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3) ***
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Cover]
LULU'S LIBRARY.
BY
LOUISA M. ALCOTT,
AUTHOR OF "LITTLE WOMEN," "AN OLD-FASHIONED GIRL," "LITTLE MEN,"
"EIGHT COUSINS," "ROSE IN BLOOM," "UNDER THE LILACS,"
"JACK AND JILL," "HOSPITAL SKETCHES," "WORK, A
STORY OF EXPERIENCE," "MOODS, A NOVEL,"
"PROVERB STORIES," "SILVER PITCHERS,"
"AUNT JO'S SCRAP-BAG."
VOL. I.
A CHRISTMAS DREAM.
THE CANDY COUNTRY.
NAUGHTY JOCKO.
THE SKIPPING SHOES.
COCKYLOO.
ROSY'S JOURNEY.
HOW THEY RAN AWAY.
THE FAIRY BOX.
A HOLE IN THE WALL.
THE PIGGY GIRL.
THE THREE FROGS.
BAA! BAA!
BOSTON:
ROBERTS BROTHERS.
1886.
_Copyright, 1885,_
BY LOUISA M. ALCOTT.
University Press:
JOHN WILSON AND SON, CAMBRIDGE.
PREFACE.
All but three of these stories were told to my little niece during our
quiet hour before bedtime. They became such favorites with her and her
friends that I wrote them down in several small blue books, and called
them LULU'S LIBRARY. Having nothing else to offer this year, I have
collected them in one volume as a Christmas gift to my boys and girls
from their old friend
AUNT JO.
CONCORD, August, 1885.
CONTENTS.
I. A Christmas Dream
II. The Candy Country
III. Naughty Jocko
IV. The Skipping Shoes
V. Cockyloo
VI. Rosy's Journey
VII. How They Ran Away
VIII. The Fairy Box
IX. A Hole in the Wall
X. The Piggy Girl
XI. The Three Frogs
XII. Baa! Baa!
[Illustration: She actually stood in "a grove of Christmas trees."--PAGE
30.]
I.
A CHRISTMAS DREAM, AND HOW IT CAME TRUE.
"I'm so tired of Christmas I wish there never would be another one!"
exclaimed a discontented-looking little girl, as she sat idly watching
her mother arrange a pile of gifts two days before they were to be
given.
"Why, Effie, what a dreadful thing to say! You are as bad as old
Scrooge; and I'm afraid something will happen to you, as it did to him,
if you don't care for dear Christmas," answered mamma, almost dropping
the silver horn she was filling with delicious candies.
"Who was Scrooge? What happened to him?" asked Effie, with a glimmer of
interest in her listless face, as she picked out the sourest lemon-drop
she could find; for nothing sweet suited her just then.
"He was one of Dickens's best people, and you can read the charming
story some day. He hated Christmas until a strange dream showed him how
dear and beautiful it was, and made a better man of him."
"I shall read it; for I like dreams, and have a great many curious ones
myself. But they don't keep me from being tired of Christmas," said
Effie, poking discontentedly among the sweeties for something worth
eating.
"Why are you tired of what should be the happiest time of all the year?"
asked mamma, anxiously.
"Perhaps I shouldn't be if I had something new. But it is always the
same, and there isn't any more surprise about it. I always find heaps
of goodies in my stocking. Don't like some of them, and soon get tired
of those I do like. We always have a great dinner, and I eat too much,
and feel ill next day. Then there is a Christmas tree somewhere, with a
doll on top, or a stupid old Santa Claus, and children dancing and
screaming over bonbons and toys that break, and shiny things that are of
no use. Really, mamma, I've had so many Christmases all alike that I
don't think I _can_ bear another one." And Effie laid herself flat on
the sofa, as if the mere idea was too much for her.
Her mother laughed at her despair, but was sorry to see her little girl
so discontented, when she had everything to make her happy, and had
known but ten Christmas days.
"Suppose we don't give you _any_ presents at all,--how would that suit
you?" asked mamma, anxious to please her spoiled child.
"I should like one large and splendid one, and one dear little one, to
remember some very nice person by," said Effie, who was a fanciful
little body, full of odd whims and notions, which her friends loved to
gratify, regardless of time, trouble, or money; for she was the last of
three little girls, and very dear to all the family.
"Well, my darling, I will see what I can do to please you, and not say a
word until all is ready. If I could only get a new idea to start with!"
And mamma went on tying up her pretty bundles with a thoughtful face,
while Effie strolled to the window to watch the rain that kept her
in-doors and made her dismal
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Produced by Emmy, MFR and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was
produced from images generously made available by The
Internet Archive)
YOUNG AMERICAN READERS
OUR HOME
AND PERSONAL DUTY
BY
JANE EAYRE FRYER
AUTHOR OF “THE MARY FRANCES STORY-INSTRUCTION BOOKS”
ILLUSTRATIONS BY EDNA A. COOKE AND FROM PHOTOGRAPHS
[Illustration]
_In these vital tasks of acquiring a broader view of
human possibilities the common school must have a large
part. I urge that teachers and other school officers
increase materially the time and attention devoted
to instruction bearing directly on the problems of
community and national life._—WOODROW WILSON.
THE JOHN C. WINSTON COMPANY, PUBLISHERS
PHILADELPHIA CHICAGO
COPYRIGHT 1918 BY
THE JOHN C. WINSTON CO.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
CIVICS FOR AMERICAN CHILDREN
The notion of what constitutes adequate civics teaching in our schools
is rapidly changing. The older idea was based on the theory that
children were not citizens—that only adults were citizens. Therefore,
civics teaching was usually deferred to the eighth grade, or last year
of the grammar school, and then was mostly confined to a memorizing of
the federal constitution, with brief comments on each clause. Today we
recognize that even young children are citizens, just as much as adults
are, and that what is wanted is not training _for_ citizenship but
training _in_ citizenship. Moreover, we believe that the “good citizen”
is one who is good for something in all the relationships of life.
HABIT FORMATION
Accordingly, a beginning is being made with the early school years,
where an indispensable foundation is laid through a training in “morals
and manners.” This sounds rather old-fashioned, but nothing has been
discovered to take its place. Obedience, cleanliness, orderliness,
courtesy, helpfulness, punctuality, truthfulness, care of property,
fair play, thoroughness, honesty, respect, courage, self-control,
perseverance, thrift, kindness to animals, “safety first”—these are the
fundamental civic virtues which make for good citizenship in the years
to come. Of course, the object is to establish right habits of thought
and action, and this takes time and patience and sympathy; but the end
in view justifies the effort. The boy or girl who has become habitually
orderly and courteous and helpful and punctual and truthful, and who
has acquired a fair degree of courageous self-control, is likely to
become a citizen of whom any community may well be proud.
DRAMATIZATION
The best results are found to be secured through stories, poems,
songs, games, and the dramatization of the stories found in books or
told by the teacher. This last is of great value, for it sets up a
sort of brief life-experience for the child that leaves a more lasting
impression than would the story by itself. Most of the stories told in
this reader, emphasizing certain of the civic virtues enumerated above,
will be found to lend themselves admirably to simple dramatization
by the pupils, the children’s imagination supplying all deficiencies
in costumes, scenery, and stage settings. Moreover, the questions
following the text will help the teacher to “point the moral” without
detracting in the slightest degree from the interest of the story.
COMMUNITY SERVANTS
The basis for good citizenship having been laid through habit-formation
in the civic virtues, the next step is for the children to learn how
these virtues are being embodied in the people round about them who are
serving them and their families. The baker, the milkman, the grocer,
the dressmaker, the shoemaker, the carpenter, the plumber, the painter,
the physician, the druggist, the nurse—these are the community servants
who come closest to the life-experience of the children.
How dependent each member of a community—especially an urban
community—is on all the rest, and how important it is that each shall
contribute what he can to the community’s welfare, are illustrated by
the stories of the Duwell family. Here a typical though somewhat ideal
American family is shown in its everyday relations, as a constant
recipient of the services rendered by those community agents who
supply the fundamental need of food, clothing, shelter, and medical
attendance. The children in the class will learn, with the Duwell
children, both the actual services that are rendered and the family’s
complete dependence on those services. Moreover, they will acquire
the splendid working ideals of interdependence and coöperation. And,
finally, they will discover that the adult citizens who are rendering
them these services are embodying the very civic virtues in which they
themselves have been so carefully trained.
PUBLIC SERVANTS
The pupils are now ready to follow the services rendered by public
servants such as the policeman, the fireman, the street cleaner, the
ashes and garbage collector, the mail carrier; and by those who furnish
water, gas, electricity, the telephone, the trolley, etc.; and these
are presented in civics readers that follow this one. The civic virtues
previously considered are again found exemplified to a marked degree;
and the threefold idea of dependence, interdependence, and coö
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Produced by Dagny; John Bickers
FILE NO. 113
By Emile Gaboriau
I
In the Paris evening papers of Tuesday, February 28, 1866, under the
head of _Local Items_, the following announcement appeared:
"A daring robbery, committed against one of our most eminent bankers,
M. Andre Fauvel, caused great excitement this morning throughout the
neighborhood of Rue de Provence.
"The thieves, who were as skilful as they were bold, succeeded in
making an entrance to the bank, in forcing the lock of a safe that has
heretofore been considered impregnable, and in possessing themselves
of the enormous sum of three hundred and fifty thousand francs in
bank-notes.
"The police, immediately informed of the robbery, displayed their
accustomed zeal, and their efforts have been crowned with success.
Already, it is said, P. B., a clerk in the bank, has been arrested,
and there is every reason to hope that his accomplices will be speedily
overtaken by the hand of justice."
For four days this robbery was the town talk of Paris.
Then public attention was absorbed by later and equally interesting
events: an acrobat broke his leg at the circus; an actress made her
debut at a small theatre: and the _item_ of the 28th was soon forgotten.
But for once the newspapers were--perhaps intentionally--wrong, or at
least inaccurate in their information.
The sum of three hundred and fifty thousand francs certainly had been
stolen from M. Andre Fauvel's bank, but not in the manner described.
A clerk had also been arrested on suspicion, but no decisive proof had
been found against him. This robbery of unusual importance remained, if
not inexplicable, at least unexplained.
The following are the facts as they were related with scrupulous
exactness at the preliminary examination.
II
The banking-house of Andre Fauvel, No. 87 Rue de Provence, is an
important establishment, and, owing to its large force of clerks,
presents very much the appearance of a government department.
On the ground-floor are the offices, with windows opening on the street,
fortified by strong iron bars sufficiently large and close together to
discourage all burglarious attempts.
A large glass door opens into a spacious vestibule where three or four
office-boys are always in waiting.
On the right are the rooms to which the public is admitted, and from
which a narrow passage leads to the principal cash-room.
The offices of the corresponding clerk, book-keeper, and general
accounts are on the left.
At the farther end is a small court on which open seven or eight little
wicket doors. These are kept closed, except on certain days when notes
are due; and then they are indispensable.
M. Fauvel's private office is on the first floor over the offices, and
leads into his elegant private apartments.
This private office communicates directly with the bank by means of
a narrow staircase, which opens into the room occupied by the head
cashier.
This room, which in the bank goes by the name of the "cash-office," is
proof against all attacks, no matter how skilfully planned; indeed, it
could almost withstand a regular siege, sheeted as it is like a monitor.
The doors, and the partition where the wicket door is cut, are covered
with thick sheets of iron; and a heavy grating protects the fireplace.
Fastened in the wall by enormous iron clamps is a safe, a formidable
and fantastic piece of furniture, calculated to fill with envy the poor
devil who easily carries his fortune in a pocket-book.
This safe, which is considered the masterpiece of the firm of Becquet,
is six feet in height and four and a half in width, made entirely of
wrought iron, with triple sides, and divided into isolated compartments
in case of fire.
The safe is opened by an odd little key, which is, however, the least
important part of the mechanism. Five movable steel buttons, upon which
are engraved all the letters of the alphabet, constitute the real power
of this ingenious safe.
Before inserting the key into the lock, the letters on the buttons must
be in the exact position in which they were placed when the safe was
locked.
In M. Fauvel's bank, as everywhere, the safe was always closed with a
word that was changed from time to time.
This word was known only to the head of the bank and the cashier, each
of whom had also a key to the safe.
In a fortress like this, a person could deposit more diamonds than the
Duke of Brunswick's, and sleep well assured of their safety.
But one danger seemed to threaten, that of forgetting the secret word
which was the "Open sesame" of the safe.
On the morning of the 28th of February, the bank-clerks were all busy
at their
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CATTY***
Transcribed from the 1900[?] W. Nicholson and Sons edition by David
Price, email [email protected]
THE
COMICAL ADVENTURES
OF
TWM SHON CATTY,
(THOMAS JONES, ESQ.)
COMMONLY KNOWN AS THE
WELSH ROBIN HOOD.
“In Ystrad Feen a mirthful sound
Pervades the hollow hills around;
The very stones with laughter bound,
At Twm Shon Catty’s jovial round.”
PREFACE.
In presenting to the public the following Enlarged and Corrected Edition
of “Twm Shon Catty,” the author cannot forget that on its first
appearance in 1836, with “all its imperfections on its head,” it was
received with a welcome quite unlooked for on the part of the writer, and
he now presents this edition to the world, with several additions and
alterations.
On examining the cause of such unlooked-for approbation, he found it, not
in any merit of his own, but in the nationality of his subject, and the
humiliating suggestion that, slight as it was, it was the first attempted
thing that could bear the title of a Welsh Novel.
It is true others have made Wales the scene of action for the heroes of
their Tales; but however talented such writers might be, to the
Welshman’s feelings they lacked nationality, and betrayed the hand of the
foreigner in the working of the web; its texture perchance, filled up
with yams of finer fleeces, but strange and loveless to their
unaccustomed eyes.
Were a native of one of the South Sea Islands to publish the life and
adventures of one of their legendary heroes, it is probable that such a
production would excite more attention, as a true transcript of mind and
manners of the people he essayed to describe, than the more polished
pages of the courtly English and French novelist, who undertook to write
on the same subject. On the same principle, the author of this
unpretending little provincial production accounts for the sunny gleams
of favour that have flashed on the new tract which he has endeavoured to
tread down, among briers and brambles of an unexplored way, while the
smoother path of the practised traveller has been shrouded in gloom.
The expression of the Author’s gratitude is here presented to the Rev. W.
J. Rees, Rector of Cascob, for numerous favours; and especially for the
historic and traditional matter that his researches furnished. To the
Critics of the Cambrian Quarterly for their favourable notice of the
“Small Book,” a skeleton as it then was, compared to the present Edition,
imperfect as it still remains. And lastly to the revered memory of the
late Archdeacon Benyon of Llandilo. That lamented friend of Wales and
Welshmen, (whose aims were ever directed to the enlargement of the narrow
boundary within which prejudice and custom had encircled and enchained
Welsh literature,) in the town-hall of Carmarthen, before his highly
respectable Auditors, honoured this production with a favourable notice.
He warmly eulogised the Author’s attempt at the production of the first
Welsh Novel; and concluded by an offer of a pecuniary reward to the
person who could give the best translation of it in the best Welsh
language.
CHAPTER I.
THE name of Twm Shon Catty, popular throughout Wales. “The Inn-Keeper’s
Album,” and the drama founded thereon. Twm Shon Catty apparently born in
different towns. A correct account of his birth and parentage.
It is often the custom, however foolish it may be, to frighten the
occupants of an English nursery into submission by saying, “The bogie is
coming,” and though the exact form or attributes of the said “bogie” are
by no means definitely known, the mere mention of the individual has
sufficient power to make the juveniles cover their heads, and dive under
the bed-clothes, with fear. The preface to the once popular farce of
“Killing no Murder” informs us, that many a fry of infant Methodists are
terrified and frightened to bed by the cry of “the Bishop is
coming!”—That the right reverend prelates of the realm should become
bugbears and buggaboos to frighten the children of Dissenters, is curious
enough, and evinces a considerable degree of ingenious malignity in
bringing Episcopacy into contempt, if true. Be that as it may in
England, in Wales it is not so; for the demon of terror and monster of
the nursery there, to check the shrill cry of infancy, and enforce silent
obedience to the nurse or mother is Twm Shon Catty.
But “babes and sucklings” are not the only ones on whom that name has
continued to act as a spell; nor for fear and wonder its only attributes,
for the knavish exploits and comic feats of Twm Shon Catty are, like
those of Robin Hood in England, the themes of many a rural rhyme, and the
subject of many a village tale; where, seated round the ample hearth of a
farm house, or the more limited one of a lowly cottage, an attentive
audience is ever found, where his mirth-exciting tricks are told and
listened to with vast satisfaction, unsated by the frequency of
repetition; for the “lowly train” are generally strangers to that
fastidiousness which turns disgusted, from a twice-told tale.
Although neither the legends, the poetry, nor the history of the
principality, seem to interest, or accord with the taste of our English
brethren, the name of Twm Shon Catty, curiously enough, not only made its
way among them, but had the unexpected honour of being woven into a tale,
and exhibited on the stage, as a Welsh national dramatic spectacle, under
the title, and the imposing second title, of Twn _John_ Catty, or, the
Welsh Rob Roy. The nationality of the Welsh residents in London, who
always bear their country along with them wherever they go, was
immediately roused, notwithstanding the great offence of substituting
“John” for “Shon,” which called at once on their curiosity and love of
country to pursue the “Inkeeper’s Album,” in which this tale first
appeared, and to visit the Cobourg Theatre, where overflowing houses
nightly attended the representation of the “Welsh Rob Roy.” Now this
second title, which confounded the poor Cambrians, was a grand expedient
of the Dramatist, to excite the attention of the Londoners, who naturally
associated it with the hero of the celebrated Scotch novel. The bait was
immediately swallowed, and that tale, an awkward and most weak attempt to
imitate the “Great Unknown,” and by far the worst article in a very
clever book, actually sold the volume.
As Twm Shon Catty was invariably known to every Crymrian as a great
practical joker, they were of course proportionately surprised to find
him manufactured into a stilted, injured, melo-dramatic chieftain, for
the love of his _Ellen_, dying the death of a hero!
“This may do for London, but in Wales, where ‘_Gwir yn erbyn y byd_’ {9a}
is our motto, we know better!” muttered many a testy Cambrian, which he
felt doubly indignant at the authors’ and actors’ errors in the
mis-writing and the mis-pronouncing the well-known “sponsorial or
baptismal appellation,” {9b} as Doctor Pangloss would say: and another
source of umbrage to them was, that an English author’s sacrilegiously
dignifying Twm with the qualities of a hero, conveying the villanous
inference that Wales was barren of _real_ heroes—an insinuation that no
Welshman could tamely endure to forgive. In an instant recurred the
honoured names of Rodri Mawr, Owen Gwyneth, Caswallon ab Beli, Own
Glyndwr, Rhys ab Thomas, and a vast chain of Cambrian worthies, not
forgetting the royal race of Tudor, that gave an Elizabeth to the English
throne; on which the mimic scene before them, and the high vauntings of
Huntley in the character of Twm Shon Catty, sunk into the insignificance
of a punch and puppet show, in comparison with the mighty men who then
passed before the mental eye.
Sir John Wynn, of Gwydir, bart., was the father of our hero, who was a
natural son by a woman called Catherine. Little or nothing is known of
her, but surnames not being generally adopted in Wales, her son, by
Universal consent, was called “Twn
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THE STORY OF A CHILD
By Pierre Loti
Translated by Caroline F. Smith
PREFACE
There is to-day a widely spread new interest in child life, a desire to
get nearer to children and understand them. To be sure child study is
not new; every wise parent and every sympathetic teacher has ever been
a student of children; but there is now an effort to do more consciously
and systematically what has always been done in some way.
In the few years since this modern movement began much has been
accomplished, yet there is among many thoughtful people a strong
reaction from the hopes awakened by the enthusiastic heralding of the
newer aspects of psychology. It had been supposed that our science would
soon revolutionize education; indeed, taking the wish for the fact, we
began to talk about the new and the old education (both mythical) and
boast of our millennium. I would not underrate the real progress, the
expansion of educational activities, the enormous gains made in many
ways; but the millennium! The same old errors meet us in new forms, the
old problems are yet unsolved, the waste is so vast that we sometimes
feel thankful that we cannot do as much as we would, and that Nature
protects children from our worst mistakes.
What is the source of this disappointment? Is it not that education,
like all other aspects of life, can never be reduced to mere science? We
need science, it must be increasingly the basis of all life; but exact
science develops very slowly, and meantime we must live. Doubtless the
time will come when our study of mind will have advanced so far that we
can lay down certain great principles as tested laws, and thus clarify
many questions. Even then the solution of the problem will not be in the
enunciation of the theoretic principle, but will lie in its application
to practice; and that application must always depend upon instinct,
tact, appreciation, as well as upon the scientific law. Even the aid
that science can contribute is given slowly; meanwhile we must work with
these children and lift them to the largest life.
It is in relation to this practical work of education that our effort to
study children gets its human value. There are always two points of
view possible with reference to life. From the standpoint of nature
and science, individuals count for little. Nature can waste a thousand
acorns to raise one oak, hundreds of children may be sacrificed that
a truth may be seen. But from the ethical and human point of view the
meaning of all life is in each individual. That one child should be lost
is a kind of ruin to the universe.
It is this second point of view which every parent and every teacher
must take; and the great practical value of our new study of children
is that it brings us into personal relation with the child world, and so
aids in that subtle touch of life upon life which is the very heart of
education.
It is therefore that certain phases of the study of child life have
a high worth without giving definite scientific results. Peculiarly
significant among these is the study of the autobiographies of
childhood. The door to the great universe is always to the personal
world. Each of us appreciates child life through his own childhood,
and though the children with whom it is his blessed fortune to be
associated. If then it is possible for him to know intimately another
child through autobiography, one more window has been opened into the
child world--one more interpretative unit is given him through which to
read the lesson of the whole.
It is true, autobiographies written later in life cannot give us the
absolute truth of childhood. We see our early experiences through the
mists, golden or gray, of the years that lie between. It is poetry as
well as truth, as Goethe recognized in the title of his own self-study.
Nevertheless the individual who has lived the life can best bring us
into touch with it, and the very poetry is as true as the fact because
interpretative of the spirit.
It is peculiarly necessary that teachers harassed with the routine of
their work, and parents distracted with the multitude of details of
daily existence, should have such windows opened through which they may
look across the green meadows and into the sunlit gardens of childhood.
The result is not theories of child life but appreciation of children.
How one who has read understandingly Sonva Kovalevsky's story of her
girlhood could ever leave unanswered a child starving for love I cannot
see. Mills' account of his early life is worth more than many theories
in showing the deforming effect of an education that is formal
discipline without an awakening of the heart and soul. Goethe's great
study of his childhood and youth must give a new hold upon life to any
one who will appreciatively respond to it.
A better illustration of the subtle worth of such literature, in
developing appreciation of those inner deeps of child life that escape
definition and evaporate from the figures of the statistician, could
scarcely be found than Pierre Loti's "Story of a Child." There is hardly
a fact in the book. It tells not what the child did or what was done to
him, but what he felt, thought, dreamed. A record of impressions through
the dim years of awakening, it reveals a peculiar and subtle type of
personality most necessary to understand. All that Loti is and has been
is gathered up and foreshadowed in the child. Exquisite sensitiveness
to impressions whether of body or soul, the egotism of a nature much
occupied with its own subjective feelings, a being atune in response to
the haunting melody of the sunset, and the vague mystery of the seas,
a subtle melancholy that comes from the predominance of feeling over
masculine power of action, leading one to drift like Francesca with the
winds of emotion, terrible or sweet, rather than to fix the tide of the
universe in the centre of the forceful deed--all these qualities are in
the dreams of the child as in the life of the man.
And the style?--dreamy, suggestive, melodious, flowing on and on with
its exquisite music, wakening sad reveries, and hinting of gray days of
wind and rain, when the gust around the house wails of broken hopes and
ideals so long-deferred as to be half forgotten,--the minor sob of his
music expresses the spirit of Loti as much as do the moods of the child
he describes.
Such a type, like all others, has its strength and its weakness. Such a
type, like all others, is implicitly in us all. Do we not know it--the
haunting hunger for the permanence of impressions that come and go,
which pulsates through the book till we can scarcely keep back the
tears; the brooding over the two sombre mysteries--Death and Life (and
which is the darker?); the sense of fate driving life on--the fate of
a temperament that restlessly longs for new impressions and intense
emotions, without the vigor of action that cuts the Gordian knot of
fancy and speculation with the swift sword-stroke of an heroic deed.
It is fortunate that the translator has caught the subtle charm of
Loti's style, so difficult to render in another speech, in an amazing
degree. This is peculiarly necessary here, for accuracy of translation
means giving the delicate changes of color and elusive chords of music
that voice the moods and impressions of which the book is made.
Let us read the revelation of this book not primarily to condemn or
praise, or even to estimate and define, but to appreciate. If it be true
that no one ever looked into the Kingdom of Heaven except through the
eyes of a little child, if it be true that the eyes of every unspoiled
child are such a window, take the vision and be thankful. If, perchance,
this window should open toward strange abysses that reach vaguely away,
or upon dark meadows that lie ghost-like in the mingled light, if out
of the abyss rises, undefined, the vast, dim shape of the mystery, and
wakens in us the haunting memories of dead yesterdays and forgotten
years, if we seem carried past the day into the gray vastness that is
beyond the sunset and before the dawn, let us recognize that the mystery
or mysteries, the annunciation of the Infinite is a little child.
EDWARD HOWARD GRIGGS.
TO HER MAJESTY ELIZABETH, QUEEN OF ROUMANIA.
December, 188-
I am almost too old to undertake this book, for a sort of night is
falling about me; where shall I find the words vital and young enough
for the task?
To-morrow, at sea, I will commence it; at least I will endeavor to put
into it all that was best of myself at a time when as yet there was
nothing very bad.
So that romantic love may find no place in it, except in the illusory
form of a vision, I will end it at an early age.
And to the sovereign lady whose suggestion it was that I write it, I
offer it as a humble token of my respect and admiration.
PIERRE LOTI.
THE STORY OF A CHILD.
CHAPTER I.
It is with some degree of awe that I touch upon the enigma of my
impressions at the commencement of my life. I am almost doubtful whether
they had reality within my own experience, or whether they are not,
rather, recollections mysteriously transmitted--I feel an almost sacred
hesitation when I would fathom their depths.
I came forth from the darkness of unconsciousness very gradually, for my
mind was illumined only fitfully, but then by outbursts of splendor
that compelled and fascinated my infant gaze. When the light was
extinguished, I lapsed once more into the non-consciousness of the
new-born animal, of the tiny plant just germinating.
The history of my earliest years is that of a child much indulged
and petted to whom nothing of moment happened; and into whose narrow,
protected life no jarring came that was not foreseen, and the shock of
which was not deadened with solicitous care. In my manners I was always
very tractable and submissive. That I may not make my recital tedious,
I will note without continuity and without the proper transitions those
moments which are impressed upon my mind because of their strangeness,
those moments that are still so vividly remembered, although I have
forgotten many poignant sorrows, many lands, adventures, and places.
I was at that time like a fledgling swallow living high up in a niche in
the eaves, who from time to time peeps out over the top of its nest with
its little bright eyes. With the eyes of imagination it sees into the
deeps of space, although to the actual vision only a courtyard and
street are visible; and it sees into depths which it will presently need
to journey through. It was during such moments of clairvoyance that I
had a vision of the infinity of which before my present life I was a
part. Then, in spite of myself, my consciousness flagged, and for days
together I lived the tranquil, subconscious life of early childhood.
At first my mind, altogether unimpressed and undeveloped, may be
compared to a photographer's apparatus fitted with its sensitized glass.
Objects insufficiently lighted up make no impression upon the virgin
plates; but when a vivid splendor falls upon them, and when they
are encircled by disks of light, these once dim objects now engrave
themselves upon the glass. My first recollections are of bright summer
days and sparkling noon times,--or more truly, are recollections of the
light of wood fires burning with great ruddy flames.
CHAPTER II.
As if it were yesterday I recall the evening when I suddenly discovered
that I could run and jump; and I remember that I was intoxicated by the
delicious sensation almost to the point of falling.
This must have been at about the commencement of my second winter. At
the sad hour of twilight I was in the dining-room of my parents' house,
which room had always seemed a very vast one to me. At first, I was
quiet, made so, no doubt, by the influence of the environing darkness,
for the lamp was not yet lighted. But as the hour for dinner approached,
a maid-servant came in and threw an armful of small wood into the
fireplace to reanimate the dying fire. Immediately there was a beautiful
bright light, and the leaping flames illuminated everything, and waves
of light spread to the far part of the room where I sat. The flames
danced and leaped with a twining motion ever higher and higher and
more gayly, and the tremulous shadows along the wall ran to their
hiding-places--oh! how quickly I arose overwhelmed with admiration for
I recollect that I had been sitting at the feet of my great-aunt Bertha
(at that time already very old) who half dozed in her chair. We were
near a window through which the gray night filtered; I was seated
upon one of those high, old-fashioned foot-stools with two steps, so
convenient for little children who can from that vantage ground put
their heads in grandmother's or grand-aunt's lap, and wheedle so
effectually.
I arose in ecstasy, and approached the flames; then in the circle of
light which lay upon the carpet I began to walk around and around and to
turn. Ever faster and faster I went, until suddenly I felt an unwonted
elasticity run through my limbs, and in a twinkling I invented a new and
amusing style of motion; it was to push my feet very hard against the
floor, and then to lift them up together suddenly for a half second.
When I fell, up I sprang and recommenced my play. Bang! Bang! With every
increasing noise I went against the floor, and at last I began to feel a
singular but agreeable giddiness in my head. I knew how to jump! I knew
how to run!
I am convinced that that is my earliest distinct recollection of great
joyousness.
"Dear me! What is the matter with the child this evening?" asked my
great-aunt Bertha, with some anxiety. And I hear again the unexpected
sound of her voice.
But I still kept on jumping. Like those tiny foolish moths which of an
evening revolve about the light of a lamp, I went around in the luminous
circle which widened and retracted, ever taking form from the wavering
light of the flames. And I remember all of this so vividly that my eyes
can still see the smallest details of the texture of the carpet which
was the scene of the event. It was of durable stuff called home-spun,
woven in the country by native weavers. (Our house was still furnished
as it had been in my maternal grandmother's time, as she had arranged
it after she had quitted the Island, and come to the mainland.--A
little later I will speak of this Island which had already a mysterious
attraction for my youthful imagination.--It was a simple country house,
notable for its Huguenot austerity; and it was a home where immaculate
cleanliness and extreme order were the sole luxuries.)
In the circle of light, which grew ever more and more narrow, I still
jumped; but as I did so I had thoughts that were of an intensity not
habitual with me. At the same time that my tiny limbs discovered their
power, my spirit also knew itself; a burst of light overspread my mind
where dawning ideas still showed forth feebly. And it is without doubt
to the inner awakening that this fleeting moment of my life owes its
existence, owes undoubtedly its permanency in memory. But vainly I seek
for the words, that seem ever to escape me, through which to express my
elusive emotions.... Here in the dining-room I look about and see the
chairs standing the length of the wall, and I am reminded of the aged
grandmother, grand-aunts and aunts who always come at a certain hour
and seat themselves in them. Why are they not here now? At this moment I
would like to feel their protecting presence about me. Probably they are
upstairs in their rooms on the second floor; between them and me there
is the dim stairway, the stairway that I people with shadowy beings the
thought of which makes me tremble.... And my mother? I would wish
most especially for her, but I know that she has gone out, gone out into
the long streets which in my imagination have no end. I had myself gone
to the door with her and had asked her: "When returnest thou?" And she
had promised me that she would return speedily. Later they told me that
when I was a child I would never permit any members of the family to
leave the house to go walking or visiting without first obtaining their
assurance of a speedy homecoming. "You will come back soon?" I would
say, and I always asked the question anxiously, as I followed them to
the door.
My mother had departed, and it gave my heart a feeling of heaviness to
know that she was out. Out in the streets! I was content not to be there
where it was cold and dark, where little children so easily lost their
way,--how snug it was to be within doors before the fire that warmed me
through and through; how nice it was to be at home! I had never realized
it until this evening--doubtless it was my first distinct feeling of
attachment to hearth and home, and I was sadly troubled at the thought
of the immense, strange world lying beyond the door. It was then that
I had, for the first time, a conscious affection for my aged aunts and
grand-aunts, who cared for me in infancy, whom I longed to have seated
around me at this dim, sad, twilight hour.
In the meantime the once bright and playful flames had died down, the
armful of wood was consumed, and as the lamp was not lighted, the room
was quite dark. I had already stumbled upon the home-spun carpet, but as
I had not hurt myself, I recommenced my amusing play. For an instant I
thought to experience a new but strange joy by going into the shadowy
and distant recesses of the room; but I was overtaken there by an
indefinable terror of something which I cannot name, and I hastily took
refuge in the dim circle of light and looked behind me with a shudder
to see whether anything had followed me from out of those dark corners.
Finally the flames died away entirely, and I was really afraid; aunt
Bertha sat motionless upon her chair, and although I felt that her eyes
were upon me I was
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EVENING TALES
Done into English from the French of
FRÉDÉRIC ORTOLI
by
Joel Chandler Harris
Author of "Uncle Remus"
Authorized Edition
New York
Charles Scribner's Sons
1919
Copyright, 1893, by
Charles Scribner's Sons
CONTENTS
I PAGE
A FRENCH TAR-BABY, 1
II
TEENCHY DUCK, 13
III
MR. SNAIL AND BROTHER WOLF, 34
IV
THE LION'S SECRET, 39
V
THE KING AND THE LAPWINGS, 64
VI
THE ROOSTER, THE CAT, AND THE REAP-HOOK, 75
VII
THE MYSTERIOUS ISLAND, 101
VIII
BROTHER TIGER AND DADDY SHEEP, 109
IX
"JUMP IN MY SACK!" 128
X
A SEARCH FOR A FRIEND, 155
XI
A CHILD OF THE ROSES, 163
XII
THE KING OF THE LIONS, 189
XIII
THE VIZIER, THE MONKEY, THE LION, AND
THE SERPENT, 198
XIV
THE ENCHANTED PRINCESS, 222
XV
<DW38> JOHN, 261
INTRODUCTION
Once upon a time Mr. Wendell P. Garrison, the literary editor of _The
Nation_, sent me a picture he had found in a catalogue of French books.
It represented a very interesting scene. There were the Tar-Baby and
Brother Rabbit as natural as life; but Brother Fox was missing. His
place had been supplied by Brother Billy Goat, whose formidable horns
and fierce beard seemed to add to the old episode a new danger for poor
Brother Rabbit.
The picture was an advertisement of _Les Contes de la Veillée_, by
Frédéric Ortoli. After a while the book itself came to hand, forwarded
no doubt by some thoughtful American tourist who had been interested
in the Tar-Baby in French. The volume was examined, and in some sort
relished, laid aside for future reference, and then forgotten.
But one night after supper the children of the household were suddenly
missing. There was no romping going on in the hall. There were no
voices to be heard on the lawn. There was no rippit taking place in the
bedrooms. What could the matter be? Had the storm-centre moved in the
direction of our innocent neighbors? The silence was so unusual that it
created a sudden sense of loneliness.
But the investigation that followed showed that the youngsters had
merely made a temporary surrender of their privileges. Their mother
was reading to them some of the stories in M. Ortoli's book, and they
were listening with an interest that childhood can neither affect nor
disguise. I begged permission to make one of the audience.
"But you have writing to do," said one of the lads.
"It will disturb you," said one of the girls.
Nevertheless, the lady, who was and is the centre of this family
circle, graciously made room for one more listener; and thus it happens
that this little volume of M. Ortoli's stories is in the nature of a
family affair. The lady, for the benefit of the intruder, was pleased
to go over the stories again, and to read them more slowly, and thus
they were put in their present form. Most frequently I have preserved
the swift and piquant rendering, the fluent interpretation that fell
from the lady's lips.
My apologies are perhaps due to M. Ortoli for a certain freedom of
treatment that has been deemed necessary in some of the stories. I
trust this has not been carried too far; but in some instances it has
been necessary to English the characters and incidents as well as the
text. Nevertheless, an effort has been made to preserve something of
the individuality of M. Ortoli, and I think that at least the flavor of
it will be found in the stories that follow.
J. C. H.
WEST END, ATLANTA, GA.
EVENING TALES
I
A FRENCH TAR-BABY
In the time when there were hobgoblins and fairies, Brother Goat and
Brother Rabbit lived in the same neighborhood, not far from each other.
Proud of his long beard and sharp horns, Brother Goat looked on Brother
Rabbit with disdain. He would hardly
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THE
MYSTERIES OF LONDON.
BY
GEORGE W. M. REYNOLDS,
AUTHOR OF "FAUST," "PICKWICK ABROAD," "ROBERT MACAIRE,"
"WAGNER: THE WEHR-WOLF," &C., &C.
WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS
VOL. III.
VOL. I. SECOND SERIES.
LONDON:
G. VICKERS, 3, CATHERINE STREET, STRAND.
MDCCCXLVII.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY J. FAUTLEY, "BONNER HOUSE" PRINTING OFFICE, SEACOAL LANE.
THE MYSTERIES OF LONDON.
CONTENTS OF VOL. I.
CHAPTER I.—The Travelling Carriage 1
II.—Tom Rain and Old Death 4
III.—Bow Street 6
IV.—Esther de Medina 9
V.—The Appeal of Love 13
VI.—Dr. Lascelles 15
VII.—The Beautiful Patient 18
VIII.—Seven Dials 20
IX.—A Death-Scene.—Lock's Fields 23
X.—A Scene at the House of Sir Christopher Blunt 28
XI.—The Two Thousand Pounds.—Torrens Cottage 30
XII.—Adelais and Rosamond 33
XIII.—The Elopement 36
XIV.—Lady Hatfield and Dr. Lascelles.—Esther de Medina 39
XV.—The Opiate 42
XVI.—The Lover and the Uncle 43
XVII.—The Mysterious Letter.—Jacob 44
XVIII.—The Lovers 48
XIX.—Mr. Frank Curtis's Pleasant Adventure 51
XX.—Happiness.—The Diamond Merchant 55
XXI.—The Oath 59
XXII.—The Alarm.—The Letter 61
XXIII.—Old Death 64
XXIV.—Castle Street, Long Acre 67
XXV.—Matilda, the Country-Girl 70
XXVI.—The Lady's-Maid 73
XXVII.—London on a Rainy Evening.—A Scene in a Post-Chaise 75
XXVIII.—Tom Rain's Lodgings in Lock's Fields 77
XXIX.—The Mysteries of Old Death's Establishment 82
XXX.—The Store-Rooms 86
XXXI.—Another Deed of Infamy brought to Light 88
XXXII.—Rainford in the Subterranean 92
XXXIII.—Mrs. Martha Slingsby 94
XXXIV.—The Pious Lady 96
XXXV.—Mr. Sheepshanks 100
XXXVI.—The Baronet and his Mistress 102
XXXVII.—Tom Rain and Jacob 104
XXXVIII.—The History of Jacob Smith 107
XXXIX.—Continuation of the History of Jacob Smith 116
XL.—Conclusion of the History of Jacob Smith 120
XLI.—Fresh Alarms 126
XLII.—The Paragraph in the Newspaper 128
XLIII.—Lord Ellingham and Tom Rainford 131
XLIV.—Mr. Frank Curtis again 134
XLV.—Mr. <DW18>s and his Myrmidons 139
XLVI.—Explanations 141
XLVII.—Farther Explanations 144
XLVIII.—Lord Ellingham and Tom Rain 147
XLIX.—A Painful Interview 151
L.—The Lawyer's Office 155
LI.—Lord Ellingham in the Dungeon 157
LII.—Lord Ellingham's Exertions 162
LIII.—The Execution 164
LIV.—Galvanism 166
LV.—The Laboratory.—Esther de Medina 167
LVI.—A History of the Past 172
LVII.—A Father 185
LVIII.—The Resuscitated 188
LIX.—The Jew's
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LIGHT AND COLOUR THEORIES
[Illustration: TINTOMETER. Form of Instrument for Opaque Observation.]
[Illustration: Reproductions of some Medals awarded to JOSEPH W. LOVIBOND’S
Method of Colour Analysis FOR Scientific and Commercial Purposes.]
LIGHT AND
COLOUR THEORIES
and their Relation to Light and
Colour Standardization
By
JOSEPH W. LOVIBOND
ILLUSTRATED BY 11 PLATES BY HAND
[Illustration: Logo]
London
E. & F. N. SPON, Limited, 57 HAYMARKET
New York
SPON & CHAMBERLAIN, 123 LIBERTY STREET
1915
CONTENTS
PAGE
List of Plates vii
Purpose ix
CHAPTER I.
Introduction 1
CHAPTER II.
Evolution of the Method 5
CHAPTER III.
Evolution of the Unit 9
CHAPTER IV.
Derivation of Colour from White Light 11
CHAPTER V.
Standard White Light 14
CHAPTER VI.
Qualitative Colour Nomenclature 17
CHAPTER VII.
Quantitative Colour Nomenclature
CHAPTER VIII.
The Colour Scales 28
CHAPTER IX.
Colour Charts 31
CHAPTER X.
Representations of Colour in Space of Three Dimensions 34
CHAPTER XI.
The Spectrum in relation to Colour Standardization 36
CHAPTER XII.
The Physiological Light Unit 45
APPENDIX I.
Colour Education 59
APPENDIX II.
The Possibilities of a Standard Light and Colour Unit 69
APPENDIX III.
Dr. Dudley Corbett’s Radiometer 83
Index 89
ERRATA.
Plate I. Newton’s Theory. The Indigo line is erroneously placed
between the Violet and the Red; it should be between the Blue
and the Violet.
Page 40.--_Fifth line from the bottom, for_ Fraunhoper _read_
Fraunhofer.
_To face p. vi., Lovibond, Light and Colour Theories._] [P.R. 1317
LIST OF PLATES
TO FACE
PAGE
Plate I. Six Colour Theories 4
" II. Circles Illustrating Absorption of White Light 11
" III. Diagram Illustrating Analysis of White Light 13
" IV. First System of Charting Colour 31
" V. Second System of Charting Colour 33
" VI. Six Tintometrical Colour Charts 39
" VII. Two Circles 40
" VIII. Absorption Curves of Dyes 76
" IX. Fading Curves of Dyes 78
" X. Comparison Curves of Healthy and Diseased Blood 80
" XI. Specific Colour Curves of Healthy and Diseased
Human Blood 82
PURPOSE
The purpose of this work is to demonstrate that colour is a
determinable property of matter, and to make generally known methods
of colour analysis and synthesis which have proved of great practical
value in establishing standards of purity in some industries.
The purpose is also to show that the methods are thoroughly scientific
in theory and practice, and that the results are not likely to be
changed by further discoveries. Also that out of the work done a new
law has been developed, which the writer calls the Law of Specific
Colour Development, meaning that every substance has its own rate of
colour development for regularly increasing thicknesses.
THE THEORY.
Of the six colours in white light--red, orange, yellow, green, blue
and violet; Red, Yellow and Blue are regarded as dominants, because
they visually hold the associated colours orange, green and violet in
subjection.
An equivalent unit of pure red, pure yellow and pure blue is adopted,
and incorporated into glass. The unit is multiplied to obtain greater
intensities, and divided to obtain lesser intensities.
The glasses are called absorbents. The red absorbent transmits
violet, red and orange, but the red ray alone is visible as colour,
until the other absorbents are superimposed, and the character of the
group of rays changed. In the same way yellow transmits orange and
green, and blue transmits green and violet, whilst the yellow and blue
alone are visible as colour. Orange, green and violet are here called
subordinates, which may be
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THE POSSESSED (The Devils)
A Novel In Three Parts
By Fyodor Dostoevsky
Translated From The Russian By Constance Garnett
CONTENTS:
* PART I
* CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY
* CHAPTER II. PRINCE HARRY. MATCHMAKING.
* CHAPTER III. THE SINS OF OTHERS
* CHAPTER IV. THE <DW36>
* CHAPTER V. THE SUBTLE SERPENT
* PART II
* CHAPTER I. NIGHT
* CHAPTER II. NIGHT (continued)
* CHAPTER III. THE DUEL
* CHAPTER IV. ALL IN EXPECTATION
* CHAPTER V. ON THE EVE OF THE FETE
* CHAPTER VI. PYOTR STEPANOVITCH IS BUSY
* CHAPTER VII. A MEETING
* CHAPTER VIII. IVAN THE TSAREVITCH
* CHAPTER IX. A RAID AT STEFAN TROFIMOVITCH'S
* CHAPTER X. FILIBUSTERS. A FATAL MORNING
* PART III
* CHAPTER I. THE FETE--FIRST PART
* CHAPTER II. THE END OF THE FETE
* CHAPTER III. A ROMANCE ENDED
* CHAPTER IV. THE LAST RESOLUTION
* CHAPTER V. A WANDERER
* CHAPTER VI. A BUSY NIGHT
* CHAPTER VII. STEPAN TROFIMOVITCH'S LAST WANDERING
* CHAPTER VIII. CONCLUSION
1916
"Strike me dead, the track has vanished,
Well, what now? We've lost the way,
Demons have bewitched our horses,
Led us in the wilds astray.
"What a number! Whither drift they?
What's the mournful dirge they sing?
Do they hail a witch's marriage
Or a goblin's burying?"
A. Pushkin.
"And there was one herd of many swine feeding on this
mountain; and they besought him that he would suffer them to
enter into them. And he suffered them.
"Then went the devils out of the man and entered into the
swine; and the herd ran violently down a steep place into
the lake and were choked.
"When they that fed them saw what was done, they fled, and
went and told it in the city and in the country.
"Then they went out to see what was done; and came to Jesus
and found the man, out of whom the devils were departed,
sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind;
and they were afraid."
Luke, ch. viii. 32-37.
PART I
CHAPTER I. INTRODUCTORY
SOME DETAILS OF THE BIOGRAPHY OF THAT HIGHLY RESPECTED GENTLEMAN STEPAN
TROFIMOVITCH VERHOVENSKY.
IN UNDERTAKING to describe the recent and strange incidents in our town,
till lately wrapped in uneventful obscurity, I find myself forced in
absence of literary skill to begin my story rather far back, that is
to say, with certain biographical details concerning that talented and
highly-esteemed gentleman, Stepan Trofimovitch Verhovensky. I trust that
these details may at least serve as an introduction, while my projected
story itself will come later.
I will say at once that Stepan Trofimovitch had always filled a
particular role among us, that of the progressive patriot, so to say,
and he was passionately fond of playing the part--so much so that I
really believe he could not have existed without it. Not that I would
put him on a level with an actor at a theatre, God forbid, for I really
have a respect for him. This may all have been the effect of habit, or
rather, more exactly of a generous propensity he had from his earliest
years for indulging in an agreeable day-dream in which he figured as
a picturesque public character. He fondly loved, for instance, his
position as a "persecuted" man and, so to speak, an "exile." There is a
sort of traditional glamour about those two little words that fascinated
him once for all and, exalting him gradually in his own opinion, raised
him in the course of years to a lofty pedestal very gratifying to
vanity. In an English satire of the last century, Gulliver, returning
from the land of the Lilliputians where the people were only three or
four inches high, had grown so accustomed to consider himself a giant
among them, that as he walked along the streets of London he could not
help crying out to carriages and passers-by to be careful and get out of
his way for fear he should crush them, imagining that they were little
and he was still a giant. He was laughed at and abused for it, and rough
coachmen even lashed at the giant with their whips. But was that just?
What may not be done by habit? Habit had brought Stepan Trofimovitch
almost to the same position, but in a more innocent and inoffensive
form, if one may use such expressions, for he was a most excellent man.
I am even inclined to suppose that towards the end he had been entirely
forgotten everywhere; but still it cannot be said that his name had
never been known. It is beyond question that he had at one time belonged
to a certain distinguished constellation of celebrated leaders of
the last generation, and at one time--though only for the briefest
moment--his name was pronounced by many hasty persons of that day almost
as though it were on a level with the names of Tchaadaev, of Byelinsky,
of Granovsky, and of Herzen, who had only just begun to write abroad.
But Stepan Trofimovitch's activity ceased almost at the moment it began,
owing
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ON THE DECAY OF THE ART OF LYING
by Mark Twain [Sameul Clemens]
ESSAY, FOR DISCUSSION, READ AT A MEETING OF THE HISTORICAL
AND ANTIQUARIAN CLUB OF HARTFORD, AND OFFERED FOR THE
THIRTY-DOLLAR PRIZE.[*]
[*] Did not take the prize.
Observe, I do not mean to suggest that the _custom_ of lying has
suffered any decay or interruption--no, for the Lie, as a Virtue, A
Principle, is eternal; the Lie, as a recreation, a solace, a refuge in
time of need, the fourth Grace, the tenth Muse, man's best and surest
friend, is immortal, and cannot perish from the earth while this club
remains. My complaint simply concerns the decay of the _art_ of lying.
No high-minded man, no man of right feeling, can contemplate the
lumbering and slovenly lying of the present day without grieving to see
a noble art so prostituted. In this veteran presence I naturally enter
upon this theme with diffidence; it is like an old maid trying to teach
nursery matters to the mothers in Israel. It would not become to me to
criticise you, gentlemen--who are nearly all my elders--and my
superiors, in this thing--if I should here and there _seem_ to do it, I
trust it will in most cases be more in a spirit of admiration than
fault-finding; indeed if this finest of the fine arts had everywhere
received the attention, the encouragement, and conscientious practice
and development which this club has devoted to it, I should not need to
utter this lament, or shed a single tear. I do not say this to flatter:
I say it in a spirit of just and appreciative recognition. [It had been
my intention, at this point, to mention names and to give illustrative
specimens, but indications observable about me admonished me to beware
of the particulars and confine myself to generalities.]
No fact is more firmly established than that lying is a necessity of our
circumstances--the deduction that it is then a Virtue goes without
saying. No virtue can reach its highest usefulness without careful and
diligent cultivation--therefore, it goes without saying that this one
ought to be taught in the public schools--even in the newspapers. What
chance has the ignorant uncultivated liar against the educated expert?
What chance have I against Mr. Per--against a lawyer? _Judicious_ lying
is what the world needs. I sometimes think it were even better and safer
not to lie at all than to lie injudiciously. An awkward, unscientific
lie is often as ineffectual as the truth.
Now let us see what the philosophers say. Note that venerable proverb:
Children and fools _always_ speak the truth. The deduction is plain
--adults and wise persons _never_ speak it. Parkman, the historian, says,
"The principle of truth may itself be carried into an absurdity." In
another place in the same chapters he says, "The saying is old that
truth should not be spoken at all times; and those whom a sick
conscience worries into habitual violation of the maxim are imbeciles
and nuisances." It is strong language, but true. None of us could _live_
with an habitual truth-teller; but thank goodness none of us has to. An
habitual truth-teller is simply an impossible creature; he does not
exist; he never has existed. Of course there are people who _think_ they
never lie, but it is not so--and this ignorance is one of the very
things that shame our so-called civilization. Everybody lies--every day;
every hour; awake; asleep; in his dreams; in his joy; in his mourning;
if he keeps his tongue still, his hands, his feet, his eyes, his
attitude, will convey deception--and purposely. Even in sermons--but
that is a platitude.
In a far country where I once lived the ladies used to go around paying
calls, under the humane and kindly pretence of wanting to see each
other; and when they returned home, they would cry out with a glad
voice, saying, "We made sixteen calls and found fourteen of them out"
--not meaning that they found out anything important against the
fourteen--no, that was only a colloquial phrase to signify that they
were not at home--and their manner of saying it expressed their lively
satisfaction in that fact. Now their pretence of wanting to see the
fourteen--and the other two whom they had been less lucky with--was that
commonest and mildest form of lying which is sufficiently described as a
deflection from the truth. Is it justifiable? Most certainly. It is
beautiful, it is noble; for its object is, _not_ to reap profit, but to
convey a pleasure to the sixteen. The iron-souled truth-monger would
plainly manifest, or even utter the fact that he didn't want to see
those people--and he would be an ass, and inflict totally unnecessary
pain. And next, those ladies in that far country--but never mind, they
had a thousand pleasant ways of
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A SCHOOL HISTORY
OF THE
UNITED STATES
BY
JOHN BACH McMASTER
PROFESSOR OF AMERICAN HISTORY IN THE UNIVERSITY
OF PENNSYLVANIA
1897
PREFACE
It has long been the custom to begin the history of our country with the
discovery of the New World by Columbus. To some extent this is both wise
and necessary; but in following it in this instance the attempt has been
made to treat the colonial period as the childhood of the United States;
to have it bear the same relation to our later career that the account
of the youth of a great man should bear to that of his maturer years,
and to confine it to the narration of such events as are really
necessary to a correct understanding of what has happened since 1776.
The story, therefore, has been restricted to the discoveries,
explorations, and settlements within the United States by the English,
French, Spaniards, and Dutch; to the expulsion of the French by the
English; to the planting of the thirteen colonies on the Atlantic
seaboard; to the origin and progress of the quarrel which ended with the
rise of thirteen sovereign free and independent states, and to the
growth of such political institutions as began in colonial times. This
period once passed, the long struggle for a government followed till our
present Constitution--one of the most remarkable political instruments
ever framed by man--was adopted, and a nation founded.
Scarcely was this accomplished when the French Revolution and the rise
of Napoleon involved us in a struggle, first for our neutral rights, and
then for our commercial independence, and finally in a second war with
Great Britain. During this period of nearly five and twenty years,
commerce and agriculture flourished exceedingly, but our internal
resources were little developed. With the peace of 1815, however, the
era of industrial development commences, and this has been treated with
great--though it is believed not too great--fullness of detail; for,
beyond all question, _the_ event of the world's history during the
nineteenth century is the growth of the United States. Nothing like it
has ever before taken place.
To have loaded down the book with extended bibliographies would have
been an easy matter, but quite unnecessary. The teacher will find in
Channing and Hart's _Guide to the Study of American History_ the best
digested and arranged bibliography of the subject yet published, and
cannot afford to be without it. If the student has time and disposition
to read one half of the reference books cited in the footnotes of this
history, he is most fortunate.
JOHN BACH McMASTER.
