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2023-11-16 19:14:09.8639950 | 4,235 | 31 |
Produced by Patrick Hopkins, Juliet Sutherland, and the
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Transcriber's Note
- Illustration captions in {brackets} have been added by the transcriber
for reader convenience.
- Minor typographical errors have been corrected without note.
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type.
* * * * *
THE STORY OF
AMERICAN HISTORY
_FOR ELEMENTARY SCHOOLS_
BY
ALBERT F. BLAISDELL
AUTHOR OF "FIRST STEPS WITH AMERICAN AND BRITISH AUTHORS,"
"STORIES FROM ENGLISH HISTORY," ETC.
BOSTON, U.S.A.
GINN & COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
The Athenaeum Press
1902
COPYRIGHT, 1900, BY
ALBERT F. BLAISDELL
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PREFACE.
Some sort of a first book on American history is now quite generally
used in schools as a preparation for the more intelligent study of a
larger and more formal text-book in the higher grammar grades.
For beginners, a mere compilation of facts is dry and unsatisfactory.
Such books have now given place, for the most part, to those prepared on
a more attractive and judicious plan. The real aim in a first book
should be to interest boys and girls in the history of their country,
and to encourage them to cultivate a taste for further study and
reading.
This book is intended for use in the earlier grammar grades and to be
preliminary to the study of a more advanced work in the higher grades.
The author has also kept in mind the fact that the school life of many
children is brief, and that all their instruction in American history
must come from a text-book of this kind.
The author has not aimed to cover the whole range of our country's
history. Of many noted men and important affairs no mention is made.
Only the leading events of certain periods and the personal achievements
of a few representative "makers of our country" are treated in any
detail. The subject is approached through biographical sketches of a few
of the more illustrious actors in our nation's history. Some prominence
is given to exceptional deeds of valor, details of everyday living in
olden times, dramatic episodes, and personal incident.
The schoolroom test demonstrates the fact that such a treatment of the
subject is more attractive and profitable to children of the lower
grades than the mere recital of minor matters and petty details of
public events.
The author would acknowledge his indebtedness to Dr. Homer B. Sprague of
New York City for editorial help in reading and revising the manuscript.
Thanks are also due to Dr. John E. Sanborn of Melrose, Mass., for
editorial assistance.
A. F. BLAISDELL.
NOVEMBER, 1900.
NOTE.--The attention of teachers and pupils is especially directed to
the practical usefulness of the subject of "Reference Books and
Supplementary Reading for Successive Periods in American History," as
treated on pages 424-435 in the Appendix.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. AMERICA IN THE OLD DAYS 1
II. COLUMBUS AND THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA 10
III. SIR WALTER RALEIGH AND CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH 31
IV. THE STORY OF THE PILGRIMS 47
V. MORE ABOUT THE PILGRIMS 60
VI. THE INDIANS AND HOW THEY LIVED 73
VII. THE DUTCH IN NEW YORK; THE QUAKERS IN PENNSYLVANIA 88
VIII. THE FRENCH AND INDIAN WARS 106
IX. EVERYDAY LIFE IN COLONIAL TIMES 126
X. THE BEGINNING OF THE REVOLUTION 139
XI. LEXINGTON AND CONCORD 158
XII. THE BATTLE OF BUNKER HILL 170
XIII. THE DECLARATION OF INDEPENDENCE 184
XIV. THE BURGOYNE CAMPAIGN 198
XV. WASHINGTON AND THE REVOLUTION 222
XVI. THE WAR OF THE REVOLUTION IN THE SOUTH 250
XVII. THE STORY OF ARNOLD'S TREASON 271
XVIII. JOHN PAUL JONES: OUR FIRST GREAT NAVAL HERO 286
XIX. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN: HIS HIGHLY USEFUL CAREER 296
XX. EVERYDAY LIFE ONE HUNDRED YEARS AGO 311
XXI. WHAT OUR NAVY DID IN THE WAR OF 1812 323
XXII. THE SETTLEMENT OF THE PACIFIC COAST 339
XXIII. LINCOLN AND THE WAR FOR THE UNION 353
XXIV. MORE ABOUT THE WAR FOR THE UNION 369
XXV. OUR NAVY IN THE WAR FOR THE UNION 387
XXVI. THE WAR WITH SPAIN IN 1898 406
APPENDIX. Books for Reference and Collateral Reading in
the Study of American History 424
INDEX 436
THE STORY OF AMERICAN HISTORY
CHAPTER I.
AMERICA IN THE OLD DAYS.
=1. The Story of our Country.=--We are sure that every intelligent and
patriotic American youth must like to read the story of our country's
life. To a boy or girl of good sense no work of fiction can surpass it
in interest or power.
How delightful to let the imagination summon up the forms and the deeds
of the fearless Norse sailors who dared to cross the unknown seas in
their frail and tiny vessels without compass and without charts! How
interesting the oft-told but ever-fresh narrative of the intrepid
Columbus and his memorable first voyage into and across the "Sea of
Darkness"! What romance was ever more exciting than the stories of the
fierce struggles between the white men and the Indians for existence and
supremacy on this continent?
How deep the pathos of the simple tales that tell of the patient
sufferings, the severe toils, the ever-present dangers, and the heroic
self-denials of the early colonists in making for themselves homes in
the New World! How richly suggestive are those pages that record the
glorious events of our American Revolution--the splendid and immortal
deeds of Washington and his illustrious associates!
Then there is the thrilling account of the most tremendous civil war in
all history, with its four million soldiers, its two thousand battles,
and its preservation of the Union.
And to come down to a time within the memory of every schoolboy, the
echoes of the Spanish-American conflict have hardly yet died away. The
story of this short war in the summer of 1898 still rings in our
ears--with its astounding naval victories at Manila and Santiago, the
freedom of Cuba, and the destruction of the last vestige of the once
mighty Spanish supremacy on this western continent!
=2. Lessons of Wisdom and Inspiration to be learned.=--But beyond and
above all mere gratification and pleasure to be derived from the study
of our country's history, there are in it lessons of wisdom to be
learned, there is inspiration to noble living, there is an uplifting of
the soul to a higher plane of thought and sentiment, there is constant
aid in the development and upbuilding of manly and womanly character.
And when we think of the marvelous growth of less than three centuries
which, beginning with the infant colonies of Jamestown and Plymouth, has
made us a nation of more than seventy millions; when we think of the
wonderful record of trial and triumph and unceasing progress, and of the
great and good and wise men that have laid the foundations and reared
the superstructure of this mighty temple of liberty,--we must be blind
indeed and ungrateful beyond expression not to recognize with devout
thankfulness the guiding hand of a beneficent Providence.
America, under God, stood at Plymouth for religious freedom; in the
Revolution, for independence; in our civil war, for the preservation of
the Union. She now stands for humanity, civilization, and the uplifting
of the whole race.
=3. The People of Ancient America.=--Wise men who have made a special
study of the subject tell us that this country has been continuously
inhabited by generations of men for many thousands of years. Rude tools,
and human skulls, intermingled with bones of animals of species long
extinct, have been found in caves or dug out of deep layers of earth;
and they indicate that in the Mississippi valley and on the Atlantic
and Pacific <DW72>s there lived, perhaps hundreds of ages ago, men of a
low grade of culture.
In the great museums--as the Smithsonian Institution at Washington, the
Peabody Museums at Cambridge and New Haven, and the natural history
rooms at New York and elsewhere--may be seen thousands of the relics of
vanished races of men and animals that once inhabited this continent.
=4. The Red Men or Indians.=--The Indians constitute a race by themselves.
Whether they are descended from some of those prehistoric inhabitants of
whom we have just spoken no one can say; but they make up an American
type with marks as clearly recognized as those that distinguish the
Mongolians and the Malays. For long ages the red men had spread
themselves over the two continents, from Hudson Bay to Cape Horn. With
few or no exceptions, all had the same copperish or cinnamon color,
deep-set and intensely black eyes, high cheek-bones, straight black
hair, with little or no beard; but the long lapse of time, the great
varieties of environment, and perhaps other causes, brought about
striking differences of appearance, of manners, customs, dialects, and
the like.
=5. Three Principal Divisions of the Indians.=--The eminent historian, Dr.
John Fiske, groups the Indians in three leading divisions,--as savage,
barbarous, and half-civilized.
The savage Indians ranged to the west of Hudson Bay, and southward
between the Rocky Mountains and the Pacific, to the northern part of
Mexico. They lived by catching fish or game. They knew little or nothing
of tilling the soil. They did not dwell in permanent villages, but
roamed from place to place like Bedouin Arabs.
[Illustration: ANCIENT CLIFF DWELLINGS.]
The barbarous Indians inhabited the country east of the Rocky Mountains.
They did not depend wholly upon hunting or fishing, but knew how to
upturn the soil slightly with rude tools, and raise squashes, beans,
tomatoes, and, most important of all, Indian corn. They lived in
villages, and made houses that would last several years. They had dogs
of an inferior breed, but no other domestic animals. Some tribes were
able to weave coarse cloth and make weapons of polished stones. They had
strange social customs and singular religious beliefs. Fighting was
their principal occupation.
The half-civilized Indians once lived in New Mexico and the adjoining
region. They have had almost nothing to do with the history of the
United States. They are the Pueblo Indians, so called from the _pueblos_
or strongholds, dwellings which they built of stones or of sun-dried
brick. Some of these strongholds, story above story, would accommodate
at least three thousand inhabitants! They were built oftentimes in
situations almost inaccessible, like eagles' nests on cliffs, apparently
that they might be defended more easily against the attack of an enemy.
=6. The Northmen and their Discoveries.=--The real contact between the
eastern and western halves of the world practically began in 1492, the
year of the first great voyage of Columbus. Occasional visitors may have
sailed before that date directly across the "Sea of Darkness" from the
Old World to the New. The subject is shrouded for the most part in the
mists of vague stories and obscure traditions.
It seems quite certain, however, that in the year 986 a daring
Scandinavian navigator, Eric the Red, founded on the southwestern coast
of Greenland a colony that lasted four or five hundred years. In the
same year, as the Iceland Sagas (heroic legends) tell us, another Norse
sailor, voyaging from Iceland to Greenland, was driven by storms far out
towards the southwest, and was perhaps the first white man to behold the
American coast.
[Illustration: NORSE RUINS IN GREENLAND.]
Many interesting ruins of stone-built houses and of a church are still
to be seen on that desolate Greenland shore. In those ages the Northmen,
or Norsemen, as the people of Norway, Sweden, and Denmark were called,
were the most skillful sailors in the world. Eric the Red had several
sons, bold sailors like their father. The oldest of these (whose statue
stands on Commonwealth Avenue, Boston), Leif the Lucky, with thirty-five
hardy men, sailed south from Greenland in the year 1000, to explore
these lands that had been discovered fourteen years before. He landed at
several points along the coast. In a place which he called "Vinland the
Good" (land of vines), he found an abundance of luscious wild grapes.
Just where this sturdy Norse sailor feasted on the grapes is, of course,
uncertain, but good authorities are inclined to think it may have been
not far from Plymouth, on the coast of Massachusetts Bay. He returned
home in the spring. Two years later Leif's brother, Thorwald, came on a
voyage of discovery, but was killed by the natives in the summer of
1004.
In the spring of the year 1007 an Icelandic chief, accompanied by his
wife and a crew of one hundred and sixty men, in three vessels, came to
this Vinland. He remained here three years, and had many dealings with
the Indians.
[Illustration: A NORSE SHIP.]
The Norsemen went home and gave vivid and accurate descriptions of the
land they visited. They described the Indians, the fish, the animals,
and the plants, all of which are given in the Icelandic chronicles. No
real relic, however, of these people has yet been found upon our own
coast.
Columbus, who visited Iceland in the year 1477, may have had access to
the Icelandic archives, and have learned of the discoveries of these
rovers of the deep. But we have no evidence on that point. After the
eleventh century America remained as much unknown as if the bold
Northmen had never steered their dragon-prowed ships along our shores.
The waves that incessantly rolled upon its sands or dashed against its
rocks brought no vessel from the far-away lands of the East. Nearly five
hundred years were to come and go before, in the fullness of time, the
hour struck for the real and fruitful discovery of the New World. It was
left for Columbus, the great Genoese navigator, to open wide its gates!
[Illustration: LANDING OF THE NORSEMEN.]
CHAPTER II.
COLUMBUS AND THE DISCOVERY OF AMERICA.
=7. Commercial Activity in the Fifteenth Century.=--In southern Europe,
the last half of the fifteenth century was a period of great commercial
activity. Then, for the first time, many voyages of exploration were
made in various directions, to find new riches, new markets, or new
routes of travel and transportation. Merchants were turning their
attention more and more to enterprises in far-off regions beyond the
seas.
Venice and Genoa became rivals for the vast and valuable trade of India.
With other Italian cities they grew rich and powerful. They kept great
fleets of merchant vessels plying back and forth across the
Mediterranean.
They sent out to India large quantities of copper, iron, pitch, wool,
hides, and the like, and brought back cargoes of drugs, spices, silks,
pearls, and other luxuries. But the path of this commerce between the
Mediterranean and India required both ships and caravans; and whether by
way of the Isthmus of Suez and the Red Sea, or by Damascus and the
Persian Gulf, or by the Black Sea and the Caspian and thence across the
eastern plains, the journey was long, tedious, costly; always hazardous,
and often, by reason of the Turkish wars, positively dangerous.
And so it became important, especially for the merchants of Spain and
Portugal, the would-be rivals of Venice and Genoa, to find a shorter and
safer route. In many a country, people were asking, "Is there no easier
way to get to India?"
In the attempts to solve this problem Portugal took the lead. Her
sailors boldly ventured farther and farther down the coast of Africa
until, about twenty years before Columbus discovered America, they
crossed the equator. But it was not till five years after the memorable
exploit of Columbus, that Vasco da Gama, a Portuguese captain, rounded
the Cape of Good Hope and crossed the broad Indian Ocean to India. Two
years later he returned home with his vessels full of rich merchandise
from that country.
=8. The Shape of the Earth--Spherical or Flat?=--The learned men of that
age, for the most part, believed the earth to be round like a ball. But
the common people, and doubtless many of high rank, thought the land
surface to be flat, with a flat ocean flowing around it on every side.
Now if the earth were really a sphere, and no larger than was commonly
supposed, it would seem that the easiest way to get to India, unless
unforeseen obstacles intervened, would be to strike out to the west and
sail straight across the "Sea of Darkness," as the sailors called the
Atlantic. To embrace so startling a theory and deliberately to risk his
life in testing its truth, required a man of keen sagacity, of lofty
faith, of unbending resolution, and of the most heroic daring. Such a
man was Christopher Columbus.
=9. Columbus; his Early Life as a Sailor.=--He was born at Genoa, in or
about the year 1445. He was the son of a poor wool-comber, and while yet
very young he helped in his father's daily toil. We find him a studious
boy, early able to write a good hand and to draw maps and charts for
mariners visiting his home. He loves the sea, listens eagerly to old
sailors' "yarns," weaves their fancies and legends into his day-dreams,
and is fired with ambition to go in search of strange lands. How shall
he realize his visions? Who will believe in him?
At the age of fourteen he becomes a sailor. He sails south along the
African coast, and north as far as England, and even to Iceland. Always
observing, studying, planning, the ardent, thoughtful boy grows up an
earnest, thoughtful man. He is convinced that the earth is a globe, and
that, if he sails west far enough, he will reach India by a route
shorter than any to the east. Nothing can shake his faith in this
belief. It becomes the inspiration of his life.
But like that of many learned men of his day, his estimate of | 3,425.884035 |
2023-11-16 19:14:09.8652360 | 7,436 | 11 |
E-text prepared by Annie McGuire from scanned images of public domain
material generously made available by the Google Books Library Project
(http://books.google.com/)
Note: Images of the original pages are available through
the the Google Books Library Project. See
http://books.google.com/books?vid=B_IOAAAAIAAJ&id
THE JONATHAN PAPERS
by
ELISABETH WOODBRIDGE
* * * * *
By Elisabeth Woodbridge
DAYS OUT AND OTHER PAPERS.
MORE JONATHAN PAPERS.
THE JONATHAN PAPERS.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
* * * * *
THE JONATHAN PAPERS
by
ELISABETH WOODBRIDGE
[Illustration]
Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
Copyright, 1912, by Elisabeth Woodbridge Morris
TO JONATHAN
AND TO ALL PERFECT COMRADESHIP
WHEREVER ITS JOYOUS SPIRIT IS FOUND
THIS LITTLE BOOK IS DEDICATED
Contents
FOREWORD--ON TAKING ONE'S DESSERT FIRST ix
I. A PLACID RUNAWAY 3
II. AN UNPROGRESSIVE FARM 14
III. A DESULTORY PILGRIMAGE 25
IV. THE YELLOW VALLEY 38
V. LARKSPURS AND HOLLYHOCKS 49
VI. THE FARM SUNDAY 68
VII. THE GROOMING OF THE FARM 87
VIII. "ESCAPED FROM OLD GARDENS" 107
IX. THE COUNTRY ROAD 114
X. THE LURE OF THE BERRY 131
XI. IN THE RAIN 139
XII. AS THE BEE FLIES 155
XIII. A DAWN EXPERIMENT 171
XIV. IN THE WAKE OF THE PARTRIDGE 183
XV. BEYOND THE REALM OF WEATHER 199
XVI. COMFORTABLE BOOKS 214
XVII. IN THE FIRELIGHT 222
The papers in this volume first appeared in the _Outlook_,
the _Atlantic_, and _Scribner's_. The author wishes to
express to the editors of these magazines her appreciation
of their courtesy in permitting the republication of the
papers.
Foreword
On Taking One's Dessert First
When we were children we used to "happen in" to the kitchen just before
luncheon to see what the dessert was to be. This was because at the
luncheon table we were not allowed to ask, yet it was advantageous to
know, for since even our youthful capacity had its limits, we found it
necessary to "save room," and the question, of course, was, how much
room?
Discovering some favorite dish being prepared, we used to gaze with
watering mouth, and, though knowing its futility, could seldom repress
the plea, "Mayn't we have our dessert now?" Of course we never did, of
course we waited, and of course, when that same dessert came to us,
properly served, at the proper time, after a properly wholesome luncheon
preceding, it found us expectant, perhaps, but not eager; appreciative,
but not enthusiastic. It was not to us what it would have been at the
golden moment when we begged for it.
In hours of unbridled hostility to domestic conditions we used sometimes
to plan for a future when we should be grown up, and then would we not
change this sorry scheme of things entire! Would we not have a larder,
with desserts in it, our favorite desserts--and would we not devour
these same, boldly, recklessly, immediately before the meal for which
they were intended! Just wouldn't we!
And afterward--just didn't we! Most youthful fancies are doomed to fade
unrealized, but this one was too fundamentally practical and sane. We
are grown up, we have a larder, with now and then toothsome desserts in
it, and now and then we grip our conscience till it cowers and is still,
we wait till the servants are out, we walk into our pantry--and then--
Yes, triumphant we still believe what once militant we maintained--that
the only way to eat cake is when it is just out of the oven, that the
only way to eat ice cream is to dip it out of the freezer, down under
the apple tree, in the mid-morning or mid-afternoon. Afterward, when it
appears in sober decorum, surrounded by all the appurtenances of
civilization, it is a very commonplace affair; out under the apple tree
it is ambrosia.
Why not go further? Why not take all our desserts in life when they
taste best, instead of at the proper time, when we don't care for them?
Desserts are, I suppose, meant to be enjoyed. Why not have them when
most enjoyable? I wonder if there is not a certain perverted
conscientiousness that leads us to this enforcement of our pleasures. I
am myself conscious that I can scarcely ever approach a pleasure with a
mind singly bent on enjoyment. I regard it with something like
suspicion, I hedge, I hesitate, I defer. What is the motive force here?
Is it an inherited asceticism, bidding us beware of pleasure as such? Is
it pride, which will not permit us to make unseemly haste toward our
desires? Is it a subtle self-gratification, which seeks to add zest,
tone, to our delights by postponing them? Is it fear of anticlimax,
which makes us save our pleasure for the last thing, that there may be
no descent afterward? Certainly the last was the motive in the case of
the little boy who, dining out, was given a piece of mince and one of
custard pie. He liked the mince best, therefore he saved it until the
last, and had just conscientiously finished the custard when his beaming
hostess said: "Oh, you like the custard best! Well, dear, you needn't
eat the other. Delia, bring another plate for Henry and I'll give him
another piece of the custard pie." Pathetic! Yet I confess my sympathy
with Henry has always been qualified by disapproval of his methods,
which, it seems to me, brought down upon him an awful but not wholly
undeserved penalty.
The incident is worth careful attention. For life, I believe, is
continually treating us as that benevolent but misguided hostess treated
the incomprehensible Henry. If we postpone our mince pie, it is often
snatched from us and we never get it at all. I knew a youth once who
habitually rode a bicycle that was too small for him. He explained that
he continued to do this because then, when at some future time he did
have one that fitted him, he would be so surpassingly comfortable! Soon
after, bicycles went out of fashion, and I fear the moment of supreme
luxury never came. His mince pie had, as it were, been snatched from
him. One of my friends wrote me once: "It seems to me I am always
distractingly busy just getting ready to live, but I never really
begin." Most of us are in the same plight. We are like the thrifty
housewife who kept pushing the week's work earlier and earlier, until it
backed up into the week before; yet with all her planning she never
succeeded in clearing one little spot of leisure for herself. She never
got her dessert at all. Probably she would not have enjoyed it if she
had had it. For the capacity to enjoy desserts in life is something not
to be trifled with. Children have it, and grown people can keep it if
they try, but they don't always try. I knew of a man who worked every
minute until he was sixty, getting rich. He did get rich. Then he
retired; he built him a "stately pleasure palace" and set about taking
his pleasure. And lo! he found that he had forgotten how! He tried this
and that, indoor and outdoor pleasures, the social and the solitary,
the artistic and the semi-scientific--all to no purpose. Here were all
the desserts that throughout his life he had been steadfastly pushing
aside; they were ranged before him to partake of, and when he would
partake he could not. And so he left his pleasure palace and went back
to "business."
We are not all so far gone as this, but few of us have the courage to
take our desserts when they are offered, or the free spirit to enjoy
them to the uttermost. I get up on a glorious summer morning and gaze
out at the new day. With all the strongest and deepest instincts of my
nature I long to go out into the green beauty of the world, to fling
myself down in some sloping meadow and feel the sunshine envelop me and
the warm winds pass over me, to see them tossing the grasses and tugging
at the trees and driving the white clouds across the blue, and to feel
the great earth revolving under me--for if you lie long enough you can
really get the sense of sailing through space. All this I long for--from
my window. Then I turn back to my unglorified little house--little,
however big, compared with the limitless world of beauty outside--and
betake myself to my day's routine occupations. I read my mail, I answer
letters, I go over accounts, I fly to the telephone and give orders and
make engagements. And at length, after hours of such stultifying
employment, I elect to call myself "free," and go forth to enjoy my
"well-earned" leisure. Fool that I am! As if enjoyment were a thing to
be taken up and laid down at will, like a walking-stick. As if one could
let the golden moment pass and hope to find it again awaiting our
convenience. Why can we not be like Pippa with her one precious day? But
if she had been born in New England do you suppose her day would have
been what it was? Would she have sprung up at daybreak with heart and
mind all alight for pleasure? Certainly not. She would have spent the
golden morning in cleaning the kitchen, and the golden afternoon in
clearing up the attic, and would have gone out for a little walk after
the supper dishes were washed, only because she thought she "ought" to
take a little exercise in the open air.
Duty and work are all very well, but we have bound ourselves up in them
so completely that we have almost lost the art of spontaneous
enjoyment. We can feel comfortable or uncomfortable, annoyed or
gratified, but we cannot feel simple, buoyant, instinctive enjoyment in
anything. We take our very pleasures under the name of duties-- "We
ought to take a walk," "We ought not to miss that concert," "We ought to
read" a certain book, "We ought" to go and see this friend, or invite
that one to see us. Those things that should be our spontaneous
pleasures we have clothed and masked until they no longer know
themselves. A pleasure must present itself under the guise of a duty
before we feel that we can wholly give ourselves over to it.
Ah, let us stop all that! Let us take our pleasures without apology. Let
us give up this fashion of shoving them away into the left-over corners
of our lives, covering their gleaming raiment with sad- robes,
and visiting them with half-averted faces. Let us consort with them
openly, gayly!
The Jonathan Papers
I
A Placid Runaway
Jonathan and I differ about a great many things; how otherwise are we to
avoid the sloughs of bigoted self-satisfaction? But upon one point we
agree: we are both convinced that on a beautiful morning in April or May
or June there is just one thing that any right-minded person really
wants to do. That is to turn a deaf ear to duty and a blind eye to all
other pleasures, and--find a trout brook. We are, indeed, able to
understand that duty may be too much for him--may be quite indifferent
to his deaf ear and shout in the other, or may even seize him by the
shoulders and hold him firmly in his place. He may not be able so much
as to drop a line in the brown water all through the maddening spring
days. But that he should not want to--ache to--this we cannot
understand. We do know that it is not a thing to be argued about. It is
temperamental, it is in the blood, or it is not. Jonathan and I always
want to.
Once it was almost the end of April, and we had been wanting to ever
since March had gone out like a lion--for in some parts of New England a
jocose legislature has arranged that the trout season shall begin on
April Fool's Day. Those who try to catch trout on April first understand
the joke.
"Jonathan," I said over our coffee, "have you noticed the weather
to-day?"
"Um-m-pleasant day," he murmured abstractedly from behind his newspaper.
"Pleasant! Have you felt the sunshine? Have you smelt the spring mud? I
want to roll in it!"
Jonathan really looked up over his paper. "Do!" he said, benevolently.
"Jonathan, let's run away!"
"Can't. There's a man coming at--"
"I know. There's always a man coming. Tell him to come to-morrow. Tell
him you are called out of town."
"But you have a lot of things to-day too--book clubs and Japanese clubs
and such things. You said last night--"
"I'll tell them _I'm_ called out of town too. I _am_ called--we're both
called, you know we are. And we've got to go."
"Really, my dear, you know I want to, but--"
"No use! It's a runaway. Get the time-table and see which is the first
train to anywhere--to nowhere--who cares where!"
Jonathan went, protesting. I let him protest. A man should have some
privileges.
We took the first train. It was a local, of course, and it trundled
jerkily along one of the little rivers we knew. When the conductor came
to us, Jonathan showed him our mileage book. "Where to?" he asked
mechanically, but stiffened to attention when Jonathan said placidly, "I
don't know yet. Where _are_ we going, my dear?"
"I hadn't thought," I said; "let's see the places on the map."
"Well, conductor," said Jonathan, "take off for three stations, and if
we don't get off then, you'll find us here when you come around, and
then you can take off some more."
The conductor looked us both over. We were evidently not a bridal
couple, and we didn't look quite like criminals--he gave us up.
When we saw a bit of country that looked attractive, we got off. That
was something I had always wanted to do. All my life I have had to go to
definite places, and my memory is full of tantalizing glimpses of the
charming spots I have passed on the road and could never stop to
explore. This time we really did it. We left the little railway station,
sitting plain and useful beside the track, went up the road past a few
farmhouses, over a fence and across a soft ploughed field, and down to
the little river, willow-bordered, shallow, golden-brown, with here and
there a deep pool under an overhanging hemlock or a shelving, fretted,
bush-tangled bank.
We sat down in the sun on a willow log and put our rods together. Does
anything sound prettier than the whir and click of the reel as one pulls
out the line for the first time on an April day? We sat and looked at
the world for a little, and let the wind, with just the faint chill of
the vanishing snows still in it, blow over us, and the sun, that was
making anemones and arbutus every minute, warm us through. It was almost
too good to begin, this day that we had stolen. I felt like a child with
a toothsome cake-- "I'll put it away for a while and have it later."
But, after all, it was already begun. We had not stolen it, it had
stolen us, and it held us in its power. Soon we wandered on, at first
hastening for the mere joy of motion and the freshness of things; then,
as the wind lessened and the sun shone hot in the hollows, loitering
more and more, dropping a line here and there where a deep pool looked
suggestive. Trout? Yes, we caught some. Jonathan pulled in a good many;
I got enough to seem industrious. I seldom catch as many as Jonathan,
though he tries to give me all the best holes; because really there are
so many other things to attend to. Men seem to go fishing chiefly to
catch fish. Jonathan spends half an hour working his rod and line
through a network of bushes, briers, and vines, to drop it in a chosen
spot in a pool. He swears gently as he works, but he works on, and
usually gets his fish. I don't swear, so I know I could never carry
through such an undertaking, and I don't try.
I did try once, when I was young and reckless. I headed the tip of my
rod, like a lance in rest, for the most open spot I could see. For the
fisherman's rule in the woods is not "Follow the flag," but "Follow your
tip," and I tried to follow mine. This necessitated reducing myself
occasionally to the dimensions of a filament, but I was elastic, and I
persisted. The brambles neatly extracted my hat-pins and dropped them in
the tangle about my feet; they pulled off my hat, but I pushed painfully
forward. They tore at my hair; they caught an end of my tie and drew out
the bow. Finally they made a simultaneous and well-planned assault upon
my hair, my neck, my left arm, raised to push them back, and my right,
extended to hold and guide that quivering, undulating rod. I was
helpless, unless I wished to be torn in shreds. At that moment, as I
stood poised, hot, baffled, smarting and stinging with bramble
scratches, wishing I could swear like a man and have it out, the air was
filled with the liquid notes of a wood thrush. I love the wood thrush
best of all; but that he should choose this moment! It was the final
touch.
I whistled the blue-jay note, which means "Come," and Jonathan came
threshing through the brush, having left his rod.
"Where are you?" he called; "I can't see you."
"No, you can't," I responded unamiably. "You probably never will see me
again, at least not in any recognizable form. Help me out!" The thrush
sang again, one tree farther away. "No! First kill that thrush!" I added
between set teeth, as a slight motion of mine set the brambles raking
again.
"Why, why, my dear, what's this?" Then, as he caught sight of me, "Well!
You are tied up! Wait; I'll get out my knife."
He cut here and there, and one after another, with a farewell stab or
scratch, the maddening things reluctantly let go their hold. Meanwhile
Jonathan made placid remarks about the proper way to go through brush.
"You go too fast, you know. You can't hurry these things, and you can't
bully them. I don't see how you manage to get scratched up so. I never
do."
"Jonathan, you are as tactless as the thrush."
"Don't kill me yet, though. Wait till I cut this last fellow. There! Now
you're free. By George! But you're a wreck!"
That was the last time I ever tried to "work through brush," as Jonathan
calls it. If I can catch trout by any method compatible with sanity, I
am ready to do it, but as for allowing myself to be drawn into a
situation wherein the note of the wood thrush stirs thoughts of murder
in my breast--at that point, I opine, sport ceases.
So on that day of our runaway I kept to open waters and preserved a
placid mind. The air was full of bird notes--in the big open woods the
clear "whick-ya, whick-ya, whick-ya" of the courting yellowhammers, in
the meadows bluebirds with their shy, vanishing call that is over almost
before you can begin to listen, meadowlarks poignantly sweet, song
sparrows with a lift and a lilt and a carol, and in the swamps the
red-wings trilling jubilant.
Noon came, and we camped under the sunny lee of a ridge that was all
abloom with hepaticas--clumps of lavender and white and rosy-lilac. We
found a good spring, and a fallen log, and some dead hemlock tips to
start a fire, and soon we had a merry blaze. Then Jonathan dressed some
of the trout, while I found a black birch tree and cut forked sticks for
broilers. Any one who has not broiled fresh-caught trout outdoors on
birch forks--or spice bush will do almost as well--has yet to learn what
life holds for him. Chops are good, too, done in that way. We usually
carry them along when there is no prospect of fish, or, when we are sure
of our country, we take a tin cup and buy eggs at a farmhouse to boil.
But the balancing of the can requires a happy combination of stones
about the fire that the brief nooning of a day's tramp seldom affords,
and baking is still more uncertain. Bacon is good, but broiling the
little slices--and how they do shrink!--takes too long, while frying
entails a pan. Curiously enough, a pan, in addition to two fish baskets
and a landing-net, does not find favor in Jonathan's eyes.
After luncheon and a long, lazy rest on our log we went back to the
stream and loitered down its bank. Pussy-willows, their sleek silver
paws bursting into fat, caterpillary things, covered us with yellow
pollen powder as we brushed past them. Now and then we were arrested by
the sharp fragrance of the spice bush, whose little yellow blossoms had
escaped our notice. In the damp hollows the ground was carpeted with the
rich, mottled green leaves and tawny yellow bells of the adder's-tongue,
and the wet mud was sweet with the dainty, short-stemmed white violets.
On the dry, barren places were masses of saxifrage, bravely cheerful; on
the rocky <DW72>s fragile anemones blew in the wind, and fluffy green
clumps of columbine lured us on to a vain search for an early blossom.
As the afternoon waned, and the wind freshened crisply, we guessed that
it was milking-time, and wandered up to a farmhouse where we persuaded
the farmer's wife to give us bread and cheese and warm new milk. We were
urged to "set inside," but preferred to take the great white pitcher of
milk out to the steps of the little back porch where we could hear the
insistent note of the little phoebe that was building under the eaves
of the woodshed. Our hostess stood in the doorway, watching in amused
tolerance as we filled and refilled our goblets. They were wonderful
goblets, be it said--the best the house afforded. Jonathan's was of
fancy green glass, all covered with little knobs; mine was yellow, with
a head of Washington stamped on one side, and "God Bless our Country" on
the other. Finally the good woman broke the silence-- "Guess your
mothers ain't never weaned ye." Which we were not in a position to
refute.
On our return train we found the same conductor who had taken us out in
the morning. As he folded back the green cover of our mileage book he
could not forbear remarking, quizzically, "Know how far you're goin'
to-night?"
"Jonathan," I said, as we settled to toast and tea before our home
fireplace that evening, "I like running away. I don't blame horses."
II
An Unprogressive Farm
Most of our friends, Jonathan's and mine, are occupying their summers in
"reclaiming" old farms. We have an old farm, too, but we, I fear, are
not reclaiming it, at least not very fast. We have made neither formal
gardens nor water gardens nor rose arches; we have not built marble
swimming-tanks, nor even cement ones; we have not naturalized
forget-me-nots in the brook or narcissus in the meadows; we have not
erected tea-houses on choice knolls, and after six years of occupancy
there is still not a pergola or a sundial on the place! And yet we are
happy.
To be happy on a farm like ours one must, I fancy, be either very old or
very unprogressive. While we are waiting to grow comfortably old, we are
willing to be considered unprogressive.
Very old and very, very unprogressive is the farm itself. There is
nothing on it but old apple trees, old lilac bushes, old rocks, and old
associations--and, to be sure, the old red house. But the old rocks,
piled on the hillsides, are unfailingly picturesque, whether dark and
dripping in the summer rains or silver gray in the summer suns. The
lilacs are delightful, too. In June they send wave upon wave of
fragrance in through the little windows, penetrating even to the
remotest corners of the dim old attic, while all day long about their
pale lavender sprays the great yellow and black butterflies hang
flutteringly. Best of all is the orchard; the old apple trees blossom
prodigally for a brief season in May, blossom in rosy-white, in
cream-white, in pure white, in green-white, transforming the lane and
the hill-<DW72>s into a bower, smothering the old house in beauty,
brooding over it, on still moonlight nights, in pale clouds of
sweetness. And then comes a wind, with a drenching rain, and tears away
all the pretty petals and buries them in the grass below. But there are
seldom any apples; all this exuberance of beauty is but a dream of
youth, not a promise of fruitage. Jonathan, indeed, tells me that if we
want the trees to bear we must keep pigs in the orchard to root up the
ground and eat the wormy fruit as it falls; but under these conditions I
would rather not have the apples. The orchard is old; why not leave it
to dream and rest and dream again?
The old associations are, I admit, of a somewhat mixed character. There
is the romance of the milk-room door, through which, in hoary ages past,
the "hired girl," at the ripe age of twelve, eloped with her
sixteen-year-old lover; there is the story of the cellar nail, a
shuddery one, handed down from a yet more remote antiquity; there are
tales of the "ballroom" on the second floor, of the old lightning-riven
locust stump, of the origin of the "new wing" of the house--still called
"new," though a century old. Not a spot, indoors or out, but has its
clustering memories.
Such an enveloping atmosphere of associations, no matter what their
quality, in a place where generations have lived and died, is of itself
a quieting thing. Life, incrusted with tradition, like a ship weighted
with barnacles, moves more and more slowly; the past appears more real
than the present. To the old this seems natural and right, to others it
is often depressing; but Jonathan and I like it. Our barnacle-clogged
ship pleases us--pleases me because I love the slow, drifting motion,
pleases Jonathan because--I regret to admit it--he thinks he can get all
the barnacles off--and then!--
For, whereas my unprogressiveness is absolute and unqualified,
Jonathan's is, I have discovered, tainted by a sneaking optimism, an
ineradicable desire and hope of improvement, which, though it does not
blossom rankly in pergolas and tea-houses, is none the less there, a
lurking menace. It inspired his suggestion regarding pigs in the
orchard, it showed itself even more clearly in the matter of the hens.
I have always liked hens. I doubt if mine are very profitable,--the farm
is not, in general, a source of profit, and we cherish no delusions
about it,--but I do not keep them for pecuniary gain. If they chance to
lay eggs, so much the better; if they furnish forth my table with
succulent broilers, with nutritious roasters, with ambrosial
chicken-pasties, I am not unappreciative; but I realize that all these
things might be had from my neighbors' barnyards. What I primarily value
my own hens for is their companionship. Talk about the companionship of
dogs and cats! Cats walk about my home, sleek and superior; they make me
feel that I am there on sufferance. One cannot even laugh at them, their
manner is so perfect. Dogs, on the other hand, develop an unreasoning
and tyrannous devotion to their masters, which is not really good for
either, though it may be morbidly gratifying to sentimental natures.
But hens! No decorous superiority here, no mush of devotion. No; for
varied folly, for rich and highly developed perversities, combining all
that is choicest of masculine and feminine foible--for this and much
more, commend me to the hen. Ever since we came to the farm, my sister
the hen has entertained me with her vagaries. Jaques's delight at his
encounter with Touchstone is pale compared with mine in their society.
Nothing cheers me more than to sit on a big rock in the barnyard and
watch the hens walking about. Their very gait pleases me--the way they
bob their heads, the "genteel" way they have of picking up their feet,
for all the world as though they cared where they stepped; the absent
and superior manner in which they "scratch for worms," their gaze fixed
on the sky, then cock their heads downwards with an indifferent air,
absently pick up a chip, drop it, and walk on! Did any one ever see a
hen really find a worm? I never did. There are no worms in our barnyard,
anyhow; Jonathan must have dug them all up for bait when he was a boy. I
have even tried throwing some real worms to them, and they always
respond by a few nervous cackles, and walk past the brown wrigglers with
a detached manner, and the robins get them later. And yet they continue
to go through all these forms, and we continue to call it "scratching
for worms."
Jonathan has nothing to do with my hens except to give advice. One of
his hobbies is the establishing of a breed of hens marked by
intelligence, which he maintains might be done by careful selection of
the mothers. Accordingly, whenever he goes to the roost to pick out a
victim for the sacrificial hatchet, he first gently pulls the tail of
each candidate in turn, and by the dim light of the lantern carefully
observes the nature of their reaction, choosing for destruction the one
whose deportment seems to him most foolish. In this way, by weeding out
the extremely silly, he hopes in time to raise the general intellectual
standard of the barnyard. But he urges that much more might be done if
my heart were in it. Very likely, but my heart is not. Intelligence is
all very well, but the barnyard, I am convinced, is no place for it.
Give me my pretty, silly hens, with all their aimless, silly ways. I
will seek intelligence, when I want it, elsewhere.
In another direction, too, Jonathan's optimistic temperament has found
little encouragement. This is in regard to the chimney swallows. When we
first came, these little creatures were one of my severest trials. They
were not a trial to Jonathan. He loved to watch them at dusk, circling
and eddying about the great chimney. So, indeed, did I; and if they had
but contented themselves with circling and eddying there, I should have
had no quarrel with them. I did not even object to their evolutions
inside the chimney. At first I took the muffled shudder of wings for
distant thunder, and when great masses of soot came tumbling down into
the fireplace, I jumped; but I soon grew accustomed to all this. I was
even willing to clean the soot out of my neat fireplace daily, while
Jonathan comforted | 3,425.885276 |
2023-11-16 19:14:09.8662170 | 3,349 | 205 |
Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover]
THE SYRIAN CHRIST
BY
ABRAHAM MITRIE RIHBANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1916
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1916, BY ABRAHAM MITRIE RIHBANY
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published October 1916_
{v}
PREFACE
This little volume is sent forth in the confident hope that it may
throw fresh light on the life and teachings of Christ, and facilitate
for the general public the understanding of the Bible. As may be
readily seen, from its perusal, the present work is not intended to be
a commentary on the Bible, nor even an exhaustive study of the subject
with which it deals. That it leaves many things to be desired is very
evident to the author, who fears that his book will be remembered by
its readers more by the things it lacks than by the things it contains.
Yet, from the cordial reception with which the opening chapters of this
publication (which made their first appearance in the _Atlantic
Monthly_) met from readers, of various religious affiliations, the
author has been encouraged to believe that his aim has not only been
clearly {vi} discerned, but thoroughly approved. The books which
undertake the systematic "expounding of the Scriptures" are a host
which no man can number, nor is there any lack of "spiritual lessons
drawn from the Bible." Therefore, as one of the Master's fellow
countrymen, and one who has enjoyed about twenty years of service in
the American pulpit, I have for several years entertained the growing
conviction that such a book as this was really needed. Not, however,
as one more commentary, but as an Oriental guide to afford Occidental
readers of the Bible a more intimate view of the original intellectual
and social environment of this sacred literature. So what I have to
offer here is a series of suggestions, and not of technically wrought
Bible lessons.
The need of the Western readers of the Bible is, in my judgment, to
enter sympathetically and intelligently into the atmosphere in which
the books of the Scriptures first took form: to have real intellectual,
as well as spiritual, fellowship with those Orientals who sought {vii}
earnestly in their own way to give tangible form to those great
spiritual truths which have been, and ever shall be, humanity's most
precious heritage.
My task has not been a light one. It is comparatively easy to take
isolated Bible texts and explain them, treating each passage as a
detached unit. But when one undertakes to group a large number of
passages which never were intended to be gathered together and treated
as the kindred thoughts of an essay, the task becomes rather difficult.
How far I have succeeded in my effort to relate the passages I have
treated in this book to one another according to their intellectual and
social affinities, the reader is in a better position to judge than I
am.
It may not be absolutely necessary for me to say that infallibility
cannot justly be ascribed to any author, nor claimed by him, even when
writing of his own experiences, and the social environment in which he
was born and brought up.
However, in Yankee, not in Oriental, {viii} fashion, I will say that
_to the best of my knowledge_ the statements contained in this book are
correct.
Finally, I deem it necessary before I bring this preface to a close to
sound a note of warning. So I will say that the Orientals' extensive
use of figurative speech should by no means be allowed to carry the
idea that _all_ Oriental speech is figurative. This manner of speech,
which is common to all races of men, is only _more extensively_ used by
Orientals than by Occidentals. I could wish, however, that the learned
theologians had suspected more strongly the literal accuracy of
Oriental utterances, and had thus been saved at times from founding a
huge doctrinal structure on a figure of speech.
Notwithstanding all this, the Gospel and the Christian faith still live
and bless and cheer the hearts and minds of men. As an Oriental by
birth, and as an American from choice, I feel profoundly grateful that
I have been enabled to render this modest service to the Churches of
{ix} America, and to present this book as an offering of love and
homage to my Master, the Syrian Christ.
ABRAHAM MITRIE RIHBANY
BOSTON, MASSACHUSETTS.
{xi}
CONTENTS
PART I. THE SYRIAN CHRIST.
I. Son of the East
II. Birth of a Man Child
III. The Star
IV. Mystic Tones
V. Filial Obedience
VI. Feast and Sacrament
VII. The Last Scene
PART II. The Oriental Manner Of Speech.
I. Daily Language
II. Imprecations
III. Love of Enemies
IV. "The Unveracious Oriental"
V. Impressions _vs._ Literal Accuracy
VI. Speaking in Parables
VII. Swearing
VIII. Four Characteristics
{xii}
PART III. BREAD AND SALT
I. The Sacred 'Aish
II. "Our Daily Bread"
III. "Compel Them to come in"
IV. Delaying the Departing Guest
V. Family Feasts
PART IV. OUT IN THE OPEN
I. Shelter and Home
II. Resigned Travelers
III. The Market Place
IV. The Housetop
V. The Vineyards and the Fields
VI. The Shepherd
PART V. SISTERS OF MARY AND MARTHA
I. Woman East and West
II. Paul and Woman
III. Jesus and his Mother
IV. "A Gracious Woman"
PART VI.
Here and There in the Bible
Index
{3}
PART I
THE SYRIAN CHRIST
THE SYRIAN CHRIST
CHAPTER I
SON OF THE EAST
Jesus Christ, the incarnation of the spirit of God, seer, teacher of
the verities of the spiritual life, and preacher of the fatherhood of
God and the brotherhood of man, is, in a higher sense, "a man without a
country." As a prophet and a seer Jesus belongs to all races and all
ages. Wherever the minds of men respond to simple truth, wherever the
hearts of men thrill with pure love, wherever a temple of religion is
dedicated to the worship of God and the service of man, there is Jesus'
country and there are his friends. Therefore, in speaking of Jesus as
the son of a certain country, I do not mean in the least to localize
his Gospel, or to set bounds and limits to the flow of his spirit and
the workings of his love.
Nor is it my aim in these chapters to imitate {4} the astute
theologians by wrestling with the problem of Jesus' personality. To me
the secret of personality, human and divine, is an impenetrable
mystery. My more modest purpose in this writing is to remind the
reader that, whatever else Jesus was, as regards his modes of thought
and life and his method of teaching, he was a Syrian of the Syrians.
According to authentic history Jesus never saw any other country than
Palestine. There he was born; there he grew up to manhood, taught his
Gospel, and died for it.
It is most natural, then, that Gospel truths should have come down to
the succeeding generations--and to the nations of the West--cast in
Oriental moulds of thought, and intimately intermingled with the simple
domestic and social habits of Syria. The gold of the Gospel carries
with it the sand and dust of its original home.
From the foregoing, therefore, it may be seen that my reason for
undertaking to throw fresh light on the life and teachings of Christ,
and {5} other portions of the Bible whose correct understanding depends
on accurate knowledge of their original environment, is not any claim
on my part to great learning or a profound insight into the spiritual
mysteries of the Gospel. The real reason is rather an accident of
birth. From the fact that I was born not far from where the Master was
born, and brought up under almost the identical conditions under which
he lived, I have an "inside view" of the Bible which, by the nature of
things, a Westerner cannot have. And I know that the conditions of
life in Syria of to-day are essentially as they were in the time of
Christ, not from the study of the mutilated tablets of the archaeologist
and the antiquarian, precious as such discoveries are, but from the
simple fact that, as a sojourner in this Western world, whenever I open
my Bible it reads like a letter from home.
Its unrestrained effusiveness of expression; its vivid, almost flashy
and fantastic imagery; its naive narrations; the rugged unstudied
simplicity of its parables; its unconventional (and {6} to the more
modest West rather unseemly) portrayal of certain human relations; as
well as its all-permeating spiritual mysticism,--so far as these
qualities are concerned, the Bible might all have been written in my
primitive village home, on the western <DW72>s of Mount Lebanon some
thirty years ago.
Nor do I mean to assert or even to imply that the Western world has
never succeeded in knowing the mind of Christ. Such an assertion would
do violent injustice, not only to the Occidental mind, but to the
Gospel itself as well, by making it an enigma, utterly foreign to the
native spirituality of the majority of mankind. But what I have
learned from intimate associations with the Western mind, during almost
a score of years in the American pulpit, is that, with the exception of
the few specialists, it is extremely difficult, if not impossible, for
a people to understand fully a literature which has not sprung from
that people's own racial life. As a repository of divine revelation
the Bible knows no geographical limits. Its spiritual truths are {7}
from God to man. But as a literature the Bible is an imported article
in the Western world, especially in the home of the Anglo-Saxon race.
The language of the Scriptures, the mentality and the habits of life
which form the setting of their spiritual precepts, and the mystic
atmosphere of those precepts themselves, have come forth from the soul
of a people far removed from the races of the West in almost all the
modes of its earthly life.
You cannot study the life of a people successfully from the outside.
You may by so doing succeed in discerning the few fundamental traits of
character in their local colors, and in satisfying your curiosity with
surface observations of the general modes of behavior; but the little
things, the common things, those subtle connectives in the social
vocabulary of a people, those agencies which are born and not made, and
which give a race its rich distinctiveness, are bound to elude your
grasp. There is so much in the life of a people which a stranger to
that people must receive {8} by way of unconscious absorption. Like a
little child, he must learn so many things by involuntary imitation.
An outside observer, though wise, is only a photographer. He deals
with externals. He can be converted into an artist and portray the
life of a race by working from the soul outward, only through long,
actual, and sympathetic associations with that race.
From the foregoing it may be seen that I deem it rather hazardous for a
six-weeks tourist in that country to publish a book on the _life_ of
Syria. A first-class camera and "an eye to business" are hardly
sufficient qualifications for the undertaking of such a task. It is
very easy, indeed, to take a photograph, but not so easy to relate such
a picture to the inner life of a race, and to know what moral and
social forces lie behind such externals. The hasty traveler may easily
state what certain modes of thought and life in a strange land mean to
_him_, but does that necessarily mean that _his_ understanding of such
things is also the understanding of the _people_ of that land
themselves?
{9}
With the passing of the years, this thought gains in significance with
me, as a Syrian immigrant. At about the end of my second year of
residence in this country, I felt confident that I could write a book
on America and the Americans whose accuracy no one could challenge. It
was so easy for me to grasp the significance of certain general aspects
of American life that I felt I was fully competent to state how the
American people lived, what their racial, political, and religious
tendencies were, what their idioms of speech meant, and to interpret
their amorous, martial, dolorous, and joyous moods with perfect
accuracy and ease. But now, after a residence of about twenty-four
years in America--years which I have spent in most intimate association
with Americans, largely of the "original stock"--I do not feel half so
confident that I am qualified to write such a book. The more intimate
I become with American thought, the deeper I penetrate the American
spirit, the more enlightened my associations become with American
fathers, mothers, {10} and children in the joys and sorrows of life,
the more fully do I realize how extremely difficult, if not impossible,
it is for one to interpret successfully the life of an alien people
before one has actually _lived it_ himself.
Many Westerners have written very meritorious books on the thought and
life of the East. But these are not of the "tourist" type. Such
writers have been those who, first, had the initial wisdom to realize
that the beggars for _bakhsheesh_ in the thoroughfares of Syrian
cities, and those who hitch a woman with an ox to the plough in some
dark recesses of Palestine, did not possibly represent the deep soul of
that ancient East, which gave birth to the Bible and to the glorious
company of prophets, apostles, and saints. Second, such writers knew,
also, that the fine roots of a people's life do not lie on the surface.
Such feeders of life are both deep and fine; not only long residence
among a people, but intimate association and genuine sympathy with them
are necessary to reveal to a stranger the hidden {11} meaning of their
life. Social life, like biological life, energizes from within, and
from within it must be studied.
And it is those common things of Syrian life, so indissolubly
interwoven with the spiritual truths of the Bible, which cause the
Western readers of holy writ to stumble, and which rob those truths for
them of much of their richness. By sheer force of genius, the | 3,425.886257 |
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Italicized text is surrounded by underscores: _italics_.
DOCTOR RABBIT
AND KI-YI COYOTE
[Illustration]
_THE GREENWOODS SERIES_
DOCTOR RABBIT
_AND_
KI-YI COYOTE
_By_
THOMAS CLARK HINKLE
[Illustration]
RAND McNALLY & COMPANY
CHICAGO
_Copyright, 1918_
By RAND MCNALLY & COMPANY
[Illustration]
_To_
Todu and Woddy Boy
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE CONTENTS
PAGE
DOCTOR RABBIT GETS A CALL 1
IN FEAR OF KI-YI COYOTE 8
THE HOLES UNDER THE TREES 13
DOCTORING BILLY RABBIT 17
KI-YI COYOTE CHASES DOCTOR RABBIT 21
DOCTOR RABBIT GETS A SCARE 27
DOCTOR RABBIT AND JACK RABBIT ESCAPE 32
KI-YI COYOTE WATCHES FOR DOCTOR RABBIT 38
DOCTOR RABBIT CALLS ON CHATTY SQUIRREL 44
FOOLING KI-YI COYOTE 49
KI-YI COYOTE CHASES DOCTOR RABBIT 53
DOCTOR RABBIT HAS A | 3,425.954723 |
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ENCYCLOPEDIA OF DIET
ENCYCLOPEDIA OF
DIET
_A Treatise on the Food Question_
IN FIVE VOLUMES
EXPLAIN | 3,426.047352 |
2023-11-16 19:14:10.0316360 | 398 | 9 |
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Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
His Life, Genius, and Writings
BY W. SLOANE KENNEDY
Author of a "Life of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow," Etc.
REVISED AND ENLARGED
_INTRODUCTION BY REV. S. F. SMITH, D.D._
Author of Hymn "America"
Such music as the woods and streams
Sang in his ear, he sang aloud
_The Tent on the Beach_
For all his quiet life flowed on,
As meadow streamlets flow,
Where fresher green reveals alo
The noiseless ways they go
_The Friend's Burial_
CHICAGO NEW YORK
THE WERNER COMPANY
COPYRIGHT 1892
BY D. LOTHROP COMPANY
COPYRIGHT 1895
BY THE WERNER COMPANY
John Greenleaf Whittier
INTRODUCTION.
Who does not admire and love John Greenleaf Whittier? And who does not
delight to do him honor? He was a man raised up by Providence to meet an
exigency in human history, and an exigency in the experiences of the
United States. And he met the exigency with distinguished success. He
was a true exponent of New England life and the New England spirit. He
drew his inspiration from the soil where he was born, from the
necessities of the times, from the demands of human rights, from the
love of God and of man. He was a unique man. We knew not his like before
him. We shall see no other like him after him. He was the product of | 3,426.051676 |
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file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber's Notes:
1) Morrumbidgee/Murrumbidgee each used on several occasions
and left as in the original. 'Morrumbidgee' is the aboriginal
name for the Murrumbidgee.
2) Used on numerous occasions, civilisation/civilization;
civilised/civilized; civilising/civilizing; uncivilised/uncivilized:
left as in the original.
3) Same with variations of colonisation/colonization, and a few other
"z" words that should be "s" words in their English form.
* * * * *
The
Englishman's Library.
XXVI.
AUSTRALIA,
ITS HISTORY AND PRESENT CONDITION;
CONTAINING
AN ACCOUNT BOTH OF THE BUSH AND OF THE COLONIES,
WITH THEIR RESPECTIVE INHABITANTS.
BY THE
REV. W. PRIDDEN, M.A.
VICAR OF BROXTED, ESSEX.
"_Truth_, in her native calmness and becoming moderation, shall
be the object of our homage and pursuit; and we will aim at the
attainment of knowledge for the improvement of our reason, and not
for the gratification of a passion for disputing."--_Address of
the Bp of Australia in 1841 to the Church of England Book Society._
LONDON:
JAMES BURNS, 17, PORTMAN STREET,
PORTMAN SQUARE.
1843.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY R. CLAY, BREAD STREET HILL.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Map of Australia]
PREFACE.
A few words by way of Preface are requisite, in order that the objects
of the present Work may be stated to the reader, and that he may also
be made acquainted with the sources whence the information here
communicated is derived, and from consulting which he may still
further inform himself concerning Australia. The aim of the writer of
the following pages has been,--while furnishing a description of some
of the most flourishing and interesting settlements belonging to the
British Crown, which, at the same time, exhibit in contrast to each
other the two extremes of savage and civilised life;--to call the
attention of his countrymen, both at home and in the colonies, to
the evils which have arisen from the absence of moral restraint and
religious instruction in colonies of civilised and (nominally)
christian men. And although it must in many ways be a disadvantage
that the person professing to describe a particular country should
have gained all his knowledge of it from the report of others, without
ever having himself set foot upon its shores; yet, in one respect at
least, this may operate advantageously. He is less likely to have
party prejudices or private interests to serve in his account of the
land to which he is a total stranger. In consequence, probably, of his
being an indifferent and impartial observer, not one of our Australian
colonies wears in his eye the appearance of a perfect paradise; but
then, on the other hand, there is not one of those fine settlements
which prejudice urges him to condemn, as though it were barren and
dreary as the Great Sahara itself. And the same circumstance--his
never having breathed the close unwholesome air of colonial
party-politics--will render it less likely that his judgment
respecting persons and disputed opinions should be unduly biassed.
There will be more probability of his judging upon right _principles_,
and although his facts may (in some instances, unavoidably) be less
minutely accurate than an inhabitant of the country would have given,
yet they may be less and less partially stated. Instead of
giving his own observations as an eye-witness, fraught with his own
particular views, he can calmly weigh the opposite statements of men
of different opinions, and between the two he is more likely to arrive
at the truth. With regard to the present Work, however impartial the
author has endeavoured to be, however free he may be from colonial
passions and interests, he does not wish to deceive the reader by
professing a total freedom from all prejudice. If this were desirable,
it is impossible; it is a qualification which no writer, or reader
either, possesses. But thus much may be stated, that all his
prejudices are in favour of those institutions with which it has
pleased God to bless his native land. In a volume that is intended to
form part of a series called "The Englishman's Library," it may be
permitted, surely, to acknowledge a strong and influencing attachment
to the Sovereign, the Church, and the Constitution of England.
The object and principles of the present volume being thus plainly
set forth, it remains only to mention some of the sources whence the
information contained in it is derived. To the Travels of Captain Grey
on the western coast of New Holland, and to those of Major Mitchell in
the interior, the first portion of this Work is deeply indebted, and
every person interested in the state of the natives, or fond of
perusing travels in a wild and unknown region, may be referred to
these four volumes,[1] where they will find that the extracts here
given are but a specimen of the stores of amusement and information
which they contain. Captain Sturt's "Expeditions" and Mr. Oxley's
"Journal" are both interesting works, but they point rather to the
progress of discovery in New Holland than to the actual state of our
local knowledge of it. Dr. Lang's two volumes upon New South Wales are
full of information from one who has lived there many years, and his
faults are sufficiently obvious for any intelligent reader to guard
against. Mr. Montgomery Martin's little book is a very useful
compendium, and those that desire to know more particulars concerning
the origin of the first English colony in New Holland may be referred
to Collins's account of it. Various interesting particulars respecting
the religious state of the colonies in Australia have been derived
from the correspondence in the possession of the Society for the
Propagation of the Gospel in Foreign Parts, free access to which was
allowed through the kind introduction of the Rev. C. B. Dalton. Many
other sources of information have been consulted, among which the
Reports of the Parliamentary Committee upon Transportation, in 1837
and 1838; and that of the Committee upon South Australia, in 1841,
must not be left unnoticed. Neither may the work of Judge Burton upon
Religion and Education in New South Wales be passed over in silence;
for, whatever imperfections may be found in his book,[2] the
facts there set forth are valuable, and, for the most part,
incontrovertible, and the principles it exhibits are excellent. From
the works just mentioned the reader may, should he feel inclined,
verify for himself the facts stated in the ensuing pages, or pursue
his inquiries further. In the meantime, he cannot do better than join
the author of the little book which he holds in his hand, in an humble
and earnest prayer to Almighty God, that, in this and in every other
instance, whatever may be the feebleness and imperfection of human
efforts, all things may be made to work together for good towards
promoting the glory of God, the extension of Christ's kingdom, and the
salvation of mankind.
[1] Published, all of them, by T. and W. Boone, London, to whom it is
only just to acknowledge their kindness in permitting the use that has
been made of these two publications in the first portion of the present
Work.
[2] See Dr. Ullathorne's Reply to Burton, especially at p. 5, where it
appears that the judge was not quite impartial in one of his statements.
Dr. Ullathorne himself has, in his 98 pages, contrived to crowd in at
least twice as many misrepresentations as Burton's 321 pages contain.
But that is no excuse. The Romish Church may need, or seem to need,
such support. The cause defended by Judge Burton needs it not.
#Contents.#
INTRODUCTION.
[Page 1.]
Subject of the Work--Discovery and Situation of New Holland--Its
Interior little known--Blue Mountains--Conjectures respecting the
Interior--Van Diemen's Land, or Tasmania.
CHAPTER I.
[Page 8.]
The Bush described--Remains of it near Sydney--North-western Coast
of New Holland--Sandy Columns and Fragments--Recollections of
Home--Gouty Stem Tree--Green Ants--Fine Volcanic District--Cure
for Cold--Travelling in the Rainy Season--Rich sequestered Valleys--
Plains near the Lachlan--Falls of the Apsley--Beauties of Nature
enjoyed by Explorers--Aid afforded by Religion--Trials of Travellers
in the Bush--Thirst--A Christian's Consolations--Plains of Kolaina,
or Deceit--Bernier Island--Frederic Smith--A Commander's Cares--Dried
Streams--Return from a Journey in the Bush--Outsettlers--Islands on
the Australian Coast--Kangaroo Island--Coral Reefs and Islets.
CHAPTER II.
[Page 42.]
Forbidding aspect of coast no argument against inland beauty and
fertility--River Darling--The Murray--Other Rivers of New Holland--
Contrasts in Australia--The Lachlan, Regent's Lake, &c.--Sturt's
Descent down the Murray--His Return--Woods--Difficulties and Dangers
of Bush travelling--Wellington Valley--Australia Felix--Conclusion.
CHAPTER III.
[Page 72.]
Comparative advantages of Europeans over Savages--Degraded condition
of Natives of New Holland--Total absence of Clothing--Love of
Ornaments--Peculiar Rites--Ceremony of knocking out a Tooth--Hardships
of Savage Life--Revengeful Spirit--Effect of Native Songs in exciting
Anger--Cruelty--Courage--Indifference to accounts of Civilized Life--
Contempt of its ways--Treatment of Women--Family Names, and Crests--
Language--Music.
CHAPTER IV.
[Page 97.]
Means of Subsistence--A Whale Feast--Hunting the Kangaroo--Australian
Cookery--Fish--Seal Catching--Turtles--Finding Opossums--Birds--
Pursuit of the Emu or Cassowary--Disgusting Food of the Natives--
Vegetables--_By-yu_ Nuts--Evils of European Settlements in cutting
off the native supply of Food--Native Property in Land--Inhabitants
of Van Diemen's Land--A word of Advice to Christian Colonists.
CHAPTER V.
[Page 120.]
First Shyness of Natives natural--Their perplexity between European
Customs and their own--Health and Longevity--Old Age--Funereal
Rites--Belief in Sorcery--The _Boyl-yas_--Various modes of
Interment--Tombs--Riches of a Native--Bodily Excellences--Secrecy--
Quickness of Sight, &c.--Kaiber and the Watch--The _Warran_ Ground--
Various Superstitions--Mischief of bad Example, for which the British
nation is responsible--The Church, the right Instrument, and the only
one that will be found successful, for civilising the Australian
Tribes, if they are ever to be civilised.
CHAPTER VI.
[Page 149.]
Bennillong--Barangaroo's Funeral--The Spitting Tribe--Mulligo's Death--
The Corrobory--Peerat and his Wives--Woga's Captivity--Ballooderry
and the Convicts--Native Hospitality and Philosophy--The Widow and
her Child--Miago.
CHAPTER VII.
[Page 186.]
Infancy of New South Wales an interesting subject to Englishmen--Arrival,
in 1788, of the Sirius, and the Supply at Botany Bay--Settlement
commenced in the Harbour of Port Jackson--Character of the
Convicts--Influence of Religion--Particulars respecting the Chaplain--
His peculiar situation and efforts--A Gold Mine pretended to be found--
Supply of Food precarious--Farming--Failure of Provisions--Erection
of a Flag-staff at the entrance of Port Jackson--Activity of
Governor Phillip--Emigration to Norfolk Island--Loss of the Sirius--
Departure of the Supply for Batavia--Arrivals from England--Cruel
treatment of Convicts on board--Paramatta founded--Arrival of the
Second Fleet--State of Agriculture--The Chaplain's bounty abused--
Attendance at Divine Service--A Church built--Its subsequent fate--
Scarcity of Provisions, and great Mortality--Profligacy of Convicts--
Harvest of 1792--Departure of Governor Phillip--Major Grose's
government--Captain Paterson's--Various occurrences--Drunkenness--Love
of Money--Spirit of Gambling.
CHAPTER VIII.
[Page 216.]
Arrival of Governor Hunter--His efforts for reformation--Advancement
of the Colony towards supplying its own wants--Wild Cattle found--Coal
discovered--Governor's regulations--Incendiarism--Natives
troublesome--Difficulties in governing New South Wales--Crimes
common--Laxity of public opinion--The gaols at Sydney and Paramatta
purposely set on fire--Departure of Governor Hunter--Captain
King succeeds him--Norfolk Island abandoned--Sketch of Norfolk
Island--Settlement of Van Diemen's Land--Free Settlers--Philip
Schoeffer--The Presbyterian Settlers at Portland Head--Resignation
of Governor King--Captain Bligh his successor--Great Flood of
the Hawkesbury--Unpopularity of the Governor--Seizure of his
person--Rebellion--Usurpation--Arrival of a new Governor, Colonel
Macquarie--Improvements in his time--Road-making--Passage across the
Blue Mountains--Public Buildings--Patronage of Emancipists--Discoveries
in the Interior, and Extension of the Colony--Continued neglect of the
spiritual need of the Colonists--Governor Macquarie's Departure--His
own statement of the progress of the Settlement under his
administration.
CHAPTER IX.
[Page 243.]
Subject stated--Day-dreams of Colonization--Local divisions of New
South Wales--Its Counties--Cumberland--Camden--Illawarra and the
Cow Pastures--Argyle--Bathurst--Northumberland--Coal Pits--Hunter's
River--Remaining Counties--Sydney--Port Jackson--Buildings,
&c. of Sydney--Commerce--Public Press--Paramatta--Windsor--Liverpool--
Conclusion.
CHAPTER X.
[Page 266.]
Description of Van Diemen's Land--Its local Divisions--Its general
Character and Aspect--Hobart Town--Launceston--Other Australian
Colonies--Port Phillip--South Australia--Adelaide--Western Australia--
Its Towns--North Australia.
CHAPTER XI.
[Page 286.]
Climate of Australia--Drought--Agriculture--Flocks and Herds--Government
of the Colonies--Discontent--Means of National Improvement--Bishopric
of Australia--Tribute of Thanks justly due to the Whig Government--
Effects of a Bishop being resident in New South Wales--Educational
provision made by George the Fourth--Dr. Lang's Account of it--Judge
Burton's--Church and School Corporation, established in 1826; suspended
in 1829; dissolved in 1833--Causes of this change of Policy--
Conclusion.
CHAPTER XII.
[Page 307.]
Inhabitants of Australian Colonies--What seed has been there sown--
Elements of Society in the Penal Colonies--Convicts--System of
Assignment--Public Gangs--Mr. Potter Macqueen's Establishment--Norfolk
Island and its horrors--These have been mitigated of late years--Means
of reforming Convicts--Prevalence of Vice among them--The class of
Convicts called _specials_ described.
CHAPTER XIII.
[Page 325.]
Emancipists--Their general Character--Their conduct in the Jurors' Box
no argument in favour of bestowing upon them a Representative
Government--Free Population--Ancient Nobility of Botany Bay--Prevailing
taste in New South Wales and Van Diemen's Land--Love of Gain--Land
Sharks--Squatters--Overlanders.
CHAPTER XIV.
[Page 338.]
Importance of Religion--The Lord's Day--Habits of duly observing it
nearly lost among many of the inhabitants of our Australian
Colonies--Opposition to Improvement--Religious strife prevails where
religious union is needed--Sir R. Bourke's novel system of religious
Establishments--Its practical working--Efforts of the Church coldly
seconded or else opposed, by Government--Petty Persecutions--Similar
opposition to National Religious Education as to National Church--
Blunders respecting the Irish System of Education in 1836--Attempt
in 1840 to banish the Creed and Catechism from Protestant Schools
having Government support--Schools of a higher rank in New South
Wales--King's School, Paramatta--Sydney College--The Australian
College--The Normal Institution--Proposed College at Liverpool--Other
Schools--Population of New South Wales in 1841--Emigration--Conclusion.
#Illustrations.#
PAGE
Map of Australia _Frontispiece_
Reduced Map of Van Diemen's Land 1
Travellers in the Bush 8
Explorers finding the Bed of a dried-up River 42
Opossum Hunting 97
Natives of the Murray Islands in Boats 120
Sydney in its Infancy--View from the South 186
North View of Sydney 243
Hobart Town 266
Cape Pillar, near the Entrance of the Derwent, Van Diemen's Land 286
Conveying Cattle over the Murray, near Lake Alexandria 325
* * * * *
[Illustration: VAN DIEMEN'S LAND.]
INTRODUCTION.
The vast tract of country which it is the object of the present volume
to describe in its leading features, both moral and natural, may be said
to consist of two islands, besides many small islets and coral reefs,
which lie scattered around the coasts of these principal divisions. The
larger island of the two, which from its size may well deserve the
appellation of a continent, is called New Holland, or Australia; and is
supposed to be not less than three-fourths of the extent of the whole of
Europe. The smaller island, so well known by the names of Van Diemen's
Land, or Tasmania, (from those of the discoverer, Tasman, and the Dutch
governor of Batavia, Van Diemen) is not to be compared in size to the
other, being about equal in magnitude to Ireland, and, like that island,
abounding in fine and excellent harbours. Although, strictly speaking,
the name of Australia is confined to the former of these two islands,
yet it may be understood to include the smaller island also; and under
this name it is proposed to make the reader familiar with the chief
objects of curiosity in the natural world, and likewise with the state
of human society, whether savage or civilised, in the two islands of New
Holland and Van Diemen's Land, so far as both of these have been
hitherto known and explored.
It is by no means certain what nation may justly lay claim to the honour
of the discovery of New Holland, the coasts of which were probably seen
by the Spaniards, Quiros or Torres, in 1606, and are by some supposed to
have been known to the Spanish and Portuguese yet earlier than this
date, but were not regularly discovered until the Dutch, between the
years 1616 and 1627, explored a considerable portion of the northern and
western shores of that vast island, to which they gave the name of their
own country, Holland. To the Spaniards this land was known by the names
of Terra Australis Incognita, (The Unknown Southern Land,) or Australia
del Espiritu Santo, (The Southern Land of the Holy Spirit,) the meaning
of which last name does not exactly appear, unless it arose from the
discovery of Quiros having been made a little before Whitsuntide. Since
that time the coasts of this immense island, extending, it is said, to
no less than 8000 miles, have been gradually explored, although they
still remain in some parts very imperfectly known. Indeed, it was only
in the year 1798 that Van Diemen's Land was discovered to be an island
separated from New Holland, of which before that time it had been
thought to form a large projection or promontory.
New Holland is situated in the vast ocean extending to the south and
east of the Spice Islands, and it lies about even with the lower part of
the continent of Africa, only at an immense distance due east of it. Its
extreme points of latitude are 39 degrees and 10 1/2 degrees S., and of
longitude 112 degrees and 153 degrees 40 minutes E. from Greenwich,
so that it includes in its huge extent climates both tropical and
temperate, but none that are decidedly cold. It must be remembered,
indeed, that the countries south of the equator become colder at
the same latitude than those that extend towards the north; but,
nevertheless, the nearest point towards the South Pole, 39 degrees,
nearly answering to the situation of Naples in the northern hemisphere,
cannot be otherwise than a mild and warm climate. The shape of New
Holland is very irregular, its coast being much broken and indented by
various great bays and smaller inlets; but it has been estimated to have
a _width_ from E. to W. of 3000 miles, and a breadth from N. to S. of
2000, containing altogether not less than three millions of square
miles. Of course, it is impossible, in so large an extent of country,
that the interior parts of it should have been explored during the few
years in which any portion of it has been occupied by Europeans.
Accordingly, almost all the inland tracts are still a vast blank,
respecting which very little is known, and that little is far from
inviting. Indeed many hindrances oppose themselves to the perfect
discovery of these inland regions, besides those common obstacles, to
encounter and overcome which every traveller who desires to explore
new, wild, and savage countries, must have fully made up his mind.
First among the peculiar difficulties which have opposed the Australian
explorer is the height and ruggedness of that chain of mountains,
called, in the colony of New South Wales, the Blue Mountains, which form
a mighty barrier of more or less elevation along most parts of the
eastern coast of New Holland, sometimes approaching as nearly as 30
miles to the sea, and at other places falling back to a distance of 60
or nearly 100 miles. These mountains are not so very high, the loftiest
points appearing to exceed but little the height of Snowdon in Wales, or
Ben Nevis in Scotland; but their rugged and barren nature, and the great
width to which they frequently extend, render it no very easy matter to
cross them at all. Indeed, although the settlement of New South Wales
was founded in 1788, it was not before 1813 that a route was discovered
across those vast ranges which shut in the colony to the west.
Frequently had the passage over the Blue Mountains been attempted
before, but never with any success; and the farthest point which had
been reached, called Caley's Repulse, was a spot that almost seemed
to forbid man's footsteps to advance beyond it. Nothing was to be
seen there in every direction but immense masses of weather-beaten
sandstone-rock, towering over each other in all the sublimity of
desolation; while a deep chasm, intersecting a lofty ridge covered with
blasted trees, seemed to cut off every hope of farther progress. But all
these difficulties have now long since been got over, and stage-coaches
are able to run across what were a few years ago deemed impassable
hills. Yet, when this dreary barrier of barren mountains has been
crossed, another peculiar hindrance presents itself to the exploring
traveller. In many parts of the interior of New Holland, which have
been visited, the scarcity of water is such that the most distressing
privations have been endured, and the most disagreeable substitutes
employed. And yet, strange to say, the very same country, which
sometimes affords so few springs, and of which the streams become dried
up into chains of dirty pools, and at last into dry ravines and valleys,
is, occasionally, subject to extreme floods from the overflowing of its
rivers, and then offers a new obstacle to the traveller's progress in
the shape of extensive and impassable marshes! To these difficulties
must be added the usual trials of adventurous explorers, the dangers and
perplexities of a journey through pathless forests, the want of game
of any kind in the barren sandstone districts, the perils sometimes
threatened by a visit from the native inhabitants, and, altogether, we
shall have reason rather to feel surprise at what has been done in the
way of inland discovery in New Holland, than to wonder that so much
remains yet undone.
In consequence of the interior portions of the country remaining still
unknown, fancy has been busy in forming notions respecting them, and
one favourite supposition has been that there exists somewhere in the
central part of New Holland an immense lake or inland sea; but of this
no proof whatever can be produced, so that it can only be said that _it
may be so_. Certainly, unless some such means of communication by water,
or some very large navigable river, should exist, it is hardly possible
to imagine how the extensive tracts of inland country can ever become
civilized or inhabited by Europeans. And of that portion which has been
visited a considerable extent of country appears to be shut out by the
natural barrenness of its soil and sandstone-rocks from any prospect of
ever supplying food to the colonies of civilized man. So that, while
the whole of New Holland is an interesting country from its natural
peculiarities, and even the desolate portion of it adds, by its very
desolation, a deep interest to the adventures of those persons who have
had the courage to attempt to explore it; yet the chief prospects of
Australia's future importance seem to be confined to its line of
coast,--no narrow limits in an island so extensive. Hence the colonies
now flourishing on the eastern, southern, and western shores of New
Holland, especially on the first, will form a chief object of attention
in the present work; although, as will be seen by its contents, the
"bush," or wild country, and its savage inhabitants, will be by no
means overlooked.
Respecting Van Diemen's Land much need not be here said, although,
however small in comparative extent, its population was in 1836 above
half of that of the whole colony of New South Wales. It is, therefore,
and always will be, an important island, though, from its mountainous
character and confined limits, it cannot, of course, be expected to keep
pace with the increasing population of the sister colony. Van Diemen's
Land was discovered in 1642, by the Dutchman, Tasman, who first sailed
round its southern point, and ascertained that the great Southern Land,
or Australia, did not extend, as it had been supposed, to the South
Pole. The island was apparently overlooked, until, in 1804, a colony
was founded there by the English, and it was taken possession of in the
name of his Britannic majesty. Since that time, with the exception of
those early hardships to which all colonies seem liable, it has been
flourishing and increasing. To many Englishmen its colder climate,
(which is yet sufficiently mild,) and its supposed resemblance in
appearance and productions to their native land, have appeared
preferable to all the advantages which the larger island possesses.
Van Diemen's Land is divided from New Holland on the north by Bass's
Straits, its extreme points of latitude are 41 deg. 20', and 43 deg.
40' S., and of longitude 144 deg. 40', and 148 deg. 20' E. Its shape is
irregular, being much broken by various inlets, but its greatest extent
from N. to S. is reckoned to be about 210 miles, and from E. to W. 150
miles, containing a surface of about 24,000 square miles. The native
inhabitants of this smaller island have entirely disappeared before the
superior weapons and powers of _civilised_ man.
[Illustration: TRAVELLERS IN THE BUSH.]
CHAPTER I.
THE BUSH, ON OR NEAR THE COAST.
All that country, which remains in a state of nature uncultivated and
uninclosed, is known among the inhabitants of the Australian colonies
by the expressive name of _the Bush_.[3] It includes land and scenery
of every description, and, likewise, no small variety of climate, as
may be supposed from the great extent of the island of New Holland.
Accordingly, without indulging in surmises concerning the yet unknown
parts, it may be safely said, respecting those which have been more or
less frequently visited and accurately explored, that the extremes of
rural beauty and savage wildness of scenery,--smiling plains and barren
deserts, snowy mountains and marshy fens, crowded forests and bare
rocks, green pastures and sandy flats,--every possible variety, in
short, of country and of aspect may be found in that boundless region
which is all included under the general appellation of _the Bush_. To
enter into a particular or regular description of this is clearly no
less impossible than it would be tedious and unprofitable. And yet
there are many descriptions of different portions of it given by
eye-witnesses, many circumstances and natural curiosities belonging to
it, and related to us upon the best authority, which are likely to
please and interest the reader, who can see and adore God everywhere,
and is capable of taking delight in tracing out and following the
footsteps of Almighty Wisdom and Power, even in the wilderness and among
the mountain-tops. It is proposed, therefore, to select a few of the
pictures which have been drawn by the bold explorers of the Bush, so as
to give a general idea of the character, the scenery, the dangers, and
the privations of that portion of the Australian islands. And, having
first become familiar and acquainted with these, we shall be better able
to set a just value, when we turn to the state of the colonies and their
inhabitants, upon that moral courage, that British perseverance and
daring, which have, within the memory of man, changed so many square
miles of bush into fertile and enclosed farms; which have raised a
regular supply of food for many thousands of human beings out of what,
sixty years ago, was, comparatively speaking, a silent and uninhabited
waste. When the troops and convicts, who formed the first colony in New
South Wales, landed at Port Jackson, the inlet on which the town of
Sydney is now situated, "Every man stepped from the boat literally into
a wood. Parties of people were everywhere heard and seen variously
employed; some in clearing ground for the different encampments; others
in pitching tents, or bringing up such stores as were more immediately
wanted; and the spot, which had so lately been the abode of silence and
tranquillity, was now changed to that of noise, clamour, and
confusion."[4]
[3] It is supposed that the word "Sin," applied to the wilderness
mentioned in Exodus xvi. 1, and also to the mountain of "Sinai," has
the same meaning, so that the appellation of "Bush" is no new term.
[4] Collins' "Account of the Colony of New South Wales," p. 11.
And still, even near to the capital town of the colony, there are
portions of wild country left pretty much in their natural and original
state. Of one of these spots, in the direction of Petersham, the
following lively description from the pen of a gentleman only recently
arrived in the colony, may be acceptable. "To the right lies a large and
open glen, covered with cattle and enclosed with _bush_, (so we call the
forest,) consisting of brushwood and gigantic trees; and, above the
trees, the broad sea of Botany Bay, and the two headlands, Solander and
Banks, with a white stone church and steeple, St. Peter's New Town,
conveying an assurance that there are Englishmen of the right sort not
far from us. And now we plunge into the thicket, with scarcely a track
to guide our steps. I have by this time made acquaintance with the
principal giants of the grove. Some are standing, some are felled; the
unmolested monarchs stand full 200 feet high, and heave their white and
spectral limbs in all directions; the fallen monsters, crushed with
their overthrow, startle | 3,426.052351 |
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THE FOOLISH VIRGIN
By Thomas Dixon
TO GERTRUDE ATHERTON WITH GRATITUDE AND ADMIRATION
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. A FRIENDLY WARNING
II. TEMPTATION
III. FATE
IV. DOUBTS AND FEARS
V. WINGS OF STEEL
VI. BESIDE THE SEA
VII. A VAIN APPEAL
VIII. JIM'S TRIAL
IX. ELLA'S SECRET
X. THE WEDDING
XI. "UNTIL DEATH"
XII. THE LOTOS-EATERS
XIII. THE REAL MAN
XIV. UNWELCOME GUESTS
XV. A LITTLE BLACK BAG
XVI. THE AWAKENING
XVII. THE SURRENDER
XVIII. TO THE NEW GOD
XIX. NANCE'S STOREHOUSE
XX. TRAPPED
XXI. THE DEVIL'S DISCIPLE
XXII. DELIVERANCE
XXIII. THE DOCTOR
XXIV. THE CALL DIVINE
XXV. THE MOTHER
XXVI. A SOUL IS BORN
XXVII. THE BABY
XXVIII. WHAT IS LOVE?
XXIX. THE NEW MAN
LEADING CHARACTERS OF THE STORY
MARY ADAMS, An Old-Fashioned Girl.
JIM ANTHONY, A Modern Youth.
JANE ANDERSON, An Artist.
ELLA, A Scrubwoman.
NANCE OWENS, Jim Anthony's Mother.
A DOCTOR, Whose Call was Divine.
THE BABY, A Mascot.
THE FOOLISH VIRGIN
CHAPTER I. A FRIENDLY WARNING
"Mary Adams, you're a fool!"
The single dimple in a smooth red cheek smiled in answer.
"You're repeating yourself, Jane----"
"You won't give him one hour's time for just three sittings?"
"Not a second for one sitting----"
"Hopeless!"
Mary smiled provokingly, her white teeth gleaming in obstinate good
humor.
"He's the most distinguished artist in America----"
"I've heard so."
"It would be a liberal education for a girl of your training to know
such a man----"
"I'll omit that course of instruction."
The younger woman was silent a moment, and a flush of anger slowly
mounted her temples. The blue eyes were fixed reproachfully on her
friend.
"You really thought that I would pose?"
"I hoped so."
"Alone with a man in his studio for hours?"
Jane | 3,426.054206 |
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Produced by Louise Davies, Sam W. 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
Illustration captions in {brackets} have been added by the
transcriber, with reference to the list of illustrations, for the
convenience of the reader.
THE
ANIMAL STORY BOOK
EDITED BY
ANDREW LANG
_WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS BY H. J. FORD_
[Illustration: {TWO ORAN OTANS}]
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
FOURTH AVENUE & 30TH STREET, NEW YORK
LONDON, BOMBAY, CALCUTTA AND MADRAS
1914
_Copyright, 1896,_
By Longmans, Green, & Co.
_All rights reserved._
First Edition, September, 1896.
Reprinted, November, 1896, July, 1899,
June, 1904, February, 1909,
September, 1914.
THE FAIRY BOOK SERIES
Edited by Andrew Lang
_New and Cheaper Issue_
EACH VOLUME, $1.00 NET
THE BLUE FAIRY BOOK. With 138 Illustrations.
THE RED FAIRY BOOK. With 100 Illustrations.
THE GREEN FAIRY BOOK. With 101 Illustrations.
THE GREY FAIRY BOOK. With 65 Illustrations.
THE YELLOW FAIRY BOOK. With 104 Illustrations.
THE PINK FAIRY BOOK. With 67 Illustrations.
THE BLUE POETRY BOOK. With 100 Illustrations.
THE TRUE STORY BOOK. With 66 Illustrations.
THE RED TRUE STORY BOOK. With 100 Illustrations.
THE ANIMAL STORY BOOK. With 67 Illustrations.
THE RED BOOK OF ANIMAL STORIES. With 65 Illustrations.
THE ARABIAN NIGHTS ENTERTAINMENTS. With 66 Illustrations.
THE VIOLET FAIRY BOOK. With 8 Plates and 54 other
Illustrations.
THE CRIMSON FAIRY BOOK. With 8 Plates and 43 other
Illustrations.
THE BROWN FAIRY BOOK. With 8 Plates and 42 other
Illustrations.
THE OLIVE FAIRY BOOK. With 8 Plates and 43 other
Illustrations.
THE ORANGE FAIRY BOOK. With 8 Plates and 50 other
Illustrations.
THE BOOK OF ROMANCE. With 8 Plates and 44 other
Illustrations.
THE RED ROMANCE BOOK. With 8 Plates and 44 other
Illustrations.
THE BOOK OF PRINCES AND PRINCESSES. By Mrs. Lang. With 8
Plates and 43 other Illustrations.
THE RED BOOK OF HEROES. By Mrs. Lang. With 8 Plates
and 40 other Illustrations.
THE LILAC FAIRY BOOK. With 6 Plates and 46 other
Illustrations.
THE ALL SORTS OF STORIES BOOK. By Mrs. Lang. With 5
Plates and 43 other Illustrations.
THE BOOK OF SAINTS AND HEROES. By Mrs. Lang. With 12
Plates and 18 other Illustrations.
THE STRANGE STORY BOOK. By Mrs. Lang. With Portrait of Andrew
Lang, 12 Plates and 18 other Illustrations.
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO., NEW YORK
[Illustration: ANDROCLES IN THE ARENA]
_To_
_MASTER FREDERICK LONGMAN_
This year our Book for Christmas varies,
Deals not with History nor Fairies
(I can't help thinking, children, you
Prefer a book which is _not_ true).
We leave these intellectual feasts,
To talk of Fishes, Birds, and Beasts.
