou yet play?
The wildest note of all he blew,
And fast my worn feet flew.
Old is the year, the leaf and rose
Are long, long gone;
So chill, so chill the grey wind blows
Through heart and bone;
No grasses warm the winter ways
That wound my feet;
But with unwearied fingers yet,
Bold, undelayed on stop and fret,
Unmercifully sweet,
The piper plays....
TO A HERMIT THRUSH
Dweller among leaves, and shining twilight boughs
That fold cool arms about thine altar place,
What joyous race
Of gods dost serve with such unfaltering vows?
Weave me a time-fringed tale
Of slumbering, haunted trees,
And star-sweet fragrances
No day defiled;
Of bowering nights innumerable,
And nestling hours breath-nigh a dryad's heart
That sleeping yet was wild
With dream-beat that thou mad'st a part
Of thy dawn-fluting; ay, and keep'st it still,
Striving so late these godless woods to fill
With undefeated strain,
And in one hour build the old world again.
Wast thou found singing when Diana drew
Her skirts from the first night?
Didst feel the sun-breath when the valleys grew
Warm with the love of light,
Till blades of flower-lit green gave to the wind
The mystery that made sweet
The earth forever,--strange and undefined
As life, as God, as this thy song complete
That holds with me twin memories
Of time ere men,
And ere our ways
Lay sundered with the abyss of air between?
_List, I will lay
The world, my song,
Deep in the heart of day,
Day that is long
As the ages dream or the stars delay!
Keep thou from me,
Sigh-throated man,
Forever to be
Under the songless wanderer's ban.
I am of time
That counteth no dawn;
Thy aeons yet climb
To skies I have won,
Seeking for aye an unrisen sun!_
Soft as a shadow slips
Before the moon, I creep beneath the trees,
Even to the boughs whose lowest circling tips
Whisper with the anemones
Thick-strewn as though a cloud had made
Its drifting way through spray and leafy braid
And sunk with unremembering ease
To humbler heaven upon the mossy heaps.
And here a warmer flow
Urges thy melody, yet keeps
The cool of bowers; as might a rose blush through
Its unrelinquished dew;
Or bounteous heart that knows not woe,
Put on the robe of sighs, and fain
Would hold in love's surmise a neighbour's pain.
Ah, I have wronged thee, sprite!
So tender now thy song in flight,
So sweet its lingerings are,
It seems the liquid memory
Of time when thou didst try
Thy gleaning wing through human years,
And met, ay, knew the sigh
Of men who pray, the tears
That hide the woman's star,
The brave ascending fire
That is youth's beacon and too soon his pyre,--
Yea, all our striving, bateless and unseeing,
That builds each day our Heaven new.
More deep in time's unnearing blue,
Farther and ever fleeing
The dream that ever must pursue.
_Heart-need is sorest
When the song dies:
Come to the forest,
Brother of the sighs.
Heart-need is song-need,
Brother, give me thine!
Song-meed is heart-meed,
Brother, take mine!
I go the still way,
Cover me with night;
Thou goest the will way
Into the light.
Dust and the burden
Thou shall outrun;
Bear then my guerdon,
Song, to the sun!_
O little pagan with the heart of Christ,
I go bewildered from thine altar place,
These brooding boughs and grey-lit forest wings,
Nor know if thou deniest
My destiny and race,
Man's goalward falterings,
To sing the perfect joy that lay
Along the path we missed somewhere,
That led thee to thy home in air,
While we, soil-creepers, bruise our way
Toward heights and sunrise bounds
That wings may know nor feet may win
For all their scars, for all their wounds;
Or have I heard within thy strain
Not sorrow's self, but sorrowing
That thou did'st seek the way more free,
Nor took with us the trail of pain
That endeth not, e'er widening
To life that knows what Life may be;
And ere thou fall'st to silence long
Would golden parting fling:
_Go, man, through death unto thy star;
I journey not so far;
My wings must fail e'en with my song._
THANKSGIVING
Supremest Life and Lord of All,
I bring my thanks to thee;
Not for the health that does not fail,
And wings me over land and sea;
Not for this body's pearl and rose,
And radiance made sure
By thine enduring life that flows
In sky-print swift and pure;
Not for the thought whose glowing power
Glides far, eternal, free,
And surging back in thy full hour
Bears the wide world to me;
Not for the friends whose presence is
The warm, sweet heart of things
Where leans the body for the kiss
That gives the soul its wings;
Not for the little hands that cling,
The little feet that run,
And make the earth a fitter thing
For thee to look upon;
Not for mine ease within my door,
My roof when rains beat strong,
My bed, my fire, my food in store,
My book when nights are long;
But, Lord, I know where on lone sands
A leper rots and cries;
Find thou my offering in his hands,
My worship in his eyes.
As thou dost give to him, thy least,
Thou givest unto me;
As he is fed I make my feast,
And lift my thanks to thee.
THE ROAD
On Gilead road the shadows creep;
('Tis noon, and I forget;)
By Gilead road the ferns are deep,
And waves run emerald, wind-beset,
To some unsanded shore
Of doe and dove and fay;
And I for love of that before,
Forget the hindward way.
By Gilead road a river runs,
(To what unshadowed sea?)
Bough-hidden here,--there by the sun's
Gold treachery unbared to me.
O Beauty in retreat,
From beckoned eyes you steal,
But the pursuing heart, more fleet,
Lifts your secretest veil.
A thrush! What unbuilt temples rear
Their domes where thrushes sing!
My heart glides in, a worshipper
At shrines that ne'er knew offering,
Nor eye hath seen, and yet
What soul hath not been there,
Deep in song's fane where we forget
To pray, for we are prayer.
And now the shadows start and glide;
I hear soft, woodland feet;
And who are they that deeper bide
Where beechen twilights meet?
What tranced beings smile
On things I may not see?
As with a dream they would beguile
Their own eternity?
I too shall find my own as they;
('Tis eve, and I forget;)
Here in this world where mortals play
As gods with no god's leave or let.
My hope in high purlieus
Desire erst lockt and kept,
On wing unbarred shall seek and choose,--
Ay, choose, when I have slept.
For happy roads may yet be long,
And bliss must sometime bed.
Fern-deep I fall, lose sight and song,
The slim palms close above my head,
And Life, the Shadow, weaves
The charm on sleepers laid
Till Time's spent ghost comes not nor grieves
An hourless Gilead.
Ay me, I dream my eyes are wet;
I sigh, I turn, I weep.
Alack, that waking we forget
But to remember when we sleep!
O vision of closed eyes,
That burns the heart awake!
O the forgotten truth's reprise
For the forsaken's sake!
Far land, blood-red, I feel again
Thy hot, unsilenced breath;
Meet thy unburied eyes of pain
That, dying ever, find no death;
See childhood's one gold hour
Bartered for crust and bed,
And man's o'erdriven noon devour
His evening peace and bread.
I hear men sob,--ay, men,--and shout
To souls on Gilead road:
"Tell us the way--we sent ye out--
We bought ye free--we paid our blood!"
Gaunt arms make signal mad;
O, feel the woe-waves break!
Does no one hear in Gilead?
Will one, not one turn back?
Rolls higher from the land blood-red
That sea-surge of despair!
A flame creeps over Gilead,
Unseen, unfelt by any there.
They look not back, the while
Doom shadows round them dance,
And smile meets slow, unstartled smile
As in it sleep's mid-chance.
"We give our days, we give our blood,
We send ye far to see!
We break beneath the double load
That ye may walk unbowed and free!
'Tis ours, the healing shade;
'Tis ours, the singing stream;
'Tis ours, the charm on sleepers laid;
'Tis ours, the toil-won dream!"
Dim grown is Gilead, ashen, lost
To me who hear that cry.
"Our every star is hid with dust;
The way, the way! Let us not die!"
Up from the trampled ferns,
(O Beauty's praying hands!)
I stricken start, as one who turns
From plague's unholy lands.
Pale is the dream we dream alone,
An unresolving fire,
Till beacon hearts make it their own
And men are lit with man's desire.
I mourn no Gilead fair,
Back to my own I speed,
And all my tears are falling where
They sell the sun for bread.
Mine too the blow, the unwept scar;
Mine too the flames that sere;
And on my breast not one proud star
That leaves a brother's heaven bare.
Life is the search of God
For His own unity;
I walk stone-bare till all are shod,
No gold may sandal me.
I come, O comrades, faster yet!
For me no bough-hung shade
Till every burning foot be set
In ferns of Gilead.
The old, old pain of kind,
Once mine, is mine once more;
And I forget the way behind,
So dear is that before.
LA DAME REVOLUTION
Red was the Might that sired thee,
White was the Hope that bore thee,
Heaven and Earth desired thee,
And Hell from thy lovers tore thee;
But barren to the ravisher,
Thou bearest Love thy child,
Immortal daughter, Peace; for her
Waits Man, the Undefiled.
THE REBEL
A riot-maker! Can the fruit
Of frenzy be a gracious thing?
His soul has hands; above the bruit
They lift a song-bird quivering.
World-wrecker! Shall he trampling go
Till Beauty's drenched and lonely eyes
Mourn a deserted earth? But no!
Men go not down till men arise.
The game is Life's. She plays to win;
And whirls to dust her overlings;
Her abluent winds shall spare no sin,
Though hidden in the breast of kings;
And Earth is smiling as she takes
To her old lap their fallen bones,
For down the throbbing ways there wakes
The laughter of her greater sons.
THESE LATTER DAYS
Take down thy stars, O God! We look not up.
In vain thou hangest there thy changeless sign.
We lift our eyes to power's glowing cup,
Nor care if blood make strong that wizard wine,
So we but drink and feel the sorcery
Of conquest in our veins, of wits grown keen
In strain and strife for flesh-sweet sovereignty,--
The fatal thrill of kingship over men.
What though the soul be from the body shrunk,
And we array the temple, but no god?
What though, the cup of golden greed once drunk,
Our dust be laid in a dishonoured sod,
While thy loud hosts proclaim the end of wars?
We read no sign. O God, take down thy stars!
ABNEGATION
Christ, dear Christ, were the wood-ways sweet
By the long, white highway bare,
Where the hot road dust made grey Thy feet?
Ay,--but the woman's hair!
Brother, my Christ, when thou camest down
The cup of water to give,
Did a poet die on the mount's cool crown?
Ay,--and for that dost thou live!
THE LITTLE TREE
It pushed a guided way between
The pebbles of her grave;
A poplar hastening to be green
And silver signals wave.
And we who sought her with the moon,
Were met by branches stirred,
And whiter grew as grew the croon
That seemed her hidden word.
"O, she would speak!" my heart-beat said;
My eyes were on the mound;
And lowlier hung my waiting head
Above the prisoning ground.
Then smiled the lad and whispered me,--
The lad who most did love;
"She stoops to us; the little tree
Is wakened from above!"
THE GAME
'Tis played with eyes; one uttered word
Would cast the game away.
As silent as a sailing bird,
The shift and change of play.
So many eyes to me are dear,
So many do me bless;
The hazel, deep as deep wood-mere
Where leaves are flutterless;
The brown that most bewildereth
With dusking, golden play
Of shadows like betraying breath
From some shy, hidden day;
The black whose torch is ever trimmed,
Let stars be soon or late;
The blue, a morning never dimmed,
Opposing Heaven to fate;
The grey as soft as farthest skies
That hold horizon rain;
Or when, steel-darkling, stoic-wise,
They bring the gods again;
And wavelit eyes of nameless glow,
Fed from far-risen streams;
But oh, the eyes, the eyes that know
The silent game of dreams!
Three times I've played. Once 'twas a child,
Lap-held, not half a year
From Heaven, looked at me and smiled,
And far I went with her.
Out past the twilight gates of birth,
And past Time's blindfold day,
Beyond the star-ring of the earth,
We found us room to play.
And once a woman, spent and old
With unavailing tears,
Who from her hair's down-tangled fold
Shook out the grey-blown years,
Sat by the trampled way alone,
And lifted eyes--what themes!
I could not pass, I sat me down
To play the game of dreams.
And once... a poet's eyes they were,
Though earth heard not his strain;
And since he went no eyes can stir
My own to play again.
BALLAD
When I with Death have gone on quest,
And grief is mellowed in your breast;
When you do nothing fret
If jest come gently in with tea,
And Purr is stroked for want of me;
When thought robust bestirs your mind,
And with a candid start you find
The world must move
To living love
And you forthright on travel set;
I do not ask you strive to keep
Awake the woe that winks for sleep,
Or swell the lessening tear;
I do not ask; dear to me still
May be the eyes regret would fill;
And, sooth, in vain I'd Nature sue
To go a little out for you;
But whether 'tis
Or that or this
Is from the matter there and here.
Forget the kisses dying not
Till each a thousand more begot;
Such easy progeny
You with small trouble still may have;
(Though women die, love has no grave;)
Forget the quaint, the nest-born ways,
And ponder things more to my praise,
That I may long
Be worth a song
Though deep in tongueless clay I be.
Admit my eye, than yours less keen,
Still knew a bead of Hippocrene
From baser bubbles bright;
My ear could catch, or short or long,
The echo of true-hammered song;
And many a book we journeyed through;
Some turned us home again, 'tis true,
(Not all who pen
Are more than men,)
And some, like stars, outwore the night.
Say I could break a lance with Fate,
Took half, at least, my troubles straight,
(Let women have their boast;)
Homed well with chance, and passing where
The gods kept house would take a chair,
Perchance at ease, with naught ado,
With Jove would toss a quip or two;
The nectar stale,
A mug of ale
On goodly earth would serve a toast.
And if I left thee by a stile
Where thou didst choose to dream, the while
I sought a farther mead,
Or clomb a ridge for flowers that wore
Of earth the less, of stars the more,
I hastened back, confess of me,
To lay my treasure on thy knee;
Nor didst thou hear
Of stone or brere,
Or how my hidden feet did bleed.
And in the piping season when
The whole round world takes heart again
To rise and dance with Spring;
When robin drives the snow-wind home,
And sweetened is the warmed loam,
When deeper root the violets,
And every bud its fear forgets
With upward glance
For lovers' chance
In Venus' dear and fateful ring;
Let not a thought of my cold bed
Bechill thy warm heart beating red,
And thy new ardours dim;
But if, good hap, you rove where I
Beneath the twinkling moss then lie,
Be glad to see me decked so gay,
(Spring's the best handmaid without pay,)
I like things new,
In season too,
And fain must smile to be so trim.
Then hie thee to some bonny brake
Another mate to woo and take,
And as thy soul to love.
Rise with the dew, stay not the noon,
What's good cannot be found too soon,
The wind will not be always south,
Nor like a rose is every mouth,
Time's quick to press,
Do thou no less,
And may the night thy wisdom prove.
And as all love doth live again
In great or small that loved hath been,
Keep this sole troth with me,--
Forget my name, my form, my face,
But meet me still in every place,
Since we are what we love, and I
Loved everything beneath the sky.
So may I long
Be worth a song,
Though I who sang forgotten be.
A DIRGE
Mortal child, lay thee where
Earth is gift and giver;
Midnight owl, witch, or bear
Shall disturb thee never!
Softly, softly take thy place,
Turn from man thy waning face;
Fear not thou must lie alone,
Sleep-mates thou shalt have anon.
(Clock of Time none commands,
Driveth not the winter floods,
Where the silent, tireless sands
Run the ages of the gods.)
Thine is not a jealous bed;
Pillow here hath every head;
All that are and all to be
Shall ask a little room of thee.
(Feet of flame, haste nor creep
Where the stars are of thy pace;
Heart of fire, in shadows sleep,
With the sun in thy embrace.)
Babe of Time, old in care,
Sweet is Earth, the giver;
Owlet, witch, or midnight bear
Shall disturb thee never.
HIS ARGUMENT
One time I wooed a maid (dear is she yet!)
All in the revel eye of young Love's moon.
Content she made me,--ah, my dimpling mate,
My Springtime girl, who walked with flower-shoon!
But near me, nearer, steals a deep-eyed maid
With creeping glance that sees and will not see,
And blush that would those yea-sweet eyes upbraid,--
O, might I woo her nor inconstant be!
But is not Autumn dreamtime of the Spring?
(Yon scarlet fruit-bell is a flower asleep;)
And I am not forsworn if yet I keep
Dream-faith with Spring in Autumn's deeper kiss.
Then so, brown maiden, take this true-love ring,
And lay thy long, soft locks where my heart is.
THE CONQUEROR
O Spring, that flutter'st the slow Winter by,
To drop thy buds before his frosty feet,
Dost thou not grieve to see thy darlings lie
In trodden death, and weep their beauty sweet?
Yet must thou cast thy tender offering,
And make thy way above thy mourned dead,
Or frowning Winter would be always king,
And thou wouldst never walk with crowned head.
So gentle Love must make his venturous way
Among the shaken buds of his own pain;
And many a hope-blown garland meekly lay
Before the chilly season of disdain;
But as no beauty may the Spring outglow,
So he, when throned, no greater lord doth know.
TO MOINA
There were no heaven but for lovers' eyes;
Save in their depths do all Elysiums fade;
And gods were dead but for the life that lies
In kisses sweet on sweeter altars laid.
There were no heroes did not lovers ride,
And pyramid high deeds upon new time;
Nor tale for feast, or field, or chimney-side,
And harps were dumb and song had ne'er a rhyme.
Then live, proud heart, in happy fealty,
Nor sigh thee more thy dear bonds to remove;
Thou art not thrall to liege of mean degree,
For all are kings who bear the lance of love;
No wight so poor but may his tatters lose,
And find his purple if his lady choose.
"THERE'S ROSEMARY"
O love that is not love, but dear, so dear!
That is not love because it goes so soon,
Like flower born and dead within one moon,
And yet is love for that it comes full near
The guarded fane where love alone may peer,
Ere like young Spring by Summer soon outshone,
It trembles into death, but comes anon,
As thoughts of Spring will come though Summer's here.
O star full sweet, though one arose more fair,
Within my heart I'll keep a heaven for thee
Where thou mayst freely come and freely go,
Touching with thy pale gold the twilight air
Where dream-closed buds could never flower show,
Yet fragrant keep the shadowy way for me.
AT THE GRAVE OF HEINE
South-heart of song
In winter drest,
Death mends thy wrong;
That is life's best.
Bird, who didst sing
From a bare bough,
Call, and what Spring
Will answer now!
And haste with her
Bud-legacy,--
O, not to share,
To take of thee!
Thy night, slow, dark,
Yet song-lit shone,
Till who did hark
Missed not the moon;
When Morning found
Thy cold, pierced breast,
'Twas she who moaned,
To thy thorn pressed.
_Here lies the thorn-wound of the dawn
Through whose high morn the bird sings on._
TO A LOST COMRADE
We found the spring at eager noon,
And from one cup we drank;
Then on until the forest croon
In twilight tangle sank;
The night was ours, the stars, the dawn;
The manna crust, bird-shared;
And never failed our magic shoon,
Whatever way we fared.
If caged at last, ceased not the flow
Of sky-gleam through the bars;
And where were wounds I only know
Tear-kisses hid the scars.
And when, as round the world death-free
We wind-embodied roam,
I hear the gale that once was thee
Cry "Hollo!" I will come.
FOR M. L. P.
Rose Love lay dreaming where I passed,
Like flower blown from careless stem;
So still I dared to touch at last
Her white robe's hem.
Rose Love looked up and caught my hand,
Though in her eyes the sea-birds were;
When o'er my brow there blew a strand
Of cold, grey hair.
Rose Love stood up unriddling this,
Till shadows in my eyes grew old;
Then warmed the lock with sudden kiss;
Now flames it gold.
TO SLEEP
O silent lover of a world day-worn,
Taking the weary light to thy dusk arms,
Stealing where pale forms | 3,421.352072 |
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THE WORLD BEFORE | 3,421.352255 |
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Important Historical Books for the Young
_Makers of England Series_
By EVA MARCH TAPPAN, Ph.D.
_In the Days of Alfred the Great_
Cloth. Illustrated. _Net_ $1.00
_In the Days of William the Conqueror_
Cloth. Illustrated. _Net_ $1.00
_In the Days of Queen Elizabeth_
Cloth. Illustrated. _Net_ $1.00
_In the Days of Queen Victoria_
Cloth. Illustrated. _Net_ $1.00
By CALVIN DILL WILSON
_The Story of the Cid Young People_
Cloth. Illustrated by J. W. Kennedy. $1.25
Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Co., Boston
[Illustration: Her Majesty the Queen in her state robes.
(_From painting by Alfred F. Chalon, R.A., 1838._)]
Makers of England Series
IN THE DAYS
OF
QUEEN VICTORIA
By
EVA MARCH TAPPAN, Ph.D.
AUTHOR OF "IN THE DAYS OF ALFRED THE GREAT," "IN THE DAYS OF
WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR," "IN THE DAYS OF QUEEN ELIZABETH," ETC.
_ILLUSTRATED FROM FAMOUS PAINTINGS AND ENGRAVINGS AND FROM
PHOTOGRAPHS_
BOSTON:
LOTHROP, LEE & SHEPARD CO.
Published, August, 1903
COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY LEE AND SHEPARD
_All rights reserved_
IN THE DAYS OF QUEEN VICTORIA
PREFACE
To her own people Queen Victoria was England itself, the emblem of the
realm and of the empire. To millions who were not her people the words
"the Queen" do not bring even yet the thought of the well-beloved woman
who now shares the English throne, but rather of her who for nearly
sixty-four years wore the crown of Great Britain and gave freely to her
country of the gift that was in her.
Other women have been controlled by devotion to duty, other women
have been moved to action by readiness of sympathy, but few have
united so harmoniously a strong determination to do the right with
a never-failing gentleness, a childlike sympathy with unyielding
strength of purpose.
Happy is the realm that can count on the list of its sovereigns one
whose career was so strongly marked by unfaltering faithfulness, by
honesty of aim, and by statesmanlike wisdom of action.
EVA MARCH TAPPAN.
WORCESTER, MASS.
_February, 1903._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. BABY DRINA, 1
II. THE SCHOOLDAYS OF A PRINCESS, 21
III. EXAMINATION DAY, 43
IV. A QUEEN AT EIGHTEEN, 68
V. THE CORONATION, 89
VI. THE COMING OF THE PRINCE, 114
VII. HOUSEKEEPING IN A PALACE, 138
VIII. A HOME OF OUR OWN, 163
IX. NIS! NIS! NIS! HURRAH! 186
X. THE ROYAL YOUNG PEOPLE, 212
XI. THE QUEEN IN SORROW, 235
XII. THE LITTLE FOLK, 259
XIII. MOTHER AND EMPRESS, 278
XIV. THE JUBILEE SEASON, 299
XV. THE QUEEN AND THE CHILDREN, 319
XVI. THE CLOSING YEARS, 338
ILLUSTRATIONS
Her Majesty the Queen in her state robes. (_From painting
by Alfred E. Chalon, R.A., 1838_) _Frontispiece_
_Facing page_
Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Kent and Princess Victoria
(_From painting by Sir W. Beechey, R.A._) 16
The Princess Victoria at the age of eleven 46
The coronation of Queen Victoria. (_From painting by Sir
George Hayter_) 110
Albert, Prince Consort, in the uniform of a field marshal 136
The Queen in 1845. (_From a painting by John Partridge_) 158
Queen Victoria; Prince Albert; Victoria, Princess Royal;
Albert Edward, Prince of Wales; Prince Alfred; Princess
Alice; Princess Helena. (_From a painting by F. Winterhalter,
1848_) 188
Westminster Abbey 216
Balmoral Castle 244
Houses of Parliament 274
Windsor Castle 302
Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. (_From a photograph by
A.Bassano_) 338
In the Days of Queen Victoria
CHAPTER I
BABY DRINA
"Elizabeth would be a good name for her," said the Duke of Kent.
"Elizabeth was the greatest woman who ever sat on the throne of
England. The English people are used to the name, and they like it."
"But would the Emperor Alexander be pleased?" asked the Duchess. "If he
is to be godfather, ought she not to be named for him?"
"Alexandra--no; Alexandrina," said the Duke thoughtfully. "Perhaps you
are right. 'Queen Alexandrina' has a good sound, and the day may come
when the sovereign of England will be as glad of the friendship of the
Emperor of Russia as the Regent is to-day."
"Are you so sure, Edward, that she will be a sovereign?" asked his wife
with a smile.
"Doesn't she look like a queen?" demanded the Duke. "Look at her golden
hair and her blue eyes! There, see how she put her hand out, just as if
she was giving a command! I don't believe any baby a week old ever did
that before. The next time I review the troops she shall go with me.
You're a soldier's daughter, little one. Come and see the world that
you are to conquer." He lifted the tiny baby, much to the displeasure
of the nurse, and carried her across the room to the window that looked
out upon Kensington Garden. "Now, little one," he whispered into the
baby's ear, "they don't believe us and we won't talk about it, but
you'll be queen some day."
"Is that the way every father behaves with his first baby?" asked the
Duchess.
"They're much alike, your Grace," replied the nurse rather grimly, as
she followed the Duke to the window with a blanket on her arm. The Duke
was accustomed to commanding thousands of men, and every one of them
trembled if his weapons and uniform were not spotless, or if he had
been guilty of the least neglect of duty. In more than one battle the
Duke had stood so firmly that he had received the thanks of Parliament
for his bravery and fearlessness. He would never have surrendered a
city to a besieging army, but now he had met his match, and he laid the
baby in the nurse's arms with the utmost meekness.
The question of a name for the child was not yet decided, for the
wishes of someone else had to be considered, and that was the Prince
Regent, the Duke's older brother, George. He thought it proper that his
niece should be named Georgiana in honor of himself.
"Georgiana let it be," said the Duke of Kent, "her first name shall be
Alexandrina."
"Then Georgiana it shall _not_ be," declared the Prince Regent. "No
niece of mine shall put my name second to any king or emperor here in
my | 3,423.557746 |
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TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIRELESS MESSAGE
OR
THE CASTAWAYS OF EARTHQUAKE ISLAND
BY VICTOR APPLETON
AUTHOR OF "TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR-CYCLE," "TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR
BOAT," "TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIRSHIP," "TOM SWIFT AND HIS SUBMARINE
BOAT," "TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RUNABOUT," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
BOOKS BY VICTOR APPLETON
THE TOM SWIFT SERIES
TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR-CYCLE
Or Fun and Adventures on the Road
TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR-BOAT
Or the Rivals of Lake Carlopa
TOM SWIFT AND HIS AIRSHIP
Or the Stirring Cruise of the Red Cloud
TOM SWIFT AND HIS SUBMARINE BOAT
Or Under the Ocean for Sunken Treasure
TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RUNABOUT
Or the Speediest Car on the Road
TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIRELESS MESSAGE
Or the Castaways of Earthquake Island
TOM SWIFT AMONG THE DIAMOND MAKERS
Or the Secret of Phantom Mountain
TOM SWIFT IN THE CAVES OF ICE
Or the Wreck of the Airship
TOM SWIFT AND HIS SKY RACER
Or the Quickest Flight on Record
TOM SWIFT AND HIS ELECTRIC RIFLE
Or Daring Adventures in Elephant Land
(Other Volumes in Preparation)
TOM SWIFT AND HIS WIRELESS MESSAGE
CONTENTS
I. AN APPEAL FOR AID
II. MISS NESTOR'S NEWS
III. TOM KNOCKS OUT ANDY
IV. MR. DAMON WILL GO ALONG
V. VOL-PLANING TO EARTH
VI. THE NEW AIRSHIP
VII. MAKING SOME CHANGES
VIII. ANDY FOGER'S REVENGE
IX. THE WHIZZER FLIES
X. OVER THE OCEAN
XI. A NIGHT OF TERROR
XII. A DOWNWARD GLIDE
XIII. ON EARTHQUAKE ISLAND
XIV. A NIGHT IN CAMP
XV. THE OTHER CASTAWAY
XVI. AN ALARMING THEORY
XVII. A MIGHTY SHOCK
XVIII. MR. JENKS HAS DIAMONDS
XIX. SECRET OPERATIONS
XX. THE WIRELESS PLANT
XXI. MESSAGES INTO SPACE
XXII. ANXIOUS DAYS
XXIII. A REPLY IN THE DARK
XXIV. "WE ARE LOST!"
XXV. THE RESCUE-CONCLUSION
CHAPTER I
AN APPEAL FOR AID
Tom Swift stepped from the door of the machine shop, where he was at
work making some adjustments to the motor of his airship, and
glanced down the road. He saw a cloud of dust, which effectually
concealed whatever was causing it.
"Some one must be in a hurry this morning," the lad remarked, "Looks
like a motor speeding along. MY! but we certainly do need rain," he
added, as he looked up toward the sky. "It's very dusty. Well, I may
as well get back to work. I'll take the airship out for a flight
this afternoon, if the wind dies down a bit."
The young inventor, for Tom Swift himself had built the airship, as
well as several other crafts for swift locomotion, turned to
re-enter the shop.
Something about the approaching cloud of dust, however, held his
attention. He glanced more intently at it.
"If it's an automobile coming along," he murmured, "it's moving very
slowly, to make so much fuss. And I never saw a motor-cycle that
would kick up as much sand, and not speed along more. It ought to be
here by now. I wonder what it can be?"
The cloud of highway dirt rolled along, making some progress toward
Tom's house and the group of shops and other buildings surrounding
it. But, as the lad had said, the dust did not move at all quickly
in comparison to any of the speedy machines that might be causing
it. And the cloud seemed momentarily to grow thicker and thicker.
"I wonder if it could be a miniature tornado, or a cyclone or
whirlwind?" and Tom spoke aloud, a habit of his when he was
thinking, and had no one to talk to. "Yet it can hardly be that." he
went on. "Guess I'll watch and see what it is."
Nearer and nearer came the dust cloud. Tom peered anxiously ahead, a
puzzled look on his face. A few seconds later there came from the
midst of the obscuring cloud a voice, exclaiming:
"G'lang there now, Boomerang! Keep to' feet a-movin' an' we sho'
will make a record. 'Tain't laik we was a autermobiler, er a
electricity car, but we sho' hab been goin' sence we started. Yo'
sho' done yo'se'f proud t'day, Boomerang, an' I'se gwine t' keep mah
promise an' gib yo' de bestest oats I kin find. Ah reckon Massa Tom
Swift will done say we brought dis yeah message t' him as quick as
anybody could."
Then there followed the sound of hoofbeats on the dusty road, and
the rattle of some many-jointed vehicle, with loose springs and
looser wheels.
"Eradicate Sampson!" exclaimed Tom. "But who would ever think that
the <DW52> man's mule could get up such speed as that cloud of dust
indicates. His mule's feet must be working overtime, but he goes
backward about as often as he moves forward. That accounts for it.
There's lots of dust, but not much motion."
Once more, from the midst of the ball-like cloud of dirt came the
voice of the <DW52> man:
"Now behave yo'se'f, Boomerang. We'm almost dere an' den yo' kin sit
down an' rest if yo' laik. Jest keep it up a little longer, an'
we'll gib Massa Tom his telephone. G'lang now, Boomerang."
The tattoo of hoofbeats was slowing up now, and the cloud of dust
was not so heavy. It was gradually blowing away. Tom Swift walked
down to the fence that separated the house, grounds and shops from
the road. As he got there the sounds of the mule's progress, and the
rattle of the wagon, suddenly ceased.
"G'lang! G'lang! Don't yo' dare t' stop now, when we am most dere!"
cried Eradicate Sampson. "Keep a-movin', Boomerang!"
"It's all right, Eradicate. I'm here," called Tom, and when the last
of the dust had blown away, the lad waved his hand to an aged
<DW52> man, who sat upon the seat of perhaps the most dilapidated
wagon that was ever dignified by such a name. It was held together
with bits of wire, rope and strings, and each of the four wheels
leaned out at a different angle. It was drawn by a big mule, whose
bones seemed protruding through his skin, but that fact evidently
worried him but little, for now the animal was placidly sleeping,
while standing up, his long ears moving slowly to and fro.
"Am dat yo', Massa Tom?" asked Eradicate, ceasing his task of
jerking on the lines, to which operation the mule paid not the least
attention.
"Yes, I'm here, Rad," replied Tom, smiling. "I came out of my shop
to see what all the excitement was about. How did you ever get your
mule to make so much dust?"
"I done promise him an extra helpin' ob oats ef he make good time,"
said the <DW52> man. "An' he done it, too. Did yo' see de dust we
made?"
"I sure did, but you didn't do much else. And you didn't make very
good time. I watched you, and you came along like an ice wagon after
a day's work on the Fourth of July. You were going fast, but moving
slow."
"I'spects we was, Massa Tom," was the <DW52> man's answer. "But
Boomerang done better dan I'spected he would. I done tole him yo'd
be in a hurry t' git yo' telephone, an' he sho' did trot along."
"My telephone?" repeated Tom, wonderingly. "What have you and your
mule Boomerang to do with my telephone? That's up in the house."
"No, it ain't! it's right yeah in mah pocket," chuckled Eradicate,
opening a ragged coat, and reaching for something. "I got yo'
telephone right yeah." he went on. "De agent at de station see me
dribin' ober dis way, an' he done ast he t' deliber it. He said as
how he ain't got no messenger boy now, 'cause de one he done hab
went on a strike fo' five cents mo' a day. So I done took de
telephone," and with that the <DW52> man pulled out a crumpled
yellow envelope.
"Oh, you mean a telegram," said Tom, with a laugh, as he took the
message from the odd <DW52> man.
"Well, maybe it's telegraf, but I done understood de agent t' say
telephone. Anyhow, dere it is. An' I s'pects we'd better git along,
Boomerang."
The mule never moved, though Eradicate yanked on the reins, and used
a splintered whip with energy.
"I said as how we'd better git along, Boomerang," went on the
darkey, raising his voice, "Dinnah am mos' ready, an' I'm goin' t'
giv yo' an extra helpin' ob oats."
The effect of these words seemed magical. The mule suddenly came to
life, and was about to start off.
"I done thought dat would cotch yo', Boomerang," chuckled Eradicate.
"Wait a minute, Rad," called Tom, who was tearing open the envelope
of the telegram. "I might want to send an answer back by you. I
wonder who is wiring me now?"
He read the message slowly, and Eradicate remarked:
"'Taint no kind ob use, Massa Tom, fo' t' send a message back wif
me."
"Why not?" asked the young inventor, looking up from the sheet of
yellow paper.
"'Case as how I done promised Boomerang his airman, an' he won't do
nothin' till he has it. Ef I started him back t' town now he would
jest lay down in de road. I'll take de answer back fo' you dis
arternoon."
"All right, perhaps that will do," assented Tom. "I haven't quite
got the hang of this yet. Drop around this afternoon, Rad," and as
the <DW52> man, who, with his mule Boomerang, did odd jobs around
the village, started off down the highway, in another cloud of dust,
Tom Swift resumed the reading of the message.
"Hum, this is rather queer," he mused, when having read it once, he
began at it again. "It must have cost him something to send all this
over the wire. He could just as well have written it. So he wants my
help, eh? Well, I never heard of him, and he may be all right, but I
had other plans, and I don't know whether I can spare the time to go
to Philadelphia or not. I'll have to think it over. An electric
airship, eh? He's sort of following along the lines of my
inventions. Wants my aid--hum--well, I don't know--"
Tom's musings were suddenly cut short by the approach of an elderly
gentleman, who was walking slowly down the path that led from the
house to the country highway which ran in front of it.
"A telegram, Tom?" asked the newcomer.
"Yes, dad," was the reply. "I was just coming in to ask your advice
about it. Eradicate brought it to me."
"What, with his mule, Boomerang?" and the gentleman seemed much
amused. "How did he ever get up speed enough to deliver a telegram?"
"Oh, Eradicate has some special means he uses on his mule when he's
in a hurry. But listen to this message, dad. It's from a Mr. Hosmer
Fenwick, of Philadelphia. He says:"
"'Tom Swift--Can you come on to Philadelphia at once and aid me in
perfecting my new electric airship? I want to get it ready for a
flight before some government experts who have promised to purchase
several if it works well. I am in trouble, and I can't get it to
rise off the ground. I need help. I have heard about your airship,
and the other inventions you and your father have perfected, and I
am sure you can aid me. I am stuck. Can you hurry to the Quaker
City? I will pay you well. Answer at once!'"
"Well?" remarked Mr. Swift, questioningly, as his son finished
reading the telegram. "What are you going to do about it, Tom?"
"I don't exactly know, dad. I was going to ask your advice. What
would you do? Who is this Mr. Fenwick?"
"Well, he is an inventor of some note, but he has had many failures.
I have not heard of him in some years until now. He is a gentleman
of wealth, and can be relied upon to do just as he says. We are
slightly acquainted. Perhaps it would be well to aid him, if you can
spare the time. Not that you need the money, but inventors should be
mutually helpful. If you feel like going to Philadelphia, and aiding
him in getting his electric airship in shape, you have my
permission."
"I don't know," answered Tom, doubtfully. "I was just getting my
monoplane in shape for a little flight. It was nothing particular,
though. Dad, I think I WILL take a run to Philadelphia, and see if I
can help Mr. Fenwick. I'll wire him that I am coming, to-morrow or
next day."
"Very well," assented Mr. Swift, and then he and his son went into
one of the shops, talking of a new invention which they were about
to patent.
Tom little knew what a strange series of adventures were to follow
his decision to go to the Quaker City, nor the danger involved in
aiding Mr. Fenwick to operate his electric airship.
CHAPTER II
MISS NESTOR'S NEWS
"When do you think you will go to Philadelphia, Tom?" asked Mr.
Swift, a little later, as the aged inventor and his son were looking
over some blueprints which Garret Jackson, an engineer employed by
them, had spread out on a table.
"I don't exactly know," was the answer. "It's quite a little run
from Shopton, because I can't get a through train. But I think I'll
start tomorrow."
"Why do you go by train?" asked Mr. Jackson.
"Why--er--because--" was Tom's rather hesitating reply. "How else
would I go?"
"Your monoplane would be a good deal quicker, and you wouldn't have
to change cars," said the engineer. "That is if you don't want to
take out the big airship. Why don't you go in the monoplane?"
"By Jove! I believe I will!" exclaimed Tom. "I never thought of
that, though it's a wonder I didn't. I'll not take the RED CLOUD, as
she's too hard to handle alone. But the BUTTERFLY will be just the
thing," and Tom looked over to where a new monoplane rested on the
three bicycle wheels which formed part of its landing frame. "I
haven't had it out since I mended the left wing tip," he went on,
"and it will also be a good chance to test my new rudder. I believe
I WILL go to Philadelphia by the BUTTERFLY."
"Well, as long as that's settled, suppose you give us your views on
this new form of storage battery," suggested Mr. Swift, with a fond
glance at his son, for Tom's opinion was considered valuable in
matters electrical, as those of you, who have read the previous
books in this series, well know.
The little group in the machine shop was soon deep in the discussion
of ohms, amperes, volts and currents, and, for a time, Tom almost
forgot the message calling him to Philadelphia.
Taking advantage of the momentary lull in the activities of the
young inventor, I will tell my readers something about him, so that
those who have no previous introduction to him may feel that he is a
friend.
Tom Swift lived with his father, Barton Swift, a widower, in the
village of Shopton, New York. There was also in the household Mrs.
Baggert, the aged housekeeper, who looked after Tom almost like a
mother. Garret Jackson, an engineer and general helper, also lived
with the Swifts.
Eradicate Sampson might also be called a retainer of the family, for
though the aged <DW52> man and his mule Boomerang did odd work
about the village, they were more often employed by Tom and his
father than by any one else. Eradicate was so called because, as he
said, he "eradicated" the dirt. He did whitewashing, made gardens,
and did anything else that was needed. Boomerang was thus named by
his owner, because, as Eradicate said, "yo' nebber know jest what
dat mule am goin' t' do next. He may go forward or he may go
backward, jest laik them Australian boomerangs."
There was another valued friend of the family, Wakefield Damon by
name, to whom the reader will be introduced in due course. And then
there was Mary Nestor, about whom I prefer to let Tom tell you
himself, for he might be jealous if I talked too much about her.
In the first book of this series, called "Tom Swift and His Motor-Cycle,"
there was told how he became possessed of the machine, after
it had nearly killed Mr. Damon, who was learning to ride it. Mr.
Damon, who had a habit of "blessing" everything from his collar
button to his shoe laces, did not "bless" the motor-cycle after it
tried to climb a tree with him; and he sold it to Tom very cheaply.
Tom repaired it, invented some new attachments for it, and had a
number of adventures on it. Not the least of these was trailing
after a gang of scoundrels who tried to get possession of a valuable
patent model belonging to Mr. Swift.
Our second book, called "Tom Swift and His Motor-Boat," related some
exciting times following the acquisition by the young inventor of a
speedy craft which the thieves of the patent model had stolen. In
the boat Tom raced with Andy Foger, a town bully, and beat him. Tom
also took out on pleasure trips his chum, Ned Newton, who worked in
a Shopton bank, and the two had fine times together. Need I also say
that Mary Nestor also had trips in the motor-boat? Besides some other
stirring adventures in his speedy craft Tom rescued, from a burning
balloon that fell into the lake, the aeronaut, John Sharp. Later Mr.
Sharp and Tom built an airship, called the RED CLOUD, in which they
had some strenuous times.
Their adventures in this craft of the air form the basis for the
third book of the series, entitled "Tom Swift and His Airship." In
the RED CLOUD, Tom and his friends, including Mr. Damon, started to
make a record flight. They left Shopton the night when the bank
vault was blown open, and seventy-five thousand dollars stolen.
Because of evidence given by Andy Foger, and his father, suspicion
pointed to Tom and his friends as the robbers, and they were
pursued. But they turned the tables by capturing the real burglars,
and defeating the mean plans of the Fogers.
Not satisfied with having mastered the air Tom and his father turned
their attention to the water. Mr. Swift perfected a new type of
craft, and in the fourth book of the series, called "Tom Swift and
His Submarine," you may read how he went after a sunken treasure.
The party had many adventures, and were in no little danger from
their enemies before they reached the wreck with its store of gold.
The fifth book of the series, named "Tom Swift and His Electrical
Runabout," told how Tom built the speediest car on the road, and won
a prize with it, | 3,423.647509 |
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Produced by Charlene Taylor, S.D., 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)
HISTORY OF
FARMING IN
ONTARIO
BY
C. C. JAMES
[Illustration: Publisher's Device]
REPRINTED FROM
CANADA AND ITS PROVINCES
A HISTORY OF THE CANADIAN PEOPLE
AND THEIR INSTITUTIONS
BY ONE HUNDRED ASSOCIATES
EDITED BY
ADAM SHORTT AND A. G. DOUGHTY
HISTORY OF FARMING
IN ONTARIO
BY
C. C. JAMES
C.M.G.
[Illustration: Publisher's Device]
TORONTO
GLASGOW, BROOK & COMPANY
1914
This Volume consists of a Reprint, for private circulation only, of the
One Hundred and Sixteenth Signed Contribution contained in CANADA AND
ITS PROVINCES, a History of the Canadian People and their Institutions
by One Hundred Associates.
Adam Shortt and Arthur G. Doughty, General Editors
HISTORY OF FARMING
THE LAND AND THE PEOPLE
From the most southern point of Ontario on Lake Erie, near the 42nd
parallel of latitude, to Moose Factory on James Bay, the distance is
about 750 miles. From the eastern boundary on the Ottawa and St Lawrence
Rivers to Kenora at the Manitoba boundary, the distance is about 1000
miles. The area lying within these extremes is about 220,000 square
miles. In 1912 a northern addition of over 100,000 square miles was made
to the surface area of the province, but it is doubtful whether the
agricultural lands will thereby be increased. Of this large area about
25,000,000 acres are occupied and assessed, including farm lands and
town and city sites. It will be seen, therefore, that only a small
fraction of the province has, as yet, been occupied. Practically all the
occupied area lies south of a line drawn through Montreal, Ottawa, and
Sault Ste Marie, and it forms part of the great productive zone of the
continent.
The next point to be noted is the irregularity of the boundary-line, the
greater portion of which is water--Lakes Superior, Huron, Erie, Ontario,
the St Lawrence River, the Ottawa River, James Bay, and Hudson Bay. The
modifying effect of great bodies of water must be considered in studying
the agricultural possibilities of Ontario.
Across this great area of irregular outline there passes a branch of
the Archaean rocks running in a north-western direction and forming a
watershed, which turns some of the streams to Hudson Bay and the others
to the St Lawrence system. An undulating surface has resulted, more or
less filled with lakes, and almost lavishly supplied with streams, which
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the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
THE WINDS OF THE WORLD
By TALBOT MUNDY
THE WINDS OF THE WORLD
Ever the Winds of the World fare forth
(Oh, listen ye! Ah, listen ye!),
East and West, and South and North,
Shuttles weaving back and forth
Amid the warp! (Oh, listen ye!)
Can sightless touch--can vision keen
Hunt where the Winds of the World have been
And searching, learn what rumors mean?
(Nay, ye who are wise! Nay, listen ye!)
When tracks are crossed and scent is stale,
'Tis fools who shout--the fast who fail!
But wise men harken-Listen ye!
YASMINI'S SONG.
CHAPTER I
A watery July sun was hurrying toward a Punjab sky-line, as if weary of
squandering his strength on men who did not mind, and resentful of the
unexplainable--a rainy-weather field-day. The cold steel and khaki of
native Indian cavalry at attention gleamed motionless between British
infantry and two batteries of horse artillery. The only noticeable
sound was the voice of a general officer, that rose and fell explaining
and asserting pride in his command, but saying nothing as to the why of
exercises in the mud. Nor did he mention why the censorship was in full
force. He did not say a word of Germany, or Belgium.
In front of the third squadron from the right, Risaldar-Major Ranjoor
Singh sat his charger like a big bronze statue. He would have stooped
to see his right spur better, that shone in spite of mud, for though he
has been a man these five-and-twenty years, Ranjoor Singh has neither
lost his boyhood love of such things, nor intends to; he has been
accused of wearing solid silver spurs in bed. But it hurt him to bend
much, after a day's hard exercise on a horse such as he rode.
Once--in a rock-strewn gully where the whistling Himalayan wind was
Acting Antiseptic-of-the-Day--a young surgeon had taken hurried
stitches over Ranjoor Singh's ribs without probing deep enough for an
Afghan bullet; that bullet burned after a long day in the saddle. And
Bagh was--as the big brute's name implied--a tiger of a horse,
unweakened even by monsoon weather, and his habit was to spring with
terrific suddenness when his rider moved on him.
So Ranjoor Singh sat still. He was willing to eat agony at any time for
the squadron's sake--for a squadron of Outram's Own is a unity to
marvel at, or envy; and its leader a man to be forgiven spurs a
half-inch longer than the regulation. As a soldier, however, he was
careful of himself when occasion offered.
Sikh-soldier-wise, he preferred Bagh to all other horses in the world,
because it had needed persuasion, much stroking of a black beard--to
hide anxiety--and many a secret night-ride--to sweat the brute's
savagery--before the colonel-sahib could be made to see his virtues as
a charger and accept him into the regiment. Sikh-wise, he loved all
things that expressed in any way his own unconquerable fire. Most of
all, however, he loved the squadron; there was no woman, nor anything
between him and D Squadron; but Bagh came next.
Spurs were not needed when the general ceased speaking, and the British
colonel of Outram's Own shouted an order. Bagh, brute energy beneath
hand-polished hair and plastered dirt, sprang like a loosed
Hell-tantrum, and his rider's lips drew tight over clenched teeth as he
mastered self, agony and horse in one man's effort. Fight how he would,
heel, tooth and eye all flashing, Bagh was forced to hold his rightful
place in front of the squadron, precisely the right distance behind the
last supernumerary of the squadron next in front.
Line after rippling line, all Sikhs of the true Sikh baptism except for
the eight of their officers who were European, Outram's Own swept down
a living avenue of British troops; and neither gunners nor infantry
could see one flaw in them, although picking flaws in native regiments
is almost part of the British army officer's religion.
To the blare of military music, through a bog of their own mixing, the
Sikhs trotted for a mile, then drew into a walk, to bring the horses
into barracks cool enough for watering.
They reached stables as the sun dipped under the near-by acacia trees,
and while the black-bearded troopers scraped and rubbed the mud from
weary horses, Banjoor Singh went through a task whose form at least was
part of his very life. He could imagine nothing less than death or
active service that could keep him from inspecting every horse in the
squadron before he ate or drank, or as much as washed himself.
But, although the day had been a hard one and the strain on the horses
more than ordinary, his examination now was so perfunctory that the
squadron gaped; the troopers signaled with their eyes as he passed,
little more than glancing at each horse. Almost before his back had
vanished at the stable entrance, wonderment burst into words.
"For the third time he does thus!"
"See! My beast overreached, and he passed without detecting it! Does
the sun set the same way still?"
"I have noticed that he does thus each time after a field-day. What is
the connection? A field-day in the rains--a general officer talking to
us afterward about the Salt, as if a Sikh does not understand the Salt
better than a British general knows English--and our risaldar-major
neglecting the horses--is there a connection?"
"Aye. What is all this? We worked no harder in the war against the
Chitralis. There is something in my bones that speaks of war, when I
listen for a while!"
"War! Hear him, brothers! Talk is talk, but there will be no war until
India grows too fat to breathe--unless the past be remembered and we
make one for ourselves!"
* * * * *
There was silence for a while, if a change of sounds is silence. The
Delhi mud sticks as tight as any, and the kneading of it from out of
horsehair taxes most of a trooper's energy and full attention. Then,
the East being the East in all things, a solitary trooper picked up
the scent and gave tongue, as a true hound guides the pack.
"Who is _she_?" he wondered, loud enough for fifty men to hear.
From out of a cloud of horse-dust, where a stable helper on probation
combed a tangled tail, came one word of swift enlightenment.
"Yasmini!"
"Ah-h-h-h!" In a second the whole squadron was by the ears, and the
stable-helper was the center of an interest he had not bargained for.
