diff --git a/resources_servers/longmt_eval/configs/longmt_eval.yaml b/resources_servers/longmt_eval/configs/longmt_eval.yaml index e8e93676c4..2b65930b82 100644 --- a/resources_servers/longmt_eval/configs/longmt_eval.yaml +++ b/resources_servers/longmt_eval/configs/longmt_eval.yaml @@ -28,4 +28,4 @@ longmt_eval_simple_agent: type: example jsonl_fpath: resources_servers/longmt_eval/data/example.jsonl num_repeats: 1 - license: Apache-2.0 + license: Apache 2.0 diff --git a/resources_servers/longmt_eval/configs/longmt_pg19.yaml b/resources_servers/longmt_eval/configs/longmt_pg19.yaml index 02d556bdf1..c39965cdb8 100644 --- a/resources_servers/longmt_eval/configs/longmt_pg19.yaml +++ b/resources_servers/longmt_eval/configs/longmt_pg19.yaml @@ -30,4 +30,4 @@ longmt_pg19_simple_agent: type: example jsonl_fpath: resources_servers/longmt_eval/data/example.jsonl num_repeats: 1 - license: Apache-2.0 + license: Apache 2.0 diff --git a/resources_servers/longmt_eval/data/example.jsonl b/resources_servers/longmt_eval/data/example.jsonl index d278ead03d..1f2500c380 100644 --- a/resources_servers/longmt_eval/data/example.jsonl +++ b/resources_servers/longmt_eval/data/example.jsonl @@ -1,5 +1,5 @@ -{"text": "ST. PAUL***\n\n\nE-text prepared by Josephine Paolucci and the Project Gutenberg Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team\n\n\n\nREMINISCENCES OF PIONEER DAYS IN ST. PAUL\n\nA Collection of Articles Written for and Published in the Daily\nPioneer Press.\n\nBy FRANK MOORE\n\n\n\n\n\n\nNEWSPAPER STRUGGLES OF PIONEER DAYS.\n\nA BRIEF NARRATION OF INCIDENTS AND EVENTS CONNECTED WITH THE EARLY\nDAYS OF ST. PAUL, DAILY NEWSPAPERS.\n\n\nIf James M. Goodhue could revisit the earth and make a tour among the\ndaily newspaper offices of St. Paul he would discover that wonderful\nstrides had been made in the method of producing a newspaper during\nthe latter half of the past century. Among the first things to attract\nthe attention of this old-timer would be the web-perfecting press,\ncapable of producing 25,000 impressions an hour, instead of the old\nhand press of 240 impressions an hour; the linotype machine, capable\nof setting 6,000 to 10,000 ems per hour, instead of the old hand\ncompositor producing only 800 to 1,000 ems per hour, and the mailing\nmachine, enabling one man to do the work of five or six under the\nold method. Think of getting out the Sunday Pioneer Press with the\nmaterial in use fifty years ago. It would take 600 hand presses, 600\nhand pressmen and 600 boys three hours to print the edition, and as\nthere were no means of stereotyping in those days the forms would have\nto be set up 600 times, requiring the services of 5,000 compositors.\nPapers printed under these conditions would have to be sold for one\ndollar each, and there would not be much profit in it at that. The\nfirst daily papers printed in St. Paul were not conducted or a very\ngigantic scale, as the entire force of one office generally consisted\nof one pressman, five or six compositors, two editors and a business\nmanager. A few reminiscences of the trials and tribulations of the\nearly newspaper manager, editor and compositor may not be wholly\ndevoid of interest.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIn 1857 there occurred in Minnesota an election of delegates to the\nconstitutional convention to provide for the admission of Minnesota\ninto the galaxy of states. The election was so close, politically,\nthat when the delegates met there was a division, and the Republicans\nand Democrats held separate conventions. At the conclusion of the work\nof the two conventions the contract for printing was awarded to the\ntwo leading papers of the state--the Pioneer and the Minnesotian--the\nPioneer to print the proceedings of the Democratic body and the\nMinnesotian that of the Republican. This contract called for the\nexpenditure of considerable money for material with which to perform\nthe work. Mr. Moore, the business manager of the Minnesotian, went to\nNew York and purchased a Hoe press, the first one ever brought to the\nstate, and a large quantity of type; also a Hoe proof press, which is\nstill in use in the Pioneer Press composing room. When the book was\nabout completed the business manager of the Minnesotian was informed\nthat an injunction had been issued prohibiting him from drawing\nany money from the state until the question of the right of the\nMinnesotian to do any state printing had been determined by the\ndistrict court. Mr. Goodrich was state printer and claimed he had a\nright to print the proceedings of both constitutional bodies. This\naction on the part of the Pioneer produced great consternation in the\nMinnesotian office, as most of the men had not received more than half\npay for some time, and now, when the balance of their pay was almost\nin sight, they were suddenly compelled to await the slow and doubtful\naction of the courts before receiving pay for their summer's work. The\ndistrict court, subsequently confirmed by the supreme court, decided\nin favor of the Minnesotian, and the day following the decision Mr.\nMoore, of the Minnesotian, brought down a bag of gold from the capitol\ncontaining $4,000, and divided it up among his employes.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIn 1858, when the first Atlantic cable was laid, the news was\nanxiously looked for, and nearly every inhabitant of the city turned\nout to greet the arrival of the Gray Eagle and Itasca, two of the\nfastest boats on the river, which were expected to bring the news\nof the successful laying of the cable. The Gray Eagle started from\nDubuque at 9 o'clock in the morning and the Itasca started from\nPrairie du Chien, about 100 miles farther up the river, at noon of the\nsame day. When the boats reached the bend below the river they were\nabreast of each other, and as they reached the levee it was hardly\npossible to tell which was ahead. One of the passengers on the Gray\nEagle had a copy of the Dubuque Herald containing the Queen's message,\ntied up with a small stone on the inside of it, and as he threw it to\nthe shore a messenger from the Minnesotian caught it and ran up Bench\nstreet to the Minnesotian office, where the printers were waiting,\nand the Minnesotian had the satisfaction of getting out an extra some\nlittle time before their competitors.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIn the summer season the newspapers had to rely, to a considerable\nextent, on the steamboats for late Dubuque and Chicago papers for\ntelegraph news. There were three or four daily lines of steamers to\nSt. Paul, and every one of them could be distinguished by its whistle.\nWhen it was time for the arrival of the boat bringing the newspapers\nfrom which the different papers expected to get their telegraphic\nnews, messengers from the different offices would be at the levee, and\nas the boat neared the shore they would leap for the gangplank, and\nthere was always a scramble to get to the clerk's office first.\nJames J. Hill and the late Gus Borup were almost always at the levee\nawaiting the arrival of the steamers, but as they were after copies\nof the boats' manifest they did not come in competition with the\nadventurous kids from the newspaper offices.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe Minnesotian was probably the first daily paper in the West to\nillustrate a local feature. During the summer of 1859 a man by the\nname of Jackson was lynched by a mob in Wright county, and Gov. Sibley\ncalled out the Pioneer Guards to proceed to the place where the\nlynching occurred and arrest all persons connected with the tragedy.\nThe Pioneer Guards was the crack military company of the state, and\nthe only service any of its members ever expected to do was in the\nballroom or to participate in a Fourth of July parade. When they were\ncalled out by the governor there was great consternation in the ranks.\nOne of the members, who is still a prominent politician in the city,\nwhen told that his first duty was to serve his country, tremblingly\nremarked that he thought his first duty was to provide for his wife\nand family.\n\nA number of them made their wills before departing, as they thought\nthe whole of Wright county was in open rebellion. After being absent\nfor about a week they proudly marched back to the city without ever\nfiring a gun or seeing an enemy. The late J. Fletcher Williams was\ncity editor of the Minnesotian, and he wrote an extended account of\nthe expedition, and It was profusely illustrated with patent medicine\ncuts and inverted wood type and border, the only available material at\nthat time that could be procured.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe year 1859 was a memorable one in the political history of\nMinnesota. Alexander Ramsey and George L. Becker, both now living in\nthis city, were the rival candidates for governor. The Republicans\nmade extraordinary efforts to elect their state and legislative\ntickets, as both governor and United States senator were at stake.\nAmong the speakers imported by the Republicans were the Hon. Galusha\nA. Grow of Pennsylvania and Hon. Schuyler Colfax of Indiana. Mr. Grow,\nthen as now, represented the congressional district in Pennsylvania in\nwhich I formally resided, and I was very anxious to hear him, as the\nfirst political speech I had ever heard was made by him in a small\nvillage in Pennsylvania. The speakers were announced to speak at the\nold People's theater, on the corner of Fourth and St. Peter streets,\nand I was among the first to enter. The theater was packed to\noverflowing. Mr. Grow had made a very interesting speech of about an\nhour's duration, and Mr. Colfax was to follow for an equal length of\ntime. After Mr. Colfax had spoken about ten minutes an alarm of fire\nwas sounded and in less than fifteen minutes the entire structure was\nburned to the ground. This happened about 9:30 o'clock in the\nevening, and, strange to relate, not one of the morning papers had an\nannouncement of the fact the next day. The morning papers at that time\nwere something like an evening paper of to-day. They were set up and\nmade up in the afternoon and generally printed in the early part of\nthe evening. The result of that election was very gratifying to the\nRepublicans. I can see old Dr. Foster now writing a double column\npolitical head for the Minnesotian, the first two lines of which were:\n\"Shout, Republicans, Shout! We've Cleaned the Breech Clouts Out!\"\n\nDr. Foster was the editor of the Minnesotian and was quite a power in\nthe Republican party. He wielded a vigorous pen and possessed a very\nirascible temper. I have often seen him perform some Horace Greeley\nantics in the composing room of the old Minnesotian. At the time of\nthe execution of John Brown for his attempted raid into Virginia, I\nremember bringing the Chicago Tribune to the doctor, containing the\nannouncement of the execution. I had arranged the paper so that the\ndoctor could take in the contents of the heading at the first glance.\nThe doctor looked at the headlines a second and then exclaimed, loud\nenough to be heard a block, \"Great God! In the nineteenth century, a\nman hung for an idea!\"\n\nAt another time the doctor became very much enraged over some news\nthat I had laid before him. In the early 50's Galusha A. Grow, of\nPennsylvania, introduced into the house of representatives the first\nhomestead law and the Republican party soon afterward incorporated\nthe idea into their platform as one of their pet measures. After\nsuperhuman effort the bill passed the house of representatives, that\nbody being nearly tie politically, and was sent to the senate. The\nDemocratic majority in the senate was not very favorably impressed\nwith the measure, but with the assistance of the late President\nJohnson, who was senator from Tennessee at that time, the bill passed\nthe senate by a small majority. There was great rejoicing over the\nevent and no one supposed for a moment that the president would veto\nthe measure. When I laid the Chicago Tribune before the excitable\ndoctor containing the announcement of Buchanan's veto the very air was\nblue with oaths. The doctor took the paper and rushed out into the\nstreet waving the paper frantically in the air, cursing the president\nat every step.\n\n * * * * *\n\nFrom 1854, the date of the starting of the three St. Paul daily\npapers, until 1860, the time of the completion of the Winslow\ntelegraph line, there was great strife between the Pioneer,\nMinnesotian and Times as to which would be the first to appear on the\nstreet with the full text of the president's message. The messages of\nPierce and Buchanan were very lengthy, and for several days preceding\ntheir arrival the various offices had all the type of every\ndescription distributed and all the printers who could possibly be\nprocured engaged to help out on the extra containing the forthcoming\nmessage. It was customary to pay every one employed, from the devil to\nthe foreman, $2.50 in gold, and every printer in the city was notified\nto be in readiness for the approaching typographical struggle. One\nyear one of the proprietors of the Minnesotian thought he would\nsurprise the other offices, and he procured the fastest livery team In\nthe city and went down the river as far as Red Wing to intercept the\nmail coach, and expected to return to St. Paul three or four hours in\nadvance of the regular mail, which would give him that much advantage\nover his competitors. Owing to some miscalculation as to the time the\nstage left Chicago the message was delivered in St. Paul twenty-four\nhours earlier than was expected, and the proprietor of the Minnesotian\nhad the pleasure of receiving a copy of his own paper, containing the\ncomplete message, long before he returned to St. Paul. The management\nalways provided an oyster supper for the employes of the paper first\nout with the message, and it generally required a week for the typos\nto fully recover from its effect.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAs an evidence of what was uppermost in the minds of most people at\nthis time, and is probably still true to-day, it may be related that\nin the spring of 1860, when the great prize fight between Heenan and\nSayers was to occur in England, and the meeting of the Democratic\nnational convention in Charleston, in which the Minnesota Democrats\nwere in hopes that their idol, Stephen A. Douglas, would be nominated\nfor president, the first question asked by the people I would meet on\nthe way from the boat landing to the office would be: \"Anything from\nthe prize fight? What is the news from the Charleston convention?\"\n\n * * * * *\n\n\"The good old times\" printers often talk about were evidently not the\nyears between the great panic of 1857 and the breaking out of the\nCivil war in 1861. Wages were low and there was absolutely no money to\nspeak of. When a man did occasionally get a dollar he was not sure it\nwould be worth its face value when the next boat would arrive with\na new Bank Note Reporter. Married men considered themselves very\nfortunate when they could get, on Saturday night, an order on a\ngrocery or dry goods store for four or five dollars, and the single\nmen seldom received more than $2 or $3 cash. That was not more than\nhalf enough to pay their board bill. This state of affairs continued\nuntil the Press was started in 1861, when Gov. Marshall inaugurated\nthe custom, which still prevails, of paying his employes every\nSaturday night.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAnother instance of the lack of enterprise on the part of the daily\npaper of that day:\n\nDuring the summer of 1860 a large party of Republican statesmen and\npoliticians visited St. Paul, consisting of State Senator W.H. Seward.\nSenator John P. Hale, Charles Francis Adams, Senator Nye, Gen. Stewart\nL. Woodford and several others of lesser celebrity. The party came to\nMinnesota in the interest of the Republican candidate for president.\nMr. Seward made a great speech from the front steps of the old\ncapitol, in which he predicted that at some distant day the capitol\nof this great republic would be located not far from the Falls of St.\nAnthony. There was a large gathering at the capitol to hear him, but\nthose who were not fortunate enough to get within sound of his voice\nhad to wait until the New York Herald, containing a full report of\nhis speech, reached St. Paul before they could read what the great\nstatesman had said.\n\n * * * * *\n\nIn the fall of 1860 the first telegraph line was completed to St.\nPaul. Newspaper proprietors thought they were then in the world, so\nfar as news is concerned, but it was not to be so. The charges for\ntelegraph news were so excessive that the three papers in St. Paul\ncould not afford the luxury of the \"latest news by Associated Press.\"\nThe offices combined against the extortionate rates demanded by the\ntelegraph company and made an agreement not to take the dispatches\nuntil the rates were lowered; but it was like an agreement of the\nrailroad presidents of the present day, it was not adhered to. The\nPioneer made a secret contract with the telegraph company and left the\nMinnesotian and the Times out in the cold. Of course that was a very\nunpleasant state of affairs and for some time the Minnesotian and\nTimes would wait until the Pioneer was out in the morning and would\nthen set up the telegraph and circulate their papers. One of the\neditors connected with the Minnesotian had an old acquaintance in the\npressroom of the Pioneer, and through him secured one of the first\npapers printed. This had been going on for some time when Earle S.\nGoodrich, the editor of the Pioneer, heard of it, and he accordingly\nmade preparation to perpetrate a huge joke on the Minnesotian. Mr.\nGoodrich was a very versatile writer and he prepared four or five\ncolumns of bogus telegraph and had it set up and two or three copies\nof the Pioneer printed for the especial use of the Minnesotian. The\nscheme worked to a charm. Amongst the bogus news was a two-column\nspeech purporting to have been made by William H. Seward in the senate\njust previous to the breaking out of the war. Mr. Seward's well-known\nideas were so closely imitated that their genuineness were not\nquestioned. The rest of the news was made up of dispatches purporting\nto be from the then excited Southern States. The Minnesotian received\na Pioneer about 4 o'clock in the morning and by 8 the entire edition\nwas distributed throughout the city. I had distributed the Minnesotian\nthroughout the upper portion of the city, and just as I returned to\nBridge Square I met the carrier of the Pioneer, and laughed at him for\nbeing so late. He smiled, but did not speak. As soon as I learned what\nhad happened I did not do either. The best of the joke was, the Times\ncould not obtain an early copy of the Pioneer and set up the bogus\nnews from the Minnesotian, and had their edition printed and ready to\ncirculate when they heard of the sell. They at once set up the genuine\nnews and circulated both the bogus and regular, and made fun of the\nMinnesotian for being so easily taken in.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe Pioneer retained the monopoly of the news until the Press was\nstarted, on the 1st of January, 1861. The Press made arrangements with\nMr. Winslow for full telegraphic dispatches, but there was another\nhitch in the spring of 1861 and for some time the Press had to obtain\nits telegraph from proof sheets of the St. Anthony Falls News, a paper\npublished in what is now East Minneapolis. Gov. Marshall was very much\nexercised at being compelled to go to a neighboring town for telegraph\nnews, and one night when news of unusual importance was expected he\nhad a very stormy interview with Mr. Winslow. No one ever knew exactly\nwhat he told him, but that night the Press had full telegraphic\nreports, and has had ever since.\n\n * * * * *\n\nGov. Marshall was a noble man. When the first battle of Bull Run\noccurred the earlier reports announced a great Union victory. I\nremember of going to Dan Rice's circus that night and felt as chipper\nas a young kitten. After the circus was out I went back to the office\nto see if any late news had been received. I met Gov. Marshall at the\ndoor, and with tears rolling down his cheeks he informed me that the\nUnion force had met with a great reverse and he was afraid the\ncountry would never recover from it. But it did, and the governor\nwas afterward one of the bravest of the brave in battling for his\ncountry's honor.\n\n * * * * *\n\nPrinters were very patriotic, and when Father Abraham called for\n\"three hundred thousand more\" in July, 1862, so many enlisted that\nit was with much difficulty that the paper was enabled to present a\nrespectable appearance. The Press advertised for anything that could\nset type to come in and help it out. I remember one man applying\nwho said he never had set any type, but he had a good theoretical\nknowledge of the business.\n\nOne evening an old gentleman by the name of Metcalf, father of the\nlate T.M. Metcalf, came wandering into the office about 9 o'clock and\ntold the foreman he thought he could help him out. He was given a\npiece of copy and worked faithfully until the paper went to press.\nHe was over eighty years old and managed to set about 1,000 ems. Mr.\nMetcalf got alarmed at his father's absence from home and searched the\ncity over, and finally found him in the composing room of the Press.\nThe old man would not go home with his son, but insisted on remaining\nuntil the paper was up.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAlthough Minnesota sent to the war as many, if not more, men than any\nother state in the Union in proportion to its population, yet it was\nnecessary to resort to a draft in a few counties where the population\nwas largely foreign. The feeling against the draft was very bitter,\nand the inhabitants of the counties which were behind in the quota did\nnot take kindly to the idea of being drafted to fight for a cause they\ndid not espouse. A riot was feared, and troops were ordered down from\nthe fort to be in readiness for any disturbance that might occur.\nArrangements for the prosecution of the draft were made as rapidly as\npossible, but the provost marshal was not in readiness to have it take\nplace on the day designated by the war department. This situation\nof affairs was telegraphed to the president and the following\ncharacteristic reply was received: \"If the draft cannot take place, of\ncourse it cannot take place. Necessity knows no law. A. Lincoln.\" The\nbitterest feeling of the anti-drafters seemed to be against the\nold St. Paul Press, a paper that earnestly advocated the vigorous\nprosecution of the war. Threats were made to mob the office. A company\nwas organized for self-defense, and Capt. E.R. Otis, now of West\nSuperior, one of the Press compositors at that time, was made post\ncommander. Capt. Otis had seen service in the early part of the war\nand the employes considered themselves fortunate in having a genuine\nmilitary man for a leader. The office was barricaded, fifteen old\nSpringfield muskets and 800 rounds of ammunition was brought down from\nthe capitol and every one instructed what to do in case of an attack.\nI slept on a lounge in the top story of the old Press building\noverlooking Bridge Square, and the guns and ammunition were under my\nbed. I was supposed to give the alarm should the mob arrive after the\nemployes had gone home. As there was no possible avenue of escape in\ncase of an attack, it looks now as if the post commander displayed\npoor judgment in placing a lone sentinel on guard. But there was no\nriot. The excitement gradually died away and the draft took place\nwithout interruption.\n\n * * * * *\n\nBefore and some time after the war the daily newspapers took advantage\nof all the holidays and seldom issued papers on the days following\nChristmas, New Year's, Washington's birthday, Fourth of July\nand Thanksgiving. On the Fourth of July, 1863, the Pioneer made\narrangements to move from their old quarters near the corner of Third\nand Cedar streets to the corner of Third and Robert. It happened\nthat on that day two of the greatest events of the Civil war had\noccurred--the battle of Gettysburg and the surrender of Vicksburg. The\nPioneer being engaged in moving their plant could not issue an extra\non that occasion, and the Press had the field exclusively to itself.\nThe news of these two great events had become pretty generally known\nthroughout the city and the anxiety to get fuller particulars was\nsimply intense. The Press, having a clear field for that day, did not\npropose to issue its extra until the fullest possible details had\nbeen received. A great crowd had assembled in front of the old Press\noffice, anxiously awaiting details of the great Union victories. I had\nhelped prepare the news for the press and followed the forms to the\npress room. As soon as a sufficient number of papers had been printed\nI attempted to carry them to the counting room and place them on sale.\nAs I opened the side door of the press room and undertook to reach the\ncounting room by a short circuit, I found the crowd on the outside had\nbecome so large that it was impossible to gain an entrance in that\ndirection, and undertook to retreat and try another route. But quicker\nthan a flash I was raised to the shoulders of the awaiting crowd and\nwalked on their heads to the counting room window, where I sold what\nfew papers I had as rapidly as I could hand them out. As soon as the\nmagnitude of the news got circulated cheer after cheer rent the air,\nand cannon, anvils, firecrackers and everything that would make a\nnoise was brought into requisition, and before sundown St. Paul had\ncelebrated the greatest Fourth of July in its history.\n\n * * * * *\n\nI arrived in St. Paul on the morning of the 17th of April, 1858, and\nImmediately commenced work on the Daily Minnesotian, my brother, Geo.\nW. Moore, being part owner and manager of the paper. I had not been at\nwork long before I learned what a \"scoop\" was. Congress had passed\na bill admitting Minnesota into the Union, but as there was no\ntelegraphic communication with Washington it required two or three\ndays for the news to reach the state. The Pioneer, Minnesotian and\nTimes were morning papers, and were generally printed the evening\nbefore. It so happened that the news of the admission of Minnesota was\nbrought to St. Paul by a passenger on a late boat and the editors of\nthe Pioneer accidentally heard of the event and published the same\non the following morning, thus scooping the other two papers. The\nMinnesotian got out an extra and sent it around to their subscribers\nand they thought they had executed a great stroke of enterprise. It\nwas not long before I became familiar with the method of obtaining\nnews and I was at the levee on the arrival of every boat thereafter.\nI could tell every boat by its whistle, and there was no more scoops\n'till the telegraph line was completed in the summer of 1860.\n\n * * * * *\n\nDuring the latter part of the Civil war the daily newspapers began to\nexpand, and have ever since kept fully abreast of the requirements of\nour rapidly increasing population. The various papers were printed on\nsingle-cylinder presses until about 1872, when double-cylinders were\nintroduced. In 1876 the first turtle-back press was brought to the\ncity, printing four pages at one time. In 1880 the different offices\nintroduced stereotyping, and in 1892 linotype type-setting machines\nwere installed. The next great advance will probably be some system of\nphotography that will entirely dispense with the work of the printer\nand proofreader. Who knows?\n\n\n\n\nTHE FIVE MILLION LOAN ELECTION.\n\nEARLY STEAMBOATING--CELEBRATION OF THE SUCCESSFUL LAYING OF THE FIRST\nATLANTIC CABLE--A FIGHT BETWEEN THE CHIPPEWAS AND SIOUXS.\n\n\n\"Right this way for the Fuller house!\" \"Right this way for the Winslow\nhouse!\" \"Right this way for the American house!\" \"Merchants hotel\non the levee!\" \"Stage for St. Anthony Falls!\" These were the\nannouncements that would greet the arrival of travelers as they would\nalight from one of the splendid steamers of the Galena, Dunleith,\nDubuque and Minnesota Packet company during the days when traveling\nby steamboat was the only way of reaching points on the upper\nMississippi. Besides the above hotels, there was the Central house,\nthe Temperance house, the City hotel, Minnesota house, the Western\nhouse, the Hotel to the Wild Hunter, whose curious sign for many years\nattracted the attention of the visitor, and many others. The Merchants\nis the only one left, and that only in name. Messengers from newspaper\noffices, representatives of storage and commission houses, merchants\nlooking for consignments of goods, residents looking for friends, and\nthe ever alert dealers in town lots on the scent of fresh victims,\nwere among the crowds that daily congregated at the levee whenever the\narrival of one of the packet company's regular steamers was expected.\nAt one time there was a daily line of steamers to La Crosse, a daily\nline to Prairie du Chien, a daily line to Dubuque and a line to St.\nLouis, and three daily lines for points on the Minnesota river.\nDoes any one remember the deep bass whistle of the Gray Eagle, the\ncombination whistle on the Key City, the ear-piercing shriek of the\nlittle Antelope, and the discordant notes of the calliope on the\nDenmark? The officers of these packets were the king's of the day, and\nwhen any one of them strayed up town he attracted as much attention as\na major general of the regulars. It was no uncommon sight to see six\nor eight steamers at the levee at one time, and their appearance\npresented a decided contrast to the levee of the present time. The\nfirst boat through the lake in the spring was granted free wharfage,\nand as that meant about a thousand dollars, there was always an\neffort made to force a passage through the lake as soon as possible.\nTraveling by steamboat during the summer months was very pleasant,\nbut it was like taking a trip to the Klondike to go East during the\nwinter. Merchants were compelled to supply themselves with enough\ngoods to last from November till April, as it was too expensive\nto ship goods by express during the winter. Occasionally some\nenterprising merchant would startle the community by announcing\nthrough the newspapers that he had just received by Burbank's express\na new pattern in dress goods, or a few cans of fresh oysters. The\nstages on most of the routes left St. Paul at 4 o'clock in the\nmorning, and subscribers to daily newspapers within a radius of forty\nmiles of the city could read the news as early as they can during\nthese wonderful days of steam and electricity.\n\n * * * * *\n\nProbably no election ever occurred in Minnesota that excited so much\ninterest as the one known as the \"Five Million Loan Election.\" It was\nnot a party measure, as the leading men of both parties favored it;\nalthough the Republicans endeavored to make a little capital out of it\nat a later period. The only paper of any prominence that opposed the\npassage of the amendment was the Minnesotian, edited by Dr. Thomas\nFoster. That paper was very violent in its abuse of every one who\nfavored the passage of the law, and its opposition probably had an\nopposite effect from what was intended by the redoubtable doctor. The\ngreat panic of 1857 had had a very depressing effect on business\nof every description and it was contended that the passage of this\nmeasure would give employment to thousands of people; that the\nrumbling of the locomotive would soon be heard in every corner of the\nstate, and that the dealer in town lots and broad acres would again be\nable to complacently inform the newcomer the exact locality where a\nfew dollars would soon bring to the investor returns unheard of by\nany ordinary methods of speculation. The campaign was short and the\namendment carried by an immense majority. So nearly unanimous was\nthe sentiment of the community in favor of the measure that it was\nextremely hazardous for any one to express sentiments In opposition to\nit. The city of St. Paul, with a population of about 10,000, gave a\nmajority of over 4,000 for the law. There was no Australian law\nat that time, and one could vote early and often without fear of\nmolestation. One of the amusing features of the campaign, and in\nopposition to the measure, was a cartoon drawn by R.O. Sweeney, now\na resident of Duluth. It was lithographed and widely circulated. The\nnewspapers had no facilities for printing cartoons at that time. They\nhad to be printed on a hand press and folded into the papers. It was\nproposed, by the terms of this amendment to the constitution, to\ndonate to four different railroad companies $10,000 per mile for every\nmile of road graded and ready to iron. Work Was commenced soon after\nthe passage of the law, and in a short time a demand was made by the\nrailroad companies upon Gov. Sibley for the issuance of the bonds, in\naccordance with their idea of the terms of the contract made by the\nstate. Gov. Sibley declined to issue the bonds until the rights of\nthe state had been fully protected. The railroad companies would not\naccept the restrictions placed upon them by the governor, and they\nobtained a peremptory writ from the supreme court directing that they\nbe issued. The governor held that the supreme court had no authority\nto coerce the executive branch of the state government, but on the\nadvice of the attorney general, and rather than have any friction\nbetween the two branches of the government, he, in accordance with the\nmandate of the court, reluctantly signed the bonds. Judge Flandrau\ndissented from the opinion of his colleagues, and had his ideas\nprevailed the state's financial reputation would have been vastly\nimproved. Dr. Foster did not believe Gov. Sibley was sincere in his\nefforts to protect the interests of the state, and denounced him with\nthe same persistence he had during the campaign of the previous fall.\nThe doctor would never acknowledge that Gov. Sibley was the legal\ngovernor of Minnesota, and Tie contended that he had no right to sign\nthe bonds: that their issuance was illegal, and that neither the\nprincipal nor the interest would ever be paid. The Minnesotian carried\nat the head of its columns the words \"Official Paper of the City,\" and\nit was feared that its malignant attacks upon the state officials,\ndenouncing the issuance of the bonds as fraudulent and illegal, would\nbe construed abroad as reflecting the sentiment of the majority of the\npeople in the the community in which it was printed, and would have a\nbad effect in the East when the time came to negotiate the bonds. An\neffort was made to induce the city council to deprive that paper of\nits official patronage, but that body could not see its way clear to\nabrogate its contract. Threats were made to throw the office into the\nriver, but they did not materialize. When Gov. Sibley endeavored\nto place these bonds on the New York market he was confronted\nwith conditions not anticipated, and suffered disappointment and\nhumiliation in consequence of the failure of the attempt. The bonds\ncould not be negotiated. The whole railway construction scheme\nsuddenly collapsed, the railroad companies defaulted, the credit of\nthe state was compromised, \"and enterprise of great pith and\nmoment had turned their currents awry.\" The evil forbodings of the\nMinnesotian became literally true, and for more than twenty years\nthe repudiated bonds of Minnesota were a blot on the pages of her\notherwise spotless record. Nearly 250 miles of road were graded, on\nwhich the state foreclosed and a few years later donated the same to\nnew organizations. During the administration of Gov. Pillsbury the\nstate compromised with the holders of these securities and paid 50 per\ncent of their nominal value. Will she ever pay the rest?\n\n * * * * *\n\nIn the latter part of May, 1858, a battle was fought near Shakopee\nbetween the Sioux and the Chippewas. A party of Chippewa warriors,\nunder the command of the famous Chief Hole-in-the-day, surprised a\nbody of Sioux on the river bottoms near Shakopee and mercilessly\nopened fire on them, killing and wounding fifteen or twenty. Eight or\nten Chippewas were killed during the engagement. The daily papers\nsent reporters to the scene of the conflict and they remained in that\nvicinity several days on the lookout for further engagements. Among\nthe reporters was John W. Sickels, a fresh young man from one of the\nEastern cities. He was attached to the Times' editorial staff and\nfurnished that paper with a very graphic description of the events of\nthe preceding days, and closed his report by saying that he was unable\nto find out the \"origin of the difficulty.\" As the Sioux and\nChippewas were hereditary enemies, his closing announcement afforded\nconsiderable amusement to the old inhabitants.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe celebration in St. Paul in honor of the successful laying of the\nAtlantic cable, which took place on the first day of September, 1858,\nwas one of the first as well as one of the most elaborate celebrations\nthat ever occurred in the city. The announcement of the completion of\nthe enterprise, which occurred on the 5th of the previous month, did\nnot reach St. Paul until two or three days later, as there was no\ntelegraphic communication to the city at that time. As soon as\nmessages had been exchanged between Queen Victoria and President\nBuchanan it was considered safe to make preparations for a grand\ncelebration. Most of the cities throughout the United States were\nmaking preparations to celebrate on that day, and St. Paul did not\npropose to be outdone. The city council appropriated several hundred\ndollars to assist in the grand jubilation and illumination. An\nelaborate program was prepared and a procession that would do credit\nto the city at the present time marched through the principal streets,\nto the edification of thousands of spectators from the city and\nsurrounding country. To show that a procession in the olden time was\nvery similar to one of the up-to-date affairs, the following order of\nprocession is appended:\n\nTHE PROCESSION.\n\n Escort of Light Cavalry.\n Band.\n Pioneer Guard.\n City Guard.\n City Battery.