These--though his aim is hardly steady--
These are, I think, a theme for Freddy!
Trout, though he is not up to fly,
He soon will catch--as well as I!
So, Freddy, take this artless rhyme,
And be a Sportsman in your time!
_PREFACE_
Children who have read our Fairy Books may have noticed that there are
not so very many fairies in the stories after all. The most common
characters are birds, beasts, and fishes, who talk and act like
Christians. The reason of this is that the first people who told the
stories were not very clever, or, if they were clever, they had never
been taught to read and write, or to distinguish between Vegetable,
Animal, and Mineral. They took it that all things were'much of a
muchness:' they were not proud, and held that beast and bird could
talk like themselves, only, of course, in a different language.
After offering, then, so many Fairy Books (though the stories are not
all told yet), we now present you (in return for a coin or two) with a
book about the friends of children and of fairies--the beasts. The
stories are all true, more or less, but it is possible that Monsieur
Dumas and Monsieur Theophile Gautier rather improved upon their tales.
I own that I have my doubts about the bears and serpents in the tales
by the Baron Wogan. This gentleman's ancestors were famous Irish
people. One of them held Cromwell's soldiers back when they were
pursuing Charles II. after Worcester fight. He also led a troop of
horse from Dover to the Highlands, where he died of a wound, after
fighting for the King. The next Wogan was a friend of Pope and Swift;
he escaped from prison after Preston fight, in 1715, and, later,
rescued Prince Charlie's mother from confinement in Austria, and took
her to marry King James. He next became Governor of Don Quixote's
province, La Mancha, in Spain, and was still alive and merry in 1752.
Baron Wogan, descended from these heroes, saw no longer any king to
fight for, so he went to America and fought bears. No doubt he was as
brave as his ancestors, but whether all his stories of serpents are
absolutely correct I am not so certain. People have also been heard to
express doubts about Mr. Waterton and the Cayman. The terrible tale of
Mr. Gully and his deeds of war I _know_ to be accurate, and the story
of Oscar, the sentimental tyke, is believed in firmly by the lady who
wrote it. As for the stories about Greek and Roman beasts, Pliny, who
tells them, is a most respectable author. On the whole, then, this is
more or less of a true story-book.
There ought to be a moral; if so, it probably is that we should be
kind to all sorts of animals, and, above all, knock trout on the head
when they are caught, and don't let the poor things jump about till
they die. A chapter of a very learned sort was written about the
cleverness of beasts, proving that there must have been great
inventive geniuses among beasts long ago, and that now they | 3,426.054856 |
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E-text prepared by Fritz Ohrenschall, Emmanuel Ackerman, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images
generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org).
Missing page images were obtained from HathiTrust Digital Library
(https://www.hathitrust.org/).
Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/veiledwomen00pickiala
VEILED WOMEN
by
MARMADUKE PICKTHALL
Author of “Saïd the Fisherman,” etc.
London
Eveleigh Nash
1913
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER I 5
CHAPTER II 14
CHAPTER III 20
CHAPTER IV 24
CHAPTER V 38
CHAPTER VI 47
CHAPTER VII 59
CHAPTER VIII 64
CHAPTER IX 71
CHAPTER X 77
CHAPTER XI 83
CHAPTER XII 93
CHAPTER XIII 100
CHAPTER XIV 112
CHAPTER XV 121
CHAPTER XVI 131
CHAPTER XVII 143
CHAPTER XVIII 156
CHAPTER XIX 166
CHAPTER XX 174
CHAPTER XXI 182
CHAPTER XXII 188
CHAPTER XXIII 195
CHAPTER XXIV 203
CHAPTER XXV 210
CHAPTER XXVI 218
CHAPTER XXVII 228
CHAPTER XXVIII 236
CHAPTER XXIX 246
CHAPTER XXX 254
CHAPTER XXXI 263
CHAPTER XXXII 271
CHAPTER XXXIII 277
CHAPTER XXXIV 283
CHAPTER XXXV 288
CHAPTER XXXVI 296
CHAPTER XXXVII 300
CHAPTER XXXVIII 305
CHAPTER XXXIX 310
CHAPTER XL 314
MR. EVELEIGH NASH’S LIST OF NEW BOOKS
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
CHAPTER I
“If good the news, O bird, alight and welcome;
If bad, draw up thy claws and hie away!”
At the corner of a lofty housetop overlooking a great part of Cairo,
a woman stood with arms uplifted and solemnly addressed a crow which
seemed about to settle. The bird, as if the meaning of the chant had
reached him, turned in the air with clumsy flapping, and withdrew,
rising to join the hundreds of his kind which circled high above the
city bathed in early sunlight. The woman shook her fist at his receding
shape, glass bracelets tinkling on her strong brown arm. She sighed,
“The curse of God on thy religion, O thou faithless messenger!” then,
with a laugh, turned round to join the group of slave-girls, her
companions, sent up to lay out herbs to dry upon the roof. These had
watched her invocation of the crow with knowing grins. But one, a young
Circassian, who sat watching while the others worked, betrayed surprise
and asked the meaning of the little ceremony.
At that there was much giggling.
“Knowest thou not, O flower? It is the woman’s secret!”
“Secret of secrets, all unknown of men!”
“By Allah, men know nothing of it. In sh´Allah, they will be astonished
some day!”
“O Hind, relate the story! Our honey, our gazelle, Gulbeyzah, has not
heard it.”
Thus urged, the one who had adjured the crow, a free servant of the
house, obsequious towards the slaves, its pampered children, explained
as she knelt down again to work:
“In the name of Allah, thus it is related: Know, O my sweet, that, in
the days of our lord Noah (may God bless him), after the flood, the men
and women were in equal numbers and on equal terms. What then? Why,
naturally they began disputing which should have the right to choose
in marriage and, as the race increased, enjoy more mates than one. The
men gave judgment on their own behalf, as usual; and when the women
made polite objection, turned and beat them. What was to be done? The
case was thus: the men were stronger than the women, but there exists
One stronger than the men--Allah Most High. The women sought recourse
to Allah’s judgment; but--O calamity!--by ill advice they made the crow
their messenger. The crow flew off towards Heaven, carrying their dear
petition in his claws, and from that day to this he brings no answer.
But God is everliving and most merciful; a thousand years with Him
seem but an hour. Perhaps He does but hold our favour over, as might a
son of Adam, till the evening for reflection, to grant it at the last.
In sh´Allah!”
“In sh´Allah!” came the chorus of a dozen voices; followed by a general
laugh when Gulbeyzah, the Circassian, yawned and sighed, “Four goodly
husbands all my own! O Lord, give quickly!”
“That is the reason,” Hind concluded, “why good women have a word to
say to crows who seek to settle. Any one of them may be the bearer of
the blessed edict. The reason as related--Allah knows!”
“Good news and hopeful, by my maidenhood!--the best I ever heard!”
chuckled Gulbeyzah, reposing with her back against the parapet. She
then remained a long while silent, lost in day-dreams.
The hour was after sunrise of a spring morning in the twelve hundred
and eightieth year of the Hegirah, the second of the reign of Ismaîl.
The house was that of Muhammad Pasha Sâlih, a Turk by origin but born
and bred in Egypt, who held a high position in the government. The
girls, their task accomplished, sat down on their heels, each with her
tray of basketwork before her, and sniffed the breeze, in no haste to
return indoors.
“Praise to Allah,” one exclaimed with fervour, “we escape for an hour
from that Gehennum there below. Never have I seen the lady Fitnah so
enraged. Her wrath is not so much because her son desires the English
governess, as because the Pasha sees no hindrance to the match. I
tremble every time I have to go to her, lest in her fury she should
damage my desirability.”
“Praise be to Allah, I am not her property,” replied another, “but that
of her durrah, the great lady. Yet I know her for a good and pious
creature, not likely to be so enraged without rare cause. They say
this foreign teacher has bewitched the young man. He is mad. He flung
himself before her in the passage as she came from driving. She spurned
him, and they bore him, senseless, to his chamber, where for two days
he weeps and moans, refusing nourishment. It is enchantment, evidently,
for the girl is ugly.”
“Nay, by Allah, she is white and nicely rounded. But shameless! But an
infidel!”
“She can change her faith.”
“As easily as dung can change its odour!”
“Gulbeyzah here is whiter and more appetizing.”
“Well, God alone knows what she is or is not. This is sure: I have no
itching to go down into the house while Fitnah Khânum rages.”
“Nor I!” “Nor I!” exclaimed the rest with feeling.
The morning clamour of the city came up | 3,426.05492 |
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Produced by Earle Beach, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team
WE CAN'T HAVE EVERYTHING
By Rupert Hughes
BOOKS BY RUPERT HUGHES
We Can't Have Everything
In A Little Town
The Thirteenth Commandment
Clipped Wings
What Will People Say?
The Last Rose Of Summer
Empty Pockets
[Illustration: WAR, THE SUNDERER, HAD REACHED THEM WITH HIS GREAT
DIVORCE]
WE CAN'T HAVE EVERYTHING
A NOVEL BY RUPERT HUGHES
AUTHOR OF _What Will People Say?_
ILLUSTRATED BY JAMES MONTGOMERY FLAGG
CONTENTS
THE FIRST BOOK MISS KEDZIE THROPP COMES TO TOWN
THE SECOND BOOK MRS. TOMMIE GILFOYLE HAS HER PICTURE TAKEN
THE THIRD BOOK MRS. JIM DYCKMAN IS NOT SATISFIED
THE FOURTH BOOK THE MARCHIONESS HAS QUALMS
THE FIRST BOOK
MISS KEDZIE THROPP COMES TO TOWN
CHAPTER I
Kedzie Thropp had never seen Fifth Avenue or a yacht or a butler or a
glass of champagne or an ocean or a person of social prominence. She
wanted to see them.
For each five minutes of the day and night, one girl comes to New York
to make her life; or so the compilers of statistics claim.
This was Kedzie Thropp's five minutes.
She did not know it, and the two highly important, because extremely
wealthy, beings in the same Pullman car never suspected her--never
imagined that the tangle they were already in would be further knotted,
then snipped, then snarled up again, by this little mediocrity.
We never can know these things, but go blindly groping through the crowd
of fellow-gropers, guessing at our presents and getting our pasts all
wrong. What could we know of our futures?
Jim Dyckman, infamously rich (through no fault of his own), could not
see far enough past Charity Coe Cheever that day to make out Kedzie
Thropp, a few seats removed. Charity Coe--most of Mrs. Cheever's friends
still called her by her maiden name--sat with her back turned to Kedzie;
and latterly Charity Coe was not looking over her shoulder much. She did
not see Kedzie at all.
And Kedzie herself, shabby and commonplace, was so ignorant that if she
looked at either Jim or Charity Coe she gave them no heed, for she had
never even heard of them or seen their pictures, so frequent in the
papers.
They were among the whom-not-to-know-argues-one-self-unknowns. But
there were countless other facts that argued Kedzie Thropp unknown and
unknowing. As she was forever saying, she had never had anything or been
anywhere or seen anybody worth having, being, or seeing.
But Jim Dyckman, everybody said, had always had everything, been
everywhere, known everybody who was anybody. As for Charity Coe, she had
given away more than most people ever have. And she, too, had traveled
and met.
Yet Kedzie Thropp was destined (if there is such a thing as being
destined--at any rate, it fell to her lot) to turn the lives of those
two bigwigs topsy-turvy, and to get her picture into more papers than
both of them put together. A large part of latter-day existence has
consisted of the fear or the favor of getting pictures in the papers.
It was Kedzie's unusual distinction to win into the headlines at her
first entrance into New York, and for the quaintest of reasons. She had
somebody's else picture published for her that time; but later she had
her very own published by the thousand until the little commoner, born
in the most neglected corner of oblivion, grew impudent enough to weary | 3,426.055803 |
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Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer,
Ernest Schaal and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 93.
NOVEMBER | 3,426.058197 |
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Produced by Paul Murray, Turgut Dincer and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
_BOHN'S CLASSICAL LIBRARY_
PLUTARCH'S MORALS
GEORGE BELL & SONS,
LONDON: YORK STREET, COVENT GARDEN
NEW YORK: 66, FIFTH AVEN | 3,426.150934 |
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Produced by Camille Bernard and Marc D'Hooghe at
http://www.freeliterature.org (Images generously made
available by the Internet Archive, scanned by Google Books
Project)
THE SMUGGLER CHIEF
A NOVEL
BY
GUSTAVE AIMARD
AUTHOR OF "STRONGHAND," "BUCCANEER CHIEF," ETC.
LONDON
WARD AND LOCK, 158, FLEET STREET
MDCCCLXIV
PREFACE
The present is the most powerful story which Gustave Aimard has yet
written. While there is enough of startling incident and hairbreadth
escapes to satisfy the greatest craver after sensation, the plot is
carefully elaborated, and great attention is paid to developing the
character of the heroines. If there has been any fault in the author's
previous works, it is that the ladies introduced are too subordinate;
but in the present tale, the primary interest hinges upon them, and
they are the most prominent characters. For this reason I am inclined
to believe that the "Smuggler Chief" will become a greater favourite
with readers than any of its predecessors.
Lascelles Wraxall, Bart.
CONTENTS.
I. THE PROCESSION
II. THE COUNTRY HOUSE
III. THE CONVENT OF THE PURISIMA CONCEPCION
IV. THE SMUGGLERS
V. THE INCA OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY
VI. THE BANIAN'S HOUSE
VII. THE NOVICE
VIII. A VISIT TO THE CONVENT
IX. ON THE SIERRA
X. INSIDE THE TENT
XI. THE SONS OF THE TORTOISE
XII. A HUMAN SACRIFICE
XIII. THE BALAS RUBY
XIV. THE RUPTURE
XV. A FIRST LOSS
XVI. THE PARUMO DE SAN JUAN BAUTISTA
XVII. THE ABDUCTION
XVIII. AFTER THE COMBAT
XIX. THE MANHUNT
XX. THE REDSKINS
XXI. THE INDIAN CITY
XXII. THE JAGOUAS OF THE HUILICHES
XXIII. A MIRACULOUS CURE
XXIV. THE RUINS OF THE HACIENDA
XXV. THE ARREST
XXVI. THE SCALP
XXVII. THE CAPTURE OF THE CONVENT
XXVIII. AN INDIAN VENGEANCE
XXIX. THE GREEN ROOM
XXX. THE CONFESSION
XXXI. THE CAMP OF THE MOLUCHOS
XXXII. THE SACK OF SANTIAGO
CHAPTER I.
THE PROCESSION.
America, a land not yet thoroughly explored, and whose immense
savannahs and gloomy virgin forests conceal so many mysterious secrets
and unknown dramas, sees at this moment all eyes fixed upon her, for
everyone is eager to know the strange customs of the semi-civilized
Indians and the semi-savage Europeans who people the vast solitudes
of that continent; for in the age of transformation in which we live,
they alone have remained stationary, contending inch by inch against
the civilization which invades and drives them back on all sides, and
guarding with a religious obstinacy the faith, manners, and customs of
their fathers--curious manners, full of interest, which require to be
studied carefully and closely to be understood.
It is to America, then, that we invite the reader to accompany us. But
he need not feel alarmed at the length of the voyage, for he can make
it while comfortably seated in his easy chair by the fireside.
The story we propose to tell has its scene laid at Valparaiso--a
Chilian city as regards the soil on which it is built, but English and
French, European or American, through the strange composite of its
population, which, is formed of people from all countries, who have
introduced every possible language and brought with them every variety
of trade.
Valparaiso! the name echoes in the ear like the soft sweet notes of a
love strain!
Valparaiso! the city of Paradise--the vast depot of the whole world.
A coquettish, smiling, and frolicsome city, slothfully reclining, like
a thoughtless Indian maid, at the base of three mountains and at the
end of a glorious bay, dipping the tips of her roseate feet in the
azure waters of the Pacific, and hiding her broad brilliant forehead
in the tempest-swollen clouds which float along from the crests of the
Cordilleras to make her a splendid diadem.
This city, the advanced sentinel of Transatlantic civilization, is the
first land which the traveller discovers after doubling Cape Horn, of
melancholy and ill-omened memory.
When at sunrise of a fine spring morning a vessel sails round the
lighthouse point situated at the extremity of the Playa-Aucha, this
charming oasis is perceived, half veiled by a transparent mist, only
allowing the white houses and lofty edifices to be distinguished in a
vague and fantastic way that conduces to reverie.
The atmosphere, impregnated with the sharp scents from the beach and
the sweet emanations of the trees and flowers, deliciously expands the
chest, and in a second causes the mariner, who comes back to life and
hope, to forget the three months of suffering and incessant danger
whose long hours have passed for him minute by minute, ere he reached
this long-desired haven.
On August 25th, 1833, two men were seated in a posada situated in the
Calle San Agostino, and kept by a Frenchman of the name of Crevel,
long established in the country, at a table on which stood two glasses
and a nearly empty bottle of aguardiente of Pisco, and were eagerly
conversing in a low voice about a matter which seemed to interest them
in the highest degree.
One of these men, about twenty-five years of age, wore a characteristic
costume of the guasos, a name by which the inhabitants of the interior
are designated; a wide poncho of llama wool, striped with different
brilliant colours, covered his shoulders and surrounded his bare neck
with an elegant and strangely-designed Indian embroidery. Long boots
of dyed wool were fastened above his knees by silk cords, and armed at
the heels with enormous silver spurs, whose wheels, large as saucers,
compelled him to walk on tiptoe whenever he felt an inclination | 3,426.548678 |
2023-11-16 19:14:10.5289150 | 7,436 | 13 |
Produced by Suzanne Shell, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
Secret History Revealed by Lady Peggy O'Malley
By C. N. & A. M. WILLIAMSON
Author of "The Lightning Conductor Discovers America," "A
Soldier of the Legion," "Lady Betty Across the Water," Etc.
With Frontispiece in Colors
By CLARENCE ROWE
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers New York
Published by arrangements with Doubleday, Page and Company
_Copyright, 1915, by_
C. N. & A. M. Williamson
_All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian_
[Illustration: _"As I kicked it away, one of the slippers flew off and
seemed spitefully to follow the coat."_]
CHAPTER I
If I didn't tell this, nobody else ever would; certainly not Diana, nor
Major Vandyke--still less Eagle himself--I mean Captain Eagleston March;
and they and I are the only ones who know, except a few such people as
presidents and secretaries of war and generals, who never tell anything
even under torture. Besides, there is the unofficial part. Without that,
the drama would be like a play in three acts, with the first and third
acts chopped off. The presidents and secretaries of war and generals
know nothing about the unofficial part.
It's strange how the biggest things of life grow out of the tiniest
ones. There _is_ the old simile of the acorn and the oak, for instance.
But oaks take a long time to grow, and everybody concerned in oak
culture is calmly expecting them to do it. Imagine an acorn exploding to
let out an oak huge enough to shadow the world!
If, two years ago, when I was sixteen, I hadn't wanted money to buy a
white frock with roses on it, which I saw in Selfridge's window, a
secret crisis between the United States and Mexico would have been
avoided; and the career of a splendid soldier would not have been
broken.
One month before I met the white dress, Diana and Father and I had come
from home--that's Ballyconal--to see what good we could do with a season
in London; good for Diana, I mean, and I put her before Father because
he does so himself. Every one else he puts far, far behind, like the
beasts following Noah into the Ark. Not that I'm sure, without looking
them up, that they did follow Noah. But if it had been Father, he would
have arranged it in that way, to escape seeing their ugly faces or
smelling those who were not nice to smell.
I suppose I should have been left at Ballyconal, with nothing to do but
study my beloved French and Spanish, my sole accomplishments; only
Father had contrived to let the place, through the New York _Herald_, to
an American family who, poor dears, snapped it up by cable from the
description in the advertisement of "a wonderful XII Century Castle."
Besides, Diana couldn't afford a maid. And that's why I was taken to
America afterward. I can do hair beautifully. So, when one thinks back,
Fate had begun to weave a web long before the making of that white
dress. None of those tremendous things would have happened to change
heaven knows how many lives, if I hadn't been born with the knack of a
hairdresser, inherited perhaps from some bourgeoise ancestress of mine
on Mother's side.
When the American family found out what Ballyconal was really like, and
the twelfth-century rats had crept out from the hinterland of the old
wainscoting ("rich in ancient oak," the advertisement stated), to
scamper over its faces by night, and door knobs had come off in its
hands by day, or torn carpets had tripped it up and sprained its ankles,
it said bad words about deceitful, stoney-broke Irish earls, and fled at
the end of a fortnight, having paid for two months in advance at the
rate of thirty-five guineas a week. Father had been sadly sure that the
Americans would do that very thing, so he had counted on getting only
the advance money and no more. This meant cheap lodgings for us, which
spoiled Diana's chances from the start, as she told Father the minute
she saw the house. It was in a fairly good neighbourhood, and the
address looked fashionable on paper; but man, and especially girl, may
not live on neighbourhood and paper alone, even if the latter can be
peppered with coronets.
I don't know what curse or mildew collects on poor Irish earls, but it
simply goes nowhere to be one in London; and then there was the handicap
of Father's two quaint marriages. Diana's mother was a music-hall
"artiste" (isn't that the word?) without any money except what she
earned, and also--I heard a woman say once, when she thought Little
Pitcher's ears were engaged elsewhere--without any "h's" except in the
wrong places.
My mother, the poor darling, must have been just as unsuitable in her
way. She was a French chocolate heiress, whom Father married to mend the
family fortunes, when Diana was five; but some one shortly after sprang
on the market a better chocolate than her people made, so she was a
failure, too, and not even beautiful like Diana's mother. Luckily for
her, she died when I was born; but neither she nor the "artiste" can
have helped Father much, with the smart friends of his young days when
he was one of the best-looking bachelors in town.
Diana was considered beautiful, but "the image of her mother," by those
inconvenient creatures who run around the world remembering other
people's pasts; and though she and Father were invited to lots of big
crushes, they weren't asked to any of the charming intimate things which
Diana says are the right background for a debutante. This went to Di's
heart and Father's liver, and made them both dreadfully hard to get on
with. Cinderella wasn't in it with me, except that when they were
beastly, I was beastly back again; a relief to which Cinderella probably
didn't treat herself, being a fairy-story heroine, stuffed with virtues
as a sultana cake is stuffed with plums.
The day I asked Father for the white frock with roses on it in
Selfridge's window, he was so disagreeable that I went to my room and
slammed the door and kicked a chair. It was true that I did not need the
dress, because I never went anywhere and was only a flapper (it's almost
more unpleasant to be called a flapper than a "mouth to feed"); still,
the real pleasure of having a thing is when you don't need it, but just
want it. The farther away from me that gown seemed to recede, the more I
longed for it; and when Father told me not to nag or be a little idiot,
I determined that somehow or other, by hook or crook, the frock should
hang on my wall behind the chintz curtain which calls itself a wardrobe.
The morning of the refusal, Father and Di were starting off to be away
all that day and night. They were asked to a ridiculous house party
given by a rich, suburban Pickle family at Epsom for the Derby, and Di
had been grumbling that it was exactly the sort of invitation they
_would_ get: for one night and the Derby, instead of Ascot. However, it
was the time of the month for a moon, and quite decent young men had
been enticed; so Di wasn't so very sorry for herself after all. Her
nickname at home in Ireland, "Diana the Huntress," had been already
imported, free of duty, to England, by a discarded flirtee; but I don't
think she minded, it sounded so dashing, even if it was only grasping.
She went off moderately happy; and I was left with twenty-four hours on
my hands to decide by what hook, or what crook, I could possibly annex
the dress which I felt had been born for me.
At last I thought of a way that might do. My poor little chocolate
mother made a will the day before she died, when I was a week old,
leaving everything she possessed to me. Of course her money was all
gone, because she had been married for two years to Father, and Himself
is a very expensive man. But he hadn't spent her jewels yet, nor her
wedding veil, nor a few other pieces of lace. Since then he's wheedled
most of the jewellery out of me, but the wedding veil I mean to keep
always, and a Point d'Alencon scarf and some handkerchiefs he has
probably forgotten. I had forgotten them, too, but when I was racking my
brain how to get the Selfridge dress, the remembrance tumbled down off
its dusty little shelf.
The legacies were at the bottom of my trunk, because it was simpler to
bring them away from Ballyconal, than find a stowaway place that the
American family wouldn't need for its belongings. The veil nothing would
have induced me to part with; but the scarf was so old, I felt sure it
must have come to my mother from a succession of chocolate or perhaps
soap or sardine grandmammas, and I hadn't much sentiment about it. I had
no precise idea what the lace ought to be worth, but I fancied Point
d'Alencon must be valuable, and I thought I ought to get more than
enough by selling it to buy the white dress, which cost seven guineas.
Taxying through Wardour Street with Di, I had often noticed an antique
shop appropriately crusted with the grime of centuries, all but the
polished window, where lace and china and bits of old silver were
displayed. It seemed to me that a person intelligent enough to combine
odds and ends with such fetching effect ought to be the man to
appreciate my great--or great great-grandmother's scarf. I didn't run to
taxis when alone, and would as soon have got into one of those appalling
motor buses as leap on to the back of a mad elephant that had
berserkered out of the Zoo. Consequently, I had to walk. It was an
untidy, badly dusted day, with a hot wind; and I realized, when I caught
sight of myself in a convex mirror in the curiosity-shop window, that I
looked rather like a small female edition of Strumpelpeter.
There was a bell on the door which, like a shrill, disparaging _leit
motif_, announced me, and made me suddenly self-conscious. It hadn't
occurred to me before that there was anything to be ashamed of or
frightened about in my errand. I'd vaguely pictured the shopman as a
dear old Dickensy thing who would take a fussy interest in me and my
scarf, and who would, with a fatherly manner, press upon me a handful of
sovereigns or a banknote. But as the bell jangled, one of the most
repulsive men I ever saw looked toward the door. There was another man
in the place, talking to the first creature, and he looked up, too. Not
even the blindest bat, however, could have mistaken him for a
shopkeeper, and his being there put not only a different complexion on
the business, but on me. I felt mine turning bright pink, instead of the
usual cream that accompanies the chocolate- hair and eyes with
which I advertise the industry of my French ancestors.
The shopman stared at me with a sulky look exactly like that of
Nebuchadnezzar, our boar pig from Yorkshire, which took a prize for its
nose or something. This person might have won a prize for his nose also,
if an offer had been going for large ones. The rest of his face, olive
green and fat, was in the perspective of this nose, just as the lesser
proportions of his body, such as chest and legs, were in the perspective
of his--waist. The shop was much smaller than I had expected from the
window--a place you might have swung a cat in without giving it
concussion of the brain, but not a lion; and the men--the fat proprietor
and his long, lean customer, and two suits of deformed-looking armour,
seemed almost to fill it. I've heard an actor talk about a theatre being
so tiny he was "on the audience"; and these two were on theirs, the
audience being me. I was so close to the fat one that I could see the
crumbs on the folds of his waistcoat, like food stored on cupboard
shelves. I took such a dislike to him that I felt inclined to bounce out
as quickly as I had bounced in, but the door had banged mechanically
behind me, as if to stop the bell at any cost. The shop smelt of moth
powder, old leather, musty paper, and hair oil.
"Well, my little girl, what do you want?" inquired Nebuchadnezzar, with
the kind of lisp that turns a rat into a yat.
Little girl, indeed! To be called a "little girl" by a thing like that,
and asked what I wanted in that second-hand Hebrew tone, made me boil
for half a second. Then, suddenly, I saw that it was funny, and I almost
giggled as I imagined myself haughtily explaining that I had reached the
age of sixteen, to say nothing of being the daughter of two or three
hundred earls. I didn't care a tuppenny anything whether he mistook me
for nine or ninety; but I did begin to feel that it wouldn't be pleasant
unrolling my tissue-paper parcel and bargaining for money under the eyes
and ears of the other man.
They were very nice eyes and ears. Already I'd had time to notice that;
for even in these days, when men aren't supposed to be as indispensable
to females as they were in Edwardian or Victorian and earlier ages, I
don't think it's entirely obsolete for a girl to learn more about a
man's looks in three seconds than she picks up about another woman's
frock in two.
This man wasn't what most girls of sixteen would call young; but I am
different from most girls because I've always had to be a sort of law
unto myself, in order not to become a family footstool. I've had to make
up my mind about everything or risk my brain degenerating into a bath
sponge; and one of the things I made it up about early was that I didn't
like boys or nuts. The customer in the curiosity shop, to whom the
proprietor was showing perfect ducks of Chelsea lambs plastered against
green Chelsea bushes, was, maybe, twenty-eight or thirty, a great age
for a woman, but not so bad for a man; and I wished to goodness he would
buy or not buy a lamb and go forth about other business. However, I
couldn't indefinitely delay answering that question addressed to "little
girl."
"I want to show you a point-lace scarf," I snapped. Nebuchadnezzar's
understudy squeezed himself out from behind the counter, and lumbered a
step or two nearer me, moving not straight ahead, but from side to side,
as tables do for spiritualists.
"We don't mend lace here, if that's what you've come for, my child," he
patronized me.
"It doesn't need to be mended," said I. "It's beautiful lace. It's to be
sold."
"Oa--oh," he exploded with a cockney drawl, and a rude look coming into
his eyes which he'd kept out while there was hope that the dusty,
blown-about little thing might turn into a customer. "Well! Let's see!
But I've got more old lace on hand now than I know what to do with."
As I unrolled layers of tissue paper which seemed to rustle loudly out
of sheer spite, I was conscious that the customer had sauntered away as
far as possible, and was gazing at some old prints on the wall which
gave him an excuse to turn his back to us. I thought this sweetly
tactful of him.
Nebuchadnezzar (over the shop he calls himself Franks, the sort of
noncommittal name a Jacobs or Wolfstein likes to hide under) almost
snatched the lace from my hands as I opened the package, shook out its
folds, held it close to his eyes, pawed it, and sniffed. "Humph!" he
grunted ungraciously. "Same old thing as usual. If I've got one of 'em,
I've got a dozen. What did you expect to ask for it?"
"Ten pounds," I announced, as bold as one of those lions that could not
be swung in his shop.
"Ten pounds!" I don't know whether the sound he made was meant for a
snort or a laugh. "Ten grandmothers!"
"Yes," said I, flaring up as if he'd struck a match on me. "That's just
it! Ten of my grandmothers have worn this scarf since it was made, and I
want a pound for each of them."
There was a small funny noise behind me, like a staunched giggle, and I
glanced over my shoulder at the customer, but his back looked most calm
and inoffensive.
"You'll have to take it out in wanting, I'm afraid, my girl," returned
the shopkeeper. "I can offer you thirty bob, no more and no less. That's
all the thing's worth to me."
I tried to pull the scarf out of his hands, but he didn't seem ready to
give it up. "It's worth a great deal more to me," I said. "I'll carry it
away somewhere else, where they _know_ about old lace."
"My word! You're a pert young piece for your size!" remarked the
horrible man; and though I could have boxed his ears (which stood out
exactly like the handles on an urn), I felt my own tingle, because it
was _true_, what he said: I was a pert young piece. Holding my own at
home, and lots of other things in life (for sixteen years of life seem
fearfully long if they're all you've got behind you), had made me pert,
and I didn't love myself for it, any more than a porcupine can be really
fond of his own quills. I couldn't bear, somehow, that the man with the
nice eyes should be hearing me called a "pert piece," and thinking me
one. Quite a smart repartee came into my head, but a heavy feeling in my
heart kept me from putting it into words; and Nebuchadnezzar went
grunting on: "I know as much about old lace as any man in this street,
if not in town. That's why I don't offer more."
"Give me back my scarf, please," was my only answer, in quite a small
voice.
Still he held on to the lace. "Look here, miss," said he in a changed
tone, "how did you come to get hold of this bit of property, anyhow?
Folks ain't in the habit of sending their children out to dispose o'
their valuables. How can I tell that you ain't nicked this off your
mother or your aunt, or some other dame who doesn't know you're out? If
I was doin' my dooty, I shouldn't wonder if I oughtn't to call in the
police!"
"You horrid, horrid person," I flung at him. "You're trying to frighten
me--to blackmail me--into selling you my lace for thirty shillings, when
maybe it's worth twenty times that. But if any one calls the police, it
will be me, to give you in charge for--for intimidation."
Almost before I had time to be proud of the word when I'd contrived to
get it out, the customer had detached himself from the prints and
intervened.
"I beg your pardon for interfering," he said (to me, not to
Nebuchadnezzar), "but I can't help wondering"--and he smiled a perfectly
disarming smile--"if you aren't rather young to be a business woman on
your own account. Will you let me see the lace?"
Of course the shopkeeper gave it up to him instantly, shamefaced at
realizing that his customer, instead of admiring his smart methods, was
entering the lists against him.
While my champion (I felt sure somehow that he was my champion at heart)
took the scarf in his hands, and began trying to look wise over it, I
had about forty-nine seconds in which to look at him. Even at first
glance I had thought him nice, but now I decided that he was the nicest
man I had ever seen. Not the handsomest; I don't mean that, for our
county in Ireland is celebrated for its handsome men, both high and low.
Also I'd seen several Dreams since we came to London: but--well, just
the _nicest_.
Because it was the middle of the season and he was in tweeds, I fancied
that he didn't go in for being "smart." I'd learned enough already about
London ways to understand as much as that. But all the same I thought
that he had the air of a soldier. And he had such a contradictory sort
of face that it interested me immensely, wondering what the
contradictions meant.
He had taken off his hat when I came into the shop (I'd noticed that,
and had been pleased), and now I saw that the upper part of his forehead
was very white and the rest of his face very tanned, as if his
complexion had slipped down. He had almost straw- hair, which
seemed lighter than it was because of his sunburned skin; and his
eyebrows and the eyelashes (lowered while he gazed at my lace) were two
or three shades darker. They were long, arched brows that gave a look of
dreamy romance to the upper part of his face, but the lower part was
extremely determined, perhaps even obstinate. It jumped into my head
that a woman--even a fascinator like Diana--would never be able to make
him change his mind about things, or do things he didn't wish to do.
That was one of the contradictions, and the nose was another. It was
rather a Roman sort of nose, and looked aggressive, as if it would be
searching about for forlorn hopes to fight for; anyhow, as if it must
fight at all costs. Then, contradicting the nose, was the mouth (for he
was clean-shaven as all young men ought to be, and not leave too much to
our imagination), a mouth somehow like a boy's, affectionate and kind
and gay, though far from being weak. I didn't know what to make of him
at all, and, of course, I liked him the better for that.
"I think this is mighty fine lace," he pronounced, when he had studied
it long enough to show off as a connoisseur; and all of a sudden I
realized that he was an American. Diana had collected two American
friends who often invited her to the Savoy, and I'd heard them, and no
one else, say "mighty fine." "Are you sure you want to get rid of it?"
I thought he was a dear to put it like that, as if I could have no real
need for money, but had such a glut of lace scarves at home that I must
rid myself of a few superfluous ones. As he spoke he was looking
straight at me with the kind eyes I had noticed first of all--gray and
yellow and brown mixed up together into hazel. I suppose it must have
been some quality in that look which made me decide instantly to tell
him everything. I'd have suffered the torture of the boot (anyhow, for a
minute or two) before I would have explained myself to Nebuchadnezzar.
"I'm sure I do want to sell, if I can get as much as ten pounds for the
thing," I answered. "Nothing less than seven guineas would be of any use
to me. There's something which costs seven guineas--a thing I'm dying to
buy. My mother left this scarf to me, as well as some other lace I
wouldn't sell for the world. But it's quite mine and I can do as I like
with it."
"Let me see! Ten pounds is fifty dollars, isn't it?" the man reflected
out aloud.
"I don't know," I caught him up, "anything about American money or
America."
He smiled at me again. Perhaps I had hoped he would.
"That's too bad! You ought to come over on our side and learn."
"I'd love to, especially to the parts where I could show off my French
and Spanish. But I'm sure I shall never get the chance to cross the
sea." I was three thousand miles from dreaming then of all the things
that were to come out of this little affair of the scarf and the dress
which had tempted me to put my lace on the market.
"Well," he went on, going back from me to my property. "I'll buy this
pretty thing for ten pounds if you like to sell it to me; but honestly,
I warn you that for all I know it may be worth a lot more."
"I'll be perfectly satisfied with ten pounds," I said. "But I don't wish
you to buy just out of kindness, when I'm almost sure you don't really
want to."
"But I do," he assured me. "I came into this place to carry out a
commission for an aunt of mine in America. She wrote and asked me to
find her something in a curiosity shop in England that she could give
for a wedding present to a girl who's wild about antiques. An old friend
of ours is going to take the parcel back with her when she sails
to-morrow; smuggle it, maybe, but that's not my business. I thought of a
miniature on ivory, but I haven't taken a big fancy to anything I've
seen so far. I like your lace better, and it costs just the money my
aunt told me to spend. So there you are."
"And there's the lace," I added, laughing. "It's yours. Thank you very
much."
"It's for me to thank you," said he. "I'm awfully afraid I'm getting the
best of the bargain, though. Wouldn't you rather go somewhere first and
consult an expert?"
"No, indeed," said I. "Maybe the expert would tell us the lace was worth
only five pounds, not ten. What I'm in a hurry to do is to dash to
Selfridge's, and buy the dress I want before some beast of a girl gets
it before me. Oh, horror! Maybe she's there already!"
"The worst of it is," said my new friend--I felt he was that--"I haven't
got the ten pounds on me. I meant to have anything I might decide to buy
sent home and paid for at my hotel."
"Can't I go with you to your hotel, and you give me the money there?" I
wanted to know. "You see, I'm in such a hurry about the dress."
He glanced at me with a funny look in his eyes, and somehow I read what
it meant. _He_ hadn't called me a "little girl," and had behaved as
respectfully as if I were a hundred; but I could see that he thought me
about twelve or thirteen; and now he was saying to himself: "No harm
carting a child like that about without a chaperon."
This was the first time I'd ever been glad that I had sacrificed myself
for Di, and come to London in my old frocks up to the tops of my boots,
and my hair hanging in two tails down to my waist. Of course, if any one
were caddish or cattish enough to look her up in the book, it could be
found out at a glance that Lady Diana O'Malley was twenty-three; but
even if a person is a cad or a cat, he (or she) is often too lazy to go
through the dull pages of Debrett or Burke; and besides, there is seldom
one of the books handy. Therefore, Di had a sporting chance of being
taken for eighteen, the sweet conventional age of a debutante on her
presentation. Every one did know, however, that Father had married
twice, and that there must be a difference of five or six years between
Diana and the chocolate child. Accordingly, if I could be induced to
look thirteen at most, it would be useful. As for me, I hadn't cared
particularly. I knew I shouldn't get any grown-up fun in London, whether
my hair were in a tail or a twist, or whether my dresses were short or
long. Sometimes I had been sorry for beginning in that way, but now I
saw that virtue was going to be rewarded.
"All right," said my friend. "Maybe it will be the best arrangement."
And we left Nebuchadnezzar looking as the dog in the fable must have
looked, when he snapped at the reflected bit of meat in the water and
lost the bit in his mouth.
A taxi was passing, and stopped at the flourish of a cane. I jumped in
before I could be helped. The man followed; and though I was looking
forward only to a little fun, my very first adventure in London "on my
own," the chauffeur was speeding us along a road that didn't stop at the
Waldorf Hotel: it was a road which would carry us both on and on, toward
a blazing bonfire of wild passion and romance.
CHAPTER II
The first thing we did when we were in the taxicab was to introduce
ourselves to each other. I told him that I was Marguerite O'Malley, but
that, as I wasn't a bit like a marguerite or even a common or garden
daisy, I'd degenerated into Peggy. I didn't drag in anything about my
family tree; it seemed unnecessary. He told me that he was Eagleston
March, but that he had degenerated into "Eagle." I thought this nickname
suited his aquiline nose, his brilliant eyes, and that eager, alert look
he had of being alive in every nerve and fibre. He told me, too, that he
was a captain in the American army, over in England for the first time
on leave; but before he got so far, I knew very well who he was, for I'd
read about him days ago in Father's _Times_.
"Why, you're the first American who's looped the loop at Hendon!" I
cried out. "You invented some stability thing or other to put on a
monoplane."
He laughed. "Some stability thing or other's a neat description. But
you're right. I'm the American fellow that the loop has looped."
"Now I know," said I, "why you're not at the Derby to-day. Horses at
their fastest must seem slow to a flying man."
"This time you're not right," he corrected me. "I'm not at the Derby
because it isn't much fun seeing a race when you don't know anything
about the horses, and haven't a pal to go with."
"But you must have lots of pals," I thought out aloud. "Every one adores
the airmen."
"Do they? I haven't noticed it."
"Then you can't be conceited. Perhaps American men aren't. I never knew
one before, except in business."
"Good heavens! So you really are a business woman, as well as a
linguist, apparently. At what age did you begin?"
"What age do you take me for now?" I hedged.
"About twelve or thirteen, I suppose, though I'm no judge of girls'
ages, whether they're little or big."
"I'm over twelve," I confessed, and went on hastily to change the
dangerous subject. "But I really did have business with an American. It
was in letters. My father made me write them, though they were signed
with his name. He hates writing letters. I'm so thankful your name isn't
Trowbridge. I hope you aren't related to any Trowbridges?"
"Not one. But why?"
"Oh, because, if you were, you might want to throw me to the wolves--I
mean under the motor buses. We've done the Trowbridges of Chicago a
fearful wrong. We let them our place in Ireland, while we came to London
to enjoy ourselves."
He laughed aloud, that very nice, young laugh of his, which made me feel
more at home with him than with people I'd known all my life. "You
really are a quaint little woman," he said. "Now I come to think of it,
I do know some people in Chicago named Trowbridge."
"Oh, well," said I, "if you must throw me out of anything, do it out of
your monoplane. It would be so much more distinguished than out of a
mere taxi. And at least, I should have flown first! For you would have
to take me up before you could dash me down. And so my dream would have
come true."
"Is it your dream to fly?" he asked, interested.
"Waking and sleeping," said I. "Ever since I was a tiny child, my very
best dream has been that I was | 3,426.548955 |
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[Transcriber's Note: Obvious printer errors have been corrected
without note.]
RICHARD WAGNER
HIS LIFE AND HIS DRAMAS
A BIOGRAPHICAL STUDY OF THE MAN AND AN EXPLANATION OF HIS WORK
BY
W.J. HENDERSON
AUTHOR OF "THE STORY OF MUSIC," "PRELUDES AND STUDIES," "WHAT IS GOOD
MUSIC?" ETC.
[Illustration]
G.P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
_The Knickerbocker Press_
1902
Copyright, 1901
BY
W.J. HENDERSON
Set up, electrotyped, and printed, November, 1901
Reprinted February, 1902
_The Knickerbocker Press, New York_
[Illustration: Richard Wagner]
TO
ROBERT EDWIN BONNER
PREFACE
The purpose of this book is to supply Wagner lovers with a single
work which shall meet all their needs. The author has told the story
of Wagner's life, explained his artistic aims, given the history of
each of his great works, examined its literary sources, shown how
Wagner utilised them, surveyed the musical plan of each drama, and
set forth the meaning and purpose of its principal ideas. The work
is not intended to be critical, but is designed to be expository.
It aims to help the Wagner lover to a thorough knowledge and
understanding of the man and his works.
The author has consulted all the leading biographies, and for
guidance in the direction of absolute trustworthiness he is directly
indebted to Mme. Cosima Wagner, whose suggestions have been carefully
observed. He is also under a large, but not heavy, burden of
obligation to Mr. Henry Edward Krehbiel, musical critic of _The New
York Tribune_, who carefully read the manuscript of this work and
pointed out its errors. The value of Mr. Krehbiel's revision and
his hints cannot be over-estimated. Thanks are also due to Mr. Emil
Paur, conductor of the Philharmonic Society, of New York, for certain
inquiries made in Europe.
The records of first performances have been prepared with great care
and with no little labour. For the dates of those at most of the
European cities the author is indebted to an elaborate article by E.
Kastner, published in the _Allgemeine Musik. Zeitung_, of Berlin, for
July and August, | 3,426.555361 |
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THE STORY OF POCAHONTAS
AND CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH
TOLD AND PICTURED BY E. BOYD SMITH
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
[Illustration]
COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY E. BOYD SMITH
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published November 1906._
[Illustration]
LIST OF COLORED PLATES
PLATE
1. POCAHONTAS
2. JOHN SMITH
3. HOW CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH WON HIS SPURS
4. STRANGE TALES OF A STRANGE PEOPLE
5. THE COMING OF THE WHITE MAN
6. THE LANDING OF THE COLONISTS--1607
7. THE AMBUSH
8. BATTLE WITH THE INDIANS
9. CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH A PRISONER
10. THE DANCE OF VICTORY
11, 12. POCAHONTAS SAVES CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH'S LIFE
13. CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH AGAIN FREE
14. POCAHONTAS BRINGS FOOD TO THE COLONISTS
15. CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH GOES IN SEARCH OF CORN
16. POCAHONTAS'S WARNING
17. CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH SAILS FOR ENGLAND
18. POCAHONTAS IS CAPTURED BY ARGALL
19. MARRIAGE OF POCAHONTAS
20. THE LANDING OF POCAHONTAS IN ENGLAND
21, 22. POCAHONTAS AT THE COURT OF JAMES THE FIRST
23. THE MEETING OF POCAHONTAS AND CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH
24. CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH GOES TO SEA AGAIN
25. POCAHONTAS LONGS FOR HOME
26. THE END OF THE STORY OF POCAHONTAS
THE STORY OF POCAHONTAS AND CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH
1. POCAHONTAS
Long, long ago, when the Indians owned the land, there lived in
Virginia, near the river afterwards called the James, a little girl, the
Princess Pocahontas, daughter of the great chief Powhatan.
Pocahontas was her father's favorite child, and the pet of the whole
tribe; even the fierce warriors loved her sunny ways.
She was a child of nature, and the birds trusted her and came at her
call. She knew their songs, and where they built their nests. So she
roamed the woods, and learned the ways of all the wild things, and grew
to be a care-free maiden.
[Illustration]
2. JOHN SMITH
In far-away England was a doughty youth, John Smith, who dreamed of
battle and adventure. Though but a boy, he had already fought as a
soldier in the wars of France, and later in Flanders.
And these two, the wild little Indian girl and the warrior boy, now so
far apart, in time were to meet and become great friends.
At home again in Lincolnshire after dangerous travels, the youth still
longed for the strife and glory of the fray.
He retired to a quiet spot in the wood, and lived in a camp of his own
making, where he read tales of war and knights-errant, and in his
enthusiasm fought imaginary enemies. At last he could bear dreaming no
longer, and started off again to roam the world in search of adventure.
[Illustration]
3. HOW CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH WON HIS SPURS
He journeyed across France to join the armies fighting the Turks, but
was robbed on the way by false companions, and suffered much hardship.
At last he reached Marseilles, where he took ship with a party of
pilgrims going to the East. A great storm arising, the pilgrims
superstitiously blamed him for it, and threw him overboard. By good
fortune he was able to swim to a small island, whence he was soon
rescued by a Breton ship. He stayed for some time on this ship, taking
part in a sea fight with a Venetian vessel, and received, after the
victory, a share of the spoils.
Now, with money again in his pocket, he wandered through Italy, and then
crossed over to Styria. Here he joined the army of the Emperor Rudolph
and was appointed captain of a company of cavalry, and did good service.
During the siege of the town of Regal, the Turks, who held it,
challenged any captain among the besiegers to come out and fight one of
their champions.
Captain John Smith was chosen to meet the Turk, and on a field before
the town they fought, and the Turk was beaten and lost his head. On the
next day another Turk challenged the victor and was also overthrown. And
then came still a third, who, after a desperate battle, met the same
fate as the other two. For this brave service Prince Sigismund gave the
Captain a coat-of-arms with three Turks' heads as the device. And thus
Captain John Smith won his spurs.
But after this he was less fortunate, for, being wounded, he was taken
prisoner by the Turks and made a slave. In time, however, he escaped and
fled to Russia, and from thence at last found his way home to England
again.
[Illustration]
4. STRANGE TALES OF A STRANGE PEOPLE
Meanwhile Pocahontas, now grown to be a girl of some twelve years, often
listened eagerly to the stories of the old men of her tribe, who, on
these warm spring days, sat and smoked together, and told of the things
they had done and seen long ago. Some remembered a white-faced people
who, nearly twenty years before, had come to Roanoke Island from no one
knew where,--men with yellow hair, dressed from head to foot in cumbrous
garments, and bearing wonderful weapons which spat out fire, with much
noise. Many believed them gods, while others thought they were devils.
And Pocahontas listened in wonder, ever curious to hear of this strange
people so unlike her own. The old priest mournfully prophesied that the
strangers, being of some mighty race, would come again from out the
great waters and overrun the whole land.
[Illustration]
5. THE COMING OF THE WHITE MAN
And scarcely had he spoken when it seemed that his warning had come
true, for runners, wildly excited, cried out that a fleet of mighty
winged canoes had been seen afar on the ocean, advancing like great
clouds.
Then Pocahontas, with many of her people, hurried to the hills, and
there, overlooking the sea, they saw in truth three strange craft slowly
sailing up the bay.
These were the ships from England, bringing a new colony, a band of
pioneers, and adventurers in search of gold, to take possession of the
broad lands of America.
[Illustration]
6. THE LANDING OF THE COLONISTS--1607
That night the ships dropped anchor in the bay. On the morrow the
colonists disembarked, and Captain Gosnold, their leader, claimed the
land in the king's name. Among the first, as one of the Council, was
Captain John Smith, who had again left home in quest of adventure and
glory, this time in the new world. To the eyes of the weary travelers,
after their long voyage across the sea, Virginia, on that bright April
day, seemed a land of promise. With great hopes and renewed courage they
set to work to build the town which they called Jamestown, in honor of
their king,--a town which lives to this day.
But after a time they grew dissatisfied, for they failed to find the
gold mines they had hoped for. And they became discouraged, and
quarreled, and things began to go ill with them.
To make matters worse Captain Gosnold after a few months sickened and
died.
[Illustration]
7. THE AMBUSH
Fortunately for the good of the colonists, who had completely lost heart
and were anxious to give up the undertaking, Captain John Smith soon
became their leader. Ever active and enterprising, he inspired the
others by his example. He vigorously put things in order, and set the
idlers to work to complete their half-finished houses, and to build the
forts to protect them from the Indians, who now showed a warlike spirit.
Next he went off to explore the country, and to trade with the natives
for corn, for the settlers began to lack food.
On one of these expeditions, when he had gone ashore with an Indian
guide, a band of hostile braves, who had been on the watch among the
trees, lay in wait to attack him, led by Opekankano, Pocahontas's uncle,
while he, unconscious of their presence, gave orders to his men to stay
by the boat and keep a sharp lookout for danger.
[Illustration]
8. BATTLE WITH THE INDIANS
Suddenly, in the heart of the deep woods, the stealthy redskins sprang
upon him, shrieking like fierce beasts of prey. And in a moment the
arrows flew thick and fast.
Captain John, though taken unawares, made a brave fight, gravely
wounding two of his enemies with his pistols, and protecting himself
from the arrows by holding his Indian guide in front of him, as a
buckler.
But there were too many against him, and as he could not beat them off
he tried to retreat to the boat, always shielding himself with the
guide. Unfortunately, just as escape seemed near, he stumbled into a
swamp and was held fast by the heavy bog, and chilled by the cold water.
Being thus helpless he was forced to surrender, and the triumphant
Indians seized him as their prisoner.
[Illustration]
9. CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH A PRISONER
At first they decided to kill him at once, then some thought it better
to lead him to their village, that the whole tribe might rejoice in the
triumph. But, as one of the Indians shot by the Captain had in the
meantime died, the more impatient clamored for speedy vengeance. So they
bound him to a tree to use as a target.
Now, as the arrows began to strike dangerously near, Captain John, ever
quick-witted and resourceful, brought forth his pocket compass and
showed the Indians the dancing needle; and when they found they could
not touch it, because of the glass, they were amazed, for of course they
had never seen glass before, and could not understand it. A feeling of
awe crept over them; they thought him a magician, and were afraid to
kill him. So at last they marched him off in their midst, through the
forest, to consult with the rest of the tribe as to what should be done
with him.
[Illustration]
10. THE DANCE OF VICTORY
They carried their prisoner from village to village, while at every
moment he looked for death, until at last they came to their great town,
Werowacomo, where king Powhatan lived. And here they celebrated their
victory by savage pomps and conjurations. They tied the Captain to the
ceremonial stake, then, all painted and decorated in their fiercest and
most hideous war paint and trappings, they danced their wild dance of
triumph. Shouting and jumping, they brandished their war clubs in his
face, whirling round and round their captive, like so many demons, each
more frightful than the other. But, since they did not kill him at once,
Captain John, nothing daunted, kept them wondering, by telling strange
stories of the sun, the stars, and the world over the sea, and though
the Indians could understand but little they hesitated, one day feasting
him, and the next threatening to kill.
Now Pocahontas felt sorry for the handsome young stranger, and was drawn
to him, and taught him many words of the Indian tongue, and he told her
of his people beyond the sea, as best he could, and so they became good
friends.
[Illustration]
11-12. POCAHONTAS SAVES CAPTAIN JOHN SMITH'S LIFE
At last, after long deliberation, the Indians decided that, since he had
killed one of their tribe, Captain John must die, for this was their
law. So they dragged him, bound, before the great chief Powhatan, who
sat in mighty state surrounded by his warriors. They stretched the
prisoner on the ground with his head on a large stone, to beat out his
brains with their cruel clubs. And it seemed as though at last the
gallant Captain's time had come. But just as the Indian brave was about
to strike, his great war club swinging high in the air, Pocahontas
rushed forward and threw herself between him and his victim. With her
own body she shielded the Captain from harm, for her heart was moved to
pity for the stranger, and she could not bear that he should die. And
now aroused, with flashing eyes she waved the executioner back. Then she
pleaded with her father that the captive's life be spared.
At once there was wild confusion of shouting and threatening, many
crying, "Kill, kill!" while but few were willing to spare his life, for
the Indians feared the white men, and wished to drive them from the
land.
But Pocahontas, as Princess of the tribe, claimed her right, and would
not yield them up their victim. Then Powhatan, who ruled them all,
raised his hand and stopped their clamor. In sullen silence the angry
warriors awaited his decision. For a moment he hesitated, and the fate
of Captain John hung wavering in the balance. Then, to please his
favorite daughter, whom he dearly loved, he decreed that she should have
her will.
| 3,426.558649 |
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Bold text is denoted by =equal signs=.
Obvious typographical errors and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within
the text and consultation of external sources. Misspellings in
the text, and inconsistent or archaic usage, have been retained.
PRINCIPLES OF
PUBLIC HEALTH
A SIMPLE TEXT BOOK ON HYGIENE
PRESENTING THE PRINCIPLES FUNDAMENTAL
TO THE CONSERVATION OF
INDIVIDUAL AND COMMUNITY HEALTH
BY THOS. D. TUTTLE, B.S., M.D.
SECRETARY AND EXECUTIVE OFFICER OF
THE STATE BOARD OF HEALTH OF MONTANA
[Illustration: (publisher's colophon)]
YONKERS-ON-HUDSON, NEW YORK
WORLD BOOK COMPANY
1910
CONSERVATION OF HEALTH
"Our national health is physically our greatest asset. To prevent
any possible deterioration of the American stock should be a
national ambition."--THEODORE ROOSEVELT.
_The conservation of individual and national health is the keynote
of these books_
PRINCIPLES OF PUBLIC HEALTH
By THOS. D. TUTTLE, M.D., Secretary and Executive Officer of the
State Board of Health of Montana. Illustrated. Cloth. vii + 186
pages. List price 50 cents, mailing price 60 cents.
PRIMER OF HYGIENE
By JOHN W. RITCHIE, of the College of William and Mary in
Virginia, and JOSEPH S. CALDWELL, of the George Peabody College
for Teachers, Nashville, Tennessee. Illustrated. Cloth. vi + 184
pages. List price 40 cents, mailing price 48 cents.
PRIMER OF SANITATION
By JOHN W. RITCHIE. Illustrated. Cloth. vi + 200 pages. List
price 50 cents, mailing price 60 cents.
HUMAN PHYSIOLOGY
By JOHN W. RITCHIE. Illustrated in black and colors. Cloth. vi +
362 pages. List price 80 cents, mailing price 96 cents.
WORLD BOOK COMPANY
CASPAR W. HODGSON, _Manager_
YONKERS-ON-HUDSON, NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1910, by World Book Company. All rights reserved_
INTRODUCTION
The earliest history of remote ages describes methods employed in
combating disease, and down through all the centuries the struggle
against infection has been going on. The science of health as
applied in recent years reveals wonderful progress in the avoidance
of disease, and in the control of the violent epidemics by which
in the past nations were almost exterminated. Modern methods of
hygiene and sanitation as applied to public health have robbed
smallpox and diphtheria of their death-dealing power; cholera and
yellow fever have been forced to retreat before the victorious
hosts of applied medical science; tuberculosis, the greatest foe
of human life, is slowly but surely receding before the determined
efforts of modern preventive medicine.
By nature man is endowed with resistive power sufficient to ward
off most forms of disease, provided he keeps his health at a normal
standard by right living. If, however, he allows his health to
become impaired by reason of overwork, bad habits, wilful exposure
to contagion or unhealthful surroundings, he readily falls a prey
to disease.
The author of _Principles of Public Health_ has here set forth the
general rules of life by the observance of which every adult and
every child not only can do much to preserve his own health but
also can prove himself a prominent factor in raising the standard
of public health. A campaign of education is demanded to arrest the
enormous loss of life which is carrying so many to untimely graves,
and the instruction given in this volume will be of inestimable
value in teaching people how to avoid avoidable disease.
The author has not attempted to deal with all the diseases that
may be classed as preventable; as the work is intended for use in
the public schools, only such diseases are mentioned as it seems
fitting to present to school children. To teach our children a
proper respect for their own health and for the community welfare
is to fit them for the best citizenship.
E. A. PIERCE, M. D.
PORTLAND, OREGON
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author wishes to express his sincere appreciation of the
valuable assistance rendered in the preparation of this work
by Dr. S. T. Armstrong, of New York City; Dr. H. Wheeler Bond,
Commissioner of Health, St. Louis, Missouri; Dr. H. M. Bracken,
Secretary and Executive Officer of the State Board of Health of
Minnesota; J. S. Caldwell, Professor of Biology, George Peabody
College for Teachers, Nashville, Tennessee; R. J. Condon,
Superintendent of Schools, Providence, Rhode Island; Mrs. Nona B.
Eddy, of the Public Schools of Helena, Montana; Dr. F. M. McMurray,
of Teachers College, Columbia University, New York City; Miss
Jessie B. Montgomery, Supervising Critic in Training School, State
Normal School, Terre Haute, Indiana; Dr. E. A. Pierce, Secretary
and Executive Officer of the State Board of Health of Oregon.
CONTENTS
PART I--THE FIGHT FOR HEALTH
CHAPTER PAGE
I. CONSTANT DANGER OF ILLNESS 1
II. THE NECESSITY OF CARING FOR THE BODY 4
III. HOW CLOTHING AFFECTS HEALTH 9
IV. THE USES OF FOOD 14
V. CARE OF FOOD--MEATS 18
VI. CARE OF FOOD--MILK 22
VII. DECOMPOSITION OF FOOD 30
VIII. HARM DONE BY IMPROPER COOKING 34
IX. HOW NEATNESS, CHEERFULNESS, AND GOOD MANNERS
PROMOTE HEALTH 37
X. DANGERS FROM POOR TEETH 41
XI. NECESSITY FOR PURE AIR AND HOW TO SECURE IT 45
XII. REST ESSENTIAL TO HEALTH 51
XIII. CARE OF THE EYE AND EAR 56
XIV. CARE OF THE SKIN 60
XV. COMMON POISONS TO BE AVOIDED 64
PART II--THE ENEMIES OF HEALTH
XVI. DISEASE GERMS 73
XVII. ENCOURAGEMENT OF DISEASE BY UNCLEANLY
HABITS 75
XVIII. FLIES AS CARRIERS OF DISEASE 79
XIX. HOW DISEASE GERMS GET INTO WATER 85
XX. TRANSMISSION OF DISEASE THROUGH THE AIR 89
XXI. INSECTS AS CARRIERS OF DISEASE 92
XXII. HOW TO KEEP GERMS OUT OF WOUNDS 95
XXIII. TRANSMISSION OF DIPHTHERIA 100
XXIV. THE CURE OF DIPHTHERIA 108
XXV. HOW TYPHOID FEVER GERMS ARE CARRIED 113
XXVI. HOOKWORM DISEASE AND AMOEBIC DYSENTERY 120
XXVII. HOW SCARLET FEVER IS CARRIED 123
XXVIII. MEASLES AND WHOOPING COUGH DANGEROUS
DISEASES 128
XXIX. HOW SMALLPOX IS PREVENTED 131
XXX. WHY VACCINATION SOMETIMES SEEMS A FAILURE 138
XXXI. CONSUMPTION, THE GREAT WHITE PLAGUE 142
XXXII. HOW CONSUMPTION IS SPREAD AND HOW PREVENTED 150
XXXIII. HOW CONSUMPTION IS CURED 157
APPENDIX--SUMMARY OF ANATOMY 163
SUGGESTIONS TO THE TEACHER 182
INDEX 183
PART I
THE FIGHT FOR HEALTH
CHAPTER I
CONSTANT DANGER OF ILLNESS
Every boy and girl confidently expects to grow into a strong and
healthy man or woman. How often we hear a child say, "When I am a
man," or "When I am a woman;" but I have never heard a boy or a
girl say, "If I live to be a man or woman." When you think of what
you will do when you are grown into men or women, it never occurs
to you that you may be weak and sickly and therefore not able to
do the very things that you would most like to do. This suggests
that sickness is not natural, else the thought that you may perhaps
become sick would enter your mind. As a matter of fact, most
sickness is not natural.
[Sidenote: The fight for life]
There is a constant struggle going on in the world. You see a fight
about you every day among the animals. You see the spider catch the
fly, the snake catch the frog, the bird catch the insect, and the
big fish catch the minnow; and you have heard of wars where men
kill one another.
The greatest enemies that men have to fight, however, are not
other men, or wild animals, but foes that kill more men, women and
children every year than were ever killed in the same length of
time by war. These foes are small, very small, but you must not
think that because things are small they are not dangerous. We
call these foes _disease germs_.
[Illustration: FIG. 1. Looking at cells through a microscope.]
[Illustration: FIG. 2. Some skin cells as seen through a
microscope.]
[Sidenote: The nature of a germ]
The germ is a very, very small body; it is the smallest living
body that we know. Later we shall learn that our bodies are made
up of cells, and that these cells are extremely small--so small
that it takes a very powerful microscope to see one of them. The
germ is still smaller than the cells in our bodies, and it is
made of a single cell. There are a great many kinds of germs in
the world. Fortunately, most of them are not harmful. Some germs
cause disease, but there are other germs that not only are not
harmful, but are actually helpful to men. Among the helpful germs
are those that enrich the ground, and these should be protected;
but all germs that cause disease should be destroyed as rapidly
as possible. These germs are fighting all the time against our
health. They are not armed with guns and cannon, neither do they
build forts from which to fight; but they get inside our bodies and
attack us there.
[Sidenote: How to fight germs]
There are three principal ways by which we fight disease germs:
_first_, by keeping our bodies so well and strong that germs
cannot live in them; _second_, by keeping germs out of our bodies;
_third_, by preventing germs from accumulating in the world--that
is, by killing as many of them as possible.
If it is possible to keep so well and strong that disease germs
cannot live in our bodies, you will naturally infer that there are
other causes of sickness besides disease germs. That is true, for
there are a great many things beside germs that cause our bodies to
get into such a condition that disease germs can enter and grow and
make us ill. We sometimes call this a "run-down" condition. Before
we begin, then, to study the germs that cause disease, we must
learn how to keep our bodies strong and ready to fight these germs.
=Questions.= 1. What evidence have we that sickness is not
natural? 2. Name some of the fights going on in the animal world.
3. What can you say of the amount of illness caused by germs? 4.
Tell what you have learned about germs. 5. Name three ways of
fighting germs.
=Remember.= 1. Most sickness comes from failure to observe
Nature's laws. 2. We must keep up a constant fight against germs
that cause sickness. 3. We fight germs by killing as many of them
as we can, and by keeping our bodies so strong that if a disease
germ enters it cannot grow.
CHAPTER II
THE NECESSITY OF CARING FOR THE BODY
[Illustration: FIG. 3. The organs of the body.]
[Sidenote: How the body is like an automobile]
These bodies of ours are built somewhat like automobiles. An
automobile is made up of a framework, wheels, body, gasoline tank,
engine, and steering-gear. The human body has much the same form of
construction. We have a frame, which is made of the bones of the
body. We have arms and legs, which correspond to the wheels of the
automobile. We have many little pockets in our bodies in which fat
is stored, and these little pockets answer to the gasoline tank
of the automobile. We have an engine which, like the automobile
engine, is made up of many parts; and we have a head or brain, that
plays the same part as the steering-gear of the automobile.
The automobile has a tank in which is carried the gasoline
necessary to develop power for the machine. If the gasoline gives
out, the engine will not run, and before the owner starts on a
trip, he is always careful to see that the tank is well filled.
In the same way, if we do not provide new fat for the pockets in
our bodies in which the fat is stored, our supply will soon give
out and our bodies will refuse to work, just as the engine of the
automobile will refuse to work when the gasoline is used up.
[Sidenote: What cells are like]
The automobile is made of iron and wood and rubber, and each bit
of iron and wood and rubber is made up of tiny particles. The body
is made of bones and muscles, covered with skin, and all these are
made up of very fine particles that we call cells. Every part of
the body is made of these fine cells. The cells are so small that
they can be seen only with a powerful microscope. If you look at
your hand you cannot see a cell, because it takes a great many
cells to make a spot large enough for you to see. In Figure 1 you
see a boy looking through a microscope, and beside him you see a
picture of what he sees. This picture does not look like the skin
on your hand, neither does it look like the skin on the boy's hand;
but it is nothing more nor less than a piece of skin taken from
that boy's hand, and it looks just as a piece of skin from your
own hand would look if you were to see it through a very strong
microscope.
[Sidenote: Why cells must not be killed]
The whole body is made up of just such little cells as you see in
Figure 4, and each cell is alive and has a certain work to perform.
It is very important that we keep these cells from dying and that
they perform the work for which they are intended, for if these
cells die or fail to act, the body becomes sick or dies.
[Illustration: FIG. 4. A cell. (a) Cell body; (b) nucleus; (c)
nucleolus.]
You can scratch some of the paint from your automobile and the
machine will work just as well as ever. Apparently no harm has been
done, but an opening has been made through which moisture and germs
can enter and cause the wood to rot and the iron to rust. You can
remove certain parts of the automobile and still the machine will
do its work; but you cannot take away too much of any one part
without weakening the automobile, and if certain parts are missing
(such as the sparker, the battery, or the steering-gear), the
usefulness of the machine is destroyed. So it is with the body. You
can scratch off some of the skin and not do any apparent harm, but
you have made an opening through which germs may get into the body.
You can remove certain parts of the body, such as the arm or leg,
and still the body will do efficient service. But there are certain
parts of the body that are necessary to life, just as certain parts
of the automobile are necessary to the usefulness of the machine.
You cannot remove the heart and live; you cannot remove the brain
and live.
[Sidenote: How cells are killed]
You are probably thinking that it must be easy to kill such a
little thing as a cell; and so it is. Cells can be killed by too
much heat or too much cold. When you skin your hand, you kill many
cells, and at the same time make an opening for germs to get in and
cause sickness. You can kill cells also by starving them, for they
must have not only enough food, but the right kind of food. If you
feed your bodies on nothing but candy, pie, and cake, most of the
cells will refuse to perform their work and many of them will die.
These cells must have also an abundance of air, and the air must be
pure and fresh. If you breathe the air that others have breathed or
that contains poison of any kind, you will soon find that you are
not feeling well. This simply means that so many of the cells are
being starved for fresh air, that not enough strong ones are left
to do the necessary work. You can kill these cells by overwork, for
they must have a proper amount of rest. If you go to school all
day long and then sit up until midnight every night, you must not
expect the cells of your body to keep strong and well. You can kill
these cells by the use of certain things that act as poisons to
them, such as tobacco, beer, wine, or whisky.
=Questions.= 1. In what way is the body like an automobile? 2.
What are cells like? 3. Why must cells not be killed? 4. Name
five ways by which we kill cells.
=Remember.= 1. Each part of the body is important to the welfare
of the whole body. 2. Each part of the body is made up of very
small particles that we call cells; each cell in the body is
alive and has a certain work to perform. 3. Cells are very easily
weakened and killed. 4. There are five principal ways by which
we kill the cells in our bodies: by too much heat or cold; by not
giving them the proper kinds of foods; by not giving them enough
fresh air; by giving them too much work to do; and by poisoning
them.
CHAPTER III
HOW CLOTHING AFFECTS HEALTH
[Illustration: FIG. 5. Warm, dry clothing necessary for health.]
[Sidenote: Why the body should be equally covered]
The body should always be kept at as nearly uniform a temperature
as possible. In order to do this we wear clothing. Clothing keeps
out the heat on a hot day, just as it keeps the heat in and the
cold out on a cold day. The clothing should be equally heavy on
all parts of the body. It is not right to wear a thick dress over
your chest and leave your shoulders and arms bare, or nearly so.
People who do this are killing a great many cells by letting part
of their bodies become chilled while the rest is warm, probably too
warm.
[Sidenote: Why clothing should not be too heavy]
The clothing should be just heavy enough to keep the body warm.
If you wear such heavy clothing indoors that you are constantly
perspiring, your underclothes become damp, and when you go out,
even though you put on your overcoat, your body becomes chilled. If
you begin to sneeze, that is Nature's way of telling you that you
are killing many of your cells by too much cold.
People sometimes get warm from exercising, and then take off their
coats. They should have removed their coats before they began to
exercise. If you take off your coat after you are too warm, your
body becomes chilled. Baseball pitchers know this, and if you watch
a good pitcher, you will see that he always puts on his sweater as
soon as he stops pitching, even though he is very warm. He knows
that if he cools off too quickly, he will become stiff and sore and
cannot pitch good ball.
[Sidenote: When a draft is dangerous]
Sometimes a person sits in a warm room until he begins to perspire
freely. Then he opens a window and sits in the draft. Under
ordinary conditions, the cool wind alone would chill the body, but
now the rapid drying of the perspiration makes the body cool still
more quickly. The sudden chill causes the person to take cold,
which is simply another way of saying that he has killed many cells
and caused others to fall sick, so that they cannot perform their
work. We cannot get too much fresh air. Drafts do not hurt us if
we are thoroughly wrapped up; but it is very dangerous to allow
the wind to strike the body when it is not well protected, and
especially when it is damp with perspiration.
[Illustration: FIG. 6. Properly prepared for wet weather.]
[Sidenote: Why damp clothing is dangerous]
Damp clothing chills the body very rapidly and kills many cells.
Indeed, if a single one of the germs that cause pneumonia were to
enter your lungs while you were wearing damp clothing, it would
grow so rapidly that you might have pneumonia in a very little
while. That is why it is important to change your shoes and
stockings as soon as you get them wet, and to take off immediately
any clothing that becomes damp. It is hard for boys and girls to
keep their feet dry in the winter and spring months, and rubbers
are a nuisance; but if you expect to grow into the strong man or
woman you picture yourself becoming, you must take care to wear
your rubbers. Otherwise you may become weak and sickly, and never
be able to do the things you hope to do.
The feet are not the only part of the body that needs to be kept
dry. A wet coat is just as harmful as wet shoes and stockings;
hence, you should always carry an umbrella or wear a raincoat when
you go out into the rain. Umbrellas are unhandy for boys and girls
to carry, but if you will remember that thousands of little cells
in your body are being injured when you get wet and chilled, you
will be willing to take your umbrella.
[Sidenote: When to wear an overcoat]
In cold weather the same amount of clothing should not be worn in
the house and outdoors; for this reason, we have overcoats. If you
wear your overcoat in the house, you will become overwarm and your
underclothing will then become damp with perspiration; when you go
outdoors into the cold air, this dampness will have just the same
effect as would dampness that comes from outside.
[Illustration: FIGS. 7 and 8. If you keep your overcoat on in the
house, your underclothes become damp from perspiration, and when
you go outdoors your body becomes chilled.]
As soon as the weather gets cold, put on your overcoat every time
you go outdoors, and take it off as soon as you come into the
house. This is troublesome for boys and girls to do, because they
want to run in and out of the house so often; but on the other
hand, think of all the cells you will kill if you do not do this,
and you will certainly consider it worth while to take off your
coat and put it on again.
=Questions.= 1. How does keeping the body equally covered protect
the cells? 2. Give reasons for not wearing too heavy clothing. 3.
When is it safe to sit in a draft, and when dangerous? 4. What
is the danger of keeping on wet shoes or other damp clothing? 5.
When and why should overcoats be worn?
=Remember.= 1. Clothing should be just heavy enough to keep the
body warm all the time. 2. Never take off your coat or sit in
a draft when you are too warm. 3. Since wearing damp clothing
causes a great deal of sickness, change your clothes as soon as
they become wet or damp. 4. Do not forget to take your umbrella
when it is raining and to wear your rubbers when the ground is
wet. 5. In cold weather wear your overcoat when you are outdoors,
but take it off when you come into the house.
CHAPTER IV
THE USES OF FOOD
We kill a great many of the cells in our bodies by starving them;
either we do not give them enough food or we do not supply the
right kind of food.
[Sidenote: Why the body needs new cells]
Not only must we feed the cells in our bodies, but we must be
constantly making new ones, for in all our work or play, awake or
asleep, we are constantly using up certain cells. These cells are
used to make the body go, just as the engine uses coal to form the
steam that gives it power to run. Boys and girls grow fast and, of
course, if they expect to become well men and women, they must make
a great many new cells all the time, in addition to those used in
doing the work of the body. If we are to make new cells we must
have the right kind of food with which to make them.
[Sidenote: How the body keeps itself warm]
We want to do something besides make new cells; we want to keep
warm and well the cells we already have. No amount of clothing
would keep you warm if you were not making heat inside your body
all the time, any more than you could make a telephone post warm
by putting your coat on it. Therefore it is necessary to have food
that makes heat in the body, in addition to food that builds cells.
We eat a great many kinds of foods, and all that we eat is used
either for building new cells or for producing heat in the body.
Thus we can divide all our foods into two classes--building
material and heat-producing material. The type of building material
is lean meat, and the type of heat-producing material is fat meat
and starches, such as potatoes and bread. Milk contains much
building material as well as heat-producing material. That is why
a baby grows and keeps warm while he takes nothing but milk.
[Sidenote: The building foods]
Lean meat is the best of all building foods. Eggs are largely a
form of lean meat, and hence constitute a good article of food for
building purposes. Certain vegetables contain a large per cent of
building material; this is especially true of dried beans and peas.
Wheat flour and corn meal (particularly when made of whole wheat
and unbolted meal) contain much building material.
It is possible for one to live and grow when eating only vegetable
matter. But the boy or girl who tries to become a strong man or
woman by eating only vegetables will be disappointed; these are
mostly heat-producing foods and will not make strong bodies.
Experience has proved that the best results are obtained by eating
what is called "a mixed diet," that is, a diet composed partly of
lean meats and partly of fats and vegetables.
[Sidenote: The heat-producing foods]
Of the heat-producing foods, fat is the most powerful. Most of the
fat that we eat is used immediately for producing in the body heat,
and therefore power, but a part of it is stored up for future use.
We see it in all healthy young persons. It is this stored-up fat
that gives the body its rounded form. When any one has been sick he
is thin, because, to produce heat and power while he was sick, he
has had to use the fat stored up in his body. To have such a supply
of fat is like having a bank account to draw on when out of work.
We might call the deposits of fat in our bodies our health banks.
Fat meat is not the only form in which we eat fats; we eat them
in a great many other ways. Certain vegetables, such as beans,
contain an oil that forms fat. Ripe olives contain a great deal
of fatty oil. Butter is a very important form of fat, and cream
contains a large amount of it.
[Sidenote: Cost of suitable foods]
In selecting our foods we should think of two things: _first_, the
value of the food as a heat-producer or as a building material;
and _second_, the cost of the food. We may like butter much better
than bacon, but we should remember that, pound for pound, bacon has
a greater nourishing power than butter, and a pound of bacon will
cost far less than a pound of butter.[1]
Vegetable foods produce heat by means of the starch which they
contain. All vegetables contain starch. This starch is changed
into a kind of sugar in the body, and when thus changed it is used
to produce heat and power. All vegetable foods do not have the
same heat-producing power. There is more heat-producing power in
a pound of oatmeal than there is in ten pounds of cabbage. Ten
cents' worth of dried beans will produce more heat in the body
than will a dollar's worth of lettuce. Thirty cents' worth of corn
meal will do more building in the body than will a piece of mutton
worth a dollar and a half; but you would have to eat a large amount
of corn meal in order to secure the building effect that would
result from eating a small quantity of mutton. In most fruits the
only nourishing quality is in the sugar they contain. This sugar
produces heat in the body just as starch does.
[Sidenote: The real value of advertised foods]
You will see some foods advertised as possessing a wonderful
nourishing power. Do not let such statements deceive you, for no
food can have a greater nourishing power than the things from which
it is made. If the particular food advertised is made from wheat
flour, its nourishing power is just the same as that of an equal
quantity of wheat flour. If it is made from corn meal, it can have
no greater nourishing power than has the meal itself.
We have learned something about the materials necessary in food and
why they are needed. We must now learn why foods that contain these
materials sometimes do not give us as good results as we might hope
for.
=Questions.= 1. What use does the body make of new cells? 2. How
does the body keep itself warm? 3. Name two uses that the body
makes of food. 4. What foods are especially useful for making
cells? 5. What foods are chiefly used for making heat? 6. Select
articles of food for two meals of equal nourishing value, one
meal to be expensive and the other inexpensive. 7. How would you
determine the real value of any food?
=Remember.= 1. Foods are used to make heat and power in the body
and to make the body grow. 2. The foods that make the body grow
are called building materials, and lean meat is the best kind
of building material. 3. The foods that produce heat and power
in the body are called heat-producing materials, and fats and
starches are the best heat-producers. 4. All vegetables contain
starch, some of them contain a fatty oil, and most of them
contain some building material. 5. You can get as much building
and heat-producing material from cheap foods as you can from
expensive foods.
CHAPTER V
CARE OF FOOD--MEATS
[Sidenote: Value of meat as a food]
Meat is one of the most important articles of our diet. It
furnishes essential materials for building cells, and it furnishes
fat for making heat and power in the body.
[Illustration: FIG. 9. A double menace to health; the
slaughterhouse is dirty, and the filth is drained into a stream.]
[Sidenote: Characteristics of good meat]
Since meat is so important an article of food, we should be very
careful to see that it is handled in a way to keep it always
perfectly clean. We should make sure that it comes from animals
absolutely free from any kind of disease, and that no germs have
been allowed to develop poisons in it.
[Sidenote: How meat may be kept clean]
While people know that they ought to pay attention to these things,
as a matter of fact they do not do it. They take very little
interest in the way the meat that they are to eat is handled, and
very few ever go to the slaughterhouse or into the back room of the
butcher shop to see whether things are kept clean or not. Some
people say, "Oh, we do not like to go there because it is such a
horrid place." If these places were kept clean, as they should be,
they would not be "horrid." And if the people who buy the meat
would occasionally visit them, these places would be kept clean.
[Illustration: | 3,426.649923 |
2023-11-16 19:14:10.6336360 | 548 | 34 |
Produced by Greg Bergquist, Charlie Howard, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber's note: Table of Contents added by Transcriber.
CONTENTS
Rhythms and Geologic Time 339
The Photography of Sound Waves 354
The Psychology of Red 365
Chapters on the Stars 376
Colonies and the Mother Country (III) 390
Causes of Degeneration in Blind Fishes 397
The Evolution and Present Status of the Automobile 406
Scientific Results of the Norwegian Polar Expedition, 1893-1896 420
Discussion and Correspondence 436
Scientific Literature 439
The Progress of Science 442
THE
POPULAR SCIENCE
MONTHLY
EDITED BY
J. MCKEEN CATTELL
VOL. LVII
MAY TO OCTOBER, 1900
NEW YORK AND LONDON
MCCLURE, PHILLIPS AND COMPANY
1900
COPYRIGHT, 1900,
BY MCCLURE, PHILLIPS AND COMPANY.
[Illustration: PROFESSOR R. S. WOODWARD,
PRESIDENT OF THE AMERICAN ASSOCIATION FOR THE ADVANCEMENT OF SCIENCE.]
THE POPULAR SCIENCE MONTHLY.
AUGUST, 1900.
RHYTHMS AND GEOLOGIC TIME.[A]
BY G. K. GILBERT,
UNITED STATES GEOLOGICAL SURVEY.
[A] Read to the American Association for the Advancement of
Science, at New York, June 26, 1900, as the address of the
retiring President.
Custom dictates that in complying with the rule of the association I
shall address you on some subject of a scientific character. But before
doing so I may be permitted to pay my personal tribute to the honored
and cherished leader of whose loss we are so keenly sensible on this
occasion. His kindly personality, the charm which his earnestness and
sincerity gave to his conversation, the range of his accomplishment,
are inviting themes; but it is perhaps more fitting that I touch
this evening on his character as a representative president of this
body. The association holds a peculiar position among our scientific
organizations of national or continental extent. Instead of narrowing
its meetings by limitations of subject matter or membership, it
cultivates | 3,426.653676 |
2023-11-16 19:14:10.7291260 | 3,671 | 9 |
Produced by Emmy, Charlene Taylor and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
[Illustration: A STREET SHOWMAN.]
PEEPS INTO CHINA; OR, The Missionary's Children.
BY E. C. PHILLIPS,
AUTHOR OF "TROPICAL READING-BOOKS," "THE ORPHANS," "BUNCHY,"
"HILDA AND HER DOLL," ETC.
[Illustration]
CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED:
_LONDON, PARIS, NEW YORK & MELBOURNE._
[ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.]
To
MY DEAR PARENTS,
IN
LOVING MEMORY.
"Can I forget thy cares, from helpless years
Thy tenderness for me?"
[Illustration: Contents.]
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE COUNTRY RECTORY 9
II. THE FIRST PEEP 21
III. THE RELIGIONS OF CHINA 44
IV. CHINESE CHILDHOOD 69
V. THE MERCHANT SHOWMAN 89
VI. LITTLE CHU AND WOO-URH 100
VII. LEONARD'S EXPLOIT IN FORMOSA 114
VIII. THE BOAT POPULATION 134
IX. AT CANTON 153
X. A BRIDE AND BRIDEGROOM 179
XI. PROCESSIONS 197
XII. THE LAST PEEP 208
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
THE COUNTRY RECTORY.
[Illustration]
"NOT really; you can't mean it really!"
"As true as possible. Mother told me her _very own_ self," was the
emphatic reply.
Two children, brother and sister, the boy aged ten, the girl three years
older, were carrying on this conversation in the garden of a country
rectory.
"But really and truly, on your word of honour," repeated Leonard, as
though he could not believe what his sister had just related to him.
"I hope my word is always a word of honour; I thought everybody's word
ought to be that," Sybil Graham replied a little proudly, for when she
had run quickly to bring such important news to her brother, she could
not help feeling hurt that he should refuse to believe what she said.
"And we are really going there, and shall actually see the 'pig-tails'
in their own country, and the splendid kites they fly, and all the
wonderful things that father used to tell us about? Oh! it seems too
good to be true."
"But it is true," Sybil repeated with emphasis. "And I dare say we might
even see tea growing, as it does grow there, you know, and I suppose we
shall be carried about in sedan-chairs ourselves." She was really as
happy as her brother, only not so excitable.
At this moment their mother joined them. "Oh, mother!" the boy then
exclaimed, "how beautiful! Sybil has just told me, but I could not
believe her."
"I thought the news would delight you both very much," Mrs. Graham
answered. "Your father and I have been thinking about going to China for
some time, but we would not tell you anything about it until matters
were quite settled, and now everything seems to be satisfactorily
arranged for us to start in three months' time."
"That will be in August, then," they both said at once.
"Oh, how very beautiful!" Sybil exclaimed. "_I like my father to be a
missionary very much._ He must be glad too; isn't he, mother?"
"Very glad indeed, although the joy will entail some sadness also. I
expect your father will grieve a good deal to leave this dear little
country parish of ours, and the duties he has so loved to perform here,
but a wider field of usefulness having opened out for him, he is very
thankful to obey the call."
[Illustration: THE CHURCH.]
"And father will do it so well, mother," answered Sybil. "I wonder
whether I shall be able to do anything to help him there?"
"I think you have long since found out, Sybil," was her mother's loving
answer, "that you can always be doing something to help us."
Sybil and Leonard had as yet only learnt a part of the story. They had
still to learn the rest. This going to China would not be all beautiful,
all joy for them, especially for Sybil, with her very affectionate
nature and dread of saying "Good-byes," for she and Leonard were only to
be taken out on a trip--a pleasure tour--to see something of China, and
to return to England to go on with their education at the end of six
months.
Mr. Graham then calling his wife, the children were again left alone.
It was no easy matter to go as a missionary to China. This Mr. Graham
well knew, for his father, although only for a short time, had been one
over there before him, and had discovered--what so many other later
brother missionaries have found out also--that to obtain even a hearing
on the subject of religion from a Chinaman, who has been trained and
brought up to be a superstitious idolater, very vain of his wisdom and
antiquity as a nation, and to look upon Europeans as barbarians, is
often a most difficult matter.
Eighteen years before Mr. Graham the elder went out to Peking as one of
the first missionaries to China, and his only son, who had then just
qualified for the medical profession, accompanied him. A year later, the
father dying, his son returned at once to England, but with a changed
mind, determined now to seek holy orders and enter the ministry, instead
of following his profession, so as by thus doing to add one more to the
number of earnest clergy that his short stay in China had shown him were
so much needed. To carry out his resolution, he went to Oxford to
prepare, and soon after his ordination he married, and settled down, in
the little country village, where we find him, surrounded by his little
family.
