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YORKSHIRE
VALES AND WOLDS
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
YORKSHIRE
COAST AND MOORLAND SCENES
SECOND EDITION
CONTAINING 31 FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS IN COLOUR. SQUARE DEMY 8vo.,
CLOTH, GILT TOP. PRICE =7s. 6d.= NET
_The Yorkshire Post_ says: ‘All lovers of Yorkshire scenery, and
especially coast scenery, will welcome Mr. Gordon Home’s “Yorkshire
Coast and Moorland Scenes.”... The illustrations, as we have said, are
wonderful examples of colour printing, and many of the moorland scenes
have been reproduced beautifully, especially the “Sunset from Danby
Beacon,” which seems to have retained the Cleveland atmosphere in a
| 199.173472 |
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Scientific and Religious Journal.
VOL. I. DECEMBER, 1880. NO. 12.
IS THE SINNER A MORAL AGENT IN HIS CONVERSION?
There are a great many questions asked upon the subject of conversion,
and as many answers given as there are theories of religion, and many
persons listening to men's theories upon this subject are left in doubt
and darkness in reference to what is and is not conversion. You ask the
Mormons, who fully believe their theory of conversion, and they will
refer you to their own experience and the experience of the loyal,
self-sacrificing devotees of their faith. Ask the Roman Catholic and he
will give you an answer corresponding with his theory of religion. All
Protestant parties give you their experience, and refer you to their
loyal and self-sacrificing brethren for the truthfulness of their
theories of conversion. In the midst of this conflict and medley of
contradictions what are we to do? Shall we accept their experience as
the infallible rule by which to determine the right from the wrong in
matters pertaining | 199.25647 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: 'THEN BEGAN A TERRIBLE FIGHT BETWEEN THE MAN AND THE
HORSE.' _Page_ 124.
LEFT ON THE PRAIRIE
BY
M. B. COX (NOEL WEST).
_ILLUSTRATED BY A. PEARCE_
LONDON:
WELLS GARDNER, BARTON & CO.,
3, PATERNOSTER BUILDINGS, & 44, VICTORIA STREET, S.W.
1899.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. AT LONGVIEW
II. JACK IN TROUBLE
III. JACK'S RESOLUTION
IV. JACK STARTS ON HIS JOURNEY
V. JACK GOES IN SEARCH OF <DW65>
VI. JACK IS DESERTED
VII. JACK IS RESCUED
VIII. WHAT JACK LEARNED FROM PEDRO
IX. JACK ARRIVES AT SWIFT CREEK RANCH
X. JACK'S VISIT AT SWIFT CREEK RANCH
XI. JACK CROSSES THE RANGE WITH CHAMPION JOE
XII. AT LAST!
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
'THEN BEGAN A TERRIBLE FIGHT BETWEEN THE MAN AND THE HORSE'......
... _Frontispiece_
'JACK COULD HELP HIS FATHER, TOO, WHEN HE ARRIVED HOME'
'HE RUSHED OFF TO THE WOODSHED, AND WEPT AS IF HIS HEART WOULD BREAK'
'HE GOT OUT OF HIS WINDOW'
'JACK STRUCK UP "FOR EVER WITH THE LORD"'
'"YOU'D BETTER NOT COME BACK WITHOUT THE HORSE"'
'JACK FOUGHT HARD, BUT THEY WERE TOO MANY FOR HIM'
'"HERE," SAID THE MEXICAN, "DRINK THIS"'
'PEDRO LET THE NOOSE FALL OVER SENOR'S NECK'
'JACK MADE HIMSELF USEFUL'
'CARRYING HIM INTO A NICE WARM ROOM'
'THROUGH A DENSE FOREST OF PINES'
'JACK RUSHED INTO THE MIDST OF THE HORSES TOWARDS A YELLOW-COATED
BRONCHO'
'"OH, MOTHER DARLING! I AIN'T DEAD, AND I'VE FOUND YOU AT LAST!"'
LEFT ON THE PRAIRIE.
CHAPTER I.
AT LONGVIEW.
Little Jack Wilson had been born in England; but when he was quite a
baby his parents had sailed across the sea, taking him with them, and
settled out on one of the distant prairies of America. Of course, Jack
was too small when he left to remember anything of England himself, but
as he grew older he liked to hear his father and mother talk about the
old country where he and they had been born, and to which they still
seemed to cling with great affection. Sometimes, as they looked
out-of-doors over the burnt-up prairie round their new home, his father
would tell him about the trim green fields they had left so far behind
them, and say with a sigh, 'Old England was like a _garden_, but this
place is nothing but a _wilderness_!'
Longview was the name of the lonely western village where George
Wilson, his wife, and Jack had lived for eight years, and although we
should not have thought it a particularly nice place, they were very
happy there. Longview was half-way between two large mining towns,
sixty miles apart, and as there was no railway in those parts, the
people going to and from the different mines were obliged to travel by
waggons, and often halted for a night at Longview to break the journey.
It was a very hot and dusty village in summer, as there were no nice
trees to give pleasant shade from the sun, and the staring rows of
wooden houses that formed the streets had no gardens in front to make
them look pretty. In winter it was almost worse, for the cold winds
came sweeping down from the distant mountains and rushed shrieking
across the plains towards the unprotected village. They whirled the
snow into clouds, making big drifts, and whistled round the frame
houses as if threatening to blow them right away.
Jack was used to it, however, and, in spite of the heat and cold, was a
happy little lad. His parents had come to America, in the first place,
because times were so bad in England, and secondly, because Mrs.
Wilson's only sister had emigrated many years before them to Longview,
and had been so anxious to have her relations near her.
Aunt Sue, as Jack called her, had married very young, and accompanied
her husband, Mat Byrne, to the West. He was a miner, and when he
worked got good wages; but he was an idle, thriftless fellow, who soon
got into disfavour with his employers, and a year or two after the
Wilsons came he took to drink, and made sad trouble for his wife and
his three boys. George Wilson had expostulated with him often, and
begged him to be more steady, but Mat was jealous of his honest
brother-in-law, who worked so hard and was fairly comfortable, and
therefore he resented the kind words of advice, and George was obliged
to leave him alone.
George Wilson made his living by freighting--that is, carrying goods
from place to place by waggons, as there was no rail by which to send
things. Sometimes, when he took extra long journeys, he would have to
leave his wife and boy for some weeks to keep each other company.
'Take care of your mother, Jack, my boy,' he would say, before
starting. 'She has no man to look after her or do things for her but
ye till I get home.' And right well did the little fellow obey orders.
He was a most helpful boy for his age, and was devoted to his mother,
who was far from strong. He got up early every morning, and did what
are called the _chores_ in America; these are all the small daily jobs
that have to be done in and around a house. First, he chopped wood and
lit a fire in the stove; after that he carried water in a bucket and
filled the kettle, and then leaving the water to boil, he laid the
breakfast-table and ground the coffee.
When breakfast was over, he ran off to school, and afterwards had many
a good romp with his cousins, Steve, Hal, and Larry Byrne, who lived
quite close to his home. Jack was very fond of his Aunt Sue; she was
so like his gentle mother. He often ran in to see her, but he always
fled when he heard his Uncle Mat coming, whose loud, rough voice
frightened him.
Jack was very sorry for his cousins, as they did not seem to care a bit
for their father; indeed, at times they were very much afraid of him,
and Steve, the eldest, who was a big fellow, nearly sixteen, told Jack
that if it wasn't for his mother, he would run away from home and go
off to be a cowboy, instead of working as a miner with his father. But
he knew what a sad trouble it would be to the poor woman if he went
away from her, and he was too good a son to give her pain.
When his father was away freighting, Jack, even while he was at play,
kept a good look-out across the prairie, watching every day for his
return. He could see for miles, and when he spied the white top of the
familiar waggon appearing in the distance, he would rush home shouting,
'Mother! Mother! Daddy's coming! I see the waggon ever such a long
way off.' And then the two would get to work and prepare a nice supper
for him.
Jack could help his father, too, when he arrived home, for there were
four tired horses to unharness, and water, and feed. Jack knew them
all well; Buck and Jerry in front as leaders, and Rufus and Billy
harnessed to the waggon. George Wilson was very proud of his horses,
and they certainly had a good master, for he always looked after them
first, and saw them comfortably into their stable before he began his
own supper.
[Illustration: 'JACK COULD HELP HIS FATHER, TOO, WHEN HE ARRIVED HOME.']
Trouble, however, was dawning over the happy household. The life in
the hot village had never suited Mrs. Wilson, and it told on her more
as time went on. She looked white and thin, and felt so tired and
weary if she did any work, that her husband got alarmed and brought in
a doctor to see her. The doctor frightened him still more. He said
the place was slowly killing her, as the air was so close and hot.
'You must take her away at once,' he said emphatically, 'if you want to
save her life. She has been here too long, I fear, as it is. Go away
to the mountains and try the bracing air up there; she may come back
quite strong after a year there if she avoids all unnecessary fatigue.
Take my advice and go as soon as you can. There's no time to lose!'
These words came as an awful shock to George Wilson, who had no idea
his wife was so ill, and had hoped a few bottles of tonic from the
doctor would restore her failing strength. But the medical warning
could not be disregarded, and he could see for himself now how fast she
was wasting away. They must go away from Longview as soon as possible.
It was a sad thing for the Wilsons to contemplate the breaking up of
their home, but there was no help for it. They talked matters well
over, and came at last to the conclusion that it would be better not to
take Jack with them. They would probably be moving on from place to
place, and in a year he would forget all he had learnt at school.
After a long consultation with Aunt Sue, it was arranged that Jack
should stay at the Byrnes' house and keep on at his lessons, his Uncle
Mat having given his consent after hearing the Wilsons would pay well
for his keep.
George Wilson and his wife felt keenly the idea of leaving Jack, and it
was agreed that if they decided to stay in the mountains altogether,
someone should be found who would take the boy to them.
It was terrible breaking the news to poor little Jack that his parents
were going away from him, and for a time he was quite inconsolable.
His father talked very kindly and quietly to him, and at last made him
see that the arrangement was really all for the best.
'Ye see, Jack,' he said, 'the doctor says your mother is seriously ill,
an' the only chance for her is to take her off to the mountains.'
'Can't I go too, Daddy?' pleaded Jack, with tears in his eyes. 'I'll
do such lots o' work.'
'No, my lad; it won't do for ye to miss yer schoolin', as ye'd be bound
to do if ye came wanderin' about with us. It's only fur a year, so ye
must try an' be a brave boy, an' stay with yer good Aunt Sue until we
come back agin or send fur ye. We know what's best fur ye, an',
laddie, won't it be fine if Mother gets strong and well agin?'
'Aye, dad! That would be grand!' said Jack, brightening up.
'Well, it's a sad partin' fur us all; but there's nothin' else to be
done, an' ye must try an' keep up a good heart fur yer mother's sake,
as I doubt she'll fret sadly o'er leavin' ye.'
Jack promised to be brave, but there was a troubled look on his usually
bright face as he watched the rapid preparations going on for the
departure. The things had to be sold out of the house, as they could
not take much with them. The sale at first excited Jack, as so many
people came to buy; but when he saw their furniture, beds, chairs and
tables all being carried oft by strangers, he realized fully what the
breaking up of his home meant, and it made him feel very sad.
There was a lot to be done. Jack went with his father to buy a stock
of provisions for their long journey, and then they tried to make the
clumsy waggon as comfortable as possible for the sick mother. Aunt Sue
packed up, as her sister was so weak, and the trial of leaving Jack was
proving almost too much for her slender stock of strength. All the
same, she bravely tried to hide the pain the parting gave her, and for
her boy's sake tried to be cheerful even to the last.
Alone with Aunt Sue, she opened her heart, and received true sympathy
in her trouble from that good woman, who knew well that the chief
sorrow to her sister was the fear she might never see her little lad
again.
'You mustn't get so down-hearted, Maggie,' said Mrs. Byrne kindly, 'but
hope for the best. I have heard the air in them mountains is just
wonderful to cure cases like yours, and perhaps ye'll get quite strong
afore long.'
'If it pleases God,' said her sister gently. 'And now, Sue, ye'll
promise me to look well after Jack. I know ye're fond o' him fur his
own sake as well as mine; but I'm feared if Mat gets one o' his mad
fits on he might treat him badly.'
'Don't you fear, Maggie,' returned Mrs. Byrne soothingly; 'I'll treat
him as one o' my boys, | 199.256526 |
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HENRY THE SIXTH
CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS
C. F. CLAY, MANAGER
LONDON: FETTER LANE, E.C. 4
NEW YORK: G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
BOMBAY }
CALCUT | 199.256607 |
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[Illustration: "And sing to the praise of the Doll"]
_CHILDREN'S CRIMSON SERIES_
PINAFORE PALACE
BY
KATE DOUGLAS WIGGIN
AND
NORA ARCHIBALD SMITH
GROSSET & DUNLAP PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1907, by The McClure Company_
* * * * *
PREFACE
TO THE MOTHER
_"A Court as of angels,
A public not to be bribed,
Not to be entreated,
Not to be overawed."_
_Such is the audience--in long clothes or short frocks, in pinafores
or kilts, or in the brief trousers that bespeak the budding man--such
is the crowing, laughing court, the toddling public that awaits these
verses._
_Every home, large or small, poor or rich, that has a child in it, is
a Pinafore Palace, and we have borrowed the phrase from one of
childhood's most whimsical and devoted poets-laureate, thinking no
other words would so well express our meaning._
_If the two main divisions of the book--"The Royal Baby" and "Little
Prince and Princess"--should seem to you a trifle sentimental it will
be because you forget for the moment the gayety and humor of the
title with its delightful assumptions of regal dignity and state.
Granted the Palace itself, everything else falls easily into line, and
if you cannot readily concede the royal birth and bearing of your
neighbor's child you will see nothing strange in thinking of your own
nursling as little prince or princess, and so you will be able to
accept gracefully the sobriquet of Queen Mother, which is yours by the
same invincible logic!_
_Oh, yes, we allow that instead of being gravely editorial in our
attitude, we have played with the title, as well as with all the
sub-titles and classifications, feeling that it was the next
pleasantest thing to playing with the babies themselves. It was so
delightful to re-read the well-loved rhymes of our own childhood and
try to find others worthy to put beside them; so delicious to imagine
the hundreds of young mothers who would meet their old favorites in
these particular pages; and so inspiring to think of the thousands of
new babies whose first hearing of nursery classics would be associated
with this red-covered volume, that we found ourselves in a joyous mood
which we hope will be contagious. Nothing is surer than that a certain
gayety of heart and mind constitute the most wholesome climate for
young children. "The baby whose mother has not charmed him in his
cradle with rhyme and song has no enchanting dreams; he is not gay and
he will never be a great musician," so runs the old Swiss saying._
_Youthful mothers, beautifully and properly serious about their
strange new duties and responsibilities, need not fear that Mother
Goose is anything but healthful nonsense. She holds a place all her
own, and the years that have rolled over her head (some of the rhymes
going back to the sixteenth century) only give her a firmer footing
among the immortals. There are no real substitutes for her unique
rhymes, neither can they be added to nor imitated; for the world
nowadays is seemingly too sophisticated to frame just this sort of
merry, light-hearted, irresponsible verse which has mellowed with the
years. "These ancient rhymes," says Andrew Lang, "are smooth stones
from the brook of time, worn round by constant friction of tongues
long silent."_
_Nor is your use of this "light literature of the infant scholar" in
the nursery without purpose or value. You are developing ear, mind,
and heart, and laying a foundation for a later love of the best things
in poetry. Whatever else we may do or leave undone, if we wish to
widen the spiritual horizon of our children let us not close the
windows on the emotional and imaginative sides. "There is in every one
of us a poet whom the man has outlived." Do not let the poetic
instinct die of inanition; keep it alive in the child by feeding his
youthful ardor, strengthening his insight, guarding the sensitiveness
and delicacy of his early impressions, and cherishing the fancies that
are indeed "the trailing clouds of glory" he brings with him "from God
who is his home."_
_The rhythm of verse will charm his senses even in his baby days;
later on he will feel the beauty of some exquisite lyric phrase as
keenly as you do, for the ear will have been opened and will be
satisfied only with what is finest and best._
_The second division of the book "Little Prince and Princess" will
take the children out of the nursery into the garden, the farmyard,
and the world outside the Palace, where they will meet and play with
their fellows in an ever-widening circle of social activity. "Baby's
Hush-a-byes" in cradle or mother's lap will now give place to the
quiet cribside talks called "The Palace Bed Time" and "The Queen
Mother's Counsel"; and in the story hour "The Palace Jest-Book" will
furnish merriment for the youngsters who laughed the year before over
the simpler nonsense of Mother Goose._
_When the pinafores themselves are cast aside Pinafore Palace will be
outgrown, and you can find something better suited to the developing
requirements of the nursery folk in "The Posy Ring." Then the third
volume in our series--"Golden Numbers"--will give boys and girls from
ten to fifteen a taste of all the best and soundest poetry suitable to
their age, and after that they may enter on their full birthright,
"the rich deposit of the centuries."_
_No greater love for a task nor happiness in doing it, no more ardent
wish to please a child or meet a mother's need, ever went into a book
than have been wrought into this volume and its three predecessors. We
hope that it will find its way into the nurseries where wealth has
provided every means of ministering to the young child's growth in
body, mind, and soul; and if some of the Pinafore Palaces should be
neat little kitchens, what joy it would be to think of certain young
queen-mothers taking a breath between tasks to sit by the fire and
read to their royal babies while the bread is baking, the kettle
boiling, or the potatoes bubbling in the pot._
_"Where does Pinafore Palace stand?
Right in the middle of Lilliput Land."_
_And Lilliput Land is (or ought to be) the freeest country in the
universe. Its shining gates open wide at dawn, closing only at sunset,
and toddling pilgrims with eager faces enter and wander about at will.
Decked in velvet or clad in rags the friendly porter pays no heed, for
the pinafores hide all class distinctions._
_"We're bound for Pinafore Palace, sir,"
They say to the smiling gatekeeper.
"Do we need, if you please, an entrance ticket
Before we pass through your magic wicket?"
"Oh, no, little Prince and Princess dear,
| 199.259161 |
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LEAVES FROM MY JOURNAL
THIRD BOOK OF THE
FAITH-PROMOTING SERIES
By President W. Woodruff
_DESIGNED FOR THE INSTRUCTION AND ENCOURAGEMENT OF YOUNG LATTER-DAY
SAINTS_
SECOND EDITION.
JUVENILE INSTRUCTOR OFFICE,
Salt Lake City, Utah.
1882.
PREFACE
About nine months have elapsed since the first edition of this work
was published, and now the whole number issued--over 4,000 copies--are
exhausted, and there is a demand for more.
We, therefore, have much pleasure in offering the Second Edition of
LEAVES FROM MY JOURNAL for public consideration, and trust that the
young people who pursue it will be inspired to emulate in their lives
the faith, perseverance and integrity that so distinguish its author.
Brother Woodruff is a remarkable man. Few men now living, who have
followed the quiet and peaceful pursuits of life, have had such an
interesting and eventful experience as he has. Few, if any in this
age, have spent a more active and useful life. Certainly no man living
has been more particular about recording with his own hand, in a daily
journal, during half a century, the events of his own career and the
things that have come under his observation. His elaborate journal has
always been one of the principal sources from which the Church history
has been compiled.
Possessed of wonderful energy and determination, and mighty faith,
Brother Woodruff has labored long and with great success in the Church.
He has ever had a definite object in view--to know the will of the
Almighty and to do it. No amount of self-denial has been too great for
him to cheerfully endure for the advancement of the cause of God. No
labor required of the Saints has been considered by him too onerous to
engage in with his own hands.
Satan, knowing the power for good that Brother Woodruff would be, if
permitted to live, has often sought to effect his destruction.
The adventures, accidents and hair-breath escapes that he has met with,
are scarcely equalled by the record that the former apostle, Paul, has
left us of his life.
The power of God has been manifested in a most remarkable manner in
preserving Brother Woodruff's life. Considering the number of bones
he has had broken, and the other bodily injuries he has received, it
is certainly wonderful that now, at the age of seventy-five years, he
is such a sound, well-preserved man. God grant that his health and
usefulness may continue for many years to come.
Of course, this volume contains but a small portion of the interesting
experience of Brother Woodruff's life, but very many profitable lessons
may be learned from it, and we trust at some future time to be favored
with other sketches from his pen.
THE PUBLISHER
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Strictness of the "Blue Laws" of Connecticut--The Old Prophet
Mason--His Vision--His Prophecy--Hear the Gospel, and Embrace it--Visit
Kirtland, and see Joseph Smith--A Work for the Old Prophet.
CHAPTER II.
Preparing to go up to Zion--First Meeting with President Young-Camp of
Zion Starts--Numbers Magnified in the Eyes of Beholders--Remarkable
Deliverance-Selfishness, and its Reward.
CHAPTER III.
Advised to Remain in Missouri--A Desire to Preach--Pray to the Lord for
a Mission--Prayer Answered--Sent on a Mission to Arkansas--Dangerous
Journey through Jackson County--Living on Raw Corn, and Sleeping on the
Ground--My First Sermon--Refused Food and Shelter by a Presbyterian
Preacher--Wander through Swamps--Entertained by Indians.
CHAPTER IV.
A Journey of Sixty Miles without Food--Confronted by a Bear--Pass by
Unharmed--Surrounded by Wolves--Lost in Darkness--Reach a Cabin--Its
Inmates--No Supper--Sleep on the Floor--The Hardest Day's Work of my
Life--Twelve Miles more without Breakfast--Breakfast and Abuse Together.
CHAPTER V.
Our Anxiety to Meet a Saint--Journey to Akeman's--A Dream--Find Mr.
Akeman a Rank Apostate--He Raises a Mob--Threatened with Tar, Feathers,
etc.--I Warn Mr. Akeman to Repent--He Falls Down Dead at my Feet--I
Preach his Funeral Sermon.
CHAPTER VI.
Make a Canoe--Voyage down the Arkansas River--Sleep in a Deserted
Tavern--One Hundred and Seventy Miles through Swamps--Forty Miles a
Day in Mud Knee-deep--A Sudden Lameness--Left alone in an Alligator
Swamp--Healed, in Answer to Prayer--Arrival an Memphis--An Odd-looking
Preacher--Compelled to Preach--Powerful Aid from the Spirit--Not what
the Audience Expected.
CHAPTER VII.
Curious Worship--Meet Elder Parrish--Labor Together in
Tenessee--Adventure in Bloody River--A Night of Peril--Providential
Light--Menaced by a Mob--Good Advice of a Baptist Preacher--Summary of
my Labors during the Year.
CHAPTER VIII.
Studying Grammar--Meet Elder Patten--Glorious News--Labor with A. O.
Smoot--Turned out of a Meeting House by a Baptist Preacher--Preach in
the Open Air--Good Result--Adventure on the Tennesse River--A Novel
Charge to Arrest and Condemn Men upon--Mob Poison Our Horses.
CHAPTER IX.
Attending School--Marriage--Impressed to take a Mission to Fox
Islands--Advised to go--Journey to Canada--Cases of Healing--Journey
to Connecticut--My Birthplace--My Mother's Grave--Baptize some
Relatives--Joined by my Wife--Journey on Foot to Maine--Arrival at Fox
Island.
CHAPTER X.
Description of Vinal Haven--Population and Pursuit of the People--Great
Variety of Fish--The Introduction of the Gospel.
CHAPTER XI.
Mr. Newton, the Baptist Preacher, Wrestling with out Testimony--Rejects
it, and Begins to Oppose--Sends for a Methodist Minister to Help
Him--Mr. Douglass' Speech--Our Great Success on the North Island--Go
to the South Island, and baptise Mr. Douglass' Flock--Great Number of
Islands--Boiled Clams--Day of Prayer--Codfish Flakes.
CHAPTER XII.
Return to Mainland--Parting with Brother Hale--My Second Visit to
the Islands--Visit to the Isle of Holt--A Sign Demanded by Mr.
Douglass--A Prediction about him--It's Subsequent Fulfillment--Spirit
of Opposition--Firing of Cannons and Guns to Disturb my Meeting.
CHAPTER XIII.
Meeting with James Townsend--Decide to go to Bangor--Long Journey
through Deep Snow--Curious Phenomenon--Refused Lodging at Eight
Houses--Entertained by Mr. Teppley--Curious Coincidence--Mr Teppley's
Despondence--Arrival at Bangor--Return to the Islands--Adventure with
the Tide.
CHAPTER XIV.
Counseled to Gather with the Saints--Remarkable Manifestation--Case of
Healing--Efforts of Apostates--Visit from Elders--A Conference--Closing
my Labors on the Islands for a Season.
CHAPTER XV.
Return to Scarboro--Journey South--Visit to A. P. Rockwood in
Prison--Incidents of Prison Life--Journey to Connecticut--Baptize my
Father's Household.
CHAPTER XVI.
Taking Leave of my Old Home--Return to Maine--Birth of my
First Child--Appointment to the Apostleship and to a Foreign
Mission--Preparations for the Journey to Zion.
CHAPTER XVII.
Start upon out Journey. A Hazardous Undertaking--Sickness--Severe
Weather--My wife and Child Stricken--A Trying Experience--My Wife
Continues to Fail--Her Spirit Leaves her Body--Restored by the Power of
God--Her Spirit's Experience while Separated from the Body--Death of my
Brother--Arrival at Rochester--Removal to Quincy.
CHAPTER XVIII.
A Peculiar Revelation--Determination of Enemies to Prevent its
Fulfillment--Start to Far West to Fulfill Revelation--Our Arrival
There--Hold a Council--Fulfill the Revelation--Corner Stone of the
Temple Laid--Ordained to the Apostleship--Leave Far West--Meet the
Prophet Joseph--Conference Held--Settle Our Families in Nauvoo.
CHAPTER XIX.
A Day of God's Power with the Prophet Joseph Smith--A Great Number of
Sick Persons Healed--The Mob becomes Alarmed--They try to Interfere
with the Healing of the Sick--The Mob Sent Out of the House--Twin
Children Healed.
CHAPTER XX.
Preparing for our Journey and Mission--The Blessing of the Prophet
Joseph upon our Heads, and his Promises unto us--The Power of the Devil
manifested to Hinder us in the Performance of our Journey.
CHAPTER XXI.
Leaving my Family--Start Upon my Mission--Our Condition--Elder Taylor
the only One not Sick--Reproof from the Prophet--Incidents upon the
Journey--Elder Taylor Stricken--I Leave him Sick.
CHAPTER XXII.
Continue my Journey--Leave Elder Taylor in Germantown--Arrival in
Cleveland--Take Steamer from There to Buffalo--Delayed by a Storm--Go
to Farmington, my Father's Home--Death of my Grandmother--My Uncle
Dies--I Preach his Funeral Sermon--Arrive in New York--Sail for
Liverpool--Encounter Storms and Rough Weather--Arrive in Liverpool.
CHAPTER XXIII.
Our visit to Preston--Our First Council in England, in 1840--We Take
Different Fields of Labor--A Women Possessed of the Devil--Attempt to
Cast it Out and Fail--Turn Out the Unbelievers, and then Succeed--The
Evil Spirit Enters her Child--Commence Baptizing--The Lord Makes Known
His Will to me.
CHAPTER XXIV.
My Journey to Herefordshire--Interview with John Benbow--The Word of
the Lord Fulfilled to me--The Greatest Gathering into the Church Known
among the Gentiles since its organisation in this Dispensation--A
Constable Sent to Arrest me--I Convert and Baptize Him--Two Clerks Sent
as Detectives to Hear me Preach, and both Embrace the Truth--Rectors
Petition to have out Preaching Prohibited--The Archbishop's Reply--Book
of Mormon and Hymn Book Printed--Case of healing.
CHAPTER XXV.
Closing Testimony--Good and Evil Spirits.
CHAPTER XXVI.
How to Obtain Revelation from God--Joseph Smith's Course--Saved
from Death by a falling Tree, by Obeying the Voice of the Spirit--A
Company of Saints Saved from a Steam-boat Disaster by the Spirit's
Warning--Plot to Waylay Elder C. C. Rich and Party Foiled by the same
Power.
CHAPTER XXVII.
Result of not Obeying the Voice of the Spirit--Lost in a
Snowstorm--Saved, in answer to Prayer--Revelation to Missionaries
Necessary--Revelation in the St. George Temple.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
Patriarchal Blessings and their Fulfillment--Predictions in my own
Blessing--Gold-dust from California--Taught by an Angel--Struggle with
Evil Spirits--Administered to by Angels--What Angels are sent to the
Earth for.
LEAVES FROM MY JOURNAL
CHAPTER I.
STRICTNESS OF THE "BLUE LAWS" OF CONNECTICUT--THE OLD PROPHET,
MASON--HIS VISION--HIS PROPHECY--HEAR THE GOSPEL, AND EMBRACE IT--VISIT
KIRTLAND AND SEE JOSEPH SMITH--A WORK FOR THE OLD PROPHET.
For the benefit of the young Latter-day Saints, for whom the
Faith-Promoting Series is especially designed, I will relate some
incidents from my experience. I will commence by giving a short account
of some events of my childhood and youth.
I spent the first years of my life under the influence of what history
has called the "Blue Laws" of Connecticut.
No man, boy, or child of any age was permitted to play, or do any work
from sunset Saturday night, until Sunday night. After sunset on Sunday
evening, men might work, and boys might jump, shout, and play as much
as they pleased.
Our parents were very strict with us on Saturday night, and all day
Sunday we had to sit very still and say over the Presbyterian catechism
and some passages in the Bible.
The people of Connecticut in those days thought it wicked to believe
in any religion, or belong to any church, except the Presbyterian.
They did not believe in having any prophets, apostles, or revelations,
as they had in the days of Jesus, and as we now have in the Church of
Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.
There was an aged man in Connecticut, however, by the name of Robert
Mason, who did not believe like the rest of the people. He believed
it was necessary to have prophets, apostles, dreams, visions and
revelations in the church of Christ, the same as they had who lived in
ancient days; and he believed the Lord would raise up a people and a
church, in the last days, with prophets, apostles and all the gifts,
powers and blessings, which it ever contained in any age of the world.
The people called this man, the old prophet Mason.
He frequently came to my father's house when I was a boy, and taught me
and my brothers those principles; and I believed him.
This prophet prayed a great deal, and he had dreams and visions, and
the Lord showed him many things, by visions, which were to come to pass
in the last days.
I will here relate one vision, which he related to me. The last time I
ever saw him, he said: "I was laboring in my field at mid-day when I
was enwrapped in a vision. I was placed in the midst of a vast forest
of fruit trees: I was very hungry, and walked a long way through the
orchard, searching for fruit to eat; but I could not find any in the
whole orchard, and I wept because I could find no fruit. While I stood
gazing at the orchard, and wondering why there was no fruit, the trees
began to fall to the ground upon every side of me, until there was not
one tree standing in the whole orchard; and while I was marveling at
the scene, I saw young sprouts start up from the roots of the trees
which had fallen, and they opened into young, thrifty trees before
my eyes. They budded, blossomed, and bore fruit until the trees were
loaded with the finest fruit I ever beheld, and I rejoiced to see so
much fine fruit. I stepped up to a tree and picked my hands full of
fruit, and marveled at its beauty, and as I was about to taste of it
the vision closed, | 199.259245 |
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Produced by David Garcia and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
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_CHARLES DI TOCCA_
_A Tragedy_
_By_
_Cale Young Rice_
_McClure, Phillips & Co._
_New York_
1903
COPYRIGHT, 1903, BY
CALE YOUNG RICE
Published, March, 1903, R
_To My Wife_
_CHARLES DI TOCCA_
CHARLES DI TOCCA
_A Tragedy_
CHARLES DI TOCCA _Duke of Leucadia, Tyrant of Arta, etc._
ANTONIO DI TOCCA _His son._
HAEMON _A Greek noble._
BARDAS _His friend._
CARDINAL JULIAN _The Pope's Legate._
AGABUS _A mad monk._
CECCO _Seneschal of the Castle._
FULVIA COLONNA _Under the duke's protection._
HELENA _Sister to Haemon._
GIULIA _Serving Fulvia._
PAULA _Serving Helena._
LYGIA }
PHAON } _Revellers._
ZOE }
BASIL }
NARDO, a boy, and DIOGENES, a philosopher.
A Captain of the Guard, Soldiers, Guests, Attendants, etc.
_Time_: _Fifteenth Century._
ACT ONE
_Scene._--_The Island Leucadia. A ruined temple of Apollo near the town
of Pharo. Broken columns and stones are strewn, or stand desolately
about. It is night--the moon rising. ANTONIO, who has been waiting
impatiently, seats himself on a stone. By a road near the ruins FULVIA
enters, cloaked._
ANTONIO (_turning_): Helen----!
FULVIA: A comely name, my lord.
ANTONIO: Ah, you?
My father's unforgetting Fulvia?
FULVIA: At least not Helena, whoe'er she be.
ANTONIO: And did I call you so?
FULVIA: Unless it is
These stones have tongue and passion.
ANTONIO: Then the night
Recalling dreams of dim antiquity's
Heroic bloom worked on me.--But whence are
Your steps, so late, alone?
FULVIA: From the Cardinal,
Who has but come.
ANTONIO: What comfort there?
FULVIA: With doom
The moody bolt of Rome broods over us.
ANTONIO: My father will not bind his heresy?
FULVIA: You with him walked to-day. What said he?
ANTONIO: I?
With him to-day? Ah, true. What may be done?
FULVIA: He has been strange of late and silent, laughs,
Seeing the Cross, but softly and almost
As it were some sweet thing he loved.
ANTONIO (_absently_): As if
'Twere some sweet thing--he laughs--is strange--you say?
FULVIA: Stranger than is Antonio his son,
Who but for some expectancy is vacant.
(_She makes to go._)
ANTONIO: Stay, Fulvia, though I am not in poise.
Last night I dreamed of you: in vain you hovered
To reach me from the coil of swift Charybdis.
(_A low cry, ANTONIO starts._)
Fulvia: A woman's voice!
(_Looking down the road._)
And hasting here!
ANTONIO: Alone?
FULVIA: No, with another!
ANTONIO: Go, then, Fulvia.
'Tis one would speak with me.
FULVIA: Ah? (_She goes._)
_Enter HELENA frightedly with PAULA._
HELENA: Antonio!
ANTONIO: My Helena, what is it? You are wan
And tremble as a blossom quick with fear
Of shattering. What is it? Speak.
HELENA: Not true!
O, 'tis not true!
ANTONIO: What have you chanced upon?
HELENA: Say no to me, say no, and no again!
ANTONIO: Say no, and no?
HELENA: Yes; I am reeling, wrung,
With one glance o'er the precipice of ill!
Say his incanted prophecies spring from
No power that's more than frenzied fantasy!
ANTONIO: Who prophesies? Who now upon this isle
More than visible and present day
Can gather to his eye? Tell me.
HELENA: The monk--
Ah, chide me not!--mad Agabus, who can
Unsphere dark spirits from their evil airs
And show all things of love or death, seized me
As hither I stole to thee. With wild looks
And wilder lips he vented on my ear
Boding more wild than both. "Sappho!" he cried,
"Sappho! Sappho!" and probed my eyes as if
Destiny moved dark-visaged in their deeps.
Then tore his rags and moaned, "So young, to cease!"
Gazed then out into awful vacancy;
And whispered hotly, following his gaze,
"The Shadow! Shadow!"
ANTONIO: This is but a whim,
A sudden gloomy surge of superstition.
Put it from you, my Helena.
HELENA: But he
Has often cleft the future with his ken,
Seen through it to some lurking misery
And mar of love: or the dim knell of death
Heard and revealed.
ANTONIO: A witless monk who thinks
God lives but to fulfil his prophecies!
HELENA: You know him not. 'Tis told in youth he loved
One treacherous, and in avenge made fierce
Treaty with Hell that lends him sight of all
Ills that arise from it to mated hearts!
Yet look not so, my lord! I'll trust thine eyes
That tell me love is master of all times,
And thou of all love master!
ANTONIO: And of thee?
Then will the winds return unto the night
And flute us lover songs of happiness!
HELENA: Nor dare upon a duller note while here
We tryst beneath the moon?
ANTONIO: My perfect Greek!
Athene looks again out of thy lids,
And Venus trembles in thy every limb!
HELENA: Not Venus, ah, not Venus!
ANTONIO: Now; again?
HELENA: 'Twas on this temple's ancient gate she found
Wounded Adonis dead, and to forget,
Like Sappho leaped, 'tis said, from yonder cliff
Down to the waves' oblivion below.
ANTONIO: And will you read such terror in a tale?
HELENA: Forgive me, then.
ANTONIO: Surely you are unstrung,
And yet there is---- (_Turns away from her._)
HELENA: Is what? Antonio?
ANTONIO: Nothing: I who must ebb with you and flow
A little was moved.
HELENA: Not you, not you! I'll change
My tears to laughter, if but fantasy
May so unmettle you! Not moved, indeed!
Not moved, Antonio?
ANTONIO: Well, let us off,
My Helena, with these numb awes that wind
About our joy.
HELENA: Thy kiss then, for it can
Drive all gloom out of the world!
ANTONIO: And thine, my own,
On Fate's hard brow would shame it of all frown!
HELENA: Yet is thine mightier, for no frown can be
When no more gloom's in the world!
ANTONIO: But 'tis thy lips
That lend it might. If I pressed other----
HELENA: Other!
You should not know that any other lips
Could e'er be pressed; I'll have no kiss but his
Who is all blind to every mouth but mine!
(_Breaks from him._)
ANTONIO: Oh?--Well.
HELENA: "Oh--well?"--Then it is well I go!
ANTONIO: Perhaps.
HELENA: "Perhaps!" (_Makes to go._)
ANTONIO: Good-night.
HELENA (_returning_): Antonio----?
ANTONIO: Ah! still----?
HELENA: There's gloom in the world again.
ANTONIO (_kissing her_): 'Tis gone?
HELENA: Not all, I think.
ANTONIO | 199.373513 |
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TWO ON THE TRAIL
A Story of the Far Northwest
by
HULBERT FOOTNER
Illustrated by W. Sherman Potts
New York
Grosset & Dunlap
Publishers
All Rights Reserved, Including That of Translation
into Foreign Languages, Including the Scandinavian
Copyright, 1910, by Outing Publishing Company
Copyright, 1911, by Doubleday, Page & Company
Published, February, 1911
To
H. L. D.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. IN PAPPS'S RESTAURANT 3
II. THE UNKNOWN LADY 13
III. ON THE TRAIL 29
IV. THE STOPPING-HOUSE YARD 44
V. AT MIWASA LANDING 57
VI. NATALIE TELLS ABOUT HERSELF 72
VII. MARY CO-QUE-WASA'S ERRAND 81
VIII. ON THE LITTLE RIVER 100
IX. THE HEART OF A BOY 116
X. ON CARIBOU LAKE 130
XI. THE FIGHT IN THE STORM 142
XII. THE NINETY-MILE PORTAGE 157
XIII. THE NEWLY-MARRIED PAIR 175
XIV. THE LAST STAGE 186
XV. THE MEETING 199
XVI. NATALIE WOUNDED 214
XVII. THE CLUE TO RINA 228
XVIII. MABYN MAROONED 238
XIX. GRYLLS REDIVIVUS 253
XX. SUCCOUR 266
XXI. THE BROKEN DOOR 284
XXII. THE BLIZZARD 295
XXIII. THE SOLITARY PURSUER 315
XXIV. IN DEATH CANYON 326
XXV. EPILOGUE: SPOKEN BY CHARLEY 342
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Look!" she cried. "Isn't it like the frontispiece
to a book ofadventure!" _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
At the same instant the boat lurched drunkenly;
and they pitched overboard together 150
There, clinging to the corner of the cabin for support,
stood the figure of a woman 212
It was a grim figure that the first rays of light
revealed sitting on the big rock 336
TWO ON THE TRAIL
I
IN PAPPS'S RESTAURANT
The interior of Papps's, like most Western restaurants, was divided into
a double row of little cabins with a passage between, each cabin having
a swing door. Garth Pevensey found the place very full; and he was
ushered into a cubby-hole which already contained two diners, a man and
a woman nearing the end of their meal. They appeared to be incoming
settlers of the better class--a farmer and his wife from across the
line. Far from resenting Garth's intrusion, they visibly welcomed it;
after all, there was something uncomfortably suggestive of a cell in
those narrow cabins to which the light of day never penetrated.
Garth passed behind the farmer's chair, and seated himself next the
wall. He had no sooner ordered his luncheon than the door was again
opened, and the rotund Mr. Papps, with profuse apologies, introduced
a fourth to their table. The vacant place, it appeared, was the very
last remaining in his establishment.
The newcomer was a girl; young, slender and decidedly pretty: such was
Garth's first impression. She came in without hesitation, and took the
place opposite Garth with that serenely oblivious air so characteristic
of the highly civilized young lady. Very trimly and quietly dressed,
sufficiently well-bred to accept the situation as a matter of course.
Thus Garth's further impressions. "What a girl to be meeting up in this
corner of the world, and how I should like to know her!" he added in
his mind. The maiden's bland aloofness was discouraging to this hope;
nevertheless, his heart worked in an extra beat or two, as he considered
the added relish his luncheon would have, garnished by occasional
glances at such a delightful _vis-a-vis_. Meanwhile, he was careful
to take his cue from her; his face, likewise, expressed a blank.
The farmer and his wife became very uncomfortable. Simple souls, they
could not understand how a personable youth and a charming girl should
sit opposite each other with such wooden faces. Their feeling was that
at quarters so close extra sociability was demanded, and the utter lack
of it caused them to move uneasily in their chairs, and gently perspire.
They unconsciously hastened to finish, and having at length dutifully
polished their plates, arose and left the cabin with audible sighs of
relief.
This was a contingency Garth had not foreseen, and his heart jumped. At
the same time he felt a little sorry for the girl. He wondered if she
would consider it an act of delicacy if he fastened the door open with
a chair. On second thoughts, he decided such a move would be open to
misconstruction. Had he only known it, she was dying to laugh and, at
the slightest twinkle in his eyes, would have gone off into a peal. Only
Garth's severe gravity restrained her--and that in turn made her want to
laugh harder than ever. But how was Garth to learn all that? Girls, more
especially girls like this, were to him insolvable mysteries--like the
heavenly constellations. Of course, there are those who pretend to have
discovered their orbits, and have written books on the subject; but for
him, he preferred simply to wonder and to admire.
Since her arrival the objective point of his desire shifted from his
plate some three feet across the table; he now gazed covertly at her
with more hunger than he evinced for his food. She had a good deal the
aspect of a plucky boy, he thought; a direct, level gaze; a quick, sure
turn to her head; and the fresh, bright lips of a boy. But that was no
more than a pleasant fancy; in reality she was woman clear through. Eve
lurked in the depths of her blue eyes, for all they hung out the colours
of simple honesty; and Eve winked at him out of every fold of her rich
chestnut hair. She was quick and impulsive in her motions; and although
she showed such a blank front to the man opposite, her lips flickered
with the desire to smile; and tiny frowns came and went between the
twin crescents of her brows.
As for her, she was sizing him up too, though with skilfully veiled
glances. She saw a square-shouldered young man, who sat calmly eating
his lunch, without betraying too much self-consciousness on the one
hand, or any desire to make flirtatious advances on the other. Yet he
was not stupid, either; he had eyes that saw what they were turned on,
she noted. His admirable, detached attitude piqued her, though she would
have been quick to resent any other. She was angry with him for forcing
this repression on her; repression was not natural to this young lady.
She longed to clear the air with a burst of laughter, but the thought
of a quick, cool glance of surprise from the steady eyes opposite
effectually checked her. As for his features, they were well enough, she
thought. He had a shapely head, broadest over the ears, and thatched
with thick, straight hair of the ashy-brown just the other side of
blonde. His eyes were of the shade politely called gray, though
yellow or green might be said with equal truth, had not those colours
unpleasant associations. His nose was longish, and he had a comical
trick of seeming to look down it, at which she greatly desired to laugh.
His mouth was well cut, and decisively finished at the corners; and
he had a chin to match. In spite of her irritation with him, she was
reminded of a picture she had seen of Henry Fifth looking out from
his helmet on the field of Agincourt.
As the minutes passed, and Garth maintained his calm, she became quite
unreasonably wroth. Her own luncheon was now before her. By and by she
wanted salt, and the only cellar stood at Garth's elbow. Nothing could
have induced her to ask for it; she merely stared fixedly. Garth,
presently observing, politely offered the salt-cellar. She waited
until he had put it down on the table, and removed his hand from
the neighbourhood; then took it.
"Thank you," she murmured indignantly; furious at having to say it.
Garth wondered what he had done to offend her.
At this moment there was an interruption; again the apologetic Mr.
Papps with yet another guest. This was a tradesman's comely young wife,
with very ruffled plumage, and the distracted air of the unaccustomed
traveller. She was carrying in her arms a shiny black valise, three
assorted paper-covered bundles with the string coming off, and a hat in
a paper bag; and, although it was so warm, she wore her winter's coat,
plainly because there was no other way to bring it. Her hair was flying
from its moorings; her face flamed; and her hat sat at a disreputably
rakish angle. As she piled up her encumbrances on the chair next to the
girl, and took off her coat, she bubbled over with indistinguishable,
anxious mutterings. At last she sank into the seat by Garth with
something between a sigh and a moan.
"I've lost my husband," she announced at large.
Her distress was so comical they could not forbear smiling.
Encouraged by this earnest of sympathy, the newcomer plunged into a
breathless recital of her mischances.
"Just came in over the A. N. R.," she panted. "By rights we should have
arrived last night, but day-before-yesterday's train had the right of
way and we was held up down to Battle Run. I tell you, the rails of that
line are like the waves of the sea! I was that sea-sick I thought never
to eat mortal food again--but it's coming back; my appetite I mean. He
was to meet me, but I suppose he got tired after seventeen hours, small
blame--and dropped off somewheres. S'pose I'll have to make a round of
the hotels till I find him. You don't happen to know him, do you?" she
asked Garth. "John Pink, the carpenter?"
"I'm a stranger in Prince George," said he politely.
"Oh, what and all I've been through!" groaned Mrs. Pink, with an access
of energetic distress. She shook a warning finger at the girl. "Take my
advice, Miss," she warned, "and don't you let him out of your sight a
minute, till you get him safe home!"
The girl looked hard at her plate; while for Garth, a slow, dark red
crept up from his neck to the roots of his hair. Yet Mrs. Pink's mistake
was surely a natural one; there they sat lunching privately together in
the secluded little cabin. Moreover, they looked like fit mates, each for
the other; and their air of studied indifference was no more than the air
commonly assumed by young married couples in public places--especially
the lately married. Without appearing to raise her eyes, the girl in some
mysterious way, was conscious of Garth's dark flush. "Serve him right,"
she thought with wicked satisfaction. "I shan't help him out." But
Garth's blush was for her more than for himself.
Mrs. Pink, absorbed in her own troubles, was innocently unaware of
the consternation she had thrown them into. She plunged ahead; still
addressing her remarks to the girl.
"Perhaps you think there's no danger of losing yours so soon," she went
on; "and very like you're right. But, my dear, you never can tell! Bless
you, when I was on my wedding journey, he hung around continuous. I
couldn't get shet of the man for a minute, and I was fair tired out
of seeing him. But that wears off--not that I mean it would with
you"--turning to Garth--"but nothing different couldn't hardly be
expected in the course of nature."
Garth considered whether he should stop Mrs. Pink's tongue by telling
the truth. But it seemed ungallant to be in such haste to deny the
responsibility. He felt rather that the disclaimer should come from the
girl; and she made no move; indeed, he almost fancied he saw the ghost of
a smile. Under his irritation with the woman and her clumsy tongue, he
was conscious of a secret glow of pleasure. There was something highly
flattering in being taken for the husband of such an ultra-desirable
creature. The thought of her being really one with his future, as the
woman supposed, and travelling about the country with him made his heart
beat fast. Slender, trim and mistress of herself, she had exactly the
look of the wife he had pictured.
Mrs. Pink broke off long enough to order her luncheon, and from the
extent of the order it appeared she had entirely recovered her appetite.
"The next thing I have to do after finding my man," she resumed, with
a wild pass at her hat, which lurched it as far over on the other side,
"is to find a house. They tell me rents are terrible high in Prince
George. Are you two going to settle here?"
Garth replied in the negative. He had decided if the girl did not choose
to enlighten Mrs. Pink, he would not.
"It has a great future ahead of it," she said solemnly. "It's a grand
place for a young couple to start life in. And elegant air for children.
Mine are at my mother's."
Garth swallowed a gasp at this; but the girl never blinked an eye.
"But how I do run on!" exclaimed Mrs. Pink. "No doubt you've got a good
start somewheres else."
"Not so very," said Garth with a smile.
The smile disarmed the young lady sitting opposite, and somehow obliged
her to reconsider her opinion of him. "I believe the creature has a
sense of humour," was her thought.
"Are you Canadians?" inquired Mrs. Pink politely.
"I am from New York," said Garth.
Mrs. Pink opened her eyes to their widest. If he had said Cochin China
she could not have appeared more surprised. For New York has a magical
name in the Provinces; and the more remote, the more glowing the halo
evoked by the sound.
"Bless me!" she ejaculated. Then, addressing herself to the girl: "How
fine the shops and the opera houses must be there!"
"I've not been there in some years," she answered coolly. "I am from
Ontario."
"Well, I declare!" cried Mrs. Pink. "Quite a romance! Where did you
meet?"
"Here," said Garth readily. There was no turning back now.
"What a nice man!" now thought this perverse young lady.
"Well! Well!" exclaimed Mrs. Pink with immense interest. "Ain't that odd
now! Was it long since?"
"Not so very," said Garth vaguely. He glanced across the table and saw
that his supposed wife had finished her lunch. His heart sank heavily.
"Three months?" hazarded Mrs. Pink.
"It was about half an hour ago," came brisk and clear from across the
table.
Mrs. Pink looked up in utter amazement; her jaw dropped; and a piece
of bread was arrested halfway to her mouth. The girl had risen and was
drawing on her gloves.
"Good-bye, Mrs. Pink," she said sweetly. "I hope you find your husband
sooner than I find mine!"
With that she passed out; and the swing door closed behind her. All the
light went with her, it seemed to Garth, and the cabin became a sordid,
spotty little hole. Mrs. Pink stared at the door through which she had
disappeared, in speechless bewilderment. Finally she turned to Garth.
"Wh-what did she mean?" she stammered.
"I do not know the young lady," said Garth sadly.
"Good land, man!" screamed Mrs. Pink. "Why didn't you say so at first?"
II
THE UNKNOWN LADY
Garth Pevensey was a reporter on the _New York Leader_. His choice of
an occupation had been made more at the dictate of circumstances than
of his free will; and in the round hole of modern journalism he was
something of a square and stubborn peg. He had become a reporter because
he had no taste for business; and a newspaper office is the natural
refuge for clever young men with a modicum of education, and the need
of providing an income. He was not considered a "star" on the force;
and his city editor had been known to tear his hair at the missed
opportunities in Pevensey's copy, and hand it to one of the more glowing
stylists for the injection of "ginger." But Garth had his revenge in the
result; the gingerized phrases in his quiet narrative cried aloud, like
modern gingerbread work on a goodly old dwelling.
It was agreed in the office that Pevensey was too quiet ever to make a
crack reporter. On a big story full of human interest he was no good. It
was not that he failed to realize the possibilities of such stories; he
had as sure an eye for the picturesque and affecting as Dicky Chatworth
himself, the city editor's especial favourite; but he had an unconquerable
repugnance to "letting himself go." Moreover his stuff was suspected of
having a literary quality, something that is respected but not desired
in a newspaper office. Howbeit, there were some things Garth could do
to the entire satisfaction of the powers; he might be depended on for an
effective description of any big show, when the readers' tear-ducts were
not to be laid under contribution; he had an undeniable way with him
of impressing the great and the near-great; and had occasionally been
surprisingly successful in extracting information from the supposedly
uninterviewable.
Though his brilliancy might be discounted, Pevensey was one of the most
looked-up-to, and certainly the best-liked man on the staff. He was
entirely unassuming for one thing; and though he had the reputation of
leading rather a saintly life himself, he was as tolerant as Jove; and
the giddy youngsters who came and went on the staff of the _Leader_ with
such frequency liked to confide their escapades to him, sure of being
received with an interest which might pass very well for sympathy.
It was with the very young ones that he was most popular; he took on
himself no irritating airs of superiority; he was a good listener; and
he never flew off the handle. Such a man has the effect of a refreshing
sedative on the febrile nerves of an up-to-date newspaper office.
Outside the office Garth led an uneventful life. He lived with
his mother and a younger brother and sister, and ever since his
knickerbocker days he had been the best head the little family could
boast of. New York is full of young men like Garth who, deprived of
the kind of society their parents were accustomed to, do not assimilate
readily with that which is open to all; and so do without any.
Young, presentable and clever, Garth had yet never had a woman for
a friend. Those he met in the course of a reporter's rounds made him
over-fastidious. He had erected a sky-scraping ideal of fine breeding
in women, of delicacy, reserve and finish; and his life hitherto had not
afforded him a single opportunity of meeting a woman who could anywhere
near measure up to it. That was his little private grievance with Fate.
Garth came of a family of sporting and military traditions, which he had
inherited in full | 199.373602 |
2023-11-16 18:20:23.3536260 | 1,084 | 6 |
Produced by Thiers Halliwell, Close@Hand, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber’s notes:
In this transcription, paired underscores denote _italicised text_.
The text contains a few typographic characters that will not
necessarily display correctly with all viewing devices. If some of the
characters look abnormal, first ensure that the device’s character
encoding is set to Unicode (UTF-8). The default font might also need to
be changed to a Unicode font such as Arial Unicode MS, DejaVu, Segoe UI
Symbol or FreeSerif.
The following typographic errors have been corrected silently:
cought —> caught
conderable —> considerable
rhubard —> rhubarb
therfore —> therefore
smoaked —> smoked
teized —> seized
choaked —> choked
wereat —> were at
inculation —> inoculation
throngh —> through
anamalous —> anomalous
Archaic spellings remain as in the original but archaic long ‘s’
letters (ſ) have been replaced by the standard letter ‘s’.
Spelling inconsistencies such as dram/drachm, and unpaired square
brackets are as in the original.
Footnotes have been positioned below the relevant paragraphs.
A short table of contents has been inserted by the transcriber to
assist the reader.
THE
PRESENT METHOD
OF
INOCULATING
FOR THE
SMALL-POX.
To which are added,
Some Experiments, instituted with a View
to discover the Effects of a similar Treatment
in the NATURAL SMALL-POX.
By THOMAS DIMSDALE, M. D.
The SEVENTH EDITION, Corrected.
LONDON:
Printed by JAMES PHILLIPS, George-Yard,
Lombard-Street;
And Sold by W. OWEN, in Fleet-Street; and
CARNAN and NEWBERY, in-St. Paul’s Church
Yard.
MDCCLXXIX.
TO THE
Royal College of Physicians
IN
LONDON,
This Treatise is inscribed,
With all due Deference
and Respect,
BY
THE AUTHOR.
INTRODUCTION.
Of the Age, Constitution, and Season of the Year proper for Inoculation.
Of the Preparation.
Of Infection.
Of the Progress of Infection.
OF ANOMALOUS SYMPTOMS AND APPEARANCES.
Consequences of this Method of Inoculation.
The Effects of this Treatment applied to the natural Small-Pox.
CONCLUSION.
CASES.
CASES of the natural Small-pox, treated in the preceding Method.
POSTSCRIPT.
CASE.
INTRODUCTION.
From the time that I entered into the practice of medicine, and saw the
danger to which the generality of those who had the small-pox in the
natural way were exposed, I could not but sincerely wish, with every
sensible person of the faculty, that Inoculation might become general.
A considerable share of employment in this branch of my profession
has for upwards of twenty years occurred to me; and altho’ I have
been so fortunate as not to lose a patient under inoculation, except
one child, about fourteen years ago, who after the eruption of a few
distinct pustules died of a fever, which I esteemed wholly independent
of the small-pox, yet I must acknowledge that in some cases the
symptoms have cost me not a little anxiety for the event.
Nor have the subsequent effects of this practice always been so
favourable as one could wish; and tho’ far from equalling those which
too often follow the natural small-pox; either in respect to difficulty
or number, yet they sometimes gave no small uneasiness to the operator.
It cannot likewise, it ought not to be concealed, that some of the
inoculated have died under this process, even under the care of very
able and experienced practitioners. But this number is so small, that,
when compared with the mortality attending the natural small-pox, it is
reduced almost to a cypher.
These circumstances, however, tended to discourage the operation in
some degree. Practitioners were cautious of urging a process, of whose
event they could not be certain: and parents, who were sensible enough
to observe, that though the chance was greatly in their favour, yet a
blank might cast up against them, engaged in it with hesitation.
Humanity, as well as a wish to promote the honour and advantage of the
art I profess, made me ever attentive to the improvement of this part
of my employment. Dissatisfied with the common methods, I had carefully
attended to the circumstances that seemed to contribute to the good or
ill success of this practice, in the course of my own business, as well
as to the best information I could get of the success | 199.373666 |
2023-11-16 18:20:23.3547710 | 1,259 | 8 |
Produced by deaurider, Brian Wilcox and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber’s Notes:
The spelling, punctuation and hyphenation are as the original except
for apparent typographical errors, which have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted _thus_.
Bold text is denoted =thus=.
Bold, sans serif text, representing physical appearance e.g., of a
‘Vee’ shaped thread is denoted thus ^V^.
Subscripts are denoted thus _{1}.
Some page numbers printed in the original ‘Index to Part One’ do not
appear in the body of the book. The transcriber has endeavoured to
make assumptions as to the most appropriate anchor locations. The
appearance of the original index has not been changed.
Examples (possibly relocated, by the author, into Part Two) are:
=Air=, des., composition of, 15, 16
=Air pump=, 13
=Nitrogen=, what part of air, 15
=Oxygen=, what part of air, 15
=Value of Reidler belt-driven pump=, ills. and des., 238-240
changed in the Index to:-
=Valve of Riedler belt-driven pump=, ills. and des., 238-240
All references to ‘Reidler’ pumps have been corrected to ‘Riedler’
(Alois Riedler, 1850-1936, Austrian professor of engineering).
PUMPS
AND
HYDRAULICS.
IN TWO PARTS.
Part One.
“_There are many fingers pointing to the value of a training in
science, as the one thing needful to make the man, who shall rise above
his fellows._”—FRANK ALLEN.
[Illustration: Elephant]
“_The motto marked upon our foreheads, written upon our door-posts,
channeled in the earth, and wafted upon the waves is and must be,
‘Labour is honorable and Idleness is dishonorable.’_”—CARLYLE.
This work is respectfully dedicated to
MAJ. ABRAM B. GARNER,
of Newark, N. J.,
—AND—
ALBERTO H. CAFFEE, ESQ.,
of New York City.
‘Gentlemen without fear and without reproach.’
[Illustration: _Henry R. Worthington_]
“_Thought is the principal factor in all mechanical work; the
mechanical effort is an incident rather than the principal equipment
in any trade or occupation._”
“_Any trade is easily learned by an apt scholar who uses his
reasoning faculties and makes a study of cause and effect._”—CHAS. J.
MASON.
PUMPS
—AND—
HYDRAULICS
—BY—
WILLIAM ROGERS
_Author of “Drawing and Design,” etc._
[Illustration]
_RELATING TO_
HAND PUMPS; POWER PUMPS; PARTS OF PUMPS; ELECTRICALLY DRIVEN
PUMPS; STEAM PUMPS, SINGLE, DUPLEX AND COMPOUND; PUMPING
ENGINES, HIGH DUTY AND TRIPLE EXPANSION; THE STEAM FIRE
ENGINE; UNDERWRITERS’ PUMPS; MINING PUMPS; AIR AND
VACUUM PUMPS; COMPRESSORS; CENTRIFUGAL AND ROTARY
PUMPS; THE PULSOMETER; JET PUMPS AND THE INJECTOR;
UTILITIES AND ACCESSORIES; VALVE SETTING; MANAGEMENT;
CALCULATIONS, RULES AND TABLES.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS._
_ALSO_
GENERAL CONSIDERATIONS; GLOSSARY OF PUMP TERMS; HISTORICAL
INTRODUCTION, WITH ILLUSTRATIONS; THE ELEMENTS OF HYDRO-MECHANICS,
HYDROSTATICS AND PNEUMATICS; GRAVITY AND FRICTION;
HYDRAULIC MEMORANDA; LAWS GOVERNING FLUIDS; WATER
PRESSURE MACHINES; PUMPS AS HYDRAULIC MACHINES, ETC.
PART ONE.
PUBLISHED BY
THEO. AUDEL & COMPANY
72 FIFTH AVE.,
NEW YORK, U.S.A.
7, IMPERIAL ARCADE,
LUDGATE CIRCUS, E.C.,
LONDON, ENG.
Copyrighted, 1905, by
THEO. AUDEL & CO., NEW YORK.
Entered at Stationers Hall, London, England.
Protected by International Copyright in Great Britain and all
her Colonies, and, under the provisions of the
Berne Convention, in
Belgium, France, Germany, Italy, Spain, Switzerland, Tunis,
Hayti, Luxembourg, Monaco, Montinegro
and Norway.
Printed in the United States.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Part ONE.
The divisions of Part One are represented by the following headings:
each subject is fully treated and illustrated on the pages shown:
PAGES
INTRODUCTORY CONSIDERATIONS 1-16
GLOSSARY OF PUMP AND HYDRAULIC TERMS 17-34
HISTORICAL INTRODUCTION 35-70
ELEMENTARY HYDRAULICS 70-104
FLOW OF WATER UNDER PRESSURE 105-116
WATER PRESSURE MACHINES 117-154
WATER | 199.374811 |
2023-11-16 18:20:23.4573690 | 7,332 | 26 | MONACO***
This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler.
[Picture: Monaco Town, from Monte Carlo]
THE FALL
OF
PRINCE FLORESTAN OF MONACO.
* * * * *
BY HIMSELF.
* * * * *
London:
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1874.
[_The Right of Translation and Reproduction is reserved_.]
[Picture: Map of the Town of Monaco]
THE FALL OF PRINCE FLORESTAN OF MONACO.
I am Prince Florestan of Wurtemberg, born in 1850, and consequently now
of the mature age of twenty-four. I might call myself “FLORESTAN II.” but
I think it better taste for a dethroned prince, especially when he
happens to be a republican, to resume the name that is in reality his
own.
Although the events which I am about to relate occurred this winter, so
little is known in England of the affairs of the Ex-principality of
Monaco, now forming the French commune of that name, that I feel that the
details of my story, indeed all but the bare facts on which it is
grounded, will be news to English readers. The English Post Office
believes that Monaco forms part of Italy, and the general election
extinguished the telegrams that arrived from France in February last.
All who follow continental politics are aware that the Prince Charles
Honoré, known as Charles III. of Monaco, and also called on account of
his infirmity “the blind prince,” was the ruling potentate of Monaco
during the last gambling season; that there lived with him his mother,
the dowager princess; that he was a widower with one son, Prince Albert,
Duc de Valentinois, heir apparent to the throne; that the latter had by
his marriage with the Princess Marie of Hamilton, sister to the Duke of
Hamilton, one son who in 1873 was six years old; that all the family
lived on M. Blanc the lessee of the gambling tables. But Monaco is shut
off from the rest of the world except in the winter months, and few have
heard of the calamities which since the end of January have rained upon
the ruling family. My cousin, Prince Albert, the “Sailor Prince,” a good
fellow of my own age, with no fault but his rash love of uselessly
braving the perils of the ocean, had often been warned of the fate that
would one day befall him. Once when a boy he had put to sea in his boat
when a fearful storm was raging, had been upset just off the point at
Monaco, and had been saved only by the gallantry of a sailor of the port
who had risked his own life in keeping his sovereign’s son afloat. In
October 1873 my unfortunate cousin bought at Plymouth an English sailing
yacht of 450 tons. He had a sailor’s contempt for steam, which he told
me was only fit for lubbers, when he came up and stayed with me at
Cambridge in November to see the “fours.” He explained to me then that
he had got a bargain, that he had bought his yacht for one-third her
value, and that he was picking up a capital crew of thirty men. He had
no need to buy yachts for a third their value, for he was rich enough and
to spare, having enjoyed the large fortune of his mother from the time he
came of age. She was a Mérode, and vast forests in Belgium—part of
Soignies for instance—belonged to him. His wife had her own fortune of
four and a half million francs, bringing her in about seven thousand
pounds a year, so he was able to spend all his money on himself. He did
not spend it on his dress, for when he came to Cambridge and was
introduced to Dr. Thompson, he neither had a dress suit to dine in at the
lodge, nor a black morning coat to put on for hall, where his rough
pea-jacket scandalised the “scouts.” He sailed from Plymouth in
November, and reached Monaco at the end of that month. In December he
made several excursions, in none of which did his father go to sea with
him, but on the 26th of January, as ill luck would have it, he tempted my
poor uncle to go with him for a three days’ cruise. It came on to blow
hard that night, and nothing was ever heard of them again. Great was the
excitement at Monaco on the 27th and 28th, but on the 29th the worst was
known, as a telegram from Genoa informed the unfortunate old princess—who
has all her faculties at the age of eighty-six—that her son and grandson
were both numbered with the dead, for one of the boats of the rotten
yacht had been fallen in with by a fishing vessel floating empty in mid
sea.
The Conseil d’Etat was at once called together by the Governor General,
and the little boy of the Princess Marie proclaimed by their order at the
market-place. A proclamation was posted in the town the moment the
sitting ended, declaring the joint regency of the dowager princess and of
Baron Imberty. A telegram was sent to Princess Marie, who was staying
with her child at Nice, informing her of her husband’s death and of the
accession of her son, and begging that she would the next day confide the
little Duc de Valentinois to the deputation of the councillors of state
and of the officers of guards, who would reach Nice by train at noon.
She was in the same despatch assured that on the death of the old dowager
princess she should succeed her in the regency, but for family reasons on
which I need not enlarge, she was requested not on this occasion to
accompany her son.
All this I learnt by a telegram from the baron; I, as the son of the
sister of the late prince, having now become most unexpectedly next heir
to the throne of Monaco. I had no idea of the possibility of my ever
being called upon to succeed a healthy boy of six, and gave the matter no
thought but one of regret at the death of my gallant cousin Albert, who
in the Prussian war had proved his courage in the French navy, while I,
had I been older, should have had to have fought upon the other side, my
father having been a prince of Wurtemberg.
I was thoroughly English in my ways. My father, a man of wide and
liberal views, disliking “professors” as much as Mr. Disraeli does, and
especially distrusting Prussian pedagogues, had sent me to Eton and to
Trinity. At Eton I had lived rather with the King’s scholars than with my
more natural allies, and had imbibed some views at which my poor father
would have groaned. When I went up to Cambridge my friendships were in
King’s rather than in Third Trinity, and my opinions were those now
popular among spectacled undergraduates, namely, universal negation. I
even joined First Trinity Boat Club, instead of Third, because the
gentlemen of the latter were too exclusive for my princely tastes.
During my four years at Cambridge I had rowed in First Trinity Second. I
had heard at the Union Mr. Seeley defend the Commune, and oppose a motion
declaring it innocent because it did not go on to express the “love and
affection” with which that body was regarded by the University. I had
supported a young fellow of Trinity when he showed that the surplus funds
of the Union Society should be applied to the erection of statues of
Mazzini in all the small villages of the West of England—a motion which I
believe was carried, but neutralized by the fact that the Union Society
possessed no surplus funds. I had also had the inestimable advantage of
attending the lectures of Professor Fawcett on the English poor laws. I
had, by the way, almost forgotten the most amusing of all the Union
episodes of my time, which was the rising of Mr. Dilke of Trinity Hall,
Sir Charles Dilke’s brother—but a man of more real talent than his
brother, although, if possible, a still more lugubrious speaker—to move
that his brother’s portrait, together with that of Lord Edmond
Fitzmaurice, the communist brother of a Marquis and a congenial spirit,
should be suspended in the committee room to watch over the deliberations
of that body, because, forsooth, they had happened to be president and
vice-president of the Society at a moment when the new buildings were
begun out of the subscriptions of such very different politicians as the
Prince of Wales, the Duke of Devonshire, and Lord Powis. Mr. Dilke and
his radicals were sometimes in a majority and sometimes in a minority at
the Union, and the portraits of the republican lord and baronet went up
on the wall or down under the table accordingly, Mr. Willimott, the
valued custodian of the rooms, carrying out the orders of both sides with
absolute impartiality.
Fired with the enthusiasm of my party and of my age, I had subscribed to
the Woman’s Suffrage Association, to Mr. Bradlaugh’s election expenses,
to the Anti-Game-Law Association, and to the Education League. My
reading was less one-sided than my politics, and my republicanism was
tempered by an unwavering worship of “Lothair.” Mr. Disraeli was my
admiration as a public man—a Bismarck without his physique and his
opportunities—but then in politics one always personally prefers one’s
opponents to one’s friends. As a republican, I had a cordial aversion
for Sir Charles Dilke, a clever writer, but an awfully dull speaker, who
imagines that his forte is public speaking, and who, having been brought
up in a set of strong prejudices, positively makes a merit to himself of
never having got over them. This he calls “never changing his opinions.”
For Mr. Gladstone I had the ordinary undergraduate detestation. There
are no liberals at Cambridge. We were all rank republicans or champions
of right divine.
The 31st of January was a strange day in my history. On entering my
rooms in my flannels, hot from the boats, and hurrying for hall, I saw a
telegram upon the table. I tore it open.
“_The Governor-General_, _Monaco_;
_to_
_His Serene Highness Prince Florestan_,
_Trinity College_,
_Cambridge_.”
“His Serene Highness!” Surely a mistake! I read on.
“This morning at noon his Serene Highness the reigning prince was
committed by the princess his mother to the care of M. Henri de
Payan, at Nice. The princess being nervous about railway accidents,
the departure for Monaco took place by road. The carriage conveying
his Serene Highness and M. de Payan was drawn by four horses. Turbie
was reached without mishap, but half-way between Turbie and
Roquebrune, at a sharp turn in the road, the horses took fright, and
the coachman, in avoiding the precipice, threw the carriage upon the
rocks on the mountain side of the road. His Serene Highness was
thrown on his head and killed on the spot. Your Serene Highness is
now reigning prince of Monaco, and will be proclaimed to-night after
the meeting of the Council of State by the style of Florestan II.
Lieutenant Gasignol, of the guard, will proceed at once to England
and meet your Serene Highness at any spot which your Highness may
please to indicate. M. de Payan escaped without a scratch.”
Prince of Monaco! Prince of Monaco. And I had seen Lafont in _Rabagas_!
I was not a “milk-and-water Rabagas,” as Mr. Cole called Mr. Lowe, when
all the papers reported him to have said “milk-and-water Rabelais,” and
the _Spectator_ mildly wondered at the strangeness of the comparison.
No, but I was somewhat of a milk-and-water Prince of Monaco after Lafont.
What distinction! What carriage! If the princes of the earth were only
like the princes of the stage, there would be no republicans. But then,
fortunately, they are not. “Fortunately!” and I one of them. What am I
saying?
Poor little fellow! How sad for his young mother too. A reigning prince
for nineteen hours, and that outside of his own dominions and at the age
of six. A strange world! and a strange world, for me too. A
half-Protestant, half-free-thinking, republican, German, Cambridge
undergraduate, suddenly called to rule despotically over a Catholic and
Italian people. My succession, at least, would be undisputed. No one
had ever vowed that I “should never ascend the throne—without a protest.”
One of the Grimaldis had a claim which was no doubt a just one, my
respected great uncle having been probably a usurper; but Marshal
MacMahon and the Duc de Broglie would, I well knew, support me,
preferring even a German prince at Monaco to an Italian. My succession,
I repeat, was undisputed; but if anybody had taken the trouble to dispute
it, I can answer for it that they would have been cheated out of their
amusement, for I should willingly have resigned to their charge so
burdensome a toy. I was that which the republican mayor of Birmingham,
Mr. Joseph Chamberlain, in his jocular speech proposing the Prince of
Wales’ health at the mayor’s banquet, said that one of his friends had
been trying by argument to make the Prince—with, “as yet,” only “partial
success”—a republican King. I would have gone only to Monaco to proclaim
the republic had I not known that the strange despotism—presided over not
as a despotism should be by one clever despot, but by two stupid despots,
the Dukes of Magenta and Broglie—which is called the French republic,
would not permit the creation of a small model for herself in the middle
of her commune of Roquebrune.
I was not sorry to leave Cambridge. My rooms in the new court overlooked
Caius, where they had typhoid fever; and between the fear of infection
and the noise of the freshmen’s wines in Trinity Hall, I was beginning to
have enough of Cambridge. My bedmaker and tutor were the only people to
whom I bid goodbye. The men were all in hall and out at wines, and I
left notes for my friends instead of looking them up in their rooms. I
caught my tutor as he was going into hall. I told him of the news, and I
could see the idea of an invitation for next winter to the castle at
Monaco pass through his mind as he assured me that my rule would be a
blessing to my country, and that nothing could better fit me for a
sceptre than the training of an English gentleman. He added, with a
return of the grim humour of a don, that he supposed that as a sovereign
prince I need scarcely “take an _exeat_.” My poor old bed-maker, who had
read the telegram in my absence from my room, called me “your imperial
majesty” three times while she packed my shirts, but in half-an-hour I
was off to London; and on the evening of the 3rd of February I met M. de
Payan and Lieutenant Gasignol by appointment at the Grand Hotel at Paris.
From M. de Payan I obtained my first accurate ideas as to the State of
Monaco. I found that I was not more independent under the supremacy of
France than is the Emperor William independent under the domination of
Prince von Bismarck. I had not only the Code Napoléon, and a Council of
State dressed in exact copies of their Versailles namesakes, but French
custom-house officers levying French custom-house duties in my dominions.
At the beginning of our conversation I had said to M. de Payan, “Between
ourselves, and fearing though I do that like Charles I. of England I may
be committing high treason against myself, I feel bound to tell you that
my only ideas of my principality are derived from M. Sardou’s _Rabagas_.”
Why is it that inhabitants of small and isolated communities never can
see a joke? M. de Payan, slightly drawing himself up and speaking with
as much stiffness as he could assume towards his prince, gravely answered
me, “Your Serene Highness is not aware, I presume, that _Rabagas_ was a
satire directed against France in her decline, and not against your
Highness’s principality.”
M. Sardou wasting his hours on satirising Monaco. I will never joke
again, I said to myself, unless I should suffer the modern fate of kings
and be deposed.
“M. de Payan,” I replied, “I am aware of what you say, and I was joking.”
“We have no Gambettas at Monaco, your Highness; that is all I meant.”
“Perhaps, Sir, the country would be happier if you had. Rabagas was not
Gambetta, but Emile Olivier—not the man who never despaired of France,
but the man who sacrificed his opinions to his advancement. I admire M.
Gambetta, who is at this moment the first man in France, in my
estimation, and the second political man in Europe. His figure will
stand out in history, daubed as even it is with the mud that French
politicians are ceaselessly flinging at each other.”
“M. Gambetta is, as your Serene Highness says, a man of extraordinary
powers; but his father was a tradesman at Cahors, and is retired and
lives at Nice, near your Serene Highness’s dominions.”
What more could I say? There was nothing to be made of M. de Payan.
On the 5th of February I reached Nice by the express, and after reading
the telegram which announced the return of Mr. Gladstone by a discerning
people as junior colleague to a gin distiller, was presented with an
address by the Gambettist mayor at the desire of the legitimist préfêt.
The mayor, being a red-hot republican in politics but a carriage-builder
by trade, lectured me on the drawbacks of despotism in his address, but
informed me in conversation afterwards that he had had the honour of
building a Victoria for Prince Charles Honoré—which was next door to
giving me his business card. The address, however, also assumed that the
Princes of Monaco were suffered only by Providence to exist in order that
the trade of Nice, the nearest large French town, might thrive.
In the evening at four we reached the station at Monaco, which was decked
with the white flags of my ancestors. What a pity, was my thought, that
M. de Chambord should not be aware that if he would come to stay with me
at the castle he would live under the white flag to which he is so much
attached all the days of his life. My reception was enthusiastic. The
guards, in blue uniforms not unlike the Bavarian, but with tall shakoes
instead of helmets, and similar to that which during the stoppage of the
train at Nice I had rapidly put on, were drawn up in line to the number
of thirty-nine—one being in hospital with a wart on his thumb, as M. de
Payan told me. What an admirable centralisation that such a detail
should be known to every member of the administration! Two drummers
rolled their drums French fashion. In front of the line were four
officers, of whom—one fat; Baron Imberty; the Vicar General; and Père
Pellico of the Jesuits of the Visitation, brother as I already knew to
the celebrated Italian patriot, Silvio Pellico, of dungeon and spider
fame.
“Where is M. Blanc?” I cried to M. de Payan, as we stopped, seeing no one
not in uniform or robes.
“M. Blanc,” said M. de Payan, severely, “though a useful subject of your
Highness is neither a member of the household of your Highness, a soldier
of His army, nor a functionary of His government. M. Blanc is in the
crowd outside.”
Had I ventured to talk slang to M. de Payan, of whom I already stood in
awe, I should have replied, “Elle est _salée_, celle là; puisque sans M.
Blanc mon pays ne marcherait pas.” But I held my tongue.
I have seen many amusing sights in the course of my short life. I have
seen an Anglican clergyman dance the cancan—I have seen Lord Claud
Hamilton, the elder, address the English House of Commons—I have watched
with breathless interest the gesticulations of French orators in the
tribune of the Assembly, when not a word could reach my ears through the
din of Babel that their colleagues made. But the oddest sight I ever saw
was the bow with which Colonel Jacquemet, conscious even at the glorious
moment that history would not forget his name, assured me that “the
devoted army of a Gallant and a Glorious Prince would follow him to the
death, when Honour led and Duty called.”
At this moment Père Pellico slipped round to my side and said, “A word
with your Highness. A most unfortunate report has got abroad that your
Highness is a heretic. What is to be done?”
“I very much fear I am,” I replied.
“But surely your Highness has never formally joined a Protestant body?”
“Protestant? Oh, no. I am a freethinker; a follower of Strauss rather
than of Dr. Cumming.”
“How your Highness has relieved my mind! Only a freethinker—but that is
nothing. I feared that possibly your Highness might have suffered a
perversion to some of the many schisms.” He bowed and hurried off into
the town, while taking the arm of Baron Imberty I said, “Introduce me to
M. Blanc.”
“Your Highness wishes that M. Blanc should be presented to your Highness,
but there are three hundred and ten or three hundred and twenty gentlemen
who take precedence of M. Blanc. Nevertheless, your Highness has only to
command.”
“Well, then, touch my arm as we pass him in the crowd, and I will speak
to him informally.”
My ideas of etiquette would have horrified Madame von Biegeleben, the
lady-in-waiting to my poor mother; still, I was improving already, as may
be seen.
As we left the station building a little man in black, who when he is
twenty years older will be as like M. Thiers in person as he already is
in tact, in power of talk, and in the combination of a total absence of
fixed opinions with a decided manner, made a low bow, accompanied with
the shrewdest smile that I had seen.
“That,” I said, halting before him, “is M. Blanc. I am glad to have so
early an opportunity of commencing an acquaintance, which I hope to
improve.”
“Your Serene Highness does me too much honour.”
Thus I passed the man who played Haussmann to my Emperor, but who had the
additional advantage which the costly baron of demolishing memory
certainly did not possess, of being a magnificent source of revenue to my
state.
Mounting the really fine horse that they had sent me down, and escorted
by the sixteen mounted carbineers (who do police duty on foot in ordinary
times at Monte Carlo and in the town), I rode off at a sharp trot by the
winding road.
“Will your Serene Highness graciously please to go at a walk, for
otherwise the guards will not have time to get up by the military road
and to form again to receive your Highness at the _Place_.”
I did as I was bid, of course. Bouquets of violets were showered on me
as we passed through the narrow street, and the scene on the public
square in front of the castle was really fine. The sun was setting in
glory over the Mediterranean in the west; on the north the Alpes
Monégasques were beginning to take the deep red glow which nightly in
that glorious climate they assume. On the east the palms at Monte Carlo
stood out sharply against the deep still blue sky, and in the far
distance the great waves of the ground swell were rolling in upon the
coast towards Mentone and the Italian frontier, with thousands of bright
white sea-gulls speckling the watery hills with dots of light. At the
palace gate I was received by the old dowager princess. She bent and
kissed my hand. I threw my arms round her neck and kissed her on both
cheeks.
“That was kindly meant, Highness,” she said, “but your Serene Highness is
now the reigning prince, and in the presence of the mob your dignity must
be kept up.”
Passing the two great Suisses who, arrayed in gala costume, stood
magnificently at the gate—but whose wages I afterwards discovered were
supplemented by showing my bedroom when I was out to English tourists at
a franc a head—we entered the grand courtyard, ascended the great stairs,
and passed straight into the reception hall known as the Salle Grimaldi.
There, standing on a dais, opposite to the magnificent fireplace and
chimney-piece, with the baron at my side, I held a levee, and received
the vicar-general, père de Don; the curé of the cathedral, l’abbé Ramin;
the chevalier de Castellat, vice-president of the council of state; the
chevalier Voliver, member of council of state, and president of the
council of public education; the Marquis de Bausset-Roquefort, president
of the high court of justice and member of the council of state; the
treasurer-general, M. Lombard; Monsignore Theuret, the first almoner of
the household; Monsignore Ciccodicola, the honorary almoner; Colonel the
Vicomte de Grandsaigne, my first aide-de-camp; Major Pouget d’Aigrevaux,
commandant of the palace; the two attachés of M. de Payan in his office
of secretary-general, MM. Stephen Gastaldi and John Blanchi; my doctor,
M. Coulon, a leading member of the council of education, and evidently a
most intelligent man; the curés of the six smaller churches; the five
professors of the Jesuit college of La Visitation; three aides-de-camp;
the chef du cabinet; the chamberlain himself, who had introduced the
others; and four officers of guards and one of carbineers, in addition to
Colonel Jacquemet, whom I have already named. No conversation took
place, and the presentations being over in five minutes, I got out in the
garden before dark for a quiet stroll by myself before dinner.
I was struck by the scene. The tall palms, the giant tree geraniums
blooming in masses down the great cliffs to the very edge of the dark
blue sea, the feathery mimosas, the graceful pepper trees laden with
crimson berries, the orange grove, the bananas fruiting and flowering at
the same time, the passion flowers climbing against the rugged old castle
walls, all were new to me—unused to the south, and brought up in
Buckinghamshire, in Cambridgeshire, and in central Germany. The scene
saddened me, I know not why, and I asked myself whether, with the odd
combination of my opinions and my position, I could be of any use in the
world except to bring Monarchy into contempt. Here was I, a freethinker,
called upon to rule a people of bigoted Catholics through a Jesuit
father—for I had already seen that Père Pellico was the real vice-king.
Here was I, an ardent partisan of the doctrine of individuality, placed
suddenly at the head of the most centralized administration in the world.
What was to be done? Reform it? Yes, but no reformer has so ill a time
of it as a reforming prince. Sadly I went in to a sad dinner
_tête-à-tête_ with my crape-covered great aunt in a gloomy room, and so
to bed, convinced that unhappiness may co-exist with the possession of a
hall porter as big as Mrs. Bischoffsheim’s.
The next morning when I dreamily called for my coffee there was brought
to me along with it a gigantic envelope sealed with soft wax stamped with
my arms, and containing a terrific despatch of twenty-three pages.
“Rapport Hebdomadaire.” “Weekly report” of what, I asked myself. Why, I
have but five thousand subjects—the same number that Octavia Hill rules
in Marylebone with such success. I began to read.
“On Monday night a man named Marsan called the carbineer Fissori a
fool. He was not arrested (see Order No. 1142 and correspondence 70,
10, 102), but a private report was addressed to the Council of State,
on which the Secretary General decided to recommend that Marsan
should be watched for a week; referred to the Sub-Committee on Public
Order.”
“M. Blanc on Tuesday visited the tunnel in the commune of Turbie
(France) by which he hopes to obtain an additional water supply for
the Casino. As M. Blanc had not had the courtesy to inform the
secretarial office of his excursion it was impossible to send an
agent to obtain details of what took place.”
So on for twenty and more pages, the last informing me of the names of
the fishing boats that had come in and gone out, of the time of sunrise,
and of the fact that a private in my guards had caught a cold in his
head.
It was unbearable. These formalities should be suppressed at once. The
administration should be decentralised. I rang and sent to the
secretarial office for M. de Payan. I addressed him thus:—
“I gather from this tedious document that my principality of five
thousand persons possesses every appliance and every excrescence of
civilized government except a parliament. The perfection of bureaucracy
and of red tape has been reached in a territory one mile broad and five
miles long. No doubt centralisation is less hurtful than it is elsewhere
in a country so small that it is virtually all centre, but I intend that
this state of things (for which you are in no way responsible) shall
cease. In the first place kindly inform me of the facts. What are the
expenses and what are the revenues of the state, and what is the number
of its officials?”
“There are, Sir,” he answered, “including your household and the officers
of your guards, one hundred and twenty-six functionaries in Monaco.
There are sixty soldiers and carbineers, and there are one hundred and
fifty unpaid consular and diplomatic representatives of Monaco abroad.”
“How many servants have I in all, including stable men?”
“Twenty-five.”
“Then you mean to say that there are three hundred and sixty-one persons
employed under the crown for a population of thirteen hundred male
inhabitants of full age?”
“Yes, Sir, and M. Blanc employs on his works and at the Casino eight
hundred of the remainder.”
This was a startling state of things, but I soon found out that, as
Colonel Jacquemet had used his men twice over on my arrival, so we used
our politicians twice or thrice, politicians being happily scarce with
us. Many posts were filled by one man, a plan which has its advantages
as well as its drawbacks, the advantages predominating in a country where
there are eleven hundred and sixty posts to fill and only thirteen
hundred grown male inhabitants.
To give you an idea of the way in which we used our men, Baron Imberty,
our Governor-General for instance, was also President of the Council of
State, Chancellor of the Order of St. Charles, President of the Maritime
Council, President of the Board of Public Works, President of the Bureau
de Bienfaisance, etc. etc.
Thanks to M. Blanc and his gambling establishment, and thanks to the
large private fortune of my family, the finances of Monaco were in a
flourishing position. Prince Charles had had half a million of francs a
year of private fortune and of revenue from the gambling tables. My
cousin Albert had had three hundred thousand francs a year. I
consequently had eight hundred thousand francs of private fortune | 199.477409 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
[Illustration]
MR. BLAKE’S
WALKING-STICK:
_A CHRISTMAS STORY FOR BOYS AND GIRLS_.
BY EDWARD EGGLESTON,
AUTHOR OF
“THE ROUND TABLE STORIES,” “THE CHICKEN LITTLE STORIES,”
“STORIES TOLD ON A CELLAR DOOR,” ETC.
CHICAGO:
ADAMS, BLACKMER, & LYON PUBLISHING CO.
1872.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1870,
BY ADAMS, BLACKMER, & LYON PUBLISHING COMPANY,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
RIVERSIDE, CAMBRIDGE:
STEREOTYPED AND PRINTED BY
H. O. HOUGHTON AND COMPANY.
TO OUR
LITTLE SILVERHAIR
Who used to listen to My Stories;
BUT WHO IS NOW
Listening to the Christmas Stories of the Angels,
THIS BOOK IS DEDICATED.
PREFACE.
_I have meant to furnish a book that would serve for a Christmas
present to Sunday-scholars, either from the school or from their
teachers. I hope it is a story, however, appropriate to all seasons,
and that it will enforce one of the most beautiful and one of the most
frequently forgotten precepts of the Lord Jesus._
EDWARD EGGLESTON.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
THE WALKING-STICK WALKS 11
CHAPTER II.
LONG-HEADED WILLIE 20
CHAPTER III.
THE WALKING-STICK A TALKING STICK 25
CHAPTER IV.
MR. BLAKE AGREES WITH THE WALKING-STICK 31
CHAPTER V.
THE FATHER PREACHES, THE SON PRACTICES 36
CHAPTER VI.
SIXTY-FIVE DOLLARS 39
CHAPTER VII.
THE WIDOW AND THE FATHERLESS 44
CHAPTER VIII.
SHARPS AND BETWEENS 51
CHAPTER IX.
THE ANGEL STAYS THE HAND 55
CHAPTER X.
