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Produced by Jan-Fabian Humann 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]
OUTINGS
AT ODD TIMES
BY
CHARLES C. ABBOTT, M. D.
AUTHOR OF A NATURALIST’S RAMBLES ABOUT HOME,
DAYS OUT OF DOORS, ETC.
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY
1890
------------------------------------------------------------------------
COPYRIGHT, 1890,
BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PREFATORY.
-------
Nature, and Books about it.
Often, during a long and dusty walk in midsummer, I have chanced
suddenly upon a wayside spring, and stooping drank directly from the
bosom of Mother Earth. Filled with the pleasant recollections of such
moments, how tame is all other tipple, even though the crystal is a
marvel of art, with “beady bubbles winking at the brim”!
So, too, I find it with matters of graver import. I would that no one
should aid me in gathering my stores, but with my own hands I would
delve at the fountain-head. The spirit of such an aim is a spur to
youth, but becomes a source of amusement rather than a more serious
matter in our maturer years. I am more than willing now to take nature
at second hand. But is this safe? How far can we trust another’s eyes,
ears, and sense of touch and smell? There are critics scattered as
thickly as motes in a sunbeam, veritable know-alls, who shriek “Beware!”
when nature is reported; but, for all this, outdoor books are very
tempting to a host of people, and in the long run educate rather than
misinform. That ever two naturalists should wholly agree, after careful
study of an animal, is not probable. There will be the same differences
as exist between two translations of the same book. What a crow, a
mouse, or a gorgeous cluster of blooming lotus is to me, these will
never be to another; but, because of this, do not persist that your
neighbor is blind, deaf, or stupid. I recently had a horse ask me to let
down the bars; to another it would have been merely the meaningless fact
that the horse neighed.
Having an outdoor book in hand, when and how should it be read? It is no
doubt very tempting to think of a shady nook, or babbling brook, or
both, in connection with the latest outdoor volume. Possibly, as you
start out for a quiet day, you string together a bit of rhyme concerning
the book, as Leigh Hunt did and others have done since. It is a common
practice to carry a book into the fields, but not a logical one. How can
a book, even one of outdoor topics, compete with Nature? Certainly if
Nature is to the reader but a convenient room, a lighter and more airy
one than any at home, does it not signify a serious lack in the mind of
that person? From a notice of a recent publication I clip the following:
“A capital book to slip into one’s pocket when taking an outing.” If,
because of its size, it could be readily slipped into one’s pocket, then
it was a capital way of getting rid of it. What sort of an outing can
one have who reads all the while? Is not the cloud-flecked sky something
more than a ceiling, the surrounding hills more than mere walls, the
grass and flowers more than carpet? There is one pleasure even greater
than that of reading, and that is being out of doors. To read at such a
time seems to imply one of two things: either that the reader knows
Nature thoroughly, or is indifferent to such knowledge. The former
phenomenon the world has never seen; the latter, to speak mildly,
deserves our pity. To escape ridicule, which is something, to insure
happiness, which is more, to avoid great dangers, which is of even
greater importance, one must know something of Nature. In one sense she
is our persistent foe. She mantles with inviting cover of rank grass her
treacherous quicksands; she paints in tempting colors her most poisonous
fruits; she spreads unheralded the insidious miasma from the meadow and
the swamp; but neither the quicksand, the unwholesome fruit, nor noxious
vapors is an unmixed evil. Let us take them as they are, see them as
parts and parcels of a complete whole, and each hour of every outing is
an unclouded joy. Nature never excuses our ignorance.
Whatever one’s position in life, does a knowledge of Nature prove
unneeded? Should we not know that potatoes grow beneath the sod, as well
as apples grow upon trees? Gather a crowd at random on the streets, or
corner a half-dozen at some social gathering, and how many can tell you
the life-history of a mushroom or a truffle? “Do potatoes grow upon
bushes?” was asked not long since. This was positively painful, but
worse things have happened. A young lady, from a city renowned for its
schools, startled her country cousins by asking, while toying with an
ear of corn, “Which end, when you plant, do you put in the ground, the
blunt or the pointed one?” If botany is impracticable in the curriculum
of the public schools, ought not, at least, the natural history of our
common articles of food to be taught? Can not such ignorance as this
implied be banished from the land?
But I have wandered; let us come back to books. If books, even those
descriptive of nature, are out of place in the woods, meadows, or by the
brook-side, when should they be read? Clearly, when the scenes they
treat of are not accessible. Why should we be entertained with a
description of a bird or flower, when they are both before us? It seems
incredible that any one should be better pleased with another’s
impressions, however cunningly told, than with those of his own senses.
It is a strange mental condition that can delight in the story of a
bird, and yet have no desire to see the creature; to be a witness to all
the marvelous cunning that this bird exhibits. Few are those among us
whose outings cover a lifetime; and when the happy days of freedom come
to us, let books be kept behind, and with untrammeled eyes and ears let
us drink in the knowledge that comes to us at no other time. Summer is
all too short a season for other occupation than enthusiastic
sight-seeing and sound-hearing.
Long before autumn most of us must be back to the busy town. Business
demands our work-day hours; and now, during the leisure of long winter
evenings, with what delight one may recall vacation-days, reading
outdoor books! The library now becomes the mountain, lake, or river.
With Thoreau, Burroughs, or Jeffries at hand, one can hear the summer
birds in the shrill whistle of the wind, and the babbling of summer
brooks in the rattle of icy rain.
For permission to reprint, in this collected form, the brief essays here
brought together, the author is indebted to Messrs. Harper & Bros., D.
Appleton & Co., the editors of the Christian Union, Christian at Work,
and of Garden and Forest, of New York; and to the editor of the
American, of Philadelphia Pa.
C. C. A.
TRENTON, NEW JERSEY, _September 1, 1890_.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
_PART I.—IN WINTER._
PAGE
A WINTER SUNRISE 1
MIDWINTER MINSTRELSY 8
A COLD WAVE 14
THE WOODS IN WINTER 22
OLD ALMANACS 29
A QUAKER CHRISTMAS 41
A NEW PLACE TO LOAF 46
ROUND ABOUT A SPRING IN WINTER 51
A BAY-SIDE OUTING 60
FREE FOR THE DAY 66
AN OPEN WINTER 82
A FOGGY MORNING 89
THE OLD FARM’S WOOD-PILE 96
_PART II.—IN SPRING._
THE APRIL MOON 105
CONCERNING SMALL OWLS 111
A HIDDEN HIGHWAY 117
WEATHERCOCKS 127
APPLE-BLOSSOMS 133
THE BUILDING OF THE NEST 139
A MEADOW MUD-HOLE 147
AN OPEN WELL 164
_PART III.—IN SUMMER._
A NOISOME WEED 171
A WAYSIDE BROOK 178
WAYSIDE TREES 183
SKELETON-LIFTING 186
WHY I PREFER A COUNTRY LIFE 190
A MIDSUMMER OUTING 197
A WORD ABOUT KNOWLEDGE 203
THE NIGHT-SIDE OF NATURE 207
THE HERBS OF THE FIELD 215
_PART IV.—IN AUTUMN._
A LAKE-SIDE OUTING 221
DEW AND FROST 227
A HERMIT FOR THE DAY 232
SNOW-BIRDS 243
BLUE JAYS 249
THE GROWTH OF TREES 257
FOSSIL MAN IN THE DELAWARE VALLEY 260
------------------------------------------------------------------------
PART I.
IN WINTER.
-------
A Winter Sunrise.
The waning moon was scarcely visible in the western sky and not a star
shone overhead, when I ventured out of doors, at the call of the
gathering crows. These noisy scavengers of the river’s shore had
evidently slept with one eye open, and at the first faint glimmering of
the dawn signaled, in no uncertain tones, the coming day. Across the
brown meadows floated their clamorous cries and roused me when my own
slumber was most profound; but I responded promptly, willing at least,
if not wildly anxious, to witness a winter sunrise.
I have said the meadows were brown; such was their color when I saw them
last; but now, every wrinkled blade of last year’s grass was daintily
feathered with pearly frost. A line, too, of steel-gray crystals topped
every rail of the old worm fence, and capped the outreaching branches of
the scattered trees. The glint of splintered glass filled the landscape.
Knowing the view would there be least obstructed, I walked leisurely to
a high knoll in the lower meadows, leaving a curiously dark streak
behind me where I brushed away the frost as I passed. Not a bird greeted
me. The sparrows and chickadees of yesterday were still asleep. The
crackling of brittle twigs beneath my feet was the only sound I heard,
save, of course, the blended voices of the distant crows. The
brightening of the eastern sky proceeded slowly. Cloud above cloud
threatened to shut out the light until the day had well advanced; while
from the river rose a filmy bank of smoke-like fog that settled in huge
masses over the intervening marshes. But still the crows were clamorous,
and I had been told that their songs at sunrise augured a fair day; so,
’twixt hope and fear, I reached the high knoll in my neighbor’s meadow.
It was at the nick of time. Without a heralding ray in the whole
horizon, a flood of rosy light leaped through a rift in the clouds and
every cold gray crystal of the frost glowed with ruddy warmth. Then
deafening loud was the din of the foraging crows, as though they exulted
at the fullfillment of their prediction; and from that moment on, the
day was beautiful.
And if crows could be so enthusiastic over a bright winter day, why not
other birds? What of that host of arctic finches that tarry with us
until spring? I listened in vain for the foxie sparrow’s warble, the
call of the Peabody bird, and whistling of the purple finch. These were
all here yesterday and making merry; now every one was mute. The
ceaseless cawing of the c | 619.873814 |
2023-11-16 18:27:23.9531610 | 185 | 9 |
Produced by Tapio Riikonen and David Widger
THE ADVENTURES OF FERDINAND COUNT FATHOM
by Tobias Smollett
COMPLETE IN TWO PARTS
PART I.
With the Author's Preface, and an Introduction by G. H. Maynadier, Ph.D.
Department of English, Harvard University.
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
PREFATORY ADDRESS
CHAPTER
I Some sage Observations that naturally introduce our important
History
II A superficial View of our Hero's Infancy
III He is initiated in a Military Life, and has the good Fortune
to acquire a generous Patron
IV His Mother's Prowess and Death; together with some Instances
of his own Sagacity
V A brief Detail of his Education
VI He meditates Schemes of | 619.973201 |
2023-11-16 18:27:24.0256660 | 2,775 | 11 |
Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by
Google Books (the University of Wisconsin-Madison)
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: https://books.google.com/books?id=0CT7dv6IKAEC
(the University of Wisconsin-Madison)
Bell's Indian and Colonial Library
JONAH'S LUCK
JONAH'S LUCK
BY
FERGUS HUME
AUTHOR OF
"_The Mystery of a Hansom Cab_," "_The Guilty House_,"
"_The White Room_," "_The Wooden Hand_,"
"_The Fatal Song_," "_The Scarlet Bat_,"
_etc., etc_.
LONDON
GEORGE BELL AND SONS
1906
_This Edition is issued for circulation in India and the Colonies
only_.
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. THE ADVENTURE OF THE INN
II. A RECOGNITION
III. CIRCUMSTANTIAL EVIDENCE
IV. WHAT HAPPENED NEXT
V. HUE AND CRY
VI. THE CARAVAN
VII. KIND'S OPINIONS
VIII. MISS MAUD TEDDER
IX. THE SOLICITOR
X. THE INQUEST
XI. LOVERS
XII. THE STRANGE WORD
XIII. A MEXICAN BEAUTY
XIV. AN UNEXPECTED ARRIVAL
XV. A FRIEND IN NEED
XVI. M. GOWRIE'S PLOTTING
XVII. MAUD'S INHERITANCE
XVIII. A SURPRISING DEFENCE
XIX. MRS. MOUNTFORD'S ACCUSATION
XX. AT THE "MARSH INN"
XXI. ON BOARD THE YACHT
XXII. ANOTHER MYSTERY
XXIII. AN EXPLANATION
XXIV. STARTLING NEWS
XXV. THE CAPTAIN'S STORY
XXVI. THE BEGINNING OF THE END
XXVII. THE END
JONAH'S LUCK
CHAPTER I
THE ADVENTURE OF THE INN
It was the close of a chilly autumn day; and under a lowering grey sky
the landscape of river and marsh and low-lying hills looked
forbiddingly forlorn. White mists veiled the wet earth; the road,
running between withered hedgerows, was ankle-deep in mud, and the
stubbled fields held streaks of water between their ploughed ridges.
Occasionally the pale beams of a weakened sun would break through the
foggy air: but the fitful light, without warmth or power, only served
to accentuate the depression of the scene. The most cheerful of men
would have succumbed to the pessimism of the moment.
As it was, the solitary creature who trudged along the miry highway
accepted his misery with sulky resignation. At intervals he lifted a
hopeless face to the darkening clouds: sometimes he peered idly to
right and left, and twice he halted, breathing heavily, a monument of
wretchedness. But usually, with his hands in the pockets of a thin
jacket, and with a bent head, he plodded doggedly onward, bearing
submissively a situation which he could not mend. In his gait there
was the hint of the pedestrian who aims at no goal. Without eagerness,
without resolution, with slack muscles and a blank expression, he
toiled like a hag-ridden dreamer through those dreary, weary, eerie,
Essex marshes, a derelict of civilisation.
Yet his face, when revealed by the wan sunshine, appeared young and
handsome and refined, though sadly worn and lean. The skin, bronzed to
a clear brown by wind and rain and sunshine, was marred by unexpected
wrinkles, less the work of time than of care. His closely-clipped hair
and small moustache exhibited the hue of ripe corn; his eyes possessed
the fathomless blue of Italian skies; his thin nose, slightly curved,
his firm chin and set lips revealed character and determination. Also,
he had the frame of a wiry athlete, the spring-gait of a long-distance
walker, and the expansive forehead of a student. Such a man should not
have been ploughing through the mud of a lonely country road, with but
a threadbare suit of blue serge to protect him from the inclement
weather. Something was wrong: and none knew that better than the tramp
himself. But whatever might be the cause of his misery, he kept it in
his heart, being by nature reticent, and by experience, suspicious.
At sunset the air became darker, the mists thicker, the scene even
more dreary. Still he laboured onward, but now, for the first time,
with a hint of resolution in his movements, bracing himself, as it
were, for a final spurt, to attain a newly-guessed-at end. On the
right he could hear the lapping of the Thames against its weedy banks,
on the left a dull dripping of water from leafless boughs, saluted his
ears. Sometimes there sounded the cry of a belated bird; again would
come the shrill whistling of trains, and not infrequently the hooting
of a siren, as steamers passed each other on the blind river. And,
between pauses, he could hear his own weary breathing, and the
squelching of the water in his well-worn shoes. None of these sounds
tended to raise his spirits, which were, at the moment, as low as the
tide of the unseen stream.
Only when a dim light glimmered through the mists did he show any
signs of interest in the physical, and then he heaved a sigh of
relief. A jingle of money came from his right-hand pocket as he moved
his fingers, and a gleam of satisfaction flitted across his sullen
face. The light, as he surmised, must come from some cottage, or
farm-house, or inn, and there he would be able to obtain bed and board
for the night. It had been his intention to push on to Tarhaven, in
search of a friend, but the rapid closing in of the night and the
increasing gloom of the fogs, forced him to spend his last few pence
in rest and food. The evil of to-day he could no longer endure: the
morrow would, and must, look after itself--a true beggar's philosophy,
and what was he but one of the unemployed.
The light became stronger as he drew near, and he found himself
unexpectedly on the outskirts of what he presumed was a small village,
and within a yard or so of the inn. The hostel was pretentious, seeing
that it consisted of two storeys, and yet it was mean in appearance,
as the walls were merely of whitewashed mud, and the roof of sodden
grey thatch. Over the low, broad door, flanked by dripping benches,
appeared a sign advertising, in rude black letters, that the house was
"The Marsh Inn." Through the windows on either side of the closed
door, gleamed a ruddy light telling of comfort and warmth within,
obtainable, doubtless, at a small charge. With his hand on the latch,
since the entry was free to all comers, stood the tramp, while a
shrill voice objurated within, without pause or grammar.
"Jus' slip out t' git water, y' bloomin' silly. Pope wants 'is tea,
bein' took with poetry. I don' keep y' fur show nohow. But thet's fine
lydies all over: ho yuss. I want y' fur a glarse cupboard, in corse,
y' lazy Jezebel, 'Eaven forgive me fur bringin' y' int' 'Oly Writ, es
the parsin torks of."
Before the end of this pleasant admonition the door flew open so
suddenly that the stranger started back. Past him, shot a girl of
small stature, with a white, haggard face, firmly closed lips and
defiant eyes. She was scarcely a woman, and weak in her appearance, so
the zinc bucket she swung at her side was undeniably too heavy for her
frail strength. The tramp heard her gasp as she sprang into the mist,
and with the unconsidered haste of a kindly heart, he followed
impulsively. Her laboured breathing guided him to a well, encircled
with rough stone-work and surmounted by an iron wheel. Down dropped
the jangling bucket, and the girl, breathing with exhaustion, strove
to bring it to the surface again, weighty with water. The effort
extorted a low, heart-breaking sob.
"This is too much for you," said the tramp in a refined and pleasant
voice. "Allow me!" and he fell to work.
The girl started when he spoke, but she did not cry out. Evidently she
was accustomed to command her feelings. In the mist she could scarcely
see the face of her assistant, but his voice sounded like that of a
gentleman, and there lurked a quality in its tones which gave her
confidence. In a moment or so he had the filled bucket in his grip,
and was walking towards the inn. At the door the girl silently took
his burden from him with a nod of thanks, and entered with a word of
gratitude. And her voice was also refined, by no means the voice of a
servant. Howsoever this girl came to occupy so menial a position, the
tramp guessed that she was a gentlewoman. However, he was too weary to
weave romances about beggarmaids, and was no King Cophetua to do so.
He sighed and walked in.
The room was small and ancient, with a low ceiling and a gigantic
fire-place, in which glowed a noble driftwood fire. On either side of
this stood settles, and in the centre of the room, was an oblong deal
table, upon which appeared pewter tankards, and clumsy china mugs. The
floor was sanded, the smoke-panelled walls were decorated with cheap
hunting pictures, vilely, and with illustrations cut from
_The Graphic_. Also there was an old horse-hair sofa, of the ugly
Albert period, a cumbersome chair or two, and spittoons. A dingy
paraffin lamp dangled from the grimy, whitewashed ceiling, blackening
it with smoke, and diffusing a dull yellow glare. In fact this
especial tap-room was of the kind usually to be found by the dozen in
agricultural districts, unlovely, dirty, cheap, and vulgar, yet
comfortable enough in an animal way.
On one settle, sat a lean, loosely-knit youth of of twenty, with a
slack, foolish face, and a drooping underlip, revealing small serrated
teeth. His hair was long and unbrushed, his clothes were of well-worn
tweed, extremely untidy, and badly fitting. Book in hand he stared at
the ceiling, with lack-lustre eyes, oblivious to his surroundings.
Opposite to him, and watching sneeringly, sat an elderly man, with a
strong square face, much inflamed with drink. His apparel was
disreputable, his head bald, and his beard untrimmed. Yet he had the
thoughtful eyes of a scholar, and his hands, though dirty, were white
and slender, and eloquently emphasised the fact to the observant, that
he worked less with them than with his brain. Undoubtedly he had been
gently reared, and the cause of his falling into this mire, could be
discerned only too plainly in his red nose and shiny skin, and in the
affectionate way in which he grasped a glass of what looked like
water, and which was really gin.
Lastly, the new-comer's eyes wandered to the landlady, and in her he
beheld the representative Whitechapel virago, so well-known in the
police-courts of that district. She was tall and lean, fierce in
looks, vehement of tongue, prodigal of gestures: a slattern in dress
and a tyrant in manner. Having chased the girl with the bucket into
the back parts of the house, she strode forward with the swing of a
grenadier, and the insolence of a bully, to face the new guest.
"An' wot may y' want?" she demanded, harshly scornful.
"Bed | 620.045706 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Illustration: I WAS NEVER SO HAPPY (Page 80)]
JACK BALLINGTON
FORESTER
BY
JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE
AUTHOR OF "OLD MISTIS;" "A SUMMER HYMNAL;"
"THE BISHOP OF COTTONTOWN;"
"UNCLE WASH," ETC.
ILLUSTRATIONS BY GEORGE GIBBS
THOMAS LANGTON
TORONTO, CANADA.
Copyright, 1911, by
THE JOHN C. WINSTON Co.
TO THE TWINS
HELEN AND MARY DANIEL MOORE
*CONTENTS*
*I*
*THE HEIR OF THE BLUEGRASS*
CHAPTER
I Soul Dreams and the Soil
II Little Sister
*II*
*"A TWILIGHT PIECE"*
I The Flame in the Wood
II The Home-Stretch
III The Hickories
IV Colonel Goff
V Pedigrees and Principles
VI The Make-Believe
VII The Chimes of the Wisteria
VIII The Stone-Crop
IX The Transplanted Pine
X Conquering Satan
XI Two Ways of Love
XII Work and Mine Acre
XIII The Unattainable
XIV God and a Butterfly
XV Hickories and Old Hickory
XVI Heart's Ease
XVII "Lady Carfax"
XVIII The Last Dance
XIX The High Jump
*III*
*THE HICKORY'S SON*
I "Love is not Love That Alters"
II A Dream and Its Ending
III The Awakening
IV The Call of the Drum
V The First Tennessee
VI The Battle in the Bacaue Mountains
VII The Juramentados
*IV*
*THE BURGEONING*
I Two of a Kind
II How Aunt Lucretia Ran Away
III A Night with Captain Skipper
IV My First Automobile
V The Sick Tree
*ILLUSTRATIONS*
I Was Never So Happy...... _Frontispiece_
"Stop Her--He'll Kill Her," I Cried
"Love is not Love that Alters."
I was on Him, My Knee on His Breast
*FOREWORD*
_I am the child of the Centuries. I am the son of the AEons which were.
I have always been, and I shall always be. To make me it has taken
fire, star-dust, and the Spirit of God--the lives of billions of people,
and the lights of a million suns._
_I have grown from sun and star-dust to the Thing-Which-Thinks._
_It were the basest ingratitude if I were not both thankful to God and
proud of my pedigree._
_What has come to me has been good; what shall come will be better: for
I am Evolution, and I grow ever to greater things. Life has been good;
death will be better; for it is the cause of all my past, making for a
still greater future._
_And this I know, not from Books nor from Knowledge, but from the
unafraid, never silent voice of Instinct within me, which is God._
_My debt to the past is great: I can never, in full, repay it; for they,
my creditors, passed with it. They left me a world beautiful: shall I
make it a world bare? They left a world bountiful: shall I leave it
blazed and barren to the sands of death?_
_I am in debt to the Past. Shall the Future present the bill to find
that I have gone to my grave a bankrupt? Find that I have wantonly laid
waste the land, leaving no root of wild flower, no shade of tree, no
spring that falleth from the hills?_
_Shall I destroy their trees for the little gain it may bring to my
short Life-tenantry? Shall I make of their land a desert by day and a
deluge by night? Shall I stamp with the degeneracy of gullies my own
offspring, and scar with the red birth-mark of poverty the unborn of my
own breed?_
_I live, charged with a great Goodness from the Past: I can die, paying
it, only by a greater Kindness for the Future._
*I*
*THE HEIR OF THE BLUEGRASS*
*JACK BALLINGTON,
FORESTER*
*CHAPTER I*
*SOUL-DREAMS AND THE SOIL*
Those who live near to Nature learn much: for | 620.077457 |
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Produced by Chris Curnow, Joseph Cooper, Steven des | 620.150943 |
2023-11-16 18:27:24.2277240 | 2,642 | 11 |
Produced by Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan & the online
Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at
http://www.pgdpcanada.net (This file was produced from
images generously made available by The Internet
Archive/American Libraries.)
THE WIZARD'S SON
A Novel
BY MRS. OLIPHANT
AUTHOR OF "THE CURATE IN CHARGE," "YOUNG MUSGRAVE," ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES
VOL. III.
London
MACMILLAN AND CO.
1884
[_The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved_]
LONDON:
R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS,
BREAD STREET HILL.
THE WIZARD'S SON.
CHAPTER I.
Was this then the conclusion of all things--that there was nothing so
perfect that it was worth a man's while to struggle for it; that any
officious interference with the recognised and existing was a mistake;
that nothing was either the best or the worst, but all things mere
degrees in a round of the comparative, in which a little more or a
little less was of no importance, and the most strenuous efforts tended
to failure as much as indifference? Walter, returning to the old house
which was his field of battle, questioned himself thus, with a sense of
despair not lessened by the deeper self-ridicule within him, which
asked, was he then so anxious for the best, so ready to sacrifice his
comfort for an ideal excellence? That he, of all men, should have this
to do, and yet that, being done, it should be altogether ineffectual,
was a sort of climax of clumsy mortal failure and hopelessness. The
only good thing he had done was the restoration of those half-evicted
cotters, and that was but a mingled and uncertain good, it appeared.
What was the use of any struggle? If it was his own personal freedom
alone that he really wanted, why here it was within his power to
purchase it--or at least a moderate amount of it--a comparative freedom,
as everything was comparative. His mind by this time had ceased to be
able to think, or even to perceive with any distinctness the phrase or
_motif_ inscribed upon one of those confused and idly-turning wheels of
mental machinery which had stood in the place of thought to him. It was
the afternoon when he got back, and everything within him had fallen
into an afternoon dreariness. He lingered when he landed on the waste
bit of grass that lay between the little landing-place and the door of
the old castle. He had no heart to go in and sit down unoccupied in that
room which had witnessed so many strange meetings. He was no longer
indeed afraid of his visitor there, but rather looked forward with a
kind of relief to the tangible presence which delivered him from
meetings of the mind more subtle and painful. But he had no expectation
of any visitor; nor was there anything for him to do except to sit down
and perhaps attempt to read, which meant solely a delivering over of
himself to his spiritual antagonists--for how was it possible to give
his mind to any fable of literature in the midst of a parable so urgent
and all-occupying, of his own?
He stood therefore idly upon the neglected turf, watching the ripple of
the water as it lapped against the rough stones on the edge. The breadth
of the loch was entirely hidden from him by the projection of the old
tower, which descended into the water at the right, and almost shut off
this highest corner of Loch Houran into a little lakelet of its own.
Walter heard the sound of oars and voices from the loch without seeing
any one: but that was usual enough, and few people invaded his privacy:
so that he was taken by surprise when, suddenly raising his eyes, he was
aware of the polished and gilded galley from Birkenbraes, in which
already Mr. Williamson, seated in the stern, had perceived and was
hailing him. "Hallo, my Lord Erradeen! Here we've all come to see ye
this fine afternoon. I told them we should find ye under your own vine
and your own fig-tree." This speech was accompanied by a general laugh.
The arrival of such a party, heralded by such laughter in a desolate
house, with few servants and no readiness for any such emergency, to a
young man in Walter's confused and distracted condition would not, it
may be supposed, have been very welcome in any case, and at present in
his exhaustion and dismay he stood and gazed at them with a sort of
horror. There was not even a ready servitor like Hamish to assist in the
disembarkation. Duncan had rowed cheerfully off upon some other errand
after landing his master, and old Symington and old Macalister were
singularly ill-adapted for the service. Lord Erradeen did his best,
with a somewhat bad grace, to receive the boat at the landing-place. The
gravity of his countenance was a little chill upon the merry party, but
the Williamsons were not of a kind that is easily discouraged.
"Oh, yes, here we all are," said the millionnaire. "I would not let our
English visitor, Mr. Braithwaite here, leave without showing him the
finest thing on the loch. So I just told him I knew I might take the
liberty. Hoot! we know ye have not your household here, and that it is
just an old family ruin, and not bound to produce tea and scones like
the Forresters' isle. Bless me! I hope we have a soul above tea and
scones," Mr. Williamson cried with his hearty laugh.
By this time the young, hardy, half-clad rowers had scrambled out, and
grouped themselves in various attitudes, such as would suit a new and
light-hearted Michael Angelo--one kneeling on the stones holding the bow
of the boat, another with one foot on sea and one on shore helping the
ladies out. Walter in his dark dress, and still darker preoccupied
countenance, among all those bronzed and cheerful youths looked like a
being from another sphere: but the contrast was not much to his
advantage either in bodily or mental atmosphere. He looked so grave and
so unlike the joyous hospitality of a young housekeeper surprised by a
sudden arrival, that Katie, always more on her guard than her father,
looked at him with a countenance as grave as his own.
"I am not the leader of this expedition, Lord Erradeen," she said; "you
must not blame me for the invasion. My father took it into his head, and
when that happens there is nothing to be done. I don't mean I was not
glad to be brought here against my will," she added, as his face, by a
strain of politeness which was far from easy to him, began to brighten a
little. Katie was not apt to follow the leading of another face and
adopt the woman's _rôle_ of submission, but she felt herself so
completely in the wrong, an intruder where she was very sure she and her
party, exuberant in spirits and gaiety, were not wanted, that she was
compelled to watch his expression and make her apologies with a
deference quite unusual to her. "I hope it will not be a very
great--interruption to you," she said after a momentary pause.
"That could never matter," Walter said, with some stateliness. "I could
have wished to have notice and to have received my friends at
Auchnasheen rather than here. But being here--you must excuse the
primitive conditions of the place."
"Hoot! there is nothing to excuse--a fine old castle, older than the
flood--just the very thing that is wanted for the picturesque, ye see,
Braithwaite; for as ye were remarking, we are in general too modern for
a Highland loch. But you'll not call this modern," said Mr. Williamson.
"Will that old body not open the door to ye when he sees ye have
friends? Lord! that just beats all! That is a step beyond Caleb
Balderstone."
"Papa!" cried Katie in keen reproof, "we have been quite importunate
enough already. I vote we all go over to Auchnasheen--the view there is
much finer, and we could send over for Oona----"
"Is it common in this country," said the member of Parliament, "to have
two residences so very near? It must be like going next door for change
of air when you leave one for the other, Lord Erradeen."
At this there was that slight stir among the party which takes place
when an awkward suggestion is made; the young men and the girls began to
talk hurriedly, raising up a sort of atmosphere of voices around the
central group. This however was curiously and suddenly penetrated by the
reply which--who?--was it Walter? made, almost as it seemed without a
pause.
"Not common--but yet not unknown in a country which has known a great
deal of fighting in its day. The old castle is our family resource in
danger. We do our family business here, our quarrels: and afterwards
retire to Auchnasheen, the house of peace (perhaps you don't know that
names have meanings hereabouts?) to rest."
There was a pause as slight, as imperceptible to the ignorant, as
evident to the instructed as had been the stir at the first sound of
those clear tones. Walter himself to more than one observer had seemed
as much startled as any of them. He turned quickly round towards the
speaker with a sudden blanching of his face which had been pale enough
before; but this was only momentary; afterwards all that was remarkable
in him was a strange look of resolution and determined self-control.
Perhaps the only one completely unmoved was the Englishman, who at once
accepted the challenge, and stepped forward to the individual who it was
evident to him was the only duly qualified cicerone in the party, with
eager satisfaction.
"That is highly interesting. Of course the place must be full of
traditions," he said.
"With your permission, Walter, I will take the part of cicerone," said
the new voice. To some of the party it seemed only a voice. The ladies
and the young men stumbled against each other in their eager curiosity
about the stranger. "I will swear there was nobody near Erradeen when we
landed," said young Tom Campbell in the nearest ear that presented
itself; but of course it was the number of people about which caused
this, and it could be no shadow with whom the M.P. went forth delighted,
asking a hundred questions. "You are a member of the family?" Mr.
Braithwaite said. He was not tall, and his companion was of a splendid
presence. The Englishman had to look up as he spoke and to quicken his
somewhat short steps as he walked to keep up with the other's large and
dignified pace. Katie followed with Walter. There was a look of
agitation and alarm in her face; her heart beat she could not tell why.
She was breathless as if she had been running a race. She looked up into
Lord Erradeen's face tremulously, not like herself. "Is this
gentleman--staying with you?" she said in a scarcely audible voice.
Walter was not agitated for his part, but he had little inclination to
speak. He said "Yes" and no more.
"And we have been--sorry for you because you were alone? Is it
a--relation? is it--? You have never," said Katie, forcing the words out
with a difficulty which astonished her, and for which she could not
account, "brought him to Birkenbraes."
Walter could not but smile. A sort of feeble amusement flew over his
mind touching the surface into a kind of | 620.247764 |
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THE JOURNALS
OF
MAJOR-GEN. C. G. GORDON, C.B.,
_AT KARTOUM_.
[Illustration: MAJOR-GEN. C. G. GORDON, C.B.]
THE JOURNALS
OF
MAJOR-GEN. C. G. GORDON, C.B.,
AT KARTOUM.
_PRINTED FROM THE ORIGINAL MSS._
INTRODUCTION AND NOTES
BY
A. EGMONT HAKE,
AUTHOR OF “THE STORY OF CHINESE GORDON,” ETC.
| 620.372317 |
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Proofreading Team
ENGLAND AND THE WAR
being
SUNDRY ADDRESSES
delivered during the war
and now first collected
by
WALTER RALEIGH
OXFORD
1918
CONTENTS
PREFACE
MIGHT IS RIGHT
First published as one of the Oxford Pamphlets,
October 1914.
THE WAR OF IDEAS
An Address to the Royal Colonial Institute,
December 12, 1916.
THE FAITH OF ENGLAND
An Address to the Union Society of University
College, London, March 22, 1917.
SOME GAINS OF THE WAR
An Address to the Royal Colonial Institute,
February 13, 1918.
THE WAR AND THE PRESS
A Paper read to the Essay Society, Eton College,
March 14, 1918.
SHAKESPEARE AND ENGLAND
The Annual Shakespeare Lecture of the British
Academy, delivered July 4, 1918.
PREFACE
This book was not planned, but grew out of the troubles of the time.
When, on one occasion or another, I was invited to lecture, I did not
find, with Milton's Satan, that the mind is its own place; I could speak
only of what I was thinking of, and my mind was fixed on the War. I am
unacquainted with military science, so my treatment of the War was
limited to an estimate of the characters of the antagonists.
The character of Germany and the Germans is a riddle. I have seen no
convincing solution of it by any Englishman, and hardly any confident
attempt at a solution which did not speak the uncontrolled language of
passion. There is the same difficulty with the lower animals; our
description of them tends to be a description of nothing but our own
loves and hates. Who has ever fathomed the mind of a rhinoceros; or has
remembered, while he faces the beast, that a good rhinoceros is a
pleasant member of the community in which his life is passed? We see
only the folded hide, the horn, and the angry little eye. We know that
he is strong and cunning, and that his desires and instincts are
inconsistent with our welfare. Yet a rhinoceros is a simpler creature
than a German, and does not trouble our thought by conforming, on
occasion, to civilized standards and humane conditions.
It seems unreasonable to lay great stress on racial differences. The
insuperable barrier that divides England from Germany has grown out of
circumstance and habit and thought. For many hundreds of years the
German peoples have stood to arms in their own defence against the
encroachments of successive empires; and modern Germany learned the
doctrine of the omnipotence of force by prolonged suffering at the hands
of the greatest master of that immoral school--the Emperor Napoleon. No
German can understand the attitude of disinterested patronage which the
English mind quite naturally assumes when it is brought into contact
with foreigners. The best example of this superiority of attitude is to
be seen in the people who are called pacifists. They are a peculiarly
English type, and they are the most arrogant of all the English. The
idea that they should ever have to fight for their lives is to them
supremely absurd. There must be some mistake, they think, which can be
easily remedied once it is pointed out. Their title to existence is so
clear to themselves that they are convinced it will be universally
recognized; it must not be made a matter of international conflict.
Partly, no doubt, this belief is fostered by lack of imagination. The
sheltered conditions and leisured life which they enjoy as the parasites
of a dominant race have produced in them a false sense of security. But
there is something also of the English strength and obstinacy of
character in their self-confidence, and if ever Germany were to conquer
England some of them would spring to their full stature as the heroes of
an age-long and indomitable resistance. They are not held in much esteem
to-day among their own people; they are useless for the work in hand;
and their credit has suffered from the multitude of pretenders who make
principle a cover for cowardice. But for all that, they are kin to the
makers of England, and the fact that Germany would never tolerate them
for an instant is not without its lesson.
We shall never understand the Germans. Some of their traits may possibly
be explained by their history. Their passionate devotion to the State,
their amazing vulgarity, their worship of mechanism and mechanical
efficiency, are explicable in a people who are not strong in individual
character, who have suffered much to achieve union, and who have
achieved it by subordinating themselves, soul and body, to a brutal
taskmaster. But the convulsions of war have thrown up things that are
deeper than these, primaeval things, which, until recently, civilization
was believed to have destroyed. The old monstrous gods who gave their
names to the days of the week are alive again in Germany. The English
soldier of to-day goes into action with the cold courage of a man who is
prepared to make the best of a bad job. The German soldier sacrifices
himself, in a frenzy of religious exaltation, to the War-God. The
filthiness that the Germans use, their deliberate befouling of all that
is elegant and gracious and antique, their spitting into the food that
is to be eaten by their prisoners, their defiling with ordure the sacred
vessels in the churches--all these things, too numerous and too
monotonous to describe, are not the instinctive coarsenesses of the
brute beast; they are a solemn ritual of filth, religiously practised,
by officers no less than by men. The waves of emotional exaltation which
from time to time pass over the whole people have the same character,
the character of savage religion.
If they are alien to civilization when they fight, they are doubly alien
when they reason. They are glib and fluent in the use of the terms which
have been devised for the needs of thought and argument, but their use
of these terms is empty, and exhibits all the intellectual processes
with the intelligence left out. I know nothing more distressing than the
attempt to follow any German argument concerning the War. If it were
merely wrong-headed, cunning, deceitful, there might still be some
compensation in its cleverness. There is no such compensation. The
statements made are not false, but empty; the arguments used are not
bad, but meaningless. It is as if they despised language, and made use
of it only because they believe that it is an instrument of deceit. But
a man who has no respect for language cannot possibly use it in such a
manner as to deceive others, especially if those others are accustomed
to handle it delicately and powerfully. It ought surely to be easy to
apologize for a war that commands the whole-hearted support of a nation;
but no apology worthy of the name has been produced in Germany. The
pleadings which have been used are servile things, written to order, and
directed to some particular address, as if the truth were of no
importance. No one of these appeals has produced any appreciable effect
on the minds of educated Frenchmen, or Englishmen, or Americans, even
among those who are eager to hear all that the enemy has to say for
himself. This is a strange thing; and is perhaps the widest breach of
all. We are hopelessly separated from the Germans; we have lost the use
of a common language, and cannot talk with them if we would.
We cannot understand them; is it remotely possible that they will ever
understand us? Here, too, the difficulties seem insuperable. It is true
that in the past they have shown themselves willing to study us and to
imitate us. But unless they change their minds and their habits, it is
not easy to see how they are to get near enough to us to carry on their
study. While they remain what they are we do not want them in our
neighbourhood. We are not fighting to anglicize Germany, or to impose
ourselves on the Germans; our work is being done, as work is so often
done in this idle sport-loving country, with a view to a holiday. We
wish to forget the Germans; and when once we have policed them into
quiet and decency we shall have earned the right to forget them, at
least for a time. The time of our respite perhaps will not be long. If
the Allies defeat them, as the Allies will, it seems as certain as any
uncertain thing can be that a mania for imitating British and American
civilization will take possession of Germany. We are not vindictive to a
beaten enemy, and when the Germans offer themselves as pupils we are not
likely to be either enthusiastic in our welcome or obstinate in our
refusal. We shall be bored but concessive. I confess that there are
some things in the prospect of this imitation which haunt me like a
nightmare. The British soldier, whom the German knows to be second to
none, is distinguished for the levity and jocularity of his bearing in
the face of danger. What will happen when the German soldier attempts to
imitate that? We shall be delivered from the German peril as when Israel
came out of Egypt, and the mountains skipped like rams.
The only parts of this book for which I claim any measure of authority
are the parts which describe the English character. No one of purely
English descent has ever been known to describe the English character,
or to attempt to describe it. The English newspapers are full of praises
of almost any of the allied troops other than the English regiments. I
have more Scottish and Irish blood in my veins than English; and I think
I can see the English character truly, from a little distance. If, by
some fantastic chance, the statesmen of Germany could learn what I tell
them, it would save their country from a vast loss of life and from many
hopeless misadventures. The English character is not a removable part of
the British Empire; it is the foundation of the whole structure, and the
secret strength of the American Republic. But the statesmen of Germany,
who fall easy victims to anything foolish in the shape of a theory that
flatters their vanity, would not believe a word of my essays even if
they were to read them, so they must learn to know the English character
in the usual way, as King George the Third learned to know it from
Englishmen resident in America.
A habit of lying and a belief in the utility of lying are often
attended by the most unhappy and paralysing effects. The liars become
unable to recognize the truth when it is presented to them. This is the
misery which fate has fixed on the German cause. War, the Germans are
fond of remarking, is war. In almost all wars there is something to be
said on both sides of the question. To know that one side or the other
is right may be difficult; but it is always useful to know why your
enemies are fighting. We know why Germany is fighting; she explained it
very fully, by her most authoritative voices, on the very eve of the
struggle, and she has repeated it many times since in moments of
confidence or inadvertence. But here is the tragedy of Germany: she does
not know why we are fighting. | 620.455179 |
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BY RODRIGUES OTTOLENGUI
=An Artist in Crime.= 16^o, $1.00; paper, 50 cts.
=A Conflict of Evidence.= 16^o, $1.00; paper, 50 cts.
=A Modern Wizard.= 16^o, $1.00; paper, 50 cts.
=The Crime of the Century.= 16^o, $1.00; paper, 50 cts.
=Final Proof, or, the Value of Evidence.= 16^o, $1.00; paper, 50 cts.
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK & LONDON
FINAL PROOF
OR
THE VALUE OF EVIDENCE
BY
R. OTTOLENGUI
AUTHOR OF "AN ARTIST IN CRIME," "A CONFLICT OF EVIDENCE,"
"THE CRIME OF THE CENTURY," ETC.
[Illustration]
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
The Knickerbocker Press
1898
Copyright, 1898
BY
G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
PREFATORY
The first meeting between Mr. Barnes, the detective, and Robert Leroy
Mitchel, the gentleman who imagines himself to be able to outdo
detectives in their own line of work, was fully set forth in the
narrative entitled _An Artist in Crime_. Subsequently the two men
occupied themselves with the solution of a startling murder mystery, the
details of which were recorded in _The Crime of the Century_. The
present volume contains the history of several cases which attracted
their attention in the interval between those already given to the
world, the first having occured shortly after the termination of the
events in _An Artist in Crime_, and the others in the order here given,
so that in a sense these stories are continuous and interdependent.
R. O.
CONTENTS
PAGE
I
THE PHOENIX OF CRIME 1
II
THE MISSING LINK 132
III
THE NAMELESS MAN 151
IV
THE MONTEZUMA EMERALD 169
V
A SINGULAR ABDUCTION 189
VI
THE AZTEC OPAL 210
VII
THE DUPLICATE HARLEQUIN 230
VIII
THE PEARLS OF ISIS 261
IX
A PROMISSORY NOTE 294
X
A NOVEL FORGERY 325
XI
A FROSTY MORNING 341
XII
A SHADOW OF PROOF 365
FINAL PROOF
OR
THE VALUE OF EVIDENCE
FINAL PROOF
I
THE PHOENIX OF CRIME
I
Mr. Mitchel was still at breakfast one morning, when the card of Mr.
Barnes was brought to him by his man Williams.
"Show Mr. Barnes in here," said he. "I imagine that he must be in a
hurry to see me, else he would not call so early."
A few minutes later the detective entered, saying:
"It is very kind of you to let me come in without waiting. I hope that I
am not intruding."
"Not at all. As to being kind, why I am kind to myself. I knew you must
have something interesting on hand to bring you around so early, and I
am proportionately curious; at the same time I hate to go without my
coffee, and I do not like to drink it too fast, especially good coffee,
and this is good, I assure you. Draw up and have a cup, for I observe
that you came off in such a hurry this morning that you did not get
any."
"Why, thank you, I will take some, but how do you know that I came off
in a hurry and had no coffee at home? It seems to me that if you can
tell that, you are becoming as clever as the famous Sherlock Holmes."
"Oh, no, indeed! You and I can hardly expect to be as shrewd as the
detectives of romance. As to my guessing that you have had no coffee,
that is not very troublesome. I notice three drops of milk on your coat,
and one on your shoe, from which I deduce, first, that you have had no
coffee, for a man who has his coffee in the morning is not apt to drink
a glass of milk besides. Second, you must have left home in a hurry, or
you would have had that coffee. Third, you took your glass of milk at
the ferry-house of the Staten Island boat, probably finding that you had
a minute to spare; this is evident because the milk spots on the tails
of your frock-coat and on your shoe show that you were standing when you
drank, and leaned over to avoid dripping the fluid on your clothes. Had
you been seated, the coat tails would have been spread apart, and
drippings would have fallen on your trousers. The fact that in spite of
your precautions the accident did occur, and yet escaped your notice, is
further proof, not only of your hurry, but also that your mind was
abstracted,--absorbed no doubt with the difficult problem about which
you have come to talk with me. How is my guess?"
"Correct in every detail. Sherlock Holmes could have done no better. But
we will drop him and get down to my case, which, I assure you, is more
astounding than any, either in fact or fiction, that has come to my
knowledge."
"Go ahead! Your opening argument promises a good play. Proceed without
further waste of words."
"First, then | 620.673283 |
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[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. Hume; "I think him a very earnest and
good man."
"But were you not interested and pleased with the discourse? It seems to
me that I shall never lose the impression of God's existence and
character which that discourse made upon me. I almost felt that Mr. Wilton
spoke from inspiration."
"I suppose he was inspired just as much as the writers of that book which
men call 'the Bible.'"
"But can you wholly get rid of the conviction that the Bible is the word
of God, written by holy men inspired by the Holy Spirit?"
"You know, Deacon Gregory, that I do not believe what you profess to
believe. 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 no
other."
Deacon Gregory had never read Cicero, and of course did not attempt to
show, as he might otherwise have done, that Cicero did not mean to deny
the existence of a living, personal God, who governs the world.
"But," said he, "does not the book of Nature--your Bible, as you call
it--have something to say of God? Does it not speak of an infinitely wise
and good Creator and Governor? Do not the works of Nature tell of the same
God whose being and character were preached to us yesterday from the Holy
Scriptures?"
"Nature has never spoken to me of any God except herself. What need is
there of a creator? Who can prove that the universe did not exist from
eternity? Nature has her laws of development, and under those laws all the
operations of nature go on. You had better read Darwin. If one must find
the character of God in nature, he may as well picture an evil creator and
governor as one that is good and righteous. Does Nature punish those whom
you call the wicked? Does Nature reward the righteous? Do not the laws of
Nature bring suffering to the good and the bad alike, and happiness also
to all classes of men? Would you, if you had power, create a world like
this--a world in which danger, pain, | 620.696615 |
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BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR
THANKSGIVING SERMONS 12mo, net, $1.00
LETTERS ON EVANGELISM 16mo, cloth, 25 cents;
paper, 15 cents
The Mendenhall Lectures, First Series
Delivered at DePauw University
THE BIBLE AND LIFE
BY EDWIN HOLT HUGHES
Bishop of the Methodist Episcopal Church
THE METHODIST BOOK CONCERN
NEW YORK CINCINNATI
Copyright, 1915, by
EDWIN HOLT HUGHES
First Edition printed February, 1915
Reprinted June, 1915
TO CHARLES RAISBECK MAGEE
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
INTRODUCTION 9
FOREWORD 11
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE 13
THE HUMAN OUTLINE 19
I. THE BIBLE AND LIFE 21
II. THE BIBLE AND MAN 49
III. THE BIBLE AND HOME 76
IV. THE BIBLE AND EDUCATION 102
V. THE BIBLE AND WORK 125
VI. THE BIBLE AND WEALTH 151
VII. THE BIBLE AND SORROW 185
VIII. THE BIBLE AND PRACTICE 213
INTRODUCTION
By the courteous invitation of the President, Faculty, and Trustees of
DePauw University, the writer had the privilege of delivering the first
series of lectures under the foundation as endowed by his friend, the Rev.
Marmaduke H. Mendenhall. The following comments are the only introductory
words that need be given.
The terms of the lectures were kept strictly within the radius of real
life. The author does not claim to be a biblical scholar in any technical
sense. Nor did he deem that the primary need of the students whom he
addressed would be met by a discussion of theories of inspiration or of
dates and authorships. College students have a passion for reality, and
the most convincing apologetic for them is the argument from actual
living.
Under the instruction of the founder the lectures are to be placed in
permanent form for the students of the University and for the wider
public. The lecturer having been rewarded by the close attention of
hundreds of youthful hearers, the writer will have a still greater reward
if those who heard the words as spoken in Meharry Hall are joined by the
larger company who will listen for the voice of the Spirit in these pages.
EDWIN HOLT HUGHES.
THE MENDENHALL LECTURES
FOREWORD
The late Reverend Marmaduke H. Mendenhall, D.D., of the North Indiana
Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church, donated to DePauw University
the sum of ten thousand dollars, the purpose and conditions of which gift
are set forth in his bequest as follows:
The object of this gift is "to found a perpetual lectureship on the
evidences of the Divine Origin of Christianity, to be known as the
Mendenhall Foundation. The income from this fund shall be used for the
support of an Annual Lectureship, the design of which shall be the
exhibition of the proofs, from all sources, of the Divine Origin,
Inspiration, and Authority of the Holy Scriptures. The course of lectures
shall be delivered annually before the University and the public without
any charge for admission.
"The lecturers shall be chosen by an electing body consisting of the
President of the University, the five senior members of the Faculty of the
College of Liberal Arts, and the President of the Board of Trustees,
subject to the approval of the Board of Bishops of the Methodist
Episcopal Church. The lecturers must be persons of high and wide repute,
of broad and varied scholarship, who firmly adhere to the evangelical
system of Christian faith. The selection of lecturers may be made from the
world of Christian scholarship without regard to denominational divisions.
Each course of lectures is to be published in book form by an eminent
publishing house and sold at cost to the Faculty and students of the
University."
GEORGE R. GROSE,
_President of DePauw University_.
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
Inasmuch as future lecturers on the Mendenhall Foundation may not have had
the privilege of personal acquaintance with the founder, it is doubtless
good that this first volume may record the outlines of his life and
character. Marmaduke H. Mendenhall was born at Guilford, North Carolina,
May 13, 1836. He died at Union City, Indiana, October 9, 1905. He was the
son of Himelius and Priscilla Mendenhall, who, when their son was about
one year old, came northward and settled near Peru, Indiana. Doctor
Mendenhall did not suggest in manner or bearing that he was Southern born.
Had one chosen to judge of his birthplace by the man himself, one would
have said that he was a typical son of New England. His deeper self was
typified by his personal appearance. He was tall, stately, dignified,
serious, earnest.
He joined the North Indiana Conference of the Methodist Episcopal Church
in 1856. Those days were still pioneer, and he entered gladly into the
sacrificial ministry of that period. It is a singular coincidence that he
was doubtless the first minister of his faith to begin work near Union
City, where he closed his earthly labors. It was his privilege, also, to
build the first Methodist Episcopal church in the city where he died. The
history of his ministry shows that he served all classes of
charges--country, city, village, county seat. Several times the record is
dotted with the word "Mission," which would indicate that he frequently
followed the apostolic fashion of building strictly on his own
foundations. He came to a place of leadership in his own Conference. To
the day of his death he was an influential factor in all its plans and
programs. Though he had been technically "superannuated" for sixteen years
prior to his death, his mind kept its full vigor, and his word kept its
full weight. Twice he was elected a reserve delegate to the General
Conference, while in 1880 he was chosen as one of the regular delegates.
From the beginning of his ministry Dr. Mendenhall showed the signs of a
remarkable mind, and at the end of his ministry he was still manifesting a
keen interest in current questions and in theological problems. His
library to the last was freshened by the purchase of new books. When he
turned his many volumes over to Gammon Theological Seminary that
institution did not receive hundreds of antiquated volumes, but rather a
collection brought down to date and selected by a master judgment. The
intellectual, though suffused at times by a proper and restrained emotion,
was his noticeable characteristic. He was given to thorough analysis. He
was markedly painstaking. Records that he made of the conduct of his
public services indicate that the final details were all regarded, and
that hymns and Scripture lessons were chosen with a view to their bearing
on the instruction of the day.
Being a vigorous personality, he held his views with strength. He was
keenly loyal to his convictions, whether these related to methods of work
or to statements of doctrine. In his advocacy or in his antagonism he was
always frank and open. His opponent could see him standing out in plain
view, with no effort to protect himself by secrecy. Men could never doubt
his sincerity, however much they might question the correctness of his
positions. He knew no sinuous paths. He was as direct as sunlight, and he
traveled in straight lines.
In all his spheres of work Dr. Mendenhall made deep and lasting
impressions. Highly intellectual as he was, he was still an excellent
administrator. His business qualifications were signal. Every matter
committed to him was cared for with scrupulous nicety. He left no loose
ends to any of his work. Although his salaries were never large, as
salaries are counted to-day, he secured a comfortable property, and this
in spite of the fact that throughout his lifetime he was a generous
contributor to good causes.
He served as a trustee of De Pauw University longer than other member of
his Conference had served, up to the time of his death. From 1878 to 1887
he served in this capacity, while in 1896 he was reelected and was an
active worker on the board up to the end of his life. He aided in pushing
the institution through its crisis. The files of this writer disclose a
careful and helpful correspondence upon matters vital to the welfare of
the University. In the sessions of the board he was always urbane and
conciliatory. He crowned the work of his life by leaving to the University
all of his estate. Upon the increase of the estate to a certain figure,
the income was to be used in founding a lectureship on Revealed Religion,
especially as related to the Holy Bible.
Although the writer was an intimate friend of Dr. Mendenhall, he cannot
remember any statements made to him which would indicate the founder's
views of inspiration or of the other questions that have made the
biblical problem of the last two decades. But his library showed that he
was fully aware of the modern discussions. Perhaps he felt that a
lectureship, broadly founded and practically directed, would be of special
service to the church in a time of transition. The writer entertains the
conviction that, even though Dr. Mendenhall might not agree fully with all
that is found in the following pages, he would still appreciate the effort
to bring the Bible within its divine purpose as a Book of Life.
The home of the founder revealed him as a model of courtesy and
kindliness. Friends who saw him by his own fireside noted the benignity
that matched his dignity, the tenderness that equaled his seriousness.
Those who came into the nearer circle of his life regarded him most
highly. To the wife who survives him he was in all ways a helper, gentle
in demeanor and loyally careful in the administration of her interests. As
the writer reviews the drift of these first lectures delivered under this
foundation, he is persuaded that the founder's relation to Himself, to his
Home, to his Work, to his Wealth, to his Pleasure and Sorrow, and
particularly to the cause of Education, is not misrepresented herein. The
Bible was his Book, and its ideals were achieved in his living. It is the
sincere wish that these pages may accomplish somewhat the main purpose of
the founder's heart in making the divine Book a brighter lamp for the
guidance of youth.
THE HUMAN OUTLINE
It may be well to give in human form the outline which will be followed in
these pages. The story is the story of millions of men on as many days.
A man awoke one morning to the consciousness of himself. Looking about he
saw the familiar sights of his own home, and soon he heard the voices of
his wife and children. Ere long the little people were on their way to
school. The man proceeded to his work, while his wife took up her domestic
duties. He returned in the evening with the proceeds of his day's labor
added to his stock of goods. He partook of the evening meal and then
indulged in the pleasure of "the children's hour." He later called upon a
friend who had met with sorrow and in the trouble of his friend he found a
fresh reminder of his own affliction. He retired in due season to his
slumber and went forth the next morning to make the like round of the day.
This is a piece of constant biography. It could be duplicated by reference
to many a personal journal and diary. If we analyze the description, we
shall find that the man was driven to take a relation to Himself, to Home,
to Education, to Work, to Wealth, to Pleasure and Sorrow.
The aim of this book is to state somewhat the bearing that the Bible has
upon these great departments of our human living. The apologetic tests the
Book under the terms of this human outline.
CHAPTER I
THE BIBLE AND LIFE
The Bible is a book of power. The man who would deny this statement would
impugn his own intelligence. It is to-day the Book of the strongest
nations. If the strongest nations selected it for their inspiration and
guidance, that fact is significant. If, on the other hand, the Bible has
trained the strongest nations, that fact is more significant. In either
case power is lodged in the Holy Scriptures. The miracle is this: That a
very ancient Book rules a very modern world.
Various explanations are given. Some men say that the Bible is powerful
because it has been promoted by a powerful organization. But this
explanation needs explaining. How did the Bible secure the aid of this
organization? Why did not the organization take the Dialogues of Plato and
become the evangel of Socrates' splendid wisdom? Why did it elect one
particular volume? And what would have been the effect on its own life if
it had chosen some other book? Would the writings of Marcus Aurelius or of
Seneca, with their high moral grade and their marked religious insight,
have served the holy purpose as effectively? When we attempt to substitute
some other book in the Bible's place, our hesitancy quickly passes on to
positive refusal. The Christian Church, with any other volume as its
textbook, is simply inconceivable.
Other men will say that the power of the Bible has come from its girding
by a doctrine of authority. This explanation must likewise be explained.
Could a Book without inherent authority be long maintained among
intelligent peoples on the basis of artificial authority? Why is the Bible
the best seller and the greatest worker in those lands where it has been
set free to yield its own message? What is the peculiar quality in the
Book that has saved any theory of its authority from appearing absurd? The
Bible showed its power long before men adopted any theory of its power.
Doubtless the claim of authority has increased the influence of the Book
over certain types of minds. Still it may be confidently asserted that the
claim of authority has depended far more on the power of the Bible than
the power of the Bible has depended on the claim of authority. The effect
should not be allowed to pass itself off as the main cause.
Nor does the power of the Bible depend upon mere bulk. Shakespeare wrote
enough to make several Bibles. So did Scott. So did Dickens. So did
Parkman. If the Bible is a moral and spiritual Encyclopedia, its material
has been strangely condensed. It is a brief Book, yet out of its small
compass men gather texts for fifty years of preaching and at the close of
their life's task feel that the pages are still exhaustless. The Bible has
inspired literature far beyond its own bulk. It is a small library of
books gathered from many authors, but it has filled great libraries with
commentaries and sermons and discussions. Its brevities have provoked
measureless pages of writing. The world is big, yet it is measurably ruled
by a small Book.
It would seem likewise that a Book written so long ago would fail of the
element of timeliness. That an old volume should keep its place in a new
century is in itself an anomaly. The last of the Bible was penned hundreds
of years since. Accepting the most radical views as to dates, its youngest
book was produced quite more than a millennium and a half ago. Meanwhile
the world has been making amazing progress. We boast of our achievements
in transportation and communication. All ancient things seem to be
outgrown, save only the Bible. The books that were written as
contemporaries of parts of the great Book have either slipped into
oblivion or are known to-day only by the intellectually elect. The
classics are studied by a small circle of scholars. The average man knows
nothing of Virgil, or Cicero, or Homer, by any direct contact with the
works of those authors. But the Bible, which is out of date by the
calendar, is not out of date by its own meaning. It is singularly
contemporaneous. Its different portions were called forth by passing
events and the Book itself is clearly touched by its own times. For all
that, eternity appears to have lodged itself in its contemporaneousness.
The twentieth century, eager and thrilling as it is, accepts a Guide Book
from the distant years. Roman Law and Greek Art are filtered to the new
age through modern channels. The Bible itself comes to us more simple and
more powerful than any modern interpretations of its messages. There is a
sense in which it declines to apply to itself its own figure of speech
about the new wine in the old bottles.
The Bible defies geographical distance as well as calendar distance. For
the most part its record relates to what happened in a small and remote
section of the earth. It reaches its climax in an obscure province which
was smaller than many a modern county. The customs of which it tells are
mostly gone. Sandals and tents and camels and parchments are curiosities
in the new lands and new times. Much of the setting of biblical events is
wholly unknown to our day, and so must be reproduced for our children in
pictures and for our adults in descriptions. An Oriental Book is the chief
literature of an Occidental world.