"Nay, sahibs, I but followed him, and how should I know? Nay, then I
did not follow him! It so happened. I took that road, and he stepped
out of a _tikka-gharri_ at her door. Am I blind? Do I not know her
door? Does not everybody know it? Who am I that I should know why he
goes again? But--does a moth fly only once to the lamp-flame? Does a
drunkard drink but once? By the Guru, nay! May my tongue parch in my
throat if I said he is a drunkard! I said--I meant to say--seeing she
is Yasmini, and he having been to see her once--and being again in a
great hurry--whither goes he?"
So the squadron chose a sub-committee of inquiry, seven strong, that
being a lucky number the wide world over, and the movements of the
risaldar-major were reported one by one to the squadron with the
infinite exactness of small detail that seems so useless to all save
Easterns.
Fifteen minutes after he had left his quarters, no longer in khaki
uniform, but dressed as a Sikh gentleman, the whole squadron knew the
color of his undershirt, also that he had hired a _tikka-gharri_, and
that his only weapon was the ornamental dagger that a true Sikh wears
twisted in his hair. One after one, five other men reported him nearly
all the way through Delhi, through the Chandni Chowk--where the last
man but one nearly lost him in the evening crowd--to the narrow place
where, with a bend in the street to either hand, is Yasmini's.
The last man watched him through Yasmini's outer door and up the lower
stairs before hurrying back to the squadron. And a little later on,
being almost as inquisitive as they were careful for their major, the
squadron delegated other men, in mufti, to watch for him at the foot of
Yasmini's stairs, or as near to the foot as might be, and see him | 3,423.652863 |
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Produced by John Bickers; Dagny
JESS
By H. Rider Haggard
First Published 1887.
TO MY WIFE
JESS
CHAPTER I
JOHN HAS AN ADVENTURE
The day had been very hot even for the Transvaal, where the days still
know how to be hot in the autumn, although the neck of the summer is
broken--especially when the thunderstorms hold off for a week or two, as
they do occasionally. Even the succulent blue lilies--a variety of the
agapanthus which is so familiar to us in English greenhouses--hung their
long trumpet-shaped flowers and looked oppressed and miserable, beneath
the burning breath of the hot wind which had been blowing for hours like
the draught from a volcano. The grass, too, near the wide roadway
that stretched in a feeble and indeterminate fashion across the veldt,
forking, branching, and reuniting like the veins on a lady's arm, was
completely coated over with a thick layer of red dust. But the hot wind
was going down now, as it always does towards sunset. Indeed, all that
remained of it were a few strictly local and miniature whirlwinds,
which would suddenly spring up on the road itself, and twist and twirl
fiercely round, raising a mighty column of dust fifty feet or more into
the air, where it hung long after the wind had passed, and then slowly
dissolved as its particles floated to the earth.
Advancing along the road, in the immediate track of one of these
desultory and inexplicable whirlwinds, was a man on horseback. The man
looked limp and dirty, and the horse limper and dirtier. The hot wind
had "taken all the bones out of them," as the <DW5>s say, which was
not very much to be wondered at, seeing that they had been journeying
through it for the last four hours without off-saddling. Suddenly the
whirlwind, which had been travelling along smartly, halted, and the
dust, after revolving a few times in the air like a dying top, slowly
began to disperse in the accustomed fashion. The man on the horse halted
also, and contemplated it in an absent kind of way.
"It's just like a man's life," he said aloud to his horse, "coming from
nobody knows where, nobody knows why, and making a little column of dust
on the world's highway, then passing away, leaving the dust to fall to
the ground again, to be trodden under foot and forgotten."
The speaker, a stout, well set-up, rather ugly man, apparently on the
wrong side of thirty, with pleasant blue eyes and a reddish peaked
beard, laughed a little at his own sententious reflection, and then gave
his jaded horse a tap with the _sjambock_ in his hand.
"Come on, Blesbok," he said, "or we shall never get to old Croft's place
to-night. By Jove! I believe that must be the turn," and he pointed with
his whip to a little rutty track that branched from the Wakkerstroom
main road and stretched away towards a curious isolated hill with a
large flat top, which rose out of the rolling plain some four miles to
the right. "The old Boer said the second turn," he went on still talking
to himself, "but perhaps he lied. I am told that some of them think it
is a good joke to send an Englishman a few miles wrong. Let's see, they
told me the place was under the lee of a table-topped hill, about half | 3,423.748304 |
2023-11-16 19:14:07.8280480 | 1,672 | 56 |
Produced by Suzanne L. Shell, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team
THE SWOOP!
or
How Clarence Saved England
_A Tale of the Great Invasion_
by P. G. Wodehouse
1909
PREFACE
It may be thought by some that in the pages which follow I have painted
in too lurid colours the horrors of a foreign invasion of England.
Realism in art, it may be argued, can be carried too far. I prefer to
think that the majority of my readers will acquit me of a desire to be
unduly sensational. It is necessary that England should be roused to a
sense of her peril, and only by setting down without flinching the
probable results of an invasion can this be done. This story, I may
mention, has been written and published purely from a feeling of
patriotism and duty. Mr. Alston Rivers' sensitive soul will be jarred
to its foundations if it is a financial success. So will mine. But in a
time of national danger we feel that the risk must be taken. After all,
at the worst, it is a small sacrifice to make for our country.
P. G. WODEHOUSE.
_The Bomb-Proof Shelter,_ _London, W._
Part One
Chapter 1
AN ENGLISH BOY'S HOME
_August the First, 19--_
Clarence Chugwater looked around him with a frown, and gritted his
teeth.
"England--my England!" he moaned.
Clarence was a sturdy lad of some fourteen summers. He was neatly, but
not gaudily, dressed in a flat-brimmed hat, a handkerchief, a
flannel shirt, a bunch of ribbons, a haversack, football shorts, brown
boots, a whistle, and a hockey-stick. He was, in fact, one of General
Baden-Powell's Boy Scouts.
Scan him closely. Do not dismiss him with a passing glance; for you are
looking at the Boy of Destiny, at Clarence MacAndrew Chugwater, who
saved England.
To-day those features are familiar to all. Everyone has seen the
Chugwater Column in Aldwych, the equestrian statue in Chugwater Road
(formerly Piccadilly), and the picture-postcards in the stationers'
windows. That bulging forehead, distended with useful information; that
massive chin; those eyes, gleaming behind their spectacles; that
_tout ensemble_; that _je ne sais quoi_.
In a word, Clarence!
He could do everything that the Boy Scout must learn to do. He could
low like a bull. He could gurgle like a wood-pigeon. He could imitate
the cry of the turnip in order to deceive rabbits. He could smile and
whistle simultaneously in accordance with Rule 8 (and only those who
have tried this know how difficult it is). He could spoor, fell trees,
tell the character from the boot-sole, and fling the squaler. He did
all these things well, but what he was really best at was flinging the
squaler.
* * * * *
Clarence, on this sultry August afternoon, was tensely occupied
tracking the family cat across the dining-room carpet by its
foot-prints. Glancing up for a moment, he caught sight of the other
members of the family.
"England, my England!" he moaned.
It was indeed a sight to extract tears of blood from any Boy Scout. The
table had been moved back against the wall, and in the cleared space
Mr. Chugwater, whose duty it was to have set an example to his
children, was playing diabolo. Beside him, engrossed in cup-and-ball,
was his wife. Reggie Chugwater, the eldest son, the heir, the hope of
the house, was reading the cricket news in an early edition of the
evening paper. Horace, his brother, was playing pop-in-taw with his
sister Grace and Grace's _fiance_, Ralph Peabody. Alice, the other
Miss Chugwater, was mending a Badminton racquet.
Not a single member of that family was practising with the rifle, or
drilling, or learning to make bandages.
Clarence groaned.
"If you can't play without snorting like that, my boy," said Mr.
Chugwater, a little irritably, "you must find some other game. You made
me jump just as I was going to beat my record."
"Talking of records," said Reggie, "Fry's on his way to his eighth
successive century. If he goes on like this, Lancashire will win the
championship."
"I thought he was playing for Somerset," said Horace.
"That was a fortnight ago. You ought to keep up to date in an important
subject like cricket."
Once more Clarence snorted bitterly.
"I'm sure you ought not to be down on the floor, Clarence," said Mr.
Chugwater anxiously. "It is so draughty, and you have evidently got a
nasty cold. _Must_ you lie on the floor?"
"I am spooring," said Clarence with simple dignity.
"But I'm sure you can spoor better sitting on a chair with a nice
book."
"_I_ think the kid's sickening for something," put in Horace
critically. "He's deuced roopy. What's up, Clarry?"
"I was thinking," said Clarence, "of my country--of England."
"What's the matter with England?"
"_She's_ all right," murmured Ralph Peabody.
"My fallen country!" sighed Clarence, a not unmanly tear bedewing the
glasses of his spectacles. "My fallen, stricken country!"
"That kid," said Reggie, laying down his paper, "is talking right
through his hat. My dear old son, are you aware that England has never
been so strong all round as she is now? Do you _ever_ read the
papers? Don't you know that we've got the Ashes and the Golf
Championship, and the Wibbley-wob Championship, and the Spiropole,
Spillikins, Puff-Feather, and Animal Grab Championships? Has it come to
your notice that our croquet pair beat America last Thursday by eight
hoops? Did you happen to hear that we won the Hop-skip-and-jump at the
last Olympic Games? You've been out in the woods, old sport."
Clarence's heart was too full for words. He rose in silence, and
quitted the room.
"Got the pip or something!" said Reggie. "Rum kid! I say, Hirst's
bowling well! Five for twenty-three so far!"
Clarence wandered moodily out of the house. The Chugwaters lived in a
desirable villa residence, which Mr. Chugwater had built in Essex. It
was a typical Englishman's Home. Its name was Nasturtium Villa.
As Clarence walked down the road, the excited voice of a newspaper-boy
came to him. Presently the boy turned the corner, shouting, "Ker-lapse
of Surrey! Sensational bowling at the Oval!"
He stopped on seeing Clarence.
"Paper, General?"
Clarence shook his head. Then he uttered a startled exclamation, for
his eye had fallen on the poster.
It ran as follows:--
SURREY
DOING
BADLY
GERMAN ARMY LANDS IN ENGLAND
Chapter 2
THE INVADERS
Clarence flung the boy a halfpenny, tore a paper from his grasp, and
scanned it eagerly. There | 3,423.848088 |
2023-11-16 19:14:07.9287240 | 3,613 | 12 |
Produced by Duncan Harrod
FELIX O'DAY
By F. Hopkinson Smith
Chapter I
Broadway on dry nights, or rather that part known as the Great White
Way, is a crowded thoroughfare, dominated by lofty buildings, the
sky-line studded with constellations of signs pencilled in fire.
Broadway on wet, rain-drenched nights is the fairy concourse of the
Wonder City of the World, its asphalt splashed with liquid jewels afloat
in molten gold.
Across this flood of frenzied brilliance surge hurrying mobs, dodging
the ceaseless traffic, trampling underfoot the wealth of the Indies,
striding through pools of quicksilver, leaping gutters filled to the
brim with melted rubies--horse, car, and man so many black silhouettes
against a tremulous sea of light.
Along this blinding whirl blaze the playhouses, their wide
portals aflame with crackling globes, toward which swarm bevies of
pleasure-seeking moths, their eyes dazzled by the glare. Some with heads
and throats bare dart from costly broughams, the mountings of their
sleek, rain-varnished horses glittering in the flash of the electric
lamps. Others spring from out street cabs. Many come by twos and threes,
their skirts held high. Still others form a line, its head lost in
a small side door. These are in drab and brown, with worsted shawls
tightly drawn across thin shoulders. Here, too, wedged in between shabby
men, the collars of their coats muffling their chins, their backs to the
grim policeman, stand keen-eyed newsboys and ragged street urchins, the
price of a gallery seat in their tightly closed fists.
Soon the swash and flow of light flooding the street and sidewalks
shines the clearer. Fewer dots and lumps of man, cab, and cart now cross
its surface. The crowd has begun to thin out. The doors of the theatres
are deserted; some flaunt signs of "Standing Room Only." The cars still
follow their routes, lunging and pausing like huge beetles; but much of
the wheel traffic has melted, with only here and there a cab or truck
between which gold-splashed umbrellas pick a hazardous way.
With the breaking of the silent dawn, shadowed in a lonely archway or
on an abandoned doorstep the wet, bedraggled body of a hapless moth is
sometimes found, her iridescent wings flattened in the mud. Then for a
brief moment a cry of protest, or scorn, or pity goes up. The passers-by
raise their hands in anger, draw their skirts aside in horror, or kneel
in tenderness. It is the same the world over, and New York is no better
and, for that matter, no worse.
On one of these rain-drenched nights, some ten years or more ago, when
the streets were flooded with jewels, and the sky-line aflame, a man in
a slouch hat, a wet mackintosh clinging to his broad shoulders, stood
close to the entrance of one of the principal playhouses along this
Great White Way. He had kept his place since the doors were opened, his
hat-brim, pulled over his brow, his keen eye searching every face that
passed. To all appearances he was but an idle looker-on, attracted by
the beauty of the women, and yet during all that time he had not moved,
nor had he been in the way, nor had he been observed even by the door
man, the flap of the awning casting its shadow about him. Only once had
he strained forward, gazing intently, then again relaxed, settling into
his old position.
Not until the last couple had hurried by, breathless at being late, did
he refasten the top button of his mackintosh, move clear of the nook
which had sheltered him, and step out into the open.
For an instant he glanced about him, seemed to hesitate, as does a bit
of driftwood blocked in the current; then, with a sudden straightening
of his shoulders, he wheeled and threaded his way down-town.
At Herald Square, he mounted with an aimless air a flight of low steps,
peered though the windows, and listened to the crunch of the presses
chewing the cud of the day's news. When others crowded close he stepped
back to the sidewalk, raising his hat once in apology to an elderly dame
who, with head down, had brushed him with her umbrella.
By the time he reached 30th Street his steps had become slower. Again
he hesitated, and again with an aimless air turned to the left, the rain
still pelting his broad shoulders, his hat pulled closer to protect his
face. No lights or color pursued him here. The fronts of the houses were
shrouded in gloom; only a hall lantern now and then and the flare of
the lamps at the crossings, he alone and buffeting the storm--all others
behind closed doors. When Fourth Avenue was reached he lifted his head
for the first time. A lighted window had attracted his attention--a
wide, corner window filled with battered furniture, ill-assorted china,
and dented brass--one of those popular morgues that house the remains of
decayed respectability.
Pausing automatically, he glanced carelessly at the contents, and was
about to resume his way when he caught sight of a small card propped
against a broken pitcher. "Choice Articles Bought and Sold--Advances
Made."
Suddenly he stopped. Something seemed to interest him. To make sure that
he had read the card aright, he bent closer. Evidently satisfied by his
scrutiny, he drew himself erect and moved toward the shop door as if
to enter. Through the glass he saw a man in shirt-sleeves, packing. The
sight of the man brought another change of mind, for he stepped back
and raised his head to a big sign over the front. His face now came into
view, with its well-modelled nose and square chin--the features of a
gentleman of both refinement and intelligence. A man of forty--perhaps
of forty-five--clean-shaven, a touch of gray about his temples, his eyes
shadowed by heavy brows from beneath which now and then came a flash
as brief and brilliant as an electric spark. He might have been a civil
engineer, or some scientist, or yet an officer on half pay.
"Otto Kling, 445 Fourth Avenue," he repeated to himself, to make sure of
the name and location. Then, with the quick movement of a man suddenly
imbued with new purpose, he wheeled, leaped the overflowed gutter, and
walked rapidly until he reached 13th Street. Half-way down the block
he entered the shabby doorway of an old-fashioned house, mounted to the
third floor, stepped into a small, poorly furnished bedroom lighted by a
single gas-jet, and closed the door behind him. Lifting his wet hat
from his well-rounded head, with its smoothly brushed, closely trimmed
hair--a head that would have looked well in bronze--he raised the edge
of the bedclothes and from underneath the narrow cot dragged out a flat,
sole-leather trunk of English make. This he unlocked with a key fastened
to a steel chain, took out the tray, felt about among the contents, and
drew out a morocco-covered dressing-case, of good size and of evident
value, bearing on its top a silver plate inscribed with a monogram and
crest. The trunk was then relocked and shoved under the bed.
At this moment a knock startled him.
"Come in," he called, covering the case with a corner of the cotton
quilt.
A bareheaded, coarse-featured woman with a black shawl about her
shoulders stood in the doorway. "I've come for my money," she burst out,
too angry for preliminaries. "I'm gittin' tired of bein' put off. You're
two weeks behind."
"Only two weeks? I was afraid it was worse, my dear madame," he answered
calmly, a faint smile curling his thin lips. "You have a better head
for figures than I. But do not concern yourself. I will pay you in the
morning."
"I've heard that before, and I'm gittin' sick of it. You'd 'a' been out
of here last week if my husband hadn't been laid up with a lame foot."
"I am sorry to hear about the foot. That must be even worse than my
being behind with your rent."
"Well, it's bad enough with all I got to put up with. Of course I don't
want to be ugly," she went on, her fierceness dying out as she noticed
his unruffled calm, "but these rooms is about all we've got, and we
can't afford to take no chances."
"Did you suppose I would let you?"
"Let me what?"
"Let you take chances. When I become convinced that I cannot pay you
what I owe you, I will give you notice in advance. I should be much more
unhappy over owing you such a debt than you could possibly be in not
getting your money."
The answer, so unlike those to which she had been accustomed from other
delinquents, suddenly rekindled her anger. "Will some of them friends of
yours that never show up bring you the money?" she snapped back.
"Have you met any of them on the stairs?" he inquired blandly.
"No, nor nowhere else. You been here now goin' on three months, and
there ain't come a letter, nor nothin' by express, and no man, woman, or
child has asked for you. Kinder queer, don't you think?"
"Yes, I do think so; and I can hardly blame you. It IS suspicious--VERY
suspicious--alarmingly so," he rejoined with an indulgent smile. Then
growing grave again: "That will do, madame. I will send for you when I
am ready. Do not lose any sleep and do not let your husband lose any. I
will shut the door myself."
When the clatter of her rough shoes had ceased to echo on the stairs
he drew the dressing-case from its hiding-place, tucked it inside
his mackintosh, turned down the gas-jet, locked the door of the room,
retracing his steps until he stood once more in front of Kling's sign.
This time he went in.
"I am glad you are still open," he began, shaking the wet from his coat.
"I hoped you would be. You are Mr. Kling, are you not?"
"Yes, dot is my name. Vot can I do for you?"
"I passed by your window a short time ago, and saw your card, stating
that advances were made on choice articles. Would this be of any use
to you?" He took the dressing-case from under his coat and handed it to
Kling. "I am not ready to sell it--not to sell it outright; you might,
perhaps, make me a small loan which would answer my purpose. Its value
is about sixty pounds--some three hundred dollars of your money. At
least, it cost that. It is one of Vickery's, of London, and it is almost
new."
Kling glanced sharply at the intruder. "I don't keep open often so late
like dis. You must come in de morning."
"Cannot you look at it now?"
Something in the stranger's manner appealed to the dealer. He lowered
his chin, adjusted his spectacles, and peered over their round silver
rims--a way with him when he was making up his mind.
"Vell, I don't mind. Let me see," and opening the case he took out the
silver-topped bottles, placing them in a row on the counter behind
which he stood. "Yes, dot's a good vun," he continued with a grunt
of approval. "Yes--dot's London, sure enough. Yes, I see Vickery's
name--whose initials is on dese bottles? And de arms--de lion and de
vings on him--dot come from somebody high up, ain't it? Vhere did you
get 'em?"
"That is of no moment. What I want to know is, will you either pay me a
fair price for it or loan me a fair sum on it?"
"Is it yours to sell?"
"It is." There was no trace of resentment in his voice, nor did he show
the slightest irritation at being asked so pointed a question.
"Vell, I don't keep a pawn-shop. I got no license, and if I had I
vouldn't do it--too much trouble all de time. Poor vomans, dead-beats,
suckers, sneak-thieves--all kind of peoples you don't vant, to come in
the door vhen you have a pawn-shop."
"Your sign said advances made."
"Vich vun?"
"The one in the window, or I would not have troubled you."
"Vell, dot means anyting you please. Sometimes I get olt granfadder
vatches dot vay, and olt Sheffield plate and tings vich olt families
sell vhen everybody is gone dead. Vy do you vant to give dis away? I
vouldn't, if I vas you. You don't look like a man vot is broke. I vill
put back de bottles. You take it home agin."
"I would if I had any home to take it to. I am a stranger here and am
two weeks behind in the rent of my room."
"Is dot so? Vell, dot is too bad. Two weeks behint and no home but a
room! I vouldn't think dot to look at you."
"I would not either if I had the courage to look at myself in the glass.
Then you cannot help me?"
"I don't say dot I can't. Somebody may come in. I have lots of tings
belong to peoples, and ven other peoples come in, sometimes dey buy,
and sometimes dey don't. Sometimes only one day goes by, and sometimes a
whole year. You leave it vid me. I take care of it. Den I get my little
Masie--dat little girl of mine vot I call Beesvings--to polish up all de
bottles and make everyting look like new."
"Then I will come in the morning?"
"Yes, but give me your name--someting might happen yet, and your
address. Here, write it on dis card."
"No, that is unnecessary. I will take your word for it."
"But vere can I find you?"
"I will find myself, thank you," and he strode out into the rain.
Chapter II
In the days when Otto Kling's shop-windows attracted collectors in
search of curios and battered furniture, "The Avenue," as its denizens
always called Fourth Avenue between Madison Square Garden and the
tunnel, was a little city in itself.
Almost all the needs of a greater one could be supplied by the stores
fronting its sidewalks. If tea, coffee, sugar, and similar stimulating
and soothing groceries were wanted, old Bundleton, on the corner above
Kling's, in a white apron and paper cuffs, weighed them out. If it were
butter or eggs, milk, cream, or curds, the Long Island Dairy--which was
really old man Heffern, his daughter Mary, and his boy Tom--had them
in a paper bag, or on your plate, or into your pitcher before you could
count your change. If it were a sirloin, or lamb-chops, or Philadelphia
chickens, or a Cincinnati ham, fat Porterfield, watched over from her
desk by fat Mrs. Porterfield, dumped them on a pair of glittering brass
scales and sent them home to your kitchen invitingly laid out in a flat
wicker basket. If it were fish--fresh, salt, smoked, or otherwise--to
say nothing of crabs, oysters, clams, and the exclusive and expensive
lobster--it was Codman, a few doors above Porterfield's, who had them on
ice, or in barrels, the varnished claws of the lobsters thrust out like
the hands of a drowning man.
Were it a question of drugs, there was Pestler, the apothecary, with his
four big green globes illuminated by four big gas-jets, the joy of the
children. A small fellow this Pestler, with a round head and up-brushed
hair set | 3,423.948764 |
2023-11-16 19:14:08.0641270 | 3,982 | 19 |
Produced by Bryan Ness, Diane Monico, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
MINUTES
OF THE
PROCEEDINGS
OF THE SECOND
Convention of Delegates
FROM THE
ABOLITION SOCIETIES
Established in different Parts of the United States,
ASSEMBLED AT
_PHILADELPHIA_,
ON THE SEVENTH DAY OF JANUARY, ONE THOUSAND SEVEN
HUNDRED AND NINETY-FIVE, AND CONTINUED, BY
ADJOURNMENTS, UNTIL THE FOURTEENTH DAY
OF THE SAME MONTH, INCLUSIVE.
[Illustration: (decoration)]
_PHILADELPHIA:_
PRINTED BY ZACHARIAH POULSON, JUNR. NUMBER EIGHTY,
CHESNUT-STREET, EIGHT DOORS BELOW THIRD-STREET,
MDCCXCV.
MINUTES
OF THE
PROCEEDINGS
OF THE SECOND
Convention of Delegates.
_Philadelphia, Wednesday, January 7th. 1795._
Agreeably to the recommendation of the Convention, held in this city
last year, a number of Delegates, from the several Abolition Societies
in the United States, assembled, this day, at the City Hall, when, by
the credentials produced, it appeared, that the following persons had
been chosen to represent their respective Societies in this Convention:
_Connecticut Society._
Jonathan Edwards,
Uriah Tracy,
Zephaniah Swift.
_New-York Society._
John Murray, junior,
William Johnson,
Lawrence Embree,
William Dunlap,
William Walton Woolsey.
_Pennsylvania Society._
William Rawle,
Robert Patterson,
Benjamin Rush,
Samuel Coates,
Caspar Wistar,
James Todd,
Benjamin Say.
_Delaware Society._
Richard Bassett,
John Ralston,
Allen McLane,
Caleb Boyer.
_Wilmington Society_ (_state of Delaware_.)
Cyrus Newlin,
James A. Byard,
Joseph Warner,
William Poole.
_Maryland Society._
Samuel Sterett,
Adam Fonerdon,
Joseph Townsend,
Joseph Thornburgh,
George Buchanan,
John Bankson,
Philip Moore.
_Chester-town Society_ (_state of Maryland_.)
Edward Scott,
James Houston.
Of whom the following appeared and took their seats, _viz._
Jonathan Edwards,
Uriah Tracy,
Zephaniah Swift,
William Johnson,
Lawrence Embree,
William Dunlap,
William Walton Woolsey,
William Rawle,
Robert Patterson,
Benjamin Rush,
Samuel Coates,
Caspar Wistar,
James Todd,
Benjamin Say,
Richard Bassett,
Caleb Boyer,
Cyrus Newlin,
Joseph Warner,
Samuel Sterett,
Joseph Townsend,
Joseph Thornburgh,
John Bankson,
Philip Moore,
Edward Scott,
James Houston.
The Convention proceeded to the election of a President, and, on
counting the ballots, it appeared, that Benjamin Rush was duly elected.
Walter Franklin, one of the Secretaries of the Pennsylvania Abolition
Society, was appointed Secretary, and Joseph Fry, Doorkeeper.
Agreed, That all questions, which shall come before this Convention, be
decided by a majority of the votes of the members present, and that
every motion, when seconded, shall, if required by the President, or
any member, be reduced to writing.
The address, from the last Convention, to the different Abolition
Societies in the United States, was then read; after which, several
written and verbal communications were made.
Jonathan Edwards, William Dunlap, Caspar Wistar, Cyrus Newlin, Caleb
Boyer, Philip Moore, and James Houston, were appointed a committee to
consider of, and report, the objects proper for the attention of this
Convention, and the most suitable means of attaining the same.
Ordered, That the several communications, made this evening, be
referred to the above committee, and that the members of the Convention
be requested to impart to them such information as they may possess,
relative to the object of their appointment.
Adjourned till to-morrow evening at five o'clock.
_January 8th. 1795._
The Convention met.
Present--Jonathan Edwards, Uriah Tracy, Zephaniah Swift, William
Johnson, Lawrence Embree, William Dunlap, William Walton Woolsey,
William Rawle, Robert Patterson, Samuel Coates, Caspar Wistar, James
Todd, Benjamin Say, Richard Bassett, Caleb Boyer, Cyrus Newlin, Joseph
Warner, Joseph Townsend, Joseph Thornburgh, John Bankson, Philip Moore,
Edward Scott, James Houston.
The President being absent, Uriah Tracy was appointed to preside for
the evening.
An extract, from the minutes of the proceedings of a general meeting of
the New Jersey Abolition Society, was read, by which it appeared, that
Joseph Bloomfield, William Coxe, junior, James Sloan, John Wistar, and
Franklin Davenport, were elected to represent that Society in this
Convention, of whom, William Coxe, junior, James Sloan, and Franklin
Davenport, appeared and took their seats.
The committee, appointed at the last meeting, not being prepared to
make a final report, were continued.
Several communications, from the New Jersey Society, were presented by
their Delegates, and referred to the said committee.
Adjourned till to-morrow afternoon at five o'clock.
_January 9th. 1795._
The Convention met.
Present--Jonathan Edwards, Uriah Tracy, Zephaniah Swift, William
Johnson, Lawrence Embree, William Dunlap, William Walton Woolsey,
William Coxe, junior, James Sloan, Franklin Davenport, William Rawle,
Robert Patterson, Benjamin Rush, Samuel Coates, Caspar Wistar, James
Todd, Benjamin Say, Richard Bassett, Caleb Boyer, Cyrus Newlin, Joseph
Warner, Samuel Sterett, Joseph Townsend, Joseph Thornburgh, John
Bankson, Philip Moore, Edward Scott, James Houston.
A letter, from the President of the Providence Abolition Society, was
read; by which it appeared, that Theodore Foster and George Benson were
appointed to represent that Society in this Convention.
A letter, from the Washington Abolition Society in Pennsylvania, was,
also, read, notifying the appointment of Thomas Scott, Absalom Baird,
and Samuel Clark, as Representatives of the said Society, in this
Convention.
The Secretary was directed to inform such of those gentlemen as are now
in this city, of the receipt and purport of the above letters.
The Convention being informed, that the absence of Joseph Bloomfield,
of New Jersey, was occasioned by sickness, mention thereof was ordered
to be made on the Minutes.
The committee, appointed to consider of, and report, the objects proper
for the consideration of the Convention, and the most suitable means of
attaining the same, made report, which, after amendment, was adopted as
follows, _viz._
_First_, That an address be made, by this Convention, to the several
Abolition Societies in the United States, recommending to them, to send
Deputies to a Convention, similar to the present, to be holden in
Philadelphia the first day of January, in the year 1796; also, that it
be recommended to those Societies, who have not sent, to this
Convention, complete copies of the laws of their several states,
relative to slavery, to send, to the next Convention, copies of all
such laws, both those which are now in force, and those which have been
repealed; and to send, to the next, and every succeeding, Convention,
an accurate list of their officers for the time being, together with an
account of the place of their abode, and of the offices, civil,
military, or ecclesiastic, which they may sustain, with the number of
members of which they consist: that it be further recommended, to the
several Societies, to send, annually, to the Convention, an accurate
list of all those persons who have been relieved and liberated by their
agency; and, also, an account of such trials and decisions of courts,
the general knowledge of which they shall judge subservient to the
cause of abolition: that it be recommended to the several Societies, to
institute public periodical discourses, or orations, on the subject of
slavery, and the means of its abolition; also, to continue, without
remission, and in such ways as they shall, respectively, judge most
likely to be successful, their exertions to procure an amelioration of
the laws of their respective states, relative to the Blacks; and, at
the same time, to give particular attention to the education of the
black children: and, as an historical review of the legislative
provisions, relative to slavery, in the several states of the Union,
from their respective settlements to the present time, would be
conducive to the general benefit,--that it be further recommended, to
the several Abolition Societies, to take measures for procuring the
materials, and promoting the publication, of such a work; and that a
communication of the steps taken, in pursuance of this recommendation,
be made to the ensuing Convention.
_Second_, That the Convention take into consideration the case of those
persons, who, having been made free by the republic of France, are
still holden in slavery by those who have emigrated into the United
States from the territories of the said republic; and that the
Convention devise some lawful measures for their relief:--we barely
suggest, whether an application to the French ambassador be, or be not,
proper in the case.
_Third_, That the Convention take into consideration the means of
improving the condition of the Blacks, who are, or may be, made free in
the different states, and of preventing the inconveniences that may
arise from the degraded state of the <DW64>s in the United States.
_Fourth_, That it be recommended, to the Society of New Jersey, to
enter on proper measures to procure an amendment of the law of that
state, prohibiting the manumission of slaves of a greater age than
thirty-five years.
William Johnson, Franklin Davenport, and Samuel Coates, were appointed
to prepare an address, as proposed in the first and fourth sections of
the above report.
The second section was referred to William Walton Woolsey, William
Rawle, James Todd, and Edward Scott, to report thereon.
The third section was referred to Lawrence Embree, Caspar Wistar,
Benjamin Say, Joseph Warner, and Samuel Sterett, to report thereon.
Samuel Coates, James Sloan, and Joseph Townsend, were appointed a
committee to enquire, and report, concerning the measures taken, in
pursuance of the several resolutions of the former Convention, for
transmitting memorials and addresses to the Congress of the United
States, and the Legislatures of individual states.
Adjourned till to-morrow evening at six o'clock.
_January 10th. 1795._
The Convention met.
Present--Uriah Tracy, Zephaniah Swift, William Johnson, Lawrence
Embree, William Dunlap, William Walton Woolsey, James Sloan, William
Rawle, Robert Patterson, Benjamin Rush, Samuel Coates, James Todd,
Benjamin Say, Caleb Boyer, Cyrus Newlin, Joseph Warner, Joseph
Townsend, Joseph Thornburgh, John Bankson, Philip Moore, James
Houston.
Theodore Foster, delegated to represent the Providence Society,
appeared and took his seat.
The committee, to whom was referred the second section of the report of
the committee of arrangement, reported, that they had taken the subject
into consideration; that it appeared to them, to be within the province
of the several Societies to act therein; and that the Convention should
recommend, to the said Societies, to exert themselves for the
liberation of the persons described in the said report, so far as may
be consistent with the laws of their respective states.
Ordered, That the said report be accepted.
Adjourned till Monday evening next at six o'clock.
_Monday evening, January 12th. 1795._
The Convention met.
Present--Jonathan Edwards, Zephaniah Swift, Theodore Foster, William
Dunlap, William Johnson, Lawrence Embree, William Walton Woolsey, James
Sloan, William Rawle, Robert Patterson, Samuel Coates, Caspar Wistar,
James Todd, Benjamin Say, Caleb Boyer, Cyrus Newlin, Joseph Warner,
Joseph Townsend, Joseph Thornburgh, John Bankson, Philip Moore, Edward
Scott, James Houston.
The President being absent, Zephaniah Swift was appointed to preside
for the evening.
The committee, appointed to enquire concerning the measures taken, in
pursuance of the resolutions of the former Convention, for transmitting
memorials and addresses to the Congress of the United States, and the
Legislatures of individual states,--presented the following report,
which was read and accepted, _viz._
The committee, appointed to enquire if the memorials to Congress, and
the different state Legislatures, were presented agreeably to the order
of the Convention last year,--report,
That the memorial was presented to the Senate and House of
Representatives of the United States, in Congress assembled, who took
the same into consideration, and granted the prayer thereof by enacting
a law, of which the following is a copy:
_An Act to prohibit the carrying on the Slave-trade from the
United States to any foreign place or country._
Section I. BE _it enacted by the Senate and House of
Representatives of the United States of America, in Congress
assembled_, That no citizen or citizens of the United
States, or foreigner, or any other person coming into, or
residing within the same, shall, for himself or any other
person whatsoever, either as master, factor or owner, build,
fit, equip, load or otherwise prepare any ship or vessel,
within any port or place of the said United States, nor
shall cause any ship or vessel to sail from any port or
place within the same, for the purpose of carrying on any
trade or traffic in slaves, to any foreign country; or for
the purpose of procuring, from any foreign kingdom, place or
country, the inhabitants of such kingdom, place or country,
to be transported to any foreign country, port or place
whatever, to be sold or disposed of, as slaves: And if any
ship or vessel shall be so fitted out, as aforesaid, for the
said purposes, or shall be caused to sail, so as aforesaid,
every such ship or vessel, her tackle, furniture, apparel
and other appurtenances, shall be forfeited to the United
States; and shall be liable to be seized, prosecuted and
condemned, in any of the circuit courts or district court
for the district, where the said ship or vessel may be found
and seized.
Section II. _And be it further enacted_, That all and every
person, so building, fitting out, equipping, loading, or
otherwise preparing, or sending away, any ship or vessel,
knowing, or intending, that the same shall be employed in
such trade or business, contrary to the true intent and
meaning of this act, or ways aiding or abetting therein,
shall severally forfeit and pay the sum of two thousand
dollars, one moiety thereof, to the use of the United
States, and the other moiety thereof, to the use of him or
her, who shall sue for and prosecute the same.
Section III. _And be it further enacted_, That the owner,
master or factor of each and every foreign ship or vessel,
clearing out for any of the coasts or kingdoms of Africa, or
suspected to be intended for the slave-trade, and the
suspicion being declared to the officer of the customs, by
any citizen, on oath or affirmation, and such information
being to the satisfaction of the said officer, shall first
give bond with sufficient sureties, to the Treasurer of the
United States, that none of the natives of Africa, or any
other foreign country or place, shall be taken on board the
said ship or vessel, to be transported, or sold as slaves,
in any other foreign port or place whatever, within nine
months thereafter.
Section IV. _And be it further enacted_, That if any citizen
or citizens of the United States shall, contrary to the true
intent and meaning of this act, take on board, receive or
transport any such persons, as above described, in this act,
for the purpose of selling them as slaves, as aforesaid, he
or they shall forfeit and pay, for each and every person,
so received on board, transported, or sold as aforesaid, the
sum of two hundred dollars, to be recovered in any court of
the United States proper to try the same; the one moiety
thereof, to the use of the United States, and the other
moiety to the use of such person or persons, who shall sue
for and prosecute the same.
FREDERICK AUGUSTUS MUHLENBERG.
_Speaker of the House of Representatives._
JOHN ADAMS, _Vice-President of the United States,
and President of the Senate_.
APPROVED--March the twenty-second, 1794.
G^o: WASHINGTON, _President of the United States_.
That the memorial, to the General Assembly of Connecticut, was
presented, accompanied with a memorial from the Abolition Society of
that state; whereupon, a bill was originated, and passed, in the House
of Representatives, to abolish slavery in Connecticut; which bill was
negatived by a small majority in the legislative Council.
That the memorials, to the Assemblies of New Jersey and Pennsylvania,
were presented, but not acted upon.
That the memorial, to the Delaware Assembly, was presented late in the
session, but no order taken thereon.
That the memorials, to the Legislatures of New York, Maryland, and
Virginia, by reason of accidents, were not presented.
That no certain information is yet | 3,424.084167 |
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Produced by Charles Bowen, from page images provided the Web Archive
Page Scan Source:
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COLLECTION
OF
GERMAN AUTHORS.
VOL. 15.
* * * * *
THE DEAD LAKE & OTHER TALES BY P. HEISE.
IN ONE VOLUME.
THE DEAD LAKE
AND
OTHER TALES
BY
PAUL HEYSE
FROM THE GERMAN BY
BY
MARY WILSON.
_Authorized Edition_.
LEIPZIG 1870
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ.
LONDON: SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE & RIVINGTON.
CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.
PARIS: C. REINWALD & Cie, 15, RUE DES SAINTS PERES.
CONTENTS.
A FORTNIGHT AT THE DEAD LAKE
DOOMED
BEATRICE
BEGINNING, AND END
A FORTNIGHT
AT
THE DEAD LAKE.
THE DEAD LAKE.
Summer was at its heighth, yet in one corner of the Alps an icy cold
wind revolted against its dominion, and threatened to change the
pouring rain into snow flakes. The air was so gloomy that even a house
which stood about a hundred paces from the shore of the lake, could not
be distinguished, although it was white-washed and twilight had hardly
set in.
A fire had been lighted in the kitchen. The landlady was standing by it
frying a dish of fish, while with one foot she rocked a cradle which
stood beside the hearth. In the tap room, the landlord was lying on a
bench by the stove, cursing the flies which would not let him sleep. A
barefooted maid of all work sat spinning in a corner, and now and then
glanced with a sigh, through the dingy panes at the wild storm which
was raging without. A tall strong fellow, the farm servant of the inn,
came grumbling into the room: he shook the rain-drops from his clothes,
like a dog coming out of the water, and threw a heap of wet fishing
nets into a corner. It seemed as if the cloud of discontent and
ill-humour which hung over the house, was only kept by this moody
silence from bursting into a storm of discord and quarreling.
Suddenly the outer door opened, and a stranger's step was heard groping
through the dark passage; the landlord did not move, only the maid
rose, and opened the door of the room.
A man in a travelling suit stood at the entrance, and asked if this was
the inn of the dead lake. As the girl answered shortly in the
affirmative, he walked in, threw his dripping plaid and travelling
pouch on the table, and sat down on the bench apparently exhausted; but
he neither removed his hat heavy with rain nor laid down his walking
stick, as if intending to start again after a short rest.
The maid still stood before him, waiting for his orders, but he seemed
to have forgotten the presence of any one in the room but himself,
leant his head against the wall, and closed his eyes; so deep silence
once more reigned in the hot dark room, only interrupted by the buzzing
of the flies, and the listless sighs of the maid.
At last the landlady brought in the supper; a little lad who stared at
the stranger carried the candle before her. The landlord rose lazily
from his bench, yawned and approached the table leaving to his wife the
charge of inviting the stranger to partake of their meal. The traveller
refused with a silent shake of the head, and the landlady apologized
for the meagreness of their fare. Meat, they had none, except a few
live ducks and chickens. They could not afford to buy it, for their own
use, and now travellers never came that way, for two years ago, a new
road had been made on the other side of the mountain, and the post
which had formerly passed their inn now drove the other way. If the
weather was fine, a tourist, or a painter who wished to sketch the
environs of the lake now and then lodged with them; but they did not
spend or expect much, neither was the selling of a few fish very
profitable.
If however the gentleman wished to remain over night, he would not fare
badly. The bedrooms were just adjoining, and the beds well aired. They
had also a barrel of beer in the cellar, good Tyrolese wine, and their
spirits of gentian was celebrated. But all these offers did not tempt
the guest; he replied that he would stay for the night, and only wished
a jug of fresh water. Then he arose and without casting a single look
at the people seated round the table, and silently eating their supper,
or taking any notice of the little boy of ten, although the child made
the most friendly advances, and gazed admiringly at his gold watch
guard, which sparkled faintly in the dim light. The maid servant took
another candle from the cornice of the stove, and showed him the way to
the next room, where she filled his jug with fresh water, and then left
him to his own thoughts.
The landlord sent an oath after him. "Just their usual luck," he
grumbled, if any guest ever came to them, it was always some idle
vagrant who ordered nothing, and finally took his leave without paying
for his bed, often disappearing in company with the bedclothes. His
wife replied that it was just those folks, who regaled themselves on
all that larder and cellar could supply, and tried to ingratiate
themselves with the landlord. This gentleman was ill in mind or body,
as he neither ate nor drank. At this moment the stranger again entered
the room, and asked if he could have a boat, as he wished to fish on
the lake by torchlight, as soon as the rain had ceased.--The landlady
secretly poked her husband in the side, as if to say "Now, you see! he
is not right in the head; don't contradict him for heaven's sake."
The landlord who was fully aware of the advantage to be gained by this
singular demand, answered in his surly manner, that the gentleman could
have both his boats, though it was not the fashion in these parts to
fish at night, but if it amused him he was welcome to do so. The farm
servant would prepare the torch immediately--so saying, he made a sign
to the tall fellow who was still occupied in picking his fish bones,
and opened the door for his guest.
The rain had not ceased and the water was dashing and gushing from the
gutters. The stranger seemed insensible to any outward discomfort; he
hastily walked towards the shore, and by the light of the lantern which
the farm servant had brought with him, he examined the two boats, as if
he wished to make sure which of them was the safest. They were both
fastened under a shed, where different fishing implements were lying
under some benches. Then sending back the farm servant under some
pretext or other, he sought on the shore of the lake for a couple of
heavy stones, which he placed in the largest of the two boats.--He drew
a deep breath, and stood for a moment with his eyes fixed on the dark
water, which as far as one could see by the light of the lantern was
furrowed by the drizzling rain. The wind had ceased for a moment, the
surf foamed, and dashed round the keel of the small boats; from the
house, one could hear the monotonous sing song of the landlady who was
lulling her baby to sleep. Even this sounded melancholy, reminding more
of the cares of motherhood than of its joys, and heightened the dismal
impression made by the forsaken aspect of this corner of the world.
The stranger was just returning to the house, when he heard on the road
coming from the south, along which he had also | 3,424.086366 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
ALSO BY MAX O'RELL
Crown 8vo., cloth, 3s. 6d.
BETWEEN OURSELVES
'He deserves to be a favourite. His genial familiarity is its own
passport; he entertains you to a peripatetic feast of humour and good
advice.... In short, he is good company, meet him where you will....
Open his new book, "Between Ourselves," at random, and you will find
upon every page something shrewd, reflective, and good-natured. Half
the petty problems that go to make up life are here discussed with ease
and witty garrulity.... Beneath the mask of Max O'Rell's witticism
there is an honest face of experience and common-sense. He even helps
the thoughtless to think a little for himself!'--_Daily Chronicle._
'Truly, Max is a pleasant companion.'--_Morning Leader._
'Max O'Rell is always bright, and he is a pretty keen critic of life.
His book is full of good things, and will be read with profit, even if
in nothing but amusement.'--_Daily Telegraph._
'Everybody must read Max O'Rell's latest, "Between Ourselves." He has
so many wise things to say about many things, and such an irresistibly
charming way of saying them all, that it is difficult to put down this
latest offspring of his.'--_Black and White._
'The keen observation, genial wit, and engaging frankness which combine
to render Max O'Rell one of the most acceptable of social philosophers
have been given an unusually wide field of exercise in the diverting
pages of "Between Ourselves," wherein "some of the little problems of
life"--in point of fact, a good many of them--are discussed with
characteristic humour and point in the author's familiar and always
entertaining style.... Invariably amusing.'--_World._
'One of the most entertaining volumes one could wish to read.... The
book is full of witty and brilliant sayings, so much so that many of
his quaint and pleasant assertions are likely to pass into proverbs....
Always interesting and amusing, sometimes satirical, and never dull,
the author tells us much that the thoughtful may ponder with
advantage.'--_Birmingham Post._
'Extremely readable.... The little chapters are morsels of crisp
common-sense, flavoured with light cynicism, and free from
sermonizing.'--_Daily Mail._
'"Some of the little problems of life" discussed with all the airy
lightness to which we are accustomed from the author, and seasoned by
his usual undeniable truth.'--_Chic._
'Max O'Rell's philosophy has a gay winsomeness all its own. The joy of
living, the beauty of the world, the delights of unselfishness, these
are the themes upon which Max O'Rell, delicious satirist and 'cutest of
observers, discourses. Penetrative sagacity and merry irresponsibility
mingle in a frolicsome way.'--_Literary World._
'It is perhaps not quite up to the high level of "Her Royal Highness
Woman," but will please the large public which delights, with reason,
in all that comes from the pen of Max O'Rell.... On his own ground, in
chaffing the people of this country on their weak points, he is
inimitable.'--_Athenaeum._
'A worthy addition to an already long list.... Altogether, the reader
will find in "Between Ourselves" abundant entertainment, together with
not a little practical wisdom.'--_Daily News._
'Expressed in Max O'Rell's witty and entertaining way. One great merit
of the book is that you can open it at any chance page and make sure of
getting amusement.... He is a close observer of human nature, and has a
witty and trenchant way of expressing himself.'--_Queen._
'There is cheery optimism in every line, and to tired, weary souls it
comes as something of a tonic.'--_Military Mail._
'Witty, amusing, and even instructive.... Few men observe with such
keenness, describe with such fidelity, and write with such sustained
good humour as Max O'Rell. He is a capital exponent of that light,
epigrammatic, and witty style which is essentially Gallic. The book can
be heartily recommended to those who enjoy that sort of literature, and
they are legion.'--_Empire._
'Bright, breezy, and entertaining, as usual.'--_To-day._
'Open the book where you will, something pleasant and readable will be
found.'--_Glasgow Herald._
'Shrewd, humorous talk.... These entertaining pages.... Well, there is
the book, with a red girl on its green cover, and a deal of pleasant
beckoning in its many chapters and myriad paragraphs.'--_Academy._
'This delightfully entertaining volume.... There are few types of men
and women, few phases of life and character, which escape his shrewd
perception, and of everyone he gossips in the airiest, wittiest
fashion.... "Between Ourselves" is charming.'--_Lady's Pictorial._
'Max O'Rell is a true humourist, a clever satirist, and an entirely
human man.... This last work is certain to be as popular as "Her Royal
Highness Woman."'--_Western Mail._
'There is a large amount of wisdom in its pages and much
amusement.'--_Week's Survey._
LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS, 111 ST. MARTIN'S LANE, W.C.
ALSO BY MAX O'RELL
Crown 8vo., cloth, 3s. 6d.
RAMBLES IN WOMANLAND
'Max O'Rell has in this volume given us another entertaining and
delightful dissertation upon woman and her kind. What Max O'Rell does
not know about the sex to which he has not the honour to belong is
hardly worth knowing.'--_St. James's Gazette._
'It is too late in the day to dwell upon the features of style which
render the work of Max O'Rell such easy and agreeable reading, and it
is unnecessary to illustrate his pretty gift of phrase-making. He has
gained his own place among popular authors, and offers no sign of
vacating it.'--_Pall Mall Gazette._
'We hardly know whether to recommend the book to our readers or not.
They will not put it down, once begun--that is certain.'--_Spectator._
'Max O'Rell, in his new book, expresses in his own peculiar and
entertaining way many witty, satirical, and humorous ideas on the
subject of the "eternal woman."'--_Daily Express._
'Max O'Rell is always entertaining, and provokes friendly discussion as
readily as any writer I know. His new book contains many aphorisms, and
some of them are very good.'--_British Weekly._
'Max O'Rell supplies, not for the first time, a delightful mixture of
commonplace and common-sense.'--_Daily Chronicle._
'We have no doubt a great many people will enjoy the book, and the
enjoyment will be innocent and wholesome.'--_Academy._
'Max O'Rell's chaff is excellent, and all in perfect good
taste.'--_Pelican._
'The genial author takes up the cudgels on behalf of the better-looking
sex in a way which should make his book tremendously popular with lady
readers--especially the married ones.... A very entertaining
book.'--_Golden Penny._
'Contains some delightful reading.... It is a book happy in idea,
felicitous in expression, cynically frank and refreshing in its
candour.'--_Gossip._
'Another collection of amusing and epigrammatic essays.... Max O'Rell,
as everyone knows, has the gift of discoursing fluently and amusingly
on any subject on which he touches, and to English and American people
his good humoured criticisms are particularly valuable, as they are not
only sound and sane in themselves, but they are written from an outside
standpoint.'--_Morning Leader._
'Women will not feel sorry that Max O'Rell's last work should be his
new book on the fair sex. For many a year he has helped us with his
gentle raillery, cheered us with his bright humour, and taught us much.