\n Floral procession with escort of Mounted Cadets,\n representing Queen Victoria, President Buchanan,\n the different States of the Union, and\n other devices.\n The Governor and State Officers in carriages.\n The Judges of the State in carriages.\n The Clergy.\n Officers of the Army.\n Officers of the Navy.\n The Municipal Authorities of Neighboring Cities.\n The Board of Education in Carriages.\n The Mayor and City Council.\n Knights Templars on Horseback.\n Band.\n Odd Fellows.\n Druids.\n Typographical Corps.\n Band.\n Officers and Crews of Vessels in Port.\n Turners.\n German Reading Society.\n German Singing Society.\n Attaches of Postoffice Department.\n Citizens in Carriages.\n Citizens on Horseback.\n Brewers on Horseback.\n Butchers on Horseback.\n\nCol. AC Jones, adjutant general of the state, was marshal-in-chief,\nand he was assisted by a large number of aides. The Pioneer Guards,\nthe oldest military company in the state, had the right of line. They\nhad just received their Minie rifles and bayonets, and, with the\ndrum-major headgear worn by military companies in those days,\npresented a very imposing appearance. The Pioneer Guards were followed\nby the City Guards, under Capt. John O'Gorman. A detachment of cavalry\nand the City Battery completed the military part of the affair. The\nfire department, under the superintendence of the late Charles H.\nWilliams, consisting of the Pioneer Hook and Ladder company, Minnehaha\nEngine company, Hope Engine company and the Rotary Mill company was\nthe next in order. One of the most attractive features of the occasion\nwas the contribution of the Pioneer Printing company. In a large car\ndrawn by six black horses an attempt was made to give an idea of\nprinters and printing in the days of Franklin, and also several\nepochs in the life of the great philosopher. In the car with the\nrepresentatives of the art preservative was Miss Azelene Allen, a\nbeautiful and popular young actress connected with the People's\ntheater, bearing in her hand a cap of liberty on a spear. She\nrepresented the Goddess of Liberty. The car was ornamented with\nflowers and the horses were decorated with the inscriptions\n\"Franklin,\" \"Morse,\" \"Field.\" The Pioneer book bindery was also\nrepresented in one of the floats, and workmen, both male and female,\nwere employed in different branches of the business. These beautiful\nfloats were artistically designed by George H. Colgrave, who is\nstill in the service of the Pioneer Press company. One of the unique\nfeatures of the parade, and one that attracted great attention, was a\nlight brigade, consisting of a number of school children mounted, and\nthey acted as a guard of honor to the president and queen. In an open\nbarouche drawn by four horses were seated two juvenile representatives\nof President Buchanan and Queen Victoria. The representative of\nBritish royalty was Miss Rosa Larpenteur, daughter of A.L. Larpenteur,\nand the first child born of white parents in St. Paul. James Buchanan\nwas represented by George Folsom, also a product of the city. Col.\nR.E.J. Miles and Miss Emily Dow, the stars at the People's theater,\nwere in the line of march on two handsomely caparisoned horses,\ndressed in Continental costume, representing George and Martha\nWashington. The colonel looked like the veritable Father of His\nCountry. There were a number of other floats, and nearly all the\nsecret societies of the city were in line. The procession was nearly\ntwo miles in length and they marched three and one-half hours before\nreaching their destination. To show the difference between a line of\nmarch at that time and one at the present day, the following is given:\n\nTHE LINE OF MARCH.\n\nUp St. Anthony street to Fort street, up Fort street to Ramsey street,\nthen countermarch down Fort to Fourth street, down Fourth street to\nMinnesota street, up Minnesota street to Seventh street, down Seventh\nstreet to Jackson street, up Jackson street to Eighth street, down\nEighth street to Broadway, down Broadway to Seventh street, up Seventh\nstreet to Jackson street, down Jackson street to Third street, up\nThird street to Market street.\n\nEx-Gov. W.A. Gorman and ex-Gov. Alex. Ramsey were the orators of the\noccasion, and they delivered very lengthy addresses. It had been\narranged to have extensive fireworks in the evening, but on account of\nthe storm they had to be postponed until the following night.\n\nIt was a strange coincidence that on the very day of the celebration\nthe last message was exchanged between England and America. The cable\nhad been in successful operation about four weeks and 129 messages\nwere received from England and 271 sent from America. In 1866 a new\ncompany succeeded in laying the cable which is in successful\noperation to-day. Four attempts were made before the enterprise was\nsuccessful--the first in 1857, the second in 1858, the third in 1863\nand the successful one in 1865. Cyrus W. Field, the projector of the\nenterprise, received the unanimous thanks of congress, and would have\nbeen knighted by Great Britain had Mr. Field thought it proper to\naccept such honor.\n\n * * * * *\n\nSome time during the early '50s a secret order known as the Sons of\nMalta was organized in one of the Eastern states, and its membership\nincreased throughout the West with as much rapidity as the Vandals and\nGoths increased their numbers during the declining years of the Roman\nEmpire. Two or three members of the Pioneer editorial staff procured a\ncharter from Pittesburg in 1858 and instituted a lodge in St. Paul.\nIt was a grand success from the start. Merchants, lawyers, doctors,\nprinters, and in fact half of the male population, was soon enrolled\nin the membership of the order. There was something so grand, gloomy\nand peculiar about the initiation that made it certain that as soon\nas one victim had run the gauntlet he would not be satisfied until\nanother one had been procured. When a candidate had been proposed for\nmembership the whole lodge acted as a committee of investigation,\nand if it could be ascertained that he had ever been derelict in his\ndealings with his fellow men he was sure to be charged with it when\nbeing examined by the high priest in the secret chamber of the\norder--that is, the candidate supposed he was in a secret chamber from\nthe manner in which he had to be questioned, but when the hood had\nbeen removed from his face he found, much to his mortification, that\nhis confession had been made to the full membership of the order.\nOccasionally the candidate would confess to having been more of a\ntransgresser than his questioners had anticipated.\n\nThe following is a sample of the questions asked a candidate for\nadmission: Grand Commander to candidate, \"Are you in favor of\nthe acquisition of the Island of Cuba?\" Candidate\n\n[...]\n\n that Grant was drunk; that he was far away from the\nbattleground when the attack was made, and was wholly unprepared to\nmeet the terrible onslaught of the enemy in the earlier stages of the\nencounter. Gen. Beauregard is said to have stated on the morning\nof the battle that before sundown he would water his horses in the\nTennessee river or in hell. That the rebels did not succeed in\nreaching the Tennessee was not from lack of dash and daring on their\npart, but was on account of the sturdy resistance and heroism of their\nadversaries. According to Gen. Grant's own account of the battle,\nthough suffering intense pain from a sprained ankle, he was in the\nsaddle from early morning till late at night, riding from division to\ndivision, giving directions to their commanding officers regarding the\nmany changes in the disposition of their forces rendered necessary\nby the progress of the battle. The firm resistance made by the force\nunder his command is sufficient refutation of the falsity of the\ncharges made against him. Misunderstanding of orders, want of\nco-operation of subordinates as well as superiors, and rawness of\nrecruits were said to have been responsible for the terrible slaughter\nof the Union forces on the first day of the battle.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe battle of Pittsburg Landing is sometimes called the battle of\nShiloh, some of the hardest lighting having been done in the vicinity\nof an old log church called the Church of Shiloh, about three miles\nfrom the landing.\n\nThe battle ground traversed by the opposing forces occupied a\nsemi-circle of about three and a half miles from the town of\nPittsburg, the Union forces being stationed in the form of a\nsemi-circle, the right resting on a point north of Crump's Landing,\nthe center being directly in front of the road to Corinth, and the\nleft extending to the river in the direction of Harrisburg--a small\nplace north of Pittsburg Landing. At about 2 o'clock on Sunday\nmorning, Col. Peabody of Prentiss' division, fearing that everything\nwas not right, dispatched a body of 400 men beyond the camp for the\npurpose of looking after any body of men which might be lurking in\nthat direction. This step was wisely taken, for a half a mile advance\nshowed a heavy force approaching, who fired upon them with great\nslaughter. This force taken by surprise, was compelled to retreat,\nwhich they did in good order under a galling fire. At 6 o'clock the\nfire had become general along the entire front, the enemy having\ndriven in the pickets of Gen. Sherman's division and had fallen with\nvengeance upon three Ohio regiments of raw recruits, who knew nothing\nof the approach of the enemy until they were within their midst. The\nslaughter on the first approach of the enemy was very severe, scores\nfalling at every discharge of rebel guns. It soon became apparent that\nthe rebel forces were approaching in overwhelming numbers and there\nwas nothing left for them to do but retreat, which was done with\nconsiderable disorder, both officers and men losing every particle of\ntheir baggage, which fell into rebel hands.\n\n\nAt 8:30 o'clock the fight had become general, the second line of\ndivisions having received the advance in good order and made every\npreparation for a suitable reception of the foe. At this time many\nthousand stragglers, many of whom had never before heard the sound\nof musketry, turned their backs to the enemy, and neither threats or\npersuasion could induce them to turn back. The timely arrival of Gen.\nGrant, who had hastened up from Savannah, led to the adoption of\nmeasures that put a stop to this uncalled-for flight from the battle\nground. A strong guard was placed across the thoroughfare, with orders\nto hault every soldier whose face was turned toward the river, and\nthus a general stampede was prevented. At 10 o'clock the entire line\non both sides was engaged in one of the most terrible battles ever\nknown in this country. The roar of the cannon and musketry was without\nintermission from the main center to a point extending halfway down\nthe left wing. The great struggle was most upon the forces which had\nfallen back on Sherman's position. By 11 o'clock quite a number of the\ncommanders of regiments had fallen, and in some instances not a single\nfield officer remained; yet the fighting continued with an earnestness\nthat plainly showed that the contest on both sides was for death or\nvictory. The almost deafening sound of artillery and the rattle of\nmusketry was all that could be heard as the men stood silently and\ndelivered their fire, evidently bent on the work of destruction which\nknew no bounds. Foot by foot the ground was contested, a single narrow\nstrip of open land dividing the opponents. Many who were maimed fell\nback without help, while others still fought in the ranks until they\nwere actually forced back by their company officers. Finding it\nimpossible to drive back the center of our column, at 12 o'clock the\nenemy slackened fire upon it and made a most vigorous effort on our\nleft wing, endeavoring to drive it to the river bank at a point about\na mile and a half above Pittsburg Landing. With the demonstration of\nthe enemy upon the left wing it was soon seen that all their fury was\nbeing poured out upon it, with a determination that it should give\nway. For about two hours a sheet of fire blazed both columns, the\nrattle of musketry making a most deafening noise. For about an hour it\nwas feared that the enemy would succeed in driving our forces to the\nriver bank, the rebels at times being plainly seen by those on the\nmain landing below. While the conflict raged the hottest in this\nquarter the gunboat Tyler passed slowly up the river to a point\ndirectly opposite the enemy and poured in a broadside from her immense\nguns. The shells went tearing and crashing through the woods, felling\ntrees in their course and spreading havoc wherever they fell. The\nexplosions were fearful, the shells falling far inland, and they\nstruck terror to the rebel force. Foiled in this attempt, they now\nmade another attack on the center and fought like tigers. They found\nour lines well prepared and in full expectation of their coming. Every\nman was at his post and all willing to bring the contest to a definite\nconclusion. In hourly expectation of the arrival of reinforcements,\nunder Generals Nelson and Thomas of Buell's army, they made every\neffort to rout our forces before the reinforcements could reach the\nbattle ground. They were, however, fighting against a wall of steel.\nVolley answered volley and for a time the battle of the morning was\nre-enacted on the same ground and with the same vigor on both sides.\nAt 5 o'clock there was a short cessation in the firing of the enemy,\ntheir lines falling back on the center for about half a mile. They\nagain wheeled and suddenly threw their entire force upon the left\nwing, determined to make the final struggle of the day in that\nquarter. The gunboat Lexington in the meantime had arrived from\nSavannah, and after sending a message to Gen. Grant to ascertain in\nwhich direction the enemy was from the river, the Lexington and Tyler\ntook a position about half a mile above the river landing, and poured\ntheir shells up a deep ravine reaching to the river on the right.\nTheir shots were thick and fast and told with telling effect. In the\nmeantime Gen. Lew Wallace, who had taken a circuitous route from\nCrump's Landing, appeared suddenly on the left wing of the rebels. In\nface of this combination the enemy felt that their bold effort was for\nthe day a failure and as night was about at hand, they slowly fell\nback, fighting as they went, until they reached an advantageous\nposition, somewhat in the rear, yet occupying the main road to\nCorinth. The gunboats continued to send their shells after them until\nthey were far beyond reach. This ended the engagement for the day.\nThroughout the day the rebels evidently had fought with the Napoleonic\nidea of massing their entire force on weak points of the enemy, with\nthe intention of braking through their lines, creating a panic and\ncutting off retreat.\n\n\nThe first day's battle, though resulting in a terrible loss of Union\ntroops, was in reality a severe disappointment to the rebel leaders.\nThey fully expected, with their overwhelming force to annihilate\nGrant's army, cross the Tennessee river and administer the same\npunishment to Buell, and then march on through Tennessee, Kentucky and\ninto Ohio. They had conceived a very bold movement, but utterly failed\nto execute it.\n\nGen. Albert Sidney Johnston, commander of the Confederate forces,\nwas killed in the first day's battle, being shot while attempting to\ninduce a brigade of unwilling Confederates to make a charge on the\nenemy.\n\nGen. Buell was at Columbia, Tenn., on the 19th of March with a veteran\nforce of 40,000 men, and it required nineteen days for him to reach\nthe Tennessee river, eighty-five miles distant, marching less than\nfive miles a day, notwithstanding the fact that he had been ordered to\nmake a junction with Grant's forces as soon as possible, and was well\ninformed of the urgency of the situation.\n\nDuring the night steamers were engaged in carrying the troops of\nNelson's division across the river. As soon as the boats reached the\nshore the troops immediately left, and, without music, took their way\nto the advance of the left wing of the Union forces. They had come up\ndouble quick from Savannah, and as they were regarded as veterans, the\ngreatest confidence was soon manifest as to the successful termination\nof the battle. With the first hours of daylight it was evident that\nthe enemy had also been strongly reinforced, for, notwithstanding they\nmust have known of the arrival of new Union troops, they were first to\nopen the ball, which they did with considerable alacrity. The attacks\nthat began came from the main Corinth road, a point to which they\nseemed strongly attached, and which at no time did they leave\nunprotected. Within half an hour from the first firing in the morning\nthe contest then again spread in either direction, and both the main\nand left wings were not so anxious to fight their way to the river\nbank as on the previous day, having a slight experience of what they\nmight expect if again brought under the powerful guns of the Tyler and\nLexington. They were not, however, lacking in activity, and they\nwere met by our reinforced troops with an energy that they did not\nanticipate. At 9 o'clock the sound of the artillery and musketry fully\nequaled that of the day before. It now became evident that the rebels\nwere avoiding our extreme left wing, and were endeavoring to find a\nweak point in our line by which they could turn our force and thus\ncreate a panic. They left one point but to return to it immediately,\nand then as suddenly would direct an assault upon a division where\nthey imagined they would not be expected. The fire of the united\nforces was as steady as clockwork, and it soon became evident that\nthe enemy considered the task they had undertaken a hopeless one.\nNotwithstanding continued repulses, the rebels up to 11 o'clock had\ngiven no evidence of retiring from the field. Their firing had been as\nrapid and vigorous at times as during the most terrible hours of\nthe previous day. Generals Grant, Buell, Nelson and Crittenden were\npresent everywhere directing the movements on our part for a new\nstrike against the foe. Gen. Lew Wallace's division on the right had\nbeen strongly reinforced, and suddenly both wings of our army were\nturned upon the enemy, with the intention of driving the immense body\ninto an extensive ravine. At the same time a powerful battery had been\nstationed upon an open field, and they poured volley after volley into\nthe rebel ranks and with the most telling effect. At 11:30 o'clock the\nroar of battle almost shook the earth, as the Union guns were being\nfired with all the energy that the prospect of ultimate victory\ninspired. The fire from the enemy was not so vigorous and they began\nto evince a desire to withdraw. They fought as they slowly moved back,\nkeeping up their fire from their artillery and musketry, apparently\ndisclaiming any notion that they thought of retreating. As they\nretreated they went in excellent order, halting at every advantageous\npoint and delivering their fire with considerable effect. At noon it\nwas settled beyond dispute that the rebels were retreating. They were\nmaking but little fire, and were heading their center column for\nCorinth. From all divisions of our lines they were closely pursued,\na galling fire being kept up on their rear, which they returned at\nintervals with little or no effect. From Sunday morning until Monday\nnoon not less than three thousand cavalry had remained seated In their\nsaddles on the hilltop overlooking the river, patiently awaiting the\ntime when an order should come for them to pursue the flying enemy.\nThat time had now arrived and a courier from Gen. Grant had scarcely\ndelivered his message before the entire body was in motion. The wild\ntumult of the excited riders presented a picture seldom witnessed on a\nbattlefield. Gen. Grant himself led the charge.\n\n * * * * *\n\nGen. Grant, in his memoirs, summarizes the results of the two days'\nfighting as follows: \"I rode forward several miles the day of the\nbattle and found that the enemy had dropped nearly all of their\nprovisions and other luggage in order to enable them to get off with\ntheir guns. An immediate pursuit would have resulted in the capture\nof a considerable number of prisoners and probably some guns....\" The\neffective strength of the Union forces on the morning of the 6th was\n33,000 men. Lew Wallace brought 5,000 more after nightfall. Beauregard\nreported the rebel strength at 40,955. Excluding the troops who fled,\nthere was not with us at any time during the day more than 25,000 men\nin line. Our loss in the two days' fighting was 1,754 killed, 8,408\nwounded and 2,885 missing. Beauregard reported a total loss of 10,699,\nof whom 1,728 were killed, 8,012 wounded and 957 missing.\n\n\nOn the first day of the battle Gen. Prentiss, during a change of\nposition of the Union forces, became detached from the rest of the\ntroops, and was taken prisoner, together with 2,200 of his men. Gen.\nW.H.L. Wallace, division commander, was killed in the early part of\nthe struggle.\n\nThe hardest fighting during the first day was done in front of the\ndivisions of Sherman and McClernand. \"A casualty to Sherman,\" says\nGen. Grant, \"that would have taken him from the field that day would\nhave been a sad one for the Union troops engaged at Shiloh. And how\nnear we came to this! On the 6th Sherman was shot twice, once in the\nhand, once in the shoulder, the ball cutting his coat and making a\nslight wound, and a third ball passed through his hat. In addition to\nthis he had several horses shot during the day.\"\n\nDuring the second day of the battle Gen. Grant, Col. McPherson and\nMaj. Hawkins got beyond the left of our troops. There did not appear\nto be an enemy in sight, but suddenly a battery opened on them from\nthe edge of the woods. They made a hasty retreat and when they were\nat a safe distance halted to take an account of the damage. In a few\nmoments Col. McPherson's horse dropped dead, having been shot just\nback of the saddle. A ball had passed through Maj. Hawkins' hat and a\nball had struck the metal of Gen. Grant's sword, breaking it nearly\noff.\n\nOn the first day of the battle about 6,000 fresh recruits who had\nnever before heard the sound of musketry, fled on the approach of the\nenemy. They hid themselves on the river bank behind the bluff, and\nneither command nor persuasion could induce them to move. When Gen.\nBuell discovered them on his arrival he threatened to fire on them,\nbut it had no effect. Gen. Grant says that afterward those same men\nproved to be some of the best soldiers in the service.\n\nGen. Grant, in his report, says he was prepared with the\nreinforcements of Gen. Lew Wallace's division of 5,000 men to assume\nthe offensive on the second day of the battle, and thought he could\nhave driven the rebels back to their fortified position at Corinth\nwithout the aid of Buell's army.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAt banquet hall, regimental reunion or campfire, whenever mention is\nmade of the glorious record of Minnesota volunteers in the great Civil\nwar, seldom, if ever, is the First Minnesota battery given credit\nfor its share in the long struggle. Probably very few of the present\nresidents of Minnesota are aware that such an organization existed.\nThis battery was one of the finest organizations that left the state\nduring the great crisis. It was in the terrible battle of Pittsburg\nLanding, the siege of Vicksburg, in front of Atlanta and in the great\nmarch from Atlanta to the sea, and in every position in which they\nwere placed they not only covered themselves with glory, but they were\nan honor and credit to the state that sent them. The First Minnesota\nbattery, light artillery, was organized at Fort Snelling in the fall\nof 1861, and Emil Munch was made its first captain. Shortly after\nbeing mustered in they were ordered to St. Louis, where they received\ntheir accoutrements, and from there they were ordered to Pittsburg\nLanding, arriving at the latter place late in February, 1862. The day\nbefore the battle, they were transferred to Prentiss' division of\nGrant's army. On Sunday morning, April 6, the battery was brought out\nbright and early, preparing for inspection. About 7 o'clock great\ncommotion was heard at headquarters, and the battery was ordered to be\nready to march at a moment's notice. In about ten minutes they were\nordered to the front, the rebels having opened fire on the Union\nforces. In a very short time rebel bullets commenced to come thick and\nfast, and one of their number was killed and three others wounded. It\nsoon became evident that the rebels were in great force in front\nof the battery, and orders were issued for them to choose another\nposition. At about 11 o'clock the battery formed in a new position\non an elevated piece of ground, and whenever the rebels undertook to\ncross the field in front of them the artillery raked them down with\nfrightful slaughter. Several times the rebels placed batteries In the\ntimber at the farther end of the field, but in each instance the\nguns of the First battery dislodged them before they could get into\nposition. For hours the rebels vainly endeavored to break the lines\nof the Union forces, but in every instance they were repulsed with\nfrightful loss, the canister mowing them down at close range. About 5\no'clock the rebels succeeded in flanking Gen. Prentiss and took part\nof his force prisoners. The battery was immediately withdrawn to an\nelevation near the Tennessee river, and it was not long before firing\nagain commenced and kept up for half an hour, the ground fairly\nshaking from the continuous firing on both sides of the line. At\nabout 6 o'clock the firing ceased, and the rebels withdrew to a safe\ndistance from the landing. The casualties of the day were three killed\nand six wounded, two of the latter dying shortly afterward. The fight\nat what was known as the \"hornet's nest\" was most terrific, and had\nnot the First battery held out so heroically and valiantly the rebels\nwould have succeeded in forcing a retreat of the Union lines to a\npoint dangerously near the Tennessee river. Capt. Munch's horse\nreceived a bullet In his head and fell, and the captain himself\nreceived a wound in the thigh, disabling him from further service\nduring the battle. After Capt. Munch was wounded Lieut. Pfaender took\ncommand of the battery, and he had a horse shot from under him during\nthe day. On the morning of April 7, Gen. Buell having arrived, the\nbattery was held in reserve and did not participate in the battle\nthat day. The First battery was the only organization from Minnesota\nengaged in the battle, and their conduct in the fiercest of the\nstruggle, and in changing position in face of fire from the whole\nrebel line, was such as to receive the warmest commendation from the\ncommanding officer. It was the first battle in which they had taken\npart, and as they had only received their guns and horses a few weeks\nbefore, they had not had much opportunity for drill work. Their\nterrible execution at critical times convinced the rebels that they\nhad met a foe worthy of their steel.\n\n * * * * *\n\nAmong the many thousands left dead and dying on the blood-stained\nfield of Pittsburg Landing there was one name that was very dear in\nthe hearts of the patriotic people of St. Paul,--a name that was as\ndear to the people of St. Paul as was the memory of the immortal\nEllsworth to the people of Chicago. Capt. William Henry Acker, while\nmarching at the head of his company, with uplifted sword and with\nvoice and action urging on his comrades to the thickest of the fray,\nwas pierced in the forehead by a rebel bullet and fell dead upon the\nill-fated field.\n\nBefore going into action Capt. Acker was advised by his comrades not\nto wear his full uniform, as he was sure to be a target for rebel\nbullets, but the captain is said to have replied that if he had to die\nhe would die with his harness on. Soon after forming his command into\nline, and when they had advanced only a few yards, he was singled out\nby a rebel sharpshooter and instantly killed--the only man in the.\ncompany to receive fatal injuries. \"Loved, almost adored, by the\ncompany,\" says one of them, writing of the sad event, \"Capt. Acker's\nfall cast a deep shadow of gloom over his command.\" It was but for\na moment. With a last look at their dead commander, and with the\nwatchword 'this for our captain,' volley after volley from their guns\ncarried death into the ranks of his murderers. From that moment but\none feeling seemed to possess his still living comrades--that of\nrevenge for the death of their captain. How terribly they carried out\nthat purpose the number of rebel slain piled around the vicinity of\nhis body fearfully attest.\n\nThe announcement of the death of Capt. Acker was a very severe blow to\nhis relatives and many friends in this city. No event thus far in the\nhistory of the Rebellion had brought to our doors such a realizing\nsense of the sad realities of the terrible havoc wrought upon the\nbattlefield. A noble life had been sacrificed in the cause of\nfreedom--one more name had been added to the long death roll of the\nnation's heroes.\n\nCapt. Acker was born a soldier--brave, able, popular and\ncourteous--and had he lived would undoubtedly been placed high in rank\nlong before the close of the rebellion. No person ever went to the\nfront in whom the citizens of St. Paul had more hope for a brilliant\nfuture. He was born in New York State in 1833, and was twenty-eight\nyears of age at the time of his death. He came to St. Paul in 1854 and\ncommenced the study of law in the office of his brother-in-law, Hon.\nEdmund Rice. He did not remain long in the law business, however, but\nsoon changed to a position in the Bank of Minnesota, which had just\nbeen established by ex-Gov. Marshall. For some time he was captain of\nthe Pioneer Guards, a company which he was instrumental in forming,\nand which was the finest military organization in the West at\nthat time. In 1860 he was chosen commander of the Wide-Awakes, a\nmarching-club, devoted to the promotion of the candidacy of Abraham\nLincoln, and many of the men he so patiently drilled during that\nexciting campaign became officers in the volunteer service in that\ngreat struggle that soon followed. Little did the captain imagine at\nthat time that the success of the man whose cause he espoused would so\nsoon be the means of his untimely death. At the breaking out of the\nwar Capt. Acker was adjutant general of the State of Minnesota, but he\nthought he would be of more use to his country in active service and\nresigned that position and organized a company for the First Minnesota\nregiment, of which he was made captain. At the first battle of Bull\nRun he was wounded, and for his gallant action was made captain in\nthe Seventeenth United States Regulars, an organization that had\nbeen recently created by act of congress. The Sixteenth regiment was\nattached to Buell's army, and participated in the second day's battle,\nand Cat. Acker was one of the first to fall on that terrible day,\nbeing shot in the identical spot in the forehead where he was wounded\nat the first battle of Bull Run. As soon as the news was received in\nSt. Paul of the captain's death his father, Hon. Henry Acker, left for\nPittsburg Landing, hoping to be able to recover the remains of his\nmartyred son and bring the body back to St. Paul. His body was easily\nfound, his burial place having been carefully marked by members of the\nSecond Minnesota who arrived on the battleground a short time after\nthe battle. When the remains arrived in St. Paul they were met at\nthe steamboat landing by a large number of citizens and escorted to\nMasonic hall, where they rested till the time of the funeral. The\nfuneral obsequies were held at St. Paul's church on Sunday, May 4,\n1862, and were attended by the largest concourse of citizens that\nhad ever attended a funeral in St. Paul, many being present from\nMinneapolis, St. Anthony and Stillwater. The respect shown to the\nmemory of Capt. Acker was universal, and of a character which fully\ndemonstrated the high esteem in which he was held by the people of St.\nPaul.\n\nWhen the first Grand Army post was formed in St. Paul a name\ncommemorative of one of Minnesota's fallen heroes was desired for the\norganization. Out of the long list of martyrs Minnesota gave to the\ncause of the Union no name seemed more appropriate than that of the\nheroic Capt. Acker, and it was unanimously decided that the first\nassociation of Civil war veterans in this city should be known as\nAcker post.\n\n\nTHE DEATH OF PRESIDENT LINCOLN.\n\n * * * * *\n\nThe terrible and sensational news that Abraham Lincoln had been\nassassinated, which was flashed over the wires on the morning of\nApril 15, 1865 (forty years ago yesterday), was the most appalling\nannouncement that had been made during the long crisis through which\nthe country had just passed. Every head was bowed in grief. No tongue\ncould find language sufficiently strong to express condemnation of the\nfiendish act. The entire country was plunged in mourning. It was not\nsafe for any one to utter a word against the character of the martyred\npresident. At no place in the entire country was the terrible calamity\nmore deeply felt than in St. Paul. All public and private buildings\nwere draped in mourning. Every church held memorial services. The\nservices at the little House of Hope church on Walnut street will long\nbe remembered by all those who were there. The church was heavily\ndraped in mourning. It had been suddenly transformed from a house of\nhope to a house of sorrow, a house of woe. The pastor of the church\nwas the Rev. Frederick A. Noble. He was one of the most eloquent and\nlearned divines in the city--fearless, forcible and aggressive--the\nHenry Ward Beecher of the Northwest. President Lincoln was his ideal\nstatesman.\n\nThe members of the House of Hope were intensely patriotic. Many of\ntheir number were at the front defending their imperiled country.\nScores and scores of times during the desperate conflict had the\neloquent pastor of this church delivered stirring addresses favoring\na vigorous prosecution of the war. During the darkest days of the\nRebellion, when the prospect of the final triumph of the cause of the\nUnion seemed furthest off, Mr. Noble never faltered; he believed that\nthe cause was just and that right would finally triumph. When the\nterrible and heart-rending news was received that an assassin's bullet\nhad ended the life of the greatest of all presidents the effect was\nso paralyzing that hearts almost ceased beating. Every member of the\ncongregation felt as if one of their own household had been suddenly\ntaken from them. The services at the church on the Sunday morning\nfollowing the assassination were most solemn and impressive. The\nlittle edifice was crowded almost to suffication, and when the pastor\nwas seen slowly ascending the pulpit, breathless silence prevailed. He\nwas pale and haggard, and appeared to be suffering great mental agony.\nWith bowed head and uplifted hands, and with a voice trembling with\nalmost uncontrollable emotion, he delivered one of the most fervent\nand impressive invocations ever heard by the audience. Had the dead\nbody of the president been placed in front of the altar, the solemnity\nof the occasion could not have been greater. In the discourse that\nfollowed, Mr. Noble briefly sketched the early history of the\npresident, and then devoted some time to the many grand deeds he had\naccomplished during the time he had been in the presidential chair.\nFor more than four years he had patiently and anxiously watched the\nprogress of the terrible struggle, and now, when victory was in sight,\nwhen it was apparent to all that the fall of Richmond, the surrender\nof Lee and the probable surrender of Johnston would end the long war,\nhe was cruelly stricken down by the hand of an assassin. \"With malice\ntowards none and with charity to all, and with firmness for the right,\nas God gives us to see the right,\" were utterances then fresh from the\npresident's lips. To strike down such a man at such a time was indeed\na crime most horrible. There was scarcely a dry eye in the audience.\nMen and women alike wept. It was supposed at the time that Secretary\nof State Seward had also fallen a victim of the assassin's dagger.\nIt was the purpose of the conspirators to murder the president, vice\npresident and entire cabinet, but in only one instance did the attempt\nprove fatal. Secretary Seward was the foremost statesmen of the\ntime. His diplomatic skill had kept the country free from foreign\nentanglements during the long and bitter struggle. He, too, was\neulogized by the minister, and it rendered the occasion doubly\nmournful.\n\nSince that time two other presidents have been mercilessly slain by\nthe hand of an assassin, and although the shock to the country was\nterrible, it never seemed as if the grief was as deep and universal\nas when the bullet fired by John Wilkes Booth pierced the temple of\nAbraham Lincoln.\n\n\n\n\nAN ALLEGORICAL HOROSCOPE\n\n * * * * *\n\nIN TWO CHAPTERS.\n\n * * * * *\n\nCHAPTER I.--AN OPTIMISTIC FORECAST.\n\nAs the sun was gently receding in the western horizon on a beautiful\nsummer evening nearly a century ago, a solitary voyageur might have\nbeen seen slowly ascending the sinuous stream that stretches from the\nNorth Star State to the Gulf of Mexico. He was on a mission of peace\nand good will to the red men of the distant forest. On nearing the\nshore of what is now a great city the lonely voyageur was amazed\non discovering that the pale face of the white man had many years\npreceded him. \"What, ho!\" he muttered to himself; \"methinks I see a\npaleface toying with a dusky maiden. I will have speech with him.\" On\napproaching near where the two were engaged in some weird incantation\nthe voyageur overheard the dusky maiden impart a strange message to\nthe paleface by her side. \"From the stars I see in the firmament, the\nfixed stars that predominate in the configuration, I deduce the future\ndestiny of man. 