In spite of its small size, its great age, its cramped geography, its
vivid Orientalism, the Bible keeps its mastery. What is the explanation?
It must be that the Bible appeals to something fundamental in life itself.
The final test of inspiration must, of course, be found in what the Bible
does for life. A book that is not inspiring cannot be proved to be
inspired. It cannot give what it does not have and it must surely have
received what it gives. It would be a mistake, however, to confuse formal
truthfulness with inspiring vitality. The description of a street scene,
dealing with the passing relations of pedestrians, wagons, trees, birds,
houses; the lengths and widths of sidewalks and streets; the figures of
population; the social status of the various groups--all this may be told
with exact and mathematical truthfulness. It may be correct and still not
be inspired or inspiring. On the other hand, the parable of the prodigal
son is a story which in its precise detail may represent something that
never occurred. But it has impressed the world as both inspired and
inspiring. Its words haunt and pierce and coax and subdue men. This
indicates that a story given for a spiritual purpose shows more essential
truthfulness than does a description given for formal exactness. The
reason is that the parable appeals to something fundamental in life
itself. The son and the father are ever with us. God and his children are
the everlasting facts. The story is more true than is the description.
This contrast represents the biblical trend. The Book penetrates through
the husk to the kernel, through superficial facts to deepest truths,
through passing events to eternal meanings. It is the Book of Life.
What gives the Bible this appeal? Whence did it secure its vital quality?
The only reply is that the appeal to life must be born of life itself.
Sometimes a bizarre explanation is given of the source of a religious
volume, the assumption being that a human origin denies a divine origin.
The more men have to do with its production, the less may we presume that
God has touched the work. A curious illustration of this viewpoint is
found in the claim for the Book of Mormon. The story is as follows: A
heavenly visitant appeared to Joseph Smith and told him that in a certain
place he would find the miracle book. Smith obeyed the directions and
found in the place named a box of stone. In this box was a volume half a
foot in thickness. It was written on thin plates of gold, and these plates
were bound together by gold rings. The writing was in a strange language,
but with the book was found a pair of miraculous eyeglasses which
conferred the ability to read the pages. In other words the Book of Mormon
was not born of human life under the guidance of the divine life. It was
the product of a straight miracle, and the power to decipher its meaning
came only by miracle. Such a theory of the origin is easy to understand,
even though it may be difficult to believe. It represents the extreme form
of that faith which minimizes the partnership of man with God in the
making of all genuine gospels of life.
The incarnation was Man and God together. The church is being fashioned by
man and God together; the Spirit and the Bride are colleagues. Worship is
possible only when man and God are together in fellowship. If the Bible
came by any method other than the coworking of man and God, its production
would stand for a departure from the usual divine method. The power of the
Bible, however, grows out of the fact that it is not an abnormal book,
fantastically given to men. There is a humorous story of an old woman who
was discovered in diligent study of the Hebrew alphabet. Asked why at her
age she was beginning to learn so difficult a tongue, she made reply that
when she died she desired to address the Almighty in his own language!
There have been theories of the Bible that are scarcely caricatured by
this tale. If there have been doctrines of the Book that made it the
product of a lonely man, there have likewise been doctrines that made it
the product of a lonely God. Neither doctrine is correct. The Bible grew
out of human life that had been touched and glorified by the divine
presence and power. Because it grew out of life it makes its appeal to its
native element in life itself. It simply claims its own.
A review of the different parts of the Bible will show how true this
statement is. Practically every book is localized and personalized.
Something that happened among men called forth the writing. The names of
the books in the Pentateuch show this fact. Genesis treats of the origins
of the earth and of man, and is an answer to the inevitable question that
springs in the human mind. Exodus treats of the going forth of the Hebrew
people from their Egyptian bondage. Leviticus is a description and
discussion of the Levitical rules. Deuteronomy is a second giving of the
Law and an enlargement of its sphere as well as an enforcement of its
precepts. The Ten Commandments make a human document because their sole
aim is to ennoble and protect human life.
It is so with the historical books. They are the records of actual human
living. Their pages are sprinkled with the names of real men and women.
Joshua, the Judges, Ruth, Samuel, the Kings are all there, eager
participants in earth's affairs under the sense of God. These books are
not theoretical dissertations on life by a dreamer in his closet; they are
rather the general descriptions of life itself as it moved along a period
of seven or eight centuries. They give us the salient and meaningful
happenings among God's chosen people. They tell the story of a crude race
as it is being led forward to the heights. The pages record limitations
and faults simply because they tell us of actual life. The sins of the
Bible's premier heroes are written down with entire frankness. The human
touch is everywhere. We shall not read the historical books long ere we
find that they, too, are human documents. But these human documents,
covered with the names of men and women, are likewise covered with the
ever-recurring name of Jehovah. In the record one discovers man and God.
In the prophetical books the like fact is apparent. The prophets were men
of flesh and blood. They rushed into the prophetic work from the ordinary
occupations of ancient life. From the fields they came, and from the
vineyards. Perhaps one came from a royal palace. Surely not more than one
of them came from the altar of the priesthood. They were men who knew the
shame and glory of contemporary life. They did not hesitate to touch the
politics of their day. They decried kings. They denounced landlords. They
made frontal attacks on all forms of wickedness. Their appeal was for
reality. They declared that God hated all pretense. New moons and feasts
and fasts that did not grow out of devout hearts they declared to be an
insult and an abomination before a righteous God. They talked from life to
life. They came in response to some human demand in their times. They were
not theorists, discussing academic problems of conduct. They were blazing
moral realists. We do not need to detail the list of those forthtellers of
the Word of God. Even the book of Jonah is full of life. Parable,
allegory, history--its descriptions are based in life and its appeal is to
life. In its moral lesson for the individual, and in its missionary lesson
for a narrow race, it offers enough duty to keep life busy for a million
years. If men would heed its lessons for life and cease their petty
debates about the anatomy of whales, the Book would meet them with vital
urgings. The one point now is that the prophetical writings grew out of
life. They did not come encased in stone boxes, written on gold leaves, to
be read and understood only by miraculous spectacles. They came from real
living, and they claim their own wherever real men are living to-day.
We need not follow the same idea into the later books of the Old
Testament. The Proverbs were gathered from the streets of life.
Ecclesiastes is the pronouncement of life vainly satiated. Even the
Psalms, classed as devotional books, were usually evoked by some actual
happening. The king goes out to war; a psalm is penned. The ark is moved
from one place to another; a psalm is written. A man is jaded and
discouraged; a psalm is written to recover him to a consciousness of the
care of Jehovah. A monarch falls into grievous sin; a psalm is written to
express his penitence. A study of any Commentary on the Psalms will show
us that nearly all of these devotional utterances were prompted by some
human experiences. They are the shoutings and sobbings of living men. The
book of Psalms is not the liturgy of academicians. Its processionals and
its recessionals show actual men and women in the real march of life.
In the New Testament this same law of life rules. Jesus comes before the
Gospels. Without the Life there could not have been the record of the
Life. In any worthy Bible life must always come first. This phase will be
treated later. Now it must be emphasized that the entire New Testament
sprang from a Life that was lived among men. The Word must become flesh
before it could become literary record. Grace and truth walked the earth
ere they were traced on pages. Here again the Bible comes from life in
order that it may return to life again.
The statement concerning the New Testament will admit of more detail. The
Gospels grew immediately out of the disciples' life with the Lord. The
Acts grew out of the life of the disciples in their daily contact with
that ancient world. The Epistles all came from some urgency of life. While
there were minor reasons for writing each of them there was still a main
purpose that dictated the writing in every case. The Epistles to the
Thessalonians seek to produce a right attitude toward the doctrine of the
Lord's return. The Epistle to the Romans is a discussion of the doctrine
of justification by faith and the relations of that doctrine to Judaism.
That to the Galatians is both a personal defense of Paul's questioned
apostleship and a declaration of freedom from bondage to the law. The
Philippians grew out of an experience of human kindness, being an
expression of gratitude for help in trouble and sympathy in sorrow. The
Ephesians is a composite of moods--the victories of grace, the hope of the
heavenlies, the expectation of ascension with the glorified Christ, the
nature and aim of the true church. Colossians expresses the universal
Lordship of Christ and tears down every theory that denies the reality of
the incarnation and the utter preeminence of Jesus.
Even those Epistles that are personal in their character deal with
universal life. Philemon reappeared in the contests concerning slavery
both in England and America and scattered the arguments of Christian
democracy. The bondage of men could not well live with the tender
brotherhood that breathes in the letter which Onesimus carried back with
him to his former master. Titus and Timothy are the pastoral advices sent
by the aged apostle to his younger sons in the faith, while one of the
Epistles is the hopeful farewell to earth and a glad trust toward the
Eternal City. Revelation may be filled with strange imagery and may be
shaken by the tremors of a perilous age; but men who know real life will
say that the Beast and the Lamb are not merely wild figures of speech. The
writer of the Apocalypse knew the world, and he knew the churches in its
various cities.
Thus it seems literally true that all the New Testament was penned for the
aid of life. When life went wrong, warning came. When life went aright,
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AVERAGE JONES
By Samuel Hopkins Adams
CHAPTER I. THE B-FLAT TROMBONE
Three men sat in the Cosmic Club discussing the question: "What's the
matter with Jones?" Waldemar, the oldest of the conferees, was the
owner, and at times the operator, of an important and decent newspaper.
His heavy face wore the expression of good-humored power, characteristic
of the experienced and successful journalist. Beside him sat Robert
Bertram, the club idler, slender and languidly elegant. The third member
of the conference was Jones himself.
Average Jones had come by his nickname inevitably. His parents had
foredoomed him to it when they furnished him with the initials A. V. R.
E. as preface to his birthright of J for Jones. His character apparently
justified the chance concomitance. He was, so to speak, a composite
photograph of any thousand well-conditioned, clean-living Americans
between the ages of twenty-five and thirty. Happily, his otherwise
commonplace face was relieved by the one unfailing characteristic of
composite photographs, large, deep-set and thoughtful eyes. Otherwise he
would have passed in any crowd, and nobody would have noticed him pass.
Now, at twenty-seven, he looked back over the five years since his
graduation from college and wondered what he had done with them; and at
the four previous years of undergraduate life and wondered how he had
done so well with those and why he had not in some manner justified the
parting words of his favorite professor.
"You have one rare faculty, Jones. You can, when you choose, sharpen
the pencil of your mind to a very fine point. Specialize, my boy,
specialize."
If the recipient of this admonition had specialized in anything, it was
in life. Having twenty-five thousand a year of his own he might have
continued in that path indefinitely, but for two influences. One was an
irruptive craving within him to take some part in the dynamic activities
of the surrounding world. The other was the "freak" will of his late
and little-lamented uncle, from whom he had his present income, and his
future expectations of some ten millions. Adrian Van Reypen Egerton had,
as Waldemar once put it, "--one into the mayor's chair with a good name
and come out with a block of ice stock." In a will whose cynical humor
was the topic of its day, Mr. Egerton jeered posthumously at the public
which he had despoiled, and promised restitution, of a sort, through his
heir.
"Therefore," he had written, "I give and bequeath to the said Adrian Van
Reypen Egerton Jones, the residue of my property, the principal to be
taken over by him at such time as he shall have completed five years of
continuous residence in New York City. After such time the virus of the
metropolis will have worked through his entire being. He will squander
his unearned and undeserved fortune, thus completing the vicious circle,
and returning the millions acquired by my political activities, in a
poisoned shower upon the city, for which, having bossed, bullied and
looted it, I feel no sentiment other than contempt."
"And now," remarked Waldemar in his heavy, rumbling voice, "you aspire
to disappoint that good old man."
"It's only human nature, you know," said Average Jones. "When a man
puts a ten-million-dollar curse on you and suggests that you haven't the
backbone of a shrimp, you--you--"
"--naturally yearn to prove him a liar," supplied Bertram.
"Exactly. Anyway, I've no taste for dissipation, either moral or
financial. I want action; something to do. I'm bored in this infernal
city."
"The wail of the unslaked romanticist," commented Bertram.
"Romanticist nothing!" protested the other. "My ambitions are practical
enough if I could only get 'em stirred up."
"Exactly. Boredom is simply romanticism with a morning-after thirst.
You're panting for romance, for something bizarre. Egypt and St.
Petersburg and Buenos Ayres and Samoa have all become commonplace to
you. You've overdone them. That's why you're back here in New York
waiting with stretched nerves for the Adventure of Life to cat-creep up
from behind and toss the lariat of rainbow dreams over your shoulders."
Waldemar laughed. "Not a bad diagnosis. Why don't you take up a hobby,
Mr. Jones?"
"What kind of a hobby?"
"Any kind. The club is full of hobby-riders. Of all people that I know,
they have the keenest appetite for life. Look at old Denechaud; he was a
misanthrope until he took to gathering scarabs. Fenton, over there, has
the finest collection of circus posters in the world. Bellerding's house
is a museum of obsolete musical instruments. De Gay collects venomous
insects from all over the world; no harmless ones need apply. Terriberry
has a mania for old railroad tickets. Some are really very curious. I've
often wished I had the time to be a crank. It's a happy life."
"What line would you choose?" asked Bertram languidly.
"Nobody has gone in for queer advertisements yet, I believe," replied
the older man. "If one could take the time to follow them up---but it
would mean all one's leisure."
"Would it be so demanding a career?" said Average Jones, smiling.
"Decidedly. I once knew a man who gave away twenty dollars daily on
clues from the day's news. He wasn't bored for lack of occupation."
"But the ordinary run of advertising is nothing more than an effort to
sell something by yelling in print," objected Average Jones.
"Is it? Well perhaps you don't look in the right place."
Waldemar reached for the morning's copy of the Universal and ran his eye
down the columns of "classified" matter. "Hark to this," he said, and
read:
"Is there any work on God's green
earth for a man who has just got
to have it?"
"Or this:
"WANTED--A venerable looking man with
white beard and medical degree. Good
pay to right applicant."
"What's that?" asked Average Jones with awakened interest.
"Only a quack medical concern looking for a stall to impress their
come-ons," explained Waldemar.
Average Jones leaned over to scan the paper in his turn.
"Here's one," said he, and read:
WANTED--Performer on B-flat trombone.
Can use at once. Apply with instrument,
after 1 p. m. 300 East 100th Street.
"That seems ordinary enough," said Waldemar.
"What's it doing in a daily paper? There must be--er--technical
publications--er--journals, you know, for this sort of demand."
"When Average's words come slow, you've got him interested," commented
Bertram. "Sure sign."
"Nevertheless, he's right," said Waldemar. "It is rather misplaced."
"How is this for one that says what it means?" said Bertram.
WANTED--At once, a brass howitzer and
a man who isn't afraid to handle it.
Mrs. Anne Cullen, Pier 49 1/2 East River.
"The woman who is fighting the barge combine," explained Waldemar. "Not
so good as it looks. She's bluffing."
"Anyway, I'd like a shy at this business," declared Average Jones with
sudden conviction. "It looks to me like something to do."
"Make it a business, then," advised Waldemar. "If you care really to go
in for it, my newspaper would be glad to pay for information such as you
might collect. We haven't time, for example, to trace down fraudulent
advertisers. If you could start an enterprise of that sort, you'd
certainly find it amusing, and, at times, perhaps, even adventurous."
"I wouldn't know how to establish it," objected Average Jones.
The newspaper owner drew a rough diagram on a sheet of paper and filled
it in with writing, crossing out and revising liberally. Divided, upon
his pattern, into lines, the final draft read:
HAVE YOU BEEN STUNG?
Thousands have.
Thousands will be.
They're Laying for You.
WHO?
The Advertising Crooks.
A. JONES
Ad-Visor
Can Protect You
Against Them.
Before Spending Your
Money Call on Him.
Advice on all Subjects
Connected with Newspaper,
Magazine or Display Advertising.
Free Consultation to
Persons Unable to Pay.
Call or Write, Enclosing
Postage. This Is On The Level.
"Ad-Visor! Do you expect me to blight my budding career by a poisonous
pun like that?" demanded Average Jones with a wry face.
"It may be a poisonous pun, but it's an arresting catch-word," said
Waldemar, unmoved. "Single column, about fifty lines will do it in nice,
open style. Caps and lower case, and black-faced type for the name and
title. Insert twice a week in every New York and Brooklyn paper."
"Isn't it--er--a little blatant?" suggested Bertram, with lifted
eyebrows.
"Blatant?" repeated its inventor. "It's more than that. It's howlingly
vulgar. It's a riot of glaring yellow. How else would you expect to
catch the public?"
"Suppose, then, I do burst into flame to this effect?" queried the
prospective "Ad-Visor." "Et apres? as we proudly say after spending a
week in Paris."
"Apres? Oh, plenty of things. You hire an office, a clerk, two
stenographers and a clipping export, and prepare to take care of the
work that comes in. You'll be flooded," promised Waldemar.
"And between times I'm to go skipping about, chasing long white whiskers
and brass howitzers and B-flat trombones, I suppose."
"Until you get your work systematized you'll have no time for skipping.
Within six months, if you're not sandbagged or jailed on fake libel
suits, you'll have a unique bibliography of swindles. Then I'll begin to
come and buy your knowledge to keep my own columns clean."
The speaker looked up to meet the gaze of an iron-gray man with a harsh,
sallow face.
"Excuse my interrupting," said the new-comer.
"Just one question, Waldemar. Who's going to be the nominee?"
"Linder."
"Linder? Surely not! Why, his name hasn't been heard."
"It will be."
"His Federal job?"
"He resigns in two weeks."
"His record will kill him."
"What record? You and I know he's a grafter. But can we prove anything?
His clerk has always handled all the money."
"Wasn't there an old scandal--a woman case?"' asked the questioner
vaguely.
"That Washington man's wife? Too old. Linder would deny it flatly, and
there would be no witnesses. The woman is dead--killed by his brutal
treatment of her, they say. But the whole thing was hushed up at the
time by Linder's pull, and when the husband threatened to kill him
Linder quietly set a commissioner of insanity on the case and had
the man put away. He's never appeared since. No, that wouldn't be
politically effective."
The gray man nodded, and walked away, musing.
"Egbert, the traction boss," explained Waldemar. "We're generally on
opposite sides, but this time we're both against Linder. Egbert wants a
cheaper man for mayor. I want a straighter one. And I could get him this
year if Linder wasn't so well fortified. However, to get back to our
project, Mr. Jones--"
Get back to it they did with such absorption that when the group broke
up, several hours later, Average Jones was committed, by plan and rote,
to the new and hopeful adventure of Life.
In the great human hunt which ever has been and ever shall be till "the
last bird flies into the last light"--some call it business, some call
it art, some call it love, and a very few know it for what it is, the
very mainspring of existence--the path of the pursuer and the prey often
run obscurely parallel. What time the Honorable | 620.853202 |
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Proofreaders Team
[Illustration: MARCUS TULLIUS CICERO]
De Amicitia, Scipio's Dream
By Cicero
Translated, with an Introduction and Notes
By Andrew P. Peabody
SYNOPSIS.
* * * * *
DE AMICITIA
1. Introduction.
2. Reputation of Laelius for wisdom. The curiosity to know how he bore
the death of Scipio.
3. His grounds of consolation in his bereavement
4. He expresses his faith in immortality. Desires perpetual memory in
this world of the friendship between himself and Scipio.
5. True friendship can exist only among good men.
6. Friendship defined.
7. Benefits derived from friendship.
8. Friendship founded not on need, but on nature.
9. The relation of utility to friendship.
10. Causes for the separation of friends.
11. How far love for friends may go.
12. Wrong never to be done at a friend's request.
13. Theories that degrade friendship
14. How friendships are formed.
15. Friendlessness wretched.
16. The limits of friendship.
17. In what sense and to what degree friends are united. How friends are
to be chosen and tested.
18. The qualities to be sought in a friend.
19. Old friends not to be forsaken for new.
20. The duties of friendship between persons differing in ability, rank,
or position.
21. How friendships should be dissolved, and how to guard against the
necessity of dissolving them.
22. Unreasonable expectations of friends. Mutual respect necessary in
true friendship.
23. Friendship necessary for all men.
24. Truth-telling, though it often gives offence, an essential duty from
friend to friend.
25. The power of truth. The arts of flattery.
26. Flattery availing only with the feeble-minded.
27. Virtue the soul of friendship. Laelius describes the intimacy of the
friendship between himself and Scipio.
* * * * *
SCIPIO'S DREAM.
1. Scipio's visit to Masinissa. Circumstances under which the dream
occurred.
2. Appearance of the elder Africanus, and of his own father, to Scipio.
Prophecy of Scipio's successes and honors, with an intimation of his
death by the hands of his kindred.
3. Conditions on which heaven may be won.
4. The nine spheres that constitute the universe.
5. The music of the spheres.
6. The five zones of the earth.
7. Brevity and worthlessness of earthly fame.
8. All souls eternal.
9. The soul to be trained for immortality. The fate of those who merge
their souls in sense.
INTRODUCTION
DE AMICITIA.
The _De Amicitia_, inscribed, like the _De Senectute_, to Atticus, was
probably written early in the year 44 B.C., during Cicero's retirement,
after the death of Julius Caesar and before the conflict with Antony.
The subject had been a favorite one with Greek philosophers, from whom
Cicero always borrowed largely, or rather, whose materials he made
fairly his own by the skill, richness, and beauty of his elaboration,
Some passages of this treatise were evidently suggested by Plato; and
Aulus Gellius says that Cicero made no little use of a now lost essay of
Theophrastus on Friendship.
In this work I am especially impressed by Cicero's dramatic power. But
for the mediocrity of his poetic genius, he might have won pre-eminent
honor from the Muse of Tragedy. He here so thoroughly enters into the
feelings of Laelius with reference to Scipio's death, that as we read we
forget that it is not Laelius himself who is speaking. We find ourselves
in close sympathy with him, as if he were telling us the story of his
bereavement, giving utterance to his manly fortitude and resignation and
portraying his friend's virtues from the unfading image phototyped on
his own loving memory. In other matters too Cicero goes back to the time
of Laelius and assumes his point of view assigning to him just the
degree of foresight which he probably possessed and making not the
slightest reference to the very different aspect in which he himself had
learned to regard and was wont to represent the personages and events of
that earlier period. Thus while Cicero traced the downfall of the
republic to changes in the body politic that had taken place or were
imminent and inevitable when Scipio died he makes Laelius perceive only
a slight though threatening deflection from what had been in the earlier
time [Footnote 1]. So too though Cicero was annoyed more than by almost
any other characteristic of his age by the prevalence of the Epicurean
philosophy and ascribed to it in a very large degree the demoralization
of men in public life with Laelius the doctrines of this school are
represented as they must have been in fact as new and unfamiliar. In
time Laelius is | 620.97545 |
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[Illustration: When the swordsman clasped her hand she looked into his
eyes. "Don't go--come; come!"
[Chapter III]]
THE BLOOD OF
THE ARENA
BY
VICENTE BLASCO IBANEZ
FROM THE SPANISH, BY FRANCES DOUGLAS
ILLUSTRATED IN COLOR BY TROY
AND MARGARET WEST KINNEY
[Illustration: colophon]
CHICAGO | 620.978507 |
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MANY KINGDOMS
BY
ELIZABETH JORDAN
AUTHOR OF
"May Iverson--Her Book"
"Tales of the Cloister"
"Tales of Destiny"
Etc. Etc.
... _"The state of man,
Like to a little kingdom, suffers then
The nature of an insurrection."_
--SHAKESPEARE.
MCMVIII
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. VARICK'S LADY O' DREAMS
II. THE EXORCISM OF LILY BELL
III. HER LAST DAY
IV. THE SIMPLE LIFE OF GENEVIEVE MAUD
V. HIS BOY
VI. THE COMMUNITY'S SUNBEAM
VII. IN MEMORY OF HANNAH'S LAUGH
VIII. THE QUEST OF AUNT NANCY
IX. THE HENRY SMITHS' HONEYMOON
X. THE CASE OF KATRINA
XI. BART HARRINGTON, GENIUS
I
VARICK'S LADY O' DREAMS
Varick laid down the book with which he had beguiled an hour of the
night, turned off the electric light in the shaded globe that hung
above his head, pulled the sheets a little nearer his chin, reversed
his pillow that he might rest his cheek more gratefully on the cooler
linen, stretched, yawned, and composed himself to slumber with an
absolutely untroubled conscience.
He was an eminently practical and almost rudely healthy young man, with
an unreflecting belief in the existence of things he had seen, and
considerable doubt concerning those which he had not seen. In his heart
he regarded sentiment as the expression of a flabby nature in a feeble
body. Once or twice he had casually redressing-case, with its array of
silver toilet articles, the solid front of his chiffonnier, the carved
arms of his favorite lounging-chair, even the etchings and prints on
the walls. Suddenly, as he looked at these familiar objects, a light
haze fell over them, giving him for an instant the impression that a
gauze curtain had been dropped between them and his eyes. They slowly
melted away, and in their place he saw the streets of a tiny village in
some foreign country which he did not know. A moment later, in what
seemed at the time a perfectly natural transition from his bed in an
Adirondack club-house, he was walking up the streets of the little
town, in correct tourist attire, looking in vain for a familiar
landmark, and with a strange sinking of the heart. How he got there, or
why he was there, was equally incomprehensible to him. It was high noon
of a warm summer day, and the red roofs of the old buildings seemed to
glow in the heat. Before him, at the end of the street down which he
was walking, was a public square where marketing was going on in the
open. It was crowded with men and women in picturesque peasant costumes
he did not recognize, though he had travelled a great deal. As he drew
nearer he heard them speaking, but discovered that their tongue was as
unknown to him as their garb. He knew French, German, and Italian well;
he had, in addition, a smattering of Spanish, and was familiar with the
accents of Slavic tongues. But this babel that met his ears was
something new. Taken in connection with the rest of the experience, the
discovery sent a cold chill down the spinal column of Mr. Lawrence
Varick. For the first time in his debonair life he was afraid, and
admitted it inwardly, with a sudden whitening of the lips.
"It's so infernally queer," he told himself, uneasily. "If I could
remember how I got here, or if I knew anything about the place--"
"Have you classified them?" asked a voice at his elbow. It was
feminine, contralto, and exquisitely modulated. The words were English,
but spoken with a slight foreign accent. With a leap of the heart
Varick turned and looked at the speaker.
She was young, he saw at once--twenty-two, twenty-three, possibly
twenty-four. He inclined to the last theory as he observed her perfect
poise and self-possession. She was exquisitely dressed; he realized
that despite the dimness of masculine perception on such points, and,
much more clearly, saw that she was beautiful. She was small, and the
eyes she raised to his were large and | 621.134811 |
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THE FRENCH ARMY FROM WITHIN
THE FRENCH ARMY
FROM WITHIN
BY
"EX-TROOPER"
NEW YORK
GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
COPYRIGHT, 1914
By GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
PAGE
THE CONSTITUTION OF THE FRENCH ARMY 7
CHAPTER II
THE FRENCH SOLDIER AT HOME 18
CHAPTER III
THE HIGHER RANKS 27
CHAPTER IV
INFANTRY 44
CHAPTER V
OFF DUTY 51
CHAPTER VI
CAVALRY 60
CHAPTER VII
ARTILLERY 74
CHAPTER VIII
IN CAMP AND ON THE MARCH 85
CHAPTER IX
MANOEUVRES 104
CHAPTER X
WITH THE CAVALRY SCOUTS 119
CHAPTER XI
INTERNAL ECONOMY 133
CHAPTER XII
SOME INCIDENTALS 144
CHAPTER XIII
THE GREAT GARRISON TOWNS OF FRANCE 156
CHAPTER XIV
SOME EFFECTS. ACTIVE SERVICE 171
CHAPTER I
THE CONSTITUTION OF THE FRENCH ARMY
Before proceeding to the consideration of life as lived in the
French Army, it would be well to have a clear understanding of the
constitution of the Army of France, the parts of which it is composed,
and the conditions under which it is organised and controlled. The
British Army is a growth of years, and even of centuries, but with
the changes of government that France has undergone since | 621.173157 |
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by The Internet Archive)
Transcriber's Notes.
Where no illustration caption appeared below the image, the
corresponding wording from the list of illustrations has been included
as a caption.
Italics are surrounded with _ _. The oe ligature has been replaced
in this version by the letters oe. Some words have been represented
in the print version as the first three letters of the word followed
by the last letter as a superscript and with a dot underneath. The
superscripted letters have been represented in this version as ^[.x].
On p. 59 of the original book, a presumed printer's error has been
corrected:
"She seems 'em now!" (as printed in the original) has been changed to
"She sees 'em now!" (in this version)
On p. 201, the date 1543 has been changed to 1534. This can be fairly
presumed to be the intended date based on historical occurrences
referred to and based on the continuity of entries.
THE
HOUSEHOLD OF
SIR THO^[.S] MORE
By the same Author
_In crown 8vo, cloth, gilt top, 6s._
Illustrated by JOHN JELLICOE and HERBERT RAILTON
The Old Chelsea Bun-Shop:
A Tale of the Last Century
Cherry & Violet:
A Tale of the Great Plague
The Maiden and Married Life of Mary
Powell, afterwards Mrs. Milton
_The many other interesting works of this author will be published from
time to time uniformly with the above._
[Illustration:
The Household of
SIR THO^[.S] MORE
_Illvstrations by_ John Jellicoe &
Herbert Railton
_Introdvction by_ The Rev^[.d] W. H. Hutton
LONDON
John C. NIMMO
MDCCCXCIX
]
[Illustration: LIBELLUS A MARGARETA MORE QVINDECIM ANNOS NATA CHELSELAE
INCEPTVS
_Nvlla dies sine linea_ ]
[Illustration: "Anon we sit down to rest and talk"]
THE
HOUSEHOLD OF
SIR THO^[.S] MORE
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
THE REV. W. H. HUTTON, B.D.
FELLOW OF S. JOHN'S COLLEGE, OXFORD
AND TWENTY-FIVE ILLUSTRATIONS
BY JOHN JELLICOE AND
HERBERT RAILTON
LONDON
JOHN C. NIMMO
NEW YORK: CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
MDCCCXCIX
Printed by BALLANTYNE, HANSON & CO.
At the Ballantyne Press
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_From Drawings by_ JOHN JELLICOE _and_ HERBERT RAILTON.
"ANON WE SIT DOWN TO REST AND TALK."
_Drawn by_ JOHN JELLICOE _and_ HERBERT RAILTON _Frontispiece_
PAGE
TITLE-PAGE.
_Designed by_ HERBERT RAILTON iii
MOTTO OF MARGARET MORE.
_Designed by_ HERBERT R | 621.173297 |
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THE GENTLE READER
The Gentle Reader
BY
SAMUEL McCHORD CROTHERS
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1904
_Copyright, 1903
By Samuel McChord Crothers
All rights reserved
Published October, 1903_
Preface
When Don Quixote was descanting on the beauty of the peerless Dulcinea,
the Duchess interrupted him by expressing a doubt as to that lady's
existence.
"Much may be said on that point," said Don Quixote. "God only knows
whether there be any Dulcinea or not in the world. These are things the
proof of which must not be pushed to extreme lengths."
But this admission does not in the least interfere with the habitual
current of his thoughts, or cool the ardor of his loyalty. He proceeds
after the momentary digression as if nothing had happened. "I behold her
as she needs must be, a lady who contains within herself all the
qualities to make her famous throughout the world; beautiful, without
blemish; dignified, without haughtiness; tender, and yet modest;
gracious from courtesy, and courteous from good breeding; and lastly of
illustrious birth."
If in the following pages I begin by admitting that there is much to be
said in behalf of the popular notion that the Gentle Reader no longer
exists, let this pass simply as an evidence of my decent respect for the
opinion of mankind. To my mind the Gentle Reader is the most agreeable
of companions, and to make his acquaintance is one of the pleasures of
life.
Of so elusive a personality it is not always possible to give a
consistent account. I have no doubt that I may have occasionally
attributed to him sentiments which are really my own; on the other hand,
I suspect that some views that I have set down as my own may have been
unconsciously derived from him. I have particular reference to the
opinions expressed on the subject of Ignorance. Such confusion of
mental properties the Gentle Reader will readily pardon, for there is no
one in all the world so careless of the distinctions between Meum and
Tuum.
CONTENTS
PAGE
THE GENTLE READER 1
THE ENJOYMENT OF POETRY 35
THE MISSION OF HUMOR 64
CASES OF CONSCIENCE CONCERNING WITCHCRAFTS 101
THE HONORABLE POINTS OF IGNORANCE 135
THAT HISTORY SHOULD BE READABLE 167
THE EVOLUTION OF THE GENTLEMAN 201
THE HINTER-LAND OF SCIENCE 227
THE GENTLE READER'S FRIENDS AMONG THE CLERGY 243
QUIXOTISM 271
INTIMATE KNOWLEDGE AND DELIGHT 303
The Gentle Reader
What has become of the Gentle Reader? One does not like to think that he
has passed away with the stagecoach and the weekly news-letter; and that
henceforth we are to be confronted only by the stony glare of the
Intelligent Reading Public. Once upon a time, that is to say a
generation or two ago, he was very highly esteemed. To him books were
dedicated, with long rambling prefaces and with episodes which were
their own excuse for being. In the very middle of the story the writer
would stop with a word of apology or explanation addressed to the Gentle
Reader, or at the very least with a nod or a wink. No matter if the fate
of the hero be in suspense or the plot be inextricably involved.
"Hang the plot!" says the author. "I must have a chat with the Gentle
Reader, and find out what he thinks about it."
And so confidences were interchanged, and there was gossip about the
Universe and suggestions in regard to the queerness of human nature,
until, at last, the author would jump up with, "Enough of this, Gentle
Reader; perhaps it's time to go back to the story."
The thirteenth book of Tom Jones leaves the heroine in the greatest
distress. The last words are, "Nor did this thought once suffer her to
close her eyes during the whole succeeding night." Had Fielding been
addressing the Intelligent Modern Public he would have intensified the
interest by giving an analysis of Sophia's distress so that we should
all share her insomnia. But not at all! While the dear girl is
recovering her spirits it is such an excellent opportunity to have
uninterrupted discourse with the Gentle Reader, who doesn't take these
things too hard, having long since come to "the years that bring the
philosophic mind." So the next chapter is entitled An Essay to prove
that an author will write better for having some knowledge of the
subject on which he treats. The discussion is altogether irrelevant;
that is what the Gentle Reader likes.
"It is a paradoxical statement you make," he says, trying to draw the
author out. "What are your arguments?"
Then the author moderates his expressions. "To say the truth I require
no more than that an author should have some little knowledge of the
subject of which he treats."
"That sounds more reasonable," says the Gentle Reader. "You know how
much I dislike extreme views. Let us admit, for the sake of argument,
that a writer may know a little about his subject. I hope that this may
not prove the opening wedge for erudition. By the way, where was it we
left the sweet Sophy; and do you happen to know anything more about that
scapegrace Jones?"
That was the way books were written and read in the good old days before
the invention of the telephone and the short story. The generation that
delighted in Fielding and Richardson had some staying power. A book was
something to tie to. No one would say jauntily, "I have read Sir Charles
Grandison," but only, "I am reading." The characters of fiction were
not treated as transient guests, but as lifelong companions destined to
be a solace in old age. The short story, on the other hand, is invented
for people who want a literary "quick lunch." "Tell me a story while I
wait," demands the eager devourer of fiction. "Serve it hot, and be
mighty quick about it!"
In rushes the story-teller with love, marriage, jealousy, disillusion,
and suicide all served up together before you can say Jack Robinson.
There is no time for explanation, and the reader is in no mood to allow
it. As for the suicide, it must end that way; for it is the quickest.
The ending, "They were happy ever after," cannot be allowed, for the
doting author can never resist the temptation to add another chapter,
dated ten years after, to show how happy they were.
I sometimes fear that reading, in the old-fashioned sense, may become a
lost art. The habit of resorting to the printed page for information is
an excellent one, but it is not what I have in mind. A person wants
something and knows where to get it. He goes to a book just as he goes
to a department store. Knowledge is a commodity done up in a neat
parcel. So that the article is well made he does not care either for the
manufacturer or the dealer.
Literature, properly so called, is quite different from this, and
literary values inhere not in things or even in ideas, but in persons.
There are some rare spirits that have imparted themselves to their
words. The book then becomes a person, and reading comes to be a kind of
conversation. The reader is not passive, as if he were listening to a
lecture on The Ethics of the Babylonians. He is sitting by his fireside,
and old friends drop in on him. He knows their habits and whims, and is
glad to see them and to interchange thought. They are perfectly at their
ease, and there is all the time in the world, and if he yawns now and
then nobody is offended, and if he prefers to follow a thought of his
own rather than theirs there is no discourtesy in leaving them. If his
friends are dull this evening, it is because he would have it so; that
is why he invited them. He wants to have a good, cosy, dull time. He has
had enough to stir him up during the day; now he wants to be let down.
He knows a score of good old authors who have lived long in the happy
poppy fields.
In all good faith he invokes the goddess of the Dunciad:--
"Her ample presence fills up all the place,
A veil of fogs dilates her awful face.
Here to her Chosen all her works she shews,
Prose swelled to verse, verse loitering into prose."
The Gentle Reader nods placidly and joins in the ascription:--
"Great tamer of all human art!
First in my care and ever at my heart;
Dullness whose good old cause I still defend.
* * * * *
O ever gracious to perplex'd mankind,
Still shed a healing mist before the mind;
And lest we err by wit's wild dancing light,
Secure us kindly in our native night."
I would not call any one a gentle reader who does not now and then take
up a dull book, and enjoy it in the spirit in which it was written.
Wise old Burton, in the Anatomy of Melancholy, advises the restless
person to "read some pleasant author till he be asleep." Many persons
find the Anatomy of Melancholy to answer this purpose; though Dr.
Johnson declares that it was the only book that took him out of bed two
hours before he wished to rise. It is hard to draw the line between
stimulants and narcotics.
This insistence on the test of the enjoyment of the dullness of a dull
book is not arbitrary. It arises from the characteristic of the Gentle
Reader. He takes a book for what it is and never for what it is not. If
he doesn't like it at all he doesn't read it. If he does read it, it is
because he likes its real quality. That is the way we do with our
friends. They are the people of whom we say that "we get at them." I
suppose every one of us has some friend of | 621.308145 |
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Produced by Jeroen Hellingman and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net/ for Project
Gutenberg (This file was produced from images generously
made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
ANNO DOMINI
2071.
Translated from the Dutch Original,
WITH PREFACE AND ADDITIONAL EXPLANATORY NOTES,
BY
Dr. Alex. V. W. BIKKERS.
LONDON:
WILLIAM TEGG, Pancras Lane, Cheapside.
1871.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
The late Artemus Ward was in the habit of quoting--either from his
own or another man's store of wit--"Never prophesy unless you know
for certain." There is, however, a particular mode of foretelling
which is neither dangerous nor venturesome; that process, namely,
by which inferences are being drawn from analogous things that have
come to pass, and applied to the contemplation of future events. The
little book here presented in an English translation may serve as
an illustration in point. It was originally published in the Dutch
language, the author hiding himself behind the nom de plume of
Dr. Dioscorides. If success goes for anything--and who is prepared
to say what it does not go for--we launch it in its new form with
more than sufficient confidence. Even within the narrow geographical
limits of the Netherlands it has rapidly passed through three editions,
and a German scholar has deemed it not unworthy of a translation in
his native tongue.
The present publication is more and at the same time less than a
translation; more, because it has been prepared for a different
class of readers than it was originally intended for; less, because
in some instances, and at one point especially, we thought we had
some reason to apply the pruning-knife to obnoxious excrescences,
as no doubt they would have proved in a new soil. The foot-notes
have either been added with a view to ensure a perfect understanding
on the part of the reader, or to secure for the little work as wide
a circulation as possible. So far with regard to its form, object,
and origin. There are the boundaries of our province.
A. V. W. B.
London, 1871.
TABLE OF CONTENTS.
ALEUTIC TIME
DISTRIBUTION-OF-WARM-AIR SOCIETY
VERRE SANS FIN
AGE OF ALUMINIUM
HELIOCHROMES
ENERGEIATHECS
NATIONAL LIBRARY
NINETEENTH-CENTURY BOOKS
COMPULSORY EDUCATION
GENEALOGICAL MUSEUM
SOLAR LIGHT
THE TELEPHON
GENERAL BALLOON COMPANY
TRAVELLING DIALECT
NO MORE WAR
FREE TRADE; UNIVERSAL LOCOMOTION
MODERN TELESCOPES
CHANNEL BRIDGE
NORTH HOLLAND SUBMERGED
UNIVERSITY EDUCATION
LOSS OF DUTCH COLONIES
RAILWAY NETS
GEOGRAPHICAL CHANGES IN EUROPE
ASTRONOMICAL OBSERVATORIES
CALCULATORIA
TIN MINES IN THE MOON
UNIVERSAL SUFFRAGE
ANTI 1-2 LEAGUE
WOMAN'S RIGHTS
THE NEW ZEALAND OF THE FUTURE
ANNO DOMINI 2071.
When comparing the present condition of society with that of past
centuries the question naturally arises, what will the future be?
Will the same progress which, in our own times especially, has been
of such vast dimensions, and manifested itself in so many directions,
continue to be progressive? And if so--for who could think of reaction,
since the art of printing has guarded against any furrow of the
human mind being ever effaced--where is to be the ultimate goal of
the progress of our successors? Where are we to look for the fruits
of those innumerable germs which the present generation is sowing
for the benefit of those that will come after them?
These, and similar other questions, occupied my mind when, seated
one afternoon in my comfortable arm-chair, I allowed my thoughts
freely to wander amid the manes of those that preceded us. I thought
of our own Musschenbroek, Gravesande, Huyghens, and Stevin, and of
what would be their surprise were they to reappear on this earth,
and gaze upon the marvellous works of modern machinery; I passed
in review a Newton and Galileo, with so many others, founders of an
edifice which they themselves would not now recognise. I thought of
steam engines and electric telegraphs, of railways and steamboats, of
mountain tunnels and suspension bridges, of photography and gasworks,
of the amazing strides lately made by chemistry, of telescopes and
microscopes, of diving bells and aeronautics; aye, and of a hundred
other things, which, in motley array, wildly crossed my mind,
though all corresponding in this that they loudly proclaimed the
vast and enormous difference between the present and the past. The
line of demarcation between the one and the other revealed itself
still more clearly to me as my thoughts carried me further back
into the past and the ghost of Roger Bacon seemed to rise before my
imagination. This thirteenth-century child was a scholar who surpassed
all his contemporaries in sound judgment and knowledge of natural
science; alas! his fate was the ordinary one in store for all those
whose light shone above that of others in those darkest of ages. He
was accused of witchcraft, and cast into a dungeon, there doomed to
sigh for ten weary years, after which, as the rumour goes, he died
in his prison. The memory of that illustrious man called to my mind
some passages of his writings, from which it will be seen how he,
as if endowed with the seer's gift, did actually foretell, some six
hundred years ago, that which since, and chiefly in our own time,
has become an array of realities. For example:
"It is possible," says he, "to construct spying-glasses by which the
most distant objects can be drawn near to us, so that we shall be
able to read the most minute writing at an almost incredible distance,
to see all kinds of diminutive objects, and to make the stars appear
wherever we choose."
"We might make waggons that could move along with great velocity,
and without being drawn by animals."
"Similar other machines might be had, as, for example, bridges without
pillars or supports of any kind."
"There might be contrivances for the purpose of navigation without
navigators, so that the greatest vessels would be handled by one
single man, and at the same time move onward with greater speed than
those with numerous crews." [1]
As I pondered over such remarkable observations as those, I sank
into absolute reverie; all surrounding objects seemed gradually to
disappear from my sight, until I got into that peculiar condition
in which, while everything material about us is at rest and passive,
the mind, on the contrary, proves uncommonly active and alert.
I felt myself suddenly in the midst of an immense city; where I
did not know, but about me I saw a vast square, and in it a stately
edifice with a lofty tower, on which I fancied I read the following
inscription:
A.D. 2071.
January 1st.
I could scarcely believe my own eyes, and must have approached the
tower with looks highly expressive of curiosity and amazement; for
an elderly gentleman, accompanied by a young lady, stepped forward
to speak to me. "I see, sir, that you are a stranger in Londinia;
if any information could be of service to you----"
These kind words caused me to stop; I looked at the man who stood
before me, and was at once struck and impressed by his thoughtful and
noble features. Nor was I slow in recognising him. He was the very
man with whom I had been for some time past engaged in my thoughts.
"You are Roger Bacon," said I.
"To be sure!" was his reply; "at the same time allow me the pleasure
of introducing you to this young lady friend of mine, Miss Phantasia."
I happened to be in that frame of mind to which one might apply the
Horatian nil mirari. Nothing of what I saw surprised me, not even
the appearance in the flesh of a man like Bacon, who had taken his
departure from our planet some five hundred years ago. I therefore
simply accepted his obliging offer, and began by asking for an
explanation of the figures and words on the tower.
"On yonder tower, over the clock-face?" answered he. "Why, that
means simply this, that we have arrived at the first day of the new
year 2071."
"But what is the time? I see so many hands and figures on the clock,
that I am perfectly bewildered."
"What kind of time is it you want to know?" asked he in reply; "true,
mean, or
Aleutic Time?
for each of these has its own set of hands and figures."
"I know full well," said I, "what true time is, also what is understood
by mean time, but what on earth is meant by aleutic time?"
"I will soon explain," spoke my obliging guide. "Since the whole
globe has been encircled by one large net of telegraph lines, and
wire messages, [2] whether east or westward bound, do the whole round
of our planet in a single moment, it has been found necessary to
adopt a kind of time that would apply to any spot of the earth; for
by some such contrivance alone was it possible to avoid a confusion
that would have been fatal in many cases, more especially in those
of commercial transactions, when the knowledge of the right time is
an object of no mean consideration. By mutual agreement the several
nations therefore selected the largest of the Aleutic islands, by way
of a neutral point or centre. When the sun rises on the east coast of
that island, then begins the world-day. Nor has the selection of the
neutral point been in any way an arbitrary one; for east and west of
the meridian which passes over that island are to be found those very
latitudes where the confusion of time was formerly at its height;
and for this reason, that according to their discovery having been
accomplished either from Europe in easterly direction round Africa,
or westward round America, one whole day had been lost or gained. Now
the consequence of this was, that in the islands of these latitudes
the inhabitants of the eastern coasts and those dwelling in the west
differed four-and-twenty hours in their calculations of time, owing
to the circumstance that they belonged to, or were descended from,
the one or the other ancient colony. The adoption of an Aleutic time
has put a stop to any such confusion."
Having thus endeavoured to satisfy my curiosity, my companion went on
to say: "Do come along with us; we shall have plenty of opportunity
to show you other matters of interest in the city of Londinia."
"Londinia? Is that the same as London?"
"Not quite; ancient London formed but a small portion of the present
city of Londinia. The latter occupies a considerable part of the
south-east of England, and has a population of something like twelve
millions."
As we continued our tour, I chanced to hit upon the trivial remark that
we had "very | 621.451088 |
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Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and David Widger
THE JUNGLE BOOK
By Rudyard Kipling
Contents
Mowgli's Brothers
Hunting-Song of the Seeonee Pack
Kaa's Hunting
Road-Song of the Bandar-Log
"Tiger! Tiger!"
Mowgli's Song
The White Seal
Lukannon
"Rikki-Tikki-Tavi"
Darzee's Chant
Toomai of the Elephants
Shiv and the Grasshopper
Her Majesty's Servants
Parade Song of the Camp Animals
Mowgli's Brothers
Now Rann the Kite brings home the night
That Mang the Bat sets free--
The herds are shut in byre and hut
For loosed till dawn are we.
This is the hour of pride and power,
Talon and tush and claw.
Oh, hear the call!--Good hunting all
That keep the Jungle Law!
Night-Song in the Jungle
It was seven o'clock of a very warm evening in the Seeonee hills when
Father Wolf woke up from his day's rest, scratched himself, yawned, and
spread out his paws one after the other to get rid of the sleepy feeling
in their tips. Mother Wolf lay with her big gray nose dropped across her
four tumbling, squealing cubs, and the moon shone into the mouth of the
cave where they all lived. "Augrh!" said Father Wolf. "It is time to
hunt again." He was going to spring down hill when a little shadow with
a bushy tail crossed the threshold and whined: "Good luck go with you, O
Chief of the Wolves. And good luck and strong white teeth go with noble
children that they may never forget the hungry in this world."
It was the jackal--Tabaqui, the Dish-licker--and the wolves of India
despise Tabaqui because he runs about making mischief, and telling
tales, and eating rags and pieces of leather from the village
rubbish-heaps. But they are afraid of him too, because Tabaqui, more
than anyone else in the jungle, is apt to go mad, and then he forgets
that he was ever afraid of anyone, and runs through the forest biting
everything in his way. Even the tiger runs and hides when little Tabaqui
goes mad, for madness is the most disgraceful thing that can overtake
a wild creature. We call it hydrophobia, but they call it dewanee--the
madness--and run.
"Enter, then, and look," said Father Wolf stiffly, "but there is no food
here."
"For a wolf, no," said Tabaqui, "but for so mean a person as myself a
dry bone is a good feast. Who are we, the Gidur-log [the jackal people],
to pick and choose?" He scuttled to the back of the cave, where he
found the bone of a buck with some meat on it, and sat cracking the end
merrily.
"All thanks for this good meal," he said, licking his lips. "How
beautiful are the noble children! How large are their eyes! And so young
too! Indeed, indeed, I might have remembered that the children of kings
are men from the beginning."
Now, Tabaqui knew as well as anyone else that there is nothing so
unlucky as to compliment children to their faces. It pleased him to see
Mother and Father Wolf look uncomfortable.
Tabaqui sat still, rejoicing in the mischief that he had made, and then
he said spitefully:
"Shere Khan, the Big One, has shifted his hunting grounds. He will hunt
among these hills for the next moon, so he has told me."
Shere Khan was the tiger who lived near the Waingunga River, twenty
miles away.
"He has no right!" Father Wolf began angrily--"By the Law of the Jungle
he has no right to change his quarters without due warning. He will
frighten every head of game within ten miles, and I--I have to kill for
two, these days."
"His mother did not call him Lungri [the Lame One] for nothing," said
Mother Wolf quietly. "He has been lame in one foot from his birth. That
is why he has only killed cattle. Now the villagers of the Waingunga are
angry with him, and he has come here to make our villagers angry.
They will scour the jungle for him when he is far away, and we and our
children must run when the grass is set alight. Indeed, we are very
grateful to Shere Khan!"
"Shall I tell him of your gratitude?" said Tabaqui.
"Out!" snapped Father Wolf. "Out and hunt with thy master. Thou hast
done harm enough for one night."
"I go," said Tabaqui quietly. "Ye can hear Shere Khan below in the
thickets. I might have saved myself the message."
Father Wolf listened, and below in the valley that ran down to a little
river he heard the dry, angry, snarly, singsong whine of a tiger who has
caught nothing and does not care if all the jungle knows it.
"The fool!" said Father Wolf. "To begin a night's work with that noise!
Does he think that our buck are like his fat Waingunga bullocks?"
"H'sh. It is neither bullock nor buck he hunts to-night," said Mother
Wolf. "It is Man."
The whine had changed to a sort of humming purr that seemed to come
from every quarter of the compass. It was the noise that bewilders
woodcutters and gypsies sleeping in the open, and makes them run
sometimes into the very mouth of the tiger.
"Man!" said Father Wolf, showing all his white teeth. "Faugh! Are there
not enough beetles and frogs in the tanks that he must eat Man, and on
our ground too!"
The Law of the Jungle, which never orders anything without a reason,
forbids every beast to eat Man except when he is killing to show his
children how to kill, and then he must hunt outside the hunting grounds
of his pack or tribe. The real reason for this is that man-killing
means, sooner or later, the arrival of white men on elephants, with
guns, and hundreds of brown men with gongs and rockets and torches.
Then everybody in the jungle | 621.538104 |
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Produced by Bill Brewer and Rick Fane
THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT
A NOVEL
By Zane Grey
CONTENTS
I. THE SIGN OF THE SUNSET
II. WHITE SAGE
III. THE TRAIL OF THE RED WALL
IV. THE OASIS
V. BLACK SAGE AND JUNIPER
VI. THE WIND IN THE CEDARS
VII. SILVERMANE
IX. THE SCENT OF DESERT-WATER
X. RIDING THE RANGES
XI. THE DESERT-HAWK
XII. ECHO CLIFFS
XIII. THE SOMBRE LINE
XIV. WOLF
XV. DESERT NIGHT
XVI. THUNDER RIVER
XVII. THE SWOOP OF THE HAWK
XVIII. THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT
XIX. UNLEASHED
XX. THE RAGE OF THE OLD LION
XXI. MESCAL
I. THE SIGN OF THE SUNSET
"BUT the man's almost dead."
The words stung John Hare's fainting spirit into life. He opened his
eyes. The desert still stretched before him, the appalling thing that
had overpowered him with its deceiving purple distance. Near by stood a
sombre group of men.
"Leave him here," said one, addressing a gray-bearded giant. "He's the
fellow sent into southern Utah to spy out the cattle thieves. He's all
but dead. Dene's outlaws are after him. Don't cross Dene."
The stately answer might have come from a Scottish Covenanter or a
follower of Cromwell.
"Martin Cole, I will not go a hair's-breadth out of my way for Dene or
any other man. You forget your religion. I see my duty to God."
"Yes, August Naab, I know," replied the little man, bitterly. "You would
cast the Scriptures in my teeth, and liken this man to one who went down
from Jerusalem to Jericho and fell among thieves. But I've suffered
enough at the hands of Dene."
The formal speech, the Biblical references, recalled to the reviving
Hare that he was still in the land of the Mormons. As he lay there the
strange words of the Mormons linked the hard experience of the last few
days with the stern reality of the present.
"Martin Cole, I hold to the spirit of our fathers," replied Naab, like
one reading from the Old Testament. "They came into this desert land to
worship and multiply in peace. They conquered the desert; they prospered
with the years that brought settlers, cattle-men, sheep-herders, all
hostile to their religion and their livelihood. Nor did they ever fail
to succor the sick and unfortunate. What are our toils and perils
compared to theirs? Why should we forsake the path of duty, and turn
from mercy because of a cut-throat outlaw? I like not the sign of the
times, but I am a Mormon; I trust in God."
"August Naab, I am a Mormon too," returned Cole, "but my hands are
stained with blood. Soon yours will be if you keep your water-holes and
your cattle. Yes, I know. You're strong, stronger than any of us, far
off in your desert oasis, hemmed in by walls, cut off by canyons,
guarded by your Navajo friends. But Holderness is creeping slowly on
you. He'll ignore your water rights and drive your stock. Soon Dene will
steal cattle under your very eyes. Don't make them enemies."
"I can't pass by this helpless man," rolled out August Naab's sonorous
voice.
Suddenly, with livid face and shaking hand, Cole pointed westward.
"There! Dene and his band! See, under the red wall; see the dust, not
ten miles away. See them?"
The desert, gray in the foreground, purple in the distance, sloped to
the west. Eyes keen as those of hawks searched the waste, and followed
the red mountain rampart, which, sheer in bold height and processional
in its craggy sweep, shut out the north. Far away little puffs of dust
rose above the white sage, and creeping specks moved at a snail's pace.
"See them? Ah! then look, August Naab, look in the heavens above for my
prophecy," cried Cole, fanatically. "The red sunset--the sign of the
times--blood!"
A broad bar of dense black shut out the April sky, except in the extreme
west, where a strip of pale blue formed background for several clouds of
striking color and shape. They alone, in all that expanse, were dyed in
the desert's sunset crimson. The largest projected from behind the dark
cloud-bank in the shape of a huge fist, and the others, small and round,
floated below. To Cole it seemed a giant hand, clutching, with
inexorable strength, a bleeding heart. His terror spread to his
companions as they stared.
Then, as light surrendered to shade, the sinister color faded; the
tracing of the closed hand softened; flush and glow paled, leaving the
sky purple, as if mirroring the desert floor. One golden shaft shot up,
to be blotted out by sudden darkening change, and the sun had set.
"That may be God's will," said August Naab. "So be it. Martin Cole, take
your men and go."
There was a word, half oath, half prayer, and then rattle of stirrups,
the creak of saddles, and clink of spurs, followed by the driving rush
of fiery horses. Cole and his men disappeared in a pall of yellow dust.
A wan smile lightened John Hare's face as he spoke weakly: "I fear your-
-generous act--can't save me... may bring you harm. I'd rather you left
me--seeing you have women in your party."
"Don't try to talk yet," said August Naab. "You're faint. Here--drink."
He stooped to Hare, who was leaning against a sage-bush, and held a
flask to his lips. Rising, he called to his men: "Make camp, sons. We've
an hour before the outlaws come up, and if they don't go round the sand-
dune we'll have longer."
Hare's flagging senses rallied, and he forgot himself in wonder. While
the bustle went on, unhitching of wagon-teams, hobbling and feeding of
horses, unpacking of camp-supplies, Naab appeared to be lost in deep
meditation or prayer. Not once did he glance backward over the trail on
which peril was fast approaching. His gaze was fastened on a ridge to
the east where desert line, fringed by stunted cedars, met the pale-blue
sky, and for a long time he neither spoke nor stirred. At length he
turned to the camp-fire; he raked out red coals, and placed the iron
pots in position, by way of assistance to the women who were preparing
the evening meal.
A cool wind blew in from the desert, rustling the sage, sifting the
sand, fanning the dull coals to burning opals. Twilight failed and night
fell; one by one great stars shone out, cold and bright. From the zone
of blackness surrounding the camp burst the short bark, the hungry
whine, the long-drawn-out wail of desert wolves.
"Supper, sons," called Naab, as he replenished the fire with an armful
of grease-wood.
Naab's sons had his stature, though not his bulk. They were wiry, rangy
men, young, yet somehow old. The desert had multiplied their years. Hare
could not have told one face from another, the bronze skin and steel eye
and hard line of each were so alike. The women, one middle-aged, the
others young, were of comely, serious aspect.
"Mescal," called the Mormon.
A slender girl slipped from one of the covered wagons; she was dark,
supple, straight as an Indian.
August Naab dropped to his knees, and, as the members of his family
bowed their heads, he extended his hands over them and over the food
laid on the ground.
"Lord, we kneel in humble thanksgiving. Bless this food to our use.
Strengthen us, guide us, keep us as Thou hast in the past. Bless this
stranger within our gates. Help us to help him. Teach us Thy ways, O
Lord--Amen."
Hare found himself flushing and thrilling, found himself unable to
control a painful binding in his throat. In forty-eight hours he had
learned to hate the Mormons unutterably; here, in the presence of this
austere man, he felt that hatred wrenched from his heart, and in its
place stirred something warm and living. He was glad, for if he had to
die, as he believed, either from the deed of evil men, or from this last
struggle of his wasted body, he did not want to die in bitterness. That
simple prayer recalled the home he had long since left in Connecticut,
and the time when he used to tease his sister and anger his father and
hurt his mother while grace was being said at the breakfast-table. Now
he was alone in the world, sick and dependent upon the kindness of these
strangers. But they were really friends--it was a wonderful thought.
"Mescal, wait on the stranger," said August Naab, and the girl knelt
beside him, tendering meat and drink. His nerveless fingers refused to
hold the cup, and she put it to his lips while he drank. Hot coffee
revived him; he ate and grew stronger, and readily began to talk when
the Mormon asked for his story.
"There isn't much to tell. My name is Hare. I am twenty-four. My parents
are dead. I came West because the doctors said I couldn't live in the
East. At first I got better. But my money gave out and work became a
necessity. I tramped from place to place, ending up ill in Salt Lake
City. People were kind to me there. Some one got me a job with a big
cattle company, and sent me to Marysvale, southward over the bleak
plains. It was cold; I was ill when I reached Lund. Before I even knew
what my duties were for at Lund I was to begin work--men called me a
spy. A fellow named Chance threatened me. An innkeeper led me out the
back way, gave me bread and water, and said: 'Take this road to Bane;
it's sixteen miles. If you make it some one'll give you a lift North.' I
walked all night, and all the next day. Then I wandered on till I
dropped here where you found me."
