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Produced by Charlene Taylor, Chuck Greif 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
ROYAL ROAD TO HEALTH
OR THE SECRET OF
HEALTH WITHOUT DRUGS.
BY
CHAS. A. TYRRELL, M. D.
Registered Number 2646
Proprietor of Tyrrell’s Hygienic Institute. Inventor of the “J. B. L. Cascade,”
Professor of Hygiene. Ex-President of the Eclectic Medical Society
of the City and County of New York. Originator of the
Improved System of Physical Exercises, etc.
ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTIETH EDITION
COMPLETELY REVISED, ENLARGED AND ILLUSTRATED
PUBLISHED BY
CHAS. A. TYRRELL, M. D.
134 W. 65TH STREET, NEW YORK
1917
[Illustration: Chas A Tyrrell md]
TO MY WIFE
WHOSE ENTHUSIASM, AND UNFLAGGING INTEREST IN ALL
MATTERS PERTAINING TO HEALTH IS EXCELLED BY
NONE, AND WHO HAS BEEN A FAITHFUL CO-WORKER
IN BUILDING UP THE SYSTEM OF
TREATING DISEASE BY HYGIENIC
METHODS HEREIN SET FORTH,
THIS BOOK IS
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED.
COPYRIGHTED, 1907,
BY
CHARLES A. TYRRELL, M.D.
[Illustration: THE DIGESTIVE ORGANS.
(_Viewed from the front._)]
DESCRIPTION OF THE DIAGRAM
ILLUSTRATING THE
DIGESTIVE ORGANS OF MAN.
1. Esophagus or Gullet.
2. Cardiac end of Stomach.
3. Pyloric end of Stomach.
4. Duodenum.
5, 6. Convolutions of Small Intestines.
7. Cæcum.
7* Vermiform appendage of Cæcum, called the _appendicula vermiformis_.
8. Ascending Colon.
9, 10. Transverse Colon.
11. Descending Colon.
12. Sigmoid Flexure, the last curve of the Colon before it
terminates in the Rectum.
13. Rectum, the terminal part of the Colon.
14. Anus, posterior opening of the alimentary canal, through
which the excrements are expelled.
15, 15. Lobes of the Liver, raised and turned back.
16. Hepatic Duct, which carries the bile from the liver to the Cystic
and Common Bile Ducts.
17. Cystic Duct.
18. Gall Bladder.
19. Common Bile Duct.
20. Pancreas, the gland which secretes the pancreatic juice.
21. Pancreatic Duct, entering the Duodenum with the Common Bile Duct.
* * * * *
The illustration here given of the Digestive Apparatus of man represents
the organs of food digestion, especially the alimentary canal and glands
connected therewith, and to the reader of this book, or to any student
of anatomy, it will be found of invaluable service as a reference.
The diagram gives a view of the digestive organs from the ventral or
front side, a proper study of which cannot fail to impress every
intelligent being with the reverential deduction of the Psalmist that we
are “_fearfully and wonderfully made_.”
PREFACE TO THE ONE HUNDRED AND SEVENTIETH EDITION
In presenting to the public the one hundred and seventieth edition of
this work, it is a matter for profound gratification to be able to state
that the treatment described in its pages has steadily increased in
public favor since its introduction. Tens of thousands of grateful
people testify to its efficiency, not only as a remedial process, but
better still, as a preventive of disease. Truth must ever prevail, and
this treatment being based on natural law (which is unerring), must
achieve the desired result, which is the restoration and preservation of
health.
This edition has been completely revised and much of it re-written, and
while the essential principles remain unchanged, some slight departures
from previously expressed opinions may be noted; for in the years that
have elapsed since the first edition saw the light, some notable
advances have been made in rational therapeutics and dietetics, and no
one can afford to lag behind the car of Progress.
The arrangement of the book has been still farther altered, by adding
another part, making nine in all, each part being devoted to a special
phase of the general subject, thus simplifying it, and making its
principles easier of application. Quotations have been freely made from
articles written during the past three years by the author, in his
capacity as editor of “Health,” and several new formulas for the
treatment of important diseases have been added to those that have
appeared in previous editions.
While painfully conscious that the critically disposed may find
something to condemn in its pages, the work is sent forth with the
fervent hope, that despite any defects it may possess it may, in the
future, as in the past, prove the means of restoring to suffering
thousands the possession of their natural and rightful heritage--health.
THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS.
PART I.
DRUGGING PROVED UNSCIENTIFIC.
.....PAGE
Health is wealth. The truth about “Materia Medica.” Medical opinions
on drugs--they do not cure disease. Opinions of British physicians.
The most important medical discoveries made by laymen. There is no
“law of cure,” only a condition. Drugs do not act on the system, but
are acted upon.....13
PART II.
THE TRUE CAUSE OF DISEASE.
Only one cause of disease. There is only one disease, but many
modifications. Digestion and assimilation explained. Evil effects
of the retention of waste. The horrors of fæcal impaction. How
auto-infection is accomplished. The mysteries of the circulation.
Disease shown to be the result of imperfect elimination.....37
PART III.
RATIONAL HYGIENIC TREATMENT.
Nature cures, not the physician. The action of microbes. The
cathartic habit. The true action of cathartics explained, and popular
suppositions corrected. A correct solution of the difficulty.
“Flushing the colon” an ancient practice. Dr. Turner’s post mortem
experiences. Colon distortion illustrated. Objections to the ordinary
appliances--danger in using the long, flexible catheter. Invention of
the “J. B. L. Cascade,” and description of it.....50
PART IV.
HOW TO USE IT.
The complete process of “flushing the colon” explained, step by step,
so that even a child might understand it. Objections answered. Advice
to users of the treatment.....71
PART V.
PRACTICAL HYGIENE.
Longevity man’s natural heritage. The care of the body--absolute
cleanliness rare. The function of water in the human organism. Hot
water the natural scavenger. The bath. Description of the skin,
and its function. Hints on bathing. The wet sheet pack. Importance
of fresh air. Interchange of gases in the lungs. Ventilation.
Prof. Willard Parker on impure air. The function of the heart. The
therapeutic value of sunlight.....86
PART VI.
EXERCISE.
Motion is life. Effect of exercise on the fluids of the body. How
the tissues are nourished. Exercise for invalids. Complete system
of breathing exercises for developing the lungs. Improved system
of physical exercises, calling into play every muscle of the
body--ensuring harmonious development. Special nerve exercise.
How to stand and how to walk. All the above exercises plainly
illustrated.....108
PART VII.
THE DIET QUESTION.
The replacement of waste. Appetite and hunger. The evils of gluttony.
Vegetarianism versus flesh eating. Diet, a question of latitude.
The cause of old age. Cretinism. Danger of earthy matters in food
substances. Fruits are ideal foods. The true value of bread.
Classification of the ingredients of food substances. Table of
proportions. Table of digestive values. Vegetarianism discussed. A
mixed diet the most reasonable. How to eat. Liquids at meals. When to
eat. The no-breakfast plan. The effects of alcohol, tea and coffee.
Improper habits of eating. The influence of mind upon digestion. The
advantages of regularity. Nature’s bookkeeping.....124
PART VIII.
TREATMENT OF DISEASE.
Complete formulas of treatment (with dietary rules) for over fifty
different diseases, including Consumption, Appendicitis, Locomotor
Ataxia, Paralysis, Dyspepsia, Pneumonia, Diabetes Mellitus, Uterine
troubles, etc. Also all the principal ailments of children.....158
PART IX.
SOME HELPFUL SUGGESTIONS.
Disease is the result of the operation of natural law--don’t dread
it. Don’t treat symptoms; treat the fundamental cause. Pain is
Nature’s danger signal. | 1,631.100836 |
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Is The Bible Worth Reading
And Other Essays
By
Lemuel K. Washburn
New York
The Truth Seeker Company
1911
CONTENTS
Dedication
Is The Bible Worth Reading
Sacrifice
The Drama Of Life
Nature In June
The Infinite Purpose
Freethought Commands
A Rainbow Religion
A Cruel God
What Is Jesus
Deeds Better Than Professions
Give Us The Truth
The American Sunday
Lord And Master
Are Christians Intelligent Or Honest
The Danger Of The Ballot
Who Carried The Cross
Modern Disciples Of Jesus
A Poor Excuse
Profession And Practice
Where Is Truth
What Does It Prove
Human Responsibility
Abolish Dirt
Religion And Morality
Jesus As A Model
Singing Lies
A Walk Through A Cemetery
Peace With God
Saving The Soul
The Search For Something To Worship
Where Are They
Some Questions For Christians To Answer
The Image Of God
Religion And Science
The Bible And The Child
When To Help The World
The Judgment Of God
Christianity And Freethought
The Brotherhood And Freedom Of Man
Whatever Is Is Right
The Object Of Life
Man
The Dogma Of The Divine Man
The Rich Man's Gospel
Speak Well Of One Another
Disgraceful Partnerships
Science And Theology
Unequal Remuneration
The Old And The New
Guard The Ear
The Character Of God
Not Important
Oaths
Dead Words
Confession Of Sin
Death's Philanthropy
Our Attitude Towards Nature
Reverence For Motherhood
The God Of The Bible
The Measure Of Suffering
Nature
Creeds
Don't Try To Stop The Sun Shining
Follow Me
Can We Never Get Along Without Servants?
A Heavenly Father
Worship Not Needed
Was Jesus A Good Man
How To Help Mankind
On The Cross
Equal Moral Standards
Authority
A Clean Sabbath
Human Integrity
Is It True
Keep The Children At Home
Teacher And Preacher
Fear Of Doubts
Bible-Backing
Beggars
Habits
Can Poverty Be Abolished
The Roman Catholic God
Human Cruelty
Infidelity
Atheism
Christian Happiness
What God Knows
The Meaning Of The Word God
What Has Jesus Done For The World
The Agnostic's Position
Orthodoxy
Ideas Of Jesus
The Silence Of Jesus
Does The Church Save
Save The Republic
A Woman's Religion
The Sacrifice Of Jesus
Fashionable Hypocrisy
The Saturday Half-Holiday
The Motive For Preaching
The Christian's God
Indifference To Religion
Sunday Schools
Going To Church
Who Is The Greatest Living Man
[Illustration.]
Lemuel K. Washburn
DEDICATION
The writer of this book dedicates it to all men and women of common
honesty and common sense.
IS THE BIBLE WORTH READING
That depends. If a man is going to get his living by standing in a
Christian pulpit, I should be obliged to answer, Yes! But if he is going
to follow any other calling, or work at any trade, I should have to
answer, No! There is absolutely no information in the Bible that man can
make any use of as he goes through life. The Bible is not a book of
knowledge. It does not give instruction in any of the sciences. It
furnishes no help to labor. It is useless as a political guide. There is
nothing in it that gives the mechanic any hint, or affords the farmer any
enlightenment in his occupation.
If man wishes to learn about the earth or the heavens; about life or the
animal kingdom, he has no need to study the Bible. If he is desirous of
reading the best poetry or the most entertaining literature he will not
find it in the Bible. If he wants to read to store his mind with facts,
the Bible is the last book for him to open, for never yet was a volume
written that contained fewer facts than this book. If he is anxious to get
some information that will help him earn an honest living he does not want
to spend his time reading Genesis, Exodus, Numbers, Kings, Psalms, or the
Gospels. If he wants to read just for the fun of reading to kill time, or
to see how much nonsensical writing there is in one book, let him read the
Bible.
I have not said that there are not wise sayings in the Bible, or a few
dramatic incidents, but there are just as wise sayings, and wiser ones,
too, out of the book, and there are dramas of human life that surpass in
interest anything contained in the Old or New Testament.
No person can make a decent excuse for reading the Bible more than once.
To do such a thing would be a foolish waste of time. But our stoutest
objection to reading this book is, not that it contains nothing
particularly good, but _that it contains so much that is positively bad_.
To read this book is to get false ideas, absurd ideas, bad ideas. The
injury to the human mind that reads the Bible as a reliable book is beyond
repair. I do not think that this book should be read by children, by any
human being less than twenty years of age, and it would be better for
mankind if not a man or woman read a line of it until he or she was fifty
years old.
What I want to say is this, that there is nothing in the Bible that is of
the least consequence to the people of the twentieth century. English
literature is richer a thousand fold than this so-called sacred volume. We
have books of more information and of more inspiration than the Bible. As
the relic of a barbarous and superstitious people, it should have a place
in our libraries, but it is not a work of any value to this age. I pity
men who stand in pulpits and call this book the word of God. I wish they
had brains enough to earn their living without having to repeat this
foolish falsehood. The day will come when this book will be estimated for
what it a worth, and when that day comes, the Bible will no longer be
called the word of God, but the work of ignorant, superstitious men.
-------------------------------------
The cross everywhere is a dagger in the heart of liberty.
-------------------------------------
A miracle is not an explanation of what we cannot comprehend.
-------------------------------------
The statue of liberty that will endure on this continent is not the one
made of granite or bronze, but the one made of love of freedom.
-------------------------------------
Take away every achievement of the world and leave man freedom, and the
earth would again bloom with every glory of attainment; but take away
liberty and everything useful and beautiful would vanish.
SACRIFICE
The sacrifice of Jesus, so much boasted by the Christian church, is
nothing compared to the sacrifice of a mother for her family. It is not to
be spoken of in the same light. A mother's sacrifice is constant:
momentary, hourly, daily, life-long. It never ceases. It is a veritable
providence; a watchful care; a real giving of one life for another, or for
several others; a gift of love so pure and holy, so single and complete,
that it is an offering in spirit and in substance.
This is to me the highest, purest, holiest act of humanity. All others,
when weighed with this unselfish consecration to duty, seem small and
insignificant. There is, in a mother's life, no counting of cost, no
calculation of reward. It is enough that a duty is to be done; that a
service is to be rendered; that a sacrifice is called for. The true mother
gives herself to the offices of love without hope, expectation, or wish of
recompense. A mother's love for her children cannot be determined by any
earthly measure, by any material standard. It outshines all glory, and is
the last gleam of light in the human heart. A mother's love walks in a
thousand Gethsemanes, endures a thousand Calvaries, and has a thousand
agonies that the dying of Jesus upon a cross cannot symbolize. This
maternal sacrifice is the greater that it is made cheerfully, without a
murmur, and even with joy. If it is not sought; it is never pushed aside.
A mother's sacrifice for her family makes a chapter of suffering, of
patient toil and strife, of heroic endurance and forbearance, that
religion is not yet high enough to appreciate; and this sublime devotion
is not in one home, but in _hundreds of thousands in every land_
everywhere on earth, and it is real, true, heart-born, and the utmost of
renunciation that human life has revealed.
The brief martyrdom of Jesus was not voluntary, was not | 1,631.381721 |
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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 | 1,631.406969 |
2023-11-16 18:44:15.4046350 | 2,993 | 13 |
Produced by Charlene Taylor, Jonathan Ingram and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Library of Early Journals.)
[Transcriber's note: Characters with macrons have been marked in
brackets with an equal sign, as [=e] for a letter e with a macron on
top. Underscores have been used to indicate _italic_ fonts; equal signs
indicate =bold= fonts. Original spelling variations have not been
standardized. A list of volumes and pages in "Notes and Queries" has
been added at the end.]
NOTES and QUERIES:
A MEDIUM OF INTER-COMMUNICATION
FOR
LITERARY MEN, ARTISTS, ANTIQUARIES, GENEALOGISTS, ETC.
"When found, make a note of."--CAPTAIN CUTTLE.
VOL. IV.--No. 109. SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 29. 1851.
Price Threepence. Stamped Edition 4_d._
CONTENTS.
Page
NOTES:--
Thomas More and John Fisher 417
Notes on Newspapers, by H. M. Bealby 418
Treatise of Equivocation 419
Notes on Virgil, by Dr. Henry 420
Minor Notes:--Verses presented, to General
Monck--Justice to Pope Pius V. 421
QUERIES:--
Crosses and Crucifixes 422
Master of the Buckhounds, by John Branfill Harrison 422
Minor Queries:--"No Cross no Crown"--Dido and
AEneas--Pegs and Thongs for Rowing: Torture among the
Athenians--French Refugees--Isabel, Queen of the Isle
of Man--Grand-daughter of John Hampden--Cicada or
Tettigonia Septemdecim--The British Sidanen--Jenings or
Jennings--Caleva Atrebatum, Site of--Abigail--Etymology
of Durden--Connecticut Halfpenny 423
MINOR QUERIES ANSWERED:--Arms displayed on Spread
Eagle--St. Beuno--Lists of Knights Bachelor--Walker--See
of Durham 424
REPLIES:--
Convocation of York 425
The Old Countess of Desmond 426
Coins of Vabalathus 427
Marriage of Ecclesiastics 427
Replies to Minor Queries:--"Crowns have their
Compass"--The Rev. Richard Farmer--Earwig 428
MISCELLANEOUS:--
Notes on Books, Sales, Catalogues, &c. 429
Books and Odd Volumes wanted 429
Notices to Correspondents 430
Advertisements 430
Notes.
THOMAS MORE AND JOHN FISHER.
Although I am afraid "NOTES AND QUERIES" may not be considered as open
to contributions purely bibliographical, and admitting I am uncertain
whether the following copy of the treatise of John Fisher, Bishop of
Rochester, has been before noted, I am induced to send this extract from
Techener's _Bulletin du Bibliophile_ for May 1851. The book is in the
library at Douai.
"This Treatise concernynge the fruytful Saynges of David the King
and prophete in the seven penytencyall psalmes, devyded in _ten_
sermons, was made and compyled by the ryght reverente fader in god
Johan Fyssher, doctour of dyvinyte and bysshop of Rochester, at
the exortacion and sterynge of the most excellent pryncesse
Margarete, Countesse of Richemount and Derby, and moder to out
souverayne Lorde Kynge H[=e]ry the VII."
It is described as a small 4to., printed upon vellum, in Gothic letters,
at London, 1508, by Wynkyn de Worde, and contains 146 leaves. On the
first leaf it has a portcullis, crowned with the motto "Dieu et mon
Droit." On the recto of the last leaf there is--
"Here endeth the exposycyon of the 7 psalmes. Enprynted at London
in the fletestrete, at the sygne of ye Sonne, by Wynkyn de Worde.
In the yere of oure lorde M.CCCCC.VIII. ye 16 day of ye moneth of
Juyn. The XXIII. yere of ye reygne of our souverayne Lorde Kynge
H[=e]ry the Seventh."
At the back, there is the sun, the monogram of Wynkyn de Worde--the
letters W. C. displayed as usual--and beneath, "Wynkyn de Worde."
At the beginning of the book, "sur une garde en velin" (a fly-leaf of
vellum?), there is written in a very neat hand the following ten verses,
the profession of faith of Thomas Morus and of his friend John Fisher,
Bishop of Rochester:
"The surest meanes for to attaine
The perfect waye to endlesse blisse
Are happie lief and to remaine
W'thin ye church where virtue is;
And if thy conscience be sae sounde
To thinse thy faith is truth indeede
Beware in thee noe schisme be founde
That unitie may have her meede;
If unitie thow doe embrace
In heaven (_en_?)joy possesse thy place."
Beneath--
"Qui non recte vivit in unitate ecclesiae
Catholicae, salvus esse non potest."
And lower on the same page--
"Thomas Morus d[=n]s cancellarius Angliae
Joh. Fisher Epus Roffensis."
It is traditionally reported, upon the testimony of some Anglican
Benedictines (an order now extinct), that the lines which contain the
profession of faith, and those which follow, are in the handwriting of
Bishop Fisher, and that the work was presented by him to the
chancellor, during their imprisonment, when by order of Henry VIII. the
chancellor was denied the consolation of his books.
In the same library there is a fine Psalter, which belonged to Queen
Elizabeth. The _Livre d'Heures_ of Mary Queen of Scots was here also to
be found: "Maria, glorious martyr and Queen of Scotland." It is
conjectured these books were brought to Douai by the fugitive English
Roman Catholic priests. In 1790 their collections were confiscated and
given to the public library of Douai. It would be of interest to
ascertain, if possible, the authenticity of the _Heures a l'Usage_,
stated to have belonged to Mary Queen of Scots. Upon this point one may
be permitted to be sceptical. I have myself seen two. One of these, it
was said, had been used by Mary on the scaffold, and contained a note in
the handwriting, as I think, of James II. attesting the fact. It was
understood to have been obtained from a monastery in France. The other,
a small Prayer Book MS. in vellum, of good execution, had the signature
"M." with a line I think over it of "O Lord, deliver me from my
enemies!" in French. I am, however, now writing from memory, and, in the
first case, of very many years.
Whether the line, "Maria, glorious martyr and Queen of Scotland," be
written in the Psalter, or has been added by the mental excitement of M.
Duthilloeul, the librarian at Douai, I cannot decide. The grand
culmination of "and Queen of Scotland" forms doubtless a very striking
anti-thesis: but neither the possessor of the book nor a priest would
have so sunk the martyr, although a woman and a queen were alike
concerned, as this line does. Lowndes states there is a copy of the
bishop's treatise on vellum at Cambridge. A copy is in the British
Museum; but the title, according, to Lowndes, has _seven_ sermons. It
will be observed the title now given has _ten_.
S. H.
NOTES ON NEWSPAPERS.
The social elements of society in the seventeenth century were more
simple in their character and development than at the present period.
The population was comparatively small, and therefore the strivings for
success in any pursuit did not involve that severe conflict which is so
frequently the case in the present day. Society then was more of a
community than it is now. It had not public bodies to aid it. It was
left more to its own inherent resources for reciprocal good, and for
mutual help. The temptations to evade and dissemble, in matters of
business, or private and public negotiations, were not so strong as they
now are. Its transactions were more transparent and defined, because
they were fewer and less complicated than many of our own. We readily
grant that society now, in its social, religious, and commercial
aspects, enjoys advantages immeasurably superior to those of any former
period; still there are some few advantages which it had then, that it
cannot possess now. The following advertisements, from the newspapers of
the time, will illustrate the truth of the foregoing remarks:
From a _Collection for Improvement of Husbandry and Trade_.
Friday, January 26, 1693/4.
"One that is fit to keep a Warehouse, be a Steward, or do any
Business that can be supposed an intelligent Man that has been a
Shopkeeper is fit for, and can give any Security that can be
desired, as far as Ten Thousand Pound goes, and has some Estate of
his own, desires an Employment of One hundred Pounds a year, or
upwards. I can give an account of him."
That a man having 10,000_l._ to give as security, and in possession of
an estate, should require a situation of 100_l._ per annum, sounds oddly
enough in our ears. "I can give an account of him," denotes that the
editor was a man well known and duly appreciated. He appears to have
been a scribe useful in many ways. He was known, and knowing.
Friday, February 2, 1693/4.
"A very eminent Brewer, and one I know to be a very honest
Gentleman, wants an Apprentice. I can give an account of him."
In what sense the word "honest" must here be taken it is difficult to
define. As an eminent brewer, we should naturally conclude he must have
been an honest man. He is here very eminent and very honest.
Friday March 16, 1693/4.
"Many Masters want Apprentices, and many Youths want Masters. If
they apply themselves to me, I'll strive to help them. Also for
variety of valuable services."
Here is the editor of a paper offering his help to masters and
apprentices for their mutual good. Let us suppose an advertisement of
this kind appearing in _The Times_ of our own day. Printing-house Square
would not contain a tithe of the individuals who would present
themselves for the reception of this accommodating aid. In such a case
the editors (as it regards their particular duties) would be cyphers,
for a continuous absorption of their time would necessarily occur in the
carrying out of this benevolent offer. This advertisement may be
considered as _multum in parvo_, giving the wants of the many in an
announcement of three or four lines, connecting them with a variety of
services which in those days were thought to be valuable. How greatly
are we assisted by these little incidents in forming correct views of
the state of society at that period.
The next advertisement shows the value set upon the services of one who
was to perform the duties of a clerk, and to play well on the violin.
"If any young Man that plays well on a Violin, and writes a good
Hand, desires a Clerkship, I can help him to Twenty Pounds a
year."
Of course twenty pounds was of more value then than it is now: still it
seems a small sum for the performance of such duties, for twelve months.
Here is musical talent required for the amusement of others, in
combination with the daily duties of a particular profession. An
efficient musician, and a good writer, and all for 20_l._ per annum! We
learn by the editor's "I can help him," his readiness to assist all who
would advertise in his journal, to obtain those employments which their
advertisements specified.
Friday, April 6, 1694.
"A Grocer of good business desires an Apprentice of good growth."
The "good growth" must have been intended to convey the idea of height
and strength.
My next article shall be devoted to advertisements of another class,
further illustrating the state of society and the peculiarities of the
people at the end of the seventeenth century.
H. M. BEALBY.
North Brixton.
TREATISE OF EQUIVOCATION.
As having originated the inquiry in "NOTES AND QUERIES"[1] respecting
this Treatise, under | 1,631.424675 |
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Produced by Juli Rew.
Vanity Fair
by
William Makepeace Thackeray
BEFORE THE CURTAIN
As the manager of the Performance sits before the curtain on the boards
and looks into the Fair, a feeling of | 1,631.655154 |
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CONNECTICUT
WIDE-AWAKE
SONGSTER.
EDITED BY
JOHN W. HUTCHINSON,
OF THE HUTCHINSON FAMILY OF SINGERS;
ASSISTED BY
BENJAMIN JEPSON.
“Lincoln and Liberty.”
NEW YORK:
O. HUTCHINSON, PUBLISHER,
272 GREENWICH STREET.
1860.
PURCHASING AGENCY.
FOR the accommodation of my numerous friends in various parts of the
country who prefer not to be at the expense of frequent visits to New
York, I have made arrangements with some of the most reliable houses in
the city to supply those who may favor me with their orders for
BOOKS, STATIONERY,
Hats and Caps, Dry-Goods,
DRUGS, HARDWARE, FURNITURE,
CARPETS, WALL-PAPERS, GROCERIES,
ETC., ETC.,
on such terms as can not but be satisfactory to the purchasers.
The disposition on the part of many merchants to overreach their
customers when they have an opportunity of doing so, renders it almost
as necessary for merchants to give references to their customers as
for customers to give references of their standing to the merchants;
hence I have been careful to make arrangements only with honorable and
responsible houses who can be fully relied on.
As my trade with those houses will be large in the aggregate, they can
afford to allow me a trifling commission and still supply my customers
at their _lowest rates_, which I will engage shall be as low as any
regular houses will supply them.
My friends and others are requested to try the experiment by forwarding
me orders for anything they may chance to want, and if not satisfied, I
will not ask them to repeat the experiment.
Those visiting the city are invited to give me a call before making
their purchases, and test the prices of the houses to whom I can with
confidence introduce them.
Bills for small lots of goods, if sent by express, can be paid for on
delivery, or arrangements can be made for supplying responsible parties
on time.
Address,
=O. HUTCHINSON, New York=.
CONNECTICUT
WIDE-AWAKE
| 1,631.833397 |
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THE ART OF PROMOTING THE GROWTH OF THE
Cucumber and Melon;
IN A SERIES OF DIRECTIONS
FOR THE BEST MEANS TO BE ADOPTED IN BRINGING THEM TO
_A COMPLETE STATE OF PERFECTION_.
* * * * *
BY
THOMAS WATKINS,
_Many Years Foreman with Mr. Grange, of Hackney, and now with W. Knight,
Esq. Highbury Park._
* * * * *
LONDON:
PUBLISHED BY HARDING, ST. JAMES'S STREET;
AND SOLD BY GRANGE AND DULLY, FRUITERERS, COVENT GARDEN; MASON AND SON,
SEEDSMEN, FLEET STREET; WARNER AND CO. SEEDSMEN, CORNHILL; GARRAWAY,
NURSERY AND SEEDSMAN, NEAR MARYLAND POINT, STRATFORD, ESSEX; AND BY THE
AUTHOR, AT HIGHBURY.
1824.
* * * * *
PRINTED BY S. CAVE, ISLINGTON GREEN.
* * * * *
THE ART OF PROMOTING THE GROWTH OF THE
Cucumber and Melon.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The author begs to inform the purchasers of this work, that it was
originally his intention to have given an engraving of the particular
description of cucumber and melon, which he has been so successful in
bringing to a state of perfection; and, in fact, a plate was executed,
at a considerable expense, for that purpose. Finding, however, that
although accurate in its representation of _fine_ fruit, it did not
pourtray the difference, nor convey the precise idea of those qualities
which constitute the superiority of the author's; and aware that such
would have been obvious to every experienced gardener, the design was
necessarily abandoned, trusting, that as it was merely intended for an
embellishment, its deficiency will not render the work less valuable to
the profession.
CONTENTS.
The Cucumber Seed-bed for October Page 1
The Fruiting Frame for early Plants 14
The Seed-bed for January 43
On the Culture of the late Cucumber 46
On the Hand-glass Cucumber 51
Dimensions of the Boxes and Lights for early and late Cucumbers 59
On the Culture of early and late Melons 65
Dimensions of the Boxes and Lights for ditto 83
Preface.
Having, when young, imbibed a particular inclination to study the
culture of the cucumber and melon, under the direction of my father,
whose character as an early framer was in high repute, I assiduously
tried every experiment which was calculated to improve upon his system,
by bringing them to a more complete state of perfection.
In marking the progress of their growth, I usually committed to writing
those plans which I had found to have been productive of beneficial
effects. The result of these remarks has proved the compilation of the
following treatise, undertaken at the request of several
horticulturists, who have expressed their desire to become acquainted
with the process of my mode of cultivation.
Considering it superfluous to enlarge this work by unnecessary or
controversial observations, I have confined myself entirely to those
directions, upon which I have uniformly acted; and have endeavoured to
reduce them into as plain and simple a form as possible; at the same
time observing to omit nothing which can be of utility in this difficult
and hitherto imperfectly understood branch of horticulture.
Several gardeners, who are now very eminent in their profession, have
placed themselves under my tuition, and I flatter myself are perfectly
satisfied that the instruction they received, was fully adequate to the
compensation required; and perfectly convinced them of the superiority
of my mode of culture. I here pledge myself, that the advice given to
such practitioners is contained in the following directions.
My principal object in the different experiments I have tried, has
always been to discover an easy, as well as a certain method of maturing
these delicate plants, and, in consequence, have avoided, as much as
possible, any artificial means that might be attended with difficulty or
expense.
The only writer I know upon this subject, with the exception of
Abercrombie, whose system is now totally exploded, is Mr. M'Phail,
gardener to Lord Hawkesbury. This gentleman published a treatise in the
year 1795, in which he strenuously recommends brick pits for cucumbers
and melons, as far superior to the dung bed. It will be obvious,
however, to every person who has perused that work, that the plan was
adopted merely through deficiency of knowledge in the proper management
of the dung bed; for Mr. M'Phail asserts, that upon first attempting to
produce early cucumbers in Lord Hawkesbury's garden, he completely
failed, and was, in consequence, induced to apply to some horticulturist
in the neighbourhood, to whom he paid a gratuity of five guineas for his
instruction. The principal thing he appears to have been taught, was to
keep the burning heat of the dung about the roots of the plants down by
the continual application of water into the bed; which, however, he
found insufficient to preserve them in a thriving state, throughout the
winter months. This caused him to assert that it was out of the power of
any person to keep a dung bed sweet, and consequently impracticable to
rear them at that time of the year. To this I have only to observe, that
the following directions will prove a contradiction; for if they are
strictly attended to, no fear need be entertained of their vigorous
growth, either from the premature season, or the inclemency of the
weather.
In December and January, although their health is certain, I must allow
that they do not grow so fast as in other months; and this is the
particular time when difficulty is experienced by those who are
unacquainted with the proper means to be adopted, although, perhaps,
their efforts may have been attended with far more trouble than the
rules here prescribed.
The dung bed is certainly of the greatest importance both in the culture
of the cucumber and melon; and want of knowledge in the management is
generally the cause of the loss of the plants in the winter season, by
the settlement of a cold moisture upon them, which cannot be removed
without assistance from the sun: particular attention, therefore, to the
directions given upon that point is highly necessary; indeed, it cannot
be too strongly impressed on the mind of the horticulturist that upon
this greatly depends the success of his endeavours to mature them to any
degree of perfection.
In the remarks upon preserving the plants from a cold moisture, in the
most inclement weather, I have called to assistance what may be
technically termed an artificial sun; and as this most material point
may be perfectly understood I shall here describe it more particularly.
Keep the bed always wrapped up to nearly the top of the box with hay,
straw, or any kind of sweet litter; observing that hay, however
damaged, is certainly preferable; this will have the desired effect in
promoting a top heat, and obviating the difficulty above-mentioned, in
keeping the plants perfectly dry.
To those who are unacquainted with the management of a dung bed, a brick
one certainly appears more advantageous, in being attended with less
trouble to the horticulturist, though infinitely with more expense, both
in the building and consumption of dung: this, however, is a mistaken
idea, for nothing certainly can be more congenial to the growth of
either the cucumber or melon than a sweet steam heat: this essential
requisite, which may always be obtained by the process hereafter
described, can be but partially promoted in brick pits; for although
water, in its necessary application, may create a steam heat, it soon
evaporates; and the heat of the linings having to pass through the
bricks and tiles, it becomes dry, and quite incapable of affording any
nourishment to the plants.
The limited space in which the plants are confined in their growth by
brick pits, is also a very great objection to this mode of culture. That
they derive their | 1,632.099528 |
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THE NURSERY
_A Monthly Magazine_
FOR YOUNGEST READERS.
VOLUME XIII.--No. 3
BOSTON:
JOHN L. SHOREY, No. 36 BROMFIELD STREET.
1873.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873,
BY JOHN L. SHOREY,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
BOSTON:
RAND, AVERY, & CO., STEREOTYPERS AND PRINTERS.
[Illustration: Contents]
IN PROSE.
PAGE.
The Pigeons and their Friend 65
The Obedient Chickens 69
John Ray's Performing Dogs 71
Ellen's Cure for Sadness 75
Kitty and the Bee 78
Little Mischief 82 | 1,632.180306 |
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IN THE
YULE-LOG GLOW
CHRISTMAS POEMS FROM
'ROUND THE WORLD
"Sic as folk tell ower at a winter ingle"
_Scott_
EDITED BY
HARRISON S. MORRIS
IN FOUR BOOKS
Book IV.
PHILADELPHIA | 1,632.316843 |
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Transcriber’s Note
| 1,632.480872 |
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Produced by Les Bowler
PENELOPE'S EXPERIENCES IN SCOTLAND
Being extracts from the commonplace book of Penelope Hamilton
By Kate Douglas Wiggin
1913 Gay and Hancock edition
To G.C.R.
Contents.
Part First--In Town.
I. A Triangular Alliance.
II. Edina, Scotia's Darling Seat.
III. A Vision in Princes Street.
IV. Susanna Crum cudna say.
V. We emulate the Jackdaw.
VI. Edinburgh society, past and present.
VII. Francesca meets th' unconquer'd Scot.
VIII. 'What made th' Assembly shine?'.
IX. Omnia presbyteria est divisa in partes tres.
X. Mrs. M'Collop as a sermon-taster.
XI. Holyrood awakens.
XII. Farewell to Edinburgh.
XIII. The spell of Scotland.
Part Second--In the Country.
XIV. The wee theekit hoosie in the loaning.
XV. Jane Grieve and her grievances.
XVI. The path that led to Crummylowe.
XVII. Playing 'Sir Patrick Spens.'
XVIII. Paris comes to Pettybaw.
XIX. Fowk o' Fife.
XX. A Fifeshire tea-party.
XXI. International bickering.
XXII. Francesca entertains the green-eyed monster.
XXIII. Ballad revels at Rowardennan.
XXIV. Old songs and modern instances.
XXV. A treaty between nations.
XXVI. 'Scotland's burning! Look out!.'
XXVII. Three magpies and a marriage.
Chapter I. A Triangular Alliance.
'Edina, Scotia's Darling seat!
All hail thy palaces and towers!'
Edinburgh, April 189-.
22 Breadalbane Terrace.
We have travelled together before, Salemina, Francesca, and I, and we
know the very worst there is to know about one another. After this point
has been reached, it is as if a triangular marriage had taken place,
and, with the honeymoon comfortably over, we slip along in thoroughly
friendly fashion. I use no warmer word than'friendly' because, in the
first place, the highest tides of feeling do not visit the coasts of
triangular | 1,632.480949 |
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Journals.)
{189}
NOTES AND QUERIES:
A MEDIUM OF INTER-COMMUNICATION FOR LITERARY MEN, ARTISTS, ANTIQUARIES,
GENEALOGISTS, ETC.
"When found, make a note of."--CAPTAIN CUTTLE.
* * * * *
No. 227.]
SATURDAY, MARCH 4. 1854.
[Price Fourpence. Stamped Edition 5d.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
NOTES:-- Page
Burton's "Anatomy of Melancholy," by Dr. E. F.
Rimbault 191
"[Greek: Aion]," its Derivation 192
William Lyons, Bishop of Cork, Cloyne, and Ross 192
Curious Marriage Agreement 193
Ancient American Languages, by K. R. H. Mackenzie 194
Conduitt and Newton, by Bolton Corney 195
MINOR NOTES:--The Music in Middleton's Tragi-Comedy
of the "Witch"--Mr. Macaulay and Sir Archibald Alison
in error--"Paid down upon the nail"--Corpulence a
Crime--Curious Tender--The Year 1854--A Significant
Hint 196
QUERIES:--
Literary Queries, by the Rev. R. Bingham 197
MINOR QUERIES:--Hunter of Polmood in Tweed-dale--
Dinteville Family--Eastern Practice of Medicine--
Sunday--Three Picture Queries--"Cutting off with a
Shilling"--Inman or Ingman Family--Constable of
Masham--Fading Ink--Sir Ralph Killigrew 198
MINOR QUERIES WITH ANSWERS:--Pepys--"Retainers to
Seven Shares and a Half"--Madden's "Reflections and
Resolutions proper for the Gentlemen of Ireland"--
King Edward I.'s Arm--Elstob, Elizabeth--Monumental
Brasses in London 199
REPLIES:--
Rapping no Novelty: and Table-turning, by Wm. Winthrop,
&c. 200
General Whitelocke, by J. S. Harry, &c. 201
"Man proposes, but God disposes," by J. W. Thomas, &c. 202
Napoleon's Spelling, by H. H. Breen 203
Memoirs of Grammont, by W. H. Lammin 204
The Myrtle Bee, by Charles Brown 205
Celtic Etymology 205
PHOTOGRAPHIC CORRESPONDENCE:--Improvements in the
Albumenized Process--Mr. Crookes on restoring old
Collodion--Photographic Queries 206
REPLIES TO MINOR QUERIES:--London Fortifications--
Burke's Domestic Correspondence--Battle of
Villers-en-Couche--"I could not love thee, dear, so
much"--Sir Charles Cotter | 1,632.682854 |
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[Illustration: LET GO OF THAT HORSE!--PAGE 144. Y. A.]
* * * * *
YOUNG AUCTIONEERS;
OR,
THE POLISHING OF A ROLLING STONE.
By EDWARD STRATEMEYER,
Author of "Bound to be an Electrician," "Shorthand Tom,"
"Fighting for his Own," etc., etc.
W. L. ALLISON COMPANY,
NEW YORK.
* * * * *
Popular Books for Boys and Girls.
Working Upward Series,
By EDWARD STRATEMEYER.
THE YOUNG AUCTIONEERS, or The Polishing of a Rolling Stone.
BOUND TO BE AN ELECTRICIAN, or Franklin Bell's Success.
SHORTHAND TOM THE REPORTER, or The Exploits of a Smart Boy.
FIGHTING FOR HIS OWN, or The Fortunes of a Young Artist.
Price, $1.00 per Volume, postpaid.
Bright and Bold Series,
By ARTHUR M. WINFIELD.
POOR BUT PLUCKY, or The Mystery of a Flood.
SCHOOL DAYS OF FRED HARLEY, or Rivals for All Honors.
BY PLUCK, NOT LUCK, or Dan Granbury's Struggle to Rise.
THE MISSING TIN BOX, or Hal Carson's Remarkable City Adventures.
Price, 75 Cents per Volume, postpaid.
Young Sportsman's Series,
By CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL.
THE RIVAL BICYCLISTS, or Fun and Adventures on the Wheel.
YOUNG OARSMEN OF LAKEVIEW, or The Mystery of Hermit Island.
LEO THE CIRCUS BOY, or Life Under the Great White Canvas.
Price, 75 Cents per Volume, postpaid.
Young Hunters Series,
By CAPTAIN RALPH BONEHILL.
GUN AND SLED, or The Young Hunters of Snow-Top Island.
YOUNG HUNTERS IN PORTO RICO, or The Search for a Lost Treasure.
(Another volume in preparation.)
Price, 75 Cents per Volume, postpaid.
W. L. ALLISON CO.,
105 Chambers Street, New York.
COPYRIGHT, 1897, BY W. L. ALLISON CO.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE
I. Matt Attends a Sale 5
II. A Lively Discussion 12
III. Something of the Past 19
IV. An Interesting Proposition 26
V. Matt Is Discharged 33
VI. A Business Partnership 40
VII. Getting Ready to Start 47
VIII. An Unexpected Set-Back 53
IX. The Result of a Fire 60
X. On the Road at Last 68
XI. Harsh Treatment 77
XII. Matt Stands up for Himself 84
XIII. The Corn Salve Doctor 92
XIV. The Young Auctioneer 100
XV. The Charms of Music 108
XVI. The Confidence Man 116
XVII. The Storm 124
XVIII. A Hold Up 132
XIX. Out of a Bad Scrape 141
XX. Accused of Stealing 150
XXI. The Tell-Tale Cap 157
XXII. The Shanty in the Woods 165
XXIII. Something is Missing 173
XXIV. Along the River 181
XXV. A Bitter Mistake 189
XXVI. Something of a Surprise 197
XXVII. Timely Assistance 205
XXVIII. Back to the Village 213
XXIX. Undesirable Customers 220
XXX. A Dash from Danger 229
XXXI. Dangerous Mountain Travelling 238
XXXII. An Interesting Letter 245
XXXIII. The Rival Auctioneers 252
XXXIV. Matt Speaks His Mind 260
XXXV. Tom Inwold 268
XXXVI. Lost in the Snow 277
XXXVII. More of Auction Life 284
XXXVIII. A Surprising Discovery 291
XXXIX. A Mystery Cleared Up 298
XL. The Mining Shares 304
PREFACE.
"The Young Auctioneers" forms the initial volume of a line of juvenile
stories called "The Working Upward Series."
The tale is complete in itself, and tells of the adventures of a
homeless, although not a penniless youth, who strikes up an
acquaintanceship with another young fellow experienced as an
auctioneer. The two purchase a horse and wagon, stock up with goods,
and take to the road. The partners pass through a number of more or
less trying experiences, and the younger lad is continually on the
lookout for his father, who has broken out of an asylum while partly
deranged in mind over the loss of his wife and his fortune.
I have endeavored in this tale to give a faithful picture of life
among a certain class of traveling salesmen who are but little known
to the world at large, especially to those who inhabit our large
cities. In country places the traveling auctioneer is looked for as a
matter of course, and he is treated according to the humor of the
inhabitants, or rather, according to the merits or demerits of the
"bargains" offered on a previous trip.
I sincerely trust that my numerous boy readers will find the tale to
their liking, and that the moral--to lead an upright, honest life
under any and all circumstances--will not escape them.
EDWARD STRATEMEYER.
THE YOUNG AUCTIONEER.
CHAPTER I.
MATT ATTENDS A SALE.
"Now, ladies and gentlemen, what am I offered for this elegant vase,
imported direct from Italy, a most marvelous piece of workmanship,
worth every cent of twenty-five dollars? Who will start it at five
dollars? Start it at four? Start it at three? At two? At one dollar?
What is that--fifty cents? Rather low, lady, but as I said before,
these goods must be sold, regardless of the prices obtained. Fifty
cents, it is! Fifty--fifty! Who will make it one dollar?"
"Sixty!"
"What, only sixty? Well, well, well! Never mind, the goods must go,
and sixty cents is better than nothing. Sixty--sixty----"
"Seventy-five!"
"Eighty!"
"One dollar!"
"At last I am offered one dollar! Think of it! One dollar for a
beautiful vase such as might well adorn the home of a Gould, or a
Vanderbilt! But such is life. One dollar--one dollar----"
"One and a quarter!"
"One and a half!"
"One and a half is offered! Oh, what a shame, ladies and gentlemen; a
paltry dollar and a half for an article worth, at the very lowest
estimate, twenty-five dollars. Who makes it two dollars?"
"Two!"
"Two and a half!"
"Three!"
"Three and a quarter!"
"Three and a quar-- Ah, four dollars? Four dollars! Who says five?
Going at four--at four--at four. Four and a half--four and a
quarter--this is your last chance, remember. Did you say five, sir?
No? Well, four it is, then. Going--going--the last chance, ladies and
gentlemen! Going--going--gone, to the lady in the brown dress, Andrew,
for four dollars!"
The scene was a small store on Nassau street near Fulton street, in
New York City. Outside of the open doorway hung a red flag, indicative
of an auction sale. The single window of the place was crowded with
vases, imitation marble statues, plated tableware, and gorgeous lamps
of highly-polished metal.
Among these articles was a sign in black letters on white cardboard
bearing these words:
ROYAL CONSIGNMENT AUCTION CO.,
Sales Daily from 10 A.M. to 3 P.M.
Inside, toward the | 1,632.781583 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
Whoso Findeth a Wife, by William Le Queux.
________________________________________________________________________
________________________________________________________________________
WHOSO FINDETH A WIFE, BY WILLIAM LE QUEUX.
CHAPTER ONE.
A STATE | 1,632.790856 |
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IN THE DAY OF ADVERSITY
COPYRIGHT, 1895,
BY D. APPLETON AND COMPANY.
* * * * *
PREFACE.
Those who are acquainted with the delightful Memoires Secrets de M. Le
Comte de Bussy Rabutin (particularly the supplements to them), and
with Rousset's Histoire de Louvois, will, perhaps, recognise the
inspiration of this story. Those who are not so acquainted with these
works will, I trust, still be able to take some interest in the
adventures of Georges St. Georges.
J. B.-B.
* * * * *
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I.--"THE KING'S COMMAND" 1
II.--HOSPITALITY! 10
III.--IT IS THE MAN 18
IV.--"HER LIFE STANDS IN THE PATH OF OTHERS' GREED" 27
V.--THE GRAVEYARD 34
VI.--A LITTLE LIGHT 44
VII.--A REASON 53
VIII.--DRAWING NEAR 62
IX.--A ROYAL SUMMONS 71
X.--MADAME LA MARQUISE 80
XI.--THE MARQUISE TELLS A STORY 89
XII.--LOST 96
XIII.--DE ROQUEMAURE'S WORK 105
XIV.--"I MUST SPEAK!" 114
XV.--THE MINISTER OF WAR 123
XVI.--PASQUEDIEU! 132
XVII.--"KILL HIM DEAD, RAOUL!" 140
XVIII.--LA GALERE GRANDE REALE 149
XIX.--"A NEW LIFE" 158
XX.--"HURRY, HURRY, HURRY!" 166
XXI.--MAY, 1692 175
XXII.--LA HOGUE 183
XXIII.--THE BITTERNESS OF DEATH 191
XXIV.--ON THE ROAD 199
XXV.--"I KNOW YOUR FACE" 207
XXVI.--IN THE SNARE 216
XXVII.--ANOTHER ESCAPE 224
XXVIII.--THE FLEUR-DE-LIS 231
XXIX.--FAREWELL HOPE 240
XXX.--"IT IS TRUE" 248
XXXI.--ST. GEORGES'S DOOM 256
XXXII.--THE LAST CHANCE 265
XXXIII.--THE DAY OF EXECUTION 274
XXXIV.--"I WILL NEVER FORGIVE HER" 283
XXXV.--AT LAST 291
CONCLUSION 300
* * * * *
IN THE DAY OF ADVERSITY.
THE FIRST PERIOD.
CHAPTER I.
"THE KING'S COMMAND."
All over Franche-Comte the snow had fallen for three days unceasingly,
yet through it for those three days a man--a soldier--had ridden,
heading his course north, for Paris.
Wrapped in his cloak, and prevented from falling by his bridle arm, he
bore a little child--a girl some three years old--on whom, as the
cloak would sometimes become disarranged, he would look down fondly,
his firm, grave features relaxing into a sad smile as the blue eyes of
the little creature gazed upward and smiled into his own face. Then he
would whisper a word of love to it, press it closer to his great
breast, and again ride on.
For three days the snow had fallen; was falling when he left the
garrison of Pontarlier and threaded his way through the pine woods on
the Jura <DW72>s; fell still as, with the wintry night close at hand,
he approached the city of Dijon. Yet, except to sleep at nights, to
rest himself, the child, and the horse, he had gone on and on
unstopping, or only stopping to shoot once a wolf that, maddened with
hunger, had sprung out at him and endeavoured to leap to his saddle;
and once to cut down two footpads--perhaps poor wretches, also
maddened with hunger--who had striven to stop his way.
On and on and on through the unceasing snow he had gone with the child
still held fast to his bosom, resting the first night at Poligny,
since the snow was so heavy on the ground that his horse could go no
further, and another at Dole for the same reason, until now he drew
near to Dijon.
"A short distance to travel in three days," he muttered to himself,
as, afar off, his eye caught the gleam of a great beacon flaring
surlily through the snow-laden air--the beacon on the southern
watchtower of the city walls--"a short distance. Yet I have done my
best. Have obeyed orders. Now let me see for further instructions."
There was still sufficient light left in the wintry gloom to read by,
whereon, shifting the child a little as he drew rein--it needed not
much drawing, since the good horse beneath him could hardly progress
beyond the slowest walk, owing to the accumulated snow--he took from
his holster a letter, and, passing over the beginning of it, turned to
the last leaf and read:
"At Dijon you will stay at the chateau of my good friend and
subject the Marquis Phelypeaux, avoiding all inns; at
Troyes, at the manoir of Madame la Marquise de Roquemaure;
at Melun, if you have to halt there, at the chateau of
Monsieur de Riverac. Between these, if forced to rest, you
are to select the auberges which offer; but at these three
towns you are to repose yourself as stated. Above all, fail
not to present yourself at the manoir of Roquemaure. The
marquise will deliver to your keeping a message for me.
Therefore, be sure you travel by the route indicated, and
not by that which passes by Semur, Tonnerre, and Sens. On
this, I pray God to have you, M. Georges St. Georges, in his
holy keeping. Written at Paris, the 9th of December, 1687.
"_Signe_, LOUIS.
_Soussigne_, LOUVOIS."
"So," said M. Georges St. Georges to himself, as he replaced the
letter in his holster, "it is to the Marquis Phelypeaux that I am to
go. So be it. It may be better for the child than at an inn. And I
cannot gossip, or, if I do, only to my host, who will doubtless retail
it all to the king." Then addressing himself to the watchman on the
southern gate, he cried:
"Open there, and let me in!"
"'Tis too late," the man replied, looking down at him through the
fast-gathering night. "None enter Dijon now after four of the evening.
Ten thousand devils! why could you not have come half an hour earlier?
Yet there is a good auberge outside the walls, and----"
"Open, I say!" called up the horseman. "I ride by the king's orders,
and have to present myself to the Marquis Phelypeaux. Open, I say!"
"_Tiens!_" exclaimed the watchman, peering down at him through the
gray snow and rime with which was now mixed the blackness of the
oncoming night. "You ride in the king's name and would see the
marquis. _C'est autre chose!_ Yet I must be careful. Wait, I will
descend. Draw up to the _grille_ of the gate."
The horseman did as the watchman bid him, looking down once at the
child in his arms, whose face had become uncovered for a moment, and
smiling again into its eyes, while he muttered, "Sweet, ere long you
shall have a softer couch"; then, as the _grille_ opened and the
watchman's ruddy face--all blotched with the consumption of frequent
_pigeolets_ of Macon and other wines--appeared at the grating, he bent
down toward him as though to submit his own face to observation.
"Your name and following?" grunted the man.
"Georges St. Georges. Lieutenant in the Chevaux-Legers of the
Nivernois. In garrison at the Fort de Joux, between Verrieres and
Pontarlier. Recalled to Paris by order of the king. Ordered to visit
the Marquis Phelypeaux. Are you answered, friend?"
"What do you carry in your arms? It seems precious by the way you
clasp it to you."
"It is precious. It is a child--my child."
"_Tiens!_ A strange burden for a soldier _en route_ from the frontier
to Paris. Where is the mother?"
"In her grave! Now open the gate."
For answer the bolts and bars were heard creaking, and presently one
half of the great door swung back to admit the rider. And he,
dismounting, led his horse through it by one hand, while with the
other he clasped his child to his breast beneath the cloak.
Standing in the warder's lodge was a woman--doubtless his wife--who
had heard the conversation; for as St. Georges entered she came
forward and exclaimed gently:
"A cold, long ride, monsieur, for such as that," and she touched with
her finger the rounded back of the child as it lay curled up on his
arm beneath the cloak. Then, still femininely, she went on: "Ah! let
me see the _pauvrette_," and without resistance from him she drew back
the cloak and gazed at it. "Mon Dieu!" she exclaimed, "a pretty
little thing. Poor little _bebe_. And the mother dead, monsieur?" her
eyes filling with tears as she spoke.
"Dead," he replied--"dead. In giving birth to her. I am father and
mother both. God help her!"
The woman stooped down and kissed the little thing, whose soft blue
eyes smiled up at her; then she said:
"The Marquis Phelypeaux is a solitary--dwelling alone. There is little
provision for children there. What will monsieur do?"
"As I have done for three years--attend to all its wants myself. There
is none other. It had a nurse in the fort; but I could not leave it
nor bring her with me. In Paris I may find another. Now tell me where
the house of this marquis is?" and he made a movement to go forward.
"And its name, monsieur?" the kindly woman asked, still touched with
pity for the little motherless thing being carried on so long and cold
a journey. Two or three of her own children were already in their beds
of rags that were none too clean, but they, at least, were housed and
warm, and not like this one.
"Her name," he replied, "is Dorine. It was her mother's." Then turning
to the warder, who stood by, he exclaimed again, "Now direct me to the
marquis's, I beg you."
The man's method of direction was to seize by the ear a boy who at
that moment had come up--he was one of his own numerous brood--and to
bid him lead the monsieur to the marquis's.
"'Tis but a pistol shot," he said, "at the foot of the Rampe. Be off!"
to his son, "away! Escort the gentleman."
Certainly it was no great distance from the southern gate, yet when
Monsieur St. Georges had arrived there, still leading his horse by one
hand and carrying his precious burden by the other, or by the other
arm, the house had so deserted a look that it seemed as though he was
hardly likely to be able to carry out the orders of the king and his
minister to quarter himself upon the marquis instead of going to an
inn. Therefore, he gazed up at the mansion before which he stood
waiting, wondering what kind of man was this who dwelt in it.
The house itself was large and vast, having innumerable windows giving
on to a large, open, bare _place_ in front of it, while the great
_porte cochere_ had a lock which looked as though it would resist an
attack either of battering rams or gunpowder if brought against it.
But the blinds, or shutters, were all closed; the great door itself
looked as though it had not been opened for a century; the knocker--a
Christ upon the cross!--as though it had not been raised for as long a
time.
"Phelypeaux," muttered St. Georges to himself. "Phelypeaux! I know the
name; what do I know of him? Let me think. Ha! I have it. A soldier
like myself. Also another, a brother, a priest, Bishop of
Lodeve--which is my host, I wonder? For choice the soldier, if all is
true of the bishop that is told. _Mon enfant_," turning to the urchin,
"is the marquis soldier or divine?"
The boy laughed, then said:
"Divine, monsieur. But _en retraite_. Oh! _avez ca_--they say droll
things. Only I am young--I do not know." Whereon he grinned. Then he
exclaimed: "_Voila!_ the door is opening."
It was, in truth, or rather a wicket in the door large enough to admit
a man who should stoop, or the urchin by the side of St. Georges; but
certainly by no means large enough to admit of the passage of his
horse if that was also to be entertained for the night.
At that wicket appeared a face, wine-stained and blotchy, but not so
good-humoured-looking as that of the watchman at the southern gate.
Instead, a scowling face, as of a man on whom good liquor had no
improving effect, but, rather, had soured and embittered him.
"What want you?" he asked, staring out moodily at the soldier before
him and at his horse, and observing the great sword, hat, and cloak of
the former with--beneath the latter--its burden; and also the military
trappings of the steed. "What want you?"
"An audience of the marquis. By order of the king. Also food and
lodging by the same authority. _Ma foi!_ if I had my way I should not
demand it. There is a good auberge over there to all appearances,"
nodding his head toward the white-walled inn on the other side of the
_place_, before which hung a bush and on which was painted the whole
length of the house: "_L'Ours de Bourgogne. Logement a pied et a
cheval._" "Doubtless I could be well accommodated."
"Take your horse there, at any rate," said the sour-faced man; "there
is no accommodation for _it_. Then come back. We will see later about
you." And turning to the boy he cried, gesticulating with his hands:
"_Va t'en_. Be off!"
The lad did not wait to be bidden a second time to depart, but
scampered across the open _place_, while St. Georges, regarding the
morose-looking man in front of him, said: "My friend, neither your
courtesy nor your hospitality is of the best. Does your master bid you
treat all who come to visit him in this manner?"
"I am obeying my master," the other replied; "the only one I
acknowledge--when I parley with you. Show me your warrant, however,
for coming to this house."
"There it is," replied St. Georges; "take it to your master, bid him
read it, and then bring me whatever message he may send me.
Perhaps"--regarding the servitor through the wicket, as he gave him
the paper--"if the master is like the man I had best wait until he has
read the king's letter ere I seek shelter for my horse. It may be that
I shall have to demand it for myself also at the inn."
Then, to his amazement, he saw that the other had opened the leaves of
the king's letter and was calmly reading them. "Fellow!" he exclaimed,
"how dare you make so bold? You read a letter from the king to me--to
be shown to your master----"
"Pish!" replied the other. "Be silent. I am Phelypeaux."
"You!" exclaimed the soldier, stepping back--"you!" and his eye fell
on the rusty-brown clothing of the man half in, half out, the wicket.
"You!"
"Yes, I. Now go and put your horse up at the inn. Then come back. But
stay--what have you beneath your arm?"
"A child."
"A child! Does Louis think I keep a nursery? What are we to do with
the child while you stay here?"
"I will attend to that. If you give me a bed the child will share it,
and if you have some white bread and milk it is enough for its food."
"Best get that at the 'Ours,'" replied he who said he was Phelypeaux.
"Bread I have, but no milk. _Ma foi!_ there is no babes' food here.
Now, I counsel you, go seek the inn. Your horse may take a chill. Then
come back. And"--as the soldier turned to lead his animal across the
snow-covered, deserted _place_--"leave the child there. The _patronne_
is a motherly creature with half a dozen of her own brood. 'Twill be
better there than here. Ring loudly when you return--I am somewhat
deaf," and he banged the wicket in St. Georges's face.
"Humph!" muttered the latter, as he crossed to the inn; "the counsel
is good. That seems no place for a child. Yet, how to leave it? Still,
it is best. It has slept often with its nurse; maybe will sleep well
at the inn. Well, let me see what the _patronne_ is like."
He entered the yard of the "Ours" as he meditated thus, engaged a
stall for the animal, saw it fed and rubbed down, and, then taking his
pistols and the king's letter from the holsters and putting them in
his belt, entered the hostelry and called for a cup of wine. And,
seeing that the woman who served him--evidently the mistress from the
manner in which she joked with one or two customers and gave
directions to a servant--was a motherly looking woman, he asked her if
the child he carried would be safe there for the night?
"A child," she exclaimed, "a child, and in the arms of a soldier! Why,
sir, whence come you with a child? _Mon Dieu!_ Of all burdens,
soldiers rarely carry | 1,633.179329 |
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E-text prepared by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan, and the Project
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
The Postmaster's Daughter
by Louis Tracy
Author of "The Terms of Surrender," "The Wings of the Morning,"
etc., etc.
1916
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
II. P. C ROBINSON "TAKES A LINE"
III. THE GATHERING CLOUDS
IV. A CABAL
V. THE SEEDS OF MISCHIEF
VI. SCOTLAND YARD TAKES A HAND
VII. "ALARUMS AND EXCURSIONS"
VIII. AN INTERRUPTED SYMPOSIUM
IX. HE WHOM THE CAP FITS--
X. THE CASE AGAINST GRANT
XI. P. C. ROBINSON TAKES ANOTHER LINE
XII. WHEREIN WINTER GETS TO WORK
XIII. CONCERNING THEODORE SIDDLE
XIV. ON BOTH SIDES OF THE RIVER
XV. A MATTER OF HEREDITY
XVI. FURNEAUX MAKES A SUCCESSFUL BID
XVII. AN OFFICIAL HOUSEBREAKER
XVIII. THE TRUTH AT LAST
CHAPTER I
THE FACE AT THE WINDOW
John Menzies Grant, having breakfasted, filled his pipe, lit it, and
strolled out bare-headed into the garden. The month was June, that
glorious rose-month which gladdened England before war-clouds darkened
the summer sky. As the hour was nine o'clock, it is highly probable that
many thousands of men were then strolling out into many thousands of
gardens in precisely similar conditions; but, given youth, good health,
leisure, and a fair amount of money, it is even more probable that few
among the smaller number thus roundly favored by fortune looked so
perplexed as Grant.
Moreover, his actions were eloquent as words. A spacious French window
had been cut bodily out of the wall of an old-fashioned room, and was now
thrown wide to admit the flower-scented breeze. Between this window and
the right-hand angle of the room was a | 1,633.503204 |
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Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by
Google Books (Harvard University)
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source: https://books.google.com/books?id=emlLN6DE1I
(Harvard University)
2. This book was also published as "Aaron the Jew. A Novel," in
London by Hutchinson & Co. in 1895.
A Fair Jewess
BY
B. L. FARJEON,
_Author of "The Last Tenant" Etc_.
NEW YORK:
THE F. M. LUPTON PUBLISHING COMPANY.
Copyright, 1894, by
THE CASSELL PUBLISHING CO.
_All rights reserved_.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. The Poor Doctor
II. Dr. Spenlove's Visitor
III. Dr. Spenlove Undertakes a Delicate Mission
IV. "One More Unfortunate"
V. "Come! We Will End It"
VI. The Friend in Need
VII. The Result of Dr. Spenlove's Mission
VIII. What was Put in the Iron Box
IX. Mr. Moss Plays his Part
X. The Vision in the Churchyard
XI. Mr. Whimpole Introduces Himself
XII. The Course of the Seasons
XIII. Aaron Cohen Preaches a Sermon on Large Noses
XIV. A Proclamation of War
XV. The Battle is Fought and Won
XVI. Joy and Sorrow
XVII. Divine Consolation
XVIII. In the New House
XIX. The Doctor Speaks Plainly to Aaron Cohen
XX. A Momentous Night
XXI. The Temptation
XXII. The Living and the Dead
XXIII. Plucked from the Jaws of Death
XXIV. The Curtain Falls
XXV. After Many Years
XXVI. The Foundation of Aaron's Fortune
XXVII. The Farewell
XXVIII. Revisits Gosport
XXIX. What Shall be Done to the Man whom the
King Delighteth to Honor?
XXX. The Honorable Percy Storndale
XXXI. The Spirit of the Dead Past
XXXII. Before All, Duty
XXXIII. A Cheerful Doctor
XXXIV. Ruth's Secret
XXXV. The Honorable Percy | 1,633.708217 |
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Produced by Steve Harris and David Widger
AN ESSAY CONCERNING HUMANE UNDERSTANDING
IN FOUR BOOKS
BY JOHN LOCKE
Quam bellum est velle confiteri potius nescire quod nescias, quam ista
effutientem nauseare, atque ipsum sibi displicere.
--Cic. De Natur. Deor. 1. i.
LONDON
Printed by Eliz. Holt, for Thomas Basset, at the George in Fleet
Street, near St. Dunstan's Church.
MDCXC
CONTENTS:
[Based on the 2d Edition]
EPISTLE DEDICATORY TO THE EARL OF PEMBROKE
THE EPISTLE TO THE READER
INTRODUCTION
BOOK I. NEITHER PRINCIPLES NOR IDEAS ARE INNATE.
I. NO INNATE SPECULATIVE PRINCIPLES
II. NO INNATE PRACTICAL PRINCIPLES
III. OTHER CONSIDERATIONS CONCERNING INNATE PRINCIPLES, BOTH
SPECULATIVE AND PRACTICAL
BOOK II. OF IDEAS.
I. OF IDEAS IN GENERAL, AND THEIR ORIGINAL
II. OF SIMPLE IDEAS
III. OF SIMPLE IDEAS OF SENSATION
IV. IDEA OF SOLIDITY
V. OF SIMPLE IDEAS OF DIVERS SENSES
VI. OF SIMPLE IDEAS OF REFLECTION...
VII. OF SIMPLE IDEAS OF BOTH SENSATION AND REFLECTION
VIII. SOME FURTHER CONSIDERATIONS CONCERNING OUR SIMPLE
IDEAS OF SENSATION
IX. OF PERCEPTION
X. OF RETENTION
XI. OF DISCERNING, AND OTHER OPERATIONS OF THE MIND
XII. OF COMPLEX IDEAS
XIII. OF SIMPLE MODES:--AND FIRST, OF THE SIMPLE MODES OF
THE IDEA OF SPACE
XIV. IDEA OF DURATION AND ITS SIMPLE MODES
XV. IDEAS OF DURATION AND EXPANSION, CONSIDERED TOGETHER
XVI. IDEA OF NUMBER AND ITS SIMPLE MODES
XVII. OF THE IDEA OF INFINITY
XVIII. OF OTHER SIMPLE MODES
XIX. OF THE MODES OF THINKING
XX. OF MODES OF PLEASURE AND PAIN
XXI. OF THE IDEA OF POWER
XXII. OF MIXED MODES
XXIII. OF OUR COMPLEX IDEAS OF SUBSTANCES
XXIV. OF COLLECTIVE IDEAS OF SUBSTANCES
XXV. OF IDEAS OF RELATION
XXVI. OF IDEAS OF CAUSE AND EFFECT, AND OTHER RELATIONS
XXVII. OF IDEAS OF IDENTITY AND DIVERSITY
XXVIII. OF IDEAS OF OTHER RELATIONS
XXIX. OF CLEAR AND OBSCURE, DISTINCT AND CONFUSED IDEAS
XXX. OF REAL AND FANTASTICAL IDEAS
XXXI. OF ADEQUATE AND INADEQUATE IDEAS
XXXII. OF TRUE AND FALSE IDEAS
XXXIII. OF THE ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS
TO THE RIGHT | 1,633.779153 |
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Produced by Larry B. Harrison, Wayne Hammond 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:
Italicized text delimited by underscores.
This project uses utf-8 encoded characters. If some characters are not
readable, check your settings of your browser to ensure you have a
default font installed that can display utf-8 characters.]
WHAT THE WHITE RACE MAY
LEARN FROM THE INDIAN
BOOKS BY GEORGE WHARTON JAMES
What the White Race May Learn from the Indian.
In and Around the Grand Canyon.
Indians of the Painted Desert Region.
In and Out of the Old Missions of California.
The Wonders of the Colorado Desert.
The Story of Scraggles.
Indian Basketry.
How to Make Indian and Other Baskets.
Travelers’ Handbook to Southern California.
The Beacon Light.
[Illustration: GROUP OF HOPI MAIDENS AND AN OLD MAN AT MASHONGANAVI.]
What the White Race May
Learn from the Indian
BY
GEORGE WHARTON JAMES
AUTHOR OF “IN AND AROUND THE GRAND CANYON,” “INDIAN BASKETRY,” “HOW
TO MAKE INDIAN AND OTHER BASKETS,” “PRACTICAL BASKET MAKING,”
“THE INDIANS OF THE PAINTED DESERT REGION,” “TRAVELERS’ HANDBOOK
TO SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA,” “IN AND OUT OF THE OLD
MISSIONS OF CALIFORNIA,” “THE STORY OF SCRAGGLES,”
“THE WONDERS OF THE COLORADO DESERT,” “THROUGH
RAMONA’S COUNTRY,” “LIVING THE RADIANT
LIFE,” “THE BEACON LIGHT,” ETC.
[Illustration]
CHICAGO
FORBES & COMPANY
1908
COPYRIGHT, 1908
BY
EDITH E. FARNSWORTH
The Lakeside Press
R. R. DONNELLEY & SONS COMPANY
CHICAGO
[Illustration | 1,633.782097 |
2023-11-16 18:44:17.9312760 | 4,336 | 13 |
Produced by David Widger from page images generously
provided by the Google Books
THE LADIES' PARADISE
(The Sequel To “Piping Hot!”)
A Realistic Novel
By Émile Zola
Translated without Abridgment from the 80th French Edition
London: Vizetelly And Company
1886.
[Illustration: 0011]
[Illustration: 0012]
[Illustration: 0014]
THE LADIES' PARADISE
CHAPTER I.
DENISE had walked from the Saint-Lazare railway station, where a
Cherbourg train had landed her and her two brothers, after a night
passed on the hard seat of a third-class carriage. She was leading Pépé
by the hand, and Jean was following her, all three fatigued after the
journey, frightened and lost in this vast Paris, their eyes on every
street name, asking at every corner the way to the Rue de la Michodière,
where their uncle Baudu lived. But on arriving in the Place Gaillon, the
young girl stopped short, astonished.
“Oh! look there, Jean,” said she; and they stood still, nestling close
to one another, all dressed in black, wearing the old mourning bought
at their father's death. She, rather puny for her twenty years, was
carrying a small parcel; on the other side, her little brother, five
years old, was clinging to her arm; while behind her, the big brother, a
strapping youth of sixteen, was standing empty-handed.
“Well,” said she, after a pause, “that _is_ a shop!”
They were at the corner of the Rue de la Michodière and the Rue
Neuve-Saint-Augustin, in front of a draper's shop, which displayed a
wealth of colour in the soft October light. Eight o'clock was striking
at the church of Saint-Roch; not many people were about, only a few
clerks on their way to business, and housewives doing their morning
shopping. Before the door, two shopmen, mounted on a step-ladder,
were hanging up some woollen goods, whilst in a window in the Rue
Neuve-Saint-Augustin another young man, kneeling with his back to the
pavement, was delicately plaiting a piece of blue silk. In the shop,
where there were as yet no customers, there was a buzz as of a swarm of
bees at work.
“By Jove!” said Jean, “this beats Valognes. Yours wasn't such a fine
shop.”
Denise shook her head. She had spent two years there, at Cornaille's,
the principal draper's in the town, and this shop, encountered so
suddenly--this, to her, enormous place, made her heart swell, and kept
her excited, interested, and oblivious of everything else. The high
plate-glass door, facing the Place Gaillon, reached the first storey,
amidst a complication of ornaments covered with gilding. Two allegorical
figures, representing two laughing, bare-breasted women, unrolled the
scroll bearing the sign, “The Ladies' Paradise.” The establishment
extended along the Rue de la Michodière and the Rue Neuve-Saint
Augustin, and comprised, beside the corner house, four others--two on
the right and two on the left, bought and fitted up recently. It seemed
to her an endless extension, with its display on the ground floor, and
the plate-glass windows, through which could be seen the whole length of
the counters. Upstairs a young lady, dressed all in silk, was sharpening
a pencil, while two others, beside her, were unfolding some velvet
mantles.
“The Ladies' Paradise,” read Jean, with the tender laugh of a handsome
youth who had already had an adventure with a woman. “That must draw the
customers--eh?”
But Denise was absorbed by the display at the principal entrance. There
she saw, in the open street, on the very pavement, a mountain of cheap
goods--bargains, placed there to tempt the passers-by, and attract
attention. Hanging from above were pieces of woollen and cloth goods,
merinoes, cheviots, and tweeds, floating like flags; the neutral, slate,
navy-blue, and olive-green tints being relieved by the large white
price-tickets. Close by, round the doorway, were hanging strips of fur,
narrow bands for dress trimmings, fine Siberian squirrel-skin, spotless
snowy swansdown, rabbit-skin imitation ermine and imitation sable.
Below, on shelves and on tables, amidst a pile of remnants, appeared an
immense quantity of hosiery almost given away; knitted woollen gloves,
neckerchiefs, women's hoods, waistcoats, a winter show in all colours,
striped, dyed, and variegated, with here and there a flaming patch of
red. Denise saw some tartan at nine sous, some strips of American vison
at a franc, and some mittens at five sous. There appeared to be an
immense clearance sale going on; the establishment seemed bursting with
goods, blocking up the pavement with the surplus.
Uncle Baudu was forgotten. Pépé himself, clinging tightly to his
sister's hand, opened his big eyes in wonder. A vehicle coming
up, forced them to quit the road-way, and they turned up the Rue
Neuve-Saint-Augustin mechanically, following the shop windows and
stopping at each fresh display. At first they were captivated by a
complicated arrangement: above, a number of umbrellas, laid obliquely,
seemed to form a rustic roof; beneath these a quantity of silk
stockings, hung on rods, showed the roundness of the calves, some
covered with rosebuds, others of all colours, black open-worked, red
with embroidered corners, and flesh colour, the silky grain of which
made them look as soft as a fair woman's skin; and at the bottom of
all, a symmetrical array of gloves, with their taper fingers and narrow
palms, and that rigid virgin grace which characterises such feminine
articles before they are worn. But the last window especially attracted
their attention. It was an exhibition of silks, satins, and velvets,
arranged so as to produce, by a skilful artistic arrangement of colours,
the most delicious shades imaginable. At the top were the velvets,
from a deep black to a milky white: lower down, the satins--pink, blue,
fading away into shades of a wondrous delicacy; still lower down were
the silks, of all the colours of the rainbow, pieces set up in the form
of shells, others folded as if round a pretty figure, arranged in a
life-like natural manner by the clever fingers of the window dressers.
Between each motive, between each coloured phrase of the display, ran a
discreet accompaniment, a slight puffy ring of cream-coloured silk. At
each end were piled up enormous bales of the silk of which the house
had made a specialty, the “Paris Paradise” and the “Golden Grain,” two
exceptional articles destined to work a revolution in that branch of
commerce.
“Oh, that silk at five francs twelve sous!” murmured Denise, astonished
at the “Paris Paradise.”
Jean began to get tired. He stopped a passer-by. “Which is the Rue de la
Michodiere, please, sir?”
On hearing that it was the first on the right they all turned back,
making the tour of the establishment. But just as she was entering the
street, Denise was attracted by a window in which ladies' dresses were
displayed. At Cornaille's that was her department, but she had
never seen anything like this, and remained rooted to the spot with
admiration. At the back a large sash of Bruges lace, of considerable
value, was spread out like an altar-veil, with its two white wings
extended; there were flounces of Alençon point, grouped in garlands;
then from the top to the bottom fluttered, like a fall of snow, a cloud
of lace of every description--Malines, Honiton, Valenciennes, Brussels,
and Venetian-point. On each side the heavy columns were draped with
cloth, making the background appear still more distant And the dresses
were in this sort of chapel raised to the worship of woman's beauty and
grace. Occupying the centre was a magnificent article, a velvet mantle,
trimmed with silver fox; on one side a silk cape lined with miniver, on
the other a cloth cloak edged with cocks' plumes; and last of all,
opera cloaks in white cashmere and white silk trimmed with swansdown or
chenille. There was something for all tastes, from the opera cloaks at
twenty-nine francs to the velvet mantle marked up at eighteen hundred.
The well-rounded neck and graceful figures of the dummies exaggerated
the slimness of the waist, the absent head being replaced by a large
price-ticket pinned on the neck; whilst the mirrors, cleverly arranged
on each side of the window, reflected and multiplied the forms without
end, peopling the street with these beautiful women for sale, each
bearing a price in big figures in the place of a head.
“How stunning they are!” murmured Jean, finding no other words to
express his emotion.
This time he himself had become motionless, his mouth open. All this
female luxury turned him rosy with pleasure. He had a girl's beauty--a
beauty he seemed to have stolen from his sister--a lovely skin, curly
hair, lips and eyes overflowing with tenderness. By his side Denise, in
her astonishment, appeared thinner still, with her rather long face and
large mouth, fading complexion, and light hair. Pépé, also fair, in the
way of most children, clung closer to her, as if wanting to be caressed,
troubled and delighted at the sight of the beautiful ladies in the
window. They looked so strange, so charming, on the pavement, those
three fair ones, poorly dressed in black--the sad-looking young girl
between the pretty child and the handsome youth--that the passers-by
looked back smilingly.
For several minutes a stout man with grey hair and a large yellow
face, standing at a shop-door on the other side of the street, had
been looking at them. He was standing there with bloodshot eyes and
contracted mouth, beside himself with rage at the display made by The
Ladies' Paradise, when the sight of the young girl and her brothers
completed his exasperation. What were those three simpletons doing
there, gaping in front of the cheap-jack's parade?
“What about uncle?” asked Denise, suddenly, as if just waking up.
“We are in the Rue de la Michodière,” said Jean. “He must live somewhere
about here.”
They raised their heads and looked round. Just in front of them, above
the stout man, they perceived a green sign-board bearing in yellow
letters, discoloured by the rain: “The Old Elbeuf. Cloths, Flannels.
Baudu, late Hauchecorne.” The house, coated with an ancient rusty
white-wash, quite flat and unadorned, amidst the mansions in the Louis
XIV. style which surrounded it, had only three front windows, and these
windows, square, without shutters, were simply ornamented by a handrail
and two iron bars in the form of a cross. But amidst all this nudity,
what struck Denise the most, her eyes full of the light airy windows at
The Ladies' Paradise, was the ground-floor shop, crushed by the ceiling,
surmounted by a very low storey with half-moon windows, of a prison-like
appearance. The wainscoting, of a bottle-green hue, which time had
tinted with ochre and bitumen, encircled, right and left, two deep
windows, black and dusty, in which the heaped-up goods could hardly be
seen. The open door seemed to lead into the darkness and dampness of a
cellar.
[Illustration: 0021]
“That's the house,” said Jean.
“Well, we must go in,” declared Denise. “Come on, Pepé.”
They appeared, however, somewhat troubled, as if seized with fear. When
their father died, carried off by the same fever which had, a month
previous, killed their mother, their uncle Baudu, in the emotion which
followed this double mourning, had written to Denise, assuring her there
would always be a place for her in his house whenever she would like to
come to Paris. But this was nearly a year ago, and the young girl was
now sorry to have left Valognes in a moment of temper without informing
her uncle. The latter did not know them, never having set foot in
Valognes since the day he left, as a boy, to enter as junior in the
drapery establishment kept by Hauchecorne, whose daughter he afterwards
married.
“Monsieur Baudu?” asked Denise, deciding at last to speak to the stout
man who was still eyeing them, surprised at their appearance.
“That's me,” replied he.
Denise blushed and stammered out: “Oh, I'm so pleased! I am Denise. This
is Jean, and this is Pépé. You see we have come, uncle.”
Baudu seemed amazed. His big eyes rolled in his yellow face; he spoke
slowly and with difficulty. He was evidently far from thinking of this
family which suddenly dropped down on him.
“What--what, you here?” repeated he several times. “But you were at
Valognes. Why aren't you at Valognes?”
With her sweet but rather faltering voice she then explained that since
the death of her father, who had spent everything in his dye-works, she
had acted as a mother to the two children, but the little she earned at
Cornaille's did not suffice to keep the three of them. Jeàn worked at
a cabinetmaker's, a repairer of old furniture, but didn't earn a sou.
However, he had got to like the business, and had learned to carve
in wood very well. One day, having found a piece of ivory, he amused
himself by carving a head, which a gentleman staying in the town had
seen and admired, and it was this gentleman who had persuaded them to
leave Valognes, promising to find a place in Paris for Jean with an
ivory-carver.
“So you see, uncle,” continued Denise, “Jean will commence his
apprenticeship at his new master's to-morrow. They ask no premium, and
will board and lodge him. I felt sure Pépé and I could manage very well.
We can't be worse off than we were at Valognes.”
She said nothing about Jean's love affair, of certain letters written to
the daughter of a nobleman living in the town, of kisses exchanged over
a wall--in fact, quite a scandal which had determined her leaving. And
she was especially anxious to be in Paris, to be able to look after
her brother, feeling quite a mother's tender anxiety for this gay and
handsome youth, whom all the women adored. Uncle Baudu couldn't get over
it, and continued his questions. However, when he heard her speaking of
her brothers in this way he became much kinder.
“So your father has left you nothing,” said he. “I certainly thought
there was still something left. Ah! how many times did I write advising
him not to take that dye-work! A good-hearted fellow, but no head for
business! And you've been obliged to keep and look after these two
youngsters since?”
His bilious face had become clearer, his eyes were not so bloodshot as
when he was glaring at The Ladies' Paradise. Suddenly he noticed that he
was blocking up the doorway.
“Well,” said he, “come in, now you're here. Come in, no use hanging
about gaping at a parcel of rubbish.”
And after having darted a last look of anger at The Ladies' Paradise, he
made way for the children by entering the shop and calling his wife and
daughter..
“Elizabeth, Geneviève, come down; here's company for you!”
But Denise and the two boys hesitated before the darkness of the shop.
Blinded by the clear light of the street, they could hardly see. Feeling
their way with their feet with an instinctive fear of encountering some
treacherous step, and clinging still closer together from this vague
fear, the child continuing to hold the young girl's skirts, and the big
boy behind, they made their entry with a smiling, anxious grace.
The clear morning light described the dark profile of their mourning
clothes; an oblique ray of sunshine gilded their fair hair.
“Come in, come in,” repeated Baudu.
In a few brief sentences he explained the matter to his wife and
daughter. The first was a little woman, eaten up with anaemia, quite
white--white hair, white eyes, white lips. Geneviève, in whom her
mother's degenerateness appeared stronger still, had the debilitated,
colourless appearance of a plant reared in the shade. However, her
magnificent black hair, thick and heavy, marvellously vigorous for such
a weak, poor soil, gave her a sad charm.
“Come in,” said both the women in their turn; “you are welcome.”
And they made Denise sit down behind a counter. Pépé immediately jumped
up on his sister's lap, whilst Jean leant against some wood-work beside
her. Looking round the shop the new-comers began to take courage, their
eyes getting used to the obscurity. Now they could see it, with its low
and smoky ceiling, oaken counters bright with use, and old-fashioned
drawers with strong iron fittings. Bales of goods reached to the
beams above; the smell of linen and dyed stuffs--a sharp chemical
smell--seemed intensified by the humidity of the floor. At the further
end two young men and a young woman were putting away pieces of white
flannel.
“Perhaps this young gentleman would like to take something?” said Madame
Baudu, smiling at Pépé.
“No, thanks,” replied Denise, “we had a cup of milk in a café opposite
the station.” And as Geneviève looked at the small parcel she had laid
down, she added: “I left our box there too.”
She blushed, feeling that she ought not to have dropped down on her
friends in this way. Even as she was leaving Valognes, she had been full
of regrets and fears; that was why she had left the box, and given the
children their breakfast.
“Come, come,” said Baudu suddenly, “let's come to an understanding.
'Tis true I wrote to you, but that's a year ago, and since then
business hasn't been flourishing, I can assure you, my girl.”
He stopped, choked with an emotion he did not wish to show. Madame Baudu
and Geneviève, with a resigned look, had cast their eyes down.
“Oh,” continued he, “it's a crisis which will pass, no doubt, but I have
reduced my staff; there are only three here now, and this is not the
moment to engage a fourth. In short, my dear girl, I cannot take you as
I promised.”
Denise listened, and turned very pale. He dwelt upon the subject,
adding: “It would do no good, either to you or to me.
“All right, uncle,” replied she with a painful effort, “I'll try and
manage all the same.”
The Baudus were not bad sort of people. But they complained of never
having had any luck. When their business was flourishing, they had had | 1,633.951316 |
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Transcriber's Note.
A list of the changes made can be found at the end of the book.
Formatting and special characters are indicated as follows:
_italic_
=bold=
^{9} -us abbreviation
^{superscript}
[~e] e with tilde
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[(u] u with inverted breve
THE JESUIT RELATIONS AND ALLIED DOCUMENTS
VOL. III
The Jesuit Relations and Allied Documents
TRAVELS AND EXPLORATIONS OF THE JESUIT MISSIONARIES IN NEW FRANCE
1610-1791
THE ORIGINAL FRENCH, LATIN, AND ITALIAN TEXTS, WITH ENGLISH
TRANSLATIONS AND NOTES; ILLUSTRATED BY PORTRAITS, MAPS, AND
FACSIMILES
EDITED BY
REUBEN GOLD THWAITES
Secretary of the State Historical Society of Wisconsin
Vol. III
ACADIA: 1611-1616
CLEVELAND: =The Burrows Brothers Company=, PUBLISHERS, M DCCC XCVII
COPYRIGHT, 1897
BY
THE BURROWS BROTHERS CO
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_The Imperial Press, Cleveland_
EDITORIAL STAFF
Editor REUBEN GOLD THWAITES
Translator from the French JOHN CUTLER COVERT
Assistant Translator from the French MARY SIFTON PEPPER
Translator from the Latin WILLIAM FREDERIC GIESE
Translator from the Italian MARY SIFTON PEPPER
Assistant Editor EMMA HELEN BLAIR
CONTENTS OF VOL. III
PREFACE TO VOLUME III 1
DOCUMENTS:--
XIII. Epistola ad Reverendissimum Patrem Claudium Aquavivam,
Præpositum Generalem Societatis Jesu, Romæ. _Pierre Biard_;
Amiens, May 26, 1614. 3
XIV. Relation de la Novvelle France, de ses Terres, Natvrel du Pais,
& de ses Habitans. [Chapters i-xxv.] _Pierre Biard_; Paris, 1616 21
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL DATA: VOLUME III 285
NOTES 291
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATION TO VOL. III
Photographic facsimile of title-page, Biard's _Relation_ of 1616 24
PREFACE TO VOL. III
Following is a synopsis of the documents contained in the present
volume:
XIII. Biard writes from Amiens (May 26, 1614) to the general of the
order, reporting the planting of St. Sauveur mission, the attack by
Argall, the captivity of the Jesuit missionaries, and their safe return
to France.
XIV. Biard's _Relation_ of 1616 opens with an historical sketch of
French discoveries in New France. The climate of the country, its
forests, and its inhabitants, are described; the writer discourses
on the mode of life among the savages, their dwellings, tribal
organization, polity, women, marriage, medicine, practices of
witchcraft, burials, etc. As a basis for missionary work, he advocates
the establishment of a colony which shall be properly supported in
France, and to this end appeals to the sympathies of Catholics at home.