"Rambles in Womanland" contains many little personal reminiscences and
revelations, and its author's wit is undimmed. The book is full of
epigrams, bons mots, and piquant criticisms.'--_Gentlewoman._
'Max O'Rell's last book will add to the regret that his genial pen will
write no more. Usually there is a tone of gaiety in what he says, but
at all times he discusses important problems with all seriousness, and
with not a little of the wisdom with which a wide knowledge of the
world had endowed him. Max O'Rell's writings have always been notable
for witty epigrammatic sentences.... His last work is a bright and
engaging book.'--_Daily Telegraph._
'With a pretty wit and a turn for epigram this writer can scarcely be
dull, and no one will turn to one or other of these chatty chapters
without being pleasantly entertained.'--_Scotsman._
'Liveliness, amiability, charm, honourable sentiment, humour, every
quality that the best kind of French culture produces, are open to
anyone who can read English in the pages of Max O'Rell. Every page of
these "Rambles" is sprinkled over with aphorisms.... This most
entertaining book.'--_Vanity Fair._
'There is much that is entertaining in these short pithy comments on
women's characteristics, and occasionally criticism that penetrates
deep beneath the surface, and reveals a vast amount of observation and
knowledge of the world.... The book is full of smart sayings and clever
aphorisms.'--_Publishers' Circular._
'Whatever his theme, he is always bright, and the coruscations of his
wit are exceedingly diverting.... This last contribution is full of
good things, placed in an amusing setting.... These are but a few
maxims culled from a crowded garden.... This wonderful little
volume.'--_Echo._
'"Rambles in Womanland" has between its covers much wisdom, served up
with a pretty garnish of wit and that wholesome sauce--common-sense.
Indeed, Max O'Rell has written nothing better than--in fact, nothing so
good as--"Rambles in Womanland." Here we have his riper wisdom, his
fuller experience; but while he has gained in wisdom or experience, he
has not lost his spiciness or his power of brief, terse
epigram.'--_Black and White._
'Full of sparkling common-sense.'--_T. P.' | 3,424.183352 |
2023-11-16 19:14:08.2315080 | 2,044 | 19 |
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 42246-h.htm or 42246-h.zip:
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Images of the original pages are available through
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
QUICKSILVER SUE
[Illustration: READING CLARICE'S LETTER.]
QUICKSILVER SUE
by
LAURA E. RICHARDS
Author of "Captain January," etc.
Illustrated by W. D. Stevens
New York
The Century Co.
1901
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I SOMETHING EXCITING 1
II THE NEW-COMER 16
III MARY'S VIEW 34
IV EARLY IN THE MORNING 50
V THE PICNIC 67
VI AT THE HOTEL 89
VII THE MYSTERY, AND WHAT CAME OF IT 105
VIII THE CIRCUS 122
IX THE LONELY ROAD 140
X ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL 158
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
READING CLARICE'S LETTER _Frontispiece_
PAGE
MISS CLARICE PACKARD RUSTLED INTO HER
FATHER'S PEW 27
ON THE WAY TO THE PICNIC 63
EACH CAME FORWARD AND SHOOK CLARICE'S
GLOVED HAND SOLEMNLY 79
"MARY AND I HAVE PARTED--PARTED FOREVER" 113
AT THE CIRCUS 137
MARY STATIONED HERSELF AT THE WINDOW 145
QUICKSILVER SUE
CHAPTER I
SOMETHING EXCITING
"Mother! Mother! he has a daughter! Isn't that perfectly fine?"
Mrs. Penrose looked up wearily; her head ached, and Sue was so noisy!
"Who has a daughter?" she asked. "Can't you speak a little lower, Sue?
Your voice goes through my head like a needle. Who is it that has a
daughter?"
Sue's bright face fell for an instant, and she swung her sunbonnet
impatiently; but the next moment she started again at full speed.
"The new agent for the Pashmet Mills, Mother. Everybody is talking
about it. They are going to live at the hotel. They have taken the
best rooms, and Mr. Binns has had them all painted and papered,--the
rooms, I mean, of course,--and new curtains, and everything. Her name
is Clarice, and she is fifteen, and very pretty; and he is real
rich--"
"_Very_ rich," corrected her mother, with a little frown of pain.
"Very rich," Sue went on; "and her clothes are simply fine;
and--and--oh, Mother, isn't it elegant?"
"Sue, where have you been?" asked her mother, rousing herself. (Bad
English was one of the few things that did rouse Mrs. Penrose.) "Whom
have you been talking with, child? I am sure you never hear Mary Hart
say 'isn't it elegant'!"
"Oh! Mary is a schoolma'am, Mother. But I never did say it before, and
I won't again--truly I won't. Annie Rooney told me, and she said it,
and so I didn't think. Annie is going to be waitress at the hotel, you
know, and she's just as excited as I am about it."
"Annie Rooney is not a suitable companion for you, my daughter, and I
am not interested in hotel gossip. Besides, my head aches too much to
talk any more."
"I'll go and tell Mary!" said Sue.
"Will you hand me my medicine before you go, Sue?"
But Sue was already gone. The door banged, and the mother sank back
with a weary, fretful sigh. Why was Sue so impetuous, so unguided? Why
was she not thoughtful and considerate, like Mary Hart?
Sue whirled upstairs like a breeze, and rushed into her own room. The
room, a pleasant, sunny one, looked as if a breeze were blowing in it
all day long. A jacket was tossed on one chair, a dress on another.
The dressing-table was a cheerful litter of ribbons, photographs,
books, papers, and hats. (This made it hard to find one's brush and
comb sometimes; but then, it was convenient to have the other things
where one could get at them.) There was a writing-table, but the
squirrel lived on that; it was the best place to put the cage, because
he liked the sun. (Sue never would have thought of moving the table
somewhere else and leaving the space for the cage.) And the closet
was entirely full and running over. The walls were covered with
pictures of every variety, from the Sistine Madonna down to a splendid
four-in-hand cut out of the "Graphic." Most of them had something
hanging on the frame--a bird's nest, or a branch of barberries, or a
tangle of gray moss. Sometimes the picture could still be seen; again,
it could not, except when the wind blew the adornment aside.
Altogether, the room looked as if some one had a good time in it, and
as if that some one were always in a hurry; and this was the case.
"Shall I telephone," said Sue, "or shall I send a pigeon? Oh, I can't
stop to go out to the dove-cote; I'll telephone."
She ran to the window, where there was a curious arrangement of wires
running across the street to the opposite house. She rang a bell and
pulled a wire, and another bell jingled in the distance. Then she took
up an object which looked like (and indeed was) the half of a pair of
opera-glasses with the glass taken out. Holding this to her mouth, she
roared softly: "Hallo, Central! Hallo!"
There was a pause; then a voice across the street replied in muffled
tones: "Hallo! What number?"
"Number five hundred and seven. Miss Mary Hart."
Immediately a girl appeared at the opposite window, holding the other
barrel of the opera-glass to her lips.
"Hallo!" she shouted. "What do you want?"
"Oh, Mary, have you heard?"
"No. What?"
"Why, there's a girl coming to live at the hotel--coming to stay all
summer! Her father is agent of the Pashmet Mills. She is two years
older than we are. Isn't that perfectly fine, Mary? I'm just as
excited as I can be about it. I can't stand still a minute."
"So I see," said Mary Hart, who had a round, rosy, sensible face, and
quiet blue eyes. "But do try to stand still, Sue! People don't jump up
and down when they are telephoning, you know."
"Oh! I can't help it, Mary. My feet just seem to go of themselves.
Isn't it perfectly splendid, Mary? You don't seem to care one bit. I'm
sorry I told you, Mary Hart."
"Oh, no, you're not!" said Mary, good-naturedly. "But how can I tell
whether it is splendid or not, Sue, before I have seen the girl? What
is her name?"
"Oh! didn't I tell you? Clarice Packard. Isn't that a perfectly lovely
name? Oh, Mary, I just can't wait to see her; can you? It's so
exciting! I thought there was never going to be anything exciting
again, and now just see! Don't you hope she will know how to act, and
dress up, and things? I do."
"Suppose you come over and tell me more about it," Mary suggested. "I
must shell the peas now, and I'll bring them out on the door-step;
then we can sit and shell them together while you tell me."
"All right; I'll come right over."
Sue turned quickly, prepared to dash out of the room as she had dashed
into it, but caught her foot in a loop of the wire that she had
forgotten to hang up, and fell headlong over a chair. The chair and
Sue came heavily against the squirrel's cage, sending the door, which
was insecurely fastened, flying open. Before Sue could pick herself
up, Mister Cracker was out, frisking about on the dressing-table, and
dangerously near the open window.
"Oh! what shall I do?" cried Sue. "That horrid old wire! Cracker, now
be good, | 3,424.251548 |
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Transcriber's Note:
Text within {xx} following ^ = text inserted above the line.
[Illustration: The Purple Cow!]
Published by William Doxey, at the Sign of the Lark, San Francisco.
Copyright.
The Lark Book I., Nos. 1-12, with Table of Contents and Press Comments;
bound in canvas, with a cover design (The Piping Faun) by Bruce Porter,
painted in three colors. Price, 3.00, post-paid.
[Illustration: _THE LARK_
_Book 1 Nos. 1-12_]
_NOTES ON THE BIRTH OF THE LARK_
_Boston Herald._--"The pictures and rhymes in _The Lark_ rank with
the most remarkable things done for children since the days of Mother
Goose."
_Boston Budget._--"_The Lark_ is a reaction against the decadent spirit.
It is blithe, happy, full of the joy of life and the Greek within us--a
herald of the dawn of the new century."
_Boston Commonwealth._--"Everything in _The Lark_ is clever--some, we
may be permitted to add, cleverer than the rest."
_New York Critic._--"The faddists have produced some extraordinary
things in the way of literature, but nothing more freakish has made its
appearance in the last half-century than _The Lark_."
_New York Tribune._--"It is perhaps one-fourth a monthly periodical and
three-fourths an escapade. _The Lark_ ought really to be called 'The
Goose.'"
_New York Herald._--"The current number of _The Lark_ is, if possible,
more curious, more quaint, more preposterously humorous, and more
original than its predecessors. It is entirely unlike any other
publication."
_Richmond Times._--"We do not understand upon what the editor of
_The Lark_ bases anticipation of interest and consequent demand."
_Philadelphia Times._--"The young men who publish _The Lark_ have ideas
of their own. _The Lark_ is smart and funny in a way quite its own, and
it is also capable of serious flights and of musical notes clear enough
to be heard across the continent."
_Cincinnati Commercial Gazette._--"The worst thing about it being that
it is all too brief."
_Jersey City Chronicle._--"Every line in it is well worth perusal."
_St. Paul Globe._--"_The Lark_ partakes of the prevalent temper of life
on the Pacific Coast, where the don't-care mood of the West takes an
especially sunny and cheerful turn, and life looks a bigger joke than
elsewhere in the Union."
_St. Louis Mirror._--"_The Lark_ continues to be odd and ridiculous. Its
humor is quite unlike any other humor ever seen in this country. There
are good men with good pens working on _The Lark_."
_Kansas City Star._--"_The Lark_ seems to have attained a distinction
hitherto considered impossible in the unconventional. It seems really
original. It succeeds in holding in captivity the unexpected."
_Los Angeles: The Land of Sunshine._--"It is unlike anything nearer to
hand than 'Alice in Wonderland.'"
#Lark Posters.#--The full set of Eight Posters for THE LARK will be sent
post-paid for $2.00. The Lark Posters are printed from wooden blocks,
all but the first two having been cut by the artist.
May, 1895 _The Piping Faun_ Bruce Porter
Aug., 1895 _Mother and Child_ Florence Lundborg
Nov., 1895 _Mt. Tamalpais_ Florence Lundborg
Feb., 1896 _Robin Hood_ Florence Lundborg
May, 1896 _The Oread_ Florence Lundborg
Aug., 1896 _Pan Pipes_ Florence Lundborg
Nov., 1896 _Redwood_ Florence Lundborg
Feb., 1897 _Sunrise_ Florence Lundborg
_Published by_ WM. DOXEY, _at the Sign of the Lark, San Francisco._
CONTENTS
DEDICATION.
1. A LEGEND, Rare and Superfine,
Cribbed, some will say, from FRANKENSTEIN,
(It _is_ a little in that line).
2. MY FEET; a Memoir, with a Phase
Resembling some Equestrian Ways.
3. TH' INVISIBLE BRIDGE; a sort of Fable,--
Please understand, if you're able.
4. THE RUNAWAY TRAIN; a weird Creation
Of Fancy and Imagination,
Meant for the Rising Generation.
5. On CITY FLORA, semi-culled
By one whose Fame was somewhat dulled.
6. ASTONISHMENT; depicting how
Peculiar is the Verdant Bough.
7. The PURPLE COW'S projected Feast;
Reflections on a Mythic Beast
That's quite Remarkable, at least.
8. MY HOUSE, and how I make MY BED;
A Nocturne for a Sleepy-Head.
9. On DIGITAL EXTREMITIES;
A Poem (and a gem it is!)
10. THE GOOP; constructed on a Plan
Beyond the Intellect of Man.
11. PARISIAN NECTAR for the Gods;
A little thick--but what's the odds?
12. THE FLYING HOUSE; a Narrative
Of Sanity comparative,
And nothing much declarative.
(_Permission of S. F. Examiner._)
13. The Story of the GIANT HORSE;
'T is quite improbable, of course.
14. _WHAT_ SMITH _TRIED TO_ BELIEVE; a Study
That will appeal to anybuddy.
15. The TOWEL AND THE DOOR,--ah well!
I'll not attempt the Tale to tell.
16. The TOWEL AND THE DOOR again!
The Story's told--is it in vain?
17. The FOOTLESS FEAT of Mrs. Box
_Posteaque, fiat Nox!_
18. And now, allow the PURPLE COW
To make her Bow.
TO THE
READERS OF "_THE LARK_"
WHO HAVE LAUGHED
THEY KNEW NOT WHY,
THESE INARTISTIC ABERRATIONS
ARE GRATEFULLY DEDICATED.
GELETT BURGESS
_THE PECULIAR HISTORY OF THE CHEWING-GUM MAN._
O Willie, an' Wallie, an' Huldy Ann,
They went an' built a big CHEWIN'-GUM MAN:
It was none o' your teenty little dots,
With pinhole eyes an' pencil-spots;
But this was a terribul big one--well,
'T was a'most as high as the Palace Hotel!
_It took 'em a year to chew the gum!!_
And Willie he done it all, 'cept some
That Huldy got her ma to chew,
By the time the head was ready to do.
* * * * *
Well, Willie he chewed it for days 'n' days;
They brung it to him in gret big drays;
An' fast as he got it good an' soft,
Then Wallie he come and carried it oft.
Then he'd roll it into a gret big ball,
_An' he made a-more'n a MILLION in all!_
Then Huldy Ann she spanked 'em flat
An' pinched an' poked, an' the like o' that,
Till she got it inter a gret big hunk--
My! didn't Huldy have the spunk!
And then she sliced one end half-way
To make the laigs ('cause they never stay
When you stick 'em on in a seprit piece--
Seems like the ends was made o' grease);
And she slit an arm right up each side,--
I couldn't a done it if I'd a tried!
O' course, her brothers they helped her, though,
An' rolled the arms an' laigs out, so
They all was smooth with roundin' bends
An' _chopped_ the fingers inter the ends!
An' when their mother had chewn the head,
She went an' _stuck_ it on, instead!
An' then, when the man was almost done,
They had an awful lots o' fun.
A-walkin' down his stummick was best
To make the buttons onter his vest!
They struck big cartwheels in him for eyes;
His eyes was both tremendous size;
His nose was a barrel--an' then beneath
They used a ladder, to make his teeth!
An' when he was layin' acrost the street
Along come their daddy, as white's a sheet,--
He was skeert half outer his wits, I guess,
An' he didn't know whatter make o' the mess,--
But Huldy she up an' begun to coax
To have him down town, to skeer the folks!
So her dad he grabbed him offen the street,
An' Willie an' Wallie they took his feet,
An' they dragged him clean down to the Cogswell fountain,
An' stood him up as big as a mountain!
You'd orter seen him a-standin' there,
A-straddlin' Market street in the air!
Well, he stood up straight for a week 'n' a half
An' the folks, Gee! didn't they yell 'n' laff:
The boys clum up his laigs quite bold--
The gum was so soft they got good hold;
The cars run under him day an' night,
An' the people come miles to see the sight!
Well, after he'd stayed as stiff's a post,
With his head on top o' the roofts almost,
The sun come outer the fog one day
An'--well, I guess you can see the way
That gret big feller begun to melt;--
_Imagine how Willie and Wallie felt!_
For first he cocked his head out some,
An' when the heat got inter the gum
He slowly waved his arms ahead
An' slanted forred, just like he was dead!
[Illustration]
An' all day long he leaned an' bent
Till all expected he would have went
An' pitched right over. They roped the street
To keep the crowd away from his feet.
I tell yer he was a sight; my soul!
Twicet as high as a telegraft pole,
Wavin' his arms an' slumpin' his feet
An' a-starin' away down Market street.
Then, what did I tell yer--that blame old head
Their mother had made a-seprit, instead,--
It fell right off an' squashed a horse!
('T was so soft, it didn't _kill_ him, o' course.)
When his hands got so they touched the ground
A hundred policemen they come around;
They stuck a cable-car to his feet,
An' one to his head, a goin' up street,
An' then they pulled him opposite ways,
An' they pulled him for days 'n' days 'n' days,
An' they drored him out so slim an' small
That he reached a _mile 'n' a half_, in all.
An' that was the end o' the CHEWIN'-GUM MAN
For Willie, an' Wallie, an' Huldy Ann.
They come along with an ax next day,
An' chopped him up, and guv him away.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
My Feet they haul me 'round the House;
They hoist me up the Stairs;
I only have to steer them and
They ride me everywheres.
[Illustration]
I'd never dare to walk across
A Bridge I could not see,
For quite afraid of falling off
I fear that I should be!
_ADULT'S DEPARTMENT:_
Oh, Willie and Wallie and Pinkie Jane!
They run away with a Railroad Train!
'T was Wallie got up the ridiculous plan,--
'T was most as good as the Chewin'-Gum Man!
Wallie is terribul funny--My!
He can make up a face that would make you die,
An' when Pinkie Jane come down to the city
He tried to show off, for she's awful pretty.
So they all went over across the Bay,
To have a picnic, and spend the day.
At Sixteenth Street they got off the cars
A-grinnin' an' giggling so,--My Stars!
A Enormus Crowd begun to collect,
But nobuddy knew just what to expect.
Then up the track come a little spot,
An' nearer and nearer and NEARER it got,
And Willie and Wallie and Pinkie Jane
Stood right in the road of the Overland Train!!!
The folks on the platform begun to yell,
"_Look out!--get off!!_" an' the engine bell
[Illustration]
_THE RUNAWAY TRAIN_:
Was ringin' like mad,--but them children stood
As calm as if they was made of wood!
And a great big fat man yelled,--"_Oh Golly!
For Heaven's sakes, just look at Wallie!_"
As the train came thunderin' down the rail,
The wimmin all turned terribul pale.
But Wallie he stood there, stiff's a soldier,
An' then (you remember what I told yer)
He made up a horribul face,--and whack!
He SCARED THE ENGINE RIGHT OFF'N THE TRACK!
An' the train jumped forreds an' squirmed around,
A-wrigglin' an' jigglin' over the ground;
And all the people they had to git,
For the blame old engine it had a fit!
But when the train got onto the track,
Them children they clum right onto its back,
And they tickled it so that all to once
It gave 'em a lot of shivers an' grunts,
And it humped itself way up in the air,
And p'raps it didn't give them a scare!
[Illustration]
_AN IMPOSSIBLE EPIC_:
Then it puffed an' puffed, a-faster an' faster,
While Wallie sat there like an old school-master,
A-drivin' that train till, I tell you what!
You no idea what a nerve he's got!
Willie he held on to Wallie, an' Jane
Held onto Willie with might and main.
Then they hitched along, like an old inch-worm,
With now a spazzum, and then a squirm;
But Willie and Wallie and Pinkie Jane,
They soon got sick o' that Railroad train!
But when they crawled to the last end car
To jump on the ground, where it wasn't far,
They got a heap worse off, instead,
For that nasty train, it stood on its head!
An' they all yelled, "Telegraft Huldy Ann,
And make her come as quick as she can.
We can't get off. Oh, hurry up, please!
What would we do if the thing should sneeze?"
[Illustration]
_SEQUEL TO THE CHEWING-GUM MAN_
I tell yer them children was in a fix
While that mad engine was doin' his tricks.
But the messenger-boy found Huldy Ann,
An' she said, "I'm glad that I ain't a man!
I'll show 'em how!" an' she crossed the Bay,
An' she see in a wink where the trouble lay.
An' she said, "You go, an' you telegraft back
For a load o' candy to block the track!"
An' when they sent it, she piled it high
With chocolate caram | 3,424.251802 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Moti Ben-Ari and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
[Illustration: PRESIDENT WILSON
The first portrait of President Wilson since America entered the war,
taken at the White House March 19, 1918
((C) _Sun Printing and Publishing Association_)]
[Illustration: FERDINAND FOCH
Generalissimo of the allied armies on the western front]
CURRENT HISTORY
_A Monthly Magazine of_ =The New York Times=
Published by The New York Times Company, Times Square, New York, N. Y.
Vol. VIII.} No. 2 25 Cents a Copy
Part I. } May, 1918 $3.00 a Year
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
CURRENT HISTORY CHRONICLED 191
THE BATTLE OF PICARDY: A Military Review 197
The British Reverses and Their Causes By a Military Observer 205
FOUR EPIC WEEKS OF CARNAGE By Philip Gibbs 209
How General Carey Saved Amiens 219
Battle Viewed From the French Front By G. H. Perris 221
Caring for Thousands of Refugees 228
PROGRESS OF THE WAR: Chronology to April 18 231
RUSSIA UNDER GERMAN DOMINATION 235
The Czar's Loyalty to the Allies: An Autograph Letter 239
PERSHING'S ARMY UNDER GENERAL FOCH 240
Our War Machine in New Phases 243
Shortage in Aircraft Production 245
AMERICA'S FIRST YEAR OF WAR 247
War Department's Improved System By Benedict Crowell 254
The Surgeon General's Great Organization By Caswell A. Mayo 256
WAR WORK OF THE AMERICAN RED CROSS 258
GREAT BRITAIN FACES A CRISIS By David Lloyd George 263
RUSSIA AND THE ALLIES By Arthur J. Balfour 272
PRESIDENT WILSON ON THE RUSSIAN TREATIES 275
AMERICAN LIBERTY'S CRUCIAL HOUR By William E. Borah 278
_Contents Continued on Next Page_
Copyright, 1918, by The New York Times Company. All Rights Reserved.
Entered at the Post Offices in New York and in Canada as Second Class
Matter.
DEFENDING THE WORLD'S RIGHT TO DEMOCRACY By J. Hamilton Lewis 281
Messenger Dogs in the German Army 283
FULL RECORD OF SINKINGS BY U-BO | 3,424.345544 |
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THE MENTOR
"A Wise and Faithful Guide and Friend"
Vol. I No. 33
BEAUTIFUL BUILDINGS of the WORLD
TAJ MAHAL SALISBURY CATHEDRAL
THE ALHAMBRA [Illustration] CHÂTEAU de CHAMBORD
AMIENS CATHEDRAL NEW YORK CITY HALL
_By CLARENCE WARD_
_Professor of Architecture, Rutgers College_
Beauty in architecture is as difficult to define as beauty in nature.
No single factor renders a building beautiful. Size and proportion,
style and decoration, age and setting, all enter into account. And
moreover there is the power a building possesses to appeal to the
ideals of the beholder, to his mind as well as to his sight and touch.
Even when judged from this broad viewpoint, the number of beautiful
buildings in the world is legion. It would be impossible to point to
anyone as the finest, or even to select a dozen without leaving a dozen
more that were equally beautiful. Every age, and every nation, has left
to us some crowning achievements of the builder's art. The following
are therefore merely selections from this storehouse, illustrating to
some degree the wealth of architectural treasures that is our heritage.
Few if any buildings in the world have been the subject of such praise
as that bestowed upon the Taj Mahal ("Gem of Buildings"). Travelers,
painters, authors, and poets have all sought to express in word or
color the indefinable charm of this gem of Indian art. Built at Agra,
in India, by the great mogul of Delhi, Shah Jahan, as a tomb for his
favorite wife, Mumtaz Mahal, the Taj is a veritable translation into
stone of human remembrance and affection. It was begun in 1632, and
was completed in twenty-two years. The material of which it is built
is pure white marble, and inlaid in its walls are jaspers, agates, and
other stones in marvelous designs. But it is perhaps the dome that
gives the greatest beauty to this tomb. Of typical Eastern shape, it
rises a mass of white against the deep blue of the Indian sky, or
shines like silver in the radiance of the Indian moon.
[Illustration: THE TAJ MAHAL
_The approach through the splendid gardens seen in the foreground is
bordered by dark cypress trees, which contrast admirably with the color
of the marble domes beyond._]
THE WORLD'S MOST BEAUTIFUL TOMB
It cannot be denied that the Taj Mahal (tahzh mah-hahl´) owes much
of its beauty to its setting. Not merely has it the contrast of the
brilliant sky above, but also the deep green of the gardens at its
feet, and more than this the four tall, graceful minarets standing
like sentinels at the corners of the marble terrace on which the tomb
is placed. The interior is scarcely less impressive than this outside
view. Its subdued light serves only to show more clearly the beauty
of the garlands of red and blue and green inlaid along its walls as
never-withering memorials of the queen who sleeps beneath the lofty
dome.
It is perhaps beside her tomb that the traveler sees a vision of the
proud and mighty Jahan, cruel in many ways, but steadfast in his love,
building this glorious resting place for his fair consort, whom he
called by the familiar name of Taj. One may see even farther still and
picture to himself this once proud ruler, bereft of all his power and
even of his throne, looking out from his chamber window toward this
same Taj Mahal. Perhaps its wondrous dome gleamed in the moonlight on
that last night before he came to rest beneath its shades as it gleams
today to the enraptured gaze of thousands who take the pilgrimage to
Agra to see this wonder of the Eastern world.
THE PALACE OF THE MOORISH KINGS
It is not such a step as it may seem from the Taj Mahal to the Alhambra
(al-ham'-bra). Both are oriental. Both are the products of Mohammedan
art, and mark in a way its Eastern and its Western expressions. As
early as the eighth century of our era the Moors of northern Africa
crossed to Spain and made the Iberian peninsula a Moorish califate
or kingdom. Its capital and last stronghold was Granada. And here on
a lofty hill, overlooking the city, King or Calif Al Hamar began the
mighty fortress of the Alhambra | 3,424.345551 |
2023-11-16 19:14:08.3256980 | 30 | 98 |
Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org
(Images generously made available by the Internet Archive | 3,424.345738 |
2023-11-16 19:14:08.3303480 | 7,436 | 9 |
Produced by Marcia Brooks, Cindy Beyer and the Distributed
Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net.
SUMMER CRUISE
IN
THE MEDITERRANEAN.
SUMMER CRUISE
IN
THE MEDITERRANEAN
ON BOARD AN AMERICAN FRIGATE.
BY
N. PARKER WILLIS.
LONDON:
T. BOSWORTH, 215, REGENT STREET.
1853.
LONDON:
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS
PREFACE.
* * * * *
Of one of the most delicious episodes in a long period of foreign
travel, this volume is the imperfect and hastily written transcript.
Even at the time it was written, the author felt its experience to be a
dream—so exempt was it from the interrupting and qualifying drawbacks
of happiness in common and working life—but, now, after an interval of
many years, it seems indeed like a dream, and one so full of unmingled
pleasure, that its telling almost wants the contrast of a sadness. Of
the noble ship, whose summer cruise is described, and her kind and
hospitable officers, the recollection is as fresh and grateful now, as
when, (twenty years ago,) the author bade them farewell in the port of
Smyrna. Of the scenes he passed through, while their guest, he has a
less perfect remembrance—relying indeed on these chance memoranda, for
much that would else be forgotten. It is with a mingled sense of the
real and the unreal, therefore, that the book is offered, in a new
shape, to the Public, whose approbation has encouraged its long
existence, and the author trusts that his thanks to the surviving
officers of that ship may again reach them, and that the kind favour of
the reading Public may be again extended to this his record of what he
saw in the company of these officers, and by their generous hospitality.
HIGHLAND TERRACE,
_October, 1852_.
CONTENTS.
* * * * *
LETTER I.
Cruise in the Frigate “United States”—Elba—Piombino—Porto
Ferrajo—Appearance of the Bay—Naval Discipline—Visit to the
Town Residence of Napoleon—His Employment during his
Confinement on the Island—His sisters Eliza and Pauline—His
Country House—Simplicity of the Inhabitants of Elba 1
LETTER II.
Visit to Naples, Herculaneum, and Pompeii 7
LETTER III.
Account of Vesuvius—The Hermitage—The famous Lagrima
Christi—Difficulties of the Path—Curious Appearance of the Old
Crater—Odd Assemblage of Travellers—The New Crater—Splendid
Prospect—Mr. Mathias, Author of the Pursuits of Literature—The
Archbishop of Tarento 16
LETTER IV.
The Fashionable World of Naples at the Races—Brilliant Show of
Equipages—The King and his Brother—Rank and Character of the
Jockeys—Description of the Races—The Public Burial Ground at
Naples—Horrid and inhuman Spectacles—The Lazzaroni—The Museum
at Naples—Ancient Relics from Pompeii—Forks not used by the
Ancients—The Lamp lit at the time of our Saviour—The antique
Chair of Sallust—The Villa of Cicero—The Balbi Family—Bacchus
on the Shoulders of a Faun—Gallery of Dians, Cupids, Joves,
Mercuries, and Apollos, Statue of Aristides, &c. 23
LETTER V.
Pæstum—Temple of Neptune—Departure from Elba—Ischia—Bay of
Naples—The Toledo—The Young Queen—Conspiracy against the
King—Neapolitans Visiting the Frigates—Leave the
Bay—Castellamare 32
LETTER VI.
Baiæ—Grotto of Posilipo—Tomb of Virgil—Pozzuoli—Ruins of the
Temple of Jupiter Serapis—The Lucrine Lake—Late of Avernus,
the Tartarus of Virgil—Temple of Proserpine—Grotto of the
Cumæan Sybil—Nero’s villa—Cape of Misenum—Roman villas—Ruins
of the Temple of Venus—-Cento Camerelle—The Stygian Lake—The
Elysian Fields—Grotto del Cane—Villa of Lucullus 38
LETTER VII.
Island of Sicily—Palermo—Saracenic appearance of the
town—Cathedral—The Marina—Viceroy Leopold—Monastery of the
Capuchins—Celebrated Catacombs—Fanciful Gardens 45
LETTER VIII.
The Lunatic Asylum at Palermo 51
LETTER IX.
Palermo—Fête given by Mr. Gardiner, the American Consul—Temple
of Clitumnus—Cottage of Petrarch—Messina—Lipari
Islands—Scylla and Charybdis 57
LETTER X.
The Adriatic—Albania—Gay Costumes and Beauty of the
Albanese—Capo d’Istria—Trieste resembles an American
Town—Visit to the Austrian Authorities of the
Province—Curiosity of the Inhabitants—Gentlemanly Reception by
the Military Commandant—Visit to Vienna—Singular Notions of
the Austrians respecting the Americans—Similarity of the
Scenery to that of New England—Meeting with German
Students—Frequent Sight of Soldiers and Military
Preparation—Picturesque Scenery of Styria 63
LETTER XI.
Gratz—Vienna 70
LETTER XII.
Vienna—Magnificence of the Emperor’s Manège—The Young Queen of
Hungary—The Palace—Hall of Curiosities, Jewelry, &c.—The
Polytechnic School—Geometrical Figures described by the
Vibrations of Musical Notes—Liberal Provision for the Public
Institutions—Popularity of the Emperor 76
LETTER XIII.
Vienna—Palaces and Gardens—Mosaic Copy of Da Vinci’s “Last
Supper”—Collection of Warlike Antiquities; Scanderburg’s Sword,
Montezuma’s Tomahawk, Relics of the Crusaders, Warriors in
Armour, the Farmer of Augsburg—Room of Portraits of Celebrated
Individuals—Gold Busts of Jupiter and Juno—The Glacis, full of
Gardens, the General Resort of the People—Universal Spirit of
Enjoyment—Simplicity and Confidence in the Manners of the
Viennese—Baden 82
LETTER XIV.
Vienna—The Palace of Liechstenstein 87
LETTER XV.
The Palace of Schoenbrunn—Hietzing, the Summer Retreat of the
Wealthy Viennese—Country-House of the American Consul—Specimen
of Pure Domestic Happiness in a German Family—Splendid Village
Ball—Substantial Fare for the Ladies—Curious Fashion of
Cushioning the Windows—German Grief—The Upper Belvidere
Palace—Endless Quantity of Pictures 92
LETTER XVI.
Departure from Vienna—The Eil-Wagon—Motley quality of the
passengers—Thunderstorm in the Mountains of
Styria—Trieste—Short Beds of the Germans—Grotto of
Adelsburgh—Curious Ball-Room in the Cavern—Nautical
preparations for a Dance on board the “United States” swept away
by the Bora—Its successful Termination 98
LETTER XVII.
Trieste, its Extensive Commerce—Hospitality of Mr. Moore—Ruins
of Pola—Immense Amphitheatre—Village of Pola—Coast of
Dalmatia, of Apulia and Calabria—Otranto—Sails for the Isles
of Greece 106
LETTER XVIII.
The Ionian Isles—Lord and Lady Nugent—Corfu—Greek and English
Soldiers—Cockneyism—The Gardens of Alcinous—English
Officers—Albanians—Dionisio Salomos, the Greek Poet—Greek
Ladies—Dinner with the Artillery Mess 110
LETTER XIX.
Corfu—Unpopularity of British Rule—Superstition of the
Greeks—Accuracy of the Descriptions in the Odyssey—Advantage
of the Greek Costume—The Paxian Isles—Cape Leucas, or Sappho’s
Leap—Bay of Navarino, Ancient Pylos—Modon—Coran’s Bay—Cape
St. Angelo—Isle of Cythera 115
LETTER XX.
The Harbour of Napoli—Tricoupi and Mavrocordato, Otho’s Cabinet
Councillors—Colonel Gordon—King Otho—The Misses
Armanspergs—Prince of Saxe—Miaulis, the Greek
Admiral—Excursion to Argos, the ancient Terynthus 122
LETTER XXI.
Visit from King Otho and Miaulis—Visit an English and Russian
Frigate—Beauty of the Greek men—Lake Lerna—The Hermionicus
Sinus—Hydra—Ægina 129
LETTER XXII.
The Maid of Athens—Romance and Reality—American Benefactions
to Greece—A Greek Wife and Scottish Husband—School of Capo
d’Istrias—Grecian Disinterestedness—Ruins of the most Ancient
Temple—Beauty of the Grecian Landscape—Hope for the Land of
Epaminondas and Aristides 134
LETTER XXIII.
Athens—Ruins of the Parthenon—The Acropolis—Temple of
Theseus—The Oldest of Athenian Antiquities—Burial-Place of the
Son of Miaulis—Reflections on Standing where Plato taught, and
Demosthenes harangued—Bavarian Sentinel—Turkish Mosque,
erected within the Sanctuary of the Parthenon—Wretched
Habitations of the Modern Athenians 139
LETTER XXIV.
The “Lantern of Demosthenes”—Byron’s Residence in
Athens—Temple of Jupiter Olympus, Seven Hundred Years in
Building—Superstitious Fancy of the Athenians respecting its
Ruins—Hermitage of a Greek Monk—Petarches, the Antiquary and
Poet, and his Wife, Sister to the “Maid of Athens”—Mutilation
of a Basso Relievo by an English Officer—The Elgin Marbles—The
Caryatides—Lord Byron’s Autograph—Attachment of the Greeks to
Dr. Howe—The Sliding Stone—A Scene in the Rostrum of
Demosthenes 145
LETTER XXV.
The Prison of Socrates—Turkish Stirrups and Saddles—Plato’s
Academy—The American Missionary School at Athens—The Son of
Petarches, and Nephew of “Mrs. Black of Ægina” 150
LETTER XXVI.
The Piræus—The Sacra Via—Ruins of Eleusis—Gigantic
Medallion—Costume of the Athenian Women—The Tomb of
Themistocles—The Temple of Minerva—Autographs 155
LETTER XXVII.
Mytilene—The Tomb of Achilles—Turkish Burying Ground—Lost
Reputation of the Scamander—Asiatic Sunsets—Visit to a Turkish
Bey—The Castles of the Dardanelles—Turkish Bath, and its
Consequences 160
LETTER XXVIII.
A Turkish Pic-Nic on the plain of Troy—Fingers v.
Forks—Trieste—The Boschetto—Graceful Freedom of Italian
Manners—A Rural Fête—Fireworks—Amateur Musicians 166
LETTER XXIX.
The Dardanelles—Visit from the Pacha—His Delight at hearing
the Piano—Turkish Fountains—Caravan of Mules laden with
Grapes—Turkish Mode of Living—Houses, Cafés, and Women—The
Mosque and the Muezzin—American Consul of the Dardanelles,
another “Caleb Quotem” 171
LETTER XXX.
Turkish Military Life—A Visit to the Camp—Turkish
Music—Sunsets—The Sea of Marmora 179
LETTER XXXI.
Gallipoli—Aristocracy of Beards—Turkish Shopkeepers—The
Hospitable Jew and his lovely Daughter—Unexpected
Rencontre—Constantinople—The Bosphorus, the Seraglio, and the
Golden Horn 184
LETTER XXXII.
Constantinople—An Adventure with the Dogs of Stamboul—The
Sultan’s Kiosk—The Bazaars—Georgians—Sweetmeats—Hindoostanee
Fakeers—Turkish Women and their Eyes—The Jews—A Token of
Home—The Drug Bazaar—Opium Eaters 190
LETTER XXXIII.
The Sultan’s Perfumer—Etiquette of Smoking—Temptations for
Purchasers—Exquisite Flavour of the Turkish Perfumes—The Slave
Market of Constantinople—Slaves from various Countries, Greek,
Circassian, Egyptian, Persian—African Female Slaves—An
Improvisatrice—Exposure for Sale—Circassian Beauties
prohibited to Europeans—First sight of one, eating a Pie—Shock
to Romantic Feelings—Beautiful Arab Girl chained to the
Floor—The Silk Merchant—A cheap Purchase 196
LETTER XXXIV.
The Bosphorus—Turkish Palaces—The Black
Sea—Buyukdere 201
LETTER XXXV.
The Golden Horn and its Scenery—The Sultan’s Wives and
Arabians—The Valley of Sweet Waters—Beauty of the Turkish
Minarets—The Mosque of Sulymanye—Mussulmans at their
Devotions—The Muezzin—The Bazaar of the Opium-eaters—the Mad
House of Constantinople, and Description of its inmates—Their
Wretched Treatment—The Hippodrome and the Mosque of Sultan
Achmet—The Janizaries—Reflections on the Past, the Present,
and the Future 207
LETTER XXXVI.
Sultan Mahmoud at his Devotions—Comparative Splendour of Papal,
Austrian, and Turkish Equipages—The Sultan’s Barge or
Caïque—Description of the Sultan—Visit to a Turkish
Lancasterian School—The Dancing Dervishes—Visit from the
Sultan’s Cabinet—The Seraskier and the Capitan Pacha—Humble
Origin of Turkish Dignitaries 215
LETTER XXXVII.
The Grand Bazaar of Constantinople, and its infinite Variety of
Wonders—Silent Shopkeepers—Female Curiosity—Adventure with a
Black-Eyed Stranger—The Bezestein—The Stronghold of
Orientalism—Picture of a Dragoman—The Kibaub-Shop—A Dinner
without Knives, Forks, or Chair—Cistern of the Thousand and One
Columns 223
LETTER XXXVIII.
Belgrade—The Cottage of Lady Montagu—Turkish
Cemeteries—Natural Taste of the Moslems for the Picturesque—A
Turkish Carriage—Washerwomen Surprised—Gigantic Forest
Trees—The Reservoir—Return to Constantinople 229
LETTER XXXIX.
Scutari—Tomb of the Sultana Valide—Mosque of the Howling
Dervishes—A Clerical Shoemaker—Visit to a Turkish
Cemetery—Bird’s-Eye View of Stamboul and its Environs—Seraglio
Point—The Seven Towers 234
LETTER XL.
Beauties of the Bosphorus—Summer-Palace of the
Sultan—Adventure with an old Turkish Woman—The Feast of
Bairam—The Sultan his own Butcher—His Evil Propensities—Visit
to the Mosques—A Formidable Dervish—Santa Sophia—Mosque of
Sultan Achmet—Traces of Christianity 240
LETTER XLI.
Unerring Detection of Foreigners—A Cargo of Odalisques—The
Fanar, or Quarter of the Greeks—Street of the
Booksellers—Aspect of Antiquity—Purchases—Charity for Dogs
and Pigeons—Punishment of Canicide—A Bridal
Procession—Turkish Female Physiognomy 245
LETTER XLII.
The Perfection of Bathing—Pipes—Downy
Cushions—Coffee—Rubbing Down—“Circular Justice,” as displayed
in the Retribution of Boiled Lobsters—A Deluge of Suds—The
Shampoo—Luxurious Helps to the Imagination—A Pedestrian
Excursion—Story of an American Tar, burdened with Small
Change—-Beauty of the Turkish Children—A Civilised
Monster—Glimpse of Sultan Mahmoud in an Ill-Humour 251
LETTER XLIII.
Punishment of Conjugal Infidelity—Drowning in the
Bosphorus—Frequency of its occurrence accounted for—A Band of
Wild Roumeliotes—Their Picturesque Appearance—Ali Pacha, of
Yanina—A Turkish Funeral—Fat Widow of Sultan Selim—A Visit to
the Sultan’s Summer Palace—A Travelling Moslem—Unexpected
Token of Home 257
LETTER XLIV.
Farewell to Constantinople—Europe and the East compared—The
Departure—Smyrna, the great Mart for Figs—An Excursion into
Asia Minor—Travelling Equipments—Character of the
Hajjis—Encampment of Gipsies—A youthful Hebe—Note—Horror of
the Turks for the “Unclean Animal”—An Anecdote 263
LETTER XLV.
Natural Statue of Niobe—The Thorn of Syria and its
Tradition—Approach to Magnesia—Hereditary Residence of the
Family of Bey-Oglou—Character of its present Occupant—The
Truth about Oriental Caravanserais—Comforts and Appliances they
yield to Travellers—Figaro of the Turks—The Pilaw—Morning
Scene at the Departure—Playful familiarity of a Solemn old
Turk—Magnificent Prospect from Mount Sypilus 268
LETTER XLVI.
The Eye of the Camel—Rocky Sepulchres—Virtue of an old
Passport, backed by Impudence—Temple of Cybele—Palace of
Crœsus—Ancient Church of Sardis—Return to Smyrna 274
LETTER XLVII.
Smyrna—Charms of its Society—Hospitality of Foreign
Residents—The Marina—The Casino—A narrow Escape from the
Plague—Departure of the Frigate—High Character of the American
Navy—A Tribute of Respect and Gratitude—The Farewell 279
SUMMER CRUISE IN THE MEDITERRANEAN.
* * * * *
* * * * *
LETTER I.
Cruise in the Frigate “United States”—Elba—Piombino—Porto
Ferrajo—Appearance of the Bay—Naval Discipline—Visit to the
Town Residence of Napoleon—His Employment during his
Confinement on the Island—His sisters Eliza and Pauline—His
Country House—Simplicity of the Inhabitants of Elba.
I had come from Florence to join the “United States,” at the polite
invitation of the officers of the ward-room, on a cruise up the
Mediterranean. My cot was swung immediately on my arrival, but we lay
three days longer than was expected in the harbour, riding out a gale of
wind, which broke the chain cables of both ships, and drove several
merchant vessels on the rocks. We got under way on the 3rd of June, and
the next morning were off Elba, with Corsica on our quarter, and the
little island of Capreja just ahead.
The firing of guns took me just now to the deck. Three Sardinian
gun-boats had saluted the commodore’s flag in passing, and it was
returned with twelve guns. They were coming home from the affair at
Tunis. It is a fresh, charming morning, and we are beating up against a
light head-wind, all the officers on deck looking at the island with
their glasses, and discussing the character of the great man to whom
this little barren spot was a temporary empire. A bold fortification
just appears on the point, with the Tuscan flag flying from the staff.
The sides of the hills are dotted with desolate looking buildings, among
which are one or two monasteries, and in rounding the side of the
island, we have passed two or three small villages, perched below and
above on the rocks. Off to the east, we can just distinguish Piombino,
the nearest town of the Italian shore, and very beautiful it looks,
rising from the edge of the water like Venice, with a range of cloudy
hills relieving it in the rear.
Our anchor is dropped in the bay of Porto Ferrajo. As we ran lightly in
upon the last tack, the walls of the fort appeared crowded with people,
the whole town apparently assembled to see the unusual spectacle of two
ships-of-war entering their now quiet waters. A small curving bay opened
to us, and as we rounded directly under the walls of the fort, the tops
of the houses in the town behind appeared crowded with women, whose
features we could easily distinguish with a glass. By the constant
exclamations of the midshipmen, who were gazing intently from the
quarter-deck, there was among them a fair proportion of beauty, or what
looked like it in the distance. Just below the summit of the fort, upon
a terrace commanding a view of the sea, stood a handsome house, with low
windows shut with Venetian blinds and shaded with acacias, which the
pilot pointed out to us as the town residence of Napoleon. As the ship
lost her way, we came in sight of a gentle amphitheatre of hills rising
away from the cove, in a woody ravine of which stood a handsome
building, with eight windows, built by the exile as a country-house.
Twenty or thirty, as good or better, spot the hills around, ornamented
with avenues and orchards of low olive-trees. It is altogether a rural
scene, and disappoints us agreeably after the barren promise of the
outer sides of the isle.
The “Constellation” came slowly in after us, with every sail set, and
her tops crowded with men; and as she fell under the stern of the
commodore’s ship, the word was given, and her vast quantity of sail was
furled with that wonderful alacrity which so astonishes a landsman. I
have been continually surprised in the few days that I have been on
board, with the wonders of sea discipline; but for a spectacle, I have
seen nothing more imposing than the entrance of these two beautiful
frigates into the little port of Elba, and their magical management. The
anchors were dropped, the yards came down by the run, the sails
disappeared, the living swarm upon the rigging slid below, all in a
moment, and then struck up the delightful band on our quarter-deck, and
the sailors leaned on the guns, the officers on the quarter railing, and
boats from the shore, filled with ladies, lay off at different
distances, the whole scene as full of repose and enjoyment, as if we had
lain idle for a month in these glassy waters. How beautiful are the
results of order!
* * * * *
We had made every preparation for a pic-nic party to the country-house
of Napoleon yesterday—but it rained. At sunset, however, the clouds
crowded into vast masses, and the evening gave a glorious promise, which
was fulfilled this morning in freshness and sunshine. The commodore’s
barge took off the ladies for an excursion on horseback to the iron
mines, on the other side of the island—the midshipmen were set ashore
in various directions for a ramble, and I, tempted with the beauty of
the ravine which enclosed the villa of Napoleon, declined all
invitations with an eye to a stroll thither.
We were first set ashore at the mole to see the town. A medley crowd of
soldiers, citizens, boys, girls, and galley-slaves, received us at the
landing, and followed us up to the town-square, gazing at the officers
with undisguised curiosity. We met several gentlemen from the other ship
at the café, and taking a cicerone together, started for the
town-residence of the emperor. It is now occupied by the governor, and
stands on the fine summit of the little fortified city. We mounted by
clean, excellent pavements, getting a good-natured _buon giorno!_ from
very female head thrust from beneath the blinds of the houses. The
governor’s aide received us at the door, with his cap in his hand, and
we commenced the tour of the rooms with all the household, male and
female, following to gaze at us. Napoleon lived on the first floor. The
rooms were as small as those of a private house, and painted in the
pretty fresco common in Italy. The furniture was all changed, and the
fire-places and two busts of the emperor’s sisters (Eliza and Pauline)
were all that remained as it was. The library is a pretty room, though
very small, and opens on a terrace level with his favourite garden. The
plants and lemon-trees were planted by himself, we were told, and the
officers plucked souvenirs on all sides. The officer who accompanied us
was an old soldier of Napoleon’s and a native of Elba, and after a
little of the reluctance common to the teller of an oft-told tale, he
gave us some interesting particulars of the emperor’s residence at the
island. It appears that he employed himself, from the first day of his
arrival, in the improvement of his little territory, making roads, &c.,
and behaved quite like a man who had made up his mind to relinquish
ambition, and content himself with what was about him. Three assassins
were discovered and captured in the course of the eleven months, the
first two of whom he pardoned. The third made an attempt upon his life,
in the disguise of a beggar, at a bridge leading to his country-house,
and was condemned and executed. He was a native of the emperor’s own
birthplace in Corsica.
The second floor was occupied by his mother and Pauline. The furniture
of the chamber of the renowned beauty is very much as she left it. The
bed is small, and the mirror opposite its foot very large, and in a
mahogany frame. Small mirrors were set also into the bureau, and in the
back of a pretty cabinet of dark wood standing at the head of the bed.
It is delightful to breathe the atmosphere of a room that has been the
home of the lovely creature whose marble image by Canova thrills every
beholder with love, and is fraught with such pleasing associations. Her
sitting-room, though less interesting, made us linger and muse again. It
looks out over the sea to the west, and the prospect is beautiful. One
forgets that her history could not be written without many a blot. How
much we forgive to _beauty_! Of all the female branches of the Bonaparte
family, Pauline bore the greatest resemblance to her brother Napoleon:
but the grand and regular profile which was in him marked with the stern
air of sovereignty and despotic rule, was in her tempered with an
enchanting softness and fascinating smile. Her statue, after the Venus
de’ Medicis, is the chef d’œuvre of modern sculpture.