'Tis with thee. O Robert, to live always. This elixer\nwhich I now do administer to thee has been known to our people for\ncountless generations. The possession of it will enable thee to\nconquer all thine enemies. Thou now beholdest, O Robert, the ground\nupon which some day a great city will be erected. Thou art destined to\nbecome the mighty chief of this great metropolis. Thy reign will be\nlong and uninterrupted. Thou wert born when the conjunction of the\nplanets did augur a life of perfect beatitude. As the years roll\naway the inhabitants of the city will multiply with great rapidity.\nQuestions of great import regarding the welfare of the people will\noften come before thee for adjustment. To be successful In thy calling\nthou must never be guilty of having decided convictions on any\nsubject, as thy friends will sometimes be pitted against each other in\nthe advocacy of their various schemes. Thou must not antagonize either\nside by espousing the other's cause, but must always keep the rod and\nthe gun close by thy side, so that when these emergencies arise and\nthou doth scent danger in the air thou canst quietly withdraw from the\nscene of action and chase the festive bison over the distant prairies\nor revel in piscatorial pleasure on the placid waters of a secluded\nlake until the working majority hath discovered some method of\nrelieving thee of the necessity of committing thyself, and then, O\nRobert. thou canst return and complacently inform the disappointed\nparty that the result would have been far different had not thou been\ncalled suddenly away. Thou canst thus preserve the friendship of all\nparties, and their votes are more essential to thee than the mere\nadoption of measures affecting the prosperity of thy people. When the\nrequirements of the people of thy city become too great for thee alone\nto administer to all their wants, the great family of Okons, the\nlineal descendants of the sea kings from the bogs of Tipperary, will\ncome to thy aid. Take friendly counsel with them, as to incur their\ndispleasure will mean thy downfall. Let all the ends thou aimest at be\nto so dispose of the offices within thy gift that the Okons, and the\nfollowers of the Okons, will be as fixed in their positions as are the\nstars in their orbits.\"\n\nAfter delivering this strange astrological exhortation the dusky\nmaiden slowly retreated toward the entrance of a nearby cavern, the\npaleface meandered forth to survey the ground of his future greatness\nand the voyageur resumed his lonely journey toward the setting sun.\n\n * * * * *\n\nCHAPTER II.--A TERRIBLE REALITY.\n\n\nAfter the lapse of more than four score of years the voyageur from the\nfrigid North returned from his philanthropic visit to the red man. A\nwonderful change met the eye. A transformation as magnificent as it\nwas bewildering had occurred. The same grand old bluffs looked proudly\ndown upon the Father of Water. The same magnificent river pursued\nits unmolested course toward the boundless ocean. But all else had\nchanged. The hostile warrior no longer impeded the onward march of\ncivilization, and cultivated fields abounded on every side.\nSteamers were hourly traversing the translucent waters of the great\nMississippi; steam and electricity were carrying people with the\nrapidity of lightning in every direction; gigantic buildings appeared\non the earth's surface, visible in either direction as far as the\neye could reach; on every corner was a proud descendant of Erin's\nnobility, clad in gorgeous raiment, who had been branded \"St. Paul's\nfinest\" before leaving the shores of his native land. In the midst of\nthis great city was a magnificent building, erected by the generosity\nof its people, in which the paleface, supported on either side by the\nOkons, was the high and mighty ruler. The Okons and the followers of\nthe Okons were in possession of every office within the gift of the\npaleface. Floating proudly from the top of this great building was an\nimmense banner, on which was painted in monster letters the talismanic\nwords: \"For mayor, 1902, Robert A. Smith,\" Verily the prophecy of the\ndusky maiden had been fulfilled. The paleface had become impregnably\nintrenched. The Okons could never be dislodged.\n\nWith feelings of unutterable anguish at the omnipresence of the Okons,\nthe aged voyageur quietly retraced his footsteps and was never more\nseen by the helpless and overburdened subjects of the paleface.\n\n\n\n\nSPELLING DOWN A SCHOOL.\n\n * * * * *\n\nWhen I was about twelve years of age I resided in a small village in\none of the mountainous and sparsely settled sections of the northern\npart of Pennsylvania.\n\nIt was before the advent of the railroad and telegraph in that\nlocality. The people were not blessed with prosperity as it is known\nto-day. Neither were they gifted with the intellectual attainments\npossessed by the inhabitants of the same locality at the present time.\nMany of the old men served in the war of 1812, and they were looked up\nto with about the same veneration as are the heroes of the Civil War\nto-day. It was at a time when the younger generation was beginning to\nacquire a thirst for knowledge, but it was not easily obtained under\nthe peculiar conditions existing at that period. A school district\nthat was able to support a school for six months in each year was\nindeed considered fortunate, but even in these the older children were\nnot permitted to attend during the summer months, as their services\nwere considered indispensable in the cultivation of the soil.\n\nReading, writing and arithmetic were about all the studies pursued in\nthose rural school districts, although occasionally some of the better\nclass of the country maidens could be seen listlessly glancing over a\ngeography or grammar, but they were regarded as \"stuck up,\" and the\nother pupils thought they were endeavoring to master something far\nbeyond their capacity.\n\nOur winter school term generally commenced the first week in December\nand lasted until the first week in March, with one evening set apart\neach week for a spelling-match and recitation. We had our spelling\nmatch on Saturday nights, and every four weeks we would meet with\nschools in other districts in a grand spelling contest. I was\nconsidered too young to participate in any of the joint spelling\nmatches, and my heart was heavy within me every time I saw a great\nfour-horse sleigh loaded with joyful boys and girls on their way to\none of the great contests.\n\nOne Saturday night there was to be a grand spelling match at a country\ncrossroad about four miles from our village, and four schools were to\nparticipate. As I saw the great sleigh loaded for the coming struggle\nthe thought occurred to me that if I only managed to secure a ride\nwithout being observed I might in some way be able to demonstrate to\nthe older scholars that in spelling at least I was their equal. While\nthe driver was making a final inspection of the team preparatory to\nstarting I managed to crawl under his seat, where I remained as quiet\nas mouse until the team arrived at the point of destination. I had not\nconsidered the question of getting back--I left that to chance. As\nsoon as the different schools had arrived two of the best spellers\nwere selected to choose sides, and it happened that neither of them\nwas from our school. I stood in front of the old-fashioned fire-place\nand eagerly watched the pupils as they took their places in the line.\nThey were drawn in the order of their reputation as spellers. When\nthey had finished calling the names I was still standing by the\nfireplace, and I thought my chance was hopeless. The school-master\nfrom our district noticed my woebegone appearance, and he arose from\nhis seat and said:\n\n\"That boy standing by the fireplace is one of the best spellers in our\nschool.\"\n\nMy name was then reluctantly called, and I took my place at the\nfoot of the column. I felt very grateful towards our master for his\ncompliment and I thought I would be able to hold my position in the\nline long enough to demonstrate that our master was correct. The\nschool-master from our district was selected to pronounce the words,\nand I inwardly rejoiced.\n\nAfter going down the line several times and a number of scholars had\nfallen on some simple word the school-master pronounced the word\n\"phthisic.\" My heart leaped as the word fell from the school-master's\nlips. It was one of my favorite hard words and was not in the spelling\nbook. It had been selected so as to floor the entire line in order to\nmake way for the exercises to follow.\n\nAs I looked over the long line of overgrown country boys and girls I\nfelt sure that none of them would be able to correctly spell the word.\n\"Next!\" \"Next!\" \"Next!\" said the school-master, and my pulse beat\nfaster and faster as the older scholars ahead of me were relegated to\ntheir seats.\n\nAt last the crucial time had come. I was the only one left standing.\nAs the school-master stood directly in front of me and said \"Next,\" I\ncould see by the twinkle in his eye that he thought I could correctly\nspell the word. My countenance had betrayed me. With a clear and\ndistinct voice loud enough to be heard by every one in the room\nI spelled out \"ph-th-is-ic--phthisic.\" \"Correct,\" said the\nschool-master, and all the scholars looked aghast at my promptness.\n\nI shall never forget the kindly smile of the old school-master, as he\nlaid the spelling book upon the teacher's desk, with the quiet remark:\n\"I told you he could spell.\" I had spelled down four schools, and my\nreputation as a speller was established. Our school was declared to\nhave furnished the champion speller of the four districts, and ever\nafter my name was not the last one to be called.\n\nOn my return home I was not compelled to ride under the driver's seat.\n\n\nHALF A CENTURY WITH THE PIONEER PRESS.\n\nPioneer Press, April 18, 1908:--Frank Moore, superintendent of the\ncomposing room if the Pioneer Press, celebrated yesterday the fiftieth\nanniversary of his connection with the paper. A dozen of the old\nemployes of the Pioneer Press entertained Mr. Moore at an informal\ndinner at Magee's to celebrate the unusual event. Mr. Moore's service\non the Pioneer Press, in fact, has been longer than the Pioneer\nPress itself, for he began his work on one of the newspapers which\neventually was merged into the present Pioneer Press. He has held his\npresent position as the head of the composing room for about forty\nyears.\n\nFrank Moore was fifteen years old when he came to St. Paul from Tioga\ncounty, Pa., where he was born. He came with his brother, George W.\nMoore, who was one of the owners and managers of the Minnesotian. His\nbrother had been East and brought the boy West with him. Mr. Moore's\nfirst view of newspaper work was on the trip up the river to St. Paul.\nThere had been a special election on a bond issue and on the way his\nbrother stopped at the various towns to got the election returns.\n\nMr. Moore went to work for the Minnesotian on April 17, 1858, as a\nprinter's \"devil.\" It is interesting in these days of water works and\ntelegraph to recall that among his duties was to carry water for the\noffice. He got it from a spring below where the Merchants hotel now\nstands. Another of his jobs was to meet the boats. Whenever a steamer\nwhistled Mr. Moore ran to the dock to get the bundle of newspapers the\nboat brought, and hurry with it back to the office. It was from these\npapers that the editors got the telegraph news of the world. He also\nwas half the carrier staff of the paper. His territory covered all\nthe city above Wabasha street, but as far as he went up the hill\nwas College avenue and Ramsey street was his limit out West Seventh\nstreet. There was no St. Paul worth mentioning beyond that.\n\nWhen the Press absorbed the Minnesotian in 1861, Mr. Moore went with\nit, and when in 1874 the Press and Pioneer were united Mr. Moore\nstayed with the merged paper. His service has been continuous,\nexcepting during his service as a volunteer in the Civil war. The\nPioneer Press, with its antecedents, has been his only interest.\n\nWhile Mr. Moore's service is notable for its length, it is still more\nnotable for the fact that he has grown with the paper, so that\nto-day at sixty-five he is still filling his important position as\nefficiently on a large modern newspaper as he filled it as a young man\nwhen things in the Northwest, including its newspapers, were in the\nbeginning. Successive managements found that his services always gave\nfull value and recognized in him an employe of unusual loyalty and\ndevotion to the interests of the paper. Successive generations of\nemployes have found him always just the kind of man it is a pleasure\nto have as a fellow workman.\n\n\n\n***", "source_language": "en", "target_language": "de_DE", "source_lang_name": "English", "target_lang_name": "German", "doc_id": "Reminiscences-of-Pioneer-Days-in-St.-Paul-by-Frank-Moore", "seg_id": 1, "publication_date": 1908, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10146"} -{"text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland, Sjaani and PG Distributed Proofreaders\n\n\n\n\n\nDRAGON'S BLOOD\n\nby\n\nHENRY MILNER RIDEOUT\n\nwith illustrations by HAROLD M. BRETT\n\n1909\n\n\n\n\nTo\nCHARLES TOWNSEND COPELAND,\n 15 Hollis Hall, Cambridge, Massachusetts\n\nDear Cope,\n\nMr. Peachey Carnehan, when he returned from Kafiristan, in bad shape but\nwith a king's head in a bag, exclaimed to the man in the newspaper\noffice, \"And you've been sitting there ever since!\" There is only a pig\nin the following poke; and yet in giving you the string to cut and the\nbag to open, I feel something of Peachey's wonder to think of you,\nacross all this distance and change, as still sitting in your great\nchair by the green lamp, while past a dim background of books moves the\nprocession of youth. Many of us, growing older in various places,\nremember well your friendship, and are glad that you are there, urging\nour successors to look backward into good books, and forward into life.\n\n Yours ever truly,\n H. M. R.\n_Sausalito, California_.\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n I. A LADY AND A GRIFFIN\n II. THE PIED PIPER\n III. UNDER FIRE\n IV. THE SWORD-PEN\n V. IN TOWN\n VI. THE PAGODA\n VII. IPHIGENIA\n VIII. THE HOT NIGHT\n IX. PASSAGE AT ARMS\n X. THREE PORTALS\n XI. WHITE LOTUS\n XII. THE WAR BOARD\n XIII. THE SPARE MAN\n XIV. OFF DUTY\n XV. KAU FAI\n XVI. THE GUNWALE\n XVII. LAMP OF HEAVEN\n XVIII. SIEGE\n XIX. BROTHER MOLES\n XX. THE HAKKA BOAT\n XXI. THE DRAGON'S SHADOW\n\n\nILLUSTRATIONS\n\n_\"Good-by! A pleasant voyage\"_ ... Frontispiece\n\n_Rudolph was aware of crowded bodies, of yellow faces grinning_\n\n_He let the inverted cup dangle from his hands_\n\n_He went leaping from sight over the crest_\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I\n\n\nA LADY AND A GRIFFIN\n\nIt was \"about first-drink time,\" as the captain of the Tsuen-Chau, bound\nfor Shanghai and Japan ports, observed to his friend Cesare Domenico, a\ngood British subject born at Malta. They sat on the coolest corner in\nPort Said, their table commanding both the cross-way of Chareh Sultan el\nOsman, and the short, glaring vista of desert dust and starved young\nacacias which led to the black hulks of shipping in the Canal. From the\nBar la Poste came orchestral strains--\"Ai nostri monti\"--performed by a\npiano indoors and two violins on the pavement. The sounds contended with\na thin, scattered strumming of cafe mandolins, the tinkle of glasses,\nthe steady click of dominoes and backgammon; then were drowned in the\nharsh chatter of Arab coolies who, all grimed as black as Nubians, and\nshouldering spear-headed shovels, tramped inland, their long tunics\nstiff with coal-dust, like a band of chain-mailed Crusaders lately\ncaught in a hurricane of powdered charcoal. Athwart them, Parisian\ngowns floated past on stout Italian forms; hulking third-class\nAustralians, in shirtsleeves, slouched along toward their mail-boat,\nhugging whiskey bottles, baskets of oranges, baskets of dates; British\nsoldiers, khaki-clad for India, raced galloping donkeys through the\ncrowded and dusty street. It was mail-day, and gayety flowed among the\ntables, under the thin acacias, on a high tide of Amer Picon.\n\nThrough the inky files of the coaling-coolies burst an alien and\nbewildered figure. He passed unnoticed, except by the filthy little Arab\nbootblacks who swarmed about him, trotting, capering, yelping\ncheerfully: \"Mista Ferguson!--polish, finish!--can-can--see nice Frencha\ngirl--Mista McKenzie, Scotcha fella from Dublin--smotta picture--polish,\nfinish!\"--undertoned by a squabbling chorus. But presently, studying his\nface, they cried in a loud voice, \"Nix! Alles!\" and left him, as one not\ndesiring polish.\n\n\"German, that chap,\" drawled the captain of the Tsuen-Chau, lazily,\nnoticing the uncertain military walk of the young man's clumsy legs, his\nuncouth clothes, his pale visage winged by blushing ears of coral pink.\n\n\"The Eitel's in, then,\" replied Cesare. And they let the young Teuton\nvanish in the vision of mixed lives.\n\nDown the lane of music and chatter and drink he passed slowly, like a\nman just wakened,--assailed by Oriental noise and smells, jostled by the\nraces of all latitudes and longitudes, surrounded and solitary, unheeded\nand self-conscious. With a villager's awkwardness among crowds, he made\nhis way to a German shipping-office.\n\n\"Dispatches for Rudolph Hackh?\" he inquired, twisting up his blond\nmoustache, and trying to look insolent and peremptory, like an\nemployer of men.\n\n\"There are none, sir,\" answered an amiable clerk, not at all impressed.\n\nAbashed once more in the polyglot street, still daunted by his first\nplunge into the foreign and the strange, he retraced his path, threading\nshyly toward the Quai Francois Joseph. He slipped through the barrier\ngate, signaled clumsily to a boatman, crawled under the drunken little\nawning of the dinghy, and steered a landsman's course along the shining\nCanal toward the black wall of a German mail-boat. Cramping the Arab's\noar along the iron side, he bumped the landing-stage. Safe on deck, he\nbecame in a moment stiff and haughty, greeting a fellow passenger here\nand there with a half-military salute. All afternoon he sat or walked\nalone, unapproachable, eyeing with a fierce and gloomy stare the\nsqualid front of wooden houses on the African side, the gray desert\nglare of Asia, the pale blue ribbon of the great Canal stretching\nsouthward into the unknown.\n\nHe composed melancholy German verses in a note-book. He recalled famous\nexiles--Camoens, Napoleon, Byron--and essayed to copy something of all\nthree in his attitude. He cherished the thought that he, clerk at\ntwenty-one, was now agent at twenty-two, and traveling toward a house\nwith servants, off there beyond the turn of the Canal, beyond the curve\nof the globe. But for all this, Rudolph Hackh felt young, homesick,\ntimid of the future, and already oppressed with the distance, the age,\nthe manifold, placid mystery of China.\n\nToward that mystery, meanwhile, the ship began to creep. Behind her,\nhouses, multi- funnels, scrubby trees, slowly swung to blot out\nthe glowing Mediterranean and the western hemisphere. Gray desert banks\nclosed in upon her strictly, slid gently astern, drawing with them to\nthe vanishing-point the bright lane of traversed water. She gained the\nBitter Lakes; and the red conical buoys, like beads a-stringing, slipped\non and added to the two converging dotted lines.\n\n\"Good-by to the West!\" thought Rudolph. As he mourned sentimentally at\nthis lengthening tally of their departure, and tried to quote\nappropriate farewells, he was deeply touched and pleased by the sadness\nof his emotions. \"Now what does Byron say?\"\n\nThe sombre glow of romantic sentiment faded, however, with the sunset.\nThat evening, as the ship glided from ruby coal to ruby coal of the\ngares, following at a steady six knots the theatric glare of her\nsearch-light along arsenically green cardboard banks, Rudolph paced the\ndeck in a mood much simpler and more honest. In vain he tried the\nhalf-baked philosophy of youth. It gave no comfort; and watching the\nclear desert stars of two mysterious continents, he fell prey to the\nunbounded and unintelligible complexity of man's world. His own career\nseemed no more dubious than trivial.\n\nSucceeding days only strengthened this mood. The Red Sea passed in a\ndream of homesickness, intolerable heat, of a pale blue surface\nstretched before aching eyes, and paler strips of pink and gray coast,\nfaint and distant. Like dreams, too, passed Aden and Colombo; and then,\nsuddenly, he woke to the most acute interest.\n\nHe had ignored his mess-mates at their second-class table; but when the\nnew passengers from Colombo came to dinner, he heard behind him the\nswish of stiff skirts, felt some one brush his shoulder, and saw,\nsliding into the next revolving chair, the vision of a lady in white.\n\n\"_Mahlzeit_\" she murmured dutifully. But the voice was not German.\nRudolph heard her subside with little flouncings, and felt his ears grow\nwarm and red. Delighted, embarrassed, he at last took sufficient courage\nto steal side-glances.\n\nThe first showed her to be young, fair-haired, and smartly attired in\nthe plainest and coolest of white; the second, not so young, but very\ncharming, with a demure downcast look, and a deft control of her spoon\nthat, to Rudolph's eyes, was splendidly fastidious; at the third, he was\nshocked to encounter the last flitting light of a counter-glance, from\nlarge, dark-blue eyes, not devoid of amusement.\n\n\"She laughs at me!\" fumed the young man, inwardly. He was angry,\nconscious of those unlucky wing-and-wing ears, vexed at his own\nboldness. \"I have been offensive. She laughs at me.\" He generalized from\nlong inexperience of a subject to which he had given acutely interested\nthought: \"They always do.\"\n\nAnger did not prevent him, however, from noting that his neighbor\ntraveled alone, that she must be an Englishwoman, and yet that she\ndiffused, somehow, an aura of the Far East and of romance. He shot many\na look toward her deck-chair that evening, and when she had gone below,\nstrategically bought a cigar, sat down in the chair to light it, and by\na carefully shielded match contrived to read the tag that fluttered on\nthe arm: \"B. Forrester, Hongkong.\"\n\nAfterward he remembered that by early daylight he might have read it for\nnothing; and so, for economic penance, smoked to the bitter end, finding\nthe cigar disagreeable but manly. At all events, homesickness had\nvanished in a curious impatience for the morrow. Miss Forrester: he\nwould sit beside Miss Forrester at table. If only they both were\ntraveling first-class!--then she might be a great lady. To be enamored\nof a countess, now--A cigar, after all, was the proper companion of\nbold thoughts.\n\nAt breakfast, recalling her amusement, he remained silent and wooden. At\ntiffin his heart leaped.\n\n\"You speak English, I'm sure, don't you?\" Miss Forrester was saying, in\na pleasant, rather drawling voice. Her eyes were quite serious now, and\nindeed friendly. Confusion seized him.\n\n\"I have less English to amuse myself with the ladies,\" he answered\nwildly. Next moment, however, he regained that painful mastery of the\ntongue which had won his promotion as agent, and stammered: \"Pardon. I\nwould mean, I speak so badly as not to entertain her.\"\n\n\"Indeed, you speak very nicely,\" she rejoined, with such a smile as no\nwoman had ever troubled to bestow on him. \"That will be so pleasant,\nfor my German is shocking.\"\n\nDazed by the compliment, by her manner of taking for granted that future\nconversation which had seemed too good to come true, but above all by\nher arch, provoking smile, Rudolph sat with his head in a whirl, feeling\nthat the wide eyes of all the second-cabiners were penetrating the\ntumultuous secret of his breast. Again his English deserted, and left\nhim stammering. But Miss Forrester chatted steadily, appeared to\nunderstand murmurs which he himself found obscure, and so restored his\nconfidence that before tiffin was over he talked no less gayly, his\nhonest face alight and glowing. She taught him the names of the strange\nfruits before them; but though listening and questioning eagerly, he\ncould not afterward have told loquat from pumelo, or custard-apple\nfrom papaya.\n\nNor could this young man, of methodical habits, ever have told how long\ntheir voyage lasted. It passed, unreal and timeless, in a glorious mist,\na delighted fever: the background a blur of glossy white bulkheads and\niron rails, awnings that fluttered in the warm, languorous winds, an\ninfinite tropic ocean poignantly blue; the foreground, Miss Forrester.\nHer white figure, trim and dashing; her round blue eyes, filled with coy\nwonder, the arch innocence of a spoiled child; her pale, smooth cheeks,\nrather plump, but coming oddly and enticingly to a point at the mouth\nand tilted chin; her lips, somewhat too full, too red, but quick and\nwhimsical: he saw these all, and these only, in a bright focus,\nlistening meanwhile to a voice by turns languid and lively, with now and\nthen a curious liquid softness, perhaps insincere, yet dangerously\npleasant. Questioning, hinting, she played at motherly age and wisdom.\nAs for him, he never before knew how well he could talk, or how\nengrossing his sober life, both in his native village on the Baltic and\nafterward in Bremen, could prove to either himself or a stranger.\n\nYet he was not such a fool, he reflected, as to tell everything. So far\nfrom trading confidences, she had told him only that she was bound\nstraight on to Hongkong; that curiosity alone had led her to travel\nsecond-class, \"for the delightful change, you know, from all such\nformality\"; and that she was \"really more French than English.\" Her\nreticence had the charm of an incognito; and taking this leaf from her\nbook, he gave himself out as a large, vaguely important person\njourneying on a large, vague errand.\n\n\"But you are a griffin?\" she had said, as they sat together at tea.\n\n\"Pardon?\" he ventured, wary and alarmed, wondering whether he could\nclaim this unknown term as in character with his part.\n\n\"I mean,\" Miss Forrester explained, smiling, \"it is your first visit to\nthe Far East?\"\n\n\"Oh, yes,\" he replied eagerly, blushing. He would have given worlds to\nsay, \"No.\"\n\n\"Griffins are such nice little monsters,\" she purred. \"I like them.\"\n\nSometimes at night, waked by the snores of a fat Prussian in the upper\nberth, he lay staring into the dark, while the ship throbbed in unison\nwith his excited thoughts. He was amazed at his happy recklessness. He\nwould never see her again; he was hurrying toward lonely and uncertain\nshores; yet this brief voyage outvalued the rest of his life.\n\nIn time, they had left Penang,--another unheeded background for her\narch, innocent, appealing face,--and forged down the Strait of Malacca\nin a flood of nebulous moonlight. It was the last night out from\nSingapore. That veiled brightness, as they leaned on the rail, showed\nher brown hair fluttering dimly, her face pale, half real, half magical,\nher eyes dark and undefined pools of mystery. It was late; they had been\nsilent for a long time; and Rudolph felt that something beyond the\nterritory of words remained to be said, and that the one brilliant epoch\nof his life now drew madly to a close.\n\n\"What do you think of it all?\" the woman asked suddenly, gravely, as\nthough they had been isolated together in the deep spaces of the\nsame thought.\n\n\"I do not yet--Of what?\" rejoined Rudolph, at a loss.\n\n\"Of all this.\" She waved an eloquent little gesture toward the\nazure-lighted gulf.\n\n\"Oh,\" he said. \"Of the world?\"\n\n\"Yes,\" she answered slowly. \"The world. Life.\" Her tone, subdued and\nmusical, conveyed in the mere words their full enigma and full meaning.\n\"All this that we see.\"\n\n\"Who can tell?\" He took her seriously, and ransacked all his store of\nsecond-hand philosophy for a worthy answer,--a musty store, dead and\npedantic, after the thrilling spirit of her words. \"Why, I think--it\nis--is it not all now the sense-manifest substance of our duty? Pardon.\nI am obscure. '_Das versinnlichte Material unserer Pflicht_' No?\"\n\nHer clear laughter startled him.\n\n\"Oh, how moral!\" she cried. \"What a highly moral little griffin!\"\n\nShe laughed again (but this time it was like the splash of water in a\ndeep well), and turned toward him that curiously tilted point of chin\nand mouth, her eyes shadowy and mocking. She looked young again,--the\nspirit of youth, of knowledge, of wonderful brightness and unbelief.\n\n\"Must we take it so very, very hard?\" she coaxed. \"Isn't it just a place\nto be happy in?\"\n\nAs through a tumult he heard, and recognized the wisdom of the ages.\n\n\"Because,\" she added, \"it lasts such a little while--\"\n\nOn the rail their hands suddenly touched. He was aware of nothing but\nthe nearness and pallor of her face, the darkness of her eyes shining up\nat him. All his life seemed to have rushed concentrating into that one\ninstant of extreme trouble, happiness, trembling fascination.\n\nFootsteps sounded on the deck behind them; an unwelcome voice called\njocosely:--\n\n\"Good efening!\" The ship's doctor advanced with a roguish, paternal air.\n\"You see at the phosphor, not?\"\n\nEven as she whipped about toward the light, Rudolph had seen, with a\ntouch of wonder, how her face changed from a bitter frown to the most\nfriendly smile. The frown returned, became almost savage, when the fat\nphysician continued:--\n\n\"To see the phosphor is too much moon, Mrs. Forrester?\"\n\nHad the steamer crashed upon a reef, he would hardly have noticed such a\nminor shipwreck. Mrs. Forrester? why, then--When the doctor, after\nponderous pleasantries, had waddled away aft, Rudolph turned upon her a\nface of tragedy.\n\n\"Was that true?\" he demanded grimly.\n\n\"Was what true?\" she asked, with baby eyes of wonder, which no longer\ndeceived, but angered.\n\n\"What the doctor said.\" Rudolph's voice trembled. \"The tittle--the title\nhe gave you.\"\n\n\"Why, of course,\" she laughed.\n\n\"And you did not tell me!\" he began, with scorn.\n\n\"Don't be foolish,\" she cut in. From beneath her skirt the toe of a\nsmall white shoe tapped the deck angrily. Of a sudden she laughed, and\nraised a tantalizing face, merry, candid, and inscrutable. \"Why, you\nnever asked me, and--and of course I thought you were saying it all\nalong. You have such a dear, funny way of pronouncing, you know.\"\n\nHe hesitated, almost believing; then, with a desperate gesture, wheeled\nand marched resolutely aft. That night it was no Prussian snores which\nkept him awake and wretched. \"Everything is finished,\" he thought\nabysmally. He lay overthrown, aching, crushed, as though pinned under\nthe fallen walls of his youth.\n\nAt breakfast-time, the ship lay still beside a quay where mad crowds of\nbrown and yellow men, scarfed, swathed, and turbaned in riotous colors,\nworked quarreling with harsh cries, in unspeakable interweaving uproar.\nThe air, hot and steamy, smelled of strange earth. As Rudolph followed a\nMalay porter toward the gang-plank, he was painfully aware that Mrs.\nForrester had turned from the rail and stood waiting in his path.\n\n\"Without saying good-by?\" she reproached him. The injured wonder in her\neyes he thought a little overdone.\n\n\"Good-by.\" He could not halt, but, raising his cap stiffly, managed to\nadd, \"A pleasant voyage,\" and passed on, feeling as though she had\nmurdered something.\n\nHe found himself jogging in a rickshaw, while equatorial rain beat like\ndown-pouring bullets on the tarpaulin hood, and sluiced the Chinaman's\noily yellow back. Over the heavy-muscled shoulders he caught glimpses of\nsullen green foliage, ponderous and drooping; of half-naked barbarians\nthat squatted in the shallow caverns of shops; innumerable faces, black,\nyellow, white, and brown, whirling past, beneath other tarpaulin hoods,\nor at carriage windows, or shielded by enormous dripping wicker hats, or\nbared to the pelting rain. Curious odors greeted him, as of sour\nvegetables and of unknown rank substances burning. He stared like a\nvisionary at the streaming multitude of alien shapes.\n\nThe coolie swerved, stopped, tilted his shafts to the ground. Rudolph\nentered a sombre, mouldy office, where the darkness rang with tiny\nsilver bells. Pig-tailed men in skull-caps, their faces calm as polished\nivory, were counting dollars endlessly over flying finger-tips. One of\nthese men paused long enough to give him a sealed dispatch,--the message\nto which the ocean-bed, the Midgard ooze, had thrilled beneath his\ntardy keel.\n\n\"Zimmerman recalled,\" the interpretation ran; \"take his station; proceed\nat once.\"\n\nHe knew the port only as forlorn and insignificant. It did not matter.\nOne consolation remained: he would never see her again.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II\n\n\nTHE PIED PIPER\n\nA gray smudge trailing northward showed where the Fa-Hien--Scottish\nOriental, sixteen hundred tons--was disappearing from the pale expanse\nof ocean. The sampan drifted landward imperceptibly, seeming, with\nnut-brown sail unstirred, to remain where the impatient steamer had met\nit, dropped a solitary passenger overside, and cast him loose upon the\nbreadth of the antipodes. Rare and far, the sails of junks patched the\nhorizon with umber polygons. Rudolph, sitting among his boxes in the\nsampan, viewed by turns this desolate void astern and the more desolate\nsweep of coast ahead. His matting sail divided the shining bronze\noutpour of an invisible river, divided a low brown shore beyond, and\nabove these, the strips of some higher desert country that shone like\nsnowdrifts, or like sifted ashes from which the hills rose black and\ncharred. Their savage, winter-blasted look, in the clear light of an\nalmost vernal morning, made the land seem fabulous. Yet here in reality,\nthought Rudolph, as he floated toward that hoary kingdom,--here at last,\nfacing a lonely sea, reared the lifeless, inhospitable shore, the\nsullen margin of China.\n\nThe slow creaking of the spliced oar, swung in its lashing by a\nhalf-naked yellow man, his incomprehensible chatter with some fellow\nboatman hidden in the bows, were sounds lost in a drowsy silence,\nrhythms lost in a wide inertia. Time itself seemed stationary. Rudolph\nnodded, slept, and waking, found the afternoon sped, the hills gone, and\nhis clumsy, time-worn craft stealing close under a muddy bank topped\nwith brown weeds and grass. They had left behind the silted roadstead,\nand now, gliding on a gentle flood, entered the river-mouth. Here and\nthere, against the saffron tide, or under banks quaggy as melting\nchocolate, stooped a naked fisherman, who--swarthy as his background but\nfor a loin-band of yellow flesh--shone wet and glistening while he\nstirred a dip-net through the liquid mud. Faint in the distance harsh\ncries sounded now and then, and the soft popping of small-arms,--tiny\nrevolts in the reign of a stillness aged and formidable. Crumbling walls\nand squat ruins, black and green-patched with mould--old towers of\ndefense against pirates--guarded from either bank the turns of the\nriver. In one reach, a \"war-junk,\" her sails furled, lay at anchor, the\nred and white eyes staring fish-like from her black prow: a silly\nmonster, the painted tompions of her wooden cannon aiming drunkenly\naskew, her crew's wash fluttering peacefully in a line of blue dungaree.\n\nBeyond the next turn, a fowling-piece cracked sharply, close at hand;\nsomething splashed, and the ruffled body of a snipe bobbed in the bronze\nflood alongside.\n\n\"Hang it!\" complained a voice, loudly. \"The beggar was too--Hallo! Oh, I\nsay, Gilly! Gilly, ahoy! Pick us up, there's a good chap! The bird\nfirst, will you, and then me.\"\n\nA tall young man in brown holland and a battered _terai_ stood above on\nthe grassy brink.\n\n\"Oh, beg pardon,\" he continued. \"Took you for old Gilly, you know.\" He\nsnapped the empty shells from his gun, and blew into the breech, before\nadding, \"Would _you_ mind, then? That is, if you're bound up for\nStink-Chau. It's a beastly long tramp, and I've been shooting all\nafternoon.\"\n\nFollowed by three coolies who popped out of the grass with game-bags,\nthe young stranger descended, hopped nimbly from tussock to gunwale, and\nperched there to wash his boots in the river.\n\n\"Might have known you weren't old Gilly,\" he said over his shoulder.\n\"Wutzler said the Fa-Hien lay off signaling for sampan before breakfast.\nGoing to stay long?\"\n\n\"I am agent,\" answered Rudolph, with a touch of pride, \"for Fliegelman\nand Sons.\"\n\n\"Oh?\" drawled the hunter, lazily. He swung his legs inboard, faced\nabout, and studied Rudolph with embarrassing frankness. He was a\nlong-limbed young Englishman, whose cynical gray eyes, and thin face\ntinged rather sallow and Oriental, bespoke a reckless good humor. \"Life\nsentence, eh? Then your name's--what is it again?--Hackh, isn't it?\nHeywood's mine. So you take Zimmerman's place. He's off already, and\ngood riddance. He _was_ a bounder!--Charming spot you've come to! I\ndaresay if your Fliegelmans opened a hong in hell, you might possibly\nget a worse station.\"\n\nWithout change of manner, he uttered a few gabbling, barbaric words. A\ncoolie knelt, and with a rag began to clean the boots, which, from the\nexpression of young Mr. Heywood's face, were more interesting than the\narrival of a new manager from Germany.\n\n\"It will be dark before we're in,\" he said. \"My place for the night, of\ncourse, and let your predecessor's leavings stand over till daylight.\nAfter dinner we'll go to the club. Dinner! Chicken and rice, chicken and\nrice! Better like it, though, for you'll eat nothing else, term of\nyour life.\"\n\n\"You are very kind,\" began Rudolph; but this bewildering off-hand\nyoungster cut him short, with a laugh:--\n\n\"No fear, you'll pay me! Your firm supplies unlimited liquor. Much good\nthat ever did us, with old Zimmerman.\"\n\nThe sampan now slipped rapidly on the full flood, up a narrow channel\nthat the setting of the sun had turned, as at a blow, from copper to\nindigo. The shores passed, more and more obscure against a fading light.\nA star or two already shone faint in the lower spaces. A second war-junk\nloomed above them, with a ruddy fire in the stern lighting a glimpse of\nsquat forms and yellow goblin faces.\n\n\"It is very curious,\" said Rudolph, trying polite conversation, \"how\nthey paint so the eyes on their jonks.