Much space is devoted to answering the attacks on the Jesuit missions
of New France, made by an anonymous pamphleteer, who has been supposed
to be Lescarbot himself. Continuing with a report of his own movements,
Biard describes the voyage made by himself and Biencourt as far as the
Kennebec River, and the privations and hardships of the colony during
the ensuing winter (1611-12). He again recounts the manner in which
Mme. de Guercheville obtained a grant of New France, and sent a colony
to St. Sauveur, on Mt. Desert Island; the disputes between Biencourt
and the Jesuits; the stay of Massé among the savages on St. John
River; his own trip to Chignectou, with Biencourt; and the hardships
endured by both, as also those of the entire colony, during the winter
of 1612-13. The Jesuits, during this winter, build a boat, and are
thus enabled to go fishing. La Saussaye arrives at Port Royal under
Mme. de Guercheville's auspices, and takes the Jesuits away with him
to St. Sauveur. The settlement there is well begun, when Argall comes
upon it, and takes the French captive. Owing to the great length of
this _Relation_, we have space in the present volume but for the first
twenty-five chapters; the remaining twelve will form the opening part
of Volume IV.
R. G. T.
MADISON, WIS., November, 1896.
XIII
BIARD'S EPISTOLA
ad Reverendissimum Patrem Claudium Aquavivam
(26 Maii, 1614)
SOURCE: We follow Father Martin's apograph (in the Archives of St.
Mary's College, at Montreal) of the original Latin MS. in the | 1,634.079679 |
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Produced by Jo Churcher. HTML version by Al Haines.
THE PRINCESS AND THE GOBLIN
by
GEORGE MACDONALD
CONTENTS
1. Why the Princess Has a Story About Her
2. The Princess Loses Herself
3. The Princess and--We Shall See Who
4. What the Nurse Thought of It
5. The Princess Lets Well Alone
6. The Little Miner
7. The Mines
8. The Goblins
9. The Hall of the Goblin Palace
10. The Princess's King-Papa
11. The Old Lady's Bedroom
12. A Short Chapter About Curdie
13. The Cobs' Creatures
14. That Night Week
15. Woven and then Spun
16. The Ring | 1,634.400147 |
2023-11-16 18:44:18.4516210 | 7,435 | 19 |
Produced by This e-text was produced by Greg Weeks, Charles
Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.
TOM SWIFT IN CAPTIVITY
OR
A Daring Escape by Airship
BY VICTOR APPLETON
AUTHOR OF "TOM SWIFT AND HIS MOTOR-CYCLE," "TOM SWIFT AND HIS
WIRELESS MESSAGE," "TOM SWIFT IN THE CITY OF GOLD," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED
CONTENTS
I A STRANGE REQUEST
II THE CIRCUS MAN
III TOM WILL GO
IV "LOOK OUT FOR MY RIVAL!"
V ANDY FOGER LEARNS SOMETHING
VI ALARMING NEWS
VII FIRE ON BOARD
VIII A NARROW ESCAPE
IX "FORWARD MARCH!"
X A WILD HORSE STAMPEDE
XI CAUGHT IN A LIVING ROPE
XII A NATIVE BATTLE
XIII THE DESERTION
XIV IN GIANT LAND
XV IN THE "PALACE" OF THE KING
XVI THE RIVAL CIRCUS MAN
XVII HELD CAPTIVES
XVIII TOM'S MYSTERIOUS BOX
XIX WEAK GIANTS
XX THE LONE CAPTIVE
XXI A ROYAL CONSPIRACY
XXII THE TWIN GIANTS
XXIII A SURPRISE IN THE NIGHT
XXIV THE AIRSHIP FLIGHT
XXV TOM'S GIANT--CONCLUSION
CHAPTER I
A STRANGE REQUEST
Tom Swift closed the book of adventures he had been reading, tossed
it on the table, and got up. Then he yawned.
"What's the matter?" asked his chum, Ned Newton, who was deep in
another volume.
"Oh, I thought this was going to be something exciting," replied
Tom, motioning toward the book he had discarded. "But say! the
make-believe adventures that fellow had, weren't anything compared to
those we went through in the city of gold, or while rescuing the
exiles of Siberia."
"Well," remarked Ned, "they would have to be pretty classy
adventures to lay over those you and I have had lately. But where
are you going?" he continued, for Tom had taken his cap and started
for the door.
"I thought I'd go out and take a little run in the aeroplane. Want
to come along? It's more fun than sitting in the house reading about
exciting things that never have happened. Come on out and--"
"Yes, and have a tumble from the aeroplane, I suppose you were going
to say," interrupted Ned with a laugh. "Not much! I'm going to stay
here and finish this book."
"Say," demanded Tom indignantly. "Did you ever know me to have a
tumble since I knew how to run an airship?"
"No, I can't say that I did. I was only joking."
"Then you carried the joke too far, as the policeman said to the man
he found lugging off money from the bank. And to make up for it
you've got to come along with me."
"Where are you going?"
"Oh, anywhere. Just to take a little run in the upper regions, and
clear some of the cobwebs out of my head. I declare, I guess I've
got the spring fever. I haven't done anything since we got back from
Russia last fall, and I'm getting rusty."
"You haven't done ANYTHING!" exclaimed Ned, following his chum's
example by tossing aside the book. "Do you call working on your new
invention of a noiseless airship nothing?"
"Well, I haven't finished that yet. I'm tired of inventing things. I
just want to go off, and have some good fun, like getting
shipwrecked on a desert island, or being lost in the mountains, or
something like that. I want action. I want to get off in the jungle,
and fight wild beasts, and escape from the savages!"
"Say! you don't want much," commented Ned. "But I feel the same way,
Tom."
"Then come on out and take a run, and maybe we'll get on the track
of an adventure," urged the young inventor. "We won't go far, just
twenty or thirty miles or so."
The two youths emerged from the house and started across the big
lawn toward the aeroplane sheds, for Tom Swift owned several speedy
aircrafts, from a big combined aeroplane and dirigible balloon, to a
little monoplane not much larger than a big bird, but which was the
most rapid flier that ever breathed the fumes of gasolene.
"Which one you going to take, Tom?" asked Ned, as his chum paused in
front of the row of hangars.
"Oh, the little double-seated monoplane, I guess that's in good
shape, and it's easy to manage. When I'm out for fun I hate to be
tinkering with levers and warping wing tips all the while. The Lark
practically flies herself, and we can sit back and take it easy.
I'll have Eradicate fill up the gasolene tank, while I look at the
magneto. It needs a little adjusting, though it works nearly to
perfection since I put in some of that new platinum we got from the
lost mine in Siberia."
"Yes, that was a trip that amounted to something. I wouldn't mind
going on another like that, though we ran lots of risks."
"We sure did," agreed Tom, and then, raising his voice he called
out: "Rad, I say Rad! Where are you? I want you!"
"Comin', massa Tom, comin'," answered an aged <DW52> man, as he
shuffled around the corner of the shed. "What do yo'-all want ob
me?"
"Put some gasolene in the Lark, Rad. Ned and I are going to take a
little flight. What were you doing?"
"Jest groomin' mah mule Boomerang, Massa Tom, dat's all. Po'
Boomerang he's gittin' old jest same laik I be. He's gittin' old,
an' he needs lots ob 'tention. He has t' hab mo' oats dan usual,
Massa Tom, an' he doan't feel 'em laik he uster, dat's a fac', Massa
Tom."
"Well, Rad, give him all he wants. Boomerang was a good mule in his
day."
"An' he's good yet, Massa Tom, he's good yet!" said Eradicate
Sampson eagerly. "Doan't yo' all forgit dat, Massa Tom." And the
<DW52> man proceeded to fill the gasolene tank, while Tom adjusted
the electrical mechanism of his aeroplane, Ned assisting by handing
him the tools needed. Eradicate, who said he was named that because
he "eradicated" dirt, was a <DW52> man of all work, who had been in
the service of the Swift household for several years. He and his
mule Boomerang were fixtures.
"There, I guess that will do," remarked Tom, after testing the
magneto, and finding that it gave a fat, hot spark. "That ought to
send us along in good shape. Got all the gas in, Rad?"
"Every drop, Massa Tom."
"Then catch hold and help wheel the Lark out. Ned, you steady her on
that side. How are the tires? Do they need pumping up?"
"Hard as rocks," answered Tom's chum, as he tapped his toe against
the rubber circlets of the small bicycle wheels on which the
aeroplane rested.
"Then they'll do, I guess. Come on now, and we'll give her a test
before we start off. I ought to get a few hundred more revolutions
per minute out of the motor with the way I've adjusted the magneto.
Rad, you and Ned hold back, while I turn the engine over."
The youth and the <DW52> man grasped the rear supports of the long,
tail-like part of the monoplane while Tom stepped to the front to
twist the propeller blades. The first two times there was no
explosion as he swung the delicate wooden blades about, but the
third time the engine started off with a roar, and a succession of
explosions that were deafening, until Tom switched in the muffler,
thereby cutting down the noise. Faster and faster the propeller
whirled about as the motor warmed up, until the young inventor
exclaimed:
"That's the stuff! She's better than ever! Climb up Ned, and we'll
start off. You can turn her over, Rad; can't you?"
"Suah, Massa Tom," was the reply, for Eradicate had been on so many
trips with Tom, and had had so much to do with airships, that to
merely start one was child's play for him.
The two youths had scarcely taken their seats, and the <DW52> man
was about to twist around the fan-like blades of the big propeller
in front, when from behind there came a hail.
"Hold on there! Wait a minute, Tom Swift! Bless my admission ticket,
don't go! I've got something important to tell you! Hold on!"
"Humph! I know who that is!" cried Tom, motioning to Eradicate to
cease trying to start the motor.
"Mr. Damon, of course," agreed Ned. "I wonder what he wants?"
"A ride, maybe," went on Tom. "If he does we've got to take the
Scooter instead of this one. That holds four. Well, we may as well
see what he wants."
He jumped lightly from his seat in the monoplane and was followed by
Ned. They saw coming toward them, from the direction of the house, a
stout man, who seemed very much excited. He was walking so fast that
he fairly waddled, and he was smiling at the lads, for he was one of
their best friends.
"Glad I caught you, Tom." he panted, for his haste had almost
deprived him of breath. "I've got something important to tell you. I
hurried over as soon as I heard about it."
"Well, you're just in time," commented Ned with a laugh. "In another
minute we'd have been up in the clouds."
"What is it, Mr. Damon?" asked Tom. "Have you got wind of a city of
diamonds, or has some one sent you a map telling where we can go to
pick up ten thousand dollar bills by the basket?"
"Neither one, Tom, neither one. It's something better than either of
those, and if you don't jump at the chance I'm mistaken in you,
that's all I've got to say. Come over here."
He turned a quick glance over his shoulder as he spoke and advanced
toward the two lads on tiptoe as though he feared some one would see
or hear him. Yet it was broad daylight, the place was the starting
ground for Tom's aeroplanes and save Eradicate there was no one
present except Mr. Damon, Ned and the young inventor himself.
"What's up?" asked Tom in wonderment.
"Hush!" cautioned the odd gentleman. "Bless my walking stick, Tom!
but this is going to be a great chance for you--for us,--for I'm
going along."
"Going where, Mr. Damon?"
"I'll tell you in a minute. Is there any one here?"
"No one but us?"
"You are sure that Andy Foger isn't around."
"Sure. He's out of town, you know."
"Yes, but you never can tell when he's going to appear on the scene.
Come over here," and taking hold of the coat of each of the youths,
Mr. Damon led them behind the big swinging door of the aeroplane
shed.
"You haven't anything on hand; have you, Tom?" asked the odd
gentleman, after peering through the crack to make sure they were
unobserved.
"Nothing at all, if you mean in the line of going off on an
adventure trip."
"That's what I mean. Bless my earlaps! but I'm glad of that. I've
got just the thing for you. Tom, I want you to go to a strange land,
and bring back one of the biggest men there--a giant! Tom Swift, you
and I and Ned--if he wants to go--are going after a giant!"
Mr. Damon gleefully clapped Tom on the back, with such vigor that
our hero coughed, and then the odd gentleman stepped back and gazed
at the two lads, a look of triumph shining in his eyes.
For a moment there was a silence. Tom looked at Ned, and Ned gave
his chum a quick glance. Then they both looked sharply at Mr. Damon.
"A--a giant," murmured Tom faintly.
"That's what I said," replied Mr. Damon. "I want you to help me
capture a giant, Tom."
Once more the two youths exchanged significant glances, and then
Tom, in a low and gentle voice said:
"Yes, Mr. Damon, that's all right. We'll get you a giant right away.
Won't we, Ned? Now you'd better come in the house and lie down, I'll
have Mrs. Baggert make you a cup of tea, and after you have had a
sleep you'll feel better. Come on," and the young inventor gently
tried to lead his friend out from behind the shed door.
"Look here, Tom Swift!" exclaimed the odd gentleman indignantly. "Do
you think I'm crazy? Lie down? Rest myself? Go to sleep? Say, I'm
not crazy! I'm not tired! I'm not sleepy! This is the greatest
chance you ever had, and if we get one of those giants--"
"Yes, yes, we'll get one," put in Ned soothingly.
"Of course," added Tom. "Come on, now, Mr. Damon. You'll feel better
after you've had a rest. Dr. Perkinby is coming over to see father
and I'll have him--"
Mr. Damon gave one startled glance at the young inventor and his
chum, and then burst into a peal of hearty laughter.
"Oh, my!" he exclaimed at intervals in his paroxysms. "Oh, dear! He
thinks I'm out of my head! He can't stand that talk about giants! Oh
dear! Tom Swift, this is the greatest chance you ever had! Come on
in the house and I'll tell you all I know about giant land, and then
if you want to think I'm crazy you can, that's all I've got to say!"
CHAPTER II
THE CIRCUS MAN
Without a word Tom and Ned followed Mr. Damon toward the Swift
house. Truth to tell the youths did not know what to say, or they
would have been bubbling over with questions. But the talk of the
odd man, and his strange request to Tom to go off and capture a
giant had so startled the young inventor and his chum that they did
not know whether to think that Mr. Damon was joking, or whether he
had suddenly taken leave of his senses.
And while I have a few minutes that are occupied in the journey to
the house I will introduce my new readers more formally to Tom Swift
and his friends.
Tom though only a young man, was an inventor of note, as his father
was before him. Father and son lived in a fine house in the town of
Shopton, in New York state, and Mrs. Swift being dead, the two were
well looked after by Mrs. Baggert their housekeeper. Eradicate
Sampson, as I have said, was the man of all work about the place.
Ned Newton who had a position in a Shopton bank, was Tom's
particular chum, and Mr. Wakefeld Damon, of the neighboring town of
Waterfield, was a friend to all who knew him. He had the odd habit
of blessing anything and everything he could think of, interspersing
it in his talk.
In the first volume of this series, called "Tom Swift and His
Motor-Cycle," I related how Tom made the acquaintance of Mr. Damon,
afterward purchasing a damaged motor-cycle from the odd gentleman.
On this machine Tom had many adventures, incidentally saving some of
his father's valuable patents from a gang of conspirators. Later Tom
got a motor boat, and had many races with his rivals on Lake
Carlopa, beating Andy Foger, the red-haired bully of the town, in
signal fashion. After his adventures on the water Tom sighed for
some in the air, and he had them in his airship the Red Cloud.
"Tom Swift and His Submarine Boat." is a story of a search after
sunken treasure, and, returning from that quest Tom built an
electric runabout, the speediest car on the road. By means of a
wireless message, later, Tom was able to save himself and the
castaways of Earthquake Island, and, as a direct outcome of that
experience, he was able to go in search of the diamond makers, and
solve the secret of Phantom Mountain, as told in the book dealing
with that subject.
When he went to the caves of ice Tom had bad luck, for his airship
was wrecked, and he endured many hardships in getting home with his
companions, particularly as Andy Foger sought revenge on him.
But Tom pluckily overcame all obstacles and, later, he built a sky
racer, in which he made the quickest trip on record. After that,
with his electric rifle, he went after elephants in the interior of
Africa and was successful in rescuing some missionaries from the
terrible red pygmies.
One of the mission workers, later, sent Tom details about a buried
city of gold in Mexico, and Tom and his chum together with Mr. Damon
located this mysterious place after much trouble, as told in the
book entitled, "Tom Swift in the City of Gold." The gold did not
prove as valuable as they expected, as it was of low grade, but they
got considerable money for it, and were then ready for more
adventures.
The adventures soon came, as those of you who have read the book
called, "Tom Swift and His Air Glider," can testify. In that I told
how Tom went to Siberia, and after rescuing some Russian political
exiles, found a valuable deposit of platinum, which to-day is a more
valuable metal than gold. Tom needed some platinum for his
electrical machines, and it proved very useful.
He had been back from Russia all winter and, now that Spring had
come again, our hero sighed for more activity, and fresh adventures.
And with the advent of Mr. Damon, and his mysterious talk about
giants, Tom seemed likely to be gratified.
The two chums and the odd gentleman continued on to the house, no
one speaking, until finally, when they were seated in the library,
Mr. Damon said:
"Well, Tom, are you ready to listen to me now, and have me explain
what I meant when I asked you to get a giant?"
"I--I suppose so," hesitated the young inventor. "But hadn't I
better call dad? And are you sure you don't want to lie down and
collect your thoughts? A nice hot cup of tea--"
"There, there, Tom Swift; If you tell me to lie down again, or
propose any more tea I'll use you as a punching bag, bless my boxing
gloves if I don't!" cried Mr. Damon and he laughed heartily. "I know
what you think, Tom, and you, too, Ned," he went on, still
chuckling. "You think I don't know what I'm saying, but I'll soon
prove that I do. I'm fully in my senses, I'm not crazy, I'm not
talking in my sleep, and I'm very much in earnest. Tom, this is the
chance of your life to get a giant, and pay a visit to giant land.
Will you take it?"
"Mr. Damon, I--er--that is I--"
Tom stammered and looked at Ned.
"Now look here, Tom Swift!" exclaimed the odd man. "When you got
word about the buried city of gold in Mexico you didn't hesitate a
minute about making up your mind to go there; did you?"
"No, I didn't."
"Well, that wasn't any more of a strain on your imagination than
this giant business; was it?"
"Well, I don't know, as--"
"Bless my spectacles! Of course it wasn't! Now, look here. Tom, you
just make up your mind that I know what I'm talking about, and we'll
get along better. I don't blame you for being a bit puzzled at
first, but just you listen. You believe there are such things as
giants; don't you?"
"I saw a man in the circus once, seven feet high. They called him a
giant," spoke Ned.
"A giant! He was a baby compared to the kind of giants I mean," said
Mr. Damon quickly. "Tom, we are going after a race of giants, the
smallest one of which is probably eight feet high, and from that
they go on up to nearly ten feet, and they're not slim fellows
either, but big in proportion. Now in giant land--"
"Here's Mrs. Baggert with a quieting cup of tea," interrupted Tom.
"I spoke to her as we came in, and asked her to have some ready. If
you'll drink this, Mr. Damon, I'm sure--"
"Bless my sugar bowl, Tom! You make a man nervous, with your cups of
tea. I'm more quiet than you, but I'll drink it to please you. Now
listen to me."
"All right, go ahead."
"A friend of mine has asked me if I knew any one who could undertake
to go to giant land, and get him one or two specimens of the big men
there. I at once thought of you, and I said I believed you would go.
And I'll go with you, Tom! Think of that! I've got faith enough in
the proposition to go myself!"
There was no mistaking Mr. Damon's manner. He was very much in
earnest, and Tom and Ned looked at each other with a different light
in their eyes.
"Who is your friend, and where in the world is giant land?" asked
Tom. "I haven't heard of such a place since I read the accounts of
the early travelers, before this continent was discovered. Who is
your friend that wants a giant?"
"If you'll let me, I'll have him here in a minute, Tom."
"Of course I will. But good land! Have you got him concealed up your
sleeve, or under some of the chairs? Is he a dwarf?" and Tom looked
about the room as if he expected to see some one in hiding.
"I left him outside in the garden, Tom," replied the odd man. "I
told him I'd come on ahead, and see how you took the proposition.
Don't tell him you thought me insane at first. I'll have him here in
a jiffy. I'll signal to him."
Not waiting for a word from either of the boys, Mr. Damon went to
one of the low library windows, opened it, gave a shrill whistle and
waved his handkerchief vigorously. In a moment there came an
answering whistle.
"He's coming," announced the odd gentleman.
"But who is he?" insisted Tom. "Is he some professor who wants a
giant to examine, or is he a millionaire who wants one for a body
guard?"
"Neither one, Tom. He's the proprietor of a number of circuses, and
a string of museums, and he wants a giant, or even two of them, for
exhibition purposes. There's lots of money in giants. He's had some
seven, and even eight feet tall, but he has lately heard of a land
where the tallest man is nearly ten feet high, and very big, and
he'll pay ten thousand dollars for a giant alive and in good
condition, as the animal men say. I believe we can get one for him,
and--Ah, here he is now," and Mr. Damon interrupted himself as a
small, dark-complexioned man, with a very black mustache, black
eyes, a watch chain as big around as his thumb, a red vest, a large
white hat, and a suit of large-sized checked clothes appeared at the
open library window.
"Is it all right?" this strange-appearing man asked of Mr. Damon.
"I believe so," replied the odd gentleman. "Come in, Sam."
With one bound, though the window was some distance from the ground,
the little man leaped into the library. He landed lightly on his
feet, quickly turned two hand springs in rapid succession, and then,
without breathing in the least rapidly, as most men would have done
after that exertion, he made a low bow to Tom and Ned.
"Boys, let me introduce you to my friend, Sam Preston, an old
acrobat and now a circus proprietor," said Mr. Damon. "Mr. Preston,
this is Tom Swift, of whom I told you, and his chum, Ned Newton."
"And will they get the giant for me?" asked the circus man quickly.
"I think they will," replied Mr. Damon. "I had a little difficulty
in making the matter clear to them, and that's why I sent for you.
You can explain everything."
"Have a chair," invited Tom politely. "This is a new one on me--going
after giants. I've done almost everything else, though."
"So Mr. Damon said," spoke Mr. Preston gravely. He was much more
sedate and composed than one would have supposed after his
sensational entrance into the room. "I am very glad to meet you, Tom
Swift, and I hope we can do business together. Now, if you have a
few minutes to spare, I'll tell you all I know about giant land."
CHAPTER III
TOM WILL GO
"Jove! That sounds interesting!" exclaimed Ned, as he settled
himself comfortably in his chair.
"It is interesting," replied the circus man. "At least I found it so
when I first listened to one of my men tell it. But whether it is
possible to get to giant land, and, what is more bring away some of
the big men, is something I leave to you, Tom Swift. After you have
heard my story, if you decide to go, I'll stand all the expenses of
fitting out an expedition, and if you fail I won't have a word to
say. If, on the other hand, you bring me back a giant or two, I'll
pay you ten thousand dollars and all expenses. Is it a bargain?"
"Let me hear the story first," suggested our hero, who was a
cautious lad when there was need for it. Yet he liked Mr. Preston,
even at first sight, in spite of his "loud" attire, and the rather
"circusy" manner in which he had entered the room. Then too, if he
was a friend of Mr. Damon, that was a great deal in his favor.
"I am, as you know, in the circus business," began Mr. Preston. "I
have a number of traveling shows, and several large museums in the
big cities. I am always on the lookout for new attractions, for the
public demands them. Once get in the rut of having nothing new, and
your business will fall off. I know, for I've been in the business,
man and boy, for nearly forty years. I began as a performer, and I
can still do a double somersault over fifteen elephants in a row. I
always keep in practice for there's nothing like showing a performer
how to do a thing yourself."
"But about the giants, which is what I'm interested in most now. Of
course I've had giants in my circuses and museums, from the
beginning. The public wanted 'em and we had to have 'em. Some of 'em
were fakes--men on stilts with long pants to cover up their legs,
and others were the real, genuine, all-wool-and-a-yard-wide article.
But none of them were very big. A shade under eight feet was the
limit with me."
"I also have lots of wild animals, and it was when some of my men
were out after some tapirs, jaguars and leopards that I got on the
track of the giants. It was about a year ago, but up to this time I
haven't seen my way clear to send after the big men. It was this
way:"
Mr. Preston assumed a more comfortable position in his chair, nodded
at Mr. Damon, who was listening attentively to all that was said,
and resumed.
"As I said I had sent Jake Poddington, one of my best men, after
tapirs and some other South American animals. He didn't have very
good luck hunting along the Amazon. In the first place that region
has been pretty well cleaned out of circus animals, and another
thing it's getting too well populated. Another thing is that you
can't get the native hunters and beaters to work for you as they did
years ago."
"So Poddington wrote to me that he was going to take his assistants,
make a big jump, and hike it for the Argentine Republic. He had a
tip that along the Salado river there might be something doing, and
I told him to go ahead."
"He shipped me what few animals he had, and lit out for a three
thousand mile journey. I didn't hear from him for some time, and,
when I did, I got the finest collection of animals I had ever laid
eyes on. I got them about the same time I did a letter from Jake,
for the mail service ain't what you could call rushing in that part
of South America."
"But what about the giants?" interrupted Mr. Damon.
"I'm coming to them," replied the circus man calmly. "It was this
way: At the tail of his letter which he sent with the shipment of
animals Jake said this, and I remember it almost word for word:"
"'If all goes well,' he wrote, 'I'll have a big surprise for you
soon. I've heard a story about a race of big natives that have their
stamping ground in this section, and I'm going to try for a few
specimens. I know how much you want a giant.'"
"Well?" asked Tom, after a pause, for the circus man had ceased
talking and was staring out of the opened library window into the
garden that was just becoming green.
"That was all I ever heard from poor Jake," said Mr. Preston softly.
"Bless my insurance policy!" gasped Mr. Damon. "You didn't tell me
that! What happened to him."
"I never could find out," resumed Mr. Preston. "I never heard
another word from him, and I've never seen him from the time I
parted with him to go after the animals. The letter saying he was
going after the giants was the last line of his I've seen."
"But didn't you try to locate him?" asked Tom. "Didn't he have some
companions--some one who could tell what became of him?"
"Of course I tried!" exclaimed Mr. Preston. "Do you think I'd let a
man like Jake disappear without making some effort to find him? But
he was the only white man in his party, the rest were natives. That
was Jake's way. Well, when some time past and I didn't hear from
him, I got busy. I wrote to our consuls and even some South American
merchants with whom I had done business. But it didn't amount to
anything."
"Couldn't you get any news?" asked Ned softly.
"Oh, yes, some, but it didn't amount to much. After a long time, and
no end of trouble, I had a man locate a native named Zacatas, who
was the head beater of the black men under Jake."
"Zacatas said that he and Jake and the others got safely to the
Salado river section, but I knew that before, for that was where the
fine shipment of animals came from. Then Jake got that tip about the
giants, and set off alone into the interior to locate them, for all
the natives were afraid to go. That was the last seen of poor Jake."
"Bless my fire shovel!" cried Mr. Damon. "What did Zacatas say
became of the poor fellow?"
"No one knew. Whether he reached giant land and was killed there, or
whether he was struck down by some wild beast in the jungle, I never
could find out. The natives under Zacatas waited in camp for him for
some time, and then went back to the Amazon region where they
belonged. That's all the news I could get."
"But I'm sure there are giants in the interior of South America, for
Jake always knew what he was talking about. Now I want to do two
things. I want to get on the trail of poor Jake Poddington if I can,
and I want a giant--two or three of them if it can be managed."
"Ever since Jake disappeared I've been trying to arrange things to
make a search for him, and for the giants, but up to now something
has been in the way. I happened to mention the matter to my friend,
Mr. Damon, and he at once spoke of you, Tom Swift."
"Now, what I want to know is this: Will you undertake to get a giant
for me, rescue Jake Poddington if he is alive in the interior of
South America, | 1,634.471661 |
2023-11-16 18:44:18.4821360 | 5,613 | 13 |
*The Riverside Biographical Series*
NUMBER 5
THOMAS JEFFERSON
BY
HENRY CHILDS MERWIN
[Illustration: Th. Jefferson]
THOMAS JEFFERSON
BY
HENRY CHILDS MERWIN
[Publisher's emblem]
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
Boston: 4 Park Street; New York: 11 East Seventeenth Street
Chicago: 378-388 Wabash Avenue
*The Riverside Press, Cambridge*
COPYRIGHT, 1901, BY HENRY C. MERWIN
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE
I. YOUTH AND TRAINING 1
II. VIRGINIA IN JEFFERSON'S DAY 16
III. MONTICELLO AND ITS HOUSEHOLD 28
IV. JEFFERSON IN THE REVOLUTION 36
V. REFORM WORK IN VIRGINIA 45
VI. GOVERNOR OF VIRGINIA 59
VII. ENVOY AT PARIS 71
VIII. SECRETARY OF STATE 82
IX. THE TWO PARTIES 98
X. PRESIDENT JEFFERSON 114
XI. SECOND PRESIDENTIAL TERM 130
XII. A PUBLIC MAN IN PRIVATE LIFE 149
THOMAS JEFFERSON
I
YOUTH AND TRAINING
Thomas Jefferson was born upon a frontier estate in Albemarle County,
Virginia, April 13, 1743. His father, Peter Jefferson, was of Welsh
descent, not of aristocratic birth, but of that yeoman class which
constitutes the backbone of all societies. The elder Jefferson had
uncommon powers both of mind and body. His strength was such that he could
simultaneously "head up"--that is, raise from their sides to an upright
position--two hogsheads of tobacco, weighing nearly one thousand pounds
apiece. Like Washington, he was a surveyor; and there is a tradition that
once, while running his lines through a vast wilderness, his assistants
gave out from famine and fatigue, and Peter Jefferson pushed on alone,
sleeping at night in hollow trees, amidst howling beasts of prey, and
subsisting on the flesh of a pack mule which he had been obliged to kill.
Thomas Jefferson inherited from his father a love of mathematics and of
literature. Peter Jefferson had not received a classical education, but he
was a diligent reader of a few good books, chiefly Shakespeare, The
Spectator, Pope, and Swift; and in mastering these he was forming his mind
on great literature after the manner of many another Virginian,--for the
houses of that colony held English books as they held English furniture.
The edition of Shakespeare (and it is a handsome one) which Peter
Jefferson used is still preserved among the heirlooms of his descendants.
It was probably in his capacity of surveyor that Mr. Jefferson made the
acquaintance of the Randolph family, and he soon became the bosom friend
of William Randolph, the young proprietor of Tuckahoe. The Randolphs had
been for ages a family of consideration in the midland counties of
England, claiming descent from the Scotch Earls of Murray, and connected
by blood or marriage with many of the English nobility. In 1735 Peter
Jefferson established himself as a planter by patenting a thousand acres
of land in Goochland County, his estate lying near and partly including
the outlying hills, which form a sort of picket line for the Blue Mountain
range. At the same time his friend William Randolph patented an adjoining
estate of twenty-four hundred acres; and inasmuch as there was no good
site for a house on Jefferson's estate, Mr. Randolph conveyed to him four
hundred acres for that purpose, the consideration expressed in the deed,
which is still extant, being "Henry Weatherbourne's biggest bowl of Arrack
punch."
Here Peter Jefferson built his house, and here, three years later, he
brought his bride,--a handsome girl of nineteen, and a kinswoman of William
Randolph, being Jane, oldest child of Isham Randolph, then
Adjutant-General of Virginia. She was born in London, in the parish of
Shadwell, and Shadwell was the name given by Peter Jefferson to his
estate. This marriage was a fortunate union of the best aristocratic and
yeoman strains in Virginia.
In the year 1744 the new County of Albemarle was carved out of Goochland
County, and Peter Jefferson was appointed one of the three justices who
constituted the county court and were the real rulers of the shire. He was
made also Surveyor, and later Colonel of the county. This last office was
regarded as the chief provincial honor in Virginia, and it was especially
important when he held it, for it was the time of the French war, and
Albemarle was in the debatable land.
In the midst of that war, in August, 1757, Peter Jefferson died suddenly,
of a disease which is not recorded, but which was probably produced by
fatigue and exposure. He was a strong, just, kindly man, sought for as a
protector of the widow and the orphan, and respected and loved by Indians
as well as white men. Upon his deathbed he left two injunctions regarding
his son Thomas: one, that he should receive a classical education; the
other, that he should never be permitted to neglect the physical exercises
necessary for health and strength. Of these dying commands his son often
spoke with gratitude; and he used to say that if he were obliged to choose
between the education and the estate which his father gave him, he would
choose the education. Peter Jefferson left eight children, but only one
son besides Thomas, and that one died in infancy. Less is known of
Jefferson's mother; but he derived from her a love of music, an
extraordinary keenness of susceptibility, and a corresponding refinement
of taste.
His father's death left Jefferson his own master. In one of his later
letters he says: "At fourteen years of age the whole care and direction of
myself were thrown on myself entirely, without a relative or a friend
qualified to advise or guide me."
The first use that he made of his liberty was to change his school, and to
become a pupil of the Rev. James Maury,--an excellent clergyman and
scholar, of Huguenot descent, who had recently settled in Albemarle
County. With him young Jefferson continued for two years, studying Greek
and Latin, and becoming noted, as a schoolmate afterward reported, for
scholarship, industry, and shyness. He was a good runner, a keen
fox-hunter, and a bold and graceful rider.
At the age of sixteen, in the spring of 1760, he set out on horseback for
Williamsburg, the capital of Virginia, where he proposed to enter the
college of William and Mary. Up to this time he had never seen a town, or
even a village, except the hamlet of Charlottesville, which is about four
miles from Shadwell. Williamsburg--described in contemporary language as
"the centre of taste, fashion, and refinement"--was an unpaved village, of
about one thousand inhabitants, surrounded by an expanse of dark green
tobacco fields as far as the eye could reach. It was, however, well
situated upon a plateau midway between the York and James rivers, and was
swept by breezes which tempered the heat of the summer sun and kept the
town free from mosquitoes.
Williamsburg was also well laid out, and it has the honor of having served
as a model for the city of Washington. It consisted chiefly of a single
street, one hundred feet broad and three quarters of a mile long, with the
capitol at one end, the college at the other, and a ten-acre square with
public buildings in the middle. Here in his palace lived the colonial
governor. The town also contained "ten or twelve gentlemen's families,
besides merchants and tradesmen." These were the permanent inhabitants;
and during the "season"--the midwinter months--the planters' families came
to town in their coaches, the gentlemen on horseback, and the little
capital was then a scene of gayety and dissipation.
Such was Williamsburg in 1760 when Thomas Jefferson, the frontier
planter's son, rode slowly into town at the close of an early spring day,
surveying with the outward indifference, but keen inward curiosity of a
countryman, the place which was to be his residence for seven years,--in
one sense the most important, because the most formative, period of his
life. He was a tall stripling, rather slightly built,--after the model of
the Randolphs,--but extremely well-knit, muscular, and agile. His face was
freckled, and his features were somewhat pointed. His hair is variously
described as red, reddish, and sandy, and the color of his eyes as blue,
gray, and also hazel. The expression of his face was frank, cheerful, and
engaging. He was not handsome in youth, but "a very good-looking man in
middle age, and quite a handsome old man." At maturity he stood six feet
two and a half inches. "Mr. Jefferson," said Mr. Bacon, at one time the
superintendent of his estate, "was well proportioned and straight as a
gun-barrel. He was like a fine horse, he had no surplus flesh. He had an
iron constitution, and was very strong."
Jefferson was always the most cheerful and optimistic of men. He once
said, after remarking that something must depend "on the chapter of
events:" "I am in the habit of turning over the next leaf with hope, and,
though it often fails me, there is still another and another behind." No
doubt this sanguine trait was due in part at least to his almost perfect
health. He was, to use his own language, "blessed with organs of digestion
which accepted and concocted, without ever murmuring, whatever the palate
chose to consign to them." His habits through life were good. He never
smoked, he drank wine in moderation, he went to bed early, he was regular
in taking exercise, either by walking or, more commonly, by riding on
horseback.
The college of William and Mary in Jefferson's day is described by Mr.
Parton as "a medley of college, Indian mission, and grammar school,
ill-governed, and distracted by dissensions among its ruling powers." But
Jefferson had a thirst for knowledge and a capacity for acquiring it,
which made him almost independent of institutions of learning. Moreover,
there was one professor who had a large share in the formation of his
mind. "It was my great good fortune," he wrote in his brief autobiography,
"and what probably fixed the destinies of my life, that Dr. William Small,
of Scotland, was then professor of mathematics; a man profound in most of
the useful branches of science, with a happy talent of communication and
an enlarged liberal mind. He, most happily for me, soon became attached to
me, and made me his daily companion when not engaged in the school; and
from his conversation I got my first views of the expansion of science,
and of the system of things in which we are placed."
Jefferson, like all well-bred Virginians, was brought up as an
Episcopalian; but as a young man, perhaps owing in part to the influence
of Dr. Small, he ceased to believe in Christianity as a religion, though
he always at home attended the Episcopal church, and though his daughters
were brought up in that faith. If any theological term is to be applied to
him, he should be called a Deist. Upon the subject of his religious faith,
Jefferson was always extremely reticent. To one or two friends only did he
disclose his creed, and that was in letters which were published after his
death. When asked, even by one of his own family, for his opinion upon any
religious matter, he invariably refused to express it, saying that every
person was bound to look into the subject for himself, and to decide upon
it conscientiously, unbiased by the opinions of others.
Dr. Small introduced Jefferson to other valuable acquaintances; and, boy
though he was, he soon became the fourth in a group of friends which
embraced the three most notable men in the little metropolis. These were,
beside Dr. Small, Francis Fauquier, the acting governor of the province,
appointed by the crown, and George Wythe. Fauquier was a courtly,
honorable, highly cultivated man of the world, a disciple of Voltaire, and
a confirmed gambler, who had in this respect an unfortunate influence upon
the Virginia gentry,--not, however, upon Jefferson, who, though a lover of
horses, and a frequenter of races, never in his life gambled or even
played cards. Wythe was then just beginning a long and honorable career as
lawyer, statesman, professor, and judge. He remained always a firm and
intimate friend of Jefferson, who spoke of him, after his death, as "my
second father." It is an interesting fact that Thomas Jefferson, John
Marshall, and Henry Clay were all, in succession, law students in the
office of George Wythe.
Many of the government officials and planters who flocked to Williamsburg
in the winter were related to Jefferson on his mother's side, and they
opened their houses to him with Virginia hospitality. We read also of
dances in the "Apollo," the ball-room of the old Raleigh tavern, and of
musical parties at Gov. Fauquier's house, in which Jefferson, who was a
skillful and enthusiastic fiddler, always took part. "I suppose," he
remarked in his old age, "that during at least a dozen years of my life, I
played no less than three hours a day."
At this period he was somewhat of a dandy, very particular about his
clothes and equipage, and devoted, as indeed he remained through life, to
fine horses. Virginia imported more thoroughbred horses than any other
colony, and to this day there is probably a greater admixture of
thoroughbred blood there than in any other State. Diomed, winner of the
first English Derby, was brought over to Virginia in 1799, and founded a
family which, even now, is highly esteemed as a source of speed and
endurance. Jefferson had some of his colts; and both for the saddle and
for his carriage he always used high-bred horses.
Referring to the Williamsburg period of his life, he wrote once to a
grandson: "When I recollect the various sorts of bad company with which I
associated from time to time, I am astonished I did not turn off with some
of them, and become as worthless to society as they were.... But I had the
good fortune to become acquainted very early with some characters of very
high standing, and to feel the incessant wish that I could ever become
what they were. Under temptations and difficulties, I would ask myself
what would Dr. Small, Mr. Wythe, Peyton Randolph do in this situation?
What course in it will assure me their approbation? I am certain that this
mode of deciding on my conduct tended more to correctness than any
reasoning powers that I possesed."
This passage throws a light upon Jefferson's character. It does not seem
to occur to him that a young man might require some stronger motive to
keep his passions in check than could be furnished either by the wish to
imitate a good example or by his "reasoning powers." To Jefferson's
well-regulated mind the desire for approbation was a sufficient motive. He
was particularly sensitive, perhaps morbidly so, to disapprobation. The
respect, the good-will, the affection of his countrymen were so dear to
him that the desire to retain them exercised a great, it may be at times,
an undue influence upon him. "I find," he once said, "the pain of a little
censure, even when it is unfounded, is more acute than the pleasure of
much praise."
During his second year at college, Jefferson laid aside all frivolities.
He sent home his horses, contenting himself with a mile run out and back
at nightfall for exercise, and studying, if we may believe the biographer,
no less than fifteen hours a day. This intense application reduced the
time of his college course by one half; and after the second winter at
Williamsburg he went home with a degree in his pocket, and a volume of
Coke upon Lytleton in his trunk.
II
VIRGINIA IN JEFFERSON'S DAY
To a young Virginian of Jefferson's standing but two active careers were
open, law and politics, and in almost every case these two, sooner or
later, merged in one. The condition of Virginia was very different from
that of New England,--neither the clerical nor the medical profession was
held in esteem. There were no manufactures, and there was no general
commerce.
Nature has divided Virginia into two parts: the mountainous region to the
west and the broad level plain between the mountains and the sea,
intersected by numerous rivers, in which, far back from the ocean, the
tide ebbs and flows. In this tide-water region were situated the tobacco
plantations which constituted the wealth and were inhabited by the
aristocracy of the colony. Almost every planter lived near a river and had
his own wharf, whence a schooner carried his tobacco to London, and
brought back wines, silks, velvets, guns, saddles, and shoes.
The small proprietors of land were comparatively few in number, and the
whole constitution of the colony, political and social, was aristocratic.
Both real estate and slaves descended by force of law to the eldest son,
so that the great properties were kept intact. There were no townships and
no town meetings. The political unit was the parish; for the Episcopal
church was the established church,--a state institution; and the parishes
were of great extent, there being, as a rule, but one or two parishes in a
county.
The clergy, though belonging to an establishment, were poorly paid, and
not revered as a class. They held the same position of inferiority in
respect to the rich planters which the clergy of England held in respect
to the country gentry at the same period. Being appointed by the crown,
they were selected without much regard to fitness, and they were
demoralized by want of supervision, for there were no resident bishops,
and, further, by the uncertain character of their incomes, which, being
paid in tobacco, were subject to great fluctuations. A few were men of
learning and virtue who performed their duties faithfully, and eked out
their incomes by taking pupils. "It was these few," remarks Mr. Parton,
"who saved civilization in the colony." A few others became cultivators of
tobacco, and acquired wealth. But the greater part of the clergy were
companions and hangers-on of the rich planters,--examples of that type
which Thackeray so well describes in the character of Parson Sampson in
"The Virginians." Strange tales were told of these old Virginia parsons.
One is spoken of as pocketing annually a hundred dollars, the revenue of a
legacy for preaching four sermons a year against atheism, gambling,
racing, and swearing,--for all of which vices, except the first, he was
notorious.
This period, the middle half of the eighteenth century, was, as the reader
need not be reminded, that in which the English church sank to its lowest
point. It was the era when the typical country parson was a convivial
fox-hunter; when the Fellows of colleges sat over their wine from four
o'clock, their dinner hour, till midnight or after; when the highest type
of bishop was a learned man who spent more time in his private studies
than in the duties of his office; when the cathedrals were neglected and
dirty, and the parish churches were closed from Sunday to Sunday. In
England, the reaction produced Methodism, and, later, the Tractarian
movement; and we are told that even in Virginia, "swarms of Methodists,
Moravians, and New-Light Presbyterians came over the border from
Pennsylvania, and pervaded the colony."
Taxation pressed with very unequal force upon the poor, and the right of
voting was confined to freeholders. There was no system of public schools,
and the great mass of the people were ignorant and coarse, but morally and
physically sound,--a good substructure for an aristocratic society. Wealth
being concentrated mainly in the hands of a few, Virginia presented
striking contrasts of luxury and destitution, whereas in the neighboring
colony of Pennsylvania, where wealth was more distributed and society more
democratic, thrift and prosperity were far more common.
"In Pennsylvania," relates a foreign traveler, "one sees great numbers of
wagons drawn by four or more fine fat horses.... In the slave States we
sometimes meet a ragged black boy or girl driving a team consisting of a
lean cow and a mule; and I have seen a mule, a bull, and a cow, each
miserable in its appearance, composing one team, with a half-naked black
slave or two riding or driving as occasion suited." And yet between
Richmond and Fredericksburg, "in the afternoon, as our road lay through
the woods, I was surprised to meet a family party traveling along in as
elegant a coach as is usually met with in the neighborhood of London, and
attended by several gayly dressed footmen."
Virginia society just before the Revolution perfectly illustrated Buckle's
remark about leisure: "Without leisure, science is impossible; and when
leisure has been won, most of the class possessing it will waste it in the
pursuit of pleasure, and a _few_ will employ it in the pursuit of
knowledge." Men like Jefferson, George Wythe, and Madison used their
leisure for the good of their fellow-beings and for the cultivation of
their minds; whereas the greater part of the planters--and the poor whites
imitated them--spent their ample leisure in sports, in drinking, and in
absolute idleness. "In spite of the Virginians' love for dissipation,"
wrote a famous French traveler, "the taste for reading is commoner among
men of the first rank than in any other part of America; but the populace
is perhaps more ignorant there than elsewhere." "The Virginia virtues,"
says Mr. Henry Adams, "were those of the field and farm--the simple and
straightforward mind, the notions of courage and truth, the absence of
mercantile sharpness and quickness, the rusticity and open-handed
hospitality." Virginians of the upper class were remarkable for their
high-bred courtesy,--a trait so inherent that it rarely disappeared even in
the bitterness of political disputes and divisions. This, too, was the
natural product of a society based not on trade or commerce, but on land.
"I blush for my own people," wrote Dr. Channing, from Virginia, in 1791,
"when I compare the selfish prudence of a Yankee with the generous
confidence of a Virginian. Here I find great vices, but greater virtues
than I left behind me." There was a largeness of temper and of feeling in
the Virginia aristocracy, which seems to be inseparable from people living
in a new country, upon the outskirts of civilization. They had the pride
of birth, but they recognized other claims to consideration, and were as
far as possible from estimating a man according to the amount of his
wealth.
Slavery itself was probably a factor for good in the character of such a
man as Jefferson,--it afforded a daily exercise in the virtues of
benevolence and self-control. How he treated the blacks may be gathered
from a story, told by his superintendent, of a slave named Jim who had
been caught stealing nails from the nail-factory: "When Mr. Jefferson
came, I sent for Jim, and I never saw any person, white or black, feel as
badly as he did when he saw his master. The tears streamed down his face,
and he begged for pardon over and over again. I felt very badly myself.
Mr. Jefferson turned to me and said, 'Ah, sir, we can't punish him. He has
suffered enough already.' He then talked to him, gave him a heap of good
advice, and sent him to the shop.... Jim said: 'Well I'se been a-seeking
religion a long time, but I never heard anything before that sounded so,
or made me feel so, as I did when Master said, "Go, and don't do so any
more," and now I'se determined to seek religion till I find it;' and sure
enough he afterwards came to me for a permit to go and be baptized.... He
was always a good servant afterward."
Another element that contributed to the efficiency and the high standard
of the early Virginia statesman was a good, old-fashioned classical
education. They were familiar, to use Matthew Arnold's famous expression,
"with the best that has ever been said or done." This was no small
advantage to men who were called upon to act as founders of a republic
different indeed from the republics of Greece and Rome, but still based
upon | 1,634.502176 |
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WASPS
SOCIAL AND SOLITARY
[Illustration:
Page 266
PELOPÆUS ON NEST, GROUP OF FINISHED CELLS, AND TUBE OPENED TO SHOW
SPIDERS]
WASPS
SOCIAL AND SOLITARY
BY
GEORGE W. PECKHAM
AND
ELIZABETH G. PECKHAM
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
JOHN BURROUGHS
_ILLUSTRATIONS BY JAMES H. EMERTON_
“Bold sons of air and heat, untamed, untired.”—ILIAD, Book XVII
[Illustration: LOGO]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY
The Riverside Press, Cambridge
1905
COPYRIGHT 1905 BY GEORGE W. PECKHAM AND ELIZABETH G. PECKHAM
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published April, 1905_
NOTE
A PART of the matter presented in this volume was published several
years ago by the Wisconsin Biological Survey, under the title
“Instincts and Habits of the Solitary Wasps.” These chapters have
been revised and modified, and new matter based upon later work has
been added, in the hope that in their present less technical form the
observations recorded will be of interest to the general reader.
For a number of the text cuts used in this volume we are indebted to
the courtesy of Dr. E. A. Birge, Director of the Wisconsin Geological
and Natural History Survey.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. COMMUNAL LIFE 1
II. AMMOPHILA AND HER C | 1,634.691922 |
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the numerous original illustrations.
See 50710-h.htm or 50710-h.zip:
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Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
https://archive.org/details/cassellshistoryo02londuoft
Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
CASSELL'S ILLUSTRATED HISTORY OF ENGLAND
CASSELL'S HISTORY OF ENGLAND
From the Wars of the Roses to the Great Rebellion
With Numerous Illustrations, Including and Rembrandt Plates
VOL. II
The King's Edition
Cassell and Company, Limited
London, New York, Toronto and Melbourne
MCMIX
All Rights Reserved
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I.
WARS OF THE ROSES. PAGE
Cade's Rebellion--York comes over from Ireland--His Claims
and the Unpopularity of the Reigning Line--His First
Appearance in Arms--Birth of the Prince of Wales--York made
Protector--Recovery of the King--Battle of St. Albans--York's
second Protectorate--Brief Reconciliation of Parties--Battle of
Blore Heath--Flight of the Yorkists--Battle of Northampton--York
Claims the Crown--The Lords Attempt a Compromise--Death of York
at Wakefield--Second Battle of St. Albans--The Young Duke of York
Marches on London--His Triumphant Entry 1
CHAPTER II.
REIGN OF EDWARD IV.
The Battle of Towton--Edward's Coronation--Henry escapes to
Scotland--The Queen seeks aid in France--Battle of Hexham--Henry
made Prisoner--Confined in the Tower--Edward marries Lady
Elizabeth Grey--Advancement of her Relations--Attacks on the
Family of the Nevilles--Warwick negotiates with France--Marriage
of Margaret, the King's Sister, to the Duke of Burgundy--Marriage
of the Duke of Clarence with a Daughter of Warwick--Battle of
Banbury--Rupture between the King and his Brother--Rebellion of
Clarence and Warwick--Clarence and Warwick flee to France--Warwick
proposes to restore Henry VI.--Marries Edward, Prince of Wales,
to his Daughter, Lady Ann Neville--Edward IV.'s reckless
Dissipation--Warwick and Clarence invade England--Edward
expelled--His return to England--Battle of Barnet--Battle
of Tewkesbury, and ruin of the Lancastrian Cause--Rivalry
of Clarence and Gloucester--Edward's Futile Intervention in
Foreign Politics--Becomes a Pensioner of France--Death of
Clarence--Expedition to Scotland--Death and Character of the King
17
CHAPTER III.
EDWARD V. AND RICHARD III.
Edward V. proclaimed--The Two Parties of the Queen and of
Gloucester--Struggle in the Council--Gloucester's Plans--The Earl
Rivers and his Friends imprisoned--Gloucester secures the King and
conducts him to London--Indignities to the young King--Execution
of Lord Hastings--A Base Sermon at St. Paul's Cross--Gloucester
pronounces the two young Princes illegitimate--The Farce at
the Guildhall--Gloucester seizes the Crown--Richard crowned
in London and again at York--Buckingham revolts against
him--Murder of the two Princes--Henry of Richmond--Failure
of Buckingham's Rising--Buckingham beheaded--Richards title
confirmed by Parliament--Queen Dowager and her Daughters quit the
Sanctuary--Death of Richard's Son and Heir--Proposes to Marry his
Niece, Elizabeth of York--Richmond lands at Milford Haven--His
Progress--The Troubles of Richard--The Battle of Bosworth--The
Fallen Tyrant--End of the Wars of the Roses 46
CHAPTER IV.
PROGRESS OF THE NATION IN THE FIFTEENTH CENTURY.
The Study of Latin and Greek--Invention of Printing--Caxton--New
Schools and Colleges--Architecture, Military, Ecclesiastical,
and Domestic--Sculpture, Painting, and Gilding--The Art of
War--Commerce and Shipping--Coinage 64
CHAPTER V.
REIGN OF HENRY VII.
Henry's Defective Title--Imprisonment of the Earl of Warwick--The
King's Title to the Throne--His Marriage--Love Rising--Lambert
Simnel--Henry's prompt Action--Failure of the Rebellion--The
Queen's Coronation--The Act of Maintenance--Henry's Ingratitude
to the Duke of Brittany--Discontent in England--Expedition to
France and its Results--Henry's Second Invasion--Treaty of
Etaples--Perkin Warbeck--His Adventures in Ireland, France,
and Burgundy--Henry's Measures--Descent on Kent--Warbeck in
Scotland--Invasion of England--The Cornish Rising--Warbeck
quits Scotland--He lands in Cornwall--Failure of the
Rebellion--Imprisonment of Warbeck and his subsequent
Execution--European Affairs--Marriages of Henry's Daughter and
Son--Betrothal of Catherine and Prince Henry--Henry's Matrimonial
Schemes--Royal Exactions--A Lucky Capture--Henry proposes for
Joanna--His Death 76
CHAPTER VI.
REIGN OF HENRY VIII.
The King's Accession--State of Europe--Henry and Julius
II.--Treaty between England and Spain--Henry is duped by
Ferdinand--New Combinations--Execution of Suffolk--Invasion of
France--Battle of Spurs--Invasion of England by the Scots--Flodden
Field--Death of James of Scotland--Louis breaks up the Holy
League--Peace with France--Marriage and Death of Louis XII.--Rise
of Wolsey--Affairs in Scotland--Francis I. in Italy--Death of
Maximilian--Henry a Candidate for the Empire--Election of
Charles--Field of the Cloth of Gold--Wolsey's Diplomacy--Failure
of his Candidature for the Papacy--The Emperor in London 102
CHAPTER VII.
REIGN OF HENRY VIII. (_continued_).
The War with France--The Earl of Surrey Invades that Country--Sir
Thomas More elected Speaker--Henry and Parliament--Revolt
of the Duke of Bourbon--Pope Adrian VI. dies--Clement VII.
elected--Francis I. taken Prisoner at the Battle of Pavia--Growing
Unpopularity of Wolsey--Change of Feeling at the English
Court--Treaty with France--Francis I. regains his liberty--Italian
League, including France and England, established against the
Emperor--Fall of the Duke of Bourbon at the Siege of Rome--Sacking
of Rome, and Capture of the Pope--Appearance of Luther--Henry
writes against the German Reformer--Henry receives from the
Pope the style and Designation of "Defender of the Faith"--Anne
Boleyn--Henry applies to the Pope for a Divorce from the
Queen--The Pope's Dilemma--War declared against Spain--Cardinal
Campeggio arrives in England to decide the Legality of Henry's
Marriage with Catherine--Trial of the Queen--Henry's Discontent
with Wolsey--Fall of Wolsey--His Banishment from Court and
Death--Cranmer's advice regarding the Divorce--Cromwell cuts the
Gordian Knot--Dismay of the Clergy--The King declared Head of the
Church in England--The King's Marriage with Anne Boleyn--Cranmer
made Archbishop--The Pope Reverses the Divorce--Separation of
England from Rome 130
CHAPTER VIII.
REIGN OF HENRY VIII. (_continued_).
The Maid of Kent and Her Accomplices--Act of Supremacy and
Consequent Persecutions--The "Bloody Statute"--Deaths of Fisher
and More--Suppression of the Smaller Monasteries--Trial and Death
of Anne Boleyn--Henry Marries Jane Seymour--Divisions in the
Church--The Pilgrimage of Grace--Birth of Prince Edward--Death
of Queen Jane--Suppression of the Larger Monasteries--The
Six Articles--Judicial Murders--Persecution of Cardinal
Pole--Cromwell's Marriage Scheme--Its Failure and his Fall 158
CHAPTER IX.
REIGN OF HENRY VIII. (_concluded_).
Divorce of Anne of Cleves--Catherine Howard's Marriage and
Death--Fresh Persecutions--Welsh Affairs--The Irish Insurrection
and its Suppression--Scottish Affairs--Catholic Opposition
to Henry--Outbreak of War--Battle of Solway Moss--French and
English Parties in Scotland--Escape of Beaton--Triumph of the
French Party--Treaty between England and Germany--Henry's Sixth
Marriage--Campaign in France--Expedition against Scotland--Capture
of Edinburgh--Fresh Attempt on England--Cardinal Beaton and
Wishart--Death of the Cardinal--Struggle between the two Parties
in England--Death of Henry 183
CHAPTER X.
REIGN OF EDWARD VI.
Accession of Edward VI.--Hertford's Intrigues--He becomes Duke
of Somerset and Lord Protector--War with Scotland--Battle of
Pinkie--Reversal of Henry's Policy--Religious Reforms--Ambition
of Lord Seymour of Sudeley--He marries Catherine Parr--His
Arrest and Death--Popular Discontents--Rebellion in
Devonshire and Cornwall--Ket's Rebellion in Norfolk--Warwick
Suppresses it--Opposition to Somerset--His Rapacity--Fall
of Somerset--Disgraceful Peace with France--Persecution of
Romanists--Somerset's Efforts to regain Power--His Trial and
Execution--New Treason Law--Northumberland's Schemes for Changing
the Succession--Death of Edward 204
CHAPTER XI.
REIGN OF MARY.
Proclamation of Lady Jane Grey--Mary's
Resistance--Northumberland's Failure--Mary is Proclaimed--The
Advice of Charles V.--Execution of Northumberland--Restoration
of the Roman Church--Proposed Marriage with Philip of
Spain--Consequent Risings throughout England--Wyatt's
Rebellion--Execution of Lady Jane Grey--Imprisonment of
Elizabeth--Marriage of Philip and Mary--England Accepts the Papal
Absolution--Persecuting Statutes Re-enacted--Martyrdom of Rogers,
Hooper, and Taylor--Di Castro's Sermon--Sickness of Mary--Trials
of Ridley, Latimer, and Cranmer--Martyrdom of Ridley and
Latimer--Confession and Death of Cranmer--Departure of Philip--The
Dudley Conspiracy--Return of Philip--War with France--Battle of
St. Quentin--Loss of Calais--Death of Mary 221
CHAPTER XII.
REIGN OF ELIZABETH.
Accession of Elizabeth--Sir William Cecil--The Coronation--Opening
of Parliament--Ecclesiastical Legislation--Consecration of
Parker--Elizabeth and Philip--Treaty of Cateau-Cambresis--Affairs
in Scotland--The First Covenant--Attitude of Mary of Guise--Riot
at Perth--Outbreak of Hostilities--The Lords of the Congregation
apply to England--Elizabeth hesitates--Siege of Leith--Treaty
of Edinburgh--Return of Mary to Scotland--Murray's Influence
over her--Beginning of the Religious Wars in France--Elizabeth
sends Help to the Huguenots--Peace of Amboise--English Disaster
at Havre--Peace with France--The Earl of Leicester--Project of
his Marriage with Mary--Lord Darnley--Murder of Rizzio--Birth
of Mary's Son--Murder of Darnley--Mary and Bothwell--Carberry
Hill--Mary in Lochleven--Abdicates in favour of her Infant
Son--Mary's Escape from Lochleven--Defeated at Langside--Her
Escape into England 246
CHAPTER XIII.
REIGN OF ELIZABETH (_continued_).
Elizabeth Determines to Imprison Mary--The Conference at
York--It is Moved to London--The Casket Letters--Mary is sent
Southwards--Remonstrances of the European Sovereigns--Affairs
in the Netherlands--Alva is sent Thither--Elizabeth Aids the
Insurgents--Proposed Marriage between Mary and Norfolk--The
Plot is Discovered--Rising in the North--Its Suppression--Death
of the Regent Murray--Its Consequences in Scotland--Religious
Persecutions--Execution of Norfolk--Massacre of St.
Bartholomew--Siege of Edinburgh Castle--War in France--Splendid
Defence of La Rochelle--Death of Charles IX.--Religious War in the
Netherlands--Rule of Don John--The Anjou Marriage--Deaths of Anjou
and of William the Silent 274
CHAPTER XIV.
REIGN OF ELIZABETH (_continued_).
Affairs of Ireland: Shane O'Neil's Rebellion--Plantation of
Ulster--Spanish Descent on Ireland--Desmond's Rebellion--Religious
Conformity--Campian and Parsons--The Anabaptists--Affairs
of Scotland--Death of Morton--Success of the Catholics in
Scotland--The Raid of Ruthven--Elizabeth's Position--Throgmorton's
Plot--Association to Protect Elizabeth--Mary removed
to Tutbury--Support of the Protestant Cause on the
Continent--Leicester in the Netherlands--Babington's Plot--Trial
of Mary--Her Condemnation--Hesitation of Elizabeth--Execution of
Mary 295
CHAPTER XV.
REIGN OF ELIZABETH (_concluded_).
State of Europe on the Death of Mary--Preparations of Philip
of Spain--Exploits of English Sailors--Drake Singes the King
of Spain's Beard--Preparations against the Armada--Loyalty of
the Roman Catholics--Arrival of the Armada in the Channel--Its
Disastrous Course and Complete Destruction--Elizabeth at
Tilbury--Death of Leicester--Persecution of the Puritans and
Catholics--Renewed Expeditions against Spain--Accession of Henry
of Navarre to the French Throne--He is helped by Elizabeth--Essex
takes Cadiz--His Quarrels with the Cecils--His Second Expedition
and Rupture with the Queen--Troubles in Ireland--Essex appointed
Lord-Deputy--His Failure--The Essex Rising--Execution of
Essex--Mountjoy in Ireland--The Debate on Monopolies--Victory of
Mountjoy--Weakness of Elizabeth--Her last Illness and Death 313
CHAPTER XVI.
THE PROGRESS OF THE NATION IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY.
The Tudors and the Nation--The Church--Population and
Wealth--Royal Prerogative--Legislation of Henry VIII.--The Star
Chamber--Beneficial Legislation--Treason Laws--Legislation
of Edward and Mary--Elizabeth's Policy--Religion and
the Church--Sketch of Ecclesiastical History under the
Tudors--Literature, Science, and Art--Greatness of the
Period--Foundation of Colleges and Schools--Revival of
Learning--Its Temporary Decay--Prose Writers of the Period--The
Poets--Scottish Bards--Music--Architecture--Painting and
Sculpture--Furniture and Decorations--Arms and Armour--Costumes,
Coins, and Coinage--Ships, Commerce, Colonies, and
Manufactures--Manners and Customs--Condition of the People 342
CHAPTER XVII.
REIGN OF JAMES I.
The Stuart Dynasty--Hopes and Fears caused by the Accession of
James--The King enters England--His Progress to London--Lavish
Creation of Peers and Knights--The Royal Entrance into the
Metropolis--The Coronation--Popularity of Queen Anne--Ravages
of the Plague--The King Receives Foreign Embassies--Rivalry
of the Diplomatists of France and Spain--Discontent of
Raleigh, Northumberland, and Cobham--Conspiracies against
James--"The Main" and "The Bye"--Trials of the Conspirators--The
Sentences--Conference with Puritans--Parliament of
1604--Persecution of Catholics and Puritans--Gunpowder
Plot--Admission of Fresh Members--Delays and Devices--The
Letter to Lord Mounteagle--Discovery of the Plot--Flight of the
Conspirators--Their Capture and Execution--New Penal Code--James's
Correspondence with Bellarmine--Cecil's attempts to get
Money--Project of Union between England and Scotland--The King's
Collisions with Parliament--Insurrection of the Levellers--Royal
Extravagance and Impecuniosity--Fresh Disputes with Parliament and
Assertions of the Prerogative--Death of Cecil--Story of Arabella
Stuart--Death of Prince Henry 404
CHAPTER XVIII.
REIGN OF JAMES I (_concluded_).
Reign of Favourites--Robert Carr--His Marriage--Death of
Overbury--Venality at Court--The Addled Parliament--George
Villiers--Fall of Somerset--Disgrace of Coke--Bacon becomes
Lord Chancellor--Position of England Abroad--The Scottish
Church--Introduction of Episcopacy--Andrew Melville--Visit
of James to Scotland--The Book of Sports--Persecution of the
Irish Catholics--Examination into Titles--Rebellion of the
Chiefs--Plantation of Ulster--Fresh Confiscations--Quarrel
between Bacon and Coke--Prosperity of Buckingham--Raleigh's
Last Voyage--His Execution--Beginning of the Thirty Years'
War--Indecision of James--Despatch of Troops to the
Palatinate--Parliament of 1621--Impeachment of Bacon--His
Fall--Floyd's Case--James's Proceedings during the
Recess--Dissolution of Parliament--Reasons for the Spanish
Match--Charles and Buckingham go to Spain--The Match is Broken
Off--Punishment of Bristol--Popularity of Buckingham--Change of
Foreign Policy--Marriage of Charles and Henrietta Maria--Death
of James 448
CHAPTER XIX.
REIGN OF CHARLES I.
Accession of Charles--His Marriage--Meeting of Parliament--Loan
of Ships to Richelieu--Dissolution of Parliament--Failure of
the Spanish Expedition--Persecution of the Catholics--The
Second Parliament--It appoints three Committees--Impeachment
of Buckingham--Parliament dissolved to save him--Illegal
Government--High Church Doctrines--Rupture with France--Disastrous
Expedition to Rhe--The Third Parliament--The Petition of
Right--Resistance and Final Surrender of Charles--Parliament
Prorogued--Assassination of Buckingham--Fall of La
Rochelle--Parliament Reassembles and is Dissolved--Imprisonment
of Offending Members--Government without Parliament--Peace
with France and Spain--Gustavus Adolphus in Germany--Despotic
Proceedings of Charles and Laud 508
CHAPTER XX.
Reign of Charles I (_continued_).
Visit of Charles to Scotland--Laud and the Papal See--His
Ecclesiastical Measures--Punishment of Prynne, Bastwick, and
Burton--Disgrace of Williams--Ship-money--Resistance of John
Hampden--Wentworth in the North--Recall of Falkland from
Ireland--Wentworth's Measures--Inquiry into Titles--Prelacy
Riots in Edinburgh--Jenny Geddes's Stool--The Tables--Renewal
of the Covenant--Charles makes Concessions--The General
Assembly--Preparations for War--Charles at York--Leslie at
Dunse Hill--A Conference held--Treaty of Berwick--Arrest of
Loudon--Insult from the Dutch--Wentworth in England--The Short
Parliament--Riots in London--Preparations of the Scots--Mutiny in
the English Army--Invasion of England--Treaty of Ripon--Meeting of
the Long Parliament--Impeachment of Strafford--His Trial--He is
abandoned by Charles--His Execution--The King's Visit to
Scotland 550
[Illustration: DANDY OF THE TIME OF CHARLES I.
(_From a Broadside, dated 1646._)]
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
Dandy of the Time of Charles I. IX
Eltham Palace, from the North-east 1
The Duke of York Challenged to Mortal Combat 5
View in Luebeck: The Church of St. Aegidius 9
Clifford's Tower: York Castle 12
Rutland beseeching Clifford to spare his Life 13
The Quarrel in the Temple Gardens 17
Edward IV. 20
Dunstanburgh Castle 21
Great Seal of Edward IV. 25
Gold Rose Noble of Edward IV. 28
Preaching at St. Paul's Cross 29
Battle of Barnet: Death of the King-maker 33
Burial of King Henry 37
Louis XI. and the Herald 41
St. Andrews, from the Pier 45
Great Seal of Edward V. 48
Edward V. 49
The Tower of London: Bloody and Wakefield Towers 52
Great Seal of Richard III. 53
The Princes in the Tower 56
Richard III. 57
Richard III. at the Battle of Bosworth 61
Facsimile of Caxton's Printing in the "Dictes and Sayings
of Philosophers," (1477) 65
Earl Rivers Presenting Caxton to Edward IV. 65
The Quadrangle, Eton College 68
Interior of King's College Chapel, Cambridge 69
Street in London in the Fifteenth Century 73
Cannon of the End of the Fifteenth Century 75
Great Seal of Henry VII. 77
Henry VII. 80
The Last Stand of Schwarz and his Germans 81
Penny of Henry VII. Angel of Henry VII. Noble of Henry VII.
Sovereign of Henry VII. 85
Stirling Castle 89
St. Michael's Mount, Cornwall 92
Lady Catherine Gordon before Henry VII. 93
The Byward Tower, Tower of London 97
King Henry's Departure from Henningham Castle 100
Henry VII.'s Chapel, Westminster Abbey 101
Great Seal of Henry VIII. 105
Meeting of Henry and the Emperor Maximilian 108
Henry and the captured French Officers 109
Edinburgh after Flodden 113
Archbishop Warham 117
Hampton Court Palace 121
Henry VIII. 125
Great Ship of Henry VIII. 129
Stirling, from the Abbey Craig 132
Cardinal Wolsey 133
Silver Groat of Henry VIII. Gold Crown of Henry VIII.
George Noble of Henry VIII. 136
Pound Sovereign of Henry VIII. Double Sovereign of
Henry VIII. 137
Surrender of Francis on the Battle-field of Pavia 141
Martin Luther 145
The Trial of Queen Catherine 149
The Dismissal of Wolsey 153
The Tower of London: Sketch in the Gardens 157
Sir Thomas More 160
The Parting of Sir Thomas More and his Daughter 161
Anne Boleyn 165
Anne Boleyn's Last Farewell of her Ladies 168
St. Peter's Chapel, Tower Green, London, where Anne
Boleyn was Buried 169
The Pilgrimage of Grace 173
Gateway of Kirkham Priory 176
Beauchamp Tower, and Place of Execution within the
Tower of London 177
Thomas Cromwell, Earl of Essex 181
Catherine Howard being conveyed to the Tower 185
Capture of the Fitzgeralds 188
The First Levee of Mary Queen of Scots 192
View in St. Andrews: North Street 193
Francis I. 197
The Assassination of Cardinal Beaton 201
Edward VI. 205
Great Seal of Edward VI. 209
The Royal Herald in Ket's Camp 212
Old Somerset House, London 213
The Duke of Somerset 217
Silver Crown of Edward VI. 219
Sixpence of Edward VI. Shilling of Edward VI. Pound
Sovereign of Edward VI. Triple Sovereign of Edward VI. 220
Queen Mary and the State Prisoners in the Tower 221
Great Seal of Philip and Mary 224
View from the Constable's Garden, Tower of London 225
Old London Bridge, with Nonsuch Palace 229
Lady Jane Grey on her way to the Scaffold 233
Archbishop Cranmer 237
The Place of Martyrdom, Old Smithfield 240
Mary I. 241
The Hotel de Ville and Old Lighthouse, Calais 244
Shilling of Philip and Mary. Real of Mary I. 245
Elizabeth's Public Entry into London 249
Elizabeth 252
Autograph of Elizabeth 253
Mar's Work, Stirling 257
Great Seal of Elizabeth 260
Mary, Queen of Scots 261
The Murder of Rizzio 265
Holyrood Palace, Edinburgh 269
Mary Signing the Deed of Abdication in Lochleven Castle 273
Lord Burleigh 276
Farthing of Elizabeth. Halfpenny of Elizabeth. Penny
of Elizabeth. Twopence of Elizabeth. Half-crown
of Elizabeth. Half-sovereign of Elizabeth 277
The Duke of Norfolk's Interview with Elizabeth 281
The Regent Murray 284
High Street, Linlithgow 285
Kenilworth Castle 289
The House of the English Ambassador during the Massacre
of St. Bartholomew 293
Murder of the Earl of Desmond 297
The Earl of Arran accusing Morton of the Murder of Darnley 300
Dumbarton Rock, with view of Castle 301
The Earl of Leicester 305
Trial of Mary Queen of Scots in Fotheringay Castle 309
Mary Queen of Scots receiving Intimation of her Doom 312
Sir Francis Drake 317
The Hoe, Plymouth 320
The Armada in Sight 321
Philip II. 325
Beauchamp Tower, Warders' Houses, and Yeoman Gaolers'
Lodgings: Tower of London 329
The Quarrel between Elizabeth and the Earl of Essex 332
The Earl of Essex 333
Lord Grey and his Followers Attacking the Earl of
Southampton 337
Elizabeth's Promenade on Richmond Green 340
Richmond Palace 341
Town and Country Folk of Elizabeth's Reign 345
State Trial in Westminster Hall in the Time of Elizabeth 349
John Knox 353
Reduced Facsimile of the Title-page of the Great Bible,
also called Cromwell's Bible 357
Christ's Hospital, London 361
Latimer Preaching before Edward VI. 364
Roger Ascham's Visit to Lady Jane Grey 365
Edmund Spenser 369
The House at Stratford-on-Avon in which Shakespeare was Born 373
Shakespeare 376
The Acting of one of Shakespeare's Plays in the Time of
Queen Elizabeth 377
Queen Elizabeth's Cither and Music-book 379
Holland House, Kensington 380
The Great Court of Kirby Hall, Northamptonshire 381
Entrance from the Courtyard of Burleigh House, Stamford 383
Elizabeth's Drawing-room, Penshurst Place 384
Soldiers of the Tudor Period 385
The Wedding of Jack of Newbury: The Bride's Procession 389
Ships of Elizabeth's Time 393
The First Royal Exchange, London (Founded by Sir Thomas
Gresham) 396
Sir Thomas Gresham 397
The Frolic of My Lord of Misrule 401
Punishment of the Stocks 403
James I. 405
St. Thomas's Tower and Traitor's Gate, Tower of London 409
Sir Walter Raleigh 412
The Dissenting Divines Presenting their Petition to James 413
The Old Palace, Westminster, in the time of Charles I. 417
Great Seal of James I. 420
Guy Fawkes's Cellar under Parliament House 421
Lord Monteagle and the Warning Letter about the Gunpowder
Plot 425
Arrest of Guy Fawkes 428
Pound Sovereign of James I. Unit or Laurel of James I.
(Gold). Spur Rial of James I. (Gold).
Thistle Crown of James I. (Gold) 432
Sir Robert Cecil, afterwards Earl of Salisbury 433
Shilling of James I. Crown of James I. 436
James and his Courtiers setting out for the Hunt 437
The Star Chamber 441
Flight of the Lady Arabella Stuart 444
Notre Dame, Caudebec 445
Sir Francis Bacon (Viscount St. Albans) 449
The Banqueting House, Whitehall 452
Greenwich Palace in the time of James I. 456
Sir Edward Coke 457
Andrew Melville before the Scottish Privy Council 461
Keeping Sunday, according to King James's Book of Sports 465
Parliament House, Dublin, in the Seventeenth Century 469
Sir Francis Bacon waiting an Audience of Buckingham 472
Arrest of Sir Walter Raleigh 476
Sir Walter Raleigh before the Judges 477
The Franzensring, Vienna 481
Interview between Bacon and the Deputation from the Lords 484
George Villiers, Duke of Buckingham 485
The Fleet Prison 489
Public Reception of Prince Charles in Madrid 493
Prince Charles's Farewell of the Infanta 497
The Royal Palace, Madrid 500
The Ladies of the French Court and the Portrait of
Prince Charles 504
Henrietta Maria 505
Great Seal of Charles I. 509
Charles welcoming his Queen to England 512
Charles I. 513
Reception of Viscount Wimbledon at Plymouth 516
York House (The Duke of Buckingham's Mansion) 517
Trial of Buckingham 521
Interior of the Banqueting House, Whitehall 525
Sir John Eliot 529
Assassination of the Duke of Buckingham 533
Tyburn in the time of Charles I. 537
Three Pound Piece of Charles I. Broad of Charles I.
Briot Shilling of Charles I. 540
John Selden 541
Scene in the House of Commons: The Speaker Coerced 545
Interior of Old St. Paul's 549
Dunblane 552
Archbishop Laud 553
John Lilburne on the Pillory 557
The Birmingham Tower, Dublin Castle 561
| 1,635.104605 |
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Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S
YOUNG PEOPLE
AN ILLUSTRATED WEEKLY.]
* * * * *
VOL. I.--NO. 12. PUBLISHED BY HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK. PRICE FOUR
CENTS.
Tuesday, January 20, 1880. Copyright, 1880, by HARPER & BROTHERS. $1.50
per Year, in Advance.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
Poor pussy comes at break of day,
And wakes me up to make me play;
But I am such a sleepy head,
That I'd much rather stay in bed!
OUR OWN STAR.
"As we have already," began the Professor, "had a talk about the stars
in general, let us this morning give a little attention to our own
particular star."
"Is there a star that we can call our own?" asked May, with unusual
animation. "How nice! I wonder if it can be the one I saw from our front
window last evening, that looked so bright and beautiful?"
"I am sure it was not," said the Professor, "if you saw it in the
evening."
"Is it hard to see our star, then?" she said.
"By no means," replied the Professor; "rather it is hard not to see it.
But you must be careful about looking directly at it, or your eyes will
be badly dazzled, it is so very bright. Our star is no other than the
sun. And we are right in calling it a star, because all the stars are
suns, and very likely give light and heat to worlds as large as our
earth, though they are all so far off that we can not see them. Our star
seems so much brighter and hotter than the others, only because it is so
much nearer to us than they are, though still it is some ninety-two
millions of miles away."
"How big is the sun?" asked Joe.
"You can get the clearest idea of its size by a comparison. The earth is
7920 miles in diameter, that is, as measured right through the centre.
Now suppose it to be only one inch, or about as large as a plum or a
half-grown peach; then we would have to regard the sun as three yards in
diameter, so that if it were in this room it would reach from the floor
to the ceiling."
"How do they find out the distance of the sun?" asked Joe.
"Until lately," replied the Professor, "the same method was pursued as
in surveying, that is, by measuring lines and angles. An angle, you
know, is the corner made by two lines coming together, as in the letter
V. But that method did not answer very well, as it did not make the
distance certain within several millions of miles. Quite recently
Professor Newcomb has found out a way of measuring the sun's distance by
the velocity of its light. He has invented a means of learning exactly
how fast light moves; and then, by comparing this with the time light
takes to come from the sun to us, he is able to tell how far off the sun
is. Thus, if a man knows how many miles he walks in an hour, and how
many hours it takes him to walk to a certain place, he can very easily
figure up the number of miles it is away."
"Why," said Gus, "that sounds just like what Bob Stebbins said the other
day in school. He has a big silver watch that he is mighty fond of
hauling out of his pocket before everybody. A caterpillar came crawling
through the door, and went right toward the teacher's desk at the other
end of the room. 'Now,' said Bob, 'if that fellow will only keep
straight ahead, I can tell how long the room is.' So out came the watch,
and Bob wrote down the time and how many inches the caterpillar
travelled in a minute. But just then Sally Smith came across his track
with her long dress, and swept him to Jericho. We boys all laughed out;
Sally blushed and got angry; and the teacher kept us in after school."
"Astronomers have the same kind of troubles," said the Professor. "They
incur great labor and expense to take some particular observation that
is possible only once in a number of years, and then for only a few
minutes. And after their instruments are all carefully set up, and their
calculations made, the clouds spread over the sky, and hide everything
they wish to see. People, too, are very apt to laugh at their
disappointment.
"There would, however, be no science of astronomy if those who pursued
it were discouraged by common difficulties. To explain the heavenly
bodies they sometimes try to make little systems or images of the sun
and the planets; but they are never able to show the sizes and distances
correctly. If they were to begin by making the sun one inch in diameter,
then the earth would have | 1,635.18191 |
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Produced by Tom Roch, Barbara Kosker and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images produced by Core Historical
Literature in Agriculture (CHLA), Cornell University)
THE TRAINING OF A FORESTER
[Illustration: A FOREST RANGER LOOKING FOR FIRE FROM A NATIONAL FOREST
LOOKOUT STATION _Page 32_]
THE TRAINING OF A FORESTER
BY
GIFFORD PINCHOT
WITH EIGHT ILLUSTRATIONS
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA & LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1914
COPYRIGHT, 1914, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PUBLISHED FEBRUARY, 1914
PRINTED BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
AT THE WASHINGTON SQUARE PRESS
PHILADELPHIA, U. S. A.
To
OVERTON W. PRICE
FRIEND AND FELLOW WORKER
TO WHOM IS DUE, MORE THAN TO ANY OTHER MAN, THE
HIGH EFFICIENCY OF THE UNITED STATES FOREST SERVICE
PREFACE
At one time or another, the largest question before every young man is,
"What shall I do with my life?" Among the possible openings, which best
suits his ambition, his tastes, and his capacities? Along what line
shall he undertake to make a successful career? The search for a life
work and the choice of one is surely as important business as can occupy
a boy verging into manhood. It is to help in the decision of those who
are considering forestry as a profession that this little book has been
written.
To the young man who is attracted to forestry and begins to consider it
as a possible profession, certain questions present themselves. What is
forestry? If he takes it up, what will his work be, and where? Does it
in fact offer the satisfying type of outdoor life which it appears to
offer? What chance does it present for a successful career, for a career
of genuine usefulness, and what is the chance to make a living? Is he
fitted for it in character, mind, and body? If so, what training does he
need? These questions deserve an answer.
To the men whom it really suits, forestry offers a career more
attractive, it may be said in all fairness, than any other career
whatsoever. I doubt if any other profession can show a membership so
uniformly and enthusiastically in love with the work. The men who have
taken it up, practised it, and left it for other work are few. But to
the man not fully adapted for it, forestry must be punishment, pure and
simple. Those who have begun the study of forestry, and then have
learned that it was not for them, have doubtless been more in number
than those who have followed it through.
I urge no man to make forestry his profession, but rather to keep away
from it if he can. In forestry a man is either altogether at home or
very much out of place. Unless he has a compelling love for the
Forester's life and the Forester's work, let him keep out of it.
G. P.
CONTENTS
PAGE
WHAT IS A FOREST? 13
THE FORESTER'S KNOWLEDGE 18
THE FOREST AND THE NATION 19
THE FORESTER'S POINT OF VIEW 23
THE ESTABLISHMENT OF FORESTRY 27
THE WORK OF A FORESTER 30
THE FOREST SERVICE 30
THE FOREST SUPERVISOR 46
THE TRAINED FORESTER 50
PERSONAL EQUIPMENT 63
STATE FOREST WORK 84
THE FOREST SERVICE IN WASHINGTON 89
PRIVATE FORESTRY 106
FOREST SCHOOLS 114
THE OPPORTUNITY 116
TRAINING 123
ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
A FOREST RANGER LOOKING FOR FIRE FROM A NATIONAL
FOREST LOOKOUT STATION _Frontispiece_
STRINGING A FOREST TELEPHONE LINE 32
FOREST RANGERS SCALING TIMBER 43
WESTERN YELLOW PINE SEED COLLECTED BY THE FOREST
SERVICE FOR PLANTING UP DENUDED LANDS 47
A FOREST EXAMINER RUNNING A COMPASS LINE 59
BRUSH PILING IN A NATIONAL FOREST TIMBER SALE 95
FOREST RANGERS GETTING INSTRUCTION IN METHODS OF
WORK FROM A DISTRICT FOREST OFFICER 105
FOREST SERVICE MEN MAKING FRESH MEASUREMENTS IN
THE MISSOURI SWAMPS 136
THE TRAINING OF A FORESTER
WHAT IS A FOREST?
First, What is forestry? Forestry is the knowledge of the forest. In
particular, it is the art of handling the forest so that it will render
whatever service is required of it without being impoverished or
destroyed. For example, a forest may be handled so as to produce saw
logs, telegraph poles, barrel hoops, firewood, tan bark, or turpentine.
The main purpose of its treatment may be to prevent the washing of soil,
to regulate the flow of streams, to support cattle or sheep, or it may
be handled so as to supply a wide range and combination of uses.
Forestry is the art of producing from the forest whatever it can yield
for the service of man.
Before we can understand forestry, certain facts about the forest itself
must be kept in mind. A forest is not a mere collection of individual
trees, just as a city is not a mere collection of unrelated men and
women, or a Nation like ours merely a certain number of independent
racial groups. A forest, like a city, is a complex community with a life
of its own. It has a soil and an atmosphere of its own, chemically and
physically different from any other, with plants and shrubs as well as
trees which are peculiar to it. It has a resident population of insects
and higher animals entirely distinct from that outside. Most important
of all, from the Forester's point of view, the members of the forest
live in an exact and intricate system of competition and mutual
assistance, of help or harm, which extends to all the inhabitants of
this complicated city of trees.
The trees in a forest are all helped by mutually protecting each other
against high winds, and by producing a richer and moister soil than
would be possible if the trees stood singly and apart. They compete
among themselves by their roots for moisture in the soil, and for light
and space by the growth of their crowns in height and breadth. Perhaps
the strongest weapon which trees have against each other is growth in
height. In certain species intolerant of shade, the tree which is
overtopped has lost the race for good. The number of young trees which
destroy each other in this fierce struggle for existence is prodigious,
so that often a few score per acre are all that survive to middle or old
age out of many tens of thousands of seedlings which entered the race of
life on approximately even terms.
Not only has a forest a character of its own, which arises from the fact
that it is a community of trees, but each species of tree has peculiar
characteristics and habits also. Just as | 1,635.193729 |
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Produced by Nicole Apostola
O. T.
A Danish Romance
by Hans Christian Andersen
Author of the "Improvisatore" and the "Two Baronesses"
CHAPTER I
"Quod felix faustumque sit!"
There is a happiness which no poet has yet properly sung, which no
lady-reader, let her be ever so amiable, has experienced or ever will
experience in this world. This is a condition of happiness which alone
belongs to the male sex, and even then alone to the elect. It is a
moment of life which seizes upon our feelings, our minds, our whole
being. Tears have been shed by the innocent, sleepless nights been
passed, during which the pious mother, the loving sister, have put up
prayers to God for this critical moment in the life of the son or the
brother.
Happy moment, which no woman, let her be ever so good, so beautiful,
or intellectual, can experience--that of becoming a student, or, to
describe it by a more usual term, the passing of the first examination!
The cadet who becomes an officer, the scholar who becomes an academical
burgher, the apprentice who becomes a journeyman, all know, in a greater
or less degree, this loosening of the wings, this bounding over the
limits of maturity into the lists of philosophy. We all strive after
a wider field, and rush thither like the stream which at length loses
itself in the ocean.
Then for the first time does the youthful soul rightly feel her freedom,
and, therefore, feels it doubly; the soul struggles for activity, she
comprehends her individuality; it has been proved and not found too
light; she is still in possession of the dreams of childhood, which have
not yet proved delusive. Not even the joy of love, not the enthusiasm
for art and science, so thrills through all the nerves as the words,
"Now am I a student!"
This spring-day of life, on which the ice-covering of the school is
broken, when the tree of Hope puts forth its buds and the sun of Freedom
shines, falls with us, as is well known, in the month of October, just
when Nature loses her foliage, when the evenings begin to grow darker,
and when heavy winter-clouds draw together, as though they would say
to youth,--"Your spring, the birth of the examination, is only a dream!
even now does your life become earnest!" But our happy youths think not
of these things, neither will we be joyous with the gay, and pay a visit
to their circle. In such a one our story takes its commencement.
