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# The Influence of Wealth in Imperial Rome/Preface

Published in New York, 1910.
PREFACE
This book attempts to consider various phases in the economic and social life of Ancient Rome; such as has not been treated, except incidentally, in any English work, nor in any French or German work from precisely the same standpoint ; a fact which gives justification for the present essay.
The purpose is to consider the influence of money and of the commercial spirit throughout the period of Roman greatness. Sometimes a liberal interpretation has been given to the term "Money Power," and certain subjects have been discussed not at first sight closely connected with public finance or private industry and commerce. Yet the idea that the Romans owed much, both of their greatness and of their ultimate failure, to the supreme estimate they put upon wealth and its concomitants has never been lost from view.
This essay makes no claim to exhaustive or original learning. The evidence of the ancient authors, supplemented by much testimony from the great Corpus Inscriptionum Latinarum, is however carefully used, and from what is possibly a somewhat new point of departure. Yet modern investigators on one point or another have put the author under a great debt Friedlaender, Grupp, Mommsen, Marquardt, Voigt, Schiller, Seeck, Hirshfeld, Schanz, Bloch, Boissier, Duruy, Arnold, Dill and many more, as well as the able contributors to Smith's Dictionary of Classical Antiquities, and to the Pauly-Wissowa Real-Encyklopaedie der classischen Alterthumswissenschaft.
Since this book does not claim to be a critical compendium for the advanced scholar, it has not seemed wise to encumber the pages with foot-note references and citations of the classical and modern authorities. The only notes given are to complete or elucidate the statements in the text.
Much of the book naturally is taken up with a discussion of the prosperous period of the early Empire; yet the "Influence of Wealth" began its dominance far back under the Republic, and many references must be made to this period. Also the testimony of Cicero is too important to be ignored in a great many matters. Abundant use is made of the evidence of the younger Pliny, as one of the most illuminating and entertaining witnesses to the social life of the Empire.
If this essay shall succeed, in scant measure, in making plain that within the Roman world, amid which Cicero thundered his eloquence, Caesar led his legions, and Nero indulged his passions, there was another world, less voluptuous and glittering, less famous in history, but no less real and important to the men of the day the realm of the great god Lucre, the attempt will not have been in vain.
For much kind revision and criticism of this work while it was in manuscript, I am extremely indebted to my friend, Professor Joseph B. Pike of the University of Minnesota.
| University of Minnesota Minneapolis | W. S. D. |
# The Influenza

A poem written in 1890, when Churchill was only 15 years old and attending Harrow School.
Oh how shall I its deeds recount  Or measure the untold amount  Of ills that it has done?  From China’s bright celestial land  E’en to Arabia’s thirsty sand  It journeyed with the sun.
 O’er miles of bleak Siberia’s plains  Where Russian exiles toil in chains  It moved with noiseless tread;  And as it slowly glided by  There followed it across the sky  The spirits of the dead.
 The Ural peaks by it were scaled  And every bar and barrier failed  To turn it from its way;  Slowly and surely on it came,  Heralded by its awful fame,  Increasing day by day.
 On Moscow’s fair and famous town  Where fell the first Napoleon’s crown  It made a direful swoop;  The rich, the poor, the high, the low  Alike the various symptoms know,  Alike before it droop.
 Nor adverse winds, nor floods of rain  Might stay the thrice-accursed bane;  And with unsparing hand,  Impartial, cruel and severe  It travelled on allied with fear  And smote the fatherland.
 Fair Alsace and forlorn Lorraine,  The cause of bitterness and pain  In many a Gaelic breast,  Receive the vile, insatiate scourge,  And from their towns with it emerge  And never stay nor rest.
 And now Europa groans aloud,  And ‘neath the heavy thunder-cloud  Hushed is both song and dance;  The germs of illness wend their way  To westward each succeeding day  And enter merry France.
 Fair land of Gaul, thy patriots brave  Who fear not death and scorn the grave  Cannot this foe oppose,  Whose loathsome hand and cruel sting,  Whose poisonous breath and blighted wing  Full well thy cities know.
 In Calais port the illness stays,  As did the French in former days,  To threaten Freedom’s isle;  But now no Nelson could o’erthrow  This cruel, unconquerable foe,  Nor save us from its guile.
 Yet Father Neptune strove right well  To moderate this plague of Hell,  And thwart it in its course;  And though it passed the streak of brine  And penetrated this thin line,  It came with broken force.
 For though it ravaged far and wide  Both village, town and countryside,  Its power to kill was o’er;  And with the favouring winds of Spring  (Blest is the time of which I sing)  It left our native shore.
 God shield our Empire from the might  Of war or famine, plague or blight  And all the power of Hell,  And keep it ever in the hands  Of those who fought ‘gainst other lands,  Who fought and conquered well.
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
The longest-living author of this work died in 1965, so this work is in the public domain in countries and areas where the copyright term is the author's life plus 58 years or less. This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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# The Ingoldsby Legends/Preface