We went from the governor’s house to the walls of the town, loitering
along and gazing at the sea; and then rambled through the narrow streets
of the town, attracting, by the gay uniforms of the officers, the
attention and courtesies of every smooched petticoat far and near. What
the faces of the damsels of Elba might be, if washed, we could hardly
form a conjecture.
The country-house of Napoleon is three miles from the town, a little
distance from the shore, farther round into the bay. Captain Nicholson
proposed to walk to it, and send his boat across—a warmer task for the
mid-day of an Italian June than a man of less enterprise would choose
for pleasure. We reached the stone steps of the imperial casino, after a
melting and toilsome walk, hungry and thirsty, and were happy to fling
ourselves upon broken chairs in the denuded drawing-room, and wait for
an extempore dinner of twelve eggs and a bottle of wine as bitter as
criticism. A farmer and his family live in the house, and a couple of
bad busts and the fire-places, are all that remain of its old
appearance. The situation and the view, however, are superb. A little
lap of a valley opens right away from the door to the bosom of the bay,
and in the midst of the glassy basin lies the bold peninsular promontory
and fortification of Porto Ferrajo, like a castle in a loch, connected
with the body of the island by a mere rib of sand. Off beyond sleeps the
main-land of Italy, mountain and vale, like a smoothly-shaped bed of
clouds; and for the foreground of the landscape, the valleys of Elba are
just now green with fig-trees and vines, speckled here and there with
fields of golden grain, and farm-houses shaded with all the trees of
this genial climate.
We examined the place, after our frugal dinner, and found a natural path
under the edge of the hill behind, stretching away back into the valley,
and leading, after a short walk, to a small stream and a waterfall.
Across it, just above the fall, lay the trunk of an old and vigorous
fig-tree, full of green limbs, and laden with fruit half ripe. It made a
natural bridge over the stream, and as its branches shaded the rocks
below, we could easily imagine Napoleon, walking to and fro in the
smooth path, and seating himself on the broadest stone in the heat of
the summer evenings he passed on the spot. It was the only walk about
the place, and a secluded and pleasant one. The groves of firs and brush
above, and the locust and cherry-trees on the edges of the walk, are old
enough to have shaded him. We sat and talked under the influence of the
“genius of the spot,” till near sunset, and then, cutting each a
walking-stick from the shoots of the old fig-tree, returned to the boats
and reached the ship as the band struck up their exhilarating music for
the evening on the quarter-deck.
* * * * *
We have passed two or three days at Elba most agreeably. The weather has
been fine, and the ships have been thronged with company. The common
people of the town come on board in boat-loads, men, women, and
children, and are never satisfied with gazing and wondering. The
inhabitants speak very pure Tuscan, and are mild and simple in their
manners. They all take the ships to be bound upon a mere voyage of
pleasure; and, with the officers in their gay dresses, and the sailors
in their clean white and blue, the music morning and evening, and the
general gaiety on board, the impression is not much to be wondered at.
Yesterday, after dinner, Captain Nicholson took us ashore in his gig, to
pass an hour or two in the shade. His steward followed, with a bottle or
two of old wine, and landing near the fountain to which the boats are
sent for water, we soon found a spreading fig-tree, and, with a family
of the country people from a neighbouring cottage around us, we idled
away the hours till the cool of the evening. The simplicity of the old
man and his wife, and the wonder of himself and several labourers in his
vineyard, to whom the captain gave a glass or two of his excellent
wines, would have made a study for Wilkie. Sailors are merry companions
for a party like this. We returned over the unruffled expanse of the
bay, charmed with the beauty of the scene by sunset, and | 3,424.350388 |
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by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
ARE WE RUINED BY THE
GERMANS?
BY
HAROLD COX,
FORMERLY SCHOLAR OF JESUS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.
_Republished from the "Daily Graphic" for the Cobden Club._
[Illustration]
CASSELL and COMPANY, LIMITED:
_LONDON, PARIS & MELBOURNE._
PREFACE.
The greater part of the contents of this little volume appeared
originally in the _Daily Graphic_, in the form of a series of six
articles written in criticism of Mr. Ernest Williams's "Made in
Germany." To these articles Mr. Williams replied in two letters, and to
that reply I made a final rejoinder. In the present reproduction this
sequence has been abandoned. For the convenience of readers, and for the
economy of space, I have anticipated in the text all of Mr. Williams's
objections which appeared to me to have any substance, and, in addition,
I have modified or omitted phrases, in themselves trivial, upon which he
had fastened to build elaborate but unsubstantial retorts. By doing this
I have been able to preserve the continuity of my argument and at the
same time to cut down a somewhat lengthy rejoinder into a brief
concluding chapter. Incidentally a few new points and some further
figures have been added to the articles. This arrangement,
unfortunately, deprives Mr. Williams's reply of most of its original
piquancy; but, in order that my readers may have an opportunity of
seeing what the author of "Made in Germany" was able to say for himself,
his letters are reprinted _verbatim_ in an Appendix. I am indebted to
the proprietors of the _Daily Graphic_ for their courteous permission to
republish the articles, and to the Committee of the Cobden Club for
undertaking the republication. I have only to add that the opinions
expressed throughout are my own, and that the Cobden Club does not
necessarily endorse every one of them.
H. C.
GRAY'S INN,
_December, 1896._
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I.--OUR EXPANDING TRADE 1
II.--GERMANY: ONE OF OUR BEST CUSTOMERS 8
III.--PICTURESQUE EXAGGERATIONS 14
IV.--MORE MISREPRESENTATIONS 21
V.--OUR GROWING PROSPERITY 33
VI.--LET WELL ALONE 43
VII.--CONCLUSION 54
APPENDIX 57
ARE WE RUINED BY THE GERMANS?
CHAPTER I.
OUR EXPANDING TRADE.
In a little book recently published, an attempt is made to show that
British trade is being knocked to pieces by German competition, that
already the sun has set on England's commercial supremacy, and that if
we are not careful the few crumbs of trade still left to us will be
snapped up by Germany. This depressing publication, aptly entitled "Made
in Germany," has received the quasi-religious benediction of an
enterprising and esoteric journalist, and the puff direct from a
sportive ex-Prime Minister. Thus sent off it is sure to be widely
circulated, and, being beyond dispute well written, to be also widely
read. Unfortunately--such is the nature of the book--it cannot be so
widely criticised. It consists largely of quoted statistics and
deductions therefrom, and few readers will have the means at hand for
verifying the many figures quoted, while fewer still will have the
patience to compare them with other figures which the author omits to
mention. As a necessary consequence, a large number of persons will
believe that Mr. Williams has proved his case, and some of them will
jump to the conclusion, which is evidently the conclusion to which Mr.
Williams himself leans, that the only way to prevent the commercial
downfall of our country is to reverse the Free Trade policy which we
deliberately adopted fifty years ago.
THE ART OF EXAGGERATION.
That may or may not be a wise thing to do, but at least let us be
certain before taking action, or before taking thought which is
preliminary to action, that we know our facts, and all our facts. The
second point is as important as the first. On hastily reading Mr.
Williams's book for the first time, my impression was that he had only
erred by overlooking facts which told on the other side. On general
grounds, considering | 3,424.353496 |
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THE
CATHOLIC WORLD.
A
MONTHLY MAGAZINE
OF
GENERAL LITERATURE AND SCIENCE.
VOL. XXII.
OCTOBER, 1875, TO MARCH, 1876.
NEW YORK:
THE CATHOLIC PUBLICATION HOUSE,
9 Warren Street.
1876.
CONTENTS.
Allegri’s Miserere, 562.
Anglicans, Old Catholics, and the Conference at Bonn, 502.
Anti-Catholic Movements in the United States, 810.
Apostolic Mission to Chili, The, 548.
Are You My Wife? 13, 194, 309, 590, 735.
Basques, The, 646.
Birth-Place of S. Vincent de Paul, 64.
Castlehaven’s Memoirs, 78.
Chapter, A, in the Life of Pius IX., 548.
Charities of Rome, The, 266.
Christmas Vigil, A, 541.
Colporteurs of Bonn, The, 90.
Doctrinal Authority of the Syllabus, 31.
Duration, 111, 244.
Early Persecutions of the Christians, 104.
Eternal Years, The, 656, 841.
Finding a Lost Church, 282.
Freemasonry, 145.
Friends of Education, The, 758.
From Cairo to Jerusalem, 529.
Garcia Moreno, 691.
Gladstone Controversy, Sequel of the, 577, 721.
Grande Chartreuse, A Night at the, 712.
Historical Romance, A, 43, 162, 339, 614, 772.
Incident of the Reign of Terror, An, 260.
Indian Legend, 277.
Is She Catholic? 188.
King of Metals, The, 417.
Law of God, The, and the Regulations of Society, 223.
Lord Castlehaven’s Memoirs, 78.
Lost Church, Finding a, 282.
Louise Lateau before the Belgian Royal Academy of Medicine, 823.
Madame’s Experiment, 637.
Message, A, 445.
Midnight Mass in a Convent, 523.
Missions in Maine from 1613 to 1854, 666.
Mr. Gladstone and Maryland Toleration, 289.
Nellie’s Dream on Christmas Eve, 560.
New Hampshire, Village Life in, 358.
Night at the Grande Chartreuse, A, 712.
Palatine Prelates of Rome, 373.
Pious Pictures, 409.
Power, Action, and Movement, 379.
Precursor of Marco Polo, A. 210.
President’s Speech at Des Moines, The, 433.
President’s Message, The, 707.
Primitive Civilization, 626.
Progress _versus_ Grooves, 276.
Protestant Episcopal Church Congress, The, 473.
Prussia and the Church, 678, 787.
Queen Mary, 1.
Questions Concerning the Syllabus, 31.
Recollections of Wordsworth, 329.
Reign of Terror, An Incident of the, 260.
Revival in Frogtown, A, 699.
Rome, The Charities of, 266.
Rome, The Palatine Prelates of, 373.
S. Agnes’ Eve Story, A, 637.
St. Jean de Luz, 833.
Search for Old Lace in Venice, A, 852.
Sequel of the Gladstone Controversy, 577, 721.
Sir Thomas More, 43, 162, 339, 614, 772.
Songs of the People, 395.
Story of Evangeline in Prose, The, 604.
Story with Two Versions, A, 800.
Summary Considerations on Law, 223.
Traces of an Indian Legend, 277.
Tennyson’s Queen Mary, 1.
Village Life in New Hampshire, 358.
Vincent de Paul, S., Birth-Place of, 64.
William Tell and Altorf, 127.
Wordsworth, Recollections of, 329.
Year, The, of Our Lord 1875, 565.
Yule Raps, 484.
POETRY.
Adelaide Anne Procter, 89.
Æschylus, 209.
Christmas Chimes, 501.
Free Will, 559.
Not Yet, 394.
“O Valde Decora!” 12.
Paraphrase from the Greek, A, 222.
Patient Church, The, 613.
S. Philip’s Home, 139.
S. Louis’ Bell, 527.
Seven Fridays in Lent, The, 734.
Sine Labe Concepta, 357.
Song, 275.
Sonnets in Memory of the late Sir Aubrey de Vere, 444.
Stars, The, 126.
Suggested by a Cascade at Lake George, 771.
Summer Storms, 416.
Sweet Singer, A, 89.
To-day and Yesterday, 564.
Unremembered Mother, The, 110.
NEW PUBLICATIONS.
Acta et Decreta Concilii Vaticani, 718.
Alcott’s Eight Cousins, 431.
Allibert’s Life of S. Benedict, 575.
American State and American Statesmen, 719.
Allies’ Formation of Christendom, 858.
American Catholic Quarterly Review, The, 859.
Baunard’s Life of the Apostle S. John, 573.
Bégin’s Le Culte Catholique, 286.
Bégin’s The Bible and the Rule of Faith, 288.
Birlinger’s Volksthümliches aus Schwaben, 718.
Boudon’s Holy Ways of the Cross, 717.
Buckley’s Supposed Miracles, 856.
Calderon’s Groesste Dramen religiösen Inhalts, 718.
Clarke’s Mr. Gladstone and Maryland Toleration, 575.
Coleridge’s Public Life of Our Lord, 717.
Constable and Gillies, Personal Reminiscences of, 720.
Cudmore’s Civil Government of the States, etc., 429.
Correction, A, 860.
Dix’s The American State and American Statesmen, 719.
Earle’s Light leading unto Light, 143.
Eight Cousins, 431.
Evidences of Catholicity, 574.
Exposition of the Church, An, etc., 419.
Exposition of the Epistles of S. Paul, etc., 144.
First Annual Report of the Chaplain of the Albany Penitentiary, 144.
Flowers from the Garden of the Visitation, 287.
Formation of Christendom, The, 858.
Full Course of Instruction in Explanation of the Catechism, 432.
Garside’s The Sacrifice of the Eucharist, 718.
Historical Scenes from the Old Jesuit Missions, 575.
History of the Protestant Reformation, 574.
Holland’s Sevenoaks, 430.
Holy Ways of the Cross, etc., 717.
Illustrated Catholic Family Almanac, 430.
Indoors and Out; or, Views from the Chimney Corner, 720.
Jannet’s Les Etats-Unis Contemporains, etc., 716.
Kavanagh’s John Dorrien, 287.
Kip’s Historical Scenes, 575.
Knight and Raikes’ Personal Reminiscences, 288.
Lamb, Hazlitt, and Others, Personal Recollection of, 428.
Lehrbuch des Katholischen und Protestantischen Kirchenrechts, 718.
Lonormant’s Madame Récamier and her Friends, 431.
Life and Letters of Paul Seigneret, 576.
Life of S. Benedict, 575.
Life of the Apostle S. John, 573.
Light leading unto Light, 143.
Lynch’s (Bishop) Pastoral Letter, 576.
MacEvilly’s Exposition of S. Paul’s Epistles, etc., 144.
Manual of the Sisters of Charity, 432.
Manual of Catholic Indian Missionary Associations, 859.
Medulla Theologiæ Moralis, 574.
Miller’s Ship in the Desert, 573.
Miscellanea, 432.
Mr. Gladstone and Maryland Toleration, 575.
Moriarty’s Wayside Pencillings, 431.
Morris’ The Troubles of our Catholic Forefathers, 141.
Noethen’s Report of the Albany Penitentiary, 144.
Noethen’s Thirteen Sermons, etc., 144.
Pastoral Letter of Bishop Lynch, 576.
Perry’s Full Course of Instruction, etc., 432.
Persecutions of Annam, The, 719.
Personal Reminiscences by Knight and Raikes, 288.
Personal Recollections of Lamb, Hazlitt, and Others, 428.
Personal Reminiscences by Constable and Gillies, 720.
Public Life of Our Lord, 717.
Rohling’s Medulla Theologiæ Moralis, 574.
Sacrifice of the Eucharist, etc., 718.
Sadlier’s Excelsior Geography, 430.
Sevenoaks, 430.
Ship in the Desert, The, 573.
Shortland’s The Persecutions of Annam, 719.
Spalding’s Miscellanea, 432.
Spalding’s Evidences of Catholicity, 574.
Spalding’s History of the Reformation, 574.
Story of S. Peter, 718.
Supposed Miracles, 856.
Thirteen Sermons preached in the Albany Penitentiary, 144.
Three Pearls, The, 573.
Troubles of our Catholic Forefathers, The, 141.
Vering’s Lehrbuch des Katholischen und Protestantischen
Kirchenrechts, 718.
Volksthümliches aus Schwaben, 718.
Wayside Pencillings, etc., 431.
Young Catholic’s Illustrated Table Book, etc., 430.
THE CATHOLIC WORLD.
VOL. XXII., No. 127.--OCTOBER, 1875.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by Rev. I. T.
HECKER, in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.
MR. TENNYSON’S QUEEN MARY.[1]
Mr. Tennyson has achieved a great reputation as a lyric poet. He urges
now a higher claim. In the sunset of a not inglorious life, when we
should have expected his lute to warble with waning melodies and less
impassioned strains, he lays it aside as too feeble for his maturer
inspirations, and, as though renewed with the fire of a second youth, he
draws to his bosom a nobler instrument, and awakes the echoes of sublimer
chords. He has grown weary of the lyric
“hœrentem multa cum laude coronam,”
and with some confidence claims the dramatic bays. Nay, he even invites a
comparison with Shakspere. True to the temper of the times, his prestige
follows him in so hazardous a competition, the accustomed wreaths are
showered upon him with unreflecting haste, and the facile representatives
of the most incapable of critics--public opinion--have already offered
him that homage as a dramatist which had already been too lavishly
offered to his idyllic muse.
It is an ungrateful task to go against the popular current, and it is
an ungracious one to object to crowns which the multitude have decreed.
But there is no help for it, unless we would stoop to that criticism of
prestige which is so characteristic of the age, and would follow in the
wake of the literary rabble, criticising the works by the author, instead
of the author by his works.
We may as well say, at once, that we have never felt it in our power
to acknowledge the poetical supremacy of the English poet-laureate.[2]
It has always appeared to us that there is, in his poetry, a lack of
inspiration. To borrow a too familiar but expressive metaphor, the coin
is highly burnished, glitters brightly, and has the current stamp, but
one misses the ring of the genuine metal. He sits patiently on the
tripod, dealing forth phrases as musical as Anacreon’s numbers, and
as polished as those of a Greek sophist, spiced with a refined humor,
which has a special charm of its own. But his soul does not kindle at
the sacred fire. We miss the divine frenzy. A passionateness of love
of the beautiful does not appear to be the quickening inspiration of
his creations. All alike show signs of extreme care and preparation. We
do not forget the counsel of Horace. But that only refers to a distant
revision of creations which an unchecked genius may have produced under
the divine influence. Whereas, Mr. Tennyson’s poetry bears evidence of
infinite toil in production. All his thoughts, ideas, and images, down to
words and phrases, are too evidently, instead of the happy inspirations
of genius, the labored workmanship of a polished, refined, and fastidious
mind. They something resemble the _tout ensemble_ of a _petit maître_
who has succeeded in conveying to his dress an appearance of such
consummate simplicity and unexceptionable taste that every one notices
the result of hours before the mirror. His diction is pure and polished,
his phrases simple and nervous, and the English language owes him much
for what he has done towards neutralizing the injury inflicted on it
by the gaudy phraseology of the “correct” poets, and the antithetical
sesquipedalianism of such prose writers as Johnson and Gibbon, and
for preserving it in its pure and nervous simplicity. But his soul is
dull to the poetic meanings of nature. His natural scenery is rather
descriptive than a creation, much as artists, of whom there are not a
few, who reproduce with consummate skill of imitation objects in detail,
and bestow infinite care upon color, shade, perspective, grouping, and
all the other technical details of a picture, whilst comparatively
indifferent to the subject, which ought to be the poetic meaning of
creations of genius. And what are they but only fruitful manifestations
of the love of the beautiful, and echoes of its creative word, not the
mere manipulations of an artificer? Mr. Tennyson’s descriptions of nature
owe their vividness to the brilliance of word-painting and a certain
refined delicacy of touch; sometimes, even, and indeed very often, to a
certain quaint humor which is inconsistent with the highest art--it is
not a passionate love which regards the object beloved from a ridiculous
point of view--as when he describes the willows living adown the banks of
a streamlet as “shock-headed pollards _poussetting_ down the stream.”
The sensations provoked by his poetry resemble those of one who has
sauntered through a museum of precious stones of rare workmanship and
purest water. Our æsthetic taste has been pleased by the glitter and the
color and the brilliance, but our mind and heart have not been deeply
moved. His poems are ablaze with detached thoughts of lofty meaning,
and of a multitude of others whose meaning is not obvious, all alike
expressed in vivid imagery, in the purest phraseology, and in rare melody
of rhythm. But they are confused and cabalistic. He seems to be always
laboring to be incomprehensible. He calls it “the riddling of the bards.”
And he succeeds. The problem of the Sphinx, the emblematic warning sent
by the Scythians to their Persian invader, the mute counsel sent by the
Samian to the Corinthian tyrant, a Delphic oracle, all were clear and
easy by comparison with Mr. Tennyson’s lyrics, alike in detached passages
and in entire poems. None of woman born can fathom the meaning of the
_Idylls of the King_.
This defect alone is fatal to poetry. So keenly did Spenser feel it that
although the meaning of his allegory, _The Faerie Queene_, is obvious
enough to any ordinary intelligence, he is careful to explain it in full
in a letter dedicated to Sir Walter Raleigh.
Mr. Tennyson, on the contrary, involves himself in the thickest mystery
he can contrive, and expects his worshippers to take it for inspiration.
Take the following, for example, from “The Coming of Arthur”:
“Rain, rain, and sun, a rainbow in the sky!
A young man will be wiser by-and-by,
An old man’s wit may wander e’er he die.
“Rain, rain, and sun, a rainbow on the lea!
And truth is this to me, and that to thee
And truth, or clothed or naked, let it be.
“Rain, sun, and rain! and the free blossom blows,
Sun, rain, and sun! and where is he who knows?
From the great deep to the great deep he goes.”
These are, no doubt, “riddling triplets,” as he himself calls them. The
riddling of Shakspere’s fools, even the wanderings from the night of
distraught Ophelia’s brain, are light itself by the side of them. We may
well echo his invocation of “Sun, rain, and sun! and where is he who
knows?” Whatever inspiration may be evident here, it is not that of the
beautiful. And yet even this has snatches of meaning which many passages
we might adduce have not; as the following, from “Gareth and Lynette”:
“Know ye not, then, the riddling of the bards?
Confusion, and illusion, and relation.
Elusion, and occasion, and evasion?”
It is almost a pity that the bard did not complete his “riddling” while
he was about it. Another couplet:
Diffusion, and ablution, and abrasion.
Ablution, expectation, botheration,
would have rendered still more impenetrable the bardic mystery.
There is no resemblance in this studied concealment of meaning, if
meaning there be, to that
“Sacred madness of the bards
When God makes music through them,”
of which he sings. It is more like the melodious confusion of the Æolian
harp. Even if the poet have a definite meaning in his own mind, if he
so express it that I cannot even guess it, to me it is nonsense; and
nonsense, however melodious, although it may enchant my sense, cannot
move my heart. Here and there, however, our poet sings snatches of real
poetry, as Sir Bedivere’s answer to his king in “The Coming of Arthur”:
“I heard the water lapping on the craig
And the long ripple washing in the reeds.”
Upon the whole, Mr. Tennyson excels in a certain underlying vein of
exquisitely refined humor. And when his subject admits of it, he is
unrivalled. His is the poetry of humor. We would name as examples “The
Northern Farmer” and the satirical poem, “Locksley Hall,” perhaps the
most vigorous of all his productions; and, of his longer poems, _The
Princess_. It is for this reason we think he is more likely to excel, as
a dramatist, in comedy than in tragedy.
If our readers would estimate the full force of our remarks, we would
invite them to read the works of any of the principal of our earlier
lyrical poets, as, for example, Collins. We name him because he too
excels in that melody of versification for which Mr. Tennyson is so
distinguished. At times, as in his “Sonnet on Evening,” he surpasses the
Laureate in that respect, although for sustained and unfailing rhythmical
melody the latter bears away the palm from him, and perhaps from every
other rival. But in profound sympathy with nature, in the fidelity of his
creations, in the echoes of the beautiful which he provokes within the
soul of the reader, the Poet-Laureate must yield to the Demy of Magdalen.
Like Shakspere, he peopled inanimate nature with a fairy world, and
amongst elves and genii and other dainty spirits he abandoned himself to
that power of impersonation which is almost an attribute of a true poet.
Our space does not admit of illustrative quotations, but we would refer
the reader inclined to institute the comparison suggested to the elegy
over Fidele, in the play of _Cymbeline_, and to his _Eclogues_.
Mr. Tennyson’s poetry has beauties of its own peculiar kind of so
remarkable and striking a description that we might have hesitated to
take any exceptions whatsoever to his poetical genius. But his new poem,
his first effort in dramatic poetry, seems to us to set all doubt at
rest. It convinces us that, for whatever reasons, of the highest flights
of poetic inspiration Mr. Tennyson is incapable. We are convinced that he
lacks that which constitutes a great poet. However beautiful his poetry,
we feel that it wants something which, however keenly we may be sensible
of it, it is not easy either to analyze or explain.
For what is the inspiration of poetry but the echoes of the beautiful
within the soul of man? The universe of things is the visible word
of God. It is his essential beauty projected by an energy of creative
love--the quickening spirit opening his wings over chaos--into an
objective existence, on which its generator looked with complacency
as “very good,” and which he generated in order that his creature,
whom he had made in his own image, might, with himself, rejoice in
its contemplation. He did not, at first, endow him with the power of
beholding himself “face to face,” but only his reflex. We have the right
to believe that, whilst in union with his Maker, he read at a glance the
meaning of the word, he felt instantaneously the beauty of the image. His
nature, into which no discord had as yet been introduced, uncondemned
to the judgment of painful toil, did not acquire charity and knowledge
by long and laborious processes, disciplinary and ratiocinative, but by
intuition. Incapable as yet of the Beatific Vision, he comprehended the
whole of the divine beauty as revealed in creation, and the comprehension
itself was a transport of love. He saw, and knew, and loved, and the
three were one simultaneous energy of the sonship of his nature. But, as
now, “the greatest of these was charity.” It was the result and sum and
end of the sight and knowledge. It was the feeling they inevitably and
unremittingly occasioned. To speak as we can only speak in our actual
condition, it was as those thuds of loving admiration with which our
hearts throb when we look upon some surpassing embodiment of innocent
and modest female loveliness. When the mind, jealous of pre-eminence,
led captive, so to speak, the heart in revolt against the revealed law,
the human being was no longer in union with himself, a war of impulses
and of energies was set up within him, the image of God was defaced, his
perception of created beauty became more and more obscure as he went
further away from his original abode of innocence, until, finally, it was
all but lost. The emotion, if we may describe it as such, which it was of
its nature to suggest, could not perish, for it is imperishable. But it
had lost its true object, and surveyed knowledge in a form more or less
degraded.
Now out of this very faint and rapid sketch of a psychological theory
which would require a volume for its development, we hope to be able to
convey some idea, however vague, of the nature of the poetic spirit.
It is certain that the remains of the divine image have not since been
alike and equal in all the individuals of the race. It may be asserted,
on the contrary, that there are no two human microcosms in which the
elements of the confusion introduced into them by the original infidelity
exist in the same proportion. Those in whom the intelligence is the
quickest to see, and the mind, heart, and soul to love in unison, the
image of divine beauty revealed in creation--those, that is, in whom the
divine image remains the most pronouncedly--are the truest poets.
When this echo of the soul to the beautiful does not go beyond the
physical creation, the inspirations of love express themselves in lyric
or idyllic poetry. The poet imitates the divine Creator in reproducing,
even creating, images of his lower creation so faithful and suggestive
that they who look upon them experience similar sensations and emotions
to those provoked within them by the divine creation itself, nay, not
unseldom, even profounder ones. He reveals | 3,424.383351 |
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E-text prepared by Jim Ludwig
Note: This is book six of eight of the Submarine Boys Series.
THE SUBMARINE BOYS FOR THE FLAG
Deeding Their Lives to Uncle Sam
by
VICTOR G. DURHAM
1910
CONTENTS
CHAPTERS
I. "Do You Speak German?"
II. "French Spoken Here"
III. The Man Who Marked Charts
IV. Jack's Queer Lot of Loot
V. Sighting the Enemy
VI. Flank Movement and Rear Attack
VII. A Lesson in Security and Information
VIII. Eph Feels Like Thirty Tacks
IX. Jack Plays with a Volcano
X. "Mr. Grey" Makes New Trouble
XI. Facing the Secretary of the Navy
XII. Navy Officers for an Hour | 3,424.486508 |
2023-11-16 19:14:08.4687100 | 2,472 | 6 |
Produced by Meredith Bach, Rose Acquavella, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net. (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries.)
THE CANDY MAKER'S GUIDE
A COLLECTION OF
CHOICE RECIPES FOR SUGAR BOILING
COMPILED AND PUBLISHED BY
THE FLETCHER MNF'G. CO.
MANUFACTURERS OF
Confectioners' and Candy Makers' Tools and Machines
TEA AND COFFEE URNS
BAKERS' CONFECTIONERS AND HOTEL SUPPLIES
IMPORTERS AND DEALERS IN
PURE FRUIT JUICES,
FLAVORING EXTRACTS,
FRUIT OILS,
ESSENTIAL OILS,
MALT EXTRACT,
XXXX GLUCOSE, ETC.
[Illustration]
Prize Medal and Diploma awarded at Toronto Industrial Exhibition
1894, for General Excellence in Style and Finish of our goods.
440-442 YONGE ST.,--TORONTO, CAN.
TORONTO
J JOHNSTON PRINTER & STATIONER 105 CHURCH ST
1896
FLETCHER MNF'G. CO.
TORONTO.
Manufacturers and dealers in Generators, Steel and Copper Soda Water
Cylinders, Soda Founts, Tumbler Washers, Freezers, Ice Breaking
Machines, Ice Cream Refrigerators, Milk Shakers, Ice Shaves, Lemon
Squeezers, Ice Cream Cans, Packing Tubs, Flavoring Extracts, Golden and
Crystal Flake for making Ice Cream, Ice Cream Bricks and Forms, and
every article necessary for Soda Water and Ice Cream business.
INTRODUCTION.
In presenting this selection of choice recipes for Candy Makers we have
endeavored to avoid everything that is not practical and easy to
understand. The recipes given are from the most experienced and notable
candy makers of America and Europe, and are such, that, if followed out
with care and attention will be sure to lead to success. Practice is
only to be had by experiment, and little failures are overcome by
constant perseverance.
After the rudiments have been thoroughly mastered, the reader has ample
scope to distinguish himself in the Candy world, and will do so with
patience and perseverance. We trust our patrons will look upon this
work, not as a literary effort, but as instruction from a practical
workman to a would-be workman.
FLETCHER MNF'G. Co.,
440 & 442 Yonge St., Toronto,
Publishers.
Manufacturers of Candy Makers Tools and Machines, and every article
required in Confectionery and Candy Making.
ASK FOR OUR CATALOGUE.
SUGAR BOILING.
This branch of the trade or business of a confectioner is perhaps the
most important. All manufacturers are more or less interested in it, and
certainly no retail shop could be considered orthodox which did not
display a tempting variety of this class. So inclusive is the term
"boiled goods" that it embraces drops, rocks, candies, taffies, creams,
caramels, and a number of different sorts of hand-made, machine-made,
and moulded goods. It is the most ancient method of which we have any
knowledge, and perhaps the most popular process of modern times; the
evidence of our everyday experience convinces us that (notwithstanding
the boom which heralds from time to time a new sweet, cooked in a
different manner, composed of ingredients hitherto unused in business),
it is the exception when such goods hold the front rank for more than a
few months, however pretty, tasty, or tempting they may be, the public
palate seems to fall back on those made in the old lines which, though
capable of improvement, seem not to be superceded. Of the entire make of
confectionery in Canada, at least two-thirds of it may be written down
under the name of boiled sugar. They are undoubtedly the chief features
with both manufacturers and retailers, embracing, as they do, endless
facilities for fertile brains and deft fingers for inventing novelties
in design, manipulation, combination, and finish. Notwithstanding the
already great variety, there is always daily something new in this
department brought into market. Many of the most successful houses owe
their popularity more to their heads than their hands, hence the
importance of studying this branch in all its ramifications. The endless
assortment requiring different methods for preparing and manipulating
make it necessary to sub-divide this branch into sections, order and
arrangement being so necessary to be thoroughly understood. _When we
consider the few inexpensive tools required to make so many kinds of
saleable goods, it is not to be wondered at so many retailers have a
fancy to make their own toffees and such like, there is no reason why a
man or woman, with ordinary patience, a willing and energetic
disposition, favored with a fair amount of intelligence, should not be
able to become with the aid of THIS BOOK and a few dollars for tools,
fairly good sugar boilers, with a few months practice._
There are reasons why a retail confectioner should study sugar boiling.
It gives character to the business, a fascinating odour to the premises,
and a general at-homeness to the surroundings. No goods look more
attractive and tempting to the sweet eating public than fresh made goods
of this kind. A bright window can be only so kept by makers. Grainy or
sticky drops may be reboiled; scraps and what would otherwise be almost
waste (at least unsightly) may be redressed in another shape, and
become, not only saleable, but profitable. _There are many advantages
which a maker possesses over one who buys all._ For instance, clear
boiled goods should be kept air tight, and are therefore delivered to
the retailers in bottles, jars, or tins, on which charge is made, these
have to be repacked and returned. Breakages are an important item, so is
freight--the cost of the latter is saved and the former reduced to a
minimum.
Whatever means are adopted to benefit the retailer and advertise the
business by brighter windows, cleaner shops, less faded goods, and
healthier financial conditions must contribute to the general prosperity
of the trade, from the bottom step to the top rung of the ladder.
It should be the aim of all amateurs to study quality rather than price.
Goods well made, carefully flavored, and nicely displayed will always
command a ready sale at a fair price, giving satisfaction to the
consumer and credit to the maker. Give your customers something to
please the eye as well as the palate, so that every sale may be looked
upon as an advertisement. Cheap, bulky, insipid stuff is unprofitable
and damaging to the trade as well as to the seller. I venture to assert
that more would-be makers have come to grief trying to cut each other in
price for rubbishy candies than through any other cause. Look at the
number of firms who have a reputation, whose very name command trade
at good prices, year after year add to the turnover. What is the
talisman? Look at their goods. There is perhaps nothing very striking in
them, but they are _invariably good_, busy or slack they are made with
care, packed with taste, and delivered neatly in a business-like
fashion. Compare this to our makers of cheap stuff; to obtain orders
they sell at unprofitable prices, often at a loss, and try to make up
the difference by resorting to various methods of increasing the bulk,
the result is ultimate ruin to themselves, loss to their creditors, and
injury to every one concerned. Few who read these lines will not be able
to verify all that is stated. The writer's advice has always been to
keep up a _high degree of excellence, try to improve in every direction,
and success is only a matter of patience, energy and civility_.
It is not intended to give a complete list of all kinds of candy known
in the trade, that would be absurd and impossible. To be able to make
any particular kind will require knowledge only to be gained by
experience, so that much depends on the thoughtful endeavor of the
beginner.
THE WORKSHOP.
Sugar boiling, like every other craft, requires a place to do it, fitted
with tools and appliances. The requisites and requirements can be easily
suited to the purse of the would-be confectioner. A work to be useful to
all must cater for all, and include information which will be useful to
the smaller storekeeper as well as the larger maker. To begin at the
bottom, one can easily imagine a person whose only ambition is to make a
little candy for the window fit for children. This could be done with a
very small outlay for utensils. The next move is the purchase of a sugar
boiler's furnace not very costly and certainly indispensable where
quality and variety are required, it will be a great saving of time as
well as money, the sugar will boil a much better color, so that cheaper
sugar may be used for brown or yellow goods, while one can make acid
drops and other white goods from granulated. Dutch crush, or loaf sugar,
which would be impossible to make on a kitchen stove from any sort of
sugar.
[Illustration: Fig. 2.
Steel Candy Furnace.
No. 1--24 in. high, 19 in. diameter. Price, $7.50. No. 2--30 in. high,
23 in. diameter. Price, $12.00.]
[Illustration: Fig. 206 a.
Excelsior Furnace.
Height 26 in., 4 holes, from 9 to 18 in. diameter. Made entirely of cast
iron. Price, $16. Weight 225 lbs.]
[Illustration: Fig. 12.
CARAMEL CUTTERS--2 Styles.
Each with Steel Shaft and Screw Handles and two sets Blocks.
No. 2--with 13 Steel Cutters, price $6.50
We make this Cutter with longer rod and any number of extra cutters at
50c. each cutter.
No. 1--with 13 Tinned Cutters, price $11.00
With longer rods and any number of extra cutters at 30c. each cutter.]
[Illustration: Fig. 3.
Copper Candy Boiling Pan.
15 x 6 $4.50, 16 x 7 $5.50,
17 x 8 $6.00, 18 x 9 $7.00,
19 x 10 $8, 20 x 10-1/2 $9.
]
[Illustration: Fig. 16. Price 76c. Improved Slide Candy Hook.]
[Illustration: Fig. 6.
STEAM JACKET--MADE TO ORDER.]
LIST OF SUGAR BOILING TOOLS REQUIRED FOR A START.
1 Candy Furnace Price, $7 50
1 Copper Boiling pan 15x6 " 4 50
1 Candy Thermometer " 1 75
1 Marble Slab 48x24x2 " | 3,424.48875 |
2023-11-16 19:14:08.5268960 | 4,684 | 9 |
Produced by David Widger
THE CRISIS
By Winston Churchill
BOOK III
Volume 6.
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCING A CAPITALIST
A cordon of blue regiments surrounded the city at first from Carondelet
to North St. Louis, like an open fan. The crowds liked best to go to
Compton Heights, where the tents of the German citizen-soldiers were
spread out like so many slices of white cake on the green beside the
city's reservoir. Thence the eye stretched across the town, catching the
dome of the Court House and the spire of St. John's. Away to the west, on
the line of the Pacific railroad that led halfway across the state, was
another camp. Then another, and another, on the circle of the fan, until
the river was reached to the northward, far above the bend. Within was a
peace that passed understanding,--the peace of martial law.
Without the city, in the great state beyond, an irate governor had
gathered his forces from the east and from the west. Letters came and
went between Jefferson City and Jefferson Davis, their purport being that
the Governor was to work out his own salvation, for a while at least.
Young men of St. Louis, struck in a night by the fever of militarism,
arose and went to Glencoe. Prying sergeants and commissioned officers,
mostly of hated German extraction, thundered at the door of Colonel
Carvel's house, and other houses, there--for Glencoe was a border town.
They searched the place more than once from garret to cellar, muttered
guttural oaths, and smelled of beer and sauerkraut, The haughty
appearance of Miss Carvel did not awe them--they were blind to all manly
sensations. The Colonel's house, alas, was one of many in Glencoe written
down in red ink in a book at headquarters as a place toward which the
feet of the young men strayed. Good evidence was handed in time and time
again that the young men had come and gone, and red-faced commanding
officers cursed indignant subalterns, and implied that Beauty had had a
hand in it. Councils of war were held over the advisability of seizing
Mr. Carvel's house at Glencoe, but proof was lacking until one rainy
night in June a captain and ten men spurred up the drive and swung into a
big circle around the house. The Captain took off his cavalry gauntlet
and knocked at the door, more gently than usual. Miss Virginia was home
so Jackson said. The Captain was given an audience more formal than one
with the queen of Prussia could have been, Miss Carvel was infinitely
more haughty than her Majesty. Was not the Captain hired to do a
degrading service? Indeed, he thought so as he followed her about the
house and he felt like the lowest of criminals as he opened a closet door
or looked under a bed. He was a beast of the field, of the mire. How
Virginia shrank from him if he had occasion to pass her! Her gown would
have been defiled by his touch. And yet the Captain did not smell of
beer, nor of sauerkraut; nor did he swear in any language. He did his
duty apologetically, but he did it. He pulled a man (aged seventeen) out
from under a great hoop skirt in a little closet, and the man had a
pistol that refused its duty when snapped in the Captain's face. This was
little Spencer Catherwood, just home from a military academy.
Spencer was taken through the rain by the chagrined Captain to the
headquarters, where he caused a little embarrassment. No damning evidence
was discovered on his person, for the pistol had long since ceased to be
a firearm. And so after a stiff lecture from the Colonel he was finally
given back into the custody of his father. Despite the pickets, the young
men filtered through daily,--or rather nightly. Presently some of them
began to come back, gaunt and worn and tattered, among the grim cargoes
that were landed by the thousands and tens of thousands on the levee. And
they took them (oh, the pity of it!) they took them to Mr. Lynch's slave
pen, turned into a Union prison of detention, where their fathers and
grandfathers had been wont to send their disorderly and insubordinate
<DW65>s. They were packed away, as the miserable slaves had been, to
taste something of the bitterness of the <DW64>'s lot. So came Bert
Russell to welter in a low room whose walls gave out the stench of years.
How you cooked for them, and schemed for them, and cried for them, you
devoted women of the South! You spent the long hot summer in town, and
every day you went with your baskets to Gratiot Street, where the
infected old house stands, until--until one morning a lady walked out
past the guard, and down the street. She was civilly detained at the
corner, because she wore army boots. After that permits were issued. If
you were a young lady of the proper principles in those days, you climbed
a steep pair of stairs in the heat, and stood in line until it became
your turn to be catechised by an indifferent young officer in blue who
sat behind a table and smoked a horrid cigar. He had little time to be
courteous. He was not to be dazzled by a bright gown or a pretty face; he
was indifferent to a smile which would have won a savage. His duty was to
look down into your heart, and extract therefrom the nefarious scheme you
had made to set free the man you loved ere he could be sent north to
Alton or Columbus. My dear, you wish to rescue him, to disguise him, send
him south by way of Colonel Carvel's house at Glencoe. Then he will be
killed. At least, he will have died for the South.
First politics, and then war, and then more politics, in this our
country. Your masterful politician obtains a regiment, and goes to war,
sword in hand. He fights well, but he is still the politician. It was not
a case merely of fighting for the Union, but first of getting permission
to fight. Camp Jackson taken, and the prisoners exchanged south, Captain
Lyon; who moved like a whirlwind, who loved the Union beyond his own
life, was thrust down again. A mutual agreement was entered into between
the Governor and the old Indian fighter in command of the Western
Department, to respect each other. A trick for the Rebels. How Lyon
chafed, and paced the Arsenal walks while he might have saved the state.
Then two gentlemen went to Washington, and the next thing that happened
was Brigadier General Lyon, Commander of the Department of the West.
Would General Lyon confer with the Governor of Missouri? Yes, the General
would give the Governor a safe-conduct into St. Louis, but his Excellency
must come to the General. His Excellency came, and the General deigned to
go with the Union leader to the Planters House. Conference, five hours;
result, a safe-conduct for the Governor back. And this is how General
Lyon ended the talk. His words, generously preserved by a Confederate
colonel who accompanied his Excellency, deserve to be writ in gold on the
National Annals.
"Rather than concede to the state of Missouri the right to demand that my
Government shall not enlist troops within her limits, or bring troops
into the state whenever it pleases; or move its troops at its own will
into, out of, or through, the state; rather than concede to the state of
Missouri for one single instant the right to dictate to my Government in
any matter, however unimportant, I would" (rising and pointing in turn to
every one in the room) "see you, and you, and you, and you, and every
man, woman, and child in this state, dead and buried." Then, turning to
the Governor, he continued, "This means war. In an hour one of my
officers will call for you and conduct you out of my lines."
And thus, without another word, without an inclination of the head, he
turned upon his heel and strode out of the room, rattling his spurs and
clanking his sabre.
It did mean war. In less than two months that indomitable leader was
lying dead beside Wilson's Creek, among the oaks on Bloody Hill. What he
would have been to this Union, had God spared him, we shall never know.
He saved Missouri, and won respect and love from the brave men who fought
against him.
Those first fierce battles in the state! What prayers rose to heaven, and
curses sank to hell, when the news of them came to the city by the river!
Flags were made by loving fingers, and shirts and bandages. Trembling
young ladies of Union sympathies presented colors to regiments on the
Arsenal Green, or at Jefferson Barracks, or at Camp Benton to the
northwest near the Fair Grounds. And then the regiments marched through
the streets with bands playing that march to which the words of the
Battle Hymn were set, and those bright ensigns snapping at the front;
bright now, and new, and crimson. But soon to be stained a darker red,
and rent into tatters, and finally brought back and talked over and cried
over, and tenderly laid above an inscription in a glass case, to be
revered by generations of Americans to confer What can stir the soul more
than the sight of those old flags, standing in ranks like the veterans
they are, whose duty has been nobly done? The blood of the color-sergeant
is there, black now with age. But where are the tears of the sad women
who stitched the red and the white and the blue together?
The regiments marched through the streets and aboard the boats, and
pushed off before a levee of waving handkerchiefs and nags. Then
heart-breaking suspense. Later--much later, black headlines, and grim
lists three columns long,--three columns of a blanket sheet! "The City of
Alton has arrived with the following Union dead and wounded, and the
following Confederate wounded (prisoners)." Why does the type run
together?
In a never-ceasing procession they steamed up the river; those calm boats
which had been wont to carry the white cargoes of Commerce now bearing
the red cargoes of war. And they bore away to new battlefields thousands
of fresh-faced boys from Wisconsin and Michigan and Minnesota, gathered
at Camp Benton. Some came back with their color gone and their red cheeks
sallow and bearded and sunken. Others came not back at all.
Stephen Brice, with a pain over his heart and a lump in his throat,
walked on the pavement beside his old company, but his look avoided their
faces. He wrung Richter's hand on the landing-stage. Richter was now a
captain. The good German's eyes were filled as he said good-by.
"You will come, too, my friend, when the country needs you," he said.
"Now" (and he shrugged his shoulders), "now have we many with no cares to
go. I have not even a father--" And he turned to Judge Whipple, who was
standing by, holding out a bony hand.
"God bless you, Carl," said the Judge And Carl could scarce believe his
ears. He got aboard the boat, her decks already blue with troops, and as
she backed out with her whistle screaming, the last objects he saw were
the gaunt old man and the broad-shouldered young man side by side on the
edge of the landing.
Stephen's chest heaved, and as he walked back to the office with the
Judge, he could not trust himself to speak. Back to the silent office
where the shelves mocked them. The Judge closed the ground-glass door
behind him, and Stephen sat until five o'clock over a book. No, it was
not Whittlesey, but Hardee's "Tactics." He shut it with a slam, and went
to Verandah Hall to drill recruits on a dusty floor,--narrow-chested
citizens in suspenders, who knew not the first motion in right about
face. For Stephen was an adjutant in the Home Guards--what was left of
them.
One we know of regarded the going of the troops and the coming of the
wounded with an equanimity truly philosophical. When the regiments passed
Carvel & Company on their way riverward to embark, Mr. Hopper did not
often take the trouble to rise from his chair, nor was he ever known to
go to the door to bid them Godspeed. This was all very well, because they
were Union regiments. But Mr. Hopper did not contribute a horse, nor even
a saddle-blanket, to the young men who went away secretly in the night,
without fathers or mothers or sisters to wave at them. Mr. Hopper had
better use for his money.
One scorching afternoon in July Colonel Carvel came into the office, too
hurried to remark the pain in honest Ephum's face as he watched his
master. The sure signs of a harassed man were on the Colonel. Since May
he had neglected his business affairs for others which he deemed public,
and which were so mysterious that even Mr. Hopper could not get wind of
them. These matters had taken the Colonel out of town. But now the
necessity of a pass made that awkward, and he went no farther than
Glencoe, where he spent an occasional Sunday. Today Mr. Hopper rose from
his chair when Mr. Carvel entered,--a most unprecedented action. The
Colonel cleared his throat. Sitting down at his desk, he drummed upon it
uneasily.
"Mr. Hopper!" he said at length.
Eliphalet crossed the room quickly, and something that was very near a
smile was on his face. He sat down close to Mr. Carvel's chair with a
semi-confidential air,--one wholly new, had the Colonel given it a
thought. He did not, but began to finger some printed slips of paper
which had indorsements on their backs. His fine lips were tightly closed,
as if in pain.
"Mr. Hopper," he said, "these Eastern notes are due this week, are they
not?"
"Yes, sir."
The Colonel glanced up swiftly.
"There is no use mincing matters, Hopper. You know as well as I that
there is no money to pay them," said he, with a certain pompous attempt
at severity which characterized his kind nature. "You have served me
well. You have brought this business up to a modern footing, and made it
as prosperous as any in the town. I am sorry, sir, that those
contemptible Yankees should have forced us to the use of arms, and cut
short many promising business careers such as yours, sir. But we have to
face the music. We have to suffer for our principles.
"These notes cannot be met, Mr. Hopper." And the good gentleman looked
out of the window. He was thinking of a day, before the Mexican War, when
his young wife had sat in the very chair filled by Mr. Hopper now. "These
notes cannot be met," he repeated, and his voice was near to breaking.
The flies droning in the hot office made the only sound. Outside the
partition, among the bales, was silence.
"Colonel," said Mr. Hopper, with a remarkable ease, "I cal'late these
notes can be met."
The Colonel jumped as if he had heard a shot, and one of the notes fell
to the floor. Eliphalet picked it up tenderly, and held it.
"What do you mean, sir?" Mr. Carvel cried. "There isn't a bank in town
that will lend me money. I--I haven't a friend--a friend I may ask who
can spare it, sir."
Mr. Hopper lifted up his hand. It was a fat hand. Suavity was come upon
it like a new glove and changed the man. He was no longer cringing. Now
he had poise, such poise as we in these days are accustomed to see in
leather and mahogany offices. The Colonel glared at him uncomfortably.
"I will take up those notes myself, sir."
"You!" cried the Colonel, incredulously, "You?"
We must do Eliphalet justice. There was not a deal of hypocrisy in his
nature, and now he did not attempt the part of Samaritan. He did not beam
upon the Colonel and remind him of the day on which, homeless and
friendless, he had been frightened into his store by a drove of mules.
No. But his day,--the day toward which he had striven unknown and
unnoticed for so many years--the day when he would laugh at the pride of
those who had ignored and insulted him, was dawning at last. When we are
thoughtless of our words, we do not reckon with that spark in little
bosoms that may burst into flame and burn us. Not that Colonel Carvel had
ever been aught but courteous and kind to all. His station in life had
been his offence to Eliphalet, who strove now to hide an exultation that
made him tremble.
"What do you mean, sir?" demanded the Colonel, again.
"I cal'late that I can gather together enough to meet the notes, Colonel.
Just a little friendly transaction." Here followed an interval of sheer
astonishment to Mr. Carvel.
"You have this money?" he said at length. Mr. Hopper nodded.
"And you will take my note for the amount?"
"Yes, sir."