CHAPTER II
"At last we separate:
To Jutland one, to Fuenen others go;
And still the quick thought comes,
--A day so bright, so full of fun,
Never again on us shall rise."--CARL BAGGER.
It was in October of the year 1829. Examen artium had been passed
through. Several young students were assembled in the evening at the
abode of one of their comrades, a young Copenhagener of eighteen, whose
parents were giving him and his new friends a banquet in honor of the
examination. The mother and sister had arranged everything in the nicest
manner, the father had given excellent wine out of the cellar, and the
student himself, here the rex convivii, had provided tobacco, genuine
Oronoko-canaster. With regard to Latin, the invitation--which was, of
course, composed in Latin--informed the guests that each should bring
his own.
The company, consisting of one and twenty persons--and these were only
the most intimate friends--was already assembled. About one third of the
friends were from the provinces, the remainder out of Copenhagen.
"Old Father Homer shall stand in the middle of the table!" said one of
the liveliest guests, whilst he took down from the stove a plaster bust
and placed it upon the covered table.
"Yes, certainly, he will have drunk as much as the other poets!" said
an older one. "Give me one of thy exercise-books, Ludwig! I will cut him
out a wreath of vine-leaves, since we have no roses and since I cannot
cut out any."
"I have no libation!" cried a third,--"Favete linguis." And he sprinkled
a small quantity of salt, from the point of a knife, upon the bust, at
the same time raising his glass to moisten it with a few drops of wine.
"Do not use my Homer as you would an ox!" cried the host. "Homer shall
have the place of honor, between the bowl and the garland-cake! He is
especially my poet! It was he who in Greek assisted me to laudabilis
et quidem egregie. Now we will mutually drink healths! Joergen shall be
magister bibendi, and then we will sing 'Gaudeamus igitur,' and 'Integer
vitae.'"
"The Sexton with the cardinal's hat shall be the precentor!" cried
one of the youths from the provinces, pointing toward a rosy-cheeked
companion.
"O, now I am no longer sexton!" returned the other laughing. "If thou
bringest old histories up again, thou wilt receive thy old school-name,
'the Smoke-squirter.'"
"But that is a very nice little history!" said the other. "We called him
'Sexton,' from the office his father held; but that, after all, is not
particularly witty. It was better with the hat, for it did, indeed,
resemble a cardinal's hat. I, in the mean time, got my name in a more
amusing manner."
"He lived near the school," pursued the other; "he could always slip
home when we had out free quarters of an hour: and then one day he
had filled his mouth with tobacco smoke, intending to blow it into
our faces; but when he entered the passage with his filled cheeks the
quarter of an hour was over, and we were again in class: the rector was
still standing in the doorway; he could not, therefore, blow the smoke
out of his mouth, and so wished to slip in as he was. 'What have you
there in your mouth?' asked the rector; but Philip could answer nothing,
without at the same time losing the smoke. 'Now, cannot you speak?'
cried the rector, and gave him a box on the ear, so that the smoke burst
through nose and mouth. This looked quite exquisite; the affair caused
the rector such pleasure, that he presented the poor sinner with the
nota bene."
"Integer vitae!" broke in the Precentor, and harmoniously followed the
other voices. After this, a young Copenhagener exhibited his dramatic
talent by mimicking most illusively the professors of the Academy, and
giving their peculiarities, yet in such a good-natured manner that it
must have amused even the offended parties themselves. Now followed the
healths--"Vivant omnes hi et hae!"
"A health to the prettiest girl!" boldly cried one of the merriest
brothers. "The prettiest girl!" repeated a pair of the younger ones, and
pushed their glasses toward each other, whilst the blood rushed to their
cheeks at this their boldness, for they had never thought of a beloved
being, which, nevertheless, belonged to their new life. The roundelay
now commenced, in which each one must give the Christian name of his
lady-love, and assuredly every second youth caught a name out of the
air; some, however, repeated a name with a certain palpitation of the
heart. The discourse became more animated; the approaching military
exercises, the handsome uniform, the reception in the students' club,
and its pleasures, were all matters of the highest interest. But there
was the future philologicum and philosophicum--yes, that also was
discussed; there they must exhibit their knowledge of Latin.
"What do you think," said one of the party, "if once a week we
alternately met at each other's rooms, and held disputations? No Danish
word must be spoken. This might be an excellent scheme."
"I agree to that!" cried several.
"Regular laws must be drawn up."
"Yes, and we must have our best Latin scholar, the Jutlander, Otto
Thostrup, with us! He wrote his themes in hexameters."
"He is not invited here this evening," remarked the neighbor, the young
Baron Wilhelm of Funen, the only nobleman in the company.
"Otto Thostrup!" answered the host. "Yes, truly he's a clever fellow,
but he seems to me so haughty. There is something about him that does
not please me at all. We are still no dunces, although he did receive
nine prae caeteris!"
"Yet it was very provoking," cried another, "that he received the only
Non in mathematics. Otherwise he would have been called in. Now he will
only have to vex himself about his many brilliant characters."
"Yes, and he is well versed in mathematics!" added Wilhelm "There was
something incorrect in the writing; the inspector was to blame for
that, but how I know not | 1,635.502577 |
2023-11-16 18:44:19.5692320 | 1,307 | 9 |
Produced by Melissa McDaniel and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal
signs=.
CHARLES AUCHESTER
VOLUME I.
[Illustration: MENDELSSOHN
FROM AN ORIGINAL PORTRAIT--1821.]
CHARLES AUCHESTER
BY
ELIZABETH SHEPPARD
_WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES_
BY GEORGE P. UPTON
AUTHOR OF "THE STANDARD OPERAS," "STANDARD ORATORIOS," "STANDARD
CANTATAS," "STANDARD SYMPHONIES," "WOMAN IN MUSIC," ETC.
In Two Volumes
VOLUME I.
CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG AND COMPANY
1891
COPYRIGHT,
BY A. C. MCCLURG AND CO.
A.D. 1891.
INTRODUCTION.
The romance of "Charles Auchester," which is really a memorial to
Mendelssohn, the composer, was first published in England in 1853. The
titlepage bore the name of "E. Berger," a French pseudonym, which for
some time served to conceal the identity of the author. Its motto was
a sentence from one of Disraeli's novels: "Were it not for Music, we
might in these days say, The Beautiful is dead." The dedication was
also to the same distinguished writer, and ran thus: "To the author of
'Contarini Fleming,' whose perfect genius suggested this imperfect
history." To this flattering dedication, Mr. Disraeli replied in a
note to the author: "No greater book will ever be written upon music,
and it will one day be recognized as the imaginative classic of that
divine art."
Rarely has a book had a more propitious introduction to the public;
but it was destined to encounter the proverbial fickleness of that
public. The author was not without honor save in her own country. It
was reserved for America first to recognize her genius. Thence her
fame travelled back to her own home; but an early death prevented her
from enjoying the fruits of her enthusiastic toil. Other works
followed from her busy pen, among them "Counterparts,"--a
musico-philosophical romance, dedicated to Mrs. Disraeli, which had a
certain success; "Rumor," of which Beethoven, under the name of
Rodomant, is supposed to have been the hero; "Beatrice Reynolds,"
"The Double Coronet," and "Almost a Heroine:" but none of them
achieved the popularity which "Charles Auchester" enjoyed. They shone
only by the reflected light of this wonderful girl's first book. The
republication of this romance will recall to its readers of an earlier
generation an old enthusiasm which may not be altogether lost, though
they may smile as they read and remember. It should arouse a new
enthusiasm in the younger generation of music-lovers.
Elizabeth Sheppard, the author of "Charles Auchester," was born at
Blackheath, near London, in 1837. Her father was a clergyman of the
Established Church, and her mother a Jewess by descent,--which serves
to account for the daughter's strong Jewish sympathies in this
remarkable display of hero-worship. Left an orphan at a tender age,
she was thrown upon her own resources, and chose school-teaching for
her profession. She was evidently a good linguist and musician, for
she taught music and the languages before she was sixteen. She had
decided literary ambition also, and wrote plays, poems, and short
stories at an age when other children are usually engaged in pastimes.
Notwithstanding the arduous nature of her work and her exceedingly
delicate health, she devoted her leisure hours to literary
composition. How this frail girl must have toiled is evidenced by the
completion of "Charles Auchester" in her sixteenth year. In her
seventeenth she had finished "Counterparts,"--a work based upon a
scheme even more ambitious than that of her first story. When it is
considered that these two romances were written at odd moments of
leisure intervening between hours of wearing toil in the school-room,
and that she was a mere child and very frail, it will be admitted that
the history of literary effort hardly records a parallel case. Nature
however always exacts the penalty for such mental excesses. This
little creature of "spirit, fire, and dew" died on March 13, 1862, at
the early age of twenty-five.
Apart from its intrinsic merits as a musical romance, there are some
features of "Charles Auchester" of more than ordinary interest. It is
well known that Seraphael, its leading character, is the author's
ideal of Mendelssohn, and that the romance was intended to be a
memorial of him. More thoroughly to appreciate the work, and not set
it down as mere rhapsody, it must be remembered that Miss Sheppard
wrote it in a period of Mendelssohn worship in England as ardent and
wellnigh as universal as the Handel worship of the previous century
had been. It was written in 1853. Mendelssohn had been dead but six
years, and his name was still a household word in every English
family. He was adored, not only for his musical genius, but also for
his singular purity of character. He was personally as well known in
England as any native composer. His Scotch Symphony and Hebrides
Overture attested his love of Scotch scenery. He had conducted
concerts in the provinces; he appeared at | 1,635.589272 |
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Transcriber’s Notes
Words printed in italics in the original work have been transcribed
between underscores: _text_. Small capitals have been transcribed as
CAPITALS. More transcriber’s notes may be found at the end of this
text.
THE AGONY COLUMN
OF THE “TIMES”
1800-1870
_WITH AN INTRODUCTION_
EDITED BY ALICE CLAY
[Illustration]
London
CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY
1881
[_All rights reserved_]
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.
INTRODUCTION.
THE contents of the little volume now presented to the public have been | 1,635.784796 |
2023-11-16 18:44:20.4698090 | 746 | 8 |
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THE UNICORN FROM THE STARS
AND OTHER PLAYS
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK. BOSTON. CHICAGO
ATLANTA. SAN FRANCISCO
MACMILLAN & CO., LIMITED
LONDON. BOMBAY. CALCUTTA
MELBOURNE
THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.
TORONTO
THE UNICORN FROM THE STARS
AND OTHER PLAYS
BY
WILLIAM B. YEATS
AND
LADY GREGORY
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
1908
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1904, 1908,
BY THE MACMILLAN COMPANY.
New edition. Set up and electrotyped. Published April, 1908.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
PREFACE
About seven years ago I began to dictate the first of these Plays to
Lady Gregory. My eyesight had become so bad that I feared I could
henceforth write nothing with my own hands but verses, which, as
Theophile Gautier has said, can be written with a burnt match. Our
Irish Dramatic movement was just passing out of the hands of English
Actors, hired because we knew of no Irish ones, and our little troop of
Irish amateurs--as they were at the time--could not have too many
Plays, for they would come to nothing without continued playing.
Besides, it was exciting to discover, after the unpopularity of blank
verse, what one could do with three Plays written in prose and founded
on three public interests deliberately chosen,--religion, humour,
patriotism. I planned in those days to establish a dramatic movement
upon the popular passions, as the ritual of religion is established in
the emotions that surround birth and death and marriage, and it was
only the coming of the unclassifiable, uncontrollable, capricious,
uncompromising genius of J. M. Synge that altered the direction of the
movement and made it individual, critical, and combative. If his had
not, some other stone would have blocked up the old way, for the public
mind of Ireland, stupefied by prolonged intolerant organisation, can
take but brief pleasure in the caprice that is in all art, whatever its
subject, and, more commonly, can but hate unaccustomed personal
reverie.
I had dreamed the subject of "Cathleen ni Houlihan," but found when I
looked for words that I could not create peasant dialogue that would go
nearer to peasant life than the dialogue in "The Land of Heart's
Desire" or "The Countess Cathleen." Every artistic form has its own
ancestry, and the more elaborate it is, the more is the writer
constrained to symbolise rather than to represent life, until perhaps
his ladies of fashion are shepherds and shepherdesses, as when Colin
Clout came home again. I could not get away, no matter how closely I
watched the country life, from images and dreams which had all too
royal blood, for they were descended like the thought of every poet
from all | 1,636.489849 |
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JUNGLE AND STREAM
OR
THE ADVENTURES OF TWO BOYS IN SIAM
BY
GEO. MANVILLE FENN
AUTHOR OF
"IN HONOUR'S CAUSE," "CORMORANT CRAG"
"FIRST IN THE FIELD," ETC.
DEAN & SON, LTD.
6 LA BELLA SAUVAGE, LUDGATE HILL,
LONDON, E.C.4
MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
CONTENTS
I. SIXTY YEARS AGO
II. THE JUNGLE HUNTER
III. SREE'S PRISONER
IV. FISHING WITH A WORM
V. THE DOCTOR'S POST-MORTEM
VI. MAKING PLANS
VII. THE BRINK OF A VOLCANO
VIII. A PROWL BY WATER
IX. NATURALISTS' TREASURES
X. WHAT HARRY HEARD
XI. THE NAGA'S BITE
XII. SUL THE ELEPHANT
XIII. THEIR FIRST TIGER
XIV. A YOUNG SAVAGE
XV. FOR THE JUNGLE, HO!
XVI. THE HOUSE-BOAT
XVII. JUNGLE SIGHTS AND SOUNDS
XVIII. ELEPHANTS AT HOME
XIX. A NIGHT ALARM
XX. A DREARY RETURN
XXI. A HIDING-PLACE
XXII. DARING PLANS
XXIII. THE SPEAR HARVEST
XXIV. THE HELP SEEKER
XXV. A DESPERATE VENTURE
XXVI. FOR LIFE
XXVII. THE POWDER MINE
XXVIII. SAVING THE STORES
XXIX. THE DOCTOR KEPT BUSY
XXX. LIKE A BAD SHILLING
XXXI. COMING HOME TO ROOST
XXXII. IN THE NICK OF TIME
XXXIII. WHAT FOLLOWED
[Illustration: "Then there was a roar like a peal of thunder."]
CHAPTER I
SIXTY YEARS AGO
"Charlie is my darling, my darling, my darling!" was sung in a good,
clear, boyish tenor, and then the singer stopped, to say
impatiently,--
"What nonsense it is! My head seems stuffed full of Scotch
songs,--'Wee bit sangs,' as the doctor calls them. Seems funny that so
many Scotch people should come out here to the East. I suppose it's
because the Irish all go to the West, that they may get as far apart
as they can, so that there may not be a fight. I say, though, I want
my breakfast."
The speaker, to wit Harry Kenyon, sauntered up to the verandah of the
bungalow and looked in at the window of the cool, shaded room, where a
man-servant in white drill jacket and trousers was giving the
finishing touches to the table.
"Breakfast ready, Mike?"
"Yes, sir; coffee's boiled, curry's made."
"Curry again?"
"Yes, Master Harry; curry again. That heathen of a cook don't believe
a meal's complete without | 1,636.513888 |
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McDaniel and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
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Libraries.)
Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
The following inconsistencies were noted and retained:
fly-catcher and flycatcher
bottom lands and bottom-lands
Kestrel and Kestril
Chicasaw and Chickasaw
Redwings and Red-wings
Black-and-yellow Warbler and Black and Yellow Warbler
Chuckwill's Widow and Chuck-Will's Widow
Columbian Jay and Columbia Jay
Shawaney and Shawanee
Falco Haliaetos, Haliäetos, Haliaetus and Haliaëtus
Pont Chartrain and Pontchartrain
Genessee and Gennessee
Musquito and moschetto
Skuylkill and Schuylkil
The following are possible errors, but retained:
Massachusets
napsack
pease
pannel
scissars
"flat and juicy" should possibly be "fat and juicy"
"wet cloths" should possibly be "wet clothes"
Gelseminum should possibly be Gelsemium
Psittaccus should possibly be Psittacus
Gadwal Duck should possibly be Gadwall Duck
Anona should possibly be Annona
The plate number of the Adult Female Great Horned Owl should
possibly be LXI.
Several of the words in the sections in French are unaccented where
modern French uses accents. They have been left as printed.
ORNITHOLOGICAL BIOGRAPHY.
ORNITHOLOGICAL BIOGRAPHY,
OR AN ACCOUNT OF THE HABITS OF THE
BIRDS OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA;
ACCOMPANIED BY DESCRIPTIONS OF THE OBJECTS REPRESENTED
IN THE WORK ENTITLED
THE BIRDS OF AMERICA,
AND INTERSPERSED WITH DELINEATIONS OF AMERICAN
SCENERY AND MANNERS.
BY JOHN JAMES AUDUBON, F.R.SS.L.& E.
FELLOW OF THE LINNEAN AND ZOOLOGICAL SOCIETIES OF LONDON; MEMBER
OF THE LYCEUM AND LINNEAN SOCIETY OF NEW YORK, OF THE NATURAL HISTORY
SOCIETY OF PARIS, THE WERNERIAN NATURAL HISTORY SOCIETY OF EDINBURGH;
HONORARY MEMBER OF THE SOCIETY OF NATURAL HISTORY OF MANCHESTER, AND
OF THE SCOTTISH ACADEMY OF PAINTING, ARCHITECTURE, AND SCULPTURE, &C.
EDINBURGH:
ADAM BLACK, 55. NORTH BRIDGE, EDINBURGH;
R. HAVELL JUN., ENGRAVER, 77. OXFORD STREET, AND LONGMAN, REES, BROWN,
& GREEN, LONDON; GEORGE SMITH, TITHEBARR STREET, LIVERPOOL; T. SOWLER,
MANCHESTER; MRS ROBINSON, LEEDS; E. CHARNLEY, NEWCASTLE; POOL & BOOTH,
CHESTER; AND BEILBY, KNOTT, & BEILBY, BIRMINGHAM.
MDCCCXXXI.
NEILL & CO. PRINTERS,
Old Fishmarket, Edinburgh.
INTRODUCTORY ADDRESS.
KIND READER,—Should you derive from the perusal of the following pages,
which I have written with no other wish than that of procuring one
favourable thought from you, a portion of the pleasure which I have felt
in collecting the materials for their composition, my gratification will
be ample, and the compensation for all my labours will be more than,
perhaps, I have a right to expect from an individual to whom I am as
yet unknown, and to whom I must therefore, in the very outset, present
some account of my life, and of the motives which have influenced me in
thus bringing you into contact with an American Woodsman.
* * * * *
I received life and light in the New World. When I had hardly yet
learned to walk, and to articulate those first words always so endearing
to parents, the productions of Nature that lay spread all around,
were constantly pointed out to me. They soon became my playmates; and
before my ideas were sufficiently formed to enable me to estimate the
difference between the azure tints of the sky, and the emerald hue of
the bright foliage, I felt that an intimacy with them, not consisting
of friendship merely, but bordering on phrenzy, must accompany my steps
through life;—and now, more than ever, am I persuaded of the power of
those early impressions. They laid such hold upon me, that, when removed
from the woods, the prairies, and the brooks, or shut up from the view of
the wide Atlantic, I experienced none of those pleasures most congenial
to my mind. None but aërial companions suited my fancy. No roof seemed
so secure to me as that formed of the dense foliage under which the
feathered tribes were seen to resort, or the caves and fissures of the
massy rocks to which the dark-winged Cormorant and the Curlew retired to
rest, or to protect themselves from the fury of the tempest. My father
generally accompanied my steps, procured birds and flowers for me with
great eagerness,—pointed out the elegant movements of the former, the
beauty and softness of their plumage, the manifestations of their pleasure
or sense of danger,—and the always perfect forms and splendid attire of
the latter. My valued preceptor would then speak of the departure and
return of birds with the seasons, would describe their haunts, and, more
wonderful than all, their change of livery; thus exciting me to study
them, and to raise my mind toward their great Creator.
A vivid pleasure shone upon those days of my early youth, attended with a
calmness of feeling, that seldom failed to rivet my attention for hours,
whilst I gazed in ecstacy upon the pearly and shining eggs, as they lay
imbedded in the softest down, or among dried leaves and twigs, or were
exposed upon the burning sand or weather-beaten rock of our Atlantic
shores. I was taught to look upon them as flowers yet in the bud. I
watched their opening, to see how Nature had provided each different
species with eyes, either open at birth, or closed for some time after;
to trace the slow progress of the young birds toward perfection, or
admire the celerity with which some of them, while yet unfledged, removed
themselves from danger to security.
I grew up, and my wishes grew with my form. These wishes, kind reader,
were for the entire possession of all that I saw. I was fervently desirous
of becoming acquainted with nature. For many years, however, I was sadly
disappointed, and for ever, doubtless, must I have desires that cannot
be gratified. The moment a bird was dead, however beautiful it had been
when in life, the pleasure arising from the possession of it became
blunted; and although the greatest cares were bestowed on endeavours to
preserve the appearance of nature, I looked upon its vesture as more than
sullied, as requiring | 1,636.779082 |
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Online Distributed Proofreaders Team
ONE HUNDRED BEST BOOKS
With Commentary and an Essay on Books and Reading
by
JOHN COWPER POWYS
1916
PREFACE
This selection of "One hundred best books" is made after a different
method and with a different purpose from the selections already in
existence. Those apparently are designed to stuff the minds of young
persons with an accumulation of "standard learning" calculated to
alarm and discourage the boldest. The following list is frankly
subjective in its choice; being indeed the selection of one
individual, wandering at large and in freedom through these "realms of
gold."
The compiler holds the view that in expressing his own predilection,
he is also supplying the need of kindred minds; minds that read purely
for the pleasure of reading, and have no sinister wish to transform
themselves by that process into what are called "cultivated persons."
The compiler feels that any one who succeeds in reading, with
reasonable receptivity, the books in this list, must become, at the
end, a person with whom it would be a delight to share that most
classic of all pleasurable arts--the art of intelligent conversation.
BOOKS AND READING
There is scarcely any question, the sudden explosion of which out of a
clear sky, excites more charming perturbation in the mind of a
man--professionally, as they say | 1,636.779096 |
2023-11-16 18:44:20.7823300 | 7,435 | 85 |
E-text prepared by Joyce McDonald, Christine Bell, and Marc D'Hooghe
(http:www.girlebooks.com & http://www.freeliterature.org)
THE DOCTOR'S WIFE
A Novel
By the Author of
"Lady Audley's Secret," "Aurora Floyd"
Etc. Etc. Etc.
London
John and Robert Maxwell
Milton House, Shoe Lane, Fleet Street
CONTENTS.
I. A young man from the country
II. A sensation author
III. Isabel
IV. The end of George Gilbert's holiday
V. George at home
VI. Too much alone
VII. On the bridge
VIII. About poor Joe Tillet's young wife
IX. Miss Sleaford's engagement
X. A bad beginning
XI. "She only said,'my life is weary!'"
XII. Something like a birthday
XIII. "Oh, my cousin, shallow-hearted!"
XIV. Under Lord Thurston's oak
XV. Roland says, "Amen"
XVI. Mr. Lansdell relates an adventure
XVII. The first warning
XVIII. The second warning
XIX. What might have been!
XX. "Oceans should divide us!"
XXI. "Once more the gate behind me falls"
XXII. "My love's a noble madness"
XXIII. A little cloud
XXIV. Lady Gwendoline does her duty
XXV. "For love himself took part against himself"
XXVI. A popular preacher
XXVII. "And now I live, and now my life is done!"
XXVIII. Trying to be good.
XXIX. The first whisper of the storm
XXX. The beginning of a great change
XXXI. Fifty pounds
XXXII. "I'll not believe but Desdemona's honest"
XXXIII. Keeping a promise
XXXIV. Retrospective
XXXV. "'Twere best at once to sink to peace"
XXXVI. Between two worlds
XXXVII. "If any calm, a calm despair"
THE DOCTORS WIFE.
CHAPTER I.
A YOUNG MAN FROM THE COUNTRY
There were two surgeons in the little town of
Graybridge-on-the-Wayverne, in pretty pastoral Midlandshire,--Mr.
Pawlkatt, who lived in a big, new, brazen-faced house in the middle of
the queer old High Street; and John Gilbert, the parish doctor, who
lived in his own house on the outskirts of Graybridge, and worked very
hard for a smaller income than that which the stylish Mr. Pawlkatt
derived from his aristocratic patients.
John Gilbert was an elderly man, with a young son. He had married late
in life, and his wife had died very soon after the birth of this son. It
was for this reason, most likely, that the surgeon loved his child as
children are rarely loved by their fathers--with an earnest,
over-anxious devotion, which from the very first had been something
womanly in its character, and which grew with the child's growth. Mr.
Gilbert's mind was narrowed by the circle in which he lived. He had
inherited his own patients and the parish patients from his father, who
had been a surgeon before him, and who had lived in the same house, with
the same red lamp over the little old-fashioned surgery-door, for
eight-and-forty years, and had died, leaving the house, the practice,
and the red lamp to his son.
If John Gilbert's only child had possessed the capacity of a Newton or
the aspirations of a Napoleon, the surgeon would nevertheless have shut
him up in the surgery to compound aloes and conserve of roses, tincture
of rhubarb and essence of peppermint. Luckily for the boy, he was only a
common-place lad, with a good-looking, rosy face; clear grey eyes, which
stared at you frankly; and a thick stubble of brown hair, parted in the
middle and waving from the roots. He was tall, straight, and muscular; a
good runner, a first-rate cricketer, tolerably skilful with a pair of
boxing-gloves or single-sticks, and a decent shot. He wrote a fair
business-like hand, was an excellent arithmetician, remembered a
smattering of Latin, a random line here and there from those Roman
poets and philosophers whose writings had been his torment at a certain
classical and commercial academy at Wareham. He spoke and wrote
tolerable English, had read Shakespeare and Sir Walter Scott, and
infinitely preferred the latter, though he made a point of skipping the
first few chapters of the great novelist's fictions in order to get at
once to the action of the story. He was a very good young man, went to
church two or three times on a Sunday, and would on no account have
broken any one of the Ten Commandments on the painted tablets above the
altar by so much as a thought. He was very good; and, above all, he was
very good-looking. No one had ever disputed this fact: George Gilbert
was eminently good-looking. No one had ever gone so far as to call him
handsome; no one had ever presumed to designate him plain. He had those
homely, healthy good looks which the novelist or poet in search of a
hero would recoil from with actual horror, and which the practical mind
involuntarily associates with tenant-farming in a small way, or the sale
of butcher's meat.
I will not say that poor George was ungentlemanly, because he had kind,
cordial manners, and a certain instinctive Christianity, which had never
yet expressed itself in any very tangible form, but which lent a genial
flavour to every word upon his lips, to every thought in his heart. He
was a very trusting young man, and thought well of all mankind; he was a
Tory, heart and soul, as his father and grandfather had been before him;
and thought especially well of all the magnates round about Wareham and
Graybridge, holding the grand names that had been familiar to him from
his childhood in simple reverence, that was without a thought of
meanness. He was a candid, honest, country-bred young man, who did his
duty well, and filled a small place in a very narrow circle with credit
to himself and the father who loved him. The fiery ordeal of two years'
student-life at St. Bartholomew's had left the lad almost as innocent as
a girl; for John Gilbert had planted his son during those two awful
years in the heart of a quiet Wesleyan family in the Seven-Sisters Road,
and the boy had enjoyed very little leisure for disporting himself with
the dangerous spirits of St. Bartholomew's. George Gilbert was
two-and-twenty, and in all the course of those two-and-twenty years
which made the sum of the young man's life, his father had never had
reason to reproach him by so much as a look. The young doctor was held
to be a model youth in the town of Graybridge; and it was whispered that
if he should presume to lift his eyes to Miss Sophronia Burdock, the
second daughter of the rich maltster, he need not aspire in vain. But
George was by no means a coxcomb, and didn't particularly admire Miss
Burdock, whose eyelashes were a good deal paler than her hair, and whose
eyebrows were only visible in a strong light. The surgeon was young, and
the world was all before him; but he was not ambitious; he felt no sense
of oppression in the narrow High Street at Graybridge. He could sit in
the little parlour next the surgery reading Byron's fiercest poems,
sympathizing in his own way with Giaours and Corsairs; but with no
passionate yearning stirring up in his breast, with no thought of revolt
against the dull quiet of his life.
George Gilbert took his life as he found it, and had no wish to make it
better. To him Graybridge-on-the-Wayverne was all the world. He had been
in London, and had felt a provincial's brief sense of surprised delight
in the thronged streets, the clamour, and the bustle; but he had very
soon discovered that the great metropolis was a dirty and disreputable
place as compared to Graybridge-on-the-Wayverne, where you might have
taken your dinner comfortably off any doorstep as far as the matter of
cleanliness is concerned. The young man was more than satisfied with his
life; he was pleased with it. He was pleased to think that he was to be
his father's partner, and was to live and marry, and have children, and
die at last in the familiar rooms in which he had been born. His nature
was very adhesive, and he loved the things that he had long known,
because they were old and familiar to him; rather than for any merit or
beauty in the things themselves.
The 20th of July, 1852, was a very great day for George Gilbert, and
indeed for the town of Graybridge generally; for on that day an
excursion train left Wareham for London, conveying such roving spirits
as cared to pay a week's visit to the great metropolis upon very
moderate terms. George had a week's holiday, which he was to spend with
an old schoolfellow who had turned author, and had chambers in the
Temple, but who boarded and lodged with a family at Camberwell. The
young surgeon left Graybridge in the maltster's carriage at eight
o'clock upon that bright summer morning, in company with Miss Burdock
and her sister Sophronia, who were going up to London on a visit to an
aristocratic aunt in Baker Street, and who had been confided to George's
care during the journey.
The young ladies and their attendant squire were in very high spirits.
London, when your time is spent between St. Bartholomew's Hospital and
the Seven-Sisters Road, is not the most delightful city in the world;
but London, when you are a young man from the country, with a week's
holiday, and a five-pound note and some odd silver in your pocket,
assumes quite another aspect. George was not enthusiastic; but he looked
forward to his holiday with a placid sense of pleasure, and listened
with untiring good humour to the conversation of the maltster's
daughters, who gave him a good deal of information about their aunt in
Baker Street, and the brilliant parties given by that lady and her
acquaintance. But, amiable as the young ladies were, George was glad
when the Midlandshire train steamed into the Euston Terminus, and his
charge was ended. He handed the Misses Burdock to a portly and rather
pompous lady, who had a clarence-and-pair waiting for her, and who
thanked him with supreme condescension for his care of her nieces. She
even went so far as to ask him to call in Baker Street during his stay
in London, at which Sophronia blushed. But, unhappily, Sophronia did not
blush prettily; a faint patchy red broke out all over her face, even
where her eyebrows ought to have been, and was a long time dispersing.
If the blush had been Beauty's bright, transient glow, as brief as
summer lightning in a sunset sky, George Gilbert could scarcely have
been blind to its flattering import; but he looked at the young lady's
emotion from a professional point of view, and mistook it for
indigestion.
"You're very kind, ma'am," he said. "But I'm going to stay at
Camberwell; I don't think I shall have time to call in Baker Street."
The carriage drove away, and George took his portmanteau and went to
find a cab. He hailed a hansom, and he felt as he stepped into it that
he was doing a dreadful thing, which would tell against him in
Graybridge, if by any evil chance it should become known that he had
ridden in that disreputable vehicle. He thought the horse had a rakish,
unkempt look about the head and mane, like an animal who was accustomed
to night-work, and indifferent as to his personal appearance in the day.
George was not used to riding in hansoms; so, instead of balancing
himself upon the step for a moment while he gave his orders to the
charioteer, he settled himself comfortably inside, and was a little
startled when a hoarse voice at the back of his head demanded "Where to,
sir?" and suggested the momentary idea that he was breaking out into
involuntary ventriloquism.
"The Temple, driver; the Temple, in Fleet Street," Mr. Gilbert said,
politely.
The man banged down a little trap-door and rattled off eastwards.
I am afraid to say how much George Gilbert gave the cabman when he was
set down at last at the bottom of Chancery Lane; but I think he paid for
five miles at eightpence a mile, and a trifle in on account of a
blockade in Holborn; and even then the driver did not thank him.
George was a long time groping about the courts and quadrangles of the
Temple before he found the place he wanted, though he took a crumpled
letter out of his waistcoat-pocket, and referred to it every now and
then when he came to a standstill.
Wareham is only a hundred and twenty miles from London; and the
excursion train, after stopping at every station on the line, had
arrived at the terminus at half-past two o'clock. It was between three
and four now, and the sun was shining upon the river, and the flags in
the Temple were hot under Mr. Gilbert's feet.
He was very warm himself, and almost worn out, when he found at last the
name he was looking for, painted very high up, in white letters, upon a
black door-post,--"4th Floor: Mr. Andrew Morgan and Mr. Sigismund
Smith."
It was in the most obscure corner of the dingiest court in the Temple
that George Gilbert found this name. He climbed a very dirty staircase,
thumping the end of his portmanteau upon every step as he went up, until
he came to a landing, midway between the third and fourth stories; here
he was obliged to stop for sheer want of breath, for he had been lugging
the portmanteau about with him throughout his wanderings in the Temple,
and a good many people had been startled by the aspect of a well-dressed
young man carrying his own luggage, and staring at the names of the
different rows of houses, the courts and quadrangles in the grave
sanctuary.
George Gilbert stopped to take breath; and he had scarcely done so, when
he was terrified by the apparition of a very dirty boy, who slid
suddenly down the baluster between the floor above and the landing, and
alighted face to face with the young surgeon. The boy's face was very
black, and he was evidently a child of tender years, something between
eleven and twelve, perhaps; but he was in nowise discomfited by the
appearance of Mr. Gilbert; he ran up-stairs again, and placed himself
astride upon the slippery baluster with a view to another descent, when
a door above was suddenly opened, and a voice said, "You know where Mr.
Manders, the artist, lives?"
"Yes, sir;--Waterloo Road, sir, Montague Terrace, No. 2."
"Then run round to him, and tell him the subject for the next
illustration in the 'Smuggler's Bride.' A man with his knee upon the
chest of another man, and a knife in his hand. You can remember that?"
"Yes, sir."
"And bring me a proof of chapter fifty-seven."
"Yes, sir."
The door was shut, and the boy ran down-stairs, past George Gilbert, as
fast as he could go. But the door above was opened again, and the same
voice called aloud,--
"Tell Mr. Manders the man with the knife in his hand must have on
top-boots."
"All right, sir," the boy called from the bottom of the staircase.
George Gilbert went up, and knocked at the door above. It was a black
door, and the names of Mr. Andrew Morgan and Mr. Sigismund Smith were
painted upon it in white letters as upon the door-post below.
A pale-faced young man, with a smudge of ink upon the end of his nose,
and very dirty wrist-bands, opened the door.
"Sam!"
"George!" cried the two young men simultaneously, and then began to
shake hands with effusion, as the French playwrights say.
"My dear old George!"
"My dear old Sam! But you call yourself Sigismund now?"
"Yes; Sigismund Smith. It sounds well; doesn't it? If a man's evil
destiny makes him a Smith, the least he can do is to take it out in his
Christian name. No Smith with a grain of spirit would ever consent to be
a Samuel. But come in, dear old boy, and put your portmanteau down;
knock those papers off that chair--there, by the window. Don't be
frightened of making 'em in a muddle; they can't be in a worse muddle
than they are now. If you don't mind just amusing yourself with the
'Times' for half an hour or so, while I finish this chapter of the
'Smuggler's Bride,' I shall be able to strike work, and do whatever you
like; but the printer's boy is coming back in half an hour for the end
of the chapter."
"I won't speak a word," George said, respectfully. The young man with
the smudgy nose was an author, and George Gilbert had an awful sense of
the solemnity of his friend's vocation. "Write away, my dear Sam; I
won't interrupt you."
He drew his chair close to the open window, and looked down into the
court below, where the paint was slowly blistering in the July sun.
CHAPTER II.
A SENSATION AUTHOR.
Mr. Sigismund Smith was a sensation author. That bitter term of
reproach, "sensation," had not been invented for the terror of romancers
in the fifty-second year of this present century; but the thing existed
nevertheless in divers forms, and people wrote sensation novels as
unconsciously as Monsieur Jourdain talked prose. Sigismund Smith was the
author of about half-a-dozen highly-spiced fictions, which enjoyed an
immense popularity amongst the classes who like their literature as they
like their tobacco--very strong. Sigismund had never in his life
presented himself before the public in a complete form; he appeared in
weekly numbers at a penny, and was always so appearing; and except on
one occasion when he found himself, very greasy and dog's-eared at the
edges, and not exactly pleasant to the sense of smell, on the shelf of a
humble librarian and newsvendor, who dealt in tobacco and sweetstuff as
well as literature, Sigismund had never known what it was to be bound.
He was well paid for his work, and he was contented. He had his
ambition, which was to write a great novel; and the archetype of this
_magnum opus_ was the dream which he carried about with him wherever he
went, and fondly nursed by night and day. In the meantime he wrote for
his public, which was a public that bought its literature in the same
manner as its pudding--in penny slices.
There was very little to look at in the court below the window; so
George Gilbert fell to watching his friend, whose rapid pen scratched
along the paper in a breathless way, which indicated a dashing and
Dumas-like style of literature, rather than the polished composition of
a Johnson or an Addison. Sigismund only drew breath once, and then he
paused to make frantic gashes at his shirt-collar with an inky bone
paper-knife that lay upon the table.
"I'm only trying whether a man would cut his throat from right to left,
or left to right," Mr. Smith said, in answer to his friend's look of
terror; "it's as well to be true to nature; or as true as one can be,
for a pound a page--double-column pages, and eighty-one lines in a
column. A man would cut his throat from left to right: he couldn't do it
in the other way without making perfect slices of himself."
"There's a suicide, then, in your story?" George said, with a look of
awe.
"_A_ suicide!" exclaimed Sigismund Smith; "_a_ suicide in the
'Smuggler's Bride!' why, it teems with suicides. There's the Duke of
Port St. Martin's, who walls himself up alive in his own cellar; and
there's Leonie de Pasdebasque, the ballet-dancer, who throws herself out
of Count Caesar Maraschetti's private balloon; and there's Lilia, the
dumb girl,--the penny public like dumb girls,--who sets fire to herself
to escape from the--in fact, there's lots of them," said Mr. Smith,
dipping his pen in his ink, and hurrying wildly along the paper.
The boy came back before the last page was finished, and Mr. Smith
detained him for five or ten minutes; at the end of which time he rolled
up the manuscript, still damp, and dismissed the printer's emissary.
"Now, George," he said, "I can talk to you."
Sigismund was the son of a Wareham attorney, and the two young men had
been schoolfellows at the Classical and Commercial Academy in the
Wareham Road. They had been schoolfellows, and were very sincerely
attached to each other. Sigismund was supposed to be reading for the
Bar; and for the first twelve months of his sojourn in the Temple the
young man had worked honestly and conscientiously; but finding that his
legal studies resulted in nothing but mental perplexity and confusion,
Sigismund beguiled his leisure by the pursuit of literature.
He found literature a great deal more profitable and a great deal easier
than the study of Coke upon Lyttleton, or Blackstone's Commentaries; and
he abandoned himself entirely to the composition of such works as are to
be seen, garnished with striking illustrations, in the windows of humble
newsvendors in the smaller and dingier thoroughfares of every large
town. Sigismund gave himself wholly to this fascinating pursuit, and
perhaps produced more sheets of that mysterious stuff which literary
people call "copy" than any other author of his age.
It would be almost impossible for me adequately to describe the
difference between Sigismund Smith as he was known to the very few
friends who knew anything at all about him, and Sigismund Smith as he
appeared on paper.
In the narrow circle of his home Mr. Smith was a very mild young man,
with the most placid blue eyes that ever looked out of a human head, and
a good deal of light curling hair. He was a very mild young man. He
could not have hit any one if he had tried ever so; and if you had hit
him, I don't think he would have minded--much. It was not in him to be
very angry; or to fall in love, to any serious extent; or to be
desperate about anything. Perhaps it was that he exhausted all that was
passionate in his nature in penny numbers, and had nothing left for the
affairs of real life. People who were impressed by his fictions, and
were curious to see him, generally left him with a strong sense of
disappointment, if not indignation.
Was this meek young man the Byronic hero they had pictured? Was this the
author of "Colonel Montefiasco, or the Brand upon the Shoulder-blade?"
They had imagined a splendid creature, half magician, half brigand, with
a pale face and fierce black eyes, a tumbled mass of raven hair, a bare
white throat, a long black velvet dressing-gown, and thin tapering
hands, with queer agate and onyx rings encircling the flexible fingers.
And then the surroundings. An oak-panelled chamber, of course--black
oak, with grotesque and diabolic carvings jutting out at the angles of
the room; a crystal globe upon a porphyry pedestal; a mysterious
picture, with a curtain drawn before it--certain death being the fate of
him who dared to raise that curtain by so much as a corner. A
mantel-piece of black marble, and a collection of pistols and scimitars,
swords and yataghans--especially yataghans--glimmering and flashing in
the firelight. A little show of eccentricity in the way of household
pets: a bear under the sofa, and a tame rattlesnake coiled upon the
hearth-rug. This was the sort of thing the penny public expected of
Sigismund Smith; and, lo, here was a young man with perennial
ink-smudges upon his face, and an untidy chamber in the Temple, with
nothing more romantic than a waste-paper basket, a litter of old letters
and tumbled proofs, and a cracked teapot simmering upon the hob.
This was the young man who described the reckless extravagance of a
Montefiasco's sumptuous chamber, the mysterious elegance of a Diana
Firmiani's dimly-lighted boudoir. This was the young man in whose works
there were more masked doors, and hidden staircases, and revolving
picture-frames and sliding panels, than in all the old houses in Great
Britain; and a greater length of vaulted passages than would make an
underground railway from the Scottish border to the Land's End. This was
the young man who, in an early volume of poems--a failure, as it is the
nature of all early volumes of poems to be--had cried in passionate
accents to some youthful member of the aristocracy, surname unknown--
"Lady Mable, Lady May, no paean in your praise I'll sing;
My shattered lyre all mutely tells
The tortured hand that broke the string.
Go, fair and false, while jangling bells
Through golden waves of sunshine ring;
Go, mistress of a thousand spells:
But know, midst those you've left forlorn,
_One_, lady, gives you scorn for scorn."
"Now, George," Mr. Smith said, as he pushed away a very dirty inkstand,
and wiped his pen upon the cuff of his coat,--"now, George, I can attend
to the rights of hospitality. You must be hungry after your journey,
poor old boy! What'll you take?"
There were no cupboards in the room, which was very bare of furniture,
and the only vestiges of any kind of refreshment were a brown
crockery-ware teapot upon the hob, and a roll and pat of butter upon a
plate on the mantel-piece.
"Have something!" Sigismund said. "I know there isn't much, because, you
see, I never have time to attend to that sort of thing. Have some bread
and marmalade?"
He drew out a drawer in the desk before which he was sitting, and
triumphantly displayed a pot of marmalade with a spoon in it.
"Bread and marmalade and cold tea's capital," he said; "you'll try some,
George, won't you? and then we'll go home to Camberwell."
Mr. Gilbert declined the bread and marmalade; so Sigismund prepared to
take his departure.
"Morgan's gone into Buckinghamshire for a week's fishing," he said, "so
I've got the place to myself. I come here of a morning, you know, work
all day, and go home to tea and a chop or a steak in the evening. Come
along, old fellow."
The young men went out upon the landing. Sigismund locked the black door
and put the key in his pocket. They went down-stairs, and through the
courts, and across the quadrangles of the Temple, bearing towards that
outlet which is nearest Blackfriars Bridge.
"You'd like to walk, I suppose, George?" Mr. Smith asked.
"Oh, yes; we can talk better walking."
They talked a great deal as they went along. They were very fond of one
another, and had each of them a good deal to tell; but George wasn't
much of a talker as compared to his friend Sigismund. That young man
poured forth a perpetual stream of eloquence, which knew no exhaustion.
"And so you like the people at Camberwell?" George said.
"Oh yes, they're capital people; free and easy, you know, and no stupid
stuck-up gentility about them. Not but what Sleaford's a gentleman; he's
a barrister. I don't know exactly where his chambers are, or in what
court he practises when he's in town; but he _is_ a barrister. I suppose
he goes on circuit sometimes, for he's very often away from home for a
long time together; but I don't know what circuit he goes on. It doesn't
do to ask a man those sort of questions, you see, George; so I hold my
tongue. I don't think he's rich, that's to say not rich in a regular
way. He's flush of money sometimes, and then you should see the Sunday
dinners--salmon and cucumber, and duck and green peas, as if they were
nothing."
"Is he a nice fellow?"
"Oh yes; a jolly, out-spoken sort of a fellow, with a loud voice and
black eyes. He's a capital fellow to me, but he's not fond of company.
He seldom shows if I take down a friend. Very likely you mayn't see him
all the time you stay there. He'll shut himself up in his own room when
he's at home, and won't so much as look at you."
George seemed to be rather alarmed at this prospect.
"But if Mr. Sleaford objects to my being in the house," he began,
"perhaps I'd better--"
"Oh, he doesn't object, bless you!" Sigismund cried, hastily; "not a bit
of it. I said to Mrs. Sleaford the other morning at breakfast, 'A friend
of mine is coming up from Midlandshire; he's as good a fellow as ever
breathed,' I said, 'and good-looking into the bargain,'--don't you
blush, George, because it's spooney,--and I asked Mrs. S. if she could
give you a room and partially board you,--I'm a partial boarder, you
know,--for a week or so. She looked at her husband,--she's very sharp
with all of _us_, but she's afraid of _him_,--and Sleaford said yes; my
friend might come and should be welcome, as long as he wasn't bothered
about it. So your room's ready, George, and you come as my visitor; and
I can get orders for all the theatres in London, and I'll give you a
French dinner in the neighbourhood of Leicester Square every day of your
life, if you like; and we'll fill the cup of dissipation to the highest
top sparkle."
It was a long walk from the Temple to Camberwell; but the two young men
were good walkers, and as Sigismund Smith talked unceasingly all the
way, there were no awkward pauses in the conversation. They walked the
whole length of the Walworth Road, and turned to the left soon after
passing the turn-pike. Mr. Smith conducted his friend by mazy
convolutions of narrow streets and lanes, where there were pretty little
villas and comfortable cottages nestling amongst trees, and where there
was the perpetual sound of clattering tin pails and the slopping of
milk, blending pleasantly with the cry of the milkman. Sigismund led
George through these shady little retreats, and past a tall
stern-looking church, and along by the brink of a canal, till they came
to a place where the country was wild and sterile in the year 1852. I
dare say that railways have cut the neighbourhood all to pieces by this
time, and that Mr. Sleaford's house has been sold by auction in the form
of old bricks; but on this summer afternoon the place to which Sigismund
brought his friend was quite a lonely, countrified spot, where there was
one big, ill-looking house, shut in by a high wall, and straggling rows
of cottages dwindling away into pigsties upon each side of it.
Standing before a little wooden door in the wall that surrounded Mr.
Sleaford's garden, George Gilbert could only see that the house was a
square brick building, with sickly ivy straggling here and there about
it, and long narrow windows considerably obscured by dust and dirt. It
was not a pleasant house to look at, however agreeable it might be as a
habitation; and George compared it unfavourably with the trim
white-walled villas he had seen on his way,--those neat little mansions
at five-and-thirty pounds a year; those cosy little cottages, with
shining windows that winked and blinked in the sunshine by reason of
their cleanliness; those dazzling brass plates, which shone like brazen
shields upon the vivid green of newly-painted front doors. If Mr.
Sleaford's house had ever been painted within Mr Sleaford's memory, the
| 1,636.80237 |
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Produced by Charles Aldarondo
ON PICKET DUTY, AND OTHER TALES
By L. M. Alcott
Boston:
NEW YORK:
1864
ON PICKET DUTY.
_WHAT_ air you thinkin' of, Phil?
"My wife, Dick."
"So was I! Aint it odd how fellers fall to thinkin' of thar little
women, when they get a quiet spell like this?"
"Fortunate for us that we do get it, and have such gentle bosom
guests to keep us brave and honest through the trials and
temptations of a life like ours."
October moonlight shone clearly on the solitary tree, draped with
gray moss, scarred by lightning and warped by wind, looking like a
venerable warrior, whose long campaign was nearly done; and
underneath was posted the guard of four. Behind them twinkled many
camp-fires on a distant plain, before them wound a road ploughed by
the passage of an army, strewn with the relics of a rout. On the
right, a sluggish river glided, like a serpent, stealthy, sinuous,
and dark, into a seemingly impervious jungle; on the left, a
Southern swamp filled the air with malarial damps, swarms of noisome
life, and discordant sounds that robbed the hour of its repose. The
men were friends as well as comrades, for though gathered from the
four quarters of the Union, and dissimilar in education, character,
and tastes, the same spirit animated all; the routine of camp life
threw them much together, and mutual esteem soon grew into a bond of
mutual good fellowship.
Thorn was a Massachusetts volunteer; a man who seemed too early old,
too early embittered by some cross, for though grim of countenance,
rough of speech, cold of manner, a keen observer would have soon
discovered traces of a deeper, warmer nature hidden, behind the
repellent front he turned upon the world. A true New Englander,
thoughtful, acute, reticent, and opinionated; yet earnest withal,
intensely patriotic, and often humorous, despite a touch of Puritan
austerity.
Phil, the "romantic chap," as he was called, looked his character to
the life. Slender, swarthy, melancholy eyed, and darkly bearded;
with feminine features, mellow voice and, alternately languid or
vivacious manners. A child of the South in nature as in aspect,
ardent, impressible, and proud; fitfully aspiring and despairing;
without the native energy which moulds character and ennobles life.
Months of discipline and devotion had done much for him, and some
deep experience was fast ripening the youth into a man.
Flint, the long-limbed lumberman, from the wilds of Maine, was a
conscript who, when government demanded his money or his life,
calculated the cost, and decided that the cash would be a dead loss
and the claim might be repeated, whereas the conscript would get
both pay and plunder out of government, while taking excellent care
that government got precious little out of him. A shrewd,
slow-spoken, self-reliant specimen, was Flint; yet something of the
fresh flavor of the backwoods lingered in him still, as if Nature
were loath to give him up, and left the mark of her motherly hand
upon him, as she leaves it in a dry, pale lichen, on the bosom of
the roughest stone.
Dick "hailed" from Illinois, and was a comely young fellow, full of
dash and daring; rough and rowdy, generous and jolly, overflowing
with spirits and ready for a free fight with all the world.
Silence followed the last words, while the friendly moon climbed up
the sky. Each man's eye followed it, and each man's heart was busy
with remembrances of other eyes and hearts that might be watching
and wishing as theirs watched and wished. In the silence, each
shaped for himself that vision of home that brightens so many
camp-fires, haunts so many dreamers under canvas roofs, and keeps so
many turbulent natures tender by memories which often are both
solace and salvation.
Thorn paced to and fro, his rifle on his shoulder, vigilant and
soldierly, however soft his heart might be. Phil leaned against the
tree, one hand in the breast of his blue jacket, on the painted
presentment of the face his fancy was picturing in the golden circle
of the moon. Flint lounged on the sward, whistling softly as he
whittled at a fallen bough. Dick was flat on his back, heels in air,
cigar in mouth, and some hilarious notion in his mind, for suddenly
he broke into a laugh.
"What is it, lad?" asked Thorn, pausing in his tramp, as if willing
to be drawn from the disturbing thought that made his black brows
lower and his mouth look grim.
"Thinkin' of my wife, and wishin' she was here, bless her heart! set
me rememberin' how I see her fust, and so I roared, as I always do
when it comes into my head."
"How was it? Come, reel off a yarn and let's hear houw yeou hitched
teams," said Flint, always glad to get information concerning his
neighbors, if it could be cheaply done.
"Tellin' how we found our wives wouldn't be a bad game, would it,
Phil?"
"I'm agreeable; but let us have your romance first."
"Devilish little of that about me or any of my doin's. I hate
sentimental bosh as much as you hate slang, and should have been a
bachelor to this day if I hadn't seen Kitty jest as I did. You see,
I'd been too busy larkin' round to get time for marryin', till a
couple of years ago, when I did up the job double-quick, as I'd like
to do this thunderin' slow one, hang it all!"
"Halt a minute till I give a look, for this picket isn't going to be
driven in or taken while I'm on guard."
Down his beat went Thorn, reconnoitring river, road, and swamp, as
thoroughly as one pair of keen eyes could do it, and came back
satisfied, but still growling like a faithful mastiff on the watch;
performances which he repeated at intervals till his own turn came.
"I didn't have to go out of my own State for a wife, you'd better
believe," began Dick, with a boast, as usual; "for we raise as fine
a crop of girls thar as any State in or out of the Union, and don't
mind raisin' Cain with any man who denies it. I was out on a gunnin'
tramp with Joe Partridge, a cousin of mine,--poor old chap! he fired
his last shot at Gettysburg, and died game in a way he didn't dream
of the day we popped off the birds together. It ain't right to joke
that way; I won't if I can help it; but a feller gets awfully kind
of heathenish these times, don't he?"
"Settle up them scores byme-by; fightin' Christians scurse raound
here. Fire away, Dick."
"Well, we got as hungry as hounds half a dozen mile from home, and
when a farm-house hove in sight, Joe said he'd ask for a bite and
leave some of the plunder for pay. I was visitin' Joe, didn't know
folks round, and backed out of the beggin' part of the job; so he
went ahead alone. We'd come up the woods behind the house, and while
Joe was foragin', I took are connoissance. The view was fust-rate,
for the main part of it was a girl airin' beds on the roof of a
stoop. Now, jest about that time, havin' a leisure spell, I'd begun
to think of marryin', and took a look at all the girls I met, with
an eye to business. I s'pose every man has some sort of an idee or
pattern of the wife he wants; pretty and plucky, good and gay was
mine, but I'd never found it till I see Kitty; and as she didn't see
me, I had the advantage and took an extra long stare."
"What was her good pints, hey?"
"Oh, well, she had a wide-awake pair of eyes, a bright, jolly sort
of a face, lots of curly hair tumblin' out of her net, a trig little
figger, and a pair of the neatest feet and ankles that ever stepped.
'Pretty,' thinks I;'so far so good.' The way she whacked the
pillers, shooked the blankets, and pitched into the beds was a
caution; specially one blunderin' old featherbed that wouldn't do
nothin' but sag round in a pig-headed sort of way, that would have
made most girls get mad and give up. Kitty didn't, but just wrastled
with it like a good one, till she got it turned, banged, and spread
to suit her; then she plumped down in the middle of it, with a sarcy
little nod and chuckle to herself, that tickled me might | 1,636.983043 |
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Produced by Delphine Lettau, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
THE WIDOW BARNABY.
BY FRANCES TROLLOPE,
AUTHOR OF "THE VICAR OF WREXHILL," "A ROMANCE OF VIENNA," ETC.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
LONDON:
RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET.
1839.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY,
Dorset Street, Fleet Street.
THE WIDOW BARNABY.
CHAPTER I.
INTRODUCTION TO THE FAMILY OF THE FUTURE MRS. BARNABY.--FINANCIAL
DIFFICULTIES.--MATERNAL LOVE.--PREPARATIONS FOR A FETE.
Miss Martha Compton, and Miss Sophia Compton, were, some five-and-twenty
years ago, the leading beauties of the pretty town of Silverton in
Devonshire.
The elder of these ladies is the person I propose to present to my
readers as the heroine of my story; but, ere she is placed before them
in the station assigned her in my title-page, it will be necessary to
give some slight sketch of her early youth, and also such brief notice
of her family as may suffice to make the subsequent events of her life,
and the persons connected with them, more clearly understood.
The Reverend Josiah Compton, the father of my heroine and her sister,
was an exceedingly worthy man, though more distinguished for the
imperturbable tranquillity of his temper, than either for the brilliance
of his talents or the profundity of his learning. He was the son of a
small landed proprietor at no great distance from Silverton, who farmed
his own long-descended patrimony of three hundred acres with skilful and
unwearied industry, and whose chief ambition in life had been to see his
only son Josiah privileged to assume the prefix of _reverend_ before his
name. After three trials, and two failures, this blessing was at last
accorded, and his son ordained, by the help of a very good-natured
examining chaplain of the then Bishop of Exeter.
This rustic, laborious, and very happy Squire lived to see his son
installed Curate of Silverton, and blessed with the hand of the dashing
Miss Martha Wisett, who, if her pedigree was not of such respectable
antiquity as that of her bridegroom, had the glory of being accounted
the handsomest girl at the Silverton balls; and if her race could not
count themselves among the landed gentry, she enjoyed all the
consideration that a fortune of one thousand pounds could give, to atone
for any mortification which the accident of having a _ci-devant_
tallow-chandler for her parent might possibly occasion.
But, notwithstanding all the pride and pleasure which the Squire took in
the prosperity of this successful son, the old man could never be
prevailed upon by all Mrs. Josiah's admirable reasonings on the rights
of primogeniture, to do otherwise than divide his three hundred acres of
freehold in equal portions between the Reverend Josiah Compton his son,
and Elizabeth Compton, spinster, his daughter.
It is highly probable, that had this daughter been handsome, or even
healthy, the proud old yeoman might have been tempted to reduce her
portion to the charge of a couple of thousand pounds or so upon the
estate; but she was sickly, deformed, and motherless; and the tenderness
of the father's heart conquered the desire which might otherwise have
been strong within him, to keep together the fields which for so many
generations had given credit and independence to his race. To leave his
poor little Betsy in any degree dependent upon her fine sister-in-law,
was, in short, beyond his strength; so the home croft, and the long
fourteen, the three linny crofts, the five worthies, and the ten-acre
clover bit, together with the farm-house and all its plenishing, and one
half of the live and dead farming stock, were bequeathed to Elizabeth
Compton and her heirs for ever--not perhaps without some hope, on the
part of her good father, that her heirs would be those of her reverend
brother, also; and so he died, with as easy a conscience as ever rocked
a father to sleep.
But Mrs. Josiah Compton, when she became Mrs. Compton, with just one
half of the property she anticipated, waxed exceeding wroth; and though
her firm persuasion, that "the hideous little crook-back could not live
for ever," greatly tended to console and soothe her, it was not without
very constant reflections on the necessity of keeping on good terms with
her, lest she might make as "unnatural a will as her father did before
her," that she was enabled to resist the temptation of abusing her
openly every time they met; a temptation increased, perhaps, by the
consciousness that Miss Betsy held her and all her race in the most
sovereign contempt.
Betsy Compton was an odd little body, with some vigour of mind, and
frame too, notwithstanding her deformity; and as the defects in her
constitution shewed themselves more in her inability to endure fatigue,
than in any pain or positive suffering, she was likely to enjoy her
comfortable independence considerably longer, and considerably more,
than her sister thought it at all reasonable in Providence to permit.
The little lady arranged her affairs, and settled her future manner of
life, within a very few weeks after her father's death, and that without
consulting brother, sister, or any one else; yet it may be doubted if
she could have done it better had she called all the parish to counsel.
She first selected the two pleasantest rooms in the house for her
bed-room and sitting-room, and then skilfully marked out the warm | 1,637.079342 |
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WAR
WAR
BY
PIERRE LOTI
TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY
MARJORIE LAURIE
[Illustration]
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
1917
COPYRIGHT, 1917, BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
_Printed by J. B. Lippincott Company
The Washington Square Press, Philadelphia, U. S. A._
TO MY FRIEND
LOUIS BARTHOU, P.L.
CONTENTS
PAGE
I. A LETTER TO THE MINISTER OF MARINE 9
II. TWO POOR LITTLE NESTLINGS OF BELGIUM 12
III. A GAY LITTLE SCENE AT THE BATTLE FRONT 18
IV. LETTER TO ENVER PASHA 28
V. ANOTHER SCENE AT THE BATTLE FRONT 34
VI. THE PHANTOM BASILICA 53
VII. THE FLAG WHICH OUR NAVAL BRIGADE DO NOT YET
POSSESS 68
VIII. TAHITI AND THE SAVAGES WITH PINK SKINS LIKE
BOILED PIG 80
IX. A LITTLE HUSSAR 85
X. AN EVENING AT YPRES 95
XI. AT THE GENERAL HEADQUARTERS OF THE BELGIAN ARMY 111
XII. SOME WORDS UTTERED BY HER MAJESTY, THE QUEEN OF
THE BELGIANS 127
XIII. AN APPEAL ON BEHALF OF THE SERIOUSLY WOUNDED IN
THE EAST 139
XIV. SERBIA IN THE BALKAN WAR 148
XV. ABOVE ALL LET US NEVER FORGET! 151
XVI. THE INN OF THE GOOD SAMARITAN 157
XVII. FOR THE RESCUE OF OUR WOUNDED 174
XVIII. AT RHEIMS 177
XIX. THE DEATH-BEARING GAS 192
XX. ALL-SOULS' DAY WITH THE ARMIES AT THE FRONT 205
XXI. THE CROSS OF HONOUR FOR THE FLAG OF THE
NAVAL BRIGADE 211
XXII. THE ABSENT-MINDED PILGRIM 219
XXIII. THE FIRST SUNSHINE OF MARCH 242
XXIV. AT SOISSONS 265
XXV. THE TWO GORGON HEADS 299
WAR
I
A LETTER TO THE MINISTER OF MARINE
CAPTAIN J. VIAUD OF THE NAVAL RESERVE, TO THE MINISTER OF
MARINE.
_Rochefort, August 18th, 1914._
SIR,
When I was recalled to active service on the outbreak of war I had hopes
of performing some duty less insignificant than that which was assigned
to me in our dock-yards.
Believe me, I have no reproaches to make, for I am very well aware that
the Navy will not fill the principal role in this war, and | 1,637.10135 |
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Produced by Andrew Templeton, Juliet Sutherland, Christine
D and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
[Transcriber's notes: Original spelling retained, original copyright
information retained, italics are indicated by underscores.]
Volume II
England's Effort
Letters To An American Friend
[Illustration: Spring-time in the North Sea--Snow on a British
Battleship.]
_The War On All Fronts_
England's Effort
Letters To An American Friend
By Mrs. Humphry Ward
With A Preface By Joseph H. Choate
Illustrated
New York Charles Scribner's Sons 1918
Copyright, 1916, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
Preface
HAS ENGLAND DONE ALL SHE COULD?
That is the question which Mrs. Ward, | 1,637.280887 |
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THE BOY ALLIES WITH UNCLE SAM'S CRUISERS
By Ensign Robert L. Drake
CHAPTER I
JACK'S ADVENTURE
Frank Chadwick jumped from a chair in the front window and ran toward
the door. A form had swung from the sidewalk along the drive that
marked the entrance to Lord Hasting's London home and at sight of it
Frank had uttered an exclamation. Now, as the figure climbed the
steps, Frank flung open the door.
"Jack!" he exclaimed with outstretched hand. "I feared something had
happened, you have been gone so long and we had heard nothing of you."
"I'm perfectly whole," laughed Jack, grasping his friend's hand. "Why,
I've been gone less than two weeks."
"But you expected to be gone only a day or two."
"That's true, but a fellow can't tell what is going to happen, you
know. I wasn't sure I should find you here when I returned, though."
"You probably wouldn't had you come a day later," returned Frank.
"How's that?"
"We sail tomorrow night," said Frank.
"By George! Then I'm back just in time," declared Jack. "Where bound
this time?"
"I don't know exactly, but personally I believe to America."
"Why?"
"The United States, I understand, is about to declare war on Germany. I
have heard it said that immediately thereafter American troops will be
sent to Europe."
"What's that got to do with our voyage?"
"I'm coming to that. There will be need, of convoys for the American
transports. I believe that is the work in which we will be engaged."
"That will be first rate, for a change," said Jack.
"But come," said Frank, leading the way into the house. "Where have
you been? Tell me about yourself."
"Wait, until I get a breath," laughed Jack, making himself comfortable
in a big armchair. "By the way, where is Lord Hastings?"
"He is in conference with the admiralty."
"And Lady Hastings?"
"Shopping, I believe. However, both will be back before long. Now
let's have an account of your adventures."
"Well, they didn't amount to much," said Jack.
"Where've you been?"
"Pretty close to Heligoland."
"What! Again?"
"Exactly. You remember how Lord Hastings came to us one day and said
that the admiralty had need of a single officer at that moment, and
that we both volunteered?"
"I certainly do," declared Frank, "and we drew straws to see which of
us should go. I lost."
"Exactly. Well, when I reached the admiralty I found there a certain
Captain Ames. I made myself known and was straightway informed that I
would do as well as another. Captain Ames was in command of the
British destroyer Falcon. He was bound on active duty at once, and he
took me along as second in command."
"Where was he bound?" demanded Frank. "And what was the nature of the
work?"
"The nature of the work," said Jack, "was to search out German mines
ahead of the battleships, who were to attempt a raid of Heligoland."
"Great Scott!" exclaimed Frank. "I hadn't heard anything about that.
Was the raid a success?"
"It was not," replied Jack briefly.
"Explain," said Frank.
"I'm trying to," smiled Jack. "Give me a chance, will you?"
He became silent and mused for a few moments. Then he said
meditatively:
"The destroyer service might well be called the cavalry of the sea. It
calls for dashing initiative, aggressiveness and courage and daring to
the point of rashness. Where an officer would be justified--even duty
bound--by navy standards to run away with a bigger and more valuable
vessel, the commander of a destroyer often must close in to almost
certain annihilation."
"Hm-m-m," said Frank slyly. "You are not feeling a bit proud of
yourself, are you?"
"Oh, I'm not talking about myself," said Jack quietly. "I was thinking
of a man like Captain Ames--and other men of his caliber. However,
I've been pretty close to death myself, and having come as close to a
fellow as death did to me, I believe he'll become discouraged and
quit. Yes, sir, I don't believe I shall ever die afloat."
"Don't be too cock-sure," said Frank dryly. "However, proceed."
"Well," Jack continued, "I followed Captain Ames aboard the Falcon and
we put to sea immediately. It was the following night that we found
ourselves mixed up in the German mine fields and so close to the
fortress itself that we were in range of the land batteries as well as
the big guns of the German fleet. Our main fleet came far behind us,
for the big ships, of course, would not venture in until we had made
sure of the position of the mines."
"Right," said Frank. "I can see that--"
"Look here," said Jack, "who's telling this story?"
"You are," said Frank hastily. "Go ahead."
"All right, but don't interrupt me. As I said, we'd been searching
mines for the battleships. Better to lose a dozen or two of us little
fellows than one of the dreadnoughts, so we steamed ahead like a fan
with nets spread and a sharp lookout. We lost a few craft by bumping
mines, but we destroyed a lot of the deadly things by firing into the
fields and detonating them.
"We could generally tell when we were getting close to a field, which
at this point was protected by the land batteries, for the batteries
would redouble their fire. Might better have saved their powder and
let us run into the fields and be blown to bits, you will say. Not at
all. They would consider that a waste of good mines. Nobody wants to
waste a whole mine on a poor little torpedo boat destroyer--and
twenty to forty men. There's no profit in that.
"We were sneaking along slowly, feeling our way and sitting on the
slippery edge of eternity when the batteries opened up.
"'We're getting warmer,' said Ames.
"It was close range work and we were able to reply to the fire of the
land batteries with our little 3-inch beauties, although I don't
suppose we did much good. It makes a fellow feel better, however, as
you know, if he's barking back. It's funny how most men have a dread
of dying without letting the other fellow know why he's there. It
doesn't seem so bad when you're hammering him.
"Anyway, it was part of our business.
"There was a bunch of red buoys anchored along one side where our chart
showed the channel to be, and we supposed that they had been used by
the German destroyers as channel buoys or to mark mine fields.
"It developed that the Germans had anchored those buoys and got the
range of them so they could have their guns already set for anything
that came near them. Some of our boats were hit by the first fire. It
was a desperate spot.
"We were up near the lead and we had to run fairly well in advance of
the main body. As you know, it often happens that when a vessel is
steaming head-on very fast, it is difficult to hit her. It seems to
rattle the gunners the same as charging infantry does the defenders.
"Shell after shell missed, but there were so many of them falling
around us that we were almost smothered in the spray. We had all been
under fire before, so it didn't have much effect on us, though.
"Then a shell hit us amidships and tore out one of our boilers. I was
on the bridge with Captain Ames at the time.
"'Go below and report,' said Ames, just as calmly as though we were at
maneuvers and one of our piston rods was pounding a little.
"I went down into a cloud of steam and found two men, pretty well
scalded, dragging out the others who had been more badly hurt by the
explosion. There wasn't enough of the water tight compartment left to
shut it off from the rest of the vessel, but we still had one boiler
intact.
"I directed the men to carry the wounded above and started back for the
bridge. Just as my feet were on the bottom of the ladder there was
another crash. The body of a man who had just reached the deck came
toppling down in a shower of splinters and debris.
"Well, I got back on to my feet and made the deck. A shell had
exploded right atop of us and nearly swept us clean. The bridge was
almost carried away. Captain Ames lay under a light steel beam and I
thought he was dead. I ran over to him. As I approached he shook off
the beam and got up. One of his legs gave way and he had to hold on to
a stanchion for support.
"'Cut off my trouser leg!' he shouted, very much excited.
"I ripped out my knife and did as he ordered. Then he twisted the
cloth around his leg above an ugly gash and tied it.
"'What's gone below?' he demanded. 'One boiler,' I replied.
"'Might have been both,' grunted Ames, and added, 'Well, we're not out
of this fight yet."'
Jack paused a moment.
"A brave man!" cried Frank. "Go ahead, Jack."
Jack cleared his throat and proceeded.
CHAPTER II
THE BATTLE
"Well," Jack continued, "Ames espied one of the destroyers that had
been leading us floundering around helplessly, with the German
destroyer, which had appeared from nowhere, trying to cut her off.
"'Templeton,' said Ames, 'take the hand steering gear and run in there
and get that fellow out.'
"I ran over to the hand gear. A fellow couldn't be frightened with a
man like Ames telling him what to do. Ames propped himself up against
what was left of the bridge and directed the gunners while we made the
best speed we could with our single boiler.
"They were still dousing us with water, but the shells were not falling
on board now. The two German destroyers were sweeping down on the
helpless boat ahead, the missiles from their light guns playing a
regular tattoo on her. It was an even chance we wouldn't find a live
man aboard her.
"Ames was having a glorious time where he had propped himself against
the shattered bridge. He swore every time one of our shells missed and
he laughed gleefully every time one went home.
"We were only about a thousand yards from the British destroyer now and
it looked like there was a fair chance of getting her out of the mess.
I was beginning to have hope when I heard the screaming of a heavy
shell from one of the land forts. Exactly amidships of the destroyer
it landed. It broke her back and all her ribs, so to speak. Steam and
steel and water and men flew high in the air. Everything aboard her
was blown to bits.
"There was no use trying to tow her out now. I searched the water with
my glass for living men. I figured we might be able to save a few if
any survived, although it was against admiralty orders to stop when in
danger. I didn't believe in the admiralty's stand at that moment. But
I couldn't make out a living soul.
"The Germans immediately turned their attention to us. Their
marksmanship was getting better. There was a frightful jar and the
steering gear was wrenched out of my hands and I was thrown to the
deck. When I picked myself up there was nothing with which to steer.
Our rudder and a part of our stern had been shot away--
"'Alternate the screws!' Ames yelled. 'I'm busy with these guns.
We'll fight as long as she floats!'
"The speaking tubes existed no longer. I stationed a man at the
hatch--and another below and transmitted my orders to the engine room by
them. First we drove ahead with one screw, then with the other, to get
a zig-zag course; next we backed first with one propeller and then the
other. Each time we backed farther than we went forward, for I wanted
to get out of the mess if possible. The crazy course threw the enemy
gunners off somewhat.
"Suddenly I heard a yell from Ames. We'd put one of the German
destroyers out of business. The other one was steaming toward us, but
she was a long ways off.
"The men were cheering. I looked at the second destroyer, thinking we
must have finished her, too, but she was still firing. Then I glanced
around to see what the men were yelling about.
"Right into that hail of fire steamed a little mine sweeper. She
looked for all the world like a tugboat. She had a single gun mounted
in her bow, and one or two amidships. She had no armor and a rifle
bullet probably would have pierced her sides with ease, but she pounded
straight toward us; the water around her was beaten to a foam.
"Far out on the prow stood a man with a coil of rope. Ames sent a man
to our stern. The sweeper had come close. The man in the prow swung
his rope and let the coil fly. It fell across our stern. There wasn't
much left to make it fast to, but we did it somehow and the sweeper
started to tow us out of that particular part of the water.
"Our guns continued to bark at the destroyer, which was gaining on us.
Some of our shots went home. The little old tugboat was hit once, but
her master stuck to his task; and he undoubtedly saved our lives.
"Gradually we were pulled back, till at length we were under the
protection of the guns of our fleet. From the flagship, signals were
being flashed for our benefit. Ames read the flags through his
glasses."
"'Congratulating us?' I asked.
"'Blast him, no!' shouted Ames. 'He wants to know why in blazes we
didn't come out when we had a chance. Well, he wouldn't have come out
himself had he been here, and I've been on the flagship, so we needn't
feel sensitive about it!'
"And that's about all," Jack continued, "except for the fact that the
raid by the battle fleet was given up. We cruised about for several
days, in spite of our crippled condition. The ship's carpenter put us
in condition to stay afloat, but at last we returned. I came here the
moment I had landed."
"Well, you had a pretty strenuous time, if you ask me," declared
Frank. "Too bad, though, that the raid couldn't have been made. We
might have captured Heligoland."
"The Germans might capture Gibraltar," said Jack, with a vein of
sarcasm in his voice, "but I don't think they will--not right away."
"It can be done, though," declared Frank.
"What? The Germans capture Gibraltar?"
"No, I mean the British can take Heligoland. Wait until Uncle Sam gets
in the war, he'll show you a few things."
"Maybe so," said Jack, "but what's all this talk I hear about the
United States declaring war on Germany?"
"It's only talk, so far," said Frank, "but it seems certain to come.
In fact, the war resolution already has passed the house and is being
debated in the senate. It wouldn't surprise me if the senate passed it
today. Then all that is needed is the signature of President Wilson."
"Well, let's hope there is no hitch," said Jack fervently.
"I don't think there will be. Come, let's go to our room and wait for
Lord Hastings."
The two boys went upstairs, and while they are awaiting the arrival of
Lord Hastings, a few words will be necessary to introduce them more
fully.
Frank Chadwick was an American lad of possibly nineteen.
He had been in Italy when the great European war broke out, and through
a misfortune had been shanghaied aboard a sailing vessel. After some
adventures he fell in with Jack Templeton, a young Englishman, who had
spent most of his life on the north coast of Africa. Together the lads
had disposed of the crew of the vessel.
They became fast friends. Fortune threw them in the path of Lord
Hastings, British nobleman and secret service agent, and they had gone
through all kinds of troubles with him. Lord Hastings had commanded
several vessels during the course of the war, and Jack and Frank upon
these occasions had been his first officers.
Both lads spoke German and French fluently, and both had a | 1,637.480185 |
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Transcriber's Note
A number of typographical errors have been maintained in this version of
this book. They have been marked with a [TN-#], which refers to a
description in the complete list found at the end of the text.
The following codes are used for characters not available in the
character set used for this book:
+ dagger
++ double dagger
THE BOOKS OF CHILAN BALAM,
The Prophetic and Historic Records
of the Mayas of Yucatan.
By DANIEL G. BRINTON, M. D.
VICE-PRESIDENT OF THE NUMISMATIC AND ANTIQUARIAN SOCIETY OF
PHILADELPHIA; MEMBER OF THE AMERICAN PHILOSOPHICAL
SOCIETY; THE AMERICAN ANTIQUARIAN SOCIETY;
DELEGUE OF THE INSTITUTION
ETHNOGRAPHIQUE,
ETC., ETC.
[Illustration]
EDWARD STERN & CO.,
PHILADELPHIA.
PREFATORY NOTE.
The substance of the present pamphlet was presented as an address to the
Numismatic and Antiquarian Society of Philadelphia, at its meeting in
January, 1882, and was printed in the _Penn Monthly_, March, 1882. As
the subject is one quite new in the field of American archaeology and
linguistics, it is believed that a republication in the present form
will be welcomed by students of these branches.
THE BOOKS OF CHILAN BALAM.[5-*]
Civilization in ancient America rose to its highest level among the
Mayas of Yucatan. Not to speak of the architectural monuments which
still remain to attest this, we have the evidence of the earliest
missionaries to the fact that they alone, of all the natives of the New
World, possessed a literature written in "letters and characters,"
preserved in volumes neatly bound, the paper manufactured from the bark
of a tree and sized with a durable white varnish.[5-+]
A few of these books still remain, preserved to us by accident in the
great European libraries; but most of them were destroyed by the monks.
Their contents were found to relate chiefly to the pagan ritual, to
traditions of the heathen times, to astrological superstitions, and the
like. Hence, they were considered deleterious, and were burned wherever
discovered.
This annihilation of their sacred books affected the natives most
keenly, as we are pointedly informed by Bishop Landa, himself one of the
most ruthless of Vandals in this respect.[5-++] But already some of the
more intelligent had learned the Spanish alphabet, and the missionaries
had added a sufficient number of signs to it to express with tolerable
accuracy the phonetics of the Maya tongue. Relying on their memories,
and, no doubt, aided by some manuscripts secretly preserved, many
natives set to work to write out in this new alphabet the contents of
their ancient records. Much was added which had been brought in by the
Europeans, and much omitted which had become unintelligible or obsolete
since the Conquest; while, of course, the different writers, varying in
skill and knowledge, produced works of very various merit.
Nevertheless, each of these books bore the same name. In whatever
village it was written, or by whatever hand, it always was, and to-day
still is, called "The Book of Chilan Balam." To distinguish them apart,
the name of the village where a copy was found or written, is added.
Probably, in the last century, almost every village had one, which was
treasured with superstitious veneration. But the opposition of the
_padres_ to this kind of literature, the decay of ancient sympathies,
and especially the long war of races, which since 1847 has desolated so
much of the peninsula, have destroyed most of them. There remain,
however, either portions or descriptions of not less than sixteen of
these curious records. They are known from the names of the villages
respectively as the Book of Chilan Balam of Nabula, of Chumayel, of
Kaua, of Mani, of Oxkutzcab, of Ixil, of Tihosuco, of Tixcocob, etc.,
these being the names of various native towns in the peninsula.
When I add that not a single one of these has ever been printed, or even
entirely translated into any European tongue, it will be evident to
every archaeologist and linguist what a rich and unexplored mine of
information about this interesting people they may present. It is my
intention in this article merely to touch upon a few salient points to
illustrate this, leaving a thorough discussion of their origin and
contents to the future editor who will bring them to the knowledge of
the learned world.
Turning first to the meaning of the name "_Chilan Balam_," it is not
difficult to find its derivation. "_Chilan_," says Bishop Landa, the
second bishop of Yucatan, whose description of the native customs is an
invaluable source to us, "was the name of their priests, whose duty it
was to teach the sciences, to appoint holy days, to treat the sick, to
offer sacrifices, and especially to utter the oracles of the gods. They
were so highly honored by the people that usually they were carried on
litters on the shoulders of the devotees."[7-*] Strictly speaking, in
Maya "_chilan_" means "interpreter," "mouth-piece," from "_chij_," "the
mouth," and in this ordinary sense frequently occurs in other writings.
The word, "_balam_"--literally, "tiger,"--was also applied to a class of
priests, and is still in use among the natives of Yucatan as the
designation of the protective spirits of fields and towns, as I have
shown at length in a recent study of the word as it occurs in the the
native myths of Guatemala.[7-+] "_Chilan Balam_," therefore, is not a
proper name, but a title, and in ancient times designated the priest who
announced the will of the gods and explained the sacred oracles. This
accounts for the universality of the name and the sacredness of its
associations.
The dates of the books which have come down to us are various. One of
them, "The Book of Chilan Balam of Mani," was undoubtedly composed not
later than 1595, as is proved by internal evidence. Various passages in
the works of Landa, Lizana, Sanchez Aguilar and Cogolludo--all early
historians of Yucatan,--prove that many of these native manuscripts
existed in the sixteenth century. Several rescripts date from the
seventeenth century,--most from the latter half of the eighteenth.
The names of the writers are generally not given, probably because the
books, as we have them, are all copies of older manuscripts, with merely
the occasional addition of current items of note by the copyist; as, for
instance, a malignant epidemic which prevailed in the peninsula in 1673
is mentioned as a present occurrence by the copyist of "The Book of
Chilan Balam of Nabula."
I come now to the contents of these curious works. What they contain may
conveniently be classified under four headings:
Astrological and prophetic matters;
Ancient chronology and history;
Medical recipes and directions;
Later history and Christian teachings.
The last-mentioned consist of translations of the "_Doctrina_," Bible
stories, narratives of events after the Conquest, etc., which I shall
dismiss as of least interest.
The astrology appears partly to be reminiscences of that of their
ancient heathendom, partly that borrowed from the European almanacs of
the century 1550-1650. These, as is well known, were crammed with
predictions and divinations. A careful analysis, based on a comparison
with the Spanish almanacs of that time would doubtless reveal how much
was taken from them, and it would be fair to presume that the remainder
was a survival of ancient native theories.
But there are not wanting actual prophecies of a much more striking
character. These were attributed to the ancient priests and to a date
long preceding the advent of Christianity. Some of them have been
printed in translations in the "_Historias_" of Lizana and Cogolludo,
and of some the originals were published by the late Abbe Brasseur de
Bourbourg, in the second volume of the reports of the "_Mission
Scientifique au Mexique et dans l'Amerique Centrale_." Their
authenticity has been met with considerable skepticism by Waitz and
others, particularly as they seem to predict the arrival of the
Christians from the East and the introduction of the worship of the
cross.
It appears to me that this incredulity is uncalled for. It is known that
at the close of each of their larger divisions of time (the so-called
"_katuns_,") a "_chilan_," or inspired diviner, uttered a prediction of
the character of the year or epoch which was about to begin. Like other
would-be prophets, he had doubtless learned that it is wiser to predict
evil than good, inasmuch as the probabilities of evil in this worried
world of ours outweigh those of good; and when the evil comes his words
are remembered to his credit, while, if, perchance, his gloomy forecasts
are not realized, no one will bear him a grudge that he has been at
fault. The temper of this people was, moreover, gloomy, and it suited
them to hear of threatened danger and destruction by foreign foes. But,
alas! for them. The worst that the boding words of the oracle foretold
was as nothing to the dire event which overtook them,--the destruction
of their nation, their temples and their freedom, 'neath the iron heel
of the Spanish conqueror. As the wise Goethe says:
"_Seltsam ist Prophetenlied,
Doch mehr seltsam was geschieht._"
As to the supposed reference to the cross and its worship, it may be
remarked that the native word translated "cross," by the missionaries,
simply means "a piece of wood set upright," and may well have had a
different and special signification in the old days.
By way of a specimen of these prophecies, I quote one from "The Book of
Chilan Balam of Chumayel," saying at once that for the translation I
have depended upon a comparison of the Spanish version of Lizana, who
was blindly prejudiced, and that in French of the Abbe Brasseur de
Bourbourg, who knew next to nothing about Maya, with the original. It
will be easily understood, therefore, that it is rather a paraphrase
than a literal rendering. The original is in short, aphoristic
sentences, and was, no doubt, chanted with a rude rhythm:
"What time the sun shall brightest shine,
Tearful will be the eyes of the king.
Four ages yet shall be inscribed,
Then shall come the holy priest, the holy god.
With grief I speak what now I see.
Watch well the road, ye dwellers in Itza.
The master of the earth shall come to us.
Thus prophesies Nahau Pech, the seer,
In the days of the fourth age,
At the time of its beginning."
Such are the obscure and ominous words of the ancient oracle. If the
date is authentic, it would be about 1480--the "fourth age" in the Maya
system of computing time being a period of either twenty or twenty-four
years at the close of the fifteenth century.
It is, however, of little importance whether these are accurate copies
of the ancient prophecies; they remain, at least, faithful imitations of
them, composed in the same spirit and form which the native priests were
wont to employ. A number are given much longer than the above, and
containing various curious references to ancient usages.
Another value they have in common with all the rest of the text of these
books, and it is one which will be properly appreciated by any student
of languages. They are, by common consent of all competent authorities,
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Produced by David Widger
AFTERWARDS
AND OTHER STORIES
By Ian Maclaren
1898
TO
LADY GRAINGER-STEWART
IN REMEMBRANCE OF THE DAYS OF LONG AGO AND THE FRIENDS WHO ARE FAR AWAY
AFTERWARDS
I
He received the telegram in a garden where he was gazing on a vision
of blue, set in the fronds of a palm, and listening to the song of the
fishers, as it floated across the bay.
"You look so utterly satisfied," said his hostess, in the high, clear
voice of Englishwomen, "that, I know you are tasting the luxury of
a contrast. The Riviera is charming in December; imagine London, and
Cannes, is Paradise."
As he smiled assent in the grateful laziness of a hard-worked man,
his mind was stung with the remembrance of a young wife swathed in the
dreary fog, who, above all things, loved the open air and the shining of
the sun.
Her plea was that Bertie would weary alone, and that she hated
travelling, but it came to him quite suddenly that this was always the
programme of their holidays--some Mediterranean villa, full of clever
people, for him, and the awful dulness of that Bloomsbury street for
her; or he went North to a shooting-lodge, where he told his best
stories in the smoking-room, after a long day on the purple heather; and
she did her best for Bertie at some watering-place, much frequented on
account of its railway facilities and economical lodgings. Letters of
invitation had generally a polite reference to his wife--"If Mrs.
Trevor can accompany you I shall be still more delighted"--but it was
understood that she would not accept "We have quite a grudge against
Mrs. Trevor, because she will never come with her husband; there is some
beautiful child who monopolises her," his hostess would explain on his
arrival; and Trevor allowed it to be understood that his wife was quite
devoted to Bertie, and would be miserable without him.
When he left the room, it was explained: "Mrs. Trevor is a hopelessly
quiet person, what is called a 'good wife,' you know."
"The only time she dined with us, Tottie Fribbyl--he was a Theosophist
then, it's two years ago--was too amusing for words, and told us what
incarnation he was going through.
"Mrs. Trevor, I believe, had never heard of Theosophy, and looked quite
horrified at the idea of poor Tottie's incarnation.
"'Isn't it profane to use such words?' she said to me. So I changed to
skirt dancing, and would you believe me, she had never seen it?
"What can you do with a woman like that? Nothing remains but religion
and the nursery. Why do clever men marry those impossible women?"
Trevor was gradually given to understand, as by an atmosphere, that he
was a brilliant man wedded to a dull wife, and there were hours--his
worst hours--when he agreed.