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TO RICHARD BENTLEY, ESQ.
My dear Sir,
You wish me to collect into a single volume certain rambling extracts from our family memoranda, many of which have already appeared in the pages of your Miscellany. At the same time you tell me that doubts are entertained in certain quarters as to the authenticity of their details.
Now with respect to their genuineness, the old oak chest, in which the originals are deposited, is not more familiar to my eyes than it is to your own; and if its contents have any value at all, it consists in the strict veracity of the facts they record.
To convince the most incredulous, I can only add, that should business—pleasure is out of the question—ever call them into the neighbourhood of Folkestone, let them take the high road from Canterbury to Dover till they reach the eastern extremity of Barham Downs. Here a beautiful green lane diverging abruptly to the right, will carry them through the Oxenden plantations and the unpretending village of Denton, to the foot of a very respectable hill,—as hills go in this part of Europe. On reaching its summit let them look straight before them,—and if among the hanging woods which crown the opposite side of the valley, they cannot distinguish an antiquated Manor-house of Elizabethan architecture, with its gable ends, stone stanchions, and tortuous chimneys rising above the surrounding trees, why—the sooner they procure a pair of Dolland's patent spectacles the better.
If, on the contrary, they can manage to descry it, and, proceeding some five or six furlongs through the avenue, will ring at the Lodge-gate,—they cannot mistake the stone lion with the Ingoldsby escutcheon (Ermine, a saltire engrailed Gules,) in his paws,—they will be received with a hearty old English welcome.
The papers in question having been written by different ​parties, and at various periods, I have thought it advisable to reduce the more ancient of them into a comparatively modern phraseology, and to make my collateral ancestor, Father John, especially, "deliver himself like a man of this world;" Mr. Maguire, indeed, is the only Gentleman who, in his account of the late Coronation, retains his own rich vernacular.
As to arrangement, I shall adopt the sentiment expressed by the Constable of Bourbon four centuries ago, teste Shakespeare, one which seems to become more fashionable every day,
The Devil take all order!!—I'll to the throng!
Believe me to be, My dear Sir, Yours, most indubitably and immeasurably, THOMAS INGOLDSBY.
Tappington Everard, Jan. 20th, 1840.
# The Ingoldsby Legends

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THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS
OXFORD: HORACE HART PRINTER TO THE UNIVERSITY
REV. RICHARD HARRIS BARHAM (THOMAS INGOLSBY)
OXFORD EDITION
THE INGOLDSBY LEGENDS
OR
MIRTH AND MARVELS
BY THOMAS INGOLDSBY, Esquire
WITH A PORTRAIT AND TWENTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS BY CRUIKSHANK, LEECH, AND OTHERS
HENRY FROWDE LONDON, EDINBURGH, GLASGOW NEW YORK AND TORONTO
1905
CONTENTS
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
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# The International (magazine)/Volume 1

* "Phenicia's Sin", a short story by Julius Zeyer
* "Our authors", article on Julius Zeyer and Jean Baptiste Adolphe Ferland
* "A Pawned Character", a short story by Svatopluk Čech
# The International (magazine)/Volume 3