"You missed the road to Bane," said Naab. "This is the trail to White
Sage. It's a trail of sand and stone that leaves no tracks, a lucky
thing for you. Dene wasn't in Lund while you were there--else you
wouldn't be here. He hasn't seen you, and he can't be certain of your
trail. Maybe he rode to Bane, but still we may find a way--"
One of his sons whistled low, causing Naab to rise slowly, to peer into
the darkness, to listen intently.
"Here, get up," he said, extending a hand to Hare. "Pretty shaky, eh?
Can you walk? Give me a hold--there.... Mescal, come." The slender girl
obeyed, gliding noiselessly like a shadow. "Take his arm." Between them
they led Hare to a jumble of stones on the outer edge of the circle of
light.
"It wouldn't do to hide," continued Naab, lowering his | 621.645742 |
2023-11-16 18:27:25.8616320 | 7,436 | 11 |
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[Transcriber's Note: Every effort has been made to replicate this
text as faithfully as possible, including obsolete and variant
spellings and other inconsistencies. Text that has been changed to
correct an obvious error is noted at the end of this ebook.]
How Canada was Won
A Tale of Wolfe and Quebec
BY
CAPTAIN F. S. BRERETON
Author of "With Wolseley to Kumasi" "Jones of the 64th"
"With Roberts to Candahar" "A Soldier of Japan"
"Roger the Bold" &c. &c.
_ILLUSTRATED BY WILLIAM RAINEY, R.I._
LONDON: BLACKIE & SON, LIMITED
THE COPP CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED
TORONTO
[Illustration: STEVE AND MAC CAPTURING THE FRENCH GUNS]
_Copyright, 1908, in the United States, America,
by H. M. Caldwell Co._
_Published simultaneously in Great Britain and
the United States._
Contents
CHAP. Page
I. THE CAMP ON THE RIVER 9
II. FRENCH OUTLAWS AND ROBBERS 25
III. FLIGHT BY NIGHT 43
IV. STEVE MAKES A SUGGESTION 61
V. JULES LAPON IS DISAPPOINTED 79
VI. LEFT IN CHARGE 97
VII. THE ALLEGHANY RAIDERS 115
VIII. A QUESTION OF TERRITORY 133
IX. GEORGE WASHINGTON SPEAKS 152
X. STEVE AND HIS BAND OF SCOUTS 174
XI. HELD UP! 194
XII. GENEROSITY TO THE FOE 215
XIII. A TRAITOR IN THE CAMP 238
XIV. STEVE MEETS AN OLD ENEMY 254
XV. OFF TO QUEBEC 275
XVI. THE RETURN OF THE HURONS 296
XVII. DOWN THE MIGHTY ST. LAWRENCE 315
XVIII. THE ATTACK ON LOUISBOURG 334
XIX. WOLFE MAKES HIS LAST ATTEMPT 359
XX. THE PLAINS OF ABRAHAM 379
Illustrations
Page
STEVE AND MAC CAPTURING THE FRENCH GUNS _Frontispiece_ 220
"THE INDIAN WAS UPON HIM, HIS KEEN TOMAHAWK GLEAMING
IN HIS HAND" 36
"'COME NEARER THAT I MAY KILL YOU EASILY,' HE SAID" 65
"STEVE RESTED HIS BARREL IN THE FORK OF A DWARFED
TREE" 125
STEVE AND MAC DISCOVER THE WOUNDED FRENCH OFFICER 235
"WHEN HE CAME TO HIMSELF AGAIN, HE WAS BEING
CARRIED ON THE SHOULDERS OF FOUR INDIANS" 253
"WE SEEK A PALE FACE WHO HAS BROKEN AWAY FROM
THE CITY" 312
"IN ANOTHER SECOND HE HAD BAYONETTED THE FRENCHMAN" 349
MAP OF CANADA AND OUR AMERICAN COLONY IN 1755 137
MAP OF THE TRIANGULAR ROUTE BETWEEN CANADA AND
OUR AMERICAN COLONY, 1755 335
MAP OF QUEBEC IN 1759 365
Chapter I
The Camp on the River
"Waal? What did yer see? Clear, I reckon."
Jim Hardman looked up swiftly as a couple of tall figures came
silently into the clearing in the centre of which the camp fire
burned, and he paused for a moment in the task which occupied him.
He was squatting on his heels, after the fashion of the Indians and
of all backwoodsmen, and was engaged in cleaning the long barrel
of his musket, turning the weapon over with loving care, as if it
were a child to whom he was devoted. Indeed Jim had no more faithful
friend or servant. For this long musket had been his companion on
many and many a hunting and prospecting expedition during the past
twenty years. He scarcely ever laid it down, but carried it the day
long, usually ready in his hands, or when the times were peaceful and
quiet, slung across his slender shoulders. Jim could tell tales of
how this faithful weapon had brought down buffalo and deer and many
another animal, and had helped him to gather the stores of skins in
exchange for which he obtained those few luxuries which his simple
nature needed. In his more communicative moods he could narrate how
the bullets which he had moulded with the aid of a hot camp fire and
a supply of lead had been directed against men, against the fierce
Indian inhabitants of this Ohio valley, who for years past had waged a
ceaseless and pitiless warfare against all white invaders of their old
hunting grounds.
Indeed, "Hunting" Jim, as he was styled and known by all the
backwoodsmen in those parts, had need to care for his weapon, for
without it he would be lost, and his life would be at the mercy of the
first redskin who crossed his path.
"Waal?" he repeated, in his backwoods drawl, as he vigorously rubbed
at the shining barrel. "Reckon we're through 'em. There ain't a one in
sight. Ef there is, Steve and Silver Fox'll know all about 'em."
He looked with approval at his weapon, and getting to his feet he
slung it across his shoulders. Then he stepped softly across to the
fire, and bending over it, pushed the long ramrod suspended over
the embers a little farther on to the forked sticks which held it.
A couple of pieces of bear meat were skewered upon the rod, and had
been frizzling there for the past quarter of an hour. Now, as they
were placed right over the heat they set up a low-voiced but merry
tune, while an appetizing odour assailed the nostrils of the two
who had come to the camp. One of these two was without doubt a Red
Indian, for he was decked elaborately after the custom of his race;
his face was freely daubed with paint, which gave him a hideous and
cruel appearance that a feathered head-dress served to increase. He
was a tall, broad-shouldered man, with long, sinewy arms and legs, and
gave one the impression that he was in perfect condition and trained
to stand the utmost hardship. He nodded to Jim, and took his place
in front of the fire, squatted on his heels, and stared silently at
the embers. A minute later he opened his lips and spoke in the Indian
tongue, his gaze still fixed on the fire.
"My brothers can sleep and eat in peace and contentment," he said,
in tones which were dignified and not unmusical. "Silver Fox and the
pale-face youth whom you call Steve, but known to us as Hawk, for
his eyes are keen, keener even than are mine or my brother's,--have
been through the forest and have watched the river. Our enemies have
gone, vanished into the woods. We know this for certain, for we came
upon their track. They were journeying towards the head waters of the
river."
It was a long speech for Silver Fox, and having delivered it, he
felt for the buckskin bag in which he carried his precious store of
tobacco, filled his pipe and set fire to the weed by taking one of the
burning sticks in his long, thin fingers and lifting it to the bowl.
Meanwhile his companion, who had emerged with him from the thick
forest which surrounded the camp, advanced to the fire, sniffed
appreciatively, and glanced at the meat which frizzled over the
flames, in a manner which showed that the sight was a pleasant one.
Then he slipped his musket from his shoulders, and stood for a moment
to his full height, thoughtfully regarding Silver Fox and Hunting
Jim. He, too, was tall and lissom. From the top of his <DW53>-skin cap
to the bottom of his soft moccasins he measured a good six feet. He
was dressed in a leather shirt elaborately fringed, as was the habit
with all hunters, while his legs were encased in fringed leather
leggings and in soft moccasins, all of which he had manufactured from
skins he himself had obtained. Stephen Mainwaring looked a typical
backwoodsman, and as the sun struck upon his well-developed figure,
upon his open face, all tanned with long exposure to the wind and the
weather, and upon his strong brown arms and hands, even his bitterest
enemy would have been forced to admit that he was a fine young fellow,
that there was as much strength in his face, in that square, resolute
chin, and in those steady, fearless-looking eyes as could well be
found, and that his whole appearance gave promise of honesty, a
sterling good nature, and a temper which was not to be easily ruffled.
Had there been any doubt on the last point Steve's joviality on this
fine summer's morning would soon have set the matter at rest. He might
only that moment have risen from his blanket, so fresh and gay was
he, and no one would have dreamed that he and Silver Fox had been
tramping the forest since night had fallen, scouting for an enemy
whom they and their comrades had good cause to fear. He sat down
suddenly, dragged off his soaked moccasins, and his <DW53>-skin hat,
which glistened with the heavy dew that had fallen upon it, and placed
them close to the embers. Then he turned a jovial face to Jim.
"Waal, I reckon you can smoke that ere pipe of yours with ease and
comfort, Jim," he sang out, imitating exactly the drawl of the
huntsman. "Reckon Silver Fox and I can eat jest all we're able to get
our fingers on, and can then put in a bit of sleep. There ain't no
Injuns this side of forty mile away."
He laughed merrily as Jim looked severely at him, and taking the
ramrod in his hand, turned it so as to expose the farther side of the
meat to the heat.
"All's clear," he went on suddenly, in his natural tones, speaking in
a manner which showed that though he looked a typical backwoodsman he
had had an education, and as regards his conversation, was fit to mix
with the gentry of New York, or those of Boston or Charlestown, or
even with those of London itself.
"That's a lad for yer, Judge," said Jim, scowling playfully at Steve,
and then turning to one of the other figures standing or sitting about
the camp. "This Hawk gets born out in the settlements and gets took
straight away right into the backwoods. He larns to sit a scrawny pony
when he's no higher than a dozen piled-up dollars, and to shoot a gun
when he ain't got the strength to stand up to the jar one of these
muskets gives. Reckon I've seen him knocked endways with the kick many
and many a time."
He looked for an answer, and waited while the broad-shouldered
backwoodsman whom he addressed sat up and stared thoughtfully back at
him and then at Steve, who squatted by the fire. "Judge" Mainwaring,
as he was usually styled, was a big-boned, burly man, bearded and as
rugged as the oaks which grew in the wood. His eyes were deep-set and
thoughtful, and he had the air of a man who reflects, who says little,
and that only after due consideration. Indeed Judge Mainwaring had a
reputation for wisdom in the backwoods. No man was more respected in
the neighbourhood of the Mohawk country, and there was no more skilful
hunter, no more courageous Indian tracker than this big man. He spoke
seldom, and then always to the point, and in a manner which proved
that he had at one time been very different from these rough, honest
fellows of the backwoods with whom he now spent his days. Jim and his
comrades had had a talk about Tom Mainwaring or the Judge, many and
many a time, and had even endeavoured to worm some of his history from
him. But always without success.
"Reckon we'd better shut up," said Jim, after one of these many
conversations, when he and Judge and some five others had been
gathered at Tom Mainwaring's log hut in the backwoods. "He don't mean
to tell whar he's from, nor what he was, and small blame to him. He's
here, stout and plucky, a good shot, and jest the fiercest hater I
knows of them varmint of redskins. Reckon that's enough."
"And need he's had to hate them too," another had added. "Reckon Judge
don't care for much after the boy, than to get even with them varmint."
That was indeed the case. No one knew Tom Mainwaring's history, or
could even conjecture where he came from, what calling he had followed
or what his fortunes had been. To the many questions with which he had
at first been bombarded he had replied shortly and with perfect good
temper, but in such a manner that none of those who were so curious
were any the wiser. Yes, he knew Boston, and New York, and London.
He had lived in all three, and he knew France. That was as far as he
could or would go, and the settlers who had picked their holdings in
the Ohio valley, to the south of the giant lakes of Erie and Ontario,
had to be content. He had come to them one fine spring time, a silent
man, bringing a wife and a young son on the back of the one horse
which he led. He had set up his log hut like the rest, and had fished
and shot, and exchanged his pelts for the few necessaries required by
these pioneers of the American forests beyond the Alleghany Mountains.
His wife was French, that they knew for a fact; while Judge, and in
due course Steve also, could speak the language fluently. But where
he came from, why this educated man, who lacked nothing, not even
dollars, for it was an open secret that he had abundant means,--should
come to the backwoods and there bury himself and his wife and boy none
could imagine. But it was apparent that, whatever the reason was, Tom
Mainwaring had no need to be ashamed of it. His honest dealings with
others, his high principles, and the manner in which he had devoted
himself to the education of his boy had proved over and over again
that whatever the mystery, there was nothing about it that could call
a blush of shame to his cheeks.
As to his undying hate of the Indians, that was easily explained.
After all, he did not differ very much in that from the few neighbours
who surrounded him. But he had undoubtedly more cause for hatred.
That same mystery which was for ever a source of wondering curiosity
to these rough pioneers of the forest, took Tom Mainwaring over the
Alleghany mountains once in a while in the direction of the American
coast. Perhaps he went to New York, perhaps to Boston, and it was
even possible, seeing that on occasion he had been absent for six
months, that he had been to England--wherever he went, one of these
journeys had caused him to leave his wife and child in the care of
friendly neighbours, and during his absence these unhappy people had
been raided by the relentless Indians, the women of the party had been
killed, while Steve and one other who happened to be picking berries
in the forest, had alone escaped.
"Reckon that air enough to set any man who is a man agin the varmint,"
Jim had said long ago. "Judge ain't been the same sence he come back
to find the boy alone, and the wife killed and scalped. He's got
kinder hard and fierce, and don't them Injuns know it! And now that
Steve's got big and grown, and able to look for hisself, the log hut
ain't no more use to Judge. Reckon he's happier on the trail."
"There's a lad for yer, Judge," repeated Jim. "Listen to his sauce.
He ain't no respect for his betters now that he's got the knack of
shootin'."
"It's his spirit, Jim," replied Tom Mainwaring, looking with kindling
eye at Steve, and relaxing so far as to smile. "He can use his tongue
as well as he can shoot. So all is clear, Steve?"
"Yes, all clear, father. Silver Fox and I trailed round the camp far
out, and never came upon a track till early. That hunting tribe that
got on to our trace yesterday has given the matter up, and there's
no one to harm us anywhere near. We struck a party of Mohawks up the
river. They're watching the borders."
"And good need they'll have, too," said Tom with emphasis. "I think
there was never such a time as this for raids and murders. We have to
thank the French and their Indians for that."
There was silence for a while in the camp, Steve nodding to Silver Fox
and chatting in low tones as soon as the meat was cooked, while Jim
and Tom stared at the embers, both engrossed with their own thoughts.
And while the two at the fire discuss their breakfast of bear's
meat, and the two sturdy backwoodsmen stare at the embers and think,
let us take a closer look at the camp to which we have already been
introduced, and at its surroundings.
It was pitched in a small natural clearing on the Mohawk river, a
little before its junction with the Hudson, at the mouth of which New
York is situated. Not the New York of to-day, with its regular streets
and avenues, its towering buildings, well-named "sky-scrapers,"
its gigantic hotels, its tenement dwellings and its mansions where
millionaires hide from the inquisitive eyes of the people; but the
New York of the year 1756, with many Dutch among the inhabitants, who
still clung to the city which had once been theirs, but at that time
belonged to the English. New York with its smaller and, compared with
modern days, unpretentious dwellings above which the only thing that
towered was the steeple of the church. South and west of the camp
where Steve and his comrades rested was Albany, an up-country Dutch
settlement, which boasted many wealthy and aristocratic Dutch, and
offered always a means whereby the hunters and trappers of English
descent could barter the pelts which they had collected during the
previous winter. It was whispered, too, that here, in this quiet
Albany, tenanted by Puritan Dutch, French _voyageurs_, and _coureurs
de bois_, the backwoodsmen and trappers of that portion of Northern
America then owned by France, and now known as Canada, were able to
sell the loot obtained from the numerous English settlements which
they and their Indian helpers had attacked and captured.
For there was war between the colonial French and the colonial
English, and for some little time now the two nations had been engaged
in a cruel frontier struggle. In Europe, however, France and England
were outwardly at peace, so far as those in America knew, though
the spring of the year above mentioned saw England's patience at
last destroyed, and a formal declaration of war made. Still, these
backwoodsmen had no notion of that, nor had the numerous French
_voyageurs_ and soldiers who had come across Lake Erie and had marched
down into the valley of the Ohio. That was the disputed ground, where
the bold English pioneers had settled their log huts and taken up
holdings, believing themselves to be on British soil. And now hordes
of French, accompanied by their priests and by thousands of Indians,
were pushing south and west, were expelling the British colonists, and
too often were exterminating them.
No wonder Hunting Jim and Judge Mainwaring and their comrades took
precautions against surprise. They were in a country which was overrun
by enemies, and since they had set out from their settlement ten days
before, they had observed the greatest caution. The huge birch bark
canoe in which they had paddled down the Mohawk had never left the
centre of that stream, save when night had fallen, and always two of
the party had had their eyes glued on the tree-covered banks. In rear
of them, piled high in a second canoe, which was attached to the one
they paddled, were their pelts, a big store of valuable skins, for
which they hoped to obtain a good exchange. It was guarded by one of
the two Mohawk Indians who accompanied them, and who sat at the stern,
musket in hand.
And so for ten days they had travelled, their camp settled in some
clearing at night, sometimes without a fire, for the smoke or the
glare would have brought a host about them, and always with two of
their number out in the woods keeping careful guard. But now they were
safe. It was seldom that French _voyageurs_ had penetrated into the
English settlements as far as this, while their Indian allies stood
in fear of the six united tribes of redskins situated hereabouts, and
known as the Iroquois.
About the camp trees clustered thickly, pines and oaks, maple and
birch, while scattered here and there amongst the trunks were
whortleberry and cranberry bushes, honeysuckle, wild rose trees and
bracken. In many and many a spot the scarlet tupelo and the sumac
grew bright against the green, with purple asters and balm, and the
delicate blue flower of the gentian to keep them company.
A narrow exit led to the Mohawk river, glistening in the sun, and
reflecting the deep green of its forest boundaries in deep pools,
where the stream ran sluggishly, and where the surface was broken
every now and again by the sudden rising of a fish. Wild rice grew
in banks at the water's edge, while clusters of the resin plant and
of wild lilies could be seen by those who cared to look for them. No
wonder that Steve Mainwaring looked fresh and jolly, for these were
the surroundings in which he had passed his seventeen years, without
a care, save the loss of his mother, which he was too young at the
time to realize, and with that spice of danger about him which has
drawn men of every race and creed to such parts. Steve knew the forest
by heart, could tell the difference between the sharp call of the
chickadee and the blue bird, and the howl of fox or wolf. No Indian
was more conversant with the secrets of nature than he, and none
was more at home in the heart of these forest wildernesses. It was,
indeed, his home, and he was never happier than when on the trail.
"Reckon ef we get away within an hour we'll fetch up at Albany before
the dark comes," said Jim at length, as he watched Steve and Silver
Fox eating. "We'll give yer that time for a smoke, young feller, and
then strike camp. Jest raise Mac and that 'ere Talkin' Baar."
He nodded across the camp to the far corner where two figures lay
beneath blankets, sleeping lightly. That they were easily roused was
clear, for as Steve and his companion had come into the clearing
they sat up, only to snuggle under their blankets again. But as Jim
called out the name of Talking Bear, one of the figures started into a
sitting position, followed by the second.
"We'll be on the road in an hour," explained Jim. "Reckon you two have
had a sleep, and ken help me and Judge to get the canoes afloat and
the pelts packed into 'em. Rouse yerself, Mac. Never did see such a
man for sleep."
"And, faith, niver did Oi set eyes on a man what spoke so much. Sleep
did ye say? Sure it's these last two hours Oi've been lyin' alongside
of Talking Bear, wid me eyes tight shut, thrying to get off and drame.
But ye talk so much, Huntin' Jim. Ye'd kape a regimint awhake, so ye
would."
The Irishman roused himself with a growl, and throwing off his
blanket, strode over to Jim and shook his fist in his face, a broad
grin setting his lips wide asunder, and showing a set of strong teeth
which were somewhat blackened with constant use of his pipe. He was
short and sturdy, and in spite of the severeness of his hunting dress,
which was identical with those worn by his comrades, he presented a
comical appearance. His skin cap had fallen off, and showed a shock
head of very brilliant red hair, continuing down his cheeks to his
chin, where it ended in a straggling beard of the same vivid colour.
Indeed, Mac was not good-looking, but he had a pair of genial,
kindly eyes, and was a merry fellow, whose jests and laughter kept
the spirits of his fellows from falling. Once upon a time he had
worn a uniform, and had fought for his country. Then he had come to
America, and by degrees had drifted to the Alleghany settlements, from
which his fondness for danger and adventure had attracted him to the
backwoods. And here he was, boon companion to Jim and the Judge, a
staunch man in the fight, as merry and as light-hearted as a child.
"Will ye niver larn to keep yer tongue in betwixt yer teeth, Huntin'
Jim?" he asked, severely, shaking his fist within an inch of the black
bowl which Jim held between his teeth. "Begorra! Take a lisson from
the Judge. Reckon he's that silent folks can sleep and take their
rest. Git up wid yerself and lind a hand."
He made a sudden dive at Jim's shoulder, and swung him to his feet,
for Mac was very powerful. Then, still shaking his fist at the
grinning backwoodsman, he hustled him down to the banks of the river.
And from there their laughter and their shouts came back to the camp,
while Steve watched their antics. Then Silver Fox handed him his
tobacco, and soon they were smoking and staring at the embers, now and
again exchanging words in the Mohawk language. Presently a shout from
Mac told that the canoes were laden, and at the summons Silver Fox
and his brother, a painted and bedecked Indian like himself, gathered
their blankets about their shoulders, took up their muskets, and
trailed off down to the bank, leaving Steve and his father to stamp
out the fire, to look round for any forgotten trifle, and then to
follow.
"Talkin' Baar's turn for the canoe with the pelts," said Jim, taking
the lead. "Me and you'll paddle, Judge, while this 'ere critter of
yours and Silver Fox keeps an eye on the banks. Hop in easy thar. Mac,
I quite forgot you war there. Slip in in front of me. Now, off we go."
They pushed out into the river, and took to their paddles. That
evening, just before darkness fell, they pulled into the shore where
the township of Albany was situated, and having found a suitable spot,
made for the land. A fire was soon blazing, and within a little while
they were eating. When the moon got up that night and rode high in the
heavens above them, it looked down upon a silent camp, upon the dying
embers of a fire, and upon five silent figures stretched on the ground
and hidden beneath their blankets. Within a few feet of their heads
stood one solitary figure, erect and motionless, swathed in a blanket.
The long barrel of a musket stood up stark against the moon, while
the brilliant light showed up the features of Talking Bear, alert and
watchful, as careful here of the safety of his pale-face brothers as
he would have been in the heart of a hostile country.
Chapter II
French Outlaws and Robbers
"We won't waste no time in gettin' rid of them pelts," said Hunting
Jim, early on the following morning, as the little party sat about
their fire, which was close to the bank of the Hudson river and within
a few yards of the nearest house. "I don't reckon Albany's much of a
place fer us jest now. There's the French up by Lake George, and a
Dutchman I struck at sunrise, a chap as round as a barrel; guessed
that they or their Injuns might hop in here any time. What do yer say,
Judge?"
"We need not fear them," was the calm answer, given after more than a
minute's silence. "They will hardly dare to raid this place, for at
the present time they are doing their utmost to conciliate the Dutch
and win them over to their own side. The same may be said of the
Indians. You see, boys, we colonists are far more numerous than the
French, though they are far better led and organised. Our people seem
to devote all their time to squabbling amongst themselves."
"While the poor white critters out in the woods gets scalped by
fifties and hundreds. Reckon that's a shame," growled Jim. "But about
these pelts."
"Lave it to Steve," burst in Mac, putting his strong fingers through
his shock head of tousled hair. "He's our shopman, so he is, and faith
he'll get as big a price as any. Bigger, me bhoy, so lave it to him."
"You're right, Mac. Steve's the boy," Jim agreed, with a nod, while
Tom Mainwaring smiled approvingly as his son's name was mentioned.
"Yer see, that thar feller Schiller's as hard as a stone I reckon,
and when it comes to a deal with me, or you, Mac, he jest twists us
kinder round his finger. He knows we ain't got no other market, and so
he jest offers what'd be a fair price for a dozen of the skins. Then,
if we looks disgusted, as like as not he'll put a little extry to his
price as a kind of bait. Reckon he's 'cute. He knows we've got to take
his stuff or well nigh starve before we reach another settlement. I've
felt often that I was being robbed by the skunk, but what air a man to
do? Refuse did yer say, Mac?"
"That's so, me bhoy. Indade ye wouldn't be giving the pelts away, so
ye wouldn't."
"Then jest you try that 'ere game," exclaimed Jim, somewhat hotly.
"That chap Schiller's got the broadest back and the coolest temper
I ever saw. It's what he offers or nothing. If you ain't pleased,
he jest gets up from his chair and starts to walk into his house.
Reckon a fellow can't stand that. He's got to soften and give way. But
Steve's the boy. Steve, will yer trade with this 'ere Schiller?"
"Ready and willing, Jim," was the tall lad's eager answer. "I did it
last time, and I'll try again on this occasion. But mind you, you must
back me up."
"We'll do that," sang out Jim. "Then bring them pelts along."
They went to the pile of skins, and each taking a load, marched into
the town of Albany, leaving Tom Mainwaring and the Indians to guard
the camp. And a strange procession they made as they came along the
wide street, past the prosperous Dutch houses and the well-dressed and
comfortable-looking owners. Not that they attracted much attention,
for hunters and trappers were a common sight in the streets of Albany
in those days, and pelts often exchanged hands there.
To the trapper, the tough and hardy woodsman who had been scouring
the forest during the winter and late summer before, hunting game
and caring for the skins, this visit to Albany was one of no small
importance. This expedition and the stores he would obtain were a
source of interest and expectation during the long cold months, and
the trade he could do was of no small importance. For each skin meant
so much in the way of powder, so much lead, or perhaps a new musket.
With the goods he obtained he went back to his log hut, and by dint of
great care managed to eke them out over the winter. As for the trader
who took the pelts, he found an eager market for them in New York, and
made a huge profit over the transaction.
Bearing their pelts on their shoulders, with their muskets in full
evidence, and the blades of their keen tomahawks glittering beneath
their belts, the three trappers marched down the | 621.881672 |
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Produced by Geoff Horton and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
PARADOXES OF CATHOLICISM
BY ROBERT HUGH BENSON
_These sermons (which the following pages contain in a much abbreviated
form) were delivered, partly in England in various places and at various
times, partly in New York in the Lent of 1912, and finally, as a
complete course, in the church of S. Silvestro-in-Capite, in Rome, in
the Lent of 1913. Some of the ideas presented in this book have already
been set out in a former volume entitled "Christ in the Church" and a
few in the meditations upon the Seven Words, in another volume, but in
altogether other connexions. The author thought it better, therefore, to
risk repetition rather than incoherency in the present set of
considerations. It is hoped that the repetitions are comparatively few.
Italics have been used for all quotations, whether verbal or
substantial, from Holy Scripture and other literature_.
ROBERT HUGH BENSON
HARE STREET HOUSE, BUNTINGFORD
EASTER, 1913
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTORY
(i) JESUS CHRIST, GOD AND MAN
(ii) THE CATHOLIC CHURCH, DIVINE AND HUMAN
I PEACE AND WAR
II WEALTH AND POVERTY
III SANCTITY AND SIN
IV JOY AND SORROW
V LOVE OF GOD AND LOVE OF MAN
VI FAITH AND REASON
VII AUTHORITY AND LIBERTY
VIII CORPORATENESS AND INDIVIDUALISM
IX MEEKNESS AND VIOLENCE
X THE SEVEN WORDS
XI LIFE AND DEATH
PAR | 621.967921 |
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Produced by Curtis A. Weyant, Charles Franks and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.
CATHERINE BOOTH
A SKETCH
_Reprinted from The Warriors' Library_
BY
COLONEL MILDRED DUFF
WITH A PREFACE BY
GENERAL BRAMWELL BOOTH
PREFACE
Colonel Duff has, at my request, written the following very interesting
and touching account of my dear Mother; and she has done so in the hope
that those who read it will be helped to follow in the footsteps of that
wonderful servant of God.
But how can they do so? Was not Mrs. Booth, you ask, an exceptional
woman? Had she not great gifts and very remarkable powers, and was she
not trained in a very special way to do the work to which God called her?
How, then, can ordinary people follow in her steps? Let me tell you.
Mrs. Booth walked with God. When she was only a timid girl, helping her
mother in the household, she continually sought after Him; and when, in
later years, she became known by multitudes, and was written of in the
newspapers, and greatly beloved by the good in many lands, there was no
difference in her life in that matter. She was not content with being
Mrs. General Booth of The Salvation Army, and with being looked upon as a
great and good woman, giving her life to bless others. No! she listened
daily for God's voice in her own heart, sought after His will, and leaned
continually for strength and grace upon her Saviour. You can be like her
in that.
Mrs. Booth was a soul-winner. A little while before her spirit passed
into the presence of God, and when she knew that death was quite near to
her, she said: 'Tell the Soldiers that the great consolation for a
Salvationist on his dying bed is to feel that he has been a soul-winner.'
Wherever she went--in the houses of strangers as well as of friends | 622.04566 |
2023-11-16 18:27:26.0277360 | 1,375 | 13 | The Project Gutenberg Etext of Correspondence of Wagner and Liszt, Volume 1
by Francis Hueffer (translator)
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2023-11-16 18:27:26.1527560 | 1,780 | 36 |
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and the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading
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MONI THE GOAT-BOY
BY JOHANNA SPYRI
Author Of "Heidi"
TRANSLATED BY HELEN B. DOLE
ILLUSTRATED IN COLOR BY CHARLES COPELAND
[Illustration: "_In the midst of the flock came the goat-boy_."]
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. ALL IS WELL WITH MONI
II. MONI'S LIFE IN THE MOUNTAINS
III. A VISIT
IV. MONI CAN NO LONGER SING
V. MONI SINGS AGAIN
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"In the midst of the flock came the goat-boy" _frontispiece_
"Moni climbed with his goats for an hour longer"
"Joergli had opened his hand. In it lay a cross set with a large
number of stones"
CHAPTER I
ALL IS WELL WITH MONI
It is a long, steep climb up to the Bath House at Fideris, after leaving
the road leading up through the long valley of Praettigau. The horses
pant so hard on their way up the mountain that you prefer to dismount
and clamber up on foot to the green summit.
After a long ascent, you come first to the village of Fideris, which
lies on the pleasant green height, and from there you go on farther
into the mountains, until the lonely buildings connected with the
Baths appear, surrounded on all sides by rocky mountains. The only
trees that grow up there are firs, covering the peaks and rocks, and
it would all look very gloomy if the delicate mountain flowers with
their brilliant coloring were not peeping forth everywhere through the
low pasture grass.
One clear summer evening two ladies stepped out of the Bath House and
went along the narrow footpath, which begins to mount not far from the
house and soon becomes very steep as it ascends to the high, towering
crags. At the first projection they stood still and looked around, for
this was the very first time they had come to the Baths.
"It is not very lively up here, Aunt," said the younger, as she let her
eyes wander around. "Nothing but rocks and fir woods, and then another
mountain and more fir trees on it. If we are to stay here six weeks, I
should like occasionally to see something more amusing."
"It would not be very amusing, at all events, if you should lose your
diamond cross up here, Paula," replied the aunt, as she tied together
the red velvet ribbon from which hung the sparkling cross. "This is the
third time I have fastened the ribbon since we arrived; I don't know
whether it is your fault or the ribbon's, but I do know that you would
be very sorry if it were lost."
"No, no," exclaimed Paula, decidedly, "the cross must not be lost, on
any account. It came from my grandmother and is my greatest treasure."
Paula herself seized the ribbon, and tied two or three knots one after
the other, to make it hold fast. Suddenly she pricked up her ears:
"Listen, listen, Aunt, now something really lively is coming."
A merry song sounded from far above them; then came a long, shrill
yodel; then there was singing again.
The ladies looked upwards, but could see no living thing. The footpath
was very crooked, often passing between tall bushes and then between
projecting <DW72>s, so that from below one could see up only a very short
distance. But now there suddenly appeared something alive on the <DW72>s
above, in every place where the narrow path could be seen, and louder
and nearer sounded the singing.
"See, see, Aunt, there! Here! See there! See there!" exclaimed Paula
with great delight, and before the aunt was aware of it, three, four
goats came bounding down, and more and more of them, each wearing around
the neck a little bell so that the sound came from every direction. In
the midst of the flock came the goat-boy leaping along, and singing his
song to the very end:
"And in winter I am happy,
For weeping is in vain,
And, besides, the glad springtime
Will soon come again."
Then he sounded a frightful yodel and immediately with his flock stood
right before the ladies, for with his bare feet he leaped as nimbly and
lightly as his little goats.
"I wish you good evening!" he said as he looked gayly at the two ladies,
and would have continued on his way. But the goat-boy with the merry
eyes pleased the ladies.
"Wait a minute," said Paula. "Are you the goat-boy of Fideris? Do the
goats belong to the village below?"
"Yes, to be sure!" was the reply.
"Do you go up there with them every day?"
"Yes, surely."
"Is that so? and what is your name?"
"Moni is my name--"
"Will you sing me the song once more, that you have just sung? We heard
only one verse."
"It is too long," explained Moni; "it would be too late for the goats,
they must go home." He straightened his weather-beaten cap, swung his
rod in the air, and called to the goats which had already begun to
nibble all around: "Home! Home!"
"You will sing to me some other time, Moni, won't you?" called Paula
after him.
"Surely I will, and good night!" he called back, then trotted along with
the goats, and in a short time the whole flock stood still below, a few
steps from the Bath House by the rear building, for here Moni had to
leave the goats belonging to the house, the beautiful white one and the
black one with the pretty little kid. Moni treated the last with great
care, for it was a delicate little creature and he loved it more than
all the others. It was so attached to him that it ran after him
continually all day long. He now led it very tenderly along and placed
it in its shed; then he said:
"There, Maeggerli, now sleep well; are you tired? It is really a long
way up there, and you are still so little. Now lie right down, so, in
the nice straw!"
After he had put Maeggerli to bed in this way, he hurried along with his
flock, first up to the hill in front of the Baths, and then down the
road to the village.
Here he took out his little horn and blew so vigorously into it, that it
resounded far down into the valley. From all the scattered houses the
children now came running out; each rushed upon his goat, which he knew
a long way off; and from the houses near by, one woman and then another
seized her little goat by the cord or the horn, and in a short time the
entire flock was separated and each creature came to its own place.
Finally Moni stood alone with the brown one, his own goat, and with her
he now went to the little house on the side of the mountain, where his
grandmother was waiting for him, in the doorway.
"Has all gone well, Moni?" she asked pleasantly, and then led the brown
goat to her shed, and immediately began to milk her. The grandmother was
still a robust woman and cared for everything herself in the house and
in the shed and everywhere kept order. Moni stood in the doorway of the
shed and watched his grandmother. When the milking was ended, she went
into the little house and said: "Come, Moni, you must be hungry."
She had everything already prepared. Moni had only to sit down at the
table; she seated herself next him, and although nothing stood on the
table but the bowl of corn-meal mush cooked with the brown goat's milk,
Moni hugely enjoyed his supper. Then he told his grandmother what he had
done through the day, and as soon as the meal was ended he went to bed,
for in the early dawn he would have to start forth again with | 622.172796 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "I ALSO DROPPED IN THE BLUE SEA BEHIND HIM." _See page_
121.]
In The Yellow Sea
HENRY FRITH
LONDON
HENRY FROWDE,
HODDER & STOUGHTON
[Illustration: Title page]
PREFACE
Perhaps a few words of explanation as regards this volume may be
permitted. The following extract from a letter, from a relative who
addresses me as "Uncle Harry," will suffice at first. His letter is
dated "Shanghai, November 1897":--
"Here are all the papers, with manuscript. Some of the latter is
translated by a friend, and some is newspaper work. But I daresay you
will be able to work up the matter. Do it as you like best; but don't
give me away, please. You will find some additional information in
Vladmir's work, and in the _Mail_, etc. etc. But I am only sending you
my experiences and adventures. Call them what you like.
"JULIUS."
Here then is the narrative, in which the writer does not spare himself.
He certainly has had adventures by land and sea, between China and
Japan--"'twixt Jack and <DW61>"--during the late war. I have used his
papers and extracts in the compilation of the story; with gleanings
from _Heroic Japan_ and newspapers, which I have examined, with
history, for my own benefit, and to verify my "nephew's" account of his
adventures during that stirring time in the Far East.
HENRY FRITH.
UPPER TOOTING, S.W.,
_March_ 1898.
CONTENTS
CHAP.
I. A DISAPPOINTMENT--I ESCAPE MY FORETOLD DESTINY--THE
_OSPREY_--THE STORM
II. A TERRIBLE POSITION--A PROPHETIC VISION--SINKING!
III. THE STEAMER _FENG SHUI_, FOR CHINA--CAPTAIN
GOLDHEUGH--DISCIPLINE AND A ROPE'S END!
IV. BOUND TO CHINA--THE VOYAGE AND MY EXPERIENCES--_CASH_ IN HONG
KONG--RUMOUR OF WAR
V. A SECRET MISSION--KIDNAPPED!--THE SCHOONER--THE ASSASSIN
VI. SHANGHAI: ITS IMPRESSIONS--MURDER!--A RESCUE, AND A HAPPY
ENCOUNTER
VII. THE _FENG SHUI_ CHANGES HER NAME FOR LUCK--THE TRANSPORT--THE
JAPANESE MAN-OF-WAR--SURRENDER OF THE _KOWSHING_
VIII. THE END OF THE _FENG SHUI_--CAPTURED AND PRESSED!
IX. THE BATTLE IN THE YELLOW SEA--THE EVIL GENIUS OF "FENG SHUI"
X. A TRANSFORMATION SCENE--I BECOME A "CHINESE"
XI. CHINESE LANGUAGE--"HELD UP"--BETRAYED!
XII. ABANDONED!--I FALL AMONG THIEVES, BUT FIND SOME "GOOD
SAMARITANS"
XIII. KINCHOW--ARRESTED BY CHINESE SOLDIERS--CAPTURE OF THE CITY
XIV. THE SACK OF KINCHOW--RELEASED--"CASTLED"--A CHECK
XV. AN ADVENTURE ON THE HILLS--THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF
DEATH--TALIEN-W | 622.254229 |
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Produced by Distributed Proofreaders
[Transcriber's Note: Figures 162-167 have been renumbered. In the
original, Figure 162 was labeled as 161; 163 as 162; etc.]
A Practical Physiology
A Text-Book for Higher Schools
By
Albert F. Blaisdell, M.D.
Author of "Child's Book of Health," "How to Keep Well,"
"Our Bodies and How We Live," Etc., Etc.
Preface.
The author has aimed to prepare a text-book on human physiology for use in
higher schools. The design of the book is to furnish a practical manual of
the more important facts and principles of physiology and hygiene, which
will be adapted to the needs of students in high schools, normal schools,
and academies.
Teachers | 622.445601 |
2023-11-16 18:27:26.4664500 | 1,276 | 9 |
Produced by Adrian Mastronardi, Rene Anderson Benitz, and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net.
Project Gutenberg has Volume II of this book. See
http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/38957.
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:
Obvious typos have been amended. Variations in spelling in the
original text have been retained, except where usage frequency was
used to determine the common spelling and/or hyphenation. These
amendments are listed at the end of the text. Minor printer errors
have been amended without note.
The INTRODUCTION has been added to this volume as per author intent
in the Preface to Volume II. Color plate notations of specified
birds have been relocated to follow the title of the bird.
The full INDEX from Volume II has been added to this volume. (It has
also been added to the Table of Contents.)
In this e-text the letters a and u with a macron are represented by
[=a] and [=u], respectively.
ARGENTINE ORNITHOLOGY.
A
DESCRIPTIVE CATALOGUE
OF THE
BIRDS OF THE
ARGENTINE REPUBLIC.
BY
P. L. SCLATER, M.A., Ph.D., F.R.S., Etc.
_WITH NOTES ON THEIR HABITS_
BY
W. H. HUDSON, C.M.Z.S.,
LATE OF BUENOS AYRES.
[Illustration: THE CARIAMA.]
VOLUME I.
LONDON:
R. H. PORTER, 6 TENTERDEN STREET, W.
1888.
[Illustration: (Printer's Mark) ALERE FLAMMAM.
PRINTED BY TAYLOR AND FRANCIS.
RED LION COURT, FLEET STREET.]
ARGENTINE ORNITHOLOGY.
The Edition of this work being strictly limited
to +200+ copies for Subscribers, each copy is
numbered and signed by the Authors.
[Illustration: No. 6
Signed P L Sclater
W. H. Hudson]
PREFACE TO THE FIRST VOLUME.
The present volume contains an account of the Passeres of the Argentine
Republic, which, as at present known, number some 229 species. The
second volume, which it is hoped will be ready in the course of next
year, will be devoted to the history of the remaining Orders of Birds,
and will also contain the Introduction and Index, and complete the work.
All the personal observations recorded in these pages are due to Mr.
Hudson, while I am responsible for the arrangement, nomenclature, and
scientific portions of the work.
I have to acknowledge with many thanks a donation of L40 from the Royal
Society, which has enabled Mr. Hudson to devote a portion of his time to
the compilation of his interesting notes.
P. L. S.
_December 1, 1887._
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
Fam. I. TURDIDAE, or THRUSHES.
Page
1. _Turdus leucomelas_, Vieill. (Dusky Thrush.) 1
2. _Turdus rufiventris_, Vieill. (Red-bellied Thrush.) 3
3. _Turdus magellanicus_, King. (Magellanic Thrush.) 3
4. _Turdus fuscater_, d'Orb. et Lafr. (Argentine Blackbird.) 4
5. _Turdus nigriceps_, Cab. (Black-headed Thrush.) 4
6. _Mimus modulator_, Gould. (Calandria Mocking-bird.) 5
7. _Mimus patachonicus_ (d'Orb. et Lafr.). (Patagonian
Mocking-bird.) 7
8. _Mimus triurus_ (Vieill.). (White-banded Mocking-bird.)
[Plate I.] 8
Fam. II. CINCLIDAE, or DIPPERS.
9. _Cinclus schulzi_, Cab. (Schulz's Dipper.) [Plate II.] 11
Fam. III. MUSCICAPIDAE, or FLYCATCHERS.
10. _Polioptila dumicola_ (Vieill.). (Brush-loving Fly-snapper.) 12
Fam. IV. TROGLODYTIDAE, or WRENS.
11. _Donacobius atricapillus_ (Linn.). (Black-headed Reed-Wren.) 13
12. _Troglodytes furvus_ (Gm.). (Brown House-Wren.) 13
13. _Troglodytes auricularis_, Cab. (Eared Wren.) 15
14. _Cistothorus platensis_ (Lath.). (Platan Marsh-Wren.) 15
Fam. V. MOTACILLIDAE, or WAGTAILS.
15. _Anthus correndera_, Vieill. (Cachila Pipit.) 17
16. _Anthus furcatus_, d'Orb. et Lafr. (Forked-tail Pipit.) 19
Fam. VI. MNIOTILTIDAE, or WOOD-SINGERS.
17. _Parula pitiayumi_ (Vieill.). (Pitiayumi Wood-singer.) 20
18. _Geothly | 622.48649 |
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Produced by Bethanne M. Simms, Stephanie Eason, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
(This file was produced from images generously made
available by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries.)
CENTRE
for
REFORMATION | 622.486649 |
2023-11-16 18:27:26.6257150 | 464 | 6 |
Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer,
Wayne Hammond and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
at http://www.pgdp.net
Punch, Or The London Charivari
Volume 107, November 10th, 1894
_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_
[Illustration: THE PARLIAMENTARY FLYING MACHINE.
_Maxim_--"KEEP IT UP!"]
* * * * *
THE CHRONICLES OF A RURAL PARISH.
I.--FONS ET ORIGO MALI.
Snugly nestling in a cosy corner of Blankshire--that county which at
different times and places has travelled all over England--our village
pursues the even tenor of its way. To be accurate, I should say _did_
pursue, before the events that have recently happened--events in which
it would be absurd modesty not to confess I have played a prominent
part. Now we are as full of excitement as aforetime we were given over
to monotony. _Nous avons_---- No! _J'ai change tout cela._
It came about in this way. I have always till the 25th of September (a
chronicler should always be up to dates) been entirely free from any
ambition to excel in public. After a successful life I have settled down
with my wife and family to the repose of a truly rural existence. "You
should come down and live in the country," I am never tired of telling
my friends. "Good air, beautiful milk, and, best of all, fresh eggs." I
don't know why, but you are always expected to praise the country eggs.
So I always make a point of doing it.
Up to September the 25th, accordingly, I extolled the eggs of the
country and lived my simple, unpretending life. On that day I read an
article in the paper on the Parish Councils Act. I read that now for the
first time the people in the villages would taste the sweets of local
self-government. The change from fresh eggs struck my fancy, up to that
time singularly dormant | 622.645755 |
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Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Internet Archive
THE ADVENTURES OF PETER COTTONTAIL
By Thornton W. Burgess
Author of "The Adventures of Reddy Fox"
"Old Mother West Wind," etc.
With Illustrations by Harrison Cady
Boston
Little, Brown, And Company
1917
THE ADVENTURES OF PETER COTTONTAIL
I. PETER RABBIT DECIDES TO CHANGE HIS NAME
|PETER RABBIT! Peter Rabbit! I don't see what Mother Nature ever gave
me such a common sounding name as that for. People laugh at me, but if I
had a fine sounding name they wouldn't laugh. Some folks say that a name
doesn't amount to anything, but it does. If I should do some wonderful
thing, nobody would think anything of it. No, Sir, nobody would think
anything of it at all just because--why just because it was done by
Peter Rabbit."
Peter was talking out loud, but he was talking to himself. He sat in the
dear Old Briar-patch with an ugly scowl on his usually happy face. The
sun was shining, the Merry Little Breezes of Old Mother West Wind were
dancing over the Green Meadows, the birds were singing, and happiness,
the glad, joyous happiness of springtime, was everywhere but in Peter
Rabbit's heart. There there seeded to be no room for anything but
discontent. And such foolish discontent--discontent with his name! And
yet, do you know, there are lots of people just as foolish as Peter
Rabbit.
"Well, what are you going to do about it?"
The voice made Peter Rabbit jump and turn around hastily. There was
Jimmy Skunk poking his head in at the opening of one of Peter's private
little paths. He was grinning, and Peter knew by that grin that Jimmy
had heard what he had said. Peter didn't know what to say. He hung his
head in a very shame-faced way.
"You've got something to learn," said Jimmy Skunk.
"What is it?" asked Peter.
"It's just this," replied Jimmy.
"There's nothing in a name except
Just what we choose to make it.
It lies with us and no one else
How other folks shall take it.
It's what we do and what we say
And how we live each passing day
That makes it big or makes it small
Or even worse than none at all.
A name just stands for what we are;
It's what we choose to make it.
And that's the way and only way
That other folks will take it."
Peter Rabbit made a face at Jimmy Skunk. "I don't like being preached
to."
"I'm not preaching; I'm just telling you what you ought to know without
being told," replied Jimmy Skunk. "If you don't like your name, why
don't you change it?"
"What's that?" cried Peter sharply.
"If you don't like your name, why don't you change it?" repeated Jimmy.
Peter sat up and the disagreeable frown had left his face | 622.773206 |
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Produced by Dagny, Bonnie Sala
MELMOTH RECONCILED
By Honore De Balzac
Translated by Ellen Marriage
To Monsieur le General Baron de Pommereul, a token of the friendship
between our fathers, which survives in their sons.
DE BALZAC.
MELMOTH RECONCILED
There is a special variety of human nature obtained in the Social
Kingdom by a process analogous to that of the gardener's craft in the
Vegetable Kingdom, to wit, by the forcing-house--a species of hybrid
which can be raised neither from seed nor from slips. This product is
known as the Cashier, an anthropomorphous growth, watered by religious
doctrine, trained up in fear of the guillotine, pruned by vice, to
flourish on a third floor with an estimable wife by his side and an
uninteresting family. The number of cashiers in Paris must always be
a problem for the physiologist. Has any one as yet been able to state
correctly the terms of the proportion sum wherein the cashier figures as
the unknown _x_? Where will you find the man who shall live with wealth,
like a cat with a caged mouse? This man, for further qualification,
shall be capable of sitting boxed in behind an iron grating for seven
or eight hours a day during seven-eighths of the year, perched upon a
cane-seated chair in a space as narrow as a lieutenant's cabin on board
a man-of-war. Such a man must be able to defy anchylosis of the knee
and thigh joints; he must have a soul above meanness, in order to live
meanly; must lose all relish for money by dint of handling it. Demand
this peculiar specimen of any creed, educational system, school, or
institution you please, and select Paris, that city of fiery ordeals
and branch establishment of hell, as the soil in which to plant the said
cashier. So be it. Creeds, schools, institutions and moral systems, all
human rules and regulations, great and small, will, one after another,
present much the same face that an intimate friend turns upon you when
you ask him to lend you a thousand francs. With a dolorous dropping of
the jaw, they indicate the guillotine, much as your friend aforesaid
will furnish you with the address of the money-lender, pointing you to
one of the hundred gates by which a man comes to the last refuge of the
destitute.
Yet nature has her freaks in the making of a man's mind; she indulges
herself and makes a few honest folk now and again, and now and then a
cashier.
Wherefore, that race of corsairs whom we dignify with the title of
bankers, the gentry who take out a license for which they pay a thousand
crowns, as the privateer takes out his letters of marque, hold these
rare products of the incubations of virtue in such esteem that they
confine them in cages in their counting-houses, much as governments
procure and maintain specimens of strange beasts at their own charges.
If the cashier is possessed of an imagination or of a fervid
temperament; if, as will sometimes happen to the most complete cashier,
he loves his wife, and that wife grows tired of her lot, has ambitions,
or merely some vanity in her composition, the cashier is undone.
Search the chronicles of the counting-house. You will not find a single
instance of a cashier attaining _ | 622.792391 |
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Produced by Mhairi Hindle 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
Illustration markers have been moved near to the text they illustrate.
All variant spellings and variant hyphenation have been preserved.
However, punctuation has been corrected where necessary.
[Illustration: HOW I TUMBLED DOWNHILL.]
THE LIFE STORY OF
A BLACK BEAR
BY
H. PERRY ROBINSON
LONDON
ADAM·&·CHARLES·BLACK
1913
FOREWORD
There is always tragedy when man invades the solitudes of the earth,
for his coming never fails to mean the destruction of the wild
things. But, surely, nowhere can the pathos be greater than when,
in the western part of North America, there is a discovery of new
gold-diggings. Then from all points of the compass men come pouring
into the mountains with axe and pick, gold-pan and rifle, breaking
paths through the forest wildernesses, killing and driving before them
the wild animals that have heretofore held the mountains for their own.
Here in these rocky, tree-clad fastnesses the bears have kinged it for
centuries, ruling in right of descent for generation after generation,
holding careless dominion over the coyote and the beaver, the wapiti,
the white-tailed and the mule-eared deer. Except for the occasional
rebellion of a mutinous lieutenant of a puma, there has been none to
dispute their lordship from year to year and century to century. Each
winter they have laid themselves down (or sat themselves up--for a bear
does not lie down when hibernating) to sleep through the bitter months,
in easy assurance that when they awoke they would find the sceptre
still by their side.
But a spring comes when they issue from their winter lairs and new
sounds are borne to them on the keen, resin-scented mountain air. The
hills ring to the chopping of axes; and the voices of men--a new and
terrible sound--reach their ears. The earth, soft with the melting
snows, shows unaccustomed prints of heavy heels. The coyote and the
deer and all the forest folk have gone; the beaver-dams are broken, and
the builders vanished.
Dimly wondering at the strangeness of it all, the bears go forth,
blundering and half awake, down the new-made pathways, not angry,
but curious and perplexed, and by the trail-side they meet man--man
with a rifle in his hand. And, still not angry, still only
wondering and fearing nothing--for are they not lords of all the
mountain-sides?--they die.
H. P. R.
_First published September, 1905_
_Reissued Autumn, 1910; reprinted July, 1913_
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. HOW I TUMBLED DOWNHILL 1
II. CUBHOOD DAYS 9
III. THE COMING OF MAN 25
IV. THE FOREST FIRE 39
V. I LOSE A SISTER 57
VI. LIFE IN CAMP 71
VII. THE PARTING OF THE WAYS 93
VIII. ALONE IN THE WORLD 105
IX. I FIND A COMPANION 120
X. A VISIT TO THE OLD HOME 134
XI. THE TROUBLES OF A FATHER 147
XII. WIPING OUT OLD SCORES 163
XIII. THE TRAP 176
XIV. IN THE HANDS OF MAN 194
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
'HOW I TUMBLED DOWNHILL' _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
'THE FATHER BEAR ASKED MY FATHER IF WE WERE NOT
GOING TOO' 49
'SLOWLY, YARD BY YARD, SHE WAS BEING DRAGGED AWAY
FROM US' 64 | 622.845543 |
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Produced by Walter Debeuf
Pecheur d'Islande
Pierre Loti
De l'Academie Francaise
A Madame Adam
(Juliette Lamber)
Hommage d'affection filiale,
Pierre Loti
Première partie
Chapitre I
Ils étaient cinq, aux carrures terribles, accoudés à boire, dans une
sorte de logis sombre qui sentait la saumure et la mer. Le gîte, trop
bas pour leurs tailles, s'effilait par un bout, comme l'intérieur d'une
grande mouette vidée; il oscillait faiblement, en rendant une plainte
monotone, avec une lenteur de sommeil.
Dehors, ce devait être la mer et la nuit, mais on n'en savait trop rien:
une seule ouverture coupée dans le plafond était fermée par un couvercle
en bois, et c'était une vieille lampe suspendue qui les éclairait en
vacillant.
Il y avait du feu dans un fourneau; leurs vêtements mouillés séchaient,
en répandant de la vapeur qui se mêlait aux fumées de leurs pipes de
terre.
Leur table massive occupait toute leur demeure; elle en prenait très
exactement la forme, et il restait juste de quoi se couler autour pour
s'asseoir sur des caissons étroits scellés au murailles de chêne. De
grosses poutres passaient au-dessus d'eux, presque à toucher leurs
têtes; et, derrière leurs dos, des couchettes qui semblaient creusées
dans l'épaisseur de la charpente s'ouvraient comme les niches d'un
caveau pour mettre les morts. Toutes ces boiseries étaient grossières et
frustes, imprégnées d'humidité et de sel; usées, polies par les
frottements de leurs mains.
Ils avaient bu, dans leurs écuelles, du vin et du cidre, qui étaient
franches et braves. Maintenant ils restaient attablés et devisaient, en
breton, sur des questions de femmes et de mariages.
Contre un panneau du fond, une sainte Vierge en faïence était fixée sur
une planchette, à une place d'honneur. Elle était un peu ancienne, la
patronne de ces marins, et peinte avec un art encore naïf. Mais les
personnages en faïence se conservent beaucoup plus longtemps que les
vrais hommes; aussi sa robe rouge et bleue faisait encore l'effet d'une
petite chose très fraîche au milieu de tous les gris sombres de cette
pauvre maison de bois. Elle avait dû écouter plus d'une ardente prière,
à des heures d'angoisses; on avait cloué à ses pieds deux bouquets de
fleurs artificielles et un chapelet.
Ces cinq hommes étaient vêtus pareillement, un épais tricot de laine
bleue serrant le torse et s'enfonçant dans la ceinture du pantalon; sur
la tête, l'espèce de casque en toile goudronnée qu'on appelle suroît (du
nom de ce vent de sud-ouest qui dans notre hémisphère amène les pluies).
Ils étaient d'âges divers. Le capitaine pouvait avoir quarante ans;
trois autres, de vingt-cinq à trente. Le dernier, qu'ils appelaient
Sylvestre ou Lurlu, n'en avait que dix-sept. Il était déjà un homme,
pour la taille et la force; une barbe noire, très fine et très frisée,
couvrait ses joues; seulement il avait gardé ses yeux d'enfant, d'un
gris bleu, qui étaient extrêmement doux et tout naïfs.
Très près les uns des autres, faute d'espace, ils paraissaient éprouver
un vrai bien-être, ainsi tapis dans leur gîte obscur.
... Dehors, ce devait être la mer et la nuit, l'infinie désolation des
eaux noires et profondes. Une montre de cuivre, accrochée au mur,
marquait onze heures, onze heures du soir sans doute; et, contre le
plafond de bois, on entendait le bruit de la pluie.
Ils traitaient très gaîment entre eux ces questions de mariage, - mais
sans rien dire qui fût déshonnête. Non, c"étaient des projets pour ceux
qui étaient encore garçons, ou bien des histoires drôles arrivées dans
le pays, pendant des fêtes de noces. Quelquefois ils lançaient bien,
avec un bon rire, une allusion un peu trop franche au plaisir d'aimer.
Mais l'amour, comme l'entendent les hommes ainsi trempés, est toujours
une chose saine, et dans sa crudité même il demeure presque chaste.
Cependant Sylvestre s'ennuyait, à cause d'un autre appelé Jean (un nom
que les Bretons prononcent Yann), qui ne venait pas. En effet, où était-
il donc ce Yann; toujours à l'ouvrage là-haut? Pourquoi ne descendait-il
pas prendre un peu de sa part de la fête?
--Tantôt minuit, pourtant, dit le capitaine.
Et, en se redressant debout, il souleva avec sa tête le couvercle de
bois, afin d'appeler par là ce Yann. Alors une lueur très étrange tomba
d'en haut:
--Yann! Yann!... Eh! l'homme!
L'homme répondit rudement du dehors.
Et, par ce couvercle un instant entr'ouvert, cette lueur si pâle qui
était entrée ressemblait bien à celle du jour. - "Bientôt minuit..."
Cependant c'était bien comme une lueur de soleil, comme une lueur
crépusculaire renvoyée de très loin par des miroirs mystérieux.
Le trou refermé, la nuit revint, la petite lampe se remit à briller
jaune, et on entendit l'homme descendre avec de gros sabots par une
échelle de bois.
Il entra, obligé de se courber en deux comme un gros ours, car il était
presque un géant. Et d'abord il fit une grimace en se pinçant le bout du
nez à cause de l'odeur âcre de la saumure.
Il dépassait un peu trop les proportions ordinaires des hommes, surtout
par sa carrure qui était droite comme une barre; quand il se présentait
de face, les muscles de ses épaules, dessinés sous son tricot bleu,
formaient comme deux boules en haut de ses bras. Il avait de grands yeux
bruns très mobiles, à l'expression sauvage et superbe.
Sylvestre, passant ses bras autour de ce Yann, l'attira contre lui par
tendresse, à la façon des enfants; il était fiancé à sa soeur et le
traitait comme un grand frère. L'autre se laissait caresser avec un air
de lion câlin, en répondant par un bon sourire à dents blanches.
Ses dents, qui avaient eu chez lui plus de place pour s'arranger que
chez les autres hommes, étaient un peu espacées et semblaient toutes
petites. Ses moustaches blondes étaient assez courtes, bien que jamais
coupées; elles étaient frisées très serré en deux petits rouleaux
symétriques au-dessus de ses lèvres qui avaient des contours fins et
exquis; et puis elles s'ébouriffaient aux deux bouts, de chaque côté des
coins profonds de sa bouche. Le reste de sa barbe était tondu ras, et
ses joues colorées avaient gardé un velouté frais, comme celui des
fruits que personne n'a touchés.
On remplit de nouveau les verres, quand Yann fut assis, et on appela le
mousse pour rembourrer les pipes et les allumer.