Often since then had he contemplated leaving England for missionary
work, but until now he had been prevented from carrying his wishes into
effect.
His knowledge of medicine had not been lost to him, for many a sufferer
in the little, yet wide-spreading country parish, who lived at too great
a distance to send for the doctor for a slight ailment, had been very
thankful, when the clergyman came in to read and pray with him, to learn
from him what his slight ailment was, and how he could prevent its
becoming a great one.
And this knowledge would be most helpful and invaluable in China, where
Mr. Graham knew that the science of medicine was held in veneration by
the inhabitants, and gained a ready admission to those who were glad to
be cured of bodily ailments, but knew not how sick their souls were.
The missionary's slight acquaintance with the Chinese dialect, which,
when time permitted, he had endeavoured to keep up, would also be of
service to him when he arrived in China; for although the dialects of
the south, where he was going, were very different from those of the
north, the Mandarin, or Court language, spoken by the officials, was
understood in every part.
"That's why father's been reading all those books lately with the
pig-tail pictures in, and wonderful kites, and why he has been studying
the language without an alphabet," Leonard said, when he and his sister
were again alone. "If I hadn't been at school so much, I expect I should
have found out what was going to happen."
"I don't believe we should ever find out anything that father did not
wish us to know, however much we wanted to do so," answered Sybil. "But
isn't it splendid?--all but one thing, and that is having to leave
everybody, and my best friend Lily Keith. I shan't like doing that at
all."
"And I shall miss my friends too, of course," said Leonard; "but then I
expect we shall make some new ones; and I thought you were so fond of
writing letters. Why, you could write splendid ones from China, and tell
Lily what we see, and perhaps mother would draw you some pictures for
them, for she can draw anything, you know."
Sybil was comforted, for she was very fond of writing letters, and her
friend, she knew, would be very glad to have some from China.
Directly after the six o'clock dinner was the children's hour with
father, who, being a very busy man, had to regulate all his time; but
this one hour a day belonged entirely to his family, and unless anything
unforeseen happened, they had and claimed every moment of it.
Sybil came down-stairs first, and going up to her father, who was
sitting by a large bow window, gazing out of it, with a very serious
look on his face, she said with surprise as she kissed him: "You look
sad, dear father. Aren't you glad to go to China?"
He drew her on to his knee.
"Very glad, my darling," was the answer; "but I was just picturing to
myself some farewells that will have to be taken. I shall be very
sorry, too, to say 'Good-bye' here, where our lives have been so blessed
and our prayers so abundantly answered. We cannot help feeling sorry to
leave our old friends, can we?"
"But you don't look, father," she continued, "as if that were all that
you had been thinking."
"I dare say it was also about the work in which I am so soon to engage,
for that, Sybil, is full of grave responsibility; but now I think it is
my turn to ask what your thoughts are," he went on, for at that moment
Sybil was looking quite as grave as, just before, her father could have
looked.
"I was remembering two verses of a piece of poetry that I learnt last
term at school, which I think must have been written for missionaries,"
she replied.
[Illustration: MAP OF CHINA.]
Her father then asking her to repeat them to him, Sybil said:--
"Sow ye beside all waters,
Where the dew of heaven may fall;
Ye shall reap, if ye be not weary,
For the Spirit breathes o'er all.
Sow, though the thorns may wound thee;
One wore the thorns for thee;
And, though the cold world scorn thee,
Patient and hopeful be.
Sow ye beside all waters,
With a blessing and a prayer,
Name Him whose hand upholds thee,
And sow thou everywhere.
"Work! in the wild waste places,
Though none thy love may own;
God guides the down of the thistle
The wandering wind hath sown.
Will Jesus chide thy weakness,
Or call thy labour vain?
The Word that for Him thou bearest
Shall return to Him again.
On!--with thine heart in heaven,
Thy strength--thy Master's might,
Till the wild waste places blossom
In the warmth of a Saviour's light."
"Thank you, Sybil," said her father. "I am sure you will make a capital
little missionary's daughter some day."
"To what part of China are we going, father?" she then asked; "to the
same place where you were before?"
"No; quite in another direction. You know when I was last in China I was
at Peking, in the north, and now I am to be in Hong-Kong, an island in
the south; but we shall not go there direct, as I wish to take you to
see several places before finally landing."
"Wait a minute, please, father," Sybil then exclaimed, "while I just
fetch my map to look them out as you tell them to me." And as she spoke
she ran off, to return the next minute with an atlas, in which she found
these places as her father mentioned them: Shanghai, Amoy, the Island of
Formosa, Swatow, Hong-Kong, Macao, and Canton.
"I wish, father, you would tell us some day all you can remember about
Peking," then said Leonard, as he ran in and joined his father and
sister, having till now been very busy, first coaxing his good friend
the gardener to help him cut and put up some roosts in the fowl-house,
and then showing his handiwork to his mother. "You know what I mean:
something like what you used to tell us."
[Illustration: LEONARD IN THE GARDEN.]
"I will try to arouse up my memory, and tell you what I can on board
ship, when we shall have, I suppose, seven or eight weeks with very
little to do, and when you will, no doubt, be glad of some true stories
to while away the time."
"I wish we were going to start to-morrow," rejoined Leonard, who was, I
am afraid, a boy without a particle of that virtue which we call
"patience." He wanted his mother now to go into the poultry-yard with
him to see the roosts he had, and as she liked to enter into all his
pleasures and useful occupations, she was very pleased to go.
Before either of them came in again, Sybil had heard "the rest" from her
father; that she and Leonard were, after a six months' long holiday in
China, to return to England to continue their education. It was a
terrible blow to her, to whom a long separation from her parents seemed
almost like an impossibility. Her bright eyes filled with tears.
"Oh, father!" she said; "and leave you and mother?"
"It must be for a time, my darling, till your education is completed, as
your mother and I both wish you to remain at the school where you are,
but when school-days are over, about four years hence, I hope to be able
to have you out with us. It will be longer for poor old Leonard, won't
it?"
"I don't think I care to go to China now, father," Sybil then said.
"Oh yes you do, Sybil," was the answer; "you like your father to be a
missionary very much, you know, do you not?" Her mother had repeated
this saying. "And, my child," he continued, "you know that it must be a
dreadful trial for so very good and loving a mother as yours to part
from her children; but now that a call has come to me to do my Master's
work in a foreign land, and she is helping me to obey it, you would not
make her trial greater, would you, by letting her see you sad? Oh no! I
know you would not; but you would help us to do our duty more bravely.
Is it not so, my child?"
Sybil buried her face on her father's shoulder, and sobbed, but on
seeing her mother coming up the garden towards them, she quickly wiped
her tears away, and tried to look cheerful. Her father had gone wisely
to work in giving her such a reason for trying to overcome her sorrow,
and he knew that now she would set herself bravely to work to help, and
not to hinder, her parents' undertaking.
And they were not to be parted for nearly another year, she said to
herself, and meanwhile they were to have all sorts of enjoyments with
their parents.
Mrs. Graham brought a message from Leonard for Sybil to go and see his
roosts, which she at once obeyed, affectionately kissing her mother as
she passed her. That was to say that she knew, and a great deal more.
Another piece of news Sybil now conveyed to Leonard, and as she told it,
even he could not tell that it made her very unhappy. I wonder if he
believed at once this time!
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER II.
THE FIRST PEEP.
THE missionary's family party had set sail, and the steamship, in which
they were passengers, was now fairly out at sea.
As far as money was concerned, Mr. Graham had no anxieties, for being
the only son of a very wealthy man, who had lost his wife some time
before he died himself, Mr. Graham had, at his father's death, inherited
the whole of his large fortune.
"Now, father, don't you think it's high time you began to tell us about
old Peking?" Leonard said, a few days | 3,426.749166 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: HE WILDLY TORE AT EVERYTHING AND HURLED IT DOWN
ON HIS PURSUERS _Page_ 86 _Frontispiece_]
Mr. Midshipman Glover, R.N.
A Tale of the Royal Navy of To-day
BY
SURGEON REAR-ADMIRAL
T. T. JEANS, C.M.G., R.N.
Author of "John Graham, Sub-Lieutenant, R.N."
"A Naval Venture" &c.
_Illustrated by Edward S. Hodgson_
BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
LONDON AND GLASGOW
1908
By
Surgeon Rear-Admiral
T. T. Jeans
The Gun-runners.
John Graham, Sub-Lieutenant, R.N.
A Naval Venture.
Gunboat and Gun-runner.
Ford of H.M.S. "Vigilant".
On Foreign Service.
Mr. Midshipman Glover, R.N.
_Printed in Great Britain by Blackie & Son, Ltd., Glasgow_
*Preface*
In this story of the modern Royal Navy I have endeavoured, whilst
narrating many adventures both ashore and afloat, to portray the habits
of thought and speech of various types of officers and men of the Senior
Service who live and serve under the White Ensign to-day.
To do this the more graphically I have made some of the leading
characters take up, from each other, the threads of the story and
continue the description of incidents from their own points of view; the
remainder of the tale is written in the third person as by an outside
narrator.
I hope that this method will be found to lend additional interest to the
book.
I have had great assistance from several Gunnery, Torpedo, and Engineer
Lieutenants, who have read the manuscripts as they were written,
corrected many errors of detail, and made many useful suggestions.
The story may therefore claim to be technically correct.
T. T. JEANS,
SURGEON REAR-ADMIRAL, ROYAL NAVY
*Contents*
CHAP.
I. The Luck of Midshipman Glover
II. Helston receives a Strange Letter
| 3,426.752527 |
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Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by Cornell University Digital Collections.)
THE INTERNATIONAL MONTHLY MAGAZINE
Of Literature, Science, and Art.
VOLUME IV
AUGUST TO DECEMBER, 1851.
NEW-YORK:
STRINGER & TOWNSEND, 222 BROADWAY.
FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.
BY THE NUMBER, 25 CTS.; THE VOLUME, $1; THE YEAR, $3.
Transcriber's note: Contents for entire volume 4 in this text. However
this text contains only issue Vol. 4, No. 1. Minor typos have been
corrected and footnotes moved to the end of the article.
PREFACE TO THE FOURTH VOLUME.
The conclusion of the Fourth Volume of a periodical may be accepted as
a sign of its permanent establishment. The proprietors of the
INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE have the satisfaction of believing that, while
there has been a steady increase of sales, ever since the publication
of the first number of this work, there has likewise been as regular
an augmentation of its interest, value, and adaptation to the wants of
the reading portion of our community. While essentially an Eclectic,
relying very much for success on a reproduction of judiciously
selected and fairly acknowledged Foreign Literature, it has contained
from month to month such an amount of New Articles as justified its
claim to consideration as an Original Miscellany. And in choosing from
European publications, articles to reprint or to translate for these
pages, care has been taken not only to avoid that vein of
licentiousness in morals, and skepticism in religion, which in so
lamentable a degree characterize a large portion of the popular
literature of this age, but also to extract from foreign periodicals
that American element with which the rising importance of our country
has caused so many of them to be infused; so that, notwithstanding the
fact that more than half the contents of the INTERNATIONAL are from
the minds of Europeans, the Magazine is essentially more _American_
than any other now published.
For the future, the publishers have made arrangements that will insure
very decided and desirable improvements, which will be more fully
disclosed in the first number of the ensuing volume; eminent original
writers will be added to our list of contributors; from Germany,
France, and Great Britain, we have increased our literary resources;
and more attention will be given to the pictorial illustration of such
subjects as may be advantageously treated in engravings. Among those
authors whose contributions have appeared in the INTERNATIONAL
hitherto, we may mention:
MISS FENIMORE COOPER,
MISS ALICE CAREY,
MRS. E. OAKES SM | 3,426.752742 |
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E-text prepared by Karen Dalrymple 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: Images of | 3,426.754498 |
2023-11-16 19:14:10.7346400 | 482 | 13 |
E-text prepared by Chris Curnow, Christina, Joseph Cooper, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
MAURINE AND OTHER POEMS
by
ELLA WHEELER WILCOX
W. B. Conkey Company
Chicago
Copyright, 1888
by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
_I step across the mystic border-land,_
_And look upon the wonder-world of Art._
_How beautiful, how beautiful its hills!_
_And all its valleys, how surpassing fair!_
_The winding paths that lead up to the heights_
_Are polished by the footsteps of the great._
_The mountain-peaks stand very near to God:_
_The chosen few whose feet have trod thereon_
_Have talked with Him, and with the angels walked._
_Here are no sounds of discord--no profane_
_Or senseless gossip of unworthy things--_
_Only the songs of chisels and of pens._
_Of busy brushes, and ecstatic strains_
_Of souls surcharged with music most divine._
_Here is no idle sorrow, no poor grief_
_For any day or object left behind--_
_For time is counted precious, and herein_
_Is such complete abandonment of Self_
_That tears turn into rainbows, and enhance_
_The beauty of the land where all is fair._
_Awed and afraid, I cross the border-land._
_Oh, who am I, that I dare enter here_
_Where the great artists of the world have trod--_
_The genius-crowned aristocrats of Earth?_
_Only the singer of a little song;_
_Yet loving Art with such a mighty love_
_I hold it greater to have won a place_
_Just on the fair land's edge, to make my grave,_
_Than in the outer world of greed and gain_
_To sit upon a royal throne and reign._
CONTENTS
Maurine 9
Two Sunsets 122
Unrest 124
"Artist's Life" 125
Nothing but Stones 126
The Coquette 128
Inevitable 129
The Ocean of Song 130
"It Might Have Been" 132
If | 3,426.75468 |
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E-text prepared by Roger Frank, Darleen Dove, and the Project Gutenberg
Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 29104-h.htm or 29104-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/29104/29104-h/29104-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/29104/29104-h.zip)
THE WEB OF THE GOLDEN SPIDER
by
FREDERICK ORIN BARTLETT
Author of "Joan of the Alley," etc.
Illustrated by Harrison Fisher and Charles M. Relyea
[Illustration: "_With pretty art and a woman's instinctive desire to
please, she had placed the candle on a chair and assumed something of a
pose._" [Page 20]]
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
Copyright, 1909
by Small, Maynard & Company
(Incorporated)
Entered at Stationers' Hall
The University Press, Cambridge, U.S.A.
TO
MY WIFE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I THE CLOSED DOOR OPENS 1
II CHANCE PROVIDES 13
III A STRANGER ARRIVES 28
IV THE GOLDEN GOD SPEAKS 40
V IN THE DARK 53
VI BLIND MAN'S BUFF 63
VII THE GAME CONTINUES 75
VIII OF GOLD AND JEWELS LONG HIDDEN 89
IX A STERN CHASE 100
X STRANGE FISHING 113
XI WHAT WAS CAUGHT 124
XII OF LOVE AND QUEENS 136
XIII OF POWDER AND BULLETS 149
XIV IN THE SHADOW OF THE ANDES 164
XV GOOD NEWS AND BAD 172
XVI THE PRIEST TAKES A HAND 185
XVII 'TWIXT CUP AND LIP 200
XVIII BLIND ALLEYS 214
XIX THE SPIDER AND THE FLY 225
XX IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF QUESADA 237
XXI THE HIDDEN CAVE 253
XXII THE TASTE OF ROPE 265
XXIII THE SPIDER SNAPS 274
XXIV THOSE IN THE HUT 286
XXV WHAT THE STARS SAW 296
XXVI A LUCKY BAD SHOT 308
XXVII DANGEROUS SHADOWS 320
XXVIII A DASH FOR PORT 330
XXIX THE OPEN DOOR CLOSES 341
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
With pretty art and a woman's instinctive
desire to please, she had placed the candle on
a chair and assumed something of a pose. _Frontispiece_
"For the love of God, do not rouse her. She
sees! She sees!" 46
Minute after minute, Stubbs stared at this
sight in silence. 278
Sorez stared straight ahead of him in a frenzy.
Then the shadow sprang, throwing his arms about
the tall figure. 304
THE WEB OF THE GOLDEN SPIDER
CHAPTER I
_The Closed Door Opens_
In his aimless wanderings around Boston that night Wilson passed the
girl twice, and each time, though he caught only a glimpse of her
lithe form bent against the whipping rain, the merest sketch of her
somber features, he was distinctly conscious of the impress of her
personality. As she was absorbed by the voracious horde which shuffled
interminably and inexplicably up and down the street, he felt a sense
of loss. The path before him seemed a bit less bright, the night a bit
more barren. And although in the excitement of the eager life about
him he quickly reacted, he did not turn a corner but he found himself
peering beneath the lowered umbrellas with a piquant sense of hope.
Wilson's position was an unusual one for a theological student. He was
wandering at large in a strange city, homeless and penniless, and yet
he was not unhappy in this vagabondage. Every prowler in the dark is,
consciously or unconsciously, a mystic. He is in touch with the
unknown; he is a member of a universal cabal. The unexpected, the
impossible lurk at every corner. He brushes shoulders with strange
things, though often he feels only the lightest breath of their
passing, and hears only a rustle like that of an overturned leaf. But
he knows, either with a little shudder and a startled glance about or
with quickened pulse and eager waiting.
This he felt, and something, too, of that fellowship which exists
between those who have no doors to close behind them. For such stand
shoulder to shoulder facing the barrier Law, which bars them from the
food and warmth behind the doors. To those in a house the Law is
scarcely more than an abstraction; to those without it is a tyrannical
reality. The Law will not even allow a man outside to walk up and down
in the gray mist enjoying his own dreams without looking upon him with
suspicion. The Law is a shatterer of dreams. The Law is as eager as a
gossip to misinterpret; and this puts one, however innocent, in an
aggressive mood.
Looking up at the sodden sky from beneath a dripping slouch hat,
Wilson was keenly alive to this. Each rubber-coated officer he passed
affected him like an insolent intrusion. He brought home all the
mediocrity of the night, all the shrilling gray, all the hunger, all
the ache. These fellows took the color out of the picture, leaving
only the cold details of a photograph. They were the men who swung
open the street doors at the close of a matinee, admitting the stale
sounds of the road, the sober light of the late afternoon.
This was distinctly a novel viewpoint for Wilson. As a student he had
most sincerely approved of the Law; as a citizen of the world behind
the closed doors he had forgotten it. Now with a trace of uneasiness
he found himself resenting it.
A month ago Wilson had thought his life mapped out beyond the
possibility of change, except in its details; he would finish his
course at the school, receive a church, and pursue with moderate
success his task of holding a parish up to certain ideals. The death
of the uncle who was paying his way, following his bankruptcy, brought
Wilson to a halt from even this slow pace. At first he had been
stunned by this sudden order of Fate. His house-bleached fellows had
gathered around in the small, whitewashed room where he had had so
many tough struggles with Greek roots and his Hebrew grammar. They
offered him sympathy and such slight aid as was theirs. Minor
scholarships and certain drudging jobs had been open to him,--the
opportunity to shoulder his way to the goal of what he had thought his
manifest destiny. But that night after they had gone he locked the
door, threw wide his window, and wandered among the stars. There was
something in the unpathed purple between the spear points which called
to him. He breathed a fresher air and thrilled to keener dreams.
Strange faces came to him, smiling at him, speaking dumbly to him,
stirring unknown depths within him. He was left breathless, straining
towards them.
The day after the school term closed he had packed his extension
valise, bade good-bye to his pitying classmates, and taken the train
to Boston. He had only an indefinite object in his mind: he had once
met a friend of his uncle's who was in the publishing business; and he
determined to seek him on the chance of securing through him work of
some sort. He learned that the man had sold out and moved to the West.
Then followed a week of hopeless search for work until his small hoard
had dwindled away to nothing. To-day he found himself without a cent.
He had answered the last advertisement just as the thousand windows
sprang to renewed life. It was a position as shipping clerk in a large
department store. After waiting an hour to see the manager, a
double-chinned ghoul with the eyes of a pig, he had been dismissed
with a glance.
"Thank you," said Wilson.
"For what?" growled the man.
"For closing this door," answered Wilson, with a smile.
The fellow shifted the cigar stub which he gripped with yellow teeth
between loose lips.
"What you mean?"
"Oh, you wouldn't understand--not in a thousand years. Good-day."
The store was dry and warm. He had wandered about it gazing at the
pretty garments, entranced by the life and movement about him,
until the big iron gates were closed. Then he went out upon the
thoroughfare, glad to brush shoulders with the home-goers, glad to
feel one with them in the brilliant pageant of the living. And always
he searched for the face he had met twice that day.
The lights glowed mellow in the mist and struck out shimmering golden
bars on the asphalt. The song of shuffling feet and the accompaniment
of the clattering hansoms rang excitedly in his ears. He felt that he
was touching the points of a thousand quick romances. The flash of a
smile, a quick step, were enough to make him press on eagerly in the
possibility that it was here, perhaps, the loose end of his own life
was to be taken up.
As the crowd thinned away and he became more conspicuous to the
prowling eyes which seemed to challenge him, he took a path across the
Public Gardens, and so reached the broader sweep of the avenue where
the comfortable stone houses snuggle shoulder to shoulder. The lower
windows were lighted behind drawn shades. Against the stubborn stone
angles the light shone out with appealing warmth. Every window was
like an invitation. Occasionally a door opened, emitting a path of
yellow light to the dripping walk, framing for a second a man or a
woman; sometimes a man and a woman. When they vanished the dark always
seemed to settle down upon him more stubbornly.
Then as the clock boomed ten he saw her again. Through the mist he saw
her making her uncertain way along the walk across the street,
stopping every now and then to glance hesitatingly at the lighted
windows, pause, and move on again. Suddenly, from the shadow of the
area way, Wilson saw an officer swoop down upon her like a hawk. The
woman started back with a little cry as the officer placed his hand
upon her arm. Wilson saw this through the mist like a shadow picture
and then he crossed the road. As he approached them both looked up,
the girl wistfully, the officer with an air of bravado. Wilson faced
the vigorous form in the helmet and rubber overcoat.
"Well," growled the officer, "what you doin' round here?"
"Am I doing anything wrong?"
"That's wot I'm goneter find out. Yer've both been loafin' here fer an
hour."
"No," answered Wilson, "I haven't been loafing."
"Wot yer doin' then?"
"Living."
Wilson caught an eager look from the shadowed face of the girl. He
met the other eyes which peered viciously into his with frank
aggressiveness. He never in his life had felt toward any fellow-creature
as he felt towards this man. He could have reached for his throat.
He drew his coat collar more closely about his neck and unbuttoned the
lower buttons to give his legs freer play. The officer moved back a
little, still retaining his grip on the girl's arm.
"Well," he said, "yer better get outern here now, or I'll run you in,
too."
"No," answered Wilson, "you'll not run in either of us."
"I won't, eh? Move on lively----"
"You go to the devil," said Wilson, with quiet deliberation.
He saw the night stick swing for him, and, throwing his full weight
against the officer, he lifted his arm and swung up under the chin.
Then he seized the girl's hand.
"Run," he gasped, "run for all you're worth!"
They ran side by side and darted down the first turn. They heard the
sharp oath, the command, and then the heavy beat of the steps behind
them. Wilson kept the girl slightly ahead of him, pushing and
steadying her, although he soon found that she was quite as fleet as
he himself was. She ran easily, from the hips, like one who has been
much out of doors.
Their breath came in gasps, but they still heard the heavy steps
behind them and pushed on. As they turned another corner to the left
they caught the sharp bark of a pistol and saw the spat of a bullet on
the walk to the right of them. But this street was much darker, and
so, while there was the added danger from stumbling, they felt safer.
"He's getting winded," shouted Wilson to her. "Keep on."
Soon they came to a blank wall, but to the left they discovered an
alley. A whiff of salt air beat against their faces, and Wilson knew
they were in the market road which led along the water front in the
rear of the stone houses. He had come here from the park on hot days.
There were but few lights, and these could not carry ten yards through
the mist. Pressing on, he kept at her back until she began to totter,
and then he paused.
"A little further," he said. "We'll go on tiptoe."
They stole on, pressing close to the wall which bounded the small back
yards, making no more noise than shadows. Finally the girl fell back
against him.
"You--you go on!" she begged.
Wilson drew her to his side and pressed back against one of the wooden
doors, holding his breath to listen. He could barely make out the
sodden steps and--they were receding.
The mist beat in damply upon their faces, but they could not feel it
in the joy of their new-found freedom. Before them all was black, the
road indistinguishable save just below the pale lights which were
scarcely more than pin pricks in black velvet. But the barrier behind
seemed to thrust them out aggressively.
Struggling to regain his breath, Wilson found his blood running freer
and his senses more alert than for years. The night surrounding him
had suddenly become his friend. It became pregnant with new
meaning,--levelling walls, obliterating beaten man paths, cancelling
rusty duties. In the dark nothing existed save souls, and souls were
equal. And the world was an uncharted sea.
Then in the distance he detected the piercing light from a dark
lantern moving in a circle, searching every nook and cranny. He knew
what that meant; this road was like a blind alley, with no outlet.
They had been trapped. He glanced at the girl huddling at his feet
and then straightened himself.
"They sha'n't!" he cried. "They sha'n't!"
He ran his hand along the door to the latch. It was locked; but he
drew back a few steps and threw his full weight against it and felt it
give a trifle.
"They'll hear us," warned the girl.
Though the impact jarred him till he felt dizzy, he stumbled forward
again; and yet again. The lock gave and, thrusting the girl in, he
swung the door to behind them.
They found themselves in a small, paved yard. Fumbling about this,
Wilson discovered in the corner several pieces of joist, and these he
propped against the door. Then he sank to the ground exhausted.
In spite of his bruised body | 3,427.649621 |
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Transcribed from the 1880 Haughton and Co. edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
[Picture: Book cover]
[Picture: Frontispiece: Among the Gipsy children]
GIPSY LIFE:
BEING AN ACCOUNT
OF
OUR GIPSIES AND THEIR CHILDREN.
WITH
SUGGESTIONS FOR THEIR IMPROVEMENT.
BY
GEORGE SMITH, OF COALVILLE.
* * * * *
LONDON:
HAUGHTON & CO., 10, PATERNOSTER ROW.
* * * * *
[_All Rights Reserved_.]
* * * * *
1880.
I give my warmest thanks to W. H. OVEREND, Esq., for the block forming
the Frontispiece, which he has kindly presented to me on the condition
that the picture occupies the position it does in this book; and also to
the proprietor of the _Illustrated London News_ for the blocks to help
forward my work, the pictures of which appeared in his journal in
November and December of last year and January in the present year, as
found herein on pages 42, 48, 66, 76, 96, 108, 118, 122, 174, 192, 236,
283.
I must at the same time express my heart-felt thanks to the manager and
proprietors of the _Graphic_ for the blocks forming the illustrations on
pages 1, 132, 170, 222, 228, 248, 272, 277, and which appeared in their
journal on March 13th in the present year, and which they have kindly
presented to me to help forward my object, connected with which sketches,
at the kind request of the Editor, I wrote the article.
W. H. OVEREND, Esq., was the artist for the sketches in the _Illustrated
London News_, and HERBERT JOHNSON, Esq., was the artist for the sketches
in the _Graphic_.
I also tender my warmest thanks to the Press generally for the help
rendered to me during the crusade so far, without which I should have
done but little.
TO THE MOST HONOURABLE
THE PEERS AND MEMBERS
OF THE
HIGH COURT OF PARLIAMENT.
I have taken the liberty of humbly dedicating this work to you, the
object of which is not to tickle the critical ears of ethnologists and
philologists, but to touch the hearts of my countrymen on behalf of the
poor Gipsy women and children and other roadside Arabs flitting about in
our midst, in such a way as to command attention to these neglected,
dark, marshy spots of human life, whose seedlings have been running wild
among us during the last three centuries, spreading their poisonous
influence abroad, not only detrimental to the growth of Christianity and
the spread of civilisation, but to the present and eternal welfare of the
children; and, what I ask for is, that the hand of the Schoolmaster may
be extended towards the children; and that the vans and other temporary
and movable abodes in which they live may be brought under the eye and
influence of the Sanitary Inspector.
Very respectfully yours,
GEORGE SMITH,
_Of Coalville_.
_April_ 30_th_, 1880.
INDEX.
Part I.
RAMBLES IN GIPSYDOM.
PAGE
Origin of the Gipsies and their Names 1
Article in _The Daily News_ 8
The Travels of the Gipsies 9
Acts of Parliament relating to the Gipsies 16
Article in _The Edinburgh Review_ 23
,, _The Saturday Review_ 25
Professor Bott on the Gipsies 29
The Changars of India 32
The Doms of India 33
The Sanseeas of India 35
The Nuts of India 36
Grellmann on the Gipsies 39
Gipsies of Notting Hill 40
Rev. Charles Wesley 42
The Number of Gipsies 44
Part II.
COMMENCEMENT OF THE CRUSADE.
Work begun 48
Letter to _The Standard_ and _Daily Chronicle_ 51
Leading Article in _The Standard_ 53
Correspondence in _The Standard_ 59
Mr. Leland's Letter, &c., &c. 60
My Reply 66
_Leicester Free Press_ 69
Article in _The Derby Daily Telegraph_ 70
,, _The Figaro_ 73
Letter in _The Daily News_ 75
Mr. Gorrie's Letter 78
My Reply 79
Leading Article in _The Standard_ 82
_May's Aldershot Advertiser_ 87
Article in _Hand and Heart_ 90
Article in _The Illustrated London News_ 91
Leading Article in _The Daily News_ 92
Social Science Congress Paper 95
Article in _Birmingham Daily Mail_ 102
,, _The Weekly Dispatch_ 106
,, _The Weekly Times_ 109
,, _The Croydon Chronicle_ 117
,, _Primitive Methodist_ 119
,, _Illustrated London News_ 121
,, _The Quiver_ 126
Letter in _Daily News_ and _Chronicle_ 127
Article in _Christian World_ 129
,, _Sunday School Chronicle_ 132
,, _Unitarian Herald_ 134
,, _Weekly Times_ 135
Part III.
THE TREATMENT THE GIPSIES HAVE RECEIVED IN THIS COUNTRY.
The Social History of our Country 142
Acts of Parliament concerning the Gipsies 145
Treatment of the Gipsies in Scotland, Spain, and Denmark 150
Efforts put forth to improve their Condition 155
His Majesty George III. and the Dying Gipsy 161
Mr. Crabb at Southampton in 1827 164
Fiction and the Gipsies 166
Hubert Petalengro's Gipsy Trip to Norway 169
Esmeralda's Song 174
George Borrow's Travels in Spain 177
Romance and Poetry about the Gipsies 183
Dean Stanley's Prize Poem 190
Part IV.
GIPSY LIFE IN A VARIETY OF ASPECTS.
Persecution, Missionary Efforts, and Romance 192
The Gipsy Contrast and _Punch_ 193
Gipsy Slang 195
Rees and Borrow's Description of the Gipsies 199
Leland among the Russian Gipsies 201
Burning a Russian Fortune-teller 203
A Welsh Gipsy's Letter 208
Ryley Bosvil and his Poetry: a Sad Example 213
My Visit to Canning Town Gipsies 220
Article in _The Weekly Times_ 222
My Son's Visit to Barking Road 227
Mrs. Simpson, a Christian Gipsy 228
Part V.
THE SAD CONDITION OF THE GIPSIES, WITH SUGGESTIONS FOR THEIR
IMPROVEMENT.
Gipsy Beauty and Songsters 237
Gipsy Poetry 239
Smart and Crofton 239
A Little Gipsy Girl's Letter 242
Scotch Gipsies 243
Gipsy Trickery 244
My Visit to the Gipsies at Kensal Green 248
Fortune-telling and other Sins 249
Wretched Condition of the Gipsies 254
Hungarian Gipsies 259
Visit to Cherry Island 260
The Cleanliness and Food of the Gipsies 262
A Gipsy Woman's Opinion upon Religion 264
Gipsy Faithfulness and Fidelity 264
A Visit to Hackney Marshes 266
Sickness among the Gipsies 270
A Gipsy Woman's Funeral 271
Gipsies and the Workhouse 274
Education of the Gipsy Children Sixty Years ago 274
Mission Work among the Gipsies 275
Gipsy Children upon Turnham Green and Wandsworth Common 276
Sad Condition of the Gipsy Children 277
The Hardships of the Gipsy Women 281
Efforts put forth in Hungary and other Countries 282
Things made by the Gipsies 284
Pity for the Gipsies 285
What the State has done for the Thugs 286
The Remedy 287
My Reasons for Government Interference 289
Illustrations.
PAGE
Frontispiece. Among the Gipsy Children.
A Gipsy Beauty 1
A Gentleman Gipsy's Tent and his dog "Grab" 42
A Gipsy's Home for Man and Wife and Six Children 48
Gipsies Camping among the Heath 66
Gipsy Quarters, | 3,427.653211 |
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Produced by Adam Buchbinder and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was
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THE
PHILOSOPHY OF HISTORY;
IN A
COURSE OF LECTURES,
DELIVERED AT VIENNA,
BY FREDERICK VON SCHLEGEL.
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN,
WITH A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR,
BY JAMES BURTON ROBERTSON, ESQ.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON
SAUNDERS AND OTLEY, CONDUIT STREET.
MDCCCXXXV.
B. BENSLEY, PRINTER.
MEMOIR
OF THE LITERARY LIFE
of
FREDERICK VON SCHLEGEL.
In the following sketch of the literary life of the late Frederick Von
Schlegel, it is the intention of the writer to take a rapid review of
that author's principal productions, noticing the circumstances out of
which they grew, and the influence they exerted on his age; giving at
the same time a fuller analysis of his political and metaphysical
systems:--an analysis which is useful, nay almost necessary to the
elucidation of very many passages in the work, to which this memoir is
prefixed. Of the inadequacy of his powers to the due execution of such a
task, none can be more fully sensible than the writer himself; but he
trusts that he will experience from the kindness of the reader, an
indulgence proportionate to the difficulty of the undertaking.
In offering to the British public a translation of one of the last
works of one among the most illustrious of German writers, the
Translator is aware, that after the excellent translation which
appeared in 1818 of this author's "History of Literature," and also
after the admirable translation of his brother's "Lectures on
Dramatic Literature," by Mr. Black, his own performance must appear
in a very disadvantageous point of view. But this is a circumstance
which only gives it additional claims to indulgent consideration.
The family of the Schlegels seem to have been peculiarly favoured by
the Muses. Elias Schlegel, a member of this family, was a
distinguished dramatic writer in his own time; and some of his plays
are, I believe, acted in Germany at the present day. Adolphus
Schlegel, the father of the subject of the present biography, was a
minister of the Lutheran church, distinguished for his literary
talents, and particularly for eloquence in the pulpit. His eldest
son, Charles Augustus Schlegel, entered with the Hanoverian regiment
to which he belonged into the service of our East India Company, and
had begun to prosecute with success his studies in Sanscrit
literature--a field of knowledge in which his brothers have since
obtained so much distinction--when his youthful career was unhappily
terminated by the hand of death. Augustus William Schlegel, the
second son, who was destined to carry to so high a pitch the
literary glory of his family, was born at Hanover in 1769--a year so
propitious to the birth of genius. Frederick Schlegel was born at
Hanover in 1772. Though destined for commerce, he received a highly
classical education; and in his sixteenth year prevailed on his
father to allow him to devote himself to the Belles Lettres. After
completing his academical course at Gottingen and Leipzig, he
rejoined his brother, and became associated with him in his literary
labours. He has himself given us the interesting picture of his own
mind at this early period. "In my first youth," says he, "from the
age of seventeen and upwards, the writings of Plato, the Greek
tragedians, and Winkelmann's enthusiastic works, formed the
intellectual world in which I lived, and where I often strove in a
youthful manner, to represent to my soul the ideas and images of
ancient gods and heroes. In the year 1789, I was enabled, for the
first time, to gratify my inclination in that capital so highly
refined by art--Dresden; and I was as much surprised as delighted to
see really before me those antique figures of gods I had so long
desired to behold. Among these I often tarried for hours, especially
in the incomparable collection of Mengs's casts, which were then to
be found, disposed in a state of little order in the Bruehl garden,
where I often let myself be shut up, in order to remain without
interruption. It was not the consummate beauty of form alone, which
satisfied and even exceeded the expectation I had secretly formed;
but it was still more the life--the animation in those Olympic
marbles, which excited my astonishment; for the latter qualities I
had been less able to picture to myself in my solitary musings.
These first indelible impressions were in succeeding years, the
firm, enduring ground-work for my study of classical antiquity."[1]
Here he found the sacred fire, at which his genius lit the torch
destined to blaze through his life with inextinguishable brightness.
He commenced his literary career in 1794, with a short essay on the
different schools of Greek poetry. It is curious to watch in this little
piece the buddings of his mind. Here we see, as it were, the germ of the
first part of the great work on ancient and modern literature, which he
published nearly twenty years afterwards. We are astonished to find in a
youth of twenty-two an erudition so extensive--an acquaintance not only
with the more celebrated poets and philosophers of ancient Greece, but
also with the obscure, recondite Alexandrian poets, known to
comparatively few scholars even of a maturer age. We admire, too, the
clearness of analytic arrangement--the admirable method of
classification, in which the author and his brother have ever so far
outshone the generality of German writers. The essay displays, also, a
delicacy of observation and an originality of views, which announce the
great critic. It is, in short, the labour of an infant Hercules.
As this essay gives promise of a mighty critic; so two treatises, which
the author wrote in the following years, 1795 and 1796--one entitled
"Diotima," and which treats of the condition of the female sex in
ancient Greece--the other, a parallel between Caesar and Alexander, not
published, however, till twenty-six years afterwards--both show the
dawnings of his great historical genius. Rarely have the promises of
youth been so amply fulfilled--rarely has the green foliage of Spring
been followed by fruits so rich and abundant. It is interesting to
observe the fine, organic development of Schlegel's mental powers--to
trace in these early productions, the germs of those great historical
works which it was reserved for his manhood and age to achieve. In the
latter and most remarkable of these essays, he examines the respective
merits of Caesar and Alexander, considered as men, as generals, and as
statesmen. To the Macedonian he assigns greater tenderness of feeling, a
more generous and lofty disinterestedness of character--and a finer
power of perception for the beauties of art. To the Roman he ascribes
greater coolness and sobriety of judgment, an extraordinary degree of
self-controul, a mind tenacious of its purpose, but careless as to the
means by which it was accomplished, an exquisite sense of fitness and
propriety in the smallest as in the greatest things, yet little
susceptibility for the beautiful in art. With respect to military
genius, he shows that Caesar united to the fire and rapidity of the
Macedonian, greater constancy and perseverance; yet that the temerity of
Alexander was not always the effect of impetuous passion, but sometimes
the result at once of situation and deliberate reflection. As regards
the political capacities of these two great conquerors, he shows that
Caesar possessed an over-mastering ascendancy over the minds of men--the
talent of guiding their wills, and making them subservient to his own
views and interests--in short, a consummate skill in the tactics of a
party-leader. Yet he thinks him destitute of the wisdom of a law-giver,
or what he emphatically calls, the _organic genius of state_--the power
to found, or renovate a constitution. To Alexander, on the contrary, he
attributes the plastic genius of legislation--the will and the ability
to diffuse among nations the blessings of civilization--to plant cities,
and establish free, flourishing and permanent communities.
In the year 1797, Schlegel published his first important work,
entitled "the Greeks and the Romans." This work was two or three
years afterwards followed by another, entitled "History of Greek
Poetry." These two writings in their original form are no longer to
be met with--for in the new edition of the author's works, they not
only have undergone various alterations and additions, but have
been, as it were, melted into one work. Winkelmann's history of art
was the model which Schlegel proposed to himself in this history of
Greek poetry; and we must allow that the noble school which that
illustrious man, as well as Lessing, Herder, and Goethe, had founded
in Germany, never received a richer acquisition than in the work
here spoken of. Prior to the illustrious writers I have named,
Germany had produced a multitude of scholars distinguished for
profound learning and critical acuteness; but their labours may be
considered as only ancillary and preliminary to the works of men
who, with an erudition and a perspicacity never surpassed, united a
poetical sense and a philosophic discernment that could catch the
spirit of antiquity, reanimate her forms, and place them in all
their living freshness before our eyes.
In the first chapter of the "History of Greek Poetry," Schlegel
speaks of the religious rites and mysteries of the primitive Greeks,
and of the Orphic poetry to which they gave rise. Contrary to the
opinion of many scholars who, though they admit the present form of
the Orphic hymns to be the work of a later period, yet refer their
substance to a very remote antiquity, Schlegel assigns their origin
to the age of Hesiod. "Enthusiasm," he says, "is the characteristic
of the Orphic poetry--repose that of the Homeric poems." His
observations however on the early religion of the Greeks, form, in
my humble opinion, the least satisfactory portion of this work. He
next gives an interesting account of the state of society in Greece
in the age of Homer, as well as in the one preceding, and shews by a
long process of inductive evidence, how the Homeric poetry was the
crown and perfection of a long series of Bardic poems.
He then examines, at great length, the opinions of the ancients from
the earliest Greek to the latest Roman critics, on the plan, the
diction and poetical merits of the Iliad and the Odyssey;
interweaving in this review of ancient criticism his own remarks,
which serve either to correct the errors, supply the deficiencies,
or illustrate the wisdom of those ancient judges of art. After this
survey of ancient criticism, he proceeds to point out some of the
characteristic features of the Homeric poems. He enquires what is
understood by natural poetry, or the poetry of nature; shews that it
is perfectly compatible with art--that there is a wide difference
between the natural and the rude--that Homer is distinguished as
much for delicacy of perception, accuracy of delineation, and
sagacity of judgment, as for fertility of fancy and energy of
passion. The author next passes in review the Hesiodic epos, the
middle epos, or the works of the Cyclic poets, and lastly, the
productions of the Ionic, AEolic, and Doric schools of lyric poetry.
The fragments on the lyric poetry of Greece are particularly
beautiful, and comprise not only excellent criticisms on the genius
of the different lyrists themselves, but also most interesting
observations on the character, manners, and social institutions of
the races that composed the Hellenic confederacy.
It was Schlegel's intention to have given a complete history of
Greek poetry; but the execution of this task was abandoned, not from
any want of perseverance, as some have imagined, but from some
peculiar circumstances in the world of letters at that period. The
literary scepticism of Wolf, supported with so much learning and
ability, was then convulsing the German mind; and while the purity
of the Homeric text, and the unity and integrity of the Homeric
poems themselves were so ably contested, Schlegel deemed it a
hazardous task to attempt to draw public attention to any aesthetic
enquiries on the elder Greek poetry. Hence the second part of this
work, which treats of the lyric poets, remained unfinished. The
general qualities, which must strike all in this history of Greek
poetry are, a masterly acquaintance with classical literature--a
wariness and circumspection of judgment, rare in any writer,
especially in one so young--a critical perspicacity, that draws its
conclusions from the widest range of observation--and a poetic
flexibility of fancy, that can transport itself into the remotest
periods of antiquity. In a word, the author analyzes as a critic,
feels as a poet, and observes like a philosopher.
But a new career now expanded before the ardent mind of Schlegel. The
enterprising spirit of British scholars had but twenty years before
opened a new intellectual world to European inquiry:--a world many of
whose spiritual productions, disguised in one shape or another, the
Western nations had for a long course of ages admired and enjoyed,
ignorant as they were of the precise region from which they were
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CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
By Fyodor Dostoevsky
Translated By Constance Garnett
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE
A few words about Dostoevsky himself may help the English reader to
understand his work.
Dostoevsky was the son of a doctor. His parents were very hard-working
and deeply religious people, but so poor that they lived with their five
children in only two rooms. The father and mother spent their evenings
in reading aloud to their children, generally from books of a serious
character.
Though always sickly and delicate Dostoevsky came out third in the
final examination of the Petersburg school of Engineering. There he had
already begun his first work, "Poor Folk."
This story was published by the poet Nekrassov in his review and
was received with acclamations. The shy, unknown youth found himself
instantly something of a celebrity. A brilliant and successful career
seemed to open before him, but those hopes were soon dashed. In 1849 he
was arrested.
Though neither by temperament nor conviction a revolutionist, Dostoevsky
was one of a little group of young men who met together to read Fourier
and Proudhon. He was accused of "taking part in conversations against
the censorship, of reading a letter from Byelinsky to Gogol, and of
knowing of the intention to set up a printing press." Under Nicholas
I. (that "stern and just man," as Maurice Baring calls him) this was
enough, and he was condemned to death. After eight months' imprisonment
he was with twenty-one others taken out to the Semyonovsky Square to
be shot. Writing to his brother Mihail, Dostoevsky says: "They snapped
words over our heads, and they made us put on the white shirts worn by
persons condemned to death. Thereupon we were bound in threes to stakes,
to suffer execution. Being the third in the row, I concluded I had only
a few minutes of life before me. I thought of you and your dear ones and
I contrived to kiss Plestcheiev and Dourov, who were next to me, and to
bid them farewell. Suddenly the troops beat a tattoo, we were unbound,
brought back upon the scaffold, and informed that his Majesty had spared
us our lives." The sentence was commuted to hard labour.
One of the prisoners, Grigoryev, went mad as soon as he was untied, and
never regained his sanity.
The intense suffering of this experience left a lasting stamp on
Dostoevsky's mind. Though his religious temper led him in the end to
accept every suffering with resignation and to regard it as a blessing
in his own case, he constantly recurs to the subject in his writings.
He describes the awful agony of the condemned man and insists on the
cruelty of inflicting such torture. Then followed four years of penal
servitude, spent in the company of common criminals in Siberia, where
he began the "Dead House," and some years of service in a disciplinary
battalion.
He had shown signs of some obscure nervous disease before his arrest
and this now developed into violent attacks of epilepsy, from which he
suffered for the rest of his life. The fits occurred three or four times
a year and were more frequent in periods of great strain. In 1859 he was
allowed to return to Russia. He started a journal--"Vremya," which was
forbidden by the Censorship through a misunderstanding. In 1864 he lost
his first wife and his brother Mihail. He was in terrible poverty, yet
he took upon himself the payment of his brother's debts. He started
another journal--"The Epoch," which within a few months was also
prohibited. He was weighed down by debt, his brother's family was
dependent on him, he was forced to write at heart-breaking speed, and is
said never to have corrected his work. The later years of his life were
much softened by the tenderness and devotion of his second wife.
In June 1880 he made his famous speech at the unveiling of the
monument to Pushkin in Moscow and he was received with extraordinary
demonstrations of love and honour.
A few months later Dostoevsky died. He was followed to the grave by a
vast multitude of mourners, who "gave the hapless man the funeral of a
king." He is still probably the most widely read writer in Russia.
In the words of a Russian critic, who seeks to explain the feeling
inspired by Dostoevsky: "He was one of ourselves, a man of our blood and
our bone, but one who has suffered and has seen so much more deeply than
we have his insight impresses us as wisdom... that wisdom of the heart
which we seek that we may learn from it how to live. All his other
gifts came to him from nature, this he won for himself and through it he
became great."
CRIME AND PUNISHMENT
PART I
CHAPTER I
On an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of
the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though
in hesitation, towards K. bridge.
He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the staircase. His
garret was under the roof of a high, five-storied house and was more
like a cupboard than a room. The landlady who provided him with garret,
dinners, and attendance, lived on the floor below, and every time
he went out he was obliged to pass her kitchen, the door of which
invariably stood open. And each time he passed, the young man had a
sick, frightened feeling, which made him scowl and feel ashamed. He was
hopelessly in debt to his landlady, and was afraid of meeting her.
This was not because he was cowardly and abject, quite the contrary; but
for some time past he had been in an overstrained irritable condition,
verging on hypochondria. He had become so completely absorbed in
himself, and isolated from his fellows that he dreaded meeting, not
only his landlady, but anyone at all. He was crushed by poverty, but the
anxieties of his position had of late ceased to weigh upon him. He had
given up attending to matters of practical importance; he had lost all
desire to do so. Nothing that any landlady could do had a real terror
for him. But to be stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her
trivial, irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment, threats
and complaints, and to rack his brains for excuses, to prevaricate, to
lie--no, rather than that, he would creep down the stairs like a cat and
slip out unseen.
This evening, however, on coming out into the street, he became acutely
aware of his fears.
"I want to attempt a thing _like that_ and am frightened by these
trifles," he thought, with an odd smile. "Hm... yes, all is in a man's
hands and he lets it all slip from cowardice, that's an axiom. It would
be interesting to know what it is men are most afraid of. Taking a new
step, uttering a new word is what they fear most.... But I am talking
too much. It's because I chatter that I do nothing. Or perhaps it is
that I chatter because I do nothing. I've learned to chatter this
last month, lying for days together in my den thinking... of Jack the
Giant-killer. Why am I going there now? Am I capable of _that_? Is
_that_ serious? It is not serious at all. It's simply a fantasy to amuse
myself; a plaything! Yes, maybe it is a plaything."
The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessness, the bustle
and the plaster, scaffolding, bricks, and dust all about him, and that
special Petersburg stench, so familiar to all who are unable to get out
of town in summer--all worked painfully upon the young man's already
overwrought nerves. The insufferable stench from the pot-houses, which
are particularly numerous in that part of the town, and the drunken men
whom he met continually, although it was a working day, completed
the revolting misery of the picture. An expression of the profoundest
disgust gleamed for a moment in the young man's refined face. He was,
by the way, exceptionally handsome, above the average in height, slim,
well-built, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair. Soon he sank
into deep thought, or more accurately speaking into a complete blankness
of mind; he walked along not observing what was about him and not caring
to observe it. From time to time, he would mutter something, from the
habit of talking to himself, to which he had just confessed. At these
moments he would become conscious that his ideas were sometimes in a
tangle and that he was very weak; for two days he had scarcely tasted
food.
He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to shabbiness would
have been ashamed to be seen in the street in such rags. In that quarter
of the town, however, scarcely any shortcoming in dress would have
created surprise. Owing to the proximity of the Hay Market, the number
of establishments of bad character, the preponderance of the trading
and working class population crowded in these streets and alleys in the
heart of Petersburg, types so various were to be seen in the streets
that no figure, however queer, would have caused surprise. But there was
such accumulated bitterness and contempt in the young man's heart, that,
in spite of all the fastidiousness of youth, he minded his rags least
of all in the street. It was a different matter when he met with
acquaintances or with former fellow students, whom, indeed, he disliked
meeting at any time. And yet when a drunken man who, for some unknown
reason, was being taken somewhere in a huge waggon dragged by a heavy
dray horse, suddenly shouted at him as he drove past: "Hey there, German
hatter" bawling at the top of his voice and pointing at him--the young
man stopped suddenly and clutched tremulously at his hat. It was a tall
round hat from Zimmerman's, but completely worn out, rusty with age, all
torn and bespattered, brimless and bent on one side in a most unseemly
fashion. Not shame, however, but quite another feeling akin to terror
had overtaken him.
"I knew it," he muttered in confusion, "I thought so! That's the worst
of all! Why, a stupid thing like this, the most trivial detail might
spoil the whole plan. Yes, my hat is too noticeable.... It looks absurd
and that makes it noticeable.... With my rags I ought to wear a cap, any
sort of old pancake, but not this grotesque thing. Nobody wears such
a hat, it would be noticed a mile off, it would be remembered.... What
matters is that people would remember it, and that would give them
a clue. For this business one should be as little conspicuous as
possible.... Trifles, trifles are what matter! Why, it's just such
trifles that always ruin everything...."
He had not far to go; he knew indeed how many steps it was from the gate
of his lodging house: exactly seven hundred and thirty. He had counted
them once when he had been lost in dreams. At the time he had put no
faith in those dreams and was only tantalising himself by their hideous
but daring recklessness. Now, a month later, he had begun to look upon
them differently, and, in spite of the monologues in which he jeered at
his own impotence and indecision, he had involuntarily come to regard
this "hideous" dream as an exploit to be attempted, although he
still did not realise this himself. He was positively going now for a
"rehearsal" of his project, and at every step his excitement grew more
and more violent.
With a sinking heart and a nervous tremor, he went up to a huge house
which on one side looked on to the canal, and on the other into the
street. This house was let out in tiny tenements and was inhabited by
working people of all kinds--tailors, locksmiths, cooks, Germans of
sorts, girls picking up a living as best they could, petty clerks, etc.
There was a continual coming and going through the two gates and in the
two courtyards of the house. Three or four door-keepers were employed on
the building. The young man was very glad to meet none of them, and
at once slipped unnoticed through the door on the right, and up the
staircase. It was a back staircase, dark and narrow, but he was familiar
with it already, and knew his way, and he liked all these surroundings:
in such darkness even the most inquisitive eyes were not to be dreaded.
"If I am so scared now, what would it be if it somehow came to pass that
I were really going to do it?" he could not help asking himself as he
reached the fourth storey. There his progress was barred by some porters
who were engaged in moving furniture out of a flat. He knew that the
flat had been occupied by a German clerk in the civil service, and his
family. This German was moving out then, and so the fourth floor on this
staircase would be untenanted except by the old woman. "That's a good
thing anyway," he thought to himself, as he rang the bell of the old
woman's flat. The bell gave a faint tinkle as though it were made of
tin and not of copper. The little flats in such houses always have bells
that ring like that. He had forgotten the note of that bell, and now
its peculiar tinkle seemed to remind him of something and to bring it
clearly before him.... He started, his nerves were terribly overstrained
by now. In a little while, the door was opened a tiny crack: the old
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Produced by Ritu Aggarwal, Jonathan Ingram and the Online
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
1. Passages in italics are surrounded by _underscores_.
2. Images have been moved from the middle of a paragraph to the
closest paragraph break.
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and ligature usage have been retained.
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. CL.
APRIL 26, 1916.
CHARIVARIA.
GENERAL VILLA, in pursuit of whom a United States army has already
penetrated four hundred miles into Mexico, is alleged to have died.
It is not considered likely, however, that he will escape as easily
as all that.
***
"Germans net the Sound," says a recent issue of a contemporary. We
don't know what profit they will get out of it, but we ourselves in
these hard times are only too glad to net anything.
***
Bags of coffee taken from a Norwegian steamer and destined for German
consumption have been found to contain rubber. Once more the
immeasurable superiority of the German chemist as a deviser of
synthetic substitutes for ordinary household commodities is clearly
illustrated. What a contrast to our own scientists, whose use of this
most valuable food substitute has never gone far beyond an occasional
fowl or beefsteak.
***
It has been suggested that in honour of the tercentenary of
SHAKSPEARE'S birth Barclay's brewery should be replaced by a new
theatre, a replica of the old Globe Theatre, whose site it is supposed
to occupy; and Mr. REGINALD MCKENNA is understood to have stated that
it is quite immaterial to him.
***
"Horseflesh is on sale in the West End," says _The Daily Telegraph_,
"and the public analyst at Westminster reports having examined a
smoked horseflesh sausage and found it genuine." It is only fair to
our readers, however, to point out that the method of testing sausages
now in vogue, _i.e._ with a stethoscope, is only useful for
ascertaining the identity of the animal (if any) contained therein,
and is valueless in the case of sausages that are filled with sawdust,
india-rubber shavings, horsehair and other vegetables.
***
Wandsworth Borough has refused the offer of a horse trough on the
ground that there are not enough horses to use it. But there are
always plenty of shirkers.
***
Colonel CHURCHILL was reported on Tuesday last as having been seen
entering the side door of No. 11, Downing Street. It was, of course,
the critical stage door.
***
The Austrian Government has issued an appeal for dogs "for sanitary
purposes." The valuable properties of the dog for sterilising sausage
casings have long been a secret of the Teuton.
* * * * *
Commercial Candour.
"Real Harris Hand-Knitted Socks, _1s. 6d._: worth _2s. 6d._;
unwearable."--_Scotch Paper._
* * * * *
[Illustration: _Shopkeeper._ "YES, I WANT A GOOD USEFUL LAD TO BE
PARTLY INDOORS AND PARTLY OUTDOORS."
_Applicant._ "AND WHAT BECOMES OF ME WHEN THE DOOR SLAMS?"]
* * * * *
A Chance for the Illiterate.
"Wanted, a good, all-round Gardener; illegible."--_Provincial
Paper._
"Gardener.--Wanted at once, clever experienced man with good
knowledge of toms., cucs., mums., &c., to work up small
nursery."
_Provincial Paper._
One with a knowledge of nursery language preferred.
* * * * *
"MANCHESTER, ENG. The election of directors of the Manchester
Chamber of Commerce resulted in the return of eighteen out of
twenty-two directors who are definitely committed to the
policy of no free trade with the 60th Canadian Battalion."
_Victoria Colonist (B.C.)._
We hope the battalion will not retaliate by refusing protection to
Manchester, Eng.
* * * * *
THE CURSE OF BABEL.
Let me tell you about the Baronne de Blanqueville and her grandson.
The Baronne is a Belgian lady who came to England in the early days of
the refugee movement, and established herself here in our village.
With her came her younger daughter and Lou-lou, the infant son of an
elder daughter, who had for some reason to be left behind in Belgium.
Lou-lou was a year old when, with his grandmother and his aunt, he
settled in England as an _emigre_. He was then inarticulate; now he
has gained the use of his tongue.
He has had a little English nursemaid to attend on him, and he has
become a familiar object in many English families of | 3,427.952553 |
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Produced by David Widger
RICHARD CARVEL
By Winston Churchill
CONTENTS OF THE COMPLETE BOOK
Volume 1.
I. Lionel Carvel, of Carvel Hall
II. Some Memories of Childhood
III. Caught by the Tide
IV. Grafton would heal an Old Breach
V. "If Ladies be but Young and Fair"
VI. I first suffer for the Cause
VII. Grafton has his Chance
Volume 2.
VIII. Over the Wall
IX. Under False Colours
X. The Red in the Carvel Blood
XI. A Festival and a Parting
XII. News from a Far Country
Volume 3.
XIII. Mr. Allen shows his Hand
XIV. The Volte Coupe
XV. Of which the Rector has the Worst
XVI. In which Some Things are made Clear
XVII. South River
XVIII. The Black Moll
Volume 4.
XIX. A Man of Destiny
XX. A Sad Home-coming
XXI. The Gardener's Cottage
XXII. On the Road
XXIII. London Town
XXIV. Castle Yard
XXV. The Rescue
Volume 5.
XXVI. The Part Horatio played
XXVII. In which I am sore tempted
XXVIII. Arlington Street
XXIX. I meet a very Great Young Man
XXX. A Conspiracy
XXXI. "Upstairs into the World"
XXXII. Lady Tankerville's Drum-major
XXXIII. Drury Lane
Volume 6.
XXXIV. His Grace makes Advances
XXXV. In which my Lord Baltimore appears
XXXVI. A Glimpse of Mr. Garrick
XXXVII. The Serpentine
XXXVIII. In which I am roundly brought to task
XXXIX. Holland House
XL. Vauxhall
XLI. The Wilderness
Volume 7.
XLII. My Friends are proven
XLIII. Annapolis once more
XLIV. Noblesse Oblige
XLV. The House of Memories
XLVI. Gordon's Pride
XLVII. Visitors
XLVIII. Multum in Parvo
XLIX. Liberty loses a Friend
Volume 8.
L. Farewell to Gordon's
LI. How an Idle Prophecy came to pass
LII. How the Gardener's Son fought the Serapis
LIII. In which I make Some Discoveries
LIV. More Discoveries.
LV. The Love of a Maid for a Man
LVI. How Good came out of Evil
LVII. I come to my Own again
FOREWORD
My sons and daughters have tried to persuade me to remodel these memoirs
of my grandfather into a latter-day romance. But I have thought it wiser
to leave them as he wrote them. Albeit they contain some details not of
interest to the general public, to my notion it is such imperfections as
these which lend to them the reality they bear. Certain it is, when
reading them, I live his life over again.
Needless to say, Mr. Richard Carvel never intended them for publication.
His first apology would be for his Scotch, and his only defence is that
he was not a Scotchman.
The lively capital which once reflected the wit and fashion of Europe has
fallen into decay. The silent streets no more echo with the rumble of
coaches and gay chariots, and grass grows where busy merchants trod.
Stately ball-rooms, where beauty once reigned, are cold and empty and
mildewed, and halls, where laughter rang, are silent. Time was when
every wide-throated chimney poured forth its cloud of smoke, when every
andiron held a generous log,--andirons which are now gone to decorate Mr.
Centennial's home in New York or lie with a tag in the window of some
curio shop. The mantel, carved in delicate wreaths, is boarded up, and
an unsightly stove mocks the gilded ceiling. Children romp in that room
with the silver door-knobs, where my master and his lady were wont to sit
at cards in silk and brocade, while liveried blacks entered on tiptoe.
No marble Cupids or tall Dianas fill the niches in the staircase, and the
mahogany board, round which has been gathered many a famous toast and
wit, is gone from the dining room.
But Mr. Carvel's town house in Annapolis stands to-day, with its
neighbours, a mournful relic of a glory that is past.
DANIEL CLAPSADDLE CARVEL.
CALVERT HOUSE, PENNSYLVANIA,
December 21, 1876.
RICHARD CARVEL
CHAPTER I
LIONEL CARVEL, OF CARVEL HALL
Lionel Carvel, Esq., of Carvel Hall, in the county of Queen Anne, was no
inconsiderable man in his Lordship's province of Maryland, and indeed he
was not unknown in the colonial capitals from Williamsburg to Boston.
When his ships arrived out, in May or June, they made a goodly showing at
the wharves, and his captains were ever shrewd men of judgment who
sniffed a Frenchman on the horizon, so that none of the Carvel tobacco
ever went, in that way, to gladden a Gallic heart. Mr. Carvel's acres
were both rich and broad, and his house wide for the stranger who might
seek its shelter, as with God's help so it ever shall be. It has yet to
be said of the Carvels that their guests are hurried away, or that one,
by reason of his worldly goods or position, shall be more welcome than
another | 3,427.954647 |
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Produced by Stephen Hutcheson and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
OLD MINES
OF
SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
_Desert-Mountain-Coastal Areas_
_Including the
Calico-Salton Sea Colorado River Districts
and
Southern Counties_
1965
Frontier Book Company
Toyahvale, Texas 79786
_Reprinted From_
_The Report of The State Mineralogist
1893_
_Limited to 1000 copies_
LOS ANGELES COUNTY.
By W. H. Storms, Assistant in the Field.
The mining industry in this county is not as extensive as that of some
of the neighboring counties, but there are mines in Los Angeles County
of unquestioned value, and others which have a prospective value,
dependent to a great extent upon the success achieved in working certain
base ores, which occur in comparative abundance.
THE KELSEY MINE.
One of the most interesting mines in the county is located in the rugged
mountains about 8 miles from the town of Azusa, in the San Gabriel
Cañon. It is commonly known as the Kelsey Mine, and has become famous as
a producer of silver ore of fabulous richness.
The country is made up almost entirely of metamorphic rocks, having
schistose, gneissoid, and massive structure. Both hornblende and mica
occur in these rocks abundantly, the former being frequently altered to
chlorite, or by further change to epidote. Dikes of porphyritic rock
have been intruded into the crystalline schists. In the immediate
vicinity of the Kelsey vein are intrusions of a dark green, much
decomposed, and shattered rock, probably diorite. Faults, great and
small, are numerous throughout the region. Within a few hundred feet of
the mine is a great fault, which may be plainly seen cutting the
mountain. The displacement must reach many hundreds of feet. It has
resulted in bringing in contact on a horizontal plane rocks of entirely
different character. On the south side of the fault the rocks are made
up of quite regularly bedded micaceous sandstones, more or less
schistose, and having a prevailing buff or light gray color. These rocks
dip east at an angle of 20° to 30°. On the north side of the fault the
rocks are harder, of a dark gray color, and containing considerable
hornblende. These rocks are more gneissoid and massive than schistose.
The dip is much less regular than on the south side of the displacement.
Large, lenticular masses of quartzose and feldspathic rock are of
f | 3,428.078263 |
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Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer
UNDER THE RED ROBE
By Stanley J. Weyman
Transcriber's Note:
In this Etext, text in italics has been written in capital letters.
Many French words in the text have accents, etc. which have been
omitted.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. AT ZATON'S
CHAPTER II. AT THE GREEN PILLAR
CHAPTER III. THE HOUSE IN THE WOOD
CHAPTER IV. MADAM AND MADEMOISELLE
CHAPTER V. REVENGE
CHAPTER VI. UNDER THE PIC DU MIDI
CHAPTER VII. A MASTER STROKE
CHAPTER VIII. A MASTER STROKE--Continued
CHAPTER IX. THE QUESTION
CHAPTER X. CLON
CHAPTER XI. THE ARREST
CHAPTER XII. THE ROAD TO PARIS
CHAPTER XIII. AT THE FINGER-POST
CHAPTER XIV. ST MARTIN'S EVE
CHAPTER XV. ST MARTIN'S SUMMER
UNDER THE RED ROBE
CHAPTER I. AT ZATON'S
'Marked cards!'
There were a score round us when the fool, little knowing the man with
whom he had to deal, and as little how to lose like a gentleman, flung
the words in my teeth. He thought, I'll be sworn, that I should storm
and swear and ruffle it like any common cock of the hackle. But that was
never Gil de Berault's way. For a few seconds after he had spoken I
did not even look at him. I passed my eye instead--smiling, BIEN
ENTENDU--round the ring of waiting faces, saw that there was no one
except De Pombal I had cause to fear; and then at last I rose and looked
at the fool with the grim face I have known impose on older and wiser
men.
'Marked cards, M. l'Anglais?' I said, with a chilling sneer. 'They are
used, I am told, to trap players--not unbirched schoolboys.'
'Yet I say that they are marked!' he replied hotly, in his queer foreign
jargon. 'In my last hand I had nothing. You doubled the stakes. Bah,
sir, you knew! You have swindled me!'
'Monsieur is easy to swindle--when he plays with a mirror behind him,' I
answered tartly.
At that there was a great roar of laughter, which might have been
heard in the street, and which brought to the table everyone in the
eating-house whom his voice had not already attracted. But I did not
relax my face. I waited until all was quiet again, and then waving aside
two or three who stood between us and the entrance, I pointed gravely to
the door.
'There is a little space behind the church of St Jacques, M.
l'Etranger,' I said, putting on my hat and taking my cloak on my arm.
'Doubtless you will accompany me thither?'
He snatched up his hat, his face burning with shame and rage.
'With pleasure | 3,428.079046 |
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Produced by Sankar Viswanathan, Adam Buchbinder, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This book was produced from scanned images of public
domain material from the Google Print project.)
OSCAR WILDE
| 3,428.079208 |
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This etext was prepared by Christopher Hapka, Sunnyvale, California
Digital Editor's Note:
Italics are represented in the text with _underscores_. In the
interest of readability, where italics are used to indicate
non-English words, I have silently omitted them or replaced them
with quotation marks.
Haggard's spelling, especially of Zulu terms, is wildly inconsistent;
likewise his capitalization, especially of Zulu terms. For example,
Masapo is the chief of the Amansomi until chapter IX; thereafter his
tribe is consistently referred to as the "Amasomi". In general, I
have retained Haggard's spellings. Some obvious spelling mistakes
(as "Quartermain" for "Quatermain" in one instance) have been silently
corrected.
Some diacriticals in the text could not be represented in 7-bit
ASCII text and have been approximated here. To restore all
formatting, do the following throughout the text:
Replace the pound symbol "#" with the English pound symbol
Place an acute accent over the "e" in "Nombe", "acces",
"Amawombe", and "fiance", and the first "e" in "Bayete"
Place a circumflex accent over the "u" in "Harut" and
the "o" in "role"
Place a grave accent over the "a" and circumflex accents
over the first and third "e" in "tete-a-tete"
Replace "oe" with the oe ligature in "manoeuvring"
FINISHED
by H. RIDER HAGGARD
DEDICATION
Ditchingham House, Norfolk,
May, 1917.
My dear Roosevelt,--
You are, I know, a lover of old Allan Quatermain, one who
understands and appreciates the views of life and the aspirations
that underlie and inform his manifold adventures.
Therefore, since such is your kind wish, in memory of certain
hours wherein both of us found true refreshment and companionship
amidst the terrible anxieties of the World's journey along that
bloodstained road by which alone, so it is decreed, the pure Peak
of Freedom must be scaled, I dedicate to you this tale telling of
the events and experiences of my youth.
Your sincere friend,
H. RIDER HAGGARD.
To COLONEL THEODORE ROOSEVELT,
Sagamore Hill, U.S.A.
CONTENTS:
I. ALLAN QUATERMAIN MEETS ANSCOMBE
II. MR. MARNHAM
III. THE HUNTERS HUNTED
IV. DOCTOR RODD
V. A GAME OF CARDS
VI. MISS HEDA
VII. THE STOEP
VIII. RODD'S LAST CARD
IX. FLIGHT
X. NOMBE
XI. ZIKALI
XII. TRAPPED
XIII. CETEWAYO
XIV. THE VALLEY OF BONES
XV. THE GREAT COUNCIL
XVI. WAR
XVII. KAATJE BRINGS NEWS
XVIII. ISANDHLWANA
XIX. ALLAN AWAKES
XX. HEDA'S TALE
XXI. THE KING VISITS ZIKALI
XXII. THE MADNESS OF NOMBE
XXIII. THE KRAAL JAZI
INTRODUCTION
This book, although it can be read as a separate story, is the
third of the trilogy of which _Marie_ and _Child of Storm_ are
the first two parts. It narrates, through the mouth of Allan
Quatermain, the consummation of the vengeance of the wizard
Zikali, alias The Opener of Roads, or
"The-Thing-that-should-never-have-been-born," upon the royal Zulu
House of which Senzangacona was the founder and Cetewayo, our
enemy in the war of 1879, the last representative who ruled as a
king. Although, of course, much is added for the purposes of
romance, the main facts of history have been adhered to with some
faithfulness.
With these the author became acquainted a full generation ago,
Fortune having given him a part in the events that preceded the
Zulu War. Indeed he believes that with the exception of Colonel
Phillips, who, as a lieutenant, commanded the famous escort of
twenty-five policemen, he is now the last survivor of the party
who, under the leadership of Sir Theophilus Shepstone, or Sompseu
as the natives called him from the Zambesi to the Cape, were
concerned in the annexation of the Transvaal in 1877. Recently
also he has been called upon as a public servant to revisit South
Africa and took the opportunity to travel through Zululand, in
order to refresh his knowledge of its people, their customs,
their mysteries, and better to prepare himself for the writing of
this book. Here he stood by the fatal Mount of Isandhlawana
which, with some details of the battle, is described in these
pages, among the graves of many whom once he knew, Colonels
Durnford, Pulleine and others. Also he saw Ulundi's plain where
the traces of war still lie thick, and talked with an old Zulu
who fought in the attacking Impi until it crumbled away before
the fire of the Martinis and shells from the heavy guns. The
battle of the Wall of Sheet Iron, he called it, perhaps because
of the flashing fence of bayonets.
Lastly, in a mealie patch, he found the spot on which the corn
grows thin, where King Cetewayo breathed his last, poisoned
without a doubt, as he has known for many years. It is to be
seen at the Kraal, ominously named Jazi or, translated into
English, "Finished." The tragedy happened long ago, but even now
the quiet-faced Zulu who told the tale, looking about him as he
spoke, would not tell it all. "Yes, as a young man, I was there
at the time, but I do not remember, I do not know--the Inkoosi
Lundanda (i.e., this Chronicler, so named in past years by the
Zulus) stands on the very place where the king died--His bed was
on the left of the door-hole of the hut," and so forth, but no
c | 3,428.082535 |
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Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier, Christine D. and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
THE SCRAP BOOK.
Vol. I. MARCH, 1906. No. 1.
Something New in Magazine Making.
THE SCRAP BOOK will be the most elastic thing that ever happened, in the
way of a magazine--elastic enough to carry anything from a tin whistle to
a battle-ship. This elasticity is just what we should have in
magazine-making, but it is precisely what we do not have and cannot have
in the conventional magazine, such, for example, as _The Century_,
_Harper's_, MUNSEY'S, and _McClure's_.
A certain standard has grown up for these magazines that gives the editor
comparatively little latitude. Custom has decreed that they shall carry
nothing but original matter, and that it shall be dignified and
tremendously magaziny--so magaziny, in fact, that often it is as juiceless
as a dried lemon.
To republish, in successive issues of a magazine of this type, a
considerable proportion of the gems of the past, or the best things
printed in current publications, or to swing away recklessly from
convention in the illustrations and make-up, would be to switch the
magazine out of its class and into some other which the public would not
accept as standard.
In THE SCRAP BOOK we shall be bounded by no such restrictions, no
restrictions of any kind that come within the scope of good journalism.
With our average of two hundred pages of reading matter, we shall carry
the biggest cargo of real, human-interest reading matter that has ever
been carried by any magazine in the wide world.
In size alone it will be from forty to eighty pages larger than the
standard magazines, and by reason of the fact that its space is not taken
up by illustrations, and that we use a smaller, though perfectly distinct
type, the number of words in THE SCRAP BOOK will be a good deal more than
double that contained in these other magazines.
With such a vast amount and such a wide variety of reading, there is
something in THE SCRAP BOOK for every human being who knows how to read
and cares at all to read. Everything that appeals to the human brain and
human heart will come within the compass of THE SCRAP BOOK--fiction, which
is the backbone of periodical circulation; biography, review, philosophy,
science, art, poetry, wit, humor, pathos, satire, the weird, the
mystical--everything that can be classified and everything that cannot be
classified. A paragraph, a little bit, a saying, an editorial, a joke, a
maxim, an epigram--all these will be comprised in | 3,428.152515 |
2023-11-16 19:14:12.1325430 | 1,288 | 24 |
Produced by David Edwards, Katherine Ward and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber's note:
Hyphenation and spelling standardized. Otherwise, archaic and
variable spelling was preserved.
Missing quotation marks were added to standardize usage. Otherwise,
the editor's punctuation style was preserved.
Table of Contents' page numbers were updated.
Special notation:
Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
Text in bold face is enclosed by equal signs (=bold=).
AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG
Is now full, and contains
=I. MY BOYS=, and other stories.
=II. SHAWL-STRAPS=. Sketches of a European Trip.
=III. CUPID AND CHOW-CHOW=, and other stories.
=IV. MY GIRLS=, and other stories.
=V. JIMMY'S CRUISE IN THE PINAFORE=, and other stories.
=VI. AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING=, and other stories.
_Six volumes neatly bound in cloth. Price, $6.00._
ROBERTS BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, BOSTON.
[Illustration: AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING.
"Suddenly Tilly threw down the axe, flung open the door, and ran
straight into the arms of the bear."--PAGE 29.]
[Illustration: HOW IT ALL HAPPENED.
Dolly opened the door, and started back with a cry of astonishment at
the lovely spectacle before her.--PAGE 47.]
* * * * *
AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG.
AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING,
Etc.
[Illustration: SCRAP-BAG, VOL. VI.]
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT,
AUTHOR OF "LITTLE WOMEN," "AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL," "LITTLE MEN,"
"HOSPITAL SKETCHES."
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1882.
_Copyright, 1882,_
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
UNIVERSITY PRESS:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
I. AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING 7
II. HOW IT ALL HAPPENED 37
III. THE DOLLS' JOURNEY FROM MINNESOTA TO MAINE 53
IV. MORNING-GLORIES 78
V. SHADOW-CHILDREN 104
VI. POPPY'S PRANKS 124
VII. WHAT THE SWALLOWS DID 147
VIII. LITTLE GULLIVER 163
IX. THE WHALE'S STORY 178
X. A STRANGE ISLAND 192
XI. FANCY'S FRIEND 208
* * * * *
I.
AN OLD-FASHIONED THANKSGIVING.
Sixty years ago, up among the New Hampshire hills, lived Farmer Bassett,
with a house full of sturdy sons and daughters growing up about him.
They were poor in money, but rich in land and love, for the wide acres
of wood, corn, and pasture land fed, warmed, and clothed the flock,
while mutual patience, affection, and courage made the old farm-house a
very happy home.
November had come; the crops were in, and barn, buttery, and bin were
overflowing with the harvest that rewarded the summer's hard work. The
big kitchen was a jolly place just now, for in the great fireplace
roared a cheerful fire; on the walls hung garlands of dried apples,
onions, and corn; up aloft from the beams shone crook-necked squashes,
juicy hams, and dried venison--for in those days deer still haunted the
deep forests, and hunters flourished. Savory smells were in the air; on
the crane hung steaming kettles, and down among the red embers copper
sauce-pans simmered, all suggestive of some approaching feast.
A white-headed baby lay in the old blue cradle that had rocked seven
other babies, now and then lifting his head to look out, like a round,
full moon, then subsided to kick and crow contentedly, and suck the rosy
apple he had no teeth to bite. Two small boys sat on the wooden settle
shelling corn for popping, and picking out the biggest nuts from the
goodly store their own hands had gathered in October. Four young girls
stood at the long dresser, busily chopping meat, pounding spice, and
slicing apples; and the tongues of Tilly, Prue, Roxy, and Rhody went as
fast as their hands. Farmer Bassett, and Eph, the oldest boy, were
"chorin' 'round" outside, for Thanksgiving was at hand, and all must be
in order for that time-honored day.
To and fro, from table to hearth, bustled buxom Mrs. Bassett, flushed
and floury, but busy and blithe as the queen bee of this busy little
hive should be.
"I do like to begin seasonable and have things to my mind. Thanksgivin'
dinners can't be drove, and it does take a sight of victuals to fill all
these hungry stomicks," said the good woman, as she gave a vigorous stir
to the great kettle of cider apple-sauce, and cast a glance of
housewifely pride at the fine array of pies set forth on the buttery
shelves.
"Only one more day and then it will be time to eat. I didn't take but
one bowl of hasty pudding | 3,428.152583 |
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ROGER THE BOLD
_A TALE OF THE CONQUEST OF MEXICO_
BY LT.-COLONEL F. S. BRERETON
Author of "The Dragon of Pekin" "Tom Stapleton, the Boy Scout" &c.
_ILLUSTRATED BY STANLEY L. WOOD_
BLACKIE AND SON LIMITED
LONDON GLASGOW AND BOMBAY
[Illustration: "HE LEAPED UPON THE TOP OF THE BARRICADE"]
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. THE IMAGE OF THE SUN 9
II. OFF TO THE TERRA FIRMA 24
III. ROGER THE LIEUTENANT 41
IV. THE ISLAND OF CUBA 61
V. A VALUABLE CAPTURE 80
VI. A STRANGER COMES ABOARD 102
VII. THE HAND OF THE TRAITOR 121
VIII. A CITY BY THE WATER 139
IX. LED TO THE SACRIFICE 160
X. ROGER AT BAY 179
XI. NEWS OF FERNANDO CORTES 199
XII. THE SPANIARDS LAY AN AMBUSH 218
XIII. A SENTENCE OF DEATH 237
XIV. ROGER IS TRUE TO HIS COMRADES 257
XV. BACK TO MEXICO 274
XVI. THE FIRST ENCOUNTER 294
XVII. A FLEET OF BRIGANTINES 313
XVIII. THE DEFENCE OF THE CAUSEWAYS 330
XIX. ALVAREZ PROBES THE SECRET 347
XX. A RACE FOR THE OCEAN 367
ILLUSTRATIONS
Facing Page
HE LEAPED UPON THE TOP OF THE BARRICADE _Frontispiece_
THE GOLDEN DISK 18
ROGER SENT HIM ROLLING INTO THE UNDERWOOD 88
THE BLADE FELL TRUE ON THE SOLDIER'S HEAD, DROPPING
HIM LIKE A STONE 232
THE REMAINDER WERE QUICKLY IN FULL FLIGHT 288
THE SPANIARD WAS STAGGERED 368
Map of Part of Mexico _in page_ 146
Map showing Mexico City and Surroundings _in page_ 169
ROGER THE BOLD
CHAPTER I
The Image of the Sun
"Hi! Hi! Hi! Your attention, if it please you. Gentles and people, I
pray you lend your assistance to one who is in need of help, but who
seeks not for alms. But little is asked of you, and that can be done in
the space of a minute or more. 'Tis but to decipher a letter attached to
this plaque. 'Tis written in some foreign tongue--in Spanish, I should
venture. A silver groat is offered to the one who will translate."
The speaker, a short, large-nosed man of middle age, had taken his stand
upon an upturned barrel, for otherwise he would have been hidden amongst
the people who thronged that part of the city of London, and would have
found it impossible to attract their attention. But as it was, his head
and shoulders reared themselves above the crowd, and he stood there the
observed of all observers. He was dressed in a manner which suggested a
calling partly attached to the sea and partly to do with the profession
of arms, and if there had been any doubt in the minds of those who
watched him, and listened to his harangue, his language, which was
plentifully mingled with coarse nautical expressions of that day, and
his weather-beaten and rugged features, would have assured them at once
that he at least looked to ships and to the sea for his living. Peter
Tamworth was indeed a sailor, every inch of him, but he had been
schooled to other things, and had learned to use arms at times and in
places where failure to protect himself would have led to dire
consequences.
He was a merry fellow, too, for he laughed and joked with the crowd, his
eyes rolling in a peculiar manner all his own. His nose was large, huge
in fact, and of a colour which seemed to betoken a fondness for carousal
when opportunity occurred. A stubbly beard grew at his chin, while the
upper lip was clean shaven, or had been on the previous Sunday, it being
Peter's custom to indulge in a visit to the barber on that day if it
happened that he was in port. A pair of massive shoulders, into which
the neck seemed to be far sunk, completed an appearance, so far as it
could be seen, which seemed to denote a stout fellow, fond of the good
things to be found in this world, and not lacking in courage and
determination when the time for blows arrived. A little later, when he
leaped from the barrel and appeared in the open, it was seen that a
ragged pair of hose covered massive legs, which were unusually bowed,
and should have belonged to a horseman rather than to one who followed
the calling of the sea.
"Come, my masters," he called out again, holding the plaque above his
head, and drumming upon it with the handle of his dagger till it rang
clearly and sweetly like a silver gong. "Here is the Image of the Sun,
and in gold! Yes, gentles and people, I commend this plaque to your
careful attention. 'Tis solid gold--the gold of the Indies, the gold
with which our Spanish cousins get rich and fatten."
The words were sufficient to call the crowd hovering in that
neighbourhood more closely about him. They came running from the
entrance to London Bridge, where many had been lolling, enjoying the
sunshine, and watching the loading of the ships which lay on the mud
below. They came, too, from the city, along old Watling Street, or from
Lombard Street, from beneath the shadow of St. Paul's, then a fine
building which dominated the city of London. For no fire had then
occurred to destroy it, and no monument stood at the opening of the
bridge to tell future Londoners of the danger that had once threatened
their capital. Indeed, though the streets about were narrow, there were
wide spaces here and there, and trees and green fields were very close
at hand. Country people could be seen in the markets not far away, while
the pavements supported a mixture of peaceful folk, of men at arms, or
friars in their robes, and of seamen from the adjacent river. A <DW64>
could occasionally be seen, for Portugal had imported many to her shores
years before, and some had drifted to England, or were employed on the
ships. Whoever they were, whatever their calling, the tale of gold from
the Indies brought them running to the spot where stood Peter Tamworth.
"Gold from the Spanish possessions across the sea," said one city
merchant to his friend as they listened. "They say that Ferdinand of
Spain rolls in riches, that his chairs are of gold, and that his
clothing is heavy with pearls and other jewels. And this fellow, this
rascal, tells us that he has some of the spoil. 'Tis not so easily
gathered. These Spaniards jealously guard their discovery, for, were it
otherwise, there are many who would take ship and try their own fortune
at discovery."
"Many in high places, too," responded his friend, a wizened little man,
who seemed to take the mention of so much gold as a personal affront.
"Riches, indeed, have these Spaniards, and it would be right and proper
if they could be divided."
"Between ourselves, friend, no doubt," laughed the other. "That is a
course to which I give the warmest approval. And 'tis said that even the
king's majesty would stoop to a portion, for his coffers are reported
low."
"And he bears but little love for Ferdinand and Spain. 'Tis
whispered"--he took his comrade by the sleeve and pulled him closer, so
as to speak into his ear--"'tis whispered, and with some truth, by all
accounts, that his Majesty would fain divorce his queen from Aragon, and
take Anne Boleyn in her place. No doubt, if he would do that, he would
also agree to a division of the Indies. But listen to the rascal. He
pretends that the plaque is gold. Way there for his worship, the most
worthy governor of the honourable company of spectacle-makers."
The pompous little fellow prodded those in front, and urged them to one
side, his comrade, a big, genial-looking man, following with a polite
bow, and muttered thanks as the people gave way; for the London
companies were then at the summit of their power, and a governor was a
personage to be reckoned with.
"Gold, I say! Solid gold of more than eighteen carats!" shouted Peter,
unabashed by the presence of such a crowd. "An image of the sun,
beautifully engraved, as all may see who care to approach, and bearing a
plan, as it seems to me, on the reverse. There, gentles and his worship
the governor, come closer and look. Here are roads carved upon the face
of the plaque, roads and houses, and a space all round, no doubt meant
for open country."
"Or the sea, my fine fellow," said the governor, whose prominent
position in London had given him easy passage to the very foot of the
barrel. "Look for yourself. Here are rocks, and, as I live, these must
be boats."
His observation caused his friend to peer even more closely at the image
which Peter held. He dragged a pair of spectacles from an inner pocket,
and, donning them, stared at the inscription.
"They are boats," he said at length, "and this is the sea--or, rather,
an inland lake. Moreover, I believe that the rascal tells the truth. The
plaque is of gold."
"Then it must be worth a hundred pounds, more or less. There are some
who would give that for it, as a relic from the Indies--if, indeed, it
comes from that part."
"While there are others, my masters, who would not part with it for more
than ten times that amount. 'Tis gold, of a surety," went on Peter.
"Solid gold; and it keeps a golden secret. It tells of a place in the
Indies where are gems and riches. This tablet attached may give the
locality, and a ship with brave hearts aboard her might even hit upon
the spot."
"But you cannot think of that! My friend, the cost of equipping a ship
would be greater than the value of this plaque," exclaimed the governor.
"I could not, worshipful sir; and I do not say that there are those who
contemplate it. Much will fall upon the translation of the writing. A
silver groat is offered to the one who will give us help."
"A silver groat! You are safe in offering the sum," laughed the
governor, "for I warrant that there are not two who speak that foreign
tongue, unless it be the ambassador from Spain. Go, then, to him,
rascal, and learn what he has to say. Mayhap he will give the meaning of
the writing on the parchment attached."