\"\n\n\"No eyes, no can see; no can see, no can walkee,\" chanted Heywood in\ncareless formula. \"I say,\" he complained suddenly, \"you're not going to\n'study the people,' and all that rot? We're already fed up with\nmissionaries. Their cant, I mean; no allusion to cannibalism.\"\n\nHe lighted a cigarette. After the blinding flare of the match, night\nseemed to have fallen instantaneously. As their boat crept on to the\nslow creaking sweep, both maintained silence, Rudolph rebuked and\nlonely, Heywood supine beneath a comfortable winking spark.\n\n\"What I mean is,\" drawled the hunter, \"we need all the good fellows we\ncan get. Bring any new songs out? Oh, I forgot, you're a German, too.--A\nsweet little colony! Gilly's the only gentleman in the whole half-dozen\nof us, and Heaven knows he's not up to much.--Ah, we're in. On our\nright, fellow sufferers, we see the blooming Village of Stinks.\"\n\nHe had risen in the gloom. Beyond his shadow a few feeble lights burned\nlow and scattered along the bank. Strange cries arose, the bumping of\nsampans, the mournful caterwauling of a stringed instrument.\n\n\"The native town's a bit above,\" he continued. \"We herd together here on\nthe edge. No concession, no bund, nothing.\"\n\nTheir sampan grounded softly in malodorous ooze. Each mounting the bare\nshoulders of a coolie, the two Europeans rode precariously to shore.\n\n\"My boys will fetch your boxes,\" called Heywood. \"Come on.\"\n\nThe path, sometimes marshy, sometimes hard-packed clay or stone flags\ndeeply littered, led them a winding course in the night. Now and then\nshapes met them and pattered past in single file, furtive and sinister.\nAt last, where a wall loomed white, Heywood stopped, and, kicking at a\nwooden gate, gave a sing-song cry. With rattling weights, the door\nswung open, and closed behind them heavily. A kind of empty garden, a\nbare little inclosure, shone dimly in the light that streamed from a\nlow, thick-set veranda at the farther end. Dogs flew at them, barking\noutrageously.\n\n\"Down, Chang! Down, Chutney!\" cried their master. \"Be quiet, Flounce,\nyou fool!\"\n\nOn the stone floor of the house, they leaped upon him, two red chows and\na fox-terrier bitch, knocking each other over in their joy.\n\n\"Olo she-dog he catchee plenty lats,\" piped a little Chinaman, who\nshuffled out from a side-room where lamplight showed an office desk.\n\"Too-day catchee. Plenty lats. No can.\"\n\n\"My compradore, Ah Pat,\" said Heywood to Rudolph. \"Ah Pat, my friend he\nb'long number one Flickleman, boss man.\"\n\nThe withered little creature bobbed in his blue robe, grinning at the\nintroduction.\n\n\"You welly high-tone man,\" he murmured amiably. \"Catchee goo' plice.\"\n\n\"All the same, I don't half like it,\" was Heywood's comment later. He\nhad led his guest upstairs into a bare white-washed room, furnished in\nwicker. Open windows admitted the damp sea breeze and a smell, like foul\ngun-barrels, from the river marshes. \"Where should all the rats be\ncoming from?\" He frowned, meditating on what Rudolph thought a trifle.\nAbove the sallow brown face, his chestnut hair shone oddly,\nclose-cropped and vigorous. \"Maskee, can't be helped.--O Boy, one\nsherry-bitters, one bamboo!\"\n\n\"To our better acquaintance,\" said Rudolph, as they raised their\nglasses.\n\n\"What? Oh, yes, thanks,\" the other laughed. \"Any one would know you for\na griffin here, Mr. Hackh. You've not forgotten your manners yet.\"\n\nWhen they had sat down to dinner in another white-washed room, and had\nundertaken the promised rice and chicken, he laughed again,\nsomewhat bitterly.\n\n\"Better acquaintance--no fear! You'll be so well acquainted with us all\nthat you'll wish you never clapped eyes on us.\" He drained his whiskey\nand soda, signaled for more, and added: \"Were you ever cooped up,\nyachting, with a chap you detested? That's the feeling you come to\nhave.--Here, stand by. You're drinking nothing.\"\n\nRudolph protested. Politeness had so far conquered habit, that he felt\nuncommonly flushed, genial, and giddy.\n\n\"That,\" urged Heywood, tapping the bottle, \"that's our only amusement.\nYou'll see. One good thing we can get is the liquor. 'Nisi damnose\nbibimus,'--forget how it runs: 'Drink hearty, or you'll die without\ngetting your revenge,'\"\n\n\"You are then a university's-man?\" cried Rudolph, with enthusiasm.\n\nThe other nodded gloomily. On the instant his face had fallen as\nimpassive as that of the Chinese boy who stood behind his chair,\nstraight, rigid, like a waxen image of Gravity in a blue gown.--\"Yes, of\nsorts. Young fool. Scrapes. Debt. Out to Orient. Same old story. More\ndebt. Trust the firm to encourage that! Debt and debt and debt. Tied up\nsafe. Transfer. Finish! Never go Home.\"--He rose with a laugh and an\nimpatient gesture.--\"Come on. Might as well take in the club as to sit\nhere talking rot.\"\n\nOutside the gate of the compound, coolies crouching round a lantern\nsprang upright and whipped a pair of sedan-chairs into position.\nHeywood, his feet elevated comfortably over the poles, swung in the\nlead; Rudolph followed, bobbing in the springy rhythm of the long\nbamboos. The lanterns danced before them down an open road, past a few\nblank walls and dark buildings, and soon halted before a whitened front,\nwhere light gleamed from the upper story.\n\n\"Mind the stairs,\" called Heywood. \"Narrow and beastly dark.\"\n\nAs they stumbled up the steep flight, Rudolph heard the click of\nbilliard balls. A pair of hanging lamps lighted the room into which he\nrose,--a low, gloomy loft, devoid of comfort. At the nearer table, a\nweazened little man bent eagerly over a pictorial paper; at the farther,\nchalking their cues, stood two players, one a sturdy Englishman with a\ngray moustache, the other a lithe, graceful person, whose blue coat,\nsmart as an officer's, and swarthy but handsome face made him at a\nglance the most striking figure in the room. A little Chinese imp in\nwhite, who acted as marker, turned on the new-comers a face of\npreternatural cunning.\n\n\"Mr. Wutzler,\" said Heywood. The weazened reader rose in a nervous\nflutter, underwent his introduction to Rudolph with as much bashful\nagony as a school-girl, mumbled a few words in German, and instantly\ntook refuge in his tattered _Graphic_. The players, however, advanced in\na more friendly fashion. The Englishman, whose name Rudolph did not\ncatch, shook his hand heartily.\n\n\"Mr. Hackh is a welcome addition.\" He spoke with deliberate courtesy.\nSomething in his voice, the tired look in his frank blue eyes and\nserious face, at once engaged respect. \"For our sakes,\" he continued,\n\"we're glad to see you here. I am sure Doctor Chantel will agree\nwith me.\"\n\n\"Ah, indeed,\" said the man in military blue, with a courtier's bow.\nBoth air and accent were French. \"Most welcome.\"\n\n\"Let's all have a drink,\" cried Heywood. Despite his many glasses at\ndinner, he spoke with the alacrity of a new idea. \"O Boy, whiskey\n_Ho-lan suey, fai di_!\"\n\nAway bounded the boy marker like a tennis-ball.\n\n\"Hello, Wutzler's off already!\"--The little old reader had quietly\ndisappeared, leaving them a vacant table.--\"Isn't he weird?\" laughed\nHeywood, as they sat down. \"Comes and goes like a ghost.\"\n\n\"It is his Chinese wife,\" declared Chantel, preening his moustache. \"He\nis always ashame to meet the new persons.\"\n\n\"Poor old chap,\" said Heywood. \"I know--feels himself an outcast and all\nthat. Humph! With us! Quite unnecessary.\"--The Chinese page, quick,\nsolemn, and noiseless, glided round the table with his tray.--\"Ah, you\nyoung devil! You're another weird one, you atom. See those bead eyes\nwatching us, eh? A Gilpin Homer, you are, and some fine day we'll see\nyou go off in a flash of fire. If you don't poison us all first.--Well,\nhere's fortune!\"\n\n\"Your health, Mr. Hackh,\" amended the other Englishman.\n\nAs they set down their glasses, a strange cry sounded from below,--a\nstifled call, inarticulate, but in such a key of distress that all four\nfaced about, and listened intently.\n\n\"Kom down,\" called a hesitating voice, \"kom down and look-see.\"\n\nThey sprang to the stairs, and clattered downward. Dim radiance flooded\nthe landing, from the street door. Outside, a smoky lantern on the\nground revealed the lower levels.\n\nIn the wide sector of light stood Wutzler, shrinking and apologetic,\nlike a man caught in a fault, his wrinkled face eloquent of fear, his\ngesture eloquent of excuse. Round him, as round a conjurer, scores of\nlittle shadowy things moved in a huddling dance, fitfully hopping like\nsparrows over spilt grain. Where the light fell brightest these became\nplainer, their eyes shone in jeweled points of color.\n\n\"By Jove, Gilly, they are rats!\" said Heywood, in a voice curiously\nforced and matter-of-fact. \"Flounce killed several this afternoon,\nso my--\"\n\nNo one heeded him; all stared. The rats, like beings of incantation,\nstole about with an absence of fear, a disregard of man's presence, that\nwas odious and alarming.\n\n\"Earthquake?\" The elder Englishman spoke as though afraid of disturbing\nsome one.\n\nThe French doctor shook his head.\n\n\"No,\" he answered in the same tone. \"Look.\"\n\nThe rats, in all their weaving confusion, displayed one common impulse.\nThey sprang upward continually, with short, agonized leaps, like\ndrowning creatures struggling to keep afloat above some invisible flood.\nThe action, repeated multitudinously into the obscure background,\nexaggerated in the foreground by magnified shadows tossing and falling\non the white walls, suggested the influence of some evil stratum, some\nvapor subtle and diabolic, crawling poisonously along the ground.\n\nHeywood stamped angrily, without effect. Wutzler stood abject, a\nmagician impotent against his swarm of familiars. Gradually the rats,\nsilent and leaping, passed away into the darkness, as though they heard\nthe summons of a Pied Piper.\n\n\"It doesn't attack Europeans.\" Heywood still used that curious\ninflection.\n\n\"Then my brother Julien is still alive,\" retorted Doctor Chantel,\nbitterly.\n\n\"What do you think, Gilly?\" persisted Heywood.\n\nHis compatriot nodded in a meaningless way.\n\n\"The doctor's right, of course,\" he answered. \"I wish my wife weren't\ncoming back.\"\n\n\"Dey are a remember,\" ventured Wutzler, timidly. \"A warnung.\"\n\nThe others, as though it had been a point of custom, ignored him. All\nstared down, musing, at the vacant stones.\n\n\"Then the concert's off to-morrow night,\" mocked Heywood, with an\nunpleasant laugh.\n\n\"On the contrary.\" Gilly caught him up, prompt and decided. \"We shall\nneed all possible amusements; also to meet and plan our campaign.\nMeantime,--what do you say, Doctor?--chloride of lime in pots?\"\n\n\"That, evidently,\" smiled the handsome man. \"Yes, and charcoal burnt in\nbraziers, perhaps, as Pere Fenouil advises. Fumigate.\"--Satirical and\ndebonair, he shrugged his shoulders.--\"What use, among these thousands\nof yellow pigs?\"\n\n\"I wish she weren't coming,\" repeated Gilly.\n\nRudolph, left outside this conference, could bear the uncertainty no\nlonger.\n\n\"I am a new arrival,\" he confided to his young host. \"I do not\nunderstand. What is it?\"\n\n\"The plague, old chap,\" replied Heywood, curtly. \"These playful little\nanimals get first notice. You're not the only arrival to-night.\"\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III\n\n\nUNDER FIRE\n\nThe desert was sometimes Gobi, sometimes Sahara, but always an infinite\nstretch of sand that floated up and up in a stifling layer, like the\ntide. Rudolph, desperately choked, continued leaping upward against an\ninsufferable power of gravity, or straining to run against the force of\nparalysis. The desert rang with phantom voices,--Chinese voices that\nmocked him, chanting of pestilence, intoning abhorrently in French.\n\nHe woke to find a knot of bed-clothes smothering him. To his first\nunspeakable relief succeeded the astonishment of hearing the voices\ncontinue in shrill chorus, the tones Chinese, the words, in louder\nfragments, unmistakably French. They sounded close at hand, discordant\nmatins sung by a mob of angry children. Once or twice a weary, fretful\nvoice scolded feebly: \"Un-peu-de-s'lence! Un-peu-de-s'lence!\" Rudolph\nrose to peep through the heavy jalousies, but saw nothing more than\nsullen daylight, a flood of vertical rain, and thin rivulets coursing\ndown a tiled roof below. The morning was dismally cold.\n\n\"Jolivet's kids wake you?\" Heywood, in a blue kimono, nodded from the\ndoorway. \"Public nuisance, that school. Quite needless, too. Some bally\nFrench theory, you know, sphere of influence, and that rot. Game played\nout up here, long ago, but they keep hanging on.--Bath's ready, when you\nlike.\" He broke out laughing. \"Did you climb into the water-jar,\nyesterday, before dinner? Boy reports it upset. You'll find the dipper\nmore handy.--How did you ever manage? One leg at a time?\"\n\nEchoes of glee followed his disappearance. Rudolph, blushing, prepared\nto descend into the gloomy vault of ablution. Charcoal fumes, however,\nand the glow of a brazier on the dark floor below, not only revived all\nhis old terror, but at the stair-head halted him with a new.\n\n\"Is the water safe?\" he called.\n\nHeywood answered impatiently from his bedroom.\n\n\"Nothing safe in this world, Mr. Hackh. User's risk.\" An inaudible\nmutter ended with, \"Keep clean, anyway.\"\n\nAt breakfast, though the acrid smoke was an enveloping reminder, he made\nthe only reference to their situation.\n\n\"Rain at last: too late, though, to flush out the gutters. We needed it\na month ago.--I say, Hackh, if you don't mind, you might as well cheer\nup. From now on, it's pure heads and tails. We're all under fire\ntogether.\" Glancing out of window at the murky sky, he added\nthoughtfully, \"One excellent side to living without hope, maskee\nfashion: one isn't specially afraid. I'll take you to your office, and\nyou can make a start. Nothing else to do, is there?\"\n\nDripping bearers and shrouded chairs received them on the lower floor,\ncarried them out into a chill rain that drummed overhead and splashed\nalong the compound path in silver points. The sunken flags in the road\nformed a narrow aqueduct that wavered down a lane of mire. A few\ngrotesque wretches, thatched about with bamboo matting, like bottles, or\nlike rosebushes in winter, trotted past shouldering twin baskets. The\nsmell of joss-sticks, fish, and sour betel, the subtle sweetness of\nopium, grew constantly stronger, blended with exhalations of ancient\nrefuse, and (as the chairs jogged past the club, past filthy groups\n\n[...]\n\nfoolhardy? Be frank, now; for if you wouldn't really enjoy it, I'll give\nold Gilly Forrester his chance.\"\n\n\"No!\" said Rudolph, stung as by some perfidy. \"You make me--ashamed!\nThis is all ours, this part, so!\"\n\n\"Can do,\" laughed the other. \"Get off your jacket. Give me half a\nmoment start, so that you won't jump on my head.\" And he went wriggling\ndown into the pit.\n\nAn unwholesome smell of wet earth, a damp, subterranean coolness,\nenveloped Rudolph as he slid down a flue of greasy clay, and stooping,\ncrawled into the horizontal bore of the tunnel. Large enough, perhaps,\nfor two or three men to pass on all fours, it ran level, roughly cut,\nthrough earth wet with seepage from the river, but packed into a smooth\nfloor by many hands and bare knees. It widened suddenly before him. In\nthe small chamber of the mine, choked with the smell of stale betel, he\nbumped Heywood's elbow.\n\n\"Some Fragrant Ones have been working here, I should say.\" The speaker\npatted the ground with quick palms, groping. \"Phew! They've worked like\nsteam. This explains old Wutz, and his broken arrow. I say, Rudie, feel\nabout. I saw a coil of fuse lying somewhere.--At least, I thought it\nwas. Ah, never mind: have-got!\" He pulled something along the floor.\n\"How's the old forearm I gave you? I forgot that. Equal to hauling a\nsack out? Good! Catch hold, here.\"\n\nSweeping his hand in the darkness, he captured Rudolph's, and guided it\nto where a powder-bag lay.\n\n\"Now, then, carry on,\" he commanded; and crawling into the tunnel,\nflung back fragments of explanation as he tugged at his own load. \"Carry\nthese out--far as we dare--touch 'em off, you see, and block the\npassage. Far out as possible, though. We can use this hole afterward,\nfor listening in, if they try--\"\n\nHe cut the sentence short. Their tunnel had begun to gently\ndownward, with niches gouged here and there for the passing of\nburden-bearers. Rudolph, toiling after, suddenly found his head\nentangled between his leader's boots.\n\n\"Quiet,\" he heard him whisper. \"Somebody coming.\"\n\nAn instant later, the boots withdrew quickly. An odd little squeak of\nsurprise followed, a strange gurgling, and a succession of rapid shocks,\nas though some one were pummeling the earthen walls.\n\n\"Got the beggar,\" panted Heywood. \"Only one of 'em. Roll clear, Rudie,\nand let us pass. Collar his legs, if you can, and shove.\"\n\nSqueezing past Rudolph in his niche, there struggled a convulsive bulk,\nlike some monstrous worm, too large for the bore, yet writhing. Bare\nfeet kicked him in violent rebellion, and a muscular knee jarred\nsquarely under his chin. He caught a pair of naked legs, and hugged\nthem dearly.\n\n\"Not too hard,\" called Heywood, with a breathless laugh. \"Poor\ndevil--must think he ran foul of a genie.\"\n\nIndeed, their prisoner had already given up the conflict, and lay under\nthem with limbs dissolved and quaking.\n\n\"Pass him along,\" chuckled his captor. \"Make him go ahead of us.\"\n\nProdded into action, the man stirred limply, and crawled past them\ntoward the mine, while Heywood, at his heels, growled orders in the\nvernacular with a voice of dismal ferocity. In this order they gained\nthe shaft, and wriggled up like ferrets into the night air. Rudolph,\nstanding as in a well, heard a volley of questions and a few timid\nanswers, before the returning legs of his comrade warned him to dodge\nback into the tunnel.\n\nAgain the two men crept forward on their expedition; and this time the\nleader talked without lowering his voice.\n\n\"That chap,\" he declared, \"was fairly chattering with fright. Coolie, it\nseems, who came back to find his betel-box. The rest are all outside\neating their rice. We have a clear track.\"\n\nThey stumbled on their powder-sacks, caught hold, and dragged them, at\nfirst easily down the incline, then over a short level, then arduously\nup a rising grade, till the work grew heavy and hot, and breath came\nhard in the stifled burrow.\n\n\"Far enough,\" said Heywood, puffing. \"Pile yours here.\"\n\nRudolph, however, was not only drenched with sweat, but fired by a new\nspirit, a spirit of daring. He would try, down here in the bowels of the\nearth, to emulate his friend.\n\n\"But let us reconnoitre,\" he objected. \"It will bring us to the clay-pit\nwhere I saw them digging. Let us go out to the end, and look.\"\n\n\"Well said, old mole!\" Heywood snapped his fingers with delight. \"I\nnever thought of that.\" By his tone, he was proud of the amendment.\n\"Come on, by all means. I say, I didn't really--I didn't _want_ poor old\nGilly down here, you know.\"\n\nThey crawled on, with more speed but no less caution, up the strait\nlittle gallery, which now rose between smooth, soft walls of clay.\nSuddenly, as the incline once more became a level, they saw a glimmering\nsquare of dusky red, like the fluttering of a weak flame through scarlet\ncloth. This, while they shuffled toward it, grew higher and broader,\nuntil they lay prone in the very door of the hill,--a large, square-cut\nportal, deeply overhung by the edge of the clay-pit, and flanked with\nwhat seemed a bulkhead of sand-bags piled in orderly tiers. Between\nshadowy mounds of loose earth flickered the light of a fire, small and\ndistant, round which wavered the inky silhouettes of men, and beyond\nwhich dimly shone a yellow face or two, a yellow fist clutched full of\nboiled rice like a snowball. Beyond these, in turn, gleamed other little\nfires, where other coolies were squatting at their supper.\n\n\"Rudie, look!\" Heywood's voice trembled with joyful excitement. \"Look,\nthese bags; not sand-bags at all! It's powder, old chap, powder! Their\nwhole supply. Wait a bit--oh, by Jove, wait a bit!\"\n\nHe scurried back into the hill like a great rat, returned as quickly and\nswiftly, and with eager hands began to uncoil something on the clay\nthreshold.\n\n\"Do you know enough to time a fuse?\" he whispered. \"Neither do I.\nPowder's bad, anyhow. We must guess at it. Here, quick, lend me a\nknife.\" He slashed open one of the lower sacks in the bulkhead by the\ndoor, stuffed in some kind of twisted cord, and, edging away, sat for an\ninstant with his knife-blade gleaming in the ruddy twilight. \"How long,\nRudie, how long?\" He smothered a groan. \"Too long, or too short, spoils\neverything. Oh, well--here goes.\"\n\nThe blade moved.\n\n\"Now lie across,\" he ordered, \"and shield the tandstickor.\" With a\nsudden fuff, the match blazed up to show his gray eyes bright and\ndancing, his face glossy with sweat; below, on the golden clay, the\ntwisted, lumpy tail of the fuse, like the end of a dusty vine. Darkness\nfollowed, quick and blinding. A rosy, fitful coal sputtered, darting out\nshort capillary lines and needles of fire.\n\n\"Cut sticks--go like the devil! If it blows up, and caves the earth on\nus--\" Heywood ran on hands and knees, as if that were his natural way of\ngoing. Rudolph scrambled after, now urged by an ecstasy of apprehension,\nnow clogged as by the weight of all the hill above them. If it should\nfall now, he thought, or now; and thus measuring as he crawled, found\nthe tunnel endless.\n\nWhen at last, however, they gained the bottom of the shaft, and were\nhoisted out among their coolies on the shelving mound, the evening\nstillness lay above and about them, undisturbed. The fuse could never\nhave lasted all these minutes. Their whole enterprise was but labor\nlost. They listened, breathing short. No sound came.\n\n\"Gone out,\" said Heywood, gloomily. \"Or else they saw it.\"\n\nHe climbed the bamboo scaffold, and stood looking over the wall. Rudolph\nperched beside him,--by the same anxious, futile instinct of curiosity,\nfor they could see nothing but the night and the burning stars.\n\n\"Gone out. Underground again, Rudie, and try our first plan.\" Heywood\nturned to leap down. \"The Sword-Pen looks to set off his mine\nto-morrow morning.\"\n\nHe clutched the wall in time to save himself, as the bamboo frame leapt\nunderfoot. Outside, the crest of the ran black against a single\nburst of flame. The detonation came like the blow of a mallet on\nthe ribs.\n\n\"Let him look! Let him look!\" Heywood jumped to the ground, and in a\npelting shower of clods, exulted:--\n\n\n\"He looked again, and saw it was\nThe middle of next week!\"\n\n\n\"Come on, brother mole. Spread the news!\"\n\nHe ran off, laughing, in the wide hush of astonishment.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XX\n\n\nTHE HAKKA BOAT\n\n\"Pretty fair,\" Captain Kneebone said. \"But that ain't the end.\"\n\nThis grudging praise--in which, moreover, Heywood tamely acquiesced--was\nhis only comment. On Rudolph it had singular effects: at first filling\nhim with resentment, and almost making him suspect the little captain of\njealousy; then amusing him, as chance words of no weight; but in the\nunreal days that followed, recurring to convince him with all the force\nof prompt and subtle fore-knowledge. It helped him to learn the cold,\nsalutary lesson, that one exploit does not make a victory.\n\nThe springing of their countermine, he found, was no deliverance. It had\ntwo plain results, and no more: the crest of the high field, without,\nhad changed its contour next morning as though a monster had bitten it;\nand when the day had burnt itself out in sullen darkness, there burst on\nall sides an attack of prolonged and furious exasperation. The fusillade\nnow came not only from the landward sides, but from a long flotilla of\nboats in the river; and although these vanished at dawn, the fire never\nslackened, either from above the field, or from a distant wall, newly\nspotted with loopholes, beyond the ashes of the go-down. On the night\nfollowing, the boats crept closer, and suddenly both gates resounded\nwith the blows of battering-rams. These and later assaults were beaten\noff. By daylight, the nunnery walls were pitted as with small-pox; yet\nthe little company remained untouched, except for Teppich, whose shaven\nhead was trimmed still closer and redder by a bullet, and for Gilbert\nForrester, who showed--with the grave smile of a man when fates are\nplayful--two shots through his loose jacket.\n\nHe was the only man to smile; for the others, parched by days and\nsweltered by nights of battle, questioned each other with hollow eyes\nand sleepy voices. One at a time, in patches of hot shade, they lay\ntumbled for a moment of oblivion, their backs studded thickly with\nobstinate flies like the driven heads of nails. As thickly, in the dust,\nempty Mauser cartridges lay glistening.\n\n\"And I bought food,\" mourned the captain, chafing the untidy stubble on\nhis cheeks, and staring gloomily down at the worthless brass. \"I bought\nchow, when all Saigong was full o' cartridges!\"\n\nThe sight of the spent ammunition at their feet gave them more trouble\nthan the swarming flies, or the heat, or the noises tearing and\nsplitting the heat. Even Heywood went about with a hang-dog air,\nspeaking few words, and those more and more surly. Once he laughed, when\nat broad noonday a line of queer heads popped up from the earthwork on\nthe knoll, and stuck there, tilted at odd angles, as though peering\nquizzically. Both his laugh, however, and his one stare of scrutiny were\nfilled with a savage contempt,--contempt not only for the stratagem, but\nfor himself, the situation, all things.\n\n\"Dummies--lay figures, to draw our fire. What a childish trick! Maskee!\"\nhe added, wearily \"we couldn't waste a shot at 'em now even if they\nwere real.\"\n\nHis grimy hearers nodded mechanically. They knew, without being told,\nthat they should fire no more until at close quarters in some\nfinal rush.\n\n\"Only a few more rounds apiece,\" he continued. \"Our friends outside must\nhave run nearly as short, according to the coolie we took prisoner in\nthe tunnel. But they'll get more supplies, he says, in a day or two.\nWhat's worse, his Generalissimo Fang expects big reinforcement, any day,\nfrom up country. He told me that a moment ago.\"\n\n\"Perhaps he's lying,\" said Captain Kneebone, drowsily.\n\n\"Wish he were,\" snapped Heywood. \"No such luck. Too stupid.\"\n\n\"That case,\" grumbled the captain, \"we'd better signal your Hakka boat,\nand clear out.\"\n\nAgain their hollow eyes questioned each other in discouragement. It was\nplain that he had spoken their general thought; but they were all too\nhot and sleepy to debate even a point of safety. Thus, in stupor or\ndoubt, they watched another afternoon burn low by invisible degrees,\nlike a great fire dying. Another breathless evening settled over all--at\nfirst with a dusty, copper light, widespread, as though sky and land\nwere seen through smoked glass; another dusk, of deep, sad blue; and\nwhen this had given place to night, another mysterious lull.\n\nMidnight drew on, and no further change had come. Prowlers, made bold by\nthe long silence in the nunnery, came and went under the very walls of\nthe compound. In the court, beside a candle, Ah Pat the compradore sat\nwith a bundle of halberds and a whetstone, sharpening edge after edge,\nplacidly, against the time when there should be no more cartridges.\nHeywood and Rudolph stood near the water gate, and argued with Gilbert\nForrester, who would not quit his post for either of them.\n\n\"But I'm not sleepy,\" he repeated, with perverse, irritating serenity.\n\"I'm not, I assure you. And that river full of their boats?--Go away.\"\n\nWhile they reasoned and wrangled, something scraped the edge of the\nwall. They could barely detect a small, stealthy movement above them, as\nif a man, climbing, had lifted his head over the top. Suddenly, beside\nit, flared a surprising torch, rags burning greasily at the end of a\nlong bamboo. The smoky, dripping flame showed no man there, but only\nanother long bamboo, impaling what might be another ball of rags. The\ntwo poles swayed, inclined toward each other; for one incredible instant\nthe ball, beside its glowing fellow, shone pale and took on human\nfeatures. Black shadows filled the eye-sockets, and gave to the face an\nuncertain, cavernous look, as though it saw and pondered.\n\nHow long the apparition stayed, the three men could not tell; for even\nafter it vanished, and the torch fell hissing in the river, they stood\nbelow the wall, dumb and sick, knowing only that they had seen the head\nof Wutzler.\n\nHeywood was the first to make a sound--a broken, hypnotic sound, without\nemphasis or inflection, as though his lips were frozen, or the words\ntorn from him by ventriloquy.\n\n\"We must get the women--out of here.\"\n\nAfterward, when he was no longer with them, his two friends recalled\nthat he never spoke again that night, but came and went in a kind of\nsilent rage, ordering coolies by dumb-show, and carrying armful after\narmful of supplies to the water gate. He would neither pause nor answer.\n\nThe word passed, or a listless, tacit understanding, that every one must\nhold himself ready to go aboard so soon after daylight as the hostile\nboats should leave the river. \"If,\" said Gilly to Rudolph, while they\nstood thinking under the stars, \"if his boat is still there, now that\nhe--after what we saw.\"\n\nAt dawn they could see the ragged flotilla of sampans stealing up-river\non the early flood; but of the masts that huddled in vapors by the\nfarther bank, they had no certainty until sunrise, when the green rag\nand the rice-measure appeared still dangling above the Hakka boat.\n\nEven then it was not certain--as Captain Kneebone sourly pointed\nout--that her sailors would keep their agreement. And when he had piled,\non the river-steps, the dry wood for their signal fire, a new difficulty\nrose. One of the wounded converts was up, and hobbling with a stick; but\nthe other would never be ferried down any stream known to man. He lay\ndying, and the padre could not leave him.\n\nAll the others waited, ready and anxious; but no one grumbled because\ndeath, never punctual, now kept them waiting. The flutter of birds,\namong the orange trees, gradually ceased; the sun came slanting over\nthe eastern wall; the gray floor of the compound turned white and\nblurred through the dancing heat. A torrid westerly breeze came\nfitfully, rose, died away, rose again, and made Captain Kneebone curse.\n\n\"A fair wind lost,\" he muttered. \"Next we'll lose the ebb, too, be\n'anged.\"\n\nNoon passed, and mid-afternoon, before the padre came out from the\ncourtyard, covering his white head with his ungainly helmet.\n\n\"We may go now,\" he said gravely, \"in a few minutes.\"\n\nNo more were needed, for the loose clods in the old shaft of their\ncounter-mine were quickly handled, and the necessary words soon uttered.\nCaptain Kneebone had slipped out through the water gate, beforehand, and\nlighted the fire on the steps. But not one of the burial party turned\nhis head, to watch the success or failure of their signal, so long as\nthe padre's resonant bass continued.\n\nWhen it ceased, however, they returned quickly through the little grove.\nThe captain opened the great gate, and looked out eagerly, craning to\nsee through the smoke that poured into his face.\n\n\"The wasters!\" he cried bitterly. \"She's gone.\"\n\nThe Hakka boat had, indeed, vanished from her moorings. On the bronze\ncurrent, nothing moved but three fishing-boats drifting down, with the\nsmoke, toward the marsh and the bend of the river, and a small junk that\ntoiled up against wind and tide, a cluster of naked sailors tugging and\nshoving at her heavy sweep, which chafed its rigging of dry rope, and\ngave out a high, complaining note like the cry of a sea-gull.\n\n\"She's gone,\" repeated Captain Kneebone. \"No boat for us.\"\n\nBut the compradore, dragging his bundle of sharp halberds, poked an\ninquisitive head out past the captain's, and peered on all sides through\nthe smoke, with comical thoroughness. He dodged back, grinning and\nducking amiably.\n\n\"Moh bettah look-see,\" he chuckled; \"dat coolie come-back, he too muchee\nwaitee, b'long one piecee foolo-man.\"\n\nHe was wrong. Whoever handled the Hakka boat was no fool, but by working\nupstream on the opposite shore, crossing above, and dropping down with\nthe ebb, had craftily brought her along the shallow, so close beneath\nthe river-wall, that not till now did even the little captain spy her.\nThe high prow, the mast, now bare, and her round midships roof, bright\ngolden-thatched with leaves of the edible bamboo, came moving quiet as\nsome enchanted boat in a calm. The fugitives by the gate still thought\nthemselves abandoned, when her beak, six feet in air, stole past them,\nand her lean boatmen, prodding the river-bed with their poles, stopped\nher as easily as a gondola. The yellow steersman grinned, straining at\nthe pivot of his gigantic paddle.\n\n\"Good boy, lowdah!\" called Kneebone. \"Remember _you_ in my will, too!\"\nAnd the grinning lowdah nodded, as though he understood.\n\nThey had now only to pitch their supplies through the smoke, down on the\nloose boards of her deck. Then--Rudolph and the captain kicking the\nbonfire off the stairs--the whole company hurried down and safely over\nher gunwale: first the two women, then the few huddling converts, the\nwhite men next, the compradore still hugging his pole-axes, and last of\nall, Heywood, still in strange apathy, with haggard face and downcast\neyes. He stumbled aboard as though drunk, his rifle askew under one arm,\nand in the crook of the other, Flounce, the fox-terrier, dangling,\nnervous and wide awake.\n\nHe looked to neither right nor left, met nobody's eye. The rest of the\ncompany crowded into the house amidships, and flung themselves down\nwearily in the grateful dusk, where vivid paintings and mysteries of\nrude carving writhed on the fir bulkheads. But Heywood, with his dog and\nthe captain and Rudolph, sat in the hot sun, staring down at the\nramshackle deck, through the gaps in which rose all the stinks of the\nsweating hold.\n\nThe boatmen climbed the high slant of the bow, planted their stout\nbamboos against their shoulders, and came slowly down, head first, like\nstraining acrobats. As slowly, the boat began to glide past the stairs.\n\nThus far, though the fire lay scattered in the mud, the smoke drifted\nstill before them and obscured their silent, headlong transaction. Now,\nthinning as they dropped below the corner of the wall, it left them\nnaked to their enemies on the knoll. At the same instant, from the marsh\nahead, the sentinel in the round hat sprang up again, like an\ninstantaneous mushroom. He shouted, and waved to his fellows inland.\n\nThey had no time, however, to leave the high ground; for the whole\nchance of the adventure took a sudden and amazing turn.\n\nHeywood sprang out of his stupor, and stood pointing.\n\n\"Look there!\" he snarled. \"Those--oh!\"\n\nHe ended with a groan. The face of his friend, by torchlight above the\nwall, had struck him dumb. Now that he spoke, his companions saw,\nexposed in the field to the view of the nunnery, a white body lying on a\nframework as on a bier. Near the foot stood a rough sort of windlass.\nAbove, on the crest of the field, where a band of men had begun to\nscramble at the sentinel's halloo, there sat on a white pony the\nbright-robed figure of the tall fanatic, Fang the Sword-Pen.\n\n\"He did it!\" Heywood's hands opened and shut rapidly, like things out of\ncontrol. \"Oh, Wutz, how did they--Saint Somebody--the martyrdom--\nPoussin's picture in the Vatican.--I can't stand this, you chaps!\"\n\nHe snatched blindly at his gun, caught instead one of the compradore's\nhalberds, and without pause or warning, jumped out into the shallow\nwater. He ran splashing toward the bank, turned, and seemed to waver,\nstaring with wild eyes at the strange Tudor weapon in his hand. Then\nshaking it savagely,--\n\n\"This will do!\" he cried. \"Good-by, everybody. Good-by!\"\n\nHe wheeled again, staggered to his feet on dry ground, and ran swiftly\nalong the eastern wall, up the rising field, straight toward his mark.\n\nOf the men on the knoll, a few fired and missed, the others, neutrals to\ntheir will, stood fixed in wonder. Four or five, as the runner neared,\nsprang out to intercept, but flew apart like ninepins. The watchers in\nthe boat saw the halberd flash high in the late afternoon sun, the\nfrightened pony swerve, and his rider go down with the one sweep of that\nHomeric blow.\n\nThe last they saw of Heywood, he went leaping from sight over the\ncrest, that swarmed with figures racing and stumbling after.\n\nThe unheeded sentinel in the marsh fled, losing his great hat, as the\nboat drifted round the point into midstream.\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XXI\n\n\nTHE DRAGON'S SHADOW\n\nThe lowdah would have set his dirty sails without delay, for the fair\nwind was already drooping; but at the first motion he found himself\ndeposed, and a usurper in command, at the big steering-paddle. Captain\nKneebone, his cheeks white and suddenly old beneath the untidy stubble\nof his beard, had taken charge. In momentary danger of being cut off\ndownstream, or overtaken from above, he kept the boat waiting along the\noozy shore. Puckering his eyes, he watched now the land, and now the\nriver, silent, furtive, and keenly perplexed, his head on a swivel, as\nthough he steered by some nightmare chart, or expected some instant and\ntransforming sight.\n\nNot until the sun touched the western hills, and long shadows from the\nbank stole out and turned the stream from bright copper to vague\niron-gray, did he give over his watch. He left the tiller, with a\nhopeless fling of the arm.\n\n\"Do as ye please,\" he growled, and cast himself down on deck by the\nthatched house. \"Go on.--I'll never see _him_ again.--The heat, and\nall--By the head, he was--Go on. That's all. Finish.