Cet allumage était une manière pour lui de fumer un peu. C'était un
petit garçon robuste, à la figure ronde, un peu le cousin de tous ces
marins qui étaient plus ou moins parents entre eux; en dehors de son
travail assez dur, il était l'enfant gâté du bord. Yann le fit boire
dans son verre, et puis on l'envoya se coucher.
Après, on reprit la grande conversation des mariages:
--Et toi, Yann, demanda Sylvestre, quand est-ce ferons-nous tes noces?
--Tu n'as pas honte, dit le capitaine, un homme si grand comme tu es, à
vingt-sept ans, pas marié encore! Les filles, qu'est-ce qu'elles doivent
penser quand elles le voient?
Lui répondit, en secouant d'un geste très dédaigneux pour les femmes ses
épaules effrayantes:
--Mes noces à moi, je les fais à la nuit; d'autre fois, je les fais à
l'heure; c'est suivant.
Il venait de finir ses cinq années de service à l'État, ce Yann. Et
c'est là, comme matelot canonnier de la flotte, qu'il avait appris à
parler le français et à tenir des propos sceptiques. - Alors il commença
de raconter ses noces dernières qui, paraît-il, avaient duré quinze
jours.
C'était à Nantes, avec une chanteuse. Un soir, revenant de la mer, il
était entré un peu gris dans un Alcazar. Il y avait à la porte une femme
qui vendait des bouquets énormes aux prix d'un louis de vingt francs. Il
en avait acheté un, sans trop savoir qu'en faire, et puis tout de suite
en arrivant, il l'avait lancé à tour de bras, en plein par la figure, à
celle qui chantait sur la scène? - moitié déclaration brusque, moitié
ironie pour cette poupée peinte qu'il trouvait par trop rose. La femme
était tombée du coup; après, elle l'avait adoré pendant près de trois
semaines.
--Même, dit-il, quand je suis parti, elle m'a fait cadeau de cette
montre en or.
Et, pour la leur faire voir, il la jetait sur la table comme un
méprisable joujou. C'était conté avec des mots rudes et des images à
lui. Cependant cette banalité de la vie civilisée, détonnait beaucoup au
milieu des ces hommes primitifs, avec ces grands silences de la mer
qu'on devinait autour d'eux; avec cette lueur de minuit, entrevue par en
haut, qui avait apporté la notion des étés mourants du pôle.
Et puis ces manières de Yann faisaient de la peine à Sylvestre et le
surprenaient. Lui était un enfant vierge, élevé dans le respect des
sacrements par une vieille grand'mère, veuve | 622.875048 |
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Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
The Unpopular Review
SOME THINGS IN WHICH WE ARE TRYING TO DO OUR BIT
In disarming Germany--and, after that's done, everybody else, except an
international police.
In securing to all nationalities the right to choose their own
governments and affiliations.
In making trade free.
In securing the rights of both organized labor and the individual
workman, which involve on the one hand recognition of the Trade Unions,
and on the other, of the Open Shop.
In cleaning up and bracing up literature and art.
In modernizing and revivifying religion.
Our humble efforts for these causes have so far been not only gratuitous
but costly. Therefore we feel justified in suggesting to the reader who
has not yet subscribed, the question whether out of the sums which he
devotes to those great objects, a trifle might not be spent as hopefully
as in any other way, in backing us up by subscription or advertisement.
75 cents a number, $2.50 a year. Bound volumes $2. each, two a
year. (Canadian $2.70, Foreign $2.85.) Cloth covers for
volumes, 50 cents each. No one but the publishers is
authorized to collect money for the Review. Persons
subscribing through agents or dealers to whom they pay money,
do so at their own risk.
For the present, subscribers remitting direct to the
publishers can have any back number or numbers additional to
those subscribed for, except No. 9, for an additional 50 cents
each (plus 5 cents a number for postage to Canada, 9 cents to
Foreign countries), _provided the whole amount is paid direct
to the publishers at the time of the subscription_. Number 9
is out of print, and can be furnished only with complete sets,
which are sold at the rate of 75 cents a number.
Owing to the Post-office department spending many millions
annually in carrying periodicals below cost, it has become so
loaded with them as to be obliged to send them as freight.
Therefore subscribers should not complain to the publishers of
non-receipt of matter under from one to two weeks, according
to distance. This subject is fully treated in No. 2 of THE
UNPOPULAR REVIEW, and in the Casserole of No. 3.
In order that the new writers may stand an equal chance with
the old, and the old not unduly depend upon their reputations,
the names of writers are not given until the number following
the one in which their articles appear.
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
18 WEST 45th STREET
NEW YORK CITY
LONDON: WILLIAMS & NORGATE
CONTENTS OF THE PRECEDING NUMBER (18, for April-June, 1918)
WHY AMERICA LAGS, Alvin S. Johnson, Professor in Stanford
University.
ON GOING AFOOT, Charles S. Brooks.
THE PROBLEM OF ALSACE-LORRAINE, C. D. Hazen, Professor in
Columbia University.
VISCOUNT MORLEY, Paul Elmer More, Advisory Editor of _The
Nation_.
THE ADVENTURE OF THE TRAINING CAMP, George R. MacMinn,
Professor in University of California.
HALF SOLES, Herbert Wilson Smith.
PRICE FIXING BY GOVERNMENT, David McGregor Means.
TURKEY UNDER GERMAN TUTELAGE, Rufus W. Lane.
MACHINE AND MAN, Grant Showerman, Professor in University of
Wisconsin.
THE ATHLETIC HABIT OF MIND, Edward F. Hayward.
ARBITERS OF FATE, Virginia Clippinger.
FOOD CONSERVATION AND THE WOMAN, Mary Austin.
SOME REFLECTIONS ON REVOLUTION, T. Lothrop Stoddard.
THE JOB AND THE OUTSIDER, H. W. Boynton.
DURCHALTEN! Vernon L. Kellogg, Professor in Stanford
University.
A NEW PSYCHIC SENSITIVE, The Editor.
CORRESPONDENCE: "The Obscurity of Philosophers"--Our Tax
Troubles Again.
EN CASSEROLE: Concerning these Hasty War Marriages--Bergson
and the Yellow Peril--A Problematic Personality--"Clause" and
"Phrase."
CONTENTS
FOR JULY-SEPTEMBER, 1918
NATURALIZATION IN THE SPOTLIGHT OF WAR 1
WAR PROPHETS 19
MY FRIEND THE JAY 33
THE FLEMISH QUESTION 43
IMMORTALITY IN LITERATURE 56
CARLYLE AND KULTUR 66
THE FREEDOM OF THE SEAS 79
THE CONDITIONS OF TOLERANCE 94
THE NEO-PARNASSIANS 106
HUMANISM AND DEMOCRACY 114
THE MODERN MEDICINE MAN 127
"THE PUREST OF HUMAN PLEASURES" 140
WAR FOR EVOLUTION'S SAKE 146
JOHN FISKE 160
PLEASE EXPLAIN THESE DREAMS 190
CORRESPONDENCE 201
More Freedom from Hereditary Bias
EN CASSEROLE 202
If We are Late--The Kindly and Modest German--What the Cat
Thinks of the Dog--A Hunting-Ground of Ignorance--Maximum
Price-Fixing in Ancient Rome--Darwin on His Own
Discoveries--Reflections of an Old-Maid Aunt--An Obscure
Source of Education--Heart-to-Heart Advertising--The Curse of
Fall Elections--Larrovitch--Our Index
The Unpopular Review
NO. 19 JULY-SEPTEMBER VOL. X
NATURALIZATION IN THE SPOTLIGHT OF WAR
Amid the manifold uncertainties into which the war has plunged us, one
fact stands out with increased definiteness--that in our midst, and even
voting on our policies, of life or death,--we have had for many years
large numbers of people who at best give only a divided allegiance to
this country, and at worst are devoted and violent partisans of some
foreign state. The evidence of this truth has been of the most
diversified character, including the destruction of warehouses, docks,
and munitions factories, the burning of immense quantities of food, the
manufacture of ineffective torpedoes, the attempted blowing up of war
ships, and the dissemination of disease germs among children, soldiers,
and cattle. The uniform object of all these activities has been the
decrease of the war efficiency of the United States. The indications
seem conclusive that the perpetrators have been, not special German
spies or agents sent over here after our entry into the war or in
anticipation of it, but among the candidates for Mr. Gerard's five
thousand lampposts--persons who have lived in our midst for long
periods, and have been accepted as belonging to us.
So suddenly overwhelming has been the demonstration since the war began,
and particularly since the United States entered the war, that there is
great danger that the impression will become established that the war
created the situation, that the danger is a war danger, and that the
problem will automatically solve itself when the war is over. Nothing
could be more prejudicial to a correct understanding of the situation,
and to a sound solution of the national problems which will confront us
when the war is over. The war has not created the danger from
alien-hearted members of the body politic, it has merely revealed it.
The situation is the creation of our traditional policy toward
foreigners, and the menace inherent in the situation existed, and was
discerned by many close students of political affairs, long before the
war was dreamed of. Although then the manifestations of this danger were
less spectacular, the danger itself was no less persistent, pervasive,
and ins | 623.062462 |
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E-text prepared by Jonathan Ingram, Sandra Brown, and Project Gutenberg
Distributed Proofreaders
THE BOOK OF HOUSEHOLD MANAGEMENT;
Comprising Information for the
MISTRESS,
HOUSEKEEPER,
COOK,
KITCHEN-MAID,
BUTLER,
FOOTMAN,
COACHMAN,
VALET,
UPPER AND UNDER HOUSE-MAIDS,
LADY'S-MAID,
MAID-OF-ALL-WORK,
LAUNDRY-MAID,
NURSE AND NURSE-MAID,
MONTHLY, WET, AND SICK NURSES,
ETC. ETC.
ALSO, SANITARY, MEDICAL, & LEGAL MEMORANDA;
WITH A HISTORY OF THE ORIGIN, PROPERTIES, AND USES OF ALL THINGS
CONNECTED WITH HOME LIFE AND COMFORT.
BY MRS. ISABELLA BEETON.
Nothing lovelier can be found
In Woman, than to study household good.--MILTON.
Published Originally By
S. O. Beeton in 24 Monthly Parts
1859-1861.
First Published in a Bound Edition 1861.
PREFACE.
I must frankly own, that if I had known, beforehand, that this book
would have cost me the labour which it has, I should never have been
courageous enough to commence it. What moved me, in the first instance,
to attempt a work like this, was the discomfort and suffering which I
had seen brought upon men and women by household mismanagement. I have
always thought that there is no more fruitful source of family
discontent than a housewife's badly-cooked dinners and untidy ways. Men
are now so well served out of doors,--at their clubs, well-ordered
taverns, and dining-houses, that in order to compete with the
attractions of these places, a mistress must be thoroughly acquainted
with the theory and practice of cookery, as well as be perfectly
conversant with all the other arts of making and keeping a comfortable
home.
In this book I have attempted to give, under the chapters devoted to
cookery, an intelligible arrangement to every recipe, a list of the
_ingredients_, a plain statement of the _mode_ of preparing each dish,
and a careful estimate of its _cost_, the _number of people_ for whom it
is _sufficient_, and the time when it is _seasonable_. For the matter of
the recipes, I am indebted, in some measure, to many correspondents of
the "Englishwoman's Domestic Magazine," who have obligingly placed at my
disposal their formulas for many original preparations. A large private
circle has also rendered me considerable service. A diligent study of
the works of the best modern writers on cookery was also necessary to
the faithful fulfilment of my task. Friends in England, Scotland,
Ireland, France, and Germany, have also very materially aided me. I have
paid great attention to those recipes which come under the head of "COLD
MEAT COOKERY." But in the department belonging to the Cook I have
striven, too, to make my work something more than a Cookery Book, and
have, therefore, on the best authority that I could obtain, given an
account of the natural history of the animals and vegetables which we
use as food. I have followed the animal from his birth to his appearance
on the table; have described the manner of feeding him, and of slaying
him, the position of his various joints, and, after giving the recipes,
have described the modes of carving Meat, Poultry, and Game. Skilful
artists have designed the numerous drawings which appear in this work,
and which illustrate, better than any description, many important and
interesting items. The plates are a novelty not without value.
Besides the great portion of the book which has especial reference to
the cook's department, there are chapters devoted to those of the other
servants of the household, who have all, I trust, their duties clearly
assigned to them.
Towards the end of the work will be found valuable chapters on the
"Management of Children"----"The Doctor," the latter principally
referring to accidents and emergencies, some of which are certain to
occur in the experience of every one of us; and the last chapter
contains "Legal Memoranda," which will be serviceable in cases of doubt
as to the proper course to be adopted in the relations between Landlord
and Tenant, Tax-gatherer and Tax-payer, and Tradesman and Customer.
These chapters have been contributed by gentlemen fully entitled to
confidence; those on medical subjects by an experienced surgeon, and the
legal matter by a solicitor.
I wish here to acknowledge the kind letters and congratulations I have
received during the progress of this work, and have only further to add,
that I trust the result of the four years' incessant labour which I have
expended will not be altogether unacceptable to some of my countrymen
and countrywomen.
ISABELLA BEETON.
GENERAL CONTENTS
CHAP.
I.--THE MISTRESS.
2.--THE HOUSEKEEPER.
3.--ARRANGEMENT AND ECONOMY OF THE KITCHEN.
4.--INTRODUCTION TO COOKERY.
5.--GENERAL DIRECTIONS FOR MAKING SOUPS.
6.--RECIPES.
7.--THE NATURAL HISTORY OF FISHES.
8.--RECIPES.
9.--SAUCES, PICKLES, GRAVIES, AND FORCEMEATS | 623.145528 |
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Transciber's Note
Supercripts are denoted with a carat (^). Whole and fractional parts are
displayed as 2-1/2. Italic text is displayed as _Text_.
NEW THEORIES IN ASTRONOMY
BY
WILLIAM STIRLING
CIVIL ENGINEER
[Illustration]
London:
E. & F. N. SPON, LIMITED, 57 HAYMARKET
New York:
SPON & CHAMBERLAIN, 123 LIBERTY STREET
1906
TO THE READER.
Mr. William Stirling, Civil Engineer, who devoted the last years of his
life to writing this work, was born in Kilmarnock, Scotland, his father
being the Rev. Robert Stirling, D.D., of that city, and his brothers,
the late Mr. Patrick Stirling and Mr. James Stirling, the well known
engineers and designers of Locomotive Engines for the Great Northern
and South Eastern Railways respectively.
After completing his studies in Scotland he settled in South America,
and was engaged as manager and constructing engineer in important
railway enterprises on the west coast, besides other concerns both in
Peru and Chile; his last work being the designing and construction
of the railway from the port of Tocopilla on the Pacific Ocean to
the Nitrate Fields of Toco in the interior, the property of the
Anglo-Chilian and Nitrate Railway Company.
He died in Lima, Peru, on the 7th October, 1900, much esteemed and
respected, leaving the MS. of the present work behind him, which is now
published as a tribute to his memory, and wish to put before those who
are interested in the Science of Astronomy his theories to which he
devoted so much thought.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION. 1
CHAPTER I.
The bases of modern astronomy. Their late formation 18
Instruments and measures used by ancient astronomers 19
Weights and measures sought out by modern astronomers 20
Means employed to discover the density of the earth.
Measuring by means of plummets not sufficiently exact 20
Measurements with torsion and chemical balances more accurate 21
Sir George B. Airy's theory,
and experiments at the Harton colliery 22
Results of experiments not reliable.
Theory contrary to the Law of Attraction 23
Proof by arithmetical calculation of its error 24
Difficulties in comparing beats of pendulums at top
and bottom of a mine 26
The theory upheld by text-books without proper examination 27
Of a particle of matter within the shell of a hollow sphere.
Not exempt from the law of Attraction 28
A particle so situated confronted with the law of the
inverse square ofdistance from an attracting body.
Remarks thereon 29
It is not true that the attraction of a spherical shell
is "zero" for a particle of matter within it 31
CHAPTER II.
The moon cannot have even an imaginary rotation on its axis,
but is generally believed to have.
Quotations to prove this 33
Proofs that there can be no rotation. The most confused
assertion that there is rotation shown to be without
foundations 35
A gin horse does not rotate on its axis in its revolution 37
A gin horse, or a substitute, driven instead of being a driver 38
Results of the wooden horse being driven by the mill 38
The same results produced by the revolution of the moon.
Centrifugal force sufficient to drive air and water
away from our side of the moon 39
That force not sufficient to drive them away from
its other side 40
No one seems ever to have thought of centrifugal force in
connection with air and water on the moon 41
Near approach made by Hansen to this notion 41
Far-fetched reasons given for the non-appearance
of air and water 42
The moon must have both on the far-off hemisphere 44
Proofs of this deduced from its appearance at change 44
Where the evidences of this may be seen if looked for
at the right place. The centrifugal force shown to
be insufficient to drive off even air, and less water,
altogether from the moon 45
The moon must have rotated on its axis at one period
of its existence 47
The want of polar compression no proof to the contrary 48
Want of proper study gives rise to extravagant conceptions,
jumping at conclusions, and formation of
"curious theories" 48
CHAPTER III.
Remarks on some of the principal cosmogonies. Ancient notions 49
The Nebular hypothesis of Laplace. Early opinions on it.
Received into favour. Again condemned as erroneous 50
Defects attributed to it as fatal. New cosmogonies advanced 51
Dr. Croll's collision, or impact, theory discussed 53
Dr. Braun's cosmogony examined 59
M. Faye's "Origine du Monde" defined 61
Shown to be without proper foundation, confused, and
in some parts contradictory 65
Reference to other hypotheses not noticed. All more or less
only variations on the nebular hypothesis 70
Necessity for more particular examination into it 71
CHAPTER IV.
Preliminaries to analysis of the Nebular hypothesis 72
Definition of the hypothesis 73
Elements of solar system. Tables of dimensions and masses 75
Explanation of tables and density of Saturn 78
Volume, density and mass of Saturn's rings, general remarks
about them, and satellites to be made from them 79
Future of Saturn's rings 79
Notions about Saturn | 623.246259 |
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catholicworld09pauluoft_djvu.txt
Page images are also available at
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{i}
The Catholic World.
Monthly Magazine
Of General Literature And Science.
----------
Vol. IX.
April, 1869, To September, 1869.
----------
New York:
The Catholic Publication House,
126 Nassau Street.
1869.
{ii}
S. W. Green, Printer,
16 and 18 Jacob St., N. Y.
{iii}
Contents.
Aubrey de Vere in America, 264.
A Chinese Husband's Lament for his Wife, 279.
Angela, 634, 756.
Antiquities of New York, 652.
All for the Faith, 684.
Bishops of Rome, 86.
Beethoven, 523, 607, 783.
Catholic and Protestant Countries, Morality of, 52.
Catholicity and Pantheism, 255, 554.
Chinese Husband's Lament for his Wife, 279.
Council of the Vatican, The Approaching, 356.
Columbus at Salamanca, 433.
Council of Baltimore, The Second Plenary, 497.
Church, Our Established, 577.
Charms of Nativity, 660.
Conversion of Rome, The, 790.
Daybreak, 37, 157, 303, 442, 588, 721.
Duration of Life, Influence of Locality on, 73.
De Vere, Aubrey, in America, 264.
Dongan, Hon. Thomas, 767.
Emily Linder, 98, 221.
Educational Question, The, 121.
Filial Affection, as Practised by the Chinese, 416.
Foreign Literary Notes, 429, 711.
Faith, All for the, 684.
General Council, The Approaching, 14.
Good Old Saxon, 318.
Heremore Brandon, 63, 188.
Ireland, Modern Street Ballads of, 32.
Irish Church Act of 1869, The, 238.
Immigration, The Philosophy of, 399.
Ireland, A Glimpse of, 738.
Jewish Church, Letter and Spirit in the, 690.
Linder, Emily, 98, 221.
Lecky on Morals, 529.
Letter and Spirit in the Jewish Church, 690.
Leo X. and his Age, 699.
Little Flowers of Spain, 706.
Morality of Catholic and Protestant Countries, 52.
My Mother's Only Son, 249.
Man, Primeval, 746.
Moral Aspects of Romanism, 845.
Matanz | 623.295734 |
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by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
SPEECHES, ADDRESSES,
AND
OCCASIONAL SERMONS,
BY
THEODORE PARKER,
MINISTER OF THE TWENTY-EIGHTH CONGREGATIONAL CHURCH IN BOSTON.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. II.
BOSTON:
HORACE B. FULLER,
(SUCCESSOR TO WALKER, FULLER, AND COMPANY,)
245, WASHINGTON STREET.
1867.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1855, by
THEODORE PARKER,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court
of the District of Massachusetts.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME II.
I.
A SERMON OF THE SPIRITUAL CONDITION OF BOSTON.--Preached
at the Melodeon, on Sunday, February 18, 1849
PAGE 1
II.
SOME THOUGHTS ON THE MOST CHRISTIAN USE OF THE
SUNDAY.--A Sermon preached at the Melodeon, on Sunday,
January 30, 1848 56
III.
A SERMON OF IMMORTAL LIFE.--Preached at the Melodeon
on Sunday, September 20, 1846 105
IV.
THE PUBLIC EDUCATION OF THE PEOPLE.--An Address
delivered before the Onondaga Teachers' Institute at Syracuse,
New York, October 4, 1849 139
V.
THE POLITICAL DESTINATION OF AMERICA, AND THE
SIGNS OF THE TIMES.--An Address delivered before
several literary Societies in 1848 198
VI.
A DISCOURSE OCCASIONED BY THE DEATH OF JOHN
QUINCY ADAMS.--Delivered at the Melodeon, on Sunday,
March 5, 1848 252
VII.
A SPEECH AT A MEETING OF THE AMERICAN ANTI-SLAVERY
SOCIETY, TO CELEBRATE THE ABOLITION OF
SLAVERY BY THE FRENCH REPUBLIC, April 6, 1848 331
VIII.
A SPEECH AT FANEUIL HALL, BEFORE THE NEW ENGLAND
ANTI-SLAVERY CONVENTION, May 31, 1848 344
IX.
SOME THOUGHTS ON THE FREE SOIL PARTY, AND THE
ELECTION OF GENERAL TAYLOR, December, 1848 360
A SERMON OF THE SPIRITUAL CONDITION OF BOSTON.--PREACHED AT THE
MELODEON, ON SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 18, 1849.
MATTHEW VIII. 20.
By their fruits ye shall know them.
Last Sunday I said something of the moral condition of Boston; to-day I
ask your attention to a Sermon of the Spiritual Condition of Boston. I
use the word spiritual in its narrower sense, and speak of the condition
of this town in respect to piety. A little while since, in a sermon of
piety, I tried to show that love of God lay at the foundation of all
manly excellence, and was the condition of all noble, manly development;
that love of truth, love of justice, love of love, were respectively the
condition of intellectual, moral, and affectional development, and that
they were also respectively the intellectual, moral, and affectional
forms of piety; that the love of God as the Infinite Father, the
totality of truth, justice, and love was the general condition of the
total development of man's spiritual powers. But I showed, that
sometimes this piety, intellectual, moral, affectional or total, did not
arrive at self-consciousness; the man only unconsciously loving the
Infinite in one or all these modes, and in such cases the man was a
loser by frustrating his piety, and allowing it to stop in the truncated
form of unconsciousness.
Now what is in you will appear out of you; if piety be there in any of
these forms, in either mode, it will come out; if not there, its fruits
cannot appear. You may reason forward or backward: if you know piety
exists, you may foretell its appearance; if you find fruits thereof, you
may reason back and be sure of its existence. Piety is love of God as
God, and as we only love what we are like, and in that degree, so it is
also a likeness to God. Now it is a general doctrine in Christendom that
divinity must manifest itself; and, in assuming the highest form of
manifestation known to us, divinity becomes humanity. However, that
doctrine is commonly taught in the specific and not generic form, and is
enforced by an historical and concrete example, but not by way of a
universal thesis. It appears thus: The Christ was God; as such He must
manifest himself; the form of manifestation was that of a complete and
perfect man. I reject the concrete example, but accept the universal
doctrine on which the special dogma of the Trinity is erected. From that
I deduce this as a general rule: If you follow the law of your nature,
and are simple and true to that, as much of godhead as there is in you,
so much of manhood will come out of you, and, as much of manhood comes
out of you, so much of godhead was there within you; as much subjective
divinity, so much objective humanity.
Such being the case, the demands you can make on a man for manliness
must depend for their answer on the amount of piety on deposit in his
character; so it becomes important to know the condition of this town in
respect of piety, for if this be not right in the above sense, nothing
else is right; or, to speak more clerically, "Unless the Lord keep the
city, the watchman waketh but in vain," and unless piety be developed or
a-developing in men, it is vain for the minister to sit up late of a
Saturday night to concoct his sermon, and to rise up early of a Sunday
morning to preach the same; he fights but as one that beateth the air,
and spends his strength for that which is nought. They are in the right,
therefore, who first of all things demand piety: so let us see what
signs or proof we have, and of what amount of piety in Boston.
To determine this, we must have some test by which to judge of the
quality, distinguishing piety from impiety, and some standard whereby to
measure the quantity thereof; for though you may know what piety is in
you, I what is in me, and God what is in both and in all the rest of us,
it is plain that we can only judge of the existence of piety in other
men, and measure its quantity by an outward manifestation thereof, in
some form which shall serve at once as a trial test and a standard
measure.
Now, then, as I mentioned in that former sermon, it is on various sides
alleged that there are two outward manifestations of piety, a good deal
unlike: each is claimed by some men as the exclusive trial test and
standard measure. Let me say a word of each.
I. Some contend for what I call the conventional standard; that is, the
manifestation of piety by means of certain prescribed forms. Of these
forms there are three modes or degrees: namely, first, the form of
bodily attendance on public worship; second, the belief in certain
doctrines, not barely because they are proven true, or known without
proof, but because they are taught with authority; and third, a passive
acquiescence in certain forms and ceremonies, or an active performance
thereof.
II. The other I call the natural standard; that is, the manifestation of
piety in the natural form of morality in its various degrees and modes
of action.
* * * * *
It is plain, that the amount of piety in a man or a town, will appear
very different when tested by one or the other of these standards. It
may be that very little water runs through the wooden trough which feeds
the saw-mill at Niagara, and yet a good deal, blue and bounding, may
leap over the rock, adown its natural channel. In a matter of this
importance, when taking account of a stock so precious as piety, it is
but fair to try it by both standards.
* * * * *
Let us begin with the conventional standard, and examine piety by its
manifestation in the ecclesiastical forms. Here is a difficulty at the
outset, in determining upon the measure, for there is no one and general
ecclesiastical standard, common to all parties of Christians, from the
Catholic to the Quaker; each measures by its own standard, but denies
the correctness of all the others. It is as if a foot were declared the
unit of long measure, and then the actual foot of the chief justice of a
State, were taken as the rule by which to correct all measurements; then
the foot would vary as you went from North Carolina to South, and, in
any one State, would vary with the health of the judge. However, to do
what can be done with a measure thus uncertain, it is plain, that,
estimated by any ecclesiastical standard, the amount of piety is small.
There is, as men often say, "A general decline of piety;" that is a
common complaint, recorded and registered. But what makes the matter
worse to the ecclesiastical philosopher, and more appalling to the
complainers, is this: it is a decline of long standing. The disease
which is thus lamented is said to be acute, but is proved to be chronic
also; only it would seem, from the lamentations of some modern
Jeremiahs, that the decline went on with accelerated velocity, and, the
more chronic the disease was, the acuter it also became.
Tried by this standard, things seem discouraging. To get a clearer view,
let us look a little beyond our own borders, at first, and then come
nearer home. The Catholic church complains of a general defection. The
majority of the Christian church confesses that the Protestant
Reformation was not a revival of religion, not a "Great awakening," but
a great falling to sleep; the faith of Luther and Calvin was a great
decline of religion--a decline of piety in the ecclesiastical form; that
modern philosophy, the physics of Galileo and Newton, the metaphysics of
Descartes and of Kant, mark another decline of religion--a decline of
piety in the philosophical form; that all the modern democracy of the
eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, marks a yet further decline of
religion--a decline of piety in the political form; that all the modern
secular societies, for removing the evils of men and their sins, mark a
yet fourth decline of religion--a decline of piety in the philanthropic
form. Certainly, when measured by the mediaeval standard of Catholicism,
these mark four great declensions of piety, for, in all four, the old
principle of subordination to an external and personal authority is set
aside.
All over Europe this decline is still going on; ecclesiastical
establishments are breaking down; other establishments are a-building
up. Pius the Ninth seems likely to fulfil his own prophecy, and be the
last of the Popes; I mean the last with temporal power. There is a great
schism in the north of Europe; the Germans will be Catholics, but no
longer Roman. The old forms of piety, such as service in Latin, the
withholding of the Bible from the people, compulsory confession, the
ungrateful celibacy of a reluctant priesthood--all these are protested
against. It is of no avail that the holy coat of Jesus, at Treves, works
greater miracles than the apostolical napkins and aprons; of no avail
that the Virgin Mary appeared on the nineteenth of September, 1846, to
two shepherd-children, at La Salette, in France. What are such things to
Ronge and Wessenberg? Neither the miraculous coat, nor the miraculous
mother, avails aught against this untoward generation, charm they never
so wisely. The decline of piety goes on. By the new Constitution of
France, all forms of religion are equal; the Catholic and the
Protestant, the Mahometan and the Jew, are equally sheltered under the
broad shield of the law. Even Spain, the fortress walled and moated
about, whither the spirit of the middle ages retired and shut herself up
long since, womanning her walls with unmanly priests and kings, with
unfeminine queens and nuns--even Spain fails with the general failure.
British capitalists buy up her convents and nunneries, to turn them into
woollen mills. Monks and nuns forget their beads in some new
handicraft; sister Mary, who sat still in the house, is now also busy
with serving, careful, indeed, about more things than formerly, but not
cumbered nor troubled as before. Meditative Rachels, and Hannahs, long
unblest, who sat in solitude, have now become like practical Dorcas,
making garments for the poor; the Bank is become more important than the
Inquisition. The order of St. Francis d'Assisi, of St. Benedict, even of
St. Dominic himself, is giving way before the new order of Arkwright,
Watt, and Fulton,--the order of the spinning jenny and the power-loom.
It is no longer books on the miraculous conception, or meditations on
the five wounds of the Saviour, or commentaries on the song of songs
which is Solomon's, that get printed there: but fiery novels of Eugene
Sue, and George Sand; and so extremes meet.
Protestant establishments share the same peril. A new sect of
Protestants rises up in Germany, who dissent as much from the letter and
spirit of Protestantism, as the Protestants from Catholicism; men that
will not believe the infallibility of the Bible, the doctrine of the
Trinity, the depravity of man, the eternity of future punishment, nor
justification by faith--a justification before God, for mere belief
before men. The new spirit gets possession of new men, who cannot be
written down, nor even howled down. Excommunication or abuse does no
good on such men as Bauer, Strauss, and Schwegler; and it answers none
of their questions. It seems pretty clear, that in all the north of
Germany, within twenty years, there will be entire freedom of worship,
for all sects, Protestant and Catholic.
In England, Protestantism has done its work less faithfully than in
Germany. The Protestant spirit of England came here two hundred years
ago, so that new and Protestant England is on the west of the ocean; in
England, an established church lies there still, an iceberg in the
national garden. But even there, the decline of the ecclesiastical form
of piety is apparent: the new bishops must not sit in the House of
Lords, till the old ones die out, for the number of lords spiritual must
not increase, though the temporal may; the new attempt, at Oxford and
elsewhere, to restore the Middle Ages, will not prosper. Bring back all
the old rites and forms into Leeds and Manchester; teach men the
theology of Thomas Aquinas, or of St. Bernard; bid them adore the
uplifted wafer, as the very God, men who toil all day with iron mills,
who ride in steam-drawn coaches, and talk by lightning in a whisper,
from the Irk to the Thames,--they will not consent to the philosophy or
the theology of the Middle Ages, nor be satisfied with the old forms of
piety, which, though too elevated for their fathers in the time of
Elizabeth, are yet too low for them, at least too antiquated. Dissenters
have got into the House of Commons; the test-act is repealed, and a man
can be a captain in the army, or a postmaster in a village, without
first taking the Lord's Supper, after the fashion of the Church of
England. Some men demand the abandonment of tithes, the entire
separation of Church and State, the return to "The voluntary principle"
in religion. "The battering ram which levelled old Sarum," and other
boroughs as corrupt, now beats on the church, and the "Church is in
danger." Men complain of the decline of piety in England. An intelligent
and very serious writer, not long ago, lamenting this decline, in proof
thereof, relates, that formerly men began their last wills, "In the name
of God, Amen;" and headed bills of lading with, "Shipped in good order,
by the grace of God;" that indictments for capital crimes charged the
culprit with committing felony, "At the instigation of the devil," and
now, he complains, these forms have gone out of use.
In America, in New England, in Boston, when measured by that standard,
the same decline of piety is apparent. It is often said that our
material condition is better than our moral; that in advance of our
spiritual condition. There is a common clerical complaint of a certain
thinness in the churches; men do not give their bodily attendance, as
once they did; they are ready enough to attend lectures, two or three in
a week, no matter how scientific and abstract, or how little connected
with their daily work, yet they cannot come to the church without
teasing beforehand, nor keep awake while there. It is said the minister
is not respected as formerly. True, a man of power is respected, heard,
sought, and followed, but it is for his power, for his words of grace
and truth, not for his place in a pulpit; he may have more influence as
a man, but less as a clergyman. Ministers lament a prevalent disbelief
of their venerable doctrines; that there is a concealed skepticism in
regard to them, often not concealed. This, also, is a well-founded
complaint; the well-known dogmas of theology were never in worse repute;
there was never so large a portion of the community in New England who
were doubtful of the Trinity, of eternal damnation, of total depravity,
of the atonement, of the Godhead of Jesus, of the miracles of the New
Testament, and of the truth of every word of the Bible. A complaint is
made, that the rites and forms which are sometimes called "the
ordinances of religion," are neglected; that few men join the church,
and though the old hedge is broken down before the altar, yet the number
of communicants diminishes, and it is no longer able-headed men, the
leaders of society, who come; that the ordinances seem haggard and
ghastly to young men, who cannot feed their hungry souls on such a thin
pittance of spiritual aliment as these afford; that the children are not
baptized. These things are so; so in Europe, Catholic and Protestant; so
in America, so in Boston. Notwithstanding the well-founded complaint
that our modern churches are too costly for the times, we do not build
temples which bear so high a proportion to our wealth as the early
churches of Boston | 623.377832 |
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Charles Franks and | 623.426973 |
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Produced by Annie R. McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, DECEMBER 24, 1895. FIVE CENTS A
COPY.
VOL. XVII.--NO. 843. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
A GOOD SUNDAY MORNING'S WORK.
BY W. J. HENDERSON.
"It's altogether too absurd!" That was what the schoolmaster said.
"It is a wicked assumption of power!" That was what the minister said.
"It's flying in the face of Providence!" That was what old Mrs. Mehonky
said.
"Them two boys is a couple o' fools, an' they'll git drowned!" That was
what old Captain Silas Witherbee, formerly commander of the steam
oyster-dredge _Lotus Lily_, said.
And really, when you come to think of it, that was the most sensible
remark of the lot. But what people said did not seem to trouble "them
two boys."
"We're going to do it," declared Peter Bright.
"That's what," added Randall Frank.
And so they did. What was it? Well, it was this way. Searsbridge was a
small sea-coast town situated at the head of a bay some four miles long.
There was very little commercial traffic in that bay, for Searsbridge
was a tiny place. A schooner occasionally dropped anchor in the bay when
head winds and ugly seas were raging outside; and it was said that two
or three big ships had run into the shelter of the harbor in days gone
by, and there was a legend that a great Russian ironclad had once
stopped there for a supply of fresh water. But, as a rule, only the
fishermen's boats ran in and out between Porgy Point and Mullet Head.
There was no light at the entrance to the harbor, but there were some of
the sharpest and most dangerous rocks on the coast scattered about the
entrance.
"It'd be a famous place for a wreck," said a visitor one day.
"Why," exclaimed Peter Bright, who was showing him about, "there have
been three wrecks there since I was born."
"And is there no life-saving station?"
"Not nearer than Hartwell, and that's three miles away."
"Well, there ought to be a volunteer crew here, then."
"We generally manage to get a crew together when there's a wreck."
"There ought to be a regular crew, well drilled, and prepared for the
worst."
And that was what led Peter Bright and Randall Frank to talk it all
over and decide to get up a crew. But the other fellows all laughed at
them, and said that there would be a crew on hand when there was any
need for it.
"Yes," said Randall, who always spoke briefly and to the point, "and
before that crew gets afloat lives will be lost."
But the arguments of the two young men did not prevail, and they
therefore came to the determination which called forth the protests of
the schoolmaster, the minister, Mrs. Mehonky, and Captain Silas
Witherbee. But these protests had no influence with the two friends.
"We're going to brace up my boat, and in suspicious weather we're going
to cruise in her off the mouth of the bay to lend aid to vessels in
distress," said Peter, with all the dignity he could command.
And Randall proudly and emphatically added, "That's what."
Peter's boat was by no means so despicable a craft as might have been
supposed from the comments of the neighbors. She had been the dinghy of
a large sailing ship, and was stoutly built for work in lumpy water. The
ship had been wrecked on the coast, and the dinghy had been given to
Peter in payment for his services in helping to save her cargo. The
first thing that the boy did was to put a centre-board in the craft, and
to rig her with a stout mast and a mainsail, cat-boat fashion. Then he
announced that in his opinion he had a boat that would stay out when
some more | 623.575581 |
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[Illustration: THE TAR WAS READY FOR USE.]
-------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE YOUNG OARSMEN OF LAKEVIEW
By
CAPT. RALPH BONEHILL | 623.597174 |
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The Secret Doctrine
The Synthesis of Science, Religion, and Philosophy
By
Helena Petrovna Blavatsky
Author of "Isis Unveiled."
Third and Revised Edition.
SATYAT NASTI PARO DHARMAH.
"There is no Religion higher than Truth."
Volume III.
The Theosophical Publishing House
London
1897
CONTENTS
Preface.
Introductory.
Section I. Preliminary Survey.
Section II. Modern Criticism and the Ancients.
Section III. The Origin of Magic.
Section IV. The Secresy of Initiates.
Section V. Some Reasons for Secresy.
Section VI. The Dangers of Practical Magic.
Section VII. Old Wine in New Bottles.
Section VIII. The Book of Enoch the Origin and the Foundation of
Christianity.
Section IX. Hermetic and Kabalistic Doctrines.
Section X. Various Occult Systems of Interpretations of Alphabets and
Numerals.
Section XI. The Hexagon with the Central Point, or the Seventh Key.
Section XII. The Duty of the True Occultist toward Religions.
Section XIII. Post-Christian Adepts and their Doctrines.
Section XIV. Simon and his Biographer Hippolytus.
Section XV. St. Paul the real Founder of present Christianity.
Section XVI. Peter a Jewish Kabalist, not an Initiate.
Section XVII. Apollonius of Tyana.
Section XVIII. Facts underlying Adept Biographies.
Section XIX. St. Cyprian of Antioch.
Section XX. The Eastern Gupta Vidya & the Kabalah.
Section XXI. Hebrew Allegories.
Section XXII. The "Zohar" on Creation and the Elohim.
Section XXIII. What the Occultists and Kabalists have to say.
Section XXIV. Modern Kabalists in Science and Occult Astronomy.
Section XXV. Eastern and Western Occultism.
Section XXVI. The Idols and the Teraphim.
Section XXVII. Egyptian Magic.
Section XXVIII. The Origin of the Mysteries.
Section XXIX. The Trial of the Sun Initiate.
Section XXX. The Mystery "Sun of Initiation."
Section XXXI. The Objects of the Mysteries.
Section XXXII. Traces of the Mysteries.
Section XXXIII. The Last of the Mysteries in Europe.
Section XXXIV. The Post-Christian Successors to the Mysteries.
Section XXXV. Symbolism of Sun and Stars.
Section XXXVI. Pagan Sidereal Worship, or Astrology.
Section XXXVII. The Souls of the Stars--Universal Heliolatry.
Section XXXVIII. Astrology and Astrolatry.
Section XXXIX. Cycles and Avataras.
Section XL. Secret Cycles.
Section XLI. The Doctrine of Avataras.
Section XLII. The Seven Principles.
Section XLIII. The Mystery of Buddha.
Section XLIV. "Reincarnations" of Buddha.
Section XLV. An Unpublished Discourse of Buddha.
Section XLVI. Nirvana-Moksha.
Section XLVII. The Secret Books of "Lam-Rin" and Dzyan.
Section XLVIII. Amita Buddha Kwan-Shai-yin, and Kwan-yin.--What the "Book
of Dzyan" and the Lamaseries of Tsong-Kha-pa say.
Section XLIX. Tsong-Kha-pa.--Lohans in China.
Section L. A few more Misconceptions Corrected.
Section LI. The "Doctrine of the Eye" & the "Doctrine of the Heart," or
the "Heart's Seal."
Some Papers On The Bearing Of Occult Philosophy On Life.
Paper I. A Warning.
Paper II. An Explanation.
Paper III. A Word Concerning the Earlier Papers.
Appendix. Notes on Papers I., II. and III.
Notes On Some Oral Teachings.
Footnotes
[Cover Art]
[Transcriber's Note: The above cover image was produced by the submitter
at Distributed Proofreaders, and is being placed into the public domain.]
As for what thou hearest others say, who persuade the many that
the soul when once freed from the body neither suffers... evil
nor is conscious, I know that thou art better grounded in the
doctrines received by us from our ancestors and in the sacred
orgies of Dionysus than to believe them; for the mystic symbols
are well known to us who belong to the Brotherhood.
PLUTARCH.
The problem of life is man. Magic, or rather Wisdom, is the
evolved knowledge of the potencies of man's interior being, which
forces are divine emanations, as intuition is the perception of
their origin, and initiation our induction into that knowledge....
We begin with instinct; the end is omniscience.
A. WILDER.
PREFACE.
The task of preparing this volume for the press has been a difficult and
anxious one, and it is necessary to state clearly what has been done. The
papers given to me by H. P. B. were quite unarranged, and had no obvious
order: I have, therefore, taken each paper as a separate Section, and have
arranged them as sequentially as possible. With the exception of the
correction of grammatical errors and the elimination of obviously un-
English idioms, the papers are as H. P. B. left them, save as otherwise
marked. In a few cases I have filled in a gap, but any such addition is
enclosed within square brackets, so as to be distinguished from the text.
In "The Mystery of Buddha" a further difficulty arose; some of the
Sections had been written four or five times over, each version containing
some sentences that were not in the others; I have pieced these versions
together, taking the fullest as basis, and inserting therein everything
added in any other versions. It is, however, with some hesitation that I
have included these Sections in the _Secret Doctrine_. Together with some
most suggestive thought, they contain very numerous errors of fact, and
many statements based on exoteric writings, not on esoteric knowledge.
They were given into my hands to publish, as part of the Third Volume of
the _Secret Doctrine_, and I therefore do not feel justified in coming
between the author and the public, either by altering the statements, to
make them consistent with fact, or by suppressing the Sections. She says
she is acting entirely on her own authority, and it will be obvious to any
instructed reader that she makes--possibly deliberately--many statements so
confused that they are mere blinds, and other statements--probably
inadvertently--that are nothing more than the exoteric misunderstandings of
esoteric truths. The reader must here, as everywhere, use his own
judgment, but feeling bound to publish these Sections, I cannot let them
go to the public without a warning that much in them is certainly
erroneous. Doubtless, had the author herself issued this book, she would
have entirely re-written the whole of this division; as it was, it seemed
best to give all she had said in the different copies, and to leave it in
its rather unfinished state, for students will best like to have what she
said as she said it, even though they may have to study it more closely
than would have been the case had she remained to finish her work.
The quotations made have been as far as possible found, and correct
references given; in this most laborious work a whole band of earnest and
painstaking students, under the guidance of Mrs. Cooper-Oakley, have been
my willing assistants. Without their aid it would not have been possible
to give the references, as often a whole book had to be searched through,
in order to find a paragraph of a few lines.
This volume completes the papers left by H. P. B., with the exception of a
few scattered articles that yet remain and that will be published in her
own magazine _Lucifer_. Her pupils are well aware that few will be found
in the present generation to do justice to the occult knowledge of H. P.
B. and to her magnificent sweep of thought, but as she can wait to future
generations for the justification of her greatness as a teacher, so can
her pupils afford to wait for the justification of their trust.
ANNIE BESANT.
INTRODUCTORY.
"Power belongs to him who knows;" this is a very old axiom. Knowledge--the
first step to which is the power of comprehending the truth, of discerning
the real from the false--is for those only who, having freed themselves
from every prejudice and conquered their human conceit and selfishness,
are ready to accept every and any truth, once it is demonstrated to them.
Of such there are very few. The majority judge of a work according to the
respective prejudices of its critics, who are guided in their turn by the
popularity or unpopularity of the author, rather | 623.612429 |
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Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER
His Life, Genius, and Writings
BY W. SLOANE KENNEDY
Author of a "Life of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow," Etc.
REVISED AND ENLARGED
_INTRODUCTION BY REV. S. F. SMITH, D.D._
Author of Hymn "America"
Such music as the woods and streams
Sang in his ear, he sang aloud
_The Tent on the Beach_
For all his quiet life flowed on,
As meadow streamlets flow,
Where fresher green reveals alo
The noiseless ways they go
_The Friend's Burial_
CHICAGO NEW YORK
THE WERNER COMPANY
COPYRIGHT 1892
BY D. LOTHROP COMPANY
COPYRIGHT 1895
BY THE WERNER COMPANY
John Greenleaf Whittier
INTRODUCTION.
Who does not admire and love John Greenleaf Whittier? And who does not
delight to do him honor? He was a man raised up by Providence to meet an
exigency in human history, and an exigency in the experiences of the
United States. And he met the exigency with distinguished success. He
was a true exponent of New England life and the New England spirit. He
drew his inspiration from the soil where he was born, from the
necessities of the times, from the demands of human rights, from the
love of God and of man. He was a unique man. We knew not his like before
him. We shall see no other like him after him. He was the product of his
age; and the age in which he lived belonged to him, and he to and in it.
He was a unique literary man. He was so meek and retiring; he was so
keenly sensitive to the wrongs done by man to man; he was so devoid of
self-seeking; so pure and exalted in motive, and so sturdy a defender of
the rights of the oppressed; he was so full of trust in God that we seem
never to have seen his equal among men. His beautiful gentleness of
character and his inflexible and fearless advocacy of the cause of
righteousness--even when such advocacy involved persecution and
personal harm and loss, a rare combination of qualities--remind us of
the sentiment of Oliver Wendell Holmes,
"The gentle are the strong."
If ever in modern days the character of the apostle John has been
reproduced among men it was in John G. Whittier. See with what sweetness
and meekness the shy and loving Quaker moved through the ranks of
society in times of peace and prosperity, and with what an adamantine
boldness and bravery he stood up before the mob in Philadelphia when his
types and manuscripts were scattered, his printing office burned and
himself threatened with personal violence by the foes of human equality
and freedom. Did he quail before the storm? Not he. Did he abandon his
principles and retire from the arena? Oh, no; no more than did the
apostle John--the apostle of love--forsake his Christian faith when the
persecutors immersed him in boiling oil and exiled him to a desert
island in the AEgean Sea.
The poetry of Mr. Whittier is a complete autobiography. It is a
reflection, as in a polished mirror, of himself. We miss only the
accidents of dates and places, which are of merely external importance;
but we find in his works, amply displayed, the portraiture of the man;
even as the architect records himself and his thoughts in his plans, and
builds his own soul into his edifices. Read the poetry of Mr. Whittier,
and you have no need to ask what kind of man produced it. Behold the
portrait: a thorough New England man, a son of its soil and a legitimate
product of its institutions; a fruit of the simple education which was
open to the people in the times of his youth and manhood; a
philanthropist, loving all righteousness and all men, and scorning all
oppression, injustice and iniquity; a stern advocate of human freedom,
prepared to fight for it even "to the bitter end;" a bachelor, but
having always a sweet and tender side for women; petted by society, but
never tempted to swerve from the straight line of his principles;
holding the faith of his fathers as a birthright and the result of his
honest convictions, but with sympathies as broad as the universe and an
appreciation of the privilege of private judgment on religious matters
as the right and duty of all men; animated by a patriotism which took in
his whole country, but a yearning for his own New England, its people,
its scenery, its institutions and its honor; warmly attached to the
friends whom he met along the pilgrimage of this life, but preserving to
the last the memory and the love of the survivors whom he knew in his
school days in the Haverhill Academy; living very much apart from his
fellow-men, as he did in his latter days, on account of the increasing
infirmities of his age, and absorbed in the world of his own thoughts,
yet ever most affable, and as accessible as a most warm-hearted and
cordial associate; every inch a man, as in stature, so also in soul, but
exhibiting also the simplicity and the loving and confiding spirit of a
child ("of such is the kingdom of heaven"); conscious of his human
weakness and dependence on a higher Power, as he approached the goal of
life, but relying on that higher Power with a sublime courage and a firm
faith. How the man stands forth, like an orator on the stage, in the
| 623.674646 |
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WELSH FAIRY-TALES AND OTHER STORIES
By Anonymous
Collected And Edited By P. H. Emerson
To
Leonard, Sybil, Gladys, And Zoe.
AUTHOR'S NOTE.
These tales were collected by me whilst living in Anglesea during the
winter 1891-2.
With the exception of the French story, they were told me and I took
them down at the time.
Particulars respecting the narratives will be found in the Notes.
In most cases I have done but little "editing", preferring to give the
stories as told.
The old book referred to in the Notes I bought from a country
bookseller, who knew neither its author, | 623.773481 |
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Produced by Susan Skinner and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
[Illustration: CHAMBERS’S JOURNAL
OF
POPULAR
LITERATURE, SCIENCE, AND ART.
Fourth Series
CONDUCTED BY WILLIAM AND ROBERT CHAMBERS.
NO. 734. SATURDAY, JANUARY 19, 1878. PRICE 1½_d._]
THE STORY OF THIERS.
In a densely populated street of the quaint sea-port of Marseilles
there dwelt a poor locksmith and his family, who were so hard pressed
by the dearness of provisions and the general hardness of the times,
that the rent and taxes for the wretched tenement which they called
a home had been allowed to fall many weeks into arrear. But the good
people struggled on against their poverty; and the locksmith (who
was the son of a ruined cloth-merchant), though fallen to the humble
position of a dock-porter, still managed to wade through life as if
he had been born to opulence. This poor labourer’s name was Thiers,
and his wife was a descendant of the poet Chenier; the two being
destined to become the parents of Louis Adolphe Thiers, one of the most
remarkable men that ever lived.
The hero of our story was at his birth mentally consigned to oblivion
by his parents, while the neighbours laughed at the ungainly child,
and prognosticated for him all kinds of evil in the future. And it is
more than probable that these evil auguries would have been fulfilled
had it not been for the extraordinary care bestowed upon him by his
grandmother. But for her, perhaps our story had never been written.
Under her fostering care the child survived all those diseases which
were, according to the gossips, to prove fatal to him; but while his
limbs remained almost stationary, his head and chest grew larger, until
he became a veritable dwarf. By his mother’s influence with the family
of André Chenier, the lad was enabled to enter the Marseilles Lyceum
at the age of nine; and here the remarkable head and chest kept the
promise they made in his infancy, and soon fulfilled Madame Thiers’
predictions.
Louis Adolphe Thiers was a brilliant though somewhat erratic pupil. He
was noted for his practical jokes, his restlessness, and the ready and
ingenious manner in which he always extricated himself from any scrapes
into which his bold and restless disposition had led him. Thus the
child in this case would appear to have been ‘father to the man,’ by
the manner in which he afterwards released his beloved country from one
of the greatest ‘scrapes’ she ever experienced.
On leaving school Thiers studied for the law, and was eventually called
to the bar, though he never practised as a lawyer. He became instead
a local politician; and so well did the rôle suit him, that he soon
evinced a strong desire to try his fortune in Paris itself. He swayed
his auditory, when speaking, in spite of his diminutive stature,
Punch-like physiognomy, and shrill piping speech; and shout and yell
as his adversaries might, they could not drown his voice, for it arose
clear and distinct above all the hubbub around him. While the studious
youth was thus making himself a name in his native town, he was ever on
the watch for an opportunity to transfer his fortunes to the capital.
His almost penniless condition, however, precluded him from carrying
out his | 623.79521 |
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Produced by Sue Asscher. HTML version by Al Haines.
THE VALLEY OF DECISION
BY
EDITH WHARTON
Author of "A Gift from the Grave," "Crucial Instances," etc.
"Multitudes, multitudes in the valley of decision."
TO
MY FRIENDS
PAUL AND MINNIE BOURGET
IN REMEMBRANCE OF
ITALIAN DAYS TOGETHER.
CONTENTS.
BOOK I. THE OLD ORDER.
BOOK II. THE NEW LIGHT.
BOOK III. THE CHOICE.
BOOK IV. THE REWARD.
BOOK I.
THE OLD ORDER.
Prima che incontro alla festosa fronte
I lugubri suoi lampi il ver baleni.
1.1.
It was very still in the small neglected chapel. The noises of the farm
came faintly through closed doors--voices shouting at the oxen in the
lower fields, the querulous bark of the old house-dog, and Filomena's
angry calls to the little white-faced foundling in the kitchen.
The February day was closing, and a ray of sunshine, slanting through a
slit in the chapel wall, brought out the vision of a pale haloed head
floating against the dusky background of the chancel like a water-lily
on its leaf. The face was that of the saint of Assisi--a sunken ravaged
countenance, lit with an ecstasy of suffering that seemed not so much to
reflect the anguish of the Christ at whose feet the saint knelt, as the
mute pain of all poor down-trodden folk on earth.
When the small Odo Valsecca--the only frequenter of the chapel--had been
taunted by the farmer's wife for being a beggar's brat, or when his ears
were tingling from the heavy hand of the farmer's son, he found a
melancholy kinship in that suffering face; but since he had fighting
blood in him too, coming on the mother's side of the rude Piedmontese
stock of the Marquesses di Donnaz, there were other moods when he turned
instead to the | 623.900664 |
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Produced by Mary Glenn Krause, Barry Abrahamsen, 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.)
THE HONORABLE MISS MOONLIGHT
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: Frontispiece]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE
HONORABLE
MISS MOONLIGHT
BY
ONOTO WATANNA
AUTHOR OF
“A JAPANESE NIGHTINGALE”
“TAMA” ETC.
[Illustration: Publisher’s Logo]
HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK AND LONDON
M C M X I I
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BOOKS BY
ONOTO WATANNA
THE HONORABLE MISS MOONLIGHT. Post
8vo net $1.00
A JAPANESE NIGHTINGALE. Illustrated.
Crown 8vo net 2.00
A JAPANESE BLOSSOM. Illustrated in color.
8vo net 2.00
THE WOOING OF WISTARIA. Illustrated. Post
8vo net 1.50
THE HEART OF HYACINTH. Illustrated in color.
Crown 8vo net 2.00
TAMA. Illustrated. Japan tint paper. Crown
8vo net 1.60
HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY HARPER & BROTHERS
-------
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
PUBLISHED SEPTEMBER, 1912
H-M
------------------------------------------------------------------------
TO
J. W., L. W., AND E. McK.
IN REMEMBRANCE
OF KIND WORDS
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE HONORABLE MISS MOONLIGHT
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE HONORABLE MISS MOONLIGHT
CHAPTER I
THE day had been long and sultry. It was the season of little heat, when
an all-encompassing humidity seemed suspended over the land. Sky and
earth were of one monotonous color, a dim blue, which faded to shadowy
grayness at the fall of the twilight.
With the approach of evening, a soothing breeze crept up from the river.
Its faint movement brought a measure of relief, and nature took on a
more animated aspect.
Up through the narrow, twisting roads, in and out of the never-ending
paths, the lights of countless jinrikishas twinkled, bound for the
Houses of Pleasure. Revelers called to each other out of the balmy
darkness. Under the quivering light of a lifted lantern, suspended for
an instant, faces gleamed out, then disappeared back into the darkness.
To the young Lord Saito Gonji the night seemed to speak with myriad
tongues. Like some finely tuned instrument whose slenderest string must
vibrate if touched by a breath, so the heart of the youth was stirred by
every appeal of the night. He heard nothing of the chatter and laughter
of those about him. For the time at least, he had put behind him that
sickening, deadening thought that had borne him company now for so long.
He was giving himself up entirely to the brief hour of joy, which had
been agreeably extended to him in extenuation of the long life of
thralldom yet to come.
It was in his sole honor that the many relatives and connections of his
family had assembled, joyously to celebrate the fleeting hours of youth.
For within a week the Lord Saito Gonji was to marry. Upon this pale and
dreamy youth the hopes of the illustrious house of Saito depended. To
him the august ancestors looked for the propagating of their honorable
seed. He was the last of a great family, and had been cherished and
nurtured for one purpose only.
With almost as rigid care as would have been bestowed upon a novitiate
priest, Gonji had been educated.
“Send the child you love upon a journey,” admonished the stern-hearted
Lady | 623.945524 |
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University Libraries., Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, Sankar
Viswanathan, and Distributed Proofreaders Europe at
http://dp.rastko.net
SERVIA,
YOUNGEST MEMBER OF THE EUROPEAN
FAMILY:
OR, A
RESIDENCE IN BELGRADE,
AND
TRAVELS IN THE HIGHLANDS AND WOODLANDS OF
THE INTERIOR,
DURING THE YEARS 1843 AND 1844.
BY
ANDREW ARCHIBALD PATON, ESQ.
AUTHOR OF "THE MODERN SYRIANS."
"Les hommes croient en general connaitre suffisamment l'Empire Ottoman
pour peu qu'ils aient lu l'enorme compilation que le savant M. de
Hammer a publiee... mais en dehors de ce mouvement central il y a la
vie interieure de province, dont le tableau tout entier reste a
faire."
LONDON:
LONGMAN, BROWN, GREEN, AND LONGMANS,
PATERNOSTER ROW.
1845.
PREFACE.
The narrative and descriptive portion of this work speaks for itself.
In the historical part I have consulted with advantage Von Engel's
"History of Servia," Ranke's "Servian Revolution," Possart's "Servia,"
and Ami Boue's "Turquie d'Europe," | 623.974211 |
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Produced by David Widger and Cindy Rosenthal
EVE'S DIARY
By Mark Twain
Illustrated by Lester Ralph
Translated from the Original
SATURDAY.--I am almost a whole day old, now. I arrived yesterday.
That is as it seems to me. And it must be so, for if there was a
day-before-yesterday I was not there when it happened, or I should
remember it. It could be, of course, that it did happen, and that I
was not noticing. Very well; I will be very watchful now, and if any
day-before-yesterdays happen I will make a note of it. It will be best
to start right and not let the record get confused, for some instinct
tells me that these details are going to be important to the historian
some day. For I feel like an experiment, I feel exactly like an
experiment; it would be impossible for a person to feel more like an
experiment than I do, and so I am coming to feel convinced that that
is what I AM--an experiment; just an experiment, and nothing more.
Then if I am an experiment, am I the whole of it? No, I think not; I
think the rest of it is part of it. I am the main part of it, but I
think the rest of it has its share in the matter. Is my position
assured, or do I have to watch it and take care of it? The latter,
perhaps. Some instinct tells me that eternal vigilance is the price
of supremacy. [That is a good phrase, I think, for one so young.]
Everything looks better today than it did yesterday. In the rush of
finishing up yesterday, the mountains were left in a ragged condition,
and some of the plains were so cluttered with rubbish and remnants that
the aspects were quite distressing. Noble and beautiful works of art
should not be subjected to haste; and this majestic new world is indeed
a most noble and beautiful work. And certainly marvelously near to
being perfect, notwithstanding the shortness of the time. There are too
many stars in some places and not enough in others, but that can be
remedied presently, no doubt. The moon got loose last night, and slid
down and fell out of the scheme--a very great loss; it breaks my heart
to think of it. There isn't another thing among the ornaments and
decorations that is comparable to it for beauty and finish. It should
have been fastened better. If we can only get it back again--
But of course there is no telling where it went to. And besides,
whoever gets it will hide it; I know it because I would do it myself.