_Cara mia, cara mia_, sang the sailors; and his wife's face in its
perfect refinement and sweet beauty suddenly replaced the Mediterranean.
Had he belittled his wife, with her wealth of sacrifice and delicate
nature, beside women in spectacles who wrote on the bondage of marriage,
and leaders of fashion | 1,637.902498 |
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Produced by Annie McGuire
[Illustration: HARPER'S ROUND TABLE]
Copyright, 1895, by HARPER & BROTHERS. All Rights Reserved.
* * * * *
PUBLISHED WEEKLY. NEW YORK, TUESDAY, AUGUST 20, 1895. FIVE CENTS A COPY.
VOL. XVI.--NO. 825. TWO DOLLARS A YEAR.
* * * * *
[Illustration]
BRADDY'S BROTHER.
BY JULIANA CONOVER.
[Illustration: Decorative I]
t was the ending of the ninth inning; the score stood 8 to 7 in
Princeton's favor, but Harvard had only one man out, and the bases were
full.
Was it any wonder that the Freshmen couldn't keep their seats, and that
the very air seemed to hold its breath while Bradfield, '98, twisted the
ball?
In the centre of the grand stand, where the orange and black was
thickest, but the enthusiasm more controlled, stood a boy, his whole
body quivering with nervous excitement, his eyes glued--as were all
others--to the pitcher's box.
"Come in, now! look out! lead off!" the Harvard coach was saying, as the
umpire's "one strike, two balls, two strikes, three balls," raised and
dashed again the hopes of Princeton. Then came a moment of horrible
nerve-destroying suspense, and then the umpire's calm and
judicial--"striker out."
Above the cheers, which literally tore the air, the shrill discordant
note of the boy's voice could be heard, yelling like mad for Princeton
and '98.
"Who is that little fellow?" said a girl, just behind him to her
companion. The boy turned like a flash.
"I'm Braddy's brother," he said, his chest still heaving, and his cheek
glowing. "He's struck out _seven_ men!"
The girl smiled, and an upper classman, who was next to him, patted him
on the back.
"It's a proud day for Braddy's brother," he said, "and for '98 and
Princeton, that is, if Harvard doesn't--" For a moment it looked as if
Harvard would, for the regular thud of the ball against the catcher's
glove was interrupted by the ominous crack of the bat, and the men on
bases ran for their lives on the bare chance of a hit, or possibly an
error.
But '98 was not going to let a hard-earned victory slip between her
fingers like that; the short-stop fielded the swift grounder
beautifully, and the runner was out at first.
There was a short cheer, then a long wordless, formless burst of triumph
swelling out from a hundred throats. The crowd swarmed on the diamond,
the Freshman nine was picked up and carried off the field, "Braddy"
riding on the crest of a dangerous-looking wave which was formed by a
seething, howling mob.
"Well," said the Senior, turning to his small neighbor, "how does
'Braddy's brother' feel now?"
But "Braddy's brother's" feelings were too deep for utterance; besides,
he was trying to remember just how many times the Princeton Freshmen had
won from Harvard in the last six years.
* * * * *
"Hullo, Dave! Dave Hunter!" called Bradfield, as a small boy passed near
the group on the front campus. "Don't you want to take my brother off
for a little while, and show him the town?"
Dave came up blushing with pleasure at having the man who had just
pitched a winning game single him out.
"This is Dave Hunter, a special friend of mine, Bing," Braddy continued,
turning to the little chap who was lying stretched out on the grass
beside him, and who felt by this time as if he owned the whole campus
and all the college buildings, for hadn't he been in the athletic
club-house, the cage, and the 'gym.'? and wasn't he actually going to
eat at a Freshman club, and sleep up in a college room? It was the
greatest day of his life, his first taste of independence; and the glory
of being "Braddy's brother" seemed to him beyond compare.
"Don't keep him too long, Dave," said Bradfield, as the two boys started
off; "we'll have to get through dinner early if we want to hear the
Seniors sing."
Young Bingham Bradfield nodded and blushed and smiled all the way down
to the gate, as men in the different groups which they passed called
out:
"There goes 'Braddy's brother,'" or, "Hullo, little Brad," or, "What's
the matter with '98?" and one who knew him at home sang out,
"B-I-N-G-O--_Bingo_!" It was awfully exciting.
"They're going to have a fire to-night," Dave said, as they walked up
Nassau Street. "I heard some of the Freshmen say that they would begin
and collect the wood as soon as it was dark."
"Where do they get it?" asked Bingham.
"Oh, just take it," Dave answered, carelessly. "They take fences and
gates, and boards and barrels, and, oh, anything they can find. That
would be a dandy one," pointing to a half-broken-down rail fence which
divided an orchard from a newly opened road.
"It wouldn't let any cows or horses out, you see. They stole our barn
gate once, and the horses got loose on the front lawn and tore up all
the grass. We didn't mind, though," with true college spirit, "for we'd
beaten Yale."
"Yale Freshmen?" eagerly.
"No," with great scorn: "the 'Varsity. Nobody's much stuck on Freshmen
in Princeton," he continued, "except, of course, your brother. He's
great; he'll make the 'Varsity next year, sure."
Bingo's feelings were soothed. _He_ thought all the Freshmen "great,"
but was satisfied if others only appreciated Braddy.
They grew very chummy, the two boys, and Braddy's brother had learned a
great deal about college life by the time he was brought back to the
campus.
* * * * *
It was in the middle of Senior singing, when the shadows from the tall
old elms were being swallowed up in the gathering darkness, and the
groups in white duck trousers scattered about the grass were beginning
to be indistinguishable, that slim figures were seen hurrying
mysteriously to and fro, and the peace of the evening was rudely broken
into by the preparations for a "Freshman fire."
The victory had already been celebrated on Old North steps, for had not
Bingo himself heard the Seniors sing, as an encore to a favorite solo,
these never-to-be-forgotten lines, composed for the occasion:
"The Freshmen nine came from Harvard for to show
How they played the game of ball;
But found when Bradfield got in his finest curves
They couldn't hit the ball at all.
The game stood in our favor 8 to 7
When they came to the bat once more.
Their Captain said, ''Tis the ending of the 9th,
We've got to tie the score.'
_Chorus._--Then when he saw the bases full
His sides with laughter shook.
But when he heard the umpire shout
'Two strikes'--then'striker out!'
He wore a worried look--
He wore a worried look."
That brought even a finer glow to the boy's cheek than when the familiar
"Bingo! Bingo! Bingo!--'way down on the Bingo farm!" had drawn the
attention of his brother's friends to him, and made him feel for a
moment as though he were a college hero.
The singing had ceased with "Old Nassau," and the campus was alive now
with hurrying groups. The usual night cries filled the air: "Hullo,
Billy Appleton!" "Hullo, Benny Butler!" "Come over here!" "See you
later," etc., and the Freshmen were shouting and rushing wildly about.
"Where's Porter?" "Where's Tommy?" "Where's Dad?" was heard on all
sides. "'98 this way, '98 this way!"
"Stick to me, Bing," said Braddy, as he started over to his room in
Witherspoon; "stick close to me, or you'll surely get lost."
"We haven't half enough wood, Park," said a '98 man, coming up to the
class president, who was standing near Bradfield; "it won't make any
sort of a fire."
"Can't you get more? We must have a good one," answered Porter, "Get a
fence, or a house--any old thing will do. I've got to find Runt and
Bunny now, and see about a wagon for the nine. Will meet you later."
"Come on, Bingo," said Braddy.
He, Braddy, ought not to stay round and hear all the arrangements for a
celebration which was to be in his honor. The nine was supposed to keep
modestly out of the way, and know nothing whatever about it.
"Come on, Bing!"
But Bingo didn't "come on," he has business of his own to transact. The
Freshman fire, his first fire, _must_ be a success, and he knew where a
good fence was. Quick as thought he dropped behind his brother, and was
soon lost in the crowd, then he made a break for the street. At the
corner he met Dave Hunter.
"Hullo! where you going?"
It was a secret, but he told, and Dave, like "Ducky Daddies,"
"Cocky-locky," etc., in the old Grimm fairy-tale of _Henny-Penny_, said,
"Then I'll go too."
* * * * *
It was a full hour later, and the Freshmen were crowding about the old
cannon, round which a pile of boards, fence rails, barrels, etc., were
stacked, all ready to light. The resources of the town had been about
exhausted, and the raiders were returned "bringing their sheaves with
them." Roman candles and fire-crackers still went off at intervals in
different parts of the campus, but they were only a side issue, the fire
was the real business of the evening. The college was there almost to a
man, and the cheering for and by '98 was "frequent and painful and
free," or would be to one whose nerves were below par; to a healthy
enthusiast it was soul-stirring and exhilarating.
Even the upper classmen added their thunder from well-trained iron lungs
when the old wagon containing the victorious nine came up, dragged by a
lot of wild, reckless, muscular Freshmen. Only true heroes could so
calmly have imperilled their lives, for these bold young spirits were
actually standing up and singing, as the wagon lurched and pitched and
wobbled over curbstones, and down into gutters, and up again. But
fortune favors the brave, and they reached the fire without a single
accident, and were halted at the cannon's mouth in the front row.
Everything was ready, yet there seemed to be some hitch. The crowd began
to get impatient.
"What's the matter?" they cried. "Why don't you light her up?"
"We're waiting for Braddy," came back the answer.
"Where is he?"
"Give it up."
"He's hunting his brother," said one. "He's down on the Bingo farm,"
cried another.
This was rather "fresh," but there was a general laugh, which turned
into a cheer as Braddy, wearing a worried look, pushed his way through
the crowd.
"I can't find the kid," he said, anxiously.
"Oh, he will turn up all right," said the others; "he's sure to come to
the fire. Brace up and light her, Jennings."
Just then there was a shout from behind, and the closely packed mass
opened up to let a fence come in, which two small flushed and panting
boys were dragging after them.
"Great Scott, it's Braddy's brother!" said the Senior who had sat next
to him at the game. "Where in the world did you get all that fence, and
how did you manage to drag it here?"
Bingo was far too breathless to answer, but Dave spoke up.
"A lot of fellows helped us," he said. "We brought it round a back way,
but Brad and I brought it through the campus alone."
"Give them a cheer, fellows," cried the Senior, "and start the fire."
"Here's to Braddy's brother," sang the Freshmen, as they threw the
lighted matches into the pile, "drink her down! Here's to Braddy's
brother, and--"
"Dave Hunter!" shouted Bingo, who had found his voice.
"--and Dave Hunter he's the other; drink her down, drink her down,
drink her down, down, down!" etc., ending up with a rousing
B-I-N-G-O--_Bingo_!
Then the fire began to crackle and sizzle and blaze up and roar, and the
Freshmen cheered and sang and shouted, and the bright light revealed
groups of girls with brothers and friends who had come to see the
celebration, and myriads of small boys who had come to see the fun.
It was a beautiful sight. The wood had been piled up in pyramid form,
and the flames rose red and yellow almost to the tops of the tall elms,
those still sentries of the campus. How it spluttered and hissed and
crashed and roared! and not even the Freshmen could drown the mighty
voice, which spoke in so many different tongues, though they did their
best; and as Braddy's brother, standing near the wagon which held the
nine, watched the shooting, dancing, devouring flames his heart thumped
so that it almost broke out of bounds, and he drew long, very long
breaths.
The fire had died down somewhat, the cheering was more spasmodic and
subdued, the time for speeches had come. Every one crowded closer, and
the wagon, not the burning pile, became the centre of attention.
"Speech! speech!" cried '98. "A speech, Braddy."
Bradfield was not only the pitcher, but the Captain of the Freshman
nine. So they forced him upon the high seat, and yelled for quiet.
Braddy looked down upon the densely packed mass, hushed for the moment
into something like stillness, and his nerve completely deserted him.
There he stood, fair and boyish, a target for all eyes, but he could not
say a word. He opened his mouth, he even gestured, but no sound came. It
was a case of pure stage-fright, and the awkwardness increased with
every second. "Fellows," he managed to stammer out--"fellows--"
But there he stopped. Suddenly the painful pause was broken by a high
excited voice. "Tell 'em Princeton's the biggest college in the world,
Tom, and that '98 can beat any Freshman nine in the country!"
It broke the spell. Long and loud were the cheers that followed this
outburst, and "Braddy's brother," covered with confusion, was hoisted by
a dozen hands into the wagon beside the nine. By the time that quiet had
once more been restored Tom Bradfield had recovered his "nerve," and his
speech on that memorable occasion will go down to posterity as one of
the best on record. All the speeches were good, _splendid_, Bingo
thought, for he heard, and understood, and thrilled with every word.
When the final sentence had been delivered, and '98 had once more
dragged the nine in triumph round the now visible cannon, and cheered
them hoarsely for the last time, and when the crowd had begun to
disperse, leaving the smouldering embers, and shouting and singing as
they went, Braddy turned to his brother with a smile and said,
"Well, Bing, ready for bed?"
And Bingo answered with a sigh, "I suppose a fellow has to go to bed
even after a Freshman fire."
"THE OLD-FASHIONED LAWYER."
Laura's cousins were coming to stay overnight, so she asked mamma if she
might not invite some other school friends, and some of brother Will's,
to spend the evening. And as these friends were pretty sure to come,
mother and daughter held a conference as how best to entertain them.
"Why not have games?"
"The very thing! What would I do without your help, mother dear," was
the impulsive answer.
"And the best game I know to start with would be The Old-fashioned
Lawyer. That will rub away all shyness, and all will feel as though they
were friends for a year."
Laura was delighted, and contentedly ran off to tell her brother. But
Will did not know the game, and Laura had to explain.
"We'll need an odd number of players. But that can be arranged by you or
I dropping out.
"The odd one must be Judge, to settle disputed points.
"The players must sit opposite each other in two rows, and the Lawyer is
to stand in the centre between the rows. The Judge can sit in the big
green chair, because it is high; for he must keep all the players in
full view.
"The game begins by the Lawyer putting a question to the person at
either end of one of the rows. But the one to answer is not the one
addressed. And there, Will, is where the fun comes in."
"Who is to answer?"
"The person at the extreme end of the opposite row. And should he not
correctly answer before the Lawyer counts five, he must change places
with the Lawyer. And the Lawyer begins to count slowly out loud as soon
as he asks the question."
"What if the person addressed replies.'"
"Then he must pay a forfeit.
"After the first question is answered, the Lawyer may address whomever
he pleases, but the party addressed must remain silent; it is the
opposite one who must answer. The Lawyer must of course ask questions
that are possible to answer. If he should take advantage, there's the
Judge to keep him in order."
"What kind of questions _would_ you ask?"
"Why, ordinary ones. Whether or not a person paints from nature? Who is
your favorite musician? Which do you prefer, rowing or sailing, tennis
or golf? All kinds of questions like that. I don't believe one of us
could tell the date of the first crusade, or who invented ink and when.
"And another thing, never look at the individual you intend next to
question. For both he and his opposite neighbor would then be prepared.
You must play very rapidly or it's no fun. And if any question or
discussion occurs, the Judge must decide."
"That will be right jolly, Laura. Do you think the folks will all
come?"
CORPORAL FRED.[1]
A Story of the Riots.
BY CAPTAIN CHARLES KING, U.S.A.
CHAPTER V.
For a mile after leaving its armory the regiment had marched through the
beautiful residence portion of the city, cheered and applauded to the
skies. Turning "column right," it had then threaded a narrow street,
shop-lined and less sympathetic, had tramped in cool disregard through
half a mile of railway property where, in groups of twenty or thirty,
strikers and sympathizers recoiled, but scowled and cursed them, yet
prudently refrained from further violence. Once in a while some street
arab let drive a stone, then dove under the nearest car, and scurried
away into hiding. Then came the lumber district, the swaying bridges
where they broke their cadenced stride, and crossed at route step. Then
in the gathering darkness the head of the column reached the outlying
wards. Square upon square, section on section of frame two-story houses,
the homes of citizens of only moderate means, and here, too, people
clustered on door-steps or ran to gather at street corners and murmur
God-speed and blessing, for less than a mile away now the western sky
was lighting up with the glare of conflagration, and the direful word
was going round that the mob was firing the freight-cars, and that,
despite the efforts of fearless and devoted firemen, the flames were
spreading to warehouses and factories along the line. Only a few minutes
after sundown the first summons had banged on the gongs of the engine
and truck houses of the west side. Then every fire-box for four miles
along the lines of the Great Western seemed to have been "pulled," and
in a wild confusion of alarms assistant chiefs were driving their
clanging buggies, followed by rushing hose-wagons and steamers, all over
the outlying wards, unreeling their hose only to have it slashed and
ruined by swarming rioters, and they themselves, the fire-fighters of
the people, men whose lives were devoted to duty, humanity, and mercy,
brutally clubbed and stoned by overpowering gangs of "toughs" bent on
mad riot and destruction. For hours from every direction the vicious,
the desperate, the unemployed of the great city had been swarming to the
scene, and the police force that, properly led and handled at the
outset, could easily have quelled the incipient tumult, was now as
powerless as the firemen. Oh, what if a prairie gale should rise | 1,637.984994 |
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Produced by Barbara Tozier, Bill Tozier and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE: Minor spelling and punctuation errors have been
corrected but accents are retained as printed: inconsistently. The
exception is the replacement of A’ with Á, and so on.
EXERCISES
UPON THE DIFFERENT
PARTS OF ITALIAN SPEECH
WITH
REFERENCES
TO
_VENERONI’S GRAMMAR:_
TO WHICH IS ADDED,
AN ABRIDGMENT OF THE ROMAN HISTORY,
INTENDED AT ONCE TO MAKE THE LEARNER ACQUAINTED WITH
HISTORY, AND THE IDIOM OF THE ITALIAN LANGUAGE.
By F. BOTTARELLI, A. M.
The EIGHTH EDITION, carefully revised and corrected.
By G. B. ROLANDI.
_LONDON:_
PRINTED FOR J. COLLINGWOOD; LONGMAN, HURST, REES
ORME & BROWN; SIMPKIN & MARSHALL; G. & W. B.
WHITTAKER; T. BOOSEY & SONS; AND J. BOOKER.
1822.
Printed by T. C. Hansard, Peterboro’-court, Fleet-street, London.
_PREFACE._
Amidst the laudable endeavours for the advancement of the Italian
language, it is surprising that an easy and expeditious method
of teaching it has been, in a great measure, neglected; and that
beginners have hitherto been left without proper assistance. Under
this impression, I have composed these EXERCISES upon the Syntax of
VENERONI’S _Italian Grammar_; with what success I have executed the
task, must be submitted to the decision of qualified and impartial
judges.
These Exercises comprehend all the difficulties, and idiomatical
expressions of the Italian language; the rules and exceptions of which
are exemplified after such a method, that a learner cannot fail to
become master of that language who has carefully gone through them once
or twice.
The examples are of three sorts; the first, immediately following
the rule, are short: as nothing farther is designed by them, than to
illustrate that particular rule. The second sort are longer, and in
them, not only the rule to which they refer, is exemplified, but also
the foregoing ones are again brought into practice, the better to
imprint them on the memory: since, were it not for this contrivance,
learners would forget one rule, while they were learning another; the
examples of the third kind, contain all the preceding, and some of
the subsequent rules promiscuously; and for these reasons, are not to
be attempted, until the student has gone twice at least, through the
former part (for I think it advisable they should go through it more
than once).
The radical Italian words are interlined, a thing very useful and
requisite in a work of this nature, as well to save the trouble of
consulting Dictionaries, as to prevent the use of improper terms, and
wrong spelling, otherwise unavoidable; and those who wish to learn
the Italian language, will thereby be enabled to make a much quicker
progress than they could possibly do by the tedious task of searching
a Dictionary for the words they require.
I have frequently omitted such words as had been often mentioned
before, presuming there was no occasion for such repetition; and in
order to excite attention in learners, that they might recollect what
they had learned, and exert both their memory and judgment, or, on
memory failing them, have recourse to a Dictionary, as a last resource.
For these reasons, in the latter part of the Exercises, there are
scarcely any Italian words but _nouns_ and _verbs_, all the other parts
of speech having already been gone through.
There is added, by way of Appendix, an Abridgment of the Roman
History. As history is one of the most easy and entertaining parts of
literature, and as that of the ancient Romans is absolutely necessary
to a proper understanding of the Classics, I hope this addition will
prove highly beneficial to young beginners.
* * * * *
_N. B. Great pains have been taken to render this new Edition of
BOTTARELLI’S ITALIAN EXERCISES more perfect than any hitherto
published. In order to facilitate the Italian pronunciation, the words
have been accented according to the plan of VENERONI’S GRAMMAR; the
references to VENERONI have been compared, and carefully corrected,
and many new ones added, together with several Notes and Remarks. All
obsolete and improper phrases have been expunged; and the Chronology
of the Roman History has been improved by the addition of DATES to
each respective chapter: in short, on account of the many additions,
alterations, and improvements, this edition may almost be considered
as a new book, and a worthy companion of the celebrated Grammar of
VENERONI.
⁂ _A new Edition of the KEY to these EXERCISES is just published._
ITALIAN EXERCISES.
ON THE ACCIDENCE OF VERBS.
_Regular Verbs of the First Conjugation._ [See VENERONI’S GRAMMAR, page
88.]
I love, thou acquirest, he respects, we salute, you speak, ye pass,
am-áre acquist-áre rispett-áre salut-áre parl-áre pass-áre
they walk.
spasseggi-áre.
I did call, thou didst prattle, he did command, we did begin,
chiam-áre ciarl-áre comand-áre cominci-áre
you did buy, they did confess.
compr-áre confess-áre.
I confirmed, thou didst deliver, he preserved, we considered,
conferm-áre consegn-áre preserv-áre consider-áre
you advised, they contended.
consigli-áre contrast-áre.
I have declined, thou hast courted, he has cured, we have crowned,
declin-áre corteggi-áre cur-áre coron-áre
you have dedicated, they have supped.
[1]dedic-áre cen-áre.
I had wished, thou hadst declared, he had dispensed,
desider-áre dichiar-áre dispens-áre
we had assembled, you had undeceived, they had wasted.
radun-áre disingann-áre scialacqu-áre.
I will expect, thou shalt arrive, he will assault, we will assure,
aspett-áre arriv-áre assalt-áre assicur-áre
you will wish, they shall increase.
augur-áre aument-áre.
Dance, let him change, let us walk, sing ye, let them certify.
ball-áre cambi-áre passeggi-áre cant-áre [2]certific-áre.
That I may fast, that thou mayest besiege, that he may ride,
digiun-áre assedi-áre [2]cavalc-áre
that we may punish, that you may pass, that they may cause.
[2]castig-áre pass-áre cagion-áre.
That I might caress, that thou mightest burn, that he might stoop,
accarezz-áre abbruci-áre [2]abbass-ársi
that we might accept, that you might embrace, that they might mend.
accett-áre abbracci-áre accomod-áre.
I should accompany, thou shouldst accuse, he should baptize,
accompagn-áre accus-áre battezz-áre
we should mistrust, you should venture, they should administer.
[3]diffid-ársi [2]arrisic-áre amministr-áre.
That I may have lamented, that thou mayest have invented,
lament-áre invent-áre
that he may have governed, that we may have tamed,
govern-áre addimestic-áre
that you may have asked, that they may have experienced.
domand-áre speriment-áre.
That I might have formed, that thou mightest have taken away,
form-áre lev-áre
that he might have sent, that we might have prepared,
mand-áre prepar-áre
that you might have deprived, that they might have resembled.
priv-áre rassomigli-áre.
I should have prolonged, thou shouldst | 1,638.156634 |
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from the Google Print project.)
The Library Assistant's Manual
By THEODORE W. KOCH
Librarian, University of Michigan
Provisional Edition
LANSING, MICHIGAN
STATE BOARD OF LIBRARY COMMISSIONERS
1913
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Issued on the occasion of the 61st annual meeting of the Michigan
State Teachers' Association, Ann Arbor, October 30-November 1, 1913._
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS.
Page
I. The library movement in the United States 7-15
II. Organization of a library 16-19
III. Book selection and buying 20-24
IV. Classification 25-32
V. Cataloging 33-38
VI. Reference work and circulation 39-50
VII. The binding and care of library books 51-53
VIII. Work with children 54-58
IX. The high school library 59-66
X. Suggested readings in the Encyclopaedia Britannica 67-78
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CHAPTER I.
=THE LIBRARY MOVEMENT IN THE UNITED STATES.=
The forerunner of the American public library of today is found in the
subscription or stock company libraries of Philadelphia, Boston and
other cities. The oldest of these is the Philadelphia Library Company,
founded in 1731 by Benjamin Franklin who later referred to it as "the
mother of all subscription libraries in America." The Rev. Jacob
Duche, a director of the Library Company, wrote in 1774: "Literary
accomplishments here meet with deserved applause. But such is the taste
for books that almost every man is a reader." The Library Company's
authority on book selection was James Logan (the friend of William
Penn) who was esteemed "to be a gentleman of universal learning and the
best judge of books in these parts." In 1783 the Library Committee
instructed its London agent that "though not averse to mingling the
dulce with the utile, they did not care to have him buy any more
novels."
In 1869 the Library Company was made the beneficiary under the will of
Dr. James Rush, who left $1,500,000 to establish the Ridgeway Branch.
On account of the conditions attached to the bequest, the gift was
accepted by a bare majority of the stockholders. Among other
restrictions, the will contained the following clause: "Let the library
not keep cushioned seats for time-wasting and lounging readers, nor
places for every-day novels, mind-tainting reviews, controversial
politics, scribblings of poetry and prose, biographies of unknown
names, nor for those teachers of disjointed thinking, the daily
newspapers." The provisions of the will were strictly carried out and
today the Ridgeway Library stands as a storehouse of the literature of
the past, a monument to the donor and an evidence of the change that
has come over the world in its conception of the function of the
library.
=Boston Athenaeum.=--Like the Philadelphia Library Company, the Boston
Athenaeum was the outgrowth of a group of men who had in common an
interest in books. In May 1806, the Anthology Society, which had been
editing the "Monthly Anthology and Boston review," established a
reading room, the object of which was to afford subscribers a meeting
place furnished with the principal American and European periodicals.
The annual subscription was placed at ten dollars, which was not more
than the cost of a single daily paper. The organization prospered and
by 1827 the treasurer's books showed property valued at more than
$100,000. Two years later the library administration faced a new
problem: a woman applied for admission to the library. Having no
precedent to guide him, the librarian allowed the applicant free access
to the shelves. She was Hannah Adams, who wrote "A view of religious
opinions," a "History of New England," and "The history of the Jews."
The next woman to ask for admission to the treasures of the Athenaeum
was Mrs. Lydia Maria Child, (1802-1880), author of "The rebels," "The
freedman's books," "Hobomok," etc., but her ticket of admission was
shortly revoked "lest the privilege cause future embarrassment." As
late as 1855 Charles Folsom entered a protest against women having
access to "the corrupter portions of polite literature."
=Boston Public Library.=--In 1825 a plan was proposed whereby all the
libraries in Boston should be united under one roof. Later, a Frenchman
by name of Vattemare, caused to be introduced into Congress a measure
which was to build up great libraries through international exchanges.
A public meeting was held in Boston but a committee of the Boston
Athenaeum opposed the scheme and it was dropped. However, in return for
some books forwarded through Vattemare to the Municipal Council of
Paris, the Mayor of Boston received in 1843 about fifty volumes, which
in reality formed the nucleus of the Boston Public Library.
In 1847 the Boston City Council appointed a joint committee on a
library. The next year a special act was passed by the Massachusetts
State Legislature authorizing the city of Boston to found and maintain
a library. Efforts were made to effect a union of interests with the
Boston Athenaeum, but they failed. In 1849 the first books were
presented by the Hon. Robert C. Winthrop, and in the following year J.
P. Bigelow, then Mayor of the city, turned over to a library fund the
sum of $1,000 which had been presented to him as a personal testimony.
Edward Everett presented 1,000 United States documents, and Edward
Capen was appointed librarian by the Mayor. George Ticknor, a member of
the Board, helped to draw up a preliminary report outlining the ideals
for the new civic institution. The library was not to be a "mere resort
of professed scholars."
The key note of the whole public library movement in America was struck
by Ticknor when in 1851 he wrote of his hopes for the new library
proposed for Boston: "I would establish a library which differs from
all free libraries yet attempted; I mean one in which any popular
books, tending to moral and intellectual improvement, shall be
furnished in such numbers of copies that many persons can be reading
the same book at the same time; in short, that not only the best books
of all sorts, but the pleasant literature of the day, shall be made
accessible to the whole people when they most care for it, that is,
when it is fresh and new."
A timely friend was found in Joshua Bates, who gave more than $50,000
for the purchase of books, saying that he thought it was desirable to
render the public library at once as useful as possible by providing it
with a large collection of books in many departments of knowledge.
Thus the aim of the founders was quickly realized, it having been their
professed intention to make the library what no other library in the
world had either attempted or desired to become, "a powerful and direct
means for the intellectual and moral advancement of a whole people
without distinction of class or condition." The Boston Public Library
was the pioneer of the large public libraries in America and as such
has long enjoyed a prominence which in a way has resulted in its
differentiation from other large municipal institutions.
=Astor Library.=--John Jacob Astor, who came to this country in 1783,
as a young man of 20, independent of capital, family connections or
influence, became the richest man of his day in the United States, and
wished to show his feelings of gratitude towards the city of New York,
in which he had lived so long and prospered. When he consulted with his
friends, Fitz Green Halleck and Washington Irving among others, as to
the object to which his liberality should be applied, the plan of
building a public library was the most approved and a decision was
promptly made in favor of it. Four hundred thousand dollars was left
for this purpose. The site chosen for the new Astor Library was in
Lafayette Place, in which street lived Mr. William B. Astor, a son of
the donor. Washington Irving was the first president of the Board of
Trustees, and Joseph G. Cogswell was the first librarian. According to
John Hill Burton in the "Book hunter," Mr. Cogswell "spent some years
in Europe with Mr. Astor's princely endowment in his pocket, and
showed himself a judicious, active and formidable sportsman in the
book-hunting world. Whenever from private collections or the breaking
up of public institutions, rarities got abroad in the open market, the
collectors of the old world found that they had a resolute competitor
to deal with, almost, it might be said, a desperate one, since he was,
in a manner, the representative of a nation using powerful efforts to
get a share of the library treasures of the old world. I know that in
the instance of the Astor Library the selections of the books have been
made with great judgment and that after the boundaries of the common
crowded markets were passed and individual rarities had to be stalked
in distant hunting grounds, innate literary value was still held as an
object more important than | 1,638.245051 |
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UNCLE WALT
[Illustration: To George Matthew Adams
From his Accomplice Walt Mason]
UNCLE WALT
[WALT MASON]
[Illustration]
The Poet Philosopher
Chicago
George Matthew Adams
1910
Copyright, 1910, by George Matthew Adams.
Registered in Canada in accordance with
the copyright law. Entered at Stationers'
Hall, London. All rights reserved.
Contents
A Glance at History 17
Longfellow 18
In Politics 19
The Human Head 20
The Universal Help 21
Little Sunbeam 22
The Flag 23
Doc Jonnesco 24
Little Girl 25
The Landlady 26
Twilight Reveries 27
King and Kid 28
Little Green Tents 29
Geronimo Aloft 31
The Venerable Excuse 32
Silver Threads 33
The Poet Balks 34
The Penny Saved 35
Home Life 36
Eagles and Hens 37
The Sunday Paper 38
The Nation's Hope 39
Football 40
Health Food 41
Physical Culture 43
The Nine Kings 44
The Eyes of Lincoln 45
The Better Land 46
Knowledge Is Power 47
The Pie Eaters 48
The Sexton's Inn 49
He Who Forgets 50
Poor Father 51
The Idle Question 52
Politeness 53
Little Pilgrims 55
The Wooden Indian 56
Home and Mother 57
E. Phillips Oppenheim 58
Better than Boodle 59
The Famous Four 60
Niagara 61
A Rainy Night 62
The Wireless 63
Helpful Mr. Bok 64
Beryl's Boudoir 65
Post-Mortem Honors 67
After A While 68
Pretty Good Schemes 69
Knowledge by Mail 70
Duke and Plumber 71
Human Hands 72
The Lost Pipe 73
Thanksgiving 74
Sir Walter Raleigh 75
The Country Editor 76
Useless Griefs 77
Fairbanks' Whiskers 78
Letting It Alone 79
The End of the Road 80
The Dying Fisherman 81
George Meredith 82
The Smart Children 83
The Journey 85
Times Have Changed 86
My Little Dog "Dot" 87
Harry Thurston Peck 88
Tired Man's Sleep 89
Tomorrow 90
Toothache 91
Auf Wiedersehen 92
After the Game 93
Nero's Fiddle 94
The Real Terror 95
The Talksmiths 96
Woman's Progress 97
The Magic Mirror 99
The Misfit Face 100
A Dog Story 101
The Pitcher 102
Lions and Ants 103
The Nameless Dead 104
Ambition 105
Night's Illusions 106
Before and After 107
Luther Burbank 108
Governed Too Much 109
Success in Life 110
The Hookworm Victim 111
Alfred Austin 112
Weary Old Age 113
Lullaby 114
The School Marm 115
Poe 116
Gay Parents 117
Dad 118
John Bunyan 119
A Near Anthem 121
The Yellow Cord 122
The Important Man 123
Toddling Home 124
Trifling Things 125
Trusty Dobbin 126
The High Prices 127
Omar Khayyam 128
The Grouch 129
The Pole 130
Wilhelmina 131
Wilbur Wright 132
The Broncho 133
Schubert's Serenade 135
Mazeppa 136
Fashion's Devotee 137
Christmas 138
The Tightwad 139
Blue Blood 140
The Cave Man 141
Rudyard Kipling 142
In Indiana 143
The Colonel at Home 144
The June Bride 145
At The Theatre 146
Club Day Dirge 147
Washington 149
Hours and Ponies 150
The Optimist 151
A Few Remarks 152
Little Things 153
The Umpire 154
Sherlock Holmes 155
The Sanctuary 156
The Newspaper Graveyard 157
My Lady's Hair 158
The Sick Minstrel 159
The Beggar 160
Looking Forward 161
The Depot Loafers 162
The Foolish Husband 163
Halloween 165
Rienzi To The Romans 166
The Sorrel Colt 167
Plutocrat and Poet 168
Mail Order Clothes 169
Evening 170
They All Come Back 171
The Cussing Habit 172
John Bull 173
An Oversight 174
The Traveler 175
Saturday Night 176
Lady Nicotine 177
Up-To-Date Serenade 179
The Consumer 180
Advice To A Damsel 181
The New Year Vow 182
The Stricken Toiler 183
The Law Books 184
Sleuths of Fiction 185
Put It On Ice 186
The Philanthropist 187
Other Days 188
The Passing Year 189
List of Illustrations
Page
Frontispiece 12
"A Glance at History" 16
"Geronimo Aloft" 30
"Physical Culture" 42
"Little Pilgrims" 54
"Post-Mortem Honors" 66
"The Journey" 84
"The Magic Mirror" 98
"A Near Anthem" 120
"Schubert's Serenade" 134
"Washington" 148
"Halloween" 164
"Up-to-Date Serenade" 178
[Illustration: _"Uncle Walt" on his favorite steed. Drawn by John T.
McCutcheon_]
A Poet of the People
Walt Mason's Prose Rhymes are read daily by approximately ten million
readers.
A newspaper service sells these rhymes to two hundred newspapers with a
combined daily circulation of nearly five million, and assuming that
five people read each newspaper--which is the number agreed upon by
publicity experts--it may be called a fair guess to say that two out of
every five readers of newspapers read Mr. Mason's poems.
So the ten million daily readers is a reasonably accurate estimate. No
other American verse-maker has such a daily audience.
Walt Mason is, therefore, the Poet Laureate of the American Democracy.
He is the voice of the people.
Put to a vote, Walt would be elected to the Laureate's job, if he got a
vote for each reader. And, generally speaking, men would vote as they
read.
The reason Walt Mason has such a large number of readers is because he
says what the average man is thinking so that the average man can
understand it.
The philosophy of Walt Mason is the philosophy of America. Briefly it is
this: The fiddler must be paid; if you don't care to pay, don't dance.
In the meantime--grin and bear it, because you've got to bear it, and
you might as well grin. But don't try to lie out of it. The Lord hates a
cheerful liar.
This is what the American likes to hear. For that is the American idea
about the way the world is put together. So he reads Walt Mason night
and morning and smiles and takes his knife and cuts out the piece and
carries it in his vest pocket, or her handbag.
It will interest the ten million readers of Walt Mason's rhymes to know
that they are written in Emporia, Kansas, in the office of the Emporia
Gazette, after Mr. Mason has done a day's work as editorial writer and
telegraph editor of an afternoon paper. The rhymes are written on a
typewriter as rapidly as he would write if he were turning out prose.
Day after day, year after year, the fountain flows. There is no poison
in it. And sometimes real poetry comes welling up from this Pierian
spring at 517 Merchant street, Emporia, Kansas, U. S. A.
In the meantime we do not claim its medicinal properties will cure
everything. But it is good for sore eyes; it cures the blues; it
sweetens the temper, cleanses the head, and aids the digestion. In cases
of heart trouble it has been known to unite torn ligaments and encourage
large families.
And a gentleman over there takes a bottle! Step up quickly; remember we
are merely introducing this great natural remedy. Our supply is limited.
In a moment the music will begin.
[Illustration: Signature]
[Illustration: To JAMES C. MASON
For the happy, youthful days
That long since had an end;
For the distant trodden ways
That we no more may wend;
For the dreams of woven gold
And the memories of old,
These little tales are told,
My brother and my friend.]
[Illustration: "_I to swing the shining axe, you to take a few swift
whacks._"]
_A Glance at History_
Charles the First, with stately walk, made the journey to the block. As
he paced the street along, silence fell upon the throng; from that
throng there burst a sigh, for a king was come to die! Charles upon the
scaffold stood, in his veins no craven blood; calm, serene, he viewed
the crowd, while the headsman said, aloud: "Cheer up, Charlie! Smile and
sing! Death's a most delightful thing! I will cure your hacking cough,
when I chop your headpiece off! Headache, toothache--they're a bore! You
will never have them more! Cheer up, Charlie, dance and yell! Here's the
axe, and all is well! I, though but a humble dub, represent the Sunshine
Club, and our motto is worth while: 'Do Not Worry--Sing and Smile!'
Therefore let us both be gay, as we do our stunt today; I to swing the
shining axe, you to take a few swift whacks. Lumpty-doodle, lumpty-ding,
do not worry, smile and sing!"
_Longfellow_
Singer of the kindly song, minstrel of the gentle lay, when the night is
dark and long, and beset with thorns the way--in the poignant hour of
pain, in this weary worldly war, there is comfort in thy strain, courage
in "Excelsior." When the city bends us down, with its weight of bricks
and tiles, lead us, poet, from the town, to the fragrant forest aisles,
where the hemlocks ever moan, like old Druids clad in green, as they
sighed, when all alone, wandered sad Evangeline. Writer of the cleanly
page, teacher of the golden truth; still I love thee in my age, as I
loved thee in my youth. In some breasts a fiercer fire flamed, than ever
thou hast known; but no mortal minstrel's lyre ever gave a purer tone.
Singer of the kindly song, minstrel of the gentle lay, time is swift and
art is long, and thy fame will last alway.
_In Politics_
His days were joyous and serene, his life was pure, his record clean;
folks named their children after him, and he was in the social swim;
ambitious lads would say: "I plan to be just such a worthy man!" But in
the fullness of his years, the tempter whispered in his ears, and begged
that he would make the race for county judge, or some such place. And so
he yielded to his fate, and came forth as a candidate. The night before
election day they found him lying, cold and gray, the deadest man in all
the land, this message in his icy hand: "The papers that opposed my race
have brought me into deep disgrace; I find that I'm a fiend unloosed; I
robbed a widow's chicken roost, and stole an orphan's Easter egg, and
swiped a soldier's wooden leg. I bilked a heathen of his joss, and later
kidnapped Charlie Ross; I learn, with something like alarm, that I
designed the Gunness farm, and also, with excessive grief, that Black
Hand cohorts call me chief. I thought myself a decent man, whose record
all the world might scan; but now, alas, too late! I see that all the
depths of infamy have soiled me with their reeking shame, and so it's
time to quit the game."
_The Human Head_
The greatest gift the gods bestowed on mortal was his dome of thought;
it sometimes seems a useless load, when one is tired, and worn and hot;
it sometimes seems a trifling thing, less useful than one's lungs or
slats; a mere excuse, it seems, to bring us duns from men who deal in
hats. Some men appreciate their heads, and use them wisely every day,
and every passing minute sheds new splendor on their upward way; while
some regard their heads as junk, mere idle knobs upon their necks; such
men are nearly always sunk in failure, and are gloomy wrecks. I know a
clerk who's served his time in one old store for twenty-years; he's
marked his fellows climb, and climb--and marked with jealousy and tears;
he's labored there since he was young; he'll labor there till he is
dead; he never rose a single rung, because he never used his head. I
know a poorhouse in the vale, where fifty-seven paupers stay; they paw
the air and weep and wail, and cuss each other all the day; and there
they'll loll while life endures, and there they'll die in pauper beds;
their chances were as good as yours--but then they never used their
heads. O human head! Majestic box! O wondrous can, from labels free! If
man is craving fame or rocks, he'll get them if he uses thee!
_The Universal Help_
My cow's gone dry, my hens won't lay, my horse has got the croup; the
hot winds spoiled my budding hay, and I am in the soup. And while my
life is sad and sore, and earthly joys are few, I'll write a note to
Theodore; he'll tell me what to do. I wasn't home when Fortune called,
my feet had strayed afar; I fear that I am going bald, and I have got
catarrh. The wolf is howling at my door, I've naught to smoke or chew;
but I shall write to Theodore--he'll tell me what to do. My Sunday suit
is old and sere, I'm wearing last year's lids; my aunt is coming for a
year, to visit, with her kids. They will not trust me at the store, and
I am feeling blue, so I shall write to Theodore--he'll tell me what to
do. When we are weary and distraught, from worldly strife and care, and
we're denied the balm we sought, and given black despair, ah, then, my
friends, there is one chore devolves on me and you; we'll simply write
to Theodore--he'll tell us what to do.
_Little Sunbeam_
She was sweet and soft and clinging, and he always found her singing,
when he came home from his labors as the night was closing in; she was
languishing and slender, and her eyes were deep and tender, and he
simply couldn't tell her that her coffee was a sin. Golden hair her head
was crowning; she was fond of quoting Browning, and she knew a hundred
legends of the olden, golden time; and her heart was full of yearning
for the Rosicrucian learning, and he simply couldn't tell her that the
beefsteak was a crime. She was posted on Pendennis, and she knew the
songs of Venice, and he listened to her prattle with an effort to look
pleased; and she liked the wit of Weller--and he simply couldn't tell
her that the eggs he had for breakfast had been laid by hens diseased.
So she filled his home with beauty, and she did her wifely duty, did it
as she understood it, and her conscience didn't hurt, when dyspepsia
boldly sought him, and the sexton came and got him, and his tortured
frame was buried 'neath a wagon-load of dirt. O, those marriageable
misses, thinking life all love and kisses, mist and moonshine, glint and
glamour, stardust borrowed from the skies! Man's a gross and sordid
lummix--men are largely made of stomachs, and the songs of all the
sirens will not take the place of pies!
_The Flag_
Bright-hued and beautiful, it floats upon the summer air; and every
thread of it denotes the love that's woven there; the love of veterans
whose tread has sounded on the fields of red; and women old, who mourn
their dead, but mourn without despair. Bright-hued and beautiful, it
courts caresses of the breeze; and, straining at its staff it sports, in
flaunting ecstasies; and other flags, that once were gay, long, long ago
were laid away, and many men, whose heads are gray, are thinking now of
these. Serene and beautiful it waves, the flag our fathers knew; in
Freedom's sunny air it laves, and gains a brighter hue; and may it still
the symbol be of all that makes a nation free; still may we cherish
Liberty, and to our God be true.
_Doc Jonnesco_
"O Doc," I cried, "I humbly beg, that you will amputate my leg." The
doctor cheerfully complied, and shot some dope into my hide, and made
his bucksaw fairly sail, until it struck a rusty nail. "Hoot, mon!" he
said, quite undismayed, "I'll have to finish with a spade." And as he
dug and toiled away, we talked about the price of hay, the recent
frightful rise in pork, the sugar grafters in New York, the things we
found in Christmas socks, the flurry in Rock Island stocks, the hookworm
and the hangman's noose, the bright career of Captain Loose. I felt no
pain or ache or shock; it pleased me much to watch the doc; and when the
job was done, I said: "Now that you're here, cut off my head." With
skillful hands he wrought and wrought, and soon cut off my dome of
thought, and when I asked him for his bill: "There is no charge,
already, still; I work for Science, not for scads, so keep the dollars
of your dads; to banish pain is my desire; to nothing more do I aspire;
if I may win that goal, you bet, I'll be so happy, always, yet!" Is
there a more heroic game? Could any man have nobler aim? One poet, old,
and bald and fat, to this great man takes off his hat!
_Little Girl_
Little girl, so glad and jolly, playing with your home-made dolly, built
of rags and straw, fill the sunny air with laughter, heedless of the
sorrow after--that is childhood's law! Let no sad and sordid vision
cheat you of the joy Elysian that to youth belongs; let no prophecy of
sorrow scheduled for a sad tomorrow still your joyous songs! Soon enough
will come the worry, and the labors, and the hurry, soon you'll cook and
scrub; soon with milliners and drapers you will fuss, and read long
papers, at the Culture Club. Lithe your form, but soon you'll force it
in a torture-chamber corset that will make you bawl; and those little
feet, that twinkle, you will squeeze, until they wrinkle, into shoes too
small. And those sunny locks so tangled will be tortured and kedangled
into waves and curls; and you'll buy complexion powder, and your bonnets
will be louder than the other girl's. Little girl, with home-made dolly,
cut out woe and melancholy, jump and sing and play! Fill the rippling
air with laughter! Tears and corns will follow after! This is
childhood's day!
_The Landlady_
I run a hash bazaar, just up the street; there all my boarders are
yelling for meat; boarders carniverous, boarders herbiverous; Allah
deliver us! just watch them eat! Boarders are ravenous, all the world
o'er; "feed till you spavin us," thus they implore; boarders are
gluttonous, roastbeef and muttonous; "come and unbutton us, so we'll eat
more!" Little they pay me for chicken and rice; yet they waylay me for
dainties of price; "bring us canary birds"--these are their very words,
bawling like hairy Kurds--"bring them on ice!" I give them tea and
toast, jelly and jam, some kind of stew or roast, codfish or ham; their
words are Chaucerous: "Dame Cup-and-Saucerous, bring us rhinoceros,
boiled with a yam!" I run a boarding booth, as I have said; there Age
and Smiling Youth, raise the Old Ned; maybe the clamoring, knocking and
hammering bunch will be stammering, when I am dead!
_Twilight Reveries_
At that hour supremely quiet, when the dusk and darkness blend, and the
sordid strife and riot of the day are at an end; when the bawling and
the screaming of the mart have died away, then I like to lie a-dreaming
of my castles in Cathay. I would roam in flowery spaces watered by the
fabled streams, I would travel starry spaces on the winged feet of
dreams; I would float across the ages to a more heroic time, when
inspired were all ages, and the warriors sublime. At that hour supremely
pleasing, dreams are all knocked galley west, by the phonograph that's
wheezing: "Birdie, Dear, I Love You Best."
_King and Kid_
The king sat up on his jeweled throne, and he heaved a sigh that was
like a groan, for his crown was hard, and it bruised his head, and his
scepter weighed like a pig of lead; the ladies smirked as they came to
beg; the knights were pulling the royal leg. The king exclaimed: "If I
had my wish, I would cut this out, and I'd go and fish. For what is pomp
to a weary soul that yearns and yearns for the fishing hole; the
throne's a bore and the crown a gawd, and I'd swap the lot for a bamboo
rod, and a can of worms and a piece of string--but there's no such luck
for a poor old king!" And a boy who passed by the palace high, to fish
for trout in the streamlet nigh, looked up in awe at the massive walls,
and caught a glimpse of the marble halls, and he said to himself: "Oh,
hully chee! Wisht I was the king, and the king was me! To reign all day
with your crown on straight is a whole lot better'n diggin' bait, and
fishin' round when the fish won't bite, and gettin' licked for your luck
at night!"
_The Little Green Tents_
The little green tents where the soldiers sleep, and the sunbeams play
and the women weep, are covered with flowers today; and between the
tents walk the weary few, who were young and stalwart in'sixty-two,
when they went to the war away. The little green tents are built of sod,
and they are not long, and they are not broad, but the soldiers have
lots of room; and the sod is part of the land they saved, when the flag
of the enemy darkly waved, the symbol of dole and doom. The little green
tent is a thing divine; the little green tent is a country's shrine,
where patriots kneel and pray; and the brave men left, so old, so few,
were young and stalwart in'sixty-two, when they went to the war away!
[Illustration: "_The Judge who knows the hearts of men may find a desert
or a glen for souls that love the wild._"]
_Geronimo Aloft_
The sod is o'er the dauntless head, the fierce old eyes are dim and
dead, the martial heart is dust; they say he died in sanctity, and his
wild soul, of fetters free, went forth to join the just. But will the
joys of Paradise, as we imagine them, suffice to hold Geronimo? Will
joyous song and endless calm to that bold spirit be a balm, while silent
eons flow? But Heaven is a region fair, and there may be long reaches
there, to give the savage space to ride his steed o'er field and fell
and raise his fierce, defiant yell, in foray and in race. The Judge who
knows the hearts of men may find a desert or a glen for souls that love
the wild; and through the gates perchance may jog the hunter's pinto and
his dog, his painted squaw and child.
_The Venerable Excuse_
You say your grandma's dead, my lad, and you, bowed down with woe, to
see her laid beneath the mold believe you ought to go; and so you ask a
half day off, and you may have that same; alas, that grannies always die
when there's a baseball game! Last spring, if I remember right, three
grandmas died for you, and you bewailed the passing, then, of souls so
warm and true; and then another grandma died--a tall and stately dame;
the day they buried her there was a fourteen-inning game. And when the
balmy breeze of June among the willows sighed, another grandma closed
her eyes and crossed the Great Divide; they laid her gently to her rest
beside the churchyard wall, the day we lammed the stuffing from the
Rubes from Minnepaul. Go forth, my son, and mourn your dead, and shed
the scalding tear, and lay a simple wreath upon your eighteenth
grandma's bier; while you perform this solemn task I'll to the
grandstand go, and watch our pennant-winning team make soupbones of the
foe.
_Silver Threads_
Sing a song of long ago, now the weary day is done, and the breeze is
sighing low dirges for the vanished sun; sing a song of other days, ere
our hearts were tired and old; sing the sweetest of old lays: "Silver
Threads Among the Gold." We who feebly hold the track in the gloaming of
life's day, love the songs that take us back to life's springtime, far
away, when our hope had airy wing, and our hearts were strong and bold,
and at eve we used to sing "Silver Threads Among the Gold." Then our
hair no silver knew, and these eyes, that shrunken seem, were the
brightest brown or blue, and old age was but a dream; but the years have
taken flight, and life's evening bells are tolled; so, my children, sing
tonight, "Silver Threads Among the Gold."
_The Poet Balks_
If old Jim Riley came to town, to read a bundle of his rhyme, I guess
you couldn't hold me down--I'd want to hear him every time. I wouldn't
heed the tempest's shriek; I'd walk ten miles and not complain, to hear
Jim Hoosier Riley speak. But I would not go round a block to see a
statesman saw the air, to hear a hired spellbinder talk, like a faker at
the county fair. For statesmen are as thick as fleas, and poets, they
are far between; one song that lingers on the breeze is worth a million
yawps, I ween. If John McCutcheon came to town, to make some pictures on
the wall, I'd tear the whole blamed doorway down to be the first one in
the hall; you couldn't keep me in my bed if I was dying there of croup;
the push would find me at the head of the procession, with a whoop. But
I won't push my fat old frame across a dozen yards of bricks, to list to
men whose only fame is based on pull and politics.
_The Penny Saved_
It is wise to save the pennies when the pennies come your way, for
you're more than apt to need them when arrives the rainy day; and when
Famine comes a-whooping with the cross-bones on her vest, then the
fellow with the bundle has the edge on all the rest. I admire the man
who's saving, if he doesn't save too hard, if he doesn't think a dollar
bigger than the courthouse yard; and I like to see him salting down the
riches that he's struck, if he always has a quarter for the guy that's
out of luck. When the winter comes upon us, yelling like a baseball fan,
then it's nice to have some boodle in an old tomato can; when there's
sickness in the wigwam, and we have to call the doc, then it's nice to
have a package hidden in the eight-day clock; when Old Age, the hoary
rascal, comes a-butting in at last, then it's nice to have some rubles
that you cornered in the past; and the man who saves the pennies is a
dandy and a duck--if he always has a quarter for the guy that's out of
luck.
_Home Life_
Now the nights are growing longer, and the frost is in the air, and it's
nice to hug the fireside in your trusty rocking chair, with the good
wife there beside you, feeding cookies to the cat, while the energetic
children play the dickens with your hat. O, it's nice to look around
you, and to feel that you're a king, that your coming home at evening
makes your joyous subjects sing! So you read some twenty chapters of old
Gibbon's dope on Rome, and you know what human bliss is in your humble
little home! There is really nothing better in the way of earthly bliss,
than to toddle home at evening, and to get a welcome kiss, and to know
the kids who greet you at the pea-green garden gate, have been wailing,
broken-hearted, that you were two minutes late! There is nothing much
more soothing than a loving woman's smile, when she sees your bow-legs
climbing o'er the bargain counter stile! If you don't appreciate it,
then the bats are in your dome, for the greatest king a-living is the
monarch of a home!
_Eagles and Hens_
The eagle ought to have a place among the false alarms; we place its
picture on our coins, and on our coat of arms; but what did eagles ever
do but fro | 1,638.399435 |
2023-11-16 18:44:22.4730550 | 2,734 | 14 |
Produced by Juliet Sutherland and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
CONTEMPORARY
RUSSIAN NOVELISTS
Translated from the French of Serge Persky
By FREDERICK EISEMANN
JOHN W. LUCE AND COMPANY
BOSTON 1913
_Copyright, 1912_
BY C. DELAGRAVE
_Copyright, 1913_
BY L. E. BASSETT
To
THE MEMORY OF
F. N. S.
BY
THE TRANSLATOR
PREFACE
The principal aim of this book is to give the reader a good general
knowledge of Russian literature as it is to-day. The author, Serge
Persky, has subordinated purely critical material, because he wants
his readers to form their own judgments and criticize for
themselves. The element of literary criticism is not, however, by
any means entirely lacking.
In the original text, there is a thorough and exhaustive treatment
of the "great prophet" of Russian literature--Tolstoy--but the
translator has deemed it wise to omit this essay, because so much
has recently been written about this great man.
As the title of the book is "Contemporary Russian Novelists," the
essay on Anton Tchekoff, who is no longer living, does not rightly
belong here, but Tchekoff is such an important figure in modern
Russian literature and has attracted so little attention from
English writers that it seems advisable to retain the essay that
treats of his work.
Finally, let me express my sincerest thanks to Dr. G. H. Maynadier
of Harvard for his kind advice; to Miss Edna Wetzler for her
unfailing and valuable help, and to Miss Carrie Harper, who has gone
over this work with painstaking care.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A Brief Survey of Russian Literature 1
II. Anton Tchekoff 40
III. Vladimir Korolenko 76
IV. Vikenty Veressayev 108
V. Maxim Gorky 142
VI. Leonid Andreyev 199
VII. Dmitry Merezhkovsky 246
VIII. Alexander Kuprin 274
IX. Writers in Vogue 289
CONTEMPORARY RUSSIAN NOVELISTS
I
A BRIEF SURVEY OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE
In order to get a clear idea of modern Russian literature, a
knowledge of its past is indispensable. This knowledge will help us
in understanding that which distinguishes it from other European
literatures, not only from the viewpoint of the art which it
expresses, but also as the historical and sociological mirror of the
nation's life in the course of centuries.
The dominant trait of this literature is found in its very origins.
Unlike the literatures of other European countries, which followed,
in a more or less regular way, the development of life and
civilization during historic times, Russian literature passed
through none of these stages. Instead of being a product of the
past, it is a protestation against it; instead of retracing the old
successive stages, it appears, intermittently, like a light
suddenly struck in the darkness. Its whole history is a long
continual struggle against this darkness, which has gradually melted
away beneath these rays of light, but has never entirely ceased to
veil the general trend of Russian thought.
As a result of the unfortunate circumstances which characterize her
history, Russia was for a long time deprived of any relations with
civilized Europe. The necessity of concentrating all her strength on
fighting the Mongolians laid the corner-stone of a sort of
semi-Asiatic political autocracy. Besides, the influence of the
Byzantine clergy made the nation hostile to the ideas and science of
the Occident, which were represented as heresies incompatible with
the orthodox faith. However, when she finally threw off the
Mongolian yoke, and when she found herself face to face with Europe,
Russia was led to enter into diplomatic relations with the various
Western powers. She then realized that European art and science were
indispensable to her, if only to strengthen her in warfare against
these States. For this reason a number of European ideas began to
come into Russia during the reigns of the last Muscovite sovereigns.
But they assumed a somewhat sacerdotal character in passing through
the filter of Polish society, and took on, so to speak, a dogmatic
air. In general, European influence was not accepted in Russia
except with extreme repugnance and restless circumspection, until
the accession of Peter I. This great monarch, blessed with unusual
intelligence and a will of iron, decided to use all his autocratic
power in impressing, to use the words of Pushkin, "a new direction
upon the Russian vessel;"--Europe instead of Asia.
Peter the Great had to contend against the partisans of ancient
tradition, the "obscurists" and the adversaries of profane science;
and this inevitable struggle determined the first character of
Russian literature, where the satiric element, which in essence is
an attack on the enemies of reform, predominates. In organizing
grotesque processions, clownish masquerades, in which the
long-skirted clothes and the streaming beards of the honorable
champions of times gone by were ridiculed, Peter himself appeared as
a pitiless destroyer of the ancient costumes and superannuated
ideas.
The example set by the practical irony of this man was followed,
soon after the death of the Tsar, by Kantemir, the first Russian
author who wrote satirical verses. These verses were very much
appreciated in his time. In them, he mocks with considerable fervor
the ignorant contemners of science, who taste happiness only in the
gratification of their material appetites.
At the same time that the Russian authors pursued the enemies of
learning with sarcasm, they heaped up eulogies, which bordered on
idolatry, on Peter I, and, after him, on his successors. In these
praises, which were excessively hyperbolical, there was always some
sincerity. Peter had, in fact, in his reign, paved the way for
European civilization, and it seemed merely to be waiting for the
sovereigns, Peter's successors, to go on with the work started by
their illustrious ancestor. The most powerful leaders, and the first
representatives of the new literature, strode ahead, then, hand in
hand, but their paths before long diverged. Peter the Great wanted
to use European science for practical purposes only: it was only to
help the State, to make capable generals, to win wars, to help
savants find means to develop the national wealth by industry and
commerce; he--Peter--had no time to think of other things. But
science throws her light into the most hidden corners, and when it
brings social and political iniquities to light, then the government
hastens to persecute that which, up to this time, it has encouraged.
The protective, and later hostile, tendencies of the government in
regard to authors manifested themselves with a special violence
during the reign of Catherine II. This erudite woman, an admirer of
Voltaire and of the French "encyclopedistes," was personally
interested in writing. She wrote several plays in which she
ridiculed the coarse manners and the ignorance of the society of her
time. Under the influence of this new impulse, which had come from
one in such a high station in life, a legion of satirical journals
flooded the country. The talented and spiritual von Vizin wrote
comedies, the most famous of which exposes the ignorance and cruelty
of country gentlemen; in another, he shows the ridiculousness of
people who take only the brilliant outside shell from European
civilization. Shortly, Radishchev's "Voyage from Moscow to
St. Petersburg" appeared. Here the author, with the fury of
passionate resentment, and with sad bitterness, exposes the
miserable condition of the people under the yoke of the high and
mighty. It was then that the empress, Catherine the Great, so gentle
to the world at large and so authoritative at home, perceiving that
satire no longer spared the guardian principles necessary for the
security of the State, any more than they did popular superstitions,
manifested a strong displeasure against it. Consequently, the
satirical journals disappeared as quickly as they had appeared. Von
Vizin, who, in his pleasing "Questions to Catherine" had touched on
various subjects connected with court etiquette, and on the miseries
of political life, had to content himself with silence. Radishchev
was arrested, thrown into a fortress, and then sent to Siberia.
They went so far as to accuse Derzhavin, the greatest poet of this
time, the celebrated "chanter of Catherine," in his old age, of
Jacobinism for having translated into verse one of the psalms of
David; besides this, the energetic apostle of learning, Novikov, a
journalist, a writer, and the founder of a remarkable society which
devoted itself to the publication and circulation of useful books,
was accused of having had relations with foreign secret societies.
He was confined in the fortress at Schluesselburg after all his
belongings had been confiscated. The critic and the satirist had had
their wings clipped. But it was no longer possible to check this
tendency, for, by force of circumstances, it had been planted in the
very soul of every Russian who compared the conditions of life in
his country with what European civilization had done for the
neighboring countries.
Excluded from journalism, this satiric tendency took refuge in
literature, where the novel and the story trace the incidents of
daily life. Since the writers could not touch the evil at its
source, they showed its consequences for social life. They
represented with eloquence the empty and deplorable banality of the
existence forced upon most of them. By expressing in various ways
general aspirations towards something better, they let literature
continue its teaching, even in times particularly hostile to
freedom of thought, like the reign of Nicholas I, the most typical
and decided adversary of the freedom of the pen that Europe has ever
seen. Literature was, then, considered as an inevitable evil, but
one from which the world wanted to free itself; and every man of
letters seemed to be under suspicion. During this reign, not only
criticisms of the government, but also praises of it, were
considered offensive and out of place. Thus, the chief of the secret
police, when he found that a writer of that time, Bulgarine, whose
name was synonymous with accuser and like evils, had taken the
liberty to praise the government for some insignificant improvements
made on a certain street, told him with severity: "You are not asked
to praise the government, you must only praise men of letters."
Nothing went to print without the authorization of the general
censor, an authorization that had to be confirmed by the various
parts of the complex machine, and, finally, by a superior committee
which censored the censors. The latter were themselves so terrorized
that they scented subversive ideas even in cook-books, in technical
musical terms, and in punctuation marks. It would seem that under
such conditions no kind of literature, and certainly no satire,
could exist. Nevertheless, it was at this period that Gogol produced
his best works. The two most important are, his comedy "The
Revizor," where he stigmatizes the abuses of administration, and
"Dead Souls," that classic work which de Voguee judges worthy of
being given a place in universal literature, between "Don Quixote"
and "Gil Blas," and which, in a series of immortal types,
flagellates the moral emptiness and the mediocrity of life in high
Russian society at that time.
At the same time, Griboyedov's famous comedy, "Intelligence Comes to
Grief," which the censorship forbade to be produced or even
published, was being circulated in manuscript form. This comedy, a
veritable masterpiece, has for its hero a man named Chatsky, who was
condemned as a madman by the aristocratic society of Moscow on
account of his independent spirit and patriotic sentiments. It is
true | 1,638.493095 |
2023-11-16 18:44:22.6610180 | 1,228 | 82 | WHO HAVE WRITTEN FAMOUS BOOKS***
E-text prepared by Dave Kline, Chris Whitehead, and the Online Distributed
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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See 45610-h.htm or 45610-h.zip:
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Images of the original pages are available through
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LITTLE PILGRIMAGES AMONG THE MEN WHO HAVE WRITTEN FAMOUS BOOKS
* * * * * *
_Book Lovers' Series_
[Illustration]
_Little Pilgrimages Among the Men
Who Have Written Famous Books_
_Little Pilgrimages Among the Women
Who Have Written Famous Books_
[Illustration]
_L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
200 Summer Street
Boston, Mass._
* * * * * *
[Illustration: Reproduced, by permission, from "A Pair of Patient
Lovers."--Copyright, 1901, by Harper & Brothers.
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS.]
LITTLE PILGRIMAGES AMONG THE MEN WHO HAVE WRITTEN FAMOUS BOOKS
by
E. F. Harkins
Illustrated
[Illustration]
Boston
L. C. Page & Company
MDCCCCII
Copyright, 1901, by
L. C. Page & Company (Incorporated)
All rights reserved
Typography by
The Heintzemann Press Boston
Presswork by The Colonial Press
C. H. Simonds & Co. Boston
PREFACE
_The aim of this book is to present to the reading public sketches of
some of its American literary heroes. There are heroes young and old;
but in literature, especially, age has little to do with favorites. At
the same time, it will be noted that the subjects of these sketches
occupy places in or near the centre of the literary stage. The lately
dead, like Maurice Thompson; the hero of the last generation, like
Edward Everett Hale; the young man who has made his first successful
flight--these do not come within the scope of the present work. So, if
some reader miss his favorite, let him understand that at least there
was no malice in the exclusion._
_A part of the aim has been to present the social or personal as
well as the professional side of the authors. Many of the anecdotes
commonly told of well-known novelists are apocryphal or imaginary.
Care, therefore, has been taken to separate the wheat from the chaff.
Wherever it was possible, preference has been given the statements of
the authors themselves._
_The sketches are arranged chronologically, that is, in the order of
the authors' first publications. No other arrangement, indeed, would
seem fair among so gifted and popular a company, writing for a public
that discriminates while it encourages and enjoys._
CONTENTS
_Page_
Preface 5
William Dean Howells 11
Bret Harte 27
Mark Twain 43
"Lew" Wallace 59
George W. Cable 75
Henry James 91
Francis Richard Stockton 107
Joel Chandler Harris 123
S. Weir Mitchell 139
Robert Grant 155
F. Marion Crawford 169
James Lane Allen 185
Thomas Nelson Page 201
Richard Harding Davis 215
John Kendrick Bangs 231
Hamlin Garland 247
Paul Leicester Ford 263
Robert Neilson Stephens 279
Charles D. G. Roberts 299
Winston Churchill 317
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
_Page_
William Dean Howells _Frontispiece_
Bret Harte 27
Mark Twain 43
"Lew" Wallace 59
George W. Cable 75
Francis Richard Stockton 107
Joel Chandler Harris 123
S. Weir Mitchell 139
Robert Grant 155
F. Marion Crawford 169
James Lane Allen 185
Thomas Nelson Page 201
Richard Harding Davis 215
John Kendrick Bangs 231
Hamlin Garland 247
Paul Leicester Ford 263
Robert Neilson Stephens 279
Charles G. D. Roberts 299
Winston Churchill 317
WILLIAM DEAN HOWELLS
Mr. Howells has reached that point of life and success where he can
afford to sit down and look back. But he is not that sort of man. He
will probably continue to work and to look forward until, in the words
of Hamlet, he shuffles off this mortal coil.
William Dean Howells was born in Martin's Ferry, Belmont County, Ohio,
March 1, 1837. He has therefore reached the ripe age of sixty-four.
When he was three years old his father moved from Martin's Ferry to
Hamilton and bought _The Intelligencer_, a weekly paper. Nine years
afterward he sold _ | 1,638.681058 |
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Produced by David Edwards, Hazel Batey 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 MAKING OF THE NEW TESTAMENT
THE HOME UNIVERSITY LIBRARY OF MODERN KNOWLEDGE
Editors of THE HOME UNIVERSITY LIBRARY OF MODERN KNOWLEDGE
Rt. Hon. H. A. L. Fisher, M.A., F.B.A.
Prof. Gilbert Murray, Litt.D., LL.D., F.B.A.
Prof. J. Arthur Thomson, M.A., LL.D.
_For list of volumes in the Library see end of book._
THE MAKING OF THE NEW TESTAMENT
_By_ BENJAMIN W. BACON D.D.
PROFESSOR OF NEW CRITICISM AND EXEGESIS IN YALE UNIVERSITY
[Illustration]
THORNTON BUTTERWORTH LIMITED 15 BEDFORD STREET, LONDON, W.C.2
_First Impression September 1912 - All Rights Reserved_
MADE AND PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN
CONTENTS
PART I
CANONIZATION AND CRITICISM
CHAP. PAGE
I INSPIRATION AND CANONIZATION 7
II THE REACTION TO CRITICISM 33
PART II
THE LITERATURE OF THE APOSTLE
III PAUL AS MISSIONARY AND DEFENDER OF THE GOSPEL OF GRACE 56
IV PAUL AS PRISONER AND CHURCH FATHER 83
V PSEUDO-APOSTOLIC EPISTLES 104
PART III
THE LITERATURE OF CATECHIST AND PROPHET
VI THE MATTHAEAN TRADITION OF THE PRECEPTS OF JESUS 128
VII THE PETRINE TRADITION. EVANGELIC STORY 154
VIII THE JOHANNINE TRADITION. PROPHECY 185
PART IV
THE LITERATURE OF THE THEOLOGIAN
IX THE SPIRITUAL GOSPEL AND EPISTLES 206
X EPILOGUES AND CONCLUSIONS 233
BIBLIOGRAPHY 251
INDEX 255
THE MAKING OF THE NEW TESTAMENT
PART I
CANONIZATION AND CRITICISM
CHAPTER I
INSPIRATION AND CANONIZATION
The New Testament presents the paradox of a literature born of protest
against the tyranny of a canon, yet ultimately canonized itself through
an increasing demand for external authority. This paradox is full of
significance. We must examine it more closely.
The work of Jesus was a consistent effort to set religion free from the
deadening system of the scribes. He was conscious of a direct, divine
authority. The broken lights of former inspiration are lost in the full
dawn of God's presence to His soul.
So with Paul. The key to Paul's thought is his revolt against legalism.
It had been part of his servitude to persecute the sect which claimed to
know another Way besides the "way"[1] of the scribes. These Christians
signalized their faith by the rite of baptism, and gloried in the sense
of endowment with "the Spirit." Saul was profoundly conscious of the
yoke; only he had not drammed that his own deliverance could come from
such a quarter. But contact with victims of the type of Stephen, men
"filled with the Spirit," conscious of the very "power from God" for
lack of which his soul was fainting, could not but have some effect. It
came suddenly, overwhelmingly. The real issue, as Saul saw it, both
before and after his conversion, was Law _versus_ Grace. In seeking
"justification" by favour of Jesus these Christians were opening a new
and living way to acceptance with God. Traitorous and apostate as the
attempt must seem while the way of the Law still gave promise of
success, to souls sinking like Saul's deeper and deeper into the
despairing consciousness of "the weakness of the flesh" forgiveness in
the name of Jesus might prove to be light and life from God. The
despised sect of'sinners' whom he had been persecuting expressed the
essence of their faith in the doctrine that the gift of the Spirit of
Jesus had made them sons and heirs of God. If the converted Paul in turn
is uplifted--"energized," as he terms it--even beyond his
fellow-Christians, by the sense of present inspiration, it is no more
than we should expect.
Footnote 1: _Tarik_, i. e. "way," is still the Arabic term for a
sect, and the Rabbinic term for legal requirement is _halacha_, i.
e. "walk."
Paul's conversion to the new faith--or at least his persistent
satisfaction in it--will be inexplicable unless we appreciate the logic
of his recognition in it of an inherent opposition to the growing
demands of legalism. Jesus had, in truth, led a revolt against mere
book-religion. His chief opponents were the scribes, the devotees and
exponents of a sacred scripture, the Law. "Law" and "Prophets," the one
prescribing the conditions of the expected transcendental Kingdom, the
other illustrating their application and guaranteeing their promise,
constituted the canon of the synagogue. Judaism had become a religion of
written authority. Jesus set over against this a direct relation to the
living Father in heaven, ever presently revealed to the filial spirit.
The Sermon on the Mount makes the doing of this Father's will something
quite other than servitude to written precepts interpreted by official
authority and imposed under penalty. It is to be self-discipline in the
Father's spirit of disinterested goodness, as revealed in everyday
experience.
Even the reward of this self-discipline, the Kingdom, Jesus did not
conceive quite as the scribes. To them obedience in this world procured
a "share in the world to come." To Him the reward was more a matter of
being than of getting. The Kingdom was an heir-apparency; and,
therefore, present as well as future. It was "within" and "among" men as
well as before them. They should seek to "be sons and daughters of the
Highest," taking for granted that all other good things would be
"added." So Jesus made religion live again. It became spiritual, inward,
personal, actual.
After John the Baptist's ministry to what we should call the
'unchurched' masses, Jesus took up their cause. He became the "friend"
and champion of the "little ones," the "publicans and sinners," the
mixed 'people of the land' in populous, half-heathen, Galilee. The
burdens imposed by the scribes in the name of 'Scripture' were accepted
with alacrity by the typical Pharisee unaffected by Pauline misgivings
of'moral inability.' To "fulfil all righteousness" was to the Pharisee
untainted by Hellenism a pride and delight. To the "lost sheep of
Israel" whom Jesus addressed, remote from temple and synagogue, this
"righteousness" had proved (equally as to Paul, though on very different
grounds) "a yoke which neither we nor our fathers were able to bear."
Jesus "had compassion on the multitude." To them he "spoke with
authority"; and yet "not as the scribes" but as "a prophet." When
challenged by the scribes for his authority he referred to "the baptism
of John," | 1,638.77982 |
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THE SECOND WAR WITH ENGLAND.
[Illustration: The Constitution and Java.]
THE SECOND WAR
WITH
ENGLAND.
BY J. T. HEADLEY,
AUTHOR OF "NAPOLEON AND HIS MARSHALS," "WASHINGTON AND HIS GENERALS,"
"THE OLD GUARD," "SCOTT AND JACKSON," ETC. ETC.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
NEW YORK:
CHARLES SCRIBNER, 145 NASSAU STREET.
1853.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1853, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for
the Southern District of New York.
C. W. BENEDICT,
STEREOTYPER AND PRINTER,
12 Spruce Street, N. Y.
PREFACE.
More books, probably, have been written on the War of 1812 than on any
other portion of our history. The great political leaders of that time
were so vindictive in their animosities, and took such strong and
decided ground on all political questions, that the success of one or
the other afterwards in public life depended very much on his conduct
during the war. Hence, much detached and personal history has been
written in order to clear up or illustrate some particular event. A
candidate for public office was often chosen for his services in the
war; hence, every portion of it in which he took part was thoroughly
investigated by both friends and foes. So if one had failed in that
trying period of the country, the world was sure to hear of it when he
came up for the suffrages of the people. The war proved very
unfortunate for some of the leaders, and court martials and disgrace
closed the career of many which had hitherto been bright and
prosperous. These men have written long pamphlets and books in
self-defence, or they have been written by their descendants, so that
if hearing both sides would aid the reader in coming to a correct
conclusion, he was pretty sure to reach it. When so many quarrels are
to be settled the public will not fail to be informed all about the
origin of them. Another class of works have been written, designed
only to furnish a synopsis of the war, and scarcely reach to the value
of histories. Others have been confined solely to the military and
naval movements--others still are devoted almost exclusively to
political matters of that period; so that notwithstanding the large
supply of works on the War of 1812, I know of none in which all these
different topics are even attempted to be combined in proper
proportions. The present work is an effort to accomplish that end
without being too voluminous on the one hand, or too general on the
other. I have endeavored to give impressions as well as facts--to
trace the current and depict the phases of public feeling, rather than
inflict on the reader long documents and longer debates, in which
everything that gave them life and interest was carefully excluded by
the reporter.
The effects of the fierce conflict waged between the Federalists and
Democrats during the war have not yet passed away, and many of the
actors in it are still living, who retain their old prejudices and
hatred. Their near descendants and relatives, though so many of them
are found in the ranks of democracy, still defend the memory of those
whose names they bear, and endeavor to throw discredit on the writer
who would rob them of reputation, and consign them to the obloquy they
deserve. In a war like the late one with Mexico, where almost every
officer was a hero, and in narrating the progress of which the
historian is called upon only to eulogize, his task is an easy one.
But in one like that of 1812, in which the most conspicuous leaders
met with signal defeat and disgrace, and instead of winning
reputation, lost that which had illustrated them in the revolutionary
struggle, the historian necessarily recalls feuds and assails
character, which is sure to bring down on him the maledictions and
open condemnation of friends and relations. A noble man and true
patriot, like General Dearborn, will never want friends who will deny
his incompetency as commander-in-chief, while one who had won so brave
a name in the revolution, and was so estimable a man in social life as
General Hull, must always be defended by those in whose veins his
blood flows. The inefficiency and blunders of the government remain to
this day to many a sufficient apology for the conduct of Wilkinson,
Hampton and others.
Having no animosities to gratify, and no prejudices to favor, I have
set down nought in malice, but have endeavored to ascertain, amid
conflicting testimony, the exact truth, without regarding the friendly
or hostile feelings the declaration of it might awaken. In many cases
I have withheld much that was personal, because it was not necessary
to my purpose, and useless only in self-defence. That I should
reconcile difficulties which have never yet been healed, and please
rivals who have ever hated each other, was not to be expected. I have
attempted also to give a clear impression of the political and social
feelings of the times, and make the reader, as far as lay in my power,
live amid the scenes I depict.
Two new features have been introduced into the present work, which I
though necessary to a complete history of the war, viz., privateering
and the Dartmoor Prison.
It would be impossible to give all the authorities to which I am
indebted. State papers, records, journals, Gazettes of the time have
been consulted, as well as histories, while I have earnestly sought
for information from the survivors of the war. In many cases I have
omitted references to books in which facts I state are found recorded,
because I came across them in old pamphlets, letters, and newspaper
paragraphs, where, probably, the original compiler also obtained them.
I cannot omit, however, acknowledging the vast aid I have derived from
Niles' Register. A more valuable periodical was never published in
this country. Ingersoll's History also, though very deficient in
arrangement, contains more valuable material than any other work
embracing the same period.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
CHAPTER I.
A REVIEW OF THE CAUSES LEADING TO THE SECOND WAR WITH ENGLAND.
Duplicity and oppressive acts of the British Government
contrasted with the forbearance of the United States --
Character of Madison -- Debates in Congress on War measures
-- Declaration of War, 15
CHAPTER II.
Different feelings with which the Declaration of War was
received -- State of the parties at the commencement --
Federalists and Democrats -- Their hostility -- Absurd
doctrines of the Federalists -- Hostility of New England --
Unprepared state of the country -- Culpable neglect of the
government -- Comparative strength of the two navies --
Empty state of the Treasury -- Inefficiency of the Cabinet, 58
CHAPTER III.
Plan of the Campaign -- General Hull sent to Detroit --
British officers first receive news of the declaration of
war -- Capture of Hull's baggage, etc. -- Enters Canada and
issues a proclamation, and sends out detachments -- Colonels
McArthur and Cass advance on Maiden -- Hull refuses to
sustain them -- Recrosses to Detroit -- Van Horne's defeat
-- Colonel Miller defeats the enemy, and opens Hull's
communications -- Strange conduct of Hull -- Advance of the
British -- Surrender of Detroit -- Indignation of the
officers -- Review of the Campaign -- Rising of the people
-- Harrison takes command -- Advance of the army, 70
CHAPTER IV.
Operations on the New York frontier -- Battle of Queenstown
-- Death of Brock -- Scott a prisoner -- General Smythe's
Proclamation and abortive attempts -- Cursed by the army --
Duel with General Porter -- Retires in disgrace --
Dearborn's movements and failures -- Review of the campaign
on the New York frontier -- Character of the officers and
soldiers, 98
CHAPTER V.
THE NAVY.
The Cabinet resolves to shut up our ships of war in port --
Remonstrance of Captains Bainbridge and Stuart -- Rodgers
ordered to sea -- Feeling of the crews -- Chase of the
Belvidere -- Narrow escape of the Constitution from an
English fleet -- Cruise of the Essex -- Action between the
Constitution and Guerriere -- Effect of the victory in
England and the United States -- United States takes the
Macedonian -- Lieutenant Hamilton carries the captured
colors to Washington -- Presented to Mrs Madison in a
ball-room -- The Argus -- Action between the Wasp and Frolic
-- Constitution captures the Java -- Hornet takes the
Peacock -- Effect of these Victories abroad, 125
CHAPTER VII.
Harrison plans a winter campaign -- Advance of the army --
Battle and | 1,638.879514 |
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E-text prepared by Moti Ben-Ari and the Online Distributed Proofreading
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
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See 39917-h.htm or 39917-h.zip:
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(http://www.gutenberg.org/files/39917/39917-h.zip)
Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive. See
http://archive.org/details/cihm_39502
Transcriber's note:
A single character following a carat is superscripted
(example: ESQ^R). When multiple characters are
superscripted they are enclosed by curly brackets
(example: Hon^{ble}).
NARRATIVE OF AN EXPEDITION TO THE SHORES OF THE ARCTIC SEA
IN 1846 AND 1847.
by
JOHN RAE,
Hudson Bay Company's Service, Commander of the Expedition.
With Maps.
London:
T. & W. Boone, 29, New Bond Street.
1850.
Marchant Singer and Co., Printers, Ingram-Court,
Fenchurch-Street.
TO
SIR GEORGE SIMPSON,
_Governor-in-Chief of Rupert's Land_,
THE ZEALOUS PROMOTER OF ARCTIC DISCOVERY,
THIS VOLUME IS INSCRIBED
AS A TRIBUTE OF RESPECT AND REGARD
BY THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
Object and plan of the Expedition--Equipment at York
Factory--Boats--Crews--Articles useful in an Arctic
Voyage--Breaking up of the ice in Hayes and Nelson
Rivers--Departure from York Factory--Progress retarded by the
ice--First night at sea--Reflections--Rupert's Creek--Unbroken
fields of ice--Broad River--Description of the Coast--Double
Cape Churchill--Open sea to the north and north-west--Arrive at
Churchill--White whales--Mode of catching them--Sir George
Simpson's instructions--Stock of provisions 1
CHAPTER II.
Depart from Churchill--A gale--Anchor in Knap's Bay--Land on an
island--Esquimaux graves--Visited by Esquimaux--A large river
running into Knap's Bay--Nevill's Bay--Corbet's Inlet--Rankin's
Inlet--Cape Jalabert--Greenland whales seen--Chesterfield
Inlet--Walruses--Cape Fullerton--Visited by an
Esquimaux--Reefs--Cape Kendall seen--Ice packed against the
shore--Take shelter in an excellent harbour--River
traced--Seals--Gale--Ice driven off--Direction of the tides
reversed--Whale Point--Many whales seen--Again stopped by the
pack--Wager River estuary--Ice drifts--Eddy currents--No second
opening into Wager River seen--Enter Repulse Bay--Interview with
Esquimaux--No intelligence of Sir John Franklin 19
CHAPTER III.
Receive a visit from a female party--Their persons and dress
described--Crossing the Isthmus--Drag one of the boats up a
stream--Succession of rapids--North Pole Lake--Find a plant fit
for fuel--Christie Lake--Flett Portage--Corrigal
Lake--Fish--Deer-scaring stones--White wolf--Stony
Portage--View of the sea--Exploring party sent in advance--Their
report--Long Portage--Difficult tracking--Miles Lake--Muddy
Lake--Rich pasturage and great variety of flowers on its
banks--Marmot burrows--Salt Lake--Visit Esquimaux
tents--Discouraging report of the state of the ice--Esquimaux
chart--Reach the sea--Ross inlet--Point Hargrave--Cape Lady
Pelly--Stopped by the ice--Put ashore--Find a sledge made of
ship-timber--Thick fog--Wolves--Walk along the shore--Remains of
musk-cattle and rein-deer--Nature of the coast--Danger from the
ice--Irregular rise of the tide--Deer on the ice--Fruitless
efforts to proceed northward--Cross over to Melville
Peninsula--Gale--Again stopped by the ice--Dangerous position of
the boat--Return to starting point--Meeting with our Esquimaux
friends at Salt Lake--Deer begun to migrate southward--Walk
across the isthmus to Repulse Bay 38
CHAPTER IV.
State of things at Repulse Bay--Determine to discontinue the
survey till the spring--Reasons--Party sent to bring over the
boat--Fix on a site for winter residence--Ptarmigan--Laughing
geese--Eider and king ducks--Visits of natives too
frequent--Return of the party sent for the boat--Report the bay
more closely packed than before--Preparations for
wintering--Fort Hope built--Proceed to North Pole and Christie
Lakes to look out for fishing stations--Purchase dogs--Wariness
of the deer--Flocks of geese pass southward--Blue-winged and
snow-geese--Their habits--Snow-storm--Its effects--Return to
Fort Hope--Daily routine--Signs of winter--Deer
numerous--Quantity of game killed--Provision-store built of
snow--Great fall of snow--Effects of the cold--Adventure with a
deer--Visited by a party of natives--Their report of the ice
westward of Melville Peninsula--An island said to be
wooded--Produce of the chase in October--Temperature--Two
observatories built of snow--Band of wolves--A party caught in a
snow-storm--Esquimaux theory of the heavenly bodies--Temperature
of November--Diminished supply of provisions 61
CHAPTER V.
Winter arrangements completed--Learn to build
snow-houses--Christmas-day--North Pole River frozen to the
bottom--1st January--Cheerfulness of the men--Furious
snow-storm--Observatories blown down--Boat buried under the
snow--Ouligbuck caught in the storm--Dog attacked by a
wolf--Party of natives take up their residence near Fort
Hope--Esquimaux mentioned by Sir John Ross known to them--Boat
dug out of the snow--A runaway wife--Deer begin to migrate
northward--A wolf-chase--First deer of the season
shot--Difficulty of deer-hunting in spring--Dimensions of an
Esquimaux canoe--Serious accident to Ouligbuck--A
conjuror--Preparations for the journey
northward--Temperature--Aurora Borealis 81
CHAPTER VI.
Set out for the north--Equipment of | 1,639.007952 |
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THROUGH THE LANDS OF THE SERB
By
MARY E. DURHAM
LONDON
EDWARD ARNOLD
1904
DEDICATED
TO
MY MOTHER
[Illustration: MONTENEGRIN WOMEN, CETINJE.]