\"\n\nHe sat looking straight before him, with dull eyes that never moved;\nnor did he stir at the dry rustle and scrape of the matting sail, slowly\nhoisted above him. The quaggy banks, now darkening, slid more rapidly\nastern; while the steersman and his mates in the high bow invoked the\nwind with alternate chant, plaintive, mysterious, and half musical:--\n\n\n\"Ay-ly-chy-ly\nAh-ha-aah!\"\n\n\nTo the listeners, huddled in silence, the familiar cry became a long,\nmonotonous accompaniment to sad thoughts. Through the rhythm, presently,\nbroke a sound of small-arms,--a few shots, quick but softened by\ndistance, from far inland. The stillness of evening followed.\n\nThe captain stirred, listened, dropped his head, and sat like stone. To\nRudolph, near him, the brief disturbance called up another evening--his\nfirst on this same river, when from the grassy brink, above, he had\nfirst heard of his friend. Now, at the same place, and by the same\nlight, they had heard the last. It was intolerable: he turned his back\non the captain. Inside, in the gloom of the painted cabin, the padre's\nwife began suddenly to cry. After a time, the deep voice of her husband,\nspeaking very low, and to her alone, became dimly audible:--\n\n\"'All this is come upon us; yet have we not--Our heart is not turned\nback, neither have our steps declined--Though thou hast sore broken us\nin the place of dragons, and covered us with the shadow of death.'\"\n\nThe little captain groaned, and rolled aside from the doorway.\n\n\"All very fine,\" he muttered, his head wrapped in his arms. \"But that's\nno good to me. I can't stand it.\"\n\nWhether she heard him, or by chance, Miss Drake came quietly from\nwithin, and found a place between him and the gunwale. He did not rouse;\nshe neither glanced nor spoke, but leaned against the ribs of\nsmooth-worn fir, as though calmly waiting.\n\nWhen at last he looked up, to see her face and posture, he gave an angry\nstart.\n\n\"And I thought,\" he blurted, \"be 'anged if sometimes I didn't think you\nliked him!\"\n\nHer dark eyes met the captain's with a great and steadfast clearness.\n\n\"No,\" she whispered; \"it was more than that.\"\n\nThe captain sat bolt upright, but no longer in condemnation. For a long\ntime he watched her, marveling; and when finally he spoke, his sharp,\ndomineering voice was lowered, almost gentle.\n\n\"Always talked too much,\" he said. \"Don't mind me, my dear. I never\nmeant--Don't ye mind a rough old beggar, that don't know that hasn't one\nthing more between him and the grave. Not a thing--but money. And that,\nnow--I wish't was at the bottom o' this bloomin' river!\"\n\nThey said no more, but rested side by side, like old friends joined\ncloser by new grief. Flounce, the terrier, snuffing disconsolately about\nthe deck, and scratching the boards in her zeal to explore the shallow\nhold, at last grew weary, and came to snuggle down between the two\nsilent companions. Not till then did the girl turn aside her face, as\nthough studying the shore, which now melted in a soft, half-liquid band\nas black as coal-tar, above the luminous indigo of the river.\n\nSuddenly Rudolph got upon his feet, and craning outboard from gunwale\nand thatched eaves, looked steadily forward into the dusk. A chatter of\nangry voices came stealing up, in the pauses of the wind. He watched and\nlistened, then quickly drew in his head.\n\n\"Sit quiet,\" he said. \"A boat full of men. I do not like their looks.\"\n\nTwo or three of the voices hailed together, raucously. The steersman,\nleaning on the loom of his paddle, made neither stir nor answer. They\nhailed again, this time close aboard, and as it seemed, in rage.\nGlancing contemptuously to starboard, the lowdah made some negligent\nreply, about a cargo of human hair. His indifference appeared so real,\nthat for a moment Rudolph suspected him: perhaps he had been bought\nover, and this meeting arranged. The thought, however, was unjust. The\nvoices began to drop astern, and to come in louder confusion with\nthe breeze.\n\nBut at this point Flounce, the terrier, spoiled all by whipping up\nbeside the lowdah, and furiously barking. Hers was no pariah's yelp: she\nbarked with spirit, in the King's English.\n\nFor answer, there came a shout, a sharp report, and a bullet that ripped\nthrough the matting sail. The steersman ducked, but clung bravely to his\npaddle. Men tumbled out from the cabin, rifles in hand, to join Rudolph\nand the captain.\n\nAstern, dangerously near, they saw the hostile craft, small, but listed\nheavily with crowding ruffians, packed so close that their great wicker\nhats hung along the gunwale to save room, and shone dim in the obscurity\nlike golden shields of vikings. A squat, burly fellow, shouting, jammed\nthe yulow hard to bring her about.\n\n\"Save your fire,\" called Captain Kneebone. \"No shots to waste. Sit\ntight.\"\n\nAs he spoke, however, an active form bounced up beside the squat man at\nthe sweep,--a plump, muscular little barefoot woman in blue. She tore\nthe fellow's hands away, and took command, keeping the boat's nose\npointed up-river, and squalling ferocious orders to all on board.\n\n\"The Pretty Lily!\" cried Rudolph. This small, nimble, capable creature\ncould be no one but Mrs. Wu, their friend and gossip of that morning,\nlong ago....\n\nThe squat man gave an angry shout, and turned on her to wrest away the\nhandle. He failed, at once and for all. With great violence, yet with a\nneat economy of motion, the Pretty Lily took one hand from her tiller,\nlong enough to topple him overboard with a sounding splash.\n\nHer passengers, at so prompt and visual a joke, burst into shrill,\ncackling laughter. Yet more shrill, before their mood could alter, the\nPretty Lily scourged them with the tongue of a humorous woman. She held\nher course, moreover; the two boats drifted so quickly apart that when\nshe turned, to fling a comic farewell after the white men, they could no\nmore than descry her face, alert and comely, and the whiteness of her\nteeth. Her laughing cry still rang, the overthrown leader still\nfloundered in the water, when the picture blurred and vanished. Down the\nwind came her words, high, voluble, quelling all further mutiny aboard\nthat craft of hers.\n\n\"We owe this to you.\" The tall padre eyed Rudolph with sudden interest,\nand laid his big hand on the young man's shoulder. \"Did you catch what\nshe said? You made a good friend there.\"\n\n\"No,\" answered Rudolph, and shook his head, sadly. \"We owe that to--some\none else.\"\n\nLater, while they drifted down to meet the sea and the night, he told\nthe story, to which all listened with profound attention, wondering at\nthe turns of fortune, and at this last service, rendered by a friend\nthey should see no more.\n\nThey murmured awhile, by twos and threes huddled in corners; then lay\nsilent, exhausted in body and spirit. The river melted with the shore\ninto a common blackness, faintly hovered over by the hot, brown, sullen\nevening. Unchallenged, the Hakka boat flitted past the lights of a\nwar-junk, so close that the curved lantern-ribs flickered thin and sharp\nagainst a smoky gleam, and tawny faces wavered, thick of lip and stolid\nof eye, round the supper fire. A greasy, bitter smell of cooking floated\nafter. Then no change or break in the darkness, except a dim lantern or\ntwo creeping low in a sampan, with a fragment of talk from unseen\npassers; until, as the stars multiplied overhead, the night of the land\nrolled heavily astern and away from another, wider night, the stink of\nthe marshes failed, and by a blind sense of greater buoyancy and\nsea-room, the voyagers knew that they had gained the roadstead. Ahead,\nfar off and lustrous, a new field of stars hung scarce higher than\ntheir gunwale, above the rim of the world.\n\nThe lowdah showed no light; and presently none was needed, for--as the\nshallows gave place to deeps--the ocean boiled with the hoary,\ngreen-gold magic of phosphorus, that heaved alongside in soft explosions\nof witch-fire, and sent uncertain smoky tremors playing through the\ndarkness on deck. Rudolph, watching this tropic miracle, could make out\nthe white figure of the captain, asleep near by, under the faint\nsemicircle of the deck-house; and across from him, Miss Drake, still\nsitting upright, as though waiting, with Flounce at her side. Landward,\nagainst the last sage-green vapor of daylight, ran the dim range of the\nhills, in long undulations broken by sharper crests, like the finny back\nof leviathan basking.\n\nOver there, thought Rudolph, beyond that black shape as beyond its\nguarding dragon, lay the whole mysterious and peaceful empire, with\nuncounted lives going on, ending, beginning, as though he, and his sore\nloss, and his heart vacant of all but grief, belonged to some\nunheard-of, alien process, to Nature's most unworthy trifling. This\nboatload of men and women--so huge a part of his own experience--was\nlike the tiniest barnacle chafed from the side of that dark,\nserene monster.\n\nRudolph stared long at the hills, and as they faded, hung his head.\nFrom that dragon he had learned much; yet now all learning was but loss.\n\nOf a sudden the girl spoke, in a clear yet guarded voice, too low to\nreach the sleepers.\n\n\"What are you thinking of?\" she said. \"Come tell me. It will be good for\nboth of us.\"\n\nRudolph crossed silently, and stood leaning on the gunwale beside her.\n\n\"I thought only,\" he answered, \"how much the hills looked so--as a\ndragon.\"\n\n\"How strange.\" The trembling phosphorus half-revealed her face, pale and\nstill. \"I was thinking of that, in a way. It reminded me of what he\nsaid, once--when we were walking together.\"\n\nTo their great relief, they found themselves talking of Heywood, sadly,\nbut freely, and as it were in a sudden calm. Their friendship seemed,\nfor the moment, a thing as long established as the dragon hills. Years\nafterward, Rudolph recalled her words, plainer than the fiery wonder\nthat spread and burst round their little vessel, or the long play of\nheat-lightning which now, from time to time, wavered instantly along the\neastern sea-line.\n\n\"You are right,\" she declared once. \"To go on with life, even when we\nare alone--You will go on, I know. Bravely.\" And again she said: \"Yes,\nsuch men as he are--a sort of Happy Warrior.\" And later, in her slow and\nlevel voice: \"You learned something, you say. Isn't that--what I\ncall--being invulnerable? When a man's greater than anything that\nhappens to him--\"\n\nSo they talked, their speech bare and simple, but the pauses and longer\nsilences filled with deep understanding, solemnized by the time and the\nplace, as though their two lonely spirits caught wisdom from the night,\nscope from the silent ocean, light from the flickering East.\n\nThe flashes, meanwhile, came faster and prolonged their glory, running\nbehind a thin, dead screen of scalloped clouds, piercing the tropic sky\nwith summer blue, and ripping out the lost horizon like a long black\nfibre from pulp. The two friends watched in silence, when Rudolph rose,\nand moved cautiously aft.\n\n\"Good-night,\" he whispered. \"You must sleep now.\"\n\nThat was not, however, the reason. So long as the boiling witch-fire\nturned their wake to golden vapor, he could not be sure; but whenever\nthe heat-lightning ran, and through the sere, phantasmal sail, the\nlookout in the bow flashed like a sharp silhouette through wire\ngauze,--then it seemed to Rudolph that another small black shape leapt\nout astern, and vanished. He stood by the lowdah, watching anxiously.\n\nTime and again the ocean flickered into view, like the floor of a\nmeasureless cavern; and still he could not tell. But at last the lowdah\nalso turned his head, and murmured. Their boat creaked monotonously,\ndrifting to leeward in a riot of golden mist; yet now another creaking\ndisturbed the night, in a different cadence. Another boat followed them,\nrowing fast and gaining. In a brighter flash, her black sail fluttered,\nunmistakable.\n\nRudolph reached for his gun, but waited silently. He would not call out.\nSome chance fisherman, it might be, or any small craft holding the same\ncourse along the coast. Still, he did not like the hurry of the sweeps,\nwhich presently groaned louder and threw up nebulous fire. The\nstranger's bow became an arrowhead of running gold.\n\nAnd here was Flounce, ready to misbehave once more. Before he could\ncatch her, the small white body of the terrier whipped by him, and past\nthe steersman. This time, however, as though cowed, she began to\nwhimper, and then maintained a long, trembling whine.\n\nBeside Rudolph, the compradore's head bobbed up.\n\n\"Allo same she mastah come.\" And in his native tongue, Ah Pat grumbled\nsomething about ghosts.\n\nA harsh voice hailed, from the boat astern; the lowdah answered; and so\nrapidly slid the deceptive glimmer of her bow, that before Rudolph knew\nwhether to wake his friends, or could recover, next, from the shock and\necstasy of unbelief, a tall white figure jumped or swarmed over\nthe side.\n\n\"By Jove, my dream!\" sounded the voice of Heywood, gravely. With fingers\nthat dripped gold, he tried to pat the bounding terrier. She flew up at\nhim, and tumbled back, in the liveliest danger of falling overboard.\n\"Old girl,--my dream!\"\n\nThe figure rose.\n\n\"Hallo, Rudie.\" In a daze, Rudolph gripped the wet and shining hands,\nand heard the same quiet voice: \"Rest all asleep, I suppose? Don't wake\n'em. To-morrow will do.--Have you any money on you? Toss that\nfisherman--whatever you think I'm worth. He really rowed like steam,\nyou know.\"\n\nRudolph flung his purse into the other boat. When he turned, this man\nrestored from the sea had disappeared. But he had only stolen forward,\ndog in arms, to sit beside Miss Drake. So quietly had all happened, that\nnone of the sleepers, not even the captain, was aware. Rudolph drew near\nthe two murmuring voices.\n\n\"--Couldn't help it, honestly,\" said Heywood. \"Can't describe, or\nexplain. Just something--went black inside my head, you know.\" He\npaused. \"No: don't recall seeing a thing, really, until I pitched away\nthe--what happened to be in my hands. A blank, all that. Losing your\nhead, I suppose they call it. Most extraordinary.\"\n\nThe girl's question recalled him from his puzzle.\n\n\"Do? Oh!\" He disposed of the subject easily. \"I ran, that's all.--Oh,\nyes, but I ran faster.--Not half so many as you'd suppose. Most of 'em\nwere away, burning your hospital. Saw the smoke, as I ran. All gone but\na handful. Hence those stuffed hats, Rudie, in the trench.--Only three\nof the lot could run. I merely scuttled into the next bamboo, and kept\non scuttling. No: they weren't half loaded. Oh, yes, arrow in the\nshoulder--scratch. Of course, when it came dark, I stopped running, and\nmade for the nearest fisherman. That's all.\"\n\n\"But,\" protested Rudolph, wondering, \"we heard shots.\"\n\n\"Yes, I had my Webley in my belt. Fortunately. I _told_ you: three of\nthem could run.\" The speaker patted the terrier in his lap. \"My dream,\neh, little dog? You _were_ the only one to know.\"\n\n\"No,\" said the girl: \"I knew--all the time, that--\"\n\nWhatever she meant, Rudolph could only guess; but it was true, he\nthought, that she had never once spoken as though the present meeting\nwere not possible, here or somewhere. Recalling this, he suddenly but\nquietly stepped away aft, to sit beside the steersman, and smile in\nthe darkness.\n\nThe two voices flowed on. He did not listen, but watched the phosphorus\nwelling soft and turbulent in the wake, and far off, in glimpses of the\ntropic light, the great Dragon weltering on the face of the waters. The\nshape glimmered forth, died away, like a prodigy. How ran the verse?\n\n\n\"Ich lieg' und besitze.\nLass mich schlafen.\"\n\n\n\"And yet,\" thought the young man, \"I have one pearl from his hoard.\"\nThat girl was right: like Siegfried tempered in the grisly flood, the\nraw boy was turning into a man, seasoned and invulnerable.\n\nHeywood was calling to him:--\n\n\"You must go Home with us. Do you hear? I've made a wonderful plan--with\nthe captain's fortune! Dear old Kneebone.\"\n\nA small white heap across the deck began to rise.\n\n\"How often,\" complained a voice blurred with sleep, \"how often must I\ntell ye--wake me, unless the ship--chart's all--Good God!\"\n\nAt the captain's cry, those who lay in darkness under the thatched roof\nbegan to mutter, to rise, and grope out into the trembling light, with\nsleepy cries of joy.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Dragon's blood, by Henry Milner Rideout\n\n*** ", "source_language": "en", "target_language": "de_DE", "source_lang_name": "English", "target_lang_name": "German", "doc_id": "Dragon's-blood-by-Henry-Milner-Rideout", "seg_id": 1, "publication_date": 1909, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10321"} -{"text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by Carlo Traverso, Tom Allen and the Online\nDistributed Proofreading Team from images generously made available\nby the Bibliotheque nationale de France (BnF/Gallica) at\nhttp://gallica.bnf.fr.\n\n\n\n\n\n[Illustration]\n\nTRAVELS IN MOROCCO,\n\nBY THE LATE JAMES RICHARDSON,\n\nAUTHOR OF \"A MISSION TO CENTRAL AFRICA,\"\n\"TRAVELS IN THE DESERT OF SAHARA,\" &C.\n\nEDITED BY HIS WIDOW.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nIN TWO VOLUMES.\n\nVOL. II.\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS OF THE SECOND VOLUME.\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nThe Mogador Jewesses.--Disputes between the Jew and the Moor.--Melancholy\nScenes.--The Jews of the Atlas.--Their Religion.--Beautiful Women.--The\nFour Wives.--Statues discovered.--Discrepancy of age of married people.--\nYoung and frail fair ones.--Superstition respecting Salt.--White\nBrandy.--Ludicrous Anecdote.\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nThe Maroquine dynasties.--Family of the Shereefian Monarchs.--Personal\nappearances and character of Muley Abd Errahman.--Refutation of the\ncharge of human sacrifices against the Moorish Princes.--Genealogy of\nthe reigning dynasty of Morocco.--The tyraufc Yezeed, (half\nIrish).--Muley Suleiman, the \"The Shereeff of Shereefs.\"--Diplomatic\nrelations of the Emperor of Morocco with European Powers.--Muley Ismael\nenamoured with the French Princess de Conti.--Rival diplomacy of France\nand England near the Maroquine Court.--Mr. Hay's correspondence with\nthis Court on the Slave-trade.--Treaties between Great Britain and\nMorocco; how defective and requiring amendment.--Unwritten engagements.\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nThe two different aspects by which the strength and resources of the\nEmpire of Morocco may be viewed or estimated.--Native appellation of\nMorocco.--Geographical limits of this country.--Historical review of the\ninhabitants of North Africa, and the manner in which this region was\nsuccessively peopled and conquered.--The distinct varieties of the human\nrace, as found in Morocco.--Nature of the soil and climate of this\ncountry.--Derem, or the Atlas chain of mountains.--Natural\nproducts.--The Shebbel, or Barbary salmon; different characters of\nexports of the Northern and Southern provinces.--The Elaeonderron\nArgan.--Various trees and plants.--Mines.--The Sherb-Errech, or\nDesert-horse.\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nDivision of Morocco into kingdoms or States, and zones or regions.--\nDescription of the towns and cities on the Maroquine coasts of the\nMediterranean and Atlantic waters.--The Zafarine Isles.--Melilla.--\nAlhucemas.--Penon de Velez.--Tegaza.--Provinces of Rif and Garet.--\nTetouan.--Ceuta.--Arzila.--El Araish.--Mehedia.--Salee.--Rabat.--\nFidallah.--Dar-el-Beidah.--Azamour.--Mazagran.--Saffee.--Waladia.\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nDescription of the Imperial Cities or Capitals of the Empire.--\nEl-Kesar.--Mequinez.--Fez.--Morocco.--The province of Tafilett, the\nbirth-place of the present dynasty of the Shereefs.\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nDescription of the towns and cities of the Interior, and those of the\nKingdom of Fez.--Seisouan.--Wazen.--Zawiat.--Muley Dris.--Sofru.--\nDubdu.--Taza.--Oushdah.--Agla.--Nakbila.--Meshra.--Khaluf.--The Places\ndistinguished in. Morocco, including Sous, Draka, and Tafilett.--Tefza.\n--Pitideb.--Ghuer.--Tyijet.--Bulawan.--Soubeit--Meramer.--El-Medina.--\nTagodast.--Dimenet.--Aghmat.--Fronga.--Tedmest.--Tekonlet.--Tesegdelt.--\nTagawost.--Tedsi Beneali.--Beni Sabih.--Tatta and Akka.--Mesah or\nAssah.--Talent.--Shtouka.--General observations on the statistics of\npopulation.--The Maroquine Sahara.\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nLondon Jew-boys.--Excursion to the Emperor's garden, and the Argan\nForests.--Another interview with the Governor of Mogador on the\nAnti-Slavery Address.--Opinion of the Moors on the Abolition of Slavery.\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nEl-Jereed, the Country of Dates.--Its hard soil.--Salt Lake. Its vast\nextent.--Beautiful Palm-trees.--The Dates, a staple article of Food.--\nSome Account of the Date-Palm.--Made of Culture.--Delicious Beverage.--\nTapping the Palm.--Meal formed from the Dates.--Baskets made of the\nBranches of the Tree.--Poetry of the Palm.--Its Irrigation.--\nPalm-Groves.--Collection of Tribute by the \"Bey of the Camp.\"\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nTour in the Jereed of Captain Balfour and Mr. Reade.--Sidi Mohammed.--\nPlain of Manouba.--Tunis.--Tfeefleeah.--The Bastinado.--Turkish\nInfantry.--Kairwan.--Sidi Amour Abeda.--Saints.--A French Spy--\nAdministration of Justice.--The Bey's presents.--The Hobara.--Ghafsa.\nHot streams containing Fish.--Snakes.--Incantation.--Moorish Village.\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nToser.--The Bey's Palace.--Blue Doves.--The town described.--Industry\nof the People.--Sheikh Tahid imprisoned and punished.--Leghorn.--The\nBoo-habeeba.--A Domestic Picture.--The Bey's Diversions.--The Bastinado.--\nConcealed Treasure.--Nefta.--The Two Saints.--Departure of Santa Maria.--\nSnake-charmers.--Wedyen.--Deer Stalking.--Splendid view of the Sahara.--\nRevolting Acts.--Qhortabah.--Ghafsa.--Byrlafee.--Mortality among the\nCamels--Aqueduct.--Remains of Udina.--Arrival at Tunis.--The Boab's\nWives.--Curiosities.--Tribute Collected.--Author takes leave of the\nGovernor of Mogador, and embarks for England.--Rough Weather.--Arrival\nin London.\n\nAPPENDIX.\n\n\n\n\nTRAVELS IN MOROCCO.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nThe Mogador Jewesses.--Disputes between the Jew and the Moor.--Melancholy\nScenes.--The Jews of the Atlas.--Their Religion.--Beautiful Women.--The\nFour Wives.--Statues discovered.--Discrepancy of age of married people.--\nYoung and frail fair ones.--Superstition respecting Salt.--White\nBrandy.--Ludicrous Anecdote.\n\n\nNotwithstanding the imbecile prejudices of the native Barbary Jews, such\nof them who adopt European habits, or who mix with European merchants,\nare tolerably good members of society, always endeavouring to restrain\ntheir own peculiarities. The European Jewesses settled in Mogador, are\nindeed the belles of society, and attend all the balls (such as they\nare). The Jewess sooner forgets religious differences than the Jew, and\nI was told by a Christian lady, it would be a dangerous matter for a\nChristian gentleman to make an offer of marriage to a Mogador Jewess,\nunless in downright earnest; as it would be sure to be accepted.\n\nMonsieur Delaport, Consul of France, was the first official person who\nbrought prominently forward the native and other Jews into the European\nsociety of this place, and since then, these Jews have improved in their\nmanners, and increased their respectability. The principal European Jews\nare from London, Gibraltar, and Marseilles. Many native Jews have\nattempted to wear European clothes; and a European hat, or coat, is now\nthe rage among native Jewesses, who all aspire to get a husband wearing\neither. Such are elements of the progress of the Jewess population in\nthis part of the world, and there is no doubt their position has been\ngreatly ameliorated within the last half century, or since the time of\nAli Bey, who thus describes their wretched condition in his days.\n\n\"Continual disputes arise between the Jew and the Moor; when the Jew is\nwrong, the Moor takes his own satisfaction, and if the Jew be right, he\nlodges a complaint with the judge, who always decides in favour of the\nMussulman. I have seen the Mahometan children amuse themselves by\nbeating little Jews, who durst not defend themselves. When a Jew passes\na mosque, he is obliged to take off his slippers, or shoes; he must do\nthe same when he passes the house of the Kaed, the Kady, or any\nMussulman of distinction. At Fez, and in some other towns, they are\nobliged to walk barefooted.\" Ali Bey mentions other vexations and\noppressions, and adds, \"When I saw the Jews were so ill-treated and\nvexed in every way, I asked them why they did not go to another country.\nThey answered that they could not do so, because they were slaves of the\nSultan.\" Again he says, \"As the Jews have a particular skill in\nthieving, they indemnify themselves for the ill-treatment they receive\nfrom the Moors, by cheating them daily.\"\n\nJewesses are exempt from taking off their slippers, or sandals, when\npassing the mosques. The late Emperor, Muley Suleiman, [1] professed to\nbe a rigidly exact Mussulman, and considered it very indecent, and a\ngreat scandal that Jewesses, some of them, like most women of this\ncountry, of enormous dimensions, should be allowed to disturb the decent\nframe of mind of pious Mussulmen, whilst entering the threshold of the\nhouse of prayer, by the sad exhibitions of these good ladies stooping\ndown and shewing their tremendous calves, when in the act of taking off\ntheir shoes before passing the mosques. For such reasons, Jewesses are\nnow privileged and exempted from the painful necessity of walking\nbarefoot in the streets.\n\nThe policy of the Court in relation to the Jews continually fluctuates.\nSometimes, the Emperor thinks they ought to be treated like the rest of\nhis subjects; at other times, he seems anxious to renew in all its\nvigour the system described by Ali Bey. Hearing that the Jews of\nTangier, on returning from Gibraltar, would often adopt the European\ndress, and so, by disguising themselves, be treated like Christians and\nEuropeans, he ordered all these would-be Europeans forthwith to be\nundressed, and to resume their black turban.\n\nAlas, how were all these Passover, Tabernacle and wedding festivals,\nthese happy and joyous days of the Jewish society of Mogador, changed on\nthe bombardment of that city! What became of the rich and powerful\nmerchants, the imperial vassals of commerce with their gorgeous wives\nbending under the weight of diamonds, pearls, and precious gems, during\nthat sad and unexpected period? The newspapers of the day recorded the\nmelancholy story. Many of the Jews were massacred, or buried underneath\nthe ruins of the city; their wives subjected to plunder; the rest were\nleft wandering naked and starving on the desolate sandy coast of the\nAtlantic, or hidden in the mountains, obtaining a momentary respite from\nthe rapacious fury of the savage Berbers and Arabs.\n\nIt is well known that, while the French bombarded Tangier and Mogador\nfrom without, the Berber and Arab tribes, aided by the _canaille_ of the\nMoors, plundered the city from within. Several of the Moorish rabble\ndeclared publicly, and with the greatest cowardice and villainous\neffrontery, \"When the French come to destroy Mogador, we shall go and\npillage the Jews' houses, strip the women of their ornaments, and then\nescape to the mountains from the pursuit of the Christians.\" These\nthreats they faithfully executed; but, by a just vengeance, they were\npillaged in turn, for the Berbers not only plundered the Jews\nthemselves, but the Moors who had escaped from the city laden with their\nbooty.\n\nIt is to be hoped that a better day is dawning for North African Jews.\nThe Governments of France and England can do much for them in Morocco.\n\nThe Jews of the Atlas formed the subject of some of Mr. Davidson's\nliterary labours; I have made further inquiries and shall give the\nreader some account of them, adding that portion of Mr. Davidson's\ninformation which was borne out by further investigation. The Atlas Jews\nare physically, if not morally, superior to their brethren who reside\namong the Moors. They are dispersed over the Atlas ranges, and have all\nthe characteristics of mountaineers. They enjoy, like their neighbours,\nthe Berbers and Shelouhs, a species of quasi-independence of the\nImperial authority, but they usually attach themselves to certain Berber\nchieftains who protect them, and whose standards they follow.\n\nThese are the only Jews in Mahometan countries of whom I have heard as\nbearing arms. They have, however, their own Sheiks, to whose\njurisdiction all domestic matters are referred. They wear the same\nattire as the mountaineers, and are not distinguishable from them, they\ndo not address the Moors by the term of respect and title \"Sidi,\" but in\nthe same way as the Moors and Arabs when they accost each other. They\nspeak the Shelouh language.\n\nMr. Davidson mentions some curious circumstances about these Jews, and\nof their having a city beyond the Atlas, where three or four thousand\nare living in perfect freedom, and cultivating the soil, which they have\npossessed since the time of Solomon. The probability is that Mr.\nDavidson's informant refers to the Jews of the Oasis of Sahara, where\nthere certainly are some families of Jews living in comparative freedom\nand independence.\n\nAs to the peculiarities of the religion of the Atlas Jews, they are said\nnot to have the Pentateuch and the law in the same order as Jews\ngenerally. They are unacquainted with Ezra, or Christ; they did not go\nto Babylon at the captivity, but were dispersed over Africa at that\nperiod. They are a species of Caraaites, or Jewish Protestants. Shadai\nis the name which they apply to the Supreme Being, when speaking of him.\nTheir written law begins by stating that the world was many thousand\nyears old when the present race of men was formed, which, curiously\nenough, agrees with the researches of modern geology. The present race\nof men are the joint offspring of different and distinct human species.\nThe deluge is not mentioned by them. God, it is said, appeared to\nIshmael in a dream, and told him he must separate from Isaac, and go to\nthe desert, where he would make him a great nation. There would ever\nafter be enmity between the two races, as at this day there is the\ngreatest animosity between the Jews and Mahometans.\n\nThe great nucleus of these Shelouh Jews is in _Jebel Melge_, or the vast\nridge of the Atlas capped with eternal snows; and they hold\ncommunications with the Jews of Ait Mousa, Frouga or Misfuva. They\nrarely descend to the plains or cities of the empire, and look upon the\nrest of the Jews of this country as heretics. Isolation thus begets\nenmity and mistrust, as in other cases. A few years ago, a number came\nto Mogador, and were not at all pleased with their visit, finding fault\nwith everything among their brethren. These Jewish mountaineers are\nsupposed to be very numerous. In their homes, they are inaccessible. So\nthey live in a wild independence, professing a creed as free as their\nown mountain airs. God, who made the hills, made likewise man's freedom\nto abide therein. Before taking leave of the Maroquine Israelites, I\nmust say something of their personal appearance. Both in Tangier and\nMogador, I was fortunate enough to be acquainted with families, who\ncould boast of the most perfect and classic types of Jewish female\nloveliness. Alas, that these beauties should be only charming _animals_,\ntheir minds and affections being left uncultivated, or converted into\ncaves of unclean and tormenting passions. The Jewesses, in general,\nuntil they become enormously stout and weighed down with obesity, are of\nextreme beauty. Most of them have fair complexions; their rose and\njasmine faces, their pure wax-like delicate features, and their\nexceedingly expressive and bewitching eyes, would fascinate the most\nfastidious of European connoisseurs of female beauty.\n\nBut these Israelitish ladies, recalling the fair image of Rachel in the\nPatriarchal times of Holy Writ, and worthy to serve as models for a\nGrecian sculptor, are treated with savage disdain by the churlish Moors,\nand sometimes are obliged to walk barefoot and prostrate themselves\nbefore their ugly negress concubines. The male infants of Jews are\nengaging and goodlooking when young; but, as they grow up, they become\nordinary; and Jews of a certain age, are decidedly and most disgustingly\nugly. It is possible that the degrading slavery in which they usually\nlive, their continued habits of cringing servility, by which the\ncountenance acquires a sinister air and fiendishly cunning smirk, may\ncause this change in their appearance. But what contrasts we had of the\nbeauty of countenance and form in the Jewish society of Mogador! You\nfrequently see a youthful woman, nay a girl of exquisite beauty and\ndelicacy of features, married to an old wretched ill-looking fellow of\nsome sixty or seventy years of age, tottering over the grave, or an\nincurable invalid. To render them worse-looking, whilst the women may\ndress in any and the gayest colours, the men wear a dark blue and black\nturban and dress, and though this is prescribed as a badge of\noppression, they will often assume it when they may attire themselves in\nwhite and other livelier colours. However, men get used to their misery,\nand hug their chains.\n\nThe Jews, at times, though but very rarely, avail themselves of their\nprivilege of four wives granted them in Mahometan countries, and a nice\nmess they make of it. I knew a Jew of this description in Tunis. He was\na lively, jocose fellow, with a libidinous countenance, singing always\nsome catch of a song. He was a silk-mercer, and pretty well off. His\nhouse was small, and besides a common _salle-a-manger_, divided into\nfour compartments for his four wives, each defending her room with the\nferocity of a tigress. Two of them were of his own age, about fifty, and\ntwo not more than twenty. The two elder ones, I was told by his\nneighbours, were entirely abandoned by the husband, and the two younger\nones were always bickering and quarrelling, as to which of them should\nhave the greater favour of their common tyrant; the house a scene of\ntumult, disorder and indecency. Amongst the whole of the wives, there\nwas only one child, a boy, of course an immense pet, a little surly\nwretch; his growth smothered, his health nearly ruined, by the\noverattentions of the four women, whom he kicked and pelted when out of\nhumour.\n\nThis little imp was the fit type, or interpretation of the presiding\ngenius of polygamy. I once visited this happy family, this biting satire\non domestic bliss and the beauty of the harem of the East. The women\nwere all sour, and busy at work, weaving or spinning cotton, \"Do you\nwork for your husband?\" I asked,\n\n_The women_.--\"Thank Rabbi, no.\"\n\n_Traveller_.--\"What do you do with your money?\"\n\n_The women_.--\"Spend it ourselves.\"\n\n_Traveller_.--\"How do you like to have only one husband among you four?\"\n\n_The women_.--\"Pooh! is it not the will of God?\"\n\n_Traveller_.--\"Whose boy is that?\"\n\n_The women_.--\"It belongs to us all.\"\n\n_Traveller_.--\"Have you no other children?\"\n\n_The women_.--\"Our husband is good for no more than that.\"\n\nWhilst I was talking to these angelic creatures, their beloved lord was\nquietly stuffing capons, without hearing our polite discourse. A\nEuropean Jew who knew the native society of Jews well, represents\ndomestic bliss to be a mere phantom, and scarcely ever thought of, or\nsought after. Poor human nature!\n\nI took a walk round the suburbs one morning, whilst a strong wind was\nbringing the locusts towards the coast, which fell upon us like\nhailstones. Young locusts frequently crowd upon the neighbouring hills\nin thousands and tens of thousands. They are little green things. No one\nknows whence they come and whither they go. These are not destructive.\nIndeed, unless swarms of locusts appear darkening the sky, and full\ngrown ones, they do not permanently damage the country. The wind usually\ndisperses them; they rarely take a long flight, except impelled by a\nviolent gale. Arabs attempt to destroy locusts by digging pits into\nwhich they may fall. This is merely playing with them. Jews fry them in\noil and salt, and sell them as we sell shrimps, the taste of which they\nresemble.\n\nOn my return, I passed a Mooress, or rather a Mauritanian Venus, who was\nso stout that she had fallen down, and could not get up. A mule was\nfetched to carry her home. But the Moor highly relishes these enormous\nlumps of fat, according to the standard beauty laid down by the\ntalebs--\"Four things in a woman should be ample, the lower part of the\nback, the thighs, the calves of the legs and the knees.\"\n\nSome time ago, there were discovered at Malta various rude statues of\nwomen very ample in the lower part of the \"back,\" supposed to be of\nLibyan origin, so that stout ladies have been the choicest of the\nfashion for ages past; the fattening of women, like so many capons and\nturkeys, begins when they are betrothed.\n\nThey then swallow three times a day regular boluses of paste, and are\nnot allowed to take exercise. By the time marriage takes place, they are\nin a tolerable good condition, not unlike Smithfield fattened heifers.\nThe lady of one of the European merchants being very thin, the Moors\nfrequently asked her husband how it was, and whether she had enough to\neat, hinting broadly that he starved her.\n\nOn the other hand, two or three of the merchant's wives were exceedingly\nstout, and of course great favourites with the men folks of this city.