"Mayhap he would do even more, your worship, an it please you," answered
Peter, with a cunning smile, placing a finger against his enormous nose.
"Mayhap he would find a place for Peter Tamworth in the stocks, and hold
the plaque for himself, in the name of the King of Spain. Oh yes,
worshipful sir, it would be wise to go to the ambassador!"
There was a roar of laughter, in which all within hearing joined; for
even in those days, before the advent of Drake and his comrades, a
Spanish treasure ship was a fair mark for any British vessel, a proper
cargo to prey upon. The wealth of the Indies had indeed been heard of,
and the fame of the possessions--Hispaniola and Cuba held by the Crown
of Spain--had spread far and wide. What wonder if the news of gold and
gems attracted every one! In Spain itself, thousands were eager to
venture their all in new voyages of discovery, and very many sailed
annually from her shores, hoping to make their fortunes. But to
foreigners the new possessions were forbidden; and so far no Englishman
had dared to venture to the Spanish main. Perhaps for that very reason
they hailed with all the more delight the news of a captured Spaniard,
and listened to tales of the wealth aboard with wide-open eyes, while
their cupidity was aroused. Here was another tale, and before their
faces was dangled a large plaque, full ten inches across, which had come
from the Indies. No wonder that they were attracted, and stared at Peter
with unwonted interest.
"The stocks would be a friendly place to find yourself in," suddenly
said a man, who hitherto had stood silently looking at the plaque.
"Perhaps, were the ambassador from the court of Ferdinand to see this
gold, and learn from whence it came, a rope would encircle your neck,
friend of the big nose."
Peter Tamworth started and changed colour. He looked closely at the
stranger, and was on the point of answering flippantly, when something
caused him to hold his tongue and doff his ragged cap. For the one who
had spoken bore an air of authority, and, moreover, was dressed in the
height of the fashion. Indeed, he had only just then alighted from a
gilded chair borne between two horses, for he had been passing across
the bridge and had been attracted by the gathering. That he was, in
fact, a person of no ordinary consequence was plainly evident, for the
worshipful governor no sooner set eyes upon him than he dropped on one
knee.
"My lord," he said, "the rascal jests only, and no doubt he is well able
to account to any one for the possession of the plaque. But see it for
yourself, sir. It is of vast interest, and from the little that I know
I should judge has indeed come from the Indies. Back there, good people!
Do not press closely upon his noble lordship."
There was a stir in the crowd and, obedient to the request, they fell
back a little, for the nobleman who had so suddenly appeared was well
known to all. Indeed, he held a high place at the court of his Majesty,
King Henry the Eighth, the reigning monarch. Very soon he was left in a
clear space, so that one could inspect him. He was tall and very fair,
and, as has been said, dressed in the finest clothing. But for all that,
dandy though he undoubtedly was, he bore a martial air, which was
increased by his manner of carrying his sword. He was calm, too, with
the coolness of one who is used to being the centre of large throngs.
"A golden plaque from the Indies," he said, as he took the Image of the
Sun from Peter and rang it with his knuckle. "And I see on one side a
finely graven image which surely represents the sun. On the reverse
there is sketched a plan of some buildings."
"Which appear to be built on bridges, with viaducts running from them,
and water all round, may it please your lordship," interposed the
governor.
"And boats upon the water," added the stranger. "In fact, a city like
this London, only built in still water instead of beside a river. And
surely there is something stranger still at this point."
He placed his finger almost in the centre of the picture graven on the
gold plaque, and held it there while he fumbled in his dress. Then he
drew out a glass, set in a fine gold frame, and held it above the
engraving.
"Birds and beasts," he said solemnly. "Then the people who dwell in this
strange part keep animals for their pleasure, showing that | 3,428.252027 |
2023-11-16 19:14:12.2330480 | 58 | 18 |
Produced by David Widger
LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI
BY MARK TWAIN
Part 2.
Chapter 6 A Cub-pilot's Experience
WHAT with lying on the rocks four days at Louisville, and some other
delays, | 3,428.253088 |
2023-11-16 19:14:12.5304860 | 1,960 | 6 |
Produced by Brian Coe, Graeme Mackreth and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
Elements of
Trench Warfare
Waldron
Elements of
Trench Warfare
Bayonet Training
_By_
Lieut. Colonel William H. Waldron
29th U.S. Infantry
DISTINGUISHED GRADUATE INFANTRY AND
CAVALRY SCHOOL, 1905
GRADUATE ARMY STAFF COLLEGE, 1906
GRADUATE ARMY WAR COLLEGE, 1911
ASSISTANT DIRECTOR ARMY WAR
COLLEGE COURSE, 1911-12
_Author of_
"Scouting and Patrolling"
"Tactical Walks"
PUBLISHED BY
EDWIN N. APPLETON
1 Broadway, New York
1917
_Price 75 Cents, postage paid_
Copyright, 1917, by
William H. Waldron
First Edition, 5,000, March 1st, 1917.
Second Edition, 10,000, August 1st, 1917.
Third Edition 30,000, September 25th, 1917.
PRESS OF ISAAC GOLDMANN COMPANY, NEW YORK
NOTICE
There is a wealth of material in this little book that will interest
the soldier. From the illustrations alone he will be able to obtain a
good general idea of the subject.
It is essentially a soldier's book, written in language that he can
understand. The price has been kept within the limits of his pocketbook.
With a view to securing a wide distribution of the book I desire to
secure a representative in every organization in the Army. I have an
attractive proposition to make to competent parties.
A letter will bring particulars. My address will be found in the Army
List and Directory. If this is not available, a letter addressed as
follows will be forwarded to me:
Captain W.H. Waldron,
29th Infantry,
Care of "Infantry Journal,"
Washington, D.C.
(Signed) W.H. Waldron.
CONTENTS
Page
Chapter I.--The Organization of a Section of the
Position 9
Chapter II.--Obstacles: Construction, repair. Wire
entanglements, barricades, land mines, inundation 13
Chapter III.--Lookout and Listening Posts: Types.
Construction, service 27
Chapter IV.--Field Trenches: Traversed trenches.
Types of trenches. Drainage. Communication
trenches. Dugouts. Penetration of projectiles.
Communication. Trench mortar positions. Machine
guns. Supporting points 33
Chapter V.--Use and Improvement of Natural Cover 60
Chapter VI.--Revetments: Sandbags. Fascines.
Hurdles. Gabions 74
Chapter VII.--Working Parties: Details of organization.
Laying out tasks. Operations 90
Chapter VIII.--Grenade Warfare: Organization and
tactics of grenadiers. Offensive operations.
Clearing fire trenches. Clearing communication
trenches. Night operations. Grenade patrols.
Notes on grenade warfare 97
Chapter IX.--Gas Warfare: Methods of dissemination
of gas. Gas helmets, care and use of
Sprayers 118
Chapter X.--Service in the Trenches: Preparations
for entering. Inspection of trenches. Tactical
dispositions. Going into the trenches. Information
routine. Observation field glasses. Snipers.
What to fire at. Use of rifle grenades.
Scouting and patrolling. Care of arms. Care of
trenches. Latrines. Maps. Frost bite. The
trench soldier's creed 128
Chapter XI.--The Attack in Trench Warfare 162
BAYONET TRAINING
Features of the Bayonet 175
Method of Carrying out Bayonet Training and
Hints to Instruction 177
BAYONET LESSONS
Formation--Technique of Instruction 180
Lesson No. 1--
Position of "Guard" 181
" " "Rest" 184
" " "High Port" 184
" " "Long Point" 184
The "Withdrawal" After a Long Point 189
PROGRESSION
Vulnerable Parts of the Body 190
Lesson No. 2--"The Parries" 192
PRACTICE 194
Lesson No. 3--"The Short Point" 193
Lesson No. 4--"The Jab or Upward Point" 197
METHOD OF INJURING AN OPPONENT
_Butt Strike I._ 200
" " _II._ 200
" " _III._ 200
" " _IV._ 202
Practice 202
TACTICAL APPLICATION OF THE BAYONET 203
THE BAYONET ASSAULT 203
METHOD OF CARRYING THE RIFLE WITH
BAYONET FIXED 205
TEAMWORK 206
THE ADVANCE 206
THE CHARGE 206
ASSAULT PRACTICE 208
FINAL ASSAULT PRACTICE 209
ACCESSORIES 211
TARGETS 215
CONSTRUCTION OF GALLOWS 216
" " DUMMIES 217
" " "TURK'S HEAD" 218
" " PARRYING DUMMY TARGET 218
DISCS ON TARGETS 218
EXERCISES
Exercise 1 221
The Run 222
Exercise 2 223
INTRODUCTION
This little book has been prepared with a view to placing before the
soldier a store of information on the subject of Trench Warfare as
it has been developed on the battle fronts of Europe, and giving him
some idea of the nature of the service that he will be called upon to
perform when the time arrives for him to do his "bit."
The illustrations have been carefully prepared and arranged to the end
that the soldier may gain a fair knowledge of the subject from them
alone. The text is intended to treat the subject in a purely elementary
manner that the soldier may be able to understand.
The size of the book is such that it may be conveniently carried in the
pocket and referred to as occasion requires. The price has been kept
down to the point where it is available to the soldier.
If the book assists in his preparation for the front and, by reason
of the knowledge that he has gained from it, helps to make him more
efficient when he gets there, it will have served its purpose.
The Author.
CHAPTER I
ORGANIZATION
The normal organization of an intrenched position includes the
following elements from front to rear:
1. In front of the position and at a variable distance from the first
line fire trench there is a line of wire entanglements. (See Obstacles,
p. 13).
2. Close up to the wire entanglements there is an intrenched post known
as the "listening post," which is connected with the first line fire
trench by a zigzag communicating trench. (See Listening Posts, p. 27).
3. Then comes the first line fire trench with attached machine-gun
emplacements at convenient points. (See Fire Trench and Machine-Gun
Emplacements, pp. 33 and 54).
4. The fire trench is so narrow that lateral communication along it
is effected only with difficulty. In order to provide a passageway a
communication or supervision trench is provided a few yards in rear of
the fire trench. Passageways lead from this communication trench to
the fire trench and to the dugouts located along it.
5. At a variable distance in rear of the fire trench (100 to 200 yards)
the emplacements for bomb-throwing apparatus and trench mortars are
located. These are connected up laterally by a communication trench
which joins with the main communication trench running from front to
rear through the position. (See Emplacements for Trench Mortars, p. 51).
6. From 100 to 400 yards to the rear of the first line fire trench, and
generally parallel to it, is the supporting trench or cover for the
supports. This trench is invariably provided with strong overhead cover
and a system of dugouts for the protection of the troops. (See Cover
for Supports, p. 53).
7. This whole arrangement of trenches is connected throughout from
front to rear, and laterally, by a system of zigzag communication
trenches.
[Illustration: PLATE 1.
_PLAN OF THE ORGANIZATION OF AN INTRENCHED POSITION_]
Take this brief description together with Plate 1 | 3,428.550526 |
2023-11-16 19:14:12.5305260 | 881 | 7 | MANIA***
Transcribed from the 1888 Cassell & Company edition by Jane Duff, proofed
by David Price, email [email protected].
The Black Death
and
The Dancing Mania.
FROM THE GERMAN OF
J. F. C. HECKER.
TRANSLATED BY
B. G. BABINGTON.
CASSELL & COMPANY, LIMITED:
_LONDON_, _PARIS_, _NEW YORK & MELBOURNE_.
1888.
INTRODUCTION
Justus Friedrich Karl Hecker was one of three generations of
distinguished professors of medicine. His father, August Friedrich
Hecker, a most industrious writer, first practised as a physician in
Frankenhausen, and in 1790 was appointed Professor of Medicine at the
University of Erfurt. In 1805 he was called to the like professorship at
the University of Berlin. He died at Berlin in 1811.
Justus Friedrich Karl Hecker was born at Erfurt in January, 1795. He
went, of course--being then ten years old--with his father to Berlin in
1805, studied at Berlin in the Gymnasium and University, but interrupted
his studies at the age of eighteen to fight as a volunteer in the war for
a renunciation of Napoleon and all his works. After Waterloo he went
back to his studies, took his doctor's degree in 1817 with a treatise on
the "Antiquities of Hydrocephalus," and became privat-docent in the
Medical Faculty of the Berlin University. His inclination was strong
from the first towards the historical side of inquiries into Medicine.
This caused him to undertake a "History of Medicine," of which the first
volume appeared in 1822. It obtained rank for him at Berlin as
Extraordinary Professor of the History of Medicine. This office was
changed into an Ordinary professorship of the same study in 1834, and
Hecker held that office until his death in 1850.
The office was created for a man who had a special genius for this form
of study. It was delightful to himself, and he made it delightful to
others. He is regarded as the founder of historical pathology. He
studied disease in relation to the history of man, made his study yield
to men outside his own profession an important chapter in the history of
civilisation, and even took into account physical phenomena upon the
surface of the globe as often affecting the movement and character of
epidemics.
The account of "The Black Death" here translated by Dr. Babington was
Hecker's first important work of this kind. It was published in 1832,
and was followed in the same year by his account of "The Dancing Mania."
The books here given are the two that first gave Hecker a wide
reputation. Many other such treatises followed, among them, in 1865, a
treatise on the "Great Epidemics of the Middle Ages." Besides his
"History of Medicine," which, in its second volume, reached into the
fourteenth century, and all his smaller treatises, Hecker wrote a large
number of articles in Encyclopaedias and Medical Journals. Professor
J.F.K. Hecker was, in a more interesting way, as busy as Professor A.F.
Hecker, his father, had been. He transmitted the family energies to an
only son, Karl von Hecker, born in 1827, who distinguished himself
greatly as a Professor of Midwifery, and died in 1882.
Benjamin Guy Babington, the translator of these books of Hecker's,
belonged also to a family in which the study of Medicine has passed from
father to son, and both have been writers. B.G. Babington was the son of
Dr. William Babington, who was physician to Guy's Hospital for some years
before 1811, when the extent of his private practice caused him to
retire. He died in 1833. His son, Benjamin Guy Babington, | 3,428.550566 |
2023-11-16 19:14:12.5333480 | 2,049 | 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 noted with
underscores: _italics_.
The Story of a Confederate Boy in the Civil War
By
David E. Johnston
_of the 7th Virginia Infantry Regiment_
Author of "Middle New River Settlements"
With Introduction by
Rev. C. E. Cline, D.D.
A Methodist Minister and Chaplain of the
Military Order of the Loyal Legion, U.S.A.
COPYRIGHT, 1914
BY
DAVID E. JOHNSTON
PUBLISHED BY
GLASS & PRUDHOMME COMPANY
PORTLAND, OREGON
Preface
Some twenty-eight years ago I wrote and published a small book
recounting my personal experiences in the Civil War, but this book is
long out of print, and the publication exhausted. At the urgent request
of some of my old comrades who still survive, and of friends and my own
family, I have undertaken the task of rewriting and publishing this
story.
As stated in the preface to the former volume, the principal object of
this work is to record, largely from memory, and after the lapse of
many years (now nearly half a century) since the termination of the
war between the states of the Federal Union, the history, conduct,
character and deeds of the men who composed Company D, Seventh regiment
of Virginia infantry, and the part they bore in that memorable
conflict.
The chief motive which inspires this undertaking is to give some meager
idea of the Confederate soldier in the ranks, and of his individual
deeds of heroism, particularly of that patriotic, self-sacrificing,
brave company of men with whose fortunes and destiny my own were linked
for four long years of blood and carnage, and to whom during that
period I was bound by ties stronger than hooks of steel; whose
confidence and friendship I fully shared, and as fully reciprocated.
To the surviving members of that company, to the widows and children,
broken-hearted mothers, and to gray-haired, disconsolate fathers (if
such still live) of those who fell amidst the battle and beneath its
thunders, or perished from wounds or disease, this work is dedicated.
The character of the men who composed that company, and their deeds of
valor and heroism, will ever live, and in the hearts of our people will
be enshrined the names of the gallant dead as well as of the living, as
the champions of constitutional liberty. They will be held in grateful
remembrance by their own countrymen, appreciated and recognized by all
people of all lands, who admire brave deeds, true courage, and devotion
of American soldiers to cause and country.
For some of the dates and material I am indebted to comrades. I also
found considerable information from letters written by myself during
the war to a friend, not in the army, and not subject to military duty,
on account of sex; who, as I write, sits by me, having now (February,
1914), for a period of more than forty-six years been the sharer of my
joys, burdens and sorrows; whose only brother, George Daniel Pearis, a
boy of seventeen years, and a member of Bryan's Virginia battery, fell
mortally wounded in the battle of Cloyd's Farm, May 9, 1864.
DAVID E. JOHNSTON.
Portland, Oregon, May, 1914.
Introduction
The author of this book is my neighbor. He was a Confederate, and I a
Union soldier. Virginia born, he worked hard in youth. A country
lawyer, a member of the Senate of West Virginia, Representative in
Congress, and Circuit Judge, his life has been one of activity and
achievement. Blessed with a face and manner which disarm suspicion,
inspire confidence and good will, he makes new friends, and retains old
ones.
Judge Johnston (having through life practiced the virtues of a good
Baptist), is, therefore, morally sound to the core. He has succeeded,
not by luck or chance, but because of what he is. Withal, he has
cultivated the faculty for hard work; in fact, through life he has
liked nothing so well as hard work.
A vast good nature, running easily into jocular talk, with interesting
stories, in which he excels, he is able to meet every kind of man in
every rank of society, catching with unerring instinct the temper of
every individual and company where he is.
He is thoroughly American, and though having traveled extensively in
Europe and the East, he is not spoiled with aping foreigners, nor
"rattled" by their frivolous accomplishments. He is likewise an
experienced writer, being the author of the history of "Middle New
River Settlements, and Contiguous Territory," in Virginia and West
Virginia, a work of great value, which cost the author years of
persistent research.
This volume, "The Story of a Confederate Boy," is written from the
heart, with all his might, and all his honesty, and is characterized
throughout by fertility, sympathy, and magnanimity, in recording his
own personal experiences, and what he saw.
C. E. CLINE.
Portland, Oregon.
Contents
Chapter. Page.
I. Pre-election Statement as to Mr. Lincoln.--The
Presidential Election in November, 1860.--Fear and
Anxiety.--At School with Rev. J. W. Bennett in Winter
1860 and Spring 1861.--Debating Society.--Some
Recollections of Colonel Chambers and Others.--Strong
State Rights Ideas.--Desire to Become a Soldier.--The
Anticipation and the Reality.--Return Home.--War Talk
and Feeling 1
II. Giles County, Its Formation and Early Settlers.--Its
Geographical Position, Topography and Population in
1860.--State of Political Parties.--Election of
Delegate to the Convention 9
III. What Will Not Be Attempted Herein.--How the Southern
People Viewed the Situation.--Virginia as a Peacemaker.
--The Peace Conference and Its Failure.--Geographical,
Territorial Position.--Assembling of the Convention
and Its Action.--Mr. Lincoln's Attitude and Call for
Troops.--Adoption of the Ordinance of Secession.--
Preparations for Defense 15
IV. Organization of Volunteer Forces.--Giles Not Behind
Her Sister Counties.--A Company Organized at
Pearisburg with James H. French as Captain; Eustace
Gibson, First Lieutenant; William A. Anderson, Second
Lieutenant; Joel Blackard, Second Junior Lieutenant,
and Captains James D. Johnston and R. F. Watts on
the Committee to Purchase Uniforms, etc.--The Ladies
of the Town and Country.--In Barracks and on Drill.
--Anecdote.--Dixie.--Our March to Wolf Creek.--
Presentation of Bible and Flag 25
V. The Election for the Ratification of the Ordinance
of Secession Was Held on the Fourth Thursday of May
--the 23rd. On that Day Members of the House of
Delegates, and Perhaps Other Officers, Were to Be
Elected.--Our Departure.--Lynchburg and to Manassas
Junction 39
VI. Stay at the Junction.--Organization of 24th
Regiment as Afterwards Completed.--March to Camp
Davis Ford.--First Night on Picket.--Alarm.--
March to the Town of Occoquan and Back Again.--
A War of Words.--Serious Fight Imminent.--Leaving
the 24th Regiment.--Camp Tick Grove and a Personal
Difference.--A More Perfect Union.--Camp Wigfall.
--Blondeau's Shot.--How We Cooked, Ate and Slept.
--Shannon's Bob.--Rumors Afloat of Pending Battle.
--Three Days' Rations Cooked 47
VII. Breaking Camp at Wigfall.--The March to the
Battlefield.--General Beauregard and His Appearance
and Advice.--First Cannon Shot.--Battle of Bull Run.
--The Advance.--The Charge.--The Wounded.--Isaac
Hare and John Q. Martin.--Retreat of the Enemy.--
Severe Artillery Duel.--The Dutchman and His Chunk
of Fat Bacon.--Casualties 61
VIII. Night's Experience on Our First Battlefield.--The
Dead and Cries of the Wounded.--Occurrences on the
Field.--Sunday, July 21.--Shelled by the Enemy.--
March to the Field by the Sound of Battle.--The
Battle.--Casualties.--The Pursuit.--To the Outposts.
--Incidents.--Winter at Centerville 69
IX. Our Daily Duties.--In Camp.--Among the Last
Rencounters.--Lieutenant Gibson, Corporal Stone
and Others Hold a Council of War and Determine
to Advance and Drive McClellan from Arlington
Heights.--March to the Outposts.--Graybacks.--
Religious Exercises.--Incidents of Camp.--
Depletion of the Army.-- | 3,428.553388 |
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Produced by Katie Hernandez, sp1nd and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber's Note:
All obvious errors have been corrected.
Archaic and alternate spellings have been retained.
By DMITRI MEREJKOWSKI
=THE DEATH OF THE GODS.= Authorized English Version by HERBERT
TRENCH. 12^o
=THE ROMANCE OF LEONARDO DA VINCI: THE FORERUNNER.= (The
Resurrection of the Gods.) Authorized English Version from the
Russian. 12^o. With 8 Illustrations
----Artist's Edition, with 64 illustrations. 2 vols., 8^o
=PETER AND ALEXIS.= Authorized English Version from the Russian.
12^o
=G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS=
=New York= =London=
+Christ and Antichrist+
The Death of the
Gods
By
Dmitri Merejkowski
Translated by
Herbert Trench
Sometime Fellow of All Souls College, Oxford
_Authorised English Version_
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
Copyright 1901
by
G. P. Putnam's Sons
Made in the United States of America
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
MEREJKOWSKI
Dmitri Merejkowski is perhaps the most interesting and powerful of the
younger Russian novelists, the only writer that promises to carry on
the work of Tolstoi, Turgeniev, and Dostoievski. His books, which are
already numerous, are animated by a single master-idea, the
Pagano-Christian dualism of our human nature. What specially interests
him in the vast spectacle of human affairs is the everlasting contest
between the idea of a God-Man and the idea of a Man-God; that is to
say, between the conception of a God incarnate for awhile (as in
Christ) and the conception of Man as himself God--gradually evolving
higher types of splendid and ruling character which draw after them
the generations.
The novelist's own doctrine seems to be that both the Pagan and the
Christian elements in our nature, although distinct elements, are
equally legitimate and sacred. His teaching is that the soul and the
senses have an equal right to be respected; that hedonism and altruism
are equals, and that the really full man, the perfect man, is he who
can ally in harmonious equilibrium the cult of Dionysus and | 3,428.554387 |
2023-11-16 19:14:12.5353980 | 1,622 | 36 | WHO HAVE WRITTEN FAMOUS BOOKS***
E-text prepared by Dave Kline, Chris Whitehead, and the Online Distributed
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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https://archive.org/details/littlepilgrimage00harkiala
LITTLE PILGRIMAGES AMONG THE MEN WHO HAVE WRITTEN FAMOUS BOOKS
* * * * * *
_Book Lovers' Series_
[Illustration]
_Little Pilgrimages Among the Men
Who Have Written Famous Books_
_Little Pilgrimages Among the Women
Who Have Written Famous Books_
[Illustration]
_L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
200 Summer Street
Boston, Mass._
* * * * * *
[Illustration: Reproduced, by permission, from "A Pair of Patient
Lovers."--Copyright, 1901, by Harper & Brothers.
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.]
LITTLE PILGRIMAGES AMONG THE MEN WHO HAVE WRITTEN FAMOUS BOOKS
by
E. F. Harkins
Illustrated
[Illustration]
Boston
L. C. Page & Company
MDCCCCII
Copyright, 1901, by
L. C. Page & Company (Incorporated)
All rights reserved
Typography by
The Heintzemann Press Boston
Presswork by The Colonial Press
C. H. Simonds & Co. Boston
PREFACE
_The aim of this book is to present to the reading public sketches of
some of its American literary heroes. There are heroes young and old;
but in literature, especially, age has little to do with favorites. At
the same time, it will be noted that the subjects of these sketches
occupy places in or near the centre of the literary stage. The lately
dead, like Maurice Thompson; the hero of the last generation, like
Edward Everett Hale; the young man who has made his first successful
flight--these do not come within the scope of the present work. So, if
some reader miss his favorite, let him understand that at least there
was no malice in the exclusion._
_A part of the aim has been to present the social or personal as
well as the professional side of the authors. Many of the anecdotes
commonly told of well-known novelists are apocryphal or imaginary.
Care, therefore, has been taken to separate the wheat from the chaff.
Wherever it was possible, preference has been given the statements of
the authors themselves._
_The sketches are arranged chronologically, that is, in the order of
the authors' first publications. No other arrangement, indeed, would
seem fair among so gifted and popular a company, writing for a public
that discriminates while it encourages and enjoys._
CONTENTS
_Page_
Preface 5
William Dean Howells 11
Bret Harte 27
Mark Twain 43
"Lew" Wallace 59
George W. Cable 75
Henry James 91
Francis Richard Stockton 107
Joel Chandler Harris 123
S. Weir Mitchell 139
Robert Grant 155
F. Marion Crawford 169
James Lane Allen 185
Thomas Nelson Page 201
Richard Harding Davis 215
John Kendrick Bangs 231
Hamlin Garland 247
Paul Leicester Ford 263
Robert Neilson Stephens 279
Charles D. G. Roberts 299
Winston Churchill 317
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_Page_
William Dean Howells _Frontispiece_
Bret Harte 27
Mark Twain 43
"Lew" Wallace 59
George W. Cable 75
Francis Richard Stockton 107
Joel Chandler Harris 123
S. Weir Mitchell 139
Robert Grant 155
F. Marion Crawford 169
James Lane Allen 185
Thomas Nelson Page 201
Richard Harding Davis 215
John Kendrick Bangs 231
Hamlin Garland 247
Paul Leicester Ford 263
Robert Neilson Stephens 279
Charles G. D. Roberts 299
Winston Churchill 317
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
Mr. Howells has reached that point of life and success where he can
afford to sit down and look back. But he is not that sort of man. He
will probably continue to work and to look forward until, in the words
of Hamlet, he shuffles off this mortal coil.
William Dean Howells was born in Martin's Ferry, Belmont County, Ohio,
March 1, 1837. He has therefore reached the ripe age of sixty-four.
When he was three years old his father moved from Martin's Ferry to
Hamilton and bought _The Intelligencer_, a weekly paper. Nine years
afterward he sold _The Intelligencer_ and moved to Dayton, becoming
proprietor of the _Dayton Transcript_. This paper had been a
semi-weekly, but Mr. Howells changed it to a daily; and his son William
went to work for him. It was William's business to rise at four in the
morning and sell the paper about town. But the _Transcript_ proved a
failure, so the Howells family left Dayton and moved into the country
on the banks of the Miami, where for a year a log-cabin was their home.
Mr. Howells tells a characteristic story of those struggling days,
"When I was a boy," he said some years ago, "I worked on my father's
paper. Among other things, I set type. Those were days of great
struggle for all of us. The paper was not profitable, and ours was a
large family. My tastes and ambitions were all literary, and I wanted
to write a story. Instead of writing it and then setting it up in type,
I composed it at the case and put it in type as I invented it. We
printed a chapter of it weekly in the paper, and so it was published
as fast as I got it up. I tried to get three or four chapters ready
in advance, but I could not do it. All I could possibly accomplish
was to have one installment ready every time the paper went to press.
This went on for a long while, and that story became a burden to me.
It stretched out longer and longer, but I could see no way to end
it. Every week I resolved that that story should be finished in the
next week's paper; every week it refused to be finished. Finally I
became positively panic stricken, and ended it somehow or other. The
experience discouraged me to some extent. I made up my mind that I
| 3,428.555438 |
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Produced by Richard Tonsing, Jonathan Ingram, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
The Tatler
Edited by
George A. Aitken
In Four Volumes
Volume Two
[Illustration: _The R.t Hon.ble Joseph Addison Esq. one of his
Majesty's Secretary's of State._
_Engraved by Wm. H. Ward & Co. L'd. from the Original by Smith after
Kneller._]
The Tatler
Edited with Introduction & Notes
by
George A. Aitken
_Author of_
"The Life of Richard Steele," &c.
[Illustration]
Vol. II
New York
Hadley & Mathews
156 Fifth Avenue
London: Duckworth & Co.
1899
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
At the Ballantyne Press
_To_ Edward Wortley Montagu,[1] Esq.
SIR,
When I send you this volume, I am rather to make you a request than
a Dedication. I must desire, that if you think fit to throw away any
moments on it, you would not do it after reading those excellent pieces
with which you are usually conversant. The images which you will meet
with here, will be very faint, after the perusal of the Greeks and
Romans, who are your ordinary companions. I must confess I am obliged
to you for the taste of many of their excellences, which I had not
observed until you pointed them to me. I am very proud that there are
some things in these papers which I know you pardon;[2] and it is no
small pleasure to have one's labours suffered by the judgment of a man,
who so well understands the true charms of eloquence and poesy. But I
direct this address to you, not that I think I can entertain you with
my writings, but to thank you for the new delight I have, from your
conversation, in those of other men.
May you enjoy a long continuance of the true relish of the happiness
Heaven has bestowed upon you. I know not how to say a more affectionate
thing to you, than to | 3,428.557173 |
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E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, David Wilson, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
A FLOCK
of
GIRLS AND BOYS.
by NORA PERRY,
Author Of "Hope Benham," "Lyrics And Legends,"
"A Rosebud Garden Of Girls," Etc.
Illustrated by
CHARLOTTE TIFFANY PARKER.
1895.
[Frontispiece: That little Smith girl]
CONTENTS
THAT LITTLE SMITH GIRL
THE EGG BOY
MAJOR MOLLY'S CHRISTMAS PROMISE
POLLY'S VALENTINE
SIBYL'S SLIPPER
A LITTLE BOARDING-SCHOOL SAMARITAN
ESTHER BODN
BECKY
ALLY
AN APRIL FOOL
THE THANKSGIVING GUEST
ILLUSTRATIONS.
THAT LITTLE SMITH GIRL
"MISS PELHAM! MISS MARGARET PELHAM!"
WALLULA CLAPPED HER HANDS WITH DELIGHT
A VERY PRETTY PAIR
SIBYL'S REFLECTIONS
A TALL, HANDSOME WOMAN SMILED A GREETING
SHE WAS ADDRESSING MONSIEUR BAUDOUIN
THE PRETTY LITTLE BASKET OF GREEN AND WHITE PAPER
AS THE FRESH ARRIVALS APPEARED
THAT LITTLE SMITH GIRL.
CHAPTER I.
"The Pelhams are coming next month."
"Who are the Pelhams?"
Miss Agnes Brendon gave a little upward lift to her small pert nose as
she exclaimed:
"Tilly Morris, you don't mean to say that you don't know who the Pelhams
are?"
Tilly, thus addressed, lifted up _her_ nose as she replied,--
"I do mean to say just that."
"Why, where have you lived?" was the next wondering question.
"In the wilds of New York City," answered Tilly, sarcastically.
"Where the sacred stiffies of Boston are unknown," cried Dora Robson,
with a laugh.
"But the Pelhams,--I thought that everybody knew of the Pelhams at
least," Agnes remarked, with a glance at Tilly that plainly expressed a
doubt of her denial. Tilly caught the glance, and, still further
irritated, cried impulsively,--
"Well, I never heard of them! Why should I? What have they done, pray
tell, that everybody should know of them?"
"'Done'? I don't know as they've done anything. It's what they are. They
are very rich and aristocratic people. Why, the Pelhams belong to one of
the oldest families of Boston."
"What do I care for that?" said Tilly, tipping her head backward until
it bumped against the wall of the house with a sounding bang, whereat
Dora Robson gave a little giggle and exclaimed,--
"Mercy, Tilly, I heard it crack!"
Then another girl giggled,--it was another of the Robsons,--Dora's
Cousin Amy; and after the giggle she said saucily,--
"Tilly's head is full of cracks already. I think we'd better call her
'Crack Brain;' we'll put it C.B., for short."
"You'd better call her L.H.,--'Level Head,'" a voice--a boy's
voice--called out here.
The group of girls looked at one another in startled surprise.
"Who--what!" Then Dora Robson, glancing over the piazza railing,
exclaimed,--
"It's Will Wentworth. He's in the hammock! What do you mean, Willie, by
hiding up like that, right under our noses, and listening to our
secrets?"
"Hiding up? Well, I like that! I'd been out here for half an hour or
more when you girls came to this end of the piazza."
"What in the world have you been doing for an hour in a hammock? I
didn't know as you could keep still so long. Oh, you've got a book. Let
me see it."
"You wouldn't care anything about it; it's a boy's book."
"Let me see it."
Will held up the book.
"Oh, 'Jack Hall'!"
"Of course, I knew you wouldn't care anything for a book that's full of
boy's sports," returned Will.
"I know one girl that does," responded Dora, laughing and nodding her
head.
"Who is she?" asked Will, looking incredulous.
"'T ain't me," answered Dora, more truthfully than grammatically.
"No, I guess not; and I guess you don't know any such girl."
Dora wheeled around and called, "Tilly, Tilly Morris! Come here and
prove to this conceited, contradicting boy that I'm telling the truth."
"Oh, it's Tilly Morris, eh?" sung out Will.
"Yes," answered Tilly, turning and looking down at the occupant of the
hammock; "I think 'Jack Hall' is the jolliest kind of a book. I've read
it twice."
Will jerked himself up into a sitting posture, as he ejaculated in
pleased astonishment,--
"Come, I say now!"
"Yes," went on Tilly; "I think it's one of the best books I ever
read,--that part about the boat-race I've read over three or four
times."
"Well, your head _is_ level," cried Will, sitting up still straighter
in the hammock, and regarding Tilly with a look of respect.
"Because I don't care anything for Boston's grand folks and do care for
'Jack Hall'?" laughed Tilly.
"Yes, that's about it," responded Will, with a little grin. "I'm so sick
and tired," he went on, "hearing about'swells' and money. The best
fellow I know at school is quite poor; and one of the worst of the lot
is what you'd call a swell, and has no end of money."
"There are all kinds of swells, Master Willie. Why, you know perfectly
well that you belong to the swells yourself," retorted Dora.
"I don't!" growled Will.
"Well, I should just like to hear what your cousin Frances would say to
that."
"Oh, Fan!" cried Will, contemptuously.
"If you don't think much of the old Wentworth name--"
"I do think much of it," interrupted Will. "I think so much of it that I
want to live up to it. The old Wentworths were splendid fellows, some of
'em; and all of 'em were jolly and generous and independent. There
wasn't any sneaking little brag and snobbishness in 'em. They 'd have
cut a fellow dead that had come around with that sort of stuff;" and
sixteen-year-old Will nodded his head with an emphatic movement that
showed his approval of this trait in his ancestors.
Dora looked at him curiously; then with a faint smile she said,--
"Your cousin Frances is so proud of those old Wentworths. She's often
told me how grandly they lived, and she's so pleased that her name
Frances is the name of one of the prettiest of the Governor's wives."
"Yes; and one of the prettiest, and I dare say one of the best of 'em,
was a servant-girl in Governor Benning Wentworth's kitchen, and he
married her out of it. Did Fan ever tell you that?" and Will chuckled.
Amy Robson stared at Will with amazement as she exclaimed,--
"Well, I never saw such a queer boy as you are,--to run your own family
down."
"I'm not running 'em down. 'Tisn't running 'em down to say that one of
'em married Martha Hilton. Martha Hilton was a nice girl, though she was
poor and had to work in a kitchen. Plenty of nice girls--farmers'
daughters--worked in that way in those old times; the New England
histories tell you that."
Not one of the girls made any comment or criticism upon this statement,
for Will Wentworth was known to be well up in history; but after a
moment or two of silence, Dora burst forth in this wise,--
"You may talk as you like. Will Wentworth, but you know perfectly well
that you don't think a servant-girl is as good as you are."
"If you mean that I don't think she is of the same class, of course I
don't. She may be a great deal better than I am in other ways, for all
that. In those old days, though, the servant-girls weren't the kind we
have now; they were Americans,--farmers' daughters,--most of 'em."
"Oh, well, you may talk and talk in this grand way, Willie Wentworth;
but you know where you belong, and when the Pelhams come, Tilly'll see
for herself that you are one of the same sort."
"As the Pelhams?"
"Well, what have you got to say about the Pelhams in that scornful way?"
asked Amy, rather indignantly.
"I'm not scornful. I was only going to set you right, and say that the
Pelhams are fashionable folks and the Wentworths are not."
"Oh, I'd like to have your cousin Fanny hear you say that. Fanny thinks
the Wentworths are fully equal to the Pelhams or any one else."
"They are."
"What do you mean, Will Wentworth? You just said--"
"I just said that the Pelhams were fashionable people and the Wentworths
were not, but that doesn't make the Pelhams any better than the
Wentworths. The Pelhams have got more money and like to spend it in that
way,--in being fashionable society folks, I suppose. There are lots of
people who have as much and more money, who won't be fashionable,--they
don't like it."
"Your cousin Fanny says--"
"Fanny's a snob. It makes me sick to hear her talk sometimes. If she
were here now, she'd be full of these Pelhams, and as thick with 'em
when they came, whether they were nice or not. If they were ever so
nice, she'd snub 'em if they were not up in the world,--what you call
'swells.' She never got such stuff as that from the Wentworths."
"There are plenty of people like your cousin," spoke up Tilly, with
sudden emphasis and a fleeting glance at Agnes Brendon.
"Oh, now, Tilly, don't say that," cried Dora, in a funny little
wheedling tone, "don't now; you'll hurt some of our feelings, for we
shall think you mean one of us, and you can't mean that, Tilly
dear,"--the wheedling tone taking on a droll, merry accent,--"you can't,
for you know how independent and high-minded we all are,--how incapable
of such meanness!"
"I wouldn't trust this high-mindedness," retorted Tilly, wrinkling up
her forehead.
"Now, Tilly, you don't mean that,--you don't mean that you've come all
the way from naughty New York to find such dreadful faults in nice,
primmy New England. The very dogs here are above such things. Look at
Punch there making friends with that little plebeian yellow dog."
"And look at Dandy barking at everybody who isn't well dressed," laughed
Tilly, pointing to a handsome collie, who was vigorously giving voice to
his displeasure at the approach of a workman in shabby clothing.
The Robson girls and Will Wentworth joined in Tilly's laugh; but Agnes
Brendon, who could never see a joke, looked disgusted, and glancing at
the little yellow dog, asked petulantly,--
"Whose dog is it?"
"It belongs to the girl who sits at the corner table," answered Will
Wentworth, "and its name is Pete. I heard the girl call him this
morning."
"What a horrid, vulgar name!" exclaimed Agnes. "It suits the dog,
though; and the people, I suppose, are--"
"Oh, Agnes, look at that horrid worm on your dress!"
Agnes jumped up in a panic, screaming, "Where, where?"
Dora, bending down to brush off the smallest of small caterpillars,
whispered,--
"The girl who owns the yellow dog is in the other hammock. I just saw
her, and she can hear every word you say."
"I don't care if she does hear," said Agnes, without troubling herself
to lower her voice. "You needn't have frightened me with your horrid
worm story, just for that."
Will Wentworth, as he heard this, fell backward into his reclining
position, with an explosive laugh. The next minute he sprang out of the
hammock, and, tucking "Jack Hall" under his arm, was up and off, giving
a sidelong look as he went at the other hammock, which, though only a
few rods away, was half hidden by the foliage of the two low-growing
trees between which it hung. Meeting Tilly and the Robson girls as he
ran around the corner of the house, he said breathlessly,--
"Look here; that girl must have heard everything that we've said."
"Well, there wasn't anything said that concerned her, until Agnes began
about the yellow dog; and I stopped that," said Dora, gleefully.
"She may be acquainted with the Pelhams,--how do we know?" exclaimed
Will, ruefully.
"The Pelhams!" cried Dora and Amy, in one breath.
"Yes, how do we know?" repeated Will.
"That girl who sits over at the corner table with that stuffy old woman,
acquainted with the Pelhams! Oh, Will, if Agnes could hear you!" cried
Dora, with a shout of laughter.
"Well, I can't see what there is to laugh at," broke in Will, huffily.
"Why shouldn't she and the stuffy old woman, as you call her, know the
Pelhams? She's a nice-looking girl, a first-rate looking girl. What's
the matter with her?"
"Matter? I don't know that anything is the matter, except that she
doesn't look like the sort of girl who would be an acquaintance of the
Pelhams. She doesn't look like their kind, you know. She wears the
plainest sort of dresses,--just little straight up and down frocks of
brown or drab, or those white cambric things,--they are more like
baby-slips than anything; | 3,428.651807 |
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Produced by Emmy, Beth Baran and the Online Distributed
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Internet Archive)
Our Little Australian Cousin
THE
Little Cousin Series
(TRADE MARK)
Each volume illustrated with six or more full-page plates in
tint. Cloth, 12mo, with decorative cover,
per volume, 60 cents
LIST OF TITLES
BY MARY HAZELTON WADE
(unless otherwise indicated)
=Our Little African Cousin=
=Our Little Alaskan Cousin=
By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
=Our Little Arabian Cousin=
By Blanche McManus
=Our Little Armenian Cousin=
=Our Little Australian Cousin=
By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
=Our Little Brazilian Cousin=
By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
=Our Little Brown Cousin=
=Our Little Canadian Cousin=
By Elizabeth R. MacDonald
=Our Little Chinese Cousin=
By Isaac Taylor Headland
=Our Little Cuban Cousin=
=Our Little Dutch Cousin=
By Blanche McManus
=Our Little Egyptian Cousin=
By Blanche McManus
=Our Little English Cousin=
By Blanche McManus
=Our Little Eskimo Cousin=
=Our Little French Cousin=
By Blanche McManus
=Our Little German Cousin=
=Our Little Greek Cousin=
By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
=Our Little Hawaiian Cousin=
=Our Little Hindu Cousin=
By Blanche McManus
=Our Little Hungarian Cousin=
By Mary F. Nixon-Roulet
=Our Little Indian Cousin=
=Our Little Irish Cousin=
=Our Little Italian Cousin=
=Our Little Japanese Cousin=
=Our Little Jewish Cousin=
=Our Little Korean Cousin=
By H. Lee M. Pike
=Our Little Mexican Cousin=
By Edward C. Butler
=Our Little Norwegian Cousin=
=Our Little Panama Cousin=
By H. Lee M. Pike
=Our Little Persian Cousin=
By E. C. Shedd
=Our Little Philippine Cousin=
| 3,428.746763 |
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E-text prepared by Chris Curnow and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images generously made available by
Internet Archive (http://archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 41550-h.htm or 41550-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/41550/41550-h/41550-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/41550/41550-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
http://archive.org/details/nestseggsoffamil00adamiala
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
NESTS AND EGGS OF FAMILIAR BRITISH BIRDS,
Described and Illustrated; With an Account of the Haunts and Habits
of the Feathered Architects, and Their Times and Modes of Building;
SECOND SERIES.
by
H. G. ADAMS.
Author of "Favorite Song Birds," "Beautiful Butterflies,"
"Humming Birds," &c., &c.
With Eight Coloured Plates of Eggs,
Containing Thirty-Eight Different Species.
London:
Groombridge and Sons, 5, Paternoster Row.
M DCCC LVII.
INTRODUCTION.
WHAT IS AN EGG?
It may at first strike our young readers that this is a question very
easily answered; if they think so, let them try what sort of an answer
they can give to it, and if they break down in the definition, we will
endeavour to help them, as we are told in the old fable, Jupiter did
the waggoner; but it is best for young people to _try_, and, for that
matter, old people too; let them never believe that they _can't_ do a
thing--"where there's a will there's a way." Many a boy that will take
a deal of pains, and incur no inconsiderable risk of life and limb, to
climb up a tree after a bird's nest, finds it too much trouble to read
and learn about the habits of the creature he is thus ready to deprive
of its warm comfortable home and beautiful eggs. He cannot tell you, if
you ask him, of what the nest is composed, nor how, nor when it was
built, much less can he answer the question which we have just put to
our readers,--
WHAT IS AN EGG?
"Well," we hear some one say, "an Egg is a thing of an oval shape,
large or small, white or coloured and speckled, as the case may be; it
has a shell which breaks if you knock it | 3,428.749831 |
2023-11-16 19:14:12.7326270 | 1,032 | 20 |
Produced by Adrian Mastronardi, Charlie Howard, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
THE INFLUENCE OF
DARWIN ON PHILOSOPHY
And Other Essays in Contemporary
Thought
BY
JOHN DEWEY
_Professor of Philosophy in Columbia University_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1910,
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
_Published April, 1910_
PREFACE
An elaborate preface to a philosophic work usually impresses one as a
last desperate effort on the part of its author to convey what he feels
he has not quite managed to say in the body of his book. Nevertheless,
a collection of essays on various topics written during a series
of years may perhaps find room for an independent word to indicate
the kind of unity they seem, to their writer, to possess. Probably
every one acquainted with present philosophic thought--found, with
some notable exceptions, in periodicals rather than in books--would
term it a philosophy of transition and reconstruction. Its various
representatives agree in what they oppose--the orthodox British
empiricism of two generations ago and the orthodox Neo-Kantian idealism
of the last generation--rather than in what they proffer.
The essays of this volume belong, I suppose, to what has come
to be known (since the earlier of them were written) as the
pragmatic phase of the newer movement. Now a recent German critic
has described pragmatism as, “Epistemologically, nominalism;
psychologically, voluntarism; cosmologically, energism; metaphysically,
agnosticism; ethically, meliorism on the basis of the Bentham-Mill
utilitarianism.”[1] It may be that pragmatism will turn out to be all
of this formidable array; but even should it, the one who thus defines
it has hardly come within earshot of it. For whatever else pragmatism
is or is not, the pragmatic spirit is primarily a revolt against that
habit of mind which disposes of anything whatever--even so humble an
affair as a new method in Philosophy--by tucking it away, after this
fashion, in the pigeon holes of a filing cabinet. There are other vital
phases of contemporary transition and revision; there are, for example,
a new realism and naturalistic idealism. When I recall that I find
myself more interested (even though their representatives might decline
to reciprocate) in such phases than in the systems marked by the labels
of our German critic, I am confirmed in a belief that after all it is
better to view pragmatism quite vaguely as part and parcel of a general
movement of intellectual reconstruction. For otherwise we seem to have
no recourse save to define pragmatism--as does our German author--in
terms of the very past systems against which it is a reaction; or, in
escaping that alternative, to regard it as a fixed rival system making
like claim to completeness and finality. And if, as I believe, one of
the marked traits of the pragmatic movement is just the surrender of
every such claim, how have we furthered our understanding of pragmatism?
Classic philosophies have to be revised because they must be squared
up with the many social and intellectual tendencies that have
revealed themselves since those philosophies matured. The conquest
of the sciences by the experimental method of inquiry; the injection
of evolutionary ideas into the study of life and society; the
application of the historic method to religions and morals as well
as to institutions; the creation of the sciences of “origins” and
of the cultural development of mankind--how can such intellectual
changes occur and leave philosophy what it was and where it was? Nor
can philosophy remain an indifferent spectator of the rise of what
may be termed the new individualism in art and letters, with its
naturalistic method applied in a religious, almost mystic spirit to
what is primitive, obscure, varied, inchoate, and growing in nature
and human character. The age of Darwin, Helmholtz, Pasteur, Ibsen,
Maeterlinck, Rodin, and Henry James must feel some uneasiness until
it has liquidated its philosophic inheritance in current intellectual
coin. And to accuse those who are concerned in this transaction of
ignorant contempt for the classic past of philosophy is to overlook
the inspiration the movement of translation draws from the fact that
the history of philosophy has become only too well understood.
Any revision of customary notions with its elimination--instead of
“solution”--of many traditionary problems cannot hope, however | 3,428.752667 |
2023-11-16 19:14:12.7331810 | 7,436 | 12 |
Produced by James Linden. HTML version by Al Haines.
State of the Union Addresses of Woodrow Wilson
The addresses are separated by three asterisks: ***
Dates of addresses by Woodrow Wilson in this eBook:
December 2, 1913
December 8, 1914
December 7, 1915
December 5, 1916
December 4, 1917
December 2, 1918
December 2, 1919
December 7, 1920
***
State of the Union Address
Woodrow Wilson
December 2, 1913
Gentlemen of the Congress:
In pursuance of my constitutional duty to "give to the Congress information
of the state of the Union," I take the liberty of addressing you on several
matters which ought, as it seems to me, particularly to engage the
attention of your honorable bodies, as of all who study the welfare and
progress of the Nation.
I shall ask your indulgence if I venture to depart in some degree from the
usual custom of setting before you in formal review the many matters which
have engaged the attention and called for the action of the several
departments of the Government or which look to them for early treatment in
the future, because the list is long, very long, and would suffer in the
abbreviation to which I should have to subject it. I shall submit to you
the reports of the heads of the several departments, in which these
subjects are set forth in careful detail, and beg that they may receive the
thoughtful attention of your committees and of all Members of the Congress
who may have the leisure to study them. Their obvious importance, as
constituting the very substance of the business of the Government, makes
comment and emphasis on my part unnecessary.
The country, I am thankful to say, is at peace with all the world, and many
happy manifestations multiply about us of a growing cordiality and sense of
community of interest among the nations, foreshadowing an age of settled
peace and good will. More and more readily each decade do the nations
manifest their willingness to bind themselves by solemn treaty to the
processes of peace, the processes of frankness and fair concession. So far
the United States has stood at the front of such negotiations. She will, I
earnestly hope and confidently believe, give fresh proof of her sincere
adherence to the cause of international friendship by ratifying the several
treaties of arbitration awaiting renewal by the Senate. In addition to
these, it has been the privilege of the Department of State to gain the
assent, in principle, of no less than 31 nations, representing four-fifths
of the population of the world, to the negotiation of treaties by which it
shall be agreed that whenever differences of interest or of policy arise
which can not be resolved by the ordinary processes of diplomacy they shall
be publicly analyzed, discussed, and reported upon by a tribunal chosen by
the parties before either nation determines its course of action.
There is only one possible standard by which to determine controversies
between the United States and other nations, and that is compounded of
these two elements: Our own honor and our obligations to the peace of the
world. A test so compounded ought easily to be made to govern both the
establishment of new treaty obligations and the interpretation of those
already assumed.
There is but one cloud upon our horizon. That has shown itself to the south
of us, and hangs over Mexico. There can be no certain prospect of peace in
America until Gen. Huerta has surrendered his usurped authority in Mexico;
until it is understood on all hands, indeed, that such pretended
governments will not be countenanced or dealt with by-the Government of the
United States. We are the friends of constitutional government in America;
we are more than its friends, we are its champions; because in no other way
can our neighbors, to whom we would wish in every way to make proof of our
friendship, work out their own development in peace and liberty. Mexico has
no Government. The attempt to maintain one at the City of Mexico has broken
down, and a mere military despotism has been set up which has hardly more
than the semblance of national authority. It originated in the usurpation
of Victoriano Huerta, who, after a brief attempt to play the part of
constitutional President, has at last cast aside even the pretense of legal
right and declared himself dictator. As a consequence, a condition of
affairs now exists in Mexico which has made it doubtful whether even the
most elementary and fundamental rights either of her own people or of the
citizens of other countries resident within her territory can long be
successfully safeguarded, and which threatens, if long continued, to
imperil the interests of peace, order, and tolerable life in the lands
immediately to the south of us. Even if the usurper had succeeded in his
purposes, in despite of the constitution of the Republic and the rights of
its people, he would have set up nothing but a precarious and hateful
power, which could have lasted but a little while, and whose eventual
downfall would have left the country in a more deplorable condition than
ever. But he has not succeeded. He has forfeited the respect and the moral
support even of those who were at one time willing to see him succeed.
Little by little he has been completely isolated. By a little every day his
power and prestige are crumbling and the collapse is not far away. We shall
not, I believe, be obliged to alter our policy of watchful waiting. And
then, when the end comes, we shall hope to see constitutional order
restored in distressed Mexico by the concert and energy of such of her
leaders as prefer the liberty of their people to their own ambitions.
I turn to matters of domestic concern. You already have under consideration
a bill for the reform of our system of banking and currency, for which the
country waits with impatience, as for something fundamental to its whole
business life and necessary to set credit free from arbitrary and
artificial restraints. I need not say how earnestly I hope for its early
enactment into law. I take leave to beg that the whole energy and attention
of the Senate be concentrated upon it till the matter is successfully
disposed of. And yet I feel that the request is not needed-that the Members
of that great House need no urging in this service to the country.
I present to you, in addition, the urgent necessity that special provision
be made also for facilitating the credits needed by the farmers of the
country. The pending currency bill does the farmers a great service. It
puts them upon an equal footing with other business men and masters of
enterprise, as it should; and upon its passage they will find themselves
quit of many of the difficulties which now hamper them in the field of
credit. The farmers, of course, ask and should be given no special
privilege, such as extending to them the credit of the Government itself.
What they need and should obtain is legislation which will make their own
abundant and substantial credit resources available as a foundation for
joint, concerted local action in their own behalf in getting the capital
they must use. It is to this we should now address ourselves.
It has, singularly enough, come to pass that we have allowed the industry
of our farms to lag behind the other activities of the country in its
development. I need not stop to tell you how fundamental to the life of the
Nation is the production of its food. Our thoughts may ordinarily be
concentrated upon the cities and the hives of industry, upon the cries of
the crowded market place and the clangor of the factory, but it is from the
quiet interspaces of the open valleys and the free hillsides that we draw
the sources of life and of prosperity, from the farm and the ranch, from
the forest and the mine. Without these every street would be silent, every
office deserted, every factory fallen into disrepair. And yet the farmer
does not stand upon the same footing with the forester and the miner in the
market of credit. He is the servant of the seasons. Nature determines how
long he must wait for his crops, and will not be hurried in her processes.
He may give his note, but the season of its maturity depends upon the
season when his crop matures, lies at the gates of the market where his
products are sold. And the security he gives is of a character not known in
the broker's office or as familiarly as it might be on the counter of the
banker.
The Agricultural Department of the Government is seeking to assist as never
before to make farming an efficient business, of wide co-operative effort,
in quick touch with the markets for foodstuffs. The farmers and the
Government will henceforth work together as real partners in this field,
where we now begin to see our way very clearly and where many intelligent
plans are already being put into execution. The Treasury of the United
States has, by a timely and well-considered distribution of its deposits,
facilitated the moving of the crops in the present season and prevented the
scarcity of available funds too often experienced at such times. But we
must not allow ourselves to depend upon extraordinary expedients. We must
add the means by which the, farmer may make his credit constantly and
easily available and command when he will the capital by which to support
and expand his business. We lag behind many other great countries of the
modern world in attempting to do this. Systems of rural credit have been
studied and developed on the other side of the water while we left our
farmers to shift for themselves in the ordinary money market. You have but
to look about you in any rural district to see the result, the handicap and
embarrassment which have been put upon those who produce our food.
Conscious of this backwardness and neglect on our part, the Congress
recently authorized the creation of a special commission to study the
various systems of rural credit which have been put into operation in
Europe, and this commission is already prepared to report. Its report ought
to make it easier for us to determine what methods will be best suited to
our own farmers. I hope and believe that the committees of the Senate and
House will address themselves to this matter with the most fruitful
results, and I believe that the studies and recently formed plans of the
Department of Agriculture may be made to serve them very greatly in their
work of framing appropriate and adequate legislation. It would be
indiscreet and presumptuous in anyone to dogmatize upon so great and
many-sided a question, but I feel confident that common counsel will
produce the results we must all desire.
Turn from the farm to the world of business which centers in the city and
in the factory, and I think that all thoughtful observers will agree that
the immediate service we owe the business communities of the country is to
prevent private monopoly more effectually than it has yet been prevented. I
think it will be easily agreed that we should let the Sherman anti-trust
law stand, unaltered, as it is, with its debatable ground about it, but
that we should as much as possible reduce the area of that debatable ground
by further and more explicit legislation; and should also supplement that
great act by legislation which will not only clarify it but also facilitate
its administration and make it fairer to all concerned. No doubt we shall
all wish, and the country will expect, this to be the central subject of
our deliberations during the present session; but it is a subject so
many-sided and so deserving of careful and discriminating discussion that I
shall take the liberty of addressing you upon it in a special message at a
later date than this. It is of capital importance that the business men of
this country should be relieved of all uncertainties of law with regard to
their enterprises and investments and a clear path indicated which they can
travel without anxiety. It is as important that they should be relieved of
embarrassment and set free to prosper as that private monopoly should be
destroyed. The ways of action should be thrown wide open.
I turn to a subject which I hope can be handled promptly and without
serious controversy of any kind. I mean the method of selecting nominees
for the Presidency of the United States. I feel confident that I do not
misinterpret the wishes or the expectations of the country when I urge the
prompt enactment of legislation which will provide for primary elections
throughout the country at which the voters of the several parties may
choose their nominees for the Presidency without the intervention of
nominating conventions. I venture the suggestion that this legislation
should provide for the retention of party conventions, but only for the
purpose of declaring and accepting the verdict of the primaries and
formulating the platforms of the parties; and I suggest that these
conventions should consist not of delegates chosen for this single purpose,
but of the nominees for Congress, the nominees for vacant seats in the
Senate of the United States, the Senators whose terms have not yet closed,
the national committees, and the candidates for the Presidency themselves,
in order that platforms may be framed by those responsible to the people
for carrying them into effect.
These are all matters of vital domestic concern, and besides them, outside
the charmed circle of our own national life in which our affections command
us, as well as our consciences, there stand out our obligations toward our
territories over sea. Here we are trustees. Porto Rico, Hawaii, the
Philippines, are ours, indeed, but not ours to do what we please with. Such
territories, once regarded as mere possessions, are no longer to be
selfishly exploited; they are part of the domain of public conscience and
of serviceable and enlightened statesmanship. We must administer them for
the people who live in them and with the same sense of responsibility to
them as toward our own people in our domestic affairs. No doubt we shall
successfully enough bind Porto Rico and the Hawaiian Islands to ourselves
by ties of justice and interest and affection, but the performance of our
duty toward the Philippines is a more difficult and debatable matter. We
can satisfy the obligations of generous justice toward the people of Porto
Rico by giving them the ample and familiar rights and privileges accorded
our own citizens in our own territories and our obligations toward the
people of Hawaii by perfecting the provisions for self-government already
granted them, but in the Philippines we must go further. We must hold
steadily in view their ultimate independence, and we must move toward the
time of that independence as steadily as the way can be cleared and the
foundations thoughtfully and permanently laid.
Acting under the authority conferred upon the President by Congress, I have
already accorded the people of the islands a majority in both houses of
their legislative body by appointing five instead of four native citizens
to the membership of the commission. I believe that in this way we shall
make proof of their capacity in counsel and their sense of responsibility
in the exercise of political power, and that the success of this step will
be sure to clear our view for the steps which are to follow. Step by step
we should extend and perfect the system of self-government in the islands,
making test of them and modifying them as experience discloses their
successes and their failures; that we should more and more put under the
control of the native citizens of the archipelago the essential instruments
of their life, their local instrumentalities of government, their schools,
all the common interests of their communities, and so by counsel and
experience set up a government which all the world will see to be suitable
to a people whose affairs are under their own control. At last, I hope and
believe, we are beginning to gain the confidence of the Filipino peoples.
By their counsel and experience, rather than by our own, we shall learn how
best to serve them and how soon it will be possible and wise to withdraw
our supervision. Let us once find the path and set out with firm and
confident tread upon it and we shall not wander from it or linger upon it.
A duty faces us with regard to Alaska which seems to me very pressing and
very imperative; perhaps I should say a double duty, for it concerns both
the political and the material development of the Territory. The people of
Alaska should be given the full Territorial form of government, and Alaska,
as a storehouse, should be unlocked. One key to it is a system of railways.
These the Government should itself build and administer, and the ports and
terminals it should itself control in the interest of all who wish to use
them for the service and development of the country and its people.
But the construction of railways is only the first step; is only thrusting
in the key to the storehouse and throwing back the lock and opening the
door. How the tempting resources of the country are to be exploited is
another matter, to which I shall take the liberty of from time to time
calling your attention, for it is a policy which must be worked out by
well-considered stages, not upon theory, but upon lines of practical
expediency. It is part of our general problem of conservation. We have a
freer hand in working out the problem in Alaska than in the States of the
Union; and yet the principle and object are the same, wherever we touch it.
We must use the resources of the country, not lock them up. There need be
no conflict or jealousy as between State and Federal authorities, for there
can be no essential difference of purpose between them. The resources in
question must be used, but not destroyed or wasted; used, but not
monopolized upon any narrow idea of individual rights as against the
abiding interests of communities. That a policy can be worked out by
conference and concession which will release these resources and yet not
jeopard or dissipate them, I for one have no doubt; and it can be done on
lines of regulation which need be no less acceptable to the people and
governments of the States concerned than to the people and Government of
the Nation at large, whose heritage these resources are. We must bend our
counsels to this end. A common purpose ought to make agreement easy.
Three or four matters of special importance and significance I beg, that
you will permit me to mention in closing.
Our Bureau of Mines ought to be equipped and empowered to render even more
effectual service than it renders now in improving the conditions of mine
labor and making the mines more economically productive as well as more
safe. This is an all-important part of the work of conservation; and the
conservation of human life and energy lies even nearer to our interests
than the preservation from waste of our material resources.
We owe it, in mere justice to the railway employees of the country, to
provide for them a fair and effective employers' liability act; and a law
that we can stand by in this matter will be no less to the advantage of
those who administer the railroads of the country than to the advantage of
those whom they employ. The experience of a large number of the States
abundantly proves that.
We ought to devote ourselves to meeting pressing demands of plain justice
like this as earnestly as to the accomplishment of political and economic
reforms. Social justice comes first. Law is the machinery for its
realization and is vital only as it expresses and embodies it.
An international congress for the discussion of all questions that affect
safety at sea is now sitting in London at the suggestion of our own
Government. So soon as the conclusions of that congress can be learned and
considered we ought to address ourselves, among other things, to the prompt
alleviation of the very unsafe, unjust, and burdensome conditions which now
surround the employment of sailors and render it extremely difficult to
obtain the services of spirited and competent men such as every ship needs
if it is to be safely handled and brought to port.
May I not express the very real pleas-are I have experienced in
co-operating with this Congress and sharing with it the labors of common
service to which it has devoted itself so unreservedly during the past
seven months of uncomplaining concentration upon the business of
legislation? Surely it is a proper and pertinent part of my report on "the
state of the Union" to express my admiration for the diligence, the good
temper, and the full comprehension of public duty which has already been
manifested by both the Houses; and I hope that it may not be deemed an
impertinent intrusion of myself into the picture if I say with how much and
how constant satisfaction I have availed myself of the privilege of putting
my time and energy at their disposal alike in counsel and in action.
***
State of the Union Address
Woodrow Wilson
December 8, 1914
GENTLEMEN OF THE CONGRESS:
The session upon which you are now entering will be the closing session of
the Sixty-third Congress, a Congress, I venture to say, which will long be
remembered for the great body of thoughtful and constructive work which it
has done, in loyal response to the thought and needs of the country. I
should like in this address to review the notable record and try to make
adequate assessment of it; but no doubt we stand too near the work that has
been done and are ourselves too much part of it to play the part of
historians toward it.
Our program of legislation with regard to the regulation of business is now
virtually complete. It has been put forth, as we intended, as a whole, and
leaves no conjecture as to what is to follow. The road at last lies clear
and firm before business. It is a road which it can travel without fear or
embarrassment. It is the road to ungrudged, unclouded success. In it every
honest man, every man who believes that the public interest is part of his
own interest, may walk with perfect confidence.
Moreover, our thoughts are now more of the future than of the past. While
we have worked at our tasks of peace the circumstances of the whole age
have been altered by war. What we have done for our own land and our own
people we did with the best that was in us, whether of character or of
intelligence, with sober enthusiasm and a confidence in the principles upon
which we were acting which sustained us at every step of the difficult
undertaking; but it is done. It has passed from our hands. It is now an
established part of the legislation of the country. Its usefulness, its
effects will disclose themselves in experience. What chiefly strikes us
now, as we look about us during these closing days of a year which will be
forever memorable in the history of the world, is that we face new tasks,
have been facing them these six months, must face them in the months to
come,-face them without partisan feeling, like men who have forgotten
everything but a common duty and the fact that we are representatives of a
great people whose thought is not of us but of what America owes to herself
and to all mankind in such circumstances as these upon which we look amazed
and anxious.
War has interrupted the means of trade not only but also the processes of
production. In Europe it is destroying men and resources wholesale and upon
a scale unprecedented and appalling, There is reason to fear that the time
is near, if it be not already at hand, when several of the countries of
Europe will find it difficult to do for their people what they have
hitherto been always easily able to do,--many essential and fundamental
things. At any rate, they will need our help and our manifold services as
they have never needed them before; and we should be ready, more fit and
ready than we have ever been.
It is of equal consequence that the nations whom Europe has usually
supplied with innumerable articles of manufacture and commerce of which
they are in constant need and without which their economic development
halts and stands still can now get only a small part of what they formerly
imported and eagerly look to us to supply their all but empty markets. This
is particularly true of our own neighbors, the States, great and small, of
Central and South America. Their lines of trade have hitherto run chiefly
athwart the seas, not to our ports but to the ports of Great Britain and of
the older continent of Europe. I do not stop to inquire why, or to make any
comment on probable causes. What interests us just now is not the
explanation but the fact, and our duty and opportunity in the presence of
it. Here are markets which we must supply, and we must find the means of
action. The United States, this great people for whom we speak and act,
should be ready, as never before, to serve itself and to serve mankind;
ready with its resources, its energies, its forces of production, and its
means of distribution.
It is a very practical matter, a matter of ways and means. We have the
resources, but are we fully ready to use them? And, if we can make ready
what we have, have we the means at hand to distribute it? We are not fully
ready; neither have we the means of distribution. We are willing, but we
are not fully able. We have the wish to serve and to serve greatly,
generously; but we are not prepared as we should be. We are not ready to
mobilize our resources at once. We are not prepared to use them immediately
and at their best, without delay and without waste.
To speak plainly, we have grossly erred in the way in which we have stunted
and hindered the development of our merchant marine. And now, when we need
ships, we have not got them. We have year after year debated, without end
or conclusion, the best policy to pursue with regard to the use of the ores
and forests and water powers of our national domain in the rich States of
the West, when we should have acted; and they are still locked up. The key
is still turned upon them, the door shut fast at which thousands of
vigorous men, full of initiative, knock clamorously for admittance. The
water power of our navigable streams outside the national domain also, even
in the eastern States, where we have worked and planned for generations, is
still not used as it might be, because we will and we won't; because the
laws we have made do not intelligently balance encouragement against
restraint. We withhold by regulation.
I have come to ask you to remedy and correct these mistakes and omissions,
even at this short session of a Congress which would certainly seem to have
done all the work that could reasonably be expected of it. The time and the
circumstances are extraordinary, and so must our efforts be also.
Fortunately, two great measures, finely conceived, the one to unlock, with
proper safeguards, the resources of the national domain, the other to
encourage the use of the navigable waters outside that domain for the
generation of power, have already passed the House of Representatives and
are ready for immediate consideration and action by the Senate. With the
deepest earnestness I urge their prompt passage. In them both we turn our
backs upon hesitation and makeshift and formulate a genuine policy of use
and conservation, in the best sense of those words. We owe the one measure
not only to the people of that great western country for whose free and
systematic development, as it seems to me, our legislation has done so
little, but also to the people of the Nation as a whole; and we as clearly
owe the other fulfillment of our repeated promises that the water power of
the country should in fact as well as in name be put at the disposal of
great industries which can make economical and profitable use of it, the
rights of the public being adequately guarded the while, and monopoly in
the use prevented. To have begun such measures and not completed them would
indeed mar the record of this great Congress very seriously. I hope and
confidently believe that they will be completed.
And there is another great piece of legislation which awaits and should
receive the sanction of the Senate: I mean the bill which gives a larger
measure of self-government to the people of the Philippines. How better, in
this time of anxious questioning and perplexed policy, could we show our
confidence in the principles of liberty, as the source as well as the
expression of life, how better could we demonstrate our own self-possession
and steadfastness in the courses of justice and disinterestedness than by
thus going calmly forward to fulfill our promises to a dependent people,
who will now look more anxiously than ever to see whether we have indeed
the liberality, the unselfishness, the courage, the faith we have boasted
and professed. I can not believe that the Senate will let this great
measure of constructive justice await the action of another Congress. Its
passage would nobly crown the record of these two years of memorable
labor.
But I think that you will agree with me that this does not complete the
toll of our duty. How are we to carry our goods to the empty markets of
which I have spoken if we have not the ships? How are we to build up a
great trade if we have not the certain and constant means of
transportation upon which all profitable and useful commerce depends? And
how are we to get the ships if we wait for the trade to develop without
them? To correct the many mistakes by which we have discouraged and all but
destroyed the merchant marine of the country, to retrace the steps by which
we have.. it seems almost deliberately, withdrawn our flag from the seas..
except where, here and there, a ship of war is bidden carry it or some
wandering yacht displays it, would take a long time and involve many
detailed items of legislation, and the trade which we ought immediately to
handle would disappear or find other channels while we debated the items.
The case is not unlike that which confronted us when our own continent was
to be opened up to settlement and industry, and we needed long lines of
railway, extended means of transportation prepared beforehand, if
development was not to lag intolerably and wait interminably. We lavishly
subsidized the building of transcontinental railroads. We look back upon
that with regret now, because the subsidies led to many scandals of which
we are ashamed; but we know that the railroads had to be built, and if we
had it to do over again we should of course build them, but in another way.
Therefore I propose another way of providing the means of transportation,
which must precede, not tardily follow, the development of our trade with
our neighbor states of America. It may seem a reversal of the natural order
of things, but it is true, that the routes of trade must be actually
opened-by many ships and regular sailings and moderate charges-before
streams of merchandise will flow freely and profitably through them.
Hence the pending shipping bill, discussed at the last session but as yet
passed by neither House. In my judgment such legislation is imperatively
needed and can not wisely be postponed. The Government must open these
gates of trade, and open them wide; open them before it is altogether
profitable to open them, or altogether reasonable to ask private capital to
open them at a venture. It is not a question of the Government monopolizing
the field. It should take action to make it certain that transportation at
reasonable rates will be promptly provided, even where the carriage is not
at first profitable; and then, when the carriage has become sufficiently
profitable to attract and engage private capital, and engage it in
abundance, the Government ought to withdraw. I very earnestly hope that the
Congress will be of this opinion, and that both Houses will adopt this
exceedingly important bill.
The great subject of rural credits still remains to be dealt with, and it
is a matter of deep regret that the difficulties of the subject have seemed
to render it impossible to complete a bill for passage at this session. But
it can not be perfected yet, and therefore there are no other constructive
measures the necessity for which I will at this time call your attention
to; but I would be negligent of a very manifest duty were I not to call the
attention of the Senate to the fact that the proposed convention for safety
at sea awaits its confirmation and that the limit fixed in the convention
itself for its acceptance is the last day of the present month. The
conference in which this convention originated was called by the United
States; the representatives of the United States played a very influential
part indeed in framing the provisions of the proposed convention; and those
provisions are in themselves for the most part admirable. It would hardly
be consistent with the part we have played in the whole matter to let it
drop and go by the board as if forgotten and neglected. It was ratified in
May by the German Government and in August by the Parliament of Great
Britain. It marks a most hopeful and decided advance in international
civilization. We should show our earnest good faith in a great matter by
adding our own acceptance of it.
There is another matter of which I must make special mention, if I am to
discharge my conscience, lest it should escape your attention. It may seem
a very small thing. It affects only a single item of appropriation. But
many human lives and many great enterprises hang upon it. It is the matter
of making adequate provision for the survey and charting of our coasts. It
is immediately pressing and exigent in connection with the immense coast
line of Alaska, a coast line greater than that of the United States
themselves, though it is also very important indeed with regard to the
older coasts of the continent. We can not use our great Alaskan domain,
ships will not ply thither, if those coasts and their many hidden dangers
are not thoroughly surveyed and charted. The work is incomplete at almost
every point. Ships and lives have been lost in threading what were supposed
to be well-known main channels. We have not provided adequate vessels or
adequate machinery for the survey and charting. We have used old vessels
that were not big enough or strong enough and which were so nearly
unseaworthy that our inspectors would not have allowed private owners to
send them to sea. This is a matter which, as I have said, seems small, but
is in reality very great. Its importance has only to be looked into to be
appreciated.
Before I close may I say a few words upon two topics, much discussed out of
doors, upon which it is highly important that our judgment should be clear,
definite, and steadfast?
One of these is economy in government | 3,428.753221 |
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E-text prepared by the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading
Team.
ENSIGN KNIGHTLEY AND OTHER STORIES
By
A. E. W. MASON
Author of "The Courtship of Morrice Buckler," "The Watchers,"
"Parson Kelly," etc.
1901
CONTENTS.
ENSIGN KNIGHTLEY
THE MAN OF WHEELS
MR. MITCHELBOURNE'S LAST ESCAPADE
THE COWARD
THE DESERTER
THE CROSSED GLOVES
THE SHUTTERED HOUSE
KEEPER OF THE BISHOP
THE CRUISE OF THE "WILLING MIND"
HOW BARRINGTON RETURNED TO JOHANNESBURG
HATTERAS
THE PRINCESS JOCELIANDE
A LIBERAL EDUCATION
THE TWENTY-KRONER STORY
THE FIFTH PICTURE
ENSIGN KNIGHTLEY.
It was eleven o'clock at night when Surgeon Wyley of His Majesty's
ship _Bonetta_ washed his hands, drew on his coat, and walked from the
hospital up the narrow cobbled street of Tangier to the Main-Guard by
the Catherine Port. In the upper room of the Main-Guard he found
Major Shackleton of the Tangier Foot taking a hand at bassette with
Lieutenant Scrope of Trelawney's Regiment and young Captain Tessin of
the King's Battalion. There were three other officers in the room, and
to them Surgeon Wyley began to talk in a prosy, medical strain. Two of
his audience listened in an uninterested stolidity for just so long as
the remnant of manners, which still survived in Tangier, commanded,
and then strolling through the open window on to the balcony, lit
their pipes.
Overhead the stars blazed in the rich sky of Morocco; the
riding-lights of Admiral Herbert's fleet sprinkled the bay; and below
them rose the hum of an unquiet town. It was the night of May 13th,
1680, and the life of every Christian in Tangier hung in the balance.
The Moors had burst through the outposts to the west, and were now
entrenched beneath the walls. The Henrietta Redoubt had fallen that
day; to-morrow the little fort at Devil's Drop, built on the edge of
the sand where the sea rippled up to the palisades, must fall; and
Charles Fort, to the southwest, was hardly in a better case. However,
a sortie had been commanded at daybreak as a last effort to relieve
Charles Fort, and the two officers on the balcony speculated over
their pipes on the chances of success.
Meanwhile, inside the room Surgeon Wyley lectured to his remaining
auditor, who, too tired to remonstrate, tilted his chair against the
wall and dozed.
"A concussion of the brain," Wyley went on, "has this curious effect,
that after recovery the patient will have lost from his consciousness
a period of time which immediately preceded the injury. Thus a man may
walk down a street here in Tangier; four, five, six hours afterwards,
he mounts his horse, is thrown on to his head. When he wakes again to
his senses, the last thing he remembers is--what? A sign, perhaps,
over a shop in the street he walked down, or a leper pestering him for
alms. The intervening hours are lost to him, and forever. It is no
question of an abeyance of memory. There is a gap in the continuity of
his experience, and that gap he will never fill up."
"Except by hearsay?"
The correction came from Lieutenant Scrope at the bassette table. It
was quite carelessly uttered while the Lieutenant was picking up his
cards. Surgeon Wyley shifted his chair towards the table, and accepted
the correction.
"Except, of course, by hearsay."
Wyley was a new-comer to Tangier, having sailed into the bay less than
a week back; but he had been long enough in the town to find in Scrope
a subject at once of interest and perplexity. Scrope was in years
nearer forty than thirty, dark of complexion, aquiline of feature, and
though a trifle below the middle height he redeemed his stature by the
litheness of his figure. What interested Wyley was that he seemed a
man in whom strong passions were always desperately at war with a
strong will. He wore habitually a mask of reserve; behind it, Wyley
was aware of sleeping fires. He spoke habitually in a quiet, decided
voice, like one that has the soundings of his nature; beneath it,
Wyley detected, continually recurring, continually subdued, a note
of turbulence. Here, in a word, was a man whose hand was against the
world but who would not strike at random. What perplexed Wyley, on the
other hand, was Scrope's subordinate rank of lieutenant in a garrison
where, from the frequency of death, promotion was of the quickest. He
sat there at the table, a lieutenant; a boy of twenty-four faced him,
and the boy was a captain and his superior.
It was to the Lieutenant, however, that Wyley resumed his discourse.
"The length of time lost is proportionate to the severity of the
concussion. It may be only an hour; I have known it to be a day." He
leaned back in his chair and smiled. "A strange question that for a
man to ask himself--What did he do during those hours?--a question to
appal him."
Scrope chose a card from his hand and played it. Without looking up
from the table, he asked: "To appal him? Why?"
"Because the question would be not so much what did he do, as what may
he not have done. A man rides through life insecurely seated on his
passions. Within a few hours the most honest man may commit a damnable
crime, a damnable dishonour."
Scrope looked quietly at the Surgeon to read the intention of his
words. Then: "I suppose so," he said carelessly. "But do you think
that question would press?"
"Why not?" asked Wyley.
Scrope shrugged his shoulders. "I should need an example before I
believed you."
The example was at the door. The corporal of the guard at the
Catherine Port knocked and was admitted. He told his story to Major
Shackleton, and as he told it the two officers lounged back into the
room from the balcony, and the other who was dozing against the wall
brought the legs of his chair with a bang to the floor and woke up.
It appeared that a sentry at the stockade outside the Catherine Port
had suddenly noticed a flutter of white on the ground a few yards
from the stockade. He watched this white object, and it moved. He
challenged it, and was answered by a whispered prayer for admission in
the English tongue and in an English voice. The sentry demanded the
password, and received as a reply, "Inchiquin. It is the last password
I have knowledge of. Let me in! Let me in!"
The sentry called the corporal, the corporal admitted the fugitive and
brought him to the Main-Guard. He was now in the guard-room below.
"You did well," said the Major. "The man has come from the Moorish
lines, and may have news which will profit us in the morning. Let
him up!" and as the corporal retired, "'Inchiquin,'" he repeated
thoughtfully: "I cannot call to mind that password."
Now Wyley had noticed that when the corporal first mentioned the word,
Scrope, who was looking over his cards, had dropped one on the table
as though his hand shook, had raised his head sharply, and with his
head his eyebrows, and had stared for a second fixedly at the wall in
front of him. So he said to Scrope:
"You can remember."
"Yes, I remember the password," Scrope replied simply. "I have cause
to. 'Inchiquin' and 'Teviot'--those were password and countersign on
the night which ruined me--the night of January 6th two years ago."
There was an awkward pause, an interchange of glances. Then Major
Shackleton broke the silence, though to no great effect.
"H'm--ah--yes," he said. "Well, well," he added, and laying an arm
upon Scrope's sleeve. "A good fellow, Scrope."
Scrope made no response whatever, but of a sudden Captain Tessin
banged his fist upon the table.
"January 6th two years ago. Why," and he leaned forward across the
table towards Scrope, "Knightley fell in the sortie that morning, and
his body was never recovered. The corporal said this fugitive was an
Englishman. What if--"
Major Shackleton shook his head and interrupted.
"Knightley fell by my side. I saw the blow; it must have broken his
skull."
There was a sound of footsteps in the passage, the door was opened
and the fugitive appeared in the doorway. All eyes turned to him
instantly, and turned from him again with looks of disappointment.
Wyley remarked, however, that Scrope, who had barely glanced at the | 3,428.851095 |
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Produced by Stewart A. Levin
THE
COUNTRY SCHOOL
An Entertainment in Two Scenes.
BY
M. R. ORNE.
Copyright, 1890, BY WALTER H. BAKER & CO.
BOSTON
SUGGESTIONS.
__________
THE characters in this little sketch should be played by prominent
citizens of your town, if such can be prevailed upon to appear--the
more elderly, staid, and incongruous in years and bearing, the better.
Dignified professors, judges, doctors, lawyers, teachers, etc.,
should be prevailed upon to forget their present greatness, don the
costumes and revive the scenes of their youth.
The dress may be left largely to individual taste. Short pantaloons,
jumpers, long-sleeved tires, caps, broad-brimmed straw hats, heavy
cowhide boots, are suggested for the gentlemen; while short dresses,
the historic pantalette, sun-bonnets, tires, aprons, etc., are
proposed for the ladies. The latter should have their hair braided
or hanging in long curls. All should be neatly dressed in "ye
olden time" costumes, except one or two, who may represent the
tatterdemalion fraternity. One of these may be the bright boy of the
class, the other the dullard, who stumbles through his lessons,
loses his place, has a passion for catching flies, throwing spit-balls,
etc. One boy may have a penchant for drawing pictures on his
slate or the blackboard, in which his teacher and mates play a
prominent part as models. One girl a proneness for chewing gum,
another for large pickles; another thinks herself smart, but
generally manages to give wrong answers. A few names have been
suggested in the dialogue, but they may be easily varied. Where a
name is not necessary, the author has used the word "Pupil,"
so that the parts may be distributed according to the number
of performers.
The by-play that goes on among the scholars who are not reciting
must be of such a nature that it will not attract the attention of
the teacher unless it is a part of the programme.
The motion song can be introduced elsewhere in the dialogue if advisable.
As a rule, pupils should raise hands (at the same time saying
"Huh! huh!" or snapping thumb and finger), and obtain permission
before speaking; but where the dialogue becomes spirited, this
rule may be broken.
An indefinite number can take part in this entertainment.
THE COUNTRY SCHOOL.
__________________
INTRODUCTION.
THE curtain should rise upon an introductory front scene depicting
the pupils on their way to school, singly, or in groups of two or
three, swinging book-bags or dinner-pails; one group of girls play
bean | 3,428.946808 |
2023-11-16 19:14:13.0291280 | 2,303 | 59 |
Produced by MWS, Charlie Howard, and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber’s Note: Table of Contents added by Transcriber and placed
in the Public Domain.
CONTENTS
PREFACE v
Chapter I 1
Chapter II 24
Chapter III 53
Chapter IV 88
Chapter V 114
Chapter VI 152
Chapter VII 172
Chapter VIII 182
Chapter IX 199
Chapter X 220
Chapter XI 237
Chapter XII 255
Chapter XIII 283
Chapter XIV 302
Chapter XV 316
INDEX 335
_THE COURTSHIPS OF QUEEN ELIZABETH_
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
W.L. Colls. Ph. Sc.
QUEEN ELIZABETH,
FROM THE ORIGINAL PORTRAIT BY ZUCCHERO,
IN HAMPTON COURT PALACE.
]
THE COURTSHIPS OF
QUEEN ELIZABETH
A HISTORY OF THE VARIOUS
NEGOTIATIONS FOR HER MARRIAGE
BY MARTIN A. S. HUME, F. R. HIST. S.
EDITOR OF THE CALENDAR OF SPANISH STATE
PAPERS OF ELIZABETH (PUBLIC RECORD OFFICE)
[Illustration]
“AND THE IMPERIAL VOTARESS PASSED ON
IN MAIDEN MEDITATION FANCY FREE”
_Midsummer Night’s Dream_
NEW YORK: MACMILLAN & Co.
LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN
MDCCCXCVI
[Illustration]
PREFACE.
It has been my pleasant duty to consider carefully in chronological
order a great mass of diplomatic documents of the time of Elizabeth, in
which are reflected, almost from day to day, the continually shifting
aspects of political affairs, and the varying attitudes of the Queen
and her ministers in dealing therewith. I have been struck with the
failure of most historians of the time, who have painted their pictures
with a large brush, to explain or adequately account for what is so
often looked upon as the perverse fickleness of perhaps the greatest
sovereign that ever occupied the English throne; and I have come to the
conclusion that the best way in which a just appreciation can be formed
of the fixity of purpose and consummate statecraft which underlay her
apparent levity, is to follow in close detail the varying circumstances
and combinations which prompted the bewildering mutability of her
policy.
To do this through the whole of the events of a long and important
reign would be beyond the powers of an ordinary student, and the
attempt would probably end in confusion. I have therefore considered
it best to limit myself in this book to one set of negotiations,
those which relate to the Queen’s proposed marriage, running through
many years of her reign: and I trust that, however imperfectly my
task may have been effected, the facts set forth may enable the
reader to perceive more clearly than hitherto, that capricious, even
frivolous, as the Queen’s methods appear to be, her main object was
rarely neglected or lost sight of during the long continuance of these
negotiations.
That a strong modern England was rendered possible mainly by the
boldness, astuteness, and activity of Elizabeth at the critical
turning-point of European history is generally admitted; but how
masterly her policy was, and how entirely personal to herself, is
even yet perhaps not fully understood. I have therefore endeavoured
in this book to follow closely from end to end one strand only of the
complicated texture, in the hope that I may succeed by this means in
exhibiting the general process by which England, under the guidance of
the great Tudor Queen, was able to emerge regenerated and triumphant
from the struggle which was to settle the fate of the world for
centuries to come.
MARTIN A. S. HUME.