The Colonel pulled his goatee, and sat back in his chair, trying to face
the new light in which he saw his manager. He knew well enough that the
man was not doing this out of charity, or even gratitude. He reviewed his
whole career, from that first morning when he had carried bales to the
shipping room, to his replacement of Mr. Hood, and there was nothing with
which to accuse him. He remembered the warnings of Captain Lige and
Virginia. He could not in honor ask a cent from the Captain now. He would
not ask his sister-in-law, Mrs. Colfax, to let him touch the money he had
so ably invested for her; that little which Virginia's mother had left
the girl was sacred.
Night after night Mr. Carvel had lain awake with the agony of those
Eastern debts. Not to pay was to tarnish the name of a Southern
gentleman. He could not sell the business. His house would bring nothing
in these times. He rose and began to pace the floor, tugging at his chin.
Twice he paused to stare at Mr. Hopper, who sat calmly on, and the third
time stopped abruptly before him.
"See here," he cried. "Where the devil did you get this money, sir?"
Mr. Hopper did not rise.
"I haven't been extravagant, Colonel, since I've worked for you," he
said. "It don't cost me much to live. I've been fortunate in
investments."
The furrows in the Colonel's brow deepened.
"You offer to lend me five times more than I have ever paid you, Mr.
Hopper. Tell me how you have made this money before I accept it."
Eliphalet had never been able to meet that eye since he had known it. He
did not meet it now. But he went to his desk, and drew a long sheet of
paper from a pigeonhole.
"These be some of my investments," he answered, with just a tinge of
surliness. "I cal'late they'll stand inspection. I ain't forcing you to
take the money, sir," he flared up, all at once. "I'd like to save the
business."
Mr. Carvel was disarmed. He went unsteadily to his desk, and none save
God knew the shock that his pride received that day. To rescue a name
which had stood untarnished since he had brought it into the world, he
drew forth some blank notes, and filled them out. But before he signed
them he spoke:
"You are a business man, Mr. Hopper," said he, "And as a business man you
must know that these notes will not legally hold. It is martial law. The
courts are abolished, and all transactions here in St. Louis are
invalid."
Eliphalet was about to speak.
"One moment, sir," cried the Colonel, standing up and towering to his
full height. "Law or no law, you shall have the money and interest, or
your security, which is this business. I need not tell you, sir, that my
word is sacred, and binding forever upon me and mine."
"I'm not afraid, Colonel," answered Mr. Hopper, with a feeble attempt at
geniality. He was, in truth, awed at last.
"You need not be, sir!" said the Colonel, with equal force. "If you were
--this instant you should leave this place." He sat down, and continued
more calmly: "It will not be long before a Southern Army marches into St.
Louis, and the Yankee Government submits." He leaned forward. "Do you
reckon we | 3,424.546936 |
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WOMEN AND ECONOMICS
A Study of the Economic Relation Between Men and Women as a Factor in
Social Evolution
By
Charlotte Perkins Stetson
[Illustration]
London: G. P. Putnam’s Sons
Boston: Small, Maynard & Company
1900
PRO | 3,424.550208 |
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THE BOOK OF THE LADIES
[Illustration: MESSIRE PIERRE DE BOURDEILLE
SEIGNEUR DE BRANTOME.]
_The Reign and Amours of the
Bourbon Régime_
A Brilliant Description of
the Courts of Louis XVI,
Amours, Debauchery, Intrigues,
and State Secrets, including
Suppressed and Confiscated MSS.
[Illustration]
The Book of the
Illustrious Dames
BY
PIERRE DE BOURDEÏLLE, ABBÉ DE BRANTÔME
WITH INTRODUCTORY ESSAY BY
C.-A. SAINTE-BEUVE
_Unexpurgated Rendition into English_
PRIVATELY PRINTED FOR MEMBERS OF THE
VERSAILLES HISTORICAL SOCIETY
NEW YORK
Copyright, 1899.
BY H. P. & CO.
_All Rights Reserved._
Édition de Luxe
_This edition is limited to two
hundred copies, of which this
is Number_.............
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 1
DISCOURSE I. ANNE DE BRETAGNE, Queen of France 25
_Sainte-Beuve’s remarks upon her_ 40
DISCOURSE II. CATHERINE DE’ MEDICI, Queen, and mother of
our last kings 44
_Sainte-Beuve’s remarks upon her_ 85
DISCOURSE III. MARIE STUART, Queen of Scotland, formerly
Queen of our France 89
_Sainte-Beuve’s essay on her_ 121
DISCOURSE IV. ÉLISABETH OF FRANCE, Queen of Spain 138
DISCOURSE V. MARGUERITE, Queen of France and of Navarre,
sole daughter now remaining of the Noble House of France 152
_Sainte-Beuve’s essay on her_ 193
DISCOURSE VI. MESDAMES, the Daughters of the Noble House
of France:
Madame Yoland 214
Madame Jeanne 215
Madame Anne 216
Madame Claude 219
Madame Renée 220
Mesdames Charlotte, Louise, Magdelaine, Marguerite 223
Mesdames Élisabeth, Claude, and Marguerite 229
Madame Diane 231
MARGUERITE DE VALOIS, Queen of Navarre 234
_Sainte-Beuve’s essay on the latter_ 243
DISCOURSE VII. OF VARIOUS ILLUSTRIOUS LADIES:
Isabelle d’Autriche, wife of Charles IX | 3,424.551188 |
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_THE ROMANCE OF SCIENCE_
THE MACHINERY OF THE UNIVERSE
MECHANICAL CONCEPTIONS OF
PHYSICAL PHENOMENA
BY
A. E. DOLBEAR, A.B., A.M., M.E., PH.D.
PROFESSOR OF PHYSICS AND ASTRONOMY, TUFTS COLLEGE, MASS.
PUBLISHED UNDER GENERAL LITERATURE COMMITTEE.
LONDON:
SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,
NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, W.C.;
43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET, E.C.
BRIGHTON: 129, NORTH STREET.
NEW YORK: E. & J. B. YOUNG & CO.
1897.
PREFACE
For thirty years or more the expressions "Correlation of the Physical
Forces" and "The Conservation of Energy" have been common, yet few
persons have taken the necessary pains to think out clearly what
mechanical changes take place when one form of energy is transformed
into another.
Since Tyndall gave us his book called _Heat as a Mode of Motion_ neither
lecturers nor text-books have attempted to explain how all phenomena are
the necessary outcome of the various forms of motion. In general,
phenomena have been attributed to _forces_--a metaphysical term, which
explains nothing and is merely a stop-gap, and is really not at all
needful in these days, seeing that transformable modes of motion, easily
perceived and understood, may be substituted in all cases for forces.
In December 1895 the author gave a lecture before the Franklin Institute
of Philadelphia, on "Mechanical Conceptions of Electrical Phenomena," in
which he undertook to make clear what happens when electrical phenomena
appear. The publication of this lecture in _The Journal of the Franklin
Institute_ and in _Nature_ brought an urgent request that it should be
enlarged somewhat and published in a form more convenient for the
public. The enlargement consists in the addition of a chapter on the
"_Contrasted Properties of Matter and the Ether_," a chapter containing
something which the author believes to be of philosophical importance in
these days when electricity is so generally described as a phenomenon of
the ether.
A. E. DOLBEAR.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
Ideas of phenomena ancient and modern, metaphysical and
mechanical--Imponderables--Forces, invented and
discarded--Explanations--Energy, its factors, Kinetic
and Potential--Motions, kinds and transformations
of--Mechanical, molecular, and atomic--Invention of
Ethers, Faraday's conceptions p. 7
CHAPTER II
Properties of Matter and Ether compared--Discontinuity
_versus_ Continuity--Size of atoms--Astronomical
distances--Number of atoms in the universe--Ether
unlimited--Kinds of | 3,424.554743 |
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THE YOKE OF THE THORAH
By Sidney Luska
Author Of “As It Was Written” “Mrs. Peixada,” Etc.
The Cassell Publishing Co.
1896
[Illustration: 0001]
[Illustration: 0007]
TO
EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN,
EXCEPT FOR WHOSE COUNSEL AND ENCOURAGEMENT THIS BOOK WOULD NEVER HAVE
BEEN WRITTEN, IT IS NOW GRATEFULLY AND AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.
THE YOKE OF THE THORAH.
I
IT was the last day of November, 1882. The sun had not shone at all
that day. The wind, sharp-edged, had blown steadily from | 3,424.579029 |
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THE
CAPTURED SCOUT
OF THE
ARMY OF THE JAMES.
A Sketch of the Life of
SERGEANT HENRY H. MANNING,
OF THE TWENTY-FOURTH MASS. REGIMENT.
BY
CHAPLAIN H. CLAY TRUMBULL.
BOSTON:
NICHOLS AND NOYES.
1869.
Entered according to Act of Congress in the year 1868, by
NICHOLS AND NOYES,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
CAMBRIDGE:
PRESS OF JOHN WILSON AND SON.
TO THE SURVIVING MEMBERS
OF THE
Twenty-Fourth Regiment Massachusetts Vols.,
THIS SKETCH OF THEIR COMRADE IS AFFECTIONATELY
_DEDICATED_,
BY ONE WHO HOLDS IN EVER FRESH AND DELIGHTFUL
REMEMBRANCE HIS THREE YEARS' EXPERIENCE
AS THEIR BRIGADE COMPANION,
AND
_HIS MINISTRY AS THEIR OCCASIONAL CHAPLAIN_.
NOTE.
This little sketch is the best, because the only, tribute to the memory
of its subject that the writer, amid the pressure of varied duties, can
find time to render.
Prepared, in great part, for use in a memorial discourse, it has not
been rewritten, although extended by additions which perhaps mar the
harmony of its first design.
The fact that it was shaped to be spoken rather than to be
read,--designed for the ear rather than for the eye,--will account, to
those accustomed to public address, for some of its unsuitableness of
style for the form in which it now appears.
H. C. T.
CONTENTS.
The Dead of the Army of the James 9
Cost of the Slaveholders' War 10
A Massachusetts Boy.--Foreshadowings of a noble Life 13
The Soldier of Christ and Country 14
A good Regiment.--A good Record 16
Fighting and Praying 17
James Island.--Hospital Supply of Rebel Shells 19
Charleston Siege-work.--Sharpshooting 20
The Veterans.--Love for the old Flag 22
Campaigns it in Virginia.--Volunteers as a Scout 24
The Capture.--The Dungeon.--The Gallows 27
Gloom of the Stockade and Jail.--Consecration Vow 29
Escape and Recapture.--Torn by Blood-hounds 31
Andersonville Horrors 34
In the Rebel Ranks.--Loyal still 35
A Prisoner among Friends.--Good News for Home 37
Again with his Regiment.--Merited Promotion 38
Home at last 39
Telling his Story.--Fulfilling his Vow 40
Student-life at Andover.--Loving Service for Jesus 41
Toil for Bread.--Unfailing Trust 43
Failing Health.--A Grateful Heart 47
In Hospital.--Gentle Ministry there 48
Hope against Hope.--The Privilege of Christian Work 53
Only Waiting.--Rest at last 55
Claims of the Dead on the Living 58
THE CAPTURED SCOUT
OF THE
ARMY OF THE JAMES.
THE DEAD OF THE ARMY OF THE JAMES.
On the evening of Wednesday, Sept. 2, 1868, some two hundred ex-officers
of the "Army of the James" were assembled in the dining-hall of the St.
James Hotel, Boston, in delightful re-union, as comrades of camp and
campaigning. The writer of this little sketch was called on to say words
in tribute to "The memory of the honored dead" of that army, and in
consequence the tenderest recollections were revived of those who fell
in the long years of war with rebellion.
Hardly had the writer reached his home from that re-union, before word
came to him of the death of another soldier of the Army of the James;
one whose varied and thrilling experiences, peculiar services to the
Union cause, and noble Christian character entitled him to special
mention, as a noteworthy and satisfactory illustration of the bravery
and worth of the enlisted men of that army. While on his death-bed, this
young soldier had sent particular request to one who, as an army
chaplain in his brigade, had known something of his personal character
and history, to preach a commemorative discourse on the occasion of his
decease. Thus called on again to pay just tribute to the memory of the
dead of the Army of the James, the writer prepared this sketch as part
of a sermon preached at Warwick, Mass., Sept. 13, 1868, and now gives it
to the public at the request of those who, knowing something of the
young soldier's history, naturally desire to know more.
COST OF THE SLAVEHOLDERS' WAR.
Others than his immediate comrades have reasons for an interest in this
young soldier, and should join in honoring his memory, and recalling at
his death the record of his army life. Dying though he did among the
green hills of Massachusetts, in these days of palmy peace, with parents
and sisters ministering to his comfort, as he wasted slowly before their
loving gaze, he was really one of the dead of the war, one of the
starved of Andersonville. His vigorous constitution was broken down
under the malarial damps of the sea-island death-swamps, beneath the
smiting sun-glare of the Carolina sands, in the fatigues of dreary
marches and anxious picket service, and amid the excitements of battle
and the crushing responsibilities of a mission of imminent peril within
the lines of the enemy. His young life was really worn away, not here at
the North, but there at the South, in dragging months of imprisonment,
in teeming hours of attempted escape, in rapid flight from the swift
pursuers, and in the death-clutch with the fierce-fanged hounds in the
swamp of despair!
And he was but one of many,--a representative youth; one out of thirteen
thousand martyrs of Andersonville,--
"The men who perished in swamp and fen,
The slowly starved of the prison pen;"--
a solitary soldier among fully three hundred thousand who gave their
lives for the nation's life, the sodden mounds of whose graves, like an
encircling earthwork, make secure that nation's proud though
dearly-bought position among the kingdoms of the world. Surely, there is
little danger that the story of such a man will be told too widely, or
his services be too highly esteemed; small cause for fear, that, in the
glad days of rest from war, there will be too vividly recalled those
dark hours of the imperilled republic, when the bared right arms of two
and a half millions of loyal and loving Union soldiers and sailors were
essential to the preservation of a free and righteous government; and
not only each blood-drop shed by those who stood or fell in battle for
their country, but every heart-throb of their suffering or toil, and
every tear of those who loved them, counted on the ransom of Liberty,
and helped--
"To make, for children yet to come,
This land of their bequeathing,
The imperial and the peerless home
Of happiest beings breathing."
A MASSACHUSETTS BOY.--FORESHADOWINGS OF A NOBLE LIFE.
Henry Hatch Manning was born in Warwick, Mass., May 17, 1844. He was
ever a loving and dutiful son and brother. Just before his
death, his mother remarked, "I cannot now recall any act of his
disobedience."--"Our brightest earthly hopes will perish with him,"
added his sister. When young, his frequent wish was that he had been the
eldest child, so as to lift burdens his sisters now must bear. At eight
years old, he was at work for a neighbor, earning something beyond his
board. While thus occupied, he was startled by the sudden death of his
employer by accident. Hurrying to his home, he whispered the sad story
to his mother, adding in almost the same breath, "But don't tell father.
He wouldn't let me go back; and what would Mrs. Holmes do without me?"
Thus early he showed his independence of character, and his desire to
live for others.
Having the ordinary common-school advantages of a Massachusetts
town,--such as are now, thank God! extended into regions whither they
won an entrance by blood,--Henry Manning improved them well. He had,
moreover, faithful home instruction; and the influence of a Christian
mother's prayerful teachings followed him like a continual benediction.
When about sixteen years old, while at work in another town from this,
in a season of spiritual declension and coldness there, he was drawn by
God's Spirit to make a full surrender of himself to Jesus. Evil
influences were around him just then: a sneering scoffer sought
persistently to dissuade him from his new-formed purpose; but God was
with him, and he witnessed faithfully for Christ. Others followed his
example, and a precious revival of God's Spirit-work followed in that
long cold and formal community.
THE SOLDIER OF CHRIST AND COUNTRY.
It was soon after this that the echo of rebel guns against Fort Sumter
aroused the New-England sons of Revolutionary patriots to the perils of
the nationality their fathers had founded in blood. Henry Manning was
not yet seventeen when the old flag was dishonored in Charleston
Harbor; but he was old enough to realize his country's need, and
patriotic enough to stake every thing in her defence. His heart, warm
with new love for the Saviour who died for him, throbbed to evidence its
affection in some sacrifice for a cause approved of God. Delayed
somewhat in his original plans, he enlisted, in the early autumn of
1861, as a private in the Twenty-fourth Massachusetts Regiment, then
forming near Boston, under the gallant and lamented Stevenson.
After his enlistment, on the Sabbath before he left for the war, he
stood up alone in his home-church, and made public profession of his new
faith, and was there enrolled as a follower of Jesus; his pastor
preaching an appropriate sermon from the text, "Thou therefore endure
hardness, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ;" which inspired counsel
Manning certainly followed to the letter. Going out thence | 3,424.650637 |
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Testimony of the Sonnets
as to the Authorship
of the Shakespearean
Plays and Poems
By Jesse Johnson
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1899
Copyright, 1899
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
DEDICATED TO
ALBERT E. LAMB
PARTNER AND FRIEND FOR TWENTY YEARS
OF THE ROYAL LINE OF LOYAL GENTLEMEN
CONTENTS
Introductory
Scope and effect of the discussion 1-5
Chapter I
The Sonnets contain a message from their author; they
portray his real emotions, and are to be read and
interpreted literally 7-18
Chapter II
They indicate that the friend or patron of the poet was a
young man, and of about the age of Shakespeare;
and that their author was past middle life, and considerably
older than Shakespeare 19-48
Chapter III
Direct statements showing that the Sonnets were not
written by their accredited author--were not written
by Shakespeare 49-58
Chapter IV
The known facts of Shakespeare's history reveal a character
entirely inconsistent with, and radically different
from, the revelations of the Sonnets as to the character
of their author 59-72
Chapter V
The general scope and effect of the Sonnets inconsistent
with the theory that they were written by Shakespeare 73-96
Chapter VI
The results of the discussion summarized 97-99
INTRODUCTORY
The Shakespearean Sonnets are not a single or connected work like an
ordinary play or poem. Their composition apparently extended over a
considerable time, which may be fairly estimated as not less than four
years. Read literally they seem to portray thoughts, modes or
experiences fairly assignable to such a period. Though variable and
sometimes light and airy in their movement, the greater portion appear
to reveal deep and intense emotion, the welling and tumultous floods
of the inner life of their great author. And their difficulty or
mystery is, that they indicate circumstances, surroundings,
experiences and regrets that we almost instinctively apprehend could
not have been those of William Shakespeare at the time they were
written, when he must have been in the strength of early manhood, in
the warmth and glow of recent and extraordinary advancement and
success.
It is this difficulty that apparently has caused many to believe that
their literal meaning cannot be accepted, and that we must give to
them, or to many of them, a secondary meaning, founded on affectations
or conceits relating to different topics or persons, or that at least
we should not allow that in them the poet is speaking of himself.
Others, like Grant White, simply allow and state the difficulty and
leave it without any suggestion of solution.
Before conceding, however, that the splendid poetry contained in the
Sonnets must be sundered or broken, or the apparent reality of its
message doubted or denied, or that its message is mysterious or
inexplicable--we should carefully inquire whether there is not some
view or theory which will avoid the difficulties which have so baffled
inquiry.
I believe that there is such a view or theory, and that view is--that
the Sonnets were not written by Shakespeare, but were written to him
as the patron or friend of the poet; that while Shakespeare may have
been the author of some plays produced in his name at the theatre
where he acted, or while he may have had a part in conceiving or
framing the greater plays so produced, there was another, a great
poet, whose dreamy and transforming genius wrought in and for them
that which is imperishable, and so wrought although he was to have no
part in their fame and perhaps but a small financial recompense; and
that it is the loves, griefs, fears, forebodings and sorrows of the
student and recluse, thus circumstanced and confined, that the Sonnets
portray.
Considering that the Sonnets were so written, there is no need of any
other than a literal and natural reading or interpretation. Commencing
in expressions of gratulation and implied flattery, as they proceed,
they appear to have been written as the incidents, fears and griefs
which they indicate from time to time came; and it may well be that
they were written not for publication, but as vents or expressions of
a surcharged heart. With such a view of the situation of the poet and
of his patron, we may not only understand much that otherwise is
inexplicable, but we may understand why so much and such resplendent
poetry is lavished on incidents so bare, meagre, and commonplace, and
why they present both poet and patron with frailties and faults naked
and repellant; and we can the better palliate and forgive the weakness
and subjection which the Sonnets indicate on the part of their author.
With such a reading the Sonnets become a chronicle of the modes and
feelings of their author, resembling in this respect the _In Memoriam_
of Tennyson; and their poetry becomes deeper and better, often
equalling, if not surpassing in pathos and intensity anything in the
greater Shakespearean plays.
Such is the result or conclusion to which the discussion which follows
is intended to lead. I shall not, however, ask the reader to accept
any such conclusion or result merely because it removes difficulties
or because it makes or rather leaves the poetry better; but I shall
present--that the Sonnets contain direct testimony, testimony not
leading to surmise or conjecture, but testimony which would authorize
a judgment in a court of law, that the Sonnets were not written by
Shakespeare, and that they very strongly indicate that Shakespeare
was the friend or patron to whom so many of them are addressed.
How such a conclusion from such testimony may be affected by arguments
drawn from other sources I shall not discuss, contenting myself if
into the main and larger controversy I have succeeded in introducing
the effect and teaching of this, certainly, very valuable and
important testimony.
TESTIMONY OF THE SONNETS AS TO THE AUTHORSHIP OF THE SHAKESPEAREAN
PLAYS AND POEMS
CHAPTER I
OF THE CHARACTER OF THE SONNETS AND THEIR RELATION TO THE OTHER WORKS
OF THE SAME AUTHOR
In these pages I propose an examination and study of the Shakespearean
Sonnets, for the purpose of ascertaining what information may be
derived from them as to the authorship of the Shakespearean plays and
poems. I am aware that any question or discussion as to their
authorship is regarded with objection or impatience by very many. But
to those not friendly to any such inquiry I would say, let us at least
proceed so far as to learn precisely what the author of these great
dramas says of himself and of his work in the only production in
which he in any manner refers to or speaks of himself. Certainly an
inquiry confined to such limits is appropriate, at least is not
disloyal. And if we study the characters of Hamlet, Juliet or
Rosalind, do we not owe it to the poet whose embodiments or creations
they are, that we should study his character in the only one of his
works in which his own surroundings and attachments, loves and fears,
griefs and forebodings, appear to be at all indicated?
From the Homeric poems, Mr. Gladstone undertook to gather what they
indicate as to the religion, morals and customs of the time; of the
birthplace of the poet, and of the ethnology and migrations of the
Hellenic peoples. Those poems were not written for any such purpose;
they were for a people who, in the main, on all those subjects knew or
believed as did their author. And it is both curious and instructive
to note how much information as to that distant period Mr. Gladstone
was able to gather from the circumstances, incidents, and implications
of the Homeric poetry. The value of such deductions no one can
question. We may reject as myths the Trojan War or the wanderings or
personality of Ulysses, but from these poems we certainly learn much
of the method of warfare, navigation, agriculture, and of the social
customs of those times.
So reading these Sonnets, we may perhaps not believe that the grief or
love of the poet or the beauty of his friend was quite as great as the
poetry indicates. But we may fairly take as correct what he says of
his friend or of himself, as to their relations and companionship, the
incidents and descriptions, which were but the framework on which he
wove his poetic wreaths of affection, compliment, or regret.
But before entering on this inquiry, it is quite relevant to ascertain
what relation these Sonnets bear to the Shakespearean plays and poems.
The works of Shakespeare, as published, contain thirty-seven separate
plays. Most of them are of the highest order, and rank with the most
consummate products of poetic genius. But criticism seems to have
established, and critics seem to agree, that in the works accredited
to him are plays of a lower order, which certainly are not from the
same author as the remainder, and especially the greater plays. In
this widely different and lower class, criticism seems to be agreed in
placing the greater portion of _Pericles_, _Titus Andronicus_,
_Timon of Athens_, two parts of _Henry VI._, and _Henry
VIII._[1] In addition to those, there are at least ten plays not now
published as Shakespeare's, that are conceded to be of a lower order and
by a different author, but which, apart from internal evidence, can be
almost as certainly shown to be his work as many of the greater of the
recognized Shakespearean plays. In the same high class of poetry as
the greater of these dramas are the Sonnets; and they are
unmistakably, and I think concededly, the work of the author of those
greater plays.
It is of our poet, as the author of these greater dramas as well as of
the Sonnets, that we would seek to learn in the study of the Sonnets.
It is only in the Sonnets that the poet speaks in the first person, or
allows us any suggestion of himself. His dramas reveal to us the
characters he has imagined and desires to portray; but they reveal
nothing of the author. His two great poems are dramatic in substance
and equally fail to give us any hint of their creator; but in the
Sonnets his own is the character whose thoughts and emotions are
stated. There we come nearest to him; and there it would seem that we
should be able to learn very much of him. Perhaps we shall find that
they do not present him at his best; it may be that they were intended
only for the eye of the friend or patron to whom they are addressed.
Perhaps they reveal the raveled sleeve, the anxieties of a straitened
life and of narrow means. Certainly, while they reveal the wonderful
fertility, resource, and fancy of the poet, they do not indicate that
in outward semblance, surroundings or history their author was either
fortunate or happy; and as we read them, sometimes we may feel that we
are entering the poet's heart-home unbidden and unannounced. But if we
have come there when it is all unswept and ungarnished, may we not the
more certainly rely on what it indicates?
Before entering on the study of the Sonnets we may inquire what, if
anything, there is, distinctive of our great poet, the recognition of
which may aid us in their interpretation.
Taine says that "the _creative_ power is the poet's greatest gift, and
communicates an extraordinary significance to his words"; and further,
that "he had the prodigious faculty of seeing in a twinkling of an eye
a complete character."[2]
The poet does not bring those characters to us by description, but he
causes them to speak in words so true and apposite to the character he
conceives that we seem to know the individuals from what they say and
not from what the poet wrote or said. But the poet goes much farther,
and in all his works presents surroundings and accessories, impalpable
but certain, which fit the characters and their moods and actions. The
picture of morning in _Venus and Adonis_ is apposite to the rich,
sensuous and brilliant colorings of the queen of love; the reference
in _Romeo and Juliet_ to the song of the nightingale "on yond'
pomegranate tree" is but an incident to the soft, warm and
love-inviting night; Rosalind moves and talks to the quickstep of the
forest; in _Macbeth_ the incantation of the witches is but the outward
expression of an overmastering fate, whose presence is felt throughout
the play. Let us then, in studying the Sonnets, consider that they are
from the same great master as the dramas. And we shall be thus
prepared, where the meaning seems plain and obvious, to believe that
the writer meant what he said, and to reject any interpretation which
implies that when he came to speak of himself he said what he did not
mean, or filled the picture with descriptions, situations or emotions,
incongruous or inappropriate. And if in so reading they seem clear and
connected, fanciful and far-drawn interpretations will not be adopted.
We should not distort or modify their meaning in order to infer that
they are imitations of Petrarch, or that the genius of the poet,
cribbed and confined by the fashion of the time, forgot to soar, and
limped and waddled in the footsteps of the inconspicuous sonneteers
of the Elizabethan era.
I would illustrate my meaning. Sonnet CXXVI. is sometimes said to be
an invocation to Cupid.[3] That seems to me to destroy all its grace
and beauty. The first two lines of the Sonnet,
O thou, my lovely boy, who in thy power
Dost hold Time's fickle glass, his sickle, hour--
are quite appropriate, if addressed to the god of love. But the lines
succeeding are quite the reverse. In effect they say that you have not
grown old because Nature, idealized as an active personality, has
temporarily vanquished Time, but will soon obtain the full audit. If
the Sonnet is addressed to the god of love it reduces him to the
limitations of mortality; if it is addressed to his friend, it
indicates that, though but for a little while, Nature has lifted him
to an attribute of immortality. The latter interpretation makes the
poet enlarge and glorify his subject; the former makes him belittle
it, and bring the god of love to the audit of age and the ravage of
wrinkles. This is the last sonnet of the first series; with the next
begins the series relating to his mistress. Reading it literally,
considering it as addressed to his friend, it is sparkling and poetic,
a final word, loving, admonitory, in perfect line and keeping with the
central thought of all that came before. From this Sonnet, interpreted
as I indicate, I shall try to find assistance in this study. But if it
is a mere poetical ascription to Cupid, it, of course, tells us
nothing except that its author was a poet.
I should not, however, leave this subject without stating that the
fanciful interpretation of these Sonnets does not seem to be favored
by more recent authors. I find no indication of such an interpretation
in Taine's _English Literature_, or in Grant White's edition of
Shakespeare. Professor Edward Dowden, universally recognized as a fair
and competent critic, says: "The natural sense, I am convinced, is the
true one."[4] Hallam says: "No one can doubt that they express not
only real but intense emotions of the heart."[5] Professor Tyler, in a
work relating to the Sonnets, says: "The impress of reality is
stamped on these Sonnets with unmistakable clearness."[6] Mr. Lee,
while regarding some of these as mere fancies, obviously finds that
many of them treated of facts.[7] Mr. Dowden, in a work devoted to the
Sonnets, states very fully the views which have been expressed by
different authors in relation to them. His quotations occupy sixty
pages and, I think, clearly show that the weight of authority is
decidedly in favor of allowing them their natural or primary meaning.
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<-- p. 100 -->
At·tracÏtiv¶iÏty (?), n. The quality or degree of attractive power.
AtÏtract¶or (?), n. One who, or that which, attracts.
Sir T. Browne.
At¶traÏhent (?), a. [L. attrahens, p. pr. of attrahere. See Attract, v. t.] Attracting; drawing; attractive.
At¶traÏhent, n. 1. That which attracts, as a magnet.
The motion of the steel to its attrahent.
Glanvill.
2. (Med.) A substance which, by irritating the surface, excites action in the part to which it is applied, as a blister, an epispastic, a sinapism.
AtÏtrap¶ (?), v. t. [F. attraper to catch; … (L. ad + trappe trap. See Trap (for taking game).] To entrap; to insnare. [Obs.]
Grafton.
AtÏtrap¶, v. t. [Pref. ad + trap to adorn.] To adorn with trapping; to array. [Obs.]
Shall your horse be attrapped... more richly?
Holland.
At·trecÏta¶tion (?), n. [L. attrectatio; ad + tractare to handle.] Frequent handling or touching. [Obs.]
Jer. Taylor.
AtÏtrib¶uÏtaÏble (?), a. Capable of being attributed; ascribable; imputable.
Errors... attributable to carelessness.
J.D. Hooker.
AtÏtrib¶ute (?), v. t. [imp. & p. p. Attributed; p. pr. & vb. n. Attributing.] [L. attributus, p. p. of attribuere; ad + tribuere to bestow. See Tribute.] To ascribe; to consider (something) as due or appropriate (to); to refer, as an effect to a cause; to impute; to assign; to consider as belonging (to).
We attribute nothing to God that hath any repugnancy or contradiction in it.
Abp. Tillotson.
The merit of service is seldom attributed to the true and exact performer.
Shak.
Syn. Ð See Ascribe.
At¶triÏbute (?), n. [L. attributum.] 1. That which is attributed; a quality which is considered as belonging to, or inherent in, a person or thing; an essential or necessary property or characteristic.
But mercy is above this sceptered away;...
It is an attribute to God himself.
Shak.
2. Reputation. [Poetic]
Shak.
3. (Paint. & Sculp.) A conventional symbol of office, character, or identity, added to any particular figure; as, a club is the attribute of Hercules.
4. (Gram.) Quality, etc., denoted by an attributive; an attributive adjunct or adjective.
At·triÏbu¶tion (?), n. [L. attributio: cf. F. attribution.] 1. The act of attributing or ascribing, as a quality, character, or function, to a thing or person, an effect to a cause.
2. That which is ascribed or attributed.
AtÏtrib¶uÏtive (?), a. [Cf. F. attributif.] Attributing; pertaining to, expressing, or assigning an attribute; of the nature of an attribute.
AtÏtrib¶uÏtive, n, (Gram.) A word that denotes an attribute; esp. a modifying word joined to a noun; an adjective or adjective phrase.
AtÏtrib¶uÏtiveÏly, adv. In an attributive manner.
AtÏtrite¶ (?), a. [L. attritus, p. p. of atterere; ad + terere to rub. See Trite.] 1. Rubbed; worn by friction.
Milton.
2. (Theol.) Repentant from fear of punishment; having attrition of grief for sin; Ð opposed to contrite.
AtÏtri¶tion (?), n. [L. attritio: cf. F. attrition.] 1. The act of rubbing together; friction; the act of wearing by friction, or by rubbing substances together; abrasion.
Effected by attrition of the inward stomach.
Arbuthnot.
2. The state of being worn.
Johnson.
3. (Theol.) Grief for sin arising only from fear of punishment or feelings of shame. See Contrition.
Wallis.
At¶try (?), a. [See Atter.] Poisonous; malignant; malicious. [Obs.]
Chaucer.
AtÏtune¶ (?), v. t. [imp. & p. p. Attuned (?); p. pr. & vb. n. Attuning.] [Pref. adÐ + tune.]
1. To tune or put in tune; to make melodious; to adjust, as one sound or musical instrument to another; as, to attune the voice to a harp.
2. To arrange fitly; to make accordant.
Wake to energy each social aim,
Attuned spontaneous to the will of Jove.
Beattie.
AÏtwain¶ (?), adv. [OE. atwaine, atwinne; pref. aÐ + twain.] In twain; asunder. [Obs. or Poetic] ½Cuts atwain the knots.¸
Tennyson.
AÏtween¶ (?), adv. or prep. [See Atwain, and cf. Between.] Between. [Archaic]
Spenser. Tennyson.
AÏtwirl¶ (?), a. & adv. [Pref. aÐ + twist.] Twisted; distorted; awry. [R.]
Halliwell.
AÏtwite¶ (?), v. t. [OE. attwyten, AS. ‘twÆtan. See Twit.] To speak reproachfully of; to twit; to upbraid. [Obs.]
AÏtwixt¶ (?), adv. Betwixt. [Obs.] Spenser.
AÏtwo¶ (?), adv. [Pref. aÐ + two.] In two; in twain; asunder. [Obs.]
Chaucer.
AÏtyp¶ic (?), AÏtyp¶icÏal,} a. [Pref. aÐ not + typic, typical.] That has no type; devoid of typical character; irregular; unlike the type.
Ø Au·bade¶ (?), n. [F., fr. aube the dawn, fr. L. albus white.] An open air concert in the morning, as distinguished from an evening serenade; also, a pianoforte composition suggestive of morning.
Grove.
The crowing cock...
Sang his aubade with lusty voice and clear.
Longfellow.
Ø Au·baine¶ (?), n. [F., fr. aubain an alien, fr. L. alibi elsewhere.] Succession to the goods of a stranger not naturalized.
Littr‚.
Droit d'aubaine (?), the right, formerly possessed by the king of France, to all the personal property of which an alien died possessed. It was abolished in 1819.
Bouvier.
Aube (?), n. [See Ale.] An alb. [Obs.]
Fuller.
Ø Au·berge¶ (?), n. [F.] An inn.
Beau. & Fl.
Ø Au¶bin (?), n. [F.] A broken gait of a horse, between an amble and a gallop; Ð commonly called a Canterbury gallop.
Au¶burn (?), a. [OE. auburne blonde, OF. alborne, auborne, fr. LL. alburnus whitish, fr. L. albus white. Cf. Alburn.] 1. FlaxenÐ. [Obs.]
Florio.
2. Reddish brown.
His auburn locks on either shoulder flowed.
Dryden.
Ø AuÏche¶niÏum (?), n. [NL., fr. Gr.?, fr.? the neck.] (Zo”l.) The part of the neck nearest the back.
Auc¶taÏry (?), n. [L. auctarium.] That which is superadded; augmentation. [Obs.]
Baxter.
Auc¶tion (?), n. [L. auctio an increasing, a public sale, where the price was called out, and the article to be sold was adjudged to the last increaser of the price, or the highest bidder, fr. L. augere, auctum, to increase. See Augment.] 1. A public sale of property to the highest bidder, esp. by a person licensed and authorized for the purpose; a vendue.
2. The things sold by auction or put up to auction.
Ask you why Phryne the whole auction buys?
Pope.
µ In the United States, the more prevalent expression has been ½sales at auction,¸ that is, by an increase of bids (Lat. auctione). This latter form is preferable.
Dutch auction, the public offer of property at a price beyond its value, then gradually lowering the price, till some one accepts it as purchaser.
P. Cyc.
Auc¶tion, v. t. To sell by auction.
Auc¶tionÏaÏry (?), a. [L. auctionarius.] Of or pertaining to an auction or an auctioneer. [R.]
With auctionary hammer in thy hand.
Dryden.
Auc·tionÏeer¶ (?), n. A person who sells by auction; a person whose business it is to dispose of goods or lands by public sale to the highest or best bidder.
Auc·tionÏeer¶, v. t. To sell by auction; to auction.
Estates... advertised and auctioneered away.
Cowper.
Au·cuÏpa¶tion (?), n. [L. aucupatio, fr. auceps, contr. for aviceps; avis bird + capere to take.] Birdcatching; fowling. [Obs.]
Blount.
AuÏda¶cious (?), a. [F. audacieux, as if fr. LL. audaciosus (not found), fr. L. audacia audacity, fr. audax, Ðacis, bold, fr. audere to dare.] 1. Daring; spirited; adventurous.
As in a cloudy chair, ascending rides
Audacious.
Milton.
2. Contemning the restraints of law, religion, or decorum; bold in wickedness; presumptuous; impudent; insolent. ½ Audacious traitor.¸ Shak.
½ Such audacious neighborhood.¸
Milton.
3. Committed with, or proceedings from, daring effrontery or contempt of law, morality, or decorum. ½Audacious cruelty.¸ ½Audacious prate.¸
Shak.
AuÏda¶ciousÏly, adv. In an audacious manner; with excess of boldness; impudently.
AuÏda¶ciousÏness, n. The quality of being audacious; impudence; audacity.
AuÏdac¶iÏty (?), n. 1. Daring spirit, resolution, or confidence; venturesomeness.
The freedom and audacity necessary in the commerce of men.
Tatler.
2. Reckless daring; presumptuous impudence; Ð implying a contempt of law or moral restraints.
With the most arrogant audacity.
Joye.
Au·diÏbil¶iÏty (?), n. The quality of being audible; power of being heard; audible capacity.
Au¶diÏble (?), a. [LL. audibilis, fr. L. audire, auditum, to hear: cf. Gr.? ear, L. auris, and E. ear.] Capable of being heard; loud enough to be heard; actually heard; as, an audible voice or whisper.
Au¶diÏble, n. That which may be heard. [Obs.]
Visibles are swiftlier carried to the sense than audibles.
Bacon.
Au¶diÏbleÏness, n. The quality of being audible.
Au¶diÏbly, adv. So as to be heard.
Au¶diÏence (?), n. [F. audience, L. audientia, fr. audire to hear. See Audible, a.] 1. The act of hearing; attention to sounds.
Thou, therefore, give due audience, and attend.
Milton.
2. Admittance to a hearing; a formal interview, esp. with a sovereign or the head of a government, for conference or the transaction of business.
According to the fair play of the world,
Let me have audience: I am sent to speak.
Shak.
3. An auditory; an assembly of hearers. Also applied by authors to their readers.
Fit audience find, though few.
Milton.
He drew his audience upward to the sky.
Dryden.
Court of audience, or Audience court (Eng.), a court long since disused, belonging to the Archbishop of Canterbury; also, one belonging to the Archbishop of York. Mozley & W. Ð In general (or open) audience, publicly. Ð To give audience, to listen; to admit to an interview.
Au¶diÏent (?), a. [L. audiens, p. pr. of audire. See Audible, a.] Listening; paying attention; as, audient souls.
Mrs. Browning.
Au¶diÏent, n. A hearer; especially a catechumen in the early church. [Obs.]
Shelton.
Au·diÏom¶eÏter (?), n. [L. audire to hear + Ðmeter.] (Acous.) An instrument by which the power of hearing can be gauged and recorded on a scale.
Au¶diÏphone (?), n. [L. audire to hear + Gr.? sound.] An instrument which, placed against the teeth, conveys sound to the auditory nerve and enables the deaf to hear more or less distinctly; a dentiphone.
Au¶dit (?), n. [L. auditus a hearing, fr. audire. See Audible, a.] 1. An audience; a hearing. [Obs.]
He appeals to a high audit.
Milton.
2. An examination in general; a judicial examination.
Specifically: An examination of an account or of accounts, with the hearing of the parties concerned, by proper officers, or persons appointed for that purpose, who compare the charges with the vouchers, examine witnesses, and state the result.
3. The result of such an examination, or an account as adjusted by auditors; final account.
Yet I can make my audit up.
Shak.
4. A general receptacle or receiver. [Obs.]
It [a little brook] paid to its common audit no more than the revenues of a little cloud.
Jer. Taylor.
Audit ale, a kind of ale, brewed at the English universities, orig. for the day of audit. Ð Audit house, Audit room, an appendage to a cathedral, for the transaction of its business.
Au¶dit (?), v. t. [imp. & p. p. Audited; p. pr. & vb. n. Auditing.] To examine and adjust, as an account or accounts; as, to audit the accounts of a treasure, or of parties who have a suit depending in court.
Au¶dit, v. i. To settle or adjust an account.
Let Hocus audit; he knows how the money was disbursed.
Arbuthnot.
Ø AuÏdi¶ta queÏre¶la (?). [L., the complaint having been heard.] (Law) A writ which lies for a party against whom judgment is recovered, but to whom good matter of discharge has subsequently accrued which could not have been availed of to prevent such judgment.
Wharton.
AuÏdi¶tion (?), n. [L. auditio.] The act of hearing or listening; hearing.
Audition may be active or passive; hence the difference between listening and simple hearing.
Dunglison.
Au¶diÏtive (?), a. [Cf. F. auditif.] Of or pertaining to hearing; auditory. [R.]
Cotgrave.
Au¶diÏtor (?), n. [L. auditor, fr. audire. See Audible, a.] 1. A hearer or listener.
Macaulay.
2. A person appointed and authorized to audit or examine an account or accounts, compare the charges with the vouchers, examine the parties and witnesses, allow or reject charges, and state the balance.
3. | 3,424.653881 |
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Produced by Mark C. Orton, Linda McKeown, Karen Dalrymple
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
THE
TRANSFORMATION OF JOB
A TALE OF THE HIGH SIERRAS
[Illustration: (portrait of author)]
_BY FREDERICK VINING FISHER._
[Illustration: ( | 3,424.752484 |
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Produced by Adrian Mastronardi, Ruth 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: Some printer's errors, such as missing periods,
commas printed as periods and other minor punctuation errors have
been corrected. Variations in spelling and capitalisation have been
retained as they appear in the original.
EYEBRIGHT.
_A STORY._
By SUSAN COOLIDGE,
AUTHOR OF "THE NEW YEAR'S BARGAIN," "WHAT KATY DID,"
"WHAT KATY DID AT SCHOOL," "MISCHIEF'S THANKSGIVING,"
"NINE LITTLE GOSLINGS."
With Illustrations.
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1894.
_Copyright_,
By Roberts Brothers.
1879.
UNIVERSITY PRESS:
John Wilson & Son, Cambridge.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. LADY JANE AND LORD GUILDFORD 1
II. AFTER SCHOOL 18
III. MR. JOYCE 43
IV. A DAY WITH THE SHAKERS 66
V. HOW THE BLACK DOG HAD HIS DAY 85
VI. CHANGES 104
VII. BETWEEN THE OLD HOME AND THE NEW 122
VIII. CAUSEY ISLAND 143
IX. SHUT UP IN THE OVEN 166
X. A LONG YEAR IN A SHORT CHAPTER 188
XI. A STORM ON THE COAST 204
XII. TRANSPLANTED 226
EYEBRIGHT.
CHAPTER I.
LADY JANE AND LORD GUILDFORD.
[Illustration: "THE FALCON'S NEST."]
It wanted but five minutes to twelve in Miss Fitch's schoolroom, and a
general restlessness showed that her scholars were aware of the fact.
Some of the girls had closed their books, and were putting their desks
to rights, with a good deal of unnecessary fuss, keeping an eye on the
clock meanwhile. The boys wore the air of dogs who see their master
coming to untie them; they jumped and quivered, making the benches
squeak and rattle, and shifted their feet about on the uncarpeted
floor, producing sounds of the kind most trying to a nervous teacher.
A general expectation prevailed. Luckily, Miss Fitch was not nervous.
She had that best of all gifts for teaching,--calmness; and she
understood her pupils and their ways, and had sympathy with them. She
knew how hard it is for feet with the dance of youth in them to keep
still for three long hours on a June morning; and there was a
pleasant, roguish look in her face as she laid her hand on the bell,
and, meeting the twenty-two pairs of expectant eyes which were fixed
on hers, rang it--dear Miss Fitch--actually a minute and a half before
the time.
At the first tinkle, like arrows dismissed from the bow-string, two
girls belonging to the older class jumped from their seats and flew,
ahead of all the rest, into the entry, where hung the hats and caps of
the school, and their dinner-baskets. One seized a pink sun-bonnet
from its nail, the other a Shaker-scoop with a deep green cape; each
possessed herself of a small tin pail, and just as the little crowd
swarmed into the passage, they hurried out on the green, in the middle
of which the schoolhouse stood. It was a very small green, shaped like
a triangle, with half a dozen trees growing upon it; but
"Little things are great to little men,"
you know, and to Miss Fitch's little men and women "the Green" had all
the importance and excitement of a park. Each one of the trees which
stood upon it possessed a name of its own. Every crotch and branch in
them was known to the boys and the most daring among the girls; each
had been the scene of games and adventures without number. "The
Castle," a low spreading oak with wide, horizontal branches, had been
the favorite tree for fights. Half the boys would garrison the boughs,
the other half, scrambling from below and clutching and tugging, would
take the part of besiegers, and it had been great fun all round. But
alas, for that "had been!" Ever since one unlucky day, when Luther
Bradley, as King Charles, had been captured five boughs up by Cromwell
and his soldiers, and his ankle badly sprained in the process, Miss
Fitch had ruled that "The Castle" should be used for fighting purposes
no longer. The boys might climb it, but they must not call themselves
a garrison, nor pull nor struggle with each other. So the poor oak was
shorn of its military glories, and forced to comfort itself by bearing
a larger crop of acorns than had been possible during the stirring and
warlike times, now for ever ended.
Then there was "The Dove-cote," an easily climbed beech, on which rows
of girls might be seen at noon-times roosting like fowls in the sun.
And there was "The Falcon's Nest," which produced every year a few
small, sour apples, and which Isabella Bright had adopted for her
tree. She knew every inch of the way to the top; to climb it was like
going up a well-known staircase, and the sensation of sitting there
aloft, high in air, on a bough which curved and swung, with another
bough exactly fitting her back to lean against, was full of delight
and fascination. It was like moving and being at rest all at once;
like flying, like escape. The wind seemed to smell differently and
more sweetly up there than in lower places. Two or three times lost in
fancies as deep as sleep, Isabella had forgotten all about recess and
bell, and remained on her perch, swinging and dreaming, till some one
was sent to tell her that the arithmetic class had begun. And once,
direful day! marked with everlasting black in the calendar of her
conscience, being possessed suddenly, as it were, by some idle and
tricksy demon, she stayed on after she was called, and, called again,
she still stayed; and when, at last, Miss Fitch herself came out and
stood beneath the tree, and in her pleasant, mild voice told her to
come down, still the naughty girl, secure in her fastness, stayed. And
when, at last, Miss Fitch, growing angry, spoke severely and ordered
her to descend, Isabella shook the boughs, and sent a shower of hard
little apples down on her kind teacher's head. That was dreadful,
indeed, and dreadfully did she repent it afterward, for she loved Miss
Fitch dearly, and, except for being under the influence of the demon,
could never have treated her so. Miss Fitch did not kiss her for a
whole month afterward,--that was Isabella's punishment,--and it was
many months before she could speak of the affair without feeling her
eyes fill swiftly with tears, for Isabella's conscience was tender,
and her feelings very quick in those days.
This, however, was eighteen months ago, when she was only ten and a
half. She was nearly twelve now, and a good deal taller and wiser. I
have introduced her as Isabella, because that was her real name, but
the children and everybody always called her Eyebright. "I. Bright" it
had been written in the report of her first week at Miss Fitch's
school, when she was a little thing not more than six years old. The
droll name struck some one's fancy and from that day she was always
called Eyebright because of that, and because her eyes were bright.
They were gray eyes, large and clear, set in a wide, low forehead,
from which a thick mop of hazel-brown hair, with a wavy kink all
through it, was combed back, and tied behind with a brown ribbon. Her
nose turned up a little; her mouth was rather wide, but it was a
smiling, good-tempered mouth; the cheeks were pink and wholesome, and
altogether, though not particularly pretty, Eyebright was a
pleasant-looking little girl in the eyes of the people who loved her,
and they were a good many.
[Illustration: To her there was a great charm in all that goes to the
making of pictures.--PAGE 7.]
The companion with whom she was walking was Bessie Mather, her most
intimate friend just then. Bessie was the daughter of a
portrait-painter, who didn't have many portraits to paint, so he was
apt to be discouraged, and his family to feel rather poor. Eyebright
was not old enough to perceive the inconveniences of being poor. To
her there was a great charm in all that goes to the making of
pictures. She loved the shining paint-tubes, the palette set with its
ring of many- dots, and the white canvases; even the smell of
oil was pleasant to her, and she often wished that her father, too,
had been a painter. When, as once in a great while happened, Bessie
asked her to tea, she went with a sort of awe over her mind, and
returned in a rapture, to tell her mother that they had had biscuits
and apple-sauce for supper, and hadn't done any thing in particular;
but she had enjoyed it so much, and it had been so interesting! Mrs.
Bright never could understand why biscuits and apple-sauce, which
never created any enthusiasm in Eyebright at home, should be so
delightful at Bessie Mather's, neither could Eyebright explain it, but
so it was. This portrait-painting father was one of Bessie's chief
attractions in Eyebright's eyes, but apart from that, she was
sweet-tempered, pliable, and affectionate, and--a strong bond in
friendship sometimes--she liked to follow and Eyebright to lead; she
preferred to listen and Eyebright to talk; so they suited each other
exactly. Bessie's hair was dark; she was not quite so tall as
Eyebright; but their heights matched very well, as, with arms round
each other's waist, they paced up and down "the green," stopping now
and then to take a cookie, or a bit of bread and butter, from the
dinner-pails which they had set under one of the trees.