CONTENTS
PART I
MONTENEGRO AND THE WAY THERE
I. CATTARO--NJEGUSHI--CETINJE
II. PODGORITZA AND RIJEKA
III. OSTROG
IV. NIKSHITJE AND DUKLE
V. OUR LADY AMONG THE ROCKS
VI. ANTIVARI
VII. OF THE NORTH ALBANIAN
VIII. SKODRA
IX. SKODRA TO DULCIGNO
PART II
OF SERVIA
X. BELGRADE
XI. SMEDEREVO--SHABATZ--VALJEVO--UB--OBRENOVATZ
XII. NISH
XIII. PIROT
XIV. EAST SERVIA
XV. THE SHUMADIA AND SOUTH-WEST SERVIA
XVI. KRUSHEVATZ
PART III
MONTENEGRO AND OLD SERVIA
1903
XVII. KOLASHIN--ANDRIJEVITZA--BERANI--PECH
XVIII. TO DECHANI AND BACK TO PODGORITZA
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
MONTENEGRIN WOMEN, CETINJE
CEMETERY NEAR CETINJE
BAKER'S SHOP, RIJEKA--ALBANIAN AND TWO
MONTENEGRINS
BULLOCK CART, PODGORITZA
UPPER MONASTERY, OSTROG
RUINS OF ANTIVARI
MOUNTAIN ALBANIANS IN MARKET, PODGORITZA
STREET IN BAZAAR, SKODRA
SKODRA
MOSQUE, SKODRA
SHOP IN BAZAAR, SKODRA
MONTENEGRIN PLOUGH
SERVIAN PEASANT
TRAVELLING GIPSIES, RIJEKA, MONTENEGRO
SOLDIERS' MONUMENTS
CHURCH, STUDENITZA--WEST DOOR.
CORONATION CHURCH, KRALJEVO
TSAR LAZAR'S CASTLE
CHURCH, KRUSHEVATZ--SIDE WINDOW OF APSE
THE PATRIARCHIA, IPEK (PECH)
PODGORITZA
MAP OF THE LANDS OF THE SERB
PUBLISHER'S NOTE
In the spelling of proper names the
system adopted in the _Times Atlas_ has
been followed as nearly as possible.
Owing to the absence of Miss Durham in
Macedonia, the following pages have not
had the advantage of her revision in
going through the press.
PART I
MONTENEGRO AND THE WAY THERE
"What land is this?"
"This is Illyria, lady."
_Twelfth Night._
THROUGH THE LANDS OF THE SERB
CHAPTER I
CATTARO--NJEGUSHI--CETINJE
I do not know where the East proper begins, nor does it greatly matter,
but it is somewhere on the farther side of the Adriatic, the
island-studded coast which the Venetians once held. At any rate, as soon
as you leave Trieste you touch the bubbling edge of the ever-simmering
Eastern Question, and the unpopularity of the ruling German element is
very obvious. "I--do--not--speak--German," said a young officer
laboriously, "I am Bocchese"; and as we approached the Bocche he
emphasised the fact that he was a Slav returning to a Slav land. Party
politics run high even on the steamboat.
We awoke one morning to find the second-class saloon turned into a
Herzegovinian camp, piled with gay saddle-bags and rugs upon which
squatted, cross-legged, a couple of families in full native costume, and
the air was thick with the highly scented tobacco which the whole party
smoked incessantly. The friendly steward, a Dalmatian Italian,
whispered hastily, "This is a Herzegovinian family, signorin'. Do you
like the Herzegovinese?" Rather taken aback, and not knowing what his
politics were, I replied, stupidly enough, "I find their costume very
interesting," This frivolous remark hurt the steward deeply.
"Signorin'," he said very gravely, "these are some of the bravest men in
the world. Each one of these that you see would fight till he died."
Then in a mysterious undertone, "They cannot live without freedom...
they are leaving their own land... it has been taken, as you know, by
the Austrian.... They are going to Montenegro, to a free country. They
have taken with them all their possessions, and they go to find
freedom."
I looked at them with a curious sense of pity. Though they knew it not,
they were the survivors of an old, old world, the old world which still
lingers in out-of-the-way corners, and it was from the twentieth century
quite as much as from the Teuton they were endeavouring to flee. All
these parti- saddle-bags and little bundles tied up in cotton
handkerchiefs represented the worldly goods of three generations, who
had left the land of their forebears and were upon a quest as mystical
as any conceived by mediaeval knight--they were seeking the shrine of
Liberty. "Of old sat Freedom on the heights"; let us hope they found her
there! I never saw them again.
On the other hand, in a boat with Austrian sympathies, the tale is very
different. "I am a Viennese, Fraeulein. Imagine what it is to me to have
to travel in this dreary place! The people?--they are a rough,
discontented set. Very ignorant. Very bad. No, I should not advise you to
go to Montenegro--a most mischievous race." "And what about Bosnia and
the Herzegovina?" "Oh, you will be quite safe there; _we_ govern that.
They are a bad lot, though! But we don't stand any nonsense."
Thus either party seizes upon the stranger and tries to prevent his
views being "prejudiced." He seldom has need to complain that he has
heard one side only; but there is a Catholic side, an Orthodox side, a
Mohammedan side, there are German, Slav, Italian, Turkish, and Albanian
sides; and when he has heard them all he feels far less capable of
forming an opinion on the Eastern Question than he did before.
Dalmatia has its charms, but tourists swarm there, and the picturesque
corners are being rapidly pulled down to provide suitable accommodation
for them. Let us pass on, then, nor pause till we have wound our way
through that wonderful maze of fiords, the Bocche, and landed | 1,639.080671 |
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BLACKWOOD'S EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
NO. CCCLXXXIII. SEPTEMBER, 1847. Vol. LXII.
HOW I STOOD FOR THE DREEPDAILY BURGHS.
CHAPTER I.
"My dear Dunshunner," said my friend Robert M'Corkindale as he entered my
apartments one fine morning in June last, "do you happen to have seen the
share-list? Things are looking in Liverpool as black as thunder. The
bullion is all going out of the country, and the banks are refusing to
discount."
Bob M'Corkindale might very safely have kept his information to himself. I
was, to say the truth, most painfully aware of the facts which he
unfeelingly obtruded upon my notice. Six weeks before, in the full
confidence that the panic was subsiding, I had recklessly invested my
whole capital in the shares of a certain railway company, which for the
present shall be nameless; and each successive circular from my broker
conveyed the doleful intelligence that the stock was going down to Erebus.
Under these circumstances I certainly felt very far from being
comfortable. I could not sell out except at a ruinous loss; and I could
not well afford to hold on for any length of time, unless there was a
reasonable prospect of a speedy amendment of the market. Let me confess
it--I had of late come out rather too strong. When a man has made money
easily, he is somewhat prone to launch into expense, and to presume too
largely upon his credit. I had been idiot enough to make my _debut_ in the
sporting world--had started a couple of horses upon the verdant turf of
Paisley--and, as a matter of course, was remorselessly sold by my
advisers. These and some other minor amusements had preyed deleteriously
upon my purse. In fact, I had not the ready; and as every tradesman
throughout Glasgow was quaking in his shoes at the panic, and
inconveniently eager to realise, I began to feel the reverse of
comfortable, and was shy of showing myself in Buchanan Street. Several
documents of a suspicious appearance--owing to the beastly practice of
wafering, which is still adhered to by a certain class of
correspondents--were lying upon my table at the moment when Bob entered. I
could see that the villain comprehended their nature at a glance; but
there was no use in attempting to mystify him. The Political Economist
was, as I was well aware, in very much the same predicament as myself.
"To tell you the truth, M'Corkindale, I have not opened a share-list for a
week. The faces of some of our friends are quite long enough to serve as a
tolerable exponent of the market; and I saw Grabbie pass about five
minutes ago with a yard of misery in his visage. But what's the news?"
"Every thing that is bad! Total stoppage expected in a week, and the mills
already put upon short time."
"You don't say so!"
"It is a fact. Dunshunner, this infernal tampering with the currency will
be the ruin of every mother's son of us!"--and here Bob, in a fit of
indignant enthusiasm, commenced a vivid harangue upon the principles of
contraction and expansion, bullion, the metallic standard, and the bank
reserves, which no doubt was extremely sound, but which I shall not
recapitulate to the reader.
"That's all very well, Bob," said I--"very good in theory, but we should
confine ourselves at present to practice. The main question seems to me to
be this. How are we to get out of our present fix? I presume you are not
at present afflicted with a remarkable plethory of cash?"
"Every farthing I have in the world is locked up in a falling line."
"Any debts?"
"Not many; but quite enough to make me meditate a temporary retirement to
Boulogne."
"I believe you are better off than I am. I not only owe money, but am
terribly bothered about some bills."
"That's awkward. Would it not be advisable to bolt?"
"I don't think so. You used to tell me, Bob, that credit was the next best
thing to capital. Now, I don't despair of redeeming my capital yet, if I
can only keep up my credit."
"Right, undoubtedly, as you generally are. Do you know, Dunshunner, you
deserve credit for your notions on political economy. But how is that to
be done? Every body is realising; the banks won't discount; and when your
bills become due, they will be, to a dead certainty, protested."
"Well--and what then?"
"_Squalor carceris_, etcetera."
"Hum--an unpleasant alternative, certainly. Come, Bob I put your wits to
work. You used to be a capital hand for devices, and there must be some
way or other of steering clear. Time is all we want."
"Ay, to be sure--time is the great thing. It would be very unpleasant to
look out on the world through a grating during the summer months!"
"I perspire at the bare idea!"
"Not a soul in town--all your friends away in the Highlands boating, or
fishing, or shooting grouse--and you pent up in a stifling apartment of
eight feet square, with nobody to talk to save the turnkey, and no
prospect from the window, except a deserted gooseberry stall!"
"O Bob, don't talk in that way! You make me perfectly miserable."
"And all this for a ministerial currency crotchet? 'Pon my soul, it's too
bad! I wish those fellows in Parliament----"
"Well? Go on."
"By Jove! I've an idea at last!"
"You don't say so! My dear Bob--out with it!"
"Dunshunner, are you a man of pluck?"
"I should think I am."
"And ready to go the whole hog, if required?"
"The entire animal."
"Then I'll tell you what it is--the elections will be on immediately--and,
by St Andrew, we'll put you up for Parliament!"
"Me!"
"You. Why not? There are hundreds of men there quite as hard up, and not
half so clever as yourself."
"And what good would that do me?"
"Don't you see? You need not care a farthing about your debts then, for
the personal liberty of a member of the House of Commons is sacred. You
can fire away right and left at the currency; and who knows, if you play
your cards well, but you may get a comfortable place?"
"Well, you _are_ a genius, Bob! But then, what sort of principles should I
profess?"
"That is a matter which requires consideration. What are your own feelings
on the subject?"
"Perfect indifference. I am pledged to no party, and am free to exercise
my independent judgment."
"Of course, of course! We shall take care to stick all that into the
address; but you must positively come forward with some kind of tangible
political views. The currency will do for one point, but as to the others
I see a difficulty."
"Suppose I were to start as a Peelite?
"Something may be said in favour of that view; but, on the whole, I should
rather say not. That party may not look up for some little time, and then
the currency is a stumbling-block in the way. No, Dunshunner, I do not
think, upon my honour, that it would be wise for you to commit yourself in
that quarter at the present moment."
"Suppose I try the Protectionist dodge? One might come it very strong
against the foreigners, and in favour of native industry. Eh, Bob? What do
you say to that? It is an advantage to act with gentlemen."
"True; but at the same time, I see many objections. The principles of the
country party are not yet thoroughly understood by the people, and I
should like to have you start with at least popularity on your side."
"Radical, then? What do you think of Annual Parliaments, Universal
Suffrage, Vote by Ballot, and separation of Church and State?"
"I am clear against that. These views are not popular with the Electors,
and even the mob would entertain a strong suspicion that you were
humbugging them."
"What, then, on earth am I to do?"
"I will tell you. Come out as a pure and transparent Whig. In the present
position of parties, it is at least a safe course to pursue, and it is
always the readiest step to the possession of the loaves and the fishes."
"Bob, I don't like the Whigs!"
"No more do I. They are a bad lot; but they are _in_, and that is every
thing. Yes, Augustus," continued Bob solemnly, "there is nothing else for
it. You must start as a pure Whig, upon the Revolution principles of
sixteen hundred and eighty-eight."
"It would be a great relief to my mind, Bob, if you would tell me what
those principles really are?"
"I have not the remotest idea; but we have plenty time to look them up."
"Then, I suppose I must swallow the Dutchman and the Massacre of Glencoe?"
"Yes, and the Darien business into the bargain. These are the principles
of your party, and of course you are bound to subscribe."
"Well! you know best; but I'd rather do any thing else."
"Pooh! never fear; you and Whiggery will agree remarkably well. That
matter, then, we may consider as settled. The next point to be thought of
is the constituency."
"Ay, to be sure! what place am I to start for? I have got no interest, and
if I had any, there are no nomination burghs in Scotland."
"Aren't there? That's all you know, my fine fellow! Hark ye, Dunshunner,
more than half of the Scottish burghs are at this moment held by
nominees!"
"You amaze me, Bob! The thing is impossible! The Reform Bill, that great
charter of our liberties----"
"Bravo! There spoke the Whig! The Reform Bill, you think, put an end to
nomination? It did nothing of the kind, it merely transferred it. Did you
ever hear of such things as CLIQUES?"
"I have. But they are tremendously unpopular."
"Nevertheless, they hold the returning power. There is a Clique in almost
every town throughout Scotland, which loads the electors as quietly, but
as surely, as the blind man is conducted by his dog. These are modelled on
the true Venetian principles of secrecy and terrorism. They control the
whole constituency, put in the member, and in return monopolise the whole
patronage of the place. If you have the Clique with you, you are almost
sure of your election; if not, except in the larger towns, you have not a
shadow of success. Now, what I want to impress upon you is this, that
where-ever you go, be sure that you communicate with the Clique."
"But how am I to find it out?
"That is not always an easy matter, for nobody will acknowledge that they
belong to it. However, the thing is not impossible, and we shall certainly
make the experiment. Come, then, I suppose you agree with me, that it is
hopeless to attempt the larger towns?"
"Clearly. So far as I see, they are all provided already with candidates."
"And you may add, Cliques, Dunshunner. Well, then, let us search among
the smaller places. What would you think of a dash at the Stirling
District of Burghs?"
"Why, there are at least half-a-dozen candidates in the field."
"True, that would naturally lessen your chance. Depend upon it, some one
of them has already found the key to the Clique. But there's the
Dreepdaily District with nobody standing for it, except the Honourable
Paul Pozzlethwaite; and I question whether he knows himself the nature or
the texture of his politics. Really, Dunshunner, that's the very place for
you; and if we look sharp after it, I bet the long odds that you will
carry it in a canter."
"Do you really think so?
"I do indeed; and the sooner you start the better. Let me see. I know
Provost Binkie of Dreepdaily. He is a Railway bird, was an original
Glenmutchkin shareholder, and fortunately sold out at a premium. He is a
capital man to begin with, and I think will be favourable to you: besides,
Dreepdaily is in old Whig burgh. I am not so sure of Kittleweem. It is a
shade more respectable than Dreepdaily, and has always been rather
Conservative. The third burgh, Drouthielaw, is a nest of Radicalism; but I
think it may be won over, if we open the public-houses."
"But, about expenses, Bob--won't it be a serious matter?"
"Why, you must lay your account with spending some five or six hundred
pounds upon the | 1,639.103396 |
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Produced by David Widger
MEMOIRS OF LOUIS XIV AND HIS COURT AND OF THE REGENCY
BY THE DUKE OF SAINT-SIMON
VOLUME 10.
CHAPTER LXX
The reign of Louis XIV. was approaching its conclusion, so that there is
now nothing more to relate but what passed during the last month of his
life, and scarcely so much. These events, indeed, so curious and so
important, are so mixed up with those that immediately followed the
King's death, that they cannot be separated from them. It will be
interesting and is necessary to describe the projects, the thoughts, the
difficulties, the different resolutions, which occupied the brain of the
Prince, who, despite the efforts of Madame de Maintenon and M. du Maine,
was of necessity about to be called to the head of affairs during the
minority of the young King. This is the place, therefore, to explain all
these things, after which we will resume the narrative of the last month
of the King's life, and go on to the events which followed his death.
But, as I have said, before entering upon this thorny path, it will be as
well to make known, if possible, the chief personage of the story, the
impediments interior and exterior in his path, and all that personally
belonged to him.
M. le Duc d'Orleans was, at the most, of mediocre stature, full-bodied
without being fat; his manner and his deportment were easy and very
noble; his face was broad and very agreeable, high in colour; his hair
black, and wig the same. Although he danced very badly, and had but ill
succeeded at the riding-school, he had in his face, in his gestures, in
all his movements, infinite grace, and so natural that it adorned even
his most ordinary commonplace actions. With much ease when nothing
constrained him, he was gentle, affable, open, of facile and charming
access; the tone of his voice was agreeable, and he had a surprisingly
easy flow of words upon all subjects which nothing ever disturbed, and
which never failed to surprise; his eloquence was natural and extended
even to his most familiar discourse, while it equally entered into his
observations upon the most abstract sciences, on which he talked most
perspicuously; the affairs of government, politics, finance, justice,
war, the court, ordinary conversation, the arts, and mechanics. He could
speak as well too upon history and memoirs, and was well acquainted with
pedigrees. The personages of former days were familiar to him; and the
intrigues of the ancient courts were to him as those of his own time.
To hear him, you would have thought him a great reader. Not so. He
skimmed; but his memory was so singular that he never forgot things,
names, or dates, cherishing remembrance of things with precision; and his
apprehension was so good, that in skimming thus it was, with him,
precisely as though he had read very laboriously. He excelled in
unpremeditated discourse, which, whether in the shape of repartee or
jest, was always appropriate and vivacious. He often reproached me, and
others more than he, with "not spoiling him;" but I often gave him praise
merited by few, and which belonged to nobody so justly as to him; it was,
that besides having infinite ability and of various kinds, the singular
perspicuity of his mind was joined to so much exactness, that he would
never have made a mistake in anything if he had allowed the first
suggestions of his judgment. He oftentimes took this my eulogy as a
reproach, and he was not always wrong, but it was not the less true.
With all this he had no presumption, no trace of superiority natural or
acquired; he reasoned with you as with his equal, and struck the most
able with surprise. Although he never forgot his own position, nor
allowed others to forget it, he carried no constraint with him, but put
everybody at his ease, and placed himself upon the level of all others.
He had the weakness to believe that he resembled Henry IV. in
everything, and strove to affect the manners, the gestures, the bearing,
of that monarch. Like Henry IV. he was naturally good, humane,
compassionate; and, indeed, this man, who has been so cruelly accused of
the blackest and most inhuman crimes, was more opposed to the destruction
of others than any one I have ever known, and had such a singular dislike
to causing anybody pain that it may be said, his gentleness, his
humanity, his easiness, had become faults; and I do not hesitate to
affirm that that supreme virtue which teaches us to pardon our enemies he
turned into vice, by the indiscriminate prodigality with which he applied
it; thereby causing himself many sad embarrassments and misfortunes,
examples and proofs of which will be seen in the sequel.
I remember that about a year, perhaps, before the death of the King,
having gone up early after dinner into the apartments of Madame la
Duchesse d'Orleans at Marly, I found her in bed with the megrims,
and M. d'Orleans alone in the room, seated in an armchair at her pillow.
Scarcely had I sat down than Madame la Duchesse began to talk of some of
those execrable imputations concerning M. d'Orleans unceasingly
circulated by Madame de Maintenon and M. du Maine; and of an incident
arising therefrom, in which the Prince and the Cardinal de Rohan had
played a part against M. d'Orleans. I sympathised with her all the more
because the Duke, I knew not why, had always distinguished and courted
those two brothers, and thought he could count upon them. "And what will
you say of M. d'Orleans," added the Duchesse, "when I tell you that since
he has known this, known it beyond doubt, he treats them exactly the same
as before?"
I looked at M. d'Orleans, who had uttered only a few words to confirm the
story, as it was being told, and who was negligently lolling in his
chair, and I said to him with warmth:
"Oh, as to that, Monsieur, the truth must be told; since Louis the
Debonnaire, never has there been such a Debonnaire as you."
At these words he rose in his chair, red with anger to the very whites of
his eyes, and blurted out his vexation against me for abusing him, as he
pretended, and against Madame la Duchesse d'Orleans for encouraging me
and laughing at him.
"Go on," said I, "treat your enemies well, and rail at your friends. I
am delighted to see you angry. It is a sign that I have touched the sore
point, when you press the finger on it the patient cries. I should like
to squeeze out all the matter, and after that you would be quite another
man, and differently esteemed."
He grumbled a little more, and then calmed down. This was one of two
occasions only, on which he was ever really angry with me.
Two or three years after the death of the King, I was chatting in one of
the grand rooms of the Tuileries, where the Council of the Regency was,
according to custom, soon to be held, and M. d'Orleans at the other end
was talking to some one in a window recess. I heard myself called from
mouth to mouth | 1,639.201792 |
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E-text prepared by Christine Aldridge and the Project Gutenberg Online
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Note: Project Gutenberg also has an HTML version of this
file which includes the original illustrations.
See 31900-h.htm or 31900-h.zip:
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Transcriber's note:
Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
Minor punctuation errors have been corrected.
A complete list of spelling corrections and notations
is located at the end of this text.
Edition d'Elite
HISTORICAL TALES
The Romance of Reality
by
CHARLES MORRIS
Author of "Half-Hours with the Best American Authors," "Tales
from the Dramatists," etc.
In Fifteen Volumes
VOLUME XIII
King Arthur
1
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA AND LONDON
Copyright, 1891, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
Copyright, 1904, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
Copyright, 1908, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
* * * * *
[Illustration: FURNESS ABBEY.]
CONTENTS OF VOLUME I.
BOOK I.
HOW ARTHUR WON THE THRONE.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I.--THE MAGIC SWORD 19
II.--ARTHUR'S WARS AND THE MYSTERY OF HIS BIRTH 28
III.--THE LADY OF THE LAKE 39
IV.--GUENEVER AND THE ROUND TABLE 46
BOOK II.
THE DEEDS OF BALIN.
I.--HOW BALIN WON AND USED THE ENCHANTED SWORD 55
II.--HOW ARTHUR TRIUMPHED OVER THE KINGS 65
III.--HOW BALIN GAVE THE DOLOROUS STROKE 72
IV.--THE FATE OF BALIN AND BALAN 81
V.--MERLIN'S FOLLY AND FATE 89
BOOK III.
THE TREASON OF MORGAN LE FAY.
I.--THE ADVENTURE OF THE ENCHANTED SHIP 94
II.--THE COMBAT OF ARTHUR AND ACCOLAN 102
III.--HOW MORGAN CHEATED THE KING 110
IV.--THE COUNTRY OF STRANGE ADVENTURES 120
BOOK IV.
LANCELOT DU LAKE.
I.--HOW TROUBLE CAME TO LIONEL AND HECTOR 137
II.--THE CONTEST OF THE FOUR QUEENS 143
III.--HOW LANCELOT AND TURQUINE FOUGHT 153
IV.--THE CHAPEL AND PERILOUS 164
V.--THE ADVENTURE OF THE FALCON 174
BOOK V.
THE ADVENTURES OF BEAUMAINS.
I.--THE KNIGHTING OF KAY'S KITCHEN BOY 179
II.--THE BLACK, THE GREEN, AND THE RED KNIGHTS 187
III.--THE RED KNIGHT OF THE RED LAWNS 201
IV.--HOW BEAUMAINS WON HIS BRIDE 212
BOOK VI.
TRISTRAM OF LYONESSE AND THE FAIR ISOLDE.
I.--HOW TRISTRAM WAS KNIGHTED 238
II.--LA BELLA ISOLDE 249
III.--THE WAGER OF BATTLE 258
IV.--THE DRAUGHT OF LOVE 267
V.--THE PERILS OF TRUE LOVE 275
VI.--THE MADNESS OF SIR TRISTRAM 289
BOOK VII.
HOW TRISTRAM CAME TO CAMELOT.
I.--TRISTRAM AND DINADAN 304
II.--ON THE ROAD TO THE TOURNAMENT 312
III.--AT THE CASTLE OF MAIDENS 322
IV.--THE QUEST OF THE TEN KNIGHTS 335
V.--THE KNIGHT WITH THE COVERED SHIELD 345
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
KING ARTHUR. VOL. I.
PAGE
FURNESS ABBEY _Frontispiece_.
STATUE OF KING ARTHUR AT INNSBRUCK 24
KING ARTHUR'S FAIR LOVE 48
KING ARTHUR'S TOMB 70
MERLIN AND NIMUE 89
THE GREAT FOREST 94
NIMUE 105
THE LOVE OF PELLEAS AND NIMUE 134
DREAM OF SIR LANCELOT 139
OLD ARCHES OF THE ABBEY WALL 149
KING ARTHUR'S ROUND TABLE, WINCHESTER CATHEDRAL 179
BEAUMAINS, DAMSEL, AND DWARF 213
THE JOYOUS WEDDING 235
SIR TRISTRAM HARPING TO ISOLDE 250
A CASTLE OF CORNWALL 258
TRISTRAM AND THE FAIR ISOLDE 273
THE CLIFFS ABOVE THE SEA 288
TINTAGIL KING ARTHUR'S CASTLE 302
TRISTRAM THEREUPON DEPARTED TO HIS PAVILION 325
ADMISSION OF SIR TRISTRAM TO THE KING OF THE
ROUND TABLE 359
* * * * *
INTRODUCTORY.
Geoffrey of Monmouth, the famous chronicler of legendary British
history, tells us,--in reference to the time when the Celtic kings of
Britain were struggling against the Saxon invaders,--that "there
appeared a star of wonderful magnitude and brightness, darting its rays,
at the end of which was a globe of fire in the form of a dragon, out of
whose mouth issued two rays; one of which seemed to stretch itself
beyond the extent of Gaul, the other towards the Irish Sea, and ended in
two lesser rays." He proceeds to say, that Merlin, the magician, being
called on to explain this portent, declared that the dragon represented
Uther, the brother of King Ambrose, who was destined himself soon to
become king; that the ray extending towards Gaul indicated a great son,
who should conquer the Gallic Kingdoms; and that the ray with two lesser
rays indicated a daughter, whose son and grandson should successively
reign over Britain. Uther, in consequence, when he came to the throne,
had two gold dragons made, one of which he placed in the cathedral of
Winchester, which it brightly illuminated; the other he kept, and from
it gained the name of _Pendragon_. The powerful ray represented his
great son Arthur, destined to become the flower of chivalry, and the
favorite hero of mediaeval romance.
This is history as Geoffrey of Monmouth understood it, but hardly so in
the modern sense, and Arthur remains as mystical a figure as Achilles,
despite the efforts of various writers to bring him within the circle of
actual kings. After the Romans left Britain, two centuries passed of
whose history hardly a coherent shred remains. This was the age of
Arthur, one of the last champions of Celtic Britain against the
inflowing tide of Anglo-Saxon invasion. That there was an actual Arthur
there is some, but no very positive, reason to believe. After all the
evidence has been offered, we still seem to have but a shadowy hero
before us, "a king of shreds and patches," whose history is so pieced
out with conjecture that it is next to impossible to separate its facts
from its fancies.
The Arthur of the legends, of the Welsh and Breton ballads, of the later
_Chansons de Geste_, of Malory and Tennyson, has quite stepped out of
the historic page and become a hero without time or place in any real
world, a king of the imagination, the loftiest figure in that great
outgrowth of chivalric romance which formed the favorite fictitious
literature of Europe during three or four of the mediaeval centuries.
Charlemagne, the leading character in the earlier romances of chivalry,
was, in the twelfth century, replaced by Arthur, a milder and more
Christian-like hero, whose adventures, with those of his Knights of the
Round Table, delighted the tenants of court and castle in that
marvel-loving and uncritical age. That the stories told of him are all
fiction cannot be declared. Many of them may have been founded on fact.
But, like the stones of a prehistoric wall, their facts are so densely
enveloped by the ivy of fiction that it is impossible to delve them out.
The ballads and romances in which the King Arthur of mediaeval story
figures as the hero, would scarcely prove pleasant and profitable
reading to us now, however greatly they delighted our ancestors. They
are marked by a coarseness and crudity which would be but little to our
taste. Nor have we anything of modern growth to replace them. Milton
entertained a purpose of making King Arthur the hero of an epic poem,
but fortunately yielded it for the nobler task of "Paradise Lost."
Spenser gives this hero a minor place in his "Fairie Queen." Dryden
projected a King Arthur epic, but failed to write it. Recently Bulwer
has given us a cumbersome "King Arthur," which nobody reads; and
Tennyson has handled the subject brilliantly in his "Idyls of the King,"
splendid successes as poems, yet too infiltrated with the spirit of
modernism to be acceptable as a reproduction of the Arthur of romance.
For a true rehabilitation of this hero of the age of chivalry we must go
to the "Morte Darthur" of Sir Thomas Malory, a writer of the fifteenth
century, who lived when men still wore armor, and so near to the actual
age of chivalry as to be in full sympathy with the spirit of its
fiction, and its pervading love of adventure and belief in the magical.
Malory did a work of high value in editing the confused mass of earlier
fiction, lopping off its excrescences and redundancies, reducing its
coarseness of speech, and producing from its many stories and episodes
a coherent and continuous narrative, in which the adventures of the
Round Table Knights are deftly interwoven with the record of the birth,
life, and death of the king, round whom as the central figure all these
knightly champions revolve. Malory seems to have used as the basis of
his work perhaps one, perhaps several, old French prose romances, and
possibly also material derived from Welsh and English ballads. Such
material in his day was doubtless abundant. Geoffrey had drawn much of
his legendary history from the ancient Welsh ballads. The mass of
romantic fiction which he called history became highly popular, first in
Brittany, and then in France, the Trouveres making Arthur, Lancelot,
Tristram, Percival, and others of the knightly circle the heroes of
involved romances, in which a multitude of new incidents were invented.
The Minnesingers of Germany took up the same fruitful theme, producing a
"Parzivale," a "Tristan and Isolt," and other heroic romances. From all
this mass of material, Malory wrought his "Morte Darthur," as Homer
wrought his "Iliad" from the preceding warlike ballads, and the unknown
compiler of the "Nibelungenlied" wrought his poem from similar ancient
sources.
Malory was not solely an editor. He was in a large sense a creator. It
was coarse and crude material with which he had to deal, but in his
hands its rude prose gained a degree of poetic fervor. The legends which
he preserves he has in many cases transmuted from base into precious
coin. There is repulsive matter in the old romances, which he freely
cuts out. To their somewhat wooden heroes he gives life and character,
so that in Lancelot, Gawaine, Dinadan, Kay, and others we have to deal
with distinct personalities, not with the non-individualized
hard-hitters of the romances. And to the whole story he gives an epic
completeness which it lacked before. In the early days of Arthur's reign
Merlin warns him that fate has already woven its net about him and that
the sins of himself and his queen will in the end bring his reign to a
violent termination, and break up that grand fellowship of the Round
Table which has made Britain and its king illustrious. This epic
character of Malory's work is pointed out in the article "Geoffrey of
Monmouth" in the "Encyclopaedia Britannica," whose writer says that the
Arthurian legends "were converted into a magnificent prose poem by Sir
Thomas Malory in 1461. Malory's _Morte Darthur_ is as truly _the_ epic
of the English mind as the _Iliad_ is the epic of the Greek mind."
Yet the "Morte Darthur," if epic in plan and treatment, is by no means
free from the defects of primitive literature. It was written before the
age of criticism, and confusion reigns supreme in many of its pages,--a
confusion which a very little critical supervision might have removed.
As an instance, we find that Galahad, two years after his birth, is made
a knight, being then fifteen years old. In like manner the "seat
perilous" at the Round Table is magically reserved for Galahad, the
author evidently forgetting that he had already given it to Percivale.
King Mark's murder of his brother Baldwin is revenged by Baldwin's
grandson, thirty or forty years afterward, though there is nothing to
show that the characters had grown a year older in the interval. Here a
knight finds one antagonist quite sufficient for one man; there he does
not hesitate to attack fifty at once; here a slight wound disables him;
there a dozen deep wounds are fully healed by a night's rest. Many
similar instances might be given, but these will suffice. The
discrepancies here indicated were perhaps due to the employment of
diverse legends, without care to bring them into accordance, but they
lay the work open to adverse criticism.
This lack of critical accuracy may have been a necessary accompaniment
of the credulous frame of mind that could render such a work possible.
It needed an artlessness of mental make-up, a full capacity for
acceptance of the marvellous, a simple-minded faith in chivalry and its
doings, which could scarcely exist in common with the critical
temperament. In truth, the flavor of an age of credulity and simplicity
of thought everywhere permeates this quaint old work, than which nothing
more artless, simple, and unique exists in literature, and nothing with
a higher value as a presentation of the taste in fiction of our mediaeval
predecessors.
Yet the "Morte Darthur" is not easy or attractive reading, to other than
special students of literature. Aside from its confusion of events and
arrangement, it tells the story of chivalry with a monotonous lack of
inflection that is apt to grow wearisome, and in a largely obsolete
style and dialect with whose difficulties readers in general may not
care to grapple. Its pages present an endless succession of single
combats with spear and sword, whose details are repeated with wearisome
iteration. Knights fight furiously for hours together, till they are
carved with deep wounds, and the ground crimsoned with gore. Sometimes
they are so inconsiderate as to die, sometimes so weak as to seek a
leech, but as often they mount and ride away in philosophical disregard
of their wounds, and come up fresh for as fierce a fight the next day.
As for a background of scenery and architecture, it scarcely exists.
Deep interest in man and woman seems to have shut out all scenic
accessories from the mind of the good old knight. It is always but a
step from the castle to the forest, into which the knights-errant
plunge, and where most of their adventures take place; and the favorite
resting-and jousting-place is by the side of forest springs--or wells,
as in the text. We have mention abundant of fair castles, fair valleys,
fair meadows, and the like, the adjective "fair" going far to serve all
needs of description. But in his human characters, with their loves and
hates, jousts and battles, bewitchments and bewilderments, the author
takes deep interest, and follows the episodical stories which are woven
into the plot with a somewhat too satisfying fulness. In evidence of the
dramatic character of many of these episodes we need but refer to the
"Idyls of the King," whose various romantic and tragic narratives are
all derived from this quaint "old master" of fictitious literature.
With all its faults of style and method, the "Morte Darthur" is a very
live book. It never stops to moralize or philosophize, but keeps
strictly to its business of tale-telling, bringing up before the reader
a group of real men and women, not a series of lay-figures on a
background of romance, as in his originals.
Kay with his satirical tongue, Dinadan with his love of fun, Tristram
loving and noble, Lancelot bold and chivalrous, Gawaine treacherous and
implacable, Arthur kingly but adventurous, Mark cowardly and
base-hearted, Guenever jealous but queenly, Isolde tender and faithful,
and a host of other clearly individualized knights and ladies move in
rapid succession through the pages of the romance, giving it, with its
manners of a remote age, a vital interest that appeals to modern tastes.
In attempting to adapt this old masterpiece to the readers of our own
day, we have no purpose to seek to paraphrase or improve on Malory. To
remove the antique flavor would be to destroy the spirit of the work. We
shall leave it as we find it, other than to reduce its obsolete
phraseology and crudities of style to modern English, abridge the
narrative where it is wearisomely extended, omit repetitions and
uninteresting incidents, reduce its confusion of arrangement, attempt a
more artistic division into books and chapters, and by other arts of
editorial revision seek to make it easier reading, while preserving as
fully as possible those unique characteristics which have long made it
delightful to lovers of old literature.
The task here undertaken is no light one, nor is success in it assured.
Malory has an individuality of his own which gives a peculiar charm to
his work, and to retain this in a modernized version is the purpose with
which we set out and which we hope to accomplish. The world of to-day
is full of fiction, endless transcripts of modern life served up in a
great variety of palatable forms. Our castle-living forefathers were not
so abundantly favored. They had no books,--and could not have read them
if they had,--but the wandering minstrel took with them the place of the
modern volume, bearing from castle to court, and court to castle, his
budget of romances of magic and chivalry, and delighting the
hard-h | 1,639.279609 |
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THE DUCHESS OF WREXE
Her Decline and Death
A Romantic Commentary
by
HUGH WALPOLE
Author of "Fortitude," etc.
New York
George H. Doran Company
Copyright, 1914,
By George H. Doran Company
TO
MY MOTHER
A SMALL EXPRESSION OF GRATITUDE
BEYOND WORDS
"And we'll have fires out of the Grand Duke's Wood."
_Letter to Maria Gisborne_
THE RISING CITY: I
THE DUCHESS OF WREXE
_NOTE: This is an age of Trilogies and Sequels. The title at the
beginning of this book, "The Rising City: I," may lead nervous readers
to fear yet another attempt in that extended and discursive direction_.
_To reassure them I wish to emphasize this point--that_ The Duchess of
Wrexe _is entirely a novel complete and independent in itself. It is
grouped, with the two stories that will follow it, under the heading of
"The Rising City" because the three novels will be connected in place,
in idea, and in sequence of time. Also certain of the same characters
will appear in all three books. But the novels are not intended as
sequels of one another, nor is "The Rising City" a Trilogy.--H. W._
CONTENTS
BOOK I: THE DUCHESS
I Felix Brun, Dr. Christopher, Rachel Beaminster--They
Are Surveyed by the Portrait
II Rachel
III Lady Adela
IV The Pool
V She Comes Out
VI Fans
VII In the Heart of the House
VIII The Tiger
IX The Golden Cage
X Lizzie and Breton
XI Her Grace's Day
XII Defiance of the Tiger--I
XIII Defiance of the Tiger--II
BOOK II: RACHEL
I The Pool and the Snow
II A Little House
III First Sequel to Defiance
IV Rachel--and Christopher and Roddy
V Lizzie's Journey--I
VI All the Beaminsters
VII Rachel and Breton
VIII Christopher's Day
IX The Darkest Hour
X Lizzie's Journey--II
XI Roddy Is Master
XII Lizzie's Journey--III
BOOK III: RODDY
I Regent's Park--Breton and Lizzie
II The Duchess Moves
III Roddy Moves
IV March 13th: Breton's Tiger
V March 13th: Rachel's Heart
VI March 13th: Roddy Talks to the Devil and the Duchess
Denies God
VII Chamber Music--A Trio
VIII A Quartette
IX Rachel and Roddy
X Lizzie Becomes Miss Rand Again
XI The Last View from High Windows
XII Rachel, Roddy, Lord John, Christopher
XIII Epilogue--Prologue
BOOK I
THE DUCHESS
CHAPTER I
FELIX BRUN, DR. CHRISTOPHER, RACHEL BEAMINSTER--THEY ARE SURVEYED BY THE
PORTRAIT.
I
Felix Brun, perched like a little bird, on the steps of the Rede Art
Gallery, gazed up and down Bond Street, with his sharp eyes for someone
to whom he might show Yale Ross's portrait of the Duchess of Wrexe. The
afternoon was warm, the date May of the year 1898, and the occasion was
the Young Portrait Painters' first show with Ross's "Duchess" as its
principal attraction.
Brun was thrilled with excitement, with emotion, and he must have his
audience. There must be somebody to whom he might talk, to whom he might
explain exactly why this occasion was of so stirring an importance.
His eyes lighted with satisfaction. Coming towards him was a tall, gaunt
man with a bronzed face, loose ill-fitting clothes, a stride that had
little of the town about it. This was Arkwright, the explorer, a man who
had been lost in African jungles during the last five years, the very
creature for Brun's purposes.
Here was someone who, knowing nothing about Art, would listen all the
more readily to Brun's pronouncement upon it, a homely simple soul,
fitted for the killing of lions and tigers, but pliable as wax in the
hands of a master of civilization like Brun. At the same time Arkwright
was no fool; a psychologist in his way, he had written two books about
the East that had aroused considerable interest.
No fool, Arkwright.... He would be able to appreciate Brun's subtleties
and perhaps add some of his own.
He had, however, been away from England for so long a time that
anything that Brun had to tell him about the London world would be
pleasantly fresh and stimulating.
Brun, round and neat, and a citizen of the world from the crown of his
head to the top of his shining toes, tapped Arkwright on his shoulder:
"Hallo! Brun. How are you? It _is_ good to see you! Haven't seen a soul
I know for the last ever so long."
"Good--good. Excellent. Come along in here."
"In there? Pictures? What's the use of me looking at pictures?"
"We can talk in here. I'll tell you all the news. Besides, there's
something that even you will appreciate."
"Well?" Arkwright laughed good-hum | 1,639.279846 |
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HOCUS POCUS; OR THE WHOLE ART OF LEGERDEMAIN, IN PERFECTION. BY HENRY
DEAN.
[Illustration:
Strange feats are herein taught by slight of hand,
With which you may amuse yourself and friend,
The like in print was never seen before,
And so you’ll say when once you’ve read it o’er.
]
HOCUS POCUS;
OR THE WHOLE ART OF
_LEGERDEMAIN_,
IN PERFECTION.
By which the meaneſt capacity may perform the
whole without the help of a teacher.
_Together with the Uſe of all the Inſtruments_
_belonging thereto._
TO WHICH IS NOW ADDED,
Abundance of New and Rare Inventions.
BY HENRY DEAN.
_The ELEVENTH EDITION, with large_
_Additions and Amendments._
PHILADELPHIA:
PRINTED FOR MATHEW CAREY, NO. 118,
MARKET-STREET.
1795.
THE PREFACE TO THE READER.
KIND READER,
Having _in my former_ book _of_ LEGERDEMAIN, _promiſed you farther
improvements, accordingly I have diſcovered herein to you the greateſt
and mo� | 1,639.512118 |
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by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
_FREEMAN'S HISTORICAL COURSE FOR SCHOOLS._
HISTORY
OF
SCOTLAND
BY
MARGARET MACARTHUR.
EDITED BY
EDWARD A. FREEMAN, D.C.L.
_Edition Adapted for American Students._
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1874
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1874, by
HENRY HOLT,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
[ Transcriber Notes:
1. Obvious misspellings and omissions were corrected.
2. Uncertain misspellings or ancient words were not corrected.
3. "_" indicates italics, "=" indicates bold. ]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
THE GAELIC PERIOD 1
CHAPTER II.
THE ENGLISH PERIOD 19
CHAPTER III.
THE STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE 35
CHAPTER IV.
THE INDEPENDENT KINGDOM 52
CHAPTER V.
THE JAMESES 67
CHAPTER VI.
THE REFORMATION 96
CHAPTER VII.
THE UNION OF THE CROWNS 125
CHAPTER VIII.
AFTER THE UNION 167
CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE.
THE GAELIC PERIOD.
Agricola's Invasion 80
Severus' Invasion 208
Founding of Northumberland by Ida 547
Founding of Dalriada by the Scots about 503
Union of Picts and Scots 843
Commendation to Eadward 924
Battle of Brunanburh 937
Battle of Carham 1018
Cnut's Invasion 1031
Malcolm Canmore King 1057
William's Invasion 1073
Malcolm slain 1093
THE ENGLISH PERIOD, 1097-1286.
Eadgar 1097
Alexander I. 1107
David 1124
Battle of the Standard 1138
Malcolm IV 1153
William the Lion 1165
Capture at Alnwick 1174
Treaty of Falaise 1174
Council of Northampton 1176
Treaty with Richard I. 1189
Alexander II. 1214
Border-line fixed 1222
Council at York 1237
Alexander III. 1249
Battle of Largs 1263
Man and the Sudereys annexed 1266
Death of Alexander III. 1286
THE STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE, to 1314.
Queen Margaret 1286
Treaty of Brigham 1290
Margaret dies 1290
Council meets at Norham, 3rd June 1291
Judgment given at Berwick, 11th November 1292
John crowned King 1292
Edward's first Conquest 1296
Rising of Wallace 1297
Surrender at Irvine 1297
Battle of Stirling, 11th September 1297
Battle of Falkirk 1298
Edward's second Conquest 1303
Capture of Wallace 1305
Robert Bruce crowned King, 27th March 1306
Death of Edward 1307
Battle of Bannockburn, 24th June 1314
THE INDEPENDENT KINGDOM, 1314-1424.
Parliament at Cambuskenneth 1326
Peace of Northampton 1328
David II. 1329
Edward Balliol's Invasion 1332
Battle of Halidon Hill 1333
Capture of David 1346
His release 1347
Invasion of Edward III. 1356
Robert II. 1370
Raid of Otterburn 1388
Robert III. 1390
Fight on North Inch 1396
Invasion of Henry IV. 1400
Battle of Homildon Hill 1402
Capture of the Earl of Carrick 1405
Robert III. dies 1406
Burning of Reseby 1408
St. Andrews University founded 1408
Battle of Harlaw, 24th July 1411
Albany the Regent dies 1419
THE JAMESES, 1424-1557.
James I. crowned King 1424
Parliament at Inverness 1427
Murder of the King 1436
James II. 1436
Murder of the Douglases 1439
Murder of William, Earl of Douglas 1452
Battle of Arkinholm 1454
The King slain at Roxburgh 1460
James III. 1460
Orkney and Shetland annexed 1469
St. Andrews raised to an Archbishopric 1471
Revolt of Lauder Bridge 1482
Battle of Sauchieburn 1488
James IV 1488
Marriage of James to Margaret Tudor 1502
Lordship of the Isles broken up 1504
Battle of Flodden, 9th September 1513
James V. 1513
"Erection" of the King 1524
Fall of Angus 1528
Rout at Solway Moss 1542
Mary 1542
Hertford's first Invasion 1544
Hertford's second Invasion 1545
Burning of George Wishart 1545
Murder of Beaton 1545
Battle of Pinkie 1547
Mary sails for France 1548
First marriage of Mary, 24th April 1558
THE REFORMATION PERIOD, 1557-1603.
The "First Covenant" signed 1557
Burning of Walter Mill 1558
Religious riots 1559
Treaty of Berwick 1560
Reformation Statutes passed 1560
Return of the Queen 1561
Battle of Corrichie 1562
Second marriage of Mary, 29th July 1565
Murder of Rizzio 1566
Murder of Darnley, 9th February 1567
Third Marriage of Mary, 15th May 1567
Surrender at Carberry, 15th June 1567
Abdication of Mary 1567
James VI. crowned 1567
Battle of Langside, 13th May 1568
Conference at York begins, October 1568
Murder of Murray the Regent 1570
Taking of Dunbarton, 2nd April 1571
Parliament at Stirling, 4th September 1571
Lennox the Regent slain 1571
Episcopacy revived 1572
Death of John Knox, 24th November 1572
Death of Mar the Regent, 24th November 1572
Surrender of Edinburgh Castle 1573
The King rules alone, 4th March 1578
Raid of Ruthven 1581
Death of Mary Stuart, 8th February 1587
Marriage of the King 1590
Abolition of Episcopacy 1592
The Gowrie Plot, 5th August 1600
James becomes King of England 1603
THE UNION OF THE CROWNS, 1603-1707.
Fight in Glen Fruin 1604
Restoration of Episcopacy 1606
Visit of the King 1616
Articles of Perth passed 1618
Nova Scotia founded 1621
King James dies 1625
Charles I. 1625
Charles crowned in Scotland 1633
Liturgy Riots 1637
The Covenant renewed 1638
Assembly at Glasgow 1638
Episcopacy abolished 1638
"Trot of Turriff," May 1639
Pacification of Berwick, June 1639
Invasion of England by the Scots 1640
Treaty of Ripon, begun 1st October 1640
" " " ended 7th August 1641
Battle of Tippermuir, September 1644
Charles comes to the Scots Camp, 5th May 1645
Battle of Philiphaugh, September 1645
The Scots give up Charles, 8th January 1647
The Surrender at Uttoxeter, 25th August 1648
"Whiggamore's Raid" 1648
Charles I. beheaded, 30th January 1649
Charles II. proclaimed 1649
Rising and beheading of Montrose 1650
Charles II. arrives in Scotland 1650
Battle of Dunbar, 3rd September 1650
Battle of Worcester, 3rd September 1651
Legislative Union with England 1654
Restoration of Charles II. 1660
Act "Rescissory" passed 1661
Episcopacy re-established 1661
The "Ejection" 1662
The Westland Rising 1666
The Indulgence, June 1669
Murder of Sharp, May 1679
Fight at Drumclog, May 1679
Fight at Bothwell Bridge, June 1679
Sanquhar Declaration, June 1680
Test Act passed 1681
James VII. 1685
Argyle's Rising 1685
Full Indulgence 1688
James VII. deposed 1688
William and Mary proclaimed 1689
Battle of Killiecrankie, 27th July 1689
Episcopacy abolished 1690
Massacre of Glencoe, 13th February 1691
Charter granted to the Darien Company 1695
Education Act passed 1696
Anne 1701
The Union of the Parliaments 1707
AFTER THE UNION.
George I. 1714
Jacobite Rising 1715
Malt-tax Riots 1724
Porteous Riot 1736
Jacobite Rising 1745
Battle of Preston-pans, 20th September 1745
Battle of Culloden, 16th April 1746
Highland Society founded 1784
First Steamboat tried 1788
Penal laws against Romanists repealed 1793
Colliers and Salters freed 1799
Reform Bill passed 1832
The Disruption 1843
HISTORY OF SCOTLAND.
CHAPTER I.
THE GAELIC PERIOD.
_The country_ (1)--_the people_ (2)--_Roman occupation_
(3)--_English invasion_ (4)--_the Scots_ (5)--_introduction
of Christianity_ (6)--_conversion of the Picts_
(7)--_conversion of the English_ (8)--_English
conquests_ (9)--_union of Picts and Scots_ (10)--_the
Northmen_ (11)--_the Commendation_ (12)--_annexation of
Strathclyde_ (13)--_acquisition of Lothian_ (14)--_Cnut's
invasion_ (15)--_Macbeth_ (16)--_English immigration_
(17)--_William's invasion_ (18)--_Margaret's reforms_
(19)--_disputed succession_ (20)--_Gaelic period ends_
(21)--_summary_ (22).
=1. The Country.=--The northern part of Great Britain is now called
_Scotland_, but it was not called so till the _Scots_, a _Celtic_
people, came over from _Ireland_ and gave their name to it. The Romans
who first mention it in history speak of it as _Caledonia_. There are
two points in which the history of this country and of the people who
live in it is unlike the history of most of the other countries and
nations of Europe. Firstly, it never was taken into the great Roman
Empire; and secondly in it we find a _Celtic_ people who, instead of
disappearing before the _Teutons_, held their ground against them so
well that in the end the _Teutons_ were called by the name of the
_Celtic_ people, were ruled by the _Celtic_ kings, and fought for
the independence of the Celtic kingdom as fiercely as if they had
themselves been of the Celtic race. But the whole of the country is
not of the same nature. The northern part is so nearly cut off from
the rest of Britain by the two great _Firths_ of Forth and Clyde as
to form almost a separate island, and this peninsula is again divided
into _Highlands_ and _Lowlands_. Speaking roughly, we may say that
all the west is Highland and the east Lowland. A range of mountains
sweeping in a semicircle from the Firth of Clyde to the mouth of the
Dee, known as _Drumalbyn_ or the _Mount_, may be taken as the line of
separation, though the _Lowlands_ extend still further north along
the eastern coast. The marked differences between these two districts
have had a very decided influence on the character of the inhabitants,
and consequently on the national development. The _Lowlands_ are well
watered and fertile, and the people who lived there were peaceable and
industrious, and both on the seaboard and inland there is early notice
of the existence of populous and thriving towns. The _Highlands_, on
the contrary, are made up of lakes, moors, and barren hills, whose
rocky summits are well-nigh inaccessible, and whose heath-clad sides
are of little use even as pasture. Even in the glens between the
mountains, where alone any arable land is to be found, the crops are
poor, the harvest late and uncertain, and vegetation of any kind very
scanty. The western coast is cut up into numberless islets, and the
coast-line is constantly broken by steep jagged promontories jutting
out seaward, or cut by long lochs, up which the sea runs far into
the land between hills rising almost as bare and straight as walls
on either side. In the Highlands even in the present day there are
no towns of any importance, for the difficulty of access by land and
the dangers of the coast have made commerce well-nigh impossible.
The _Highlanders_, who were discouraged by the barrenness of their
native mountains, where even untiring industry could only secure a bare
maintenance, and tempted by the sight of prosperity so near them, found
it a lighter task to lift the crops and cattle of their neighbour than
to rear their own, and have at all times been much given to pillaging
the more fortunate _Lowlanders_, of whom they were the justly dreaded
scourge.
=2. The People.=--As the country is thus naturally divided into two
parts distinctly opposite in character, so the people are made up
of two distinct branches of the great _Aryan_ family, the _Celtic_
and the _Teutonic_. The Celts were the first comers, and were in
possession when the country became historically known; that is, at the
first invasion of the Romans. In later times we find three _Celtic_
peoples in North Britain; to wit, the _Picts_, the _Scots_, and the
_Welsh_. The _Picts_ were those _Celts_ who dwelt north of the Firths
in _Alba_ or _Alban_, as the earliest traditions call it; and if we
judge from the names of places and contemporary accounts and notices,
there is every reason to believe that they were more akin to the
_Gaelic_ than to the _British_ branch of the Celtic race. The _Scots_,
the other _Gaelic_ people, were, when we first hear of them, settled
in _Ireland_, from whence at different times bands of them came over
to the western coast of Britain. They were friends and allies of the
_Picts_, and are early mentioned as fighting on their side against the
Romans. After a time, when many more Scots had settled in Alba, their
name became common to all the Celts north of the Firths, and from
them the whole country was called Scotland. The Celts south of the
Firths were partly Christianized and civilized by the Romans, and thus
became very different from the rest. They got their name of _Welsh_
from the Teutonic tribes who came from the land between the _Elbe_
and the _Eyder_, and, settling along the eastern coast, finally took
possession of a great tract of country, and called the Celts whom
they displaced _Welshmen_ or foreigners. The Celts called all these
new comers _Saxons_, though this was really only the name of one of
the first tribes that came over; and as they gradually spread over
the _Lowlands_, the word _Saxon_ came to mean simply _Lowlander_. In
course of time the original proportions of these two races have been
nearly reversed, so that the modern Scottish nation, though it keeps
its _Celtic_ name, instead of being made up of three _Celts_ to one
_Saxon_, is much more nearly three _Saxons_ to one _Celt_.
=3. Roman Occupation.=--The _Romans_, who had already made themselves
masters of South Britain, were led into the northern part of the
island by _Julius Agricola_, A.D. 80. But the _Celts_ whom they found
there, and whom they called _Caledonians_, were so well able to defend
themselves among their mountains that the Romans, though they defeated
them in a great battle on the Highland border, gave up the idea of
conquering the country, and retreated again south of the Firths of
_Forth_ and _Clyde_. Across the isthmus between the two, which is about
thirty miles wide, they built a line of forts, joined by a rampart
of earth. This rampart was intended to serve as a defence to their
colonists, and as a boundary to mark the limit of their empire; though,
as many Roman remains have been found north of the isthmus, they must
have had settlements without as well as within the fortifications. But
the Caledonians, who were too high-spirited to look on quietly and
see their country thus taken possession of, harassed the colonists by
getting over the wall and seizing or destroying everything they could
lay their hands on. At length (A.D. 120) the Roman Emperor _Hadrian_
built a second rampart across the lower isthmus, between the rivers
_Tyne_ and _Solway_, leaving the district between the two pretty much
at the mercy of the fierce Picts, as the Romans now began to call
the Caledonians. Twenty years later, in the reign of the Emperor
_Antoninus Pius_, one of his generals, _Lollius Urbicus_, again drove
them back beyond the first wall, and repaired and strengthened the
defences of _Agricola_. But, before half a century had passed, the
Picts again burst the barrier, and killed the Roman commander. In
208 the Emperor _Severus_ cut his way through Caledonia with a large
army. He reached the northern coast, but had no chance of fighting a
battle, and lost many of his men. He repaired and strengthened the
rampart of Hadrian. In time the Picts got over the second rampart too,
and came south as far as _Kent_, where, in the latter part of the
fourth century, _Theodosius_ the Roman general, father of the famous
Emperor of the same name, had to fight his way to London through their
plundering hordes. Theodosius drove them back with great vigour,
restored the Empire to its former boundary, and made the district
between the walls into a Roman province, which he called _Valentia_,
in honour of _Valentinian_, who was then Emperor. It was probably
about this time that the great stone wall was built across the lower
isthmus. The dangers which threatened the capital of the Empire in the
beginning of the next century forced the Romans to forsake this as well
as all their other provinces in Britain, and the withdrawal of their
troops left the Romanized Britons of Valentia a helpless prey to their
merciless enemies the Picts. At the end of the three centuries of Roman
occupation, the _Britons_ south of the Firths had so little in common
with the wild _Picts_, who in _Alba_ and in _Galloway_ still maintained
their independence, that they were like people of a different race.
The one sect, though still savage and heathen, were as brave and
fierce as ever; the other, though Christianized and civilized, were
so degenerated from the vigour of the original stock that they were
powerless to resist their more warlike kinsmen.
=4. English Invasion.=--In the sixth century the _Angles_ came in
great force and settled on the eastern coast of Valentia, and drove
the _Britons_, or as they called them _Welshmen_, back to the Westland
Hills. This district then between the Roman walls was thus divided
between two kingdoms. The English kingdom of _Northumberland_, founded
by _Ida_ in 547, took in all the eastern part of the country south of
the _Forth_; while the Welsh kingdom, called _Strathclyde_ from the
river that watered it, stretched from the _Firth of Clyde_ southwards
towards the _Dee_.
=5. The Scots.=--About the same time that the _English_ were pouring
in on the east, the _Scots_ were settling all along the western
coast. As the strait which separates _Britain_ from _Ireland_ is only
twelve miles broad, the Scots could easily come over from _Scotia_,
as _Ireland_ was formerly called, to seek their fortune in the larger
island. It is impossible to fix the date of their first coming, but it
was not till the beginning of the sixth century that there came over
a swarm numerous and united enough to found a separate state. This is
one of the few _Celtic_ migrations on record from west to east, and
forms an exception to the general displacement that was going on, by
which the _Celts_ were being driven further and further west before the
_Teutons_. The leaders of the Scots were _Fergus MacErc_, and _Lorn_,
of the family of the _Dalriads_, the ruling dynasty in the north of
Ireland, and from them this new state founded on the western coast of
what is now called _Argyle_ got the name of _Dalriada_.
=6. Introduction of Christianity.=--These Scots were not pagans
like the Picts of Alba, for Ireland had already been Christianized.
The new comers brought the new faith to their adopted country, and
through them it spread among the Picts, and also among the English of
Northumberland. The great apostle of the Scots was _Columba_. He was
Abbot of Durrow in Ireland, but was obliged to leave his own country,
because he had been engaged in a feud with some of his kinsfolk, in
which his side was worsted. He came over to the new colony on the coast
of Alba, and _Conal_, who was then King of the Dalriads, welcomed him,
and gave him _I_, or _Iona_, an islet about a mile and a half long and
a mile broad, lying west of the large island of Mull. Here Columba
settled with the twelve monks who had come with him, and here they
built for the service of God a little wooden church after their simple
fashion, and for their own dwelling a few rude huts of wattle, which
in after-times was called a monastery, where they passed their days
in prayer and study. But their missionary zeal was as great as their
piety, and from their head-quarters on Iona they went cruising about
among the adjacent islands, extending their circuit to the _Orkneys_,
and even, it is said, as far as _Iceland_.
=7. Conversion of the Picts.=--Columba himself undertook the conversion
of the Picts. About two years after his arrival at Iona he set out on
this important mission, crossed Drumalbyn, sought the court of _Brud_,
the Pictish king, converted him, and founded religious communities on
the same plan as that on Iona, on lands granted to him by the king or
his dependent chiefs. The Church thus set up was perfectly independent
of the _Bishop of Rome_ or of any other See, but it inherited all the
peculiarities of the Church of the _Irish Scots_. The monks had a way
of their own of reckoning the time for keeping Easter and of shaving
their heads, trifles which were considered important enough to become
the subject of a very long quarrel, and it was not till 716 that they
agreed to yield to the Roman custom in both matters. According to
their system of Church government, the abbots of the monasteries were
the chief dignitaries, and had all the power which in the rest of
Christendom was held to belong to bishops, while the bishops were held
of no account except for ordaining priests, for which purpose there
was one at least attached to each monastery. Columba, who was himself
of the royal race, had so much influence among the Dalriads that his
authority was called in to settle a dispute about the succession to
the throne. The abbots of Iona after him continued supreme in all the
ecclesiastical affairs of Alba till the middle of the ninth century,
while the well-earned reputation for piety and learning enjoyed by
the monks of his foundation was widely spread in continental Europe.
About this time _Kentigern_ revived among the Welshmen of Strathclyde
the dying Christianity which had been planted there in the time of the
Roman occupation.
=8. Conversion of the English.=--The English of Northumberland were
still heathens, and, as they were ever fighting with and growing
greater at the expense of their neighbours, their state bade fair to
become the most powerful in Britain. In the beginning of the seventh
century their king _Eadwine_ was supreme over all Britain south of
the Forth. But though _Eadwine_ was converted by the preaching of
_Paullinus_, the first Bishop of York, the new doctrine does not seem
to have spread much among his people; for one of his successors,
_Oswald_, who in his youth had been an exile at the court of his
kinsman the Pictish king, prayed the monks of Iona to send him one of
their number to help to make his people Christian. _Conan_, the first
missionary who went, was so much disgusted with the manners of the
English that he very soon came back to his brethren. Then _Aidan_,
another of their number, devoted his life to the task which Conan had
found so distasteful. He taught and toiled among them with a zeal that
was seconded by Oswald, the king, who himself acted as interpreter,
making the sermons of the monk intelligible to his English hearers.
From _Lindisfarne_, where the little church of Aidan was founded, like
that of Iona, on an islet, Christianity spread to the neighbouring
state of _Mercia_, and many monasteries and schools were founded after
the Columban model.
=9. English Conquests.=--Oswald and his successor _Oswiu_ extended
their dominions beyond the Firths, and it is said that they made the
Scots and Picts pay tribute to them. The next king, _Ecgfrith_, marched
north and crossed the _Tay_ with a mighty host, but he was routed and
slain in a great battle at a place called _Nectansmere_, the exact
position of which is uncertain. From that time the English seem to
have kept more to the country south of the Forth, and the Picts were
more independent of them. This is about the only event of moment that
we know of in the history of that people, of whom no records remain,
except a long list of their kings down to 843, at which date they
became united with the Scots under one king.
=10. Union of Picts and Scots.=--This union took place under _Kenneth
MacAlpin_, who was king of the Scots. That he was king of the Picts
also is certain: how he came to be so can only be guessed. It is more
probable that it was by inheritance than by conquest, though he and the
kings after him kept his original title of King of Scots. Over how much
land he reigned, and what degree of power he had over his subjects, is
not known. It is thought that among the Celts the king was only the
head of the dominant tribe among many other tribes or clans, each of
which was bound to follow its own chief, and the king's control over
those chiefs seems to have been more in name than in fact. The northern
districts seem to have been ruled by powerful chiefs called _Maers_
or _Mormaers_. These chiefs, who it has been supposed were nominally
subject to the King of Scots, acted as if they were quite independent
of him. They were indeed his most troublesome enemies, and several
of the kings lost their lives in battle against them. _Moray_ was the
greatest of the Mormaerships. It lay north of the Spey and of the
mountains of Argyle, and stretched across the country from the Moray
Firth to the opposite ocean.
=11. Coming of the Northmen.=--Kenneth was followed in turn by
_Donald_, his brother, and _Constantine_, his son. Their reigns were
mainly taken up in fighting with the _Northmen_, a heathen people
of Teutonic race, who infested the seas and plundered the seaboard.
From the eighth century downwards they were the scourge alike of
English and Celtic Britain, swooping down on the coasts, harrying the
lands, and making off with their booty; or, at other times, seizing
and settling on great tracts of country. Three countries of modern
Europe--_Denmark_, _Norway_, and _Sweden_ were peopled by the Northmen.
But while it was those from _Denmark_ who chiefly harassed and finally
conquered the _English_, the _Norwegians_ seem to have looked upon
Scotland as their own especial prey, attracted doubtless by the
likeness between its many isles and inlets and the jagged outline of
the larger Scandinavian peninsula. The long narrow lochs of the western
coast, like the fiords of Norway, proved convenient harbours for the
ships of these pirates. It is towards the close of the eighth century
that we first hear of the descents of the Northmen on the Pictish
kingdom. It is told how they ravaged all the coast, destroyed the
Pictish capital, and haunted the Irish Sea. Their fury was specially
directed against churches and religious communities, and Iona did not
escape. Again and again it was wasted by fire and sword, its churches
plundered, the brethren slain, till at length the abbot was compelled
to seek on the mainland a refuge for himself and the relics of the
saintly founder. Under Kenneth MacAlpin the supremacy over the Scottish
Church was transferred to the monastery of _Dunkeld_. Under Kenneth's
son, _Constantine I._, a fresh spirit was given to these invasions by
the formation of the kingdom of _Norway_ by _Harold Harfagra_. The
petty chiefs displaced by him, who were called _ | 1,639.598129 |
2023-11-16 18:44:23.7785020 | 2,672 | 8 |
Produced by Charles Bowen, from page scans provided by
Google Books (Harvard University)
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scan source:
http://books.google.com/books?id=jvMtAAAAYAAJ
(Harvard University)
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
[Illustration: Agincourt]
THE WORKS
OF
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
REVISED AND CORRECTED BY THE AUTHOR.
WITH AN INTRODUCTORY PREFACE.
"D'autres auteurs l'ont encore plus avili, (le roman,) en y melant les
tableaux degoutant du vice; et tandis que le premier avantage des
fictions est de rassembler autour de l'homme tout ce qui, dans la
nature, peut lui servir de lecon ou de modele, on a imagine qu'on
tirerait une utilite quelconque des peintures odieuses de mauvaises
m[oe]urs; comme si elles pouvaient jamais laisser le c[oe]ur qui les
repousse, dans une situation aussi pure que le c[oe]ur qui les aurait
toujours ignorees. Mais un roman tel qu'on peut le concevoir, tel que
nous en avons quelques modeles, est une des plus belles productions de
l'esprit humain, une des plus influentes sur la morale des individus,
qui doit former ensuite les m[oe]urs publiques."--Madame De Stael.
_Essai sur les Fictions_.
"Poca favilla gran flamma seconda:
Forse diretro a me, con miglior voci
Si preghera, perche Cirra risponda."
Dante. _Paradiso_, Canto I.
VOL. XX.
AGINCOURT.
LONDON:
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO.
STATIONERS' HALL COURT.
MDCCCXLIX.
AGINCOURT.
A Romance.
BY
G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ.
* * * * *
LONDON:
SIMPKIN, MARSHALL, AND CO.
STATIONERS' HALL COURT.
MDCCCXLIX.
AGINCOURT.
* * *
CHAPTER I.
THE NIGHT RIDE.
The night was as black as ink; not a solitary twinkling star looked
out through that wide expanse of shadow, which our great Poet has
called the "blanket of the dark;" clouds covered the heaven; the moon
had not risen to tinge them even with grey, and the sun had too long
set to leave one faint streak of purple upon the edge of the western
sky. Trees, houses, villages, fields, and gardens, all lay in one
profound obscurity, and even the course of the high-road itself
required eyes well-accustomed to night-travelling to be able to
distinguish it, as it wandered on through a rich part of Hampshire,
amidst alternate woods and meadows. Yet at that murky hour, a
traveller on horseback rode forward upon his way, at an easy pace, and
with a light heart, if one might judge by the snatches of homely
ballads that broke from his lips as he trotted on. These might,
indeed, afford a fallacious indication of what was going on within the
breast, and in his case they did so; for habit is more our master than
we know, and often rules our external demeanour, whenever the spirit
is called to take council in the deep chambers within, showing upon
the surface, without any effort on our part to hide our thoughts, a
very different aspect from that of the mind's business at the moment.
Thus, then, the traveller who there rode along, saluting the ear of
night with scraps of old songs, sung in a low, but melodious voice,
was as thoughtful, if not as sad, as it was in his nature to be; but
yet, as that nature was a cheerful one and all his habits were gay, no
sooner were the eyes of the spirit called to the consideration of
deeper things, than custom exercised her sway over the animal part,
and he gave voice, as we have said, to the old ballads which had
cheered his boyhood and his youth.
Whatever were his contemplations, they were interrupted, just as he
came to a small stream which crossed the road and then wandered along
at its side, by first hearing the quick foot-falls of a horse
approaching, and then a loud, but fine voice, exclaiming, "Who goes
there?"
"A friend to all true men," replied the traveller; "a foe to all false
knaves. 'Merry sings the throstle under the thorn.' Which be you,
friend of the highway?"
"Faith, I hardly know," replied the stranger; "every man is a bit of
both, I believe. But if you can tell me my way to Winchester, I will
give you thanks."
"I want nothing more," answered the first traveller, drawing in his
rein. "But Winchester!--Good faith, that is a long way off; and you
are going from it, master:" and he endeavoured, as far as the darkness
would permit, to gain some knowledge of the stranger's appearance. It
seemed that of a young man of good proportions, tall and slim, but
with broad shoulders and long arms. He wore no cloak, and his dress
fitting tight to his body, as was the fashion of the day, allowed his
interlocutor to perceive the unencumbered outline of his figure.
"A long way off!" said the second traveller, as his new acquaintance
gazed at him; "that is very unlucky; but all my stars are under that
black cloud. What is to be done now, I wonder?"
"What do you want to do?" inquired the first traveller. "Winchester is
distant five and twenty miles or more."
"Odds life! I want to find somewhere to lodge me and my horse for a
night," replied the other, "at a less distance than twenty-five miles,
and yet not quite upon this very spot."
"Why not Andover?" asked his companion; "'tis but six miles, and I am
going thither."
"Humph!" said the stranger, in a tone not quite satisfied; "it must be
so, if better cannot be found; and yet, my friend, I would fain find
some other lodging. Is there no inn hard by, where carriers bait their
beasts and fill their bellies, and country-folks carouse on nights of
merry-making? or some old hall or goodly castle, where a truckle bed,
or one of straw, a nunchion of bread and cheese, and a draught of ale,
is not likely to be refused to a traveller with a good coat on his
back and long-toed shoes?"
"Oh, ay!" rejoined the first; "of the latter there are many round,
but, on my life, it will be difficult to direct you to them. The men
of this part have a fondness for crooked ways, and, unless you were
the Daedalus who made them, or had some fair dame to guide you by the
clue, you might wander about for as many hours as would take you to
Winchester."
"Then Andover it must be, I suppose," answered the other; "though, to
say sooth, I may there have to pay for a frolic, the score of which
might better be reckoned with other men than myself."
"A frolic!" said his companion; "nothing more, my friend?"
"No, on my life!" replied the other; "a scurvy frolic, such as only a
fool would commit; but when a man has nothing else to do, he is sure
to fall into folly, and I am idle perforce."
"Well, I'll believe you," answered the first, after a moment's
thought; "I have, thank Heaven, the gift of credulity, and believe all
that men tell me. Come, I will turn back with you, and guide you to a
place of rest, though I shall be well laughed at for my pains."
"Not for an act of generous courtesy, surely," said the stranger,
quitting the half-jesting tone in which he had hitherto spoken. "If
they laugh at you for that, I care not to lodge with them, and will
not put your kindness to the test, for I should look for a cold
reception."
"Nay, nay, 'tis not for that, they will laugh," rejoined the other,
"and perhaps it may jump with my humour to go back, too. If you have
committed a folly in a frolic to-night, I have committed one in anger.
Come with me, therefore, and, as we go, give me some name by which to
call you when we arrive, that I may not have to throw you into my
uncle's hall as a keeper with a dead deer; and, moreover, before we
go, give me your word that we have no frolics here, for I would not,
for much, that any one I brought, should move the old knight's heart
with aught but pleasure."
"There is my hand, good youth," replied the stranger, following, as
the other turned his horse; "and I never break my word, whatever men
say of me, though they tell strange tales. As for my name, people call
me Hal of Hadnock; it will do as well as another."
"For the nonce," added his companion, understanding well that it was
assumed; "but it matters not. Let us ride on, and the gate shall soon
be opened to you; for I do think they will be glad to see me back
again, though I may not perchance stay long.
'The porter rose anon certaine
As soon as he heard John call.'"
"You seem learned for a countryman," said the traveller, riding on by
his side; "but, perchance, I am speaking to a clerk?"
"Good faith, no," replied the first wayfarer; "more soldier than
clerk, Hal of Hadnock; as old Robert of Langland says, 'I cannot
perfectly my Paternoster, as the priest it singeth, but I can rhyme of
Robin Hode and Randof Earl of Chester.' I have cheered my boyhood with
many a song and my youth with many a ballad. When lying in the field
upon the marches of Wales, I have wiled away many a cold night with
the--
'Quens Mountfort, sa dure mort,'
or,
'Richard of Alemaigne, while he was king,'
and then in the cold blasts of March, I ever found comfort in--
'Summer is icumen in,
Lhude sing cuccu,
Groweth sede and bloweth mode,
And springeth the wode nu.'"
"And good reason, too," said Hal of Hadnock; "I do the same, i'faith;
and when wintry winds are blowing, I think ever, that a warmer day may
come and all be bright again. Were it not for that, indeed, I might
well be cold-hearted."
"Fie, never flinch!" cried his gay companion; "there is but one thing
on earth should make a bold man coldhearted."
"And what may that be?" asked the other; "to lose his dinner?"
"No, good life!" exclaimed the first,--"to lose his lady's love."
"Ay, is it there the saddle galls?" said Hal of Hadnock.
"Faith, not a whit," answered his fellow-traveller; "if it did, I
should leave off singing. You are wrong in your guess, Master Hal. I
may lose my lady, but not my lady's love, or I am much mistaken; and
while that stays with me I will both sing and hope."
"'Tis the best comfort," replied Hal of Hadnock, "and generally brings
success. But what am I to call you, fair sir? | 1,639.798542 |
2023-11-16 18:44:23.7871510 | 4,750 | 58 |
Produced by David Widger
THE DEAD ARE SILENT
By Arthur Schnitzler
Copyright, 1907, by Courtland H. Young
HE could endure the quiet waiting in the carriage no longer; it was
easier to get out and walk up and down. It was now dark; the few
scattered lamps in the narrow side street quivered uneasily in the wind.
The rain had stopped, the sidewalks were almost dry, but the rough-paved
roadway was still moist, and little pools gleamed here and there.
"Strange, isn't it?" thought Franz. "Here we are scarcely a hundred
paces from the Prater, and yet it might be a street in some little
country town. Well, it's safe enough, at any rate. She won't meet any of
the friends she dreads so much here."
He looked at his watch. "Only just seven, and so dark already! It is an
early autumn this year... and then this confounded storm I..." He turned
his coat-collar up about his neck and quickened his pacing. The glass in
the street lamps rattled lightly.
"Half an hour more," he said to himself, "then I can go home. I could
almost wish--that that half-hour were over." He stood for a moment
on the corner, where he could command a view of both streets. "She'll
surely come to-day," his thoughts ran on, while he struggled with his
hat, which threatened to blow away. "It's Friday.... Faculty meeting
at the University; she needn't hurry home." He heard the clanging of
street-car gongs, and the hour chimed from a nearby church tower. The
street became more animated. Hurrying figures passed him, clerks of
neighboring shops; they hastened onward, fighting against the storm.
No one noticed him; a couple of half-grown girls glanced up in idle
curiosity as they went by. Suddenly he saw a familiar figure coming
toward him. He hastened to meet her.... Could it be she? On foot?
She saw him, and quickened her pace.
"You are walking?" he asked.
"I dismissed the cab in front of the theatre. I think I've had that
driver before."
A man passed them, turning to look at the lady. Her companion glared at
him, and the other passed on hurriedly. The lady looked after him. "Who
was it?" she asked, anxiously.
"Don't know him. We'll see no one we know here, don't worry. But come
now, let's get into the cab."
"Is that your carriage?"
"Yes."
"An open one?"
"It was warm and pleasant when I engaged it an hour ago."
They walked to the carriage; the lady stepped in.
"Driver!" called the man.
"Why, where is he?" asked the lady.
Franz looked around. "Well, did you ever? I don't see him anywhere."
"Oh--" her tone was low and timid.
"Wait a moment, child, he must be around here somewhere."
The young man opened the door of a little saloon, and discovered his
driver at a table with several others. The man rose hastily. "In a
minute, sir," he explained, swallowing his glass of wine.
"What do you mean by this?"
"All right, sir... Be there in a minute." His step was a little unsteady
as he hastened to his horses. "Where'll you go, sir?"
"Prater--Summer-house."
Franz entered the carriage. His companion sat back in a corner,
crouching fearsomely under the shadow of the cover.
He took both her hands in his. She sat silent. "Won't you say good
evening to me?"
"Give me a moment to rest, dear. I'm still out of breath."
He leaned back in his corner. Neither spoke for some minutes. The
carriage turned into the Prater Street, passed the Tegethoff Monument,
and a few minutes later was rolling swiftly through the broad, dark
Prater Avenue.
Emma turned suddenly and flung both arms around her lover's neck. He
lifted the veil that still hung about her face, and kissed her.
"I have you again--at last!" she exclaimed.
"Do you know how long it is since we have seen each other?" he asked.
"Since Sunday."
"Yes, and that wasn't good for much."
"Why not? You were in our house."
"Yes--in your house. That's just it. This can't go on. I shall not enter
your house again.... What's the matter?"
"A carriage passed us."
"Dear girl, the people who are driving in the Prater at such an hour,
and in such weather, aren't noticing much what other people are doing."
"Yes--that's so. But some one might look in here, by chance."
"We couldn't be recognized. It's too dark."
"Yes--but can't we drive somewhere else?"
"Just as you like." He called to the driver, who did not seem to hear.
Franz leaned forward and touched the man.
"Turn around again. What are you whipping your horses like that for?
We're in no hurry, I tell you. Drive--let me see--yes--drive down the
avenue that leads to the Reichs Bridge."
"The Reichsstrasse?"
"Yes. But don't hurry so, there's no need of it."
"All right, sir. But it's the wind that makes the horses so crazy."
Franz sat back again as the carriage turned in the other direction.
"Why didn't I see you yesterday?"
"How could I?"...
"You were invited to my sister's."
"Oh--yes."
"Why weren't you there?"
"Because I can't be with you--like that--with others around. No, I just
can't." She shivered. "Where are we now?" she asked, after a moment.
They were passing under the railroad bridge at the entrance to the
Reichsstrasse.
"On the way to the Danube," replied Franz. "We're driving toward the
Reichs Bridge. We'll certainly not meet any of our friends here," he
added, with a touch of mockery.
"The carriage jolts dreadfully."
"We're on cobblestones again."
"But he drives so crooked."
"Oh, you only think so."
He had begun to notice himself that the vehicle was swaying to and
fro more than was necessary, even on the rough pavement. But he said
nothing, not wishing to alarm her.
"There's a great deal I want to say to you today, Emma."
"You had better begin then; I must be home at nine o'clock."
"A few words may decide everything."
"Oh, goodness, what was that!" she screamed. The wheels had caught in a
car-track, and the carriage turned partly over as the driver attempted
to free it. Franz caught at the man's coat. "Stop that!" he cried. "Why,
you're drunk, man!"
The driver halted his horses with some difficulty. "Oh, no--sir--"
"Let's get out here, Emma, and walk."
"Where are we?"
"Here's the bridge already. And the wind is not nearly as strong as
it was. It will be nicer to walk a little. It's so hard to talk in the
carriage."
Emma drew down her veil and followed him. "Don't you call this windy?"
she exclaimed as she struggled against the gust that met her at the
corner.
He took her arm, and called to the driver to follow them.
They walked on slowly. Neither spoke as they mounted the ascent of the
bridge; and they halted where they could hear the flow of the water
below them. Heavy darkness surrounded them. The broad stream stretched
itself out in gray, indefinite outlines; red lights in the distance,
floating above the water, awoke answering gleams from its surface.
Trembling stripes of light reached down from the shore they had just
left; on the other side of the bridge the river lost itself in the
blackness of open fields. Thunder rumbled in the distance; they looked
over to where the red lights soared. A train with lighted windows rolled
between iron arches that seemed to spring up out of the night for an
instant, to sink back into darkness again. The thunder grew fainter and
more distant; silence fell again; only the wind moved, in sudden gusts.
Franz spoke at last, after a long silence. "We must go away."
"Of course," Emma answered, softly.
"We must go away," he continued, with more animation. "Go away
altogether, I mean--"
"Oh, we can't!"
"Only because we are cowards, Emma."
"And my child?"
"He will let you have the boy, I know."
"But how shall we go?" Her voice was very low. "You mean--to run away--"
"Not at all. You have only to be honest with him; to tell him that you
cannot live with him any longer; that you belong to me."
"Franz--are you mad?"
"I will spare you that trial, if you wish. I will tell him myself."
"No, Franz, you will do nothing of the kind."
He endeavored to read her face. But the darkness showed him only that
her head was turned toward him.
He was silent a few moments more. Then he spoke quietly: "You need not
fear; I shall not do it."
They walked toward the farther shore. "Don't you hear a noise?" she
asked. "What is it?"
"Something is coming from the other side," he said.
A slow rumbling came out of the darkness. A little red light gleamed out
at them. They could see that it hung from the axle of a clumsy country
cart, but they could not see whether the cart was laden or not and
whether there were human beings on it. Two other carts followed the
first. They could just see the outlines of a man in peasant garb on the
last cart, and could see that he was lighting his pipe. The carts passed
them slowly. Soon there was nothing to be heard but the low rolling
of the wheels as their own carriage followed them. The bridge dropped
gently to the farther shore. They saw the street disappear into
blackness between rows of trees. Open fields lay before them to the
right and to the left; they gazed out into gloom indistinguishable.
There was another long silence before Franz spoke again. "Then it is the
last time--"
"What?--" Emma's tone was anxious.
"The last time we are to be together. Stay with him, if you will. I bid
you farewell."
"Are you serious?"
"Absolutely."
"There, now you see, it is you who always spoil the few hours we have
together?--not I."
"Yes, you're right," said Franz. "Let's drive back to town."
She held his arm closer. "No," she insisted, tenderly, "I don't want to
go back. I won't be sent away from you."
She drew his head down to hers, and kissed him tenderly. "Where would we
get to if we drove on down there?" she asked.
"That's the road to Prague, dear."
"We won't go quite that far," she smiled, "but I'd like to drive on a
little, down there." She pointed into the darkness.
Franz called to the driver. There was no answer; the carriage rumbled
on, slowly. Franz ran after it, and saw that the driver was fast asleep.
Franz roused him roughly. "We want to drive on down that street. Do you
hear me?"
"All right, sir."
Emma entered the carriage first, then Franz. The driver whipped his
horses, and they galloped madly over the moist earth of the road-bed.
The couple inside the cab held each other closely as they swayed with
the motion of the vehicle.
"Isn't this quite nice?" whispered Emma, her lips on his.
In the moment of her words she seemed to feel the cab mounting into the
air. She felt herself thrown over violently, readied for some hold, but
grasped only the empty air. She seemed to be spinning madly like a top,
her eyes closed, suddenly she found herself lying on the ground, a great
silence about her, as if she were alone, far away from all the world.
Then noises began to come into her consciousness again; hoofs beat the
ground near her; a low moaning came from somewhere; but she could
see nothing. Terror seized her; she screamed aloud. Her terror grew
stronger, for she could not hear her own voice. Suddenly she knew what
had happened; the carriage had hit some object, possibly a mile-stone;
had upset, and she had been thrown out. Where is Franz? was her next
thought. She called his name. And now she could hear her voice, not
distinctly yet, but she could hear it. There was no answer to her call.
She tried to get up. After some effort she rose to a sitting, posture,
and, reaching out, she felt something, a human body, on the ground
beside her. She could now begin to see a little through the dimness.
Franz lay beside her, motionless. She put out her hand and touched
his face; something warm and wet covered it. Her heart seemed to
stop beating--Blood?--Oh, what had happened? Franz was wounded and
unconscious. Where was the coachman? She called him, but no answer
came. She still sat there on the ground. She did not seem to be injured,
although she ached all over. "What shall I do?" she thought; "what shall
I do? How can it be that I am not injured? Franz!" she called again. A
voice answered from somewhere near her.
"Where are you, lady? And where is the gentleman? Wait a minute,
Miss--I'll light the lamps, so we can see. I don't know what's got into
the beasts to-day. It ain't my fault, Miss, sure--they ran into a pile
of stones."
Emma managed to stand up, although she was bruised all over. The fact
that the coachman seemed quite uninjured reassured her somewhat.
She heard the man opening the lamp and striking a match. She waited
anxiously for the light. She did not dare to touch Franz again. "It's
all so much worse when you can't see plainly," she thought. "His eyes
may be open now--there won't be anything wrong...."
A tiny ray of light came from one side. She saw the carriage, not
completely upset, as she had thought, but leaning over toward the
ground, as if one wheel were broken. The horses stood quietly. She saw
the milestone, then a heap of loose stones, and beyond them a ditch.
Then the light touched Franz's feet, crept up over his body to his face,
and rested there. The coachman had set the lamp on the ground beside the
head of the unconscious man. Emma dropped to her knees, and her heart
seemed to stop beating as she looked into the face before her. It was
ghastly white; the eyes were half open, only the white showing. A thin
stream of blood trickled down from one temple and ran into his collar.
The teeth were fastened into the under lip. "No--no--it isn't possible,"
Emma spoke, as if to herself.
The driver knelt also and examined the face of the man. Then he took
the head in both his hands and raised it. "What are you doing?" screamed
Emma, hoarsely, shrinking back at the sight of the head that seemed to
be rising of its own volition.
"Please, Miss--I'm afraid--I'm thinking--there's a great misfortune
happened--"
"No--no--it's not true!" said Emma. "It can't be true!--You are not
hurt? Nor am I--"
The man let the head he held fall back again into the lap of the
trembling Emma. "If only some one would come--if the peasants had only
passed fifteen minutes later."
"What shall we do?" asked Emma, her lips trembling.
"Why, you see, Miss, if the carriage was all right--but it's no good as
it is--we've got to wait till some one comes--" he talked on, but Emma
did not hear him. Her brain seemed to awake suddenly, and she knew what
was to be done. "How far is it to the nearest house?" she asked.
"Not much further, Miss--there's Franz-Josef's land right there. We'd see
the houses if it was lighter--it won't take five minutes to get there."
"Go there, then; I'll stay here--Go and fetch some one."
"I think I'd better stay here with you, Miss. Somebody must come; it's
the main road."
"It'll be too late; we need a doctor at once."
The coachman looked down at the quiet face, then he looked at Emma, and
shook his head.
"You can't tell," she cried.
"Yes, Miss--but there'll be no doctor in those houses."
"But there'll be somebody to send to the city--"
"Oh, yes, Miss--they'll be having a telephone there, anyway! We'll
telephone to the Rescue Society."
"Yes, yes, that's it. Go at once, run--and bring some men back with you.
Why do you wait? Go at once. Hurry!"
The man looked down again at the white face in her lap. "There'll be no
use here for doctor or Rescue Society, Miss."
"Oh, go!--for God's sake go!"
"I'm going, Miss--but don't get afraid in the darkness here."
He hurried down the street. "'Twasn't my fault," he murmured as he ran.