LONDON, _February, 1896_.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
QUEEN ELIZABETH _Frontispiece_
_Facing page_
THOMAS, LORD SEYMOUR OF SUDELEY 10
ROBERT DUDLEY, EARL OF LEICESTER 64
HENRY DE VALOIS, DUKE OF ANJOU (HENRY III.) 128
FRANÇOIS DE VALOIS DUKE OF ALENÇON 272
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER I.
Character of Elizabeth and her contemporaries--Main object of
her policy--Youth of Elizabeth--The Duke of Angoulême--
Philip of Spain--Seymour and Catharine Parr--Mrs. Ashley’s
and Parry’s confessions--Execution of Seymour--Proposed
marriage of Elizabeth with a son of the Duke of Ferrara--
With a son of Hans Frederick of Saxony--Courtney--Emmanuel
Philibert, Duke of Savoy--Prince Eric of Sweden--Death of
Queen Mary--The Earl of Arundel.
The greatest diplomatic game ever played on the world’s chessboard
was that consummate succession of intrigues which for nearly half a
century was carried on by Queen Elizabeth and her ministers with the
object of playing off one great Continental power against another for
the benefit of England and Protestantism, with which the interests of
the Queen herself were indissolubly bound up. Those who were in the
midst of the strife were for the most part working for immediate aims,
and probably understood or cared but little about the ultimate result
of their efforts; but we, looking back as over a plain that has been
traversed, can see that, from the tangle of duplicity which obscured
the issue to the actors, there emerged a new era of civilisation and
a host of young, new, vigorous thoughts of which we still feel the
impetus. We perceive now that modern ideas of liberty and enlightenment
are the natural outcome of the victory of England in that devious
and tortuous struggle, which engaged for so long some of the keenest
intellects, masculine and feminine, which have ever existed in Europe.
It seems impossible that the result could have been attained excepting
under the very peculiar combination of circumstances and persons then
existing in England. Elizabeth triumphed as much by her weakness as by
her strength; her bad qualities were as valuable to her as her good
ones. Strong and steadfast Cecil would never have held the helm so
long if he had not constantly been contrasted with the shifty, greedy,
treacherous crew of councillors who were for ever ravening after
foreign bribes as payment for their honour and their loyalty. Without
Leicester as a permanent matrimonial possibility to fall back upon,
the endless negotiations for marriage with foreign princes would soon
have become pointless and ineffectual, and the balance would have been
lost. But for the follies of Mary Stuart, which led to her downfall
and lifelong imprisonment, the Catholic party in England could never
have been subjected so easily as it was. Elizabeth, with little fixed
religious conviction, would, with her characteristic instability,
almost certainly at one difficult juncture or another have been drawn
into a recognition of the papal power, and so would have destroyed the
nice counterpoise, but for the unexampled fact that such recognition
would have upset her own legitimacy and right to reign. The combination
of circumstances on the Continent also seems to have been exactly that
necessary to aid the result most favourable to English interests; and
the special personal qualities both of Philip II. and Catharine de
Medici were as if expressly moulded to contribute to the same end.
But propitious, almost providential, as the circumstances were, the
making of England and the establishment of Protestantism as a permanent
power in Europe could never have been effected without the supreme and
sustained statecraft of the Queen and her great minister. The nimble
shifting from side to side, the encouragement or discouragement of the
French and Flemish Protestants as the policy of the moment dictated,
the alternate flouting and flattering of the rival powers, and the
agile utilisation of the Queen’s sex and feminine love of admiration
to provoke competing offers for her hand, all exhibit statesmanship
as keen as it was unscrupulous. The political methods adopted were
perhaps those which met with general acceptance at the time, but the
dexterous juggling through a long course of years with regard to
Elizabeth’s marriage is unexampled in the history of government. Not
a point was missed. Full advantage was taken of the Queen’s maiden
state, of her feminine fickleness, of her solitary sovereignty, of her
assumed religious uncertainty, of her accepted beauty, and of the keen
competition for her hand. In very many cases neither the wooer nor the
wooed was in earnest, and the courtship was merely a polite fiction to
cover other objects; but at least on two occasions, if not three, the
Queen was very nearly forced by circumstances or her own feelings into
a position which would have made her marriage inevitable. Her caution,
however, on each occasion caused her to withdraw in time without mortal
offence to the family of her suitor; and to the end of her days she was
able, painted old harridan though she was, to act coquettishly the
part of the peerless beauty whose fair hand might possibly reward the
devoted admiration paid to her, with their tongues in their cheeks,
by the bright young gallants who sought her smiles. The story of the
various negotiations for the Queen’s marriage has been told in more or
less detail in the histories of the times, but no comprehensive view
has yet been given of the marriage negotiations alone: nor has their
successive relation to other events been set forth as a connected
narrative. Within the last few years much new material for such a
narrative has become available both in England and on the Continent,
and it is now possible to see with a certain amount of clearness the
hands of the other players besides that of the English Queen. The
approaches made to Elizabeth by the brothers de Valois, or rather
by their intriguing mother, Catharine de Medici, have been related
somewhat fully | 3,429.049168 |
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Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
Gutenberg (This book was produced from scanned images of
public domain material from the Google Books project.)
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTICE
The medical knowledge represented in this book is several centuries
old. The publication of this book is for historical interest only,
and is not to be construed as medical advice by Project Gutenberg
or its volunteers. Medicinal plants should not be used without
consulting a trained medical professional. Medical science has made
considerable progress since this book was written. Recommendations
or prescriptions have been superseded by better alternatives, or
invalidated altogether. This book contains a number of prescriptions
that are very dangerous.
THE
TALEEF SHEREEF,
OR
INDIAN MATERIA MEDICA;
TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL.
BY
GEORGE PLAYFAIR, Esq.
SUPERINTENDING SURGEON, BENGAL SERVICE.
PUBLISHED BY
The Medical and Physical Society of Calcutta.
Calcutta:
PRINTED AT THE BAPTIST MISSION PRESS, CIRCULAR ROAD.
SOLD BY MESSRS. THACKER & CO. CALCUTTA; & BY MESSRS. PARBURY, ALLEN
& CO.
1833.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
In the course of a practice of upwards of twenty-six years in India,
I have often had occasion to regret, that I had no publication to
guide me, in my wish to become acquainted with the properties of
native medicines, which I had frequently seen, in the hands of the
Physicians of Hindoostan, productive of the most beneficial effects
in many diseases, for the cure of which our Pharmacopeia supplied no
adequate remedy; and the few which I had an opportunity of becoming
acquainted with, so far exceeded my expectations, that I determined
to make a Translation of the present work, for my own gratification
and future guidance.
Having finished the translation, I became convinced, that I should
not have fulfilled the whole of my duty if I did not make it public;
and ill calculated as I know myself for such an undertaking, I have
ventured to offer it to the world, with all its imperfections.
Conscious, that the liberal minded will give me credit for the best
of motives, I shall not dread criticism; and if it has the effect
of inducing those more competent to the task to an inquiry into
the properties of native medicines, my views will have been fully
accomplished.
In writing the names of the different medicines, I have followed the
Author's example, and have been guided solely by the pronunciation,
without altering the sound given to the letters in English, and have
not borrowed a single name from any work of Oriental literature. In
this I may have acted wrong, but I did so from the conviction, that by
this method, the names would be more familiar, and better understood,
by the Natives in researches after the different drugs.
I have inserted as many of the systematic names as I could trace,
both from Dr. Fleming's work, and those of others; but I regret,
that I was not honored in the acquaintance of any Botanist who could
have assisted me with more.
To the youth of the profession, I trust the work may be acceptable, by
leading them to the knowledge, that such medicines are in existence;
and my medical brethren of the higher grades may not deem further
inquiry into the properties of native drugs beneath their notice.
To the profession at large, then, I beg leave to dedicate this
Translation, with the hope, that they will make due allowance for
all faults, and that some of the more experienced will favor us with
another and better edition.
To my respected friends Messrs. Wilson and Twining, the profession is
indebted, that this little work ever saw light; and though they are
godfathers to none of its errors, yet without their encouragement and
aid, it must have slumbered in oblivion, and remained as was intended,
(after the failure of an attempt on the part of the translator,)
a manual for his own private use.
GLOSSARY.
Acouta, Herpes.
Aruk, Distilled liquid.
Boolbul, Indian Nightingale.
Badgola, Splenitis.
Coir, Fibrous substance surrounding the Cocoanut.
Daad, Impetigo.
Dhats, Component parts of the human frame.
Elaous, Disease of the Intestines. Introsusception.
Fetuck, Hernia.
Goor, Unrefined Sugar.
Juzam, Black Leprosy.
Jow, Barley.
Junglie Chuha, The Forest Rat.
Khoonadeer, Khoonazeer? Lupus, Cancer.
Kunzeer, Cancer.
Mootiabin, Total blindness, Gutta Serena.
Naringee, The Orange.
Nachoona, Opacity of the Cornea.
Neela Totha, Sulphate of Copper.
Nuffsoodum, Hæmoptysis.
Pilau, Poolau, Dish made of meat and rice, seasoned with spices.
Peshanee, The Forehead.
Paddy, Rice in the husk.
Panroque, Cold with Fever, also Jaundice.
Peendie, A formula for females.
Paan, A leaf, chewed by the Natives, with Catechu, Betel,
and Lime.
Raal, Gum Resin.
Rajerogue, Carbuncle.
Soonpat, Loss of sensation in parts of the body.
Soorkhbad, Erythema.
THE TALEEF SHEREEF,
OR
INDIAN MATERIA MEDICA.
TRANSLATED FROM
THE ORIGINAL, WITH ADDITIONS.
1 Am, Ambe, Anbe.--The Fruit, Mangifera Indica.
The produce of a large tree very common in Hindostan. The fruit is
about the size of, and very much resembling in shape, a goat's kidney,
and having the external appearance of an apple. When ripe, it sometimes
retains the green color, but oftener becomes yellow, or red and yellow.
The virtues ascribed to this tree, are as follows:--The bruised
leaves and young shoots applied to the hair, expedite its growth,
and considerably darken its color.
The bark of the trunk of the tree, and of its roots, is cooling and
astringent; the former powerfully so. The leaves are astringent,
and promote digestion; their ashes styptic.
The young flowers are cool and drying; have a pleasant aromatic scent,
and when taken internally, are cooling and astringent; recommended
for the cure of chronic Gonorrhoea or Gleet, purulent expectoration,
bilious foulness of the blood and boils. The young unripe fruit has
much acidity, and is drying; moderately used, it increases all the
animal secretions, and is beneficial in chronic affections of the
liver; it promotes appetite, and is lithonthriptic. The fruit, when
ripe, is sweet, cooling, mucilaginous and heavy, tending to allay
thirst, and useful in nervous affections; strengthens the system,
restores impaired appetite, (is said to moderate an increased secretion
of bile,) and improves the complexion. The fruit is of various sizes,
from a few drachms to a pound weight; but it is usually met with
weighing about 4 ounces. It becomes acid about a month after the fall
of the flower, in which state it is used as preserves, such as jellies,
pickles, &c.; at this time, too, it is used as seasoning for Pilaus,
and other dishes; for when the stone or kernel has become hard, it
is | 3,429.049245 |
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The Academy Series of English Classics
_MILTON_
MINOR POEMS
L'Allegro Il Penseroso Comus
Arcades On the Nativity Lycidas
On Shakespeare At a Solemn Music Son | 3,429.648952 |
2023-11-16 19:14:13.6290450 | 1,672 | 24 | BY H.M.S. CHALLENGER DURING THE YEARS 1873-1876, PLATES***
E-text prepared by Charlene Taylor, Adrian Mastronardi, Keith Edkins, and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page
images generously made available by Internet Archive (https://archive.org)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 44527-h.htm or 44527-h.zip:
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or
(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/44527/44527-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
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Project Gutenberg has the other two parts of this work.
First Part: First Part: Porulosa (Spumellaria and Acantharia)
see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/44525.
Second Part: Subclass Osculosa; Index
see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/44526.
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_Actissa_).
A carat character is used to denote superscription: a
single character following the carat is superscripted
(example: _g_^2).
Some typographical errors in the printed work have been
corrected. They are listed at the end of the text.
REPORT ON THE SCIENTIFIC RESULTS OF THE VOYAGE OF H.M.S. CHALLENGER
DURING THE YEARS 1873-76
Under the Command of Captain George S. Nares, R.N., F.R.S.
and the Late Captain Frank Tourle Thomson, R.N.
Prepared Under the Superintendence of
the Late Sir C. Wyville Thomson, KNT., F.R.S., &c.
Regius Professor of Natural History in the University of Edinburgh
Director of the Civilian Scientific Staff on Board
and Now of
John Murray
One of the Naturalists of the Expedition
ZOOLOGY--VOL. XVIII.
PLATES
Published by Order of Her Majesty's Government
Printed for Her Majesty's Stationary Office
and Sold by
London:--Eyre & Spottiswoode, East Harding Street, Fetter Lane
Edinburgh:--Adam & Charles Black
Dublin:--Hodges, Figgis, & Co.
1887
Price (in Two Parts, with a Volume of Plates) L5, 10s.
CONTENTS.
REPORT on the RADIOLARIA collected by H.M.S. CHALLENGER during the years
1873-1876.
By ERNST HAECKEL, M.D., Ph.D., Professor of Zoology in the University of
Jena.
PLATES.
CONTENTS.
PLATES 1-50. SPUMELLARIA.
" 51-98. NASSELLARIA.
" 99-128. PHAEODARIA.
" 129-140. ACANTHARIA.
MAP, SHOWING THE GEOGRAPHICAL DISTRIBUTION OF THE RADIOLARIA.
PLATE 1.
LEGION SPUMELLARIA.
Order COLLOIDEA.
Family THALASSICOLLIDA.
Fig. 1. _Actissa princeps_, n. sp., x 300 13
The entire living Spumellarium. _c_, The spherical central
capsule containing finely granulated protoplasm, which
is radially striated in the cortical zone; _v_,
spherical vacuoles enclosed by the protoplasm; _n_, the
spherical nucleus in the centre; _l_, the concentric
nucleolus; _f_, the radial pseudopodia which pierce the
calymma or the (yellowish) jelly-envelope of the
central capsule and arise from the granular
sarcomatrix.
Fig. 1_a_. Half of the central capsule of another specimen,
in which the original central nucleus is cleft into
numerous small nuclei, x 400
Fig. 1_b_. Half of the central capsule of another specimen,
filled up by flagellate spores, x 400
Fig. 1_c_. Eight isolated flagellate spores, x 800
Fig. 2. _Thalassolampe maxima_, n. sp., x 8 17
The entire living Spumellarium. _c_, The big spherical
central capsule; _a_, the large alveoles filling the
central capsule and surrounding a central nucleus; _f_,
the pseudopodia piercing the extracapsular calymma.
Fig. 2_a_. The nucleus alone, with numerous nucleoli, x 30
Fig. 3. _Thalassopila cladococcus_, n. sp., x 20 17
_c_, The big central capsule; _a_, numerous large alveoles
contained in the central capsule; _k_, oil globules,
many of which are placed in the radially striped
cortical zone; the nucleus placed centrally, is covered
with numerous radial apophyses or caecal sacs. _f_, The
radially striped calymma.
Fig. 4. _Thalassicolla maculata_, n. sp., x 100 21
_c_, The central capsule; _v_, vacuoles filling this
capsule; _n_, the central nucleus; _l_, the concentric
nucleolus; _g_, the voluminous calymma, a small radial
piece of which is only represented; _a_, the large
alveoles; _b_, peculiar exoplasmatic bodies; _p_, black
pigment in the inner zone; _f_, the retracted
pseudopodia in the outer zone.
Fig. 4_a_. An exoplasmatic body, x 300
Fig. 4_b_, Vacuoles in the endoplasm, x 300
Fig. 5. _Thalassicolla melacapsa_, n. sp., x 300 21
_n_, The large nucleus; _l_, numerous small nucleoli inside
the nucleus; _v_, the vacuoles filling up the central
capsule and separated by black pigment; _a_, large
alveoles in the calymma; _k_, oil globules; _b_,
exoplasmatic bodies; _f_, the retracted pseudopodia in
the outer zone of the calymma.
Fig. 5_a_. An endoplasmatic vacuole, resembling a cell, x 600
Fig. 5_b_. A piece of the central capsule, x 600
[Illustration: 1. ACTISSA. 2. THALASSOLAMPE. 3. THALASSOPILA. 4. 5.
THALASSOCOLLA.]
PLATE 2.
LEGION SPUMELLARIA.
Order BELOIDEA.
Family THALASSOSPHAERIDA.
Fig. 1. _Lampoxanthium pandora_, n. sp., x 120 38
The central capsule exhibits distinct pore-canals in its
membrane, and a clear interval between this and the
coagulated and vacuolated protoplasm. The central
nucleus contains numerous dark nucle | 3,429.649085 |
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THE LITERARY HISTORY
OF THE ADELPHI AND
ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD
[Illustration:
_Allen & Co. (London) Ltd. Sc._
_The Terrace. York Buildings. 1796._
_From a water colour by J. Richards R.A._]
THE LITERARY HISTORY
OF THE ADELPHI
AND ITS NEIGHBOURHOOD
_By_ AUSTIN BRERETON
WITH A NEW INTRODUCTION
[Illustration]
NEW YORK:
DUFFIELD & COMPANY
36-38 WEST 37th STREET
1909
_First Edition_ 1907
_Second Edition_ 1908
(_All rights reserved._)
Note
This book is intended for the general reader, as well as for the
antiquarian and the lover of London. To this end, the history of the
Adelphi and its immediate neighbourhood to the west and on the south
side of the Strand has been related in--as far as possible--narrative
form. At the same time, it need hardly be said, every care has been
taken to present the multitude of details correctly and as a truthful
picture of one of the most interesting parts of the great metropolis.
I should be ungrateful if I did not take this opportunity of again--as
in the case of my chronicle of the Lyceum and Henry Irving--thanking
Mr. E. Gardner for so courteously placing at my disposal his unique and
invaluable collection of London records and engravings. The majority
of the illustrations were kindly lent by him; others were copied from
prints in the British Museum. I have also to thank the officials of St.
Martin's Library for their ready help in enabling me to consult, at my
leisure, some scarce books connected with the literature of historical
London.
A.B.
INTRODUCTION
"The Literary History of the Adelphi" has journeyed from one side of
the neighbourhood to the other, from west to east. That is to say, its
publication has been acquired by Mr. Fisher Unwin, hence the removal
of the book from York Buildings to Adelphi--originally called "Royal,"
and still so marked on the old plans--Terrace. This peregrination
gives me the opportunity of supplementing the original work with some
interesting particulars which have just come into my possession.
Who would think that within a short distance of the Strand, if not
actually within the proverbial stone's throw, there are "cottages," and
cottages, too, with trees and flowers and lawns, and a mighty river,
for prospect? Yet such is the case, although it is no wonder that the
rate collector who is new to this part of London has much ado to find
"Adelphi cottages." They belong to that mysterious region which lies
underneath the Strand level of the Adelphi and is vaguely known as the
"arches." If the reader will glance at the illustration which faces
page 32--"The Buildings called the Adelphi"--he will see, at the top of
the arches and under the terrace, some fifteen semi-circular recesses.
These are really capacious rooms, and from the windows thereof the view
of the Embankment Gardens and the Thames is considerable compensation
for the tediousness and deviousness of the approach. The "cottages"
were originally attached to the houses on the terrace above, and, until
recent years, they were inhabited. Now, however, the majority of them
are let separately and are used as stores or workshops. One of them,
however, is still occupied as a dwelling-place, and, whatever else it
may be, this habitation is certainly unique.
Underneath the "Adelphi cottages," and extending below the houses of
the terrace, and John, Robert, and Adam Streets, are the famous arches,
which few people, either Londoners, who know nothing of their own city,
or Americans, who are versed in the lore of our ancient streets, have
ever visited. Truth to tell, the expedition to the Adelphi arches is
not to be undertaken with too light a heart. The gloomy recesses do not
conduce to joy, and, although the foot-pad has scant opportunity for
indulging in his nefarious practices, he would be a venturesome person,
a stranger to these parts, who would wander alone in this underground
world after the sun, which never enters these passages, had ceased to
illumine the earth above. This very darkness and dismalness has its
advantages at times. When Messrs. Coutts, for instance, moved from
their old premises in the Strand, there was much speculation as to the
manner in which they transferred their immense stock of securities,
deeds, and other valuables from one side of the road to the other.
There was great talk at the time of armies of detectives and the use of
the early hours of Sundays, and other vague suggestions were allowed to
be promulgated. It | 3,429.747601 |
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COLLECTION
OF
BRITISH AUTHORS
TAUCHNITZ EDITION.
VOL. 1811.
VIXEN BY M. E. BRADDON
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
VIXEN
A NOVEL
BY
M. E. BRADDON,
AUTHOR OF "LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET," ETC. ETC.
_COPYRIGHT EDITION_.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LEIPZIG
BERNHARD TAUCHNITZ
1879.
_The Right of Translation is reserved_.
CONTENTS
OF VOLUME III.
CHAPTER I. Going into Exile
CHAPTER II. Chiefly Financial
CHAPTER III. "With weary Days thou shalt be clothed and fed"
CHAPTER IV. Love and AEsthetics
CHAPTER V. Crumpled Rose-Leaves
CHAPTER VI. A Fool's Paradise
CHAPTER VII. "It might have been"
CHAPTER VIII. Wedding Bells
CHAPTER IX. The nearest Way to Norway
CHAPTER X. "All the Rivers run into the Sea"
CHAPTER XI. The Bluebeard Chamber
Epilogue
VIXEN.
CHAPTER I.
Going into Exile.
After a long sleepless night of tossing to and fro, Vixen rose with the
first stir of life in the old house, and made herself ready to face the
bleak hard world. Her meditations of the night had brought no new light
to her mind. It was very clear to her that she must go away--as far as
possible--from her old home. Her banishment was necessary for
everybody's sake. For the sake of Rorie, who must behave like a man of
honour, and keep his engagement with Lady Mabel, and shut his old
playfellow out of his heart. For the sake of Mrs. Winstanley, who could
never be happy while there was discord in her home; and last of all,
for Violet herself, who felt that joy and peace had fled from the Abbey
House for ever, and that it would be better to be anywhere, in the
coldest strangest region of this wide earth, verily friendless and
alone among strange faces, than here among friends who were but friends
in name, and among scenes that were haunted with the ghosts of dead
joys.
She went round the gardens and shrubberies in the early morning,
looking sadly at everything, as if she were bidding the trees and
flowers a long farewell. The rhododendron thickets were shining with
dew, the grassy tracks in that wilderness of verdure were wet and cold
under Vixen's feet. She wandered in and out among the groups of wild
growing shrubs, rising one above another to the height of forest trees,
and then she went out by the old five-barred gate which Titmouse used
to jump so merrily, and rambled in the plantation till the sun was
high, and the pines began to breathe forth their incense as the day-god
warmed them into life.
It was half-past eight. Nine was the hour for breakfast, a meal at
which, during the Squire's time, the fragile Pamela had rarely
appeared, but which, under the present _regime_, she generally graced
with her presence. Captain Winstanley was an early riser, and was not
sparing in his contempt for sluggish habits.
Vixen had made up her mind never again to sit at meat with her
stepfather; so she went straight to her own den, and told Phoebe to
bring her a cup of tea.
"I don't want anything else," she said wearily when the girl suggested
a more substantial breakfast; "I should like to see mamma presently. Do
you know if she has gone down?"
"No, miss. Mrs. Winstanley is not very well this morning. Pauline has
taken her up a cup of tea."
Vixen sat idly by the open window, sipping her tea, and caressing
Argus's big head with a listless hand, waiting for the next stroke of
fate. She was sorry for her mother, but had no wish to see her. What
could they say to each other--they, whose thoughts and feelings were so
wide apart? Presently Phoebe came in with a little three-cornered note,
written in pencil.
"Pauline asked me to give you this from your ma, miss."
The note was brief, written in short gasps, with dashes between them.
"I feel too crushed and ill to see you--I have told Conrad what you
wish--he is all goodness--he will tell you what we have decided--try to
be worthier of his kindness--poor misguided child--he will see you in
his study, directly after breakfast--pray control your unhappy temper."
"His study, indeed!" ejaculated Vixen, tearing up the little note and
scattering its perfumed fragments on the breeze; "my father's room,
which he has usurped. I think I hate him just a little worse in that
room than anywhere else--though that would seem hardly possible, when I
hate him so cordially everywhere."
She went to the looking-glass, and surveyed herself proudly as she
smoothed her shining hair, resolved that he should see no indication of
trouble or contrition in her face. She was very pale, but her tears of
last night had left no traces. There was a steadiness in her look that
befitted an encounter with an enemy. A message came from the Captain,
while she was standing before her glass, tying a crimson ribbon under
the collar of her white morning-dress.
Would she please to go to Captain Winstanley in the study? She went
without an instant's delay, walked quietly into the room, and stood
before him silently as he sat at his desk writing.
"Good-morning, Miss Tempest," he said, looking up at her with his
blandest air; "sit down, if you please. I want to have a chat with you."
Vixen seated herself in her father's large crimson morocco chair. She
was looking round the room absently, dreamily, quite disregarding the
Captain. The dear old room was full of sadly sweet associations. For
the moment she forgot the existence of her foe. His cold level tones
recalled her thoughts from the lamented past to the bitter present.
"Your mother informs me that you wish to leave the Abbey House," he
began; "and she has empowered me to arrange a suitable home for you
elsewhere. I entirely concur in your opinion that your absence from
Hampshire for the next year or so will be advantageous to yourself and
others. You and Mr. Vawdrey have contrived to get yourselves
unpleasantly talked about in the neighbourhood. Any further scandal may
possibly be prevented by your departure."
"It is not on that account I wish to leave home," said Vixen proudly.
"I am not afraid of scandal. If the people hereabouts are so wicked
that they cannot see me riding by the side of an old friend for two or
three days running without thinking evil of him and me, I am sorry for
them, but I certainly should not regulate my life to please them. The
reason I wish to leave the Abbey House is that I am miserable here, and
have been ever since you entered it as its master. We may as well deal
frankly with each other in this matter. You confessed last night that
you hated me. I acknowledge to-day that I have hated you ever since I
first saw you. It was an instinct."
"We need not discuss that," answered the Captain calmly. He had let
passion master him last night, but he had himself well in hand to-day.
She might be as provoking as she pleased, but she should not provoke
him to betray himself as he had done last night. He detested himself
for that weak outbreak of passion.
"Have you arranged with my mother for my leaving home?" inquired Vixen.
"Yes, it is all settled."
"Then I'll write at once to Miss McCroke. I know she will leave the
people she is with to travel with me."
"Miss McCroke has nothing to do with the question. You roaming about
the world with a superannuated governess would be too preposterous. I
am going to take you to Jersey by this evening's boat. I have an aunt
living there who has a fine old manor house, and who will be happy to
take charge of you. She is a maiden lady, a woman of superior
cultivation, who devotes herself wholly to intellectual pursuits. Her
refining influence will be valuable to you. The island is lovely, the
climate delicious. You could not be better off than you will be at Les
Tourelles."
"I am not going to Jersey, and I am not going to your intellectual
aunt," said Vixen resolutely.
"I beg your pardon, you are going, and immediately. Your mother and I
have settled the matter between us. You have expressed a wish to leave
home, and you will be pleased to go where we think proper. You had
better tell Phoebe to pack your trunks. We shall leave here at ten
o'clock in the evening. The boat starts from Southampton at midnight."
Vixen felt herself conquered. She had stated her wish, and it was
granted; not in the mode and manner she had desired; but perhaps she
ought to be grateful for release from a home that had become loathsome
to her, and not take objection to details in the scheme of her exile.
To go away, quite away, and immediately, was the grand point. To fly
before she saw Rorie again.
"Heaven knows how weak I might be if he were to talk to me again as he
talked last night!" she said to herself. "I might not be able to bear
it a second time. Oh Rorie, if you knew what it cost me to counsel you
wisely, to bid you do your duty; when the vision of a happy life with
you was smiling at me all the time, when the warm grasp of your dear
hand made my heart thrill with joy, what a heroine you would think me!
And yet nobody will ever give me credit for heroism; and I shall be
remembered only as a self-willed young woman, who was troublesome to
her relations, and had to be sent away from home."
She was thinking this while she sat in her father's chair, deliberating
upon the Captain's last speech. She decided presently to yield, and
obey her mother and stepfather. After all, what did it matter where she
went? That scheme of being happy in Sweden with Miss McCroke was but an
idle fancy. In the depths of her inner consciousness Violet Tempest
knew that she could be happy nowhere away from Rorie and the Forest.
What did it matter, then, whether she went to Jersey or Kamtchatka, the
sandy desert of Gobi or the Mountains of the Moon? In either case exile
meant moral death, the complete renunciation of all that had been sweet
and precious in her uneventful young life--the shadowy beech-groves;
the wandering streams; the heathery upland plains; the deep ferny
hollows, where the footsteps of humanity were almost unknown; the
cluster of tall trees on the hill tops, where the herons came sailing
home from their flight across Southampton Water; her childhood's
companion; her horse; her old servants. Banishment meant a long
farewell to all these.
"I suppose I may take my dog with me?" she asked, after a long pause,
during which she had wavered between submission and revolt, "and my
maid?"
"I see no objection to your taking your dog; though I doubt whether my
aunt will care to have a dog of that size prowling about her house. He
can have a kennel somewhere, I daresay. You must learn to do without a
maid. Feminine helplessness is going out of fashion; and one would
expect an Amazon like you to be independent of lady's-maids and
milliners."
"Why don't you state the case in plain English?" cried Vixen
scornfully. "If I took Phoebe with me she would cost money. There would
be her wages and maintenance to be provided. If I leave her behind, you
can dismiss her. You have a fancy for dismissing old servants."
"Had you not better see to the packing of your trunks?" asked Captain
Winstanley, ignoring this shaft.
"What is to become of my horse?"
"I think you must resign yourself to leave him to fate and me," replied
the Captain coolly; "my aunt may submit to the infliction of your dog,
but that she should tolerate a young lady's roaming about the island on
a thoroughbred horse would be rather too much to expect from her
old-fashioned notions of propriety."
"Besides, even Arion would cost something to keep," retorted Vixen,
"and strict economy is the rule of your life. If you sell him--and, of
course, you will do so--please let Lord Mallow have the refusal of him.
I think he would buy him and treat him kindly, for my sake."
"Wouldn't you rather Mr. Vawdrey had him?"
"Yes, if I were free to give him away; but I suppose you would deny my
right of property even in the horse my father gave me."
"Well, as the horse was not specified in your father's will, and as all
his horses and carriages were left to your mother, I think there cannot
be any doubt that Arion is my wife's property."
"Why not say your property? Why give unnatural prominence to a cipher?
Do you think I hold my poor mother to blame for any wrong that is done
to me, or to others, in this house? No, Captain Winstanley, I have no
resentment against my mother. She is a blameless nullity, dressed in
the latest fashion."
"Go and pack your boxes!" cried the Captain angrily. "Do you want to
raise the devil that was raised last night? Do you want another
conflagration? It might be a worse one this time. I have had a night of
fever and unrest."
"Am I to blame for that?'
"Yes--you beautiful fury. It was your image kept me awake. I shall
sleep sounder when you are out of this house."
"I shall be ready to start at ten o'clock," said Vixen, in a
business-like tone which curiously contrasted this sudden gust of
passion on the part of her foe, and humiliated him to the dust. He
loathed himself for having let her see her power to hurt him.
She left him, and went straight upstairs to her room, and gave Phoebe
directions about the packing of her portmanteaux, with no more outward
semblance of emotion than she might have shown had she been starting on
a round of pleasant visits under the happiest circumstances. The
faithful Phoebe began to cry when she heard that Miss Tempest was going
away for a long time, and that she was not to go with her; and poor
Vixen had to console her maid instead of brooding upon her own griefs.
"Never mind, Phoebe," she said; "it is as hard for me to lose you as it
is for you to lose me. I shall never forget what a devoted little thing
you have been, and all the muddy habits you have brushed without a
murmur. A few years hence I shall be my own mistress, and have plenty
of money, and then, wherever I may be, you shall come to me. If you are
married you shall be my housekeeper, and your husband shall be my
butler, and your children shall run wild about the place, and be made
as much of as the litter of young foxes Bates reared in a corner of the
stable-yard, when Mr. Vawdrey was at Eton."
"Oh, miss, I don't want no husband nor no children, I only want you for
my missus. And when you come of age, will you live here, miss?"
"No, Phoebe. The Abbey House will belong to mamma all her life. Poor
mamma! may it be long before the dear old house comes to me. But when I
am of age, and my own mistress I shall find a place somewhere in the
Forest, you may be sure of that, Phoebe."
Phoebe dried her honest tears, and made haste with the packing,
believing that Miss Tempest was leaving home for her own pleasure, and
that she, Phoebe, was the only victim of adverse fate.
The day wore on quickly, though it was laden with sorrow. Vixen had a
great deal to do in her den; papers to look over, old letters,
pen-and-ink sketches, and scribblings of all kinds to destroy, books
and photographs to pack. There were certain things she could not leave
behind her. Then there was a melancholy hour to spend in the stable,
feeding, caressing, and weeping over Arion, who snorted his tenderest
snorts, and licked her hands with abject devotion--almost as if he knew
they were going to part, Vixen thought.
Last of all came the parting with her mother. Vixen had postponed this
with an aching dread of a scene, in which she might perchance lose her
temper, and be betrayed into bitter utterances that she would
afterwards repent with useless tears. She had spoken the truth to her
stepfather when she told him that she held her mother blameless; yet
the fact that she had but the smallest share in that mother's heart was
cruelly patent to her.
It was nearly four o'clock in the afternoon when Pauline came to
Violet's room with a message from Mrs. Winstanley. She had been very
ill all the morning, Pauline informed Miss Tempest, suffering severely
from nervous headache, and obliged to lie in a darkened room. Even now
she was barely equal to seeing anyone.
"Then she had better not see me," said Vixen icily; "I can write her a
little note to say good-bye. Perhaps it would be just as well. Tell
mamma that I will write, Pauline."
Pauline departed with this message, and returned in five minutes with a
distressed visage.
"Oh, miss!" she exclaimed, "your message quite upset your poor mamma.
She said, 'How could she?' and began to get almost hysterical. And
those hysterical fits end in such fearful headaches."
"I will come at once," said Vixen.
Mrs. Winstanley was lying on a sofa near an open window, the Spanish
blinds lowered to exclude the afternoon sunshine, the perfume of the
gardens floating in upon the soft summer air. A tiny teapot and cup and
saucer on a Japanese tray showed that the invalid had been luxuriating
in her favourite stimulant. There were vases of flowers about the room,
and an all-pervading perfume and coolness--a charm half sensuous, half
aesthetic.
"Violet, how could you send me such a message?" remonstrated the
invalid fretfully.
"Dear mamma, I did not want to trouble you. I know how you shrink from
all painful things; and you and I could hardly part without pain, as we
are parting to-day. Would it not have been better to avoid any
farewell?"
"If you had any natural affection, you would never have suggested such
a thing."
"Then perhaps I have never had any natural affection," answered Vixen,
with subdued bitterness; "or only so small a stock that it ran out
early in my life, and left me cold and hard and unloving. I am sorry we
are parting like this, mamma. I am still more sorry that you could not
spare me a little of the regard which you have bestowed so lavishly
upon a stranger."
"Violet, how can you?" sobbed her mother. "To accuse me of withholding
my affection from you, when I have taken such pains with you from your
very cradle! I am sure your frocks, from the day you were short-coated,
were my constant care; and when you grew a big, lanky girl, who would
have looked odious in commonplace clothes, it was my delight to invent
picturesque and becoming costumes for you. I have spent hours poring
over books of prints, studying Vandyke and Sir Peter Lely, and I have
let you wear some of my most valuable lace; and as for indulgence of
your whims! Pray when have I ever thwarted you in anything?"
"Forgive me, mamma!" cried Vixen penitently. She divined dimly--even in
the midst of that flood of bitter feeling in which her young soul was
overwhelmed--that Mrs. Winstanley had been a good mother, according to
her lights. The tree had borne such fruit as was natural to its kind.
"Pray forgive me! You have been good and kind and indulgent, and we
should have gone on happily together to the end of the chapter, if fate
had been kinder."
"It's no use your talking of fate in that way, Violet," retorted her
mother captiously. "I know you mean Conrad."
"Perhaps I do, mamma; but don't let us talk of him any more. We should
never agree about him. You and he can be quite happy when I am gone.
Poor, dear, trusting, innocent-minded mamma!" cried Vixen, kneeling by
her mother's chair, and putting her arms round her ever so tenderly.
"May your path of life be smooth and strewn with flowers when I am
gone. If Captain Winstanley does not always treat you kindly, he will
be a greater scoundrel than I think him. But he has always been kind to
you, has he not, mamma? You are not hiding any sorrow of yours from
me?' asked Vixen, fixing her great brown eyes on her mother's face with
earnest inquiry. She had assumed the maternal part. She seemed an
anxious mother questioning her daughter.
"Kind to me," echoed Mrs. Winstanley. "He has been all goodness. We
have never had a difference of opinion since we were married."
"No, mamma, because you always defer to his opinion."
"Is not that my duty, when I know how clever and far-seeing he is?"
"Frankly, dear mother, are you as happy with this new husband of
yours--so wise and far-seeing, and determined to have his own way in
everything--as you were with my dear, indulgent, easy-tempered father?"
Pamela Winstanley burst into a passion of tears.
"How can you be so cruel?" she exclaimed. "Who can give back the past,
or the freshness and brightness of one's youth? Of course I was happier
with your dear father than I can ever be again. It is not in nature
that it should be otherwise. How could you be so heartless as to ask me
such a question?"
She dried her tears slowly, and was not easily comforted. It seemed as
if that speech of Violet's had touched a spring that opened a fountain
of grief.
"This means that mamma is not happy with her second husband, in spite
of her praises of him," thought Vixen.
She remained kneeling by her mother's side comforting her as best she
could, until Mrs. Winstanley had recovered from the wound her
daughter's heedless words had inflicted, and then Violet began to say
good-bye.
"You will write to me sometimes, won't you, mamma, and tell me how the
dear old place is going on, and about the old people who die--dear
familiar white heads that I shall never see again--and the young people
who get married, and the babies that are born? You will write often,
won't you, mamma?"
"Yes, dear, as often as my strength will allow."
"You might even get Pauline to write to me sometimes, to tell me how
you are and what you are doing; that would be better than nothing."
"Pauline shall write when I am not equal to holding a pen," sighed Mrs.
Winstanley.
"And, dear mamma, if you can prevent it, don't let any more of the old
servants be sent away. If they drop off one by one home will seem like
a strange place at last. Remember how they loved my dear father, how
attached and faithful they have been to us. They are like our own flesh
and blood."
"I should never willingly part with servants who know my ways, Violet.
But as to Bates's dismissal--there are some things I had rather not
discuss with you--I am sure that Conrad acted for the best, and from
the highest motives."
"Do you know anything about this place to which I am going, mamma?"
asked Vixen, letting her mother's last speech pass without comment; "or
the lady who is to be my duenna?"
"Your future has been fully discussed between Conrad and me, Violet. He
tells me that the old Jersey manor house--Les Tourelles it is
called--is a delightful place, one of the oldest seats in Jersey, and
Miss Skipwith, to whom it belongs, is a well-informed conscientious old
lady, very religious, I believe, so you will have to guard against your
sad habit of speaking lightly about sacred things, my dear Violet."
"Do you intend me to live there for ever, mamma?"
"For ever! What a foolish question. In six years you will be of age,
and your own mistress."
"Six years--six years in a Jersey manor house--with a pious old lady.
Don't you think that would seem very much like for ever, mamma?" asked
Vixen gravely.
"My dear Violet, neither Conrad nor I want to banish you from your
natural home. We only want you to learn wisdom. When Mr. Vawdrey is
married, and when you have learnt to think more kindly of my dear
husband----"
"That last change will never happen to me, mamma. I should have to die
and be born again first, and, even then, I think my dislike of Captain
Winstanley is so strong that purgatorial fires would hardly burn it
out. No, mamma, we had better say good-bye without any forecast of the
future. Let us forget all that is sad in our parting, and think we are
only going to part for a little while."
Many a time in after days did Violet Tempest remember those last
serious words of hers. The rest of her conversation with her mother was
about trifles, the trunks and bonnet-boxes she was to carry with
her--the dresses she was to wear in her exile.
"Of course in a retired old house in Jersey, with an elderly maiden
lady, you will not see much society," said Mrs. Winstanley; "but Miss
Skipwith must know people--no doubt the best people in the island--and
I should not like you to be shabby. Are you really positive that you
have dresses enough to carry you over next winter?"
This last question was asked with deepest solemnity.
"More than enough, mamma."
"And do you think your last winter's jacket will do?"
"Excellently."
"I'm very glad of that," said her mother, with a sigh of relief, "for I
have an awful bill of Theodore's hanging over my head. I have been
paying her sums on account ever since your poor papa's death; and you
know that is never quite satisfactory. All that one has paid hardly
seems to make any difference in the amount due at the end."
"Don't worry yourself about your bill, mamma. Let it stand over till I
come of age, and then I can help you to pay it."
"You are very generous, dear; but Theodore would not wait so long, even
for me. Be sure you take plenty of wraps for the steamer. Summer nights
are often chilly."
Vixen thought of last night, and the long straight ride through the
pine wood, the soft scented air, the young moon shining down at her,
and Rorie by her side. Ah, when should she ever know such a summer
night as that again?
"Sit down in this low chair by me, and have a cup of tea, dear," said
Mrs. Winstanley, growing more affectionate as the hour of parting drew
nearer. "Let us have kettledrum together for the last time, till you
come back to us."
"For the last time, mamma!" echoed Violet sadly.
She could not imagine any possible phase of circumstances that would
favour her return. Could she come back to see Roderick Vawdrey happy
with his wife? Assuredly not. Could she school herself to endure life
under the roof that sheltered Conrad Winstanley? A thousand times no.
Coming home was something to be dreamt about when she lay asleep in a
distant land; but it was a dream that never could be realised. She must
make herself a new life, somehow, among new people. The old life died
to-day.
She sat and sipped her tea, and listened while her mother talked
cheerfully of the future, and even pretended to agree; but her heart
was heavy as lead.
An hour was dawdled away thus, and then, when Mrs. Winstanley began to
think about dressing for dinner, Vixen went off to finish her packing.
She excused herself from going down to dinner on the plea or having so
much to do.
"You could send me up something, please, mamma," she said. "I am sure
you and Captain Winstanley will dine more pleasantly without me. I
shall see you for a minute in the hall, before I start."
"You must do as you please, dear," replied her mother. "I hardly feel
equal to going down to dinner myself; but it would not be fair to let
Conrad eat a second meal in solitude, especially when we are to be
parted for two or three days and he is going across the sea. I shall
not have a minute's rest to-night, thinking of you both."
"Sleep happily, dear mother, and leave us to Providence. The voyage
cannot be perilous in such weather as this," said Vixen, with assumed
cheerfulness.
Two hours later the carriage was at the door, and Violet Tempest was
ready to start. Her trunks were on the roof of the brougham, her
dressing-bag, and travelling-desk, and wraps were stowed away inside;
Argus was by her side, his collar provided with a leather strap, by
which she could hold him when necessary. Captain Winstanley was smoking
a cigar on the porch.
Mrs. Winstanley came weeping out of the drawing-room, and hugged her
daughter silently. Violet returned the embrace, but said not a word
till just at the last.
"Dear mother," she whispered earnestly, "never be unhappy about me. Let
me bear the blame of all that has gone amiss between us."
"You had better be quick, Miss Tempest, if you want to be in time for
the boat," said the Captain from the porch.
"I am quite ready," answered Vixen calmly.
Phoebe was at the carriage-door, tearful, and in everybody's way, but
pretending to help. Argus was sent up to the box, where he sat beside
the coachman with much gravity of demeanour, having first assured
himself that his mistress was inside the carriage. Mrs. Winstanley
stood in the porch, kissing her hand; and so the strong big horses bore
the carriage away, through the dark shrubberies, between banks of
shadowy foliage, out into the forest-road, which was full of ghosts at
this late hour, and would have struck terror to the hearts of any
horses unaccustomed to its sylvan mysteries.
They drove through Lyndhurst, where the twinkling little lights in the
shop-windows were being extinguished by envious shutters, and where the
shop-keepers paused in their work of extinction to stare amazedly at
the passing carriage; not that a carriage was a strange apparition in
Lyndhurst, but because the inhabitants had so little to do except stare.
Anon they came to Bolton's Bench, beneath a cluster of pine-trees on a
hilly bit of common, and then the long straight road to Southampton lay
before them in the faint moonshine, with boggy levels, black
furze-bushes, and a background of wood on either side. Violet sat
looking steadily out of the window, watching every bit of the road. How
could she tell when she would see it again--or if ever, save in sad
regretful dreams?
They mounted the hill, from whose crest Vixen took one last backwards
look at the wide wild land that lay behind them--a look of ineffable
love and longing. And then she threw herself back in the carriage, and
gave herself up to gloomy thought. There was nothing more that she
cared to see. They had entered the tame dull world of civilisation.
They drove through the village of Eling, where lights burned dimly here
and there in upper windows; they crossed the slow meandering river at
Redbridge. Already the low line of lights in Southampton city began to
shine faintly in the distance. Violet shut her eyes and let the
landscape go by. Suburban villas, suburban gardens on a straight road
beside a broad river with very little water in it. There was nothing
here to regret.
It was past eleven when they drove under the old bar, and through the
high street of Southampton. The town seemed strange to Vixen at this
unusual hour. The church clocks were striking the quarter. Down by the
d | 3,429.747823 |
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provided by Google Books and Oxford University.
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: Google Books
"https://books.google.com/books?id=l_QDAAAAQAAJ"
(provided by Oxford University).
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
MR. JAMES'S RECENT FICTIONS.
----------
NOW READY,
THE LAST OF THE FAIRIES: a Christmas Tale for 1848. By G. P. R. James,
Esq. Foolscap 8vo, 5_s_.
MARGARET GRAHAM: a Tale founded on Fact. In 2 vols. post 8vo, £l 1_s_.
======================================================================
_The Sixteenth Volume of the New and Illustrated Edition of_
THE WORKS OF G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
Will be published on the 1st of April, 1848.
==========
This new and attractive Series of Mr. James's Works is published
Quarterly. It commenced on the 1st of July, 1844, and the following
Volumes have already appeared:--
Vol. I. containing THE GIPSY July 1st, 1844.
Vol. II. -- MARY OF BURGUNDY Oct. 1st, 1844.
Vol. III. -- THE HUGUENOT Jan. 1st, 1845.
Vol. IV. -- ONE IN A THOUSAND April 1st, 1845.
Vol. V. -- PHILIP AUGUSTUS July 1st, 1845.
Vol. VI. -- HENRY OF GUISE Oct. 1st, 1845.
Vol. VII. -- MORLEY ERNSTEIN Jan. 1st, 1846.
Vol. VIII. -- THE ROBBER April 1st, 1846.
Vol. IX. -- DARNLEY July 1st, 1846.
Vol. X. -- THE BRIGAND; OR CORSE
DE LEON Oct. 1st, 1846.
Vol. XI. -- THE KING'S HIGHWAY Jan. 1st, 1847.
Vol. XII. -- THE GENTLEMAN OF THE
OLD SCHOOL April 1st, 1847.
Vol. XIII. -- HENRY MASTERTON July 1st, 1847.
Vol. XIV. -- FOREST DAYS Oct. lst, 1847.
Vol. XV. -- THE LITTLE BALL O' FIRE Jan. 1st, 1848.
*** The Third Volume, in addition to the usual Illustration, contains
a new and highly-finished Portrait of the Author.
----------
The following are Extracts from a few of the favourable Reviews which
have appeared of this Series:
"The writings of James are so well known to the readers of fiction,
that it is unnecessary to call their attention to them. This edition
is well got up, the type is clear, sharp, and legible, and the size
convenient for the reader, and appropriate for the shelves of a
bookcase. The book, as it is, will form a pleasing addition to the
collections of literature of the class to | 3,429.748716 |
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A PHENOMENAL FAUNA
BY
CAROLYN WELLS
WITH PICTURES
BY
OLIVER HEREFORD
[Illustration]
Copyright, 1901, 1902
By LIFE PUBLISHING COMPANY
_New York_
By ROBERT HOWARD RUSSELL
[Illustration]
To My Godfather
WILLIAM F. CLARKE
[Illustration]
THE REG'LAR LARK
The Reg'lar Lark's a very gay old Bird;
At sunrise often may his voice be heard
As jauntily he wends his homeward way,
And trills a fresh and merry roundelay.
And some old, wise philosopher has said:
Rise with a lark, and with a lark to bed.
[Illustration]
THE HUMBUG
Although a learned Entomologist
May doubt if Humbugs really do exist,
Yet each of us, I'm sure, can truly say
We've seen a number of them in our day.
But are they real?--well, a mind judicial
Perhaps would call them false and artificial.
[Illustration]
THE POPPYCOCK
The Poppycock's a fowl of English breed,
And therefore many think him fine indeed.
Credulous people's ears he would regale,
And so he crows aloud and spreads his tale.
But he is stuffed with vain and worthless words;
Fine feathers do not always make fine birds.
[Illustration]
THE HAYCOCK
The Haycock cannot crow; he has no brains,
No,--not enough to go in when it rains.
He is not gamy,--fighting's not his forte,
A Haycock fight is just no sort of sport.
Down in the meadow all day long he'll bide,
(That is a little hay-hen by his side.)
[Illustration]
THE POWDER MONKEY
A Theory, by scientists defended,
Declares that we from monkeys are descended.
This being thus, we therefore clearly see
The Powder-Monkey heads some pedigree.
Ah, yes,--from him descend by evolution,
The Dames and Daughters of the Revolution.
[Illustration]
THE TREE CALF
The sportive Tree Calf here we see,
He builds his nest up in a tree;
To this strange dwelling-place he cleaves
Because he is so fond of leaves.
'Twas his ancestral cow, I trow,
Jumped o'er the moon, so long ago.
But he is not so great a rover,
Though at the last he runs to cover.
[Illustration]
THE MILITARY FROG
The Military | 3,429.752248 |
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(This file was made using scans of public domain works in
the International Children's Digital Library.)
THE BOOK
OF
BRAVE OLD BALLADS.
Illustrated with Sixteen Engravings,
FROM DRAWINGS BY JOHN GILBERT.
"_I never heard the old song of Percie and Douglas, that I found not
my heart moved more than with a trumpet._"--SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.
LONDON: WARD, LOCK, AND TYLER, WARWICK HOUSE, PATERNOSTER ROW.
LONDON: PRINTED BY J. OGDEN AND CO., 172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C.
[Illustration: THE FROLICSOME DUKE, OR THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE.]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
ROBIN HOOD AND GUY OF GISBORNE 1
THE CHILDE OF ELLE 17
ADAM BELL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGH, AND WILLIAM OF CLOUDESLY--
Part the First 30
Part the Second 43
Part the Third 55
SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE 74
THE FROLICKSOME DUKE; OR, THE TINKER'S GOOD FORTUNE 82
THE MORE MODERN BALLAD OF CHEVY CHASE 89
KING EDWARD IV. AND THE TANNER OF TAMWORTH 106
THE HEIR OF LINNE--
Part the First 118
Part the Second 124
SIR ANDREW BARTON--
Part the First 133
Part the Second 142
BRAVE LORD WILLOUGHBEY 155
KING JOHN AND THE ABBOT OF CANTERBURY 162
ROBIN HOOD AND THE CURTAL FRIAR 170
ROBIN HOOD AND ALLEN-A-DALE 181
VALENTINE AND URSINE--
Part the First 188
Part the Second 198
THE KING AND THE MILLER OF MANSFIELD--
Part the First 214
Part the Second 222
ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
1. SIR GUY OF GISBORNE.
_He took Sir Guy's head by the hair,
And stuck it upon his bow's end_ 11
2. THE CHILDE OF ELLE.
_Pardon, my lord and father dear,
This fair young knight and me_ 28
3. ADAM BELL, CLYM OF THE CLOUGH, &C.
_Cloudesly bent a right good bow,
That was of a trusty tree_ 36
4. _They kneeled down without hindrance,
And each held up his hand_ 60
5. SIR LANCELOT DU LAKE.
_She brought him to a river side
And also to a tree_ 76
6. THE FROLICKSOME DUKE. (_Frontispiece._)
_Now he lay something late, in his rich bed of state,
Till at last knights and squires, they on him did wait_ 84
7. CHEVY CHASE.
_Then leaving life, Earl Percy took
The dead man by the hand_ 99
8. KING EDWARD AND THE TANNER.
_The tanner he pull'd, the tanner he sweat,
And held by the pummel fast_ 114
9. THE HEIR OF LINNE.
_And he pull'd forth three bags of gold,
And laid them down upon the board_ 130
10. SIR ANDREW BARTON.
_They boarded then his | 3,429.752417 |
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WHAT HAPPENED TO ME
BY
LASALLE CORBELL PICKETT
(MRS. GEN. GEORGE E. PICKETT)
AUTHOR OF
PICKETT AND HIS MEN; LITERARY HEARTHSTONES OF DIXIE; BUGLES OF
GETTYSBURG; HEART OF A SOLDIER; ACROSS MY PATH; "IN DE MIZ" SERIES;
FOLK LORE STORIES, ETC.
[Illustration: Decoration]
NEW YORK
BRENTANO'S
1917
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY BRENTANO'S
[Illustration: Faithfully Yours,
La Salle Corbell Pickett.
Jan 17 1917]
DEDICATED TO SELMA LEWISOHN
In my garden a lily grew, blossoming in snowy purity, fragrant sweetness
and stately grace. It held the summer in its golden heart and the love
of the angels crowned its radiant petals. It bade me "good-morning" and
the dawn was bright with promise. It waved a caress to me in the soft
winds of the Junetide noon and the day was filled with light and love.
It shone in mystic silver through the moonlight and my night was aglow
with dreams.
Thus a Lily-Soul blooms in the garden of my life to make it glad with
the glory and fragrance of her blossoming. Many hearts are happy because
of the flowers of Love and Hope and Faith which she has planted. Many a
life which in its early dawn held little promise of good has grown into
usefulness and beauty in the brightness that the Lily-Soul has given of
her own loveliness to light the dim pathway.
In cloudy days the whiteness of the Lily-Soul has shone like a star
through my darkness and the sunlight in her golden heart has illumined
the black veil of sorrow.
LA SALLE CORBELL PICKETT.
October 1, 1916.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. "OUT OF THE EVERYWHERE" 1
II. THE FIRST PRAYER 12
III. CHURCH VISITORS 19
IV. MY SOLDIER 30
V. A KEEPSAKE FOR THE ANGELS 42
VI. AFRICAN ROYALTY 48
VII. OUR FIRST CURRENCY 57
VIII. YULETIDE 64
IX. GREENBRIER WHITE SULPHUR SPRINGS 79
X. THE BREAKING OF THE STORM 87
XI. THE "VIRGINIA" 93
XII. RICHMOND AFTER SEVEN PINES 103
XIII. MY WOUNDED SOLDIER 109
XIV. THE RED FOX 117
XV. THE SMUGGLED BRIDE 124
XVI. BOTTLER, BOTTLER UP 133
XVII. ON THE LINES 141
XVIII. THE AMENITIES 149
XIX. THE CLOSING DAYS 157
XX. SUSPENSE 175
XXI. "WHOA, LUCY" 184
XXII. GEORGE JUNIOR'S FIRST GREENBACK 191
XXIII. "SKOOKUM TUM-TUM" 200
XXIV. CARPET-BAG, BASKET AND BABY 207
XXV. EDWARDS IS BETTER 221
XXVI. ONE WOMAN REDEEMED THEM ALL 227
XXVII. A FAMILIAR FACE 237
XXVIII. VISITORS, SHILLING A DOZEN--OUR LEFT-HANDERS 248
XXIX. B | 3,429.754644 |
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[Illustration: THE.LITTLE.BROWN.HEN.HEARS THE.SONG.OF.THE.NIGHTINGALE
By Jasmine Stone Van Dresser]
[Illustration: AND.WITH.THE.LENGTHENING. EVENING.SHADOWS.]
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Little Brown Hen
Hears the Song of the
Nightingale
& The Golden Harvest
By Jasmine Stone Van Dresser
Author of "How to Find Happyland"
With an Introduction by Margaret Beecher White
The Illustrations by William T. Van Dresser
[Illustration: THE.LOUDEST.TALKERS.ARE.NOT.ALWAYS.WISEST..]
Paul Elder and Company
San Francisco and New York
_Copyright, 1908_ _by_ Paul Elder and Company
TO
WILLIAM T. VAN DRESSER
BUT FOR WHOM THE STORIES
WOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN WRITTEN
THIS LITTLE BOOK IS LOVINGLY
DEDICATED BY THE
AUTHOR
FOREWORD.
It is the duty of all good, useful stories to give a message to their
readers. The two dainty stories contained in this little volume each
carries its message of truth. Pure, simple and wholesome in quality,
they cannot fail to refresh as well as instruct those who receive them.
In the _Golden Harvest_ the lesson of patience taught by the little
apple tree's experience will bear rich fruit I do not doubt, and the
wisdom of the little brown hen cannot help but teach us all to listen
for the nightingale's song of harmony in our own lives.
MARGARET BEECHER WHITE.
The Little Brown Hen Hears the Song of the Nightingale
[Illustration]
A POMPOUS old gander who lived in a barn-yard thought himself wiser than
the rest of the creatures, and so decided to instruct them.
He called together all the fowls in the barn-yard, and the pigeons off
the barn-roof, and told them to listen to him.
They gathered around and listened very earnestly, for they thought they
would learn a great deal of wisdom.
"The first thing for you to learn," said the gander, "is to speak my
language. It is very silly for you to chatter as you do. Now we will all
say, 'honk!' one, two, three,--'honk!'"
The creatures all tried very hard to say "honk!" but the sounds they
made were so remarkable that I cannot write them, and none of them
sounded like "honk!"
The gander was very angry.
"How stupid you are!" he cried. "Now you all must practise till you
learn it. Do not let me hear a peep or cluck or a coo! You must all
'honk' when you have anything to say."
So they obediently tried to do as he said.
When the little brown hen laid an egg, instead of making the fact known
with her sharp little "cut--cut--cut-cut-ah-cut!" as a well-ordered hen
should do, she ran around the barn-yard trying to say, "honk! honk!"
But nobody heard her, and nobody came to look for the egg.
The guinea-fowls way down in the pasture ceased calling "la croik! la
croik!" and there was no way of finding where they had hid their nests.
In the afternoon, when their shrill cries should have warned the farmers
that it was going to rain, they were still honking, or trying to, so
the nicely dried hay got wet.
Next morning chanticleer, instead of rousing the place with his lusty
crow, made an effort at honking that could not be heard a stone's throw
away, and so the whole farm overslept.
All day there was a Babel of sounds in the barn-yard. The turkeys left
off gobbling and made a queer sound that they thought was "honk!" the
ducks left off quacking, the chicks left off peeping, and said nothing
at all, for "honk!" was too big a mouthful for them; and the soft
billing and cooing of the doves were turned into an ugly harsh sound.
Things were indeed getting into a dreadful state, and they grew worse,
instead of better.
The hens forgot to lay eggs, the doves became proud and pompous like
the gander, and as for the turkey gobblers, they kept the place in an
uproar, for they thought they could really hon | 3,429.754827 |
2023-11-16 19:14:13.8294490 | 6,539 | 6 |
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TALKS
ON
THE STUDY OF LITERATURE
BY
ARLO BATES
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
COPYRIGHT, 1897
BY ARLO BATES
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
This volume is made up from a course of lectures delivered under the
auspices of the Lowell Institute in the autumn of 1895. These have been
revised and to some extent rewritten, and the division into chapters
made; but there has been no essential change.
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. What Literature Is 1
II. Literary Expression 23
III. The Study of Literature 33
IV. Why we Study Literature 45
V. False Methods 60
VI. Methods of Study 69
VII. The Language of Literature 88
VIII. The Intangible Language 111
IX. The Classics 123
X. The Value of the Classics 135
XI. The Greater Classics 142
XII. Contemporary Literature 154
XIII. New Books and Old 167
XIV. Fiction 184
XV. Fiction and Life 199
XVI. Poetry 219
XVII. The Texture of Poetry 227
XVIII. Poetry and Life 241
TALKS ON THE STUDY OF LITERATURE
I
WHAT LITERATURE IS
As all life proceeds from the egg, so all discussion must proceed from a
definition. Indeed, it is generally necessary to follow definition by
definition, fixing the meaning of the terms used in the original
explanation, and again explaining the words employed in this exposition.
I once heard a learned but somewhat pedantic man begin to answer the
question of a child by saying that a lynx is a wild quadruped. He was
allowed to get no further, but was at once asked what a quadruped is. He
responded that it is a mammal with four feet. This of course provoked
the inquiry what a mammal is; and so on from one question to another,
until the original subject was entirely lost sight of, and the lynx
disappeared in a maze of verbal distinctions as completely as it might
have vanished in the tangles of the forest primeval. I feel that I am
not wholly safe from danger of repeating the experience of this
well-meaning pedant if I attempt to give a definition of literature.
The temptation is strong to content myself with saying: "Of course we
all know what literature is." The difficulty which I have had in the
endeavor to frame a satisfactory explanation of the term has convinced
me, however, that it is necessary to assume that few of us do know, and
has impressed upon me the need of trying to make clear what the word
means to me. If my statement seem insufficient for general application,
it will at least show the sense which I shall give to "literature" in
these talks.
In its most extended signification literature of course might be taken
to include whatever is written or printed; but our concern is with that
portion only which is indicated by the name "polite literature," or by
the imported term "belles-lettres,"--both antiquated though respectable
phrases. In other words, I wish to confine my examination to those
written works which can properly be brought within the scope of
literature as one of the fine arts.
Undoubtedly we all have a general idea of the limitations which are
implied by these various terms, and we are not without a more or less
vague notion of what is indicated by the word literature in its most
restricted and highest sense. The important point is whether our idea is
clear and well realized. We have no difficulty in saying that one book
belongs to art and that another does not; but we often find ourselves
perplexed when it comes to telling why. We should all agree that "The
Scarlet Letter" is literature and that the latest sensational novel is
not,--but are we sure what makes the difference? We know that
Shakespeare wrote poetry and Tupper doggerel, but it by no means follows
that we can always distinguish doggerel from poetry; and while it is not
perhaps of consequence whether we are able to inform others why we
respect the work of one or another, it is of much importance that we be
in a position to justify our tastes to ourselves. It is not hard to
discover whether we enjoy a book, and it is generally possible to tell
why we like it; but this is not the whole of the matter. It is necessary
that we be able to estimate the justice of our preferences. We must
remember that our liking or disliking is not only a test of the
book,--but is a test of us as well. There is no more accurate gauge of
the moral character of a man than the nature of the books which he
really cares for. He who would progress by the aid of literature must
have reliable standards by which to judge his literary feelings and
opinions; he must be able to say: "My antipathy to such a work is
justified by this or by that principle; my pleasure in that other is
fine because for these reasons the book itself is noble."
It is hardly possible to arrive at any clear understanding of what is
meant by literature as an art, without some conception of what
constitutes art in general. Broadly speaking, art exists in consequence
of the universal human desire for sympathy. Man is forever endeavoring
to break down the wall which separates him from his fellows. Whether we
call it egotism or simply humanity, we all know the wish to make others
appreciate our feelings; to show them how we suffer, how we enjoy. We
batter our fellow-men with our opinions sufficiently often, but this is
as nothing to the insistence with which we pour out to them our
feelings. A friend is the most valued of earthly possessions largely
because he is willing to receive without appearance of impatience the
unending story of our mental sensations. We are all of us more or less
conscious of the constant impulse which urges us on to expression; of
the inner necessity which moves us to continual endeavors to make others
share our thoughts, our experiences, but most of all our emotions. It
seems to me that if we trace this instinctive desire back far enough, we
reach the beginnings of art.
It may seem that the splendidly immeasurable achievements of poetry and
painting, of architecture, of music and sculpture, are far enough from
this primal impulse; but I believe that in it is to be found their germ.
Art began with the first embodiment of human feelings by permanent
means. Let us suppose, by way of illustration, some prehistoric man,
thrilled with awe and terror at sight of a mastodon, and scratching upon
a bone rude lines in the shape of the animal,--not only to give
information, not only to show what the beast was like, but also to
convey to his fellows his feelings when confronted with the monster. It
is as if he said: "See! I cannot put into words what I felt; but look!
the creature was like this. Think how you would feel if you came face to
face with it. Then you will know how I felt." Something of this sort may
the beginnings of art be conceived to have been.
I do not mean, of course, that the prehistoric man who made such a
picture--and such a picture exists--analyzed his motives. He felt a
thing which he could not say in words; he instinctively turned to
pictorial representation,--and graphic art was born.
The birth of poetry was probably not entirely dissimilar. Barbaric men,
exulting in the wild delight of victory, may seem unlikely sponsors for
the infant muse, and yet it is with them that song began. The savage joy
of the conquerors, too great for word, found vent at first in excited,
bounding leaps and uncouthly ferocious gestures, by repetition growing
into rhythm; then broke into inarticulate sounds which timed the
movements, until these in turn gave place to words, gradually moulded
into rude verse by the measures of the dance. The need of expressing the
feelings which swell inwardly, the desire of sharing with others, of
putting into tangible form, the emotions that thrill the soul is common
to all human beings; and it is from this that arises the thing which we
call art.
The essence of art, then, is the expression of emotion; and it follows
that any book to be a work of art must embody sincere emotion. Not all
works which spring from genuine feeling succeed in embodying or
conveying it. The writer must be sufficiently master of technique to be
able to make words impart what he would express. The emotion phrased
must moreover be general and in some degree typical. Man is interested
and concerned in the emotions of men only in so far as these throw light
on the nature and possibilities of life. Art must therefore deal with
what is typical in the sense that it touches the possibilities of all
human nature. If it concerns itself with much that only the few can or
may experience objectively, it has to do with that only which all human
beings may be conceived of as sharing subjectively. Literature may be
broadly defined as the adequate expression of genuine and typical
emotion. The definition may seem clumsy, and hardly exact enough to be
allowed in theoretical aesthetics; but it seems to me sufficiently
accurate to serve our present purpose. Certainly the essentials of
literature are the adequate embodiment of sincere and general feeling.
By sincerity here we mean that which is not conventional, which is not
theoretical, not artificial; that which springs from a desire honestly
to impart to others exactly the emotion that has been actually felt. By
the term "emotion" or "feeling" we mean those inner sensations of
pleasure, excitement, pain, or passion, which are distinguished from the
merely intellectual processes of the mind,--from thought, perception,
and reason. It is not necessary to trespass just now on the domain of
the psychologist by an endeavor to establish scientific distinctions.
We are all able to appreciate the difference between what we think and
what we feel, between those things which touch the intellect and those
which affect the emotional nature. We see a sentence written on paper,
and are intellectually aware of it; but unless it has for us some
especial message, unless it concerns us personally, we are not moved by
it. Most impressions which we receive touch our understanding without
arousing our feelings. This is all so evident that there is not likely
to arise in your minds any confusion in regard to the meaning of the
phrase "genuine emotion."
Whatever be the origin of this emotion it must be essentially
impersonal, and it is generally so in form. There are comparatively few
works of art which are confessedly the record of simple, direct,
personal experience; and perhaps none of these stand in the front rank
of literature. Of course I am not speaking of literature which takes a
personal form, like any book written in the first person; but of those
that are avowedly a record of actual life. We must certainly include in
literature works like the "Reflections" of Marcus Aurelius, the
"Confessions" of Augustine, and--though the cry is far--Rousseau, and
the "Journal Intime" of Amiel, but there is no one of these which is to
be ranked high in the scale of the world's greatest books. Even in
poetry the same thing is true. However we may admire "In Memoriam" and
that much greater poem, Mrs. Browning's "Sonnets from the Portuguese,"
we are little likely to regard them as standing supremely high among
the masterpieces. The "Sonnets" of Shakespeare which we suppose to be
personal are yet with supreme art made so impersonal that as far as the
reader is concerned the experiences which they record might be entirely
imaginary. It is in proportion as a poet is able to give this quality
which might be called generalization to his work that it becomes art.
The reason of this is not far to seek. If the emotion is professedly
personal it appeals less strongly to mankind, and it is moreover likely
to interfere with its own effective embodiment. All emotion in
literature must be purely imaginative as far as its expression in words
is concerned. Of course poetical form may be so thoroughly mastered as
to become almost instinctive, but nevertheless acute personal feeling
must trammel utterance. It is not that the author does not live through
what he sets forth. It is that the artistic moment is not the moment of
experience, but that of imaginative remembrance. The "Sonnets from the
Portuguese" afford admirable examples of what I mean. It is well known
that these relate a most completely personal and individual story. Not
only the sentiments but the circumstances set forth were those of the
poet's intimate actual life. It was the passion of love and of
self-renunciation in her own heart which broke forth in the fine
sonnet:--
Go from me, yet I feel that I shall stand
Henceforward in thy shadow. Nevermore
Alone upon the threshold of the door
Of individual life shall I command
The uses of my soul; or lift my hand
Serenely in the sunshine as before
Without the sense of that which I forebore,--
Thy touch upon the palm. The widest land
Doom takes to part us, leaves thy heart in mine
With pulses that beat double. What I do
And what I dream include thee, as the wine
Must taste of its own grapes: and when I sue
God for myself, He hears that name of thine,
And sees within my eyes the tears of two.
There came to Mrs. Browning a poignant moment when she realized with a
thrill of anguish what it would mean to her to live out her life alone,
separated forever from the lover who had won her back from the very
grasp of death. It was not in the pang of that throe that she made of it
a sonnet; but afterward, while it was still felt, it is true, but felt
rather as a memory vividly reproduced by the imagination. In so far both
he who writes impersonally and he who writes personally are dealing with
that which at the instant exists in the imagination. In the latter,
however, there is still the remembrance of the actuality, the vibration
of the joy or sorrow of which that imagining is born. Human
self-consciousness intrudes itself whenever one is avowedly writing of
self; sometimes even vanity plays an important part. From these and
other causes it results that, whatever may be the exceptions, the
highest work is that which phrases the general and the impersonal with
no direct reference to self. Personal feeling lies behind all art, and
no work can be great which does not rest on a basis of experience, more
or less remotely; yet the greatest artist is he who embodies emotion,
not in terms of his own life, but in those which make it equally the
property of all mankind. It is feeling no longer egotistic, but broadly
human. If the simile do not seem too homely, we might say that the
difference is that between arithmetic and algebra. In the one case it is
the working out of a particular problem; in the other of an equation
which is universal.
Mankind tests art by universal experience. If an author has really felt
what he has written, if what he sets down has been actual to him in
imagination, whether actual in experience or not, readers recognize
this, and receive his work, so that it lives. If he has affected a
feeling, if he has shammed emotion, the whole is sure to ring false, and
the world soon tires of his writings. Immediate popular judgment of a
book is pretty generally wrong; ultimate general estimate is invariably
correct. Humanity knows the truth of human feeling; and while it may be
fooled for a time, it comes to the truth at last, in act if not in
theory. The general public is guided by the wise few, and it does not
reason out the difference between the genuine and the imitation; but it
will in the end save the real, while the sham is forgotten through utter
neglect.
Even where an author has seemingly persuaded himself that his pretended
emotions are real, he cannot permanently deceive the world. You may
remember the chapter in Aldrich's delightful "Story of a Bad Boy" which
relates how Tom Bailey, being crossed in love at the mature age of
fourteen, deliberately became a "blighted being;" how he neglected his
hair, avoided his playmates, made a point of having a poor appetite, and
went mooning about forsaken graveyards, endeavoring to fix his thoughts
upon death and self-destruction; how entirely the whole matter was a
humbug, and yet how sincere the boy was in supposing himself to be
unutterably melancholy. "It was a great comfort," he says, "to be so
perfectly miserable and yet not to suffer any. I used to look in the
glass and gloat over the amount and variety of mournful expression I
could throw into my features. If I caught myself smiling at anything, I
cut the smile short with a sigh. The oddest thing about all this is, I
never once suspected that I was not unhappy. No one... was more
deceived than I." We have all of us had experiences of this kind, and I
fancy that there are few writers who cannot look back to a stage in
their career when they thought that it was a prime essential of
authorship to believe themselves to feel things which they did not feel
in the least. This sort of self-deception is characteristic of a whole
school of writers, of whom Byron was in his day a typical example. There
is no doubt that Byron, greatly gifted as he was, took his mooning
melancholy with monstrous seriousness when he began to write it, and the
public received it with equal gravity. Yet Byron's mysterious misery,
his immeasurable wickedness, his misanthropy too great for words, were
mere affectations,--stage tricks which appealed to the gallery. Nobody
is moved by them now. The fact that the poet himself thought that he
believed in them could not save them. Byron had other and nobler
qualities which make his best work endure, but it is in spite of his
Bad-Boy-ish pose as a "blighted being." The fact is that sooner or later
time tries all art by the tests of truth and common sense, and nothing
which is not genuine is able to endure this proving.
To be literature a work must express sincere emotion; but how is feeling
which is genuine to be distinguished from that which is affected? All
that has been said must be regarded as simply theoretical and of very
little practical interest unless there be some criterion by which this
question may be settled. Manifestly we cannot so far enter into the
consciousness of the writer as to tell whether he does or does not feel
what he expresses; it can be only from outward signs that we judge
whether his imagination has first made real to him what he undertakes to
make real for others.
Something may be judged by the amount of seriousness with which a thing
is written. The air of sincerity which is inevitable in the genuine is
most difficult to counterfeit. What a man really feels he writes with a
certain earnestness which may seem indefinite, but which is sufficiently
tangible in its effects upon the reader. More than by any other single
influence mankind has in all its history been more affected by the
contagion of belief; and it is not easy to exaggerate the
susceptibility of humanity to this force. Vague and elusive as this test
of the genuineness of emotion might seem, it is in reality capable of
much practical application. We have no trouble in deciding that the
conventional rhymes which fill the corners of the newspapers are not the
product of genuine inner stress. We are too well acquainted with these
time-draggled rhymes of "love" and "dove," of "darts" and "hearts," of
"woe" and "throe;" we have encountered too often these pretty, petty
fancies, these twilight musings and midnight moans, this mild melancholy
and maudlin sentimentality. We have only to read these trig little
bunches of verse, tied up, as it were, with sad- ribbons, to feel
their artificiality. On the other hand, it is impossible to read "Helen
of Kirconnel," or Browning's "Prospice," or Wordsworth's poems to Lucy,
without being sure that the poet meant that which he said in his song
with all the fervor of heart and imagination. A reader need not be very
critical to feel that the novels of the "Duchess" and her tribe are made
by a process as mechanical as that of making paper flowers; he will not
be able to advance far in literary judgment without coming to suspect
that fiction like the pleasant pot-boilers of William Black and W. Clark
Russell, if hand-made, is yet manufactured according to an arbitrary
pattern; but what reader can fail to feel that to Hawthorne "The Scarlet
Letter" was utterly true, that to Thackeray Colonel Newcome was a
creature warm with human blood and alive with a vigorous humanity?
Theoretically we may doubt our power to judge of the sincerity of an
author, but we do not find this so impossible practically.
Critics sometimes say of a book that it is or is not "convincing." What
they mean is that the author has or has not been able to make what he
has written seem true to the imagination of the reader. The man who in
daily life attempts to act a part is pretty sure sooner or later to
betray himself to the observant eye. His real self will shape the
disguise under which he has hidden it; he may hold out the hands and say
the words of Esau, but the voice with which he speaks will perforce be
the voice of Jacob. It is so in literature, and especially in literature
which arouses the perceptions by an appeal to the imagination. The
writer must be in earnest himself or he cannot convince the reader. To
the man who invents a fiction, for instance, the story which he has
devised must in his imagination be profoundly true or it will not be
true to the audience which he addresses. To the novelist who is
"convincing," his characters are as real as the men he meets in his
walks or sits beside at table. It is for this reason that every novelist
with imagination is likely to find that the fictitious personages of his
story seem to act independently of the will of the author. They are so
real that they must follow out the laws of their character, although
that character exists only in imagination. For the author to feel this
verity in what he writes is of course not all that is needed to enable
him to convince his public; but it is certain that he is helpless
without it, and that he cannot make real to others what is not real to
himself.
In emotion we express the difference between the genuine and the
counterfeit by the words "sentiment" and "sentimentality." Sentiment is
what a man really feels; sentimentality is what he persuades himself
that he feels. The Bad Boy as a "blighted being" is the type of
sentimentalists for all time. There is about the same relation between
sentimentality and sentiment that there is between a paper doll and the
lovely girl that it represents. There are fashions in emotions as there
are fashions in bonnets; and foolish mortals are as prone to follow one
as another. It is no more difficult for persons of a certain quality of
mind to persuade themselves that they thrill with what they conceive to
be the proper emotion than it is for a woman to convince herself of the
especial fitness to her face of the latest device in utterly unbecoming
headgear. Our grandmothers felt that proper maidenly sensibility
required them to be so deeply moved by tales of broken hearts and
unrequited affection that they must escape from the too poignant anguish
by fainting into the arms of the nearest man. Their grandchildren to-day
are neither more nor less sincere, neither less nor more sensible in
following to extremes other emotional modes which it might be invidious
to specify. Sentimentality will not cease while the power of
self-deception remains to human beings.
With sentimentality genuine literature has no more to do than it has
with other human weaknesses and vices, which it may picture but must not
share. With sentiment it is concerned in every line. Of sentiment no
composition can have too much; of sentimentality it has more than enough
if there be but the trace shown in a single affectation of phrase, in
one unmeaning syllable or unnecessary accent.
There are other tests of the genuineness of the emotion expressed in
literature which are more tangible than those just given; and being more
tangible they are more easily applied. I have said that sham sentiment
is sure to ring false. This is largely due to the fact that it is
inevitably inconsistent. Just as a man has no difficulty in acting out
his own character, whereas in any part that is assumed there are sure
sooner or later to be lapses and incongruities, so genuine emotion will
be consistent because it is real, while that which is feigned will
almost surely jar upon itself. The fictitious personage that the
novelist actually shapes in his imagination, that is more real to him
than if it stood by his side in solid flesh, must be consistent with
itself because it is in the mind of its creator a living entity. It may
not to the reader seem winning or even human, but it will be a unit in
its conception and its expression, a complete and consistent whole. The
poem which comes molten from the furnace of the imagination will be a
single thing, not a collection of verses more or less ingeniously
dovetailed together. The work which has been felt as a whole, which has
been grasped as a whole, which has as a whole been lived by that inner
self which is the only true producer of art, will be so consistent, so
unified, so closely knit, that the reader cannot conceive of it as being
built up of fortuitous parts, or as existing at all except in the
beautiful completeness which genius has given it.
What I mean may perhaps be more clear to you if you take any of the
little tinkling rhymes which abound, and examine them critically. Even
some of more merit easily afford example. Take that pleasant rhyme so
popular in the youth of our fathers, "The Old Oaken Bucket," and see how
one stanza or another might be lost without being missed, how one
thought or another has obviously been put in for the rhyme or to fill
out the verse, and how the author seems throughout always to have been
obliged to consider what he might say next, putting his work together as
a joiner matches boards for a table-top. Contrast this with the absolute
unity of Wordsworth's "Daffodils," Keats' "Ode on a Grecian Urn,"
Shelley's "Stanzas Written in Dejection," or any really great lyric. You
will perceive the difference better than any one can say it. It is true
that the quality of which we are speaking is sufficiently subtile to
make examples unsatisfactory and perhaps even dangerous; but it seems to
me that it is not too much to say that any careful and intelligent
reader will find little difficulty in feeling the unity of the
masterpieces of literature.
This lack of consistency is most easily appreciated, perhaps, in the
drawing of character. Those modern writers who look upon literature as
having two functions, first, to advance extravagant theories, and
second,--and more important,--to advertise the author, are constantly
putting forward personages that are so inconsistent that it is
impossible not to see that they are mere embodied arguments or
sensationalism incarnate, and not in the least creatures of a strong and
wholesome imagination. When in "The Doll's House" Ibsen makes Nora Helma
an inconsequent, frivolous, childish puppet, destitute alike of moral
and of common sense, and then in the twinkling of an eye transforms her
into an indignant woman, full of moral purpose, furnished not only with
a complete set of advanced views but with an entire battery of modern
arguments with which to support them,--when, in a word, the author, for
the sake of his theory, works a visible miracle, we cease to believe in
his imaginative sincerity. We know that he is dogmatizing, not creating;
that this is artifice, not art.
Another test of the genuineness of what is expressed in literature is
its truth to life. Here again we tread upon ground somewhat uncertain,
since truth is as elusive as a sunbeam, and to no two human beings the
same. Yet while the meaning of life is not the same to any two who walk
under the heavens, there are certain broad principles which all men
recognize. The eternal facts of life and of death, of love and of hate,
the instinct of self-preservation, the fear of pain, the respect for
courage, and the enthrallment of passion,--these are laws of humanity
so universal that we assume them to be known to all mankind. We cannot
believe that any mortal can find that true to his imagination which
ignores these unvarying conditions of human existence. He who writes
what | 3,429.849489 |
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THE WALKING DELEGATE
[Illustration: THE WALKING DELEGATE]
The
Walking Delegate
By
Leroy Scott
_With Frontispiece_
New York
Doubleday, Page & Company
1905
Copyright, 1905, by
Doubleday, Page & Company
Published May, 1905
_All rights reserved, including that of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian_
To My Wife
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. ON THE ST. ETIENNE HOTEL 3
II. THE WALKING DELEGATE 14
III. THE RISE OF BUCK FOLEY 30
IV. A COUNCIL OF WAR 9
V. TOM SEEKS HELP FROM THE ENEMY 50
VI. IN WHICH FOLEY PLAYS WITH TWO MICE 59
VII. GETTING THE MEN IN LINE 72
VIII. THE COWARD 85
IX. RUTH ARNOLD 98
X. LAST DAYS OF THE CAMPAIGN 111
XI. IN FOLEY'S "OFFICE" 120
XII. THE ELECTION 129
XIII. THE DAY AFTER 145
XIV. NEW COURAGE AND NEW PLANS 153
XV. MR. BAXTER HAS A FEW CONFERENCES 166
XVI. BLOWS 177
XVII. THE ENTERTAINMENT COMMITTEE 187
XVIII. THE STOLEN STRIKE 203
XIX. FOLEY TASTES REVENGE 210
XX. TOM HAS A CALLER 224
XXI. WHAT MIGHT HAVE BEEN 236
XXII. THE PROGRESS OF THE STRIKE 250
XXIII. THE TRIUMPH OF BUSINESS SENSE 257
XXIV. BUSINESS IS BUSINESS 267
XXV. IN WHICH FOLEY BOWS TO DEFEAT 279
XXVI. PETERSEN'S SIN 290
XXVII. THE THOUSANDTH CHANCE 304
XXVIII. THE EXPOSURE 313
XXIX. IN WHICH MR. BAXTER SHOWS HIMSELF A MAN OF RESOURCES 331
XXX. THE LAST OF BUCK FOLEY 338
XXXI. TOM'S LEVEE 348
XXXII. THE THORN OF THE ROSE 364
LIST OF CHARACTERS
BUCK FOLEY, a walking delegate.
TOM KEATING, a foreman.
MAGGIE KEATING, his wife.
MR. BAXTER, President of Iron Employers' Ass'n.
MRS. BAXTER.
MR. DRISCOLL, a contractor.
RUTH ARNOLD, his secretary.
MR. BERMAN, junior partner of Mr. Driscoll.
MR. MURPHY, a contractor.
MR. BOBBS, a contractor.
MR. ISAACS, a contractor.
CONNELLY, Secretary of Iron Workers' Union.
NELS PETERSEN, a "scab."
ANNA PETERSEN, his wife.
PIG IRON PETE, a workman
JOHNSON, a workman.
BARRY, a workman.
MRS. BARRY.
JAKE HENDERSON }
ARKANSAS NUMBER TWO } Members of
KAFFIR BILL } "The Entertainment
SMOKEY } Committee."
HICKEY }
THE WALKING DELEGATE
Chapter I
ON THE ST. ETIENNE HOTEL
The St. Etienne Hotel would some day be as bulky and as garishly
magnificent as four million dollars could make it. Now it was only a
steel framework rearing itself into the center of the overhead
grayness--a black pier supporting the grimy arch of heaven.
Up on its loosely-planked twenty-first story stood Mr. Driscoll,
watching his men at work. A raw February wind scraped slowly under the
dirty clouds, which soiled the whole sky, and with a leisurely content
thrust itself into his office-tendered flesh. He shivered, and at times,
to throw off the chill, he paced across the pine boards, carefully going
around the gaps his men were wont to leap. And now and then his eyes
wandered from his lofty platform. On his right, below, there were roofs;
beyond, a dull bar of water; beyond, more roofs: on his left there were
roofs; a dull bar of water; more roofs: and all around the jagged
wilderness of house-tops reached away and away till it faded into the
complete envelopment of a smudgy haze. Once Mr. Driscoll caught hold of
the head of a column and leaned out above the street; over its dizzy
bottom erratically shifted dark specks--hats. He drew back with a
shiver with which the February wind had nothing to do.
It was a principle with Mr. Driscoll, of Driscoll & Co., contractors for
steel bridges and steel frames of buildings, that you should not show
approval of your workmen's work. "Give 'em a smile and they'll do ten
per cent. less and ask ten per cent. more." So as he now watched his
men, one hand in his overcoat pocket, one on his soft felt hat, he did
not smile. It was singularly easy for him not to smile. Balanced on his
short, round body he had a round head with a rim of reddish-gray hair,
and with a purplish face that had protruding lips which sagged at each
corner, and protruding eyes whose lids blinked so sharply you seemed to
hear their click. So much nature had done to help him adhere to his
principle. And he, in turn, had added to his natural endowment by
growing mutton-chops. Long ago someone had probably expressed to him a
detestation of side-whiskers, and he of course had begun forthwith to
shave only his chin.