UNIVERSITY OF PENNSYLVANIA.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
I. EUROPE FINDS AMERICA
II. THE SPANIARDS IN THE UNITED STATES
III. ENGLISH, DUTCH, AND SWEDES ON THE SEABOARD
IV. THE PLANTING OF NEW ENGLAND
V. THE MIDDLE AND SOUTHERN COLONIES
VI. THE FRENCH IN THE MISSISSIPPI VALLEY
VII. THE INDIANS
VIII. THE STRUGGLE FOR NEW FRANCE AND LOUISIANA
IX. LIFE IN THE COLONIES IN 1763
X. "LIBERTY, PROPERTY, AND NO STAMPS"
XI. THE STRUGGLE FOR INDEPENDENCE
XII. UNDER THE ARTICLES OF CONFEDERATION
XIII. MAKING THE CONSTITUTION
XIV. OUR COUNTRY IN 1790
XV. THE RISE OF PARTIES
XVI. THE STRUGGLE FOR NEUTRALITY
XVII. STRUGGLE FOR "FREE TRADE AND SAILORS' RIGHTS"
XVIII. THE WAR FOR COMMERCIAL INDEPENDENCE
XIX. PROGRESS OF OUR COUNTRY BETWEEN 1790 AND 1815
XX. SETTLEMENT OF OUR BOUNDARIES
XXI. THE RISING WEST
XXII. THE HIGHWAYS OF TRADE AND COMMERCE
XXIII. POLITICS FROM 1824 TO 1845
XXIV. EXPANSION OF THE SLAVE AREA
XXV. THE TERRITORIES BECOME SLAVE SOIL
XXVI. PROGRESS IN THE UNITED STATES BETWEEN 1840 AND 1860
XXVII. WAR FOR THE UNION, 1861-1865
XXVIII. WAR ALONG THE COAST AND ON THE SEA
XXIX. THE COST OF THE WAR
XXX. RECONSTRUCTION OF THE SOUTH
XXXI. THE NEW WEST (1860-1870)
XXXII. POLITICS FROM 1868 TO 1880
XXXIII. GROWTH OF THE NORTHWEST
XXXIV. MECHANICAL AND INDUSTRIAL PROGRESS
XXXV. POLITICS SINCE 1880
APPENDIX
DECL
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That House I Bought
_A LITTLE LEAF FROM LIFE_
BY
HENRY EDWARD WARNER
[Illustration: Logo]
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY
G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY
_That House I Bought_
DEDICATION
Why a dedication? Why a preface--a foreword? Why any comment, save the
title and the price mark?
Simplicity itself! The preface, foreword, dedication--what you may term
it--gives opportunity to apologize for the liberality with which the
author betrays his egotism, in the thickly sprinkled perpendicular
pronoun.
And yet this plain young tale of plain things could not be told in the
third person, since it is a mere setting down of real experience,
painfully truthful and laboriously pruned where imagination was tempted
to stray into fields of fiction. There is but one confession of romantic
mendacity--and it shall not be made, for it _might_ have happened! Quien
Sabe?
And now this little story is dedicated to all who have bought or intend
to buy homes, who have lost or expect to lose them; to the bird of
passage and to the homing, and to all who love their fellowmen--but very
especially to you who read it.
H. E. W.
CONTENTS
PAGE
DEDICATION 5
FIRST PERIOD 7
SECOND PERIOD 18
THIRD PERIOD 31
FOURTH PERIOD 42
FIFTH PERIOD 54
SIXTH PERIOD 68
SEVENTH PERIOD 90
EIGHTH PERIOD 105
NINTH PERIOD 120
TENTH PERIOD 132
ELEVENTH PERIOD 143
THE EVEN DOZENTH 155
That House I Bought
FIRST PERIOD
Thirty-three years ago I formed a box of blocks into a castle and then
kicked it down in disgust because I didn't like the chimney. Mother said
I displayed temper.
Birds build nests in tree-tops with horse-hair and straw, and odd bits
of stuff; but my wife and I aren't birds. Far from it. And we've been
going along for fifteen years without a regular nest. All that time
I've been building a house with blocks and kicking it down.
The other day we went out to Mont Alto to take dinner with our friends,
and on the way we saw a new house numbered "3313." The number stuck out
in letters of silver, burnished into brilliancy by a noonday sun.
"That's an odd number," I remarked. "Anyway you look at it, it's
unlucky--3313. And I'm not superstitious."
"Let's go in and examine it," she said.
That's where it all started. We bought the house after dinner. It took
fifteen minutes to decide, and in that time, of course, we didn't
notice the place on the dining-room ceiling where the plumbing--but let
it pass. The Duke of Mont Alto would fix it up. We had great faith in
the Duke. The point is, we owned a house at last. That is, we had
started to own it. We were tickled to death--also scared to death. There
are two emotions for you, both fatal!
Coming into possession of a castle with ten rooms and large open
plumbing, fronting fifty feet and going back one hundred and fifty-three
feet to the company's stable, is a thrilling experience. My first thrill
was in connection with the initial terms of the contract, which called
for certain financial daring. Up to this time I had laid to my soul the
happy thought that a clean conscience is more than money; but believe
me, friend, a silver quarter began to look like a gold eagle. Change
that in other days went merrily across the table without thought for the
morrow, I found myself wearing to a frazzle, counting the cracks in the
milled edges affectionately, hopefully, and yet with certain misgivings.
Naturally, we first paced off our yard, to see whether it was 50 by 153
feet, more or less, as shown in the plot. Every man who buys a house
paces off his yard. So does his wife. My wife made seventy-eight steps
of it and I made fifty-one, on the length. By deducting for my long legs
and adding for her confining skirt we came to the conclusion that
mathematics was an inexact science, and decided to do it later with a
tape measure.
But for the purpose of this narrative we must get inside the house and
look about. We found a wide hall with a grand staircase; a roomy parlor
connecting by folding door with a spacious dining-room, and off the
dining-room a real conservatory, all glass and tiles. Opening into the
pantry a swinging door, and another into the kitchen, and in the wall a
refrigerator. In the basement a furnace with a barometer and
thermometer atop. On the second floor four big rooms and a centre
hallway, and in the bathroom large, open plumbing and the addition of a
shower and spray bath. On the third floor two cozy rooms and another
hallway and bath. Item: Slate roof; item: water-heated, hot and cold
water all the time sometimes; item: hardwood floor downstairs.
Conveniences in every direction, gas and electric fittings throughout.
And the whole sheltered by oak trees that leaned over to embrace us,
wagging flirtatious branches through the big windows.
"Isn't this living!" I exclaimed.
My wife looked out through the window at the distant picture of the
low-lying city against the bay, and held my hand. It was as though we
had not been married fifteen years, but were beginning our honeymoon--a
couple of birds just mated, fetching things for the nest and glorying in
its construction--silent in a dream of contemplation, but just ready to
burst into song, the song of achievement. She did not reply, but pressed
my hand. When finally she spoke, what was in her heart broke its leash.
"I was just wondering," she said, "if we couldn't rent the second floor
as a flat to pay the expenses, and then all we put in would be invested
in the equity!"
I awoke with a start from my dreaming. Even a honeymoon has its
practical side!
But all sad realities have their recompense in a happy mind. Give me the
optimist and a famine and I'll show you a famine licked to a standstill.
The combination of confident, hopeful ego and material misfortune never
yet met, but that material misfortune took the count in the first round.
The man who stands hugging misfortune in his chest has something coming
to him. When it arrives it will land right square under that point
where, if he were a woman of twenty years ago, he might have worn
earrings. Take the other chap, however--the fellow who not only shakes
hands with Trouble, but slaps it on the back, invites it to have a
drink, sleeps with it, jollies it until it wrinkles up into a gorgeous
grin six miles long; take that chap and put him in the middle of the
Sahara Desert with nothing but a glad smile in his pocket, and he'll
find a way to coax a mint julep out of the blooming sand!
Do you know, the more I think about the fellow who starts out by howling
that _things can't be done_, the more I'm convinced that the Creator got
a lot of cracked forms into the outfit when Man was molded, and these
little defects must really be charged up to accident. The Lord never
intended any man made in His image to be afraid of anything that walks
on hind legs or all fours, crawls or flies, or flops dismally over the
Slough of Despond on a carrion-hunt. And just about the best way to mend
this defect, I reckon, is to get married early and start right out
buying a house and lot. If a fellow's an invertebrate he'll get past the
first payment with a struggle. If he survives the second, it will put
some starch into his hide.
You are asking what all this has to do with That House I Bought.
Why, bless your heart, Friend, it has all to do with it! The very first
thing a man must do when he buys a house and lot is, get himself into
the state of mind. Buying a house and lot is not so much a physical or
financial transaction as a philosophical conclusion. You need the house
and lot; you must argue yourself into a mental attitude toward that
house and lot that simply knocks the props from under every obstacle.
The man who is afraid to own his castle is a good citizen, perhaps, in
every other respect. But the very best citizen is he who has the courage
to own something and pay taxes on it, help support the community, and be
useful to himself and to the world that holds him trustee of his
possessions.
SECOND PERIOD
Heaven bless Murphy!
When my wife was a little girl with braids down her back, Murphy used to
see her in the excited crowd in front of the neighbor's door, as he
toted a grand piano to the waiting van. Many a time Murphy has started
to give that little girl a penny because she was so cute. Many a time he
has reconsidered and kept the penny himself!
It was Murphy who moved us. He is anywhere from seventy to ninety years
old now--a stalwart, steel-muscled young fellow who runs his own wagon
and lifts his end of the heaviest burden with a heart as light as his
chest is deep and his back broad. His beard is long and white.
How we tore up our old rooms and saw our furniture hustled out, how we
looked regretfully back at the den we had papered and fixtured
ourselves, with its rich red base and green forest over that, and the
light sky--that is all another story. It is another story, too, how
mother-in-law bustled here and there helpfully and every now and then
added something of her own to our belongings, and how Mamie telephoned
every one she knew that we were moving to That House I Bought! These
are things we think of, but do not write.
Murphy was indefatigable. We thought we had a load more than Murphy made
it, what with shifting this and changing that, and substituting
something and stuffing small truck under tables and empty boxes that we
wanted for our conservatory. My wife watched him in admiration.
"Mr. Murphy," she said, "you would be invaluable to the United Railways
as a conductor on the Druid Hill avenue line!"
When the last load was about to leave my wife rushed to the door.
"Oh, Mr. Murphy, couldn't you take that couch upstairs and drop it off
at----"
Murphy smiled and glanced at the wagon, with things tied on over the
wheels, and the china closet swinging perilously far out on the tail
piece.
"I can do it," he said, "if I carry the china closet on my lap."
Murphy intended that as a jest.
My wife hadn't thought of the possibilities of Murphy's lap. The instant
he mentioned it, she darted back into the house, quickly to reappear
with a double armful of odds and ends that she couldn't get into the
suit cases and trunks.
"It's mighty kind of you," she said, with the sort of a smile that
nailed me fifteen years ago. "If you can just carry these little things
in your lap----"
Murphy is a game one.
When he drove away Murphy's lap looked like the market burden of a
suburbanite. And because he was so cheerful about it, and so willing to
do so much for so little, and because he is such a good citizen, again I
say:
"Heaven bless Murphy!"
After Murphy had moved us in our real troubles began. I should have said
our real joys, for, believe me, the infant troubles of owning your
castle are so refined and glorified by the pride of possession that they
appear only as strengthening alloy in the pure gold of content.
It was on Thursday and Friday that Murphy moved us. On Saturday I went
to the house, and the lady who will hereafter listen for the tinkle of
the door and telephone bells met me, brimming over with cheerfulness and
almost as proud of herself as I was of the lord of the manor who
strutted like a peacock, as for the first time he showed his feathers in
his own front yard.
Never praise your wife too much, or she will dominate you.
But as this is to be a truthful chronicle, be it said that my wife is
the most wonderful woman in the world. How on earth she ever got the
chairs and tables, the china closet and dishes, the cooking hardware and
beds and mattresses and my desk and revolving bookcase, and Heaven knows
what, all in place in one day is beyond me.
There were pictures on the walls--old friends in new places, looking
down to greet me. A foolish Billiken laughed out loud as I held up my
hands in amazement.
"Step high and easy," said my wife. "You'll scratch the hardwood floor,"
and she rubbed my heelprint from the polish with the hem of her working
skirt. Then we started around testing the push-buttons. We pushed every
button there was, and pulled down the curtains to try the effect in the
parlor and dining-room. She hauled me around and showed me the marvelous
gas range that she was going to do wonders with. That refrigerator, that
was yet to have its first load of ice and provisions--it made me hungry
just to look at it! We went upstairs and downstairs. I opened and closed
every window and made wise-foolish observations on the proper care of a
home.
A man can be a fearful idiot when his chest is out.
I chucked my coat and cuffs and collar and went to work on little odds
and ends of chores about the place. Hasn't a fellow a right to whistle
and sing when he comes home from foraging and finds the lady bird
dancing around the new nest?
There was a thermometer on top of the furnace in the basement, and
beside it a round thing to tell how much water we were catapulting into
the radiators. When there is too much water it overflows from a tank
upstairs; when there isn't enough you turn some in downstairs. So I
started a march up and down stairs, first turning some on and then
scooting skyward to listen to the overflow, and after making this trip
about ten times I had an appetite like a typhoid convalescent.
O the tintinnabulation of the bells!
There are church bells and wedding bells, bells that cry the joy of a
new birth or toll the sorrow of the huddled family, bells that ring
victory in war and bells that scream the hilarity of la fiesta! But for
the bell that speaks the common language of all men, I name the dinner
bell! The first biscuits were piping hot on the plate.
"Are they as good as your mother used to make?" asked my wife.
"My mother," I said, "was a piker at biscuit making!"
And she beamed with pleasure when I slandered my honored mother!
After the dinner we went out on the porch--the big, wide porch for
which we had planned a swing on chains, and sat rocking and digesting,
digesting and rocking, in a perfect picture of resident domesticity. In
the house across the street there were lights. The people had just moved
in--that is, they had moved in several days before and were just
beginning to find the trouble with things and why the gas company could
afford to pay considerable dividends on wind. I say, we were sitting
there as cumfy as possible, when my wife caught my hand in a convulsive
grip.
With the other hand she pointed across the street to the second parlor
blind. I followed her, and felt like a Peeping Tom. There on the blind
was a great picture in silhouette--a picture of two figures standing,
and the tall, masculine figure was holding both shoulders of the other
and looking square into her eyes.
"It's the daughter!" my wife almost whispered. "I know her by her hair
ribbon; it's too young for the mother! Look, look, they are going to
ki----"
She finished the word with a little gurgle, for they had done it! Not
only that, but the kiss was followed by an embrace, and another, and
then the lights went out.
A confounded belt had slipped at the powerhouse, I learned afterward.
I think corporations should be heavily penalized for such breaks in the
service. There should be some sort of appliance to keep belts from
slipping. More than once the belt has slipped and left that whole
residence district in darkness.
THIRD PERIOD
I had always regarded the humorous paragraphs about the price of coal as
mere pleasantries. I now deny that they are pleasantries, and they are
far from "mere."
There are several grades of coal. Our furnace takes No. 3, and it's
$6.60 a ton, April price. The man who dominates the situation told me by
way of consolation that if it hadn't been for the big strike coal would
be 50 cents a ton cheaper. I can't see how that sort of consolation
helps a fellow.
Our house burns about ten or twelve tons, normal conditions. We figured
that about eight tons now would be the proper caper, and we could pay
the difference next winter if driven to it. From the way the furnace ate
coal to take the chill off the house the first day, I could see the
Board of Charities asking me my name, address, age, social condition and
whether my parents ever went to jail.
Now $6.60 times eight tons is $52.80, and that's more than taxes, water
rent and interest on a house and lot. So when the man backed up with a
cartload and began to throw it in off-handedly, I was pained. A
coal-heaver should treat $52.80 with more respect. I have seen men
throw high-grade ore out of
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Richard Rogers Bowker
COPYRIGHT: ITS HISTORY AND ITS LAW.
THE ARTS OF LIFE.
OF BUSINESS.
OF POLITICS.
OF RELIGION.
OF EDUCATION.
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
COPYRIGHT
ITS HISTORY AND ITS LAW
BEING A SUMMARY OF THE
PRINCIPLES AND PRACTICE OF COPYRIGHT
WITH SPECIAL REFERENCE TO
THE AMERICAN CODE OF 1909 AND
THE BRITISH ACT OF 1911
BY
RICHARD ROGERS BOWKER
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
The Riverside Press Cambridge
1912
COPYRIGHT, 1912, BY R. R. BOWKER
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
FOR ALL COUNTRIES
_Published March 1912_
FOREWORD
{Sidenote: Copyright progress}
The American copyright code of 1909, comprehensively replacing all previous
laws, a gratifying advance in legislation despite its serious restrictions
and minor defects, places American copyright practice on a new basis. The
new British code, brought before Parliament in 1910, and finally adopted in
December, 1911, to be effective July 1, 1912, marks a like forward step for
the British Empire, enabling the mother country and its colonies to
participate in the Berlin convention. Among the self-governing Dominions
made free to accept the British code or legislate independently, Australia
had already adopted in 1905 a complete new code, and Canada is following
its example in the measure proposed in 1911, which will probably be
conformed to the new British code for passage in 1912. Portugal has already
in 1911 joined the family of nations by adherence to the Berlin convention,
Russia has shaped and Holland is shaping domestic legislation to the same
end, and even China in 1910 decreed copyright protection throughout its
vast empire of ancient and reviving letters. The Berlin convention of 1908
strengthened and broadened the bond of the International Copyright Union,
and the Buenos Aires convention of 1910, which the United States has
already ratified, made a new basis for copyright protection throughout the
Pan American Union, both freeing authors from formalities beyond those
required in the country of origin. Thus the American dream of 1838 of "a
universal republic of letters whose foundation shall be one just law" is
well on the way toward realization.
{Sidenote: Field for the present treatise}
In this new stage of copyright development, a comprehensive work on
copyright seemed desirable, especially with reference to the new American
code. Neither Eaton S. Drone nor George Haven Putnam were disposed to enter
upon the task, which has therefore fallen to the present writer. He hopes
that his participation for the last twenty-five years in copyright
development,--during which, as editor of the _Publishers' Weekly_ and of
the _Library Journal_, he has had occasion to keep watch of copyright
progress, and as vice-president of the American (Authors) Copyright League,
he has taken part in the copyright conferences and hearings and in the
drafting of the new code,--will serve to make the present volume of use to
his fellow members of the Authors Club and to like craftsmen, as well as to
publishers and others, and aid in clarifying relations and preventing the
waste and cost of litigation among the coordinating factors in the making
of books and other forms of intellectual property.
{Sidenote: Authorities and acknowledgments}
The present work includes some of the historical material of the
Bowker-Solberg volume of 1886, "Copyright, its law and its literature."
This material has been verified, extended and brought up to date,
especially in the somewhat detailed sketch of the copyright discussions and
legislation resulting in the "international copyright amendment" of 1891
and the code of 1909. The volume is in this respect practically, and in
other respects entirely new. It has had the advantage of the cordial
co-operation of the copyright authorities at Washington, especially the
Librarian of Congress, Herbert Putnam, and the Register of Copyrights,
Thorvald Solberg; also of helpful courtesy from the Canadian Minister of
Agriculture in the recent Laurier administration, Sidney Fisher, and the
Canadian Registrar of Copyrights, P. E. Ritchie, and of Prof. Ernest
Roethlisberger, editor of the _Droit d'Auteur_, and one of the best
authorities on international copyright. This acknowledgment of obligation
is not to be taken as assuming for the work official sanction and
authority, though so far as practicable, it reflects the opinions of the
best authorities. The writer has also consulted freely--but it is hoped
always within the limits of "fair use"--the best law book writers,
especially Drone, Copinger, Colles and Hardy, and MacGillivray, to whom
acknowledgment is made in the several chapters. Acknowledgment is also made
for the courtesies of Sir Frederick Macmillan, G. Herbert Thring,
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SHIP'S COMPANY
By W.W. Jacobs
[Illustration: 'I tell you, I am as innercent as a new-born babe'.]
SKILLED ASSISTANCE
The night-watchman, who had left his seat on the jetty to answer the
gate-bell, came back with disgust written on a countenance only too well
designed to express it.
"If she's been up 'ere once in the last week to, know whether the
<i>Silvia</i> is up she's been four or five times," he growled. "He's forty-
seven if he's a day; 'is left leg is shorter than 'is right, and he talks
with a stutter. When she's with 'im you'd think as butter wouldn't melt
in 'er mouth; but the way she talked to me just now you'd think I was
paid a-purpose to wait on her. I asked 'er at last wot she thought I was
here for, and she said she didn't know, and nobody else neither. And
afore she went off she told the potman from the 'Albion,' wot was
listening, that I was known all over Wapping as the Sleeping Beauty.
"She ain't the fust I've 'ad words with, not by a lot. They're all the
same; they all start in a nice, kind, soapy sort o' way, and, as soon as
they don't get wot they want, fly into a temper and ask me who, I think I
am. I told one woman once not to be silly, and I shall never forget it
as long as I live-never. For all I know, she's wearing a bit o' my 'air
in a locket to this day, and very likely boasting that I gave it to her.
"Talking of her reminds me of another woman. There was a Cap'n Pinner,
used to trade between 'ere and Hull on a schooner named the Snipe. Nice
little craft she was, and 'e was a very nice feller. Many and many's the
pint we've 'ad together, turn and turn-about, and the on'y time we ever
'ad a cross word was when somebody hid his clay pipe in my beer and 'e
was foolish enough to think I'd done it.
"He 'ad a nice little cottage, 'e told me about, near Hull, and 'is
wife's father, a man of pretty near seventy, lived with 'em. Well-off
the old man was, and, as she was his only daughter, they looked to 'ave
all his money when he'd gorn. Their only fear was that 'e might marry
agin, and, judging from wot 'e used to tell me about the old man, I
thought it more than likely.
"'If it wasn't for my missis he'd ha' been married over and over agin,'
he ses one day. 'He's like a child playing with gunpowder.'
"''Ow would it be to let 'im burn hisself a bit?' I ses.
"'If you was to see some o' the gunpowder he wants to play with, you
wouldn't talk like that,' ses the cap'n. 'You'd know better. The on'y
thing is to keep 'em apart, and my pore missis is wore to a shadder a-
doing of it.'
"It was just about a month arter that that he brought the old man up to
London with 'im. They 'ad some stuff to put out at Smith's Wharf,
t'other side of the river, afore they came to us, and though they was
on'y there four or five days, it was long enough for that old man to get
into trouble.
"The skipper told me about it ten minutes arter they was made snug in the
inner berth 'ere. He walked up and down like a man with a raging
toothache, and arter follering 'im up and down the wharf till I was tired
out, I discovered that 'is father-in-law 'ad got 'imself mixed up with a
widder-woman ninety years old and weighing twenty stun. Arter he 'ad
cooled down a bit, and I 'ad given 'im a few little pats on the shoulder,
'e made it forty-eight years old and fourteen stun.
"'He's getting ready to go and meet her now,' he ses, 'and wot my
missis'll say to me, I don't know.'
"His father-in-law came up on deck as 'e spoke, and began to brush
'imself all over with a clothesbrush. Nice-looking little man 'e was,
with blue eyes, and a little white beard, cut to a point, and dressed up
in a serge suit with brass buttons, and a white yachting cap.
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[Illustration: TAINE, DANTE, GOETHE, CERVANTES]
THE BEST
_of the_
WORLD'S CLASSICS
RESTRICTED TO PROSE
HENRY CABOT LODGE
_Editor-in-Chief_
FRANCIS W. HALSEY
_Associate Editor_
With an Introduction, Biographical
and Explanatory Notes, etc.
IN TEN VOLUMES
Vol. VIII
CONTINENTAL EUROPE--II
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
NEW YORK AND LONDON
COPYRIGHT, 1909, BY
FUNK & WAGNALLS COMPANY
* * * * *
The Best of the World's Classics
VOL. VIII
CONTINENTAL EUROPE--II
* * * * *
CONTENTS
VOL. VIII--CONTINENTAL EUROPE--II
FRANCE--CONTINUED
1805-1909
ALEXIS DE TOCQUEVILLE--(Born in 1805, died in 1859.)
The Tyranny of the American Majority.
(From Chapter XV of "Democracy in America." Translated by Henry Reeve)
ALFRED DE MUSSET--(Born in 1810, died in 1857.)
Titian's Son After a Night at Play.
(From "Titian's Son." Translated by Erie Arthur Bell)
THEOPHILE GAUTIER--(Born in 1811, died in 1872.)
Pharaoh's Entry into Thebes.
(From the "Romance of a Mummy." Translated by M. Young)
GUSTAVE FLAUBERT--(Born in 1821, died in 1880.)
Yonville and Its People
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THE PRINCE OF INDIA
OR
WHY CONSTANTINOPLE FELL
BY LEW. WALLACE
VOL. II.
_Rise, too, ye Shapes and Shadows of the Past
Rise from your long forgotten grazes at last
Let us behold your faces, let us hear
The words you uttered in those days of fear
Revisit your familiar haunts again
The scenes of triumph and the scenes of pain
And leave the footprints of your bleeding feet
Once more upon the pavement of the street_
LONGFELLOW
CONTENTS
BOOK IV
THE PALACE OF BLACHERNE (_Continued_)
CHAPTER
XI. THE PRINCESS HEARS FROM THE WORLD
XII. LAEL TELLS OF HER TWO FATHERS
XIII. THE HAMARI TURNS BOATMAN
XIV. THE PRINCESS HAS A CREED
XV. THE PRINCE OF INDIA PREACHES GOD TO THE GREEKS
XVI. HOW THE NEW FAITH WAS RECEIVED
XVII. LAEL AND THE SWORD OF SOLOMON
XVIII. THE FESTIVAL OF FLOWERS
XIX. THE PRINCE BUILDS CASTLES FOR HIS GUL BAHAR
XX. THE SILHOUETTE OF A CRIME
XXI. SERGIUS LEARNS A NEW LESSON
XXII. THE PRINCE OF INDIA SEEKS MAHOMMED
XXIII. SERGIUS AND NILO TAKE UP THE HUNT
XXIV. THE IMPERIAL CISTERN GIVES UP ITS SECRET
BOOK V
MIRZA
I. A COLD WIND FROM ADRIANOPLE
II. A FIRE FROM THE HEGUMEN'S TOMB
III. MIRZA DOES AN ERRAND FOR MAHOMMED
IV. THE EMIR IN ITALY
V. THE PRINCESS IRENE IN TOWN
VI. COUNT CORTI IN SANCTA SOPHIA
VII. COUNT CORTI TO MAHOMMED
VIII. OUR LORD'S CREED
IX. COUNT CORTI TO MAHOMMED
X. SERGIUS TO THE LION
BOOK VI
CONSTANTINE
I. THE SWORD OF SOLOMON
II. MAHOMMED AND COUNT CORTI MAKE A WAGER
III. THE BLOODY HARVEST
IV. EUROPE ANSWERS THE CRY FOR HELP
V. COUNT CORTI RECEIVES A FAVOR
VI. MAHOMMED AT THE GATE ST. ROMAIN
VII. THE GREAT GUN SPEAKS
VIII. MAHOMMED TRIES HIS GUNS AGAIN
IX. THE MADONNA TO THE RESCUE
X. THE NIGHT BEFORE THE ASSAULT
XI. COUNT CORTI IN DILEMMA
XII. THE ASSAULT
XIII. MAHOMMED IN SANCTA SOPHIA
BOOK IV
THE PALACE OF BLACHERNE (_Continued_)
CHAPTER XI
THE PRINCESS HEARS FROM THE WORLD
The sun shone clear and hot, and the guests in the garden were glad to
rest in the shaded places of promenade along the brooksides and under
the beeches and soaring pines of the avenues. Far up the extended
hollow there was a basin first to receive the water from the conduit
supposed to tap the aqueduct leading down from the forest of Belgrade.
The noise of the little cataract there was strong enough to draw a
quota of visitors. From the front gate to the basin, from the basin to
the summit of the promontory, the company in lingering groups amused
each other detailing what of fortune good and bad the year had brought
them. The main features of such meetings are always alike. There were
games by the children, lovers in retired places, and old people plying
each other with reminiscences. The faculty of enjoyment changes but
never expires.
An array of men chosen for the purpose sallied from the basement of the
palace carrying baskets of bread, fruits in season, and wine of the
country in water-skins. Dispersing themselves through the garden, they
waited on the guests, and made distribution without stint or
discrimination. The heartiness of their welcome may be imagined; while
the thoughtful reader will see in the liberality thus characterizing
her hospitality one of the secrets of the Princess's popularity with
the poor along the Bosphorus. Nor that merely. A little reflection will
lead up to an explanation of her preference for the Homeric residence
by Therapia. The commonalty, especially the unfortunate amongst them,
were a kind of constituency of hers, and she loved living where she
could most readily communicate with them.
This was the hour she chose to go out and personally visit her guests.
Descending from the portico, she led her household attendants into the
garden. She alone appeared unveiled. The happiness of the many amongst
whom she immediately stepped touched every spring of enjoyment in her
being; her eyes were bright, her cheeks rosy, her spirit high; in a
word, the beauty so peculiarly hers, and which no one could look on
without consciousness of its influence, shone with singular enhancement.
News that she was in the garden spread rapidly, and where she went
everyone arose and remained standing. Now and then, while making
acknowledgments to groups along the way, she recognized acquaintances,
and for such, whether men or women, she had a smile, sometimes a word.
Upon her passing, they pursued with benisons, "God bless you!" "May the
Holy Mother keep her!" Not unfrequently children ran flinging flowers
at her feet, and mothers knelt and begged her blessing. They had lively
recollection of a sickness or other overtaking by sorrow, and of her
boat drawing to the landing laden with delicacies, and bringing what
was quite as welcome, the charm of her presence, with words inspiring
hope and trust. The vast, vociferous, premeditated Roman ovation,
sonorously the Triumph, never brought a Consular hero the satisfaction
this Christian woman now derived.
She was aware of the admiration which went with her, and the sensation
was of walking through a purer and brighter sunshine. Nor did she
affect to put aside the triumph there certainly was in the
demonstration; but she accounted it the due of charity--a triumph of
good work done for the pleasure there was in the doing.
At the basin mentioned as the landward terminus of the garden the
progress in that direction stopped. Thence, after gracious attentions
to the women and children there, the Princess set out for the summit of
the promontory. The road taken was broad and smooth, and on the left
hand lined from bottom to top with pine trees, some of which are yet
standing.
The summit had been a place of interest time out of mind. From its
woody cover, the first inhabitants beheld the Argonauts anchor off the
town of Amycus, king of the Bebryces; there the vengeful Medea
practised her incantations; and descending to acknowledged history, it
were long telling the notable events of the ages landmarked by the
hoary height. When the builder of the palace below threw his scheme of
improvement over the brow of the hill, he constructed water basins on
different levels, surrounding them with raised walls artistically
sculptured; between the basins he pitched marble pavilions, looking in
the distance like airy domes on a Cyclopean temple; then he drew the
work together by a tesselated pavement identical with the floor of the
house of Caesar hard by the Forum in Rome.
Giving little heed to the other guests in occupancy of the summit, the
attendants of the Princess broke into parties sight seeing; while she
called Sergius to her, and conducted him to a point commanding the
Bosphorus for leagues. A favorite lookout, in fact, the spot had been
provided with a pavement and a capacious chair cut from a block of the
coarse brown limestone native to the locality. There she took seat, and
the ascent, though all in shade, having been wearisome, she was glad of
the blowing of the fresh upper air.
From a place in the rear Sergius had witnessed the progress to the
present halt. Every incident and demonstration had been in his view and
hearing. The expressions of affection showered upon the Princess were
delightful to him; they seemed so spontaneous and genuine. As testimony
to her character in the popular estimate at least, they left nothing
doubtful. His first impression of her was confirmed. She was a woman to
whom Heaven had confided every grace and virtue. Such marvels had been
before. He had heard of them in tradition, and always in a strain to
lift those thus favored above the hardened commonplace of human life,
creatures not exactly angels, yet moving in the same atmosphere with
angels. The monasteries, even those into whose gates women are
forbidden to look, all have stories of womanly excellence which the
monks tell each other in pauses from labor in the lentil patch, and in
their cells after vesper prayers. In brief, so did Sergius' estimate of
the Princess increase that he was unaware of impropriety when, trudging
slowly after the train of attendants, he associated her with heroines
most odorous in Church and Scriptural memories; with Mothers Superior
famous for sanctity; with Saints, like Theckla and Cecilia; with the
Prophetess who was left by the wayside in the desert of Zin, and the
later seer and singer, she who had her judgment-seat under the palm
tree of Deborah.
Withal, however, the monk was uncomfortable. The words of his Hegumen
pursued him. Should he tell the Princess? Assailed by doubts, he
followed her to the lookout on the edge of the promontory.
Seating herself, she glanced over the wide field of water below; from
the vessels there, she gazed across to Asia; then up at the sky, full
to its bluest depth with the glory of day. At length she asked:
"Have you heard from Father Hilarion?"
"Not yet," Sergius replied.
"I was thinking of him," she continued. "He used to tell me of the
primitive church--the Church of the Disciples. One of his lessons
returns to me. He seems to be standing where you are. I hear his voice.
I see his countenance. I remember his words: 'The brethren while of one
faith, because the creed was too simple for division, were of two
classes, as they now are and will always be'--ay, Sergius, as they will
always be!--'But,' he said, 'it is worthy remembrance, my dear child,
unlike the present habit, the rich held their riches with the
understanding that the brethren all had shares in them. The owner was
more than owner; he was a trustee charged with the safe-keeping of his
property, and with farming it to the best advantage, that he might be
in condition to help the greatest number of the Christian brotherhood
according to their necessities.' I wondered greatly at the time, but
not now. The delight I have today confirms the Father; for it is not in
my palace and garden, nor in my gold, but in the power I derive from
them to give respite from the grind of poverty to so many less
fortunate than myself. 'The divine order was not to desist from getting
wealth'--thus the Father continued--'for Christ knew there were who,
labor as they might, could not accumulate or retain; circumstances
would be against them, or the genius might be wanting. Poor without
fault, were they to suffer, and curse God with the curse of the sick,
the cold, the naked, the hungry? Oh, no! Christ was the representative
of the Infinitely Merciful. Under his dispensation they were to be
partners of the more favored.' Who can tell, who can begin to measure
the reward there is to me in the laughter of children at play under the
trees by the brooks, and in the cheer and smiles of women whom I have
been able to draw from the unvarying routine of toil like theirs?"
There was a ship with full spread sail speeding along so close in shore
Sergius could have thrown a stone on its deck. He affected to be deeply
interested in it. The ruse did not avail him.
"What is the matter?"
Receiving no reply, she repeated the question.
"My dear friend, you are not old enough in concealment to deceive me.
You are in trouble. Come sit here.... True, I am not an authorized
confessor; yet I know the principle on which the Church defends the
confessional. Let me share your burden. Insomuch as you give me, you
shall be relieved."
It came to him then that he must speak.
"Princess," he began, striving to keep his voice firm, "you know not
what you ask."
"Is it what a woman may hear?"
A step nearer brought him on the tesselated square.
"I hesitate, Princess, because a judgment is required of me. Hear, and
help me first."
Then he proceeded rapidly:
"There is one just entered holy service. He is a member of an ancient
and honorable Brotherhood, and by reason of his inexperience,
doubtless, its obligations rest the heavier on his conscience. His
superior has declared to him how glad he would be had he a son like
him, and confiding in his loyalty, he intrusted him with gravest
secrets; amongst others, that a person well known and greatly beloved
is under watch for the highest of religious crimes. Pause now, O
Princess, and consider the obligations inseparable from the relation
and trust here disclosed.... Look then to this other circumstance. The
person accused condescended to be the friend and patron of the same
neophyte, and by vouching for him to the head of the Church, put him on
the road to favor and quick promotion. Briefly, O Princess, to which is
obligation first owing? The father superior or the patron in danger?"
The Princess replied calmly, but with feeling: "It is not a
supposition, Sergius."
Though surprised, he returned: "Without it I could not have your
decision first."
"Thou, Sergius, art the distressed neophyte."
He held his hands out to her: "Give me thy judgment."
"The Hegumen of the St. James' is the accuser."
"Be just, O Princess! To which is the obligation first owing?"
"I am the accused," she continued, in the same tone.
He would have fallen on his knees. "No, keep thy feet. A watchman may
be behind me now."
He had scarcely resumed his position before she asked, still in the
quiet searching manner: "What is the highest religious crime? Or
rather, to men in authority, like the Hegumen of your Brotherhood, what
is the highest of all crimes?"
He looked at her in mute supplication.
"I will tell you--HERESY."
Then, compassionating his suffering, she added: "My poor Sergius! I am
not upbraiding you. You are showing me your soul. I see it in its first
serious trial.... I will forget that I am the denounced, and try to
help you. Is there no principle to which we can refer the matter--no
Christian principle? The Hegumen claims silence from you; on the other
side, your conscience--I would like to say preference--impels you to
speak a word of warning for the benefit of your patroness. There, now,
we have both the dispute and the disputants. Is it not so?"
Sergius bowed his head.
"Father Hilarion once said to me: 'Daughter, I give you the ultimate
criterion of the divineness of our religion--there cannot be an
instance of human trial for which it does not furnish a rule of conduct
and consolation.' A profound saying truly! Now is it possible we have
here at last an exception? I do not seek to know on which side the
honors lie. Where are the humanities? Ideas of honor are of men
conventional. On the other hand, the humanities stand for Charity. If
thou wert the denounced, O Sergius, how wouldst thou wish to be done
by?"
Sergius' face brightened.
"We are not seeking to save a heretic--we are in search of quiet for
our consciences. So why not ask and answer further: What would befall
the Hegumen, did you tell the accused all you had from him? Would he
suffer? Is there a tribunal to sentence him? Or a prison agape for him?
Or torture in readiness? Or a King of Lions? In these respects how is
it with the friend who vouched for you to the head of the Church? Alas!"
"Enough--say no more!" Sergius cried impulsively. "Say no more. O
Princess, I will tell everything--I will save you, if I can--if not,
and the worst come, I will die with you."
Womanlike the Princess signalized her triumph with tears. At length she
asked: "Wouldst thou like to know if I am indeed a heretic?"
"Yes, for what thou art, that am I; and then"--
"The same fire in the Hippodrome may light us both out of the world."
There was a ring of prophecy in the words.
"God forbid!" he ejaculated, with a shiver.
"God's will be done, were better!... So, if it please you," she went
on, "tell me all the Hegumen told you about me."
"Everything?" he asked doubtfully.
"Why not?"
"Part of it is too wicked for repetition."
"Yet it was an accusation."
"Yes."
"Sergius, you are no match in cunning for my enemies. They are Greeks
trained to diplomacy; you are"--she paused and half smiled--"only a
pupil of Hilarion's. See now--if they mean to kill me, how important to
invent a tale which shall rob me of sympathy, and reconcile the public
to my sacrifice. They who do much good, and no harm"--she cast a glance
at the people swarming around the pavilions--"always have friends. Such
is the law of kindness, and it never failed but once;
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http://archive.org/details/dooryardstories00pier
[Illustration: THE VERY RUDE YOUNG ROBINS. _Page 100_]
DOORYARD STORIES
by
CLARA DILLINGHAM PIERSON
Author of "Among the Forest People," "Night People," etc.
Illustrated by F. C. Gordon
New York
E. P. Dutton And Company
31 West Twenty-Third Street
Copyright, 1903
by E. P. Dutton & Co.
Published Sept., 1903
The Knickerbocker Press, New York
To
MY FATHER
WHO FIRST TAUGHT ME TO LOVE MY DOORYARD FRIENDS
PREFACE
MY DEAR LITTLE FRIENDS:--These stories are of things which I have seen
with my own eyes in my own yard, and the people of whom I write are my
friends and near neighbors. Some of them, indeed, live under my roof,
and Silvertip has long been a member of our family. So, you see, I
have not had to do like some writers--sit down and think and think how
to make the people act in their stories. These tales are of things
which have really happened, and all I have done is to write them down
for you.
Many of them have been told over and over again to my own little boy,
and because he never tires of hearing of the time when Silvertip was a
Kitten, and about the Wasps who built inside my shutters, I think you
may care to hear also. He wants me to be sure to tell how the baby
Swift tumbled down the chimney into his bedroom, and wishes you might
have seen it in the little nest we made. When I tell these tales to
him, I have great trouble in ending them, for there is never a time
when he does not ask: "And what did he do then Mother?" But I am
telling you as much as I can of how everything happened, and if there
was more which I did not see and cannot describe, you will have to
make up the rest to suit yourselves.
Besides, you know, there is always much which one cannot see or hear,
but which one knows is happening somewhere in this beautiful great
world. The birds do not stop living and working and loving when they
leave us for the sunny south, and above us, around us, and even under
our feet many things are done which we cannot see. As we become
better acquainted with the little people who live in our dooryards, we
shall see more and more interesting things, and I wish you might all
grow to be like my little boy, who is never lonely or in need of a
playmate so long as a Caterpillar or a Grasshopper is in sight.
See how many tiny neighbors you have around you, and how much you can
learn about them. Then you will find your own dooryard as interesting
as mine and know that there are playmates everywhere.
Your friend,
CLARA D. PIERSON.
STANTON, MICHIGAN,
_October 30, 1902_.
CONTENTS
PAGE
SILVERTIP 1
THE FIGHT FOR THE BIRD-HOUSE 12
THE FIR-TREE NEIGHBORS 22
THE INDUSTRIOUS FLICKERS 36
PLUCKY MRS. POLISTES 48
SILVERTIP STOPS A QUARREL 68
A YOUNG SWIFT TUMBLES 78
THE VERY RUDE YOUNG ROBINS 96
THE SYSTEMATIC YELLOW-BILLED CUCKOO 108
THE HELPFUL TUMBLE-BUGS 121
SILVERTIP LEARNS A LESSON 132
THE ROBINS' DOUBLE BROOD 145
THE SPARROWS INSIDE THE EAVES 158
A RAINY DAY ON THE LAWN 173
THE PERSISTENT PHOEBE 183
THE SAD STORY OF THE HOG CATERPILLAR 199
THE CAT AND THE CATBIRD 210
THE FRIENDLY BLACKB
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Transcriber's note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics).
[Illustration: "MR. OWL AWAKENED THE FAIRIES AND TOLD THEM TO
LISTEN TO HIS BOOK."--_Page 2_]
DADDY'S BEDTIME BIRD STORIES
by
MARY GRAHAM BONNER
With four illustrations in color by
Florence Choate and Elizabeth Curtis
[Illustration: Emblem]
New York
Frederick A. Stokes Company
Publishers
Copyright, 1917, by
Frederick A. Stokes Company
All rights reserved; including that of translation
into foreign languages
TO
"E. E. E."
CONTENTS
PAGE
OLD MR. OWL WRITES A BOOK 1
THE WOODPECKERS START A BIRD BAND 4
THE CARDINAL BIRD AND THE ROBIN 7
THE WINTER WRENS' DEW-DROP BATHS 10
THE SEAGULLS MOVE TO BLUEY COVE 13
HOW THE LITTLE REDBIRD BECAME RED 16
POOR OLD MR. OWL'S TOOTHACHE
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credit
Transcribed from the 1841 Longman, Orme, Brown, Green, and Longmans
edition by David Price, email [email protected]
[Picture: Decorative title page, with Goodrich castle (followed by proper
title page)]
THE WYE
AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS
A PICTURESQUE RAMBLE.
* * * * *
BY LEITCH RITCHIE, ESQ.
AUTHOR OF "WANDERINGS BY THE LOIRE," "WANDERINGS BY THE SEINE,"
"THE MAGICIAN," ETC.
* * * * *
* * * * *
* * * * *
LONDON:
LONGMAN, ORME, BROWN, GREEN, AND
LONGMANS.
1841.
* * * * *
LONDON:
PRINTED BY J. HADDON, CASTLE STREET, FINSBURY.
ADVERTISEMENT,
A portion of the lower part of the Wye has been described by Gilpin,
Archdeacon Coxe, and some others; and the same portion has been touched
upon, with greater or less minuteness, by Prince Puckler Muscau, and
various Welsh tourists, as well as by Whateley in his Essay on Modern
Gardening. It seemed, however, to the writer of the present sketch, that
something more was due to the most celebrated river in England; and that
another book (not too large for the pocket, and yet aspiring to a place
in the library) which should point out the beauties of the Wye, and
connect them with their historical and romantic associations--beginning
at the source of the stream on Plinlimmon, and ending only at its
confluence with the Severn--might still be reckoned an acceptable service
by the lovers of the picturesque. Hence this little work, which may be
consulted at will either as a finger-post by the traveller, or as a
companion by the reading lounger at home.
_London_, _November_ 28_th_, 1840.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I.
Page.
Philosophy of the picturesque--Peculiarities of English 1
scenery--Worcester--Immigration of peasant girls--The
Devils' Garden--The Rest on the
Stones--Plinlimmon--Inhabitants of the summit--The
Inn--Source of the Wye
CHAPTER II.
Descent of Plinlimmon--Singular 17
illusion--Llangerrig--Commencement of the
picturesque--The Fall of the Wye--Black Mountain--Course
of the river--Builth--Peculiarity of the
scenery--Approach to the English border--Castle of the
Hay--First series of the beauties of the Wye
CHAPTER III.
Clifford Castle--Lords-marchers--Fair Rosamond--Ruins of 31
the Castle--The silent cottage--Approach to
Hereford--Castle--Cathedral--Nell
Gwynn--Cider--Salmon--Wolves
CHAPTER IV.
Beauty and tameness--The travelling hill--Ross--The 45
silver tankard--The Man of Ross--The sympathetic
trees--Penyard Castle--Vicissitudes of the river--Wilton
Castle--A voyage to sea in a basket--Pencraig Hill
CHAPTER V.
Roman passes of the Wye--Goodrich 58
Castle--Keep--Fortifications--Apartments--Its
history--Goodrich Court--Forest of Dean--Laws of the
Miners--Military exploit--Wines of Gloucestershire
CHAPTER VI.
Iron furnaces of the Wye--Lidbroke--Nurse of Henry 74
V--Coldwell Rocks--Symond's Yat--New Weir--Monmouth
CHAPTER VII.
Monmouth--History of the Castle--Apartment of Henry of 87
Monmouth--Ecclesiastical remains--Benedictine
priory--Church of St. Mary--Church of St. Thomas--Monnow
Bridge--Modern town--Monmouth caps--The beneficent
parvenu
CHAPTER VIII.
Welsh pedigree of queen Victoria--A poet's 100
flattery--Castles of Monmouthshire--Geoffrey of
Monmouth--Henry of Monmouth--The Kymin--Subsidiary
tour--Sir David Gam--White Castle--Scenfrith--The Castle
spectres--Grosmont--Lanthony Abbey
CHAPTER IX.
Raglan Castle--Description of the ruins--History of the 121
Castle--The old lord of Raglan--Surrender of the
fortress--Charles I. and his host--Royal weakness--The
pigeons of Raglan--Death of the old lord--Origin of the
steam engine
CHAPTER X.
Troy House--Anecdote--Antique custom--Village churches of 140
Monmouthshire--White-washing--The bard--Strewing graves
with flowers--St. Briavels' Castle--Llandogo--Change in
the character of the river--The Druid of the
Wye--Wordsworth's "Lines composed above Tintern Abbey"
CHAPTER XI.
Vales of the Wye--Valley of Tintern--Tintern 156
Abbey--History--Church--Character of the
ruin--Site--Coxe's description--Monmouth--Insecurity of
sepulchral fame--Churchyarde on Tombs--Opinions on
Tintern--Battle of Tintern
CHAPTER XII.
The Wye below Tintern--Benagor 174
Crags--Lancaut--Piercefield Bay--Chepstow--Ancient and
modern bridge--Chepstow Castle--Roger de
Britolio--Romance of History--Chepstow in the civil
wars--Marten the regicide
CHAPTER XIII.
Piercefield--Points of view--Curious appearance--Scenic 192
character of the place--View from Wyndcliff--Account of
Valentine Morris--Anecdotes--The Wye below Chepstow--Aust
Ferry--Black Rock Ferry--St. Theodoric--Conclusion
ENGRAVINGS.
Page.
GOODRICH CASTLE VIGNETTE TITLE.
LLANGERRIG 19
RHAIADYR 21
NEAR RHAIADYR 22
CLIFFORD CASTLE 35
HEREFORD 44
ROSS 48
THE NEW WEIR 81
TINTERN 158
TINTERN ABBEY 160
CHEPSTOW 177
VIEW FROM WYNDCLIFF 198
CHAPTER I.
Philosophy of the picturesque--Peculiarities of English
scenery--Worcester--Immigration of peasant girls--The Devils' Garden--The
Rest on the Stones--Plinlimmon--Inhabitants of the summit--The
Inn--Source of the Wye.
Foreigners have often expressed their surprise that the English should
travel so far in search of picturesque scenery, when they have abundance
at home: but the remark is conceived in an unphilosophical spirit. We do
not travel for the mere scenery. We do not leave the Wye unexplored, and
go abroad in search of some other river of its own identical character.
What we gaze at in strange lands is not wood, and water, and rock, but
all these seen through a new medium--accompanied by adjuncts which array
universal nature herself in a foreign costume. A tree peculiar to the
country--a peasant in an un-English garb--a cottage of unaccustomed
form--the slightest peculiarity in national manners--even the traces of a
different system of agriculture--all contribute to the impression of
novelty in which consists the excitement of foreign travel.
The proof of this is our keener perception of the beauties of English
scenery after returning from abroad. We are then capable of instituting
a comparison; and our national manners are no longer the sole medium, but
one of various media through which nature is viewed. An untravelled
Englishman is ignorant of his own country. He must cross the seas before
he can become acquainted with home. He must admire the romance of the
Rhine--the sublimity of the (mountain) Rhone--the beauty of the Seine and
the Loire--before he can tell what is the rank of the Wye, in picturesque
character, among the rivers of Europe.
The journey from London to Worcester, which is the direct route to the
Upper part of the Wye, discloses many of the peculiarities of English
scenery and character--peculiarities which to the natives are of so every
day a kind, that it is only by reflection and comparison they learn to
appreciate them. The country seats of the great land proprietors, with
their accompaniments of lawn and plantation, extending as far as the eye
can reach, form a part of the picture; and so do the cottages of the
village peasantry, with their little gardens before the door, admitting a
peep into the interior of the humble abode. In the aristocratical
dwellings, half hidden in that paradise of groves and glades, we find
every refinement that gold can purchase, or taste produce: in the huts,
comfort, and its inseparable adjunct cleanliness, are the most striking
characteristics.
The former speak of wealth, and the happiness that depends on wealth; the
latter of comparative poverty, and the home pleasures that are compatible
with poverty. On the continent, there is always something out of keeping
in the picture. In the great chateaux and their grounds, there is always
some meanness, some make-shift observable; while in the great country
seats of England, on the contrary, all is uniform. In the cottages
abroad, even those of a higher order, there are always dirt and
slovenliness--inattention to the minute comforts of humble life--meals
snatched anyhow and anywhere--sleep taken without an idea of the luxuries
of sleep. In England, on the other hand, notwithstanding the
irregularities of fortune, we find an absolute identity in the various
classes of the population. The labourer--returned, perhaps, from mending
the highway, sits down in state to dinner, with a clean white
table-cloth, and the coarse ware nicely arranged before him. The floor
is swept, perhaps washed, to do honour to the occasion; and his wife, who
is at once the mistress and the servant of the feast, prides herself on
making her husband (whom she calls her "master")--_comfortable_.
We need not be told that this is not a universal picture. We need not be
reminded of the want and misery which exist in numerous parts of the
country, for with these we are well acquainted. The _foreigner_,
however, to whom such scenes are new, will meet with them frequently
enough, and especially on the road we are now travelling, to induce him
to set them down as one of the grand characteristics of England.
The road presents, also, at various turnings, that truly English scene, a
well-known specimen of which is viewed from Richmond Hill. A level
country lies a few hundred feet below us, and extends in front, and on
either side, till it is lost in the distance, or bound in by low and
filmy hills which just mark the horizon with their waving line of shadow.
This expanse is studded with towns, and villages, and seats, and
cottages, and square towers, and tapering spires, rising amidst woods and
groves, and surrounded by green fields and meadows. A great part of the
peculiar character of the landscape is due to the enclosures of various
kinds of foliage which separate one field from another. In most parts of
the continent--and more especially in France--these are of very rare
occurrence; and thus the beauty of the picture, when it has any beauty at
all, depends upon the colours of the different kinds of grain or other
productions, which make the vast expanse of vegetation resemble an
immense and richly variegated carpet. In spring, therefore, before these
colours have been fairly brought out, it may easily be conceived that
France is one of the least interesting countries in Europe. With us, on
the other hand, the face of the earth resembles a garden, and more
especially in one of those flat landscapes we have alluded to. The
changes of the seasons diversify without diminishing the beauty; and even
winter presents, instead of a uniform and dreary waste, a varied picture
executed in hoar frost and snow.
Worcester is one of the most aristocratic looking towns in England, and
presents every token of being a wealthy and flourishing place. Its
cathedral, an edifice of the beginning of the thirteenth century, has
drawn hither many a pilgrim foot even from foreign countries. Our
present business, however, is with the works of nature, or with those of
art fallen into decay, and their fragments standing amidst the eternal
youth of the hills and rivers, like monuments of the insignificance of
man.
Worcester is famous for its manufactures of porcelain and gloves; but our
attention was more strongly attracted to exports of another kind, of
which it appeared to be at least the entrepot, if it was not the original
market. At a little distance from the town, several waggons had halted
near a public house, and their freight, a numerous party of peasant
girls, were breakfasting by the road side. They were eating and drinking
as joyously as if their laps had been filled with far more enticing food
than bread and ale. They were on their way to some greater mart--perhaps
to the all-devouring metropolis; and when breakfast was over, they
resumed their slow journey, some few who had mounted the waggons singing
in parts, and the rest, walking by the side, joining in the chorus. They
had no fears, poor girls, of the result of their adventure--or rather, no
forethought.
But it is not till after we pass the little town of Kington, on the
eastern borders of Herefordshire, that the picturesque commences, and we
must hasten on to our more immediate task. Between Kington and New
Radnor, are the Stanner Rocks, with the Devil's Garden on their summit,
luxuriously planted--of course by no human hand--with wild flowers.
Beyond New Radnor (formerly the county town, but now a paltry village,)
opens the Vale of Radnor on one side, and on the other, a rude mountain
scene, distinguished by a waterfall of some celebrity, called
Water-break-its-neck. The stream rushes down a precipitous descent of
seventy feet, into a hollow with craggy and unequal sides. The spot of
the cascade is marked by an insulated rock, eighteen or twenty feet high,
standing erect above it like a monument.