Not the least attention did they pay to the rest of the scholars, but
Eyebright began at once, as if reading from some book which had been
laid aside only a moment before:
"At that moment Lady Jane heard a tap at the door.
"'See who it is, Margaret,' she said.
"Margaret opened the door, and there stood before her astonished eyes
a knight clad in shining armor.
"'Who are you, Sir Knight, and wherefore do you come?' she cried, in
amaze.
"'I am come to see the Lady Jane Grey,' he replied; 'I have a message
for her from Lord Guildford Dudley.'
"'From my noble Guildford,' shrieked Lady Jane, rushing forward.
"'Even so, madam,' replied the | 3,425.085783 |
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Produced by Barbara and Bill Tozier.
21
[Illustration: DR. FRANK CRANE]
_"We may all possess wisdom if we are willing to be persuaded that
the experience of others is as useful as our own. Why give to old
age alone the privilege of wisdom? What would be thought of one who
prided himself on possessing bracelets when he had lost his two arms
in war?"_
--_Yoritomo, the Japanese Philosopher._
21
BY
DR. FRANK CRANE
Being the article "If I Were Twenty-One" which originally appeared
in the _American Magazine_.
Revised by the author
NEW YORK
WM. H. WISE & CO.
1930
_Copyright, 1918, by_
WM. H. WISE & CO.
_All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian._
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY THE
CROWELL PUBLISHING COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
A Foreword
Prelude
I. If I were Twenty-One I would do the next thing
II. If I were Twenty-One I would adjust myself
III. If I were Twenty-One I would take care of my body
IV. If I were Twenty-One I would train my mind
V. If I were Twenty-One I would be happy
VI. If I were Twenty-One I would get married
VII. If I were Twenty-One I would save money
VIII. If I were Twenty-One I would study the art of pleasing
IX. If I were Twenty-One I would determine, even if I could
never be anything else in the world, that I would be
a thoroughbred
X. If I were Twenty-One I would make some permanent, amicable
arrangement with my conscience
A FOREWORD
_The following note, by the editor of the _American Magazine_,
appeared in conjunction with the publication of this story in that
magazine:_
In most of the biggest cities of the United States, from New York
and Chicago down, you will find people who, every night of their
lives, watch for and read in their evening paper an editorial by
Frank Crane. These editorials are syndicated in a chain of
thirty-eight newspapers, which reach many millions of readers. The
grip which Crane has on these readers is tremendous. The reason is
that the man has plenty of sensible ideas, which he presents simply
and forcibly so that people get hold of them.
In reality, Crane is a wonderful preacher. Years ago, in fact, he
was the pastor of a great church in Chicago. But he left the pulpit
and took up writing because he had the ability to interest millions,
and could reach them only by means of the printing press.
Doctor Crane lives in New York and does most of his work there.
PRELUDE
The voyager entering a new country will listen with attention to the
traveller who is just returning from its exploration; and the young
warrior buckling on his armour may be benefited by the experiences
of the old warrior who is laying his armour off. I have climbed the
Hill of Life, and am past the summit, _I suppose_, and perhaps it
may help those just venturing the first incline to know what I think
I would do if I had it to do over.
I have lived an average life. I have had the same kind of follies,
fears, and fires my twenty-one-year-old reader has. I have failed
often and bitterly. I have loved and hated, lost and won, done some
good deeds and many bad ones. I have had some measure of success and
I have made about every kind of mistake there is to make. In other
words, I have lived a full, active, human life, and have got thus
far safely along.
I am on the shady side of fifty. As people grow old they accumulate
two kinds of spiritual supplies: one, a pile of doubts,
questionings, and mysteries; and the other, a much smaller pile of
positive conclusions. There is a great temptation to expatiate upon
the former subjects, for negative and critical statements have a
seductive appearance of depth and much more of a flavour of wisdom
than clear and succinct declarations. But I will endeavour to resist
this temptation, and will set down, as concisely as I can, some of
the positive convictions I have gained.
For the sake of orderly thought, I will make Ten Points. They might
of course just as well be six points or forty, but ten seems to be
the number most easily remembered, since we have ten fingers, first
and "handiest" of counters.
21
I
IF I WERE TWENTY-ONE I WOULD "DO THE NEXT THING"
The first duty of a human being in this world is to take himself off
other people's backs. I would go to work at something for which my
fellow men would be willing to pay. I would not wait for an Ideal
Job. The only ideal job I ever heard of was the one some other
fellow had.
It is quite important to find the best thing to do. It is much more
important to find something to do. If I were a young artist, I would
paint soap advertisements, if that were all opportunity offered,
until I got ahead enough to indulge in the painting of madonnas and
landscapes. If I were a young musician, I would rather play in a
street band than not at all. If I were a young writer, I would do
hack work, if necessary, until I became able to write the Great
American Novel.
I would go to work. Nothing in all this world I have found is so
good as work.
I believe in the wage system as the best and most practical means of
cooerdinating human effort. What spoils it is the large indigestible
lumps of unearned money that, because of laws that originated in
special privilege, are injected into the body politic, by
inheritance and other legal artificialities.
If I were twenty-one I would resolve to take no dollar for which I
had not contributed something in the world's work. If a
philanthropist gave me a million dollars I would decline it. If a
rich father or uncle left me a fortune, I would hand it over to the
city treasury. All great wealth units come, directly or indirectly,
from the people and should go to them. All inheritance should be
limited to, say, $100,000. If Government would do that there would
be no trouble with the wage system.
If I were twenty-one I would keep clean of endowed money. The
happiest people I have known have been those whose bread and butter
depended upon their daily exertion.
II
IF I WERE TWENTY-ONE I WOULD ADJUST MYSELF
More people I have known have suffered because they did not know how
to adjust themselves than for any other reason. And the
happiest-hearted people I have met have been those that have the
knack of adapting themselves to whatever happens.
I would begin with my relatives. While I might easily conceive a
better set of uncles, aunts, cousins, brothers, and so on, yet
Destiny gave me precisely the relatives I need. I may not want them,
but I need them. So of my friends and acquaintances and fellow
workmen. Every man's life is a plan of God. Fate brings to me the
very souls out of the unknown that I ought to know. If I cannot get
along with them, be happy and appreciated, I could not get along
with another set of my own picking. A man who is looking for ideal
human beings to make up his circle of acquaintances would as well go
at once and jump into the river.
The God of Things as They Ought to Be is a humbug. There is but one
God, and He is the God of Things as They Are.
Half of my problem is Me; the other half is Circumstances. My task
is to bring results out of the combination of the two.
Life is not a science, to be learned; it is an art, to be practised.
Ability comes by doing. Wisdom comes not from others; it is a
secretion of experience.
Life is not like a problem in arithmetic, to be solved by learning
the rule; it is more like a puzzle of blocks, or wire rings--you
just keep trying one way after another, until finally you succeed,
maybe.
I think it was Josh Billings who said that in the Game of Life, as
in a game of cards, we have to play the cards dealt to us; and the
good player is not the one who always wins, but the one who plays a
poor hand well.
III
IF I WERE TWENTY-ONE I WOULD TAKE CARE OF MY BODY
The comfort and efficiency of my days depend fundamentally upon the
condition of this physical machine I am housed in. I would look out
for it as carefully as I attend to my automobile, so that it might
perform its functions smoothly and with the minimum of trouble.
To this end I would note the four X's. They are Examination,
Excretion, Exercise, Excess.
EXAMINATION: I would have my body thoroughly inspected by
intelligent scientists once a year. I do not believe in thinking too
much about one's health, but I believe in finding out the facts, and
particularly the weaknesses, of one's mechanism, before one proceeds
to forget it.
EXCRETION: By far the most important item to attend to in regard to
the body is the waste pipes, including the colon, the bladder, and
the pores. Most diseases have their origin in the colon. I would see
to it that it was thoroughly cleaned every day. In addition, I would
drink plenty of water, and would take some form of exercise every
day that would induce perspiration. Most of my sicknesses have come
from self-poisoning, and I would make it my main care to eliminate
the waste.
EXERCISE: I would, if I were twenty-one, take up some daily system
of exercise that would bring into play all the voluntary muscles of
the body, and especially those which from my occupation tend to
disuse. I would devote half an hour to an hour daily to this
purpose.
EXCESS: I would take no stimulant of any kind whatsoever. Whatever
whips the body up to excess destroys the efficiency of the organism.
Hence I would not touch alcoholic drinks in any form. If one never
begins with alcohol he can find much more physical pleasure and
power without it. The day of alcohol is past, with intelligent
people. Science has condemned it as a food. Business has banned it.
It remains only as the folly of the weak and fatuous.
I would drink no tea or coffee, as these are stimulants and not
foods. Neither would I use tobacco. The healthy human body will
furnish more of the joy of life, if it is not abused, than can be
given by any of the artificial tonics which the ignorance and
weakness of men have discovered.
If I were twenty-one, all this!
IV
IF I WERE TWENTY-ONE I WOULD TRAIN MY MIND
I would realize that my eventual success depends mostly upon the
quality and power of my brain. Hence I would train it so as to get
the best out of it.
Most of the failures I have seen, especially in professional life,
have been due to mental laziness. I was a preacher for years, and
found out that the greatest curse of the ministry is laziness. It is
probably the same among lawyers and physicians. It certainly is so
among actors and writers. Hence, I would let no day pass without its
period of hard, keen, mental exertion so that my mind would be
always as a steel spring, or like a well-oiled engine, ready,
resilient, and powerful.
And in this connection I would recognize that repetition is better
than effort. Mastery, perfection, the doing of difficult things with
ease and precision, depend more upon doing things over and over than
upon putting forth great effort.
I would especially purge myself as far as possible of intellectual
cowardice and intellectual dishonesty. By intellectual dishonesty I
mean what is called expediency; that is, forming, or adhering to, an
opinion, not because we are convinced of its truth, but because of
the effect it will have. A mind should, at twenty-one, marry Truth,
and "cleave only unto her, till death do them part, for better, for
worse."
By intellectual cowardice I mean all superstitions, premonitions,
and other forms of mental paralysis or panic caused by what is
vague. To heed signs, omens, cryptic sayings, and all talk of fate
and luck, is nothing but mental dirt. I have seen many bright minds
sullied by it. It is worthy only of the mind of an ignorant savage.
V
IF I WERE TWENTY-ONE I WOULD BE HAPPY
By this I imply that any one can be happy if he will. Happiness does
not depend on circumstances, but upon Me.
This is perhaps the greatest truth in the world, and the one most
persistently disbelieved.
Happiness, said Carlyle, is as the value of a common fraction, which
results from dividing the numerator by the denominator. The
numerator, in life, is What We Have. The denominator is What We
Think We Ought to Have. Mankind may be divided into two classes:
Fools and Wise. The fools are eternally trying to get happiness by
multiplying the numerator, the wise divide the denominator. They
both come to the same--only one you can do and the other is
impossible.
If you have only one thousand dollars and think you ought to have
two thousand dollars, the answer is one thousand divided by two
thousand, which is one half. Go and get another thousand and you
have two thousand divided by two thousand, which is one; you have
doubled your contentment. But the trouble is that in human affairs
as you multiply your numerator you unconsciously multiply your
denominator at the same time, and you get nowhere. By the time your
supply reaches two thousand dollars your wants have risen to
twenty-five hundred dollars.
How much easier simply to reduce your Notion of What You Ought to
Have. Get your idea down to one thousand, which you can easily do if
you know the art of self-mastery, and you have one thousand divided
by one thousand, which is one, and a much simpler and more sensible
process than that of trying to get another one thousand dollars.
This is the most valuable secret of life. Nothing is of more worth
to the youth than to awake to the truth that he can change his
wants.
Not only all happiness, but all culture, all spiritual growth, all
real, inward success, is a process of changing one's wants.
So if I were twenty-one I would make up my mind to be happy. You get
about what is coming to you, in any event, in this world, and
happiness and misery depend on how you take it; why not be happy?
VI
IF I WERE TWENTY-ONE I WOULD GET MARRIED
I would not wait until I became able to support a wife. I would
marry while poor, and marry a poor girl. I have seen all kinds of
wives, and by far the greatest number of successful ones were those
that married poor.
Any man of twenty-one has a better chance for happiness, moral
stature, and earthly success, if married than if unmarried.
I married young, and poor as Job's turkey. I have been in some hard
places, seen poverty and trial, and I have had more than my share of
success, but in not one instance, either of failure or triumph,
would I have been better off single. My partner in this task of
living has doubled every joy and halved every defeat.
There's a deal of discussion over sex problems. There is but one
wholesome, normal, practical, and God-blessed solution to the sex
question, and that is the loyal love of one man and one woman.
Many young people play the fool and marry the wrong person, but my
observation has been that "there's no fool like the old fool," that
the longer marriage is postponed the greater are the chances of
mistake, and that those couples are the most successful in matrimony
who begin in youth and grow old together.
In choosing a wife I would insist on three qualifications:
1. She should be healthy. It is all well enough to admire an
invalid, respect and adore her, but a healthy, live man needs a
healthy woman for his companion, if he would save himself a thousand
ills.
2. She should have good common sense. No matter how pretty and
charming a fool may be, and some of them are wonderfully winning, it
does not pay to marry her. Someone has said that pretty women with
no sense are like a certain cheap automobile: they are all right to
run around with, but you don't want to own one.
And 3. She should be cheerful. A sunny, brave, bright disposition is
a wife's best dowry.
As to money, or station in life, or cleverness, or good looks, they
should not enter at all into the matter. If I could find a girl,
healthy, sensible, and cheerful, and if I loved her, I'd marry her,
if I were twenty-one.
VII
IF I WERE TWENTY-ONE I WOULD SAVE MONEY
Money has a deal to do with contentment in this workaday world, and
I'd have some of my own. There isn't a human being but could save a
little. Every man, in America at least, could live on nine tenths of
what he does live on, and save the other tenth. And the man who
regularly saves no money is a fool, just a plain fool, whether he be
an actor getting one thousand dollars a week or a ditch-digger
getting one dollar a day.
And I would get my life insured. Life insurance is the most
practical way for a young man, especially if he be a professional
man, or any one not gifted with the knack of making money, to
achieve financial comfort. The life insurance companies are as safe
as any money institution can be. You are compelled to save in order
to pay your premiums, and you probably need that sort of whip. And
those dependent upon you are protected against the financial
distress that would be caused by your death. I believe life
insurance to be the best way to save money, at least for one who
knows little about money.
VIII
IF I WERE TWENTY-ONE I WOULD STUDY THE ART OF PLEASING
Much of the content from life is due to having pleasant people
around you. Hence I would form habits and cultivate manners that
would please them.
For instance, I would make my personal appearance as attractive as
possible. I would look clean, well-dressed, and altogether as
engaging as the material I had to work with would allow.
I would be punctual. To keep people waiting is simply insolent
egotism.
I would, if my voice were unpleasant, have it cultivated until it
became agreeable in tone. I would speak low. I would not mumble, but
learn the art of clear, distinct speech. It is very trying to
associate with persons who talk so that it is a constant effort to
understand their words.
I would learn the art of conversation, of small talk. I would equip
myself to be able to entertain the grouchiest, most bl | 3,425.086887 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
BY CANADIAN STREAMS
BY
LAWRENCE J. BURPEE
TORONTO
THE MUSSON BOOK COMPANY LIMITED
_Entered at_
_Stationers Hall_
1909
THE RIVERS OF CANADA
Who that has travelled upon their far-spreading waters has not felt the
compelling charm of the rivers of Canada? The matchless variety of their
scenery, from the gentle grace of the Sissibou to the tempestuous
grandeur of the Fraser; the romance that clings to their shores--legends
and tales of Micmac and Iroquois, Cree, Blackfoot, and Chilcotin;
stories of peaceful Acadian villages beside the Gaspereau, and fortified
towns along the St. Lawrence; of warlike expeditions and missionary
enterprises up the Richelieu and the Saguenay; of heroic exploits at the
Long Sault and at Vercheres; of memorable explorations in the north and
the far west? How many of us realise the illimitable possibilities of
these arteries of a nation, their vital importance as avenues of
commerce and communication, the potential energy stored in their rushing
waters? Do we even appreciate their actual extent, or thoroughly grasp
the fact that this network of waterways covers half a continent, and
reaches every corner of this vast Dominion?
Two hundred years ago little was known of these rivers outside the
valley of the St. Lawrence. One hundred years later scores of new
waterways had been explored from source to outlet, some of them ranking
among the great rivers of the earth. The Western Sea, that had lured
the restless sons of New France toward the setting sun, that had
furnished a dominating impulse to her explorers, from Jacques Cartier to
La Verendrye, was at last reached by Canadians of another race--and the
road that they travelled was the water-road that connects three oceans.
In their frail canoes these tireless pathfinders journeyed up the mighty
St. Lawrence and its great tributary the Ottawa, through Lake Nipissing,
and down the French river to Georgian Bay; they skirted the shores of
the inland seas to the head of Lake Superior, and by way of numberless
portages crossed the almost indistinguishable height of land to Rainy
Lake and the beautiful Lake of the Woods. They descended the wild
Winnipeg to Lake Winnipeg, paddled up the Saskatchewan to Cumberland
House, turned north by way of Frog Portage to the Churchill, and
ascended that waterway to its source, where they climbed over Meythe
Portage--famous in the annals of exploration and the fur trade--to the
Clearwater, a branch of the Athabaska, and so came to Fort Chipewyan, on
Lake Athabaska. Descending Slave River for a few miles, they came to
the mouth of Peace River, and after many days' weary paddling were in
sight of the Rocky Mountains. Still ascending the same river, they
traversed the mountains, and by other streams were borne down the
western <DW72> to the shores of the remote Pacific.
The world offers no parallel to this extraordinary water-road from the
Atlantic to the Pacific; nor is the tale all told. From that great
central reservoir, that master-key to the whole system of water
communications, the traveller might turn his canoe in any direction, and
traverse the length and breadth of the continent to its most remote
boundaries: east to the Atlantic, west to the Pacific, north to the
Arctic or to Hudson Bay, and south to the Gulf of Mexico.
The story of Canadian rivers would fill several volumes if one attempted
to do justice to such a broad and varied theme. One may only hope, in
the few pages that follow, to give glimpses of the story; to suggest,
however inadequately, the dramatic and romantic possibilities of the
subject; to recall a few of the memories that cling to the rivers of
Canada.
CONTENTS
I. The Great River of Canada
II. The Mystic Saguenay
III. The River of Acadia
IV. The War Path of the Iroquois
V. The River of the Cataract
VI. The Highway of the Fur Trade
VII. The Red River of the North
VIII. The Mighty Mackenzie
By Canadian Streams
I
THE GREAT RIVER OF CANADA
He told them of the river whose mighty current gave
Its freshness for a hundred leagues to ocean's briny wave;
He told them of the glorious scene presented to his sight,
What time he reared the cross and crown on Hochelaga's height,
And of the fortress cliff that keeps of Canada the key,
And they welcomed back Jacques Cartier from his perils over sea.
McGEE.
If we abandon ourselves to pure conjecture, we may carry the history of
the St. Lawrence back to the beginning of the sixteenth century, when
daring Portuguese navigators sailed into these northern latitudes; or to
the latter half of the fifteenth century, when the Basque fishermen are
said to have brought their adventurous little craft into the Gulf of St.
Lawrence; or, if you please, we may push the curtain back to the tenth
century and add another variant to the many theories as to the course of
the Northmen from Labrador to Nova Scotia. But while this would make a
romantic story, it is not history. The Vikings of Northern Europe, and
the Portuguese and Basques of Southern Europe, _may_ have sailed the
Gulf of St. Lawrence, and _may_ even have entered the estuary of the
great river, but there is no evidence that they did, and we must
surrender these picturesque myths if we are to build our story upon a
tangible foundation.
With the advent of Jacques Cartier, the bluff and fearless mariner of
St. Malo, we are upon the solid ground of history. There is nothing
vague or uncertain about either the personality or achievements of this
Breton captain. He tells his own story, in simple and convincing
language. It does not require any peculiar gift of imagination to
picture the scene that marks the beginnings of the history of the St.
Lawrence. It was upon an autumn day, some three hundred and seventy-four
years since. Jacques Cartier, with his little fleet, had searched up and
down the coasts of the gulf for the elusive and much-desired passage to
the South Seas, but the passage was not there. His Indian guides,
Taignoagny and Domagaya, had told him something of the mighty
stream--the Great River of Canada--upon whose waters his ships were even
now sailing. How almost incredible it must have seemed to him that this
vast channel, twenty-five miles across from shore to shore, could be a
river, and nothing more! What thoughts must have surged through his
brain that here at last was the long-sought passage, the road to golden
Cathay! Even when, as he sailed onward, it became certain that this was
indeed a river, although a gigantic one, Jacques Cartier still had
reason enough to follow its beckoning finger. The Indians said that to
explore its upper waters he must take to his boats; but they told him of
three several native kingdoms that lay along its banks, and they assured
him that its source was so remote that no man had ever journeyed so far.
Moreover, it came from the south-west, and there lay, and at no
impossible distance, as report had it, the Vermilion Sea. He might well
hope to reach that sea by way of the River of Canada. In any event, he
determined to try.
A week later the ships were anchored off an island, which Cartier named
the Isle of Bacchus, because of the abundance of grapes found upon its
shores. Before him rose the forest-clad heights of Cape Diamond,
destined to become the key to a Colonial empire, the battling-ground of
three great nations, the site of the most picturesque and most romantic
city of America. Even at this time the place was of some importance,
for here stood the native town of Stadacona, the seat of Donnacona,
"Lord of Canada."
While the ships rode at anchor, Donnacona came down the river with
twelve canoes and a number of his people. His welcoming harangue
astonished Cartier, as much by its inordinate length as by the
extraordinary animation with which it was delivered. The explorer wasted
no time, however, in ceremonies. The season was drawing on, and much
remained to be accomplished. Finding safe quarters for two of his
vessels in the St. Charles River he continued his voyage in the third,
in spite of the opposition of Donnacona and his people, who with true
native jealousy would have prevented his further progress. The ship had
to be left behind at the mouth of the Richelieu, but with two boats,
manned by some of his sailors, Cartier pushed on to the third native
kingdom, Hochelaga, which he reached about the beginning of October. His
reception here was embarrassing in its enthusiasm, for the people of
Hochelaga testified their faith in the godlike character of their
visitor by bringing the sick and the maimed to him to be healed by his
touch.
Climbing the mountain behind the Indian town--which still bears the name
he then gave it of Mont Royal--Cartier eagerly scanned the country to
the westward. He could trace the St. Lawrence on one side, and on the
other saw for the first time its great tributary the Ottawa. The way
was still open, but rapids barred the further progress of his boats. It
was too late to do anything more this season, and, taking leave of the
friendly people of Hochelaga, he returned down the river to Stadacona,
where in his absence his men had built a substantial fort for the
winter. With all their preparations, however, a wretched winter was
passed. The Indians, at first friendly, became distrustful under the
treacherous influence of Domagaya and Taignoagny, and kept Cartier and
his men constantly on guard against a possible attack. Added to this,
the little garrison had to endure the horrors of scurvy. When in the
following May Cartier made ready to sail back to France, he found it
necessary to abandon one of his ships and distribute the men between the
other two vessels. As some satisfaction for the annoyance he had
suffered at the hands of the Indians, Cartier succeeded in carrying away
to France not only the troublesome Taignoagny and several of his
companions, but also the chief, Donnacona.
Cartier sailed for Canada once more in 1541, but only fragmentary
accounts are available of this voyage. The honest captain of St. Malo
never succeeded in finding the Vermilion Sea, but he had accomplished
what was of more importance to future generations--the discovery and
exploration of the noblest of Canadian rivers. No one who came after
him could add anything material to this momentous achievement.
For more than half a century after Cartier's final return to France, the
St. Lawrence was practically abandoned to its native tribes. In 1608,
however, another famous son of Old France sailed up the St. Lawrence and
landed with his men at the foot of the same towering rock upon which the
Indian town of Stadacona had formerly stood. Nothing now remained of
Donnacona's capital, or of the tribe that once occupied the district.
The Iroquois, who in Cartier's day dwelt along the borders of the St.
Lawrence from Stadacona to Hochelaga, had for some unaccountable reason
abandoned this part of the country, and were now settled between Lake
Champlain and Lake Ontario. Champlain and those who came after him were
to find a very different welcome from the descendants of the Indians who
had welcomed Jacques Cartier to Stadacona and Hochelaga.
Somewhere near the market-place of the Lower Town, Champlain's men fell
to work to lay the foundations of Quebec. One may get some idea of the
appearance of the group of buildings, Champlain's _Abitation_, from his
own rough sketch in the _Voyages_. "My first care," he says, "was to
build a house within which to store our provisions. This was promptly
and competently done through the activity of my men, and under my own
supervision. Near by is the St. Croix River, where of yore Cartier
spent a winter. While carpenters toiled and other mechanics were at
work on the house, the others were busy making a clearance about our
future abode; for as the land seemed fertile, I was anxious to plant a
garden and determine whether wheat and other cereals could not be grown
to advantage."
All Champlain's men were not, however, so innocently engaged. There was
a traitor in the camp. The story is told by Champlain himself, and by
the historian Lescarbot. It has been re-told, in his characteristically
simple and graphic manner, by Francis Parkman.
"Champlain was one morning directing his labourers when Tetu, his pilot,
approached him with an anxious countenance, and muttered a request to
speak with him in private. Champlain assenting, they withdrew to the
neighbouring woods, when the pilot disburdened himself of his secret.
One Antoine Natel, a locksmith, smitten by conscience or fear, had
revealed to him a conspiracy to murder his commander and deliver Quebec
into the hands of the Basques and Spaniards then at Tadoussac. Another
locksmith, named Duval, was author of the plot, and, with the aid of
three accomplices, had befooled or frightened nearly all the company
into taking part in it. Each was assured that he should make his
fortune, and all were mutually pledged to poniard the first betrayer of
the secret. The critical point of their enterprise was the killing of
Champlain. Some were for strangling him, some for raising a false alarm
in the night and shooting him as he came out from his quarters.
"Having heard the pilot's story, Champlain, remaining in the woods,
desired his informant to find Antoine Natel, and bring him to the spot.
Natel soon appeared, trembling with excitement and fear, and a close
examination left no doubt of the truth of his statement. A small
vessel, built by Pont-Grave at Tadoussac, had lately arrived, and orders
were now given that it should anchor close at hand. On board was a
young man in whom confidence could be placed. Champlain sent him two
bottles of wine, with a direction to tell the four ringleaders that they
had been given him by his Basque friends at Tadoussac, and to invite
them to share the good cheer. They came aboard in the evening, and were
seized and secured. 'Voyla donc mes galants bien estonnez,' writes
Champlain.
"It was ten o'clock, and most of the men on shore were asleep. They
were wakened suddenly, and told of the discovery of the plot and the
arrest of the ringleaders. Pardon was then promised them, and they were
dismissed again to their beds, greatly relieved, for they had lived in
trepidation, each fearing the other. Duval's body, swinging from a
gibbet, gave wholesome warning to those he had seduced; and his head was
displayed on a pike, from the highest roof of the buildings, food for
birds, and a lesson to sedition. His three accomplices were carried by
Pont-Grave to France, where they made their atonement in the galleys."
Of Champlain's later history, his expedition against the Iroquois, by
way of the Richelieu River and the lake to which he gave his name, and
his exploration of the Ottawa, something will be said in later chapters.
The next great event in the history of New France, after the founding of
Quebec by Champlain, was the coming of the Jesuit missionaries; but
though their headquarters were at Quebec, the field of their heroic
labours was for the most part in what now constitute the Province of
Ontario and the State of New York. Their story does not therefore touch
directly upon the St. Lawrence, except in so far as that river was their
road to and from the Iroquois towns and the country of the Hurons.
Indeed, by the middle of the seventeenth century, the St. Lawrence had
become the main thoroughfare of New France. A fort had been built at
the mouth of the Richelieu, a small trading settlement existed at Three
Rivers, and Maisonneuve had laid the foundations of Montreal. Between
Quebec and these new centres of population there was more or less
intercourse, and the river bore up and down the vessels of fur-trader
and merchant, priest and soldier. The St. Lawrence was the highway of
commerce, the path of the missionary, the road of war, and the one and
only means of communication for the scattered colonists. Up stream came
warlike expeditions against the troublesome Iroquois; and down stream
came the Iroquois themselves, with increasing insolence, until they
finally carried their raids down to the very walls of Quebec. The St.
Lawrence was not safe travelling in those days, for white men or red.
During one of these forays, the Iroquois had captured two settlers, one
Godefroy and Francois Marguerie, an interpreter, both of Three Rivers.
When some months later the war party returned to attack Three Rivers,
they brought the Frenchmen with them, and sent Marguerie to the
commander of the fort with disgraceful terms. Marguerie urged his people
to reject the offer, and then, keeping his pledged word even to savages,
returned to face almost certain torture. Fortunately, reinforcements
arrived from Quebec in the nick of time, and the Iroquois, finding
themselves at a disadvantage, consented to the ransom of their
prisoners.
In this same year, 1641, a little fleet which had set forth from
Rochelle some weeks before dropped anchor at Quebec, and from the ships
landed Paul de Chomedey, Sieur de Maisonneuve, with a party of
enthusiasts destined to found a religious settlement on the island of
Montreal. They were coldly received by the Governor and people of
Quebec, who were too weak themselves to care to see the tide of
population diverted to a new settlement far up the river. Maisonneuve,
however, turned a deaf ear to all their arguments. "I have not come
here," he said, "to deliberate, but to act. It is my duty and my honour
to found a colony at Montreal; and I would go, if every tree were an
Iroquois!"
In May of the following year the expedition set forth for Montreal.
With Maisonneuve went two women, whose names were to be closely
associated with the early history of Montreal--Jeanne Mance and Madame
de la Peltrie. The Governor, Montmagny, making a virtue of necessity,
also accompanied the expedition. A more willing companion was Father
Vimont, Superior of the missions.
It was the seventeenth of the month when the odd little flotilla--a
pinnace, a flat-bottomed craft driven by sails, and a couple of
row-boats--approached their destination. The following day they landed
at what was afterwards known as Point Calliere. The scene is best
described in the words of Parkman:
"Maisonneuve sprang ashore, and fell on his knees. His followers
imitated his example; and all joined their voices in enthusiastic songs
of thanksgiving. Tents, baggage, arms, and stores were landed. An
altar was raised on a pleasant spot near at hand; and Mademoiselle
Mance, with Madame de la Peltrie, aided by her servant, Charlotte Barre,
decorated it with a taste which was the admiration of the beholders.
Now all the company gathered before the shrine. Here stood Vimont, in
the rich vestments of his office. Here were the two ladies with their
servant; Montmagny, no very willing spectator; and Maisonneuve, a
warlike figure, erect and tall, his men clustering around him--soldiers,
sailors, artisans, and labourers--all alike soldiers at need. They
kneeled in reverent silence as the Host was raised aloft; and when the
rite was over, the priest turned and addressed them: 'You are a grain of
mustard-seed, that shall rise and grow till its branches overshadow the
earth. You are few, but your work is the work of God. His smile is on
you, and your children shall fill the land.'
"The afternoon waned; the sun sank behind the western forest, and
twilight came on. Fireflies were twinkling over the darkened meadow.
They caught them, tied them with threads into shining festoons, and hung
them before the altar, where the Host remained exposed. Then they
pitched their tents, lighted their bivouac fires, stationed their
guards, and lay down to rest. Such was the birth-night of Montreal."
Farther down the St | 3,425.087949 |
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Produced by David Widger
SAILORS' KNOTS
By W.W. Jacobs
1909
"THE TOLL-HOUSE"
"It's all nonsense," said Jack Barnes. "Of course people have died in the
house; people die in every house. As for the noises--wind in the chimney
and rats in the wainscot are very convincing to a nervous man. Give me
another cup of tea, Meagle."
"Lester and White are first," said Meagle, who was presiding at the
tea-table of the Three Feathers Inn. "You've had two."
Lester and White finished their cups with irritating slowness, pausing
between sips to sniff the aroma, and to discover the sex and dates of
arrival of the "strangers" which floated in some numbers in the beverage.
Mr. Meagle served them to the brim, and then, turning to the grimly
expectant Mr. Barnes, blandly requested him to ring for hot water.
"We'll try and keep your nerves in their present healthy condition," he
remarked. "For my part I have a sort of half-and-half belief in the
super-natural."
"All sensible people have," said Lester. "An aunt of mine saw a ghost
once."
White nodded.
"I had an uncle that saw one," he said.
"It always is somebody else that sees them," said Barnes.
"Well, there is a house," said Meagle, "a large house at an absurdly low
rent, and nobody will take it. It has taken toll of at least one life of
every family that has lived there--however short the time--and since it
has stood empty caretaker after care-taker has died there. The last
caretaker died fifteen years ago."
"Exactly," said Barnes. "Long enough ago for legends to accumulate."
"I'll bet you a sovereign you won't spend the night there alone, for all
your talk," said White, suddenly.
"And I," said Lester.
"No," said Barnes slowly. "I don't believe in ghosts nor in any
supernatural things whatever; all the same I admit that I should not care
to pass a night there alone."
"But why not?" inquired White.
"Wind in the chimney," said Meagle with a grin.
"Rats in the wainscot," chimed in Lester. "As you like," said Barnes
coloring.
"Suppose we all go," said Meagle. "Start after supper, and get there
about eleven. We have been walking for ten days now without an
adventure--except Barnes's discovery that ditchwater smells longest. It
will be a novelty, at any rate, and, if we break the spell by all
surviving, the grateful owner ought to come down handsome."
"Let's see what the landlord has to say about it first," said Lester.
"There is no fun in passing a night in an ordinary empty house. Let us
make sure that it is haunted."
He rang the bell, and, sending for the landlord, appealed to him in the
name of our common humanity not to let them waste a night watching in a
house in which spectres and hobgoblins had no part. The reply was more
than reassuring, and the landlord, after describing with considerable art
the exact appearance of a head which had been seen hanging out of a
window in the moonlight, wound up with a polite but urgent request that
they would settle his bill before they went.
"It's all very well for you young gentlemen to have your fun," he said
indulgently; "but supposing as how you are all found dead in the morning,
what about me? It ain't called the Toll-House for nothing, you know."
"Who died there last?" inquired Barnes, with an air of polite derision.
"A tramp," was the reply. "He went there for the sake of half a crown,
and they found him next morning hanging from the balusters, dead."
"Suicide," said Barnes. "Unsound mind."
The landlord nodded. "That's what the jury brought it in," he said
slowly; "but his mind was sound enough when he went in there. I'd known
him, off and on, for years. I'm a poor man, but I wouldn't spend the
night in that house for a hundred pounds."
[Illustration: "I'm a poor man, but I wouldn't spend the night in that
house for a hundred pounds."]
He repeated this remark as they started on their expedition a few hours
later. They left as the inn was closing for the night; bolts shot
noisily behind them, and, as the regular customers trudged slowly
homewards, they set off at a brisk pace in the direction of the house.
Most of the cottages were already in darkness, and lights in others went
out as they passed.
"It seems rather hard that we have got to lose a night's rest in order to
convince Barnes of the existence of ghosts," said White.
"It's in a good cause," said Meagle. "A most worthy object; and
something seems to tell me that we shall succeed. You didn't forget the
candles, Lester?"
"I have brought two," was the reply; "all the old man could spare."
There was but little moon, and the night was cloudy. The road between
high hedges was dark, and in one place, where it ran through a wood, so
black that they twice stumbled in the uneven ground at the side of it.
"Fancy leaving our comfortable beds for this!" said White again. "Let
me see; this desirable residential sepulchre lies to the right, doesn't
it?"
"Farther on," said Meagle.
They walked on for some time in silence, broken only by White's tribute
to the softness, the cleanliness, and the comfort of the bed which was
receding farther and farther into the distance. Under Meagle's guidance
they turned oft at last to the right, and, after a walk of a quarter of a
mile, saw the gates of the house before them.
[Illustration: "They saw the gates of the house before them."]
The lodge was almost hidden by overgrown shrubs and the drive was choked
with rank growths. Meagle leading, they pushed through it until the dark
pile of the house loomed above them.
"There is a window at the back where we can get in, so the landlord
says," said Lester, as they stood before the hall door.
"Window?" said Meagle. "Nonsense. Let's do the thing properly. Where's
the knocker?"
He felt for it in the darkness and gave a thundering rat-tat-tat at the
door.
"Don't play the fool," said Barnes crossly.
"Ghostly servants are all asleep," said Meagle gravely, "but I'll wake
them up before I've done with them. It's scandalous keeping us out here
in the dark."
He plied the knocker again, and the noise volleyed in the emptiness
beyond. Then with a sudden exclamation he put out his hands and stumbled
forward.
"Why, it was open all the time," he said, with an odd catch in his voice.
"Come on."
"I don't believe it was open," said Lester, hanging back. "Somebody is
playing us a trick."
"Nonsense," said Meagle sharply. "Give me a candle. Thanks. Who's got
a match?"
Barnes produced a box and struck one, and Meagle, shielding the candle
with his hand, led the way forward to the foot of the stairs. "Shut the
door, somebody," he said, "there's too much draught."
"It is shut," said White, glancing behind him.
Meagle fingered his chin. "Who shut it?" he inquired, looking from one
to the other. "Who came in last?"
"I did," said Lester, "but I don't remember shutting it--perhaps I did,
though."
Meagle, about to speak, thought better of it, and, still carefully
guarding the flame, began to explore the house, with the others close
behind. Shadows danced on the walls and lurked in the corners as they
proceeded. At the end of the passage they found a second staircase, and
ascending it slowly gained the first floor.
"Careful!" said Meagle, as they gained the landing.
He held the candle forward and showed where the balusters had broken
away. Then he peered curiously into the void beneath.
"This is where the tramp hanged himself, I suppose," he said
thoughtfully.
"You've got an unwholesome mind," said White, as they walked on. "This
place is qutie creepy enough without your remembering that. Now let's
find a comfortable room and have a little nip of whiskey apiece and a
pipe. How will this do?"
He opened a door at the end of the passage and revealed a small square
room. Meagle led the way with the candle, and, first melting a drop or
two of tallow, stuck it on the mantelpiece. The others seated themselves
on the floor and watched pleasantly as White drew from his pocket a small
bottle of whiskey and a tin cup.
"H'm! I've forgotten the water," he exclaimed. "I'll soon get some,"
said Meagle.
He tugged violently at the bell-handle, and the rusty jangling of a bell
sounded from a distant kitchen. He rang again.
"Don't play the fool," said Barnes roughly.
Meagle laughed. "I only wanted to convince you," he said kindly. "There
| 3,425.183652 |
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In the Valley
By
Harold Frederic
Copyright 1890
Dedication.
_When, after years of preparation, the pleasant task of writing this tale
was begun, I had my chief delight in the hope that the completed book
would gratify a venerable friend, to whose inspiration my first idea of
the work was due, and that I might be allowed to place his honored name
upon this page. The ambition was at once lofty and intelligible. While he
was the foremost citizen of New York State, we of the Mohawk Valley
thought of him as peculiarly our own. Although born elsewhere, his whole
adult life was spent among us, and he led all others in his love for the
Valley, his pride in its noble history, and his broad aspirations for the
welfare and progress in wise and good ways of its people. His approval ef
this book would have been the highest honor it could possibly have won.
Long before it was finished, he had been laid in his last sleep upon the
bosom of the hills that watch over our beautiful river. With reverent
affection the volume is brought now to lay as a wreath upon his
grave--dedicated to the memory of Horatio Seymour._
London, _September 11_, 1890
Contents.
Chapter I. "The French Are in the Valley!"
Chapter II. Setting Forth How the Girl Child Was Brought to Us.
Chapter III. Master Philip Makes His Bow--And Behaves Badly
Chapter IV. In Which I Become the Son of the House.
Chapter V. How a Stately Name Was Shortened and Sweetened.
Chapter VI. Within Sound of the Shouting Waters.
Chapter VII. Through Happy Youth to Man's Estate.
Chapter VIII. Enter My Lady Berenicia Cross.
Chapter IX. I See My Sweet Sister Dressed in Strange Attire.
Chapter X. The Masquerade Brings Me Nothing but Pain.
Chapter XI. As I Make My Adieux Mr. Philip Comes In.
Chapter XII. Old-Time Politics Pondered under the Starlight.
Chapter XIII. To the Far Lake Country and Home Again.
Chapter XIV. How I Seem to Feel a Wanting Note in the Chorus of Welcome.
Chapter XV. The Rude Awakening from My Dream.
Chapter XVI. Tulp Gets a Broken Head to Match My Heart.
Chapter XVII. I Perforce Say Farewell to My Old Home.
Chapter XVIII. The Fair Beginning of a New Life in Ancient Albany.
Chapter XIX. I Go to a Famous Gathering at the Patroon's Manor House.
Chapter XX. A Foolish and Vexatious Quarrel Is Thrust upon Me.
Chapter XXI. Containing Other News Besides that from Bunker Hill.
Chapter XXII. The Master and Mistress of Cairncross.
Chapter XXIII. How Philip in Wrath, Daisy in Anguish, Fly Their Home.
Chapter XXIV. The Night Attack Upon Quebec--And My Share in It.
Chapter XXV. A Crestfallen Return to Albany.
Chapter XXVI. I See Daisy and the Old Home Once More.
Chapter XXVII. The Arrest of Poor Lady Johnson.
Chapter XXVIII. An Old Acquaintance Turns Up in Manacles.
Chapter XXIX. The Message Sent Ahead from the Invading Army.
Chapter XXX. From the Scythe and Reaper to the Musket.
Chapter XXXI. The Rendezvous of Fighting Men at Fort Dayton.
Chapter XXXII. "The Blood Be on Your Heads."
Chapter XXXIII. The Fearsome Death-Struggle in the Forest.
Chapter XXXIV. Alone at Last with My Enemy.
Chapter XXXV. The Strange Uses to Which Revenge May Be Put.
Chapter XXXVI. A Final Scene in the Gulf which My Eyes Are Mercifully
Spared.
Chapter XXXVII. The Peaceful Ending of It All.
In The Valley
Chapter I.
"The French Are in the Valley!"
It may easily be that, during the many years which have come and gone
since the eventful time of my childhood, Memory has played tricks upon me
to the prejudice of Truth. I am indeed admonished of this by study of my
son, for whose children in turn this tale is indited, and who is now able
to remember many incidents of his youth--chiefly beatings and like
parental cruelties--which I know very well never happened at all. He is
good enough to forgive me these mythical stripes and bufferings, but he
nurses their memory with ostentatious and increasingly succinct
recollection, whereas for my own part, and for his mother's, our enduring
fear was lest we had spoiled him through weak fondness. By good fortune
the reverse has been true. He is grown into a man of whom any parents
might be proud--tall, well-featured, strong, tolerably learned, honorable,
and of influence among his fellows. His affection for us, too, is very
great. Yet in the fashion of this new generation, which speaks without
waiting to be addressed, and does not scruple to instruct on all subjects
its elders, he will have it that he feared me when a lad--and with cause!
If fancy can so distort impressions within such short span, it does not
become me to be too set about events which come back slowly through the
mist and darkness of nearly threescore years.
Yet they return to me so full of color, and cut in such precision and
keenness of outline, that at no point can I bring myself to say, "Perhaps
I am in error concerning this," or to ask, "Has this perchance been
confused with other matters?" Moreover, there are few now remaining who of
their own memory could controvert or correct me. And if they essay to do
so, why should not my word be at least as weighty as theirs? And so to
the story:
* * * * *
I was in my eighth year, and there was snow on the ground.
The day is recorded in history as November 13, A.D. 1757, but I am afraid
that I did not know much about years then, and certainly the month seems
now to have been one of midwinter. The Mohawk, a larger stream then by far
than in these days, was not yet frozen over, but its frothy flood ran very
dark and chill between the white banks, and the muskrats and the beavers
were all snug in their winter holes. Although no big fragments of ice
floated on the current, there had already been a prodigious scattering of
the bateaux and canoes which through all the open season made a thriving
thoroughfare of the river. This meant that the trading was over, and that
the trappers and hunters, white and red, were either getting ready to go
or had gone northward into the wilderness, where might be had during the
winter the skins of dangerous animals--bears, wolves, catamounts, and
lynx--and where moose and deer could be chased and yarded over the crust,
not to refer to smaller furred beasts to be taken in traps.
I was not at all saddened by the departure of these rude, foul men, of
whom those of Caucasian race were not always the least savage, for they
did not fail to lay hands upon traps or nets left by the heedless within
their reach, and even were not beyond making off with our boats, cursing
and beating children who came unprotected in their path, and putting the
women in terror of their very lives. The cold weather was welcome not only
for clearing us of these pests, but for driving off the black flies,
mosquitoes, and gnats which at that time, with the great forests so close
behind us, often rendered existence a burden, particularly just
after rains.
Other changes were less grateful to the mind. It was true I would no
longer be held near the house by the task of keeping alight the smoking
kettles of dried fungus, designed to ward off the insects, but at the same
time had disappeared many of the enticements which in summer oft made this
duty irksome. The partridges were almost the sole birds remaining in the
bleak woods, and, much as their curious ways of hiding in the snow, and
the resounding thunder of their strange drumming, mystified and attracted
me, I was not alert enough to catch them. All my devices of horse-hair
and deer-hide snares were foolishness in their sharp eyes. The water-fowl,
too--the geese, ducks, cranes, pokes, fish-hawks, and others--had flown,
sometimes darkening the sky over our clearing by the density of their
flocks, and filling the air with clamor. The owls, indeed, remained, but I
hated them.
The very night before the day of which I speak, I was awakened by one of
these stupid, perverse birds, which must have been in the cedars on the
knoll close behind the house, and which disturbed my very soul by his
ceaseless and melancholy hooting. For some reason it affected me more than
commonly, and I lay for a long time nearly on the point of tears with
vexation--and, it is likely, some of that terror with which uncanny noises
inspire children in the darkness. I was warm enough under my fox-robe,
snuggled into the husks, but I was very wretched. I could hear, between
the intervals of the owl's sinister cries, the distant yelping of the
timber wolves, first from the Schoharie side of the river, and then from
our own woods. Once there rose, awfully near the log wall against which I
nestled, a panther's shrill scream, followed by a long silence, as if the
lesser wild things outside shared for the time my fright. I remember that
I held my breath.
It was during this hush, and while I lay striving, poor little fellow, to
dispel my alarm by fixing my thoughts resolutely on a rabbit-trap I had
set under some running hemlock out on the side hill, that there rose the
noise of a horse being ridden swiftly down the frosty highway outside. The
hoofbeats came pounding up close to our gate. A moment later there was a
great hammering on the oak door, as with a cudgel or pistol handle, and I
heard a voice call out in German (its echoes ring still in my old ears):
"The French are in the Valley!"
I drew my head down | 3,425.184783 |
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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 | 3,425.186536 |
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OLD
DECCAN DAYS
OR
HINDOO FAIRY LEGENDS
_CURRENT IN SOUTHERN INDIA._
COLLECTED FROM ORAL TRADITION,
BY M. FRERE.
WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES,
BY SIR BARTLE FRERE.
[Decoration]
PHILADELPHIA
J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
1870.
Lippincott's Press, Philadelphia.
[Illustration: VICRAM MAHARAJAH--p. 133.]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 5
THE COLLECTOR'S APOLOGY 12
THE NARRATOR'S NARRATIVE 15
1. PUNCHKIN 27
2. A FUNNY STORY 44
3. BRAVE SEVENTEE BAI 51
4. TRUTH'S TRIUMPH 81
5. RAMA AND LUXMAN; OR, THE LEARNED OWL 98
6. LITTLE SURYA BAI 113
7. THE WANDERINGS OF VICRAM MAHARAJAH 129
8. LESS INEQUALITY THAN MEN DEEM 161
9. PANCH-PHUL RANEE 164
10. HOW THE SUN, THE MOON AND THE WIND WENT OUT
TO DINNER 194
11. SINGH RAJAH AND THE CUNNING LITTLE JACKALS 196
12. THE JACKAL, THE BARBER AND THE BRAHMIN WHO HAD
SEVEN DAUGHTERS 199
13. TIT FOR TAT 218
14. THE BRAHMIN, THE TIGER AND THE SIX JUDGES 220
15. THE SELFISH SPARROW AND THE HOUSELESS CROWS 225
16. THE VALIANT CHATTEE-MAKER 227
17. THE RAKSHAS' PALACE 236
18. THE BLIND MAN, THE DEAF MAN AND THE DONKEY 248
19. MUCHIE LAL 258
20. CHUNDUN RAJAH 268
21. SODEWA BAI 280
22. CHANDRA'S VENGEANCE 291
23. HOW THE THREE CLEVER MEN OUTWITTED THE DEMONS 314
24. THE ALLIGATOR AND THE JACKAL 326
NOTES 333
INTRODUCTION.
A few words seem necessary regarding the origin of these stories, in
addition to what the Narrator says for herself in her Narrative, and
what is stated in the Collector's "Apology."
With the exception of two or three, which will be recognized as
substantially identical with stories of Pilpay or other well-known
Hindoo fabulists, I never before heard any of these tales among the
Mahrattas, in that part of the Deccan where the Narrator and her
family have lived for the last two generations; and it is probable
that most of the stories were brought from among the Lingaets of
Southern India, the tribe, or rather sect, to which Anna de Souza
tells us her family belonged before their conversion to Christianity.
The Lingaets form one of the most strongly marked divisions of the
Hindoo races south of the river Kistna. They are generally a
well-favored, well-to-do people, noticeable for their superior
frugality, intelligence and industry, and for the way in which they
combine and act together as a separate body apart from other Hindoos.