His men were setting twenty-five foot steel columns into place,--the
gang his eyes were now on, moving actively about a great crane, and the
gang about the great crane at the building's other end. Their coats were
buttoned to their chins to keep out the February wind; their hands were
in big, shiny gloves; their blue and brown overalls, from the handling
of painted iron, had the surface and polish of leather. They were all in
the freshness of their manhood--lean, and keen, and full of
spirit--vividly fit. Their work explained their fitness; it was a
natural civil service examination that barred all but the active and the
daring.
And yet, though he did not smile, Mr. Driscoll was cuddled by
satisfaction as he stood on the great platform just under the sky and
watched the brown men at work. He had had a deal of trouble during the
past three years--accidents, poor workmen, delays due to strikes over
inconsequential matters--all of which had severely taxed his profits and
his profanity. So the smoothness | 3,429.851922 |
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E-text prepared by Carlo Traverso, Eric Casteleijn, and Project Gutenberg
Distributed Proofreaders. This file was produced from images generously
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http://gallica.bnf.fr.
[Transcriber's note: The spelling peculiarities of the original have been
retained in this etext.]
THAUMATURGIA,
OR
ELUCIDATIONS OF THE MARVELLOUS.
BY
AN OXONIAN.
1835
"Bombastes kept the devil's bird,
Shut in the pommel of his sword,
And taught him all the cunning pranks,
Of past and future mountebanks."
_Hudibras_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Demonology--The Devil, a most unaccountable personage--Who is he?--His
predilection for old women--Traditions concerning evil spirits &c.
CHAPTER II.
Magic and Magical rites.
Jewish magi.
CHAPTER III.
On the several kinds of magic.
Augury, or divinations drawn from the flight and feeding of birds.
Aruspices, or divinations drawn from brute or human sacrifices.
Divisions of divination by the ancients--prodigies, etc.
CHAPTER IV.
History of Oracles--The principal oracles of antiquity.
The oracle of Jupiter Hammon. The oracle of Delphos, or Pythian Apollo.
Ceremonies practised on consulting oracles.
Oracles often equivocal and obscure.
Urim and Thummim.
Reputation of oracles, how lost.
Cessation of oracles.
Had demons any share in the oracles?
Of oracles, the artifices of priests of false divinities.
CHAPTER V.
The British Druids, or magi--Origin of fairies--Ancient
superstitions--Their skill in medicine, etc.
The British magi.
CHAPTER VI.
Aesculapian mysteries, etc.
CHAPTER VII.
Inferior deities attending mankind from their birth to their decease.
CHAPTER VIII.
Judicial astrology--Its chemical application to the prolongation of life
and health--Alchymical delusions.
CHAPTER IX
Alchymical and astrological chimera.
The Horoscope, a tale of the stars.
The Fated Parricide; an oriental tale of the stars.
Application of astrology to the prolongation of life, etc.
Advertisement.
Spring. \
Summer. |_ influences of,
Autumn. |
the winter quarter. /
CHAPTER X.
Oneirocritical presentiment, illustrating the cause, effects, principal
phenomena, and definition of dreams, etc.
Cause of Dreams.
Poetical illustrations of the effects of the imagination in dreams.
Principal phenomena in dreaming.
Definition of dreams.
CHAPTER XI.
On Incubation, or the art of healing by visionary divination.
CHAPTER XII.
On amulets, charms, talismans--Philters, their origin and imaginary
efficacy, etc.
Amulets used by the common people.
Eccentricities, caprices, and effects, of the imagination.
Doctrine of Effluvia--Miraculous cures by means of charms, amulets, etc.
CHAPTER XIII.
On talismans--some curious natural ones, etc.
CHAPTER XIV.
On the medicinal powers attributed to music by the ancients.
CHAPTER XV.
Presages, prodigies, presentiments, etc.
CHAPTER XVI.
Phenomena of meteors, optic delusions, spectra, etc.
CHAPTER XVII.
Elucidation of some ancient prodigies.
Magical pretensions of certain herbs, etc.
CHAPTER XVIII.
The practice of Obeah, or <DW64> witchcraft--charms--their knowledge of
vegetable poison--secret poisoning.
CHAPTER XIX.
On the origin and superstitious influence of rings.
CHAPTER XX.
Celestial influences--omens--climacterics--predominations.--Lucky and
unlucky days.--Empirics, etc.
Absurdities of Paracelsus, and Van Helmont.
CHAPTER XXI.
Modern empiricism.
CHAPTER XXII.
The Rosicrucians or Theosophists.
THAUMATURGIA,
OR
ELUCIDATIONS OF THE MARVELLOUS.
CHAPTER I.
DEMONOLOGY--THE DEVIL, A MOST UNACCOUNTABLE PERSONAGE--WHO IS HE?--HIS
PREDILECTION FOR OLD WOMEN--TRADITIONS CONCERNING EVIL SPIRITS, &C.
Children and old women have been accustomed to hear so many frightful
things of the cloven-footed potentate, and have formed such diabolical
ideas of his satanic majesty, exhibiting him in so many horrible and
monstrous shapes, that really it were enough to frighten Beelzebub
himself, were he by any accident to meet his prototype in the dark,
dressed up in the several figures in which imagination has embodied him.
And as regards men themselves, it might be presumed that the devil could
not by any means terrify them half so much, were they actually to meet
and converse with him face to face: so true it is that his satanic
majesty is not near so black as he is painted.
However useful the undertaking might prove, to give a true history of
this "tyrant of the air," this "God of the world," this "terror and
overseer of mankind," it is not our intention to become the devil's
biographer, notwithstanding the facility with which the materials might
be collected. Of the devil's origin, and the first rise of his family,
we have sufficient authority on record; and, as regards his dealings, he
has certainly always acted in the dark; though many of his doings both
moral, political, ecclesiastical, and empirical, have left such strong
impressions behind them, as to mark their importance in some
transactions, even at the present period of the christian world. These
discussions, however, we shall leave in the hands of their respective
champions, in order to take, as we proceed, a cursory view of some of
the _diableries_ with which mankind, in imitation of this great master,
has been infected, from the first ages of the world.
The Greeks, and after them the Romans, conferred the appellation of
Demon upon certain _genii_, or spirits, who made themselves visible to
men with the intention of either serving them as friends, or doing them
an injury as enemies. The followers of Plato distinguished between their
gods--or _Dei Majorum Gentium_; their demons, or those beings which were
not dissimilar in their general character to the good and bad angels of
Christian belief,--and their heroes. The Jews and the early christians
restricted the name of Demon to beings of a malignant nature, or to
devils properly so called; and it is to the early notions entertained by
this people, that the outlines of later systems of demonology are to be
traced.
It is a question, we believe, not yet set at rest by the learned in
these sort of matters, whether the word _devil_ be singular or plural,
that is to say, whether it be the name of a personage so called,
standing by himself, or a noun of multitude. If it be singular, and used
only personal as a proper name, it consequently implies one imperial
devil, monarch or king of the whole clan of hell, justly distinguished
by the term DEVIL, or as our northern neighbours call him "the muckle
horned deil," and poetically, after Burns "auld Clootie, Nick, or
Hornie," or, according to others, in a broader set form of speech, "the
devil in hell," that is, the "devil of a devil," or in scriptural
phraseology, the "great red dragon," the "Devil or Satan." But we shall
not cavil on this mighty potentate's name; much less dispute his
identity, notwithstanding the doubt that has been broached, whether the
said devil be a real or an imaginary personage, in the shape, form, and
with the faculties that have been so miraculously ascribed to him; for
If it should so fall out, as who can tell,
But there may be a God, a heav'n and hell?
Mankind had best consider well,--for fear
It be too late when their mistakes appear.
The devil has always, it would seem, been particularly partial to old
women; the most ugly and hideous of whom he has invariably selected to
do his bidding. Mother Shipton, for instance, our famous old English
witch, of whom so many funny stories are still told, is evidently very
much wronged in her picture, if she was not of the most terrible aspect
imaginable; and, if it be true, Merlin, the famous Welch fortune-teller,
was a most frightful figure. If we credit another story, he was begotten
by "_old nick_" himself. To return, however, to the devil's agents being
so infernally ugly, it need merely be remarked, that from time
immemorial, he has invariably preferred such _rational_ creatures as
most belied the "human form divine."
The sybils, of whom so many strange prophetic things are recorded, are
all, if the Italian poets are to be credited, represented as very old
women; and as if ugliness were the _ne plus ultra_ of beauty in old age,
they have given them all the hideousness of the devil himself. It will
be seen, despite of all that has been said to the disadvantage of the
devil, that he has very much improved in his management of worldly
affairs; so much so, that, instead of an administration of witches,
wizzards, magicians, diviners, astrologers, quack doctors, pettifogging
lawyers, and boroughmongers, he has selected some of the wisest men as
well as greatest fools of the day to carry his plans into effect. His
satanic majesty seems also to have considerably improved in his taste;
owing, no doubt, to the present improving state of society, and the
universal diffusion of useful knowledge. Indeed, we no longer hear of
cloven-footed devils, only in a metaphorical sense--fire and brimstone
are extinct or nearly so; the embers of hell and eternal damnation are
chiefly kept alive and blown up by ultras among the sectaries who are
invariably the promoters of religious fanaticism. Beauty, wit, address,
with the less shackled in mind, have superseded all that was frightful,
and terrible, odious, ugly, and deformed. This subject is poetically and
more beautifully illustrated in the following demonological stanzas,
which are so appropriate to the occasion, that we cannot resist quoting
them as a further prelude to our subjects:
When the devil for weighty despatches
Wanted messengers cunning and bold,
He pass'd by the beautiful faces
And picked out the ugly and old.
Of these he made warlocks and witches
To run of his errands by night,
Till the over-wrought hag-ridden wretches
Were as fit as the devil to fright.
But whoever has been his adviser,
As his kingdom increases in growth,
He now takes his measures much wiser,
And trafics with beauty and youth.
Disguis'd in the wanton and witty,
He haunts both the church and the court;
And sometimes he visits the city,
Where all the best christians resort.
Thus dress'd up in full masquerade,
He the bolder can range up and | 3,429.852189 |
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SARAH BERNHARDT
[Illustration: Mme. Sarah Bernhardt.]
SARAH BERNHARDT
BY
JULES HURET
WITH A PREFACE BY
EDMOND ROSTAND
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY
G. A. RAPER
_WITH FIFTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS_
LONDON
CHAPMAN & HALL, LTD.
1899
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED,
LONDON & BUNGAY.
PREFACE
MY DEAR HURET,
You have given me an attack of vertigo. I have been reading your
biography of our illustrious friend. Its rapid, nervous style, its
accumulation of dates and facts, its hurried rush of scenery and events
flying past as though seen from an express train, all help to attain
what I imagine must have been your object--to give the reader vertigo.
I have got it.
I knew all these things, but I had forgotten them. They are so many
that no one even attempts to reckon them up. We are accustomed to
admire Sarah. “An extraordinary woman,” we say, without at all
realizing how true the remark is. And when we find ourselves suddenly
confronted with an epic narrative such as yours; with such a series of
battles and victories, expeditions and conquests, we stand amazed.
We expected that there was more to tell than we knew, but not quite
so much more! Yes, here is something we had quite forgotten, and here
again is something more! All the early struggles and difficulties and
unfair opposition! All the adventures and freaks of fancy! Twenty
triumphs and ten escapades on a page! You cannot turn the leaves
without awakening an echo of fame. Your brain reels. There is | 3,429.852988 |
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[Illustration:
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.
F.S.A. SCOT.
VOL. III.
ABBOTSFORD
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO THE QUEEN.]
* * * * *
[Illustration:
Allan Cunningham.
Lithographed for the Modern Scottish Minstrel, by Schenck & McFarlane.]
* * * * *
THE
MODERN SCOTTISH MINSTREL;
OR,
THE SONGS OF SCOTLAND OF THE
PAST HALF CENTURY.
WITH
Memoirs of the Poets,
AND
SKETCHES AND SPECIMENS
IN ENGLISH VERSE OF THE MOST CELEBRATED
MODERN GAELIC BARDS.
BY
CHARLES ROGERS, LL.D.,
F.S.A. SCOT.
IN SIX VOLUMES.
VOL. III
EDINBURGH:
ADAM & CHARLES BLACK, NORTH BRIDGE,
BOOKSELLERS AND PUBLISHERS TO HER MAJESTY.
M.DCCC.LVI.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE AND COMPANY,
PAUL'S WORK.
TO
LIEUTENANT-COLONEL
SIR JAMES EDWARD ALEXANDER,
K.L.S., AND K.ST.J.,
A DISTINGUISHED TRAVELLER, A GALLANT OFFICER, AND
A PATRIOTIC SCOTSMAN,
THIS THIRD VOLUME
OF
The Modern Scottish Minstrel
IS DEDICATED,
WITH SENTIMENTS OF RESPECT AND GRATITUDE,
BY
HIS VERY OBEDIENT, FAITHFUL SERVANT,
CHARLES ROGERS.
SCOTTISH AND HELLENIC MINSTRELSY:
An Essay.
BY JAMES DONALDSON, A.M.
Men who compare themselves with their nearest neighbours are almost
invariably conceited, speak boastingly of themselves, and
disrespectfully of others. But if a man extend his survey, if he mingle
largely with people whose feelings and opinions have been modified by
quite different circumstances, the result is generally beneficial. The
very act of accommodating his mind to foreign modes of thought expands
his nature; and he becomes more liberal in his sentiments, more
charitable in his construction of deeds, and more capable of perceiving
real goodness under whatever shape it may present itself. So when a
Scotsman criticises Scotch poetry viewed by itself alone, he is apt to
be carried away by his patriotism,--he sees only the delightful side of
the subject, and he ventures on assertions which flatter himself and his
country at the expense of all other nations. If, however, we place the
productions of our own country side by side with those of another, the
excellences and the deficiencies of both are seen in stronger relief;
the contrasts strike the mind, and the heart is widened by sympathising
with goodness and beauty diversely conceived and diversely portrayed.
For this reason, we shall attempt a brief comparison of Hellenic and
Scottish songs.
Before we enter on our characterisation of these, we must glance at the
materials which we have to survey. Greek lyric poetry arose about the
beginning of the eighth century before the Christian era, and continued
in full bloom down to the time when it passed into drama on the Athenian
stage. The names of the poets are universally known, and have become,
indeed, almost part of our poetic language. Every one speaks of an
Anacreon, a Sappho, and a Pindar; and the names of Archilochus, Alcman,
Alcaeus, Stesichorus, Simonides, Ibycus, and Bacchylides, if not so often
used, are yet familiar to most. Few of these lyrists belonged to Greece
proper. They belonged to Greece only in the sense in which the Greeks
themselves used the word, as including all the colonies which had gone
forth from the motherland. Most of the early Greek song-writers dwelt in
Asia Minor--some were born in the islands of the Cyclades, and some in
Southern Italy; but all of them were proud of their Greek origin, all of
them were thorough Greeks in their hearts. It is only the later bards
who were born and brought up on the Greek mainland, and most of these
lived to see the day when almost all the lyric poets took their grandest
flights in the choral odes of their dramas. These odes, however, do not
fall within the province of our comparison. The lyrical efforts both of
AEschylus and Sophocles were inwoven with the structure of their plays,
the chorus in AEschylus being generally one of the actors; and they have
their modern representatives, not in the songs of the people, but in the
arias of operas. Setting these aside, we have few genuine efforts of
the Greek lyric muse belonging to the dramatic period--the most
important being several songs sung by the Greeks at their banquets,
which have fortunately been preserved. After this era, we have no lyric
poems of the Greeks worth mentioning. The verse-writers took henceforth
to epigrams--epigrams on everything on the face of the earth. These have
been collected into the "Greek Anthology;" but the greater part of them
are contemptible in a poetic point of view. They are interesting as
throwing light on the times; but they are weak and vapid as expressions
of the beatings of the human heart, and they are full of conceits.
Besides these, there are the Anacreontic odes, known to all Greek
scholars and to a great number of English, since they have been
frequently translated. With one or two exceptions, they were all written
between the third and twelfth centuries of the Christian era, though
some scholars have boldly asserted that they were forgeries even of a
later date. Most of them seem to be expansions of lines of Anacreon.
They are in general neat, pretty, and gaysome, but tame and insincere.
There is nothing like earnestness in them, nothing like genuine deep
feeling; but thus they are all the more suited for a certain class of
lovers and drinkers, who do not wish to be greatly moved by anything
under the sun.
Scotch lyric poetry may be said to commence with the lyrics attributed
to James I., or with those of Henryson. There is clear proof, indeed,
that long before this time the Scotch were much given to song-making and
song-singing; but of these early popular lilts, almost nothing remains.
Henryson's lyrics, however, belonged more to the class that were
intended to be read than to be sung, and this is true of a considerable
number of his successors, such as Dunbar, and Maitland of Lethington,
who were learned men, and wrote with a learned air, even when writing
for the people. The Reformation, as surely as it threw down every carved
stone, shut up the mouth of every profane songster. Wedderburne's "Haly
Ballats" may have been spared for a time by the iconoclasts, because
they had helped to build up their own temple; but they could not survive
long,--they were cast in a profane mould, they were sung to profane
tunes, and away they must go into oblivion. Our song-writers, for a long
time after, are unknown minstrels, who had no character to lose by
making or singing profane songs,--they were of the people, and sang for
them. So matters continued, until, at the commencement of the eighteenth
century, Scottish songs began to be the rage both in England and
Scotland, and an eager desire arose to gather up old snatches and
preserve them. Henceforth Scotch poetry held up its head, and a few
remarkable poets won their way into the hearts of large masses of the
people. At last appeared the emancipator of Scottish song in the form of
a ploughman, stirring the deepest feelings of all classes with songs
that may be justly styled the best of all national popular songs, and
for ever settling the claims of a song-writer to one of the highest
niches in the temple of Fame.
The first thing that strikes us, on dipping into a book of Greek songs,
and then a book of Scotch, is the different position of the poets. The
Greek poet was regarded as a kind of superior being--an interpreter
between gods and men; and, supposed to be under the special protection
of Divinity, he was highly honoured and reverenced wherever he went. The
Scotch bard, on the other hand, is a poor wanderer, whose name is
unknown, who received little respect, and whose knowledge of God and
| 3,429.949559 |
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FROM PARIS TO PEKIN OVER SIBERIAN SNOWS.
[Illustration: THE MONASTERY OF TROITSA.
[_Frontispiece._]
FROM PARIS TO PEKIN OVER SIBERIAN SNOWS.
A Narrative of a Journey by Sledge over the Snows of European
Russia and Siberia, by Caravan Through Mongolia,
Across the Gobi Desert and the Great Wall,
and by Mule Palanquin Through
China to Pekin.
by
VICTOR MEIGNAN,
Edited from the French by William Conn.
With supplementary notes not contained in the original edition.
[Illustration]
With a Map and Numerous Illustrations from
Sketches by the Author and Others.
London:
W. Swan Sonnenschein and Co.,
Paternoster Square.
1885.
Printed by Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Limited, London and Aylesbury.
PREFACE TO THE ENGLISH EDITION.
Embarrassed readers, who delight in books of travel, whether for the
recreation or the useful information they afford, are not relieved of
their difficulty when the title of the work, instead of indicating
the nature of the subject, only presents an enigma for them to solve.
How, for instance, is the reader to gauge the nature of the contents
of “Voyage en Zigzag?” It might mean the itinerary of some crooked
course among the Alps, or, perhaps, the log-book of a yacht chopping
about the Channel, or the record of anything but a straightforward
journey. Again, “By Land and Sea” might simply be the diary of a
holiday trip from London to Paris, or a _réchauffé_ of impressions of
a “globe-trotter,” who went to see what everybody talked about that
he also might talk about what he had seen. Then there are a host of
others, such as “Travels West,” “The Land of the North Wind”--which
one has to discover vaguely by ascertaining first where it does not
blow,--“Loin de Paris,” “Dans les Nuages,” “On Blue Water;” all of
which might be strictly applicable to the metropolitan area if the
water were only just a little bluer. But “Voyage Autour de ma Femme”
is still less intelligible. Is it a book of travel at all, or only
a romance, or a _comédie-vaudeville_? It may not be a _fantaisie_
like “Voyage Autour de ma Chambre,” nor even the record of a journey
necessarily performed within four walls, for--though I have not looked
at the book--it may be the narrative of an unsentimental journey, in
which the tourist had taken a holiday trip all around picturesque
Europe and his wife, leaving her at home; or it | 3,430.046811 |
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[Illustration: LIEUT.-COL. J. R. WILKINSON.
_Late Commanding 21st Fusiliers._]
CANADIAN BATTLEFIELDS
And Other Poems
BY
LIEUT.-COL. J. R. WILKINSON
PRINTED FOR THE AUTHOR BY
WILLIAM BRIGGS
TORONTO
1899
Entered according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year
one thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine, by JOHN RICHARDSON
WILKINSON, at the Department of Agriculture.
PREFACE.
In submitting “Canadian Battlefields and Other Poems” to a discerning
public, I realize it may be marred by many errors; the harp may not
always be in tune--some chords may jar upon the fastidious ear. Rhythm
and harmony may not always present that mysterious appeal to the soul
that approves, and proves the worth of all. Yet, withal, I feel that
some thoughts and emotions of patriotism, love of home, the song of
nature, the mystery of creation, and the impenetrable depths of
infinitude, may be found and approved.
The subtle voice of nature, the voices of love, home, and country, have
ever appealed to me, and impelled me to sing my humble song. And thus,
in doubt and uncertainty, I cast it out on the world--the reading,
critical public--asking that the pure, white veil of charity may conceal
its rough edges and inequalities.
Seek but to benefit thy fellowman;
Let smiles, not frowns, his rugged path assail;
Better with blinded eyes his faults to scan
Than let the sin of wrong and scorn prevail.
J. R. WILKINSON.
LEAMINGTON, 1899.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
What Shall I Sing? 9
Speak Now 12
The Battle of Chateauguay 14
The Deep Mines 16
Laura Secord; or, The Battle of the Beaver Dams 18
The Sea and the Soul 21
The Battle of Lundy’s Lane 22
My Wife 26
Niagara 28
The Ojibways 29
Wrecked 47
The Battle of Chrysler’s Farm 49
Summer Twilight 51
Canadian Homes 52
Think of Me 63
Dulac des Ormeaux; or, The Thermopylæ of Canada 64
Golden Hair 69
The Convict 70
The Battle of Lacolle Mills 72
The Nineteenth Century Maiden 74
Music 76
Waterloo 78
The Dove’s Song 95
Blinded Eyes 96
The Veterans’ Reunion 97
Discredited 100
The Battle of Stony Creek 102
Voices 104
Divided 106
The Hurons 107
On the Headland 117
Only a Vision 118
The World Wants a Smiling Face 120
The Voice of Tears 122
The Garden 123
The Battle of Queenston Heights 123
A Forest Dream 127
Woman 128
The Jesuit 129
Under the Stars 136
Unexplained 137
Life’s Highway 139
The Battle of Abraham’s Plains 153
Minnie Lee 158
The Soul 159
The Prodigal Son 160
Autumn Rain 161
The Battle of the Canard River 163
The Taking of Detroit 165
The Dandelion 166
The Death of Summer 168
“Big Mike Fox” 169
Winter Time 173
I Saw Her Face To-day 175
The Flight of Time--
Chapter I. The Creation 176
“ II. The Exodus 178
“ III. Belshazzar’s Feast 179
“ IV. The Star of Bethlehem 180
“ V. A Night in Old Rome 181
“ VI. The Gladiators 184
“ VII. The Fall of Imperial Rome 187
“ VIII. Antony and Cleopatra 188
“ IX. Retrospection 189
“ X. The Flight Through Space 192
“ XI. Mars 195
“ XII. Jupiter 197
“ XIII. Saturn 198
“ XIV. Uranus 200
“ XV. Neptune 201
“ XVI. The Constellations 202
“ XVII. Chaos 204
“ XVIII. Mother Earth 206
“ XIX. The Fate of Time 207
Lost and Won; or, Winter and Summer 209
Grandsire 210
Adversity 211
Fullmer’s Lane 213
Autumn Winds 215
The Battle of Batoche 216
Falling Leaves 222
The Sea 224
Only a Faded Leaf 226
Astray 227
A Spectre 229
A Reverie 230
In Memoriam 232
Only Dreams 234
The Battle of Cut Knife Hill 235
The Silent Voice 238
Forgotten 241
Inner Life 242
Spring-time 243
We Have Missed Thee 244
The Rescue 245
A Prayer 248
The Farewell 249
Farewell to Summer 250
Remembrance 252
The Worshippers 253
At Midnight 255
Change 256
Thoughts 257
Spring 259
Regret 260
In Memoriam 260
The Parting 261
To the Wanderer 263
Lula by the Sea 265
Tired 266
The Lost Flower 268
Drifting 268
Longing 269
The Last Song 270
The First Snow 271
Peace 273
Armageddon 274
Charity 292
CANADIAN BATTLEFIELDS
AND OTHER POEMS.
WHAT SHALL I SING?
What shall I sing, I prithee, O Muse?
For song burns my bosom to-day;
And it flows o’er me like a wave o’ the sea,
A dream-wrought, subtle melody.
Shall’t be of the wondrous present,
This scientific, restless age;
Or cull from the field the centuries yield
Rich gems from history’s page?
Shall it be of stern war and the cause
For which millions of men are slain,
And heroic days with glory ablaze,
Dear freedom and honor to gain?
Shall I sing of the stars of heaven
That forever their orbits keep--
Beautiful, serene stars of heaven,
Gemming the eternal deep?
Shall it be of the grand old ocean,
And its bright isles far away,
With life all free as th’ unbounded sea,
A subtle and golden day?
Shall I tell of the glory of sunset,
And the twilight soft on the lea,
The murmuring winds, through foliage and vines,
And the moon that silvers the sea?
Shall it be a lay of the seasons,
That fade like a dream away?
The spring so fair, and the perfumed air,
And the songsters that trill so gay?
And the summer robed in splendor,
Serene as a spirit dream,
Her throbs and sighs and cerulean skies
Would I make my soul’s bright theme?
Shall ’t be of the autumn’s fading,
And the winds that sob and sigh,
And the leaves of gold, drifting fold on fold,
And the flowers that droop and die;
The birds that trill us a last farewell,
Tenderly, sorrowfully sweet,
Saddening the heart, doomed ever to part,
And life’s work so incomplete?
Shall I tell of the white-robed winter
Sweeping down from icy zones,
And the frozen streams, and the pale, cold gleams,
And its desolate sobs and moans?
Ah! shall it be of home and mother,
And the years that have flown away,
And the loved of old, like a tale that’s told
From childhood’s dear happy day?
Shall ’t be of the innocent children,
Believing of such is heaven?
Their prattle and glee’s a joy unto me,
And care from the heart is driven.
Shall I sing of our lovèd country,
And these bright, fair homes of ours?
So happy and free from sea unto sea,
Guard well thy bulwarks and towers.
And the grand “Old Flag” floating o’er us,
Proudly ruling the boundless sea,
Ever unfurled, encircling the world,
Hath glory enough for me!
Shall I sing of man’s joys and sorrows?
Of woman’s undying love?
Of the ransomed that wait at the “pearly gate”
Of the “city of gold” above?
I would sing of all things beautiful,
The heroic and the true,
With a quenchless flame and a deathless fame
To brighten the whole world through.
A resurrection and a rising
To a grander, nobler life,
In brighter spheres, where the golden years
Exclude all of storm and strife.
SPEAK NOW.
Ah, me! the words unspoken
Might have saved a soul to-day--
And perhaps a heart was broken,
And made hopeless by the way.
If we poor blundering creatures
But in wisdom would speak now,
We should see more smiling features,
And less gloom on many a brow.
There would be far less of doubting,
And far less of weary pain;
If we ceased our cruel scouting;
We should wider friendship gain.
Many a way-worn wanderer
Would rejoice if he but knew
That absence maketh but fonder;
That our hearts are leal and true.
Why not speak the word of warning
When we know that danger’s nigh?
Why stand ye in idle scorning
Whilst the heedless ones pass by?
Why not help thy fallen brother
To regain his feet once more?
Do thy duty, let no other
For thy help in vain implore.
Why not spurn the demon slander
That hath slain so many hearts?
Should we listen e’en, or pander
Whilst he hurls his venomed darts?
Why not speak the words of kindness
To those whom we truly love?
Why should we in our dull blindness
Wait the summoning from above?
Why not do the deed that’s noble,
That life may the better be;
And thus scorning the ignoble,
Live in blameless purity?
Such are fearless when the battle
Rages on a blood-red field;
Fearing not the cannon’s rattle,
They but to grim death will yield.
Brave hearts like these have nobly died,
Fadeless crowns to such be given;
The good in heart, and purified
Shall wear more stars in heaven.
Rest not, nor sleep, be brave of soul,
Seek the lost to soothe and save;
For life is brief, so near the goal,
From our childhood to the grave.
THE BATTLE OF CHATEAUGUAY.
FOUGHT OCTOBER 26TH, 1813. AMERICAN FORCE, 3,500; BRITISH, 400.
Redly the October sun shone that day
O’er the golden landscape stretching away
To the Laurentian Hills, o’er vale and stream
As lovely as ever a poet’s dream.
O’er the land of the Maple Leaf so fair
Stole the wandering breeze, caressing there
With light, soft fingers, and murmuring low
Through the fading foliage, dying slow.
’Twas the peace of nature, touchingly grand,
Brooding over this fair Canadian land.
But another scene draws our thoughts away
To the far-famed field of the Chateauguay.
There beside it War’s trumpets fiercely blare;
And marshalling foemen are forming there!
The invader dares to pollute our soil;
But brave, true men will his purpose foil.
Noble de Salaberry, knowing no fear,
Dreads not the foe, who by thousands draw near.
Gallantly those Frenchmen stand by his side,
Sharpshooters, every one, true and tried;
And they coolly wait the oncoming foe,
And the river goes by in gentle flow.
“They come! they come! Voltigeurs, steady!
Aim low, aim low,--be calm now and ready;
Ye fight for your homes, and country so fair--
Yield not an inch, nor ever despair.”
Their rifles they raised, aimed steady and well,
Fired low, and hundreds before them fell!
The foe now open with thunderous roar;
Shot and shell from their guns they hotly pour.
Unflinching, the Voltigeurs firmly stand,
Though storm’d at by masses on every hand.
Swift volleys they hurl on the assaulting foe,
Sure and deadly by the river’s flow.
Checked in their advance by the Voltigeurs,
Who heroically the storm endure;
Patiently, though suffering loss and pain,
Their position they proudly, sternly maintain.
By sheer numbers being nearly surrounded,
Though the foe are stunned and confounded,
’Tis a critical time at Chateauguay.
Will de Salaberry in despair give way?
No! in sterner mould is the hero cast,
And will bar the way of the foe to the last.
Ah! a clever ruse he’s adopting now,
And a smile flits over his noble brow.
He extends his buglers widely in rear,
To sound the charge and lustily cheer.
’Twas a clever thought, and a master-stroke;
On the startled ear of the foe it broke,
And, frightened, they everywhere give way--
Lost is the field, and lost is the day.
Breaking into instant, headlong retreat,
From humiliating and sore defeat,
Over the border they swiftly fly,
And the “Red Cross Banner” still floats on high.
All hail, de Salaberry! hail, Voltigeurs!
Thy fame still lives, it forever endures;
Ye sternly barred there the foe that day,
By the far-famed stream of the Chateauguay.
And redly the October sun sank low,
Flooding the world with its crimsoning glow;
And the shadows fell on the golden scene
As beautiful as e’er a poet’s dream.
And the pale, dead faces were laid away
By the murmuring stream of the Chateauguay!
And white-winged peace hovered there once more
In the fading light by the river’s shore.
THE DEEP MINES.
Delve down in the deep mines, O restless man!
Wrest from the deep mines the red, red gold;
Seize the diamonds and the precious gems;
In the deep, vast mines lies wealth untold.
Win from the deep sea, from the uttermost sea,
The hoarded treasures of Neptune’s realm | 3,430.047036 |
2023-11-16 19:14:14.0311540 | 2,887 | 7 |
Produced by David Widger
JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY.
A MEMOIR, Complete
By Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr.
Volume I.
NOTE.
The Memoir here given to the public is based on a biographical sketch
prepared by the writer at the request of the Massachusetts Historical
Society for its Proceedings. The questions involving controversies into
which the Society could not feel called to enter are treated at
considerable length in the following pages. Many details are also given
which would have carried the paper written for the Society beyond the
customary limits of such tributes to the memory of its deceased members.
It is still but an outline which may serve a present need and perhaps be
of some assistance to a future biographer.
I.
1814-1827. To AEt. 13.
BIRTH AND EARLY YEARS.
John Motley, the great-grandfather of the subject of this Memoir, came in
the earlier part of the last century from Belfast in Ireland to Falmouth,
now Portland, in the District, now the State of Maine. He was twice
married, and had ten children, four of the first marriage and six of the
last. Thomas, the youngest son by his first wife, married Emma, a
daughter of John Wait, the first Sheriff of Cumberland County under the
government of the United States. Two of their seven sons, Thomas and
Edward, removed from Portland to Boston in 1802 and established
themselves as partners in commercial business, continuing united and
prosperous for nearly half a century before the firm was dissolved.
The earlier records of New England have preserved the memory of an
incident which deserves mention as showing how the historian's life was
saved by a quickwitted handmaid, more than a hundred years before he was
born. On the 29th of August, 1708, the French and Indians from Canada
made an attack upon the town of Haverhill, in Massachusetts. Thirty or
forty persons were slaughtered, and many others were carried captive into
Canada.
The minister of the town, Rev. Benjamin Rolfe, was killed by a bullet
through the door of his house. Two of his daughters, Mary, aged thirteen,
and Elizabeth, aged nine, were sleeping in a room with the maid-servant,
Hagar. When Hagar heard the whoop of the savages she seized the children,
ran with them into the cellar, and, after concealing them under two large
washtubs, hid herself. The Indians ransacked the cellar, but missed the
prey. Elizabeth, the younger of the two girls, grew up and married the
Rev. Samuel Checkley, first minister of the "New South" Church, Boston.
Her son, Rev. Samuel Checkley, Junior, was minister of the Second Church,
and his successor, Rev. John Lothrop, or Lathrop, as it was more commonly
spelled, married his daughter. Dr. Lothrop was great-grandson of Rev.
John Lothrop, of Scituate, who had been imprisoned in England for
nonconformity. The Checkleys were from Preston Capes, in
Northamptonshire. The name is probably identical with that of the
Chicheles or Chichleys, a well-known Northamptonshire family.
Thomas Motley married Anna, daughter of the Rev. John Lothrop,
granddaughter of the Rev. Samuel Checkley, Junior, the two ministers
mentioned above, both honored in their day and generation. Eight children
were born of this marriage, of whom four are still living.
JOHN LOTHROP MOTLEY, the second of these children, was born in
Dorchester, now a part of Boston, Massachusetts, on the 15th of April,
1814. A member of his family gives a most pleasing and interesting
picture, from his own recollections and from what his mother told him, of
the childhood which was to develop into such rich maturity. The boy was
rather delicate in organization, and not much given to outdoor
amusements, except skating and swimming, of which last exercise he was
very fond in his young days, and in which he excelled. He was a great
reader, never idle, but always had a book in his hand,--a volume of
poetry or one of the novels of Scott or Cooper. His fondness for plays
and declamation is illustrated by the story told by a younger brother,
who remembers being wrapped up in a shawl and kept quiet by sweetmeats,
while he figured as the dead Caesar, and his brother, the future
historian, delivered the speech of Antony over his prostrate body. He was
of a most sensitive nature, easily excited, but not tenacious of any
irritated feelings, with a quick sense of honor, and the most entirely
truthful child, his mother used to say, that she had ever seen. Such are
some of the recollections of those who knew him in his earliest years and
in the most intimate relations.
His father's family was at this time living in the house No. 7 Walnut
Street, looking down Chestnut Street over the water to the western hills.
Near by, at the corner of Beacon Street, was the residence of the family
of the first mayor of Boston, and at a little distance from the opposite
corner was the house of one of the fathers of New England manufacturing
enterprise, a man of superior intellect, who built up a great name and
fortune in our city. The children from these three homes naturally became
playmates. Mr. Motley's house was a very hospitable one, and Lothrop and
two of his young companions were allowed to carry out their schemes of
amusement in the garden and the garret. If one with a prescient glance
could have looked into that garret on some Saturday afternoon while our
century was not far advanced in its second score of years, he might have
found three boys in cloaks and doublets and plumed hats, heroes and
bandits, enacting more or less impromptu melodramas. In one of the boys
he would have seen the embryo dramatist of a nation's life history, John
Lothrop Motley; in the second, a famous talker and wit who has spilled
more good things on the wasteful air in conversation than would carry a
"diner-out" through half a dozen London seasons, and waked up somewhat
after the usual flowering-time of authorship to find himself a very
agreeable and cordially welcomed writer,--Thomas Gold Appleton. In the
third he would have recognized a champion of liberty known wherever that
word is spoken, an orator whom to hear is to revive all the traditions of
the grace, the address, the commanding sway of the silver-tongued
eloquence of the most renowned speakers,--Wendell Phillips.
Both of young Motley's playmates have furnished me with recollections of
him and of those around him at this period of his life, and I cannot do
better than borrow freely from their communications. His father was a man
of decided character, social, vivacious, witty, a lover of books, and
himself not unknown as a writer, being the author of one or more of the
well remembered "Jack Downing" letters. He was fond of having the boys
read to him from such authors as Channing and Irving, and criticised
their way of reading with discriminating judgment and taste. Mrs. Motley
was a woman who could not be looked upon without admiration. I remember
well the sweet dignity of her aspect, her "regal beauty," as Mr. Phillips
truly styles it, and the charm of her serene and noble presence, which
made her the type of a perfect motherhood. Her character corresponded to
the promise of her gracious aspect. She was one of the fondest of
mothers, but not thoughtlessly indulgent to the boy from whom she hoped
and expected more than she thought it wise to let him know. The story
used to be current that in their younger days this father and mother were
the handsomest pair the town of Boston could show. This son of theirs was
"rather tall," says Mr. Phillips, "lithe, very graceful in movement and
gesture, and there was something marked and admirable in the set of his
head on his shoulders,"--a peculiar elegance which was most noticeable in
those later days when I knew him. Lady Byron long afterwards spoke of him
as more like her husband in appearance than any other person she had met;
but Mr. Phillips, who remembers the first bloom of his boyhood and youth,
thinks he was handsomer than any portrait of Byron represents the poet.
"He could not have been eleven years old," says the same correspondent,
"when he began writing a novel. It opened, I remember, not with one
solitary horseman, but with two, riding up to an inn in the valley of the
Housatonic. Neither of us had ever seen the Housatonic, but it sounded
grand and romantic. Two chapters were finished."
There is not much remembered of the single summer he passed at Mr.
Green's school at Jamaica Plain. From that school he went to Round Hill,
Northampton, then under the care of Mr. Cogswell and Mr. Bancroft. The
historian of the United States could hardly have dreamed that the
handsome boy of ten years was to take his place at the side of his
teacher in the first rank of writers in his own department. Motley came
to Round Hill, as one of his schoolmates tells me, with a great
reputation, especially as a declaimer. He had a remarkable facility for
acquiring languages, excelled as a reader and as a writer, and was the
object of general admiration for his many gifts. There is some reason to
think that the flattery he received was for a time a hindrance to his
progress and the development of his character. He obtained praise too
easily, and learned to trust too much to his genius. He had everything to
spoil him,--beauty, precocious intelligence, and a personal charm which
might have made him a universal favorite. Yet he does not seem to have
been generally popular at this period of his life. He was wilful,
impetuous, sometimes supercilious, always fastidious. He would study as
he liked, and not by rule. His school and college mates believed in his
great possibilities through all his forming period, but it may be doubted
if those who counted most confidently on his future could have supposed
that he would develop the heroic power of concentration, the
long-breathed tenacity of purpose, which in after years gave effect to
his brilliant mental endowments. "I did wonder," says Mr. Wendell
Phillips, "at the diligence and painstaking, the drudgery shown in his
historical works. In early life he had no industry, not needing it. All
he cared for in a book he caught quickly,--the spirit of it, and all his
mind needed or would use. This quickness of apprehension was marvellous."
I do not find from the recollections of his schoolmates at Northampton
that he was reproached for any grave offences, though he may have
wandered beyond the prescribed boundaries now and then, and studied
according to his inclinations rather than by rule. While at that school
he made one acquisition much less common then than now,--a knowledge of
the German language and some degree of acquaintance with its literature,
under the guidance of one of the few thorough German scholars this
country then possessed, Mr. George Bancroft.
II.
1827-1831. AEt. 13-17.
COLLEGE LIFE.
Such then was the boy who at the immature, we might almost say the
tender, age of thirteen entered Harvard College. Though two years after
me in college standing, I remember the boyish reputation which he brought
with him, especially that of a wonderful linguist, and the impression
which his striking personal beauty produced upon us as he took his seat
in the college chapel. But it was not until long after this period that I
became intimately acquainted with him, and I must again have recourse to
the classmates and friends who have favored me with their reminiscences
of this period of his life. Mr. Phillips says:
"During our first year in college, though the youngest in the class,
he stood third, I think, or second in college rank, and ours was an
especially able class. Yet to maintain this rank he neither cared
nor needed to make any effort. Too young to feel any
responsibilities, and not yet awake to any ambition, he became so
negligent that he was 'rusticated' [that is, sent away from college
for a time]. He came back sobered, and worked rather more, but with
no effort for college rank thenceforward."
I must finish the portrait of the collegian with all its lights and
shadows by the help of the same friends from whom I have borrowed the
preceding outlines.
He did not care to make acquaintances, was haughty in manner and cynical
in mood, at least as he appeared to those in whom he felt no special
interest. It is no wonder, therefore, that he was not a popular favorite,
although recognized as having very brilliant qualities. During all this
period his mind was doubtless fermenting with projects which kept him in
a fevered and irritable condition. " | 3,430.051194 |
2023-11-16 19:14:14.0312460 | 2,061 | 223 |
Produced by David Garcia, Linda Hamilton and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Kentuckiana Digital Library)
[Illustration: FIGHT WITH THE GRIZZLY BEARS. _p. 290._]
THE
BACKWOODSMAN;
OR,
=Life on the Indian Frontier.=
[Illustration]
LONDON:
WARD, LOOK, AND TYLER,
WARWICK HOUSE, PATERNOSTER ROW.
THE
BACKWOODSMAN
OR
=Life on the Indian Frontier.=
EDITED BY
SIR C. F. LASCELLES WRAXALL, BART.
[Illustration: WL&T]
LONDON:
WARD, LOCK, AND TYLER,
WARWICK HOUSE, PATERNOSTER ROW.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY J. OGDEN AND CO.,
172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. MY SETTLEMENT 1
II. THE COMANCHES 6
III. A FIGHT WITH THE WEICOS 12
IV. HUNTING ADVENTURES 19
V. THE NATURALIST 30
VI. MR. KREGER'S FATE 41
VII. A LONELY RIDE 53
VIII. THE JOURNEY CONTINUED 66
IX. HOMEWARD BOUND 82
X. THE BEE HUNTER 99
XI. THE WILD HORSE 114
XII. THE PRAIRIE FIRE 126
XIII. THE DELAWARE INDIAN 137
XIV. IN THE MOUNTAINS 151
XV. THE WEICOS 162
XVI. THE BEAR HOLE 173
XVII. THE COMANCHE CHIEF 185
XVIII. THE NEW COLONISTS 208
XIX. A BOLD TOUR 224
XX. THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS 238
XXI. LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS 253
XXII. BEAVER HUNTERS 267
XXIII. THE GRIZZLY BEARS 282
XXIV. ASCENT OF THE BIGHORN 300
XXV. ON THE PRAIRIE 326
XXVI. THE COMANCHES 345
XXVII. HOME AGAIN 363
XXVIII. INDIAN BEAUTIES 381
XXIX. THE SILVER MINE 396
XXX. THE PURSUIT 412
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE BACKWOODSMAN
CHAPTER I.
MY SETTLEMENT.
My blockhouse was built at the foot of the mountain chain of the Rio
Grande, on the precipitous banks of the River Leone. On three sides it
was surrounded by a fourteen feet stockade of split trees standing
perpendicularly. At the two front corners of the palisade were small
turrets of the same material, whence the face of the wall could be held
under fire in the event of an attack from hostile Indians. On the south
side of the river stretched out illimitable rolling prairies, while the
northern side was covered with the densest virgin forest for many miles.
To the north and west I had no civilized neighbours at all, while to the
south and east the nearest settlement was at least 250 miles distant. My
small garrison consisted of three men, who, whenever I was absent,
defended the fort, and at other times looked after the small field and
garden as well as the cattle.
As I had exclusively undertaken to provide my colony with meat, I rarely
stayed at home, except when there was some pressing field work to be
done. Each dawn saw me leave the fort with my faithful dog Trusty, and
turn my horse either toward the boundless prairie or the mountains of
the Rio Grande.
Very often hunting kept me away from home for several days, in which
case I used to bivouac in the tall grass by the side of some prattling
stream. Such oases, though not frequent, are found here and there on the
prairies of the Far West, where the dark, lofty magnolias offer the
wearied traveller refreshment beneath their thick foliage, and the
stream at their base grants a cooling draught. One of these favourite
spots of mine lay near the mountains, about ten miles from my abode. It
was almost the only water far and wide, and here formed two ponds, whose
depths I was never able to sound, although I lowered large stones
fastened to upwards of a hundred yards of lasso. The small space between
the two ponds was overshadowed by the most splendid magnolias, peca-nut
trees, yuccas, evergreen oaks, &c., and begirt by a wall of cactuses,
aloes, and other prickly plants. I often selected this place for
hunting, because it always offered a large quantity of game of every
description, and I was certain at any time of finding near this water
hundreds of wild turkeys, which constitute a great dainty in the bill of
fare of the solitary hunter.
After a very hot spring day I had sought the ponds, as it was too late
to ride home. The night was glorious; the magnolias and large-flowered
cactuses diffused their vanilla perfume over me; myriads of fireflies
continually darted over the plain, and a gallant mocking-bird poured
forth its dulcet melody into the silent night above my head. The whole
of nature seemed to be revelling in the beauty of this night, and
thousands of insects sported round my small camp fire. It was such a
night as the elves select for their gambols, and for a long time I gazed
intently at the dark blue expanse above me. But, though the crystal
springs incessantly bubbled up to the surface, the Lurleis would not
visit me, for they have not yet strayed to America.
My dog and horse also played around me for a long time, until, quite
tired, they lay down by the fire-side, and all three of us slept till
dawn, when the gobbling of the turkeys aroused us. The morning was as
lovely as the night. To the east the flat prairie bordered the horizon
like a sea; the dark sky still glistened with the splendour of all its
jewels, while the skirt of its garment was dipped in brilliant carmine;
the night fled rapidly toward the mountains, and morn pursued it clad in
his festal robes. The sun rose like a mighty ball over the prairie, and
the heavy dew bowed the heads of the tender plants, as if they were
offering their morning thanksgiving for the refreshment which had been
granted them. I too was saturated with dew, and was obliged to hang my
deerskin suit to dry at the fire; fortunately the leather had been
smoked over a wood fire, which prevents it growing hard in drying. I
freshened up the fire, boiled some coffee, roasted the breast of a
turkey, into which I had previously rubbed pepper and salt, and finished
breakfast with Trusty, while Czar, my famous white stallion, was
greedily browzing on the damp grass, and turned his head away when I
went up to him with the bridle. I hung up the rest of the turkey, as
well as another I had shot on the previous evening, and a leg of deer
meat, in the shadow of a magnolia, as I did not know whether I might not
return to the spot that evening, saddled, and we were soon under weigh
for the mountains, where I hoped to find buffalo.
I was riding slowly along a hollow in the prairie, when a rapidly
approaching sound attracted my attention. In a few minutes a very old
buffalo, covered with foam, dashed past me, and almost at the same
moment a Comanche Indian pulled up his horse on the rising ground about
fifty yards from me. As he had his bow ready to shoot the buffalo, the
savage made his declaration of war more quickly than I, and his first
arrow passed through my game bag sling, leather jacket and waistcoat to
my right breast, while two others whizzed past my ear. To pluck out the
arrow, seize a revolver, and dig the spurs into my horse, were but one
operation; and a second later saw me within twenty yards of the Redskin,
who had turned his horse round and was seeking safety in flight. After a
chase of about two miles over awfully rough ground, where the slightest
mistake might have broken my neck, the Indian's horse began to be
winded, while Czar still held his head and tail erect. I rapidly drew
nearer, in spite of the terrible blows the Redskin dealt his horse, and
when about thirty paces behind the foe, I turned slightly to the left,
in order, if I could, to avoid wounding his horse by my shot. | 3,430.051286 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
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[Illustration]
THE ILLUSTRATIONS ENGRAVED BY DALZIEL BROTHERS.
THE COLOURED PLATES BY KRONHEIM & CO.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
COMIC INSECTS.
BY
The Rev. F. A. S. REID, M.A.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS
BY
BERRY F. BERRY.
[Illustration]
LONDON:
FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.,
BEDFORD STREET, STRAND.
[Illustration: Camden Press
DALZIEL BROTHERS
ENGRAVERS & PRINTERS]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE CATERPILLAR 1
THE MOTH 7
THE SNAIL 13
THE BEE 19
THE BLACK-BEETLE 25
THE SPIDER 31
[Illustration]
[Illustration: PREFACE]
OH, wonder I much what this book contains!
Can Insects talk, and do they have brains?
I always thought that these queer little things
Were made up entirely of legs, wings, and stings.
A Black-Beetle teach me! And what, Bumble-Bee,
In all the wide world can you say unto me?
And surely a Caterpillar never has read?
With green leaves for books, he would eat them instead;
While neither a Moth nor a Spider could tell
How a pen should be held, or correctly could spell.
And as for poor Snailey,--it's more than absurd,
He never could read a one-syllable word!
But I've heard of the School Board, and now it's appalling
To think that a Moth or a Snail may be calling
And telling me too, as their little eyes glisten,
Their funny wee lessons, if only I'll listen.
* * * * *
Yes! they talk in a language that all is their own,
And here into English you'll find it has grown;
Where pictures will shew, and the rhymes they will say,
How Insects can work, talk, and laugh, and be gay.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: INTRODUCTION]
COMIC INSECTS.
How queer a procession is passing this way,
Of insects all talking; come, hear what they say!
The sight is as strange as their words they are true,
And you'll laugh as they offer their lessons to you.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: "_Led astray._"]
THE CATERPILLAR.
I'M a Caterpillar green,
Not the prettiest you have seen,
And my Chrysalis I enter rather loth;
Though I know that in the spring
I shall rise on feathered wing
In the costume of a fascinating Moth.
[Illustration: "_I'm a Caterpillar green._"]
Little likeness you will spy,
With the cleverest little eye,
'Twixt your green-coated friend of to-day
And the airy form that sails
When the golden sunlight pales,
And the owl flies abroad for his prey.
[I | 3,430.051393 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
[Illustration: FORT SUMTER.]
REMINISCENCES
OF
FORTS SUMTER AND MOULTRIE
IN 1860-'61
BY ABNER DOUBLEDAY
BREVET MAJOR-GENERAL U.S.A.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS
FRANKLIN SQUARE
1876
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by
HARPER & BROTHERS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
INTRODUCTION.
Now that the prejudices and bitter partisan feeling of the past are
subsiding, it seems a fitting time to record the facts and incidents
connected with the first conflict of the Rebellion. Of the eleven
officers who took part in the events herein narrated, but four now
survive. Before the hastening years shall have partially obliterated
many circumstances from my memory, and while there is still an
opportunity for conference and friendly criticism, I desire to make,
from letters, memoranda, and documents in my possession, a statement
which will embody my own recollections of the turbulent days of 1860 and
1861.
I am aware that later and more absorbing events have caused the earlier
struggles of the war to recede in the distance; but those who were in
active life at that time will not soon forget the thrill of emotion and
sympathy which followed the movements of Anderson's little band, when it
became its duty to unfold the flag of the Union against a united South
in arms.
I know how difficult it is to write contemporaneous history, or even to
give a bare detail of facts, without wounding the susceptibilities of
others; but whenever I have felt called upon to give my own opinion, I
have endeavored to do so in the spirit of Lincoln's immortal
sentiment--"With malice toward none; with charity for all."
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
FORT MOULTRIE IN 1860.
The Garrison of Fort Moultrie.--Early Indications of
Secession.--Situation of the Fort.--Edmund Ruffin and Robert Barnwell
Rhett.--The Secretary of War.--Arms sent to the South.--Colonel
Gardner.--Captain Foster ordered to Charleston Harbor.--The Officers at
Fort Moultrie.--Communications with Northern Men by
Cipher.--Proscription of Antislavery Men in Charleston.--Position of
Charleston Merchants.--The Secession Leaders only prepared to resist
Coercion.--The Mob proves Unmanageable.--General Scott's Letter to the
President, October 29th.--The Situation in November.--No Instructions
from Washington.--Colonel Gardner's Report to General Wool. _Page_ 13
CHAPTER II.
PREPARATIONS FOR DEFENSE.
Defeat of Captain Seymour's Expedition on the Ashley.--Mayor Macbeth's
Explanation.--Captain Foster's Work on Fort Moultrie.--Governor Gist
convenes the South Carolina Legislature.--Creation of a Standing
Army.--Arrival of Masons from Baltimore.--Situation of Fort Sumter.--A
Dramatic Incident.--Secretary Floyd's Action.--Horace Greeley's Advocacy
of the Right of Secession.--The Situation November 18th. 30
CHAPTER III.
PRELIMINARY MOVEMENTS OF THE SECESSIONISTS.
Arrival of Major Anderson.--Huger's Opposition to a Premature Assault on
Fort Moultrie.--Anderson's Report to the Secretary of War.--Active
Preparations by the South Carolinians.--Meeting of Congress.--Attempts
at Compromise.--Secession Batteries at Mount Pleasant.--Arrival of Major
Buell with Written Orders.--Vain Efforts to Strengthen Castle
Pinckney.--Northern Opinion.--Public Meeting in Philadelphia. 41
CHAPTER IV.
THE REMOVAL TO FORT SUMTER.
Passage of the Secession Ordinance.--Governor Pickens's
Proclamation.--Judge Petigru's Visit to Fort Moultrie.--Floyd's
Treachery.--Yancey's Lectures in the North.--The Removal to Sumter. 55
CHAPTER V.
THE FIRST OVERT ACT.
The New Quarters.--Seizure of Castle Pinckney by Charleston
Troops.--Raising the Flag at Fort Sumter.--The Sergeant's
Daughter.--Major Anderson's Position.--The Charleston Troops take Fort
Moultrie.--A Military Problem.--Condition of Fort Sumter.--Governor
Pickens's Commission.--A New Outrage. 68
CHAPTER VI.
EFFECT OF ANDERSON'S MOVEMENT.
President Buchanan Aroused.--Excitement in Charleston.--The Situation at
the Beginning of 1861.--Governor Pickens's War Measures.--"My heart was
never in this War". 82
CHAPTER VII.
THE "STAR OF THE WEST."
Promise of Succor.--Fatal Delay.--A Contumacious Chaplain.--Visit from
our Ladies.--Governor Pickens's Cabinet.--Appearance of the Star of the
West.--The Vessel fired upon from Morris Island and Fort
Moultrie.--Major Anderson's Protest.--Governor Pickens's Reply. 92
CHAPTER VIII.
A RESORT TO DIPLOMACY.
Major Anderson's Proposed Diplomatic Negotiations.--Defensive
Pre | 3,430.147115 |
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Produced by Stephen Hutcheson, Rod Crawford, Dave Morgan,
eagkw and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: "I think my trunk is on this train," she
said.--_Page 7._]
MOLLY BROWN'S
FRESHMAN DAYS
By
NELL SPEED
_WITH FOUR HALF-TONE ILLUSTRATIONS
BY CHARLES L. WRENN_
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1912,
BY
HURST & COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. WELLINGTON 5
II. THEIR NEIGHBOR 19
III. THE PROFESSOR 32
IV. A BUSY DAY 46
V. THE KENTUCKY SPREAD 62
VI. KNOTTY PROBLEMS 75
VII. AN INCIDENT OF THE COFFEE CUPS 86
VIII. CONCERNING CLUBS,--AND A TEA PARTY 99
IX. RUMORS AND MYSTERIES 115
X. JOKES AND CROAKS 130
XI. EXMOOR COLLEGE 140
XII. SUNDAY MORNING BREAKFAST 152
XIII. TRICKERY 164
XIV. AN INSPIRATION 177
XV. PLANNING AND WISHING 188
XVI. THE MCLEAN SUPPER 204
XVII. A MIDNIGHT ADVENTURE 216
XVIII. THE FOOTBALL GAME 230
XIX. THREE FRIENDS 241
XX. MISS STEEL 255
XXI. A BACHELOR'S POCKET 266
XXII. CHRISTMAS--MID-YEARS--AND THE WANDERTHIRST 276
XXIII. SOPHOMORES AT LAST 291
ILLUSTRATIONS
"I think my trunk is on this train," she said. _Frontispiece_
PAGE
"I wish you would tell me your receipt for making friends,
Molly," exclaimed Nance. 51
"I'm scared to death," she announced. Then she struck a
chord and began. 60
It was quite the custom for girls to prepare breakfasts in
their rooms. 152
Molly Brown's Freshman Days
CHAPTER I.
WELLINGTON.
"Wellington! Wellington!" called the conductor.
The train drew up at a platform, and as if by magic a stream of girls
came pouring out of the pretty stucco station with its sloping red
roof and mingled with another stream of girls emptying itself from the
coaches. Everywhere appeared girls,--leaping from omnibuses; hurrying
down the gravel walk from the village; hastening along the University
drive; girls on foot; girls on bicycles; girls running, and girls
strolling arm in arm.
Few of them wore hats; many of them wore sweaters and short walking
skirts of white duck or serge, and across the front of each sweater was
embroidered a large "W" in cadet blue, the mystic color of Wellington
University.
In the midst of a shouting, gesticulating mob stood Mr. Murphy, baggage
master, smiling good naturedly.
"Now, young ladies, one at a time, please. We've brought down all the
baggage left over by the 9.45. If your trunk ain't on this train, it'll
come on the next. All in good time, please."
A tall girl with auburn hair and deep blue eyes approached the group.
There was a kind of awkward grace about her, the grace which was hers by
rights and the awkwardness which comes of growing too fast. She wore a
shabby brown homespun suit, a shade darker than her hair, and on her
head was an old brown felt which had plainly seen service the year
before.
But knotted at her neck was a tie of burnt-orange silk which seemed to
draw attention away from the shiny seams and fr | 3,430.150021 |
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Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 109.
_August 10, 1895._
A PSALM OF AUGUST.
(_For the Circular Tourist_.)
Tell me not, in Summer numbers,
"H | 3,430.150604 |
2023-11-16 19:14:14.1306430 | 684 | 70 | BERKSHIRES***
E-text prepared by Roger Frank and the Project Gutenberg Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net)
Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 25811-h.htm or 25811-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/5/8/1/25811/25811-h/25811-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/5/8/1/25811/25811-h.zip)
THE AUTOMOBILE GIRLS IN THE BERKSHIRES
Or
The Ghost of Lost Man's Trail
by
LAURA DENT CRANE
Author of The Automobile Girls at Newport, The Automobile
Girls Along the Hudson, Etc., Etc.
Illustrated
[Illustration: The Splash Descended on Unsuspecting Bab. _Frontispiece._]
Philadelphia
Henry Altemus Company
Copyright, 1910, by Howard E. Altemus
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. The Reunion 7
II. New Light on Old Papers 20
III. Happiness, and Another Scheme 28
IV. In the Heart of the Berkshires 45
V. A Day in the Woods 58
VI. "The Great White Also" 66
VII. Mollie Follows the Trail 76
VIII. End of the Search 90
IX. Spirit of the Forest 95
X. A Knock at the Door 107
XI. The <DW53> Hunt 120
XII. The Wounded Bird 128
XIII. The Wigwam 135
XIV. Give Way to Miss Sallie! 144
XV. Society in Lenox 152
XVI. At the Ambassador's 166
XVII. A Visit to Eunice 181
XVIII. Plans for the Society Circus 190
XIX. The Old Gray Goose 198
XX. Barbara and Beauty 206
XXI. Eunice and Mr. Winthrop Latham 215
XXII. The Automobile Wins 230
XXIII. The Recognition 240
XXIV. What to Do with Eunice 251
The Automobile Girls in the
Berkshires
CHAPTER I
THE REUNION
"Mollie Thurston, we are lost!" cried Barbara dramatically.
The two sisters were in the depth of a New Jersey woods one afternoon in
early September.
"Well, what if we are!" laughed Mollie, leaning over to add a cluster of
wild asters to her great bunch of golden rod. "We have two hours ahead of
us. Surely such clever woodsmen as we are can find our way out of woods
which are but a few miles from home. Suppose we should explore a real
| 3,430.150683 |
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Text file produced by Tokuya Matsumoto
HTML file produced by David Widger
A JOURNAL OF THE PLAGUE YEAR
By Daniel Defoe
being observations or memorials of the most remarkable occurrences, as
well public as private, which happened in London during the last great
visitation in 1665. Written by a Citizen who continued all the while in
London. Never made public before
It was about the beginning of September, 1664, that I, among the rest of
my neighbours, heard in ordinary discourse that the plague was returned
again in Holland; for it had been very violent there, and particularly
at Amsterdam and Rotterdam, in the year 1663, whither, they say, it was
brought, some said from Italy, others from the Levant, among some goods
which were brought home by their Turkey fleet; others said it was
brought from Candia; others from Cyprus. It mattered not from whence it
came; but all agreed it was come into Holland again.
We had no such thing as printed newspapers in those days to spread
rumours and reports of things, and to improve them by the invention of
men, as I have lived to see practised since. But such things as these
were gathered from the letters of merchants and others who corresponded
abroad, and from them was handed about by word of mouth only; so that
things did not spread instantly over the whole nation, as they do now.
But it seems that the Government had a true account of it, and several
councils were held about ways to prevent its coming over; but all was
kept very private. Hence it was that this rumour died off again, and
people began to forget it as a thing we were very little concerned in,
and that we hoped was not true; till the latter end of November or the
begin | 3,430.250757 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
[Illustration: Leon Trotzky]
THE BOLSHEVIKI
AND
WORLD PEACE
BY LEON TROTZKY
INTRODUCTION BY LINCOLN STEFFENS
BONI AND LIVERIGHT
NEW YORK
1918
Copyright
1918
Boni & Liveright Inc.
CONTENTS
Introduction by Lincoln Steffens
Author's Preface
CHAPTER
I. The Balkan Question
II. Austria-Hungary
III. The War against Czarism
IV. The War against the West
V. The War of Defense
VI. What Have Socialists to do with Capitalist Wars?
VII. The Collapse of the International
VIII. Socialist Opportunism
IX. The Decline of the Revolutionary Spirit
X. Working Class Imperialism
XI. The Revolutionary Epoch
INTRODUCTION
The voice that speaks in this book is the voice of Leon Trotzky, the
Bolshevik Minister of Foreign Affairs for Revolutionary Russia. It is
expressing ideas and views which lighted him on the course of his policy
toward the War, Peace and the Revolution. It throws light, therefore,
on that policy; it helps to an understanding of it, if one wishes to
understand. But that isn't all. The spirit that flames and casts
shadows upon these pages is not only Trotzky's. It is the spirit also of
the Bolsheviki; of the red left of the left wing of the revolutionary
movement of New Russia. It flashed from Petrograd to Vladivostok, in
the first week of the revolt; it burned all along the Russian Front
before Trotzky appeared on the scene. It will smoulder long after he is
gone. It is a hot Fact which has to be picked up and examined, this
spirit. Whether we like it or don't, it is there; in Russia; it is
elsewhere; it is everywhere to-day. It is the spirit of war; class war,
but war. It is in this book.
Nor is that all.
The mind in this book--the point of view from which it starts, the views
to which it points--Trotzky's mind is the international mind. We have
heard before of this new intelligence; we have read books, heard
speeches, witnessed acts demonstrative of thoughts and feelings which
are not national, but international; not patriotic, but loyal only to
the lower-class-conscious war aims of the workers of the world. The
class warrior is as familiar a figure to us as the red spirit is of the
red left of revolution. But the voice which utters here the spirit and
the mind, not only of the Russian, but of the world revolution is the
voice of one having authority.
And Trotzky, in power, has been as red as he is in this book. The
minister of foreign affairs practised in Petrograd what he preached in
Switzerland, where he wrote most of the chapters of his book. And he
practised also what all the other great International Socialist leaders
talked and wrote.
That's what makes him so hard to understand, him and his party and the
Bolshevik policy. We are accustomed to the sight of Socialists and
Radicals going into office and being "sobered by the responsibilities of
power | 3,430.253756 |
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Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
Transcriber's Note:
1. Page scan source:
http://www.archive.org/details/picturesgermanl03freygoog
PICTURES OF GERMAN LIFE
IN THE
EIGHTEENTH AND NINETEENTH CENTURIES.
SECOND SERIES.
* * * * *
VOL. II.
PICTURES
OF
GERMAN LIFE
In the XVIIIth and XIXth Centuries.
Second Series.
BY
GUSTAV FREYTAG.
Translated from the Original by
MRS. MALCOLM.
_COPYRIGHT EDITION.--IN TWO VOLUMES_.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
CHAPMAN AND HALL, 193 PICCADILLY.
1863.
LONDON:
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER VII.
Away from the Garrison (1700).--The army, and the constitution
of the State--The country militia and their history--The soldiery of
the Sovereign--Change of organisation after the war--The beginning
of compulsory levies about 1700--Gradual introduction of
conscription--Recruiting and its illegalities--Desertions--Trafficking
with armies--The Prussian army under Frederic William I.--The regiment
of guards at Potsdam--Prussian officers--Ulrich Braecker--Narrative of a
Prussian deserter
CHAPTER VIII.
The State of Frederic the Great (1700).--The kingdom of the
Hohenzollerns, its small size; character of the people and
princes--Childhood of Frederic--Opposition to his
father--Catastrophe--Training and its influence on his character--His
marriage and relations with women--Residence in Rheinsberg--His
character when he became King--Striking contrast between his poetic
warmth and his inexorable severity--Inward change in the course of the
first Silesian war--Loss of the friends of his youth--The literary
period till 1766--His poetry, historical writings, and literary
versatility--Seven years of iron labour--His method of carrying on war,
and heroic struggle--Admiration of Germans and foreigners--His
sufferings and endurance--Extracts from Frederic's Letters from
1767-1762--Principles of his government--Improvement of
Silesia--Difference betwixt the Prussian and Austrian
government--Feeling of duty in the Prussian officials--Acquisition
of West Prussia--Miserable condition in 1772--Agriculture of
Frederic--His last years
CHAPTER IX.
Of the Year of Tuition of the German Citizen (1790).--Influence of
Frederic on German art, philosophy, and historical writing--Poetry
flourishes--The aspect of a city in 1790--The coffee gardens and
the theatres--Travelling and love of the picturesque--Different
sources of morals and activity amongst the nobles, citizens, and
peasants--Characteristics of the life of the country nobles--The piety
of the country people--Education of the citizens--Advantages of the
Latin schools and of the university education--The sentimentality and
change in the literary classes from 1750-1790--The Childhood of Ernst
Frederic Haupt
CHAPTER X.
The Period of Ruin (1800).--The condition of Germany--Courts and cities
of the Empire--People and armies of the Empire--The emigrants--Effect
of the revolution on the Germans--The Prussian State--Its rapid
increase--Von Held--Bureaucracy--The army--The Generals--The
downfall--Narrative of the Years 1806-1807, by Christoph Wilhelm
Heinrich Sethe--His life
CHAPTER XI.
Rise of the Nation (1807-1815).--Sorrowful condition of the people in
the year 1807--The first signs of rising strength--Hatred of the French
Emperor--Arming of Prussia--Character and importance of the movement of
1813--Napoleon's flight--Expedition of the French to Russia in
1812, and return in 1813--The Cossacks--The people rise--General
enthusiasm--The volunteer Jaegers and patriotic gifts--The Landwehr
and the Landsturm--The first combat--Impression of the war on the
citizens--The enemy in the city--The course of the war--The celebration
of victory
CHAPTER XII.
Illness and Recovery (1815-1848).--The time of reaction--Hopelessness
of the German question--Discontent and exhaustion of the
Prussians--Weakness of the educated classes in the north of
Germany--The development of practical activity--The South Germans and
their village tales--Description of a Village School by Karl Mathy
CONCLUSION.--The Hohenzollerns and the German citizens
PICTURES OF GERMAN LIFE.
Second Series.
CHAPTER VII.
AWAY FROM THE GARRISON.
(1700.)
A shot from the alarm-gun! Timidly does the citizen examine the dark
corners of his house to discover whether any strange man be hid there.
The peasant in the field stops his horses to consider whether he would
wish to meet with any fugitive, and earn capture-money, or whether he
should save some desperate man, in spite of the severe punishment with
which every one was threatened who enabled a deserter to escape.
Probably he will let the fugitive run away, though in his power, for in
his secret soul he has a fellow feeling for him, nay, even admires his
daring.
There is scarcely any sphere of earthly interest which stamps so
sharply the peculiarities of the culture of the time, as the army and
the method of carrying on war. In every century the army corresponds
exactly with the constitution and character of the state. The
Franconian landwehr of Charles the Great, who advanced on foot from
their _Maifeld_ to Saxony, the army of the noble cuirassiers who rode
under the Emperor Barbarossa into the plains of Lombardy, the Swiss
and Landsknechte of the time of the Reformation, and the mercenary
armies of the Thirty Years' War, were all highly characteristic of the
culture of their time; they sprang from the social condition of the
people, and changed with it. Thus did the oldest infantry of the
proprietors take root in the old provincial constitution, the mounted
chivalry in the old feudalism, the troops of Landsknechte in the rise
of civic power, and the companies of roving mercenaries in the increase
of royal territorial dominion; these were succeeded in despotic states,
in the eighteenth century, by the standing army with uniform and pay.
But none of the older forms of military service were entirely displaced
by those of later times, at least some reminiscences of them are
everywhere kept. The ancient landfolge (attendants on military
expeditions) of the free landowner had ceased since the greater portion
of the powerful peasantry had sunk into bondsmen, and the strong
landwehr had become a general levy, of little warlike capacity; but
they had not been entirely set aside, for still in the eighteenth
century all freeholders were bound at the sound of the alarum to hasten
together, and to furnish baggage, horses, and men to work at the
fortifications. In the same way the knights of the Hohenstaufen were
dispersed by the army of free peasants and citizens, at Sempach,
Grunson, Murten, and the lowlands of Ditmarsch, but the furnishing of
cavalry horses remained as a burden upon the properties of the
nobility; it was after the end of the sixteenth century--in Prussia,
first under Frederic William I.--that it was changed into a low
money-tax, and this tax was the only impost on the feudal property of
nobles.[1] The roving Landsknecht also, who provided his own equipments
and changed his banner every summer, was turned into a mounted
mercenary with an unsettled term of service; but in the new time the
customs of free enlistment, earnest money, and entering into foreign
service, were still maintained, although these customs of the
Landsknecht time were in strange and irreconcilable contrast to the
fearful severity with which the new rule of a despotic state grasped
the whole life of the recruit.
The defects of the standing army in the eighteenth century have been
often criticised, and every one knows something of the rigorous
discipline in the companies with which the Dessauer stormed the
defences of Turin, and Frederic II. maintained possession of Silesia.
But another part of the old military constitution is not equally known,
and has been entirely lost sight of even by military writers. It shall
therefore be introduced here.
The regiments which the sovereigns of the eighteenth century led to
battle, or leased to foreign potentates, were not the only armed
organisation of Germany. Besides the paid army there was in most of the
states a militia force, certainly very deficient in constitution, but
by no means insignificant or uninfluential. At no time had the old
idea, that every one was bound to defend his own country, vanished from
the German life. The right of the rulers to employ their subjects in
the defence of their homes, was, according to the notions of the olden
time, entirely distinct from their other right of keeping soldiers.
They could not command their subjects to render military service for
their political struggles, nor for wars beyond the frontiers. Service
in war was a free work, for that, they were obliged to invite
volunteers, that is to say, to enlist, as they were unable to avail
themselves of their vassals. One of the greatest changes in the history
of the German nation was owing to the conviction being gradually
impressed upon the people, by the despotic governments in the former
century, that they were bound to furnish their rulers with at least a
portion of their soldiers. And it is not less instructive to find, that
in our century, after the old system was destroyed, the general idea of
defensive duty was imbibed by the people. It is worth while to
investigate the way in which this happened.
Already, towards the end of the sixteenth century, when the
Landsknechte had become too costly and demoralised, people began to
think of forming a militia of the men capable of bearing arms in the
cities and open country, which were to be employed for its protection
within its frontiers. After 1613, this militia was organised in
Electoral Saxony and the neighbouring countries, and soon after in the
other circles of the Empire, and companies established, which were
sometimes assembled and exercised in military drill. Their collective
number was fixed | 3,430.253861 |
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Viswanathan, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
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Transcriber's Note:
The author of this book is Metta Victoria Fuller Victor writing under the
Pen name of Walter T. Gray. But the Author's name is not given in the
original text.
The Table of Contents is not part of the original text.
THE BLUNDERS
OF A
BASHFUL MAN.
_By the Author of_
"A BAD BOY'S DIARY"
COPYRIGHT, 1881, BY STREET & SMITH.
NEW YORK:
J. S. OGILVIE PUBLISHING COMPANY.
57 ROSE STREET.
* * * * *
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. HE ATTENDS A PICNIC.
II. HE MAKES AN EVENING CALL.
III. GOES TO A TEA-PARTY.
IV. HE DOES HIS DUTY AS A CITIZEN.
V. HE COMMITS SUICIDE.
VI. HE IS DOOMED FOR WORSE ACCIDENTS.
VII. I MAKE A NARROW ESCAPE.
VIII. HE ENACTS THE PART OF GROOMSMAN.
IX. MEETS A PAIR OF BLUE EYES.
X. HE CATCHES A TROUT AND PRESENTS IT TO A LADY.
XI. HE GOES TO THE CIRCUS.
XII. A LEAP FOR LIFE.
XIII. ONE OF THE FAIR SEX COMES TO HIS RESCUE.
XIV. HIS DIFFIDENCE BRINGS ABOUT AN ACCIDENT.
XV. HE BECOMES ACQUAINTED WITH A CHICAGO WIDOW.
XVI. AT LAST HE SECURES A TREASURE.
XVII. HE ENJOYS HIMSELF AT A BALL.
XVIII. HE OPENS THE WRONG DOOR.
XIX. DRIVEN FROM HIS LAST DEFENCE.
* * * * *
THE
BLUNDERS OF A BASHFUL MAN.
CHAPTER I.
HE ATTENDS A PICNIC.
I have been, am now, and shall always be, a bashful man. I have been
told that I am the only bashful man in the world. How that is I can
not say, but should not be sorry to believe that it is so, for I am of
too generous a nature to desire any other mortal to suffer the mishaps
which have come to me from this distressing complaint. A person can
have smallpox, scarlet fever, and measles but once each. He can even
become so inoculated with the poison of bees and mosquitoes as to make
their stings harmless; and he can gradually accustom himself to the
use of arsenic until he can take 444 grains safely; but for
bashfulness--like mine--there is no first and only attack, no becoming
hardened to the thousand petty stings, no saturation of one's being
with the poison until it loses its power.
I am a quiet, nice-enough, inoffensive young gentleman, now rapidly
approaching my twenty-sixth year. It is unnecessary to state that I am
unmarried. I should have been wedded a great many times, had not some
fresh attack of my malady invariably, and in some new shape, attacked
me in season to prevent the "consummation devoutly to be wished." When
I look back over twenty years of suffering through which I have
literally stumbled my way--over the long series of embarrassments and
mortifications which lie behind me--I wonder, with a mild and patient
wonder, why the Old Nick I did not commit suicide ages ago, and thus
end the eventful history with a blank page in the middle of the book.
I dare say the very bashfulness which has been my bane has prevented
me; the idea of being cut down from a rafter, with a black-and-blue
face, and drawn out of the water with a swollen one, has put me so out
of countenance that I had not the courage to brave a coroner's jury
under the circumstances.
Life to me has been a scramble through briers. I do not recall one
single day wholly free from the scratches inflicted on a cruel
sensitiveness. I will not mention those far-away agonies of boyhood,
when the teacher punished me by making me sit with the girls, but will
hasten on to a point that stands out vividly against a dark background
of accidents. I was nineteen. My sentiments toward that part of
creation known as "young ladies" were, at that time, of a mingled and
contradictory nature. I adored them as angels; I dreaded them as if
they were mad dogs, and were going to bite me.
My parents were respected residents of a small village in the western
part of the State of New York. I had been away at a boys' academy for
three years, and returned about the first of June to my parents and to
Babbletown to find that I was considered a young man, and expected to
take my part in the business and pleasures of life as such. My father
dismissed his clerk and put me in his place behind the counter of our
store.
Within three days every girl in that village had been to that store
after something or another--pins, needles, a yard of tape, to look at
gloves, to _try on shoes_, or examine gingham and calico, until I was
happy, because out of sight, behind a pile high enough to hide my
flushed countenance. I shall never forget that week. I ran the
gauntlet from morning till night. I believe those heartless wretches
told each other the mistakes I made, for they kept coming and coming,
looking as sweet as honey and as sly as foxes. Father said I'd break
him if I didn't stop making blunders in giving change--he wasn't in
the prize-candy business, and couldn't afford to have me give
twenty-five sheets of note paper, a box of pens, six corset laces, a
bunch of whalebones, and two dollars and fifty cents change for a
two-dollar bill.
He explained to me that the safety-pins which I had offered Emma Jones
for crochet-needles were _not_ crochet-needles; nor the red wafers I
had shown Mary Smith for gum-drops, gum-drops--that gingham was not
three dollars per yard, nor pale-blue silk twelve-and-a-half cents,
even to Squire Marigold's daughter. He said I must be more careful.
"I don't think the mercantile business is my _forte_, father," said I.
"Your fort!" replied the old gentleman; "fiddlesticks! We have nothing
to do with military matters. But if you think you have a special call
to anything, John, speak out. Would you like to study for the
ministry, my son?"
"Oh, no, indeed! I don't know exactly what I would like, unless it
were to be a Juan Fernandez, or a--a light-house keeper."
Then father said I was a disgrace to him, and I knew I was.
On the fourth day some young fellows came to see me, and told me there
was to be a picnic on Saturday, and I must get father's horse and
buggy and take one of the girls. In vain I pleaded that I did not know
any of them well enough. They laughed at me, and said that Belle
Marigold had consented to go with me; that I knew her--she had been in
the store and bought some blue silk for twelve-and-a-half cents a
yard; and they rather thought she fancied me, she seemed so ready to
accept my | 3,430.348896 |
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by The Internet Archive)
WONDERFUL ESCAPES.
[Illustration: Osmond carrying off Duke Richard.]
WONDERFUL ESCAPES
_REVISED FROM THE FRENCH OF F. BERNARD
AND ORIGINAL CHAPTERS ADDED._
BY
RICHARD WHITEING.
With Twenty-six Plates.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES SCRIBNER & CO.
1871.
Illustrated Library of Wonders.
PUBLISHED BY
Messrs. Charles Scribner & Co.,
654 BROADWAY, NEW YORK.
Each one volume 12mo. Price per volume, $1.50.
_Titles of Books._ _No. of Illustrations_
THUNDER AND LIGHTNING, 39
WONDERS OF OPTICS, 70
WONDERS OF HEAT, 90
INTELLIGENCE OF ANIMALS, 54
GREAT HUNTS, 22
EGYPT 3,300 YEARS AGO, 40
WONDERS OF POMPEII, 22
THE SUN, BY A. GUILLEMIN, 53
SUBLIME IN NATURE, 50
WONDERS OF GLASS MAKING, 63
WONDERS OF ITALIAN ART, 28
WONDERS OF THE HUMAN BODY, 45
WONDERS OF ARCHITECTURE, 50
LIGHTHOUSES AND LIGHTSHIPS, 60
BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN, 68
WONDERS OF BODILY STRENGTH AND SKILL, 70
WONDERFUL BALLOON ASCENTS, 30
ACOUSTICS, 114
WONDERS OF THE HEAVENS, 48
* THE MOON, BY A. GUILLEMIN, 60
* WONDERS OF SCULPTURE, 61
* WONDERS OF ENGRAVING, 32
* WONDERS OF VEGETATION, 45
* WONDERS OF THE INVISIBLE WORLD, 97
CELEBRATED ESCAPES, 26
* WATER, 77
* HYDRAULICS, 40
* ELECTRICITY, 71
* SUBTERRANEAN WORLD, 27
* In Press for early Publication.
_The above works sent to any address, post paid, upon receipt of the
price by the publishers._
CONTENTS.
PAGE
Aristomenes the Messenian 1
Hegesistratus 2
Demetrius Soter 4
Marius 6
Attalus 10
Richard, Duke of Normandy 15
Louis II., Count of Flanders 17
The Duke of Albany 19
James V., King of Scotland 22
Secundus Curion 25
Benvenuto Cellini 26
Mary, Queen of Scots 41
Caumont de la Force 45
Charles de Guise 54
Mary de Medicis 56
Grotius 60
Isaac Arnauld 63
The Duke of Beaufort 65
Cardinal de Retz 69
Quiquéran de Beaujeu 76
Charles II. 78
Blanche Gamond 90
Jean Bart and the Chevalier de Forbin 96
Duguay Trouin 99
The Abbé Count de Bucquoy 101
Jacobite Insurrectionists 108
Charles Edward 111
Stanislaus Leczinski 118
Baron Trenck 122
Cassanova de Seingalt 160
Latude 214
Beniowski 229
Twelve Priests saved by Geoffroy St. Hilaire 236
De Chateaubrun 238
Sydney Smith 239
Pichegru, Ramel, Barthelemy, etc. 241
Colonel de Richemont 248
Captain Grivel 254
Lavalette 255
Giovanni Arrivabene, Ugoni, and Scalvini 262
Political Prisoners, 1834 265
Monsieur Rufin Piotrowski 267
Prince Louis Napoleon 284
James Stephens 298
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
I. They came at last to an opening, 2
II. Marius sent away from Minturnæ, 10
III. I then tore them up into long bands, 29
IV. Cellini attacked by the dogs, 36
V. Escape of Mary, Queen of Scots, from Loch Leven
Castle, 44
VI. “Hush!” said the man, “keep quiet, they are
still there,” 48
VII. She lifted the lid of the chest, and her master
leaped out safe and sound, 62
VIII. He let himself drop into the sea, 78
IX. They grew very angry at my rudeness, 88
X. I was obliged to support myself with one arm, 92
XI. My foot got stuck, and the sentinel seized it, 127
XII. Trenck escaping with Lieutenant Schell, 138
XIII. The first grenadier I knocked down, 155
XIV. I heard the sound of a door being unbolted, 174
XV. I told him to be very careful not to spill the sauce, 186
XVI. Balbi rolled down into my arms, 197
XVII. The monk clung to my waistband, 202
XVIII. I told him I was going to bury him, 213
XIX. I saw on the parapet the soldiers of the grand round, 224
XX. Stop, thief! 228
XXI. The woodman pulled out a knife and did so, 239
XXII. He affected great surprise, 241
XXIII. I held my handkerchief to my eyes, 258
XXIV. They fell exhausted to the ground, 264
XXV. The sight of the seal was sufficient, 278
XXVI. Osmond carrying off Duke Richard, _Frontispiece_.
WONDERFUL ESCAPES.
_ARISTOMENES THE MESSENIAN._
ABOUT 684 B.C.
Aristomenes, the Messenian general, fighting at the head of his troops
against very superior numbers of the Lacedemonians, commanded by the two
kings of Sparta, received a severe blow on the head from a stone, and
fell insensible and to all appearance dead. He was taken prisoner, with
fifty of his soldiers, and dragged to Sparta, where the Lacedemonians
condemned them all to be thrown into the Cœada, a hideous gulf formed
by a fissure in the earth, in whose depths already lay the bones of
hundreds of criminals who had been put to death. The barbarous sentence
was actually carried out; and Aristomenes, with all his surviving
soldiers, was hurled into the gulf. The latter perished to a man in the
fall; but | 3,430.349868 |
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Cathy Maxam, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration:
_Engd by H. B. Hall_
(signature O. B. Frothingham)
G. P. Putnam's Sons, New York.]
TRANSCENDENTALISM
IN
NEW ENGLAND
_A HISTORY_
BY
OCTAVIUS BROOKS FROTHINGHAM
_Author of "Life of Theodore Parker," "Religion of Humanity," &c., &c._
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
182 FIFTH AVENUE
1876
COPYRIGHT,
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS.
1876.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CONTENTS iii
PREFACE v
I.
BEGINNINGS IN GERMANY 1
II.
TRANSCENDENTALISM IN GERMANY--KANT, JACOBI, FICHTE, etc. 14
III.
THEOLOGY AND LITERATURE--SCHLEIERMACHER, GOETHE, RICHTER, etc. 47
IV.
TRANSCENDENTALISM IN FRANCE--COUSIN, CONSTANT, JOUFFROY, etc. 60
V.
TRANSCENDENTALISM IN ENGLAND--COLERIDGE, CARLYLE, WORDSWORTH 76
VI.
TRANSCENDENTALISM IN NEW ENGLAND 105
VII.
PRACTICAL TENDENCIES 142
VIII.
RELIGIOUS TENDENCIES 185
IX.
THE SEER--EMERSON 218
X.
THE MYSTIC--ALCOTT 249
XI.
THE CRITIC--MARGARET FULLER 284
XII.
THE PREACHER--THEODORE PARKER 302
XIII.
THE MAN OF LETTERS--GEORGE RIPLEY 322
XIV | 3,430.352858 |
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ABOLITION A SEDITION.
BY A NORTHERN MAN.
PHILADELPHIA:
GEO. W. DONOHUE,
NO. 22, SOUTH FOURTH STREET.
MDCCCXXXIX.