After passing the village of Penybont, the Llanbadarn Vawr, or great
church of Badarn, is to the left of the road, an edifice which dates from
the time of the Conqueror; and nothing else of interest is observable
till we reach Rhaiadyr, on the Banks of the Wye. As it will be more
convenient, however, to examine the river in descending with the stream,
we shall only say here, that the journey from Rhaiadyr to the summit of
Plinlimmon lies through woods, and hill passes, becoming ruder and wilder
at every step we advance. The character of the population seems to
change in conformity with their physical circumstances. The want of
tidiness which marks the British mountaineer is the more conspicuous from
the contrast it presents to the opposite quality we have admired in the
plains; and already the women have assumed the round hat of the ruder
sex, and destroyed with its masculine associations the charms peculiar to
their own. Against this absurdity we must protest, whether we meet with
it in the Welsh girl, or the fair equestrian of Hyde Park. It betrays
not only the most pitiful taste, but the most profound ignorance of
nature, on which is founded the theory of female beauty.
Stedva Gerrig, or "the Rest on the Stones" now commonly called by the
name of the mountain, is a hamlet of three or four houses situated on a
stream which separates the counties of Montgomeryshire and Cardiganshire,
in a nook of comparatively level land, into which abut several of the
lower ridges of Plinlimmon. The spot has little of the wildness of
mountain scenery, but its extreme solitude; for being here near the top
of the mountainous group, and surrounded by its remaining elevations, we
are insensible of our real altitude above the level of the country.
These elevations, besides, have none of the ruggedness of character we
usually find in such places. They are, in general, smoothly-swelling
eminences, which if rising from the plain would receive the name of
hills; they are wholly naked of trees, or even brushwood; and being
covered with green herbage, they at first sight give one the idea of an
extensive grass farm, rather than a sterile mountain. It is the altitude
of the spot, however, and the nipping blasts to which it is exposed, that
render it naked of the larger kinds of vegetation; and there is only a
nook here and there capable of bearing even a scanty crop of oats. This
region, therefore, excepting a few fields around Stedva Gerrig, supplies
subsistence only to sheep; and the greater number even of these we found
had been withdrawn to situations less exposed to the Welsh winds.
Of the few inhabitants of the hamlet, the principal man of course is the
innkeeper; and the other fathers of families are shepherds. The latter
class of men have wages amounting to twelve pounds a year, and enjoy
their houses and little fields of corn and potatoes, with as much
pasturage as they have use for free of rent. The husband, assisted by
his sons, when young, tends the sheep on the mountain; the wife makes
flannel, and knits stockings; and
| 570.384034 | 2,718 |
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Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England
The Thorogood Family, by R.M. Ballantyne.
________________________________________________________________________
Although the book is written with Ballantyne's usual great skill in
descriptive passages, the actual plan of the book is most unusual for
him. In Chapter 1 he describes a young family, then describes the
exploits of some of the boys of the family, now grown-up, in Chapters 2,
3, 4 and 5. But in Chapter 5 there is introduced a story about a
schoolboy who is nothing to do with the Thorogoods, though it is quite a
good story, parts of it reminding one of "Martin Rattler," and his days
at school. In Chapter 6 we are back to one of the Thorogood boys, who
is a missionary in London, working among the poor. The final chapter
also contains a long story about a third party, and ends with most of
the family emigrating to the Rockies in North America. Here again the
enwrapped short story is a good read.
We must remember that in Ballantyne's usual style there are often two
stories in some way running parallel with each other. In this case
there are no less than six, and two of those enwrap a further story. It
is really quite unusual for Ballantyne to write in such a convoluted
manner.
But be not afraid. The stories are very short. Ballantyne normally
writes with each of his chapters nearly of the same length, but here we
have 7, 6, 7, 8, 23, 9, 36 pages in the seven chapters, and it consists
of at least ten exciting episodes. It is worth a read.
________________________________________________________________________
THE THOROGOOD FAMILY, R.M
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Produced by David Widger, from page images generously
provided by Google Books
THE EIGHTH YEAR
A Vital Problem Of Married Life
By Philip Gibbs
New York
The Devin-Adair Company 437 Fifth Avenue
1913
“_The Eighth Year is the most dangerous year in the adventure of
marriage._”
Sir Francis Jeune (afterwards Lord St. Helier). President of the Divorce
Court.
PART I--THE ARGUMENT
CHAPTER I
It was Sir Francis Jeune, afterwards Lord St. Helier, and President
of the Divorce Court, who first called attention to the strange
significance of the Eighth Year of married life. “The Eighth Year,” he
said, “is the most dangerous year in the adventure of marriage.”
Afterwards, in the recent Royal Commission on Divorce, this curious
fact was again alluded to in the evidence, and it has been shown by
statistics of domestic tragedy, by hundreds of sordid little dramas,
that at this period in the partnership of husbands and wives there
comes, in many cases, a great crisis, leading often to moral disaster.
It is in the Eighth Year, or thereabouts, that there is the tug-of-war
between two temperaments, mated by the law, but not mated, perhaps, in
ideals, in ambitions, or in qualities of character. The man and woman
pull against each other, tugging at each other’s heartstrings. The
Eighth Year is the fatal year, when if there is no give-and-take, no
working compromise, no new pledges of loyalty and comradeship, the
foundations of the home are shattered, and the hopes with which it was
first built lie in ruins like a house of cards knocked down by a gust of
wind.
But why the Eighth Year? Why not the twelfth, fourteenth, or eighteenth
year? The answer is not to be found in any old superstition. There
is nothing uncanny about the number eight. The problem is not to be
shrugged off by people who despise the foolish old tradition which
clings to thirteen, and imagine this to be in the same class of folly.
By the law of averages and by undeniable statistics it has been proved
that it brings many broken-hearted men and women to the Divorce Court.
For instance, taking the annual average of divorces in England between
1904 and 1908, one finds that there were only six divorces between
husbands and wives who had been married less than a year, and only
eighteen divorces between those married less than two years. Between
the second and the fifth years the number increases to a hundred and
seventeen. Then there is a tremendous jump, and the numbers between the
fifth and tenth years are two hundred and ninety-two. The period of
the Eighth Year is the most productive of divorce. The figures are more
startling and more significant when they cover a longer period. But
apart from statistics and apart altogether from the Divorce Court,
which is only one house of trouble, by using one’s own eyes in one’s
own circle of friends one may see that young married couples who started
happily enough show signs of stress and strain as this year approaches.
The fact is undeniable. What is the cause behind the fact?
There is not one cause, there are many causes, all leading up from
the first day of marriage, inevitably, with the unswerving, relentless
fatality of Greek Tragedy to the Eighth Year. They are causes which lie
deep in the social system of our modern home life; in the little order
of things prevailing, at this time, in hundreds of thousands of small
households and small flats, inhabited by the middle-classes. It is
mainly a middle-class problem, because the rich and the poor are, for
reasons which I will show later in this argument, exempt in a large
measure from the fatality of the Eighth Year. But all the influences
at work among the middle-classes, in this strange age of intellectual
disturbance, and of blind gropings forward to new social and moral
conditions, have a close hearing upon this seeming mystery. The
economic position of this class, its social ambitions, its intellectual
adventures, its general education, its code of morality, its religion or
lack of religion, its little conventional cults, the pressure of outside
influences, thrusting inwards to the hidden life in these little
homes, bringing dangerous ideas through the front doors, or through the
keyholes, and all the mental and moral vibrations that are “in the
air” to-day, especially in the air breathed by the middle-classes,
produce--the Eighth Year.
Let us start with the first year of marriage so that we may see how the
problem works out from the beginning.
Here we have, in
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Produced by David J. Cole and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
HARPER'S
NEW MONTHLY MAGAZINE.
NO. XX--JANUARY, 1852--VOL. IV.
[Illustration]
EARLY AND PRIVATE LIFE OF BENJAMIN FRANKLIN.
BY JACOB ABBOTT.
It is generally true in respect to great statesmen that they owe their
celebrity almost entirely to their public and official career. They
promote the welfare of mankind by directing legislation, founding
institutions, negotiating treaties of peace or of commerce between rival
states, and guiding, in various other ways, the course of public and
national affairs, while their individual and personal influence attracts
very little regard. With Benjamin Franklin, however, the reverse of this
is true. He did indeed, while he lived, take a very active part, with
other leading men of his time, in the performance of great public
functions; but his claim to the extraordinary degree of respect and
veneration which is so freely awarded to his name and memory by the
American people, rests not chiefly upon this, but upon the extended
influence which he has exerted, and which he still continues to exert
upon the national mind, through the power of his private and personal
character. The prevalence of habits of industry and economy, of
foresight and thrift, of cautious calculation in the formation of plans,
and energy and perseverance in the execution of them, and of the
disposition to invest what is earned in substantial and enduring
possessions, rather than to expend it in brief pleasures or for purposes
of idle show--the prevalence of these traits, so far as they exist as
elements of the national character in this country--is due in an
incalculable degree to the doings and sayings and history of this great
exemplar. Thus it is to his life and to his counsels that is to be
attributed, in a very high degree, the formation of that great public
sentiment prevailing so extensively among us, which makes it more
honorable to be industrious than to be idle, and to be economical and
prudent rather than extravagant and vain; which places substantial and
unpretending prosperity above empty pretension, and real comfort and
abundance before genteel and expensive display.
A very considerable portion of the effect which Franklin has produced
upon the national character is due to the picturesque and almost
romantic interest which attaches itself to the incidents of his personal
history. In his autobiography he has given us a very full and a very
graphic narrative of these incidents, and as the anniversary of his
birth-day occurs during the present month, we can not occupy the
attention of our readers at this time, in a more appropriate manner than
by a brief review of the principal events of his life--so far as such a
review can be comprised within the limits of a single article.
[Illustration]
The ancestors of Franklin lived for many generations on a small estate
in Northamptonshire, one of the central counties in England. The head of
the family during all this time followed the business of a smith, the
eldest son from generation to generation, being brought up to that
employment.
The Franklin family were Protestants, and at one time when the Catholics
were in power, during the reign of Mary, the common people were
forbidden to possess or to read the English Bible. Nevertheless the
Franklin family contrived to get possession of a copy of the
Scriptures, and in order to conceal it they kept it fastened on the
under side of the seat of a little stool. The book was open, the back of
the covers being against the seat, and the leaves being kept up by tapes
which passed across the pages, and which were fastened to the seat of
the stool at the ends. When Mr. Franklin wished to read his Bible to his
family, he was accustomed to take up this stool and place it bottom
upward upon his lap; and thus he had the book open before him. When he
wished to turn over a leaf, he had to turn it under the tape, which,
though a little inconvenient, was attended with no serious difficulty.
During the reading one of the children was stationed at the door, to
watch, and to give notice if an officer should be coming; and in case of
an alarm the stool was immediately turned over and placed in its proper
position upon the floor, the fringe which bordered the sides of it
hanging down so as to conceal the book wholly from view. This was in the
day of Franklin's _great-grandfather_.
In process of time, after the Catholic controversy was decided, new
religious dissensions sprang up between the Church of England and the
Nonconformists. The family of Franklin were of the latter party, and at
length Mr. Josiah Franklin--who was Benjamin Franklin's
father--concluded to join a party of his neighbors and friends, who had
determined, in consequence of the restrictions which they were under in
England, in respect to their religious faith and worship, to emigrate to
America. Mr. Franklin came accordingly to Boston, and there, after a
time, Benjamin Franklin was born. The place of his birth was in
Milk-street, opposite to the Old South Church. The humble dwelling,
however, in which the great philosopher was born, has long since
disappeared. The magnificent granite warehouses of the Boston merchants
now cover the spot, and on one of them is carved conspicuously the
inscription, BIRTHPLACE OF FRANKLIN.
Mr. Josiah Franklin had been a dyer in England, but finding on his
coming to Boston that there was but little to be done in that art in so
new a country, he concluded to choose some other occupation; and he
finally determined upon that of a tallow chandler. Benjamin was the
youngest son. The others, as they gradually became old enough, were put
to different trades, but as Benjamin showed a great fondness for his
books, having learned to read of his own accord at a very early age, and
as he was the youngest son, his father conceived the idea of educating
him for the church. So they sent him to the grammar school, and he
commenced his studies. He was very successful in the school, and rose
from class to class quite rapidly; but still the plan of giving him a
public education was at length, for some reason or other, abandoned, and
Mr. Franklin took Benjamin into his store, to help him in his business.
His duties here were to cut the wicks for the candles, to fill the
moulds, to attend upon the customers, or to go of errands or deliver
purchases about the town.
[Illustration]
There was a certain mill-pond in a back part of the town, where Benjamin
was accustomed to go sometimes, in his play-hours, with other boys, to
fish. This mill-pond has long since been filled up, and its place is now
occupied by the streets and warehouses of the city. In Franklin's day,
however, the place was somewhat solitary, and the shore of the pond
being marshy, the boys soon trampled up the ground where they were
accustomed to stand in fishing, so as to convert it into a perfect
quagmire. At length young Franklin proposed to the boys that they should
build a wharf, or pier, to stand upon--getting the materials for the
purpose from a heap of stones that had been brought for a house which
some workmen were building in the neighborhood. The boys at once acceded
to the proposal. They all accordingly assembled at the spot one evening
after the workmen had gone away for the night, and taking as many stones
as they needed for the purpose, they proceeded to build their wharf.
[Illustration]
The boys supposed very probably that the stones which they had taken
would not be missed. The workmen, however, did miss them, and on making
search the following morning they soon discovered what had become of
them. The boys were thus detected, and were all punished.
Franklin's father, though he was plain and unpretending in his manners,
was a very sensible and well-informed man, and he possessed a sound
judgment and an excellent understanding. He was often consulted by his
neighbors and friends, both in respect to public and private affairs. He
took great interest, when conversing with his family at table, in
introducing useful topics of discourse, and endeavored in other ways to
form in the minds of his children a taste for solid and substantial
acquisitions. He was quite a musician, and was accustomed sometimes when
the labors of the day were done, to play upon the violin and sing, for
the entertainment of his family. This music Benjamin himself used to
take great delight in listening to.
[Illustration]
Young Benjamin did not like his father's trade--that of a chandler--and
it was for a long time undecided what calling in life he should pursue.
He wished very much to go to sea, but his parents were very unwilling
that he should do so. His father, accordingly, in order to make him
contented and willing to remain at home, took great pains to find some
employment for him that he would like, and he was accustomed to walk
about the town with him to see the workmen employed about their various
trades. It was at last decided that he should learn the trade of a
printer. One reason why this trade was decided upon was that one of
Benjamin's older brothers was a printer, and had just returned from
England with a press and a font of type, and was about setting up his
business in Boston. So it was decided that Benjamin should be bound to
him, as his apprentice; and this was accordingly done. Benjamin was then
about twelve years old.
Benjamin had always from his childhood manifested a great thirst for
reading, which thirst he had now a much better opportunity to gratify
than ever before, as his connection with printers and booksellers gave
him facilities for borrowing books. Sometimes he would sit up all
night to read the book so borrowed.
[Illustration]
Benjamin's brother, the printer, did not keep house, but boarded his
apprentices at a boarding house in the town. Benjamin pretty soon
conceived the idea of boarding himself, on condition that his brother
would pay to him the sum which he had been accustomed to pay for him to
the landlady of the boarding house. By this plan he saved a large
portion of the time which was allotted to dinner, for reading; for, as
he remained alone in the printing office while the rest were gone, he
could read, with the book in his lap, while partaking of the simple
repast which he had provided.
[Illustration]
Young Benjamin was mainly employed, of course, while in his brother's
office, in very humble duties; but he did not by any means confine
himself to the menial services which were required of him, as the duty
of the youngest apprentice. In fact he actually commenced his career as
an author while in this subordinate position. It seems that several
gentlemen of Boston, friends of his brother, used to write occasional
articles for a newspaper which he printed; and they would sometimes meet
at the office to discuss the subjects of their articles, and the effects
that they produced. Benjamin determined to try his hand at this work. He
accordingly wrote an article for the paper, and after copying it
carefully in disguised writing, he put it late one night under the door.
His brother found it there in the morning, and on reading it was much
pleased with it. He read it to his friends when they came in--Benjamin
being at work all the time near by, at his printing case, and enjoying
very highly the remarks and comments which they made. He was
particularly amused at the guesses that they offered in respect to the
author, and his vanity was gratified at finding that the persons that
they named were all gentlemen of high character for ingenuity and
learning.
The young author was so much encouraged by this attempt that he
afterward sent in several other articles in the same way; they were all
approved of and duly inserted in the paper. At length he made it known
that he was the author of the articles. All were very much surprised,
and Benjamin found that in consequence of this discovery he was regarded
with much greater consideration by his brother's friends, the gentlemen
to whom his performances
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The Raven
and
The Philosophy of Composition
[Illustration]
[Illustration:
_Copyright 1906 by The Harwell-Evans Co._
_Lenore_
]
[Illustration]
The Raven
and
The Philosophy of Composition
By
Edgar Allan Poe
Quarto Photogravure Edition
Illustrated from Paintings by Galen J. Perrett
The Decorations by Will Jenkins
[Illustration]
Paul Elder and Company
San Francisco and New York
Contents
Foreword
The Philosophy of Composition
The Raven
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Foreword
The initial intention of the publishers to present “The Raven” without
preface, notes, or other extraneous matter that might detract from an
undivided appreciation of the poem, has been somewhat modified by the
introduction of Poe’s prose essay, “The Philosophy of Composition.” If
any justification were necessary, it is to be found both in the unique
literary interest of the essay, and in the fact that it is (or purports
to be) a frank exposition of the modus operandi by which “The Raven” was
written. It is felt that no other introduction could be more happily
conceived or executed. Coming from Poe’s own hand, it directly avoids
the charge of presumption; and written in Poe’s most felicitous style,
it entirely escapes the defect—not uncommon in analytical treatises—of
pedantry.
It is indeed possible, as some critics assert, that this supposed
analysis is purely fictitious. If so, it becomes all the more
distinctive as a marvelous bit of imaginative writing, and as such ranks
equally with that wild snatch of melody, “The Raven.” But these same
critics would lead us further to believe that “The Raven” itself is
almost a literal translation of the work of a Persian poet. If they be
again correct, Poe’s genius as seen in the creation of “The Philosophy
of Composition” is far more startling than it has otherwise appeared;
and “robbed of his bay leaves in the realm of poetry,” he is to be
“crowned with a double wreath of berried holly for his prose.”
The Philosophy of Composition.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
The Philosophy of Composition
Charles Dickens, in a note now lying before me, alluding to an
examination I once made of the mechanism of “Barnaby Rudge,” says—“By
the way, are you aware that Godwin wrote his ‘Caleb Williams’ backwards?
He first involved his hero in a web of difficulties, forming the second
volume, and then, for the first, cast about him for some mode of
accounting for what had been done.”
I cannot think this the precise mode of procedure on the part of
Godwin—and indeed what he himself acknowledges, is not altogether in
accordance with Mr. Dickens’ idea—but the author of “Caleb Williams” was
too good an artist not to perceive the advantage derivable from at least
a somewhat similar process. Nothing is more clear than that every plot,
worth the name, must be elaborated to its dénouement before anything be
attempted with the pen. It is only with the dénouement constantly in
view that we can give a plot its indispensable air of consequence, or
causation, by making the incidents, and especially the tone at all
points, tend to the development of the intention.
There is a radical error, I think, in the usual mode of constructing a
story. Either history affords a thesis—or one is suggested by an
incident of the day—or, at best, the author sets himself to work in the
combination of striking events to form merely the basis of his
narrative—designing, generally, to fill in with description, dialogue,
or autorial comment, whatever crevices of fact, or action, may, from
page to page, render themselves apparent.
I prefer commencing with the consideration of an effect. Keeping
originality always in view—for he is false to himself who ventures to
dispense with so obvious and so easily attainable a source of interest—I
say to myself, in the first place, “Of the innumerable effects, or
impressions, of which the heart, the intellect, or (more generally) the
soul is susceptible, what one shall I, on the present occasion, select?”
Having chosen a novel, first, and secondly a vivid effect, I consider
whether it can be best wrought by incident or tone—whether by ordinary
incidents and peculiar tone, or the converse, or by peculiarity both of
incident and tone—afterward looking about me (or rather within) for such
combinations of event, or tone, as shall best aid me in the construction
of the effect.
I have
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Transcriber's Note
The title page consists of an image, which has been transcribed.
This version of the text cannot represent certain typographical effects.
Italics are delimited with the '_' character as _italic_. There are
instances of vowels modified by macrons. These are given as, e.g.,
[=e], [=u], etc. Symbols in the form of bold figures are printed as
=T=, =V=, =Y=, etc. There is one instance of an inverted T, which
is represented as [=invertedT=]. The 'oe' ligature is given as
separate characters, that is, 'OE' or 'oe'.
For consistency, fractions are usually represented, for example,
as 2-1/2 for 21/2. In tabular data, the available Latin-1 fractions
1/4, 1/2, 3/4 were used on occasion to minimize width. Superscripted
characters are indicated using the carat '^'.
The few footnotes have been positioned following the paragraph where
their references appeared.
There are many invaluable illustrations, most without captions,
which could not be included in this version. These are almost always
referred to and described in the text. The positions of sketches
without captions are usually indicated in-line as [Illustration],
except where the reference to its position is obvious. Where there is
a caption, the illustration is positioned either before or after the
paragraph where it is referenced. Many illustrations are composite
sketches, which use numbers or letters to indicate the parts thereof.
A caption has been added indicating the number of these sketches as
[Illustration: 1-20], to give the reader a notion of which sketch is
which. The reader who would like to see these illustration is referred
to the following link, where HTML, Kindle and Epub versions may be
found at: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/46446
There are many sidenotes, or paragraph descriptions, which are
sometimes used as keywords for cross-reference. Those which seem
to describe the entire paragraph, or its first topic are given as
{Sidenote} in a separate line at the top of the paragraph. Other notes,
which are usually brief, are placed in-line in the text, again enclosed
in brackets as above.
Please see the notes at the end of this text for a more detailed list
of specific issues encountered and the resolutions of each.
[Illustration: SWINGING THE PACKS OF THE NORTH AUSTRALIAN EXPEDITION
OVER A BRANCH OF JASPER CREEK VICTORIA RIVER 1856.]
[Illustration:
SHIFTS AND EXPEDIENTS
OF CAMP LIFE
TRAVEL & EXPLORATION
BY W.B. LORD
ROYAL ARTILLERY
&
T. BAINES F.R.G.S.
LONDON
HORACE COX
39 STRAND WC
1871
]
CONTENTS.
PAGE.
CHAPTER I.
OUTFIT TO TAKE ABROAD 3
CHAPTER II.
BOATS, RAFTS, AND MAKE-SHIFT FLOATS 91
CHAPTER III.
WORKING IN METALS 192
CHAPTER IV.
HUTS AND HOUSES 268
CHAPTER V.
EXTEMPORE BRIDGES AND MAKESHIFTS FOR CROSSING RIVERS OR RAVINES 317
CHAPTER VI.
TIMBER AND ITS UTILISATION 355
CHAPTER VII.
SLEDGES AND SLEDGE TRAVELLERS 394
CHAPTER VIII.
BOOTS, SHOES, AND SANDALS 412
CHAPTER IX.
WAGGONS AND OTHER WHEELED VEHICLES 432
CHAPTER X.
HARNESS AND PACK ANIMALS 457
CHAPTER XI.
CATTLE MARKING 478
CHAPTER XII.
HINTS ON HYGEENS AND CAMELS 483
CHAPTER XIII.
WATER, AND THE SAP OF PLANTS 491
CHAPTER XIV.
CAMP COOKERY 535
CHAPTER XV.
FISH AND AMPHIBIOUS ANIMALS 585
CHAPTER XVI.
POISONED WEAPONS, ARROWS, SPEARS, &C. 619
CHAPTER XVII.
TRACKING, HUNTING, AND TRAPPING 628
CHAPTER XVIII.
PALANQUINS, STRETCHERS, AMBULANCES, &C. 682
CHAPTER XIX.
ON SKETCHING AND PAINTING UNDER THE ORDINARY DIFFICULTIES
OF TRAVEL 716
CHAPTER XX.
THE ESTIMATION OF DISTANCES AND HINTS ON FIELD OBSERVING 726
CHAPTER XXI.
HINTS TO EXPLORERS ON COLLECTING AND PRESERVING OBJECTS
OF NATURAL HISTORY 761
CHAPTER XXII.
ROPES AND TWINE 788
CHAPTER XXIII.
BUSH VETERINARY SURGERY AND MEDICINE 798
APPENDIX 808
INDEX 815
DIRECTIONS TO THE BINDER.
SWINGING THE PACKS OF THE NORTH AUSTRALIAN EXPEDITION }
OVER A BRANCH OF JASPER CREEK, VICTORIA RIVER, 1856 } _Frontispiece._
CAMP SCENE IN AFRICA _To face page_ 55
BOAT BUILDING ON THE LOGIER RIVER 125
SENDING LINE FROM WRECK TO LEE SHORE BY MEANS OF A KITE 185
LEAD SMELTING IN THE FOREST 228
SEARCHING FOR GOLD 251
INDIAN
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THE
FIRST AFGHAN WAR.
BY
MOWBRAY MORRIS.
London:
SAMPSON LOW, MARSTON, SEARLE, & RIVINGTON,
CROWN BUILDINGS, 188, FLEET STREET.
1878.
[_All rights reserved._]
PREFACE.
The following pages pretend to give nothing more than a short summary
of events already recorded by recognised authorities.
THE FIRST AFGHAN WAR.
It was in the year 1808, when the power of Napoleon was at its height,
that diplomatic relations were first opened between the Courts of
Calcutta and Cabul. Napoleon, when in Egypt, had meditated on the
chances of striking a fatal blow at England through her Indian
dependencies; some correspondence had actually passed between him and
Tippoo Saib on the subject, and subsequently, in 1801, he had concluded
a treaty with the Russian Emperor Paul for an invasion of India by
a force of 70,000 men, to be composed of equal parts of French and
Russian troops. The proposed line of march was to lie through Astrakhan
and Afghanistan to the Indus, and was to be heralded by Zemaun Shah,
who then ruled at Cabul, at the head of 100,000 Afghans. There was but
little danger indeed to be apprehended from Afghanistan alone, but
Afghanistan with Russia and France in the background was capable of
proving a very troublesome enemy. In such circumstances the attitude
of Persia was of the last importance, and Marquess Wellesley, then
Viceroy of India, at once proceeded to convert a possible enemy into
a certain and valuable ally. A young officer who had distinguished
himself under Harris at Seringapatam was selected for this delicate
service. How the young captain, whom Englishmen remember as Sir John
Malcolm, fulfilled his mission is matter of history. A thorough master
of all Oriental languages, and as skilful in council as he was brave in
the field, Malcolm soon pledged the Court of Persia to the interests
of England, and not only was it agreed that the two contracting
parties should unite to expel any French force that might seek to gain
a footing on any of the islands or shores of Persia, but the latter
Government bound itself to "slay and disgrace" any Frenchman found
in the country. This treaty, which may be thought to have somewhat
dangerously stretched the bounds of diplomatic hostility, was, however,
never formally ratified, and internal dissensions, culminating in the
deposition of Zemaun Shah by his brother Mahmoud, removed all danger
from our frontier for a time.
But the idea still lived in Napoleon's restless heart. The original
treaty with Paul was discussed with his successor Alexander, and in
1808 a French mission, with the avowed design of organizing the
proposed invasion, was despatched, not to Cabul, but to Teheran. The
magic of Napoleon's name was stronger even than British eloquence and
British gold, and Malcolm, once all-powerful in Iran, when he sought
to renew the former pledges of amity, was turned back with insult from
the Persian capital. A second mission, however, despatched direct from
London under the guidance of Sir Harford Jones, was more fortunate.
Napoleon had been defeated in Spain, and the news of his defeat had
spread. Russia was something less eager for the French alliance than
she had been in 1801, while between the Muscovites and the Persians
there had long existed a hereditary feud, which the proposed league
had by no means served to extinguish. The English envoy, skilfully
piecing together these broken threads to his own ends, was enabled with
little loss of time to
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Transcriber's Note:
Inconsistent hyphenation and spelling in the original document have
been preserved. Inconsistent punctuation in the ads section has been
left as printed. Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ and bold text by =equal
signs=.
ARETHUSA
[Illustration: ARETHUSA]
ARETHUSA
BY
F. MARION CRAWFORD
AUTHOR OF "SARACINESCA," "A LADY OF ROME,"
ETC., ETC.
_WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
GERTRUDE DEMAIN HAMMOND_
New York
THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
LONDON: MACMILLAN & CO., LTD.
1907
_All rights reserved_
COPYRIGHT, 1906, 1907,
BY THE PHILLIPS PUBLISHING CO.
COPYRIGHT, 1907,
BY F. MARION CRAWFORD.
Set up and electrotyped. Published November, 1907.
Norwood Press
J. S. Cushing & Co.--Berwick & Smith Co.
Norwood, Mass., U.S.A.
THE STORY-TELLER OF THE BAZAAR
DEDICATES
THIS TALE OF CONSTANTINOPLE
TO HIS DEAR DAUGHTER
ELEANOR
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Arethusa _Frontispiece_
FACING PAGE
He was talking with an old beggar woman 30
She tenderly kissed the wrinkled face 44
'Yes,' replied the negress. 'Rustan is very affectionate. He
says that I am his Zoe, his "life," because he would surely
die of starvation without me!' 66
'Tell me your story,' he said in a lower tone. 'Do not be afraid!
no one shall hurt you.' 88
'Forty ducats!' cried Omobono, casting up his eyes, and preparing
to bargain for at least half an hour 94
All sorts of confused thoughts crowded her brain, as Zeno sat
down on a seat beside the divan 108
There was something so oddly fixed in his look and so dull in his
voice that Omobono began to fear that he might be a lunatic 128
'I know them,' Zoe answered. 'If I am not telling you the
truth, sell me in the market to-morrow.' 164
'I did not mean to love you!' 194
The captain's wife obeyed, less frightened than she had been at
first 218
Saw her sink down there exhausted, and draw a heavy silk shawl
across her body 240
'Tell me what you see,' she said to the maids 262
'Yes!' roared the Tartar. 'Ten thousand ducats! And if I do
not find the money in the house, you two must find it in
yours! Do you understand?' 274
Then, all at once, he felt that she had received one of those
inspirations of the practical sense which visit women who
are driven to extremities 310
'Am I not your bought slave?' she asked. 'I must obey.' 352
CHAPTER I
Carlo Zeno, gentleman of Venice, ex-clerk, ex-gambler, ex-soldier of
fortune, ex-lay prebendary of Patras, ex-duellist, and ex-Greek
general, being about twenty-nine years of age, and having in his tough
body the scars of half-a-dozen wounds that would have killed an
ordinary man, had resolved to turn over a new leaf, had become a
merchant, and was established in Constantinople in the year 1376.
He had bought a house in the city itself because the merchants of
Genoa all dwelt in the town of Pera, on the other side of the Golden
Horn. A Venetian could not have lived in the same place with Genoese,
for the air would have poisoned him, to a certainty; and besides, the
sight of a Genoese face, the sound of the Genoese dialect, the smell
of Genoese cookery, were all equally sickening to any one brought up
in the lagoons. Genoa was not fit to be mentioned within hearing of
polite Venetian ears, its very name was unspeakable by decent Venetian
lips; and even to pronounce the syllables for purposes of business was
horribly unlucky.
Therefore Carlo Zeno and his friends had taken up their abode in the
old city, amongst the Greeks and the Bokharians, the Jews and the
Circassians, and they left the Genoese to themselves in Pera,
pretending that they did not even exist. It was not always easy to
keep up the pretence, it is true, for Zeno had extremely good eyes and
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A CRIME OF THE UNDER-SEAS
By GUY BOOTHBY
_Author of "A Bid for Fortune" "Doctor Nikola" "The Beautiful
White Devil" "Pharos, the Egyptian" etc. etc._
ILLUSTRATIONS BY STANLEY L. WOOD
LONDON
WARD LOCK & CO LIMITED
1905
[Illustration: "Dropped him again with a cry that echoed in my helmet."]
CONTENTS
A CRIME OF THE UNDER-SEAS
THE PHANTOM STOCKMAN
THE TREASURE OF SACRAMENTO NICK
INTO THE OUTER DARKNESS
THE STORY OF TOMMY DODD AND "THE ROOSTER"
QUOD ERAT DEMONSTRANDUM
CUPID AND PSYCHE
MISPLACED AFFECTIONS
IN GREAT WATERS
MR. ARISTOCRAT
THIS MAN AND THIS WOMAN
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"DROPPED HIM AGAIN WITH A CRY THAT ECHOED IN MY HELMET."
"I SPRANG TO MY FEET ON HEARING THIS. 'NOT THE FIRST!' I CRIED."
"A NATIVE FRUIT-HAWKER CAME ROUND THE CORNER."
"THEN, JUST AS HER NOSE GROUNDED, MY EYES CAUGHT SIGHT OF A BIG
CREEPER-COVERED MASS."
"ONE MOONLIGHT NIGHT... SOMEBODY STEPPED UP BESIDE HIM."
A Crime of the Under-Seas
CHAPTER I
There is an old saying that "one half of the world does not know how the
other half lives," but how true this is very few of us really
understand. In the East, indeed, it amounts almost to the marvellous.
There are men engaged in trades there, some of them highly lucrative, of
which the world in general has never heard, and which the ordinary
stay-at-home Englishman would in all probability refuse to believe, even
if the most trustworthy evidence were placed before him. For instance,
on the evening from which I date the story I am now about to tell you,
three of us were seated chatting together in the verandah of the Grand
Oriental Hotel at Colombo. We were all old friends, and we had each of
us arrived but recently in Ceylon. McDougall, the big red-haired
Scotchman, who was sitting on my right, had put in an appearance from
Tuticorin by a British India boat only that morning, and was due to
leave again for Burmah the following night. As far as I could gather he
earned his living mainly by smuggling dutiable articles into other
countries, where the penalty, if one is caught, is a fine of at least
one thousand pounds, or the chance of receiving upwards of five years'
imprisonment. The man in the big chair next to him was Callingway, a
Londoner, who had hailed the day before from South America, travelling
in a P. and O. steamer from Australia. He was tracking an absconding
Argentine Bank Manager, and, as it afterwards transpired, was, when we
came in contact with him, on the point of getting possession of the
money with which the other had left the country. Needless to say he was
not a Government servant, nor were the Banking Company in question aware
of his endeavours. Lastly there was myself, Christopher Collon, aged
thirty-six, whose walk in life was even stranger, if such a thing were
possible, than those of the two men I have just described. One thing at
any rate is certain, and that is that if I had been called upon to give
an accurate description of myself and my profession at that time, I
should have found it extremely difficult to do so. Had I been the
possessor of a smart London office, a private secretary, and half a
dozen corresponding clerks, I should probably have called myself a
private detective on a large scale, or, as they put it in the
advertisement columns of our daily papers, a Private Enquiry Agent. Yet
that description would scarcely have suited me; I was that and something
more. At any rate it was a pretty hard life, and by the same token a
fairly hazardous one. This will be the better understood when I say that
one day I might receive a commission by cablegram from some London firm,
who, we will suppose, had advanced goods to an Indian Rajah, and were
unable to obtain payment for them. It was my business to make my way to
his headquarters as soon as possible, and to get the money out of him by
the best means in my power, eating nothing but what was cooked for me by
my own servant meanwhile. As soon as I had done with him I might be sent
on very much the same sort of errand to a Chinese Mandarin in Hankow or
Canton, or possibly to worry a gold mining concession, or something of
the sort, out of one of the innumerable Sultans of the protected Malayan
States, those charming places where the head of the State asks you to
dinner at six and you are found at midnight with six inches of cold
_krise_ in your abdomen. On one occasion I remember being sent from
Singapore to Kimberley at three
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THE RIDE TO THE LADY
And Other Poems
BY
HELEN GRAY CONE
1891
CONTENTS
The Ride to the Lady
The First Guest
Silence
Arraignment
The Going Out of the Tide
King Raedwald
Ivo of Chartres
Madonna Pia
Two Moods of Failure
The Story of the "Orient"
A Resurrection
The Glorious Company
The Trumpeter
Comrades
The House of Hate
The Arrowmaker
A Nest in a Lyre
Thisbe
The Spring Beauties
Kinship
Compensation
When Willows Green
At the Parting of the Ways
The Fair Gray Lady
The Encounter.
Summer Hours
Love Unsung
The Wish for a Chaplet
Sonnets:
The Torch Race
To Sleep
Sister Snow
The Contrast
A Mystery
Triumph
In Winter, with the Book we had in Spring
Sere Wisdom
Isolation
The Lost Dryad
The Gifts of the Oak
The Strayed Singer
The Immortal Word
THE RIDE TO THE LADY
"Now since mine even is come at last,--
For I have been the sport of steel,
And hot life ebbeth from me fast,
And I in saddle roll and reel,--
Come bind me, bind me on my steed!
Of fingering leech I have no need!"
The chaplain clasped his mailed knee.
"Nor need I more thy whine and thee!
No time is left my sins to tell;
But look ye bind me, bind me well!"
They bound him strong with leathern thong,
For the ride to the lady should be long.
Day was dying; the poplars fled,
Thin as ghosts, on a sky blood-red;
Out of the sky the fierce hue fell,
And made the streams as the streams of hell.
All his thoughts as a river flowed,
Flowed aflame as fleet he rode,
Onward flowed to her abode,
Ceased at her feet, mirrored her face.
(Viewless Death apace, apace,
Rode behind him in that race.)
"Face, mine own, mine alone,
Trembling lips my lips have known,
Birdlike stir of the dove-soft eyne
Under the kisses that make them mine!
Only of thee, of thee, my need!
Only to thee, to thee, I speed!"
The Cross flashed by at the highway's turn;
In a beam of the moon the Face shone stern.
Far behind had the fight's din died;
The shuddering stars in the welkin wide
Crowded, crowded, to see him ride.
The beating hearts of the stars aloof
kept time to the beat of the horse's hoof,
"What is the throb that thrills so sweet?
Heart of my lady, I feel it beat!"
But his own strong pulse the fainter fell,
Like the failing tongue of a hushing bell.
The flank of the great-limbed steed was wet
Not alone with the started sweat.
Fast, and fast, and the thick black wood
Arched its cowl like a black friar's hood;
Fast, and fast, and they plunged therein,--
But the viewless rider rode to win,
Out of the wood to the highway's light
Galloped the great-limbed steed in fright;
The mail clashed cold, and the sad owl cried,
And the weight of the dead oppressed his side.
Fast, and fast, by the road he knew;
And slow, and slow, the stars withdrew;
And the waiting heaven turned weirdly blue,
As a garment worn of a wizard grim.
He neighed at the gate in the morning dim.
She heard no sound before her gate,
Though very quiet was her bower.
All was as her hand had left it late:
The needle slept on the broidered vine,
Where the hammer and spikes of the passion-flower
Her fashioning did wait.
On the couch lay something fair,
With steadfast lips and veiled eyne;
But the lady was not there,
On the wings of shrift and prayer,
Pure as winds that winnow snow,
Her soul had risen twelve hours ago.
The burdened steed at the barred gate stood,
No whit the nearer to his goal.
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SOME REMINISCENCES
By Joseph Conrad
A Familiar Preface.
As a general rule we do not want much encouragement to talk about
ourselves; yet this little book is the result of a friendly suggestion,
and even of a little friendly pressure. I defended myself with some
spirit; but, with characteristic tenacity, the friendly voice insisted:
"You know, you really must."
It was not an argument, but I submitted at once. If one must!...
You perceive the force of a word. He who wants to persuade should put
his trust, not in the right argument, but in the right word. The power
of sound has always been greater than the power of sense. I don't
say this by way of disparagement. It is better for mankind to be
impressionable than reflective. Nothing humanely great--great, I mean,
as affecting a whole mass of lives--has come from reflection. On the
other hand, you cannot fail to see the power of mere words; such words
as Glory, for instance, or Pity. I won't mention any more. They are not
far to seek. Shouted with perseverance, with ardour, with conviction,
these two by their sound alone have set whole nations in motion and
upheaved the dry, hard ground on which rests our whole social fabric.
There's "virtue" for you if you like!... Of course the accent must
be attended to. The right accent. That's very important. The capacious
lung, the thundering or the tender vocal chords. Don't talk to me
of your Archimedes' lever. He was an absent-minded person with a
mathematical imagination. Mathematics command all my respect, but I have
no use for engines. Give me the right word and the right accent and I
will move the world.
What a dream--for a writer! Because written words have their accent too.
Yes! Let me only find the right word! Surely it must be lying somewhere
amongst the wreckage of all the plaints and all the exultations poured
out aloud since the first day when hope, the undying, came down on
earth. It may be there, close by, disregarded, invisible, quite at hand.
But it's no good. I believe there are men who can lay hold of a needle
in a pottle of hay at the first try. For myself, I have never had such
luck.
And then there is that accent. Another difficulty. For who is going to
tell whether the accent is right or wrong till the word is shouted,
and fails to be heard, perhaps, and goes downwind leaving the world
unmoved. Once upon a time there lived an Emperor who was a sage and
something of a literary man. He jotted down on ivory tablets thoughts,
maxims, reflections which chance has preserved for the edification of
posterity. Amongst other sayings--I am quoting from memory--I remember
this solemn admonition: "Let all thy words have the accent of heroic
truth." The accent of heroic truth! This is very fine, but I am thinking
that it is an easy matter for an austere Emperor to jot down grandiose
advice. Most of the working truths on this earth are humble, not heroic:
and there have been times in the history of mankind when the accents of
heroic truth have moved it to nothing but derision.
Nobody will expect to find between the covers of this little book words
of extraordinary potency or accents of irresistible heroism. However
humiliating for my self-esteem, I must confess that the counsels of
Marcus Aurelius are not for me. They are more fit for a moralist than
for an artist. Truth of a modest sort I can promise you, and also
sincerity. That complete, praiseworthy sincerity which, while it
delivers one into the hands of one's enemies, is as likely as not to
embroil one with one's friends.
"Embroil" is perhaps too strong an expression. I can't imagine either
amongst my enemies or my friends a being so hard up for something to do
as to quarrel with me. "To disappoint one's friends" would be nearer
the mark. Most, almost all, friendships of the writing period of my life
have come to me through my books; and I know that a novelist lives
in his work. He stands there, the only reality in an invented world,
amongst imaginary things, happenings, and people. Writing about them,
he is only writing about himself. But the disclosure is not complete. He
remains to a certain extent a figure behind the veil; a suspected rather
than a seen presence--a movement and a voice behind the draperies of
fiction. In these personal notes there is no such veil. And I cannot
help thinking of a passage in the "Imitation of Christ" where the
ascetic author, who knew life so profoundly, says that "there are
persons esteemed on their reputation who by showing themselves destroy
the opinion one had of them." This is the danger incurred by an author
of fiction who sets out to talk about himself without disguise.
While these reminiscent pages were appearing serially I was remonstrated
with for bad economy; as if such writing were a form of self-indulgence
w
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Produced by David Widger, Derek Andrew, Bryan Taylor
Notes from the previous editions:
This is a modified version of: The Project Gutenberg Edition of the
King James Bible (Second Version, 10th Edition).
The only changes made were the addition of the book numbers to the
verse numbers to make it easier to find desired passages of text in
this work and the addition of a Table Of Contents.
Changes by: Bryan Taylor, November 2002 ([email protected])
****
This version of the King James Bible was created by taking several
public domain copies and painstakingly comparing them to find all
the differences, and selecting the most common version. Each of the
differences was also compared to printed versions for verification.
This work is hereby put into the public domain.
Derek Andrew
January 1992
[email protected]
The Project Gutenberg Edition of the King James Bible
Table Of Contents
Book 01 Genesis Book 14 2 Chronicles Book 27 Daniel
Book 02 Exodus Book 15 Ezra Book 28 Hosea
Book 03 Leviticus Book 16 Nehemiah Book 29 Joel
Book 04 Numbers Book 17 Esther Book 30 Amos
Book 05 Deuteronomy Book 18 Job Book 31 Obadiah
Book 06 Joshua Book 19 Psalms Book 32 Jonah
Book 07 Judges Book 20 Proverbs Book 33 Micah
Book 08 Ruth Book 21 Ecclesiastes Book 34 Nahum
Book 09 1 Samuel Book 22 Song of Solomon Book 35 Habakkuk
Book 10 2 Samuel Book 23 Isaiah Book 36 Zephaniah
Book 11 1 Kings Book 24 Jeremiah Book 37 Haggai
Book 12 2 Kings Book 25 Lamentations Book 38 Zechariah
Book 13 1 Chronicles Book 26 Ezekiel Book 39 Malachi
Book 40 Matthew Book 49 Ephesians Book 58 Hebrews
Book 41 Mark Book 50 Philippians Book 59 James
Book 42 Luke Book 51 Colossians Book 60 1 Peter
Book 43 John Book 52 1 Thessalonians Book 61 2 Peter
Book 44 Acts Book 53 2 Thessalonians Book 62 1 John
Book 45 Romans Book 54 1 Timothy Book 63 2 John
Book 46 1 Corinthians Book 55 2 Timothy Book 64 3 John
Book 47 2 Corinthians Book 56 Titus Book 65 Jude
Book 48 Galatians Book 57 Philemon Book 66 Revelation
Book 01 Genesis
01:001:001 In the beginning God created the heaven and the earth.
01:001:002 And the earth was without form, and void; and darkness was
upon the face of the deep. And the Spirit of God moved upon
the face of the waters.
01:001:003 And God said, Let there be light: and there was light.
01:001:004 And God saw the light, that it was good: and God divided the
light from the darkness.
01:001:005 And God called the light Day, and the darkness he called
Night. And the evening and the morning were the first day.
01:001:006 And God said, Let there be a firmament in the midst of the
waters, and let it divide the waters from the waters.
01:001:007 And God made the firmament, and divided the waters which were
under the firmament from the waters which were above the
firmament: and it was so.
01:001:008 And God called the firmament Heaven. And the evening and the
morning were the second day.
01:001:009 And God said, Let the waters under the heaven be gathered
together unto one place, and let the dry land appear: and it
was so.
01:001:010 And God called the dry land Earth; and the gathering together
of the waters called he Seas: and
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Project Gutenberg's Mohammed Ali and His House, by Louise Muhlbach
Translated from German by Chapman Coleman.
#1 in our series by Muhlbach
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Title: Mohammed Ali and His House
Author: Louise Muhlbach
Author: Luise Muhlbach
Author: Luise von Muhlbach
[We have listings under all three spellings]
[And there is an umlaut [ " ] over the u in Muhlbach]
Translator: from German by Chapman Coleman
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Produced by Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading team
PRINCE HAGEN
By Upton Sinclair
CHARACTERS (In order of appearance)
Gerald Isman: a poet.
Mimi: a Nibelung.
Alberich: King of the Nibelungs.
Prince Hagen: his grandson.
Mrs. Isman.
Hicks: a butler.
Mrs. Bagley-Willis: mistress of Society.
John Isman: a railroad magnate.
Estelle Isman: his daughter.
Plimpton: the coal baron.
Rutherford: lord of steel.
De Wiggleston Riggs: cotillon leader.
Lord Alderdyce: seeing America.
Calkins: Prince Hagen's secretary.
Nibelungs: members of Society.
ACT I
SCENE I. Gerald Isman's tent in Quebec.
SCENE 2. The Hall of State in Nibelheim.
ACT II
Library in the Isman home on Fifth Avenue: two years later.
ACT III
Conservatory of Prince Hagen's palace on Fifth Avenue. The wind-up
of the opening ball: four months later.
ACT IV
Living room in the Isman camp in Quebec: three months later.
ACT I
SCENE I
[Shows a primeval forest
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Produced by D.R. Thompson
MR. GLADSTONE AND GENESIS
ESSAY #5 FROM "SCIENCE AND HEBREW TRADITION"
By Thomas Henry Huxley
In controversy, as in courtship, the good old rule to be off with the
old before one is on with the new, greatly commends itself to my sense
of expediency. And, therefore, it appears to me desirable that I should
preface such observations as I may have to offer upon the cloud of
arguments (the relevancy of which to the issue which I had ventured to
raise is not always obvious) put forth by Mr. Gladstone in the January
number of this review, [1] by an endeavour to make clear to such of
our readers as have not had the advantage of a forensic education the
present net result of the discussion.
I am quite aware that, in undertaking this task, I run all the risks
to which the man who presumes to deal judicially with his own cause is
liable. But it is exactly because I do not shun that risk, but, rather,
earnestly desire to be judged by him who cometh after me, provided that
he has the knowledge and impartiality appropriate to a judge, that I
adopt my present course.
In the article on "The Dawn of Creation and Worship," it will be
remembered that Mr. Gladstone unreservedly commits himself to three
propositions. The first is that, according to the writer of the
Pentateuch, the "water-population," the "air-population," and the
"land-population" of the globe were created successively, in the order
named. In the second place, Mr. Gladstone authoritatively asserts that
this (as part of his "fourfold order") has been "so affirmed in our time
by natural science, that it may be taken as a demonstrated conclusion
and established fact." In the third place, Mr. Gladstone argues that the
fact of this coincidence of the pentateuchal story with the results
of modern investigation makes it "impossible to avoid the conclusion,
first, that either this writer was gifted with faculties passing all
human experience, or else his knowledge was divine." And having settled
to his own satisfaction that the first "branch of the alternative is
truly nominal and unreal," Mr. Gladstone continues, "So stands the plea
for a revelation of truth from God, a plea only to be met by questioning
its possibility" (p. 697).
I am a simple-minded person, wholly devoid of subtlety of intellect, so
that I willingly admit that there may be depths of alternative meaning
in these propositions out of all soundings attainable by my poor
plummet. Still there are a good many people who suffer under a like
intellectual limitation; and, for once in my life, I feel that I have
the chance of attaining that position of a representative of average
opinion which appears to be the modern ideal of a leader of men, when
I make free confession that, after turning the matter over in my mind,
with all the aid derived from a careful consideration of Mr. Gladstone's
reply, I cannot get away from my original conviction that, if Mr.
Gladstone's second proposition can be shown to be not merely inaccurate,
but directly contradictory of facts known to every one who is acquainted
with the elements of natural science, the third proposition collapses of
itself.
And it was this conviction which led me to enter upon the present
discussion. I fancied that if my respected clients, the people of
average opinion and capacity, could once be got distinctly to conceive
that Mr. Gladstone's views as to the proper method of dealing with grave
and difficult scientific and religious problems had permitted him to
base a solemn "plea for a revelation of truth from God" upon an error as
to a matter of fact, from which the intelligent perusal of a manual of
palaeontology would have saved him, I need not trouble myself to
occupy their time and attention [167] with further comments upon his
contribution to apologetic literature. It is for others to judge whether
I have efficiently carried out my project or not. It certainly does not
count for much that I should be unable to find any flaw in my own case,
but I think it counts for a good deal that Mr. Gladstone appears to have
been equally unable to do so. He does, indeed, make a great parade of
authorities, and I have the greatest respect for those authorities whom
Mr. Gladstone mentions. If he will get them to sign a joint memorial to
the effect that our present palaeontological evidence proves that birds
appeared before the "land-population" of terrestrial reptiles, I shall
think it my duty to reconsider my position--but not till then.
It will be observed that I have cautiously used the word "appears" in
referring to what seems to me to be absence of any real answer to my
criticisms in Mr. Gladstone's reply. For I must honestly confess that,
notwithstanding long and painful strivings after clear insight, I am
still uncertain whether Mr. Gladstone's "Defence" means that the
great "plea for a revelation from God" is to be left to perish in the
dialectic desert; or whether it is to be withdrawn under the protection
of such skirmishers as are available for covering retreat.
In particular, the remarkable disquisition which covers pages 11 to
14 of Mr. Gladstone's last contribution has greatly exercised my mind.
Socrates is reported to have said of the works of Heraclitus that he who
attempted to comprehend them should be a "Delian swimmer," but that, for
his part, what he could understand was so good that he was disposed
to believe in the excellence of that which he found unint
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The Lost and Hostile Gospels
An Essay
On the Toledoth Jeschu, and the Petrine and Pauline Gospels of the First
Three Centuries of Which Fragments Remain.
By
Rev. S. Baring-Gould, M.A.
Author of "The Origin and Development of Religious Belief," "Legendary
Lives of the Old Testament Characters." Etc.
Williams and Norgate
London, Edinburgh
1874
CONTENTS
Preface.
Part I. The Jewish Anti-Gospels.
I. The Silence Of Josephus.
II. The Cause Of The Silence Of Josephus.
III. The Jew Of Celsus.
IV. The Talmud.
V. The Counter-Gospels.
VI. The First Toledoth Jeschu.
VII. The Second Toledoth Jeschu.
Part II. The Lost Petrine Gospels.
I. The Gospel Of The Hebrews.
1. The Fragments extant.
2. Doubtful Fragments.
3. The Origin of the Gospel of the Hebrews.
II. The Clementine Gospel.
III. The Gospel Of St. Peter.
IV. The Gospel Of The Egyptians.
Part III. The Lost Pauline Gospels.
I. The Gospel Of The Lord.
II. The Gospel Of Truth.
III. The Gospel Of Eve.
IV. The Gospel Of Perfection.
V. The Gospel Of St. Philip.
VI. The Gospel Of Judas.
Footnotes
[Cover Art]
[Transcriber's Note: The above cover image was produced by the submitter
at Distributed Proofreaders, and is being placed into the public domain.]
PREFACE.
It is advisable, if not necessary, for me, by way of preface, to explain
certain topics treated of in this book, which do not come under its title,
and which, at first thought, may be taken to have but a remote connection
with the ostensible subject of this treatise. These are:
1. The outbreak of Antinomianism which disfigured and distressed primitive
Christianity.
2. The opposition of the Nazarene Church to St. Paul.
3. The structure and composition of the Synoptical Gospels.
The consideration of these curious and important topics has forced its way
into these pages; for the first two throw great light on the history of
those Gospels which have disappeared, and which it is not possible to
reconstruct without a knowledge of the religious parties to which they
belonged. And these parties were determined by the fundamental question of
Law or No-law, as represented by the Petrine and ultra-Pauline Christians.
And the third of these topics necessarily bound up with the consideration
of the structure and origin of the Lost Gospels, as the reader will see if
he cares to follow me in the critical examination of their extant
fragments.
Upon each of these points a few preliminary words will not, I hope, come
amiss, and may prevent misunderstanding.
1. The history of the Church, as the history of nations, is not to be read
with prejudiced eyes, with penknife in hand to erase facts which fight
against foregone conclusions.
English Churchmen have long gazed with love on the Primitive Church as the
ideal of Christian perfection, the Eden wherein the first fathers of their
faith walked blameless before God, and passionless towards each other. To
doubt, to dissipate in any way this pleasant dream, may shock and pain
certain gentle spirits. Alas! the fruit of the tree of {~GREEK SMALL LETTER GAMMA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER NU~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER OMEGA WITH PERISPOMENI~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER SIGMA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER IOTA~}{~GREEK SMALL LETTER FINAL SIGMA~}, if it opens
the eyes, saddens also and shames the heart.