They have many peculiarities of costume, of social ceremony and of
religion, which strike even a casual observer; and though clearly not
aboriginal, they seem to have much ground for their claim to belong to
a more ancient race and an earlier wave of immigration than most of
the Hindoo nations with which they are now intermingled.
The country they inhabit is tolerably familiar to most English readers
on Indian subjects, for it is the theatre of many of the events
described in the great Duke's earlier despatches, and in the writings
of Munro, of Wilkes, and of Buchanan. The extraordinary beauty of some
of the natural features of the coast scenery, and the abundance of
the architectural and other remains of powerful and highly civilized
Hindoo dynasties, have attracted the attention of tourists and
antiquaries, though not to the extent their intrinsic merit deserves.
Some knowledge of the land tenures and agriculture of the country is
accessible to readers of Indian blue-books.
But of all that relates to the ancient history and politics of the
former Hindoo sovereigns of these regions very little is known to the
general reader, though from their power, and riches and long-sustained
civilization, as proved by the monuments these rulers have left behind
them there are few parts of India better worth the attention of the
historian and antiquary.
Of the inner life of the people, past or present, of their social
peculiarities and popular beliefs, even less is known or procurable in
any published form. With the exception of a few graphic and
characteristic notices of shrewd observers like Munro, little
regarding them is to be found in the writings of any author likely to
come in the way of ordinary readers.
But this is not from want of materials: a good deal has been published
in India, though, with the common fate of Indian publications, the
books containing the information are often rare in English
collections, and difficult to meet with in England, except in a few
public libraries. Of unpublished material there must be a vast amount,
collected not only by the government servants, but by missionaries,
and others residing in the country, who have peculiar opportunities
for observation, and for collecting information not readily to be
obtained by a stranger or an official. Collections of this kind are
specially desirable as regards the popular non-Brahminical
superstitions of the lower orders.
Few, even of those who have lived many years in India and made some
inquiry regarding the external religion of its inhabitants, are aware
how little the popular belief of the lower classes has in common with
the Hindooism of the Brahmins, and how much it differs in different
provinces, and in different races and classes in the same province.
In the immediate vicinity of Poona, where Brahminism seems so
orthodox and powerful, a very little observation will satisfy the
inquirer that the favorite objects of popular worship do not always
belong to the regular Hindoo Pantheon. No orthodox Hindoo deity is so
popular in the Poona Deccan as the deified sage Vithoba and his
earlier expounders, both sage and followers being purely local
divinities. Wherever a few of the pastoral tribes are settled, there
Byroba, the god of the herdsmen, or Kundoba, the deified hero of the
shepherds, supersedes all other popular idols. Byroba the Terrible,
and other remnants of Fetish or of Snake-worship, everywhere divide
the homage of the lower castes with the recognized Hindoo divinities,
while outside almost every village the circle of large stones sacred | 3,425.253017 |
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DONALD ROSS OF HEIMRA
BY
WILLIAM BLACK
_IN THREE VOLUMES._
VOL. III.
LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY
_LIMITED,_
St. Dunstan's House,
FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1891.
[_All rights reserved._]
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
CONTENTS OF VOL. III.
I. Smoke and Flame
II. A Summons
III. A Forecast
IV. Slow but Sure
V. A Pious Pilgrimage
VI | 3,425.283516 |
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Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal
signs=
LOUISA MAY ALCOTT
HER
Life, Letters, and Journals.
EDITED BY
EDNAH D. CHENEY
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1898
_Copyright, 1889_,
BY J. S. P. ALCOTT.
UNIVERSITY PRESS:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
TO
MRS. ANNA B. PRATT,
THE SOLE SURVIVING SISTER OF LOUISA M. ALCOTT, AND HER
NEVER-FAILING HELP, COMFORTER, AND FRIEND
FROM BIRTH TO DEATH,
This Memoir
IS RESPECTFULLY AND TENDERLY DEDICATED,
BY
EDNAH D. CHENEY.
JAMAICA PLAIN,
June, 1889.
[Illustration: Portrait of Miss Alcott]
INTRODUCTION.
Louisa May Alcott is universally recognized as the greatest and most
popular story-teller for children in her generation. She has known the
way to the hearts of young people, not only in her own class, or even
country, but in every condition of life, and in many foreign lands.
Plato says, "Beware of those who teach fables to children;" and it is
impossible to estimate the influence which the popular writer of
fiction has over the audience he wins to listen to his tales. The
preacher, the teacher, the didactic writer find their audience in
hours of strength, with critical faculties all alive, to question
their propositions and refute their arguments. The novelist comes to
us in the intervals of recreation and relaxation, and by his seductive
powers of imagination and sentiment takes possession of the fancy and
the heart before judgment and reason are aroused to defend the
citadel. It well becomes us, then, who would guard young minds from
subtle temptations, to study the character of those works which charm
and delight the children.
Of no author can it be more truly said than of Louisa Alcott that her
works are a revelation of herself. She rarely sought for the material
of her stories in old chronicles, or foreign adventures. Her capital
was her own life and experiences and those of others directly about
her; and her own well-remembered girlish frolics and fancies were sure
to find responsive enjoyment in the minds of other girls.
It is therefore impossible to understand Miss Alcott's works fully
without a knowledge of her own life and experiences. By inheritance
and education she had rich and peculiar gifts; and her life was one of
rare advantages, as well as of trying difficulties. Herself of the
most true and frank nature, she has given us the opportunity of
knowing her without disguise; and it is thus that I shall try to
portray her, showing what influences acted upon her through life, and
how faithfully and fully she performed whatever duties circumstances
laid upon her. Fortunately I can let her speak mainly for herself.
Miss Alcott revised her journals at different times during her later
life, striking out what was too personal for other eyes than her own,
and destroying a great deal which would doubtless have proved very
interesting.
The small number of letters given will undoubtedly be a
disappointment. Miss Alcott wished to have most of her letters
destroyed, and her sister respected her wishes. She was not a
voluminous correspondent; she did not encourage many intimacies, and
she seldom wrote letters except to her family, unless in reference to
some purpose she had strongly at heart. Writing was her constant
occupation, and she was not tempted to indulge in it as a recreation.
Her letters are brief, and strictly to the point, but always
characteristic in feeling and expression; and, even at the risk of the
repetition of matter contained in her journals or her books, I shall
give copious extracts from such as have come into my hands.
E. D. C.
JAMAICA PLAIN, Mass., 1889.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION iii
CHAPTER.
I. GENEALOGY AND PARENTAGE 11
II. CHILDHOOD 16
III. FRUITLANDS 32
IV. THE SENTIMENTAL PERIOD 56
V. AUTHORSHIP 75
VI. THE YEAR OF GOOD LUCK 110
VII. "HOSPITAL SKETCHES" 136
VIII. EUROPE, AND "LITTLE WOMEN" 170
IX. EUROPE 204
X. FAMILY CHANGES 263
XI. LAST YEARS 329
XII. CONCLUSION 387
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
PORTRAIT OF MISS ALCOTT _Frontispiece_
Photogravure by A. W. Elson & Co., from a photograph by
Notman (negative destroyed), taken in 1883. The facsimile
of her writing is an extract from a letter to her
publisher, written from her hospital retreat a few weeks
previous to her death.
ORCHARD HOUSE ("APPLE SLUMP"), CONCORD,
MASS., THE HOME OF THE ALCOTTS, 1858 TO
1878 93
Engraved by John Andrew & Son Co., from a photograph.
PORTRAIT OF MISS ALCOTT 140
Photogravure by A. W. Elson & Co., from a photograph
taken just previous to her going to Washington as a hospital
nurse, in 1862.
FAC-SIMILE OF MISS ALCOTT'S WRITING 362
Extract from a letter to her publisher, January, 1886.
FAC-SIMILE OF PREFACE TO THE NEW EDITION OF
"A MODERN MEPHISTOPHELES," NOW FIRST
PRINTED 380
LOUISA MAY ALCOTT.
CHAPTER I.
GENEALOGY AND PARENTAGE.
TO LOUISA MAY ALCOTT.
BY HER FATHER.
When I remember with what buoyant heart,
Midst war's alarms and woes of civil strife,
In youthful eagerness thou didst depart,
At peril of thy safety, peace, and life,
To nurse the wounded soldier, swathe the dead,--
How pierced soon by fever's poisoned dart,
And brought unconscious home, with wildered head,
Thou ever since'mid langour and dull pain,
To conquer fortune, cherish kindred dear,
Hast with grave studies vexed a sprightly brain,
In myriad households kindled love and cheer,
Ne'er from thyself by Fame's loud trump beguiled,
Sounding in this and the farther hemisphere,--
I press thee to my heart as Duty's faithful child.
Louisa Alcott was the second child of Amos Bronson and Abba May
Alcott. This name was spelled Alcocke in English history. About 1616 a
coat-of-arms was granted to Thomas Alcocke of Silbertoft, in the
county of Leicester. The device represents three cocks, emblematic of
watchfulness; and the motto is _Semper Vigilans_.
The first of the name appearing in English history is John Alcocke of
Beverley, Yorkshire, of whom Fuller gives an account in his Worthies
of England.
Thomas and George Alcocke were the first of the name among the
settlers in New England. The name is frequently found in the records
of Dorchester and Roxbury, and has passed through successive changes
to its present form.
The name of Bronson came from Mr. Alcott's maternal grandfather, the
sturdy Capt. Amos Bronson of Plymouth, Conn. "His ancestors on both
sides had been substantial people of respectable position in England,
and were connected with the founders and governors of the chief New
England colonies. At the time of Mr. Alcott's birth they had become
simple farmers, reaping a scanty living from their small farms in
Connecticut."
Amos Bronson Alcott, the father of Louisa, was born Nov. 29, 1799, at
the foot of Spindle Hill, in the region called New Connecticut. He has
himself given in simple verse the story of his quaint rustic life in
his boyhood, and Louisa has reproduced it in her story of "Eli's
Education" (in the Spinning-Wheel Stories), which gives a very true
account of his youthful life and adventures. He derived his refined,
gentle nature from his mother, who had faith in her son, and who lived
to see him the accomplished scholar he had vowed to become in his
boyhood. Although brought up in these rustic surroundings, his manners
were always those of a true gentleman. The name of the little mountain
town afterward became Wolcott, and Louisa records in her journal a
pilgrimage made thither in after years.[1]
Louisa Alcott's mother was a daughter of Col. Joseph May of Boston.
This family is so well known that it is hardly necessary to repeat its
genealogy here.[2] She was a sister of Samuel J. May, for many years
pastor of the Unitarian church at Syracuse, who was so tenderly
beloved by men of all religious persuasions in his home, and so widely
known and respected for his courage and zeal in the Antislavery cause,
as well as for his many philanthropic labors.
Mrs. Alcott's mother was Dorothy Sewall, a descendant of that family
already distinguished in the annals of the Massachusetts colony, and
which has lost nothing of its reputation for ability and virtue in its
latest representatives.[3]
Mrs. Alcott inherited in large measure the traits which distinguished
her family. She was a woman of large stature, fine physique, and
overflowing life. Her temper was as quick and warm as her affections,
but she was full of broad unselfish generosity. Her untiring energies
were constantly employed, not only for the benefit of her family, but
for all around her. She had a fine mind, and if she did not have
large opportunities for scholastic instruction, she always enjoyed the
benefit of intellectual society and converse with noble minds. She
loved expression in writing, and her letters are full of wit and
humor, keen criticism, and noble moral sentiments. Marriage with an
idealist, who had no means of support, brought her many trials and
privations. She bore them heroically, never wavering in affection for
her husband or in devotion to her children. If the quick, impatient
temper sometimes relieved itself in hasty speech, the action was
always large and unselfish.
It will be apparent from Louisa's life that she inherited the traits
of both her parents, and that the uncommon powers of mind and heart
that distinguished her were not accidental, but the accumulated result
of the lives of generations of strong and noble men and women.
She was well born.
_Mr. Alcott to Colonel May._
GERMANTOWN, Nov. 29, 1832.
DEAR SIR,--It is with great pleasure that I announce to you the
_birth of a second daughter_. She was born at half-past 12 this
morning, on my birthday (33), and is a very fine healthful child,
much more so than Anna was at birth,--has a fine foundation for
health and energy of character. Abba is very comfortable, and
will soon be restored to the discharge of those domestic and
maternal duties in which she takes so much delight, and in the
performance of which she furnishes so excellent a model for
imitation. Those only who have seen her in those relations, much
as there is in her general character to admire and esteem, can
form a true estimate of her personal worth and uncommon devotion
of heart. She was formed for domestic sentiment rather than the
gaze and heartlessness of what is falsely called "society." Abba
inclines to call the babe _Louisa May_,--a name to her full of
every association connected with amiable benevolence and exalted
worth. I hope its _present possessor_ may rise to equal
attainment, and deserve a place in the estimation of society.
With Abba's and Anna's and Louisa's regards, allow me to assure
you of the sincerity with which I am
Yours,
A. BRONSON ALCOTT.
The children who lived to maturity were--
ANNA BRONSON ALCOTT,
LOUISA MAY ALCOTT,
ELIZABETH SEWALL ALCOTT,
ABBA MAY ALCOTT.
FOOTNOTES:
[1] For further particulars of the Alcott genealogy, see "New
Connecticut," a poem by A. B. Alcott, published in 1887. I am also
indebted to Mr. F. B. Sanborn's valuable paper read at the memorial
service at Concord in 1888.
[2] For particulars of the genealogy of the May families, see "A
Genealogy of the Descendants of John May," who came from England to
Roxbury in America, 1640.
[3] For the Sewall family, see "Drake's History of Boston," or fuller
accounts in the Sewall Papers published by the Massachusetts
Historical Society.
CHAPTER II.
CHILDHOOD.
TO THE FIRST ROBIN.[4]
Welcome, welcome, little stranger,
Fear no harm, and fear no danger;
We are glad to see you here,
For you sing "Sweet Spring is near."
Now the white snow melts away;
Now the flowers blossom gay:
Come dear bird and build your nest,
For we love our robin best.
LOUISA MAY ALCOTT.
CONCORD.
Mr. Alcott had removed to Germantown, Penn, to take charge of a
school, and here Louisa was born, Nov. 29, 1832. She was the second
daughter, and was welcomed with the same pride and affection as her
elder sister had been. We have this pleasant little glimpse of her
when she was hardly a month old, from the pen of one of her mother's
friends. Even at that extremely early age love saw the signs of more
than usual intelligence, and friends as well as fond parents looked
forward to a promising career.
_Extract from a Letter by Miss Donaldson._
GERMANTOWN, PENN., Dec. 16, 1832.
I have a dear little pet in Mrs. Alcott's little Louisa. It is
the prettiest, best little thing in the world. You will wonder to
hear me call anything so young pretty, but it is really so in an
uncommon degree; it has a fair complexion, dark bright eyes, long
dark hair, a high forehead, and altogether a countenance of more
than usual intelligence.
The mother is such a delightful woman that it is a cordial to my
heart whenever I go to see her. I went in to see her for a few
moments the evening we received your letter, and I think I never
saw her in better spirits; and truly, if goodness and integrity
can insure felicity, she deserves to be happy.
The earliest anecdote remembered of Louisa is this: When the family
went from Philadelphia to Boston by steamer, the two little girls were
nicely dressed in clean nankeen frocks for the voyage; but they had
not been long on board before the lively Louisa was missing, and after
a long search she was brought up from the engine-room, where her eager
curiosity had carried her, and where she was having a beautiful time,
with "plenty of dirt."
The family removed to Boston in 1834, and Mr. Alcott opened his famous
school in Masonic Temple. Louisa was too young to attend the school
except as an occasional visitor; but she found plenty of interest and
amusement for herself in playing on the Common, making friends with
every child she met, and on one occasion falling into the Frog Pond.
She has given a very lively picture of this period of her life in
"Poppy's Pranks," that vivacious young person being a picture of
herself, not at all exaggerated.
The family lived successively in Front Street, Cottage Place, and
Beach Street during the six succeeding years in Boston. They
occasionally passed some weeks at Scituate during the summer, which
the children heartily enjoyed.
Mrs. Hawthorne gives a little anecdote which shows how the child's
heart was blossoming in this family sunshine: "One morning in Front
Street, at the breakfast table, Louisa suddenly broke silence, with a
sunny smile saying, 'I love everybody in _dis_ whole world.'"
Two children were born during this residence in Boston. Elizabeth was
named for Mr. Alcott's assistant in his school,--Miss E. P. Peabody,
since so widely known and beloved by all friends of education. A boy
was born only to die. The little body was laid reverently away in the
lot of Colonel May in the old burial-ground on the Common, and the
children were taught to speak with tenderness of their "baby brother."
When Louisa was about seven years old she made a visit to friends in
Providence. Miss C. writes of her: "She is a beautiful little girl to
look upon, and I love her affectionate manners. I think she is more
like her mother than either of the others." As is usually the case,
Louisa's journal, which she began at this early age, speaks more fully
of her struggles and difficulties than of the bright, sunny moods
which made her attractive. A little letter carefully printed and sent
home during this visit is preserved. In it she says she is not happy;
and she did have one trying experience there, to which she refers in
"My Boys." Seeing some poor children who she thought were hungry, she
took food from the house without asking permission, and carried it to
them, and was afterward very much astonished and grieved at being
reprimanded instead of praised for the deed. Miss C. says: "She has
had several spells of feeling sad; but a walk or a talk soon dispels
all gloom. She was half moody when she wrote her letter; but now she
is gay as a lark. She loves to play out of doors, and sometimes she is
not inclined to stay in when it is unpleasant." In her sketches of "My
Boys" she describes two of her companions here, not forgetting the
kindness of the one and the mischievousness of the other.
Although the family were quite comfortable during the time of Mr.
Alcott's teaching in Boston, yet the children wearied of their
extremely simple diet of plain boiled rice without sugar, and graham
meal without butter or molasses. An old friend who could not eat the
bountiful rations provided for her at the United States Hotel, used to
save her piece of pie or cake for the Alcott children. Louisa often
took it home to the others in a bandbox which she brought for the
purpose.
This friend was absent in Europe many years, and returned to find the
name of Louisa Alcott famous. When she met the authoress on the street
she was eagerly greeted. "Why, I did not think you would remember me!"
said the old lady. "Do you think I shall ever forget that bandbox?"
was the instant reply.
In 1840, Mr. Alcott's school having proved unsuccessful, the family
removed to Concord, Mass., and took a cottage which is described in
"Little Women" as "Meg's first home," although Anna never lived there
after her marriage. It was a pleasant house, with a garden full of
trees, and best of all a large barn, in which the children could have
free range and act out all the plays with which their little heads
were teeming. Of course it was a delightful change from the city for
the children, and here they passed two very happy years, for they were
too young to understand the cares which pressed upon the hearts of
their parents. Life was full of interest. One cold morning they found
in the garden a little half-starved bird; and having warmed and fed
it, Louisa was inspired to write a pretty poem to "The Robin." The
fond mother was so delighted that she said to her, "You will grow up a
Shakspeare!" From the lessons of her father she had formed the habit
of writing freely, but this is the first recorded instance of her
attempting to express her feelings in verse.
From the influences of such parentage as I have described, the family
life in which Louisa was brought up became wholly unique.
If the father had to give up his cherished projects of a school
modelled after his ideas, he could at least conduct the education of
his own children; and he did so with the most tender devotion. Even
when they were infants he took a great deal of personal care of them,
and loved to put the little ones to bed and use the "children's hour"
to instil into their hearts lessons of love and wisdom. He was full of
fun too, and would lie on the floor and frolic with them, making
compasses of his long legs with which to draw letters and diagrams. No
shade of fear mingled with the children's reverent recognition of his
superior spiritual life. So their hearts lay open to him, and he was
able to help them in their troubles.
He taught them much by writing; and we have many specimens of their
lists of words to be spelled, written, and understood. The lessons at
Scituate were often in the garden, and their father always drew their
attention to Nature and her beautiful forms and meanings. Little
symbolical pictures helped to illustrate his lessons, and he sometimes
made drawings himself. Here is an example of lessons. A quaint little
picture represents one child playing on a harp, another drawing an
arrow. It is inscribed--
FOR LOUISA.
1840.
Two passions strong divide our life,--
Meek, gentle love, or boisterous strife.
Below the child playing the harp is--
Love, Music,
Concord.
Below the shooter is--
Anger, Arrow,
Discord.
Another leaflet is--
FOR LOUISA
1840.
Louisa loves--
What?
(_Softly._)
Fun.
Have some then,
Father
says.
Christmas Eve, December, 1840.
Concordia.
* * * * *
FOR ANNA.
1840.
Beauty or Duty,--
which
loves Anna best?
A
Question
from her
Father.
Christmas Eve,
December, 1840.
Concordia.
A letter beautifully printed by her father for Louisa (1839) speaks to
her of conscience, and she adds to it this note: "L. began early, it
seems, to wrestle with her conscience." The children were always
required to keep their journals regularly, and although these were
open to the inspection of father and mother, they were very frank, and
really recorded their struggles and desires. The mother had the habit
of writing little notes to the children when she wished to call their
attention to any fault or peculiarity. Louisa preserved many of them,
headed,--
[_Extracts_ from letters from Mother, received during these early
years. I preserve them to show the ever tender, watchful help she
gave to the child who caused her the most anxiety, yet seemed to
be the nearest to her heart till the end.--L. M. A.]
No. 1.--MY DEAR LITTLE GIRL,--Will you accept this doll from me
on your seventh birthday? She will be a quiet playmate for my
active Louisa for seven years more. Be a kind mamma, and love her
for my sake.
YOUR MOTHER.
BEACH STREET, BOSTON, 1839.
_From her Mother._
COTTAGE IN CONCORD.
DEAR DAUGHTER,--Your tenth birthday has arrived. May it be a
happy one, and on each returning birthday may you feel new
strength and resolution to be gentle with sisters, obedient to
parents, loving to every one, and happy in yourself.
I give you the pencil-case I promised, for I have observed that
you are fond of writing, and wish to encourage the habit.
Go on trying, dear, and each day it will be easier to be and do
good. You must help yourself, for the cause of your little
troubles is in yourself; and patience and courage age only will
make you what mother prays to see you,--her good and happy girl.
CONCORD, 1843.
DEAR LOUY,--I enclose a picture for you which I always liked very
| 3,425.285554 |
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ORATORY
SACRED AND SECULAR:
OR, THE
Extemporaneous Speaker,
WITH
SKETCHES OF THE MOST EMINENT SPEAKERS OF ALL AGES
BY WILLIAM PITTENGER,
Author of “Daring and Suffering.”
_INTRODUCTION BY HON. JOHN A. BINGHAM_,
AND
_APPENDIX_
CONTAINING A “CHAIRMAN’S GUIDE” FOR CONDUCTING PUBLIC MEETINGS ACCORDING
TO THE BEST PARLIAMENTARY MODELS.
New York:
SAMUEL R. WELLS, PUBLISHER, 389 BROADWAY.
1869.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868,
By SAMUEL R. WELLS.
In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, for
the Southern District of New York.
EDWARD O. JENKINS,
PRINTER AND STEREOTYPER,
20 North William Street.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.
When we first began to speak in public, we felt the need of a manual
that would point out the hindrances likely to be met with, and serve as
a guide to self-improvement. Such help would have prevented many
difficult and painful experiences, and have rendered our progress in the
delightful art of coining thought into words more easy and rapid. In the
following pages we give the result of thought and observations in this
field, and trust it will benefit those who are now in the position we
were then.
We have freely availed ourself of the labor of others, and would
especially acknowledge the valuable assistance derived from the writings
of Bautain, Stevens and Holyoake. Yet the following work, with whatever
merit or demerit it may possess, is original in both thought and
arrangement.
We have treated general preparation with more than ordinary fullness,
for although often neglected, it is the necessary basis upon which all
special preparation rests.
As the numerous varieties of speech differ in comparatively few
particulars, we have treated one of the most common—that of preaching—in
detail, with only such brief notices of other forms as will direct the
student in applying general principles to the branch of oratory that
engages his attention.
We are not vain enough to believe that the modes of culture and
preparation pointed out in the following pages are invariably the best,
but they are such as we have found useful, and to the thoughtful mind
may suggest others still more valuable.
CONTENTS.
PREFACE.—Objects of the Work stated 3
INTRODUCTION—By Hon. JOHN A. BINGHAM, Member of Congress 7
=PART I.=—_GENERAL PREPARATIONS._
CHAPTER I.
THE WRITTEN AND EXTEMPORE DISCOURSE COMPARED—Illustrative Examples 13
CHAPTER II.
PREREQUISITES—Intellectual Competency; Strength of Body; Command of
Language; Courage; Firmness; Self-reliance 18
CHAPTER III.
BASIS OF SPEECH—Thought and Emotion; Heart Cultivation; Earnestness 27
CHAPTER IV.
ACQUIREMENTS—General Knowledge; of Bible; of Theology; of Men;
Method by which such Knowledge may be obtained 35
CHAPTER V.
CULTIVATION—Imagination; Language; Voice; Gesture; Confidence;
References to Distinguished Orators and Writers. 42
=PART II.=—_A SERMON._
CHAPTER I.
THE FOUNDATION FOR A PREACHER—Subject; Object; Text; Hints to Young
Preachers 69
CHAPTER II.
THE PLAN—Gathering Thought; Arranging; Committing; Practical
Suggestions; Use of Notes 80
CHAPTER III.
PRELIMINARIES FOR PREACHING—Fear; Vigor; Opening Exercises;
Requisites for a Successful Discourse 96
CHAPTER IV.
THE DIVISIONS—Introduction, Difficulties in Opening; Discussion,
Simplicity and Directness; Conclusion 104
CHAPTER V.
AFTER CONSIDERATIONS—Success; Rest; Improvement; Practical
Suggestions 115
=PART III.=—_SECULAR ORATORY._
CHAPTER I.
INSTRUCTIVE ADDRESS—Fields of Oratory; Oral Teaching; Lecturing 123
CHAPTER II.
MISCELLANEOUS ADDRESS—Deliberative; Legal; Popular; Controversial;
the Statesman; the Lawyer; the Lecturer; the Orator 127
=PART IV.=
EMINENT SPEAKERS DESCRIBED—St. Augustine; Luther; Lord Chatham;
William Pitt; Edmund Burke; Mirabeau; Patrick Henry; George
Whitefield; John Wesley; Sidney Smith; F. W. Robertson; Henry
Clay; Henry B. Bascom; John Summerfield; C. H. Spurgeon; Henry
Ward Beecher; Anna E. Dickinson; John A. Bingham; William E.
Gladstone; Matthew Simpson; Wendell Phillips; John P. Durbin;
Newman Hall, and others 133
=APPENDIX.=
THE CHAIRMAN’S GUIDE—How to Organize and Conduct Public Meetings
and Debating Clubs in Parliamentary style 199
------------------------------------------------------------------------
INTRODUCTORY LETTER.
REV. WM. PITTENGER: CADIZ, O., _19th Nov., 1867_.
DEAR SIR,—I thank you for calling my attention to your forthcoming work
on Extemporaneous Speaking. Unwritten speech is, in my judgment, the
more efficient method of public speaking, because it is the natural
method. The written essay, says an eminent critic of antiquity, “is not
a speech, unless you choose to call epistles speeches.” A cultivated
man, fully possessed of all the facts which relate to the subject of
which he would speak, who cannot clearly express himself without first
memorizing word for word his written preparation, can scarcely be called
a public speaker, whatever may be his capacity as a writer or reader.
The speaker who clothes his thoughts at the moment of utterance, and in
the presence of his hearers, will illustrate by his speech the admirable
saying of Seneca: “Fit words better than fine ones.”
It is not my purpose to enter upon any inquiry touching the gifts,
culture and practice necessary to make a powerful and successful
speaker. It is conceded that in the art of public speaking, as in all
other arts, there is no excellence without great labor. Neither is it
the intent of the writer to suggest the possibility of speaking
efficiently without the careful culture of voice and manner, of
intellect and heart, an exact knowledge of the subject, and a careful
arrangement, with or without writing, of all the facts and statements
involved in the discussion. Lord Brougham has said that a speech written
before delivery is regarded as something almost ridiculous; may we not
add, that a speech made without previous reflection or an accurate
knowledge of the subject, would be regarded as a mere tinkling cymbal. I
intend no depreciation of the elaborate written essay read for the
instruction or amusement of an assembly; but claim that the essay, read,
or recited from memory, is not speech, nor can it supply the place of
natural effective speech. The essay delivered is but the echo of the
dead past, the speech is the utterance of the living present. The
delivery of the essay is the formal act of memory, the delivery of the
unwritten speech the living act of intellect and heart. The difference
between the two is known and felt of all men. To all this it may be
answered that the ancient speakers, whose fame still survives, carefully
elaborated their speeches before delivery. The fact is admitted with the
further statement, that many of the speeches of the ancient orators
never were delivered at all. Five of the seven orations of Cicero
against Verres were never spoken, neither was the second Philippic
against Mark Antony, nor the reported defence of Milo. We admit that the
ancient speakers wrote much and practised much, and we would commend
their example, in all, save a formal recital of written preparations.
There is nothing in all that has come to us concerning ancient oratory,
which by any means proves that to be | 3,425.285659 |
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[TranscriberaEuro(TM)s Note:
This e-text includes characters that require UTF-8 (Unicode) file
encoding:
E (yogh)
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All footnotes are shown immediately after their referring paragraph.
Except in the Introduction, footnotes are identified by section: T1,
T2... (Torrent, main text), F1 (Fragments) and N1 (Notes).
The main text is shown stanza by stanza. Sidenotes are grouped at the
beginning of the stanza, linenotes and numbered footnotes (rare) at the
end. Headnotes that originally came at mid-stanza have been moved to the
following stanza break.
Italics representing expanded abbreviations are shown in {braces}. In
the aEurooeMetre and VersificationaEuro section of the introduction, emphasis
within italicized text is shown the same way. Emphasized words are
shown with +marks+. Typographic details are given at the end of the
e-text.
Errors and anomalies in the main text are shown in [[double brackets]]
immediately after the linenotes for each stanza. Other errors are listed
at the end of the e-text.
Except for brackets enclosing linenotes and errata, all brackets are
in the original. Line numbers in brackets are explained in the
Introduction.]
Torrent of Portyngale.
Early English Text Society.
Extra Series, No. LI.
1887.
Berlin: Asher & Co., 5, Unter Den Linden.
New York: C. Scribner & Co.; Leypoldt & Holt.
Philadelphia: J. B. Lippincott & Co.
TORRENT OF PORTYNGALE.
Re-Edited
From the Unique MS. in the Chetham Library, Manchester,
by
E. ADAM, Ph.D.
London:
Publisht for the Early English Text Society
By N. TrA1/4bner & Co., 57 & 59, Ludgate Hill.
MDCCCLXXXVII.
DEDICATED
TO MY TEACHER AND HELPER,
PROF. E. KA-LBING, Ph.D.
+Extra Series.+
LI.
Richard Clay & Sons, Limited, London & Bungay.
* * * * *
* * * *
Torrent of Portyngale.
* * * *
* * * * *
INTRODUCTION.
ASec. 1. _The MS. and HalliwellaEuro(TM)s edition_, p.A v.
ASec. 2. _Metre and Versification_, p. vi.
ASec. 3. _Dialect_, p. x;
_short vowels_, p. xi;
_long vowels_, p.A xii;
_inflexions_, p.A xiii.
ASec. 4. a. _The contents of the Romance_, p. xvi;
b. _its character_, p.A | 3,425.386648 |
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GALSWORTHY PLAYS
SECOND SERIES--NO. 1
THE ELDEST SON
By John Galsworthy
PERSONS OF THE PLAY
SIR WILLIAM CHESHIRE, a baronet
LADY CHESHIRE, his wife
BILL, their eldest son
HAROLD, their second son
RONALD KEITH(in the Lancers), their son-in-law
CHRISTINE (his wife), their eldest daughter
DOT, their second daughter
JOAN, their third daughter
MABEL LANFARNE, their guest
THE REVEREND JOHN LATTER, engaged to Joan
OLD STUDDENHAM, the head-keeper
FREDA STUDDENHAM, the lady's-maid
YOUNG DUNNING, the under-keeper
ROSE TAYLOR, a village girl
JACKSON, the butler
CHARLES, a footman
TIME: The present. The action passes on December 7 and 8 at the
Cheshires' country house, in one of the shires.
ACT I SCENE I. The hall; before dinner.
SCENE II. The hall; after dinner.
ACT II. Lady Cheshire's morning room; after breakfast.
ACT III. The smoking-room; tea-time.
A night elapses between Acts I. and II.
ACT I
SCENE I
The scene is a well-lighted, and large, oak-panelled hall, with
an air of being lived in, and a broad, oak staircase. The
dining-room, drawing-room, billiard-room, all open into it; and
under the staircase a door leads to the servants' quarters. In
a huge fireplace a log fire is burning. There are tiger-skins
on the floor, horns on the walls; and a writing-table against
the wall opposite the fireplace. FREDA STUDDENHAM, a pretty,
pale girl with dark eyes, in the black dress of a lady's-maid,
is standing at the foot of the staircase with a bunch of white
roses in one hand, and a bunch of yellow roses in the other. A
door closes above, and SIR WILLIAM CHESHIRE, in evening dress,
comes downstairs. He is perhaps fifty-eight, of strong build,
rather bull-necked, with grey eyes, and a well-<DW52> face,
whose choleric autocracy is veiled by a thin urbanity. He
speaks before he reaches the bottom.
SIR WILLIAM. Well, Freda! Nice roses. Who are they for?
FREDA. My lady told me to give the yellow to Mrs. Keith, Sir
William, and the white to Miss Lanfarne, for their first evening.
SIR WILLIAM. Capital. [Passing on towards the drawing-room] Your
father coming up to-night?
FREDA. Yes.
SIR WILLIAM. Be good enough to tell him I specially want to see him
here after dinner, will you?
FREDA. Yes, Sir William.
SIR WILLIAM. By the way, just ask him to bring the game-book in, if
he's got it.
He goes out into the drawing-room; and FREDA stands restlessly
tapping her foot against the bottom stair. With a flutter of
skirts CHRISTINE KEITH comes rapidly down. She is a
nice-looking, fresh- young woman in a low-necked dress.
CHRISTINE. Hullo, Freda! How are YOU?
FREDA. Quite well, thank you, Miss Christine--Mrs. Keith, I mean.
My lady told me to give you these.
CHRISTINE. [Taking the roses] Oh! Thanks! How sweet of mother!
FREDA. [In a quick, toneless voice] The others are for Miss Lanfarne.
My lady thought white would suit her better.
CHRISTINE. They suit you in that black dress.
[FREDA lowers the roses quickly.]
What do you think of Joan's engagement?
FREDA. It's very nice for her.
CHRISTINE. I say, Freda, have they been going hard at rehearsals?
FREDA. Every day. Miss Dot gets very cross, stage-managing.
CHRISTINE. I do hate learning a part. Thanks awfully for unpacking.
Any news?
FREDA. [In the same quick, dull voice] The under-keeper, Dunning,
won't marry Rose Taylor, after all.
CHRISTINE. What a shame! But I say that's serious. I thought there
was--she was--I mean----
FREDA. He's taken up with another girl, they say.
CHRISTINE. Too bad! [Pinning the roses] D'you know if Mr. Bill's
come?
FREDA. [With a swift upward look] Yes, by the six-forty.
RONALD KEITH comes slowly down, a weathered firm-lipped man, in
evening dress, with eyelids half drawn over his keen eyes, and
the air of a horseman.
KEITH. Hallo! Roses in December. I say, Freda, your father missed
a wigging this morning when they drew blank at Warnham's spinney.
Where's that litter of little foxes?
FREDA. [Smiling faintly] I expect father knows, Captain Keith.
KEITH. You bet he does. Emigration? Or thin air? What?
CHRISTINE. Studdenham'd never shoot a fox, Ronny. He's been here
since the flood.
KEITH. There's more ways of killing a cat--eh, Freda?
CHRISTINE. [Moving with her husband towards the drawing-room] Young
Dunning won't marry that girl, Ronny.
KEITH. Phew! Wouldn't be in his shoes, then! Sir William'll never
keep a servant who's made a scandal in the village, old girl. Bill
come?
As they disappear from the hall, JOHN LATTER in a clergyman's
evening dress, comes sedately downstairs, a tall, rather pale
young man, with something in him, as it were, both of heaven,
and a drawing-room. He passes FREDA with a formal little nod.
HAROLD, a fresh-cheeked, cheery-looking youth, comes down, three
steps at a time.
HAROLD. Hallo, Freda! Patience on the monument. Let's have a
sniff! For Miss Lanfarne? Bill come down yet?
FREDA. No, Mr. Harold.
HAROLD crosses the hall, whistling, and follows LATTER into the
drawing-room. There is the sound of a scuffle above, and a
voice crying: "Shut up, Dot!" And JOAN comes down screwing her
head back. She is pretty and small, with large clinging eyes.
JOAN. Am I all right behind, Freda? That beast, Dot!
FREDA. Quite, Miss Joan.
DOT's face, like a full moon, appears over the upper banisters.
She too comes running down, a frank figure, with the face of a
rebel.
DOT. You little being!
JOAN. [Flying towards the drawing-roam, is overtaken at the door]
Oh! Dot! You're pinching!
As they disappear into the drawing-room, MABEL LANFARNE, a tall
girl with a rather charming Irish face, comes slowly down. And
at sight of her FREDA's whole figure becomes set and meaningfull.
FREDA. For you, Miss Lanfarne, from my lady.
MABEL. [In whose speech is a touch of wilful Irishry] How sweet!
[Fastening the roses] And how are you, Freda?
FREDA. Very well, thank you.
MABEL. And your father? Hope he's going to let me come out with the
guns again.
FREDA. [Stolidly] He'll be delighted, I'm sure.
MABEL. Ye-es! I haven't forgotten his face-last time.
FREDA. You stood with Mr. Bill. He's better to stand with than Mr.
Harold, or Captain Keith?
MABEL. He didn't touch a feather, that day.
FREDA. People don't when they're anxious to do their best.
A gong sounds. And MABEL LANFARNE, giving FREDA a rather
inquisitive stare, moves on to the drawing-room. Left alone
without the roses, FREDA still lingers. At the slamming of a
door above, and hasty footsteps, she shrinks back against the
stairs. BILL runs down, and comes on her suddenly. He is a
tall, good-looking edition of his father, with the same stubborn
look of veiled choler.
BILL. Freda! [And as she shrinks still further back] what's the
matter? [Then at some sound he looks round uneasily and draws away
from her] Aren't you glad to see me?
FREDA. I've something to say to you, Mr. Bill. After dinner.
BILL. Mister----?
She passes him, and rushes away upstairs. And BILL, who stands
frowning and looking after her, recovers himself sharply as the
drawing-room door is opened, and SIR WILLIAM and MISS LANFARNE
come forth, followed by KEITH, DOT, HAROLD, CHRISTINE, LATTER,
and JOAN, all leaning across each other, and talking. By
herself, behind them, comes LADY CHESHIRE, a refined-looking
woman of fifty, with silvery dark hair, and an expression at
once gentle, and ironic. They move across the hall towards the
dining-room.
SIR WILLIAM. Ah! Bill.
MABEL. How do you do?
KEITH. How are you, old chap?
DOT. [gloomily] Do you know your part?
HAROLD. Hallo, old man!
CHRISTINE gives her brother a flying kiss. JOAN and LATTER pause and
look at him shyly without speech.
BILL. [Putting his hand on JOAN's shoulder] Good luck, you two!
Well mother?
LADY CHESHIRE. Well, my dear boy! Nice to see you at last. What a
long time!
She draws his arm through hers, and they move towards the
dining-room.
The curtain falls.
The curtain rises again at once.
SCENE II
CHRISTINE, LADY CHESHIRE, DOT, MABEL LANFARNE,
and JOAN, are returning to the hall after dinner.
CHRISTINE. [in a low voice] Mother, is it true about young Dunning
and Rose Taylor?
LADY CHESHIRE. I'm afraid so, dear.
CHRISTINE. But can't they be----
DOT. Ah! ah-h! [CHRISTINE and her mother are silent.] My child, I'm
not the young person.
CHRISTINE. No, of course not--only--[nodding towards JOAN and
Mable].
DOT. Look here! This is just an instance of what I hate.
LADY CHESHIRE. My dear? Another one?
DOT. Yes, mother, and don't you pretend you don't understand,
because you know you do.
CHRISTINE. Instance? Of what?
JOAN and MABEL have ceased talking, and listen, still at the fire.
DOT. Humbug, of course. Why should you want them to marry, if he's
tired of her?
| 3,425.386794 |
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[Transcriber's Note: Bold text is surrounded by =equal signs= and
italic text is surrounded by _underscores_.]
THE CHAUTAUQUAN.
_A MONTHLY MAGAZINE DEVOTED TO THE PROMOTION OF TRUE CULTURE. ORGAN OF
THE CHAUTAUQUA LITERARY AND SCIENTIFIC CIRCLE._
VOL. III. MAY, 1883. NO. 8.
Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle.
_President_, Lewis Miller, Akron, Ohio.
_Superintendent of Instruction_, J. H. Vincent, D. D., Plainfield, N. J.
_General Secretary_, Albert M. Martin, Pittsburgh, Pa.
_Office Secretary_, Miss Kate F. Kimball, Plainfield, N. J.
_Counselors_, Lyman Abbott, D. D.; J. M. Gibson, D. D.; Bishop H. W.
Warren, D. D.; W. C. Wilkinson, D. D.
REQUIRED READING
FOR THE
_Chautauqua Literary and Scientific Circle for 1882-83_.
MAY.
HISTORY OF RUSSIA.
By MRS. MARY S. ROBINSON.
_CHAPTER X._
ALEXANDER NEVSKI—MIKHAIL OF TVER.
We have seen that Mstislaf the Brave defied the tyranny of Andreï
Bogoliubski, in his attempt to intimidate Novgorod the Great.[A] When
Vsevolod, surnamed Big Nest, by reason of his large family, would force
the city to his will, Mstislaf again came to its rescue; and when
Iaroslaf of the Big Nest family, continuing the feud, betook himself
to Torjok near the Volga, where he obstructed the passage of the
merchants and brought famine upon the great city, Mstislaf the Bold,
of Smolensk, son of the Brave, left his powerful capital, one of the
strongest of Russia’s fortified cities, and went to the help of the
distressed people. “Torjok shall not hold herself higher than the Lord
Novgorod,” he swore in princely fashion, “I will deliver his lands,
or leave my bones for his people to bury.” Thus he became champion
and prince of the Republic. Between Iaroslaf and his brothers Iuri of
Vladimir, and Konstantin of Rostof ensued one of the family wrangles
common to the times, that was settled on the field of Lipetsk (1216),
where Konstantin allied with Mstislaf won his cause, and Iaroslaf was
compelled to renounce both his claims and his captives. When the bold
Mstislaf had put the affairs of the principality in order, he took
formal leave of the _vetché_, assembled in the court of Iarosl | 3,425.551438 |
2023-11-16 19:14:09.5605870 | 1,541 | 12 |
E-text prepared by Paul Murray and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Transcriber's note:
Text printed in italics in the original version is enclosed
by underscores (_italics_).
A Table of Contents has been added for the reader's convenience.
A list of changes to the text is at the end of the book.
GYCIA
by
LEWIS MORRIS
* * * * * *
BY THE SAME AUTHOR.
_NEW AND CHEAPER EDITIONS._
Vol. I.--SONGS OF TWO WORLDS. With Portrait. Eleventh Edition, price
5_s._
Vol. II.--THE EPIC OF HADES. With an Autotype Illustration. Twentieth
Edition, price 5_s._
Vol. III.--GWEN and THE ODE OF LIFE. With Frontispiece. Sixth
Edition, price 5_s._
_FIFTH EDITION._
SONGS UNSUNG. Cloth extra, bevelled boards, price 5_s._
AN ILLUSTRATED EDITION OF THE EPIC OF HADES. With Sixteen Autotype
Illustrations after the drawings of the late GEORGE R. CHAPMAN. 4to,
cloth extra, gilt leaves, price 21_s._
A PRESENTATION EDITION OF THE EPIC OF HADES. With Portrait. 4to,
cloth extra, gilt leaves, price 10_s._ 6_d._
THE LEWIS MORRIS BIRTHDAY BOOK. Edited by S. S. COPEMAN. 32mo, with
Frontispiece, cloth extra, gilt edges, 2s.; cloth limp, price 1_s._
6_d._
_For Notices of the Press, see end of this Volume._
LONDON: KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO.
* * * * * *
GYCIA
A Tragedy in Five Acts
by
LEWIS MORRIS
M.A.; Honorary Fellow of Jesus College, Oxford
Knight of the Redeemer of Greece, Etc., Etc.
Second Edition
London
Kegan Paul, Trench & Co., 1, Paternoster Square
1886
(The rights of translation and of reproduction are reserved.)
CONTENTS
Preface
Dramatis Personae
Act I
Scene 1 Bosphorus. The King's palace.
Scene 2 Outside the palace.
Act II
Scene 1 Lamachus' palace, Cherson.
Scene 2 Outside the palace of Lamachus.
Scene 3 A street in Cherson.
Scene 4 The garden without the banqueting-room.
Act III
Scene 1 Cherson, two years after. The palace of Lamachus.
Scene 2 The same.
Scene 3 A room in the palace.
Scene 4 Irene's prison.
Scene 5 Outside the palace.
Act IV
Scene 1 Cherson. Irene's prison.
Scene 2 Room in Lamachus's palace.
Scene 3 The council chamber of the Senate of Cherson.
Act V
Scene 1 Lamachus's palace.
Scene 2 The banquet hall.
Scene 3 Outside the banquet hall.
Scene 4 The Senate-chamber.
Notices of the press
PREFACE.
The following Drama was written with a view to Stage representation,
and it is therefore rather as an Acting Play than as a Dramatic Poem
that it should be judged by its readers.
It follows as closely as possible the striking story recorded by
Constantine Porphyrogenitus in his work, "De Administratione
Imperii." Nor has the writer had occasion (except in the death of the
heroine) to modify the powerful historical situations and incidents
to which it is right to say his attention was first directed by his
friend the well-known scholar and critic, Mr. W. Watkiss Lloyd.
The date of the story is circa 970 A.D.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
_PEOPLE OF BOSPHORUS._
_The_ KING OF BOSPHORUS.
ASANDER, _Prince of Bosphorus._
LYSIMACHUS, _a statesman._
MEGACLES, _a chamberlain from the Imperial Court of Constantinople._
_Three Courtiers, accompanying Asander and accomplices in the plot._
_Soldiers, etc._
_PEOPLE OF CHERSON._
LAMACHUS, _Archon of the Republic of Cherson._
ZETHO, _his successor._
THEODORUS, _a young noble (brother to Irene), in love with Gycia._
BARDANES, _first Senator._
_Ambassador to Bosphorus._
_The Senators of Cherson._
_Two Labourers._
GYCIA, _daughter of Lamachus._
IRENE, _a lady--her friend, in love with Asander._
MELISSA, _an elderly lady in waiting on Gycia_.
_Child, daughter of the Gaoler._
_Citizens, etc._
GYCIA.
ACT I.
SCENE I.--_Bosphorus. The King's palace. The_ KING, _in anxious
thought. To him_ LYSIMACHUS, _afterwards_ ASANDER.
_Enter_ LYSIMACHUS.
_Lys._ What ails the King, that thus his brow is bent
By such a load of care?
_King._ Lysimachus,
The load of empire lies a weary weight,
On age-worn brains; tho' skies and seas may smile,
And steadfast favouring Fortune sit serene,
Guiding the helm of State, but well thou knowest--
None better in my realm--through what wild waves,
Quicksands, and rock-fanged straits, our Bosphorus,
Laden with all our love, reels madly on
To shipwreck and to ruin. From the North,
Storm-cloud on storm-cloud issuing vollies forth
Fresh thunderbolts of war. The Emperor
Dallies within his closed seraglios,
Letting his eunuchs waste the might of Rome,
While the fierce Scythian, in a surge of blood,
Bursts on our bare-swept plains. Upon the South,
Our rival Cherson, with a jealous eye,
Waits on our adverse chances, taking joy
Of her republican guile in every check
And buffet envious Fortune deals our State,
Which doth obey a King. Of all our foes
I hate and dread these chiefly, for I fear
Lest, when my crown falls from my palsied brow,
My son Asander's youth may prove too weak
To curb these crafty burghers. Speak, I pray thee,
Most trusty servant. Can thy loyal brain
Devise some scheme whereby our dear-loved realm
May break the mesh of Fate?
_Lys._ Indeed, my liege,
Too well I know our need, and long have tossed
Through sleepless nights, if haply | 3,425.580627 |
2023-11-16 19:14:09.6258800 | 875 | 30 |
Produced by Thierry Alberto, Henry Craig and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE TEMPTATION
OF
ST. ANTONY
OR,
_A REVELATION OF THE SOUL_
BY
GUSTAVE FLAUBERT
_VOLUME VII._
SIMON P. MAGEE
PUBLISHER
CHICAGO, ILL.
COPYRIGHT, 1904, BY
M. WALTER DUNNE
_Entered at Stationers' Hall, London_
CONTENTS
THE TEMPTATION OF ST. ANTONY
CHAPTER I. PAGE
A HOLY SAINT 1
CHAPTER II.
THE TEMPTATION OF LOVE AND POWER 16
CHAPTER III.
THE DISCIPLE, HILARION 40
CHAPTER IV.
THE FIERY TRIAL 48
CHAPTER V.
ALL GODS, ALL RELIGIONS 99
CHAPTER VI.
THE MYSTERY OF SPACE 143
CHAPTER VII.
THE CHIMERA AND THE SPHINX 151
ILLUSTRATIONS
TEMPTATION OF SAINT ANTONY
FACING PAGE
"DO NOT RESIST, I AM OMNIPOTENT!" (See page 157) _Frontispiece_
HE LETS GO THE TORCH IN ORDER TO EMBRACE THE HEAP 26
The Temptation _of_ Saint Antony
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
A HOLY SAINT.
It is in the Thebaid, on the heights of a mountain, where a platform,
shaped like a crescent, is surrounded by huge stones.