Entered according to the Act of Congress, in the
year 1839, by GEO. W. DONOHUE, in the Clerk's
Office of the Eastern District of Pennsylvania.
+---------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber's Notes: |
| |
| 1. Obvious printer and typographical errors |
| silently corrected. |
| 2. Archaic and inconsistent spelling and |
| punctuation retained. |
+---------------------------------------------+
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
The character of the Abolition organization
CHAPTER II.
The American Anti-slavery Society a seditious organization
CHAPTER III.
The seditious character of the Annual Report of the American
Anti-slavery Society, of 1838
CHAPTER IV.
The seditious character of the American Anti-slavery Society
farther considered
CHAPTER V.
Violent reforms, and their connexion with Abolitionism
CHAPTER VI.
The Abolition organization borrowed from the religious world
CHAPTER VII.
The anarchical principles of Abolitionism
CHAPTER VIII.
The incendiary doctrines of Abolitionism
CHAPTER IX.
Political responsibility in regard to slavery
CHAPTER X.
The romance of Abolitionism
CHAPTER XI.
Every man mind his own business
CHAPTER XII.
Perfectionism
CHAPTER XIII.
Liberty and Equality
CHAPTER XIV.
Social and political effects of Abolitionism
CHAPTER XV.
The bad effects of Abolitionism on the free <DW52> population,
and on the condition and prospects of the slaves
CHAPTER XVI.
A hypothetical view of Abolitionism
CHAPTER XVII.
Abolitionism considered as proposing no compensation for slave
property
CHAPTER XVIII.
The condition of American slaves as compared with other portions
of the African race
CHAPTER XIX.
The example of the Quakers, or Society of Friends
CHAPTER XX.
The South have done with argument
CHAPTER XXI.
Reasons why the Abolition movement, under its present
organization, will overthrow the Government
CHAPTER XXII.
The Abolition organization destructive of republican liberty
PREFACE.
We trust it will be obvious to all, that it was impossible to treat
Abolitionism according to its merits, or to exhibit its true
character, without regarding it as a RELIGIOUS MOVEMENT. There are two
prominent features of the moral and religious history of our country,
with which we have been compelled to come in contact. We, therefore,
take this opportunity so far to explain, as to bar the accident of
being misapprehended. First, then, we have averred the philosophical
connexion of antecedent and consequence between _Abolitionism_ and
_violent reforms_. It is proper, therefore, that we should state how
much we are willing to be understood as meaning by this couplet of
terms, having such a relation to the subject of this work. We say,
then, that by _violent reforms_, we mean those religious and moral
agitations of our country, which have proved alike unfriendly to
religious and social order, which are generally disapproved by sober
Christians, and we believe by the great majority of Christians, of
all, or nearly all, denominations. It is possible, that on a single
point we have hit hard a cherished opinion of many persons, for whom
we have the greatest respect; but as it relates merely to a _mode_ of
action, we must claim to be indulged in our own opinion in that
matter, as we allow the same privilege to others.
In the next place, we have found it necessary, in the _exhibit_ we
have made of the political machinery of the Abolition movement, to
enquire into its origin; and it will be manifest to all, that it was
brought from the religious world. The fact, that the model of the
American Anti-slavery Society was borrowed from the Religious and
Benevolent Society system, could not implicate those institutions, in
the estimation of the public, unless they should see fit to follow the
same example, and so far as they might do it, by going over from the
religious and moral, into the political sphere; which, we trust, they
will be wise enough not to do. It was necessary to describe the
machinery of those Societies in order to give the true picture of the
one under particular consideration; but we have taken care at the same
time to state, that the American Anti-slavery Society has betrayed
and violated the principles of the Religious and Benevolent Society
system, by first assuming its model, and then passing over into the
field of political action. That all these machineries are well adapted
to political ends, whenever they may be perverted and applied in that
direction, it is unnecessary to say; and the only way to escape the
charge, is to avoid the fault. The Abolition Society has gone openly
into that field, on which account we have considered it fair and
exactly true to represent it as a _political organization_, and as
being necessarily such from the work it has taken in hand.
Having, therefore, explained on these two points, we submit the work,
without farther comment, to speak for itself.
_January 1, 1839._
CHAPTER I.
THE CHARACTER OF THE ABOLITION ORGANIZATION.
There seems to have been a uniform impression among the great majority
of the citizens of the United States, that the Abolition movement in
this country is wrong, as it stands related to our political fabric;
but the exact character and extent of this wrong have not been so well
defined in the public mind, as to enable the people to see how a
remedy can be applied to arrest and control the mischief that appears
to be growing out of this agitation. Every reflecting person in the
land sees and feels, that it threatens to break asunder the American
Union; and few doubt, that such will be the result, if it is permitted
to go on. We take for granted, that the almost unanimous voice of the
whole country would concur in the opinion, that a violent dissolution
of the American Republic would be the greatest calamity that could
happen in this Western world. Can it be, then, that there is no
Constitutional power to suppress an organization, the rise and course
of which tend so directly and so inevitably to the disruption and
demolition of the Federal Government? Certainly, it would be a great
and notable defect in the political structure of the United States,
if there were to be found in it no principle of conservation against
such a danger, and if the people of this country were compelled to see
an enemy start up among themselves, and march directly to the
overthrow of the Government, without any power to resist. Doubtless,
in a last resort, the Union is too dear to the American people
generally to allow it to be sacrificed without an attempt to maintain
it, even if there should prove to be no provision in the Constitution
and laws. The necessity and importance of the case would create a law
for the occasion. The people would feel, that they have a better | 3,430.353104 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
_THE GIRLS_
_OF_
_SILVER SPUR RANCH_
BY
GRACE MACGOWAN COOKE
AND
ANNE MCQUEEN
THE GOLDSMITH PUBLISHING COMPANY
_Chicago_
MANUFACTURED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
*LIST OF CHAPTERS*
I. A Question of Names
II. Roy Rides to Silver Spur
III. A Package and a Leather-Brown Phaeton
IV. A Jewel of Great Price
V. The Silver Spur Bakery
VI. A Shiny Black Box
VII. The Wire Cutter
VIII. A Partner of the Sun
IX. The Rose by Another Name
_*THE GIRLS OF*_*
*_*SILVER SPUR RANCH*_
*CHAPTER I*
*A Question of Names*
The girls of Silver Spur ranch were all very busy helping Mary, the
eldest, with her wedding sewing. Silver Spur was rather a pretentious
name for John Spooner's little Texas cattle-farm, but Elizabeth, the
second daughter, who had an ear attuned to sweet sounds, had chosen it;
as a further confirmation of the fact she had covered an old spur with
silver-leaf and hung it over the doorway. The neighboring ranchers had
laughed, at first, and old Jonah Bean, the one cowboy left in charge of
the small Spooner herd, always sniffed scornfully when he had occasion
to mention the name of his ranch, declaring that The Tin Spoon would
suit it much better. However, in time everybody became used to it, and
Silver Spur the ranch remained--somehow Elizabeth always had her own
way.
This young lady sat by the window in the little living-room where they
were all at work, and carefully embroidered a big and corpulent "B" on a
sofa-pillow for Mary, who was to marry, in a few days, a young man from
another state who owned the euphonious name of Bellamy--a name Elizabeth
openly envied him.
"I do think Spooner is such a horrid, commonplace sort of name," she
declared with emphatic disapproval. "Aren't you glad you'll soon be rid
of it, Mary?"
"Um-m," murmured Mary, paying scant heed to Elizabeth's query; she was
hemming a ruffle to trim the little muslin frock which was the last
unfinished garment of her trousseau, and she was too busy for argument.
"As if," continued Elizabeth, "the name wasn't odious enough, father
must needs go and choose a _spoon_ for his brand! And he might so
easily have made it a _fleur-de-lys_--fairly rubbing it in, as if it was
something to be proud of!"
Just then Mary, finding that the machine needle kept jabbing in one
place, looked about for a cause, and perceived Elizabeth tranquilly
rocking upon one of the unhemmed breadths of her ruffle.
"I'll be much obliged if you'll take your chair off my ruffle, Saint
Elizabeth," she laughed, tugging at the crumpled cloth, "and just don't
worry over the name--try and live up to your looks."
Elizabeth blushed a little as she stooped to disentangle the cloth from
her rocker; she was a very handsome girl, altogether unlike her sisters,
who were all rather short and dark, and plump looking, Cousin Hannah
Pratt declared, as much alike as biscuits cut out of the same batch of
dough. Elizabeth was about sixteen, tall and fair and slim, with large,
serious blue eyes and long, thick blond hair, which she wore plaited in
the form of a coronet or halo about her head--privately, she much
preferred the halo, as best befitting the character of her favorite
heroine, Saint Elizabeth, a canonized queen whom she | 3,430.354187 |
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PARENTHOOD AND RACE CULTURE
BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR
"WORRY: THE DISEASE OF THE AGE"
"EVOLUTION: THE MASTER KEY"
"HEALTH, STRENGTH, AND HAPPINESS"
Etc., Etc.
PARENTHOOD
AND
RACE CULTURE
An Outline of Eugenics
BY
CALEB WILLIAMS SALEEBY
M.D., Ch.B., F.Z.S., F.R.S. Edin.
FELLOW OF THE OBSTETRICAL SOCIETY OF EDINBURGH, MEMBER OF
COUNCIL OF THE EUGENICS EDUCATION SOCIETY, OF THE
SOCIOLOGICAL SOCIETY, AND OF THE NATIONAL LEAGUE
FOR PHYSICAL EDUCATION AND IMPROVEMENT
MEMBER OF THE ROYAL INSTITUTION
AND OF THE SOCIETY FOR THE
STUDY OF INEBRIETY
ETC., ETC.
[Illustration: Logo]
CASSELL AND COMPANY, LTD.
LONDON, NEW YORK, TORONTO AND MELBOURNE
1909
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Dedicated
TO
FRANCIS GALTON
THE
AUGUST MASTER OF ALL EUGENISTS
PREFACE
This book, a first attempt to survey and define the whole field of
eugenics, appears in the year which finds us celebrating the centenary
of the birth of Charles Darwin and the jubilee of the publication
of _The Origin of Species_. It is a humble tribute to that immortal
name, for it is based upon the idea of _selection for parenthood_
as determining the nature, fate and worth of living races, which is
Darwin's chief contribution to thought, and which finds in eugenics its
supreme application. The book is also a tribute to the august pioneer
who initiated the modern study of eugenics in the light of his cousin's
principle. A few years ago I all but persuaded Mr. Galton himself to
write a general introduction to eugenics, but he felt bound to withdraw
from that undertaking, and has given us instead his Memories, which we
could ill have spared.
The present volume seeks to supply what is undoubtedly a real need
at the present day--a general introduction to eugenics which is at
least considered and responsible. I am indebted to more than one
pair of searching and illustrious eyes, which I may not name, for
reading the proofs of this volume. My best hopes for its utility are
based upon this fact. If there be any other reason for hope it is
that during the last six years I have not only written incessantly on
eugenics, but have spoken upon various aspects of it some hundreds
of times to audiences as various as one can well imagine--a mainly
clerical assembly at Lambeth Palace with the Primate in the Chair,
drawing-rooms of title, working-class audiences from the Clyde to
the Thames. It has been my rule to invite questions whenever it was
possible. Such a discipline is invaluable. It gives new ideas and
points of view, discovers the existing forms of prejudice, sharply
corrects the tendency to partial statement. It is my hope that these
many hours of cross-examination will be profitable to the present
reader.
It has been sought to define the scope of eugenics, and my consistent
aim has been, if possible, to preserve its natural unity without
falling into the error, which I seem to see almost everywhere, of
excluding what is strictly eugenic. Our primary idea, beyond dispute,
is selection for parenthood based upon the facts of heredity. This,
however, is not an end, but a means. Some eugenists seem to forget
the distinction. Our end is a better race. If then, beyond selecting
for parenthood, it be desirable to take care of those selected--as,
for instance, to protect the expectant mother from alcohol, lead or
syphilis--that is strict eugenics on any definition worth a moment's
notice. It then appears, of course, that our demands come into contact
with those prejudices which political parties call their principles.
A given eugenic proposal or argument, for instance, may be stamped
as "Socialist" or as "Individualist," and people who have labelled
their eyes with these catchwords, which eugenics will ere long make
obsolete, proceed to judge eugenics by them. But the question is not
whether a given proposal is socialistic, individualistic or anything
else, but whether it is eugenic. If it is eugenic, that is final. To
this all parties will come, and by this all parties will be judged.
The question is not whether eugenics is, for instance, socialist, but
whether socialism is eugenic. I claim for eugenics that it is the final
and only judge of all proposals and principles, however labelled, new
or old, orthodox or heterodox. Some years ago I ventured to coin
the word eugenist, which is now the accepted term. With that label I
believe any man or woman may well be content. If this be granted, the
old catchwords and the bias they create forgotten, we may be prepared
to consider what the scope of eugenics really is.
Eugenics is not, for instance, a sub-section of applied mathematics.
It is at once a science, and a religion, based upon the laws of life,
and recognising in them the foundation of society. We shall some day
have a eugenic sociology, to which the first part of this volume seeks
to contribute: and the sociology and politics which have not yet
discovered that man is mortal will go to their own place.
Only when we begin to think and work continuously at eugenics is its
range revealed. The present volume is a mere introduction to the
principles of the subject: the full elucidation of its practice is a
problem for generations to come. Nor is it easy to set logical limits
to our inquiry. We may say that eugenics deals with conceptions: and
that the care of the expectant mother is outside its scope: but of what
use is it to have a eugenic conception if its product is thereafter
to be ruined by, for instance, the introduction of lead into the
mother's organism? Again, the care of the individual is, in part, a
eugenic concern: for if we desire his offspring we desire that he shall
not contract transmissible disease nor vitiate his tissues with such
a racial poison as alcohol. Plainly, everything that affects every
possible parent is a matter of eugenic concern: and not only those
factors which affect the choice for parenthood.
It follows that the second portion of this volume, which deals with the
practice of eugenics, cannot be more than merely indicative. In the
available space it has been attempted to define certain constituents
of practical eugenics, but in any case the entire ground has not been
surveyed. The concept of the _racial poisons_ may be commended to
special consideration. Whether a poison be so-called "chemical," as
lead, or made by a living organism, as the poison of syphilis, is of
great practical importance, because of the infection involved in the
second case: but, in principle, both cases belong to the same category.
Sooner or later, eugenists must face the transmissible infections,
and repudiate as hideous and devilish the so-called morality which
discountenances any attempt to save unborn innocence from a nameless
fate. He or she who would rather leave this matter is placing
"religion" or "morality" or "politics" above the welfare of the life
to come, and therein continuing the daily prostitution of those great
names.
Again, the practice of eugenics may be commended and accepted as the
business of the patriot: and two chapters have been devoted to the
question as seen from the national point of view. I am of nothing
more certain than that the choice for Great Britain to-day is between
national eugenics and the fate of all her Imperial predecessors from
Babylon to Spain. The whole book might have been written from this
standpoint, but such a book would have been beneath the true eugenic
plane, which is not national but human. I believe in the patriotism of
William Watson, who desires the continuance of his country because, as
he addresses her,
"O England, should'st thou one day fall,
. . . . . . .
Justice were thenceforth weaker throughout all
The world, and truth less passionately free,
And God the poorer for thine overthrow."
This is a patriotism as splendid and vital as the patriotism of the
music-halls and of the political and journalistic makers of wars is
foul and fatal: and it is only in terms of such patriotism that the
appeal to love of country is permissible in the advocacy of eugenics,
which is a concern for all mankind.
The prophet of that kind of Imperialism which has destroyed so many
Empires, has lately approved the emigration of our best to the
Colonies, on the ground that "it is good to give the second eleven
a chance." But as students of history know, it is at the heart that
Empires rot. The case of Ireland is at present an insoluble one
because the emigration of the worthiest has had full sway. So with the
agricultural intellect: the "first eleven" having gone to the towns.
Rome sent her "first eleven" to her Colonies: if you were not good
enough to be a Roman soldier you could at least remain and be a Roman
father: and the children of such fathers perished in the downfall of
the Empire which they could no longer sustain. I can imagine no more
foolish or disastrous advice than this of Mr. Kipling's, in commending
that transportation of the worthiest which, thoroughly enough persisted
in, must inevitably mean our ruin.
The national aspect of eugenics suggests its international aspect, and
its inter-racial aspect. Not having spent six weeks rushing through
the United States, I am unfortunately dubious as to the worth of any
opinions I may possess regarding the most urgent form of this question
to-day. I mistrust not merely the brilliant students who, unhampered
by biological knowledge, pierce to the bottom of this question in
the course of such a tour, but also the humanitarian bias of those
who, like M. Finot, or the distinguished American sociologist, Mr.
Graham Brooks, would almost have us believe that the <DW64> is mentally
and morally the equal of the Caucasian. Least of all does one trust
the vulgar opinions of the man in the street. Wisdom on this matter
waits for the advent of real knowledge. Similarly in the matter of
Caucasian-Mongolian unions. I question whether any living man knows
enough to warrant the expression of any decided opinion on this
subject. Merely I here recognise miscegenation in general as a problem
in eugenics, to which increasing attention must yearly be devoted.
But it would have been ridiculous to attempt to deal with that great
subject here. As for the marriage of cousins, to take the opposite
case, I always reply to the question, "Should cousins marry?" that it
depends upon the cousins. The good | 3,430.354344 |
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Internet Archive)
ROGER THE BOLD
_A TALE OF THE CONQUEST OF MEXICO_
BY LT.-COLONEL F. S. BRERETON
Author of "The Dragon of Pekin | 3,430.357723 |
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Produced by Judith Boss and Charles Keller. HTML version by Al Haines.
Thuvia, Maid of Mars
By
Edgar Rice Burroughs
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I Carthoris and Thuvia
II Slavery
III Treachery
IV A Green Man's Captive
V The Fair Race
VI The Jedd | 3,430.447809 |
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Produced by Dianna Adair, Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Eleni
Christofaki 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.)
Transcriber's Note.
A list of the changes made can be found at the end of the book.
Mark-up: _italic_
=bold=
+spaced+
==blackletter==
Woodward's Historical Series.
No. V.
THE
==Witchcraft Delusion==
IN
NEW ENGLAND:
ITS
RISE, PROGRESS, AND TERMINATION,
AS EXHIBITED BY
Dr. COTTON MATHER,
IN
_THE WONDERS OF THE INVISIBLE WORLD;_
AND BY
Mr. ROBERT CALEF,
IN HIS
_MORE WONDERS OF THE INVISIBLE WORLD_.
WITH A
==Preface, Introduction, and Notes==,
BY SAMUEL G. DRAKE.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
_The Wonders of the Invisible World._
PRINTED FOR W. ELLIOT WOODWARD,
ROXBURY, MASS.
MDCCCLXVI.
No. 103
Entered according to Act of Congress in the Year 1865,
By SAMUEL G. DRAKE,
in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States
for the District of Massachusetts.
EDITION IN THIS SIZE 280 COPIES.
MUNSELL, PRINTER.
TO
MY MORE THAN BROTHER,
HARLOW ROYS,
WHO AT ALL TIMES
ALIKE IN PROSPERITY AND ADVERSITY
HAS STOOD MY FRIEND,
WHO WHEN MY STEPS SEEMED RAPIDLY
DESCENDING INTO THE "DARK VALLEY"
AND
"THE RIVER" WITH THE "BOATMAN PALE"
WERE CLOSE BEFORE ME,
CHEERED ME BY HIS PRESENCE
AND HELD ME BACK BY THE GRASP OF HIS STRONG HAND,
WARM WITH LIFE AND LOVE,
IN TOKEN OF AN AFFECTION WHICH
STRONG AT FIRST,
AS YEARS PASS AND WE GROW OLDER
GROWS MORE INTENSE,
I DEDICATE THESE VOLUMES.
W.
[Decoration]
PREFATORY.
THE Object in giving to the Public this new Edition of the _Wonders
of the Invisible World_, is mainly to preserve an accurate Reprint of
that _wonderful_ Book. At the same Time it is intended to show that
its Author has unjustly been singled out and held up to everlasting
Scorn, as though he had been the Instigator of the whole Mischief; that
from his high Standing socially he was more prominent than any other
Man, and that this occasioned his being especially held responsible
is clearly true. His ready Pen also largely contributed to place him
in the front Rank of those whom that woeful Delusion led captive; he
having written more largely upon the Subject than any other.
The first Edition of the _Wonders of the Invisible World_ was published
in Boston early in the Year 1693, at which Time _Witches_ had begun
to grow scarce; in other Words, Prosecutions had nearly ceased, and
People were seriously looking about themselves, and anxiously inquiring
what they had been about? The serious Inquirers were those (though few
in Number) who had from the Beginning had Doubts as to the Reality of
Witchcraft. When this Class began to reason, their Strength began to
concentrate, and in due Time it put an End to the Horrors which had so
strongly tended to the Ruin of the whole Community. Until this Reaction
was brought about, no Person was for a Moment safe. Notwithstanding
this frightful State of Things was thus brought to a Stand, a large
Portion of the People retained all their Faith in the Reality of
Witchcraft, and many of them exclaimed in Despair, that "the
Kingdom of Satan had prevailed," and that they were a "God-forsaken
People." In this latter Class was the Author of the _Wonders of the
Invisible World_. He never wavered in his Faith to the very End,
because his Conviction that he had espoused the Truth was stronger
than any Argument which could be brought against it. Some others of
the Ministers, and one or two of the Judges were equally sanguine
in their own Righteousness. And yet we find the following cautious
Piece of Advice given by "several Ministers to his Excellency and the
Honourable Council":--"We judge that in the Prosecution of these, and
all such Witchcrafts, there is Need of a very critical and exquisite
Caution, lest by too much Credulity for Things received only upon the
Devil's Authority, there be a Door opened for a long Train of miserable
Consequences, and Satan get an Advantage over us, for we should not be
ignorant of his Devices." For all this it is not easy to discover the
Practice of any of that "exquisite Caution" in the Proceedings against
those accused.
No sooner was the Edition of the _Wonders_ printed in Boston, than
Copies were sent to London and reprinted there with all Dispatch, as
will be seen by the "_Imprimatur_" in the Front of the Work. Mr. Deodat
Lawson's "_Brief and True Narrative_" of the same Affair was printed in
Boston in 1692, by Benj. Harris, and the next Year in London by John
Dunton, in Connection with Dr. Increase Mather's "_Further Account of
the Tryals of the New England Witches_." A second (in Fact, it was
the third) Edition of Mr. Lawson's Work was issued in London in 1704,
which, though he calls it a _second Edition_ is quite a different
Book from the first Edition. In the first he inserted the Names of
the Parties, while in the last, Dashes stand in their Stead. It has
two Dedications: one "To the Right Worshipful and truly Honourable,
Sir Henry Ashhurst, Barrᵗ. and to His Truly Honourable and Religious
Consort, Lady Diana Ashhurst, Barrᵗ:" signed Deodat Lawson. The other
is "To the Worshipful and Worthily Honoured _Bartholomew Gidney_, _John
Hathorne_, and _Jonathan Corwin_, Esqrs. Together with the Reverend
_Mr. John Higginson_, Pastor, and Mr. _Nicholas Noyes_ Teacher of
the Church of Christ at Salem." Signed Deodat Lavson. It should be
mentioned also that Dr. I. Mather's "_Further Account_," &c., contains
Nothing beyond a Reprint of Lawson's Book, (first Edition) except a
"_Letter_" containing "_A further Account of the Tryals of the New
England Witches_," sent "_to a Gentleman in London_." This Letter was
added at the End of the "_Further Account_." It was probably written by
Mr. Mather to John Dunton, his Friend and Publisher, and occupies about
three additional Pages.
In this Reprint of the _Wonders_ I have followed the second Edition,
presuming that to be the most accurate, as the Copy from which it was
printed was doubtless furnished by the Author.
Very few Copies of the original Edition are known to be in Existence.
I have never owned one, and am indebted to my Friend, GEORGE BRINLEY,
Esq., for the Use of his (rather imperfect) Copy. While this Preface
was in the Hands of the Printer, my Publisher, Mr. WOODWARD, has had
the rare Fortune to obtain a very good one.
At this Period the Press literally swarmed with Works upon Witchcraft.
Dunton printed in rapid Succession all the Works from New England, and
other Publishers were equally busy. It would be a Matter of no little
Curiosity if some one would collect the Titles of the Works on this
Subject, and publish them in Book Form, with, or even without Abstracts
of their Contents. In a unique Volume now before me, belonging to
Harvard College Library--for the Loan of which I am indebted to the
Kindness of Mr. SIBLEY, the Librarian--there are several Tracts, the
Titles of which are quite as singular as any of the Mathers. One
or two I will here extract. "The Lancashire Levite Rebuk'd: or, a
Vindication of the Dissenters from Popery, Superstition, Ignorance,
and Knavery, unjustly Charged on them by Mr. Zachary Taylor in his
Book, entitled, "The Surry Impostor." Another runs thus | 3,430.452863 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "YOU HAVE MADE ME ONCE MORE IN LOVE WITH THE GOODNESS OF
GOD, IN LOVE WITH LIFE" See page 325]
Adrian
Savage
A Novel
BY LUCAS MALET
AUTHOR OF
"SIR RICHARD CALMADY"
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
MCMXI
[Illustration: Title page]
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY HARPER & BROTHERS
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
PUBLISHED OCTOBER, 1911
TO
GABRIELLE FRANCESCA LILIAN MARY
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED. UPON
HER BIRTHDAY. AS A LOVE-TOKEN
BY
LUCAS MALET
THE ORCHARD, EVERSLEY AUGUST 28, 1911
CONTENTS
I
CONCERNING THE DEAD AND THE LIVING
CHAP.
I. In which the Reader is Invited to Make the Acquaintance of the Hero
of this Book
II. Wherein a Very Modern Young Man Tells a Time-Honored Tale with but
Small Encouragement
III. Telling How René Dax Cooked a Savory Omelette, and Why Gabrielle
St. Leger Looked Out of an Open Window at Past Midnight
IV. Climbing the Ladder
V. Passages from Joanna Smyrthwaite's Locked Book
VI. Some Consequences of Putting New Wine into Old Bottles
VII. In which Adrian Helps to Throw Earth into an Open Grave
VIII. A Modern Antigone
II
THE DRAWINGS UPON THE WALL
I. A Waster
II. The Return of the Native
III. A Straining of Friendship
IV. In which Adrian Sets Forth in Pursuit of the Further Reason
V. With Deborah, under an Oak in the Parc Monceau
VI. Recording the Vigil of a Scarlet Homunculus and Aristides the Just
III
THE OTHER SIDE
I. Recording a Brave Man's Effort to Cultivate His Private Garden
II. A Strategic Movement which Secures Victory while Simulating Retreat
III. In which Euterpe is Called Upon to Play the Part of Interpreter
IV. Some Passages from Joanna Smyrthwaite's Locked Book
V. In which Adrian's Knowledge of Some Inhabitants of the Tower House
is Sensibly Increased
VI. Which Plays Seesaw between a Game of Lawn Tennis and a Prodigal Son
VII. Pistols or Politeness--For Two
VIII. "Nuit de Mai"
IV
THE FOLLY OF THE WISE
I. Re-enter a Wayfaring Gossip
II. In the Track of the Brain-storm
III. In which the Storm Breaks
IV. On the Heights
V. De Profundis
V
THE LIVING AND THE DEAD
I. Some Passages from Joanna Smyrthwaite's Locked Book
II. Recording a Sisterly Effort to Let in Light
III. In which Joanna Embraces a Phantom Bliss
IV. "Come Unto These Yellow Sands"
V. In which Adrian Makes Disquieting Acquaintance with the Long Arm of
Coincidence
VI. Concerning a Curse, and the Manner of Its Going Home to Roost
VII. Some Passages from Joanna Smyrthwaite's Locked Book
VIII. In which a Strong Man Adopts a Very Simple Method of Clearing His
Own Path of Thorns
IX. Wherein Adrian Savage Succeeds in Awakening La Belle au Bois Dormant
PREFATORY NOTE
I will ask my readers kindly to understand that this book is altogether
a work of fiction. The characters it portrays, their circumstances and
the episodes in which they play a part, are my own invention.
Every sincere and scientific student of human nature and the social
scene must, of necessity, depend upon direct observation of life for
his general types--the said types being the composite photographs with
which study and observation have supplied him. But, for the shaping of
individual characters out of the said types, he should, in my opinion,
rely exclusively upon his imagination and his sense of dramatic
coherence. Exactly in proportion as he does this can he claim to be a
true artist. Since the novel, to be a work of art, must be impersonal,
neither autobiographical nor biographical.--I am not, of course,
speaking of the historical novel, whether the history involved be
ancient or contemporary, nor am I speaking of an admitted satire.
I wish further to assure my readers that the names of my characters
have been selected at random; and belong, certainly in sequence of
Christian and surname, to no persons with whom I am, or ever have been,
acquainted. I may also add that although I have often visited
_Stourmouth_ and its neighborhood--of which I am very fond--my
knowledge of the social life of the district is of the smallest, while
my knowledge of its municipal and commercial life is _nil_.
Finally, the lamented disappearance of _La Gioconda_, from the _Salon
Carré_ of the Louvre, took place when the whole of my manuscript was
already in the hands of the printers. May I express a pious hope that
this most seductive of women will be safely restored to her former
dwelling-place before any copies of my novel are in the hands of the
public?
LUCAS MALET.
_August_ 28, 1911
I
CONCERNING THE DEAD AND THE LIVING
ADRIAN SAVAGE
CHAPTER I
IN WHICH THE READER IS INVITED TO MAKE THE
ACQUAINTANCE OF THE HERO OF THIS BOOK
Adrian Savage--a noticeably distinct, well-groomed, and well-set-up
figure, showing dark in the harsh light of the winter afternoon against
the pallor of the asphalt--walked rapidly across the Pont des Arts,
and, about half-way along the _Quai Malaquais_, turned in under the
archway of a cavernous _porte-cochère_. The bare, spindly planes and
poplars, in the center of the courtyard to which this gave access,
shivered visibly. Doubtless the lightly clad, lichen-stained nymph to
whom they acted as body-guard would have shivered likewise had her
stony substance permitted, for icicles fringed the lip of her tilted
pitcher and caked the edge of the shell-shaped basin into which, under
normal conditions, its waters dripped with a not unmusical tinkle. Yet
the atmosphere of the courtyard struck the young man as almost mild
compared with that of the quay outside, along which the northeasterly
wind scourged bitingly. Upon the farther bank of the turgid,
gray-green river the buildings of the Louvre stood out pale and stark
against a sullen backing of snow-cloud. For the past week Paris had
cowered, sunless, in the grip of a black frost. If those leaden
heavens would only elect to unload themselves of their burden the
weather might take up! To Adrian Savage, in excellent health and
prosperous circumstances, the cold in itself mattered nothing--would,
indeed, rather have acted as a stimulus to his chronic appreciation of
the joy of living but for the fact that he had to-day been suddenly and
unexpectedly called upon to leave Paris and bid farewell to one of its
inhabitants eminently and even perplexingly dear to him. Having, for
all his young masculine optimism, the artist's exaggerated sensibility
to the aspects of outward things, and equally exaggerated capacity for
conceiving--highly improbable--disaster, it troubled him to make his
adieux under such forbidding meteorologic conditions. His regrets and
alarms would, he felt, have been decidedly lessened had kindly sunshine
set a golden frame about his parting impressions.
Nevertheless, as--raising his hat gallantly to the concierge, seated in
her glass-fronted lodge, swathed mummy-like in shawls and mufflers--he
turned shortly to the left along the backs of the tall, gray houses, a
high expectation, at once delightful and disturbing, took possession of
him to the exclusion of all other sensations. For the past eighteen
months--ever since, indeed, the distressingly sudden death of his old
friend, the popular painter Horace St. Leger--he had made this selfsame
little pilgrimage as frequently as respectful discretion permitted.
And invariably, at the selfsame spot--it was where, as he noted
amusedly, between the third and fourth of the heavily barred
ground-floor windows a square leaden water-pipe, running the height of
the house wall from the parapet of the steep slated roof, reached the
grating in the pavement--this quickening of his whole being came upon
him, however occupied his thoughts might previously have been with his
literary work, or with the conduct of the bi-monthly review of which he
was at once assistant editor and part proprietor. This quickening
remained with him, moreover, as he entered a doorway set in the near
corner of the courtyard and ran up the flights of waxed wooden stairs
to the third story. In no country of the civilized world, it may be
confidently asserted, do affairs of the heart, even when virtuous,
command more indulgent sympathy than in France. It followed that
Adrian entertained his own emotions with the same eager and friendly
amenity which he would have extended to those of another man in like
case. He was not in the least contemptuous or suspicious of them. He
permitted cynicism no smallest word in the matter. On the contrary, he
hailed the present ebullience of his affections as among those
captivating surprises of earthly existence upon which one should warmly
congratulate oneself, having liveliest cause for rejoicing.
To-day, as usual, there was a brief pause before the door of the
vestibule opened. A space of delicious anxiety---carrying him back to
the poignant hopes and despairs of childhood, when the fate of some
anticipated treat hangs in the balance--while he inquired of the trim
waiting-maid whether her mistress was or was not receiving. Followed
by that other moment, childlike, too, in its deliciously troubled
emotion and vision, when, passing from the corridor into the warm,
vaguely fragrant atmosphere of the long, pale, rose-red and
canvas- drawing-room, he once again beheld the lady of his
desires and of his heart.
From the foregoing it may be deduced, and rightly, that Adrian Savage
was of a romantic temperament, and that he was very much in love. Let
it be immediately added, however, that he was a young gentleman whose
head, to employ a vulgarism, was most emphatically screwed on the right
way. Only child of an eminent English physician of good family, long
resident in Paris, and of a French mother--a woman of great personal
charm and some distinction as a poetess--he had inherited, along with a
comfortable little income of about eighteen hundred pounds a year, a
certain sagacity and decision in dealing with men and with affairs, as
well as quick sensibility in relation to beauty and to drama. Artist
and practical man of the world went, for the most part, very happily
hand and hand in him. At moments, however, they quarreled, to the
production of complications.
The death of both his parents occurred during his tenth year, leaving
him to the guardianship of a devoted French grandmother. Under the
terms of Doctor Savage's will one-third of his income was to be applied
to the boy's maintenance and education until his majority, the
remaining two-thirds being set aside to accumulate until his
twenty-third birthday. "At that age," so the document in question
stated, "I apprehend that my son will have discovered in what direction
his talents and aptitudes lie. I do not wish to fetter his choice of a
profession; still I do most earnestly request him not to squander the
considerable sum of money into possession of which he will then come,
but to spend it judiciously, in the service of those talents and
aptitudes, with the purpose of securing for himself an honorable and
distinguished career." This idea that something definite, something
notable even in the matter of achievement was demanded from him, clung
to the boy through school and college, acting--since he was healthy,
high-spirited, and confident--as a wholesome incentive to effort. Even
before fulfilling his term of military service, Adrian had decided what
his career should be. Letters called him with no uncertain voice. He
would be a writer--dramatist, novelist, an artist in psychology, in
touch at all points with the inexhaustible riches of the human scene.
His father's science, his mother's poetic gift, should combine, so he
believed, to produce in him a very special vocation. His ambitions at
this period were colossal. The raw material of his selected art
appeared to him nothing less than the fee-simple of creation. He
planned literary undertakings beside which the numerically formidable
volumes of Balzac or Zola shriveled to positive next-to-nothingness.
Fortunately fuller knowledge begot a juster sense of proportion, while
his native shrewdness lent a hand to knocking extravagant conceptions
on the head. By the time he came into possession of the comfortable
sum of money that had accumulated during his minority and he was free
to follow his bent, Adrian found himself contented with quite modest
first steps in authorship. For a couple of years he traveled, resolved
to broaden his acquaintance with men and things, to get some clear
first-hand impressions both of the ancient, deep-rooted civilizations
of the East and the amazing mushroom growths of America. On his return
to Paris, it so happened that a leading bi-monthly review, which had
shown hospitality to his maiden literary productions, stood badly in
need of financial support. Adrian bought a preponderating interest in
it; and by the time in question--namely, the winter of 190- and the
dawn of his thirtieth year--had contrived to make it not only a
powerful factor in contemporary criticism and literary output, but a
solid commercial success.
To be nine-and-twenty, the owner of a well-favored person, of admitted
talent and business capacity, and to be honestly in love, is surely to
be as happily circumstanced as mortal man can reasonably ask to be.
That the course of true love should not run quite smooth, that the
beloved one should prove elusive, difficult of access, that obstacles
should encumber the path of achievement, that mists of doubt and
uncertainty should drift across the face of the situation, obscuring
its issues, only served in Adrian's case to heighten interest and whet
appetite. The last thing he asked was that the affair should move on
fashionable, conventional lines, a matter for newspaper paragraphs and
social gossip. The justifying charm of it, to his thinking, resided in
precisely those elements of uncertainty and difficulty. If, in the
twentieth century, a man is to subscribe to the constraints of marriage
at all, let it at least be in some sort marriage by capture! And, as
he told himself, what man worth the name, let alone what artist, what
poet--vowed by his calling to confession of the transcendental, the
eternally mystic and sacred in this apparently most primitive, even
savage, of human relations--would choose to capture his exquisite prey
amid the blatant materialism, the vulgar noise and chaffer of the
modern social highway; rather than pursue it through the shifting
lights and shadows of mysterious woodland places, the dread of its
final escape always upon him, till his feet were weary with running,
and his hands with dividing the thick, leafy branches, his ears, all
the while, tormented by the baffling, piercing sweetness of the
half-heard Pipes of Pan?
Not infrequently Adrian would draw himself up short in the midst of
such rhapsodizings, humorously conscious that the artistic side of his
nature had got the bit, so to speak, very much between its teeth and
was running away altogether too violently with its soberer, more
practical, stable companion. For, as he frankly admitted, to the
ordinary observer it must seem a rather ludicrously far cry from Madame
St. Leger's pleasant, well-found flat, in the center of cosmopolitan
twentieth-century Paris, to the arcana of pagan myth and legend! Yet,
speaking quite soberly and truthfully, it was of such ancient, secret,
and symbolic things he instinctively thought when looking into
Gabrielle St. Leger's golden-brown eyes and noting the ironic
loveliness of her smiling lips. That was just the delight, just the
provocation, just what differentiated her from all other women of his
acquaintance, from any other woman who, so far, had touched his heart
or stirred his senses. Her recondite beauty--to quote the phrase of
this analytical lover--challenged his imagination with the excitement
of something hidden; though whether hidden by intentional and delicate
malice, or merely by lack of opportunity for self-declaration, he was
at a loss to determine. Daughter, wife, mother, widow--young though
she still was, she had sounded the gamut of woman's most vital
experiences. Yet, it seemed to him, although she had fulfilled, and
was fulfilling, the obligations incident to each of these several
conditions in so gracious and irreproachable a manner, her soul had
never been effectively snared in the meshes of any net. Good Catholic,
good housewife, sympathetic hostess, intelligent and discriminating
critic, still--he might be a fool for his pains, but what artist
doesn't know better than to under-rate the fine uses of folly?--he
believed her to be, either by fate or by choice, essentially a _Belle
au Bois Dormant_; and further believed himself, thanks to the workings
of constitutional masculine vanity, to be the princely adventurer
designed by providence for the far from disagreeable duty of waking her
up. Only just now providence, to put it roughly, appeared to have
quite other fish for him to fry. And it was under compulsion of such
prospective fish-frying that he sought her apartment overlooking the
_Quai Malaquais_, this afternoon, reluctantly to bid her farewell.
CHAPTER II
WHEREIN A VERY MODERN YOUNG MAN TELLS A
TIME-HONORED TALE WITH BUT SMALL ENCOURAGEMENT
Disappointment awaited him. Madame St. Leger was receiving; but, to
his chagrin, another visitor had forestalled his advent--witness a
woman's fur-lined wrap lying across the lid of the painted Venetian
chest in the corridor. Adrian bestowed a glance of veritable hatred
upon the garment. Then, recognizing it, felt a little better. For it
belonged to Anastasia Beauchamp, an old friend, not unsympathetic, as
he believed, to his suit.
Sympathy, however, was hardly the note struck on his entrance. Miss
Beauchamp and Madame St. Leger stood in the vacant rose-red carpeted
space at the far end of the long room, in front of the open fire. Both
were silent; yet Adrian was aware somehow they had only that moment
ceased speaking, and that their conversation had been momentous in
character. The high tension of it held them to the point of their
permitting him to walk the whole length of the room before turning to
acknowledge his presence. This was damping for Adrian, who, like most
agreeable young men, thought himself entitled to and well worth a
welcome. But not a bit of it! The elder woman--high-shouldered,
short-waisted, an admittedly liberal sixty, her arms disproportionate
in their length and thinness to her low stature--continued to hold her
hostess's right hand in both hers and look at her intently, as though
enforcing some request or admonition.
Miss Beauchamp, it may be noted in passing, affected a certain
juvenility of apparel. To-day she wore a short purple serge
walking-suit. A velvet toque of the same color, trimmed with sable and
blush-roses, perched itself on her elaborately dressed hair, which, in
obedience to the then prevailing fashion, showed not gray but a full
coppery red. Her eyebrows and eyelids were darkly penciled, and powder
essayed to mask wrinkles and sallowness of complexion. Yet the very
frankness of these artifices tended to rob them of offense; or, in any
serious degree--the first surprise of them over--to mar the genial
promise of her quick blue-gray eyes and her thin, witty, strongly
marked, rather masculine countenance. Adrian usually accepted her
superficial bedizenments without criticism, as just part of her
excellent, if somewhat bizarre, personality. But to-day--his temper
being slightly ruffled--under the cold, diffused light of the range of
tall windows, they started, to his seeing, into quite unpardonable
prominence--a prominence punctuated by the grace and the proudly
youthful aspect of the woman beside her.
Madame St. Leger was clothed in unrelieved black, from the frill, high
about her long throat, to the hem of her trailing cling skirts. Over
her head she had thrown a black gauze scarf, soberly framing her
heart-shaped face in fine semi-transparent folds, and obscuring the
burnished lights in her brown hair, which stood away in soft, dense
ridges on either side the parting and was gathered into a loose knot at
the back of her head. Her white skin was very clear, a faint scarlet
tinge showing through it in the round of either cheek. But just now
she was pale. And this, along with the framing black gauze scarf,
developed the subtle likeness which--as Adrian held--she bore, in the
proportions of her face and molding of it, to Leonardo's world-famous
"Mona Lisa" in Salon Carré of the Louvre. The strange recondite
quality of her beauty, and the challenge it offered, were peculiarly in
evidence; thereby making, as he reflected, cruel, though unconscious,
havoc of the juvenile pretensions of poor Anastasia. And this was
painful to him. So that in wishing--as he incontestably did--the said
Anastasia absent, his wish may have been dictated almost as much by
chivalry as by selfishness.
All of which conflicting perceptions and emotions tended to rob him of
his habitual and happy self-assurance. His voice took on quite
plaintive tones, and his gay brown eyes a quite pathetic and orphaned
expression, as he exclaimed:
"Ah! I see that I disturb you. I am in the way. My visit is
inconvenient to you!"
The faint tinge of scarlet leaped into Madame St. Leger's cheeks, and
an engaging dimple indicated itself at the left corner of her closed
and smiling mouth. Meanwhile Anastasia Beauchamp broke forth
impetuously:
"No, no! On the contrary, it is I who am in the way, though our dear,
exquisite friend is too amiable to tell me so. I have victimized her
far too long already. I have bored her distractingly."
"Indeed, it is impossible you should ever bore me," the younger woman
put in quietly.
"Then I have done worse. I have just a little bit angered you," Miss
Beauchamp declared. "Oh! I know I have been richly irritating,
preaching antiquated doctrines of moderation in thought and conduct.
But '_les vérités bêtes_' remain '_les vérités vraies_,' now as ever.
With that I go. _Ma toute chère et belle_, I leave you. And," she
added, turning to Adrian, "I leave you, you lucky young man, in
possession. Retrieve my failures! Be as amusing as I have been
intolerable.--But see, one moment, since the opportunity offers. Tell
me, you are going to accept those articles on the Stage in the
Eighteenth Century, by my poor little protégé, Lewis Byewater, for
publication in the Review?"
"Am I not always ready to attempt the impossible for your sake, dear
Mademoiselle?" Adrian inquired gallantly.
"Hum--hum--is it as bad as that, then? Are his articles so impossible?
Byewater has soaked himself in his subject. He has been tremendously
conscientious. He has taken immense trouble over them."
"He has taken immensely too much; that is just the worry. His
conscience protrudes at every sentence. It <DW8>s, it positively
impales you!" The speaker raised his neat black eyebrows and broad
shoulders in delicate apology. "Alas! he is pompous, pedantic, I
grieve to report; he is heavy, very heavy, your little Byewater. The
eighteenth-century stage was many things which it had, no doubt, much
better not have been, but was it heavy? Assuredly not."
"Ah! poor child, he is young. He is nervous. He has not command of
his style yet. You should be lenient. Give him opportunity and
encouragement, and he will find himself, will rise to the possibilities
of his own talent. After all," she added, "every writer must begin
some time and somewhere!"
"But not necessarily in the pages of my Review," Adrian protested.
"With every desire to be philanthropic, I dare not convert it into a
_crèche_, a foundling hospital, for the maintenance of ponderous
literary infants. My subscribers might, not unreasonably, object."
"You floated René Dax."
"But he is a genius," Madame St. Leger remarked quietly.
"Yes," Adrian asserted, "there could be no doubt about his value from
the first. He is extraordinary."
"He is extraordinarily perverted," cried Miss Beauchamp.
"I am much attached to M. René Dax." Madame St. Leger spoke
deliberately; and a little silence followed, as when people listen,
almost anxiously, to the sound of a pebble dropped into a well, trying
to hear it touch bottom. Miss Beauchamp was the first to break it.
She did so laughing.
"In that case, _ma toute belle_, you also are perverse, though I trust
not yet perverted. It amounts to this, then," she continued, pulling
her long gloves up her thin arms: "I am to dispose of poor Byewater,
shatter his hopes, crush his ambitions, tell him, in short, that he
won't do. Just Heaven, you who have arrived, how soon you become
cruel!" She looked from the handsome black-bearded young man to the
beautiful enigmatic young woman, and her witty, accentuated face bore a
singular expression. "Good-by, charming Gabrielle," she said.
"Forgive me if I have been tedious, for truly I am devotedly fond of
you. And good-by to you, Mr. Savage. Yes! I go to dispose of the
ill-fated Byewater. But ah! ah! if you only knew all I have done this
afternoon, or tried to do, to serve you!"
Whereupon Adrian, smitten by sudden apprehension of deep and possibly
dangerous issues, followed her to the door, crying eagerly:
"Wait, I implore you, dear Mademoiselle. Do not be too precipitate in
disposing of Byewater. I may have underrated the worth of his
articles. I will re-read, I will reconsider. Nothing presses. I have
to leave Paris for a week or two. Let the matter rest till my return.
I may find it possible, after all, to accept them."
Then, the door closed, he came back and stood on the vacant space of
rose-red carpet in the pleasant glow of the fire.
"She is a clever woman," he said, reflectively. "She has cornered me,
and that is not quite fair--on the Review. For they constitute a
veritable atrocity of dullness, those articles by her miserable little
Byewater."
"It is part of her code of friendship--it holds true all round. If she
helps others--"
Madame St. Leger left her sentence unfinished and, glancing with a hint
of veiled mockery at her guest, sat down in a carven, high-backed,
rose-cushioned chair at right angles to the fireplace, and picked up a
bundle of white needlework from the little table beside it.
"You mean that Miss Beauchamp does her best for me, too?" Adrian
inquired, tentatively.
But the lady was too busy unfolding her work, finding needle and
thimble to make answer.
"I foresee that I shall be compelled to print the wretched little
Byewater in the end," he murmured, still tentatively.
"Did you not tell Miss Beauchamp you were going away?" Gabrielle asked.
She had no desire to continue the conversation on this particular note.
"Yes, I leave Paris to-night. That is my excuse for asking to see you
this afternoon. But I feel that my visit is ill-timed. I observed
directly I came in that you looked a little fatigued. I fear you are
suffering. Ought you to undertake the exertion of receiving visitors?
I doubt it. Yet I should have been desolated had you refused me. For
I leave, as I say, to-night in response to a sudden call to England
upon business--that of certain members of my father's family. I am
barely acquainted with them. But they claim my assistance, and I
cannot refuse it. I could not do otherwise than tell you of this
unexpected journey, could I? It distresses me to find you suffering."
Gabrielle had looked at him smiling, her lips closed, the little dimple
again showing in her left cheek. His eagerness and volubility were
diverting to her. They enabled her to think of him as still very
young; and she quite earnestly wished thus to think of him. To do so
made for security. At this period Madame St. Leger put a very high
value upon security.
"But, indeed," she said, "I am quite well. The corridor is chilly, and
I have been going to and fro preparing a little _fête_ for Bette. She
has her friends, our neighbor Madame Bernard's two little girls, from
the floor below, to spend the afternoon with her. My mother is now
kindly guarding the small flock. But I could not burden her with
preliminaries.--I am quite well, and, for the moment, I am quite at
leisure. Bring a chair. Sit down. It is for me to condole with you
rather than for you to condole with me," she went on, in her quiet
voice, "for this is far from the moment one would select for a
cross-Channel journey! But then you are more English than French in
all that. Hereditary instincts assert themselves in you. You have the
islander's inborn sense of being cramped by the modest proportions of
his island, and craving to step off the edge of it into space."
The young man placed his hat on the floor, opened the fronts of his
overcoat, and drew a chair up to the near side of the low work-table
whence he commanded an uninterrupted view of his hostess's charming
person.
"That is right," she said. "Now tell me about this sudden journey. Is
it for long? When may we expect you back?"
"What do I know?" he replied, spreading out his hands quickly. "It may
be a matter of days. It may be a matter of weeks. I am ignorant of
the amount of business entailed. The whole thing has come upon me as
so complete a surprise. What induced my venerable cousin to select me
as his executor remains inexplicable. I remember seeing him when, as a
child, I visited England with my parents. I remember, also, that he
filled me with alarm and melancholy. He lived in a big, solemn house
on the outskirts of a great, noisy, dirty, manufacturing town in
Yorkshire. It was impressed upon me that I must behave in his presence
with eminent circumspection, since he was very religious, very
intellectual. I fear I was an impertinent little boy. He appeared to
me to worship a most odious deity, who permitted no amusements, no
holidays, no laughter; while his conversation--my cousin's, I mean, not
that of the Almighty--struck me as quite the dullest I had ever
listened to. I cried, very loud and very often, to the consternation
of the whole establishment, and demanded | 3,430.45392 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Stephen Hutcheson
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
BIRDS and NATURE
IN NATURAL COLORS
A MONTHLY SERIAL
FORTY ILLUSTRATIONS BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY
A GUIDE IN THE STUDY OF NATURE
Two Volumes Each Year
VOLUME XI
January, 1902, to May, 1902
EDITED BY WILLIAM KERR HIGLEY
CHICAGO
A. W. MUMFORD, Publisher
203 Michigan Ave.
1902
Copyright, 1902, by
A. W. Mumford
BIRDS AND NATURE.
ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.
Vol. XI. JANUARY, 1902. No. 1
CONTENTS.
A SONG FOR THE NEW YEAR’S EVE. 1
THE GOLDEN-CROWNED KINGLET. (_Regulus satrapa._) 2
THE TALKING PINE TREE. 5
THE KING RAIL. (_Rallus elegans._) 11
BETWEEN THE DAYLIGHT AND THE DARK. 12
TO A NUTHATCH. 13
THE BROWN-HEADED NUTHATCH. (_Sitta pusilla._) 14
MY RED-HEADED NEIGHBORS. 17
BEAUTIFUL SNOW. 20
THE SHARP-SHINNED HAWK. (_Accipiter velox._) 23
BIRDS ON THE WING. 24
A SUNSET CLUB. 25
QUARTZ. 26
EVENING IN THE CANYON. 30
BERRIES OF THE WOODS. 31
EARLY RECOLLECTIONS OF NATURAL OBJECTS. 32
TWO STRANGE HOMES. 32
THE GREENLAND WHALE. (_Balaena mysticetus._) 35
Through the silent watches of the night 37
THE THISTLE. 38
The smallest effort is not lost 41
WITH SILVER CHAINS AND GAY ATTIRE. 42
THE BIRDS IN THEIR WINTER HOME. (In the Woods.) 43
IRISH MOSS. (_Chondrus crispus lyngb._) 47
THE CARDINAL FLOWER. 48
A SONG FOR THE NEW YEAR’S EVE.
Stay yet, my friends, a moment stay—
Stay till the good old year,
So long companion of our way,
Shakes hands and leaves us here.
Oh stay, oh stay,
One little hour, and then away.
The year, whose hopes were high and strong,
Has now no hopes to wake;
Yet one hour more of jest and song
For his familiar sake.
Oh stay, oh stay,
One mirthful hour, and then away.
The kindly year, his liberal hands
Have lavished all his store.
And shall we turn from where he stands,
Because he gives no more?
Oh stay, oh stay,
One grateful hour, and then away.
Days brightly came and calmly went,
While yet he was our guest;
How cheerfully the week was spent!
How sweet the seventh day’s rest!
Oh stay, oh stay,
One golden hour, and then away.
Even while we sing he smiles his last,
And leaves our sphere behind.
The good old year is with the past;
Oh be the new as kind!
Oh stay, oh stay,
One parting strain, and then away.
—William Cullen Bryant.
THE GOLDEN-CROWNED KINGLET.
(_Regulus satrapa._)
The autumn wanes, and kinglets go,
Sweet-voiced and knightly in their way,
And all the birds our summers know,
They flock and leave us day by day.
—Frank H. Sweet, “Flocking of the Birds.”
In these pleasing words the poet speaks of the kinglets. Yet his words
may hardly apply to the Golden-crowned Kinglet, except in the
northernmost part of its range, for it winters from the northern border
of the United States southward to the Gulf of Mexico. “Muffled in its
thick coat of feathers, the diminutive Goldcrest braves our severest
winters, living evidence that, given an abundance of food, temperature
is a secondary factor in a bird’s existence.”
But little larger than a hummingbird, though unlike that mite of bird
life, it seeks in the cooler air of northern climes a place for its
nest. It also breeds throughout the length of the Rocky Mountains and in
the Alleghanies as far south as North Carolina.
This tiny and “charming sylvan ornament,” both elegant in dress and
graceful in movement, is one of the seven known species of kinglets, of
which there are but three that frequent the New World. It is very active
while searching for its food. Its colors are such that, as it moves from
twig to twig hunting for insects among the leaves, it is frequently hard
to locate though its voice may be heard among the tree tops.
Truly the name kinglet—little king—is not a misnomer, for the
Golden-crown exhibits a decided character in every motion. It is
fearless and though it will occasionally scold an intruder, wren-like,
it does not visually resent the presence of man. Often in the forest or
even in our city parks a Golden-crowned Kinglet will flash by one’s face
and, dropping to the ground, seize an insect or worm that its bright
eyes have detected in the grass, even at one’s feet.
Speaking of interesting phases of bird life, Mr. Keyser says, “On the
same day my dancing dot in feathers, the Golden-crowned Kinglet,
performed one of his favorite tricks, which is not often described in
the books. You will remember that in the center of the yellow
crown-patch of the males, there is a gleaming golden speck, visible only
when you look at him closely. But when the little beau is in a
particularly rollicksome mood, or wants to display his gem to his mate
or kindred, he elevates and spreads out the feathers of his crest, and
lo! a transformation. The whole crown becomes golden! That gleaming
speck expands until it completely hides the yellow and black of the
crown.” May we not say with Mr. and Mrs. Grinnell that Mr. Golden-crown
lifts his hat to Mrs. Golden-crown? We may learn patience and to be
satisfied with nature as we find it, if we will study the life of the
Golden-crown. It is always happy, always cheerful. Seemingly it flies
from bough to bough as contentedly in the rain as in the sunshine and in
cold as well as in warm weather. In many respects this kinglet resembles
the warblers, but it is much tamer. While seeking its food it exhibits
some of the characteristics of the flycatchers.
Mr. Brewster describes its song as beginning “with a succession of five
or six fine, shrill, high-pitched, somewhat faltering notes, and ending
with a short, rapid, rather explosive warble. The opening notes are
given in a rising key, but the song falls rapidly at the end. The whole
may be expressed as follows: Tzee, tzee, tzee, tzee, ti, ti, ter,
ti-ti-ti-ti.” Its call note is simply ti-ti uttered in a fine and well
modulated voice that is scarcely audible.
[Illustration: GOLDEN-CROWNED KINGLET.
(Regulus satrapa.)
Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]
The Golden-crown selects cone-bearing trees for its nest. This is
usually a pensil structure and is hung from the branches at from four to
fifty or more feet from the ground. It is globular in form with the
entrance near the top. Mosses and dead leaves are used in its
construction and it is lined with soft and fine fibers of bark and
feathers.
Someone has said of a Golden-crowned Kinglet: “I often spoke to him as
if he were a | 3,430.454818 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team
AUTHENTIC NARRATIVE OF THE DEATH OF LORD NELSON:
WITH
THE CIRCUMSTANCES PRECEDING, ATTENDING, AND
SUBSEQUENT TO, THAT EVENT;
THE PROFESSIONAL REPORT
ON HIS LORDSHIP'S WOUND,
AND
SEVERAL INTERESTING ANECDOTES.
BY WILLIAM BEATTY, M.D.
Surgeon to the Victory in the Battle of Trafalgar,
and now Physician to the Fleet under the Command
of the Earl of St. Vincent, K.B. &c. &c. &c.
London:
Printed By T. Davison, White-Friars;
For T. Cadell and W. Davies, in the Strand.
1807.
_TO THE PUBLIC_.
The Surgeon of the late illustrious Lord NELSON feels himself called
upon, from the responsible situation which he held on the eventful day
of the 21st of October 1805, to lay before the British Nation the
following Narrative. It contains an account of the most interesting
incidents which occurred on board the Victory. (Lord NELSON's flag-ship)
from the time of her sailing from England, in the month of September,
till the day of battle inclusively; with a detail of the particulars of
HIS LORDSHIP'S Death, the mode adopted for preserving his revered
Remains during the subsequent long passage of the Victory to England,
and the condition of the Body when it was deposited in Greenwich
Hospital. This short statement of facts is deemed a small but necessary
tribute of respect to the memory of the departed Hero, as well as a
professional document which the Public had a right to expect from the
man who had the melancholy honour of being his principal medical
attendant on that occasion: and is presumed to be not unappropriately
concluded by observations on the state of HIS LORDSHIP'S health for some
time previous to his fall; with his habits of life, and other
circumstances, strongly proving that few men had a greater prospect of
attaining longevity, on which account his premature death is the more to
be deplored by his Country.
It was originally intended that this Narrative should be published in
the LIFE OF LORD NELSON, undertaken by the Rev. J.S. CLARKE and J.
M'ARTHUR, Esq. and it will still form a part of that Work; but from the
length of time which must necessarily elapse before so extensive and
magnificent a Publication can be completed, the Author has been induced
to print it in a separate form.
Narrative
Lord NELSON sailed from St. Helen's in the Victory, with the Euryalus
frigate, on the morning of the 15th of September 1805, to take the
command of the British Fleet cruizing before Cadiz. On the 18th he
appeared off Plymouth; where he was joined by his Majesty's ships
Thunderer and Ajax, with which he proceeded for his destined station. On
the 20th he communicated by private signal with the squadron under the
command of Rear-Admiral STIRLING, which passed within a few miles of the
Victory; and the same day at noon, spoke his Majesty's ship Le Decade,
having on board Rear-Admiral Sir RICHARD BICKERTON, who, was on his
return to England for the recovery of his health.
Some bad weather and adverse winds were experienced by the Victory in
crossing the Bay of Biscay, and on the 27th Cape St. Vincent was seen.
Lord NELSON had dispatched the Euryalus ahead on the preceding day, to
acquaint Admiral COLLINGWOOD with his approach; and to direct that no
salute should take place, nor any public compliments be paid to his
flag, on his assuming the command, as he wished the Enemy to be kept
ignorant of a reinforcement being received by the British Fleet. In the
evening of the 28th, the Victory joined the Fleet; now consisting of
twenty-seven ships of the line, including the Victory, Ajax, and
Thunderer: the city of Cadiz was seen distant about fifteen miles, with
the Combined Fleets at anchor; and Admiral LOUIS, with five or six ships
under his command, close in shore, watching the motions of the Enemy.
On the 29th, prompt and decisive measures were adopted to prevent the
Enemy from receiving any supplies of provisions by sea, which His
LORDSHIP was informed they were very much distressed for: cruizers were
stationed off the Capes St. Vincent, St. Mary's, and Trafalgar; and the
frigates Euryalus and Hydra were ordered to keep off the entrance of
Cadiz. His LORDSHIP now retired with the Fleet to the vicinity of Cape
St. Mary's, about fifty or sixty miles westward of Cadiz; keeping up a
constant communication with the frigates in shore, by means of three or
four ships of the line placed at convenient intervals for distinguishing
the signals of each other. This distance from, the Enemy's port was
preserved by His LORDSHIP, to prevent them from being speedily
acquainted with the force of the Fleet under his command; and that he
might avoid the necessity of bearing up in bad weather, and running
with the Fleet through the Straits of Gibraltar when the westerly gales
prevailed: as the inconvenience of being forced into the Mediterranean,
had been felt by former Commanders in Chief; and would now have afforded
a favourable opportunity to the Enemy of effecting their escape from
Cadiz, or at all events have rendered their obtaining supplies less
difficult.
On the 1st of October Admiral LOUIS joined the Fleet, with a part of his
squadron (the Canopus, Spencer, and Tigre), from before Cadiz; and
departed the next day with those ships, the Queen, and the Zealous, for
Gibraltar, to procure a supply of provisions, stores, and water, which
they were much in want of. On the 4th he rejoined with his squadron;
having received intelligence from the Euryalus by telegraph, that the
French ships in Cadiz were embarking their troops, and preparing to
sail. Lord NELSON however conceived this to be merely intended as a
stratagem, to draw him nearer to Cadiz, for the purpose of obtaining a
knowledge of his force; and therefore directed Admiral LOUIS to proceed
in the execution of the orders before delivered to him.
Between the 7th and the 13th, His LORDSHIP was reinforced by the Royal
Sovereign, Belleisle, Defiance, Agamemnon, and Africa, from England, and
the Leviathan from Gibraltar. The Agamemnon, Sir EDWARD BERRY, joined on
the 13th;[1] with intelligence that she had been chased on the coast of
Portugal a few days before by an Enemy's squadron, consisting of six
sail of the line.
On the 13th in the evening, Sir ROBERT CALDER, in his Majesty's ship
the Prince of Wales, parted company with the Fleet, on his return to
England. His departure Lord NELSON had some days before evinced an
anxious wish to procrastinate, and was heard that very day to declare
his firm belief that the Combined Fleets would be at sea in the course
of ten days or a fortnight.[2]
On the 18th the Donegal, Captain MALCOLM, left the Fleet for Gibraltar.
On the 19th his Majesty's ships the Colossus, Mars, Defence, and
Agamemnon, formed the cordon of communication with the frigates in
shore: the Fleet was lying to. About half past nine in the morning, the
Mars, being one of the ships nearest to the Fleet, repeated the signal
from the ships further in shore, that "the Enemy were coming out of
port." Lord NELSON immediately ordered the general signal to be made,
with two guns, for a chace in the south-east quarter. The wind was now
very light; and the breezes partial, mostly from the south-south-west.
The Fleet made all possible sail; and about two o'clock the Colossus and
Mars repeated signals from the ships in shore, communicating the welcome
intelligence of "the Enemy being at sea." This cheered the minds of all
on board, with the prospect of realizing those hopes of meeting the
Enemy which had been so long and so sanguinely entertained. It was well
known to His LORDSHIP, that all the Enemy's ships had the iron hoops on
their masts painted black; whereas the British ships, with the exception
of the Belleisle and Polyphemus, had theirs painted yellow: and as he
considered that this would serve for a very good mark of distinction in
the heat of battle, he made known this circumstance to the Fleet, and
ordered the Belleisle and Polyphemus to paint their hoops yellow; but the
evening being far advanced when the signal was made to them for this
purpose, His LORDSHIP, fearing that it might not be distinctly
understood, sent the Entreprenante cutter to them to communicate the
order.
During the night the Fleet continued steering to the south-east under
all sail, in expectation of seeing the Enemy; and at day-break on the
20th found itself in the entrance of the Straits of Gibraltar, but
nothing of the Enemy to be discovered. The Fleet now wore, and made sail
to the north-west; and at seven in the morning the Phoebe was seen
making signals for "the Enemy bearing north." At eight o'clock the
Victory hove to; and Admiral COLLINGWOOD, with the Captains of the Mars,
Colossus, and Defence, came on board, to receive instructions from His
LORDSHIP; at eleven minutes past nine they returned to their respective
ships, and the Fleet made sail again to the northward.
In the afternoon the wind increased, and blew fresh from the south-west;
which excited much apprehension on board the Victory, lest the Enemy
might be forced to return to port. The look-out ships, however, made
several signals for seeing them, and to report their force and bearings.
His LORDSHIP was at this time on the poop; and turning round, and
observing a group of Midshipmen assembled together, he said to them with
a smile, "This day or to-morrow will be a fortunate one for you, young
men," alluding to their being promoted in the event of a victory.
A little before sunset the Euryalus communicated intelligence by
telegraph, that "the Enemy appeared determined to go to the westward."
His LORDSHIP upon this ordered it to be signified to Captain BLACKWOOD
(of that ship) by signal, that "he depended on the Euryalus for keeping
sight of the Enemy during the night." The night signals were so clearly
and distinctly arranged by His LORDSHIP, and so well understood by the
respective Captains, that the Enemy's motions continued to be made known
to him with the greatest facility throughout the night: a certain number
of guns, with false fires and blue lights announced their altering their
course, wearing, and making or shortening sail; and signals
communicating such changes were repeated by the look-out ships, from the
Euryalus to the Victory.
The Enemy wore twice during the night: which evolution was considered by
His LORDSHIP as shewing an intention, on their part, of keeping the port
of Cadiz open; and made him apprehend that on seeing the British Fleet,
they would effect their retreat thither before he could bring them to a
general action. He was therefore very careful not to approach their
Fleet near enough to be seen by them before morning.
The British Fleet wore about two o'clock in the morning; and stood on
the larboard tack with their heads to the northward, carrying their
topsails and foresails, and anxiously expecting the dawn of day. When
that period arrived, the Combined Fleets were distinctly seen from the
Victory's deck, formed in a close line of battle ahead on the starboard
tack, standing to the south, and about twelve miles to leeward. They
consisted of thirty-three ships of the line; four of which were
three-deckers, and one of seventy guns: the strength of the British
Fleet was twenty-seven ships of the line; seven of which were
three-deckers, and three of sixty-four guns. Lord NELSON had, on the
10th, issued written Instructions to the Admirals and Captains of the
Fleet individually, pointing out his intended mode of attack in the
event of meeting the Enemy;[3] and now, previously to appearing himself
on deck, he directed Captain HARDY to make the necessary signals for the
order and disposition of the Fleet accordingly.
HIS LORDSHIP came upon deck soon after day-light: he was dressed as
usual in his Admiral's frock-coat, bearing on the left breast four stars
of different orders which he always wore with his common apparel.[4] He
displayed excellent spirits, and expressed his pleasure at the prospect
of giving a fatal blow to the naval power of France and Spain; and spoke
with confidence of | 3,430.654051 |
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DEDICATION.
To WILLIAM RENSHAW, Esq., Champion of England,
this book is dedicated by his friend and pupil
the Author.
LAWN-TENNIS.
BY
JAMES DWIGHT.
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED BY
WRIGHT & DITSON, BOSTON, U. S. A.,
AND
“PASTIME” OFFICE, 28 PATERNOSTER ROW,
LONDON, E. C.
COPYRIGHT
1886,
By JAMES DWIGHT.
PREFACE.
There is at present no work on Lawn-Tennis written by any of the
well-known players or judges of the game, and it is with great
diffidence that I offer this book to fill the gap until something
better comes.
It is intended for beginners, and for those who have not had the
opportunity of seeing the best players and of playing against them.
To the better players it would be presumption for me to offer advice.
I should not, indeed, have ventured to write at all had I not had
unusual opportunities of studying the game against the best players,
and especially against the Champion, Mr. W. Renshaw, and his brother.
CONTENTS.
PART I.
CHAP. PAGE
PREFACE vii
I. HOW TO LEARN TO PLAY 1
II. THE COURT AND IMPLEMENTS OF THE GAME 6
III. THE SERVICE 12
IV. THE FIRST STROKE 18
V. THE STROKE 21
VI. THE VOLLEY 23
VII. THE HALF-VOLLEY 28
VIII. THE LOB 30
PART II.
I. THE GAME 32
II. MATCH PLAY 46
III. THE DOUBLE GAME 56
IV. LADIES’ AND GENTLEMEN’S DOUBLES 64
V. UMPIRES AND UMPIRING 68
VI. ODDS 71
VII. BISQUE 73
VIII. CASES AND DECISIONS 80
IX. LIST OF WINNERS 88
LAWN-TENNIS.
PART I.
CHAPTER I.
HOW TO LEARN TO PLAY.
One is often asked the best method of learning to play. I fancy that
the best way, could one often adopt it, would be to let a marker, as
in a tennis-court, hit the balls gently to the beginner, pointing out
to him his mistakes, so that he might not acquire a bad style. If he
begins by going on to the lawn and playing a game, his only object
will be to get the balls over the net, and he will be almost sure to
fall into bad habits of play. This is, however, the most amusing way
to learn, and will probably always be the one in general use. If the
novice does adopt it, let him at least watch good players whenever he
can, not with any idea of trying their severe volleys, &c., but in
order to see the position of the feet and of the racket in play. When
he has learned to play fairly well, he should still watch good players
at every opportunity; but what he then needs to study is the position
in the court where they stand; when they go forward and when back,
and what balls they volley instead of playing off the ground. He will,
in this way, get some idea of the form which he should try to acquire.
Mr. E. L. Williams, in a recent article in the _Lawn-Tennis Magazine_,
advises playing against a wall, and I believe in the benefit obtained
from this sort of practice. In fact, I have often advised players to
try it. Any sort of a wall will do; the wall of a room, if there is
nothing better. Hit the ball quietly up against the wall, wait till it
has bounded and is just beginning to fall, then hit it as nearly as
possible in the same place. Always make a short step forward as you
hit, with the left foot in a forehanded stroke, and with the right in a
backhanded one. Try to hold the racket properly (see page 10), and do
not hit with a stiff arm. The shoulder, elbow, and wrist ought all to
be left free, and not held rigid. As soon as you can hit the ball up a
few times forehanded, try the same thing backhanded, and when you are
reasonably sure of your stroke, take every ball alternately fore and
backhanded. This will give you equal practice in both strokes, and will
also force you to place the ball each time. Add now a line over which
the ball must go; in a room a table or bureau will do very well, and,
if possible, mark out a small square in which the ball shall strike.
This may sound very childish to a beginner, but I am sure that very
valuable practice can be got in this way, and I have spent a great many
hours in a room at this occupation. After a time you should volley
every ball, first on one side and then on the other. Then half-volley,
and after that try all the different combinations: volley forehanded,
and half-volley backhanded, &c. Always stick to some definite plan, as
in that way you get practice in placing. There is another stroke that
can well be learned in this way. Hit the ball up against the wall so
that it will strike the ground on your left and go completely by you,
then step across and backward with your right foot, swing on the left
foot till your back is towards the wall, and try to return the ball by
a snap of your wrist. With practice, you will manage to return a ball
that has bounded five or six feet beyond you. Try also the same stroke
on the forehand side. You can get in this way alone more practice in
handling a racket, and in making the eye and hand work together, than
you are likely to get in ten times the length of time out of doors.
Ask some friend, who really knows, to tell you if you hold your racket
in the right way, and to point out to you any faults of style that you
may have. It is of the greatest importance not to handicap yourself
at the start by acquiring bad form. Good form is simply the making of
the stroke in the best way, so as to get the greatest effect with the
least exertion. While nothing can be more graceful than good form, no
one should make it his chief object to play gracefully; the result will
only be to make him look absurd.
When you begin to play games, do not try all the strokes that you see
made. Begin by playing quietly in the back of the court. Try simply to
get the ball over the net, and to place to one side or the other, and
to do this in good form, _i.e._, to hold the racket properly, and to
carry yourself in the right way. As you improve you can increase the
speed of your strokes, and can play closer to the side-lines. Remember
that a volleying game is harder to play, and you should learn to play
well off the ground before trying anything else. Above all things,
never half-volley. If you can return the ball in | 3,430.748776 |
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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_.
THE BIRTH OF THE NATION
[Illustration: The First English Church in America.]
'Tis just three hundred years ago
We sailed through unknown Narrows
And landed on an unknown coast
Amid a flight of arrows.
We planted England's standard there,
And taught the Western savage.
In its defence we lightly held
His tomahawk and ravage.
And there, between two forest trees,
We raised our first rude altar;
Roofed by a storm-rent sail we read
Old England's Prayers and Psalter,
An echo in the strange, new land
Awoke to slumber never:
It caught old England's battle-word--
"God and my Right" forever!
THE BIRTH OF THE NATION
JAMESTOWN, 1607
BY
MRS. ROGER A. PRYOR
AUTHOR OF "THE MOTHER OF WASHINGTON AND HER TIMES," "REMINISCENCES
OF PEACE AND WAR"
ILLUSTRATIONS
BY WILLIAM DE LEFTWICH DODGE
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., Ltd.
1907
All rights reserved
COPYRIGHT, 1907,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
Set up and electrotyped. Published March, 1907.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
To
M. GORDON PRYOR RICE
IN TOKEN OF
HER MOTHER'S LOVE
AND ADMIRATION
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I PAGES
Jamestown Celebration. Legends of the Discovery of America. 1-7
Columbus. The Cabots. Pope Alexander VI. Amerigo Vespucci. The
Power of Spain. Queen Elizabeth's Patent. Sir Humphrey
Gilbert. Our Shores only sighted by the English before 1600
CHAPTER II
Sir Walter Raleigh. Expedition to Islands near North | 3,430.752241 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Wah-na-gi.]
*THE SILENT CALL*
BY
*EDWIN MILTON ROYLE*
AUTHOR OF "THE SQUAW-MAN," "THE STRUGGLE EVERLASTING,"
"FRIENDS," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS :: NEW YORK
Published by arrangement with Charles Scribner's Sons
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY
EDWIN MILTON ROYLE
Published May, 1910
To
MY FATHER AND MOTHER
WHOSE YOUNG HEARTS HAVE PRESERVED THE IDEALS OF
OLD-FASHIONED ROMANCE THROUGH FIFTY-THREE YEARS OF
WEDDED LIFE, THIS STORY IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED BY
THE AUTHOR
April 12th, 1910
*THE SILENT CALL*
*CHAPTER I*
Not even snow is as white as these great masses of congealed foam
floating in a deep blue sky, six thousand feet above the sea, and yet
somewhere out of this deep cool infinity flamed a sun that searched the
mesa until it blistered and cracked. The alkali plain quivered and
burst into spirals of heat that were visible to the eye. A cloud of
dust hung like white smoke above the fiery trail over which a band of
Indian police was slowly and painfully crawling. This dust is very
penetrating and very irritating. The reins hung limp on the ponies'
necks and their heads swung low as though they looked for a place to
sink down.
As far as the eye could see you would have known that they were Indians.
The uniform furnished them by the government is a dark purplish blue
with a red piping down the trousers. It's a plain affair, but each
Indian wears it with a difference and adds a decorative touch that is
his own, and that is always pictorial and Indian. One had encircled his
broad-brimmed black hat with a wide purple ribbon, lapped by a narrow
pink ribbon. A yellow neckerchief rested on his green silk shirt, and
about his waist was a sash braided of many worsteds, and,
strange to say, the result was pleasing if rather brilliant. Another had
a pink feather apparently plucked from the tail of the domestic duster
tied loosely to his hat, which lent to the changing airs a graceful note
of color. Some wore cowboy boots, yellow and elaborately stitched in
fancy designs; others adhered to the ever beautiful moccasins. Most of
them wore brown or drab cowboy hats, but made them their own by
beautifully beaded hat-bands. Here and there gleamed gauntlets heavy
with a stiff beaded deer which seemed trying to jump away from the
cuffs, but couldn't because it was so obviously and eternally stiff and
beaded. Some had beaded sleeve bands and all sported guns hung in
holsters elaborately outlined in brass. No one wore a coat except a
tall elderly man with glasses who, in spite of the torture, felt that
his out-of-date captain's uniform enhanced his straight unbending
dignity.
The police had no prisoner in charge, nor even an air of expectancy, or
remote or possible interest. Horse and man were as near sleep as it was
possible to be in the quivering heat. The pack animals were loaded with
surveyors' instruments, and there was evidently nothing more warlike or
strenuous on foot than to creep across the table-land and reach the
Agency. To the close observer even at a distance there was a difference
in the figures as they straggled through the sage-brush. The man who
rode behind was well set up and sat his horse like a cavalryman. He wore
khaki that fitted well his close-knit and athletic figure, and he
carried the suggestion of authority. He was the chief of Indian police.
"Calthorpe," as he called himself, hadn't explained himself and nothing
had as yet explained him. He had been from the first a mild mystery to
his neighbors, in a country where neighbors were few and far between,
and as he had a gift for silence, and it did not appear to be any one's
business in particular to unravel him, a task which might, too, involve
risk as well as trouble, he had remained a mystery. Oscar Wilde once
expressed great astonishment at finding a miner in Leadville reading
Darwin's "Origin of Species," but in this Western country one ought to
be surprised at nothing.
On closer observation, there was a certain resemblance between the
leader and his men. He might have been one of them with his swarthy
skin and coarse black hair, but that a startling pair of frank blue eyes
flashed out from their dark surroundings. They were friendly eyes set in
a strong, immobile face. He glanced at his companions, at the burning
plateau, then at his companions again.
"And they expect the hunter and warrior to turn farmer in a country like
this," he thought. A horned toad startled by the intrusion darted
across the trail from the shelter of one sage-brush to another--"In a
country that raises sage-brush, horned toads, and hell," and he laughed
softly to himself. "The Indian only gets the land the white man
wouldn't have." Then his eyes fell on the pack mules, and again the
blue eyes gleamed with amusement. "And sometimes valuable minerals are
found on land the white man refused, and then he wants even the
God-forsaken remnant he promised by solemn treaty never to take from the
red man and his children's children." "God-forsaken" was a stock phrase
for that country and Calthorpe reflected, "And it _is_ the last word in
desolation, the last word, but _I_ like it. Yes, I like it." And he was
amused with himself.
He didn't understand it or try to, but something in him responded to the
crimson and yellow glory of the cactus flower, the purple of the
thistle, the dull red of the "Indian's paintbrush," or, as the mountain
children call them, "bloody noses." He knew a secret joy when the pale
greens of the sage-brush and greasewood, and the live shimmer of the
scrub oak were relieved by the larkspur, wild roses, the white columbine
and sago lillies, and the flashing black and white of the magpie's wing,
and somehow he knew that these things were more appealing because set in
wide spaces and in silence and desolation.
By chance or telepathy something like this was passing through the mind
of another, a man in middle life who sat in front of a tent pitched on
the bank of a clear mountain stream that separated the Agency from the
rest of the Reservation. He was a big framed man, stoop shouldered,
with the face of a scholar and a saint. His clothes hung loosely on
him, and he sat as though it would be an exertion for him to rise. Near
by was the blasted trunk of a hollow tree. It had been fired by the
cigarette of some careless smoker, and it was afire within and
smouldering. A look at the man's pensive eyes showed that he too was
afire within and smouldering.
"Fine boy, strange boy," he mused. Then he caught the vibration of the
thought of the young chief of police who was riding toward him on the
dusty trail.
"Some sins," he thought, "are magnificent. Milton's villain is superb,
but"--and his eyes rested on the rather pretty cottage of the agent
nestling in a grove of trees below--"small sins are really inexcusable."
Rather an unusual reflection for a clergyman, who ought surely to be
irreconcilable to sin in any form. But then he _was_ unusual, the Rev.
Dr. John McCloud. "We send these wild children to our great cities, and
show them how hopeless it would be to resist our countless millions, but
we never show them righteousness. We only make the Indian hopeless.
And who of the countless millions knows or cares what happens to this
bewildered anachronism, this forlorn child of a day that is gone? With
really generous and noble purposes we hand him over to the spoiler, and
so a great people becomes _particeps criminis_ in petty larcenies and
other pitiful and ignoble wrongs. I wish I could awaken our people to
their privileges, their divine opportunities--not so much for the sake
of the Indian, but for our own sakes." And he coughed and sank deeper
into his camp chair. "Why should a great, mighty, enlightened people
stoop to crush such obviously harmless and helpless ones? Is it because
they have no votes, no lobby in Washington, are unorganized, obscure,
and ignorant?" And his eyes drooped to the book open on his lap and
rested on these figures: "7,000,000 families on a medium wage of $436 a
year, and 5,000,000 farmers with an average income of $350 a year.
Which means that 60,000,000 people must think before buying a penny
newspaper, that they must save and plan for months to get a yearly
holiday, that sickness means debt or charity, that things that make for
comfort or beauty in a home are out of the question."
"Yes, yes," he reflected, "that is it. Why should we trouble to save
the Indian? We are not even troubled to save our own. At least the Red
Man has the fresh air, the light, the sun," and his mind wandered back
to the crowded cities, with their gaunt men, slatternly women, and
pallid children.
Between this middle-aged man sitting under the flap of his tent and the
young man riding across the desert there had been from the first, quick,
instantaneous sympathy and understanding. And now the thought of each
jumped from the general to the particular.
"She's a fine woman," clicked the instrument in the elder man's head.
"It's very tragic, her situation. I wonder if the boy realizes its full
significance? I wonder if he knows his own peril?"
"She's a fine woman," was the response in the younger man's
consciousness. "I must speak to the agent about her. I've given her
such protection as I could, but he _is_ the man; it is _his_ duty. Duty
isn't Ladd's strong point, but perhaps I can ram it gently down his
throat. If he doesn't do it, it will lead to trouble," and he looked
grim and his teeth set.
He reined in his horse for a moment to take in the beauties of the view.
His men | 3,430.946955 |
2023-11-16 19:14:15.1271310 | 7,436 | 7 |
Produced by Annie R. McGuire. This book was produced from
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Archive.
[Illustration: Book Cover]
NOOKS AND CORNERS OF PEMBROKESHIRE.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE ROOD SCREEN ST. DAVIDS CATHEDRAL]
[Illustration: NOOKS & CORNERS OF PEMBROKESHIRE.
DRAWN & DESCRIBED BY
H. THORNHILL TIMMINS, F.R.C.S.
AUTHOR of
NOOKS & CORNERS OF HEREFORDSHIRE
LONDON:
ELLIOT STOCK, 62, PATERNOSTER ROW, E.C.
1895.]
PREFACE.
The kindly reception accorded to my 'Nooks and Corners of Herefordshire,'
both by the public and the press, has encouraged me (where, indeed,
encouragement was little needed) to set forth anew upon my sketching
rambles, and explore the Nooks and Corners of Pembrokeshire.
In chronicling the results of these peregrinations, I feel that I owe
some apology to those whose knowledge of the Shire of Pembroke is far
more thorough and intimate than my own, and upon whose preserves I may
fairly be accused of poaching. I venture to plead, in extenuation, an
inveterate love for exploring these unfrequented byways of my native
land, and for searching out and sketching those picturesque old
buildings that lend such a unique interest to its sequestered nooks and
corners.
Pembrokeshire is rich in these relics of a bygone time, but for one
reason or another they do not appear to have received the attention they
certainly deserve. Few counties can boast anything finer of their kind
than the mediaeval castles of Pembroke, Manorbere and Carew; while St.
Davids Cathedral and the ruined Palace of its bishops, nestling in their
secluded western vale, form a scene that alone is worth a visit to
behold. No less remarkable in their way are the wonderful old crosses,
circles and cromlechs, which remind the traveller of a vanished race as
he tramps the broad fern-clad uplands of the Precelly Hills. It is a
notable fact that 'he who runs may read,' in the diversified character
of its place-names, an important and interesting chapter of
Pembrokeshire history. The south-western portion of the county, with the
Saxon 'tons' of its Teutonic settlers, is as English as Oxfordshire, and
hence has acquired the title of 'Little England beyond Wales.' On the
other hand, the northern and eastern districts are as Welsh as the heart
of Wales; and there, as the wayfarer soon discovers for himself, the
mother-tongue of the Principality is the only one 'understanded of the
people.'
Although Pembrokeshire cannot pretend to lay claim to such striking
scenery as the North Wallian counties display, yet its wind-swept
uplands and deep, secluded dingles have a character all their own; while
the loftier regions of the Precelly Hills, and the broken and varied
nature of the seaboard, afford many a picturesque prospect as the
traveller fares on his way.
In compiling the following notes I have availed myself of Fenton's
well-known work on Pembrokeshire, and of the writings of George Owen of
Henllys; I have consulted the records of that prolific chronicler,
Gerald de Barri; Bevan's 'History of the Diocese of St. Davids; and
Jones and Freeman's exhaustive work on St. Davids Cathedral; besides
various minor sources of local information which need not be specified
here.
In conclusion, I take this opportunity to tender my sincere thanks to
those friends and acquaintances whose ready help and advice so greatly
facilitated my task, while at the same time enhancing the pleasure of
these sketching rambles amidst the Nooks and Corners of Pembrokeshire.