\n\nThe discrepancies of age, in married people, is most unnatural and\ndisgusting; whilst the merchants were at Morocco, a little girl of nine\nyears of age was married to a man upwards of fifty. Ten and eleven is a\ncommon age for girls to be married. Much has been said of the reverence\nof children for their parents in the East, and tribes of people\nmigrating therefrom, and the fifth commandment embodies the sentiment of\nthe Eastern world. But there is little of this in Mogador; a European\nJewess, who knows all the respectable Jewish and many of the Moorish\nfamilies, assured me that children make their aged parents work for\nthem, as long as the poor creatures can. \"Honour thy father and thy\nmother,\" is quite as much neglected here as in Europe. However, there is\nsome difference. The indigent Moors and Jews maintain their aged parents\nin their own homes, and we English Christian shut up ours in the Union\nBastiles.\n\nTo continue this domestic picture, the marriage settlements, especially\namong the Jews, are ticklish and brittle things, as to money or other\nmercenary arrangements.\n\nA match is often broken off, because a lamp of the value of four dollars\nhas been substituted for one of the value of twenty dollars, which was\nfirst promised on the happy day of betrothal.\n\nIndeed, nearly all marriages here are matters of sale and barter. Love\nis out of the question, he never flutters his purple wings over the\nbridal bed of Mogador. A Jewish or Moorish girl having placed before her\na rich, old ugly man, of mean and villanous character, of three score\nyears and upwards, and by his side, a handsome youth of blameless\ncharacter and amiable manners, will not hesitate a moment to prefer the\nformer. As affairs of intrigue and simple animal enjoyment are the great\nbusiness of life, the ways and means, in spite of Moorish and Mahometan\njealousy, as strong as death, by which these young and frail beauties\nindulge in forbidden conversations, are innumerable. Although the Moors\nfrequently relate romantic legends of lovely innocent brides, who had\nnever seen any other than the faces of their father, or of married\nladies, who never raised the veil from off their faces, except to\nreceive their own husbands, and seem to extol such chastity and\nseclusion; they are too frequently found indulging in obscene\nimaginations, tempting and seducing the weaker sex from the path of\nvirtue and honour. So that, if women are unchaste here, or elsewhere,\nmen are the more to blame: if woman goes one step wrong, men drag her\ntwo more. Men corrupt women, and then punish her for being corrupt,\ndepriving them of their natural and unalienable rights.\n\nSalt in Africa as in Europe is a domestic superstition. A Jewess, one\nmorning, in bidding adieu to her friends, put her fingers into a\nsalt-cellar, and took from it a large pinch of salt, which her friend\ntold me afterwards was to preserve her from the evil one. Salt is also\nused for a similar important purpose, when, during the night, a person\nis obliged to pass from one room into another in the dark. It would be\nan entertaining task to collect the manifold superstitions in different\nparts of the world, respecting this essential ingredient of human food.\n\nThe habit of drinking white brandy, stimulates the immorality of this\nMaroquine society. The Jews are the great factors of this _acqua\nardiente_, its Spanish and general name. Government frequently severely\npunishes them for making it; but they still persevere in producing this\nincentive to intoxication and crime. In all parts of the world, the most\ndegraded classes are the factors of the means of vice for the higher\norders of society. Moors drink it under protest, that it is not the\njuice of the grape. On the Sabbath, the Jewish families are all flushed,\nexcited, and tormented by this evil spirit; but when the highest\nenjoyments of intellect are denied to men, they must and will seek the\nlower and beastly gratifications.\n\nFriend Cohen came in one afternoon, and related several anecdotes of the\nMaroquine Court. When Dr. Brown was attending the Sultan, the Vizier\nmanaged to get hold of his cocked hat, and placing it upon his head,\nstrutted about in the royal gardens. Whilst performing this feat before\nseveral attendants, the Sultan suddenly made his appearance in the midst\nof them. The minister seeing him, fell down in a fright and a fit. His\nImperial Highness beckoned to the minister in such woful plight, to\npacify himself, and put his cloak before his mouth to prevent any one\nfrom seeing him laugh at the minister, which he did most immoderately.\n\nCohen, who is a quack, was once consulted on a case of the harem. Cohen\npleaded ignorance, God had not given him the wit; he could do nothing\nfor the patient of his Imperial Highness. This was very politic of\nCohen, for another quack, a Moor, had just been consulted, and had had\nhis head taken off, for not being successful in the remedies he\nprescribed. There would not be quite so much medicine administered among\nus, weak, cracky, crazy mortals, in this cold damp clime, if such an\nalternative was proposed to our practitioners.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nThe Maroquine dynasties.--Family of the Shereefian Monarchs.--Personal\nappearances and character of Muley Abd Errahman.--Refutation of the\ncharge of human sacrifices against the Moorish Princes.--Genealogy of\nthe reigning dynasty of Morocco.--The tyraufc Yezeed, (half\nIrish).--Muley Suleiman, the \"The Shereeff of Shereefs.\"--Diplomatic\nrelations of the Emperor of Morocco with European Powers.--Muley Ismael\nenamoured with the French Princess de Conti.--Rival diplomacy of France\nand England near the Maroquine Court.--Mr. Hay's correspondence with\nthis Court on the Slave-trade.--Treaties between Great Britain and\nMorocco; how defective and requiring amendment.--Unwritten engagements.\n\n\nMorocco, an immense and unwieldly remnant of the monarchies formed by\nthe Saracens, or first Arabian conquerors of Africa, has had a series of\ndynasties terminating in that of the Shereefs.\n\n1st. The Edristees (pure Saracens,) their capital was Fez, founded by\ntheir great progenitor, Edrio. The dynasty began in A.D. 789, and\ncontinued to 908.\n\n2nd. The Fatamites (also Saracens.) These conquered Egypt, and were the\nfaction of or lineal descendants of the daughter of the Prophet, the\nbeautiful pearl-like Fatima, succeeding to the above: this dynasty\ncontinued to 972.\n\n3rd. The Zuheirites (Zeirities, or Zereids) were usurpers of the former\nconquerors; their dynasty terminated in 1070.\n\n4th. Moravedi (or Marabouteen,) that is to say, Marabouts, [2] who rose\ninto consequence about 1050, and their first prince was Aberbekr Omer El\nLamethounx, a native of Sous. Their dynasty terminated in 1149.\n\n5th. The Almohades. These are supposed to be sprung from the Berber\ntribes. They conquered all North Western Morocco, and reigned about one\nhundred years, the dynasty terminated in 1269.\n\n6th. The Merinites. These in 1250 subjugated the kingdoms of Fez and\nMorocco; and in 1480 their dynasty terminated with the Shereef.\n\n7th. The Oatagi (or Ouatasi) [3] were a tribe of obscure origin. In\ntheir time, the Portuguese established themselves on the coast of\nMorocco; their dynasty ended in 1550.\n\n8th. The Shereefs (Oulad Ali) of the present dynasty, whose founder was\nHasein, have now occupied the Imperial throne more than three centuries.\nThis family of Shereefs came from the neighbourhood of Medina in Arabia,\nand succeeded to the empire of Morocco by a series of usurpations. They\nare divided into two branches, the Sherfah Hoseinee, so named from the\nfounder of the dynasty, who began to reign at Taroudant and Morocco in\n1524, and over all the empire in 1550, and the Sherfah El Fileli, or\nTafilett, whose ancestor was Muley Shereef Ben Ali-el-Hoseinee, and\nassumed sovereign power at Tafilett in 1648, from which country he\nextended his authority over all the provinces of that empire. Thus the\nShereefs began their reign in the middle of the seventeenth century, and\nhave now wielded the sword of the Prophet as Caliph of the West these\nlast two hundred years. I have not heard that there is anywhere a\ndynasty of Shereefs except in this country. They are, therefore,\nprofoundly venerated by all true Mussulmen. It was a great error to\nsuppose that Abd-el-Kader could have succeeded in dethroning the Emperor\nduring the hostilities of the Emir against the lineal representative of\nthe Prophet. Abd-el-Kader is a marabout warrior, greatly revered and\nidolized by all enthusiastic Mussulmen throughout North Africa, more\nespecially in Morocco, the _terre classique_ of holy-fighting men; but\nthough the Maroquines were disaffected, groaning under the avarice of\ntheir Shereefian Lord, and occasionally do revolt, nevertheless they\nwould not deliberately set aside the dynasty of the Shereefs, the\nveritable root and branch of the Prophet of God, for an adventurer of\nother blood, however powerful in arms and in sanctity.\n\nMorocco is the only independent Mussulman kingdom remaining, founded by\nthe Saracens when they conquered North Africa. Tunis and Tripoli are\nregencies of the Port of Tunis, having an hereditary Bey, while Tripoli\nis a simple Pasha, removable at pleasure. Algeria has now become an\nintegral portion of France by the Republic.\n\nMuley Abd Errahman was nominated to the throne by the solemn and dying\nrequest of his uncle, Muley Suleiman, to the detriment of his own\nchildren.\n\nHe belonged to one of the most illustrious branches of the reigning\ndynasty. In the natural order of succession, he ought to have taken\npossession of the Shereefian crown at the end of the last age; but,\nbeing a child, his uncle was preferred; for Mahometan sovereigns and\nempire are exposed to convulsions enough, without the additional dangers\nand elements of strife attendant on regencies.\n\nIn transmitting the sceptre to him, Muley Suleiman, therefore, only\nperformed an act of justice.\n\nMuley Abd Errahman, during his long reign, rendered the imperial\nauthority more solid than formerly, and established a species of\nconservative government in a semi-barbarous country, and exposed to\ncontinual commotions, like all Asiatic and African states. In governing\nthe multitudinous and heterogeneous tribes of his empire, his grand\nmaxim has ever been, like Austria, with her various states and hostile\ninterests of different people, \"Divide et empera.\" When will sovereigns\nlearn to govern their people upon principles of homogenity of interests,\nnatural good will, and fraternal feeling? Alas! we have reason to fear,\nnever. It seems nations are to be governed always by setting up one\nportion of the people against the other.\n\nMuley Abd Errahman was chosen by his uncle, on account of his pacific\nand frugal habits, educated as he was by being made in early life the\nadministrator of the customs in Mogador, and as a prince likely to\npreserve and consolidate the empire. The anticipations of the uncle have\nbeen abundantly realized by the nephew, for Muley Abd Errahman, with the\nexception of the short period of the French hostilities, (which was not\nhis own work and happened in spite of him), has preserved the intact\nwithout, and quiet during the many years he has occupied the throne.\n\nHis Moorish Majesty, who is advanced in life, is a man of middle\nstature. He has dark and expressive eyes, and, as already observed, is a\nmulatto of a fifth caste. Colour excites no prejudices either in the\nsovereign or in the subject. This Emperor is so simple in his habits and\ndress, that he can only be distinguished from his officers and governors\nof provinces by the _thall_, or parasol, the Shereefian emblem of\nroyalty. The Emperor's son, when out on a military expedition, is also\nhonoured by the presence of the Imperial parasol, which was found in\nSidi Mohammed's tent at the Battle of Isly. Muley Abd Errahman is not\ngiven to excesses of any kind, (unless avarice is so considered), though\nhis three harems of Fas, Miknas, and Morocco may be _stocked_, or more\npolitely, adorned, with a thousand ladies or so, and the treasures of\nthe empire are at his disposal. He is not a man of blood; [4] he rarely\ndecapitates a minister or a governor, notwithstanding that he frequently\nconfiscates their property, and sometimes imprisons them to discover\ntheir treasures, and drain them of their last farthing. The Emperor\nlives on good terms with the rest of his family. He has one son,\nGovernor of Fez (Sidi Mohammed), and another son, Governor of Rabat. The\ngreater part of the royal family reside at Tafilett, the ancient country\nof the _Sherfah_, or Shereefs, and is still especially appropriated for\ntheir residence. Ali Bey reported as the information of his time, that\nthere were at Tafilett no less than two thousand Shereefs, who all\npretended to have a right to the throne of Morocco, and who, for that\nreasons enjoyed certain gratifications paid them by the reigning Sultan.\nHe adds that, during an interregnum, many of them took up arms and threw\nthe empire into anarchy. This state of things is happily past, and, as\nto the number of the Shereefs at Tafilett, all that we know is, there is\na small fortified town, inhabited entirely by Shereefs, living in\nmoderate, if not impoverished circumstances.\n\nThe Shereefian Sultans of Morocco are not only the successors of the\nArabian Sovereigns of Spain, but may justly dispute the Caliphat with\nthe Osmanlis, or Turkish Sultans. Their right to be the chiefs of\nIslamism is better founded than the pretended Apostolic successors at\nRome, who, in matters of religion, they in some points resemble.\n\nI introduce here, with some unimportant variations, a translation from\nGraeberg de Hemso of the Imperial Shereefian pedigree, to correspond with\nthe genealogical tableaux, which the reader will find in succeeding\npages, of the Moorish dynasties of Tunis and Tripoli.\n\n\nGENEALOGY OF THE REIGNING DYNASTY OF MOROCCO.\n\n1. Ali-Ben-Abou-Thaleb; died in 661 of the Christian Era; surnamed \"The\naccepted of God,\" of the most ancient tribe of Hashem, and husband of\nFatima, styled Ey-Zarah, or, \"The Pearl,\" only daughter of Mahomet.\n\n2. Hosein, or El-Hosein-es-Sebet, _i.e._ \"The Nephew;\" died in 1680;\nfrom him was derived the patronymic El-Hoseinee, which all the Shereefs\nbear,\n\n3. Hasan-el-Muthna, _i.e._ \"The Striker;\" died in 719; brother of\nMohammed, from whom pretended to descend, in the 16th degree, Mohammed\nBen Tumert, founder of the dynasty of the Almohadi, in 1120.\n\n4. Abdullah-el-Kamel, _i.e._ \"The Perfect;\" in 752, father of Edris, the\nprogenitor or founder of the dynasty of the Edristi in Morocco, and who\nhad six brothers.\n\n5. Mohammed, surnamed \"The pious and just soul;\" in 784, had five\nchildren who were the branches of a numerous family. (Between Mohammed\nand El-Hasem who follows, some assert that three gererations succeeded).\n\n6. El-Kasem, in 852; brother of Abdullah, from whom it is said the\nCaliphs of Egypt and Morocco are descended.\n\n7. Ismail; about 890.\n\n8. Ahmed; in 901.\n\n9. El-Hasan; in 943.\n\n10. Ali; in 970, (excluded from the genealogy published by Ali Bey, but\nnoted by several good authorities).\n\n11. Abubekr; 996.\n\n12. El-Husan, in 1012.\n\n13. Abubekr El-Arfat, _i.e._ \"The Knower,\" in 1043.\n\n14. Mohammed, in 1071.\n\n15. Abdullah, in 1109.\n\n16. Hasan, in 1132; brother of a Mohammed, who emigrated to Morocco.\n\n17. Mohammed, in 1174.\n\n18. Abou-el-Kasem Abd Errahman, in 1207.\n\n19. Mohammed, in 1236.\n\n20. El-Kaseru, in 1271, brother of Ahmed, who also emigrated into\nAfrica, and was father of eight children, one of whom was:\n\n21. El-Hasan, who, in 1266, upon the demand of a tribe of Berbers of\nMoghrawa, was sent by his father into the kingdom of Segelmesa (now\nTafilett) and Draha, where, through his descendants, he became the\ncommon progenitor of the Maroquine Shereefs.\n\n22. Mohammed, in 1367.\n\n23. El-Hasan, in 1391, by his son, Mohammed, he became grandfather of\nHosem, who, during 1507, founded the first dynasty of the Hoseinee\nShereefs in Segelmesa, and the extreme south of Morocco, which dynasty,\nafter twelve years, made itself master of the kingdom of Morocco.\n\n24. Ali-es-Shereef, _i.e._ \"The noble,\" died in 1437, was the first to\nassume this name, and had, after forty years elapsed, two sons, the\nfirst, Muley Mahommed, by a concubine, and the second:\n\n25. Yousef, by a legitimate wife; he retired into Arabia, where he died\nin 1485. It was said of Yousef, that no child was born to him until his\neightieth year, when he had five children, the first born of which was,\n\n26. Ali, who died in 1527, and had at least, eighty male children.\n\n27. Mohammed, in 1691, brother of Muley Meherrez, a famous brigand, and\nafterwards a king of Tafilett: this Mohammed was father of many\nchildren, and among the rest--\n\n28. Ali, who was called by his uncle from Zambo (?) into\nMoghrele-el-Aksa Morocco about the year 1620, and died in 1632, after\nhaving founded the second, and present, dynasty of the Hoseinee\nShereefs, surnamed the _Filei_,\n\n29. Muley Shereeff, died in 1652; he had eighty sons, and a hundred\nand twenty-four daughters.\n\n30. Muley Ismail, in 1727.\n\n31. Muley Abdullah, in 1757.\n\n32. Sidi Mohammed, in 1789.\n\n33. Muley Yezeed, who assumed the surname of El-Mahdee _i.e._ \"the\ndirector,\" in 1792.\n\n34. Muley Hisham, in 1794.\n\n35. Muley Suleiman, in 1822.\n\n36. Muley Abd Errahman, nephew of Muley Suleiman and eldest son of\nMuley Hisham, the reigning Shereefian prince. [5]\n\nIn the Shereefian lineage of Muley Suleiman, copied for Ali Bey by the\nEmperor himself, and which is very meagre and unsatisfactory, we miss\nthe names of the two brothers, the Princes Yezeed and Hisham, who\ndisputed the succession on the death of their father, Sidi Mohammed\nwhich happened in April 1790 or 1789, when the Emperor was on a military\nexpedition to quell the rebellion of his son, Yezeed--the tyrant whose\nbad fame and detestable cruelties filled with horror all the North\nAfrican world. The Emperor Suleiman evidently suppressed these names, as\ndisfiguring the lustre of the holy pedigree; although Yezeed was the\nhereditary prince, and succeeded his father three days after his death,\nbeing proclaimed Sultan at Salee with accustomed pomp and magnificence.\nThis monster in human shape, having excited a civil war against himself\nby his horrid barbarities, was mortally wounded by a poisoned arrow,\nshot from a secret hand, and died in February 1792, the 22nd month of\nhis reign, and 44th year of his age.\n\nOn being struck with the fatal weapon, he was carried to his palace at\nDar-el-Beida, where he only survived a single day; but yet during this\nbrief period, and whilst in the agony of dissolution, it is said, the\ntyrant committed more crimes and outrages, and caused more people to be\nsacrificed, than in his whole lifetime, determining with the vengeance\nof a pure fiend, that if his people would not weep for his death they\nshould mourn for the loss of their friends and relations, like the old\ntyrant Herod. How instinctively imitative is crime! Yezeed was of\ncourse, not buried at the cross-roads, (Heaven forefend!) or in a\ncemetery for criminals\n\n[...]\n\n presents.\nSome deer, Jereed goats, an ostrich, &c., were sent to Mr. R. after his\nreturn, and both Captain B. and Mr. R. have had every reason to be\nextremely gratified with the hospitality and kind attentions of the \"Bey\nof the Camp.\"\n\nIt is very difficult to ascertain the amount of tribute collected in the\nJereed, some of which, however, was not got in, owing to various\nimpediments. Our tourists say generally:--\n\n Camel-loads. [40]\n Money, dollars, and piastres, (chiefly I\n imagine, the latter.) 23\n\n Burnouses, blankets, and quilts, &c. 6\n\n Dates (these were collected at Toser,\n and brought from Nefta and the surrounding\n districts) 500\n ----\n Total 529\n\n It is impossible, with this statement\n before us, to make out any exact\n calculation of the amount of tribute.\n A cantar of dates varies from fifteen\n to twenty-five shillings, say on an\n average a pound sterling; this will\n make the amount of the 500 camel-loads\n at five cantars per load L2,500\n\n Six camel-loads of woollen manufactures,\n &c., at sixty pound per load, value 360\n ------\n Total L2,860\n\nThe money, chiefly piastres, must be left to conjecture. However, Mr.\nLevy, a large merchant at Tunis, thinks the amount might be from 150 to\n200,000 piastres, or, taking the largest sum, L6,250 sterling:\n\n Total amount of the tribute of the Jereed:\n in goods L2,860\n Ditto, in money: 6,250\n ------\n Total L9,110\n\nTo this sum may be added the smaller presents of horses, camels, and\nother beasts of burden.\n\n * * * * *\n\nBefore leaving Mogador, in company with Mr. Willshire, I saw his\nExcellency, the Governor again, when I took formal leave of him. He\naccompanied me down to the port with several of the authorities, waiting\nuntil I embarked for the Renshaw schooner. Several of the Consuls, and\nnearly all the Europeans, were also present. On the whole, I was\nsatisfied with the civilities of the Moorish authorities, and offer my\ncordial thanks to the Europeans of Mogador for their attentions during\nmy residence in that city.\n\nA little circumstance shews the subjection of our merchants, the Consul\nnot excepted, to the Moorish Government. One of the merchants wished to\naccompany me on board, but was not permitted, on account of his\nengagements with the Sultan.\n\nA merchant cannot even go off the harbour to superintend the stowing of\nhis goods. Never were prisoners of war, or political offenders, so\nclosely watched as the boasted imperial merchants of this city.\n\nAfter setting sail, we were soon out of sight of Mogador; and, on the\nfollowing day, land disappeared altogether. During the next month, we\nwere at sea, and out of view of the shore. I find an entry in my\njournal, when off the Isle of Wight. We had had most tremendous weather,\nsuccessive gales of foul wind, from north and north-east. Our schooner\nwas a beautiful vessel, a fine sailer with a flat bottom, drawing little\nwater, made purposely for Barbary ports. She had her bows completely\nunder water, and pitched her way for twenty-five succeeding days,\nthrough huge rising waves of sea and foam. During the whole of this\ntime, I never got up, and lived on bread and water with a little\nbiscuit. Captain Taylor, who was a capital seaman, and took the most\naccurate observations, lost all patience, and, though a good methodist,\nwould now and then rush on deck, and swear at the perverse gale and\nwrathful sea. We took on board a fine barb for Mr. Elton, which died\nafter a few days at sea, in these tempests. I had a young vulture that\ndied a day before the horse, or we should have fed him on the carcase.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nAn aoudad which we conveyed on account of Mr. Willshire to London, for\nthe Zoological Society, outlived these violent gales, and was safely and\ncomfortably lodged in the Regent's Park. After my return from Africa, I\npaid my brave and hardy fellow-passenger a visit, and find the air of\nsmoky London agrees with him as well as the cloudless region of the\nMorocco Desert.\n\n\n\n\nAPPENDIX.\n\n\nThe following account of the bombardment of Mogador by the French,\nwritten at the period by an English Resident may be of interest at the\npresent time.\n\nMogador was bombarded on the 13th of August, 1844. Hostilities began at\n9 o'clock A.M., by the Moors firing twenty-one guns before the French\nhad taken up their position, but the fire was not returned until 2 P.M.\nThe 'Gemappes,' 100; 'Suffren,' 99; 'Triton,' 80; ships of the line.\n'Belle Poule,' 60, frigate; 'Asmodee' and 'Pluton,' steamers, and some\nbrigs, constituted the bombarding squadron. The batteries were silenced,\nand the Moorish authorities with many of the inhabitants fled, leaving\nthe city unprotected against the wild tribes, who this evening and the\nnext morning, sacked and fired the city. On the 16th, nine hundred\nFrench were landed on the isle of Mogador. After a rude encounter with\nthe garrison, they took possession of it and its forts. Their loss was,\nafter twenty-eight hours' bombarding, trifling, some twenty killed and\nas many more wounded; the Moors lost some five hundred on the isle\nkilled, besides the casualties in the city.\n\nThe British Consul and his wife, and Mr. and Mrs. Robertson, with\nothers, were obliged to remain in the town during the bombardment on\naccount of their liabilities to the Emperor. The escape of these people\nfrom destruction was most miraculous.\n\nThe bombarding squadron reached on the 10th, the English frigate,\n'Warspite,' on the 13th, and the wind blowing strong from N.E., and\npreventing the commencement of hostilities, afforded opportunity to\nsave, if possible, the British Consul's family and other detained\nEuropeans; but, notwithstanding the strenuous remonstrances of the\ncaptain of the 'Warspite', nothing whatever could prevail upon the\nMoorish Deputy-Governor in command, Sidi Abdallah Deleero, to allow the\nBritish and other Europeans to take their departure. The Governor even\nperemptorily refused permission for the wife of the Consul to leave,\nupon the cruel sophism that, \"The Christian religion asserts the husband\nand wife to be one, consequently,\" added the Governor, \"as it is my\nduty, which I owe to my Emperor, to prevent the Consul from leaving\nMogador, I must also keep his wife.\"\n\nThe fact is the Moors, in their stupidity, and perhaps in their revenge,\nthought the retaining of the British Consul and the Europeans might, in\nsome way or other, contribute to the defence of themselves, save the\ncity, or mitigate the havoc of the bombardment. At any rate, they would\nsay, \"Let the Christians share the same fate and dangers as ourselves.\"\nDuring the bombardment, the Moors for two hours fought well, but their\nbest gunner, a Spanish renegade, Omar Ei-Haj, being killed, they became\ndispirited and abandoned the batteries. The Governor and his troops,\nabout sunset, disgracefully and precipitately fled, followed by nearly\nall the Moorish population, thereby abandoning Mogador to pillage, and\nthe European Jews to the merciless wild tribes, who, though levied to\ndefend the town, had, for some hours past, hovered round it like droves\nof famished wolves.\n\nAs the Governor fled out, terrified as much at the wild tribes as of the\nFrench, in rushed these hordes, led on by their desperate chiefs. These\nwretches undismayed, unmoved by the terrors of the bombarding ravages\naround, strove and vied with each other in the committal of every act of\nthe most unlicensed ferocity and depredation, breaking open houses,\nassaulting the inmates, murdering such as shewed resistance, denuding\nthe more submissive of their clothing, abusing women--particularly in\nthe Jewish quarter--to all which atrocities the Europeans were likewise\nexposed.\n\nAt the most imminent hazard of their lives, the British Consul and his\nwife, with a few others, escaped from these ruffians. Truly providential\nwas their flight through streets, resounding with the most turbulent\nconfusion and sanguinary violence. It was late when the plunderers\nappeared before the Consulates, where, without any ceremony, by\nhundreds, they fell to work, breaking open bales of goods, ransacking\nplaces for money and other treasures; and, thus unsatisfied in their\nrapacity, they tore and burnt all the account-books and Consular\ndocuments.\n\nOther gangs fought over the spoil; some carrying off their booty, and\nothers setting it on fire. It was a real pandemonium of discord and\nlicentiousness. During the darkness, and in the midst of such scenes, it\nwas that the Consul and his wife threaded their precarious flight\nthrough the streets, and in their way were intercepted by a marauding\nband, who attacked them; tore off his coat; and, seizing his wife,\ninsisted upon denuding her, four or five daggers being raised to her\nthroat, expecting to find money concealed about their persons; nor would\nthe ruffians desist until they ascertained they had none, the Consul\nhaving prudently resolved to take no money with them. Fortunately, at\nthis juncture, his wife was able to speak, and in Arabic (being born\nhere, and daughter of a former Consul), therefore she could give force\nto her entreaties by appealing to them not to imbue their hands in the\nblood of their countrywomen. This had the desired effect. The chief of\nthe party undertook to conduct them to the water-port, when, coming in\ncontact with another party, a conflict about booty ensued, during which\nthe Consul's family got out of the town to a place of comparative\nsecurity.\n\nIncidents of a similar alarming nature attended the escape of Mr.\nRobertson, his wife, and four children; one, a baby in arms. In the\ncrowd, Mr. Robertson, with a child in each hand, lost sight of Mrs.\nRobertson, with her infant and another child. Distracted by sad\nforebodings, poor Mr. Robertson forced his way to the water-port, but\nnot before a savage mountainer--riding furiously by him--aimed a\nsabre-blow at him to cut him down; but, as the murderous arm was poised\nabove, Mr. Robertson stooped, and, raising his arm at the time, warded\nit off; the miscreant then rode off, being satisfied at this cut at the\ndetested Nazarene.\n\nAnother ruffian seized one of his little girls, a pretty child of nine\nyears old, and scratched her arm several times with his dagger, calling\nout _flous_ (money) at each stroke. At the water-port, Mr. Robertson\njoined his fainting wife, and the British Consul and his wife, with Mr.\nLucas and Mr. Allnut. An old Moor never deserted the Consul's family,\n\"faithful among the faithless;\" and a Jewess, much attached to the\nfamily, abandoned them only to return to those allied to her by the ties\nof blood.\n\nTheir situation was now still perilous, for, should they be discovered\nby the wild Berbers, they all might be murdered. This night, the 15th,\nwas a most anxious one, and their apprehensions were dreadful. Dawn of\nday was fast approaching, and every hour's delay rendered their\ncondition more precarious. In this emergency, Mr. Lucas, who never once\nfailed or lost his accustomed suavity and presence of mind amidst these\nimminent dangers, resolved upon communicating with the fleet by a most\nhazardous experiment. On his way from the town-gate to the water-port,\nhe noticed some deal planks near the beach. The idea struck him of\nturning these into a raft, which, supporting him, could enable their\nparty to communicate with the squadron. Mr. Lucas fetched the planks,\nand resolutely set to work. Taking three of them, and luckily finding a\nquantity of strong grass cordage, he arranged them in the water, and\nwith some cross-pieces, bound the whole together; and, besides, having\nfound two small pieces of board to serve him as paddles, he gallantly\nlaunched forth alone, and, in about an hour, effected his object, for he\nexcited the attention of the French brig, 'Canard,' from which a boat\ncame and took him on board.\n\nThe officers, being assured there were no Moors on guard at the\nbatteries, and that the Berbers were wholly occupied in plundering the\ncity, promptly and generously sent off a boat with Mr. Lucas to the\nrescue of the alarmed and trembling fugitives. The Prince de Joinville\nafterwards ordered them to be conveyed on board the 'Warspite.' The\nself-devotedness, sagacity, and indefatigable exertions of the excellent\nyoung man, Mr. Lucas, were above all encomiums, and, at the hands of the\nBritish Government, he deserved some especial mark of favour.\n\nPoor Mrs. Levy (an English Jewess, married to a Maroquine Jew), and her\nfamily were left behind, and accompanied the rest of the miserable Jews\nand natives, to be maltreated, stripped naked, and, perhaps, murdered,\nlike many poor Jews. Mr. Amrem Elmelek, the greatest native merchant and\na Jew, died from fright. Carlos Bolelli, a Roman, perished during the\nsack of the city.\n\nMogador was left a heap of ruins, scarcely one house standing entire,\nand all tenantless. In the fine elegiac bulletin of the bombarding\nPrince, \"Alas! for thee, Mogador! thy walls are riddled with bullets,\nand thy mosques of prayer blackened with fire!\" (or something like\nthese words.)\n\n\nCOMMERCE WITH MOROCCO.\n\nTANGIER.\n\nTangier trades almost exclusively with Gibraltar, between which place\nand this, an active intercourse is constantly kept up.\n\nThe principal articles of importation into Tangier are, cotton goods of\nall kinds, cloth, silk-stuffs, velvets, copper, iron, steel, and\nhardware of every description; cochineal, indigo, and other dyes; tea,\ncoffee, sulphur, paper, planks, looking-glasses, tin, thread,\nglass-beads, alum, playing-cards, incense, sarsaparilla, and rum.\n\nThe exports consist in hides, wax, wool, leeches, dates, almonds,\noranges, and other fruit, bark, flax, durra, chick-peas, bird-seed, oxen\nand sheep, henna, and other dyes, woollen sashes, haicks, Moorish\nslippers, poultry, eggs, flour, &c.\n\nThe value of British and foreign goods imported into Tangier in 1856\nwas: British goods, L101,773 6_s_., foreign goods, L33,793.\n\nThe goods exported from Tangier during the same year was: For British\nports, L63,580 10_s_., for foreign ports, L13,683.\n\nThe following is a statement of the number of British and foreign ships\nthat entered and cleared from this port during the same year. Entered:\nBritish ships 203, the united tonnage of which was 10,883; foreign ships\n110, the total tonnage of which was 4,780.\n\nCleared: British ships 207, the united tonnage of which was 10,934;\nforeign ships 110, the total tonnage of which was 4,780.\n\nThree thousand head of cattle are annually exported, at a fixed duty of\nfive dollars per head, to Gibraltar, for the use of that garrison, in\nconformity with the terms of special grants that have, from time to\ntime, been made by the present Sultan and some of his predecessors. In\naddition to the above, about 2,000 head are, likewise, exported\nannually, for the same destination, at a higher rate of duty, varying\nfrom eight dollars to ten dollars per head. Gibraltar, also, draws from\nthis place large supplies of poultry, eggs, flour, and other kinds of\nprovisions.\n\nMOGADOR.\n\nFrom the port of Mogador are exported the richest articles the country\nproduces, viz., almonds, sweet and bitter gums, wool, olive-oil, seeds\nof various kinds, as cummin, gingelen, aniseed; sheep-skins, calf, and\ngoat-skins, ostrich-feathers, and occasionally maize.\n\nThe amount of exports in 1855 was: For British ports, L228,112 3_s_.\n2_d_., for foreign ports, L55,965 13_s_. 1_d_.\n\nThe imports are Manchester cotton goods, which have entirely superseded\nthe East India long cloths, formerly in universal use, blue salampores,\nprints, sugar, tea, coffee, Buenos Ayres slides, iron, steel, spices,\ndrugs, nails, beads and deals, woollen cloth, cotton wool, and mirrors\nof small value, partly for consumption in the town, but chiefly for that\nof the interior, from Morocco and its environs, as far as Timbuctoo.\n\nThe amount of imports in 1855 was: British goods, L136,496 7_s_. 6_d_.,\nforeign goods L31,222 11_s_. 5_d_.\n\nThe trade last year was greatly increased by the unusually large demand\nfor olive-oil from all parts, and there is no doubt that, under a more\nliberal Government, the commerce might be developed to a vast extent.\n\nRABAT.\n\nThe principal goods imported at Rabat are, alum, calico of different\nqualities, cinnamon, fine cloth, army cloth, cloves, copperas, cotton\nprints, raw cotton, sewing cotton, cutlery, dimity, domestics,\nearthenware, ginger, glass, handkerchiefs (silk and cotton), hardware,\nindigo, iron, linen, madder root, muslin, sugar (refined and raw), tea,\nand tin plate.\n\nThe before-mentioned articles are imported partly for consumption in\nRabat and Sallee, and partly for transmission into the interior.\n\nThe value of different articles of produce exported at Rabat during the\nlast five years amounts to L34,860 1_s_.\n\nThere can be no doubt that the imports and exports at Rabat would\ngreatly increase, if the present high duties were reduced, and\nGovernment monopolies abolished. Large quantities of hides were exported\nbefore they were a Government monopoly: now the quantity exported is\nvery inconsiderable.\n\nMAZAGAN.\n\n_Goods Imported_.--Brown Domestics, called American White, muslins, raw\ncotton, cotton-bales, silk and cotton pocket-handkerchiefs; tea, coffee,\nsugars, iron, copperas, alum; many other articles imported, but in very\nsmall quantities.\n\nA small portion of the importations is consumed at Mazagan and Azimore,\nbut the major portions in the interior.\n\nThe amount of the leading goods exported in 1855 was:--Bales of wool,\n6,410; almonds, 200 serons; grain, 642,930 fanegas.\n\nNo doubt the commerce of this port would be increased under better\nfiscal laws than those now established.\n\nBut the primary and immediate thing to be looked after is the wilful\ncasting into the anchorage-ground of stone-ballast by foreigners.\nBritish masters are under control, but foreigners will persist, chiefly\nSardinian masters.\n\n\n\n\nTHE END\n\n\n\n\n[1] The predecessor of Muley Abd Errahman.\n\n[2] On account, of their once possessing the throne, the Shereefs have a\npeculiar jealousy of Marabouts, and which latter have not forgotten\ntheir once being sovereigns of Morocco. The _Moravedi_ were \"really a\ndynasty of priests,\" as the celebrated Magi, who usurped the throne of\nCyrus. The Shereefs, though descended from the Prophet, are not strictly\npriests, or, to make the distinction perfectly clear the Shereefs are to\nbe considered a dynasty corresponding to the type of Melchizdek, uniting\nin themselves the regal and sacerdotal authority, whilst the\n_Marabouteen_ were a family of priests like the sons of Aaron.\nAbd-el-Kader unites in himself the princely and sacerdotal authority\nlike the Shereefs, though not of the family of the Prophet. Mankind have\nalways been jealous of mere theocratic government, and dynasties of\npriests have always been failures in the arts of governing, and the\nEgyptian priests, though they struggled hard, and were the most\naccomplished of this class of men, could not make themselves the\nsovereigns of Egypt.\n\n[3] According to others the Sadia reigned before the Shereefs.\n\n[4] I was greatly astonished to read in Mr. Hay's \"Western Barbary,\" (p.\n123), these words--\"During one of the late rebellions, a beautiful young\ngirl was offered up as a propitiatory sacrifice, her throat being cut\nbefore the tent of the Sultan, and in his presence!