History, whether sacred or profane, hides her teaching from those who
study her through glasses. She only reveals truth to those who
look through the cold clear medium of passionless inquiry, who seek the
Truth without determining first the masquerade in which alone they will
receive it.
It exhibits a strange, a sad want of faith in Truth thus to constrain
history to turn out facts according to order, to squeeze it through the
sieve of prejudice. And what indeed
| 573.119185 | 2,733 |
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| 1,067 | 395 |
E-text prepared by Donald Cummings, Adrian Mastronardi, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team (http://www.pgdp.net) from page images
generously made available by Internet Archive/American Libraries
(https://archive.org/details/americana)
Note: Images of the original pages are available through
Internet Archive/American Libraries. See
https://archive.org/details/remedyforunemplo00walliala
Transcriber’s note:
Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
Pass on Pamphlets. No. 8.
1d.
THE REMEDY FOR UNEMPLOYMENT
ALFRED R. WALLACE
The Clarion Press,
44, Worship Street, London, E.C.
* * * * * *
THE CLARION.
Edited by...
ROBERT BLATCHFORD.
_EVERY FRIDAY._ - - _ONE PENNY._
If you want to keep to understand the Socialism which is creating such
a ferment in the country, you must read the CLARION. Order it from your
newsagent, or send for a free specimen copy.
5 Clarion Pamphlets.
No. 44--FROM BRUTE TO BROTHER.
By DENNIS HIRD, M.A.
No. 46--JESUS THE SOCIALIST.
By DENNIS HIRD, M.A.
No. 47.--SEVENTEEN SHOTS AT SOCIALISM.
By R. B. SUTHERS.
This is an answer in brief to Seventeen Common Objections to
Socialism.
No. 48.--THE CASE FOR SOCIALISM.
By F. HENDERSON.
Deals with the Compensation and Confiscation question.
No. 49.--THE PERIL OF POVERTY.
By Councillor McLACHLAN.
_ONE PENNY EACH_ - - _By Post, 1½d._
THE CLARION PRESS, 44, Worship Street, London, E.C.
* * * * * *
THE REMEDY FOR UNEMPLOYMENT.
BY DR. ALFRED R. WALLACE.
The reason why I wrote the present pamphlet (which first appeared in
the “Socialist Review,” and is now reprinted in a slightly modified
form) was that, although there is a small body of avowed Socialists
in Parliament, not one of them has, so far as I am aware, upheld any
of the fundamental principles of Socialism as a means of dealing with
the greatest of present-day problems--that of chronic unemployment and
starvation all over our land. Let me illustrate what I mean by a few
examples. Perhaps the most fundamental and universally admitted axiom
of Socialism is that all production should be, primarily, _for use and
not for profit_; and the next in importance is that the true or proper
_wages of labour_ is _the whole product of that labour_.
But neither in Parliament nor out of it has a single voice been raised
to show that these principles _must_ be adopted in any permanent
solution of the problem, or to explain how they _can_ be applied far
more easily and economically than any of the suggested alleviations.
All the talk has hitherto been of securing trade union rates of wages
for out-of-works of every kind; and the underlying idea has always been
that of the non-Socialist worker--that the Government provision of
work must _not_ be looked upon as permanent, but only as enabling the
worker to live till the capitalist employer again requires him.
An equally non-Socialist view was put forth by one of the most
respected Socialists in Parliament when he advocated the immediate
construction of light railways all over the country in order that when
labour was brought back to the land the products could be carried
economically to market, implying that the “products” were to be sold,
thus competing in the market with those of other producers, lowering
prices, and altogether ignoring the great Socialist principle of
“production for use.” In the discussion of this question it has been
totally overlooked that by a proper organisation of the labour of
the permanently or temporarily unemployed, as well as of all those
whose employment does not supply them with the means of a thoroughly
sufficient and healthy existence, all the necessaries and comforts of
life can be produced in our own country, just as they were produced
down to a few centuries ago. I will now proceed to the exposition of
the whole subject.
In order that those who have not read the Labour Party’s Unemployed
Workmen Bill may understand why it could not have succeeded, a short
statement of its essential provisions may here be given.
The first clause provides that the “Local Unemployment Authority”
under this Bill shall be the council of every borough or district of
over 20,000 inhabitants, and for the rest of the county the “County
Council.” Clause 3 declares that “
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Produced by Charles Bowen from page scans provided by the
Web Archive (University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign)
Transcriber's Notes:
1. Page scans provided by the Internet Archive,
https://archive.org/details/delawareorruined01jame
(University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign)
2. The diphthong oe is represented by [oe].
EDINBURGH
PRINTED BY M. AITKEN, 1, ST JAMES's SQUARE.
DELAWARE;
OR
THE RUINED FAMILY.
A TALE.
IN THREE VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
EDINBURGH:
PRINTED FOR ROBERT CADELL, EDINBURGH;
AND WHITTAKER & CO., LONDON.
MDCCCXXXIII.
PREFACE.
Not many years ago, as the writer of this work was returning on
horseback to Castellamare, from a visit to the Lactarian Hills, he
overtook, just under the chestnut trees on the <DW72>, which every one
who has visited that part of Italy must remember, two gentlemen with
their guide, who were on their way home after some expedition of a
kind similar to his own.
As the indefinable something told him at once that they were
Englishmen, he turned, as usual under such circumstances, to examine
them more critically in passing, and in one of them recollected a
person whom he had met more than once in London. He hesitated whether
he should claim the acquaintance; as, when he had before seen him, the
traveller had appeared to great disadvantage. A man of rank and
fortune, flattered, caressed, single, and set at, he had borne a sort
of sneering indifference on his countenance, which certainly did not
recommend him to a person who neither sought his friendship nor feared
his contempt. A few traits, indeed, had casually appeared, which
seemed to betray a better spirit beneath this kind of supercilious
exterior; but still the impression was unfavourable.
All hesitation, however, was put an end to by a bow and friendly
recognition on the part of the other; and either because the
annoyances of the society in which he had formerly been met, were now
removed, or because a general improvement had worked itself in his
demeanour and character, his tone was so different, and his aspect so
prepossessing, that all feelings of dislike were soon done away. He
instantly made his "dear, new-found friend" acquainted with his
companion; and informing him that he had left his wife and sister at
the Albergo Reale, invited him to join their party for the evening.
This was accordingly done, and now--having ridden the third person
long enough, as it is the roughest going horse in the stable--I will,
with the reader's permission, do the next ten miles on the first
person singular.
The acquaintance which was there renewed soon went on to intimacy; and
as I found that the party which I had met with, consisted of an odd
number, the unfortunate fifth being an old gentleman, who required
some one more of his own age than his four relations to converse with,
I ventured to propose myself as their companion in a visit to some
places in the neighbourhood, and as their cicerone to Pæstum. The
proposal was accepted; and, strange enough to say, our companionship,
which had commenced so suddenly, did not end till those I may now
boldly call my friends returned to England, nearly a year after,
leaving me to stupify at Lauzanne.
Amongst the many pleasures which I derived from their society in
Italy, none was greater than that which some account of their
preceding adventures gave me. This was first obtained in a casual
manner, by hearing continual reference made amongst themselves to
particular circumstances. "Do you remember, Henry, such and such an
event? Does not that put you in mind of this, that, or the other?" was
continually ringing in my ears; and thus I gathered part ere the whole
was continuously related to me. At length, I obtained a complete
narrative; and though it was told with many a gay and happy jest, and
many a reference to details which would not amuse the world in
general, I could not help thinking that the public might find it
nearly as interesting as it proved to me.
In the same sort of gossiping anecdotical style in which I received
it, I have here, with full permission, put down the whole story. In
what tongue under the sun I have written it, I do not very well know,
though the language I intended to employ is a sort of jargon, based
upon Anglo-Saxon, with a superstructure of the Norman corruption of
French, propped up by bad Latin, and having the vacancies supplied by
Greek. Taking it for granted, that into this refuge for destitute
tongues, any houseless stranger would be welcome, whenever I was not
able to find readily a word or expression to my purpose, I have either
made one for myself, or stolen one from the first language at hand;
and as this has been done in all ages, I make no apology for it here.
I have reason, however, to believe that I have more sins to answer for
amongst the technical terms, and other more important matters. My
worthy lawyer
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Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Michael Zeug, Lisa Reigel,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net
Transcriber's Notes: Words surrounded by _underscores_ are in italics in
the original. Characters superscripted in the original are enclosed in
{braces}.
In this text, the following symbols are used:
¯ indicates a macron
˘ indicates a breve
Some words and phrases have a line drawn through them in the original.
These struck out words are enclosed in brackets with asterisks like
this:
[*these words are struck through*]
Characters printed in a Gothic font are enclosed in brackets with equal
signs like this:
[=these words are in a Gothic font=]
Other Transcriber's Notes follow the text.
THE
COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS
OF
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE
INCLUDING
POEMS AND VERSIONS OF POEMS NOW
PUBLISHED FOR THE FIRST TIME
EDITED
WITH TEXTUAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES
BY
ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE
M.A., HON. F.R.S.L.
IN TWO VOLUMES
VOL. I: POEMS
[Illustration]
OXFORD
AT THE CLARENDON PRESS
1912
PREFACE
The aim and purport of this edition of the _Poetical Works_ of Samuel
Taylor Coleridge is to provide the general reader with an authoritative
list of the poems and dramas hitherto published, and at the same time to
furnish the student with an exhaustive summary of various readings
derived from published and unpublished sources, viz. (1) the successive
editions issued by the author, (2) holograph MSS., or (3) contemporary
transcriptions. Occasion has been taken to include in the Text and
Appendices a considerable number of poems, fragments, metrical
experiments and first drafts of poems now published for the first time
from MSS. in the British Museum, from Coleridge's Notebooks, and from
MSS. in the possession of private collectors.
The text of the poems and dramas follows that of the last edition of the
_Poetical Works_ published in the author's lifetime--the three-volume
edition issued by Pickering in the spring and summer of 1834.
I have adopted the text of 1834 in preference to that of 1829, which was
selected by James <DW18>s Campbell for his monumental edition of 1893. I
should have deferred to his authority but for the existence of
conclusive proof that, here and there, Coleridge altered and emended the
text of 1829, with a view to the forthcoming edition of 1834. In the
Preface to the 'new edition' of 1852, the editors maintain that the
three-volume edition of 1828 (a mistake for 1829) was the last upon
which Coleridge was 'able to bestow personal care and attention', while
that of 1834 was 'arranged mainly if not entirely at the discretion of
his latest editor, H. N. Coleridge'. This, no doubt, was perfectly true
with regard to the choice and arrangement of the poems, and the labour
of seeing the three volumes through the press; but the fact remains that
the text of 1829 differs from that of 1834, and that Coleridge himself,
and not his 'latest editor', was responsible for that difference.
I have in my possession the proof of the first page of the 'Destiny of
Nations' as it appeared in 1828 and 1829. Line 5 ran thus: 'The Will,
the Word, the Breath, the Living God.' This line is erased and line 5
of 1834 substituted: 'To the Will Absolute, the One, the Good' and line
6, 'The I AM, the Word, the Life, the Living God,' is added, and, in
1834, appeared for the first time. Moreover, in the 'Songs of the
Pixies', lines 9, 11, 12, 15, 16, as printed in 1834, differ from the
readings of 1829 and all previous editions. Again, in 'Christabel' lines
6, 7 as printed in 1834 differ from the versions of 1828, 1829, and
revert to the original reading of the MSS. and the First Edition. It is
inconceivable that in Coleridge's lifetime and while his pen was still
busy, his nephew should have meddled with, or remodelled, the master's
handiwork.
The poems have been printed, as far as possible, in chronological order,
but when no MS. is extant, or when the MS. authority is a first draft
embodied in a notebook, the exact date can only be arrived at by a
balance of probabilities. The present edition includes all poems and
fragments published for the first time in 1893. Many of these were
excerpts from the Notebooks, collected, transcribed, and dated by
myself. Some of the fragments (_vide post_, p. 996, n. 1) I have since
discovered are not original compositions, but were selected passages
from elder poets--amongst them Cartwright's
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scanned images of public domain material from the Google
Print archive.
THE SEVEN DARLINGS
[Illustration: She stood stock-still, in plain view if they had looked
her way]
THE
SEVEN DARLINGS
* * * * *
BY GOUVERNEUR MORRIS
* * * * *
[Illustration]
With Frontispiece
By HOWARD CHANDLER CHRISTY
* * * * *
A. L. BURT COMPANY
Publishers
New York
Published by Arrangements with CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
COPYRIGHT, 1915, BY
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS
TO
HOPE DAVIS
THE SEVEN DARLINGS
I
Six of the Darlings were girls. The seventh was a young man who looked
like Galahad and took exquisite photographs. Their father had died
within the month, and Mr. Gilpin, the lawyer, had just faced them, in
family assembled, with the lamentable fact that they, who had been so
very, very rich, were now astonishingly poor.
"My dears," he said, "your poor father made a dreadful botch of his
affairs. I cannot understand how some men----"
"Please!" said Mary, who was the oldest. "It can't be any satisfaction
to know why we are poor. Tell us just how poor we are, and we'll make
the best of it. I understand that The Camp isn't involved in the general
wreck."
"It isn't," said Mr. Gilpin, "but you will have to sell it, or at least,
rent it. Outside The Camp, when all the estate debts are paid, there
will be thirty or forty thousand dollars to be divided among you."
"In other words--_nothing_," said Mary; "I have known my father to spend
more in a month."
"Income--" began Mr. Gilpin.
"_Dear_ Mr. Gilpin," said Gay, who was the youngest by twenty minutes;
"don't."
"Forty thousand dollars," said Mary, "at four per cent is sixteen
hundred. Sixteen hundred divided by seven is how much?"
"Nothing," said Gay promptly. And all the family laughed, except Arthur,
who was trying to balance a quill pen on his thumb.
"I might," said Mr. Gilpin helplessly, "be able to get you five per cent
or even five and a half."
"You forget," said Maud, the second in age, and by some thought the
first in beauty, "that we are father's children. Do you think _he_ ever
troubled his head about five and a half per cent, or even," she finished
mischievously, "six?"
Arthur, having succeeded in balancing the quill for a few moments, laid
it down and entered the discussion.
"What has been decided?" he asked. His voice was very gentle and
uninterested.
"It's an awful pity mamma isn't in a position to help us," said Eve.
Eve was the third. After her, Arthur had been born; and then, all on a
bright summer's morning, the triplets, Lee, Phyllis, and Gay.
"That old scalawag mamma married," said Lee, "spends all her money on
his old hunting trips."
"Where is the princess at the moment?" asked Mr. Gilpin.
"They're in Somaliland," said Lee. "They almost took me. If they had, I
shouldn't have called Oducalchi an old scalawag. You know the most
dismal thing, when mamma and papa separated and _she_ married _him_, was
his turning out to be a regular old-fashioned brick. He can throw a fly
yards further and lighter than any man _I_ ever saw."
"And if you are bored," said Phyllis, "you say to him, 'Say something
funny, Prince,' and he always can, instantly, without hesitation."
"All things considered," said Gay, "mamma's been a very lucky girl."
"Still," said Mary, "the fact remains that she's in no position to
support us in the lap of luxury."
"Our kid brother," said Gay, "the future Prince Oducalchi, will need all
she's got. When you realize that that child will have something like
fifty acres of slate roofs to keep in order, it sets you thinking."
"One thing I insist on," said Maud, "mamma shan't be bothered by a lot
of hard-luck stories----"
"Did it ever occur to you, Mr. Gilpin," said Arthur, in his gentle
voice, "that my sisters are the six sandiest and most beautiful girls in
the world? I've been watching them out of the corner of my eye, and
wishing to heaven that I were Romney or Gainsborough. I'd give a million
dollars
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Produced by David Garcia, Tiffany Vergon, Juliet Sutherland,
Charles Franks, and the Online Distributed Proofreaders Team
BROUGHT HOME.
BY
HESBA STRETTON.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. UPTON RECTORY
CHAPTER II. ANN HOLLAND
CHAPTER III. WHAT WAS HER DUTY?
CHAPTER IV. A BABY'S GRAVE
CHAPTER V. TOWN'S TALK
CHAPTER VI. THE RECTOR'S RETURN
CHAPTER VII. WORSE THAN DEAD
CHAPTER VIII. HUSBAND AND WIFE
CHAPTER IX. SAD DAYS
CHAPTER X. A SIN AND A SHAME
CHAPTER XI. LOST
CHAPTER XII. A COLONIAL CURACY
CHAPTER XIII. SELF-SACRIFICE
CHAPTER XIV. FAREWELLS
CHAPTER XV. IN DESPAIR
CHAPTER XVI. A LONG VOYAGE
CHAPTER XVII. ALMOST SHIPWRECKED
CHAPTER XVIII. SAVED
CHAPTER I.
UPTON RECTORY
So quiet is the small market town of Upton, that it is difficult to
believe in the stir and din of London, which is little more than an
hour's journey from it. It is the terminus of the single line of rails
branching off from the main line eight miles away, and along it three
trains only travel each way daily. The sleepy streets have old-fashioned
houses straggling along each side, with trees growing amongst them; and
here and there, down the roads leading into the the country, which are
half street, half lane, green plots of daisied grass are still to be
found, where there were once open fields that have left a little legacy
to the birds and children of coming generations. Half the houses are
still largely built of wood from the forest of olden times that has now
disappeared; and ancient bow-windows jut out over the side causeways.
Some of the old exclusive mansions continue to boast in a breastwork of
stone pillars linked together by chains of iron, intended as a defence
against impertinent intruders, but more often serving as safe
swinging-places for the young children sent to play in the streets.
Perhaps of all times of the year the little town looks its best on a
sunny autumn morning, with its fine film of mist, when the chestnut
leaves are golden, and slender threads of gossamer are floating in the
air, and heavy dews, white as the hoar-frost, glisten in the sunshine.
But at any season Upton seems a tranquil, peaceful, out-of-the-world
spot, having no connection with busier and more wretched places.
There were not many real gentry, as the townsfolk called them, living
near. A few retired Londoners, weary of the great city, and finding
rents and living cheaper at Upton, had settled in trim villas, built
beyond the boundaries of the town. But for the most part the population
consisted of substantial trades-people and professional men, whose
families had been represented there for several generations. As usual
the society was broken up into very small cliques; no one household
feeling itself exactly on the same social equality as another; even as
far down as the laundresses and charwomen, who could tell whose husband
or son had been before the justices, and which families had escaped that
disgrace. The nearest approach to that equality and fraternity of which
we all hear so much and see so little, was unfortunately to be found in
the bar-parlor and billiard-room of the Upton Arms; but even this was
lost as soon as the threshold was recrossed, and the boon-companions of
the interior breathed the air of the outer world. There were several
religious sects of considerable strength, and of very decided
antagonistic views; any one of whose members was always ready to give
the reason of the special creed that was in him. So, what with a variety
of domestic circumstances, and a diversity of religious opinions, it is
not to be wondered at that the society of Upton was broken up into very
small circles indeed.
There was one point, however, on which all the townspeople were united.
There could be no doubt whatever as to the beauty of the old Norman
church, lying just beyond the eastern boundary of the town; not mingling
with its business, but standing in a solemn quiet of its own, as if to
guard the repose of the sleepers under its shadow. The churchyard too,
was beautiful, with its grand and dusky old yew-trees, spreading their
broad sweeping branches like cedars, and with many a bright colored
flower-bed lying amongst the dark green of the graves. The townspeople
loved to stroll down to it in the twilight, with half-stirred idle
thoughts of better things soothing away the worries and cares of the
day. A narrow meadow of glebe-land separated the churchyard from the
Rectory garden, a bank
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ACRES OF DIAMONDS
By Russell H. Conwell
Founder Of Temple University
Philadelphia
_His Life And Achievement By Robert Shackleton_
With an Autobiographical Note
ACRES OF DIAMONDS
CONTENTS
ACRES OF DIAMONDS
HIS LIFE AND ACHIEVEMENTS
I. THE STORY OF THE SWORD
II. THE BEGINNING AT OLD LEXINGTON
III. STORY OF THE FIFTY-SEVEN CENTS
IV. HIS POWER AS ORATOR AND PREACHER
V. GIFT FOR INSPIRING OTHERS
VI. MILLIONS OF HEARERS
VII. HOW A UNIVERSITY WAS FOUNDED
VIII. HIS SPLENDID EFFICIENCY
IX. THE STORY OF ``ACRES OF DIAMONDS''
FIFTY YEARS ON THE LECTURE PLATFORM
AN APPRECIATION
THOUGH Russell H. Conwell's Acres of Diamonds have been spread all over
the United States, time and care have made them more valuable, and now
that they have been reset in black and white by their discoverer, they
are to be laid in the hands of a multitude for their enrichment.
In the same case with these gems there is a fascinating story of the
Master Jeweler's life-work which splendidly illustrates the ultimate
unit of power by showing what one man can do in one day and what one
life is worth to the world.
As his neighbor and intimate friend in Philadelphia for thirty years, I
am free to say that Russell H. Conwell's tall, manly figure stands out
in the state of Pennsylvania as its first citizen and "The Big Brother"
of its seven millions of people.
From the beginning of his career he has been a credible witness in the
Court of Public Works to the truth of the strong language of the
New Testament Parable where it says, "If ye have faith as a grain of
mustard-seed, ye shall say unto this mountain, 'Remove hence to yonder
place,' AND IT SHALL REMOVE AND NOTHING SHALL BE IMPOSSIBLE UNTO YOU."
As a student, schoolmaster, lawyer, preacher, organizer, thinker and
writer, lecturer, educator, diplomat, and leader of men, he has made his
mark on his city and state and the times in which he has lived. A man
dies, but his good work lives.
His ideas, ideals, and enthusiasms have inspired tens of thousands of
lives. A book full of the energetics of a master workman is just what
every young man cares for.
1915. {signature}
ACRES OF DIAMONDS
_Friends_.--This lecture has been delivered under these circumstances:
I visit a town or city, and try to arrive there early enough to see the
postmaster, the barber, the keeper of the hotel, the principal of the
schools, and the ministers of some of the churches, and then go into
some of the factories and stores, and talk with the people, and get into
sympathy with the local conditions of that town or city and see what
has been their history, what opportunities they had, and what they had
failed to do--and every town fails to do something--and then go to the
lecture and talk to those people about the subjects which applied to
their locality. "Acres of Diamonds"--the idea--has continuously been
precisely the same. The idea is that in this country of ours every man
has the opportunity to make more of himself than he does in his own
environment, with his own skill, with his own energy, and with his own
friends. RUSSELL H. CONWELL.
ACRES OF DIAMONDS
[1]
WHEN going down the Tigris and Euphrates rivers many years ago with a
party of English travelers I found myself under the direction of an old
Arab guide whom we hired up at Bagdad, and I have often thought how
that guide resembled our barbers in certain mental characteristics. He
thought that it was not only his duty to guide us down those rivers,
and do what he was paid for doing, but also to entertain us with stories
curious and weird, ancient and modern, strange and familiar. Many of
them I have forgotten, and I am glad I have, but there is one I shall
never forget.
The old guide was leading my camel by its halter along the banks of
those ancient rivers, and he told me story after story until I grew
weary of his story-telling and ceased to listen. I have never been
irritated with that guide when he lost his temper as I ceased listening.
But I remember that he took off his Turkish cap and swung it in a circle
to get my attention. I could see it through the corner of my eye, but
I determined not to look straight at him for fear he would tell another
story. But although I am not a woman, I did finally look, and as soon as
I did he went right into another story.
Said he, "I will tell you a story now which I reserve for my particular
friends." When he emphasized the words "particular friends," I listened,
and I have ever been glad I did. I really feel devoutly thankful, that
there are 1,674 young men who have been carried through college by this
lecture who are also glad that I did listen. The old guide told me that
there once lived not far from the River Indus an ancient Persian by the
name of Ali Hafed. He said that Ali Hafed owned a very large farm,
that he had orchards, grain-fields, and gardens; that he had money at
interest, and was a wealthy and contented man. He was contented because
he was wealthy, and wealthy because he was contented. One day there
visited that old Persian farmer one of these ancient Buddhist priests,
one of the wise men of the East. He sat down by the fire and told the
old farmer how this world of ours was made. He said that this world was
once a mere bank of fog, and that the Almighty thrust His finger into
this bank of fog, and began slowly to move His finger around, increasing
the speed until at last He whirled this bank of fog into a solid ball of
fire. Then it went rolling through the universe, burning its way through
other banks of fog, and condensed the moisture without, until it fell in
floods of rain upon its hot surface, and cooled the outward crust.
Then the internal fires bursting outward through the crust threw up
the mountains and hills, the valleys, the plains and prairies of this
wonderful world of ours. If this internal molten mass came bursting out
and cooled very quickly it became granite; less quickly copper, less
quickly silver, less quickly gold, and, after gold, diamonds were made.
Said the old priest, "A diamond is a congealed drop of sunlight." Now
that is literally scientifically true, that a diamond is an actual
deposit of carbon from the sun. The old priest told Ali Hafed that if he
had one diamond the size of his thumb he could purchase the county, and
if he had a mine of diamonds he could place his children upon thrones
through the influence of their great wealth.
Ali Hafed heard all about diamonds, how much they were worth, and went
to his bed that night a poor man. He had not lost anything, but he was
poor because he was discontented, and discontented because he feared
he was poor. He said, "I want a mine of diamonds," and he lay awake all
night.
Early in the morning he sought out the priest. I know by experience that
a priest is very cross when awakened early in the morning, and when he
shook that old priest out of his dreams, Ali Hafed said to him:
"Will you tell me where I can find diamonds?"
"Diamonds! What do you want with diamonds?" "Why, I wish to be immensely
rich." "Well, then, go along and find them. That is all you have to do;
go and find them, and then you have them." "But I don't know where to
go." "Well, if you will find a river that runs through white sands,
between high mountains, in those white sands you will always find
diamonds." "I don't believe there is any such river." "Oh yes, there are
plenty of them. All you have to do is to go and find them, and then you
have them." Said Ali Hafed, "I will go."
So he sold his farm, collected his money, left his family in charge of
a neighbor, and away he went in search of diamonds. He began his search,
very properly to my mind, at the Mountains of the Moon. Afterward he
came around into Palestine, then wandered on into Europe, and at last
when his money was all spent and he was in rags, wretchedness, and
poverty, he stood on the shore of that bay at Barcelona, in Spain, when
a great tidal wave came rolling in between the pillars of Hercules, and
the poor, afflicted, suffering, dying man could not resist the awful
temptation to cast himself into that incoming tide, and he sank beneath
its foaming crest, never to rise in this life again.
When that old guide had told me that awfully sad story he stopped the
camel I was riding on and went back to fix the baggage that was coming
off another camel, and I had an opportunity to muse over his story while
he was gone. I remember saying to myself, "Why did he reserve that
story for his 'particular friends'?" There seemed to be no beginning, no
middle, no end, nothing to it. That was the first story I had ever heard
told in my life, and would be the first one I ever read, in which the
hero was killed in the first chapter. I had but one chapter of that
story, and the hero was dead.
When the guide came back and took up the halter of my camel, he went
right ahead with the story, into the second chapter, just as though
there had been no break. The man who purchased Ali Hafed's farm one day
led his camel into the garden to drink, and as that camel put its nose
into the shallow water of that garden brook, Ali Hafed's successor
noticed a curious flash of light from the white sands of the stream. He
pulled out a black stone having an eye of light reflecting all the hues
of the rainbow. He took the pebble into the house and put it on the
mantel which covers the central fires, and forgot all about it.
A few days later this same old priest came in to visit Ali Hafed's
successor, and the moment he opened that drawing-room door he saw that
flash of light on the mantel, and he rushed up to it, and shouted:
"Here is a diamond! Has Ali Hafed returned?" "Oh no, Ali Hafed has not
returned, and that is not a diamond. That is nothing but a stone we
found right out here in our own garden." "But," said the priest, "I
tell you I know a diamond when I see it. I know positively that is a
diamond."
Then together they rushed out into that old garden and stirred up
the white sands with their fingers, and lo! there came up other more
beautiful and valuable gems than the first. "Thus," said the guide
to me, and, friends, it is historically true, "was discovered the
diamond-mine of Golconda, the most magnificent diamond-mine in all the
history of mankind, excelling the Kimberly itself. The Kohinoor, and the
Orloff of the crown jewels of England and Russia, the largest on earth,
came from that mine."
When that old Arab guide told me the second chapter of his story, he
then took off his Turkish cap and swung it around in the air again to
get my attention to the moral. Those Arab guides have morals to their
stories, although they are not always moral. As he swung his hat, he
said to me, "Had Ali Hafed remained at home and dug in his own cellar,
or underneath his own wheat-fields, or in his own garden, instead of
wretchedness, starvation, and death by suicide in a strange land, he
would have had 'acres of diamonds.' For every acre of that old farm,
yes, every shovelful, afterward revealed gems which since have decorated
the crowns of monarchs."
When he had added the moral to his story I saw why he reserved it for
"his particular friends." But I did not tell him I could see it. It was
that mean old Arab's way of going around a thing like a lawyer, to
say indirectly what he did not dare say directly, that "in his private
opinion there was a certain young man then traveling down the Tigris
River that might better be at home in America." I did not tell him I
could see that, but I told him his story reminded me of one, and I told
it to him quick, and I think I will tell it to you.
I told him of a man out in California in 1847 who owned a ranch. He
heard they had discovered gold in southern California, and so with a
passion for gold he sold his ranch to Colonel Sutter, and away he went,
never to come back. Colonel Sutter put a mill upon a stream that ran
through that ranch, and one day his little girl brought some wet sand
from the raceway into their home and sifted it through her fingers
before the fire, and in that falling sand a visitor saw the first
shining scales of real gold that were ever discovered in California. The
man who had owned that ranch wanted gold, and he could have secured it
for the mere taking. Indeed, thirty-eight millions of dollars has
been taken out of a very few acres since then. About eight years ago I
delivered this lecture in a city that stands on that farm, and they
told me that a one-third owner for years and years had been getting one
hundred and twenty dollars in gold every fifteen minutes, sleeping or
waking, without taxation. You and I would enjoy an income like that--if
we didn't have to pay an income tax.
But a better illustration really than that occurred here in our
own Pennsylvania. If there is anything I enjoy above another on the
platform, it is to get one of these German audiences in Pennsylvania
before me, and fire that at them, and I enjoy it to-night. There was
a man living in Pennsylvania, not unlike some Pennsylvanians you have
seen, who owned a farm, and he did with that farm just what I should do
with a farm if I owned one in Pennsylvania--he sold it. But before he
sold it he decided to secure employment collecting coal-oil for his
cousin, who was in the business in Canada, where they first discovered
oil on this continent. They dipped it from the running streams at that
early time. So this Pennsylvania farmer wrote to his cousin asking for
employment. You see, friends, this farmer was not altogether a foolish
man. No, he was not. He did not leave his farm until he had something
else to do. _*Of all the simpletons the stars shine on I don't know of a
worse one than the man who leaves one job before he has gotten another_.
That has especial reference to my profession, and has no reference
whatever to a man seeking a divorce. When he wrote to his cousin for
employment, his cousin replied, "I cannot engage you because you know
nothing about the oil business."
Well, then the old farmer said, "I will know," and with most commendable
zeal (characteristic of the students of Temple University) he set
himself at the study of the whole subject. He began away back at the
second day of God's creation when this world was covered thick and deep
with that rich vegetation which since has turned to the primitive beds
of coal. He studied the subject until he found that the drainings
really of those rich beds of coal furnished the coal-oil that was worth
pumping, and then he found how it came up with the living springs. He
studied until he knew what it looked like, smelled like, tasted like,
and how to refine it. Now said he in his letter to his cousin, "I
understand the oil business." His cousin answered, "All right, come on."
So he sold his farm, according to the county record, for $833 (even
money, "no cents"). He had scarcely gone from that place before the
man who purchased the spot went out to arrange for the watering of the
cattle. He found the previous owner had gone out years before and put
a plank across the brook back of the barn, edgewise into the surface
of the water just a few inches. The purpose of that plank at that
sharp angle across the brook was to throw over to the other bank a
dreadful-looking scum through which the cattle would not put their
noses. But with that plank there to throw it all over to one side, the
cattle would drink below, and thus that man who had gone to Canada had
been himself damming back for twenty-three years a flood of coal-oil
which the state geologists of Pennsylvania declared to us ten years
later was even then worth a hundred millions of dollars to our state,
and four years ago our geologist declared the discovery to be worth
to our state a thousand millions of dollars. The man who owned that
territory on which the city of Titusville now stands, and those
Pleasantville valleys, had studied the subject from the second day of
God's creation clear down to the present time. He studied it until he
knew all about it, and yet he is said to have sold the whole of it for
$833, and again I say, "no sense."
But I need another illustration. I found it in Massachusetts, and I am
sorry I did because that is the state I came from. This young man in
Massachusetts furnishes just another phase of my thought. He went to
Yale College and studied mines and mining, and became such an adept as
a mining engineer that he was employed by the authorities of the
university to train students who were behind their classes. During his
senior year he earned $15 a week for doing that work. When he
graduated they raised his pay from $15 to $45 a week, and offered him a
professorship, and as soon as they did he went right home to his mother.
_*If they had raised that boy's pay from $15 to $15.60 he would have
stayed and been proud of the place, but when they put it
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THE WAIF OF THE "CYNTHIA."
By
Jules Verne and Andre Laurie
NO. 659 DOUBLE NUMBER
PRICE 20 CENTS
The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition,
Issued Tri-weekly.
By subscription
$50 per annum.
Copyrighted 1885 by George Munro--
Entered at the Post Office at New York
at second class rates--
Jan. 6, 1886
Rand McNally edition, published Feb. 1888
325 pages printed on fine paper beautifully illustrated
with handsome illuminated and embossed covers.
THE WAIF OF THE "CYNTHIA."
CHAPTER I.
MR. MALARIUS' FRIEND.
There is probably neither in Europe nor anywhere else a scholar whose
face is more universally known than that of Dr. Schwaryencrona, of
Stockholm. His portrait appears on the millions of bottles with green
seals, which are sent to the confines of the globe.
Truth compels us to state that these bottles only contain cod liver oil,
a good and useful medicine; which is sold to the inhabitants of Norway
for a "couronnes," which is worth one franc and thirty-nine centimes.
Formerly this oil was made by the fishermen, but now the process is a
more scientific one, and the prince of this special industry is the
celebrated Dr. Schwaryencrona.
There is no one who has not seen his pointed beard, his spectacles, his
hooked nose, and his cap of otter skin. The engraving, perhaps, is not
very fine, but it is certainly a striking likeness. A proof of this is
what happened one day in a primary school in Noroe, on the western coast
of Norway, a few leagues from Bergen.
Two o'clock had struck. The pupils were in their classes in the large,
sanded hall--the girls on the left and the boys on the right--occupied
in following the demonstration which their teacher, Mr. Malarius, was
making on the black-board. Suddenly the door opened, and a fur coat, fur
boots, fur gloves, and a cap of otter, made their appearance on the
threshold.
The pupils immediately rose respectfully, as is usual when a stranger
visits the class-room. None of them had ever seen the new arrival
before, but they all whispered when they saw him, "Doctor
Schwaryencrona," so much did the picture engraved on the bottles
resemble the doctor.
We must say that the pupils of Mr. Malarius had the bottles continually
before their eyes, for one of the principal manufactories of the doctor
was at Noroe. But for many years the learned man had not visited that
place, and none of the children consequently could have beheld him in
the flesh. In imagination it was another matter, for they often spoke of
him in Noroe, and his ears must have often tingled, if the popular
belief has any foundation. Be this as it may, his recognition was
unanimous, and a triumph for the unknown artist who had drawn his
portrait--a triumph of which this modest artist might justly be proud,
and of which more than one photographer in the world might well be
jealous.
But what astonished and disappointed the pupils a little was to discover
that the doctor was a man below the ordinary height, and not the giant
which they had imagined him to be. How could such an illustrious man be
satisfied with a height of only five feet three inches? His gray head
hardly reached the shoulder of Mr. Malarius, and he was already stooping
with age. He was also much thinner than the doctor, which made him
appear twice as tall. His large brown overcoat, to which long use had
given a greenish tint, hung loosely around him; he wore short breeches
and shoes with buckles, and from beneath his black silk cap a few gray
locks had made their escape. His rosy cheeks and smiling countenance
gave an expression of great sweetness to his face. He also wore
spectacles, through which he did not cast piercing glances like the
doctor, but through them his blue eyes shone with inexhaustible
benevolence.
In the memory of his pupils Mr. Malarius had never punished a scholar.
But, nevertheless, they all respected him, and loved him. He had a brave
soul, and all the world knew it very well. They were not ignorant of the
fact that in his youth he had passed brilliant examinations, and that he
had been offered a professorship in a great university, where he might
have attained to
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BIRDS AND NATURE.
ILLUSTRATED BY COLOR PHOTOGRAPHY.
Vol. XII. OCTOBER, 1902. No. 3.
CONTENTS.
AUTUMN WOODS. 97
THE PHILIPPINE SUN-BIRD. (_Cinnyris jugularis_.) 98
Fly, white butterflies, out to sea 98
THE ANIMALS’ FAIR. PART II—THE FAIR. 101
A DAY. 104
THE GREAT GRAY OWL. (_Scotiaptex cinerea_.) 107
MY SUMMER ACQUAINTANCES. 108
THE BIRD OF PEACE. 109
THE GREEN-CRESTED FLYCATCHER. (_Empidonax virescens_.) 110
CHARACTER IN BIRDS. 113
Frowning, the owl in the oak complained him 116
THE LOUISIANA WATER-THRUSH. (_Seiurus motacilla_.) 119
SOME DOGS. 120
PECULIAR MEXICAN BREAD. 121
NATURE’S GLORY. 121
LAPIS LAZULI, AMBER AND MALICHITE. 122
THE LEAF BUTTERFLY. (_Kallima paralekta_.) 131
IN AUTUMN. 132
BEAUTIFUL VINES TO BE FOUND IN OUR WILD WOODS. 133
SOME SNAILS OF THE OCEAN. 134
JOIN A SUNRISE CLUB. 140
THE TOMATO. (_Lycopersicum esculentum_.) 143
THE BROOK. 144
AUTUMN WOODS.
Ere, in the northern gale,
The summer tresses of the trees are gone,
The woods of Autumn, all around our vale,
Have put their glory on.
The mountains that infold,
In their wide sweep, the colored landscape round,
Seem groups of giant kings, in purple and gold,
That guard the enchanted ground.
I roam the woods that crown
The uplands, where the mingled splendors glow,
Where the gay company of trees look down
On the green fields below.
My steps are not alone
In these bright walks; the sweet southwest, at play,
Flies, rustling, where the painted leaves are strown
Along the winding way.
And far in heaven, the while,
The sun, that sends that gale to wander here,
Pours out on the fair earth his quiet smile—
The sweetest of the year.
—William Cullen Bryant.
THE PHILIPPINE SUN-BIRD.
(_Cinnyris jugularis_.)
Darlings of children and of bard,
Perfect kinds by vice unmarred,
All of worth and beauty set
Gems in Nature’s cabinet:
These the fables she esteems
Reality most like to dreams.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson, “Nature.”
The sun-birds bear a similar relation to the oriental tropics that the
humming birds do to the warmer regions of the Western hemisphere. Both
have a remarkably brilliant plumage which is in harmony with the
gorgeous flowers that grow in the tropical fields. It is probable that
natives of Asia first gave the name sun-birds to these bright creatures
because of their splendid and shining plumage. By the Anglo-Indians they
have been called hummingbirds, but they are perching birds while the
hummingbirds are not. There are over one hundred species of these birds.
They are graceful in all their motions and very active in their habits.
Like the hummingbirds, they flit from flower to flower, feeding on the
minute insects which are attracted by the nectar, and probably to some
extent on the honey, for their tongues are fitted for gathering it.
However, their habit while gathering food is unlike that of the
hummingbird, for they do not hover over the flower, but perch upon it
while feeding. The plumage of the males nearly always differs very
strongly from that of the females. The brilliantly colored patches are
unlike those of the hummingbirds for they blend gradually and are not
sharply contrasted, though the iridescent character is just as marked.
The bills are long and slender, finely pointed and curved. The edges of
the mandibles are finely serrated.
The nests are beautiful structures suspended from the end of a bough or
even from the underside of a leaf. The entrance is near the top and
usually on the side. Over the entrance a projecting portico is often
constructed. The outside of the nest is usually covered with coarse
materials, apparently to give the effect of a pile of rubbish. Two eggs
are usually laid in these cozy homes, but in rare instances three have
been found. The Philippine Sun-bird of our illustration is a native of
the Philippines and is found on nearly all the islands from Luzon to
Mindanao. The throat of the male has a beautiful iridescence shaded with
green, while that of the female, shown on the nest, is yellow.
Fly, white butterflies, out to sea,
Frail pale wings for the winds to try;
Small white wings that we scarce can see
Here and there may a chance-caught eye
Fly.
Note, in a score of you, twain or three
Brighter or darker of tinge or dye;
Some fly light as a laugh of glee,
Some fly soft as a long, low sigh:
All to the haven where each would be—
Fly.
—Swinburne.
[Illustration: PHILIPPINE YELLOW-BREASTED SUN-BIRD.
(Cinnyris jugularis).
Life-size.
FROM COL. CHI. ACAD. SCIENCES.]
THE ANIMALS’ FAIR.
PART II—THE FAIR.
Days and weeks of busy preparation rolled around and promptly at the
appointed time the Animals’ Fair opened in splendor.
A large football field had been secured for the show, and a striking
sight met the eyes of curious men, women and children, who crowded
through the gates on the opening day.
Two immense St. Bernard dogs had been appointed gatekeepers, and the
human crowd were uncommonly respectful and subdued as they paid their
entrance fee of a handful of grain or a juicy bone and passed these
representatives of animal law.
The first thing to attract the eye as one entered the Fair was a large
band stand which was occupied by a band of monkeys in red coats and
caps, who made up in quantity what their music lacked in quality, and
went through their performance with a decorum unexcelled by more musical
organizations.
The monkeys found themselves more at home in their booth, which, was
near the grand stand, the entrance fee to which was a small sack of
peanuts. Here the delighted human audience watched an unequaled show of
daring rope and trapeze performances, of acrobatic feats which none but
“four-handed” artists were able to accomplish, and of comical antics
such as only monkeys can go through. The excited children screamed with
laughter and showered peanuts upon the performers, who, following their
instincts, forgot their scheduled program and joined in a wild rush and
squabble over the unexpected treat. Such little episodes were soon over,
however, and the entertainment and forgotten dignity were resumed
together.
Next to the monkeys’ booth was one occupied by geese, ducks and
peacocks, and was one which deserves especial mention. It was
elaborately decorated with garlands of feather flowers dyed in all the
colors of the rainbow, hung against a background of snowy white
feathers. On each side stood a peacock with gorgeous tail outspread,
showing to lovely effect against the white walls behind them. Pillows
and cushions of softest feathers, festoons of snowy down trimmings,
quills and wings and breasts for millinery purposes, feather boas,
feather brushes and dusters, quill pens and quill toothpicks were
displayed to greatest advantage and offered for sale for a small sum of
wheat or corn.
The hogs came next with a large and elaborate display, which included
strings of sausages and Dewey hams, huge glass jars of snowy lard, hams
and bacon put up in fancy ways, and piles of canned pork and deviled
ham. In another part of the booth were brushes of all kinds made from
hog bristles, soaps manufactured from otherwise unsalable parts of hog
anatomy, saddles and other leather goods made from the hides, and—in a
conspicuous position—a great pile of inflated pigskin footballs, which
caught the eye of every schoolboy who came near the booth.
“Young man,” grunted one of the boothkeepers to a boy who was examining
this pile of balls, “young man, never despise a hog nor deride him for
his slowness. There is nothing more lively than a pigskin when properly
inflated. It is a thing for the possession of which the representatives
of the largest colleges are proud to contend, and he is the hero of the
day who carries the pigskin to a winning touchdown. Why, college
students will leave their books behind them, will cast aside the
cultivation of their brains for the glory of chasing the pigskin over a
muddy field. They will sacrifice life itself in its pursuit and count
broken limbs and bloody noses as badges of honor. Take my advice. Buy a
pigskin football and enter at once upon the path of glory.”
It is hardly necessary to add that this sale, and many like it, were
made during the progress of the Fair.
The booth of the wild birds was the most beautiful one in the whole
display. It was gotten up to represent a forest glade, with shadowy
aisles and leafy retreats. Its carpet was made of grasses and moss and
ferns and flowers. A little fountain cast its waters into a tiny pool,
where birds dipped their wings or quenched their thirst. Dainty nests
were built in many curious ways, some hanging from the branches, others
hiding beneath the grasses or sheltered by the leaves. A myriad of
brilliant birds flitted through this miniature paradise, the bluebird,
the redbird, the orange and black oriole, the scarlet tanager, golden
canaries and many others, making up a flashing bouquet of color.
Then there were solos, and duets, and grand concerts, when thrush and
lark and canary and redbird and warbler joined their voices in a great
gush of melody through which ran the liquid trills and cadenzas of
mocking-bird and nightingale. The quail piped his “Bob White” from the
ferns and grasses; and the parrot—as clown of the occasion—imitated the
human voice in comically jerky efforts.
Along the front of the booth were displayed rows of bottles filled with
every imaginable kind of bug and worm which the industrious birds had
gathered from orchards and fields, and which were exhibited as proof of
the invaluable aid which the birds give to man.
The cattle display was next on the list—a notable one, and attractive to
every man and woman. There were noble representatives from every breed
of cattle, with the most beautiful, gentle-eyed calves that were ever
seen. There was a tempting display of great glass jars of rich milk and
yellow cream, huge cheeses and golden butter balls, daintily molded
curds and glasses of whey. There was a free tank of delicious iced
buttermilk, which was continually surrounded by a thirsty crowd who
drank as if they had never tasted buttermilk before.
Then there were countless varieties of fancy articles made from horn and
bone, pots of glue, cans of neatsfoot oil, and leather goods of every
possible description.
There was dressed beef, and jerked beef, and dried beef, and potted and
canned and corned and deviled and roasted. There was oxtail soup, and
blood pudding, and cakes of suet, and stacks of tallow candles. There
were hides tanned into soft carriage robes and rugs; there were bottles
of rennet tablets; there were fancy colored bladders, and bunches of
shoestrings. In short, the articles contained in this display were
beyond enumeration in a short account like this.
The dogs came next with a wonderful display of fancy breeds, of trick
dogs and trained dogs, of dogs little and big, varying from the shaggy
Eskimo to the skinny little hairless Mexican, and from the huge St.
Bernard to the tiny terrier. The Newfoundlands gave a life-saving
exhibition every day, wherein monkeys dressed as people were rescued
from the water or from buildings supposed to be on fire.
The St. Bernards dragged frozen traveler monkeys from snowbanks of
cotton and carried them on their backs to places of safety.
Cute puppies and clumsy puppies went through their antics for the
amusement of the children and rolled unconcernedly over beautiful
carriage rugs which were labeled “Japanese Wolfskin.”
The sheep and goats had a booth together, wherein was a marvelous
display of wools and woolen goods, yarns, pelts, angora furs, kid
gloves, kid shoes, rugs, carpets and blankets.
There were ropes of goats’ hair which water could not destroy, and wigs
which were destined to cover the heads of learned judges and barristers.
There was a wonderful red tally-ho coach, drawn by four snow-white goats
driven by a monkey dressed as a coachman, which made the circuit of the
Fair grounds every afternoon, while monkey passengers made the air
lively and cleared the way by the loud notes of their tin horns. This
exhibition set the children wild, and parents were daily teased to buy
the charming turnout for the use of their little human monkeys.
The cats had a display which met with the highest favor from their
little girl visitors. Here were beautiful pussies of every kind and
color, with coats as soft and shiny as silk. There were numbers of the
cunningest kittens, which rolled and tumbled and went through their most
graceful motions to the unending delight of the little spectators.
This booth was gaily festooned with strings of mice and rats, caught up
here and there by small rabbits, gophers and moles.
There was a string band that played in this booth every afternoon to
demonstrate the superiority of cat-gut strings over those made of silk
or wire, as used on violins, mandolins, guitars and all other stringed
instruments. They never failed to announce that their bows were strung
with the finest of horsehair which had been supplied by the horses whose
booth was farther down the grounds.
The horses attracted every eye and aroused much discussion among the
visitors as to whether horses would ever be entirely superseded by
automobiles and electric engines.
The children went into ecstacies over the Shetland ponies, and the
ladies declared the Arabian horses “too lovely for anything.”
Every boy who visited this booth was presented with a baseball covered
with the best of horsehide leather.
But time fails me to tell of all the wonderful things which this Fair
presented to the eyes of admiring men. On one point only was
dissatisfaction expressed by the visitors—there was no Midway. President
Monkey, when interviewed by a representative of the Associated Press in
regard to the omission, made the following remarkable statement:
“No, it was not a matter of oversight. The camel volunteered to bring
some of his Arabs to establish the Streets of Cairo, and some of the
monkeys were anxious to put in a Gay Paris display. The lions wished to
bring some trained Wild Men of Borneo for a Hagenbeck show, and the
snakes wanted to do jugglery. You can see that there was no lack of what
misguided people call ‘attractions.’
“The management discussed the Midway from every point of view, and
decided that it was entirely too low grade for a first-class
entertainment such as we desired to make. We felt that it would only
attract a rough class of visitors, whose presence we did not desire. And
so the unanimous decision was, ‘We will have a good, clean, respectable
show or we will have no show at all.’
“No, sir. Say emphatically in your dispatches that the Midway was
intentionally omitted. Such things may do for men, but beasts will have
none of them.”
The Fair was in every way a success, being carried through without
disturbance of any kind and coming out free of debt and with much legal
tender in the treasury.
Men were so much impressed by the obligations which they owed to the
animal world that there was a decided improvement in their treatment of
its various representatives. While this state of affairs cannot be
expected to last long, the animals have learned how to arouse such
respect and have decided to make the Animal Fair an annual attraction.
Mary McCrae Culter.
A DAY.
In the morning the path by the river
Sent me a messenger bird,—
“I’m all by myself and lonely,
Come,” as I waked I heard.
I walked the path by the water,
Till a daisy spoke and said,
“I am so tired of shining;
Why don’t you pat my head?”
So I kissed and fondled the daisy,
Till the clover upon the lea
Said, “It is time for eating,
Spread your luncheon on me.”
But first I went to the orchard,
And gathered the fruit that hung,
Before I answered the green-sward,
Where the clovery grasses swung.
Then the rocks on the hill-side called me,
And the flowers beside the way,
And I talked with the oaks and maples
Till Night was threatening Day.
Then I knelt at the foot of the sunset,
And laid thereon my prayer,
And the angels, star-crowned, hurried
To carry it up the stair.
And this was the plea I put there:
Make me so pure and good
That I shall be worthy the friendship
Of river, and field, and wood.
Lucia Belle Cook.
[Illustration: GREAT GRAY OWL.
(Scotiaptex cinerea).
⅓ Life-size.
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Transcriber's Note:
The original text makes heavy use of the "long s" character. These
have been replaced with the ASCII "s".
Capitalization of words within sentences is reproduced faithfully
from the original.
This text makes heavy use of obsolete and archaic spellings. The
original spellings have been preserved.
[Illustration: The GOOD BOY getting off the JUVENILE BIBLE by Heart.]
_Train up a Child in the Way he should go, and when he is old he will
not depart from it, Prov. xxii. 6._
The
JUVENILE BIBLE:
BEING
A BRIEF CONCORDANCE
OF THE
_HOLY SCRIPTURES_,
IN VERSE.
CONTAINING
A Summary of all the CHAPTERS in the Books of the
_OLD and NEW TESTAMENT,_
From GENESIS to the REVELATION
_Alphabetically Arranged,_
AND
ADMIRABLY ADAPTED
TO THE
COMPREHENSION AND RETENTION OF
YOUNG READERS.
_Search the Scriptures, and let the Word of Christ dwell
in you richly in all Wisdom, John v.39. Col.iii.16_
LONDON:
PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY M. ALLEN,
NO. 15, Paternoster-Row;
And Sold by all other Booksellers in the United Kingdom.
[Entered at Stationers-Hall]
The
NAMES AND ORDER
OF ALL THE BOOKS OF THE
OLD & NEW TESTAMENT,
WITH THE
NUMBER OF CHAPTERS.
Genesis hath 50 | II. Chronicles. 36 | Daniel......... 12
Exodus......... 40 | Ezra........... 10 | Hosea.......... 14
Leviticus...... 27 | Nehemiah....... 13 | Joel........... 3
Numbers........ 36 | Esther......... 10 | Amos........... 9
Deuteronomy.... 34 | Job............ 42 | Obediah........ 1
Joshua......... 24 | Psalms........ 150 | Jonah.......... 4
Judges......... 21 | Proverbs....... 31 | Micah.......... 7
Ruth........... 4 | Ecclesiastes... 12 | Nahum.......... 3
I. Samuel...... 31 | Solomon's Song 8 | Habakkuk....... 3
II. Samuel..... 24 | Isaiah......... 66 | Zephaniah...... 3
I. Kings....... 22 | Jeremiah....... 52 | Haggai......... 2
II. Kings...... 25 | Lamentations... 5 | Zecheriah...... 14
I. Chronicles.. 29 | Ezekiel........ 48 | Malachi........ 4
_The Books of the New Testament._
Matthew........ 28 | Ephesians...... 6 | Hebrews........ 13
Mark........... 16 | Philippians.... 4 | James.......... 5
Luke........... 24 | Colossians..... 4 | I. Peter....... 5
John........... 21 | I. Thessalonians 5 | II. Peter...... 3
The Acts....... 28 | II. Thessalonians 3 | I. John........ 5
Romans......... 16 | I. Timothy..... 6 | II. John....... 1
I. Corinthians 16 | II. Timothy.... 4 | III. John...... 1
II. Corinthians 13 | Titus.......... 3 | Jude........... 1
Galatians...... 6 | Philemon....... 1 | Revelation..... 22
PREFACE
This JUVENILE BIBLE, or TABLES OF THE HOLY SCRIPTURES, being a
Metrical Index to the Old and New Testament, has with much Labour been
compiled for the Edification of Youth. By means of this little
Instructor, the reader is not only made acquainted with the chief
Contents of every Chapter, but likewise with the number of chapters in
every Book. This methodical arrangement is as follows:
Every Book _that exceeds five Chapters_ is divided into Stanzas, each
Stanza, acrostic-like, beginning with A, B, C, &c. the Stanzas contain
four lines each, and every line is a Chapter (except otherwise
distinguished, as the Chapters are numbered in the margin by figures);
thus B, beginning the second Stanza and fifth line, is the fifth
Chapter, C the 9th, D the 13th, E the 17th, &c. as far as N, which is
the 49th Chapter, no Book containing more than 52, except the PROPHECY
of ISAIAH, which runs four letters more, O, P, Q, and R; likewise the
Book of PSALMS, being 150, which are divided into three alphabets, not
exceeding N, and containing 50 each. Those Books which _do not exceed
five chapters_, viz. RUTH, LAMENTATIONS, JOEL, OBADIAH, &c. are
without this method, which do not require it, and are consequently
expressed in one Stanza, sometimes exceeding four lines.