H. THORNHILL TIMMINS.
_Harrow_, 1895.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
A GENERAL SURVEY. THE KING'S TOWN OF TENBY 1
ROUND ABOUT THE RIDGEWAY 23
MANORBERE CASTLE, AND GIRALDUS CAMBRENSIS 41
PEMBROKE TOWN AND CASTLE. STACKPOLE AND THE SOUTHERN COAST 54
TO ANGLE, RHOSCROWTHER, AND THE CASTLE MARTIN COUNTRY 76
CAREW, WITH ITS CROSS, CASTLE AND CHURCH. UPTON CASTLE AND
CHAPEL. PEMBROKE DOCK AND HAVERFORDWEST 93
TO ST. BRIDES, MARLOES AND THE DALE COUNTRY 114
WESTWARD HO! TO ST. DAVIDS. THE CITY AND ENVIRONS 126
TO FISHGUARD, NEWPORT, GOODWIC AND PENCAER 142
NEWPORT, NEVERN AND TEIVYSIDE 149
A RAMBLE OVER PRECELLY HILLS, TO THE SOURCES OF THE CLEDDAU 167
ON AND OFF THE NARBERTH ROAD. LANGWM AND DAUGLEDDAU 178
INDEX TO ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
THE ROOD SCREEN, ST. DAVIDS CATHEDRAL _Frontispiece_
BECALMED OFF TENBY 8
TENBY 9
MACES PRESENTED TO TENBY BY CHARLES II. 11
THE CHANCEL OF ST. MARY'S CHURCH, TENBY 12
A BIT OF OLD TENBY 14
RUINS OF ST. MARY'S PRIORY AT TENBY 15
OLD HOUSES AT TENBY 16
THE WALLS OF TENBY TOWN 17
ST. GEORGE'S GATE, TENBY 18
THE PRIORY, CALDEY ISLAND 20
THE ANCIENT TREASURY OF TENBY 22
WEATHERCOCK ON TENBY STEEPLE 23
GUMFRESTON CHURCH 25
CHURCH PLATE AT GUMFRESTON 26
PENALLY HOUSE 32
AT LAMPHEY PALACE 36
THE CHANCEL, HODGESTON CHURCH 38
ANCIENT QUERN OR HAND MILL 40
KEYS OF MANORBERE CASTLE 41
MANORBERE CASTLE, FROM THE EAST 42
THE COURTYARD, MANORBERE CASTLE 42
GATE-TOWER, MANORBERE CASTLE 43
MANORBERE CASTLE, FROM THE SOUTH 44
DE BARRI TOMB, MANORBERE 47
THE CHURCH PATH, MANORBERE 49
MANORBERE CHURCH 50
ST. GEORGE AND THE DRAGON 54
PEMBROKE 55
PEMBROKE CASTLE 56
THE OLD WEST GATE, PEMBROKE 61
THE PRIOR'S DWELLING, MONKTON 62
SIR ELIDUR DE STACKPOLE 64
STACKPOLE 66
THE HIRLAS HORN 67
ST. GOVAN'S CHAPEL 69
ORIELTON 74
AT RHOSCROWTHER 75
SEA-POPPY 76
SEAMEN'S CHAPEL AT ANGLE 81
RUINED CASTLE AT ANGLE 82
JESTYNTON 85
AT RHOSCROWTHER 88
CASTLE MARTIN CHURCH 90
A WAYSIDE WELL 92
CASTLE MARTIN FONT 92
CAREW CROSS 93
THE CROSS OF THE SON OF ILTEUT, THE SON OF ECETT 94
A CORNER OF CAREW CASTLE 97
CAREW CASTLE 98
BOY-BISHOP, CAREW 99
OLD RECTORY HOUSE AT CAREW 100
UPTON CASTLE 101
OLD CHAPEL AT UPTON, NEAR PEMBROKE 103
FROM UPTON CHAPEL 106
LUCY WALTERS 107
JOHNSTONE CHURCH 108
A VIEW OF HAVERFORDWEST 109
BROTHER RICHARD'S TOMB, HAVERFORDWEST 110
ST. MARY'S, HAVERFORDWEST 111
ARMS OF HAVERFORDWEST 113
CHALICE AT DALE 114
WALTON-WEST CHURCH 115
WALWYN'S CASTLE 115
SUMMER SHOWERS, LITTLE HAVEN 116
LITTLE HAVEN 117
LOW TIDE AT LITTLE HAVEN 117
ST. BRIDES 118
ORLANDON 119
MULLOCK BRIDGE 120
MARLOES 121
MARLOES SANDS 122
DALE CASTLE, AND MILFORD HAVEN 123
'THIS IS BRUNT' 124
A RELIC OF THE SPANISH ARMADA 125
THE ST. DAVIDS COACH 126
ROCH CASTLE 127
SOLVA HARBOUR, FROM AN OLD PRINT 128
ST. DAVIDS CATHEDRAL 129
THE GATE-TOWER, ST. DAVIDS 129
THE BONE OF CONTENTION 130
SEAFARING PILGRIMS 131
THE BOATBUILDERS 132
ST. DAVID'S SHRINE 133
SYMBOL OF THE TRINITY, ST. DAVIDS 135
BISHOP GOWER'S PALACE, ST. DAVIDS 136
THE PALACE, ST. DAVIDS, FROM THE MEADOWS 137
OLD COTTAGE NEAR ST. DAVIDS 140
THE PRIEST AND THE LAYMAN 141
THE ROYAL OAK, FISHGUARD 142
CLOCK AT BRESTGARN 144
LLANWNDA CHURCH 145
THE CHALICE AT LLANWNDA 146
A DERELICT 148
SALMON FISHER WITH CORACLE 149
TREWERN CHAPEL AND BYRNACH'S CROSS, NEVERN 153
PILGRIMS' CROSS AT NEVERN 155
THE TOAD OF TRELLYFAN 156
CROMLECH AT PENTRE EVAN 158
A TEIVYSIDE CORACLE 161
KILGERRAN FERRY 162
KILGERRAN CASTLE, FROM THE TEIFY 163
LLECHRHYD BRIDGE 164
CASTLE MALGWYN 164
CROMLECH AT NEWPORT 166
OLD WELSHWOMAN 167
THE SKIRTS OF PRECELLY 168
THE HOWARD MONUMENT, AT RUDBAXTON 176
AT HAVERFORDWEST 177
CARVED BENCH-END, HAVERFORDWEST 178
OLD STAIRCASE AT HAVERFORDWEST 178
UZMASTON 179
LANGWM FISHWIVES 181
LAWRENNY CASTLE 182
BENTON CASTLE 183
PICTON CASTLE 185
SLEBECH OLD CHURCH 188
LLAWHADEN CASTLE AND BRIDGE 191
EGLWYSFAIR GLAN TAF 197
REDBERTH FONT 198
MAP OF PEMBROKESHIRE _at beginning_
SPEED'S MAP OF THE COUNTY _at end_
[Illustration: Map of Pembrokeshire]
CHAPTER I.
A GENERAL SURVEY. THE KING'S TOWN OF TENBY.
Far away beyond the many-folding hills of Brecon and Glamorgan, whose
hollow 'cwms' are seamed with smoke from many a pit and furnace: far
away beyond the broad uplands and fertile straths where Towey and Teivy
seek the sea; the ancient shire of Pembroke thrusts forth, against the
western main, its bold and rugged coast-line. From Strumble Head to
Caldey, the grim primaeval rocks that guard these storm-beaten shores
bear the full brunt of the Atlantic gales upon their craggy bastions;
which, under the ceaseless influence of time and tempest, have assumed
endless varieties of wild, fantastic outline and rich harmonious
colouring.
A weather-beaten land is this, where every tree and hedgerow tells, in
horizontal leeward sweep, of the prevalent'sou'-wester.' Few hills
worthy the name break these wide-expanded landscapes, above whose'meane
hills and dales' one graceful mountain range rises in solitary
pre-eminence. Stretching athwart the northern portion of the county, the
shapely peaks of the Precelly Mountains dominate every local prospect,
attaining in Moel Cwm Cerwyn a height of 1,760 feet, and throwing out
westwards the picturesque heights of Carn Englyn; whence the range
finally plunges seawards in the bold buttress of Dinas Head, and the
wild and rugged hills of Pencaer.
The inferior heights of Treffgarn and Plumstone'mountain,' whose
singular crags recall the tors of Cornwall, form a quaint feature in the
prospect during the otherwise tedious drive to St. Davids. Perched upon
the westernmost spur of these hills, the lonely peel-tower of Roch
Castle looks out across the wind-swept plains of old Dewisland to the
fantastic peaks of Carn Llidi and Pen-beri, whose ancient rocks rise
abruptly from the ocean.
Down from the broad, fern-clad shoulders of Precelly flow the few
Pembrokeshire streams that approach the dignity of rivers. Hence the
twin floods of Eastern and Western Cleddau, rising far asunder at
opposite ends of the range, meander southwards in widely-deviating
courses through the heart of the county, to unite beneath the walls of
Picton Castle, and merge at last into the tidal waters of Milford Haven.
Westwards flows the little river Gwaen, circling through a picturesque
vale beneath the shadow of Carn Englyn, and emerging from its secluded
inland course upon the narrow, land-locked harbour of Fishguard. Towards
the north a group of streamlets unite to form the Nevern River, which
flows, amidst some of the most charming scenery in the county, through
the village of that ilk. After passing beneath the luxuriant groves of
Llwyngwair, the Nevern stream enters a sandy bay and bears the modest
commerce of Newport to the waterside hamlet of Parrog.
The Newgale Brook sweeps around Roch Castle, and enters St. Bride's Bay
through a broad rampart of shingle and sand. This latter stream has from
very early times formed the boundary between the ancient provinces of
Dewisland and Rhos; and to this day the Newgale Brook draws a line of
demarcation between an English and a Welsh speaking people. Upon its
left bank lies Rhos, a portion of the district known as 'Little England
beyond Wales,' with its Saxon speech and Norman fortress of Roch; while
all to westward stretches venerable Dewisland, Welsh now as ever in
tongue and in title.
The Solva River, emerging from a deep and narrow 'cwm,' forms one of
the most picturesque harbours upon the coast--a tempting nook for the
artist. Lastly, the little Allan Water, rising amidst those curious
hills which overlook St. Davids, meanders past open, gorse-clad commons
and marshlands abloom with the golden flag. Thenceforth the Allan winds
around the ruins of the Bishop's palace, and finally loses itself in a
tiny haven frequented by a few trading craft and small coastwise
colliers.
Deep into the bluff outline of this sea-girt land, old Ocean encroaches
by two important inlets of widely different character. As the wayfarer
bound to St. Davids approaches his destination, the tedium of the long
coach-drive is at last relieved by the welcome outlook across a broad
expanse of sea. This is St. Bride's Bay, whose waters sweep inland past
the ancient city for a distance of ten miles or so, having the large
islands of Ramsey and Skomer lying upon either horn of the bay.
Tradition tells that, 'once upon a time,' a fair country studded with
villages and farmsteads flourished where now the ocean rolls; and traces
of submerged forests about Newgale, and elsewhere within the compass of
the bay, suggest a possible grain of truth in the local fable.
A few miles farther down the coast the famous estuary of Milford Haven
opens seaward between the sheltering heights of St. Anne's Head, and the
long, crooked peninsula of Angle. Wonderful are the ramifications of
this magnificent waterway, within whose spacious roadstead the whole
British navy might with ease find anchorage; while its land-locked tidal
reaches bear a modest local traffic to many a remote inland district,
calling up memories of savours nautical beside the grass-grown quays of
Pembroke and 'Ha'rfordwest.'
Well might Imogen marvel why Nature should have singled out 'this same
blessed Milford' for such a priceless endowment, exclaiming:
'Tell me how Wales was made so happy as
To inherit such a Haven.'
The quaint author of 'Polyolbion' no less enthusiastically remarks:
'So highly Milford is in every mouth renown'd,
Noe Haven hath aught good, that in her is not found;'
while lastly, not to be outdone, George Owen, the old Pembrokeshire
chronicler, declares his beloved 'Myllford Havon' to be the'most
famouse Porte of Christendome.'
Ever since those legendary days when St. Patrick sailed for the Emerald
Isle upon the traditional millstone, this incomparable haven has
continued to be a favourite point of departure for the opposite shores
of Ireland; and several historical personages appear at intervals in the
annals of local events. Hence, for example, Henry II. sailed away upon
his conquest of old Erin; while in the Fourth Henry's reign a large body
of French troops disembarked upon these shores, to co-operate in the
wars of 'the irregular and wild Glendower.' Yet another famous
individual, ycleped Henry ap Edmund ap Owain ap Meredydd ap Tydwr,
better known as Henry Tudor, Earl of Richmond, landed at Milford Haven
in the year of grace 1485, to set forth upon the historical campaign
which won for him a crown on Bosworth field. Here, again, the ubiquitous
Oliver Cromwell embarked with an army of some 15,000 men, to carry his
victorious arms against the rebellious Irish; and hence, in these piping
times of peace, the mail-boats sail at frequent intervals to the
seaports of the Emerald Isle.
Penetrating thus deeply into the country, one crooked arm of the great
estuary 'creketh in' beneath the stately ruins of Carew Castle, in such
wise as to partially 'peninsulate' a remote but interesting portion of
South Pembrokeshire, which is still further isolated by the low range of
the Ridgeway, between Pembroke and Tenby. This little district contains
within its limited compass a wonderful variety of ruined castles,
ancient priories, quaint old parish churches and curious, fortified
dwelling-houses of the English settlers.
Nestling in the more sheltered hollows, or clinging limpet-like to the
storm-swept uplands, these characteristic structures arouse the
wayfarer's interest as he paces the short, crisp turf rendered sweet by
the driven sea-spray. Occasionally he will set his course by some
prominent church steeple, which at the same time affords a landmark to
the passing mariner as he sails around the wild and iron-bound headlands
of the southern coast.
Throughout the length and breadth of Pembrokeshire, the constant
recurrence of camps, cromlechs, hut-circles and other prehistoric
remains, points to the existence of an extremely ancient people, whose
origin is involved in the mists of unrecorded antiquity. These primaeval
monuments, seemingly old as the bleak hills they crown, suggest many an
insoluble conundrum to the curious visitor, who, gazing in wonder upon
their weather-beaten yet indestructible masses, disposes of the archaic
enigma as best he may by exclaiming: 'There were giants in those days!'
Coming down to the comparative _terra-firma_ of historic times, we find,
at the period of the Roman invasion, a Celtic race called the Demetae
dwelling in the district of which our county forms a portion. The
masters of the world appear to have pushed their way to the western
seaboard, where, according to tradition, they established their colony
of Menapia beneath the shelter of the headland known to Ptolemy as
Octopitarum; connecting it, according to their custom, by the roadway of
Via Julia with their base at Muridunum, or Carmarthen; while the
probably still older road, called Via Flandrica, or Fordd Fleming,
afforded a route across the mountains to the north.
Taking another lengthy stride across the intervening centuries, we may
trace the footsteps of the Norman invaders. Under the leadership of
Arnulph de Montgomery, they overran these newly-conquered lands, and
established themselves in those great strongholds of Pembroke,
Manorbere, Carew, Haverfordwest and Roch, whose dismantled walls still
dominate the surrounding country.
The wild Welsh proving inconveniently restive, that astute monarch Henry
I. imported a colony of sturdy Flemings to assist in keeping order upon
these distant march-lands; an event which exerted a marked influence
upon the course of local history. These thrifty settlers received
further aid from the Second Henry, and settled down to cultivate the
land wrested from the Celtic peasantry.
The natives, however, still continued to behave in a very unneighbourly
fashion,'making,' as we are told,'verie sharpe warres upon the
Flemings, sometimes with gaine, sometimes with losse;' so that they
were obliged to build for themselves those strong, fortified
dwelling-houses whose massive remains are so frequently met with
throughout the southern parts of the county.
In course of time the language of the immigrants superseded the ancient
tongue of Celtic Dyfed, and thus that portion of the district comprised
within the hundreds of Castlemartin and Rhos acquired the title of
'Little England beyond Wales,' whose Saxon place-names, such as
Johnston, Williamston, Hodgeston and the like, contrast so strikingly
with the universal Llan-this, that and the other, still common
throughout the upper country.
We have already had occasion to refer to Henry of Richmond's famous
visit to Milford, and to recall the expeditions of Cromwell and other
prominent personages from that noble haven to Ireland. The French
'invasion' of Wales in 1797 will be referred to in dealing with the
scenes of that notorious exploit: and in the course of our narrative we
shall touch upon various other historical incidents connected with the
nooks and corners of this fascinating county.
Owing to the prevalence of westerly breezes from the open Atlantic,
tempered by the beneficent influence of the Gulf Stream, Pembrokeshire
is blessed with a mild and remarkably equable climate. Hence the air is
at the same time both dry and bracing, particularly in the southern
portion of the county, where, in sheltered situations, the myrtle,
fuchsia and syringa flourish _al fresco_ all the year round.
Nothing can exceed the luxuriance of the vegetation in the spacious
demesne of Stackpole Court, where, sheltered from the strong winter
gales that sweep across these gorse-clad uplands, the oak, ash, beech,
ilex, sycamore and other forest trees, 'crowd into a shade' beside the
lily-strewn meres whose placid waters mirror their spreading branches.
This favoured region boasts, we believe, an average temperature of about
50 deg. Fahr., and it has been shown by careful analysis that, taking one
season with another, there is little to choose between the average
climates of Madeira and of Tenby.
These favourable conditions do not, of course, obtain to the same degree
in the north; where rough winds occasionally sweep down from the
Precelly Mountains, driving keenly across the open country and retarding
the vegetation. Nevertheless there are sheltered nooks around Newport
and Fishguard where the eucalyptus, mulberry and fig-tree attain a
goodly stature.
Sun-warmed spots such as these form, however, mere oases of verdure
amidst the rolling, wind-swept uplands of the interior; where the
hardier trees alone rear their stunted forms above the rough stone walls
which serve in place of hedgerows, or cluster around a group of solid,
one-storied cottages, whose low walls, deep roofs and vast, bulging
chimneys are overspread with one universal coating of dazzling
whitewash; 'to keep out the weather,' as the country-folk will tell
you--very clean, no doubt, but the reverse of picturesque in appearance.
The native style of building is well exhibited in the ancient parish
churches, more especially in those towards the southern seaboard of the
county, which are distinguished by a rugged simplicity entirely in
keeping with the stern and sombre character of the surrounding
landscape. Of architecture there is but little; such beauty as the
edifice can boast having to be sought in the picturesque grouping of its
rambling gables beneath the tall, square, fortress-like tower; and the
quaint, unlooked-for character of the cavernous interior.
The nave is frequently covered with a rude stone barrel vault, from
which low vaulted transepts open out like cells on either hand, whence
vast'squints,' forming narrow passages, branch diagonally into the
chancel. Low arches, sometimes pointed, sometimes of a curious flat
shape and almost invariably devoid of mouldings, open into the aisles,
which are lighted by lancet windows of simple but good design; while
sometimes a roomy porch or handsome sedilia adds a touch of distinction
to an otherwise homely interior.
We may instance, as typical examples of these sacred edifices, the
churches of Gumfreston, St. Florence, Castlemartin and, _par
excellence_, of Manorbere. A handsomer development may be studied in the
parish churches of Tenby, Carew and Hodgeston, and the fine old priory
church of Monkton. The graceful thirteenth-century pillars and arches of
St. Mary's, Haverfordwest, are unusually ornate for this locality, and
are only excelled by the varied and beautiful architecture of St. Davids
Cathedral itself. There can be little doubt that the hard, intractable
nature of the local limestone is in some degree responsible for the
primitive characteristics of many of these churches; for, despite their
archaic appearance, they are rarely older than early thirteenth-century
times.
Beautiful in their decay are the time-honoured ruins of the episcopal
palaces of Lamphey and St. Davids; whose mellow-toned walls with their
singularly graceful arcades mark the constructive genius of Bishop
Gower, the Wykeham of the West.
The numerous mediaeval castles, whose ruined walls and ivy-mantled towers
so frequently meet the eye, form a striking feature in many a
picturesque scene; from the rugged bastions which cluster beneath the
mighty keep of Pembroke, and the many-windowed front of lordly Carew, to
the lonely peel-tower of Roch and the remote and isolated block-houses
which keep ward around the coast.
Having thus obtained a general _coup d'oeil_ of our field of action,
we will proceed to explore at our leisure the nooks and corners of this
pleasant countryside; so, with this purpose in view, we now make our way
to that highly-favoured watering-place, the 'King's town of Tenby.'
[Illustration: BECALMED OFF TENBY.]
One clear, calm evening in May of this drouthy year of grace 1893, we
emerge dusty and sun-baked from the tropical recesses of the 'tunnel
express,' alight at Tenby Station, and wend our way through the streets
of that clean little town to seaside quarters overlooking a
picturesque bay, where some fishing-craft lie quietly at anchor off the
harbour mouth. Towards sundown a miniature fleet of trawlers sweeps
gracefully landwards around the Castle Hill, looking for all the world
like a flight of brilliant butterflies; their russet sails glowing in
the warm light of the sun's declining rays with every hue from gold to
ruddy purple, recalling memories of gorgeous scenes on far-away Venetian
lagoons. Hailing from many a haven between Milford and strong-savoured
Brixham, these handy little vessels ply their calling around our
south-western shores; pushing their ventures, when opportunity serves,
to the North Sea fishing-grounds, and even to the remoter shores of
Scotland. The visitor curious in such matters soon learns to distinguish
between the well-found Brixham trawler and the handy sloop from Milford,
certain cabalistic letters painted upon the parti- sails
denoting the port where, according to custom, each boat is respectively
registered.
[Illustration: TENBY.]
Tenby town is in many respects happy in what a local historian quaintly
terms its 'approximation.' Turning its back upon the quarter whence blow
the strongest gales, and sheltered by the high ground of the Ridgeway,
that part of the town most frequented by visitors faces south by east
across the land-locked waters of Carmarthen Bay.
Hence a pleasant view is obtained of the opposite coast of Gower and the
more distant highlands of North Devon; while Caldey Island lies like a
breakwater against the waves of the open Channel. As shrewd old Leland
observes: 'Tinbigh Town standith on a main Rokke, but not very by; and
the Severn Se so gulfith in about hit that, at the ful Se, almost the
third part of the Toun is inclosid with water.'
Tenby can boast a fair sprinkling of good hotels and lodging-houses. The
town is made further attractive as a place of residence by a
well-appointed club, a circulating library, excellent public baths and a
small museum of local interest. Last, but by no means least amongst its
attractions, Nature has provided a broad expanse of firm, dry sands,
much appreciated by children and bathers at holiday times.
With a fair train-service upon the railway, good carriages and boats for
hire, and steamboats calling at intervals, Tenby affords a convenient
centre whence to explore the remoter recesses of South Pembrokeshire,
for few and far between are the resting-places for the wayfarer in that
rather inaccessible region.
Dynbych-y-Pysgod--the Little Town of Fish--appears to have been a place
of some importance from very early times. By the middle of the twelfth
century we find the town in the hands of the Flemish soldiery; and
subsequently disasters came thick and threefold upon the devoted
inhabitants. During the reign of Henry II., Maelgwyn ap Rhys, a person
who is euphemistically described as 'of civil behaviour and honesty in
all his actions,' ascertaining that many of the townsfolk were absent at
the foreign wars, made a sudden onslaught, set fire to the ill-fated
town, and burnt it to the ground. Less than a century later the place
was again taken and destroyed by Llewelyn ap Grufydd: and after a
further respite of about 200 years, the notorious Owain Glyndwr appeared
before the walls, laid siege to, and made himself master of the little
Western seaport.
Notwithstanding these misfortunes, 'the King's town of Tenby' henceforth
grew and prospered unmolested. In 1402 Tenby was made a corporate town;
and by the middle of the fifteenth century it had already become a
centre of considerable trade and enterprise, encompassed by strong stone | 3,431.147171 |
2023-11-16 19:14:15.1280250 | 6,539 | 238 |
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[Illustration: For a beginner that's the best schedule I ever saw.]
RALPH, THE TRAIN DISPATCHER
OR
THE MYSTERY OF THE PAY CAR
BY
ALLEN CHAPMAN
AUTHOR OF "RALPH OF THE ROUNDHOUSE," "RALPH IN THE SWITCH TOWER,"
"RALPH ON THE ENGINE," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
NEW YORK GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS
Made in the United States of America
THE RAILROAD SERIES
By Allen Chapman
Cloth. 12mo. Illustrated
RALPH OF THE ROUNDHOUSE Or, Bound to Become a Railroad Man
RALPH IN THE SWITCH TOWER Or, Clearing the Track
RALPH ON THE ENGINE Or, The Young Fireman of the Limited Mail
RALPH ON THE OVERLAND EXPRESS Or, The Trials and Triumphs of
a Young Engineer
RALPH, THE TRAIN DISPATCHER Or, The Mystery of the Pay Car
GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, New York
Copyright, 1911 by GROSSET & DUNLAP
Ralph, the Train Dispatcher
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I--THE OVERLAND EXPRESS
CHAPTER II--THE WRECK
CHAPTER III--TROUBLE BREWING
CHAPTER IV--THE WIRE TAPPERS
CHAPTER V--IKE SLUMP
CHAPTER VI--IN THE TUNNEL
CHAPTER VII--DANGER SIGNALS
CHAPTER VIII--THE OLD SWITCH SHANTY
CHAPTER IX--A SUSPICIOUS DISCOVERY
CHAPTER X--THE TRAIN DISPATCHER
CHAPTER XI--MAKING A SCHEDULE
CHAPTER XII--AT THE RELAY STATION
CHAPTER XIII--"HOLD THE LIMITED MAIL!"
CHAPTER XIV--OLD 93
CHAPTER XV--CHASING A RUNAWAY
CHAPTER XVI--THE WRECK
CHAPTER XVII--A STRANGE MESSAGE
CHAPTER XVIII--THE SLUMP "SECRET"
CHAPTER XIX--ON THE LOOKOUT
CHAPTER XX--A TRUSTY FRIEND
CHAPTER XXI--A DASTARDLY PLOT
CHAPTER XXII--HOLDING THE FORT
CHAPTER XXIII--ONE MINUTE AFTER TWELVE
CHAPTER XXIV--THE BATTLE OF WITS
CHAPTER XXV--A WILD NIGHT
CHAPTER XXVI--AN AMAZING ANNOUNCEMENT
CHAPTER XXVII--THE STOLEN PAY CAR
CHAPTER XXVIII--THE "TEST" SPECIAL
CHAPTER XXIX--"CRACK THE WHIP!"
CHAPTER XXX--THE PAY CAR ROBBER
CHAPTER XXXI--QUICK WORK
CHAPTER XXXII--CONCLUSION
CHAPTER I
THE OVERLAND EXPRESS
"Those men will bear watching--they are up to some mischief, Fairbanks."
"I thought so myself, Mr. Fogg. I have been watching them for some
time."
"I thought you would notice them--you generally do notice things."
The speaker with these words bestowed a glance of genuine pride and
approbation upon his companion, Ralph Fairbanks.
They were a great pair, these two, a friendly, loyal pair, the grizzled
old veteran fireman, Lemuel Fogg, and the clear-eyed, steady-handed
young fellow who had risen from roundhouse wiper to switchtower service,
then to fireman, then to engineer, and who now pulled the lever on the
crack racer of the Great Northern Railroad, the Overland express.
Ralph sat with his hand on the throttle waiting for the signal to pull
out of Boydsville Tracks. Ahead were clear, as he well knew, and his
eyes were fixed on three men who had just passed down the platform with
a scrutinizing glance at the locomotive and its crew.
Fogg had watched them for some few minutes with an ominous eye. He had
snorted in his characteristic, suspicious way, as the trio lounged
around the end of the little depot.
"Good day," he now said with fine sarcasm in his tone, "hope I see you
again--know I'll see you again. They're up to tricks, Fairbanks, and
don't you forget it."
"Gone, have they?" piped in a new voice, and a brakeman craned his neck
from his position on the reverse step of the locomotive. "Say, who are
they, anyway?"
"Do you know?" inquired the fireman, facing the intruder sharply.
"I'd like to. They got on three stations back. The conductor spotted
them as odd fish from the start. Two of them are disguised, that's
sure--the mustache of one of them went sideways. The old man, the
mild-looking, placid old gentleman they had in tow, is a telegrapher."
"How do you know that?" asked Ralph, becoming interested.
"That's easy. I caught him strumming on the car window sill, and I have
had an apprenticeship in the wire line long enough to guess what he was
tapping out. On his mind, see--force of habit and all that. The two with
him, though, looked like jail birds."
"What struck me," interposed Fogg, "was the way they snooked around the
train at the two last stops. They looked us over as if they were
planning a holdup."
"Yes, and they pumped the train hands dry all about your schedule,"
declared the brakeman. "Cottoned to me, but I cut them short. Seemed
mightily interested in the pay car routine, by the way."
"Did, eh," bristled up Fogg. "Say, tell us about that."
"Why, you see--There goes the starting signal. See you again."
The brakeman dropped back to duty, and the depot and the three men who
had caused a brief ripple in the monotony of a routine run were lost in
the distance. For a few minutes the fireman had his hands full feeding
the fire, and Ralph, eyes, ears and all his senses on the alert, got in
perfect touch with throttle, air gauge and exhaust valve.
Ralph glanced at the clock and took an easy position on his cushioned
seat. Everything was in order for a smooth run to twenty miles away. The
Overland Express was on time, as she usually was, and everything was in
trim for a safe delivery at terminus.
Fogg hustled about. He was a restless, ambitious being, always finding
lots to do about cab and tender. His brows were knitted, however, and
every once in a while he indulged in a fit of undertoned grumbling.
Ralph watched him furtively with a slight smile. He knew that his
companion railroader was stirred up about something. The young engineer
had come to understand the quirks and turns and moods of his eccentric
helper, just as fully as those of his beloved engine.
"I say," broke out Fogg finally, slamming down into his seat. "It's
about time for something to happen, Fairbanks."
"Think so?" queried Ralph lightly.
"Been pretty smooth sailing lately, you see."
"That's the way it ought to be in a well-regulated family, isn't it, Mr.
Fogg?"
"Humph--maybe. All the same, I'm an old bird and know the signs."
"What signs are you talking about, Mr. Fogg?"
"Our machine balked this morning when she took the turntable, didn't
she?"
"That was because the wiper was half asleep."
"Thirteen blew out a cylinder head as we passed her--13, an unlucky
number, see?"
"That's an every-day occurrence since the high pressure system came in."
"White cow crossed the track just back a bit."
"Nonsense," railed Ralph. "I thought you'd got rid of all those old
superstitions since your promotion to the best job on the road."
"That's it, that's just it," declared the fireman with serious
vehemence--"and I don't want to lose it. Just as I say, since we knocked
out the sorehead crew of strikers and made the big record on that famous
snowstorm run on the Mountain Division, we've been like ducks in clear
water, smooth sailing and the best on earth none too good for us. It
isn't natural. Why, old John Griscom, thirty years at the furnace, used
to get scared to death if he ran two weeks without a broken driving
wheel or a derail."
"Well, you see we're on a new order of things, Mr. Fogg," suggested
Ralph brightly. "They've put us at the top-notch with a top-notch
machine and a top-notch crew. We must stay there, and we'll do it if we
keep our heads clear, eyes open and attend strictly to business."
The fireman shook his head fretfully and looked unconvinced. Ralph knew
his stubborn ways and said nothing.
The young engineer of the Overland Express was in the heyday of
satisfaction and contentment. He was proud of his present position, and
was prouder still because he felt that he had earned it through sheer
energy and merit. As Fogg had declared, the appearance of the three men
noted had something sinister about it, but the fireman was always
getting rattled about something or other, fussy as an old woman when the
locomotive was balky. Ralph insisted upon enjoying to the limit the full
measure of prosperity that had come to him.
Both had fought hard to secure the positions they now held, however, and
the mere hint of a break in the pleasant programme set them up in arms
instanter. They had chummed together and had learned to love the
staunch, magnificent locomotive that pulled the Overland Express as if
it was a fellow comrade, and would have had a pitched battle any time
with the meddler or enemy who plotted injury to the prize train of the
Great Northern.
All this had not been accomplished without some pretty hard knocks.
Looking back in retrospect now, Ralph could fancy his progress to date
as veritable steps in the ladder of fortune. It had all rounded out so
beautifully that it seemed like a dream. Now the thought of trouble or
disaster reminded him gravely of the foes he had known in the past, and
the difficult places he had battled through in his steadfast march to
the front rank.
Ralph Fairbanks had taken to railroading as naturally as does a duck to
water. His father had been one of the pioneer builders of the Great
Northern. In the first volume of the present series, entitled "Ralph of
the Roundhouse," the unworthy scheme of Gasper Farrington, a village
magnate, to rob Ralph's widowed mother of her little home was depicted.
That book, too, tells of how Ralph left school to work for a living and
win laurels as the best engine wiper in the service.
Ralph's next step up the ladder, as told in the second volume of this
series, called "Ralph in the Switch Tower," led to his promotion to the
post of fireman. The third volume of the series, "Ralph on the Engine,"
showed the routine and adventures of an ambitious boy bound to reach the
top notch in railroad service.
The proudest moment in the life of the young engineer, however, seemed
to have arrived when Ralph was awarded the crack run of the road, as
told in the fourth volume of this series entitled "Ralph on the Overland
Express."
The reader who has followed the upward and onward course of the railroad
boy through these volumes will remember how he made friends everywhere.
They were all the better for his bright ways and good example. It was
Ralph's great forbearance and patience that overcame the grumpiness and
suspicion of the cross-grained Lemuel Fogg and made of him a first-class
fireman. It was Ralph's kindly encouragement that brought out the
inventive genius of a capital young fellow named Archie Graham, and
helped Limpy Joe, a railroad <DW36>, to acquire a living as an eating
house proprietor.
A poor waif named Van Sherwin owed his rise in life to the influence of
the good-hearted young engineer, and Zeph Dallas, a would-be boy
detective, was toned down and instructed by Ralph until his wild ideas
had some practical coherency to them.
Ralph had his enemies. From time to time along his brisk railroad career
they had bobbed up at inopportune junctures, but never to his final
disaster, for they were in the wrong and right always prevails in the
end. They had tried to upset his plans on many an occasion, they had
tried to disgrace and discredit him, but vainly.
In "Ralph on the Overland Express" the young engineer did some pretty
big things for a new man at the throttle. He carried a train load of
passengers through a snowstorm experience that made old veterans on the
road take notice in an astonished way, and he made some record runs over
the Mountain Division that established the service of the Great Northern
as a standard model.
All this success not only ranked in the minds of his enemies, but roused
the envy and dissatisfaction of rival roads. For some time vague hints
had been rife that these rivals were forming a combination "to put the
Great Northern out of business," if the feat were possible, so both
Ralph and his loyal fireman kept their eyes wide open and felt that they
were on their mettle all of the time.
Ralph's last exploit had won him a high place in the estimation of his
superiors. With every train out of Rockton stalled, he and Fogg had made
a terrifying hairbreadth special run to Shelby Junction, defying floods,
drifts and washouts, landing the president of the road just in the nick
of time to catch a train on a parallel rival line.
The event had enabled that official to close an advantageous
arrangement, in which time was the essence of a contract which gave the
Great Northern the supremacy over every line in the district having
transcontinental connections.
The Great Northern had won the upper hand through this timely but not
tricky operation. Naturally, baffled, rival roads had been upset by the
same. A revengeful feeling had extended to the employees of those lines,
and the warning had been spread broadcast to look out for squalls, as
the other roads had given the quiet tip to its men, it was understood,
to take down the Great Northern a peg or two whenever occasion offered.
Of all this Ralph was thinking as they passed the flag station at Luce,
and shot around the long curve guarded by a line of bluffs just beyond.
The young engineer was thinking of home, and so was Fogg, for they were
due in twenty-three minutes now.
Suddenly Ralph reached out for the lever lightning quick, and then his
hand swept sand and air valves with the rapidity of an expert playing
some instrument.
Crack!
Under the wheels of the big locomotive a detonating clamor rang
out--always a vivid warning to the nerves of every wide-awake railroad
man.
"A torpedo--something ahead," spoke Ralph quickly.
"What did I tell you?" jerked out his fireman excitedly. "I felt it in
my bones, I told you it was about time for something to happen."
The young engineer steadied the locomotive down to a sliding halt like a
trained jockey stopping a horse on the race track. The halt brought the
nose of the locomotive just beyond the bluff line so that Ralph could
sweep the tracks ahead with a clear glance.
"It's a wreck," announced the young engineer of the Overland Express.
CHAPTER II
THE WRECK
"A wreck, eh,--sure, I know it! Our turn next--you'll see," fumed Fogg,
as the locomotive came to a stop.
"It's a freight on the out track," said Ralph, peering ahead. "Two cars
over the embankment and--"
"For land's sake!" interrupted the fireman, "whiff! whoo! what have we
run into, anyway?"
A flying object came slam bang against the lookout window not two inches
from Fogg's nose. A dozen more sailed over the cab roof. With a great
flutter half of these dropped down into the cab direct.
"Chickens!" roared Fogg in excitement and astonishment. "Say, did you
ever see so many at one time? Where do they ever come from?"
"From the wreck. Look ahead," directed Ralph.
It was hard to do this, for a second flock of fowls thronged down upon
them. Of a sudden there seemed to be chickens everywhere. They scampered
down the rails, crouched to the pilot, roosted on the steam chests,
lined up on the coal of the tender, while three fat hens clucked and
skirmished under the very feet of the fireman, who was hopping about to
evade the bewildering inrush.
"I declare!" he ejaculated breathlessly.
Far as Ralph could see ahead, stray fowls were in evidence. Feathers
were flying, and a tremendous clatter and bustle was going on. They came
limping, flying, rolling along the roadbed from the direction of a train
standing stationary on the out track. In its center there was a gap.
Thirty feet down the embankment, split in two, and a mere pile of
kindling wood now, were two cars.
The trucks of one of these and some minor wreckage littered the in
track. Freight hands were clearing it away, and it was this temporary
obstruction that had been the cause of the warning torpedo.
A brakeman from the freight came to the passenger train to report what
was doing.
"Palace chicken car and a gondola loaded with boxes in the ditch
beyond," he said. "We'll be cleaned up for you in a few minutes."
"That's how the chickens come to be in evidence so numerously, it
seems," remarked Ralph.
"Say, see them among the wrecked wire netting, and putting for the
timber!" exclaimed Fogg. "Fairbanks, there's enough poultry running
loose to stock an eating house for a year. I say, they're nobody's
property now. Suppose--here's two fat ones. I reckon I'll take that much
of the spoil while it's going."
With a vast chuckle the fireman grabbed two of the fowls under his feet
and dumped them into his waste box, shutting down the cover. The
conductor of the freight came up penciling a brief report. He handed it
to the conductor of the Overland.
"We'll wire from Luce," he explained, "but we may be delayed reaching
there and you may get this to headquarters at the Junction first. Tell
the claim agent there won't be salvage enough to fill a waybill. She's
clear," with a glance down the track.
The Overland proceeded slowly past the wreck, affording the crew and the
curious passengers a view of the demolished freight lying at the bottom
of the embankment. Once past this, Ralph set full steam to make up for
lost time.
It put Fogg in better humor to arrive on schedule. The thought of home
comforts close by and the captured chickens occupied his mind and
dissipated his superstitious forebodings.
When they reached the roundhouse the fireman started straight for home.
Ralph lingered a few minutes to chat with the foreman, and was about to
leave when Fry, the claim agent of the road, came into the doghouse in
great haste.
"Just the man I want to see, Fairbanks," he said animatedly.
"That so?" smiled Ralph.
"Yes. Your conductor just notified me of the smashup beyond the limits.
It looks clean cut enough, with the tracks cleared, but he says some of
the stuff is perishable."
"If you list chickens in that class," responded Ralph, "I guess that's
right."
"That's the bother of it," observed Fry. "Dead salvage could wait, and
the wrecking crew could take care of it at their leisure, but--live
stock!"
"It looked to me as if most of the chickens had got away," exclaimed
Ralph. "The car was split and twisted from end to end."
"I reckon I had better get on the job instanter," said the claim agent.
"How about getting down to the bluff switch, Forgan?"
"Nothing moving but the regulars," reported the roundhouse foreman. "You
don't need a special?"
"No, any dinky old machine will do."
"Gravel pit dummy just came in."
"Can't you rig her up and give me clear tracks for an hour, till I make
investigations?"
"Crew gone home."
"No extras on hand?"
The foreman consulted his schedule and shook his head negatively.
Ralph thought of his home and mother, but a certain appealing glance
from the claim agent and a natural disposition to be useful and
accommodating influenced him to a kindly impulse.
"See here, Mr. Fry, I'll be glad to help you out, if I can," he said.
"You certainly can, Fairbanks, and I won't forget the favor," declared
the claim agent warmly. "You see, I'm booked for a week's vacation and a
visit to my old invalid father down at Danley, beginning tomorrow. If I
can untie all the red tape from this wreck affair, I'm free to get out,
and my substitute can take up any fresh tangles that come up tomorrow."
"Can you fire?" inquired Ralph.
"I can make a try at it."
"Then I'll see to the rest," promised the young engineer briskly.
With the aid of wiper Ralph soon got the dummy ready for action. It was
a long time since the young engineer had done roundhouse duty. He did it
well now, and thanked the strict training of his early apprentice
experience. The jerky spiteful little engine rolled over the turntable
in a few minutes time, and the claim agent pulled off his coat and
looked to Ralph for orders.
They took a switch and headed down the clear out track. At a crossing a
man came tearing towards them, arms waving, long beard flying, and his
face showing the greatest urgency and excitement.
"Mishter Fry! Mishter Fry!" he panted out, "I haf just heard--"
"Nothing for you, Cohen," shouted the claim agent.
"I hear dere vas some boxes. Sthop! sthop! I've got the retty gash."
"Ready-Cash Cohen," exclaimed Fry to Ralph. "Always on hand when there's
any cheap wreck salvage lying around loose. That fellow seems to scent a
wreck like a vulture."
"I've heard of him," remarked Ralph with a smile.
They had free swing on the out track until they neared the scene of the
wreck. Here they took a siding and left the dummy, to walk to the spot
where the two freight cars had gone over the embankment.
"Hello!" suddenly ejaculated the claim agent with tremendous surprise
and emphasis.
"Excuse me, Mishter Fry, but that salvage--"
Ralph burst out into a hearty peal of laughter. Clinging to the little
bobtail tender of the dummy was Ready-Cash Cohen.
"Well, you're a good one, Cohen."
"If I vas'nt, vould I be Chonny-on-de-spot, Mishter Fry?" chuckled Cohen
cunningly.
He followed them as they walked down the tracks. When they reached the
point where the two freights had gone over the embankment, Fry clambered
down its slant and for some time poked about the tangled mass of
wreckage below.
"Vill dere haf to be an appraisal, my tear friend?" anxiously inquired
Cohen, pressing forward as the claim agent reappeared.
"No," responded Fry shortly. "There's a chicken car with live and dead
mixed up in the tangle. Come, Cohen, how much for the lot?"
"Schickens?" repeated Cohen disgustedly--"not in my line, Mishter Fry.
Schickens are an expense. Dey need feeding."
"Won't bid, eh?"
"Don't vant dem at any price. But de boxes, Mishter Fry--vot's in dose
boxes?"
"See here," observed Fry, "I'm not giving information to the enemy.
There they are, badly shaken up but they look meaty, don't they? If you
want to bid unsight unseen, name your figure."
"Fifty tollars."
"Take them."
The salvage dealer toppled down the embankment with a greedy promptness.
The claim agent winked blandly after him.
"I expected it," said Fry, as a minute later Cohen came toiling up the
embankment his face a void of disappointed misery.
"Mishter Fry, Mishter Fry," he gasped, "dey are looking glasses!"
"Found that out, did you?" grinned the freight agent.
"Dey vos smashed, dey vas proken, every last one of dem. Dey are not
even junk. My tear friend, I cannot take dem."
"A bargain's a bargain, Cohen," voiced Fry smoothly. "You've made enough
out of your deals with the road to stand by your bid. If you don't,
we're no longer your customer."
"I von't have dem. It was a trick," and the man went down the track
tearing at his beard.
"There's kindling wood there for somebody free for the taking," remarked
Fry. "The chicken smashup isn't so easy."
"Many down there?" inquired Ralph.
"Yes, most of them are crushed, but a good many alive are shut in the
wire tangle. The best I can do is to send a section man to pry them
free. It's heartless to leave them to suffer and to die."
"A lot of them got free," observed Ralph.
"They're somewhere around the diggings. It wouldn't be a bad speculation
for some bright genius to round them up. Why, say, Fairbanks, you're an
ambitious kind of a fellow. I'll offer you an investment."
"What's that, Mr. Fry?" inquired the young engineer.
"I'll sell you the whole kit and caboodle in the car and out of it for
twenty-five dollars."
Ralph shook his head with a smile.
"If I had time to spare I'd jump at your offer, Mr. Fry," he said. "As
it is, what could I do with the proposition?"
"Do?" retorted the claim agent. "Hire some boys to gather in the bunch.
There may be five hundred chicks in the round up."
"Really, I couldn't bother with it, Mr. Fry," began Ralph, and then he
turned abruptly.
Some one had pulled at his sleeve, and with a start the young engineer
stared strangely at a boy about his own age.
CHAPTER III
TROUBLE BREWING
The strange boy appeared upon the scene so suddenly that Ralph decided
he must have reached the roadbed from the other side of the embankment.
The young engineer faced him with a slight start. To his certain
knowledge he had never seen the lad before. However, his face so
strongly resembled that of some one he had met recently it puzzled
Ralph. Whom did those features suggest? Ralph thought hard, but gave it
up.
"Did you wish to see me?" he inquired.
The boy had a striking face. It was pale and thin, his clothes were neat
but shabby. There was a sort of scared look in his eyes that appealed to
Ralph, who was strongly sympathetic.
"I know you," spoke the boy in a hesitating, embarrassed way. "You don't
know me, but I've had you pointed out to me."
"That so?" and Ralph smiled.
"You are Ralph Fairbanks, the engineer of the Overland Express,"
continued the lad in a hushed tone, as if the distinction awed him.
"That's right," nodded Ralph.
"Well, I've heard of you, and you've been a friend to a good many
people. I hope I'm not over bold, but if you would be a friend to me--"
Here the strange boy paused in a pitiful, longing way that appealed to
Ralph.
"Go ahead," he said.
"I heard this gentleman," indicating Mr. Fry, "offer to sell the
chickens down the embankment. I'm a poor boy, Mr. Fairbanks--dreadfully
poor. There's reasons why I can't work in the towns like other boys. You
can give me work, though--you can just set me on my feet."
"How can I do that?" inquired Ralph, getting interested.
"By buying me those chickens. I've got the place for them, I've got the
time to attend to them, and I know just how to handle them. Why,"
continued the speaker excitedly, "there's nearly two hundred in prime
trim gathered in a little thicket over yonder, and there's double that
number among the wreckage, besides those that are hurt that I can nurse
and mend up. If you will buy them for me, I'll solemnly promise to
return you the money in a week and double the amount of interest in
two."
"You talk clear and straight and earnest, my lad," here broke in the
claim agent. "What's your name?"
"Glen Palmer."
"Do you live near here?"
"Yes, sir--in an old abandoned farmhouse, rent free, about a mile north
of here."
"With your folks?"
"No, sir, I have no folks, only an old grandfather. He's past working,
and, well, a--a little queer at times, and I have to keep close watch of
him. That's what's the trouble."
The claim agent took out his note book.
"Look here," he spoke, "if Fairbanks will vouch for you, I'll tab off
the chickens to you at fifteen dollars, due in thirty days."
"O--oh!" gasped the lad, clasping his hands in an ecstacy of | 3,431.148065 |
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Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive)
THE
CHRONICLES
OF
ENGUERRAND DE MONSTRELET.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE
CHRONICLES
OF
ENGUERRAND DE MONSTRELET;
CONTAINING
AN ACCOUNT OF THE CRUEL CIVIL WARS BETWEEN THE HOUSES OF
ORLEANS AND BURGUNDY;
OF THE POSSESSION OF
PARIS AND NORMANDY BY THE ENGLISH;
_THEIR EXPULSION THENCE;_
AND OF OTHER
MEMORABLE EVENTS THAT HAPPENED IN THE KINGDOM OF FRANCE,
AS WELL AS IN OTHER COUNTRIES.
_A HISTORY OF FAIR EXAMPLE, AND OF GREAT PROFIT TO THE
FRENCH,_
_Beginning at the Year MCCCC. where that of Sir JOHN FROISSART
finishes, and ending at the Year MCCCCLXVII. and continued
by others to the Year MDXVI._
TRANSLATED
BY THOMAS JOHNES, ESQ.
IN THIRTEEN VOLUMES... VOL. I.
LONDON:
PRINTED FOR LONGMAN, HURST, REES, ORME, AND BROWN, PATERNOSTER-ROW;
AND J. WHITE AND CO. FLEET-STREET.
1810.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO
HIS GRACE
_JOHN DUKE OF BEDFORD_,
_&c. &c. &c._
MY LORD,
I am happy in this opportunity of dedicating the CHRONICLES OF
MONSTRELET to your grace, to show my high respect for your many virtues,
public and private, and the value I set on the honour of your grace’s
friendship.
One of MONSTRELET’S principal characters was JOHN DUKE OF BEDFORD,
regent of France; and your grace has fully displayed your abilities, as
regent, to be at least equal to those of your namesake, in the milder
and more valuable virtues. Those of a hero may dazzle in this life; but
the others are, I trust, recorded in a better place; and your late wise,
although, unfortunately, short government of Ireland will be long and
thankfully remembered by a gallant and warm-hearted people.
I have the honour to remain,
Your grace’s much obliged,
Humble servant and friend,
_Thomas Johnes_.
_CASTLE-HILL_,
_March 13, 1808_.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
OF
_THE FIRST VOLUME_.
PAGE
The prologue 1
CHAP. I.
How Charles the well-beloved reigned in France,
after he had been crowned at Rheims, in the
year thirteen hundred and eighty 7
CHAP. II.
An esquire of Arragon, named Michel d’Orris,
sends challenges to England. The answer he
receives from a knight of that country 13
CHAP. III.
Great pardons granted at Rome 38
CHAP. IV.
John of Montfort, duke of Brittany, dies. The
emperor departs from Paris. Isabella queen of
England returns to France 39
CHAP. V.
The duke of Burgundy, by orders from the king
of France, goes into Brittany, and the duke
of Orleans to Luxembourg. A quarrel ensues
between them 42
CHAP. VI.
Clement duke of Bavaria is elected emperor of
Germany, and afterward conducted with a
numerous retinue to Frankfort 45
CHAP. VII.
Henry of Lancaster, king of England, combats
the Percies and Welshmen, who had invaded his
kingdom, and defeats them 47
CHAP. VIII.
John de Verchin, a knight of great renown, and
seneschal of Hainault, sends, by his herald,
a challenge into divers countries, proposing
a deed of arms 49
CHAP. IX.
The duke of Orleans, brother to the king of
France, sends a challenge to the king of
England. The answer he receives 55
CHAP. X.
Waleran count de Saint Pol sends a challenge to
the king of England 84
CHAP. XI.
Concerning the sending of sir James de Bourbon,
count de la Marche, and his two brothers, by
orders from the king of France, to the
assistance of the Welsh, and other matters 87
CHAP. XII.
The admiral of Brittany, with other lords,
fights the English at sea. Gilbert de Fretun
makes war against king Henry 89
CHAP. XIII.
The university of Paris quarrels with sir
Charles de Savoisy and with the provost of
Paris 91
CHAP. XIV.
The seneschal of Hainault performs a deed of
arms with three others, in the presence of
the king of Arragon. The admiral of Brittany
undertakes an expedition against England 95
CHAP. XV.
The marshal of France and the master of the
cross-bows, by orders from the king of
France, go to England, to the assistance of
the prince of Wales 103
CHAP. XVI.
A powerful infidel, called Tamerlane, invades
the kingdom of the king Bajazet, who marches
against and fights with him 106
CHAP. XVII.
Charles king of Navarre negotiates with the
king of France, and obtains the duchy of
Nemours. Duke Philip of Burgundy makes a
journey to Bar-le-Duc and to Brussels 108
CHAP. XVIII.
The duke of Burgundy dies in the town of Halle,
in Hainault. His body is carried to the
Carthusian convent at Dijon, in Burgundy 110
CHAP. XIX.
Waleran count de St Pol lands a large force on
the Isle of Wight, to make war against
England, but returns without having performed
any great | 3,431.148197 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
LULU'S LIBRARY.
BY
LOUISA M. ALCOTT,
AUTHOR OF "LITTLE WOMEN," "AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL," "LITTLE MEN,"
"EIGHT COUSINS," "ROSE IN BLOOM," "UNDER THE LILACS,"
"JACK AND JILL," "HOSPITAL SKETCHES," "WORK, A
STORY OF EXPERIENCE," "MOODS, A NOVEL,"
"PROVERB STORIES," "SILVER PITCHERS,"
"AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG."
VOL. I.
A CHRISTMAS DREAM.
THE CANDY COUNTRY.
NAUGHTY JOCKO.
THE SKIPPING SHOES.
COCKYLOO.
ROSY'S JOURNEY.
HOW THEY RAN AWAY.
THE FAIRY BOX.
A HOLE IN THE WALL.
THE PIGGY GIRL.
THE THREE FROGS.
BAA! BAA!
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1886.
_Copyright, 1885,_
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
PREFACE.
All but three of these stories were told to my little niece during our
quiet hour before bedtime. They became such favorites with her and her
friends that I wrote them down in several small blue books, and called
them LULU'S LIBRARY. Having nothing else to offer this year, I have
collected them in one volume as a Christmas gift to my boys and girls
from their old friend
AUNT JO.
CONCORD, August, 1885.
CONTENTS.
I. A Christmas Dream
II. The Candy Country
III. Naughty Jocko
IV. The Skipping Shoes
V. Cockyloo
VI. Rosy's Journey
VII. How They Ran Away
VIII. The Fairy Box
IX. A Hole in the Wall
X. The Piggy Girl
XI. The Three Frogs
XII. Baa! Baa!
[Illustration: She actually stood in "a grove of Christmas trees."--PAGE
30.]
I.
A CHRISTMAS DREAM, AND HOW IT CAME TRUE.
"I'm so tired of Christmas I wish there never would be another one!"
exclaimed a discontented-looking little girl, as she sat idly watching
her mother arrange a pile of gifts two days before they were to be
given.
"Why, Effie, what a dreadful thing to say! You are as bad as old
Scrooge; and I'm afraid something will happen to you, as it did to him,
if you don't care for dear Christmas," answered mamma, almost dropping
the silver horn she was filling with delicious candies.
"Who was Scrooge? What happened to him?" asked Effie, with a glimmer of
interest in her listless face, as she picked out the sourest lemon-drop
she could find; for nothing sweet suited her just then.
"He was one of Dickens's best people, and you can read the charming
story some day. He hated Christmas until a strange dream showed him how
dear and beautiful it was, and made a better man of him."
"I shall read it; for I like dreams, and have a great many curious ones
myself. But they don't keep me from being tired of Christmas," said
Effie, poking discontentedly among the sweeties for something worth
eating.
"Why are you tired of what should be the happiest time of all the year?"
asked mamma, anxiously.
"Perhaps I shouldn't be if I had something new. But it is always the
same, and there isn't any more surprise about it. I always find heaps
of goodies in my stocking. Don't like some of them, and soon get tired
of those I do like. We always have a great dinner, and I eat too much,
and feel ill next day. Then there is a Christmas tree somewhere, with a
doll on top, or a stupid old Santa Claus, and children dancing and
screaming over bonbons and toys that break, and shiny things that are of
no use. Really, mamma, I've had so many Christmases all alike that I
don't think I _can_ bear another one." And Effie laid herself flat on
the sofa, as if the mere idea was too much for her.
Her mother laughed at her despair, but was sorry to see her little girl
so discontented, when she had everything to make her happy, and had
known but ten Christmas days.
"Suppose we don't give you _any_ presents at all,--how would that suit
you?" asked mamma, anxious to please her spoiled child.
"I should like one large and splendid one, and one dear little one, to
remember some very nice person by," said Effie, who was a fanciful
little body, full of odd whims and notions, which her friends loved to
gratify, regardless of time, trouble, or money; for she was the last of
three little girls, and very dear to all the family.
"Well, my darling, I will see what I can do to please you, and not say a
word until all is ready. If I could only get a new idea to start with!"
And mamma went on tying up her pretty bundles with a thoughtful face,
while Effie strolled to the window to watch the rain that kept her
in-doors and made her dismal.
"Seems to me poor children have better times than rich ones. I can't go
out, and there is a girl about my age splashing along, without any maid
to fuss about rubbers and cloaks and umbrellas and colds. I wish I was
a beggar-girl."
"Would you like to be hungry, cold, and ragged, to beg all day, and
sleep on an ash-heap at night?" asked mamma, wondering what would come
next.
"Cinderella did, and had a nice time in the end. This girl out here has
a basket of scraps on her arm, and a big old shawl all round her, and
doesn't seem to care a bit, though the water runs out of the toes of
her boots. She goes paddling along, laughing at the rain, and eating a
cold potato as if it tasted nicer than the chicken and ice-cream I had
for dinner. Yes, I do think poor children are happier than rich ones."
"So do I, sometimes. At the Orphan Asylum to-day I saw two dozen merry
little souls who have no parents, no home, and no hope of Christmas
beyond a stick of candy or a cake. I wish you had been there to see how
happy they were, playing with the old toys some richer children had sent
them."
"You may give them all mine; I'm so tired of them I never want to see
them again," said Effie, turning from the window to the pretty
baby-house full of everything a child's heart could desire.
"I will, and let you begin again with something you will not tire of, if
I can only find it." And mamma knit her brows trying to discover some
grand surprise for this child who didn't care for Christmas.
Nothing more was said then; and wandering off to the library, Effie
found "A Christmas Carol," and curling herself up in the sofa corner, it
all before tea. Some of it she did not understand; but she laughed and
cried over many parts of the charming story, and felt better without
knowing why.
All the evening she thought of poor Tiny Tim, Mrs. Cratchit with the
pudding, and the stout old gentleman who danced so gayly that "his legs
twinkled in the air." Presently bed-time arrived.
"Come, now, and toast your feet," said Effie's nurse, "while I do your
pretty hair and tell stories."
"I 'll have a fairy tale to-night, a very interesting one," commanded
Effie, as she put on her blue silk wrapper and little fur-lined slippers
to sit before the fire and have her long curls brushed.
So Nursey told her best tales; and when at last the child lay down under
her lace curtains, her head was full of a curious jumble of Christmas
elves, poor children, snow-storms, sugar-plums, and surprises. So it is
no wonder that she dreamed all night; and this was the dream, which she
never quite forgot.
She found herself sitting on a stone, in the middle of a great field,
all alone. The snow was falling fast, a bitter wind whistled by, and
night was coming on. She felt hungry, cold, and tired, and did not know
where to go nor what to do.
"I wanted to be a beggar-girl, and now I am one; but I don't like it,
and wish somebody would come and take care of me. I don't know who I
am, and I think I must be lost," thought Effie, with the curious
interest one takes in one's self in dreams.
But the more she thought about it, the more bewildered she felt. Faster
fell the snow, colder blew the wind, darker grew the night; and poor
Effie made up her mind that she was quite forgotten and left to freeze
alone. The tears were chilled on her cheeks, her feet felt like
icicles, and her heart died within her, so hungry, frightened, and
forlorn was she. Laying her head on her knees, she gave herself up for
lost, and sat there with the great flakes fast turning her to a little
white mound, when suddenly the sound of music reached her, and starting
up, she looked and listened with all her eyes and ears.
Far away a dim light shone, and a voice was heard singing. She tried to
run toward the welcome glimmer, but could not stir, and stood like a
small statue of expectation while the light drew nearer, and the sweet
words of the song grew clearer.
From our happy home
Through the world we roam
One week in all the year,
Making winter spring
With the joy we bring,
For Christmas-tide is here.
Now the eastern star
Shines from afar
To light the poorest home;
Hearts warmer grow,
Gifts freely flow,
For Christmas-tide has come.
Now gay trees rise
Before young eyes,
Abloom with tempting cheer;
Blithe voices sing,
And blithe bells ring,
For Christmas-tide is here.
Oh, happy chime,
Oh, blessed time,
That draws us all so near!
"Welcome, dear day,"
All creatures say,
For Christmas-tide is here.
A child's voice sang, a child's hand carried the little candle; and in
the circle of soft light it shed, Effie saw a pretty child coming to her
through the night and snow. A rosy, smiling creature, wrapped | 3,432.145862 |
2023-11-16 19:14:16.4274100 | 7,436 | 25 |
Produced by Distributed Proofreaders
[Illustration: Signed:--Geo. H. Heffner]
The Youthful Wanderer;
or An Account of a Tour through England, France, Belgium, Holland, Germany
and the Rhine, Switzerland, Italy, and Egypt
Adapted to the Wants of Young Americans Taking Their First Glimpses at the
Old World
by
Geo. H. Heffner.
1876.
Preface.
It had been fashionable among the ancients, for men of learning to visit
distant countries and improve their education by traveling, after they had
completed their various courses of study in literary institutions, and the
same custom still prevails in Europe at the present time; but in our
country, comparatively few avail themselves of this finishing course. It
is not strange that this should have been so with a people who are
separated from the rest of the world by such wide oceans as we are, which
could, up to a comparatively recent period, only have been crossed at a
sacrifice of much time and money, and at the risk of loosing either life
or health. These difficulties have been greatly reduced by the application
of steam-power to navigation, and the time has come when an American can
make the tour of Europe with but little more expenditure of time and money
than it costs even a native of Europe to do it.
One of my principal objects in writing this book is to encourage others to
make similar tours. We would have plenty of books no traveling, if some of
them did represent the readers in the humbler spheres of life, but the
general impression in America is that no one can see Europe to any
satisfaction in less than a year or two and with an outlay of from a
thousand to two thousand dollars. This is a great mistake. If one travels
for pleasure mainly, it will certainly require a great deal of time and
money, but a hard-working student can do much in a few months. Permit me
to say, that one will see and experience more in two weeks abroad, than
many a learned man in America expects could be seen in a year. I sometimes
give the particulars of sights and adventures in detail, that the reader
may take an example of my experience, for any tour he may propose to make.
The times devoted to different places are given that he may form an
estimate of the comparative importance of different places.
Statistics form a leading feature of this work, and these have been
gathered and compiled with special reference to the wants of the student.
Many an American scholar studies the geography and history of foreign
countries at a great disadvantage, because he can not obtain a general
idea of the institutions of Europe, unless he reads half a dozen works on
the subject. To do this he has not the time. This work gives, in the
compass of a single volume, a general idea of all the most striking
features of the manners, customs and institutions of the people of some
eight different nations speaking as many different languages and dialects.
As the sights that one sees abroad are so radically different from what we
are accustomed to see at home, I feel pained whenever I think of
describing them to any one. If you would know the nature of my
perplexity, then go to Washington and see the stately magnificence of our
National Capitol there, and then go and describe what you have seen to one
who has never seen a larger building than his village church; or go and
see the Centennial Exposition at Philadelphia, and then tell your neighbor
who has never seen anything greater than a county fair, how, what he has
seen compares with the World's Fair! I too am proud of our country, (not
so much for what she now is, but because she promises to become the
greatest nation that ever existed), but it must be confessed, that America
presents little in the sphere of architecture that bears comparison with
the castles, palaces and churches of the Old World. The Capitol at
Washington, erected at the cost of twelve and a half millions, the City
Hall of Baltimore, perhaps more beautiful but less magnificent, and other
edifices that have been erected of late, are structures of which we may
justly be proud; but let us take the buildings of the "Centennial
Exposition" for a standard and compare them with some of those in Europe.
The total expenses incurred in erecting all the exposition buildings, and
preparing the grounds, &c., with all the contingent expenses, is less than
ten million. But St. Peter's in Rome cost nine times, and the palace and
pleasure-garden of Versailles twenty times as much as this! It is safe to
assert, that if a young man had but two hundred dollars with six weeks of
time at his command, and would spend it in seeing London and Paris, he
could never feel sorry for it. _Young student go east._
Contents.
Chapter I.
Leaving Home
New York
Brooklyn--Plymouth Church
Extracts from Henry Ward Beecher's Sermon
Greenwood Cemetery
Barnum's Hippodrome
On Board the "Manhattan"
Setting Sail--The Parting Hour
Sea-Sickness
A Shoal of Whales
Approaching Queenstown--The First Sight of Land
Coasting Ireland and Wales
Personal Incidents--Life-boat, No. 5
Chapter II.
Liverpool
The Mystical Letters "IHS" mean Jesus
The Wonderful Clock of Jacob Lovelace
Chapter III.
Chester--Origin of the Name
The Rows or Second-Story Pavements
The Cathedral and St. John's
The Walls
Birmingham
_Railroads in Europe_
Chapter IV.
Stratford-on-Avon--- Shakespeare's Birthplace
Shottery--Anne Hathaway's Home
Shakespeare's Grave
Chapter V.
Warwick--St. Mary's
Kenilworth Castle
Approaching Coventry--"The Lover's Promenade"
Coventry--Its Fine Churches
Warwick Castle
Oxford--The Great University
Chapter VI.
London.
Its Underground Railroads
Territory, Population and Other Statistics
St. Paul's Cathedral
Crystal Palace
The Houses of Parliament
Westminster Abbey
_Ensigns Armorial, &c._
Sunday in London
Hyde Park--Radical Meeting
The Tower of London
Chapter VII.
London to Paris.
Strait of Dover
Calais
Chapter VIII.
Paris.
Its Railway Stations,
_Lack of Delicacy in Many of the Social Habits and Institutions
Among the People of Warm Countries_
The Boulevards, Rues, &c.
Arcades and Passages
Palais Royal
Its Diamond Windows
The Cafe--A Characteristic Feature of Modern
Civilization
Champs Elysees
Palais de l'Industrie or the Exhibition Buildings
Place de la Concorde and the Obelisk of Luxor
Garden of the Tuileries
The Arch of Triumph
Other Triumphal Arches
The Tomb of Napoleon I
Artesian Wells
Notre Dame Cathedral
The Pantheon
The Madeleine
The Louvre
Theaters and Operas
At a Ball
Incidents
Chapter IX.
St. Cloud
The Palace at Versailles
The Pleasure-Garden
Chapter X.
Leaving Paris
Brussels
The Cathedral
Hotel de Ville
Antwerp
_The Spirit of Revolution_
Notre Dame Cathedral
The Museum
Chapter XI.
Holland.
The Hague
_Cloak-Rooms_
Utrecht
Chapter XII.
Cologne
The Cathedral
The Museum
Depths of Man's Degradation
Bonn
The Kreuzberg
The Drachenfels
Chapter XIII.
Coblentz
Geological Laws
On the Rhine
Frankfort
Darmstadt
Worms
Chapter XIV.
The Palatinate, (_Die Pfalz_).
Mannheim
Neustadt
Heidelberg
The Castle
The Great Tun
Stuttgart
Strassburg
The Black Forest
Chapter XV.
Switzerland.
The Rigi
The Giessbach Falls
The Rhone Glacier
The Grimsel
The Cathedral of Freiburg
Berne
Chapter XVI.
Geneva to Turin
Mont Cenis Tunnel
Italy.
Its Fair Sky and Beautiful People,
Milan
Venice
San Marco
Chapter XVII.
Venice to Bologne
Florence
Pisa
Going Southward
Chapter XVIII.
Rome.
The Colosseum
The Roman Forum
The Site of the Ancient Capitol
"Twelve"
The Temple of Caesar
The Baths of Caracalla
The Pyramid of Cestius
St. Peter's
The Lateran
Santa Maria Maggiore
Museums
Chapter XIX.
Rome to Brindisi.
Ascent of Mount Vesuvius,
The Ruins of Pompeii
Chapter XX.
On the Mediterranean
Alexandria
Cairo
Wretchedness of the Poorer Classes
The Return Trip
Conclusion
Subjects treated in a general way are distinguished by being rendered in
italics, in this table of contents.
[Illustration: The Keystone State Normal School.]
Chapter I.
Leaving Home.
While engaged in making the preliminary arrangements for leaving soon
after the "Commencement" of the Keystone State Normal School (coming off
June 24th), information was received that the "Manhattan," an old and
well-tried steamer of the Guion Line, would sail from New York for
Liverpool on the 22nd of June. She had been upon the ocean for nine years,
and had acquired the reputation of being "_safe but slow_." As I esteemed
_life_ more precious than _time_, though either of them once lost can
never be recovered, I soon decided to share my fate with her--by her, to
be carried safely to the "farther shore," or with her, to seek a watery
grave.
The idea of remaining for the Commencement, was at once abandoned; short
visits, abrupt farewells, and a hasty preparation for the pilgrimage, were
my portion for the few days still left me, and Saturday, the 19th, was
determined upon as the day for leaving home. It would be evidence of gross
ingratitude to forget the kind wishes, tender good-byes, and many other
marks of attention, on the part of friends and acquaintances, which
characterized the parting hour. Both Literary Societies had passed
resolutions to turn out, and on the ringing of the bell at 6:30 a.m., all
assembled in the Chapel, and addresses were delivered.
Half an hour later, we left in procession for the depot, where we arrived
in time to exchange our last tokens of remembrance--cards, books, bouquets
&c., and shake hands once more.
While the train was moving away, the benedictions and cheers of a hundred
familiar voices rang upon the air, and waving handkerchiefs caught the
echoes even from the distant cupola of the now fast receding Normal School
buildings. A number of torpedoes that had been placed under the wheels of
the locomotive, had already apprised us that the train was in motion, and
would soon hurry us out of sight. During all this excitement of the
parting hour, which seemed to affect some so deeply, I was either looking
into the future, or contemplating the present, rather, from an _active_
than from a _passive_ standpoint; and, as a natural consequence, remained
quite tranquil and composed--my feelings and emotions being at a lower ebb
than they could now be, if the occasion would repeat itself. The idea of
making a tour through Europe and to the Orient, had been continually
revolving in my mind for many years; and now, that I saw the prospect open
of once realizing the happy dreams of my childhood, and the schemes of
early youth, I took no time for contemplating the dangers of sea voyages
or any of the other perils of adventure.
Before we came to Easton, I formed the acquaintance of a Swiss mother,
who seemed much pleased to find one that was about to visit her dear
"Fatherland," where she had spent the sunny days of her childhood. After
giving me directions and letters of introduction, she entreated me very
earnestly to visit her home and kin, and bring them word from her.
New York was reached at 12:10 p.m. As there were but three days remaining
for seeing the city, I immediately began my visits to some of its
principal points of interest. Having first engaged a room at a hotel in
the vicinity of the new Post-Office, I commenced to stroll about, and at
5:30 p.m., entered Trinity Church. Its capacious interior soon disclosed
to me numerous architectural peculiarities, such as are characteristic of
the English parish churches or of cathedrals in general; and which render
old Trinity quite conspicuous among her American sisters. A fee of twelve
cents entitled me to an ascent of its lofty spire, which can be made to
the height of 304 (?) steps, or about 225 feet.
Sunday, June 20th. Rose at 4:30 a.m. and visited Central Park. This being
an importune time for seeing the gay and fashionable life of the city, I
contended myself with a walk to the Managerie, and returned in time to
attend the forenoon service of Plymouth Church, in Brooklyn. I reached the
place before 9:00 o'clock, and formed the acquaintance of a young
gentleman who was a great admirer of the Rev. Henry Ward Beecher, and,
being an occasional visitor at this church, knew how to get a seat in that
congregation, which generally closed its doors against the faces of
hundreds, after every available seat was occupied. We at once took our
stand at the middle gate, and there endured the pressure of the crowd for
more than half an hour before the doors opened. We were the first two that
entered, and running up stairs at the head of the dashing throng,
succeeded in making sure of a place in the audience. The church has
seating capacity for about 2,800 adults. All the pews are rented to
members of the congregation by the year, except the outer row of seats
along the three walls; but these are generally all occupied in one or
several minutes after the doors open.
The choir files in at 10:25. A "voluntary" by the organist at 10:30, and
by the choir at 10:32, during which time Mr. Beecher comes in, jerks his
hat behind a boquet stand, and takes his seat. Leads in a prayer in so low
a strain that he can not be understood at any remote place in the
audience. At 10:55 he baptizes eight infants, whose names are passed to
him on cards. Concludes another prayer at 11:20 and announces his text,
"Christ and him crucified." I Cor. ii. 2
Extracts from the Sermon.
"One of Christ's followers once said, 'If all that Christ said and did
were written in books, the world could not contain them. This is an
_exageration_, (_a ripple of laughter dances over the congregation_),
having a great meaning, however." * * * * "David gives us only his
_intense_ life." (_The audience smile_). (11:35). The preacher becoming
dramatic in gesticulation and oratorical in delivery, walks back and forth
upon the elevated platform. While describing the crosses which he saw
yesterday, he becomes highly excited, swinging his arms above his head.
"Crosses everywhere. All the way up street; on every beauty's breast."
(_Explosive laughter_). "Some may have cost $500, others possibly $1,500;
perhaps some cost $2,000." (_Claps his hands in excitement_). "Some say
'the church handed down Christianity'; but I say Christianity kept the
church alive. What was it, that, in the Reformation, made blood such a
sweet manure for souls?" (12:10 p.m.) Pleads earnestly for the weak and
the erring. "A man that has gone wrong, and has nobody to be sorry for it
is lost; pity may save." Sermon concluded at 12:25. Prayer. Dismissal by
singing.
Mr. Beecher's voice is so clear and powerful, that he can be readily
understood in the most distant parts of the house. After leaving church, I
went up to Columbia Heights, the most aristocratic section of Brooklyn,
where I enjoyed myself in contemplating the beautiful and magnificent
buildings which constitute the quiet and charming homes of those wealthy
people living there. How partial Heaven is to some of her children! Thence
I found my way to Greenwood Cemetery, where I spent the remainder of the
day amid the tombs and monuments of "the great city of the dead." Guide
books containing all the carriage roads and foot-paths of that burial
ground, are sold at or near the gate. One of these I procured, and found
it was so perfect in the particulars, that I could readily find the grave
of any one of the many distinguished persons mentioned in the index,
without further assistance whatever. It is impossible here to give an
account of the many splendid tombs and monuments erected there by loving
hearts and skillful hands, in memory of dear friends and relatives that
have "gone away!" What multitudes of strange and curious designs meet the
eye here! Some few perhaps seem odd; but most of them bear appropriate
emblems, and convey sweet thoughts and tender sentiments in behalf of
those "sleeping beneath the sod." What a place for meditation! How quiet,
how solemn! No one should visit New York without allotting at least half a
day to these holy grounds. How I wander from grave to grave! Here I am
struck with the text of an impressive epitaph, and there I see the
delicate and elaborate workmanship of a skillful master. Here my heart is
touched by the sweet simplicity of a simple slab bearing some touching
lines, there I stand in silent admiration before the magnificent
proportions of a towering monument, or sit down to study the meaning of
some obscure design. A mere sketch of all that I saw there would fill a
volume, but I found one monument which I cannot pass by without some
notice. It stands on Hilly Ridge, and was erected to the memory of six
"_lost at sea_, on board the steamer 'Arctic,' Sept. 27th, 1854." These
words arrested my attention, and a minute later, I had ascended the
domical summit of the hill, and stood at the foot of the high monument. It
has a square granite base upon which stand four little red pillars of
polished Russian granite, supporting a transversely arched canopy, with a
high spire. Under the canopy is represented the Ocean and the shipwreck of
the "Arctic." The vessel is assailed by a terrible storm, and fiercely
tossed upon the foaming waves! She has already sprung a leak, and through
the ugly gash admits a copious stream of the fatal liquid, while the
raging sea, like an angry monster, is about to swallow her distined prey!
Down she goes, and among the many passengers on board, are
Grace, _wife of Geo. F. Allen and daughter of James Brown, born Aug.
25th, 1821._
Herbert, _infant child of Geo. F. and Grace Allen, born Sept, 28th,
1853._
William B., _son of James Brown, born April 23rd, 1825._
Clara, _wife of Wm. B. Brown and daughter of Chas. Moulton, born June
30th, 1830._
Clara Alice Jane, _daughter of William B. and Clara Brown, born Aug. 30,
1852._
Maria Miller, _daughter of James Brown, born Sept. 30th, 1833._
What a sad story! As the ship wreck occurred in the fall, it is highly
probable that the party was homeward bound and, had better fortune been
with them, might in a very few days have again been safe and happy in
their respective homes, relating stories of their strange but pleasant
experiences in the Old World. How changed the tale! How their friends must
have been looking and waiting for the "Arctic!" One line told the whole
story, and perhaps all that was ever heard of them, "The 'Arctic' is
wrecked!"
Not far away, on the crown of Locust Hill, sleeps Horace Greeley,
America's great journalist and political economist. At the head of his
grave stands a temporal memorial stone in the form of a simple marble
slab, bearing the inscription, "Horace Greeley, born February 3rd, 1811;
died November 29th, 1872." I left the Cemetery at 7:45 p.m., and returned
to my quarters in New York.
Monday, June 21st. Having procured passage with the "Manhattan," which was
to sail on the morrow, I straightway went to Pier No. 46, North River, _to
take a look at her_! At 12:45 p.m. I stood in the third story of A.T.
Stewart's great dry goods establishment, perhaps the largest of kind in
the world. It is six stories high, and covers nearly two acres of ground.
My next point of destination was Brooklyn Court-House. The afternoon
session opened at 2:00 o'clock, but I did not reach the place until half
an hour later. The court-room was crowded as usual, and many had been
turned away, who stood in knots about the halls and portico, holding the
posts, and discussing politics and church matters. I entered hastily, like
one behind time and in a hurry, and inquired where the court-room was. "It
is crowded to over-flowing, you can not enter," was the reply; but I went
for the reporter's door. A few raps, and it was opened. I offered my card
and asked for a place in the audience as a reporter. The reply was that
the room was already jammed full. But I retained my position in the door
all the same! "What paper do you represent?" asked the door-keeper. "I am
a correspondent of the _National Educator"_ was my response; whereupon he
bid me step in. The court-room was a small one for the occasion, affording
seats for about 400 on the floor, and for 125 more in the gallery. Some
twenty-five or thirty ladies were scattered through the audience. Mr.
Beech, Tilton's senior lawyer, was summing up his closing speech. Tilton
and Fullerton sat immediately behind him, but Mr. Beecher was not in
court. Toward the close of the session there was a kind of "clash of arms"
among the opposing lawyers. Fullerton repeated the challenge previously
made by Beech, offering to prove that corrupt influences were made to bear
upon the jury. The Judge appointed a time for hearing the complaint, and
adjourned the Court.
Barnum's Hippodrome
was visited in the evening, where I saw for the first time on a grand
scale, the charming features of the European _"cafe_" (pronounced
cae'f[=a]'). Here are combined the attractions of the pleasure garden or
public square, with the ornaments and graces of the ball-room and the
opera. It is a magnificent parlor abounding in trees, fountains, statuary
and rustic retreats. Gilmore's large band of seventy-five to a hundred
pieces, occupying an elevated platform in the centre, render excellent
music. Fifteen hundred to two thousand gas jets, eveloped by globes of
different colors (red, white, blue, yellow and green) and blazing from the
curves of immense arches, spanning the Hippodrome in different directions,
illuminate the entire building with the brilliancy of the noon-day sun. To
the right of the entrance is an artificial water-fall about thirty feet
in height. Two stationary engines supply the water, elevating 1,800
gallons per minute, which issues from beneath the arched roof of a
subterranean cavern, and dashing down in broken sheets over a series of
cascades and rapids, plunges into a basin below. From this basin it flows
away into tanks in an other building, where four to five tons of ice are
consumed daily to keep it at a low temperature, so that the vapor and
breeze produced by this ice-water, at the foot of the cataract, refreshes
the air and keeps it cool and pleasant during the warm summer evenings.
The admittance is fifty cents, and 5,000 to 10,000 persons enter every
night, during the height of the season. Here meets "youth and beauty," and
the wealth, gayety and fashion of New York is well represented,
Tuesday, June 22d. I spent the morning in writing farewell letters, and
making the final preparations for leaving. At one o'clock I went on board
the "Manhattan," which was still quite empty. In order to have something
to do by which to while away the slow dull hours yet remaining, I
commenced writing a letter. None of my friends or acquaintances being with
me, I bid all my farewells by note. But such writing! Though the vessel
was locked to the pier by immense cables, still she was anything but
steady. As passengers began to multiply, acquaintances were formed. By and
by the stewart came around, and assigned to us our berths. Ship government
is monarchic in form. The officers have almost absolute authority, and
the passengers, like bashful pupils, do their best to learn the new rules
and regulations and adapt their conduct to them, as soon as possible, so
that nobody may find occasion for making observations or passing remarks.
All these things remind one very much of a first day at school. As
The Parting Hour
approaches, large numbers of the friends and relatives of some of our
passengers, came upon deck to bid good-by. Some cried, others laughed, and
many more _tried_ to laugh. Some that seemed to relish repetition, or were
carried away by enthusiasm and the excitement of the hour, shook hands
over, and over again with the same person. At 3:00 o'clock p.m., the
gangway was lowered and the cables were removed. A shock, a boom, and the
vessel swung away and glided into the river! The die was cast, and our
fate was sealed. Shouts and huzzas rent the air, as the steamer skimmed
proudly over the waves, while clouds of handkerchiefs, on deck and upon
the receding shore, waved in the air as long as we could see each other.
Down, down the river glided the steady "Manhattan," and our thoughts began
to run in new channels. "Good-by! dear, sweet America," thought we a
hundred times, while we watched the retreating shores; perhaps our
thoughts were whispers! Europe with its innumerable attractions, its Alps,
Appennines and Vesuvius, its castles, palaces, walled towns, fine cities,
great battle fields, ancient ruins and a thousand other milestones of
civilization, lay before us; but a wide Ocean, and all the dangers and
perils of a long sea voyage lay between us and that other--longed for
shore.
The question whether we would ever realize the pleasure of a visit to the
Old World, was now reduced to the alternatives of _success_, or _failure
by accident or disease_.
Sea-Sickness.
I had labored under the erroneous impression that sea-sickness was bred of
fear and terror, and would attack only women (of both sexes) and children
of tender minds and frail constitutions. But, when the waves commenced to
roll higher, and the ship began a ceaseless rocking, which was in direct
opposition to the wants and comfort of my system, as all manner of
swinging ever was, I began to have fears that it was not _fright_, but
_swinging_, that made people sick at sea. The inner man threatened to
rebel, and I made my calculations how much higher the billows might swell,
before stomachs would be apt to revolt. We sailed out of sight of the land
before dusk, by which time, however, numbers of ill-mannered stomachs had
given evidence of their bad humor. Though I nodded but once or twice to
old Neptune, during the entire voyage, still I suffered much during the
first five days, from the pressure of intense dizziness and headache,
occasioned by the incessant rocking of our vessel upon the restless
waves. We had a very fine passage, as the sailors would say, but it was
far from being as fine as I had always fancied fine sea voyages would be.
The rocking of the ship would never be less than about two feet up and
down in its width of thirty feet. When the winds blew hard and the waves
rolled high, it swung some, twenty or twenty-five feet up and down at its
bow and at the stern. The highest waves that we saw in our outward passage
were probably from twelve to eighteen feet. That the rocking or swinging
of the ship, is the one and only cause of sea-sickness, may admit of a
question; but that it is the principal cause, there can be little doubt.
My observations and experiences in five or six voyages (long and short)
did not point to any other cause. As the sea air is generally regarded as
more salubrious and healthier than that on land, it can certainly not be a
cause of sea-sickness. Fright and terror, in a timid person might perhaps
aggravate the disease in few instances, though it seems doubtful, to say
the least. When the sea is calm and smooth, everybody feels well, even if
the vessel swims in the middle of the Ocean; but let a storm come on, and
the number of sick will increase in proportion to its violence.
Whales.
On the second day of our voyage, in the afternoon at about 4:00 o'clock,
we came across a shoal of whales. There must have been two or three dozen
of them. They apparently avoided our ship, as only a few made their
appearance very close by, though we sailed through the midst of them. They
swam about leisurely near the surface, betraying their whereabouts
frequently by spouting; but occasionally they would rise considerably
above the surface of the water, and expose large portions of their bodies
to our view. The excitement occasioned among all on board, by the
appearance of so many of these terrible monsters, greatly quickened our
dull spirits, and tended much to alleviate the lonesomeness occasioned by
the monotony of the sea voyage.
No one who has never experienced it, can form an idea of how the mind is
depressed and benumbed by the monotony of sea life. The nights drag along
so slowly, and the days--they seem to have no end. One will often loose
his "bearings" so completely, that he knows neither what day of the week
it is, nor whether it is forenoon or afternoon. Without keeping a diary or
record of some kind, it would be difficult for many to keep a sure run of
the date. Ordinarily, one sits down early in the morning _to wait for the
evening to draw by_, and often it happens, when it seems to him that he
has waited the length of three days on the land, he is mortified by the
announcement that it is yet far from being noon! An eternal present seems
to swallow up both the past and the future. After a week or two of such
weary waiting, one feels as if he had forgotten almost every thing that
happened before the day of his leaving home. I remarked one day to a
company of passengers on deck, that I could scarcely recall any thing that
had happened in the past; indeed, it required quite an effort to remember
that I had ever been in America, or anywhere else except on the old
"Manhattan" in an everlasting voyage. "Yes," observed one of the company,
"and I heard a fellow say yesterday that time seemed so long to him, that
he had really forgotten how many children he had." There is little doubt,
that if a ship-load of passengers could be suddenly and unexpectedly
landed upon the grassy <DW72> of a verdant hillside; many would under
momentary impulse of overwhelming pleasure, kiss the dear earth, as
Columbus did on landing at San Salvador, if, indeed, extreme joy did not
impel them to make themselves ridiculous by imitating old Nebuchadnezzar,
in commencing to graze on the herbage! But the longest day must have an
end, and so have sea voyages.
The First Sight of Land.
On Saturday morning, July 3rd, everybody came upon deck in hope of seeing
land. A report was soon circulated, that the sailors with their
telescopes, had already seen the mountains of Ireland. Those passengers
that had telescopes or opera glasses soon brought them upon deck. Some
said they saw the land, but others using the same glasees could see
nothing. This, created a pleasant excitement with but little
satisfaction, however, except a lively hope of soon seeing _terra firma_
again. At about 8:00 o'clock (4:00 o'clock Penna. time | 3,432.44745 |
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