"Such an idea! to drive down this road this time o' night."
Emma was left alone with the unconscious man in the gloomy street.
"What shall I do now?" she thought "It can't be possible--it can't." The
thought circled dizzily in her brain--"It can't be possible." Suddenly
she seemed to hear a low breathing. She bent to the pale lips--no--not
the faintest breath came from them. The blood had dried on temple and
cheek. She gazed at the eyes, the half-closed eyes, and shuddered. Why
couldn't she believe it?... It must be true--this was Death! A shiver
ran through her--she felt but one thing--"This is a corpse. I am here
alone with a corpse!--a corpse that rests on my lap!" With trembling
hands she pushed the head away, until it rested on the ground. Then
a feeling of horrible alone-ness came over her. Why had she sent the
coachman away? What should she do here all alone with this dead man in
the darkness? If only some one would come--but what was she to do then
if anybody did come? How long would she have to wait here? She looked
down at the corpse again. "But I'm not alone with him," she thought,
"the light is there." And the light seemed to her to become alive,
something sweet and friendly, to which she owed gratitude. There was
more life in this little flame than in all the wide night about her. It
seemed almost as if this light was a protection for her, a protection
against the terrible pale man who lay on the ground beside her. She
stared into the light until her eyes wavered and the flame began to
dance. Suddenly she felt herself awake--wide awake. She sprang to her
feet. Oh, this would not do! It would not do at all--no one must find
her here with him. She seemed to be outside of herself, looking at
herself standing there on the road, the corpse and the light below her;
she saw herself grow into strange, enormous proportions, high up into
the darkness. "What am I waiting for?" she asked herself, and her brain
reeled. "What am I waiting for? The people who might come? They don't
need me. They will come, and they will ask questions--and I--why am I
here? They will ask who I am--what shall I answer? I will not answer
them--I will not say a word--they cannot compel me to talk."
The sound of voices came from the distance.
"Already?" she thought, listening in terror. The voices came from the
bridge. It could not be the men the driver was bringing with him. But
whoever it was would see the light--and they must not see it, for then
she would be discovered. She overturned the lantern with her foot,
and the light went out. She stood in utter darkness. She could see
nothing--not even him. The pile of % stones shone dimly. The voices came
nearer. She trembled from head to foot; they must not find her here.
That was the only thing of real importance in all the wide world--that
no one should find her here. She would be lost if they knew that
this--this corpse--was her lover. She clasps her hands convulsively,
praying that the people, whoever they were, might pass by on the farther
side of the road, and not see her. She listens breathless. Yes, they are
there, on the other side--women, two women, or perhaps three. What are
they talking about? They have seen the carriage, they speak of it--she
can distinguish words. "A carriage upset--" What else do they
say? She cannot understand--they walk on--they have passed
her--Ah--thanks--thanks to Heaven!--And now? What now? Oh, why isn't
she dead, as he is? He is to be envied; there is no more danger, no more
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VICTORY: AN ISLAND TALE
By Joseph Conrad
Contents
NOTE TO THE FIRST EDITION
AUTHOR'S NOTE
PART ONE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
PART TWO
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
PART THREE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
PART FOUR
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
NOTE TO THE FIRST EDITION
The last word of this novel was written on 29 May 1914. And that last
word was the single word of the title.
Those were the times of peace. Now that the moment of publication
approaches I have been considering the discretion of altering the
title-page. The word "Victory" the shining and tragic goal of noble
effort, appeared too great, too august, to stand at the head of a mere
novel. There was also the possibility of falling under the suspicion of
commercial astuteness deceiving the public into the belief that the book
had something to do with war.
Of that, however, I was not afraid very much. What influenced my
decision most were the obscure promptings of that pagan resid | 1,639.897898 |
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_FREEMAN'S HISTORICAL COURSE FOR SCHOOLS._
HISTORY
OF
SCOTLAND
BY
MARGARET MACARTHUR.
EDITED BY
EDWARD A. FREEMAN, D.C.L.
_Edition Adapted for American Students._
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1874
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1874, by
HENRY HOLT,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
[ Transcriber Notes:
1. Obvious misspellings and omissions were corrected.
2. Uncertain misspellings or ancient words were not corrected.
3. "_" indicates italics, "=" indicates bold. ]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I.
THE GAELIC PERIOD 1
CHAPTER II.
THE ENGLISH PERIOD 19
CHAPTER III.
THE STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE 35
CHAPTER IV.
THE INDEPENDENT KINGDOM 52
CHAPTER V.
THE JAMESES 67
CHAPTER VI.
THE REFORMATION 96
CHAPTER VII.
THE UNION OF THE CROWNS 125
CHAPTER VIII.
AFTER THE UNION 167
CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE.
THE GAELIC PERIOD.
Agricola's Invasion 80
Severus' Invasion 208
Founding of Northumberland by Ida 547
Founding of Dalriada by the Scots about 503
Union of Picts and Scots 843
Commendation to Eadward 924
Battle of Brunanburh 937
Battle of Carham 1018
Cnut's Invasion 1031
Malcolm Canmore King 1057
William's Invasion 1073
Malcolm slain 1093
THE ENGLISH PERIOD, 1097-1286.
Eadgar 1097
Alexander I. 1107
David 1124
Battle of the Standard 1138
Malcolm IV 1153
William the Lion 1165
Capture at Alnwick 1174
Treaty of Falaise 1174
Council of Northampton 1176
Treaty with Richard I. 1189
Alexander II. 1214
Border-line fixed 1222
Council at York 1237
Alexander III. 1249
Battle of Largs 1263
Man and the Sudereys annexed 1266
Death of Alexander III. 1286
THE STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE, to 1314.
Queen Margaret 1286
Treaty of Brigham 1290
Margaret dies 1290
Council meets at Norham, 3rd June 1291
Judgment given at Berwick, 11th November 1292
John crowned King 1292
Edward's first Conquest 1296
Rising of Wallace 1297
Surrender at Irvine 1297
Battle of Stirling, 11th September 1297
Battle of Falkirk 1298
Edward's second Conquest 1303
Capture of Wallace 1305
Robert Bruce crowned King, 27th March 1306
Death of Edward 1307
Battle of Bannockburn, 24th June 1314
THE INDEPENDENT KINGDOM, 1314-1424.
Parliament at Cambuskenneth 1326
Peace of Northampton 1328
David II. 1329
Edward Balliol's Invasion 1332
Battle of Halidon Hill 1333
Capture of David 1346
His release 1347
Invasion of Edward III. 1356
Robert II. 1370
Raid of Otterburn 1388
Robert III. 1390
Fight on North Inch 1396
Invasion of Henry IV. 1400
Battle of Homildon Hill 1402
Capture of the Earl of Carrick 1405
Robert III. dies 1406
Burning of Reseby 1408
St. Andrews University founded 1408
Battle of Harlaw, 24th July 1411
Albany the Regent dies 1419
THE JAMESES, 1424-1557.
James I. crowned King 1424
Parliament at Inverness 1427
Murder of the King 1436
James II. 1436
Murder of the Douglases 1439
Murder of William, Earl of Douglas 1452
Battle of Arkinholm 1454
The King slain at Roxburgh 1460
James III. 1460
Orkney and Shetland annexed 1469
St. Andrews raised to an Archbishopric 1471
Revolt of Lauder Bridge 1482
Battle of Sauchieburn 1488
James IV 1488
Marriage of James to Margaret Tudor 1502
Lordship of the Isles broken up 1504
Battle of Flodden, 9th September 1513
James V. 1513
"Erection" of the King 1524
Fall of Angus 1528
Rout at Solway Moss 1542
Mary 1542
Hertford's first Invasion 1544
Hertford's second Invasion 1545
Burning of George Wishart 1545
Murder of Beaton 1545
Battle of Pinkie 1547
Mary sails for France 1548
First marriage of Mary, 24th April 1558
THE REFORMATION PERIOD, 1557-1603.
The "First Covenant" signed 1557
Burning of Walter Mill 1558
Religious riots 1559
Treaty of Berwick 1560
Reformation Statutes passed 1560
Return of the Queen 1561
Battle of Corrichie 1562
Second marriage of Mary, 29th July 1565
Murder of Rizzio 1566
Murder of Darnley, 9th February 1567
Third Marriage of Mary, 15th May 1567
Surrender at Carberry, 15th June 1567
Abdication of Mary 1567
James VI. crowned 1567
Battle of Langside, 13th May 1568
Conference at York begins, October 1568
Murder of Murray the Regent 1570
Taking of Dunbarton, 2nd April 1571
Parliament at Stirling, 4th September 1571
Lennox | 1,639.898957 |
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AN ENGLISH GARNER
CRITICAL ESSAYS
AND
LITERARY FRAGMENTS
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY
J. CHURTON COLLINS
1903
PUBLISHERS' NOTE
The texts contained in the present volume are reprinted with very slight
alterations from the _English Garner_ issued in eight volumes (1877-1890,
London, 8vo.) by Professor Arber, whose name is sufficient guarantee for
the accurate collation of the texts with the rare originals, the old
spelling being in most cases carefully modernised. The contents of the
original _Garner_ have been rearranged and now for the first time
classified, under the general editorial supervision of Mr. Thomas
Seccombe. Certain lacunae have been filled by the interpolation of fresh
matter. The Introductions are wholly new and have been written specially
for this issue. The references to volumes of the _Garner_ (other than the
present volume) are for the most part to the editio princeps, 8 vols.
1877-90.
CONTENTS
I. Extract from Thomas Wilson's _Art of Rhetoric_, 1554
II. Sir Philip Sidney's _Letter to his brother Robert_, 1580
III. Extract from Francis Meres's _Palladis Tamia_, 1598
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THE CHRONICLES OF CLOVIS
by
"SAKI" (H. H. MUNRO)
with an Introduction by A. A. MILNE
TO THE LYNX KITTEN,
WITH HIS RELUCTANTLY GIVEN CONSENT,
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY
DEDICATED
H. H. M.
August, 1911
INTRODUCTION
There are good things which we want to share with the world and good
things which we want to keep to ourselves. The secret of our favourite
restaurant, to take a case, is guarded jealously from all but a few
intimates; the secret, to take a contrary case, of our infallible
remedy for seasickness is thrust upon every traveller we meet, even if
he be no more than a casual acquaintance about to cross the Serpentine.
So with our books. There are dearly loved books of which we babble to a
neighbour at dinner, insisting that she shall share our delight in
them; and there are books, equally dear to us, of which we say nothing,
fearing lest the praise of others should cheapen the glory of our
discovery. The books of "Saki" were, for me at least, in the second
class.
It was in the WESTMINSTER GAZETTE that I discovered him (I like to
remember now) almost as soon as he was discoverable. Let us spare a
moment, and a tear, for those golden days in the early nineteen
hundreds, when there were five leisurely papers of an evening in which
the free-lance might graduate, and he could speak of his Alma Mater,
whether the GLOBE or the PALL MALL, with as much pride as, he never
doubted, the GLOBE or the PALL MALL would speak one day of him. Myself
but lately down from ST. JAMES', I was not too proud to take some
slight but pitying interest in men of other colleges. The unusual name
of a freshman up at WESTMINSTER attracted my attention; I read what he
had to say; and it was only by reciting rapidly with closed eyes the
names of our own famous alumni, beginning confidently with Barrie and
ending, now very doubtfully, with myself, that I was able to preserve
my equanimity. Later one heard that this undergraduate from overseas
had gone up at an age more advanced than customary; and just as
Cambridge men have been known to complain of the maturity of Oxford
Rhodes scholars, so one felt that this WESTMINSTER free-lance in the
thirties was no fit competitor for the youth of other colleges.
Indeed, it could not compete.
Well, I discovered him, but only to the few, the favoured, did I speak
of him. It may have been my uncertainty (which still persists) whether
he called himself Sayki, Sahki or Sakki which made me thus ungenerous
of his name, or it may have been the feeling that the others were not
worthy of him; but how refreshing it was when some intellectually
blown-up stranger said "Do you ever read Saki?" to reply, with the same
pronunciation and even greater condescension: "Saki! He has been my
favourite author for years!"
A strange exotic creature, this Saki, to us many others who were trying
to do it too. For we were so domestic, he so terrifyingly
cosmopolitan. While we were being funny, as planned, with collar-studs
and hot-water bottles, he was being much funnier with werwolves and
tigers. Our little dialogues were between John and Mary; his, and how
much better, between Bertie van Tahn and the Baroness. Even the most
casual intruder into one of his sketches, as it might be our Tomkins,
had to be called Belturbet or de Ropp, and for his hero, weary
man-of-the-world at seventeen, nothing less thrilling than Clovis
Sangrail would do. In our envy we may have wondered sometimes if it
were not much easier to be funny with tigers than with collar-studs; if
Saki's careless cruelty, that strange boyish insensitiveness of his,
did not give him an unfair start in the pursuit of laughter. It may
have been so; but, fortunately, our efforts to be funny in the Saki
manner have not survived to prove it.
What is Saki's manner, what his magic talisman? Like every artist
worth consideration, he had no recipe. If his exotic choice of subject
was often his strength, it was often his weakness; if his
insensitiveness carried him through, at times, to victory, it brought
him, at times, to defeat. I do not think that he has that "mastery of
the CONTE"--in this book at least--which some have claimed for him.
Such mastery infers a passion for tidiness which was not in the boyish
Saki's equipment. He leaves loose ends everywhere. Nor in his
dialogue, delightful as it often is, funny as it nearly always is, is
he the supreme master; too much does it become monologue judiciously
fed, one character giving and the other taking. But in comment, in
reference, in description | 1,640.30105 |
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CHALLENGE
By LOUIS UNTERMEYER
NEW YORK
THE CENTURY CO.
1914
Copyright, 1914, by
THE CENTURY CO.
Published, April, 1914
CONTENTS
I. SUMMONS
SUMMONS
PRAYER
TO ARMS
ON THE BIRTH OF A CHILD
HOW MUCH OF GODHOOD
THE GREAT CAROUSAL
THANKS
GOD'S YOUTH
IN THE BERKSHIRE HILLS
VOICES
REVELATION
AFFIRMATION
DOWNHILL ON A BICYCLE
MIDNIGHT--BY THE OPEN WINDOW
THE WINE OF NIGHT
II. INTERLUDES
INVOCATION
"FEUERZAUBER"
SUNDAY NIGHT
AT KENNEBUNKPORT
IN A STRANGE CITY
FOLK-SONG
IN THE STREETS
ENVY
A BIRTHDAY
LEAVING THE HARBOR
THE SHELL TO THE PEARL
THE YOUNG MYSTIC
HEALED
THE STIRRUP-CUP
SPRING ON BROADWAY
IN A CAB
SUMMER NIGHT--BROADWAY
HAUNTED
ISADORA DUNCAN DANCING
SONGS AND THE POET
THE HERETIC
I. BLASPHEMY
II. IRONY
III. MOCKERY
IV. HUMILITY
FIFTH AVENUE--SPRING AFTERNOON
TRIBUTE
III. SONGS OF PROTEST
CHALLENGE
CALIBAN IN THE COAL-MINES
ANY CITY
LANDSCAPES
TWO FUNERALS
SUNDAY
STRIKERS
IN THE SUBWAY
BATTLE-CRIES
A VOICE FROM THE SWEAT-SHOPS
SOLDIERS
PEACE
THE DYING DECADENT
FUNERAL HYMN
PROTESTS
For the privilege of reprinting many of the poems included in this
volume, the author thanks the editors of _The Century, Harper's, The
Forum, The Masses, The Smart Set, The Independent, The American, The
Delineator, The New Age, The Poetry Journal_ and other magazines.
SUMMONS
_To Walter Lippmann_
SUMMONS
The eager night and the impetuous winds,
The hints and whispers of a thousand lures,
And all the swift persuasion of the Spring
Surged from the stars and stones, and swept me on...
The smell of honeysuckles, keen and clear,
Startled and shook me, with the sudden thrill
Of some well-known but half-forgotten voice.
A slender stream became a naked sprite,
Flashed around curious bends, and winked at me
Beyond the turns, alert and mischievous.
A saffron moon, dangling among the trees,
Seemed like a toy balloon caught in the boughs,
Flung there in sport by some too-mirthful breeze...
And as it hung there, vivid and unreal,
The whole world's lethargy was brushed away;
The night kept tugging at my torpid mood
And tore it into shreds. A warm air blew
My wintry slothfulness beyond the stars;
And over all indifference there streamed
A myriad urges in one rushing wave...
Touched with the lavish miracles of earth,
I felt the brave persistence of the grass;
The far desire of rivulets; the keen,
Unconquerable fervor of the thrush;
The endless labors of the patient worm;
The lichen's strength; the prowess of the ant;
The constancy of flowers; the blind belief
Of ivy climbing slowly toward the sun;
The eternal struggles and eternal deaths--
And yet the groping faith of every root!
Out of old graves arose the cry of life;
Out of the dying came the deathless call.
And, thrilling with a new sweet restlessness,
The thing that was my boyhood woke in me--
Dear, foolish fragments made me strong again;
Valiant adventures, dreams of those to come,
And all the vague, heroic hopes of youth,
With fresh abandon, like a fearless laugh,
Leaped up to face the heaven's unconcern...
And then--veil upon veil was torn aside--
Stars, like a host of merry girls and boys,
Danced gaily 'round me, plucking at my hand;
The night, scorning its ancient mystery,
Leaned down and pressed new courage in my heart;
The hermit thrush, throbbing with more than Song,
Sang with a happy challenge to the skies;
Love, and the faces of a world of children,
Swept like a conquering army through my blood--
And Beauty, rising out of all its forms,
Beauty, the passion of the universe,
Flamed with its joy, a thing too great for tears.
And, like a wine, poured itself out for me
To drink of, to be warmed with, and to go
Refreshed and strengthened to the ceaseless fight;
To meet with confidence the cynic years;
Battling in wars that never can be won,
Seeking the lost cause and the brave defeat!
PRAYER
God, though this life is but a wraith,
Although we know not what we use,
Although we grope with little faith,
Give me the heart to fight--and lose.
Ever insurgent let me be,
Make me more daring than devout;
From sleek contentment keep me free.
And fill me with a buoyant doubt.
Open my eyes to visions girt
With beauty, and with wonder lit--
But let me always see the dirt,
And all that spawn and die in it.
Open my ears to music; let
Me thrill with Spring's first flutes and drums--
But never let me dare forget
The bitter ballads of the slums.
From compromise and things half-done,
Keep me, with stern and stubborn pride;
And when, at last, the fight is won
God, keep me still unsatisfied.
TO ARMS!
Who can be dull or wrapped in unconcern
Knowing a world so clamorous and keen;
A world of ardent conflict, honest spleen,
And healthy, hot desires too swift to turn;
Vivid and vulgar--with no heart to learn...
See how that drudge, a thing unkempt, unclean,
Laughs with the royal laughter of a queen.
Even in her the eager fires burn.
Who can be listless in these stirring hours
When, with athletic courage, we engage
To storm, with fierce abandon, sterner powers
And meet indifference with a joyful rage;
Thrilled with a purpose and the dream that towers
Out of this arrogant and blundering age.
ON THE BIRTH OF A CHILD
(Jerome Epstein--August 8, 1912)
Lo--to the battle-ground of Life,
Child, you have come, like a conquering shout,
Out of a struggle--into strife;
Out of a darkness--into doubt.
Girt with the fragile armor of Youth,
Child, you must ride into endless wars,
With the sword of protest, the buckler of truth,
And a banner of love to sweep the stars.
About you the world's despair will surge;
Into defeat you must plunge and grope--
Be to the faltering an urge;
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THE MITTEN SERIES
[Illustration: Out stalked the Griffin, smoking his Pipe, and with him
all the fashionable Beasts of the neighborhood.]
MORE MITTENS:
WITH
THE DOLL'S WEDDING
AND
OTHER STORIES.
BEING
THE THIRD BOOK OF THE SERIES.
BY
AUNT FANNY,
AUTHOR OF THE SIX NIGHTCAP BOOKS, ETC.
NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
443 & 445 BROADWAY.
LONDON: 16 LITTLE BRITAIN.
1863.
Entered, according to act of Congress, in the year 1862, by
FANNY BARROW,
In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for
the Southern District of New York.
THIS VOLUME
IS
AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED
TO
"ILKEN ANNIE,"
WHO
LIVES ON STATEN ISLAND.
CONTENTS.
A LETTER FROM AUNT FANNY, 7
THE DOLL'S WEDDING, 10
WHAT CAME OF GIPSYING, 25
THE CHILD HEROINE, 50
AUNT MARY, 69
LITTLE PETER, 75
THE STORY TOLD TO WILLIE, 102
A LETTER
FROM AUNT FANNY.
MY DARLING CHILDREN:
I wrote these stories, as I have already told you, some years ago, and
took a great deal of pains with them. I called them "Life Among the
Children;" when, lo and behold! somebody else had written a book with
the very same name, but very different stories, and I never knew one
word about it.
You may believe how sorry I was to take this pretty title when it
belonged to another; and I was very thankful that I could get at the
printer and have it changed.
What do you think of "The Doll's Wedding" for a name? I like it very
much, because "Lily," whose dolls were married, is one of my particular
pets; and what I have related, took place precisely as you read it. Lily
is a funny darling; she had a "doll's regatta" once, and I do believe,
in my next book, I will tell you all about it.
Meanwhile, if you will only laugh and grow fat as Lily does, and above
all, try to be good and lovely as Maggie the Child Heroine is, I will
write stories to interest you until my fingers feel as if they were all
thumbs; for that is just how they _do_ feel when they are very tired.
I wish I knew you all. I believe about three hundred children call me
"Aunt Fanny" now, but I have room in my heart for _ever, ever_ so many
more. You see I have a patent elastic heart; and when you would think it
was so crowded that a small doll could not squeeze in, if you only try,
you would find there was plenty of room for _one more_, and that one
would be you.
I wish good Mr. Somebody would make a telescope on purpose for me,
powerful enough to see all the darling children at once. Fancy how
perfectly delightful to see every little innocent child in the world
with one eye!
Oh! that thought has quite upset me, laughing and thinking about it. So
many little smiling faces at once--a great deal better than staring at
the man in the moon, who has no expression at all worth talking about.
When I get it I will invite you all to come and take a peep at
yourselves.
Good-by! I blow you a hundred kisses; and I hope the breeze is fair, so
you will get them all safe and warm from your loving
AUNT FANNY.
THE DOLL'S WEDDING.
One day, Alice came home from school, and opening her drawer, to put
away her things, she saw a letter lying on the very top of a pile of
pantalets.
"Why, who can this be for?" said she, in a tone of delighted surprise.
"Is it for me, mamma?"
"Yes," said her mother, "and it is sealed up so tight, that I expect it
is of the greatest importance; perhaps from the President of the United
States, requesting you to come to Washington immediately, to dine with
him."
"Dear me, how delightful!" exclaimed Alice. "I like getting a letter,
it's so very _oldy_, you know--just like grown people; did you pay the
postman?" and in her impatience and excitement, she tore the envelope
all to pieces. "Now read it, mamma, please," and then she began to jump
up and down, and ended by turning a summerset on the bed.
Her mother laughed, and said: "If that is the way you are going to
behave, when you go to see the President, I think he will be slightly
astonished; but let us see, first, if he wrote it," and she read thus:--
"DEAR ALICE--
"My doll is to be married on next Friday, at two o'clock; and I
should be very happy to see you, and as many dolls as you can
bring.
"Yours, truly, LILY.
"WEDNESDAY, Oct. 20th, 1858."
"Isn't it too nice!" cried Alice, with a joyful little scream. "A
wedding!" and she bounced into a rocking-chair, and nearly tipped over
backwards. "Dear me! what a _leany_-back chair! I very nearly upset.
I'll take Anna with me; but she must have a new dress immediately--and a
hoop petticoat; and, oh, mamma! her hands are all to pieces; the cotton
is sticking out in every direction; can't you buy her a new pair? these
old brown ones will never do to go to a wedding. Oh, dear! I am so
glad," she continued, clapping her hands, "I won't have any trouble with
her hair, because it is made of china, and I need not put it up in
curl-papers, as I did that poor old thing's in the corner, staring at me
so crossly, just because I cut her nose off: she can't go to the
wedding; she would frighten the bride into fits."
And now Alice ran off, and coaxed her sister, who was the very best
sister in the whole world, or any where else, to make Anna a dress,
grand enough for the occasion; and, thereupon, commenced a great
rummaging in the rag-bag, and among their mother's stock of old ribbons;
and in a short time Anna was made to look perfectly beautiful. The hoop
petticoat gave her an appearance extremely like a balloon; and she had
to sit down very carefully, to prevent it from going up in the air, and
almost over her head.
When Friday came, it rained; and Alice's sister very kindly went to see
if the wedding would come off, rain or shine. She came back with the
information, that it would not take place if it rained; the ceremony
would be postponed to the first fair day--a mode of proceeding rather
unusual, but, I think, very sensible; and, I have no doubt, that _real
live_ people would be very glad to do the same; for some find it
difficult to feel very happy when the rain is pouring down from the
great black clouds.
Alice waited impatiently until Saturday. At first it was cloudy; but
towards twelve o'clock the sun shone bright and warm, and Alice and her
doll were soon dressed; the first, all smiles, doing every thing with a
hop, skip and jump; while Miss Anna, whose heart, if she had any, was as
hard, no doubt, as her china head, kept the same prinking smile on her
face, as she was violently twisted and twitched about, and pins run into
her in all directions; not to speak of her being thrown so hastily on
the bed, while Alice was having her bonnet tied and her gloves put on,
that she fell over on the top of her | 1,640.58254 |
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Produced by Shaun Pinder, Moti Ben-Ari and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
HAGAR
HAGAR
BY
MARY JOHNSTON
[Illustration]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1913
COPYRIGHT, 1913, BY MARY JOHNSTON
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
_Published October 1913_
CONTENTS
I. THE PACKET-BOAT 1
II. GILEAD BALM 8
III. THE DESCENT OF MAN 19
IV. THE CONVICT 30
V. MARIA 45
VI. EGLANTINE 57
VII. MR. LAYDON 70
VIII. HAGAR AND LAYDON 82
IX. ROMEO AND JULIET 92
X. GILEAD BALM 104
XI. THE LETTERS 116
XII. A MEETING 132
XIII. THE NEW SPRINGS 143
XIV. NEW YORK 154
XV. LOOKING FOR THOMASINE 170
XVI. THE MAINES 184
XVII. THE SOCIALIST MEETING 194
XVIII. A TELEGRAM 208
XIX. ALEXANDRIA 221
XX. MEDWAY 231
XXI. AT ROGER MICHAEL'S 244
XXII. HAGAR IN LONDON 257
XXIII. BY THE SEA 266
XXIV. DENNY GAYDE 275
XXV. HAGAR AND DENNY 284
XXVI. GILEAD BALM 300
XXVII. A DIFFERENCE OF OPINION 313
XXVIII. NEW YORK AGAIN 323
XXIX. ROSE DARRAGH 332
XXX. AN OLD ACQUAINTANCE 341
XXXI. JOHN FAY 351
XXXII. RALPH 360
XXXIII. GILEAD BALM 372
XXXIV. BRITTANY 382
HAGAR
HAGAR
CHAPTER I
THE PACKET-BOAT
"_Low Braidge!_"
The people on deck bent over, some until heads touched knees, others,
more exactly calculating, just sufficiently to clear the beams. The
canal-boat passed beneath the bridge, and all straightened themselves
on their camp-stools. The gentlemen who were smoking put their cigars
again between their lips. The two or three ladies resumed book or
knitting. The sun was low, and the sycamores and willows fringing the
banks cast long shadows across the canal. The northern bank was not so
clothed with foliage, and one saw an expanse of bottom land, meadows
and cornfields, and beyond, low mountains, purple in the evening light.
The boat slipped from a stripe of gold into a stripe of shadow, and
from a stripe of shadow into a stripe of gold. The <DW64> and the mule
on the towpath were now but a bit of dusk in motion, and now were lit
and, so to speak, powdered with gold-dust. Now the rope between boat
and towpath showed an arm-thick golden serpent, and now it did not show
at all. Now a little cloud of gnats and flies, accompanying the boat,
shone in burnished armour and now they put on a mantle of shade.
A dark little girl, of twelve years, dark and thin, sitting aft on the
deck floor, her long, white-stockinged legs folded decorously under
her, her blue gingham skirt spread out, and her Leghorn hat upon her
knees, appealed to one of the reading ladies. "Aunt Serena, what is
'evolution'?"
Miss Serena Ashendyne laid down her book. "'Evolution,'" she said
blankly, "'what is evolution?'"
"I heard grandfather say it just now. He said, 'That man Darwin and his
evolution'--"
"Oh!" said Miss Serena. "He meant a very wicked and irreligious
Englishman who wrote a dreadful book."
"Was it named 'Evolution'?"
"No. I forget just what it is called. 'Beginning'--No! 'Origin of
Species.' That was it."
"Have we got it in the library at Gilead Balm?"
"Heavens! No!"
"Why?"
"Your grandfather wouldn't let it come into the house. No lady would
read it."
"Oh!"
Miss Serena returned to her novel. She sat very elegantly on the
camp-stool, a graceful, long-lined, drooping form in a greenish-grey
delaine picked out with tiny daisies. It was made polonaise. Miss
Serena, alone of the people at Gilead Balm, kept up with the fashions.
At the other end of the long, narrow deck a knot of country gentlemen
were telling war stories. All had fought in the war--the war that had
been over now for twenty years and more. There were an empty sleeve and
a wooden leg in the group and other marks of bullet and sabre. They
told good stories, the country gentlemen, and they indulged in mellow
laughter. Blue rings of tobacco-smoke rose and mingled and made a haze
about that end of the boat.
"How the gentlemen are enjoying themselves!" said placidly one of the
knitting ladies.
The dark little girl continued to ponder the omission from the library.
"Aunt Serena--"
"Yes, Hagar."
"Is it like 'Tom Jones'?"
"'Tom Jones'! What do you know about 'Tom Jones'?"
"Grandfather was reading it one day and laughing, and after he had done
with it I got it down from the top shelf and asked him if I might read
it, and he said, 'No, certainly not! it isn't a book for ladies.'"
"Your grandfather was quite right. You read entirely too much anyway.
Dr. Bude told your mother so."
The little girl turned large, alarmed eyes upon her. "I don't read half
as much as I used to. I don't read except just a little time in the
morning and evening and after supper. It would _kill_ me if I couldn't
read--"
"Well, well," said Miss Serena, "I suppose we shall continue to spoil
you!"
She said it in a very sweet voice, and she patted the child's arm
and then she went back to "The Wooing O't." She was fond of reading
novels herself, though she liked better to do macramé work and to paint
porcelain placques.
The packet-boat glided on. It was almost the last packet-boat in the
state and upon almost its last journey. Presently there would go away
forever the long, musical winding of the packet-boat horn. It would
never echo any more among the purple hills, but the locomotive would
shriek here as it shrieked elsewhere. Beyond the willows and sycamores,
across the river whose reaches were seen at intervals, gangs of
convicts with keepers and guards and overseers were at work upon the
railroad.
The boat passing through a lock, the dark little girl stared,
fascinated, at one of these convicts, a "trusty," a young white man
who was there at the lock-keeper's on some errand and who now stood
speaking to the stout old man on the coping of masonry. As the water
in the lock fell and the boat was steadily lowered and the stone walls
on either hand grew higher and higher, the figure of the convict came
to stand far above all on deck. Dressed hideously, in broad stripes of
black and white, it stood against the calm evening sky, with a sense
of something withdrawn and yet gigantic. The face was only once turned
toward the boat with its freight of people who dressed as they pleased.
It was not at all a bad face, and it was boyishly young. The boat
slipped from the lock and went on down the canal, between green banks.
The <DW64> on the towpath was singing and his rich voice floated across--
"For everywhere I went ter pray,
I met all hell right on my way."
The country gentlemen were laughing again, wrapped in the blue and
fragrant smoke. The captain of the packet-boat came up the companionway
and passed from group to group like a benevolent patriarch. Down below,
supper was cooking; one smelled the coffee. The sun was slipping lower,
in the green bottoms the frogs were choiring. Standing in the prow of
the boat a <DW64> winded the long packet-boat horn. It echoed and echoed
from the purple hills.
The dark little girl was still staring at the dwindling lock. The
black-and-white figure, striped like a zebra, was there yet, though it
had come down out of the sky and had now only the green of the country
about and behind it. It grew smaller and smaller until it was no larger
than a black-and-white woodpecker--it was gone.
She appealed again to Miss Serena. "Aunt Serena, what do you suppose he
did?"
Miss Serena, who prided herself upon her patience, put down her book
for the tenth time. "Of whom are you speaking, Hagar?"
"That man back there--the convict."
"I didn't notice him. But if he is a convict, he probably did something
very wicked."
Hagar sighed. "I don't think _anybody_ ought to be made to dress like
that. It--it smudged my soul just to look at it."
"Convicts," said Miss Serena, "are not usually people of fine feelings.
And you ought to take warning by him never to do anything wicked."
A silence while the trees and the flowering blackberry bushes went by;
then, "Aunt Serena--"
"Yes?"
"The woman over there with the baby--she says her husband got hurt in
an accident--and she's got to get to him--and she hasn't got any money.
The stout man gave her something, and I _think_ the captain wouldn't
let her pay. Can't I--wouldn't you--can't I--give her just a little?"
"The trouble is," said Miss Serena, "that you never know whether or not
those people are telling the truth. And we aren't rich, as you know,
Hagar. But if you want to, you can go ask your grandfather if he will
give you something to give."
The dark little girl undoubled her white-stockinged legs, got up,
smoothed down her blue gingham dress, and went forward until the
tobacco-smoke wrapped her in a fragrant fog. Out of it came, genially,
the Colonel's voice, rich as old madeira, shot like shot silk with
curious electric tensions and strains and agreements, a voice at once
mellifluous and capable of revealments demanding other adjectives, a
voice that was the Colonel's and spoke the Colonel from head to heel.
It went with his beauty, intact yet at fifty-eight, with the greying
amber of his hair, mustache, and imperial; with his eyes, not large but
finely shaped and ; with his slightly aquiline nose; with the
height and easy swing of his body that was neither too spare nor too
full. It went with him from head to foot, and, though it was certainly
not a loud voice nor a too-much-used one, it quite usually dominated
whatever group for the moment enclosed the Colonel. He was speaking now
in a kind of energetic, golden drawl. "So he came up to me and said,
'Dash it, Ashendyne! if gentlemen can't be allowed in this degenerate
age to rule their own households and arrange their own duels--'" He
became aware of the child standing by him, and put out a well-formed,
nervous hand. "Yes, Gipsy? What is it you want now?"
Hagar explained sedately.
"Her husband hurt and can't get to him to nurse him?" said the Colonel.
"Well, well! That's pretty bad! I suppose we must take up a collection.
Pass the hat, Gipsy!"
Hagar went to each of the country gentlemen, not with the suggested
hat, but with her small palm held out, cupped. One by one they dropped
into it quarter or dime, and each, as his coin tinkled down, had for
the collector of bounty a drawling, caressing, humorous word. She
thanked each gentleman as his bit of silver touched her hand and
thanked with a sedate little manner of perfection. Manners at Gilead
Balm were notoriously of a perfection.
Hagar took the money to the woman with the baby and gave it to her
shyly, with a red spot in each cheek. She was careful to explain, when
the woman began to stammer thanks, that it was from her grandfather
and the other gentlemen and that they were anxious to help. She was a
very honest little girl, with an honest wish to place credit where it
belonged.
Back beside Miss Serena she sat and studied the moving green banks.
The sun was almost down; there were wonderful golden | 1,640.679185 |
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produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
THE DUNE COUNTRY
_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_
THE VOICES OF THE DUNES
QUARTO BOARDS $6.00 NET
ETCHING:
A PRACTICAL TREATISE
CROWN QUARTO CLOTH $2.50 NET
[Illustration:
The Dune Country.]
THE
DUNE COUNTRY
_By_
EARL H. REED
AUTHOR OF
“THE VOICES OF THE DUNES”
“ETCHING: A PRACTICAL TREATISE”
WITH SIXTY ILLUSTRATIONS
BY THE AUTHOR
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
TORONTO: S. B. GUNDY, MCMXVI
COPYRIGHT, 1916
BY JOHN LANE COMPANY
PRESS OF
EATON & GETTINGER
NEW YORK, U.S.A.
_To_ C. C. R.
INTRODUCTION
The text and illustrations in this book are intended to depict a strange
and picturesque country, with some of its interesting wild life, and a
few of the unique human characters that inhabit it.
The big ranges of sand dunes that skirt the southern and eastern shores
of Lake Michigan, and the strip of sparsely settled broken country back
of them, | 1,640.680561 |
2023-11-16 18:44:24.6605940 | 2,021 | 14 |
Produced by Graeme Mackreth and The Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
[Illustration: COMMODORE BARRY
(After Chappelle)]
THE STORY
OF
COMMODORE JOHN BARRY
"Father of the American Navy"
BY
MARTIN I.J. GRIFFIN
Historian of the Society of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick
of Philadelphia
"_I serve the country for nothing_"--BARRY
"_May a suitable recompense always attend your bravery_"--WASHINGTON
PHILADELPHIA
1908
Dedicated
TO
The Society of the Friendly Sons of St. Patrick
for the Relief of Emigrants from Ireland
ST. PATRICK'S DAY
1908
MARTIN I.J. GRIFFIN,
_Historian of the Society_.
COPYRIGHT
1908
THE STORY
OF
COMMODORE JOHN BARRY
"Father of the American Navy"
[Copyrighted]
CHAPTER I.
HIS NAVAL RENOWN--HIS CAREER IN THE COLONIAL MERCANTILE MARINE
SERVICE--APPOINTED TO THE "LEXINGTON" BY THE CONTINENTAL MARINE
COMMITTEE--HIS FIRST CRUISE.
The American Navy by its achievements has won enduring fame and
imperishable honor. The careers of many of its heroes have been narrated
fully, and oft in fulsome terms. All Americans unite in these tributes
of praise where justly due.
JOHN BARRY has, aptly and justly, been called "THE FATHER OF THE
AMERICAN NAVY." His early, constant and worthy services in defence of
our country; his training many of those who became the foremost and most
distinguished sons of the sea in our early naval annals makes the title
one fitly bestowed.
The Congress of his country having directed the erection in the Capital
City of the Nation of a monument commemorative of the man and his deeds,
this is a fitting time to present a brief record of his career and of
his deeds during the Revolutionary War, which won the Independence of
our Country, and also in the War with France, which maintained the
integrity of the new Nation and the protection of its commerce. In both
wars he bore a heroic part. At all times his services were useful and
brilliant.
"Captain John Barry may justly be considered the Father of our Navy,"
wrote Mr. Dennie in _The Portfolio_, July 1813, in giving the first
biographical sketch of this distinguished naval officer. "The utility of
whose services and the splendor of whose exploits entitle him to the
foremost rank among our naval heroes."
Allen's _Biographical Dictionary_, published in 1809, declared he "was a
patriot of integrity and unquestioned bravery."
Frost's _Naval Biography_ states: "Few commanders were employed in a
greater variety of services or met the enemy under greater
disadvantages," and yet he did not fail to acquit himself of his duty in
a manner becoming a skillful seaman and a brave warrior.
[Illustration: THE BARONY OF FORTH]
"His public services were not limited to any customary rule of
professional duty, but without regard to labor, danger or excuses, his
devotion to his Country kept him constantly engaged in acts of public
utility. The regard and admiration of General Washington, which he
possessed in an eminent degree, were among the most eminent fruits of
his patriotic career."
Judson's _Sages and Heroes of the Revolution_ says: "Barry was noble in
spirit, humane in discipline, discreet and fearless in battle, urbane
in his manners, a splendid officer, a good citizen, a devoted Christian
and a true Patriot."
Many other quotations might be cited to show the high esteem in which
Commodore John Barry was held as well also the importance of his
services to our Country.
A brief narration of his career will set forth the character and worth
of these services as well as afford proof of the valor and fidelity of
this most successful naval officer.
[Illustration: BALLYSAMPSON]
John Barry was born in 1745 in the townland of Ballysampson. He lived
his boyhood in the townland of Roostoonstown, both in the parish of
Tacumshin, Barony of Forth, Province of Leinster in Ireland. The parish
covers three thousand acres. It is situated between two townland-locked
gulfs with very narrow openings--Lake Tacumshin and Lady's Island Lake.
Possibly these lakes gave young Barry the inspiration for the sea, and
upon both he in youth, we may be sure, oft pulled the oar.
When and under what circumstances young Barry left his birthplace and
departed from Ireland are not known. The best traditionary evidence
justifies us in believing that leaving Ireland, while yet young, he went
to Spanishtown in the Island of Jamaica and from there, when about
fifteen years of age, came to Philadelphia, where he found employment in
the commercial fleets of Samuel Meredith and of Willing & Morris,
leaders in the mercantile life of the city.
[Illustration: TACUMSHIN LOUGH]
[Illustration: LADY'S ISLAND LOUGH]
Being but a boy, records do not attest his presence or position. But
however lowly, we are sure that merit hovered over every action and
proved the worth of the young navigator of the seas so fully that on
attaining his twenty-first year he was at once entrusted with the sole
command of a vessel--the schooner "Barbadoes," sixty tons, which cleared
from Philadelphia on October 2, 1766.
The schooner he commanded was registered at the Custom House on
September 29, 1766. It was built at Liverpool, in the Province of Nova
Scotia and was owned by Edward Denny, of Philadelphia. John Barry was
registered as its Captain.
In this schooner, small in measurement and in tonnage by the standard of
our times and yet not surpassed in either by many vessels in the
colonial marine trade, John Barry, now a man in years and capabilities,
continued until early in 1771 to make voyages to and from Bridgetown,
the principal port of Barbadoes.
[Illustration: BRIDGETOWN]
In May, 1771, he became Captain of the brig "Patty and Polly," sailing
from St. Croix to Philadelphia. In August of that year we find him
Captain of the schooner "Industry," of forty-five tons, plying to and
from Virginia, making trips to New York, voyages to Nevis and to and
from Halifax, Nova Scotia until, on October 9, 1772, he became Commander
of the "Peggy" sailing to and from St. Eustatia and Montserrat until, on
December 19, 1774, a register for the ship the "Black Prince" was issued
to John Barry as Master. It was owned by John Nixon, whose grandfather,
Richard, a Catholic, of Barry's own county, Wexford, arrived in
Philadelphia in 1686. John Nixon read the Declaration of Independence on
July 8, 1776. On December 21st Barry sailed to Bristol, where he
arrived at the end of January, 1775. Later he proceeded to London, where
he arrived June 7th, from whence he returned to Philadelphia, where he
arrived October 13th, the very day Congress had resolved to fit out two
armed cruisers, one of fourteen guns and one of ten guns, the first act
founding a Continental naval force for the United Colonies.
The Marine Committee, under the authority of this Resolve of the
Continental Congress, purchased two vessels and named one the
"Lexington," the other the "Reprisal."
To the "Lexington" John Barry was commissioned Captain on December 7,
1775. Captain Wickes was the same day named Commander of the "Reprisal."
Barry's vessel the "Black Prince," the finest vessel engaged in the
Colonial commerce, was purchased by the Marine Committee, renamed the
"Alfred," after Alfred the Great, the founder of the English Navy. To
the "Alfred" John Paul Jones was appointed Lieutenant under Captain
Salstonstall, on the same day Barry and Wickes were appointed Captains.
The "Lexington" and the "Reprisal" were separate and independent
commands under direct orders of the Marine Committee and not subject to,
nor were they part of, the fleet under Commodore Hopkins. Captain John
Barry was thus the first Commander appointed under the direct authority
of the Continental Congress. He was appointed to the first Continental
armed cruiser--the "Lexington"--named after the first battle place of
the Revolution. It was the first vessel fitted out under Continental
authority by the Marine Committee and "in the nature of things was more
readily equipped" than the "Alfred," says Cooper's _History of the
Navy_. This was especially so as Willing & Morris, Captain Barry's late
employers, alone had a stock of "round shot for four pounders | 1,640.680634 |
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THE PURSE
By Honore De Balzac
Translated by Clara Bell
To Sofka
"Have you observed, mademoiselle, that the painters and
sculptors of the Middle Ages, when they placed two figures in
adoration, one on each side of a fair Saint, never failed to
give them a family likeness? When you here see your name among
those that are dear to me, and under whose auspices I place my
works, remember that touching harmony, and you will see in
this not so much an act of homage as an expression of the
brotherly affection of your devoted servant,
"DE BALZAC."
THE PURSE
For souls to whom effusiveness is easy there is a delicious hour that
falls when it is not yet night, but is no longer day; the twilight
gleam throws softened lights or tricksy reflections on every object, and
favors a dreamy mood which vaguely weds itself to the play of light
and shade. The silence which generally prevails at that time makes it
particularly dear to artists, who grow contemplative, stand a few
paces back from the pictures on which they can no longer work, and pass
judgement on them, rapt by the subject whose most recondite meaning then
flashes on the inner eye of genius. He who has never stood pensive by a
friend's side in such an hour of poetic dreaming can hardly understand
its inexpressible soothingness. Favored by the clear-obscure, the
material skill employed by art to produce illusion entirely disappears.
If the work is a picture, the figures represented seem to speak and
walk; the shade is shadow, the light is day; the flesh lives, eyes
move, blood flows in their veins, and stuffs have a changing sheen.
Imagination helps the realism of every detail, and only sees the
beauties of the work. At that hour illusion reigns despotically; perhaps
it wakes at nightfall! Is not illusion a sort of night to the mind,
which we people with dreams? Illusion then unfolds its wings, it bears
the soul aloft to the world of fancies, a world full of voluptuous
imaginings, where the artist forgets the real world, yesterday and the
morrow, the future--everything down to its miseries, the good and the
evil alike.
At this magic hour a young painter, a man of talent, who saw in art
nothing but Art itself, was perched on a step-ladder which helped him to
work at a large high painting, now nearly finished. Criticising himself,
honestly admiring himself, floating on the current of his thoughts,
he then lost himself in one of those meditative moods which ravish and
elevate the soul, soothe it, and comfort it. His reverie had no doubt
lasted a long time. Night fell. Whether he meant to come down from his
perch, or whether he made some ill-judged movement, believing himself to
be on the floor--the event did not allow of his remembering exactly the
cause of his accident--he fell, his head struck a footstool, he lost
consciousness and lay motionless during a space of time of which he knew
not the length.
A sweet voice roused him from the stunned condition into which he had
sunk. When he opened his eyes the flash of a bright light made him close
them again immediately; but through the mist that veiled his senses he
heard the whispering of two women, and felt two young, two timid hands
on which his head was resting. He soon recovered consciousness, and by
the light of an old-fashioned Argand lamp he could make out the most
charming girl's face he had ever seen, one of those heads which are
often supposed to be a freak of the brush, but which to him suddenly
realized the theories of the ideal beauty which every artist creates
for himself and whence his art proceeds. The features of the unknown
belonged, so to say, to the refined and delicate type of Prudhon's
school, but had also the poetic sentiment which Girodet gave to the
inventions of his phantasy. The freshness of the temples, the regular
arch of the eyebrows, the purity of outline, the virginal innocence so
plainly stamped on every feature of her countenance, made the girl a
perfect creature. Her figure was slight and graceful, and frail in form.
Her dress, though simple and neat, revealed neither wealth nor penury.
As he recovered his senses, the painter gave expression to his
admiration by a look of surprise, and stammered some confused thanks.
He found a handkerchief pressed to his forehead, and above the smell
peculiar to a studio, he recognized the strong odor of ether, applied no
doubt to revive him from his fainting fit. Finally he saw an old woman,
looking like a marquise of the old school, who held the lamp and was
advising the young girl.
"Monsieur," said the younger woman in reply to one of the questions
put by the painter during the few minutes when he was still under the
influence of the vagueness that the shock had produced in his ideas, "my
mother and I heard the noise of your fall on the floor, and we fancied
we heard a groan. The silence following on the crash alarmed us, and we
hurried up. Finding the key in the latch, we happily took the liberty
of entering, and we found you lying motionless on the ground. My mother
went to fetch what was needed to bathe your head and revive you. You
have cut your forehead--there. Do you feel it?"
"Yes, I do now," he replied.
"Oh, it will be nothing," said the old mother. "Happily your head rested
against this lay-figure."
"I feel infinitely better," replied the painter. "I need nothing further
but a hackney cab to take me home. The porter's wife will go for one."
He tried to repeat his thanks to the two strangers; but at each sentence
the elder lady interrupted him, saying, "Tomorrow, monsieur, pray
be careful to put on leeches, or to be bled, and drink a few cups of
something healing. A fall may be dangerous."
The young girl stole a look at the painter and at the pictures in the
studio. Her expression and her glances revealed perfect propriety; her
curiosity seemed rather absence of mind, and her eyes seemed to speak
the interest which women feel, with the most engaging spontaneity, in
everything which causes us suffering. The two strangers seemed to forget
the painter's works in the painter's mishap. When he had reassured them
as to his condition they left, looking at him with an anxiety that was
equally free from insistence and from familiarity, without asking any
indiscreet questions, or trying to incite him to any wish to visit them.
Their proceedings all bore the hall-mark of natural refinement and good
taste. Their noble and simple manners at first made no great impression
on the painter, but subsequently, as he recalled all the details of the
incident, he was greatly struck by them.
When they reached the floor beneath that occupied by the painter's
studio, the old lady gently observed, "Adelaide, you left the door
open."
"That was to come to my assistance," said the painter, with a grateful
smile.
"You came down just now, mother," replied the young girl, with a blush.
"Would you like us to accompany you all the way downstairs?" asked the
mother. "The stairs are dark."
"No, thank you, indeed, madame; I am much better."
"Hold tightly by the rail."
The two women remained on the landing to light the young man, listening
to the sound of his | 1,640.882306 |
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Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover art]
*MAKING OVER
MARTHA*
BY
*JULIE M. LIPPMANN*
AUTHOR OF
MARTHA BY-THE-DAY,
MARTHA AND CUPID
NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS
COPYRIGHT, 1913,
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
Published October, 1913
Reprinted November (twice), December, 1913
May, August, October, 1914
October, 1915
*MAKING OVER MARTHA*
*CHAPTER I*
Martha Slawson sat at her sewing-machine, stitching away for dear life.
About her, billowed yards upon yards of white cotton cloth, which, in
its uncut length, shifted, as she worked, almost imperceptibly piling up
a snowy drift in front of her, drawn from the snowy drift behind. This
gradual ebb and flow was all that marked any progress in her labor, and
her husband, coming in after some hours of absence and finding her,
apparently, precisely where he had left her, was moved to ask what
manner of garment she was making.
"'Tain't a garment at all, Sam. It's a motta."
"A motto?" Sam fairly gasped.
Martha put on more speed, then took her feet from the treadle, her hands
from the cloth-plate.
"I guess you forgot what's goin' to happen, ain't you?" she returned,
sitting back in her chair, looking up at him amiably.
Sam squared his great shoulders. "Going to happen? Oh, you mean--you
mean--Mr. and Mrs. Ronald coming home?"
"Sure I do!"
"Well, but I don't see----"
"I didn't suppose you would see. Men ain't much on _seein'_ where
sentiment's concerned. They go it blind, an' that's a fack. I s'pose a
_man_ would let a gen'lman an' lady come back from their weddin'-tour
(which they been gone'most a year on it), and never think o' givin' 'em
a welcome home, any more than to find their house an' grounds kep' up,
an' their bills kep' down, an' everything in tip-top order. But, with a
woman it's different. _I'm_ goin' to give Miss Claire an' Lord Ronald a
reception that _is_ a reception. Somethin' they won't forget in a
hurry. I'm goin' to have lantrens in the trees, an' a arch of laurel
over the gateposts, an' then, as they come on in, they'll see my motta
strung acrost the driveway--
HAIL TO THE CHIEF!
in big yella letters, hemmed down on this white. An' the childern, all
four of 'em, is to sing it, besides. Don't you remember, they learned it
at school down home--I should say, in New York, that time the president
come back, an' all the public-school childern sung'm a welcome?"
Sam bit his lip. "Yes, but that was a little different. Somehow, I
think HAIL TO THE BRIDE might be better, don't you?"
"No!" said Martha, with decision. "First place, she ain't exackly a
bride by this time. When a lady's been married almost a year, an'
traveled 'round the world in the meanwhile, I wouldn't call her a bride.
An', besides, it wouldn't be polite to single her out, an' sorta leave
_him_ in the cold. Everybody knows bridegrooms don't cut much of a
figga, but you needn't rub it in. No, I thought it over careful, an'
HAIL TO THE CHIEF is what I decided on. HAIL TO THE CHIEF lets us out on
responsibility. It's up to them to prove which it hits, see?"
Whether Sam did or didn't, he made no further comment. He went and sat
himself down in his own particular chair, took up from the center-table
the latest number of _The New England Farmer_, and commenced studying it
assiduously.
A second later, the machine was in motion again, running with great
velocity, impelled by Martha's tireless foot.
Mrs. Slawson did not look up, when the eldest of her four children, just
home from school, came in, and made straight for her side.
"Mother-r-r!"
No answer.
"Say, mother-r-r!"
"For goodness' sake, Cora, let go that R. The way you hang on to it,
you'd think you was drownin', an' _it_ was a lifeline. Besides, d'you
know what I decided to do? I decided to strike. For the rest o' this
week, I ain't answerin' to the name o' 'Mother-r-r.' See? There ain't
a minute in the day, when some one o' you childern ain't shoutin'
it--you, or Francie, or Sammy, or Sabina--an' it's _got on my nerves_,
as Mrs. Sherman says. You can call me 'Martha' or 'Little Sunshine' or
anythin' else you got a mind to, but 'Mother-r-r,' not on your life."
"Say, moth----!"
"Look out, now!"
"What you sewin' on?"
"The machine."
"Pooh, you know I don't mean that. What you making? Anything for me?"
"No, ma'am."
"Well, what _are_ you, then?"
"I'm a perfeck lady, an' I'm makin' a motta that proves it."
"Mother-r-r, I think you're real mean. All the girls at school have
fancier clo'es 'n I got, an' I think you just might make me some new
ones, so there!"
"Sure I might!" admitted Mrs. Slawson blandly.
Cora's lip went out. "Then, why don't you? You got as much time as any
other girl's mother. Ann Upton's mother makes all Ann's dresses 'n'
things, an' she's got twice's many as I got. She had a new dress, when
school took in, in September, an' she got another new one, 'round about
New Year's, and now she's got another new one for summer."
Martha stroked down a seam with deliberation. "That's | 1,640.987182 |
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Produced by an anonymous Project Gutenberg volunteer
THE MOTOR GIRLS SERIES
by MARGARET PENROSE
Author of the highly successful "Dorothy Dale Series" 12mo.
Illustrated. Price per volume, 75 cents, postpaid.
Since the enormous success or our "Motor Boys Series," by Clarence
Young, we have been asked to get out a similar series for girls. No one
is better equipped to furnish these tales than Mrs. Penrose, who,
besides being an able writer, is an expert automobilist.
THE MOTOR GIRLS ON A TOUR
CONTENTS
I A SPOILED DINNER.
II THE WOODLAND CONFERENCE.
III "NO BOYS!"
IV THE STRANGE PROMISE.
V A LITTLE BROWN WREN
VI THE HOLD-UP
VII A CHANCE MEETING.
VIII JACK AND CLIP
IX THE MYSTERIOUS RIDE.
X "THEY'RE OFF!"
XI THOSE DREADFUL BOYS.
XII THE GIRL IN THE DITCH
XIII AT THE GROTTO
XIV THE PROMISE BOOK LOST
XV ROB ROLAND
XVI A STRANGE MESSAGE
XVII THE ROAD TO BREAKWATER
XVIII THE CLUE.
XIX PAUL AND HAZEL
XX AT THE MAHOGANY SHOP
XXI PERPLEXITIES
XXII THE CHILDREN'S COURT
XXIII THE MOTOR GIRLS ON THE WATCH.
XXIV CORA'S RESOLVE.
XXV A WILD RUN
XXVI | 1,641.078945 |
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Produced by Julia Miller and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from scans of public domain material produced by
Microsoft for their Live Search Books site.)
Transcriber's Note
A number of typographical errors and inconsistencies have been
maintained in this version of this book. They have been marked with a
[TN-#], which refers to a description in the complete list found at the
end of the text. Oe ligatures have been expanded.
[Illustration: Fig. 1.--Gateway at Labna. [See p. 144.]
ANCIENT AMERICA,
IN
NOTES ON AMERICAN ARCHAEOLOGY.
BY JOHN D. BALDWIN, A.M.,
AUTHOR OF "PRE-HISTORIC NATIONS."
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS._
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
JOHN D. BALDWIN,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington.
PREFACE.
The purpose of this volume is to give a summary of what is known of
American Antiquities, with some thoughts and suggestions relative to
their significance. It aims at nothing more. No similar work, I believe,
has been published in English or in any other language. What is known of
American Archaeology is recorded in | 1,641.081516 |
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E-text prepared by Delphine Lettau
THE COUNTESS OF ESCARBAGNAS.
(LA COMTESSE D'ESCARBAGNAS.)
by
MOLIERE
Translated into English Prose.
With Short Introductions and Explanatory Notes.
by
Charles Heron Wall
'La Comtesse d'Escarbagnas' was acted before the Court at
Saint-Germain-en-Laye, on December 2, 1671, and in the theatre of the
Palais Royal on July 8, 1672. It was never printed during Moliere's
lifetime, but for the first time only in 1682. It gives us a good
picture of the provincial thoughts, manners, and habits of those days.
PERSONS REPRESENTED
THE COUNT, _son to the_ COUNTESS.
THE VISCOUNT, _in love with_ JULIA.
MR. THIBAUDIER, _councillor, in love with the_ COUNTESS.
MR. HARPIN, _receiver of taxes, also in love with the_ COUNTESS.
MR. BOBINET, _tutor to the_ COUNT.
JEANNOT, _servant to_ MR. THIBAUDIER.
CRIQUET, _servant to the_ COUNTESS.
THE COUNTESS OF ESCARBAGNAS.
JULIA, _in love with the_ VISCOUNT.
ANDREE, _maid to the_ COUNTESS.
_The scene is at Angouleme._
SCENE I.--JULIA, THE VISCOUNT.
VISC. What! you are here already?
JU. Yes, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself, Cleante; it is not
right for a lover to be the last to come to the rendezvous.
VISC. I should have been here long ago if there were no importunate
people in the world. I was stopped on my way by an old bore of rank,
who asked me news of the court, merely to be able himself to detail to
me the most absurd things that can well be imagined about it. You know
that those great newsmongers are the curse of provincial towns, and
that they have no greater anxiety than to spread, everywhere abroad
all the tittle-tattle they pick up. This one showed me, to begin with,
two large sheets of paper full to the very brim with the greatest
imaginable amount of rubbish, which, he says, comes from the safest
quarters. Then, as if it were a wonderful thing, he read full length
and with great mystery all the stupid jokes in the Dutch Gazette,
which he takes for gospel.[1] He thinks that France is being brought
to ruin by the pen of that writer, whose fine wit, according to him,
is sufficient to defeat armies. After that he raved about the
ministry, spoke of all its faults, and I thought he would never have
done. If one is to believe him, he knows the secrets of the cabinet
better than those who compose it. The policy of the state is an open
book to him, and no step is taken without his seeing through it. He
shows you the secret machinations of all that takes place, whither the
wisdom of our neighbours tends, and controls at his will and pleasure
all the affairs of Europe. His knowledge of what goes on extends as
far as Africa and Asia, and he is informed of all that; is discussed
in the privy council of Prester John[2] and the Great Mogul.
JU. You make the best excuse you can, and so arrange it that it may
pass off well and be easily received.
VISC. I assure you, dear Julia, that this is the real reason of my
being late. But if I wanted to say anything gallant, I could tell you
that the rendezvous to which you bring me here might well excuse the
sluggishness of which you complain. To compel me to pay my addresses
to the lady of this house is certainly reason enough for me to fear
being here the first. I ought not to have to bear the misery of it,
except when she whom it amuses is present. I avoid finding myself
alone with that ridiculous countess with whom you shackle me. In
short, as I come only for your sake, I have every reason to stay away
until you are here.
JU. Oh! you will never lack the power of giving a bright colour to
your faults. However, if you had come half an hour sooner, we should
have enjoyed those few moments. For when I came, I found that the
countess was out, and I have no doubt that she is gone all over the
town to claim for herself the honour of the comedy you gave me under
her name.
VISC. But, pray, when will you put an end to this, and make me buy
less dearly the happiness of seeing you?
JU. When our parents agree, which I scarcely dare hope for. You know
as well as I do that the dissensions which exist between our two
families deprive us of the possibility of seeing each other anywhere
else, and that neither my brothers nor my father are likely to approve
of our engagement.
VISC. Yes; but why not profit better by the opportunity which their
enmity gives us, and why oblige me to waste, under a ridiculous
deception, the moments I pass near you?
JU. It is the better to hide our love; and, besides, to tell you the
truth, this deception you speak of is to me a very amusing comedy, and
I hardly think that the one you give me to-day will amuse me as much.
Our Countess of Escarbagnas, with her perpetual infatuation for
"quality," is as good a personage as can be put on the stage. The
short journey she has made to Paris has brought her back to Angouleme
more crazy than ever. The air of the court has given a new charm to
her extravagance, and her folly grows and increases every day.
VISC. Yes; but you do not take into consideration that what amuses you
drives me to despair; and that one cannot dissimulate long when one is
under the sway of love as true as that which I feel for you. It is
cruel to think, dear Julia, that this amusement of yours should
deprive me of the few moments during which I could speak to you of my
love, and last night I wrote on the subject some verses that I cannot
help repeating to you, so true is it that the mania of reciting one's
verses is inseparable from the title of a poet:
"Iris, too long thou keepst on torture's rack
One who obeys thy laws, yet whisp'ring chides
In that thou bidst me boast a joy I lack,
And hush the sorrow that my bosom hides.
Must thy dear eyes, to which I yield my arms,
From my sad sighs draw wanton pleasure still?
Is't not enough to suffer for thy charms
That I must grieve at thy capricious will?
This double martyrdom a pain affords
Too keen to bear at once; thy deeds, thy words,
Work on my wasting heart a cruel doom,
Love bids it burn; constraint its life doth chill.
If pity soften not thy wayward will,
Love, feigned and real, will lead me to the tomb."
JU. I see that you make yourself out much more ill-used than you
need; but it is the way with you poets to tell falsehoods in cold
blood, and to pretend that those you love are much more cruel than
they are, in order to make them correspond to the fancies you may take
into your heads. Yet, I should like you, if you will, to give me those
verses in writing.
VISC. No, it is enough that I have repeated them to you, and I ought
to stop there. A man may be foolish enough to make verses, but that is
different from giving them to others.
JU. It is in vain for you to affect a false modesty; your wit is well
known, and I do not see why you should hide what you write.
VISC. Ah! we must tread here with the greatest circumspection. It is a
dangerous thing to set up for a wit. There is inherent to it a certain
touch of absurdity which is catching, and we should be warned by the
example of some of our friends.
JU. Nonsense, Cleante; I see that, in spite of all you say, you are
longing to give me your verses; and I feel sure that you would be very
unhappy if I pretended not to care for them.
VISC. I unhappy? Oh! dear no, I am not so much of a poet for you to
think that I... but here is the Countess of Escarbagnas; I'll go by
this door, so as not to meet her, and will see that everything is got
ready for the play I have promised you.
SCENE II.--THE COUNTESS, JULIA; ANDREE and CRIQUET _in the background_.
COUN. What, Madam, are you alone? Ah! what a shame! All alone! I
thought my people had told me that the Viscount was here.
JU. It is true that he came, but it was sufficient for him to know
that you were not at home; he would not stop after that.
COUN. What! did he see you?
JU. Yes.
COUN. And did he not stop to talk with you?
JU. No, Madam; he wished to show you how very much he is struck by
your charms.
COUN. Still, I shall call him to account for that. However much any
one may be in love with me, I wish them to pay to our sex the homage
that is due to it. I am not one of those unjust women who approve of
the rudeness their lovers display towards other fair ones.
JU. You must in no way be surprised at his conduct. The love he has
for you shows itself in all his actions, and prevents him from caring
for anybody but you.
COUN. I know that I can give rise to a strong passion; I have for that
enough of beauty, youth, and rank, thank Heaven; but it is no reason
why those who love me should not keep within the bounds of propriety
towards others. (_Seeing_ CRIQUET.) What are you doing there,
little page? is there not an ante-room for you to be in until you are
called? It is a strange thing that in the provinces we cannot meet
with a servant who knows his place! To whom do you think I am
speaking? Why do you not move? Will you go outside, little knave that
you are!
SCENE III.--THE COUNTESS, JULIA, ANDREE.
COUN. Come hither, girl.
AND. What do you wish me to do, Ma'am?
COUN. To take off my head-dress. Gently, you awkward girl: how roughly
you touch my head with your heavy hands!
AND. I do it as gently as I can, Ma'am.
COUN. No doubt; but what you call gently is very rough treatment for
my head. You have almost put my neck out of joint. Now, take also this
muff; go and put it with the rest into the closet; don't leave
anything about. Well! where is she going to now? What is the stupid
girl doing?
AND. I am going to take this into the closet, as you told me, Ma'am.
COUN. Ah! heavens! (_To_ JULIA) Pray, excuse her rudeness, Madam.
(_To_ ANDREE) I told you my closet, great ass; that is the place
where I keep my dresses.
AND. Please, Ma'am, is a cupboard called a closet at court?
COUN. Yes, dunce; it is thus that a place where clothes are kept is
called.
AND. I will remember it, Ma'am, as well as the word furniture
warehouse for your attic.
SCENE IV.--THE COUNTESS, JULIA.
COUN. What trouble it gives me to have to teach such simpletons.
JU. I think them very fortunate to be under your discipline, Madam.
COUN. She is my nurse's daughter, whom I have made lady's-maid; the
post is quite new to her, as yet | 1,641.380846 |
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Produced by Mardi Desjardins & the online Distributed
Proofreaders Canada team at http://www.pgdpcanada.net from
page images generously made available by the HathiTrust
Digital Library (https://www.hathitrust.org)
EIGHT GIRLS AND
A DOG
[Illustration: “‘WELL, YOU _ARE_ A PROPER-LOOKING LOT!’ MRS. LENNOX
EXCLAIMED AS THE GIRLS FILED IN.”]
S^{T}. NICHOLAS BOOKS
EIGHT
GIRLS AND
A DOG
_BY_ CAROLYN WELLS
NEW YORK • THE CENTURY CO • MCMIV
Copyright, 1902, by
THE CENTURY CO.
———
_Published October, 1902_
THE DEVINNE PRESS
TO
LOUISE FRANCES STEVENS
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I PILLOWS AND PITCHERS 3
II ON THE ROAD 22
III THE FUN BEGINS 41
IV THE “WHITECAP” 63
V THE ENCHANTED PRINCESS 82
VI HESTER’S DINNER 99
VII THE INDIAN CALLER 121
VIII FRITTERS AND SALAD 137
IX GENIUS BURNS 151
X THE PLAY’S THE THING 168
XI A SUCCESSFUL PERFORMANCE 187
XII THE BOYS’ ENTERTAINMENT 200
XIII HIDE-AND-SEEK 213
XIV WILLING SERVICE 231
XV HILARIOUS HOSPITALITY 244
XVI A WELCOME INVITATION 256
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
“Well, you _are_ a proper-looking _Frontispiece_
lot!” Mrs. Lennox exclaimed as
the girls filed in
“Mr. Bond is holding Timmy Loo,” 25
said Helen
Marjorie and Millicent ordering 51
things alternately
Millicent declared she looked like 61
Tweedledee prepared for his fight
with Tweedledum
“Who are you?” she said in a low, 93
mysterious whisper
“This is the only correct and 113
elegant way to fill a swing-lamp”
Timmy Loo 133
The gem of the collection 235
NOTE.—A portion of this book was published
in the “St. Nicholas Magazine”
under the title of “Hilarity Hall.”
EIGHT GIRLS AND
A DOG
CHAPTER I
PILLOWS AND PITCHERS
‟IS there any way to pack pillows in pitchers?” said Marjorie, framing
herself in the front doorway, one hand grasping recklessly the handles
of three large pitchers, and both arms full of sofa-pillows.
The group on the veranda looked up at her doubtfully.
“Yes,” said brilliant Nan. “Have your pitchers bigger than your pillows,
and the thing is done.”
“But the pillows are bigger than the pitchers.”
“Then pack the pitchers in the pillows,” said Betty.
“Why, of course! Betty, you’re a genius!” And Marjorie disappeared with
her burdens, while the girls on the veranda fell to chattering again
like half a dozen shirt-waisted magpies.
Now I know that a story with eight heroines is an imposition upon even
the gentlest of readers; but you see there were eight girls in the Blue
Ribbon Cooking Club; and when their president, Marjorie Bond, proposed
that they go down to Long Beach and spend a fortnight all by themselves
in her father’s cottage, the whole club rose up as one girl and voted
aye.
Objections were disposed of as fast as they were raised. Permission? The
girls were sure that the sixteen parents concerned could be persuaded to
see the matter in a favorable light. Expense? That should be divided
equally among them all. Trouble? Would be more than compensated by the
fun. Luggage? Not so very much required; the house was completely
furnished, except with linen and silver, and each girl should take her
share. Burglars? That idea caused some apprehension; but when Marjorie
said that Uncle Ned and Aunt Molly would be right next door, plans were
suggested sufficient to scare any reasonably cautious burglar out of his
wits. And so the preliminaries had been arranged, and the date decided
upon, and the day had come.
It was Thursday morning, and they were to leave on the noon train; and
now, although ten o’clock had struck, six sailor-hatted girls were
gathered on the Bonds’ veranda, hurriedly making final arrangements and
frantically trying to remember what were the most important things they
had forgotten.
“It’s like a fire,” Jessie Carroll was saying; “you know people always
save their old trash and leave their best things to burn up. Now I’m
sure I’ve packed just the very things we won’t want and left at home the
things we’ll need most. And that reminds me—Nan, can’t I put my best
hat in your box? I just _had_ to take my down comfortable, and it was so
puffy it wouldn’t leave room for anything else.”
“Oh, don’t take your best hat,” cried Betty Miller; “we’re not going
down to Long Beach to dress up and be giddy. It’s so late in the season
none of the summer boarders will be there, and we’re just going to wear
flannel frocks all day, and tramp in the woods and loll in the hammocks
and get brown as berries and hungry as hunters and uncivilized as—as
Hottentots.”
“Yes, Betty; but remember somebody has to cook for these hungry
Hottentots,” said Mrs. Bond, smiling.
“Aren’t you afraid, girls, that you’ll get tired of cooking? And you’ll
find that there’s a great deal of work connected with housekeeping if
you do it all yourselves.”
“Oh, no, indeed, Mrs. Bond,” said Nan Kellogg. “I just love to cook, and
I don’t mind housework a bit. Mamma thinks it will be good training for
me.”
“Such doings!” exclaimed Grandma Bond, a lovely old lady of the
silver-haired, apple-cheeked variety. “Living on chafing-dish foolery
for two weeks! You’ll all be ill or starved to death in three days, and
you’ll wish yourselves back in your comfortable homes.”
“Not we, grandma!” cried Betty. “We have a gas-stove and a range besides
our beloved chafing-dish, and we won’t starve. But if Nan makes our
Welsh rarebits I’ll not promise that we won’t be ill. Her concoctions
are the stuff that dreams are made on. Oh, here’s Helen. What’s your
misfortune, my pretty maid?”
Helen Morris came up on the veranda and dropped into a big wicker chair
and fanned herself with her hat.
“Girls, I’m exhausted! You know I said I’d take all the things for
afternoon tea, but I had no idea there were so many. Why, I’ve packed a
whole barrel and they’re not all in yet. To be sure, it’s mostly
tissue-paper and excelsior; but I was so afraid they’d break. And I
couldn’t get the tea-cozy in at all, or the Dresden cups; I’d hate to
break _them_.”
“Yes,” said Betty, sympathetically; “_don’t_ break the tea-cozy,
whatever you do, if it’s that pretty yellow satin one. But you’ve no
ingenuity, Nell; why don’t you wear it down on your head? Then you’ll
look like a drum-major.”
“I will if you’ll all obey my orders. Well, this won’t do for me. I must
go back and reason with those tea-things. I just ran over a minute
because I saw you all here. If I can’t get them into the barrel I’ll
have to take a cask besides. Good-by. I’ll meet you at the train. What
time do we start?”
“Twelve-ten,” replied Hester Laverack. “I’ll go home with you, Helen,
and help you pack your china.”
“Yes, do,” said Betty; “two heads are better than one in any barrel.”
But the two heads were already bobbing down the walk, and didn’t hear
Betty’s parting shot.
“Nell’s crazy,” remarked Millicent Payne, who always did everything
leisurely, yet always had it done on time. “I do hope her barrel will go
safely, for her tea-cups and things are lovely.”
“Shall we have tea _every_ afternoon?” asked Marguerite Alden, a fragile
wisp of a girl who looked as if a real strong ocean breeze would blow
her away. “I’m so glad! I don’t care for the tea at all, but the having
it with all us girls together will be such fun, only—I do hate to wash
up the tea-things.”
“Girlies,” said Mrs. Bond, “I think it would be much better all round if
you’d hire a neat little maid to wash your dishes for you. You can
probably find one down there, and I’m sure you’ll be glad to have help
when you discover what dish-washing for eight means.”
“I think it would be heaps better, Mrs. Bond,” said Marguerite. “I don’t
see how we can have any fun if we have to work all the time.”
“Lazy Daisy!” said Betty. “You won’t do any more than your share. But we
won’t let the interloper do any of our cooking; I insist on that.”
“All right, Betty,” said Marguerite, or Daisy, as the girls called her,
though she wished they wouldn’t; “and you may be chief cook.”
“No,” said Betty, “I’m not chief cook—Marjorie is that. I’ll be the
first assistant. I’ll prepare the vegetables for her, and be a—a
peeler.”
“Hurrah for Betty the Peeler!” said Marjorie, appearing again in the
front door. “And what am I?”
“You’re the cook,” said Millicent.
“But we’re all cooks.”
“Yes, I know; but you’re head cook, chief cook—cook plenipotentiary, or
any title you prefer.”
“Then I’ll be cook,” said Marjorie, “just plain cook.”
“Indeed, you’ll be more than a plain cook,” said her mother, laughing,
“if you attempt all the fancy dishes in all those recipe-books I saw you
stowing away in your trunk.”
“Oh, they weren’t all recipe-books. Some of them were delectable tales
to be read aloud at the twilight hour. I could only take light
literature, as the box weighs about a ton now. So I was forced to leave
out ‘Advice to Young Maidens’ and Carlyle’s ‘French Revolution,’ for I
really hadn’t room.”
“I hope you took ‘Rollo Learning to Work,’ for I’m sure we’ll need it.”
“No, Betty, I didn’t; but I packed ‘First Aid to the Injured’ and ‘Alice
in Wonderland’; we can struggle along with those.”
“There’s a circulating library down at Long Beach,” said Nan Kellogg;
“we can get books there.”
“Now look here, my rising young authoress,” said Betty; “you’re not
going down there to read all the time, or write, either. So you may as
well make up your mind to it, milady, first as last. We’ll have no
bookworms or blue-stockings. ‘Cooks, not Books,’ is our motto. Now,
Duchess, look over your lists for the last time; I’m going home to lock
my trunk, and then I’m going to don my war-paint and feathers.”
“I am, too,” said Nan; “and I want to go down to the station an hour
before train-time, so as to have ample leisure to come back for what I
forget.”
“Good idea,” said Marjorie, approvingly. The girls called her “Duchess”
because she had a high-and-mighty way of giving orders. Not an
unpleasant way—oh, dear, no! Marjorie Bond was the favorite of the
whole village of Middleton. Her stately air was due to the fact that she
was rather tall for her sixteen years, and carried herself as straight
as an arrow. She could have posed admirably for a picture of Pocahontas.
Her dark, bright eyes were always dancing, and her saucy gipsy face was
always smiling; for Marjorie had a talent for enjoyment, which she
cultivated at every opportunity. The girls said she could get fun out of
anything, from a scolding to a jug of sour cream. And that latter fact
suggests Marjorie’s pet accomplishment, which, though prosaic, afforded
much pleasure to herself and her friends. She was a born cook, and by
experiment and experience had become a proficient one. Two years ago she
had proposed the Cooking Club, and though not very enthusiastic at
first, every one of the eight members would tell you now that nothing in
Middleton was ever quite so much fun as the Cooking Club.
“I’m sure I’ve thought of everything,” said the Duchess, wrinkling her
pretty brows over a handful of scribbled lists. “You’re to bring the
forks, Nannie, and a pair of blankets and a table-cloth, and don’t
forget your napkin-ring, and your jolly Vienna coffee-pot; and, Betty,
take your chafing-dish—we’ll need two; Millicent, you’re responsible
for the spoons, and Jessie, knives. Lazy Daisy will take a hammock, and
I’ll take one, too; and I’ve packed lots of sofa-pillows, and I hope
Helen will take her banjo. I’ve lost my most important list, so I may
have forgotten something. But I’ve packed towels, hand and dish, and a
scrub-brush and a tack-hammer—and isn’t that all we need to keep
house?—except this good-for-nothing little bundle, my own, my only
Timmy Loo. Will you go with us, honey?” Marjorie picked up the bundle in
question, who wagged his absurd moppy, silvery ears and his still more
absurd moppy, silvery tail, and accepted the invitation with a few
staccato barks of joy.
“That means yes, of course,” said Betty; “his French accent is so
perfect, even I can understand it. Well, good-by, Timmy; I’ll see you
later. Can you take him on the train, Marjorie?”
“No; he’ll have to ride in the baggage-car. But I’ve explained it all to
him, and he doesn’t mind; and he’ll keep an eye on our trunks and
wheels.”
Timmy Loo barked again and blinked his eyes acquiescently, and Betty
gave him a final pat on his funny little nose and ran away home.
“I must go, too,” said Marguerite, rising as she spoke and picking a
full-blown rose from the trellis above her head.
A careless observer probably would have called Marguerite the prettiest
of all the Cooking Club girls. She was small, slender, and graceful,
with a rose-leaf complexion and sea-blue eyes, and a glory of golden
hair that the girls called her halo. She was visionary and romantic, and
her special chum was Nan Kellogg, who was lounging in the hammock with
her hands clasped behind her head and her eyes closed. Nan was a
dark-haired, olive-skinned Southern girl, with a poetic temperament and
a secret ambition to write verse.
“Come, girl,” said Marguerite, dropping rose-petals, one by one, on
Nan’s nose. “What are you dreaming of?”
“Oh,” said Nan, opening her eyes, “I was thinking what gay old times
we’re going to have down there. I’m _so_ glad we’re going! Marjorie,
you’re _such_ a darling, I shall dedicate my first book of poems to
you.”
“Do,” said Marjorie; “but don’t write them while we’re down at Long
Beach. What shall we do if you go off on a poetic flight when it’s your
turn to boil the potatoes?”
“Oh, I sha’n’t boil potatoes; they’re too prosaic. Omelet soufflé is the
very plainest thing I shall ever cook.”
Grandma Bond groaned.
“Margy,” she said despairingly, “I _hope_ you packed the medicine-chest
I gave you.”
“Oh, yes, grandma; and your bundle of old linen and salve for burns, and
your arnica-flowers for bruises, and your sticking-plaster for cuts, and
your toothache drops, and your Balsam Balm. Oh, the hospital department
will give you a vote of thanks, engrossed and framed. Now go on home,
Nan and Daisy; I know you’ll miss the train.”
“Yes, we must go. Good-by, grandma.” For all the girls insisted on
sharing Marjorie’s grandma, and the dear old lady’s heart was big enough
for them all. “Good-by, grandma; give us a parting word.”
Grandma’s eyes twinkled as she replied: “Well, I advise you to remember
that too many broths spoil the cook.”
Six merry laughs greeted this speech, and Nan replied: “Indeed they do,
and I won’t allow more than three kinds of soup at any one meal. Now I’m
off, Marjorie; I’ll meet you at the train—and oh, Duchess, I ’most
forgot to ask you. Brother Jack says, can he and Ted come down and spend
a day with us?”
“No, indeed!” cried Marjorie. “We are not going to allow a boy in sight
all the time we are there. Tell them we’re sorry to refuse, but we’re
not running a co-educational institution, and only girls need apply.”
“I did tell him that, but he begged me to ask you again—”
“No,” said Marjorie, laughing but positive; “tell him we turn a deaf
ear—I mean sixteen deaf ears—to his entreaties, and harden our eight
hearts to his appeal. There is no use, girls; if the boys come down
they’ll spoil everything; don’t you think so?”
“Yes,” said each girl, but with such varying accents that Mrs. Bond
laughed heartily, while Marguerite shook her yellow curls and protested
that she didn’t want the boys anyway, even if they _did_ bring candy.
Then she and Nan went home, and Jessie Carroll said: “We’ll have plenty
of candy, Marjorie, for father will send it down whenever I want him
to.”
“Oh, Jessie, that will be fine! It will be just like boarding-school
when the boxes come from home,” said Hester Laverack, who had returned
from Helen and her refractory tea-things. Hester was an English girl who
had only been in America about a year, and was not yet quite accustomed
to the rollicking ways of the rest of the club. “I think,” she went on
slowly, “I may take my camera down, if you like; it’ll be rather good
fun to take pictures of us all.”
“Yes, indeed; you must take your camera,” said Marjorie. “What larks!
We’ll have jolly pictures. And if Helen takes her banjo we can sing
songs and have concerts, and—oh, dear, the time won’t be half long
enough!”
“Send me up a picture of the group when you’ve spoiled your dinner in
the cooking, and haven’t anything to eat,” said grandma, slyly.
“Now, Grandma Cassandra, you mustn’t talk like that,” said Marjorie;
“but you can’t dampen our spirits with your dire prognostications; we
have too much confidence in our own capabilities. Skip along, girls; I’m
going to get ready now, and we’ll all meet at the station.”
The crowd scattered, and Millicent Payne said: “Well, I’m the last
little Injun, and I reckon I’ll go too, and then there’ll be none.”
Millicent Payne was Marjorie’s dearest friend and chum, and lived next
door; at least, she was supposed to, but she almost lived at the Bonds’.
Millicent was a delightful girl to know; she was so clever and bright,
and took such an interest in anything that interested anybody else—such
a kind, whole-hearted interest, that was neither curious nor critical.
And she had such funny little tricks of imagination. If, for any reason,
her surroundings were not quite what she wished they were, she
immediately created for herself an environment that suited her better,
and, quite oblivious of facts, lived and moved among her fancies. She
was devoted to stories and fairy-tales, and would repeat them in an
irresistibly funny manner, becoming at times so imbued with the spirit
of fantasy that she seemed a veritable witch or pixy herself.
“Run along, Millikens,” called Marjorie. “Come back when you’re ready,
and we’ll go down together.”
CHAPTER II
ON THE ROAD
THE clock in the railroad station announced high noon, but of all the
party only Marjorie and Millicent were there to hear it. Nan Kellogg had
fulfilled her own prophecy by coming down fifteen minutes earlier, and
then going back home for her cuckoo-clock, which was one of her pet
possessions, and which she decided she couldn’t be parted from for two
whole weeks. She came flying back, and entered the station by one door
just as Betty Miller came in at the other.
“Oh,” said Nan, breathlessly, “I thought of course I’d be the last one
here. Where are the other girls? But since they’re not here, won’t you
hold the clock, Marjorie, and let me run back home and—”
“No,” said Betty, decidedly. “You can_not_ go back for anything else.
Follow the example of your clock and stop running for a while.”
“Has it stopped? I was afraid it would. Never mind; I can set it going
after we get there. But I do want to go back and—”
“Nan Kellogg, you’ll be put in chains if you are so insubordinate,”
broke in Marjorie. “I am commander of this expedition, and I order you
to sit down on that bench and not move until the train comes.”
Nan laughed, but sat down obediently, holding her precious clock; and
then Helen appeared with her banjo, and Hester with her camera.
“Have you checked your wheels, girls?” asked Betty.
“Yes, with our trunks,” said Helen. “Mr. Bond is keeping watch over them
until the train comes; and he is holding Timmy Loo, who is a most
important-looking animal just now, dressed in a new red ribbon and a
baggage-tag.”
“Oh, he’s delighted with his prospective journey,” said Marjorie. “I
told him he had the entire charge of our trunks and wheels, and he feels
the responsibility. Oh, here’s Jessie. Now we’re all here but
Marguerite. Where is she, Nan?”
“Who? Daisy? Oh, she’ll be here in a minute. I think she waited to learn
how to make soup.”
“She’ll be in it if she doesn’t hurry,” said Nan. “I think I’ll go and
poke her up.”
“Don’t do it!” cried Betty. “You’ll miss her, and then we won’t have
either of you. Here she comes now, grinning like a Chessy cat.”
Dainty Marguerite, in her fresh white duck suit and pink shirt-waist,
came in, smiling radiantly.
[Illustration: “‘MR. BOND IS HOLDING TIMMY LOO.’ SAID HELEN.”]
“Girls,” said she, “Aunt Annie was at our house, and she taught me a new
soup. It’s wonderful, and I’ll make it for you, if you want it, the
first thing.”
“Of course we want it the first thing,” said Nan. “Did you suppose we
thought it was a dessert?”
“Come, girls!” called Mr. Bond, from the platform, as the train that was
to have the honor of carrying the party puffed into the station and came
noisily to a standstill. “Are you ready? All aboard! Good-by, Margy
dear; don’t set the house afire. Who is the Matron of this crowd,
anyway? I’d like a word with her.”
Marjorie looked at the girls. “I think Marguerite is,” she said. “She’s
the youngest and smallest and rattle-patedest. Yes, she shall be our
Matron.”
“Very well, then, Matron Daisy, I consign these young barbarians to your
care, and I put them and my house in your charge, and I shall expect you
to render me an account when you come back.”
“Don’t scare me, Mr. Bond,” pleaded Marguerite, shaking her yellow
curls. “If the responsibility proves too much for me I shall run away
and leave them to their fate. But I think I can manage them, and I’ll
rule them with a rod of iron.”
And then the bell rang, and Mr. Bond jumped off the train just in time;
and he waved his hat, and the girls waved their handkerchiefs from the
windows, until they were whisked away out of his sight.
“Now, my children,” said Marguerite, highly elated at her absurd title
of Matron, “you are in my care, and I must look after you. Why, where
are Nan and Helen?”