\" This is an\nunmitigated libel on the Shereefian prince ruling Morocco. First of all,\nthe sacrifice of human beings is repudiated by every class of\ninhabitants in Barbary. Such rites, indeed, are unheard of, nay,\nunthought of. If the Mahometan religion has been powerful in any one\nthing, it is in that of rooting out from the mind of man every notion of\nhuman sacrifice. It is this which makes the sacrifice of the Saviour\nsuch an obnoxious doctrine to Mussulmen. It is true enough, at times,\noxen are immolated to God, but not to Moorish princes, \"to appease an\noffended potentate.\" One spring, when there was a great drought, the\npeople led up to the hill of Ghamart, near Carthage, a red heifer to be\nslaughtered, in order to appease the displeasure of Deity; and when the\nBey's frigate, which, a short time ago, carried a present to her\nBritannic Majesty, from Tunis to Malta, put back by stress of weather,\ntwo sheep were sacrificed to some tutelar saints, and two guns were\nfired in their honour. The companions of Abd-el-Kader in a storm, during\nhis passage from Oran to Toulon, threw handsful of salt to the raging\ndeep to appease its wild fury. But as to sacrificing human victims,\neither to an incensed Deity, or to man, impiously putting himself in the\nplace of God, the Moors of Barbary have not the least conception of such\nan enormity.\n\nIt would seem, unfortunately, that the practice of the gentleman, who\ntravelled a few miles into the interior of Morocco on a horse-mission,\nhad been to exaggerate everything, and, where effect was wanting, not to\nhave scrupled to have recourse to unadulterated invention. But this\nstyle of writing cannot be defended on any principle, when so serious a\ncase is brought forward as that of sacrificing a human victim to appease\nthe wrath of an incensed sovereign, and that prince now living in\namicable relations with ourselves.\n\n[5] Graeberg de Hemso, whilst consul-general for Sweden and Sardinia (at\nMorocco!) concludes the genealogy of these Mussulman sovereigns with\nthis strange, but Catholic-spirited rhapsody:--\n\n\"Muley Abd-ur-Bakliman, who is now gloriously and happily reigning, whom\nwe pray Almighty God, all Goodness and Power, to protect and exalt by\nprolonging his life, glory, and reign in this world and in the next; and\ngiving him, during eternity, the heavenly beatitude, in order that his\nsoul, in the same manner as flame to flame, river to sea, may be united\nwith his sweetest, most perfect and ineffable Creator. Amen.\"\n\n[6] Yezeed was half-Irish, born of the renegade widow of an Irish\nsergeant of the corps of Sappers and Miners, who was placed at the\ndisposition of this government by England, and who died in Morocco. On\nhis death, the facile, buxom widow was admitted, \"nothing loath,\" into\nthe harem of Sidi-Mohammed, who boasted of having within its sacred\nenclosure of love and bliss, a woman from every clime.\n\nHere the daughter of Erin brought forth this ferocious tyrant, whose\nmaxim of carnage, and of inflicting suffering on humanity was, \"My\nempire can never be well governed, unless a stream of blood flows from\nthe gate of the palace to the gate of the city.\" To do Yezeed justice,\nhe followed out the instincts of his birth, and made war on all the\nworld except the English (or Irish). Tully's Letters on Tripoli give a\ngraphic account of the exploits of Yezeed, who, to his inherent cruelty,\nadded a fondness for practical (Hibernian) jokes.\n\nHis father sent him several times on a pilgrimage to Mecca to expiate\nhis crimes, when he amused, or alarmed, all the people whose countries\nhe passed through, by his terrific vagaries. One day he would cut off\nthe heads of a couple of his domestics, and play at bowls with them;\nanother day, he would ride across the path of an European, or a consul,\nand singe his whiskers with the discharge of a pistol-shot; another day,\nhe would collect all the poor of a district, and gorge them with a\nrazzia he had made on the effects of some rich over-fed Bashaw. The\nmultitude sometimes implored heaven's blessing on the head of Yezeed. at\nother times trembled for their own heads. Meanwhile, our European\nconsuls made profound obeisance to this son of the Shereef, enthroned in\nthe West. So the tyrant passed the innocent days of his pilgrimage. So\nthe godless herd of mankind acquiesced in the divine rights of royalty.\n\n[7] See Appendix at the end of this volume.\n\n[8] The middle Western Region consists of Algiers and part of Tunis.\n\n[9] Pliny, the Elder, confirms this tradition mentioned by Pliny. Marcus\nYarron reports, \"that in all Spain there are spread Iberians, Persians,\nPhoenicians, Celts, and Carthaginians.\" (Lib. iii. chap. 2).\n\n[10] In Latin, Mauri, Maurice, Maurici, Maurusci, and it is supposed, so\ncalled by the Greeks from their dark complexions.\n\n[11] The more probable derivation of this word is from _bar_, signifying\nland, or earth, in contradistinction from the sea, or desert, beyond the\ncultivable lands to the South. To give the term more force it is\ndoubled, after the style of the Semitic reduplication. De Haedo de la\nCaptividad gives a characteristic derivation, like a genuine hidalgo,\nwho proclaimed eternal war against Los Moros. He says--\"Moors, Alartes,\nCabayles, and some Turks, form all of them a dirty, lazy, inhuman,\nindomitable nation of beasts, and it is for this reason that, for the\nlast few years, I have accustomed myself to call that land the land of\nBarbary.\"\n\n[12] Procopius, de Bello Vandilico, lib. ii. cap. 10.\n\n[13] Some derive it from _Sarak_, an Arabic word which signifies to\nsteal, and hence, call the conquerors thieves. Others, and with more\nprobability, derive it from _Sharak_, the east, and make them Orientals,\nand others say there is an Arabic word _Saracini_, which means a\npastoral people, and assert that Saracine is a corruption from it, the\nnew Arabian immigrants being supposed to have been pastoral tribes.\n\n[14] Some suppose that _Amayeegh_ means \"great,\" and the tribes thus\ndistinguished themselves, as our neighbours are wont to do by the phrase\n\"la grande nation.\" The Shoulah are vulgarly considered to be descended\nfrom the Philistines, and to have fled before Joshua on the conquest of\nPalestine.\n\nIn his translation of the Description of Spain, by the Shereef El-Edris\n(Madrid, 1799), Don Josef Antonio Conde speaks of the Berbers in a\nnote--\n\n\"Masmuda, one of the five principal tribes of Barbaria; the others are\nZeneta, called Zenetes in our novels and histories, Sanhagha which we\nname Zenagas; Gomesa is spelt in our histories Gomares and Gomeles.\nHuroara, some of these were originally from Arabia; there were others,\nbut not so distinguished. La de Ketama was, according to tradition,\nAfrican, one of the most ancient, for having come with Afrikio.\n\n\"Ben Kis Ben Taifi Ben Teba, the younger, who came from the king of the\nAssyrians, to the land of the west.\n\n\"None of these primitive tribes appear to have been known to the Romans,\ntheir historians, however, have transmitted to us many names of other\naboriginal tribes, some of which resemble fractions now existing, as the\nGetules are probably the present Geudala or Geuzoula. But the present\nBerbers do not correspond with the names of the five original people\njust mentioned. In Morocco, there are Amayeegh and Shelouh, in Algeria\nthe Kabyles, in Tunis the Aoures, sometimes the Shouwiah, and in Sahara\nthe Touarichs. There are, besides, numerous subdivisions and admixtures\nof these tribes.\"\n\n[15] Monsieur Balbi is decidedly the most recent, as well as the best\nauthority to apply to for a short and definite description of this most\ncelebrated mountain system, called by him \"Systeme Atlantique,\" and I\nshall therefore annex what he says on this interesting subject,\n\"Orographie.\" He says--\"Of the 'Systeme Atlantique,' which derives its\nname from the Mount Atlas, renowned for so many centuries, and still so\nlittle known; we include in this vast system, all the heights of the\nregion of Maghreb--we mean the mountain of the Barbary States--as well\nas the elevations scattered in the immense Sahara or Desert. It appears\nthat the most important ridge extends from the neighbourhood of Cape\nNoun, or the Atlantic, as far as the east of the Great Syrte in the\nState of Tripoli. In this vast space it crosses the new State of\nSidi-Hesdham, the Empire of Morocco, the former State of Algiers, as\nwell as the State of Tripoli and the Regency of Tunis. It is in the\nEmpire of Morocco, and especially in the east of the town of Morocco,\nand in the south-east of Fez, that that ridge presents the greatest\nheights of the whole system. It goes on diminishing afterwards in height\nas it extends towards the east, so that it appears the summits of the\nterritory of Algiers are higher than those on the territory of Tunis,\nand the latter are less high than those to be found in the State of\nTripoli. Several secondary ridges diverge in different directions from\nthe principal chain; we shall name among them the one which ends at the\nStrait of Gibraltar in the Empire of Morocco. Several intermediary\nmountains seem to connect with one another the secondary chains which\nintersect the territories of Algiers and Tunis. Geographers call Little\nAtlas the secondary mountains of the land of Sous, in opposition to the\nname of Great Atlas, they give to the high mountains of the Empire of\nMorocco. In that part of the principal chain called Mount Gharian, in\nthe south of Tripoli, several low branches branch off and under the\nnames of Mounts Maray, Black Mount Haroudje, Mount Liberty, Mount\nTiggerandoumma and others less known, furrow the great solitudes of the\nDesert of Lybia and Sahara Proper. From observations made on the spot by\nMr. Bruguiere in the former state of Algiers, the great chain which\nseveral geographers traced beyond the Little Atlas under the name of\nGreat Atlas does not exist. The inhabitants of Mediah who were\nquestioned on the subject by this traveller, told him positively, that\nthe way from that town to the Sahara was through a ground more or less\nelevated, and s more or less steep, and without having any chain of\nmountains to cross. The Pass of Teniah which leads from Algiers to\nMediah is, therefore, included in the principal chain of that part of\nthe Regency.\n\n[16] Xenophon, in his Anabasis, speaks of ostriches in Mesopotamia being\nrun down by fleet horses.\n\n[17] Mount Atlas was called Dyris by the ancient aborigines, or Derem,\nits name amongst the modern aborigines. This word has been compared to\nthe Hebrew, signifying the place or aspect of the sun at noon-day, as if\nMount Atlas was the back of the world, or the cultivated parts of the\nglobe, and over which the sun was seen at full noon, in all his fierce\nand glorious splendour. Bochart connects the term with the Hebrew\nmeaning 'great' or 'mighty,' which epithet would be naturally applied to\nthe Atlas, and all mountains, by either a savage or civilized people. We\nhave, also, on the northern coast, Russadirum, the name given by the\nMoors to Cape Bon, which is evidently a compound of _Ras_, head, and\n_dirum_, mountain, or the head of the mountain.\n\nWe have again the root of this word in Doa-el-Hamman, Tibet Deera, &c.,\nthe names of separate chains of the mighty Atlas. Any way, the modern\nDer-en is seen to be the same with the ancient Dir-is.\n\n[18] The only way of obtaining any information at all, is through the\nregisters of taxation; and, to the despotism and exactions of these and\nmost governments, we owe a knowledge of the proximate amount of the\nnumbers of mankind.\n\n[19] Tangier, Mogador, Wadnoun, and Sous have already been described,\nwholly, or in part.\n\n[20] In 936, Arzila was sacked by the English, and remained for twenty\nyears uninhabited.\n\n[21] According to Mr. Hay, a portion of the Salee Rovers seem to have\nfinally taken refuge here. Up the river El-Kous, the Imperial squadron\nlay in ordinary, consisting of a corvette, two brigs, (once\nmerchant-vessels, and which had been bought of Christians), and a\nschooner, with some few gun-boats, and even these two or three vessels\nwere said to be all unfit for sea. But, when Great Britain captured the\nrock of Gibraltar, we, supplanting the Moors became the formidable\ntoll-keepers of the Herculean Straits, and the Salee rivers have ever\nsince been in our power. If the Shereefs have levied war or tribute on\nEuropean navies since that periods it has been under our tacit sanction.\nThe opinion of Nelson is not the less true, that, should England engage\nin war with any maritime State of Europe, Morocco must be our warm and\nactive friend or enemy, and, if our enemy, we must again possess\nourselves of our old garrison of Tangier.\n\n[22] So called, it is supposed, from the quantity of aniseed grown in\nthe neighbourhood.\n\n[23] Near Cape Blanco is the ruined town of Tit or Tet, supposed to be\nof Carthaginian origin, and once also possessed by the Portuguese, when\ncommerce therein flourished.\n\n[24] El-Kesar is a very common name of a fortified town, and is usually\nwritten by the Spaniards Alcazar, being the name of the celebrated royal\npalace at Seville.\n\n[25] Marmol makes this city to have succeeded the ancient Roman town of\nSilda or Gilda. Mequinez has been called Ez-Zetounah, from the immense\nquantities of olives in its immediate vicinity.\n\n[26] Don J. A. Conde says--\"Fes or sea Fez, the capital of the realm of\nthat name; the fables of its origin, and the grandeur of the Moors, who\nalways speak of their cities as foundations of heroes, or lords of the\nwhole world, &c., a foible of which our historians are guilty.\nNasir-Eddin and the same Ullug Beig say, for certain, that Fez is the\ncourt of the king in the west. I must observe here, that nothing is less\nauthentic than the opinions given by Casiri in his Library of the\nEscurial, that by the word Algarb, they always mean the west of Spain,\nand by the word Almagreb, the west of Africa; one of these appellations\nis generally used for the other. The same Casiri says, with regard to\nFez, that it was founded by Edno Ben Abdallah, under the reign of\nAlmansor Abu Giafar; he is quite satisfied with that assertion, but does\nnot perceive that it contains a glaring anachronism. Fez was already a\nvery ancient city before the Mohammed Anuabi of the Mussulmen, and\nJoseph, in his A. J., mentions a city of Mauritania; the prophet Nahum\nspeaks of it also, when he addresses Ninive, he presents it as an\nexample for No Ammon. He enumerates its districts and cities, and says,\nFut and Lubim, Fez and Lybia, &c.\n\n[27] I imagine we shall never know the truth of this until the French\nmarch an army into Fez, and sack the library.\n\n[28] It is true enough what the governor says about _quietness_, but the\nnovelty of the mission turned the heads of the people, and made a great\nnoise among them. The slave-dealers of Sous vowed vengeance against me,\nand threatened to \"rip open my bowels\" if I went down there.\n\n[29] The Sultan's Minister, Ben Oris, addressing our government on the\nquestion says, \"Whosoever sets any person free God will set his soul\nfree from the fire,\" (hell), quoting the Koran.\n\n[30] A person going to the Emperor without a present, is like a menace\nat court, for a present corresponds to our \"good morning.\"\n\n[31] _Bash_, means chief, as Bash-Mameluke, chief of the Mamelukes. It\nis a Turkish term.\n\n[32] This office answers vulgarly to our _Boots_ at English inns.\n\n[33] Bismilla, Arabic for \"In the name of God!\" the Mohammedan grace\nbefore meat, and also drink.\n\n[34] Shaw says.--\"The hobara is of the bigness of a capon, it feeds upon\nthe little grubs or insects, and frequents the confines of the Desert.\nThe body is of a light dun or yellowish colour, and marked over with\nlittle brown touches, whilst the larger feathers of the wing are black,\nwith each of them a white spot near the middle; those of the neck are\nwhitish with black streaks, and are long and erected when the bird is\nattacked. The bill is flat like the starling's, nearly an inch and a\nhalf long, and the legs agree in shape and in the want of the hinder toe\nwith the bustard's, but it is not, as Golins says, the bustard, that\nbird being twice as big as the hobara. Nothing can be more entertaining\nthan to see this bird pursued by the hawk, and what a variety of flights\nand stratagems it makes use of to escape.\" The French call the hobara, a\nlittle bustard, _poule de Carthage_, or Carthage-fowl. They are\nfrequently sold in the market of Tunis, as ordinary fowls, but eat\nsomething like pheasant, and their flesh is red.\n\n[35] The most grandly beautiful view in Tunis is that from the\nBelvidere, about a mile north-west from the capital, looking immediately\nover the Marsa road. Here, on a hill of very moderate elevation, you\nhave the most beautiful as well as the most magnificent panoramic view\nof sea and lake, mountain and plain, town and village, in the whole\nRegency, or perhaps in any other part of North Africa. There are besides\nmany lovely walks around the capital, particularly among and around the\ncraggy heights of the south-east. But these are little frequented by the\nEuropean residents, the women especially, who are so stay-at-homeative\nthat the greater part of them never walked round the suburbs once in\ntheir lives. Europeans generally prefer the Marina, lined on each side,\nnot with pleasant trees, but dead animals, sending forth a most\noffensive smell.\n\n[36] Shaw says: \"The rhaad, or safsaf, is a granivorous and gregarious\nbird, which wanteth the hinder toe. There are two species, and both\nabout and a little larger than the ordinary pullet. The belly of both is\nwhite, back and wings of a buff colour spotted with brown, tail lighter\nand marked all along with black transverse streaks, beak and legs\nstronger than the partridge. The name rhaad, \"thunder,\" is given to it\nfrom the noise it makes on the ground when it rises, safsaf, from its\nbeating the air, a sound imitating the motion.\"\n\n[37] Ghafsa, whose name Bochart derives from the Hebrew \"comprimere,\"\nis an ancient city, claiming as its august founder, the Libyan\nHercules. It was one of the principal towns in the dominions of\nJugurtha, and well-fortified, rendered secure by being placed in the\nmidst of immense deserts, fabled to have been inhabited solely by\nsnakes and serpents. Marius took it by a _coup-de-main_, and put all\nthe inhabitants to the sword. The modern city is built on a gentle\neminence, between two arid mountains, and, in a great part, with the\nmaterials of the ancient one. Ghafsa has no wall of _euceinte_, or\nrather a ruined wall surrounds it, and is defended by a kasbah,\ncontaining a small garrison. This place may be called the gate of the\nTunisian Sahara; it is the limit of Blad-el-Jereed; the sands begin now\nto disappear, and the land becomes better, and more suited to the\ncultivation of corn. Three villages are situated in the environs, Sala,\nEl-Kesir, and El-Ghetar. A fraction of the tribe of Hammand deposit\ntheir grain in Ghafsa. This town is famous for its manufactories of\nbaraeans and blankets ornamented with pretty flowers. There is\nalso a nitre and powder-manufactory, the former obtained from the earth\nby a very rude process.\n\nThe environs are beautifully laid out in plantations of the fig, the\npomegranate, and the orange, and especially the datepalm, and the\nolive-tree. The oil made here is of peculiarly good quality, and is\nexported to Tugurt, and other oases of the Desert.\n\n[38] Kaemtz's Meteorology, p. 191.\n\n[39] This is the national dish of Barbary, and is a preparation of\nwheat-flour granulated, boiled by the steam of meat. It is most\nnutritive, and is eaten with or without meat and vegetables. When the\ngrains are large, it is called hamza.\n\n[40] A camel-load is about five cantars, and a cantar is a hundred\nweight.\n\n\n\n\n[Transcriber's Note: In this electronic edition, the footnotes were\nnumbered and relocated to the end of the work. In ch. 3, \"Mogrel-el-Aska\"\nwas corrected to \"Mogrel-el-Aksa\"; in ch. 4, \"lattely\" to \"lately\"; in\nch. 7, \"book\" to \"brook\"; in ch. 9, \"cirumstances\" to \"circumstances\".\nAlso, \"Amabasis\" was corrected to \"Anabasis\" in footnote 16.]\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Travels in Morocco, Vol. 2., by James Richardson\n\n*** ", "source_language": "en", "target_language": "de_DE", "source_lang_name": "English", "target_lang_name": "German", "doc_id": "Travels-in-Morocco-Volume-2-by-James-Richardson", "seg_id": 1, "publication_date": 1860, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10356"} -{"text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by Afra Ullah and the Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nIMPRESSIONS OF THEOPHRASTUS SUCH\n\n\nGEORGE ELIOT\n\n\nSecond Edition\n\nWilliam Blackwood and Sons\nEdinburgh and London\nMDCCCLXXIX\n\n\n\n \"Suspicione si quis errabit sua,\n Et rapiet ad se, quod erit commune omnium,\n Stulte nudabit animi conscientiam\n Huic excusatum me velim nihilominus\n Neque enim notare singulos mens est mihi,\n Verum ipsam vitam et mores hominum ostendere\"\n\n --Phaedrus\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n I. LOOKING INWARD\n\n II. LOOKING BACKWARD\n\n III. HOW WE ENCOURAGE RESEARCH\n\n IV. A MAN SURPRISED AT HIS ORIGINALITY\n\n V. A TOO DEFERENTIAL MAN\n\n VI. ONLY TEMPER\n\n VII. A POLITICAL MOLECULE\n\n VIII. THE WATCH-DOG OF KNOWLEDGE\n\n IX. A HALF-BREED\n\n X. DEBASING THE MORAL CURRENCY\n\n XI. THE WASP CREDITED WITH THE HONEYCOMB\n\n XII. \"SO YOUNG!\"\n\n XIII. HOW WE COME TO GIVE OURSELVES FALSE\n TESTIMONIALS, AND BELIEVE IN THEM\n\n XIV. THE TOO READY WRITER\n\n XV. DISEASES OF SMALL AUTHORSHIP\n\n XVI. MORAL SWINDLERS\n\n XVII. SHADOWS OF THE COMING RACE\n\nXVIII. THE MODERN HEP! HEP! HEP!\n\n\n\nI.\n\n\nLOOKING INWARD.\n\nIt is my habit to give an account to myself of the characters I meet\nwith: can I give any true account of my own? I am a bachelor, without\ndomestic distractions of any sort, and have all my life been an\nattentive companion to myself, flattering my nature agreeably on\nplausible occasions, reviling it rather bitterly when it mortified me,\nand in general remembering its doings and sufferings with a tenacity\nwhich is too apt to raise surprise if not disgust at the careless\ninaccuracy of my acquaintances, who impute to me opinions I never held,\nexpress their desire to convert me to my favourite ideas, forget whether\nI have ever been to the East, and are capable of being three several\ntimes astonished at my never having told them before of my accident in\nthe Alps, causing me the nervous shock which has ever since notably\ndiminished my digestive powers. Surely I ought to know myself better\nthan these indifferent outsiders can know me; nay, better even than my\nintimate friends, to whom I have never breathed those items of my inward\nexperience which have chiefly shaped my life.\n\nYet I have often been forced into the reflection that even the\nacquaintances who are as forgetful of my biography and tenets as they\nwould be if I were a dead philosopher, are probably aware of certain\npoints in me which may not be included in my most active suspicion. We\nsing an exquisite passage out of tune and innocently repeat it for the\ngreater pleasure of our hearers. Who can be aware of what his foreign\naccent is in the ears of a native? And how can a man be conscious of\nthat dull perception which causes him to mistake altogether what will\nmake him agreeable to a particular woman, and to persevere eagerly in a\nbehaviour which she is privately recording against him? I have had some\nconfidences from my female friends as to their opinion of other men whom\nI have observed trying to make themselves amiable, and it has occurred\nto me that though I can hardly be so blundering as Lippus and the rest\nof those mistaken candidates for favour whom I have seen ruining their\nchance by a too elaborate personal canvass, I must still come under the\ncommon fatality of mankind and share the liability to be absurd without\nknowing that I am absurd. It is in the nature of foolish reasoning to\nseem good to the foolish reasoner. Hence with all possible study of\nmyself, with all possible effort to escape from the pitiable illusion\nwhich makes men laugh, shriek, or curl the lip at Folly's likeness, in\ntotal unconsciousness that it resembles themselves, I am obliged to\nrecognise that while there are secrets in me unguessed by others, these\nothers have certain items of knowledge about the extent of my powers and\nthe figure I make with them, which in turn are secrets unguessed by me.\nWhen I was a lad I danced a hornpipe with arduous scrupulosity, and\nwhile suffering pangs of pallid shyness was yet proud of my superiority\nas a dancing pupil, imagining for myself a high place in the estimation\nof beholders; but I can now picture the amusement they had in the\nincongruity of my solemn face and ridiculous legs. What sort of hornpipe\nam I dancing now?\n\nThus if I laugh at you, O fellow-men! if I trace with curious interest\nyour labyrinthine self-delusions, note the inconsistencies in your\nzealous adhesions, and smile at your helpless endeavours in a rashly\nchosen part, it is not that I feel myself aloof from you: the more\nintimately I seem to discern your weaknesses, the stronger to me is the\nproof that I share them. How otherwise could I get the discernment?--for\neven what we are averse to, what we vow not to entertain, must have\nshaped or shadowed itself within us as a possibility before we can think\nof exorcising it. No man can know his brother simply as a spectator.\nDear blunderers, I am one of you. I wince at the fact, but I am not\nignorant of it, that I too am laughable on unsuspected occasions; nay,\nin the very tempest and whirlwind of my anger, I include myself under my\nown indignation. If the human race has a bad reputation, I perceive that\nI cannot escape being compromised. And thus while I carry in myself the\nkey to other men's experience, it is only by observing others that I can\nso far correct my self-ignorance as to arrive at the certainty that I am\nliable to commit myself unawares and to manifest some incompetency which\nI know no more of than the blind man knows of his image in the glass.\n\nIs it then possible to describe oneself at once faithfully and fully? In\nall autobiography there is, nay, ought to be, an incompleteness which\nmay have the effect of falsity. We are each of us bound to reticence by\nthe piety we owe to those who have been nearest to us and have had a\nmingled influence over our lives; by the fellow-feeling which should\nrestrain us from turning our volunteered and picked confessions into an\nact of accusation against others, who have no chance of vindicating\nthemselves; and most of all by that reverence for the higher efforts of\nour common nature, which commands us to bury its lowest fatalities, its\ninvincible remnants of the brute, its most agonising struggles with\ntemptation, in unbroken silence. But the incompleteness which comes of\nself-ignorance may be compensated by self-betrayal. A man who is\naffected to tears in dwelling on the generosity of his own sentiments\nmakes me aware of several things not included under those terms. Who has\nsinned more against those three duteous reticences than Jean Jacques?\nYet half our impressions of his character come not from what he means to\nconvey, but from what he unconsciously enables us to discern.\n\nThis _naive_ veracity of self-presentation is attainable by the\nslenderest talent on the most trivial occasions. The least lucid and\nimpressive of orators may be perfectly successful in showing us the weak\npoints of his grammar. Hence I too may be so far like Jean Jacques as to\ncommunicate more than I am aware of. I am not indeed writing an\nautobiography, or pretending to give an unreserved description of\nmyself, but only offering some slight confessions in an apologetic\nlight, to indicate that if in my absence you dealt as freely with my\nunconscious weaknesses as I have dealt with the unconscious weaknesses\nof others, I should not feel myself warranted by common-sense in\nregarding your freedom of observation as an exceptional case of\nevil-speaking; or as malignant interpretation of a character which\nreally offers no handle to just objection; or even as an unfair use for\nyour amusement of disadvantages which, since they are mine, should be\nregarded with more than ordinary tenderness. Let me at least try to feel\nmyself in the ranks with my fellow-men. It is true, that I would rather\nnot hear either your well-founded ridicule or your judicious strictures.\nThough not averse to finding fault with myself, and conscious of\ndeserving lashes, I like to keep the scourge in my own discriminating\nhand. I never felt myself sufficiently meritorious to like being hated\nas a proof of my superiority, or so thirsty for improvement as to desire\nthat all my acquaintances should give me their candid opinion of me. I\nreally do not want to learn from my enemies: I prefer having none to\nlearn from. Instead of being glad when men use me despitefully, I wish\nthey would behave better and find a more amiable occupation for their\nintervals of business. In brief, after a close intimacy with myself for\na longer period than I choose to mention, I find within me a permanent\nlonging for approbation, sympathy, and love.\n\nYet I am a bachelor, and the person I love best has never loved me, or\nknown that I loved her. Though continually in society, and caring about\nthe joys and sorrows of my neighbours, I feel myself, so far as my\npersonal lot is concerned, uncared for and alone. \"Your own fault, my\ndear fellow!\" said Minutius Felix, one day that I had incautiously\nmentioned this uninteresting fact. And he was right--in senses other\nthan he intended. Why should I expect to be admired, and have my company\ndoated on? I have done no services to my country beyond those of every\npeaceable orderly citizen; and as to intellectual contribution, my only\npublished work was a failure, so that I am spoken of to inquiring\nbeholders as \"the author of a book you have probably not seen.\" (The\nwork was a humorous romance, unique in its kind, and I am told is much\ntasted in a Cherokee translation, where the jokes are rendered with all\nthe serious eloquence characteristic of the Red races.) This sort of\ndistinction, as a writer nobody is likely to have read, can hardly\ncounteract an indistinctness in my articulation, which the\nbest-intentioned loudness will not remedy. Then, in some quarters my\nawkward feet are against me, the length of my upper lip, and an\ninveterate way I have of walking with my head foremost and my chin\nprojecting. One can become only too well aware of such things by looking\nin the glass, or in that other mirror held up to nature in the frank\nopinions of street-boys, or of our Free People travelling by excursion\ntrain; and no doubt they account for the half-suppressed smile which I\nhave observed on some fair faces when I have first been presented before\nthem. This direct perceptive judgment is not to be argued against. But I\nam tempted to remonstrate when the physical points I have mentioned are\napparently taken to warrant unfavourable inferences concerning my mental\nquickness. With all the increasing uncertainty which modern progress has\nthrown over the relations of mind and body, it seems tolerably clear\nthat wit cannot be seated in the upper lip, and that the balance of the\nhaunches in walking has nothing to do with the subtle discrimination of\nideas. Yet strangers evidently do not expect me to make a clever\nobservation, and my good things are as unnoticed as if they were\nanonymous pictures. I have indeed had the mixed satisfaction of finding\nthat when they were appropriated by some one else they were found\nremarkable and even brilliant. It is to be borne in mind that I am not\nrich, have neither stud nor cellar, and no very high connections such as\ngive to a look of imbecility a certain prestige of inheritance through a\ntitled line; just as \"the Austrian lip\" confers a grandeur of historical\nassociations on a kind of feature which might make us reject an\nadvertising footman. I have now and then done harm to a good cause by\nspeaking for it in public, and have discovered too late that my attitude\non the occasion would more suitably have been that of negative\nbeneficence. Is it really to the advantage of an opinion that I should\nbe known to hold it? And as to the force of my arguments, that is a\nsecondary consideration with audiences who have given a new scope to the\n_ex pede Herculem_ principle, and from awkward feet infer awkward\nfallacies. Once, when zeal lifted me on my legs, I distinctly heard an\nenlightened artisan remark, \"Here's a rum cut!\"--and doubtless he\nreasoned in the same way as the elegant Glycera when she politely puts\non an air of listening to me, but elevates her eyebrows and chills her\nglance in sign of predetermined neutrality: both have their reasons for\njudging the quality of my speech beforehand.\n\nThis sort of reception to a man of affectionate disposition, who has\nalso the innocent vanity of desiring to be agreeable, has naturally a\ndepressing if not embittering tendency; and in early life I began to\nseek for some consoling point of view, some warrantable method of\nsoftening the hard peas I had to walk on, some comfortable fanaticism\nwhich might supply the needed self-satisfaction. At one time I dwelt\nmuch on the idea of compensation; trying to believe that I was all the\nwiser for my bruised vanity, that I had the higher place in the true\nspiritual scale, and even that a day might come when some visible\ntriumph would place me in the French heaven of having the laughers on my\nside. But I presently perceived that this was a very odious sort of\nself-cajolery. Was it in the least true that I was wiser than several of\nmy friends who made an excellent figure, and were perhaps praised a\nlittle beyond their merit? Is the ugly unready man in the corner,\noutside the current of conversation, really likely to have a fairer\nview of things than the agreeable talker, whose success strikes the\nunsuccessful as a repulsive example of forwardness and conceit? And as\nto compensation in future years, would the fact that I myself got it\nreconcile me to an order of things in which I could see a multitude with\nas bad a share as mine, who, instead of getting their corresponding\ncompensation, were getting beyond the reach of it in old age? What could\nbe more contemptible than the mood of mind which makes a man measure the\njustice of divine or human law by the agreeableness of his own shadow\nand the ample satisfaction of his own desires?\n\nI dropped a form of consolation which seemed to be encouraging me in the\npersuasion that my discontent was the chief evil in the world, and my\nbenefit the soul of good in that evil. May there not be at least a\npartial release from the imprisoning verdict that a man's philosophy is\nthe formula of his personality? In certain branches of science we can\nascertain our personal equation, the measure of difference between our\nown judgments and an average standard: may there not be some\ncorresponding correction of our personal partialities in moral\ntheorising? If a squint or other ocular defect disturbs my vision, I can\nget instructed in the fact, be made aware that my condition is abnormal,\nand either through spectacles or diligent imagination I can learn the\naverage appearance of things: is there no remedy or corrective for that\ninward squint which consists in a dissatisfied egoism or other want of\nmental balance? In my conscience I saw that the bias of personal\ndiscontent was just as misleading and odious as the bias of\nself-satisfaction. Whether we look through the rose- glass or\nthe indigo, we are equally far from the hues which the healthy human eye\nbeholds in heaven above and earth below. I began to dread ways of\nconsoling which were really a flattering of native illusions, a\nfeeding-up into monstrosity of an inward growth already\ndisproportionate; to get an especial scorn for that scorn of mankind\nwhich is a transmuted disappointment of preposterous claims; to watch\nwith peculiar alarm lest what I called my philosophic estimate of the\nhuman lot in general, should be a mere prose lyric expressing my own\npain and consequent bad temper. The standing-ground worth striving after\nseemed to be some Delectable Mountain, whence I could see things in\nproportions as little as possible determined by that self-partiality\nwhich certainly plays a necessary part in our bodily sustenance, but has\na starving effect on the mind.\n\nThus I finally gave up any attempt to make out that I preferred cutting\na bad figure, and that I liked to be despised, because in this way I was\ngetting more virtuous than my successful rivals; and I have long looked\nwith suspicion on all views which are recommended as peculiarly\nconsolatory to wounded vanity or other personal disappointment. The\nconsolations of egoism are simply a change of attitude or a resort to a\nnew kind of diet which soothes and fattens it. Fed in this way it is apt\nto become a monstrous spiritual pride, or a chuckling satisfaction that\nthe final balance will not be against us but against those who now\neclipse us. Examining the world in order to find consolation is very\nmuch like looking carefully over the pages of a great book in order to\nfind our own name, if not in the text, at least in a laudatory note:\nwhether we find what we want or not, our preoccupation has hindered us\nfrom a true knowledge of the contents. But an attention fixed on the\nmain theme or various matter of the book would deliver us from that\nslavish subjection to our own self-importance. And I had the mighty\nvolume of the world before me. Nay, I had the struggling action of a\nmyriad lives around me, each single life as dear to itself as mine to\nme. Was there no escape here from this stupidity of a murmuring\nself-occupation? Clearly enough, if anything hindered my thought from\nrising to the force of passionately interested contemplation, or my poor\npent-up pond of sensitiveness from widening into a beneficent river of\nsympathy, it was my own dulness; and though I could not make myself the\nreverse of shallow all at once, I had at least learned where I had\nbetter turn my attention.