Layout 2
The International
AN ILLUSTRATED
Monthly Magazine
Volume III—July to December Inclusive
1897
PUBLISHED BY UNION QUOIN COMPANY 358 Dearborn Street CHICAGO
COPYRIGHT 1897
by the
UNION QUOIN COMPANY.
* Number 1
* Number 2
* Number 3
* Number 4
* Number 5
* Number 6
INDEX
This work is in the public domain in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1929.
This work may be in the public domain in countries and areas with longer native copyright terms that apply the rule of the shorter term to foreign works.
Public domainPublic domainfalsefalse
# The International

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The International."
* sister projects: Wikipedia article, Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* The International, United States magazine on foreign literature
* The Internationale, left-wing anthem
# The International (magazine)

* related portals: Periodicals.
* sister projects: Commons category, Wikidata item.
The International was an illustrated monthly magazine, published by Union Quoin Company, Chicago, bringing short stories and articles translated from foreign languages.
List of volumes:
* Volume 1 (transcription project)
* Volume 2 (transcription project)
* Volume 3 (transcription project)
* Volume 4 (transcription project)
* Volume 5 (transcription project)
* Volume 6 (transcription project)
* Volume 7 (transcription project)
* Volume 8 (transcription project)
* Volume 9 (transcription project)
* Volume 10 (transcription project)
* Volume 11 (transcription project)
# The Kiss and Other Stories

The Kiss and Other Stories by Anton Tchekhoff. Translated from the Russian by R. E. C. Long. London, 1908 (Russian State Library, Commons, (transcription project)).
    THE KISS AND OTHER STORIES
    LONDON DUCKWORTH & CO. 3 HENRIETTA STREET, W.C. 1908
| | PAGE |
| The Kiss | 3 |
| Verotchka | 33 |
| On Trial | 55 |
| The Mass for the Dead | 69 |
| The Privy Councillor | 81 |
| The Runaway | 109 |
| The Reed | 123 |
| La Cigale | 137 |
| The Head Gardеner's Tale | 177 |
| Oysters | 187 |
| Women | 197 |
| Woe | 221 |
| Zinotchka | 233 |
| The Princess | 245 |
| The Muzhiks | 267 |
The present volume of short stories by Anton Tchekhoff, chosen from nearly three hundred, is an attempt to bridge a gap in international literary relations, all the more marked because of the rapid growth both at home and in Western Europe of Tchekhoff's fame as short-story writer and playwright. Under the title The Black Monk and Other Stories (Duckworth and Co.) the translator published five years ago the only collection of Tchekhoff's stories that had up to that time appeared in English; and since then Tchekhoff has remained a mere name in England, except to the handful of persons familiar with the Russian language. Tchekhoff's premature death in 1904 caused an outburst of mourning without precedent in Russia's literary annals; and the numberless translations of his writings which have appeared on the Continent — including a complete edition in German — seem good reasons for making more of his work accessible to English readers.
This work is a translation and has a separate copyright status to the applicable copyright protections of the original content.
# The Kiss (Teasdale, "I hoped that he would love me")

* "The Kiss" in Helen of Troy and Other Poems (1911).
* "The Kiss" in Love Songs (1917).
# The King’s Son and the Ogress

* Search for titles containing or beginning with: "The King’s Son and the Ogress."
* sister projects: Wikidata item.
This is a disambiguation page. It lists works that share the same title. If an article link referred you here, please consider editing it to point directly to the intended page.
* "The King’s Son and the Ogress", a story from the tale of "The Fisherman and the Genie" in One Thousand and One Nights
* "The King’s Son and the Ogress", a story from the tale of "The Malice of Women" in One Thousand and One Nights
# The Kiss (Chekhov)

English-language translations of Поцелуй include:
* The Kiss, translated by Robert Edward Crozier Long in The Kiss and Other Stories, 1908
* The Kiss, translated by Constance Garnett, 1919
# The Ifs of History/Preface