TOMMY PUFFER 57
CHAPTER XI.
AN ODD PARTY 58
MR. BLAKE’S WALKING-STICK.
CHAPTER I.
_THE WALKING-STICK WALKS._
Some men carry canes. Some men make the canes carry them. I never could
tell just what Mr. Blake carried his cane for. I am sure it did not
often feel his weight. For he was neither old, nor rich, nor lazy.
He was a tall, straight man, who walked as if he loved to walk, with a
cheerful tread that was good to see. I am sure he didn’t carry the cane
for show. It was not one of those little sickly yellow things, that
some men nurse as tenderly as Miss Snooks nurses her lap-dog. It was
a great black stick of solid ebony, with a box-wood head, and I think
Mr. Blake carried it for company. And it had a face, like that of an
old man, carved on one side of the box-wood head. Mr. Blake kept it
ringing in a hearty way upon the pavement as he walked, and the boys
would look up from their marbles when they heard it, and say: “There
comes Mr. Blake, the minister!” And I think that nearly every invalid
and poor person in Thornton knew the cheerful voice of the minister’s
stout ebony stick.
It was a clear, crisp, sunshiny morning in December. The leaves were
all gone, and the long lines of white frame houses that were hid away
in the thick trees during the summer, showed themselves standing in
straight rows now that the trees were bare. And Purser, Pond & Co.’s
great factory on the brook in the valley below was plainly to be seen,
with its long rows of windows shining and shimmering in the brilliant
sun, and its brick chimney reached up like the Tower of Babel, and
poured out a steady stream of dense, black smoke.
It was just such a shining winter morning. Mr. Blake and his
walking-stick were just starting out for a walk together. “It’s a fine
morning,” thought the minister, as he shut the parsonage gate. And when
he struck the cane sharply on the stones it answered him cheerily:
“It’s a fine morning!” The cane always agreed with Mr. Blake. So they
were able to walk together, according to Scripture, because they were
agreed.
Just as he came round the corner the minister found a party of boys
waiting for him. They had already heard the cane remarking that it was
a fine morning before Mr. Blake came in sight.
“Good morning! Mr. Blake,” said the three boys.
“Good morning, my boys; I’m glad to see you,” said the minister, and he
clapped “Old Ebony” down on the sidewalk, and it said “I am glad to see
you.”
“Mr. Blake!” said Fred White, scratching his brown head and looking a
little puzzled. “Mr. Blake, if it ain’t any harm--if you don’t mind,
you know, telling a fellow,--a boy, I mean--” Just here he stopped
talking; for though he kept on scratching vigorously, no more words
would come; and comical Sammy Bantam, who stood alongside, whispered,
“Keep a-scratching, Fred; the old cow will give down after a while!”
Then Fred laughed, and the other boys, and the minister laughed, and
the cane could do nothing but stamp its foot in amusement.
“Well, Fred,” said the minister, “What is it? speak out.” But Fred
couldn’t speak now for laughing, and Sammy had to do the talking
himself. He was a stumpy boy, who had stopped off short; and you
couldn’t guess his age, because his face was so much older than his
body.
“You see, Mr. Blake,” said Sammy, “we boys wanted to know,--if there
wasn’t any harm in your telling,--why, we wanted to know what kind of a
thing we are going to have on Christmas at our Sunday-school.”
“Well, boys, I don’t know any more about it yet than you do. The
teachers will talk it over at their next meeting. They have already
settled some things, but I have not heard what.”
“I hope it will be something good to eat,” said Tommy Puffer.
Tommy’s body looked for all the world like a pudding-bag. It was an
india-rubber pudding-bag, though. I shouldn’t like to say that Tommy
was a glutton. Not at all. But I am sure that no boy of his age could
put out of sight, in the same space of time, so many dough-nuts,
ginger-snaps, tea-cakes, apple-dumplings, pumpkin-pies, jelly-tarts,
puddings, ice-creams, raisins, nuts, and other things of the sort.
Other people stared at him in wonder. He was never too full to take
anything that was offered him, and at parties his weak and foolish
mother was always getting all she could to stuff Tommy with. So when
Tommy said he hoped it would be something nice to eat, and rolled his
soft lips about, as though he had a cream tart in his mouth, all the
boys laughed, and Mr. Blake smiled. I think even the cane would have
smiled if it had thought it polite.
“I hope it’ll be something pleasant,” said Fred Welch.
“So do I,” said stumpy little Tommy Bantam.
“So do I, boys,” said Mr. Blake, as he turned away; and all the way
down the block Old Ebony kept calling back, “So do I, boys! so do I!”
Mr. Blake and his friend the cane kept on down the street, until they
stood in front of a building that was called “The Yellow Row.” It was a
long, two-story frame building, that had once been inhabited by genteel
people. Why they ever built it in that shape, or why they daubed it
with yellow paint, is more than I can tell. But it had gone out of
fashion, and now it was, as the boys expressed it, “seedy.” Old hats
and old clothes filled many of the places once filled by glass. Into
one room of this row Mr. Blake entered, saying:--
“How are you, Aunt Parm’ly?”
“Howd’y, Mr. Blake, howd’y! I know’d you was a-comin’, honey, fer I
hyeard the sound of yer cane afore you come in. I’m mis’able these yer
days, thank you. I’se got a headache, an’ a backache, and a toothache
in de boot.”
I suppose the poor old colored woman meant to say that she had a
toothache “to boot.”
“You see, Mr. Blake, Jane’s got a little sumpin to do now, and we can
git bread enough, thank the Lord, but as fer coal, that’s the hardest
of all. We has to buy it by the bucketful, and that’s mity high at
fifteen cents a bucket. An’ pears like we couldn’t never git nothin’
a-head on account of my roomatiz. Where de coal’s to come from dis ere
winter I don’t know, cep de good Lord sends it down out of the sky and
I reckon stone-coal don’t never come dat dar road.”
After some more talk, Mr. Blake went in to see Peter Sitles, the blind
broom-maker.
“I hyeard yer stick, preacher Blake,” said Sitles. “That air stick o’
yourn’s better’n a whole rigimint of doctors fer the blues. An’ I’ve
been a havin’ on the blues powerful bad, Mr. Blake, these yer last few
days. I remembered what you was a-saying the last time you was here,
about trustin’ of the good Lord. But I’ve had a purty consid’able
heartache under my jacket fer all that. Now, there’s that Ben of mine,”
and here Sitles pointed to a restless little fellow of nine years old,
whose pants had been patched and pieced until they had more colors than
Joseph’s coat. He was barefoot, ragged, and looked hungry, as some poor
children always do. Their minds seem hungrier than their bodies. He was
rocking a baby in an old cradle. “There’s Ben,” continued the blind
man, “he’s as peart a boy as you ever see, preacher Blake, ef I do say
it as hadn’t orter say it. Bennie hain’t got no clothes. I can’t beg.
But Ben orter be in school.” Here Peter Sitles choked a little.
“How’s broom-making, Peter?” said the minister.
“Well, you see, it’s the machines as is a-spoiling us. The machines
make brooms cheap, and what can a blind feller like me do agin the
machines with nothing but my fingers? ’Tain’t no sort o’ use to butt
my head agin the machines, when I ain’t got no eyes nother. It’s like
a goat trying its head on a locomotive. Ef I could only eddicate
Peter and the other two, I’d be satisfied. You see, I never had no
book-larnin’ myself, and I can’t talk proper no more’n a cow can climb
a tree.”
“But, Mr. Sitles, how much would a broom-machine cost you?” asked the
minister.
“More’n it’s any use to think on. It’ll cost seventy dollars, and if it
cost seventy cents ’twould be jest exactly seventy cents more’n I could
afford to pay. For the money my ole woman gits fer washin’ don’t go
noways at all towards feedin’ the four children, let alone buying me a
machine.”
The minister looked at his cane, but it did not answer him. Something
must be done. The minister was sure of that. Perhaps the walking-stick
was, too. But what?
That was the question.
The minister told Sitles good-bye, and started to make other
visits. And on the way the cane kept crying out, “Something _must_
be done,--something MUST be done,--something MUST be done,” making
the _must_ ring out sharper every time. When Mr. Blake and the
walking-stick got to the market-house, just as they turned off from
Milk Street into the busier Main Street, the cane changed its tune and
begun to say, “But what,--but _what_,--but WHAT,--but WHAT,” until it
said it so sharply that the minister’s head ached, and he put Old
Ebony under his arm, so that it couldn’t talk any more. It was a way he
had of hushing it up when he wanted to think.
CHAPTER II.
_LONG-HEADED WILLIE._
“De biskits is cold, and de steaks is cold as--as--ice, and dinner’s
spiled!” said Curlypate, a girl about three years old, as Mr. Blake
came in from his forenoon of visiting. She tried to look very much
vexed and “put out,” but there was always either a smile or a cry
hidden away in her dimpled cheek.
“Pshaw! Curlypate,” said Mr. Blake, as he put down his cane, “you don’t
scold worth a cent!” And he lifted her up and kissed her.
And then Mamma Blake smiled, and they all sat down to the table. While
they ate, Mr. Blake told about his morning visits, and spoke of Parm’ly
without coal, and Peter Sitles with no broom-machine, and described
little Ben Sitles’s hungry face, and told how he had visited the widow
Martin, who had no sewing-machine, and who had to receive help from the
overseer of the poor. The overseer told her that she must bind out her
daughter, twelve years old, and her boy of ten, if she expected to have
any help; and the mother’s heart was just about broken at the thought
of losing her children.
Now, while all this was taking place, Willie Blake, the minister’s
son, a boy about thirteen years of age, sat by the big porcelain
water-pitcher, listening to all that was said. His deep blue eyes
looked over the pitcher at his father, then at his mother, taking in
all their descriptions of poverty with a wondrous pitifulness. But he
did not say much. What went on in his long head I do not know, for his
was one of those heads that projected forward and backward, and the top
of which overhung the base, for all the world like a load of hay. Now
and then his mother looked at him, as if she would like to see through
his skull and read his thoughts. But I think she didn’t see anything
but the straight, silken, fine, flossy hair, silvery white, touched a
little bit,--only a little,--as he turned it in looking from one to the
other, with a tinge of what people call a golden, but what is really a
sort of a pleasant straw color. He usually talked, and asked questions,
and laughed like other boys; but now he seemed to be swallowing the
words of his father and mother more rapidly even than he did his
dinner; for, like most boys, he ate as if it were a great waste of time
to eat. But when he was done he did not hurry off as eagerly as usual
to reading or to play. He sat and listened.
“What makes you look so sober, Willie?” asked Helen, his sister.
“What you thinkin’, Willie?” said Curlypate, peering through the
pitcher handle at him.
“Willie,” broke in his father, “mamma and I are going to a wedding out
at Sugar Hill”--
“Sugar Hill; O my!” broke in Curlypate.
“Out at Sugar Hill,” continued Mr. Blake, stroking the Curlypate, “and
as I have some calls to make, we shall not be back till bedtime. I am
sorry to keep you from your play this Saturday afternoon, but we have
no other housekeeper but you and Helen. See that the children get their
suppers early, and be careful about fire.”
I believe to “be careful about fire” is the last command that every
parent gives to children on leaving them alone.
Now I know that people who write stories are very careful nowadays not
to make their boys too good. I suppose that I ought to represent Willie
as “taking on” a good deal when he found that he couldn’t play all
Saturday afternoon, as he had expected. But I shall not. For one thing,
at least, in my story, is true; that is, Willie. If I tell you that he
is good you may believe it. I have seen him.
He only said, “Yes, sir.”
Mrs. Blake did not keep a girl. The minister did not get a small
fortune of a salary. So it happened that Willie knew pretty well how to
keep house. He was a good brave boy, never ashamed to help his mother
in a right manly way. He could wash dishes and milk the cow, and often,
when mamma had a sick-headache, had he gotten a good breakfast, never
forgetting tea and toast for the invalid.
So Sancho, the Canadian pony, was harnessed to the minister’s rusty
buggy, and Mr. and Mrs. Blake got in and told the children good-bye.
Then Sancho started off, and had gone about ten steps, when he was
suddenly reined up with a “Whoa!”
“Willie!” said Mr. Blake.
“Sir.”
“Be careful about fire.”
“Yes, sir.”
And then old blackey-brown Sancho moved on in a gentle trot, and Willie
and Helen and Richard went into the house, where Curlypate had already
gone, and where they found her on tiptoe, with her short little fingers
in the sugar-bowl, trying in vain to find a lump that would not go to
pieces in the vigorous squeeze that she gave it in her desire to make
| 199.480762 |
2023-11-16 18:20:23.6557070 | 1,137 | 58 |
Produced by David Widger
THE VISION
OF
HELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE
BY
DANTE ALIGHIERI
TRANSLATED BY
THE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A.
HELL
OR THE INFERNO
Part 1
Cantos 1 - 2
CANTO I
IN the midway of this our mortal life,
I found me in a gloomy wood, astray
Gone from the path direct: and e'en to tell
It were no easy task, how savage wild
That forest, how robust and rough its growth,
Which to remember only, my dismay
Renews, in bitterness not far from death.
Yet to discourse of what there good befell,
All else will I relate discover'd there.
How first I enter'd it I scarce can say,
Such sleepy dullness in that instant weigh'd
My senses down, when the true path I left,
But when a mountain's foot I reach'd, where clos'd
The valley, that had pierc'd my heart with dread,
I look'd aloft, and saw his shoulders broad
Already vested with that planet's beam,
Who leads all wanderers safe through every way.
Then was a little respite to the fear,
That in my heart's recesses deep had lain,
All of that night, so pitifully pass'd:
And as a man, with difficult short breath,
Forespent with toiling,'scap'd from sea to shore,
Turns to the perilous wide waste, and stands
At gaze; e'en so my spirit, that yet fail'd
Struggling with terror, turn'd to view the straits,
That none hath pass'd and liv'd. My weary frame
After short pause recomforted, again
I journey'd on over that lonely steep,
The hinder foot still firmer. Scarce the ascent
Began, when, lo! a panther, nimble, light,
And cover'd with a speckled skin, appear'd,
Nor, when it saw me, vanish'd, rather strove
To check my onward going; that ofttimes
With purpose to retrace my steps I turn'd.
The hour was morning's prime, and on his way
Aloft the sun ascended with those stars,
That with him rose, when Love divine first mov'd
Those its fair works: so that with joyous hope
All things conspir'd to fill me, the gay skin
Of that swift animal, the matin dawn
And the sweet season. Soon that joy was chas'd,
And by new dread succeeded, when in view
A lion came, 'gainst me, as it appear'd,
With his head held aloft and hunger-mad,
That e'en the air was fear-struck. A she-wolf
Was at his heels, who in her leanness seem'd
Full of all wants, and many a land hath made
Disconsolate ere now. She with such fear
O'erwhelmed me, at the sight of her appall'd,
That of the height all hope I lost. As one,
Who with his gain elated, sees the time
When all unwares is gone, he inwardly
Mourns with heart-griping anguish; such was I,
Haunted by that fell beast, never at peace,
Who coming o'er against me, by degrees
Impell'd me where the sun in silence rests.
While to the lower space with backward step
I fell, my ken discern'd the form one of one,
Whose voice seem'd faint through long disuse of speech.
When him in that great desert I espied,
"Have mercy on me!" cried I out aloud,
"Spirit! or living man! what e'er thou be!"
He answer'd: "Now not man, man once I was,
And born of Lombard parents, Mantuana both
By country, when the power of Julius yet
Was scarcely firm. At Rome my life was past
Beneath the mild Augustus, in the time
Of fabled deities and false. A bard
Was I, and made Anchises' upright son
The subject of my song, who came from Troy,
When the flames prey'd on Ilium's haughty towers.
But thou, say wherefore to such perils past
Return'st thou? wherefore not this pleasant mount
Ascendest, cause and source of all delight?"
"And art thou then that Virgil, that well-spring,
From which such copious floods of eloquence
Have issued?" I with front abash'd replied.
"Glory and light of all the tuneful train!
May it avail me that I long with zeal
Have sought thy volume, and with love immense
Have conn'd it o'er. My master thou and guide!
Thou he from whom alone I have deriv'd
That style, which for its beauty into fame
Exalts me. See the beast, from whom I fled.
O save me from her, thou illustrious sage!"
"For every vein and pulse throughout my frame
She hath made tremble." He, soon as he saw
That I was weeping, answer'd, "Thou must needs
Another way pursue, if thou wouldst'scape
From out that savage wilderness. This beast,
At whom thou criest | 199.675747 |
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REFLECTIONS; OR SENTENCES AND MORAL MAXIMS
By Francois Duc De La Rochefoucauld, Prince de Marsillac
Translated from the Editions of 1678 and 1827 with introduction, notes,
and some account of the author and his times.
By J. W. Willis Bund, M.A. LL.B and J. Hain Friswell
Simpson Low, Son, and Marston, 188, Fleet Street.
1871.
{TRANSCRIBERS NOTES: spelling variants are preserved (e.g. labour
instead of labor, criticise instead of criticize, etc.); the
translators' comments are in square brackets [...] as they are in the
text; footnotes are indicated by * and appear immediately following the
passage containing the note (in the text they appear at the bottom of
the page); and, finally, corrections and addenda are in curly brackets
{...}.}
ROCHEFOUCAULD
"As Rochefoucauld his maxims drew From Nature--I believe them true. They
argue no corrupted mind In him; the fault is in mankind."--Swift.
"Les Maximes de la Rochefoucauld sont des proverbs des gens
d'esprit."--Montesquieu.
"Maxims are the condensed good sense of nations."--Sir J. Mackintosh.
"Translators should not work alone; for good Et Propria Verba do not
always occur to one mind."--Luther's Table Talk, iii.
CONTENTS
Preface (translator's)
Introduction (translator's)
Reflections and Moral Maxims
First Supplement
Second Supplement
Third Supplement
Reflections on Various Subjects
Index
Preface.
{Translators'}
Some apology must be made for an attempt "to translate the
untranslatable." Notwithstanding there are no less than eight English
translations of La Rochefoucauld, hardly any are readable, none are free
from faults, and all fail more or less to convey the author's meaning.
Though so often translated, there is not a complete English edition
of the Maxims and Reflections. All the translations are confined
exclusively to the Maxims, none include the Reflections. This may be
accounted for, from the fact that most of the translations are taken
from the old editions of the Maxims, in which the Reflections do
not appear. Until M. Suard devoted his attention to the text of
Rochefoucauld, the various editions were but reprints of the preceding
ones, without any regard to the alterations made by the author in the
later editions published during his life-time. So much was this the
case, that Maxims which had been rejected by Rochefoucauld in his last
edition, were still retained in the body of the work. To give but one
example, the celebrated Maxim as to the misfortunes of our friends, was
omitted in the last edition of the book, published in Rochefoucauld's
life-time, yet in every English edition this Maxim appears in the body
of the work.
M. Aime Martin in 1827 published an edition of the Maxims and
Reflections which has ever since been the standard text of Rochefoucauld
in France. The Maxims are printed from the edition of 1678, the last
published during the author's life, and the last which received his
corrections. To this edition were added two Supplements; the first
containing the Maxims which had appeared in the editions of 1665, 1666,
and 1675, and which were afterwards omitted; the second, some additional
Maxims found among various of the author's manuscripts in the Royal
Library at Paris. And a Series of Reflections which had been previously
published in a work called "Receuil de pieces d'histoire et de
litterature." Paris, 1731. They were first published with the Maxims in
an edition by Gabriel Brotier.
In an edition of Rochefoucauld entitled "Reflexions, ou Sentences et
Maximes Morales, augmentees de plus deux cent nouvelles Maximes et
Maximes et Pensees diverses suivant les copies Imprimees a Paris, chez
Claude Barbin, et Matre Cramoisy 1692,"* some fifty Maxims were added,
ascribed by the editor to Rochefoucauld, and as his family allowed them
to be published under his name, it seems probable they were genuine.
These fifty form the third supplement to this book.
*In all the French editions this book is spoken of as
published in 1693. The only copy I have seen is in the
Cambridge University Library, 47, 16, 81, and is called
"Reflexions Morales."
The apology for the present edition of Rochefoucauld must therefore be
twofold: firstly, that it is an attempt to give the public a complete
English edition of Rochefoucauld's works as a moralist. The body of the
work comprises the Maxims as the author finally left them, the first
supplement, those published in former editions, and rejected by the
author in the later; the second, the unpublished Maxims taken from the
author's correspondence and manuscripts, and the third, the Maxims first
published in 1692. While the Reflections, in which the thoughts in the
Maxims are extended and elaborated, now appear in English for the first
time. And secondly, that it is an attempt (to quote the preface of the
edition of 1749) "to do the Duc de la Rochefoucauld the justice to make
him speak English."
Introduction
{Translators'}
The description of the "ancien regime" in France, "a despotism tempered
by epigrams," like most epigrammatic sentences, contains some truth,
with much fiction. The society of the last half of the seventeenth, and
the whole of the eighteenth centuries, was doubtless greatly influenced
by the precise and terse mode in which the popular writers of that date
expressed their thoughts. To a people naturally inclined to think that
every possible view, every conceivable argument, upon a question is
included in a short aphorism, a shrug, and the word "voila," truths
expressed in condensed sentences must always have a peculiar charm. It
is, perhaps, from this love of epigram, that we find so many eminent
French writers of maxims. Pascal, De Retz, La Rochefoucauld, La Bru | 199.759395 |
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[Illustration: THE GREY PELICAN. (PELECANUS PHILIPPENSIS)]
BIRDS OF
THE PLAINS
BY DOUGLAS DEWAR, F.Z.S., I.C.S.
WITH SIXTEEN ILLUSTRATIONS
FROM PHOTOGRAPHS OF LIVING BIRDS
BY CAPTAIN F. D. S. FAYRER, I.M.S.
LONDON: JOHN LANE THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY MCMIX
WILLIAM BRENDON AND SON, LTD., PRINTERS, PLYMOUTH
PREFACE
It is easy enough to write a book. The difficulty is to sell the
production when it is finished. That, however, is not the author’s
business. Nevertheless, the labours of the writer are not over when he
has completed the last paragraph of his book. He has, then, in most
cases, to find a title for it.
This, I maintain, should be a matter of little difficulty. I regard a
title as a mere distinguishing mark, a brand, a label, a something by
which the book may be called when spoken of—nothing more.
According to this view, the value of a title lies, not in its
appropriateness to the subject-matter, but in its distinctiveness.
To illustrate: some years ago a lady entered a bookseller’s shop and
asked for “Drummond’s latest book—_Nux Vomica_.” The bookseller without a
word handed her _Lux Mundi_.
To my way of thinking _Lux Mundi_ is a good title inasmuch as no other
popular book has one like it. So distinctive is it that even when
different words were substituted the bookseller at once knew what was
intended. That the view here put forward does not find favour with the
critics may perhaps be inferred by the exception many of them took to the
title of my last book—_Bombay Ducks_.
While commending my view to their consideration, I have on this occasion
endeavoured to meet them by resorting to a more orthodox designation. I
am, doubtless, pursuing a risky policy. Most of the reviewers were kind
enough to say that _Bombay Ducks_ was a good book with a bad title. When
criticising the present work they may reverse the adjectives. Who knows?
D. D.
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. British Birds in the Plains of India 1
II. The Bird in Blue 10 | 199.774371 |
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Produced by Sue Asscher
THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF CHARLES DARWIN
From The Life and Letters of Charles Darwin
By Charles Darwin
Edited by his Son Francis Darwin
[My father's autobiographical recollections, given in the present
chapter, were written for his children,--and written without any
thought that they would ever be published. To many this may seem an
impossibility; but those who knew my father will understand how it was
not only possible, but natural. The autobiography bears the heading,
'Recollections of the Development of my Mind and Character,' and end
with the following note:--"Aug. 3, 1876. This sketch of my life was
begun about May 28th at Hopedene (Mr. Hensleigh Wedgwood's house in
| 199.855349 |
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produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber's Notes:
The frontispiece illustration has been removed from text version.
Italics in original are marked with _underscores_.
Small caps have been changed to ALL CAPS.
Punctuation has been regularized.
The following typographical corrections were made:
p. 517, "dumurely" changed to "demurely." (the Nun admitted demurely)
p. 536, "that's he" changed to "that he's." (that he's terribly)
p. 539, "thing" changed to "think," (think you're perfectly)
SECOND STRING
BY ANTHONY HOPE
THOMAS NELSON AND SONS
LONDON, EDINBURGH, DUBLIN,
LEEDS, AND NEW YORK
LEIPZIG: 35-37 Koenigstrasse. PARIS: 61 Rue des Saints Peres.
First Published 1910.
CONTENTS.
I. HOME AGAIN 5
II. A VERY LITTLE HUNTING 27
III. THE POTENT VOICE 45
IV. SETTLED PROGRAMMES 66
V. BROADENING LIFE 87
VI. THE WORLDS OF MERITON 106
VII. ENTERING FOR THE RACE 128
VIII. WONDERFUL WORDS 148
IX. "INTERJECTION" 169
X. FRIENDS IN NEED 190
XI. THE SHAWL BY THE WINDOW 212
XII. CONCERNING A STOLEN KISS 235
XIII. A LOVER LOOKS PALE 256
XIV. SAVING THE NATION 278
XV. LOVE AND FEAR 300
XVI. A CHOICE OF EVILS 321
XVII. REFORMATION 342
XVIII. PENITENCE AND PROBLEMS 362
XIX. MARKED MONEY 384
XX. NO GOOD? 404
XXI. THE EMPTY PLACE 424
XXII. GRUBBING AWAY 446
XXIII. A STOP-GAP 468
XXIV. PRETTY MUCH THE SAME! 490
XXV. THE LAST FIGHT 512
XXVI. TALES OUT OF SCHOOL FOR ONCE 533
XXVII. NOT OF HIS SEEKING 555
SECOND STRING.
Chapter I.
HOME AGAIN.
Jack Rock stood in his shop in High Street. He was not very often to be
seen there nowadays; he bred and bought, but he no longer killed, and
rarely sold, in person. These latter and lesser functions he left to his
deputy, Simpson, for he had gradually developed a bye-trade which took
up much of his time, and was no less profitable than his ostensible
business. He bought horses, "made" them into hunters, and sold them
again. He was a rare judge and a fine rider, and his heart was in this
line of work.
However to-day he was in his shop because the Christmas beef was on
show. Here were splendid carcasses decked with blue rosettes, red
rosettes, or cards of "Honourable Mention;" poor bodies sadly
unconscious (as one may suppose all bodies are) of their posthumous
glories. Jack Rock, a spruce spare little man with a thin red face and a
get-up of the most "horsy" order, stood before them, expatiating to
Simpson on their beauties. Simpson, who was as fat as his master was
thin, and even redder in the face, chimed in; they were for all the
world like a couple of critics hymning the praise of poets who have paid
the debt of nature, but are decorated with the insignia of fame. Verily
Jack Rock's shop in the days before Christmas might well seem an Abbey
or a Pantheon of beasts.
"Beef for me on Christmas Day," said Jack. "None of your turkeys or
geese, or such-like truck. Beef!" He pointed to a blue-rosetted carcass.
"Look at him; just look at him! I've known him since he was calved. Cuts
up well, doesn't he? I'll have a joint off him for my own table,
Simpson."
"You couldn't do better, sir," said Simpson, just touching, careful not
to bruise, the object of eulogy with his professional knife. A train of
thought started suddenly in his brain. "Them vegetarians, sir!" he
exclaimed. Was it wonder, or contempt, or such sheer horror as the
devotee has for atheism? Or the depths of the first and the depths of
the second poured into the depths of the third to make immeasurable
profundity?
A loud burst of laughter came from the door of the shop. Nothing
startled Jack Rock. He possessed in perfection a certain cheerful
seriousness which often marks the amateurs of the horse. These men are
accustomed to take chances, to encounter the unforeseen, to endure
disappointment, to withstand the temptations of high success. _Mens
Aequa!_ Life, though a pleasant thing, is not a laughing matter. So Jack
turned slowly and gravely round to see whence the irreverent
interruption proceeded. But when he saw the intruder his face lit up,
and he darted across the shop with outstretched hand. Simpson followed,
hastily rubbing his right hand on the under side of his blue apron.
"Welcome, my lad, welcome home!" cried Jack, as he greeted with a hard
squeeze a young man who stood in the doorway. "First-rate you look too.
He's filled out, eh, Simpson?" He tapped the young man's chest
appreciatively, and surveyed his broad and massive shoulders with almost
professional admiration. "Canada's agreed with you, Andy. Have you just
got here?"
"No; I got here two hours ago. You were out, so I left my bag and went
for a walk round the old place. It seems funny to be in Meriton again."
"Come into the office. We must drink your health. You too, Simpson. Come
along."
He led the way to a back room, where, amid more severe furniture and
appliances, there stood a cask of beer. From this he filled three pint
mugs, and Andy Hayes' health and safe return were duly honoured. Andy
winked his eye.
"Them teetotallers!" he ejaculated, with a very fair imitation of
Simpson, who acknowledged the effort with an answering wink as he
drained his mug and then left the other two to themselves.
"Yes, I've been poking about everywhere--first up to have a look at the
old house. Not much changed there--well, except that everything's
changed by the dear old governor's not being there any more."
"Ah, it was a black Christmas that year--four years ago now. First, the
old gentleman; then poor Nancy, a month later. She caught the fever
nursin' him; she would do it, and I couldn't stop her. Did you go to the
churchyard, Andy?"
"Yes, I went there." After a moment's grave pause his face brightened
again. "And I went to the old school. Nobody there--it's holidays, of
course--but how everything came back to me! There was my old seat,
between Chinks and the Bird--you know? Wat Money, I mean, and young Tom
Dove."
"Oh, they're both in the place still. Tom Dove's helpin' his father at
the Lion, and Wat Money's articled to old Mr. Foulkes the lawyer."
"I sat down at my old desk, and, by Jove, I absolutely seemed to hear
the old governor talking--talking about the Pentathlon. You've heard him
talk about the Pentathlon? He was awfully keen on the Pentathlon; wanted
to have it at the sports. I believe he thought I should win it."
"I don't exactly remember what it was, but you'd have had a good go for
it, Andy."
"Leaping, running, wrestling, throwing the discus, hurling the spear--I
think that's right. He was talking about it the very last day I sat at
that desk--eight years ago! Yes, it's eight years since I went out to
the war, and nearly five since I went to Canada. And I've never been
back! Well, except for not seeing him and Nancy again, I'm glad of it.
I've done better out there. There wasn't any opening here. I wasn't
clever, and if I had been, there was no money to send me to Oxford,
though the governor was always dreaming of that."
"Naturally, seein' he was B.A. Oxon, and a gentleman himself," said
Jack.
He spoke in a tone of awe and admiration. Andy looked at him with a
smile. Among the townsfolk of Meriton Andy's father had always been
looked up to by reason of the letters after his name on the prospectus
of the old grammar school, of which he had been for thirty years the
hard-worked and very ill-paid headmaster. In Meriton eyes the letters
carried an academical distinction great if obscure, a social distinction
equally great and far more definite. They ranked Mr. Hayes with the
gentry, and their existence had made his second marriage--with Jack Rock
the butcher's sister--a _mesalliance_ of a pronounced order. Jack
himself was quite of this mind. He had always treated his brother-in-law
with profound respect; even his great affection for his sister had never
quite persuaded him that she had not been guilty of gross presumption in
winning Mr. Hayes' heart. He could not, even as the second Mrs. Hayes'
brother, forget the first--Andy's mother; for she, though the gentlest
of women, had always called Jack "Butcher." True, that was in days
before Jack had won his sporting celebrity and set up his private gig;
but none the less it would have seemed impossible to conceive of a
family alliance--even a posthumous one--with a lady whose recognition of
him was so exclusively commercial.
"Well, I'm not a B.A.--Oxon. or otherwise," laughed Andy. "I don't know
whether I'm a gentleman. If I am, so are you. Meriton Grammar School is
responsible for us both. And if you're in trade, so am I. What's the
difference between timber and meat?"
"I expect there's a difference between Meriton and Canada, though," Jack
Rock opined shrewdly. "Are you goin' to stay at home, or goin' back?"
"I shall stay here if I can develop the thing enough to make it pay to
have a man on this side. If not, pack up! But I shall be here for the
next six months anyway, I expect."
"What's it worth to you?" asked Jack.
"Oh, nothing much just now. Two hundred a year guaranteed, and a
commission--if it's earned. But it looks like improving. Only the orders
must come in before the commission does! However it's not so bad; I'm
lucky to have found a berth at all."
"Yes, lucky thing you got pals with that Canadian fellow down in South
Africa."
"A real stroke of luck. It was a bit hard to make up my mind not to come
home with the boys, but I'm sure I did the right thing. Only I'm sorry
about the old governor and Nancy."
"The old gentleman himself told me he thought you'd done right."
"It was an opening; and it had to be taken or left, then and there. So
here I am, and I'm going to start an office in London."
Jack Rock nodded thoughtfully; he seemed to be revolving something in
his mind. Andy's eyes rested affectionately on him. The two had been
great friends all through Andy's boyhood. Jack had been "Jack" to him
long before he became a family connection, and "Jack" he had continued
to be. As for the _mesalliance_--well, looking back, Andy could not with
candour deny that it had been a surprise, perhaps even a shock. It had
to some degree robbed him of the exceptional position he held in the
grammar school, where, among the sons of tradesmen, he alone, or almost
alone, enjoyed a vague yet real social prestige. The son shared the
father's fall. The feeling of caste is very persistent, even though it
may be shamed into silence by modern doctrines, or by an environment in
which it is an alien plant. But he had got over his boyish feeling now,
and was delighted to come back to Meriton as Jack Rock's visitor, and to
stay with him at the comfortable little red-brick house adjoining the
shop in High Street. In fact he flattered himself that his service in
the ranks and his Canadian experiences had taken the last of "that sort
of nonsense" out of him. It was, perhaps, a little too soon to pronounce
so confident a judgment.
Andy was smitten with a sudden compunction. "Why, I've never asked after | 199.861707 |
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[Illustration: "WILL HE COME?"
_From the Painting by Marcus Stone, R.A._
_By Permission of the Berlin Photographic Co., London, W._]
* * * * *
The
HARMSWORTH
MONTHLY PICTORIAL
MAGAZINE.
VOLUME 1, 1898-9. No 2.
* * * * *
My travelling companion
A COMPLETE STORY
BY CATHERINE CHILDAR.
_Illustrated by Fred. Pegram._
It was a miserable day in November--the sort of day when, according to
the French, splenetic Englishmen flock in such crowds to the Thames, in
order to drown themselves, that there is not standing room on the
bridges. I was sitting over the fire in our dingy dining-room; for
personally I find that element more cheering than water under depressing
circumstances.
My eldest sister burst upon me with a letter in her hand: "Here, Tommy,
is an invitation for you," she cried.
My name is Charlotte; but I am generally called Tommy by my
unappreciative family, who mendaciously declare it is derived from the
expression "tom-boy."
"Oh, bother invitations," was my polite answer. "I don't want to go
anywhere. Why, it's a letter from Mysie Sutherland! How came you to open
it?"
"If she will address it to Miss Cornwall, of course I shall open it.
I've read it, too--it's very nice for you."
"Awfully jolly," put in Dick, who had followed my sister Lucy into the
room.
"Oh, I don't want to go a bit."
"Well, then, you'll just have to. It's disgraceful of you, Tom; why, you
may never get such a chance again. You'll meet lots of people in a big
country house like that, and perhaps--who knows?--marry a rich
Scotchman."
"I declare, Lucy, you are quite disgusting with your perpetual talk
about marrying! Why, I shan't have the time to get fond of anyone!"
"You're asked for a month; and if that isn't time enough, I don't know
what is."
"Time enough to be married and divorced again," cried Dick.
"But I shan't come to that; and besides, I have no clothes fit to be
seen."
"Oh, never mind; I'll lend you my white silk for evenings." And my
sister, who was always good-natured, carried me off to ransack her
wardrobe.
There was no help for it; remonstrances were useless; I had to go. The
invitation was from a schoolfellow of mine, Mysie Sutherland by name.
She lived near Inverness, and asked me to go and stay a month with her.
The idea filled me with apprehension. She was the only daughter, and
lived in style in a large house: I was one of a numerous family herded
together in a small house in Harley Street. Her father was a wealthy
landed proprietor: mine was a struggling doctor. Altogether I was shy
and nervous, and would much have preferred to remain at home; but Lucy
and Dick had decided I should go, and I knew there was no appeal.
A few days afterwards I was at Euston Station, on my way to the North.
My mother and sister had come to see me off, and stood at the carriage
door, passing remarks upon the people.
A knot of young men standing by the bookstall attracted our attention,
from their constant bursts of laughter. There was evidently a good joke
amongst them, and they were enjoying it to the full. The time was up,
and the train was just about to start, when one of them rushed forward
and jumped into my carriage. The guard slammed the door, his friends
threw some papers after him in at the window, and we were off.
For some time we sat silent, then a question about the window or the
weather opened a conversation. My companion was a good-looking young
man, with thick, curly brown hair. He had neither moustache, beard, nor
whiskers, which gave him a boyish appearance, and made me think he might
be an actor. His eyes were peculiar--they were kind eyes, honest eyes,
laughing eyes, but there was something about them that I could not make
out. As he sat nearly opposite to me I had every opportunity of studying
them, but not till we had travelled at least a hundred miles did I
discover what it was. They were not quite alike. There was no cast--not
the slightest suspicion of a squint--no, nothing of that kind; only they
were not a pair--one eye was hazel, the other grey; and yet the
difference in colour varied so much that sometimes I thought I must be
mistaken. At one moment, in the sunlight, the difference was striking;
but when next I saw them, in shadow, the difference was hardly
perceptible. Yet there it was, and it gave a peculiar but agreeable
expression to the face.
He was extremely kind and pleasant, and I must own that when an old
gentleman got in at Rugby I was sorry our _tete-a-tete_ should be
interrupted. We had been talking over all sorts of subjects, from
pitch-and-toss to manslaughter, exclusive--for those two subjects had
not yet been discussed. (I know it is a very vulgar expression, and I
ought not to use it, only I am always with the boys and I am a "Tommy"
myself.)
The old gentleman, however, did not trouble us long, for he had made a
mistake and had got into the wrong train. He hobbled out much quicker
than he got in, and my friend the actor was most polite in helping him
and handing out his parcels.
When that was over we settled down again comfortably. By the time we got
to Crewe we were like old friends, and chatted together over my
sandwiches, or at least while I ate them, for he had his lunch at
Preston, as Bradshaw informed us the passengers were expected to do.
I fully expected we should get an influx of companions here, for the
platform was crowded, but my carriage door was locked and I noticed the
guard hovering near; he seemed particularly anxious to direct people
elsewhere. Perhaps he thought that as I was an unprotected female I
should prefer to be quite alone, and I was busy concocting a little
speech about "a gentleman coming back," in case he should refuse to let
my actor come into the carriage. It was quite unnecessary, however, as
directly he caught sight of him in the distance he opened the door with
an obsequious bow. I began to wonder if he knew him. Perhaps he was a
celebrated actor, and when actors are celebrated nowadays they are
celebrated indeed. I felt quite elated at having anything to do with a
member of such a fashionable profession, and looked at him with more
interest than ever.
I was dreadfully sorry when we reached Carlisle, for there my journey
ended--for that day at least. I was to spend the night with a maiden
aunt, living near Carlisle, and go on to Inverness the next morning. The
station came in sight only too soon. My companion had been telling me
some mountaineering experiences which had been called to his mind by the
scenery we had been passing through, and the train pulled up in the
middle of a most exciting story. I had to leave him clinging to a bare
wall of rock in a blinding snowstorm, while I went off to spend the
night with my Aunt Maria. There was no help for it. My aunt, a thin,
quaint old lady, stood waiting on the platform. She wore a huge
coalscuttle bonnet, which in these days of smaller head coverings looked
strange and out of proportion, a short imitation sealskin jacket, and a
perfectly plain skirt, which exposed her slender build in the most
uncompromising (or perhaps I ought to say compromising) fashion.
I recognised her at once, and felt secretly ashamed of my poor relation.
It was horrid of me, and I hated myself for it; but at that moment I
really did feel ashamed of her appearance, and actually comforted myself
with the thought that my companion had seen my fashionable and befrilled
sister at Euston.
I was pleased to find that he was as sorry to part as I was. He broke
off his story with an exclamation of disgust. "I thought you said you
were going to Scotland," he cried.
"So I am," I answered; "but not till to-morrow."
Here Aunt Maria came forward. I had to get out and be folded in the
embrace of two bony arms. My companion (I had not found out his name)
had, in the meantime, put my bag and my bundles upon the platform, and
was standing, cap in hand, bowing a farewell.
He looked so pleasant, and Aunt Maria so forbidding, that my heart sank
at the thought that he was going away, and that in all probability I
should never see him again. Involuntarily I stretched out my hand to bid
him a more friendly good-bye. Perhaps it was forward of me--Lucy always
says I have such queer manners--but really I could not help it; I felt
so sorry that our pleasant acquaintance should come to an end so soon.
[Illustration: "PERHAPS IT WAS FORWARD OF ME."]
Mysie Sutherland met me at Inverness. A pompous-looking footman came
forward and condescended to carry my bag; one porter took my box to a
cart in waiting, another put my rugs | 199.863993 |
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file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
[Illustration: ThePocketBooks]
[Illustration: ThePocketBooks]
THE GERMAN FLEET
_BEING THE COMPANION VOLUME TO "THE FLEETS AT WAR"
AND "FROM HELIGOLAND TO KEELING ISLAND."_
BY
ARCHIBALD HURD
AUTHOR (JOINT) OF "GERMAN SEA-POWER, ITS RISE, PROGRESS
AND ECONOMIC BASIS."
HODDER AND STOUGHTON
LONDON NEW YORK TORONTO
MCMXV
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTION 7
I. PAST ASCENDENCY 19
II. THE FIRST GERMAN FLEET 26
III. GERMANY'S FLEET IN THE LAST CENTURY 51
IV. BRITISH INFLUENCE ON THE GERMAN NAVY 80
V. THE GERMAN NAVY ACTS 93
VI. GERMAN SHIPS, OFFICERS, AND MEN 142
VII. WILLIAM II. AND HIS NAVAL MINISTER 155
APPENDIX I.--GERMANY'S NAVAL POLICY 183
APPENDIX II.--BRITISH AND GERMAN SHIP-BUILDING
PROGRAMMES 189
INTRODUCTION
In the history of nations there is probably no chapter more fascinating
and arresting than that which records the rise and fall and subsequent
resurrection of German sea-power.
In our insular pride, conscious of our glorious naval heritage, we are
apt to forget that Germany had a maritime past, and that long before
the German Empire existed the German people attained pre-eminence in
oversea commerce and created for its protection fleets which exercised
commanding influence in northern waters.
It is an error, therefore, to regard Germany as an up-start naval
Power. The creation of her modern navy represented the revival
of ancient hopes and aspirations. To those ambitions, in their
unaggressive form, her neighbours would have taken little exception;
Germany had become a great commercial Power with colonies overseas, and
it was natural that she should desire to possess a navy corresponding
to her growing maritime interests and the place which she had already
won for herself in the sun.
The more closely the history of German sea-power is studied the more
apparent it must become, that it was not so much Germany's Navy
Acts, as the propaganda by which they were supported and the new and
aggressive spirit which her naval organisation brought into maritime
affairs that caused uneasiness throughout | 199.87545 |
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{253}
NOTES AND QUERIES:
A MEDIUM OF INTER-COMMUNICATION FOR LITERARY MEN, ARTISTS, ANTIQUARIES,
GENEALOGISTS, ETC.
"When found, make a note of."--CAPTAIN CUTTLE.
* * * * *
No. 176.]
SATURDAY, MARCH 12. 1853
[Price Fourpence. Stamped Edition 5d.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
NOTES:-- Page
| 199.954479 |
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber's Note:
In the plain-text versions of this book, superscripted letters are
represented with curly brackets, as in W{m}. For detailed information
about this transcription | 199.960484 |
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Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Charles Bidwell and Distributed
Proofreaders
MAYDAY WITH THE MUSES.
BY
ROBERT BLOOMFIELD
Author of the Farmer's Boy, Rural Tales, &c.
LONDON:
Printed for the Author: and for Baldwin Chadock, and Joy
1822
LONDON:
Printed by Thomas Davison, Whitefriars.
PREFACE.
I am of opinion that Prefaces are very useless things in cases like the
present, where the Author must talk of himself, with little amusement to
his readers. I have hesitated whether I should say any thing or nothing;
but as it is the fashion to say something, I suppose I must comply. I am
well aware that many readers will ex | 199.961506 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: "Permit your slave——" _Page_ 220.]
*The Imprudence
of Prue*
_*By*_* SOPHIE FISHER*
With Four Illustrations
By HERMAN PFEIFER
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT 1911
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
*CONTENTS*
CHAPTER
I The Price of a Kiss
II Lady Drumloch
III Sir Geoffrey’s Arrival
IV The Money-Lender Intervenes
V A Widow on Monday
VI A Matter of Title
VII A Wedding-Ring for a Kiss
VIII An Order for a Parson
IX The Wedding
X The Folly of Yesterday
XI The Morrow’s Wakening
XII The Price of a Birthright
XIII The Sealed Packet
XIV A Pair of Gloves
XV The Red Domino
XVI At the Unmasking
XVII Lady Barbara’s News
XVIII The Den of the Highwayman
XIX In the Duchess’ Apartments
XX A Threat and a Promise
XXI An Affair of Family
XXII In A Chairman’s Livery
XXIII The Parson Sells a Secret
XXIV A Supper for Three
XXV A Confession
XXVI Preparations for a Journey
XXVII A Different Highwayman
XXVIII The Dearest Treasure
*THE IMPRUDENCE OF PRUE*
*CHAPTER I*
*THE PRICE OF A KISS*
"Stand and deliver!"
The words rang out in the gathering darkness of the February evening.
The jaded horses, exhausted with dragging a cumbrous chariot through the
miry lanes and rugged by-roads of the rough moorland, obeyed the command
with promptitude, disregarding the lash of the postboy and the valiant
oaths of a couple of serving-men in the rumble.
"Keep still, unless you wish me to blow out what you are pleased to
consider your brains," said the highwayman. "My pistols have an awkward
habit of going off of their own accord when I am not instantly obeyed—so
don’t provoke them."
The postilion became as still as a statue and the footmen, under cover
of the self-acting pistols, descended, grumbling but unresisting,
yielded up their rusty blunderbusses with a transparent show of
reluctance and withdrew to a respectful distance, while the highwayman
dismounted, opened the carriage door and throwing the light of a lantern
within, revealed the shrinking forms of two women muffled in cloaks and
hoods.
One of them uttered a shriek of terror when the door was opened and
incoherently besought the highwayman to spare two lone, defenseless
women.
The highwayman thrust his head in and peered round eagerly, as though in
search of other passengers. Then, pulling off his slouch-brimmed hat, he
revealed a pair of dark eyes that gleamed fiercely from behind a mask,
and as much of a bronzed and weather-beaten face as it left uncovered.
Black hair, loosely gathered in a ribbon and much disordered by wind and
rain, added considerably to the wildness of his aspect, and the
uncertain light of the lantern flickered upon several weapons besides
the pistols he carried so carelessly.
"I shall not hurt you, Madam," he exclaimed impatiently. "Your money
and jewels are all I seek. I expected to find a very different booty
here and must hasten elsewhere lest I miss it altogether by this
confounded mishap. So let me advise you to waste neither my time nor
your own breath in useless lamentations, but hasten to hand out your
purses and diamonds."
"We have neither, Mr. Highwayman," said the other lady in a clear,
musical voice, quite free from tremor. "I am a poor widow without a
penny in the world, flying from my creditors to take refuge with a
relative almost as poor as myself. This is my companion—alack for her!
The wage I owe her might make her passing rich if ever ’twere paid—but
it never will be."
"Do poor widows travel in coach and four with serving-men and maids?"
demanded the highwayman with an incredulous laugh. "Come, ladies, I am
well used to these excuses. Do not put me to the disagreeable necessity
of setting you down in the mud while I search your carriage
and—mayhap—your fair selves."
The lady threw back her hooded cloak, revealing a face and form of rare
beauty, and extended two white hands and arms, bare to the elbow and
entirely devoid of ornament. In one hand she held a little purse
through whose silken meshes glittered a few pieces of money.
"This is all the money I have in the wide world," she said, in a voice
of pathetic sweetness. "Take it, if you will, and search for more if
you think it worth while—and if you find anything, prithee, share it
with me!"
But the highwayman scarcely heard her. Through his mask his eyes were
fixed upon her beautiful face with a devouring admiration of which she
was quite unconscious. Not that such an expression would have seemed at
all extraordinary to her, or otherwise than the natural tribute of any
masculine creature to the beauty she valued at its full worth.
"Keep your purse, Madam," he said, and his voice had lost its harshness;
"I will take but one thing from you—something you will not miss, but
that a monarch might prize—a kiss from those lovely lips."
"A kiss, rascal! Do you know what you ask?" she exclaimed, her
sweetness vanishing in haughty anger. "Something I shall not miss,
forsooth! What can—"
"Oh! kiss him, Prue; kiss him and let us be gone!" implored her
companion. "We shall miss the mail-coach at the cross-roads, and then
what will become of us?"
The highwayman leaned against the open carriage-door and watched the
struggling emotions flickering over the face of the widow. Anger and
disgust were succeeded by scornful mirth, and at last, with a gesture of
indescribably haughty grace, she extended her hand, palm downward.
"My hand, Sir Highwayman," she said loftily, "has been deemed not
unworthy of royal kisses!"
"My plebeian lips would not venture where a king’s have feasted," was
the mocking retort. "But whoever in future may kiss your lips must come
after Robin Freemantle, the Highwayman. So, sweet one, by your leave."
He bent suddenly over her and kissed her boldly on the scarlet blossom
of her mouth.
She drew back, gasping with anger and amazement. "How dare you?" she
almost screamed.
He stood a moment as if half-dazed by his own audacity, then closed the
carriage-door and replaced his beaver on his head.
"Good night, Ladies," he cried in a tone of reckless gaiety. "A
pleasant journey to London and a merry time at court, and as ’tis ill
junketing on an empty purse, accept mine in exchange for yours."
With which he flung a heavy wallet into the carriage and snatching the
little silken trifle from Prue’s hand, sprang on his horse and was
quickly lost in the gloom of night.
"Insolent varlet!" cried Prue passionately. "Would I were a man to beat
him to death!" And she burst into a flood of angry tears.
"Console yourself, sweet cousin," said her companion coaxingly. "You
have saved our jewels for the second time to-day—first by outwitting a
sheriff and now by cajoling a highwayman. After all, what is a kiss?
You have just as many left for Sir Geoffrey as you had before you were
robbed of that one."
"That is all very well," cried Prue, half laughing and half tearful,
"but how would you have liked it if it had happened to you?"
"Faith, I’m not sure I should have made such a fuss! After thirty one
may well be grateful for the kisses of a handsome young gallant—for I
could see he was young, and I’ll warrant me he was comely too—even if he
is Robin Freemantle, the highwayman."
"For shame, Cousin Peggie, an’ if you love me, never remind me of this,"
replied Prue, with a touch of irritation. "I would far rather have lost
my few last jewels than have suffered such an insult."
"So would not I," laughed the incorrigible cousin. "What with play and
the haberdasher all I have left in the world is contained in the little
box under my feet, and I should count that cheaply saved at the price of
a kiss."
"You were not asked to pay the price," said Prue coldly. Then,
thrusting her head out of the window, she relieved her pent-up feelings
by soundly berating the cowardly serving-men who had yielded without a
blow to a force so inferior and were now wasting precious time hunting
for their useless weapons instead of hastening to the near-by crossroads
to meet the mail-coach in which the two ladies proposed traveling from
Yorkshire to London.
The two men clambered back into the rumble, somewhat shamefaced, and
each striving by muttered disclaimers to reject the charge of cowardice
in favor of the other. The postilion, suddenly galvanized into
activity, roused the horses with strange oaths and cries and fierce
cracklings of the whip. Prudence closed the window and retired into the
voluminous shelter of her cloak, and the interrupted journey was
resumed.
*CHAPTER II*
*LADY DRUMLOCH*
No further adventures overtook the two ladies. The mail-coach picked
them up at the crossroads and carried them to London in course of time,
where they were soon safely housed with their grandmother, Lady
Drumloch.
My Lady Drumloch was, as all the world knows, a very great lady, and
back in the days of King Charles the Second had been a beauty and a
toast. The daughter of a duke and the wife of an earl, she had queened
it in two courts, had gone into exile with King James, intrigued and
plotted with the Jacobites, and finally, having lost husband and son and
fortune in her devotion to a hopeless cause, had made her peace with
Queen Anne and returned to England to eke out her last years in the
soul-crushing poverty of the great.
But as with her she brought her two granddaughters, the Honorable
Margaret Moffat and Lady Prudence Wynne, her meager little house on the
outskirts of May fair soon became not only the Mecca of other Jacobites
as aristocratic and as poor as herself, but of many who were neither
Jacobites nor in reduced circumstances. Among both classes the Lady
Prudence, though but fifteen, soon found courtiers to pick and choose
from. The saucy child with her skin of milk and roses, her tangle of
dark curling locks and her wonderful blue eyes, was already possessed of
that mysterious charm of femininity by which the world has been swayed
since the days of Eve.
To gratify her grandmother’s ambition, and at the same time emancipate
herself from the restrictions of the school-room, she married the
Viscount Brooke, heir of the Earl of Overbridge. But the marriage
resulted disastrously. The viscount had long before exhausted his
private means, and although his father, hoping that marriage would sober
and settle him, made a sufficiently liberal allowance to the young
couple, a few months of reckless extravagance and gaiety plunged them in
an ocean of debt, from which the viscount, in a fit of delirium,
extricated himself by means of a bullet in his brain, leaving Prue a
widow at sixteen with no home but her grandmother’s little house in
Mayfair, and not a penny beyond the grudging bounty of her
father-in-law.
Still, it was delightful to be a widow, and, consequently, free from all
authority. Having curtailed her mourning within the scantiest limits,
she returned to society with renewed ardor, where her youth and beauty,
enhanced by her widowhood, secured her a flattering welcome. She played
the hostess in Lady Drumloch’s shabby drawing-rooms, filling them with
laughter, scandal and love-making. She chaperoned Margaret Moffat, who
was ten years her senior and who loved her with the infatuation one
sometimes, if rarely, observes in a very plain woman for a very
beautiful one.
Poor as she notoriously was, the oft-repeated rumors of Prue’s
engagement to one or another of her wealthy admirers enabled her to run
into debt time and again for such necessaries of existence as
fashionable dresses and costly jewels, for which she certainly never
expected to pay out of her own pocket. Nay, even money-lenders,
beguiled by her bright eyes and her unquestionably promising matrimonial
prospects, had furnished the sinews of war (for which her future husband
would have to pay right royally), and this despite the fact that the
Lady Prudence Brooke, widowed at sixteen, was still a widow at
two-and-twenty.
Lady Drumloch’s granddaughters were not expected at her town-house, and
when the hired cabriolet in which they arrived drew up at her door, the
ancient butler was divided between joy at the sight of the two bright
young faces, and trepidation as to the welcome they might expect from
the higher powers. Mrs. Lowton, my lady’s waiting-woman, was troubled
by no such complex emotions. She made little attempt to conceal her own
dissatisfaction or to disguise the fact that the old countess was in no
humor for gay company.
"My lady has had an awful attack of gout," she averred, "and the doctors
have ordered the strictest quiet. The least agitation might be fatal."
"We will be as quiet as mice, Lowton," said Lady Prudence,
ostentatiously tiptoeing across the narrow hall and up the steep stairs.
"James, pay the coachman and let me know how much I owe you."
The butler obeyed, though with no great alacrity. "Her ladyship ain’t
long getting back to her old tricks," he muttered with rather a wry
smile, as he hunted through his pockets for the coach-hire. "I gave the
man two shillings—and sixpence for himself," he said, coming back
promptly. "I suppose your ladyship has not forgotten that before you
went to Yorkshire—"
"Oh! never mind that, James," she interrupted hastily. "Let bygones be
bygones, and when I come into my fortune you will see whether I forget
anything. Come, Peggie, let us get to bed. I am fainting for want of
sleep."
"I am fainting, too," ret | 199.961529 |
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TALES FROM BOHEMIA
By Robert Neilson Stephens
ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS--A MEMORY
One crisp evening early in March, 1887, I climbed the three flights of
rickety stairs to the fourth floor of the old "Press" building to begin
work on the "news desk." Important as the telegraph department was
in making the newspaper, the desk was a crude piece of carpentry. My
companions of the blue pencil irreverently termed it "the shelf." This
was my second night in the novel dignity of editorship. Though my rank
was the humblest, I appreciated the importance of a first step from "the
street." An older man, the senior on the news desk, had preceded me. He
was engaged in a bantering conversation with a youth who lolled at such
ease as a well-worn, cane-bottomed screw-chair afforded. The older man
made an informal introduction, and I learned that the youth with pale
face and serene smile was "Mr. Stephens, private secretary to the
managing editor." That information scarcely impressed me any more
than it would now after more than twenty years' experience of managing
editors and their private secretaries.
The bantering continued, and I learned that the youth cherished literary
aspirations, and that he performed certain work in connection with the
dramatic department for the managing editor, who kept theatrical news
and criticisms within his personal control.
Suddenly a chance remark broke the ice for a friendship between the
young man and me which was to last unbroken until his untimely death.
Stephens wrote the Isaac Pitman phonography! Here had I been for more
than three years wondering to find the shorthand writers of wide-awake
and progressive America floundering in what I conceived to be the
Serbonian bog of an archaic system of stenography. Unexpectedly a
most superior young man came within my ken who was a disciple of Isaac
Pitman. Furthermore, like myself, he was entirely self taught. No old
shorthand writer who can look back a quarter of a century on his own
youthful enthusiasm for the art can fail to appreciate what a bond of
sympathy this discovery constituted. From that night forward we were
chosen friends, confiding our ambitions to each other, discussing the
grave issues of life and death, settling the problems of literature.
Notwithstanding his more youthful appearance, my seniority in age
was but slight. Gradually "Bob," as all his friends called him with
affectionate informality, was given opportunities to advance himself,
under the kindly yet firm guidance of the managing editor, Mr. Bradford
Merrill. That gentleman appreciated the distinct gifts of his young
protege, journalistic and literary, and he fostered them wisely and
well. I remember perfectly the first criticism of an important play
which "Bob" was permitted to write unaided. It was Richard Mansfield's
initial appearance in Philadelphia as "Dr. Jekyl and Mr. Hyde," at the
Chestnut Street Theatre on Monday, October 3, 1887.
After the paper had gone to press, and while Mr. Merrill and a few of
the telegraph editors were partaking of a light lunch, the night editor,
the late R.E.A. Dorr, asked Mr. Merrill "how Stephens had made out."
"He has written a very clever and very interesting criticism," Mr.
Merrill replied. "I had to edit it somewhat, because he was inclined to
be Hugoesque and melodramatic in describing the action with very short
sentences. But I am very much pleased, indeed."
That was the beginning of Bob's career as a dramatic critic, a career
in which he gained authority and in which his literary faculties, his
felicity of expression and soundness of judgment found adequate scope.
In the following two or three years the cultivation of the field of
dramatic criticism occupied his time to the temporary exclusion of his
ambition for creative work. He and I read independently; but our
tastes had much in common, though his preference was for imaginative
literature. Meanwhile I was writing short stories with plenty of plot,
some of which found their way into various magazines; but his taste lay
more in the line of the French short story writers who made an
incident the medium for portraying a character. Historical romance had
fascinations for me, but Alphonse Daudet attracted both of us to the
artistic possibilities that lay in selecting the romance of real life
for treatment in fiction as against the crude and repellent naturalism
of Zola and his school. This fact is not a little significant in view of
the turn toward historical romance which exercised all the activities of
Robert Neilson Stephens after the production of his play, "An Enemy to
the King," by E.H. Sothern.
Still our intimacy had prepared me for the change. Through many a long
night after working hours we had wandered through the moonlit streets
until daybreak exchanging views freely and sturdily on historical
characters on the philosophy of history, on the character of Henry of
Navarre and his followers, and on the worthies of Elizabethan England,
in the literature of which we had immersed ourselves. Kipling had
recently burst meteor-like on the world, and Barrie raised his head with
a whimsical smile closely chasing a tear. Thomas Hardy was in the saddle
writing "Tess," and in France Daudet was yet active though his prime was
past. Guy de Maupassant continued the production of his marvellous
short stories. These were the contemporary prose writers who engaged our
attention. A little later we hailed the appearance of Stanley J. Weyman
with "A Gentleman of France," and the Conan Doyle of "The White
Company" and "Micah Clarke" rather than the creator of "Sherlock Holmes"
commended our admiration. We were by | 199.975999 |
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CREATURES OF THE NIGHT
_By the same Author._
IANTO THE FISHERMAN
AND OTHER SKETCHES OF COUNTRY LIFE.
_Illustrated with Photogravures. Large Crown 8vo._
_The Times._--"The quality which perhaps most gives its individuality to
the book is distinctive of Celtic genius.... The characters... are
touched with a reality that implies genuine literary skill."
_The Standard._--"Mr Rees has taken a place which is all his own in the
great succession of writers who have made Nature their theme."
_The Guardian._--"We can remember nothing in recent books on natural
history which can compare with the first part of this book...
surprising insight into the life of field, and moor, and river."
_The Outlook._--"This book--we speak in deliberate superlative--is the
best essay in what may be called natural history biography that we have
ever read."
LONDON JOHN MURRAY, ALBEMARLE STREET
[Illustration: "THE BROAD RIVER, IN WHICH SHE HAD SPENT HER EARLY LIFE."
(_See_ p. 50.) _Frontispiece | 200.073242 |
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES.
1. Italic script is denoted by _underscores_ and bold script by =equal=.
2. Simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors have been silently
corrected.
3. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed.
CHEAP JACK ZITA
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
IN THE ROAR OF THE SEA
THE QUEEN OF LOVE
CHEAP JACK ZITA
MRS. CURGENVEN OF CURGENVEN
ARMINELL
JACQUETTA
URITH
KITTY ALONE
MARGERY OF QUETHER
NOÉMI
THE BROOM-SQUIRE
DARTMOOR IDYLLS
GUAVAS THE TINNER
CHEAP JACK ZITA
BY
S. BARING-GOULD
FOURTH EDITION
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.
LONDON
1896
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. BEFORE THE GALILEE 1
II. THE FLAILS 13
III. TWO CROWNS 23
IV. ON THE DROVE 33
V. THE FLAILS AGAIN 44
VI. BETWEEN TWO LIGHTS 57
VII. PROFITS 63
VIII. MARK RUNHAM 76
IX. PRICKWILLOW 88
X. RED WINGS 100
XI. TIGER-HAIR 112
XII. ON BONE RUNNERS 122
XIII. PIP BEAMISH 131
XIV. ON ONE FOOTING 140
XV. ON ANOTHER FOOTING 150
XVI. BURNT HATS 161
XVII. A CRAWL ABROAD 174
XVIII. A DROP OF GALL 188
XIX. NO DEAL 194
XX. DAGGING 201
XXI. THE FEN RIOTS 213
XXII. TWENTY POUNDS 221
XXIII. TEN POUNDS 232
XXIV. A NEW DANGER 245
XXV. 'I DON'T CARE THAT' 253
XXVI. A NIGHT IN ELY 259
XXVII. SIR BATES DUDLEY'S RIDE 270
XXVIII. TWO PLEADERS 281
XXIX. A DEAL 291
XXX. IN COURT 295
XXXI. PISGAH 311
XXXII. A PARTHIAN SHOT 321
XXXIII. PURGATORY 327
XXXIV. WITH TOASTING-FORKS 335
XXXV. THE JACK O' LANTERNS 347
XXXVI. A RETURN BLOW 355
XXXVII. A CATHERINE WHEEL 364
XXXVIII. THE BRENT-GEESE 376
XXXIX. THE CUT EMBANKMENT 382
XL. THISTLES 394
CHEAP JACK ZITA.
CHAPTER I
BEFORE THE GALILEE
What was the world coming to? The world—the centre of it—the Isle of
Ely?
What aged man in his experience through threescore years and ten had
heard of such conduct before?
What local poet, whose effusions appeared in the 'Cambridge and Ely
Post,' in his wildest flights of imagination, conceived of such a thing?
Decency must have gone to decay and been buried. Modesty must have
unfurled her wings and sped to heaven before such an event could become
possible.
Where were the constables? Were bye-laws to become dead letters? Were
order, propriety, the eternal fitness of things, to be trampled under
foot by vagabonds?
In front of the cathedral, before the Galilee,—the magnificent west
porch of the minster of St. Etheldreda,—a Cheap Jack's van was drawn
up.
Within twenty yards of the Bishop's palace, where every word uttered
was audible in every room, a Cheap Jack was offering his wares.
Effrontery was, in heraldic language, rampant and regardant.
A crowd was collected about the van; a crowd composed of all sorts and
conditions of men, jostling each other, trampling on the grass of the
lawn, climbing up the carved work of the cathedral, to hear, to see, to
bid, to buy.
Divine service was hardly over. The organ was still mumbling and
tooting, when through the west door came a drift of choristers, who had
flung off their surplices and had raced down the nave, that they might
bid against and outbid each other for the pocket-knives offered by
Cheap Jack.
Mr. Faggs, the beadle, was striding in the same direction, relaxing the
muscles of his face from the look of severe ecclesiastical solemnity
into which they were drawn during divine worship. It had occurred to
him during the singing of the anthem that there were sundry articles of
domestic utility Cheap Jack was selling that it might be well for him
to secure at a low figure.
Mr. Bowles, the chief bailiff, had come forth from evensong with his
soul lifted up with thankfulness that he was not as other men were: he
attended the cathedral daily, he subscribed to all the charities; and
now he stood looking on, his breath taken away, his feet riveted to the
soil by surprise at the audacity of the Cheap Jack, in daring to draw
up before the minster, and vend his wares during the hour of afternoon
prayer.
The servant maids in the canons' houses in the Close had their heads
craned out from such narrow Gothic windows as would allow their
brachycephalic skulls to pass, and were listening and lawk-a-mussying
and oh-mying over the bargains.
Nay, the Bishop himself was in an upper room, the window-sash of which
was raised, ensconced behind the curtain, with his ear open and cocked,
and he was laughing at what he heard till his apron rippled, his bald
head waxed pink, and his calves quivered.
Very little of the sides of the van was visible, so encrusted were they
with brooms, brushes, door-mats, tin goods, and coalscuttles. Between
these articles might be detected the glimmer of the brimstone yellow
of the carcase of the shop on wheels. The front of the conveyance was
open; it was festooned with crimson plush curtains, drawn back; and,
deep in its depths could be discerned racks and ranges of shelves,
stored with goods of the most various and inviting description.
The front of the van was so contrived as to fall forward, and in
so falling to disengage a pair of supports that sustained it, and
temporarily converted it into a platform. On this platform stood
the Cheap Jack, a gaunt man with bushy dark hair and sunken cheeks;
he was speaking with a voice rendered hoarse by bellowing. He was
closely shaven. He wore drab breeches and white stockings, a waistcoat
figured with flowers, and was in his shirt sleeves. On his head was
a plush cap, with flaps that could be turned up or down as occasion
served. When turned down, that in front was converted into a peak that
sheltered his eyes, those at the sides protected his ears, and that
behind prevented rain from coursing down the nape of his neck. When,
however, these four lappets were turned up, they transformed the cap
into a crown—a crown such as it behoved the King of Cheap Jacks to
wear. The man was pale and sallow, sweat-drops stood on his brow,
and it was with an effort that he maintained the humour with which
he engaged the attention of his hearers, and that he made his voice
audible to those in the outermost ring of the curious and interested
clustered about the van. Within, in the shadowed depths of the
conveyance, glimpses were obtained of a girl, who moved about rapidly
and came forward occasionally to hand the Cheap Jack such articles as
he demanded, or to receive from him such as had failed to command a
purchaser.
When she appeared, it was seen that she was a slender, well-built girl
of about seventeen summers, with ripe olive skin, a thick head of
short-cut chestnut hair, and a pair of hazel eyes.
Apparently she was unmoved by her father's jokes; they provoked no
smile on her lips, for they were familiar to her; and she was equally
unmoved by the admiration she aroused among the youths, with which also
she was apparently familiar.
'Here now!' shouted the Cheap Jack. 'What the dickens have I got?—a
spy-glass to be sure, and such a spy-glass as never was and never will
be offered again. When I was a-comin' along the road from Cambridge,
and was five miles off, "Tear and ages!" sez I, seein' your famous
cathedral standin' up in the sunshine, "Tear and ages!" sez I; "that's
a wonder of the world." And I up wi' my spy-glass. Now look here. You
observe as 'ow one of the western wings be fallen down. 'Tis told that
when the old men built up that there top storey to the tower, that
it throwed the left wing down. Now I looked through this perspective
glass, and I seed both wings standing just as they used to be, and just
as they ought to be, but ain't. I couldn't take less than seventeen and
six for this here wonderful spy-glass—seventeen and six. What! not
buy a glass as will show you how things ought to be, but ain't?' He
turned to the circle round him from side to side. 'Come now,—say ten
shillings. 'Tis a shame to take the perspective glass out of Ely.' A
pause. 'No one inclined to bid ten shillings? Take it back, Zita. These
here Ely folk be that poor they can't go above tenpence. Ten shillings
soars above their purses. But stay. Zita, give me that there glass
again. There is something more that is wonderful about it. You look
through and you'll see what's to your advantage, and that's what every
one don't see wi' the naked eye. Come—say seven shillings!'
No bid.
'And let me tell the ladies—they've but to look through, and they'll
see the _him_ they've set their 'arts on, comin', comin',—bloomin' as
a rose, and 'olding the wedding ring in 'is 'and.'
In went the heads of the servant maids of the canons' residences.
'I say!' shouted one of the choristers, 'will it show us a coming
spanking?'
'Of course it will,' answered the Cheap Jack, 'because it's to your
advantage.'
'Let us look then.'
Cheap Jack handed the telescope to the lad. He put his eye to it, drew
the glass out, lowered it, and shouted, 'I see nothing.'
'Of course not. You're such a darlin' good boy; you ain't going to have
no spanking.'
'Let me look,' said a shop-girl standing by.
Cheap Jack waited. Every one watched.
'I don't see nothing,' said the girl.
'Of course not. You ain't got a sweetheart, and never will have one.'
A roar of laughter, and the young woman retired in confusion.
'And, I say,' observed the boy, as he returned the glass, 'it's all a
cram about the fallen transept. I looked, and saw it was down.'
'Of course you did,' retorted the Cheap Jack. 'Didn't I say five miles
off? Go five miles along the Wisbeach Road, and you'll see it sure
enough, as I said. There—five shillings for it.'
'I'll give you half a crown.'
'Half a crown!' jeered the vendor. 'There, though, you're a quirister,
and for the sake o' your beautiful voice, and because you're such a
good boy, as don't deserve nor expect a whacking, you shall have it for
half a crown.'
The Bishop's nose and one eye were thrust from behind the curtain.
'Why,' said the Right Reverend to himself, 'that's Tom Bulk, as
mischievous a young rogue as there is in the choir and grammar school.
He is as sure of a caning this week as—as'—
'Thanky, sir,' said Cheap Jack, pocketing the half-crown. 'Zita, what
next? Hand me that blazin' crimson plush weskit.'
From out the dark interior stepped the girl, and the sunshine flashed
over her, lighting her auburn hair, rich as burnished copper. She wore
a green, scarlet, and yellow flowered kerchief, tied across her bosom,
and knotted behind her back. Bound round her waist was a white apron.
She deigned no glance at the throng, but kept her eyes fixed on her
father's face.
'Are you better, dad?' she asked in a low tone.
'Not much, Zit. But I'll go through with it.'
'Here we are now!' shouted the Jack, after he had drawn the sleeve
of his left arm across his brow and lips, that were bathed in
perspiration. And yet the weather was cold; the season was the end of
October, and the occasion of the visit of the van to Ely was Tawdry
(St. Etheldreda's) Fair.
A whisper and nudges passed among the young men crowded about the van.
'Ain't she just a stunner?'
'I say, I wish the Cheap Jack would put up the girl to sale. Wouldn't
there be bidding?'
'She's the finest thing about the caravan.'
Such were comments that flew from one to another.
'Now, then!' bellowed the vendor of cheap wares; 'here you are again!
A red velvet weskit, with splendid gold—real gold—buttons. You shall
judge; I'll put it on.'
The man suited the action to the word. Then he straightened his legs
and arms, and turned himself about from side to side to exhibit the
full beauty of the vestment from every quarter.
'Did you ever see the like of this?' he shouted. 'But them breeches
o' mine have a sort o' deadening effect on the beauty of the weskit.
Thirty shillings is the price. You should see it along with a black
frock-coat and black trousers. Then it's glorious! It's something you
can wear with just what you likes. No one looks at rags when you've
this on, so took up is they with the weskit. What is that you said,
sir? Twenty-five shillings was your offer? It is yours—and all because
I sees it'll go with them great black whiskers of yours like duck and
green peas. It'll have a sort of a mellering effect on their bushiness,
and 'armonise with them as well as the orging goes wi' the chanting of
the quiristers.'
Jack handed the waistcoat, which he had hastily plucked off his back,
to one of the layclerks of the cathedral. The man turned as red as the
waistcoat, and thrust his hands behind his back.
'I never bid for it,' he protested.
'Beg pardon, sir; I thought you nodded your 'ead to me, but it was
the wind a-blowin' of it about. That gentleman with the black flowin'
whiskers don't take the weskit; it is still for sale. I'll let you have
it for fifteen shillings, and it'll make you a conquering hero among
the females. You, sir? Here you are.'
He addressed the chief bailiff, Mr. Bowles, an elderly,
white-whiskered, semi-clerical official, the pink and paragon of
propriety.
'No!' exclaimed Cheap Jack, as Mr. Bowles, with uplifted palms and
averted head, staggered back. 'No—his day is past. But I can see by
the twinkle of his eye he was the devil among the gals twenty years
ago. It's the young chaps who must compete for the weskit. I'll tell
you something rare,' continued the man, after clearing his throat and
mopping his brow and lips. 'No one will think but what you're a lord or
a harchbishop when you 'ave this 'ere weskit on. As I was a-coming into
Ely in this here concern, sez I to myself, "I'll put on an appearance
out o' respect to this ancient and venerable city." So I drawed on this
weskit; and what should 'appen but we meets his most solemn and sacred
lordship, the Bishop of the diocese.'
'This is coming it rather strong,'said the person alluded to behind
the curtain, and his face and head became hot and damp.
'Well, and when his lordship, the Right Reverend, saw me, he lifted
up his holy eyes and looked at my weskit. And then sez he to himself,
"Lawk-a-biddy, it's the Prince!" and down he went in the dirt afore me,
grovellin' with his nose in the mire. He did, upon my word.'
'Upon my word, this is monstrous! this is insufferable! A joke is a
joke!' gasped the Bishop, very much agitated. 'There's moderation in
all things—a limitation to be observed even in exaggeration. I haven't
been on the Wisbeach Road this fortnight. I never saw the man. I never
went down in the dirt. This is positively appalling!'
He took a turn round the room, went to the bell, then considered that
it would be inadvisable to summon the footman and show that he had been
listening to the nonsense of a Cheap Jack. Accordingly he went back to
the window, hid himself once more behind the curtain, but so trembled
with excitement and distress, that the whole curtain trembled with him.
'Nine and six. Here you are. Nine and six for this splendid garment,
and cheap it is—dirt cheap. You're a lucky man, sir; and won't you
only cut out your rivals with the darling?'
Cheap Jack handed the plush waistcoat to a young farmer from the Fens;
then suddenly he turned himself about, looked into his van, and said in
a husky voice—
'Zit, I can't go yarning no longer. I've got to the end of my powers;
you carry on.'
'Right, father; I'm the boy for you with the general public.'
The man stepped within. As he did so, the girl lowered one of the
curtains so as to conceal him. He sank wearily on a bench at the side.
She stooped with a quivering lip and filling eye and kissed him, then
sprang forward and stood outside on the platform, contemplating the
crowd with a look of assurance, mingled with contempt.
CHAPTER II
THE FLAILS
'Now, here's a chance you may never have again—a chance, let me tell
you, you never _will_ have again.' She extended in both hands packages
of tea done up in silvered paper. 'The general public gets cheated
in tea—it does—tremenjous! It is given sloe leaves, all kinds of
rubbish, and pays for it a fancy price. Father, he has gone and bought
a plantation out in China, and has set over it a real mandarin with
nine tails, and father guarantees that this tea is the very best of
our plantation teas, and he sells it at a price which puts it within
the reach of all. Look here!' she turned a parcel about; 'here you
are, with the mandarin's own seal upon it, to let every one know it is
genuine, and that it is the only genuine tea sent over.'
'Where's the plantation, eh, girl?' jeered a boy from the grammar
school.
'Where is it?' answered the girl, turning sharply on her interlocutor.
'It's at Fumchoo. Do you know where Fumchoo is? You don't? and yet you
sets up to be a scholar. It is fifteen miles from Pekin by the high
road, and seven and a half over the fields. Go to school and look at
your | 200.081871 |
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Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
THE MUTABLE MANY
A Novel
By Robert Barr
Second Edition
“For the imitable, rank-scented many, let them
Regard me as I do not flatter, and
Therein behold themselves?
--CORIOLANUS.
London: Frederick A. Stokes Company
1896
[Illustration: 0001]
[Illustration: 0007]
He that trusts you,
Where he should find you lions, finds you hares;
Where foxes, geese. You are no surer, no,
Than is the coal of fire upon the ice,
Or hailstone in the sun. Your virtue is,
To make him worthy, whose offence subdues him
And curse that justice did it.
Who deserves greatness,
Deserves your hate: and your affections are
A sick man’s appetite, who desires most that
Which would increase his evil. He that depends
Upon your favours, swims with fins of lead,
And hews down oaks with rushes.. Hang ye!
Trust ye?
With every minute you do change a mind;
And call him noble that was now your hate,
Him vile, that was now your garland.”
Coriolanus.
THE MUTABLE MANY
CHAPTER I.
The office of Monkton & Hope’s great factory hung between heaven and
earth, and, at the particular moment John Sartwell, manager, stood
looking out of the window towards the gates, heaven consisted of a
brooding London fog suspended a hundred feet above the town, hesitating
to fall, while earth was represented by a sticky black-cindered
factory-yard bearing the imprint of many a hundred boots. The office was
built between the two huge buildings known as the “Works.” The situation
of the office had evidently been an after-thought--it was of wood, while
the two great buildings which it joined together as if they were
Siamese twins of industry, were of brick. Although no architect had ever
foreseen the erection of such a structure between the two buildings,
yet necessity, the mother of invention, had given birth to what Sartwell
always claimed was the most conveniently situated office in London.
More and more room had been acquired in the big buildings as business
increased, and the office--the soul of the whole thing--had, as it were,
to take up a position outside its body.
The addition, then, hung over the roadway that passed between the two
buildings; it commanded a view of both front and back yards, and had,
therefore, more light and air than the office Sartwell had formerly
occupied in the left-hand building. The unique situation caused it to
be free from the vibration of the machinery to a large extent, and as
a door led into each building, the office had easy access to both.
Sartwell was very proud of these rooms and their position, for he had
planned them, and had thus given the firm much additional space, with
no more ground occupied than had been occupied before--a most desirable
feat to perform in a crowded city like London.
Two rooms at the back were set apart for the two members of the firm,
while Sartwell’s office in the front was three times the size of either
of these rooms and extended across the whole space between the two
buildings. This was as it should be; for Sartwell did three times the
amount; of work the owners of the business accomplished and, if it came
to that, had three times the brain power of the two members of the firm
combined, who were there simply because they were the sons of their
fathers. The founders of the firm had with hard work and shrewd
management established the large manufactory whose present prosperity
was due to Sartwell and not to the two men whose names were known | 200.082323 |
2023-11-16 18:20:24.3549640 | 220 | 6 |
Produced by Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal
signs=.
[Illustration]
_Beautiful Britain_
_The Channel Islands_
_By_
_Joseph E. Morris B.A._
_London Adam & Charles Black_
_Soho Square W_
_1911_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. JERSEY 5
II. GUERNSEY 32
III. ALDERNEY, SARK, AND THE LESSER ISLANDS 53
INDEX 63
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. ST. P | 200.375004 |
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Produced by David Edwards, Haragos Pál and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
ELSKET, AND OTHER STORIES
BY THOMAS NELSON PAGE.
ELSKET AND OTHER STORIES. 12mo, $1.00
NEWFOUND RIVER. 12mo, 1.00
IN OLE VIRGINIA. 12mo, 1.25
THE SAME. Cameo Edition. With an etching
by W. L. Sheppard. 16mo, 1.25
AMONG THE CAMPS. Young People's
Stories of the War. Illustrated. Sq. 8vo, 1.50
TWO LITTLE CONFEDERATES. Illustrated.
Square 8vo, 1.50
"BEFO' DE WAR." Echoes of <DW64> Dialect.
By A. C. Gordon and Thomas
Nelson Page. 12mo, 1.00
ELSKET
_AND OTHER STORIES_
BY
THOMAS NELSON PAGE
NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
1893
COPYRIGHT, 1891, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS.
TO HER MEMORY
CONTENTS.
PAGE
ELSKET 1
"GEORGE WASHINGTON'S" LAST DUEL 52
P'LASKI'S TUNAMENT 118
"RUN TO SEED" 147
"A SOLDIER OF THE EMPIRE" 180
ELSKET.
"The knife hangs loose in the sheath."
--OLD NORSK PROVERB.
I spent a month of the summer of 188- in Norway--"Old Norway"--and a
friend of mine, Dr. John Robson, who is as great a fisherman as he is
a physician, and knows that I love a stream where the trout and I can
meet each other alone, and have it out face to face, uninterrupted
by any interlopers, did me a favor to which I was indebted for the
experience related below. He had been to Norway two years before, and
he let me into the secret of an unexplored region between the Nord
Fiord and the Romsdal. I cannot give the name of the place, because
even now it has not been fully explored, and he bound me by a solemn
promise that I would not divulge it to a single soul, actually going to
the length of insisting on my adding a formal oath to my affirmation.
This I consented to because I knew that my friend was a humorous man,
and also because otherwise he positively refused to inform me where
the streams were about which he had been telling such fabulous fish
stories. "No," he said, "some of those ---- cattle who think they
own the earth and have a right to fool women at will and know how to
fish, will be poking in there, worrying Olaf and Elsket, and ruining
the fishing, and I'll be ---- if I tell you unless you make oath." My
friend is a swearing man, though he says he swears for emphasis, not
blasphemy, and on this occasion he swore with extreme solemnity. I saw
that he was in earnest, so made affidavit and was rewarded.
"Now," he said, after inquiring about my climbing capacity in a way
which piqued me, and giving me the routes with a particularity which
somewhat mystified me, "Now I will write a letter to Olaf of the
Mountain and to Elsket. I once was enabled to do them a slight service,
and they will receive you. It will take him two or three weeks to get
it, so you may have to wait a little. You must wait at L---- until Olaf
comes down to take you over the mountain. You may be there when he
gets the letter, or you may have to wait for a couple of weeks, as he
does not come over the mountain often. However, you can amuse yourself
around L----; only you must always be on hand every night in case Olaf
comes."
Although this appeared natural enough to the doctor, it sounded rather
curious to me, and it seemed yet more so when he added, "By the way,
one piece of advice: don't talk about England to Elsket, and don't ask
any questions."
"Who is Elsket?" I asked.
"A daughter of the Vikings, poor thing," he said.
My curiosity was aroused, but I could get nothing further out of him,
and set it down to his unreasonable dislike of travelling Englishmen,
against whom, for some reason, he had a violent antipathy, declaring
that they did not know how to treat women nor how to fish. My friend
has a custom of speaking very strongly, and I used to wonder at
the violence of his language, which contrasted strangely with his
character; for he was the kindest-hearted man I ever knew, being a true
follower of his patron saint, old Isaac giving his sympathy to all the
unfortunate, and even handling his frogs as if he loved them.
Thus it was that on the afternoon of the seventh day of July, 188-,
having, for purposes of identification, a letter in my pocket to
"Olaf of the Mountain from his friend Dr. Robson," I stood, in the
rain in the so-called "street" of L----, on the ---- Fiord, looking
over the bronzed faces of the stolid but kindly peasants who lounged
silently around, trying to see if I could detect in one a resemblance
to the picture I had formed in my mind of "Olaf of the Mountain," or
could discern in any eye a gleam of special interest to show that its
possessor was on the watch for an expected guest.
There was none in whom I could discover any indication that he was
not a resident of the straggling little settlement. They all stood
quietly about gazing at me and talking in low tones among themselves,
chewing tobacco or smoking their pipes, as naturally as if they were in
Virginia or Kentucky, only, if possible, in a somewhat more ruminant
manner. It gave me the single bit of home feeling I could muster, for
it was, I must confess, rather desolate standing alone in a strange
land, under those beetling crags, with the clouds almost resting on our
heads, and the rain coming down in a steady, wet, monotonous fashion.
The half-dozen little dark log or frame-houses, with their double
windows and turf roofs, standing about at all sorts of angles to the
road, as if they had rolled down the mountain like the great bowlders
beyond them, looked dark and cheerless. I was weak enough to wish for
a second that I had waited a few days for the rainy spell to be over,
but two little bare-headed children, coming down the road laughing and
chattering, recalled me to myself. They had no wrapping whatever, and
nothing on their heads but their soft flaxen hair, yet they minded
the rain no more than if they had been ducklings. I saw that these
people were used to rain. It was the inheritance of a thousand years.
Something, however, had to be done, and I recognized the fact that I
was out of the beaten track of tourists, and that if I had to stay here
a week, on the prudence of my first step depended the consideration
I should receive. It would not do to be hasty. I had a friend with
me which had stood me in good stead before, and I applied to it now.
Walking slowly up to the largest, and one of the oldest men in the
group, I drew out my pipe and a bag of old Virginia tobacco, free from
any flavor than its own, and filling the pipe, I asked him for a light
in the best phrase-book Norsk I could command. He gave it, and I placed
the bag in his hand and motioned him to fill his pipe. When that was
done I handed the pouch to another, and motioned him to fill and pass
the tobacco around. One by one they took it, and I saw that I had
friends. No man can fill his pipe from another's bag and not wish him
well.
"Does any of you know Olaf of the Mountain?" I asked. I saw at once
that I had made an impression. The mention of that name was evidently a
claim to consideration. There was a general murmur of surprise, and the
group gathered around me. A half-dozen spoke at once.
"He was at L---- last week," they said, as if that fact was an item of
extensive interest.
"I want to go there," I said, and then was, somehow, immediately
conscious that I had made a mistake. Looks were exchanged and some
words were spoken among my friends, as if they were oblivious of my
presence.
"You cannot go there. None goes there but at night," said one,
suggestively.
"Who goes over the mountain comes no more," said another, as if he
quoted a proverb, at which there was a faint intimation of laughter on
the part of several.
My first adviser undertook a long explanation, but though he labored
faithfully I could make out no more than that it was something about
"Elsket" and "the Devil's Ledge," and men who had disappeared. This
was a new revelation. What object had my friend? He had never said a
word of this. Indeed, he had, I now remembered, said very little at
all about the people. He had exhausted his eloquence on the fish. I
recalled his words when I asked him about Elsket: "She is a daughter of
the Vikings, poor thing." That was all. Had he been up to a practical
joke? If so, it seemed rather a sorry one to me just then. But anyhow I
could not draw back now. I could never face him again if I did not go
on, and what was more serious, I could never face myself. I was weak
enough to have a thought that, after all, the mysterious Olaf might not
come; but the recollection of the fish of which my friend had spoken
as if they had been the golden fish of the "Arabian Nights," banished
that. I asked about the streams around L----. "Yes, there was good
fishing." But they were all too anxious to tell me about the danger
of going over the mountain to give much thought to the fishing. "No
one without Olaf's blood could cross the Devil's Ledge." "Two men had
disappeared three years ago." "A man had disappeared there last year.
He had gone, and had never been heard of afterward. The Devil's Ledge
was a bad pass."
"Why don't they look into the matter?" I asked.
The reply was as near a shrug of the shoulders as a Norseman can
accomplish.
"It was not easy to get the proof; the mountain was very dangerous,
the glacier very slippery; there were no witnesses," etc. "Olaf of the
Mountain was not a man to trouble."