In the historical books, the contents of every chapter is as fully
expressed as the narrow limits of _one line_ will admit; and the
PSALMS, which have letters expressive of the occasions of them, are by
_those_ distinguished: but the other PSALMS, as also the PROVERBS,
ECCLESIASTES, &c. consisting of various and unconnected Sentences, and
not being reducible to any certain head, are only characterized by
some remarkable passage in them.
This novel and curious arrangement will, it is presumed, gratify the
taste of young readers, and not only give them a relish for the Sacred
Volume, but even assist their memories when duly acquainted with it.
Any person desirous of committing this JUVENILE BIBLE to memory (which
may be done in a month, or less) should first learn perfectly the name
of all the Books, and the numbers of the chapters in each Book, on the
back of the title-page; then observe A stands for 1, B 5, C 9, D 13,
E 17, F 21, G 25, H 29, I 33, K 37, L 41, M 45, N 49. When it is
known what number every letter denotes, the number of the chapter that
begins with that letter is known by it; for example, if you know the
letter B stands for 5, then when you hear this line, "Before the flood
man's life was long," you can soon tell it is the 5th chapter. If it
be asked, what are the contents of the 5th chapter of Genesis, you
answer with the above line, and so of the rest.
The three last lines of every Stanza depend upon the first line of it;
so that if the number of the first line is known, it is easy to know
the number of the rest: for instance, if you know that "Each male of
Abram circumcis'd" is the 17th of Genesis, then it follows "He angels
entertains" is the 18th; "Sees Sodom's flame God's wrath proclaim" is
the 19th; "His wife his sister feigns" is the 20th.
This work is designed to promote the knowledge and practice of the
Holy Scriptures--and when presents are made by Parents, or
promiscuously awarded by Schools, let the JUVENILE BIBLE be always the
_first_ gift: but no portion of it should ever be allotted as a
_Task_; the Author of this Work being well convinced, it is owing to
the modern and _impious_ mode of Education, compelling Children to
learn Collects, chapters in the Bible, Hymns, &c. as occasional
Exercises, and frequently _by way of Punishment_, that the Word of God
is not heard and read with that satisfaction it always should be.
_GENESIS_
1 All things created Moses writes,
2 And Paradise displays,
3 Tells Adam's fall, which ruin'd all:
4 Cain righteous Abel slays
5 Before the flood, Man's life was long,
6 Noah the ark doth frame;
7 The world is drown'd, eight favour found,
8 Out of the ark they came.
9 Covenant of rain-bow; Noah drunk--
10 His family's increase;
11 They Babel rear, confounded are.
12 Abram is call'd in grace;
13 Departs from Lot: again is blessed,
14 'Gainst four kings doth prevail.
15 A numerous feed is promised.
16 Hagar bears Ishmael.
17 Each male of Abram circumcis'd,
18 He angels entertains;
19 Sees Sodom's flame God's wrath proclaim,
20 His wife his sister feigns.
21 Feasting and mirth for Isaac's birth;
22 God claims, but saves his life;
23 Machpelah's cave is Sarah's grave,
24 Rebeckah's Isaac's wife.
25 Good Abraham's death; Rebeckah's twins,
26 Isaac his wife denies;
27 Jacob by wiles Isaac beguiles,
28 To Padan-Aram flies.
29 He Rachel weds, and Leah beds,
30
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THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT
A NOVEL
By Zane Grey
CONTENTS
I. THE SIGN OF THE SUNSET
II. WHITE SAGE
III. THE TRAIL OF THE RED WALL
IV. THE OASIS
V. BLACK SAGE AND JUNIPER
VI. THE WIND IN THE CEDARS
VII. SILVERMANE
IX. THE SCENT OF DESERT-WATER
X. RIDING THE RANGES
XI. THE DESERT-HAWK
XII. ECHO CLIFFS
XIII. THE SOMBRE LINE
XIV. WOLF
XV. DESERT NIGHT
XVI. THUNDER RIVER
XVII. THE SWOOP OF THE HAWK
XVIII. THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT
XIX. UNLEASHED
XX. THE RAGE OF THE OLD LION
XXI. MESCAL
I. THE SIGN OF THE SUNSET
"BUT the man's almost dead."
The words stung John Hare's fainting spirit into life. He opened his
eyes. The desert still stretched before him, the appalling thing that
had overpowered him with its deceiving purple distance. Near by stood a
sombre group of men.
"Leave him here," said one, addressing a gray-bearded giant. "He's the
fellow sent into southern Utah to spy out the cattle thieves. He's all
but dead. Dene's outlaws are after him. Don't cross Dene."
The stately answer might have come from a Scottish Covenanter or a
follower of Cromwell.
"Martin Cole, I will not go a hair's-breadth out of my way for Dene or
any other man. You forget your religion. I see my duty to God."
"Yes, August Naab, I know," replied the little man, bitterly. "You would
cast the Scriptures in my teeth, and liken this man to one who went down
from Jerusalem to Jericho and fell among thieves. But I've suffered
enough at the hands of Dene."
The formal speech, the Biblical references, recalled to the reviving
Hare that he was still in the land of the Mormons. As he lay there the
strange words of the Mormons linked the hard experience of the last few
days with the stern reality of the present.
"Martin Cole, I hold to the spirit of our fathers," replied Naab, like
one reading from the Old Testament. "They came into this desert land to
worship and multiply in peace. They conquered the desert; they prospered
with the years that brought settlers, cattle-men, sheep-herders, all
hostile to their religion and their livelihood. Nor did they ever fail
to succor the sick and unfortunate. What are our toils and perils
compared to theirs? Why should we forsake the path of duty, and turn
from mercy because of a cut-throat outlaw? I like not the sign of the
times, but I am a Mormon; I trust in God."
"August Naab, I am a Mormon too," returned Cole, "but my hands are
stained with blood. Soon yours will be if you keep your water-holes and
your cattle. Yes, I know. You're strong, stronger than any of us, far
off in your desert oasis, hemmed in by walls, cut off by canyons,
guarded by your Navajo friends. But Holderness is creeping slowly on
you. He'll ignore your water rights and drive your stock. Soon Dene will
steal cattle under your very eyes. Don't make them enemies."
"I can't pass by this helpless man," rolled out August Naab's sonorous
voice.
Suddenly, with livid face and shaking hand, Cole pointed westward.
"There! Dene and his band! See, under the red wall; see the dust, not
ten miles away. See them?"
The desert, gray in the foreground, purple in the distance, sloped to
the west. Eyes keen as those of hawks searched the waste, and followed
the red mountain rampart, which, sheer in bold height and processional
in its craggy sweep, shut out the north. Far away little puffs of dust
rose above the white sage, and creeping specks moved at a snail's pace.
"See them? Ah! then look, August Naab, look in the heavens above for my
prophecy," cried Cole, fanatically. "The red sunset--the sign of the
times--blood!"
A broad bar of dense black shut out the April sky, except in the extreme
west, where a strip of pale blue formed background for several clouds of
striking color and shape. They alone, in all that expanse, were dyed in
the desert's sunset crimson. The largest projected from behind the dark
cloud-bank in the shape of a huge fist, and the others, small and round,
floated below. To Cole it seemed a giant hand, clutching, with
inexorable strength, a bleeding heart. His terror spread to his
companions as they stared.
Then, as light surrendered to shade, the sinister color faded; the
tracing of the closed hand softened; flush and glow paled, leaving the
sky purple, as if mirroring the desert floor. One golden shaft shot up,
to be blotted out by sudden darkening change, and the sun had set.
"That may be God's will," said August Naab. "So be it. Martin Cole, take
your men and go."
There was a word, half oath, half prayer, and then rattle of stirrups,
the creak of saddles, and clink of spurs, followed by the driving rush
of fiery horses. Cole and his men disappeared in a pall of yellow dust.
A wan smile lightened John Hare's face as he spoke weakly: "I fear your-
-generous act--can't save me... may bring you harm. I'd rather you left
me--seeing you have women in your party."
"Don't try to talk yet," said August Naab. "You're faint. Here--drink."
He stooped to Hare, who was leaning against a sage-bush, and held a
flask to his lips. Rising, he called to his men: "Make camp, sons. We've
an hour before the outlaws come up, and if they don't go round the sand-
dune we'll have longer."
Hare's flagging senses rallied, and he forgot himself in wonder. While
the bustle went on, unhitching of wagon-teams, hobbling and feeding of
horses, unpacking of camp-supplies, Naab appeared to be lost in deep
meditation or prayer. Not once did he glance backward over the trail on
which peril was fast approaching. His gaze was fastened on a ridge to
the east where desert line, fringed by stunted cedars, met the pale-blue
sky, and for a long time he neither spoke nor stirred. At length he
turned to the camp-fire; he raked out red coals, and placed the iron
pots in position, by way of assistance to the women who were preparing
the evening meal.
A cool wind blew in from the desert, rustling the sage, sifting the
sand, fanning the dull coals to burning opals. Twilight failed and night
fell; one by one great stars shone out, cold and bright. From the zone
of blackness surrounding the camp burst the short bark, the hungry
whine, the long-drawn-out wail of desert wolves.
"Supper, sons," called Naab, as he replenished the fire with an armful
of grease-wood.
Naab's sons had his stature, though not his bulk. They were wiry, rangy
men, young, yet somehow old. The desert had multiplied their years. Hare
could not have told one face from another, the bronze skin and steel eye
and hard line of each were so alike. The women, one middle-aged, the
others young, were of comely, serious aspect.
"Mescal," called the Mormon.
A slender girl slipped from one of the covered wagons; she was dark,
supple, straight as an Indian.
August Naab dropped to his knees, and, as the members of his family
bowed their heads, he extended his hands over them and over the food
laid on the ground.
"Lord, we kneel in humble thanksgiving. Bless this food to our use.
Strengthen us, guide us, keep us as Thou hast in the past. Bless this
stranger within our gates. Help us to help him. Teach us Thy ways, O
Lord--Amen."
Hare found himself flushing and thrilling, found himself unable to
control a painful binding in his throat. In forty-eight hours he had
learned to hate the Mormons unutterably; here, in the presence of this
austere man, he felt that hatred wrenched from his heart, and in its
place stirred something warm and living. He was glad, for if he had to
die, as he believed, either from the deed of evil men, or from this last
struggle of his wasted body, he did not want to die in bitterness. That
simple prayer recalled the home he had long since left in Connecticut,
and the time when he used to tease his sister and anger his father and
hurt his mother while grace was being said at the breakfast-table. Now
he was alone in the world, sick and dependent upon the kindness of these
strangers. But they were really friends--it was a wonderful thought.
"Mescal, wait on the stranger," said August Naab, and the girl knelt
beside him, tendering meat and drink. His nerveless fingers refused to
hold the cup, and she put it to his lips while he drank. Hot coffee
revived him; he ate and grew stronger, and readily began to talk when
the Mormon asked for his story.
"There isn't much to tell. My name is Hare. I am twenty-four. My parents
are dead. I came West because the doctors said I couldn't live in the
East. At first I got better. But my money gave out and work became a
necessity. I tramped from place to place, ending up ill in Salt Lake
City. People were kind to me there. Some one got me a job with a big
cattle company, and sent me to Marysvale, southward over the bleak
plains. It was cold; I was ill when I reached Lund. Before I even knew
what my duties were for at Lund I was to begin work--men called me a
spy. A fellow named Chance threatened me. An innkeeper led me out the
back way, gave me bread and water, and said: 'Take this road to Bane;
it's sixteen miles. If you make it some one'll give you a lift North.' I
walked all night, and all the next day. Then I wandered on till I
dropped here where you found me."
"You missed the road to Bane," said Naab. "This is the trail to White
Sage. It's a trail of sand and stone that leaves no tracks, a lucky
thing for you. Dene wasn't in Lund while you were there--else you
wouldn't be here. He hasn't seen you, and he can't be certain of your
trail. Maybe he rode to Bane, but still we may find a way--"
One of his sons whistled low, causing Naab to rise slowly, to peer into
the darkness, to listen intently.
"Here, get up," he said, extending a hand to Hare. "Pretty shaky, eh?
Can you walk? Give me a hold--there.... Mescal, come." The slender girl
obeyed, gliding noiselessly like a shadow. "Take his arm." Between them
they led Hare to a jumble of stones on the outer edge of the circle of
light.
"It wouldn't do to hide," continued Naab, lowering his voice to a swift
whisper, "that might be fatal. You're in sight from the camp-fire, but
indistinct. By-and-by the outlaws will get here, and if any of them
prowl around close, you and Mescal must pretend to be sweethearts.
Understand? They'll pass by Mormon love-making without a second look.
Now, lad, courage... Mescal, it may save his life."
Naab returned to the fire, his shadow looming in gigantic proportions on
the white canopy of a covered wagon. Fitful gusts of wind fretted the
blaze; it roared and crackled and sputtered, now illuminating the still
forms, then enveloping them in fantastic obscurity. Hare shivered,
perhaps from the cold air, perhaps from growing dread. Westward lay the
desert, an impenetrable black void; in front, the gloomy mountain wall
lifted jagged peaks close to the stars; to the right rose the ridge, the
rocks and stunted cedars of its summit standing in weird relief.
Suddenly Hare's fugitive glance descried a dark object; he watched
intently as it moved and rose from behind the summit of the ridge to
make a bold black figure silhouetted against the cold clearness of sky.
He saw it distinctly, realized it was close, and breathed hard as the
wind-swept mane and tail, the lean, wild shape and single plume resolved
themselves into the unmistakable outline of an Indian mustang and rider.
"Look!" he whispered to the girl. "See, a mounted Indian, there on the
ridge--there, he's gone--no, I see him again. But that's another. Look!
there are more." He ceased in breathless suspense and stared fearfully
at a line of mounted Indians moving in single file over the ridge to
become lost to view in the intervening blackness. A faint rattling of
gravel and the peculiar crack of unshod hoof on stone gave reality to
that shadowy train.
"Navajos," said Mescal.
"Navajos!" he echoed. "I heard of them at Lund; 'desert hawks' the men
called them, worse than Piutes. Must we not alarm the men?--You--aren't
you afraid?
"No."
"But they are hostile."
"Not to him." She pointed at the stalwart figure standing against the
firelight.
"Ah! I remember. The man Cole spoke of friendly Navajos. They must be
close by. What does it mean?"
"I'm not sure. I think they are out there in the cedars, waiting."
"Waiting! For what?"
"Perhaps for a signal."
"Then they were expected?"
"I don't know; I only guess. We used to ride often to White Sage and
Lund; now we go seldom, and when we do there seem to be Navajos near the
camp at night, and riding the ridges by day. I believe Father Naab
knows."
"Your father's risking much for me. He's good. I wish I could show my
gratitude."
"I call him Father Naab, but he is not my father."
"A niece or granddaughter, then?"
"I'm no relation. Father Naab raised me in his family. My mother was a
Navajo, my father a Spaniard."
"Why!" exclaimed Hare. "When you came out of the wagon I took you for an
Indian girl. But the moment you spoke--you talk so well--no one would
dream--"
"Mormons are well educated and teach the children they raise," she said,
as he paused in embarrassment.
He wanted to ask if she were a Mormon by religion, but the question
seemed curious and unnecessary. His interest was aroused; he realized
suddenly that he had found pleasure in her low voice; it was new and
strange, unlike any woman's voice he had ever heard; and he regarded her
closely. He had only time for a glance at her straight, clean-cut
profile, when she turned startled eyes on him, eyes black as the night.
And they were eyes that looked through and beyond him. She held up a
hand, slowly bent toward the wind, and whispered:
"Listen."
Hare heard nothing save the barking of coyotes and the breeze in the
sage. He saw, however, the men rise from round the camp-fire to face the
north, and the women climb into the wagon, and close the canvas flaps.
And he prepared himself, with what fortitude he could command for the
approach of the outlaws. He waited, straining to catch a sound. His
heart throbbed audibly, like a muffled drum, and for an endless moment
his ears seemed deadened to aught else. Then a stronger puff of wind
whipped in, banging the rhythmic beat of flying hoofs. Suspense ended.
Hare felt the easing of a weight upon him. Whatever was to be his fate,
it would be soon decided. The sound grew into a clattering roar. A black
mass hurled itself over the border of opaque circle, plunged into the
light, and halted.
August Naab deliberately threw a bundle of grease-wood upon the camp-
fire. A blaze leaped up, sending abroad a red flare. "Who comes?" he
called.
"Friends, Mormons, friends," was the answer.
"Get down--friends--and come to the fire."
Three horsemen advanced to the foreground; others, a troop of eight or
ten, remained in the shadow, a silent group.
Hare sank back against the stone. He knew the foremost of those horsemen
though he had never seen him.
"Dene," whispered Mescal, and confirmed his instinctive fear.
Hare was nervously alive to the handsome presence of the outlaw.
Glimpses that he had caught of "bad" men returned vividly as he noted
the clean-shaven face, the youthful, supple body, the cool, careless
mien. Dene's eyes glittered as he pulled off his gauntlets and beat the
sand out of them; and but for that quick fierce glance his leisurely
friendly manner would have disarmed suspicion.
"Are you the Mormon Naab?" he queried.
"August Naab, I am."
"Dry camp, eh? Hosses tired, I reckon. Shore it's a sandy trail. Where's
the rest of you fellers?"
"Cole and his men were in a hurry to make White Sage to-night. They were
travelling light; I've heavy wagons."
"Naab, I
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BLACKWOOD'S
EDINBURGH MAGAZINE.
No. CCCXXXVIII. DECEMBER, 1843. VOL. LIV.
Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes moved
to the end of each article.
CONTENTS.
LECTURES AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY. 691
SOMETHING ABOUT MUSIC. 709
THE PURPLE CLOAK; OR, THE RETURN OF SYLOSON TO SAMOS. 714
LOVE AND DEATH. 717
THE BRIDGE OVER THE THUR. 717
THE BANKING-HOUSE. A HISTORY IN THREE PARTS. PART II. 719
COLLEGE THEATRICALS. 737
LINES WRITTEN IN THE ISLE OF BUTE. 749
TRAVELS OF KERIM KHAN. CONCLUSION. 753
NOTES ON A TOUR OF THE DISTURBED DISTRICTS IN WALES. 766
ADVENTURES IN TEXAS. NO. II. 777
DEATH FROM THE STING OF A SERPENT. 798
GIFTS OF TEREK. 799
MARSTON; OR, THE MEMOIRS OF A STATESMAN. PART VI. 801
INDEX TO VOL. LIV. 815
* * * * *
LECTURES AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY.
HENRY FUSELI.
At a time when the eye of the public is more remarkably, and we trust
more kindly, directed to the Fine Arts, we may do some service to the
good cause, by reverting to those lectures delivered in the Royal
Academy, composed in a spirit of enthusiasm honourable to the
professors, but which kindled little sympathy in an age strangely dead
to the impulses of taste. The works, therefore, which set forth the
principles of art, were not read extensively at the time, and had little
influence beyond the walls within which they were delivered. Favourable
circumstances, in conjunction with their real merit, have permanently
added the discourses of Sir Joshua Reynolds to the standard literature
of our country. They have been transferred from the artist to the
scholar; and so it has happened, that while few of any pretension to
scholarship have not read the "The Discourses," they have not, as they
should have, been continually in the hands of artists themselves. To
awaken a feeling for this kind of professional reading--yet not so
professional as not to be beneficial--reflectingly upon classical
learning; indeed, we might say, education in general, and therefore more
comprehensive in its scope--we commenced our remarks on the discourses
of Sir Joshua Reynolds, which have appeared in the pages of Maga. There
are now more than symptoms of the departure of that general apathy which
prevailed, when most of the Academy lectures were delivered. It will be,
therefore, a grateful, and may we hope a useful, task, by occasional
notices to make them more generally known.
The successors of Reynolds labour under a twofold disadvantage; they
find that he has occupied the very ground they would have taken, and
written so ably and fully upon all that is likely to obtain a general
interest, as to leave a prejudice against further attempts. Of
necessity, there must be, in every work treating of the same subject,
much repetition; and it must require no little ingenuity to give a
novelty and variety, that shall yet be safe, and within the bounds of
the admitted principles of art. On this account, we have no reason to
complain of the lectures of Fuseli, which we now purpose to notice. Bold
and original as the writer is, we find him every where impressed with a
respect for Reynolds, and with a conviction of the truth of the
principles which he had collected and established. If there be any
difference, it is occasionally on the more debatable ground--particular
passages of criticism.
In the "Introduction," the student is supplied with a list of the
authorities he should consult for the "History and Progress of his Art."
He avoids expatiating on the books purely elementary--"the van of which
is led by Leonardo da Vinci and Albert Durer, and the rear by Gherard
Lavresse--as the principles which they detail must be supposed to be
already in the student's possession, or are occasionally interwoven with
the topics of the lectures;" and proceeds "to the historically critical
writers, who consist of all the ancients yet remaining, Pausanias
excepted." Fortunately, there remain a sufficient number of the
monuments of ancient art "to furnish us with their standard of style;"
for the accounts are so contradictory, that we should have little to
rely upon. The works of the ancient artists are all lost: we must be
content with the "hasty compilations of a warrior," Pliny, or the
"incidental remarks of an orator," (rhetorician,) Quintilian. The former
chiefly valuable when he quotes--for then, as Reynolds observed, "he
speaks the language of an artist:" as in his account of the glazing
method of Apelles; the manner in which Protogenes embodied his colours;
and the term of art _circumlitio_, by which Nicias gave "the line of
correctness to the models of Praxiteles;" the foreshortening the bull by
Pausias, and throwing his shade on the crowd--showing a forcible
chiaroscuro. "Of Quintilian, whose information is all relative to style,
the tenth chapter of the XII.th book, a passage on expression in the
XI.th, and scattered fragments of observations analogous to the process
of his own art, is all that we possess; but what he says, though
comparatively small in bulk, with what we have of Pliny, leaves us to
wish for more. His review of the revolutions of style in painting, from
Polygnotus to Apelles, and in sculpture, from Phidias to Lysippus, is
succinct and rapid; but though so rapid and succinct, every word is
poised by characteristic precision, and can only be the result of long
and judicious enquiry, and perhaps even minute examination." Still less
have we scattered in the writings of Cicero, who, "though he seems to
have had little native taste for painting and sculpture, and even less
than he had taste for poetry, had a conception of nature; and with his
usual acumen, comparing the principles of one art with those of another,
frequently scattered useful hints, or made pertinent observations. For
many of these he might probably be indebted to Hortensius, with whom,
though his rival in eloquence, he lived on terms of familiarity, and who
was a man of declared taste, and one of the first collectors of the
time." He speaks somewhat too slightingly of Pausanias,[1] as "the
indiscriminate chronicler of legitimate tradition and legendary trash,"
considering that he praises "the scrupulous diligence with which he
examined what fell under his own eye." He recommends to the epic or
dramatic artist the study of the heroics of the elder, and the Eicones
or Picture Galleries of the elder and younger Philostratus.
"The innumerable hints, maxims, anecdotes, descriptions, scattered over
Lucian, Oelian, Athenaeus, Achilles Tatius, Tatian Pollux, and many
more, may be consulted to advantage by the man of taste and letters, and
probably may be neglected without much loss by the student." "Of modern
writers on art Vasari leads the van; theorist, artist, critic, and
biographer, in one. The history of modern art owes, no doubt, much to
Vasari; he leads us from its cradle to its maturity with the anxious
diligence of a nurse; but he likewise has her derelictions: for more
loquacious than ample, and less discriminating styles than eager to
accumulate descriptions, he is at an early period exhausted by the
superlatives lavished on inferior claims, and forced into frigid
rhapsodies and astrologic nonsense to do justice to the greater. He
swears by the divinity of M. Agnolo. He tells us that he copied every
figure of the Capella Sistina and the stanze of Raffaelle, yet his
memory was either so treacherous, or his rapidity in writing so
inconsiderate, that his account of both is a mere heap of errors and
unpardonable confusion, and one might almost fancy he had never entered
the Vatican." He is less pleased with the "rubbish of his
contemporaries, or followers, from Condior to Ridolfi, and on to
Malvasia." All is little worth "till the appearance of Lanzi, who, in
his 'Storia Pittorica della Italia,' has availed himself of all the
information existing in his time, has corrected most of those who wrote
before him, and, though perhaps not possessed of great discriminative
powers, has accumulated more instructive anecdotes, rescued more
deserving names from oblivion, and opened a wider prospect of art, than
all his predecessors." But for the valuable notes of Reynolds, the idle
pursuit of Du Fresnoy to clothe the precepts of art in Latin verse,
would be useless. "The notes of Reynolds, treasures of practical
observation, place him among those whom we may read with profit." De
Piles and Felibien are spoken of next, as the teachers of "what may be
learned from precept, founded on prescriptive authority more than on the
verdicts of nature." Of the effects of the system pursued by the French
Academy from such precepts, our author is, perhaps, not undeservedly
severe.
"About the middle of the last century the German critics, established at
Rome, began to claim the exclusive privilege of teaching the art, and to
form a complete system of antique style. The verdicts of Mengs and
Winkelmann, become the oracles of antiquaries, dilettanti, and artists,
from the Pyrenees to the utmost north of Europe, have been detailed, and
are not without their influence here. Winkelmann was the parasite of the
fragments that fell from the conversation or the tablets of Mengs--a
deep scholar, and better fitted to comment on a classic than to give
lessons on art and style, he reasoned himself into frigid reveries and
Platonic dreams on beauty. As far as the taste or the instruction of his
tutor directed, he is right when they are; and between his own learning
and the tuition of the other, his history of art delivers a specious
system, and a prodigious number of useful observations." "To him Germany
owes the shackles of her artists, and the narrow limits of
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A Source Book of Philippine History
To Supply a Fairer View of Filipino Participation and Supplement the
Defective Spanish Accounts
PHILIPPINE PROGRESS PRIOR TO 1898
By AUSTIN CRAIG and CONRADO BENITEZ
Of the College of Liberal Arts Faculty of the University of the
Philippines
Philippine Education Co., Inc., Manila, 1916
The following 720 pages are divided into two volumes, each of which,
for the convenience of the reader, is paged separately and has its
index, or table of contents:
VOLUME I
I. The Old Philippines' Industrial Development
(Chapters of an Economic History)
I.--Agriculture and Landholding at the time of the Discovery
and Conquest. II.--Industries at the Time of Discovery and
Conquest. III.--Trade and Commerce at the Time of Discovery and
Conquest. IV.--Trade and Commerce; the Period of Restriction. V.--The
XIX Century and Economic Development.
By Professor Conrado Benitez
II. The Filipinos' Part in the Philippines' Past
(Pre-Spanish Philippine History A. D. 43-1565; Beginnings of Philippine
Nationalism.)
By Professor Austin Craig
VOLUME II
III. The Former Philippines thru Foreign Eyes
(Jagor's Travels in the Philippines; Comyn's State of the Philippines
in 1810; Wilkes' Manila and Sulu in 1842; White's Manila in 1819;
Virchow's Peopling of the Philippines; 1778 and 1878; English Views
of the People and Prospects of the Philippines
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Internet Archive)
THROUGH
BOSNIA AND HERZEGOVINA
WITH A PAINT BRUSH.
PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY
WILLIAM DRESSER AND SONS, DARLINGTON.
[Illustration: A Street in Sarajevo, Bosnia.]
Through
Bosnia and Herzegovina
With a Paint Brush.
BY
MRS. E. R. WHITWELL,
Author of "SPAIN AS WE FOUND IT," and
"THROUGH CORSICA WITH A PAINT BRUSH."
DARLINGTON:
WILLIAM DRESSER AND SONS,
LONDON:
SIMPKIN MARSHALL, HAMILTON, KENT AND CO., LD.
Preface.
The following sketches and notes were originally intended as personal
reminiscences of a very interesting and enjoyable holiday spent in a
country somewhat out of the beaten track. But changes forecasted by
the authoress having become actual fact, and the countries described
assuming a prominent feature of recent international concern, it is
hoped that the production of this little volume will prove of such
interest as warrants its publication beyond the circle originally
intended.
THE FRIARAGE,
YARM-ON-TEES,
_January, 1909_.
List of Illustrations.
FACING PAGE
A Street in Sarajevo Frontispiece
Evening--Abbazia 4
After a Storm--Abbazia 8
The Porta Marina, Sebenico 16
The Cathedral Porch, Trau 24
A Street in Ragusa 28
Montenegro 32
Cettinje 36
The Market Place, Cettinje 38
The Fontana Onofrio, Ragusa 40
The Old Bridge, Mostar 50
The Source of the Buna, near Mostar 58
A Street in Sarajevo 60
Turkish Shops, Sarajevo 64
The Market Place, Sarajevo 68
Jaice 72
Through
BOSNIA & HERZEGOVINA
with a Paint Brush.
Stirring times are these when the whole of Europe has to give its
opinion, and I may say decision, as to whether Austria may snap up
Bosnia and Herzegovina, and Bulgaria may assert her independence and
style her princeling a Tzar, which seems crowing rather loud and
savours of the bantam in the poultry yard! However, we shall see
what happens in the near future; meanwhile I am thinking that a very
interesting tour I made through these provinces with my paint brush,
may be attractive to those who take an interest in other nations and
other countries. Several books have already been written on Dalmatia,
but I do not think any have been illustrated by the brush, and I have
seen no books on Bosnia and Herzegovina, or that barren, wild country
Montenegro, with its range after range of rocky, jagged mountains.
I have been twice in Dalmatia, the first time we sailed on our yacht
_Vanadis_ from Venice, touching at Pola--a stormy passage of eight
hours. At Pola itself there was not much for me to see beyond a fine
Roman amphitheatre, two gates and two temples. It is the centre of the
Austrian naval base, and was bristling with ironclads; our Captain
elected to steam calmly in among them, but we had soon to make a
retreat, piloted to the other side of the harbour by some Jack Tars,
who were each presented with a cigar for the "entente cordiale" of the
nations.
From Pola we went on to Abbazia, which is an Austrian invalid watering
place and, sad to say, was full of consumptives. It is quite a pretty
place, with a Casino, public gardens, and a wonderful artificial walk,
a veritable sun trap for miles by the sea. On our arrival we found
another yacht moored to the only buoy--there is no harbour, so we had to
drop our anchor hoping for a fine night, which it was.
The next morning I went ashore to sketch, and the rest of the party
went in the launch to Fiume, which had no attraction for me. A heavy
thunderstorm that afternoon made the streets very wet, but we bravely
struggled to a cafe and listened to the Hungarian band, at the same
time drinking some excellent coffee with the milk nicely frothed up in
a jug, and each person had his own little tray. The yacht which had
secured the buoy the evening before, had taken its departure early
in the morning, so we attached ourselves to it, and as the Captain
remarked "possession was nine tenths of the law," the other yacht had
the privilege of taking turn in dropping her anchor for the night.
Some of the peasant women were very picturesque in costume, and wore a
kind of ballet skirt, Hessian boots, and a red handkerchief tied round
the head and floating at one side.
Though as I said before, I have twice been along the Dalmatian coast,
I have not visited any of the most interesting islands, and my stay at
the various towns has been far too short to please me, but it could
not be avoided, I was at the mercy of a yacht, and in order to visit
the principal towns in a country which possesses one small railway
connecting two coast towns and one inland town, it was necessary to
allow myself to be whirled along at the pleasure of others, who wanted
not to linger brush in hand.
[Illustration: Evening--Abbazia]
[Illustration]
The history of Dalmatia dates, I think, from the year 180 B.C., when
the tribe from which it takes its name declared their independence
from Gentius, King of Illyria, and established a republic. In 156
B.C. the Dalmatians were attacked by the Romans and compelled to pay
tribute, but it was not till the reign of Augustus that their country
became a Roman province. Under Tiberius, Dalmatia was thoroughly
Romanised, it gave to the world the Emperor Diocletian, who eventually
retired to Salona, the new Dalmatian capital, where are still to be
found the remains of his magnificence. It then fell into several
successive hands, and in the seventh century it received the dominant
element of its present population by the immigration of the Slavs
invited by Heraclius.
In the ninth century the Croatian influence was high, and Croatian
princes were recognised as kings of Dalmatia. In the tenth century
Venice extended her power, which is still visible in the many beautiful
buildings seen all along this coast. About the year 1018 the Doge
took the title of Duke of Dalmatia. Venice and Croatia struggled hard
for supremacy during the eleventh century, and in 1091 the Hungarians
ousted the Croatians. The maritime cities of Zara, Trau, Spalato and
Ragusa, had each their separate history, and attained much prosperity
by commerce and industry. These towns sided with Venice and were at
times under her control, until the treatment by that great republic
disgusted them and they welcomed Louis of Hungary. Venetian authority
was, however, once more asserted, but in 1797, Dalmatia became part of
the Austrian dominions to which she has belonged ever since, with the
exception of a Napoleonic period from 1805-1814. The Austrians were not
popular, the feeling of the country being extremely hostile, and in
1869 an insurrection was put down by force of arms.
Water in Dalmatia is scarce, and the only rivers are the Krka and the
Cettina. Outside the towns is very little vegetation; barley, wheat,
maize, oats, rye, millet, beetroot, hemp and potatoes are all grown
somewhere; coasting for miles and miles nothing is seen but pinky
grey rock, and now and then a bush, though as you go further south
vegetation becomes evident and vines are grown, the grapes producing a
full, red wine which is much exported to Bordeaux; and olives, the oil
of which is also exported.
About eighty-nine per cent of the natives belong to the Servian race
and speak a Slavonic dialect, but there are a good many Italians; most
of the natives understand Italian I found. The principal religion is
Roman Catholic, there are also those who follow the Greek Church. The
Roman Catholic Archbishop has his seat at Zara, and Spalato, Sebenico,
Lesina and Cattaro are Bishoprics. Donkeys and goats abound, and there
are some sheep. The peasant grinds his corn and weaves his clothes at
home.
Lace making is a great industry amongst Dalmatian women, and there is
a special school at Spalato where the most beautiful patterns taken
from the Churches are copied. Sponges also are found near Sebenico.
Anchovies and tunny fish are caught in large quantities and many other
kinds of fish.
Zara we reached on April 14th, but here on this our first visit, we
discovered no harbour, though next time we found the harbour was quite
on the other side of the town. As we did not relish the idea of tossing
about all night on the open sea, we decided only to stay a very short
time just to visit the town and then push on to Zara Vecchia for the
night.
[Illustration: After a Storm--Abbazia.]
[Illustration]
The town looks very new from the sea, and appears to be composed of
large white modern buildings with red roofs, one hotel, "The Bristol,"
looked most imposing and new, but you must penetrate behind all
this, where you will find the old town of Zara with its narrow
streets, with many Roman and Venetian remains, of the former two large
Corinthian columns still stand, one they say is where it was first
erected. A plaque of stone or marble let into a wall, on which a most
graceful figure of a dancing girl was carved, and there was also quite
a museum of statues and other relics. The Duomo, with its beautiful
facade, is distinctly Venetian, and the Lion of St. Marc watches at the
gates of the town.
Zara, now, is specially celebrated for its mareschino, where are two
manufacturies.
Our large party landing caused quite a flutter amongst the inhabitants,
some of whom were most picturesque, the women with bright red and
yellow aprons, white head shawls embroidered in many colours, blue
skirts and red stockings. Some of the men in blue trousers, all
rucked up the leg, red, gold-embroidered jackets were thrown over one
shoulder, sashes were gleaming with knives, &c., tucked in, and a
curious tiny red cap with a black tassel crowned all. This cap looks
ridiculously small perched on the top of the head.
The country here is bare sandy rock, with a few shrubs dotted about,
very barren all along the shore, and on a dull day would look very
dreary no doubt, but with bright sunshine the sea is lovely, and the
range of snow-capped mountains behind make a charming background. We
did not land at Zara Vecchia, and were off at sunrise to Sebenico.
A lovely little spot is Sebenico, at the foot of those curious grey
barren hills. We landed, and passed through a quaint doorway, with
picturesque figures going to and fro, then went up a few steps to
narrow streets--very narrow indeed, but clean, with many subjects for
an artist, but alas! no time for me--only an hour or two, and what is
that! We wandered about the streets and many appeals were made as to
why I did not paint this and that--the questioners quite forgetting
architectural subjects cannot be done in a minute, like the snapshot of
a camera! After gazing at many fascinating bits, I decided to attempt
an old carved door in a narrow street, and forthwith began, to be
distracted very shortly by two funerals passing and re-passing, the
mourners carrying each a guttering candle held at any angle and walking
three abreast in the street five feet wide. My easel was once swept
away by a boy, who, like most boys, did not look where he was going,
luckily no damage was done and I settled to work again, to be three
times disturbed, I having to flatten myself against the wall to let the
mourners pass. I worked hard till dusk, then returned to the yacht.
I thought it a great pity we could not stay a few days at Sebenico, but
on we rushed, and I must go too this time. I longed to stay and put
all I saw on paper, of all this beautiful curious scenery, and at some
future date, I hoped to be able to dawdle along this coast at my own
sweet will.
One of our party bought a most curious knife from a very handsome
native, who showed the purchaser its various uses--the knife was used to
eat with, and shave with, &c., &c., the double pronged stiletto, which
occupied the same sheath, was to dig into an enemy. This was about a
foot long. These the natives carry tucked into their belts.
The Cathedral is very fine, Old Venetian, and had many fascinating
corners for the artist.
After lunch we went up a serpentine gorge, so narrow, that every moment
it seemed to come to an end. The sides were pinky-grey hills, barren
except for a few shrubs, the whole colouring was most curious, the sea
bright blue-green, contrasting with the rocky sides. A special pilot
came on board for this cruise, and he nearly ran us into some rocks,
not calculating how much room we took to turn the corners. When we
arrived at the furthest limit that the yacht could go, we took to the
launch, and approached the Falls of Krka, where the water comes down
in tiers, very fine. Here electric light is being made. We walked up
to a height for a view looking back, which was most extraordinary, the
pinky-grey hills, with one long strip of winding emerald green water
between.
My second visit to Sebenico was under more favourable circumstances,
as I decided to leave the yacht and put up at the Hotel Krka with my
courier.
La, La! the cold on this my second visit, but charmed am I to be here
once more at this most fascinating little place, Sebenico, this time
to stay a few days, but oh! the cold!! I have never felt anything like
it in England, the north-east wind, the Bora (the wind of the dead)
is blowing. I imagine it comes off the steppes of Russia, from its
intense piercing coldness. The sun is nice and warm, if you can get
out of the wind which rises very decidedly every afternoon. I landed
from the yacht in the morning, escorted by my guide. An elaborate
programme was made out, and it was intended we should travel through
Herzegovina and Bosnia, visiting Jajce, Bajnaluka, Bihac (pronounced
Beehatch), Novi, and Plitvice, where are wonderful lakes and cascades
in continuation from one to the other. Part of the journey we carried
out, but not all, as will be seen later on.
At Sebenico, they talk Italian and Slav; Italian made me quite happy as
it enabled me to converse with the natives. The national costumes here
are most fascinating, lovely brilliant colouring mixed in the women's
head-gear and shawls, and some of the _contadine_ that come in, with
dark blue dresses striped with red, green and orange, and embroideries
of every hue, are most striking. The men, too, dress very smartly, and
finish off their costumes with very large silver buttons.
I took a room at the Hotel Krka; the rooms are quite nice, but the
Restaurant rather dirty. The landlady wanted to ask me fourteen krones
as pension--rather a lot for this out of the way place, but as I came
off a yacht, I am, no doubt, expected to pay accordingly; however, I
decided to take my room, and then have my meals a la carte, and by this
means I exactly halved the pension terms. My first meal was composed
of soup, veal, salad and cheese. I had not intended to have soup, as
I ordered spagetti, which I naturally thought would be macaroni and
tomato sauce, and was disgusted to find it the name of a soup. Wine
was given free, and all the other customers seemed to drink it, but I
found it horribly bitter, and to take off the taste I allowed myself a
mareschino--the only part of my lunch I enjoyed! At night I had macaroni
in pieces three-quarters of a yard long, these I found most difficult
to negotiate, as when I twirled it round my fork, and was about to put
it in my mouth, the whole thing flew off like a spring. I think it took
me twenty minutes to tackle this dish.
[Illustration: The Porta Marina, Sebenico.]
[Illustration]
The streets here are very quaint, as the town is built on the hill
side, there are a great many steps. At the entrance to the town, near
the Quay, is a beautiful gateway which I tried to draw, but the intense
cold and wind soon sent me away. The Cathedral has fine doors east and
north. My guide and I wandered about the town looking for paintable
spots of which there are many, we went into the gardens where is a
statue to Tommaseo (the author), and in a fountain I saw a fat goldfish
who seemed to look at me out of the corner of his eye, in surprise
at a stranger. There are many remains of old Venetian days, in old
doorways and on beautiful carvings, and I came across a fine lion of
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IRELAND UNDER THE STUARTS
VOL. II.
_By the same Author_
IRELAND UNDER THE TUDORS
Vols. I. and II.--From the First Invasion of the
Northmen to the year 1578.
8vo. 32_s._
Vol. III.--1578-1603. 8vo. 18_s._
LONGMANS, GREEN, & CO.
London, New York, Bombay, and Calcutta
IRELAND
UNDER THE STUARTS
AND
DURING THE INTERREGNUM
BY
RICHARD BAGWELL, M.A.
AUTHOR OF 'IRELAND UNDER THE TUDORS'
VOL. II. 1642-1660
_WITH MAP_
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
39 PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON
NEW YORK, BOMBAY, AND CALCUTTA
1909
All rights reserved
CONTENTS
OF
THE SECOND VOLUME
CHAPTER XXI
MUNSTER AND CONNAUGHT, 1641-1642
PAGE
The rebellion spreads to Munster 1
The King's proclamation 3
St. Leger, Cork, and Inchiquin 3
State of Connaught 5
Massacre at Shrule 6
Clanricarde at Galway 7
Weakness of the English party 8
State of Clare--Ballyallia 10
Cork and St. Leger 12
CHAPTER XXII
THE WAR TO THE BATTLE OF ROSS, 1642-1643
Scots army in Ulster--Monro 14
Strongholds preserved in Ulster 16
Ormonde in the Pale 17
Battle of Kilrush 18
The Catholic Confederation 19
Owen Roe O'Neill 20
Thomas Preston 21
Loss of Limerick, St. Leger dies 22
Battle of Liscarrol 23
Fighting in Ulster 23
General Assembly at Kilkenny 25
The Supreme Council--foreign support 27
Fighting in Leinster--Timahoe 29
Parliamentary agents in Dublin 29
Siege of New Ross 31
Battle of Ross 32
A papal nuncio talked of 34
CHAPTER XXIII
THE WAR TO THE FIRST CESSATION, 1642-1643
The Adventurers for land--Lord Forbes 36
Forbes at Galway and elsewhere 38
A pragmatic chaplain, Hugh Peters 40
Forbes repulsed from Galway 41
A useless expedition 42
Siege and capture of Galway fort 43
O'Neill, Leven, and Monro 44
The King will negotiate 46
Dismissal of Parsons 47
Vavasour and Castlehaven 48
The King presses for a truce 48
Scarampi and Bellings 49
A cessation of arms, but no peace 50
Ormonde made Lord Lieutenant 51
CHAPTER XXIV
AFTER THE CESSATION, 1643-1644
The cessation condemned by Parliament 53
The rout at Nantwich 54
Monck advises the King 55
The Solemn League and Covenant 55
The Covenant taken in Ulster 57
Monro seizes Belfast 59
Dissensions between Leinster and Ulster 60
Failure of Castlehaven's expedition 60
Antrim and Montrose 61
The Irish under Montrose--Alaster MacDonnell 62
Rival diplomatists at Oxford 64
Violence of both parties 66
Failure of the Oxford negotiations 68
Inchiquin supports the Parliament 69
CHAPTER XXV
INCHIQUIN, ORMONDE, AND GLAMORGAN, 1644-1645
The no quarter ordinance 72
Roman Catholics expelled from Cork, Youghal, and Kinsale 73
The Covenant in Munster 74
Negotiations for peace 75
Bellings at Paris and Rome 76
Recruits for France and Spain 77
Irish appeals for foreign help 78
Siege of Duncannon Fort 80
Mission of Glamorgan with extraordinary powers 84
Glamorgan in Ireland 87
The Glamorgan treaty 88
CHAPTER XXVI
FIGHTING NORTH AND SOUTH--RINUCCINI, 1645
Castlehaven
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FROM YAUCO TO LAS MARIAS
A Recent Campaign in Puerto Rico by the Independent Regular Brigade
under the command of BRIG. GENERAL SCHWAN
by
KARL STEPHEN HERRMAN
[Illustration: Theodore Schwan, Brigadier-General U.S. Volunteers.]
TO ROBERT SMITH COBB
MY BROTHER LORD IN CERTAIN ISLES OF FRIENDSHIP AND OWNER OF PRECIOUS CARGO
IN MY SHIP OF DREAMS
CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
CHAPTER I
The Independent Regular Brigade
Place of meeting--Forces comprised by the command--Why we were not like the
Volunteers--Characteristics of the professional soldier--Sketches of the
more important officers--What we were ordered to do.
CHAPTER II
The First Day's March
Disposition of our column--The road to Sabana Grande--The infantrymen's
burden--Wayside hospitality--Hard tack and repartee--Into camp and under
blankets--Arrival of Macomb's troop--A smoke-talk.
CHAPTER III
The People of Puerto Rico
Their attitude toward the invading Americans--The proclamation of General
Miles--Justice and the private soldier--Depravity of the native masses--Men
and women of the better class--Local attributes of life--A hint to the
weary.
CHAPTER IV
The Second Day Begins
We march to San German--Removal of the sick from the ambulances--An
approaching Spanish force--Our scouts and their leader--Concerning Senor
Fijardo--Visible effects of imminent battle--Something about the town of
San German.
CHAPTER V
The Engagement at Hormigueros
Topography of the battlefield--Macomb's cavalry fired into by Spanish
skirmishers--Our advance-guard comes into contact with the foe--General
Schwan reaches the firing line--The main body arrives and joins in
the fray--Subsequent manoeuvres of
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Note: Images of the original pages are available through
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https://archive.org/details/davidblaize00bens
DAVID BLAIZE
by
E. F. BENSON
Author of “The Oakleyites,” “Arundel,”
“Dodo,” “Dodo the Second,” etc.
[Illustration]
New York
George H. Doran Company
Copyright, 1916,
By George H. Doran Company
Printed in the United States of America
DAVID BLAIZE
Table of Contents
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
DAVID BLAIZE
CHAPTER I
There was a new class-room in course of construction for the first form
at Helmsworth Preparatory School, and the ten senior boys, whose united
ages amounted to some hundred and thirty years, were taken for the time
being in the school museum. This was a big boarded room, covered with
corrugated iron and built out somewhat separate from the other class
rooms at the corner of the cricket-field. The arrangement had many
advantages from the point of view of the boys, for the room was full of
agreeably distracting and interesting objects, and Cicero almost ceased
to be tedious, even when he wrote about friendship, if, when you were
construing, you
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[Illustration: THEN HE GRIPPED HIS WEAPON BY THE MUZZLE, AND SPRANG
STRAIGHT FOR THE PACK.
_See page 175._
]
THE FIERY TOTEM
A TALE OF ADVENTURE IN THE
CANADIAN NORTH-WEST
BY
ARGYLL SAXBY, M.A., F.R.G.S.
AUTHOR OF
"BRAVES, WHITE AND RED" "COMRADES THREE!"
"TANGLED TRAILS" ETC. ETC.
_SECOND IMPRESSION_
LONDON
THE RELIGIOUS TRACT SOCIETY
4 BOUVERIE STREET AND 65 ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A PERILOUS PASSAGE 5
II. DEER-STALKING 14
III. THE LONELY CAMP 22
IV. FRIENDS OR FOES? 33
V. LOST IN THE FOREST 41
VI. THE MEDICINE MAN 53
VII. THE FRIEND IN NEED 67
VIII. NIGHT IN THE WIGWAM 83
IX. THE TEMPTATION 96
X. A DEATH-TR
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THE FIGHT FOR CONSERVATION
By
GIFFORD PINCHOT
1910
CONTENTS
Introduction
I. Prosperity
II. Home-building for the Nation
III. Better Times on the Farm
IV. Principles of Conservation
V. Waterways
VI. Business
VII. The Moral Issue
VIII. Public Spirit
IX. The Children
X. An Equal Chance
XI. The New Patriotism
XII. The Present Battle
Index
INTRODUCTION
The following discussion of the conservation problem is not a systematic
treatise upon the subject. Some of the matter has been published
previously in magazines, and some is condensed and rearranged from
addresses made before conservation conventions and other organizations
within the past two years.
While not arranged chronologically, yet the articles here grouped may
serve to show the rapid, virile evolution of the campaign for
conservation of the nation's resources.
I am indebted to the courtesy of the editors of _The World's Work, The
Outlook_, and of _American Industries_ for the use of matter first
contributed to these magazines.
THE FIGHT FOR CONSERVATION
CHAPTER I
PROSPERITY
The most prosperous nation of to-day is the United States. Our
unexampled wealth and well-being are directly due to the superb natural
resources of our country, and to the use which has been made of them by
our citizens, both in the present and in the past. We are prosperous
because our forefathers bequeathed to us a land of marvellous resources
still unexhausted. Shall we conserve those resources, and in our turn
transmit them, still unexhausted, to our descendants? Unless we do,
those who
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THE LITTLE BLACK PRINCESS
By Jeannie Gunn
CONTENTS
Chapter 1.- Bett-Bett
Chapter 2.- Shimy Shirts
Chapter 3.- Shut-Him-Eye Quickfellow
Chapter 4.- Me King Alright
Chapter 5.- Goodfellow Missus
Chapter 6.- The Debbil-Debbil Dance
Chapter 7.- Mumma A And Mumma B
Chapter 8.- A Walkabout
Chapter 9.- The Coronation Playabout
Chapter 10.- Looking-Out Lily-Root
Chapter 11.- Newfellow Piccaninny Boy
Chapter 12.- Goggle-Eye Sung Deadfellow
Chapter 13.- Bett-Bett Is Bush-Hungry
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
Frontispiece. Old No-More-Hearem Fishing
Page 3. Bett-Bett And Sue
Page 5. The Homestead
Page 6. Belts Of Red Feathers To Please
Mr. Thunder-Debbil-DebbilBett-Betts Shimy-Shirt
BagSticks For Procuring Fire
Page 17. Goggle-Eye Turned To Laugh
Page 27. Dilly-Bags Used By Blackfellow Women In The Bush
Page 33. Bett-Betts Favourite Quart PotHank Of Hair
For A Son-In-Laws Use Hobbles For The Horses
Page 37. Dressing For The Debbil-Debbil Dance
Page 39. Making His Legs Look Exactly Like The Figure 4
Page 41. Goggle-Eyes Belt And TasselHeads Of Bull-Roarers
Or Corrobboree Sticks
Page 43. The Great-Great-Greatest Grandfather Of The Kangaroo Men
Page 45. The Great-Great-Greatest Grandfather Of The Iguana Men
Page 60. Sea-Going Crocodiles Are Cheeky-Fellow
Page 63. A Few Old Men At Home
Page 73. A PoolooloomeeJimmys Union-Jack ApronHis
Gammon Letter-Stick
Page 79. Coolamuns
Page 81. Murraweedbee At Home
Page 82. Blackfellows Spears And Boomerangs
Page 87. Topsy
Page 89. Tonalds Cradle
Page 91. Boomerang And Throwing-Stick
Page 95. My Word, Missus! You Cheeky-Fellow Alright
Page 101. All Goggle-Eyes Possessions, Which Were Buried With Him
Page 103. Tree-Burial, South Of The Roper
Page 107. Bett-Betts Wonderful, Lonely Palace
Page 109. Map
THE LITTLE BLACK PRINCESS
Chapter 1 Bett-Bett
Bett-Bett must have been a Princess, for she was a Kings niece, and if
that does not make a Princess of any one, it ought to do so!
She didnt sitlike fairy-book princesseswaving golden sceptres over
devoted subjects, for she was just a little bush <DW65> girl or lubra,
about eight years old. She had, however, a very wonderful palacethe
great lonely Australian bush.
She had also: one devoted subjecta little speckled dog called Sue; one
big troublelooking out tucker; and one big fearDebbil-de
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THE LETTERS OF A POST-IMPRESSIONIST
[Illustration]
TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN
BY
ANTHONY M. LUDOVICI
[Illustration: VINCENT VAN GOGH
BY HIMSELF]
THE LETTERS OF A
POST-IMPRESSIONIST
BEING
THE FAMILIAR CORRESPONDENCE
OF VINCENT VAN GOGH
[Illustration: colophon]
BOSTON AND NEW YORK
HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY
1913
CHISWICK PRESS: CHARLES WHITTINGHAM AND CO.
TOOKS COURT, CHANCERY LANE, LONDON.
INTRODUCTORY ESSAY ON VAN GOGH AND HIS ART.
Though the collection of letters contained in Cassirer's publication,
"Vincent Van Gogh. Briefe," is not a complete one, from my knowledge of
a very large number of the letters which are not included in this
volume, I feel able to say that the present selection is in any case
very representative and contains all that is essential in respect to Van
Gogh's art-credo and general attitude of mind.
For reasons into which it is unnecessary for me to enter here, it was
found convenient to adopt the form of Cassirer's publication arranged by
Margarete Mauthner, and my translation has therefore been made from the
German (Fourth Edition, 1911). Still, with the view of avoiding the
errors which were bound to creep into a double translation of this sort,
I took care, when my version was complete, to compare it with as many of
the original French letters as I was able to find, and I am glad to say
that by this means I succeeded in satisfying myself as to the accuracy
of every line from page 39 to the end.
The letters printed up to page 38, some of which I fancy must have been
written in Dutch--a language which in any case I could not have
read--have not been compared with the originals. But, seeing that the
general quality of the German translation of the letters after page 39
was so good that I was able to discover only the small handful of
inaccuracies referred to in the appendix, I think the reader may rest
assured that the matter covering pages 1 to 38 is sufficiently
trustworthy for all ordinary purposes.