WHETHER or not we believe that events are consciously ordered before their occurrence, we are compelled to admit the importance of Contingency in human affairs.
If we believe in such an orderly and predetermined arrangement, the small circumstance upon which a great event may hinge becomes, in our view, but the instrumentality by means of which the great plan is operated. It by no means sets aside the vital influence of chance to assume that "all chance is but direction which we cannot see."
For instance, the believer in special providences regards as clearly provi​dential the flight of the flocks of birds which diverted the course of Columbus from our shores to those of the West Indies; but it is none the less true that this trivial circumstance caused the great navigator to turn his prow.
Those who, on the other hand, reject the idea of special providences, and treat history as a sequence of occurrences emerging mechanically from the relations of men with one another, must admit that causes forever contend with causes, and that the nice balance of action and reaction may sometimes be influenced radically by even so small a circumstance as the cackling of the geese of Rome. It is true that the evolutionist is apt to become a believer in necessity to an extent which appears unlikely to the mind of the other. Events, in his view, inhere in the nature and character of men, these in their turn being the result of the physical circumstances that differentiate the nations. ​This view seems at first to reduce the probability that accident will at any time sensibly alter the course of affairs.
But if we take historical action and reaction at their moments of equilibrium, we see that the tide of affairs may sometimes appear to follow the drift of a feather. Consider, for instance, the declaration of the Duke of Wellington that the issue of the battle of Waterloo turned upon the closing of the gates of Hugomont Castle by the hand of one man. Wellington was certainly in a position to know if this was true; and in the light of the tremendous events that depended upon the trifling act, does it not appear that accident for one moment outweighed in consequence any necessity that inhered in the character of the French people or that of the nations arrayed against them at Waterloo? It may be the function of Contingency to correct the overconfidence of the evolutionist.
​At all events, we cannot dismiss the "if"; there is, as Touchstone says, much virtue in it.
J. E. C.
# The Iliad

The Iliad is an ancient Greek epic cycle poem, traditionally attributed to Homer.
English-language translations of Ἰλιάς include:

## Complete works

* The Iliads of Homer Prince of Poetts, Translated according to the Greeke (1611), translated by George Chapman
* The Iliad of Homer (1715–1720), translated by Alexander Pope
* The Iliad of Homer... (1856), translated by Francis William Newman
* The Iliad of Homer (1860), translated by Theodore Alois Buckley
* The Iliad of Homer... (1864), translated by Edward George Geoffrey Smith-Stanley, the Earl of Derby (external scans (multiple parts): 1, 2)
* The Iliad of Homer, Done into English Prose (1883), translated by Lang, Leaf, and Myers IA
* The Iliad of Homer... (1898), translated by Samuel Butler (transcription project)
* The Iliad of Homer, Done into English Prose, revised edition (1911), translated by Lang, Leaf, and Myers IA
* The Iliad (1924), translated by Augustus Taber Murray for the Loeb Classical Library

## Retellings

* The Story of the Iliad (1895), translated and adapted by Alfred John Church

## Partial works

* Homer his Iliads (1660), translated by John Ogilby
* Homer's Iliads (1676), translated by Thomas Hobbes, edited and possibly paraphrased by William Molesworth (1839–45) (transcription project)
* Part of the Tenth Book of the Iliads of Homer. In the Stile of Milton (1739), translated by William Broome
* From the Eleventh Book of the Iliads of Homer. In the Stile of Milton (1739), translated by William Broome
* The Iliad of Homer (1773), translated by James Macpherson
* The Iliad of Homer (1791), translated by William Cowper
* The Iliad of Homer (1865), translation of the first 12 books by Philip Stanhope Worsley
* Translations of Iliad (1869), translation of lines 1-32 and 121-218 of Book I., by Arthur Hugh Clough
* The Iliad of Homer... (1870), translated by William Cullen Bryant (transcription project)

## Commentary

* The Iliad (1871), by William Lucas Collins
* "Iliad," in Collier's New Encyclopedia, New York: P. F. Collier & Son Co. (1921)
# The Improvisatrice; and Other Poems/The Warrior