"He hates Englishmen," said one, significantly.
"I am not an Englishman, I am an American," I explained.
This had a sensible effect. Several began to talk at once. One had a
brother in Idaho, another had cousins in Nebraska, and so on.
The group had by this time been augmented by the addition of almost the
entire population of the settlement; one or two rosy-cheeked women,
having babies in their arms, standing in the rain utterly regardless of
the steady downpour.
It was a propitious time. "Can I get a place to stay here?" I inquired
of the group generally.
"Yes,--oh, yes." There was a consultation in which the name of
"Hendrik" was heard frequently, and then a man stepped forward and
taking up my bag and rod-case, walked off, I following, escorted by a
number of my new friends.
I had been installed in Hendrik's little house about an hour, and we
had just finished supper, when there was a murmur outside, and then the
door opened, and a young man stepping in, said something so rapidly
that I understood only that it concerned Olaf of the Mountain, and in
some way myself.
"Olaf of the Mountain is here and wants to speak to you," said my host.
"Will you go?"
"Yes," I said. "Why does he not come in?"
"He will not come in," said my host; "he never does come in."
"He is at the church-yard," said the messenger; "he always stops
there." They both spoke broken English.
I arose and went out, taking the direction indicated. A number of my
friends stood in the road or street as I passed along, and touched
their caps to me, looking very queer in the dim twilight. They gazed at
me curiously as I walked by.
I turned the corner of a house which stood half in the road, and just
in front of me, in its little yard, was the little white church with
its square, heavy, short spire. At the gate stood a tall figure,
perfectly motionless, leaning on a long staff. As I approached I saw
that he was an elderly man. He wore a long beard, once yellow but now
gray, and he looked very straight and large. There was something grand
about him as he stood there in the dusk.
I came quite up to him. He did not move.
"Good-evening," I said.
"Good-evening."
"Are you Mr. Hovedsen?" I asked, drawing out my letter.
"I am Olaf of the Mountain," he said slowly, as if his name embraced
the whole title.
I handed him the letter.
"You are----?"
"I am----" taking my cue from his own manner.
"The friend of her friend?"
"His great friend."
"Can you climb?"
"I can."
"Are you steady?"
"Yes."
"It is well; are you ready?"
I had not counted on this, and involuntarily I asked, in some surprise,
"To-night?"
"To-night. You cannot go in the day."
I thought of the speech I had heard: "No one goes over the mountain
except at night," and the ominous conclusion, "Who goes over the
mountain comes no more." My strange host, however, diverted my thoughts.
"A stranger cannot go except at night," he said, gravely; and then
added, "I must get back to watch over Elsket."
"I shall be ready in a minute," I said, turning.
In ten minutes I had bade good-by to my simple hosts, and leaving them
with a sufficient evidence of my consideration to secure their lasting
good-will, I was on my way down the street again with my light luggage
on my back. This time the entire population of the little village
was in the road, and as I passed along I knew by their murmuring
conversation that they regarded my action with profound misgiving. I
felt, as I returned their touch of the cap and bade them good-by, a
little like the gladiators of old who, about to die, saluted Cæsar.
At the gate my strange guide, who had not moved from the spot where I
first found him, insisted on taking my luggage, and buckling his straps
around it and flinging it over his back, he handed me his stick, and
without a word strode off straight toward the black mountain whose vast
wall towered above us to the clouds.
I shall never forget that climb.
We were hardly out of the road before we began to ascend, and I
had shortly to stop for breath. My guide, however, if silent was
thoughtful, and he soon caught my gait and knew when to pause. Up
through the dusk we went, he guiding me now by a word telling me how to
step, or now turning to give me his hand to help me up a steep place,
over a large rock, or around a bad angle. For a time we had heard
the roar of the torrent as it boiled below us, but as we ascended it
had gradually hushed, and we at length were in a region of profound
silence. The night was cloudy, and as dark as it ever is in midsummer
in that far northern latitude; but I knew that we were climbing along
the edge of a precipice, on a narrow ledge of rock along the face of
the cliff. The vast black wall above us rose sheer up, and I could feel
rather than see that it went as sheer down, though my sight could not
penetrate the darkness which filled the deep abyss below. We had been
climbing about three hours when suddenly the ledge seemed to die out.
My guide stopped, and unwinding his rope from his waist, held it out to
me. I obeyed his silent gesture, and binding it around my body gave him
the end. He wrapped it about him, and then taking me by the arm, as if
I had been a child, he led me slowly along the narrow ledge around the
face of the wall, step by step, telling me where to place my feet, and
waiting till they were firmly planted. I began now to understand why no
one ever went "over the mountain" in the day. We were on a ledge nearly
three thousand feet high. If it had not been for the strong, firm hold
on my arm, I could not have stood it. As it was I dared not think.
Suddenly we turned a sharp angle and found ourselves in a curious
semicircular place, almost level and fifty or sixty feet deep in the
concave, as if a great piece had been gouged out of the mountain by the
glacier which must once have been there.
"This is a curious place," I ventured to say.
"It is," said my guide. "It is the Devil's Seat. Men have died here."
His tone was almost fierce. I accepted his explanation silently. We
passed the singular spot and once more were on the ledge, but except
in one place it was not so narrow as it had been the other side of the
Devil's Seat, and in fifteen minutes we had crossed the summit and the
path widened a little and began to descend.
"You do well," said my guide, briefly, "but not so well as Doctor
John." I was well content with being ranked a good second to the doctor
just then.
The rain had ceased, the sky had partly cleared, and, as we began to
descend, the early twilight of the northern dawn began to appear. First
the sky became a clear steel-gray and the tops of the mountains became
visible, the dark outlines beginning to be filled in, and taking on a
soft color. This lightened rapidly, until on the side facing east they
were bathed in an atmosphere so clear and transparent that they seemed
almost within a stone's throw of us, while the other side was still
left in a shadow which was so deep as to be almost darkness. The gray
lightened and lightened into pearl until a tinge of rose appeared, and
then the sky suddenly changed to the softest blue, and a little later
the snow-white mountain-tops were bathed in pink, and it was day.
I could see in the light that we were descending into a sort of upland
hollow between the snow-patched mountain-tops; below us was a lovely
little valley in which small pines and birches grew, and patches of the
green, short grass which stands for hay shone among the great bowlders.
Several little streams came jumping down as white as milk from the
glaciers stuck between the mountain-tops, and after resting in two or
three tiny lakes which looked like hand-mirrors lying in the grass
below, went bubbling and foaming on to the edge of the precipice, over
which they sprang, to be dashed into vapor and snow hundreds of feet
down. A half-dozen sheep and as many goats were feeding about in the
little valley; but I could not see the least sign of a house, except a
queer, brown structure, on a little knoll, with many gables and peaks,
ending in the curious dragon-pennants, which I recognized as one of the
old Norsk wooden churches of a past age.
When, however, an hour later, we had got down to the table-land, I
found myself suddenly in front of a long, quaint, double log cottage,
set between two immense bowlders, and roofed with layers of birch bark,
covered with turf, which was blue with wild <DW29>s. It was as if it
were built under a bed of heart's-ease. It was very old, and had
evidently been a house of some pretension, for there was much curious
carving about the doors, and indeed about the whole front, the dragon's
head being distinctly visible in the design. There were several lesser
houses which looked as if they had once been dwellings, but they seemed
now to be only stables.
As we approached the principal door it was opened, and there
stepped forth one of the most striking figures I ever saw--a young
woman, rather tall, and as straight as an arrow. My friend's words
involuntarily recurred to me, "A daughter of the Vikings," and then,
somehow, I too had the feeling he had expressed, "Poor thing!" Her
figure was one of the richest and most perfect I ever beheld. Her face
was singularly beautiful; but it was less her beauty than her nobility
of look and mien combined with a certain sadness which impressed me.
The features were clear and strong and perfectly carved. There was a
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[Illustration: “TRIUMPHS AND WONDERS OF THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.”
This picture explains and is symbolic of the most progressive one
hundred years in history. In the center stands the beautiful
female figure typifying Industry. To the right are the goddesses
of Music, Electricity, Literature and Art. Navigation is noted in
the anchor and chain leaning against the capstan; the Railroad,
in the rails and cross-ties; Machinery, in the cog-wheels,
steam governor, etc.; Labor, in the brawny smiths at the anvil;
Pottery, in the ornamented vase; Architecture, in the magnificent
Roman columns; Science, in the figure with quill in hand. In the
back of picture are suggestions of the progress and development
of our wonderful navy. Above all hovers the angel of Fame ready
to crown victorious Genius and Labor with the laurel wreaths of
Success.
]
TRIUMPHS AND WONDERS
OF THE
19TH CENTURY
THE
TRUE MIRROR OF A PHENOMENAL ERA
A VOLUME OF ORIGINAL, ENTERTAINING AND INSTRUCTIVE HISTORIC
AND DESCRIPTIVE WRITINGS, SHOWING THE MANY AND
MARVELLOUS ACHIEVEMENTS WHICH DISTINGUISH
AN HUNDRED YEARS
OF
Material, Intellectual, Social and Moral Progress
EMBRACING AS SUBJECTS ALL THOSE WHICH BEST TYPE THE GENIUS,
SPIRIT AND ENERGY OF THE AGE, AND SERVE TO BRING INTO
BRIGHTEST RELIEF THE GRAND MARCH OF IMPROVEMENT
IN THE VARIOUS DOMAINS OF
HUMAN ACTIVITY.
BY
JAMES P. BOYD, A.M., L.B.,
_Assisted by a Corps of Thirty-Two Eminent and Specially Qualified
Authors._
Copiously and Magnificently Illustrated.
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA
A. J. HOLMAN & CO.
COPYRIGHT, 1899, BY W. H. ISBISTER.
_All Rights Reserved._
COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY W. H. ISBISTER.
INTRODUCTORY
Measuring epochs, or eras, by spaces of a hundred years each, that
which embraces the nineteenth century stands out in sublime and
encouraging contrast with any that has preceded it. As the legatee of
all prior centuries, it has enlarged and ennobled its bequest to an
extent unparalleled in history; while it has at the same time, through
a genius and energy peculiar to itself, created an original endowment
for its own enjoyment and for the future richer by far than any
heretofore recorded. Indeed, without permitting existing and pardonable
pride to endanger rigid truth, it may be said that along many of the
lines of invention and progress which have most intimately affected the
life and civilization of the world, the nineteenth century has achieved
triumphs and accomplished wonders equal, if not superior, to all other
centuries combined.
Therefore, what more fitting time than at its close to pass in
pleasing and instructive review the numerous material and intellectual
achievements that have so distinguished it, and have contributed in so
many and such marvelous ways to the great advance and genuine comfort
of the human race! Or, what could prove a greater source of pride and
profit than to compare its glorious works with those of the past, the
better to understand and measure the actual steps and real extent of
the progress of mankind! Or, what more delightful and inspiring than
to realize that the sum of those wonderful activities, of which each
reader is, or has been, a part, has gone to increase the grandeur of a
world era whose rays will penetrate and brighten the coming centuries!
Amid so many and such strong reasons this volume finds excellent cause
for its being. Its aims are to mirror a wonderful century from the
vantage ground of its closing year; to faithfully trace the lines which
mark its almost magical advance; to give it that high and true historic
place whence its contrasts with the past can be best noted, and its
light upon the future most directly thrown.
This task would be clearly beyond the power of a single mind. So rapid
has progress been during some parts of the century, so amazing have
been results along the lines of discovery and invention, so various
have been the fields of action, that only those of special knowledge
and training could be expected to do full justice to the many subjects
to be treated.
Hence, | 200.573257 |
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by The Internet Archive)
[Illustration: MERRICK RICHARDSON AT THE AGE OF SEVENTY-FIVE.]
LOOKING BACK
AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY
_By_
MERRICK ABNER RICHARDSON
AUTHOR OF
"JIM HALL AND THE RICHARDSONS", "EIGHT DAYS OUT", "MINA FAUST",
"ROSE LIND", "PERSONALITY OF THE SOUL", "CHICAGO'S
BLACK SHEEP", "TWILIGHT REFLECTIONS."
PRIVATELY PRINTED
CHICAGO: MCMXVII
_Copyright 1917
By_
MERRICK ABNER RICHARDSON
PREFACE
My spare time, only, is occupied in literary efforts. I never allow
them to interfere with either my business or social life.
In composing, in a mysterious way, I comprehend the companionship of my
imaginary friends as vividly as I do the material associates of life.
To me imagination is the counterpart or result of inspiration, while
inspiration is light thrown upon the unrevealed. The image may be the
result of known or unknown cause, but the mystery does not blot out the
actual existence of the image. The material image we call sight, the
retained memory, and the unknown revelation, but all are comprehensive
images.
I see a bird, its form created a picture on my eye, the image of which
mysteriously remained after the object had disappeared. Now what or who
cognizes the primitive object, the formed picture or the retained image?
The materialist assumes he has solved the mystery when he says; The
appearance of the object formed an impression on your brain; omitting
the important part of who comprehends the impression.
These material and spiritual views are not the two extremes, there
is no midway, one is right and the other is wrong. Either man is a
spiritual, responsible being or he is just temporary mud.
Therefore imagination, to me is incomprehensible realization, while
materialism is the symbol of passing events. This explains how my
imaginary friends become so dear to me.
The ideas presented in my story of Mary Magdalene I gained through
descriptions conveyed to me by Jona while traveling across the Syrian
desert. He always began in the middle of his story and worked out both
ways, which made it difficult to take notes, besides at the best it was
but a legend, dim and indistinct.
In this work I have carefully avoided Oriental style, language or
customs for two reasons: First, there is not an Oriental scholar now,
who could do them justice, Second, one is perfectly safe in bringing
any people of any age right down to our times. For, the culture of
one tribe or race does not influence incoming souls for the next
generation. The human family enter life on about the same plane. A
child from the low tribes of the jungles or from the desert wild, if
brought up by a Chicago mother, might become as great as one of the
royal family. The feelings, aspirations, sorrows and love of Mary
Magdalene and Peter were similar to what ours would have been under the
same conditions. Therefore I bring the story of Magdalene right down to
yesterday.
I first constructed the story of Magdalene while in Jerusalem, then I
revised it in Egypt, and have been revising it at intervals ever since.
From Jona's continued reiteration regarding her prepossessing gifts,
spiritual and unwavering qualities, especially her firmness before
Caiaphas, I formed her personality in my mind and associated her with
bright women of today, then I let Magdalene talk for herself.
To me she was no exception from the women I associated with in
Chicago. There are not wanting women in Oak Park who under the same
circumstances would have followed Jesus to Jerusalem, disdained to
deny him and would have pleaded before the sanhedrim at the dead of
night to have saved their associate from the misguided servants of the
devil.
The reminiscenses of the pioneer Richardsons, Jim and Winnie, Sunshine
days around Wabbaquassett, John Brown, roving escapades of the
Richardson Brothers, my athletic exploits, my travels and other scenes
of my life are primitive truths copied from memory and set forth in my
original form of expression.
My attack on materialists or infidelic instructors stands on its own
feet and opposes a tendency that will create degeneracy if continued.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
MY ANCESTORS 9
WOBURN 10
TRADITIONS 12
RECORDS 15
OLD HOMESTEAD 17
JIM HALL 19
LOVE SPATS | 200.573318 |
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MANY GODS
OTHER BOOKS BY
CALE YOUNG RICE
Nirvana Days
Yolanda of Cyprus
Plays and Lyrics
A Night in Avignon
Charles di Tocca
David
MANY GODS
BY
CALE YOUNG RICE
NEW YORK
DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
MCMX
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED, INCLUDING THAT OF TRANSLATION
INTO FOREIGN LANGUAGES, INCLUDING THE SCANDINAVIAN
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY
PUBLISHED, FEBRUARY, 1910
TO
FINIS KING FARR
AN OLD
AND DEAR COMRADE
CONTENTS
PAGE
"ALL'S WELL" 3
THE PROSELYTE RECANTS 6
LOVE IN JAPAN 10
MAPLE LEAVES ON MIYAJIMA 13
TYPHOON 15
PENANG 17
WHEN THE WIND IS LOW 20
THE PAGODA SLAVE 22
THE SHIPS OF THE SEA 25
KINCHINJUNGA 26
THE BARREN WOMAN 29
BY THE TAJ MAHAL 32
LOVE'S CYNIC 35
IN A TROPICAL GARDEN 42
THE WIND'S WORD 46
THE SHRINE OF SHRINES 47
FROM A FELUCCA 48
THE EGYPTIAN WAKES 49
THE IMAM'S PARABLE 50
SONGS OF A SEA-FARER 52
A SONG OF THE SECTS 54
THE CITY 57
VIA AMOROSA 58
DUSK AT HIROSHIMA 60
THE WANDERER 61
IN A SHINTO TEMPLE GARDEN 64
FAR FUJIYAMA 65
ON MIYAJIMA MOUNTAIN 66
OLD AGE 68
ON THE YANG-TSE-KIANG 69
THE SEA-ARMIES 71
THE CHRISTIAN IN EXILE 73
THE PARSEE WOMAN 75
SHAH JEHAN TO MUMTAZ MAHAL 77
PRINCESS JEHANARA 79
A CINGHALESE LOVE LAMENT 80
ON THE ARABIAN GULF 83
THE RAMESSID 84
IMMORTAL FOES 85
THE CONSCRIPT 87
NAVIS IGNOTA 89
THE CROSS OF THE SEPULCHRE 91
THE NUN 92
ALPINE CHANT 94
THE MAN OF MIGHT 96
IN TIME OF AWE 97
SUNRISE IN UTAH 99
CONSOLATION 100
WAVES 102
VIS ULTIMA 104
MEREDITH 106
MANY GODS
"ALL'S WELL"
I
The illimitable leaping of the sea,
The mouthing of his madness to the moon,
The seething of his endless sorcery,
His prophecy no power can attune,
Swept over me as, on the sounding prow
Of a great ship that steered into the stars,
I stood and felt the awe upon my brow
Of death and destiny and all that mars.
II
The wind that blew from Cassiopeia cast
Wanly upon my ear a rune that rung;
The sailor in his eyrie on the mast
Sang an "All's well," that to the spirit clung
Like a lost voice from some aerial realm
Where ships sail on forever to no shore,
Where Time gives Immortality the helm,
And fades like a far phantom from life's door.
III
"And is all well, O Thou Unweariable
Launcher of worlds upon bewildered space,"
Rose in me, "All? or did thy hand grow dull
Building this world that bears a piteous race?
O was it launched too soon or launched too late?
Or can it be a derelict that drifts
Beyond thy ken toward some reef of Fate
On which Oblivion's sand forever shifts?"
IV
The sea grew softer as I questioned--calm
With mystery that like an answer moved,
And from infinity there fell a balm,
The old peace that God _is_, tho all unproved.
The old faith that tho gulfs sidereal stun
The soul, and knowledge drown within their deep,
There is no world that wanders, no not one
Of all the millions, that He does not keep.
THE PROSELYTE RECANTS
(_In Japan_)
Where the fair golden idols
Sit in darkness and in silence
While the temple drum beats solemnly and slow;
Where the tall cryptomerias
Sway in worship round about
And the rain that is falling whispers low;
I can hear strange voices
Of the dead and forgotten,
On the dimly rising incense I can see
The lives I have lived,
And my lives unbegotten,
_Namu Amida Butsu_ pity me!
I was born this karma
Of a mother in Chuzenji,
Where Nantai-zan looks down into the lake;
Where the white-thronged pilgrims
Climb to altars in the clouds
And behold the holy eastern dawn awake.
It was there I wandered
Till a priest of the Christians
With the crucifix he wore compelled my gaze.
In grief I had grown,
So upon its grief I pondered.
_Namu Amida Butsu_, keep my days!
It was wrong, he told me,
To pray Jiso for my children,
And Binzuru for healing of my ills.
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THE DOCTOR'S DILEMMA
By Bernard Shaw
1906
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE: The edition from which this play was taken was
printed with no contractions, thus "we've" is written as "weve",
"hadn't" as "hadnt", etc. There is no trailing period after Mr, Dr,
etc., and "show" is spelt "shew", "Shakespeare" is Shakespear.
I am grateful to Hesba Stretton, the authoress of "Jessica's First
Prayer," for permission to use the title of one of her stories for this
play.
ACT I
On the 15th June 1903, in the early forenoon, a medical student, surname
Redpenny, Christian name unknown and of no importance, sits at work in
a doctor's consulting-room. He devils for the doctor by answering his
letters, acting as his domestic laboratory assistant, and making himself
indispensable generally, in return for unspecified advantages involved
by intimate intercourse with a leader of his profession, and amounting
to an informal apprenticeship and a temporary affiliation. Redpenny is
not proud, and will do anything he is asked without reservation of his
personal dignity if he is asked in a fellow-creaturely way. He is a
wide-open-eyed, ready, credulous, friendly, hasty youth, with his hair
and clothes in reluctant transition from the untidy boy to the tidy
doctor.
Redpenny is interrupted by the entrance of an old serving-woman who
has never known the cares, the preoccupations, the responsibilities,
jealousies, and anxieties of personal beauty. She has the complexion
of a never-washed gypsy, incurable by any detergent; and she has, not a
regular beard and moustaches, which could at least be trimmed and waxed
into a masculine presentableness, but a whole crop of small beards and
moustaches, mostly springing from moles all over her face. She carries
a duster and toddles about meddlesomely, spying out dust so diligently
that whilst she is flicking off one speck she is already looking
elsewhere for another. In conversation she has the same trick, hardly
ever looking at the person she is addressing except when she is excited.
She has only one manner, and that is the manner of an old family nurse
to a child just after it has learnt to walk. She has used her ugliness
to secure indulgences unattainable by Cleopatra or Fair Rosamund,
and has the further great advantage over them that age increases her
qualification instead of impairing it. Being an industrious, agreeable,
and popular old soul, she is a walking sermon on the vanity of feminine
prettiness. Just as Redpenny has no discovered Christian name, she has
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Life and Death
_And Other Legends and Stories_
THE WORKS OF HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ
TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL POLISH BY JEREMIAH CURTIN.
_The Zagloba Romances_
WITH FIRE AND SWORD. 1 vol.
THE DELUGE. 2 vols.
PAN MICHAEL. 1 vol.
QUO VADIS. 1 vol.
THE KNIGHTS OF THE CROSS. 2 vols.
CHILDREN OF THE SOIL. 1 vol.
HANIA, AND OTHER STORIES. 1 vol.
SIELANKA, AND OTHER STORIES. 1 vol.
IN VAIN. 1 vol.
LIFE AND DEATH AND OTHER LEGENDS AND STORIES. 1 vol.
WITHOUT DOGMA. (Translated by Iza Young.) 1 vol.
[Illustration: HOUSE PRESENTED TO HENRYK SIENKIEWICZ BY THE POLES
Mr. Sienkiewicz and Mr. Curtin in the foreground]
Life and Death
_And Other Legends and Stories_
By Henryk Sienkiewicz
Author of "With Fire and Sword," "The Deluge,"
"Pan Michael," "Quo Vadis," "Knights
of the Cross," etc.
_Translated from the Original Polish by_
Jeremiah Curtin
Boston
Little, Brown, and Company
1904
_Copyright, 1897, 1899, 1900, 1904_,
BY JEREMIAH CURTIN.
_All rights reserved_
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS
CAMBRIDGE, U. S. A.
PREFACE
_"Is He the Dearest One?" was produced under the following circumstances:
About fourteen years ago there was a famine, or at least hunger, in
Silesia. Though that land is a German possession at present, it was once a
part of the Polish Commonwealth, and there are many un-Germanized Poles in
it yet._
_The mother in this sketch is Poland. Yasko, the most unfortunate of her
sons, is Silesia. Poor, ill-fated, he neglects his own language, forgets
his mother; but she does not forget him, as was shown on the occasion of
that hunger in Silesia. The Poles of Russian Poland collected one million
marks and sent them to Yasko._
_The ship "Purple" represents Poland and its career, and is a very brief
summary of the essence and meaning of Polish history. Like some of the
author's most beautiful short productions, it was written for a benevolent
object, all the money obtained for it being devoted to that object._
_All persons who have read "Charcoal Sketches," in Sienkiewicz's "Hania,"
will be interested to learn the origin of that striking production. It was
written mainly and finished in Los Angeles, Cal., as Sienkiewicz told me
in Switzerland six years ago, but it was begun at Anaheim Landing, as is
described in the sketch printed in this volume, "The Cranes." Besides
being begun at Anaheim Landing, the whole plan of "Charcoal Sketches" was
worked out there. "The Cranes" appeared in Lvov, or Lemburg, a few years
ago, in a paper which was published for one day only, and was made up of
contributions from Polish authors who gave these contributions for a
benevolent purpose. The Hindu legend, "Life and Death," to be read by
Sienkiewicz at Warsaw in January, is his latest work._
_JEREMIAH CURTIN._
_Torbole, Lago di Garda, Austria,
December 18, 1903._
CONTENTS
_Page_
LIFE AND DEATH: A HINDU LEGEND 3
IS HE THE DEAREST ONE? 21
A LEGEND OF THE SEA 29
THE CRANES 41
THE JUDGMENT OF PETER AND PAUL ON OLYMPUS 55
LIFE AND DEATH _A HINDU LEGEND_
LIFE AND DEATH _A HINDU LEGEND_
I
LIFE AND DEATH
There were two regions lying side by side, as it were two immense plains,
with a clear river flowing between them.
At one point the banks of this river sloped gently to a shallow ford in
the shape of a pond with transparent, calm water.
Beneath the azure surface of this ford could be seen its golden bed, from
which grew stems of lotus; on those stems bloomed white and rose-
flowers above the mirror of water. Rainbow-hued insects and butterflies
circled around the flowers and among the palms of the shore, while higher
up in the sunny air birds gave out sounds like those of silver bells. This
pond was the passage from one region to the other.
The first region was called the Plain of Life, the second the Plain of
Death.
The supreme and all mighty Brahma had created both plains, and had
commanded the good Vishnu to rule in the Region of Life, while the wise
Siva was lord in the Region of Death.
"Do what ye understand to be best," said Brahma to the two rulers.
Hence in the region belonging to Vishnu life moved with all its activity.
The sun rose and set; day followed night, and night followed day; the sea
rose and fell; in the sky appeared clouds big with rain; the earth was
soon covered with forests, and crowded with beasts, birds, and people.
So that all living creatures might increase greatly and multiply, the
kindly god created Love, which he made to be Happiness also.
After this Brahma summoned Vishnu and said to him:
"Thou canst produce nothing better on earth, and since heaven is created
already by me, do thou rest and let those whom thou callest people weave
the thread of life for themselves unassisted."
Vishnu obeyed this command, and henceforward men ordered their own lives.
From their good thoughts came joy, from their evil ones, sorrow; and they
saw soon with wonder that life was not an unbroken rejoicing, but that
with the life thread which Brahma had mentioned they wove out two webs as
it were with two faces,--on one of these was a smile; there were tears in
the eyes of the other.
They went then to the throne of Vishnu and made complaint to him:
"O Lord! life is grievous through sorrow."
"Let Love give you happiness," said Vishnu in answer.
At these words they went away quieted, for Love indeed scattered their
sorrows, which, in view of the happiness given, seemed so insignificant as
to be undeserving of notice.
But Love is also the mighty mother of life, hence, though the region which
Vishnu ruled was enormous, it was soon insufficient for the myriads of
people; soon there was not fruit enough upon trees there, nor berries
enough upon bushes, nor honey enough from cliff bees.
Thereupon all the men who were wisest fell to cutting down forests for the
clearing of land, for the sowing of seed, for the winning of harvests.
Thus Labor appeared among people. Soon all had to turn to it, and labor
became not merely the basis of life, but life itself very nearly.
But from Labor came Toil, and Toil produced Weariness.
Great throngs of people appeared before Vishnu a second time.
"O Lord!" exclaimed they, stretching their hands to him, "toil has
weakened our bodies, weariness spreads through our bones, we are yearning
for rest, but Life drives us always to labor."
To this Vishnu answered:
"The great and all mighty Brahma has not allowed me to shape Life any
further, but I am free to make that which will cause it to halt, and rest
will come then to you."
And Vishnu made Sleep.
Men received this new gift with rejoicing, and very soon saw in it one of
the greatest boons given by the deity thus far. In sleep vanished care and
vexation, during sleep strength returned to the weary; sleep, like a
cherishing mother, wiped away tears of sorrow and surrounded the heads of
the slumbering with oblivion.
So people glorified sleep, and repeated:
"Be blessed, for thou art far better than life in our waking hours."
And they had one regret only, that it did not continue forever. After
sleep came awakening, and after awakening came labor with fresh toil and
weariness.
This thought began soon to torture all men so sorely, that for the third
time they stood before Vishnu.
"O Lord," said they, "thou hast given us a boon which, though great and
unspeakably precious, is incomplete as it now appears. Wilt thou grant us
that sleep be eternal?"
Vishnu wrinkled his brows then in anger at this their insistence, and
answered:
"I cannot give what ye ask of me, but go to the neighboring ford, and
beyond ye will find that for which ye are seeking."
The people heard the god's voice and went on in legions immediately. They
went to the ford, and, halting there, gazed at the shore lying opposite.
Beyond the clear, calm, and flower-bedecked surface stretched the Plain of
Death, or the Kingdom of Siva.
The sun never rose and never set in that region; there was no day and no
night there, but the whole plain was of a lily-, absolute
clearness. No shadow fell in that region, for clearness inhered there so
thoroughly that it seemed the real essence of Siva's dominions.
The region was not empty. As far as the eye could reach were seen heights
and valleys where beautiful trees stood in groups; on those trees rose
climbing plants, while ivy and grapevines were hanging from the cliff
sides.
But the cliffs and the tree trunks and the slender plant stems were almost
transparent, as if formed out of light grown material. The leaves of the
ivy had in them a delicate roseate light as of dawn. And all was in
marvellous rest, such as none on the Plain of Life had experienced; all
was as if sunk in serene meditation, as if dreaming and resting in
continuous slumber, unthreatened by waking.
In the clear air not the slightest breeze was discovered, not a flower was
seen moving, not a leaf showed a quiver.
The people who had come to the shore with loud conversation and clamor
grew silent at sight of those lily-, motionless spaces, and
whispered:
"What quiet! How everything rests there in clearness!"
"Oh, yes, there is rest and unbroken repose in that region."
So some, namely, those who were weariest, said after a silence:
"Let us find the sleep which is surely unbroken."
And they entered the water. The rainbow-hued surface opened straightway
before them, as if wishing to lighten the passage. Those who remained on
the shore began now to call after them, but no man turned his head, and
all hurried forward with willingness and lightly, attracted more and more
by the charm of that wonderful region.
The throng which gazed from the shore of Life at them noted this also:
that as they moved forward their bodies grew gradually less heavy,
becoming transparent and purer, more radiant, and as it were blending with
that absolute clearness which filled the whole Plain of Death, Siva's
kingdom.
And when they had passed and disposed themselves amid flowers and at trees
or the bases of cliffs, to repose there, their eyes were closed, but their
faces had on them not only an expression of ineffable peace, but also of
happiness such as Love itself on the Plain of Life had never given.
Seeing this, those who had halted behind said one to another:
"The region belonging to Siva is sweeter and better."
And they began to pass to that shore in increasing numbers. There went in
solemn procession old men, and men in ripe years, and husbands and wives,
and mothers who led little children, and maidens, and youths, and then
thousands and millions of people pushed on toward that Calm Passage, till
at last the Plain of Life was depopulated almost entirely.
Then Vishnu, whose task it was to keep life from extinction, was
frightened because of the advice which he had given in his anger, and not
knowing what to do else hastened quickly to Brahma.
"Save Life, O Creator!" said he. "Behold, thou hast made the inheritance
of Death now so beautiful, so serene, and so blissful that all men are
leaving my kingdom."
"Have none remained with thee there?" inquired Brahma.
"Only one youth and one maiden, who are in love beyond measure; they
renounce endless bliss rather than close their eyes and gaze on each other
no longer."
"What dost thou wish, then?"
"Make the region of Death less delightful, less happy; if not, even those
two when their springtime of love shall be ended will leave me and follow
the others."
Brahma thought for a moment and answered:
"No! Oh no! I will not decrease beauty and happiness in the region of
Death, but I will do something for Life in its own realm. Henceforward
people will not pass to the other shore willingly, they must be forced to
it."
When he had said this he made a thick veil out of darkness which no one
could see through, and next he created two terrible beings, one of these
he named Fear and the other one Pain. He commanded them then to hang that
black veil at the Passage.
Thereafter Vishnu's kingdom was as crowded with life as it had been, for
though the region of Death was as calm, as serene, and as blissful as
ever, people dreaded the Passage.
[Illustration: SMALL CHAPEL ON THE SIENKIEWICZ ESTATE]
IS HE THE DEAREST ONE?
II
IS HE THE DEAREST ONE?
In the distance a dark strip of pine wood was visible. In front of the
wood was a meadow, and amid fields of grain stood a cottage covered with a
straw roof and with moss. Birch trees hung their tresses above it. On a
fir tree stood a stork on its nest, and in a cherry garden were dark
beehives.
Through an open gate a wanderer walked into the yard and said to the
mistress of the cottage, who was standing on its threshold:
"Peace to this quiet house, to those trees, to the grain, to the whole
place, and to thee, mother!"
The woman greeted him kindly, and added:
"I will bring bread and milk to thee, wayfarer; but sit down the while and
rest, for it is clear that thou art coming back from a long journey."
"I have wandered like that stork, and like a swallow; I come from afar, I
bring news from thy children."
Her whole soul rushed to the eyes of that mother, and she asked the
wayfarer straightway:
"Dost thou know of my Yasko?"
"Dost thou love that son most that thou askest first about him? Well, one
son of thine is in forests, he works with his axe, he spreads his net in
lakes; another herds horses in the steppe, he sings plaintive songs and
looks at the stars; the third son climbs mountains, passes over naked
rocks and high pastures, spends the night with sheep and shouts at the
eagles. All bend down before thy knees and send thee greeting."
"But Yasko?" asked the mother with an anxious face.
"I keep sad news for the last. Life is going ill with Yasko: the field
does not give its fruit to him, poverty and hunger torment the man, his
days and months pass in suffering. Amid strangers and misery he has even
forgotten thy language; forget him, since he has no thought for thee."
When he had finished, the woman took the man's hand, led him to her pantry
in the cottage, and, seizing a loaf from the shelf, she said:
"Give this bread, O wayfarer, to Yasko!"
Then she untied a small kerchief, took a bright silver coin from it, and
with trembling voice added:
"I am not rich, but this too is for Yasko."
"Woman!" said the wayfarer now with astonishment, "thou hast many sons,
but thou sendest gifts to only one of them. Dost thou love him more than
the others? Is he the dearest one?"
She raised her great sad eyes, filled with tears, and answered:
"My blessing is for them all, but my gifts are to Yasko, for I am a
mother, and he is my poorest son."
A LEGEND OF THE SEA
III
A LEGEND OF THE SEA
There was a ship named "The Purple," so strong and so great that she
feared neither winds nor waves, even when they were raging most terribly.
"The Purple" swept on, with every sail set, she rose upon each swelling
wave and crushed with her conquering prow hidden rocks on which other
ships foundered. She moved ever forward with sails which were gleaming in
sunlight, and moved with such swiftness that foam roared at her sides and
stretched out behind in a broad, endless road-streak.
"That is a glorious craft," cried out crews on all other ships; "a man
might think that she sails just to punish the ocean."
From time to time they called out to the crew of "The Purple":
"Hei, men, to what port are ye sailing?"
"To that port to which wind blows," said the men on "The Purple."
"Have a care, there are rocks ahead! There are whirlpools!"
In reply to this warning came back a song as loud as the wind was:
"Let us sail on, let us sail ever joyously."
Men on "The Purple" were gladsome. The crew, confiding in the strength of
their ship and the size of it, jeered at all perils. On other ships stern
discipline ruled, but on "The Purple" each man did what seemed good to
him.
Life on that ship was one ceaseless holiday. The storms which she had
passed, the rocks which she had crushed, increased the crew's confidence.
"There are no reefs, there are no winds to wreck this ship," roared the
sailors. "Let a hurricane shiver the ocean, 'The Purple' will always sail
forward."
And "The Purple" sailed; she was proud, she was splendid.
Whole years passed--she was to all seeming invincible, she helped other
ships and took in on her deck drowning passengers.
Blind faith increased every day in the breasts of the crew on "The
Purple." They grew slothful in good fortune and forgot their own art, they
forgot how to navigate. "Our 'Purple' will sail herself," said they. "Why
toil, why watch the ship, why pull at rudder, masts, sails, and ropes? Why
live by hard work and the sweat of our brows, when our ship is divine,
indestructible? Let us sail on, let us sail joyously."
And they sailed for a very long period. At last, after years, the crew
became utterly effeminate, they forgot every duty, and no man of them
knew that that ship was decaying. Bitter water had weakened the spars, the
strong rigging had loosened, waves without number had shattered the
gunwales, dry rot was at work in the mainmast, the sails had grown weak
through exposure.
The voice of sound sense was heard now despite every madness:
"Be careful!" cried some of the sailors.
"Never mind! We will sail with the current," cried out the majority. But
once such a storm came that to that hour its like had not been on the
water. The wind whirled ocean and clouds into one hellish chaos. Pillars
of water rose up and flew then with roars at "The Purple"; they were
raging and bellowing dreadfully. They fell on the ship, they drove her
down to the bottom, they hurled her up to the clouds, then cast her down
again. The weak rigging snapped, and now a quick cry of despair was heard
on the deck of that vessel.
"'The Purple' is sinking!"
"The Purple" was really sinking, while the crew, unaccustomed to work and
to navigate, knew not how to save her.
But when the first moment of terror had passed, rage boiled up in their
hearts, for those mariners still loved that ship of theirs.
All sprang up speedily, some rushed to fire cannon-balls at the winds and
foaming water, others seized what each man could find near him and flogged
that sea which was drowning "The Purple."
Great was that fight of despair against the elements. But the waves had
more strength than the mariners. The guns filled with water and then they
were silent. Gigantic whirls seized struggling sailors and swept them out
into watery chaos.
The crew decreased every minute, but they struggled on yet. Covered with
water, half-blinded, concealed by a mountain of foam, they fought till
they dropped in the battle.
Strength left them, but after brief rest they sprang again to the
struggle.
At last their hands fell. They felt that death was approaching. Dull
despair seized them. Those sailors looked at one another as if demented.
Now those same voices which had warned previously of danger were raised
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NINA BALATKA
by
ANTHONY TROLLOPE
INTRODUCTION
Anthony Trollope was an established novelist of great renown when _Nina
Balatka_ was published in 1866, twenty years after his first novel.
Except for _La Vendee_, his third novel, set in France during the
Revolution, all his previous works were set in England or Ireland and
dealt with the upper levels of society: the nobility and the landed
gentry (wealthy or impoverished), and a few well-to-do merchants--people
several strata above the social levels of the characters popularized by
his contemporary Dickens. Most of Trollope's early novels were set in
the countryside or in provincial towns, with occasional forays into
London. The first of his political novels, _Can You Forgive Her_, dealing
with the Pallisers was published in 1864, two years before _Nina_. By the
time he began writing _Nina_, shortly after a tour of Europe, Trollope
was a master at chronicling the habits, foibles, customs, and ways of
life of his chosen subjects.
_Nina Balatka_ is, on the surface, a love story--not an unusual theme for
Trollope. Romance and courtship were woven throughout all his previous
works, often with two, three, or even more pairs of lovers per novel.
Most of his heroes and heroines, after facing numerous hurdles, often
of their own making, were eventually happily united by the next-to-last
chapter. A few were doomed to disappointment (Johnny Eames never won
the heart of Lily Dale through two of the "Barsetshire" novels), but
marital bliss--or at least the prospect of bliss--was the usual outcome.
Even so, the reader of Trollope soon notices his analytical description
of Victorian courtship and marriage. In the circles of Trollope's
characters, only the wealthy could afford to marry for love; those
without wealth had to marry for money, sometimes with disastrous
consequences. By the time of _Nina_, Trollope's best exploration of
this subject was the marriage between Plantagenet Palliser and Lady
Glencora M'Cluskie, the former a cold fish and the latter a hot-blooded
heiress in love with a penniless scoundrel (_Can You Forgive Her?_
1865). Yet to come was the disastrous marriage of intelligent Lady
Laura Standish to the wealthy but old-maidish Robert Kennedy in _Phineas
Finn_ and its sequel.
But _Nina Balatka_ is different from Trollope's previous novels in four
respects. First, Trollope was accustomed to include in his novels his
own witty editorial comments about various subjects, often paragraphs
or even several pages long. No such comments are found in _Nina_.
Second, the story is set in Prague instead of the British isles. Third,
the hero and heroine are already in love and engaged to one another
at the opening; we are not told any details about their falling in
love. The hero, Anton Trendellsohn is a successful businessman in his
mid-thirties--not the typical Trollopian hero in his early twenties, still
finding himself, and besotted with love. Anton is rather cold as lovers
go, seldom whispering words of endearment to Nina. But it is the fourth
difference which really sets this novel apart and makes it both a
masterpiece and an enigma. That fourth--and most important--difference
is clearly stated in the remarkable opening sentence of the novel:
Nina Balatka was a maiden of Prague, born of Christian parents,
and herself a Christian--but she loved a Jew; and this is her
story.
Marriage--even worse, love--between a Christian and a Jew would have
been unacceptable to Victorian British readers. Blatant anti-semitism
was prevalent--perhaps ubiquitous--among the upper classes.
Let us consider the origins of this anti-semitism. Jews were first
allowed into England by William the Conqueror. For a while they
prospered, largely through money-lending, an occupation to which
they were restricted. In the 13th century a series of increasingly
oppressive laws and taxes reduced the Jewish community to poverty, and
the Jews were expelled from England in 1290. They were not allowed to
return until 1656, when Oliver Cromwell authorized their entry over
the objections of British merchants. Legal protection for the Jews
increased gradually; even the "Act for the More Effectual Suppressing
of Blasphemy and Profaneness" (1698) recognized the practice of Judaism
as legal, but there were probably only a few hundred Jews in the entire
country. The British Jewish community grew gradually, and efforts to
emancipate the Jews were included in various "Reform Acts" in the first
half of the 19th century, although many failed to become law. Gradually
Jews were admitted to the bar and other professions. Full citizenship
and rights, including the right to sit in Parliament, were granted in
1858--only seven years before Trollope began writing _Nina Balatka_. By
this time wealthy Jewish families were growing in number. This upward
mobility and increasing economic and political power no doubt made the
British upper classes envious and resentful, fuelling anti-semitism.
Trollope chose to have _Nina_ published anonymously in _Blackwood's
Magazine_ for reasons which he described in his autobiography:
From the commencement of my success as a writer... I had
always felt an injustice in literary affairs which had never
afflicted me or even suggested itself to me while I was
unsuccessful. It seemed to me that a name once earned carried
with it too much favour... The injustice which struck me did
not consist in that which was withheld from me, but in that which
was given to me. I felt that aspirants coming up below me might
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SONGS OF THE
PRAIRIE
BY
ROBERT J. C. STEAD
Author of "PRAIRIE BORN."
New York
THE PLATT & PECK CO.
Copyright 1912, By
The Platt & Peck Co.
CONTENTS
PAGE
The Prairie 1
The Gramophone 4
The Plow 8
The Mothering 12
Hustlin' in My Jeans 15
The Homesteader 20
Vain Suitors 24
God's Signalman 26
Going Home 32
Just Be Glad 38
The Canadian Rockies 40
A Prairie Heroine 42
The Seer 51
The Son of Marquis Noddle 56
The Prodigals 62
The Squad of One 64
Alkali Hall 70
Prairie Born 76
"A Colonial" 81
Little Tim Trotter 84
The Vortex 86
The Old Guard 91
Kid McCann 93
Who Owns the Land? 99
A Race for Life 103
THE PRAIRIE
The City? Oh, yes, the City
Is a good enough place for a while,
It fawns on the clever and witty,
And welcomes the rich with a smile;
It lavishes money as water,
It boasts of its palace and hall,
But the City is only the daughter--
The Prairie is mother of all!
The City is all artificial,
Its life is a fashion-made fraud,
Its wisdom, though learned and judicial,
Is far from the wisdom of God;
Its hope is the hope of ambition,
Its lust is the lust to acquire,
And the larger it grows, its condition
Sinks lower in pestilent mire.
The City is cramped and congested,
The haunt and the covert of crime;
The Prairie is broad, unmolested,
It points to the high and sublime;
Where only the sky is above you
And only the distance in view,
With no one to jostle or shove you--
It's there a man learns to be true!
Where the breeze whispers over the willows
Or sighs in the dew laden grass,
And the rain clouds, like big, stormy billows,
Besprinkle the land as they pass;
With the smudge-fire alight in the distance,
The wild duck alert on the stream,
Where life is a psalm of existence
And opulence only a dream.
Where wide as the plan of creation
The Prairies stretch ever away,
And beckon a broad invitation
To fly to their bosom, and stay;
The prairie fire smell in the gloaming--
The water-wet wind in the spring--
An empire untrod for the roaming--
Ah, this is a life for a king!
When peaceful and pure as a river
They lie in the light of the moon,
You know that the Infinite Giver
Is stringing your spirit a-tune;
That life is not told in the telling,
That death does not whisper adieu,
And deep in your bosom up-welling,
You know that the Promise is true!
To those who have seen it and smelt it,
To those who have loved it alone
To those who have known it and felt it--
The Prairie is ever their own;
And far though they wander, unwary,
Far, far from the breath of the plain,
A thought of the wind on the Prairie
Will set their blood rushing again.
Then you to the City who want it,
Go, grovel its gain-glutted streets,
Be one of the ciphers that haunt it,
Or sit in its opulent seats;
But for me, where the Prairies are reaching
As far as the vision can scan--
Ah, that is the prayer and the preaching
That goes to the heart of a man!
THE GRAMOPHONE
Where the lonely settler's shanty dots the plain,
And he sighs for friends and comradeship in vain,
Through the silences intense
Comes a sound of eloquence
Shrilling forth in steely, brazen, waxen strain--
The deep, resonant voice of Gladstone calling from the tomb,
Or Ingersoll's deliverance before his brother's bier;
Then a saucy someone singing, "When the daisies are in bloom,"
And the fife and drummers rendering "The British Grenadier."
Back as far into the hills as they could get,
They've a roof that turns the winter and the wet,
They are grizzled but they're gay,
They've a daily matinee,
They are happy though they're head and ears in debt--
"I wish I had my old girl back again,"
"If the wind had only blown the other way,"
Uncertain voices join an old refrain
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Produced by Jen Haines, Suzanne Shell and the Online
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by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber's Note:
This is an ASCII version of the text file. There is also a version
of this file available with all diacritics left in. In this file the
following replacements have been made:
['a] replaces a with acute accent
['e] replaces e with acute accent
[''a] relaces a umlaut
[''o] replaces o umlaut
[''u] replaces u umlaut
[`a] replaces a with grave accent
[`e] replaces e with grave accent
[^a] replaces a with circumflex accent
[^e] replaces e with circumflex accent
[^o] replaces o with circumflex accent
[ae] is the ae ligature
[oe] is the oe ligature
29[deg] replaces 29 followed by the degree symbol
THE GULLY OF BLUEMANSDYKE,
AND OTHER STORIES.
A small Edition of this Book was published
in 1889, under the Title of "Mysteries and
Adventures."
THE GULLY OF
BLUEMANSDYKE,
AND OTHER STORIES.
By A. CONAN DOYLE,
_Author of "Micah Clarke," "The White Company,"
"The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes," &c._
LONDON:
WALTER SCOTT, LTD., 24 WARWICK LANE,
PATERNOSTER ROW
CONTENTS.
PAGE
THE GULLY OF BLUEMANSDYKE 7
THE PARSON OF JACKMAN'S GULCH 50
MY FRIEND THE MURDERER 79
THE SILVER HATCHET 114
THE MAN FROM ARCHANGEL 144
THAT LITTLE SQUARE BOX 188
A NIGHT AMONG THE NIHILISTS 226
_THE GULLY OF BLUEMANSDYKE._
A TRUE COLONIAL STORY.
Broadhurst's store was closed, but the little back room looked very
comfortable that night. The fire cast a ruddy glow on ceiling and walls,
reflecting itself cheerily on the polished flasks and shot-guns which
adorned them. Yet a gloom rested on the two men who sat at either side
of the hearth, which neither the fire nor the black bottle upon the
table could alleviate.
"Twelve o'clock," said old Tom, the storeman glancing up at the wooden
timepiece which had come out with him in '42. "It's a queer thing,
George, they haven't come."
"It's a dirty night," said his companion, reaching out his arm for a
plug of tobacco. "The Wawirra's in flood, maybe; or maybe their horses
is broke down; or they've put it off, perhaps. Great Lord, how it
thunders! Pass us over a coal, Tom."
He spoke in a tone which was meant to appear easy, but with a painful
thrill in it which was not lost upon his mate. He glanced uneasily at
him from under his grizzled eyebrows.
"You think it's all right, George?" he said, after a pause.
"Think what's all right?"
"Why, that the lads are safe."
"Safe! Of course they're safe. What the devil is to harm them?"
"Oh, nothing; nothing, to be sure," said old Tom. "You see, George,
since the old woman died, Maurice has been all to me; and it makes me
kinder anxious. It's a week since they started from the mine, and you'd
ha' thought they'd be here now. But it's nothing unusual, I s'pose;
nothing at all. Just my darned folly."
"What's to harm them?" repeated George Hutton again, arguing to convince
himself rather than his comrade. "It's a straight road from the diggin's
to Rathurst, and then through the hills past Bluemansdyke, and over the
Wawirra by the ford, and so down to Trafalgar by the bush track.
There's nothin' deadly in all that, is there? My son Allan's as dear to
me as Maurice can be to you, mate," he continued; "but they know the
ford well, and there's no other bad place. They'll be here to-morrow
night, certain."
"Please God they may!" said Broadhurst; and the two men lapsed into
silence for some time, moodily staring into the glow of the fire, and
pulling at their short clays.
It was indeed, as Hutton had said, a dirty night. The wind was howling
down through the gorges of the western mountains, and whirling and
eddying among the streets of Trafalgar; whistling through the chinks in
the rough wood cabins, and tearing away the frail shingles which formed
the roofs. The streets were deserted, save for one or two stragglers
from the drinking shanties, who wrapped their cloaks around them and
staggered home through the wind and rain towards their own cabins.
The silence was broken by Broadhurst, who was evidently still ill at
ease.
"Say, George," he said, "what's become of Josiah Mapleton?"
"Went to the diggin's."
"Ay; but he sent word he was coming back."
"But he never came."
"An' what's become of Jos Humphrey?" he resumed, after a pause.
"He went diggin', too."
"Well, did he come back?"
"Drop it, Broadhurst; drop it, I say," said Hutton, springing to his
feet and pacing up and down the narrow room. "You're trying to make a
coward of me! You know the men must have gone up country prospectin' or
farmin', maybe. What is it to us where they went? You don't think I have
a register of every man in the colony, as Inspector Burton has of the
lags."
"Sit down, George, and listen," said old Tom. "There's something queer
about that road; something I don't understand, and don't like. Maybe you
remember how Maloney, the one-eyed scoundrel, made his money in the
early mining days. He'd a half-way drinking shanty on the main road up
on a kind of bluff, where the Lena comes down from the hills. You've
heard, George, how they found a sort of wooden slide from his little
back room down to the river; an' how it came out that man after man had
had his drink doctored, and been shot down that into eternity, like a
bale of goods. No one will ever know how many were done away with there.
_They_ were all supposed to be farmin' and prospectin', and the like,
till their bodies were picked out of the rapids. It's no use mincing
matters, George; we'll have the troopers along to the diggin's if those
lads don't turn up by to-morrow night."
"As you like, Tom," said Hutton.
"By the way, talking of Maloney--it's a strange thing," said Broadhurst,
"that Jack Haldane swears he saw a man as like Maloney with ten years
added to him as could be. It was in the bush on Monday morning. Chance,
I suppose; but you'd hardly think there could be two pair of shoulders
in the world carrying such villainous mugs on the top of them."
"Jack Haldane's a fool," growled Hutton, throwing open the door and
peering anxiously out into the darkness, while the wind played with his
long grizzled beard, and sent a train of glowing sparks from his pipe
down the street.
"A terrible night!" he said, as he turned back towards the fire.
Yes, a wild, tempestuous night; a night for birds of darkness and for
beasts of prey. A strange night for seven men to lie out in the gully at
Bluemansdyke, with revolvers in their hands, and the devil in their
hearts.
* * * * *
The sun was rising after the storm. A thick, heavy steam reeked up from
the saturated ground, and hung like a pall over the flourishing little
town of Trafalgar. A bluish mist lay in wreaths over the wide track of
bushland around, out of which the western mountains loomed like great
islands in a sea of vapour.
Something was wrong in the town. The most casual glance would have
detected that. There was a shouting and a hurrying of feet. Doors were
slammed and rude windows thrown open. A trooper of police came
clattering down with his carbine unslung. It was past the time for Joe
Buchan's saw-mill to commence work, but the great wheel was motionless,
for the hands had not appeared.
There was a surging, pushing crowd in the main street before old Tom
Broadhurst's house, and a mighty clattering of tongues. "What was it?"
demanded the new-comers, panting and breathless. "Broadhurst has shot
his mate." "He has cut his own throat." "He has struck gold in the clay
floor of his kitchen." "No; it was his son Maurice who had come home
rich." "Who had not come back at all." "Whose horse had come back
without him." At last the truth had come out; and there was the old
sorrel horse in question whinnying and rubbing his neck against the
familiar door of the stable, as if entreating entrance; while two
haggard, grey-haired men held him by either bridle, and gazed blankly at
his reeking sides.
" | 201.875168 |
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Produced by a Project Gutenberg volunteer from digital
material generously made available by the Internet Archive
ACROSS THE EQUATOR.
[Frontispiece: TEMPLE, PARAMBANAN.]
ACROSS THE
EQUATOR.
A HOLIDAY
TRIP IN JAVA.
BY
THOS. H. REID.
KELLY & WALSH, LIMITED,
SINGAPORE--SHANGHAI--HONGKONG--YOKOHAMA.
1908.
[all rights reserved.]
PREFACE.
It was at the end of the month of September, 1907, that the writer
visited Java with the object of spending a brief vacation there.
The outcome was a series of articles in the "Straits Times," and after
they appeared so many applications were made for reprints that we were
encouraged to issue the articles in handy form for the information of
those who intend to visit the neighbouring Dutch Colony. There was no
pretension to write an exhaustive guide-book to the Island, but the
original articles were revised and amplified, and the chapters have
been arranged to enable the visitor to follow a given route through the
Island, from west to east, within the compass of a fortnight or three
weeks.
For liberty to reproduce some of the larger pictures, we are indebted
to Mr. George P. Lewis (of O. Kurkdjian), Sourabaya, whose photographs
of Tosari and the volcanic region of Eastern Java form one of the
finest and most artistic collections we have seen of landscape work.
SINGAPORE, _July, 1908_.
CONTENTS.
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF BATAVIA 1
THE BRITISH IN JAVA 15
BOTANIST'S PARADISE AT BUITENZORG 23
ON THE ROAD TO SINDANGLAYA 33
SINDANGLAYA AND BEYOND 42
HINDU RUINS IN CENTRAL JAVA 49
THE TEMPLES OF PARAMBANAN 58
PEOPLE AND INDUSTRIES OF CENTRAL JAVA 65
THE HEALTH RESORT OF EAST JAVA 73
SUNRISE AT THE PENANDJAAN PASS 77
HOTELS AND TRAVELLING FACILITIES 87
First Impressions of Batavia.
When consideration is given to the fact that Java is only two days'
steaming from Singapore, that it is more beautiful in some respects than
Japan, that it contains marvellous archaeological remains over 1,100
years old, and that its hill resorts form ideal resting places for the
jaded European, it is strange that few of the British residents
throughout the Far East, or travellers East and West, have visited the
Dutch Colony.
The average Britisher, weaving the web of empire, passes like a shuttle
in the loom from London to Yokohama, from Hongkong to Marseilles. He
thinks imperially in that he thinks no other nation has Colonies worth
seeing. British port succeeds British port on the hackneyed line of
travel, and he may be excused if he forgets that these convenient
calling places, these links of Empire, can have possible rivals under
foreign flags.
There is no excuse for the prevailing ignorance of the Netherland
Indies. We do not wish it to be inferred that we imagine we have
discovered Java, as Dickens is said to have discovered Italy, but we
believe we are justified in saying that few have realised the
possibilities of Java as a health resort and the attractions it has to
offer for a holiday.
Miss Marianne North, celebrated as painter and authoress and the rival
of Miss Mary Kingsley and Mrs. Bishop (Isabella Bird) as a traveller in
unfrequented quarters of the globe, has described the island as one
magnificent garden, surpassing Brazil, Jamaica and other countries
visited by her, and possessing the grandest of volcanoes; and other
famous travellers have written in terms of the highest praise of its
natural beauties.
Its accessibility is one of its recommendations to the holiday maker.
The voyage across the Equator from Singapore is a smooth one, for the
most part through narrow straits and seldom out of sight of islands clad
with verdure down to the water's edge.
Excellent accommodation is provided by the Rival Dutch Mail steamers
running between Europe and Java and the Royal Packet Company's local
steamers, and the Government of the Netherland Indies co-operates with a
recently-formed Association for the encouragement of tourist traffic on
the lines of the Welcome Society in Japan. This Association has a
bureau, temporarily established in the Hotel des Indes in Batavia, to
provide information and travelling facilities for tourists, not only
throughout Java, but amongst the various islands that are being brought
under the sway of civilised government by the Dutch Colonial forces.
As our steamer pounded her way out of Singapore Harbour in the early
morning, islands appeared to spring out of the sea, and seascape after
seascape followed in rapid succession, suggesting the old-fashioned
panoramic pictures of childhood's acquaintance. One's idea of scenery,
after all, is more or less a matter of comparison. One passenger
compares the scene with the Kyles of Bute; another with the Inland Sea
of Japan, at the other end of the world. Yet, this tropical waterway is
unlike either, and has a characteristic individuality of its own, none
the less charming because of the comparisons it suggests and the
associations it recalls.
We spent a good deal of our time on the bridge with the Captain, who was
courteous enough to point out all the leading points on his chart.
The Sultanate of Rhio lies on the port bow, four hours' sail from
Singapore. Glimpses of Sumatra are obtained on the starboard, and on the
way the steamer passes near to the Island of Banka, reputed to contain
the richest tin deposits in the world. This tin is worked by the
Government of the Netherland Indies, with Chinese contract labour; and
the revenue obtained is an important factor in balancing the Colonial
Budget. It is interesting to note that the Chinese, who have long mined
for gold and tin in the Malay Peninsula and Archipelago, were quite
familiar with the rich nature of Banka's soil two hundred years ago, and
that tin from this island was then a common medium of exchange in China
and throughout the Far East wherever the adventurous Chinese merchant
had penetrated.
The visitor landing at Tandjong Priok, the port of Batavia, after his
experience of other Far Eastern ports, cannot fail to be struck by the
excellence of the arrangements for berthing vessels and for storing
cargo. We British people are so accustomed to the idea that our ports
are the best and our trading arrangements unequalled that we are
astonished when we discover that our shipping and commercial rivals know
how to do some things better than ourselves, and that all wisdom is not
to be found within the confines of England and among the people who are
proud to own it as their place of birth. Our Far Eastern ports owe their
supremacy to geographical position almost entirely. We have realised
that during recent years in Singapore, and in our haste to correct the
mistakes of former officials and residents, the Straits Settlements paid
rather heavily when they expropriated the Tanjong Pagar Company which
owned the wharves, docks and warehouses. Tandjong Priok may not handle
the shipping that Tanjong Pagar does, but if they were called upon to do
so, we have not the least doubt that our Dutch neighbours would rise
readily to the occasion.
There is a Customs examination at Tandjong Priok. In our own case, it
was a mere formality, the new duty on imported cameras not applying to
our well-used kodak, since it was being taken out of the country again.
But we could not help contrasting to the disadvantage of Singapore the
examination of Chinese and other Asiatic passengers. Theoretically, in
Singapore, there is no Customs service. It is a free port, and so,
theoretically, one may land there free of vexatious examinations, such
as one experiences at some Continental ports or on the wharves at San
Francisco. But, as a matter of fact, they who have occasion to walk
along the sea front in Singapore may see Asiatic passengers at any of
the landing places turning out their baggage in sun or rain, while
chentings--the hirelings of the rich Chinese Syndicate which "farms" or
leases the opium and spirit monopolies--examine it for opium or spirits.
There is no proper landing place, absolutely no proper arrangements for
overhauling baggage, with the result that these poor Asiatics are
subjected to examination under conditions that are a disgrace to a place
which arrogates a front place in the seaports of the world.
They do things better at Tandjong Priok.
There is a brief journey by train to Batavia, and there the visitor,
having handed over his baggage to the care of the hotel runners at
Tandjong Priok, ought to take a sado for conveyance to the particular
hotel he has selected. The word sado is a corruption of "dos-a-dos." The
vehicle is drawn by a small pony, and is not comparable with the ricksha
for comfort, though the long distances may make the ricksha an
impossibility in Batavia.
[Illustration: THE TOWN HALL.]
Batavia is favoured in that it has a choice of several good hotels.
Whoever selects the Hotel Nederland or the Hotel des Indes will say that
the other "best Hotels in the Far East" have something yet to learn in
the accommodation of visitors, general cleanliness, and moderation of
prices.
One of the first things one ought to do after arrival is to obtain the
"toelatingskaart," at the Town Hall. Armed with this document, which,
most probably, he will never be called upon to show, the tourist may
travel in the interior. Without it, he may have trouble.
Batavia shares with the French ports of Saigon and Hanoi the honour of
more resembling a European town than any other ports in the Far East.
This, of course, is a matter of opinion, though it is based on
acquaintance with every port of importance from Yokohama to Penang,
including the principal ports of the Philippines, and we were somewhat
surprised, therefore, when expressing this opinion to a Dutch friend,
with his reply:
"When I left Singapore, with its fine buildings I felt I had said
good-bye to Europe!"
A little probing soon showed that it was only the two and three-storeyed
houses that created this impression.
[Illustration: HOTEL DES INDES.]
One has only to stroll along the Noordwijk in the afternoon and evening
to appreciate the difference between Batavia and Singapore. After
sundown, so far as Europeans are concerned, with the exception of the
little life seen under the electric light of Raffles Hotel and the Hotel
de l'Europe, Singapore is a dead place. Hongkong is no better. In
Batavia it is different. Up to the dinner hour, and after, there is a
considerable amount of life and light and animation, and if it be a
stretch of the imagination to compare the Noordwijk or the Rijswijk with
the Boulevard des Capuchins in Paris, or its open air restaurants with
the Cafe de la Paix, it is at least within comparison to say that the
resemblance to a Continental town is sufficiently marked to be welcome,
while one can have as choice a dinner or supper, with superb wines, in
Stamm and Weijns or the Hotel des Indes as in the best restaurants of
London and Paris. Not the least noticeable feature of all to the
observant visitor will be the punctilio and excellence of the waiting of
the Javanese table boys. When one saw the carefulness with which each
dish was served, and the superior nature of the side dishes, one thought
with a shudder of the sloppy vegetables, the dusty marmalade, and the
slipshod waiting of the China boy in some of the hotels it had been our
misfortune to patronise in British Colonies.
In this quarter, the wives and daughters of the Dutch and foreign
merchants drive in comfortable rubber-tyred carriages, having first
driven to the business quarter to bring home the "tuan besar" or head of
the family. Greetings are exchanged with friends by the way, and, while
the young folks stroll off in happy groups, the elders alight to drink
beer or wine at one or other of the famous open-air restaurants. There
is a general air of prosperity and a spirit of gaiety which one does not
usually associate with our Dutch cousins in the depressing humid
atmosphere of Holland. One soon catches the spirit of the place the more
readily if one has spent any time on the Continent.
On band nights the Harmonie or Concordia Clubs, two beautiful and
commodious buildings replete with every comfort, become the rendezvous
of old and young, and dancing is kept up till half-past eight o'clock.
It must be confessed that it made one perspire to see the dancers tread
a measure to a popular waltz, but there could be no question of the
enjoyment of those who participated.
There are two Batavias. There is the old town, founded in 1619 as the
capital of the Dutch East Indies upon the ruins of the ancient city of
Jakatra. This is the portion of the town where the business is done,
with the famous Kali Besar, the Lombard Street and Fenchurch Street of
Batavia.
The quarter is not particularly attractive. But after experience of the
filthy Chinese quarters of Singapore, Hongkong and Shanghai, it is
satisfying to European self-respect to observe how Dutch officialdom has
asserted the claims of hygiene and cleanliness upon the Asiatic
residents. The objectionable hanging Chinese signboards are noticeably
absent in Batavia, as in all other towns throughout Java, and something
has been done to make less clamant the odoriferous articles of Chinese
commerce. The Dutch have proved that the Chinese are amenable to
European notions if only firmness is shown by those in authority.
Then there is the residential town, Weltevreden with its broad
tree-lined avenues and palatial pavilion hotels and private villa
establishments.
In style, the European houses are quite unlike those erected by the
Spaniards in the Philippine Islands, or the British in the Malay
Peninsula. They are not raised to any great height from the ground.
Three or four wide low steps lead on to a capacious white marble
verandah, the lofty roof of which is supported by shapely pillars with
Grecian cornices. Upon the polished surface of the ample hall are strewn
rugs of beautiful design or the fancy straw matting of the East.
Bed-rooms open on either side from this hall, and at the back, opening
out upon a spacious court-yard or garden filled with gaily
flowers or stately palms, is another wide verandah where meals are
served. The bath-rooms, kitchen, stables, store-rooms and servants'
quarters lie beyond the garden. There is everywhere a generous
appreciation of space, and doubtless the good health enjoyed by the
Dutch ladies and their families so markedly in contrast to the British
colonists on the other side of the Equator is largely due to the more
comfortable homes in which they are settled. In Java, the bath-room is a
special feature, and only those who have travelled much in tropical
countries can appraise it at its true value. It is all in keeping with
the thorough cleanliness of the Dutch people, a feature which impressed
itself upon us wherever we travelled throughout the island. Detached
from every house of any pretensions, there is a smaller pavilion. It
usually stands in the grounds in front and nearer the roadway, and in
former times was spoken of as "the guest house." Nowadays, either
because the Hotels are more comfortable than in olden times or because
the railway system has led to a style of life that calls for less
hospitality for travellers, the guest house is more often let to
bachelors, who find it easier and cheaper to maintain a small
establishment of this sort than the bachelor messes or chummeries of
Singapore and Penang.
Weltervreden may be compared with a gigantic park, and there are
residences sufficiently imposing to please the lover of architectural
beauty, even if there is no assertive Clock Tower to emphasise by
contrast the hovels of Singapore's region of slums. The idea of keeping
the various races to their Kampongs may be contrary to British ideas,
but in Java it appears to work satisfactorily enough. It is only in
recent years that certain British colonies have been allowed to set
apart reservations for European residence, and it would be well if the
Government of the Federated Malay States, before it is too late,
introduced the Kampong system in laying out new towns throughout the
Peninsula.
A motor-car ride through the residential quarter and round the suburbs
of Batavia gives one a good idea of the extent of the town, and,
incidentally, of the merging of East and West in the population. Former
Dutch residents have left their impress in more respects than one, and
one result is a half-caste population which takes a much more prominent
part in the affairs of the island than is the case, so far as we are
aware, in any British Colony. There are pretty forms and beautiful faces
among this hybrid race, and we are not astonished that succeeding
generations from the land of <DW18>s and canals should form alliances that
wed them for ever to the sunny soil of Java. East may be East and West
may be West, but here at least the lie is given to Kipling's
generalisation, false like most generalisations, as to the impossibility
of their blending.
The visitor will find the Museums full of objects of interest. On
Koningsplein, young Holland devotes itself to recreation, and evidence
is given here and elsewhere throughout the suburbs of the widespread
popularity of the English game of football. The Dutch do not follow the
British Colonial custom of sending their children to Europe. Many are
educated and kept under the home influence in Java, and a fine healthy
race of boys and girls is being reared to play its part in the new
Netherlands created by Dutch enterprise and perseverance. Great as is
the Java of the present day, there | 201.87518 |
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Produced by Adrian Mastronardi, Eric Skeet, The Philatelic
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(This file was produced from images generously made
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THE ROYAL MAIL
[Illustration: MAIL-COACH ACCIDENT NEAR ELVANFOOT, LANARKSHIRE.]
THE ROYAL MAIL
ITS CURIOSITIES AND ROMANCE
BY
JAMES WILSON HYDE
SUPERINTENDENT IN THE GENERAL POST-OFFICE,
EDINBURGH
THIRD EDITION
LONDON
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL AND CO.
MDCCCLXXXIX.
_All Rights reserved._
NOTE.--It is of melancholy interest that Mr Fawcett's death occurred
within a month from the date on which he accepted the following
Dedication, and before the issue of the Work.
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
HENRY FAWCETT, M. P.
HER MAJESTY'S POSTMASTER-GENERAL,
THE FOLLOWING PAGES ARE, BY PERMISSION,
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED.
PREFACE TO THIRD EDITION.
The second edition of 'The Royal Mail' having been sold out some
eighteen months ago, and being still in demand, the Author has arranged
for the publication of a further edition. Some additional particulars of
an interesting kind have been incorporated in the work; and these,
together with a number of fresh illustrations, should render 'The Royal
Mail' still more attractive than hitherto.
The modern statistics have not been brought down to date; and it will be
understood that these, and other matters (such as the circulation of
letters), which are subject to change, remain in the work as set forth
in the first edition.
EDINBURGH, _February 1889_.
PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION.
The favour with which 'The Royal Mail' has been received by the public,
as evinced by the rapid sale of the first issue, has induced the Author
to arrange for the publication of a second edition. This edition has
been revised and slightly enlarged; the new matter consisting of two
additional illustrations, contributions to the chapters on "Mail
Packets," "How Letters are Lost," and "Singular Coincidences," and a
fresh chapter on the subject of Postmasters.
The Author ventures to hope that the generous appreciation which has
been accorded to the first edition may be extended to the work in its
revised form.
EDINBURGH, _June 1885_.
INTRODUCTION.
Of all institutions of modern times, there is, perhaps, none so
pre-eminently a people's institution as is the Post-office. Not only
does it carry letters and newspapers everywhere, both within and without
the kingdom, but it is the transmitter of messages by telegraph, a vast
banker for the savings of the working classes, an insurer of lives, a
carrier of parcels, and a distributor of various kinds of Government
licences. Its services are claimed exclusively or mainly by no one
class; the rich, the poor, the educated, and the illiterate, and indeed,
the young as well as the old,--all have dealings with the Post-office.
Yet it may seem strange that an institution which is familiar by its
operations to all classes alike, should be so little known by its
internal management and organisation. A few persons, no doubt, have been
privileged to see the interior working of some important Post-office,
but it is the bare truth to say that _the people_ know nothing of what
goes on within the doors of that ubiquitous establishment. When it is
remembered that the metropolitan offices of London, Edinburgh, and
Dublin have to maintain touch with every petty office and | 202.006303 |
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The Sign of the Four
By
Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Contents
Chapter I
The Science of Deduction
Sherlock Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-piece and
his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long,
white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back
his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully
upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with
innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home,
pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined
arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.
Three times a day for many months I had witnessed this performance, but
custom had not reconciled my mind to it. On the contrary, from day to
day I had become more irritable at the sight, and my conscience swelled
nightly within me at the thought that I had lacked the courage to
protest. Again and again I had registered a vow that I should deliver
my soul upon the subject, but there was that in the cool, nonchalant
air of my companion which made him the last man with whom one would
care to take anything approaching to a liberty. His great powers, his
masterly manner, and the experience which I had had of his many
extraordinary qualities, all made me diffident and backward in crossing
him.
Yet upon that afternoon, whether it was the Beaune which I had taken
with my lunch, or the additional exasperation produced by the extreme
deliberation of his manner, I suddenly felt that I could hold out no
longer.
"Which is it to-day?" I asked,--"morphine or cocaine?"
He raised his eyes languidly from the old black-letter volume which he
had opened. "It is cocaine," he said,--"a seven-per-cent. solution.
Would you care to try it?"
"No, indeed," I answered, brusquely. "My constitution has not got over
the Afghan campaign yet. I cannot afford to throw any extra strain
upon it."
He smiled at my vehemence. "Perhaps you are right, Watson," he said.
"I suppose that its influence is physically a bad one. I find it,
however, so transcendently stimulating and clarifying to the mind that
its secondary action is a matter of small moment."
"But consider!" I said, earnestly. "Count the cost! Your brain may,
as you say, be roused and excited, but it is a pathological and morbid
process, which involves increased tissue-change and may at last leave a
permanent weakness. You know, too, what a black reaction comes upon
you. Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for
a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which
you have been endowed? Remember that I speak not only as one comrade to
another, but as a medical man to one for whose constitution he is to
some extent answerable."
He did not seem offended. On the contrary, he put his finger-tips
together and leaned his elbows on the arms of his chair, like one who
has a relish for conversation.
"My mind," he said, "rebels at stagnation. Give me problems, give me
work, give me the most abstruse cryptogram or the most intricate
analysis, and I am in my own proper atmosphere. I can dispense then
with artificial stimulants. But I abhor the dull routine of existence.
I crave for mental exaltation. That is why I have chosen my own
particular profession,--or rather created it, for I am the only one in
the world."
"The only unofficial detective?" I said, raising my eyebrows.
"The only unofficial consulting detective," he answered. "I am the
last and highest court of appeal in detection. When Gregson or
Lestrade or Athelney Jones are out of their depths--which, by the way,
is their normal state--the matter is laid before me. I examine the
data, as an expert, and pronounce a specialist's opinion. I claim no
credit in such cases. My name figures in no newspaper. The work
itself, the pleasure of finding a field for my peculiar powers, is my
highest reward. But you have yourself had some experience of my
methods of work in the Jefferson Hope case."
"Yes, indeed," said I, cordially. "I was never so struck by anything
in my life. I even embodied it in a small brochure with the somewhat
fantastic title of 'A Study in Scarlet.'"
He shook his head sadly. "I glanced over it," said he. "Honestly, I
cannot congratulate you upon it. Detection is, or ought to be, an
exact science, and should be treated in the same cold and unemotional
manner. You have attempted to tinge it with romanticism, which
produces much the same effect as if you worked a love-story or an
elopement into the fifth proposition of Euclid."
"But the romance was there," I remonstrated. "I could not tamper with
the facts."
"Some facts should be suppressed, or at least a just sense of
proportion should be observed in treating them. The only point in the
case which deserved mention was the curious analytical reasoning from
effects to causes by which I succeeded in unraveling it."
I was annoyed at this criticism of a work which had been specially
designed to please him. I confess, too, that I was irritated by the
egotism which seemed to demand that every line of my pamphlet should be
devoted to his own special doings. More than once during the years
that I had lived with him | 202.111355 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
* * * * *
+------------------------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has |
| been preserved. |
| |
| The cross symbol meaning 'died' is represented with a + |
| in this etext. For example: Cormac, king and bishop (+905) |
| |
| Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For a |
| complete list, please see the end of this document. |
| |
+------------------------------------------------------------+
* * * * *
HOME UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
OF MODERN KNOWLEDGE
No. 6
_Editors_:
HERBERT FISHER, M.A., F.B.A.
PROF. GILBERT MURRAY, LITT.D., LL.D., F.B.A.
PROF. J. ARTHUR THOMSON, M.A.
PROF. WILLIAM T. BREWSTER, M.A.
THE HOME UNIVERSITY LIBRARY OF MODERN KNOWLEDGE
_VOLUMES NOW READY_
HISTORY OF WAR AND PEACE G.H. PERRIS
POLAR EXPLORATION DR. W.S. BRUCE, LL.D., F.R.S.E.
THE FRENCH REVOLUTION HILAIRE BELLOC, M.P.
THE STOCK EXCHANGE: A SHORT STUDY OF INVESTMENT AND SPECULATION
F.W. HIRST
IRISH NATIONALITY ALICE STOPFORD GREEN
THE SOCIAL MOVEMENT J. RAMSAY MACDONALD, M.P.
PARLIAMENT: ITS HISTORY, CONSTITUTION, AND PRACTICE
SIR COURTNAY ILBERT, K.C.B., K.C.S.I.
MODERN GEOGRAPHY MARION I. NEWBIGIN, D.S.C. (Lond.)
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE JOHN MASEFIELD
THE EVOLUTION OF PLANTS D.H. SCOTT, M.A., LL.D., F.R.S.
_VOLUMES READY IN JULY_
THE OPENING-UP OF AFRICA
SIR H.H. JOHNSTON, G.C.M.G., K.C.B., D.SC., F.Z.S.
MEDIAEVAL EUROPE H.W.C. DAVIS, M.A.
MOHAMMEDANISM D.S. MARGOLIOUTH, M.A., D.LITT.
THE SCIENCE OF WEALTH J.A. HOBSON, M.A.
HEALTH AND DISEASE W. LESLIE MACKENZIE, M.D.
INTRODUCTION TO MATHEMATICS A.N. WHITEHEAD, SC.D., F.R.S.
THE ANIMAL WORLD F.W. GAMBLE, D.SC., F.R.S.
EVOLUTION J. ARTHUR THOMSON, M.A., and
PATRICK GEDDES, M.A.
LIBERALISM L.T. HOBHOUSE, M.A.
CRIME AND INSANITY DR. C.A. MERCIER, F.R.C.P., F.R.C.S.
*** Other volumes in active preparation
IRISH
NATIONALITY
BY
ALICE STOPFORD GREEN
AUTHOR OF "TOWN LIFE IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY"
"HENRY II," "THE MAKING OF IRELAND," ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
LONDON
WILLIAMS AND NORGATE
COPYRIGHT, 1911,
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I THE GAELS IN IRELAND 7
II IRELAND AND EUROPE 29
III THE IRISH MISSION 40
IV SCANDINAVIANS IN IRELAND 57
V THE FIRST IRISH REVIVAL 77
VI THE NORMAN INVASION 96
VII THE SECOND IRISH REVIVAL 111
VIII THE TAKING OF THE LAND 125
IX THE NATIONAL FAITH OF THE IRISH 141
X RULE OF THE ENGLISH PARLIAMENT 158
XI THE RISE OF A NEW IRELAND 182
XII AN IRISH PARLIAMENT 198
XIII IRELAND UNDER THE UNION 219
SOME IRISH WRITERS ON IRISH HISTORY 255
IN MEMORY
OF
THE IRISH DEAD
IRISH NATIONALITY
CHAPTER I
THE GAELS IN IRELAND
Ireland lies the last outpost of Europe against the vast flood of the
Atlantic Ocean; unlike all other islands it is circled round with
mountains, whose precipitous cliffs rising sheer above the water stand
as bulwarks thrown up against the immeasurable sea.
It is commonly supposed that the fortunes of the island and its
civilisation must by nature hang on those of England. Neither history
nor geography allows this theory. The life of the two countries was
widely separated. Great Britain lay turned to the east; her harbours
opened to the sunrising, and her first traffic | 202.134513 |
2023-11-16 18:20:26.2532180 | 7,435 | 13 |
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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.)
Military Order
OF THE
Loyal Legion of the United States
COMMANDERY OF THE
STATE OF MISSOURI
The Battle of Spring Hill, Tennessee.
PREPARED BY
Companion Captain John K. Shellenberger
READ AFTER THE
STATED MEETING
HELD FEBRUARY
2d, 1907
PREFACE.
More than twenty-five years have passed since I began to collect the
materials from which this pamphlet has been evolved. As a substantial
basis, to begin with, I was an eye-witness of all the fighting in the
vicinity of Spring Hill, that amounted to anything, from the time
Forrest attacked the 64th Ohio on the skirmish line until Cleburne's
Division recoiled from the fire of the battery posted at the village.
Since I began collecting I have neglected no opportunity to increase my
stock of information by conversation, reading or correspondence. I have
twice revisited the battlefield. I have the Government volume containing
the official reports, all of which I have carefully studied. Among my
correspondents, on the Union side, have been Generals Stanley, Wilson,
Opdycke, Lane and Bradley, besides many others of lesser rank. I am as
confident, from their letters, that my paper would have the approval of
those named, who are now dead, as I am sure it has the approval of
General Wilson, to whom a manuscript copy was submitted for criticism.
Among other Confederates, I wrote to General S.D. Lee, who referred me
to Judge J.P. Young, of Memphis Tennessee, with the statement that he
had exhausted the subject on the Confederate side. He was present at
Spring Hill as a boy soldier in Forrest's cavalry, and for years has
been engaged in writing a history of the Confederate Army of Tennessee,
to which he has given an enormous amount of careful research. To him I
am indebted for much of the most valuable part of my information
concerning the Confederate troops. From the materials thus gathered I
have tried to give, within the compass of a Loyal Legion paper, a clear
and truthful account of the affair just as it happened. That opinions
will differ, is shown by the fact that Judge Young holds General Brown
responsible for the Confederate failure, while I believe that Cheatham,
Stewart and Bate were all greater sinners than Brown. He was acting
under the eye of Cheatham, who could easily have forced an attack by
Brown's Division if he had been equal to the occasion.
By a curious coincidence General Lee was present as the guest of the
Missouri Commandery at the meeting when the paper was read, and, in
commenting on it, General Lee stated that I had told the truth about as
it had occurred. The deductions made from the facts stated are my own.
THE BATTLE OF SPRING HILL.
It may be fairly claimed that the success of General Sherman's famous
March to the Sea hung on the issue of a minor battle fought at Spring
Hill, in Middle Tennessee, the evening of November 29th, 1864, when
Sherman and his army were hundreds of miles away in the heart of
Georgia. It will be remembered that when Sherman started from Atlanta
for Savannah his old antagonist, General Hood, was at Florence, Alabama,
refitting his army to the limit of the waning resources of the
Confederacy, for an aggressive campaign into Tennessee. If Hood's
campaign had proved successful Sherman's unopposed march through Georgia
would have been derided as a crazy freak, and, no doubt, the old charge
of insanity would have been revived against him. By how narrow a margin
Hood missed a brilliant success, a truthful account of the Spring Hill
affair will disclose. Much has been written by interested generals of
both sides, and by their partisan friends, to mislead as to the real
situation. With no personal friendships or enmities to subserve, it is
the intention of this paper to tell the truth without any regard to its
effect on the reputation of any general, Federal or Confederate.
The Administration gave a reluctant consent to Sherman's plan on the
condition that he would leave with General Thomas, commanding in
Tennessee, a force strong enough to defeat Hood. On paper Thomas had
plenty of men, but Sherman had taken his pick of infantry, cavalry,
artillery and transportation, leaving the odds and ends with Thomas,
consisting largely of post troops garrisoning towns; bridge guards in
block-houses along the railroads; new regiments recruited by the payment
of the big bounties that produced the infamous tribe of bounty jumpers;
<DW64> regiments never yet tested in battle; green drafted men assigned
to some of the old, depleted regiments in such large numbers as to
change their veteran character; dismounted cavalrymen sent back to get
horses, and convalescents and furloughed men belonging to the army with
Sherman who had come up too late to join their commands, organized into
temporary companies and regiments.
Moreover, Thomas' forces were scattered from East Tennessee to Central
Missouri, where General A.J. Smith, with two divisions of the
Sixteenth corps, was marching for St. Louis to take steamboats to join
Thomas at Nashville. The only force available for immediate field
service consisted of the Fourth and the Twenty-third corps, the two
weakest corps of Sherman's army, which he had sent back to Thomas. These
two corps, temporarily commanded by General Schofield, were thrown well
forward towards Florence to delay Hood long enough for Thomas to
concentrate and organize from his widely scattered resources a force
strong enough to give battle to Hood.
Passing over all prior operations we will take up the situation as it
was the morning of November 29th. General Schofield had then well in
hand on the north bank of Duck River, opposite Columbia, Tennessee, the
divisions of Kimball, Wagner and Wood, composing the Fourth corps, and
of Cox and Ruger, of the Twenty-third corps, Ruger's lacking one brigade
on detached service. Across the river were two divisions of General S.
D. Lee's corps of Hood's Army. The preceding evening Hood, himself, with
the corps of Cheatham and Stewart, and Johnson's division of Lee's
corps, had moved up the river five and one-half miles to Davis' ford,
where he was laying his pontoons preparatory to crossing. His plan was
to detain Schofield at the river by feinting with two divisions while he
would lead seven divisions past the left flank and plant them across
Schofield's line of retreat at Spring Hill, twelve miles north of Duck
River. As Hood greatly outnumbered Schofield, his plan contemplated the
destruction of Schofield's army.
During the evening of the 28th General Wilson, commanding our cavalry,
had learned enough of Hood's movement to divine its purpose. In view of
its vital importance, to insure a delivery, he sent a message in
triplicate, each courier riding by a separate road, informing Schofield
of what Hood was doing, and advising and urging him to get back to
Spring Hill with all his army by 10 o'clock, the 29th. General Wilson
has stated that his couriers all got through, the one riding by the
shortest road reaching Schofield's headquarters at 3 a.m. of the 29th.
From the reports sent him by Wilson, General Thomas at Nashville had
also correctly divined Hood's intention, and in a dispatch dated at
3:30 a.m., of the 29th--but by the neglect of the night operator not
transmitted until 6 o'clock, when the day operator came on duty--he
ordered Schofield to fall back to Franklin, leaving a sufficient force
at Spring Hill to delay Hood until he was securely posted at Franklin.
I was commanding Company B, 64th Ohio Regiment, Bradley's brigade,
Wagner's division. The brigade was under arms that morning by 4 o'clock,
and had orders to be ready to march on a moment's notice. It is assumed
that all the rest of the army received the same orders, and that this
action was taken on account of the information brought by Wilson's
courier at 3 o'clock. But nothing was done until 8 o'clock, when the
movements began which disposed of our army as follows:
Wagner's division was sent to Spring Hill to guard the reserve artillery
and the wagon trains, all ordered to Spring Hill, from any raid by
Hood's cavalry. General Stanley, the corps commander, went with Wagner.
Cox's division was posted along the river, and was engaged all day in
skirmishing with the two divisions under Lee, which kept up a noisy
demonstration of forcing a crossing. Ruger's two brigades were posted
four miles north of Duck river, where the pike to Spring Hill crosses
Rutherford's creek, to hold that crossing. The divisions of Kimball and
Wood were aligned between Cox and Ruger, facing up the river towards
Hood's crossing. At 9 o'clock Post's brigade, of Wood's division, was
sent up the river to reconnoiter, and before 11 o'clock Post had reached
a position where he could see Hood's column marching towards Spring
Hill, and repeatedly reported that fact.
Nevertheless none of the four divisions near Duck river were started for
Spring Hill until after 4 o'clock, when Schofield had heard from Stanley
that Hood was attacking at Spring Hill.
After the campaign Schofield claimed that its success was due to his
intimate knowledge of Hood's character, gained while they were
classmates at West Point, which enabled him to foresee what Hood would
do under any given conditions, and then make the best dispositions for
defeating him. When, two months later, Schofield was in Washington,
where they knew nothing about the details of the campaign, he so
successfully impressed his claim on the Administration that he was given
the same promotion with which General Sheridan had been rewarded for the
victory at Winchester, jumping at one bound from the rank of captain to
that of brigadier-general in the regular army. But it is plain that
after five hours' of deliberation that morning Schofield had reached a
wrong conclusion as to Hood's intention, for if "Actions speak louder
than words," there can be no question that Schofield's dispositions were
made under the conviction that Hood would march down the river, after
crossing, to clear the way for Lee to cross. And so deeply infatuated
was he with this self-imposed delusion that, disregarding the order of
Thomas and the advice of Wilson, he cherished it for about five hours
after Post had reported that Hood was marching towards Spring Hill.
Wagner's advance, double-quicking through Spring Hill at noon, and
deploying just beyond on a run, interposed barely in time to head off
the advance of Hood's cavalry, Wagner arriving by the Columbia pike from
the southwest and the cavalry by the Mount Carmel road from the east.
General Forrest, commanding Hood's cavalry, had used his superior
numbers so skillfully as to push back Wilson with our cavalry just north
of Mount Carmel, which is five miles east of Spring Hill, before noon.