I say that "I fancy" some of the letters which occur between pages 1 and
38 were written in Dutch; for I am not by any means certain of this. In
any case I can vouch for the fact that the originals of all the letters
after page 38 were in French, as I have seen them. But in this respect
Paul Gauguin's remark about his friend Van Gogh is not without interest:
"Il oubliait meme," wrote the famous painter of negresses, "d'ecrire le
hollandais, et comme on a pu voir par la publication de ses lettres a
son frere, il n'ecrivait jamais qu'en francais, et cela admirablement,
avec des 'Tant qu'a, Quant a,' a n'en plus finir."[1]
Rather than disfigure my pages with a quantity of notes, I preferred to
put my remarks relative to the divergencies between the original French
and the German in the form of an appendix (to which the Numbers 1 to 35
in the text refer), and have thus kept only those notes in the text
which were indispensable for the proper understanding of the book. Be
this as it may, the inaccuracies and doubts discussed in the appendix
are, on the whole, of such slight import, that those readers who do not
wish to be interrupted by pedantic quibbles will be well advised if they
simply read straight on, without heeding the figures in the text. To
protect myself against fault-finders, however, such readers will
understand that it was necessary for me to prepare some sort of a list
referring to those passages which, in the German, differed even slightly
from the French original.
In the letters not included in Cassirer's publication, there are, of
course, a few passages which, for obvious reasons, could never have been
brought before the German or English reading public; as will be seen,
however, the present letters in themselves are but more or less lengthy
fragments, carefully edited by the friends of the deceased painter,
while the almost complete omission of dates and other biographical
information usually accompanying a volume of this sort, may also at
first be felt as a rather disturbing blemish.
I would like, however, to seize this opportunity to defend Margarete
Mauthner against the charge of having made a "fantastic arrangement" of
these letters; for, if the person who made this charge had only been
acquainted with the facts of the case, he would have known that she had
done no more (at least from page 39 onwards) than faithfully to follow
Emile Bernard's original arrangement of his friend's correspondence in
the "Mercure de France"; and surely we must assume that Emile Bernard,
Van Gogh's devoted admirer, was the best judge as to what should, or
should not, appear of all that his friend had written.
With regard to dates, however, Emile Bernard does give a little more
information than Margarete Mauthner; but it is very little, and it is as
follows: the letters to E. Bernard from page 39 to page 73 were written
during 1887; those from page 73 to page 86 were written during 1888;
those from page 108 to page 112 were written during 1889, and the
remainder, as Margarete Mauthner also tells us, were written during
1890. Of the letters to Van Gogh's brother, I am afraid I can say
nothing more definite than that all those which occur after page 87 were
written in Arles, and probably San Remy, between 1887 and 1890.
Now, postponing for a moment, the discussion of Van Gogh's actual place
in the history of the art of the nineteenth century, and bearing in mind
the amount of adverse criticism with which his work has met for many
years, it does not seem irrelevant here to lay stress upon the fact that
these letters are all _private, intimate_ communications, never intended
to reach the public eye. And I feel all the more inclined to emphasize
this point, seeing that, to the lay student of art, as also to the
art-student himself, it is often a difficult task to take the sincerity
of the art-innovator for granted. Confronted with a new technique and an
apparently unprecedented conception of the outer-world--faced, in fact,
by a patch of strange blood; for that is what it comes to after all--we
are prone to doubt that our man is _bona fide_. Filled with the
prejudices and prepossessions of centuries, and knowing from sad
experience that the art-world is not without its arch-humbugs, we find
it difficult to believe that such a strange and foreign grasp of reality
could actually have been felt by the innovator in our midst. And, rather
than question our own values and our own grasp of reality, we
instinctively, and, as I think, very healthily, incline to doubt the
sincerity of the representative of this new standpoint which is
offensive to us.
In Van Gogh's case, however, we are particularly fortunate; for we
possess these letters which are proof enough of the sincerity with which
he pursued his calling. And, as I say, he did not write them for the
press, nor did he compose them as a conscious teacher. They simply took
shape quite naturally in his moments of respite, when he felt the need
of unburdening his heart to some sympathetic listener; and in writing
them he was as ingenuous and as unembarrassed as a child. He wrote to
his brother and to a bosom friend, Emile Bernard. As I have mentioned,
a good deal in these letters had to be suppressed--and very naturally
too. For if this correspondence had not contained much that was of too
intimate a character for publication, it is obvious that the very parts
that were considered publishable, would not have had a quarter of the
value which we must now ascribe to them. It is precisely because these
letters are, as it were, soliloquies which Van Gogh held in the presence
of his own soul, that they seem to me to be of such incalculable value
to all who think and work in the domain of art, and even in the domain
of psychology and morality to-day.
For everyone who is acquainted with the literature of Aesthetic, must
know how poor we are in human documents of this nature, and how
comparatively valueless the greater part even of our poor treasure is,
when it is compared with the profound works which men who were not
themselves painters or sculptors, have contributed to our literature on
the subject.
Who has not been disappointed on reading Ghiberti's commentaries,
Leonardo's note books, Vasari's discourses on "Technique," Antoine
Raphael Mengs's treatises, Hogarth's Analysis of Beauty, Reynolds'
Discourses, Alfred Stevens' Aphorisms, etc.? But who has not felt that
he was foredoomed to disappointment in each case? For an artist who
could express the "why" and the "how
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How To Do It.
By
Edward Everett Hale.
Contents.
Chapter I. Introductory.--How We Met
Chapter II. How To Talk
Chapter III. Talk
Chapter IV. How To Write
Chapter V. How To Read. I.
Chapter VI. How To Read. II.
Chapter VII. How To Go Into Society
Chapter VIII. How To Travel
Chapter IX. Life At School
Chapter X. Life In Vacation
Chapter XI. Life Alone
Chapter XII. Habits In Church
Chapter XIII. Life With Children
Chapter XIV. Life With Your Elders
Chapter XV. Habits Of Reading
Chapter XVI. Getting Ready
How To Do It.
Chapter I.
Introductory.--How We Met.
The papers which are here collected enter in some detail into the success
and failure of a large number of young people of my acquaintance, who are
here named as
Alice Faulconbridge,
Bob Edmeston,
Clara,
Clem Waters,
Edward Holiday,
Ellen Liston,
Emma Fortinbras,
Enoch Putnam, _brother of_ Horace,
Esther,
Fanchon,
Fanny, _cousin to_ Hatty Fielding
Florence,
Frank,
George Ferguson (Asaph Ferguson's _brother_),
Hatty Fielding,
Herbert,
Horace Putnam,
Horace Felltham (_a very different person_),
Jane Smith,
Jo Gresham,
Laura Walter,
Maud Ingletree,
Oliver Ferguson, _brother to_ Asaph _and_ George,
Pauline,
Rachel,
Robert,
Sarah Clavers,
Stephen,
Sybil,
Theodora,
Tom Rising,
Walter,
William Hackmatack,
William Withers.
It may be observed that there are thirty-four of them. They make up a
very nice set, or would do so if they belonged together. But, in truth,
they live in many regions, not to say countries. None of them are too
bright or too stupid, only one of them is really selfish, all but one or
two are thoroughly sorry for their faults when they commit them, and all
of them who are good for anything think of themselves very little. There
are a few who are approved members of the Harry Wadsworth Club. That means
that they "look up and not down," they "look forward and not back," they
"look out and not in," and they "lend a hand." These papers were first
published, much as they are now collected, in the magazine "Our Young
Folks," and in that admirable weekly paper "The Youth's Companion," which
is held in grateful remembrance by a generation now tottering off the
stage, and welcomed, as I see, with equal interest by the grandchildren as
they totter on. From time to time, therefore, as the different series have
gone on, I have received pleasant notes from other young people, whose
acquaintance I have thus made with real pleasure, who have asked more
explanation as to the points involved. I have thus been told that my
friend, Mr. Henry Ward Beecher, is not governed by all my rules for young
people's composition, and that Miss Throckmorton, the governess, does not
believe Archbishop Whately is infallible. I have once and again been asked
how I made the acquaintance of such a nice set of children. And I can well
believe that many of my young correspondents would in that matter be glad
to be as fortunate as I.
Perhaps, then, I shall do something to make the little book more
intelligible, and to connect its parts, if in this introduction I tell of
the one occasion when the _dramatis personae_ met each other; and in order
to that, if I tell how they all met me.
First of all, then, my dear young friends, I began active life, as soon as
I had left college, as I can well wish all of you might do. I began in
keeping school. Not that I want to have any of you do this long, unless an
evident fitness or "manifest destiny" appear so to order. But you may be
sure that, for a year or two of the start of life, there is nothing that
will teach you your own ignorance so well as having to teach children the
few things you know, and to answer, as best you can, their questions on
all grounds. There was poor Jane, on the first day of that charming visit
at the Penroses, who was betrayed by the simplicity and cordiality of
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Transcriber's Note: This book is heavily illustrated. The
illustrations that do not have captions have been removed in the text
version; they are retained in the HTML version.
Marys Little Lamb
A PICTURE GUESSING STORY
FOR LITTLE CHILDREN
BY
EDITH FRANCIS FOSTER
WITH 500 PICTURES BY THE AUTHOR
[Illustration]
SALEM MASS
SAMUEL EDSON CASSINO
CONTENTS
FRONTISPIECE
DEDICATION
HOW MARY FOUND HIM 9
HOW THEY WASHED HIM 15
HOW THEY FED HIM 21
HOW HE WENT TO SCHOOL 27
HOW HE WOULDN'T JUMP 33
HOW LITTLE MARY SPUN 39
HOW HE WENT BOATING 45
HOW DOLLABELLA TOOK A RIDE 51
HOW BOSSY BUNTED HIM 57
HOW THEY PLAYED HIDE-AND-SEEK 63
HOW HE SAVED MARY! 69
HOW HE WON A PRIZE 75
Copyright, 1901, By S. E. Cassino.
Copyright, 1903, By S. E. Cassino.
TO
LITTLE AUNT HANNAH
(ON HER
NINETY FIRST BIRTHDAY.)
[Illustration: HOW MARY FOUND HIM.]
[Illustration: MARY'S LITTLE LAMB.]
I
When little Mary Moffett's mother asked her to go up to the Clover
Farm for some fresh [eggs], Mary felt a little sorry, for she was very
busy making her [doll] a [dress], but she laid down her [thimble] and
[scissors] and [yarn], tied on her pink [bonnet], and set off up the
hill, with her little [basket] on her [arm]. As she was coming home
she heard a queer little patter, patter, behind her. She looked back
and saw something white! [Mary] felt a wee bit afraid, and began to
run but her [foot] struck a [stone] and down she tumbled on her
[nose]! Before she could get up something soft and woolly was rubbing
gently against her [face], saying "Ba-a-a!" "Oh you darling lamb!"
cried Mary, hugging it--and the little [lamb] snuggled close, and said
"Ba-a-a! Take me home with you, little Mary." [Mother] was
astonished. "Whose lamb is it?" she asked. "Oh Mother, I think it's
just a wild lamb! Mayn't I keep it?" begged [Mary]. But Mother said
she must ask Farmer Clover if it was one of his [sheep], first. So
back they went, and found Farmer Clover mending his [fence] and Mary
asked him. But there were two big tears in her [eyes]--she did so want
that dear [lamb]--and the kind old [man] saw them. "Well, yes," he
said, "that's my lamb--but it's an extra one, that I haven't any room
for. If I knew anybody who would be willing to take it and treat it
well--" "Oh, Mr. Clover!" cried [Mary], her eyes dancing, now, and her
[feet] dancing, too. "_I'd_ be willing! _I'd_ treat it well! May _I_
have it?" So Mary and the little [lamb] went dancing home together.
And kind old [Mr. Clover] watched them and laughed till his [axe]
danced in his [hand], and his [glasses] danced on his [nose].
[Illustration: HOW THEY WASHED HIM.]
[Illustration: MARY'S LITTLE LAMB.]
II
"Mother! Mother!" cried little Mary, running into the [house]. "Mr.
Clover says he doesn't need this [lamb]--it's extra--and I may have it
for my very own!" Yes, now it was Mary's little lamb--and how they
loved each other! They went together everywhere--in the [house] and
the [barn], and over to Grandfathers, to play with little Aunt Hannah.
Mary's Aunt Hannah was only three years older than [Mary] herself and
they played together all the time. The two little [girls] thought the
[lamb] was beautiful, but it was not very clean. "I don't want a
dirty
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BALED HAY
By Bill Nye
A Drier Book than Walt Whitman's "Leaves o' Grass."
Author of "Bill Nye and Boomerang,"
"Forty Liars and Other Lies,"
"Goose-Neck Smith,"
"How Came Your Eye
Out, and Your Nose Not Skun?" Etc., Etc., Etc.
_Heap cold day when Melican man no lite em blook_.AH SIN.
Illustrated by F. Opper, of "Puck"
Chicago. New York, San Francisco:
Belford, Clarke & Co
1884
[Illustration: cover]
[Illustration: 0007]
[Illustration: 0009]
DEDICATION.
TO MY WIFE:
Who has courteously and heroically laughed at my feeble and emaciated
jokes, even when she did not feel like it; who has again and again
started up and agitated successfully the flagging and reluctant
applause, who has courageously held my coat through this trying ordeal,
and who, even now, as I write this, is in the front yard warning people
to keep off the premises until I have another lucid interval,
This Volume is Affectionately Inscribed,
BY THE
AUTHOR.
PIAZZA TO THE THIRD VOLUME.
There can really be no excuse for this last book of trite and beautiful
sayings. I do not attempt, in any way, to palliate this great wrong. I
would not do so even if I had an idea what palliate meant.
It will, however, add one more to the series of books for which I am to
blame, and the pleasure of travel will be very much enhanced, for me, at
least.
There is one friend I always meet on the trains when I travel. He is the
news agent. He comes to me with my own books in his arms, and tells me
over and over again of their merits. He means it, too. What object could
he have in coming to me, not knowing who I am, and telling me of their
great worth? Why would he talk that way to me if he did not really feel
it?
That is one reason I travel so much. When 1 get gloomy and heartsick,
I like to get on a train and be assured once more, by a total stranger,
that my books have never been successfully imitated.
Some authors like to have a tall man, with a glazed grip-sack, and whose
breath is stronger than his intellect, selling their works; but I do not
prefer that way.
I like the candor and ingenuousness of the train-boy. He does not come
to the front door while you are at prayers, and ring the bell till the
hat-rack falls down, and then try to sell you a book containing 2,000
receipts for the blind staggers. He leans gently over you as you look
out the car window, and he puts some pecan meats in your hand, and
thus wins your trusting heart. Then he sells you a book, and takes an
interest in you.
This book will go to swell the newsboy's armful, and if there be any
excuse, under the sun, for its publication, aside from the royalty; that
is it.
I have taken great care to thoroughly eradicate anything that would have
the appearance of poetry in this work, and there is not a thought or
suggestion contained in it that would soil the most delicate fabric.
Do not read it all at once, however, in order to see whether he
married the girl or not. Take a little at a time, and it will cure
gloom on the "_similia simili-bus curanter_" principle. If you read
it all at once, and it gives you the heaves, I am glad of it, and you
deserve it. I will not bind myself to write the obituary of such people.
Hudson, Wis., Sept, 5,1883.
BALED HAY
A NOVEL NOVELETTE
|I NEVER wrote a novel, because I always thought it required more of
a mashed-rasp-berry imagination than I could muster, but I was the
business manager, once, for a year and a half, of a little two-bit
novelette that has never been published.
I now propose to publish it, because I cannot keep it to myself any
longer.
Allow me, therefore, to reminisce.
Harry Bevans was an old schoolmate of mine in the days of and although
Bevans was not his sure-enough name, it will answer for the purposes
herein set forth. At the time of which I now speak he was more bashful
than a book agent, and was trying to promote a cream- mustache
and buff "Donegals" on the side.
Suffice it to say that he was madly in love with Fanny Buttonhook, and
too bashful to say so by telephone.
Her name wasn't Buttonhook, but I will admit it for the sake of
argument. Harry lived over at Kalamazoo, we will say, and Fanny at
Oshkosh. These were not the exact names of the towns, but I desire to
bewilder the public a little in order to avoid any harassing disclosures
in the future. It is always well enough, I find, to deal gently will
those who are alive and moderately muscular.
Young Bevans was not specially afraid of old man Buttonhook, or his
wife. He didn't dread the enraged parent worth a cent. He wasn't afraid
of anybody under the cerulean dome, in fact, except Miss Buttonhook;
but when she sailed down the main street, Harry lowered his colors and
dodged into the first place he found open, whether it was a millinery
store or a livery stable.
Once, in an unguarded moment, he passed so near her that the gentle
south wind caught up the cherry ribbon that Miss Buttonhook wore at her
throat, and slapped Mr. Bevans across the cheek with it before he knew
what ailed him. There was a little vision of straw hat, brown hair,
and pink-and-white cuticle, as it were, a delicate odor of violets, the
"swish" of a summer silk, and my friend, Mr. Bevans, put his hand to his
head, like a man who has a sun-stroke, and fell into a drug store and a
state of wild mash, ruin and helpless chaos.
His bashfulness was not seated nor chronic. It was the varioloid, and
didn't hurt him only when Miss Buttonhook was present, or in sight. He
was polite and chatty with other girls, and even dared to be blithe and
gay sometimes, too, but when Frances loomed up in the distance, he would
climb a rail fence nine feet high to evade her.
He told me once that he wished I would erect the frame-work of a
letter to Fanny, in which he desired to ask that he might open up a
correspondence with her. He would copy and mail it, he said, and he was
sure that I, being a disinterested party, would be perfectly calm.
I wrote a letter for him, of which I was moderately proud. It would melt
the point on a lightning rod, it seemed to me, for it was just as full
of gentleness and poetic soothe as it could be, and Tupper, Webster's
Dictionary and my scrap-book had to give down first rate. Still it was
manly and square-toed. It was another man's confession, and I made it
bulge out with frankness and candor.
As luck would have it, I went over to Oshkosh about the time Harry's
prize epistle reached that metropolis, and having been a confidant
of Miss B's from early childhood, I had the pleasure of reading Bev's
letter, and advising the young lady about the correspondence.
Finally a bright thought struck her. She went over to an easy chair, and
sat down on her foot, coolly proposing that I should outline a letter
replying to Harry's, in a reserved and rather frigid manner, yet bidding
him dare to hope that if his orthography and punctuation continued
correct, he might write occasionally, though it must be considered
entirely _sub rosa_ and abnormally _entre nous_ on account of "Pa."
By the way, "Pa" was a druggist, and one of the salts of the
earth--Epsom salts, of course.
I agreed to write the letter, swore never to reveal the secret workings
of the order, the grips, explanations, passwords and signals, and then
wrote her a nice, demure, startled-fawn letter, as brief as the collar
to a party dress, and as solemn as the Declaration of Independence.
Then I said good-by, and returned to my own home, which was neither
in Kalamazoo nor Oshkosh. There I received a flat letter from 'William
Henry Bevans, inclosing one from Fanny, and asking for suggestions as
to a reply. Her letter was in Miss Buttonhook's best vein. I remember
having written it myself.
Well, to cut a long story short, every other week I wrote a letter for
Fanny, and on intervening weeks I wrote one for the lover at Kalamazoo.
By keeping copies of all letters written, I had a record showing where I
was, and avoided saying the same pleasant things twice.
Thus the short, sweet summer scooted past. The weeks were filled
with gladness, and their memory even now comes back to me, like a
wood-violet-scented vision. A wood-violet-scented vision comes high, but
it is necessary in this place.
Toward winter the correspondence grew a little tedious, owing to the
fact that I had a large, and tropical boil on the back of my neck, which
refused to declare its intentions or come to a focus for three weeks. In
looking over the letters of both lovers yesterday, I could tell by the
tone of each just where this boil began to grow up, as it were, between
two fond hearts.
This feeling grew till the middle of December, when there was a red-hot
quarrel. It was exciting and spirited, and after I had alternately
flattered myself first from Kalamazoo and then from Oshkosh, it was
a genuine luxury to have a row with myself through the medium of the
United States mails.
Then I made up and got reconciled. I thought it would be best to secure
harmony before the holidays so that Harry could go over to Oshkosh and
spend Christmas. I therefore wrote a letter for Harry in which he said
he had, no doubt, been hasty, and he was sorry. It should not occur
again. The days had been like weary ages since their quarrel, he
said--vicariously, of course--and the light had been shut out of his
erstwhile joyous life. Death would be a luxury unless she forgave him,
and Hades would be one long, sweet picnic and lawn festival unless she
blessed him with her smile.
You can judge how an old newspaper reporter, with a scarlet imagination,
would naturally dash the color into another man's picture of humility
and woe.
She replied--by proxy--that he was not to blame. It was her waspish
temper and cruel thoughtlessness. She wished he would come over and take
dinner with them on Christmas day and she would tell him how sorry she
was. When the man admits that he's a brute and the woman says she's
sorry, it behooves the eagle eye of the casual spectator to look up into
the blue sky for a quarter of an hour, till the reconciliation has had
a chance and the brute has been given time to wipe a damp sob from his
coat-collar.
I was invited to the Christmas dinner. As a successful reversible
amanuensis I thought I deserved it. I was proud and happy. I had passed
through a lover's quarrel and sailed in with whitewinged peace on time,
and now I reckoned that the second joint, with an irregular fragment
of cranberry jelly, and some of the dressing, and a little of the white
meat please, was nothing more than right.
Mr. Bevans forgot to be bashful twice during the day, and even smiled
once also. He began to get acquainted with Fanny after dinner, and
praised her beautiful letters. She blushed clear up under her "wave,"
and returned the compliment.
That was natural. When he praised her letters I did not wonder, and
when she praised his I admitted that she was eminently correct. I never
witnessed better taste on the part of two young and trusting hearts.
After Christmas I thought they would both feel like buying a manual and
doing their own writing, but they did not dare to do so evidently. They
seemed to be afraid the change would be detected, so I piloted them into
the middle of the succeeding fall, and then introduced the crisis into
both their lives.
It was a success.
I felt about as well as though I were to be cut down myself, and married
off in the very prime of life. Fanny wore the usual clothing adopted
by young ladies who are about to be sacrificed to a great horrid man. I
cannot give the exact description of her trousseau, but she looked like
a hazel-eyed angel, with a freckle on the bridge of her nose. The
groom looked a little scared, and moved his gloved hands as though they
weighed twenty-one pounds apiece.
However, it's all over now. I was up there recently to see them. They
are quite happy. Not too happy, but just happy enough. They call their
oldest son Birdie. I wanted them to call him William, but they were
headstrong and named him Birdie. That wounded my pride, and so I called
him Earlie Birdie.
GREELEY AID RUM.
|WHEN I visit Greeley I am asked over and over again as to the practical
workings of woman suffrage in Wyoming, and when I go back to Wyoming I
am asked how prohibition works practically in Greeley, Col. By telling
varied and pleasing lies about both I manage to have a good deal of fun,
and also keep the two elements on the anxious seat.
There are two sides to both questions, and some day when I get time
and have convalesced a little more, I am going to write a large book
relating to these two matters. At present I just want to say a word
about the colony which bears the name of the Tribune philosopher, and
nestles so lovingly at the chilly feet of the Rocky mountains. As I
write, Greeley is apparently an oasis in the desert. It looks like
a fertile island dropped down from heaven in a boundless stretch of
buffalo grass, sage hens and cunning little prairie dogs. And yet you
could not come here as a stranger, and within the colonial barbed wire
fence, procure a bite of cold rum if you were President of the United
States, with a rattlesnake bite as large as an Easter egg concealed
about your person. You can, however, become acquainted, if you are of a
social nature and keep your eyes open.
I do not say this because I have been thirsty these few past weeks and
just dropped on the game, as Aristotle would say, but just to prove that
men are like boys, and when you tell them they can't have any particular
thing, that is the thing they are apt to desire with a feverish yearn.
That is why the thirstful man in Maine drinks from the gas fixture; why
the Kansas drinkist gets his out of a rain-water barrel, and why other
miracles too numerous to mention are performed.
Whisky is more bulky and annoying to carry about in the coat-tail
pocket than a plug of tobacco, but there have been cases where it was
successfully done. I was shown yesterday a little corner that would hold
six or eight bushels. It was in the wash-room of a hotel, and was about
half full. So were the men who came there, for before night the entire
place was filled with empty whisky bottles of every size, shape and
smell. The little fat bottle with the odor of gin and livery stable was
there, and the large flat bottle that you get at Evans, four miles away,
generally filled with something that tastes like tincture of capsicum,
spirits of ammonia and lingering death, is also represented in this
great congress of cosmopolitan bottles sucked dry and the cork gnawed
half up.
When I came to Greeley, I was still following the course of treatment
prescribed by my Laramie City physician, and with the rest, I was
required to force down three adult doses of brandy per day. He used
to taste the prescription at times to see if it had been properly
compounded. Shortly after my arrival here I ran out of this remedy
and asked a friend to go and get the bottle refilled. He was a man not
familiar with Greeley in its moisture-producing capacity, and he was
unable to procure the vile demon in the town for love or wealth. The
druggist even did not keep it, and although he met crowds of men with
tears in their eyes and breath like a veteran bung-starter, he had to
go to Evans for the required opiate. This I use externally, now, on the
vagrant dog who comes to me to be fondled and who goes away with his
hair off. Central Colorado is full of partially bald dogs who have wiped
their wet, cold noses on me, not wisely but too well.
ABOUT SAW MILLS.
River Falls, Wis., May 80.
|I HAVE just returned from a trip up the North Wisconsin railway, where
I went to catch a string of codfish, and anything else that might be
contagious. The trip was a pleasant one and productive of great good in
many ways. I am hardening myself to railway traveling, like Timberline
Jones' man, so that I can stand the return journey to Laramie in July.
Northern Wisconsin is the place where the "foreign lumber" comes from
which we use in Laramie in the erection of our palatial residences. I
visited the mill last week that furnished the lumber used in the Oasis
hotel at Greeley. They yank a big wet log into that mill and turn it
into cash as quick as a railroad man can draw his salary out of the pay
car. The log is held on a carriage by means of iron dogs while it is
being worked into lumber. These iron dogs are not like those
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RUGGLES of RED GAP
By Harry Leon Wilson
1915
{Illustration: "I TAKE IT YOU FAILED TO WIN THE HUNDRED POUNDS, SIR?"}
{Dedication}
TO HELEN COOKE WILSON
CHAPTER ONE
At 6:30 in our Paris apartment I had finished the Honourable George,
performing those final touches that make the difference between a man
well turned out and a man merely dressed. In the main I was not
dissatisfied. His dress waistcoats, it is true, no longer permit the
inhalation of anything like a full breath, and his collars clasp too
closely. (I have always held that a collar may provide quite ample
room for the throat without sacrifice of smartness if the depth be at
least two and one quarter inches.) And it is no secret to either the
Honourable George or our intimates that I have never approved his
fashion of beard, a reddish, enveloping, brushlike affair never nicely
enough trimmed. I prefer, indeed, no beard at all, but he stubbornly
refuses to shave, possessing a difficult chin. Still, I repeat, he was
not nearly impossible as he now left my hands.
"Dining with the Americans," he remarked, as I conveyed the hat,
gloves, and stick to him in their proper order.
"Yes, sir," I replied. "And might I suggest, sir, that your choice be
a grilled undercut or something simple, bearing in mind the undoubted
effects of shell-fish upon one's complexion?" The hard truth is that
after even a very little lobster the Honourable George has a way of
coming out in spots. A single oyster patty, too, will often spot him
quite all over.
"What cheek! Decide that for myself," he retorted with a lame effort
at dignity which he was unable to sustain. His eyes fell from mine.
"Besides, I'm almost quite certain that the last time it was the
melon. Wretched things, melons!"
Then, as if to divert me, he rather fussily refused the correct
evening stick I had chosen for him and seized a knobby bit of
thornwood suitable only for moor and upland work, and brazenly quite
discarded the gloves.
"Feel a silly fool wearing gloves when there's no reason!" he
exclaimed pettishly.
"Quite so, sir," I replied, freezing instantly.
"Now, don't play the juggins," he retorted. "Let me be comfortable.
And I don't mind telling you I stand to win a hundred quid this very
evening."
"I dare say," I replied. The sum was more than needed, but I had cause
to be thus cynical.
"From the American Johnny with the eyebrows," he went on with a quite
pathetic enthusiasm. "We're to play their American game of
poker--drawing poker as they call it. I've watched them play for near
a fortnight. It's beastly simple. One has only to know when to bluff."
"A hundred pounds, yes, sir. And if one loses----"
He flashed me a look so deucedly queer that it fair chilled me.
"I fancy you'll be even more interested than I if I lose," he remarked
in tones of a curious evenness that were somehow rather deadly. The
words seemed pregnant with meaning, but before I could weigh them I
heard him noisily descending the stairs. It was only then I recalled
having noticed that he had not changed to his varnished boots, having
still on his feet the doggish and battered pair he most favoured. It
was a trick of his to evade me with them. I did for them each day all
that human boot-cream could do, but they were things no sensitive
gentleman would endure with evening dress. I was glad to reflect that
doubtless only Americans would observe them.
So began the final hours of a 14th of July in Paris that must ever be
memorable. My own birthday, it is also chosen by the French as one on
which to celebrate with carnival some one of those regrettable events
in their own distressing past.
To begin with, the day was marked first of all by the breezing in of
his lordship the Earl of Brinstead, brother of the Honourable George,
on his way to England from the Engadine. More peppery than usual had
his lordship been, his grayish side-whiskers in angry upheaval and his
inflamed words exploding quite all over the place, so that the
Honourable George and I had both perceived it to be no time for
admitting our recent financial reverse at the gaming tables of Ostend.
On the contrary, we
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[Illustration: cover art]
The Quest of the
"Golden Hope"
BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
50 Old Bailey, LONDON
17 Stanhope Street, GLASGOW
BLACKIE & SON (INDIA) LIMITED
Warwick House, Fort Street, BOMBAY
BLACKIE & SON (CANADA) LIMITED
1118 Bay Street, TORONTO
[Illustration: CAPTAIN JEREMY IS WOUNDED (missing from book)]
The Quest of the
"Golden Hope"
A Seventeenth Century Story of Adventure
BY
PERCY F. WESTERMAN
Author of "East in the _Golden Gain_" "The Third Officer"
"Sea Scouts All" &c.
ILLUSTRATED BY FRANK E. WILES
BLACKIE & SON LIMITED
LONDON AND GLASGOW
By Percy F. Westerman
Rivals of the Reef.
A Shanghai Adventure.
Pat Stobart in the "Golden Dawn".
The Junior Cadet.
Captain Starlight.
The Sea-Girt Fortress.
On the Wings of the Wind.
Captured at Tripoli.
Captain Blundell's Treasure.
The Third Officer.
Unconquered Wings.
The Buccaneers of Boya.
The Riddle of the Air.
Chums of the "Golden Vanity".
The Luck of the "Golden Dawn".
Clipped Wings.
The Salving of the "Fusi Yama".
Winning his Wings.
A Lively Bit of the Front.
A Cadet of the Mercantile Marine.
The Good Ship "Golden Effort".
East in the "Golden Gain".
The
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CONCERNING CHRISTIAN LIBERTY
by Martin Luther
LETTER OF MARTIN LUTHER TO POPE LEO X.
Among those monstrous evils of this age with which I have now for three
years been waging war, I am sometimes compelled to look to you and to
call you to mind, most blessed father Leo. In truth, since you alone are
everywhere considered as being the cause of my engaging in war, I cannot
at any time fail to remember you; and although I have been compelled
by the causeless raging of your impious flatterers against me to appeal
from your seat to a future council--fearless of the futile decrees
of your predecessors Pius and Julius, who in their foolish tyranny
prohibited such an action--yet I have never been so alienated in feeling
from your Blessedness as not to have sought with all my might, in
diligent prayer and crying to God, all the best gifts for you and for
your see. But those who have hitherto endeavoured to terrify me with the
majesty of your name and authority, I have begun quite to despise and
triumph over. One thing I see remaining which I cannot despise, and this
has been the reason of my writing anew to your Blessedness: namely, that
I find that blame is cast on me, and that it is imputed to me as a great
offence, that in my rashness I am judged to have spared not even your
person.
Now, to confess the truth openly, I am conscious that, whenever I have
had to mention your person, I have said nothing of you but what was
honourable and good. If I had done otherwise, I could by no means have
approved my own conduct, but should have supported with all my power the
judgment of those men concerning me, nor would anything have pleased
me better, than to recant such rashness and impiety. I have called
you Daniel in Babylon; and every reader thoroughly knows with what
distinguished zeal I defended your conspicuous innocence against
Silvester, who tried to stain it. Indeed, the published opinion of so
many great men and the repute of your blameless life are too widely
famed and too much reverenced throughout the world to be assailable by
any man, of however great name, or by any arts. I am not so foolish as
to attack one whom everybody praises; nay, it has been and always will
be my desire not to attack even those whom public repute disgraces. I am
not delighted at the faults of any man, since I am very conscious myself
of the great beam in my own eye, nor can I be the first to cast a stone
at the adulteress.
I have indeed inveighed sharply against impious doctrines, and I have
not been slack to censure my adversaries on account, not of their bad
morals, but of their impiety. And for this I am so far from being sorry
that I have brought my mind to despise the judgments of men and to
persevere in this vehement zeal, according to the example of Christ,
who, in His zeal, calls His adversaries a generation of vipers, blind,
hypocrites, and children of the devil. Paul, too, charges the sorcerer
with being a child of the devil, full of all subtlety and all malice;
and defames certain persons as evil workers, dogs, and deceivers. In the
opinion of those delicate-eared persons, nothing could be more bitter or
intemperate than Paul's language. What can be more bitter than the words
of the prophets? The ears of our generation have been made so delicate
by the senseless multitude of flatterers that, as soon as we perceive
that anything of ours is not approved of, we cry out that we are being
bitterly assailed; and when we can repel the truth by no other pretence,
we escape by attributing bitterness, impatience, intemperance, to our
adversaries. What would be the use of salt if it were not pungent, or of
the edge of the sword if it did not slay? Accursed is the man who does
the work of the Lord deceitfully.
Wherefore, most excellent Leo, I beseech you to accept my vindication,
made in this letter, and to persuade yourself that I have never thought
any evil concerning your person; further, that I am one who desires that
eternal blessing may fall to your lot, and that I have no dispute with
any man concerning morals, but only concerning the word of truth. In all
other things I will yield to any one, but I neither can nor will forsake
and deny the word. He who thinks otherwise of me, or has taken in my
words in another sense, does not think rightly, and has not taken in the
truth.
Your see, however, which is called the Court of Rome, and which neither
you nor any man can deny to be more corrupt than any Babylon or Sodom,
and quite, as I believe, of a lost, desperate, and hopeless impiety,
this I have verily abominated, and have felt indignant that the people
of Christ should be cheated under your name and the pretext of the
Church of Rome; and so I have resisted, and will resist, as long as
the spirit of faith shall live in me. Not that I am striving after
impossibilities, or hoping that by my labours alone, against the furious
opposition of so many flatterers, any good can be done in that most
disordered Babylon; but that I feel myself a debtor to my
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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
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by The Kentuckiana Digital Library)
[Illustration: FIGHT WITH THE GRIZZLY BEARS. _p. 290._]
THE
BACKWOODSMAN;
OR,
=Life on the Indian Frontier.=
[Illustration]
LONDON:
WARD, LOOK, AND TYLER,
WARWICK HOUSE, PATERNOSTER ROW.
THE
BACKWOODSMAN
OR
=Life on the Indian Frontier.=
EDITED BY
SIR C. F. LASCELLES WRAXALL, BART.
[Illustration: WL&T]
LONDON:
WARD, LOCK, AND TYLER,
WARWICK HOUSE, PATERNOSTER ROW.
LONDON:
PRINTED BY J. OGDEN AND CO.,
172, ST. JOHN STREET, E.C.
[Illustration]
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. MY SETTLEMENT 1
II. THE COMANCHES 6
III. A FIGHT WITH THE WEICOS 12
IV. HUNTING ADVENTURES 19
V. THE NATURALIST 30
VI. MR. KREGER'S FATE 41
VII. A LONELY RIDE 53
VIII. THE JOURNEY CONTINUED 66
IX. HOMEWARD BOUND 82
X. THE BEE HUNTER 99
XI. THE WILD HORSE 114
XII. THE PRAIRIE FIRE 126
XIII. THE DELAWARE INDIAN 137
XIV. IN THE MOUNTAINS 151
XV. THE WEICOS 162
XVI. THE BEAR HOLE 173
XVII. THE COMANCHE CHIEF 185
XVIII. THE NEW COLONISTS 208
XIX. A BOLD TOUR 224
XX. THE ROCKY MOUNTAINS 238
XXI. LOST IN THE MOUNTAINS 253
XXII. BEAVER HUNTERS 267
XXIII. THE GRIZZLY BEARS 282
XXIV. ASCENT OF THE BIGHORN 300
XXV. ON THE PRAIRIE 326
XXVI. THE COMANCHES 345
XXVII. HOME AGAIN 363
XXVIII. INDIAN BEAUTIES 381
XXIX. THE SILVER MINE 396
XXX. THE PURSUIT 412
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
THE BACKWOODSMAN
CHAPTER I.
MY SETTLEMENT.
My blockhouse was built at the foot of the mountain chain of the Rio
Grande, on the precipitous banks of the River Leone. On three sides it
was surrounded by a fourteen feet stockade of split trees standing
perpendicularly. At the two front corners of the palisade were small
turrets of the same material, whence the face of the wall could be held
under fire in the event of an attack from hostile Indians. On the south
side of the river stretched out illimitable rolling prairies, while the
northern side was covered with the densest virgin forest for many miles.
To the north and west I had no civilized neighbours at all, while to the
south and east the nearest settlement was at least 250 miles distant. My
small garrison consisted of three men, who, whenever I was absent,
defended the fort, and at other times looked after the small field and
garden as well as the cattle.
As I had exclusively undertaken to provide my colony with meat, I rarely
stayed at home, except when there was some pressing field work to be
done. Each dawn saw me leave the fort with my faithful dog Trusty, and
turn my horse either toward the boundless prairie or the mountains of
the Rio Grande.
Very often hunting kept me away from home for several days, in which
case I used to bivouac in the tall grass by the side of some prattling
stream. Such oases, though not frequent, are found here and there on the
prairies of the Far West, where the dark, lofty magnolias offer the
wearied traveller refreshment beneath their thick foliage, and the
stream at their base grants a cooling draught. One of these favourite
spots of mine lay near the mountains, about ten miles from my abode. It
was almost the only water far and wide, and here formed two ponds, whose
depths I was never able to sound, although I lowered large stones
fastened to upwards of a hundred yards of lasso. The small space between
the two ponds was overshadowed by the most splendid magnolias, peca-nut
trees, yuccas, evergreen oaks, &c., and begirt by a wall of cactuses,
aloes, and other prickly plants. I often selected this place for
hunting, because it always offered a large quantity of game of every
description, and I was certain at any time of finding near this water
h
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The Crisis of the
Naval War
By
ADMIRAL OF THE FLEET
VISCOUNT JELLICOE OF SCAPA
G.C.B., O.M., G.C.V.O.
_With 8 Plates and 6 Charts_
1920
CONTENTS
CHAPTER
1. ADMIRALTY ORGANIZATION: THE CHANGES IN 1917
2. SUBMARINE CAMPAIGN IN THE EARLY PART OF 1917
3. ANTI-SUBMARINE OPERATIONS
4. THE INTRODUCTION OF THE CONVOY SYSTEM
5. THE CONVOY SYSTEM AT WORK
6. THE ENTRY OF THE UNITED STATES: OUR NAVAL POLICY EXPLAINED
7. PATROL CRAFT AND MINESWEEPING SERVICES
8. THE DOVER PATROL AND THE HARWICH FORCES
9. THE SEQUEL
10. "PRODUCTION" AT THE ADMIRALTY DURING 1917
11. NAVAL WORK
12. THE FUTURE
INDEX
LIST OF PLATES
A Mine Exploding
A German Submarine of the U-C Type
A German Submarine of the later Cruiser Class
A Smoke Screen for a Convoy
The Dummy Deck-house of a Decoy Ship
A Convoy Zigzagging
A Convoy with an Airship
Drifters at Sea
A Paddle Minesweeper
A German Mine on the Surface
Two Depth Charges after Explosion
The Tell-tale Oil Patch
A Submarine Submerging
Periscope of Submerged Submarine Travelling at Slow Speed
A Submarine Submerged
LIST OF CHARTS
(CONTAINED IN THE POCKET AT THE END OF THE BOOK)
A. Approach Areas and Typical Routes.
B. Typical Approach Lines.
C. Barred Zones Proclaimed by the Germans.
D. Patrol Areas, British Isles.
E. Patrol and Minesweeping Zones in the Mediterranean.
F. Showing French and British Ports within Range of the
German Bases at Ostend and Zeebrugge.
To
The Officers and Men
of our
Convoy, Escort, Patrol and Minesweeping Vessels
and their
Comrades of the Mercantile Marine
by whose splendid gallantry, heroic self-sacrifice, and
unflinching endurance the submarine
danger was defeated
INTRODUCTION
Owing to the peculiar nature and demands of naval warfare, but few
dispatches, corresponding to those describing the work and achievements
of our great armies, were issued during the progress of the war. In a
former volume I attempted to supply this defect in the historical
records, which will be available for future generations, so far as the
Grand Fleet was concerned, during my period as its Commander-in-Chief.
The present volume, which was commenced and nearly completed in 1918,
was to have been published at the same time. My departure on a Naval
mission early in 1919 prevented me, however, from putting the finishing
touches to the manuscript until my return this spring.
I hesitated as to the publication of this portion of what is in effect
one complete narrative, but eventually decided not to depart from my
original purpose. There is some reason to believe that the account of
the work of the Grand Fleet gave the nation a fuller conception of the
services which the officers and men of that force rendered in
circumstances which were necessarily not easily appreciated by landsmen.
This second volume, dealing with the defeat of the enemy's submarine
campaign, the gravest peril which ever threatened the population of this
country, as well as of the whole Empire, may not be unwelcome as a
statement of facts. They have been set down in order that the sequence
and significance of events may be understood, and that the nation may
appreciate the debt which it owes, in particular, to the seamen of the
Royal Navy and the Mercantile Marine, who kept the seas during the
unforgettable days of the intensive campaign.
This book, therefore, gives the outline of the work accomplished by the
Navy in combating the unrestricted submarine warfare instituted by the
Central Powers in February, 1917. It would have been a labour of love to
tell at greater length and in more detail how the menace was gradually
overcome by the gallantry, endurance and strenuous work of those serving
afloat in ships flying the White or the Red Ensigns, but I had not the
necessary materials at my disposal for such an exhaustive record.
The volume is consequently largely concerned with the successive steps
taken at the Admiralty to deal with a situation which was always
serious, and which at times assumed a very grave aspect. The ultimate
result of all Naval warfare must naturally rest with those who are
serving afloat, but it is only
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THROUGH APACHE LAND
BY LIEUT. R. H. JAYNE
AUTHOR OF "LOST IN THE WILDERNESS," "IN THE PECOS COUNTRY," "THE CAVE IN
THE MOUNTAIN," ETC.
NEW YORK
THE MERSHON COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyrighted, 1893,
BY THE PRICE-MCGILL CO.
[Illustration: THE WARRIOR HAD NOT TIME TO RECOVER * * * WHEN TOM
GRASPED HIM BY THE THROAT.]
CONTENTS.
I--Moonlight on the Rio Gila
II--Tom Hardynge's Ruse
III--Pursued by the Apaches
IV--Outwitted
V--An Alarming Message
VI--The Two Scouts
VII--The Cavalry Escort
VIII--In Devil's Pass
IX--Among the Apaches
X--Lone Wolf
XI--Surrounded by Danger
XII--"The Hour has Come"
XIII--The Flight
XIV--Pursued
XV--In the Solitude
XVI--Among the Mountains
XVII--A Mysterious Camp Fire
XVIII--The Indian Fight
XIX--A Terrible Meeting
XX--White vs. Red
XXI--Friends Together
XXII--Anxious Waiting
XXIII--The Death Shot
XXIV--The Buffaloes
XXV--Alone Again
XXVI--Capturing a Mustang
XXVII--A Run for Life
XXVIII--A Great Misfortune
XXIX--The Lone Camp Fire
XXX--Fighting a Gr
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BART KEENE'S
HUNTING DAYS
Or
The Darewell Chums
in a Winter Camp
BY
ALLEN CHAPMAN
AUTHOR OF "BART STIRLING'S ROAD TO SUCCESS," "WORKING
HARD TO WIN," "BOUND TO SUCCEED," "THE YOUNG
STOREKEEPER," "NAT BORDEN'S FIND," ETC.
[Illustration:
_The_
GOLDSMITH
_Publishing Co._
CLEVELAND OHIO
MADE IN U.S.A.]
COPYRIGHT, 1911, BY
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A MIDNIGHT EXPEDITION 1
II. THE MISSING DIAMOND BRACELET 8
III. A FRUITLESS SEARCH 24
IV. IN THE SHOOTING GALLERY 35
V. AN INITIATION 49
VI. AN UNEXPECTED MEETING 57
VII. GETTING READY FOR CAMP 67
VIII. AN ODD LETTER 77
IX. OFF TO CAMP 84
X. A RAILROAD ACCIDENT 91
XI. PUTTING UP THE TENTS 97
XII. THE PLACE OF THE TURTLES 106
XIII. THE MUD VOLCANO 111
XIV. BART'S FIRST SHOT 119
XV. FENN FALLS IN 125
XVI. FRANK MAKES PANCAKES 132
XVII. TREED BY A WILDCAT 141
XVIII. THE MYSTERIOUS MAN AGAIN 153
XIX. LOST IN THE WOODS 160
XX. A NIGHT OF MISERY 167
XXI. UNEXPECTED HELP 173
XXII. CHRISTMAS IN CAMP 179
XXIII. FOOTPRINTS IN THE SNOW 187
XXIV. A SHOT IN TIME 193
XXV. NED'S RABBIT TRAP 200
XXVI. A VISIT TO TOWN 206
XXVII. THE MAN WITH THE TURTLE 212
XXVIII. THE PURSUIT 217
XXIX. BART'S BEST SHOT 227
XXX. THE DIAMOND BRACELET--CONCLUSION 232
BART KEENE'S HUNTING DAYS
CHAPTER I
A MIDNIGHT EXPEDITION
"Hold on there! Go easy, now, fellows," cautioned Bart Keene to his two
chums, as they stole softly along in the darkness. "What are you making
all that racket for, Ned?"
"It wasn't me; it was Frank."
"I couldn't help it," came from Frank Roscoe in a whisper. "I stumbled
on a stone."
"Well, don't do it again," retorted Bart. "First thing you know some one
will hear us, and the jig will be up."
"And then we can't play the joke on Stumpy," added Ned Wilding.
"Of course not," went on Bart. "Easy now. Come on. Keep behind me in a
line, and walk in the shadows as much as possible. We're almost there."
The three lads bent upon playing a peculiar trick on their chum, Fenn,
or "Stumpy" Masterson, kept on toward the Darewell High School, at which
they were students. The building set well back from the street, and the
campus in front was now flooded with brilliant moonlight. It was close
to midnight, and to approach the institution unobserved, to take from it
certain objects, and to steal away without having been noticed, was the
object of the three conspirators.
"Are you coming?" asked Bart, as he turned around to observe what
progress his companions were making. He saw Ned and Frank standing
still, crouched in the shadow of a leafless tree. "What's the matter?"
he continued, somewhat anxiously.
"Thought I heard a noise in the building," whispered Frank, hoarsely.
"You're dreaming," retorted Bart. "Come on. It's getting late, and we
want to finish."
"Yes, and it's as cold as Greenland," added Ned. The boys had on light
overcoats, for winter was near at hand.
Once more the two advanced, and joined Bart. The three were now in the
shadow of one of the wings of the school, and, as far as they knew,
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Transcriber's notes:
Punctuation and hyphenation have been normalised. Variable, archaic or
unusual spelling has been retained. A list of the few corrections made
can found at the end of the book. Italics indicated by _underscores_.
[Illustration: GREECE, TURKEY, _PART OF_ RUSSIA & POLAND.]
INCIDENTS OF TRAVEL IN GREECE, TURKEY, RUSSIA, AND POLAND.
BY THE AUTHOR OF
"INCIDENTS OF TRAVEL IN EGYPT, ARABIA PETRAEA, AND THE HOLY LAND."
WITH A MAP AND ENGRAVINGS.
IN TWO VOLUMES.
VOL. I.
SEVENTH EDITION.
NEW YORK:
HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS.
329 & 331 PEARL STREET,
FRANKLIN SQUARE.
1853.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1838, by HARPER &
BROTHERS, in the Clerk's Office of the Southern District of New York.
PREFACE TO THE FIFTH EDITION.
THE fourth edition of this work was published during the author's
absence from the city. His publishers, in a preface in his behalf,
returned his acknowledgments to the public, and he can but respond to
the acknowledgments there made. He has made some alterations in the page
relating to the American phil-Hellenists; and for the rest, he concludes
as in the preface to his first edition.
The author has been induced by his publishers to put forth his
"Incidents of Travel in Greece, Turkey, Russia, and Poland." In point of
time they precede his tour in Egypt, Arabia Petraea, and the Holy Land.
The countries which form the subject of the following pages perhaps do
not, in themselves, possess the same interest with those in his first
work; but the author has reason to believe that part of his route,
particularly from the Black Sea to the Baltic, through the interior of
Russia, and from St. Petersburgh through the interior of Poland to
Warsaw and Cracow, is comparatively new to most of his countrymen. As in
his first work, his object has been to present a picture of the
every-day scenes which occur to the traveller in the countries referred
to, rather than any detailed description of the countries themselves.
_New York, November, 1838._
CONTENTS OF THE FIRST VOLUME
CHAPTER I. Page
A Hurricane.--An Adventure.--Missilonghi.--Siege of
Missilonghi.--Byron.--Marco Bozzaris.--Visit to the Widow,
Daughters, and Brother of Bozzaris.--Halleck's "Marco Bozzaris."
13
CHAPTER II.
Choice of a Servant.--A Turnout.--An Evening Chat.--Scenery of the
Road.--Lepanto.--A projected Visit.--Change of
Purpose.--Padras.--Vostitza.--Variety and Magnificence of Scenery.
28
CHAPTER III.
Quarrel with the Landlord.--AEgina.--Sicyon.--Corinth.--A
distinguished Reception.--Desolation of Corinth.--The
Acropolis.--View from the Acropolis.--Lechaeum and Cenchreae.--Kaka
Scala.--Arrival at Athens. 46
CHAPTER IV.
American Missionary School.--Visit to the School.--Mr. Hill and the
Male Department.--Mrs. Hill and the Female Department.--Maid of
Athens.--Letter from Mr. Hill.--Revival of Athena.--Citizens of
the World. 61
CHAPTER V.
Ruins of Athens.--Hill of Mars.--Temple of the Winds.--Lantern of
Demosthenes.--Arch of Adrian.--Temple of Jupiter Olympus.--Temple
of Theseus.--The Acropolis.--The Parthenon.--Pentelican
Mountain.--Mount Hymettus.--The Piraeus.--Greek Fleas.--Napoli. 73
CHAPTER VI.
Argos.--Parting and Farewell.--Tomb of Agam
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AT START AND FINISH
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
APPLES OF ISTAKHAR
AT
START AND FINISH
William Lindsey
[Illustration]
Boston
Small, Maynard & Company
1899
_Copyright, 1896,_ by
COPELAND AND DAY
* * * * *
_Copyright, 1899,_ by
SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
TO THE
ATHLETIC TEAMS OF OLD ENGLAND
AND NEW ENGLAND, OXFORD, CAMBRIDGE,
HARVARD, AND YALE, WHO
MET IN LONDON JULY 22, 1899, GOOD
WINNERS AND PLUCKY LOSERS,
I DEDICATE THIS BOOK
NOTE.
In the present volume I have drawn freely on my previous collection (now
out of print), "Cinder-path Tales," omitting some material, but adding
much more that is new.
I have also added headpieces, in which my suggestions have been very
cleverly carried out by the artist, W. B. Gilbert.
W. L.
CONTENTS
PAGE
OLD ENGLAND AND NEW ENGLAND 1
MY FIRST, FOR MONEY 36
THE HOLLOW HAMMER 62
HIS NAME IS MUD 91
HOW KITTY QUEERED THE "MILE" 107
ATHERTON'S LAST "HALF" 131
THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE 153
A VIRGINIA JUMPER 176
AND EVERY ONE A WINNER 213
[Illustration: Old England and New England]
It is something of an experience for an Englishman, after thirty years'
absence, to stand on the steps of "Morley's" and face the sunlight of
Trafalgar Square. He may not own a foot of English soil, he may have no
friend left to meet him, he may even have become a citizen of the Great
Republic, but he cannot look at the tall shaft on which the "little
sailor" stands without a breath of pride, a mist in his eye, and a lump
in his throat.
It was early afternoon of a warm July day. There was barely enough wind
to blow the spray of the fountains, and the water itself rose straight
in the soft air. I stood contentedly watching the endless procession of
busses, hansoms, and four-wheelers, with the occasional coster's cart,
and asked for nothing more. Long-eared "Neddy" dragging "Arry,"
"Arriet," and a load of gooseberries was a combination on which my eye
rested with peculiar fascination. No amateur "whip" in a red coat on a
bottle-green coach could handle the "ribbons" over four "choice uns"
with a finer air than "Arry" as he swung through the line and came
clicking up the street. I would rather see him pass than the Lord Mayor
in his chariot. I must have stood on the top step of "Morley's" for a
good half-hour, not caring even to smoke, so sweet was the smell of a
London street to me.
I was thinking, as a man must at such a time, of old days and old
friends,--not dismally, but with a certain sense of loss,--when a tall
gentleman came slowly up the steps and stopped immediately in front of
me. I moved aside, although there was plenty of room for him to pass;
but still he looked at me gravely, and at last held out a big brown hand
and said, as if we had parted only yesterday, "Well, Walter, old man,
how are you?" I was a bit in doubt at first. He was so tall that his
eyes were nearly on a level with my own, his figure erect and soldierly,
his face bronzed as if from long exposure to a tropic sun. Only when he
smiled did I know him, and then we gripped hands hard, our fingers
clinging until we saw we were attracting the notice of those around us.
Then our hands unclasped, and feeling a bit foolish over our emotion, we
sat down together.
At first we talked of commonplaces, though all the time I was thinking
of an evening more than thirty years ago when we stood together on the
river path, under the shadows of old Oxford towers, and said,
"Good-bye." He then offered to stand by me when the friendship would
have cost him something, and I declined the sacrifice. Would it have
been better? Who can tell?