I believe I can be honest in all other matters, but I already begin to
realize that the core and center of my nature is love of the beautiful,
a passion for the beautiful, and that it would not be safe to trust me
with a moon that belonged to another person and that person didn't know
I had it. I could give up a moon that I found in the daytime, because I
should be afraid some one was looking; but if I found it in the dark, I
am sure I should find some kind of an excuse for not saying anything
about it. For I do love moons, they are so pretty and so romantic. I
wish we had five or six; I would never go to bed; I should never get
tired lying on the moss-bank and looking up at them.
Stars are good, too. I wish I could get some to put in my hair. But I
suppose I never can. You would be surprised to find how far off they
are, for they do not look it. When they first showed, last night, I
tried to knock some down with a pole, but it didn't reach, which
astonished me; then I tried clods till I was all tired out, but I never
got one. It was because I am left-handed and cannot throw good. Even
when I aimed at the one I wasn't after I couldn't hit the other one,
though I did make some close shots, for I saw the black blot of the clod
sail right into the midst of the golden clusters forty or fifty times,
just barely missing them, and if I could have held out a little longer
maybe I could have got one.
So I cried a little, which was natural, I suppose, for one of my age,
and after I was rested I got a basket and started for a place on the
extreme rim of the circle, where the stars were close to the ground and
I could get them with my hands, which would be better, anyway, because I
could | 623.974348 |
2023-11-16 18:27:28.1568960 | 679 | 14 | WORSHIP OF THE DEAD, VOLUME I (OF 3)***
E-text prepared by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, David King, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net/) from
page images generously made available by the Humanities Text Initiative
(http://www.hti.umich.edu/), a unit of the University of Michigan's
Digital Library Production Service
Note: Images of the original pages are available through
the Humanities Text Initiative, a unit of the University
of Michigan's Digital Library Production Service. See
http://www.hti.umich.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=genpub;idno=AFL0522.0001.001
THE BELIEF IN IMMORTALITY AND THE WORSHIP OF THE DEAD
by
J. G. FRAZER, D.C.L., LL.D., Litt.D.
Fellow of Trinity College, Cambridge
Professor of Social Anthropology in the University of Liverpool.
VOL. I
The Belief Among the Aborigines of Australia, the Torres Straits
Islands, New Guinea and Melanesia
The Gifford Lectures, St. Andrews 1911-1912
MacMillan and Co., Limited
St. Martin's Street, London
1913
_Itaque unum illud erat insitum priscis illis, quos cascos
appellat Ennius, esse in morte sensum neque excessu vitae sic
deleri hominem, ut funditus interiret; idque cum multis aliis
rebus; tum e pontificio jure et e caerimoniis sepulchrorum
intellegi licet, quas maxumis ingeniis praediti nec tanta cura
coluissent nec violatas tam inexpiabili religione sanxissent,
nisi haereret in corum mentibus mortem non interitum esse omnia
tollentem atque delentem, sed quandam quasi migrationem
commutationemque vitae._
Cicero, _Tuscul. Disput._ i. 12.
TO
MY OLD FRIEND
JOHN SUTHERLAND BLACK, LL.D.
I DEDICATE AFFECTIONATELY
A WORK
WHICH OWES MUCH TO HIS ENCOURAGEMENT
PREFACE
The following lectures were delivered on Lord Gifford's Foundation
before the University of St. Andrews in the early winters of 1911 and
1912. They are printed nearly as they were spoken, except that a few
passages, omitted for the sake of brevity in the oral delivery, have
been here restored and a few more added. Further, I have compressed the
two introductory lectures into one, striking out some passages which on
reflection I judged to be irrelevant or superfluous. The volume
incorporates twelve lectures on "The Fear and Worship of the Dead" which
I delivered in the Lent and Easter terms of 1911 at Trinity College,
Cambridge, and repeated, with large additions, in my course at St.
Andrews.
The | 624.176936 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Her Royal Highness
A Romance of the Chancelleries of Europe
By William Le Queux
Published by Hodder and Stoughton.
This edition dated 1914.
Her Royal Highness, by William Le Queux.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.
CHAPTER ONE.
THE NILE TRAVELLERS.
| 624.262029 |
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Produced by Shaun Pinder and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
ALICE LORRAINE:
_A TALE OF THE SOUTH DOWNS_.
BY
RICHARD DODDRIDGE BLACKMORE,
AUTHOR OF “THE MAID OF SKER,” “LORNA DOONE,” ETC.
οὕτως ἔχει σοι ταῦτα, καὶ δείξεις τάχα,
εἴτ’ εὐγενὴς πέφυκας, εἴτ’ ἐσθλῶν κακή.
SOPH. _Ant._
_NEW AND CHEAPER EDITION._
LONDON:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON & COMPANY,
_LIMITED_,
St. Dunstan’s House,
FETTER LANE, FLEET STREET, E.C.
1893.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED,
STAMFORD STREET AND CHARING CROSS.
To
PROFESSOR OWEN, C.B., F.R.S., &c.,
WITH THE WRITER’S GRATITUDE,
FOR WORDS OF TRUE ENCOURAGEMENT,
AND MANY ACTS OF KINDNESS,
This Work
MOST HEARTILY IS DEDICATED
_April, 1875._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.--ALL IN THE DOWNS 1
II.--COOMBE LORRAINE 3
III.--LINEAGE AND LINEAMENTS 5
IV.--FATHER AND FAVOURITE 7
V.--THE LEGEND OF THE ASTROLOGER 11
VI.--THE LEGEND CONTINUED 14
VII.--THE LEGEND CONCLUDED 17
VIII.--ASTROLOGICAL FORECAST 20
IX.--THE LEGACY OF THE ASTROLOGER 24
X.--A BOY AND A DONKEY 27
XI.--CHAMBER PRACTICE 35
XII.--WITH THE COSTERMONGERS 45
XIII.--TO THE CHERRY-ORCHARDS 49
XIV.--BEAUTIES OF THE COUNTRY 55
XV.--OH, RUDDIER THAN THE CHERRY! 59
XVI.--OH, SWEETER THAN THE BERRY! 66
XVII.--VERY SHY THINGS 72
XVIII.--THE KEY OF THE GATE 78
XIX.--FOUR YOUNG LADIES 84
XX.--A RECTOR OF THE OLDEN STYLE 92
XXI.--A NOTABLE LADY 96
XXII.--A MALIGNANT CASE 100
XXIII.--THE BAITER BAITED 105
XXIV.--A FATHERLY SUGGESTION 109
XXV.--THE WELL OF THE SIBYL 112
XXVI.--AN OPPORTUNE ENVOY 117
XXVII.--A GOOD PARSON’S HOLIDAY 121
XXVIII.--NOT TO BE RESISTED 126
XXIX.--ABSURD SURDS 130
XXX.--OUR LAD STEENIE 135
XXXI.--IN A MARCHING REGIMENT 139
XXXII.--PUBLIC AND PRIVATE OPINION 144
XXXIII.--RAGS AND BONES 149
XXXIV.--UNDER DEADLY FIRE 157
XXXV.--HOW TO FRY NO PANCAKES 161
XXXVI.--LADY COKE UPON LITTLETON 166
XXXVII.--ACHES _v._ ACRES 172
XXXVIII.--IN THE DEADLY BREACH 177
XXXIX.--SHERRY SACK 183
XL.--BENEATH BRIGHT EYES 191
XLI.--DONNAS PRAY AND PRACTISE 195
XLII.--AN UNWELCOME ESCORT 200
XLIII.--IN AMONG THE BIG-WIGS 209
XLIV.--HOW TO TAKE BAD TIDINGS 216
XLV.--INNOCENCE IN NO SENSE 220
XLVI.--HARD RIDING AND HARD READING 226
XLVII.--TRY TO THINK THE BEST OF ME 234
XLVIII.--SOMETHING WORTH KISSING 239
XLIX.--A DANGEROUS COMMISSION 245
L.--STERLING AND STRIKING AFFECTION 250
LI.--EMPTY LOCKERS 259
LII.--BE NO MORE OFFICER OF MINE 264
LIII.--FAREWELL, ALL YOU SPANISH LADIES 268
LIV.--GOING UP THE TREE 275
LV.--THE WOEBURN 281
LVI.--GOING DOWN THE HILL 290
LVII.--THE PLEDGE OF A LIFE 297
LVIII.--A HERO’S RETURN 304
LIX.--THE GRAVE OF THE ASTROLOGER 312
LX.--COURTLY MANNERS 316
LXI.--A SAMPLE FROM KENT 322
LXII.--A FAMILY ARRANGEMENT 327
LXIII.--BETTER THAN THE DOCTORS 332
LXIV.--IMPENDING DARKNESS 335
LXV.--A FINE CHRISTMAS SERMON 341
LXVI.--COMING DOWN IN EARNEST 344
LXVII.--THE LAST CHANCE LOST 348
LXVIII.--THE DEATH-BOURNE 353
LXIX.--BOTTLER BEATS THE ELEMENTS 357
LXX.--OH, HARO! HARO! HARO! 361
LXXI.--AN ARGUMENT REFUTED 367
LXXII.--ON LETHE’S WHARF 370
LXXIII.--POLLY’S DOLL 374
LXXIV.--FROM HADES’ GATES 377
LXXV.--SOMETHING LIKE A LEGACY 380
LXXVI.--SCIENTIFIC SOLUTION 385
LXXVII.--HER HEART IS HIS 387
LXXVIII.--THE LAST WORD COMES FROM BONNY 390
ALICE LORRAINE.
CHAPTER I.
ALL IN THE DOWNS.
Westward of that old town Steyning, and near Washington and Wiston, the
lover of an English landscape may find much to dwell upon. The best way
to enjoy it is to follow the path along the meadows, underneath the
inland rampart of the Sussex hills. Here is pasture rich enough for
the daintiest sheep to dream upon; tones of varied green in stripes
(by order of the farmer), trees as for a portrait grouped, with the
folding hills behind, and light and shadow making love in play to one
another. Also, in the breaks of meadow and the footpath bendings,
stiles where love is made in earnest, at the proper time of year, with
the dark-browed hills imposing everlasting constancy.
Any man here, however sore he may be from the road of life, after
sitting awhile and gazing, finds the good will of his younger days
revive with a wider capacity. Though he hold no commune with | 624.267594 |
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Produced by David Widger
LIFE ON THE MISSISSIPPI
BY MARK TWAIN
Part 5.
Chapter 21 A Section in My Biography
IN due course I got my license. I was a pilot now, full fledged. I
dropped into casual employments; no misfortunes resulting, intermittent
work gave place to steady and protracted engagements. Time drifted
smoothly and prosperously on, and I supposed--and hoped--that I was
going to follow the river the rest of my days, and die at the wheel when
my mission was ended. But by and by the war came, commerce was
suspended, my occupation was gone.
I had to seek another livelihood. So I became a silver miner in Nevada;
next, a newspaper reporter; next, a gold miner, in California; next, a
reporter in San Francisco; next, a special correspondent in the Sandwich
Islands; next, a roving correspondent in Europe and the East; next, an
instructional torch-bearer on the lecture platform; and, finally, I
became a scribbler of books, and an immovable fixture among the other
rocks of New England.
In so few words have I disposed of the twenty-one slow-drifting years
that have come and gone since I last looked from the windows of a pilot-
house.
Let us resume, now.
Chapter 22 I Return to My Muttons
AFTER twenty-one years' absence, I felt a very strong desire to see the
river again, and the steamboats, and such of the boys as might be left;
so I resolved to go out there. I enlisted a poet for company, and a
stenographer to 'take him down,' and started westward about the middle
of April.
As I proposed to make notes, with a view to printing, I took some
thought as to methods of procedure. I reflected that if I were
recognized, on the river, I should not be as free to go and come, talk,
inquire, and spy around, as I should be if unknown; I remembered that it
was the custom of steamboatmen in the old times to load up the confiding
stranger with the most picturesque and admirable lies, and put the
sophisticated friend off with dull and ineffectual facts: so I
concluded, that, from a business point of view, it would be an advantage
to disguise our party with fictitious names. The idea was certainly
good, but it bred infinite bother; for although Smith, Jones, and
Johnson are easy names to remember when there is no occasion to remember
them, it is next to impossible to recollect them when they are wanted.
How do criminals manage to keep a brand-new ALIAS in mind? This is a
great mystery. I was innocent; and yet was seldom able to lay my hand
on my new name when it was needed; and it seemed to me that if I had had
a crime on my conscience to further confuse me, I could never have kept
the name by me at all.
We left per Pennsylvania Railroad, at 8 A.M. April 18.
'EVENING. Speaking of dress. Grace and picturesqueness drop gradually
out of it as one travels away from New York.'
I find that among my notes. It makes no difference which direction you
take, the fact remains the same. Whether you move north, south, east, or
west, no matter: you can get up in the morning and guess how far you
have come, by noting what degree of grace and picturesqueness is by that
time lacking in the costumes of the new passengers,--I do not mean of
the women alone, but of both sexes. It may be that CARRIAGE is at the
bottom of this thing; and I think it is; for there are plenty of ladies
and gentlemen in the provincial cities whose garments are all made by
the best tailors and dressmakers of New York; yet this has no
perceptible effect upon the grand fact: the educated eye never mistakes
those people for New-Yorkers. No, there is a godless grace, and snap,
and style about a born and bred New-Yorker which mere clothing cannot
effect.
'APRIL 19. This morning, struck into the region of full goatees--
sometimes accompanied by a mustache, but only occasionally.'
It was odd to come upon this thick crop of an obsolete and uncomely
fashion; it was like running suddenly across a forgotten acquaintance
whom you had supposed dead for a generation. The goatee extends over a
wide extent of country; and is accompanied by an iron-clad belief in
Adam and the biblical history of creation, which has not suffered from
the assaults of the scientists.
'AFTERNOON. At the railway stations the loafers carry BOTH hands in
their breeches pockets; it was observable, heretofore, that one hand was
sometimes out of doors,--here, never. This is an important fact in
geography.'
If the loafers determined the character of a country, it would be still
more important, of course.
'Heretofore, all along, the station-loafer has been often observed to
scratch one shin with the other foot; here, these remains of activity
are wanting. This has an ominous look.'
By and by, we entered the tobacco-chewing region. Fifty years ago, the
tobacco-chewing region covered the Union. It is greatly restricted now.
Next, boots began to appear. Not in strong | 624.350277 |
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Produced by Martin Pettit and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
The Riverside Biographical Series
NUMBER 12
PAUL JONES
BY
HUTCHINS HAPGOOD
* * * * *
The Riverside Biographical Series
1. ANDREW JACKSON, by W. G. BROWN.
2. JAMES B. EADS, by LOUIS HOW.
3. BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, by PAUL E. MORE.
4. PETER COOPER, by R. W. RAYMOND.
5. THOMAS JEFFERSON, by H. C. MERWIN.
6. WILLIAM PEN | 624.364813 |
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Produced by Suzanne Shell, Emmy and the PG Online Distributed
Proofreading Team.(www.pgdp.net)
A
REVERSIBLE
SANTA CLAUS
BY
MEREDITH NICHOLSON
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
FLORENCE H. MINARD
BOSTON and NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1917
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY MEREDITH NICHOLSON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published October 1917_
By Meredeth Nicholson
A REVERSIBLE SANTA CLAUS. Illustrated.
THE PROOF OF THE PUDDING. Illustrated.
THE POET. Illustrated.
OTHERWISE PHYLLIS. With frontispiece in color.
| 624.380964 |
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Produced by Marcia Brooks, Stephen Hutcheson and the online
Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at
http://www.pgdpcanada.net
[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
III. Sparrows in the Nursery 16
IV. The Care of Young Birds after they leave the Nest 23
V. The Adjutant Bird 29
VI. The Sarus 35
VII. The Stability of Species 40
VIII. The Amadavat 46
IX. The Nutmeg Bird 52
X. The Did-he-do-it 56
XI. Cobbler or Tailor? 62
XII. A Crow in Colours 68
XIII. Up-to-date Species Making 73
XIV. Honeysuckers 78
XV. A Hewer of Wood 84
XVI. A Feathered Sprinter 89
XVII. A Bird of Character 94
XVIII. Swifts 99
XIX. Birds as Automata 104
XX. Playing Cuckoo 111
XXI. The Koel 117
XXII. The Common Doves of India 124
XXIII. Doves in a Verandah 130
XXIV. The Golden Oriole 135
XXV. The Barn Owl 140
XXVI. A Tree-top Tragedy 145
XXVII. Two Little Birds 150
XXVIII. The Paradise Flycatcher 156
XXIX. Butcher Birds 163
XXX. Ducks 168
XXXI. A Dethroned Monarch 173
XXXII. Birds in the Rain 178
XXXIII. The Weaver Bird 183
XXXIV. Green Parrots 190
XXXV. The Roosting of the Sparrows 197
XXXVI. A Gay Deceiver 202
XXXVII. The Emerald Merops 208
XXXVIII. Do Animals Think? 213
XXXIX. A Couple of Neglected Craftsmen 219
XL. Birds in their Nests 224
XLI. Bulbuls 229
XLII. The Indian Corby 235
ILLUSTRATIONS
The Grey Pelican (_Pelecanus philippensis_), a Bird
of the Plains _Frontispiece_
The White-breasted Kingfisher (_Halcyon smyrnensis_) 4
The Redshank (_Totanus calidris_), one of the British Birds found
in India 8
The Indian Roller, or “Blue Jay” (_Coracias indica_) 12
The Indian Adjutant (_Leptoptilus dubius_) 28
The Indian Adjutant (_Leptoptilus dubius_) 34
Loten’s Sunbird (_Arachnechthra lotenia_) 78
(Note the long curved bill, adapted to insertion in flowers.)
The Yellow Sunbird (_Arachnechthra zeylonica_) 80
Nest of Loten’s Sunbird 82
(Notice that it is built in a spider’s web.)
Loten’s Sunbird (Hen) about to enter nest 90
The Indian Spotted Owlet (_Athene brama_) 94
The Indian Paddy Bird (_Ardeola grayii_) 114
The Common Kingfisher (_Alcedo ispida_), one of the British Birds
found in India 144
The Indian Kite (_Milvus govinda_) 148
The Grey-necked Crow (_Corvus splendens_) 190
The Bengal Red-whiskered Bulbul (_Otocompsa emeria_) 230
BIRDS OF THE PLAINS
BRITISH BIRDS IN THE PLAINS OF INDIA
Most birds are cosmopolitans and belong to no nationality. Strictly
speaking, there is only one British bird, only one bird found in the
British Isles and nowhere else, and that is the red grouse (_Tetrao
scoticus_).
For this reason some apology seems necessary for the heading of this
article. “Birds common to the Plains of India and the British Isles”
would doubtless be a more correct title. However, I write as an
Englishman. When I meet in a foreign land a bird I knew in England I like
to set that bird down as a fellow-countryman.
In India most of the familiar birds: the thrush, the blackbird, the robin
redbreast, the wren, the chaffinch, and the blue tit are conspicuous by
their absence; their places being taken by such strange forms as _mynas_,
_bulbuls_, seven sisters, parakeets, etc. The Englishman is therefore
prone to exaggerate the differences between the avifauna of his own
country and that of India. The dissimilarity is indeed great, but not so
great as is generally supposed.
A complete list of British birds comprises some four hundred species; of
these nearly one-half occur in India. But a list of British species is
apt to be a misleading document. You may keep a sharp look-out in England
for a lifetime without ever setting eyes on many of the so-called British
birds. Every feathered thing that has been blown by contrary winds, or
whose dead body has been washed by the waves, on to the shores of Albion
has been appropriated as a British species. This sounds very hospitable.
Unfortunately the hospitality is of a dubious nature, seeing that every
casual bird visitor promptly falls a victim to the gun of some
self-styled naturalist. Having slaughtered his “feathered friend” the
aforesaid naturalist proceeds to boast in the press of his exploit.
I do not deem it correct to speak of these occasional visitors as British
birds. On the other hand, I think we may legitimately call the birds we
see constantly in England, at certain or all seasons of the year, English
birds. Of these many are also found in India. More of them occur in the
Punjab than in any other part of the country because of our long cold
weather, and because, as the crow flies, if not as the _sahib_ travels,
the Punjab is nearer England than is any other province.
The ubiquitous sparrow first demands our attention. This much-abused
little bird is, thanks to his “push,” quite as much at home in the
“Gorgeous East” as he is in England. He is certainly not quite so
abundant out here; the crows and spotted owlets take care of that. They
are very fond of sparrow for breakfast. Nevertheless, _Passer domesticus_
is quite plentiful enough and is ever ready to nest inside one’s
bungalow.
The Indian cock sparrow differs slightly in appearance from the English
bird, having more white on the sides of his neck. This is not, as might
be supposed, due to the fact that he is not coated with soot to such an
extent as the cockney bird. Every widely distributed species, including
man, has its local peculiarities, due to climatic influences, isolation,
and other causes. If the isolation be maintained long enough the process
of divergence continues until the various races differ from one another
to such an extent as to be called species. Local races are incipient
species, species in the making. The barn owl (_Strix flammea_) is another
case in point. This is a familiar owl in England, and is common out here,
but not nearly so abundant as the little spotted owlet that makes night
hideous by its caterwaulings. The Indian barn owl, which, in default of
barns, haunts mosques, temples, deserted buildings, and even secluded
verandahs, differs from our English friend in having stronger claws and
feet, and the breast spotted instead of plain white. These trivial
differences are not usually considered sufficient to justify the division
of the barn owl into two species.
Some of our English birds assume diminutive proportions in India, as, for
example, the kingfisher and the raven. This may perhaps be attributed to
the enervating Indian climate. The common kingfisher (_Alcedo ispida_) is
exceedingly common in all parts of India except the Punjab. It does,
indeed, occur in that province, but not abundantly. The commonest
kingfisher in the Land of the Five Rivers is the much more splendid
white-breasted species (_Halcyon smyrnensis_), which may be recognised by
its beautiful blue wings with a white bar, and by its anything but
melodious “rattling scream.”
This winter the ravens are invading Lahore in very large numbers. It is
impossible not to notice the great black creatures as they fly overhead
in couples or in companies of six or eight, uttering solemn croaks.
But the Indian raven, large as it is, is a diminutive form; its length is
but twenty-four inches as compared with the twenty-eight of its English
cousin. Moreover, there are slight anatomical differences between the two
races; hence the Indian bird was at one time considered to be a separate
species and was called _Corvus lawrencii_. There certainly does seem to
be some justification for this procedure, since the Indian raven has not
the solitary, shy, and retiring disposition of the bird at Home. It
consorts with those feathered villains the Indian crows, | 624.448851 |
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Produced by Martin Ward
Weymouth New Testament in Modern Speech, 3 John
Third Edition 1913
R. F. Weymouth
Book 64 3 John
001:001 The Elder to his dear friend Gaius. Truly I love you.
001: | 624.475026 |
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Produced by Les Bowler
LIVES OF THE POETS: GAY, THOMSON | 624.545775 |
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Produced by Al Haines
CARRY ON!
By VIRNA SHEARD
PUBLISHED UNDER THE DISTINGUISHED
PATRONAGE OF THE IMPERIAL ORDER
OF THE DAUGHTERS OF THE
EMPIRE IN AID OF THE
RED CROSS
TORONTO:
WARWICK BROS. & RUTTER, LIMITED
1917
COPYRIGHT, CANADA, 1917
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
We acknowledge with thanks the kindness of _The Globe_, Toronto, for
permission to use Carry On, The Young Knights, The Watcher, October
Goes, Dreams, The Cry, A War Chant, To One Who Sleeps, The Requiem and
The Lament, to _Saturday Night_, Toronto, for permission to use Before
the Dawn, and to _The Canadian Magazine_ for permission to use When
Jonquils Blow. The other poems have not hitherto been published.
CONTENTS
Carry On
The Young Knights
The Shells
The Watcher
October Goes
Dreams
Before the Dawn
Crosses
The Cry
A War Chant
When Jonquils Blow
To One Who Sleeps
The Sea
Comrades
Requiem
Lament
CARRY ON!
That all freedom may abide
Carry on!
For the brave who fought and died,
Carry on!
England's flag so long adored
Is the banner of the Lord--
His the cannon--His the sword--
Carry on, and on! Carry on!
Through the night of death and tears,
Carry on!
Through the hour that scars and sears,
Carry on!
Legions in the flame-torn sky,--
Armies that go reeling by,--
Only once can each man die;
Carry on!
For the things you count the best,
Carry on!
Take love with you,--leave the rest--
Carry on!
Though the fight be short or long,
Men of ours--O dear and strong--
Yours will be the Victor's song,
Carry on--and on! Carry on!
THE YOUNG KNIGHTS
Now they remain to us forever young
Who with such splendor gave their youth away;
Perpetual Spring is their inheritance,
Though they have lived in Flanders and in France
A round of years, in one remembered day.
They drained life's goblet as a joyous draught
And left within the cup no bitter lees.
Sweetly they answered to the King's behest,
And gallantly fared forth upon a quest,
Beset by foes on land and on the seas.
So in the ancient world hath bloomed again
The rose of old romance--red as of yore;
The flower of high emprise hath whitely blown
Above the graves of those we call our own,
And we will know its fragrance evermore.
Now if their deeds were written with the stars,
In golden letters on the midnight sky
They would not care. They were so young, and dear,
They loved the best the things that were most near,
And gave no thought to glory far and high.
They need no shafts of marble pure and cold--
No painted windows radiantly bright;
Across our hearts their names are carven deep--
In waking dreams, and in the dreams of sleep,
They bring us still ineffable delight.
Methinks heaven's gates swing open very wide
To welcome in a host so fair and strong;
Perchance the unharmed angels as they sing,
May envy these the battle-scars they bring,
And sigh e'er they take up the triumph song!
THE SHELLS
O my brave heart! O my strong heart! My sweet heart and gay,
The soul of me went with you the hour you marched away,
For surely she is soulless, this woman white, and still,
Who works with shining metal to make the things that kill.
I tremble as I touch them,--so strange they are, and bright;
Each one will be a comet to break the purple night.
Grey Fear will ride before it, and Death will ride behind,
The sound of it will deafen,--the light of it will blind!
And whom it meets in passing, but God alone will know;
Each one will blaze a trail in blood--will hew a road of woe;
O when the fear is on me, my heart grows faint and cold:--
I dare not think of what I do,--of what my fingers hold.
Then sounds a Voice, "Arise, and make the weapons of the Lord!"
"He rides upon the whirlwind! He hath need of shell and sword!
His army is a mighty host--the lovely and the strong,--
They follow Him to battle, with trumpet and with Song!"
O my brave heart! My strong heart! My sweet heart and dear,--
'Tis not for me to falter,--'Tis not for me to fear--
Across the utmost barrier--wherever you may be,--
With joy unspent, and deathless, my soul will follow thee.
THE WATCHER
Little White Moon--Each night from Heaven you lean
To watch the lonely Seas, and all the Earth between;--
O little shining Moon! What have you seen?--
What have you seen upon the fields of France,
Where through the drowsy grain, the gay red poppies dance,
Unheeding splintered gun or broken lance?
Deep in the green-wood, shadow-laced, and still,
What is it you have found, by fern-bed and by rill?
What by each hollow--and each little hill?--
When o'er the sky the driven smoke-clouds flee,
And through a dusky veil look down fearfully--
What do you find adrift upon the sea?
In the great mountains where the four winds blow,--
Where the King's cavalry, and his foot-soldiers go--
What have you seen beneath the shifting snow?
Little white Moon! So old,--so strangely bright--
How could you still shine on, unless you knew some night
Here in the world you watch, all would be right!
OCTOBER GOES
October goes, and its colors all pass:
At dawn there's a silver film on the grass,
And the reeds are shining as pipes of glass,
But yesterweek where the cloud waves rolled
Down a wind-swept sky that was grey, and cold,
Sailed the hunter's moon,--a galleon of gold!
And now in the very depth of the night
It is just a little flame, blown and white,
Or a broken-winged moth on a weary flight.
But the steadfast trees at the forest rim,
And the pines in places scented and dim,
Still wait for one hunter, and watch for him.
And the wind in the branches whispers, "Why?"
And the yellow leaves that go rustling by,
Say only, "Remember," and sigh,--and sigh.
DREAMS
Keep thou thy dreams--though joy should pass thee by;
Hold to the rainbow beauty of thy thought;
It is for dreams that men will oft-times die,--
And count the passing pain of death as nought.
Keep though thy dreams, though faith should faint and fail,
And time should loose thy fingers from the creeds,
The vision of the Christ will still avail
To lead thee on to truth and tender deeds.
Keep thou thy dreams all the winter's cold,
When weeds are withered, and the garden grey,
Dream thou of roses with their hearts of gold,--
Beckon to summers that are on their way.
Keep thou thy dreams--the tissue of all wings
Is woven first of them; from dreams are made
The precious and imperishable things,
Whose loveliness lives on, and does not fade.
Keep thou thy dreams, intangible and dear
As the blue ether of the utmost sky,--
A dream may lift thy spirit past all fear,
And with the great, may set thy feet on high!
BEFORE THE DAWN
In that one darkest hour, before the dawn is here,
Each soul of us goes sailing, close to the coast of Fear.
There in the windless quiet, from out the folded black,
The things we have forgotten--or would forget--come back.
Old sorrows, long abandoned, or kept with lock and key,
Steal from their prison places to bear us company.
All softly come our little sins--our scarlet sins--and gray,
To keep with us a vigil till breaking of the day | 624.57536 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "SHE'S MY GIRL!"]
THE WESTERNERS
By
Stewart Edward White
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Copyright, 1900 and 1901, by
STEWART EDWARD WHITE
THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK
CONTENTS
I. THE HALF-BREED
II. THE WOMAN
III. THE MAN WHO STOOD "99"
IV. ALFRED USES HIS SIX-SHOOTER
V. LAFOND DESERTS
VI. THE WOMAN AND THE MAN
VII. THE REINS OF POWER
VIII. THE MAKING OF A HOSTILE
IX. THE BROTHER OF GODS
X. THE PRICE OF A CLAIM
XI. THE BEGINNING OF LAFOND'S REVENGE
XII. THE LEOPARD AND HIS SPOTS
XIII. THE DISSOLVING VIEW
XIV. INTO THE SHADOW OF THE HILLS
XV. IN WHICH CHEYENNE HARRY LOSES HIS PISTOL
XVI. AND GETS IT BACK AGAIN
XVII. BLACK MIKE MEETS AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE AND STARTS A COLLECTION
XVIII. TIRED WINGS
XIX. THE BROAD WHITE ROAD
XX. THE EATING OF THE APPLE
XXI. LAFOND MAKES A FRIEND
XXII. IN WHICH THE TENDERFEET CONDUCT A SHOOTING MATCH AND
GLORIFY PETER
XXIII. A FOOL FOR LUCK
XXIV. BILLY STARTS IN ON HIS FIFTY THOUSAND
XXV. JACK GRAHAM SPEAKS OUT
XXVI. AND HAS TO GO TO WORK
XXVII. PROSPERITY
XXVIII. LAFOND GOES EAST
XXIX. BISMARCK ANNE ARRIVES
XXX. ANCESTRAL VOICES
XXXI. LAFOND'S FIRST CARD
XXXII. IN WHICH THERE IS SOME SHOOTING
XXXIII. FUTILITY
XXXIV. LOVE'S EYES UNBANDAGED
XXXV. OUT OF THE PAST
XXXVI. UNDER THE ETERNAL STARS
XXXVII. ASHES
ILLUSTRATIONS
"SHE'S MY GIRL!".................. _Frontispiece_
A SIOUX COUNCIL
THAT BABY CRY, "MAMA!"
"COME ACROSS, OR I'LL..."
"WATCH ME HIT THAT SQUIRREL!"
JIM PUT UP A GOOD FIGHT.
"ARE YOU STILL MAD?"
"MY LITTLE MOLLY," HE CHOKED.
I
THE HALF-BREED
A tourist of to-day, peering from the window of his vestibule train at
the electric-lit vision of Three Rivers, as it stars the banks of the
Missouri like a constellation against the blackness of the night, would
never recognize, in the trim little modern town, the old Three Rivers
of the early seventies.
To restore the latter, he should first of all sweep the ground bare of
the buildings which now adorn it, leaving, perhaps, here and there an
isolated old shanty of boards far advanced toward dissolution. He
would be called upon to substitute, in place of the brick stores and
dwellings of to-day, a motley collection of lean-tos, dug-outs, tents,
and shacks, scattered broadcast over the virgin prairie without the
slightest semblance of order. Where the Oriole furniture factory now
stands, he must be prepared to see--and hear--a great drove of horses
and oxen feeding on bottom-land grass. And for the latter-day
citizens, whose police record is so discouraging to the ambitious
chief, and so creditable to themselves, he must imagine a multitude
more heterogeneous, perhaps, than could be gathered anywhere else in
the world--tenderfeet from the East; mountaineers from Tennessee and
Kentucky, bearing their historic long pea rifles; soft-voiced
Virginians; keen, alert woodsmen from the North; wiry, silent trappers
and scouts from the West; and here and there a straight Indian,
stalking solemnly toward some one of the numerous "whiskey joints."
The court-house site he would find crowded with canvas wagons, noisy
with the shrill calling of women and children. Where Judge Oglethorpe
has recently erected his stone mansion, Frank Byers would be running a
well-patronized saloon. Were he to complete the picture by placing
himself mentally at | 624.645812 |
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Produced by David Widger and Carlo Traverso
THE WORKS OF EDGAR ALLAN POE
IN FIVE VOLUMES
The Raven Edition
VOLUME I
Contents:
Edgar Allan Poe, An Appreciation
Life of Poe, by James Russell Lowell
Death of Poe, by N. P. Willis
The Unparalleled Adventures of One Hans Pfaall
The Gold-Bug
Four Beasts in One
The Murders in the Rue Morgue
The Mystery of Marie Rogêt
The Balloon-Hoax
MS. Found in a Bottle
The Oval Portrait
EDGAR ALLAN POE
AN APPRECIATION
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
| 624.666388 |
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Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Tonya Allen, and Project
Gutenberg Distributed Proofreaders
THE ATLANTIC MONTHLY.
A MAGAZINE OF LITERATURE, ART, AND POLITICS.
VOL. IV.--NOVEMBER, 1859.--NO. XXV.
E. FELICE FORESTI.
Late in the autumn of 1836, an Austrian brig-of-war cast anchor in the
harbor of New York; and seldom have voyagers disembarked with such
exhilarating emotions as thrilled the hearts of some of the passengers
who then and there exchanged ship for shore. Yet their delight was not
the joy of reunion with home and friends, nor the cheerful expectancy
of the adventurous upon reaching a long-sought land of promise, nor the
fresh sensation of the inexperienced when first beholding a new
country; it was the relief of enfranchised men, the rapture of devotees
of freedom, loosened from a thrall, escaped from _surveillance_, and
breathing, after years of captivity, the air where liberty is law, and
self-government the basis of civic life. These were exiles; but the
bitterness of that lot was forgotten, at the moment, in the proud
consciousness of having incurred it through allegiance to freedom, and
being destined to endure it in a consecrated asylum. In that air, when
first respired, on that soil, when first trod, they were unconscious of
the lot of strangers: for there the vigilant eye of despotism ceased to
watch their steps; prudence checked no more the expression of honest
thought or high aspiration; manhood resumed its erect port, mind its
spontaneous vigor; nor did many moments pass ere friendly hands were
extended, and kindly voices heard, and domestic retreats thrown open.
Their welfare had been commended to generous hearts; and the simple
facts of their previous history won them respectful sympathy and
cordial greeting.
Prominent amid the excited group was a tall, well-knit figure, whose
high, square brow, benign smile, and frank earnestness bespoke a man of
moral energy, vigorous intellect, and warm, candid, tender soul. Traces
of suffering, of thought, of stern purpose were, indeed, apparent; but
with and above them, the ingenuousness and the glow of a brave and
ardent man. This was ELEUTARIO FELICE FORESTI,--subsequently, and for
years, the favorite professor of his beautiful native language and
literature in New York,--the favorite guest and the cherished friend in
her most cultivated homes and among her best citizens,--the Italian
patriot, which title he vindicated by consistency, self-respect, and
the most genial qualities. The vocation he adopted, because of its
availability, only served to make apparent comprehensive endowments and
an independent spirit; the lady with whom he read Tasso, beside the
chivalrous music of the "Jerusalem Delivered," learned to appreciate
modern knighthood; and the scholar to whom he expounded Dante, from the
political chart of the Middle Ages, turned to an incarnation of
existent patriotism. Not only by the arguments of Gioberti, the graphic
pictures of Manzoni, and the terse pathos of Leopardi, did he
illustrate what Italy boasts of later genius; but through his own
eloquent integrity and magnetic love of her achievements and faith in
her destiny. The savings of years of patient toil were sacrificed to
the subsistence of his poor countrymen who came hither after bravely
fighting at Rome, Venice, Milan, and Novara, to have their fruits of
victory treacherously gathered by aliens. Infirmity, consequent upon
early privation and the unhealed wounds of long-worn chains, laid the
stalwart frame of the brave and generous exile on a bed of pain. He
uttered no complaint, and whispered not of the fear which no courage
can quell in high natures, that of losing "the glorious privilege of
being independent": yet his American friends must have surmised the
truth; for, one day, he received a letter stating that a sum, fully
adequate for two years' support, remained to his credit on the books of
a merchant,--one of those mysterious provisions, such as once redeemed
a note of Henry Clay's, and of which no explanation can be given,
except that "it is a way they have" among the merchant princes of New
York. By a providential coincidence, surgical skill, at this juncture,
essentially improved his physical condition; but it became
indispensable, at the same time, that he should exchange our rigorous
clime for one more congenial; and he sailed five years ago for Italy,
taking up his residence in Piedmont, where dwell so many of the eminent
adherents of the cause he loved, and where the institutions, polity,
and social life include so many elements of progress and of faith. It
was now that those who knew him best, including some of the leading
citizens of his adopted city, applied to the Executive for his
appointment as United States Consul at Genoa. There was a singular
propriety in the request. Having passed and honored the ordeal of
American citizenship, and being then a popular resident of the city
which gave birth to the discoverer of this continent,--familiar with
our institutions, and endeared to so many of the wise and brave in
America and Italy,--illustrious through suffering, a veteran disciple
and martyr of freedom,--he was eminently a representative man, whom
freemen should delight to honor; and while it then gratified our sense
of the appropriate that this distinction and resource should cheer his
declining years, we are impelled, now that death has canonized
misfortune and integrity, to avail ourselves of the occasion to
rehearse the incidents and revive the lessons of his life.[1]
[Footnote 1: It is to be lamented that Foresti had not anticipated our
purpose with that consecutive detail possible only in an autobiography.
"_Le Scene del Carcere Duro in Austria_," writes the Marquis
Pallavicino, "non sono ancora la | 624.673171 |
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Produced by Ron Swanson
THE BOW, ITS HISTORY, MANUFACTURE AND USE.
Printed in Great Britain by J. H. Lavender and Co.,
2, Duncan Terrace, City Road, London, N.I.
[Frontispiece: HENRY SAINT-GEORGE.]
_"THE STRAD" LIBRARY, No. III._
THE BOW, ITS HISTORY, MANUFACTURE AND USE
BY
HENRY SAINT-GEORGE
ILLUSTRATED BY THE AUTHOR
THIRD EDITION
London:
HORACE MARSHALL & SON, 46, Farringdon Street, E.C.4.
New York:
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS, 597-599, Fifth Avenue.
1922.
PREFACE.
It has always appeared to me a curious thing that the bow, without
which the fiddle could have no being, should have received so scant
attention, not alone from the community of fiddlers, but also from
writers on the subject. I only know of one book in which the subject
is adequately handled. Out of every twenty violinists who profess to
some knowledge of the various types of Cremonese and other fiddles of
repute and value, barely three will be met with who take a similar
interest in the bow beyond knowing a good one, or rather one that
suits their particular physique, when playing with it. They are all
familiar with the names of Dodd and Tourte, but it is seldom that
their knowledge extends beyond the names. As for a perception of the
characteristics of bows as works of art, which is the standard of the
fiddle connoisseur, it hardly has any existence outside the small
circle of bow makers. Of the large number of undoubted fiddle experts
now in London, but a small proportion profess to any similar
knowledge of bows, and of these there are but few who can be credited
with real authority in the matter.
It is, therefore, with the object of bringing the bow into more
general notice that this little book has been written, and, to drop
into the good old prefatory style, if I succeed in arousing the
interest of but one violinist in the bow for itself, and apart from
its work, my efforts will not have been in vain.
My most hearty thanks are due to those who have so kindly assisted me
in my work. To _Messrs. W. E. Hill and Sons, Mr. E. Withers, Mr. F.
W. Chanot, Mr. J. Chanot, and Messrs. Beare, Goodwin and Co._, for
the loan of valuable bows for the purpose of illustration, and _Mr.
A. Tubbs_, who, in addition to similar favours, most kindly placed
much of his valuable time at my disposal, and very patiently helped
me to a sufficient understanding of the bow maker's craft for the
purpose of collecting materials for the second part of the book.
The third part, in which I treat of the use of the bow, I have
purposely avoided making a systematic handbook of bowing technique,
for to handle that subject as exhaustively as I should wish would
require a separate volume. As stated in Chapter XIV., that portion of
the book is addressed almost exclusively to teachers, and in the few
cases where I have gone into questions of technique it has been
limited to those points that appear to be most neglected or
misunderstood by the generality of teachers.
"Anything that is worth doing is worth doing well" is a maxim that
teachers should hold up to themselves and their pupils, and this
reminds me of an exhortation to that effect in "Musick's Monument,"
that quaint and pathetic book of Thomas Mace (1676) with which I
cannot do better than end my already too extensive preamble.
"Now being Thus far _ready_ for _Exercise_, attempt the _Striking of
your Strings_; but before you do _That_, Arm yourself with
Preparative _Resolutions to gain a
Handsome--Smooth--Sweet--Smart--Clear--Stroak_; or else Play not at
all."
CONTENTS.
PART I.
_The History of the Bow_.
CHAPTER I. PAGE
ORIGIN OF INSTRUMENTS. FRICTIONAL VIBRATION. THE BOW DISTINCT
FROM THE PLECTRUM. THE TRIGONON. BOWING WITH VARIOUS OBJECTS.. 1
CHAPTER II.
ORIENTAL ORIGIN OF THE BOW. INDIAN, CHINESE AND OTHER EASTERN
BOWED INSTRUMENTS ....................... 7
CHAPTER III.
THE CRWTH. FLEMING'S "ETRUSCAN RAVANASTRON." THE MEDIAEVAL BOW.
UNRELIABILITY OF EARLY DRAWINGS AND SCULPTURES......... 14
CHAPTER IV.
THE BEGINNINGS OF THE MODERN BOW. ORNAMENTATION. A POSSIBLE
STRADIVARI BOW. THE MOVABLE NUT. THE CREMAILLERE. THE SCREW NUT 23
CHAPTER V.
VUILLAUME'S FACTS. THE FERRULE AND SLIDE. JOHN DODD ...... 31
CHAPTER VI.
DR. SELLE'S RECOLLECTIONS OF DODD. HIS WORK AND POVERTY. DODD
AND TOURTE. THE CALCULATION OF F | 624.754357 |
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Produced by Bryan Ness and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive.)
3
THE RECONSTRUCTION OF GEORGIA
STUDIES IN HISTORY, ECONOMICS AND PUBLIC LAW
EDITED BY THE FACULTY OF POLITICAL SCIENCE OF
COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY
VOLUME XIII] [NUMBER 3
THE RECONSTRUCTION OF GEORGIA
BY EDWIN C. WOOLLEY, Ph.D.
New York
THE COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY PRESS
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY, AGENTS
LONDON: P. S. KING & SON
1901
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PAGE
CHAPTER I
Presidential Reconstruction 9
CHAPTER II
The Johnson Government 16
CHAPTER III
Congress and the Johnson Governments--The Reconstruction
Acts of 1867 24
CHAPTER IV
The Administrations of Pope and Meade 38
CHAPTER V
The Supposed Restoration of 1868 49
CHAPTER VI
The Expulsion of the <DW64>s from the Legislature and
the Uses to which this Event was applied 56
CHAPTER VII
Congressional Action Regarding Georgia from December,
1868, to December, 1869 63
CHAPTER VIII
The Execution of the Act of December 22, 1869, and the
Final Restoration 72
CHAPTER IX
Reconstruction and the State Government 87
CHAPTER X
Conclusion 109
Bibliography 111
LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS
A. A. C. = American Annual Cyclopaedia.
B. A. = Address of Bullock to the people of Georgia, a pamphlet dated
1872.
B. L. = Letter from Bullock to the chairman of the Ku Klux Committee,
published in Atlanta in 1871.
C. G. = Congressional Globe.
C. R. = Report of the State Comptroller.
E. D. = United States Executive Documents.
E. M. = Executive Minutes (of Georgia).
G. O. D. S. = General Orders issued in the Department of the South.
G. O. H. = General Orders issued from the headquarters of the army.
G. O. M. D. G. = General Orders issued in the Military District of
Georgia.
G. O. T. M. D. = General Orders issued in the Third Military District.
H. J. = Journal of the Georgia House of Representatives.
H. M. D. = United States House Miscellaneous Documents.
J. C., 1865 = Journal of the Georgia Constitutional Convention of 1865.
J. C., 1867-8 = Journal of the Georgia Constitutional Convention of
1867-8.
K. K. R. = Ku Klux Report (Report of the Joint Committee of Congress on
the Conditions in the Late Insurrectionary States, submitted at the 2d
session of the 42d Congress, 1872).
M. C. U. = Milledgeville _Confederate Union_.
M. F. U. = Milledgeville _Federal Union_.
R. C. = Reports of Committees of the United States House of
Representatives.
R. S. W. = Report of the Secretary of War.
S. D. = United States Senate Documents.
S. J. = Journal of the Georgia Senate.
S. L. = Session Laws of Georgia.
S. R. = United States Senate Reports.
S. O. M. D. G. = Special Orders issued in the Military District of
Georgia.
S. O. T. M. D. = Special Orders issued in the Third Military District.
U. S. L. = United States Statutes at Large.
CHAPTER I
PRESIDENTIAL RECONSTRUCTION
The question, what political disposition should be made of the Confederate
States after the destruction of their military power, began to be
prominent in public discussion in December, 1863. It was then that
President Lincoln announced his policy upon the subject, which was to
restore each state to its former position in the Union as soon as
one-tenth of its population had taken the oath of allegiance prescribed in
his amnesty proclamation and had organized a state government pledged to
abolish slavery. This policy Lincoln applied to those states which were
subdued by the federal forces during his administration, viz., Tennessee,
Arkansas and Louisiana. When the remaining states of the Confederacy
surrendered in 1865, President Johnson applied the same policy, with some
modifications, to each of them (except Virginia, where he simply
recognized the Pierpont government).
Before this policy was put into operation, however, an effort was made by
some of the leaders of | 624.845776 |
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Produced by Curtis Weyant, Josephine Paolucci and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net.
THE
LIFE AND PUBLIC SERVICES
OF
JAMES A. GARFIELD,
TWENTIETH PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES.
INCLUDING
_FULL AND ACCURATE DETAILS OF HIS EVENTFUL ADMINISTRATION,
ASSASSINATION, LAST HOURS, DEATH, Etc._
TOGETHER WITH
NOTABLE EXTRACTS FROM HIS SPEECHES AND LETTERS
BY E. E. BROWN.
BOSTON
D. LOTHROP COMPANY
32 FRANKLIN STREET
COPYRIGHT, 1881,
BY D. LOTHROP & CO.
DEDICATION.
"To one who joined with us in sorrow true,
And bowed her crowned head above our slain."
INTRODUCTION.
BY REV. A. J. GORDON, D. D.
More eloquent voices for Christ and the gospel have never come from the
grave of a dead President than those which we hear from the tomb of our
lamented chief magistrate.
Twenty six years ago this summer a company of college students had gone
to the top of Greylock Mountain, in Western Massachusetts, to spend the
night. A very wide outlook can be gained from that summit. But if you
will stand there with that little company to-day, you can see farther
than the bounds of Massachusetts or the bounds of New England, or the
bounds of the Union. James A. Garfield is one of that band of students,
and as the evening shades gather, he rises up among the group and says,
"Classmates, it is my habit to read a portion of God's Word before
retiring to rest. Will you permit me to read aloud?" And then taking in
his hand a pocket Testament, he reads in that clear, strong voice a
chapter of Holy Writ, and calls upon a brother student to offer prayer.
"How far the little candle throws its beams!" It required real principle
to take that stand even in such a company. Was that candle of the Lord
afterward put out amid the dampening and unfriendly influences of a long
political life? It would not be strange. Many a Christian man has had
his religious testimony smothered amid the stifling and vitiated air of
party politics, till instead of a clear light, it has given out only
the flicker and foulness of a "smoking wick."
But pass on for a quarter of a century. The young student has become a
man. He has been in contact for years with the corrupting influences of
political life. Let us see where he stands now. In the great Republican
Convention at Chicago he is a leading figure. The meetings have been
attended with unprecedented excitement through the week. Sunday has
come, and such is the strain of rivalry between contending factions that
most of the politicians spend the entire day in pushing the interests of
their favorite candidates. But on that Lord's day morning Mr. Garfield
is seen quietly wending his way to the house of God. His absence being
remarked upon to him next day, he said, in reply, "I have more
confidence in the prayers to God which ascended in the churches
yesterday, than in all the caucusing which went on in the hotels."
He had great interests at stake as the promoter of the nomination of a
favorite candidate When so much was pending, might he not be allowed to
use the Sunday for defending his interest? So many would have reasoned
But no! amid the clash of contending factions and the tumult of
conflicting interests, there is one politician that heard the Word of
God sounding in his ear "_Six days shalt thou labor and do all thy
work_, but the seventh is the Sabbath of the Lord thy God, in it thou
shall not do any work." And, at the bidding of the Divine command, his
conscience marches him away to the house of God. Not, indeed, to enjoy
the luxury of hearing some famous preacher, or of listening to some
superb singing, but he goes to one of the obscurest and humblest
churches in the city, because there is where he belongs, and that is
the church which he has covenanted to walk with, as a disciple of Jesus
Christ. "How far" again "that little candle threw its beams!" It was a
little thing, but it was the index of a principle, an index that pointed
the whole American people upward when they heard of it. Here was a man
who did not carry a pocket conscience--a bundle of portable convictions
tied up with a thread of expediency. Nay! here was a man whose
conscience carried him--his master, not his menial, his sovereign, not
his servant.
And when, during the last days in his home at Mentor, just before going
to Washington to assume his office, he was entertaining some political
friends at tea, he did not forego evening prayers, for fear he might be
charged with cant, but, according to his custom, drew his family
together and opened the Scriptures and bowed in prayer in the midst of
his guests. And his was a religious principle that found expression in
action as well as in prayer. A lady residing in Washington told us that
while a member of the House of Representatives, he was accustomed to
work faithfully in the Sunday school, and that among his last acts was
the recruiting of a class of young men and teaching them in the Bible.
We know from his pastor that he was not too busy to be found often in
the social meetings of the church, nor too great to be above praying and
exhorting in the little group of Christians with whom he met. A
practical Christian, did we say? He must have been a spiritual Christian
also. There is one address of his in Congress that made a great
impression on our mind as we read it. He was delivering a brief eulogy
on some deceased Senator--I think it was Senator Ferry | 624.982679 |
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Produced by Fulvia Hughes, Suzanne Shell and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
Transcriber's Note:
Bold text is denoted by =equal signs=.
The upside-down asterisms are denoted by *.*
The list of the corrected items is at the end of this e-book.
=Edgar Fawcett's Novels.=
_Mr. Fawcett is a novelist who does a service that greatly needs to be
done,--a novelist who writes of the life with which he is closely
acquainted, and who manfully emphasizes his respect for his native land,
and his contempt for the weakness and affectation of those who are
ashamed of their country._--New York Evening Post.
_A GENTLEMAN OF LEISURE._
_Ninth Edition._ "Little Classic" style. 18mo, $1.00.
Take it as a whole, we know no English novel of the last few years fit
to be compared with it in its own line for simplicity, truth, and
rational interest.--_London Times._
It is the most truly American novel that has been given to the world in
some time, for the reason that it teaches Americans--or, at all events,
should teach them--what puny and puerile beings they become when they
attempt to decry their own country and ape the idiosyncrasies of
another.--_New York Express._
An amazingly clever book, the story well managed in the telling, the
dialogue bright and sparkling, and the humor unforced and
genuine.--_Boston Transcript._
It is a most charming story of American life and character, with a rare
dash of humor in it, and a good deal of vigorous satire.--_Quebec
Chronicle._
_A HOPELESS CASE._
_Fourth Edition._ "Little Classic" style. 18mo, $1.25.
"A Hopeless Case" contains much that goes to make up a novel of the best
order--wit, sarcasm, pathos, and dramatic power--with its sentences
clearly wrought out and daintily finished. It is a book which ought to
have a great success.--_Cincinnati Commercial._
"A Hopeless Case" will, we are sure, meet with a very enthusiastic
reception from all who can appreciate fiction of a high order. The
picture of New York society, as revealed in its pages, is remarkably
graphic and true to life.... A thoroughly delightful novel--keen, witty,
and eminently American. It will give the author a high rank as a writer
of fiction.--_Boston Traveller._
As a sprightly and interesting comedy this book will find hosts of
interested readers. It has its lessons of value in the striking
contrasts it furnishes of the different styles of life found in our
great cities.--_New England Journal of Education._
Its brilliant and faithful pictures of New York society and its charming
heroine can hardly fail to make it very popular.--_Salem Gazette._
_AN AMBITIOUS WOMAN._
12mo, cloth, $1.50.
*.* _For sale by Booksellers. Sent, by mail, post-paid, on receipt of
price by the Publishers_,
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., BOSTON, MASS.
AN AMBITIOUS WOMAN
_A Novel_
BY
EDGAR FAWCETT
AUTHOR OF "A GENTLEMAN OF LEISURE," "A HOPELESS
CASE," ETC.
[Illustration]
BOSTON
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street
=The Riverside Press, Cambridge=
1884
Copyright, 1888,
BY EDGAR FAWCETT.
_All rights reserved._
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge:_
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
AN AMBITIOUS WOMAN.
I.
If any spot on the globe can be found where even Spring has lost the
sweet trick of making herself charming, a cynic in search of an
opportunity for some such morose discovery might thank his baleful stars
were chance to drift him upon Greenpoint. Whoever named the place in
past days must have done so with a double satire; for Greenpoint is not
a point, nor is it ever green. Years ago it began by being the sluggish
suburb of a thriftier and smarter suburb, Brooklyn. By degrees the
latter broadened into a huge city, and soon its neighbor village
stretched out to it arms of straggling huts and swampy river-line, in
doleful welcome. To-day the affiliation is complete. Man has said let it
all be Brooklyn, and it is all Brooklyn. But the sovereign dreariness of
Greenpoint, like an unpropitiated god, still remains. Its melancholy,
its ugliness, its torpor, its neglect, all preserve an unimpaired
novelty. It is very near New York, and yet in atmosphere, suggestion,
vitality, it is leagues away. Our noble city, with its magnificent
maritime approaches, its mast-thronged docks, its lordly encircling
rivers, its majesty of traffic, its gallant avenues of edifices, its
loud assertion of life, and its fine promise of riper culture, fades
into a dim memory when you have touched, after only a brief voyage, upon
this forlorn opposite shore.
No Charon rows you across, though your short trip has too often the most
funereal associations. You take passage in a squat little steamboat at
either of two eastern ferries, and are lucky if a hearse with its
satellite coaches should fail to embark in your company; for, curiously,
the one enlivening fact associable with Greenpoint is its close nearness
to a famed Roman Catholic cemetery. It is doubtful if the unkempt child
wading in the muddy gutter ever turns his frowzy head when these dismal
retinues stream past him. They are always streaming past him; they are
as much a part of this lazy environ as the big, ghostly geese that
saunter across its ill-tended cobblestones, the dirty goats that nibble
at the placards on its many dingy fences, or the dull-faced Germans that
plod its semi-paven streets. Death, that is always so bitter a
commonplace, has here become a glaring triteness. Watched, along the
main thoroughfare, from porches of liquor-shops and windows of
tenement-houses, death has perhaps gained a sombre popularity with not a
few shabby gazers. It rides in state, at a dignified pace; it has
followers, too, riding deferentially behind it. Sometimes it has martial
music, and the pomp of military escort. Life seldom has any of this, in
Greenpoint. It cannot ride, or rarely. It must walk, and strain to keep
its strength even for that. One part of it drudges with the needle,
fumes over the smoky stove, sighs at the unappeasable baby; another part
takes by dawn the little dwarfish ferry-boat, and hies to the great
metropolis across the river, returning jaded from labor by nightfall.
No wonder, here, if death should seem to possess not merely a mournful
importance but a gloomy advantage as well, or if for these toilful
townsfolk philosophy had reversed itself, and instead of the paths of
glory leading to the grave, it should look as if the grave were forever
leading to some sort of peculiar and comfortable glory.
But Greenpoint, like a hardened conscience, still has her repentant
surprises. She is not quite a thing of sloth and penury. True, the broad
street that leads from steamboat to cemetery is lined with squalid
homes, and the mourners who are so incessantly borne along to Calvary
must see little else than beer-sellers standing slippered and coatless
beside their doorways, or thin, pinched women haggling with the venders
of sickly groceries. But elsewhere one may find by-streets lined with
low wooden dwellings that hint of neatness and suggest a better grade of
living. A yellowish drab prevails as the hue of these houses; they seem
all to partake of one period, like certain homogeneous fossils. But they
do not breathe of antiquity; they are fanciful with trellised piazzas
and other modern embellishments of carpentry; sometimes they possess
miniature Corinthian pillars, faded by the trickle of rain between their
tawny flutings, as if stirred with the dumb desire to be white and
classic. Scant gardens front them, edged with a few yards of ornamental
fence. Their high basement windows stare at you from a foundation of
brick. They are very prosaic, chiefly from their lame effort to be
picturesque; and when you look down toward the river, expecting to feel
refreshed by its gleam, you are disheartened at the way in which
lumber-yards and sloop-wharves have quite shut any glimpse of it from
your eyes.
In one of these two-storied wooden houses, not many years ago, dwelt a
family of three people,--a Mr. Francis Twining, his wife, and their only
child, a girl, named Claire. Mr. Twining was an Englishman by birth;
many years had passed since he first landed on these shores. He had come
here nearly penniless, but with proud hopes. He was then only
three-and-twenty. He had sprung from a good country family, had been
fitted at Eton for Oxford, and had seen one year at the famed
University. Then sharp financial disaster had overtaken his father,
whose death soon followed. Francis was a younger son, but even to the
heir had fallen a shattered patrimony, and to himself merely a slender
legacy. With this, confident and undaunted as though it were the purse
of Fortunio, Francis had taken voyage for New York. At first he had
shown a really splendid energy. Slim of figure, with a pale, womanish
face lit by large, soft blue eyes, he gave slight physical sign of force
or even will. But though possessed of both, he proved one of those
ill-fated beings whom failure never tires of rebuffing. His mental
ability was unquestioned; he shrank with sensitive disgust from all
vice; he had plenty of ambition, and the instinct of solid industry.
Yet, as years passed on, both secured him but meagre recompense for
struggle. He had begun his career with a clerkship; now, at fifty-three,
he was a clerk still. All his hope had fled; he had undergone bitter
heart-burnings; he had striven to solve the problem of his own defeat.
Meanwhile its explanation was not difficult. He had a boyish trust in
his fellow-creatures that no amount of stern experience seemed to
weaken. Chicanery had made him its sport. Five separate times he had
been swindled mercilessly by men in whom he had reposed implicit faith.