Leaving one brigade to watch Wilson, Forrest then crossed over to Spring
Hill with all the rest of his three divisions of cavalry. If Wagner had
arrived a few minutes later he would have found Forrest in possession at
Spring Hill.
General Cox, in his book on this campaign, claims that General Wilson
committed a grave error in not crossing over to Spring Hill, in advance
of Forrest, with all our cavalry. But in justice to Wilson it must be
remembered that at Mount Carmel he acted under the belief that Schofield
was following the advice he had given early that morning. If Schofield
had been at Spring Hill at 10 o'clock, as Wilson had advised, with all
his infantry, what reason could there have been for the cavalry joining
him there?
When Bradley's brigade, the rear of Wagner's column, was nearing Spring
Hill some of the cavalry approached the pike through the fields to
reconnoiter, and the 64th Ohio was sent to drive them away. With the
right wing deployed as skirmishers and the left wing in reserve, the
regiment advanced steadily, driving before it the cavalry, without
replying to the harmless long-range fire they kept up with their
carbines, but always galloping away before we could get within effective
range. About a mile east of the pike we crossed the Rally Hill road.
This was the road by which Hood's infantry column approached. It there
runs north nearly parallel with the pike to a point 500 yards east of
Spring Hill, where it turns west to enter the village. Leaving one of
the reserve companies to watch the road, the rest of the regiment kept
on in pursuit of the cavalry until our skirmishers were abreast of the
Caldwell house, about 800 yards east of the road, when a halt was
called. A few minutes later, at 2:30 o'clock, the left of our skirmish
line, north of the Caldwell house, was attacked by a line of battle in
front while the cavalry worked around our left flank. At the time we
believed the battle line to be a part of Hood's infantry, and in a
letter from General Bradley he states that it caused great consternation
at headquarters in Spring Hill when Major Coulter, of the 64th, came
galloping back with the information that the regiment was fighting with
infantry. But investigation has disclosed that the battle line was
composed of mounted infantry belonging to Forrest's command. They were
armed with Enfield rifles, and always fought on foot like ordinary
infantry, using their horses for traveling rapidly from place to place.
The four reserve companies were thrown in on a run at the point of
contact, but our line was soon forced to fall back by the cavalry
turning our left flank, where they cut off and captured three of our
skirmishers. One of the three was badly wounded that evening in trying
to escape, a bullet entering from behind and passing through his mouth
in a way to knock out nearly one-half of all his teeth. We found him in
a hospital at Spring Hill when passing through in pursuit of Hood's army
after the victory at Nashville. In relating his experience he stated
that when they were captured they were taken before some general, name
unknown to him, who questioned them closely as to what force was holding
Spring Hill. The general was probably Forrest, for he was personally
directing the attack on the 64th, but may have been Hood himself, for he
was on the Rally Hill road, less than a mile away, soon after the men
were captured. They all declared that they knew the Fourth corps was at
Spring Hill, and they believed all the rest of the army. Their
declaration must have carried greater weight on account of their own
faith in what they were telling, for at that time the whole regiment
believed that all the rest of the army had followed to Spring Hill close
on the heels of Wagner's division.
Eventually the 64th was driven back across the Rally Hill road, where a
last stand was made in a large woods covering a broad ridge abutting on
the road about three-fourths of a mile southeast of Spring Hill. While
in these woods, occurred a bit of exciting personal experience. A
bullet, coming from the right, passed through my overcoat, buttoned up
to my chin, in a way to take along the top button of my blouse
underneath the coat. That big brass button struck me a stinging blow on
the point of the left collar-bone, and, clasping both hands to the spot,
I commenced feeling for the hole with my finger tips, fully convinced
that a bullet coming from the front had gone through me there and had
inflicted a serious and possibly a mortal wound. It was not until I had
opened the coat for a closer investigation that I found I was worse
scared than hurt. Some of the enemy had secured a position on our right
flank, where they opened an enfilading fire, and it was one of their
bullets that had hit me. To get out of that fire the regiment fell back
towards the interior of the woods, where it was so close to our main
line that it was called in.
It was then about 3:30 o'clock, and by that time the situation of our
army had become so critical that nothing short of the grossest
blundering on the part of the enemy could save it from a great disaster,
and there was a fine possibility for destroying it.
Wagner's division had so much property to protect that it was stretched
out on a line extending from the railway station, nearly a mile
northwest of Spring Hill, where two trains of cars were standing on the
track, around by the north, east and south, to the Columbia pike on the
southwest. Behind this long line the village streets and the adjacent
fields were crammed with nearly everything on wheels belonging to our
army--ambulances, artillery carriages and army wagons to the number of
about 800 vehicles. The nearest support was Ruger's two brigades, eight
miles away, and it was about an hour later before Ruger had started for
Spring Hill. Opdycke's brigade was covering the railway station and the
Franklin pike on the north, and Lane's brigade the Mount Carmel road on
the east. They had a connected line, but it was so long that much of it
consisted of skirmishers only. They had in their front detachments of
Forrest's cavalry feeling along their line for an opening to get at the
trains. Bradley's brigade occupied an advanced, detached position, on
the ridge to the southeast that has been mentioned, to cover the
approach by the Rally Hill road. There was a gap of half a mile between
Lane's right in front of Spring Hill and Bradley's left, out on the
ridge. Bradley had in his immediate front the main body of Forrest's
three divisions of cavalry and the three divisions of infantry composing
Cheatham's corps, while four more divisions of infantry were within easy
supporting distance. In brief, ten of the twelve divisions, cavalry
included, composing Hood's army, were in front of Spring Hill, and at 4
o'clock Hood was attacking with his infantry Wagner's lone division,
guarding all our trains, while Schofield was still waiting for Hood at
Duck river with four divisions from eight to twelve miles away. If
Wagner's division had been wiped out, a very easy possibility for the
overwhelming numbers confronting it while stretched out on a line about
three miles long, without any breastworks, the rich prize of our
ambulance train, six batteries of artillery, and all our wagons with
their loads of supplies would have fallen into Hood's hands, and the
retreat of the four divisions would have been squarely cut off, while
having a short supply of artillery and no food or ammunition except what
the men were carrying in their haversacks and cartridge boxes. The
escape of our army from this deadly peril was largely due to the great
skill with which General Stanley handled the situation at Spring Hill,
but manifestly no amount of skill on the part of Stanley could have
saved us, where the disadvantages were so great, if the enemy had
improved with a very ordinary degree of vigor and intelligence the
opportunity opened to them by Schofield's delusion as to Hood's
intention. General Hood rode with the advance of his column until after
it had crossed Rutherford's creek, two and one-half miles south of
Spring Hill. It was then about 3 o'clock. There was no bridge, and his
men had to wade the creek, which caused some delay. A short distance
north of the crossing Hood met Forrest, and got his report of the
situation at Spring Hill as he had developed it during the three hours
preceding. He had met with resistance on so long a line that no doubt he
greatly overestimated the force holding Spring Hill, and such an
estimate would agree with the story told by the captured 64th men.
On the other hand, a courier had arrived with a report from Lee that
Schofield's main body was still in his front at Duck river, and Lee's
report was confirmed by the sounds of the heavy cannonading that had
been coming from his direction. These reports disclosed that a part of
Schofield's army was at Spring Hill and a part at Duck river, but they
conflicted as to which position was held by his main body. In the
uncertainty thus arising Hood decided, as his dispositions clearly show,
that his first move must be to plant Cheatham's corps on the pike
between those two parts. Developments would then determine his next
move. Cleburne's division was the first to cross the creek, and marching
up the road until his advance was close to the woods where Forrest's men
were fighting with the 64th Ohio, Cleburne halted and formed his battle
line along the road facing west towards the Columbia pike. If the
intention had been to make a direct attack, his line would have formed
facing north towards our line in the woods, where its position had been
developed by Forrest. The intention unquestionably was for Cleburne,
avoiding any encounter with our line in the woods, first to cross over
to the pike and then change direction and advance on Spring Hill astride
the pike, while Bate's division, following Cleburne's, received orders
as reported by Bate, to cross to the pike and then sweep down the pike
towards Columbia. Hood himself gave the orders to Cleburne and Bate, and
then established his headquarters at the Thompson farm house, near by,
about 500 yards west of the Rally Hill road, and nearly two miles south
of Spring Hill, where he remained till next morning. To save time
Cleburne started for the pike as soon as he was ready, and Bate, then
forming on Cleburne's left, followed as soon as his formation was
completed.
While Cleburne and Bate were moving out, General Cheatham was at the
crossing hurrying over Brown's division. When Brown got over he could
support either Cleburne or Bate, as developments might dictate. Uncandid
statements have been made that Cheatham's divisions were moved around in
a disjointed manner and without any plan. There was not only a logical
plan but a successful plan, if it had been carried out, in the orders
given to Cheatham's divisions. The other four divisions were halted
south of Rutherford's creek, and fronted into line facing west towards
the Columbia pike. This proves that it was then Hood's belief that
Schofield's main body was still at Duck river. If it should march up the
pike and attack Bate, the four divisions would be on its flank. If it
should attempt to reach the fortifications at Murfreesboro by cutting
across the country south of Spring Hill the four divisions would be in a
position to intercept it.
General Bradley had four regiments in line in the woods on the ridge,
with the left towards the Rally Hill road and the right trending away
towards the pike. They faced in a southeasterly direction. To cover more
ground there were short gaps between the regiments. The 65th Ohio was
the right regiment of the four, and to the right rear of the 65th was a
gap of a couple hundred yards extending out into cleared land, where the
42d Illinois was posted, refused as to the 65th and facing south to
cover that flank. To the front, right and rear of the 42d was a broad
expanse of rolling fields extending on the right to the pike, about
1,000 yards away, where two guns were posted to sweep the fields in
front of the 42d with their fire. To the left of the 42d an extension of
the woods ran out into the fields and concealed the 42d from Cleburne
until he had advanced almost abreast of its position. When the 64th came
off the skirmish line it was sent to the support of the 42d. The 36th
Illinois, Opdycke's only reserve, was hurried across on double-quick
from the other side of Spring Hill to support the two guns at the pike.
As many guns of the reserve artillery as could be utilized were placed
in battery around the southeasterly skirt of the village, looking
towards Bradley's position. Bradley's men very hastily had constructed
weak barricades of rails or anything else they could lay their hands on.
The 42d had such protection as was afforded by a rail fence.
Shortly before 4 o'clock, having completed his formation, Cleburne
started to march across to the pike. His division consisted of four
brigades, but one was on detached duty, and he had three in
line--Lowrey's on his right, then Govan's, then Granbury's. First
crossing a field in his front, Lowrey entered the extension of the woods
that has been mentioned, and on emerging on the other side his right
came in view within easy range of the 42d, and that regiment opened an
enfilading fire, Lowrey's line being then almost perpendicular to the
line of the 42d. It was this accident of Lowrey's right passing within
range of the 42d that led to the failure of Hood's plan, which, up to
that minute, had been a great success. When the 42d opened fire the two
guns at the pike also opened, their fire crossing that of the 42d, and
the 64th, running forward and intermingling ranks with the 42d, poured
in their fire. When our fire had thus developed our position, out in
those wide fields they could see just what we had. They pulled down the
rims of their old hats over their eyes, bent their heads to the storm of
missiles pouring upon them, changed direction to their right on
double-quick in a manner that excited our admiration, and a little later
a long line came sweeping through the wide gap between the right of the
42d and the pike, and swinging in towards our rear. Our line stood firm,
holding back the enemy in front until the flank movement had progressed
so far as to make it a question of legs to escape capture when the
regimental commanders gave the reluctant order to fall back. The contact
was then so close that as the men on our right were running past the
line closing in on them they were called on with loud oaths, charging
them with a Yankee canine descent, to halt and surrender; and, not
heeding the call, some of them were shot down with the muzzles of the
muskets almost touching their bodies. By the recession of the two
regiments on the flank the rear of the four regiments in the woods
became exposed. They were attacked at the same time by Forrest in front,
and by Cleburne on their right and rear, and were speedily dislodged.
The attack was pressed with so much vigor that in a few minutes after
the 42d had opened fire Bradley's entire brigade was in rapid retreat
towards Spring Hill, with Cleburne in close pursuit, and pouring in a
hot fire. In falling back we had to cross the valley of a small stream,
and I never think of our strenuous exertions to get out of a
destructive cross-fire, while running down the easy <DW72> leading to the
stream, without recalling the story of the officer who called to a
soldier making the best time he could to get out of a hot fire: "Stop,
my man! What are you running for?"
"Because I have no wings to fly with," called back the soldier over his
shoulder while increasing his efforts to make better time.
As we descended into the valley we uncovered our pursuers to the fire of
the battery at the village, which opened with shrapnel shells, firing
over our heads. General Stanley, who was in the battery, reported that
not less than eight guns opened fire. As soon as Cleburne encountered
that fire he hastily drew back over the ridge, out of sight. All pursuit
with its accompanying direct and cross-fire having thus ceased,
Bradley's men stopped running and walked on back to the vicinity of the
battery where a new line was formed without trouble or confusion. When
coming down the <DW72> towards the stream Major Coulter, whose horse had
been killed, was running a few feet in front of me, and I was just
speculating whether my short legs could keep up with his long ones, when
he called back over his shoulder: "Rally at this fence," meaning a rail
fence we were approaching. I had a poor opinion of the fence as a place
to attempt a rally, for we would still be exposed to a cross-fire, but
wishing to obey orders I made for the strongest looking fence corner in
my front, and, jumping over and stopping behind it, looked around to see
if any concerted effort would be made to reform behind the fence. In my
brief halt there I had some opportunity to observe the effect of our
artillery fire on the enemy. I saw by the smoke where a number of our
shells exploded, and they all seemed too high in the air and too far to
the rear, for I could not see any men knocked down by them. No doubt the
fear of killing some of our own men caused our gunners to aim high, and
it is probable that the noise made by so many guns and exploding shells
had more to do with stopping the enemy than the execution that was done.
Their after-actions showed that they believed Bradley's brigade to have
been an outpost; that our main line was where the battery was posted,
and that so much artillery must have a correspondingly strong infantry
support.
General Bradley reported a loss of 198 men in his brigade, nearly all of
it falling on the three regiments on the exposed flank, the other three
regiments falling back with light loss because their position had become
untenable. He was disabled with a wound, and Colonel Conrad, of the
15th Missouri, then assumed command of the brigade. By the casualties in
the 65th Ohio the command of that regiment devolved upon the adjutant,
Brewer Smith, a boy only 19 years old, and possibly the youngest officer
to succeed to the command of a regiment throughout the war.
A regiment of the 23d corps which had come to Spring Hill as a train
guard, and was placed in support of the battery at the village, has
persistently claimed that the salvation of our army was due to the
heroic stand it made after all of Wagner's division had run away. In a
historical sketch of the regiment occurs this statement:
"At Spring Hill the regiment had another opportunity to show its pluck.
A division that had been sent forward in charge of the trains was drawn
up to resist any attack the rebels might make while the regiment, being
with the headquarters train, was ordered to support a battery so placed
as to sweep an open field in front of the troops. The enemy, emerging
from the woods, marched steadily up to the National lines, when the
entire division broke and ran." That is pretty strong language in view
of the battle record of Wagner's division, for of the four brigades out
of all the brigades serving in all the Western armies, given prominent
mention by Colonel Fox in his book on regimental losses as famous
fighting brigades, two, Opdycke's and Bradley's, belonged to Wagner's
division, to say nothing of the very awkward fact that the brigades of
Opdycke and Lane were on the other side of Spring Hill, out of sight of
Cleburne's attack, but it is seriously so stated--"the entire division
broke and ran, leaving the regiment and the battery to resist the
attack. Fixing bayonets the men awaited the onset. As soon as the enemy
came within range they poured a well-directed fire into their ranks
which, being seconded by the battery, caused them to waver. Portions of
the retreating division having rallied, the rebels were compelled to
betake themselves to the woods."
And in a paper on this campaign by a captain of the regiment, he relates
how the officers of the regiment tried to stop the flying troops, and
taunted their officers with the bad example they were setting their men;
how the regiment opened a rapid, withering fire from a little parapet of
cartridges which the officers, breaking open boxes of ammunition, had
built in front of the men, and how their fire proved so destructive at
that close range that it stopped Cheatham's men who then fell back and
commenced building breastworks. In calling them Cheatham's men, did the
captain wish to insinuate that Cheatham's whole corps was charging on
the regiment? He uses the words "withering," "destructive," and "that
close range," in a way to raise the inference that the contact was very
close. The actual distance was shrapnel-shell range, for the battery
stopped Cleburne with those missiles before he had crossed the little
stream more than 1,000 yards away, so that instead of a cool regiment of
exceptional staying qualities delivering a destructive fire at very
close range, as pictured by the captain, the truth discloses a highly
excited, not to say a badly scared regiment, wasting ammunition at too
long range to do any damage. That this was the truth is proved by the
very significant fact, not deemed worthy of mention in either of the
accounts quoted, that the regiment did not lose a single man killed or
wounded; not one, and it was not protected by breastworks. With
impressive mystery the captain describes the regiment as what was left
of it after the way it had been cut up in the Atlantic campaign, with
the same artful vagueness used in the matter | 202.273258 |
2023-11-16 18:20:26.2569670 | 6,051 | 13 |
Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny
SERAPHITA
By Honore De Balzac
Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley
DEDICATION
To Madame Eveline de Hanska, nee Comtesse Rzewuska.
Madame,--Here is the work which you asked of me. I am happy, in
thus dedicating it, to offer you a proof of the respectful
affection you allow me to bear you. If I am reproached for
impotence in this attempt to draw from the depths of mysticism a
book which seeks to give, in the lucid transparency of our
beautiful language, the luminous poesy of the Orient, to you the
blame! Did you not command this struggle (resembling that of
Jacob) by telling me that the most imperfect sketch of this
Figure, dreamed of by you, as it has been by me since childhood,
would still be something to you?
Here, then, it is,--that something. Would that this book could
belong exclusively to noble spirits, preserved like yours from
worldly pettiness by solitude! THEY would know how to give to it
the melodious rhythm that it lacks, which might have made it, in
the hands of a poet, the glorious epic that France still awaits.
But from me they must accept it as one of those sculptured
balustrades, carved by a hand of faith, on which the pilgrims
lean, in the choir of some glorious church, to think upon the end
of man.
I am, madame, with respect,
Your devoted servant,
De Balzac.
SERAPHITA
CHAPTER I. SERAPHITUS
As the eye glances over a map of the coasts of Norway, can the
imagination fail to marvel at their fantastic indentations and serrated
edges, like a granite lace, against which the surges of the North Sea
roar incessantly? Who has not dreamed of the majestic sights to be seen
on those beachless shores, of that multitude of creeks and inlets and
little bays, no two of them alike, yet all trackless abysses? We may
almost fancy that Nature took pleasure in recording by ineffaceable
hieroglyphics the symbol of Norwegian life, bestowing on these coasts
the conformation of a fish's spine, fishery being the staple commerce of
the country, and well-nigh the only means of living of the hardy men who
cling like tufts of lichen to the arid cliffs. Here, through fourteen
degrees of longitude, barely seven hundred thousand souls maintain
existence. Thanks to perils devoid of glory, to year-long snows which
clothe the Norway peaks and guard them from profaning foot of traveller,
these sublime beauties are virgin still; they will be seen to harmonize
with human phenomena, also virgin--at least to poetry--which here took
place, the history of which it is our purpose to relate.
If one of these inlets, mere fissures to the eyes of the eider-ducks, is
wide enough for the sea not to freeze between the prison-walls of
rock against which it surges, the country-people call the little bay
a "fiord,"--a word which geographers of every nation have adopted into
their respective languages. Though a certain resemblance exists
among all these fiords, each has its own characteristics. The sea has
everywhere forced its way as through a breach, yet the rocks about each
fissure are diversely rent, and their tumultuous precipices defy the
rules of geometric law. Here the scarp is dentelled like a saw; there
the narrow ledges barely allow the snow to lodge or the noble crests of
the Northern pines to spread themselves; farther on, some convulsion of
Nature may have rounded a coquettish curve into a lovely valley flanked
in rising terraces with black-plumed pines. Truly we are tempted to call
this land the Switzerland of Ocean.
Midway between Trondhjem and Christiansand lies an inlet called the
Strom-fiord. If the Strom-fiord is not the loveliest of these rocky
landscapes, it has the merit of displaying the terrestrial grandeurs
of Norway, and of enshrining the scenes of a history that is indeed
celestial.
The general outline of the Strom-fiord seems at first sight to be that
of a funnel washed out by the sea. The passage which the waves have
forced present to the eye an image of the eternal struggle between old
Ocean and the granite rock,--two creations of equal power, one through
inertia, the other by ceaseless motion. Reefs of fantastic shape run out
on either side, and bar the way of ships and forbid their entrance. The
intrepid sons of Norway cross these reefs on foot, springing from rock
to rock, undismayed at the abyss--a hundred fathoms deep and only six
feet wide--which yawns beneath them. Here a tottering block of gneiss
falling athwart two rocks gives an uncertain footway; there the
hunters or the fishermen, carrying their loads, have flung the stems of
fir-trees in guise of bridges, to join the projecting reefs, around and
beneath which the surges roar incessantly. This dangerous entrance to
the little bay bears obliquely to the right with a serpentine movement,
and there encounters a mountain rising some twenty-five hundred feet
above sea-level, the base of which is a vertical palisade of solid
rock more than a mile and a half long, the inflexible granite nowhere
yielding to clefts or undulations until it reaches a height of two
hundred feet above the water. Rushing violently in, the sea is driven
back with equal violence by the inert force of the mountain to the
opposite shore, gently curved by the spent force of the retreating
waves.
The fiord is closed at the upper end by a vast gneiss formation crowned
with forests, down which a river plunges in cascades, becomes a torrent
when the snows are melting, spreads into a sheet of waters, and then
falls with a roar into the bay,--vomiting as it does so the hoary pines
and the aged larches washed down from the forests and scarce seen amid
the foam. These trees plunge headlong into the fiord and reappear after
a time on the surface, clinging together and forming islets which float
ashore on the beaches, where the inhabitants of a village on the left
bank of the Strom-fiord gather them up, split, broken (though sometimes
whole), and always stripped of bark and branches. The mountain which
receives at its base the assaults of Ocean, and at its summit the
buffeting of the wild North wind, is called the Falberg. Its crest,
wrapped at all seasons in a mantle of snow and ice, is the sharpest peak
of Norway; its proximity to the pole produces, at the height of eighteen
hundred feet, a degree of cold equal to that of the highest mountains of
the globe. The summit of this rocky mass, rising sheer from the fiord
on one side, <DW72>s gradually downward to the east, where it joins the
declivities of the Sieg and forms a series of terraced valleys, the
chilly temperature of which allows no growth but that of shrubs and
stunted trees.
The upper end of the fiord, where the waters enter it as they come down
from the forest, is called the Siegdahlen,--a word which may be held to
mean "the shedding of the Sieg,"--the river itself receiving that name.
The curving shore opposite to the face of the Falberg is the valley
of Jarvis,--a smiling scene overlooked by hills clothed with firs,
birch-trees, and larches, mingled with a few oaks and beeches, the
richest coloring of all the varied tapestries which Nature in these
northern regions spreads upon the surface of her rugged rocks. The eye
can readily mark the line where the soil, warmed by the rays of the sun,
bears cultivation and shows the native growth of the Norwegian flora.
Here the expanse of the fiord is broad enough to allow the sea, dashed
back by the Falberg, to spend its expiring force in gentle murmurs upon
the lower <DW72> of these hills,--a shore bordered with finest sand,
strewn with mica and sparkling pebbles, porphyry, and marbles of a
thousand tints, brought from Sweden by the river floods, together with
ocean waifs, shells, and flowers of the sea driven in by tempests,
whether of the Pole or Tropics.
At the foot of the hills of Jarvis lies a village of some two hundred
wooden houses, where an isolated population lives like a swarm of bees
in a forest, without increasing or diminishing; vegetating happily,
while wringing their means of living from the breast of a stern Nature.
The almost unknown existence of the little hamlet is readily accounted
for. Few of its inhabitants were bold enough to risk their lives
among the reefs to reach the deep-sea fishing,--the staple industry of
Norwegians on the least dangerous portions of their coast. The fish of
the fiord were numerous enough to suffice, in part at least, for the
sustenance of the inhabitants; the valley pastures provided milk and
butter; a certain amount of fruitful, well-tilled soil yielded rye
and hemp and vegetables, which necessity taught the people to protect
against the severity of the cold and the fleeting but terrible heat of
the sun with the shrewd ability which Norwegians display in the two-fold
struggle. The difficulty of communication with the outer world, either
by land where the roads are impassable, or by sea where none but tiny
boats can thread their way through the maritime defiles that guard the
entrance to the bay, hinder these people from growing rich by the sale
of their timber. It would cost enormous sums to either blast a channel
out to sea or construct a way to the interior. The roads from Christiana
to Trondhjem all turn toward the Strom-fiord, and cross the Sieg by a
bridge some score of miles above its fall into the bay. The country to
the north, between Jarvis and Trondhjem, is covered with impenetrable
forests, while to the south the Falberg is nearly as much separated
from Christiana by inaccessible precipices. The village of Jarvis might
perhaps have communicated with the interior of Norway and Sweden by
the river Sieg; but to do this and to be thus brought into contact with
civilization, the Strom-fiord needed the presence of a man of genius.
Such a man did actually appear there,--a poet, a Swede of great
religious fervor, who died admiring, even reverencing this region as one
of the noblest works of the Creator.
Minds endowed by study with an inward sight, and whose quick perceptions
bring before the soul, as though painted on a canvas, the contrasting
scenery of this universe, will now apprehend the general features of
the Strom-fiord. They alone, perhaps, can thread their way through the
tortuous channels of the reef, or flee with the battling waves to the
everlasting rebuff of the Falberg whose white peaks mingle with the
vaporous clouds of the pearl-gray sky, or watch with delight the curving
sheet of waters, or hear the rushing of the Sieg as it hangs for an
instant in long fillets and then falls over a picturesque abatis of
noble trees toppled confusedly together, sometimes upright, sometimes
half-sunken beneath the rocks. It may be that such minds alone can dwell
upon the smiling scenes nestling among the lower hills of Jarvis; where
the luscious Northern vegetables spring up in families, in myriads,
where the white birches bend, graceful as maidens, where colonnades
of beeches rear their boles mossy with the growth of centuries, where
shades of green contrast, and white clouds float amid the blackness of
the distant pines, and tracts of many-tinted crimson and purple shrubs
are shaded endlessly; in short, where blend all colors, all perfumes of
a flora whose wonders are still ignored. Widen the boundaries of this
limited ampitheatre, spring upward to the clouds, lose yourself among
the rocks where the seals are lying and even then your thought cannot
compass the wealth of beauty nor the poetry of this Norwegian coast.
Can your thought be as vast as the ocean that bounds it? as weird as
the fantastic forms drawn by these forests, these clouds, these shadows,
these changeful lights?
Do you see above the meadows on that lowest <DW72> which undulates around
the higher hills of Jarvis two or three hundred houses roofed with
"noever," a sort of thatch made of birch-bark,--frail houses, long and
low, looking like silk-worms on a mulberry-leaf tossed hither by the
winds? Above these humble, peaceful dwellings stands the church, built
with a simplicity in keeping with the poverty of the villagers. A
graveyard surrounds the chancel, and a little farther on you see
the parsonage. Higher up, on a projection of the mountain is a
dwelling-house, the only one of stone; for which reason the inhabitants
of the village call it "the Swedish Castle." In fact, a wealthy Swede
settled in Jarvis about thirty years before this history begins, and did
his best to ameliorate its condition. This little house, certainly not
a castle, built with the intention of leading the inhabitants to build
others like it, was noticeable for its solidity and for the wall that
inclosed it, a rare thing in Norway where, notwithstanding the abundance
of stone, wood alone is used for all fences, even those of fields.
This Swedish house, thus protected against the climate, stood on rising
ground in the centre of an immense courtyard. The windows were sheltered
by those projecting pent-house roofs supported by squared trunks of
trees which give so patriarchal an air to Northern dwellings. From
beneath them the eye could see the savage nudity of the Falberg, or
compare the infinitude of the open sea with the tiny drop of water in
the foaming fiord; the ear could hear the flowing of the Sieg, whose
white sheet far away looked motionless as it fell into its granite
cup edged for miles around with glaciers,--in short, from this vantage
ground the whole landscape whereon our simple yet superhuman drama was
about to be enacted could be seen and noted.
The winter of 1799-1800 was one of the most severe ever known to
Europeans. The Norwegian sea was frozen in all the fiords, where, as a
usual thing, the violence of the surf kept the ice from forming. A wind,
whose effects were like those of the Spanish levanter, swept the ice of
the Strom-fiord, driving the snow to the upper end of the gulf. Seldom
indeed could the people of Jarvis see the mirror of frozen waters
reflecting the colors of the sky; a wondrous site in the bosom of
these mountains when all other aspects of nature are levelled beneath
successive sheets of snow, and crests and valleys are alike mere
folds of the vast mantle flung by winter across a landscape at once so
mournfully dazzling and so monotonous. The falling volume of the Sieg,
suddenly frozen, formed an immense arcade beneath which the inhabitants
might have crossed under shelter from the blast had any dared to risk
themselves inland. But the dangers of every step away from their own
surroundings kept even the boldest hunters in their homes, afraid lest
the narrow paths along the precipices, the clefts and fissures among the
rocks, might be unrecognizable beneath the snow.
Thus it was that no human creature gave life to the white desert where
Boreas reigned, his voice alone resounding at distant intervals. The
sky, nearly always gray, gave tones of polished steel to the ice of the
fiord. Perchance some ancient eider-duck crossed the expanse, trusting
to the warm down beneath which dream, in other lands, the luxurious
rich, little knowing of the dangers through which their luxury has come
to them. Like the Bedouin of the desert who darts alone across the sands
of Africa, the bird is neither seen nor heard; the torpid atmosphere,
deprived of its electrical conditions, echoes neither the whirr of its
wings nor its joyous notes. Besides, what human eye was strong enough to
bear the glitter of those pinnacles adorned with sparkling crystals, or
the sharp reflections of the snow, iridescent on the summits in the rays
of a pallid sun which infrequently appeared, like a dying man seeking to
make known that he still lives. Often, when the flocks of gray clouds,
driven in squadrons athwart the mountains and among the tree-tops, hid
the sky with their triple veils Earth, lacking the celestial lights, lit
herself by herself.
Here, then, we meet the majesty of Cold, seated eternally at the pole
in that regal silence which is the attribute of all absolute monarchy.
Every extreme principle carries with it an appearance of negation and
the symptoms of death; for is not life the struggle of two forces? Here
in this Northern nature nothing lived. One sole power--the unproductive
power of ice--reigned unchallenged. The roar of the open sea no longer
reached the deaf, dumb inlet, where during one short season of the year
Nature made haste to produce the slender harvests necessary for the food
of the patient people. A few tall pine-trees lifted their black pyramids
garlanded with snow, and the form of their long branches and depending
shoots completed the mourning garments of those solemn heights.
Each household gathered in its chimney-corner, in houses carefully
closed from the outer air, and well supplied with biscuit, melted
butter, dried fish, and other provisions laid in for the seven-months
winter. The very smoke of these dwellings was hardly seen, half-hidden
as they were beneath the snow, against the weight of which they were
protected by long planks reaching from the roof and fastened at some
distance to solid blocks on the ground, forming a covered way around
each building.
During these terrible winter months the women spun and dyed the woollen
stuffs and the linen fabrics with which they clothed their families,
while the men read, or fell into those endless meditations which have
given birth to so many profound theories, to the mystic dreams of the
North, to its beliefs, to its studies (so full and so complete in one
science, at least, sounded as with a plummet), to its manners and its
morals, half-monastic, which force the soul to react and feed upon
itself and make the Norwegian peasant a being apart among the peoples of
Europe.
Such was the condition of the Strom-fiord in the first year of the
nineteenth century and about the middle of the month of May.
On a morning when the sun burst forth upon this landscape, lighting the
fires of the ephemeral diamonds produced by crystallizations of the snow
and ice, two beings crossed the fiord and flew along the base of the
Falberg, rising thence from ledge to ledge toward the summit. What were
they? human creatures, or two arrows? They might have been taken for
eider-ducks sailing in consort before the wind. Not the boldest hunter
nor the most superstitious fisherman would have attributed to human
beings the power to move safely along the slender lines traced beneath
the snow by the granite ledges, where yet this couple glided with the
terrifying dexterity of somnambulists who, forgetting their own weight
and the dangers of the slightest deviation, hurry along a ridge-pole and
keep their equilibrium by the power of some mysterious force.
"Stop me, Seraphitus," said a pale young girl, "and let me breathe. I
look at you, you only, while scaling these walls of the gulf; otherwise,
what would become of me? I am such a feeble creature. Do I tire you?"
"No," said the being on whose arm she leaned. "But let us go on, Minna;
the place where we are is not firm enough to stand on."
Once more the snow creaked sharply beneath the long boards fastened to
their feet, and soon they reached the upper terrace of the first ledge,
clearly defined upon the flank of the precipice. The person whom Minna
had addressed as Seraphitus threw his weight upon his right heel,
arresting the plank--six and a half feet long and narrow as the foot of
a child--which was fastened to his boot by a double thong of leather.
This plank, two inches thick, was covered with reindeer skin, which
bristled against the snow when the foot was raised, and served to stop
the wearer. Seraphitus drew in his left foot, furnished with another
"skee," which was only two feet long, turned swiftly where he stood,
caught his timid companion in his arms, lifted her in spite of the long
boards on her feet, and placed her on a projecting rock from which he
brushed the snow with his pelisse.
"You are safe there, Minna; you can tremble at your ease."
"We are a third of the way up the Ice-Cap," she said, looking at the
peak to which she gave the popular name by which it is known in Norway;
"I can hardly believe it."
Too much out of breath to say more, she smiled at Seraphitus, who,
without answering, laid his hand upon her heart and listened to its
sounding throbs, rapid as those of a frightened bird.
"It often beats as fast when I run," she said.
Seraphitus inclined his head with a gesture that was neither coldness
nor indifference, and yet, despite the grace which made the movement
almost tender, it none the less bespoke a certain negation, which in a
woman would have seemed an exquisite coquetry. Seraphitus clasped the
young girl in his arms. Minna accepted the caress as an answer to her
words, continuing to gaze at him. As he raised his head, and threw back
with impatient gesture the golden masses of his hair to free his brow,
he saw an expression of joy in the eyes of his companion.
"Yes, Minna," he said in a voice whose paternal accents were charming
from the lips of a being who was still adolescent, "Keep your eyes on
me; do not look below you."
"Why not?" she asked.
"You wish to know why? then look!"
Minna glanced quickly at her feet and cried out suddenly like a child
who sees a tiger. The awful sensation of abysses seized her; one glance
sufficed to communicate its contagion. The fiord, eager for food,
bewildered her with its loud voice ringing in her ears, interposing
between herself and life as though to devour her more surely. From the
crown of her head to her feet and along her spine an icy shudder ran;
then suddenly intolerable heat suffused her nerves, beat in her veins
and overpowered her extremities with electric shocks like those of the
torpedo. Too feeble to resist, she felt herself drawn by a mysterious
power to the depths below, wherein she fancied that she saw some monster
belching its venom, a monster whose magnetic eyes were charming her,
whose open jaws appeared to craunch their prey before they seized it.
"I die, my Seraphitus, loving none but thee," she said, making a
mechanical movement to fling herself into the abyss.
Seraphitus breathed softly on her forehead and eyes. Suddenly, like
a traveller relaxed after a bath, Minna forgot these keen emotions,
already dissipated by that caressing breath which penetrated her body
and filled it with balsamic essences as quickly as the breath itself had
crossed the air.
"Who art thou?" she said, with a feeling of gentle terror. "Ah, but I
know! thou art my life. How canst thou look into that gulf and not die?"
she added presently.
Seraphitus left her clinging to the granite rock and placed himself at
the edge of the narrow platform on which they stood, whence his eyes
plunged to the depths of the fiord, defying its dazzling invitation. His
body did not tremble, his brow was white and calm as that of a marble
statue,--an abyss facing an abyss.
"Seraphitus! dost thou not love me? come back!" she cried. "Thy danger
renews my terror. Who art thou to have such superhuman power at thy
age?" she asked as she felt his arms inclosing her once more.
"But, Minna," answered Seraphitus, "you look fearlessly at greater
spaces far than that."
Then with raised finger, this strange being pointed upward to the blue
dome, which parting clouds left clear above their heads, where
stars could be seen in open day by virtue of atmospheric laws as yet
unstudied.
"But what a difference!" she answered smiling.
"You are right," he said; "we are born to stretch upward to the
skies. Our native land, like the face of a mother, cannot terrify her
children."
His voice vibrated through the being of his companion, who made no
reply.
"Come! let us go on," he said.
The pair darted forward along the narrow paths traced back and forth
upon the mountain, skimming from terrace to terrace, from line to line,
with the rapidity of a barb, that bird of the desert. Presently they
reached an open space, carpeted with turf and moss and flowers, where no
foot had ever trod.
"Oh, the pretty saeter!" cried Minna, giving to the upland meadow its
Norwegian name. "But how comes it here, at such a height?"
"Vegetation ceases here, it is true," said Seraphitus. "These few plants
and flowers are due to that sheltering rock which protects the meadow
from the polar winds. Put that tuft in your bosom, Minna," he added,
gathering a flower,--"that balmy creation which no eye has ever seen;
keep the solitary matchless flower in memory of this one matchless
morning of your life. You will find no other guide to lead you again to
this saeter."
So saying, he gave her the hybrid plant his falcon eye had seen amid the
tufts of gentian acaulis and saxifrages,--a marvel, brought to bloom
by the breath of angels. With girlish eagerness Minna seized the tufted
plant of transparent green, vivid as emerald, which was formed of little
leaves rolled trumpet-wise, brown at the smaller end but changing tint
by tint to their delicately notched edges, which were green. These
leaves were so tightly pressed together that they seemed to blend and
form a mat or cluster of rosettes. Here and there from this green ground
rose pure white stars edged with a line of gold, and from their throats
came crimson anthers but no pistils. A fragrance, blended of roses and
of orange blossoms, yet ethereal and fugitive, gave something as it
were celestial to that mysterious flower, which Seraphitus sadly
contemplated, as though it uttered plaintive thoughts which he alone
could understand. But to Minna this mysterious phenomenon seemed a mere
caprice of nature giving to stone the freshness, softness, and perfume
of plants.
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LITERARY BYWAYS.
Literary Byways
By William Andrews
LONDON:
WILLIAM ANDREWS & CO., 5, FARRINGDON AVENUE, E.C.
1898.
Preface.
In the following pages no attempt has been made to add to the many
critical works authors bring under the notice of the public. My aim in
this collection of leisure-hour studies is to afford entertaining reading
on some topics which do not generally attract the reader's attention.
It is necessary for me to state that three of the chapters were originally
contributed to the columns of the _Chambers's Journal_, and by courtesy of
the Editor are reproduced in this volume.
WILLIAM ANDREWS.
THE HULL PRESS,
_July 5th, 1898_.
Contents.
PAGE
AUTHORS AT WORK 1
THE EARNINGS OF AUTHORS 43
DECLINED WITH THANKS 67
EPIGRAMS ON AUTHORS 76
POETICAL GRACES 90
POETRY ON PANES 94
ENGLISH FOLK-RHYMES 100
THE POETRY OF TOAST LISTS AND MENU CARDS 110
TOASTS AND TOASTING 120
CURIOUS AMERICAN OLD-TIME GLEANINGS 131
THE EARLIEST AMERICAN POETESS: ANNE BRADSTREET 143
A PLAYFUL POET: MISS CATHERINE FANSHAWE 149
A POPULAR SONG WRITER: MRS. JOHN HUNTER 160
A POET OF THE POOR: MARY PYPER 167
THE POET OF THE FISHER-FOLK: MRS. SUSAN K. PHILLIPS 176
A POET AND NOVELIST OF THE PEOPLE: THOMAS MILLER 186
THE COTTAGE COUNTESS 199
THE COMPILER OF "OLD MOORE'S ALMANAC": HENRY ANDREWS 206
JAMES NAYLER, THE MAD QUAKER, WHO CLAIMED TO BE THE MESSIAH 213
A BIOGRAPHICAL ROMANCE: SWAN'S STRANGE STORY 222
SHORT LETTERS 228
INDEX 237
LITERARY BYWAYS.
Authors at Work.
The interest of the public in those who write for its entertainment
naturally extends itself to their habits of life. All such habits, let it
be said at once, depend on individual peculiarities. One will write only
in the morning, another only at night, a third will be able to force
himself into effort only at intervals, and a fourth will, after the manner
of Anthony Trollope, be almost altogether independent of times and places.
The nearest approach to a rule was that which was formulated by a great
writer of the last generation, who said that morning should be employed in
the production of what De Quincey called "the literature of knowledge,"
and the evening in impassioned work, "the literature of power."
But habits, however unreasonable they may be, are ordinarily very powerful
with authors. One of the most renowned writers always attired himself in
evening dress before sitting down to his desk. The influence of his
attire, he said, gave dignity and restraint to his style. Another author,
of at least equal celebrity, could only write in dressing gown and
slippers. In order that he might make any progress, it was absolutely
essential that he should be unconscious of his clothes. Most authors
demand quiet and silence as the conditions of useful work. Carlyle padded
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Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=).
AUTUMN GLORY
* * * * *
Jarrold & Sons'
New Six-Shilling Fiction.
By MAURUS JOKAI.
_Halil the Pedlar._
(The White Rose.)
By COUNT LEO TOLSTOI.
_Tales From Tolstoi._
Translated from the Russian by R. NISBET
BAIN, and with Biography of the Author.
By the Author of "ANIMA VILIS."
_Distaff._
By MARYA RODZIEWICZ.
Translated from the Polish by COUNT STANISLAUS
C. DE SOISSONS.
By RENE BAZIN.
_Autumn Glory._
Translated by MRS. ELLEN WAUGH.
By the Author of
"DUKE RODNEY'S SECRET."
_Ivy Cardew._
By PERRINGTON PRIMM.
By HULBERT FULLER.
_God's Rebel._
By MARTHA BAKER DUNN.
_Memory Street._
London:
JARROLD & SONS,
Publishers,
10 & 11, Warwick Lane,
E.C.
At the Libraries.
And of all Booksellers.
* * * * *
[Illustration: Rene Bazin]
AUTUMN GLORY
Or
The Toilers of the Field
by
RENE BAZIN
Author of "A Blot of Ink," etc.
Translated by Mrs. Ellen Waugh
With Photogravure Portrait of the Author
SANS PEUR ET
SANS REPROCHE
[Illustration]
Authorised Edition
London
Jarrold & Sons All Rights Reserved
10 & 11, Warwick Lane, E.C. 1901
Translated from the French, "La Terre qui Meurt,"
by Mrs. Ellen Waugh.
Copyright
London: Jarrold & Sons
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I. LA FROMENTIERE 7
II. THE FAMILY LUMINEAU 24
III. THE DWARF ORCHARD 48
IV. THE MICHELONNES 65
V. PLOUGHING IN SEPTEMBER 77
VI. THE APPEAL TO THE MASTER 102
VII. DRIOT'S RETURN 116
VIII. IN THE PLACE DE L'EGLISE 133
IX. THE CONSCRIPTS OF SALLERTAINE 147
X. THE UPROOTED VINEYARD 158
XI. THE DANCE AT LA SEULIERE 178
XII. ROUSILLE'S LOVE DREAM 196
XIII. THE AUCTION 208
XIV. DWELLERS IN TOWNS 240
XV. THE EMIGRANT 255
XVI. HER FATHER'S BIDDING 264
XVII. A FEBRUARY NIGHT 274
XVIII. SPRINGTIDE 289
AUTUMN GLORY.
CHAPTER I.
LA FROMENTIERE.
"Quiet! Bas-Rouge, down! Don't you know folk born and bred here?"
The dog thus addressed, a mongrel in which some twenty breeds were
mixed, with grey long-haired coat changing to auburn silky fleece
about the paws, at once left off barking at the gate, trotted along
the grassy path bordering the field, and, content at having done his
duty, sat down at the extreme edge of the line of cabbages which the
farmer was trimming. Along the same path a man was approaching, clad
in gaiters and a suit of well-worn corduroys. His pace was the even
steady gait of a man accustomed to tramp the country. The face in its
setting of black beard was drawn and pale, the eyes, accustomed to
roam the hedges and rest nowhere, bore an expression of weariness and
mistrust, the contested authority of an agent. He was the head-keeper
and steward to the Marquis de la Fromentiere.
He came to a halt behind Bas-Rouge, whose eyelids gave a furtive
quiver, though his ears made not the slightest movement.
"Good day, Lumineau."
"Good day."
"I have a word to say to you. M. le Marquis has written."
Probably he expected the farmer to leave his cabbages and come towards
him. Not a bit of it. The yeoman of the Marais bending double, a huge
bundle of green leaves in his arms, stood some thirty feet off,
looking askance at the keeper waiting motionless in the path. What did
he want of him? His well-fed cheeks broadened into a smile, his clear,
deep-set eyes lengthened. In order to show his independence, he bent
down and resumed his labours for a moment without reply. He felt
himself upon the ground that he looked upon as his own, which his race
had cultivated by virtue of a contract indefinitely renewed. Around
him, his cabbages formed an immense square, a billowy mass of superb
growth, firm and heavy, their colour comprising every imaginable shade
of green, blue, and violet, tinting in harmony with the hues of the
setting sun. Of huge stature though he was, the farmer plunged to his
middle, like a ship, in this compact sea of vegetation. All that was
to be seen above it was the short coat and round felt hat, set well
back on his head, from which hung velvet streamers, the headgear of La
Vendee.
When by this period of silence and labour he had sufficiently marked
the superiority of a tenant farmer over a hired labourer, Lumineau
straightening himself, said:
"You can talk on; there's no one here but me and my dog."
Nettled, the man replied,
"M. le Marquis is displeased that you did not pay your rent at
Midsummer. It will soon be three months in arrears."
"But he knows that I have lost two oxen this year; that the wheat is
poor; and that one must live, I and my sons, and the 'Creatures.'"
By "Creatures" the farmer meant, as is customary in the Marais, his
two daughters, Eleonore and Marie-Rose.
"Tut, tut," replied the keeper, "it is not reasons he wants from you,
my good man, it's the money."
The farmer shrugged his shoulders.
"Were he here at the Chateau the Marquis would not require it; I would
soon explain how things stand. He and I were friends, I may say, as
his father and mine were before us. I could show him what changes time
has brought about with me. He would understand. But now one only has
to do with paid agents, no longer the Master; he is no more to be
seen, and some folks say we shall never see him at La Fromentiere any
more. It is a bad thing for us."
"Very likely," returned the keeper, "but it is not my place to discuss
orders. When will you pay?"
"It's easy to ask when will you pay, but it's another thing to find
the money."
"Well then, I am to answer, No."
"You will answer, Yes, as it must be. I will pay at Michaelmas, which
is not far off now."
The farmer was about to stoop to resume his work when the keeper
added:
"You will do well, too, Lumineau, to look after your man. I found some
snares the other day in the preserves of La Cailleterie, which could
only have been laid by him."
"Had he written his name upon them?"
"No. But he is known to be the most desperate poacher in the country
round. You beware! The Marquis has written to me that you were to go
out, bag and baggage, if I caught any one of you poaching again."
The farmer let fall his armful of cabbage leaves, and extending his
two fists, cried:
"You liar! He cannot have said that. I know him better than you do,
and he knows me. And it's not to a fellow of your sort that he would
give any such instructions. M. le Marquis to turn me off his land, me,
his old Lumineau! It is false."
"Those were his written instructions."
"Liar!" repeated the farmer.
"All very well; we shall see," quoth the agent, turning to resume his
way. "You have been warned. That Jean Nesmy will pay you a bad turn
one of these days; without taking into account, that for a penniless
lad from the Bocage, he is rather too sweet on your daughter. People
are talking, you know."
Ramming his hat down on his head, with crimsoned face and inflated
chest, the farmer advanced a few steps, as though to fall upon the man
who had insulted him; but he, leaning on his stout thorn stick, had
already walked on, and his discontented face was seen outlined against
the hedge as he rapidly receded. He had a certain dread of the
colossal farmer whose strength was still formidable despite his years,
and, moreover, an uneasy sense of the past ill success of his threats,
a recollection of having been, more than once, disavowed by the
Marquis de la Fromentiere, their joint master, whose leniency towards
the Lumineau family he never could understand.
The farmer stopped short, following with his eyes the head-keeper's
receding figure. He watched as it passed along the fence in the
opposite corner to the gate, scaled it, and disappeared to the left of
the farm buildings along the green path leading to the Chateau. When
he had watched the man finally out of sight:
"No," the farmer exclaimed aloud. "No, the Marquis did not say it!
Turn us out!"
For the moment the agent's evil insinuations against Marie-Rose, his
youngest daughter, were completely forgotten, his mind wholly absorbed
in the threat of being turned out. Slowly, with a harder look in them
than was their wont, he suffered his eyes to wander around, as if to
call all the familiar objects to witness that the man had lied; then,
stooping down, he resumed his labours.
The sun, already low in the heavens, had nearly reached the row of
young elms which bordered the field to the west, their lopped branches
that ended in tufts of leaves resembling huge marguerites were bending
to the strong sea breeze. It was the beginning of September, the time
of evening when a glow of heat seems to traverse the descending chills
of night. The farmer worked on as quickly and unremittingly as any
younger man; his outstretched hand snapped off the crisp leaves close
down to the stem of the cabbages with a noise as of breaking glass,
where they lay in heaps along the furrows beneath the over-arching
rows of plants. Hidden in the gloom, whence was emitted the warm,
moist smell of earth, he was lost amid the huge velvety leaves
intersected with their purple veins of colour. In truth he made one
with the vegetation, and it would have been difficult to discern which
was corduroy and which cabbage in the billowy expanse of the
blue-green field.
Withal, close to earth as was his bent body, his soul was agitated and
deep in thought; and as he worked, the farmer continued to ponder
many things. The irritation caused by the keeper's threats had
subsided; it only needed reflection to dismiss all fear of hard
treatment from the Marquis. Did they not both come of a good stock;
and did they not acknowledge it, one of the other? For the yeoman's
ancestor was a Lumineau who had fought in the great war; and although
now in these changed times he never mentioned past glories, neither
the nobles nor the peasants were ignorant that his ancestor, a giant,
surnamed Brin d'Amour, in the war of La Vendee, had taken the generals
of the insurrection across the marshes in his own punt, had fought
brilliantly, and had received a sword of honour, which now hung, eaten
with rust, behind one of the farm presses. The family was one of the
most widely connected in the country side. He claimed cousinship with
thirty farmers, spread over that district which formed the Marais,
extending from Saint Gilles to the Ile de Bouin. No one, himself
included, could tell at what period his forefathers had begun to till
the fields of La Fromentiere. They had been there of right for
generations, the Marquis in his Castle, the Lumineaus in their farm,
united through long custom, each knowing the land and alike loving it;
drinking the vintage of the soil together when they met; never
dreaming that one or the other could ever forsake Chateau or farm
bearing one and the same name.
And, in truth, eight years ago, great had been the astonishment when
one Christmas morning, amid falling sleet, M. Henri, the present
Marquis, a man of forty, a greater hunter, harder drinker, and more
boorish mannered than any of his predecessors, had said to Toussaint
Lumineau, "My Toussaint, I am going to live in Paris. My wife cannot
accustom herself to this place; it is too dull and too cold for her.
But do not worry; I shall come back." He had never come back, save on
rare occasions for a day or two. But, of course, he had not forgotten
the past. He still remained the same uncouth, kindly master known of
old, and the keeper had lied when he talked of their being turned out.
No, the more Toussaint Lumineau thought of it the less did he believe
that a master so rich, so liberal, so good at heart, could have
written such words. Only the rent must be paid. Well, so it should.
The farmer himself did not possess two hundred francs ready-money in
the walnut wood chest beside his bed; but his children were rich,
having inherited over two thousand francs apiece from their mother, La
Luminette, dead now these three years past. So he would ask Francois,
his second son, to lend him the sum due to the master. Francois was
not a lad without heart, he would not let his old father be in
difficulties. Once again anxiety for the morrow would be dispelled,
good harvests would come, prosperous years which should make all
hearts light again.
Weary of his stooping posture, the farmer straightened himself, passed
his flannel shirt sleeve over his perspiring face, then turned his
eyes to the roof of La Fromentiere with the expression of one gazing
on some well beloved object. To wipe his brow he had taken off his
hat; now, in the oblique ray of sunshine which no longer reached the
grass or the cabbages, in the soft declining light like that of a
happy old age, he raised his firm, square-cut face. His complexion,
unlike the cadaverous hue of peasants accustomed to scant living, was
clear and healthy; the full cheeks with their narrow line of black
whisker, straight nose, broad at the base, square jaw, in fact the
whole face and clear grey eyes--eyes that always looked a man full in
the face, betokened health, vigour, and the habit of command, while
the long lips, refined-looking despite the weather-beaten skin,
drooping at the corners, bespoke the ready fluency and somewhat
haughty spirit of a son of the Marshes, who looks down upon everyone
not belonging to that favoured spot. The perfectly white hair,
dishevelled and fine, formed a fitting setting to the head, and shone
with a silvery sheen.
Standing thus motionless with head uncovered in the waning light, the
farmer of La Fromentiere presented an imposing appearance, making it
easy to understand the distinction of _la Seigneurie_ commonly given
him in the neighbourhood. He was called Lumineau l'Eveque, to single
him out from others of the name, Lumineau le Pauvre; Lumineau
Barbefine; Lumineau Tournevire.
He was looking at his beloved La Fromentiere. Some hundred yards away
to the south, among the stems of elms, the pale red tiles stood out
like rough enamels. Borne on the evening wind there came the sound of
the lowing of cattle going home to their sheds, the smell of the
stables, the pungent aroma of camomile and fennel stored up in the
barn. Nor was that all that presented itself to the farmer's mind as
he gazed on his roof illuminated by the last rays of the declining
sun; he called to his mental vision the two sons and two daughters
living under that roof, Mathurin, Francois, Eleonore, and Marie-Rose,
the heavy burdens, yet mixed with how much sweetness of his life. The
eldest, his splendid eldest, doomed by a terrible misfortune to be a
<DW36>, only to see others work, never to share it himself; Eleonore,
who took the place of her dead mother; Francois, weak of nature, in
whom could be seen but the incomplete, uncertain future master of the
farm; Rousille, the youngest girl, just twenty.... Had the keeper lied
again when speaking of the farm-servant's love-making? Not unlikely.
How could a servant, the son of a poor widow in the Bocage, that
heavy, unproductive land, how could he dare to pay court to the
daughter of a farmer of the Marais? He might feel friendship and
respect for the pretty girl, whose smiling face attracted many a
remark on the way back from Mass on Sundays at Sallertaine; but
anything more?... Well, one must watch.... It was but for a moment
that Toussaint Lumineau pondered the man's insinuations; then with a
sense of tenderness and comfort his thoughts flew to the absent one,
the son next in age to Rousille, Andre, the Chasseur d'Afrique, now in
Algiers as orderly to his Colonel, a brother of the Marquis de la
Fromentiere. But one month more and that youngest son would be home,
his time of service expired. They would see him again, the fair,
handsome young fellow, so tall, the living portrait of his father
grown young again, full of noble vigour and love for Sallertaine and
the farmstead. And all anxieties would be forgotten and merged in the
joy of having the son home again, who used to make the ladies of
Chalons turn as he passed, to say to each other: "That is a handsome
lad, Lumineau's youngest son!"
The farmer often remained thus, the day's work done, sunk in thought
before his farmstead. This time he remained longer than usual in the
midst of the swaying masses of leaves, now grown grey, indistinct
looking in the gathering darkness like some unfamiliar ground. The
trees themselves had become but vague outlines bordering the fields.
The large expanse of clear sky overhead, still bright with golden
glory, suffered but faint rays to fall to earth, making objects
visible but only dimly. Lumineau, putting both hands to his mouth to
carry the sound, turned towards the farm, and called out lustily:
"Ohe! Rousille?"
The first to respond to the call was the dog, Bas-Rouge, who, at the
sound of his master's voice, flew like an arrow from the far end of
the field. Then a young, clear voice was heard in the distance:
"Yes, father, I am coming."
The farmer stooped, took a cord, and bound a huge mass of leaves
together, loaded it on his shoulder, and staggering under its weight,
with arms raised to steady it, his head buried in the soft burden,
followed the furrow, turned, and proceeded down the trodden path. As
he reached the corner of the field a girl's slender form rose up
before a break in the hedge. With agile movement Rousille cleared the
fence; as she alighted her short petticoats revealed a pair of black
stockings and sabots turned up at the toes.
"Good evening, father."
He could not refrain from thinking of what the keeper had said, and
made no reply.
Marie-Rose, her two hands on her hips, nodding her little head as if
meditating something grave, watched him go. Then entering in among the
furrows she gathered together the remainder of the fallen leaves,
knotted them with the cord she had brought, and, as her father had
done, raised the green mass, and though bending beneath the weight,
proceeded with light step down the grassy path.
To go into the field, collect, and bind together the leaves must have
taken some ten minutes; her father should have reached the farm by
now. She neared the fence, when suddenly from the top of the <DW72>,
the foot of which she was skirting, came a whistle like that of a
plover. She was not frightened. Now a man jumped over the brambles
into the field. Rousille threw down her burden. He approached no
nearer, and they began to talk in brief sentences.
"Oh, Rousille, what a heavy load you are carrying."
"I am strong enough. Have you seen my father?"
"No, I have only just come. Has he said anything against me?"
"He did not say a word. But he looked at me.... Believe me, Jean, he
mistrusts us. You ought not to stay out to-night, for he dislikes
poaching and you will be scolded."
"What can it matter to him if I shoot at night, so long as I am as
early next morning at my work as anyone else? Do I grumble over my
work? Rousille, I was told at La Seuliere, and the miller of
Moque-Souris told me too, that plovers have been seen on the Marais.
It will be full moon to-night, I mean to go out, and you shall have
some to-morrow morning."
"Jean," she returned, "you ought not.... I assure you."
The young man was carrying a gun slung across his shoulder; over his
brown coat he wore a short blouse scarcely reaching to his waist-belt.
He was slim, about the same height as Rousille, dark, sinewy, pale,
with regular features, and a small moustache, slightly curled at the
corners of the mouth. The complexion alone served to show that he was
not a native of the Marais, where the mists soften and tint the skin,
but of a district where the soil is poor and chalky, and where small
holdings and penury abound. Withal, from his lean, self-possessed
countenance, straight-pencilled eyebrows, the fire and vivacity of the
eyes, one could discern a fund of indomitable energy, a tenacity of
purpose that would yield to no opposition.
Not for an instant did Rousille's fears move him. A little for love of
her, but far more for the pleasure of sport and of nocturnal marauding
so dear to the heart of primitive man, he had made up his mind to go
shooting that night on the Marais. That being the case, nothing would
have made him desist, not even the thought of displeasing Marie-Rose.
She looked but a child. Her girlish figure, her fresh young
complexion, the full oval of her face, the pure brow with its bands of
hair smoothly parted on either side, straight lips, which one never
knew were they about to part in a smile or to droop for tears, gave
her the appearance of a virgin in some sacred procession wearing a
broad band across the shoulders. Her eyes alone were those of a
woman, dark chestnut eyes the colour of the hair, wherein lay and
shone a tenderness youthful yet grave, noble and enduring.
Without having known it, she had been loved for a long time by her
father's farm-servant. For a year now they had been secretly engaged.
On Sundays, as she returned from Mass, wearing the flowered muslin
coif in the form of a pyramid, the coif of Sallertaine, many a
farmer's, or horse and cattle breeder's son, tried to attract her
gaze. But she paid no attention to them; had she not betrothed herself
to Jean Nesmy, the taciturn stranger, poor and friendless, who had no
place, no authority, no friendship save in her young heart? Already
she obeyed him. In her home they never spoke to each other.
Out-of-doors when they could meet their talk was always hurried on
account of her brothers' watchfulness, that of Mathurin especially,
the <DW36>, who was ever jealously prowling about. This time, too,
they must avoid being surprised.
Jean Nesmy, therefore, without stopping to consider Rousille's cause
for uneasiness, asked abruptly:
"Have you brought everything?"
Without further insistence she gave in.
"Yes," she answered; and producing from her pocket a bottle of wine
and slice of coarse bread, she held them out to him with a smile that
irradiated her whole face, despite the darkness. "Here, my Jean," she
said, "it was not easy; Lionore is always on the watch, and Mathurin
follows me about everywhere;" there was melody in her voice, as though
she was saying, "I love you."
"When will you be back?" she added.
"At dawn. I shall come by the dwarf orchard."
As he spoke, the youth raising his blouse had opened a linen ration
bag, brought back from his military service, and which he wore hung
round his neck. In it he stored the wine and bread.
Absorbed in the action, intent on the thing of the moment, he did not
notice that Rousille was bending forward listening to a sound from the
farm. When he had finished fastening the two buttons of the ration
bag, the girl was still listening.
"What am I to answer," she gravely said, "if father asks for you
presently? He is now shutting the door of the barn."
With a smile that displayed two rows of teeth white as milk, Jean
Nesmy, touching his hat, unadorned and wider than those worn in the
Marais, said:
"Good night, Rousille. Tell your father that I am going to be out all
night, and hope to bring back some plovers for my little sweetheart!"
He turned, sprang up the <DW72>, jumped down into the neighbouring
field, and the next second the barrel of his gun caught the light as
it disappeared among the branches.
Rousille still stood before the break in the hedge, her heart had
gone forth with the wanderer. Then, for the second time, a noise broke
the stillness of evening. Now it was the sound of frightened fowls,
the flapping of wings, the noise of a key turning in the lock--the
sign that Eleonore, as always before supper, was locking the door of
the fowl-house; Marie-Rose would be late. Hurriedly she caught up her
load of leaves, cleared the fence, and hastened back to the farm. Soon
she had reached the uneven grassy path, which, coming from the high
lands, makes a bend ere, a little further on, it reaches the edge of
the Marais. Crossing it, she pushed open the side entrance of a large
gate, followed a half-fallen wall covered with creepers, and passing
through a ruined archway, whose gaping interstices had once formed the
imposing centre of the ancient walls, she entered a courtyard,
surrounded with farm buildings. The barn wherein was piled the green
forage stood to the left beside the stables. The girl threw in the
bundle of leaves she had brought, and shaking her damp dress, went
towards the long, low, tiled dwelling-house forming the end of the
courtyard. Arrived at the last door on the right, where light shone
through chinks and keyhole, she paused a little. A feeling of dread,
often experienced, had come over her. From inside could be heard the
sound of spoons clinking against the sides of plates; men's voices, a
dragging step along the floor. Softly as she could she opened the door
and slipped in.
CHAPTER II.
THE FAMILY LUMINEAU.
The family was assembled in the large living-room, or "house-place" of
the farm. As the girl entered all eyes were turned upon her, but not a
word was spoken. Feeling isolated, she crept along beside the wall,
trying by lessening the noise of her sabots the sooner to escape
observation, and having reached the chimney-corner, stooped down and
held out her hands to the fire, as if she were cold.
Her sister Eleonore, a tall young woman with horse-like profile,
lifeless blue eyes, and heavy apathetic face, drew back either to make
way for her or to mark the ill-feeling existing between them, and
continued to eat her slice of bread and few scraps of meat standing,
the time-honoured custom among the women of La Vendee. The
chimney-corner, blackened with smoke, hid them from the rest of the
family as they stood one on either side; the dancing flames between
them lit up, from time to time, the inmates and contents of the big
house-place, built at a period when wood was plentiful, and houses
and furniture were intended to last; while overhead numberless rafters
discoloured with smoke and dust, joined the huge centre beam. The
fitful flames anon rested on the woodwork of two four-post beds that
stood against the wall, each with a walnut wood chest beside it, by
aid of which the occupants mounted to the heavy structures, two
wardrobes, some photographs, and a rosary hung round a copper crucifix
over the nearest bed.
The three men at the table in the centre of the room were seated on
the same bench in order of precedence; first, at the farthest end from
the door, the father, then Mathurin, then Francois. A small petroleum
lamp shed its light upon their bent heads, upon the soup-tureen, a
dish of cold bacon, and another of uncooked apples. They were not
eating from the tureen as do many peasant farmers, but each had his
plate, and beside it his metal spoon, fork, and knife, not a
pocket-knife but a proper table one, a luxury introduced by Francois
on his return from military service; from which the old farmer had
drawn his conclusion that the outside world was full of changes.
Toussaint Lumineau looked worried and kept silence. His calm, strong
face, though that of an old man, contrasted strangely with the
deformed features of his eldest son, Mathurin. Formerly they had been
alike; but since the misfortune of which they never spoke and which
yet haunted the memories of all at La Fromentiere, the son was only
the grotesque suffering caricature of his father. The enormous head,
covered with a bush of tawny hair, was sunk between his high,
thickened shoulders. The width of chest, length of arms, and size of
hands denoted a man of gigantic stature; but when this giant,
supported by his crutches, stood up, one saw a poor twisted, thickened
torso, with contorted powerless legs dragging after it; a
prize-fighter's body terminating in two wasted limbs, capable at most
of supporting it for a few seconds, and from which even, powerless as
they now were, the life was gradually ebbing. Scarce thirty years of
age, the beard which grew almost to his cheek-bones was grey in
places. Above the muddy-veined cheek-bones, from out the tangled mass
of hair and beard which gave him the appearance of a wild animal,
shone a pair of deep blue eyes, small, sad-looking, whence would flash
all suddenly the wild exasperation of one condemned to a living death,
who counted each stage of his torture. It was as though one half of
him were assisting with impotent rage at the slow agony of the other.
His forehead was lined with wrinkles which made deep furrows between
the eyebrows.
"Our poor eldest son, the handsomest of them all, what a wreck he is!"
their mother used sorrowfully to say.
She had reason to pity him. Six years ago he had come home from his
military service as handsome a fellow as when he went. The three
years of barrack life had passed over his simple peasant nature, over
his dreams of ploughing the land and harvesting, over the tenets of
faith he held in common with his race, with scarce a trace of harm.
Innate contempt of the life led in towns had been his protection.
"L | 203.23549 |
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Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://www.archive.org/details/kingericandoutl00chapgoog
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
KING ERIC
AND
THE OUTLAWS.
VOL. II.
London:
Printed by A. Spottiswoode,
New-Street-Square.
KING ERIC
AND
THE OUTLAWS;
OR,
THE THRONE, THE CHURCH, AND THE PEOPLE,
IN THE THIRTEENTH CENTURY.
BY
INGEMANN
TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH BY
JANE FRANCES CHAPMAN.
* * * *
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
* * * *
LONDON:
LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, & LONGMANS,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.
1843.
CHAPTER I.
When the king reached Kallundborg castle, and beheld the drawbridge
raised, and the well fortified castle in a complete state of defence, a
flush of anger crossed his cheek, his hand involuntarily clenched the
hilt of his sword, and for an instant he was near forgetting his
promise, and drawing it out of the scabbard. Count Henrik reined in his
war horse impatiently before the outermost fortification, awaiting an
answer to the message he had shouted, in the king's name, to the
nearest warder. "Matchless presumption!" exclaimed the king; "know they
I am here myself? and do they still tarry with an answer, when they
have but to be silent and to obey?"
"They take their time, my liege!" answered Count Henrik. "It is
unparalleled impudence.--If you command, the trumpet shall be instantly
sounded for storm; the sword burns in my hand."
"Not yet!" answered the king, and took his hand from the hilt of his
sword.
At this moment a trumpet sounded from the outer rampart, and a tall
warrior in armour, with closed visor, stepped forth on the battlement.
"The castle opens not to any armed man!" he shouted in a rough tone,
which however appeared assumed and tremulous; "it will be defended to
the last, against every attack; this is our noble junker's strict order
and behest."
"Madman!" exclaimed Eric; and Count Henrik seemed about to give an
impetuous reply.
"Not a word more!" continued the king, with a stern nod.--"We stoop not
to further parley with rebels and traitors.--You will beleaguer the
castle on all sides, and get all in readiness for a storm; until
twenty-four hours are over, no spear must be thrown--if the rebels dare
to enact their impudent threats against the town, we shall have to
think but of saving it and quenching the flames. If aught chances here,
I must know it instantly; you will not fail to find me at the
Franciscan monastery." So saying, the king turned his horse's head, and
rode with a great part of his train into the large monastery, close to
the castle. Here stood the guardian and all the fraternity with their
shaven heads uncovered, in two rows before the stone steps in the yard
of the monastery. The aged guardian, in common with the rest of his
fraternity, wore an ashen grey cloak with a cowl at the back, and a
thick cord round the waist. Despite the winter cold, they were all
without shoes and stockings, with wooden sandals under their bare feet.
They received the king with manifest signs of alarm and uneasiness.
"Be easy, ye pious men," said the king, in a mild voice, as he sprang
from his horse, and acknowledged their greeting and the guardian's
pious address in a friendly manner; "I come to you as your friend and
protector. If it please God and our Lady, no evil shall happen to your
monastery or our good and loyal town. It is not your fault that our
brother the junker hath appointed a madman to be his commandant; for we
trust in the Lord and the mighty Saint Christopher, that our dear
brother hath not himself lost his wits. I will await him here, until he
can receive the news of my coming, and give explanation in person of
this matter. If there is danger astir, I will share it with you; at
present I wish but to see whether your guest-house and refectory can
stand this unexpected visitation; meanwhile it shall be recompensed
beforehand to the monastery."
"Noble sovereign," answered the guardian, "destroy not by any worldly
compensation the pleasure which you now bestow on us, in our fear and
trembling: poverty is, as you know, the first rule of our holy order.
If you will vouchsafe to share the indigence of the penitent, gracious
king, doubt not then our willingness to give, and share without
recompence; and tempt us not to accept what the holy Franciscus himself
hath strictly forbid us to touch."
"Well, the rule is surely not so strictly kept here," said the king,
with a good-natured smile, as he entered into the large guest-house of
the monastery, and saw the door standing open to the refectory, where a
table, with fasting fare, was spread for the monks, but a larger, with
flasks of wine and dishes of substantial meat, was prepared for the
entertainment of the distinguished worldly guests. "Here, however, we
shall | 203.573307 |
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Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Allen Siddle, David King, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team
THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.
VOL. XIV, No. 383] SATURDAY, AUGUST 1, 1829. [PRICE 2d.
TUNBRIDGE WELLS.
[Illustration: TUNBRIDGE WELLS IN 1748. With sketches of Dr. Johnson,
Cibber, Garrick, Lyttleton, Richardson, &c. &c. _For Explanation, see the
annexed page._]
_References to the Characters in the Engraving._
1. Dr. Johnson.--2. Bishop of Salisbury (Dr. Gilbert.)--3. Lord
Harcourt.--4. Cotley Cibber.--5. Mr. Garrick.--6. Mrs. Frasi, the
singer.--7. Mr. Nash.--8. Miss Chudleigh (Duchess of Kingston.)--9.
Mr. Pitt (Earl of Chatham.)--10. A. Onslow, Esq. (the Speaker.)--11. Lord
Powis.--12. Duchess of Norfolk.--13. Miss Peggy Banks--14. Lady
Lincoln--15. Mr. (afterwards Lord) Lyttleton.--16. The Baron (a German
gamester.)--17. Samuel Richardson.--18. Mrs. Onslow.--20. Mrs. Johnson
(the Doctor's wife.)--21. Mr. Whiston--22. Loggan, the artist.--23. Woman
of the Wells.
Tunbridge, or as old folks still call it, "the Wells," was a gay,
anecdotical resort of the last century, and about as different from the
fashionable haunts of the present, as St. James's is to Russel Square, or
an old English mansion to the egg-shell architecture of yesterday. In its
best days, it was second only to Bath, and little did its belles and beaux
dream of the fishified village of Brighthelmstone, in the adjoining county,
spreading to a city, and being docked of its syllabic proportions to the
_Brighton_ of ears polite.
The annexed Engraving represents Tunbridge Wells about 80 years ago, or in
the year 1748. It is copied from a drawing which belonged to Samuel
Richardson, the novelist, and was found among his papers at his death in
1761. The original is in the possession of Sir Richard Phillips, who
published Richardson's _Correspondence_, in 1804; it contains portrait
figures of all the celebrated characters who were at Tunbridge Wells, in
August, 1748, at which time Richardson was likewise there, and beneath the
drawing is the above key, or the names of the characters, in the
hand-writing of the novelist.
But the pleasantest illustration that we can supply is the following
extract from one of Richardson's Letters to Miss Westcomb, which
represents the gaiety and flirtation of the place in very attractive
colours. At this time Richardson was at Tunbridge Wells for the benefit of
his health; but he says, "I had rather be in a desert, than in a place so
public and so giddy, if I may call the place so from its frequenters. But
these waters were almost the only thing in medicine that I had not tried;
and, as my disorder seemed to increase, I was willing to try them.
Hitherto, I must own, without effect is the trial. But people here, who
slide in upon me, as I traverse the outermost edges of the walks, that I
may stand in nobody's way, nor have my dizziness increased by the swimming
triflers, tell me I shall not give them fair play under a month or six
weeks; and that I ought neither to read nor write; yet I have all my town
concerns upon me here, sent me every post and coach, and cannot help it.
Here are great numbers of people got together. A very full season, and
more coming every day--Great comfort to me."
"What if I could inform you, that among scores of belles, flatterers,
triflers, who swim along these walks, self-satisfied and pleased, and
looking defiances to men (and to modesty, I had like to have said; for
bashfulness seems to be considered as want of breeding in all I see here);
a pretty woman is as rare as a black swan; and when one such starts up,
she is nicknamed a Beauty, and old fellows and young fellows are set
a-spinning after her."
"_Miss Banks_ (Miss Peggy Banks) was the belle when I came first down--yet
she had been so many seasons here, that she obtained but a faint and
languid attention; so that the smarts began to put her down in their list
of had-beens. New faces, my dear, are more sought after than fine faces. A
piece of instruction lies here--that women should not make even their
faces cheap."
"_Miss Chudleigh_ next was the triumphant toast: a lively, sweet-tempered,
gay, self-admired, and not altogether without reason, generally-admired
lady--she moved not without crowds after her. She smiled at every one.
Every one smiled before they saw her, when they heard she was on the walk.
She played, she lost, she won--all with equal good-humour. But, alas, she
went off, before she was wished to go off. And then the fellows' hearts
were almost broken for a new beauty."
"Behold! seasonably, the very day that she went away entered upon the
walks Miss L., of Hackney!--Miss Chudleigh was forgotten (who would wish
for so transient a dominion in the land of fickledom!)--And have you seen
the new beauty?--And have you seen Miss L.? was all the inquiry from smart
to smartless. But she had not traversed the walks two days, before she was
found to want spirit and life. Miss Chudleigh was remembered by those who
wished for the brilliant mistress, and scorned the wifelike quality of
sedateness--and Miss L. is now seen with a very silly fellow or two,
walking backwards and forwards unmolested--dwindled down from the new
beauty to a very quotes pretty girl; and perhaps glad to come off so. For,
upon my word, my dear, there are very few pretty girls here."
"But here, to change the scene, to see Mr. W----sh at eighty (Mr. Cibber
calls him papa), and Mr. Cibber at seventy-seven, hunting after new faces;
and thinking themselves happy if they can obtain the notice and
familiarity of a fine woman!--How ridiculous!--If you have not been at
Tunbridge, you may nevertheless have heard that here are a parcel of
fellows, mean traders, whom they call touters, and their business,
touting--riding out miles to meet coaches and company coming hither, to
beg their custom while here."
"Mr. Cibber was over head and ears in love with Miss Chudleigh. Her
admirers (such was his happiness!) were not jealous of him; but, pleased
with that wit in him which they had not, were always for calling him to
her. She said pretty things--for she was Miss Chudleigh. He said pretty
things--for he was Mr. Cibber; and all the company, men and women, seemed
to think they had an interest in what was said, and were half as well
pleased as if they had said the sprightly things themselves; and mighty
well contented were they to be secondhand repeaters of the pretty things.
But once I faced the laureate squatted upon one of the benches, with a
face more wrinkled than ordinary with disappointment 'I thought,' said I,
'you were of the party at the tea-treats--Miss Chudleigh has gone into the
tea-room.'--'Pshaw!' said he, 'there is no coming at her, she is so
surrounded by the toupets.'--And I left him upon the fret--But he was
called to soon after; and in he flew, and his face shone again, and looked
smooth."
* * * * *
"Another extraordinary old man we have had here, but of a very different
turn; the noted _Mr. Whiston_, showing eclipses, and explaining other
phaenomena of the stars, and preaching the millennium, and anabaptism (for
he is now, it seems, of that persuasion) to gay people, who, if they have
white teeth, hear him with open mouths, though perhaps shut hearts; and
after his lecture is over, not a bit the wiser, run from him, the more
eagerly to C----r and W----sh, and to flutter among the loud-laughing
young fellows upon the walks, like boys and girls at a breaking-up."
* * * * *
"Your affectionate and paternal friend and servant, S. RICHARDSON."
Richardson has mentioned only a few of the characters introduced in the
Engraving. Johnson was at that time but in his fortieth year, and much
less portly than afterwards. Cibber is the very picture of an old beau,
with laced hat and flowing wig; half-a-dozen of his pleasantries were
worth all that is heard from all the playwrights and actors of our
day--on or off the stage: Garrick too, probably did not keep all his fine
conceits within the theatre. Nos. 7, 8, and 9, in the Engraving, are a
pretty group: Miss Chudleigh (afterwards Duchess of Kingston,) between
Beau Nash and Mr. Pitt (Earl of Chatham,) both of whom are striving for a
side-long glance at the sweet tempered, and as Richardson calls her,
"generally-admired" lady. No. 17, Richardson himself is moping along like
an invalid beneath the trees, and avoiding the triflers. Mrs. Johnson is
widely separated from the Doctor, but is as well dressed as he could wish
her; and No. 21, Mr. Whiston is as unexpected among this gay crowd as snow
in harvest. What a _coterie_ of wits must Tunbridge have possessed at this
time: what assemblies and whistparties among scores of spinsters, and
ogling, dangling old bachelors; with high-heeled shoes, silken hose, court
hoops, embroidery, and point ruffles--only compare the Tunbridge parade of
1748 with that of 1829.
We have room but for a brief sketch of Tunbridge Wells. The Springs, or
the place itself, is a short distance from the town of Tunbridge. The
discovery of the waters was in the reign of James I. Henrietta Maria,
Queen of Charles I. staid here six weeks after the birth of the prince,
afterwards Charles II.; but, as no house was near, suitable for so great a
personage, she and her suite remained under tents pitched in the
neighbourhood. The Wells, hitherto called Frant, were changed to Queen's
Mary's Wells: both have given place to Tunbridge Wells; though the springs
rise in the parish of Speldhurst.
Waller, in his Lines to Saccharissa,[1] celebrates the Tunbridge Waters;
and Dr. Rowzee[2] wrote a treatise on their virtues. During the civil
wars, the Wells were neglected, but on the Restoration they became more
fashionable than ever.[3] Hence may be dated assembly rooms, coffee houses,
bowling greens, &c.; about which time, to suit the caprice of their owners,
many of the houses were wheeled upon sledges: a chapel[4] and a school
were likewise erected. The accommodations have been progressively
augmented; and the population has greatly increased. The trade of the
place consists chiefly in the manufacture of the articles known as
Tunbridge-ware. The Wells have always been patronized by the royal family;
and are still visited by some of their branches.
Our Engraving represents the Upper, or principal walk, where are one of
the assembly rooms, the post-office, Tunbridge-ware, milliners, and other
shops, with a row of spreading elms on the opposite side. It is not
uninteresting to notice the humble style of the shops, and the wooden
portico and tiled roofs, in the Engraving, and to contrast them with the
ornamental shop-architecture of our days: yet our forefathers, good old
souls, thought such accommodations worthy of their patronage, and there
was then as much gaiety at Tunbridge Wells as at Brighton in its best days.
[1] Saccharissa, or the Lady Dorothy Sydney, resided at Penshurst, near
Tunbridge.
[2] He prescribed eighteen pints of the water for a morning's dose.
[3] Grammont, in his fascinating "Memoirs," thus describes the Wells at
his period, 1664, when Catherine, Queen of Charles II. was here for
two months, with all the beauties of the court:
"Tunbridge is the same distance from London that Fontainebleau is from
Paris, and is, at the season, the general rendezvous of all the gay
and handsome of both sexes. The company, though always numerous, is
always select; since those who repair thither for diversion, even
exceed the number of those who go thither for health. Every thing here
breathes mirth and pleasure; constraint is banished; familiarity is
established upon the first acquaintance; and joy and pleasure are the
sole sovereigns of the place. The company are accommodated with
lodgings in little clean and convenient habitations, that lie
straggling and separated from each other, a mile and a half round the
Wells, where the company meet in the morning. The place consists of a
long walk, shaded by pleasant trees, under which they walk while they
are drinking the waters. On one side of this walk is a long row of
shops, plentifully stocked with all manner of toys, lace, gloves,
stockings, and where there is raffling, as at Paris, in the Foire de
Saint Germain. On the other side of the Walk is the Market and as it
is the custom here for every person to buy their own provisions, care
is taken that nothing offensive appears upon the stalls. Here young,
fair, fresh-coloured country girls, with clean linen, small straw hats,
and neat shoes and stockings, sell game, vegetables, flowers, and
fruit. Here one may live as one pleases. Here is likewise deep play,
and no want of amorous intrigues. As soon as the evening comes, every
one quits his little palace to assemble on the bowling-green, where,
in the open air, those who choose, dance upon a turf more soft and
smooth than the finest carpet in the world."
[4] "This chapel," says Hasted, "stands remarkably in three parishes--the
pulpit in Speldhurst, the altar in Tunbridge, and the vestry in Frant.
The stream also, which parted the counties of Kent and Sussex,
formerly ran underneath it, but is now turned to a greater distance."
--_Hist. Kent_, vol. iii.
* * * * *
LOVE.
(_For the Mirror_.)
Sing ye love? ye sing it not,
It was never sung, I wot.
None can speak the power of love,
Tho' 'tis felt by all that move.
It is known--but not reveal'd,
'Tis a knowledge ever seal'd!
Dwells it in the tearful eye
Of congenial sympathy?
'Tis a radiance of the mind,
'Tis a feeling undefin'd,
'Tis a wonder-working spell,
'Tis a magic none can tell,
'Tis a charm unutterable.
LEAR.
* * * * *
GRAYSTEIL.[1]
AN HISTORICAL BALLAD.
(_For the Mirror_.)
Beneath the Douglas plaid, he wore a grinding shirt of mail;
Yet, spite of pain and weariness, press'd on that gallant Gael:
On, on, beside his regal foe, with eyes which more express'd
Than _words_, expecting favour still, from him who _once_ caress'd!
"_'Tis_," quoth the prince, "my poor Graysteil!" and spurr'd his steed
amain,
Striving, ere toiling Kilspindie, the fortalice to gain;
But Douglas, (and his wither'd heart, with hope and dread, beat high)
Stood at proud Stirling's castle-gate, as soon as royalty!
Stood, on his ingrate _friend_ to gaze; no answ'ring love-look came;
Then, mortal grief his spirit shook, and bow'd his war-worn frame;
Faith, _innocence_, avail'd not _him!_ he suffer'd for his line,
And fainting by the gate he sunk, but feebly call'd for _wine!_
The menials came, "_wine?_ up! begone! _we_ marvel who thou art!
Our _monarch_ bids to France, Graysteil, his trusty _friend_ depart!"
Blood to the Douglas' cheek uprush'd: proud blood! away he hied,
And soon afar, the "poor Graysteil," the _broken hearted_, DIED!
M.L.B.
_Note_--Graysteil (so called after the champion of a romance then popular)
had returned from banishment in the hope, as he was perfectly innocuous,
of renewing his ancient friendship with the Scottish king; and James
declared that he would again have received him into his service, but for
his oath, never more to countenance a Douglas. He blamed his servants for
refusing refreshment to the veteran, but did not escape censure from our
own Henry VIII. for his cruel conduct towards his "poor Graysteil," upon
this occasion.
[1] Archibald, of Kilspindie, a noble Douglas, and until the disgrace of
his clan, a personal friend and favourite of James V. of Scotland. For
the incidents of this ballad, vide _Tales of a Grandfather_, 1st
Series, vol. 3.
* * * * *
TO THE MEMORY OF SIR HUMPHRY DAVY, BART.
(_For the Mirror._)
To this low orb is lost a shining light.
Useful, resplendent, and tho' transient, bright!
For scarce has soaring genius reach'd the blaze
Of fleeting life's meridian hour,
Than Death around the naming meteor plays,
And spreads its cypress o'er the short liv'd flower.
The great projector of that grand design,[1]
In time's remotest annals, long will shine;
While sons of toil aloud proclaim his name,
And _life preserv'd_ perpetuate his _fame_.
[1] The Safety Lamp
* * * * *
SODA WATER.
(_To the Editor of the Mirror._)
The following extract from a medical periodical on _Soda Water_, will not
perhaps be deemed _mal-apropos_ at the present period of the year, and by
being inserted in your widely circulated work may be of some service to
those who are not aware of the evil effects produced by a _too free_ use
of that beverage.
M.M.M.
On this fashionable article, the editor remarks, Dr. Paris makes the
following observations:--"The modern custom of drinking this inviting
beverage during, or immediately after dinner, has been a pregnant source
of indigestion. By inflating the stomach at such a period, we inevitably
counteract those _muscular_ contractions of its coats which are essential
to chymification, whilst the quantity of soda thus introduced scarcely
deserves notice; with the exception of the carbonic acid gas, it may be
regarded as water; more mischievous only in consequence of the
_exhilarating_ quality, inducing us to take it at a period at which we
would not require the more simple fluid."
In all the waters we have obtained from fountains in London and other
places, under the names of "Soda Water" and "_double_ Soda Water," we have
not been able to discover any soda. It is common water mechanically
super-saturated with fixed air, which on being disengaged and rarified in
the stomach, may, as Dr. Paris observes, so over distend the organ as to
interrupt digestion, or diminish the powers of the digestive organs. When
acid prevails in the stomach, which is generally the case the day after
too free an indulgence in wine, true soda water, taken two or three hours
before dinner, or an hour before breakfast, not only neutralizes the acid,
but the fixed air, which is disengaged, allays the irritation, and even by
distending the organ, invigorates the muscular coat and nerves. As the
quantity of soda, in the true soda water, is much too small to neutralize
the acid, it is a good practice to add fifteen or twenty grains of the
carbonate of soda, finely powdered, to each bottle, which may be done by
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by The Internet Archive)
TREVETHLAN:
A Cornish Story.
BY WILLIAM DAVY WATSON, ESQ.
BARRISTER-AT-LAW.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
SMITH, ELDER AND CO., 65, CORNHILL.
1848.
London:
Printed by STEWART and MURRAY,
Old Bailey.
TREVETHLAN.
CHAPTER I.
_Menenius._ What work's, my countrymen, in hand? Where go you
with bats and clubs? The matter? Speak, I pray you.
_Citizen._ Our business is not unknown to the senate; they have
had inkling, this fortnight, what we intend to do, which now
we'll show 'em in deeds. They say poor suitors have strong
breath: they shall know we have strong arms too.
Shakspeare.
Among the most striking features of the scenery of West Cornwall, are
the fantastic piles of bare granite which rise occasionally from the
summit of an upland, and to a distant spectator present the exact
semblance of a castle, with towers, turrets, and outworks. So a
stranger, standing on Cape Cornwall and looking towards the Land's End,
might imagine he there beheld the fortress whose sanguinary sieges
obtained for that promontory its ancient name of the Headland of Blood.
Or again, reclining on the moorland, near the cromlech of Morvah, while
the sun was sinking behind Carnyorth, he might fancy that at the
red-edged battlements on the ridge, the original inhabitants of the
country made their last stand against the invaders from the German
Ocean.
Approach soon destroys the illusion. And it is superfluous to observe
that the warriors of those times had no notion of the structures which
these caprices of nature mimic--the castles of our Plantagenets and
Tudors. Their real fortresses still exist to afford employment to the
antiquary, and inspiration to the poet; and to one of them we now invite
the reader to accompany us.
Castle Dinas occupies the crest of the highest ground between the
picturesque village of Gulvall and the pilchard-perfumed town of St.