Our first thoughts were a bit serious, perhaps, but our second became
decidedly cheerful at meeting again after so long a time. I learned that
he was "Colonel" Patterson, having gained his regiment a good ten years
ago; that he had spent nearly all his time in India; that he had been
invalided home; that he was, like myself, unmarried, and that he found
himself rather "out of it" after all these years away from the "old
country."
I told how I had gone to America, where, finding all other talents
unmarketable, I had become first a professional runner, and later a
college trainer. To this occupation, in which I had been something of a
success, I had given many years until a small invention had made me
independent, and a man of leisure in a modest way. I saw he was a bit
disappointed when I told him I had been forced to "turn pro." in order
to obtain my bread and butter. I knew exactly how he felt, and well did
I remember my sorrow when I dropped the "Mr." from my name. It is not a
particularly high-sounding title, but to appreciate it at its true value
a man need only to lose it and become plain "Smith," "Jones," or
"Robinson." That nothing could raise the "pale spectre of the salt"
between Frank Patterson and myself, not even going outside the pale of
the "gentleman amateur," I was very certain.
But when I told him a little later that I had become a full-fledged
citizen of the United States, he could not conceal his surprise,
although he said but little at first.
We talked of other things for a while, and then my friend came back to
what I knew he had been thinking about all the time, and he asked me
bluntly how it was I had come to give up the nation of my birth.
"It seemed only fair," I answered, "that I should become a citizen of
the country in which I obtained my living, whose laws protected me, in
which most of my friends were resident, and where I expected sometime to
be buried."
At this the Colonel was silent for a little while, and then he remarked
rather doubtfully: "I cannot make up my mind just what the Americans are
like. Are they what Kipling declared them in the 'Pioneer Mail' some
ten years ago, when he cursed them root and branch, or what the same man
said of them a few years later, when he affirmed just as strongly, 'I
love them' and 'They'll be the biggest, finest, and best people on the
surface of the globe'? Such contradictory statements are confusing to a
plain soldier with nothing more than the average amount of intelligence.
What is the use, too, of calling them Anglo-Saxon? They are, in fact, a
mixture of Celt, Teuton, Gaul, Slav, with a modicum of Saxon blood, and
I know not what else."
I could not help smiling a little at the Colonel's earnestness. I tried
to tell him that the American was essentially Anglo-Saxon in spite of
all the mixture; that his traditions, aims, and sentiments were very
much like his own; that he had the same language, law, and literature;
that the boys read "Tom Brown at Rugby," and the old men Shakespeare,
Browning, and Kipling. I told him that the boys played English games
with but slight changes, and that they boxed like English boys, and
their fathers fought like English men.
"Yes," said the Colonel, at last interrupting my flow of eloquence, "I
heard the statement made at the Army and Navy Club only last night, that
the American soldier was close to our 'Tommy,' and that the Yankee
sailor was second to none. Yet all the time I cannot adjust myself to
the fact that he is 'one of us.' Perhaps if I saw some typical Americans
I should be a little less at sea."
"Well," I answered, "if that is what you want, I can give you plenty of
opportunity. This afternoon occur the athletic games between Oxford and
Cambridge on the one hand, and Harvard and Yale on the other. I am going
with a party of Americans; we have seats in the American section, and I
have a spare ticket which you can use as well as not. You can study the
'genus Americana' at your leisure, and see some mighty good sport
meanwhile."
"That would suit my book exactly," declared the Colonel; and he had
scarcely spoken before I saw Tom Furness standing in the entrance of the
hotel evidently looking for me. He was clad, despite the heat, in a long
Prince Albert coat which fitted him like a glove, and wore a tall silk
hat as well. He saw me almost immediately, and a moment later was
shaking hands with the Colonel. The latter was dressed in a
loose-fitting suit of gray flannel and sported a very American-looking
straw hat, so that Tom really appeared the more English of the two.
Which was the finer specimen of a man it would be hard to say, and one
might not match them in a day's journey. They were almost exactly of a
height, the Colonel not more erect than Tom, and not quite as broad of
chest. The latter certainly had not the Colonel's clean-cut face, but
there was something about his rather irregular features that would
attract attention anywhere. I was pleased to see, too, that he gave to
the Colonel a touch of the deference due his age and rank, which I admit
some of Tom's countrymen might have forgotten.
Furness was very cordial, too. "We are in great luck," he declared, "to
have the Colonel with us, for a little later we should have been gone.
It is about time to start now, after, of course, a little something to
fortify us against the drive." So he took us into the smoking-room,
where he introduced the Colonel to Harry Gardiner and Jim Harding. He
also made him acquainted with a Manhattan cocktail, which the Colonel
imbibed with some hesitation, but found very decidedly to his liking.
Tom explained that he had taught them how to make it himself that very
morning, and that it could not be bettered in all London.
Furness always constitutes himself host if he has the least excuse for
so doing. It is a way he has. Nothing but a man's own hearthstone in
his own particular castle stops him. He takes possession of all neutral
ground like that of a hotel, and considers it his duty to make matters
pleasant for all around him.
Harding and Gardiner were a half-dozen years younger than Furness, and
it was not many years since I had trained them for very much the same
kind of games as those of the afternoon. Harding was a big fellow, with
broad shoulders, and a mop of yellow hair. He had been a mighty good man
in his day with both "shot" and "hammer." Harry Gardiner had been a
sprinter,--one of the best starters I ever knew,--and a finisher, too,
which does not always follow. The Colonel got along very well with them
all,--a little reserved at first, and studying all three of them in a
very quiet way. He could sometimes not quite make out what Harding, who
had a very choice vocabulary of Americanisms, was driving at, and one or
two of Tom's jokes he failed utterly to comprehend; but he seemed to
understand the men themselves fairly well, nevertheless. We chatted
together a few minutes, and then Furness declared it was time to start,
producing cigars which would have tempted a modern Adam more than any
apple in the Garden of Eden. So the Colonel and myself left the others,
and were soon comfortably ensconced in a clean hansom, behind a good
piece of horseflesh, and bowling along toward the Queen's Club Grounds
at a very respectable rate of speed.
We enjoyed our ride very thoroughly, and arrived at the Comeragh Road
entrance almost too soon, for the crowd was only beginning to gather. We
obtained programmes, and entering the gateway found ourselves in full
view of the grounds at once.
A mighty fine sight they were, too, the stretch of level greensward,
hard and velvety, with the dark brown cinder-path encircling it. The
seats rose on all sides but one, and there, outside the fence, was the
fringe of waving trees, and the red brick houses, trim and neat. Over
all was the soft blue sky, with here and there a drifting cloud. I could
see the Colonel's eyes glisten. He had spent the best part of his life
in a country which alternated between the baked brown clay of the dry
season and the wild luxuriance that followed the rains. He went to the
very outside edge of the track, and took a careful step or two on it,
examining it with the eye of a connoisseur, for he knew something of a
track, although he had not seen one for many years. "'Tis fast," said
he, knowingly. "With the heat and calm the conditions are right enough,
and the men will have nobody to blame but themselves if they do not come
close to the records."
We walked slowly by the telegraph office, and back of the tennis courts.
As we passed the Tea-room we could see a few people at the tables, and
quite a little group was gathered around the Members' Pavilion. We went
by the Royal Box, with its crimson draperies, and found our seats close
to the finish of the hundred-yard, half, mile, and three-mile runs. The
Colonel gave himself at once to the careful examination of the
programme, as did I myself. The "Oxford and Cambridge" was printed in
dark blue ink, and "Harvard and Yale" in crimson. For stewards there
were C. N. Jackson and Lees Knowles, the former once the finest hurdler
in England. For the Americans, E. J. Wendell and C. H. Sherrill
officiated; many a bit of red worsted had I seen the latter break across
the sea. Judges, referee, and timekeeper were alike well known on both
continents, and had all heard the crunch of a running shoe as it bit
into the cinders. Wilkinson of Sheffield was to act as "starter."
"He has the reputation of never having allowed a fraction to be stolen
on his pistol," remarked the Colonel.
"Let him watch Blount to-day then," I said.
The Colonel ran his finger down the list. "Nine contests in all. One of
strength, three of endurance, two of speed, two of activity, and the
'quarter' only is left where speed and bottom are both needed. How will
they come out?" he asked.
"About five to four," I answered, "but I cannot name the winner. On form
Old England should pull off the 'broad jump,' the'mile' and 'three
miles,' and New England is quite sure of the 'hammer' and 'high jump.'
This leaves the 'hundred' and 'hurdles,' the 'quarter' and 'half' to be
fought out, although of course nothing is sure but death and taxes."
"I suppose it will be easy to distinguish the men by their style and
manner," said the Colonel.
"You will not see much difference," I replied. "The Americans wear the
colors more conspicuously, Harvard showing crimson, and Yale dark blue.
'Tis the same shade as Oxford's. The Americans have also the letters 'H'
and 'Y' marked plainly on the breasts of their jerseys. There are some
of the contestants arriving now," I remarked, pointing across the track;
"would you like to see them before they strip?"
"I certainly would," he answered; and we slipped out of our seats and
around the track to the Members' Pavilion, in front of which they stood.
Just before we reached them, however, we met Furness, Harding, and
Gardiner, the former holding a little chap about ten years old by the
hand, who was evidently his "sire's son," for his eyes were big with
excitement and pleasure.
"Which are they?" inquired the Colonel, a little doubtfully. "That chap
in front is an English lad or I miss my guess," looking admiringly at a
young giant apparently not more than twenty years old, and perhaps the
finest-looking one of the lot. His hat was in his hand, his eyes were
bright, and skin clear, with a color that only perfect condition brings.
"No," I answered, rather pleased at his mistake; "that is a Harvard
Freshman, though he bears a good old English name. Since Tom of Rugby,
the Browns have had a name or two in about every good sporting event on
earth. Would you like to know him?" I asked, for just then the young
fellow spied me out and came forward to meet me with a smile of
recognition. I was quite willing to introduce H. J. Brown to the
Colonel, although it was hardly fair to present him as a sample of an
American boy. As Tom would have said, it was showing the top of a
"deaconed" barrel of apples.
The young fellow shook the Colonel's hand with an easy self-possession,
coloring a little under his brown skin at the older man's close
scrutiny, who said a quiet word concerning the games, and asked him if
he felt "fit."
"I'm as fit as they can make a duffer," he answered. "Boal, over there,"
pointing to an older man with a strong face full of color and who was a
bit shorter and even more strongly built,--"Boal is the man who throws
the hammer. He's better than I by a dozen feet."
"Yes," remarked Tom, coming forward and shaking Brown's hand with a
hearty grip, "this
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THE
New Psychology Series
_By_ WILLIAM WALKER ATKINSON
In the past few years a widespread mental and spiritual awakening has
taken place among the people of this country. And this new awakening has
been very aptly called THE NEW PSYCHOLOGY MOVEMENT, because it has to do
with the development and expression of the mind, or soul, of both the
individual and the nation.
The New Psychology
The Will
Memory
Suggestion and Auto-Suggestion
The Subconscious and Superconscious Planes of Mind
The Psychology of Success
The Art of Logical Thinking
Thought-Culture
The Psychology of Salesmanship
The Art of Expression
Mind and Body
Human Nature
Although each book stands alone as an authority on the subject treated,
yet one theme runs through the series, binding them together to make a
complete whole.
The uniform postpaid price of each volume is $1.00
We are making a special price of $10.00 for the entire set
THE PROGRESS COMPANY :: CHICAGO
THOUGHT-CULTURE
OR
PRACTICAL MENTAL TRAINING
By WILLIAM WALKER ATKINSON
L.N. FOWLER & COMPANY
7, Imperial Arcade, Ludgate Circus
London, E.C., England
1909
THE PROGRESS COMPANY
CHICAGO, ILL.
COPYRIGHT, 1910
BY
THE PROGRESS COMPANY
P.F. PETTIBONE & CO
Printers and Binders
Chicago
CONTENTS
I. The Power of Thought
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THE BOY SCOUTS
FOR
CITY IMPROVEMENT
BY
SCOUT MASTER ROBERT SHALER
AUTHOR OF "BOY SCOUTS OF THE SIGNAL CORPS," "BOY SCOUTS
OF PIONEER CAMP," "BOY SCOUTS OF THE GEOLOGICAL SURVEY,"
"BOY SCOUTS OF THE LIFE SAVING CREW," "BOY
SCOUTS ON PICKET DUTY," "BOY SCOUTS OF THE FLYING
SQUADRON," "BOY SCOUTS AND THE PRIZE
PENNANT," "BOY SCOUTS OF THE NAVAL
RESERVE," "BOY SCOUTS IN THE
SADDLE," ETC., ETC.
NEW YORK
HURST & COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1914,
BY
HURST & COMPANY
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. Under the Spreading Oak 5
II. A Friend in Need 17
III. The Fire Call 30
IV. Willing Workers 43
V. Repairing Damages 56
VI. On Duty 69
VII. The Alarm 82
VIII. Mocking the Mayor 95
IX. What Scouts Know 108
X. The Accusation 121
XI. The Turning Point 133
XII. Thanks to the Scouts 151
The Boy Scouts for City Improvement.
CHAPTER I.
UNDER THE SPREADING OAK.
"I guess old summer must have forgotten something and has come back to
find it again, eh, Billy?"
"It feels more like the August dog-days than the tail end of September,
that's a fact, Hugh."
"But right here, Billy, sitting on the stone curbing in the shade of the
big General Putnam oak, we can cool off. Let's rest up a bit and talk,
while we watch the people go by."
"That suits me all right, Hugh. I love to sit and watch others work on a
hot afternoon. Suppose we chin a little about skating, tobogganing and
all those nice pleasant things? They help to cool you off and make you
feel that life is worth living, after all."
The two lads were dressed in khaki uniforms, sufficient evidence that
they were members of the local Boy Scout troop, of which their home town
was rather proud. In fact, the young fellow who had been called Hugh and
whose last name was Hardin, had lately succeeded in attaining the
position of Assistant Scout Master, when the former incumbent resigned,
owing to removal from the place.
His chum, Billy Worth, also a member of the Wolf Patrol, was a
first-class scout, as his badge denoted. He was inclined to be rather
stout in build, and his face expressed genial good nature. Billy and
Hugh had been doing some shopping on the main street of their town and
were sauntering along, when the heat of the September day caused them to
make a halt under the grateful shade of the tremendous oak, which for
some reason or other had been called after that staunch New England
patriot of Revolutionary days, Israel Putnam.
While these two energetic lads will be readily recognized by any reader
who has perused former books in this series, for the benefit of those
who may be meeting them for the first time it might be advisable to say
something concerning them and the local organization.
The troop now consisted of four full patrols of eight members each, and
another was forming. These were, first of all, the Wolf, to which both
boys belonged, Hugh being the leader; the Hawks, with Walter Osborne at
their head; the Otters, once again having Alec Sands, Hugh's old-time
rival, as their leader; and last of all, the Fox Patrol, in which Don
Miller occupied the place of honor.
For several seasons now these scouts had been having the time of their
lives under the charge of a retired army officer named Lieutenant
Denmead, who, having more or less spare time on his hands and being
deeply interested in the upbuilding of boy character, had long ago
accepted the office of Scout Master to the troop.
They had camped many times, usually up at Pioneer Lake among the rugged
hills close to old Stormberg Mountain. Besides this experience, they had
had chances to see considerable of life in other places, as will be
found detailed in previous volumes of this series.
On one occasion they had been given an opportunity to accompany the
State Militia on their annual training trip, when a mock battle was
fought. Some of the scouts, serving as a signal corps, proved themselves
of considerable value to the armies engaged in the sham fight.
Then again, a favored few had been given a chance to see how the life
savers of the Florida coast conduct their work during the stormy season
of the year, and had even assisted in the work of rescue.
On another occasion they had accompanied the Naval Reserve Corps aboard
a war vessel that had been placed at their disposal by the authorities
at Washington, and in this manner had learned many valuable lessons that
were bound to be profitable to them in the future.
The summer
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The Project Gutenberg Etext of Lord Ormont and his Aminta, v5
by George Meredith
#87 in our series by George Meredith
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Title: Lord Ormont and his Aminta, v5
Author: George Meredith
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
Release Date: September, 2003 [Etext #4481]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on February 25, 2002]
The Project Gutenberg Etext Lord Ormont and his Aminta, v5, by Meredith
*********This file should be named 4481.txt or 4481.zip**********
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LORD ORMONT AND HIS AMINTA
By George Meredith
BOOK 5.
XXIV. LOVERS MATED
XXXV. PREPARATIONS FOR A RESOLVE
XXVI. VISITS OF FAREWELL
XXVII. A MARINE DUET
XXVIII. THE PLIGHTING
XXIX. AMINTA TO HER LORD
XXX. CONCLUSION
CHAPTER XXIV
LOVERS MATED
He was benevolently martial, to the extent of paternal, in thinking his
girl, of whom he deigned to think now as his countess, pardonably
foolish. Woman for woman, she was of a pattern superior to the world's
ordinary, and might run the world's elect a race. But she was pitifully
woman-like in her increase of dissatisfaction with the more she got.
Women are happier enslaved. Men, too, if their despot is an Ormont.
Colonel of his regiment, he proved that: his men would follow him
anywhere, do anything. Grand old days, before he was condemned by one
knows not what extraordinary round of circumstances to cogitate on women
as fluids, and how to cut channels for them, that they may course along
in the direction good for them, imagining it their pretty wanton will to
go that way! Napoleon's treatment of women is excellent example.
Peterborough's can be defended.
His Aminta could not reason. She nursed a rancour on account of the blow
she drew on herself at Steignton, and she declined consolation in her
being pardoned. The reconcilement evidently was proposed as a finale of
one of the detestable feminine storms enveloping men weak enough to let
themselves be dragged through a scene for the sake of domestic
tranquillity.
A remarkable exhibition of Aminta the woman was, her entire change of
front since he had taken her spousal chill. Formerly she was passive,
merely stately, the chiselled grande dame, deferential in her bearing
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HIS OWN PEOPLE
by Booth Tarkington
I. A Change of Lodging
The glass-domed "palm-room" of the Grand Continental Hotel Magnifique in
Rome is of vasty heights and distances, filled with a mellow green light
which filters down languidly through the upper foliage of tall palms,
so that the two hundred people who may be refreshing or displaying
themselves there at the tea-hour have something the look of under-water
creatures playing upon the sea-bed. They appear, however, to be unaware
of their condition; even the ladies, most like anemones of that
gay assembly, do not seem to know it; and when the Hungarian band
(crustacean-like in costume, and therefore well within the picture)
has sheathed its flying tentacles and withdrawn by dim processes, the
tea-drinkers all float out through the doors, instead of bubbling up
and away through the filmy roof. In truth, some such exit as that was
imagined for them by a young man who remained in the aquarium after they
had all gone, late one afternoon of last winter. They had been marvelous
enough, and to him could have seemed little more so had they made such a
departure. He could almost have gone that way himself, so charged was
he with the uplift of his belief that, in spite of the brilliant
strangeness of the hour just past, he had been no fish out of water.
While the waiters were clearing the little tables, he leaned back in his
chair in a content so rich it was nearer ecstasy. He could not bear to
disturb the possession joy had taken of him, and, like a half-
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THE GOLDEN ROAD
By L. M. Montgomery
"Life was a rose-lipped comrade
With purple flowers dripping from her fingers."
--The Author.
TO
THE MEMORY OF
Aunt Mary Lawson
WHO TOLD ME MANY OF THE TALES
REPEATED BY THE
STORY GIRL
FOREWORD
Once upon a time we all walked on the golden road. It was a fair
highway, through the Land of Lost Delight; shadow and sunshine were
blessedly mingled, and every turn and dip revealed a fresh charm and a
new loveliness to eager hearts and unspoiled eyes.
On that road we heard the song of morning stars; we drank in fragrances
aerial and sweet as a May mist; we were rich in gossamer fancies and
iris hopes; our hearts sought and found the boon of dreams; the years
waited beyond and they were very fair; life was a rose-lipped comrade
with purple flowers dripping from her fingers.
We may long have left the golden road behind, but its memories are the
dearest of our eternal possessions; and those who cherish them as such
may haply find a pleasure in the pages of this book, whose people are
pilgrims on the golden road of youth.
THE GOLDEN ROAD
CHAPTER I. A NEW DEPARTURE
"I've thought of something amusing for the winter," I said as we
drew into a half-circle around the glorious wood-fire in Uncle Alec's
kitchen.
It had been a day of wild November wind, closing down into a wet, eerie
twilight. Outside, the wind was shrilling at the windows and around the
eaves, and the rain was playing on the roof. The old willow at the
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[Frontispiece: "So you're not dead after all, my hearty." _Page 37_]
[Illustration: Title page]
THE WRECKERS
OF
SABLE ISLAND
BY
J. MACDONALD OXLEY
_Author of "Up Among the Ice-Floes," "Diamond Rock," &c._
T. NELSON AND SONS
_London, Edinburgh, and New York_
1897
CONTENTS.
I. THE SETTING FORTH
II. IN ROUGH WEATHER
III. THE WRECK
IV. ALONE AMONG STRANGERS
V. ERIC LOOKS ABOUT HIM
VI. BEN HARDEN
VII. A SABLE ISLAND WINTER
VIII. ANXIOUS TIMES
IX. FAREWELL TO SABLE ISLAND
X. RELEASE AND RETRIBUTION
THE WRECKERS OF SABLE ISLAND.
CHAPTER I.
THE SETTING FORTH.
A voyage across the Atlantic Ocean in the year 1799 was not the
every-day affair that it has come to be at the present time. There
were no "ocean greyhounds" then. The passage was a long and trying one
in the clumsy craft of those days, and people looked upon it as a more
serious affair than they now do on a tour round the world.
In the year 1799 few people thought of travelling for mere pleasure.
North, south, east, and west, the men went on missions of discovery, of
conquest, or of commerce; but the women and children abode at home,
save, of course, when they ventured out to seek new homes in that new
world which was drawing so many to its shores.
It was therefore not to be wondered at that the notion of Eric Copeland
going out to his father in far-away Nova Scotia should form the subject
of more than one family council at Oakdene Manor, the beautiful country
seat of the Copeland family, situated in one of the prettiest parts of
Warwickshire.
Eric was the only son of Doctor Copeland, surgeon-in-chief of the
Seventh Fusiliers, the favourite regiment of the Duke of Kent, the
father of Queen Victoria. This regiment formed part of the garrison at
Halifax, then under the command of the royal duke himself; and the
doctor had written to say that if the squire, Eric's grandfather,
approved, he would like Eric to come out to him, as his term of service
had been extended three years beyond what he expected, and he wanted to
have his boy with him. At the same time, he left the matter entirely
in the squire's hands for him to decide.
So far as the old gentleman was concerned, he decided at once.
"Send the boy out there to that wild place, and have him scalped by an
Indian or gobbled by a bear before he's there a month? Not a bit of
it. I won't hear of it. He's a hundred times better off here."
The squire, be it observed, held very vague notions about Nova Scotia,
and indeed the American continent generally, in spite of his son's
endeavours to enlighten him. He still firmly believed that there were
as many wigwams as houses in New York, and that Indians in full
war-paint and plumes were every day seen on the streets of
Philadelphia; while as for poor little Nova Scotia, it was more than
his mind could take in how the Duke of Kent could ever bring himself to
spend a week in such an outlandish place, not to speak of a number of
years.
So soon as Eric learned of his father's request, he was not less quick
in coming to a conclusion, but it was of a precisely opposite kind to
the squire's. He was what the Irish would call "a broth of a boy."
Fifteen last birthday, five feet six inches in height, broad of
shoulder and stout of limb, yet perfectly proportioned, as nimble on
his feet as a squirrel, and as quick of eye as a king-bird, entirely
free from any trace of nervousness or timidity, good-looking in that
sense of the word which means more than merely handsome, courteous in
his manners, and quite up to the mark in his books, Eric represented
the best type of the British boy as he looked about him with his brave
brown eyes, and longed to be something more than simply a school-boy,
and to see a little of that great world up and down which his father
had been travelling ever since he could remember.
"Of course I want to go to father," said he, promptly and decidedly.
"I don't believe there are any bears or Indians at Halifax; and even if
there should be, I don't care. I'm not afraid of them."
He had not the look of a boy that could be easily frightened, or turned
aside from anything upon which he had set his heart, and the old squire
felt as though he were seeing a youthful reflection of himself in the
sturdy spirit of resolution shown by his grandson.
"But, Eric, lad," he began to argue, "whether the Indians and bears are
plentiful or not, I don't see why you want to leave Oakdene, and go
away out to a wild place that is only fit for soldiers. You're quite
happy with us here, aren't you?" And the old gentleman's face took on
rather a reproachful expression as he put the question.
Eric's face flushed crimson, and crossing over to where the squire sat,
he bent down and kissed his wrinkled forehead tenderly.
"I am quite happy, grandpa. You and grandma do so much for me that it
would be strange if I wasn't. But you know I have been more with you
than I have with my own father; and now when he wants me to go out to
him, I want to go too.
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Produced by Joshua Hutchinson, Josephine Paolucci and the
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THE
ATLANTIC MONTHLY.
_A Magazine of Literature, Science, Art, and Politics._
VOL. XVIII.--OCTOBER, 1866.--NO. CVIII.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1866, by TICKNOR AND
FIELDS, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
Transcriber's Note: Minor typos have been corrected and footnotes moved
to the end of the article.
CHILDHOOD: A STUDY.
There is a rushing southwest wind. It murmurs overhead among the
willows, and the little river-waves lap and wash upon the point below;
but not a breath lifts my hair, down here among the tree-trunks, close
to the water. Clear water ripples at my feet; and a mile and more away,
across the great bay of the wide river, the old, compact brick-red city
lies silent in the sunshine. Silent, I say truly: to me, here, it is
motionless and silent. But if I should walk up into State Street and say
so, my truth, like many others, when uprooted from among their
circumstances, would turn into a disagreeable lie. Sharp points rise
above the irregular profile of the line of roofs. Some are church
spires, and some are masts,--mixed at the rate of about one church and a
half to a schooner. I smell the clear earthy smell of the pure gray
sand, and the fresh, cool smell of the pure water. Tiny bird-tracks lie
along the edge of the water, perhaps to delight the soul of some
millennial ichnologist. A faint aromatic perfume rises from the stems of
the willow-bushes, abraded by the ice of the winter floods. I should not
perceive it, were they not tangled and matted all around so close to my
head.
Just this side of the city is the monstrous arms factory; and over the
level line of its great dike, the chimneys of the attendant village of
boarding-houses peep up like irregular teeth. A sail-boat glides up the
river. A silent brown sparrow runs along the stems of the willow
thicket, and delicate slender flies now and then alight on me. They will
die to-night. It is too early in the spring for them.
The air is warm and soft. Now, and here, I can write. Utter solitude,
warmth, a landscape, and a comfortable seat are the requisites. The
first and the last are the chiefest; if but one of the four could be
had, I think that (as a writer) I should take the seat. That which, of
all my writing, I wrote with the fullest and keenest sense of creative
pleasure, I did while coiled up, one summer day, among the dry branches
of a fallen tree, at the tip of a long, promontory-like stretch of
meadow, on the quiet, lonely, level Glastenbury shore, over against the
Connecticut State Prison at Wethersfield.
Well, here on the river-shore, I begin; but I shall not tell when I
stop. Doubtless there will be a jog in the composition. The blue sky and
clear water will fade out of my words all at once, and a carpet and
hot-air furnace, perhaps, will appear.
* * * * *
Nothing.
Then, a life. And so I entered this world: a being, sliding obscurely in
among human beings. But whence, or whither? Those questions belong among
the gigantic, terrible ones, insoluble, silent,--the unanswering
primeval sphinxes of the mind. We can sit and stare at such questions,
and wonder; but staring and wondering are not thought. They are close to
idiocy: both states drop the lower jaw and open the mouth; and assuming
the idiotic _physique_ tends, if there be any sympathetic and imitative
power, to bring on the idiotic state. If we stare and wonder too long at
such questions, we may make ourselves idiots,--never philosophers.
I do not recollect the innocent and sunny hours of childhood.[A] As to
innocence, the remark of a certain ancient and reverend man, though
sour, was critically accurate,--that "it is the weakness of infants'
limbs, and not their minds, which are innocent." It is most true. Many
an impotent infantine screech or slap or scratch embodies an abandonment
and ecstasy of utter uncontrolled fury scarcely expressible by the
grown-up man, though he should work the bloodiest murder to express it.
And what adult manifestation, except in the violent ward of an insane
retreat, or perhaps among savages,--the infants of the world,--equals,
in exquisite concentration and rapture of fury, that child's trick of
flinging himself flat down, and, with kicks and poundings and howls,
banging his head upon the ground? Without fear or knowledge, his whole
being centres in the one faculty of anger; he hurls the whole of himself
slap against the whole world, as readily as at a kitten or a playmate.
He would fain scrabble down through the heart of the earth and kill it,
rend it to pieces, if he could! If human wickedness can be expressed in
such a mad child, you have the whole of it,--perfectly ignorant,
perfectly furious, perfectly feeble, perfectly useless.
And as to the sunny hours, I believe those delights are like the
phantasmal glories of elf-land. When the glamour is taken away, the
splendid feasts and draperies, and gold and silver, and gallant knights
and lovely ladies, are seen to have been a squalid misery of poor
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Produced by Punch, or the London Charivari, Malcolm Farmer,
Ernest Schaal. and the Online Distributed Proofreading
Team at http://www.pgdp.net
PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
VOL. 108.
JUNE
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Produced by Juliet Sutherland, Melissa McDaniel, and the
Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
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_.
LEARN ONE THING
EVERY DAY
SEPTEMBER 15 1916
SERIAL NO. 115
THE
MENTOR
WALTER SCOTT
By HAMILTON W. MABIE
Author and Editor
DEPARTMENT OF
LITERATURE
VOLUME 4
NUMBER 15
FIFTEEN CENTS A COPY
The Wizard of the North
[Illustration]
The causes of Sir Walter Scott's ascendancy are to be found in the
goodness of his heart, the integrity of his conduct, the romantic
and picturesque accessories and atmosphere of his life, the fertile
brilliancy of his literary execution, the charm that he exercises,
both as man and artist, over the imagination, the serene, tranquilizing
spirit of his works, and, above all, the buoyancy, the happy freedom of
his genius.
[Illustration]
He was not simply an intellectual power, he was also a human and gentle
comforter. He wielded an immense mental force, but he always wielded it
for good, and always with tenderness. It is impossible to conceive of
his ever having done a wrong act, or of any contact with his influence
that would not inspire the wish to be virtuous and noble. The scope
of his sympathy was as broad as are the weakness and need of the human
race. He understood the hardship in the moral condition of mankind and
he wished and tried to relieve it.
[Illustration]
His writings are full of sweetness and cheer, and they contain nothing
that is morbid--nothing that tends toward surrender or misery. He
did not sequester himself in mental pride, but simply and sturdily,
through years of conscientious toil, he employed the faculties of a
strong, tender, gracious genius for the good of his fellow-creatures.
The world loves him because he is worthy to be loved, and because
he has lightened the burden of its care and augmented the sum of its
happiness.
From "Over the Border" by William Winter
[Illustration: FLORA MACIVOR--"WAVERLEY"
COURTESY, THE PAGE COMPANY
FROM A DRAWING BY R. W. MACBETH]
Waverley
ONE
"Waverley" is a story of the rebellion of the chevalier Prince Charles
Edward, in Scotland, in 1745.
Edward Waverley, the central figure of the tale, was a captain of
dragoons in the English army. He obtained a leave of absence from
his regiment and went to Scotland for a rest, staying at the home of
Baron Bradwardine. During his stay a band of Highlanders drove off the
Baron's cattle, and Waverley offered his assistance in recovering them.
Fergus MacIvor was the chief of the band which stole the cattle.
Waverley met his sister, Flora, and fell in love with her, but she
discouraged him.
Later Waverley was wounded by a stag; and the rebellion having started
in the meanwhile, one of the Highlanders, assuming Waverley to be a
sympathizer, used his name and seal to start a mutiny in Waverley's
troop. For this reason Waverley was dismissed from his regiment for
desertion and treason. Indignant at this unjust treatment, Waverley
joined the rebellion, first, however, returning home in an attempt
to justify himself. On this trip he was arrested for treason, but was
rescued by the Highlanders when on his way to the dungeon of Stirling
Castle.
Waverley served in the war, and when the rebellion was crushed he
escaped, and later made his way to London. There his name was cleared
from the false charges, and a pardon obtained for both himself and
Baron Bradwardine. Flora's brother was executed, and she herself
retired to a convent at Paris. Waverley married Rose, the beautiful
daughter of Baron Bradwardine.
One of the most charming scenes in the story took place shortly after
Waverley met Flora at the home of her brother. Flora had promised to
sing a Gaelic song for him in one of her favorite haunts. One of the
attendants guided him to a beautiful waterfall in the neighborhood, and
there he saw Flora.
"Here, like one of those lovely forms which decorate the landscapes
of Poussin, Waverley found Flora gazing on the waterfall. Two paces
farther back stood Cathleen, holding a small Scottish harp, the use of
which had been taught to Flora by Rory Dall, one of the last harpers
of the western Highlands. The sun, now stooping in the west, gave a
rich and varied tinge to all the objects which surrounded Waverley,
and seemed to add more than human brilliancy to the full, expressive
darkness of Flora's eye, exalted the richness and purity of her
complexion, and enhanced the dignity and grace of her beautiful form.
Edward thought he had never, even in his wildest dreams, imagined a
figure of such exquisite and interesting loveliness. The wild beauty of
the retreat, bursting upon him as if by magic, augmented the mingled
feelings of delight and awe with which he approached her, like a fair
enchantress of Boiardo or Ariosto, by whose nod the scenery around
seemed to have been created--an Eden in the wilderness.
"Flora, like every beautiful woman, was conscious of her own power,
and pleased with its effects, which she could easily discern from
the respectful yet confused address of the young soldier. But as she
possessed excellent sense, she gave the romance of the scene and other
accidental circumstance full weight in appreciating the feelings with
which Waverley seemed obviously to be impressed; and unacquainted with
the fanciful and susceptible peculiarities of his character, considered
his homage as the passing tribute which a woman of even inferior charms
might have expected in such a situation. She therefore quietly led the
way to a spot at such a distance from the cascade that its sound should
rather accompany than interrupt that of her voice and instrument, and
sitting down upon a mossy fragment of rock, she took the harp from
Cathleen."
"Waverley" was the first of the world-famous series of romances
to which it gives the title. It was published anonymously in 1814.
Although the authorship of the series was generally accredited to
Scott, it was never formally acknowledged until business conditions
necessitated it in 1826.
[Illustration: MEG MERRILIES DIRECTS BERTRAM TO THE CAVE--"GUY
MANNERING"
COURTESY, THE PAGE COMPANY
FROM AN ETCHING BY C. O. MURRAY]
Guy Mannering
TWO
Guy Mannering, a young Englishman traveling through Scotland, stopped
one night at the home of the Laird of Ellangowan. When the Laird
learned that the young man had studied astrology, he begged him to
cast the horoscope of his son, who had been born that night. What was
Mannering's dismay to find that two catastrophes overhung the lad,
one at his fifth, and the other at his twenty-first year! He told the
father, however, that he might be warned; and later went his way.
The fortunes of the Laird of Ellangowan, Godfrey Bertram, waned
rapidly. In addition to this, his son, Harry, at the age of five, was
kidnapped. It was impossible to learn whether the child was alive or
dead. The boy's mother died from the shock; and some years later the
Laird himself followed her, leaving his daughter Lucy penniless.
In the meanwhile, Guy Mannering had become Colonel Mannering. He had
married and had a daughter, Julia. She had fallen in love with a young
officer, named Vanbeest Brown, who had served in India under Colonel
Mannering. The colonel objected to him as a suitor, because of the
obscurity of his birth.
When things were at their worst for Lucy Bertram, Colonel Mannering
returned to England. Accidentally hearing of the straits to which she
had been reduced, he at once invited her and her guardian to make their
home with him and his daughter Julia.
Captain Brown followed the Mannerings to England; and finally he
proved to be the long lost Harry Bertram, brother of Lucy. He had been
abducted with the help of Meg Merrilies, a gypsy, and some smugglers,
at the instigation of a man named Glossin, once agent for the Laird of
Ellangowan, who had hoped to get possession of the Laird's property.
He finally succeeded in this; but, after his crime was discovered, he
died a violent death in prison. Bertram had been kidnapped and taken to
Holland, where the name of Vanbeest Brown had been given him.
Meg Merrilies is regarded as one of the great characters of fiction.
"The fairy bride of Sir Gawaine, while under the influence of the
spell of her wicked stepmother, was more decrepit, probably, and what
is commonly called more ugly, than Meg Merrilies; but I doubt if she
possessed that wild sublimity which an excited imagination communicated
to features marked and expressive in their own peculiar character, and
to the gestures of a form which, her sex considered, might be termed
gigantic. Accordingly, the Knights of the Round Table did not recoil
with more terror from the apparition of the loathly lady placed between
'an oak and a green holly,' than Lucy Bertram and Julia Mannering
did from the appearance of this Galwegian sibyl upon the common of
Ellangowan.
"'For God's sake,' said Julia, pulling her purse, 'give that dreadful
woman something, and bid her go away,'
"'I cannot,' said Bertram: 'I must not offend her.'
"'What keeps you here?' said Meg, exalting the harsh and rough tones
of her hollow voice. 'Why do you not follow? Must your hour call you
twice? Do you remember your oath?--were it at kirk or market, wedding
or burial,'--and she held high her skinny forefinger in a menacing
attitude....
"Almost stupefied with surprise and fear, the young ladies watched
with anxious looks the course of Bertram, his companion, and their
extraordinary guide. Her tall figure moved across the wintry heath
with steps so swift, so long, and so steady, that she appeared rather
to glide than to walk. Bertram and Dinmont, both tall men, apparently
scarce equaled her in height, owing to her longer dress and high
headgear. She proceeded straight across the common, without turning
aside to the winding path by which passengers avoided the inequalities
and little rills that traversed it in different directions. Thus the
diminishing figures often disappeared from the eye as they dived into
such broken ground, and again ascended to sight when they were past the
hollow. There was something frightful and unearthly, as it were, in the
rapid and undeviating course which she pursued, undeterred by any of
the impediments which usually incline a traveler from the direct path.
Her way was as straight, and nearly as swift, as that of a bird through
the air. At length they reached those thickets of natural wood which
extended from the skirts of the common towards the glades and brook of
Derneleugh, and were there lost to the view."
"Guy Mannering" was published in 1815, the second of the Waverley
novels to appear. It is said to have been the result of six weeks'
work. There are less than forty characters in the book, and the plot is
not very complicated.
[Illustration: EFFIE DEANS AND GEORDIE--"HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN"
COURTESY, THE PAGE COMPANY
FROM THE PAINTING BY SIR J. E. MILLAIS]
Heart of Midlothian
THREE
In "Heart of Midlothian" Scott set himself to draw his own people
at their best. The real heroine of the book is Jeanie Deans, whose
character was drawn from that of Helen Walker, the daughter of a farmer
in Scotland. With a few variations Jeanie's story was hers.
Effie Deans, the sister of Jeanie, was doomed to death for child
murder. Jeanie might have saved her on the witness stand by lying; but
this she could not do even to save her sister. However, she showed the
depth of her love by going on foot all the way to London and getting a
pardon from the king.
Effie was released; but even before Jeanie reached home, she eloped
with her betrayer, George Staunton, who married her and took her to
London with him. There they lived as Lord and Lady Staunton, for George
succeeded to the title of his father.
Jeanie married a Presbyterian minister, and by a combination of
circumstances, learned that Effie's son had never really been killed,
but had been given to the care of Meg Murdockson, whose daughter Madge
had also been betrayed by Staunton, or Geordie Robertson, as he was
known in Scotland.
When Sir George Staunton learned this, he was anxious to discover the
whereabouts of his son. He traced him to a certain band of vagabonds,
of which Black Donald was the chief. Staunton attempted to arrest the
leader, but in the affray was shot by a young lad called the Whistler.
This lad later proved to be his long lost son.
Effie, who was now Lady Staunton, overcome with grief, attempted to
drown her sorrows in the gayeties of the fashionable world. But this
was in vain. She could not forget her grief, and finally she retired to
a convent in France, where she remained until her death.
Jeanie and her husband were given a good parish by the Duke of Argyle,
and through Effie's influence the children of her sister were helped
greatly.
"Heart of Midlothian" was first published anonymously in 1818. It
takes its name from the Tolbooth, or old jail of Edinburgh, where Scott
imagined Effie to have been in prison. This book has fewer characters
than any other of Scott's novels. It has also a smaller variety of
incidents, and less description of scenery. One of the most touching
scenes in all fiction is that in which Jeanie visits her sister in the
prison under the eyes of the jailor, Ratcliffe.
"Ratcliffe marshalled her the way to the apartment where Effie was
confined.
"Shame, fear, and grief, had contended for mastery in the poor
prisoner's bosom during the whole morning, while she had looked forward
to this meeting; but when the door opened, all gave way to a confused
and strange feeling that had a tinge of joy in it, as, throwing herself
on her sister's neck, she ejaculated: 'My dear Jeanie!--my dear Jeanie!
It's lang since I hae seen ye.' Jeanie returned the embrace with an
earnestness that partook almost of rapture, but it was only a flitting
emotion, like a sunbeam unexpectedly penetrating betwixt the clouds
of a tempest, and obscured almost as soon as visible. The sisters
walked together to the side of the pallet bed, and sat down side by
side, took hold of each other's hands, and looked each other in the
face, but without speaking a word. In this posture they remained for
a minute, while the gleam of joy gradually faded from their features,
and gave way to the most intense expression, first of melancholy, and
then of agony, till, throwing themselves again into each other's arms,
they, to use the language of Scripture, lifted up their voices and wept
bitterly.
"Even the hard-hearted turnkey, who had spent his life in scenes
calculated to stifle both conscience and feeling, could not witness
this scene without a touch of human sympathy. It was shown in a
trifling action, but which had more delicacy in it than seemed to
belong to Ratcliffe's character and station. The unglazed window of the
miserable chamber was open and the beams of a bright sun fell right
upon the bed where the sufferers were seated. With a gentleness that
had something of reverence in it, Ratcliffe partly closed the shutter,
and seemed thus to throw a veil over a scene so sorrowful."
[Illustration: THE BLACK KNIGHT AT THE HERMITAGE--"IVANHOE"
COURTESY, THE PAGE COMPANY
FROM A DRAWING BY AD. LALAUZE]
Ivanhoe
FOUR
Sir Wilfred, Knight of Ivanhoe, a young Saxon knight, brave and
handsome, was disinherited by his father because he loved Rowena, a
Saxon heiress and a ward of his father. He therefore went on a crusade
to Palestine with Richard the Lion Hearted. Returning, under the name
of Desdichado (The Disinherited) he entered the lists of the Ashby
Tournament: and, having won the victory, he was crowned by the Lady
Rowena.
At this tournament there was one knight in particular who aided
Ivanhoe. This was the Black Knight, and his feats of valor set all the
spectators to wondering who he might be. He was in reality Richard the
Lion Hearted, the Crusader, King of England.
Just at this time King Richard's younger brother, John, was conspiring
to take the throne of England from him. One of his fellow conspirators
was Maurice de Bracy, who was in love with Rowena. He captured her as
she was returning from the tournament, and imprisoned her in the Tower
of Torquilstone.
Ivanhoe, who was wounded in the tournament, was cared for by Isaac of
York and his daughter, Rebecca. She fell in love with him, but realized
that she could never marry him; and knowing that Ivanhoe loved Rowena,
she offered to give any sum of money for her release.
This was not effected, however, until Torquilstone had been besieged
by Locksley, who was really Robin Hood, and his men, led by the Black
Knight. The Black Knight had come upon this band in his
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This ebook was transcribed by Les Bowler
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
_Prose_
THE GHOST SHIP, AND OTHER STORIES
[ _Third Impression_
_Verse_
POEMS AND SONGS (1ST SERIES)
[ _Second Impression_
POEMS AND SONGS (2ND SERIES)
* * * * *
LONDON: T. FISHER UNWIN
[Picture: Book cover]
THE DAY BEFORE
YESTERDAY • BY
RICHARD MIDDLETON
* * * * *
T. FISHER UNWIN
LONDON: ADELPHI TERRACE
LEIPSIC: INSELSTRASSE 20
1912
* * * * *
(_All rights reserved_)
* * * * *
Thanks are due to the Editors of _The Academy_,
_Vanity Fair_, and _The Pall Mall Gazette_ for
permission to reprint the greater part of
the work in this volume.
CONTENTS
PAGE
AN ENCHANTED PLACE 1
A RAILWAY JOURNEY 8
THE MAGIC POOL 16
THE STORY-TELLER 25
ADMIRALS ALL 33
A REPERTORY THEATRE 41
CHILDREN AND THE SPRING 49
ON NURSERY CUPBOARDS 56
THE FAT MAN 63
CAROL SINGERS 70
THE MAGIC CARPET 77
STAGE CHILDREN 84
OXFORD AND CAMBRIDGE 92
HAROLD 99
ON DIGGING HOLES 105
REAL CRICKET 112
THE BOY IN THE GARDEN 119
CHILDREN AND THE SEA 130
ON GOING TO BED 137
STREET ORGANS 144
A SECRET SOCIETY 152
THE PRICE OF PEACE 161
ON CHILDREN’S GARDENS 167
A DISTINGUISHED GUEST 174
ON PIRATES 182
THE FLUTE PLAYER 189
THE WOOL-GATHERER 197
THE PERIL OF THE FAIRIES 205
DRURY LANE AND THE CHILDREN 212
CHILDREN’S DRAMA 217
CHILDHOOD IN RETROSPECT 225
THE FOLLY OF EDUCATION 231
ON COMMON SENSE 239
AN ENCHANTED PLACE
WHEN elder brothers insisted on their rights with undue harshness, or
when the grown-up people descended from Olympus with a tiresome tale of
broken furniture and torn clothes, the groundlings of the schoolroom went
into retreat. In summer-time this was an easy matter; once fairly
escaped into the garden, any climbable tree or shady shrub provided us
with a hermitage. There was a hollow tree-stump full of exciting insects
and pleasant earthy smells that never failed us, or, for wet days, the
tool-shed, with its armoury of weapons with which, in imagination, we
would repel the attacks of hostile forces. But in the game that was our
childhood, the garden was out of bounds in winter-time, and we had to
seek other lairs. Behind the schoolroom piano there was a three-cornered
refuge that served very well for momentary sulks or sudden alarms. It
was possible to lie in ambush there, at peace with our grievances, until
life took a turn for the better and tempted us forth again into the
active world.
But when the hour was tragic and we felt the need for a hiding-place more
remote, we took our troubles, not without a recurring thrill, to that
enchanted place which our elders contemptuously called the
“mouse-cupboard.” This was a low cupboard that ran the whole length of
the big attic under the <DW72> of the roof, and here the aggrieved spirit
of childhood could find solitude and darkness in which to scheme deeds of
revenge and actions of a wonderful magnanimity turn by turn. Luckily our
shelter did not appeal to the utilitarian minds of the grown-up folk or
to those members of the younger generation who were beginning to trouble
about their clothes. You had to enter it on your hands and knees;
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THE BATTLE OF LIFE.
A LOVE STORY.
[Illustration]
[Illustration: THE BATTLE OF LIFE
A LOVE STORY]
THE
BATTLE OF LIFE.
A Love Story.
BY
CHARLES DICKENS.
London:
BRADBURY & EVANS, WHITEFRIARS.
MDCCCXLVI.
LONDON:
BRADBURY AND EVANS, PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
THIS
Christmas Book
IS CORDIALLY INSCRIBED TO MY ENGLISH FRIENDS
IN SWITZERLAND
ILLUSTRATIONS.
_Title._ _Artist._ _Engraver._
FRONTISPIECE D. MACLISE, R.A. _Thompson._
TITLE D. MACLISE, R.A. _Thompson._
PART THE FIRST R. DOYLE. _Dalziel._
WAR C. STANFIELD, R.A. _Williams._
PEACE C. STANFIELD, R.A. _Williams._
THE PARTING BREAKFAST J. LEECH. _Dalziel._
PART THE SECOND R. DOYLE. _Green._
SNITCHEY AND CRAGGS J. LEECH. _Dalziel._
THE SECRET INTERVIEW D. MACLISE, R.A. _Williams._
THE NIGHT OF THE RETURN J. LEECH. _Dalziel._
PART THE THIRD R. DOYLE. _Dalziel._
THE NUTMEG GRATER C. STANFIELD, R.A. _Williams._
THE SISTERS D. MACLISE, R.A. _Williams._
THE BATTLE OF LIFE.
A Love Story.
PART THE FIRST.
[Illustration]
PART THE FIRST
[Illustration]
Once upon a time, it matters little when, and in stalwart England, it
matters little where, a fierce battle was fought. It was fought upon a
long summer day when the waving grass was green. Many a wild flower
formed by the Almighty Hand to be a perfumed goblet for the dew, felt
its enamelled cup fill high with blood that day, and shrinking dropped.
Many an insect deriving its delicate color from harmless leaves and
herbs, was stained anew that day by dying men, and marked its frightened
way with an unnatural track. The painted butterfly took blood into the
air upon the edges of its wings. The stream ran red. The trodden ground
became a quagmire, whence, from sullen pools collected in the prints of
human feet and horses' hoofs, the one prevailing hue still lowered and
glimmered at the sun.
[I
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[Illustration:
A VIEW IN UNION STOCK YARDS, CHICAGO, ILL.
The Greatest Live Stock Market in the World
]
Cyclopedia
_of_
Commerce, Accountancy, Business Administration
_A General Reference Work on_
ACCOUNTING, AUDITING, BOOKKEEPING, COMMERCIAL LAW, BUSINESS
MANAGEMENT, ADMINISTRATIVE AND INDUSTRIAL ORGANIZATION,
BANKING, ADVERTISING, SELLING, OFFICE AND FACTORY
RECORDS, COST KEEPING, SYSTEMATIZING, ETC.
_Prepared by a Corps of_
AUDITORS, ACCOUNTANTS, ATTORNEYS, AND SPECIALISTS IN BUSINESS
METHODS AND MANAGEMENT
_Illustrated with Over Two Thousand Engravings_
TEN VOLUMES
CHICAGO
AMERICAN TECHNICAL SOCIETY
1910
COPYRIGHT, 1909
BY
AMERICAN SCHOOL OF CORRESPONDENCE
COPYRIGHT, 1909
BY
AMERICAN TECHNICAL SOCIETY
Entered at Stationers' Hall, London
All Rights Reserved
Authors and Collaborators
JAMES BRAY GRIFFITH, _Managing Editor_
Head, Dept. of
Commerce, Accountancy, and Business
Administration, American School of
Correspondence.
ROBERT H. MONTGOMERY
Of the Firm of
Lybrand, Ross Bros. & Montgomery, Certified
Public Accountants.
Editor of the
American Edition of Dicksee's _Auditing_.
Formerly Lecturer on
Auditing at the Evening School of Accounts
and Finance of the University of
Pennsylvania, and the School of Commerce,
Accounts, and Finance of the New York
University.
ARTHUR LOWES DICKINSON, F. C. A., C. P. A.
Of the Firms of
Jones, Caesar, Dickinson, Wilmot & Company,
Certified Public Accountants, and Price,
Waterhouse & Company, Chartered Accountants.
Of the Firm of
Lybrand, Ross Bros. & Montgomery, Certified
Public Accountants.
F. H. MACPHERSON, C. A., C. P. A.
Of the Firm of F. H.
Macpherson & Co., Certified Public
Accountants.
CHAS. A. SWEETLAND
Consulting Public
Accountant.
Author of "Loose-Leaf
Bookkeeping," and "Anti-Confusion Business
Methods."
E. C. LANDIS
Of the System
Department, Burroughs Adding Machine
Company.
_Editor-in-Chief_,
Textbook Department, American School of
Correspondence.
CECIL B. SMEETON, F. I. A.
Public Accountant and
Auditor.
President,
Incorporated Accountants' Society of
Illinois.
Fellow, Institute of
Accounts, New York.
JOHN A. CHAMBERLAIN, A. B., LL. B.
Of the Cleveland Bar.
Lecturer on
Suretyship, Western Reserve Law School.
Author of "Principles
of Business Law."
HUGH WRIGHT
Auditor, Westlake
Construction Company.
GLENN M. HOBBS, Ph. D.
Secretary, American
School of Correspondence.
JESSIE M. SHEPHERD, A. B.
Associate Editor,
Textbook Department, American School of
Correspondence.
GEORGE C. RUSSELL
Systematizer.
Formerly Manager,
System Department, Elliott-Fisher Company.
OSCAR E. PERRIGO, M. E.
Specialist in
Industrial Organization.
Author of
"Machine-Shop Economics and Systems," etc.
DARWIN S. HATCH, B. S.
Assistant Editor,
Textbook Department, American School of
Correspondence.
CHAS. E. HATHAWAY
Cost Expert.
Chief Accountant,
Fore River Shipbuilding Co.
CHAS. WILBUR LEIGH, B. S.
Associate Professor
of Mathematics, Armour Institute of
Technology.
L. W. LEWIS
Advertising Manager,
The McCaskey Register Co.
MARTIN W. RUSSELL
Registrar and
Treasurer, American School of
Correspondence.
HALBERT P. GILLETTE, C. E.
Managing Editor,
_Engineering-Contracting_.
Author of "
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Internet Archive/American Libraries.)
_A Battery at Close Quarters_
_A Paper_
READ BEFORE THE OHIO COMMANDERY
OF THE LOYAL LEGION
October 6, 1909
BY
HENRY M. NEIL
Captain Twenty-second Ohio Battery
COLUMBUS, OHIO
1909
THE CHAMPLIN PRESS
COLUMBUS, OHIO
A BATTERY AT CLOSE QUARTERS.
BEING THE STORY OF THE ELEVENTH OHIO BATTERY AT IUKA AND CORINTH.
During the Civil War artillery projectiles were divided as to structure
into _solid_, _hollow_ and _case shot_. The solid shot were intended to
batter down walls or heavy obstructions. Hollow projectiles, called
shell and shrapnel, were for use against animate objects; to set fire to
buildings and destroy lighter obstructions. Under the head of case shot
we had grape and canister. Grape shot is no longer used; being
superseded by the machine gun. Canister is simply a sheet iron case
filled with bullets and is effective only at very short ranges.
The foremost European military writer, Hohenloe, states that in the
Franco-Prussian war, the batteries of the Prussian Guard expended about
twenty-five thousand shells and one canister, and that this one canister
was broken in transport.
In the official reports of the recent Russo-Japanese War we find that
the Arisaka gun, which was the Japanese field piece, has a range of
6,600 meters. The
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THE AMERICAN JEW
AS
PATRIOT, SOLDIER AND CITIZEN.