Sure enough, only six of the girls were to be seen; but just at that
moment the two missing ones were escorted through the now wabbling
doorway by an official. They were rather red-faced, and explained that
they had seated themselves in the smoking-car by mistake, and the
brakeman had kindly brought them back to their friends.
“I am shocked,” said Marguerite, severely. “Sit down there at once, and
after this follow my directions more closely.”
Then the eight girls were quickly paired off, and the general chatter
was broken up into dialogues.
Mindful of her position as Matron, Marguerite kept a watchful eye on her
charges. To be sure, the watchful eye was so bright and merry that as a | 1,643.847439 |
2023-11-16 18:44:27.9255380 | 2,570 | 10 | 6)***
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Volume VI, Part 1 (Letters, Chronological Table): see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42240
Volume VI, Part 2 (Index): see http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/42494
Transcriber's note:
The Gairdner edition of the Paston Letters was printed in six
volumes. Each volume is a separate e-text; Volume VI is further
divided into two e-texts, Letters and Index. Volume I, the
General Introduction, will be released after all other volumes,
matching the original publication order.
Except for footnotes and sidenotes, all brackets are in the
original, as are parenthetical question marks and (_sic_)
notations. Series of dots representing damaged text are as in
the printed original.
The year was shown in a sidenote at the top of each page; this
has been merged with the sidenote at the beginning of each
Letter or Abstract.
A carat character is used to denote superscription. The
character(s) following the carat is superscripted (example:
xxviii^me). Braces { } are used only when the superscripted
text is immediately followed by non-superscripted letters
or period (full stop). Errata and other transcriber's notes
are shown in [[double brackets]]. The notation "corrected by
editor" refers to the Errata printed in Volume VI. "(o)" is
used to represent the male ordinal.
Footnotes have their original numbering, with added page
number to make them usable with the full Index. They are
grouped at the end of each Letter or Abstract.
Typographical errors are listed at the end of each Letter,
after the footnotes. In the primary text, errors were only
corrected if they are clearly editorial, such as missing
italics, or mechanical, such as u-for-n misprints. Italic "d"
misprinted as "a" was a recurring problem. The word "invisible"
means that there is an appropriately sized blank space, but the
letter or punctuation mark itself is missing. The spelling
"Jhon" is not an error. Gresham and Tresham are different
people.
Note that the printed book used z to represent original small
letter yogh. This has not been changed for the e-text.
This edition, published by arrangement with Messrs. ARCHIBALD CONSTABLE
AND COMPANY, LIMITED, is strictly limited to 650 copies for Great
Britain and America, of which only 600 sets are for sale, and are
numbered 1 to 600.
No. 44.
[[The number 44 is handwritten.]]
* * * * *
* * * *
THE PASTON LETTERS
A.D. 1422-1509
* * * *
* * * * *
THE PASTON LETTERS
A.D. 1422-1509
New Complete Library Edition
Edited with Notes and an Introduction
By
JAMES GAIRDNER
of the Public Record Office
_VOLUME II_
London
Chatto & Windus
[Decoration]
Exeter
James G. Commin
1904
Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to His Majesty
THE PASTON LETTERS
_Early Documents_
Before entering upon the correspondence of the Paston family, in the
reign of Henry VI., we have thought it well to give the reader a brief
note of such deeds and charters of an earlier date as appear either to
have been preserved in the family, or to have any bearing on its
history. The following is a list of those we have been able to meet with
either in the originals or in other quarters, such as Blomefield's
_History of Norfolk_, where notices are given of several documents,
which appear now to have got into unknown hands. The documents seen by
Blomefield, and those from the Paston and Dawson-Turner collections, now
in the British Museum, were probably all at one time part of the Paston
family muniments. The three Harleian charters seem to have been derived
from a different source.
A Deed is cited by Blomefield (_Hist. Norf._ vi. 480), by which
Anselm, Abbot of St. Benet's, Hulme, and the Convent there, gave to
Osbern, the priest (said by Blomefield to have been a son of Griffin
de Thwait, the founder of the Paston family), the land of St.
Benet's of Paston (_terram Sancti Benedicti de Paston_), in fee, for
half the farm of one _caruca_, as his ancestors used to pay for the
same.
Also a Deed of William the Abbot (who lived in King Stephen's
reign), granting to Richer de Pastun, son of Osbern, son of Griffin
de Thwete, all the land that the Convent held in Pastun, with their
men, and other pertinencies.
Also a Deed of Covenant between Richer de Paston and Reginald the
Abbot, and Convent of St. Benet's, Holme, that when peace should be
settled in England, and pleas held in the Court of our Lord the
King, the said Richer would, at the request and at the expense of
the Abbot, give him every security in Court to release the lands in
Pastun.
'Ralph de Paston was son, as I take it' (says Blomefield) 'of this
Richer, and appears to have had two sons, Richard and Nicholas.
'Richard, son of Ralph de Paston, by his deed, _sans_ date, granted
to Geoffrey, son of Roger de Tweyt, lands in this town (Oxnead),
paying 9d. per ann. for his homage and service, 40s. for a fine
(_in gersumam_), and paying to him and his heirs on the feasts of
St. Andrew, Candlemas, Pentecost, and St. Michael, on each feast,
2s. _ob._ He sealed with one _lis_. Laurence de Reppes, William and
John, his brother, William de Bradfield, &c., were witnesses.'
--Blomefield, vi. 480-1.
'There was also another branch of this family, of which was Wystan,
or Wolstan, de Paston, which I take to be the lineal ancestor of Sir
William Paston, the Judge, and the Earls of Yarmouth. This Wolstan
lived in the reign of Henry II. and Richard I., and married, as is
probable, a daughter of the Glanvilles, as appeared from an
impalement of Paston and Glanville in the windows of Paston Hall in
Paston. His son and heir styled himself Robert de Wyston and Robert
de Paston; who, dying in or about 1242, was buried at Bromholm, and
left Edmund de Paston. To this Edmund, son of Robert, son of Wolstan
de Paston, Sir Richard de Paston gave the land in Paston which
Robert, his father, held of him and Nicholas, his brother, by deed
_sans_ date.' --Blomefield, vi. 481.
Undated Deed of Nicholaus filius Radulfi Diaconi de Paston, granting
to Robert, son of Wistan de Paston, two parcels of land--one of them
abutting on the lands of Eudo de Paston. Witnesses--Richard de
Trunch; Will. Esprygy; Ralph de Reppes; Roger de Reppes; Richard,
s. of Ralph de Baketon; John de Reppes; Roger, s. of Warin de Paston;
Hugh, s. of Will. de Paston, &c.--Add. Charter 17,217, B.M. (Paston
MSS.).
Undated Deed of Richard, son of Ralph de Pastune, granting to
Edmund, son of Robert Wistan de Pastune, lands in Pastune,
&c.--(_Seal attached, in fine condition._)--Add. Charter 17,218,
B.M. (Paston MSS.).
Blomefield also mentions (vi. 481) that Nicholas, son of Ralph de
Paston, gave lands to Robert, son of Wystan de Paston, by deed _sans
date_. Witness, Roger de Repps.
Undated Deed Poll, by which Richard, the son of Ralph, Deacon of
Paston, grants to Edmund, the son of Robert Wiston of Paston,
certain lands at Paston.--Add. Charter 14,810, B.M. (D. Turner's
Collection of Deeds relating to Norfolk).
Richard, son of Ralph de Paston, according to Blomefield (xi. 24),
gave 12_d._ a year rent in Paston to the Priory of Bromholm. This
gift is also mentioned by Richard Taylor in his Index Monasticus of
the Diocese of Norwich, p. 15, where the purpose of the endowment is
said to be 'to keep their books in repair.'
Deed, cited by Blomefield (vi. 481), by Richard, son of John, son of
Richard de Paston, granting to Richer Alunday and his heirs his
native Alan de Tilney, with all his family, &c. (_cum tota
sequela_), and 7 acres of land in Paston and Knapton, with
messuages, &c., for 4 marks of silver _in gersumam_, and a rent of
22_d._ a year.
Undated Deed Poll, whereby William, the son of Robert Barrett,
grants to Edmund, the son of Robert Whiston of Paston, certain lands
in the Common Field of Paston.--Add. Charter 14,813, B.M.
(D. Turner's Coll.).
Undated Indenture between Clement Parcerit of Gimmingham, and Cecil,
his wife, and Edmund, the son of Robert de Paston, concerning lands
in Paston Field.--Add. Charter 14,814, B.M. (D. Turner's Coll.).
Undated Deed Poll, by which Richard de Lessingham grants to William,
son of Robert de Paston, certain lands in the Common Field of
Paston.--Add. Charter 14,812 (D. Turner's Coll.).
Ancient Deed of Nich. Chancehose of Baketun granting to Edmund | 1,643.945578 |
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Produced by Al Haines
[Illustration: Cover art]
[Frontispiece: He could picture in the next box Cydonia's golden head
at just the same angle and in between the narrow velvet curtains barely
separating the pair. _See page 93_.]
THE MAN WITH
THE DOUBLE HEART
BY
MURIEL HINE
(MRS. SIDNEY COXON)
LONDON: JOHN LANE, THE BODLEY HEAD
NEW YORK: JOHN LANE COMPANY
TORONTO: BELL & COCKBURN : : MCMXIV
COPYRIGHT, 1914
BY JOHN LANE COMPANY
J. J. Little & Ives Company
New York, U. S. A.
TO
MY MOTHER
Some starlit garden grey with dew
Some chamber flushed with wine and fire
What matters where, so I and you
Are worthy our desire?
--_W. L. Henley_.
THE MAN WITH
THE DOUBLE HEART
PART I
"Flower o' the broom
Take away love and our earth is a tomb!"
--_R. Browning_.
CHAPTER I
The hour was close on midday, but the lamps in Cavendish Square shone
with a blurred light through the unnatural gloom.
The fog, pouring down from Regent's Park above, was wedged tight in
Harley Street like a wad of dirty wool, but in the open space fronting
Harcourt House it found room to expand and took on spectral shape; dim
forms with floating locks that clung to the stunted trees and,
shuddering, pressed against the high London buildings which faded away
indistinctly into the blackened sky.
From thence ragged pennons went busily fluttering South to be caught in
the draught of the traffic in noisy Oxford Street, where hoarse and
confusing cries were blent with the rumble of wheels in all the
pandemonium of man at war with the elements.
The air was raw and sooty, difficult to breathe, and McTaggart, already
irritable with the nervous tension due to his approaching interview,
his throat dry, his eyes smarting as he peered at the wide crossing,
started violently as the horn of an unseen motor sounded unpleasantly
near at hand.
"Confound the man!" he said, in apology to himself and stepped back
quickly onto the narrow path as a shapeless monster with eyes of flame
swung past, foiled of its prey.
"A nice pace to go on a day like this!" And here something struck him
sharply in the rear, knocking his hat forward onto the bridge of his
nose.
"What the...!" he checked his wrath with a sudden shamefaced laugh as
he found his unseen adversary to consist of the square railings.
Somewhere down Wigmore Street a clock boomed forth the hour. A quarter
to twelve. McTaggart counted the strokes and gave a sigh of relief not
unmixed with amusement: the secret congratulation of an unpunctual man
redeemed by an accident from the error of his ways.
Wedging his hat more firmly down on his head, he dared again the black
space before him, struck the curb on the opposite side and, one hand
against the wall, steered round the corner and up into Harley Street.
Under the first lamp he paused and hunted for the number over the
nearest door where four brass plates menaced the passer-by with that
modern form of torture that few live to escape--the inquisitorial
process known as dentistry.
Making a rapid calculation, he came to the conclusion that the house he
sought must lie at the further end of the street--London's "Bridge of
Sighs"--where breathless hope and despair elbow each other ceaselessly
in the wake of suffering humanity.
The fog was changing colour from a dirty yellow to opal, and the damp
pavement was becoming visible as McTaggart moved forward with a quick
stride that held an elasticity which it did not owe to elation.
He walked with an ease and lightness peculiar in an Englishman who,
athletic as he may be, yet treads the earth with a certain conscious
air of possessing it: a tall, well-built man, slender and very erect,
but without that balanced stiffness, the hall-mark of "drill."
A keen observer would guess at once an admixture of blood that betrayed
its foreign strain in that supple grace of his; in the olive skin, the
light feet, and the glossy black hair that was brushed close and thick
to his shapely head.
Not French. For the Frenchman moves on a framework of wire, fretting
toward action, deadly in attack. But the race that bred Napoleon,
subtle and resistant, built upon tempered steel that bends but rarely
breaks.
Now, as he reached the last block and the house he sought, McTaggart
paused for a second, irresolute, on the step.
He seemed to gather courage with a quick indrawn breath, and his mouth
was set in a hard line as his hand pressed the bell.
Then he raised his eyes to the knocker above, and with the slight
action his whole face changed.
For, instead of being black beneath their dark brows, the man's eyes
were blue, an intense, fiery blue; with the clear depths and the temper
touch that one sees nowhere else save in the strong type of the hardy
mountain race. They were not the blue of Ireland, with her
half-veiled, sorrowful mirth; nor the placid blue of England, that mild
forget-me-not. They were utterly unmistakable; they brought with them
a breath of heather-gloried solitude and the deep and silent lochs.
Here was a Scot--a hillsman from the North; no need of his name to cry
aloud the fact.
And yet...
The door was opened, and at once the imprisoned fog finding a new
outlet drove into the narrow hall.
A tall, bony parlour maid was staring back at him as, mechanically,
McTaggart repeated the great man's name.
"You have an appointment, sir?" Her manner seemed to imply that her
dignity would suffer if this were not the case.
Satisfied by his answer, she ushered him into a room where a gas fire
burned feebly with an apologetic air, as though painfully conscious of
its meretricious logs. Half a dozen people, muffled in coats and furs,
were scattered about a long dining table, occupied in reading
listlessly the papers, to avoid the temptation of staring at each
other. The place smelt of biscuits, of fog and of gas, like an unaired
buffet in a railway station.
McTaggart, weighed down by a sense of impending doom, picked up a
"Punch" and retired to the window, ostensibly to amuse himself, in
reality to rehearse for the hundredth time his slender stock of
"symptoms." The clock ticked on, and a bleak silence reigned, broken at
intervals by the sniff of a small boy, who, accompanied by a parent and
a heavy cold in the head, was feasting his soul on a volume of the
"Graphic."
Something familiar in the cartoon under his eyes drew McTaggart away
from his own dreary thoughts.
"I mustn't forget to tell him..." he was saying to himself, when he
realized that the paper he held was dated five months back! He felt
immediately quite unreasonably annoyed. A sudden desire to rise up and
go invaded his mind. In his nervous state the excuse seemed amply
sufficient. A "Punch" five months old!... it was a covert insult.
A doctor who could trade on his patient's credulity--pocketing his
three guineas, don't forget that!--and offer them literature but fit to
light the fire...
A "Punch" Five Months Old!... he gathered up his gloves.
But a noiseless step crossed the room, a voice whispered his name.
"Mr. McTaggart? This way, please."
He found himself following the bony parlour maid, past the aggressive
eyes of the still-waiting crowd, out into the hall and down a
glass-roofed passage.
"Now I'm in for it..." he said silently... "Oh!... _damn_!" He put
on his most truculent air.
The maid tapped at a door.
"Come in," said a sharp voice.
McTaggart entered and stood still for a moment, blinking on the
threshold, irresolute.
For the scene was unexpected. Despite the heavy fog that filtered
through the windows with its insidious breath, a hint of Spring was
there in the fresh white walls, the rose-covered chintzes and the
presence of flowers.
The place seemed filled with them. An early bough of blossom, the
exquisite tender pink of the almond in bloom, stood against a mirror
that screened a recess; and the air was alive with the scent of
daffodils, with subtle yellow faces, like curious Chinamen, peering
over the edge of a blue Nankin bowl.
In the centre of the room a man in a velvet coat was bending over a
mass of fresh violets, adding water carefully to the surrounding moss
out of a copper jug that he held in his hands.
McTaggart stared at him; at the lean, colourless face under its untidy
thatch of coarse, gray hair; at the spare figure, the long, steady
hands and the loose, unconventional clothes that he wore. He might
have been an artist of Rossetti's day in that shabby brown coat and
soft faded shirt. But the great specialist--whose name carried weight
wherever science and medicine were wont to foregather. Had he made a
mistake? It seemed incredible.
The doctor gave a parting touch to an overhanging leaf and wheeled
round to greet his patient with a smile.
"I can't bear to see flowers die from lack of care, and this foggy
weather tries | 1,643.948749 |
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Produced by Albert Imrie
A SHROPSHIRE LAD
By A. E. Housman
Introduction by William Stanley Braithwaite
1919
INTRODUCTION
The method of the poems in _ A Shropshire Lad _ illustrates better
than any theory how poetry may assume the attire of reality, and yet
in speech of the simplest, become in spirit the sheer quality of
loveliness. For, in these unobtrusive pages, there is nothing shunned
which makes the spectacle of life parade its dark and painful, its
ironic and cynical burdens, as well as those images with happy and
exquisite aspects. With a broader and deeper background of experience
and environment, which by some divine special privilege belongs to
the poetic imagination, it is easier to set apart and contrast these
opposing words and sympathies in a poet; but here we find them evoked
in a restricted locale- an English county-where the rich, cool tranquil
landscape gives a solid texture to the human show. What, I think,
impresses one, thrills, like ecstatic, half-smothered strains of music,
floating from unperceived instruments, in Mr. Housman's poems, is
the encounter his spirit constantly endures with life. It is, this
encounter, what you feel in the Greeks, and as in the Greeks, it is a
spiritual waging of miraculous forces. There is, too, in Mr. Housman's
poems, the singularly Grecian Quality of a clean and fragrant mental and
emotional temper, vibrating equally whether the theme dealt with is
ruin or defeat, or some great tragic crisis of spirit, or with moods and
ardours of pure enjoyment and simplicities of feeling. Scarcely has any
modern book of poems shown so sure a touch of genius in this respect:
the magic, in a continuous glow saturating the substance of every
picture and motive with its own peculiar essence.
What has been called the "cynical bitterness" of Mr. Housman's poems,
is really nothing more than his ability to etch in sharp tones the
actualities of experience. The poet himself is never cynical; his
joyousness is all too apparent in the very manner and intensity of
expression. The "lads" of Ludlow are so human to him, the hawthorn and
broom on the Severn shores are so fragrant with associations, he cannot
help but compose under a kind of imaginative wizardry of exultation,
even when the immediate subject is grim or grotesque. In many of
these brief, tense poems the reader confronts a mask, as it were, with
appalling and distorted lineaments; but behind it the poet smiles,
perhaps sardonically, but smiles nevertheless. In the real countenance
there are no tears or grievances, but a quizzical, humorous expression
which shows, when one has torn the subterfuge away, that here is a
spirit whom life may menace with its contradictions and fatalities, but
never dupe with its circumstance and mystery.
All this quite points to, and partly explains, the charm of the poems in
_ A Shropshire Lad _. The fastidious care with which each poem is built
out of the simplest of technical elements, the precise tone and color of
language employed to articulate impulse and mood, and the reproduction
of objective substances for a clear visualization of character and
scene, all tend by a sure and unfaltering composition, to present a
lyric art unique in English poetry of the last twenty-five years.
I dare say I have scarcely touched upon the secret of Mr. Housman's
book. For some it may radiate from the Shropshire life he so finely
etches; for others, in the vivid artistic simplicity and unity of
values, through which Shropshire lads and landscapes are presented. It
must be, however, in the miraculous fusing of the two. Whatever that
secret is, the charm of it never fails after all these years to keep the
poems preserved with a freshness and vitality, which are the qualities
of enduring genius.
WILLIAM STANLEY BRAITHWAITE
A SHROPSHIRE LAD
I
1887
From Clee to heaven the beacon burns,
The shires have seen it plain,
From north and south the sign returns
And beacons burn again.
Look left, look right, the hills are bright,
The dales are light between,
Because 'tis fifty years to-night
That God has saved the Queen.
Now, when the flame they watch not towers
About the soil they trod,
Lads, we'll remember friends of ours
Who shared the work with God.
To skies that knit their heartstrings right,
To fields that bred them brave,
The saviours come not home to-night:
Themselves they could not save.
It dawns in Asia, tombstones show
And Shropshire names are read;
And the Nile spills his overflow
Beside the Severn's dead.
We pledge in peace by farm and town
The Queen they served in war,
And fire the beacons up and down
The land they perished for.
"God Save the Queen" we living sing,
From height to height 'tis heard;
And with the rest your voices ring,
Lads of the Fifty-third.
Oh, God will save her, fear you not:
Be you the men you've been,
Get you the sons your fathers got,
And God will Save the Queen.
II
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for | 1,644.048087 |
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Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, KarenD and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by Cornell University Digital Collections)
Vol. XXXV. No. 12.
THE
AMERICAN MISSIONARY.
* * * * *
“To the Poor the Gospel is Preached.”
* * * * *
DECEMBER, 1881.
_CONTENTS_:
EDITORIAL.
PARAGRAPHS 353
FINANCIAL—APPEALING FACTS 354
ABSTRACT OF PROCEEDINGS AT THE ANNUAL MEETING 355
GENERAL SURVEY 357
SUMMARY OF TREASURER’S REPORT 367
ADDRESS OF SENATOR GEO. F. HOAR 369
EXTRACTS OF ADDRESSES RELATING TO GENERAL WORK 373
THE FREEDMEN.
REPORT OF COMMITTEE ON EDUCATIONAL WORK 382
ADDRESS OF REV. C. T. COLLINS 383
ADDRESS OF REV. J. R. THURSTON 386
CHRISTIAN EDUCATION: PROF. CYRUS NORTHROP 388
HIGHER EDUCATION: PRES. E. A. WARE 390
REPORT OF COMMITTEE ON CHURCH WORK 392
ADDRESS OF PRES. CYRUS HAMLIN 393
AFRICA.
REPORT ON FOREIGN WORK 395
ADDRESS OF REV. J. W. HARDING 397
ADDRESS OF REV. GEO. S. DICKERMAN 398
THE UPPER NILE BASIN: COL. H. G. PROUT 398
THE INDIANS.
REPORT OF THE COMMITTEE 403
ADDRESS OF GEN. S. C. ARMSTRONG 403
ADDRESS OF CAPT. R. H. PRATT 405
THE CHINESE.
REPORT OF THE COMMITTEE 406
THE CHINESE TO EVANGELIZE CHINA: REV. C. H. POPE 408
REPORT OF COMMITTEE ON FINANCE 408
ADDRESS OF REV. GEO. F. STANTON 409
VOTE OF THANKS AND REPLY 410
ECHOES OF THE ANNUAL MEETING 411
RECEIPTS 412
CONSTITUTION 416
* * * * *
NEW YORK:
Published by the American Missionary Association,
ROOMS, 56 READE STREET.
* * * * *
Price, 50 Cents a Year, in advance.
Entered at the Post Office at New York, N.Y., as second-class matter.
* * * * *
American Missionary Association,
56 READE STREET, N.Y.
* * * * *
PRESIDENT.
HON. WM. B. WASHBURN, Mass.
VICE-PRESIDENTS.
Hon. E. S. TOBEY, Mass.
Hon. F. D. PARISH, Ohio.
Hon. E. D. HOLTON, Wis.
Hon. WILLIAM CLAFLIN, Mass.
Rev. STEPHEN THURSTON, D.D., Me.
Rev. SAMUEL HARRIS, D.D., Ct.
WM. C. CHAPIN, Esq., R.I.
Rev. W. T. EUSTIS, D.D., Mass.
Hon. A. C. BARSTOW, R.I.
Rev. THATCHER THAYER, D.D., R.I.
Rev. RAY PALMER, D.D., N.J.
Rev. EDWARD BEECHER, D.D., N.Y.
Rev. J. M. STURTEVANT, D.D., Ill.
Rev. W. W. PATTON, D.D., D.C.
Hon. SEYMOUR STRAIGHT, La.
Rev. CYRUS W. | 1,644.059899 |
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Produced by David Edwards, Haragos PAil and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This
file was produced from images generously made available
by The Internet Archive)
UNIFORM WITH
JOHN DOUGH AND THE CHERUB
THE LAND OF OZ
BY L. FRANK BAUM
_Elaborately illustrated--in colors_
_and black-and-white by_
_JOHN R. NEILL_
John Dough and the Cherub
_by_
L. Frank Baum
AUTHOR OF
THE WIZARD OF OZ
THE LAND OF OZ
THE WOGGLE-BUG BOOK
FATHER GOOSE
QUEEN ZIXI OF IX
THE ENCHANTED ISLAND OF YEW, ETC.
[Illustration]
ILLUSTRATED BY
John R. Neill
CHICAGO
THE REILLY & BRITTON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
[Illustration]
COPYRIGHT, 1906, BY
L. FRANK BAUM
All Rights
Reserved
[Illustration]
To my young friend
John Randolph Reilly
this book is
affectionately dedicated
L.F.B
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
LIST OF CHAPTERS
THE GREAT ELIXIR 9
THE TWO FLASKS 11
THE GINGERBREAD MAN 27
JOHN DOUGH BEGINS HIS ADVENTURES 41
CHICK, THE CHERUB 59
THE FREAKS OF PHREEX 104
THE LADY EXECUTIONER 121
THE PALACE OF ROMANCE 140
THE SILVER PIG 159
PITTYPAT AND THE MIFKETS 166
THE ISLAND PRINCESS 185
PARA BRUIN, THE RUBBER BEAR 206
BLACK OOBOO 220
UNDER LAND AND WATER 238
THE FAIRY BEAVERS 252
THE FLIGHT OF THE FLAMINGOES 273
SPORT OF PIRATE ISLAND 284
HILAND AND LOLAND 294
KING DOUGH AND HIS COURT 308
[Illustration: BOY OR GIRL?]
The Great Elixir
Over the door appeared a weather-worn sign that read: "JULES GROGRANDE,
BAKER." In one of the windows, painted upon a sheet of cardboard, was
another sign: "Home-made Bread by the Best Modern Machinery." There was
a third sign in the window beyond the doorway, and this was marked upon
a bit of wrapping-paper, and said: "Fresh Gingerbread Every Day."
When you opened the door, the top of it struck a brass bell suspended
from the ceiling and made it tinkle merrily. Hearing the sound, Madame
Leontine Grogrande would come from her little room back of the shop and
stand behind the counter and ask you what you would like to purchase.
Madame Leontine--or Madame Tina, as the children called her--was quite
short and quite fat; and she had a round, pleasant face that was good
to look upon. She moved somewhat slowly, for the rheumatism troubled
her more or less; but no one minded if Madame was a bit slow in tying
up her parcels. For surely no cakes or buns in all the town were so
delicious or fresh as those she sold, and she had a way of giving the
biggest cakes to the smallest girls and boys who came into her shop,
that proved she was fond of children and had a generous heart.
People loved to come to the Grogrande Bakery. When one opened the
door an exquisite fragrance of newly baked bread and cakes greeted
the nostrils; and, if you were not hungry when you entered, you were
sure to become so when you examined and smelled the delicious pies
and doughnuts and gingerbread and buns with which the shelves and
show-cases were stocked. There were trays of French candies, too; and
because all the goods were fresh and wholesome the bakery was well
patronized and did a thriving business.
The reason no one saw Monsieur Jules in the shop was because his time
was always occupied in the bakery in the rear--a long, low room filled
with ovens and tables covered with pots and pans and dishes (which the
skillful baker used for mixing and stirring) and long shelves bearing
sugars and spices and baking-powders and sweet-smelling extracts that
made his wares taste so sweet and agreeable.
[Illustration: AN ARAB DASHED INTO THE ROOM.]
The bake-room was three times as big as the shop; but Monsieur Jules
needed all the space in the preparation of the great variety of goods
required by his patrons, and he prided himself on the fact that his
edibles were fresh-made each day. In order to have the bread and rolls
ready at breakfast time he was obliged to get up at three o'clock every
morning, and so he went to bed about sundown.
On a certain forenoon the door of the shop opened so abruptly that the
little brass bell made a furious jingling.
An Arab dashed into the room, | 1,644.213423 |
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The HTML version of this text was produced by Bob Frone for
his Opera Books page. Plain text adaption by Andrew Sly.
CHAPTERS OF OPERA
Being
Historical and Critical Observations
And Records Concerning the Lyric
Drama in New York from Its
Earliest Days Down to
The Present Time
by
HENRY EDWARD KREHBIEL
Musical Editor of "The New York Tribune";
Author of "How To Listen To Music,"
"Studies In The Wagnerian Drama,"
"Music And Manners In The Classical Period,"
"The Philharmonic Society Of New York," etc., etc.
To MARIE--WIFE
and
DAUGHTER HELEN
Who have shared with the Author many of the
Experiences described in this book.
"Joy shared is Joy doubled."
--GOETHE.
PREFACE
The making of this book was prompted by the fact that with the season
1907-08 the Metropolitan Opera House in New York completed an existence
of twenty-five years. Through all this period at public representations
I have occupied stall D-15 on the ground floor as reviewer of musical
affairs for The New York Tribune newspaper. I have, therefore, been a
witness of the vicissitudes through which the institution has passed
in a quarter-century, and a chronicler of all significant musical
things which were done within its walls. I have seen the failure of
the artistic policy to promote which the magnificent theater was built;
the revolution accomplished by the stockholders under the leadership
of Leopold Damrosch; the progress of a German régime, which did much
to develop tastes and create ideals which, till its coming, were
little-known quantities in American art and life; the overthrow of that
régime in obedience to the command of fashion; the subsequent dawn and
development of the liberal and comprehensive policy which marked the
climax of the career of Maurice Grau as an operatic director, I have
witnessed since then, many of the fruits of wise endeavor and astute
management frittered away by managerial incapacity and greed, and fad
and fashion come to rule again, where for a brief, but eventful period,
serious artistic interest and endeavor had been dominant.
The institution will enter upon a new régime with the season 1908-09.
The time, therefore, seemed fitting for a review of the twenty-five
years that are past. The incidents of this period are fixed; they
may be variously viewed, but they cannot be changed. They belong to
history, and to a presentation of that history I have devoted most
of the pages which follow. I have been actuated in my work by deep
seriousness of purpose, and have tried to avoid everything which
could not make for intellectual profit, or, at least, amiable and
illuminative entertainment.
The chapters which precede the more or less detailed history of the
Metropolitan Opera House (I-VII) were written for the sake of the
light which they shed on existing institutions and conditions, and to
illustrate the development of existing taste, appreciation, and interest
touching the lyrical drama. To the same end much consideration has been
paid to significant doings outside the Metropolitan Opera House since
it has been the chief domicile of grand opera in New York. Especial
attention has been given for obvious reasons to the two seasons of
opera at Mr. Hammerstein's Manhattan Opera House.
H. E. KREHBIEL.
Blue Hill, Maine, the Summer of 1908.
AUTHOR'S NOTE TO THIRD EDITION
For the purposes of a new and popular edition of this book, the
publishers asked the author to continue his historical narrative, his
record of performances, and his critical survey of the operas produced
at the two chief operatic institutions of New York, from the beginning
of the season 1908-1909 down to the close of the season 1910-1911. This
invitation the author felt compelled to decline for several reasons,
one of which (quite sufficient in itself), was that he had already
undertaken a work of great magnitude which would occupy all his working
hours during the period between the close of the last season and the
publication of this edition.
Thereupon the publishers, who seemed to place a high valuation on
the historical element in the book, suggested that the record of
performances at least be brought up to date even if the criticism of new
operas and the discussion of the other incidents of the season--such as
the dissensions between the directors of the Metropolitan Opera House,
the rivalry between them and the director of the Manhattan, the quarrels
with artists, the successes achieved by some operas and the failure
suffered by others--be postponed for the present at least for want of
time on the part of the author to carry on the work on the scale of the
original edition.
It was finally agreed that the author should supply the record for
the period intervening between the appearance of the first edition of
"Chapters of Opera" and the present publication by revised excerpts
from the annual summaries of the activities of the seasons in question
published by him in the New York Tribune, of which newspaper he has had
the honor of being the musical critic for thirty years past. For the
privilege of using this material the author is deeply beholden to the
Tribune Association and the editor, Hart Lyman, Esq. The record may be
found in the Appendices after the last chapter.
H. E. KREHBIEL.
Blue Hill, Maine, Summer of 1911.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION OF OPERA IN NEW YORK
The Introduction of Italian Opera in New York
English Ballad Operas and Adaptations from French and Italian Works
Hallam's Comedians and "The Beggar's Opera"
The John Street Theater and Its Early Successors
Italian Opera's First Home
Manuel Garcia
The New Park Theater and Some of Its Rivals
Malibran and English Opera
The Bowery Theater, Richmond Hill, Niblo's and Castle Gardens
CHAPTER II
EARLY THEATERS, MANAGERS, AND SINGERS
Of the Building of Opera Houses
A Study of Influences
The First Italian Opera House in New York
Early Impresarios and Singers
Da Ponte, Montressor, Rivafinoli
Signorina Pedrotti and Fornasari
Why Do Men Become Opera-Managers?
Addison and Italian Opera
The Vernacular Triumphant
CHAPTER III
THE FIRST ITALIAN COMPANY
Manuel del Popolo Vicente Garcia
"Il Barbiere di Siviglia"
Signorina Maria Garcia's Unfortunate Marriage
Lorenzo da Ponte
His Hebraic Origin and Checkered Career
"Don Giovanni"
An Appeal in Behalf of Italian Opera
CHAPTER IV
HOUSES BUILT FOR OPERA
More Opera Houses
Palmo's and the Astor Place
Signora Borghese and the Distressful Vocal Wabble
Antognini and Cinti-Damoreau
An Orchestral Strike
Advent of the Patti Family
Don Francesco Marty y Torrens and His Havanese Company
Opera Gowns Fifty Years Ago
Edward and William Henry Fry
Horace Greeley and His Musical Critic
James H. Hackett and William Niblo
Tragic Consequences of Canine Interference
Goethe and a Poodle
A Dog-Show and the Astor Place Opera House
CHAPTER V
MARETZEK, HIS RIVALS AND SINGERS
Max Maretzek
His Managerial Career
Some Anecdotes
"Crotchets and Quavers"
His Rivals and Some of His Singers
Bernard Ullmann
Marty Again
Bottesini and Arditi
Steffanone
Bosio
Tedesco
Salvi
Bettini
Badiali
Marini
CHAPTER VI
THE NEW YORK ACADEMY OF MUSIC
Operatic Warfare Half a Century Ago
The Academy of Music and Its Misfortunes
A Critic's Opera and His Ideals
A Roster of American Singers
Grisi and Mario
Annie Louise Cary
Ole Bull as Manager
Piccolomini and Réclame
Adelina Patti's Début and an Anniversary Dinner Twenty-five
Years Later
A Kiss for Maretzek
CHAPTER VII
MAPLESON AND OTHER IMPRESARIOS
Colonel James H. Mapleson
A Diplomatic Manager
His Persuasiveness
How He Borrowed Money from an Irate Creditor
Maurice Strakosch
Musical Managers
Pollini
Sofia Scalchi and Annie Louise Cary Again
Campanini and His Beautiful Attack
Brignoli
His Appetite and Superstition
CHAPTER VIII
THE METROPOLITAN OPERA HOUSE
The Academy's Successful Rival
Why It Was Built
The Demands of Fashion
Description of the Theater
War between the Metropolitan and the Academy of Music
Mapleson and Abbey
The Rival Forces
Patti and Nilsson
Gerster and Sembrich
A Costly Victory
CHAPTER IX
FIRST SEASON AT THE METROPOLITAN
The First Season at the Metropolitan Opera House
Mr. Abbey's Singers
Gounod's "Faust" and Christine Nilsson
Marcella Sembrich and Her Versatility
Sofia Scalchi
Signor Kaschmann
Signor Stagno
Ambroise Thomas's "Mignon"
Madame Fursch-Madi
Ponchielli's "La Gioconda"
CHAPTER X
OPERATIC REVOLUTIONS
The Season 1883-1884 at the Academy of Music
Lillian Nordica's American Début
German Opera Introduced at the Metropolitan Opera House
Parlous State of Italian Opera in London and on the Continent
Dr. Leopold Damrosch and His Enterprise
The German Singers
Amalia Materna
Marianne Brandt
Marie Schroeder-Hanfstängl
Anton Schott, the Military Tenor
Von Bülow's Characterization: "A Tenor is a Disease"
CHAPTER XI
GERMAN OPERA AT THE METROPOLITAN
First German Season
Death Struggles of Italian Opera at the Academy
Adelina Patti and Her Art
Features of the German Performances
"Tannhäuser"
Marianne Brandt in Beethoven's Opera
"Der Freischütz"
"Masaniello"
Materna in "Die Walküre"
Death of Dr. Damrosch
CHAPTER XII
END OF ITALIAN OPERA AT THE ACADEMY
The Season 1885-1886
End of the Mapleson Régime at the Academy of Music
Alma Fohström
The American Opera Company
German Opera in the Bowery
A Tenor Who Wanted to be Manager of the Metropolitan Opera House
The Coming of Anton Seidl
His Early Career
Lilli Lehmann
A Broken Contract
Unselfish Devotion to Artistic Ideals
Max Alvary
Emil Fischer
CHAPTER XIII
WAGNER HOLDS THE METROPOLITAN
Second and Third German Seasons
The Period 1885-1888
More about Lilli Lehmann
Goldmark's "Queen of Sheba"
First Performance of Wagner's "Meistersinger"
Patti in Concert and Opera
A Flash in the Pan at the Academy of Music
The Transformed American Opera Company
Production of Rubinstein's "Nero"
An Imperial Operatic Figure
First American Performance of "Tristan und Isolde"
Albert Niemann and His Characteristics
His Impersonation of Siegmund
Anecdotes
A Triumph for "Fidelio"
CHAPTER XIV
WAGNERIAN HIGH TIDE
Wagnerian High Tide at the Metropolitan Opera House
1887-1890
Italian Low Water Elsewhere
Rising of the Opposition
Wagner's "Siegfried"
Its Unconventionality
"Götterdämmerung"
"Der Trompeter von Säkkingen"
"Euryanthe"
"Ferdinand Cortez"
"Der Barbier von Bagdad"
Italo Campanini and Verdi's "Otello"
Patti and Italian Opera at the Metropolitan Opera House
CHAPTER XV
END OF THE GERMAN PERIOD
End of the German Period
1890-1891
Some Extraordinary Novelties
Franchetti's "Asrael"
"Der Vasall von Szigeth"
A Royal Composer, His Opera and His Distribution of Decorations
"Diana von Solange"
Financial Salvation through Wagner
Italian Opera Redivivus
Ill-mannered Box-holders
Wagnerian Statistics
CHAPTER XVI
ITALIAN OPERA AGAIN AT THE METROPOLITAN
The Season 1891-1892
Losses of the Stockholders of the Metropolitan Opera House Company
Return to Italian Opera
Mr. Abbey's Expectations
Sickness of Lilli Lehmann
The De Reszke Brothers and Lassalle
Emma Eames
Début of Marie Van Zandt
"Cavalleria Rusticana"
Fire Damages the Opera House
Reorganization of the Owning Company
CHAPTER XVII
THE ADVENT OF MELBA AND CALVÉ
An Interregnum
Changes in the Management
Rise and Fall of Abbey, Schoeffel, and Grau
Death of Henry E. Abbey
His Career
Season 1893-1894
Nellie Melba
Emma Calvé
Bourbonism of the Parisians
Massenet's "Werther"
1894-1895
A Breakdown on the Stage
"Elaine"
Sybil Sanderson and "Manon"
Shakespearian Operas
Verdi's "Falstaff"
CHAPTER XVIII
UPRISING IN FAVOR OF GERMAN OPERA
The Public Clamor for German Opera
Oscar Hammerstein and His First Manhattan Opera House
Rivalry between Anton Seidl and Walter Damrosch
The Latter's Career as Manager
Wagner Triumphant
German Opera Restored at the Metropolitan
"The Scarlet Letter"
"Mataswintha"
"Hänsel und Gretel" in English
Jean de Reszke and His Influence
Mapleson for the Last Time
"Andrea Chenier"
Madame Melba's Disastrous Essay with Wagner
"Le Cid"
Metropolitan Performances 1893-1897
CHAPTER XIX
BEGINNING OF THE GRAU PERIOD
Beginning of the Grau Period
Death of Maurice Grau
His Managerial Career
An Interregnum at the Metropolitan Opera House Filled by
Damrosch and Ellis
Death of Anton Seidl
His Funeral
Characteristic Traits
"La Bohème"
1898-1899
"Ero e Leandro" and Its Composer
CHAPTER XX
NEW SINGERS AND OPERAS
Closing Years of Mr. Grau's Régime
Traits in the Manager's Character
Débuts of Alvarez, Scotti, Louise Homer, Lucienne Bréval and
Other Singers
Ternina and "Tosca"
Reyer's "Salammbô"
Gala Performance for a Prussian Prince
"Messaline"
Paderewski's "Manru"
"Der Wald"
Performances in the Grau Period
CHAPTER XXI
HEINRICH CONRIED AND "PARSIFAL"
Beginning of the Administration of Heinrich Conried
Season 1903-1904
Mascagni's American Fiasco
"Iris" and "Zanetto"
Woful Consequences of Depreciating American Conditions
Mr. Conried's Theatrical Career
His Inheritance from Mr. Grau
Signor Caruso
The Company Recruited
The "Parsifal" Craze
CHAPTER XXII
END OF CONRIED'S ADMINISTRATION
Conried's Administration Concluded
1905-1908
Visits from Humperdinck and Puccini
The California Earthquake
Madame Sembrich's Generosity to the Suffering Musicians
"Madama Butterfly"
"Manon Lescaut"
"Fedora"
Production and Prohibition of "Salome"
A Criticism of the Work
"Adriana Lecouvreur"
A Table of Performances
CHAPTER XXIII
HAMMERSTEIN AND HIS OPERA HOUSE
Oscar Hammerstein Builds a Second Manhattan Opera House
How the Manager Put His Doubters to Shame
His Earlier Experiences as Impresario
Cleofonte Campanini
A Zealous Artistic Director and Ambitious Singers
A Surprising Record but No Novelties in the First Season
Melba and Calvé as Stars
The Desertion of Bonci
Quarrels about Puccini's "Bohéme"
List of Performances
CHAPTER XXIV
A BRILLIANT SEASON AT THE MANHATTAN
Hammerstein's Second Season
Amazing Promises but More Amazing Achievements
Mary Garden and Maurice Renaud
Massenet's "Thaïs," Charpentier's "Louise"
Giordano's "Siberia" and Debussy's "Pelléas et Mélisande" Performed for
the First Time in America
Revival of Offenbach's "Les Contes d'Hoffmann," "Crispino e la Comare"
of the Ricci Brothers, and Giordano's "Andrea Chenier"
The Tetrazzini Craze
Repertory of the Season
CHAPTER I
INTRODUCTION OF OPERA IN NEW YORK
Considering the present state of Italian opera in New York City (I am
writing in the year of our Lord 1908), it seems more than a little
strange that its entire history should come within the memories of
persons still living. It was only two years ago that an ancient factotum
at the Metropolitan Opera House died who, for a score of years before he
began service at that establishment, had been in various posts at the
Academy of Music. Of Mr. Arment a kindly necrologist said that he had
seen the Crowd gather in front of the Park Theater in 1825, when the new
form of entertainment effected an entrance in the New World. I knew the
little old gentleman for a quarter of a century or more, but though he
was familiar with my interest in matters historical touching the opera
in New York, he never volunteered information of things further back
than the consulship of Mapleson at the Academy. Moreover, I was unable
to reconcile the story of his recollection of the episode of 1825 with
the circumstances of his early life. Yet the tale may have been true, or
the opera company that had attracted his boyish attention been one that
came within the first decade after Italian opera had its introduction.
Concerning another's recollections, I have not the slightest doubt.
Within the last year Mrs. Julia Ward Howe, entertaining some of her
relatives and friends with an account of social doings in New York in
her childhood, recalled the fact that she had been taken as a tiny miss
to hear some of the performances of the Garcia Troupe, and, if I mistake
not, had had Lorenzo da Ponte, the librettist of Mozart's "Nozze di
Figaro" and "Don Giovanni" pointed out to her by her brother. This
brother was Samuel Ward, who enjoyed the friendship of the old poet,
and published recollections of him not long after his death, in The
New York Mirror. For a score of years I have enjoyed the gentle
companionship at the opera of two sisters whose mother was an Italian
pupil of Da Ponte's, and when, a few years ago, Professor Marchesan, of
the University of Treviso, Italy, appealed to me for material to be used
in the biography of Da Ponte, which he was writing, I was able, through
my gracious and gentle operatic neighbors, to provide him with a number
of occasional poems written, in the manner of a century ago, to their
mother, in whom Da Ponte had awakened a love for the Italian language
and literature. This, together with some of my own labors in uncovering
the American history of Mozart's collaborator, has made me feel
sometimes as if I, too, had dwelt for a brief space in that Arcadia of
which I purpose to gossip in this chapter, and a few others which are
to follow it.
There may be other memories going back as far as Mrs. Howe's, but I
very much doubt if there is another as lively as hers on any question
connected with social life in New York fourscore years ago. Italian
opera was quite as aristocratic when it made its American bow as it
is now, and decidedly more exclusive. It is natural that memories of
it should linger in Mrs. Howe's mind for the reason that the family
to which she belonged moved in the circles to which the new form of
entertainment made appeal. A memory of the incident which must have been
even livelier than that of Mrs. Howe's, however, perished in 1906, when
Manuel Garcia died in London, in his one hundred and first year, for he
could say of the first American season of Italian opera what Æneas said
of the siege of Troy, "All of which I saw, and some of which I was."
Manuel Garcia was a son of the Manuel del Popolo Vicente Garcia, who
brought the institution to our shores; he was a brother of our first
prima donna, she who then was only the Signorina Garcia, but within
a lustrum afterward was the great Malibran; and he sang in the first
performance, on November 29, 1825, and probably in all the performances
given between that date and August of the next year, when the elder
Garcia departed, leaving the Signorina, as Mme. Malibran, aged but
eighteen, to develop her powers in local theaters and as a chorister
in Grace Church. Of this and other related things presently.
In the sometimes faulty and incomplete records of the American stage to
which writers on musical history have hitherto been forced to repair,
1750 is set down as the natal year for English ballad opera in America.
It is thought that it was in that year that "The Beggar's Opera" found
its way to New York, after having, in all probability, been given by
the same company of comedians in Philadelphia in the middle of the
year preceding. But it is as little likely that these were the first
performances of ballad operas on this side of the Atlantic as that the
people of New York were oblivious of the nature of operatic music of
the Italian type until Garcia's troupe came with Rossini's "Barber of
Seville," in 1825. There are traces of ballad operas in America in the
early decades of the eighteenth century, and there can exist no doubt at
all that French and Italian operas were given in some form, perhaps, as
a rule, in the adapted form which prevailed in the London theaters until
far into the nineteenth century, before the year 1800, in the towns and
cities of the Eastern seaboard, which were in most active communication
with Great Britain, I quote from an article on the history of opera in
the United States, written by me for the second edition of "Grove's
Dictionary of Music and Musicians":
Among French works Rousseau's "Pygmalion" and "Devin du Village,"
Dalayrac's "Nina" and "L'Amant Statue," Monsigny's "Déserteur," Grétry's
"Zémire et Azor," "Fausse Magie" and "Richard Coeur de Lion" and others,
were known in Charleston, Baltimore, Philadelphia, and New York in
the last decade of the eighteenth century. There were traces, too, of
Pergolese's "Serva padrona," and it seems more than likely that an
"opera in three acts," the text adapted by Colman, entitled "The Spanish
Barber; or, The Futile Precaution," played in Baltimore, Philadelphia,
and New York, in 1794, was Paisiello's "Barbiere di Siviglia." From
1820 to about 1845 more than a score of the Italian, French, and German
operas, which made up the staple of foreign repertories, were frequently
performed by English singers. The earliest of these singers were members
of the dramatic companies who introduced theatrical plays in the
colonies. They went from London to Philadelphia, New York, Williamsburg
(Va.), and Charleston (S. C.), but eventually established their
strongest and most enduring foothold in New York.
Accepting the 1750 date as the earliest of unmistakable records for a
performance of "The Beggar's Opera" in New York, the original home of
opera here was the Nassau Street Theater--the first of two known by that
name. It was a two-storied house, with high gables. Six wax lights were
in front of the stage, and from the ceiling dangled a "barrel hoop,"
pierced by half a dozen nails on which were spiked as many candles. It
is not necessary to take the descriptions of these early playhouses
as baldly literal, nor as indicative of something like barbarism.
The "barrel hoop" chandelier of the old theater in Nassau street was
doubtless only a primitive form of the chandeliers which kept their
vogue for nearly a century after the first comedians sang and acted at
the Nassau Street Theater. Illuminating gas did not reach New York till
1823, and "a thousand candles" was put forth as an attractive feature
at a concert in the American metropolis as late as 1845. "The Beggar's
Opera" was only twenty years old when the comedians sent to the colonies
by William Hallam, under the management of his brother, Lewis, produced
it, yet the historic Covent Garden Theater, in which it first saw the
stage lights (candles they were, too), would scarcely stand comparison
with the most modest of the metropolitan theaters nowadays. Its
audience-room was only fifty-four or fifty-five feet deep; there were
no footlights, the stage being illuminated by four hoops of candles,
over which a crown hung from the borders. The orchestra held only
fifteen or twenty musicians, though it was in this house that Handel
produced his operas and oratorios; the boxes "were flat in front and
had twisted double branches for candles fastened to the plaster. There
were pedestals on each side of the boards, with elaborately-painted
figures of Tragedy and Comedy thereon." Hallam's actors went first to
Williamsburg, Va., but were persuaded to change their home to New York
in the summer of 1753, among other things by the promise that they would
find a "very fine 'Playhouse Building'" here. Nevertheless, when Lewis
Hallam came he found the fine playhouse unsatisfactory, and may be said
to have inaugurated the habit or custom, or whatever it may be called,
followed by so many managers since, of beginning his enterprise by
erecting a new theater. The old one in Nassau Street was torn down,
and a new one built on its site. It was promised that it should be
"very fine, large, and commodious," and it was built between June and
September, 1753; how fine, large, and commodious it was may, therefore,
be imagined. A year later, the German Calvinists, wanting a place of
worship, bought the theater, and New York was without a playhouse until
a new one on Cruger's Wharf was built by David Douglass, who had married
Lewis Hallam's widow, Hallam having died in Jamaica, in 1755. This was
abandoned in turn, and Mr. Douglass built a second theater, this time
in Chapel Street. It cost $1,625, and can scarcely have been either very
roomy or very ornate. Such as it was, however, it was the home of the
drama in all its forms, save possibly the ballad opera, until about
1765, and was the center around which a storm raged which culminated
in a riot that wrecked it.
The successor of this unhappy institution was the John Street Theater,
which was opened toward the close of the year 1767. There seems to have
been a period of about fifteen years during which the musical drama
was absent from the amusement lists, but this house echoed, like its
earliest predecessors, to the strains of the ballad opera which "made
Gay rich and Rich gay." "The Beggar's Opera" was preceded, however, by
"Love in a Village," for which Dr. Arne wrote and compiled the music;
and Bickerstaff's "Maid of the Mill" was also in the repertory. In 1774
it was officially recommended that all places of amusement be closed.
Then followed the troublous times of the Revolution, and it was not
until twelve years afterward--that is, till 1786--that English Opera
resumed its sway. "Love in a Village" was revived, and it was followed
by "Inkle and Yarico," an arrangement of Shakespeare | 1,644.498321 |
2023-11-16 18:44:28.4955430 | 1,086 | 11 |
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(http://digital.library.villanova.edu/))
[Illustration: AS HERC TURNED, HE WAS CERTAIN THAT HE HAD SEEN A FACE
VANISH QUICKLY FROM THE CASEMENT.
--Page 62.
]
THE
DREADNOUGHT BOYS
ON AERO SERVICE
BY
CAPTAIN WILBUR LAWTON
AUTHOR OF "THE DREADNOUGHT BOYS ON BATTLE PRACTICE," "THE
DREADNOUGHT BOYS ABOARD A DESTROYER," "THE DREADNOUGHT
BOYS ON A SUBMARINE," ETC.
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1912,
BY
HURST & COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. SOMETHING NEW IN NAVAL LIFE 5
II. "IF HE'S A MAN, HE'LL STAND UP" 17
III. FOR THE TROPHY OF THE FLEET 30
IV. THE AERO SQUAD 39
V. UNCLE SAM'S MEN-BIRDS 50
VI. NED INVENTS SOMETHING 59
VII. A RESCUE BY AEROPLANE 73
VIII. HERC GETS A "TALKING TO" 84
IX. A CONSPIRACY IS RIPENING 93
X. A DREADNOUGHT BOY AT BAY 103
XI. IN THEIR ENEMIES' HANDS 113
XII. "STOP WHERE YOU ARE!" 123
XIII. HARMLESS AS A RATTLESNAKE 136
XIV. FLYING FOR A RECORD 148
XV. A DROP FROM SPACE 156
XVI. THE SETTING OF A TRAP 167
XVII. THE SPRINGING THEREOF 178
XVIII. ON BOARD THE SLOOP 190
XIX. "BY WIRELESS!" 200
XX. NED, CAST AWAY 213
XXI. A STRIKE FOR UNCLE SAM 223
XXII. SOME ADVENTURES BY THE WAY 233
XXIII. "YOU ARE A PRISONER OF THE GOVERNMENT!" 243
XXIV. A DASH FOR FREEDOM 255
XXV. THE MYSTERIOUS SCHOONER--CONCLUSION 267
The Dreadnought Boys on Aero Service
CHAPTER I.
SOMETHING NEW IN NAVAL LIFE.
One breezy day in early June, when a fresh wind off shore was whipping
the water into sparkling white caps, excitement and comment fairly
hummed about the crowded foredecks of the big Dreadnought _Manhattan_.
The formidable looking sea-fighter lay with half a dozen other smaller
naval vessels--battleships and cruisers--in the stretch of water known
as Hampton Roads, which, sheltered by rising ground, has, from time
immemorial, formed an anchorage for our fighting-ships, and is as rich
in historical associations as any strip of sea within the jurisdiction
of the United States.
The cause of all the turmoil, which was agitating every jackie on the
vessel, was a notice which had been posted on the ship's bulletin board
that morning.
It was tacked up in the midst of notices of band concerts, challenges
to boxing matches, lost or found articles, and the like. At first
it had not attracted much attention. But soon one jackie, and then
another, had scanned it till, by means of the thought-wireless, which
prevails on a man-of-war, the whole fore part of the ship was now
vibrant and buzzing with the intelligence.
The notice which had excited so much attention read as follows:
"Enlisted Men and Petty Officers: You are instructed to send your
volunteer applications for positions in the experimental Aero squad.
All applications to be made in writing to Lieutenant De Frees in charge
of the experiment station."
"Aero service, eh?" grunted more than one grizzled old shell-back,
"well, I've served my time in many an old sea-going hooker, but hanged
if I'd venture my precious skin on board a sky-clipper."
"Aye, aye, mate. Let the youngsters risk their lily-white necks if they
want to," formed the burden of the growled responses, "but you and me
'ull smoke Uncle Sam's baccy, and take our pay with a good deck under
our feet."
But this state of caution did not extend to the younger members of
the ship's company. Least of all to Boats | 1,644.515583 |
2023-11-16 18:44:28.5125310 | 7,435 | 6 |
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generously made available by The Internet Archive/American
Libraries.)
NEW IRELAND PAMPHLETS. NUMBER THREE
PRICE TWOPENCE
THE ISSUE
The Case for Sinn Fein
BY LECTOR
AS PASSED BY CENSOR.
NEW IRELAND PUBLISHING COMPANY, Limited
13 FLEET STREET, DUBLIN
1918
THE ISSUE
=INDEPENDENCE.=
Does Ireland wish to be free? Do we alone among the ancient Nations of
Europe desire to remain slaves? That, and that alone, is the question
which every Irish elector has now to answer. Let us put everything else
out of our minds as irrelevant claptrap. Let nothing distract us from this
single issue of Liberty. We must turn a deaf ear to sentimental whining
about what this or that man did, his length of service, his "fighting on
the floor of the House," and so on. Whatever may have been done in the way
of small doles, petty grants, and big talk, the =fact= is that we are not
Free and the =issue= is, Do we want to be Free?
Why should we be afraid of Freedom? Would any sane adult voluntarily
prefer to be a slave, to be completely in the control and power of
another? Men do not willingly walk into jail; why, then, should a whole
people? The men who are =afraid= of national liberty are unworthy even of
personal liberty; they are the victims of that slave mentality which
English coercion and corruption have striven to create in Ireland. When
Mr. John Dillon, grown tremulous and garrulous and feeble, asked for a
national convention this autumn "to definitely forswear an Irish
Republic," he was asking Ireland to commit an act of national apostasy and
suicide. Would =you= definitely forswear your personal freedom? Will Mr.
John Dillon hand his cheque-book and property over to some stranger and
indenture himself as a serf or an idiot? When he does, but not till then,
we shall believe that the Irish Nation is capable of sentencing itself
cheerfully to penal servitude for all eternity.
It was not always thus. "I say deliberately," said Mr. John Dillon at
Moville in 1904, "that I should never have dedicated my life as I have
done to this great struggle, if I did not see at the end of it the
crowning and consummation of our work--A FREE AND INDEPENDENT IRELAND." It
is sad that, fourteen years later, when the end is in sight, Mr. Dillon
should be found a recreant and a traitor to his past creed. The
degeneration of such a man is a damning indictment of Westminsterism.
Parnell, too save for one short moment when he tried by compromise to fool
English Liberalism but was foiled, proclaimed his belief in Irish
Independence.
This is what Parnell said at Cincinatti on 23rd February, 1880:--
"When we have undermined English misgovernment, we have paved the way
for Ireland to take her place among the nations of the earth. And let
us not forget that that is the ultimate goal at which all we Irishmen
aim. None of us, whether we be in America or in Ireland, or wherever
we may be, will be satisfied =until we have destroyed the last link
which keeps Ireland bound to England=."
Were he alive to-day, when the last link is snapping, on what side would
Parnell be? Would he forswear an Irish Republic or would he proclaim once
more, as he said in Cork (21st Jan., 1885): "No man has a right to fix the
boundary of the march of a Nation. No man has a right to say: Thus far
shalt thou go and no farther. And we have never attempted to fix the _ne
plus ultra_ to the progress of Ireland's nationhood and we never shall."
=IRELAND AND SMALL NATIONS.=
At New York 31st August, 1904, John Redmond declared:--
"If it were in my power to-morrow by any honourable means to
absolutely emancipate Ireland, I would do it and feel it my duty to do
it. (1904, not 1914!) I believe it would be just as possible for
Ireland to have a prosperous and free separate existence as a nation
as Holland, Belgium, or Switzerland, or other small nationalities. And
if it were in the power of any man to bring that result about
to-morrow by honourable and brave means, he would be indeed a coward
and a traitor to the traditions of his race did he not do so."
If Holland and Poland and all the other little lands, why not Ireland? Put
that straight question to yourself and you must answer it as John Redmond
did in 1904. Are we alone among the nations created to be slaves and
helots? Are we so incompetent and incapable as not to be able to manage
our own country? Is a people of four millions to be in perpetual bondage
and tutelage to a solicitor and a soldier? Did God Almighty cast up this
island as a sandbank for Englishmen to walk on? Is it the sole mission of
Irish men and women to send beef and butter to John Bull?
Look at the other nations and ask yourself, Why not? Why is not Ireland
free? Are we too small in area? We are double Switzerland or Denmark,
nearly three times Holland or Belgium. Is our population too small--though
it was once double? We are as numerous as Serbia, our population is as
large as that of Switzerland and nearly double that of Denmark or Norway.
Does the difficulty lie in our poverty? Are we too poor to exist as a free
people? The revenue raised =per head= in Ireland is double that of any
other small nation, seven times that of Switzerland! The total revenue of
Ireland is ten times that of Switzerland, three times that of Norway, four
times that of Denmark, Serbia or Finland. Yet all these countries have
their own armies, consuls, etc.; they run themselves as free nations at
far below the cost of servile Ireland. Why? Because there is no other
country pocketing their cash.
Here are some figures:--
Area Population Revenue
(thousands of (Millions) (Millions L)
sq. miles)
Ireland 32-1/2 4-1/3 30
Belgium 11-1/2 7-1/2 32
Holland 12-1/2 6-1/2 18-3/4
Denmark 15-1/2 2-3/4 7-1/2
Norway 125 2-1/2 10
Switzerland 16 4 3
Rumania 53-1/2 7-1/2 24
Serbia 34 4-1/2 8-1/2
Finland 126 3-1/4 8-1/2
These figures would suggest that Ireland is a strong military and naval
power among the small nations. And so we are--only the army and navy we
support are not our own; they exist to keep us in slavery, not in freedom.
It is about time we started business on our own.
=DEPENDENT ON ENGLAND?=
The most significant instance of English policy in Ireland is the creation
of the widespread delusion that we are economically dependent on England.
An elaborate network of fraud and deceit has been built up to hide the
truth from our eyes. We are secretly and systematically robbed and we
hardly notice it. The ordinary Irish worker pays at least four shillings a
week to England, he is hardly aware of the fact, so nicely is it done
whenever he buys tobacco or his wife gets tea and sugar, and so on. Though
the average income in England is three times what it is in Ireland, the
notoriously underfed Irish workers have to pay more than twice the English
proportion of indirect taxes on food, etc. We pay England 1/- on every
pound of tea, 1-1/2d. on every pound of sugar, 7d. on every oz. of
tobacco. There is no fuss about it: it is accepted as part of the laws of
nature that tea should be a shilling a pound dearer than it need be. As
for direct taxation--well, even the farmers know what the English
income-tax is. Where does it all go? To England as taxes, profits, rents,
imperial contributions, and trade. As a going concern Ireland is now worth
thirty million a year to its owner, John Bull. There are certain expenses
of administration--police, Castle, secret service, prisons, tax
collectors--and there are, of course, several items of hush-money, dodges
necessary to fool the people, such as "education." But the fact is that a
bigger and bigger profit is being made every year out of this island. More
agricultural materials and products are shipped to England, more Irish
brains are selected for running India, etc., more Irishmen are utilised
for gun-fodder. Sometimes, after much beseeching by resolutions and
deputations, we are graciously presented with a minute fraction of our own
goods. Is it not about time that we recognised in English "grants" our own
country's transmuted plunder? We are as dependent on England as a factory
is on an absentee society lady who is shareholder.
In 1663 began the long series of English laws against Irish trade. Charles
II. closed the English markets to Irish cattle, meat, leather, butter,
etc. Ireland built ships and opened direct trade with Flanders, France,
Spain, the American Colonies. The Navigation Act and the Jacobite War once
more destroyed our mercantile marine and ruined our industries. Ireland
was practically confined by law to the English market. In 1782, 60,000
Volunteers, with arms in their hands, won Free Trade--i.e., the liberty of
Ireland to trade direct with the world. In a few years, bad as our own
Parliament was, the country prospered exceedingly. The Union once more
destroyed our industries and even our tillage and turned Ireland into a
cattle-ranch; our mercantile marine was destroyed. All our trade is in the
hands of English middlemen and we have to sell and buy at England's price.
We are dependent on England, not in the sense that we get anything out of
her, but in the sense that we have allowed her to capture our trade and
cut us off from the world. We have allowed England to become a parasitic
bloodsucker. And because we have done so, we fancy that England is our
sole customer. As if the whole world is not clamouring for meat and butter
and other foodstuffs! In 1912, when England placed her cattle embargo on
Ireland, the prices in the markets of Hamburg and Genoa--after deducting
import duty and the extra cost of transit--were more than 11/- per cwt.
higher than the price paid in England. Had Irishmen then had enough Sinn
Fein spirit, they would soon have discovered who was dependent on whom!
There is no possible argument, moral or economic, against Irish freedom.
"Is Ireland fit to be an independent sovereign nation?" asks Dr. Cohalan,
Bishop of Cork. "Why should it not be, if Belgium is fit to be a sovereign
nation, if Serbia is so fit, if Montenegro--whose King is not much more
than a strong farmer in this country--is fit, all fit to be independent
nations? Then, when putting the question as to Ireland, I would really ask
everyone, men and women, in this country to cease speaking slightingly of
their own race and their own country. I would like every Irishman and
woman, Catholic and Protestant, to answer that question in the
affirmative." We are fit to be free, we have a God-given right to be free,
we mean to be free. But how are we going to get our freedom?
=HOW TO GET THINGS.=
Let us see how we ever got anything from England. Parnell is much quoted
just now. What was his view? This is what he said at Manchester, 15th
July, 1877:--
"For my part I must tell you that I do not believe in a policy of
conciliation of English feeling or English prejudices. I believe that
you may go on trying to conciliate English prejudice until the day of
judgment, and that you will not get the breadth of my nail from them.
What did we ever get in the past by trying to conciliate them? Did we
get the abolition of tithes by the conciliation of our English
taskmasters? No; it was because we adopted different measures. Did
O'Connell in his time gain emancipation for Ireland by conciliation? I
rather think that O'Connell in his time was not of a very conciliatory
disposition, and that at least during a part of his career he was
about the best-abused Irishman living."
There is no mistaking the view of Charles Stewart Parnell. Two years later
he repeated his assertion (Tipperary, 21st Sept., 1879):--
"=It is no use relying upon the Government, it is no use relying upon
the Irish members, it is no use relying upon the House of Commons.=
You must rely upon your own determination, that determination which
has enabled you to survive the famine years and to be present here
to-day; and, if you are determined, I tell you, you have the game in
your own hands."
And at the St. Patrick's Day celebration in London in 1884:--
"I have always endeavoured to teach my countrymen, whether at home or
abroad, the lesson of =self-reliance=.... Do not rely upon any English
Party; do not rely even upon the great English democracy, however
well-disposed they may be to your claims. But rely upon yourselves."
Sinn Fein means self-reliance.
According to Parnell, then, the Irish people secured nothing through Irish
talk at Westminster. Whatever they got, they got by direct action. It is
easy to convince ourselves that Parnell is right. We got Free Trade and
legislative independence in 1782, without any Irish Party at Westminster,
with the help of 60,000 Volunteers. In 1829 Catholic Emancipation was won
by O'Connell in Clare, before he ever set foot in Westminster, because he
had the Irish people and the Catholic Association behind him. Yet a few
months before the English Government had rejected a Catholic Relief Bill
with scorn. Here are Peel's words:--
"In the course of the last six months, England, being at peace with
the whole world, has had five-sixths of the infantry force of the
United Kingdom occupied in maintaining the peace and in police duties
in Ireland. I consider the state of things which requires such an
application of military force much worse than open rebellion. If this
be the state of things at present, let me implore of you to consider
what would be the condition of England in the event of war. Can we
forget in reviewing the state of Ireland what happened in 1782?"
The Prime Minister was evidently unmoved by all the eloquent appeals for
justice to Irish Catholics; he moved very rapidly when Irishmen showed
signs of =doing= something. The Duke of Wellington, in May, 1829, made a
similar confession:--
"If you glance at the history of Ireland during the last ten years,
you will find that agitation really means something short of
rebellion; that and no other is the exact meaning of the word. It is
to place the country in that state in which its government is utterly
impracticable except by means of an overawing military force."
Not such a far cry after all from the Iron Duke to the Tin Viscount!
Tithes were abolished in 1838, again not by a Parliamentary Party, but by
the people themselves after a bloody seven years' war.
Then came Disestablishment in 1869. How did that come? When in 1868
Gladstone proposed his Church resolution, a hundred Irish members
voted--fifty-five for and forty-five against! Obviously Disestablishment
was not carried by Irish representation at Westminster. Let Gladstone
himself tell us what carried it:--
"Down to the year 1865 and the dissolution of that year, the whole
question of the Irish Church was dead. Nobody cared about it, nobody
paid attention to it in England. Circumstances occurred which drew
attention of the people to the Irish Church. I said myself in 1865,
and I believed, that it was out of the range of practical politics."
In other words, Fenianism secured Irish Church Disestablishment. Lord
Derby, writing from the opposite camp, agreed with Gladstone:--
"A few desperate men, applauded by the whole body of the Irish people
for their daring, showed England what Irish feeling really was, made
plain to us the depth of a discontent whose existence we had scarcely
suspected, and =the rest followed, of course=."
Let us hear the same two unimpeachable witnesses concealing the Land
Question. "I must make one admission," said Gladstone, "and that is that
without the Land League the Act of 1881 would not at this moment be on the
Statute Book." "Fixity of tenure," said Lord Derby, "has been the direct
result of two causes: Irish outrage and parliamentary obstruction. The
Irish know it as well as we. Not all the influence and eloquence of Mr.
Gladstone would have prevailed on the English House of Commons to do what
has been done in the matter of Irish tenant right, if the answer to all
objections had not been ready: How else are we to govern Ireland?" In
plain English, every concession wrung from England has been secured simply
by making the English Government otherwise impossible in Ireland.
=THE FAILURE OF PARLIAMENTARIANISM.=
If this be so, what is the use of sending Irishmen over to talk at
Westminster? That is the question which we have to face squarely. In the
hand of a genius like Parnell, the parliamentary policy secured a
temporary success, because, with the help of Joe Biggar, the Fenian, he
played the game in his own way--by parliamentary obstruction--and because
he secured the co-operation of the anti-parliamentary Nationalists. But
even he only looked upon the experiment as a temporary expedient. "Have
patience with me," he said to a Fenian in 1877; "give me a trial for three
or four years; then if I cannot do anything, I will step aside." He made a
very striking declaration in November, 1880, when the freedom of Limerick
was conferred on him:--
"I am not one of those who believe in the permanence of an Irish Party
in the English Parliament. I feel convinced that sooner or later the
influence which every English Government has at its command--the
powerful and demoralising influence--sooner or later--will sap the
best Party you can return to the House of Commons. I don't think we
ought to rely too much on the permanent independence of an Irish Party
sitting at a distance from their constituencies and legislating, or
attempting to legislate, for Ireland at Westminster. But I think it
possible to maintain the independence of our Party by great exertions
and by great sacrifices on the part of the constituencies of
Ireland--while we are making a short, sharp, and I trust decisive,
struggle for the restoration of our legislative independence."
There could not be a more striking condemnation of Westminsterism from the
lips of Ireland's greatest parliamentary leader. What would he not have
said could he have foreseen the Liberal alliance, the pledge-breaking, the
jobbing, the L400 a year! "If the young men of Ireland have trusted me,"
said Parnell at Kilkenny, December, 1890, "it is because they know that I
am not a mere Parliamentarian." Ireland, young and old, has since then had
good cause to distrust mere Parliamentarianism.
The test of any policy is its practical result. What has Westminsterism
got for us? For 47 years we have had an Irish Party, for 118 years Ireland
has been represented in the English Parliament. We have given the
experiment a fair trial; it is high time to take stock. When the Party
started in 1871 our population was 5-1/2 millions; since then over 2-1/4
millions have emigrated; there are now only 4-1/3 millions in the country.
In 1871 there were 5,620,000 acres in tillage; now there are less than
4,900,000. In 1871 the poor rate was 2s. 6d. per head, now it is over 5s.
In 1871 the taxation of Ireland was L1 5s. 7d. per head; to-day it is
about L7. Apply any rational test you like, and find if you can any single
good we have got by sending Irish talkers to Westminster. The Irish Party,
of course, attribute everything to themselves. But this electioneering
dodge--never used by Parnell--is getting a trifle thin. Even Mr. Redmond
wrote in 1902: "Despite the efforts made by Isaac Butt and other Irish
members between 1871 and 1876, nothing was done in the direction of land
reform until the Land League came." The Local Government Act of 1898 was
drafted secretly by the Government and came as a surprise to the Party; it
was even opposed by John Redmond. The Party never asked for Old Age
Pensions, and when these were proposed they confined themselves to the
remark that if extended to Ireland half-a-crown a week would be enough.
Parliament has spent thirty-three years drafting Home Rule Bills; they
have all come to nothing. In three weeks Irish Conscription was passed in
spite of the Party. Where was Conscription defeated--in Ireland or in
Westminster? And if the organised opposition and resistance of the Nation,
especially of Labour, made Conscription impossible, does it not teach us
that our real power is here at home in Ireland? The Party made vain
efforts to secure justice for the Irish teachers. The teachers took the
matter into their own hands and won at once; had they been more
determined, they would have done better still. In 1847-'48, while Irishmen
talked in Parliament, Mitchel proposed to =do= something here in Ireland,
to keep our own food here for our own people. Ireland did not realise her
true salvation then, and the consequences were terrible. Seventy years
later the same gospel is being preached under a new name. Are we going to
listen to-day?
Why, indeed, argue against Parliamentarianism at all? Its very adherents
have abandoned all defence of it. On 3rd December, 1917, Mr. Dillon said
in the English House of Commons: "Our position in this House is made
futile, we are never listened to." Next day Mr. Devlin declared: "I do not
often come to this House, because I do not believe it is worth coming to."
These men are merely re-echoing from their own experience the parting
words of Michael Davitt as he left the English Parliament (Oct., 1899):--
"I have for four years tried to appeal to the sense of justice in this
House of Commons on behalf of Ireland. I leave, convinced that no just
cause, no cause of right, will ever find support from this House of
Commons unless it is backed up by force."
=THE FUTILITY OF TALK.=
Let us consider the whole policy in a sane, business-like way. John Bull
runs his Other Island purely as a lucrative investment; he makes a good
profit by the concern. Ireland is simply an Area for supplying beef and
mutton, oats and butter, timber and men. We, Irish men and women, exist
merely to be exploited. Well, we know it; what have we done? How have we
striven to oust this big profiteer who sweats and coerces us? We were once
an independent concern, we managed our own affairs. Then John Bull annexed
us; by means of bribes and promises and threats he turned out the Irish
directors. Arrangements were made by which 100 Irishmen were admitted to
the English Employers' Federation 600 strong. And for 118 years these
Irishmen have been talking there, making speeches and petitions and
harangues. And we? What have we been doing? Oh, yes, now and then the
Irish--that is, John Bull's workingmen--got restive and made things
unpleasant. So they got some concessions: Emancipation, Land Acts, etc.
But still they always turned again to talk; with 80 Irishmen talking to
600 Englishmen they were told that they would be quite safe. Weren't we
"represented" at Westminster? Whenever these, our representatives,
definitely proposed anything, they were, of course, beaten; but if the
majority against them was less than 200, they always raised a deafening
cheer. It is so nice to be beaten by only 150, whereas if we were not
"represented" we should be beaten by 230--which would be dreadful. Then we
were told that what was said in Parliament reached the world--as if Mr.
King had not told more truth about us in Parliament than the whole Irish
Party, as if Hansard is not censored, as if Dr. McCartan, Mrs.
Sheehy-Skeffington and others have not said more in America than twenty
Westminsters could convey--not to mention T. P. O'Connor's performances!
To what depths are we reduced, when Westminsterism is excused only as a
means of getting into Hansard!
Do we really think that a handful of Irishmen by merely talking can
persuade eight times their number of Englishmen to take their grip off
this country, to cease exploiting us, to give up their fat profits? Is it
not, to say the least, more likely that the English majority, far cleverer
and more powerful, will succeed in cajoling, bribing and fooling the few
Irish flies who walk into the spiders' parlour? =In fact, was not the Act
of Union specially designed for this very purpose?= To swallow a powerless
Irish minority in an English Parliament, to give them facilities for
talking and letting off steam that thereby the Irish people might be
beguiled into doing nothing else. By providing a sham outlet for our
energies, by diverting our attention into wordy warfare, the English
Parliament has succeeded for 118 years in preventing us from seeing the
obvious truth that the English Government can only be made unworkable =in
Ireland=.
The very genius of Parnell has done us harm by intensifying the illusion.
He succeeded for a while, where Butt failed, because he adopted
unparliamentary methods in Parliament. For a time, by persistent
obstruction, Parnell made Government unworkable, even in England. He was
beaten in the end; obstruction is no longer possible; we have reverted to
the mock debates of Isaac Butt. Things are even much worse; for the whole
Party system has made Parliament a fraud and a farce. The House of Commons
has lost its independence to a caucus which controls the jobs and the
party funds. The latest development, whereby Messrs. Lloyd George and
Bonar Law have arranged to wipe out the Opposition, makes the further
presence of a few Irish Nationalists a jocose anachronism.
The English Coalition would, however, still like the eighty Irishmen to
come and hobnob with them. England is far keener on their attendance than
Ireland ever was. Those who oppose the Westminster policy are mostly in
English prisons; absenteeism is treason felony. English aeroplanes drop
leaflets printed (at our expense) by the English Government to denounce
the policy of abstention, to show that it is folly. The English foreign
propaganda tirelessly advertises the presence of Mr. Dillon and Co. in
Westminster as the surest proof of England's kindness to us, and of Irish
loyalty to the Empire. The Irish Party think that their attendance is good
for Ireland, the English Government is quite certain that it is good for
England, everyone agrees that it cannot be good for both. Which, do you
think, knows the situation best: the English Government, whose policy of
exploiting us has been hitherto so eminently successful, or the Irish
Party which has been so often taken in, outwitted, bribed and duped? It is
worth pondering over.
=THE ALTERNATIVE.=
Undoubtedly in most minds the great objection to the Abstention Policy is
that it seems a mere negation; it seems to leave a horrible blank. What!
No Irish Representatives at Westminster? Are we to allow Carson to
represent us? And so on. Let us look at the thing calmly. Why do we want
to be "represented" at all? We must first answer that question. For
instance, we have no desire to be "represented" in Timbuctoo or in the
Moon; but some Irish people find it consoling to feel that they are
represented in England. If not, they feel something dreadful will happen:
the income-tax will be trebled, we shall all be coerced and conscripted.
Well, as things have hitherto been, the Irish Party have never succeeded
in staving off a penny of our taxation. Twenty-four years ago an
Anglo-Irish Commission found that England was plundering Ireland of two
and three-quarter millions a year in excess of the amount of plunder
sanctioned by the Union. From that day to this we have never secured the
remission of one penny of this plunder; on the contrary, it has been
increased tenfold. And all this time we have been strongly "represented"
at Westminster. We have been paying heavily for the privilege! As for
coercion--did the Party ever prevent it? For years past they might have
got the Crimes Act abolished, they didn't or couldn't. Conscription was
passed swiftly in spite of our "representatives"--but somehow it did not
come off. Now, that is worth thinking on. Conscription, like Coercion Acts
and Budgets, danced through our representatives, yet we ourselves beat it.
How? By electing our own little parliament in Dublin (we called it the
Mansion House Conference, of course, for decency's sake), by voting taxes
to it (we called them the Defence Fund), by organising the country so
effectively that the English-made law was seen to be impossible and
unworkable. What an object-lesson if only we will learn from it. The
anti-conscription campaign is Sinn Fein in a nutshell. Even the Party
developed a momentary backbone; the members came back to Erin and actually
left us "unrepresented" in London--and we hardly noticed the dreadful
fact!
The Abstention Policy means, therefore, that we give up the sham battle
and take up the real struggle in grim earnest. We cease to rely on talk as
an effective economic or political defence, we begin to DO something, to
rely on ourselves. There is only one way of putting an end to English
tyranny in Ireland, and that is, not by scolding at it from the other side
of the Irish Sea, but by making it unworkable over here.
Do we mean the use of physical force? This is a difficulty which at once
arises in discussing the abstention policy. This is chiefly due to the
hysterical asseveration of Mr. John Dillon, whose chief electioneering
argument--apart from abuse--is that the only alternative to Westminster is
Rebellion. It seems rather curious, doesn't it, that we cannot sit tight
here in our own country and win independence as Hungary did under Deak.
But perhaps Mr. Dillon means that if we were not distracted and bamboozled
by the fighting on the floor of the House, we would not so tamely
acquiesce in our oppression; and probably Mr. Dillon is right. But, after
all, conscription was beaten without rebellion, and Mr. Dillon's adherence
(however lukewarm) to the Mansion House Committee showed that he believed
it could be beaten without physical force. And when Mr. Dillon signed the
No-Rent Manifesto he was, though he knew it not, a staunch upholder of
Sinn Fein:--
"Against the passive resistance of an entire population, military
power has no weapons.... No power on earth except faint-heartedness on
your own part, can defeat you.... The world is watching to see whether
all your splendid hopes and noble courage will crumble away at the
first threat of a cowardly tyranny.... Stand together in the face of
the brutal and cowardly enemies of your race.... Stand passively,
firmly, fearlessly by, while the armies of England may be engaged in
their hopeless struggle against a spirit which their weapons cannot
touch.... The Government will | 1,644.532571 |
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Produced by Joyce Wilson and David Widger
THE BROKEN CUP
By Johann Heinrich Daniel Zschokke
Translated by P. G.
Copyright, 1891, by The Current Literature Publishing Company
Author's Note.--There is extant under this name a short piece by the
author of "Little Kate of Heilbronn." That and the tale which here
follows originated in an incident which took place at Bern in the year
1802. Henry von Kleist and Ludwig Wieland, the son of the poet, were
both friends of the writer, in whose chamber hung an engraving called
_La Cruche Cassee_, the persons and contents of which resembled the
scene set forth below, under the head of The Tribunal. The drawing,
which was full of expression, gave great delight to those who saw it,
and led to many conjectures as to its meaning. The three friends agreed,
in sport, that they would each one day commit to writing his peculiar
interpretation of its design. Wieland promised a satire; Von Kleist
threw off a comedy; and the author of the following tale what is here
given.
MARIETTA.
NAPOULE, it is true, is only a very little place on the bay of Cannes;
yet it is pretty well known through all Provence. It lies in the shade
of lofty evergreen palms, and darker orange trees; but that alone would
not make it renowned. Still they say that there are grown the most
luscious grapes, the sweetest roses, and the handsomest girls. I don't
know but it is so; in the mean time I believe it most readily. Pity that
Napoule is so small, and can not produce more luscious grapes, fragrant
roses, and handsome maidens; especially, as we might then have some of
them transplanted to our own country.
As, ever since the foundation of Napoule, all the Napoulese women have
been beauties, so the little Marietta was a wonder of wonders, as the
chronicles of the place declare. She was called the _little_ Marietta; yet
she was not smaller than a girl of seventeen or thereabout ought to be,
seeing that her forehead just reached up to the lips of a grown man.
The chronicles aforesaid had very good ground for speaking of Marietta.
I, had I stood in the shoes of the chronicler, would have done the
same. For Marietta, who until lately had lived with her mother Manon
at Avignon, when she came back to her birthplace, quite upset the whole
village. Verily, not the houses, but the people and their heads; and not
the heads of all the people, but of those particularly whose heads and
hearts are always in danger when in the neighborhood of two bright eyes.
I know very well that such a position is no joke.
Mother Manon would have done much better if she had remained at Avignon.
But she had been left a small inheritance, by which she received at
Napoule an estate consisting of some vine-hills, and a house that lay in
the shadow of a rock, between certain olive trees and African acacias.
This is a kind of thing which no unprovided widow ever rejects; and,
accordingly, in her own estimation, she was as rich and happy as though
she were the Countess of Provence or something like it.
So much the worse was it for the good people of Napoule. They never
suspected their misfortune, not having read in Homer how a single pretty
woman had filled all Greece and Lesser Asia with discord and war.
HOW THE MISFORTUNE CAME ABOUT.
Marietta had scarcely been fourteen days in the house, between the olive
trees and the African acacias, before every young man of Napoule knew
that she lived there, and that there lived not, in all Provence, a more
charming girl than the one in that house.
Went she through the village, sweeping lightly along like a dressed-up
angel, her frock, with its pale-green bodice, and orange leaves and
rosebuds upon the bosom of it, fluttering in the breeze, and flowers
and ribbons waving about the straw bonnet, which shaded her beautiful
features--yes, then the grave old men spake out, and the young ones were
struck dumb. And everywhere, to the right and left, little windows and
doors were opened with a "Good morning," or a "Good evening, Marietta,"
as it might be, while she nodded to the right and left with a pleasant
smile.
If Marietta walked into church, all hearts (that is, of the young
people) forgot Heaven; all eyes turned from the saints, and the
worshiping finger wandered idly among the pearls of the rosary. This
must certainly have provoked much sorrow, at least, among the more
devout.
The maidens of Napoule particularly became very pious about this time,
for they, most of all, took the matter to heart. And they were not to
be blamed for it; for since the advent of Marietta more than one
prospective groom had become cold, and more than one worshipper of some
beloved one quite inconstant. There were bickerings and reproaches on
all sides, many tears, pertinent lectures, and even rejections. The talk
was no longer of marriages, but of separations. They began to return
their pledges of troth, rings, ribbons, etc. The old persons took | 1,644.722455 |
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Mary Meehan and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
BEL AMI
The Works of Guy de Maupassant
VOLUME VI
NATIONAL LIBRARY COMPANY
NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY
BIGELOW, SMITH & CO.
BEL AMI
(A LADIES' MAN)
I
When the cashier had given him the change out of his five francpiece,
George Duroy left the restaurant.
As he had a good carriage, both naturally and from his military
training, he drew himself up, twirled his moustache, and threw upon the
lingering customers a rapid and sweeping glance--one of those glances
which take in everything within their range like a casting net.
The women looked up at him in turn--three little work-girls, a
middle-aged music mistress, disheveled, untidy, and wearing a bonnet
always dusty and a dress always awry; and two shopkeepers' wives dining
with their husbands--all regular customers at this slap-bang
establishment.
When he was on the pavement outside, he stood still for a moment, asking
himself what he should do. It was the 28th of June, and he had just
three francs forty centimes in his pocket to carry him to the end of the
month. This meant the option of two dinners without lunch or two lunches
without dinner. He reflected that as the earlier repasts cost twenty
sous apiece, and the latter thirty, he would, if he were content with
the lunches, be one franc twenty centimes to the good, which would
further represent two snacks of bread and sausage and two bocks of beer
on the boulevards. This latter item was his greatest extravagance and
his chief pleasure of a night; and he began to descend the Rue
Notre-Dame de Lorette.
He walked as in the days when he had worn a hussar uniform, his chest
thrown out and his legs slightly apart, as if he had just left the
saddle, pushing his way through the crowded street, and shouldering folk
to avoid having to step aside. He wore his somewhat shabby hat on one
side, and brought his heels smartly down on the pavement. He seemed ever
ready to defy somebody or something, the passers-by, the houses, the
whole city, retaining all the swagger of a dashing cavalry-man in civil
life.
Although wearing a sixty-franc suit, he was not devoid of a certain
somewhat loud elegance. Tall, well-built, fair, with a curly moustache
twisted up at the ends, bright blue eyes with small pupils, and
reddish-brown hair curling naturally and parted in the middle, he bore a
strong resemblance to the dare-devil of popular romances.