Ives, and commands an uninterrupted view both of Mount's Bay and of the
Irish Sea. Two concentric ramparts of unhewn stones, flung together more
rudely than a Parisian barricade, exhibiting the science of
fortification in its very infancy, inclose a circular area of
considerable extent. From it the ground <DW72>s, not very rapidly, on all
sides; and as there are no screens, an occupant of the camp can see an
approaching friend or enemy some time before he arrives. Within the
inner circle some prosaic favourer of picnics has erected a square
_folly_, with a turret at each angle, not harmonizing very well with
local associations, but convenient in case of a shower of rain.
Around the folly, on the night which followed the departure of the
orphans of Trevethlan from the home of their fathers, was pacing a
stalwart man of weather-beaten aspect, with an impatient and irregular
gait. The sun had sunk below the horizon, and all the south and west
quarters of the sky were covered with heavy masses of cloud, from behind
which, at intervals, came the low mutterings of distant thunder. Flashes
of lightning followed one another in quick succession, becoming more and
more brilliant as the shades of evening grew deeper. They broke from
various quarters of the horizon, but particularly from the | 203.918889 |
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WOOD AND GARDEN
[Illustration: _Frontispiece._]
WOOD AND GARDEN
NOTES AND THOUGHTS, PRACTICAL AND
CRITICAL, OF A WORKING AMATEUR
By
GERTRUDE JEKYLL
_With 71 Illustrations from Photographs
by the Author_
[Illustration]
Second Edition
Longmans, Green, and Co.
39 Paternoster Row, London
New York and Bombay
1899
_All rights reserved_
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
At the Ballantyne Press
PREFACE
From its simple nature, this book seems scarcely to need any prefatory
remarks, with the exception only of certain acknowledgments.
A portion of the contents (about one-third) appeared during the years
1896 and 1897 in the pages of the _Guardian_, as "Notes from Garden and
Woodland." I am indebted to the courtesy of the editor and proprietors
of that journal for permission to republish these notes.
The greater part of the photographs from which the illustrations have
been prepared were done on my own ground--a space of some fifteen acres.
Some of them, owing to my want of technical ability as a photographer,
were very weak, and have only been rendered available by the skill of
the reproducer, for whose careful work my thanks are due.
A small number of the photographs were done for reproduction in
wood-engraving for Mr. Robinson's _Garden_, _Gardening Illustrated_, and
_English Flower Garden_. I have his kind permission to use the original
plates.
G. J.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTORY 1-6
CHAPTER II
JANUARY 7-18
Beauty of woodland in winter -- The nut-walk --
Thinning the overgrowth -- A nut nursery -- _Iris
stylosa_ -- Its culture -- Its home in Algeria --
Discovery of the white variety -- Flowers and branches
for indoor decoration.
CHAPTER III
FEBRUARY 19-31
Distant promise of summer -- Ivy-berries --
leaves -- _Berberis Aquifolium_ -- Its many merits --
Thinning and pruning shrubs -- Lilacs -- Removing
Suckers -- Training _Clematis flammula_ -- Forms of
trees -- Juniper, a neglected native evergreen --
Effect of snow -- Power of recovery -- Beauty of colour
-- Moss-grown stems.
CHAPTER IV
MARCH 32-45
Flowering bulbs -- Dog-tooth Violet -- Rock-garden --
Variety of Rhododendron foliage -- A beautiful old
kind -- Suckers on grafted plants -- Plants for
filling up the beds -- Heaths -- Andromedas -- Lady
Fern -- _Lilium auratum_ -- Pruning Roses -- Training
and tying climbing plants -- Climbing and free-growing
Roses -- The Vine the best wall-covering -- Other
climbers -- Wild Clematis -- Wild Rose.
CHAPTER V
APRIL 46-58
Woodland spring flowers -- Daffodils in the copse --
Grape Hyacinths and other spring bulbs -- How best to
plant them -- Flowering shrubs -- Rock-plants -- Sweet
scents of April -- Snowy Mespilus, Marsh Marigolds,
and other spring flowers -- Primrose garden -- Pollen
of Scotch Fir -- Opening seed-pods of Fir and Gorse --
Auriculas -- Tulips -- Small shrubs for rock-garden --
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THE WORLD SET FREE
H.G. WELLS
We Are All Things That Make And Pass,
Striving Upon A Hidden Mission,
Out To The Open Sea.
TO
Frederick Soddy's
'Interpretation Of Radium'
This Story, Which Owes Long Passages To The Eleventh Chapter Of That
Book, Acknowledges And Inscribes Itself
PREFACE
THE WORLD SET FREE was written in 1913 and published early in 1914, and
it is the latest of a series of three fantasias of possibility, stories
which all turn on the possible developments in the future of some
contemporary force or group of forces. The World Set Free was written
under the immediate shadow of the Great War. Every intelligent person in
the world felt that disaster was impending and knew no way of averting
it, but few of us realised in the earlier half of 1914 how near the
crash was to us. The reader will be amused to find that here it is put
off until the year 1956. He may naturally want to know the reason for
what will seem now a quite extraordinary delay. As a prophet, the author
must confess he has always been inclined to be rather a slow prophet.
The war aeroplane in the world of reality, for example, beat the
forecast in Anticipations by about twenty years or so. I suppose a
desire not to shock the sceptical reader's sense of use and wont and
perhaps a less creditable disposition to hedge, have something to do
with this dating forward of one's main events, but in the particular
case of The World Set Free there was, I think, another motive in holding
the Great War back, and that was to allow the chemist to get well
forward with his discovery of the release of atomic energy. 1956--or for
that matter 2056--may be none too late for that crowning revolution in
human potentialities. And apart from this procrastination of over forty
years, the guess at the opening phase of the war was fairly lucky; the
forecast of an alliance of the Central Empires, the opening campaign
through the Netherlands, and the despatch of the British Expeditionary
Force were all justified before the book had been published six months.
And the opening section of Chapter the Second remains now, after the
reality has happened, a fairly adequate diagnosis of the essentials of
the matter. One happy hit (in Chapter the Second, Section 2), on which
the writer may congratulate himself, is the forecast that under modern
conditions it would be quite impossible for any great general to emerge
to supremacy and concentrate the enthusiasm of the armies of either
side. There could be no Alexanders or Napoleons. And we soon heard the
scientific corps muttering, 'These old fools,' exactly as it is here
foretold.
These, however, are small details, and the misses in the story far
outnumber the hits. It is the main thesis which is still of interest
now; the thesis that because of the development of scientific knowledge,
separate sovereign states and separate sovereign empires are no longer
possible in the world, that to attempt to keep on with the old system
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Produced by Charles Bowen from page images provided by
Google Books (University of California, Davis)
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
The Works of G.P.R. James, Esq.--Volume 16
https://books.google.com/books?id=dTYoAQAAIAAJ
(University of California, Davis)
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
[Illustration: frontispiece]
THE WORKS
OF
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
REVISED AND CORRECTED BY THE AUTHOR.
WITH AN INTRODUCTORY PREFACE.
"D'autres auteurs l'ont encore plus avili, (le roman,) en y mêlant les
tableaux dégoutant du vice; et tandis que le premier avantage des
fictions est de rassembler autour de l'homme tout ce qui, dans la
nature, peut lui servir de leçon ou de modèle, on a imaginé qu'on
tirerait une utilité quelconque des peintures odieuses de mauvaises
moeurs; comme si elles pouvaient jamais; laisser le c[oe]ur qui les
repousse, dans une situation aussi pure que le c[oe]ur qui les aurait
toujours Ignorées. Mais un roman tel qu'on peut le concevoir, tel que
nous en avons quelques modèles, est une des plus belles productions de
l'esprit humain, une des plus influentes sur la morale des individus,
qui doit former ensuite les m[oe]urs publiques."--MADAME DE STAËL.
_Essai sur les Fictions_.
"Poca favilla gran flamma seconda:
Forse diretro a me, con miglior voci
Si pregherà, perchè Cirra risonda."
DANTE. _Paradiso_, Canto I.
VOL. XVI.
DE L'ORME.
LONDON:
PARRY AND CO., LEADENHALL STREET.
M DCCCXLVIII.
DE L'ORME.
BY
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
AUTHOR OF
"MARGARET GRAHAM,"
"THE LAST OF THE FAIRIES," ETC.
-------------------------------
LONDON:
PARRY AND CO., LEADENHALL STREET.
M DCCCXLVIII.
PREFACE
TO THE THIRD EDITION.
Romance writing, when rightly viewed and rightly treated, is of the
same nature as the teaching by parables of the eastern nations; and I
believe, when high objects are steadily kept in view and good
principles carefully inculcated, it may prove far more generally
beneficial than more severe forms of instruction.
The man who is already virtuous and wise, or who, at least, seeks
eagerly to be so, takes up the Essay or the Lecture, and reads therein
the sentiments ever present in his own heart. But while the same man
may find equal pleasure in the work of fiction addressed to the same
great ends, how many thousands are there who will open the pages of
the Novel or the Romance, but who would avoid anything less amusing to
their fancy? If, then, while we excite their imagination with pleasant
images, we can cause the latent seeds of virtue to germinate in their
hearts; if we can point out the consequences of errors, follies, and
crimes; if we can recall good feelings fleeting away, or crush bad
ones rising up under temptation,--and that we can do so with great
effect, may be safely asserted,--we can benefit, in the most essential
particular, a large body of our fellow-men; a much larger body, I
fear, than that which can be attracted by anything that does not wear
the form of amusement.
Such has been my conviction ever since I entered upon a career in
which the public has shown me such undeserved encouragement; and with
such a purpose, and for such an object, have I always written. In some
works I have striven alone to impress those general principles of
honour and virtue, and those high and elevated feelings, which do not
seem to me to be increasing in the world. In others, I have
endeavoured to advocate, without seeming too much to do so, some
particular principle, or to warn against some particular error. In the
following pages my purpose was to expose the evil consequences of an
ill-regulated spirit of enterprise and a love of adventure, and to
deter from errors, the magnitude of which I may have felt by sharing
in them.
To do so, it was necessary to choose as my subject the life of a young
man placed in circumstances of difficulty and temptation; and no
writer can ever hope to produce a good effect by painting man
otherwise than man is.
At the same time I have ever been convinced that no benefit can ensue
from drawing the mind of the reader through long scenes of vice and
guilt, for the sake of a short moral at the end; and in writing the
history of the Count de l'Orme, I determined to show, as was
absolutely necessary, that he was led by the love of adventure into
error nearly approaching to guilt: but to dwell upon his errors no
longer than was absolutely required; to point out, even while I
related them, that their consequences were terrible; and to make the
great bulk of the book display a life of regret, pain and difficulty,
consequent upon the fault I sought to reprehend. This I have done to
the best of my judgment, restricting all details of the error into
which the principal character of the book fell, to some ten or twelve
pages. Having read those pages again, after a lapse of many years,
with the deepest attention and consideration, I send them forth with
scarcely an alteration; being firmly convinced, that the mind which
can contract any evil from the terrible scene which they depict--a
scene which, I have every reason to believe, really occurred--must be
foul and corrupt ere it sits down to the perusal. One thing I
certainly know, that those pages were written in the spirit of purity,
and with the purpose of good; and I will never believe that such
feelings can generate, in the breast of others, likewise pure, aught
but their own likeness.
De l'Orme was first published in 1830, and was written while I was
residing in France. The incidents, however, had been collected and
arranged long before, and only required form and compression. For some
curious details regarding the battle of Sedan I was indebted to a
gentleman of that city, and I believe the facts of the famous revolt
of the Count of Soissons will be found historically correct, even to
very minute particulars.
DE L'ORME.
CHAPTER I.
I was born in the heart of Bearn, in the year 1619; and if the scenery
amongst which we first open our eyes, and from which we receive our
earliest impressions, could communicate its own peculiar character to
our minds, I should certainly have possessed a thousand great and
noble qualities, that might have taught me to play a very different
part from that which I have done, in the great tragic farce of human
life. Nevertheless, in contemplating the strange contrasts of scenery,
the gay, the sparkling, the grand, the gloomy, the sublime, wherein my
infant years were passed, I have often thought I saw a sort of picture
of my own fate, with its abrupt and rapid changes; and even in some
degree of my own character, or rather of my own mood, varying
continually through all the different shades of disposition, from the
lightest mirth to the most profound gloom, from the idlest
heedlessness to the most anxious thought.
However, it is not my own peculiar character that I sit down to
depict--that will be sufficiently displayed in the detail of my
adventures: but it is rather those strange and singular events which,
contrary to all probability, mingled me with great men, and with great
actions, and which, continually counteracting my own will, impelled me
ever on the very opposite course from that which I straggled to
pursue.
For many reasons, it is necessary to commence this narrative with
those early years, wherein the mind of man receives its first bias,
when the seeds of all future actions are sown in the heart, and when
causes, in themselves so trifling as almost to be imperceptible, chain
us to good or evil, to fortune or misfortune, for ever. The character
of man is like a piece of potter's clay, which, when fresh and new, is
easily fashioned according to the will of those into whose hands it
falls; but its form once given, and hardened, either by the slow
drying of time, or by its passage through the ardent furnace of the
world, men may break it to atoms, but never bend it again to another
mould.
Our parents, our teachers, our companions, all serve to modify our
dispositions. The very proximity of their faults, their failings, or
their virtues, leaves, as it were, an impress on the flexible mind of
infancy, which the steadiest reason can hardly do more than modify,
and years themselves can never erase. To the events of those early
years I owe many of my errors in life; and my faults and their
consequences are not without their moral: for in my history, as in
that of every other man, it will be found that punishment of some kind
never failed to tread fast upon the heels of each wrong action; and in
one instance, a few hours of indiscretion mingled a dark and fearful
current with the course of many an after year.
To begin, then, with the beginning:--I was, as I have said, born in
the heart of the little mountainous principality of Bearn, which,
stretching along the northern side of the Pyrenees, contains within
itself some of the most fertile and some of the most picturesque, some
of the sweetest and some of the grandest scenes that any part of
Europe can boast. The chain of my native mountains, interposing
between France and Spain, forms a gigantic wall whereby the unerring
hand of nature has marked the limits of either land; and although this
immense bulwark is, in itself, scarcely broken by any but very narrow
and difficult passes, yet the mountainous ridges which it sends off,
like enormous buttresses, into the plain country on each side, are
intersected by a number of wide and beautiful valleys, rich with all
the gifts of summer, and glowing with all the loveliness of bright
fertility.
One of the most striking, though perhaps not one of the most
extensive, of these valleys, is that which, running from east to west,
lies in a direct line between Bagneres de Bigorre and the little town
and castle of Lourdes.[1] Never have I seen, and certainly never shall
I now see, any other valley so sweet, so fair, so tranquil;--never,
one so bright in itself, or so surrounded by objects of grandeur and
magnificence. I need not say after this, that it was my native place.
The dwelling of my father, Roger De l'Orme, Count de Bigorre, was
perched up high upon the hill-side, about two miles from Lourdes, and
looked far over all the splendid scene below. The wide valley, with
its rich carpet of verdure, the river dashing in liquid diamonds
amidst the rocks and over the precipices; the long far windings of the
deep purple mountains, filling the mind with vague, but grand
imaginings; the dark majestic shadows of the pine forest that every
here and there were cast like a black mantle round the enormous limbs
of each giant hill; the long wavy perspective, of the passes towards
Cauteretz, and the Pont d'Espagne, with the icy Vigne Malle raising up
his frozen head, as if to dare the full power of the summer sun
beyond,--all was spread out to the eye, offering in one grand view a
thousand various sorts of loveliness.
I must be pardoned for dilating upon those sweet scenes of my early
childhood, whose very memory bestows a calm and placid joy, which I
have never found in any other spot, or in any other feeling; neither
in the gaiety and splendour of a court, the gratification of passion,
the hurry and energy of political intrigue, the excitement and triumph
of the battle field, the struggle of conflicting hosts, or the
maddening thrill of victory.--But for a moment, let me indulge, and
then I quit such memories for things and circumstances whose interest
is more easily communicable to the minds of others.
The château in which my eyes first opened to the light was little
inferior in size to the castle of Lourdes, and infinitely too large
for the small establishment of servants and retainers which my
father's reduced finances enabled him to maintain. Our diminished
household looked, within its enormous walls, like the shrunken form of
some careful old miser, insinuated into the wide and hanging garments
of his youth; and yet my excellent parent fondly insisted upon as much
pomp and ceremony as his own father had kept up with a hundred and
fifty retainers waiting in his hall. Still the trumpet sounded at the
hour of dinner, though the weak lungs of the broken-winded old _maître
d'hôtel_ produced but a cacophonous sound from the hollow brass: still
all the servants, who amounted to five, including the gardener, the
shepherd, and the cook, were drawn up at the foot of the staircase, in
unstarched ruffs and tarnished liveries of green and gold, while my
father, with slow and solemn pace, handed down to dinner Madame la
Comtesse; still would he talk of his vassals, and his seigneurial
rights, though his domain scarce covered five hundred acres of wood
and mountain, and vassals, God knows, he had but few. However, the
banners still hung in the hall; and it was impossible to gaze upon the
walls, the pinnacles, the towers, and the battlements of the old
castle, without attaching the idea of power and influence to the lord
of such a hold; so that it was not extraordinary he himself should, in
some particulars forget the decay of his house, and fancy himself as
great as his ancestors.
A thousand excellent qualities of the heart covered any little foibles
in my father's character. He was liberal to a fault; kind, with that
minute and discriminating benevolence which weighs every word ere it
be spoken, lest it should hurt the feelings of another; brave, to that
degree that scarcely believes in fear, yet at the same time so humane,
that his sympathy with others often proved the torture of his own
heart; but----
Oh! that in this world there should still be a _but_, to qualify
everything that is good and excellent!--but, still he had one fault
that served greatly to counteract all the high qualities which he
possessed. He was invincibly lazy in mind. He could endure nothing
that gave him trouble; and, though the natural quickness of his
disposition would lead him to purpose a thousand great undertakings,
yet long ere the time came for executing them, various little
obstacles and impediments had gradually worn down his resolution; or
else the trouble of thinking about one thing for long was too much for
him, and the enterprise dropped by its own weight. Had fortune brought
him great opportunities, no one would have seized them more willingly,
or used them to better or to nobler purposes; but fortune was to
seek--and he did nothing.
The wars of the League, in which his father had taken a considerable
part, had gradually lopped away branch after branch of our estates,
and even hewn deeply into the trunk; and my father was not a man,
either by active enterprise or by court intrigue, to mend the failing
fortunes of his family. On the contrary, after having served in two
campaigns, and distinguished himself in several battles, out of pure
weariness, he retired to our château of De l'Orme, where, being once
fixed in quiet, he passed the rest of his days, never having courage
to undertake a longer journey than to Pau or to Tarbes; and forming in
his solitude a multitude of fine and glorious schemes, which fell to
nothing almost in the same moment that they were erected: as we may
see a child build up, with a pack of cards, many a high and ingenious
structure, which the least breath of air will instantly reduce to the
same flat nonentities from which they were reared at the first.
My mother's character is soon told. It was all excellence; or if there
was, indeed, in its composition, one drop of that evil from which
human nature is probably never entirely free, it consisted in a touch
of family pride--and yet, while I write it, my heart reproaches me,
and says that it was not so. However, the reader shall judge by the
sequel; but if she had this fault, it was her only one, and all the
rest was virtue and gentleness. Restricted as were her means of
charity, still every one that came within the sphere of her influence
experienced her kindness, or partook of her bounty. Nor was her
charity alone the charity that gives; it was the charity that feels,
that excuses, that forgives.
A willing aid in all that was amiable and benevolent was to be found
in good Father Francis of Allurdi, the chaplain of the château. In his
young days they said he had been a soldier; and on some slight,
received from a world for which he was too good, he threw away the
corslet and took the gown, not with the feeling of a misanthrope, but
of a philanthropist. For many years he remained as cure at the little
village of Allurdi, in the Val d'Ossau; but his sight and his strength
both failing him, and the cure being an arduous one, he resigned it to
a younger man, (who, he thought, might better perform the duties of
the station,) and brought as gentle a heart and as pure a spirit as
ever rested in a mortal frame, to dwell with the two others I have
described in the Château de l'Orme.
It may be asked, if he too had his foible? Believe me, dear reader,
whoever thou art, that every one on this earth has some; nor was he
without one: and, strange as it may appear, his was superstition--I
say, strange as it may appear, for he was a man of a strong and
vigorous mind, calm, reflective, rational, without any of that hurried
and perturbed indistinctness of judgment which suffers imagination to
usurp the place of reason. But still he was superstitious to a great
degree, affording a striking instance of that union of opposite
qualities, which every one who takes the trouble of examining his own
bosom will find more or less exemplified in himself. His superstition,
however, grew in a mild and benevolent soil, and was, indeed, but as
one of those tender climbing plants which hang upon the ruined tower
or the shattered oak, and clothe them with a verdure not their own:
thus he fondly adhered to the imaginative tenets of ancient days fast
falling into decay. He peopled the air with spirits, and in his fancy
gave them visible shapes, and in some degree even corporeal qualities.
However, on an ardent and youthful mind like mine, such picturesque
superstitions were most likely to have effect; and so far, indeed, did
they influence me, that though reason in after-life exerted her power
to sweep them all away, imagination often rebelled, and clung fondly
to the delusion still.
Such as I have described them were the denizens of the Château de
l'Orme at the time of my birth, which was unmarked by any other
peculiarity than that of my mother having been married, and yet
childless, for more than eight years. The joy which the unexpected
birth of an heir produced, may easily be imagined, though little
indeed was the inheritance which I came to claim. All with one consent
gave themselves up to hope and to gladness; and more substantial signs
of rejoicing were displayed in the hall than the château had known for
many a day.
My father declared that I should infallibly retrieve the fortunes of
my house. Father Francis, with tears in his eyes, exclaimed that it
was evidently a blessing from Heaven; and even my mother discovered
that, though futurity was still misty and indistinct, there was now a
landmark to guide on hope across the wide ocean of the years to come.
CHAPTER II.
I know not by what letters patent the privilege is held, but it seems
clearly established, that the parents of an only child have full right
and liberty to spoil him to whatsoever extent they may please; and
though, my grandfathers on both sides of the house being dead long
before my birth, I wanted the usual chief aiders and abettors of
over-indulgence, yet, in consideration of my being an unexpected gift,
my father thought himself entitled to expend more unrestrictive
fondness upon me than if my birth had taken place at an earlier period
of his marriage.
My education was in consequence somewhat desultory. The persuasions of
Father Francis, indeed, often won me for a time to study, and the
wishes of my mother, whose word was ever law to her son, made me
perhaps attend to the instructions of the good old priest more than my
natural volatility would have otherwise admitted. At times, too, the
mad spirit of laughing and jesting at everything, which possessed me
from my earliest youth, would suddenly and unaccountably be changed
into the most profound pensiveness, and reading would become a delight
and a relief. I thus acquired a certain knowledge of Latin and of
Greek, the first principles of mathematics, and a great many of those
absurd and antiquated theories which were taught in that day under the
name of philosophy. But from Father Francis, also, I learned what
should always form one principal branch of a child's education--a very
tolerable knowledge of my native language, which I need not say is, in
general, spoken in Bearn in the most corrupt and barbarous manner.
Thus, very irregularly, proceeded the course of my mental instruction;
my corporeal education my father took upon himself, and as his
laziness was of the mind rather than the body, he taught me
thoroughly, from my very infancy, all those exercises which, according
to his conception, were necessary to make a perfect cavalier. I could
ride, I could shoot, I could fence, I could wrestle, before I was
twelve years old; and of course the very nature of these lessons
tended to harden and confirm a frame originally strong, and a
constitution little susceptible of disease.
The buoyancy of youth, the springy vigour of my muscles, and a good
deal of imaginative feeling, gave me a sort of indescribable passion
for adventure from my childhood, which required even the stimulus of
danger to satisfy. Had I lived in the olden time, I had certainly been
a knight errant. Everything that was wild, and strange, and even
fearful, was to me delight; and it needed many a hard morsel from the
rough hand of the world to quell such a spirit's appetite for
excitement.
To climb the highest pinnacles of the rocks, to plunge into the
deepest caverns, to stand on the very brink of the precipices and look
down into the dizzy void below, to hang above the cataract on some
tottering stone, and gaze upon the frantic fury of the river boiling
in the pools beneath, till my eye was wearied, and my ear deafened
with the flashing whiteness of the stream, and the thundering roar of
its fall--these were the enjoyments of my youth, and many, I am
afraid, were the anxious pangs which my temerity inflicted on the
bosom of my mother.
I will pass over all the little accidents and misadventure of youth;
but on one circumstance, which occurred when I was about twelve years
old, I must dwell more particularly, inasmuch as it was not only of
import at the time, but also affected all my future life by its
consequences.
On a fine clear summer morning, I had risen in one of those thoughtful
moods, which rarely cloud the sunny mind of youth, but which, as I
have said, frequently succeeded to my gayest moments; and, walking
slowly down the side of the hill, I took my way through the windings
of a deep glen, that led far into the heart of the mountain. I was
well acquainted with the spot, and wandered on almost unconsciously,
with scarcely more attention to any external object than a casual
glance to the rocks that lay tossed about on either side, amidst a
profusion of shrubs and flowers, and trees of every hue and leaf.
The path ran along on a high bank of rocks overhanging the river,
which, dashing in and out round a thousand stony promontories, and
over a thousand bright cascades, gradually collected its waters into a
fuller body, and flowed on in a deep swift stream towards a more
profound fall below. At the side of the cataract, the most industrious
of all the universe's insects, man, had taken advantage of the
combination of stream and precipice, and fixed a small mill-wheel
under the full jet of water, the clacking sound of which, mingling
with the murmur of the stream, and the savage scenery around,
communicated strange, undefined sensations to my mind, associating all
the cheerful ideas of human proximity, with the wild grandeur of rude
uncultivated nature.
I was too young to unravel my feelings, or trace the sources of the
pleasure I experienced; but getting to the very verge of the rock, a
little way above the mill, I stood, watching the dashing eddies as
they hurried on to be precipitated down the fall, and listening to the
various sounds that came floating on the air.
On what impulse I forget at this moment, but after gazing for some
time, I put my foot still farther towards the edge of the rocky stone
on which I stood, and bent over, looking down the side of the bank.
The stone was a detached fragment of grey marble, lying somewhat
loosely upon the edge of the descent--my weight overthrew its
balance--it tottered--I made a violent effort to recover myself, but
in vain--the rock rolled over, and I was pitched headlong into the
stream.
The agony of finding myself irretrievably gone--the dazzle and the
flash of the water as it closed over my head--the thousand regrets
that whirled through my brain during the brief moment that I was below
the surface--the struggle of renewed hope as I rose again and beheld
the blue sky and the fair face of nature, are all as deeply graven on
my memory as if the whole had occurred but yesterday. Although all
panting when I got my head above the water, I succeeded in uttering a
loud shout for assistance, while I struggled to keep myself up with my
hand; but as I had never learned to swim, I soon sunk again, and on
rising a second time, my strength was so far gone, I could but give
voice to a feeble cry, though I saw myself drifting quickly towards
the mill and the waterfall, where death seemed inevitable. My only
hope was that the miller would hear me; but to my dismay, I found that
my call, though uttered with all the power I had left, was far too
faint to rise above the roar of the cascade and the clatter of the
mill-wheels.
Hope gave way, and ceasing to struggle, I was letting myself sink,
when I caught a faint glimpse of some one running down amongst the
rocks towards me, but at that moment, in spite of my renewed efforts,
the water overwhelmed me again. For an instant there was an
intolerable sense of suffocation--a ringing in my ears, and a flashing
of light in my eyes that was very dreadful, but it passed quickly
away, and a sweet dreamy sensation came over me, as if I had been
walking in green fields, I did not well know where--the fear and the
struggle were all gone, and, gradually losing remembrance of
everything, I seemed to fall asleep.
Such is all that my memory has preserved of the sensations I
experienced in drowning--a death generally considered a very dreadful
one, but which is, in reality, anything but painful. We have no means
of judging what is suffered in almost any other manner of passing from
the world; but were I to speak from what I myself felt in the
circumstances I have detailed, I should certainly say that _it is the
fear that is the death_.
My next remembrance is of a most painful tingling, spreading itself
through every part of my body, even to my very heart, without any
other consciousness of active being, till at length, opening my eyes,
I found myself lying in a large barely furnished room in the mill,
with a multitude of faces gazing at me, some strange and some
familiar, amongst the last of which I perceived the pimpled nose of
the old _maître d'hôtel_, and the mild countenance of Father Francis
of Allurdi.
My father, too, was there; and I remember seeing him with his arms
folded on his breast, and his eyes straining upon me as if his whole
soul was in them. When I opened mine, he raised his look towards
heaven, and a tear rolled over his cheek; but I saw or heard little of
what passed, for an irresistible sensation of weariness came over me;
and the moment after I awoke from the sleep of death, I fell into a
quiet and refreshing slumber, very different from the "cold
obstruction" of the others.
I will pass over all the rejoicing that signalized my recovery--my
father's joy, my mother's thanks and prayers, the servants' carousing,
and the potations, deep and strong, of the pimple-nosed _maître
d'hôtel_, whose hatred of water never demonstrated itself more
strongly than the day after I had escaped drowning. As soon as I had
completely regained my strength, my mother told me, that after having
shown our gratitude to God, it became our duty to show our gratitude
also to the person who had been the immediate means of saving me from
destruction; and it was then I learned that I owed my life to the
courage and skill of a lad but little older than myself, the son of a
poor procureur, or attorney, at Lourdes. He had been fishing in the
stream at the time the rock gave way under my feet, and seeing my
fall, hurried to save me. With much difficulty and danger he
accomplished his object, and having drawn me from the water, carried
me to the mill, where he remained only long enough to see me open my
eyes, retiring modestly the moment he was assured of my safety.
In those young days, life was to me so bright a plaything, all the
wheels of existence moved so easily, there was so much beauty in the
world, so much delight in being, that my most enthusiastic gratitude
was sure to follow such a service as that I had received. Readily did
I assent to my mother's proposal, that she should accompany me to
Lourdes to offer our thanks--not as with the world in general, in mere
empty words, as unsubstantial as the air that bears them, but by some
more lasting mark of our gratitude.
Upon the nature of the recompense she was to offer, she held a long
consultation with my father, who, unwilling to give anything minute
consideration, left it entirely to her own judgment, promising the
fullest acquiescence in whatever she should think fit; and accordingly
we set out early the next day for Lourdes, my mother mounted on a
hawking palfrey, and I riding by her side on a small fleet Limousin
horse, which my father had given me a few days before.
This was not, indeed, the equipage with which the Countess de Bigorre
should have visited a town once under the dominion of her husband's
ancestors; but what was to be done? A carriage, indeed, we had, which
would have held six, and if required, eight persons; though the
gilding was somewhat tarnished, and a few industrious spiders had spun
their delicate nets in the windows, and between the spokes of the
wheels. Neither were horses wanting, for on the side of the mountain
were eight coursers, with tails and manes as long as the locks of a
mermaid, and a plentiful supply of hair to correspond about their
feet. They were somewhat aged, indeed, and for the last six years they
had gone about slip-shod amongst the hills, enjoying the _otium cum
dignitate_ which neither men nor horses often find. Still they would
have done; but where were we to find the six men dressed in the
colours of the family, necessary to protect the foot-board behind?
where the four stout cavaliers, armed up to the teeth, to ride | 204.774484 |
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[Illustration: The Burland Desbarats Lith. Co. Montreal
RUINS OF THE GERMAIN ST. BAPTIST CHURCH BY MOONLIGHT.
From a Sketch by John C. Miles, Artist.]
THE STORY
OF THE
=Great Fire in St. John, N.B.=
JUNE 20TH, 1877.
BY
GEORGE STEWART, JR.,
_OF ST. JOHN, N.B._
=Toronto:=
BELFORD BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS.
ST. JOHN, N.B.: R. A. H. MORROW; MONTREAL, P. Q.:
DAWSON BROS.; TORONTO, ONT.: JAS. CLARKE &
CO.; DETROIT, MICH.: CRAIG & TAYLOR;
BOSTON: LOCKWOOD, BROOKS & CO.
[Illustration: PAPER MANUFACTURED BY CANADA PAPER COY MONTREAL]
Entered according to the Act of Parliament of Canada, in the year one
thousand eight hundred and seventy-seven, by BELFORD BROTHERS, in the
office of the Minister of Agriculture.
HUNTER, ROSE, & CO,
PRINTERS AND BINDERS.
TORONTO.
TO
_GILBERT MURDOCH, C. E._,
MY FIRST FRIEND,
I DEDICATE THIS VOLUME.
=The Author.=
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
PAGE
The Great Fire--Its Extent--Its Terrible Rapidity--A Glance
Backward--What the People Passed Through--The First Fire--
Protective Movements--The People who Lent the City Money--
Minor Fires--Fire of 1823--The Great Fire of 1837--The
Calamity of 1839--The Trials of 1841--The King Street Fire 9
CHAPTER II.
The Late Fire--Its Origin--Bravery of the Firemen--The High
Wind--The Fire's Career--Fighting the Flames--Almost Lost--
The Escape from the Burning Building--Destruction of Dock
Street--Smyth Street in Flames--The Wharves--Demolition of
Market Square--Something about the Business Houses there--
The Banks--Fire Checked at North Street 19
CHAPTER III.
The Fire in King Street--Recollections--The Old Coffee House
Corner--The Stores in King Street--The Old Masonic Hall--The
St. John Hotel--Its Early Days--The Bell Tower--King Square--
A Night of Horror--The Vultures at Work--Plundering the
Destitute 27
CHAPTER IV.
The Fire in Germain Street--The First Brick House in St. John
--Old Trinity--The Loyalists--Curious Ideas about Insurance--
The Rectors of Trinity--The Clock--The Royal Arms 36
CHAPTER V.
The Old Curiosity Shop on Germain Street--A Quaint Old Place
--"Rubbish Shot Here"--Notman's Studio--The Mother of Methodism
--Destruction of the Germain Street Methodist Church--Burning
of the Academy of Music--The Old Grammar School--Presbyterians
among the Loyalists--The "Auld Kirk"--Saint Andrew's--The Grants
of Land--Legislation--The Building of the Kirk--Ministers--The
"Victoria" in Flames--Fascination of the Fire--The "Victoria"
in Ruins--What might have saved it 48
CHAPTER VI.
The Odd Fellows' | 204.799519 |
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THE COMING OF THE PRINCESS; AND OTHER POEMS.
BY
KATE SEYMOUR MACLEAN, KINGSTON, ONTARIO.
AN INTRODUCTION, BY THE EDITOR OF "THE CANADIAN MONTHLY."
INTRODUCTION.
BY G MERCER ADAM.
The request of the author that I should write a few words of
preface to this collection of poems must be my excuse for obtruding
myself upon the reader. Having frequently had the pleasure as
editor of _The Canadian Monthly_, of introducing many of Mrs.
MacLean's poems to lovers of verse in the Dominion it was thought
not unfitting that I should act as foster father to the collection
of them here made and to bespeak for the volume at the hands at
least of all Canadians the appreciative and kindly reception due to a
Child of the first winds and suns of a nation.
Accepting the task assigned to me the more readily as I discern the
high and sustained excellence of the collection as a whole let me
ask that the volume be received with interest as a further and most
meritorious contribution to the poetical literature of our young
country (the least that can be said of the work), and with sympathy
for the intellectual and moral aspirations that have called it into
being.
There is truth, doubtless, in the remark, that we are enriched less
by what we have than by what we hope to have. As the poetic art in
Canada has had little of an appreciable past, it may therefore be
thought that the songs that are to catch and retain the ear of the
nation lie still in the future, and are as yet unsung. Doubtless
the chords have yet to be struck that are to give to Canada the
songs of her loftiest genius; but he would be an ill friend of the
country's literature who would slight the achievements of the
present in reaching solely after what, it is hoped, the coming time
will bring.
But whatever of lyrical treasure the future may enshrine in
Canadian literature, and however deserving may be the claims of the
volumes of verse that have already appeared from the native press,
I am bold to claim for these productions of Mrs. MacLean's muse a
high place in the national collection and a warm corner in the
national heart.
To discern the merit of a poem is proverbially easier than to say
how and in what manner it is manifested. In a collection the task
of appraisement is not so difficult. Lord Houghton has said: "There
is in truth no critic of poetry but the man who enjoys it, and the
amount of gratification felt is the only just measure of
criticism." By this test the present volume will, in the main, be
judged. Still, there are characteristics of the author's work which
I may be permitted to point out. In Mrs. MacLean's volume what
quickly strikes one is not only the fact that the poems are all of
a high order of merit, but that a large measure of art and instinct
enters into the composition of each of them. As readily will it be
recognized that they are the product of a cultivated intellect, a
bright fancy, and a feeling heart. A rich spiritual life breathes
throughout the work, and there are occasional manifestations of
fervid impulse and ardent feeling. Yet there is no straining of
expression in the poems nor is there any loose fluency of thought.
Throughout there is sustained elevation and lofty purpose. Her
least work, moreover, is worthy of her, because it is always honest
work. With a quiet simplicity of style there is at the same time a
fine command of language and an earnest beauty of thought. The
grace and melody of the versification, indeed, few readers will
fail to appreciate. Occasionally there are echoes of other
poets--Jean Ingelow and Mrs. Barrett Browning, in the more
subjective pieces, being oftenest suggested. But there is a voice
as well as an echo--the voice of a poet in her own right. In an age
so bustling and heedless as this, it were well sometimes to stop
and listen to the voice In its fine spiritualizations we shall at
least be soothed and may be bettered.
But I need not dwell on the vocation of poetry or on the excellence
of the poems here introduced. The one is well known to the reader,
the other may soon be. Happily there is promise that Canada will
ere long be rich in her poets. They stand in the vanguard of the
country's benefactors, and so should be cherished and encouraged.
Of late our serial literature has given us more than blossomings.
The present volume enshrines some of the maturer fruit. May it be
its mission to nourish the poetic sentiment among us. May it do
more to nourish in some degree the "heart of the nation", and, in
the range of its influence, that of humanity.
CANADIAN MONTHLY OFFICE,
Toronto, December, 1880
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Coming of the Princess
Bird Song
An Idyl of the May
The Burial of the Scout
Questionings
<DW29>s
November Meteors
Pictures in the Fire
A Madrigal
The Ploughboy
The Voice of Many Waters
The Death of Autumn
A Farewell
The News Boy's Dream of the New Year
The Old Church on the Hill
The Burning of Chicago
The Legend of the New Year
By the Sea-Shore at Night
Resurgam
Written in a Cemetery
Marguerite
The Watch-Light
New Year, 1868
Thanksgiving
Miserere
Beyond
The Sabbath of the Woods
A Valentine
Snow-Drops
Easter Bells
In the Sierra Nevada
Summer Rain
A Baby's Death
Christmas
My Garden
River Song
The Return
Voices of Hope
In the Country
Science, the Iconoclast
What the Owl said to me
Our Volunteers
Night: A Phantasy
A Monody
Minnie
The Golden Wedding
Verses Written in Mary's Album
The Woods in June
The Isle of Sleep
The Battle Autumn of 1862
In War Time
Christmas Hymn
Te Deum Laudamus
A November Wood-Walk
Resignation
Euthanasia
Ballad of the Mad Ladye
The Coming of the King
With a Bunch of Spring Flowers
The Higher Law
May
Two Windows
The Meeting of Spirits
George Brown
Forgotten Songs
To the Daughter of the Author of "Violet Keith"
A Prelude, and a Bird's Song
An April Dawn
ENVOI
A little bird woke singing in the night,
Dreaming of coming day,
And piped, for very fulness of delight,
His little roundelay.
Dreaming he heard the wood-lark's carol loud,
Down calling to his mate,
Like silver rain out of a golden cloud,
At morning's radiant gate.
And all for joy of his embowering woods,
And dewy leaves he sung,--
The summer sunshine, and the summer floods
By forest flowers o'erhung.
Thou shalt not hear those wild and sylvan notes
When morn's full chorus pours
Rejoicing from a thousand feathered throats,
And the lark sings and soars,
Oh poet of our glorious land so fair,
Whose foot is at the door;
Even so my song shall melt into the air,
And die and be no more.
But thou shalt live, part of the nation's life;
The world shall hear thy voice
Singing above the noise of war and strife,
And therefore I rejoice!
THE COMING OF THE PRINCESS
I.
Break dull November skies, and make
Sunshine over wood and lake,
And fill your cells of frosty air
With thousand | 204.807401 |
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AN ADVANCED ENGLISH GRAMMAR
WITH EXERCISES
BY
GEORGE LYMAN KITTREDGE
GURNEY PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN
HARVARD UNIVERSITY
AND
FRANK EDGAR FARLEY
PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH LITERATURE IN
WESLEYAN UNIVERSITY
GINN AND COMPANY
BOSTON · NEW YORK · CHICAGO · LONDON
ATLANTA · DALLAS · COLUMBUS · SAN FRANCISCO
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY GEORGE LYMAN KITTREDGE
AND FRANK EDGAR FARLEY
ENTERED AT STATIONERS’ HALL
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
424.2
The Athenæum Press
GINN AND COMPANY · PROPRIETORS
· BOSTON · U.S.A.
PREFACE
This grammar is intended for students who have already received
instruction in the rudiments. Still, every such textbook must begin
at the beginning. Part One, therefore, which occupies pp. 1–24, gives
a succinct treatment of the Parts of Speech in the Sentence and of
their substitutes, the Phrase and the Clause, concluding with a Summary
of Definitions. Thus it clears the way for what follows, and may be
utilized as a review, if the student needs to refresh his memory.
Part Two deals specifically and fully with Inflections and Syntax (pp.
25–182). It includes also a chapter on the use of subordinate clauses
as nouns, adjectives, and adverbs (pp. 157–162), as well as a chapter
in which such clauses are logically classified in accordance with their
particular offices in the expression of thought (pp. 163–182).
Part Three (pp. 183–226) develops the subject of Analysis in its
natural order, first explaining how sentences are put together, and
then illustrating the process by which they may be resolved into their
constituent parts. Modifiers and Complements are classified, and the
so-called Independent Elements are discussed. There is added a special
chapter on Combinations of Clauses, in which the grammatical and
logical relations of coördination and subordination are set forth, and
their functions in the effective use of language are considered. This
portion of the book, it is hoped, will be especially useful to students
of English composition.
The Appendix furnishes lists of verbs, tables of conjugation, rules
for capitals and marks of punctuation, a summary of important rules of
syntax, and a brief history of the English language.
The Exercises (pp. 227–290) are collected at the end of the text, so
as not to break continuity. References prefixed to each, as well as
page-numbers in the Table of Contents, enable the teacher to attach
them, at will, to the topics which they concern. The passages for
parsing, analysis, etc., have been carefully selected from a wide
range of eminent British and American writers. The name of the author
is often appended to the quotation, when the passage is particularly
noteworthy either for its contents or its form. In most cases, however,
this has not been done; but the student may always feel confident that
he is occupying himself with specimens of English as actually composed
by distinguished authors. The constructive exercises call particular
attention to those matters in which error is especially prevalent.
An advanced grammar must aim to be serviceable in two ways. It should
afford the means for continuous and systematic study of the subject
or of any part of it; and it should also be useful for reference in
connection with the study of composition and of literature. With this
latter end in view, many notes and observations have been included,
in smaller type, to show the nature and development of the various
forms and constructions, and to point out differences between the
usage of to-day and that which the student observes in Shakspere and
other English classics. The fulness of the index makes it easy to find
anything that the volume contains.
In accordance with the desire of many teachers, certain topics of
importance have been treated with unusual thoroughness. Among these may
be mentioned the uses of _shall_ and _will_, _should_ and _would_, the
infinitive and the infinitive clause, conditional sentences, indirect
discourse, and the combination of clauses in sentences of different
kinds.
The authors are indebted to several teachers for suggestions and
criticism. Particular acknowledgment is due to Mr. Theodore C.
Mitchill, of the Jamaica High School, New York, and Mr. C. L. Hooper,
of the Chicago Normal School.
CONTENTS
[_The numbers in the first column refer to the pages of the text; those
in the second column to the pages of the Exercises._]
INTRODUCTION
TEXT EXERCISES
Language and Grammar xi
Grammar and Usage xv
Summary of General Principles xvii
ENGLISH GRAMMAR
PART ONE--THE PARTS OF SPEECH IN THE SENTENCE
The Sentence--Subject and Predicate 1 227
Kinds of Sentences 2 227
The Eight Parts of Speech Defined 3 228
The Same Word as Different Parts of Speech 9 229
Infinitives and Participles 11 229
Comparative Importance of the Parts of Speech 13
Simple and Complete Subject and Predicate 14 230
Compound Subject and Predicate 15 230
Substitutes for the Parts of Speech 16 231
Phrases--Noun, Verb, Adjective, Adverbial 16 231
Clauses--Independent and Subordinate 16 232
Compound and Complex Sentences 17 232
Compound Complex Sentences 18 232
Clauses as Parts of Speech 19 232
Summary of Definitions 21
PART TWO--INFLECTION AND SYNTAX
CHAPTER I--INFLECTION
Inflection in General 25
Summary of Inflections 26
CHAPTER II--NOUNS
Classification--Common Nouns and Proper Nouns 27 233
Special Classes--Abstract, Collective, Compound 29 234
Inflection of Nouns 30 235
Gender 31 235
Number 34 235
Person 39 236
Case 40 237
Nominative Case 41 237
Possessive Case 43 238
Objective Case 47 239
Parsing of Nouns 54 240
CHAPTER III--PRONOUNS
Personal Pronouns 55 241
Gender and Number of Personal Pronouns 56 241
Case of Personal Pronouns 57 241
The Self-Pronouns (Compound Personal Pronouns) 60 241
Adjective Pronouns--Demonstratives 62 243
Adjective Pronouns--Indefinites 64 243
Relative Pronouns 66 244
The Relative Pronoun _What_ 71 246
Compound Relative Pronouns 72 246
Interrogative Pronouns 73 246
Parsing of Pronouns 74 247
CHAPTER IV--ADJECTIVES
Classification of Adjectives 75 248
Adjectives--the Articles 77 248
Comparison of Adjectives 79 249
Irregular Comparison 81 249
CHAPTER V--ADVERBS
Classification of Adverbs 83 250
Relative and Interrogative Adverbs 86 251
Comparison of Adverbs 87 252
Use of the Comparative and Superlative 88 252
Numerals--Adjectives, Nouns, Adverbs 89 252
CHAPTER VI--VERBS
Classification of Verbs 91 253
Auxiliary Verbs--Verb-Phrases 91 253
Transitive and Intransitive Verbs 92 253
Copulative Verbs 93 253
Inflection of Verbs 94 254
Tense of Verbs 94 254
Present and Past Tenses 94 254
Weak (Regular) and Strong (Irregular) Verbs 95 254
Person and Number 97 254
The Personal Endings 97 254
Conjugation of the Present and the Past 98 254
Special Rules of Number and Person 100 254
The Future Tense--_Shall_ and _Will_ 102 256
Complete or Compound Tenses 106 258
Voice--Active and Passive 107 258
Conjugation of the Six Tenses 108 258
Use of the Passive Voice 110 258
Progressive Verb-Phrases 113 260
Emphatic Verb-Phrases 114 260
Mood of Verbs 115 261
Indicative Mood 115 261
Imperative Mood 116 261
Subjunctive Mood--Forms 118 261
Uses of the Subjunctive 119 261
Potential Verb-Phrases (Modal Auxiliaries) 124 262
Special Rules for _Should_ and _Would_ 127 264
The Infinitive 132 266
The Infinitive as a Noun 134 266
The Infinitive as a Modifier 136 266
The Infinitive Clause 137 267
Participles--Forms and Constructions 140 268
Nominative Absolute 144 269
Verbal Nouns in _-ing_ (Participial Nouns) 145 269
CHAPTER VII--PREPOSITIONS
List of Prepositions 148 270
Special Uses of Prepositions 149 270
CHAPTER VIII--CONJUNCTIONS
Coördinate (or Coördinating) Conjunctions 151 270
Subordinate (or Subordinating) Conjunctions 153 270
Correlative Conjunctions 153 270
CHAPTER IX--INTERJECTIONS
Interjections 155 272
Exclamatory Expressions 155 272
CHAPTER X--CLAUSES AS PARTS OF SPEECH
Clauses as Parts of Speech 157 272
Adjective Clauses 157 272
Adverbial Clauses 158 272
Noun (or Substantive) Clauses 159 272
CHAPTER XI--THE MEANINGS OF SUBORDINATE CLAUSES
Clauses of Place and Time 163 272
Causal Clauses 164 272
Concessive Clauses 164 272
Clauses of Purpose and Result 166 274
Conditional Sentences 167 274
Forms of Conditions 169 274
Present and Past Conditions 170 274
Future Conditions 171 274
Clauses of Comparison 173 275
Indirect Discourse 173 277
_Shall_ and _Will_, _Should_ and _Would_
in Indirect Discourse 177 278
Indirect Questions 179 280
_Shall_ and _Will_, _Should_ and _Would_
in Indirect Questions 182 281
PART THREE--ANALYSIS
CHAPTER I--THE STRUCTURE OF SENTENCES
Analysis--the Elements 183 282
Simple Sentences 184 282
Compound Sentences 185 282
Complex Sentences 186 282
Compound and Complex Clauses 186 287
Compound Complex Sentences 187 283
CHAPTER II--ANALYSIS OF SENTENCES
Simple Sentences 188 283
Compound Sentences 188 283
Complex Sentences 189 283
Compound Complex Sentences 190 283
CHAPTER III--MODIFIERS
Modifiers in General 191 283
Modifiers of the Subject 192 283
Modifiers of the Predicate 196 284
CHAPTER IV--COMPLEMENTS
Use of Complements 200 285
The Direct Object 201 285
The Predicate Objective 202 285
The Predicate Nominative 202 285
The Predicate Adjective 203 285
CHAPTER V--MODIFIERS OF COMPLEMENTS AND OF MODIFIERS
Modifiers of Complements 205 286
Modifiers of Other Modifiers 207 286
CHAPTER VI--INDEPENDENT ELEMENTS
Four Kinds of Independent Elements 209 286
Parenthetical Expressions 209 286
CHAPTER VII--COMBINATIONS OF CLAUSES
General Principles 210 287
Coördination and Subordination 210 287
Clauses--Simple, Compound, Complex 211 287
Complex Sentences 186 282
Simple Sentences with Compound Subject or Predicate 212 287
Compound and Complex Sentences 213 287
Compound Complex Sentences 215 287
Varieties of the Complex Sentence 216 287
Special Complications in Complex Sentences 220 288
Special Complications in Compound Complex Sentences 222 288
CHAPTER VIII--ELLIPTICAL SENTENCES
Ellipsis in Clauses and Sentences 224 288
Varieties of Ellipsis 225 288
Examples of Elliptical Constructions 226 288
EXERCISES
Exercises on Part One 227
Exercises on Part Two 233
Exercises on Part Three 282
APPENDIX
Lists of Verbs 291
Conjugation of the Verb _to be_ 300
Conjugation of the Verb _to strike_ 301
Use of Capital Letters 305
Rules of Punctuation 306
Rules of Syntax 311
The English Language 316
INDEX 321
INTRODUCTION
LANGUAGE AND GRAMMAR
I. THE NATURE OF LANGUAGE
Language is the expression of thought by means of spoken or written
words.
The English word _language_ comes (through the French _langue_) from
the Latin _lingua_, “the tongue.” But the tongue is not the only organ
used in speaking. The lips, the teeth, the roof of the mouth, the soft
palate (or uvula), the nose, and the vocal chords all help to produce
the sounds of which language consists. These various organs make up one
delicate and complicated piece of mechanism upon which the breath of
the speaker acts like that of a musician upon a clarinet or other wind
instrument.
Spoken language, then, is composed of a great variety of sounds made
with the vocal organs. A word may consist of one sound (as _Ah!_ or _O_
or _I_), but most words consist of two or more different sounds (as
_go_, _see_, _try_, _finish_). Long or short, however, a word is merely
a sign made to express thought.
Thought may be imperfectly expressed by signs made with the head, the
hands, etc. Thus, if I grasp a person’s arm and point to a dog, he may
understand me to ask, “Do you see that dog?” And his nod in reply may
stand for “Yes, I see him.” But any dialogue carried on in this way
must be both fragmentary and uncertain. To express our thoughts fully,
freely, and accurately, we must use words,--that is, signs made with
the voice. Such voice-signs have had meanings associated with them by
custom or tradition, so that their sense is at once understood by all.
Their advantage is twofold: they are far more numerous and varied than
other signs; and the meanings attached to them are much more definite
than those of nods and gestures.
Written words are signs made with the pen to represent and recall
to the mind the spoken words (or voice-signs). Written language
(that is, composition) must, of necessity, be somewhat fuller than
spoken language, as well as more formal and exact. For the reader’s
understanding is not assisted by the tones of the voice, the changing
expressions of the face, and the lively gestures, which help to make
spoken language intelligible.
Most words are the signs of definite ideas. Thus, _Charles_, _captain_,
_cat_, _mouse_, _bread_, _stone_, _cup_, _ink_, call up images or
pictures of persons or things; _strike_, _dive_, _climb_, _dismount_,
express particular kinds of action; _green_, _blue_, _careless_,
_rocky_, _triangular_, _muscular_, enable us to describe objects with
accuracy. Even general terms like _goodness_, _truth_, _courage_,
_cowardice_, _generosity_, have sufficiently precise meanings, for
they name qualities, or traits of character, with which everybody is
familiar.
By the use of such words, even when not combined in groups, we can
express our thoughts much more satisfactorily than by mere gestures.
The utterance of the single word “Charles!” may signify: “Hullo,
Charles! are you here? I am surprised to see you.” “Bread!” may suggest
to the hearer: “Give me bread! I am very hungry.” “Courage!” may be
almost equivalent to, “Don’t be down-hearted! Your troubles will soon
be over.”
Language, however, is not confined to the utterance of single words.
To express our thoughts we must put words together,--we must combine
them into groups; and such groups have settled meanings (just as words
have), established (like the meanings of single words) by the customs
or habits of the particular language that we are speaking or writing.
Further, these groups are not thrown together haphazard. We must
construct them in accordance with certain fixed rules. Otherwise we
shall fail to express ourselves clearly and acceptably, and we may even
succeed in saying the opposite of what we mean.
In constructing these groups (which we call +phrases+, +clauses+, and
+sentences+) we have the aid of a large number of short words like
_and_, _if_, _by_, _to_, _in_, _is_, _was_, which are very different
from the definite and picturesque words that we have just examined.
They do not call up distinct images in the mind, and we should find
it hard to define any of them. Yet their importance in the expression
of thought is clear; for they serve to join other words together, and
to show their relation to each other in those groups which make up
connected speech.
Thus, “box heavy” conveys some meaning; but “_The_ box _is_ heavy” is
a clear and definite statement. _The_ shows that some particular box
is meant, and _is_ enables us to make an assertion about it. _And_, in
“Charles and John are my brothers,” indicates that Charles and John are
closely connected in my thought, and that what I say of one applies
also to the other. _If_, in “If Charles comes, I shall be glad to see
him,” connects two statements, and shows that one of them is a mere
supposition (for Charles may or may not come).
In grouping words, our language has three different ways of indicating
their relations: (1) the forms of the words themselves; (2) their
order; (3) the use of little words like _and_, _if_, _is_, etc.
I. +Change of form.+ Words may change their form. Thus the word _boy_
becomes _boys_ when more than one is meant; _kill_ becomes _killed_
when past time is referred to; _was_ becomes _were_ when we are
speaking of two or more persons or things; _fast_ becomes _faster_ when
a higher degree of speed is indicated. Such change of form is called
+inflection+, and the word is said to be +inflected+.
Inflection is an important means of showing the relations of words
in connected speech. In “Henry’s racket weighs fourteen ounces,”
the form _Henry’s_ shows at once the relation between Henry and the
racket,--namely, that Henry owns or possesses it. The word _Henry_,
then, may change its form to _Henry’s_ to indicate ownership or
possession.
II. +Order of words.+ In “John struck Charles,” the way in which the
words are arranged shows who it was that struck, and who received the
blow. Change the order of words to “Charles struck John,” and the
meaning is reversed. It is, then, the +order+ that shows the relation
of _John_ to _struck_, and of _struck_ to _Charles_.
III. +Use of other words.+ Compare the two sentences:
The train _from_ Boston has just arrived.
The train _for_ Boston has just arrived.
Here _from_ and _for_ show the relation between the _train_ and
_Boston_. “The Boston train” might mean either the train _from_ Boston
or the train _for_ Boston. By using _from_ or _for_ we make the sense
unmistakable.
Two matters, then, are of vital importance in language,--the forms of
words, and the relations of words. The science which treats of these
two matters is called +grammar+.
+Inflection is a change in the form of a word indicating some change in
its meaning.+
+The relation in which a word stands to other words in the sentence is
called its construction.+
+Grammar is the science which treats of the forms and the constructions
of words.+
+Syntax is that department of grammar which treats of the constructions
of words.+
Grammar, then, may be said to concern itself with two main
subjects,--inflection and syntax.
English belongs to a family of languages--the Indo-European
Family[1]--which is rich in forms of inflection. This richness may
be seen in other members of the family,--such as Greek or Latin. The
Latin word _homo_, “man,” for example, has eight different inflectional
forms,--_homo_, “a man”; _hominis_, “of a man”; _homini_, “to a
man,” and so on. Thus, in Latin, the grammatical construction of a
word is, in general, shown by that particular inflectional ending
(or termination) which it has in any particular sentence. In the
Anglo-Saxon period,[2] English was likewise well furnished with such
inflectional endings, though not so abundantly as Latin. Many of these,
however, had disappeared by Chaucer’s time (1340–1400), and still
others have since been lost, so that modern English is one of the
least inflected of languages. Such losses are not to be lamented. By
due attention to the order of words, and by using _of_, _to_, _for_,
_from_, _in_, and the like, we can express all the relations denoted by
the ancient inflections. The gain in simplicity is enormous.
II. GRAMMAR AND USAGE
Since language is the expression of thought, the rules of grammar
agree, in the main, with the laws of thought. In other words, grammar
is usually logical,--that is, its rules accord, in general, with the
principles of logic, which is the science of exact reasoning.
The rules of grammar, however, do not derive their authority from
logic, but from good usage,--that is, from the customs or habits
followed by educated speakers and writers. These customs, of course,
differ among different nations, and every language has therefore its
own stock of peculiar constructions or turns of expression. Such
peculiarities are called +idioms+.
Thus, in English we say, “It is I”; but in French the idiom is “C’est
moi,” which corresponds to “It is me.” Many careless speakers of
English follow the French idiom in this particular, but their practice
has not yet come to be the accepted usage. Hence, though “C’est moi” is
correct in French, we must still regard “It is me” as ungrammatical in
English. It would, however, become correct if it should ever be adopted
by the great majority of educated persons.
Grammar does not enact laws for the conduct of speech. Its business is
to ascertain and set forth those customs of language which have the
sanction of good usage. If good usage changes, the rules of grammar
must change. If two forms or constructions are in good use, the
grammarian must admit them both. Occasionally, also, there is room
for difference of opinion. These facts, however, do not lessen the
authority of grammar in the case of any cultivated language. For in
such a language usage is so well settled in almost every particular
as to enable the grammarian to say positively what is right and what
is wrong. Even in matters of divided usage, it is seldom difficult to
determine which of two forms or constructions is preferred by careful
writers.
Every language has two standards of usage,--the colloquial and
the literary. By “colloquial language,” we mean the language of
conversation; by “literary language,” that employed in literary
composition. Everyday colloquial English admits many words, forms,
phrases, and constructions that would be out of place in a dignified
essay. On the other hand, it is an error in taste to be always “talking
like a book.” Unpractised speakers and writers should, however, be
conservative. They should avoid, even in informal talk, any word or
expression that is of doubtful propriety. Only those who know what they
are about, can venture to take liberties. It is quite possible to be
correct without being stilted or affected.[3]
Every living language is constantly changing. Words, forms, and
constructions become +obsolete+ (that is, go out of use) and others
take their places. Consequently, one often notes in the older English
classics, methods of expression which, though formerly correct, are
ungrammatical now. Here a twofold caution is necessary. On the one
hand, we must not criticise Shakspere or Chaucer for using the English
of his own time; but, on the other hand, we must not try to defend our
own errors by appealing to ancient usage.
Examples of constructions once in good use, but no longer admissible,
are: “the best of the two” (for “the better of the two”); “the most
unkindest cut of all”; “There’s two or three of us” (for _there
are_); “I have forgot the map” (for _forgotten_); “Every one of these
letters are in my name” (for _is_); “I think it be” (for _is_).
The language of poetry admits many old words, forms, and constructions
that are no longer used in ordinary prose. These are called +archaisms+
(that is, ancient expressions). Among the commonest archaisms are
_thou_, _ye_, _hath_, _thinkest_, _doth_. Such forms are also common in
prose, in what is known as the +solemn style+, which is modelled, in
great part, on the language of the Bible.[4]
In general, it should be remembered that the style which one uses
should be appropriate,--that is, it should fit the occasion. A short
story and a scientific exposition will differ in style; a familiar
letter will naturally shun the formalities of business or legal
correspondence. Good style is not a necessary result of grammatical
correctness, but without such correctness it is, of course, impossible.
SUMMARY OF GENERAL PRINCIPLES
1. Language is the expression of thought by means of spoken or written
words.
2. Words are the signs of ideas.
Spoken words are signs made with the vocal organs; written words are
signs made with the pen to represent the spoken words.
The meanings of these signs are settled by custom or tradition in each
language.
3. Most words are the signs of definite ideas: as,--_Charles_,
_captain_, _cat_, _strike_, _dive_, _climb_, _triangular_, _careless_.
Other words, of less definite meaning, serve to connect the more
definite words and to show their relations to each other in connected
speech.
4. In the expression of thought, words are combined into groups called
phrases, clauses, and sentences.
5. The relation in which a word stands to other words in the sentence
is called its construction.
The construction of English words is shown in three ways: (1) by their
form; (2) by their order; (3) by the use of other words like _to_,
_from_, _is_, etc.
6. Inflection is a change in the form of a word indicating some change
in its meaning: as,--_boy_, _boy’s_; _man_, _men_; _drink_, _drank_.
7. Grammar is the science which treats of the forms and the
constructions of words.
Syntax is that department of grammar which treats of the constructions
of words.
8. The rules of grammar derive their authority from good usage,--that
is, from the customs or habits followed by educated speakers and
writers.
ENGLISH GRAMMAR
PART ONE
THE PARTS OF SPEECH IN THE SENTENCE
+Summary.+ The Sentence: Subject and Predicate; Kinds of
Sentences.--Use of words in the Sentence: the Eight Parts of Speech;
Infinitives and Participles.--Comparative Importance of the Parts
of Speech in the Sentence: the Subject Noun (or Simple Subject);
the Predicate Verb (or Simple Predicate); Compound Subject and
Predicate.--Substitutes for the Parts of Speech: Phrases; Clauses;
Compound and Complex Sentences.
THE SENTENCE
+1.+ +A sentence is a group of words which expresses a complete
thought.+
Fire burns.
Wolves howl.
Rain is falling.
Charles is courageous.
Patient effort removes mountains.
London is the largest city in the world.
A man who respects himself should never condescend to use slovenly
language.
Some of these sentences are short, expressing a very simple thought;
others are comparatively long, because the thought is more complicated
and therefore requires more words for its expression. But every one
of them, whether short or long, is complete in itself. It comes to a
definite end, and is followed by a full pause.
+2.+ Every sentence, whether short or long, consists of two parts,--a
+subject+ and a +predicate+.
+The subject of a sentence designates the person, place, or thing that
is spoken of; the predicate is that which is said of the subject.+
Thus, in the first example in § 1, the subject is _fire_ and the
predicate is _burns_. In the third, the subject is _rain_; the
predicate, _is falling_. In the last, the subject is _a man who
respects himself_; the predicate, _should never condescend to use
slovenly language_.
Either the subject or the predicate may consist of a single word or of
a number of words. But neither the subject by itself nor the predicate
by itself, however extended, is a sentence. The mere mention of a thing
(_fire_) does not express a complete thought. Neither does a mere
assertion (_burns_), if we neglect to mention the person or thing about
which the assertion is made. Thus it appears that both a subject and a
predicate are necessary to make a sentence.
+3.+ +Sentences may be declarative, interrogative, imperative, or
exclamatory.+
1. +A declarative sentence declares or asserts something as a fact.+
Dickens wrote “David Copperfield.”
The army approached the city.
2. +An interrogative sentence asks a question.+
Who is that officer?
Does Arthur Moore live here?
3. +An imperative sentence expresses a command or a request.+
Open the window.
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[Illustration: ITS WALLS WERE AS OF JASPER]
DREAM DAYS
_COMPANION VOLUME TO THIS BOOK_
THE GOLDEN AGE
BY
KENNETH GRAHAME
_PROFUSELY ILLUSTRATED BY MAXFIELD PARRISH_
DREAM DAYS
[Illustration]
DREAM DAYS
BY KENNETH GRAHAME
ILLUSTRATED BY MAXFIELD PARRISH
JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
LONDON AND NEW YORK
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE TWENTY-FIRST OF OCTOBER 3
DIES IRAE 25
MUTABILE SEMPER 47
THE MAGIC RING 71
ITS WALLS WERE AS OF JASPER 97
A SAGA OF THE SEAS 123
THE RELUCTANT DRAGON 149
A DEPARTURE 207
THE TWENTY-FIRST OF OCTOBER
IN the matter of general culture and attainments, we youngsters stood on
pretty level ground. True, it was always happening that one of us would
be singled out at any moment, freakishly, and without regard to his own
preferences, to wrestle with the inflections of some idiotic language
long rightly dead; while another, from some fancied artistic tendency
which always failed to justify itself, might be told off without warning
to hammer out scales and exercises, and to bedew the senseless keys with
tears of weariness or of revolt. But in subjects common to either sex,
and held to be necessary even for him whose ambition soared no higher
than to crack a whip in a circus-ring--in geography, for instance,
arithmetic, or the weary doings of kings and queens--each would have
scorned to excel. And, indeed, whatever our individual gifts, a general
dogged determination to shirk and to evade kept us all at much the same
dead level,--a level of ignorance tempered by insubordination.
Fortunately there existed a wide range of subjects, of healthier tone
than those already enumerated, in which we were free to choose for
ourselves, and which we would have scorned to consider education; and in
these we freely followed each his own particular line, often attaining
an amount of special knowledge which struck our ignorant elders as
simply uncanny. For Edward, the uniforms, accoutrements, colours, and
mottoes of the regiments composing the British Army had a special
glamour. In the matter of facings he was simply faultless; among
chevrons, badges, medals, and stars, he moved familiarly; he even knew
the names of most of the colonels in command; and he would squander
sunny hours prone on the lawn, heedless of challenge from bird or beast,
poring over a tattered Army List. My own accomplishment was of another
character--took, as it seemed to me, a wider and a more untrammelled
range. Dragoons might have swaggered in Lincoln green, riflemen might
have donned sporrans over tartan trews, without exciting notice or
comment from me. But did you seek precise information as to the fauna of
the American continent, then you had come to the right shop. Where and
why the bison "wallowed"; how beaver were to be trapped and wild turkeys
stalked; the grizzly and how to handle him, and the pretty pressing ways
of the constrictor,--in fine, the haunts and the habits of all that
burrowed, strutted, roared, or wriggled between the Atlantic and the
Pacific,--all this knowledge I took for my province. By the others my
equipment was fully recognised. Supposing a book with a bear-hunt in it
made its way into the house, and the atmosphere was electric with
excitement; still, it was necessary that I should first decide whether
the slot had been properly described and properly followed up, ere the
work could be stamped with full approval. A writer might have won fame
throughout the civilised globe for his trappers and his realistic
backwoods, and all went for nothing. If his pemmican were not properly
compounded I damned his achievement, and it was heard no more of.
Harold was hardly old enough to possess a special subject of his own. He
had his instincts, indeed, and at bird's-nesting they almost amounted to
prophecy. Where we others only suspected eggs, surmised possible eggs,
hinted doubtfully at eggs in the neighbourhood, Harold went straight for
the right bush, bough, or hole as if he carried a divining-rod. But this
faculty belonged to the class of mere gifts, and was not to be ranked
with Edward's lore regarding facings, and mine as to the habits of
prairie-dogs, both gained by painful study and extensive travel in those
"realms of gold," the Army List and Ballantyne.
Selina's subject, quite unaccountably, happened to be naval history.
There is no laying down rules as to subjects; you just possess them--or
rather, they possess you--and their genesis or protoplasm is rarely to
be tracked down. Selina had never so much as seen the sea; but for that
matter neither had I ever set foot on the American continent, the
by-ways of which I knew so intimately. And just as I, if set down
without warning in the middle of the Rocky Mountains, would have been
perfectly at home, so Selina, if a genie had dropped her suddenly on
Portsmouth Hard, could have given points to most of its frequenters.
From the days of Blake down to the death of Nelson (she never
condescended further), Selina had taken spiritual part in every notable
engagement of the British Navy; and even in the dark days when she had
to pick up skirts and flee, chased by an ungallant De Ruyter or Van
Tromp, she was yet cheerful in the consciousness that ere long she would
be gleefully hammering the fleets of the world, in the glorious times to
follow. When that golden period arrived, Selina was busy indeed; and,
while loving best to stand where the splinters were flying the thickest,
she was also a careful and critical student of seamanship and of
manoeuvre. She knew the order in which the great line-of-battle ships
moved into action, the vessels they respectively engaged, the moment
when each let go its anchor, and which of them had a spring on its
cable (while not understanding the phrase, she carefully noted the
fact); and she habitually went into an engagement on the quarter-deck of
the gallant ship that reserved its fire the longest.
At the time of Selina's weird seizure I was unfortunately away from
home, on a loathsome visit to an aunt; and my account is therefore
feebly compounded from hearsay. It was an absence I never ceased to
regret--scoring it up, with a sense of injury, against the aunt. There
was a splendid uselessness about the whole performance that specially
appealed to my artistic sense. That it should have been Selina, too, who
should break out this way--Selina, who had just become a regular
subscriber to the "Young Ladies' Journal," and who allowed herself to be
taken out to strange teas with an air of resignation palpably
assumed--this was a special joy, and served to remind me that much of
this dreaded convention that was creeping over us might be, after all,
only veneer. Edward also was absent, getting licked into shape at
school; but to him the loss was nothing. With his stern practical bent
he wouldn't have seen any sense in it--to recall one of his favourite
expressions. To Harold, however, for whom the gods had always cherished
a special tenderness, it was granted, not only to witness, but also,
priestlike, to feed the sacred fire itself. And if at the time he paid
the penalty exacted by the sordid unimaginative ones who temporarily
rule the roast, he must ever after, one feels sure, have carried inside
him some of the white gladness of the acolyte who, greatly privileged,
has been permitted to swing a censer at the sacring of the very Mass.
October was mellowing fast, and with it the year itself; full of tender
hints, in woodland and hedgerow, of a course well-nigh completed. From
all sides that still afternoon you caught the quick breathing and sob of
the runner nearing the goal. Preoccupied and possessed, Selina had
strayed down the garden and out into the pasture beyond, where, on a bit
of rising ground that dominated the garden on one side and the downs
with the old coach-road on the other, she had cast herself down to chew
the cud of fancy. There she was presently joined by Harold, breathless
and very full of his latest grievance.
"I asked him not to," he burst out. "I said if he'd only please wait a
bit and Edward would be back soon, and it couldn't matter to _him_, and
the pig wouldn't mind, and Edward'd be pleased and everybody'd be happy.
But he just said he was very sorry, but bacon didn't wait for nobody. So
I told him he was a regular beast, and then I came away. And--and I
b'lieve they're doing it now!"
"Yes, he's a beast," agreed Selina, absently. She had forgotten all
about the pig-killing. Harold kicked away a freshly thrown-up mole-hill,
and prodded down the hole with a stick. From the direction of Farmer
Larkin's demesne came a long drawn note of sorrow, a thin cry and
appeal, telling that the stout soul of a black Berkshire pig was already
faring down the stony track to Hades.
"D'you know what day it is?" said Selina presently, in a low voice,
looking far away before her.
Harold did not appear to know, nor yet to care. He had laid open his
mole-run for a yard or so, and was still grubbing at it absorbedly.
"It's Trafalgar Day," went on Selina, trancedly; "Trafalgar Day--and
nobody cares!"
Something in her tone told Harold that he was not behaving quite
becomingly. He didn't exactly know in what manner; still, he abandoned
his mole-hunt for a more courteous attitude of attention.
"Over there," resumed Selina--she was gazing out in the direction of the
old highroad--"over there the coaches used to go by. Uncle Thomas was
telling me about it the other day. And the people used to watch for 'em
coming, to tell the time by, and p'r'aps to get their parcels. And one
morning--they wouldn't be expecting anything different--one morning,
first there would be a cloud of dust, as usual, and then the coach would
come racing by, and then they would know! For the coach would be
dressed in laurel, all laurel from stem to stern! And the coachman would
be wearing laurel, and the guard would be wearing laurel, and then they
would know, then they would know!"
Harold listened in respectful silence. He would much rather have been
hunting the mole, who must have been a mile away by this time if he had
his wits about him. But he had all the natural instincts of a gentleman;
of whom it is one of the principal marks, if not the complete
definition, never to show signs of being bored.
Selina rose to her feet, and paced the turf restlessly with a short
quarter-deck walk.
"Why can't we _do_ something?" she burst out presently. "_He_--he did
everything--why can't we do anything for him?"
"_Who_ did everything?" inquired Harold, meekly. It was useless wasting
further longings on that mole. Like the dead, he travelled fast.
"Why, Nelson, of course," said Selina, shortly, still looking restlessly
around for help or suggestion.
"But he's--he's _dead_, isn't he?" asked Harold, slightly puzzled.
"What's that got to do with it?" retorted his sister, resuming her
caged-lion promenade.
Harold was somewhat taken aback. In the case of the pig, for instance,
whose last outcry had now passed into stillness, he had considered the
chapter as finally closed. Whatever innocent mirth the holidays might
hold in store for Edward, that particular pig, at least, would not be a
contributor. And now he was given to understand that the situation had
not materially changed! He would have to revise his ideas, it seemed.
Sitting up on end, he looked towards the garden for assistance in the
task. Thence, even as he gazed, a tiny column of smoke rose straight up
into the still air. The gardener had been sweeping that afternoon, and
now, an unconscious priest, was offering his sacrifice of autumn leaves
to the calm-eyed goddess of changing hues and chill forebodings who was
moving slowly about the land that golden afternoon. Harold was up and
off in a moment, forgetting Nelson, forgetting the pig, the mole, the
Larkin betrayal, and Selina's strange fever of conscience. Here was
fire, real fire, to play with, and that was even better than messing
with water, or remodelling the plastic surface of the earth. Of all the
toys the world provides for right-minded persons, the original elements
rank easily the first.
[Illustration: THE TWENTY-FIRST OF OCTOBER
"_Harold,... with a vision of a frenzied gardener, pea-stickless, and
threatening retribution._"]
But Selina sat on where she was, her chin on her fists; and her fancies
whirled and drifted, here and there, in curls and eddies, along with the
smoke she was watching. As the quick-footed dusk of the short October
day stepped lightly over the garden, little red tongues of fire might be
seen to leap and vanish in the smoke. Harold, anon staggering under
armfuls of leaves, anon stoking vigorously, was discernible only at
fitful intervals. It was another sort of smoke that the inner eye of
Selina was looking upon,--a smoke that hung in sullen banks round the
masts and the hulls of the fighting ships; a smoke from beneath which
came thunder and the crash and the splinter-rip, the shout of the
boarding-party, the choking sob of the gunner stretched by his gun; a
smoke from out of which at last she saw, as through a riven pall,
the radiant spirit of the Victor, crowned with the coronal of a perfect
death, leap in full assurance up into the ether that Immortals breathe.
The dusk was glooming towards darkness when she rose and moved slowly
down towards the beckoning fire; something of the priestess in her
stride, something of the devotee in the set purpose of her eye.
The leaves were well alight by this time, and Harold had just added an
old furze bush, which flamed and crackled stirringly.
"Go 'n' get some more sticks," ordered Selina, "and shavings, 'n' chunks
of wood, 'n' anything you can find. Look here--in the kitchen-garden
there's a pile of old pea-sticks. Fetch as many as you can carry, and
then go back and bring some more!"
"But I say,--" began Harold, amazedly, scarce knowing his sister, and
with a vision of a frenzied gardener, pea-stickless and threatening
retribution.
"Go and fetch 'em quick!" shouted Selina, stamping with impatience.
Harold ran off at once, true to the stern system of discipline in which
he had been nurtured. But his eyes were like round O's, and as he ran he
talked fast to himself, in evident disorder of mind.
The pea-sticks made a rare blaze, and the fire, no longer smouldering
sullenly, leapt up and began to assume the appearance of a genuine
bonfire. Harold, awed into silence at first, began to jump round it with
shouts of triumph. Selina looked on grimly, with knitted brow; she was
not yet fully satisfied. "Can't you get any more sticks?" she said
presently. "Go and hunt about. Get some old hampers and matting and
things out of the tool-house. Smash up that old cucumber frame Edward
shoved you into, the day we were playing scouts and Mohicans. Stop a
bit! Hooray! I know. You come along with me."
Hard by there was a hot-house, Aunt Eliza's special pride and joy, and
even grimly approved of by the gardener. At one end, in an out-house
adjoining, the necessary firing was stored; and to this sacred fuel, of
which we were strictly forbidden to touch a stick, Selina went
straight. Harold followed obediently, prepared for any crime after that
of the pea-sticks, but pinching himself to see if he were really awake.
"You bring some coals," said Selina briefly, without any palaver or
pro-and-con discussion. "Here's a basket. _I'll_ manage the <DW19>s!"
In a very few minutes there was little doubt about its being a genuine
bonfire and no paltry makeshift. Selina, a Maenad now, hatless and
tossing disordered locks, all the dross of the young lady purged out of
her, stalked around the pyre of her own purloining, or prodded it with a
pea-stick. And as she prodded she murmured at intervals, "I _knew_ there
was something we could do! It isn't much--but still it's _something_!"
The gardener had gone home to his tea. Aunt Eliza had driven out for
hers a long way off, and was not expected back till quite late; and this
far end of the garden was not overlooked by any windows. So the Tribute
blazed on merrily unchecked. Villagers far away, catching sight of the
flare, muttered something about "them young devils at their tricks
again", and trudged on beer-wards. Never a thought of what day it was,
never a thought for Nelson, who preserved their honest pint-pots, to be
paid for in honest pence, and saved them from _litres_ and decimal
coinage. Nearer at hand, frightened rabbits popped up and vanished with
a flick of white tails; scared birds fluttered among the branches, or
sped across the glade to quieter sleeping-quarters; but never a bird nor
a beast gave a thought to the hero to whom they owed it that each year
their little homes of horsehair, wool, or moss, were safe stablished
'neath the flap of the British flag; and that Game Laws, quietly
permanent, made _la chasse_ a terror only to their betters. No one
seemed to know, nor to care, nor to sympathise. In all the ecstasy of
her burnt-offering and sacrifice, Selina stood alone.
And yet--not quite alone! For, as the fire was roaring at its best,
certain stars stepped delicately forth on the surface of the immensity
above, and peered down doubtfully--with wonder at first, then with
interest, then with recognition, with a start of glad surprise. _They_
at least knew all about it, _they_ understood. Among _them_ the Name was
a daily familiar word; his story was a part of the music to which they
swung, himself was their fellow and their mate and comrade. So they
peeped, and winked, and peeped again, and called to their laggard
brothers to come quick and see.
* * * * *
"The best of life is but intoxication;" and Selina, who during her brief
inebriation had lived in an ecstasy as golden as our drab existence
affords, had to experience the inevitable bitterness of awakening
sobriety, when the dying down of the flames into sullen embers coincided
with the frenzied entrance of Aunt Eliza on the scene. It was not so
much that she was at once and forever disrated, broke, sent before the
mast, and branded as one on whom no reliance could be placed, even with
Edward safe at school, and myself under the distant vigilance of an
aunt; that her pocket money was stopped indefinitely, and her new Church
Service, the pride of her last birthday, removed from her own custody
and placed under the control of a Trust. She sorrowed rather because she
had dragged poor Harold, against his better judgment, into a most
horrible scrape, and moreover because, when the reaction had fairly set
in, when the exaltation had fizzled away and the young-lady portion of
her had crept timorously back to its wonted lodging, she could only see
herself as a plain fool, unjustified, undeniable, without a shadow of an
excuse or explanation.
As for Harold, youth and a short memory made his case less pitiful than
it seemed to his more sensitive sister. True, he started upstairs to his
lonely cot bellowing dismally, before him a dreary future of pains and
penalties, sufficient to last to the crack of doom. Outside his door,
however, he tumbled over Augustus the cat, and made capture of him; and
at once his mourning was changed into a song of | 205.175449 |
2023-11-16 18:20:29.1564840 | 1,200 | 6 | OGLETHORPE***
E-text prepared by Dave Maddock, Josephine Paolucci, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
BIOGRAPHICAL MEMORIALS OF JAMES OGLETHORPE,
FOUNDER OF THE COLONY OF GEORGIA, IN NORTH AMERICA.
by THADDEUS MASON HARRIS, D.D.
MEMBER OF THE AMERICAN ACADEMY OF ARTS AND SCIENCES; OF THE
ARCHAEOLOGICAL SOCIETY AT ATHENS, GREECE; OF THE MASSACHUSETTS
HISTORICAL SOCIETY; THE NEW YORK HISTORICAL SOCIETY; THE AMERICAN
ANTIQUARIAN SOCIETY; AND CORRESPONDING MEMBER OF THE GEORGIA
HISTORICAL SOCIETY.
MDCCCXLI.
TO THE PRESIDENT, THE VICE PRESIDENTS, THE OFFICERS AND MEMBERS
OF THE
GEORGIA HISTORICAL SOCIETY,
THIS WORK IS
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED.
TO I.K. TEFFT, ESQ., WILLIAM B. STEVENS, M.D., AND A.A. SMETS, ESQ.,
_OF SAVANNAH_;
WITH A LIVELY SENSE OF THE INTEREST WHICH THEY HAVE TAKEN IN THE
PUBLICATION OF THIS WORK, THIS PAGE IS INSCRIBED BY THEIR OBLIGED AND
GRATEFUL FRIEND,
THADDEUS MASON HARRIS.
"Thy great example will in glory shine,
A favorite theme with Poet and Divine;
Posterity thy merits shall proclaim,
And add new honor to thy deathless fame."
_On his return from Georgia_, 1735.
[Illustration: GEN. JAMES OGLETHORPE. _This sketch was taken in
February preceding his decease when he was reading without spectacles
at the sale of the library of Dr. S. Johnson.
PREFACE
Having visited the South for the benefit of my health, I arrived at
Savannah, in Georgia, on the 10th of February, 1834; and, indulging
the common inquisitiveness of a stranger about the place, was informed
that just one hundred and one years had elapsed since the first
settlers were landed there, and the city laid out. Replies to other
inquiries, and especially a perusal of McCall's History of the State,
excited a lively interest in the character of General OGLETHORPE, who
was the founder of the Colony, and in the measures which he pursued
for its advancement, defence, and prosperity. I was, however,
surprised to learn that no biography had been published of the man who
projected an undertaking of such magnitude and importance; engaged in
it on principles the most benevolent and disinterested; persevered
till its accomplishment, under circumstances exceedingly arduous, and
often discouraging; and lived to see "a few become a thousand," and a
weak one "the flourishing part of a strong nation."
So extraordinary did Dr. Johnson consider the adventures, enterprise,
and exploits of this remarkable man, that "he urged him to give the
world his life." He said, "I know of no man whose life would be more
interesting. If I were furnished with materials, I would be very glad
to write it." This was a flattering offer. The very suggestion implied
that the great and worthy deeds, which Oglethorpe had performed, ought
to be recorded for the instruction, the grateful acknowledgment, and
just commendation of contemporaries; and their memorial transmitted
with honor to posterity. "The General seemed unwilling to enter upon
it then;" but, upon a subsequent occasion, communicated to Boswell
a number of particulars, which were committed to writing; but that
gentleman "not having been sufficiently diligent in obtaining more
from him," death closed the opportunity of procuring all the requisite
information.
There was a memoir drawn up soon after his decease, which has been
attributed to Capel Lofft, Esq., and published in the European
Magazine. This was afterwards adopted by Major McCall; and, in an
abridged form, appended to the first volume of his History of Georgia.
It is preserved, also, as a note, in the second volume of Nichols's
Literary Anecdotes of the Eighteenth Century, with some references and
additional information. But it is too brief and meagre to do justice
to the memory of one of whom it has been said, "His life was full of
variety, adventure, and achievement. His ruling passions were, the
love of glory, of his country, and of mankind; and these were so
blended together in his mind that they formed but one principle of
action. He was a hero, a statesman, an orator; the patron of letters,
the chosen friend of men of genius, and the theme of praise for great
poets."[1] The writer of this elegant encomium, adds this remark: "AN
AUTHENTIC AND TOLERABLY MINUTE LIFE OF OGLETHORPE IS A DESIDERATUM."
Such a desideratum I have endeavored to supply. This, however, has
been a very difficult undertaking; the materials for composing it,
excepting what relates to the settlement of Georgia, were to be sought
after in the periodicals of the day, or discovered by references to
him in the writings or memoirs of his contemporaries. I have searched
all the sources of information to which I could have access, with | 205.176524 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
FROM SAIL TO STEAM
RECOLLECTIONS OF NAVAL LIFE
BY
CAPT. A. T. MAHAN
U.S.N. (RETIRED)
AUTHOR OF
"THE INFLUENCE OF SEA-POWER UPON HISTORY" ETC.
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
MCMVII
Copyright, 1906, 1907, by HARPER & BROTHERS.
_All rights reserved._
Published October, 1907.
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
PREFACE v
INTRODUCING MYSELF ix
I. NAVAL CONDITIONS BEFORE THE WAR OF SECESSION--THE
OFFICERS AND SEAMEN 3
II. NAVAL CONDITIONS BEFORE THE WAR OF SECESSION--THE
VESSELS 25
III. THE NAVAL ACADEMY IN ITS RELATION TO THE NAVY AT
LARGE 45
IV. THE NAVAL ACADEMY IN ITS INTERIOR WORKINGS--PRACTICE
CRUISES 70
V. MY FIRST CRUISE AFTER GRADUATION--NAUTICAL CHARACTERS 103
VI. MY FIRST CRUISE AFTER GRADUATION--NAUTICAL SCENES
AND SCENERY--THE APPROACH OF DISUNION 127
VII. INCIDENTS OF WAR AND BLOCKADE SERVICE 156
VIII. INCIDENTS OF WAR AND BLOCKADE SERVICE--CONTINUED 179
IX. A ROUNDABOUT ROAD TO CHINA 196
X. CHINA AND JAPAN 229
XI. THE TURNING OF A LONG LANE--HISTORICAL, NAVAL, AND
PERSONAL 266
XII. EXPERIENCES OF AUTHORSHIP 302
PREFACE
When I was a boy, some years before I obtained my appointment in the
navy, I spent many of those happy hours that only childhood knows
poring over the back numbers of a British service periodical, which
began its career in 1828, with the title _Colburn's United Service
Magazine_; under which name, save and except the Colburn, it still
survives. Besides weightier matters, its early issues abounded in
reminiscences by naval officers, then yet in the prime of life, who
had served through the great Napoleonic wars. More delightful still,
it had numerous nautical stories, based probably on facts, serials
under such entrancing titles as "Leaves from my Log Book," by Flexible
Grommet, Passed Midshipman; a pen-name, the nautical felicity of which
will be best appreciated by one who has had the misfortune to handle a
grommet[1] which was not flexible. Then there was "The Order Book," by
Jonathan Oldjunk; an epithet so suggestive of the waste-heap, even to
a | 205.473179 |
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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http://archive.org/details/curiositiesofhea00teff
[Illustration: EFFECT of HEAT.
Frontispiece.]
CURIOSITIES OF HEAT.
by
REV. LYMAN B. TEFFT.
Philadelphia:
The Bible and Publication Society,
530 Arch Street.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
The Bible and Publication Society,
In the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
Westcott & Thomson,
Stereotypers, Philada.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
MR. WILTON'S BIBLE CLASS 7
CHAPTER II.