[Illustration: STATUE OF RELIGIOUS LIBERTY, Fairmount Park,
Philadelphia.]
THE
AMERICAN JEW
AS
PATRIOT, SOLDIER AND CITIZEN
BY
SIMON WOLF
EDITED BY
LOUIS EDWARD LEVY
PHILADELPHIA
THE LEVYTYPE COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK--CHICAGO--WASHINGTON
BRENTANO'S
1895
"And Ye shall know the Truth and the Truth shall make you
free."--John, viii, 32.
To All
Who Love and Seek the Truth
This Work is Dedicated
BY
The Author.
EDITOR'S PREFACE.
It were an error to suppose that prejudice is always the offspring of
ignorance, inasmuch as the reverse is very frequently true. Not seldom
is ignorance the result of prejudice, through a willful refusal to
recognize such facts as run counter to the latter. A more accurate
simile would, therefore, be the likening of prejudice and ignorance to
twins, of whom either may be the precursor of the other, and either
one the stronger of the two. The prejudices which follow ordinary
ignorance give way readily before increasing knowledge of the truth,
but where prejudice is the elder of the twin vices, it is usually the
most obstinate as well. "None so blind as those who will not see" is an
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[Illustration: "THE DAM IS GONE!" CRIED THE GIRL. "FLY FOR YOUR LIVES!"
_Page 7._]
The
Blue Grass Seminary Girls'
Vacation Adventures
OR
Shirley Willing to the Rescue
By Carolyn Judson Burnett
AUTHOR OF
"The Blue Grass Seminary Girls' Christmas Holidays,"
"The Blue Grass Seminary Girls in the Mountains,"
"The Blue Grass Seminary
Girls on the Water."
A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK
Copyright, 1916
By A. L. Burt Company
THE BLUE GRASS SEMINARY GIRLS' VACATION ADVENTURES
THE BLUE GRASS SEMINARY GIRLS' VACATION ADVENTURES
CHAPTER I.--THE BROKEN DAM.
"The dam! The dam! The dam has broken!"
Shirley Willing, with flaming eyes and tightly-clenched hands, jumped
quickly forward, and with her right hand seized the bridle of a horse
that was bearing a strange boy along the road, which ran near the river.
The horse reared back on its haunches, frightened at the sudden halting.
"The dam!" cried the young girl again. "Quick! The people must be
warned!"
The face of the rider turned white.
"What do you mean?" he shouted, fear stamped on every feature.
Shirley's excitement fell from her like a cloak. She became quiet.
"The Darret dam has been washed away," she answered, "and unless the
people in the valley are warned immediately they will perish. There is
one chance to save them. You are mounted. You can outrun the oncoming
wall of water and save them. Away with you, quick! There is not a second
to spare!"
"But," protested the boy, "the water may overtake me and I shall drown.
We can climb to higher ground here and be safe."
He tried to turn his horse's head to the east. But Shirley clung to the
rein.
"And leave those people to drown, without warning?" she cried. "You
coward! You are afraid!"
"I----" the boy began, but Shirley cut his protest short.
Releasing the bridle of the horse, she sprang quickly to the side of the
animal, seized the rider by the leg with both her strong, young hands
and pulled quickly and vigorously. Unprepared for such action, the boy
came tumbling to the ground in a sprawling heap.
Quick as a flash Shirley leaped to the saddle and turned the horse's
head toward the valley. As she dug her heels into the animal's ribs,
sending him forward with a jump, she called over her shoulder to the
boy, who sat still dazed at the sudden danger:
"Get to safety the best way you can, you coward!"
Under the firm touch of the girl's hand on the rein the horse sped on
down the valley.
It was a mad race with death and Shirley knew it. But she realized that
human lives were at stake and she did not hesitate.
To the left of the road down which she sped lay high ground and safety,
while coming down the valley, perhaps a mile in the rear, poured a dense
wall of water, coming as swift as the wind.
For days the Mississippi and its tributaries had been rising rapidly and
steadily. Along the lowlands in that part of the state of Illinois, just
south of Cairo, where Shirley Willing had been visiting friends, fears
that the Darret dam, three miles up one of these tributary streams,
would give way, had been entertained.
Some families, therefore, had moved their perishable belongings to
higher ground, where they would be beyond the sweep of the waters should
the dam break.
Then suddenly, without warning, the dam had gone.
The home where Shirley had been visiting was a farmhouse, and the cry of
danger had been received by telephone. Those in the house had been asked
to repeat the warning to families further down the valley. But the
fierce wind that was raging had, at almost that very moment, blown down
all wires.
Shirley, in spite of the fact that she, with the others, could easily
have reached the safety afforded by higher ground a short distance away,
had thought only of those whose lives would be snuffed out if they were
not warned.
She had decided that she would warn them herself. She ran from the house
to the stable, where one single horse had been left.
But the seriousness of the situation seemed to have been carried to the
animal, and when Shirley had attempted to slip a bridle over his head he
struck out violently with his fore feet. As the girl sprang back, he
dashed from the stable.
Shirley ran after him and followed him into the road. There she
encountered a rider; and the conversation with which this story begins
took place.
As the girl sped down the road, she could hear from far behind, the roar
of the waters as they came tumbling after her.
A farmhouse came into sight. A man, a woman and several children came
out, attracted by the galloping hoofbeats. Without checking the speed of
her mount a single instant, Shirley guided the horse close to them.
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THE SAN FRANCISCO FAIRY.
A Tale of Early Times.
Down came the Fish's lower jaw upon her light canoe,
And he asked her if that ladder would answer for her shoe-;
Then tripping up it lightly, she spied a splendid seat,
With wampum it was covered---her lover's it would beat.
SAN FRANCISCO
PUBLISHED BY C. P. KIMBALL, AND FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.
D. E. Appleton & Co., 508 and 510 Montgomery Street,
GENERAL AGENTS.
THE SAN FRANCISCO FAIRY
A Tale of Early Times.
At such a sight she fainted, yet still she did not fall,
But straightway told her sorrows, she told him of them all.
The Fish he wagged his little fin, and shook his pointed nose,
And said, "My darling Maiden, into my mouth you goes!"
San Francisco:
PUBLISHED BY C. P. KIMBALL, AND FOR SALE BY ALL BOOKSELLERS.
D. E. Appleton & Co., 508 and 510 Montgomery Street,
GENERAL AGENTS.
PREFACE
This little Tale is founded upon the well-known tradition,
prevalent among the old inhabitants, that where the Golden Gate now
is was once dammed up by a rock or rocks, and the whole Valley was
a great inland sea with its entrance to the Ocean down near
Monterey. The writer has seen, on Ohio Street, in this City, (which
in 1850 was quite an elevated spot of ground,) the black
sedimentary earth, at least two feet thick, which abounds in
greater or less degree throughout the Valley, and which readily
accounts for the wonderful fertility of the soil.
San Francisco, December, 1868.
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1868, by Chas. P.
Kimball, in the Clerk's Office of the District Court for the
Northern District of California.
THE SAN FRANCISCO FAIRY
LONG years ago, ere Spaniards lived on California soil,
An Indian of the Digger tribe was resting from his toil;
He lived beside an inland sea, or lake, so wondrous large
No one could look from shore to shore--a day's sail for a barge.
This Indian was a happy dog, of threescore years and eight,
Of children he had half a score, also an aged mate;
His youngest was Li-Lamboni, a petit laughing cit--
Who kept the Wigwam happy by her fund of ready wit.
A blooming maid of twenty, perhaps of two years more,
Her lovers might be counted at wholesale by the score;
But there was one--a comely lad--a Chieftain's only son,
This one alone of all the crowd her youthful love had won.
So tall, so straight, so beautiful, an eye like diamonds bright,
Not one could beat him in the chase, by night or broad daylight;
And when upon the war-path with the braves he started out,
The death-song of his enemies would plainly mark his route.
But, ah, alas! the wampum to make him all her own.
She did not have the needful, for she had poorly grown;
And often on the placid Lake, within her log canoe.
She pondered long and deeply on just what she should do.
One day, when very sad indeed, a long way out from shore,
She sighed--she felt just then more sad than e'er she felt before;
Just then a Fish of monstrous size jumped from the water out.
And, balanc'd nicely on his tail, asked what she was about.
At such a sight she fainted, yet still she did not fall,
But straightway told her sorrows, she told him of them all,
The Fish he wagged his little fin, and shook his pointed nose,
And said, "My darling Maiden, into my mouth you goes!"
Now, who would think a maiden of two and twenty years,
Would step into a fish's mouth without the slightest fears!
But so great was her desire her object to attain,
That she treated anything like fear with feelings of disdain.
Down came the Fish's lower jaw upon her light canoe,
He asked her if that ladder would answer for her shoe;
Then tripping up it lightly, she spied a splendid seat,
With wampum it was cover'd--her lover's it would beat.
Back came that self same lower jaw, without the slightest jar,
No one could treat her better, not e'en her dear Papa;
The Fish he told her plainly to his Mistress she must go,
She was a lovely Fairy, and she lived right down below.
He said
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[Illustration: THE SENATOR AND "BUD" HAINES.]
A GENTLEMAN FROM MISSISSIPPI
A NOVEL
Founded on the popular play of the same title
PRODUCED UNDER THE MANAGEMENT OF WM.A. BRADY AND JOS.R. GRISMER
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
THE SENATOR AND BUD HAINES
"FROM NEW YORK, EH? THE VICKSBURG OF THE NORTH"
"STRANGE, HOW THE LANGDON'S TREAT HIM AS A FRIEND"
THE SENATOR ACCEPTS AN INVITATION TO TEA
THE LANGDON FAMILY
"YOU'LL HAVE TO TAKE YOUR MEDICINE LIKE A MAN"
"TO-MORROW, AT 12.30"
"AFTER I HAVE FINISHED, I DARE ONE OF YOU TO DENY A WORD"
_INTRODUCTION_
_Here is a story of an epoch-making battle of right against wrong,
of honesty against corruption, of simplicity and sincerity against
deceit, bribery and intrigue. It is the story of to-day in this
country. It vitally concerns every man, woman and child in the United
States, so far-reaching is its influence.
The warfare is now going on--the warfare of honest men against corrupt
political machines.
The story tells the "inside" of the political maneuvers in Washington
and of the workings of bosses there and elsewhere--how they shape men
and women to their ends, how their cunning intrigues extend into the
very social life of the nation's capital. You will find inspiration in
the career of the honest old Southern planter elected to the United
States Senate and the young newspaper reporter who becomes his private
secretary and political pilot. Your heart will beat in sympathy with
the love of the secretary and the Senator's youngest daughter.
You will read of the lobbyists and find that not all of them are men.
You will see how avarice causes a daughter to conspire against her
father. You will hear the note of a gripping national tragedy in the
words of Peabody, the "boss of the Senate." But cause for laughter as
well will not be found lacking in this truly many-sided narrative._
A Gentleman from Mississippi
* * * * *
CHAPTER I
PRACTICAL POLITICS
That bids him flout the law he makes;
That bids him make the law he flouts.
_--Kipling_.
In buoyant spirit the Hon. Charles Norton rode up the bridle path
leading through the Langdon plantation to the old antebellum homestead
which, on a shaded knoll, overlooked the winding waters of the Pearl
River. No finer prospect was to be had in all Mississippi than greeted
the eye from the wide southwest porch, where on warm evenings the
Langdons and their frequent guests gathered to dine or to watch the
golden splendor of the dying sun.
The Langdon family had long been a power in the South. Its sons fought
under Andrew Jackson at New Orleans, under Zachary Taylor in the war
with Mexico, and in the Civil War men of that name left their blood
on the fields of Antietam, Shiloh, the Wilderness and Gettysburg. But
this family of fighting men, of unselfish patriots, had also marked
influence in the ways of peace, as real patriots should. Generations
of Langdons had taken deepest pride in developing the hundreds of
acres of cotton land, whose thousands of four-foot rows planted each
April spread open the silvery lined bolls in July and August, and the
ripened cotton fiber, pure white beneath the sun, gave from a distance
the picture of an expanse of driven snow.
The Hon. Charles Norton had reason for feeling well pleased with the
world as he fastened his bay Virginia hunter to a convenient post
and strode up the steps of the mansion, which was a characteristic
survivor of the "old South," the South of gilded romance and of
gripping tragedy. Now in this second year of his first term as
Congressman and a promising member of the younger set of Southern
lawyers, he had just taken active part in securing the election of
Colonel William H. Langdon, present head of the family, to the United
States Senate, though the ultimate action of the Legislature had been
really brought about by a lifelong friend of Colonel Langdon, the
senior Senator from the State, James Stevens, who had not hesitated to
flatter Norton and use him as a cat's-paw. This use the Hon. Charles
Norton seemed to consider an honor of large proportions. Not every
first-term Congressman can hope for intimacy with a Senator. Norton
believed that his work for Langdon would win him the family's
gratitude and thus further his ambition to marry Carolina, the
planter's oldest daughter, whose beauty made her the recipient of many
attentions.
A complacent gleam shone in Norton's eyes as they swept over the
fertile acres of the plantation. He thought of the material interest
he might one day have in them if his suit for the hand of
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[Illustration: "Great Scott!" ejaculated Frank, "It's a girl!"]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Boy Allies
On the North Sea Patrol
OR
Striking the First Blow at the German Fleet
By Ensign ROBERT L. DRAKE
AUTHOR OF
"The Boy Allies Under Two Flags"
"The Boy Allies With the Terror of the Seas"
"The Boy Allies With the Flying Squadron"
A. L. BURT COMPANY
NEW YORK
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright, 1915
BY A. L. BURT COMPANY
THE BOY ALLIES ON THE NORTH SEA PATROL
------------------------------------------------------------------------
THE BOY ALLIES ON THE NORTH SEA PATROL
CHAPTER I.
SHANGHAIED.
"Help! Help!"
Frank Chadwick, strolling along the water-front in Naples, stopped
suddenly in his tracks and gazed in the direction from whence had come
the cry of distress.
"Help! Help!" came the cry again, in English.
Frank dashed forward toward a dirty-looking sailors' boarding house,
from the inside of which he could distinguish the sounds of a struggle.
As he sprang through the door, at the far end of the room he saw a
little man in a red sweater, unmistakably an American, apparently
battling for his life with two swarthy Italians, both armed with
gleaming knives.
Frank jumped forward with a cry, and as he did so, the Italians turned
and fled. The little American wiped his face on his sleeve, and then
turned to Frank with outstretched hand.
"You came just in time," he declared. "I thought it was all up with me."
"I'm glad I did," replied the lad, grasping the other's hand.
"Yes, sir," continued the little man. "If you hadn't-a-come, them <DW55>s
would-a-done for me sure."
He led the way to an adjoining room, Frank following him. He sat down at
a table and rapped loudly upon it.
"Let's have a drink," he said, as a greasy-looking Italian in an even
more greasy apron entered the room.
"Thanks," replied Frank; "but I don't drink."
"Oh, come on now," urged the other; "take something."
"No," said Frank with finality. "I must go," he continued, turning
toward the door. "I am glad to have been of some assistance to you."
But even as he turned the American in the red sweater stamped twice upon
the floor and a trap door fell away beneath Frank's feet. The lad caught
a glimpse of water below.
His elbow struck the floor as he went down, and he fell head-first into
a small rowboat. His head struck the bottom of the boat with sickening
force, stunning him.
It was almost an hour later when his wits began to return to him. He
took in the scene around him. He stood on the deck of a small schooner,
and a great hulk of a man with an evil face stood near him, arguing with
his friend of the red sweater.
"What is this thing you've brought me?" shouted the big man. "If we
don't look out we'll step on it and break it. It hadn't ought to be
around without its ma."
"Oh, he'll do all right, captain," replied the red sweater. "But I've
got to skip or I'll have the patrol boat after me. Do you sign or not?"
"Well, I'll tackle this one, but if he ain't up to snuff he'll come back
by freight, and don't you forget it."
The red sweater pocketed a note the captain handed him, went over the
side of the schooner and rowed off.
Frank gazed about the schooner. Several dirty sailors, fully as evil
looking as the captain, were working about the deck. Apparently they
were foreigners. The captain appeared to be an American.
The captain, Harwood by name, turned to Frank.
"Get forward," he commanded.
Frank drew himself up.
"What's the meaning of this?" he exclaimed. "I demand to be put ashore."
"Is that so," sneered the big captain; "and why do you suppose I went to
all this trouble to get you here, huh? Now you listen to me. I'm captain
of this here tub, and what I say goes. Get forward!"
Still Frank stood still.
"Look here," he began, "I----"
The captain knocked him down with a single blow of his great fist, and
kicked his prostrate form. Then he picked him up, caught him by the neck
and the slack of his coat and ran him forward to the hatchway, and flung
him below.
As Frank picked himself up there descended upon him a deluge of clothes,
followed by the captain's voice.
"There's your outfit, Willie, and it won't cost you a cent. You've got
two minutes to get into them, and I hope you won't force me to give you
any assistance."
Frank Chadwick was a lad of discretion. Therefore he made haste to
change, and in less than the allotted time he again emerged on deck.
Frank had just passed his sixteenth birthday. Always athletically
inclined, he was extremely large for his age; and his muscles, hardened
by much outdoor exercise, made him a match for many a man twice his age,
as he had proven more than once when forced to do so.
His father was a well-to-do physician in a small New England town. For a
lad of his years, Frank was an expert in the art of self-defense. Also
he could ride, shoot and fence.
While the lad was by no means an expert with sailing vessels, he
nevertheless had had some experience in that line. At home he had a
small sailboat and in the summer months spent many hours upon the water.
Consequently he was well versed in nautical terms.
This summer Frank and his father had been touring Europe. The war clouds
which had hovered over the continent for weeks had finally burst while
father and son were in Germany. In getting out of the country the
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The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Case of General Opel
by George Meredith
#99 in our series by George Meredith
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Title: The Case of General Opel
Author: George Meredith
Edition: 10
Language: English
Character set encoding: ASCII
Release Date: September, 2003 [Etext #4493]
[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule]
[This file was first posted on March 5, 2002]
The Project Gutenberg Etext The Case of General Opel by George Meredith
**********This file should be named 4493.txt or 4493.zip*********
Project Gutenberg Etexts are often created from several printed
editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US
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[NOTE: There is a short list of bookmarks, or pointers, at the end of the
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THE CASE OF GENERAL OPLE AND LADY CAMPER
By George Meredith
CHAPTER I
An excursion beyond the immediate suburbs of London, projected long
before his pony-carriage was hired to conduct him, in fact ever since his
retirement from active service, led General Ople across a famous common,
with which he fell in love at once, to a lofty highway along the borders
of a park, for which he promptly exchanged his heart, and so gradually
within a stone's-throw or so of the river-side, where he determined not
solely to bestow his affections but to settle for life. It may be seen
that he was of an adventurous temperament, though he had thought fit to
loosen his sword-belt. The pony-carriage, however, had been hired for
the very special purpose of helping him to pass in review the lines of
what he called country houses, cottages, or even sites for building, not
too remote from sweet London: and as when Coelebs goes forth intending to
pursue and obtain, there is no doubt of his bringing home a wife, the
circumstance that there stood a house to let, in an airy situation, at a
certain distance in hail of the metropolis he worshipped, was enough to
kindle the General's enthusiasm. He would have taken the first he saw,
had it not been for his daughter, who accompanied him, and at the age of
eighteen was about to undertake the management of his house. Fortune,
under Elizabeth Ople's guiding restraint, directed him to an epitome of
the comforts. The place he fell upon is only to be described in the
tongue of auctioneers, and for the first week after taking it he modestly
followed them by terming it bijou. In time, when his own imagination,
instigated by a state of something more than mere contentment, had been
at work on it, he chose the happy phrase, 'a gentlemanly residence.' For
it was, he
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THE IDOL OF THE BLIND
BOOKS BY T. GALLON.
Each, 12mo, cloth, $1.00; paper, 50 cents.
The Idol of the Blind.
"No person well posted in current fiction lets a story by Mr. Gallon
pass unnoticed."--_Buffalo Commercial._
The Kingdom of Hate.
"The whole story is told with an appearance of honest, straightforward
sincerity that is very clever and well sustained, and the suspicion of
satire will only dawn on the reader when the story is well advanced,
and he is thoroughly interested in the tumultuous swing."--_Chicago
Chronicle._
Dicky Monteith. A Love Story.
"A good story, told in an engaging style."--_Philadelphia Press._
"A refreshing example of everything that a love story ought to
be."--_San Francisco Call._
A Prince of Mischance.
"The story is a powerful one, and holds the reader from the
start."--_Boston Budget._
"An admirable story."--_London Telegraph._
Tatterly.
"A charming love story runs through the book, which is written in a
bright and lively style.... The book is worth reading."--_New York Sun._
"We believe in 'Tatterly' through thick and thin. We could not
recommend a better story."--_London Academy._
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK.
THE IDOL
OF THE BLIND
_A NOVEL_
BY
TOM GALLON
AUTHOR OF
TATTERLY, A PRINCE OF MISCHANCE,
DICKY MONTEITH, ETC.
"
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Produced by Les Bowler
WHEN GOD LAUGHS, AND OTHER STORIES
By Jack London
1911 Mills and Boon edition
Contents:
When God Laughs
The Apostate
A Wicked Woman
Just Meat
Created He Them
The Chinago
Make Westing
Semper Idem
A Nose For The King
The "Francis Spaight"
A Curious Fragment
A Piece Of Steak
WHEN GOD LAUGHS (with compliments to Harry Cowell)
"The gods, the gods are stronger; time
Falls down before them, all men's knees
Bow, all men's prayers and sorrows climb
Like incense toward them; yea, for these
Are gods, Felise."
Carquinez had relaxed finally. He stole a glance at the rattling
windows, looked upward at the beamed roof, and listened for a moment
to the savage roar of the south-easter as it caught the bungalow in
its bellowing jaws. Then he held his glass between him and the fire and
laughed for joy through the golden wine.
"It is beautiful," he said. "It is sweetly sweet. It is a woman's wine,
and it was made for gray-robed saints to drink."
"We grow it on our own warm hills," I said, with pardonable California
pride. "You rode up yesterday through the vines from which it was made."
It was worth while to get Carquinez to loosen up. Nor was he ever really
himself until he felt the mellow warmth of the vine singing in his
blood. He was an artist, it is true, always an artist; but somehow,
sober, the high pitch and lilt went out of his thought-processes and he
was prone to be as deadly dull as a British Sunday--not dull as other
men are dull, but dull when measured by the sprightly wight that Monte
Carquinez was when he was really himself.
From all this it must not be inferred that Carquinez, who is my dear
friend and dearer comrade, was a sot. Far from it. He rarely erred. As
I have said, he was an artist. He knew when he had enough, and enough,
with him, was equilibrium--the equilibrium that is yours and mine when
we are sober.
His was a wise and instinctive temperateness that savoured of the Greek.
Yet he was far from Greek. "I am Aztec, I am Inca, I am Spaniard," I
have heard him say. And in truth he looked it, a compound of strange
and ancient races, what with his swarthy skin and the asymmetry and
primitiveness of his features. His eyes, under massively arched brows,
were wide apart and black with the blackness that is barbaric, while
before them was perpetually falling down a great black mop of hair
through which he gazed like a roguish satyr from a thicket. He
invariably wore a soft flannel shirt under his velvet-corduroy jacket,
and his necktie was red. This latter stood for the red flag (he had once
lived with the socialists of Paris), and it symbolized the blood and
brotherhood of man. Also, he had never been known to wear anything on
his head save a leather-banded sombrero. It was even rumoured that
he had been born with this particular piece of headgear. And in my
experience it was provocative of nothing short of sheer delight to see
that Mexican sombrero hailing a cab in Piccadilly or storm-tossed in the
crush for the New York Elevated.
As I have said, Carquinez was made quick by wine--"as the clay was made
quick when God breathed the breath of life into it," was his way of
saying it. I confess that he was blasphemously intimate with God; and I
must add that there was no blasphemy in him. He was at all times honest,
and, because he was compounded of paradoxes, greatly misunderstood by
those who did not know him. He could be as elementally raw at times as a
screaming savage; and at other times as delicate as a maid, as subtle as
a Spaniard. And--well, was he not Aztec? Inca? Spaniard?
And now I must ask pardon for the space I have given him. (He is my
friend, and I love him.) The house was shaking to the storm, as he drew
closer to the fire and laughed at it through his wine. He looked at me,
and by the added lust
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Digitized by Cardinalis Etext Press [C.E.K.]
Prepared for Project Gutenberg by Andrew Sly
RAGGED DICK;
OR,
STREET LIFE IN NEW YORK WITH THE BOOT-BLACKS.
BY HORATIO ALGER JR.
To Joseph W. Allen,
at whose suggestion this story was undertaken,
it is inscribed with friendly regard.
PREFACE
"Ragged Dick" was contributed as a serial story to the pages of the
Schoolmate, a well-known juvenile magazine, during the year 1867.
While in course of publication, it was received with so many
evidences of favor that it has been rewritten and considerably
enlarged, and is now presented to the public as the first volume
of a series intended to illustrate the life and experiences of the
friendless and vagrant children who are now numbered by thousands
in New York and other cities.
Several characters in the story are sketched from life. The
necessary information has been gathered mainly from personal
observation and conversations with the boys themselves. The author
is indebted also to the excellent Superintendent of the Newsboys'
Lodging House, in Fulton Street, for some facts of which he has been
able to make use. Some anachronisms may be noted. Wherever they
occur, they have been admitted, as aiding in the development of the
story, and will probably be considered as of little importance in
an unpretending volume, which does not aspire to strict historical
accuracy.
The author hopes that, while the volumes in this series may prove
interesting stories, they may also have the effect of enlisting the
sympathies of his readers in behalf of the unfortunate children whose
life is described, and of leading them to co-operate with the
praiseworthy efforts now making by the Children's Aid Society and
other organizations to ameliorate their condition.
New York, April, 1868
CHAPTER I
RAGGED DICK IS INTRODUCED TO THE READER
"Wake up there, youngster," said a rough voice.
Ragged Dick opened his eyes slowly, and stared stupidly in the face
of the speaker, but did not offer to get up.
"Wake up, you young vagabond!" said the man a little impatiently;
"I suppose you'd lay there all day, if I hadn't called you."
"What time is it?" asked Dick.
"Seven o'clock."
"Seven o'clock! I oughter've been up an hour ago. I know what 'twas
made me so precious sleepy. I went to the Old Bowery last night, and
didn't turn in till past twelve."
"You went to the Old Bowery? Where'd you get your money?" asked the
man, who was a porter in the employ of a firm doing business on
Spruce Street. "Made it by shines, in course. My guardian don't
allow me no money for theatres, so I have to earn it."
"Some boys get it easier than that," said the porter significantly.
"You don't catch me stealin', if that's what you mean," said Dick.
"Don't you ever steal, then?"
"No, and I wouldn't. Lots of boys does it, but I wouldn't."
"Well, I'm glad to hear you say that. I believe there's some
good in you, Dick, after all."
"Oh, I'm a rough customer!" said Dick. "But I wouldn't steal.
It's mean."
"I'm glad you think so, Dick," and the rough voice sounded gentler
than at first. "Have you got any money to buy your breakfast?"
"No, but I'll soon get some."
While this conversation had been going on, Dick had got up. His
bedchamber had been a wooden box half full of straw, on which the
young boot-black had reposed his weary limbs, and slept as soundly
as if it had been a bed of down. He dumped down into the straw
without taking the trouble of undressing.
Getting up too was an equally short process. He jumped out of the
box, shook himself, picked out one or two straws that had found
their way into rents in his clothes, and, drawing a well-worn cap
over his uncombed locks, he was all ready for the business of the
day.
Dick's appearance as he stood beside the box was rather peculiar.
His pants were torn in several places, and had apparently belonged
in the first instance to a boy two sizes larger than himself. He
wore a vest, all the buttons of which were gone except two, out of
which peeped a shirt which looked as if it had been worn a month
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TRANSCRIBER’S NOTE
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_.
Footnote anchors are denoted by [number], and the footnotes have been
placed at the end of each chapter that has footnotes. Several are very
long.
Some minor changes are noted at the end of the book.
PHYSIOLOGICAL RESEARCHES
ON
LIFE AND DEATH,
BY XAVIER BICHAT;
Translated from the French,
BY F. GOLD,
MEMBER OF THE ROYAL COLLEGE OF SURGEONS, LONDON:
WITH NOTES,
BY F. MAGENDIE,
Member of the Institute and of the Royal Academy of Medicine.
_THE NOTES TRANSLATED_
BY GEORGE HAYWARD, M. D.
BOSTON:
PUBLISHED BY RICHARDSON AND LORD.
J. H. A. FROST, PRINTER.
1827.
DISTRICT OF MASSACHUSETTS: _to wit_.
_District Clerk’s Office._
BE IT REMEMBERED, That on the seventeenth day of December, A. D.
1827, in the fifty-second year of the Independence of the United
States of America, RICHARDSON & LORD, of the said District, have
deposited in this office the title of a book, the right whereof
they claim as proprietors, in the words following, _to wit_:
“Physiological Researches on Life and Death, by Xavier Bichat;
translated from the French, by F. Gold, member of the Royal
College of Surgeons, London, with notes, by F. Magendie, member
of the Institute and of the Royal Academy of Medicine. The notes
translated by George Hayward, M. D.”
In conformity to the Act of the Congress of the United States,
entitled, “An Act for the encouragement
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E-text prepared by Suzanne Shell, Jacqueline Jeremy, and the Project
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COUNTRY NEIGHBORS
by
ALICE BROWN
Boston and New York
Houghton Mifflin Company
The Riverside Press Cambridge 1910
Copyright, 1910, by Alice Brown
All Rights Reserved
Published April 1910
CONTENTS
THE PLAY HOUSE 1
HIS FIRST WIFE 20
A FLOWER OF APRIL 42
THE AUCTION 53
SATURDAY NIGHT 76
A GRIEF DEFERRED 96
THE CHALLENGE 122
PARTNERS 150
FLOWERS OF PARADISE 171
GARDENER JIM 192
THE SILVER TEA-SET 215
THE OTHER MRS. DILL 237
THE ADVOCATE 265
THE MASQUERADE 285
A POETESS IN SPRING 314
THE MASTER MINDS OF HISTORY 341
THE PLAY HOUSE
Amelia Maxwell sat by the front-chamber window of the great house
overlooking the road, and her own "story-an'-a-half" farther toward the
west. Every day she was alone under her own roof, save at the times when
old lady Knowles of the great house summoned her for work at fine sewing
or braiding rags. All Amelia's kin were dead. Now she was used to their
solemn absence, and sufficiently at one with her own humble way of life,
letting her few acres at the halves, and earning a
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KLONDYKE NUGGETS
A Brief Description of the Great Gold Regions in the Northwest
Territories and Alaska
BY
JOSEPH LADUE
Founder of Dawson City, N.W.T.
Explorer, Miner and Prospector
September, 1897
PREFACE.
The extraordinary excitement arising from the reports of the discovery
of Gold in the Klondyke region in the great Canadian Northwest is not
surprising to one who, through personal residence and practical
experience, is thoroughly conversant with the locality.
Having recently returned for a temporary stay, after a somewhat
successful experience, I have received applications for information in
numbers so great that it far exceeds my ability and the time at my
disposal to make direct replies.
I have therefore arranged with the American Technical Book Co., 45 Vesey
Street, New York City, for the issue of this brief description,
preparatory to the publication of my larger book, "Klondyke Facts," a
book of 224 pages, with illustrations and maps, in which will be found a
vast fund of practical information, statistics, and all particulars
sought for by those who intend emigrating to this wonderful country.
It is well-nigh impossible to tell the truth of these recent discoveries
of gold, but while I can only briefly describe the territory in this
small work, it shall be my endeavor to give the intending prospector,
in the large work above mentioned, as many facts as possible, and these
may thoroughly be relied upon, as from one who has lived continuously in
those regions since 1882.
JOSEPH LADUE.
* * * * *
KLONDYKE NUGGETS
CHAPTER I.
KLONDYKE.
Klondyke! The word and place that has startled the civilized world is
to-day a series of thriving mining camps on the Yukon River and its
tributaries in the Canadian Northwest Territories.
Prior to August 24, 1896, this section of the country had never been
heard of. It was on this day that a man named Henderson discovered the
first gold.
On the first day of the following month the writer commenced erecting
the first house in this region and called the place Dawson City, now the
central point of the mining camps.
Dawson City is now the most important point in the new mining regions.
Its population in June, 1897; exceeded 4,000; by June next it cannot be
less than 25,000. It has a saw-mill, stores, churches, of the
Presbyterian, Baptist, Methodist and Roman Catholic denominations. It is
the headquarters of the Canadian Northwest Mounted Police, _and perfect
law and order is maintained_.
It is at Dawson City that the prospector files his claims with the
Government Gold Commissioner, in the recording offices.
Dawson City faces on one of the banks of the Yukon River, and now
occupies about a mile of the bank. It is at the junction of the Klondyke
River with the Yukon River. It is here where the most valuable mining
claims are being operated on a scale of profit that the world has
hitherto never known. The entire country surrounding is teeming with
mineral wealth.
Copper, silver and coal can be found in large quantities, but little or
no attention is now being paid to these valuable minerals, as every one
is engaged in gold-hunting and working the extraordinary placer mining
claims already located.
The entire section is given up to placer mining. Very few claims had
been filed for quartz mining. The fields of gold will not be exhausted
in the near future. No man can tell what the end will be. From January
to April, 1897, about $4,000,000 were taken out of the few placer claims
then being worked. This was done in a territory not exceeding forty
square miles. All these claims are located on Klondyke River and the
little tributaries emptying into it, and the districts are known as Big
Bonanza, Gold Bottom and Honker.
I have asked old and experienced miners at Dawson City who mined
through California in Bonanza days, and some who mined in Australia,
what they thought of the Klondyke region, and their reply has
invariably been, "The world never saw so vast and rich a find of gold as
we are working now."
Dawson City is destined to be the greatest mining camp in the history of
mining operations.
CHAPTER II.
KLONDYKE FACTS.
There is a great popular error in reference to the climate of the gold
regions. Many reports have appeared in the newspapers which are
misleading. It has been even stated that the cold is excessive almost
throughout the year. This is entirely a mis-statement.
I have found I have suffered more from winter cold in Northern New York
than I ever did in Alaska or the Canadian Northwest.
I have chopped wood in my shirt-sleeves in front of my door at Dawson
City when the thermometer was 70 degrees below zero, and I suffered no
inconvenience. We account for this from the fact that the air is very
dry. It is a fact that you do not feel this low temperature as much as
you would 15 below zero in the East.
We usually have about three feet
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[ Transcriber's Notes:
Every effort has been made to replicate this text as faithfully as
possible, including any non-standard spelling.
Italic text has been marked with _underscores_.
]
WHERE LOVE IS
THERE GOD IS ALSO
BY
LYOF N. TOLSTOI
TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN
BY
NATHAN HASKELL DOLE
NEW YORK
THOMAS Y. CROWELL COMPANY
PUBLISHERS
Copyright, 1887,
By Thomas Y. Crowell & Co.
WHERE LOVE IS THERE GOD IS ALSO
In the city lived the shoemaker, Martuin Avdyeitch. He lived in a
basement, in a little room with one window. The window looked out on the
street. Through the window he used to watch the people passing by;
although only their feet could be seen, yet by the boots, Martuin
Avdyeitch recognized the people. Martuin Avdyeitch had lived long in one
place, and had many acquaintances. Few pairs of boots in his district
had not been in his hands once and again. Some he would half-sole, some
he would patch, some he would stitch around, and occasionally he would
also put on new uppers. And through the window he often recognized his
work.
Avdyeitch had plenty to do, because he was a faithful workman, used good
material, did not make exorbitant charges, and kept his word. If it was
possible for him to finish an order by a certain time, he would accept
it; otherwise, he would not deceive you,--he would tell you so
beforehand. And all knew Avdyeitch, and he was never out of work.
Avdyeitch had always been a good man; but as he grew old, he began to
think more about his soul, and get nearer to God. Martuin's wife had
died when he was still living with his master. His wife left him a boy
three years old. None of their other children had lived. All the eldest
had died in childhood. Martuin at first intended to send his little son
to his sister in the village, but afterward he felt sorry for him; he
thought to himself:--
"It will be hard for my Kapitoshka to live in a strange family. I shall
keep him with me."
And Avdyeitch left his master, and went into lodgings with his little
son. But God gave Avdyeitch no luck with his children. As Kapitoshka
grew older, he began to help his father, and would have been a delight
to him, but a sickness fell on him, he went to bed, suffered a week, and
died. Martuin buried his son, and fell into despair. So deep was this
despair that he began to complain of God. Martuin fell into such a
melancholy state, that more than once he prayed to God for death, and
reproached God because He had not taken him who was an old man, instead
of his beloved only son. Avdyeitch also ceased to go to church.
And once a little old man from the same district came from Troitsa(1) to
see Avdyeitch; for seven years he had been wandering about. Avdyeitch
talked with him, and began to complain about his sorrows.
(1) Trinity, a famous monastery, pilgrimage to which is reckoned a
virtue. Avdyeitch calls this _zemlyak-starichok_, _Bozhi chelovyek_,
God's man.--Ed.
"I have no desire to live any longer," he said, "I only wish I was dead.
That is all I pray God for. I am a man without anything to hope for
now."
And the little old man said to him:--
"You don't talk right, Martuin, we must not judge God's doings. The
world moves, not by our skill, but by God's will. God decreed for your
son to die,--for you--to live. So it is for the best. And you are in
despair, because you wish to live for your own happiness."
"But what shall one live for?" asked Martuin.
And the little old man said:--
"We must live for God, Martuin. He gives you life, and for His sake you
must live. When you begin to live for Him, you will not grieve over
anything, and all will seem easy to you."
Martuin kept silent for a moment, and then said, "But how can one live
for God?"
And the little old man said:--
"Christ has taught us how to live for God. You know how to read? Buy a
Testament, and read it; there you will learn how to live for God.
Everything is explained there."
And these words kindled a fire in Avdyeitch's heart. And he went that
very same day, bought a New Testament in large print, and began to read.
At first Avdyeitch intended to read only on holidays; but as he began to
read, it so cheered his soul that he used to read every day. At times he
would become so absorbed in reading, that all the kerosene in the lamp
would burn out, and still he could not tear himself away. And so
Avdyeitch used to read every evening.
And the more he read, the clearer he understood what God wanted of him,
and how one should live for God; and his heart kept growing easier and
easier. Formerly, when he lay down to sleep, he
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Transcribed from the 1896 Longmans, Green and Co. edition by David Price,
email [email protected]
POEMS BY THE WAYS
WRITTEN BY WILLIAM
MORRIS
SECOND EDITION
LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.
LONDON, NEW YORK, AND BOMBAY
MDCCCXCI
_This Edition first printed December_ 1891
_Reprinted April_ 1892, _and the publication_
_transferred to Longmans_, _Green and Co_.
_in June_ 1896
Contents.
From the Upland to the Sea
Of the Wooing of Hallbiorn the Strong
Echoes of Love's House
The Burghers' Battle
Hope Deith: Love Liveth
Error and Loss
The Hall and the Wood
The Day of Days
To the Muse of the North
Of the Three Seekers
Love's Gleaning-Tide
The Message of the March Wind
A Death Song
Iceland First Seen
The Raven and the King's Daughter
Spring's Bedfellow
Meeting in Winter
The Two Sides of the River
Love Fulfilled
The King of Denmark's Sons
On the Edge of the Wilderness
A Garden by the Sea
Mother and Son
Thunder in the Garden
The God of the Poor
Love's Reward
The Folk-Mote by the River
The Voice of Toil
Gunnar's Howe above the House at Lithend
The Day is Coming
Earth the Healer, Earth the Keeper
All for the Cause
Pain and Time Strive Not
Drawing near the Light
Verses for Pictures
For the Briar-Rose
Another for the Briar-Rose
The Woodpecker
The Lion
The Forest
Pomona
Flora
The Orchard
Tapestry Trees
The Flowering Orchard
The End of May
The Half of Life Gone
Mine and Thine
The Lay of Christine
Hildebrand and Hellelil
The Son's Sorrow
Agnes and the Hill-Man
Knight Aagen and Maiden Else
Hafbur and Signy
Goldilocks and Goldilocks
HERE BEGIN POEMS BY THE WAY.
WRITTEN BY WILLIAM MORRIS.
AND FIRST IS THE POEM CALLED
FROM THE UPLAND TO THE SEA.
Shall we wake one morn of spring,
Glad at heart of everything,
Yet pensive with the thought of eve?
Then the white house shall we leave,
Pass the wind-flowers and the bays,
Through the garth, and go our ways,
Wandering down among the meads
Till our very joyance needs
Rest at last; till we shall come
To that Sun-god's lonely home,
Lonely on the hill-side grey,
Whence the sheep have gone away;
Lonely till the feast-time is,
When with prayer and praise of bliss,
Thither comes the country side.
There awhile shall we abide,
Sitting low down in the porch
By that image with the torch:
Thy one white hand laid upon
The black pillar that was won
From the far-off Indian mine;
And my hand nigh touching thine,
But not touching; and thy gown
Fair with spring-flowers cast adown
From thy bosom and thy brow.
There the south-west wind shall blow
Through thine hair to reach my cheek,
As thou sittest, nor mayst speak,
Nor mayst move the hand I kiss
For the very depth of bliss;
Nay, nor turn thine eyes to me.
Then desire of the great sea
Nigh enow, but all unheard,
In the hearts of us is stirred,
And we rise, we twain at last,
And the daffodils downcast,
Feel thy feet and we are gone
From the lonely Sun-Crowned one.
Then the meads fade at our back,
And the spring day 'gins to lack
That fresh hope that once it had;
But we twain grow yet more glad,
And apart no more may go
When the grassy <DW72> and low
Dieth in the shingly sand:
Then we wander hand in hand
By the edges of the sea,
And I weary more for thee
Than if far apart we were,
With a space of desert drear
'Twixt thy lips and mine, O love!
Ah, my joy, my joy thereof!
OF THE WOOING OF HALLBIORN THE
STRONG. A STORY FROM THE LAND-
SETTLING BOOK OF ICELAND, CHAPTER XXX.
At Deildar-Tongue in the autumn-tide,
_So many times over comes summer again_,
Stood Odd of Tongue his door beside.
_What healing in summer if winter be vain_?
Dim and dusk the day was grown,
As he heard his folded wethers moan.
Then through
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[Transcriber's note: Bold text is marked with =."
Obvious printer's errors have been corrected,
all other inconsistencies are as in the original. The author's spelling
has been maintained.
"Elecate" should be "Elacate".]
LIVES OF THE MOST EMINENT PAINTERS SCULPTORS & ARCHITECTS BY GIORGIO
VASARI:
VOLUME V. ANDREA DA FIESOLE TO LORENZO LOTTO 1913
NEWLY TRANSLATED BY GASTON Du C. DE VERE. WITH FIVE HUNDRED
ILLUSTRATIONS: IN TEN VOLUMES
[Illustration: 1511-1574]
PHILIP LEE WARNER, PUBLISHER TO THE MEDICI SOCIETY, LIMITED 7 GRAFTON
ST. LONDON, W. 1912-14
CONTENTS OF VOLUME V
PAGE
ANDREA DA FIESOLE [ANDREA FERRUCCI], AND OTHERS 1
VINCENZIO DA SAN GIMIGNANO [VINCENZIO TAMAGNI], AND TIMOTEO
DA URBINO [TIMOTEO DELLA VITE] 9
ANDREA DAL MONTE SANSOVINO [ANDREA CONTUCCI] 19
BENEDETTO DA ROVEZZANO 33
BACCIO DA MONTELUPO, AND RAFFAELLO HIS SON 39
LORENZO DI CREDI 47
LORENZETTO AND BOCCACCINO 53
BALDASSARRE PERUZZI 61
GIOVAN FRANCESCO PENNI [CALLED IL FATTORE], AND PELLEGRINO
DA MODENA 75
ANDREA DEL SARTO 83
MADONNA PROPERZIA DE' ROSSI 121
ALFONSO LOMBARDI, MICHELAGNOLO DA SIENA, GIROLAMO SANTA
CROCE, AND DOSSO AND BATTISTA DOSSI 129
GIOVANNI ANTONIO LICINIO OF PORDENONE, AND OTHERS 143
GIOVANNI ANTONIO SOGLIANI 157
GIROLAMO DA TREVISO 167
POLIDORO DA CARAVAGGIO AND MATURINO 173
IL ROSSO 187
BARTOLOMMEO DA BAGNACAVALLO, AND OTHERS 205
FRANCIABIGIO [FRANCIA] 215
MORTO DA FELTRO AND ANDREA DI COSIMO FELTRINI 225
MARCO CALAVRESE 235
FRANCESCO MAZZUOLI [PARMIGIANO] 241
JACOPO PALMA [PALMA VECCHIO] AND LORENZO LOTTO 257
INDEX OF NAMES 267
ILLUSTRATIONS TO VOLUME V
PLATES IN COLOUR
FACING PAGE
TIMOTEO DA URBINO (TIMOTEO DELLA VITE)
A Muse
Florence: Corsini Gallery 10
LORENZO DI CREDI
Venus
Florence: Uffizi, 3452 48
BERNARDINO DEL LUPINO (LUINI)
S. Catharine borne to her Tomb by Angels
Milan: Brera, 288 54
ANDREA DEL SARTO
Madonna dell' Arpie
Florence: Uffizi, 1112 94
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[Illustration: Photo of Julia Ward Howe
Signed,
Yours very cordially,
Julia Ward Howe.]
Is Polite Society Polite?
And Other Essays
BY
[Illustration: colophon]
MRS. JULIA WARD HOWE
BOSTON & NEW YORK
Lamson, Wolffe, & Company
1895
Copyright, 1895, By Lamson, Wolffe, & Co.
All rights reserved
Preface
I REMEMBER that, quite late in the fifties, I mentioned to Theodore
Parker the desire which I began to feel to give living expression to my
thoughts, and to lend to my written words the interpretation of my
voice.
Parker, who had taken a friendly interest in the publication of my first
volumes, "Passion Flowers" and "Words for the Hour," gave his approval
also to this new project of mine. "The great desire of the age," he
said, "is for vocal expression. People are scarcely satisfied with the
printed page alone: they crave for their instruction the living voice
and the living presence."
At the time of which I write, no names of women were found in the lists
of lecture courses. Lucy Stone had graduated from Oberlin, and was
beginning to be known as an advocate of temperance, and as an
antislavery speaker. Lucretia Mott had carried her eloquent pleading
outside the limits of her Quaker belonging. Antoinette Brown Blackwell
occupied the pulpit of a Congreg
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The Evolution of Fashion
BY
FLORENCE MARY GARDINER
_Author of "Furnishings and Fittings for Every Home," "About Gipsies,"
&c. &c._
[Illustration: SIR ROBERT BRUCE COTTON.]
London:
THE COTTON PRESS, GRANVILLE HOUSE, ARUNDEL STREET, W.C.
TO
FRANCES EVELYN,
COUNTESS OF WARWICK,
WHOSE ENTHUSIASTIC AND KINDLY INTEREST IN ALL MOVEMENTS
CALCULATED TO BENEFIT WOMEN IS UNSURPASSED,
THIS VOLUME,
BY SPECIAL PERMISSION, IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED,
BY
THE AUTHOR.
IN THE YEAR OF
HER MAJESTY QUEEN VICTORIA'S DIAMOND JUBILEE,
1897.
[Illustration: _Millicent, Duchess of Sutherland._ _Princess Henry of
Pless._ _The Countess of Warwick._ _Lady Marjorie Greville._ _Lady Eva
Dugdale._
THE WARWICK BALL.]
PREFACE.
In compiling this volume on Costume (portions of which originally
appeared in the _Ludgate Illustrated Magazine_, under the editorship of
Mr. A. J. Bowden), I desire to acknowledge the valuable assistance I
have received from sources not usually available to the public; also my
indebtedness to the following authors, from whose works I have
quoted:--Mr. Beck, Mr. R. Davey, Mr. E. Rimmel, Mr. Knight, and the late
Mr. J. R. Planche. I also take this opportunity of thanking Messrs.
Liberty and Co., Messrs. Jay, Messrs. E. R. Garrould, Messrs. Walery,
Mr. Box, and others, who have offered me special facilities for
consulting drawings, engravings, &c., in their possession, many of which
they have courteously allowed me to reproduce, by the aid of Miss Juliet
Hensman, and other artists.
The book lays no claim to being a technical treatise on a subject which
is practically inexhaustible, but has been written with the intention of
bringing before the general public in a popular manner circumstances
which have influenced in a marked degree the wearing apparel of the
British Nation.
FLORENCE MARY GARDINER.
_West Kensington, 1897._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER. PAGE.
I. THE DRESS, B.C. 594--A.D. 1897 3
II. CURIOUS HEADGEAR 15
III. GLOVES 25
IV. CURIOUS FOOTGEAR 31
V. BRIDAL COSTUME 39
VI. MOURNING 51
VII. ECCENTRICITIES OF MASCULINE COSTUME 61
VIII. A CHAT ABOUT CHILDREN AND THEIR CLOTHING 71
IX. FANCY COSTUME OF VARIOUS PERIODS 79
X. STAGE AND FLORAL COSTUME 89
THE EVOLUTION OF FASHION
CHAPTER I.
THE DRESS, B.C. 594--A.D. 1897.
"Fashions that are now called new
Have been worn by more than you;
Elder times have used the same,
Though these new ones get the name."
_Middleton's "Mayor of Quinborough."_
A hard fate has condemned human beings to enter this mortal sphere
without any natural covering, like that possessed by the lower animals
to protect them from the extremes of heat and cold. Had this been
otherwise, countless myriads, for untold ages, would have escaped the
tyrannical sway of the goddess Fashion, and the French proverb, _il faut
souffrir pour etre belle_, need never have been written.
[Illustration: EARLY EGYPTIAN.]
The costume of our progenitors was chiefly remarkable for its extreme
simplicity; and, as far as we can gather, no difference in design was
made between the sexes. A few leaves entwined by the stalks, the
feathers of birds, the bark of trees, or roughly-dressed skins of
animals were probably regarded by _beaux_ and _belles_ of the Adamite
period as beautiful and appropriate adornments for the body, and were
followed by garments made from plaited grass, which was doubtless the
origin of weaving, a process which is nothing more than the mechanical
plaiting of hair, wool, flax, &c. In many remote districts these
primitive fashions still prevail, as, for example, in Madras, where, at
an annual religious ceremony, it is customary for the low
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Transcriber’s Note
Obvious typos and punctuation errors corrected. Variations in spelling
and hyphenation retained.
A small floral decoration appears in most page headers in the original.
This decoration has been preserved in the html and ebook versions at
the end of chapters. It has not been preserved in the text version.
An illustration in the front matter of a prison door with bars
surrounding the book title has been replicated in the text with ascii
art.
Italic text is represented by underscores surrounding the _italic
text_.
Small capitals in the original have been converted to ALL CAPS in the
text.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+
| | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | |
| |
| _The Room |
| with the |
| Little Door_ |
| |
| | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | |
| | | | | | | |
+--+--+--+--+--+--+--+
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_The Room with the
Little Door_
_By_
_Roland Burnham Molineux_
[Illustration]
_G. W. Dillingham Company_
_Publishers_ _New York_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
[Illustration]
COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY
ROLAND
BURNHAM MOLINEUX
_All Rights Reserved_
_Entered at
Stationers Hall_
ISSUED JANUARY, 1903
_The Room with the
Little Door_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_To
My Father
General Edward
Leslie Molineux
With
Reverence_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_CONTENTS_
CHAPTER PAGE
_Introduction_ _17_
_I._ _The Room with the Little Door_ _19_
_II._ _The Little Dead Mouse_ _26_
_III._ _A Forbidden Song_ _30_
_IV._ _The Murderers’ Home Journal_ _34_
_V._ _Fads_ _54_
_VI._ _The Mayor of the Death-Chamber_ _62_
_VII._ _A Psychological Experiment_ _67_
_VIII._ _Me and Mike_ _79_
_IX._ _Old John_ _82_
_X._ _Her Friend_ _94_
_XI._ _Life_ _97_
_XII._ _My Friend the Major_ _99_
_XIII._ _A Dissertation on the Third Degree_ _108_
_XIV._ _It’s Just Like Her_ _145_
_XV._ _Shorty_ _158_
_XVI._ _An Opinion on Expert Opinion_ _180_
_XVII._ _Prologue to a Little Comedy_ _195_
_XVIII._ _Impressions: The Last Night and The _197_
Next Morning_
_XIX._ _Impressions: Dawn in the Death-Chamber_ _208_
_XX._ _Impressions: While the Jury is Out_ _211_
_XXI._ _Impressions: The Friendship of _234_
Imagination_
_XXII._ _The Last Story_ _241_
_XXIII._ _The Story of the Ring, by Vance _243_
Thompson_
------------------------------------------------------------------------
_Introduction_
Most of the following is true, or founded on truth. A few are
waifs—products of my imagination; little stories that came into my mind
from time to time. Some of them are from letters written home while I
was confined in the Tombs Prison in New York City, and in the
Death-Chamber at Sing Sing.
In them I have not inflicted myself to any great extent upon the reader.
Herein is chiefly what I saw when trying to look upon the bright side.
There are also glimpses of the side which cannot be made bright, look at
it as one may.
But if anything in these pages leads some one to think of what must be
endured in either place, let me say, that no suffering was ever
willingly caused by the officials with whom
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THE MAGIC HOUSE
THE MAGIC HOUSE
AND OTHER POEMS
BY
DUNCAN CAMPBELL SCOTT
[Illustration: colophon]
METHUEN AND CO.
18 BURY STREET, W.C.
LONDON
1893
Edinburgh: T. and A. CONSTABLE, Printers to Her Majesty
TO
MY MOTHER
CONTENTS
PAGE
A LITTLE SONG
The sunset in the rosy west, 1
THE HILL PATH
Are the little breezes blind, 2
THE VOICE AND THE DUSK
The slender moon and one pale star, 5
FOR REMEMBRANCE
It would be sweet to think when we are old, 7
THE MESSAGE
Wind of the gentle summer night, 8
THE SILENCE OF LOVE
My heart would need the earth, 10
AN IMPROMPTU
The stars are in the ebon sky, 11
FROM THE FARM ON THE HILL
The night wind moves the gloom, 13
AT SCARBORO’ BEACH
The wave is over the foaming reef, 15
THE FIFTEENTH OF APRIL
Pallid saffron glows the broken stubble, 17
IN AN OLD QUARRY
Above the lifeless pools the mist films swim, 19
TO WINTER
Come, O thou conqueror of the flying year, 20
TO WINTER
Come, O thou season of intense rep
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