There had lain his rock of ruin: he was always reposing implicit faith
in everybody. His life had been one long pathos of over-credulity. He
could think, reason, reflect, analyze, but he was incapable of doubting.
A fool could have deceived him, and naturally, on repeated occasions,
knaves had not found it difficult. At fifty-three his last hard-earned
savings had been wormed from him by the last plausible scamp. And now he
had accepted himself as the favorite of misfortune; over the glow of his
spirit disappointment had cast its dulling spell, like the deep film of
ash that sheathes a spent ember. He had now one aim--to keep his wife
and child from indigence while he lived, and one despair--that he could
not keep them from indigence after he was dead. But his really lovely
optimism still remained. He had been essentially amiable and complaisant
in all intercourse with his kind, and this quality had not lost a ray of
its fine former lustre. With ample excuse for the worst cynic feeling,
he continued a gentle yet unconscious philanthropist. There was
something piteously sweet in the obstinacy with which he still saw only
the bright side of humanity. His delicate person had grown more slim;
his rusty clothes hung about him with a mournful looseness; his oval
face, worn by worriment, had taken keener lines; but his large blue eyes
still kept their liquid sparkle, and kindled in prompt unison with his
alert smile. The flaxen growth that had always fringed his lips and chin
with cloudy lightness, had now become of a frosty gray. Seen passingly,
no one would have called him, as the current phrase goes, a gentleman.
His wearied mien forbade the suggestion of leisure, while his broadcloth
spoke of long wear and speedy purchase. But a close gaze might have
caught the unperished refinement that still clung to him with sad
persistence, and was evident in such minor effects of personal detail as
a glimpse of cleanly linen about throat and wrist, a cheap yet careful
lustre of the often jaded boot, a culture and purity of the hand, or
even a choice nicety of the finger-nail.
He had married after reaching these shores, and his marriage had proved
another instance of misplaced confidence. His wife had been handsome
when a young woman, and she had become Mrs. Twining at about the age of
five-and-twenty. She was personally quite the opposite of her
bridegroom; she was an inch taller than he, and had an aquiline face,
splendid with a pair of very black eyes that she had rolled and flashed
at the other sex since early girlhood. She had rolled and flashed them
at her present husband, and so conquered him. She was a good inch taller
than he, and lapse of time had not diminished the difference since their
union. She had been extremely vulgar as Miss Jane Wray, when Twining had
married her, and she was extremely vulgar still. She had first met him
in a boarding-house in East Broadway, where Twining had secured a room
on his arrival from England. At this period East Broadway wore only a
waning grace of gentility; some few conservative nabobs still lingered
there, obstinately defying plebeian inroads. Its roomy brick mansions,
with their arched, antique doorways devoid of any vestibule; their
prim-railed stoops that guessed not of ornate balusters; and their
many-paned, thin-sashed windows where plate-glass had never glittered,
were already invaded by inmates whose Teuton names and convex noses
prophesied the social decline that must soon grasp this once select
purlieu. Jane Wray was neither German nor Hebrew; she was American in
the least pleasant sense of that word, both as regarded parentage and
breeding. She was an orphan, and the recipient of surly charity from
unprosperous relatives. She wanted very greatly to marry, and Twining
had seemed to her a golden chance. There was much about her from which
he shrank; but she contrived to rouse his pity, and then to lure from
him a promise which he would have despised himself not to keep.
The succeeding years had brought bitter mutual disappointments. Mrs.
Twining had believed firmly in her husband's powers to sound the horn of
luck and slay the giant of adversity. But he had done neither, and it
now looked as if his bones were one day to bleach along the roadway to
success. She became an austere grumbler, forever pricking her
sweet-tempered lord with a tireless little bodkin of reproach. Her
vulgarities had sharpened; her wit, always cruel and acute, had tipped
itself with a harsher venom and fledged itself with a swifter feather;
her bright, coarse beauty had dimmed and soured; she was at present a
gaunt, elderly female, with square shoulders and hard, dark eyes, who
flung sarcasms broadcast with a baleful liberality, and seemed forever
standing toward her own destiny in the attitude of a person who has some
large unsettled claim against a nefarious government.
Claire Twining, the one child who had been born of this ill-assorted
marriage, was now nineteen years old. She bore a striking likeness to
her father; she possessed his blue eyes, a trifle darker in shade, his
broad white forehead, his sloping delicacy of visage, and his erect
though slender frame. From him, too, had come the sunny quality of her
smile, the gold tints in her chestnut hair, the fine symmetry of hands
and feet. Rather from association than heredity she had caught his
kindly warmth of manner; but in Claire the cordial impulse was far less
spontaneous; she had her black list of dislikes, and she took people on
trust with wary prudence. Here spoke her mother's share in the girl's
being, as it spoke also in a certain distinct chiseling of every
feature, that suggested a softened memento of Miss Jane Wray's girlish
countenance, though Claire's coloring no more resembled her mother's of
past time than wild-rose is like peony, or pastel like chromo. But there
was one more maternal imprint set deep within this girl's nature, not to
be thinned or marred by any stress of events, and productive of a trait
whose development for good or ill is the chief cause that her life has
here been chronicled. The birthright was a perilous one; it was a
heritage of discontent; its tendency was perpetual longings for better
environment, for ampler share in the world's good gifts, for higher
place in its esteem and stronger claim to its heed. But what in her
mother had been ambition almost as crudely eager as a boorish
elbow-thrust, was in Claire more decorous and interesting, like the push
of a fragile yet determined hand through a sullen crowd. In both cases
the dissatisfaction was something that is peculiar to the woman of our
land and time--a desire not to try and adorn the sphere in which she is
born, but to try and reach a new sphere held as more suited for her own
adornment. Yet Claire's restless yearning lacked the homely grossness of
her mother's; it reflected a finer flash; it was not all cut from one
piece; it had its subtlety, its enthusiasm, even its justification. It
was not a mere stubborn hunger for advancement; it was a wish to gain
advancement by the passport of proper worthiness. She did not want the
air to lift her away from hated surroundings, but she wanted wings that
would turn the air her willing ally. It was what her father had made her
that touched what her mother had made her with a truly poetic
tenderness. By only a little prouder curve of the neck and a little
happier fullness of the plume, we part the statuesque swan from
considerably more commonplace kindred. Something like this delightful
benison of difference had fallen upon Claire.
II.
Circumstance, too, had fed the potency of this difference. Claire had
not been reared like her mother. When she was nine years old her parents
were living in a tiny brick house near the East River, among New York
suburbs. But Claire had been sent to a small school near by, kept by a
dim, worn lady, with an opulent past and a most precarious | 624.982966 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, David Widger and PG
Distributed Proofreaders from images generously made
available by the Canadian Institute for Historical
Microreproductions
THE BIOGRAPHY OF A GRIZZLY
by Ernest Seton-Thompson
With 75 Drawings (not available in this file)
Author of: The Trail of the Sandhill Stag Wild Animals I Have
Known Art Anatomy of Animals Mammals of Manitoba Birds of Manitoba
1899
This Book is dedicated to the memory of the days spent at the
Palette Ranch on the Graybull, where from hunter, miner, personal
experience, and the host himself, I gathered many chapters of the
History of Wahb.
[Illustration: ] In this Book the designs for title-page, cover, and
general makeup, were done by Mrs. Grace Gallatin Seton-Thompson.
[Illustration: ] List of Full-Page Drawings
They all Rushed Under it like a Lot of Little Pigs
Like Children Playing 'Hands'
He Stayed in the Tree till near Morning
A Savage Bobcat... Warned Him to go Back
Wahb Yelled and Jerked Back
He Struck one Fearful, Crushing Blow
Ain't He an Awful Size, Though?
Wahb Smashed His Skull
Causing the Pool to Overflow
He Deliberately Stood up on the Pine Root
The Roachback Fled into the Woods
He Paused a Moment at the Gate
PART I
THE CUBHOOD OF WAHB
[Illustration:]
I.
He was born over a score of years ago, away up in the wildest part of
the wild West, on the head of the Little Piney, above where the Palette
Ranch is now.
His Mother was just an ordinary Silvertip, living the quiet life that
all Bears prefer, minding her own business and doing her duty by her
family, asking no favors of any one excepting to let her alone. It was
July before she took her remarkable family down the Little Piney to the
Graybull, and showed them what strawberries were, and where to find
them.
Notwithstanding their Mother's deep conviction, the cubs were not
remarkably big or bright; yet they were a remarkable family, for there
were four of them, and it is not often a Grizzly Mother can boast of
more than two.
[Illustration]
The woolly-coated little creatures were having a fine time, and reveled
in the lovely mountain summer and the abundance of good things. Their
Mother turned over each log and flat stone they came to, and the moment
it was lifted they all rushed under it like a lot of little pigs to lick
up the ants and grubs there hidden.
It never once occurred to them that Mammy's strength might fail
sometime, and let the great rock drop just as they got under it; nor
would any one have thought so that might have chanced to see that huge
arm and that shoulder sliding about under the great yellow robe she
wore. No, no; that arm could never fail. The little ones were quite
right. So they hustled and t | 625.07899 |
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Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by the Web Archive
Transcriber's Note:
1. Page scan source:
http://www.archive.org/details/storyageniusfro00lockgoog
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
3. There are three stories included in this volume:
(a) The Story of a Genius
(b) The Nobl' Zwilk
(c) What Happened to Holy Saint Pancras of Evolo
THE
STORY OF A GENIUS
FROM THE GERMAN OF
OSSIP SCHUBIN
ENGLISHED BY
E. H. LOCKWOOD
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY: 9 and 11 E.
SIXTEENTH STREET :: NEW YORK
1898
Copyright, 1898
BY
R. F. FENNO & COMPANY
_The Story of a Genius_
The Story of a Genius
I
Monsieur Alphonse de Sterny will come to Brussels in November and
conduct his Oratoria of "Satan."
This short notice in the _Independence Belge_ created a general
sensation. The musicians shrugged, bit their lips, and sneered about
the public's injustice toward home talent. The "great world,"--between
ourselves the most unmusical "world" in the universe,--very nearly
stepped out of its aristocratic apathy. This is something which seldom
happens to it in artistic matters, but now, for a whole week it talked
nothing but de Sterny: of his octave playing a little, and of his love
affairs a great deal. In autumn Brussels has so little to talk about!
Alphonse de Sterny had been in his day a great virtuoso and a social
lion. Reigning belles had contended for his favor; George Sand was said
to have written a book about him, nobody knew exactly which one; the
fair Princess G---- was supposed to have taken poison on his account.
But five years before the appearance of this notice in the
_Independence Belge_, de Sterny had suddenly withdrawn from the world.
During that time he had not given any concerts, nor had he produced any
new piano pieces, in his well-known style, paraphrases and fantasies on
favorite airs.
Now, for the first in that long interval his name emerged, and in
connection with an Oratorio!
De Sterny and an Oratorio!
The world found that a little odd. The artists thought it a great joke.
II
It is November fifth, the day on which the first rehearsal of "Satan"
is to be held, under the composer's own direction.
In the concert hall of the "Grand Harmonic" the performers are already
assembled. In honor of the distinguished guest half a dozen more gas
jets are burning than is usual at rehearsals, yet the large hall with
its dark auditorium and the dim flickering light on its stage, has a
desolate, ghostly air. A smell of gas, dust and moist cloth pervades
the atmosphere.
A grey rime of congealed mist clings to and trickles down the clothes
of the latest arrivals. One sees within the hall how bad the weather
must be without. The lusty male chorus, with their pear-shaped Flemish
faces, their picturesquely soiled linen, and their luxuriant growth of
hair, knock off the clay from their boots and turn down the legs of
their trousers. The disheveled | 625.07999 |
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Produced by Anne Folland, Eric Eldred, Charles Franks, and
the Online Distributed Proofreading Team
THE MINISTER'S CHARGE
OR, THE APPRENTICESHIP OF LEMUEL BARKER
By William Dean Howells
Author Of "The Rise Of Silas Lapham," "A Modern Instance," "Indian
Summer," Etc.
THE MINISTER'S CHARGE;
OR, THE APPRENTICESHIP OF LEMUEL BARKER.
I.
On their way back to the farm-house where they were boarding, Sewell's
wife reproached him for what she called his recklessness. "You had no
right," she said, "to give the poor boy false hopes. You ought to have
discouraged him--that would have been the most merciful way--if you knew
the poetry was bad. Now, he will go on building all sorts of castles
in the air on your praise, and sooner or later they will come tumbling
about his ears--just to gratify your passion for saying pleasant things
to people."
"I wish you had a passion for saying pleasant things to me, my dear,"
suggested her husband evasively.
"Oh, a nice time I should have!"
"I don't know about _your_ nice time, but I feel pretty certain of my
own. How do you know--Oh, _do_ get up, you implacable <DW36>!" he broke
off to the lame mare he was driving, and pulled at the reins.
"Don't saw her mouth!" cried Mrs. Sewell.
"Well, let her get up, then, and I won't. I don't like to saw her
mouth; but I have to do something when you come down on me with your
interminable consequences. I dare say the boy will never think of my
praise again. And besides, as I was saying when this animal interrupted
me with her ill-timed attempts at grazing, how do you know that I knew
the poetry was bad?"
"How? By the sound of your voice. I could tell you were dishonest in the
dark, David."
"Perhaps the boy knew that I was dishonest too," suggested Sewell.
"Oh no, he didn't. I could | 625.173352 |
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Produced by Theresa Armao
THE WOMEN OF THE FRENCH SALONS
By Amelia Gere Mason
PREFACE
It has been a labor of love with many distinguished Frenchmen to recall
the memories of the women who have made their society so illustrious,
and to retouch with sympathetic insight the features which time was
beginning to dim. One naturally hesitates to enter a field that has
been gleaned so carefully, and with such brilliant results, by men
like Cousin, Sainte-Beuve, Goncourt, and others of lesser note. But the
social life of the two centuries in which women played so important a
role in France is always full of human interest from whatever point of
view one may regard it. If there is not a great deal to be said that is
new, old facts may be grouped afresh, and old modes of life and thought
measured by modern standards.
In searching through the numerous memoirs, chronicles, letters, and
original manuscripts in which the records of these centuries are hidden
away, nothing has struck me so forcibly as the remarkable mental vigor
and the far-reaching influence of women whose theater was mainly a
social one. Though society has its frivolities, it has also its serious
side, and it is through the phase of social evolution that was begun
in the salons that women have attained the position they hold today.
However beautiful, or valuable, or poetic may have been the feminine
types of other nationalities, it is in France that we find the
forerunners of the intelligent, self-poised, clear-sighted, independent
modern woman. It is possible that in the search for larger fields the
smaller but not less important ones have been in a measure forgotten.
The great stream of civilization flows from a thousand unnoted rills
that make sweet music in their course, and swell the current as surely
as the more noisy torrent. The conditions of the past cannot be revived,
nor are they desirable. The present has its own theories and its own
methods. But at a time when the reign of luxury is rapidly establishing
false standards, and the best intellectual life makes hopeless struggles
against an ever aggressive materialism, it may be profitable as well as
interesting to consider the possibilities that lie in a society equally
removed from frivolity and pretension, inspired by the talent, the
sincerity, and the moral force of American women, and borrowing a
new element of fascination from the simple and charming but polite
informality of the old salons.
It has been the aim in these studies to gather within a limited compass
the women who represented the social life of their time on its
most intellectual side, and to trace lightly their influence upon
civilization through the avenues of literature and manners. Though the
work may lose something in fullness from the effort to put so much into
so small a space, perhaps there is some compensation in the opportunity
of comparing, in one gallery, the women who exercised the greatest power
in France for a period of more than two hundred years. The impossibility
of entering into the details of so many lives in a single volume is
clearly apparent. Only the most salient points can be considered. Many
who would amply repay a careful study have simply been glanced at, and
others have been omitted altogether. As it would be out of the question
in a few pages to make an adequate portrait of women who occupy so
conspicuous a place in history as Mme. De Maintenon and Mme. De Stael,
the former has been reluctantly passed with a simple allusion, and
the latter outlined in a brief resume not at all proportional to the
relative interest or importance of the subject.
I do not claim to present a complete picture of French society, and
without wishing to give too rose-colored a view, it has not seemed to
me necessary to dwell upon its corrupt phases. If truth compels one
sometimes to state unpleasant facts in portraying historic characters,
it is as needless and unjust as in private life to repeat idle and
unproved tales, or to draw imaginary conclusions from questionable data.
The conflict of contemporary opinion on the simplest matters leads
one often to the suspicion that all personal history is more or less
disguised fiction. The best one can do in default of direct records
is to accept authorities that are generally regarded as the most
trustworthy.
This volume is affectionately dedicated to the memory of my mother, who
followed the work with appreciative interest in its early stages, but
did not live to see its conclusion.
Amelia Gere Mason Paris, July 6, 1891
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. SALONS OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY Characteristics of French
Woman--Gallic Genius for Conversation--Social Conditions--Origin of the
Salons--Their Power--Their Composition--Their Records
CHAPTER II. THE HOTEL DE RAMBOUILLET Mme. De Rambouillet--The
Salon Bleu--Its Habitues--Its
Diversions--Corneille--Balzac--Richelieu--Romance of the
Grand Conde--the Young Bossuet--Voiture--The Duchesse de
Longueville--Angelique Paulet--Julie d'Angennes--Les Precieuses
Ridicules--Decline of the Salon--Influence upon Literature and Manners
CHAPTER III. MADEMOISELLE DE SCUDERY AND THE SAMEDIS Salons of the
Noblesse--"The Illustrious Sappho"--Her Romances--The Samedis--Bons Mots
of Mme. Cornuel--Estimate of Mlle. De Scudery
CHAPTER IV. LA GRANDE MADEMOISELLE Her Character--Her Heroic Part in the
Fronde--Her Exile--Literary Diversions of her Salon--A Romantic Episode
CHAPTER V. A LITERARY SALON AT PORT ROYAL Mme. De Sable--Her
Worldly Life--Her Retreat--Her Friends--Pascal--The Maxims of La
Rochefoucauld--Last Days of the Marquise
CHAPTER VI. MADAME DE SEVIGNE Her Genius--Her Youth--Her Unworthy
Husband--Her Impertinent Cousin--Her love for her Daughter--Her
Letters--Hotel de Carnavalet--Mme. Duplessis Guengaud--Mme. De
Coulanges--The Curtain Falls
CHAPTER VII. MADAME DE LA FAYETTE Her Friendship with Mme. De
Sevigne--Her Education--Her Devotion to the Princess Henrietta--Her
Salon--La Rochefoucauld-- Talent as a Diplomatist--Comparison with Mme.
De Maintenon--Her Literary Work--Sadness of her Last Days--Woman in
Literature
CHAPTER VIII. SALONS OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY Characteristics of
the Eighteenth Century--Its Epicurean Philosophy--Anecdote of Mme. Du
Deffand--The Salon an Engine of Political Power--Great Influence of
Woman--Salons Defined--Literary Dinners--Etiquette of the Salons--An
Exotic on American Soil
CHAPTER IX. AN ANTECHAMBER OF THE ACADEMIE FRANCAISE The Marquise de
Lambert--Her "Bureau d'Esprit"--Fontenelle--Advice to her Son--Wise
Thoughts on the Education of Women--Her Love of Consideration--Her
Generosity--Influence of Women upon the Academy
CHAPTER X. THE DUCHESSE DU MAINE Her Capricious Character--Her
Esprit--Mlle. De Launay--Clever Portrait of her Mistress--Perpetual
Fetes at Sceaux--Voltaire and the "Divine Emilie"--Dilettante Character
of this Salon
CHAPTER XI. MADAME DE TENCIN AND MADAM DU CHATELET An Intriguing
Chanoinesse--Her Singular Fascination--Her Salon--Its Philosophical
Character--Mlle. Aisse--Romances of Mme. De Tencin--D'Alembert--La Belle
Emilie--Voltaire--the Two Women Compared
CHAPTER XII. MADAME GEOFFRIN AND THE PHILOSOPHERS Cradles of the New
Philosophy--Noted Salons of this Period--Character of Mme. Geoffrin--Her
Practical Education--Anecdotes of her Husband--Composition of her
Salon--Its Insidious Influence--Her Journey to Warsaw--Her Death
CHAPTER XIII. ULTRA PHILOSOPHICAL SALONS--MADAME D'EPINAY Mme. De
Graffigny--Baron D'Holbach--Mme. D'Epinay's Portrait of Herself--Mlle.
Quinault--Rousseau--La Chevrette--Grimm--Diderot--The Abbe
Galiani--Estimate of Mme. D'Epinay
CHAPTER XIV. SALONS OF THE | 625.178015 |
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Canoe and Camp Cookery:
A PRACTICAL COOK BOOK
FOR
CANOEISTS, CORINTHIAN SAILORS AND OUTERS.
By "SENECA."
NEW YORK:
FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING CO.,
1885.
Copyright,
FOREST AND STREAM PUBLISHING CO.
1885.
CONTENTS.
PART I.--CANOE COOKERY.
CHAPTER I.
Page.
Outfit for Cooking on a Cruise.--Value of a Single Receptacle for
Everything Necessary to Prepare a Meal.--The Canoeist's "Grub
Box."--The Same as a Seat.--Water-tight Tins.--Necessary Provisions
and Utensils.--Waterproof Bags for Surplus Provisions.--Portable
Oven.--Canoe Stoves.--Folding Stoves a Nuisance.--Hints for
Provisioning for a Cruise. 9
CHAPTER II.
Soups.--Canned Soups.--The Brunswick Goods Cheap, Wholesome and
Convenient.--Huckins' Soups.--Oyster, Clam, Onion and Tomato
Soups. 17
CHAPTER III.
Fish.--Fish Caught in Muddy Streams.--Kill your Fish as soon as
Caught.--Fish Grubs.--Fish Fried, Planked, Skewered and
Boiled.--Fish Sauce, Fish Roe, Shell Fish. 20
CHAPTER IV.
Meats and Game.--Salt Pork.--Ham and Eggs.--Broiling and Boiling
Meats.--Pigeons, Squirrels, Ducks, Grouse, Woodcock, Rabbits,
Frogs, etc. 25
CHAPTER V.
Vegetables.--Potatoes and Green Corn, Boiled, Fried, Roasted and
Stewed. 30
| 625.245688 |
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* * * * *
+-----------------------------------------------------------+
| Transcriber's Note: |
| |
| Inconsistent hyphenation in the original document has |
| been preserved. |
| |
| Obvious typographical errors have been corrected. For |
| a complete list, please see the end of this document. |
| |
+-----------------------------------------------------------+
* * * * *
VOL. I. April, 1905 No. 4.
JOURNAL OF THE
UNITED STATES
INFANTRY
ASSOCIATION
PUBLISHED QUARTERLY
BY THE UNITED STATES INFANTRY ASSOCIATION
75 CENTS PER COPY; $3.00 PER YEAR
MAJOR WM. P. EVANS, A.A.G., _Editor_
1800 F STREET NORTHWEST,
WASHINGTON, D.C.
Entered July 5, 1904, at the Post Office at Washington, D.C.,
as second-class matter, under act of March 3, 1879. Copyright,
1904, by the U.S. Infantry Association. All rights reserved.
| 625.275878 |
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Produced by Emmy, MFR, Linda Cantoni, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive). This project is dedicated with
love to Emmy's memory.
PATRINS
_TO WHICH IS ADDED_
An INQUIRENDO Into the WIT &
Other Good Parts of HIS LATE MAJESTY
KING CHARLES the Second
_WRITTEN BY_
LOUISE IMOGEN GUINEY
[Illustration: SICUT LILIUM INTER SPINAS]
_BOSTON_
Printed for _Copeland and Day_
_69 Cornhill_ 1897
COPYRIGHT 1897 BY COPELAND AND DAY
[Inscription: M.R.D., from her affectionate
old friend who wrote it. 1897]
TO BLISS CARMAN
A _patrin_, according to _Romano Lavo-Lil_, is "a Gypsy trail:
handfuls of leaves or grass cast by the Gypsies on the road, to
denote, to those behind, the way which they have taken." Well, these
wild dry whims are _patrins_ dropped now in the open for our tribe;
but particularly for you. They will greet you as you lazily come up,
and mean: Fare on, and good luck love you to the end! On each have I
put the date of its writing, as one might make memoranda of little
leisurely adventures in prolonged fair weather; and you will read, in
between and all along, a record of pleasant lonely paths never very
far from your own, biggest of Romanys! in the thought-country of our
common youth.
Ingraham Hill, South Thomaston, Maine,
October 19, 1896.
Contents
Page
On the Rabid _versus_ the Harmless Scholar 3
The Great Playground 13
On the Ethics of Descent 29
Some Impressions from the Tudor Exhibition 39
On the Delights of an Incognito 63
The Puppy: A Portrait 73
On Dying Considered as a Dramatic Situation 83
A Bitter Complaint of the Ungentle Reader 99
Animum non Coelum 109
The Precept of Peace 117
On a Pleasing Encounter with a Pickpocket 131
Reminiscences of a Fine Gentleman 139
Irish 153
An Open Letter to the Moon 169
The Under Dog 181
Quiet London 191
The Captives 205
On Teaching One's Grandmother How to Suck Eggs 223
Wilful Sadness in Literature 233
An Inquirendo into the Wit and Other Good Parts
of His Late Majesty, King Charles the Second 247
ON THE RABID _VERSUS_ THE HARMLESS SCHOLAR
A PHILOSOPHER now living, and too deserving for any fate but choice
private oblivion, was in Paris, for the first time, a dozen years
ago; and having seen and heard there, in the shops, parks, and
omnibus stations, much more baby than he found pleasing, he remarked,
upon his return, that it was a great pity the French, who are so in
love with system, had never seen their way to shutting up everything
under ten years of age! Now, that was the remark of an artist in
human affairs, and may provoke a number of analogies. What is in the
making is not a public spectacle. It ought to be considered very
outrageous, on the death of a painter or a poet, to exhibit those
rough first drafts, which he, living, had the acumen to conceal.
And if, to an impartial eye, in a foreign city, native innocents
seem too aggressively to the fore, why should not the seclusion
desired for them be visited a thousandfold upon the heads, let us
say, of students, who are also in a crude transitional state, and
undergoing a growth much more distressing to a sensitive observer
than the physical? Youth is the most inspiring thing on earth, but
not the best to let loose, especially while it carries swaggeringly
that most dangerous of all blunderbusses, knowledge at half-cock.
There is, indeed, no more melancholy condition than that of healthy
boys scowling over books, in an eternal protest against their father
Adam's fall from a state of relative omniscience. Sir Philip Sidney
thought it was "a piece of the Tower of Babylon's curse that a man
should be put to school to learn his mother-tongue!" The throes of
education are as degrading and demoralizing as a hanging, and, when
the millennium sets in, will be as carefully screened from the laity.
Around the master and the pupil will be reared a portly and decorous
Chinese wall, which shall pen within their proper precincts the din
of _hic, hæc, hoc_, and the steam of suppers sacrificed to Pallas.
The more noxious variety of student, however, is not young. He is
"in the midway of this our mortal life"; he is fearfully foraging,
with intent to found and govern an academy; he runs in squads after
Anglo-Saxon or that blatant beast, Comparative Mythology; he stops
you on 'change to ask if one has not good grounds for believing that
there was such a person as Pope Joan. He can never let well enough
alone. Heine must be translated and Junius must be identified. The
abodes of hereditary scholars are depopulated by the red flag of
the _nouveau instruit_. He infests every civilized country; the
army-worm is nothing to him. He has either lacked early discipline
altogether, or gets tainted, late in life, with the notion that
he has never shown sufficiently how intellectual he really is. In
every contemplative-looking person he sees a worthy victim, and
his kindling eye, as he bears down upon you, precludes escape: he
can achieve no peace unless he is driving you mad with all which
you fondly dreamed you had left behind in old S.'s accursed
lecture-room. You may commend to him in vain the reminder which
Erasmus left for the big-wigs, that it is the quality of what you
know which tells, and never its quantity. It is inconceivable to him
that you should shut your impious teeth against First Principles,
and fear greatly to displace in yourself the illiteracies you have
painfully acquired.
Judge, then, if the learner of this type (and in a bitterer degree,
the learneress) could but be safely cloistered, how much simpler
would become the whole problem of living! How profoundly would
it benefit both society and himself could the formationary mind,
destined, as like as not, to no ultimate development, be sequestered
by legal statute in one imperative limbo, along with babes, lovers,
and training athletes! _Quicquid ostendis mihi sic, incredulus odi._
For the true scholar's sign-manual is not the midnight lamp on a
folio. He knows; he is baked through; all superfluous effort and
energy are over for him. To converse consumedly upon the weather,
and compare notes as to "whether it is likely to hold up for
to-morrow,"--this, says Hazlitt, "is the end and privilege of a life
of study." Secretly, decently, pleasantly, has he acquired his mental
stock; insensibly he diffuses, not always knowledge, but sometimes
the more needful scorn of knowledge. Among folk who break their
worthy heads indoors over Mr. Browning and Madame Blavatsky, he moves
cheerful, incurious, and free, on glorious good terms with arts and
crafts for which he has no use, with extraneous languages which he
will never pursue, with vague Muses impossible to invite to dinner.
He is strictly non-educational:
"Thou wast not born for death, immortal bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down."
He loathes information and the givers and takers thereof. Like Mr.
Lang, he laments bitterly that Oxford is now a place where many
things are being learned and taught with great vigor. The main
business to him is to live gracefully, without mental passion, and to
get off alone into a corner for an affectionate view of creation. A
mystery serves his turn better than a history. It is to be remembered
that had the Rev. Laurence Sterne gone to gaze upon the spandrils
of Rouen Cathedral, we should all have lost the _fille de chambre_,
the dead ass, and Maria by the brookside. Any one of these is worth
more than hieroglyphics; but who is to attain that insight that these
are so, except the man of culture, who has the courage to forget at
times even his sole science, and fall back with delight upon a choice
assortment of ignorances?
The scholar's own research, from his cradle, clothes him in privacy;
nor will he ever invade the privacy of others. It is not with a light
heart that he contemplates the kindergarten system. He himself,
holding his tongue, and fleeing from Junius and Pope Joan, from cubic
roots and the boundaries of Hindostan, from the delicate difference
between the idiom of Maeterlinck and that | 625.279304 |
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THE SAVAGE SOUTH SEAS by Ernest Way Elkington
AGENTS
America The Macmillan Company
64 & 66 Fifth Avenue, New York
Canada The Macmillan Company of Canada, Ltd.
27 Richmond Street West, Toronto
India Macmillan & Company, Ltd.
Macmillan Building, Bombay
309 Bow Bazaar Street, Calcutta
[Illustration 1: OFF TO THE DUBU DANCE, BRITISH NEW GUINEA]
THE SAVAGE
SOUTH SEAS
PAINTED BY NORMAN H. HARDY
DESCRIBED BY E. WAY ELKINGTON
PUBLISHED BY A. & C. BLACK
SOHO SQUARE · LONDON · MCMVII
[Illustration]
NOTE
There are various ways of spelling some of the place-names of the South
Sea Islands, _e.g._ Samari, Tupusuli, and Elevera are so spelt in this
book, but the forms Samarai, Tupuselei, and Ela-Vara are commonly met
with. Ambryn, however, is a misprint for Ambrym.
CONTENTS
PART I
BRITISH NEW GUINEA
I • Chiefly historical—Concerning certain discoverers,
their aims and ambitions—The story of New Guinea, the
Solomons and New Hebrides, and some things that might be
altered • 3
II • New Guinea natives—Port Moresby and its two native
villages—Huts on poles and trees—Native superstition and
its result on two tribes • 13
III • Natives who grow crops of hair—A word or two about
the women—Duties of married women—How they carry their
babes, and the philosophy of childhood • 25
IV • Concerning love and grief—How love is made in New
Guinea, and some of the charms used to ensure love and
constancy—The grief of a New Guinea widow • 37
V • Some native dances and queer costumes—Novel
blackmailing methods—Woman’s vanity and a censured
dance • 48
VI • Outrigger Canoes, their appearance and
construction—The famous Lakatois—How the natives catch
their fish; and a few words about fish that climb trees—A
trip down the coast, and an unpleasant experience • 57
PART II
THE SOLOMON ISLANDS
VII • South Sea traders good and bad; their ups and
downs—Nicolas the Greek—The Mambare river massacre—Some
queer creatures with queerer ways—“A fitting end to a
wasted life” • 71
VIII • Natives who have had no chance; their villages
without streets and their curious huts—The tambu and
canoe houses—An unlucky trader • 84
IX • Solomon Islands—Ingova’s head-hunters—How whole
tribes were wiped out—Savage invasions and clever
tactics • 94
X • Clothes and the men—Love of adornment—Natives
who are not keen on eating—Methods of cooking their
food—Betel-nut chewing • 104
XI • Some clever ways of catching fish—How the bonito is
landed—Native nets—Pig-hunting—The sly opossum and the
crocodile • 113
XII • A curious religion—Burying the dead, and some
graveyards—Dances and music—Native artists and how fire
is made • 124
XIII • What “hope” is to the Solomon islander—The use of
the evil eye • 134
PART III
THE NEW HEBRIDES
XIV • Islands that are advancing rapidly—Native houses
with modern improvements—A horrible method of getting rid
of the old men, and other burial ceremonies • 143
XV • Ancestor worship the religion of the New
Hebrides—Temples and strange figures, and some sacred
dances • 153
XVI • Concerning witchcraft—More about burials—The
gentle art of making love—The rain-makers • 163
XVII • Native clothing and ornaments—Their arts and
industries, their canoes and weapons, and their way of
fishing • 172
XVIII • The cultivation of copra—The labour traffic when
slavery really existed, and the traffic in natives of
to-day • 183
XIX • A short sketch of the missionary work in the South
Seas—Concerning John Williams, James Chalmers, and
others • 193
SKETCH MAP OF THE SOUTH SEA ISLANDS • 204
INDEX • 205
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. Off to the Dubu Dance—British New
Guinea • _Frontispiece_
2. By Reef and Palm • 6
3. Off to Market, British New Guinea • 14
4. Motu Village from the Sea • 18
5. The Island of Elevera from the Mission Station, Port
Moresby, British New Guinea • 20
6. Tree House in British New Guinea • 22
7. Motu Village, Port Moresby, British New Guinea • 24
8. In the Pile Dwellings at Hanuabada, Port Moresby,
British New Guinea • 26
9. Native of British New Guinea, showing the manner of
wearing the hair • 30
10. A New Guinea Dandy • 32
11. Woman with Baby in bag. Fairfax Island, British New
Guinea • 34
12. Dinner Time at Kwato, British New Guinea • 36
13. A Kaivakuku, Roro Tribe, Central Division, British New
Guinea • 48
14. Harvest Dance, New Guinea • 50
15. Ready for the Dubu Dance • 52
16. The Dubu at Rigo, British New Guinea • 54
17. Tattooing, British New Guinea. • 56
18. Large Trading Canoes, British New Guinea • 58
19. Old Women making Pottery, British New Guinea • 60
20. Spearing Fish, British New Guinea • 62
21. Marine Village, Tupusuli, British New Guinea • 64
22. Natives of the New Hebrides having a drink • 66
23. Gold Miners leaving a trading ship, British New
Guinea • 72
24. Johnnie Pratt with his Ivory Nuts at Simbo, Solomon
Islands • 74
25. Solomon Island Boy climbing after green cocoa-nuts,
near Gavutu, New Florida • 80
26. Solomon Island Village, near Marau Sound, New
Florida • 84
27. Early Morning, Gavutu, Solomon Islands • 86
28. Old Ingova’s War Canoe House, Rubiana Lagoon, New
Georgia, Solomon Islands • 90
29. On the Fringe of a primæval Forest, Solomon
Islands • 92
30. Portrait of a Solomon Island Cannibal • 94
31. Sacred Skull Shrines, British Solomon Islands • 96
32. Ingova’s Head-hunters, British Solomon Islands • 98
33. A Canoe showing the “Totoishu,” New Georgia, Solomon
Islands • 100
34. A Lagoon in New Florida, Solomon Islands • 102
35. Native of New Georgia wearing Sunshade; a sort of
crownless hat made of grasses: it can be worn at any
angle • 104
36. A Rubiana Native, Solomon Islands • 106
37. A Stormy Day in Rubiana Lagoon, Solomon Islands • 108
38. Cooking the Meal, British New Guinea • 110
39. The Reef near Simbo, Solomon Islands • 114
40. Native Archer shooting Fish, British Solomon
Islands • 116
41. Searching for small Octopi on the Reef at low tide,
Samari, British New Guinea • 118
42. The Home of the Crocodile, British Solomon
Islands • 122
43. A Shrine or Tomb of a Chief at Simbo, Solomon
Islands • 126
44. Solomon Islander playing the “Ivivu” or Flute • 130
45. A Tapu Virgin, British Solomon Islands • 136
46. Beneath a Banyan Tree, Malekula Island, New
Hebrides • 142
47. The Rapids, Williams River, Island of Eromanga, New
Hebrides • 144
48. Mount Marion, the active Volcano, Island of Ambryn,
New Hebrides • 146
49. A Village in Santo, New Hebrides • 148
50. Chief’s House, Ambryn, New Hebrides • 150
51. The “M’aki” Ground and the Jaws of the sacred Pigs,
New Hebrides • 154
52. A Memorial Effigy, Malekula, New Hebrides • 156
53. Drum Grove at Mele, New Hebrides • 158
54. Leaving Santo, a View of the Mountains, New
Hebrides • 162
55. A Sacred Man, Aoba, New Hebrides • 164
56. The Stone “Demits,” or the Souls, with their attendant
wooden figures, Malekula Island, New Hebrides • 168
57. Old Cannibal Chief whom the Artist met on the Island
of Aoba, New Hebrides • 172
58. Type of Man from the Island of Tanna, New
Hebrides • 174
59. Finishing off a Canoe, British New Guinea • 176
60. Old War Canoes, near Malekula, New Hebrides • 178
61. Havannah Harbour, Rathmoy, New Hebrides • 180
62. Passing the Reef, Aoba, New Hebrides • 182
63. The Island of Samari, British New Guinea • 184
64. A Trader receiving Cocoa-nuts, Aoba, New Hebrides • 186
65. Copra Boys off to the Shore, New Hebrides • 188
66. The “Blackbirders” in the Solomon Islands • 190
67. A Yam Shed on the Island of Tierra Espiritu Santo, New
Hebrides • 192
68. The Artist’s Guide on Malekula, New Hebrides • 196
{1}
PART I
BRITISH NEW GUINEA
{3}
CHAPTER I
Chiefly historical—Concerning certain discoverers, their aims and
ambitions—The story of New Guinea, the Solomons, and New Hebrides, and
some things that might be altered.
In these days when distance hardly counts, when the cry is heard
that new outlets are wanted for capital, when there are thousands of
unemployed crowded in London, and people are anxious to find adventure,
eager to see new things, to conquer new lands, exploit new industries
and gain more knowledge, it is worth while turning our attention to the
South Sea Islands.
It is strange that so little is known of them, and that so few people
have bothered themselves to visit them. A few missionaries, explorers,
and adventurers have written about and spent a few months on them,
but what is this when there are miles and miles of the most beautiful
country crying out for people; there is wealth, both mineral and
vegetable, waiting for the industry and enterprise {4} of good men
to reap, and, above all, there is a delightful climate and a race of
savages who in themselves repay the inconveniences of the journey.
The chief island is New Guinea, which is the largest in the world
and contains some 340,700 square miles, much of which has never been
trodden by white men. There are no sandy, dried-up districts in New
Guinea or the Solomon Islands, and no long droughts; but rather a
full fall of rain which makes the ground bring forth its produce in
abundance.
There is land out there which some day will surprise people, and when
one considers the difficulty Australia had to persuade the British
Government to annex it, one cannot help laughing at the ignorance
and short-sightedness of the men of those times. It was not until
1884 that the Government sent Commodore Erskine to the south-eastern
portion of New Guinea to proclaim a protectorate over it, and then
only after receiving a guarantee from the Queensland Government that
they would undertake to find £15,000 per annum towards the cost of its
administration.
The Queensland Government had, a year before this, already annexed it.
They knew its value, and had it not been for their prompt action these
{5} valuable islands would now all have been in the possession of the
Dutch and Germans.
Accounts of the islands date back to 1512, but many things go to
suggest that both the Malays and Chinese knew of their existence and
had visited them long before that date. The first Europeans we hear
of who sighted them were the Spanish sailor, Alvaro de Sacedra, and a
Portuguese whose name is not known.
Prior to the arrival of Captain Cook, in 1770, there were numerous
adventurers who gave accounts of these islands. Luis Vaez de Torres,
after whom the Torres Straits were named, passed them in 1660 and
sent to the world a full account of his voyage, but little notice was
taken of it. We next hear of De Bougainville, the French navigator
who arrived there in 1768; then came Captain Cook, and after him many
others sighted the shores of New Guinea.
It was, however, the Dutch who first made any movements to attempt
to find out its geographic and scientific value. They began in a
neat business-like way by annexing that section west of the 141st
meridian of east longitude, and despatching the _Dourga_, commanded by
Lieutenant Kolff, to examine and report on it. He was a zealous man
and, like many other enthusiastic sailors who have visited {6} new
lands, found many things there which no one else has been able to find,
and which have since been proved never to have existed. But some excuse
for him can be found, owing to the disadvantages he was under and the
savageness of the natives. He probably thought that no one in his time,
if they followed him, would live to tell the tale, so he wrote what he
thought “might have been.” Then came the Postillion Expedition in 1853,
followed by the Trinton Expedition and the Scientific Expedition of Van
der Crab in 1871. Dr. Meyers followed in 1873, and many other Dutch
enthusiasts came after him during the next few years.
During this time, however, England was not quite asleep. In 1842 H.M.S.
_Fly_ was sent on a survey expedition and remained there till 1846,
attention being devoted to that part of the island now known as British
New Guinea. The Expedition also discovered and named the rivers Fly and
Aird, in districts where later on many brave and good men lost their
lives at the hands of the natives.
[Illustration 2: BY REEF AND PALM]
Following this ship, in 1846, came H.M.S. _Rattlesnake_, and good work
was the result of her stay. Captain Moresby visited the island in 1871,
and thoroughly explored many parts of it which were {7} unknown
before his time. He landed at the harbour now known as Port Moresby,
and gave such glowing accounts of the island that it was visited by
many eminent naturalists immediately afterwards; and then the work of
the pioneer missionaries, who had been busy there for some time, began
to be talked about, and considerable interest in these islands was
aroused.
Queensland, acting under the advice of Mr. Chester, a prominent man
well up in the value of New Guinea, sent out Sir Thomas M‘Ilwraith
to take possession of it in the name of the Queen. But the British
Government refused to acknowledge this act, and thereby aroused the
indignation of the Australians. A conference was held in Sydney and the
British Government communicated with, with the result stated, that they
saw their mistake and Sir Peter Scratchley was sent to New Guinea to
act as High Commissioner.
His term of office was short, as he contracted malaria in 1885 and
died. The man who took his place was a Queenslander, the Hon. John
Douglas, who understood the position, and did valuable service to his
country by making a study of the natives and the possibilities of the
country.
In 1888 Sir William MacGregor, M.D., {8} K.C.M.G., was finally
appointed Governor, and during his ten years of office showed that
he was the right man in the right place. He was succeeded by George
Ruthven Le Hunte, Esq., C.M.G.
To-day the affairs of British New Guinea are on an excellent basis. An
Administrator is appointed by the Crown, whose duty it is to consult
with the Governor of Queensland and report to that Government on all
matters of importance. The Administrator is supported by two State
Councils, the Executive and the Legislative, the first being composed
of the Administrator, the Chief Judicial Officer, the Government
Secretary, and a Resident Magistrate. The second is composed of the
Executive Council, together with any officers they may appoint.
Petty Sessions Courts are also established and presided over by a
Resident Magistrate, who has the same powers as a Police Magistrate in
the Colonies. Europeans and natives have equal rights in the courts,
and an appeal is allowed under certain circumstances. Native police
preserve order in the towns. An amusing thing about them is that they
are chiefly ex-convicts, and are given the appointment as a reward for
good behaviour whilst in gaol. {9}
The discovery of the Solomon Islands is credited to Don Alvaro Mendana
de Meyer, who went out there in the hope of discovering from whence
King Solomon’s wealth came—the supposition was that the islands of the
Pacific supplied much of it. That supposition no longer exists.
On sighting the Solomon Islands, and believing them to be the islands
he was seeking, he named them Islas de Salomon. This was in the year
1567. After this he thoroughly explored many of them and gave them the
names they now bear—Guadalcanar, San Christoval, and Isabel. Whilst
thus engaged he decided to found a colony, and with that end in view
he returned home and gathered together a number of men anxious to make
their fortunes. He returned with them, landed at a place he thought was
part of the Solomon Islands, and called it Santa Cruz. The colony was
not a success, as most of the immigrants, including the discoverer,
died, and the survivors returned to South America.
One of these survivors was De Quiros, who subsequently discovered the
New Hebrides.
Bougainville and others, many years afterwards, again came across these
islands, and | 625.381658 |
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TRANSCRIBER'S NOTICE
The medical knowledge represented in this book is several centuries
old. The publication of this book is for historical interest only,
and is not to be construed as medical advice by Project Gutenberg
or its volunteers. Medicinal plants should not be used without
consulting a trained medical professional. Medical science has made
considerable progress since this book was written. Recommendations
or prescriptions have been superseded by better alternatives, or
invalidated altogether. This book contains a number of prescriptions
that are very dangerous.
THE
TALEEF SHEREEF,
OR
INDIAN MATERIA MEDICA;
TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL.
BY
GEORGE PLAYFAIR, Esq.
SUPERINTENDING SURGEON, BENGAL SERVICE.
PUBLISHED BY
The Medical and Physical Society of Calcutta.
Calcutta:
PRINTED AT THE BAPTIST MISSION PRESS, CIRCULAR ROAD.
SOLD BY MESSRS. THACKER & CO. CALCUTTA; & BY MESSRS. PARBURY, ALLEN
& CO.
1833.
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
In the course of a practice of upwards of twenty-six years in India,
I have often had occasion to regret, that I had no publication to
guide me, in my wish to become acquainted with the properties of
native medicines, which I had frequently seen, in the hands of the
Physicians of Hindoostan, productive of the most beneficial effects
in many diseases, for the cure of which our Pharmacopeia supplied no
adequate remedy; and the few which I had an opportunity of becoming
acquainted with, so far exceeded my expectations, that I determined
to make a Translation of the present work, for my own gratification
and future guidance.
Having finished the translation, I became convinced, that I should
not have fulfilled the whole of my duty if I did not make it public;
and ill calculated as I know myself for such an undertaking, I have
ventured to offer it to the world, with all its imperfections.
Conscious, that the liberal minded will give me credit for the best
of motives, I shall not dread criticism; and if it has the effect
of inducing those more competent to the task to an inquiry into
the properties of native medicines, my views will have been fully
accomplished.
In writing the names of the different medicines, I have followed the
Author's example, and have been guided solely by the pronunciation,
without altering the sound given to the letters in English, and have
not borrowed a single name from any work of Oriental literature. In
this I may have acted wrong, but I did so from the conviction, that by
this method, the names would be more familiar, and better understood,
by the Natives in researches after the different drugs.
I have inserted as many of the systematic names as I could trace,
both from Dr. Fleming's work, and those of others; but I regret,
that I was not honored in the acquaintance of any Botanist who could
have assisted me with more.
To the youth of the profession, I trust the work may be acceptable, by
leading them to the knowledge, that such medicines are in existence;
and my medical brethren of the higher grades may not deem further
inquiry into the properties of native drugs beneath their notice.
To the profession at large, then, I beg leave to dedicate this
Translation, with the hope, that they will make due allowance for
all faults, and that some of the more experienced will favor us with
another and better edition.
To my respected friends Messrs. Wilson and Twining, the profession is
indebted, that this little work ever saw light; and though they are
godfathers to none of its errors, yet without their encouragement and
aid, it must have slumbered in oblivion, and remained as was intended,
(after the failure of an attempt on the part of the translator,)
a manual for his own private use.
GLOSSARY.
Acouta, Herpes.
Aruk, Distilled liquid.
Boolbul, Indian Nightingale.
Badgola, Splenitis.
Coir, Fibrous substance surrounding the Cocoanut.
Daad, Impetigo.
Dhats, Component parts of the human frame.
Elaous, Disease of the Intestines. Introsusception.
Fetuck, Hernia.
Goor, Unrefined Sugar.
Juzam, Black Leprosy.
Jow, Barley.
Junglie Chuha, The Forest Rat.
Khoonadeer, Khoonazeer? Lupus, Cancer.
Kunzeer, Cancer.
Mootiabin, Total blindness, Gutta Serena.
Naringee, The Orange.
Nachoona, Opacity of the Cornea.
Neela Totha, Sulphate of Copper.
Nuffsoodum, Hæmoptysis.
Pilau, Poolau, Dish made of meat and rice, seasoned with spices.
Peshanee, The Forehead.
Paddy, Rice in the husk.
Panroque, Cold with Fever, also Jaundice.
Peendie, A formula for females.
Paan, A leaf, chewed by the Natives, with Catechu, Betel,
and Lime.
Raal, Gum Resin.
Rajerogue, Carbuncle.
Soonpat, Loss of sensation in parts of the body.
Soorkhbad, Erythema.
THE TALEEF SHEREEF,
OR
INDIAN MATERIA MEDICA.
| 625.484118 |
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Wilson's
Tales of the Borders
AND OF SCOTLAND.
HISTORICAL, TRADITIONARY, & IMAGINATIVE.
WITH A GLOSSARY.
| 625.485806 |
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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 | 625.645666 |
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Produced by Keith Edkins, MWS and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
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Transcriber's note: The Errata (after the List of Plates) have been worked
into the main text. All other apparent mistakes have been retained as
printed. Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_); page
numbers enclosed by curly braces (example: {25}) have been incorporated to
facilitate the use of the Index..
* * * * *
THE GEOGRAPHICAL
DISTRIBUTION OF ANIMALS
_WITH A STUDY OF THE RELATIONS OF LIVING AND EXTINCT FAUNAS AS ELUCIDATING
THE PAST CHANGES OF THE EARTH'S SURFACE._
BY
ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE,
AUTHOR OF "THE MALAY ARCHIPELAGO," ETC.
WITH MAPS AND ILLUSTRATIONS.
_IN TWO VOLUMES.--VOLUME II._
London: MACMILLAN AND CO. 1876.
[_The Right of Translation and Reproduction is Reserved._]
LONDON:
R. CLAY, SONS, AND TAYLOR, PRINTERS,
BREAD STREET HILL.
CONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.
PART III. (_continued_).
ZOOLOGICAL GEOGRAPHY: A REVIEW OF THE CHIEF FORMS OF
ANIMAL LIFE IN THE SEVERAL REGIONS AND SUB-REGIONS,
WITH THE INDICATIONS THEY AFFORD OF GEOGRAPHICAL MUTATIONS.
CHAPTER XIV.
THE NEOTROPICAL REGION.
General Zoological Features of the Neotropical Region (p. 5)--Distinctive
Characters of Neotropical Mammalia (p. 6)--Of Neotropical Birds (p. 7)--
Neotropical Reptiles (p. 9)--Fresh-water Fishes (p. 12)--Insects (p. 13)
--Coleoptera (p. 15)--Land Shells (p. 19)--Marine Shells (p. 20)--
Brazilian Sub-region (p. 21)--Its Mammalia (p. 23)--Its Birds (p. 24)--
Islands of Tropical South America, Galapagos (p. 29)--Chilian Sub-region
(p. 36)--Birds (p. 38)--Reptiles and Amphibia (p. 40)--Fresh-water
Fishes (p. 42)--Lepidoptera (p. 42)--Coleoptera (p. 44)--Islands of South
Temperate America (p. 49)--Mexican Sub-region (p. 51)--Mammalia and
Birds (p. 52)--Reptiles and Fishes (p. 54)--Insects (p. 55)--Relations of
the Mexican Sub-region to the North and South American Continents (p. 57)
--Islands of the Mexican Sub-region (p. 59)--The Antillean Sub-region
| 625.776209 |
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by The Internet Archive)
TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES
Obvious spelling, typographical and punctuation errors have been
corrected after careful comparison with other occurrences within the
text and consultation of external sources.
More detail can be found at the end of the book.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
The oe ligature has been expanded.
WONDERFUL STORIES
FOR CHILDREN.
BY HANS CHRISTIAN ANDERSEN,
AUTHOR OF "THE IMPROVISATORE," ETC.
TRANSLATED FROM THE DANISH BY MARY HOWITT.
NEW YORK.
WILEY & PUTNAM,
161 Broadway.
1846.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
OLE LUCKOIE--THE STORY-TELLER AT NIGHT 5
THE DAISY 28
THE NAUGHTY BOY 37
TOMMELISE 42
THE ROSE-ELF 64
THE GARDEN OF PARADISE 74
A NIGHT IN THE KITCHEN 102
LITTLE IDA'S FLOWERS 108
THE CONSTANT TIN SOLDIER 124
THE STORKS 133
OLE LUCKOIE, (SHUT-EYE.)
There is nobody in all this world who knows so many tales as Ole
Luckoie! He can tell tales! In an evening, when a child sits so nicely
at the table, or on its little stool, Ole Luckoie comes. He comes
so quietly into the house, for he walks without shoes; he opens the
door without making any noise, and then he flirts sweet milk into the
children's eyes; but so gently, so very gently, that they cannot keep
their eyes open, and, therefore, they never see him; he steals softly
behind them and blows gently on their necks, and thus their heads
become heavy. Oh yes! But then it does them no harm; for Ole Luckoie
means nothing but kindness to the children, he only wants to amuse
them; and the best thing that can be done is for somebody to carry them
to bed, where they may lie still and listen to the tales that he will
tell them.
Now when the children are asleep, Ole Luckoie sits down on the bed;
he is very well dressed; his coat is of silk, but it is not possible
to tell what color it is, because it shines green, and red, and blue,
just as if one color ran into another. He holds an umbrella under each
arm; one of them is covered all over the inside with pictures, and
this he sets over the good child, and it dreams all night long the
most beautiful histories. The other umbrella has nothing at all within
it; this he sets over the heads of naughty children, and they sleep so
heavily, that next morning when they wake they have not dreamed the
least in the world.
Now we will hear how Ole Luckoie came every evening for a whole week to
a little boy, whose name was Yalmar, and what he told him. There are
seven stories, because there are seven days in a week.
MONDAY.
"Just listen!" said Ole Luckoie, in the evening, when they had put
Yalmar in bed; "now I shall make things fine!"--and with that all the
plants in the flower-pots grew up into great trees which stretched
out their long branches along the ceiling and the walls, till the
whole room looked like the most beautiful summer-house; and all the
branches were full of flowers, and every flower was more beautiful than
a rose, and was so sweet, that if anybody smelt at it, it was sweeter
than raspberry jam! The fruit on the trees shone like gold, and great
big bunches of raisins hung down--never had any thing been seen like
it!--but all at once there began such a dismal lamentation in the
table-drawer where Yalmar kept his school-books.
"What is that?" said Ole Luckoie, and went to the table and opened
the drawer. It was the slate that was in great trouble; for there was
an addition sum on it that was added up wrong, and the slate-pencil
was hopping and jumping about in its string, like a little dog that
wanted to help the sum, but it could not! And besides this, Yalmar's
copy-book was crying out sadly! All the way down each page stood a
row of great letters, each with a little one by its side; these were
the copy; and then there stood other letters, which fancied that they
looked like the copy; and these Yalmar had written; but they were
some one way and some another, just as if they were tumbling over the
pencil-lines on which they ought to have stood.
"Look, you should hold yourselves up--thus!" said the copy; "thus, all
in a line, with a brisk air!"
"Oh! we would so gladly, if we could," said Yalmar's writing; "but we
cannot, we are so miserable!"
"Then we will make you!" said Ole Luckoie gruffly.
"Oh, no!" cried the poor little crooked letters; but for all that they
straightened themselves, till it was quite a pleasure to see them.
"Now, then, cannot we tell a story?" said Ole Luckoie; "now I can
exercise them! One, two! One, two!" And so, like a drill-sergeant, he
put them all through their exercise, and they stood as straight and
as well-shaped as any copy. After that Ole Luckoie went his way; and
Yalmar, when he looked at the letters next morning, found them tumbling
about just as miserably as at first.
TUESDAY.
No sooner was Yalmar in bed than Ole Luckoie came with his little wand,
and touched all the furniture in the room; and, in a minute, every
thing began to chatter; and they chattered all together, and about
nothing but themselves. Every thing talked except the old door-mat,
which lay silent, and was vexed that they should be all so full of
vanity as to talk of nothing but themselves, and think only about
themselves, and never have one thought for it which lay so modestly in
a corner and let itself be trodden upon.
There hung over the chest of drawers a great picture in a gilt frame;
it was a landscape; one could see tall, old trees, flowers in the
grass, and a great river, which ran through great woods, past many
castles out into the wild sea.
Ole Luckoie touched the picture with his wand; and with that the birds
in the picture began to sing, the tree-branches began to wave, and the
clouds regularly to move,--one could see them moving along over the
landscape!
Ole Luckoie now lifted little Yalmar up into the picture; he put his
little legs right into it, just as if into tall grass, and there he
stood. The sun shone down through the tree-branches upon him. He ran
down to the river, and got into a little boat which lay there. It was
painted red and white, the sails shone like silk, and six swans, each
with a circlet of gold round its neck and a beaming blue star upon its
head, drew the little boat past the green-wood,--where he heard the
trees talking about robbers, and witches, and flowers, and the pretty
little fairies, and all that the summer birds had told them of.
The loveliest fishes, with scales like silver and gold, swam after the
boat, and leaped up in the water; and birds, some red and some blue,
small and great, flew, in two long rows, behind; gnats danced about,
and cockchafers said hum, hum! They all came following Yalmar, and you
may think what a deal they had to tell him.
It was a regular voyage! Now the woods were so thick and so dark--now
they were like the most beautiful garden, with sunshine and flowers;
and in the midst of them there stood great castles of glass and of
marble. Upon the balconies of these castles stood princesses, and every
one of them were the little girls whom Yalmar knew very well, and with
whom he had played. They all reached out their hands to him, and held
out the most delicious sticks of barley-sugar which any confectioner
could make; and Yalmar bit off a piece from every stick of barley-sugar
as he sailed past, and Yalmar's piece was always a very large piece!
Before every castle stood little princes as sentinels; they stood with
their golden swords drawn, and showered down almonds and raisins. They
were perfect princes!
Yalmar soon sailed through the wood, then through a great hall, or into
the midst of a city; and at last he came to that in which his nurse
lived, she who had nursed him when he was a very little child, and
had been so very fond of him. And there he saw her, and she nodded
and waved her hand to him, and sang the pretty little verse which she
herself had made about Yalmar--
Full many a time I thee have missed,
My Yalmar, my delight!
I, who thy cherry-mouth have kissed,
Thy rosy cheeks, thy forehead white!
I saw thy earliest infant mirth--
I now must say farewell!
May our dear Lord bless thee on earth,
Then take thee to his heaven to dwell!
And all the birds sang, too, the flowers danced upon their stems, and
the old trees nodded like as Ole Luckoie did while he told his tales.
WEDNESDAY.
How the rain did pour down! Yalmar could hear it in his sleep! and
when Ole Luckoie opened the casement, the water stood up to the very
window-sill. There was a regular sea outside; but the most splendid
ship lay close up to the house.
"If thou wilt sail with me, little Yalmar," said Ole Luckoie, "thou
canst reach foreign countries in the night, and be here again by
to-morrow morning!"
And with this Yalmar stood in his Sunday clothes in the ship, and
immediately the weather became fine, and they sailed through the
streets, tacked about round the church, and then came out into a great,
desolate lake. They sailed so far, that at last they could see no more
land, and then they saw a flock of storks, which were coming from home,
on their way to the warm countries; one stork after another flew on,
and they had already flown such a long, long way. One of the storks was
so very much tired that it seemed as if his wings could not support him
any longer; he was the very last of all the flock, and got farther and
farther behind them; and, at last, he sank lower and lower, with his
outspread wings: he still flapped his wings, now and then, but that
did not help him; now his feet touched the cordage of the ship; now he
glided down the sail, and, bounce! down he came on the deck.