NEW THOUGHTS FOR THE SCHOLARS 26
CHAPTER III.
A DIFFICULT QUESTION 58
CHAPTER IV.
HEAT A GIFT OF GOD 83
CHAPTER V.
CONVEYANCE AND VARIETIES OF HEAT 100
CHAPTER VI.
MANAGEMENT AND SOURCES OF HEAT 120
CHAPTER VII.
PRESERVATION AND DISTRIBUTION OF HEAT 152
CHAPTER VIII.
MODIFICATION OF TEMPERATURE 176
CHAPTER IX.
THE MINISTRY OF SUFFERING 190
CHAPTER X.
TRANSPORTATION OF HEAT 213
CHAPTER XI.
AN EFFECTIVE SERMON 233
CHAPTER XII.
TRANSFER OF HEAT IN SPACE 254
CHAPTER XIII.
OCEAN CURRENTS AND ICEBERGS 272
CHAPTER XIV.
COMBUSTION.--COAL-BEDS 292
CHAPTER XV.
ECONOMY OF HEAT 305
CHAPTER XVI.
A DAY OF JOY AND GLADNESS 320
CURIOSITIES OF HEAT.
CHAPTER I.
MR. WILTON'S BIBLE CLASS.
"The book of Nature is my Bible. I agree with old Cicero: I count Nature
the best guide, and follow her as if she were a god, and wish for no
other."
These were the words of Mr. Hume, an infidel, spoken in the village store.
It was Monday evening. By some strange freak, or led by a divine impulse,
he had determined, the previous Sunday afternoon, to go to church and hear
what the minister had to say. So the Christian people were all surprised
to see Mr. Hume walk into their assembly--a thing which had not been seen
before in a twelvemonth. Mr. Hume did not shun the church from a dislike
of the minister. He believed Mr. Wilton to be a good man, and he knew him
to be kind and earnest, well instructed in every kind of knowledge and
mighty in the Scriptures. He kept aloof because he hated the Bible. He had
been instructed in the Scriptures when a boy, and many Bible truths still
clung to his memory which he would have been glad to banish. He could not
forget those stirring words which have come down to us from the Lord
Jesus, and from prophets and apostles, and they sorely troubled his
conscience. He counted the Bible an enemy, and determined that he would
not believe it.
At that time there was an increasing religious interest in the church. Mr.
Wilton had seen many an eye grow tearful as he unfolded the love of Christ
and urged upon his hearers the claims of the exalted Redeemer. He found an
increasing readiness to listen when he talked with the young people of his
congregation. The prayer-meetings were filling up, and becoming more
interesting and solemn. The impenitent dropped in to these meetings more
frequently than was their wont. Mr. Wilton himself felt the power of
Christ coming upon him and girding him as if for some great spiritual
conflict. His heart was filled with an unspeakable yearning to see
sinners converted and Christ glorified. He seemed to himself to work
without fatigue. His sermons came to him as if by inspiration of the Holy
Spirit. He felt a new sense of his call from God to preach the gospel to
men, and spoke as an ambassador of Christ, praying men tenderly,
persuadingly, to be reconciled to God, yet as one that has a right to
speak, and the authority to announce to man the conditions of salvation.
A few of the spiritual-minded saw this little cloud rising, but the people
in general knew nothing of it. Least of all did Mr. Hume suspect such an
undercurrent of religious interest; yet for some reason, he hardly knew
what, he felt inclined to go to church.
That afternoon the preacher spoke as if his soul were awed, yet lifted to
heavenly heights, by the presence of God and Christ. Reading as his text
the words, "Thou thoughtest that I was altogether such an one as thyself"
(Ps. l. 21), he showed, first, the false notions which men form of God,
and then unfolded, with great power and pungency, the Scripture revelation
of the one infinite, personal, living, holy, just, and gracious Jehovah.
This was the very theme which Mr. Hume wished most of all not to hear.
That very name, Jehovah, of all the names applied to God, was most
disagreeable; it suggested the idea of the living God who manifested
himself in olden time and wrought wonders before the eyes of men. But the
infidel, with his active mind, could not help listening, nor could he
loosen his conscience from the grasp of the truth. Yet he could fight
against it, and this he did, determined that he would not believe in such
a God--a God who held him accountable, and would bring him into judgment
in the last great day. In this state of mind he dropped into Deacon
Gregory's store.
Deacon Gregory was accustomed to obey Paul's injunction to Timothy: "Be
instant in season, out of season; reprove, rebuke, exhort with all long
suffering and doctrine." Having taken Mr. Hume's orders for groceries, he
said, "I was glad to see you at church yesterday, Mr. Hume. How were you
interested in the sermon?"
"I like Mr. Wilton," answered Mr. | 205.475185 |
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[Illustration: HELGA IN THE FAIRY KING'S PARADISE. p. 154.]
Fairy Circles
TALES AND LEGENDS
OF
Giants, Dwarfs, Fairies, Water-Sprites, and Hobgoblins
FROM THE GERMAN OF VILLAMARIA
WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS
London:
MARCUS WARD & CO., 67 & 68, CHANDOS STREET
AND ROYAL ULSTER WORKS, BELFAST
1877
CONTENTS.
PAGE
BARBAROSSA'S YOUTHFUL DREAM 7
KING LAURIN 32
THE DWARF OF VENICE 54
RHINE GOLD 100
THE FRIENDSHIP OF THE DWARFS--
PART I. THE DYING DWARF-QUEEN 115
PART II. THE FRIENDS IN THE ROCK 124
THE FLOWER OF ICELAND 142
THE SEA-FAIRY 172
THE FAITHFUL GOBLIN 201
THE FALLEN BELL 223
THE LAST HOME OF THE GIANTS 249
Illustrations.
PAGE
HELGA IN THE FAIRY KING'S PARADISE (p. 155) _Frontispiece._
FREDERICK TAKES LEAVE OF GELA 7
BARBAROSSA IN THE HOLY LAND 21
BARBAROSSA AND GELA IN THE KYFFHAeUSER 27
VRENELI IN KING LAURIN'S ROSE-GARDEN 32
KING LAURIN IN VRENELI'S COTTAGE 43
THE DWARF OF VENICE TAKES HIS DEPARTURE FOR HIS NATIVE LAND 54
HANS SEES KING LAURIN'S KINGDOM IN THE MAGIC MIRROR 63
HANS RECEIVES A HEARTY WELCOME FROM AN OLD FRIEND 92
HACO THROWS THE TREASURE OF THE NIBELUNGEN INTO THE RHINE 100
CHARLEMAGNE MEETS WITH KRIEMHILD 109
THE COUNTESS MATILDA RESTORES THE DWARF-QUEEN TO HEALTH 115
ECKBERT'S WILD RIDE ON KUNO'S HORSE 124
KUNO LISTENS TO THE WISE MAN'S TALK 134
HELGA AT HER MOTHER'S FEET 142
"IN HELGA'S HEART MEMORY CEASED TO THRILL" 155
THE OLD MAN BESIDE THE CORPSE OF ANTONIO 172
ANTONIO IN THE CRYSTAL CASTLE 178
ANTONIO LAYS THE DEAD MAIDEN IN HER LAST RESTING-PLACE 189
FIRST ACQUAINTANCE WITH PUCK 201
"GERO CAUGHT PUCK SUDDENLY AND SET HIM BEFORE HIM ON HIS
SADDLE" 212
THE STORM HURLS THE BELL INTO THE STREAM 223
THE WATER-ELF AND THE LITTLE SOUL ON THE RAFT OF WATER-LILIES 238
ASLOG RETURNS TO HER FATHER 249
GURU AWAKES THE ROCK TO LIFE 269
FAIRY CIRCLES.
Barbarossa's Youthful Dream.
[Illustration: FREDERICK TAKES LEAVE OF GELA.]
More than a thousand years have rolled away since a castle looked down
cheerfully from a height amid the Franconian plains into the
well-watered Kinzig Valley, with its pleasant villages and towns.
It belonged to the powerful Swabian duke Frederick of Hohenstaufen,
whose young and valiant son loved this the best of all his father's
proud castles, and often left his uncle's splendid palace to hunt in
its forests, or to look down from its lofty oriel window on the
blooming plain below.
His father and uncle indeed missed him sadly. His clear blue eye, and
the cheerful expression of his noble countenance, seemed to the two
grave and war-weary men so gladdening to look upon, that they were
always unwilling to let him leave them.
But the young Frederick used to beg them so earnestly to grant him the
freedom of the forest for just this once, that father and uncle
smilingly granted him permission, though "this once" was often
repeated.
So it happened the autumn of that year when Bernard of Clairvaux
passed through Germany, calling prince and people in words of burning
eloquence to aid in the deliverance of the Holy Sepulchre.
"Just this once!" said young Frederick again; and King Conrad and Duke
Frederick granted him permission.
As he bent in courteous farewell to take his uncle's hand, the king
whispered, "Be ready, my Frederick, to return as soon as my messenger
calls thee. Great things are before us, and I can ill spare thy strong
right arm!" And young Frederick smiled his own cheery smile, and
answered, "I come when my king and lord calls!"
Then he galloped away as if he were bound that day to ride round the
world. His Barbary steed bore him as on wings through the dark
forests of the Spessart, and as the latest sunbeams sank in the waters
of the Kinzig, he mounted the steep path towards the castle, and rode
over the lowered drawbridge into the court.
Was it really the stags and boars in the vast forests, or the treasure
of rare old manuscripts of the castle archives, which drew the young
prince again and again to the small and lonely fortress?
So his father and uncle thought, but they knew not of his deep
unconquerable love for the beautiful Gela, the daughter of a humble
retainer. He had seen her while resting from the chase in the forest
of the Kinzig Valley, and so great had his love for her become that he
was willing to renounce all dreams of future power and greatness to
live in blissful retirement with the beloved one whom he could not
raise to his own rank.
But the lovers had to guard their secret carefully; they dared trust
no confidant, lest their paradise should be laid waste before its
gates had been fully opened to admit them. So they breathed their love
to none but each other.
The prince passed Gela with cold indifference if he met her in the
castle court or at her work about the house, and Gela made lowly
reverence, as if she were the meanest of his maids, to him who counted
it his greatest honour to do her service.
But at evening, when Frederick had roamed the forest since early
morning, his bow on his shoulder and his faithful hounds by his side,
the fair Gela might be seen walking along the high-road with a basket
on her arm, or with a stock of newly-spun yarn, as if she were going
to seek purchasers in the nearest town. But in the forest she would
leave the broad path, and make her way through briars and underwood to
a height on which her young prince awaited her beneath the shelter of
a giant oak.
There they would talk happily and innocently till the last sunbeam was
quenched in the Kinzig stream, and the convent bell resounded through
the arches of the forest; then they would fold their hands in prayer
before saying farewell, in hope of a meeting on the morrow.
So had it been for many a year. Their love remained unbetrayed, their
hope unquenched, their faith unshaken. In the splendid halls of the
palace, amid the proud and lovely ladies who surrounded the young
prince with flattering marks of favour, the longing after the lonely
forest in the Kinzig Valley and the fair and gentle loved one never
died from his heart.
They had met thus one evening with the old, yet ever new tenderness.
Frederick drew Gela's fair head to his breast, and spoke to her of the
near and blissful future, which would be theirs in a few weeks, when
he would be of age, and would be able to lead her openly as his wife
to his castle in the fair land of Bavaria, to the inheritance of his
dead mother. And the oak tree overhead rustled gently, scattering
golden leaves on Gela's beautiful hair, for it was far on in autumn.
When the vesper bell of the forest cloister began to sound, it was
already dark; the moonlight gleamed on the path, and Gela walked with
her lover as far as the high-road, supported by his arm. But there
the moon shone so brightly that they had to part, lest some prying eye
should see them. "Meet me to-morrow, dearest!" said the young prince,
once more kissing her blooming cheek; then Gela tripped lightly down
the high-road towards the valley, while Frederick gazed after her till
she vanished from his sight, when he called his dogs, and turned
towards the castle.
But there the usual stillness and loneliness had given place to bustle
and confusion. The young prince's aged tutor, who was the
father-confessor and confidential friend alike of his father and of
his uncle, had arrived a few hours before, accompanied by a troop of
horsemen. Inquiries after the young prince passed impatiently from
mouth to mouth, for the message was one which called for haste. At
last he came riding over the drawbridge, his handsome face glowing as
in a transformation, for his vision of the forest still hovered before
his mind.
The old chaplain of the brothers of Hohenstaufen had been long and
anxiously awaiting his pupil; now he hastened to meet him as quickly
as his infirmities permitted, and greeted his dear one, who had left
him but a few days before, as if he had not seen him for years.
Then they went together to the room with the oriel window, for there
the young prince liked best to sit, as it afforded a view of Gela's
lattice. They sat long in confidential conversation, and the light
that fell on the pavement for hours after all others in the castle
were asleep told Gela, who stood at the window opposite, that
important and serious matters were being discussed by her dear one and
his aged tutor.
Next morning the people flocked out of the castle chapel, where the
old priest who had arrived the evening before had spoken to them in
eloquent words, and claimed the arm and heart of young and old for the
approaching crusade to the Holy Land. And not in vain. Men and youths
were ready to venture wealth and life, and the aged were with
difficulty persuaded to remain at home to till the ground and protect
the women and the little ones.
All returned home to arrange their business hastily, and make needful
preparations. One alone remained in the sacred place. It was Gela,
who, when all had left the chapel, rose from her seat and threw
herself prostrate before the altar, there to pour forth all the
anguish of broken hopes, of parting, and of lonely sorrow that
oppressed her heart.
She lay thus, her hands clasped, and her face uplifted in an agony of
grief. There were light footsteps behind her, but Gela, lost in sorrow
and prayer, heeded them not. A hand was laid on her shoulder; she
looked up and saw the face of him on whose account she suffered.
"Gela," said the young prince tenderly and low, as if in reverence to
the holy place--"Gela, we must part! We must wait a while for the
fulfilment of yesterday's beautiful dream! I can scarcely bear it, and
yet I cannot refuse, either as prince and knight, or as son and
subject."
"No," said Gela calmly; "thou must obey, my Frederick, even though our
hearts will bleed."
"And thou wilt be true to me, Gela, and wait patiently till I come
back, and not give thy heart to another?" asked the prince, and his
voice was full of pain.
"Frederick," said Gela, laying her hand on his shoulder, "bid me give
my life; if it were necessary to thy happiness, I would give it
gladly. Thine will I be through all the sorrow of separation; and if I
die, my soul will leave heaven at thy call."
Frederick drew her to his heart. "I go content, my Gela; danger and
death cannot harm me, for I am sheltered by thy love! Farewell till we
meet again in joy!"
He hastened away to hide the tears that started to his eyes, and Gela
sank again on the altar steps and bent her head in silent prayer.
She did not perceive the footsteps that once more broke the stillness
of the place, and she only looked up when a second time a hand was
laid on her shoulder. It was not into Frederick's youthful face that
she looked this time, but into the grave countenance of the aged
priest who had come to call her darling and the people of the
surrounding country to the Holy War.
She shuddered as she thought that he had perhaps been a listener to
their conversation, and had thus discovered the carefully guarded
secret.
"Be not afraid, my daughter," said the old man gently; "I have been an
unwilling witness of your meeting, but your words have fallen into the
ear and heart of a man whose calling makes him the guardian of many a
secret."
Gela breathed more freely.
"Thou art of pure heart, my daughter," continued the old man mildly;
"who could chide thee for giving thy love to a youth to whom God has
given a power to charm that wins the affection of almost every heart?
But, my daughter, if thou love him thou must renounce him."
Gela looked up in terror at the priest.
"Yes, renounce him!" he repeated gravely, nodding his white head as he
spoke.
"I cannot, reverend father!" faltered the maiden with trembling lips.
"Canst thou not?" asked the old man still more earnestly; "canst thou
not give up thine own happiness for his sake, and yet thou art ready
to give thy life if his happiness should demand it?"
"Oh, reverend father," Gela faltered, raising her hands to him
entreatingly, "look not so stern! You know not what it is to renounce
him, and with him all that I call happiness. But if his welfare
demands it, my heart shall break without a murmur."
A gentle radiance beamed from the old priest's eyes.
"Thou hast well spoken, my daughter," he said gently. "Frederick loves
thee now with the force of his unestranged affection, and is ready to
sacrifice rank and worldly prospects for thy sake; but he is a man and
a prince, and, above all, of the house of Hohenstaufen, in whose soul
lies a longing after great and praiseworthy deeds, though these
aspirations are lulled to slumber by his love for thee. But when he
comes to years of manhood, he will be unhappy that thou hast kept him
from the tasks incumbent on one of his noble race. And then, my
daughter, not he alone, but all Germany will blame thee, for every
far-seeing eye recognises already in this heroic youth the future
leader who is destined to bring this divided realm to unity and
greatness. Canst thou think of the future of thy lover, and of us all,
and yet act but for thine own happiness?"
Gela raised herself as out of a dream.
"No, my father," she said in a firm voice, though the light of her
eyes seemed quenched as she gazed at the priest; "no, I renounce him.
But if he should ever think with bitterness of Gela, I ask of you that
you will tell him of this hour, and why I have renounced him; because
I loved his happiness more than myself. May this sacrifice not be in
vain!"
The priest laid his hand, trembling with emotion, on her beautiful
head. "Peace be with thee, my daughter!"
* * * * *
On a dewy May morning, two years after that farewell scene in the
castle chapel, young Frederick rode over the drawbridge of the
fortress on the height beside the Kinzig Valley.
The sun of Syria had dyed his white skin with a deeper hue, the toils
of war and grief at dispelled illusions had drawn a slight furrow in
the smooth brow, but on his flowing beard and hair lay the same golden
splendour, and his blue eyes beamed brightly as of yore.
The castle servants flocked to greet their beloved young master, who
had meantime, through his father's death, become Duke of Swabia and
their feudal lord. His princely mouth spoke many a gracious word, and
his winning smile hovered among them like a sunbeam. His eye passed
quickly from line to line, till it rested inquiringly on the features
of an old bent man. It was Gela's father. Then he sprang from his
horse, and ascended the stair to his favourite room.
The butler placed a goblet of the richest wine on the table, a drink
of honour which he kept carefully in the driest corner of the cellar
for the greatest occasions; and Dame Barbara, the housekeeper, brought
in proudly the delicious pastry which she had prepared for this
festive day; but the young duke gave no heed to these attentions. He
stood in the oriel window, and looked down at a little lattice in the
buildings that surrounded the castle court. There, in a green
window-box, gillyflower and rosemary used to bloom, and behind them he
often had watched a face bent over the spinning-wheel--a face that he
had not found surpassed by any even among the Flowers of the East.
But now all was changed. No blossom sent forth fragrance; the green
box hung empty and half-broken; the clear lattice panes were blinded,
and no dear face looked through to him in love.
A pang of dread presentiment pierced his heart.
"Who dwells in that room with the blinded window?" he asked as calmly
as he could of Dame Barbara, who was rattling her keys to call her
young lord's attention to herself and her masterpiece of culinary
skill.
The old woman drew near, and looked at the desolate window to which
the duke's finger pointed.
"Alas! my lord duke," said the loquacious old woman, "Gela used to
live there, the good child; but she became a nun two years ago last
autumn, and entered the convent of St. Clarissa, in the heart of the
forest."
Frederick stood for a moment motionless, then he beckoned silently to
the door, for his first sound must have been a cry of pain.
Barbara went, but her master sank into the window-seat, his gaze fixed
on the deserted lattice.
There was a gentle knocking at the door, but the duke heard it not for
the painful beating of his heart. Then the door opened, and on the
threshold stood the old man on whom the prince's inquiring glance had
rested on his arrival. He approached the window with a low reverence,
and waited patiently till his young master raised his head. When at
last he looked up, the old man started to see the beloved face that
used to beam like the sunlight now covered as with the shadow of
death.
"My lord duke," said the old man, when Frederick signed to him to
speak, "I had an only child. I know not if your grace has ever noticed
her. When the men went from the country round to the Holy War, she
entered the forest cloister, because she thought she could there pray
undisturbed for the safety and victory of our soldiers. Before she
went she made me promise to give this letter into your hands as soon
as you returned."
Then he drew from his doublet a strip of parchment carefully sewed in
purple silk, and handed it to the duke.
And again Frederick spoke not, but silently took the missive, for his
heart was full to overflowing.
The old man withdrew in silence. When Frederick found himself alone,
he cut the silken covering with his hunting-knife, and drew out a
piece of parchment; and when it was unfolded, he saw the childish
handwriting which he himself had taught Gela in their happy hours in
the forest, and with which she now bade him the last farewell, for she
could not break her promise to the aged monk.
While Frederick, two years before, hastened to his uncle's palace, the
holy man had gone on to other parts of the country to call on the
people to join the Holy War, and from this errand death had called
him.
The sun was already far past the meridian, but yet no sound had broken
the stillness of the room where Frederick sat. The butler's drink of
honour was untasted; Dame Barbara's masterpiece remained untouched.
At last the young duke rose, left the room, and descended the winding
stair into the court; but when his steed was brought, the attendant
esquire thought that this could scarcely be the same young and joyous
prince who, a few hours before, had ridden across the bridge. He
sprang into the saddle, cast a last glance on the desolate window, and
then turned without a word of farewell to take the road which, but a
short time before, he had galloped over with hopeful heart. It was the
same road which Gela had so often followed with him to the little hill
in the forest, and when he came to the narrow path, he led his
obedient horse to one side, fastened the bridle round the trunk of a
tree, and then walked slowly along the mossy path.
Now he stood beneath the oak. Its leafy roof and the moss at its foot
were green and fresh as ever. Once he was like it in his love and
hope, but all was changed! He sat down at the foot of the tree, and
its rustling brought back to his soul the dream of his now vanished
youth.
Suddenly bells sounded from the forest depths. But he could not, as in
days gone by, fold his hands in pious awe, and pour forth every grief
in a believing prayer. No; at the sound of these bells which now
called Gela, his Gela, to devotion, it seemed to him as if he must
rush to the cloister gate, knock with his sword hilt, and cry, "Come
back, Gela, come back; for thy sacrifice will be in vain!"
He hastened down the hill to his horse, and sprang into the saddle.
"Away, my faithful steed!" he cried aloud. "Show me the way, for love
and grief have bewildered my clear brain. Bear me where knightly duty
and princely honour claim my presence--for I know not where."
And the good beast, as if it understood his master's words, rushed
with him away farther and still farther south through the dim
twilight, and beneath the bright beams of the full moon. Without
weariness, though without rest, it bore him on, and when the morrow's
sun stood in noonday splendour they had reached the goal, and the
young duke stood before the gate of his own Staufenburg.
Gela's sacrifice was not offered in vain. The words the old monk
uttered that morning in the castle chapel were fulfilled. After his
uncle's death, young Frederick of Swabia was raised to the throne of
Germany, and all that the realm and people of Germany had hoped from
him was more than fulfilled.
His strong hand gave unity, strength, and majesty to the divided land,
such as no ruler after him was ever able to bestow; and when the
imperial crown of Rome was also placed upon his head, the proud people
of Italy bowed before Frederick Barbarossa, did him homage, and
acknowledged his power.
The laurels of many a victory rested on the Emperor's brow; his house
was happy, his race flourished, his name lay like a word of blessing
on every lip; and when Gela, still in the bloom of youth, closed her
eyes in death, she knew that she had not in vain renounced Frederick
and happiness.
Beneath the shelter of his favourite castle the Emperor founded a
town, and named it after the unforgotten loved one of his youth,
"Gelashausen;" and when on his travels he came to the forest of the
Kinzig Valley, he led his horse silently aside, fastened the bridle to
a tree stem, and ascended the hill to the majestic oak. There leaning
his head, amid whose gold full many a thread of silver gleamed,
against the trunk, he closed his eyes, and dreamed once more the old
delightful dream.
And the people called that tree ever after "the Emperor's oak."
The sun of Asia Minor once more sent its glowing rays on the head of
the heroic Emperor, though they gleamed back now with a silvery
radiance.
[Illustration: BARBAROSSA IN THE HOLY LAND.]
The cry of distress had risen once again from the Land of Promise, and
drawn the aged monarch from his German home; he placed himself at the
head of his army, and led it with prudence, courage, and military
skill safely through the heat of the Eastern sun, in spite of the
treachery and malice of the foe, in spite of the pangs of hunger and
consuming thirst.
On a warm summer evening the army reached the steep bank of a foaming
mountain torrent. There on the farthest side lay the road that they
must take.
Barbarossa's son Frederick, that "Flower of Chivalry," sprang with a
chosen band from the high rocky bank into the stream and reached the
other side in safety.
The Emperor now prepared to follow. Without heeding the advice of his
attendants, the aged hero, who had never known what fear meant, put
spurs to his steed and plunged with him into the waters of the Seleph.
For a few seconds the golden armour gleamed amid the waves, once or
twice the reverend, hoary head rose above the stream, then the deadly
waters carried horse and rider into their raging depths, and the
beloved hero vanished from the eyes of his sorrowing army. His most
valiant knights indeed and chosen friends plunged after him into the
flood to save their honoured prince or die with him, but the wild
mountain torrent bore them all to death. With bitter lamentations the
army wandered up and down the stream, if perchance they might at least
win the precious corpse from the waters. But night came and threw its
dark veil over the sorrow and mourning of the day.
* * * * *
All around were wrapped in slumber, even deeper than was their wont.
The moon stood high in heaven, and beneath its beams the waters of the
Seleph flowed more gently like molten silver. Once more they roused
their angry strength, and from | 205.479641 |
2023-11-16 18:20:29.5550270 | 847 | 13 |
E-text prepared by Bruce Albrecht, Verity White, 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 26560-h.htm or 26560-h.zip:
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/6/5/6/26560/26560-h/26560-h.htm)
or
(http://www.gutenberg.net/dirs/2/6/5/6/26560/26560-h.zip)
Transcriber's note:
Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has been
preserved.
Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN
or Making Good
by
ALBERT W. TOLMAN
Illustrated
[Illustration: [See page 279
HE PLUNGED INTO THE SEA AND DRAGGED HIMSELF TOWARD THE ROCK TO WHICH HIS
FATHER WAS FASTENED]
[Illustration]
Harper & Brothers Publishers
New York and London
JIM SPURLING, FISHERMAN
Copyright, 1918, by Harper & Brothers
Printed in the United States of America
TO MY BOYS
ALBERT AND EDWARD
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. SMASHED UP 1
II. A FRESH START 18
III. TARPAULIN ISLAND 29
IV. MIDNIGHT MARAUDERS 41
V. GETTING READY 53
VI. TRAWLING FOR HAKE 66
VII. SHORTS AND COUNTERS 78
VIII. SALT-WATER GIPSIES 90
IX. FISTS AND FIREWORKS 102
X. REBELLION IN CAMP 114
XI. TURN OF THE TIDE 128
XII. PULLING TOGETHER 138
XIII. FOG-BOUND 150
XIV. SWORDFISHING 162
XV. MIDSUMMER DAYS 174
XVI. A LOST ALUMNUS 186
XVII. BLOWN OFF 198
XVIII. BUOY OR BREAKER 208
XIX. ON THE WHISTLER 221
XX. SQUARING AN ACCOUNT 233
XXI. OLD FRIENDS 243
XXII. PERCY SCORES 255
XXIII. WHITTINGTON GRIT 269
XXIV. CROSSING THE TAPE 283
ILLUSTRATIONS
HE PLUNGED INTO THE SEA AND DRAGGED HIMSELF
TOWARD THE ROCK TO WHICH HIS FATHER WAS
FASTENED _Frontispiece_
THE CAMP AT SPROWL'S COVE _Facing p._ 56
LEANING AGAINST THE MAST-HOOP THAT ENCIRCLED
HIS WAIST, HE LIFTED THE LONG LANCE AND
POISED IT FOR THE BLOW " 166
KNEES BRACED TIGHTLY AGAINST THE SIDES OF THE
STERN, HANDS LOCKED ROUND THE STOUT BUTT
OF THE LANCE, HE FOILED RUSH AFTER RUSH OF
THE BLACK-FINNED, WHITE-BELLIED PIRATES " 172
THEY STOOD CLOSE TOGETHER ON THE CIRCULAR TOP,
HOLDING ON TO THE CROSSED BAILS, WAIST-HIGH " 222
"WE NEED THAT SLOOP AND WE'RE GOING TO HAVE
HER!" " 252
| 205.575067 |
2023-11-16 18:20:29.6571570 | 1,201 | 12 |
Produced by Donald Lainson
A SAPPHO OF GREEN SPRINGS
By Bret Harte
CONTENTS
A SAPPHO OF GREEN SPRINGS
THE CHATELAINE OF BURNT RIDGE
THROUGH THE SANTA CLARA WHEAT
A MAECENAS OF THE PACIFIC <DW72>
A SAPPHO OF GREEN SPRINGS
CHAPTER I
"Come in," said the editor.
The door of the editorial room of the "Excelsior Magazine" began to
creak painfully under the hesitating pressure of an uncertain and
unfamiliar hand. This continued until with a start of irritation the
editor faced directly about, throwing his leg over the arm of his chair
with a certain youthful dexterity. With one hand gripping its back,
the other still grasping a proof-slip, and his pencil in his mouth, he
stared at the intruder.
The stranger, despite his hesitating entrance, did not seem in the least
disconcerted. He was a tall man, looking even taller by reason of the
long formless overcoat he wore, known as a "duster," and by a long
straight beard that depended from his chin, which he combed with two
reflective fingers as he contemplated the editor. The red dust which
still lay in the creases of his garment and in the curves of his soft
felt hat, and left a dusty circle like a precipitated halo around his
feet, proclaimed him, if not a countryman, a recent inland importation
by coach. "Busy?" he said, in a grave but pleasant voice. "I kin wait.
Don't mind ME. Go on."
The editor indicated a chair with his disengaged hand and plunged again
into his proof-slips. The stranger surveyed the scant furniture and
appointments of the office with a look of grave curiosity, and then,
taking a chair, fixed an earnest, penetrating gaze on the editor's
profile. The editor felt it, and, without looking up, said--
"Well, go on."
"But you're busy. I kin wait."
"I shall not be less busy this morning. I can listen."
"I want you to give me the name of a certain person who writes in your
magazine."
The editor's eye glanced at the second right-hand drawer of his desk.
It did not contain the names of his contributors, but what in the
traditions of his office was accepted as an equivalent,--a revolver.
He had never yet presented either to an inquirer. But he laid aside his
proofs, and, with a slight darkening of his youthful, discontented face,
said, "What do you want to know for?"
The question was so evidently unexpected that the stranger's face
slightly, and he hesitated. The editor meanwhile, without
taking his eyes from the man, mentally ran over the contents of the last
magazine. They had been of a singularly peaceful character. There seemed
to be nothing to justify homicide on his part or the stranger's. Yet
there was no knowing, and his questioner's bucolic appearance by no
means precluded an assault. Indeed, it had been a legend of the office
that a predecessor had suffered vicariously from a geological hammer
covertly introduced into a scientific controversy by an irate professor.
"As we make ourselves responsible for the conduct of the magazine,"
continued the young editor, with mature severity, "we do not give up the
names of our contributors. If you do not agree with their opinions"--
"But I DO," said the stranger, with his former composure, "and I reckon
that's why I want to know who wrote those verses called 'Underbrush,'
signed 'White Violet,' in your last number. They're pow'ful pretty."
The editor flushed slightly, and glanced instinctively around for any
unexpected witness of his ludicrous mistake. The fear of ridicule was
uppermost in his mind, and he was more relieved at his mistake not being
overheard than at its groundlessness.
"The verses ARE pretty," he said, recovering himself, with a critical
air, "and I am glad you like them. But even then, you know, I could not
give you the lady's name without her permission. I will write to her and
ask it, if you like."
The actual fact was that the verses had been sent to him anonymously
from a remote village in the Coast Range,--the address being the
post-office and the signature initials.
The stranger looked disturbed. "Then she ain't about here anywhere?" he
said, with a vague gesture. "She don't belong to the office?"
The young editor beamed with tolerant superiority: "No, I am sorry to
say."
"I should like to have got to see her and kinder asked her a
few questions," continued the stranger, with the same reflective
seriousness. "You see, it wasn't just the rhymin' o' them verses,--and
they kinder sing themselves to ye, don't they?--it wasn't the chyce o'
words,--and I reckon they allus hit the idee in the centre shot every
time,--it wasn't the idees and moral she sort o' drew out o' what she
was tellin',--but it was the straight thing itself,--the truth!"
"The truth?" repeated the editor.
"Yes, sir. I've bin there. I've seen all that she's seen in the
brush--the little flicks and checkers o' light and shadder down in
the brown dust that you wonder how it ever got through the dark of the
woods, and that allus seems to slip away like | 205.677197 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Tom Cosmas 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 Note
Text emphasis is denoted as _Italic Text._
_Barr's Buffon._
Buffon's Natural History.
CONTAINING
A THEORY OF THE EARTH,
A GENERAL
_HISTORY OF MAN_,
OF THE BRUTE CREATION, AND OF
VEGETABLES, MINERALS,
_&c. &c._
FROM THE FRENCH.
WITH NOTES BY THE TRANSLATOR.
IN TEN VOLUMES.
VOL. VII.
London:
PRINTED FOR THE PROPRIETOR,
AND SOLD BY H. D. SYMONDS, PATERNOSTER-ROW,
1807.
T. Gillet, Printer, Wild court.
CONTENTS
OF
THE SEVENTH VOLUME.
Of Carnivorous Animals.
_Page_
_Of Tigers_ 1
_Animals of the Old Continent_ 4
_Animals of the New World_ 24
_Animals common to both Continents_ 33
_The Tiger_ 57
_The Panther, Ounce, and Leopard_ 68
_The Jaguar_ 81
_The Cougar_ 87
_The Lynx_ 92
_The Hyaena_ 107
_The Civet and the Zibet_ 117
_The Genet_ 129
_The Black Wolf_ 132
_The Canadian Musk-rat, and the Muscovy Musk-rat_ 133
_The Peccari, or Mexican Hog_ 141
_The Rousette, or Ternat Bat, the Rougette, or Little
Ternat, and the Vampyre_ 149
_The Senegal Bat_ 162
_The Bull-dog Bat_ 163
_The Bearded Bat_ 164
_The striped Bat_ 165
_The Polatouch_ 165
_The Grey Squirrel_ 173
_The Palmist, the Squirrel of Barbary and Switzerland_ 177
_The Ant Eaters_ 181
_The Long and Short-tailed Manis_ 193
_The Armadillo_ 197
_The Three-banded_ 202
_Six-banded_ 205
_Eight-banded_ 207
_Nine-banded_ 208
_Twelve-banded_ 210
_Eighteen-banded_ 212
_The Paca_ 222
_The Opossum_ 229
_The Marmose_ 251
_The Cayopollin_ 253
_The Elephant_ 255
_The Rhinoceros_ 322
_Directions for placing the Plates in the Seventh Volume._
Page 57 Fig. 101, 102.
68 Fig. 107, 108.
77 Fig. 103, 104.
85 Fig. 105, 106.
117 Fig. 109, 110.
118 Fig. 111, 112, 113.
133 Fig. 114, 115, 116.
150 Fig. 117, 118, 119.
165 Fig. 120, 121, 122, 123.
181 Fig. 124, 125, 126.
205 Fig. 127, 128.
222 Fig. 129, 130, 131, 132.
236 Fig. 133, 134.
BUFFON'S
NATURAL HISTORY.
_OF CARNIVOROUS ANIMALS._
OF TIGERS.
As the word Tiger is a generic name, given several animals of different
species, it is proper to begin with distinguishing them from each
other. Leopards and Panthers have often been confounded together, and
are called Tigers by most travellers. The Ounce, a small species of
Panther, which is easily tamed, and used by the Orientals in the chace,
has been taken for the Panther itself, and described as such by the
name of Tiger. The Lynx, and that called the Lion's provider, have
also sometimes received the name of Panther, and sometimes Ounce. In
Africa, and in the southern parts of Asia, these animals are common;
but the real tiger, and the only one which ought to be so called, is
scarce, was little known by the ancients, and is badly described by the
moderns. Aristotle does not mention him; and Pliny merely speaks of him
as an animal of prodigious velocity; _tremendae velocitatis animal_;[A]
adding, that he was a much more scarce animal than the Panther, since
August | 213.74522 |
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Produced by Eve Sobol. HTML version by Al Haines.
MAJOR BARBARA
BERNARD SHAW
ACT I
It is after dinner on a January night, in the library in
Lady Britomart Undershaft's house in Wilton Crescent. A large and
comfortable settee is in the middle of the room, upholstered in
dark leather. A person sitting on it [it is vacant at present]
would have, on his right, Lady Britomart's writing table, with
the lady herself busy at it; a smaller writing table behind him
on his left; the door behind him on Lady Britomart's side; and a
window with a window seat directly on his left. Near the window
is an armchair.
Lady Britomart is a woman of fifty or thereabouts, well dressed
and yet careless of her dress, well bred and quite reckless of
her breeding, well mannered and yet appallingly outspoken and
indifferent to the opinion of her interlocutory, amiable and yet
peremptory, arbitrary, and high-tempered to the last bearable
degree, and withal a very typical managing matron of the upper
class, treated as a naughty child until she grew into a scolding
mother, and finally settling down with plenty of practical
ability and worldly experience, limited in the oddest way with
domestic and class limitations, conceiving the universe exactly
as if it were a large house in Wilton Crescent, though handling
her corner of it very effectively on that assumption, and being
quite enlightened and liberal as to the books in the library, the
pictures on the walls, the music in the portfolios, and the
articles in the papers.
Her son, Stephen, comes in. He | 213.841126 |
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Transcribed from the 1918 Burns & Oates edition by David Price, email
[email protected]
HEARTS OF CONTROVERSY
Contents:
Some Thoughts of a Reader of Tennyson
Dickens as a Man of Letters
Swinburne's Lyrical Poetry
Charlotte and Emily Bronte
Charmian
The Century of Moderation
SOME THOUGHTS OF A READER OF TENNYSON
Fifty years after Tennyson's birth he was saluted a great poet by that
unanimous acclamation which includes mere clamour. Fifty further years,
and his centenary was marked by a new detraction. It is sometimes
difficult to distinguish the obscure but not unmajestic law of change
from the sorry custom of reaction. Change hastes not and rests not,
reaction beats to and fro, flickering about the moving mind of the world.
Reaction--the paltry precipitancy of the multitude--rather than the
novelty of change, has brought about a ferment and corruption of opinion
on Tennyson's poetry. It may be said that opinion is the same now as it
was in the middle of the nineteenth century--the same, but turned. All
that was not worth having of admiration then has soured into detraction
now. It is of no more significance, acrid, than it was, sweet. What the
herding of opinion gave yesterday it is able to take away to-day, that
and no more.
But besides the common favour-disfavour of the day, there is the tendency
of educated opinion, once disposed to accept the whole of Tennyson's
poetry as though he could not be "parted from himself," and now disposed
to reject the whole, on the same plea. But if ever there was a poet who
needed to be thus "parted"--the word is his own--it is he who wrote both
narrowly for his time and liberally for all time, and who--this is the
more important character of his poetry--had both a style and a manner: a
masterly style, a magical style, a too dainty manner, nearly a trick; a
noble landscape and in it figures something ready-made. He is a subject
for our alternatives of feeling, nay, our conflicts, as is hardly another
poet. We may deeply admire and wonder, and, in another line or
hemistich, grow indifferent or slightly averse. He sheds the luminous
suns of dreams upon men & women who would do well with footlights; waters
their way with rushing streams of Paradise and cataracts from visionary
hills; laps them in divine darkness; leads them into those touching
landscapes, "the lovely that are not beloved;" long grey fields, cool
sombre summers, and meadows thronged with unnoticeable flowers; speeds
his carpet knight--or is that hardly a just name for one whose sword
"smites" so well?--upon a carpet of authentic wild flowers; pushes his
rovers, in costume, from off blossoming shores, on the keels of old
romance. The style and the manner, I have said, run side by side. If we
may take one poet's too violent phrase, and consider poets to be "damned
to poetry," why, then, Tennyson is condemned by a couple of sentences,
"to run concurrently." We have the style and the manner locked together
at times in a single stanza, locked and yet not mingled. There should be
no danger for the more judicious reader lest impatience at the peculiar
Tennyson trick should involve the great Tennyson style in a sweep of
protest. Yet the danger has in fact proved real within the present and
recent years, and seems about to threaten still more among the less
judicious. But it will not long prevail. The vigorous little nation of
lovers of poetry, alive one by one within the vague multitude of the
nation of England, cannot remain finally insensible to what is at once
majestic and magical in Tennyson. For those are not qualities they
neglect in their other masters. How, valuing singleness of heart in the
sixteenth century, splendour in the seventeenth, composure in the
eighteenth; how, with a spiritual ear for the note--commonly called
Celtic, albeit it is the most English thing in the world--the wild wood
note of the remoter song; how, with the educated sense of style, the
liberal sense of ease; how, in a word, fostering Letters and loving
Nature, shall that choice nation within England long disregard these
virtues in the nineteenth-century master? How disregard him, for more
than the few years of reaction, for the insignificant reasons of his
bygone taste, his insipid courtliness, his prettiness, or what not? It
is no dishonour to Tennyson, for it is a dishonour to our education, to
disparage a poet who wrote but the two--had he written no more of their
kind--lines of "The Passing of Arthur," of which, before I quote them, I
will permit myself the personal remembrance of a great contemporary
author's opinion. Mr. Meredith, speaking to me of the high-water mark of
English style in poetry and prose, cited those lines as topmost in
poetry:-
On one side lay the ocean, and on one
Lay a great water, and the moon was full.
Here is no taint of manner, no pretty posture or habit, but the
simplicity of poetry and the simplicity of Nature, something on the
yonder side of imagery. It is to be noted that this noble passage is
from Tennyson's generally weakest kind of work--blank verse; and should
thus be a sign that the laxity of so many parts of the "Idylls" and other
blank verse poems was a quite unnecessary fault. Lax this form of poetry
undoubtedly is with Tennyson. His blank verse is often too easy; it
cannot be said to fly, for the paradoxical reason that it has no weight;
it slips by, without halting or tripping indeed, but also without the
friction of the movement of vitality. This quality, which is so near to
a fault, this quality of ease, has come to be disregarded in our day.
That Horace Walpole overpraised this virtue is not good reason that we
should hold it for a vice. Yet we do more than undervalue it; and
several of our authors, in prose and poetry, seem to find much merit in
the manifest difficulty; they will not have a key to turn, though closely
and tightly, in oiled wards; let the reluctant iron catch and grind, or
they would even prefer to pick you the lock.
But though we may think it time that the quality once over-prized should
be restored to a more proportionate honour, our great poet Tennyson shows
us that of all merits ease is, unexpectedly enough, the most dangerous.
It is not only, with him, that the wards are oiled, it is also that the
key turns loosely. This is true of much of the beautiful "Idylls," but
not of their best passages, nor of such magnificent heroic verse as that
of the close of "A Vision of Sin," or of "Lucretius." As to the question
of ease, we cannot have a better maxim than Coventry Patmore's saying
that poetry "should confess, but not suffer from, its difficulties." And
we could hardly find a more curious example of the present love of verse
that not only confesses but brags of difficulties, and not only suffers
from them but cries out under the suffering, and shows us the grimace of
the pain of it, than I have lighted upon in the critical article of a
recent quarterly. Reviewing the book of a "poet" who manifestly has an
insuperable difficulty in hacking his work into ten-syllable blocks, and
keeping at the same time any show of respect for the national grammar,
the critic gravely invites his reader to "note" the phrase "neath cliffs"
(apparently for "beneath the cliffs") as "characteristic." Shall the
reader indeed "note" such a matter? Truly he has other things to do.
This is by the way. Tennyson is always an artist, and the finish of his
work is one of the principal notes of his versification. How this finish
comports with the excessive ease of his prosody remains his own peculiar
secret. Ease, in him, does not mean that he has any unhandsome slovenly
ways. On the contrary, he resembles rather the warrior with the pouncet
box. It is the man of "neath cliffs" who will not be at the trouble of
making a place for so much as a definite article. Tennyson certainly
_worked_, and the exceeding ease of his blank verse comes perhaps of this
little paradox--that he makes somewhat too much show of the hiding of his
art.
In the first place the poet with the great welcome style and the little
unwelcome manner, Tennyson is, in the second place, the modern poet who
withstood France. (That is, of course, modern France--France since the
Renaissance. From medieval Provence there is not an English poet who
does not own inheritance.) It was some time about the date of the
Restoration that modern France began to be modish in England. A ruffle
at the Court of Charles, a couplet in the ear of Pope, a _tour de
phrase_ from Mme. de Sevigne much to the taste of Walpole, later the
good example of French painting--rich interest paid for the loan of our
Constable's initiative--later still a scattering of French taste, French
critical business, over all the shallow places of our literature--these
have all been phases of a national vanity of ours, an eager and anxious
fluttering or jostling to be foremost and French. Matthew Arnold's essay
on criticism fostered this anxiety, and yet I find in this work of his a
lack of easy French knowledge, such as his misunderstanding of the word
_brutalite_, which means no more, or little more, than roughness. Matthew
Arnold, by the way, knew so little of the French character as to be
altogether ignorant of French provincialism, French practical sense, and
French "convenience." "Convenience" is his dearest word of contempt,
"practical sense" his next dearest, and he throws them a score of times
in the teeth of the English. Strange is the irony of the truth. For he
bestows those withering words on the nation that has the fifty religions,
and attributes "ideas"--as the antithesis of "convenience" and "practical
sense"--to the nation that has the fifty sauces. And not for a moment
does he suspect himself of this blunder, so manifest as to be
disconcerting to his reader. One seems to hear an incurably English
accent in all this, which indeed is reported, by his acquaintance, of
Matthew Arnold's actual speaking of French. It is certain that he has
not the interest of familiarity with the language, but only the interest
of strangeness. Now, while we meet the effect of the French coat in our
seventeenth century, of the French light verse in our earlier eighteenth
century, and of French philosophy in our later, of the French revolution
in our Wordsworth, of the French painting in our nineteenth-century
studios, of French fiction--and the dregs are still running--in our
libraries, of French poetry in our Swinburne, of French criticism in our
Arnold, Tennyson shows the effect of nothing French whatever. Not the
Elizabethans, not Shakespeare, not Jeremy Taylor, not Milton, not Shelley
were (in their art, not in their matter) more insular in their time.
France, by the way, has more than appreciated the homage of Tennyson's
contemporaries; Victor Hugo avers, in _Les Miserables_, that our people
imitate his people in all things, and in particular he rouses in us a
delighted laughter of surprise by asserting that the London street-boy
imitates the Parisian street-boy. There is, in fact, something of a
street-boy in some of our late more literary mimicries.
We are apt to judge a poet too exclusively by his imagery. Tennyson is
hardly a great master of imagery. He has more imagination than imagery.
He sees the thing, with so luminous a mind's eye, that it is sufficient
to him; he needs not to see it more beautifully by a similitude. "A
clear-walled city" is enough; "meadows" are enough--indeed Tennyson
reigns for ever over all meadows; "the happy birds that change their
sky"; "Bright Phosphor, fresher for the night"; "Twilight and evening
bell"; "the stillness of the central sea"; "that friend of mine who lives
in God"; "the solitary morning"; "Four grey walls and four grey towers";
"Watched by weeping queens"; these are enough, illustrious, and needing
not illustration.
If we do not see Tennyson to be the lonely, the first, the _one_ that he
is, this is because of the throng of his following, though a number that
are of that throng hardly know, or else would deny, their flocking. But
he added to our literature not only in the way of cumulation, but by the
advent of his single genius. He is one of the few fountain-head poets of
the world. The new landscape which was his--the lovely unbeloved--is, it
need hardly be said, the matter of his poetry and not its inspiration. It
may have seemed to some readers that it is the novelty, in poetry, of
this homely unscenic scenery--this Lincolnshire quality--that accounts
for Tennyson's freshness of vision. But it is not so. Tennyson is fresh
also in scenic scenery; he is fresh with the things that others have
outworn; mountains, desert islands, castles, elves, what you will that is
conventional. Where are there more divinely poetic lines than those,
which will never be wearied with quotation, beginning, "A splendour
falls"? What castle walls have stood in such a light of old romance,
where in all poetry is there a sound wilder than that of those faint
"horns of elfland"? Here is the remoteness, the beyond, the light
delirium, not of disease but of more rapturous and delicate health, the
closer secret of poetry. This most English of modern poets has been
taunted with his mere gardens. He loved, indeed, the "lazy lilies," of
the exquisite garden of "The Gardener's Daughter," but he betook his
ecstatic English spirit also far afield and overseas; to the winter
places of his familiar nightingale:-
When first the liquid note beloved of men
Comes flying over many a windy wave;
to the lotus-eaters' shore; to the outland landscapes of "The Palace of
Art"--the "clear-walled city by the sea," the "pillared town," the "full-
fed river"; to the "pencilled valleys" of Monte Rosa; to the "vale in
Ida"; to that tremendous upland in the "Vision of Sin":-
At last I heard a voice upon the <DW72>
Cry to the summit, Is there any hope?
To which an answer pealed from that high land,
But in a tongue no man could understand.
The Cleopatra of "The Dream of Fair Women" is but a ready-made Cleopatra,
but when in the shades of her forest she remembers the sun of the world,
she leaves the page of Tennyson's poorest manner and becomes one with
Shakespeare's queen:-
We drank the Libyan sun to sleep.
Nay, there is never a passage of manner but a great passage of style
rebukes our dislike and recalls our heart again. The dramas, less than
the lyrics, and even less than the "Idylls," are matter for the true
Tennysonian. Their action is, at its liveliest rather vivacious than
vital, and the sentiment, whether in "Becket" or in "Harold," is not only
modern, it is fixed within Tennyson's own peculiar score or so of years.
But that he might have answered, in drama, to a stronger stimulus, a
sharper spur, than his time administered, may be guessed from a few
passages of "Queen Mary," and from the dramatic terror of the arrow in
"Harold." The line has appeared in prophetic fragments in earlier
scenes, and at the moment of doom it is the outcry of unquestionable
tragedy:-
Sanguelac--Sanguelac--the arrow--the arrow!--Away!
Tennyson is also an eminently all-intelligible poet. Those whom he
puzzles or confounds must be a flock with an incalculable liability to go
wide of any road--"down all manner of streets," as the desperate drover
cries in the anecdote. But what are streets, however various, to the
ways of error that a great flock will take in open country--minutely,
individually wrong, making mistakes upon hardly perceptible occasions, or
none--"minute fortuitous variations in any possible direction," as used
to be said in exposition of the Darwinian theory? A vast outlying
public, like that of Tennyson, may make you as many blunders as it has
heads; but the accurate clear poet proved his meaning to all accurate
perceptions. Where he hesitates, his is the sincere pause of process and
uncertainty. It has been said that Tennyson, midway between the student
of material science and the mystic, wrote and thought according to an age
that wavered, with him, between the two minds, and that men have now
taken one way or the other. Is this indeed true, and are men so divided
and so sure? Or have they not rather already turned, in numbers, back to
the parting, or meeting, of eternal roads? The religious question that
arises upon experience of death has never been asked with more sincerity
and attention than by him. If "In Memoriam" represents the mind of
yesterday it represents no less the mind of to-morrow. It is true that
pessimism and insurrection in their ignobler forms--nay, in the ignoblest
form of a fashion--have, or had but yesterday, the control of the popular
pen. Trivial pessimism or trivial optimism, it matters little which
prevails. For those who follow the one habit to-day would have followed
the other in a past generation. Fleeting as they are, it cannot be
within their competence to neglect or reject the philosophy of "In
Memoriam." To the dainty stanzas of that poem, it is true, no great
struggle of reasoning was to be committed, nor would any such dispute be
judiciously entrusted to the rhymes of a song of sorrow. Tennyson here
proposes, rather than closes with, the ultimate question of our destiny.
The conflict, for which he proves himself strong enough, is in that
magnificent poem of a thinker, "Lucretius." But so far as "In Memoriam"
attempts, weighs, falters, and confides, it is true to the experience of
human anguish and intellect.
I say intellect advisedly. Not for him such blunders of thought as
Coleridge's in "The Ancient Mariner" or Wordsworth's in "Hartleap Well."
Coleridge names the sun, moon, and stars as when, in a dream, the
sleeping imagination is threatened with some significant illness. We see
them in his great poem as apparitions. Coleridge's senses are infinitely
and transcendently spiritual. But a candid reader must be permitted to
think the mere story silly. The wedding-guest might rise the morrow morn
a sadder but he assuredly did not rise a wiser man.
As for Wordsworth, the most beautiful stanzas of "Hartleap Well" are
fatally rebuked by the truths of Nature. He shows us the ruins of an
aspen wood, a blighted hollow, a dreary place, forlorn because an
innocent stag, hunted, had there broken his heart in a leap from the
rocks above; grass would not grow there.
This beast not unobserved by Nature fell,
His death was mourned by sympathy divine.
And the signs of that sympathy are cruelly asserted by the poet to be
these woodland ruins--cruelly, because the daily sight of the world
blossoming over the agonies of beast and bird is made less tolerable to
us by such a fiction.
The Being that is in the clouds and air
...
Maintains a deep and reverential care
For the unoffending creature whom He loves.
The poet offers us as a proof of that "reverential care," the visible
alteration of Nature at the scene of suffering--an alteration we have to
dispense with every day we pass in the woods. We are tempted to ask
whether Wordsworth himself believed in a sympathy he asks us--on such
grounds!--to believe in? Did he think his faith to be worthy of no more
than a fictitious sign and a false proof?
Nowhere in the whole of Tennyson's thought is there such an attack upon
our reason and our heart. He is more serious than the solemn Wordsworth.
_In Memoriam_, with all else that Tennyson wrote, tutors, with here and
there a subtle word, this nature-loving nation to perceive land, light,
sky, and ocean, as he perceived. To this we return, upon this we dwell.
He has been to us, firstly, the poet of two geniuses--a small and an
immense; secondly, the modern poet who answered in the negative that most
significant modern question, French or not French? But he was, before
the outset of all our study of him, of all our love of him, the poet of
landscape, and this he is more dearly than pen can describe him. This
eternal character of his is keen in the verse that is winged to meet a
homeward ship with her "dewy decks," and in the sudden island landscape,
The clover sod,
That takes the sunshine and the rains,
Or where the kneeling hamlet drains
The chalice of the grapes of God.
It is poignant in the garden-night:-
A breeze began to tremble o'er
The large leaves of the sycamore,
...
And gathering freshlier overhead,
Rocked the full-foliaged elm, and swung
The heavy-folded rose, and flung
The lilies to and fro, and said
"The dawn, the dawn," and died away.
His are the exalted senses that sensual poets know nothing of. I think
the sense of hearing as well as the sense of sight, has never been more
greatly exalted than by Tennyson:-
As from beyond the limit of the world,
Like the last echo born of a great cry.
As to this garden-character so much decried I confess that the "lawn"
does not generally delight me, the word nor the thing. But in Tennyson's
page the word is wonderful, as though it had never been dull: "The
mountain lawn was dewy-dark." It is not that he brings the mountains too
near or ranks them in his own peculiar garden-plot, but that the word
withdraws, withdraws to summits, withdraws into dreams; the lawn is
aloft, alone, and as wild as ancient snow. It is the same with many
another word or phrase changed, by passing into his vocabulary, into
something rich and strange. His own especially is the March month--his
"roaring moon." His is the spirit of the dawning month of flowers and
storms; the golden, soft names of daffodil and crocus are caught by the
gale as you speak them in his verse, in a fine disproportion with the
energy and gloom. His was a new apprehension of nature, an increase in
the number, and not only in the sum, of our national apprehensions of
poetry in nature. Unaware of a separate angel of modern poetry is he who
is insensible to the Tennyson note--the new note that we reaffirm even
with the notes of Vaughan, Traherne, Wordsworth, Coleridge, Blake well in
our ears--the Tennyson note of splendour, all-distinct. He showed the
perpetually transfigured landscape in transfiguring words. He is the
captain of our dreams. Others have lighted a candle in England, he lit a
sun. Through him our daily suns, and also the backward and historic suns
long since set, which he did not sing, are magnified; and he bestows upon
us an exalted retrospection. Through him Napoleon's sun of Austerlitz
rises, for us, with a more brilliant menace upon arms and the plain;
through him Fielding's "most melancholy sun" lights the dying man to the
setting-forth on that last voyage of his with such an immortal gleam,
denying hope, as would not have lighted, for us, the memory of that
seaward morning, had our poetry not undergone the illumination, the
transcendent vision, of Tennyson's genius.
Emerson knew that the poet speaks adequately then only when he speaks "a
little wildly, or with the flower of the mind." Tennyson, the clearest-
headed of poets, is our wild poet; wild, notwithstanding that little
foppery we know of in him--that walking delicately, like Agag; wild,
notwithstanding the work, the ease, the neatness, the finish;
notwithstanding the assertion of manliness which, in asserting, somewhat
misses that mark; a wilder poet than the rough, than the sensual, than
the defiant, than the accuser, than the denouncer. Wild flowers are
his--great poet--wild winds, wild lights, wild heart, wild eyes!
DICKENS AS A MAN OF LETTERS
It was said for many years, until the reversal that now befalls the
sayings of many years had happened to this also, that Thackeray was the
unkind satirist and Dickens the kind humourist. The truth seems to be
that Dickens imagined more evil people than did Thackeray, but that he
had an eager faith in good ones. Nothing places him so entirely out of
date as his trust in human sanctity, his love of it, his hope for it, his
leap at it. He saw it in a woman's face first met, and drew it to
himself in a man's hand first grasped. He looked keenly for it. And if
he associated minor degrees of goodness with any kind of folly or mental
ineptitude, he did not so relate sanctity; though he gave it, for
companion, ignorance; and joined the two, in Joe Gargery, most tenderly.
We might paraphrase, in regard to these two great authors, Dr. Johnson's
famous sentence: "Marriage has many pains, but celibacy has no joys."
Dickens has many scoundrels, but Thackeray has no saints. Helen
Pendennis is not holy, for she is unjust and cruel; Amelia is not holy,
for she is an egoist in love; Lady Castlewood is not holy, for she too is
cruel; and even Lady Jane is not holy, for she is jealous; nor is Colonel
Newcome holy, for he is haughty; nor Dobbin, for he turns with a taunt
upon a plain sister; nor Esmond, for he squanders his best years in love
for a material beauty; and these are the best of his good people. And
readers have been taught to praise the work of him who makes none
perfect; one does not meet perfect people in trains or at dinner, and
this seemed good cause that the novelist should be praised for his
moderation; it seemed to imitate the usual measure and moderation of
nature.
But Charles Dickens closed with a divine purpose divinely different. He
consented to the counsels of perfection. And thus he made Joe Gargery,
not a man one might easily find in a forge; and Esther Summerson, not a
girl one may easily meet at a dance; and Little Dorrit, who does not come
to do a day's sewing; not that the man and the women are inconceivable,
but that they are unfortunately improbable. They are creatures created
through a creating mind that worked its six days for the love of good,
and never rested until the seventh, the final Sabbath. But granting that
they are the counterpart, the heavenly side, of caricature, this is not
to condemn them. Since when has caricature ceased to be an art good for
man--an honest game between him and nature? It is a tenable opinion that
frank caricature is a better incident of art than the mere exaggeration
which is the more modern practice. The words mean the same thing in
their origin--an overloading. But, as we now generally delimit the
words, they differ. Caricature, when it has the grotesque inspiration,
makes for laughter, and when it has the celestial, makes for admiration;
in either case there is a good understanding between the author and the
reader, or between the draughtsman and the spectator. We need not, for
example, suppose that Ibsen sat in a room surrounded by a repeating
pattern of his hair and whiskers on the wallpaper, but it makes us most
exceedingly mirthful and joyous to see him thus seated in Mr. Max
Beerbohm's drawing; and perhaps no girl ever went through life without
harbouring a thought of self, but it is very good for us all to know that
such a girl was thought of by Dickens, that he loved his thought, and
that she is ultimately to be traced, through Dickens, to God.
But exaggeration establishes no good understanding between the reader and
the author. It is a solemn appeal to our credulity, and we are right to
resent it. It is the violence of a weakling hand--the worst manner of
violence. Exaggeration is conspicuous in the newer poetry, and is so
far, therefore, successful, conspicuousness being its aim. But it was
also the vice of Swinburne, and was the bad example he set to the
generation that thought his tunings to be the finest "music." For
instance, in an early poem he intends to tell us how a man who loved a
woman welcomed the sentence that condemned him to drown with her, bound,
his impassioned breast against hers, abhorring. He might have convinced
us of that welcome by one phrase of the profound exactitude of genius.
But he makes his man cry out for the greatest bliss and the greatest
imaginable glory to be bestowed upon the judge who pronounces the
sentence. And this is merely exaggeration. One takes pleasure in
rebuking the false ecstasy by a word thus prim and prosaic. The poet
intended to impose upon us, and he fails; we "withdraw our attention," as
Dr. Johnson did when the conversation became foolish. In truth we do
more, for we resent exaggeration if we care for our English language. For
exaggeration writes relaxed, and not elastic, words and verses; and it is
possible that the language suffers something, at least temporarily--during
the life of a couple of generations, let us say--from the loss of
elasticity and rebound brought about by such strain. Moreover,
exaggeration has always to outdo itself progressively. There should have
been a Durdles to tell this Swinburne that the habit of exaggerating,
like that of boasting, "grows upon you."
It may be added that later poetry shows us an instance of exaggeration in
the work of that major poet, Mr. Lascelles Abercrombie. His violence and
vehemence, his extremity, are generally signs not of weakness but of
power; and yet once he reaches a breaking-point that power should never
know. This is where his Judith holds herself to be so smirched and
degraded by the proffer of a reverent love (she being devoted to one
only, a dead man who had her heart) that thenceforth no bar is left to
her entire self-sacrifice to the loathed enemy Holofernes. To this, too,
the prim rebuke is the just one, a word for the mouth of governesses: "My
dear, you exaggerate."
It may be briefly said that exaggeration takes for granted some degree of
imbecility in the reader, whereas caricature takes for granted a high
degree of intelligence. Dickens appeals to our intelligence in all his
caricature, whether heavenly, as in Joe Gargery | 213.943694 |
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Uniform with British Orations
AMERICAN ORATIONS, to illustrate American Political
History, edited, with introductions, by ALEXANDER
JOHNSTON, Professor of Jurisprudence and Political
Economy in the College of New Jersey. 3 vols., 16 mo,
$3.75.
PROSE MASTERPIECES FROM MODERN ESSAYISTS, comprising
single specimen essays from IRVING, LEIGH HUNT,
LAMB, DE QUINCEY, LANDOR, SYDNEY SMITH, THACKERAY,
EMERSON, ARNOLD, MORLEY, HELPS, KINGSLEY,
RUSKIN, LOWELL, CARLYLE, MACAULAY, FROUDE, FREEMAN,
GLADSTONE, NEWMAN, LESLIE STEPHEN. 3 vols., 16 mo,
bevelled boards, $3.75 and $4.50.
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS, NEW YORK AND LONDON
REPRESENTATIVE
BRITISH ORATIONS
WITH
INTRODUCTIONS AND EXPLANATORY NOTES
BY
CHARLES KENDALL ADAMS
_Videtisne quantum munus sit oratoris historia?_
—CICERO, _DeOratore_, ii, 15
✩✩
NEW YORK & LONDON
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
The Knickerbocker Press
1884
COPYRIGHT
G. P | 214.035739 |
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MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER
[Illustration: MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER MISBEHAVES HIMSELF [See p. 205]]
MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER
A Sequel to "TOBY TYLER"
BY JAMES OTIS
AUTHOR OF "TIM AND TIP," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
[Illustration: Logo]
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
COPYRIGHT, 1882, 1910, BY HARPER & BROTHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1910, BY JAMES OTIS KALER
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. THE SCHEME 1
II. THE BLIND HORSE 14
III. ABNER BOLTON 31
IV. THE PONY 40
V. OLD BEN 54
VI. THE GREAT EVENT 66
VII. ATTRACTIONS FOR THE LITTLE CIRCUS 78
VIII. THE DINNER PARTY 91
IX. MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER 105
X. THE ACCIDENT 119
XI. CHANGE OF PLANS 131
XII. A REHEARSAL 143
XIII. THE RESULTS OF LONG TRAINING 156
XIV. RAISING THE TENT 170
XV. STEALING DUCKS 183
XVI. A LOST MONKEY 197
XVII. DRIVING A MONKEY 208
XVIII. COLLECTING THE ANIMALS 218
XIX. THE SHOW BROKE UP 231
XX. ABNER'S DEATH 237
ILLUSTRATIONS
MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER MISBEHAVES HIMSELF _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
PLANNING THE CIRCUS 14
MR. AND MRS. TREAT EXHIBIT PRIVATELY 92
TOBY RESCUES THE CROWING HEN FROM MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER 234
MR. STUBBS'S BROTHER
CHAPTER I
THE SCHEME
"Why, we could start a circus jest as easy as a wink, Toby, 'cause you
know all about one an' all you'd have to do would be to tell us fellers
what to do, an' we'd 'tend to the rest."
"Yes; but you see we hain't got a tent, or bosses, or wagons, or
nothin', an' I don't see how you could get a circus up that way;" and
the speaker hugged his knees as he rocked himself to and fro in a musing
way on the rather sharp point of a large rock, on which he had seated
himself in order to hear what his companions had to say that was so
important.
"Will you come down with me to Bob Atwood's, an' see what he says about
it?"
"Yes, I'll do that if you'll come out afterwards for a game of I-spy
'round the meetin'-house."
"All right; if we can find enough of the other fellers, I will."
Then the boys slipped down from the rocks, found the cows, and drove
them home as the preface to their visit to Bob Atwood's.
The boy who was so anxious to start a circus was a little fellow with
such a wonderful amount of remarkably red hair that he was seldom called
anything but Reddy, although his name was known--by his parents, at
least--to be Walter Grant. His companion was Toby Tyler, a boy who, a
year before, had thought it would be a very pleasant thing to run away
from his Uncle Daniel and the town of Guilford in order to be with a
circus, and who, in ten weeks, was only too glad to run back home as
rapidly as possible.
During the first few months of his return, very many brilliant offers
had been made Toby by his companions to induce him to aid them in
starting an amateur circus; but he had refused to have anything to do
with the schemes, and for several reasons. During the ten weeks he had
been away, he had seen quite as much of a circus life as he cared to
see, without even such a mild dose as would be this amateur show; and,
again, whenever he thought of the matter, the remembrance of the death
of his monkey, Mr. Stubbs, would come upon him so vividly, and cause him
so much sorrow, that he resolutely put the matter from his mind.
Now, however, it had been a year since the monkey was killed; school had
closed during the summer season; and he was rather more disposed to
listen to the requests of his friends.
On this particular night, Reddy Grant had offered to go with him for the
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Produced by Al Haines
The Old Blood
By FREDERICK PALMER
AUTHOR OF
"The Last Shot," "My Year of the Great War," Etc.
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers ---- New York
Published by Arrangements with DODD, MEAD & COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1916,
By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, INC.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I A HOME-COMING
II TWO GIRLS ON A TRAIN
III AN INVITATION
IV TOO MUCH ANCESTOR
V THE FLAVOUR OF GRAPES
VI AT MERVAUX
VII A FULL-FACE PORTRAIT
VIII ANOTHER PHASE OF HELEN
IX A MESSAGE FROM ALSACE
X THE VOICE AT HIS ELBOW
XI SHE SAID, "YES!"
XII THE GUNS SPEAK
XIII A MATTER OF GALLANTRY
XIV "IF I WISH IT!"
XV HELEN ASKS A FAVOUR
XVI A CHANGE OF PLANS
XVII UNDER FIRE
XVIII A RUN FOR IT
XIX A CHOICE OF BILLETS
XX UNDER ARREST
XXI A BIT FROM THE MOVIES
XXII VICTORY!
XXIII LONGFIELD DECIDES
XXIV HELEN ARRIVES
XXV HENRIETTE WAITS
XXVI A DIRECT HIT
XXVII A SMILING HELEN
XXVIII A "SITTING CASE"
XXIX IN HER PLACE AGAIN
XXX PETER SMITHERS IN ACTION
XXXI A THOUGHT FOR HELEN
XXXII LIGHT
XXXIII SPINNING WEBS
THE OLD BLOOD
CHAPTER I
A HOME-COMING
Perhaps a real story-teller, who leaps into the heart of things, would
have begun this story in France instead of with a railroad journey from
the Southwest to New England; perhaps he would have taken the view of
"our Philip's" mother that Phil fought the whole war in Europe himself;
perhaps given the story the name of "The Plain Girl," leaving Phil
secondary place.
A veracious chronicler, consulting Phil's wishes, makes his beginning
with a spring afternoon of 1914, when the Berkshire <DW72>s were
dripping and glistening and smiling and the air, washed by showers and
purified by a burst of sunshine, was like some rare vintage which might
be drunk only on the premises.
Complaining in a familiar way as it followed the course of a winding
stream, which laughed in flashes of pearly white over rocky shallows,
the train ran out into a broad valley--the home valley. Not a road
that he had not tramped over; not a woodland path that he did not know;
not a mountain trail that he had not climbed. The scene was bred in
his blood.
If Bill Hurley were at the station the auguries would be right, and
there he was, standing on the same spot where he had stood for twenty
years when the trains arrived; there, too, the stooped old station
agent in his moment of bustling importance. By the calendar of Bill's
chin it was Tuesday; for Bill shaved only on Sunday and Wednesday
afternoons. A man of observation and opinion this keeper of the gate
of Longfield, who let the world come to him and took charge of its
baggage and conveyed its persons to their destinations. He was also a
dispenser of news.
"The Jerrods have got that new porch," he said. "They'd been talking
about it so long that they're sort of lost-minded and dumb these days.
And Hanks has put in a new soda fountain and plate glass windows.
Ambitious man, Hanks. Nothing can keep him from branching out."
"And nothing can change you, Bill."
"Me? I guess not. May wither a little when the winters are hard, but
you'll find me here fifty years from now. H-m-m!" after looking Phil
over. "Bound to happen to young fellers out of college. Noticed it
often. Something rubbed off you and something rubbed in out West, I
jedge."
"You have it--and in one of your epigrams, as usual," Phil agreed.
"Folks do say that I have a tolerable understanding of human nature,
not to mention a sententious way of saying things, which I've always
said comes from handling trunks. Hear you're going to Europe."
"Always well informed!" Phil affirmed.
"Never denied it. Well, you've earned the trip. Three years out
there. Made good, too, everybody says. Soon as you've seen your folks
and eat your veal, you and me must have a talk about old times. Trunk
and suit case? Right! Have 'em up in a quarter of an hour."
Beyond the station was the old wooden bridge, which spanned the river
here running deep and sluggish under drooping, solicitous willows.
Then the avenue of maples; and at the end of the vista of deep shade,
in the bright light of the little square, the statue of a strenuous
gentleman in bronze who, sword in hand, was charging British redcoats.
For Longfield had a real work of art, though not all Longfield
appreciated the fact yet and certain Puritan sections were inclined to
regard anything called a work of art with suspicion.
In boyhood Phil had heard so much about the hero at home that he seemed
a bore. To-day that spirited, indomitable figure gave him a thrill.
With a fresh eye he realised its quality and something deeper than that
in a wave of personal gratitude to a famous sculptor, also a son of
Longfield, known in other lands where the ancestor was unknown, who had
taken the commission out of civic pride for a small fee and the
satisfaction of putting his best into a chivalrous subject after having
received a large fee for doing a statesman in a frock for the grounds
of a State capital.
Phil recalled how his father and mother and the Sons of the Revolution,
and also the Daughters thereof, had favoured a full Continental uniform
for the hero. But the sculptor had had enough of coats. Not lacking
in that pithiness of expression which is salad to genius, he had told
the family and societies and committees and all such that either he
would have his way or they could employ a mortuary chiseller and a
tailor, who would gratify their conceptions of martial dignity by
clothing a gallant gentleman who had fought free-limbed on a hot August
day in an overcoat, muffler and mittens and two suits of underclothes,
which would have meant death to freedom from sunstroke and that the
Declaration of Independence might be a relic in the British Museum.
Coatless, hatless, sleeves rolled and shirt open at the throat, young
and lean, with every fibre attuned to conflict, the "rebel" who had
helped to found a nation now served the purpose not of stopping a
British charge, but of bringing touring automobiles to a standstill
while their occupants appreciated, either by virtue of their own taste
or by the desire to be in fashion with the taste of their superiors,
what many considered to be the best work of a master, in contrast with
the graveyard effigies, which had the martial spirit of Alaskan totem
poles, from the same mould in other squares, to glorify the deeds of
local regiments in the Civil War.
Longfield was proud of the statue because it attracted so much
attention and because it was Longfield's and yet resentful because it
attracted more attention than the elms. Tourists thought that other
villages had equally as noble elms as Longfield--equally patched and
scarred. Longfield knew better. Its elms were without comparison.
From the selectmen's point of view the cost of nursing was
considerable, too, which gave further merit over the statue, which cost
nothing for upkeep.
Besides, the elms were old when the hero was a child. They marked the
epoch of the village's birth, even as the maples marked that of the
railroad's coming. Nothing in Old England is quite as old as New
England. Not even the pyramids are as old as a New England elm.
Europe may repair and renovate cathedrals; New England repairs and
renovates elms. The Puritan Fathers planted trees on such broad main
streets as that of Longfield, with stretches of green border of old
turf now curving around the massive trunks that supported their stately
plumes--a street which Phil saw in its age, its serenity and its spring
freshness with the appreciation of one come from the Southwest, plus
the call of old association which absence strengthens. To him the
Berkshires were the hills of all hills; Longfield the village of
villages; this street the street of streets; and the most majestic elm
stood beside a path which led to the house of houses. Home-coming had
kindled his sentiment. He had been long enough out of college not to
be ashamed of a little of it, if he did not have to mention it to
anybody.
It was this mood in its desire to find all home pictures unchanged that
had kept him from naming his train; and he had taken one arriving in
the afternoon in the hope of witnessing the scene which was set for
that hour in the routine of the Reverend Doctor and Mrs. Sanford, of
Longfield. Their chairs in the accustomed places on the porch, the
father was reading and the mother sewing in their conscious and
unspoken companionship. What a delightful pair of sequestered old
dears they were! How worldly he felt beside them!
They had not heard his steps. He paused until his mother should see
him, for he knew that she would be the first to look up. When she did,
her little outcry, as she put her hand impulsively on the doctor's knee
to draw the attention of an absent-minded husband, was also entirely in
keeping with his anticipation and with the dependability of habit in
Longfield, which was not the least of its charms. She was well on her
way to meet him before his father had taken off his spectacles and
placed the marker in his book. After Philip had embraced them they
were silent, taking in the reality of him who had been so long absent
and possibly a little awed at the presence of this sturdy, tanned only
son--come to them late when they had almost given up ever having any
children--who had been out battling with that world which was confusing
and forbidding to them.
He slipped his arm around his mother's waist. She took his hand in
hers with a fluttering of mothering impulse, as he directed their steps
by the side path which led to the garden, while the father, brought up
the rear.
"You've been successful, Phillie," she said, the thought uppermost in
mind coming out first. "It was such an undertaking and we're so
pleased." She might have said proud, but that was a vain word.
Self-warned about the weakness of parents with only sons, it had been
her rule never to spoil Phil with praise.
"Yes, I've done pretty well for a----" and he glanced around at his
father in the freemasonry of a settled comradeship.
"For a minister's son!" put in the father, chuckling.
"I had to," Philip proceeded. "I was right up against it. It was
rough stuff at first and Mexico the limit!"
"What language!" exclaimed the father, who could be a purist on
occasion.
"Very expressive!" said the mother, defending her son. "It must have
been rough, indeed." She would have forgiven Philip if he had said
damn that afternoon.
"In other words," observed the Reverend Dr. Sanford, "when it came to
the rough stuff Philip was no piker! I've been studying up so as to
make you feel at home," he added, with another chuckle.
"What do you think my first job was?" Phil said. "I didn't tell you
that. It was cleaning out cattle cars."
"Oh, Phil, no!" She looked down at her son's hands as if wondering how
such horrors could be.
"He has washed them since," observed the father.
"Now you're both up to your old tricks, teasing me!" she said
admonishingly. "And, Phillie"--she pressed a point of unsatisfied
maternal curiosity which his letters had never answered--"you never
told us why it was that you did not go to work for Peter--that is, your
side of it. You seem to have had a quarrel with him."
In a sense Peter Smithers was one of the Sanford family. He had been a
clever village boy whom Phil's grandfather had taken under his wing
some forty years ago, and the type of clever village boy who does not
need sheltering wings for long. Middle age found him the head of a
great manufacturing business in New Jersey. Hieing homeward, New
England fashion, he had built himself a big country place back in the
hills, which he referred to as "my little farm." People spoke of him
as a millionaire, but he insisted that he was dirt poor. He was a
bachelor, with no heirs, a fact which Mrs. Sanford, more practical than
the clergyman, could never forget when she thought of the future of her
son.
"What was Peter's side?" Phil asked.
"He said that you didn't want to begin at the bottom of the ladder."
"And yet he began at the bottom of a cattle car," said the father.
"I didn't mind a humble beginning," said Phil, "but from the way that
Peter spoke I was afraid there wasn't in his establishment a place so
humble but if I took it I might be the ruin of his business. You see,
mother, I was cleaning out those cattle cars on the orders of a
stranger. I knew that he was not hiring me because my grandfather had
done him a favour."
"Peter did not mean it that way. It's only his manner," persisted his
mother. "I think he was really hurt about it. I suppose you know that
he is going to give all his money for founding a school and club for
his employees. He talks of nothing else."
"I can hear him, mother."
But there Peter and his eccentricities and philanthropic projects
vanished from mind at sight of an expense of gingham apron filling the
kitchen doorway and covering the ample form of Jane, grinning and
beneficent, who, as she herself said, was no skittish young thing who
didn't know a good place when she had it, which accounted for the
Sanfords having retained their general houseworker.
Diplomacy and gratitude demanded that homage be paid to Jane; and
affection which began with childhood greeted Patrick, the gardener,
leaning on his hoe and sucking in his pipe, as Phil had seen him a
thousand times. Unchanged the garden with its bounteous colour, its
perfume, and green and budding and flowering promise of plenty in that
little world walled in by larches from the neighbours on either side in
the village world in turn walled in by the hills, gone golden in high
lights and dark in shadows in the recesses of the woods with the
lowering slant of the sun's rays.
"There is no place like it," said Phil. "My roots are in this soil as
deep as the elms."
Unchanged Patrick, whose articulation was sufficient indication without
explanation that he had not yet brought himself to wear store teeth
except at funerals and on Sundays, or on any other occasion when he
wore a starched collar.
"Strawberries are ripe," said Jane. "Do you still like strawberry
shortcake, Phillie?"
"M-m-m--yes!"
"That sounds natural. It's the way you used to say it when you was
little. Lord, but you did have an appetite down to your soles! Now,
see here----" Jane squared herself, eyeing him very sternly.
"Yes, Jane?"
"Do you think that your mother can make better strawberry shortcake
than me?"
"Jane, the | 214.041441 |
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AVICENA’S OFFERING
_to the_
PRINCE
«E l’anima umana la qual è colla nobiltà della
potenzia ultima, cioè ragione, participa della
divina natura a guisa di sempiterna Intelligenza;
perocchè l’anima è tanto in quella sovrana potenzia
nobilitata, e dinudata da materia, che la divina
luce, come in Angiolo, raggia in quella; e però è
l’uomo divino animale da’ Filosofi chiamato.»[1]
(=Dante=, _Convito_, III, 2.)
STAMPERIA DI NICOLA PADERNO
_S. Salvatore Corte Regia, 10_
VERONA, ITALIA
A
COMPENDIUM
ON THE
SOUL,
BY
_Abû-'Aly al-Husayn Ibn 'Abdallah Ibn Sînâ:_
TRANSLATED, FROM THE ARABIC ORIGINAL,
BY
EDWARD ABBOTT van DYCK,
WITH
Grateful Acknowledgement of the Substantial Help
OBTAINED
From Dr. S. Landauer’s Concise German Translation,
AND FROM
James Middleton
MacDonald’s Literal English Translation;
AND
PRINTED
AT
_VERONA, ITALY, in THE YEAR 1906_,
For the Use of Pupils and Students of Government Schools
IN
_Cairo, Egypt_.
PREFACE
Several sources out of which to draw information and seek guidance as
to Ibn Sînâ’s biography and writings, and his systems of medicine and
philosophy, are nowadays easily accessible to nearly every one. Among
such sources the following are the best for Egyptian students:
1. Ibn Abi Uçaybi´ah’s “Tabaqât-ul-Atib-ba,” and Wuestenfeld’s
“Arabische Aertzte.”
2. Ibn Khallikân’s “Wafâyât-ul-A´ayân.”
3. Brockelmann’s “Arabische Literatur.”
4. F. Mehren’s Series of Essays on Ibn Sînâ in the Periodical “Muséon”
from the year 1882 and on.
5. Clément Huart’s Arabic Literature, either in the French Original or
in the English Translation.
6. Carra de Vaux’s “Les Grands Philosophes: Avicenna,” Paris, Felix
Alcan, 1900, pp. vii et 302.
7. T. de Boer’s “History of Philosophy in Islâm,” both in Dutch and in
the English translation.
The “Offering to the Prince in the Form of a Compendium on the Soul,”
of which the present Pamphlet is my attempt at an English Translation,
is the least known throughout Egypt and Syria of all Ibn Sînâ’s
many and able literary works: indeed I have failed, after repeated
and prolonged enquiry, to come across so much as one, among my many
Egyptian acquaintances, that had even heard of it.
Doctor Samuel Landauer of the University of Strassburg published
both the Arabic text, and his own concise German translation, of
this Research into the Faculties of the Soul, in volume 29 for the
year 1875 of the Z.d.D.M.G., together with his critical notes
and exhaustively erudite confrontations of the original Arabic with
many Greek passages from Plato, Aristotle, Alexander Aphrodisias, and
others, that Ibn Sînâ had access to, it would appear, second hand,
i.e. through translations. Doctor Landauer made use also of a very rare
Latin translation by Andreas Alpagus, printed at Venice in 1546; and
of the Cassel second edition of Jehuda Hallévy’s religious Dialogue
entitled Khusari, which is in rabbinical Hebrew, and on pages 385 to
400 of which the views of “philosophers” on the Soul are set forth,
Doctor Landauer having discovered to his agreeable surprise that those
15 pages are simply a word for word excerpt from this | 214.14329 |
2023-11-16 18:20:38.1239660 | 3,376 | 118 | The Project Gutenberg Etext of Conscience by Hector Malot, v4
#76 in our series The French Immortals Crowned by the French Academy
#4 in our series by Hector Malot
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AVATARAS
FOUR LECTURES DELIVERED AT THE TWENTY-FOURTH
ANNIVERSARY MEETING OF THE
THEOSOPHICAL SOCIETY AT ADYAR,
MADRAS, DECEMBER, 1899
BY
ANNIE BESANT
_ENGLISH EDITION_
Theosophical Publishing Society
3 Langham Place, London, W.
1900
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
PAGE
LECTURE I.--
WHAT IS AN AVATARA? 7
LECTURE II.--
THE SOURCE OF AND NEED FOR AVATARAS 31
LECTURE III.--
SOME SPECIAL AVATARAS 65
LECTURE IV.--
SHRI KRISHNA 95
* * * * *
AVATARAS.
FIRST LECTURE.
BROTHERS:--Every time that we come here together to study the
fundamental truths of all religions, I cannot but feel how vast is the
subject, how small the expounder, how mighty the horizon that opens
before our thoughts, how narrow the words which strive to sketch it for
your eyes. Year after year we meet, time after time we strive to fathom
some of those great mysteries of life, of the Self, which form the only
subject really worthy of the profoundest thought of man. All else is
passing; all else is transient; all else is but the toy of a moment.
Fame and power, wealth and science--all that is in this world below is
as nothing beside the grandeur of the Eternal Self in the universe and
in man, one in all His manifold manifestations, marvellous and beautiful
in every form that He puts forth. And this year, of all the
manifestations of the Supreme, we are going to dare to study the holiest
of the holiest, those manifestations of God in the world in which He
shows Himself as divine, coming to help the world that He has made,
shining forth in His essential nature, the form but a thin film which
scarce veils the Divinity from our eyes. How then shall we venture to
approach it, how shall we dare to study it, save with deepest reverence,
with profoundest humility; for if there needs for the study of His works
patience, reverence and humbleness of heart, what when we study Him
whose works but partially reveal Him, when we try to understand what is
meant by an Avatara, what is the meaning, what the purpose of such a
revelation?
Our President has truly said that in all the faiths of the world there
is belief in such manifestations, and that ancient maxim as to
truth--that which is as the hall mark on the silver showing that the
metal is pure--that ancient maxim is here valid, that whatever has been
believed everywhere, whatever has been believed at every time, and by
every one, that is true, that is reality. Religions quarrel over many
details; men dispute over many propositions; but where human heart and
human voice speak a single word, there you have the mark of truth, there
you have the sign of spiritual reality. But in dealing with the subject
one difficulty faces us, faces you as hearers, faces myself as speaker.
In every religion in modern times truth is shorn of her full
proportions; the intellect alone cannot grasp the many aspects of the
one truth. So we have school after school, philosophy after philosophy,
each one showing an aspect of truth, and ignoring, or even denying, the
other aspects which are equally true. Nor is this all; as the age in
which we are passes on from century to century, from millennium to
millennium, knowledge becomes dimmer, spiritual insight becomes rarer,
those who repeat far out-number those who know; and those who speak with
clear vision of the spiritual verity are lost amidst the crowds, who
only hold traditions whose origin they fail to understand. The priest
and the prophet, to use two well-known words, have ever in later times
come into conflict one with the other. The priest carries on the
traditions of antiquity; too often he has lost the knowledge that made
them real. The prophet--coming forth from time to time with the divine
word hot as fire on his lips--speaks out the ancient truth and
illuminates tradition. But they who cling to the words of tradition are
apt to be blinded by the light of the fire and to call out "heretic"
against the one who speaks the truth that they have lost. Therefore, in
religion after religion, when some great teacher has arisen, there have
been opposition, clamour, rejection, because the truth he spoke was too
mighty to be narrowed within the limits of half-blinded men. And in such
a subject as we are to study to-day, certain grooves have been made,
certain ruts as it were, in which the human mind is running, and I know
that in laying before you the occult truth, I must needs, at some
points, come into clash with details of a tradition that is rather
repeated by memory than either understood or the truths beneath it
grasped. Pardon me then, my brothers, if in a speech on this great topic
I should sometimes come athwart some of the dividing lines of different
schools of Hindu thought; I may not, I dare not, narrow the truth I have
learnt, to suit the limitations that have grown up by the ignorance of
ages, nor make that which is the spiritual verity conform to the empty
traditions that are left in the faiths of the world. By the duty laid
upon me by the Master that I serve, by the truth that He has bidden me
speak in the ears of men of all the faiths that are in this modern
world; by these I must tell you what is true, no matter whether or not
you agree with it for the moment; for the truth that is spoken wins
submission afterwards, if not at the moment; and any one who speaks of
the Rishis of antiquity must speak the truths that they taught in
their days, and not repeat the mere commonplaces of commentators of
modern times and the petty orthodoxies that ring us in on every side and
divide man from man.
I propose in order to simplify this great subject to divide it under
certain heads. I propose first to remind you of the two great divisions
recognised by all who have thought on the subject; then to take up
especially, for this morning, the question, "What is an Avatara?"
To-morrow we shall put and strive to answer, partly at least, the
question, "Who is the source of Avataras?" Then later we shall take up
special Avataras both of the kosmos and of human races. Thus I hope to
place before you a clear, definite succession of ideas on this great
subject, not asking you to believe them because I speak them, not asking
you to accept them because I utter them. Your reason is the bar to which
every truth must come which is true for you; and you err deeply, almost
fatally, if you let the voice of authority impose itself where you do
not answer to the speaking. Every truth is only true to you as you see
it, and as it illuminates the mind; and truth however true is not yet
truth for you, unless your heart opens out to receive it, as the flower
opens out its heart to receive the rays of the morning sun.