It was one of those summer evenings on which air seems to be lacking in
Paris. The city, hot as an oven, seemed to swelter in the stifling
night. The sewers breathed out their poisonous breath through their
granite mouths, and the underground kitchens gave forth to the street
through their windows the stench of dishwater and stale sauces.
The doorkeepers in their shirtsleeves sat astride straw-bottomed chairs
within the carriage entrances to the houses, smoking their pipes, and
the pedestrians walked with flagging steps, head bare, and hat in hand.
When George Duroy reached the boulevards he paused again, undecided as
to what he should do. He now thought of going on to the Champs Elysees
and the Avenue du Bois de Boulogne to seek a little fresh air under the
trees, but another wish also assailed him, a desire for a love affair.
What shape would it take? He did not know, but he had been awaiting it
for three months, night and day. Occasionally, thanks to his good looks
and gallant bearing, he gleaned a few crumbs of love here and there, but
he was always hoping for something further and better.
With empty pockets and hot blood, he kindled at the contact of the
prowlers who murmur at | 1,644.723144 |
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Produced by David Widger
DON QUIXOTE
by Miguel de Cervantes
Translated by John Ormsby
Volume I.
Part 3.
CHAPTER VI.
OF THE DIVERTING AND IMPORTANT SCRUTINY WHICH THE CURATE AND THE BARBER
MADE IN THE LIBRARY OF OUR INGENIOUS GENTLEMAN
He was still sleeping; so the curate asked the niece for the keys of the
room where the books, the authors of all the mischief, were, and right
willingly she gave them. They all went in, the housekeeper with them, and
found more than a hundred volumes of big books very well bound, and some
other small ones. The moment the housekeeper saw them she turned about
and ran out of the room, and came back immediately with a saucer of holy
water and a sprinkler, saying, "Here, your worship, senor licentiate,
sprinkle this room; don't leave any magician of the many there are in
these books to bewitch us in revenge for our design of banishing them
from the world."
The simplicity of the housekeeper made the licentiate laugh, and he
directed the barber to give him the books one by one to see what they
were about, as there might be some to be found among them that did not
deserve the penalty of fire.
"No," said the niece, "there is no reason for showing mercy to any of
them; they have every one of them done mischief; better fling them out of
the window into the court and make a pile of them and set fire to them;
or else carry them into the yard, and there a bonfire can be made without
the smoke giving any annoyance." The housekeeper said the same, so eager
were they both for the slaughter of those innocents, but the curate would
not agree to it without first reading at any rate the titles.
The first that Master Nicholas put into his hand was "The four books of
Amadis of Gaul." "This seems a mysterious thing," said the curate, "for,
as I have heard say, this was the first book of chivalry printed in
Spain, and from this all the others derive their birth and origin; so it
seems to me that we ought inexorably to condemn it to the flames as the
founder of so vile a sect."
"Nay, sir," said the barber, "I too, have heard say that this is the best
of all the books of this kind that have been written, and so, as
something singular in its line, it ought to be pardoned."
"True," said the curate; "and for that reason let its life be spared for
the present. Let us see that other which is next to it."
"It is," said the barber, "the 'Sergas de Esplandian,' the lawful son of
Amadis of Gaul."
"Then verily," said the curate, "the merit of the father must not be put
down to the account of the son. Take it, mistress housekeeper; open the
window and fling it into the yard and lay the foundation of the pile for
the bonfire we are to make."
The housekeeper obeyed with great satisfaction, and the worthy
"Esplandian" went flying into the yard to await with all patience the
fire that was in store for him.
"Proceed," said the curate.
"This that comes next," said the barber, "is 'Amadis of Greece,' and,
indeed, I believe all those on this side are of the same Amadis lineage."
"Then to the yard with the whole of them," said the curate; "for to have
the burning of Queen Pintiquiniestra, and the shepherd Darinel and his
eclogues, and the bedevilled and involved discourses of his author, I
would burn with them the father who begot me if he were going about in
the guise of a knight-errant."
"I am of the same mind," said the barber.
"And so am I," added the niece.
"In that case," said the housekeeper, "here, into the yard with them!"
They were handed to her, and as there were many of them, she spared
herself the staircase, and flung them down out of the window.
"Who is that tub there?" said the curate.
"This," said the barber, "is 'Don Olivante de Laura.'"
"The author of that book," said the curate, "was the same that wrote 'The
Garden of Flowers,' and truly there is no deciding which of the two books
is the more truthful, or, to put it better, the less lying; all I can say
is, send this one into the yard for a swaggering fool."
"This that follows is 'Florismarte of Hircania,'" said the barber.
"Senor Florismarte here?" said the curate; "then by my faith he must take
up his quarters in the yard, in spite of his marvellous birth and
visionary adventures, for the stiffness and dryness of his style deserve
nothing else; into the yard with him and the other, mistress
housekeeper."
"With all my heart, senor," said she, and executed the order with great
delight.
"This," said the barber, "is The Knight Platir.'"
"An old book that," said the curate, "but I find no reason for clemency
in it; send it after the others without appeal;" which was done.
Another book was opened, and they saw it was entitled, "The Knight of the
Cross."
"For the sake of the holy name this book has," said the curate, "its
ignorance might be excused; but then, they say, 'behind the cross there's
the devil; to the fire with it."
Taking down another book, the barber said, "This is 'The Mirror of
Chivalry.'"
"I know his worship," said the curate; "that is where Senor Reinaldos of
Montalvan figures with his friends and comrades, greater thieves than
Cacus, and the Twelve Peers of France with the veracious historian
Turpin; however, I am not for condemning them to more than perpetual
banishment, because, at any rate, they have some share in the invention
of the famous Matteo Boiardo, whence too the Christian poet Ludovico
Ariosto wove his web, to whom, if I find him here, and speaking any
language but his own, I shall show no respect whatever; but if he speaks
his own tongue I will put him upon my head."
"Well, I have him in Italian," said the barber, "but I do not understand
him."
"Nor would it be well that you should understand him," said the curate,
"and on that score we might have excused the Captain if he had not
brought him into Spain and turned him into Castilian. He robbed him of a
great deal of his natural force, and so do all those who try to turn
books written in verse into another language, for, with all the pains
they take and all the cleverness they show, they never can reach the
level of the originals as they were first produced. In short, I say that
this book, and all that may be found treating of those French affairs,
should be thrown into or deposited in some dry well, until after more
consideration it is settled what is to be done with them; excepting
always one 'Bernardo del Carpio' that is going about, and another called
'Roncesvalles;' for these, if they come into my hands, shall pass at once
into those of the housekeeper, and from hers into the fire without any
reprieve."
To all this the barber gave his assent, and looked upon it as right and
proper, being persuaded that the curate was so staunch to the Faith and
loyal to the Truth that he would not for the world say anything opposed
to them. Opening another book he saw it was "Palmerin de Oliva," and
beside it was another called "Palmerin of England," seeing which the
licentiate said, "Let the Olive be made firewood of at once and burned
until no ashes even are left; and let that Palm of England be kept and
preserved as a thing that stands alone, and let such another case be made
for it as that which Alexander found among the spoils of Darius and set
aside for the safe keeping of the works of the poet Homer. This book,
gossip, is of authority for two reasons, first because it is very good,
and secondly because it is said to have been written by a wise and witty
king of Portugal. All the adventures at the Castle of Miraguarda are
excellent and of admirable contrivance, and the language is polished and
clear, studying and observing the style befitting the speaker with
propriety and judgment. So then, provided it seems good to you, Master
Nicholas, I say let this and 'Amadis of Gaul' be remitted the penalty of
fire, and as for all the rest, let them perish without further question
or query."
"Nay, gossip," said the barber, "for this that I have here is the famous
'Don Belianis.'"
"Well," said the curate, "that and the second, third, and fourth parts
all stand in need of a little rhubarb to purge their excess of bile, and
they must be cleared of all that stuff about the Castle of Fame and other
greater affectations, to which end let them be allowed the over-seas
term, and, according as they mend, so shall mercy or justice be meted out
to them; and in the mean time, gossip, do you keep them in your house and
let no one read them."
"With all my heart," said the barber; and not caring to tire himself with
reading more books of chivalry, he told the housekeeper to take all the
big ones and throw them into the yard. It was not said to one dull or
deaf, but to one who enjoyed burning them more than weaving the broadest
and finest web that could be; and seizing about eight at a time, she
flung them out of the window.
In carrying so many together she let one fall at the feet of the barber,
who took it up, curious to know whose it was, and found it said, "History
of the Famous Knight, Tirante el Blanco."
"God bless me!" said the curate with a shout, "'Tirante el Blanco' here!
Hand it over, gossip, for in it I reckon I have found a treasury of
enjoyment and a mine of recreation. Here is Don Kyrieleison of Montalvan,
a valiant knight, and his brother Thomas of Montalvan, and the knight
Fonseca, with the battle the bold Tirante fought with the mastiff, and
the witticisms of the damsel Placerdemivida, and the loves and wiles of
the widow Reposada, and the empress in love with the squire Hipolito--in
truth, gossip, by right of its style it is the best book in the world.
Here knights eat and sleep, and die in their beds, and make their wills
before dying, and a great deal more of which there is nothing in all the
other books. Nevertheless, I say he who wrote it, for deliberately
composing such fooleries, deserves to be sent to the galleys for life.
Take it home with you and read it, and you will see that what I have said
is true."
"As you will," said the barber; "but what are we to do with these little
books that are left?"
"These must be, not chivalry, but poetry," said the curate; and opening
one he saw it was the "Diana" of Jorge de Montemayor, and, supposing all
the others to be of the same sort, "these," he said, "do not deserve to
be burned like the others, for they neither do nor can do the mischief
the books of chivalry have done, being books of entertainment that can
hurt no one."
"Ah, senor!" said the niece, "your worship had better order these to be
burned as well as the others; for it would be no wonder if, after being
cured of his chivalry disorder, my uncle, by reading these, took a fancy
to turn shepherd and range the woods and fields singing and piping; or,
what would be | 1,644.945485 |
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WHEN YOU WERE A BOY
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: Frontispiece]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WHEN YOU
WERE A BOY
BY
EDWIN L. SABIN
WITH PICTURES BY
FREDERIC DORR STEELE
-------------------------------------------
[Illustration: Figure]
-------------------------------------------
New York
THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY
33-37 EAST 17TH STREET, UNION SQUARE (NORTH)
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1905, by THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY
---
Published October, 1905
The Plimpton Press Norwood Mass. U.S.A.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
For permission to republish the following
sketches the author is gratefully indebted
to the Century Magazine, the Saturday Evening
Post, Everybody’s Magazine, and the National
Magazine.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
❦
PAGE
I The Match Game 11
II You at School 39
III Chums 65
IV In the Arena 91
V The Circus 111
VI When You Ran Away 135
VII Goin’ Fishin’ 155
VIII In Society 179
IX Middleton’s Hill 195
X Goin’ Swimmin’ 219
XI The Sunday-School Picnic 239
XII The Old Muzzle-Loader 257
XIII A Boy’s Loves 277
XIV Noon 297
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE MATCH GAME
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration: “YOU”]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
WHEN YOU WERE A BOY
THE MATCH GAME
“OUR” NINE
Billy Lunt, c
Fat Day, p
Hen Schmidt, 1b
Bob Leslie, 2b
Hod O’Shea, 3b
Chub Thornbury, ss
Nixie Kemp, lf
Tom Kemp, rf
“You,” cf.
“THEIR” NINE
Spunk Carey, c
Doc Kennedy, p
Screw Major, 1b
Ted Watson, 2b
Red Conroy, 3b
Slim Harding, ss
Pete Jones, lf
Tug McCormack, rf
Ollie Hansen, cf
We: 5 9 9 8—31
They: 11 14 9 16—50
FAT DAY was captain and pitcher. He was captain because, if he was
_not_, he wouldn’t play, and inasmuch as he owned the ball, this would
have been disastrous; and he was pitcher because he was captain.
In the North Stars were other pitchers—seven of them! The only member
who did not aspire to pitch was Billy Lunt, and as catcher he occupied a
place, in “takin’ ’em off the bat,” too delightfully hazardous for him
to surrender, and too painful for anybody else to covet.
[Illustration: FAT DAY]
The organization of the North Stars was effected through verbal
contracts somewhat as follows:
“Say, we want you to be in our nine.”
“All right. Will you lemme pitch?”
“Naw; Fat’s pitcher, ’cause he’s captain; but you can play first.”
“Pooh! _Fat_ can’t pitch—”
“I can, too. I can pitch lots better’n _you_ can, anyhow.” (This from
Fat himself.)
“W-well, I’ll play first, then. I don’t care.”
Thus an adjustment was reached.
A proud moment for you was it when _your_ merits as a ball-player were
recognized, and you were engaged for center-field. Of course, secretly
you nourished the strong conviction that you were cut out for a pitcher.
Next to pitcher, you preferred short-stop, and next to short-stop, first
base. But these positions, and pretty much everything, in fact, had been
preempted; so, after the necessary haggling, you accepted center-field.
Speedily the North Star make-up was complete, and disappointed
applicants—those too little, too big, too late, or not good enough—were
busy sneering about it.
[Illustration: BILLY LUNT]
The equipment | 1,644.94568 |
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from the Google Print project.)
THE JUDICIAL MURDER
--OF--
MARY E. SURRATT.
DAVID MILLER DEWITT.
Baltimore:
JOHN MURPHY & CO.
1895.
COPYRIGHT, 1894, BY DAVID MILLER DEWITT.
"_Oceans of horse-hair, continents of parchment, and learned-sergeant
eloquence, were it continued till the learned tongue wore itself small in
the indefatigable learned mouth, cannot make the unjust just. The grand
question still remains, Was the judgment just? If unjust, it will not and
cannot get harbour for itself, or continue to have footing in this
Universe, which was made by other than One Unjust. Enforce it by never
such statuting, three readings, royal assents; blow it to the four winds
with all manner of quilted trumpeters and pursuivants, in the rear of them
never so many gibbets and hangmen, it will not stand, it cannot stand.
From all souls of men, from all ends of Nature, from the Throne of God
above, there are voices bidding it: Away! Away!_"
PAST AND PRESENT.
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
PRELIMINARY
CHAPTER I. The Reign of Terror, 1
CHAPTER II. The Bureau of Military (In)Justice, 15
PART I. THE MURDER.
CHAPTER I. The Opening of the Court. Was She Ironed? 23
CHAPTER II. Animus of the Judges. Insults to Reverdy Johnson
and General Edward Johnson, 41
CHAPTER III. Conduct of the Trial, 56
CHAPTER IV. Arguments of the Defense, 70
CHAPTER V. Charge of Judge Bingham, 82
CHAPTER VI. Verdict, Sentence and Petition, 91
CHAPTER VII. The Death Warrant and Execution, 112
CHAPTER VIII. Was it not Murder? The Milligan Case, 126
PART II. THE VINDICATION.
CHAPTER I. Setting Aside the Verdict. Discharge of Jefferson
Davis, 145
CHAPTER II. Reversal on the Merits. Trial of John H. Surratt, 165
CHAPTER III. The Recommendation to Mercy, 182
CHAPTER IV. Trial of Joseph Holt, 207
CHAPTER V. Andrew Johnson Signs another Death Warrant, 236
CHAPTER VI. Conclusion, 249
PRELIMINARY.
CHAPTER I.
THE REIGN OF TERROR.
The assassination of Abraham Lincoln burst upon the City of Washington
like a black thunder-bolt out of a cloudless sky. On Monday, the 3d of
April, 1865, Richmond was taken. On the succeeding Sunday (the ninth),
General Lee with the main Army of the South surrendered. The rebellion of
nearly one-half the nation lay in its death-throes. The desperate struggle
for the unity of the Republic was ending in a perfect triumph; and the
loyal people gave full rein to their joy. Every night the streets of the
city were illuminated. The chief officers of the government, one after
another, were serenaded. On the evening of Tuesday, the eleventh, the
President addressed his congratulations to an enthusiastic multitude from
a window of the White House. On the night of Thursday (the thirteenth)
Edwin M. Stanton, the Secretary of War, and Ulysses S. Grant, the
victorious General of the Army of the North, were tumultuously greeted
with banners and music and cannon at the residence of the Secretary. The
next day, Friday the 14th, was the fourth anniversary of the surrender of
Fort Sumter to the South, and that national humiliation was to be avenged
by the restoration of the flag of the United States to its proper place
above the fort by the hand of the same gallant officer who had been
compelled to pull it down. In the evening, a torch-light procession
perambulated the streets of the Federal Capital. Enthusiastic throngs
filled the theatres, where the presence of great officials had been
advertised by huge placards, and whose walls were everywhere festooned
with the American flag. After four years of agonizing but unabating
strain, all patriots felt justified in yielding to the full enjoyment of
the glorious relaxation.
Suddenly, at its very zenith, the snap of a pistol dislimns and scatters
this great jubilee, as though it were, indeed, the insubstantial fabric of
a vision. At half past ten that night, from the box of the theatre where
the President is seated, a shot is heard; a wild figure, hatless and
clutching a gleaming knife, emerges through the smoke; it leaps from the
box to the stage, falls upon one knee, recovers itself, utters one shout
and waves aloft its bloody weapon; then turns, limps across in front of
the audience and disappears like a phantom behind the scenes.
Simultaneously, there breaks upon the startled air the shriek of a woman,
followed close by confused cries of "Water! Water!" and "The President is
shot!"
For the first few moments both audience and actors are paralyzed. One man
alone jumps from the auditorium to the stage and pursues the flying
apparition. But, as soon as the hopeless condition of the President and
the escape of the assassin begin to transpire, angry murmurs of "Burn the
Theatre!" are heard in the house, and soon swell into a roar in the street
where a huge crowd has already assembled.
The intermingling throng surges into the building from every quarter, and
mounts guard at every exit. Not one of the company of actors is allowed to
go out. The people seem to pause for a moment, as if awaiting from Heaven
a retribution as sudden and awful as the crime.
All their joy is turned to grief in the twinkling of an eye. The rebellion
they had too easily believed to be dead could still strike, it seemed, a
fatal blow against the very life of the Republic. A panic seizes the
multitude in and around the theatre, and from the theatre spreads, "like
the Night," over the whole city. And when the frightened citizens hear, as
they immediately do, the story of the bloody massacre in the house of the
Secretary of State, occurring at the same hour with the murder of the
President, the panic swells into a reign of terror. The wildest stories
find the quickest and most eager credence. Every member of the Cabinet and
the General of the Army have been, or are about to be, killed; the
government itself is at a standstill; and the lately discomfited rebels
are soon to be in possession of the Capital. Patriotic people, delivering
themselves over to a fear of they know not what, cry hoarsely for
vengeance on they know not whom. The citizen upon whose past loyalty the
slightest suspicion can be cast cowers for safety close to his
hearth-stone. The terror-stricken multitude want but a leader cool and
unscrupulous enough, to plunge into a promiscuous slaughter, such as
stained the new-born revolution in France. A leader, indeed, they soon
find, but he is not a Danton. He is a leader only in the sense that he has
caught the same madness of terror and suspicion which has seized the
people, that he holds high place, and that he has the power and is in a
fit humor to pander to the panic.
Edwin M. Stanton was forced by the tremendous crisis up to the very top of
affairs. Vice-President Johnson, in the harrowing novelty of his position,
was for the time being awed into passive docility. The Secretary of State
was doubly disabled, if not killed. The General of the Army was absent.
The Secretary of War without hesitation grasped the helm thus thrust into
his hand, but, alas! he immediately lost his head. His exasperation at the
irony of fate, which could so ruthlessly and in a moment wither the
triumph of a great cause by so unexpected and overwhelming a calamity, was
so profound and intense, his desire for immediate and commensurate
vengeance was so uncontrollable and unreasoning, as to distort his
perception, unsettle his judgment, and thus cause him to form an estimate
of the nature and extent of the impending danger as false and exaggerated
as that of the most panic-stricken wretch in the streets. Personally,
besides, he was unfitted in many respects for such an emergency. Though an
able and, it may be, a great War-Minister, he exerted no control over his
temper; he habitually identified a conciliatory and charitable disposition
with active disloyalty; and, being unpopular with the people of Washington
by reason of the gruffness of his ways and the inconsistencies of his past
political career, he had reached the unalterable conviction that the
Capital was a nest of sympathizers with the South, and that he was
surrounded by enemies of himself and his country.
When, therefore, upon the crushing news that the President was slain,
followed hard the announcement that another assassin had made a
slaughter-house of the residence of the Minister's own colleague,
self-possession--the one supreme quality which was indispensable to a
leader at such an awful juncture--forsook him and fled.
Before the breath was out of the body of the President, the Secretary had
rushed to the conclusion, unsupported as yet by a shadow of testimony,
that the acts of Booth and of the assailant of Seward (at the moment
supposed to be John H. Surratt) were the outcome of a widespread, numerous
and powerful conspiracy to kill, not only the President and the Secretary
of State, but all the other heads of the Departments, the Vice-President
and the General of the Army as well, and thus bring the government to an
end; and that the primary moving power of the conspiracy was the defunct
rebellion as represented by its titular President and his Cabinet, and its
agents in Canada. This belief, embraced with so much precipitation,
immediately became more than a belief; it became a fixed idea in his mind.
He saw, heard, felt and cherished every thing that favored it. He would
see nothing, would hear nothing, and hated every thing, that in the
slightest degree militated against it. Upon this theory he began, and upon
this theory he prosecuted to the end, every effort for the discovery,
arrest, trial and punishment of the murderers.
He was seconded by a lieutenant well-fitted for such a purpose--General
Lafayette C. Baker, Chief of the Detective Force. In one of the two
minority reports presented to the House of Representatives by the
Judiciary Committee, on the Impeachment Investigation of 1867, this man
and his methods are thus delineated:
"The first witness examined was General Lafayette C. Baker, late chief
of the detective police, and although examined on oath, time and
again, and on various occasions, it is doubtful whether he has in any
one thing told the truth, even by accident. In every important
statement he is contradicted by witnesses of unquestioned credibility.
And there can be no doubt that to his many previous outrages,
entitling him to an unenviable immortality, he has added that of
wilful and deliberate perjury; and we are glad to know that no one
member of the committee deems any statement made by him as worthy of
the slightest credit. What a blush of shame will tinge the cheek of
the American student in future ages, when he reads that this miserable
wretch for years held, as it were, in the hollow of his hand, the
liberties of the American people. That, clothed with power by a
reckless administration, and with his hordes of unprincipled tools and
spies permeating the land everywhere, with uncounted thousands of the
people's money placed in his hands for his vile purposes, this
creature not only had power to arrest without crime or writ, and
imprison without limit, any citizen of the republic, but that he
actually did so arrest thousands, all over the land, and filled the
prisons of the country with the victims of his malice, or that of his
masters."
In this man's hands Secretary Stanton placed all the resources of the War
Department, in soldiers, detectives, material and money, and commanded him
to push ahead and apprehend all persons suspected of complicity in the
assumed conspiracy, and to conduct an investigation as to the origin and
progress of the crime, upon the theory he had adopted and which, as much
as any other, Baker was perfectly willing to accept and then, by his
peculiar methods, establish. Forthwith was ushered in the grand carnival
of detectives. Far and wide they sped. They had orders from Baker to do
two things:
I.--To arrest all the "Suspect." II.--By promises, rewards, threats,
deceit, force, or any other effectual means, to extort confessions and
procure testimony to establish the conspiracy whose existence had been
postulated.
At two o'clock in the morning of Saturday, the fifteenth, they burst into
the house of Mrs. Surratt and displaying the bloody collar of the coat of
the dying Lincoln, demanded the whereabouts of Booth and Surratt. It being
presently discovered that Booth had escaped on horseback across the Navy
Yard Bridge with David Herold ten minutes in his rear, a dash was made
upon the livery-stables of Washington, their proprietors taken into
custody, and then the whole of lower Maryland was invaded, the soldiers
declaring martial law as they progressed. Ford's theatre was taken and
held by an armed force, and the proprietor and employees were all swept
into prison, including Edward Spangler, a scene-shifter, who had been a
menial attendant of Booth's. The superstitious notion prevailed that the
inanimate edifice whose walls had suffered such a desecration was in some
vague sense an accomplice; the Secretary swore that no dramatic
performance should ever take place there again; and the suspicion was
sedulously kept alive that the manager and the whole force of the company
must have aided their favorite actor, or the crime could not have been so
easily perpetrated and the assassin escaped.
On the night of the fifteenth (Saturday) a locked room in the Kirkwood
House, where Vice President Johnson was stopping, which had been engaged
by George A. Atzerodt on the morning of the fourteenth, was broken open,
and in the bed were found a bowie-knife and a revolver, and on the wall a
coat (subsequently identified as Herold's), in which was found, among
other articles, a bank book of Booth's. The room had not been otherwise
occupied--Atzerodt, after taking possession of it, having mysteriously
disappeared.
On the morning of the seventeenth (Monday), at Baltimore, Michael
O'Laughlin was arrested as a friend of Booth's, and it was soon thought
that he "_resembled extremely_" a certain suspicious stranger who, it was
remembered, had been seen prowling about Secretary Stanton's residence on
the night of the 13th, when the serenade took place, and there doing such
an unusual act as inquiring for, and looking at, General Grant.
On the same day at Fort Monroe, Samuel Arnold was arrested, whose letter
signed "Sam" had been found on Saturday night among the effects of Booth.
On the night of the seventeenth, also, the house of Mrs. Surratt with all
its contents was taken possession of by the soldiers, and Mrs. Surratt,
her daughter, and all the other inmates were taken into custody. While the
ladies were making preparations for their departure to prison, a man
disguised as a laborer, with a sleeve of his knit undershirt drawn over
his head, a pick-axe on his shoulder, and covered with mud, came to the
door with the story that he was to dig a drain for Mrs. Surratt in the
morning; and that lady asseverating that she had never seen the man
before, he was swept with the rest to headquarters, and there, to the
astonishment of everybody, turned out to be the desperate assailant of
the Sewards.
During these few days Washington was like a city of the dead. The streets
were hung with crape. The obsequies, which started on its march across the
continent the colossal funeral procession in which the whole people were
mourners, were being celebrated with the most solemn pomp. No business was
done except at Military Headquarters. Men hardly dared talk of the
calamity of the nation. Everywhere soldiers and police were on the alert
to seize any supposed or denounced sympathizer with the South. Mysterious
and prophetic papers turned up at the White House and the War Department.
Women whispered terrible stories of what they knew about the "Great
Crime." To be able to give evidence was to be envied as a hero.
And still the arch-devil of the plot could not be found!
The lower parts of Maryland seethed like a boiling pot, and the prisons of
Washington were choking with the "suspect" from that quarter. Lloyd--the
drunken landlord of the tavern at Surrattsville, ten miles from
Washington, at which Booth and Herold had stopped at midnight of the fatal
Friday for carbines and whisky--after two days of stubborn denial was at
last frightened into confession; and Doctor Mudd, who had set Booth's leg
Saturday morning thirty miles from Washington, was in close confinement.
All the intimate friends of the actor in Washington, in Baltimore, in
Philadelphia, in New York and even in Montreal were in the clutches of the
government. Surratt himself--the pursuit of whom, guided by Weichman, his
former college-chum, his room-mate, and the favorite guest of his mother,
had been instant and thorough--it was ascertained, had left Canada on the
12th of April and was back again on the 18th.
But where was Booth? where Herold? where Atzerodt?
On the 20th, the Secretary of War applied the proper stimulus by issuing a
proclamation to the following effect:
"$50,000 reward will be paid by this department for the apprehension
of the murderer of our late beloved President.
"$25,000 reward for the apprehension of John H. Surratt, one of
Booth's accomplices.
"$25,000 reward for the apprehension of Herold, another of Booth's
accomplices.
"Liberal rewards will be paid for any information that shall conduce
to the arrest of either of the above-named criminals or their
accomplices.
"All persons harboring or secreting the said persons, or either of
them, or aiding or assisting in their concealment or escape, will be
treated as accomplices in the murder of the President and the
attempted assassination of the Secretary of State, and shall be
subject to trial before a military commission and the punishment of
death."
What is noteworthy about this document is that Stanton had already made up
his mind as to the guilt of the persons named as accomplices of Booth;
that he needed only their arrest, being assured of their consequent
conviction; and that he had already determined that their trial and the
trial of all persons connected with the great crime, however remotely,
should be had before a military tribunal, and that the punishment to
follow conviction should be death.
At four o'clock in the morning of the very day this proclamation was
issued, Atzerodt was apprehended at the house of his cousin in Montgomery
County, Md., about twenty-two miles northward of Washington, by a detail
of soldiers, to whom, by the way, notwithstanding the arrest preceded the
proclamation, $25,000 reward was subsequently paid. With Atzerodt his
cousin, Richter, was taken also. O'Laughlin, Payne, Arnold, Atzerodt and
Richter, as they were severally arrested, were put into the custody of the
Navy Department and confined on board the Monitor _Saugus_, which on the
morning of Saturday, when the President died, had been ordered to swing
out into the middle of the river opposite the Navy Yard, prepared to
receive at any hour, day or night, dead or alive, the arch-assassin. Each
of these prisoners was loaded with double irons and kept under a strong
guard. On the 23d, Atzerodt, by order of the Secretary of War, was
transferred to the Monitor _Montauk_, to separate him from his cousin, and
Payne, in addition to his double irons, had a ball and chain fastened to
each ankle by the direction of the same officer. On the next day Spangler,
who had hitherto been confined in the Old Capitol Prison, was transferred
to one of the Monitors and presumably subjected to the same treatment. On
the same day the following order was issued:
"The Secretary of War requests that the prisoners on board iron-clads
belonging to this department for better security against conversation
shall have a canvass bag put over the head of each and tied around the
neck, with a hole for proper breathing and eating, but not seeing, and
that Payne be secured to prevent self-destruction."
All of which was accordingly done.
And still no Booth! It seems as though the Secretary were mad enough to
imagine that he could wring from Providence the arrest of the principal
assassin by heaping tortures on his supposed accomplices.
At length, in the afternoon of the 26th--Wednesday, the second week after
the assassination--Col. Conger arrived with the news of the death of Booth
and the capture of Herold on the early morning of that day; bringing with
him the diary and other articles found on the person of Booth, which were
delivered to Secretary Stanton at his private residence. In the dead of
the ensuing night, the body of Booth, sewed up in an old army blanket,
arrived, attended by the dog-like Herold; and the living and the dead were
immediately transferred to the _Montauk_. Herold was double ironed, balled
and chained and hooded. The body of Booth was identified; an autopsy held;
the shattered bone of his neck taken out for preservation as a relic (it
now hangs from the ceiling of the Medical Museum into which Ford's Theatre
was converted, or did before the collapse); and then, with the utmost
secrecy and with all the mystery which could be fabricated, under the
direction of Col. Baker, the corpse was hurriedly taken from the vessel
into a small boat, rowed to the Arsenal grounds, and buried in a grave dug
in a large cellar-like apartment on the ground floor of the Old
Penitentiary; the door was locked, the key removed and delivered into the
hands of Secretary Stanton. No effort was spared to conceal the time,
place and circumstances of the burial. False stories were set afloat by
Baker in furtherance of such purpose. Stanton seemed to fear an escape or
rescue of the dead man's body; and vowed that no rebel or no rebel
sympathizer should have a chance to glory over the corpse, or a fragment
of the corpse, of the murderer of Lincoln.
CHAPTER II.
THE BUREAU OF MILITARY (IN)JUSTICE.
Mingling with the varied emotions evoked by the capture and death of the
chief criminal was a feeling of deepest exasperation that the foul
assassin should after all have eluded the ignominious penalty of his
crime. Thence arose a savage disposition on the part of the governing
powers to wreak this baffled vengeance first, on his inanimate body;
secondly, on the lives of his associates held so securely in such close
custody; and thirdly, on all those in high places who might be presumed to
sympathize with his deeds. It was too horrible to imagine that the ghost
of the martyred Lincoln should walk unavenged. So stupendous a calamity
must of necessity be the outcome of as stupendous a conspiracy, and must
in the very justice of things be followed by as stupendous a retribution.
A sacrifice must be offered and the victims must be forthcoming. To employ
the parallel subsequently drawn by General Ewing on the trial of the
conspirators: On the funeral pyre of Patroclus must be immolated the
twelve Trojan captives. They were sure of Payne and of Herold. They held
Arnold and O'Laughlin and Atzerodt and Spangler and Doctor Mudd--all the
supposed satellites of Booth, save one. John H. Surratt could not be
found. Officers in company with Weichman and Holahan, boarders at his
mother's house, who in the terror of the moment had given themselves up on
the morning of the fifteenth, traced him to Canada, as has already been
noticed, but had there lost track of him. They had returned disappointed;
and now Weichman and Holahan were in solitary confinement. Notwithstanding
the large rewards out for his capture, as to him alone the all-powerful
government seemed to be baffled. One consolation there was, however--if
they could not find the son, they held the mother as a hostage for him,
and they clung to the cruel expectation that by putting her to the torture
of a trial and a sentence, they might force the son from his hiding place.
In the meanwhile the Bureau of Military Justice, presided over by
Judge-Advocate-General Holt, had been unceasingly at work. General Baker
with his posse of soldiers and detectives scoured the country far and wide
for suspected persons and witnesses, hauled them to Washington and shut
them up in the prisons. Then the Bureau of Military Justice took them in
hand | 1,644.979216 |
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THE CAMP OF WALLENSTEIN
By Frederich Schiller
Translated by James Churchill.
The Camp of Wallenstein is an introduction to the celebrated tragedy of
that name; and, by its vivid portraiture of the state of the general's
army, gives the best clue to the spell of his gigantic power. The blind
belief entertained in the unfailing success of his arms, and in the
supernatural agencies by which that success is secured to him; the
unrestrained indulgence of every passion, and utter disregard of all law,
save that of the camp; a hard oppression of the peasantry and plunder of
the country, have all swollen the soldiery with an idea of interminable
sway. But as we have translated the whole, we shall leave these reckless
marauders to speak for themselves.
Of Schiller's opinion concerning the Camp, as a necessary introduction to
the tragedy, the following passage taken from the prologue to the first
representation, will give a just idea, and may also serve as a motto to
the work:--
"Not he it is, who on the tragic scene
Will now appear--but in the fearless bands
Whom his command alone could sway, and whom
His spirit fired, you may his shadow see,
Until the bashful Muse shall dare to bring
Himself before you in a living form;
For power it was that bore his heart astray
His Camp, alone, elucidates his crime."
THE CAMP OF WALLENSTEIN.
DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Sergeant-Major | of a regiment of Recruit.
Trumpeter | Terzky's carabineers. Citizen.
Artilleryman, Peasant.
Sharpshooters. Peasant Boy.
Mounted Yagers, of Holk's corps. Capuchin.
Dragoons, of Butler's regiment. Regimental Schoolmaster.
Arquebusiers, of Tiefenbach's regiment. Sutler-Woman.
Cuirassier, of a Walloon regiment. Servant Girl.
Cuirassier, of a Lombard regiment. Soldiers' Boys.
Croats. Musicians.
Hulans.
(SCENE.--The Camp before Pilsen, in Bohemia.)
SCENE I.
Sutlers' tents--in front, a Slop-shop. Soldiers of all colors and
uniforms thronging about. Tables all filled. Croats and Hulans
cooking at a fire. Sutler-woman serving out wine. Soldier-boys
throwing dice on a drum-head. Singing heard from the tent.
Enter a Peasant and his Son.
SON.
Father, I fear it will come to harm,
So let us be off from this soldier swarm;
But boist'rous mates will ye find in the shoal--
'Twere better to bolt while our skins are whole.
FATHER.
How now, boy! the fellows wont eat us, though
They may be a little unruly, or so.
See, yonder, arriving a stranger train,
Fresh comers are they from the Saal and Mayne;
Much booty they bring of the rarest sort--
'Tis ours, if we cleverly drive our sport.
A captain, who fell by his comrade's sword,
This pair of sure dice to me transferred;
To-day I'll just give them a trial to see
If their knack's as good as it used to be.
You must play the part of a pitiful devil,
For these roaring rogues, who so loosely revel,
Are easily smoothed, and tricked, and flattered,
And, free as it came, their gold is scattered.
But we--since by bushels our all is taken,
By spoonfuls must ladle it back again;
And, if with their swords they slash so highly,
We must look sharp, boy, and do them slyly.
[Singing and shouting in the tent.
Hark, how they shout! God help the day!
'Tis the peasant's hide for their sport must pay.
Eight months in our beds and stalls have they
Been swarming here, until far around
Not a bird or a beast is longer found,
And the peasant, to quiet his craving maw,
Has nothing now left but his bones to gnaw.
Ne'er were we crushed with a heavier hand,
When the Saxon was lording it o'er the land:
And these are the Emperor's troops, they say!
SON.
From the kitchen a couple are coming this way,
Not much shall we make by such blades as they.
FATHER.
They're born Bohemian knaves--the two--
Belonging to Terzky's carabineers,
Who've lain in these quarters now for years;
The worst are they of the worthless crew.
Strutting, swaggering, proud and vain,
They seem to think they may well disdain
With the peasant a glass of his wine to drain
But, soft--to the left o' the fire I see
Three riflemen, who from the Tyrol should be
Emmerick, come, boy, to them will we.
Birds of this feather 'tis luck to find,
Whose trim's so spruce, and their purse well lined.
[They move towards the tent.
SCENE II.
The above--Sergeant-Major, Trumpeter, Hulan.
TRUMPETER.
What would the boor? Out, rascal, away!
PEASANT.
Some victuals and drink, worthy masters, I pray,
For not a warm morsel we've tasted to day.
TRUMPETER.
Ay, guzzle and guttle--'tis always the way.
HULAN (with a glass).
Not broken your fast! there--drink, ye hound!
He leads the peasant to the tent--the others come forward.
SERGEANT (to the Trumpeter).
Think ye they've done it without good ground?
Is it likely they double our pay to-day,
Merely that we may be jolly and gay?
TRUMPETER.
Why, the duchess arrives to-day, we know,
And her daughter too--
SERGEANT.
Tush! that's mere show--
'Tis the troops collected from other lands
Who here at Pilsen have joined our bands--
We must do the best we can t' allure 'em,
With plentiful rations, and thus secure 'em.
Where such abundant fare they find,
A closer league with us to bind.
TRUMPETER.
Yes!--there's something in the wind.
SERGEANT.
The generals and commanders too--
TRUMPETER.
A rather ominous sight, 'tis true.
SERGEANT.
Who're met together so thickly here--
TRUMPETER.
Have plenty of work on their hands, that's clear.
SERGEANT.
The whispering and sending to and fro--
TRUMPETER.
Ay! Ay!
SERGEANT.
The big-wig from Vienna, I trow,
Who since yesterday's seen to prowl about
In his golden chain of office there--
Something's at the bottom of this, I'll swear.
TRUMPETER.
A bloodhound is he beyond a doubt,
By whom the duke's to be hunted out.
SERGEANT.
Mark ye well, man!--they doubt us now,
And they fear the duke's mysterious brow;
He hath clomb too high for them, and fain
Would they beat him down from his perch again.
TRUMPETER.
But we will hold him still on high--
That all would think as you and I!
SERGEANT.
Our regiment, and the other four
Which Terzky leads--the bravest corps
Throughout the camp, are the General's own,
And have been trained to the trade by himself alone
The officers hold their command of him,
And are all his own, or for life or limb.
SCENE III.
Enter Croat with a necklace. Sharpshooter following him.
The above.
SHARPSHOOTER.
Croat, where stole you that necklace, say?
Get rid of it man--for thee 'tis unmeet:
Come, take these pistols in change, I pray.
CROAT.
Nay, nay, Master Shooter, you're trying to cheat.
SHARPSHOOTER.
Then I'll give you this fine blue cap as well,
A lottery prize which just I've won:
Look at the cut of it--quite the swell!
CROAT (twirling the Necklace in the Sun).
But this is of pearls and of garnets bright,
See, how it plays in the sunny light!
SHARPSHOOTER (taking the Necklace).
Well, I'll give you to boot, my own canteen--
I'm in love with this bauble's beautiful sheen.
[Looks at it.
TRUMPETER.
See, now!--how cleanly the Croat is done
Snacks! Master Shooter, | 1,645.263471 |
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A SERVANT OF THE PUBLIC
* * * * * *
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
A MAN OF MARK
MR. WITT'S WIDOW
FATHER STAFFORD
A CHANGE OF AIR
HALF A HERO
THE PRISONER OF ZENDA
THE GOD IN THE CAR
THE DOLLY DIALOGUES
COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP
THE CHRONICLES OF COUNT ANTONIO
THE HEART OF PRINCESS OSRA
PHROSO
SIMON DALE
RUPERT OF HENTZAU
THE KING'S MIRROR
QUISANTE
* * * * * *
[Illustration: "I SHOULD BE RATHER AFRAID NEVER TO CHANGE TO A PERSON.
IT WOULD MAKE HIM MEAN SO TERRIBLY MUCH TO ONE, WOULDN'T IT?" PAGE 62]
A SERVANT OF THE PUBLIC
by
ANTHONY HOPE
With Four Illustrations by Harold Percival, A.R.E.
Methuen & Co.
36 Essex Street W.C.
London
First Published in 1905
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. MUDDOCK AND MEAD 1
II. FIRST IMPRESSIONS 15
III. AN ARRANGEMENT FOR SUNDAY 29
IV. BY WAY OF PRECAUTION 43
V. A DAY IN THE COUNTRY 55
VI. AWAY WITH THE RIBBONS! 70
VII. UNDER THE NOSEGAY 86
VIII. THE LEGITIMATE CLAIMANT 102
IX. RENUNCIATION: A DRAMA 118
X. THE LICENCE OF VIRTUE 133
XI. WHAT IS TRUTH? 149
XII. AT CLOSE QUARTERS 164
XIII. THE HEROINE FAILS 179
XIV. AS MR. FLINT SAID 194
XV. THE MAN UPSTAIRS 210
XVI. MORALITY SMILES 227
XVII. AT SEA AND IN PORT 243
XVIII. THE PLAY AND THE PART 257
XIX. COLLATERAL EFFECTS 270
XX. THE WAYS DIVIDE 286
XXI. WHAT DOES IT MEAN? 301
XXII. OTHER WORLDS 316
XXIII. THE MOST NATURAL THING 332
XXIV. "A GOOD SIGHT" 348
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
PAGE
"I SHOULD BE RATHER AFRAID NEVER TO CHANGE TO A
PERSON. IT W | 1,645.465733 |
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Produced by D Alexander and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
The
International Spy
BEING THE SECRET HISTORY
OF THE RUSSO-JAPANESE WAR
BY
ALLEN UPWARD
("_Monsieur A. V._")
AUTHOR OF "UNDERGROUND HISTORY," ETC.
M. A. DONOHUE & COMPANY
CHICAGO NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1904, 1905, BY
THE PEARSON PUBLISHING CO.
COPYRIGHT, 1905, BY
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY.
_Entered at Stationers' Hall._
The International Spy.
Made in U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
PROLOGUE--THE TWO EMPRESSES 9
I. THE INSTRUCTIONS OF MONSIEUR V---- 17
II. THE PRINCESS Y----'S HINT 24
III. THE HEAD OF THE MANCHURIAN SYNDICATE 36
IV. THE CZAR'S AUTOGRAPH 45
V. A DINNER WITH THE ENEMY 54
VI. DRUGGED AND KIDNAPPED 63
VII. THE RACE FOR SIBERIA 71
VIII. THE CZAR'S MESSAGE 76
IX. THE BETROTHAL OF DELILAH 87
X. THE ANSWER OF THE MIKADO 96
XI. WHO SMOKED THE GREGORIDES BRAND 107
XII. THE SECRET SERVICE OF JAPAN 113
XIII. HIS IMPERIAL HIGHNESS 123
XIV. THE SUBMARINE MINE 130
XV. THE ADVISOR OF NICHOLAS II 139
XVI. A STRANGE CONFESSION 145
XVII. A SUPERNATURAL INCIDENT 159
XVIII. THE MYSTERY OF A WOMAN 169
XIX. THE SPIRIT OF MADAME BLAVATSKY 180
XX. THE DEVIL'S AUCTION 192
XXI. THE FUNERAL 199
XXII. A PERILOUS MOMENT 210
XXIII. A RESURRECTION AND A GHOST 217
XXIV. A SECRET EXECUTION 224
XXV. A CHANGE OF IDENTITY 233
XXVI. TRAPPED 240
XXVII. THE BALTIC FLEET 246
XXVIII. ON THE TRACK 256
XXIX. AN IMPERIAL FANATIC 264
XXX. THE STOLEN SUBMARINE 272
XXXI. THE KIEL CANAL 279
XXXII. THE DOGGER BANK 287
XXXIII. TRAFALGAR DAY 292
XXXIV. THE FAMILY STATUTE 300
EPILOGUE 308
The International Spy
PROLOGUE[A]
THE TWO EMPRESSES
[Footnote A: The author desires to state that this history should be
read as a work of imagination simply, and not as authentic.]
"Look!"
A fair, delicately-molded hand, on which glittered gems worth a
raja's loyalty, was extended in the direction of the sea.
Half a mile out, where the light ripples melted away into a blue and
white haze upon the water, a small black smudge, like the back of a
porpoise, seemed to be sliding along the surface.
But it was not a porpoise, for out of it there rose a thin, black
shaft, scarcely higher than a flag-staff, and from the top of this
thin shaft there trickled a faint wreathing line of smoke, just
visible against the background of sky and sea.
"It is a submarine! What is it doing there?"
The exclamation, followed by the question, came from the second,
perhaps the fairer, of two women of gracious and beautiful presence,
who were pacing, arm linked in arm, along a marble terrace
overlooking a famous northern strait.
The terrace on which they stood formed part of a stately palace,
built by a king of the North who loved to retire in the summer time
from his bustling capital, and gather his family around him in this
romantic home.
From here, as from a watch-tower, could be seen the fleets of
empires, the crowded shipping of many a rich port and the humbler
craft of the fisherman, passing and repassing all day long between
the great inland sea of the North and the broad western ocean.
Along this narrow channel had once swept the long ships of the
Vikings, setting forth on those terrible raids which devastated half
Europe and planted colonies in England and France and far-off Italy.
But to-day the scene was a scene of peace. The martial glory of the
Dane had departed. The royal castle that stood there as if to guard
the strait had become a rendezvous of emperors and queens and
princes, who took advantage of its quiet precincts to lay aside the
pomp of rule, and perhaps to bind closer those alliances of
sovereigns which serve to temper the fierce rivalries of their
peoples.
The pair who stood gazing, one with curiosity and wonder, the other
with an interest of a more painful character, at the sinister object
on the horizon, were imperial sisters. Born in | 1,645.474969 |
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[Illustration: CLEVER HANS]
CLEVER HANS
(THE HORSE OF MR. VON OSTEN)
_A CONTRIBUTION TO EXPERIMENTAL
ANIMAL AND HUMAN
PSYCHOLOGY_
BY
OSKAR PFUNGST
WITH AN INTRODUCTION BY PROF. C. STUMPF,
AND ONE ILLUSTRATION AND FIFTEEN FIGURES
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN
BY
CARL L. RAHN
_Fellow in Psychology in the University of Chicago_
WITH A PREFATORY NOTE BY
JAMES R. ANGELL
_Professor of Psychology in the University of Chicago_
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1911
COPYRIGHT, 1911,
BY
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
PREFATORY NOTE
[BY JAMES R. ANGELL]
_The University of Chicago_
It gives me great pleasure to accept the invitation of the publishers to
write a word of introduction for Mr. Rahn's excellent translation of
"Der Kluge Hans", a book which in the original has been but little known
to American readers. The present wave of interest in animal life and
behavior renders its appearance peculiarly appropriate.
No more remarkable tale of credulity founded on unconscious deceit was
ever told, and were it offered as fiction, it would take high rank as a
work of imagination. Being in reality a record of sober fact, it verges
on the miraculous. After reading Mr. Pfungst's story one can quite
understand how sedate and sober Germany was for months thrown into a
turmoil of newspaper debate, which for intensity and range of feeling
finds its only parallel in a heated political campaign. That the subject
of the controversy was the alleged ability of a trained horse to solve
complex arithmetical problems may excite gaiety and even derision, until
one hears the details. Scientists and scholars of the highest eminence
were drawn into the conflict, which has not yet wholly subsided,
although the present report must be regarded as quite final in its
verdict.
As for Hans himself, he has become the prototype of a host of less
distinguished imitators representing every level of animal life, and
when last heard from he was still entertaining mystified audiences by
his accomplishments.
But the permanent worth of the book is not to be found in its record of
popular excitement, interesting as that is. It is a document of the very
first consequence in its revelation of the workings of the animal mind
as disclosed in the horse. Animal lovers of all kinds, whether
scientists or laymen, will find in it material of greatest value for the
correct apprehension of animal behavior. Moreover, it affords an
illuminating insight into the technique of experimental psychology in
its study both of human and animal consciousness. Finally, it contains a
number of highly suggestive observations bearing on certain aspects of
telepathy and muscle-reading. All things considered, it may fairly be
said that few scientific books appeal to so various a range of interests
in so vital a way.
Readers who wish to inform themselves of all the personal circumstances
in the case may best read the text just as it stands. Those who desire
to get at the pith of the matter without reference to its historical
settings, may be advised to omit the Introduction by Professor Stumpf of
the University of Berlin, together with supplements II, III and IV.
CONTENTS
PAGE
PREFATORY NOTE (By JAMES R. ANGELL) v
INTRODUCTION (By C. STUMPF) 1
CHAPTER
I. THE PROBLEM OF ANIMAL CONSCIOUSNESS AND "CLEVER HANS" 15
II. EXPERIMENTS AND OBSERVATIONS 30
III. THE AUTHOR'S INTROSPECTIONS 88
IV. LABORATORY TESTS 102
V. EXPLANATION OF THE OBSERVATIONS 141
VI. GENESIS OF THE REACTION OF THE HORSE 212
CONCLUSION 240
SUPPLEMENTS:
I. MR. VON OSTEN'S METHOD OF INSTRUCTION (By C. STUMPF) 245
II. THE REPORT OF SEPTEMBER 12th, 1904 253
III. AN ABSTRACT FROM THE RECORDS OF THE
SEPTEMBER-COMMISSION 255
IV. THE REPORT OF DECEMBER 9th, 1904 261
TABLE OF REFERENCES 267
INTRODUCTION
[BY C. STUMPF]
A horse that solves correctly problems in multiplication and division by
means of tapping. Persons of unimpeachable honor, who in the master's
absence have received responses, and assure us that in the process they
have not made even the slightest sign. Thousands of spectators,
horse-fanciers, trick-trainers of first rank, and not one of them during
the course of many months' observations are able to discover any kind of
regular signal.
That was the riddle. And its solution was found in the unintentional
minimal movements of the horse's questioner.
Simple though it may seem, the history of the solution is nevertheless
quite complex, and one of the important incidents in it is the
appearance of the zooelogist and African traveler, Schillings, upon the
scene, and then there is the report of the so-called Hans-Commission of
September 12, 1904. And finally there is the scientific investigation,
the results of which were published in my report of December 9, 1904.
After a cursory inspection during the month of February, I again called
upon Mr. von Osten in July, and asked him to explain to Professor
Schumann and me just what method he had used in instructing the horse.
We hoped in this way to gain a clue to the mechanism of Hans's feats.
The most essential parts of the information thus gleaned are summarized
in Supplement I. Mr. Schillings came into the courtyard for the first
time about the middle of July. He came as skeptical as everyone else.
But after he, himself, had received correct responses, he too became
convinced, and devoted much of his time to exhibiting the horse, and
daily brought new guests. To be perfectly frank, at the time this seemed
to us a disturbing factor in the investigation, but now we see that his
intervention was a link in the chain of events which finally led to an
explanation. For it was through him that the fact was established beyond
cavil, that the horse was able to respond to strangers in the master's
absence. Heretofore, this had been noted only in isolated cases. Since
it could not be assumed that a well-known investigator should take it
upon himself to mislead the public by intentionally giving signs, the
case necessarily from that time on appeared in the eyes of others in a
light quite different from that in which ordinary circus-tricks would
appear, to which it bore such a striking external resemblance. No matter
how this state of affairs may have arisen in the course of years, no
matter how it might eventually be explained,--the quality of the
extraordinary would necessarily attach itself to this particular case,
as it did.
Of course, to many persons in the interested public the result was
merely that Schillings, also, was placed in the category of deceivers.
On the other hand there were reputable scientists who could not dispose
of the matter in that fashion, and these now openly took their stand
with Schillings and declared that they believed in the horse's ability
to think. Zooelogists especially, saw in von Osten's results evidence of
the essential similarity between the human and the animal mind, which
doctrine has been coming more and more into favor since the time of
Darwin. Educators were disposed to be convinced, on account of the
clever systematic method of instruction which had been used and which
had not, till then, been applied in the education of a horse. In
addition, there were many details which, it seemed, could not be
explained in any other way. So far as I myself was concerned, I was
ready to change my views with regard to the nature of animal
consciousness, as soon as a careful examination would show that nothing
else would explain the facts, except the assumption of the presence of
conceptual thinking. I had thought out the process hypothetically, i. e.,
how one might conceive of the rise of number concepts and arithmetical
calculation along the peculiar lines which had been followed in Hans's
education, and on the basis of the assumption that the beginnings of
conceptual thinking are present in animals. Also, I had too much faith
in human nature to fear lest nothing peculiarly human should remain
after the art of handling numbers should be shown to be common property
with the lower forms. But under no circumstances would I have undertaken
to make a public statement in favor of any particular view in this
extraordinary case, before a thorough investigation, in accordance with
scientific principles, had been made. I expressed this sentiment at the
time, and recommended the appointment of an investigating commission (in
the "Tag" of September 3, 1904).
The purpose of this commission was misunderstood, and therefore many
were disappointed with the report which it published, (Supplement II).
Some had been expecting a positive conclusive explanation; the
commission recommended further investigation. Some had asked for a
solution of the question whether or not the horse was able to think; the
commission maintained neither the one, nor the other. Some had indicated
as the main condition of a satisfactory investigation, that both Mr. von
Osten and Mr. Schillings be excluded from the tests; this was not done.
But the commission--which, by the way, did not give itself this name,
since it had been delegated by no one--undoubtedly had the right to
formulate its problem as it saw fit, and this was carefully expressed at
the beginning of its report as follows: "The undersigned came together
for the purpose of investigating the question whether or not there is
involved in the feats of the horse of Mr. von Osten anything of the
nature of tricks, that is, intentional influence or aid on the part of
the questioner." It was this preliminary question, and not whether or
not the horse could think, which the commission intended to answer. They
proposed to act as a sort of court of honor for the two gentlemen who
had been attacked. It is only in this light that even the _raison
d'etre_ of this body can be understood; for a scientific commission
composed of thirteen men, possessed of varying degrees of scientific
preparation, would have been an absurd travesty, and it will readily be
seen why the two men, who had been attacked, should not be excluded,
since it was they, and primarily Mr. von Osten, upon whom the
observations were to be made.
To be sure the commission did go one step beyond that which it had
proposed to itself, since it added that it believed that unintentional
signs of the kind which are at present familiar, were also excluded.
This led many to the unwarranted conclusion that the commission had
declared that Hans was able to think. Whereas the thing which might have
been logically suggested was that instead of the assumption of the
presence of independent thinking, the commission may have had in mind
unintentional signs of a kind hitherto unknown. I explained this to a
reporter of the "Frankfurter Zeitung" (Mr. A. Gold), who had come to me
for information, and in his article he made this hypothesis appear as
the most probable one.[A] Certain statements of the circus-manager
Busch, who speaks of a 'connection' of some sort, go to show that other
members of the commission held to the view just stated.
[Footnote A: "Frankfurter Zeitung" of September 22, 1904:
"Concerning the question whether the horse was given some sort of
aid, Professor Stumpf expressed himself freely. He said: 'We were
careful to state in our report that the intentional use of the
(actual) means of training, on the part of the horse's teacher, is
out of the question,... nor are there involved any of the known
kinds of unconscious, involuntary aids. Our task was completed after
we had ascertained that no tricks or aids of the traditional sort
were being employed'." After some remarks on unconscious habituation
and self-training on the part of animals, the writer arrives at the
conclusion that "the horse of Mr. von Osten has been educated by its
master in the most round-about way, in accordance with a method
suited for the development of human reasoning powers, hence in all
good faith, to give correct responses by means of tapping with the
foot. But what the horse really learned by this wearisome process
was something quite different, something that was more in accord
with his natural capacities,--he learned to discover by purely
sensory aids which are so near the threshold that they are
imperceptible for us and even for the teacher, when he is expected
to tap with his foot and when he is to come to rest."]
But how did it come to pass that the commission should deny completely
the presence of intentional signals, while, as regards the unintended,
it excluded only those which were of the known sort? The report clearly
shows that the decision as to the absence of voluntary signals was
based not merely upon the fact that no such signals had been detected by
the most expert observers, but also upon the character of the two men
who exhibited the horse, upon their behavior during the entire period,
and upon the method of instruction which Mr. von Osten had employed. In
the case of unintentional signs, on the other hand, one had to deal with
the fact with which physiologists and experimental psychologists are
especially familiar, viz., that our conscious states, without our
willing it--indeed, even in spite of us--are accompanied by bodily
changes which very often can be detected only by the use of extremely
fine graphic methods. The following is a more general instance: every
mother, who detects the lie or divines the wish in the eyes of the
child, knows that there are characteristic changes of facial expression,
which are, nevertheless, very difficult of definition.[B]
[Footnote B: "From the productions of the 'thought-readers' we see
how slight and seemingly insignificant the unconscious movements may
be, which serve as signs for a sensitive re-agent. But in this case
no contact is necessary. There would have to be some sort of visible
or audible expression on the part of the questioner. No proof for
this has as yet been advanced."
How any one possessing the power of logical thought could possibly
infer from these words of mine (published in the above-mentioned
article in the "Tag"), that I denied the possibility of the
occurrence of visual signs, is to me incomprehensible. What I did
deny, and still deny, is that up to that time any had been proven to
occur.]
The commission did not even maintain or believe that unintentional signs
within the realm of the senses known to us, were to be excluded.
Professor Nagel and I would never have subscribed to any such
conclusion. The sentence in question, therefore, could only be
interpreted as follows: that signals of the kind that are used
intentionally in the training of horses, could not have occurred even
as unintended signs, for otherwise Mr. Busch would have detected them.
And in order to be observed by him it was immaterial whether they were
given purposely or not. The same signs, therefore, which as a result of
his observations were declared not to be present, could not be assumed
to be involved as unintentional.
For my part I am ready to confess that at this time I did not expect to
find the involuntary signals, if any such were involved, in the form of
movements. I had in mind rather some sort of nasal whisper such as had
been invoked by the Danish psychologist A. Lehmann, in order to explain
certain cases of so-called telepathy. I could not believe that a horse
could perceive movements which escaped the sharp eyes of the
circus-manager. To be sure, extremely slight movements may still be
perceived after objects at rest have become imperceptible. But one would
hardly expect this feat on the part of an animal, who was so deficient
in keenness of vision, as we have been led, by those of presumably
expert knowledge, to believe of the horse,--one would expect it all the
less because Mr. von Osten and Mr. Schillings would move hither and
thither in most irregular fashion while the horse was going through his
tapping, and would therefore make the perception of minute movements all
the more difficult.
Nor was there anything in the exhibitions given at the same time in a
Berlin vaudeville by the mare "Rosa," which might have shattered this
belief. For, in the case of this rival of Hans, the movements involved
were comparatively coarse. The closing signal consisted in bending
forward on the part of the one exhibiting the mare, while up to that
point he had stood bolt upright. Most persons were not aware of this,
because this change in posture cannot be noticed from the front. I
happened to sit to the side and caught the movement every time. It was
the same that was noted by Dr. Miessner, another member of the
commission, (see page 256), but concerning which he did not give me a
more complete account. Later I learned through Professor Th. W.
Engelmann that the very same movement was employed not long ago, for
giving signals to a dog exhibited at Utrecht. This particular movement
is very well adapted to commercial purposes, since the spectator always
tries to view the performance from a point as nearly in front of the
animal and its master as possible, thus making the detection of the
trick all the more difficult.
The details of the various experiments made by this commission are given
in an excerpt from the records kept by Dr. von Hornbostel, which I
showed to a small group of persons a few days after the 12th of
September (Supplement III). At that time none of the particulars was
published, because the commission wished to wait until some positive
statement might be made. The public was merely to be assured that a
group of reputable men, from different spheres of life, who could have
no purpose in hazarding their reputation, believed that the case was one
worthy of careful investigation.
I left Berlin on September 17th and did not return until October 3d. In
the meantime Mr. Schillings continued the investigation, and was
assisted in part by Mr. Oskar Pfungst, one of my co-workers at the
Psychological Institute. For the first time a number of tests were now
made in which neither the questioner, nor any of those present knew the
answer to the problem. Such tests naturally were the first steps toward
a positive investigation. The results were such that Mr. Schillings was
led to replace his hypothesis of independent conceptual thinking by one
of some kind of suggestion. In this he was strengthened somewhat by
having noted the fact that in his questions which he put to the horse,
he might proceed as far as to ask the impossible. He has always been
ready to offer himself in the tests which have been undertaken since
then.
On October 13, 1904, together with the two gentlemen mentioned in the
beginning of my report, I began my more detailed investigation, and
finished on November 29. We worked for several hours on the average of
four times each week. I take this opportunity of giving expression of
the recognition which is due to the two gentlemen. They were ready to go
to the courtyard in all kinds of weather, at times they went without me,
and they always patiently discussed the order and method of the
experiments and the results. Dr. von Hornbostel had the important task
of keeping the records, and Mr. Pfungst undertook the conduct of the
experiments. It was he, who, soon after the blinder-tests disclosed the
necessary presence of visual signs, discovered the nature of these
signs. Without him we might have shown the horse to be dependent upon
visual stimuli in general, but we never would have been able to gain
that mass of detail, which makes the case valuable for human psychology.
But I am tempted to praise not merely his patience and skill, but also
his courage. For we must not believe that Mr. von Osten's horse was a
"perfectly gentle" animal. If he stood untied and happened to be excited
by some sudden occurrence, he would make that courtyard an unsafe place,
and both Mr. Schillings and Mr. Pfungst suffered from more than one
bite. In this connection I would also express my obligations to Count
Otto zu Castell-Ruedenhausen, for his frequent intercession on our behalf
with the owner of the horse, and for his many evidences of good-will and
helpfulness.
After the publication of this report (Supplement IV), there was still
some further discussion of the case in societies of various kinds and in
the press, but no important objections were raised. A hippologist
thought that men of his calling should have been consulted, a
telepathist believed that telepathists should have been called in. There
was also some further talk of suggestion, will-transference,
thought-reading and the occult, but no attempt was made to elucidate
these vague terms with reference to their application to the case in
hand. Others adhered to the old cry of "fraud," for a share of which Mr.
Pfungst now fell heir. There were a few who felt it incumbent upon
themselves to preserve their 'priority,' and therefore stated with a
show of satisfaction that I had finally 'confessed' myself to hold their
respective points of view. As if there were anything like "confessions"
in science! As if mere affirmations, even though sealed and deposited in
treasure vaults, had any value with reference to a case in which every
manner of supposition had been advanced in lieu of explanation. Why did
they wait so long, if they had convincing proof for their position?
And finally there were disappointed Darwinists who expressed fear lest
ecclesiastical and reactionary points of view should derive favorable
material from the conclusions arrived at in my report. Needless fear.
For lovers of truth it must always remain a matter of inconsequence
whether anyone is pleased or displeased with the truth, and whether it
is enunciated by Aristotle or Haeckel.
Mr. von Osten, however, continued to exhibit Hans, and is probably doing
so still, but in what frame of mind, I dare not judge. The spectators
continue to look on, they are doubly alert to catch movements, and many
of them have learned from Mr. Schillings what kind of movements they are
to expect. But these "initiated" ones regularly return and declare that
there is nothing in the movements and that they simply could not
discover any aids given to the horse. Nothing can so well show how
difficult the case is, and how great the need of a thorough exposition
of the whole matter, than the account given in the following pages of
Mr. Pfungst. Its publication has been delayed on account of the
additional tests made in the laboratory, but we have reason to suppose
that through these additional tests the work has gained in permanent
value. Experimental psychologists will perhaps be greatly interested in
the graphic registration of the minute involuntary movements which
accompany the thought process, and in the artificial association of a
given involuntary movement with a given idea. Likewise the tests on
sense-perception in horses, which have led to essential changes in
hitherto current views, and the critical review of the comprehensive
literature on similar achievements of other animals, will be welcomed by
many.
Before closing these introductory remarks, I would make one more
statement concerning Mr. von Osten. The reader will notice that the
judgment passed upon him in this treatise is placed at the end, whereas
in the report of the commission it came first. This was brought about by
the change that was made in the way of stating the problem. Then the
question discussed was whether 'tricks' were involved; now the question
is: What is the mechanism of the process? The question of the good faith
of the master was taken up once more only because the facts that were
brought to light by the later experimentation seemingly brought forward
new grounds for distrust. But by placing this discussion toward the end
of our report we wished to indicate that everything that is said of the
present status of facts, is quite independent of the view taken
concerning Mr. von Osten. Even assuming that the horse had been
purposely trained by him to respond to this kind of signal, the case
would still deserve a place in the annals of science. For visual signs,
planned and practiced so that they could not only be more readily
perceived by the animal than by man, but could be transferred from their
inventor to others without any betrayal of the secret,--this would be an
extraordinary invention, and Mr. von Osten would then be a fraud, but
also a genius of first rank.
In truth he probably was neither, but I was brief in my report, for
otherwise I would have been obliged to go into more detail than the case
warranted. And a judgment passed upon a human personality is quite a
different matter from a judgment upon a horse. If it is unscientific to
make unqualified statements concerning a horse after the performance of
only a few experimental tests, it is certainly an unwarranted thing to
pass a moral judgment upon a man upon the basis of meagre material.
Anyone who would assume the role of judge should bear in mind that here
too we have more than a hundredfold the material which they could bring
forward, and among it some which, if taken alone, would be more
unfavorable than any that they had. But here all things should be
weighed together, and not in isolation. A former instructor of
mathematics in a German gymnasium, a passionate horseman and hunter,
extremely patient and at the same time highly irrascible, liberal in
permitting the use of the horse for days at a time and again tyrannical
in the insistence upon foolish conditions, clever in his method of
instruction and yet at the same time possessing not even the slightest
notion of the most elementary conditions of scientific procedure,--all
this, and more, goes to make up the man. He is fanatic in his
conviction, he has an eccentric mind which is crammed full of theories
from the phrenology of Gall to the belief that the horse is capable of
inner speech and thereby enunciates inwardly the number as it proceeds
with the tapping. From theories such as these, and on the basis of all
sorts of imagined emotional tendencies in the horse, he also managed to
formulate an explanation for the failure of the tests in which none of
the persons present knew the answer to the problem given the horse, and
also for the failure of those tests in which the large blinders were
applied. And he would often interfere with or hinder other tests which,
according to his point of view, were likely to lead us astray. And yet,
when the first tests with the blinders did turn out as unmistakably
sheer failures, there was such genuine surprise, such tragi-comic rage
directed against the horse, that we finally believed that his views in
the matter would be changed beyond a doubt. "The gentlemen must admit,"
he said at the time, "that after seeing the objective success of my
efforts at instruction, I was warranted in my belief in the horse's
power of independent thought." Nevertheless, upon the following day he
was as ardent an exponent of the belief in the horse's intelligence as
he ever had been.
And finally, after I could no longer keep from him the results of our
investigation, I received a letter from him in which he forbade further
experimentation with the horse. The purpose of our inquiries, he said,
had been to corroborate his theories. On account of his withdrawal of
the horse a few experimental series unfortunately could not be
completed, but happily the major portion of our task had been
accomplished.
THE HORSE OF MR. VON OSTEN
CHAPTER I
THE PROBLEM OF ANIMAL CONSCIOUSNESS AND "CLEVER HANS"
If we would appreciate the interest that has been aroused everywhere by
the wonderful horse solving arithmetical problems, we must first
consider briefly the present state of the problem of animal
consciousness.[C] Animal consciousness cannot be directly gotten at, and
the psychologist must therefore seek to appreciate it on the basis of
the animal's behavior and with the assistance of conceptions borrowed
from human psychology. Hence it is that animal psychology rests upon
uncertain foundations with the result that the fundamental principles
have been repeatedly questioned and agreement has not yet been attained.
The most important of these questions is, "Does the animal possess
consciousness, and is it like the human consciousness?" Comparative
psychologists divide into three groups on this question.
[Footnote C: Since the present treatise is intended for the larger
public, this brief resume will probably be welcome to many.]
The one group allows consciousness to the lower forms, but emphasizes
the assertion that between the animal and the human consciousness there
is an impassable gap. The animal may have sensations and memory-images
of sensations which may become associated in manifold combinations. Both
sensations and memory images are believed to be accompanied by
conditions of pleasure and of pain (so-called sensuous feelings), and
these in turn, become the mainsprings of desire. The possession of
memory gives the power of learning through experience. But with this,
the inventory of the content of animal consciousness is exhausted. The
ability to form concepts[D] and with | 1,645.552323 |
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SHORT STORIES AND SELECTIONS
FOR USE IN THE SECONDARY SCHOOLS
COMPILED AND ANNOTATED, WITH QUESTIONS FOR STUDY
BY
EMILIE KIP BAKER
[Illustration: Walter Scott's Library at Abbotsford]
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A LEAF IN THE STORM, _by_ Louise de la Ramee,
_from_ A Leaf in the Storm and Other Stories
CATS, _by_ Maurice Hewlett,
_from_ Earthwork out of Tuscany
AN ADVENTURE, _by_ Honore de Balzac,
_from_ A Passion in the Desert
FOR THOSE WHO LOVE MUSIC, _by_ Axel Munthe,
_from_ Vagaries
OUT OF DOORS, _by_ Richard Jefferies,
_from_ Saint Guido
THE TABOO, _by_ Herman Melville,
_from_ Typee
SCHOOL DAYS AT THE CONVENT, _by_ George Sand,
_from_ The Story of My Life (adapted)
IN BRITTANY, _by_ Louisa Alcott,
_from_ Aunt Jo's Scrap Bag
THE ADIRONDACKS, _by_ John Burroughs,
_from_ Wake Robin
AN ASCENT OF KILAUEA, _by_ Lady Brassey,
_from_ Around the World in the Yacht Sunbeam
THE FETISH, _by_ George Eliot,
_from_ The Mill on the Floss
SALMON FISHING IN IRELAND, _by_ James A. Froude,
_from_ A Fortnight in Kerry
ACROSS RUNNING WATER, _by_ Fiona Macleod,
_from_ Sea Magic and Running Water
THE PINE-TREE SHILLINGS, _by_ Nathaniel Hawthorne,
_from_ Grandfather's Chair
THE WHITE TRAIL, _by_ Stewart Edward White,
_from_ The Silent Places
A DISSERTATION ON ROAST PIG, _by_ Charles Lamb,
_from_ Essays of Elia
THE LAST CLASS, _by_ Alphonse Daudet,
_from_ Monday Tales
AN ARAB FISHERMAN, _by_ Albert Edwards,
_from_ The Barbary Coast
THE ARCHERY CONTEST, _by_ Walter Scott,
_from_ Ivanhoe
BABY SYLVESTER, _by_ Bret Harte,
_from_ Bret Harte's Writings
THE ADDRESS AT GETTYSBURG, _by_ Abraham Lincoln,
_from_ Lincoln's Speeches
THE SECOND INAUGURAL ADDRESS, _by_ Abraham Lincoln,
_from_ Lincoln's Speeches
AN APPRECIATION OF LINCOLN, _by_ John Hay,
_from_ Life of Lincoln
THE ELEPHANTS THAT STRUCK, _by_ Samuel White Baker,
_from_ Eight Years in Ceylon
THE LUCK OF ROARING CAMP, _by_ Bret Harte
THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN, _by_ Rudyard Kipling,
_from_ Plain Tales from the Hills
A CHILD, _by_ John Galsworthy,
_from_ Commentary
TOO DEAR FOR THE WHISTLE, _by_ Benjamin Franklin,
_from_ The Autobiography
A LODGING FOR THE NIGHT, _by_ Robert Louis Stevenson,
_from_ The New Arabian Nights
A BAD FIVE MINUTES IN THE ALPS, _by_ Leslie Stephen,
_from_ Freethinking and Plainspeaking (adapted)
THE GOLD TRAIL, _by_ Stewart Edward White,
_from_ Gold
TWENTY YEARS OF ARCTIC STRUGGLE, _by_ J. Kennedy McLean,
_from_ Heroes of the Farthest North and South (adapted)
THE SPEECH IN MANCHESTER, _by_ Henry Ward Beecher,
_from_ Addresses and Sermons
A GREEN DONKEY DRIVER, _by_ Robert Louis Stevenson,
_from_ Travels with a Donkey
A NIGHT IN THE PINES, _by_ Robert Louis Stevenson,
_from_ Travels with a Donkey
LIFE IN OLD NEW YORK, _by_ Washington Irving,
_from_ Knickerbocker | 1,645.645613 |
2023-11-16 18:44:29.6302360 | 1,247 | 9 |
Produced by David Edwards, Demian Katz and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Images
courtesy of the Digital Library@Villanova University
(http://digital.library.villanova.edu/))
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING
ADVENTURE
MOTOR
FICTION
NO. 10
MAY 1, 1909
FIVE
CENTS
MOTOR MATT'S
HARD LUCK
OR THE BALLOON
HOUSE PLOT
[Illustration: "This way, Dick" yelled Motor Matt
as he struck down one of the
ruffians.]
STREET & SMITH
PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK
MOTOR STORIES
THRILLING ADVENTURE MOTOR FICTION
_Issued Weekly. By subscription $2.50 per year. Entered according to
Act of Congress in the year 1909, in the Office of the Librarian of
Congress, Washington, D. C., by_ STREET & SMITH, _79-89 Seventh Avenue,
New York, N. Y._
No. 10. NEW YORK, May 1, 1909. Price Five Cents.
Motor Matt's Hard Luck
OR,
THE BALLOON-HOUSE PLOT.
By the author of "MOTOR MATT."
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I. AN OLD FRIEND.
CHAPTER II. A TRAP.
CHAPTER III. OVERBOARD.
CHAPTER IV. RESCUED.
CHAPTER V. BUYING THE "HAWK."
CHAPTER VI. MATT SCORES AGAINST JAMESON.
CHAPTER VII. AT THE BALLOON HOUSE.
CHAPTER VIII. THE PLOT OF THE BRADY GANG.
CHAPTER IX. CARL IS SURPRISED.
CHAPTER X. HELEN BRADY'S CLUE.
CHAPTER XI. JERROLD GIVES HIS AID.
CHAPTER XII. GRAND HAVEN.
CHAPTER XIII. THE LINE ON BRADY.
CHAPTER XIV. THE WOODS BY THE RIVER.
CHAPTER XV. BRADY A PRISONER.
CHAPTER XVI. BACK IN SOUTH CHICAGO.
THE RED SPIDER.
PIGEON-WHISTLE CONCERTS.
CHARACTERS THAT APPEAR IN THIS STORY.
=Matt King=, concerning whom there has always been a mystery--a lad
of splendid athletic abilities, and never-failing nerve, who has won
for himself, among the boys of the Western town, the popular name of
"Mile-a-minute Matt."
=Carl Pretzel=, a cheerful and rollicking German lad, who is led by a
fortunate accident to hook up with Motor Matt in double harness.
=Dick Ferral=, a Canadian boy and a favorite of Uncle Jack; has
served his time in the King's navy, and bobs up in New Mexico where
he falls into plots and counter-plots, and comes near losing his life.
=Helen Brady=, Hector Brady's daughter, who helps Motor Matt.
=Hector Brady=, a rival inventor who has stolen his ideas from
Hamilton Jerrold. His air ship is called the Hawk and is used for
criminal purposes. Brady's attempt to secure Motor Matt's services as
driver of the Hawk brings about the undoing of the criminal gang.
=Hamilton Jerrold=, an honest inventor who has devoted his life to
aëronautics, and who has built a successful air ship called the Eagle.
=Jameson=, a rich member of the Aëro Club, who thinks of buying the
Hawk.
=Whipple=, =Pete=, =Grove=, =Harper=, members of Brady's gang who
carried out the "balloon-house plot," which nearly resulted in a
tragedy, and finally proved the complete undoing of Hector Brady.
=Ochiltree=, an ex-convict whose past record nearly got him into
trouble.
=Harris=, a policeman of South Chicago who aids Motor Matt in his
work against the Bradys.
=Dennison and Twitchell=, police officers of Grand Haven, Michigan,
who take a part in the final capture of Brady.
CHAPTER I.
AN OLD FRIEND.
"Py chimineddy!" muttered Carl Pretzel to himself, starting up on the
couch, where he had been snatching forty winks by way of passing the
time. "Vat's dot? Der voice has some familiar sounds mit me. Lisden
vonce."
A loud, jovial voice floated in through the open window, a voice with a
swing to it that set Carl's nerves in a flutter.
"'In Cawsand bay lying,
And a Blue Peter flying,
All hands were turned up the anchor to weigh,
There came a young lady,
As fair as a May-day,
And modestly hailing, the damsel did say:
"'"I've got a young man there,
D'ye hear? Bear a hand there
To hoist me aboard or to bring him to me:
Which his name's Henry Grady,
And I am a lady,
Just come down to purwent his a-going to sea."'"
The roaring song had come closer and closer. By then it was almost
under the open window. Jumping from the couch, Carl ran across the room
and looked out.
A youth of seventeen or eighteen, wearing a sailor rig and with his hat
cocked over one eye, was lurching along with both hands in his pockets.
Behind him trailed four or five hoodlums, bunched close together and
talking among themselves.
"Here's | 1,645.650276 |
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Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Lesley Halamek and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Volume 109, 24th August, 1895.
_edited by Sir Francis Burnand_
[Illustration: IN MEDIO TUTISSIMUS!
"WHAT! NEVER BEEN ILL SINCE YOU WERE BORN! I SUPPOSE YOU'RE A
TEETOTALLER?"
"OH NO! BEEN A MODERATE DRUNKARD ALL MY LIFE!"]
* * * * *
SCRAPS FROM CHAPS.
THE IRISH YOLK.--In the name of the Profit--eggs! Irish co-operators
have already made giant strides in the production of milk and butter,
and now the Irish Co-operative Agency has decided, so says the _Cork
Daily Herald_, to "take up the egg-trade." We hope the egg-traders
won't be "taken up," too; if so, the trade would be arrested just when
it was starting, and where would the profit be then? "It is stated
that many Irish eggs now reach the English market dirty, stale, and
unsorted," so that wholesale English egg-merchants have preferred to
buy Austrian and French ones. Ireland not able to compete with
the foreigner! Perish the thought! A little technical education
judiciously applied will soon teach the Irish fowl not to lay "shop
'uns."
* * * * *
Feathers in Scotch Caps.
"The railway race to the North, like the race across the
Atlantic, has placed beyond challenge that on land as well as
on sea Scotch engines break the record."--_North British Daily
Mail._
Did not Lord BYRON anticipate this when he wrote (in _Mr. Punch's_
version of his poem on "Dark Lochnagar"):--
Yes, Caledonia, thy engines _are_ scrumptious,
Though even in England some good ones are seen;
And, if the confession won't render you bumptious,
We sigh for your flyers to far Aberdeen!
But if Caledonia is inclined to boast about its locomotives, let it
ponder its tinkers, and learn humility. The Glasgow "Departmental
Committee on Habitual Offenders, Vagrants, &c.," reports that
the nomad tinkers of Scotland number 1702, and of these 232 "were
apprehended for some crime or other during the year." _They_ don't do
151 miles in 167 minutes, like the locomotives--no, they do a couple
of months in Glasgow gaol; and they break the laws instead of breaking
records. There are 725 tinker children, who get practically no
education. Bonnie Scotland, land of grandeur, where the thousand
tinkers wander, you must catch these children, and educate them! The
adult tinker may be irreclaimable, but at least the children should
have a chance of something better--a choice of being soldier, sailor,
tinker, or tailor, as they prefer. If, after all, they elect to tink,
tink they must.
* * * * *
DR. JOHN RHYS, of Jesus College, Oxford, quite rose to the occasion
at the New Quay, Eisteddfod, and, in his presidential address, made
lengthy quotations in Welsh. "Na chaib a rhaw" must mean "nor cares
a rap." By the way, the _South Wales Daily News_, in reporting the
proceedings, finishes up by declaring that "the speech was listened to
with '_wrapt_' attention." As Mrs. MALAPROP remarked, "The parcel was
enraptured in brown paper."
* * * * *
ROBERT UNDER THE GREENWOOD TREE.
[Illustration]
Me and a werry old Frend of mine has seized the hoppertoonity that
ardly ever okkers to too frends as has little or nothink to do for
a hole week, to thurrowly enjoy theirselves for that time, and see
weather sutten places in our little world is reelly as butiful and as
injoyable as sum peeple tries to make out as they is. Our fust place
was Epping Forrest, where we spent a hole day from morning to nite in
what my frend called such a gallaxy of buty and wunder as werry likely
werry few peeple ever has injoyd as we did. We spent hole miles among
the most butiful Forest Trees as was ever seed, every single tree of
which was rather more butiful than the last, and not one of which but
what was a reel bootiful studdy. It took us jest about two hours to
eat our dinner afore we set to work again to pollish off the lovely
trees we had not yet seen; and then, when we had pollished off the
last of them, we staggered to our werry last carridge, and took the
sleep of the Just, and did not wake up till Brekfust come kindly to
our assistance, and helped us to sett out and try again to dishcover
similar seens of delishus injoyment to those so marwellusly injoyed
the day before!
The trees as we xamined on the secund day was quite a diffrent class
to them on the fust, | 1,645.651757 |
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Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
THE NORTH-WEST AMAZONS
[Illustration: BORO MEDICINE MAN, WITH MY RIFLE]
THE NORTH-WEST
AMAZONS
NOTES OF SOME MONTHS SPENT
AMONG CANNIBAL TRIBES
BY
THOMAS WHIFFEN
F.R.G.S., F.R.A.I.
CAPTAIN H.P. (14TH HUSSARS)
NEW YORK
DUFFIELD AND COMPANY
1915
_Printed in Great Britain_
TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE
DR. ALFRED RUSSEL WALLACE, O.M.
THESE NOTES ARE DEDICATED
PREFACE
In presenting to the | 1,645.845772 |
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Produced by David Widger
CHRISTIANITY UNVEILED
Being An Examination of The Principles And Effects of The Christian
Religion
By Nicolas-Antoine Boulanger
Translated From The French By W. M. Johnson.
"Slave to no Sect, who takes no private read,
But looks through Nature up to Nature's God;
"And knows where faith, law, morals, all began,
All end in love of God, and love of Man."
Pope
London
Printed & Published By R. Carlile, 56, Fleet Street.
1819
TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE.
In this philosophic age, when nature, reason, and the rights of man have
resumed their empire; when the genius of a great, generous, and brave
people is giving the last blow to superstition and despotism, the
publication of a work which has greatly contributed to these glorious
events, must be highly acceptable, not only to the literary world, but
even to the community at large, who eagerly seek after instruction, the
moment they believe it necessary for their happiness.
This publication bears a conspicuous rank among those works whose free
and independent sentiments have introduced a happy change in the public
mind, and concurred with the writings of Rousseau, Mably, Raynal, and
Voltaire, in bringing forward the French Revolution: a revolution which
will probably prove the harbinger of the complete triumph of reason.
Persecutions and wars will then cease for ever throughout the civilized
world.
In offering this translation to the public, I pay a tribute that every
member of society owes to his fellow-citizens, that of endeavouring to
acquaint them with their true rights and duties, and, consequently, the
means most conducive to their happiness.
New York, 1804.
LETTER FROM THE AUTHOR TO A FRIEND.
I receive, Sir, with gratitude, the remarks which you send me upon my
work. If I am sensible to the praises you condescend to give it, I am
too fond of truth to be displeased with the frankness with which you
propose your objections. I find them sufficiently weighty to merit all
my attention. He but ill deserves the title of philosopher, who has not
the courage to hear his opinions contradicted. We are not divines; our
disputes are of a nature to terminate amicably; they in no way resemble
those of the apostles of superstition, who endeavour to overreach each
other by captious arguments, and who, at the expence of good faith,
contend only to advocate the cause of their vanity and their prejudices.
We both desire the happiness of mankind, we both search after truth;
this being the case, we cannot disagree.
You begin by admitting the necessity of examining religion, and
submitting opinions to the decision of reason. You acknowledge that
Christianity cannot sustain this trial, and that in the eye of good
sense it can never appear to be any thing but a tissue of absurdities,
of unconnected fables, senseless dogmas, puerile ceremonies, and notions
borrowed from the Chaldeans, Egyptians, Phenicians, Grecians, and
Romans. In one word, you confess that this religious system is only,
the deformed offspring of almost all ancient superstitions, begotten
by oriental fanaticism, and diversely modified by the circumstances
and prejudices of those who have since pretended to be the inspired
ambassadors of God, and the interpreters of his will.
You tremble at the horrors which the intolerant spirit of Christians has
caused them to commit, whenever they had power to do it; you feel that a
religion founded on a sanguinary deity must be a religion of blood. You
lament that phrenzy, which in infancy takes possession of princes and
people, and renders them equally the slaves of superstition and her
priests; which prevents their acquaintance with their true interests,
renders them deaf to reason, and turns them aside from the great objects
by which they ought to be occupied. You confess that a religion founded
upon enthusiasm or imposture can have no sure principles; that it must
prove an eternal source of disputes, and always end in causing troubles,
persecutions, and ravages; especially when political power conceives
itself indispensibly obliged to enter into its quarrels. In fine, you
go so far as to agree that a good Christian who follows literally the
conduct prescribed to him as the most perfect by the gospel, knows
not in this world any thing of those duties on which true morality
is founded; and that if he wants energy he must prove an useless
misanthrope, or if his temper be warm a turbulent fanatic.
After acknowledging all this, how could it happen that you should
pronounce my work a dangerous one! You tell me that a-wise man ought to
think only for himself; that to the populace a religion is necessary, be
it good or bad; that it is a restraint necessary to gross and ignorant
minds, which, without it, would have no longer any motive for abstaining
from vice. You look upon a reform of religious prejudices as impossible,
because it is the interest of many of those persons who alone can effect
it, to continue mankind in that ignorance of which themselves reap
the advantage. These, if I mistake not, are the weightiest of your
objections. I will endeavour to remove them.
Books are generally written for that part of a nation whose
circumstances, education, and sentiments, place them above the
commission of crimes. This enlightened portion of society, which governs
the other | 1,645.852656 |
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