A sailor-boy then took him up, and set him in the hencoop among hens,
and ducks, and turkeys. The poor stork stood quite confounded among
them all.
"Here's a thing!" said all the hens.
And the turkey-cock blew himself up as much as ever he could, and asked
the stork who he was; and the ducks they went on jostling one against
the other, saying, "Do thou ask! do thou ask!"
The stork told them all about the warm Africa, about the pyramids, and
about the simoom, which sped like a horse over the desert: but the
ducks understood not a word about what he said, and so they whispered
one to the other, "We are all agreed, he is silly!"
"Yes, to be sure, he is silly," said the turkey-cock aloud. The poor
stork stood quite still, and thought about Africa.
"What a pair of beautiful thin legs you have got!" said the
turkey-cock; "what is the price by the yard?"
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed all the ducks; but the stork pretended that he
did not hear.
"I cannot help laughing," said the turkey-cock, "it was so very witty;
or, perhaps, it was too low for him!--ha! ha! he can't take in many
ideas! Let us only be interesting to ourselves!" And with that they
began to gobble, and the ducks chattered, "Gik, gak! gik, gak!" It was
amazing to see how entertaining they were to themselves.
Yalmar, however, went up to the hencoop, opened the door, and called
to the stork, which hopped out to him on the deck. It had now rested
itself; and it seemed as if it nodded to Yalmar to thank him. With this
it spread out its wings and flew away to its warm countries; but the
hens clucked, the ducks chattered, and the turkey-cocks grew quite red
in the head.
"To-morrow we shall have you for dinner!" said Yalmar; and so he awoke,
and was lying in his little bed.
It was, however, a wonderful voyage that Ole Luckoie had taken him that
night.
THURSDAY.
"Dost thou know what?" said Ole Luckoie. "Now do not be afraid, and
thou shalt see a little mouse!" and with that he held out his hand with
the pretty little creature in it.
"It is come to invite thee to a wedding," said he. "There are two
little mice who are going to be married to-night; they live down
under the floor of thy mother's store-closet; it will be such a nice
opportunity for thee."
"But how can I get through the little mouse-hole in the floor?" asked
Yalmar.
"Leave that to me," said Ole Luckoie; "I shall make thee little
enough!" And with that he touched Yalmar with his wand, and immediately
he grew less and less, until at last he was no bigger than my finger.
"Now thou canst borrow the tin soldier's clothes," said Ole Luckoie; "I
think they would fit thee, and it looks so proper to have uniform on
when people go into company."
"Yes, to be sure!" said Yalmar; and in a moment he was dressed up like
the most beautiful new tin soldier.
"Will you be so good as to seat yourself in your mother's thimble,"
said the little mouse; "and then I shall have the honor of driving you!"
"Goodness!" said Yalmar; "will the young lady herself take the
trouble?" and with that they drove to the mouse's wedding.
First of all, after going under the floor, they came into a long
passage, which was so low that they could hardly drive in the thimble,
and the whole passage was illuminated with touchwood.
"Does it not smell delicious?" said the mouse as they drove along; "the
whole passage has been rubbed with bacon-sward; nothing can be more
delicious!"
They now came into the wedding-hall. On the right hand stood the little
she-mice, and they all whispered and tittered as if they were making
fun of one another; on the left hand all the he-mice, and stroked their
mustachios with their paws. In the middle of the floor were to be seen
the bridal pair, who stood in a hollow cheese-paring; and they kept
kissing one another before everybody, for they were desperately in
love, and were going to be married directly.
And all this time there kept coming in more and more strangers, till
one mouse was ready to trample another to death; and the bridal pair
had placed themselves in a doorway, so that people could neither go in
nor come out. The whole room, like the passage, had been smeared with
sward of bacon; that was all the entertainment: but as a dessert a pea
was produced, on which a little mouse of family had bitten the name of
the bridal pair,--that is to say, the first letters of their name; that
was something quite out of the common way.
All the mice said that it was a charming wedding, and that the
conversation had been so good!
Yalmar drove home again; he had really been in very grand society, but
he must have been regularly squeezed together to make himself small
enough for a tin soldier's uniform.
FRIDAY.
"It is incredible how many elderly people there are who would be so
glad of me," said Ole Luckoie, "especially those who have done any
thing wrong. 'Good little Ole,' say they to me, 'we cannot close our
eyes; and so we lie all night long awake, and see all our bad deeds,
which sit, like ugly little imps, on the bed's head, and squirt hot
water on us. Wilt thou only just come and drive them away, that we may
have a good sleep!' and with that they heave such deep sighs--'we would
so gladly pay thee; good-night, Ole!' Silver pennies lie for me in the
window," said Ole Luckoie, "but I do not give sleep for money!"
"Now what shall we have to-night?" inquired Yalmar.
"I do not know whether thou hast any desire to go again to-night to a
wedding," said Ole Luckoie; "but it is of a different kind to that of
last night. Thy sister's great doll, which is dressed like a gentleman,
and is called Herman, is going to be married to the doll Bertha;
besides, it is the doll's birthday, and therefore there will be a great
many presents made."
"Yes, I know," said Yalmar; "always, whenever the dolls have new
clothes, my sister entreats that they have a birthday or a wedding;
that has happened certainly a hundred times!"
"Yes, but to-night it is the hundred and first wedding, and when
a hundred and one is done then all is over! Therefore it will be
incomparably grand. Only look!"
Yalmar looked at the table; there stood the little doll's house
with lights in the windows, and all the tin soldiers presented arms
outside. The bridal couple sat upon the floor, and leaned against the
table-legs, and looked very pensive, and there might be reason for it.
But Ole Luckoie, dressed in the grandmother's black petticoat, married
them, and when they were married, all the furniture in the room joined
in the following song, which was written in pencil, and which was sung
to the tune of the drum:--
Our song like a wind comes flitting
Into the room where the bride-folks are sitting;
They are partly of wood, as is befitting:
Their skin is the skin of a glove well fitting!
Hurrah, hurrah! for sitting and fitting!
Thus sing we aloud as the wind comes flitting!
And now the presents were brought, but they had forbidden any kind of
eatables, for their love was sufficient for them.
"Shall we stay in the country, or shall we travel into foreign parts?"
asked the bridegroom; and with that they begged the advice of the
breeze, which had travelled a great deal, and of the old hen, which
had had five broods of chickens. The breeze told them about the
beautiful, warm countries where the bunches of grapes hung so large and
so heavy; where the air was so mild, and the mountains had colors of
which one could have no idea "in this country."
"But there they have not our green cabbage!" said the hen. "I lived
for one summer with all my chickens in the country; there was a dry,
dusty ditch in which we could go and scuttle, and we had admittance to
a garden where there was green cabbage! O, how green it was! I cannot
fancy any thing more beautiful!"
"But one cabbage-stalk looks just like another," said the breeze; "and
then there is such wretched weather here."
"Yes, but one gets used to it," said the hen.
"But it is cold--it freezes!"
"That is good for the cabbage!" said the hen. "Besides, we also have
it warm. Had not we four years ago a summer which lasted five weeks,
and it was so hot that people did not know how to bear it? And then we
have not all the poisonous creatures which they have there! and we are
far from robbers. He is a good-for-nothing fellow who does not think
our country the most beautiful in the world! and he does not deserve to
be here!" and with that the hen cried.--"And I also have travelled,"
continued she; "I have gone in a boat above twelve miles; there is no
pleasure in travelling."
"The hen is a sensible body!" said the doll Bertha; "I would rather not
travel to the mountains, for it is only going up to come down again.
No! we will go down into the ditch, and walk in the cabbage-garden."
And so they did.
SATURDAY.
"Shall I have any stories?" said little Yalmar, as soon as Ole Luckoie
had put him to sleep.
"In the evening we have no time for any," said Ole, and spread out
his most beautiful umbrella above his head. "Look now at this Chinese
scene!" and with that the whole inside of the umbrella looked like a
great china saucer, with blue trees and pointed bridges, on which
stood little Chinese, who stood and nodded with their heads. "We shall
have all the world dressed up beautifully this morning," said Ole, "for
it is really a holiday; it is Sunday. I shall go up into the church
towers to see whether the little church-elves polish the bells, because
they sound so sweetly. I shall go out into the market, and see whether
the wind blows the dust, and grass, and leaves, and what is the hardest
work there. I shall have all the stars down to polish them; I shall put
them into my apron, but first of all I must have them all numbered, and
the holes where they fit up there numbered also; else we shall never
put them into their proper places again, and then they will not be
firm, and we shall have so many falling stars, one dropping down after
another!"
"Hear, you Mr. Luckoie, there!" said an old portrait that hung on the
wall of the room where Yalmar slept: "I am Yalmar's grandfather. We are
obliged to you for telling the boy pretty stories, but you must not go
and confuse his ideas. The stars cannot be taken down and polished! The
stars are globes like our earth, and they want nothing doing at them!"
"Thou shalt have thanks, thou old grandfather," said Ole Luckoie;
"thanks thou shalt have! Thou art, to be sure, the head of the family;
thou art the old head of the family; but for all that, I am older than
thou! I am an old heathen; the Greeks and the Romans called me the god
of dreams. I go into great folks' houses, and I shall go there still. I
know how to manage both with young and old. But now thou mayst take thy
turn." And with this Ole Luckoie went away, and took his umbrella with
him.
"Now, one cannot tell what he means!" said the old Portrait.
And Yalmar awoke.
SUNDAY.
"Good-evening!" said Ole Luckoie, and Yalmar nodded; but he jumped up
and turned the grandfather's portrait to the wall, that it might not
chatter as it had done the night before.
"Now thou shalt tell me a story," said Yalmar, "about the five peas
that live in one pea-pod, and about Hanebeen who cured Honebeen; and
about the darning-needle, that was so fine that it fancied itself a
sewing-needle."
"One might do a deal of good by so doing," said Ole Luckoie; "but, dost
thou know, I would rather show thee | 625.7791 |
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Produced by Marc D'Hooghe at http://www.freeliterature.org
(Images generously made available | 625.845741 |
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file was produced from images generously made available
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[Illustration: SHE GLIDED AND WHIRLED IN THE MOONLIGHT, GRACEFUL AS A
WIND-BLOWN ROSE. _PAGE 284_]
WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE
BY
RITTER BROWN
AUTHOR OF "MAN'S BIRTHRIGHT"
ILLUSTRATED BY
W. M. BERGER
New York
Desmond FitzGerald, Inc.
Copyright, 1912
By Desmond FitzGerald, Inc.
TO
MY SON
ILLUSTRATIONS
"She glided and whirled in the moonlight, graceful
as a wind-blown rose" _Frontispiece_
FACING
PAGE
"The picture which she presented was one he carried
with him for many a day" 130
"Instinctively he raised the casket with both hands" 272
"'Madre! Madre _mia_!' she cried and flung herself
into Chiquita's arms" 292
"They were startled by a low moan and saw Blanch
sink slowly to the bench" 330
There is a tradition extant among the Indians of the Southwest,
extending from Arizona to the Isthmus of Panama, to the effect
that, Montezuma will one day return on the back of an eagle,
wearing a golden crown, and rule the land once more; typifying
the return of the Messiah and the rebirth and renewal of the race.
WHEN DREAMS COME TRUE
I
The beauty of midsummer lay upon the land--the mountains and plains of
Chihuahua. It was August, the month of melons and ripening corn. High
aloft in the pale blue vault of heaven, a solitary eagle soared in ever
widening circles in its flight toward the sun. Far out upon the plains
the lone wolf skulked among the sage and cactus in search of the rabbit
and antelope, or lay panting in the scanty shade of the yucca.
By most persons this little known land of the great Southwest is
regarded as the one which God forgot. But to those who are familiar with
its vast expanse of plain and horizon, its rugged sierras, its wild
desolate _mesas_ and solitary peaks of half-decayed mountains--its tawny
stretches of desert marked with the occasional skeletons | 625.847515 |
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Galloway and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images
generously made available by The Internet Archive)
John Fiske's Writings.
=MYTHS AND MYTH-MAKERS=: Old Tales and Superstitions interpreted by
Comparative Mythology. 12mo, $2.00.
=OUTLINES OF COSMIC PHILOSOPHY.= Based on the Doctrines of Evolution,
with Criticisms on the Positive Philosophy. In two volumes, 8vo, $6.00.
=THE UNSEEN WORLD=, and other Essays. 12mo, $2.00.
=EXCURSIONS OF AN EVOLUTIONIST.= 12mo, $2.00.
=DARWINISM=, and other Essays. 12mo, $2.00.
=THE DESTINY OF MAN=, viewed in the Light of His Origin. 16mo, $1.00.
=THE IDEA OF GOD=, as affected by Modern Knowledge. A Sequel to "The
Destiny of Man." 16mo, $1.00.
[asterism] _For sale by all Booksellers. Sent by mail, post-paid, on
receipt of price, by the Publishers_,
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO., BOSTON.
=AMERICAN POLITICAL IDEAS=, viewed from the Stand-point of Universal
History. 12mo, $1.00. HARPER & BROTHERS, New York.
THE IDEA OF GOD AS AFFECTED
BY MODERN KNOWLEDGE
[Illustration; Decorative symbol]
BY JOHN FISKE
[Illustration; Decorative panel]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1886
Copyright, 1885,
BY JOHN FISKE.
_All rights reserved._
_The Riverside Press, Cambridge_:
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co.
To
MY WIFE,
IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE SWEET SUNDAY MORNING
UNDER THE APPLE-TREE ON THE HILLSIDE,
WHEN WE TWO SAT LOOKING DOWN INTO FAIRY WOODLAND PATHS,
AND TALKED OF THE THINGS
SINCE WRITTEN IN THIS LITTLE BOOK,
I now dedicate it.
* * * * *
+Arghyrion kai chrysion ouch hyparchei
moi; ho de echo, touto soi didomi.+
PREFACE
When asked to give a second address before the Concord School of
Philosophy, I gladly accepted the invitation, as affording a proper
occasion for saying certain things which I had for some time wished to
say about theism. My address was designed to introduce the discussion
of the question whether pantheism is the legitimate outcome of modern
science. It seemed to me that the object might best be attained by
passing in review the various modifications which the idea of God
has undergone in the past, and pointing out the shape in which it is
likely to survive the rapid growth of modern knowledge, and especially
the establishment of that great doctrine of evolution which is fast
obliging us to revise our opinions upon all subjects whatsoever.
Having thus in the text outlined the idea of God most likely to be
conceived by minds trained in the doctrine of evolution, I | 625.873522 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: "Bearing her awful cross in the footprints of the
Nazarene."]
THE MOTHER OF ST. NICHOLAS.
(SANTA CLAUS)
A Story of Duty and Peril.
BY
GRANT BALFOUR,
Author of "The Fairy School of Castle Frank."
TORONTO:
THE POOLE PRINTING COMPANY, LIMITED,
PUBLISHERS.
Entered, according to Act of the Parliament of Canada, in the year one
thousand eight hundred and ninety-nine by A. BALFOUR GRANT, in the
office of the Minister of Agriculture.
CONTENTS
Chapter
I. Watching for the Prey
II. A Ministering Angel
III. Still on the Watch
IV. The Amphitheatre
V. The Influence Working
VI. The Indignation of Tharsos
VII. The Perplexity of Carnion
VIII. Waiting for the Victim
IX. In the Arena
X. The Lion
XI. The Man with the Dagger
XII. Discipline
XIII. Night
XIV. Day
XV. Saint Nicholas
THE MOTHER OF ST. NICHOLAS
(SANTA CLAUS).
CHAPTER I.
WATCHING FOR THE PREY.
Go back into the third century after Christ, travel east into the
famous Mediterranean Sea, survey the beautiful south-west coast of Asia
Minor, and let your eyes rest on the city of Patara. Look at it well.
Full of life then, dead and desolate now, the city has wonderful
associations in sacred and legendary lore--it saw the great reformer of
the Gentiles, and gave birth to the white-haired man of Christmas joy.
Persecution had beforetime visited Patara, in common with other parts
of the Roman Empire; and there were ominous signs, like the first
mutterings of an earthquake, that a similar calamity might come again.
The prejudice and malice of the common people were dangerously stirred
up to fight the quiet, persistent inroads of aggressive Christianity.
The authorities, perplexed and exasperated, were disposed to wink at
assault upon individual Christians, to try them on any plausible
pretext, and to shew them little quarter. If they could arrest the
ringleaders, especially people of rank or wealth, whether men or women,
in anything wrong or strongly suspicious, that they might apply
exemplary punishment, then the irritated majority might be satisfied,
and peace in the city restored.
In a recess at the corner of a busy street, leading towards the market
place, two men stood, waiting and watching for some particular person
to pass by. They were Demonicus and Timon, whose office or duty was
something like that of a modern detective.
Demonicus, clad in a brown _chiton_ or tunic reaching down to the
knees, was a powerfully built, dark man, with great bison-like
shoulders and thick neck, bristling eyebrows, and fierce, covetous
eyes. To him nothing was too perilous or too mean where there was
strife or the chance of gold. He was a wrestler and mighty swordsman,
he had often fought in the stadium or circus, and his fame had
travelled as far as Rome, to which he went at last, and greatly
distinguished himself for a time.
Timon, similarly clad, was only a man of ordinary strength; but he was
lithe, self-willed and shrewd, with a streak of courtesy and sympathy.
Camels, bullocks, horses, mules and wagons were passing by--a
picturesque train of noisy, dusty movement on an unpaved street--while
now and again a carriage or a litter appeared, whose occupants were
considered either arrogant, or effeminate.
"Her carriage must have passed," said Demonicus savagely.
"It cannot be," replied Timon civilly; "the lady, though unfettered by
custom, rarely takes her carriage; she usually passes on foot shortly
after the morning meal, and I came here to watch in ample time."
"We must arrest her to-day on some pretext or other," muttered
Demonicus. "I shall dog her steps everywhere, and if I cannot get a
good excuse I shall invent one. The bribe," added he with an impatient
gesture, "is too tempting for more delay."
Timon, though also grasping, was not heart and soul with Demonicus.
When on the watch alone he had had time to reflect, and his better
nature would now and again assert itself, as there stole over his
vision a beautiful figure with a noble work in hand. He wanted the
prize but was not in hot haste to win it, and while it seemed judicious
it also felt agreeable to suggest delay. After a brief silence he
remarked--
"There is to be a special gathering of the Christians in the Church of
the Triple Arch to-night. The bishop is away at Myra. But Orestes,
the shepherd, is to be present, and I promise thee something will be
said that will give us a plausible backing; his words are plain, ay
even bold as the cliffs of Mount Taurus, where he dwells. Should we
not wait till then, Demonicus?"
"I shall not," answered he, stamping his heavy, sandalled foot
viciously; "it would be our last chance, | 625.877452 |
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CONTENTS
PAGE
LET DAD AND SON BEWARE! 2
ADVENTS AND PUBLIC PLUNDERERS. 3
THE MAYOR AND CHARLEY. 6
LIFE OF STEPHEN H. BRANCH. 8
[Illustration: STEPHEN H. BRANCH’S ALLIGATOR.
Volume I.—No. 4.] SATURDAY, MAY 15, 1858. [Price 2 Cents.]
STEPHEN H. BRANCH’S ALLIGATOR.
Let Dad and Son Beware!
Peter Cooper and Mayor Tiemann are old and sacred friends of George
W. Matsell, who are more familiar with each other than they are
with the Bible, or morning and evening prayers. Mayor Tiemann was
elected with the express condition that Matsell should be restored
to his old position, and Peter Cooper and Mayor Tiemann, and James
W. Gerard, and Ambrose C. Kingsland are at work for their lives to
effect the restoration of Matsell, and all impends on the election of
a Commissioner in place of the noble Perrit. Matsell was in the city
at the last Mayoralty election, conspiring against Wood, who saved him
from the scaffold, after we convicted him of alienage and perjury,
and the dastard and sacrilegious abjuration of his country. And at
the late election, he stabbed his benefactor down in the dust, in the
assassin’s darkness, and did not play Brutus for the public virtue, but
to consummate his restoration to an office (he had always degraded)
which was in the contract between himself and Cooper, Tiemann, Gerard,
and Kingsland, and other slavish friends. We know them all and the
rendezvous of all their kindred Diavolos, whose names would fill the
jaws of the _Alligator_. Matsell professed to enter the city from
Iowa with flags and music on the day after Tiemann’s election, but he
was in the city long before, and concealed in as dark a cavern as the
odious Cataline, while conspiring to foil the patriotic Cicero, and
consign the eternal city to a million thieves. And we now warn Cooper,
Tiemann, Gerard, and Kingsland to beware. For if they foist Matsell on
the city through the purchase of Nye or Bowen with Mayoralty, Street
Commissioner, or the pap of the Mayor’s Executive vassals, we will make
disclosures that will make them stare like affrighted cats, (Gerard _a
la_ he-cat, and the others _a la_ she-cats,) and rock the city to its
carbonic entrails. Talmadge must remain, although he annoyed his nurse
and mother when a brat, and so did we; and in boyhood and early manhood
we both had worms, and raised Sancho Panza,
And we rambled around the town,
And saw perhaps Miss Julia Brown,
as we may develop in the publication of our funny reminiscences;
but we are both growing old, and told our experience at the recent
revival, and asked admission as pious pilgrims, when the deacons said
that we should both be put on five year’s trial, but we begged so hard
they let us in. Talmadge joined the Presbyterians, and he looks pale
and pensive, but we joined the noisy Methodists, and look mighty
cheerful, and sing and dance, and scream like the devil in delirium
tremens, and nervous neighbors murmur at our thundering methodistic
demonstrations. Talmadge as Recorder was too kind and lenient, but he
erred on the side of humanity, which is preferable to err on the side
of a pale and icy and bloodless liver, though we should steer between
the heart and liver, and consign the culprits to the pits and gulches
of the navel, where the voracious worms could soon devour them. The
valor of Talmadge conquered the ruffians of Astor Place, and he has a
Roman and Spartan nature, and is as generous and magnanimous as Clay
or Webster, whom he loved as his own big heart. No man ever had a more
genial or sympathising bosom, than Frederick A. Talmadge. And William
Curtis Noyes married his favorite daughter, and while, the spotless
Noyes walks the velvet earth, and his father-in-law is Chief of Police,
all will go well. Wm. Curtis Noyes is one of the ablest jurists of our
country, and Washington himself had no purer, nor warmer, nor more
patriotic heart. We selected Mr. Noyes as our counsel against little
Georgy Matsell, when arraigned before the Police Commissioners, and to
his ability and fidelity are New Yorkers profoundly indebted for the
downfall of Matsell, and the worst and most formidable banditti that
ever scourged the Western Continent. Beware, then, Cooper Tiemann,
Gerard and Kingsland, and other trembling conspirators, or we will make
you howl, and open the gates of Tartarus, and set a million dogs and
devils at your heels, and when they bite, may God have mercy on your
poor old bones. Beware, or we will harrow your superannuated souls into
the realms of Pluto, where _Robert le Diable_ will grab and burn you
in liquid brimstone, through exhaustless years. Beware of those forty
pages yet behind. O, beware, we implore you, in the name of your wives
and children, and your God! Beware of Matsell and his gang, as the big
and little demons of these wicked times.
Advents and Public Plunderers.
Richard B. Connolly, the County Clerk, was born in Bandon, Ireland,
and arrived in Philadelphia twenty-five years since, (as his glib,
and slippery, and truthful tongue asseverates,) and thence immigrated
to our metropolis. He became Simeon Draper’s Friday clerk, who taught
him the politician’s creed of plunder, and has ever used him as a spy
in the democratic legions. Draper got him in the Customs, and kept
him there through several Administrations. Draper and Connolly long
controlled the Ten Governors, and do now. Draper has been in all camps,
and Connolly has figured in democratic conventions, primary and legal,
of all stripes and checks, through which he acquired the immortal name
of Slippery. Dick is an alien, and offered us between the pillars of
Plunder Hall a lucrative position in the office of County Clerk, and
also proposed to play Judas against Matsell, if we would not expose
his perjured alienage. We had three interviews, when we assured him
that we despised both treason and traitor. He then got Alderman John
Kelly to read a letter in the Board of Aldermen, declaring that he was
naturalized in Independence Hall, Philadelphia, whither we repaired,
and got certificates from the clerks, declaring that he was never
naturalized in Philadelphia, which we published in the _New York Daily
Times_. In his Aldermanic letter, he declared that his document of
naturalization was framed, which he regarded as his most valuable piece
of furniture, and cordially invited his friends and the incredulous
to call and behold its graceful decoration of his parlor. The gallant
Alderman John H. Briggs, (the Putnam of the Americans, who braved
and defied all the thieves, and murderers, and demons of hell in the
Matsell campaign,) called to see Dick’s valuable gem of furniture,
but he could not find it on the wall, nor elsewhere. We then called,
and Dick’s wife told us it was locked in a trunk, and her husband
had the key. Others called, with similar success. On his election as
County Clerk, Dick and Draper got a law enacted at Albany, giving the
County Clerk $50,000 fees, which was just so much stolen from the
people, whom the Municipal, State and National robbers will not let
live, but strive to rob them of their last crumb, and drive them into
the winter air. Public plunder is devoted to greasing the political
wheels, and burnishing, and twitching the mysterious wires, through
which the honest laborer is burdened with taxes, that mangle his
back like the last feather of the expiring camel. Connolly, Busteed,
Doane, Wetmore, Nathan, Nelson, Draper, and Weed, got the Record
Commissioners appointed, through which $550,000 have been squandered
for printing the useless County Clerk and Register’s Records, which is
the boldest robbery of modern times. We never could induce Greeley,
Bryant, Webb’s Secretary, the Halls, and others, to breathe a word
against this Dev-lin-ish plunder. And Flagg, himself, through his old
printing friends, Bowne & Hasbrouck, and others, is involved in this
record robbery up to his chin, who never uttered a syllable against
it, until we goaded him through our crimson dissection in the _Daily
Times_, and even then he only damned it with Iago praise. Since July
last, Flagg has paid more than $300,000 for Record printing, for
which, old as he is, he should be consigned to a sunless dungeon, and
rot there, with spiders only for his nurses and mourners. Last summer
Flagg told us there never was a more wicked band of robbers than the
Record Commissioners, and yet he paid them from July to December the
prodigious sum of over $300,000, and had paid them more than $200,000.
And Flagg paid this enormous sum without a murmur, and has no possible
facility to place the infamy on the scapegoat Smith, who seems to roam
at large unmolested by Flagg, who yet fears Smith’s disclosures of his
delinquency and superannuation. Flagg sputters a little in his reports,
for show, against him, but he is not chasing Smith very hotly in the
Courts, nor dare he, as we have good reason to believe. Through the
Alms House, Navy Yard, County Clerks’ Office, Record Commissioners,
metropolitan and suburban lots, and other plundering sources, Connolly
has amassed a fortune of nearly a million of dollars, and now has the
audacity to proclaim himself a candidate for Comptroller, at which the
honorable citizens of New York should rise and paralyse his infamous
effrontery. Not content with indolence all his days,—with robbing the
laborer and mechanic, and merchant, and widow, and orphan, for whom
he professes such boundless love, through his spurious and mercenary
democracy,—with corrupting the ballot box, and packing juries, to
imprison and hang us according to his caprice and public or private
interest,—with the election of Mayors and other municipal and even
State and National officers, through his fraudulent canvass of votes
as County Clerk,—and with his awful perjury in connection with his
alienage, he now appears with his stolen money bags, and proclaims
himself a candidate for Comptroller, for which he should be lashed, and
scourged, and probed to his marrow bones, through the streets of New
York, beneath the glare of the meridian sun, and the gaze and withering
scorn of every honorable and industrious citizen, whom he has robbed,
through intolerable taxation. Connolly has not voted since we exposed
his perjured alienage in 1855, when he strove to bribe us to shield him
from the odium arising from his alienage. A public thief, and perjurer,
and alien, this man or devil announces himself for Comptroller of this
mighty metropolis, with a prospect of nomination and election, unless
his throat is cut by George H. Purser, a deeper and more dangerous
public villain than Connolly. Purser has robbed this city for a quarter
of a century, and is also an unnaturalised alien, and we have positive
evidence of the fact, and he knows it. His corrupt lobby operations in
the Common Council and at Albany would make a large volume. And both
Connolly and Purser are nauseous scabs of the Democratic party, and
grossly pollute the glorious principles of Jefferson and Jackson. And
now, where, in the name of God, are the people, or is there no spirit
and integrity, and patriotism, and courage, to resist the infernal
public thieves of this vandal age? Should the people slumber when a
gang of robbers, and devils, and assassins, and fiends of rapine, are
thundering at the gates of the commercial emporium, and even at the
very doors and firesides of our sacred domestic castles, and daily and
hourly rob our coffers, and ravish our daughters, and cut our throats,
in open day, and through their hellish robbery, and taxation, drive the
mechanic and laborer, and their dear little ones, to hunger, and rags,
and madness, and crime, and to the dungeon, or scaffold, or suicide?
Where is the concert of action of Boston and Providence, and throughout
New England? And where are the pomatum villains of our aristocratic
avenues, in this solemn hour? They are in league with your Greeleys,
and Bryants, and Webbs, and Wetmores, and Drapers, and Connollys, and
Pursers, and Devlins, and Smiths, and Erbens, devising schemes to
plunder the people here, at Albany and Washington, for gilded means
to support themselves in idleness and extravagance, and to carry the
elections against the gallant Southrons, whose throats they would cut
from ear to ear, and deluge this whole land with human blood, ere they
would toil a solitary day like the honest laborer or mechanic, or
surrender a farthing of their ungodly plunder, or breathe a syllable in
favor of the eternal glory of the Union of Washington.
Stephen H. Branch’s Alligator.
NEW YORK, SATURDAY, MAY 15, 1858.
The Mayor and Charley.
_Charley_—That you have wronged me doth appear in this: You have
condemned and noted the devil for taking bribes of the office holders
and contractors, wherein my letters praying on his side, because I knew
the man, were slighted off.
_Mayor_—You knew better than to pray for the devil.
_Charley_—I can get no fat meat nor oyster stews, if every devil is
condemned.
_Mayor_—Let mo tell you, Charley, that you, yourself, should be
condemned for itching to sell your offices and contracts for gold to a
gang of devils.
_Charley_—I got the itch! You know that you are great Peter’s son, or,
by golly, you would not say so twice.
_Mayor_—The name of Itch or Scratch honor this corruption, and by the
Eternal, if Hickory dont hide his head at the Hermitage.
_Charley_—Hickory!
_Mayor_—Remember November,—the hides of November, O remember. Did not
great Fernando bleed for me and Peter and Edward’s sake? Who touched
his carcase, and did stab, and not for me and Peter and young Edward?
What! Shall they who struck the foremost man of all this city, but for
supporting robbers,—shall we now use our fingers, save to grab the
Mayor’s and all the Executive Departments? By all the bellonas and
doughnuts of the world, I’d rather be a hog and grow as fat as Matsell,
than to be a cadaverous crow, and live on vultures, and the shadows of
the moon.
_Charley_—Daniel: I’ll slap your chops. I’ll not stand it. | 625.976291 |
2023-11-16 18:27:29.9570370 | 454 | 12 |
Produced by Lisa Bennett
A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE
By Anna Katharine Green
OTHER BOOKS BY THIS AUTHOR
The House of the Whispering Pines Miss Hurd. An Enigma
Leavenworth Case That Affair Next Door
Strange Disappearance Lost Man's Lane
Sword of Damocles Agatha Webb
Hand and Ring One of My Sons
The Mill Mystery Defence of the Bride,
Behind Closed Doors and Other Poems
Cynthia Wakeham's Money Risifi's Daughter. A Drama
Marked "Personal" The Golden Slipper
To the Minute
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I A NOVEL CASE
CHAPTER II A FEW POINTS
CHAPTER III THE CONTENTS OF A BUREAU DRAWER
CHAPTER IV THOMPSON'S STORY
CHAPTER V A NEW YORK BELLE
CHAPTER VI A BIT OF CALICO
CHAPTER VII THE HOUSE AT THE GRANBY CROSS ROADS
CHAPTER VIII A WORD OVERHEARD
CHAPTER IX A FEW GOLDEN HAIRS
CHAPTER X THE SECRET OF MR. BLAKE'S STUDIO
CHAPTER XI LUTTRA
CHAPTER XII A WOMAN'S LOVE
CHAPTER XIII A MAN'S HEART
CHAPTER XIV MRS. DANIELS
CHAPTER XV A CONFAB
CHAPTER XVI THE MARK OF THE RED CROSS
CHAPTER XVII THE CAPTURE
CHAPTER XVIII LOVE AND DUTY
CHAPTER XIX EXPLANATIONS
CHAPTER XX THE BOND THAT UNITES
A STRANGE DISAPPEARANCE
CHAPTER I. A NOVEL CASE
"Talking of sudden disappearances the one you mention of Hannah in that
Leavenworth case of ours, is not the only remarkable one which has come
under my direct notice. Indeed, I know of another that in some respects,
at least, surpasses that in points of interest, and if you will promise
not to inquire into the real names of the parties concerned, as the | 625.977077 |
2023-11-16 18:27:30.0940850 | 2,022 | 15 |
Produced by Meredith Bach, RichardW, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)
The Sowdone of Babylone.
Early English Text Society.
Extra Series. No. XXXVIII.
1881.
BERLIN: ASHER & CO., 13, UNTER DEN LINDEN.
NEW YORK: C. SCRIBNER & CO.; LEYPOLDT & HOLT.
PHILADELPHIA: J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
THE
ENGLISH CHARLEMAGNE ROMANCES.
PART V.
The Romaunce of
The Sowdone of Babylone
and of
Ferumbras his Sone who conquerede Rome.
RE-EDITED
FROM THE UNIQUE MS. OF THE LATE SIR THOMAS PHILLIPPS,
with Introduction, Notes, and Glossary,
BY
EMIL HAUSKNECHT, PH. D.
LONDON:
PUBLISHED FOR THE EARLY ENGLISH TEXT SOCIETY
BY KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH, TRÜBNER & Co.,
PATERNOSTER HOUSE, CHARING-CROSS ROAD, W.C.
MDCCCLXXXI.
[«Reprinted 1891, 1898.»]
Extra Series,
XXXVIII.
RICHARD CLAY & SONS, LIMITED, LONDON & BUNGAY.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION … v
Popularity of the Carlovingian Romances … v
Popularity of the Ferumbras Poem … vi
The Provençal Ferabras … ix
The Fierabras Poem an Enlarged and Recast Portion of the Old Balan
Romance … xi
The Poem of the Destruction de Rome … xiii
MSS. of the French Fierabras … xv
The English Sir Ferumbras, its Source, etc. … xvi
The Poem of the Sowdan of Babylon, its Sources, its Differences
from the Original Balan Romance and from the Ashmolean Ferumbras …
xxii
Dialect of the Sowdan … xxxiv
Metre and Rhymes of the Sowdan … xl
Date and Author of the Sowdan … xlv
MS. of the Sowdan … xlvii
Roxburghe Club Edition of the Sowdan … xlviii
ADDITIONS … xlix
The Hanover MS. of the French Fierabras Compared With the Sowdan …
xlix
The Hanover Version Compared With Sir Ferumbras … lii
SKETCH OF THE STORY … liv
THE ROMAUNCE OF THE SOWDONE OF BABYLONE AND OF FERUMBRAS HIS SONE
WHO CONQUEREDE ROME … 1
NOTES … 95
GLOSSARIAL INDEX … 133
INDEX OF NAMES … 141
[p-v]
INTRODUCTION.
The exploits of Charles the Great, who by his achievements as conqueror
and legislator, as reformer of learning and missionary, so deeply
changed the face of Western Europe, who during a reign of nearly half
a century maintained, by his armies, the authority of his powerful
sceptre, from the southern countries of Spain and Italy to the more
northern regions of Denmark, Poland, and Hungary, must have made a
profound and unalterable impression in the minds of his contemporaries,
so that for centuries afterwards they continued to live in the memory
of the people. Evidence of this high pitch of popularity is given
by the numerous «chansons de geste» or romances, which celebrate
the deeds, or are connected with the name, of the great and valiant
champion of Christendom.
It is true that the sublime figure of Charlemagne, who with his
imaginary twelve peers perpetually warred against all heathenish
or Saracen people, in the romances of a later period, has been
considerably divested of that nimbus of majestic grandeur, which the
composers of the earlier poems take pains to diffuse around him.
Whereas, in the latter, the person of the Emperor appears adorned with
high corporeal, intellectual, and warlike gifts, and possessed of all
royal qualities; the former show us the splendour of Royalty tarnished
and debased, and the power of the feodal vassals enlarged to the
prejudice of the royal authority. Roland, in speaking of Charlemagne,
says, in the «Chanson de Roland», l. 376:—
“Jamais n’iert hum qui encuntre lui vaillet,”
and again the same Roland says of the Emperor, in «Guy de Bourgoyne»,
l. 1061:—
“Laissomes ce viellart qui tous est assotez.”
[p-vi]
This glorification of the great Christian hero took its rise in France,
but soon spread into the neighbouring countries, and before long
Charlemagne was celebrated in song by almost all European nations.
Indeed, there are translations, reproductions, compilations of French
Charlemagne romances to be met with in Italy, Spain, and Portugal, as
well as in Scandinavia and Iceland. Even in Hungary and Russia these
«chansons» of the Charlemagne cycle seem to have been known.[1]
A full account of almost all Charlemagne romances will be found
in Gaston Paris’s exhaustive work of the «Histoire poétique de
Charlemagne» (Paris, 1865), and in Léon Gautier’s «Epopées françaises»
(Paris, 1867).
Of all the Charlemagne romances, that of Fierabras or Ferumbras has
certainly obtained the highest degree of popularity, as is shown by
the numerous versions and reproductions of this romance, from the 13th
century down to the present day.
When the art of printing first became general, the first romance that
was printed was a prose version of «Fierabras»; and when the study of
mediæval metrical romances was revived in this century, the «Fierabras»
poem was the first to be re-edited.[2]
The balm of Fierabras especially seems to have been celebrated for
its immediately curing any wound; we find it referred to and minutely
described in Florian’s «Don Quichotte», I. chap. 10. The scene of
Fierabras challenging to a combat the twelve peers of France, and of
his vaunting offer to fight at once with six (or twelve) of them,[3]
must also have been pretty familiar to French readers, as the name of
Fierabras is met with in the sense of a simple common noun, signifying
“a bragging bully or swaggering hector.”[4]
Rabelais[5] also alludes to Fierabras, thinking him renowned enough as
to figure in the pedigree of Pantagruel.
In 1833, on a tour made through the Pyrenees, M. Jomard witnessed
[p-vii] a kind of historical drama, represented by villagers, in which
Fierabras and Balan were the principal characters.[6]
That in our own days, the tradition of Fierabras continues to live,
is evident from the fact, that copies of the Fierabras story, in the
edition of the «Bibliothèque Bleue», still circulate amongst the
country people of France.[7] There is even an illustrated edition,
published in 1861, the pictures of which have been executed by no less
an artist than Gustave Doré. And like Oberon, that other mediæval hero
of popular celebrity,[8] Fierabras has become the subject of a musical
composition. There is an Opera «Fierabras» composed by Franz Schubert
(words by Joseph Kupelwieser) in 1823, the overture of which has been
arranged for the piano in 1827, by Carl Czerny.[9]
The different versions and the popularity of the present romance
in France, Italy, Spain, and Germany, having been treated in the
Introduction to «Sir Ferumbras», we need not repeat it again here.[10]
As to the popularity of the «Fierabras» romance in the Netherlands, the
following passage from Hoffmann, «Horæ Belgicæ» (Vratislaviæ, 1830), I.
50, may be quoted here[11]:—
“Quam notæ Belgis, sec. xiii. et xiv., variæ variarum nationum
fabulæ fuerint, quæ ex Gallia septemtrionali, ubi originem ceperunt,
translatæ sunt, pauca hæc testimonia demonstrabunt:— . . . . in
exordio Sidraci:—[12]
‘Dickent hebbic de gone ghescouden,
die hem an boeken houden
daer si clene oerbare in leren,
also sijn jeesten van heeren,
van Paerthenopeuse, van Amidase,
van Troijen ende van «Fierabrase»,
ende van menighen boeken, die men | 626.114125 |
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Produced by Fritz Ohrenschall, Emmanuel Ackerman and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
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 | 626.469098 |
2023-11-16 18:27:30.5259920 | 3,335 | 16 |
Produced by Donald Lainson
A LITTLE DINNER AT TIMMINS'S.
by William Makepeace Thackeray
I.
Mr. and Mrs. Fitzroy Timmins live in Lilliput Street, that neat little
street which runs at right angles with the Park and Brobdingnag Gardens.
It is a very genteel neighborhood, and I need not say they are of a good
family.
Especially Mrs. Timmins, as her mamma is always telling Mr. T. They are
Suffolk people, and distantly related to the Right honorable the Earl of
Bungay.
Besides his house in Lilliput Street, Mr. Timmins has chambers in
Fig-tree Court, Temple, and goes the Northern Circuit.
The other day, when there was a slight difference about the payment of
fees between the great Parliamentary Counsel and the Solicitors, Stoke
and Pogers, of Great George Street, sent the papers of the Lough Foyle
and Lough Corrib Junction Railway to Mr. Fitzroy Timmins, who was so
elated that he instantly purchased a couple of looking-glasses for his
drawing-rooms (the front room is 16 by 12, and the back, a tight but
elegant apartment, 10 ft. 6 by 8 ft. 4), a coral for the baby, two
new dresses for Mrs. Timmins, and a little rosewood desk, at the
Pantechnicon, for which Rosa had long been sighing, with crumpled legs,
emerald-green and gold morocco top, and drawers all over.
Mrs. Timmins is a very pretty poetess (her "Lines to a Faded Tulip" and
her "Plaint of Plinlimmon" appeared in one of last year's Keepsakes);
and Fitzroy, as he impressed a kiss on the snowy forehead of his bride,
pointed out to her, in one of the innumerable pockets of the desk,
an elegant ruby-tipped pen, and six charming little gilt blank books,
marked "My Books," which Mrs. Fitzroy might fill, he said, (he is an
Oxford man, and very polite,) "with the delightful productions of her
Muse." Besides these books, there was pink paper, paper with crimson
edges, lace paper, all stamped with R. F. T. (Rosa Fitzroy Timmins)
and the hand and battle-axe, the crest of the Timminses (and borne at
Ascalon by Roaldus de Timmins, a crusader, who is now buried in the
Temple Church, next to Serjeant Snooks), and yellow, pink, light-blue
and other scented sealing waxes, at the service of Rosa when she chose
to correspond with her friends.
Rosa, you may be sure, jumped with joy at the sight of this sweet
present; called her Charles (his first name is Samuel, but they have
sunk that) the best of men; embraced him a great number of times, to the
edification of her buttony little page, who stood at the landing; and as
soon as he was gone to chambers, took the new pen and a sweet sheet of
paper, and began to compose a poem.
"What shall it be about?" was naturally her first thought. "What should
be a young mother's first inspiration?" Her child lay on the sofa asleep
before her; and she began in her neatest hand--
"LINES
"ON MY SON BUNGAY DE BRACY GASHLEIGH TYMMYNS, AGED TEN MONTHS.
"Tuesday.
"How beautiful! how beautiful thou seemest,
My boy, my precious one, my rosy babe!
Kind angels hover round thee, as thou dreamest:
Soft lashes hide thy beauteous azure eye which gleamest."
"Gleamest? thine eye which gleamest? Is that grammar?" thought Rosa, who
had puzzled her little brains for some time with this absurd question,
when the baby woke. Then the cook came up to ask about dinner; then Mrs.
Fundy slipped over from No. 27 (they are opposite neighbors, and made
an acquaintance through Mrs. Fundy's macaw); and a thousand things
happened. Finally, there was no rhyme to babe except Tippoo Saib
(against whom Major Gashleigh, Rosa's grandfather, had distinguished
himself), and so she gave up the little poem about her De Bracy.
Nevertheless, when Fitzroy returned from chambers to take a walk with
his wife in the Park, as he peeped through the rich tapestry hanging
which divided the two drawing-rooms, he found his dear girl still seated
at the desk, and writing, writing away with her ruby pen as fast as it
could scribble.
"What a genius that child has!" he said; "why, she is a second Mrs.
Norton!" and advanced smiling to peep over her shoulder and see what
pretty thing Rosa was composing.
It was not poetry, though, that she was writing, and Fitz read as
follows:--
"LILLIPUT STREET, Tuesday, 22nd May.
"Mr. and Mr. Fitzroy Tymmyns request the pleasure of Sir Thomas and Lady
Kicklebury's company at dinner on Wednesday, at 7 1/2 o'clock."
"My dear!" exclaimed the barrister, pulling a long face.
"Law, Fitzroy!" cried the beloved of his bosom, "how you do startle
one!"
"Give a dinner-party with our means!" said he.
"Ain't you making a fortune, you miser?" Rosa said. "Fifteen guineas a
day is four thousand five hundred a year; I've calculated it." And, so
saying, she rose and taking hold of his whiskers (which are as fine as
those of any man of his circuit,) she put her mouth close up against his
and did something to his long face, which quite changed the expression
of it; and which the little page heard outside the door.
"Our dining-room won't hold ten," he said.
"We'll only ask twenty, my love. Ten are sure to refuse in this season,
when everybody is giving parties. Look, here is the list."
"Earl and Countess of Bungay, and Lady Barbara Saint Mary's."
"You are dying to get a lord into the house," Timmins said (HE had
not altered his name in Fig-tree Court yet, and therefore I am not so
affected as to call him TYMMYNS).
"Law, my dear, they are our cousins, and must be asked," Rosa said.
"Let us put down my sister and Tom Crowder, then."
"Blanche Crowder is really so VERY fat, Fitzroy," his wife said, "and
our rooms are so VERY small."
Fitz laughed. "You little rogue," he said, "Lady Bungay weighs two of
Blanche, even when she's not in the f--"
"Fiddlesticks!" Rose cried out. "Doctor Crowder really cannot be
admitted: he makes such a noise eating his soup, that it is really quite
disagreeable." And she imitated the gurgling noise performed by the
Doctor while inhausting his soup, in such a funny way that Fitz saw
inviting him was out of the question.
"Besides, we mustn't have too many relations," Rosa went on. "Mamma,
of course, is coming. She doesn't like to be asked in the evening; and
she'll bring her silver bread-basket and her candlesticks, which are
very rich and handsome."
"And you complain of Blanche for being too stout!" groaned out Timmins.
"Well, well, don't be in a pet," said little Rosa. "The girls won't come
to dinner; but will bring their music afterwards." And she went on with
the list.
"Sir Thomas and Lady Kicklebury, 2. No saying no: we MUST ask
them, Charles. They are rich people, and any room in their house in
Brobdingnag Gardens would swallow up OUR humble cot. But to people
in OUR position in SOCIETY they will be glad enough to come. The city
people are glad to mix with the old families."
"Very good," says Fitz, with a sad face of assent--and Mrs. Timmins went
on reading her list.
"Mr. and Mrs. Topham Sawyer, Belgravine Place."
"Mrs. Sawyer hasn't asked you all the season. She gives herself the airs
of an empress; and when--"
"One's Member, you know, my dear, one must have," Rosa replied, with
much dignity as if the presence of the representative of her native
place would be a protection to her dinner. And a note was written
and transported by the page early next morning to the mansion of the
Sawyers, in Belgravine Place.
The Topham Sawyers had just come down to breakfast; Mrs. T. in her large
dust- morning-dress and Madonna front (she looks rather scraggy
of a morning, but I promise you her ringlets and figure will stun you of
an evening); and having read the note, the following dialogue passed:--
Mrs. Topham Sawyer.--"Well, upon my word, I don't know where things will
end. Mr. Sawyer, the Timminses have asked us to dinner."
Mr. Topham Sawyer.--"Ask us to dinner! What d----- impudence!"
Mrs. Topham Sawyer.--"The most dangerous and insolent revolutionary
principles are abroad, Mr. Sawyer; and I shall write and hint as much to
these persons."
Mr. Topham Sawyer.--"No, d--- it, Joanna: they are my constituents and
we must go. Write a civil note, and say we will come to their party."
(He resumes the perusal of 'The times,' and Mrs. Topham Sawyer writes)--
"MY DEAR ROSA,--We shall have GREAT PLEASURE in joining your little
party. I do not reply in the third person, as WE ARE OLD FRIENDS, you
know, and COUNTRY NEIGHBORS. I hope your mamma is well: present my
KINDEST REMEMBRANCES to her, and I hope we shall see much MORE of each
other in the summer, when we go down to the Sawpits (for going abroad is
out of the question in these DREADFUL TIMES). With a hundred kisses to
your dear little PET,
"Believe me your attached
"J. T. S."
She said Pet, because she did not know whether Rosa's child was a
girl or boy: and Mrs. Timmins was very much pleased with the kind and
gracious nature of the reply to her invitation.
II.
The next persons whom little Mrs. Timmins was bent upon asking, were
Mr. and Mrs. John Rowdy, of the firm of Stumpy, Rowdy and Co., of
Brobdingnag Gardens, of the Prairie, Putney, and of Lombard Street,
City.
Mrs. Timinins and Mrs. Rowdy had been brought up at the same school
together, and there was always a little rivalry between them, from the
day when they contended for the French prize at school to last week,
when each had a stall at the Fancy Fair for the benefit of the Daughters
of Decayed Muffin-men; and when Mrs. Timmins danced against Mrs. Rowdy
in the Scythe Mazurka at the Polish Ball, headed by Mrs. Hugh Slasher.
Rowdy took twenty-three pounds more than Timmins in the Muffin
transaction (for she had possession of a kettle-holder worked by the
hands of R-y-lty, which brought crowds to her stall); but in the Mazurka
Rosa conquered: she has the prettiest little foot possible (which in
a red boot and silver heel looked so lovely that even the Chinese
ambassador remarked it), whereas Mrs. Rowdy's foot is no trifle, as Lord
Cornbury acknowledged when it came down on his lordship's boot-tip as
they danced together amongst the Scythes.
"These people are ruining themselves," said Mrs. John Rowdy to her
husband, on receiving the pink note. It was carried round by that rogue
of a buttony page in the evening; and he walked to Brobdingnag Gardens,
and in the Park afterwards, with a young lady who is kitchen-maid at 27,
and who is not more than fourteen years older than little Buttons.
"These people are ruining themselves," said Mrs. John to her husband.
"Rosa says she has asked the Bungays."
"Bungays indeed! Timmins was always a tuft-hunter," said Rowdy, who had
been at college with the barrister, and who, for his own part, has no
more objection to a lord than you or I have; and adding, "Hang him, what
business has HE to be giving parties?" allowed Mrs. Rowdy, nevertheless,
to accept Rosa's invitation.
"When I go to business to-morrow, I will just have a look at Mr. Fitz's
account," Mr. Rowdy thought; "and if it is overdrawn, as it usually is,
why..." The announcement of Mrs. Rowdy's brougham here put an end
to this agreeable train of thought; and the banker and his lady stepped
into it to join a snug little family-party of two-and-twenty, given by
Mr. and Mrs. Secondchop at their great house on the other side of the
Park.
"Rowdys 2, Bungays 3, ourselves and mamma 3, 2 Sawyers," calculated
little Rosa.
"General Gulpin," Rosa continued, "eats a great deal, and is very
stupid, but he looks well at table with his star and ribbon. Let us
put HIM down!" and she noted down "Sir Thomas and Lady Gulpin, 2. Lord
Castlemouldy, 1."
"You will make your party abominably genteel and stupid," groaned
Timmins. "Why don't you ask some of our old friends? Old Mrs. Portman
has asked us twenty times, I am sure, within the last two years."
"And the last time we went there, there was pea-soup for dinner!" Mrs.
Timmins said, with a look of ineffable scorn.
"Nobody can have been kinder than the Hodges have always been to us; and
some sort of return we might make, I think."
"Return, indeed! A pretty sound it is on the staircase to hear 'Mr. and
Mrs. 'Odge and Miss 'Odges' pronounced by Billiter, who always leaves
his h's out. No, no: see attorneys at your chambers, my dear--but
what could the poor creatures do in OUR society?" And so, one by one,
Timmins's old friends were tried and eliminated by Mrs. Timmins, just as
if she had been an Irish Attorney-General, and they so many Catholics on
Mr. Mitchel's jury.
Mrs. Fitzroy insisted that the party should be of her very best company.
Funnyman, the great wit, was asked, because of his jokes; and Mrs. Butt,
on whom he practises; and Potter, who is asked because everybody else
asks him; and Mr. Ranville Ranville of the Foreign Office, who might | 626.546032 |
2023-11-16 18:27:30.6255670 | 28 | 15 |
Produced by Judith Boss
THE LOST CONTINENT
C. J. Cutliffe Hyne
CONTENTS
| 626.645607 |
2023-11-16 18:27:30.7265700 | 5,411 | 10 |
Produced by Paul Haxo with special thanks to Jarndyce
Antiquarian Booksellers.
A LITTLE CHANGE.
A Farce.
IN ONE SCENE.
BY
SYDNEY GRUNDY.
London: | New York:
SAMUEL FRENCH, | SAMUEL FRENCH & SON,
Publisher, | Publishers,
89, STRAND. | 28, WEST 23rd STREET.
A LITTLE CHANGE.
Characters.
EDWIN
CAPTAIN PLUNGER
ETHEL
MRS. PLUNGER
WAITER
TIME:--_Present._
SCENE.
AT DUMPINGTON.
*_Applications respecting the Performance of this Piece must be made
to Mr. GRUNDY, 4, St. James's Square, Manchester, or to the Publisher._
A LITTLE CHANGE.
----------
SCENE.--_A Room in a Hotel, with windows in the flat, opening upon a
balcony, and overlooking the sea; doors R. and L._
_EDWIN, with a newspaper, yawning and stretching, ETHEL gazing at
him._
ETHEL. Edwin!
EDWIN. Yes, my dear. (_yawns_)
ETHEL. Edwin!
EDWIN. What's the matter?
ETHEL. That's the fifteenth time you've yawned since we've been
married.
EDWIN. Do you say so? Only fifteen yawns, and we've been married----
ETHEL. Ten days, three and twenty hours, and sixteen minutes. Does it
seem that long?
EDWIN. My darling, seem that long! How can you ask such questions? I
should think it doesn't. I declare, it only seems about three weeks!
ETHEL. Three weeks!
EDWIN. No, no! Did I say three weeks? I beg your pardon, I meant days.
ETHEL. I don't believe you did!
EDWIN. O yes, my dear, indeed I meant to say days.
ETHEL. You're not tired of me already, are you?
EDWIN. My dear Ethel, that's the twenty-second time you've asked me
whether I'm not tired of you.
ETHEL. Well, you're not, are you?
EDWIN. I'm not tired of you, my darling, but I'm getting very tired of
saying so, and I'm most tired of all of this confounded neighbourhood.
ETHEL. Oh, Edwin, it's the most delightful place I ever saw! Why,
everybody says the scenery about here is the very scenery to pass
through.
EDWIN. I am quite of their opinion. It is certainly not scenery to
stop in.
ETHEL. And the chambermaid was telling me this morning how delighted
everybody was who went away.
EDWIN. I can completely sympathise with them; I'm sure I shall be
charmed when _I_ go.
ETHEL. Why, what would you have? There are the loveliest sunsets.
EDWIN. Now, that's just what I object to. I don't like the suns about
here; these blazing agricultural suns make such a fuss about retiring
for the night. They're not content unless they've everybody looking at
'em. Now, a respectable manufacturing sun gets behind a good thick
cloud when it goes to bed; and I must say I think that's much more
reputable.
ETHEL. Then the moons. You must confess the moons here are the
loveliest imaginable.
EDWIN. Then, that stupid old moon. Now, can anything be more absurd
than standing on a balcony and staring at the same old moon night
after night?
ETHEL. Edwin, how can you talk about the same old moon, when there's a
new one every month?
EDWIN. A pretty swindle that is, too! A new one every month. That's
just as like the one that went before it, as the one that'll come
after it. I like a little change.
ETHEL. You didn't cut the moon up that way once. You used to look at
it for hours. You were quite smitten with it then.
EDWIN. I freely grant that if I stood and gazed at it for hours, I
must have been considerably struck by it.
ETHEL. Oh, Edwin dear, don't you remember that night in particular----
EDWIN. Do I remember that night? Oh, Ethel, shall I ever forget that
night--that night when--by the by, my dear, which night were you
alluding to?
ETHEL. I said that one in particular.
EDWIN. Precisely so, my love, but then there were so many ones in
particular, and all are so indelibly impressed upon my memory, I can't
remember one of them.
ETHEL. I can remember all of them. Your saying that you'd rather have
me than all the world.
EDWIN. Did I say that?
ETHEL. Twice over: for I asked you if you were quite sure.
EDWIN. And I replied----
ETHEL. As sure as you were you.
EDWIN. Then I don't think the observation goes for much; since, if I
made so foolish a remark, I certainly was not myself.
ETHEL. Then wouldn't you give all the world for me?
EDWIN. I should be very silly if I did, for if I had the world to
give, I should have you to start with. See?
ETHEL. (_with reluctance_) Yes.
EDWIN. You quite see?
ETHEL. Yes--but you would give all the world for me, for all that,
wouldn't you? At least you'd rather have me than any other two people
put together?
EDWIN. Certainly, my dear. I don't much care for freaks of nature of
that sort.
ETHEL. And you've got me, haven't you?
EDWIN. Yes, and you've got me.
ETHEL. And you're very happy, aren't you?
EDWIN. Oh yes.
ETHEL. You're in Paradise?
EDWIN. Exactly so.
ETHEL. And so am I.
EDWIN. Do you like it?
ETHEL. Well, of course I do. Don't you?
EDWIN. Oh yes! I like it very much; but then, you know I like a little
change. I think a little Paradise is very nice indeed, but don't you
think that one may have more Paradise than's good for one? I can't
help thinking it's a great mistake to take one's Paradise neat. Now
we've been taking ours uncommon neat. Just think, the hours we've been
cooped up in that confounded private room upstairs.
ETHEL. Well, Edwin dear, you said you could not stand us being the
only people there, so we've come down into the public room.
EDWIN. And now we _have_ come, we're the only people here. I never
knew such a disgusting place. Now, if we'd had a little change----
ETHEL. You might have met that odious Miss Carruthers, I suppose you
mean--the girl that threw you over.
EDWIN. Miss Carruthers is not odious, my dear, and Miss Carruthers
didn't throw me over. Miss Carruthers was uncommonly fond of me.
ETHEL. Why didn't she have you, then?
EDWIN. Because she didn't get the chance. My only apprehension is lest
I threw Miss Carruthers over.
ETHEL. If you did, she must have tumbled on her nose, for I am sure
it's broken.
EDWIN. No, my dear, it's you who are responsible for anything that
there may be to do with Miss Carruthers' nose, for it was you who put
it out. But nothing is the matter with it. It's a lovely
nose--especially the end of it.
ETHEL. Her eyes appear to think so, for they're always looking there.
But that may be, because it is the only object they can look at both
together.
EDWIN. You don't mean to say she squints!
ETHEL. Abominably.
EDWIN. Nothing of the sort.
ETHEL. I never saw such eyes!
EDWIN. Well, well, whatever they may be, she hasn't made them.
ETHEL. But she has, repeatedly--at you. And that's what I object to.
If folks do squint, they can't help it, but if folks who squint go on
as if they didn't squint, why they deserve to have their eyes flung in
their teeth.
EDWIN. Now, why bring teeth into the question? What have Miss
Carruthers' teeth done that they should be flung at?
ETHEL. What they've done I'm sure I don't know, but I should imagine a
good deal. They look as if they'd seen hard service.
EDWIN. You compare them to a regiment of soldiers.
ETHEL. Excuse me: to a regiment of volunteers: I should never have
dreamt of comparing them to anything regular.