First, then, let us take a statement that men of every religion will
accept. Divine manifestations of a special kind take place from time to
time as the need arises for their appearance; and these special
manifestations are marked out from the universal manifestation of God in
His kosmos; for never forget that in the lowest creature that crawls the
earth I'shvara is present as in the highest Deva. But there are certain
special manifestations marked out from this general self-revelation in
the kosmos, and it is these special manifestations which are called
forth by special needs. Two words especially have been used in Hinduism,
marking a certain distinction in the nature of the manifestation--one
the word "Avatara," the other the word "A'vesha." Only for a moment
need we stop on the meaning of the words, important to us because the
literal meaning of the words points to the fundamental difference
between the two. The word "Avatara," as you know, has as its root
"tri," passing over, and with the prefix which is added, the "ava,"
you get the idea of descent, one who descends. That is the literal
meaning of the word. The other word has as its root "vish,"
permeating, penetrating, pervading, and you have there the thought of
something which is permeated or penetrated. So that while in the one
case, Avatara, there is the thought of a descent from above, from
I'shvara to man or animal; in the other, there is rather the idea of an
entity already existing who is influenced, permeated, pervaded by the
divine power, specially illuminated as it were. And thus we have a kind
of intermediate step, if one may say so, between the divine
manifestation in the Avatara and in the kosmos--the partial divine
manifestation in one who is permeated by the influence of the Supreme,
or of some other being who practically dominates the individual, the Ego
who is thus permeated.
Now what are the occasions which lead to these great manifestations?
None can speak with mightier authority on this point than He who came
Himself as an Avatara just before the beginning of our own age, the
Divine Lord Shri Krishna Himself. Turn to that marvellous poem,
the _Bhagavad-Gita_, to the fourth Adhyaya, Shlokas 7 and 8; there He
tells us what draws Him forth to birth into His world in the manifested
form of the Supreme:
[Sanskrit:
yadA yadAhidharmasya GlAnirBavati BArata |
aByutthAnamadharmasya tadAtmAnaM sRujAmyaham ||
paritrANAya sAdhUnAm vinAsAyacaduShkRutAm ||
dharmasaMsdhApanArthAya saMBavAmi yuge yuge ||]
"When Dharma,--righteousness, law--decays, when
Adharma--unrighteousness, lawlessness--is exalted, then I Myself come
forth: for the protection of the good, for the destruction of the evil,
for the establishing firmly of Dharma, I am born from age to age." That
is what He tells us of the coming forth of the Avatara. That is, the
needs of His world call upon Him to manifest Himself in His divine
power; and we know | 214.236223 |
2023-11-16 18:20:38.7169060 | 481 | 11 |
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Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
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Small capital text has been replaced with all capitals.
*** depicts an asterism.
* * * * *
BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCCLXXIV. DECEMBER, 1846. VOL. LX.
CONTENTS.
KOHL IN DENMARK AND IN THE MARSHES, 645
LORD METCALFE'S GOVERNMENT OF JAMAICA, 662
ANNALS AND ANTIQUITIES OF LONDON, 673
MARLBOROUGH'S DISPATCHES. 1711-1712, 690
MILDRED. A TALE. PART I., 709
THE LAW AND ITS PUNISHMENTS, 721
LEGENDS OF THE THAMES, 729
RECENT ROYAL MARRIAGES, 740
ST MAGNUS', KIRKWALL, 753
THE GAME LAWS, 754
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_In the Press, a Seventh Edition of_
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If your computer has a more appropriate character, feel free to replace
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vówel or after the syl´lable; inconsistencies are unchanged. Except
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The First Annual Report includes ten “Accompanying Papers”, all
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* * * * *
* * * *
* * * * *
FIRST ANNUAL REPORT
of the
BUREAU OF ETHNOLOGY
to the
Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution
1879-’80
by
J. W. POWELL
Director
[Illustration]
WASHINGTON
Government Printing Office
1881
SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION, Bureau of Ethnology,
_Washington, D.C., July, 1880._
Prof. SPENCER F. BAIRD,
_Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution_,
_Washington, D.C._:
SIR: I have the honor to transmit herewith the first annual report of
the operations of the Bureau of Ethnology.
By act of Congress, an appropriation was made to continue researches in
North American anthropology, the general direction of which was confided
to yourself. As chief executive officer of the Smithsonian Institution,
you entrusted to me the immediate control of the affairs of the Bureau.
This report, with its appended papers, is designed to exhibit the
methods and results of my administration of this trust.
If any measure of success has been attained, it is largely due to
general instructions received from yourself and the advice you have ever
patiently given me on all matters of importance.
I am indebted to my assistants, whose labors are delineated in the
report, for their industry; hearty co-operation, and enthusiastic love
of the science. Only through their zeal have your plans been executed.
Much assistance has been rendered the Bureau by a large body of
scientific men engaged in the study of anthropology, some of whose names
have been mentioned in the report and accompanying papers, and others
will be put on record when the subject-matter of their writings is fully
published.
I am, with respect, your obedient servant,
J. W. POWELL.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
REPORT OF THE DIRECTOR.
Page.
Introductory xi
Bibliography of North American philology, by J. C. Pilling xv
Linguistic and other anthropologic researches,
by J. O. Dorsey xvii
Linguistic researches, by S. R. Riggs xviii
Linguistic and general researches among the Klamath
Indians, by A. S. Gatschet xix
Studies among the Iroquois, by Mrs. E. A. Smith xxii
Work by Prof. Otis T. Mason xxii
The study of gesture speech, by Brevet Lieut. Col.
Garrick Mallery xxiii
Studies on Central American picture writing,
by Prof. E. S. Holden xxv
The study of mortuary customs, by Dr. H. C. Yarrow xxvi
Investigations relating to cessions of lands by Indian
tribes to the United States, by C. C. Royce xxvii
Explorations by Mr. James Stevenson xxx
Researches among the Wintuns, by Prof. J. W. Powell xxxii
The preparation of manuals for use in American research xxxii
Linguistic classification of the North American tribes xxxiii
ACCOMPANYING PAPERS.
Page.
ON THE EVOLUTION OF LANGUAGE, BY J. W. POWELL.
Process by combination 3
Process by vocalic mutation 5
Process by intonation 6
Process by placement 6
Differentiation of the parts of speech 8
SKETCH OF THE MYTHOLOGY OF THE NORTH AMERICAN INDIANS, BY J. W. POWELL.
The genesis of philosophy 19
Two grand stages of philosophy 21
Mythologic philosophy has four stages 29
Outgrowth from mythologic philosophy 33
The course of evolution in mythologic philosophy 38
Mythic tales 43
The Cĭn-aú-äv Brothers discuss matters of importance
to the Utes 44
Origin of the echo 45
The So´-kûs Wai´-ûn-ats 47
Ta-vwots has a fight with the sun 52
WYANDOT GOVERNMENT, BY J. W. POWELL.
The family 59
The gens 59
The phratry 60
Government 61
Civil government 61
Methods of choosing councillors 61
Functions of civil government 63
Marriage regulations 63
Name regulations 64
Regulations of personal adornment 64
Regulations of order in encampment 64
Property rights 65
Rights of persons 65
Community rights 65
Rights of religion 65
Crimes 66
Theft 66
Maiming 66
Murder 66
Treason 67
Witchcraft 67
Outlawry 67
Military government 68
Fellowhood 68
ON LIMITATIONS TO THE USE OF SOME ANTHROPOLOGIC DATA, BY J. W. POWELL.
Archæology 73
Picture writing 75
History, customs, and ethnic characteristics 76
Origin of man 77
Language 78
Mythology 81
Sociology 83
Psychology 83
A FURTHER CONTRIBUTION TO THE STUDY OF THE MORTUARY CUSTOMS OF THE NORTH
AMERICAN INDIANS, BY H. C. YARROW.
List of illustrations 89
Introductory 91
Classification of burial 92
Inhumation 93
Pit burial 93
Grave burial 101
Stone graves or cists 113
Burial in mounds 115
Burial beneath or in cabins, wigwams, or houses 122
Cave burial 126
Embalmment or mummification 130
Urn burial 137
Surface burial 138
Cairn burial 142
Cremation 143
Partial cremation 150
Aerial sepulture 152
Lodge burial 152
Box burial 155
Tree and scaffold burial 158
Partial scaffold burial and ossuaries 168
Superterrene and aerial burial in canoes 171
Aquatic burial 180
Living | 214.739532 |
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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_ and spaced text by =equal
signs=. In the ads, an = sign | 214.741692 |
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THE RANGERS
OR, THE TORY'S DAUGHTER
A Tale Illustrative Of The Revolutionary History Of Vermont And The
Northern Campaign Of 1777
By D. P. Thompson
The Author Of "The Green Mountain Boys"
Two Volumes In One
Tenth Edition
VOLUME I.
On commencing his former work, illustrative of the revolutionary history
of Vermont,--THE GREEN MOUNTAIN BOYS,--it was the design of the author
to have embraced the battle of Bennington, and other events of historic
interest which occurred in the older and more southerly parts of the
state; but finding, as he proceeded, that the unity and interest of his
effort would be endangered by embracing so much ground, a part of the
original design was relinquished, or rather its execution was deferred
for a new and separate work, wherein better justice could be done to the
rich and unappropriated materials of which his researches had put him in
possession. That work, after an interval of ten years, and the writing
and publishing of several intermediate ones, is now presented to the
public, and with the single remark, that if it is made to possess less
interest, as a mere tale, than its predecessor, the excuse must be found
in the author's greater anxiety to give a true historic version of the
interesting and important events he has undertaken to illustrate.
THE RANGERS;
OR,
THE TORY'S DAUGHTER
CHAPTER I.
"Sing on! sing on! my mountain home,
The paths where erst I used to roam,
The thundering torrent lost in foam.
The snow-hill side all bathed in light,--
All, all are bursting on my sight!"
Towards night, on the twelfth of March, 1775, a richly-equipped double
sleigh, filled with a goodly company of well-dressed persons of the
different sexes, was seen descending from the eastern side of the Green
Mountains, along what may now be considered the principal thoroughfare
leading from the upper navigable portions of the Hudson to those of the
Connecticut River. The progress of the travellers was not only slow,
but extremely toilsome, as was plainly evinced by the appearance of
the reeking and jaded horses, as they labored and floundered along the
sloppy and slumping snow paths of the winter road, which was obviously
now fast resolving itself into the element of which it was composed. Up
to the previous evening, the dreary reign of winter had continued wholly
uninterrupted by the advent of his more gentle successor in the changing
rounds of the seasons; and the snowy waste which enveloped the earth
would, that morning, have apparently withstood the rains and suns of
months before yielding entirely to their influences. But during the
night there had occurred one of those great and sudden transitions from
cold to heat, which can only be experienced in northern climes, and
which can be accounted for only on the supposition, that the earth, at
stated intervals, rapidly gives out large quantities of its internal
heats, or that the air becomes suddenly rarefied by some essential
change or modification in the state of the electric fluid. The morning
had been cloudless; and the rising sun, with rays no longer dimly
struggling through the dense, obstructing medium of the dark months gone
by, but, with the restored beams of his natural brightness, fell upon
the smoking earth with the genial warmth of summer. A new atmosphere,
indeed, seemed to have been suddenly created, so warm and bland was
the whole air; while, occasionally, a breeze came over the face of the
traveller, which seemed like the breath of a heated oven. As the day
advanced, the sky gradually became overcast--a strong south wind sprung
up, before whose warm puffs the drifted snow-banks seemed literally to
be cut down, like grass before the scythe of the mower; and, at length,
from the thickening mass of cloud above, the rain began to descend in
torrents to the mutely recipient earth. All this, for a while, however,
produced no very visible effects on the general face of nature; for the
melting snow was many hours in becoming saturated with its own and water
from above. Nor had our travellers, for the greater part of the day,
been much incommoded by the rain, or the thaw, that was in silent, but
rapid progress around and beneath them; as their vehicle was a covered
one, and as the hard-trodden paths of the road were the last to be
affected. But, during the last hour, a great change in the face of the
landscape had become apparent; and the evidence of what had been going
on unseen, through the day, was now growing every moment more and more
palpable. The snow along the bottom of every valley was marked by a
long, dark streak, indicating the presence of the fast-collecting waters
beneath. The stifled sounds of rushing streams were heard issuing from
the hidden beds of every natural rill; while the larger brooks were
beginning to burst through their wintry coverings, and throw up and push
on before them the rending ice and snow that obstructed their courses to
the rivers below, to which they were hurrying with increasing speed, and
with seemingly growing impatience at every obstacle they met in their
way. The road had also become so soft, that the horses sunk nearly to
the flank at almost every step, and the plunging sleigh drove heavily
along the plashy path. The whole mass of the now saturated and
dissolving snow, indeed, though lying, that morning, more than three
feet deep on a level, seemed to quiver and move, as if on the point of
flowing away in a body to the nearest channels.
The company we have introduced consisted of four gentlemen and two
ladies, all belonging, very evidently, to the most wealthy, and, up to
that time, the most honored and influential class of society. But though
all seemed to be of the same caste, yet their natural characters, as any
physiognomist, at a glance, would have discovered, were, for so small a
party, unusually diversified. Of the two men occupying the front seat,
both under the age of thirty, the one sitting on the right and acting
as driver was tall, showily dressed, and of a haughty, aristocratic air;
while his sharp features, which set out in the shape of a half-moon,
the convex outline being preserved by a retreating forehead, an aquiline
nose, and a chin sloping inward, combined to give him a cold, repulsive
countenance, fraught with expressions denoting selfishness and
insincerity. The other occupant of the same seat was, on the contrary,
a young man of an unassuming demeanor, shapely features, and a mild,
pleasing countenance. The remaining two gentlemen of the party were much
older, but scarcely less dissimilar in their appearance than the two
just described. One of them was a gaunt, harsh-featured man, of the
middle ago, with an air of corresponding arrogance and assumption. The
other, who was still more elderly, was a thick-set and rather portly
personage, of that quiet, reserved, and somewhat haughty demeanor,
which usually belongs to men of much self-esteem, and of an unyielding,
opinionated disposition. The ladies were both young, and in the full
bloom of maidenly beauty. But their native characters, like those of
their male companions, seemed to be very strongly contrasted. The one
seated on the left was fair, extremely fair, indeed; and her golden
locks, clustering in rich profusion around her snowy neck and temples,
gave peculiar effect to the picture-like beauty of her face. But her
beauty consisted of pretty features, and her countenance spoke rather
of the affections than of the mind, being of that tender, pleading cast,
which is better calculated to call forth sympathy than command respect,
and which, showed her to be one of those confiding, dependent persons,
whose destinies are in me hands of those whom they consider their
friends, rather than in their own keeping. The other maiden, with
an equally fine form and no less beautiful features, was still of
an entirely different appearance. She, indeed, was, to the one first
described what the rose, with its hardy stem, is to the lily leaning on
the surrounding herbage for its support; and though less delicately fair
in mere complexion, she was yet more commandingly beautiful; for there
was an expression in the bright, discriminating glances of her deep
hazel eyes, and in the commingling smile that played over the whole of
her serene and benignant countenance, that told of intellects that could
act independently, as well as of a heart that glowed with the kindly
affections.
"Father," said the last described female, addressing the eldest
gentleman, for the purpose, apparently, of giving a new turn to the
conversation, which had now, for some time, been lagging,--"father, I
think you promised us, on starting from Bennington this morning, not
only a fair day, but a safe arrival at Westminster Court-House, by
sunset, did you not?"
"Why, yes, perhaps I did," replied the person addressed; "for I know I
calculated that we should get through by daylight."
"Well, my weatherwise father, to say nothing about this storm, instead
of the promised sunshine, does the progress, made and now making, augur
very brightly for the other part of the result?"
"I fear me not, Sabrey," answered the old gentleman, "though, with the
road as good as when we started, we should have easily accomplished it.
But who would have dreamed of a thaw so sudden and powerful as this?
Why, the very road before us looks like a running river! Indeed, I think
we shall do well to reach Westminster at all to-night. What say you, Mr.
Peters,--will the horses hold out to do it?" he added, addressing the
young man of the repulsive look, who had charge of the team, us before
mentioned.
"They _must_ do it, at all events, Squire Haviland," replied Peters.
"Sheriff Patterson, here," he continued, glancing at the hard-featured
man before described, "has particular reasons for being on the ground
to-night. I must also be there, and likewise friend Jones, if we can
persuade him to forego his intended stop at Brattleborough; for, being
of a military turn, we will give him the command of the forces, if he
will go on immediately with us."
"Thank you, Mr. Peters," replied Jones, smiling. "I do not covet the
honor of a command, though I should be ready to go on and assist, if I
really believed that military forces would be needed."
"Military forces needed for what?" asked Haviland, in some surprise.
"Why, have you not heard, Squire Haviland," said the sheriff, "that
threats have been thrown out, that our coming court would not be
suffered to sit?"
"Yes, something of the kind, perhaps," replied Haviland, contemptuously;
"but I looked upon them only as the silly vaporings of a few disaffected
creatures, who, having heard of the rebellious movements in the Bay
State, have thrown out these idle threats with the hope of intimidating
our authorities, and so prevent the holding of a court, which they fear
might bring too many of them to justice."
"So I viewed the case for a while," rejoined Patterson; "but a few days
ago, I received secret information, on which I could rely, that these
disorganizing rascals were actually combining, in considerable numbers,
with the intention of attempting to drive us from the Court-House."
"Impossible! impossible! Patterson," said the squire; "they will never
be so audacious as to attempt to assail the king's court."
"They are making a movement for that purpose, nevertheless," returned
the former; "for, in addition to the information I have named, I
received a letter from Judge Chandler, just as I was leaving my house in
Brattleborough, yesterday morning, in which the judge stated, that
about forty men, from Rockingham, came to him in a body, at his house in
Chester, and warned him against holding the court; and had the boldness
to tell him, that blood would be shed, if it was attempted, especially
if the sheriff appeared with an armed posse."
"Indeed! why, I am astonished at their insolence!" exclaimed the squire.
"But what did the judge tell them?"
"Why the judge, you know, has an oily way of getting along with ugly
customers," replied the sheriff, with a significant wink; "so he thanked
them all kindly for calling on him, and gravely told them he agreed with
them, that no court should be holden at this time. But, as there was one
case of murder to be tried, he supposed the court must come together
to dispose of that; after which they would immediately adjourn. And
promising them that he would give the sheriff directions not to appear
with any armed assistants, he dismissed them, and sat down and wrote me
an account of the affair, winding off with giving me the directions he
had promised, but adding in a postscript, that I was such a contrary
fellow, that he doubted whether I should obey his directions; and he
should not be surprised to see me there with a hundred men, each with a
gun or pistol under his great-coat. Ha ha! The judge is a sly one."
"One word about that case of murder, to which you have alluded, Mr.
Patterson," interposed Jones, after the jeering laugh with which the
sheriff's account was received by Haviland and Peters, had subsided. "I
have heard several mysterious hints thrown out by our opponents about
it, which seemed to imply that the prosecution of the prisoner was got
up for private purposes; and I think I have heard the name of Secretary
Brush coupled with the affair. Now, who is the alleged murderer? and
where and when was the crime committed?"
"The fellow passes by the name of Herriot, though it is suspected
that this is not his true name," responded the sheriff. "The crime was
committed at Albany, several years ago, when he killed, or mortally
wounded, an intimate friend of Mr. Brush."
"Under what circumstances?"
"Why, from what I have gathered, I should think the story might be
something like this: that, some time previous to the murder, this
Herriot had come to Albany, got into company above his true place,
dashed away a while in high life, gambled deeply, and, losing all his
own money, and running up a large debt to this, and other friends of
Brush, gave them his obligations and absconded. But coming there again,
for some purpose, a year or two after, with a large sum of money, it was
thought, which had been left or given him by a rich Spaniard, whose life
he had saved, or something of the kind, those whom he owed beset him
to pay them, or play again. But he refused to play, pretending to have
become pious, and also held back about paying up his old debts. Their
debts, however, they determined to have, and went to him for that
purpose; when an affray arose, and one of them was killed by Herriot,
who escaped, and fled, it seems, to this section of the country, where
he kept himself secluded in some hut in the mountains, occasionally
appear-ing abroad to preach religion and rebellion to the people, by
which means he was discovered, arrested, and imprisoned in Westminster
jail, where he awaits his trial at the coming term of the court. And
I presume he will be convicted and hung, unless he makes friends with
Brush to intercede for a pardon, which he probably might do, if the
fellow would disgorge enough of his hidden treasures to | 214.741704 |
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Third Edition, in One Vol. 8vo, bound in cloth, price 18s. 6d.
THE
ILLUSTRATED HORSE-DOCTOR;
BEING AN ACCURATE AND DETAILED ACCOUNT,
Accompanied by more than 400 Pictorial Representations,
CHARACTERISTIC OF
THE VARIOUS DISEASES TO WHICH THE EQUINE RACE ARE
SUBJECTED;
TOGETHER WITH THE LATEST MODE OF TREATMENT,
AND
ALL THE REQUISITE PRESCRIPTIONS
WRITTEN IN PLAIN ENGLISH
By EDWARD MAYHEW, M.R.C.V.S.
"_A Book which should be in the possession of all
who keep Horses._"
ALSO BY THE SAME AUTHOR:
Immediately will be published, in One 8vo Volume,
a companion to the above, entitled:
THE
ILLUSTRATED STABLE ECONOMY
with upwards of 400 engravings.
LONDON:
Wm. H. ALLEN & CO., 13, WATERLOO PLACE, S.W.
THE
HORSES OF THE SAHARA
AND THE
MANNERS OF THE DESERT.
THE HORSES
OF THE SAHARA,
AND THE
MANNERS OF THE DESERT.
BY
E. DAUMAS,
GENERAL OF DIVISION COMMANDING AT BORDEAUX,
SENATOR, ETC., ETC.,
WITH COMMENTARIES
BY THE EMIR ABD-EL-KADER.
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH
BY JAMES HUTTON.
(THE ONLY AUTHORISED TRANSLATION)
LONDON:
WM. H. ALLEN & CO., 13, WATERLOO PLACE, S.W.
1863.
PUBLISHERS' NOTICE.
In this English version of General Daumas' justly eulogised work on the
Horses of the Sahara | 214.942377 |
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by The Internet Archive)
THE RELIGIOUS THOUGHT
OF THE GREEKS
FROM HOMER TO THE TRIUMPH
OF CHRISTIANITY
BY
CLIFFORD HERSCHEL MOORE
PROFESSOR OF LATIN IN HARVARD UNIVERSITY
[Illustration]
CAMBRIDGE
HARVARD UNIVERSITY PRESS
LONDON: HUMPHREY MILFORD
OXFORD UNIVERSITY PRESS
1916
COPYRIGHT, 1916
HARVARD UNIVERSITY PRESS
First impression issued November, 1916
Second impression issued December, 1916
TO MY WIFE
PREFACE
In this book eight lectures given before the Lowell Institute in
Boston during the late autumn of 1914 are combined with material drawn
from a course of lectures delivered the previous spring before the
Western Colleges with which Harvard University maintains an annual
exchange—Beloit, Carleton, Colorado, Grinnell, and Knox. The lecture
form has been kept, even at the cost of occasional repetition.
The purpose of these lectures is to present within a moderate compass
an historical account of the progress of Greek religious thought
through something over a thousand years. No attempt has been made
to give a general treatment of Greek religion, or to deal with
pre-Hellenic origins, with religious antiquities, or with mythology.
The discussions are confined rather to the Greeks’ ideas about the
nature of the gods, and to their concepts of the relations between
gods and men and of men’s obligations toward the divine. The lectures
therefore deal with the higher ranges of Greek thought and at times
have much to do with philosophy and theology.
Yet I have felt free to interpret my subject liberally, and, so
far as space allowed, I have touched on whatever seemed to me most
significant. Ethics has been included without hesitation, for the
Greeks themselves, certainly from the fifth century B.C.,
regarded morals as closely connected with religion. A treatment of the
oriental religions seemed desirable, since the first two centuries and
a half of our era cannot be understood if these religions are left out
of account. Still more necessary was it to include Christianity. In my
handling of this I have discussed the teachings of Jesus and of Paul
with comparative fullness, in order to set forth clearly the material
which later under the influence of secular thought was transformed into
a philosophic system. Origen and Plotinus represent the culmination of
Greek religious philosophy.
Such a book as this can be nothing more than a sketch; in it the
scholar will miss many topics which might well have been included. Of
such omissions I am fully conscious; but limitations of subject and of
space forced me to select those themes which seemed most significant in
the development of the religious ideas of the ancient world.
It is not possible for me to acknowledge all my obligations to others.
I wish, however, to express here my gratitude to Professor C. P.
Parker, who has shared his knowledge of Plato with me; to Professor J.
H. Ropes, who has helped me on many points in my last two lectures,
where I especially needed an expert’s aid; and to Professor C. N.
Jackson, who has read the entire book in manuscript and by his learning
and judgment has made me his constant debtor. The criticism which these
friends have given me has been of the greatest assistance even when I
could not accept their views; and none of them is responsible for my
statements.
The translations of Aeschylus are by A. S. Way, Macmillan, 1906-08;
those of Euripides are from the same skilled hand, in the Loeb
Classical Library, Heinemann, 1912; for Sophocles I have drawn on the
version by Lewis Campbell, Kegan Paul, Trench and Company, 1883; and
for Thucydides and Plato I have used the classic renderings of Jowett
with slight modifications in one or two passages.
In an appendix will be found selected bibliographies for each lecture.
To these lists I have admitted, with one or two exceptions, only such
books as I have found useful from actual experience; and few articles
in periodicals have been named.
CLIFFORD HERSCHEL MOORE.
CAMBRIDGE, MASS.
August 1, 1916.
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. HOMER AND HESIOD 3
II. ORPHISM, PYTHAGOREANISM, AND THE MYSTERIES 40
III. RELIGION IN THE POETS OF THE SIXTH AND
FIFTH CENTURIES B.C. 74
IV. THE FIFTH CENTURY AT ATHENS 109
V. PLATO AND ARISTOTLE 144
VI. LATER RELIGIOUS PHILOSOPHIES 183
VII. THE VICTORY OF GREECE OVER ROME 221
VIII. ORIENTAL RELIGIONS IN THE WESTERN HALF
OF THE ROMAN EMPIRE 257
IX. CHRISTIANITY 296
X. CHRISTIANITY AND PAGANISM 326
APPENDIX I (BIBLIOGRAPHIES) 361
APPENDIX II (SPECIMEN OF ROMAN CALENDAR) 370
INDEX 373
THE RELIGIOUS THOUGHT OF THE GREEKS
THE RELIGIOUS THOUGHT OF THE GREEKS
I
HOMER AND HESIOD
“Homer and Hesiod created the generations of the gods for the
Greeks; they gave the divinities their names, assigned to them their
prerogatives and functions, and made their forms known.” So Herodotus
describes the service of these poets to the centuries which followed
them.[1] But the modern historian of Greek religion cannot accept
the statement of the father of history as wholly satisfactory; he
knows that the excavations of the last forty years have revealed to
us civilizations of the third and second millenia before Christ, the
Minoan and Mycenaean cultures, of which the historical Greeks were
hardly conscious, but which nevertheless made large contributions to
religion in the period after Homer. Yet at the most the Mycenaean and
Minoan Ages were for the Greek of the sixth and fifth centuries only a
kind of dim background for the remote history of his race. The Homeric
poems represented for him the earliest stage of Hellenic social life
and religion. We are justified, then, in taking the Iliad and Odyssey
as starting points in our present considerations. These matchless epics
cast an ineffable spell over the imaginations of the Greeks themselves
and influenced religion hardly less than literature.
It is obvious that in this course of lectures we cannot consider
together all the multitudinous phases of Greek religion: it will be
impossible to discuss those large primitive elements in the practices
and beliefs of the ancient Greek folk which are so attractive to many
students of religion today, for these things were, by and large, only
survivals from a ruder past and did not contribute to the religious
progress from age to age; nor can we rehearse the details of worship,
or review all the varieties of religious belief which we find in
different places and in successive centuries; still less can we concern
ourselves with mythology. Alluring as these things are they do not
concern our present purpose. I shall invite you rather to trace with
me the development of Greek religious thought through something over a
thousand years, from the period of the Homeric poems to the triumph of
Christianity. In such a survey we must be occupied for the most part
with the larger movements and the higher ranges of Greek thought, with
the advance which was made from century to century; and we shall try
to see how each stage of religious development came to fruition in the
next period. To accomplish this purpose we must take into due account
the social, economic, and political changes in the Greek world which
influenced the course of Hellenic thinking. Ultimately, if our study
is successful, we shall have discovered in some measure, I trust, what
permanent contributions the Greeks made to our own religious ideas.
With these things in mind, therefore, let us return to the Homeric
Poems.
Whatever the date at which the Iliad and the Odyssey received their
final form, the common view that they belong to a period somewhere
between 850 and 700 B.C. is substantially correct. They
represent the culmination of a long period of poetic development
and picture so to speak on one canvas scenes and deeds from many
centuries. Yet the composite life is wrought by poetic art into one
splendid whole, so that the ordinary reader, in antiquity as today,
was unconscious of the variety and contradictions in the poems; only
the analytic mind of the scholar detects the traces of the varied
materials which the epic poet made his own. It is important that we
should realize the fact that the Homeric poems made the impression of a
consistent unity upon the popular mind in antiquity, for the influence
of these epics through the recitations of rhapsodes at great public
festivals and through their use in school was enormous. The statement
of Herodotus, with which I began, was very largely true.
These poems were composed to be recited at the courts of princes in
Ionia for the entertainment of the nobles at the banquet or after the
feast was over. This purpose naturally influenced the poet | 215.040119 |
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[Illustration:
_Raeburn. pinx^t._ _Dean, sculp^t._
JOSEPH BLACK, M.D. F.R.S.E.
_London. Published by Henry Colburn & Richard Bentley. 1830._]
THE
HISTORY
OF
CHEMISTRY.
BY
THOMAS THOMSON, M.D. F.R.S.E.
PROFESSOR OF CHEMISTRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF GLASGOW.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN, AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1830.
C. WHITING, BEAUFORT HOUSE, STRAND.
PREFACE.
It may be proper, perhaps, to state here, in a very few words, the
objects which the author had in view in drawing up the following
History of Chemistry. Alchymy, or the art of making gold, with which
the science originated, furnishes too curious a portion of the
aberrations of the human intellect to be passed over in silence.
The writings of the alchymists are so voluminous and so mystical,
that it would have afforded materials for a very long work. But
I was prevented from extending this part of the subject to any
greater length than I have done, by considering the small quantity of
information which could have been gleaned from the reveries of these
fanatics or impostors; I thought it sufficient to give a general view
of the nature of their pursuits: but in order to put it in the power of
those who feel inclined to prosecute such investigations, I have given
a catalogue of the most eminent of the alchymists and a list of their
works, so far as I am acquainted with them. This catalogue might have
been greatly extended. Indeed it would have been possible to have added
several hundred names. But I think the works which I have quoted are
more than almost any reasonable man would think it worth his while to
peruse; and I can state, from experience, that the information gained
by such a perusal will very seldom repay the trouble.
* * * * *
The account of the chemical arts, with which the ancients were
acquainted, is necessarily imperfect; because all arts and trades were
held in so much contempt by them that they did not think it worth their
while to make themselves acquainted with the processes. My chief
guide has been Pliny, but many of his descriptions are unintelligible,
obviously from his ignorance of the arts which he attempts to describe.
Thus circumstanced, I thought it better to be short than to waste a
great deal of paper, as some have done, on hypothesis and conjecture.
* * * * *
The account of the Chemistry of the Arabians is almost entirely limited
to the works of Geber, which I consider to be the first book on
Chemistry that ever was published, and to constitute, in every point
of view, an exceedingly curious performance. I was much struck with
the vast number of facts with which he was acquainted, and which have
generally been supposed to have been discovered long after his time.
I have, therefore, been at some pains in endeavouring to convey a
notion of Geber’s opinions to the readers of this history; but am not
sure that I have succeeded. I have generally given his own words, as
literally as possible, and, wherever it would answer the purpose, have
employed the English translation of 1678.
Paracelsus gave origin to so great a revolution in medicine and the
sciences connected with it, that it would have been unpardonable not
to have attempted to lay his opinions and views before the reader;
but, after perusing several of his most important treatises, I found
it almost impossible to form accurate notions on the subject. I
have, therefore, endeavoured to make use of his own words as much
as possible, that the want of consistency and the mysticism of his
opinions may fall upon his own head. Should the reader find any
difficulty in understanding the philosophy of Paracelsus, he will be
in no worse a situation than every one has been who has attempted to
delineate the principles of this prince of quacks and impostors. Van
Helmont’s merits were of a much higher kind, and I have endeavoured to
do him justice; though his weaknesses are so visible that it requires
much candour and patience to discriminate accurately between his
excellencies and his foibles.
* * * * *
The history of Iatro-chemistry forms a branch of our subject scarcely
less extraordinary than Alchymy itself. It might have been extended
to a much greater length than I have done. The reason why I did not
enter into longer details was, that I thought the subject more
intimately connected with the history of medicine than of chemistry:
it undoubtedly contributed to the improvement of chemistry; not,
however, by the opinions or the physiology of the iatro-chemists, but
by inducing their contemporaries and successors to apply themselves to
the discovery of chemical medicines.
* * * * *
The History of Chemistry, after a theory of combustion had been
introduced by Beccher and Stahl, becomes much more important. It now
shook off the trammels of alchymy, and ventured to claim its station
among the physical sciences. I have found it necessary to treat of its
progress during the eighteenth century rather succinctly, but I hope
so as to be easily intelligible. This made it necessary to omit the
names of many meritorious individuals, who supplied a share of the
contributions which the science was continually receiving from all
quarters. I have confined myself to those who made the most prominent
figure as chemical discoverers. I had no other choice but to follow
this plan, unless I had doubled the size of this little work, which
would have rendered it less agreeable and less valuable to the general
reader.
* * * * *
With respect to the History of Chemistry during that portion of the
nineteenth century which is already past, it was beset with several
difficulties. Many of the individuals, of whose labours I had occasion
to speak, are still actively engaged in the prosecution of their
useful works. Others have but just left the arena, and their friends
and relations still remain to appreciate their merits. In treating of
this branch of the science (by far the most important of all) I have
followed the same plan as in the history of the preceding century. I
have found it necessary to omit many names that would undoubtedly have
found a place in a larger work, but which the limited extent to which I
was obliged to confine myself, necessarily compelled me to pass over. I
have been anxious not to injure the character of any one, while I have
rigidly adhered to truth, so far as I was acquainted with it. Should I
have been so unfortunate as to hurt the feelings of any individual by
any remarks of mine in the following pages, it will give me great pain;
and the only alleviation will be the consciousness of the total absence
on my part of any malignant intention. To gratify the wishes of every
individual may, perhaps, be impossible; but I can say, with truth,
that my uniform object has been to do justice to the merits of all, so
far as my own limited knowledge put it in my power to do.
CONTENTS
OF
THE FIRST VOLUME.
Page
Introduction 1
CHAPTER I.
Of Alchymy 3
CHAPTER II.
Of the chemical knowledge possessed by the Ancients 49
CHAPTER III.
Chemistry of the Arabians 110
CHAPTER IV.
Of the progress of Chemistry under Paracelsus and his disciples 140
CHAPTER V.
Of Van Helmont and the Iatro-Chemists 179
CHAPTER VI.
Of Agricola and metallurgy 219
CHAPTER VII.
Of Glauber, Lemery, and some other chemists of the end of the
seventeenth century 226
CHAPTER VIII.
Of the attempts to establish a theory in chemistry 246
CHAPTER IX.
Of the foundation and progress of scientific chemistry in Great
Britain 303
HISTORY OF CHEMISTRY.
INTRODUCTION.
Chemistry, unlike the other sciences, sprang originally from delusion
and superstition, and was at its commencement exactly on a level
with magic and astrology. Even after it began to be useful to man,
by furnishing him with better and more powerful medicines than the
ancient physicians were acquainted with, it was long before it could
shake off the trammels of alchymy, which hung upon it like a nightmare,
cramping and blunting all its energies, and exposing it to the scorn
and contempt of the enlightened part of mankind. It was not till about
the middle of the eighteenth century that it was able to free itself
from these delusions, and to venture abroad in all the native dignity
of a useful science. It was then that its utility and its importance
began to attract the attention of the world; that it drew within its
vortex some of the greatest and most active men in every country; and
that it advanced towards perfection with an accelerated pace. The field
which it now presents to our view is vast and imposing. Its paramount
utility is universally acknowledged. It has become a necessary part of
education. It has contributed as much to the progress of society, and
has done as much to augment the comforts and conveniences of life, and
to increase the power and the resources of mankind, as all the other
sciences put together.
It is natural to feel a desire to be acquainted with the origin and the
progress of such a science; and to know something of the history and
character of those numerous votaries to whom it is indebted for its
progress and improvement. The object of this little work is to gratify
these laudable wishes, by taking a rapid view of the progress of
Chemistry, from its first rude and disgraceful beginnings till it has
reached its present state of importance and dignity. I shall divide the
subject into fifteen chapters. In the first I shall treat of Alchymy,
which may be considered as the inauspicious commencement of the
science, and which, in fact, consists of little else than an account of
dupes and impostors; every where so full of fiction and obscurity, that
it is a hopeless and almost impossible task to reach the truth. In the
second chapter I shall endeavour to point out the few small chemical
rills, which were known to the ancients. These I shall follow in their
progress, in the succeeding chapters, till at last, augmented by an
infinite number of streams flowing at once from a thousand different
quarters, they have swelled to the mighty river, which now | 215.041212 |
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KELION FRANKLIN PEDDICORD
[Illustration: N]
[Illustration:
KELION FRANKLIN PEDDICORD
1863
FRONTISPIECE
]
KELION FRANKLIN PEDDICORD
of Quirk’s Scouts
Morgan’s Kentucky Cavalry, C. S. A.
Biographical and Autobiographical
Together with a General Biographical Outline of the Peddicord Family
By MRS. INDIA W. P. LOGAN
[Illustration]
New York and Washington
THE NEALE PUBLISHING COMPANY
1908
Copyright, 1908, by
Mrs. India W. P. Logan
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
PART I
Page
General Biographical Outline of the Peddicord Family, 9
PART II
Biographical Sketch and Autobiography of Kelion Franklin Peddicord 19
as Written in His “Journal” and in Letters from Military
Prisons, and as Jotted Down by Him During a Busy Life After the
War,
Chapter
I Youth and Early Manhood, 21
II The Journal, 29
III Prison Life, 149
IV After the War, 161
V Some Letters Received by Mrs. Logan, 164
ILLUSTRATIONS
Page
Kelion Franklin Peddicord, 1863, _Frontispiece_
Columbus A. Peddicord, 12
Carolus J. Peddicord, 18
Kelion Franklin Peddicord, 1888, 50
PART I
GENERAL BIOGRAPHICAL OUTLINE OF THE PEDDICORD FAMILY
Our great-grandfather was Adam Peddicord. He married Elizabeth Barnes, a
daughter of James Barnes, the elder. Their son, Jasper Peddicord, our
paternal grandfather, was born in 1762 in Anne Arundel County, Maryland,
from whence he moved to Ohio in 1829. He died in Barnesville, Belmont
County, Ohio, on September 23, 1844, aged 82. Barnesville was named
after James Barnes, grandfather’s cousin. Caleb Peddicord, another
cousin of Grandfather Peddicord, emigrated from Maryland to Kentucky in
1830. Two other cousins of our grandfather, William and John Peddicord,
served in the war of 1812.
Amelia Hobbs-Peddicord, our paternal grandmother, was the daughter of
Thomas Hobbs. She was born in Maryland in 1767 and died March 23, 1841,
in Barnesville, Ohio.
Jared Hobbs, our maternal grandfather, was born in Howard County,
Maryland, March 22, 1772, and died on his farm in 1866 at the advanced
age of 94.
Our maternal grandmother was Elenor Shipley-Hobbs, daughter of Edward
Shipley. She was born in Howard County, Maryland, March 16, 1777, and
died August 21, 1828.
Wilson Lee Peddicord, our father, was born in Howard County, Maryland,
May 13, 1803, and died in Palmyra, Missouri, May 20, 1875, from injuries
caused by his team running away and throwing him under a large iron
field roller. He was a Royal Arch Mason, and Palmyra Lodge officiated at
his funeral.
Our mother, Keturah Barnes-Peddicord, the fifth child of Grandfather
Hobbs, was born in Howard County, Maryland, September 25, 1807, and died
January 9, 1876. She is buried near father in Palmyra, Missouri, where
she died.
Jared Hobbs and Elenor Shipley-Hobbs had six children:
1. Louisa, born October 16, 1801.
2. Robert T., born December 2, 1802.
3. Julia Ann, born April 3, 1804.
4. Corilla E., born March 2, 1806.
5. Keturah B., born September 25, 1807.
6. Teresa, born June 19, 1809.
Jasper Peddicord and Amelia Hobbs-Peddicord had twelve children; two of
whom died quite young:
Sons. Daughters.
1. Thomas. 1. Pleasants.
2. Asbury. 2. Rebecca.
3. Benjamin. 3. Anna.
4. Joseph. 4. Cordelia.
5. Wilson Lee. 5. Hannah (Dorsey).
Anna married John Holton.
Cordelia married Thomas Holton.
Pleasants married Jerry Bartholow.
Rebecca married Robert Musgrove.
Hannah (daughter by a second marriage to Miss Dorsey) never married.
Wilson Lee Peddicord and Keturah Barnes-Peddicord were married on
November 17, 1829, in Howard County, Maryland, by the Rev. T. Linthicum.
They had seven children:
1. Columbus Adolphus, born July 18, 1831.
2. Kelion Franklin, born October 1, 1833.
3. Indiana Washington, born December 15, 1835.
4. Ruth Elenor, born November 7, 1837.
5. Carolus Judkins, born November 27, 1840.
6. Laura Clay, born November 22, 1844.
7. Lily Louisa Pleasants, born August 28, 1849.
Columbus A. Peddicord and Mrs. Issa Meador-Peddicord were married March
31, 1859, in Sumner County, Tennessee, by Rev. John Winn. They had three
children:
1. Charles Lewis, born February, 1860.
2. Frank Morgan, born November, 1861.
3. Columbus, born 1863.
The following biographical sketch of Columbus A. Peddicord is by his
sister, Mrs. India P. Logan:
* * * * *
Columbus A. Peddicord was the oldest child in our family. Six feet tall
at eighteen years of age, the idol of our family, he was a model of
manly beauty, an image of our stately, beautiful mother. His chestnut,
curling hair, and his hazel eyes, clear pale complexion, perfect form,
and friendship with all classes made him a universal favorite. Impetuous
tempered, he forgave any who affronted him at the first overture. He was
a splendid shot at an early age, afraid of nothing in the world.
[Illustration:
COLUMBUS A. PEDDICORD
Capt. Independent Scouts, Morgan’s Cavalry
FACING 12
]
After the first year of service in the “Silver Grays,” a company of
Gallatin, Tennessee, in Colonel Bates’s regiment, Second Infantry,
Company K., he was with J. H. Morgan, and was often sent on detached
service. He was taken prisoner in 1863, and spent nineteen months
starving and freezing at Johnson’s Island. Exchanged in November, 1864,
he returned to find his wife in a Federal prison at Gallatin,
Tennessee—a ruse to catch him. His father succeeded in getting her freed
by going to Nashville to General Rosecrans, who banished her from
Tennessee, where she owned one hundred and sixty acres of land, which
was sold for taxes during reconstruction days. My brother Columbus was
furious at his wife’s treatment, and he and his men were conspicuous for
their daring until the close of the war.
He was farming near Glasgow Junction in Kentucky until August, 1867,
when he attended a Democratic barbecue at Glasgow City. While riding in
his carriage driven by the old faithful slave driver, he was approached
by four men, and asked if he would take them to the grounds. He
acquiesced. Three rode with him, and one with the driver. “You are
Captain Peddicord,” said one. He smiled, saying, “The Captain is played
out.” The man, using vile epithets, said, “A fine carriage for a d—d
rebel to ride in.” Brother, thinking they were joking, replied, “Yes,
but the rebel is played out, too.” After he found out they were
antagonistic, he stepped out and said, “Get out of my vehicle.” The one
who got out first went behind the carriage and shot at my brother,
hitting him in the left arm, shattering the bone. My brother then pulled
out his pistol, but, as he said afterward, it failed to go off for the
first time. The man shot again and struck his spine. He fell, and the
men ran, and as there were many old Confederates on the grounds the crew
disappeared quickly. My brother lived thirteen days. He is buried in the
old “Bell” family cemetery at Glasgow Junction, Kentucky. His wife and
two sons—one seven, one five and a half years old—were left to mourn his
loss.
* * * * *
Kelion Franklin Peddicord never married.
The following appreciation of his character is by his sister, Mrs. India
W. P. Logan:
In person my brother Kelion was about five feet eight inches in height,
pale olive in complexion, with dark gray eyes and fine, very dark brown
hair, and erect form, even when his hair had become white with age.
Though always cheerful, his countenance was grave and he seldom laughed.
He looked the soldier to the last time he walked the street, and died
like the “bravest of the brave.” With his soft hat under his arm, his
Kentucky Confederate badge on his breast (from the reunion in Louisville
in 1905), he was laid beside his father and mother for whom he had given
up his ambition of rising in his profession of civil engineer, becoming
the cheerful farmer until the death of his parents, when he came to
Palmyra, where he filled many positions of trust. He was a member of
Robert Buffner C. V. Camp at Hannibal. Kelion was one of the most
truthful persons I was ever acquainted with. This was a trait he
inherited. “If you cannot speak the truth,” he said, “say nothing.” He
was always chivalrous toward women and loved children to a great degree,
and was an uncommon judge of men.
Always uncomplaining, he said only once when ill, looking at the clock,
“It is so long.” He was ill eighteen days.
Kelion, as he was always called until his army life, was only two years
older than myself, and I corresponded with him when possible until the
last sixteen years of his life, during which he lived in my | 215.044881 |
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THE ROYAL MAIL
[Illustration: MAIL-COACH ACCIDENT NEAR ELVANFOOT, LANARKSHIRE.]
THE ROYAL MAIL
ITS CURIOSITIES AND ROMANCE
BY
JAMES WILSON HYDE
SUPERINTENDENT IN THE GENERAL POST-OFFICE,
EDINBURGH
THIRD EDITION
LONDON
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL AND CO.
MDCCCLXXXIX.
_All Rights reserved._
NOTE.--It is of melancholy interest that Mr Fawcett's death occurred
within a month from the date on which he accepted the following
Dedication, and before the issue of the Work.
TO
THE RIGHT HONOURABLE
HENRY FAWCETT, M. P.
HER MAJESTY'S POSTMASTER-GENERAL,
THE FOLLOWING PAGES ARE, BY PERMISSION,
RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED.
PREFACE TO THIRD EDITION.
The second edition of 'The Royal Mail' having been sold out some
eighteen months ago, and being still in demand, the Author has arranged
for the publication of a further edition. Some additional particulars of
an interesting kind have been incorporated in the work; and these,
together with a number of fresh illustrations, should render 'The Royal
Mail' still more attractive than hitherto.
The modern statistics have not been brought down to date; and it will be
understood that these, and other matters (such as the circulation of
letters), which are subject to change, remain in the work as set forth
in the first edition.
EDINBURGH, _February 1889_.
PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION.
The favour with which 'The Royal Mail' has been received by the public,
as evinced by the rapid sale of the first issue, has induced the Author
to arrange for the publication of a second edition. This edition has
been revised and slightly enlarged; the new matter consisting of two
additional illustrations, contributions to the chapters on "Mail
Packets," "How Letters are Lost," and "Singular Coincidences," and a
fresh chapter on the subject of Postmasters.
The Author ventures to hope that the generous appreciation which has
been accorded to the first edition may be extended to the work in its
revised form.
EDINBURGH, _June 1885_.
INTRODUCTION.
Of all institutions of modern times, there is, perhaps, none so
pre-eminently a people's institution as is the Post-office. Not only
does it carry letters and newspapers everywhere, both within and without
the kingdom, but it is the transmitter of messages by telegraph, a vast
banker for the savings of the working classes, an insurer of lives, a
carrier of parcels, and a distributor of various kinds of Government
licences. Its services are claimed exclusively or mainly by no one
class; the rich, the poor, the educated, and the illiterate, and indeed,
the young as well as the old,--all have dealings with the Post-office.
Yet it may seem strange that an institution which is familiar by its
operations to all classes alike, should be so little known by its
internal management and organisation. A few persons, no doubt, have been
privileged to see the interior working of some important Post-office,
but it is the bare truth to say that _the people_ know nothing of what
goes on within the doors of that ubiquitous establishment. When it is
remembered that the metropolitan offices of London, Edinburgh, and
Dublin have to maintain touch with every petty office and every one of
their servants scattered throughout England, Scotland, and Ireland; that
discipline has to be exercised everywhere; that a system of accounting
must necessarily be maintained, reaching to the remotest corners; and
that the whole threads have to be gathered up and made answerable to the
great head, which is London,--some vague idea may be formed of what must
come within the view of whoever pretends to a knowledge of Post-office
work. But intimately connected with that which was the original work of
the Post-office, and is still the main work--the conveyance of
letters--there is the subject of circulation, the simple yet complex
scheme under which letters flow from each individual centre to every
other part of the country. Circulation as a system is the outcome of
planning, devising, and scheming by many heads during a long series of
years--its object, of course, being to bring letters to their
destinations in the shortest possible time. So intricate and delicate is
the fabric, that by interference an unskilled hand could not fail to
produce an effect upon the structure analogous to that which would
certainly follow any rude treatment applied to a house built of cards.
These various subjects, especially when they have become settled into
the routine state, might be considered as affording a poor soil for the
growth of anything of interest--that is, of curious interest--apart from
that which duty calls upon a man to find in his proper work. Yet the
Post-office is not without its veins of humour, though the metal to be
extracted may perhaps be scanty as compared with the vast extent of the
mine from which it has to be taken.
The compiler of the following pages has held an appointment in the
Post-office for a period of twenty-five years--the best, perhaps, of his
life; and during that term it has been his practice to note and collect
facts connected with the Department whenever they appeared of a curious,
interesting, or amusing character. While making use of such notes in
connection with this work, he has had recourse to the Post-office
| 215.139837 |
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Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: The Internet Web Archive
https://archive.org/details/indeadofnightnov02spei
(University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign)
IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.
A Novel.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON.
1874.
(_All rights reserved_.)
IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.
A Novel.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY AND SON.
1874.
(_All rights reserved_.)
CONTENTS OF VOL. II.
CHAPTER
I. THE EVE OF THE TRIAL.
II. THE TRIAL.
III. A BOTTLE OF BURGUNDY.
IV. DR. DRAYTON'S SUSPICIONS.
V. HIDE AND SEEK.
VI. FLOWN.
VII. GENERAL ST. GEORGE.
VIII. CUPID AT PINCOTE.
IX. AT THE VILLA PAMPHILI.
X. BACK AGAIN AT PARK NEWTON.
XI. MRS. MCDERMOTT WANTS HER MONEY.
XII. FOOTSTEPS IN THE ROOM.
XIII. THE SQUIRE'S TRIBULATION.
IN THE DEAD OF NIGHT.
CHAPTER I.
THE EVE OF THE TRIAL.
Within a week of Tom Bristow's first visit to Pincote, and his
introduction to the Copes, father and son, Mr. Cope, junior, found
himself, much to his disgust, fairly on his way to New York. He would
gladly have rebelled against the parental dictum in this matter, if he
had dared to do so; but he knew of old how worse than useless it would
be for him to offer the slightest opposition to his father's wishes.
"You will go and say goodbye to Miss Culpepper as a matter of
course," said Mr. Cope to him. "But don't grow too sentimental over
the parting. Do it in an easy, smiling way, as if you were merely
going out of town for a few days. Don't make any promises--don't talk
about the future--and, above all, don't say a word about marriage. Of
course, you will have to write to her occasionally while you are away.
Just a few lines, you know, to say how you are, and all that. No
mawkish silly love-nonsense, but a sensible, manly letter; and be
wisely reticent as to the date of your return. Very sorry, but you
don't know how much longer your business may detain you--you know the
sort of thing I mean."
When the idea had first entered Mr. Cope's mind that it would be an
excellent thing if he could only succeed in getting his son engaged to
Squire Culpepper's only child, it had not been without an ulterior eye
to the fortune which that young lady would one day call her own that
he had been induced to press forward the scheme to a successful issue.
By marrying Miss Culpepper, his son would be enabled to take up a
position in county society such as he could never hope to attain
either by his own merits, which were of the most moderate kind, or
from his father's money bags alone. But dearly as Mr. Cope loved
position, he loved money still better; and it was no part of his
programme that his son should marry a pauper, even though that pauper
could trace back her pedigree to the Conqueror. And yet, if the squire
went on speculating as madly as he was evidently doing now, it seemed
only too probable that pauperism, or something very much like it,
would be the result, as far as Miss Culpepper was concerned. Instead
of having a fortune of at least twenty thousand pounds, as she ought
to have, would she come in for as many pence when the old man died?
Mr. Cope groaned in spirit as he asked himself the question, and he
became more determined than ever to carry out his policy of waiting
and watching, before allowing the engagement of the young people to
reach a point that would render a subsequent rupture impossible
without open scandal--and scandal was a bugbear of which the banker
stood in extreme dread.
Fortunately, perhaps, for Mr. Cope's view, the feelings of neither
of the people chiefly concerned were very deeply interested. Edward
had obeyed his father in this as in everything else. He had known
Jane from a child, and he liked her because she was clever and
good-tempered. But she by no means realized his ideal of feminine
beauty. She was too slender, too slightly formed to meet with his
approval. "There's not enough of her," was the way he put it to
himself. Miss Moggs, the confectioner's daughter, with her ample
proportions and beaming smile, was far more to his taste. Equally to
his taste was the pastry dispensed by Miss Moggs's plump fingers, of
which he used to devour enormous quantities, seated on a three-legged
stool in front of the counter, while chatting in a free and easy way
about his horses and dogs, and the number of pigeons he had
slaughtered of late. And then it was so much easier to talk to Miss
Moggs than it was to talk to Jane. Miss Moggs looked up to him as to a
young magnifico, and listened to his oracular utterances with becoming
reverence and attention; but Jane, somehow, didn't seem to appreciate
him as he wished to be appreciated, and he never felt, quite sure that
she was not laughing at him in her sleeve.
"So you are going to leave us by the eight o'clock train to-morrow,
are you?" asked Jane, when he went to Pincote to say a few last words
of farewell. He had sat down by her side on the sofa, and had taken
her unresisting hand in his; a somewhat thin, cold little hand, that
returned his pressure very faintly. How different, as he could not
help saying to himself, from the warm, plump fingers of Matilda Moggs.
"Yes, I'm going by the morning train. Perhaps I shall never come back.
Perhaps I shall be drowned," he said, somewhat dolorously.
"Not you, Edward, dear. You will live to plague us all for many a year
to come. I wish I could do your business, and go instead of you."
"You don't mean to say that you would like to cross the Atlantic,
Jane?"
"I mean to say that there are few things in the world would please me
better. What a fresh and glorious experience it must be to one who has
never been far from home!"
"But think of the sea-sickness."
"Think of being out of sight of commonplace land for days and days
together. Think how delightful it must be to be rocked on the great
Atlantic rollers, and what a new and pleasant sensation it must be to
know that there is only a plank between yourself and the fishes, and
yet not to feel the least bit afraid."
Edward shuddered. "When you wake up in the middle of the night, and
hear the wind blowing hard, you will think of me, won't you?" he said.
"Of course I shall. And I shall wish I were by your side to enjoy it.
To be out in a gale on the Atlantic--that must indeed be glorious!"
Edward's fat cheeks became a shade paler, "Don't talk in that way,
Jane," he said. "One never can tell what may happen. I shall write to
you, of course, and all that; and you won't forget me while I'm away,
will you?"
"No, I shall not forget you, Edward; of that you may be quite sure."
Then he drew her towards him, and kissed her; and then, after a few
more words, he went away.
It was just the sort of parting that his father would have approved
of, he said to himself, as he drove down the avenue. No tears, no
sentimental nonsense, no fuss of any kind. Privately he felt somewhat
aggrieved that she had not taken the parting more to heart. "There
wasn't even a single tear in her eye," he said to himself. "She
doesn't half know how to appreciate a fellow."
He would perhaps have altered his opinion in some measure could he
have seen Jane half an hour later. She had locked herself in her
bedroom, and was crying bitterly. Why she was crying thus she
would have found it difficult to explain: in fact, she hardly knew
herself. It is possible that her tears were not altogether tears of
bitterness--that some other feeling than sorrow for her temporary
separation from Edward Cope was stirring the fountains of her heart.
She kept on upbraiding herself for her coldness and want of feeling,
and trying to persuade herself that she was deeply sorry, rather than
secretly--very secretly--glad to be relieved of the tedium of his
presence for several weeks to come. She knew how wrong it was of
her--it was almost wicked, she thought--to feel thus: but, underlying
all her tears, was a gleam of precious sunshine, of which she was
dimly conscious, although she would not acknowledge its presence even
to herself.
After a time her tears ceased to flow. She got up and bathed her eyes.
While thus occupied her maid knocked at the door.
Mr. Bristow was downstairs. He had brought some photographs for Miss
Culpepper to look at.
"Tell Mr. Bristow how sorry I am that I cannot see him to-day," said
Jane. "But my head aches so badly that I cannot possibly go down."
Then when the girl was gone, "I won't see him to-day," she added to
herself. "When Edward and I are married he will come and see us
sometimes, perhaps. Edward will always be glad to see him."
Hearing the front-door clash, she ran to the window and pulled aside a
corner of the blind. In a minute or two she saw Tom walking leisurely
down the avenue. Presently he paused, and turned, and began to scan
the house as if he knew that Jane were watching him. It was quite
impossible that he should see her, but for all that she shrank back,
with a blush and a shy little smile. But she did not loose her hold of
the blind; and presently she peeped again, and never moved her eyes
till Tom was lost to view.
Then she went downstairs into the drawing-room, and found there the
photographs which Tom had left for her inspection. There, too, lying
close by, was a glove which he had dropped and had omitted to pick up
again. "I will give it to him next time he comes," she said softly to
herself. Strange to relate, her next action was to press the glove to
her lips, after which she hid it away in the bosom of her dress. But
young ladies' memories are proverbially treacherous, and Jane's was no
exception to the rule. Tom Bristow's glove never found its way back
into his possession.
Jane Culpepper had drifted into her engagement with Edward Cope almost
without knowing how such a state of affairs had been brought about.
When her father first mentioned the matter to her, and told her that
Edward was fond of her, she laughed at the idea of Edward being fond
of anything but his horses and his gun. When, later on, the young
banker, in obedience to parental instructions, blundered through a
sort of declaration of love, she laughed again, but neither repulsed
nor encouraged him. She was quite heart-whole and fancy-free; but
certainly Mr. Cope, junior, bore only the faintest resemblance to the
vague hero of her girlish dreams--who would come riding one day out of
the enchanted Kingdom of Love, and, falling on his knees before her,
implore her to share his heart and fortune for evermore. To speak the
truth, there was no romance of any kind about Edward. He was
hopelessly prosaic: he was irredeemably commonplace; but they had
known each other from childhood, and she had a kindly regard for him,
arising from that very fact. So, pending the arrival of Prince
Charming, she did not altogether repulse him, but went on treating his
suit as a piece of pleasant absurdity which could never work itself
out to a serious issue either for herself or him. She took the alarm a
little when some whispers reached her that she would be asked, before
long, to fix a day for the wedding; but, latterly, even those whispers
had died away. Nobody seemed in a hurry to press the affair forward to
its legitimate conclusion: even Edward himself showed no impatience on
the point. So long as he could come and go at Pincote as he liked, and
hover about Jane, and squeeze her hand occasionally, and drive her out
once or twice a week behind his high-stepping bays, he seemed to want
nothing more. They were just the same to each other as they had been
when they were children, Jane said to herself--and why should they not
remain so?
But, of late, a slight change had come o'er the spirit of Miss
Culpepper's dream. New hopes, and thoughts, and fears, to which she
had hitherto been a stranger, began to nestle and flutter round her
heart, like love-birds building in spring. The thought of becoming the
wife of Edward Cope was fast becoming--nay, had already become,
utterly distasteful to her. She began to realize the fact that it is
impossible to keep on playing with fire without getting burnt. She had
allowed herself to drift into an engagement with a man for
whom she really cared nothing, thinking, probably, at the
time that for her no Prince Charming would ever come riding
out of the woods; and that, if it would please her father,
she might as well marry Edward Cope as any one else. But
behold! all at once Prince Charming _had_ come, and although, as yet,
he had not gone down on his knees and offered his hand and heart for
evermore, she felt that she could never love but him alone. She felt,
too, with a sort of dumb despair, that she had already given herself
away beyond recall--or, at least, had led the world to think that she
had so given herself away; and that she could not, with any show of
maidenly honour, reclaim a gift which she had let slip from her so
lightly and easily that she hardly knew herself when it was gone.
The eve of Lionel Dering's trial came at last. The Duxley assizes had
opened on the previous Thursday. All the minor cases had been got
through by Saturday night, and one of the two judges had already gone
forward to the next town. The Park Newton murder case had been left
purposely till Monday, and by those who were supposed to know best, it
was considered not unlikely that trial, verdict, and sentence would
all be got through in the course of one sitting.
The celebrated Mr. Tressil, who had been specially engaged for the
defence, found it impossible to get down to Duxley before the five
o'clock train on Sunday afternoon. He was met on the platform by Mr.
Hoskyns and Mr. Bristow. His junior in the case, Mr. Little, was to
meet him by appointment at his rooms later on. Tom was introduced to
Mr. Tressil by Hoskyns as a particular friend of Mr. Dering's, and the
three gentlemen at once drove to the prison. Mr. Tressil had gone
carefully through his brief as he came down in the train. The
information conveyed therein was so ample and complete that it was
more as a matter of form than to serve any real purpose that he went
to see his client. The interview was a very brief one. The few
questions Mr. Tressil had to ask were readily answered, but it was
quite evident that there was no fresh point to be elicited. Then Mr.
Tressil went away, accompanied by Mr. Hoskyns; and Tom was left alone
with his friend.
Edith had taken leave of her husband an hour before. They would see
each other no more till after the trial was over. What the result of
the trial might possibly be they neither of them dared so much as
whisper. Each of them put on a make-believe gaiety and cheerfulness of
manner, hoping thereby to deceive the other--as if such a thing were
possible.
"In two days' time you will be back again at Park Newton," Edith had
said, "and will find yourself saddled with a wife, whom, while a
prisoner, you were compelled to marry against your will. Surely, in so
extreme a case, the Divorce Court would take pity on you, and grant
you some relief."
"An excellent suggestion," said Lionel, with a laugh. "I must have
some talk with Hoskyns about it. Meanwhile, suppose you get your
trunks packed, and prepare for an early start on our wedding tour. Oh!
to get outside these four walls again--to have 'the sky above my head,
and the grass beneath my feet'--what happiness--what ecstasy--that
will be! A week from this time, Edith, we shall be at Chamounix. Think
of that, sweet one! In place of this grim cell--the Alps and Freedom!
Ah me! what a world of meaning there is in those few words!"
The clock struck four. It was time to go. Only by a supreme effort
could Edith keep back her tears--but she did keep them back.
"Goodbye--my husband!" she whispered, as she kissed him on the
lips--the eyes--the forehead. "May He who knows all our sorrows, and
can lighten all our burdens, grant you strength for the morrow!"
Lionel's lips formed the words, "Goodbye," but no sound came from
them. One last clasp of the hand--one last yearning, heartfelt look
straight into each other's eyes, and then Edith was gone. Lionel fell
back on his seat with a groan as the door shut behind her; and there,
with bowed head and clasped fingers, he sat without moving till the
coming of Mr. Tressil and the others warned him that he was no longer
alone.
As soon as Mr. Tressil and Hoskyns were gone, Lionel lighted up his
biggest meerschaum, and Tom was persuaded, for once, into trying a
very mild cigarette. Neither of them spoke much--in fact, neither of
them seemed to have much to say. They were Englishmen, and to-day they
did not belie the taciturnity of their race. They made a few
disjointed remarks about the weather, and they both agreed that there
was every prospect of an excellent harvest. Lionel inquired after the
Culpeppers, and was sorry to hear that the squire was confined to his
room with gout. After that, there seemed to be nothing more to say,
but they understood each other so well that there was no need of words
to interpret between them. Simply to have Tom sitting there, was to
Lionel a comfort and a consolation such as nothing else, except the
presence of his wife, could have afforded him; and for Tom to have
gone to his lodgings without spending that last hour with his friend,
would have been a sheer impossibility.
"I shall see you to-morrow?" asked Lionel, as Tom rose to go.
"Certainly you will."
"Good-night, old fellow."
"Good-night, Dering. Take my advice, and don't sit up reading or
anything to-night, but get off to bed as early as you can."
Lionel nodded and smiled, and so they parted.
Tom had called at Alder Cottage earlier in the day, and had seen Edith
and Mrs. Garside, and had given them their final instructions. He had
one other person still to see--Mr. Sprague, the chemist, and him he
went in search of as soon as he had bidden Lionel good-night.
Mr. Sprague himself came in answer to Tom's ring at the bell, and
ushered his visitor into a stuffy little parlour behind the shop,
where he had been lounging on the sofa in his shirt-sleeves, reading
Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy." And a very melancholy,
careworn-looking man was this chemist whom Tom had come to see. He
looked as if the perpetual battle for daily bread, which had been
going on with him from year's end to year's end ever since he was old
enough to handle a pestle, was at last beginning to daunt him. He had
a cowed, wobegone expression as he passed his fingers wearily through
his thin grizzled locks: although he did his best to put on an air of
cheerfulness at the tardy prospect of a customer.
Tom and the chemist were old acquaintances. Sprague's shop was one of
the institutions of Duxley, and had been known to Tom from his early
boyhood. Once or twice during his present visit to the town he had
called there and made a few purchases, and chatted over old times, and
old friends long dead and gone, with the melancholy chemist.
"You still stick to the old place, Mr. Sprague," said Tom, as he sat
down on the ancient sofa.
"Yes, Mr. Bristow--yes. I don't know that I could do better. My father
kept the shop before me, and everybody in Duxley knows it."
"I suppose you will be retiring on your fortune before long?"
The chemist laughed a hollow laugh. "With thirteen youthful and
voracious mouths to feed, it looks like making a fortune, don't it,
sir?"
"A baker's dozen of youngsters! Fie, Mr. Sprague, fie!"
"Talking about the baker, sir, I give you my word of honour that he
and the butcher take nearly every farthing of profit I get out of my
business. It has come to this: that I can no longer make ends meet, as
I used to do years ago. For the first time in my life, sir, I am
behindhand with my rent, and goodness only knows when and how I shall
get it made up." Mr. Sprague's voice was very pitiable as he finished.
"But, surely, some of your children are old enough to help
themselves," said Tom.
"The eldest are all girls," answered poor Mr. Sprague, "and they have
to stay at home and help their mother with the little ones. My eldest
boy, Alex, is only nine years old."
"Just the age to get him off your hands--just the age to get him into
the Downham Foundation School."
"Oh, sir, what a relief that would be, both to his poor mother and me!
The same thought has struck me, sir, many a time, but I have no
influence--none whatever."
"But it is possible that I may have a little," said Tom, kindly.
"Oh, Mr. Bristow!" gasped the chemist, and then could say no more.
"Supposing--merely supposing, you know," said Tom, "that I were to get
your eldest boy into the Downham Foundation School, and were, in
addition, to put a hundred-pound note into your hands with which to
pay off your arrears of rent, you would be willing to do a trifling
service for me in return?"
"I should be the most ungrateful wretch in the world were I to refuse
to do so," replied the chemist, earnestly.
"Then listen," said Tom. "You are summoned to serve as one of the jury
in the great murder case to-morrow."
Mr. Sprague nodded.
"You will serve, as a matter of course," continued Tom. "I shall be in
the court, and in such a position that you can see me without
difficulty. As soon as the clock strikes three, you will look at me,
and you will keep on looking at me every two or three minutes, waiting
for a signal from me. Perhaps it will not be requisite for me to give
the signal at all--in that case I shall not need your services; but
whether they are needed or no, your remuneration will in every respect
be the same."
"And what is the signal, Mr. Bristow, for which I am to look out?"
"The scratching, with my little finger--thus--of the left-hand side of
my nose."
"And what am I to do when I see the signal?"
"You are to pretend that you are taken suddenly ill, and you are to
keep up that pretence long enough to render it impossible for the
trial to be finished on Monday--long enough, in fact, to make its
postponement to Tuesday morning an inevitable necessity."
"I understand, sir. You want the trial to extend into the second day;
instead of being finished, as it might be, on the first?"
"That is exactly what I want. Can you counterfeit a sudden attack of
illness, so as to give it an air of reality?"
"I ought to be able to do so, sir. I see plenty of the symptoms every
day of my life."
"They will send for a doctor to examine you, you know."
"I suppose so, sir. But my plan will be this: not merely to pretend to
be ill, but to be ill in reality. To swallow something, in fact--say a
pill concocted by myself--which will really make me very sick and ill
for two or three hours, without doing me any permanent injury."
"Not a bad idea by any means. But you understand that you are to take
no action whatever in the matter until you see my signal."
"I understand that clearly."
After a little more conversation, Tom went, carrying with him in his
waistcoat pocket a tiny phial, filled with some dark-coloured fluid
which the chemist had mixed expressly for him.
On the point of leaving, Tom produced three or four rustling pieces of
paper. "Here are thirty pounds on account, Mr. Sprague," said he. "I
think we understand one another, eh?"
The chemist's fingers closed like a vice on the notes. His heart gave
a great sigh of relief. "I am your humble servant to command, Mr.
Bristow," he returned. "You have saved my credit and my good name, and
you may depend upon me in every way."
As Tom was walking soberly towards his lodging, he passed the open
door of the Royal Hotel. Under the portico stood a man smoking a
cigar. Their eyes met for an instant in the lamplight, but they were
strangers to each other, and Tom passed on his way. Next moment he
started, and turned to look again. He had heard a voice say: "Mr. St.
George, your dinner is served."
He had come at last, then, this cousin, who had not been seen in
Duxley since the day of the inquest--on whose evidence to-morrow so
much would depend.
"Is that the man, I wonder," said Tom to himself, "in whose breast
lies hidden the black secret of the murder? If not in his--then in
whose?"
CHAPTER II.
THE TRIAL.
"How say you, prisoner at the bar: Guilty or Not Guilty?"
"Not Guilty."
There was a moment's pause. A slight murmur passed like a ripple
through the dense crowd. Each individual item, male and female, tried
to wriggle itself into a more comfortable position, knowing that it
was fixed in that particular spot for some hours to come. The crier of
the court called silence where silence was already, and next moment
Mr. Purcell, the counsel for the prosecution, rose to his feet. He
glanced up at the prisoner for one brief moment, bowed slightly to the
judge, hitched his gown well forward, fixed one foot firmly on a
spindle of the nearest chair, and turned over the first page of his
brief.
Mr. Purcell possessed in an eminent degree the faculty of clear and
lucid exposition. His manner was passionless, his style frigid. He
aimed at nothing more than giving a cold, unvarnished statement of the
facts. But then the way in which he marshalled his facts--going, step
by step, through the evidence as taken before the magistrates,
bringing out with fatal clearness point after point against the
prisoner, gradually wrapping him round, as it were, in an inextricable
network of evidence from which it seemed impossible for any human
agency to free him--was, to such of his hearers as could appreciate
his efforts, an intellectual treat of a very rare order indeed: Even
Lionel had to ask himself, in a sort of maze: "Am I guilty, or am I
not?" when Mr. Purcell came to the end of his exposition, and took
breath for a moment while the first witness for the prosecution was
being sworn by the clerk of the court.
That first witness was Kester St. George.
Mr. St. George looked very pale--his recent illness might account for
that--but he showed not the slightest trace of nervousness as he
stepped into the witness-box. It was noticed by several people that he
kept his eyes fixed straight before him, and never once turned them on
the prisoner in the dock.
The evidence elicited from Mr. St. George was--epitomized--to the
following effect:--Was own cousin to the prisoner at the bar, but had
not seen him since they were boys together till prisoner called on him
in London a few weeks before the murder. Met prisoner in the street
shortly afterwards. Introduced him to Mr. Osmond, the murdered man,
who happened to be in his (witness's) company at the time. Prisoner,
on the spot, invited both witness and Osmond to visit him at Park
Newton. The invitation was accepted. Witness and Osmond went down to
Park Newton, and up to the night of the murder everything passed off
in the most amicable and friendly spirit. On that evening they all
three dined by invitation with Mr. Culpepper, of Pincote. They got
back to Park Newton about eleven o'clock. Osmond then proposed to
finish up the evening with a game at billiards. Prisoner objected for
a time, but ultimately yielded the point, and they all went into the
billiard-room. The game was to be a hundred up, and everything went on
satisfactorily till Osmond accused prisoner of having played with
the wrong ball. This prisoner denied. An altercation followed.
After some words on both sides, Osmond threw part of a glass of
seltzer-and-brandy into prisoner's face. Prisoner sprang at Osmond and
seized him by the throat. Osmond drew a small revolver and fired at
prisoner, but fortunately missed him. Witness then interposed, dragged
Osmond from the room, and put him into the hands of his (witness's)
valet, with instructions not to leave him till he was safely in bed.
Then went back to prisoner, whom he found still in the billiard-room,
but depressed in spirits, and complaining of one of those violent head
aches that were constitutional with him. Witness himself being subject
to similar headaches, recommended to prisoner's notice a certain
mixture from which he had himself derived much benefit. Prisoner
agreed to take a dose of the mixture. Witness went to his own bedroom
to obtain it, and then took it to the prisoner, whom he found
partially undressed, preparing for bed. Prisoner took the mixture.
Then he and witness bade each other good-night, and separated. Next
morning, at eight o'clock, witness's valet brought a telegram to his
bedroom summoning him to London on important business. He dressed
immediately, and left Park Newton at once--an hour and a half before
the discovery of the murder.
Cross-examined by Mr. Tressil:
The only one of the three who was at all the worse for wine on their
return from Pincote was Mr. Osmond. Had several times seen him in a
similar condition. On such occasions he was very talkative, and rather
inclined to be quarrelsome. Osmond was in error in saying that
prisoner played with the wrong ball. Witness, in his position as
marker, was watching the game very carefully, and was certain that no
such mistake was made. Osmond was grossly insulting; and prisoner, all
through the quarrel, acted with the greatest forbearance. It was not
till after Osmond had thrown the brandy-and-seltzer in his face that
prisoner laid hands on him at all. The instant after, Osmond drew his
revolver and fired. The bullet just missed prisoner's head and lodged
in the wall behind him. After Osmond left the room no animosity or
ill-feeling was evinced by prisoner towards him. On the contrary,
prisoner expressed his deep regret that such a fracas should have
taken place under his roof. Had not the slightest fear that there
would be any renewal of the quarrel afterwards, or would not have left
for London next morning. Certainly thought that an ample apology was
due from Osmond, and never doubted that such an apology would be
forthcoming when he had slept off the effects of the wine. Was never
more surprised or shocked in his life than when he heard of the
murder, and that his cousin was accused of the crime. It seemed to him | 215.141022 |
2023-11-16 18:20:39.2209420 | 7,408 | 12 |
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
[Illustration: _Germany's Youngest Reserve._]
GERMANY IN WAR TIME
What an American Girl Saw and Heard
by
MARY ETHEL McAULEY
Chicago
The Open Court Publishing Company
1917
Copyright by
The Open Court Publishing Company
1917
DEDICATION
TO MY MOTHER
WHO SHARED THE TRIALS OF
TWO YEARS IN GERMANY
WITH ME
PREFATORY NOTE.
This book is the product of two years spent in Germany during the great
war. It portrays what has been seen and heard by an American girl whose
primary interest was in art. She has tried to write without fear or
favor the simple truth as it appeared to her.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
PAGE
Getting into Germany in War Time 1
Soldiers of Berlin 7
The Women Workers of Berlin 20
German "Sparsamkeit" 35
The Food in Germany 49
What We Ate in Germany 62
How Berlin is Amusing Itself in War Time 69
The Clothes Ticket 81
My Typewriter 88
Moving in Berlin 93
What the Germans Read in War Time 98
Precautions Against Spies, etc. 108
Prisoners in Germany 115
Verboten 128
The Mail in Germany 132
The "Auslaenderei" 140
War Charities 146
What Germany is Doing for Her Human War Wrecks 159
Will the Women of Germany Serve a Year in the Army? 173
The Kaiserin and the Hohenzollern Princesses 184
A Stroll Through Berlin 196
A Trip Down the Harbor of Hamburg 207
The Krupp Works at Essen 218
Munich in War Time 228
From Berlin to Vienna in War Time 242
Vienna in War Time 256
Soldiers of Vienna 267
Women Warriors 279
How Americans Were Treated in Germany 286
I Leave Germany July 1, 1917 292
GETTING INTO GERMANY IN WAR TIME.
Now that America and Germany are at war, it is not possible for an
American to enter the German Empire. Americans can leave the country if
they wish, but once they are out they cannot go back in again.
Since the first year of the war there has been only one way of getting
into Germany through Denmark, and that is by way of Warnemuende. After
leaving Copenhagen you ride a long way on the train, and then the train
boards a ferry which takes you to a little island. At the end of this
island is the Danish frontier, where you are thoroughly searched to see
how much food you are trying to take into Germany. After this frontier
is passed you ride for a few hours on a boat which carries you right
up to Warnemuende, the German landing-place and the military customs of
Germany.
When I went to Germany in October, 1915, the regulations were not
very strict, travelers had only to show that they had a good reason
for going into the country, and they were searched--that was all. But
during the two years I was in Germany all this was changed. Now it
is very hard for even a neutral to enter Germany. Neutrals must first
have a vise from the German consul in Denmark. It takes four days to
get this vise, and you must have your picture taken in six different
poses. Also, you must have a legitimate reason for wanting to go into
the country, and if there is anything the least suspicious about you,
you are not granted a permit to enter.
Travelers entering Germany bring as much food with them as they can.
You are allowed to bring a moderate amount of tea, coffee, soap, canned
milk, etc.; nine pounds of butter and as much smoked meat as you can
carry. No fresh meat is allowed, and you must carry the meat yourself
as no porters are allowed around the docks. This is a spy precaution.
The butter and meat are bought in Copenhagen from a licensed firm where
it is sealed and the firm sends the package to the boat for you. You
must be careful not to break the seal before the German customs are
passed. The Danes are very strict about letting rubber goods out of
their country, and one little German girl I knew was so afraid that the
Danes would take her rubbers away from her, that she wore them on a hot
summer day.
The boat which takes passengers to and from Warnemuende is one day a
German boat and the next day a Danish boat. If you are lucky and make
the trip on the day the Danish boat is running, you get a wonderful
meal, and if you are unlucky and strike the German day, you get a poor
one. After getting off the boat, you get your first glimpse of the
German _Militaer_, the soldiers at the customs.
The travelers are divided into two classes--those going to Hamburg
and those going to Berlin. Then a soldier gets up on a box and asks
if there is any one in the crowd who has no passport. The day I came
through only one man stepped forward. I felt sorry for him, but he did
not look the least bit disheartened. An officer led him away. Strange
to say, four days later we were seated in a hotel in Berlin eating our
breakfast when this same little man came up and asked if we were not
from Pittsburg, and if we had not come over on the "Kristianiafjord."
When I said that we had, he remarked: "Well, I am from Pittsburg, too,
and I came over on the 'Kristianiafjord.'"
"But I did not see you among the passengers," I said.
"No," he answered, "I should say not. I was a bag of potatoes in the
hold. I am a reserve officer in the German army, and I was determined
to get back to fight. I came without a passport claiming to be a
Russian. It took me three days to get fixed up at Warnemuende because
I had no papers of any kind. The day I had everything straightened
out and was leaving for Berlin, a funny thing happened. I was walking
along the street with an officer when a crowd of Russian prisoners came
along. To my surprise one of the fellows yelled at me, 'Hello, Mister,
you'se here too?' And I knew that fellow. He had worked for my father
in America. As he was returning to Russia, he was taken prisoner by
the Germans. I had an awful time explaining my acquaintance to the
authorities at Warnemuende, but here I am waiting to join my regiment."
At Warnemuende, after the people are divided into groups, they are taken
into a large room where the baggage is examined. At the time I came
through we were allowed to bring manuscript with us, but it had to
be read. Now not one scrap of either written or printed matter can be
carried, not even so much as an address. All the writing now going into
Germany must be sent by post and censored as a letter.
When I came through I had a stack of notes with me and I never dreamed
that it would be examined. I was having a difficult time with the
soldier who was searching me when an officer who spoke perfect English
came up and asked if he could help me. He had to read all my letters
and papers, but he was such a slow reader that the train was held up
half an hour waiting for him to finish reading them. Nothing was taken
away from me, but they took a copy of the _London Illustrated News_
away from a German who protested loudly, waving his hands. It was a
funny thing to do, for in Berlin this paper was for sale on all the
news stands and in the cafes. But sometimes the Germans make it a point
of treating foreigners better than they do their own people. I noticed
this many times afterward.
After the baggage was examined, the people had to be searched. The men
didn't have to undress and the women were taken into a small room where
women searchers made us take off all our clothes. They even make you
take off your shoes, they feel in your hair and they look into your
locket. As I had held up the train so long, I did not have much time
to dress and hurried into the train with my hat in my hand and my shoes
untied. As the train pulls out the searcher soldiers line up and salute
it. Searching isn't a very nice job, and when my mother went back to
America the next spring, no less than four of the searchers told her
that they hated it and that when the war was over the whole Warnemuende
force was coming to America.
The train was due in Berlin at 9 o'clock at night, but we were late
when we pulled in at the Stettin Station. We had a hard time getting
a cab and finally we had to share an automobile with a strange man
who was going to the same hotel. At 10 o'clock we were in our hotel
on Unter den Linden. From the window I could look out on the linden
trees. The lights were twinkling merrily in the cafes across the way.
Policemen were holding up the traffic on the narrow Friedrichstrasse.
People were everywhere. It did not seem like a country that was taking
part in the great war.
[Illustration: _Marine Reserves on Their Way to the Station.
Wilhelmshaven._]
SOLDIERS OF BERLIN.
Berlin is a city of soldiers. Every day is soldiers' day. And on
Sundays there are even more soldiers than on week days. Then Unter den
Linden, Friedrichstrasse and the Tiergarten are one seething mass of
gray coats--gray the color of everything and yet the color of nothing.
This field gray blends with the streets, the houses, and the walls, and
the dark clothes of the civilians stand out conspicuously against this
gray mass.
[Illustration: _Soldiers Marching Through Brandenburg Gate._]
When I first came to Berlin, I thought it was just by chance
that so many soldiers were there, but the army seems ever to
increase--officers, privates, sailors and men right from the trenches.
During the two years that I was in Berlin this army remained the same.
It didn't decrease in numbers and it didn't change in looks. The day
I left Berlin it looked exactly the same as the day I entered the
country. They were anything but a happy-looking bunch of men, and all
they talked about was, "when the war is over"; and like every German I
met in those two years, they longed and prayed for peace. One day on
the street car I heard a common German soldier say, "What difference
does it make to us common people whether Germany wins the war or not,
in these three years we folks have lost everything." But every German
soldier is willing to do his duty.
The most wonderful thing about this transit army is that everything
the soldiers have, from their caps to their shoes, is new, except the
soldiers just coming from the front. And yet as a rule they are not
new recruits starting out, but men who have been home on a furlough or
men who have been wounded and are now ready to start back to the front.
To believe that Germany has exhausted her supply of men is a mistake.
Personally, I know lots of young Germans that have never been drafted.
The most of these men are such who, for some reason or other, have
had no army service, and the German military believe that one trained
man is worth six untrained men, and it is the trained soldier that is
always kept in the field. If he has been wounded he is quickly hurried
back to the front. By their scientific methods a bullet wound can be
entirely cured in six weeks.
[Illustration: _The Most Popular Post-Card in Germany._]
German men have never been noted dressers, and even at their best the
middle and lower classes look very gawky and countrified in civilian
clothes. You cannot imagine how the uniform improves their appearance.
I have seen new recruits marching to the place where they get their
uniforms. Most of them have on old ill-fitting clothes, slouch hats
and polished boots. They shuffle along, carrying boxes and bundles.
They have queer embarrassed looks on their faces. Three hours later,
this same lot of men come forth. They are not the same men. They have a
different fire in their eyes, they hold themselves straighter, they no
longer slouch but keep step. The uniform seems to have made new men of
them. It should be called "transform," not uniform.
At the Friedrichstrasse Station one can see every kind of soldiers at
once. There the men arrive from the front sometimes covered with dust
and mud, and once I saw a man with his trousers all spattered with
blood. The common soldiers carry everything with them. On their backs
they have their knapsacks, and around their waists they have cans,
spoons, bundles and all sorts of things. These men carry sixty-five
pounds with them all the time. In one of their bags they carry what
is known as their _eiserne Portion_ or their "iron portion." This
consists of two cans of meat, two cans of vegetables, three packages of
hard tack, ground coffee for several meals and a flask of whisky. The
soldiers are not allowed to eat this portion unless they are in a place
where no food can be brought to them, and then they are only allowed
to eat it at the command of a superior officer. In the field the iron
portions are inspected each day, and any soldier that has touched his
portion is severely punished.
[Illustration: _Schoolboys' Reserve. Berlin._]
A great many of the soldiers have the Iron Cross of the second class,
but very rarely a cross of the first class is seen. The second class
cross is not worn but is designated by a black and white ribbon drawn
through the buttonhole. The first class cross is worn pinned rather
low on the coat. The order _Pour le merite_ is the highest honor in
the German army, and not a hundred of them have been given out since
the beginning of the war. It is a blue, white and gold cross and is
hung from the wearer's collar. A large sum of money goes with this
decoration. The second class Iron Cross makes the owner exempt from
certain taxes; and five marks each month goes with the first class Iron
Cross.
The drilling-grounds for soldiers are very interesting. Most of these
places are inclosed, but the one at the Grunewald was open, and I often
used to go there to see the soldiers. It made a wonderful picture--the
straight rows of drilling men with the tall forest for a background.
The men were usually divided off into groups, a corporal taking
twelve men to train. It was fun watching the new recruits learning
the goose-step. The poor fellows tried so hard they looked as though
they would explode, but if they did not do it exactly right, they were
sent back to do it over again. The trainers were not the least bit
sympathetic.
One day an American boy and I went to Potsdam. We were standing in
front of the old Town Palace watching some fresh country boys drill. I
laughed outright at one poor chap who was trying to goose-step. He was
so serious and so funny I couldn't help it. The corporal came over to
us and ordered us to leave the grounds, which we meekly did.
[Illustration: _Soldiers Buying Ices in Berlin. A War Innovation._]
Tempelhof, the largest drilling-ground in Berlin, is the headquarters
for the army supplies, and here one can see hundreds of wagons and
autos painted field-gray. The flying-place at Johannisthal is now
enclosed by a fence and is so well guarded you can't get within a
square of it.
[Illustration: _Looking at Pictures in an Old Book-Shop._]
It is very interesting to watch the troop trains coming in from the
front. When I first went to Berlin it was all a novelty to me and I
spent a great deal of my time at the stations. One night just before
Christmas, 1915, the first Christmas I was in Berlin, I spent three
hours at the Anhalt Station watching the troops come home. They were
very lucky, these fellows, six months in the trenches and then to be
home at Christmas time! They were the happiest people I had seen in the
war unless it were the people who came to meet them.
[Illustration: _Cheering the Soldier on His Way to the Front._]
Most of the soldiers were sights. Their clothes were dirty, torn and
wrinkled. Many of them coming from Russia were literally covered with
a white dust. At first I thought that they were bakers, but when I
saw several hundred of them I changed my mind. Beside his regular
paraphernalia, each soldier had a dozen or more packages. The packages
were strapped on everywhere, and one little fellow had a bundle stuck
on the point of his helmet.
A little child, perhaps three years old, was being held over the
gate near me and all the while he kept yelling, "Papa! _Urlaub_!" An
_Urlaub_ is a furlough, and when the father did come at last the child
screamed with delight. Another soldier was met by his wife and a tiny
little baby. He took the little one in his arms, and the tears rolled
down his cheeks, "My baby that I have never seen," he said.