THE WARRIOR.
A SKETCH.
The warrior went forth in the morning light,— Waved like a meteor his plume of white, Scarce might his gauntleted hand restrain The steed that snorted beneath the rein; Yet curbed he its pride, for upon him there Gazed the dark eye of his ladye fair. She stood on the tower to watch him ride,— The maiden whose hand on his bosom had tied The scarf she had worked,—she saw him depart With a tearless eye, though a beating heart;
But when the knight of her love was gone, She went to her bower to weep alone. The warrior past,—but first he took At the castle-wall one parting look, And thought of the evening when he should bring His ladye his battle offering; Then like a thought he dashed o'er the plain, And with banner and brand came his vassal train. It was a thrilling sound to hear The bugle's welcome of warlike cheer; It was a thrilling sight to see The ranks of that gallant company: Many were there stately and tall, But Edith's knight was the first of all.— The day is past, and the moonbeams weep O'er the many that rest in their last cold sleep;
Near to the gashed and the nerveless hand Is the pointless spear and the broken brand; The archer lies like an arrow spent, His shafts all loose and his bow unbent; Many a white plume torn and red, Bright curls rent from the graceful head, Helmet and breast-plate scattered around, Lie a fearful show on the well-fought ground; While the crow and the raven flock overhead To feed on the hearts of the helpless dead, Save when scared by the glaring eye Of some wretch in his last death agony.
 Lighted up is that castle-wall, And twenty harpers wait in the hall;
On the board is mantling the purple wine, And wreaths of white flowers the maidens twine; For distant and faint is heard the swell Of bugles and voices from yonder dell,— The victors are coming: and by the tower Had Edith watched for the midnight hour.
 Oh, that lone sickness of the heart, Which bids the weary moments depart, Yet dreads their departing; the cross she held fast, And kissed off the tears—they are come at last! But has not the bugle a plaining wail, As the notes of its sadness come on the gale; Why comes there no shout of the victors' pride, As red from the battle they homewards ride?
Yet high o'er their ranks is their white banner borne, While beneath droops the foeman's, blood-stained and torn. Said not that young warrior thus it should be, When he talked to his Edith of victory? Yet, maiden, weep o'er thy loneliness, Is not yon dark horse riderless? She flew to the gate,—she stood there alone,— Where was he who to meet her had flown? The dirge grew plain as the troop came near,— They bear the young chieftain cold on his bier!
# The Improvisatrice; and Other Poems/The Soldier’s Funeral

FRAGMENTS.
THE SOLDIER'S FUNERAL.
And the muffled drum rolled on the air, Warriors with stately step were there; On every arm was the black crape bound, Every carbine was turned to the ground: Solemn the sound of their measured tread, A silent and slow they followed the dead. The riderless horse was led in the rear, There were white plumes waving over the bier: Helmet and sword were laid on the pall, For it was a soldier's funeral.
That soldier had stood on the battle-plain, Where every step was over the slain; But the brand and the ball had pass'd him by, And he came to his native land to die. 'Twas hard to come to that native land, And not clasp one familiar hand! 'Twas hard to be numbered amid the dead, Or ere he could hear his welcome said! But 'twas something to see its cliffs once more, And to lay his bones on his own loved shore; To think that the friends of his youth might weep O'er the green grass turf of the soldier's sleep!
 The bugles ceased their wailing sound As the coffin was lowered into the ground;
A volley was fired, a blessing said, One moment's pause—and they left the dead!— I saw a poor and an aged man, His step was feeble, his lip was wan: He knelt him down on the new-raised mound, His face was bowed on the cold damp ground, He raised his head, his tears were done,— The father had prayed o'er his only son!
# The Improvisatrice; and Other Poems/The Oak

THE OAK.
...It is the last survivor of a race Strong in their forest-pride when I was young. I can remember, when for miles around, In place of those smooth meadows and corn-fields, There stood ten thousand tall and stately trees, Such as had braved the winds of March, the bolt Sent by the summer lightning, and the snow Heaping for weeks their boughs. Even in the depth Of hot July the glades were cool; the grass, Yellow and parched elsewhere, grew long and fresh, Shading wild strawberries and violets,
Or the lark's nest; and overhead, the dove Had her lone dwelling, paying for her home With melancholy songs; and scarce a beech Was there without a honeysuckle linked Around, with its red tendrils and pink flowers; Or girdled by a brier rose, whose buds Yield fragrant harvest for the honey-bee. There dwelt the last red deer, those antler'd kings... But this is as a dream,—the plough has pass'd Where the stag bounded, and the day has looked On the green twilight of the forest-trees. This oak has no companion!....