EDWIN. Oh, nonsense, they're a string of pearls.
ETHEL. Yes, pearls that have gone yellow.
EDWIN. Anyhow, you must admit, she has a very amiable mouth.
ETHEL. I don't think that her mouth is amiable at all, or it would
cover up her teeth more.
EDWIN. Well, what feature are you going to enlarge on next? Her ears?
ETHEL. I'm sure her ears don't want enlarging on; they're big enough
already.
EDWIN. Now there's only her hair left. Abuse her hair.
ETHEL. Oh, no, my love, she's not responsible for that. It's not her
own.
EDWIN. If she were only here now!
ETHEL. But she's not; and what's more you're not going to where she
is.
EDWIN. I don't care where I go, so long as I leave this place.
ETHEL. But you won't leave this place. We stop here a month.
EDWIN. Ethel!
ETHEL. A month.
EDWIN. A week!
ETHEL. A month.
EDWIN. A fortnight!
ETHEL. A month.
EDWIN. There's not a soul here.
ETHEL. Well, what of it? You're a married man.
EDWIN. Alas!
ETHEL. And you've no business carrying on with Miss Carruthers, and
Miss Carruthers has no business carrying on with you.
EDWIN. But she doesn't know I'm married. Ha, ha, ha!
ETHEL. She must have seen it in the papers.
EDWIN. But I didn't put it in the papers.
ETHEL. You don't mean to say you haven't put our marriage in the
papers!
EDWIN. Not in one of them, my dear. I daren't. That girl had so made
up her mind that I was going to propose to her, that the announcement
of our marriage would have given her fits.
ETHEL. And so it isn't in the papers! Oh! it isn't half being married,
when it isn't in the papers! We stop here for two months.
EDWIN. We leave here to-morrow. (_at the window_) Ethel! Ethel! I
distinctly see a woman. Positively--yes, a woman has arrived. She
turns this way. She looks--she smiles--she bows. By jingo, Miss
Carruthers! Ha, ha, ha, ha!
ETHEL. No! (_runs to window_) It _is_ her! We leave here to-morrow.
EDWIN. (_sitting down firmly_) We stop here for two months.
ETHEL. Oh! (_jumps up to window_) Well, I declare. Well, did I ever?
This is charming. (_to some one without_) How d' you do? How are you?
Quite well, thank you; so glad that you've come. Oh, Edwin, if there's
not that dear delightful Captain Plunger.
EDWIN. Eh?
ETHEL. You know. That darling Captain Plunger.
EDWIN. You don't mean that--that infernal fellow with the whiskers,
whom I've been so nearly kicking several times.
ETHEL. That very man. My favourite admirer.
EDWIN. Ethel, you're a married woman.
ETHEL. But he doesn't know it, dear. He can't.
EDWIN. Why not?
ETHEL. Because it wasn't in the paper, love. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Ta, ta.
I'm going to put another dress on, and some more hair, and to go on
just as if I wasn't married, dear. He doesn't know I am, because it
wasn't in the papers. Ha, ha, ha, ha! Not in one of them! Ha, ha, ha,
ha, ha, ha!
_Exit, R._
EDWIN. I've made a horrible mistake. I ought to have pretended that it
_was_ put in the papers, every one of them, except the ones that can
be got at Dumpington. A pretty mess my candour's got me into. This is
the consequence of telling one's wife the truth. But who'd have
thought that fellow with the whiskers would turn up? I did think that
at last I'd given him the slip. He dogs me everywhere. I never could
get half a dozen words with either Ethel or that Miss Carruthers, but
he put his whiskers in between us, and it was all up with me. What
chance has intellect with whiskers? I shall have to give the local
barber half a sovereign to clip one off by accident. Meanwhile, the
first thing I must do, must be to let him know that Ethel's married.
Oh, no, hang it, the first thing he'd do, would be to tell the tale to
Miss Carruthers. I must be a bachelor again; there's no help for it.
It'll at any rate be a relief to the monotony of Dumpington. On even
terms I'd fight it out with pleasure, but I'm overweighted. Nature is
_not_ fair. She doesn't divide the whiskers properly.
_Enter MRS. PLUNGER, R., advancing quickly to him._
MRS. P. Oh, Mr. Larkspur, how d'you do? You can't think how rejoiced I
was to see you at the window just now; Dumpington is so extremely dull
without society.
EDWIN. It is indeed. I'm sure I was entranced when I saw you. I was
quite longing for a little change.
MRS. P. Have you been here some time?
EDWIN. Ten days--and I have seen about as many people. (_they sit_)
MRS. P. I suppose it's not the season just now.
EDWIN. I supposed so, too, until my first week's bill came in, when I
discovered that the season was exactly at its height--at least, the
charges were at theirs.
MRS. P. What in the world induced you to come here?
EDWIN. I wasn't induced to come here. I was brought.
MRS. P. Indeed. Who brought you?
EDWIN. Mrs. Larkspur.
MRS. P. Mrs. Larkspur!
EDWIN. (_aside_) Oh dear me, what _have_ I said? Yes, I was brought
here by--my mother.
MRS. P. Oh, your mother. Then, your mother's here?
EDWIN. Yes, she was recommended the sea air.
MRS. P. She's not well?
EDWIN. No, she's not very well. In fact she's so ill that she has to
keep her room.
MRS. P. Oh dear, I'm sorry to hear that. I fear, then, I shan't see
her.
EDWIN. I'm afraid you won't--(_aside_) considering she's been dead
this twenty years.
MRS. P. But you're not quite alone here, I perceive. I met Miss
Darlington upon the stairs.
EDWIN. Yes, she is staying here.
MRS. P. Upon the look out for a husband, I suppose. How very plain
she's grown!
EDWIN. Plain?
MRS. P. Don't you think so?
EDWIN. Well, perhaps she isn't quite so pretty as she used to be.
MRS. P. Pretty? She never was that. She once had a passable figure.
EDWIN. An exquisite figure.
MRS. P. Do you think so? What extraordinary taste you men have!
Anyhow, she's gone off.
EDWIN. (_jumping up_) Gone off! What, with Captain Plunger?
MRS. P. Ha, ha, ha! You didn't think he'd run away with her? I meant,
gone off in looks.
EDWIN. Oh. (_drops again into a chair_)
MRS. P. By the way, the captain _is_ here: came by the same train as
we did: and we all know how she's angled for him.
EDWIN. I don't though, I'm sure.
MRS. P. You don't know how Miss Darlington has angled after Captain
Plunger? Why, where ever have you been this five years? It's the talk
of the whole regiment. So that there was some reason for your
exclamation, though not much; for any one at all acquainted with the
parties would be quite sure Captain Plunger wouldn't run away with
Ethel Darlington.
EDWIN. Why not?
MRS. P. Oh! Captain Plunger is a man of taste. He couldn't possibly
put up with any girl of that sort.
EDWIN. What sort?
MRS. P. Why, the sort of girl who is so very indiscriminate in the
attention she receives. He has too great a scorn for such a character.
EDWIN. And yet I think at the Artillery Ball I saw him putting up with
Ethel Darlington to the extent of half-a-dozen dances in succession.
He contrives to hide his scorn uncommonly.
MRS. P. He would do. Captain Plunger is a perfect gentleman. He'd
flirt with her, no doubt.
EDWIN. I've seen him.
MRS. P. He might even get engaged to her.
EDWIN. Indeed!
MRS. P. But he would never marry such a girl.
EDWIN. Although he'd get engaged to her?
MRS. P. Oh dear, no! Captain Plunger is a man of fine morality.
EDWIN. I always thought he was that sort of man.
MRS. P. The more one sees of him, the more one likes him. (_rising_)
EDWIN. Really! Then, seeing him must have the opposite effect to
hearing of him, for the more I hear of him the more I feel inclined to
kick him. (_rising_)
MRS. P. You don't like him?
EDWIN. I detest him!
MRS. P. Oh, you jealous man! You're envious of his success amongst the
ladies.
EDWIN. I should like to cut his whiskers off.
MRS. P. And so shear Samson of his strength.
EDWIN. However, I won't vent my malice upon you; I must point out the
beauties of the neighbourhood. It won't take long.
MRS. P. We'd better go outside to see them, hadn't we?
EDWIN. I think you'll see enough of them from where you stand. Now,
are you looking?
MRS. P. Yes.
EDWIN. Up there's the sky.
MRS. P. Well, I've seen that before.
EDWIN. Oh, if you think that you'll see anything in Dumpington you
haven't seen before, why, you'll be disappointed.
MRS. P. Well, what next?
EDWIN. Down there's the sand.
MRS. P. Yes, don't they call it something else? Not sand, but
something like it.
EDWIN. Strand?
MRS. P. Strand! that's it.
EDWIN. Yes, some people call it strand. The grocers call it sugar.
MRS. P. How very playful of them! Well, go on, and tell me the next beauty.
EDWIN. Over there's the sun.
MRS. P. But I can't look at that, because of my complexion.
EDWIN. Oh! I'm sorry you can't look at that, because it's the last
beauty of Dumpington.
MRS. P. Is that all?
EDWIN. That's all.
MRS. P. Good gracious, how do people pass their time here?
EDWIN. In the morning, they sit and look at the sun. In the evening,
they sit and look at the moon. Oh dear, I quite forgot--occasionally
you can see the sea.
MRS. P. The sea!
EDWIN. Sometimes--through a strong telescope.
MRS. P. You goose, it's there.
EDWIN. Why so it is, the tide has actually arrived. For the first time
in the ten days that I have been at Dumpington the tide is coming in.
It's always been going out before. Hush! Hark!
MRS. P. What to?
EDWIN. The music of the spheres. (_a German band strikes up outside_)
BOTH. Oh law!
_Exeunt arm-in-arm through window, to stop band._
_Enter CAPTAIN PLUNGER, led by WAITER, L_.
WAITER. This is the public room, sir.
CAPT. Oh, good gracious, do send some one out to stop that very brassy
band. (_it stops_)
WAITER. The band, sir? Oh, that's nothing. You should hear the Christy
Minstrels--them as never play in London, sir--the two men with the
harp and fiddle, the blind man with the accordion, the woman with the
tambourine, the lad with the tin whistle, the three foreign girls with
the two banjoes and a drum, the Punch and Judy Show, the bagpipes, and
the barrel-organs With the monkeys, all agoing at once. It makes it
very lively, sir.
CAPT. Yes, deadly lively.
WAITER. Dumpington is very musical.
CAPT. Then, Dumpington is very different from its musicians.
WAITER. It's the children what they play to, sir. We've a large family
on the ground floor just recovering from the measles, a small family
on the floor above as have just had the whooping cough--oh, in the
night, sir, they whoops awful--and a middling family in the next room
what's just halfway through the scarlet fever; and a very nice attack
they're having.
CAPT. Heaven preserve us! then is Dumpington a hospital?
WAITER. A hospital? I don't know about that, sir. The Montpelier of
the North, they calls it.
CAPT. Who does?
WAITER. Well, the railway companies.
CAPT. How d' you get down to the sea?
WAITER. You go along the pier, sir.
CAPT. Oh, you walk along the pier.
WAITER. Not many people walk, sir--it's a mile long. Trains start
every fifteen minutes.
CAPT. That's if anybody wants to go?
WAITER. Precisely so, sir; but as no one ever does want, they don't
start at all, sir.
CAPT. What the dickens do the people do then?
WAITER. Well, they're mostly wheeled about in Bath chairs.
CAPT. Oh, preserve us! Where is Mrs. Plunger?
WAITER. Went out on the balcony as we came in, sir--with a gentleman.
CAPT. A gentleman! Did she seem to know him?
WAITER. Very much, sir.
CAPT. You can go. I'll join them.
WAITER. Beg your pardon, sir, but I don't think they want you to.
CAPT. Go to the--kitchen, fellow!
_Exit WAITER, L_.
Upon my word, my wife has lost no time in finding a companion. I don't
think that I can pay her a more fitting compliment than that of
following her example. It's a lucky thing for Dumpington I saw Miss
Darlington just now, or I'd have gone by the first train that starts
for anywhere. I wonder if she knows I'm married? Let us hope the
London papers don't reach here. (_sees paper_) What's this? The
"Dumpington Gazette." It's not in that. (_sits down and reads_)
"Salubrity of Dumpington. The slanderous assertion that this
fashionable watering place, the annual rendezvous of such a galaxy of
rank and beauty, is infected with an epidemic, is | 626.74661 |
2023-11-16 18:27:30.9410300 | 2,385 | 7 |
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)
The Merry Andrew: or, the Humours of a Fair.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE
MERRY ANDREW:
OR, THE
_Humours of a Fair._
GIVING
A Description of
AMUSEMENTS IN EARLY LIFE.
[Illustration]
_Adorned with Cuts._
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
WELLINGTON:
_Printed and sold by F. Houlston and Son._
PRICE TWO-PENCE.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE
MERRY ANDREW:
OR, THE
HUMOURS OF A FAIR.
_Which begins in a Manner not at all wonderful._
HALLOO Boys, halloo Boys, Huzza! Huzza! Huzza!
Come, Tom, make haste, the Fair is begun. Here is Jack Pudding, with the
gridiron on his back, and all the boys hallooing.
[Illustration]
Make haste, make haste, but don’t get into the crowd: for little boys
are often trod upon, and even crushed to death by mixing with the mob.
If you would be safe, by all means avoid a crowd. Look yonder, Dick
Wilson there has done the very thing I cautioned you against. He has got
into the middle of that great mob. A silly chit; that boy is always
thrusting his nose into difficulties: surely there never was such an
impertinent little monkey. How shall we get him out? See how the rogue
scuffles and roars. He deserves all the squeezing he has got, because he
will never take advice; and yet I am sorry for him. Who tapped me on the
shoulder? O Sam, what are you come puffing and blowing! Why you look as
busy as a fool in the fair. Well, what news do you bring from the region
of nonsense? I have not seen it, and should be glad to know what is
done, without the trouble of attending.
[Illustration]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAP. II.
_Sam Gooseberry’s Account of the wonderful Things of the
Fair._
[Illustration]
WHY there is such a mobbing at the other side of the fair, says Sam, as
you never saw in your life, and one fat fellow has got among them that
has made me laugh immoderately—Stand further, good folks, says he, what
a mob is here! Who raked all this filthy crowd together? Honest friend,
take away your elbow. What a beastly crew am I got among! What a smell!
Oh, and such squeezing. Why, you overgrown sloven, says a footman, that
stood by, who makes half so much noise and crowding as you? reduce your
own fat paunch to a reasonable compass, sirrah, and there will be room
enough for us all. Upon this, the whole company set up a shout, and
crowding around my friend Tunbelly, so left an opening, through which I
made my escape, and have brought off Dick Wilson with me, who, by being
heartily squeezed, and having twelve of his ten toes trod off, is now
cured of his impertinent curiosity. But you desire an account of the
fair, and I mean to gratify you. The first thing I saw which gave me
pleasure, was old Gaffer Gingerbread’s stall.—See him, see
Here’s gingerbread, gingerbread here of the best.
Come buy all I have, and I’ll give you the rest.
[Illustration]
The man of the world for gingerbread. What do you buy, what do you buy?
says the old gentleman; please to buy a gingerbread wife, sir; here’s a
very delicate one. Indeed there is too much gold on the nose; but that
is no objection to those who drive Smithfield bargains, and marry their
wives by weight. Will you please to have a gingerbread husband, madam; I
assure you, you may have a worse; or a watch, madam; here are watches
for belles, beaux, bucks, and blockheads. But here comes Master Punch.
See, there he is, with his hunch at his back. The crowd that came with
him obliged us to leave the place: but just as we were going, Giles
called out, Gentlemen, buy a house before you go. ’Tis better to buy
than to build. You have heard of the Cock that crowed in the morn, that
waked the Priest all shaven and shorn, that married the Man all tattered
and torn, that kissed the Maiden all forlorn, that milked the Cow with
the crumpled horn, that tossed the Dog, that worried the Cat, that
killed the Rat, that ate the Malt, that lay in the House that Jack
built. If there is any part you do not like, you may eat it; buy,
gentlemen, buy, and don’t build. Many of my friends have ruined
themselves by building. The insufferable folly of building a fine house,
has obliged many a man to lie in the street. Observe what the poet says
on the subject:
The man who builds the finest place,
And cannot for it pay,
Is sure to feel his wretched case,
While others in it lay.
[Illustration]
A little further we saw one with the Wheel of Fortune before him,
playing with children for oranges. What do you say? Twenty may play as
well as one. Ay, and all may lose I suppose. Go away, sirrah, what, do
you teach, children to game!—Gaming is a scandalous practice. The
gamester, the liar, the thief, and the pickpocket, are first cousins,
and ought all to be turned out of company.
[Illustration]
At this instant up came _Dick Sadbury_, crying. And what do you think he
cries for? Why he has been at the gaming table, or in other words at the
Wheel of Fortune, and lost all the money that was given him by his
father and mother, and the fairings that he received from Mr. Long, Mr.
Williams, and Mrs. Goodenough. At first he won an orange, put it into
his pocket, and was pleased; and then he won a knife, whipt it up, and
was happy; after this he won many other things, till at last Fortune
turned against him, as at one time or other she always does against
those that come to her wheel and seek her favours, and he was choused
out of all his money, and brought nothing away but a half-penny
jew’s-harp. Why do you bellow so, you monkey? Go away, and learn more
sense for the future.
Would you be wealthy, honest _Dick_,
Ne’er seek success at Fortune’s Wheel;
For she does all her votaries trick,
And you’ll her disappointment feel.
For wealth, _in virtue_ put your trust,
Be _faithful_, _vigilant_, and _just_.
Never game, or if you do, never play for money. Avoid a gamester as you
would a mad dog, or as a wolf that comes to devour you.
Hey day! who comes here? O, this is the Mountebank.
[Illustration]
He talks of curing every sore,
But makes you twice as many more.
But hear him! hear his speech, and observe the Merry Andrew.
[Illustration]
_The Doctor’s Speech._
[Illustration]
Gentlemen and Ladies, I am the doctor of all doctors, the great doctor
of doctors, who can doctor you all. I ease your pains gratis, cure you
for nothing, and sell you my packets that you may never be sick again.
(Enter Andrew blowing on a scrubbing-broom.) Sirrah, where have you been
this morning?
_Andrew._ Been, sir! why I have been on my travels, sir, with my knife,
sir; I have travelled round this great apple. Besides this, I have
travelled through the fair, sir, and bought all these gingerbread books
at a man’s stall, who sells learning by weight and measure, arithmetic
by the gross, geometry by the square, and physic and philosophy by the
pound. So I bought the philosophy: and left the physic for you, master.
_Doctor._ Why, sirrah, do you never take physic?
_Andrew._ Yes, master, sometimes.
_Doctor._ What sort do you take?
_Andrew._ Any sort, no matter what; ’tis all one to me.
_Doctor._ And how do you take it?
_Andrew._ Why I take it—I take it—and put it upon a shelf: and if I
don’t get well, I take it down again, and work it off with good strong
ale. But you shall hear me read in my golden books, master.
He that can dance with a bag at his back,
Need swallow no physic, for none he doth lack,
He who is healthy, and cheerful, and cool,
Yet squanders his money on physic’s a _fool_.
Fool, master, fool, master, fool, fool.
_Doctor._ Sirrah, you blockhead. I’ll break your head.
_Andrew._ What, for reading my book, sir?
_Doctor._ No; for your impudence, puppy. But come, good people, throw up
your handkerchiefs, you lose time by attending to that blundering booby;
and by and by you’ll be in a hurry, and we shall not be able to serve
you. Consider, gentlemen and ladies, in one of these packets is
deposited a curious gold ring, which the purchaser, whoever he may
happen to be, will have for a shilling, together with all the packet of
medicines; and every other adventurer will have a packet for one
shilling, which he may sell for ten times that sum.
_Andrew._ Master, master, I’ll tell you how to get this ring, and a
great deal of money into the bargain.
_Doctor._ How, sirrah?
_Andrew._ Why, buy up all of them yourself, and you will be sure of the
ring, and have the packets to sell for ten shillings a-piece.
_Doctor._ That’s true; but you are covetous, sirrah: you are covetous,
and want to get money.
_Andrew._ And, master, I believe you don’t want to get physic.
_Doctor._ Yes I do.
_Andrew._ Then ’tis to get rid of it. But,
He that can dance with a bag at his back,
| 626.96107 |
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Produced by John Bickers, and Dagny
RISE AND FALL OF CESAR BIROTTEAU
By Honore De Balzac
Translated by Katharine Prescott Wormeley
PART I. CESAR AT HIS APOGEE
I
During winter nights noise never ceases in the Rue Saint-Honore except
for a short interval. Kitchen-gardeners carrying their produce to market
continue the stir of carriages returning from theatres and balls. Near
the middle of this sustained pause in the grand symphony of Parisian
uproar, which occurs about one o'clock in the morning, the wife of
Monsieur Cesar Birotteau, a perfumer established near the Place Vendome,
was startled from her sleep by a frightful dream. She had seen her
double. She had appeared to herself clothed in rags, turning with a
shrivelled, withered hand the latch of her own shop-door, seeming to be
at the threshold, yet at the same time seated in her armchair behind the
counter. She was asking alms of herself, and heard herself speaking from
the doorway and also from her seat at the desk.
She tried to grasp her husband, but her hand fell on a cold place.
Her terror became so intense that she could not move her neck, which
stiffened as if petrified; the membranes of her throat became glued
together, her voice failed her. She remained sitting erect in the same
posture in the middle of the alcove, both panels of which were wide
open, her eyes staring and fixed, her hair quivering, her ears filled
with strange noises, her heart tightened yet palpitating, and her person
bathed in perspiration though chilled to the bone.
Fear is a half-diseased sentiment, which presses so violently upon the
human mechanism that the faculties are suddenly excited to the highest
degree of their power or driven to utter disorganization. Physiologists
have long wondered at this phenomenon, which overturns their systems
and upsets all theories; it is in fact a thunderbolt working within the
being, and, like all electric accidents, capricious and whimsical in its
course. This explanation will become a mere commonplace in the day
when scientific men are brought to recognize the immense part which
electricity plays in human thought.
Madame Birotteau now passed through several of the shocks, in some sort
electrical, which are produced by terrible explosions of the will forced
out, or held under, by some mysterious mechanism. Thus during a
period of time, very short if judged by a watch, but immeasurable when
calculated by the rapidity of her impressions, the poor woman had the
supernatural power of emitting more ideas and bringing to the surface
more recollections than, under any ordinary use of her faculties, she
could put forth in the course of a whole day. The poignant tale of her
monologue may be abridged into a few absurd sentences, as contradictory
and bare of meaning as the monologue itself.
"There is no reason why Birotteau should leave my bed! He has eaten so
much veal that he may be ill. But if he were ill he would have waked
me. For nineteen years that we have slept together in this bed, in this
house, it has never happened that he left his place without telling
me,--poor sheep! He never slept away except to pass the night in the
guard-room. Did he come to bed to-night? Why, of course; goodness! how
stupid I am."
She cast her eyes upon the bed and saw her husband's night-cap, which
still retained the almost conical shape of his head.
"Can he be dead? Has he killed himself? Why?" she went on. "For the
last two years, since they made him deputy-mayor, he is
_all-I-don't-know-how_. To put him into public life! On the word of an
honest woman, isn't it pitiable? His business is doing well, for he gave
me a shawl. But perhaps it isn't doing well? Bah! I should know of
it. Does one ever know what a man has got in his head; or a woman
either?--there is no harm in that. Didn't we sell five thousand francs'
worth to-day? Besides, a deputy mayor couldn't kill himself; he knows
the laws too well. Where is he then?"
She could neither turn her neck, nor stretch out her hand to pull
the bell, which would have put in motion a cook, three clerks, and a
shop-boy. A prey to the nightmare, which still lasted though her
mind was wide awake, she forgot her daughter peacefully asleep in an
adjoining room, the door of which opened at the foot of her bed. At last
she cried "Birotteau!" but got no answer. | 627.047265 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Leonard D Johnson and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team.
DISEASES OF THE HORSE'S FOOT
By
H. CAULTON REEKS
Fellow of the Royal College of Veterinary Surgeons
Author of 'The Common Colics of the Horse'
1906
To
J. MacQueen, F.R.C.V.S.,
Professor of Surgery at the Royal Veterinary College, London, as a slight
acknowledgment of his ability as a teacher, and in return for many kindly
services, this volume is gratefully inscribed by
THE AUTHOR.
PREFACE
Stimulated by the reception accorded my 'Common Colics of the Horse,' both
in this country and in America, and assured by my publishers that a work on
diseases of the foot was needed, I have been led to give to the veterinary
profession the present volume.
While keeping the size of the book within reasonable limits, no effort
has been spared to render it as complete as possible. This has only been
achieved by adding to my own experience a great deal of the work of others.
To mention individually those who have given me permission to use their
writings would be too long a matter here. In every case, however, where the
quotation is of any length, the source of my information is given, either
in the text or in an accompanying footnote. A few there are who will,
perhaps, find themselves quoted without my having first obtained their
permission to do so. They, with the others, will, I am sure, accept my
hearty thanks.
The publishers have been generous in the matter of illustrations and
diagrams, and although to the older practitioner some of these may appear
superfluous, it is hoped they will serve to render the work an acceptable
textbook for the student.
H. CAULTON REEKS.
SPALDING, _January, 1906_.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER II
REGIONAL ANATOMY
A. The Bones
B. The Ligaments
C. The Tendons
D. The Arteries
E. The Veins
F. The Nerves
G. The Complementary Apparatus of the Os Pedis
H. The Keratogenous Membrane
I. The Hoof
CHAPTER III
GENERAL PHYSIOLOGICAL AND ANATOMICAL OBSERVATIONS
A. Development of the Hoof
B. Chemical Properties and Histology of Horn
C. Expansion and Contraction of the Hoof
D. The Functions of the Lateral Cartilages
E. Growth of the Hoof
CHAPTER IV
METHOD OF EXAMINING THE FOOT
CHAPTER V
GENERAL REMARKS ON OPERATIONS ON THE FOOT
A. Methods of Restraint
B. Instruments required
C. The Application of Dressings
D. Plantar Neurectomy
History of the Operation
Preparation of the Subject
The Operation
After-treatment
E. Median Neurectomy
F. Length of Rest after Neurectomy
G. Sequelae of Neurectomy
Liability of Pricked Foot going undetected
Loss of Tone in the Non-sensitive Area
Gelatinous Degeneration
Chronic Oedema of the Leg
Persistent Pruritus
Fracture of the Bones
Neuroma
Reunion of the Divided Nerve
The Existence of an Adventitious Nerve-supply
Stumbling
H. Advantages of the Operation
I. The Use of the Horse that has undergone Neurectomy
CHAPTER VI
FAULTY CONFORMATION
A. Weak Heels
B. Contracted Foot
(_a_) Contracted Heels
(_b_) Local or Coronary Contraction
C. Flat-foot
D. Pumiced-foot, Dropped Sole, or Convex Sole
E. 'Ringed' or 'Ribbed' Hoof
F. The Hoof with Bad Horn
(_a_) The Brittle Hoof
(_b_) The Spongy Hoof
G. Club-Foot
H. The Crooked Foot
(_a_) The Foot with Unequal Sides
(_b_) The Curved Hoof
CHAPTER VII
DISEASES ARISING FROM FAULTY CONFORMATION
A. Sand-crack
Definition
Classification
Causes
Complications
Treatment
Surgical Shoeing for Sand-crack
B. Corns
Definition
Classification
Causes
Pathological Anatomy and Histology
Treatment
Surgical Shoeing for Corn
C. Chronic Bruised Sole
CHAPTER VIII
WOUNDS OF THE KERATOGENOUS MEMBRANE
A. Nail-bound
Definition
Causes
Symptoms
Treatment
B. Punctured Foot
Definition
Causes
Common Situations of the Wound
Classification
Symptoms and Diagnosis
Complications
Prognosis
Treatment
C. Coronitis (Simple)
1. Acute
Definition
Causes
Symptoms
Complications
Prognosis
Treatment
2. Chronic
Definition
Causes
Symptoms
Treatment
D. False Quarter
Definition
Causes
Treatment
E. Accidental Tearing off of the Entire Hoof
CHAPTER IX
INFLAMMATORY AFFECTIONS OF THE KERATOGENOUS APPARATUS
A. ACUTE
Acute Laminitis
Definition
Causes
Symptoms
Pathological Anatomy
Complications
Diagnosis and Prognosis
Treatment
Broad's Treatment for Laminitis
Smith's Operation for Laminitis
B. CHRONIC
1. Chronic Laminitis
Definition
Causes
Symptoms
Pathological Anatomy
Treatment
2. Seedy-Toe
Definition
Causes
Symptoms
Treatment
3. Keraphyllocele
Definition
Causes
Symptoms
Treatment
4. Keratoma
5. Thrush
Definition
Causes
Symptoms
Treatment
6. Canker
Definition
Causes, Predisposing and Exciting
Symptoms and Pathological Anatomy
Differential Diagnosis and Prognosis
Treatment
Malcolm's, Lieutenant Rose's, Bermbach's, Hoffmann's
and Imminger's Treatment for Canker
7. Specific Coronitis
Definition
Causes
Symptoms
Treatment
CHAPTER X
DISEASES OF THE LATERAL CARTILAGES
A. Wounds of the Cartilages
B. Quittor
Definition
Classification
1. Simple or Cutaneous Quittor
Definition
Causes
Symptoms
Pathological Anatomy
Prognosis
Complications
Treatment, Preventive and Curative
2. Sub-horny Quittor
Definition
Causes
Symptoms and Diagnosis
Complications
Necrosis of the Lateral Cartilage
Pathological Anatomy of the Diseased Cartilage
Necrosis of Tendon and of Ligament
Ossification of the Cartilage
Treatment
Operations for Extirpation of the Cartilage
C. Ossification of the Lateral Cartilages (Side-bones)
Definition
Symptoms and Diagnosis
Causes
Treatment
Smith's Operation for Ossification of the Lateral Cartilages
CHAPTER XI
DISEASES OF THE BONES
A. Periostitis and Ostitis
1. Periostitis
(_a_) Simple Acute Periostitis
(_b_) Suppurative Periostitis
(_c_) Osteoplastic Periostitis
2. Ostitis
(_a_) Rarefying Ostitis
(_b_) Osteoplastic Ostitis
(_c_) Caries and Necrosis
Treatment of Periostitis
Recorded Cases of Periostitis
B. Pyramidal Disease, Buttress Foot, or Low Ringbone
Definition
Symptoms and Diagnosis
Pathological Anatomy
Treatment
Recorded Cases of Buttress Foot
C. Fractures of the Bones
1. Fractures of the Os Coronae
Recorded Cases of Fractures of the Os Coronae
2. Fractures of the Os Pedis
Recorded Cases of Fractures of the Os Pedis
3. Fractures of the Navicular Bone
Recorded Case of Fracture of the Navicular Bone
Treatment of Fractures of the Bones of the Foot
CHAPTER XII
DISEASES OF THE JOINTS
A. Synovitis
(_a_) Simple
(1) Acute
(2) Chronic
(_b_) Purulent or Suppurative
B. Arthritis
(_a_) Simple or Serous
(_b_) Acute
(_c_) Purulent or Suppurative
(_d_) Anchylosis
C. Navicular Disease
Definition
History
Pathology
Changes in the Bursa
Changes in the Cartilage
Changes in the Tendon
Changes in the Bone
Causes
Heredity
Compression
Concussion
A Weak Navicular Bone
An Irregular Blood-supply to the Bone
Senile Decay
Symptoms and Diagnosis
Differential Diagnosis
Prognosis
Treatment
D. Dislocations
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
1. The Bones of the Phalanx
2. The Os Coronae (Anterior View)
3. The Os Coronae (Posterior View)
4. The Os Pedis (Postero-lateral View)
5. The Os Pedis (viewed from Below)
6. The Navicular Bone (viewed from Below)
7. The Navicular Bone (viewed from Above)
8. Ligaments of the First and Second Interphalangeal Articulations
(Lateral View). (_After Dollar and Wheatley_)
9. Ligaments of the First and Second Interphalangeal Articulations
(viewed from Behind). (_After Dollar and Wheatley_)
10. The Flexor Tendons and the Extensor Pedis. (_After
Hauebner_)
11. The Flexor Perforans and Perforatus
12. The Flexor Perforans and Perforatus (the Perforans cut through and
deflected)
13. Median Section of Normal Foot
14. The Arteries of the Foot
15. The Veins and Nerves of the Foot
16. The Lateral Cartilage
17. The Keratogenous Membrane (viewed from the Side)
18. The Keratogenous Membrane (viewed from Below)
19. The Wall of the Hoof
20. Internal Features of the Hoof
21. Inferior Aspect of the Hoof
22. Hoof with the Sensitive Structures removed
23. Section of Epidermis
24. Section of Skin with Hair Follicle and Hair
25. Section of Human Nail and Nail-bed
26. Section of Foot of Equine Foetus. (_Mettam_)
27. Section from Foot of Sheep Embryo. (_Mettam_)
28. Section from Foot of Calf Embryo. (_Mettam_)
29. Section from Foot of Equine Foetus. (_Mettam_)
30. Section through Hoof and Soft Tissues of a Foal at Term. (_Mettam_)
31. Perpendicular Section of Horn of Wall
32. Horizontal Section of Horn of Wall
33. Horizontal Section through the Junction of the Wall with the Sole
34. Section of Frog. (_Mettam_)
35. Professor Lungwitz's Apparatus for Examining the Foot Movements
36. Professor Lungwitz's Apparatus for Examining the Foot Movements
37. The Movements of the Solar and Coronary Edges of the Hoof illustrated.
(_Lungwitz_)
38. The Blind
39. The Side-line
40. Method of securing the Hind-foot with the Side-line
41. The Hind-foot secured with the Side-line
42. The Casting Hobbles
43. Method of securing the Hind-leg upon the Fore
44. The Hind-leg secured upon the | 627.245611 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
Transcriber’s Note: All other volumes are available as Project Gutenberg
ebooks. A list is given at the end.
[Illustration: Eng’d by A H Ritchie: HORACE GREELEY]
Statesman Edition Vol. XX
Charles Sumner
HIS COMPLETE WORKS
With Introduction
BY
HON. GEORGE FRISBIE HOAR
[Illustration]
BOSTON
LEE AND SHEPARD
MCM
COPYRIGHT, 1883,
BY
FRANCIS V. BALCH, EXECUTOR.
COPYRIGHT, 1900,
BY
LEE AND SHEPARD.
Statesman Edition.
LIMITED TO ONE THOUSAND COPIES.
OF WHICH THIS IS
No. 320.
Norwood Press:
NORWOOD, MASS., U.S.A.
CONTENTS OF VOLUME XX.
PAGE
THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES: ITS PROPER NUMBER. Remarks in the
Senate, on the Bill for the Apportionment of Representatives among
the States, January 29, 1872 1
REFORM AND PURITY IN GOVERNMENT: NEUTRAL DUTIES. SALE OF ARMS TO
BELLIGERENT FRANCE. Speech in the Senate, February 28, 1872 5
PARLIAMENTARY LAW ON THE APPOINTMENT OF SPECIAL COMMITTEES OF THE
SENATE. Two Protests against the Competency of the Senate Committee
to investigate the Sale of Arms to France, March 26 and 27, 1872 45
BOOKS ON THE FREE LIST. Remarks in the Senate on moving an
Amendment to a Tariff Bill, March 27, 1872 61
THE NASBY LETTERS. Introduction to the Collection, April 1, 1872 65
ADVICE TO THE <DW52> PEOPLE. Letter to the National Convention of
<DW52> People at New Orleans, April 7, 1872 68
DIPLOMATIC AGENTS OF THE UNITED STATES NOT TO ACCEPT GIFTS FROM
FOREIGN POWERS. Remarks in the Senate, May 2, 1872 70
PRESERVATION OF THE PARK AT WASHINGTON. Remarks in the Senate,
May 15, 1872 72
HOURS OF LABOR. Letter to the Convention of the Massachusetts
Labor Union in Boston, May 25, 1872 79
ARBITRATION AS A SUBSTITUTE FOR WAR. Resolutions in the Senate,
May 31, 1872, concerning Arbitration as a Substitute for War in
determining Differences between Nations 80
REPUBLICANISM _vs._ GRANTISM. Speech in the Senate, May 31, 1872 83
INTEREST AND DUTY OF CITIZENS IN THE PRESIDENTIAL ELECTION.
Letter to Citizens, July 29, 1872 173
LETTER TO SPEAKER BLAINE. August 5, 1872 196
RETROSPECT AND PROMISE. Address at a Serenade before his House in
Washington, August 9, 1872 202
FREDERICK DOUGLASS AND PRESIDENT GRANT. Letter to Hon. Andrew D.
White, President of Cornell University, August 10, 1872 205
GREELEY OR GRANT? Speech intended to be delivered at Faneuil Hall,
Boston, September 3, 1872 209
NO NAMES OF BATTLES WITH FELLOW-CITIZENS ON THE ARMY-REGISTER OR
THE REGIMENTAL COLORS OF THE UNITED STATES. Bill in the Senate,
December 2, 1872 255
TRIBUTE TO HORACE GREELEY. Remarks intended to be made in the
Senate, in seconding a Motion for Adjournment on the Occasion of
Mr. Greeley’s Funeral, December 3, 1872 256
RELIEF OF BOSTON. Remarks in the Senate, December 12, 1872 258
THE LATE HON. GARRETT DAVIS, SENATOR OF KENTUCKY. Remarks in the
Senate, on his Death, December 18, 1872 261
EQUALITY IN CIVIL RIGHTS. Letter to the Committee of Arrangements
for the Celebration of the Anniversary of Emancipation in the
District of Columbia, April 16, 1873 266
EQUAL RIGHTS OF FELLOW-CITIZENS IN NORMAL SCHOOLS. Letter
read at a Public Meeting in Washington, June 22, 1873 268
THE PRESIDENT OF HAYTI AND MR. SUMNER. Letter in Reply to one from
the Former, July 4, 1873 270
INTERNATIONAL ARBITRATION. Letter to Henry Richard, M.P., on the
Vote in the House of Commons agreeing to his Motion for an Address
to the Queen, praying Communication with Foreign Powers with a View
to a General and Permanent System of International Arbitration,
July 10, 1873 273
A COMMON-SCHOOL SYSTEM IRRESPECTIVE OF COLOR. Letter to the
Citizens of Washington, July 29, 1873 275
BOSTON: ITS PROPER BOUNDARIES. Letter to Hon. G. W. Warren, of
Charlestown, on the Annexion to Boston of the Suburban Towns,
October 4, 1873 279
YELLOW FEVER AT MEMPHIS AND SHREVEPORT: AID FOR THE SUFFERERS.
Remarks before the Board of Trade at Boston, October 24, 1873 281
THE CASE OF THE VIRGINIUS. Letter to the Cuban Mass Meeting in
New York, November 15, 1873 284
THE SUPPLEMENTARY CIVIL-RIGHTS BILL AGAIN: IMMEDIATE ACTION URGED.
Remarks in the Senate, December 2, 1873 286
OUR PILGRIM FOREFATHERS. Speech at the Dinner of the New England
Society in New York, December 22, 1873 291
SUPPLEMENTARY CIVIL-RIGHTS BILL: THE LAST APPEAL. Remarks in the
Senate, January 27, 1874 301
INDEX 317
THE HOUSE OF REPRESENTATIVES: ITS PROPER NUMBER.
REMARKS IN THE SENATE, ON THE BILL FOR THE APPORTIONMENT OF
REPRESENTATIVES AMONG THE STATES, JANUARY 29, 1872.
MR. PRESIDENT,--Before the vote is taken I desire to make one remark. I
was struck with the suggestion of the Senator from Ohio [Mr. SHERMAN],
the other day, with regard to the proposition which comes from the
House. He reminded us that it was a House proposition, and that it was
natural that the House should be allowed to regulate itself. I think
there is much in that worthy of consideration. I doubt if the Senate
would receive with much favor any proposition from the House especially
applicable to us. I think we should be disposed to repel it. I think we
should say that our experience should enable us to judge that question
better than the experience of the House. And now I ask whether the
experience of the House does not enable them to judge of the question
of numbers better than we can judge of it? On general grounds I confess
I should myself prefer a smaller House; personally I incline that way;
but I am not willing on that point to set myself against the House.
Then, Sir, I cannot be insensible to the experience of other countries.
I do not know whether Senators have troubled themselves on that head;
but if they have not, I think it will not be uninteresting to them to
have their attention called to the numbers of the great legislative
bodies of the world at this moment. For instance, beginning with
England, there is the upper House, the Chamber of Peers, composed of
four hundred and sixty-six members; then the lower House, the House
of Commons, with six hundred and fifty-eight members. We know that,
practically, these members attend only in comparatively small numbers;
that it is only on great questions that either House is full.
MR. TRUMBULL. Did the House of Lords ever have anything like that
number present?
MR. SUMNER. It has had several hundred. There are four hundred and
sixty-six entitled to seats in the House of Lords.
Pass over to France. The National Assembly, sitting at Versailles at
this moment, elected February 8 and July 2, 1871, consists of seven
hundred and thirty-eight members.
Pass on to Prussia. The upper Chamber of the Parliament of Prussia has
two hundred and sixty-seven members; the lower Chamber has four hundred
and thirty-two. Now we all know that Prussia is a country where no rule
of administration or of constitution is adopted lightly, and everything
is considered, if I may so express myself, in the light of science.
Pass to Austria, under the recent organization. You are aware that
there are two different Parliaments now in Austria,--one for what is
called the cis-Leithan territories, territories this side of the river
Leitha; the other, trans-Leithan, or those on the other side, being the
Hungarian territory. Beginning with those on this side of the river,
the upper House consists of one hundred and seventy-five members:
observe, it is more than twice as large as our Senate. The lower House
consists of two hundred and three members: smaller than our House of
Representatives. But now pass to the other side of the river and look
at the Hungarian Parliament. There the upper House contains two hundred
and sixty-six members, and the lower House, or Chamber of Deputies, as
it is called, four hundred and thirty-eight.
Pass to Italy, a country organized under a new constitution in the
light of European and American experience, liberal, and with a
disposition to found its institutions on the basis of science. The
Senate of Italy contains two hundred and seventy members, the Chamber
of Deputies five hundred and eight.
Then pass to Spain. There the upper branch of the Cortes contains one
hundred and ninety-six members, and the lower branch four hundred and
sixteen.
So that you will find in all these countries,--Great Britain, France,
Prussia, Austria in its two Parliaments, Italy, and Spain,--that the
number adopted for the lower House is much larger than any now proposed
for our House of Representatives.
I call attention to this fact because it illustrates by the experience
of other nations what may be considered as a rule on this subject. At
any rate, it shows that other nations are not deterred by anything in
political experience from having a House with these large numbers;
and this perhaps is of more value because European writers, political
philosophers for successive generations, have warred against large
bodies. We have the famous saying of the Cardinal de Retz, that
any body of men above a hundred is a mob; and that saying, coming
from so consummate a statesman and wit, has passed into a proverb,
doubtless affecting the judgment of many minds; and yet in the face of
this testimony, and with the writings of political philosophers all
inclining against numbers, we find that the actual practical experience
of Europe has gone the other way. The popular branch in all these
considerable countries is much more numerous than it is now proposed to
make our House of Representatives.
REFORM AND PURITY IN GOVERNMENT: NEUTRAL DUTIES. SALE OF ARMS TO
BELLIGERENT FRANCE.
SPEECH IN THE SENATE, FEBRUARY 28, 1872.
February 12, 1872, Mr. Sumner introduced a resolution, with a
preamble setting forth its grounds, providing,--
“That a select committee of seven be appointed to investigate
all sales of ordnance stores made by the Government of the
United States during the war between France and Germany;
to ascertain the persons to whom such sales were made, the
circumstances under which they were made, and the real parties
in interest, and the sums respectively paid and received by the
real parties; and that the committee have power to send for
persons and papers; and that the investigation be conducted in
public.”
And on his motion it was ordered to lie on the table and be printed.
On the 14th the resolution was taken up for consideration, when
Mr. Sumner entered into an exposition of the matter referred to
in the preamble, and of the law applicable thereto, remarking in
conclusion:--
“For the first time has the United States, within my knowledge,
fallen under suspicion of violating the requirement of
neutrality on this subject. Such seems to be our present
position. We are under suspicion. What I propose is a searching
inquiry, according to the magnitude of the interests involved,
to ascertain if this is without just grounds.”
Thereupon ensued a long and acrimonious debate,--toward the close
of which, Mr. Sumner, on the 28th, in review of the case, spoke as
follows:--
MR PRESIDENT,--Besides the unaccustomed interest which this debate
excites, I cannot fail to note that it has wandered far beyond any
purpose of mine, and into fields where I have no desire to follow. In
a few plain remarks I shall try to bring it back to the real issue,
which I hope to present without passion or prejudice. I declare only
the rule of my life, when I say that nothing shall fall from me to-day
which is not prompted by the love of truth and the desire for justice;
but you will pardon me, if I remember that there is something on this
planet higher than the Senate or any Senator, higher than any public
functionary, higher than any political party: it is the good name of
the American people and the purity of Government, which must be saved
from scandal. In this spirit and with this aspiration I shall speak
to-day.
In considering this resolution we must not forget the peculiar
demands of the present moment. An aroused community in the commercial
metropolis of our country has unexpectedly succeeded in overthrowing a
corrupt ring by which millions of money had been sacrificed. Tammany
has been vanquished. Here good Democrats vied with Republicans. The
country was thrilled by the triumph, and insisted that it should
be extended. Then came manifestations against abuses of the civil
service generally, and especially in that other Tammany, the New York
custom-house. The call for investigation at last prevailed in this
Chamber, and the newspapers have been burdened since with odious
details. Everybody says there must be reform, so that the Government
in all its branches shall be above suspicion. The | 627.268981 |
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Produced by David Edwards | 627.647287 |
2023-11-16 18:27:31.6317880 | 1,468 | 10 |
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)
MEMOIRS
OF THE
Marchioness of Pompadour.
WRITTEN BY HERSELF.
Wherein are Displayed
The Motives of the Wars, Treaties of Peace, Embassies, and
Negotiations, in the several Courts of Europe:
The Cabals and Intrigues of Courtiers; the Characters of Generals,
and Ministers of State, with the Causes of their Rise and Fall;
and, in general, the most remarkable Occurrences at the Court of
France, during the last twenty Years of the Reign of Lewis XV.
Translated from the French.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
Printed for P. VAILLANT, in the Strand; and
W. JOHNSTON, in Ludgate-Street.
MDCCLXVI.
THE
EDITOR’S PREFACE.
The following work must be acknowledged highly interesting to these
times; and to posterity will be still more so. These are not the memoirs
of a mere woman of pleasure, who has spent her life in a voluptuous
court, but the history of a reign remarkable for revolutions, wars,
intrigues, alliances, negotiations; the very blunders of which are not
beneath the regard of politicians, as having greatly contributed to give
a new turn to the affairs of Europe.
The Lady who drew the picture was known to be an admirable colourist.
They who were personally acquainted with Mademoiselle Poisson, before
and since her marriage with M. le Normand, know her to have been
possessed of a great deal of that wit, which, with proper culture,
improves into genius.
The King called her to court at a tempestuous season of life, when the
passions reign uncontrouled, and by corrupting the heart, enlarge the
understanding.
They who are near the persons of Kings, for the most part, surpass the
common run of mankind, both in natural and acquired talents; for
ambition is ever attended with a sort of capacity to compass its ends;
and all courtiers are ambitious.
No sooner does the Sovereign take a mistress, than the courtiers flock
about her. Their first concern is to give her her cue; for as they
intend to avail themselves of her interest with the King, she must be
made acquainted with a multitude of things: she may be said to receive
her intelligence from the first hand, and to draw her knowledge at the
fountain head.
Lewis XV. intrusted the Marchioness de Pompadour with the greatest
concerns of the nation; so that if she had been without those abilities
which distinguished her at Paris, she must still have improved in the
school of Versailles.
Her talents did not clear her in the public eye; never was a favourite
more outrageously pelted with pamphlets, or exposed to more clamorous
invectives. Of this her Memoirs are a full demonstration; her enemies
charged her with many very odious vices, without so much as allowing her
one good quality. The grand subject of murmur was the bad state of the
finances, which they attributed to her amours with the King.
They who brand the Marchioness with having run Lewis XV. into vast
expences, seem to have forgot those which his predecessor’s mistresses
had brought on the state.
Madame de la Valiere, even before she was declared mistress to Lewis
XIV. induced him to give entertainments, which cost the nation more than
ever Madame de Pompadour’s fortune amounted to.
Madame de Montespan put the same Prince to very enormous expences; she
appeared always with the pomp and parade of a Queen, even to the having
guards to attend her.
Scarron’s widow carried her pride and ostentation still further: she
drew the King in to marry her, and this mistress came to be queen, an
elevation which will be an eternal blot on the Prince’s memory.
This clandestine commerce gave rise to an infamous practice at court,
with which Madame de Pompadour cannot be charged. All these concubines
having children, to gratify their vanity, they must be legitimated; and,
afterwards, they found means to marry these sons, or daughters, of
prostitution, to the branches of the royal blood; a flagrant debasement
of the house which were in kin to the crown: for though a Sovereign can
legitimate a bastard, to efface the stain of bastardy is beyond his
power. The consequence was, that the descendants of that clandestine
issue aspired to the throne; and, through the King’s scandalous amours,
that lustre which is due only to virtue, fell to the portion of vice.
It was given out in France, and over all Europe, that Madame de
Pompadour was immensely rich: but nothing of this appeared at her death,
except her magnificent moveables, and these were rather the
consequences of her rank at court, than the effects of her vanity. This
splendor his Majesty partook of, as visiting her every day.
The public is generally an unfair judge of those who hold a considerable
station at court, deciding from vague reports, which are often the
forgeries of ill-grounded prejudice. Madame de Pompadour has been
charged with insatiable avarice. Had this been the case, she might have
indulged herself at will: she was at the spring-head of opulence; the
King never refused her any thing; so that she might have amassed any
money; which she did not. There are now existing, in France, fifty
wretches of financiers, each of a fortune far exceeding her’s.
It was also said, that the best thing which could happen to France, was
to be rid of this rapacious favourite. Well; she is no more; and what is
France the better for it? Has her death been followed by one of those
sudden revolutions in the government, which usher in a better form of
administration? Have they who looked on this Lady as an unsurmountable
obstacle to France’s greatness, proposed any better means for raising it
from its present low state? Is there more order in the government? are
the finances improved? is there more method and oeconomy? No, affairs
are still in the same bad ways the lethargy continues as profound as
ever. The ministry, which before Madame de Pompadour’s death was fast
asleep, is not yet awake. Every thing remains in _statu quo_. Some
European governments have no regular motion; they advance either too
fast, or too | 627.651828 |
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Produced by Jonathan Ingram and Project Gutenberg
Distributed Proofreaders
THE MIRROR OF LITERATURE, AMUSEMENT, AND INSTRUCTION.
VOL. 10, No. 267.] SATURDAY, AUGUST 4, 1827. [PRICE 2d.
* * * * *
HADLEY CHURCH.
[Illustration]
Hadley, Mankin, or Monkton, Hadley, was formerly a hamlet to Edmonton.
It lies north-west of Enfield, and comprises 580 acres, including 240
allotted in lieu of the common enclosure of Enfield Chase. Its name is
compounded of two Saxon words--Head-leagh, or a high place; Mankin is
probably derived from the connexion of the place with the abbey of
Walden, to which it was given by Geoffrey de Mandeville, earl of Essex,
under the name of the Hermitage of Hadley. The village is situated on
the east side of the great north road, eleven miles from London.
The manor belonged to the Mandevilles, the founder of the Hermitage, and
was given by Geoffrey to the monks of Walden; in the ensuing two
centuries the manorial property underwent various transmissions, and was
purchased by the Pinney family, in the year 1791, by the present
proprietor, Peter Moore, Esq.
The house of the late David Garrow, father to the present judge of that
name in the court of exchequer, is supposed to have been connected with
a monastic establishment. Chimney-pieces remain in _alto-relievo_: on
one is sculptured the story of Sampson; the other represents many
passages in the life of our Saviour, from his birth in the stall to his
death on the cross.
The parish church, of which our engraving gives a correct view, is a
handsome structure, built at different periods. The chancel bears marks
of great antiquity, but the body has been built with bricks. At the west
end is a square tower, composed of flint, with quoins of freestone; on
one side is the date Anno Domini 1393, cut in stone--one side of the
stone bearing date in the sculptured device of a wing; the other that of
a rose. The figures denote the year 1494; the last, like the second
numerical, being the _half eight_, often used in ancient inscriptions.
The unique vestige of the middle ages, namely, a firepan, or pitchpot,
on the south-west tower of the church, was blown down in January, 1779
and carefully repaired, though now not required for the purpose of
giving an alarm at the approach of a foe, by lighting pitch within it.
The church has been supposed to have been erected by Edward IV. as a
chapel for religious service, to the memory of those who fell in the
battle of Barnet in 1471.
On the window of the north transcept are some remains of painted glass,
among which may be noticed the rebus of the Gooders, a family of
considerable consequence at Hadley in the fifteenth and sixteenth
centuries. This consists of a partridge with an ear of wheat in its
bill; on an annexed scroll is the word Gooder; on the capital of one of
the pillars are two partridges with ears of corn in the mouth, an
evident repetition of the same punning device, and it is probable the
Gooder's were considerable benefactors towards building the church.
The almshouses for six decayed housekeepers were founded by Sir Roger
Willbraham in 1616, but so slenderly endowed that they do not produce
more than 9l.6s. annually. Major Delafonte, in 1762, increased the
annuity, which expired in 1805; but Mr. Cottrell gained by subscription
2375l. in trust. The father of the late Mr. Whitbread, the statesman,
subscribed the sum of 1000l. for the support of the almshouses. The
charity-school for girls was established in 1773, and was enlarged and
converted into a school of industry in 1800. Twenty girls in the
establishment receive annually the sum of 1l. towards clothing; thirty
girls besides the above are admitted to the benefit of education, on
paying the weekly sum of 2d. and succeed to the vacancies which occur in
the class more largely assisted. This charity is in like manner
supported by contributions on the inhabitants. The boys' school,
supported in the same way, which in 1804 amounted to the sum of 103l.
10s., has about seventy day-scholars; twenty are allowed 1l. towards
clothing, and instructed without any charge; the remainder pay
2d. weekly.
* * * * *
THE SKETCH BOOK.
NO. XLIII.
* * * * *
THE BUTCHER.
Wolsey, they tell us, was a butcher. An alliterative couplet too was
made upon him to that import:--
"By butchers born, by bishops bred,
How high his honour holds his haughty head."
Notwithstanding which, however, and other similar allusions, there have
arisen many disputes touching the veracity of the assertion; yet,
doubtless, those who first promulgated the idea, were keen observers of
men and manners; and, probably, in the critical examination of the
Cardinal's character, discovered a particular trait which indubitably
satisfied them of his origin.
Be this as it may, I am inclined to think there is certainly something
peculiarly characteristic in the butcher.
The pursuit of his calling appears to have an influence upon his
manners, speech, and dress. Of all the days in the week, Saturday is the
choicest for seeing him to the best advantage. His hatless head, shining
with grease, his cheeks as ruddy as his mutton-chops, his sky-blue frock
and dark-blue apron, his dangling steel and sharp-set knife, which ever
and anon play an accompaniment to his quick, short--"Buy! buy!" are all
in good keeping with the surrounding objects. And although this be not
_killing_ day with him, he is particularly winning and gracious with the
serving-maids; who (whirling the large street-door key about their right
thumb, and swinging their marketing basket in their left hand) view the
well-displayed joints, undecided which to select, until Mr. Butcher
recommends a leg or a loin; and then he so very politely cuts off the
fat, in which his skilful hand is guided by the high or low price of
mutton fat in the market. He is the very antipode of a <DW2>, yet no man
knows how to show a handsome _leg_ off to better advantage, or is
prouder of his _calves_.
In his noviciate, when he shoulders the shallow tray, and whistles
cavalierly on his way in his sausage-meat-complexioned-jacket, there is
something marked as well in his character as his _habits_, he is never
_moved_ to stay, except by a brother butcher, or a fight of dogs or
boys, for such scenes fit his singular fancy. Then, in the discussion of
his bull-dog's beauties, he becomes extraordinarily eloquent. Hatiz, the
Persian, could not more warmly, or with choicer figure, describe his
mistress' charms, than he does Lion's, or Fowler's, or whatever the
brute's Christian name may be; and yet the surly, cynical, _dogged_
expression of the bepraised beast, would almost make one imagine he
understood the meaning of his master's words, and that his honest nature
despised the flattering encomiums he passes upon his pink belly and
legs, his broad chest, his ring-tail, and his tulip ears!--_Absurdities,
in Prose and Verse._
* * * * *
CONFIDENCE AND CREDIT.
(_For the Mirror._)
The day was dark, the markets dull,
The Change was thin, Gazettes were full,
And half the town was breaking;
The _counter-sign_ of Cash was "_Stop_!"
Bankers and bankrupts shut up shop,
And honest hearts were aching.
When near the Bench my fancy spied
A faded form, with hasty stride,
Beneath Grief's burden stooping:
Her name was CREDIT, and she said
Her father, TRADE, was lately dead,
Her mother, COMMERCE, drooping.
The smile that she was wont to wear
Was wither'd by the hand of care,
Her eyes had lost their lustre:
Her character was gone, she said,
For she had basely been betray'd,
And nobody would trust her.
For honest INDUSTRY had tried
To gain fair CREDIT for his bride,
And found the damsel willing,
But, ah! a _fortune-hunter_ came,
And SPECULATION was his name,
A rake not worth a shilling.
The villain came, on mischief bent,
And soon gain'd dad and mam's consent--
Ah! then poor CREDIT smarted;--
He filch'd her fortune and her fame,
He fix'd a blot upon her name,
And left her broken-hearted.
While thus poor CREDIT seem'd to sigh,
Her cousin, CONFIDENCE, came by--
(Methinks he must be clever)--
For, when he whisper'd in her ear,
She check'd the sigh, she dried the tear.
And smiled as sweet as ever!
JESSE HAMMOND.
* * * * *
CURIOUS SCRAPS RELATING TO CELEBRATED PERSONS.
(_For the Mirror._)
When the famous Cornelia, daughter of the great Scipio, was importuned
by a lady of her acquaintance to show her toilette, she deferred
satisfying her curiosity till her children, who were the famous Gracchi,
came from school, and then said, "_En! haec ornamenta mea
sunt._"--"These are my ornaments."
Cyneas, the minister of Pyrrhus, asked the king (before their expedition
into Italy) what he proposed to do when he had subdued the Romans? He
answered, "Pass into Sicily." "What then?" said the minister. "Conquer
the Carthaginians," replied the king. "And what follows that?" says the
minister. "Be sovereign of Greece, and then enjoy ourselves," said the
king. "And why," replied the sensible minister, "can we not do this
_last_ now?"
The emperors Nerva, Trajan, Antoninous, and Aurelius sold their palaces,
their gold and silver plate, their valuable furniture, and other
superfluities, heaped up by their predecessors, and banished from their
tables all expensive delicacies. These princes, together with Vespasian,
Pertinax, Alexander, Severus, Claudius the Second, and Tacitus, who were
raised to the empire by their merit, and whom all ages have admired as
the greatest and the best of princes, were always fond of the greatest
plainness in their apparel, furniture, and outward appearance.
Cortez, the conqueror of Mexico, who lived unknown and disgraced in
Spain, was scarcely able to obtain an audience of his master Charles V.;
and when the king asked who was the fellow that was so clamorous to
speak to him, he cried out, "I am one who have got your majesty more
provinces than your father left towns."
Camoens, the famous Portuguese poet, was unfortunately shipwrecked at
the mouth of the river Meco, on the coast of Camboja, and lost his whole
property; however, he saved his life and his poems, which he bore
through the waves in one hand, whilst he swam ashore with the other. It
is said, that his black | 627.947709 |
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