This night the soldiers came in crowds. Everybody was smiling, and in
between the trains we went into the station restaurant. At every table
sat a soldier and his friends. One young officer had been met by his
parents, and he was so taken up with his mother that he could not sit
down but he hung over her chair. Was she happy? Well, I should say so!
At another table sat a soldier and his sweetheart. They did not care
who saw them, and can you blame them? He patted her cheeks and he
kissed her hand.... An old man who sat at the table pretended that he
was reading, and he tried to look the other way, but at last he could
hold himself no longer, and grasping the soldier's hand he cried,
"_Mahlzeit!_"
[Illustration: _A Field Package for a German Soldier._]
We went out and saw more trains and more soldiers. A little old lady
stood beside us. She was a pale little lady dressed in black. She was
so eager. She strained her eyes and watched every face in the crowd.
It was bitter cold and she was thinly clad. At 12 o'clock the station
master announced that there would be no more trains until morning. The
little old lady turned away. I watched her bent figure as she went down
the stairs. She was pulling out her handkerchief.
THE WOMEN WORKERS OF BERLIN.
The German women have filled in the ranks made vacant by the men.
Nothing is too difficult for them to undertake and nothing is too hard
for them to do.
The poor German working women! No one in all the war has suffered like
these poor creatures. Their men have been taken from them, they are
paid only a few pfennigs a day by the government, and now they must
work, work like a man, work like a horse.
The German working woman is tremendously capable in manual labor.
She never seems to get tired and she can stand all day in the wet and
snow. But as a wife and mother she is becoming spoiled. She is bound
to become rough, and she takes the jostlings of the men she meets with
good grace, answering their flip remarks, joking with them and giving
them a physical blow when she thinks it necessary. Most of the women
seem to like this familiarity which working on the streets brings them,
and they find it much more exciting than doing housework at home.
All great reforms begin in a violent way, and maybe this is the
beginning of emancipation for the German woman, for she is beginning to
realize what she can do, and for the first time in the history of the
empire she is living an independent existence, dependent upon no man.
[Illustration: _A Window Cleaner._]
When the war first broke out, women were taken on as ticket punchers on
the overground and underground railways, and _Frau Kneiperin_, or "Mrs.
Ticket-puncher," sits all day long out in the open, punching tickets.
In summer this job is very pleasant, but in winter she gets very, very
cold even if she does wear a thick heavy overcoat and thick wooden
shoes over her other shoes. She can't wear gloves for she must take
each ticket in her hand in order to punch the stiff boards. She earns
three marks a day.
[Illustration: _A German Elevator "Boy."_]
After the women ticket punchers came the women door shutters, and _Frau
Tuerschliesserin_, or "Mrs. Door Shutter," is all day long on the
platforms of the stations, and she must see that every train door is
shut before the train starts. This is a lively job, and she must jump
from one door to the other. Most of these women wear bloomers, but some
of them wear men's trousers tucked in their high boots. They all wear
caps and badges.
_Frau Brieftraegerin_ is the woman letter carrier. This is rather a nice
job, carrying only a little bag of letters. One fault with the work is
that she must deliver the letters to the top floor of every building
whether there is an elevator or not, but as no German building is more
than five stories high, it is not so bad. Most of the special delivery
"boys" are women. They wear a boy's suit and ride a bicycle.
More than half the street car conductors in Germany now are women. Most
of these women still cling to skirts, but they all wear a man's cap
and coat. They are quite expert at climbing on the back of the car and
fixing the trolley, and if necessary they can climb on the top of the
car. If the car gets stuck, they get out and push it, but the crowd is
generally ready to help them. They have their bag for tips, and they
expect their five pfennigs extra the same as a man.
When _Frau Fuehrerin_, or "Mrs. Motorman," came, some of the German
people were scandalized and exclaimed: "Well, I will never ride on a
street car run by a woman. It wouldn't be safe." Now, no one thinks
anything about it, and the women have no more accidents than the men.
Some of these women are little bits of things, and one wonders that
they have the strength to stand it all day long. Most of them look as
if it were nerve-racking. They earn three and a half marks a day.
[Illustration: _Costume of a Street-Car Conductor._]
Women cab drivers are not very numerous, but every now and then one of
them whizzes around a corner looking for a fare. One Berlin cabby is
quite an old lady. The men cabbies are jealous of the women because
the women get the best tips. There are few women taxi drivers. One
young woman driver has a whole leather suit with tight breeches and
an aviator hat. Women also drive mail wagons, and women go around from
one store to another cleaning windows. _Frau Fensterputzerin_ or "Mrs.
Window Cleaner" carries a heavy ladder with her. This is no light task.
They have always had women street cleaners and switch tenders in
Munich, but now they have them in Berlin as well. They work in groups,
sweeping the dirt and hauling it away in wheelbarrows. Just before I
left Berlin I saw a woman posting bills on the round advertising posts.
She did not seem to be an expert at managing the paste, because she
flung it around so that it was dangerous to come near her. In the last
year they have had women track walkers, and they pace the railroad ties
to see if the tracks are safe. They dress in blue and carry small iron
canes.
[Illustration: _A Famous "Cabby" in Berlin._]
The excavation for the new underground railway under Friedrichstrasse
was dug out by women, and half the gangs that work on the railroad
tracks are women. They fasten bolts and saw the iron rails. All the
stores have women elevator runners, and most of the large department
stores have women checking umbrellas, packages, dogs, and--lighted
cigars! Most stores have women floor-walkers. Most of the delivery
wagons are run by women, and they carry the heaviest packages.
All the newspapers in Berlin are sold by women, and they wheel the
papers around in baby carriages. Around the different freight stations
one can see women loading hay and straw into the cars. They wield
the pitchfork with as much ease as a man and with far more grace.
Many of the "brakemen" on the trains are women, and some of the train
conductors are women. Most of the gas-meter readers are women, and
other women help to repair telephone wires, and still others help to
instal telephones.
There are a few _Frau Schornsteinfegerin_, or "Mrs. Chimney Sweep,"
but the job of being a chimneysweep doesn't appeal to most women. These
women wear trousers and a tight-fitting cap. They mount the house tops
and they make the soot fly, and the cement rattles down the chimney.
They carry long ropes with which they pull their brushes up and down.
[Illustration: _Cleaning the Streets in Berlin._]
_Frau Klempnermeisterin_, or "Mrs. Master Tinner," repairs the roofs.
Of course she wears trousers to make climbing easier. Most of the women
who have these odd jobs are those whose husbands had the same before
the war. Many other women work in the parks cutting the grass and
watering the flowers. In the market places women put rubber heels on
your shoes while you wait.
Most of the milk wagons are run by girls, and women help to deliver
coal. They have no coal chutes in Germany, and the coal is carried from
the wagon into the house. This is really terrible work for a woman. A
few women work on ash wagons, others are "ice men," and others build
houses.
Nearly all the munition workers in Germany are women, and they are
paid very high for this work. Most of them get from $40 to $50 a month,
wages before unknown for working women. The strength of some of these
women is almost beyond belief. Dr. Gertrude Baumer, the famous German
woman writer and settlement worker, told me that shells made in one
factory weighed eighty pounds each and that every day the women working
lifted thirty-six of these shells. Women are also employed in polishing
the shells.
The women workers in munition factories are very closely watched, and
if the work does not agree with them they are taken away and are given
other employment. The sanitary conditions of these factories are very
good, and they are almost fire-proof, and they have no horrible fire
disasters. Indeed they have very few fires in Germany.
They have in Berlin what is known as the _Nationaler Frauendienst_,
or the "National Women's Service," and it is an organization to help
the poor women of Germany during the war. Dr. Gertrude Baumer is the
president of this organization, and she is also one of the strongest
advocates for the one year army service for German women.
[Illustration: _A Berlin Street-Car Conductor._]
This society finds employment for women and gives out work for women
who have little children and cannot leave home. Women who sew at
home make bags for sand defenses, and they make helmet covers of gray
cloth. These covers keep the enemy from seeing the shining metal of
the helmet. If a woman is sick and cannot work the society takes care
of her until she is better and able to work again. They also have food
tickets which they give to the poor.
[Illustration: _Reading the Gas Meter._]
[Illustration: _A Chauffeur._]
Pension schedules are being made up by different societies, and it
is not yet certain which one the government will adopt; at present
every woman whose husband is in the war is given a certain amount
for herself and children. For women who are now widows the pension
is according to the rank of the husband. For instance, the widow of
a common soldier gets 300 marks a year. If she has one child she get
568 marks and so on, increasing according to the number of children,
for four children she gets 1072 marks. The widow of a non-commissioned
officer, a corporal or a sergeant, gets a little more, and the widow of
a lieutenant gets over twice as much as a common soldier's widow. The
widow of a major-general gets 3246 marks a year. When she has children,
she gets very little more, for when a man has risen to the rank of
major-general the chances are that he is old and that his children are
grown up and able to take care of themselves.
[Illustration: _Digging the Tunnel for the New Underground Railway in
Berlin._]
These schedules are also controlled by the number of years a man
has served in the army, and they are trying to pass a new bill which
requires that pensions shall be controlled by the salary the man had
before the war. If the dead man had worked himself up into a good
position of 1000 marks a month, his family should have more than the
family of a man who could only make 300 marks a month.
The schedule as it now stands for wounded men is that a private who has
lost his leg gets 1,368 marks a year; a lieutenant gets 4851 marks a
year; and a general 10,332 marks a year.
[Illustration: _Caring for the Trees._]
They have in Germany a "votes for women" organization of 600,000
members, but it will be years and years before it ever comes to
anything, for German women are very slow in acting and thinking for
themselves.
GERMAN "SPARSAMKEIT."
When the blockade of Germany began, no one believed that she could hold
out without supplies from the outside world; that in a short time her
people would be starving and that she would be out of raw material.
During the few months before the blockade was declared, Germany had
shipped into her ports as much cotton, copper, rubber and food as
was possible. After the blockade started much stuff was obtained from
Holland and Scandinavia. From the very first days of the war Germany
set to work to utilize all the material that she had on hand, and her
watchword to her people was "waste nothing."
[Illustration: _Collecting Cherry Stones for Making Oil._]
The first collection of material in Germany was a metal collection,
and it took place in the fall of 1915, just after I came to Berlin.
This collection extended all over Germany and took place in different
parts at different times. Every family received a printed notice of
the things that must be given up to the State. It was a long list, but
the main thing on it was the brass ovendoors. As nearly every room in
Germany has a stove with two of these doors about a foot wide and three
quarters of a foot high you can get some idea of how much material this
collection brought. Since this collection the doors have been replaced
by iron ones that are not nearly so pretty. All kinds of brass pots and
kettles were collected, but with special permits people were allowed to
keep their heirlooms. Everything was paid for by the weight, artistic
value counted for naught. Vacant stores were rented for storing this
collection and the people had to bring the things there.
In some cities the people willingly gave up the copper roofs of
their public buildings. Copper roofs have always been very popular
in Germany. In Berlin the roof of the palace, the cathedral and the
Reichstag building are of copper, and in Dresden the roofs of all the
royal buildings are of copper.
A friend of mine who is a Catholic went to church one Sunday just
before I left Berlin. Before the service opened and just as the priest
mounted the pulpit the church bells began to ring. When they had
stopped the priest announced that this was the last time the bells
would ever ring, for they were to be given to the metal collection. The
people began to cry as the priest went on, and before he had finished,
many were sobbing out loud. Even the men wept. My | 215.240982 |
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Produced by J. Boulton
MEDITATIONS
By Marcus Aurelius
CONTENTS
NOTES
INTRODUCTION
FIRST BOOK
SECOND BOOK
THIRD BOOK
FOURTH BOOK
FIFTH BOOK
SIXTH BOOK
SEVENTH BOOK
EIGHTH BOOK
NINTH BOOK
TENTH BOOK
ELEVENTH BOOK
TWELFTH BOOK
APPENDIX
GLOSSARY
Original Transcriber's Notes:
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portions of the text have been added by hand and they will require the
standard "Symbol" font "symbol.ttf" to be installed in the system fonts
folder. This is a standard Windows font, so should be present on most
systems. To contact the scanner e-mail: [email protected] INTRODUCTION
This is the Plain Text version, see medma10h.txt or.zip for the HTML
version with the various symbols mentioned above.
INTRODUCTION
MARCUS AURELIUS ANTONINUS was born on April 26, A.D. 121. His real name
was M. Annius Verus, and he was sprung of a noble family which claimed
descent from Numa, second King of Rome. Thus the most religious of
emperors came of the blood of the most pious of early kings. His father,
Annius Verus, had held high office in Rome, and his grandfather, of
the same name, had been thrice Consul. Both his parents died young, but
Marcus held them in loving remembrance. On his father's death Marcus
was adopted by his grandfather, the consular Annius Verus, and there was
deep love between these two. On the very first page of his book Marcus
gratefully declares how of his grandfather he had learned to be gentle
and meek, and to refrain from all anger and passion. The Emperor Hadrian
divined the fine character of the lad, whom he used to call not Verus
but Verissimus, more Truthful than his own name. He advanced Marcus to
equestrian rank when six years of age, and at the age | 215.242028 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "Cats for the cats' home!" said Sir Maurice Falconer.]
THE TERRIBLE TWINS
By
EDGAR JEPSON
Author of
The Admirable Tinker, Pollyooly, etc.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
HANSON BOOTH
INDIANAPOLIS
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT 1913
THE BOBBS-MERRILL COMPANY
[Updater's note: In the originally posted version of this book (August
14, 2006), four pages (3, 4, 53, 54) were missing. In early February
2008, the missing pages were found, scanned and submitted by a reader
of the original etext and incorporated into this updated version.]
CONTENTS
Chapter
I AND CAPTAIN BASTER
II GUARDIAN ANGELS
III AND THE CATS' HOME
IV AND THE VISIT OF INSPECTION
V AND THE SACRED BIRD
VI AND THE LANDED PROPRIETOR
VII AND PRINGLE'S POND
VIII AND THE MUTTLE DEEPING PEACHES
IX AND THE CAUSE OF FREEDOM
X AND THE ENTERTAINMENT OF ROYALTY
XI AND THE UNREST CURE
XII AND THE MUTTLE DEEPING FISHING
XIII AND AN APOLOGY
XIV AND THE SOUND OF WEDDING BELLS
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Cats for the cats' home!" said
Sir Maurice Falconer...... _Frontispiece_
"This is different," she said.
We are avenged.
She was almost sorry when they came at last to the foot of the knoll.
The Archduke bellowed, "Zerbst! Zerbst! Zerbst!"
Sir James turned and found himself looking into the deep brown eyes of
a very pretty woman.
THE TERRIBLE TWINS
CHAPTER I
AND CAPTAIN BASTER
For all that their voices rang high and hot, the Twins were really
discussing the question who had hit Stubb's bull-terrier with the
greatest number of stones, in the most amicable spirit. It was indeed
a nice question and hard to decide since both of them could throw
stones quicker, straighter and harder than any one of their size and
weight for miles and miles round; and they had thrown some fifty at the
bull-terrier before they had convinced that dense, but irritated,
quadruped that his master's interests did not really demand his
presence in the orchard; and of these some thirty had hit him. Violet
Anastasia Dangerfield, who always took the most favorable view of her
experience, claimed twenty hits out of a possible thirty; Hyacinth
Wolfram Dangerfield, in a very proper spirit, had at once claimed the
same number; and both of them were defending their claims with loud
vehemence, because if you were not loudly vehement, your claim lapsed.
Suddenly Hyacinth Wolfram, as usual, closed the discussion; he said
firmly, "I tell you what: we both hit that dog the same number of
times."
So saying, he swung round the rude calico bag, bulging with booty,
which hung from his shoulders, and took from it two Ribston pippins.
"Perhaps we did," said Anastasia amiably. They went swiftly down the
road, munching in a peaceful silence.
It had been an odd whim of nature to make the Twins so utterly unlike.
No stranger ever took Violet Anastasia Dangerfield, so dark-eyed,
dark-haired, dark-skinned, of so rich a coloring, so changeful and
piquant a face, for the cousin, much less for the twin-sister, of
Hyacinth Wolfram Dangerfield, so fair-skinned, fair-haired, blue-eyed,
on whose firmly chiseled features rested so perpetual, so contrasting a
serenity. But it was a whim of man, of their wicked uncle Sir Maurice
Falconer, that had robbed them of their pretty names. He had named
Violet "Erebus" because, he said,
She walks in beauty like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry spheres:
and he had forthwith named Hyacinth the "Terror" because, he said, the
ill-fated Sir John Franklin had made the Terror the eternal companion
of Erebus.
Erebus and the Terror they became. Even their mother never called them
by their proper pretty names save in moments of the severest
displeasure.
"They're good apples," said the Terror presently, as he threw away the
core of his third and took two more from the bag.
"They are," said Erebus in a grateful tone--"worth all the trouble we
had with that dog."
"We'd have cleared him out of the orchard in half the time, if we'd had
our catapults and bullets. It was hard luck being made to promise
never to use catapults again," said the Terror sadly.
"All that fuss about a little lead from the silly old belfry gutter!"
said Erebus bitterly.
"As if belfries wanted lead gutters. They could easily have put slates
in the place of the sheet of lead we took," said the Terror with equal
bitterness.
"Why can't they leave us alone? It quite spoils the country not to
have catapults," said Erebus, gazing with mournful eyes on the rich
autumn scene through which they moved.
The Twins had several grievances against their elders; but the loss of
their catapults was the bitterest. They had used those weapons to
enrich the simple diet which was all their mother's slender means
allowed them; on fortunate days they had enriched it in defiance of the
game laws. Keepers and farmers had made no secret of their suspicions
that this was the case: but the careful Twins never afforded them the
pleasure of adducing evidence in support of those suspicions. Then a
heavy thunderstorm revealed the fact that they had removed a sheet of
lead, which they had regarded as otiose, from the belfry gutter, to
cast it into bullets for their catapults; a consensus of the public
opinion of Little Deeping had demanded that they should be deprived of
them; and their mother, yielding to the demand, had forbidden them to
use them any longer.
The Twins always obeyed their mother; but they resented bitterly the
action of Little Deeping. It was, indeed, an ungrateful place, since
their exploits afforded its old ladies much of the carping conversation
they loved. In a bitter and vindictive spirit the Twins set themselves
to become the finest stone-throwers who ever graced a countryside; and
since they had every natural aptitude in the way of muscle and keenness
of eye, they were well on their way to realize their ambition. There
may, indeed, have been northern boys of thirteen who could outthrow the
Terror, but not a girl in England could throw a stone straighter or
harder than Erebus.
They came to a gate opening on to Little Deeping common; Erebus vaulted
it gracefully; the Terror, hampered by the bag of booty, climbed over
it (for the Twins it was always simpler to vault or climb over a gate
than to unlatch it and walk through) and took their way along a narrow
path through the gorse and bracken. They had gone some fifty yards,
when from among the bracken on their right a voice cried: "Bang-g-g!
Bang-g-g!"
The Twins fell to the earth and lay still; and Wiggins came out of the
gorse, his wooden rifle on his shoulder, a smile of proud triumph on
his richly freckled face. He stood over the fallen Twins; and his
smile of triumph changed to a scowl of fiendish ferocity.
"Ha! Ha! Shot through the heads!" he cried. "Their bones will bleach
in the pathless forest while their scalps hang in the wigwam of Red
Bear the terror of the Cherokees!"
Then he scalped the Twins with a formidable but wooden knife. Then he
took from his knickerbockers pocket a tattered and dirty note-book, an
inconceivable note-book (it was the only thing to curb the exuberant
imagination of Erebus) made an entry in it, and said in a tone of
lively satisfaction: "You're only one game ahead."
"I thought we were three," said Erebus, rising.
"They're down in the book," said Wiggins; firmly; and his bright blue
eyes were very stern.
"Well, we shall have to spend a whole afternoon getting well ahead of
you again," said Erebus, shaking out her dark curls.
Wiggins waged a deadly war with the Twins. He ambushed and scalped
them; they ambushed and scalped him. Seeing that they had already
passed their thirteenth birthday, it was a great condescension on their
part to play with a boy of ten; and they felt it. But Wiggins was a
favored friend; and the game filled intervals between sterner deeds.
The Terror handed Wiggins an apple; and the three of them moved swiftly
on across the common. Wiggins was one of those who spurn the earth.
Now and again, for obscure but profound reasons, he would suddenly
spring into the air and proceed by leaps and bounds.
Once when he slowed down to let them overtake him, he said, "The game
isn't really fair; you're two to one."
"You keep very level," said the Terror politely.
"Yes; it's my superior astuteness," said Wiggins sedately.
"Goodness! What words you use!" said Erebus in a somewhat jealous tone.
"It's being so much with my father; you see, he has a European
reputation," Wiggins explained.
"Yes, everybody says that. But what is a European reputation?" said
Erebus in a captious tone.
"Everybody in Europe knows him," said Wiggins; and he spurned the earth.
They called him Wiggins because his name was Rupert. It seemed to them
a name both affected and ostentatious. Besides, crop it as you might,
his hair _would_ assume the appearance of a mop.
They came out of the narrow path into a broader rutted cart-track to
see two figures coming toward them, eighty yards away.
"It's Mum," said Erebus.
Quick as thought the Terror dropped behind her, slipped off the bag of
booty, and thrust it into a gorse-bush.
"And--and--it's the Cruncher with her!" cried Erebus in a tone in which
disgust outrang surprise.
"Of all the sickening things! The Cruncher!" cried the Terror, echoing
her disgust. "What's he come down again for?"
They paused; then went on their way with gloomy faces to meet the
approaching pair.
The gentleman whom they called the "Cruncher," and who from their tones
of disgust had so plainly failed to win their young hearts was Captain
Baster of the Twenty-fourth Hussars; and they called him the Cruncher
on account of the vigor with which he plied his large, white, prominent
teeth.
They had not gone five yards when Wiggins said in a tone of
superiority: "_I_ know why he's come down."
"Why?" said the Terror quickly.
"He's come down to marry your mother," said Wiggins.
"What?" cried the Twins with one voice, one look of blank
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[Illustration]
SCIENTIFIC AMERICAN SUPPLEMENT NO. 433
NEW YORK, APRIL 19, 1884
Scientific American Supplement. Vol. XVII, No. 433.
Scientific American established 1845
Scientific American Supplement, $5 a year.
Scientific American and Supplement, $7 a year.
* * * * *
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
I. CHEMISTRY, METALLURGY, ETC.--New Analogy between
Solids, Liquids, and Gases.
Hydrogen Amalgam.
Treatment of Ores by Electrolysis.--By M. KILIANI.
II. ENGINEERING, AND MECHANICS.--Electric Railway at Vienna.--With
engraving.
Instruction in Mechanical Engineering.--Technical and trade
education.--A course of study sketched out.--By Prof. R.H.
THURSTON.
Improved Double Boiler.--3 figures.
The Gardner Machine Gun.--With three engravings showing the
single barrel, two barrel, and five barrel guns.
Climbing Tricycles.
Submarine Explorations.--Voyage of the Talisman.--The Thibaudier
sounding apparatus.--With map, diagrams, and engravings.
Jamieson's Cable Grapnel.--With engraving.
A Threaded Set Collar.
III. TECHNOLOGY.--Wretched Boiler Making.
Pneumatic Malting.--With full description of the most improved
methods and apparatus.--Numerous figures.
Reducing and Enlarging Plaster Casts.
Stripping the Film from Gelatine Negatives.
IV. ELECTRICITY.--Non-sparking Key.
New Instruments for Measuring Electric Currents and Electromotive
Force.--By MESSRS. K.E. CROMPTON and GISBERT
KAPP.--Paper read before the Society of Telegraph Engineers.--With
several engravings.
When Does the Electric Shock Become Fatal?
V. ART AND ARCHAEOLOGY.--Robert Cauer's Statute of Lorelei.--With
engraving.
The Pyramids of Meroe.--With engraving.
VI. ASTRONOMY AND METEOROLOGY.--The Red Sky.--Cause of
the same explained by the Department of Meteorology.
A Theory of Cometary Phenomena.
On Comets.--By FURMAN LEAMING, M.D.
VII. NATURAL HISTORY.--The Prolificness of the Oyster.
Coarse Food for Pigs.
VIII. BOTANY, HORTICULTURE, ETC.--Forms of Ivy.--With
several engravings.
Propagating Roses.
A Few of the Best Inulas.--With engraving.
Fruit Growing.--By P.H. FOSTER.
IX. MEDICINE, HYGIENE, ETC.--A People without Consumption,
and Some Account of Their Country, the Cumberland Tableland.
--By E.M. WIGHT.
The Treatment of Habitual Constipation.
X. MISCELLANEOUS.--The French Scientific Station at Cape Horn.
XI. BIOGRAPHY.--The Late Maori Chief, Mete Kingi.--With portrait.
* * * * *
THE FRENCH SCIENTIFIC STATION AT CAPE HORN.
In 1875 Lieutenant Weyprecht of the Austrian navy called the attention
of scientific men to the desirability of having an organized and
continual system of hourly meteorological and magnetic observations
around the poles. In 1879 the first conference of what was termed the
International Polar Congress was held at Hamburg. Delegates from eight
nations were present--Germany, Austria, Denmark, France, Holland,
Norway, Russia, and Sweden.
The congress then settled upon a programme whose features were: 1. To
establish general principles and fixed laws in regard to the pressure
of the atmosphere, the distribution and variation of temperature,
atmospheric currents, climatic characteristics. 2. To assist the
prediction of the course and occurrence of storms. 3. To assist the
study of the disturbances of the magnetic elements and their relations
to the auroral light and sun spots. 4. To study the distribution of
the magnetic force and its secular and other changes. 5. To study the
distribution of heat and submarine currents in the polar regions. 6. To
obtain certain dimensions in accord with recent methods. Finally, to
collect observations and specimens in the domain of zoology, botany,
geology, etc.
The representatives of the various nations had several conferences
later, and by the 1st of May, 1881, there were sufficient subscribers to
justify the establishment of eight Arctic stations.
France entered actively in this work later, and its first expedition was
to Orange Bay and Cape Horn, under the surveillance and direction of
the Academy of Sciences, Paris, and responsible to the Secretary of the
Navy. On the 6th of September, 1882, this scientific corps established
itself in Orange Bay, near Cape Horn, and energetically began its
serious labors, and by October 22 the greater part of their preliminary
preparations was completed, comprising the erection of a magnetic
observatory, an astronomic observatory, a room for the determination of
the carbonic anhydride of the air, another for the sea register, and
a bridge 92 feet long, photographic laboratory, barometer room, and
buildings for the men, food, and appurtenances, together with a
laboratory of natural history.
In short, in spite of persistent rains and the difficulties of the
situation, from September 8 to October 22 they erected an establishment
of which the different parts, fastened, as it were, to the flank of a
steep hill, covered 450 square meters (4,823 square feet), and rested
upon 200 wooden piles.
From September 26, 1882, to September 1, 1883, night and day
uninterruptedly, a watch was kept, in which the officers took part, so
that the observations might be regularly made and recorded. Every four
hours a series of direct magnetic and meteorological observations was
made, from hour to hour meteorological notes were taken, the rise and
fall of the sea recorded, and these were frequently multiplied by
observations every quarter of an hour; the longitude and latitude were
exactly determined, a number of additions to the catalogue of the fixed
stars for the southern heavens made, and numerous specimens in natural
history collected.
The apparatus employed by the expedition for the registration of the
magnetic elements was devised by M. Mascart, by which the variations
of the three elements are inscribed upon a sheet of paper covered with
gelatine bromide, inclination, vertical and horizontal components, with
a certainty which is shown by the 330 diurnal curves brought back from
the Cape.
The register proper is composed of a clock and a photographic frame
which descends its entire length in twenty-four hours, thus causing the
sensitized paper to pass behind a horizontal window upon which falls the
light reflected by the mirrors of the magnetic instruments. One of those
mirrors is fixed, and gives a line of reference; the other is attached
to the magnetic bar, whose slightest movements it reproduces upon the
sensitized paper. The moments when direct observations were taken were
carefully recorded. The magnetic _pavilion_ was made of wood and copper,
placed at about fifty-three feet from the dwellings or camp, near the
sea, against a wooded hill which shaded it completely; the interior
was covered with felt upon all its sides, in order to avoid as much as
possible the varying temperatures.
The diurnal amplitude of the declination increased uniformly from the
time of their arrival in September up to December, when it obtained
its maximum of 7'40", then diminished to June, when it is no more than
2'20"; from this it increased up to the day of departure. The maximum
declination takes place toward 1 P.M., the minimum at 8:50 A.M. The
night maxima and minima are not clearly shown except in the southern
winter.
The mean diurnal curve brings into prominence the constant diminution
of the declination and the much greater importance of the perturbations
during the summer months. These means, combined with the 300 absolute
determinations, give 4' as the annual change of the declination.
M. Mascart's apparatus proved to be wonderfully useful in recording the
rapid and slight perturbations of the magnet. Comparisons between the
magnetic and atmospheric perturbations gave no result. There was,
however, little stormy weather and no auroral displays. This latter
phenomenon, according to the English missionaries, is rarely observed in
Tierra del Fuego.
The electrometer used at the Cape was founded upon the principle
developed by Sir William Thomson. The atmospheric electricity is
gathered up by means of a thin thread of water, which flows from a
large brass reservoir furnished with a metallic tube 6.5 feet long. The
reservoir is placed upon glass supports isolated by sulphuric acid, and
is connected to the electrometer by a thread of metal which enters a
glass vessel containing sulphuric acid; into the same vessel enters a
platinum wire coming from the aluminum needle. Only 3,000 observations
were given by the photographic register, due to the fact that the
instruments were not fully protected against constant wet and cold.
Besides these observations direct observations of the magnetometer were
made, and the absolute determination of the | 215.244977 |
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GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
VOL. XXXIV. April, 1849. No. 4.
Table of Contents
The Poet Lí
The Naval Officer
Victory and Defeat
To Mother
On a Diamond Ring
The Recluse. No. I.
Rome
The Missionary, Sunlight
Thermopylæ
Lost Treasures
The Brother’s Temptation
The Unsepulchred Relics
Reminiscences of a Reader
The Gipsy Queen
The Brother’s Lament
Sonnet to Machiavelli
The Darsies
The Unmasked
Mormon Temple, Nauvoo
Rose Winters
The Zopilotes
History of the Costume of Men
The Beautiful of Earth
Wild-Birds of America
Jenny Lind
Storm-Lines
Review of New Books
Editor’s Table
Adieu, My Native Land
Transcriber’s Notes can be found at the end of this eBook.
[Illustration: Anaïs Toudouze LE FOLLET _Robes de M^{me.}_ Bara Bréjard,
_r. Laffitte, 5—Coiffures de_ Hamelin, _pass du Saumon, 21_. _Fleurs
de_ Chagon ainé, _r. Richelieu, 81—Dentelles de_ Violard, _r. Choiseul
2^{bis}_ 8, Argyll Place, Londres. Graham’s Magazine ]
[Illustration: D. Bydgoszcz, pinx. A.L. Dick
THE BRIDGE & CHURCH OF S^{T}. ISAAC.]
GRAHAM’S MAGAZINE.
* * * * *
VOL. XXXIV. PHILADELPHIA, April, 1849. NO. 4.
* * * * *
THE POET LI.
A FRAGMENT FROM THE CHINESE.
BY MRS. CAROLINE. H. BUTLER, AUTHOR OF “RECOLLECTIONS OF CHINA,” “MAID OF
CHE-KI-ANG,” ETC.
PART I.
Do not draw upon you a person’s enmity, for enmity is never
appeased—injury returns upon him who injures—and sharp words
recoil against him who says them.
_Chinese Proverb._
On the green and flowery banks of the beautiful Lake Tai-hoo, whose
surface bears a thousand isles, resting like emeralds amid translucent
pearl, dwelt Whanki the mother of Lí. _The mother of Lí!_ Ah happy
distinction—ah envied title! For where, far or near, was the name could
rank with Lí on the scroll of learning—receiving even in childhood the
title of the “Exiled Immortal,” from his skill in classic and historical
lore!
Moreover, he was of a most beautiful countenance, while the antelope
that fed among the hills was not more swift of foot. Who like Lí could
draw such music from the seven silken strings of the Kin! or when with
graceful touch his fingers swept the lute, adding thereto the
well-skilled melody of his voice, youths and maidens opened their ears
to listen, for wonderful was the ravishing harmony.
Yet although the gods of learning smiled upon this youthful disciple of
Confucius, poverty came also with her iron hand, and although she could
not crush the active mind of Lí, with a strong grip, she held him back
from testing his skill with the ambitious _literati_, both old and
young, who annually flocked to the capital to present their themes
before the examiners. For even in those days as the present, money was
required to purchase the smiles of these severe judges. They must read
with _golden_ spectacles—or wo to the unhappy youth who, buoyant with
hope and—_empty pockets_, comes before them! With what contempt is his
essay cast aside, not worth the reading!
Sorely vexed, therefore, was poor Lí—and what wonder—to know that he
might safely cope with any candidate in the “Scientific Halls,” yet dare
not for the lack of _sycee_ (silver) enter their gates, lest disgrace
might fall upon him.
Yet Lí was of a merry heart—and, as all the world knows, there is no
better panacea for the ills of fortune than the spirit of cheerfulness.
Thus, although poverty barred the way to promotion, it could not
materially affect his happiness—no more than the passing wind which for
a moment ruffled the surface of the lake, yet had no power to move its
depths.
Now it happened that one day taking his nets Lí went down to the lake,
and as he cast them within the waters, not knowing any one was near, he
broke forth into a merry song, which sent its glad burthen far off to
the lips of mocking Echo, like Ariel, seeming to “ride on the curled
clouds.” Now it also chanced, that within a grove of the graceful
bamboo, which skirted the path down which Lí had passed on his way,
walked the great Mandarin Hok-wan.
“_Hi!_ by the head of Confucius the fellow sings well!” he exclaimed, as
the song met his ear, (for, as we have said, Lí had a voice of rare
melody,) and forthwith issuing from his concealment, Hok-wan seated
himself | 215.338972 |
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Internet Archive)
Personal Sketches of His Own Times, Vol. III.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PERSONAL SKETCHES
OF
HIS OWN TIMES,
BY
SIR JONAH BARRINGTON,
AUTHOR OF
“THE HISTORY OF THE IRISH UNION,” &c. &c.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. III.
LONDON:
HENRY COLBURN AND RICHARD BENTLEY,
NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1832.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PRINTED BY A. J. VALPY, RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
DEDICATION.
[Illustration]
TO THE
RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD STOWELL,
_&c._ _&c._
January 1st, 1832.
MY DEAR LORD,
To experience the approbation of the public in general must ever
be gratifying to the author of any literary work, however humble may be
its subject: such has been my fortunate lot as to the first two volumes
of these light sketches of incident and character.
But when my attempt also received the unqualified approbation of one of
the most able, learned, and discriminating official personages that
England has, or probably will have to boast of, my vanity was justly
converted into pride, and a value stamped upon my production which I
durst not previously have looked to.
Greatly indeed was my pleasure enhanced when your Lordship informed me
that my Sketches had “given me much repute here, were read with _general
avidity_, and considered as giving much insight into the original
character of the Irish.”
Yet a still stronger testimonial of your Lordship’s favour was reserved
to augment my pride and pleasure—your Lordship’s note to me, stating,
that my volumes “had afforded him much amusement, and had given very
general satisfaction; and that he was tempted to wish for a third volume
composed of similar materials.”
Your wish, my Lord, is obeyed. A third volume is composed, and if it
should have the good fortune to afford your Lordship an hour’s
amusement, my gratification will be consummated.
After more than threescore and ten winters have passed over the head of
man, any increase of mental faculty, or intellectual powers in a writer
can never be expected; at the very best he may be stationary. I can,
therefore, only offer you this volume, such as it is: receive it, then,
my Lord, as the last and only _souvenir_ I can now tender to mark the
sincerity, respect, and attachment, with which I am your Lordship’s
faithful servant,
JONAH BARRINGTON.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFACE.
The Introduction prefixed to the first volume of these Sketches somewhat
developes the origin of the work, and the source of its materials.
Commenced to wear away the tedium of a protracted winter, it continued,
for nearly three months, the amusement of my leisure hours. During that
short space the entire of the two first volumes was collected and
composed.
I do not allude to this as any proof of literary expertness: on the
contrary, I offer it as some apology for the inaccuracies incidental
to so hasty a performance. In common with all biographical and
anecdotical compositions, mine cannot affect to be exempt from small
errors; but whatever they may be, I alone am responsible. Not one
anecdote—character—sentence—observation—line—or even thought, was
contributed or suggested to me by any living person; nor was a single
page of the MS. even seen by any friend save one (and that but very
partially), on whose suggestion it had been commenced, and on whose
recommendation I transmitted the two first volumes to my present
publisher, but with (I own) very great diffidence as to their
catastrophe. On that point, however, I was most agreeably
disappointed. The flattering excitement which originated the present
volume appears in the dedication.
In deference to the _goût_ of the present fashionable class of readers,
I deeply regret that these volumes are not the florid children of
fiction and of fancy. Unfortunately, they are only embellished recitals
of actual facts and incidents, extracted from authentic sources, and
forming an _Olla Podrida_ of variegated materials—some, perhaps, too
cheerful for the grave—others too _sombre_ for the cheerful, and, on the
whole, I fear, rather too _ordinaire_ for refinement, or insufficiently
_languid_ for modern sensibility—particularly of the softer sex, whose
favour, of all things, I should wish to cultivate.
I cannot deny also my presumption in having garnished these Sketches
here and there with my own crude or digressive observations; but my
_ensemble_ being altogether a whimsical composition, without sequence or
connexion, minor errors may merge in the general confusion, and the
originator of them be screened under the gabardine of his singularity.
The only merit which I actually claim is, that the principal sketches
somewhat illustrate the native Irish character at _different epochas_ in
different grades of society, and furnish some amusing points of
comparison between the more _remote_ and the _modern_ manners and habits
of that eccentric people;—and there my irregularities are perfectly
appropriate. But a far more dangerous ordeal lies glowing hot before
me;—I fear my fair readers will never pardon me for introducing so small
a proportion of true love into my anecdotes—an omission for which I am
bound, so far as in me lies, to give the very best apology I can. But
when I reflect on the exquisite tenderness of the female heart, and its
intrinsic propensity to imbibe that most delicious of the passions on
every proper opportunity, I almost despair of being able to conciliate
the lovely spinsters who may deign to peruse my lucubrations; and if the
ladies of an _age mûr_ do not take my part, I shall be a ruined author.
Trembling, therefore, I proceed to state some matters of fact, which, if
dispassionately considered and weighed, may prove that, from the rapid
movements of love in Ireland, there can be but very scant materials for
interesting episodes in that country.
Ireland has been ever celebrated by every author who characterised it,
as the most amatory of islands; and the disinterestedness of its lovers,
and their inveterate contempt of obstacles, and abhorrence of any
species of procrastination, has been a subject of general eulogium.
Love is the only object of liberty and equality as yet enjoyed by the
Irish people. Even among the better orders, _money_, not being in
general there the circulating medium of matrimony, is always despised
when it does not attend, and abused behind its back as inveterately as
if it was a sub-sheriff.
A love-stricken couple seldom lose their precious moments practising
idle sensibilities, and waiting for bank-notes that won’t come, or
parchments that have not one word of truth in them. Such illusory
proceedings were very sensibly dispensed with, and a justifiable
impatience generally, because quite natural, sent formality about its
business. The lovers themselves came to the real point; a simple
question and categorical reply settled the _concours_ at once; and
marriage and possession occupied not unfrequently the second or third
evening after a first acquaintance, whilst the first of a honey-moon,
and the commencement of a new family, dated sometimes from the first
evening of acquaintance. After that knot was tied, they always had an
indefinite time and unrestrained opportunities to cultivate their love,
or what remained of it, for the remainder of their existence.
This rapid, but rational consummation of love-matches in Ireland,
however, left no opportunity or field for amatory adventures, as in
countries where love, jealousy, and murder are often seen bubbling in
the same cauldron!
No doubt the Irish manner of courtship plunders love of its episodes,
romance of its refinements, and consequently my fair English readers of
those sentimentalities which so beautifully garnish the produce of
imagination-workers. Take it all for all, however, Irish love is found
to answer very well for domestic purposes, and, making allowances for
wear and tear, to be, I believe, to the full, as durable as in any other
country.
In a plainer way, I now frankly confess that during the composition of
the three volumes, my _inventive_ genius, (if I have any,) like one of
the seven sleepers, lay dormant in my _occiput_, and so torpid, that not
one fanciful anecdote or brilliant hyperbole awakened during the whole
of that ordinary period; and I fear that there is not an incident in the
whole which has any just chance of melting down my fair sensitives into
that delicious trickle of pearly tears, so gratifying to the novel
writers, or even into one soft sigh of sympathetic feeling, so naturally
excited by exploits in aerial castles, or the embroidered scenery of
fancy and imagination.
Of the egotistical tone of these volumes I am also most gravely accused.
The best reply I can make, (and it seems rather a decisive one,) is,
that it would be a task somewhat difficult for the wisest author that
ever put pen to paper, to separate egotism from autobiography; indeed, I
believe it has never yet been practically attempted. Were I to leave
myself out of three volumes of my own _personal_ anecdotes, I rather
think I should be consigned to Miss Edgeworth for the destiny of
increasing her volume of Irish Blunderers. I fancy also that with most
ladies and gentlemen in these civilized parts of this terrestrial globe,
the _amour propre_ (_alias_ _egotism_) holds a very considerable rank
amongst their intellectual gallantries; and, as in _garçon_ Cupid’s
amours, it would be no easy matter for either sex to enforce profound
silence on the matter of their adoration; and I apprehend the singular
number will hardly be turned out of service in the English grammar to
gratify my commentators by making me write nonsense.
These observations are addressed to my good-humoured and playful
critics; but there is another class of a very different description. I
have been honoured by the animadversions of as many of these sharp-set
gentry as any uncelebrated author could possibly expect, or indeed any
reasonable writer could possibly wish for; and, though the comparison
may be considered as out of course, I shall nevertheless add it to the
rest of my _errata_, and compare my orchestra of cavillers to the
performers in a Dutch concert, where every musician plays his own tune,
and no two of their airs or instruments are in harmony.
Literary works may be fairly termed literary chopping-blocks; like the
human species, they never fail to have plenty of snarlers to cut up the
reputation of the author, and probably the very best parts of his
production. However, it is consolatory to perceive that many of those
ingenious gentry who have done me that honour may with convenience and
economy pluck their _own wings_ to make their pens of; and I am
satisfied that if the Roman gander who saved the Capitol were permitted
to return to earth, and visit the metropolis of England, he would feel
infinite gratification at finding that so many of his family have been
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[Illustration]
When Life Was Young
At the Old Farm in Maine
BY
C. A. STEPHENS
[Illustration]
PUBLISHED BY
THE YOUTH'S COMPANION
BOSTON, MASS.
_Copyright_, 1912
BY C. A. STEPHENS
_All rights reserved_
_Electrotyped and Printed by
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U.S.A._
DEDICATED
WITH CORDIAL BEST
WISHES TO THE MANY
Readers of the Youth's Companion
WHO HAVE SO KINDLY REMEMBERED
US AT THE OLD SQUIRE'S
FARM
Contents
CHAPTER PAGE
THE FARM ON THE PENNESSEEWASSEE 1
I. A NOSE IN COMMON 5
II. WHITE SUNDAY 13
III. MONDAY AT THE OLD FARM 28
IV. OUR FIRST JERSEY COW 47
V. SHEEP-WASHING--ADDISON'S NOVEL WATER-WARMER 57
VI. THE VERMIFUGE BOTTLE 72
VII. IMMERSING THE LAMBS 94
VIII. "OLD THREE-LEGS" 106
IX. HOMESICK AGAIN. BLUE, OH, SO BLUE 119
X. MUG-BREAD, PONES AND JOHNNY-REB TOAST 128
XI. THE BIRDS AND BIRD-SONGS AT THE OLD FARM 136
XII. TWO VERY EARLY CALLERS--EACH ON BUSINESS 153
XIII. WE ALL SET OFF TO HAVE OUR PICTURES TAKEN 166
XIV. "THERE IS A MAN IN ENGLAND, NAMED DARWIN" 176
XV. A WET FOURTH OF JULY, WITH A GOOD DEAL OF
HUMAN NATURE IN IT 187
XVI. WOOD-CHUCKS IN THE CLOVER--ADDISON'S STRATAGEM 208
XVII. HAYING TIME 218
XVIII. APPLE-HOARDS 227
XIX. DOG DAYS, GRAIN HARVEST, AND A TRULY LUCRETIAN TEMPEST 247
XX. CEDAR BROOMS AND A NOBLE STRING OF TROUT 255
XXI. TOM'S FORT 268
XXII. HIGH TIMES 286
XXIII. THE THRASHERS COME 297
XXIV. GOING TO THE CATTLE SHOW 308
XXV. THE WILD ROSE SWEETING 321
XXVI. THE OLD SQUIRE ALLOWS US FOUR DAYS FOR CAMPING OUT 329
XXVII. AT THE OLD SLAVE'S FARM 340
XXVIII. THE OLD SQUIRE'S PANTHER STORY 384
XXIX. THE OUTLAW DOGS 397
XXX. A HEARTFELT THANKSGIVING AND A MERRY YOUNG MUSE THAT
VISITED US UNINVITED 410
When Life Was Young
* * * * *
THE FARM ON THE PENNESSEEWASSEE
Away down East in the Pine Tree State, there is a lake dearer to my
heart than all the other waters of this fair earth, for its shores were
the scenes of my boyhood, when Life was young and the world a romance
still unread.
Dearer to the heart;--for then glowed that roseate young joy and faith
in life and its grand possibilities; that hope and confidence that great
things can be done and that the doing of them will prove of high avail.
For such is ever our natural, normal first view of life; the clear young
brain's first vision of this wondrous bright universe of earth and sky;
the first picture on the sentient plate of consciousness, and the true
one, before error blurs and evil dims it; a joy and a faith in life
which as yet, on this still imperfect earth of ours, comes but once,
with youth.
The white settlers called it the Great Pond; but long before they came
to Maine, the Indians had named it Pennesseewassee, pronounced
Penny-see-was-see, the lake-where-the-women-died, from the Abnaki words,
penem-pegouas-abem, in memory, perhaps, of some unhistoric tragedy.
From their villages on the upper Saco waters, the Pequawkets were
accustomed to cross over to the Androscoggin and often stopped at this
lake, midway, to fish in the spring, and again in winter to hunt for
moose, then snowbound in their "yards." On snowshoes, or paddling their
birch canoes along the pine-shadowed streams, these tawny,
pre-Columbian warriors came and camped on the Pennesseewassee; we still
pick up their flint arrow-heads along the shore; and it may even be that
the short, brown Skraellings were here before them, in neolithic days.
There are two ponds, or lakes, of this name, the Great and the Little
Pennesseewassee, the latter lying a mile and a half to the west of the
larger expanse and connected with it by a brook.
To the northeast, north and west, the land rises in long, picturesque
ridges and mountains of medium altitude; and still beyond and above
these, in the west and northwest, loom Mt. Washington, Madison,
Kearsarge and other White Mountain peaks.
The larger lake is a fine sheet of water, five miles in length,
containing four dark-green islets; and the view from its bosom is one of
the most beautiful in this our State-of-Lakes.
Hither, shortly after the "Revolution," came the writer's
great-grandfather, poor in purse; for he had served throughout that
long, and at times hopeless struggle for liberty. In payment he had
received a large roll of "Continental Money," all of which would at that
time have sufficed, scarcely, to procure him a tavern dinner. No
"bounties," no "pensions," then stimulated the citizen soldiery. With
little to aid him save his axe on his shoulder, the unremunerated
patriot made a clearing on the <DW72>s, looking southward upon the lake;
and here, after some weeks, or months, of toil, he brought his young
family, consisting of my great-grandmother and two children. They came
up the lake in a skiff, fashioned from a pine log. Landing on a still
remembered rock, it is said that the ex-soldier turned about, and taking
the roll of Continental scrip from his pocket, threw it far out into the
water, exclaiming,--
"So much for soldiering! But here, by the blessing of God, we will have
a home yet!"
While going through the forest from the lake up to the clearing, a
distance of a mile or more, they lost their way, for night had fallen,
and after wandering for an hour, were obliged to sleep in the woods
beneath the boughs of a pine; and it was not till the next forenoon that
they found the clearing and the little log house in which my
great-grandmother began her humble housekeeping.
Other settlers made their way hither; and other farms were cleared.
Indians and moose departed and came no more. Then followed half a
century of robust, agricultural life, on a virgin soil. The boys grew
large and tall; the girls were strong and handsome. It was a hearty and
happy era.
But no happy era is enduring; the young men began to take what was
quaintly called "the western fever," and leave the home county for
greater opportunities in Illinois, Wisconsin and Iowa. The young women,
too, went away in numbers to work in the cotton factories at Lowell,
Lawrence and Biddeford; few of them came back; or if they returned, they
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[Illustration]
LECTURES ON VENTILATION:
BEING A COURSE DELIVERED IN THE FRANKLIN INSTITUTE, OF PHILADELPHIA,
DURING THE WINTER OF 1866-67.
BY LEWIS W. LEEDS,
Special Agent of the Quartermaster-General, for the Ventilation
of Government Hospitals during the War; and Consulting Engineer
of Ventilation and Heating for the U. S. Treasury Department.
=Man's own breath is his greatest enemy.=
NEW YORK:
JOHN WILEY & SON, PUBLISHERS,
2 Clinton Hall, Astor Place.
1869.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by
LEWIS W. LEEDS,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United
States for the Southern District of New York.
New York Printing Company,
81, 83, _and_ 85 _Centre Street_,
New York.
PREFACE.
These Lectures were not originally written with any view to their
publication; but as they were afterwards requested for publication in the
Journal of the Franklin Institute, and there attracted very favorable
notice, I believed the rapidly increasing interest in the subject of
ventilation would enable the publishers to sell a sufficient number
to pay the expense of their publication; and, if so, that this very
spirit of inquiry which would lead to the perusal of even so small a
work, might be one step forward towards that much-needed more general
education on this important subject.
It was not my desire to give an elaborate treatise on the subject of
ventilation. I believed a few general principles, illustrated in a
familiar way, would be much more likely to be read; and, I hoped, would
act as seed-grain in commencing the growth of an inquiry which, when once
started in the right direction, would soon discover the condition of the
air we breathe to be of so much importance that the investigation would
be eagerly pursued.
L. W. L.
CONTENTS.
LECTURE I.
Philadelphia a healthy city--Owing to the superior ventilation
of its houses--But the theory of ventilation still imperfectly
understood--About forty per cent. of all deaths due to foul
air--The death rate for 1865--Expense of unnecessary sickness--In
London--In Massachusetts--In New York--In Philadelphia--Consumption
the result of breathing impure air--Entirely preventable--Infantile
mortality--Report on warming and ventilating the Capitol--Copies
of various tables therefrom--Carbonic acid taken as the
test, but not infallible--The uniform purity of the external
atmosphere--Illustrated by the city of Manchester--Overflowed
lands unhealthy--Air of Paris, London and other cities--Carbonic
acid in houses--Here we find the curse of foul air--Our own
breath is our greatest enemy--Scavengers more healthy than
factory operatives--Wonderful cures of consumption by placing
the patients in cow stables--City buildings prevent ventilation,
consequently are unhealthy--The air from the filthiest street
more wholesome than close bed-room air--Unfortunate prejudice
against night air--Dr. Franklin's opinion of night air--Compared
with the instructions of the Board of Health, 1866--Sleeping with
open windows--Fire not objectionable--A small room ventilated is
better than a large room not ventilated--Illustration--Fresh
air at night prevents cholera--Illustrated by New York
workhouse--Dr. Hamilton's report--Night air just as healthy
as day air--Candle extinguished by the breath--The breath falls
instead of rises--Children | 215.440798 |
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Team
[Illustration]
TALES OF DARING AND DANGER.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: SIGHTING THE WRECK OF THE STEAMER.]
TALES OF
DARING AND DANGER.
BY
G.A. HENTY,
Author of "Yarns on the Beach;" "Sturdy and Strong;" "Facing Death;" "By
Sheer Pluck;" "With Clive in India;" &c.
_ILLUSTRATED._
[Illustration]
LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, 49 & 50 OLD BAILEY, E.C. GLASGOW, EDINBURGH, AND
DUBLIN.
1890.
CONTENTS.
Page
BEARS AND DACOITS, 7
THE PATERNOSTERS, 37
A PIPE OF MYSTERY, 71
WHITE-FACED DICK, 99
A BRUSH WITH THE CHINESE, 119
[Illustration]
BEARS AND DACOITS.
A TALE OF THE GHAUTS.
CHAPTER I.
A merry party were sitting in the verandah of one of the largest and
handsomest bungalows of Poonah. It belonged to Colonel Hastings, colonel
of a native regiment stationed there, and at present, in virtue of
seniority, commanding a brigade. Tiffin was on, and three or four
officers and four ladies had taken their seats in the comfortable cane
lounging chairs which form the invariable furniture of the verandah of a
well-ordered bungalow. Permission had been duly asked, and granted by
Mrs. Hastings, and the cheroots had just begun to draw, when Miss
Hastings, a niece of the colonel, who had only arrived the previous week
from England, said,--
"Uncle, I am quite disappointed. Mrs. Lyons showed me the bear she has
got tied up in their compound, and it is the most wretched little thing,
not bigger than Rover, papa's retriever, and it's full-grown. I thought
bears were great fierce creatures, and this poor little thing seemed so
restless and unhappy that I thought it quite a shame not to let it go."
Colonel Hastings smiled rather grimly.
"And yet, small and insignificant as that bear is, my dear, it is a
question whether he is not as dangerous an animal to meddle with as a
man-eating tiger."
"What, that wretched little bear, Uncle?"
"Yes, that wretched little bear. Any experienced sportsman will tell you
that hunting those little bears is as dangerous a sport as tiger-hunting
on foot, to say nothing of tiger-hunting from an elephant's back, in
which there is scarcely any danger whatever. I can speak feelingly about
it, for my career was pretty nearly brought to an end by a bear, just
after I entered the army, some thirty years ago, at a spot within a few
miles from here. I have got the scars on my shoulder and arm still."
"Oh, do tell me all about it," Miss Hastings said; and the request being
seconded by the rest of the party, none of whom, with the exception of
Mrs. Hastings, had ever heard the story before--for the colonel was
somewhat chary of relating this special experience--he waited till they
had all drawn up their chairs as close as possible, and then giving two
or three vigorous puffs at his cheroot, began as follows:--
"Thirty years ago, in 1855, things were not so settled in the Deccan as
they are now. There was no idea of insurrection on a large scale, but we
were going through one of those outbreaks of Dacoity, which have several
times proved so troublesome. Bands of marauders kept the country in
confusion, pouring down on a village, now carrying off three or four of
the Bombay money-lenders, who were then, as now, the curse of the
country; sometimes making an onslaught upon a body of traders; and
occasionally venturing to attack small detachments of troops or isolated
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VOL. XXXIV. NO. 10.
THE
AMERICAN MISSIONARY.
* * * * *
“To the Poor the Gospel is Preached.”
* * * * *
OCTOBER, 1880.
_CONTENTS_:
EDITORIAL.
OUR ANNUAL MEETING—PARAGRAPHS 289
PARAGRAPHS 290
JUBILEE SINGERS 291
ATLANTA’S <DW52> PEOPLE—COMMON SENSE FOR <DW52> MEN 292
OUR SCHOOLS AND THE COMMON SCHOOL SYSTEM 293
A NEW SOUTH, NOT A NEW ENGLAND IN THE SOUTH 294
MTESA AND THE RELIGION OF HIS ANCESTORS 296
BEGGING LETTER 297
AFRICAN NOTES 299
ITEMS FROM THE FIELD 300
THE FREEDMEN.
CADETSHIP 302
NORTH CAROLINA, MCLEANSVILLE—Revival Interest 302
SOUTH CAROLINA, GREENWOOD 303
GEORGIA—Midway Anniversary 304
GEORGIA—Atlanta University and Temperance 305
ALABAMA—Shelby Ironworks 305
ALABAMA—FLORENCE—Outside Work 306
MISSISSIPPI—Tougaloo University 307
THE INDIANS.
S’KOKOMISH AGENCY: Rev. Myron Eells 308
SISSETON AGENCY: Chas. Crissey 309
THE CHINESE.
SERMON BY JEE GAM 310
CHILDREN’S PAGE.
CHINESE AND CHINESE CUSTOMS 312
RECEIPTS 313
CONSTITUTION 317
AIM, STATISTICS, WANTS 318
* * * * *
NEW YORK:
Published by the American Missionary Association,
ROOMS, 56 READE STREET.
* * * * *
Price, 50 Cents a Year, in advance.
Entered at the Post Office at New York, N. Y., as second-class matter.
* * * * *
AMERICAN MISSIONARY ASSOCIATION
56 READE STREET, N. Y.
* * * * *
PRESIDENT.
HON. E. S. TOBEY, Boston.
VICE-PRESIDENTS.
Hon. F. D. PARISH, Ohio.
Hon. E. D. HOLTON, Wis.
Hon. WILLIAM CLAFLIN, Mass.
ANDREW LESTER, Esq., N. Y.
Rev. STEPHEN THURSTON, D. D., Me.
Rev. SAMUEL HARRIS, D. D., Ct.
WM. C. CHAPIN, Esq., R. I.
Rev. W. T. EUSTIS, D. D., Mass.
Hon. A. C. BARSTOW, R. I.
Rev. THATCHER THAYER, D. D., R. I.
Rev. RAY PALMER, D. D., N. J.
Rev. EDWARD BEECHER, D. D., N. Y.
Rev. J. M. STURTEVANT, D. D., Ill.
Rev. W. W. PATTON, D. D., D. C.
Hon. SEYMOUR STRAIGHT, La.
HORACE HALLOCK, Esq., Mich.
Rev. CYRUS W. WALLACE, D. D., N. H.
Rev. EDWARD HAWES, D. D., Ct.
DOUGLAS PUTNAM, Esq., Ohio.
Hon. THADDEUS FAIRBANKS, Vt.
SAMUEL D. PORTER, Esq., N. Y.
Rev. M. M. G. DANA, D. D., Minn.
Rev. H. W. BEECHER, N. Y.
Gen. O. O. HOWARD, Oregon.
Rev. G. F. MAGOUN, D. D., Iowa.
Col. C. G. HAMMOND, Ill.
EDWARD SPAULDING, M. D., N. H.
DAVID RIPLEY, Esq., N. J.
Rev. WM. M. BARBOUR, D. D., Ct.
Rev. W. L. GAGE, D. D., Ct.
A. S. HATCH, Esq., N. Y.
Rev. J. H. FAIRCHILD, D. D., Ohio.
Rev. H. A. STIMSON, Minn.
Rev. J. W. STRONG, D. D., Minn.
Rev. A. L. STONE, D. D., California.
Rev. G. H. ATKINSON, D. D., Oregon.
Rev. J. E. RANKIN, D. D., D. C.
Rev. A. L. CHAPIN, D. D., Wis.
S. D. SMITH, Esq., Mass.
PETER SMITH, Esq., Mass.
Dea. JOHN C. WHITIN, Mass.
Hon J. B. GRINNELL, Iowa.
Rev. WM. T. CARR, Ct.
Rev. HORACE WINSLOW, Ct.
Sir PETER COATS, Scotland.
Rev. HENRY ALLON, D. D., London, Eng.
WM. E. WHITING, Esq., N. Y.
J. M. PINKERTON, Esq., Mass.
E. A. GRAVES, Esq., N. J.
Rev. F. A. NOBLE, D. D., Ill.
DANIEL HAND, Esq., Ct.
A. L. WILLISTON, Esq., Mass.
Rev. A. F. BEARD, D. D., N. Y.
FREDERICK BILLINGS, Esq., Vt.
JOSEPH CARPENTER, Esq., Ill.
Rev. E. P. GOODWIN, D. D., Ill.
Rev. C. L. GOODELL, D. D., Mo.
J. W. SCOVILLE, Esq., Ill.
E. W. BLATCHFORD, Esq., Ill.
C. D. TALCOTT, Esq., Ct.
Rev. JOHN K. MCLEAN, D. D., Cal.
Rev. RICHARD CORDLEY, D. D., Kansas.
CORRESPONDING SECRETARY.
REV. M. E. STRIEBY, D. D., _56 Reade Street, N. Y._
DISTRICT SECRETARIES.
REV. C. L. WOODWORTH, _Boston_.
REV. G. D. PIKE, _New York_.
REV. JAS. POWELL, _Chicago_.
H. W. HUBBARD, ESQ., _Treasurer, N. Y._
REV. M. E. STRIEBY, _Recording Secretary_.
EXECUTIVE COMMITTEE.
ALONZO S. BALL,
A. S. BARNES,
GEO. M. BOYNTON,
WM. B. BROWN,
C. T. CHRISTENSEN,
CLINTON B. FISK,
ADDISON P. FOSTER,
S. B. HALLIDAY,
SAMUEL HOLMES,
CHARLES A. HULL,
EDGAR KETCHUM,
CHAS. L. MEAD,
WM. T. PRATT,
J. A. SHOUDY
JOHN H. WASHBURN,
G. B. WILLCOX.
COMMUNICATIONS
relating to the work of the Association may be addressed to the
Corresponding Secretary; those relating to the collecting fields to
the District Secretaries; letters for the Editor of the “American
Missionary,” to Rev. C. C. PAINTER, at the New York Office.
DONATIONS AND SUBSCRIPTIONS
may be sent to H. W. Hubbard, Treasurer, 56 Reade Street, New
York, or when more convenient, to either of the Branch Offices, 21
Congregational House, Boston, Mass., or 112 West Washington Street,
Chicago, Ill. A payment of thirty dollars at one time constitutes a
Life Member.
THE
AMERICAN MISSIONARY.
* * * * *
VOL. XXXIV. OCTOBER, 1880. NO. 10.
* * * * *
American Missionary Association.
* * * * *
OUR ANNUAL MEETING.
The Thirty-fourth Annual Meeting of the American Missionary
Association will be held in the Broadway Church (Rev. Dr.
Chamberlain’s), Norwich, Ct., commencing Oct. 12, at 3 P. M., at
which time the Report of the Executive Committee will be read by
Rev. M. E. Strieby, D.D., Corresponding Secretary. The Annual
Sermon will be preached by Rev. Wm. M. Taylor, D.D., of New York
City, Tuesday evening. Reports, papers, and discussions upon
the work of the Society, may be expected throughout Tuesday and
Wednesday. The following persons have promised to be present and
participate in the exercises, with others: Rev. Lyman Abbott, D.D.,
Gen. Clinton B. Fisk, H. K. Carroll, of New York City; Rev. A. F.
Beard, D.D., Syracuse, N. Y.; Rev. Alex. McKenzie, D.D., Cambridge,
Mass.; Prof. Wm. J. Tucker, D.D., Andover, Mass.; Prof. Cyrus
Northrop, New Haven, Ct.; Rev. Sam’l Scoville, Stamford, Ct.; Rev.
Joseph Anderson, D.D., Waterbury, Ct.; Rev. Wm. H. Willcox, D.D.,
Malden, Mass. We also have invited Pres. Julius Seelye, Amherst,
Mass., and Hon. John P. Page, Rutland, Vt., and hope for favorable
responses. For reduction in railway fares and other important
items, see fourth page of cover.
* * * * *
In addition to the speakers from the North announced above, much
interest will be added to our Annual Meeting by addresses from some
of the prominent workers in the Southern field.
* * * * *
During the vacation of our schools and workers, there is a dearth
of intelligence from “the field,” which must be the MISSIONARY’S
apology for its leanness. The next number will be made fat with the
good things prepared for us at Norwich, and may be delayed on that
account, after which there will doubtless be abundance from our
teachers and pastors, who will by that time have their work well in
hand once more for another year’s labor.
* * * * *
The St. Louis School Board has added oral lessons in etiquette to
its course of studies. A few scholars read in turn five pages from
a manual of etiquette, and then a conversation is held on the topic
by teacher and pupils. We do not see why good manners are not as
essential as good grammar.
So says the _Congregationalist_, and so says the AMERICAN
MISSIONARY. In several of our Institutions at the South, a small
text-book on good manners is used with accompanying oral lessons.
pupils take well to such instruction.
* * * * *
Chicago is the freest city in this country. There is no
discrimination except in brains and money. Every place is open to
the <DW52> man. The schools of the city have white and <DW52>
children on the same seats and in the same classes, and no
“kicking” is heard. But what is the strangest of all, there are
two <DW52> ladies who teach schools composed of white as well as
.—_Ex._
* * * * *
It is possible we may yet go to the <DW64> to learn many things,
especially the virtues allied to, and growing out of, patience
under provocations, of which certainly he has been a wonderful
example. The editorial fraternity of the country would do well to
imitate the example of the brethren, who at the meeting
of the National Press Association, recently held in
Louisville, disposed cheaply of what has hitherto been regarded
as the editors’ inestimable and inalienable right by resolving,
“That when differences arise among us, we will eschew vituperation
and personal abuse, and that the columns of our papers shall be
kept free from everything calculated to detract from the tone and
character of journalism.”
* * * * *
The defense Roman Catholicism makes against Protestant ruffianism
varies according to environments; in Uganda it takes one form, in
the United States another; but it is good to see the necessity of
some form of it, as stated in one of the Roman Catholic journals
in Mexico as follows: “It is necessary that the Catholics rise
resolutely and make a rapid and voluntary movement in defense of
their belief. To-day, unfortunately, the Protestants come with
a subvention, and their teachings are extending throughout the
whole country. They circulate their writings at the lowest prices,
even give them away, sometimes in tracts, sometimes in papers,
which is the favorite method of sowing the bad seed; and, sad to
say, in exchange, the Catholic weeklies are dying off for lack
of subscribers to sustain them. Protestantism is becoming truly
alarming among us.”
* * * * *
The Baptist churches of Virginia and South Carolina,
believing the time has come when they should go forth to the
millions of their fatherland with the Gospel, have sent out two
missionaries; and now the churches of Virginia unite in calling a
convention to meet at Montgomery, Ala., on the 24th of November.
This call is as broad as all the Baptist churches and other
religious bodies of the Baptists of the United States, and
is “for the purpose of eliciting, combining and directing the
energies of all the Baptists in one sacred effort for the
propagation of the Gospel in Africa.”
This may seem to some a somewhat narrow call, but it is for a broad
work—a work that shall yet elicit the energies of all our Father’s
children of whatever color and denomination, until the dark
continent shall be made glorious by the Sun of Righteousness.
* * * * *
Mohammedanism, whatever its affinity for Africa as it has been, and
its baleful power because of this, has no outlook for the future
of that sad, but soon to be made glad, continent. The _Foreign
Missionary_ well says: “If we consider only the physical condition
of success, it must be allowed that Islam has an immense advantage
in its central position and its vicinage to the field to be won.
There is much also in the greater similarity of character between
the Moslem and the heathen tribes as compared with Europeans, whose
habits are so utterly different from those of all African tribes.
But on the other hand, the forces of Christianity have now well
nigh surrounded Africa, and are pushing through a hundred avenues
into the interior. Discovery, time, commerce and civilization, are
handmaids of the Gospel as they are not of Islam. That can only
endure the dim light which survives from a past age. It belongs to
an age which has passed away, and to a type of civilization which
is everywhere sinking into decay.”
* * * * *
JUBILEE SINGERS.
These singers of world-wide fame will once more enter the “service
of song” for Fisk University. They have devoted their wonderful
voices to its benefit for six years, during which they left their
marvelous impress on vast and select audiences in America, Great
Britain, and the Continent, including the highest and humblest
in rank, and have reared as their monument the substantial and
beautiful Jubilee Hall, at Fisk University. The past two years they
have taken for needed rest, and in giving concerts for their own
benefit; and in dedicating themselves to the up-building of the
University, it is now for endowment, as it was then for building.
During all these years, their voices have been more and more highly
cultivated, without losing their freshness and originality, or
their power to move most deeply the hearts of vast audiences, as
was so signally manifested in the enthusiastic gatherings they met
recently at Chautauqua.
The name and fame of these Singers have been repeatedly
appropriated by unworthy imitators. This true Jubilee Troupe, when
again heard, will need no credentials except their own voices to
certify to the public that they are the original Jubilee Singers.
* * * * *
Gen. Garfield heard the Jubilee Singers when he was at Chautauqua,
and closed his eloquent speech with this beautiful tribute:
“I heard yesterday and last night the songs of those who were
lately redeemed from slavery, and I felt that there, too, was one
of the great triumphs of the republic. I believe in the efficiency
of forces that come down from the ages behind us; and I wondered
if the tropical sun had not distilled its sweetness, and if the
sorrows of centuries of slavery had not distilled its sadness, into
voices which were touchingly sweet—voices to sing the songs of
liberty as they sing them wherever they go.”
In his speech responding to a serenade by the “Boys in Blue” in
this city, he expressed this noble sentiment in reference to our
fellow-citizens—a sentiment which must become a fact
established beyond the possibility of successful assault before
there can be either peace or safety for the nation:
“We will stand by them until the sun of liberty, fixed in the
firmament of our Constitution, shall shine with equal ray upon
every man, black or white, throughout the Union. Fellow-citizens,
fellow-soldiers, in this there is all the beneficence of eternal
justice, and by this we will stand forever.”
* * * * *
_Atlanta’s <DW52> People._—Atlanta, and the world outside that
Chicago of the South, will doubtless be surprised to learn that her
<DW52> people give in $250,000 of taxable property. There are over
six hundred who pay tax on values ranging between $100 and $1,000;
some forty ranging from $1,000 to $6,000 and over. In business
pursuits, there are 40 boot and shoe makers, 40 retail grocers, 75
draymen, 25 hackmen, 20 blacksmiths, 12 barbers, 2 tailors, several
boarding-house keepers, 2 caterers, 5 confectioners, 3 dealers in
fruits, 1 dentist, 1 undertaker, 1 veterinary surgeon, 1 mattrass
maker, and 1 billiard-table keeper. Of bootblacks, newspaper
venders, porters, peddlers, drummers, messengers, hostlers,
waiters, and those engaged in mechanical pursuits, we have no
special data, for they are numerous.
There are eighteen churches in the city, with an average membership
of 350, the three largest having each over 1,500. Over 5,000
children and adults are in the Sabbath schools, and 1,278 children,
about one-half in the public schools of the city. There are three
lodges of Good Templars among them, having a total membership of
about 200. Two lodges of Good Samaritans and Daughters of Samaria
have a membership of some 500. The Brothers Aid Society number
some 250, and the Brothers of Love and Charity 75. The Gospel Aid
Society, Daughters of Bethel, and Daughters of Jerusalem—benevolent
institutions—number a total of about 600. The Masonic lodge has
some 50 members. There are lodges of Odd Fellows whose combined
membership exceeds 600. These institutions have encouraged them to
form habits of sobriety and economy, and imbued them with feelings
of charity and benevolence. There are five military companies, and
they show great proficiency in the manual of arms.
* * * * *
COMMON SENSE FOR <DW52> MEN.
[The following letter with the above caption is from the New York
_Evangelist_, and was written by the Rev. Moses A. Hopkins, a
preacher of Franklinton, N.C. It contains so much truth,
and good, hard, common sense, that the MISSIONARY is constrained to
send it along. This is done with a slight but emphatic caveat in
regard to one paragraph, to which exception is taken as misleading.
To say “the pinching poverty which drove a few idle and ignorant
Freedmen to Indiana, Kansas, and Africa” does not come up to
the proportions, as the writer would imply that it does, of a
satisfactory explanation of this great movement which has taken
more than 40,000 <DW52> people from their old to new homes, at
great expense, both of suffering and money.
From Florence, Ala., many of the most intelligent and well-to-do
of these people exodized. Among those who went to Africa were many
intelligent and thrifty men, sufficiently so to send out an agent
and arrange for the movement, with means to place themselves in
their new home, and they were unanimous in assigning reasons which
justified them in the experiment.—ED. MISS.]
Many designing men, “filled to the brim” with sledge-hammer
rhetoric and campaign eloquence, for more than a decade have “used
sorcery and bewitched the <DW52> people” with their “cunning
craftiness, whereby they lie in wait to deceive,” till many of the
Freedmen thought that the time had fully come when the last should
be first and the first last, and were waiting and watching for
their turn in the White House and Congress.
But having hoped against hope, till hope deferred and poverty had
saddened their hearts, most of them have turned their minds to
the soil, which now promises “seed to the sower and bread to the
eater.” On every hand “the valleys are covered over with corn,”
and God, the poor man’s Friend, has just granted the tillers of
the ground “a plentiful rain,” which causes “the outgoings of the
morning and evening to rejoice.”
The present prospect of a bountiful harvest has greatly inspired
our people to labor and to appreciate honest toil, and to remember
that the great mass of the Freedmen will make better plowmen than
Presidents, and better sowers than Senators. The pinching poverty
which drove a few idle and ignorant Freedmen to Indiana, Kansas
and Africa, has taught those who had the good sense to stay at
home, that God will not bless idleness and ignorance among any
people. Most of the Freedmen have decided to buy land and labor on
it; to build houses and dwell in them, “and to plant gardens and
eat the fruit of them”; to seek the peace of the country and the
cities where God has caused them to be carried away captives; and
to remember that in the peace and prosperity of this country shall
they have peace.
* * * * *
OUR SCHOOLS AND THE COMMON SCHOOL SYSTEM.
The settlers of New England showed their uncommon common sense by
the early establishment of Harvard and Yale—the nursing mothers of
the common school system which has made these States what they are.
These colleges are not the ripened fruit of the common schools,
but the creators of them. For these colleges, we are indebted
to a class of men among the Pilgrim Fathers, educated in the
universities of the old world, a class not to be found among the
<DW52> people of the South, and because of which alone, if for no
other reason, their condition differs immensely from that of the
Freedmen, who have no ability to create the instruments by which
they can be lifted up from the degraded condition in which slavery
left them.
The deep-seated prejudice of the Southern white against the fact
of <DW64> education, his bitter unwillingness to see the experiment
tried, coupled with his scornful incredulity that anything worth
the effort could be accomplished, made it certain that those
most deeply concerned, because of the new relation these people
sustained to them, in the elevation, through schools, of the <DW64>,
would originate no efforts to this end. This gospel, like every
other, must be sent to those who are to be specially benefited by
it, and must be sustained, like all missionary enterprises, by
those who know its value, until it can vindicate itself to those to
whom it is sent.
It is not rash to say that, but for outside pressure, few, if
any, of the Southern States would now have a system of common
schools, provided for by State legislation, even for the whites;
even less bold is the assertion that, but for the proved results
of missionary schools for the education of the <DW52> people,
the South, and a large proportion of those in the North, would
be utterly incredulous as to the possibility of making scholars
of the <DW64>s; and that the common schools forced upon the
unwilling South by the constitutions formed by conventions in
which the Southern sentiment found no expression, would never have
gained favor as they have with the people, but for the trained
teachers which our schools and the schools of other societies have
furnished. As in New England, so in the South, the trained teacher
makes the schools, which are thus the children of the colleges and
normal schools.
Wherever we have been able to send competent teachers, the
whites are in favor of sustaining the common school system; and it
may with modesty be said, that the A.M.A., perhaps more than any
other agency, has won for it a place in the future of these States,
ten of which, according to the latest reports, appropriate $49,829
for normal instruction in schools, a large share of which
goes to institutions established by Northern charity, to carry on
a work the value of which had been fully proven by these schools
before these States contributed a dollar for such a purpose.
In 1878, out of a total school population in the recent slave
States, including the District of Columbia, of 5,187,584, 2,711,096
were enrolled, being nearly 62 per cent. of the whites, and
something more than 47 per cent. of the blacks. Nearly twelve
millions of dollars was expended upon the schools for that year,
and for the most part it has been very equitably divided between
the races, except in Kentucky and Delaware, in which States the
school tax collected from the <DW52> people alone is appropriated
to schools.
Thus the teachers of <DW64> schools have fought a great fight, and
have won substantial victories, for a system of education which is
to regenerate the South, and, more than any other and all other
agencies, is to convert elements of danger, which, neglected,
would soon have proved the ruin of our republic, into elements of
strength and greatness.
* * * * *
A NEW SOUTH, NOT A NEW ENGLAND IN THE SOUTH.
There is a general feeling outside of, and it is encouraging to
believe even in, the South, that a new state of things is desirable
for that section of the country. No one who has seen its homes,
schools, churches, industries (or want of them), its literature—in
short, whatever at once marks and constitutes its civilization, and
knows how meager and unworthy it is, but assents to the proposition
that the South needs to be regenerated, and heartily wishes that
“old things might pass away and all become new.” In one way or
another, New England has supplemented her earnest wish for it
with most earnest efforts to accomplish this regeneration. To say
nothing of legislative attempts by the Government, thousands of
missionaries, at an expense of millions of dollars, during the past
fifteen years, have, with great self-denial and laborious effort,
attempted the task, and the reports are abundant and uniform that
these efforts are beginning to have their effect. Old prejudices
are yielding; new industries and new institutions, the outcome
of new ideas, are springing up; society is changing, and the
country is beginning to put on a new aspect. Never before have the
societies and laborers engaged in this work been so cheered and
encouraged by the outlook.
It may be well at this point to ask, toward what ideal we are
working, and fairly to consider the forces that are co-operating
with, or working against, us in this effort. The most potent factor
in the creation of a new South must be, of course, the South
itself, as of necessity she will be chiefly the architect of her
own fortunes, good or bad.
It would be unwise, and the effort would prove futile, to attempt
its reconstruction by outside influences and agencies, in utter
disregard of the fact that to her belongs the right, and upon her
devolves the duty, as she alone possesses the power, of shaping
her own destiny. This being the case, it becomes evident that the
new South is not to be a New England in the South, and our Yankee
egotism should not measure the progress made in that section simply
by its observable approximation to Northern ideals. New England, as
it is, could not have been built except upon New England’s hills,
and we shall never see it in the cotton fields, rice swamps and
everglades of the sunny South.
Other influences than those that are merely ethnic and moral help
to mold the character of a people, and to develop the industries
by which it shapes its civilization. We dare not think what the
result to our Republic would have been had the Mayflower found the
mouth of the Mississippi River instead of Plymouth harbor, and had
the Pilgrim Fathers settled on the savannahs of Louisiana instead
of the bleak hills of New England. The intelligent and thrifty
New England farmer, transplanted to Florida, may not, indeed,
degenerate into an everglade “cracker,” whose “strength is to sit
still” and chew tobacco; but he cannot be a New England farmer in
Florida, for the reason that he has neither the climate, soil nor
products of his old farm, and none of the conditions which partly
prompted, and partly compelled, the thrift which has characterized
the farmers of New England.
New England has emptied itself, probably more than once, into
the West; she has sent her sons and daughters out into the great
prairies with the school-house and the church, and they have built
them homes hallowed and made beautiful by these influences, but
they have not reproduced Yankee New England, and they never can.
In the new South, the ugly mud-daubed log huts will give place
to neat cottages; the school-houses will be multiplied until all
her children shall possess facilities for acquiring education;
churches, supplied with an educated ministry, will be accessible
to all inhabitants; roads will be built, over which it will be
possible to travel with comfort; the immense tracts of land
now impoverished and running to waste will be brought under
cultivation; a Christian conscience will displace a false code
of honor among the people as a rule of conduct, and methods more
civilized than the pistol and bowie-knife will be resorted to in
adjusting misunderstandings among neighbors. All this will be, and
of this there are evident tokens that it is now coming in. But the
wide diversity of soil and climate and other conditions of life,
the antipodal ideas which have shaped the character of the people,
the heterogeneous elements which more and more are entering into
the make-up of the population of the different sections—in short,
the necessities of the case, make it absolutely certain that New
England is to be confined to New England, and greatly modified even
there, and that the civilizations of the South and the West are to
be in many respects widely different, possessing characteristics
as marked, and doubtless as valuable, as those which have made
the influence of New England so beneficent upon the country at
large. It is wise, as it is also incumbent upon us, to supply the
educational influences which shall change the whole aspect of
Southern society, but foolish to undertake to cast it in the exact
form of that which we are proud to call New England.
* * * * *
MTESA AND THE RELIGION OF HIS ANCESTORS.
In 1875, Stanley wrote in the _London Telegraph_ of the wonderful
opening in Uganda, at the court and among the people of Mtesa, for
missionary effort. Within three days after the publication of his
letter, the Church Missionary Society received, from | 215.543269 |
2023-11-16 18:20:39.5234270 | 1,148 | 39 |
Produced by David Widger
MARK TWAIN
By Archibald Henderson
With Photographs by Alvin Langdon Coburn
"Haply--who knows?--somewhere
In Avalon, Isle of Dreams,
In vast contentment at last,
With every grief done away,
While Chaucer and Shakespeare wait,
And Moliere hangs on his words,
And Cervantes not far off
Listens and smiles apart,
With that incomparable drawl
He is jesting with Dagonet now."
BLISS CARMAN.
PREFACE
There are to-day, all over the world, men and women and children who owe
a debt of almost personal gratitude to Mark Twain for the joy of his
humour and the charm of his personality. In the future they will, I
doubt not, seek and welcome opportunities to acknowledge that debt. My
own experience with the works of Mark Twain is in no sense exceptional.
From the days of early childhood, my feeling for Mark Twain, derived
first solely from acquaintance with his works, was a feeling of warm
and, as it were, personal affection. With limitless interest and
curiosity, I used to hear the Uncle Remus stories from the lips of one
of our old family servants, a <DW64> to whom I was devotedly attached.
These stories were narrated to me in the <DW64> dialect with such perfect
naturalness and racial gusto that I often secretly wondered if the
narrator were not Uncle Remus himself in disguise. I was thus cunningly
prepared, "coached" shall I say, for the maturer charms of Tom Sawyer
and Huckleberry Finn. With Uncle Remus and Mark Twain as my preceptors,
I spent the days of my youth--excitedly alternating, spell-bound,
between the inexhaustible attractions of Tom, Huck, Jim, Indian Joe, the
Duke and the Dauphin, and their compeers on the one hand; and Brer
Rabbit, Sis Cow, and a thousand other fantastic, but very real creatures
of the animal kingdom on the other.
I felt a strange sort of camaraderie, of personal attachment, for Mark
Twain during all the years before I came into personal contact with him.
It was the dictum of a distinguished English critic, to the effect that
Huckleberry Finn was a literary masterpiece, which first awoke in me,
then a mere boy, a genuine respect for literary criticism; for here was
expressed an opinion which I had long secretly cherished, but somehow
never dared to utter!
My personal association with Mr. Clemens, comparatively brief though it
was--an ocean voyage, meetings here and there, a brief stay as a guest
in his home--gave me at last the justification for paying the debt
which, with the years, had grown greater and more insistently
obligatory. I felt both relief and pleasure when he authorized me to
pay that debt by writing an interpretation of his life and work.
It is an appreciation originating in the heart of one who loved Mark
Twain's works for a generation before he ever met Samuel L. Clemens. It
is an interpretation springing from the conviction that Mark Twain was a
great American who comprehensively incorporated and realized his own
country and his own age as no American has so completely done before
him; a supreme humorist who ever wore the panache of youth, gaiety, and
bonhomie; a brilliant wit who never dipped his darts in the poison of
cynicism, misanthropy, or despair; constitutionally a reformer who,
heedless of self, boldly struck for the right as he saw it; a
philosopher and sociologist who intuitively understood the secret
springs of human motive and impulse, and empirically demonstrated that
intuition in works which crossed frontiers, survived translation, and
went straight to the human, beneath the disguise of the racial; a genius
who lived to know and enjoy the happy rewards of his own fame; a great
man who saw life steadily and saw it whole.
ARCHIBALD HENDERSON.
LONDON,
August 5, 1910.
NOTE.--The author esteems himself in the highest degree fortunate in
having the co-operation of Mr. Alvin Langdon Coburn. All the
illustrations, both autochrome and monochrome, are the work of Mr.
Coburn.
CONTENTS
PREFACE
I. INTRODUCTORY
II. THE MAN
III. THE HUMORIST
IV. WORLD-FAMED GENIUS
V. PHILOSOPHER, MORALIST, SOCIOLOGIST
"I've a theory that every author, while living, has a projection of
himself, a sort of eidolon, that goes about in near and distant
places, and makes friends and enemies for him out of folk who never
knew him in the flesh. When the author dies, this phantom fades
away, not caring to continue business at the old stand. Then the
dead writer lives only in the impression made by his literature;
this impression may grow sharper or fainter according to the
fashions and new conditions of the time."
Letter | 215.543467 |
2023-11-16 18:20:39.5243800 | 55 | 6 |
Produced by Rachael Schultz, 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.)
YOSEMITE
| 215.54442 |
2023-11-16 18:20:39.7230910 | 239 | 10 |
Produced by Roger Frank and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: J. D. Gillilan (signature)]
TRAIL TALES
BY
JAMES DAVID GILLILAN
THE ABINGDON PRESS
NEW YORK--CINCINNATI
Copyright, 1915, by
JAMES DAVID GILLILAN
DEDICATED AFFECTIONATELY
TO MY MOTHER,
TO MY WIFE;
LIKEWISE TO
THE PREACHERS OF
UTAH MISSION
AND
IDAHO ANNUAL CONFERENCE
CONTENTS
PREFACE 9
GOD'S MINISTER 11
THE WESTERN TRAIL 13
THE LONG TRAIL 19
THE DESERT 31
SAGEBRUSH 39
THE IRON TRAIL 47
A Railroad Saint in Idaho 49
An Unusual Kindness 59
INDIANS OF THE TRAIL 63
| 215.743131 |
2023-11-16 18:20:39.8149120 | 55 | 8 |
Produced by David Widger
MARK TWAIN
By Archibald Henderson
With Photographs by Alvin Langdon Coburn
"Haply--who knows?--somewhere
In Avalon, Isle of Dreams,
| 215.834952 |
2023-11-16 18:20:39.8206450 | 56 | 9 |
Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images available at The Internet Archive)
[Every attempt has been made to replicate the original as printed. No
attempt has | 215.840685 |
2023-11-16 18:20:40.6214690 | 486 | 16 |
Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: LISBETH LONGFROCK]
LISBETH LONGFROCK
TRANSLATED FROM THE NORWEGIAN OF HANS AANRUD
BY
LAURA E. POULSSON
ILLUSTRATED BY
OTHAR HOLMBOE
GINN AND COMPANY
BOSTON. NEW YORK. CHICAGO. LONDON
ATLANTA. DALLAS. COLUMBUS. SAN FRANCISCO
COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY
LAURA E. POULSSON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
The Athenaeum Press
GINN AND COMPANY. PROPRIETORS.
BOSTON. U.S.A.
PREFACE
Hans Aanrud's short stories are considered by his own countrymen as
belonging to the most original and artistically finished life pictures
that have been produced by the younger _literati_ of Norway. They
are generally concerned with peasant character, and present in true
balance the coarse and fine in peasant nature. The style of speech is
occasionally over-concrete for sophisticated ears, but it is not
unwholesome. Of weak or cloying sweetness--so abhorrent to Norwegian
taste--there is never a trace.
_Sidsel Sidsaerk_ was dedicated to the author's daughter on her eighth
birthday, and is doubtless largely reminiscent of Aanrud's own
childhood. If I have been able to give a rendering at all worthy of the
original, readers of _Lisbeth Longfrock_ will find that the whole story
breathes a spirit of unaffected poetry not inconsistent with the common
life which it depicts. This fine blending of the poetic and commonplace
is another characteristic of Aanrud's writings.
While translating the book I was living in the region where the scenes
of the story are laid, and had the benefit of local knowledge
concerning terms used, customs referred to, etc. No pains were spared
in verifying particulars, especially through elderly people on the
farms, who could best explain the old-fashioned terms and who had a | 216.641509 |
2023-11-16 18:20:40.8181990 | 176 | 88 |
Produced by Judith B. Glad and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE MULE
A TREATISE ON THE BREEDING, TRAINING, AND USES TO WHICH HE MAY BE PUT.
BY HARVEY RILEY, SUPERINTENDENT OF THE GOVERNMENT CORRAL, WASHINGTON
D.C.
1867.
PREFACE.
There is no more useful or willing animal than the Mule. And perhaps
there is no other animal so much abused, or so little cared for. Popular
opinion of his nature has not been favorable; and he has had to plod and
work through life against the prejudices of the ignorant. Still, he has
been the great friend of man, in war and in peace serving him well and
faithfully. If he could tell man what he most needed it would be | 216.838239 |
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