The Hermit's cell occupies the background. It is built of mud and reeds,
flat-roofed and doorless. Inside are seen a pitcher and a loaf of black
bread; in the centre, on a wooden support, a large book; on the ground,
here and there, bits of rush-work, a mat or two, a basket and a knife.
Some ten paces or so from the cell a tall cross is planted in the
ground; and, at the other end of the platform, a gnarled old palm-tree
leans over the abyss, for the side of the mountain is scarped; and at
the bottom of the cliff the Nile swells, as it were, into a lake.
To right and left, the view is bounded by the enclosing rocks; but, on
the side of the desert, immense undulations of a yellowish ash-colour
rise, one above and one beyond the other, like the lines of a sea-coast;
while, far off, beyond the sands, the mountains of the Libyan range form
a wall of chalk-like whiteness faintly shaded with violet haze. In
front, the sun is going down. Towards the north, the sky has a
pearl-grey tint; while, at the zenith, purple clouds, like the tufts of
a gigantic mane, stretch over the blue vault. These purple streaks grow
browner; the patches of blue assume the paleness of mother-of-pearl. The
bushes, the pebbles, the earth, now wear the hard colour of bronze, and
through space floats a golden dust so fine that it is scarcely
distinguishable from the vibrations of light.
Saint Antony, who has a long beard, unshorn locks, and a tunic of
goatskin, is seated, cross-legged, engaged in making mats. No sooner has
the sun disappeared than he heaves a deep sigh, and gazing towards the
horizon:
"Another day! Another day gone! I was not so miserable in former times
as I am now! Before the night was over, I used to begin my prayers; then
I would go down to the river to fetch water, and would reascend the
rough mountain pathway, singing a hymn, with the water-bottle on my | 3,425.64592 |
2023-11-16 19:14:09.6328080 | 1,491 | 128 |
Produced by David Widger
THE WORKS OF ROBERT G. INGERSOLL
By Robert G. Ingersoll
"HAPPINESS IS THE ONLY GOOD, REASON THE ONLY
TORCH, JUSTICE THE ONLY WORSHIP, HUMANITY THE
ONLY RELIGION, AND LOVE THE ONLY PRIEST."
IN TWELVE VOLUMES, VOLUME VIII.
INTERVIEWS
1900
Dresden Edition
INTERVIEWS
THE BIBLE AND A FUTURE LIFE
_Question_. Colonel, are your views of religion based upon the
Bible?
_Answer_. I regard the Bible, especially the Old Testament, the
same as I do most other ancient books, in which there is some truth,
a great deal of error, considerable barbarism and a most plentiful
lack of good sense.
_Question_. Have you found any other work, sacred or profane,
which you regard as more reliable?
_Answer_. I know of no book less so, in my judgment.
_Question_. You have studied the Bible attentively, have you not?
_Answer_. I have read the Bible. I have heard it talked about a
good deal, and am sufficiently well acquainted with it to justify
my own mind in utterly rejecting all claims made for its divine
origin.
_Question_. What do you base your views upon?
_Answer_. On reason, observation, experience, upon the discoveries
in science, upon observed facts and the analogies properly growing
out of such facts. I have no confidence in anything pretending to
be outside, or independent of, or in any manner above nature.
_Question_. According to your views, what disposition is made of
man after death?
_Answer_. Upon that subject I know nothing. It is no more wonderful
that man should live again than he now lives; upon that question
I know of no evidence. The doctrine of immortality rests upon
human affection. We love, therefore we wish to live.
_Question_. Then you would not undertake to say what becomes of
man after death?
_Answer_. If I told or pretended to know what becomes of man after
death, I would be as dogmatic as are theologians upon this question.
The difference between them and me is, I am honest. I admit that
I do not know.
_Question_. Judging by your criticism of mankind, Colonel, in your
recent lecture, you have not found his condition very satisfactory?
_Answer_. Nature, outside of man, so far as I know, is neither
cruel nor merciful. I am not satisfied with the present condition
of the human race, nor with the condition of man during any period
of which we have any knowledge. I believe, however, the condition
of man is improved, and this improvement is due to his own exertions.
I do not make nature a being. I do not ascribe to nature
intentions.
_Question_. Is your theory, Colonel, the result of investigation
of the subject?
_Answer_. No one can control his own opinion or his own belief.
My belief was forced upon me by my surroundings. I am the product
of all circumstances that have in any way touched me. I believe
in this world. I have no confidence in any religion promising joys
in another world at the expense of liberty and happiness in this.
At the same time, I wish to give others all the rights I claim for
myself.
_Question_. If I asked for proofs for your theory, what would you
furnish?
_Answer_. The experience of every man who is honest with himself,
every fact that has been discovered in nature. In addition to
these, the utter and total failure of all religionists in all
countries to produce one particle of evidence showing the existence
of any supernatural power whatever, and the further fact that the
people are not satisfied with their religion. They are continually
asking for evidence. They are asking it in every imaginable way.
The sects are continually dividing. There is no real religious
serenity in the world. All religions are opponents of intellectual
liberty. I believe in absolute mental freedom. Real religion with
me is a thing not of the head, but of the heart; not a theory, not
a creed, but a life.
_Question_. What punishment, then, is inflicted upon man for his
crimes and wrongs committed in this life?
_Answer_. There is no such thing as intellectual crime. No man
can commit a mental crime. To become a crime it must go beyond
thought.
_Question_. What punishment is there for physical crime?
_Answer_. Such punishment as is necessary to protect society and
for the reformation of the criminal.
_Question_. If there is only punishment in this world, will not
some escape punishment?
_Answer_. I admit that all do not seem to be punished as they
deserve. I also admit that all do not seem to be rewarded as they
deserve; and there is in this world, apparently, as great failures
in matter of reward as in matter of punishment. If there is another
life, a man will be happier there for acting according to his
highest ideal in this. But I do not discern in nature any effort
to do justice.
--_The Post_, Washington, D. C., 1878.
MRS. VAN COTT, THE REVIVALIST
_Question_. I see, Colonel, that in an interview published this
morning, Mrs. Van Cott (the revivalist), calls you "a poor barking
dog." Do you know her personally?
_Answer_. I have never met or seen her.
_Question_. Do you know the reason she applied the epithet?
_Answer_. I suppose it to be the natural result of what is called
vital piety; that is to say, universal love breeds individual
hatred.
_Question_. Do you intend making any reply to what she says?
_Answer_. I have written her a note of which this is a copy:
_Buffalo, Feb. 24th, 1878._
MRS. VAN COTT;
My dear Madam:--Were you constrained by the love of Christ to call
a man who has never injured you "a poor barking dog?" Did you make
this remark as a Christian, or as a lady? Did you say these words
to illustrate in some faint degree the refining influence upon
women of the religion you preach?
What would you think of me if I should retort, using your language,
changing only the sex of the last word?
I have the honor to remain,
Yours truly,
R. G. INGERSOLL
_Question_. Well, what do you think of the religious revival system
generally?
_Answer_. The fire that has to be blown all the time is a poor
| 3,425.652848 |
2023-11-16 19:14:09.6635200 | 2,473 | 7 | Project Gutenberg's Mohammed Ali and His House, by Louise Muhlbach
Translated from German by Chapman Coleman.
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Title: Mohammed Ali and His House
Author: Louise Muhlbach
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2023-11-16 19:14:09.6645760 | 1,128 | 20 |
Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger
THE JUNGLE BOOK
By Rudyard Kipling
Contents
Mowgli's Brothers
Hunting-Song of the Seeonee Pack
Kaa's Hunting
Road-Song of the Bandar-Log
"Tiger! Tiger!"
Mowgli's Song
The White Seal
Lukannon
"Rikki-Tikki-Tavi"
Darzee's Chant
Toomai of the Elephants
Shiv and the Grasshopper
Her Majesty's Servants
Parade Song of the Camp Animals
Mowgli's Brothers
Now Rann the Kite brings home the night
That Mang the Bat sets free--
The herds are shut in byre and hut
For loosed till dawn are we.
This is the hour of pride and power,
Talon and tush and claw.
Oh, hear the call!--Good hunting all
That keep the Jungle Law!
Night-Song in the Jungle
It was seven o'clock of a very warm evening in the Seeonee hills when
Father Wolf woke up from his day's rest, scratched himself, yawned, and
spread out his paws one after the other to get rid of the sleepy feeling
in their tips. Mother Wolf lay with her big gray nose dropped across her
four tumbling, squealing cubs, and the moon shone into the mouth of the
cave where they all lived. "Augrh!" said Father Wolf. "It is time to
hunt again." He was going to spring down hill when a little shadow with
a bushy tail crossed the threshold and whined: "Good luck go with you, O
Chief of the Wolves. And good luck and strong white teeth go with noble
children that they may never forget the hungry in this world."
It was the jackal--Tabaqui, the Dish-licker--and the wolves of India
despise Tabaqui because he runs about making mischief, and telling
tales, and eating rags and pieces of leather from the village
rubbish-heaps. But they are afraid of him too, because Tabaqui, more
than anyone else in the jungle, is apt to go mad, and then he forgets
that he was ever afraid of anyone, and runs through the forest biting
everything in his way. Even the tiger runs and hides when little Tabaqui
goes mad, for madness is the most disgraceful thing that can overtake
a wild creature. We call it hydrophobia, but they call it dewanee--the
madness--and run.
"Enter, then, and look," said Father Wolf stiffly, "but there is no food
here."
"For a wolf, no," said Tabaqui, "but for so mean a person as myself a
dry bone is a good feast. Who are we, the Gidur-log [the jackal people],
to pick and choose?" He scuttled to the back of the cave, where he
found the bone of a buck with some meat on it, and sat cracking the end
merrily.
"All thanks for this good meal," he said, licking his lips. "How
beautiful are the noble children! How large are their eyes! And so young
too! Indeed, indeed, I might have remembered that the children of kings
are men from the beginning."
Now, Tabaqui knew as well as anyone else that there is nothing so
unlucky as to compliment children to their faces. It pleased him to see
Mother and Father Wolf look uncomfortable.
Tabaqui sat still, rejoicing in the mischief that he had made, and then
he said spitefully:
"Shere Khan, the Big One, has shifted his hunting grounds. He will hunt
among these hills for the next moon, so he has told me."
Shere Khan was the tiger who lived near the Waingunga River, twenty
miles away.
"He has no right!" Father Wolf began angrily--"By the Law of the Jungle
he has no right to change his quarters without due warning. He will
frighten every head of game within ten miles, and I--I have to kill for
two, these days."
"His mother did not call him Lungri [the Lame One] for nothing," said
Mother Wolf quietly. "He has been lame in one foot from his birth. That
is why he has only killed cattle. Now the villagers of the Waingunga are
angry with him, and he has come here to make our villagers angry.
They will scour the jungle for him when he is far away, and we and our
children must run when the grass is set alight. Indeed, we are very
grateful to Shere Khan!"
"Shall I tell him of your gratitude?" said Tabaqui.
"Out!" snapped Father Wolf. "Out and hunt with thy master. Thou hast
done harm enough for one night."
"I go," said Tabaqui quietly. "Ye can hear Shere Khan below in the
thickets. I might have saved myself the message."
Father Wolf listened, and below in the valley that ran down to a little
river he heard the dry, angry, snarly, singsong whine of | 3,425.684616 |
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Libraries.)
The Philippine Islands, 1493-1898
Explorations by early navigators, descriptions of the islands and
their peoples, their history and records of the catholic missions,
as related in contemporaneous books and manuscripts, showing the
political, economic, commercial and religious conditions of those
islands from their earliest relations with European nations to the
close of the nineteenth century,
Volume L, 1764-1800
Edited and annotated by Emma Helen Blair and James Alexander Robertson
with historical introduction and additional notes by Edward Gaylord
Bourne.
The Arthur H. Clark Company
Cleveland, Ohio
MCMVII
CONTENTS OF VOLUME L
Preface 9
Document of 1764-1800
Events in Filipinas, 1764-1800. [Compiled from Montero y
Vidal's Historia de Filipinas.] 23
Miscellaneous Documents, 1766-1771
Financial affairs of the islands, 1766. Francisco Leandro
de Viana; Manila, July 10, 1766. 77
Letter from Viana to Carlos III. F. L. de Viana; Manila,
May 1, 1767. 118
Anda's Memorial to the Spanish government. Simon de Anda
y Salazar; Madrid, April 12, 1768. 137
Ordinances of good government. [Compiled by Governors
Corcuera (1642), Cruzat y Góngora (1696), and Raón
(1768).] 191
Instructions to the secular clergy. Basilio Sancho de
Santa Justa y Rufina; Manila, October 25, 1771. 265
The expulsion of the Jesuits, 1768-69. [Compiled from
various sources.] 269
The council of 1771. [Letter by a Franciscan friar];
Manila, December 13, 1771. 317
Bibliographical Data. 323
ILLUSTRATIONS
Plan of the city of Manila and its environs and suburbs
on the other side of the river, by the pilot Francisco
Xavier Estorgo y Gallegos, 1770; photographic facsimile
from original MS. map (in colors) in Archivo general de
Indias, Sevilla 35
Plan of the present condition of Manila and its environs,
drawn by the engineer Feliciano Márquez, Manila, September
30, 1767; photographic facsimile from original MS. map
(in colors) in Archivo general de Indias, Sevilla 83
Map of the river of Cagayan, showing town sites along its
banks, 1720(?); drawn by Juan Luis de Acosta; photographic
facsimile from original MS map in Archivo general de
Indias, Sevilla 182, 183
Map of Manila Bay, port of Cavite, and Lake of Bay, showing
depths of various parts of the bay, drawn by the engineer
Feliciano Márquez, September 28, 1767; from original MS. map
(in colors) in Archivo general de Indias, Sevilla 201
Map of Guam, one of the Marianas Islands, in Concepción's
Historia general (Sampaloc, 1788-1792), vii, facing p. 145;
photographic facsimile from copy in library of Harvard
University 291
PREFACE
In this volume is a brief outline of events from the restoration
of Manila by the English (1764) to 1800; and a group of documents
relating to the more important topics in the first decade of that
period. The condition of the islands and their people at that time
is well described by the able and patriotic officials Viana and Anda;
and the "ordinances of good government" are an important addition to
our sources of information regarding the administration of justice in
Filipinas. The most important event of that time was the expulsion of
the Jesuits from the Spanish dominions, although its great significance
in Europe was but feebly reflected in those remote colonies.
In a brief summary are noted the leading events in Filipinas from
1764 to 1800. Manila is restored to the Spanish authorities by the
English on March 31, 1764; a few months before, Archbishop Rojo had
died, in captivity. The brief term of the temporary governor, Torre,
contains little that is noteworthy, outside of a controversy between
the civil government and the religious orders, occasioned by the
imprudent utterances of a Jesuit preacher. In July, 1765, arrives
the new governor, José Raón, in whose term occurs the expulsion of
the Jesuits from the islands, a matter treated more fully in a later
document; he also publishes a revision of the laws compiled earlier by
Arandia. The city of Manila first coins small copper money about this
time. The old controversy regarding episcopal visitation of the regular
curas is revived (1767) by Archbishop Santa Justa y Rufina, and it is
complicated by Raón's attempt to enforce the royal rights of patronage;
bitter controversies arise, and are carried to the Madrid court.
After the capture of Manila by the English, the Moros had renewed
their piracies, and ravaged the entire archipelago, year after
year--even entrenching themselves and opening a slave market on
Mindoró Island. Later, an expedition is sent to drive them out of this
stronghold, which is successful. In 1770, the patriot Anda returns
to Filipinas as its governor; he brings suit against Raón and other
officials for misconduct in office, which is proved against them;
but they and their friends rouse bitter opposition against him,
and hinder his labors for the country. Incited by reports of another
English invasion, he strengthens the fortifications of Manila Bay. His
appointment was unwelcome to the friars, and he makes official
remonstrance against the abuses prevalent among them, and calls
for corrections of these. Attempting to enforce the royal rights of
patronage, all the orders save the Dominicans refuse to obey; but later
royal orders (1776) make provision for more gradual secularization
of the curacies in Filipinas, and somewhat modify the enforcement of
the episcopal visitation--to secure which Santa Justa had convened a
provincial council at Manila in 1771, which was afterward disapproved
by the king. Difficulties arise with the Moros of Joló through the
imprudence of an envoy sent thither by Anda, and through the military
establishment made by the English on an islet near Joló. The Moros
seize this fort by treachery (1775) and kill most of the Englishmen
in it; this success emboldens the Moros to ravage the Spanish islands
again. In the following year the king sends 50,000 pesos to Filipinas
for building light vessels to follow up those pirates. The weight
of Anda's official responsibility, and the constant attacks of his
enemies, cause his death, October 30, 1776. He is succeeded by Basco
y Vargas, an energetic, able, and conscientious officer. The auditors
conspire against him, but he arrests them and ships them to Spain; he
then devotes himself to the welfare of the country and the development
of its resources. He makes all possible efforts to promote agriculture,
industries, and commerce; founds the celebrated "Economic Society;"
improves the schools, punishes highwaymen, reorganizes the army,
and repairs the forts; visits the provinces in person, and informs
himself of their condition; places the public revenues on a sound
basis; and checks the Moro piracies for a time. Nevertheless, he is
disliked and opposed by some of the citizens, and resigns his post as
governor (1787); his temporary successor is Pedro Sarrio, who finds
it necessary to allow the regular curas to resume their parish charges.
The next proprietary governor, Félix Berenguer de Marquina, assumes his
office on July 1, 1788. After becoming acquainted with the condition
of the islands, he sends to the home government proposals for the
reforms which seem desirable for Filipinas. Various events in his
term of office are related, but there is little in them of unusual
importance. In 1793 he is succeeded by Aguilar. New alarms of another
English invasion oblige him to give attention first to the defenses
of Manila and the improvement of the army. In the last days of 1796,
a powerful Spanish fleet, commanded by Álava, arrives at Manila, sent
thither for the defense of the islands in the war with Great Britain,
which began in that year. Sailing to attack the English trading-fleet
from China, Álava encounters a fierce hurricane, which drives him
back to Manila. Endeavoring to improve the navy of the islands, and
to reorganize the arsenals, he encounters official corruption and
other difficulties, and is involved in long controversies with Aguilar
and the royal officials at Manila. In 1797, the Acapulco galleon is
wrecked soon after leaving Cavite, through "its commander's complete
ignorance of nautical affairs," occasioning heavy loss to the citizens
of Manila. Álava is compelled, by the continual danger of an attack by
the English, to remain near the city for its defense; but he does all
in his power to protect its commerce and improve the administration
of its navy, and finally returns to Spain in 1803. On August 8, 1806,
Aguilar dies, having held his office longer than any other governor
before or since.
A detailed statement of the financial affairs of the islands in 1766 is
furnished by the royal fiscal at Manila, Francisco Leandro de Viana. He
aims to show how the Philippines can be made self-supporting, and
even more, by proper retrenchments of expense and by increasing the
revenues of government through the abolition of certain privileges
and exemptions, the establishment of various monopolies, and, if
necessary, the increase of the tributes paid by the natives. This
last item produces 250,000 pesos annually; but nearly all of this is
paid out for "the spiritual administration" of the Indians, so that,
according to Viana, "the religious orders profit by and receive almost
all the proceeds from the tributes." Hence the need of the royal
situado each year from Mexico, to pay the civil and military expenses
of the government. Viana enumerates the other profits derived from the
Indians by the religious who are charged with their spiritual care,
and mentions numerous other sources of income which they possess. In
short, "all the profit of the islands accrues to the ecclesiastical
estate;" the royal treasury is heavily indebted, and cannot meet
the enormous expenses; "the provinces are at the mercy of the Moros,
and everything is in danger of total ruin, unless suitable remedies
are applied in time."
For this purpose Viana advocates various retrenchments of expenses,
especially of those now incurred for the support of the ecclesiastical
estate in the islands. He recommends that the exemptions of certain
Indian chiefs and church servants from tribute-paying be abolished;
that the "barangays" be suppressed, and the native villages reduced
to parishes; that changes and reforms be made in the dealings of the
provincial alcaldes with the crown; that offices be not sold, but
granted as rewards of merit; that certain royal imposts be increased;
that some privileges be sold at auction; and that monopolies be
established on playing-cards, cock-fighting, and tobacco, not only in
Manila but throughout the provinces and islands--to all of which the
monopolies on wine and buyo might profitably be extended, which "would
produce for the royal treasury enormous sums." From all these sources,
the royal treasury will obtain enough income "to maintain the islands
with respectable forces, and to make good the expenses hitherto caused
to the royal revenue," without the necessity of increasing the tribute
paid by the natives. But, if this last expedient be deemed necessary,
he shows what will be the proceeds from increasing the tribute from
ten reals to two, three, and four pesos respectively. The fiscal
Viana shows himself to be a capable and honest official; but he
evidently must contend with forces and conditions--greed for gain,
official corruption, fraud, negligence and waste--that cannot be
overcome without entire reform and reorganization of the colonial
administration. With all his ability, he nevertheless regards the
native peoples, as so many other European officials have done, as
legitimate subjects for reckless exploitation; but in the light of
modern thought and investigation his proposed expedients seem both
short-sighted and ruinous. In some cases they would be diabolical,
if their author could have realized what their effects would be,
as with the proposed extension of the vicious monopolies (gambling,
and the use of tobacco and wine) throughout the islands. He himself
says, "Even the boys and girls use the said tobacco before they are
old enough to exercise their reason."
Another document of especial interest is a report by Viana (May 1,
1767) to the king and the Council of the Indias, apparently the final
one sent by him as fiscal. The subjects which it chiefly discusses
are, the necessity of rendering trade free between the Spaniards and
the Indians in the provinces, and that of instructing the natives
in the Spanish language. As it is, the Indians seldom understand
that language, outside of Manila, and dare not use it in presence
of the religious. The latter, Viana says, are absolute despots in
the islands, and, to conceal this from the authorities, they keep
the natives in ignorance of the Spanish language; and they allow no
Spaniard to enter their villages except by special permission of the
cura, and for the time of three days only. He complains of their
insolence, greed for dominion, disregard of all laws that do not
suit their convenience, intrigues to prevent the enforcement of law,
and oppression of the natives. These evils are incurable so long as
the present mode of secular government continues. The interests of
the king and his exchequer, and the government of the provinces, are
shamefully neglected; the governor is indolent and covetous, seeks
his own profit, and leaves business affairs to his secretary--who
in turn neglects those which do not yield him gain. Viana urges that
the superintendency of the exchequer be separated from the governor's
office, as a partial remedy for the disorder and neglect which it has
suffered; also the surrender of civil government in the provinces to
the sole charge of the Audiencia, and the reduction of all the natives
into parishes. He describes the intrigues within the orders which
attend the appointments therein to the parishes under their charge,
and claims that the missions are in consequence rapidly decaying. He
renews his complaint of the despotic rule practiced by the friar curas,
over both natives and alcaldes; and declares that the only cure for
this will be, to subject the curas to episcopal visitation. Viana
closes by urging that better governors be sent to the islands.
Further light on the condition of the islands after the English
invasion is furnished by a notable memorial to the Spanish government,
written by the patriot Anda (April 12, 1768). Far the greater part
of this is devoted to the abuses resulting from the arrogance and
lawlessness of the friars, with Anda's recommendations for measures
to counteract those abuses; and to his text we add the helpful
annotations made thereon by Dr. Pardo de Tavera. The inadequate
and defective education furnished by the Manila universities leads
Anda to recommend that they be abolished, and replaced by a secular
foundation. He complains of the tyranny exerted by the regulars over
the secular clergy and over the Indians, their refusal to acknowledge
the episcopal authority, their defiance of the secular government,
their greed for gain (extorting all they can get from the Indians,
although they receive large stipends and contributions from the
government, and acquiring large estates, besides engaging in a
lucrative trade), their persecutions of any Spaniards who attempt to
visit or trade in the Indian villages, their protection of the infidel
Chinese, their persistent neglect to teach the Spanish language to the
Indians and their holding the latter in ignorance in order to retain
their domination over them. The regulars also neglect their spiritual
work, do nothing to check the vagrant life of many Indians, tyrannize
over the alcaldes, and incite the Indians to hate the Spaniards. Anda
urges that they be compelled to submit to episcopal visitation, to
give up trade, to cease from meddling with all affairs of secular
government, and to teach the Spanish language to the natives; and,
if they prove contumacious, that they be expelled from the islands. At
the end of the memorial, Anda touches on some other abuses which need
correction: the choice of friars as bishops, the mismanagement of
the royal storehouses, the undue expense of the Acapulco galleon, the
failure to tax the production of gold, and the neglect to subdue the
inland tribes of Luzón. He advocates the operation of the Philippine
mines, revision of the commercial regulations, recoinage of money,
reorganization of the colonial government, and more care in selecting
the governors of the islands, with the grant to them of more power
to correct abuses.
Of decided importance in this series are the ordinances of good
government of Corcuera and Cruzat (with later additions), and those of
Raón (revising those of Arandía, of 1768), which were intended for the
guidance of alcaldes, corregidors, and other judicial officials. While
in actual use they were never of the transcendental importance in
executive, legislative, and judicial matters that might be imagined
from their context, because they are for the most part merely a
record on paper (especially those of Raón), and were almost entirely
disregarded; yet they are valuable, as they show the Spanish treatment
of natives, and reveal social and economic conditions. Although
the source from which we translate and synopsize presents first the
ordinances of Raón, we have preferred to follow the more chronological
arrangement, and hence begin with those of Corcuera and Cruzat. The
ordinances of Corcuera, which were formulated in 1642, are revised by
Cruzat, because such revision is demanded by the changed conditions
that have come with the lapse of time. The first thirty-eight are the
more valuable portion of these first ordinances, and are the result
of the revision of those of Corcuera. They are much more clear-cut
than most of the remaining twenty-three ordinances, some of which
are vague and full of loopholes. As a whole, these first sixty-one
ordinances regulate the conduct of the alcaldes-mayor in their official
and private life in all lines--moral, religious, judicial, economic,
etc. From them one obtains almost a full glimpse of the life of the
times; he sees the canker of graft which was working in and through
everything; gains a knowledge of the Spanish treatment of their wards,
the natives, from the different standpoints of government paternalism,
and individual rapacity, half-contempt, and cruelty of subordinate
officials and others; notes the corrective measures that were taken,
often halting and inadequate; and above all, is conscious of that
peculiar method of Spanish legislation which, while apparently giving
subordinate officials a free hand, drew them back to the center by
threats of the residencia. The ordinances of Raón are ninety-four in
number, many of which are repetitions of the foregoing, while some
contain amendments and additions, and some again, are new. There
is, for instance, considerably more legislation relating to the
ecclesiastical estate in these later ordinances, which touch upon
certain abuses common among them in their treatment of the natives
and in their relations with the government. Less drastic, in many
ways, than those of Arandía (of which no known copy is extant), they
are more drastic than those of Corcuera and Cruzat, in the treatment
of both religious and natives. The scheme of government outlined in
both sets of ordinances is a simple and in some ways effective one,
but its effects were never fully seen, because of the almost total
disregard of the measures contained therein.
In 1771, Archbishop de Santa Justa issued instructions to the secular
clergy which forcibly indicate the need of many reforms among them,
in both their official and their private conduct.
One of the most important events in the history of Filipinas was the
expulsion of the Jesuit order therefrom in 1768, an account of which
is here presented, prefaced by a brief statement of the expulsion of
that order from Spain and its domains, and the causes of that measure;
it proves to be the final stroke in the long conflict between the
Spanish crown and the popes of Rome over the prerogatives of authority
claimed by the former in ecclesiastical matters. The Jesuits had
always upheld the principle of authority, as exercised by the Holy
See, and were therefore opposed to the claims of the Spanish monarchs;
moreover | 3,425.68478 |
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CANADA
WEST
160 ACRE
FARMS in
WESTERN
CANADA
FREE
ISSUED BY DIRECTION OF HON. W. J. ROCHE MINISTER OF THE INTERIOR,
OTTAWA, CANADA. 1914
[Illustration]
LAND REGULATIONS IN CANADA
All public lands in Manitoba, Saskatchewan, and Alberta are controlled
and administered by the Dominion Government through the Department of
the Interior. The lands disposed of as free homesteads (Government
grants) under certain conditions involving residence and improvements,
are surveyed into square blocks, six miles long by six miles wide,
called townships. When these improvements are completed and duties
performed, a patent or crown deed is issued.
THE FOLLOWING IS A PLAN OF A TOWNSHIP
N
SIX MILES SQUARE
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W | | | | | | | | | | | | | E
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S
[Illustration: Showing how the land is divided into square sections and
square quarter-sections. Also showing how the sections in a township are
numbered.]
Each township is subdivided into 36 square blocks or sections one mile
square and containing 640 acres and numbered from one to thirty-six.
Each section is divided into four quarter-sections of 160 acres each.
The four quarters of the section are described, as the northeast, the
northwest, the southeast and the southwest quarter.
=Who Is Eligible.= The sole head of a family or any male eighteen years of
age or over, who is a British subject or who declares his intention to
become a British subject; a widow having minor children of her own
dependent upon her for support.
=Acquiring Homestead.= To acquire a homestead applicant must make entry in
person, either at the Dominion Lands Office for the district in which
the land applied for is situate, or at a sub-agency authorized to
transact business in such district. At the time of entry a fee of $10
must be paid. The certificate of entry which is then granted the
applicant gives him authority to enter upon the land and maintain full
possession of it as long as he complies with the homestead requirements.
=Cattle Provision to Secure Homestead.= With certain restriction, stock
may be substituted in lieu of cultivation.
=Residence.= To earn patent for homestead, a person must reside in a
habitable house upon the land for six months during each of three years.
Such residence however, need not be commenced before six months after
the date on which entry for the land was secured.
=Improvement Duties.= Before being eligible to apply for patent, a
homesteader must break (plough up) thirty acres of the homestead, of
which twenty acres must be cropped. It is also required that a
reasonable proportion of this cultivation must be done during each
homestead year.
=Application for Patent.= When a homesteader has completed his residence
and cultivation duties he makes application for patent before the Agent
of Dominion Lands for the district in which the homestead is situate, or
before a sub-agent authorized to deal with lands in such district. If
the duties have been satisfactorily performed patent issues to the
homesteader shortly after without any further action on his part, and
the land thus becomes his absolute property.
=Timber and Fuel.= An occupant of a homestead quarter-section, having no
suitable timber of his own, may obtain on payment of a 25-cent fee a
permit to cut 3,000 lineal feet of building timber, 400 roof poles, 500
fence posts, 2,000 fence rails. Homesteaders and all bona f | 3,425.785082 |
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by The Internet Archive)
[Illustration:
Page 183.
THE PORTRAIT.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE
DEAD LETTER:
AN AMERICAN ROMANCE.
BY SEELEY REGESTER.
NEW YORK:
BEADLE AND COMPANY,
_118 WILLIAM STREET_.
1867.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by
BEADLE AND COMPANY.
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the
Southern District of New York.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS--PART I.
CHAPTER I.
THE LETTER, 9
CHAPTER II.
EVENTS OF A NIGHT, 11
CHAPTER III.
THE FIGURE BENEATH THE TREES, 23
CHAPTER IV.
MORELAND VILLA, 34
CHAPTER V.
MR. BURTON, THE DETECTIVE, 49
CHAPTER VI.
TWO LINKS IN THE CHAIN, 72
CHAPTER VII.
ELEANOR, 86
CHAPTER VIII.
THE HAUNTED GRAVE, 94
CHAPTER IX.
THE SPIDER AND THE FLY, 114
CHAPTER X.
THE ANNIVERSARY, 132
CHAPTER XI.
THE LITTLE GUEST AND THE APPARITION, 154
CHAPTER XII.
THE NIGHT IN MORELAND VILLA, 176
CHAPTER XIII.
THE SHADOW ASSUMES SHAPE, 188
PART II.
CHAPTER I.
THE LETTER, 199
CHAPTER II.
OUR VISITS, 212
CHAPTER III.
THE CONFESSION, 228
CHAPTER IV.
EMBARKED FOR CALIFORNIA, 243
CHAPTER V.
ON THE TRAIL, 252
CHAPTER VI.
AT LAST--AT LAST, 261
CHAPTER VII.
NOW FOR HOME AGAIN, 278
CHAPTER VIII.
THE RIPE HOUR, 383
CHAPTER IX.
JOINING THE MISSING LINKS, 296
CHAPTER X.
THE NEW LIFE, 305
ILLUSTRATIONS.
BAFFLED, 64
ELEANOR, 90
"WELL, HOW DO YOU LIKE MY LOOKS?" 161
THE PORTRAIT--Frontispiece, 183
IN THE OAK, 223
"I NEVER ACCUSED YOU," 297
THE DEAD LETTER.
PART I.
CHAPTER I.
THE LETTER.
I paused suddenly in my work. Over a year's experience in the Dead
Letter office had given a mechanical rapidity to my movements in
opening, noting and classifying the contents of the bundles before me;
and, so far from there being any thing exciting to the curiosity, or
interesting to the mind, in the employment, it was of the most
monotonous character.
Young ladies whose love letters have gone astray, evil men whose plans
have been confided in writing to their confederates, may feel but
little apprehension of the prying eyes of the Department; nothing
attracts it but objects of material value--sentiment is below par; it
gives attention only to such tangible interests as are represented by
bank-bills, gold-pieces, checks, jewelry, miniatures, et cetera.
Occasionally a grave clerk smiles sardonically at the ridiculous
character of some of the articles which come to light; sometimes,
perhaps, looks thoughtfully at a withered rosebud, or bunch of pressed
violets, a homely little pin-cushion, or a book-mark, wishing it had
reached its proper destination. I can not answer for other employees,
who may not have even this amount of heart and imagination to invest in
the dull business of a Government office; but when I was in the
Department I was guilty, at intervals, of such folly--yet I passed for
the coldest, most cynical man of them all.
The letter which I held in my paralyzed fingers when they so abruptly
ceased their dexterous movements, was contained in a closely-sealed
envelope, yellowed by time, and directed in a peculiar hand to "John
Owen, Peekskill, New York," and the date on the stamp was "October
18th, 1857"--making the letter two years old. I know not what magnetism
passed from it, putting me, as the spiritualists say, _en rapport_ with
it; I had not yet cut the lappet; and the only thing I could fix upon
as the cause of my attraction was, that at the date indicated on the
envelope, I had been a resident of Blankville, twenty miles from
Peekskill--and something about that date!
Yet this was no excuse for my agitation; I was not of an inquisitive
disposition; nor did "John Owen" belong to the circle of my
acquaintance. I sat there with such a strange expression upon my face,
that one of my fellows, remarking my mood, exclaimed jestingly:
"What is it, Redfield? A check for a hundred thousand?"
"I am sure I don't know; I haven't opened it," I answered, at random;
and with this I cut the wrapper, impelled by some strongly-defined,
irresistible influence to read the time-stained sheet inclosed. It ran
in this wise:
"DEAR SIR--It's too bad to disappoint you. Could not execute your
order, as everybody concerned will discover. What a charming
day!--good for taking a picture. That old friend I introduced you
to won't tell tales, and you had not better bother yourself to
visit him. The next time you find yourself in his arms, don't feel
in his left-hand pocket for the broken tooth-pick which I lent him.
He is welcome to it. If you're at the place of payment, I shan't be
there, not having fulfilled the order, and having given up my
emigration project, much against my will; so, govern yourself
accordingly. Sorry your prospects are so poor, and believe me, with
the greatest possible esteem,
"Your disappointed NEGOTIATOR."
To explain why this brief epistle, neither lucid nor interesting in
itself, should affect me as it did, I must go back to the time at which
it was written.
CHAPTER II.
EVENTS OF A NIGHT.
It was late in the afternoon of a cloudy, windy autumn day, that I left
the office of John Argyll, Esq., in his company, to take tea and spend
the evening in his family. I was a law-student in the office, and was
favored with more than ordinary kindness by him, on account of a
friendship that had existed between him and my deceased father. When
young men, they had started out in life together, in equal
circumstances; one had died early, just as fortune began to smile; the
other lived to continue in well-earned prosperity. Mr. Argyll had never
ceased to take an interest in the orphan son of his friend. He had
aided my mother in giving me a collegiate education, and had taken me
into his office to complete my law studies. Although I did not board at
his house, I was almost like a member of the family. There was always a
place for me at his table, with liberty to come and go when I pleased.
This being Saturday, I was expected to go home with him, and stay over
Sunday if I liked.
We quickened our steps as a few large drops were sprinkled over us out
of the darkening clouds.
"It will be a rainy night," said Mr. Argyll.
"It may clear away yet," I said, looking toward a rift in the west,
through which the declining sun was pouring a silver stream. He shook
his head doubtfully, and we hurried up the steps into the house, to
escape the threatened drenching.
Entering the parlors, we found no one but James, a nephew of Mr.
Argyll, a young man of about my own age, lounging upon a sofa.
"Where are the girls?"
"They haven't descended from the heavenly regions yet, uncle."
"Dressing themselves to death, I expect--it's Saturday evening, I
remember," smiled the indulgent father, passing on into the library.
I sat down by the west window, and looked out at the coming storm. I
did not like James Argyll much, nor he me; so that, as much as we were
thrown together, our intercourse continued constrained. On this
occasion, however, he seemed in excellent spirits, persisting in
talking on all kinds of indifferent subjects despite of my brief
replies. I was wondering when Eleanor would make her appearance.
At last she came. I heard her silk dress rustle down the stairs, and my
eyes were upon her when she entered the room. She was dressed with
unusual care, and her face wore a brilliant, expectant smile. The smile
was for neither of us. Perhaps James thought of it; I am sure I | 3,425.846284 |
2023-11-16 19:14:09.8265120 | 3,634 | 23 |
Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at Free Literature (online soon
in an extended version,also linking to free sources for
education worldwide... MOOC's, educational materials,...)
Images generously made available by the Internet Archive.)
KOTTŌ
BEING JAPANESE CURIOS, WITH
SUNDRY COBWEBS
COLLECTED BY
LAFCADIO HEARN
Lecturer on Literature in the Imperial University of Tōkyō, Japan
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
GENJIRO YETO
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO. LTD.
1903
[Illustration]
TO
SIR EDWIN ARNOLD
IN
GRATEFUL REMEMBRANCE
OF
KIND WORDS
[Illustration]
Contents
Old Stories:
I. The Legend of Yurei-Daki
II. In a Cup of Tea
III. Common Sense
IV. Ikiryō
V. Shiryō
VI. The Story of O-Kamé
VII. Story of a Fly
VIII. Story of a Pheasant
IX. The Story of Chūgorō
A Woman's Diary
Heiké-gani
Fireflies
A Drop of Dew
Gaki
A Matter of Custom
Revery
Pathological
In the Dead of the Night
Kusa-Hibari
The Eater of Dreams
Old Stories
_The following nine tales have been selected from the
"Shin-Chomon-Shū" "Hyaku Monogatari," "Uji-Jūi-Monogatari-Shō," and
other old Japanese books, to illustrate some strange beliefs. They are
only Curios._
[Illustration]
The Legend of Yurei-Daki
Near the village of Kurosaka, in the province of Hōki, there is
a waterfall called Yurei-Daki, or The Cascade of Ghosts. Why it
is so called I do not know. Near the foot of the fall there is a
small Shintō shrine of the god of the locality, whom the people
name Taki-Daimyōjin; and in front of the shrine is a little wooden
money-box--_saisen-bako_--to receive the offerings of believers. And
there is a story about that money-box.
*
One icy winter's evening, thirty-five years ago, the women and girls
employed at a certain _asa-toriba_, or hemp-factory, in Kurosaka,
gathered around the big brazier in the spinning-room after their
day's work had been done. Then they amused themselves by telling
ghost-stories. By the time that a dozen stories had been told, most
of the gathering felt uncomfortable; and a girl cried out, just to
heighten the pleasure of fear, "Only think of going this night, all
by one's self, to the Yurei-Daki!" The suggestion provoked a general
scream, followed by nervous bursts of laughter.... "I'll give all the
hemp I spun to-day," mockingly said one of the party, "to the person
who goes!" "So will I," exclaimed another. "And I," said a third. "All
of us," affirmed a fourth.... Then from among the spinners stood up
one Yasumoto O-Katsu, the wife of a carpenter;--she had her only son,
a boy of two years old, snugly wrapped up and asleep upon her back.
"Listen," said O-Katsu; "if you will all really agree to make over to
me all the hemp spun to-day, I will go to the Yurei-Daki." Her proposal
was received with cries of astonishment and of defiance. But after
having been several times repeated, it was seriously taken. Each of
the spinners in turn agreed to give up her share of the day's work to
O-Katsu, providing that O-Katsu should go to the Yurei-Daki. "But how
are we to know if she really goes there?" a sharp voice asked. "Why,
let her bring back the money-box of the god," answered an old woman
whom the spinners called Obaa-San, the Grandmother; "that will be proof
enough." "I'll bring it," cried O-Katsu. And out she darted into the
street, with her sleeping boy upon her back.
*
The night, was frosty, but clear. Down the empty street O-Katsu
hurried; and she saw that all the house fronts were tightly closed,
because of the piercing cold. Out of the village, and along the
high road she ran--_pichà-pichà_--with the great silence of frozen
rice-fields on either hand, and only the stars to light her. Half
an hour she followed the open road; then she turned down a narrower
way, winding under cliffs. Darker and rougher the path became as she
proceeded; but she knew it well, and she soon heard the dull roar of
the water. A few minutes more, and the way widened into a glen,--and
the dull roar suddenly became a loud clamor,--and before her she
saw, looming against a mass of blackness, the long glimmering of the
fall. Dimly she perceived the shrine,--the money-box. She rushed
forward,--put out her hand....
"_Oi!_ O-Katsu-San!"[1] suddenly called a warning voice above the crash
of the water.
O-Katsu stood motionless,--stupefied by terror.
"_Oi!_ O-Katsu-San!" again pealed the voice,--this time with more of
menace in its tone.
But O-Katsu was really a bold woman. At once recovering from her
stupefaction, she snatched up the money-box and ran. She neither
heard nor saw anything more to alarm her until she reached the
highroad, where she stopped a moment to take breath. Then she ran on
steadily,--_pichà-pichà_,--till she got to Kurosaka, and thumped at the
door of the _asa-toriba_.
*
How the women and the girls cried out as she entered, panting, with the
money-box of the god in her hand! Breathlessly they heard her story;
sympathetically they screeched when she told them of the Voice that
had called her name, twice, out of the haunted water.... What a woman!
Brave O-Katsu!--well had she earned the hemp!... "But your boy must be
cold, O-Katsu!" cried the Obaa-San, "let us have him here by the fire!"
"He ought to be hungry," exclaimed the mother; "I must give him his
milk presently."... "Poor O-Katsu!" said the Obaa-San, helping to
remove the wraps in which the boy had been carried,--"why, you are all
wet behind!" Then, with a husky scream, the helper vociferated, "_Arà!
it is blood!_"
And out of the wrappings unfastened there fell to the floor a
blood-soaked bundle of baby clothes that left exposed two very small
brown feet, and two very small brown hands--nothing more. The child's
head had been torn off!...
[Illustration]
[Footnote 1: The exclamation _Oi!_ is used to call the attention of a
person: it is the Japanese equivalent for such English exclamations as
"Halloa!" "Ho, there!" etc.]
[Illustration]
In a Cup of Tea
Have you ever attempted to mount some old tower stairway, spiring up
through darkness, and in the heart of that darkness found yourself
at the cobwebbed edge of nothing? Or have you followed some coast
path, cut along the face of a cliff, only to discover yourself, at
a turn, on the jagged verge of a break? The emotional worth of such
experience--from a literary point of view--is proved by the force
of the sensations aroused, and by the vividness with which they are
remembered.
Now there have been curiously preserved, in old Japanese story-books,
certain fragments of fiction that produce an almost similar emotional
experience.... Perhaps the writer was lazy; perhaps he had a quarrel
with the publisher; perhaps he was suddenly called away from his little
table, and never came back; perhaps death stopped the writing-brush
in the very middle of a sentence. But no mortal man can ever tell us
exactly why these things were left unfinished.... I select a typical
example.
*
On the fourth day of the first month of the third Tenwa,--that is to
say, about two hundred and twenty years ago,--the lord Nakagawa Sado,
while on his way to make a New Year's visit, halted with his train
at a tea-house in Hakusan, in the Hongō district of Yedo. While the
party were resting there, one of the lord's attendants,--a _wakatō_[1]
named Sekinai,--feeling very thirsty, filled for himself a large
water-cup with tea. He was raising the cup to his lips when he suddenly
perceived, in the transparent yellow infusion, the image or reflection
of a face that was not his own. Startled, he looked around, but could
see no one near him. The face in the tea appeared, from the coiffure,
to be the face of a young samurai: it was strangely distinct, and
very handsome,--delicate as the face of a girl. And it seemed the
reflection of a living face; for the eyes and the lips were moving.
Bewildered by this mysterious apparition, Sekinai threw away the tea,
and carefully examined the cup. It proved to be a very cheap water-cup,
with no artistic devices of any sort. He found and filled another cup;
and again the face appeared in the tea. He then ordered fresh tea,
and refilled the cup; and once more the strange face appeared,--this
time with a mocking smile. But Sekinai did not allow himself to be
frightened. "Whoever you are," he muttered, "you shall delude me no
further!"--then he swallowed the tea, face and all, and went his way,
wondering whether he had swallowed a ghost.
*
Late in the evening of the same day, while on watch in the palace of
the lord Nakagawa, Sekinai was surprised by the soundless coming of
a stranger into the apartment. This stranger, a richly dressed young
samurai, seated himself directly in front of Sekinai, and, saluting the
_wakatō_ with a slight bow, observed:--
"I am Shikibu Heinai--met you to-day for the first time.... You do not
seem to recognize me."
He spoke in a very low, but penetrating voice. And Sekinai was
astonished to find before him the same sinister, handsome face of
which he had seen, and swallowed, the apparition in a cup of tea. It
was smiling now, as the phantom had smiled; but the steady gaze of the
eyes, above the smiling lips, was at once a challenge and an insult.
"No, I do not recognize you," returned Sekinai, angry but cool;--"and
perhaps you will now be good enough to inform me how you obtained
admission to this house?"
[In feudal times the residence of a lord was strictly guarded at
all hours; and no one could enter unannounced, except through some
unpardonable negligence on the part of the armed watch.]
"Ah, you do not recognize me!" exclaimed the visitor, in a tone of
irony, drawing a little nearer as he spoke. "No, you do not recognize
me! Yet you took upon yourself this morning to do me a deadly
injury!..."
Sekinai instantly seized the _tantō_[2] at his girdle, and made a
fierce thrust at the throat of the man. But the blade seemed to touch
no substance. Simultaneously and soundlessly the intruder leaped
sideward to the chamber-wall, _and through it!_... The wall showed no
trace of his exit. He had traversed it only as the light of a candle
passes through lantern-paper.
*
When Sekinai made report of the incident, his recital astonished and
puzzled the retainers. No stranger had been seen either to enter or
to leave the palace at the hour of the occurrence; and no one in the
service of the lord Nakagawa had ever heard of the name "Shikibu
Heinai."
*
On the following night Sekinai was off duty, and remained at home with
his parents. At a rather late hour he was informed that some strangers
had called at the house, and desired to speak with him for a moment.
Taking his sword, he went to the entrance, and there found three armed
men,--apparently retainers,--waiting in front of the doorstep. The
three bowed respectfully to Sekinai; and one of them said:--
"Our names are Matsuoka Bungō, Tsuchibashi Bungō, and Okamura Heiroku.
We are retainers of the noble Shikibu Heinai. When our master last
night deigned to pay you a visit, you struck him with a sword. He was
much will hurt, and has been obliged to go to the hot springs, where
his wound is now being treated. But on the sixteenth day of the coming
month he will return; and he will then fitly repay you for the injury
done him...."
Without waiting to hear more, Sekinai leaped out, sword in hand, and
slashed right and left, at the strangers. But the three men sprang
to the wall of the adjoining building, and flitted up the wall like
shadows, and....
[Illustration]
Here the old narrative breaks off; the rest of the story existed only
in some brain that has been dust for a century.
I am able to imagine several possible endings; but none of them would
satisfy an Occidental imagination. I prefer to let the reader attempt
to decide for himself the probable consequence of swallowing a Soul.
[Footnote 1: The armed attendant of a _samurai_ was thus called. The
relation of the _wakatō_ to the _samurai_ was that of squire to knight.]
[Footnote 2: The shorter of the two swords carried by samurai. The
longer sword was called _katana_.]
Common Sense
[Illustration]
Once there lived upon the mountain called Atagoyama, near Kyoto, a
certain learned priest who devoted all his time to meditation and the
study of the sacred books. The little temple in which he dwelt was far
from any village; and he could not, in such a solitude, have obtained
without help the common necessaries of life. But several devout country
people regularly contributed to his maintenance, bringing him each
month supplies of vegetables and of rice.
Among these good folk there was a certain hunter, who sometimes visited
the mountain in search of game. One day, when this hunter had brought a
bag of rice to the temple, the priest said to him:--
"Friend, I must tell you that wonderful things have happened here since
the last time I saw you. I do not certainly know why such things should
have happened in my unworthy presence. But you are aware that I have
been meditating, and reciting the sûtras daily, for many years; and
it is possible that what has been vouchsafed me is due to the merit
obtained through these religious exercises. I am not sure of this. But
I am sure that Fugen Bosatsu[1] comes nightly to this temple, riding
upon his elephant.... Stay here with me this night, friend; then you
will be able to see and to worship the Buddha."
"To witness so holy a vision," the hunter replied, "were a privilege
indeed! Most gladly I shall stay, and worship with you."
So the hunter remained at the temple. But while the priest was engaged
in his religious exercises, the hunter began to think about the
promised miracle, and to doubt whether such a thing could be. And the
more he thought, the more he doubted. There was a little boy in the
temple,--an acolyte,--and the hunter found an opportunity to question
the boy.
"The priest told me," said the hunter, "that Fugen Bosatsu comes to | 3,425.846552 |
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