\n\nSomething came of this alteration in my point of view, though I admit\nthat the result is of no striking kind. It is unnecessary for me to\nutter modest denials, since none have assured me that I have a vast\nintellectual scope, or--what is more surprising, considering I have\ndone so little--that I might, if I chose, surpass any distinguished man\nwhom they wish to depreciate. I have not attained any lofty peak of\nmagnanimity, nor would I trust beforehand in my capability of meeting a\nsevere demand for moral heroism. But that I have at least succeeded in\nestablishing a habit of mind which keeps watch against my\nself-partiality and promotes a fair consideration of what touches the\nfeelings or the fortunes of my neighbours, seems to be proved by the\nready confidence with which men and women appeal to my interest in their\nexperience. It is gratifying to one who would above all things avoid the\ninsanity of fancying himself a more momentous or touching object than he\nreally is, to find that nobody expects from him the least sign of such\nmental aberration, and that he is evidently held capable of listening to\nall kinds of personal outpouring without the least disposition to become\ncommunicative in the same way. This confirmation of the hope that my\nbearing is not that of the self-flattering lunatic is given me in ample\nmeasure. My acquaintances tell me unreservedly of their triumphs and\ntheir piques; explain their purposes at length, and reassure me with\ncheerfulness as to their chances of success; insist on their theories\nand accept me as a dummy with whom they rehearse their side of future\ndiscussions; unwind their coiled-up griefs in relation to their\nhusbands, or recite to me examples of feminine incomprehensibleness as\ntypified in their wives; mention frequently the fair applause which\ntheir merits have wrung from some persons, and the attacks to which\ncertain oblique motives have stimulated others. At the time when I was\nless free from superstition about my own power of charming, I\noccasionally, in the glow of sympathy which embraced me and my confiding\nfriend on the subject of his satisfaction or resentment, was urged to\nhint at a corresponding experience in my own case; but the signs of a\nrapidly lowering pulse and spreading nervous depression in my previously\nvivacious interlocutor, warned me that I was acting on that dangerous\nmisreading, \"Do as you are done by.\" Recalling the true version of the\ngolden rule, I could not wish that others should lower my spirits as I\nwas lowering my friend's. After several times obtaining the same result\nfrom a like experiment in which all the circumstances were varied except\nmy own personality, I took it as an established inference that these\nfitful signs of a lingering belief in my own importance were generally\nfelt to be abnormal, and were something short of that sanity which I\naimed to secure. Clearness on this point is not without its\ngratifications, as I have said. While my desire to explain myself in\nprivate ears has been quelled, the habit of getting interested in the\nexperience of others has been continually gathering strength, and I am\nreally at the point of finding that this world would be worth living in\nwithout any lot of one's own. Is it not possible for me to enjoy the\nscenery of the earth without saying to myself, I have a cabbage-garden\nin it? But this sounds like the lunacy of fancying oneself everybody\nelse and being unable to play one's own part decently--another form of\nthe disloyal attempt to be independent of the common lot, and to live\nwithout a sharing of pain.\n\nPerhaps I have made self-betrayals enough already to show that I have\nnot arrived at that non-human independence. My conversational\nreticences about myself turn into garrulousness on paper--as the\nsea-lion plunges and swims the more energetically because his limbs are\nof a sort to make him shambling on land. The act of writing, in spite of\npast experience, brings with it the vague, delightful illusion of an\naudience nearer to my idiom than the Cherokees, and more numerous than\nthe visionary One for whom many authors have declared themselves willing\nto go through the pleasing punishment of publication. My illusion is of\na more liberal kind, and I imagine a far-off, hazy, multitudinous\nassemblage, as in a picture of Paradise, making an approving chorus to\nthe sentences and paragraphs of which I myself particularly enjoy the\nwriting. The haze is a necessary condition. If any physiognomy becomes\ndistinct in the foreground, it is fatal. The countenance is sure to be\none bent on discountenancing my innocent intentions: it is pale-eyed,\nincapable of being amused when I am amused or indignant at what makes me\nindignant; it stares at my presumption, pities my ignorance, or is\nmanifestly preparing to expose the various instances in which I\nunconsciously disgrace myself. I shudder at this too corporeal auditor,\nand turn towards another point of the compass where the haze is\nunbroken. Why should I not indulge this remaining illusion, since I do\nnot take my approving choral paradise as a warrant for setting the press\nto work again and making some thousand sheets of superior paper\nunsaleable? I leave my manuscripts to a judgment outside my imagination,\nbut I will not ask to hear it, or request my friend to pronounce, before\nI have been buried decently, what he really thinks of my parts, and to\nstate candidly whether my papers would be most usefully applied in\nlighting the cheerful domestic fire. It is too probable that he will be\nexasperated at the trouble I have given him of reading them; but the\nconsequent clearness and vivacity with which he could demonstrate to me\nthat the fault of my manuscripts, as of my one published work, is simply\nflatness, and not that surpassing subtilty which is the preferable\nground of popular neglect--this verdict, however instructively\nexpressed, is a portion of earthly discipline of which I will not\nbeseech my friend to be the instrument. Other persons, I am aware, have\nnot the same cowardly shrinking from a candid opinion of their\nperformances, and are even importunately eager for it; but I have\nconvinced myself in numerous cases that such exposers of their own back\nto the smiter were of too hopeful a disposition to believe in the\nscourge, and really trusted in a pleasant anointing, an outpouring of\nbalm without any previous wounds. I am of a less trusting disposition,\nand will only ask my friend to use his judgment in insuring me against\nposthumous mistake.\n\nThus I make myself a charter to write, and keep the pleasing, inspiring\nillusion of being listened to, though I may sometimes write about\nmyself. What I have already said on this too familiar theme has been\nmeant only as a preface, to show that in noting the weaknesses of my\nacquaintances I am conscious of my fellowship with them. That a\ngratified sense of superiority is at the root of barbarous laughter may\nbe at least half the truth. But there is a loving laughter in which the\nonly recognised superiority is that of the ideal self, the God within,\nholding the mirror and the scourge for our own pettiness as well as our\nneighbours'.\n\n\n\n\nII.\n\n\nLOOKING BACKWARD.\n\nMost of us who have had decent parents would shrink from wishing that\nour father and mother had been somebody else whom we never knew; yet it\nis held no impiety, rather, a graceful mark of instruction, for a man to\nwail that he was not the son of another age and another nation, of which\nalso he knows nothing except through the easy process of an imperfect\nimagination and a flattering fancy.\n\nBut the period thus looked back on with a purely admiring regret, as\nperfect enough to suit a superior mind, is always a long way off; the\ndesirable contemporaries are hardly nearer than Leonardo da Vinci, most\nlikely they are the fellow-citizens of Pericles, or, best of all, of the\nAeolic lyrists whose sparse remains suggest a comfortable contrast with\nour redundance. No impassioned personage wishes he had been born in the\nage of Pitt, that his ardent youth might have eaten the dearest bread,\ndressed itself with the longest coat-tails and the shortest waist, or\nheard the loudest grumbling at the heaviest war-taxes; and it would be\nreally something original in polished verse if one of our young writers\ndeclared he would gladly be turned eighty-five that he might have known\nthe joy and pride of being an Englishman when there were fewer reforms\nand plenty of highwaymen, fewer discoveries and more faces pitted with\nthe small-pox, when laws were made to keep up the price of corn, and the\ntroublesome Irish were more miserable. Three-quarters of a century ago\nis not a distance that lends much enchantment to the view. We are\nfamiliar with the average men of that period, and are still consciously\nencumbered with its bad contrivances and mistaken acts. The lords and\ngentlemen painted by young Lawrence talked and wrote their nonsense in a\ntongue we thoroughly understand; hence their times are not much\nflattered, not much glorified by the yearnings of that modern sect of\nFlagellants who make a ritual of lashing--not themselves but--all their\nneighbours. To me, however, that paternal time, the time of my father's\nyouth, never seemed prosaic, for it came to my imagination first through\nhis memories, which made a wondrous perspective to my little daily world\nof discovery. And for my part I can call no age absolutely unpoetic: how\nshould it be so, since there are always children to whom the acorns and\nthe swallow's eggs are a wonder, always those human passions and\nfatalities through which Garrick as Hamlet in bob-wig and knee-breeches\nmoved his audience more than some have since done in velvet tunic and\nplume? But every age since the golden may be made more or less prosaic\nby minds that attend only to its vulgar and sordid elements, of which\nthere was always an abundance even in Greece and Italy, the favourite\nrealms of the retrospective optimists. To be quite fair towards the\nages, a little ugliness as well as beauty must be allowed to each of\nthem, a little implicit poetry even to those which echoed loudest with\nservile, pompous, and trivial prose.\n\nSuch impartiality is not in vogue at present. If we acknowledge our\nobligation to the ancients, it is hardly to be done without some\nflouting of our contemporaries, who with all their faults must be\nallowed the merit of keeping the world habitable for the refined\neulogists of the blameless past. One wonders whether the remarkable\noriginators who first had the notion of digging wells, or of churning\nfor butter, and who were certainly very useful to their own time as well\nas ours, were left quite free from invidious comparison with\npredecessors who let the water and the milk alone, or whether some\nrhetorical nomad, as he stretched himself on the grass with a good\nappetite for contemporary butter, became loud on the virtue of ancestors\nwho were uncorrupted by the produce of the cow; nay, whether in a high\nflight of imaginative self-sacrifice (after swallowing the butter) he\neven wished himself earlier born and already eaten for the sustenance of\na generation more _naive_ than his own.\n\nI have often had the fool's hectic of wishing about the unalterable, but\nwith me that useless exercise has turned chiefly on the conception of a\ndifferent self, and not, as it usually does in literature, on the\nadvantage of having been born in a different age, and more especially in\none where life is imagined to have been altogether majestic and\ngraceful. With my present abilities, external proportions, and generally\nsmall provision for ecstatic enjoyment, where is the ground for\nconfidence that I should have had a preferable career in such an epoch\nof society? An age in which every department has its awkward-squad seems\nin my mind's eye to suit me better. I might have wandered by the Strymon\nunder Philip and Alexander without throwing any new light on method or\norganising the sum of human knowledge; on the other hand, I might have\nobjected to Aristotle as too much of a systematiser, and have preferred\nthe freedom of a little self-contradiction as offering more chances of\ntruth. I gather, too, from the undeniable testimony of his disciple\nTheophrastus that there were bores, ill-bred persons, and detractors\neven in Athens, of species remarkably corresponding to the English, and\nnot yet made endurable by being classic; and altogether, with my present\nfastidious nostril, I feel that I am the better off for possessing\nAthenian life solely as an inodorous fragment of antiquity. As to\nSappho's Mitylene, while I am convinced that the Lesbian capital held\nsome plain men of middle stature and slow conversational powers, the\naddition of myself to their number, though clad in the majestic folds of\nthe himation and without cravat, would hardly have made a sensation\namong the accomplished fair ones who were so precise in adjusting their\nown drapery about their delicate ankles. Whereas by being another sort\nof person in the present age I might have given it some needful\ntheoretic clue; or I might have poured forth poetic strains which would\nhave anticipated theory and seemed a voice from \"the prophetic soul of\nthe wide world dreaming of things to come;\" or I might have been one of\nthose benignant lovely souls who, without astonishing the public and\nposterity, make a happy difference in the lives close around them, and\nin this way lift the average of earthly joy: in some form or other I\nmight have been so filled from the store of universal existence that I\nshould have been freed from that empty wishing which is like a child's\ncry to be inside a golden cloud, its imagination being too ignorant to\nfigure the lining of dimness and damp.\n\nOn the whole, though there is some rash boasting about enlightenment,\nand an occasional insistance on an originality which is that of the\npresent year's corn-crop, we seem too much disposed to indulge, and to\ncall by complimentary names, a greater charity for other portions of the\nhuman race than for our contemporaries. All reverence and gratitude for\nthe worthy Dead on whose labours we have entered, all care for the\nfuture generations whose lot we are preparing; but some affection and\nfairness for those who are doing the actual work of the world, some\nattempt to regard them with the same freedom from ill-temper, whether on\nprivate or public grounds, as we may hope will be felt by those who will\ncall us ancient! Otherwise, the looking before and after, which is our\ngrand human privilege, is in danger of turning to a sort of\nother-worldliness, breeding a more illogical indifference or bitterness\nthan was ever bred by the ascetic's contemplation of heaven. Except on\nthe ground of a primitive golden age and continuous degeneracy, I see no\nrational footing for scorning the whole present population of the globe,\nunless I scorn every previous generation from whom they have inherited\ntheir diseases of mind and body, and by consequence scorn my own scorn,\nwhich is equally an inheritance of mixed ideas and feelings concocted\nfor me in the boiling caldron of this universally contemptible life, and\nso on--scorning to infinity. This may represent some actual states of\nmind, for it is a narrow prejudice of mathematicians to suppose that\nways of thinking are to be driven out of the field by being reduced to\nan absurdity. The Absurd is taken as an excellent juicy thistle by many\nconstitutions.\n\nReflections of this sort have gradually determined me not to grumble at\nthe age in which I happen to have been born--a natural tendency\ncertainly older than Hesiod. Many ancient beautiful things are lost,\nmany ugly modern things have arisen; but invert the proposition and it\nis equally true. I at least am a modern with some interest in advocating\ntolerance, and notwithstanding an inborn beguilement which carries my\naffection and regret continually into an imagined past, I am aware that\nI must lose all sense of moral proportion unless I keep alive a stronger\nattachment to what is near, and a power of admiring what I best know and\nunderstand. Hence this question of wishing to be rid of one's\ncontemporaries associates itself with my filial feeling, and calls up\nthe thought that I might as justifiably wish that I had had other\nparents than those whose loving tones are my earliest memory, and whose\nlast parting first taught me the meaning of death. I feel bound to quell\nsuch a wish as blasphemy.\n\nBesides, there are other reasons why I am contented that my father was a\ncountry parson, born much about the same time as Scott and Wordsworth;\nnotwithstanding certain qualms I have felt at the fact that the property\non which I am living was saved out of tithe before the period of\ncommutation, and without the provisional transfiguration into a modus.\nIt has sometimes occurred to me when I have been taking a slice of\nexcellent ham that, from a too tenable point of view, I was breakfasting\non a small squealing black pig which, more than half a century ago, was\nthe unwilling representative of spiritual advantages not otherwise\nacknowledged by the grudging farmer or dairyman who parted with him. One\nenters on a fearful labyrinth in tracing compound interest backward, and\nsuch complications of thought have reduced the flavour of the ham; but\nsince I have nevertheless eaten it, the chief effect has been to\nmoderate the severity of my radicalism (which was not part of my\npaternal inheritance) and to raise the assuaging reflection, that if the\npig and the parishioner had been intelligent enough to anticipate my\nhistorical point of view, they would have seen themselves and the rector\nin a light that would have made tithe voluntary. Notwithstanding such\ndrawbacks I am rather fond of the mental furniture I got by having a\nfather who was well acquainted with all ranks of his neighbours, and am\nthankful that he was not one of those aristocratic clergymen who could\nnot have sat down to a meal with any family in the parish except my\nlord's--still more that he was not an earl or a marquis. A chief\nmisfortune of high birth is that it usually shuts a man out from the\nlarge sympathetic knowledge of human experience which comes from contact\nwith various classes on their own level, and in my father's time that\nentail of social ignorance had not been disturbed as we see it now. To\nlook always from overhead at the crowd of one's fellow-men must be in\nmany ways incapacitating, even with the best will and intelligence. The\nserious blunders it must lead to in the effort to manage them for their\ngood, one may see clearly by the mistaken ways people take of flattering\nand enticing those whose associations are unlike their own. Hence I have\nalways thought that the most fortunate Britons are those whose\nexperience has given them a practical share in many aspects of the\nnational lot, who have lived long among the mixed commonalty, roughing\nit with them under difficulties, knowing how their food tastes to them,\nand getting acquainted with their notions and motives not by inference\nfrom traditional types in literature or from philosophical theories, but\nfrom daily fellowship and observation. Of course such experience is apt\nto get antiquated, and my father might find himself much at a loss\namongst a mixed rural population of the present day; but he knew very\nwell what could be wisely expected from the miners, the weavers, the\nfield-labourers, and farmers of his own time--yes, and from the\naristocracy, for he had been brought up in close contact with them and\nhad been companion to a young nobleman who was deaf and dumb. \"A\nclergyman, lad,\" he used to say to me, \"should feel in himself a bit of\nevery class;\" and this theory had a felicitous agreement with his\ninclination and practice, which certainly answered in making him beloved\nby his parishioners. They grumbled at their obligations towards him; but\nwhat then? It was natural to grumble at any demand for payment, tithe\nincluded, but also natural for a rector to desire his tithe and look\nwell after the levying. A Christian pastor who did not mind about his\nmoney was not an ideal prevalent among the rural minds of fat central\nEngland, and might have seemed to introduce a dangerous laxity of\nsupposition about Christian laymen who happened to be creditors. My\nfather was none the less beloved because he was understood to be of a\nsaving disposition, and how could he save without getting his tithe? The\nsight of him was not unwelcome at any door, and he was remarkable among\nthe clergy of his district for having no lasting feud with rich or poor\nin his parish. I profited by his popularity, and for months after my\nmother's death, when I was a little fellow of nine, I was taken care of\nfirst at one homestead and then at another; a variety which I enjoyed\nmuch more than my stay at the Hall, where there was a tutor. Afterwards\nfor several years I was my father's constant companion in his outdoor\nbusiness, riding by his side on my little pony and listening to the\nlengthy dialogues he held with Darby or Joan, the one on the road or in\nthe fields, the other outside or inside her door. In my earliest\nremembrance of him his hair was already grey, for I was his youngest as\nwell as his only surviving child; and it seemed to me that advanced age\nwas appropriate to a father, as indeed in all respects I considered him\na parent so much to my honour, that the mention of my relationship to\nhim was likely to secure me regard among those to whom I was otherwise a\nstranger--my father's stories from his life including so many names of\ndistant persons that my imagination placed no limit to his\nacquaintanceship. He was a pithy talker, and his sermons bore marks of\nhis own composition. It is true, they must have been already old when I\nbegan to listen to them, and they were no more than a year's supply, so\nthat they recurred as regularly as the Collects. But though this system\nhas been much ridiculed, I am prepared to defend it as equally sound\nwith that of a liturgy; and even if my researches had shown me that some\nof my father's yearly sermons had been copied out from the works of\nelder divines, this would only have been another proof of his good\njudgment. One may prefer fresh eggs though laid by a fowl of the meanest\nunderstanding, but why fresh sermons?\n\nNor can I be sorry, though myself given to meditative if not active\ninnovation, that my father was a Tory who had not exactly a dislike to\ninnovators and dissenters, but a slight opinion of them as persons of\nill-founded self-confidence; whence my young ears gathered many details\nconcerning those who might perhaps have called themselves the more\nadvanced thinkers in our nearest market-town, tending to convince me\nthat their characters were quite as mixed as those of the thinkers\nbehind them. This circumstance of my rearing has at least delivered me\nfrom certain mistakes of classification which I observe in many of my\nsuperiors, who have apparently no affectionate memories of a goodness\nmingled with what they now regard as outworn prejudices. Indeed, my\nphilosophical notions, such as they are, continually carry me back to\nthe time when the fitful gleams of a spring day used to show me my own\nshadow as that of a small boy on a small pony, riding by the side of a\nlarger cob-mounted shadow over the breezy uplands which we used to\ndignify with the name of hills, or along by-roads with broad grassy\nborders and hedgerows reckless of utility, on our way to outlying\nhamlets, whose groups of inhabitants were as distinctive to my\nimagination as if they had belonged to different regions of the globe.\nFrom these we sometimes rode onward to the adjoining parish, where also\nmy father officiated, for he was a pluralist, but--I hasten to add--on\nthe smallest scale; for his one extra living was a poor vicarage, with\nhardly fifty parishioners, and its church would have made a very shabby\nbarn, the grey worm-eaten wood of its pews and pulpit, with their doors\nonly half hanging on the hinges, being exactly the colour of a lean\nmouse which I once observed as an interesting member of the scant\ncongregation, and conjectured to be the identical church mouse I had\nheard referred to as an example of extreme poverty; for I was a\nprecocious boy, and often reasoned after the fashion of my elders,\narguing that \"Jack and Jill\" were real personages in our parish, and\nthat if I could identify \"Jack\" I should find on him the marks of a\nbroken crown.\n\nSometimes when I am in a crowded London drawing-room (for I am a\ntown-bird now, acquainted with smoky eaves, and tasting Nature in the\nparks) quick flights of memory take me back among my father's\nparishioners while I am still conscious of elbowing men who wear the\nsame evening uniform as myself; and I presently begin to wonder what\nvarieties of history lie hidden under this monotony of aspect. Some of\nthem, perhaps, belong to families with many quarterings; but how many\n\"quarterings\" of diverse contact with their fellow-countrymen enter into\ntheir qualifications to be parliamentary leaders, professors of social\nscience, or journalistic guides of the popular mind? Not that I feel\nmyself a person made competent by experience; on the contrary, I argue\nthat since an observation of different ranks has still left me\npractically a poor creature, what must be the condition of those who\nobject even to read about the life of other British classes than their\nown? But of my elbowing neighbours with their crush hats, I usually\nimagine that the most distinguished among them have probably had a far\nmore instructive journey into manhood than mine. Here, perhaps, is a\nthought-worn physiognomy, seeming at the present moment to be classed as\na mere species of white cravat and swallow-tail, which may once, like\nFaraday's, have shown itself in curiously dubious embryonic form leaning\nagainst a cottage lintel in small corduroys, and hungrily eating a bit\nof brown bread and bacon; _there_ is a\n\n[...]\n\n, invading, self-asserting men were the English of old time,\nand were our fathers who did rough work by which we are profiting. They\nhad virtues which incorporated themselves in wholesome usages to which\nwe trace our own political blessings. Let us know and acknowledge our\ncommon relationship to them, and be thankful that over and above the\naffections and duties which spring from our manhood, we have the closer\nand more constantly guiding duties which belong to us as Englishmen.\"\n\nTo this view of our nationality most persons who have feeling and\nunderstanding enough to be conscious of the connection between the\npatriotic affection and every other affection which lifts us above\nemigrating rats and free-loving baboons, will be disposed to say Amen.\nTrue, we are not indebted to those ancestors for our religion: we are\nrather proud of having got that illumination from elsewhere. The men who\nplanted our nation were not Christians, though they began their work\ncenturies after Christ; and they had a decided objection to Christianity\nwhen it was first proposed to them: they were not monotheists, and their\nreligion was the reverse of spiritual. But since we have been fortunate\nenough to keep the island-home they won for us, and have been on the\nwhole a prosperous people, rather continuing the plan of invading and\nspoiling other lands than being forced to beg for shelter in them,\nnobody has reproached us because our fathers thirteen hundred years ago\nworshipped Odin, massacred Britons, and were with difficulty persuaded\nto accept Christianity, knowing nothing of Hebrew history and the\nreasons why Christ should be received as the Saviour of mankind. The Red\nIndians, not liking us when we settled among them, might have been\nwilling to fling such facts in our faces, but they were too ignorant,\nand besides, their opinions did not signify, because we were able, if we\nliked, to exterminate them. The Hindoos also have doubtless had their\nrancours against us and still entertain enough ill-will to make\nunfavourable remarks on our character, especially as to our historic\nrapacity and arrogant notions of our own superiority; they perhaps do\nnot admire the usual English profile, and they are not converted to our\nway of feeding: but though we are a small number of an alien race\nprofiting by the territory and produce of these prejudiced people, they\nare unable to turn us out; at least, when they tried we showed them\ntheir mistake. We do not call ourselves a dispersed and a punished\npeople: we are a colonising people, and it is we who have punished\nothers.\n\nStill the historian guides us rightly in urging us to dwell on the\nvirtues of our ancestors with emulation, and to cherish our sense of a\ncommon descent as a bond of obligation. The eminence, the nobleness of a\npeople depends on its capability of being stirred by memories, and of\nstriving for what we call spiritual ends--ends which consist not in\nimmediate material possession, but in the satisfaction of a great\nfeeling that animates the collective body as with one soul. A people\nhaving the seed of worthiness in it must feel an answering thrill when\nit is adjured by the deaths of its heroes who died to preserve its\nnational existence; when it is reminded of its small beginnings and\ngradual growth through past labours and struggles, such as are still\ndemanded of it in order that the freedom and wellbeing thus inherited\nmay be transmitted unimpaired to children and children's children; when\nan appeal against the permission of injustice is made to great\nprecedents in its history and to the better genius breathing in its\ninstitutions. It is this living force of sentiment in common which makes\na national consciousness. Nations so moved will resist conquest with\nthe very breasts of their women, will pay their millions and their blood\nto abolish slavery, will share privation in famine and all calamity,\nwill produce poets to sing \"some great story of a man,\" and thinkers\nwhose theories will bear the test of action. An individual man, to be\nharmoniously great, must belong to a nation of this order, if not in\nactual existence yet existing in the past, in memory, as a departed,\ninvisible, beloved ideal, once a reality, and perhaps to be restored. A\ncommon humanity is not yet enough to feed the rich blood of various\nactivity which makes a complete man. The time is not come for\ncosmopolitanism to be highly virtuous, any more than for communism to\nsuffice for social energy. I am not bound to feel for a Chinaman as I\nfeel for my fellow-countryman: I am bound not to demoralise him with\nopium, not to compel him to my will by destroying or plundering the\nfruits of his labour on the alleged ground that he is not cosmopolitan\nenough, and not to insult him for his want of my tailoring and religion\nwhen he appears as a peaceable visitor on the London pavement. It is\nadmirable in a Briton with a good purpose to learn Chinese, but it\nwould not be a proof of fine intellect in him to taste Chinese poetry in\nthe original more than he tastes the poetry of his own tongue.\nAffection, intelligence, duty, radiate from a centre, and nature has\ndecided that for us English folk that centre can be neither China nor\nPeru. Most of us feel this unreflectingly; for the affectation of\nundervaluing everything native, and being too fine for one's own\ncountry, belongs only to a few minds of no dangerous leverage. What is\nwanting is, that we should recognise a corresponding attachment to\nnationality as legitimate in every other people, and understand that its\nabsence is a privation of the greatest good.\n\nFor, to repeat, not only the nobleness of a nation depends on the\npresence of this national consciousness, but also the nobleness of each\nindividual citizen. Our dignity and rectitude are proportioned to our\nsense of relationship with something great, admirable, pregnant with\nhigh possibilities, worthy of sacrifice, a continual inspiration to\nself-repression and discipline by the presentation of aims larger and\nmore attractive to our generous part than the securing of personal ease\nor prosperity. And a people possessing this good should surely feel not\nonly a ready sympathy with the effort of those who, having lost the\ngood, strive to regain it, but a profound pity for any degradation\nresulting from its loss; nay, something more than pity when happier\nnationalities have made victims of the unfortunate whose memories\nnevertheless are the very fountain to which the persecutors trace their\nmost vaunted blessings.\n\nThese notions are familiar: few will deny them in the abstract, and many\nare found loudly asserting them in relation to this or the other\nparticular case. But here as elsewhere, in the ardent application of\nideas, there is a notable lack of simple comparison or sensibility to\nresemblance. The European world has long been used to consider the Jews\nas altogether exceptional, and it has followed naturally enough that\nthey have been excepted from the rules of justice and mercy, which are\nbased on human likeness. But to consider a people whose ideas have\ndetermined the religion of half the world, and that the more cultivated\nhalf, and who made the most eminent struggle against the power of Rome,\nas a purely exceptional race, is a demoralising offence against rational\nknowledge, a stultifying inconsistency in historical interpretation.\nEvery nation of forcible character--i.e., of strongly marked\ncharacteristics, is so far exceptional. The distinctive note of each\nbird-species is in this sense exceptional, but the necessary ground of\nsuch distinction is a deeper likeness. The superlative peculiarity in\nthe Jews admitted, our affinity with them is only the more apparent when\nthe elements of their peculiarity are discerned.\n\nFrom whatever point of view the writings of the Old Testament may be\nregarded, the picture they present of a national development is of high\ninterest and speciality, nor can their historic momentousness be much\naffected by any varieties of theory as to the relation they bear to the\nNew Testament or to the rise and constitution of Christianity. Whether\nwe accept the canonical Hebrew books as a revelation or simply as part\nof an ancient literature, makes no difference to the fact that we find\nthere the strongly characterised portraiture of a people educated from\nan earlier or later period to a sense of separateness unique in its\nintensity, a people taught by many concurrent influences to identify\nfaithfulness to its national traditions with the highest social and\nreligious blessings. Our too scanty sources of Jewish history, from the\nreturn under Ezra to the beginning of the desperate resistance against\nRome, show us the heroic and triumphant struggle of the Maccabees, which\nrescued the religion and independence of the nation from the corrupting\nsway of the Syrian Greeks, adding to the glorious sum of its memorials,\nand stimulating continuous efforts of a more peaceful sort to maintain\nand develop that national life which the heroes had fought and died for,\nby internal measures of legal administration and public teaching.\nThenceforth the virtuous elements of the Jewish life were engaged, as\nthey had been with varying aspects during the long and changeful\nprophetic period and the restoration under Ezra, on the side of\npreserving the specific national character against a demoralising fusion\nwith that of foreigners whose religion and ritual were idolatrous and\noften obscene. There was always a Foreign party reviling the National\nparty as narrow, and sometimes manifesting their own breadth in\nextensive views of advancement or profit to themselves by flattery of a\nforeign power. Such internal conflict naturally tightened the bands of\nconservatism, which needed to be strong if it were to rescue the sacred\nark, the vital spirit of a small nation--\"the smallest of the\nnations\"--whose territory lay on the highway between three continents;\nand when the dread and hatred of foreign sway had condensed itself into\ndread and hatred of the Romans, many Conservatives became Zealots, whose\nchief mark was that they advocated resistance to the death against the\nsubmergence of their nationality. Much might be said on this point\ntowards distinguishing the desperate struggle against a conquest which\nis regarded as degradation and corruption, from rash, hopeless\ninsurrection against an established native government; and for my part\n(if that were of any consequence) I share the spirit of the Zealots. I\ntake the spectacle of the Jewish people defying the Roman edict, and\npreferring death by starvation or the sword to the introduction of\nCaligula's deified statue into the temple, as a sublime type of\nsteadfastness. But all that need be noticed here is the continuity of\nthat national education (by outward and inward circumstance) which\ncreated in the Jews a feeling of race, a sense of corporate existence,\nunique in its intensity.\n\nBut not, before the dispersion, unique in essential qualities. There is\nmore likeness than contrast between the way we English got our island\nand the way the Israelites got Canaan. We have not been noted for\nforming a low estimate of ourselves in comparison with foreigners, or\nfor admitting that our institutions are equalled by those of any other\npeople under the sun. Many of us have thought that our sea-wall is a\nspecially divine arrangement to make and keep us a nation of sea-kings\nafter the manner of our forefathers, secure against invasion and able to\ninvade other lands when we need them, though they may lie on the other\nside of the ocean. Again, it has been held that we have a peculiar\ndestiny as a Protestant people, not only able to bruise the head of an\nidolatrous Christianity in the midst of us, but fitted as possessors of\nthe most truth and the most tonnage to carry our purer religion over the\nworld and convert mankind to our way of thinking. The Puritans,\nasserting their liberty to restrain tyrants, found the Hebrew history\nclosely symbolical of their feelings and purpose; and it can hardly be\ncorrect to cast the blame of their less laudable doings on the writings\nthey invoked, since their opponents made use of the same writings for\ndifferent ends, finding there a strong warrant for the divine right of\nkings and the denunciation of those who, like Korah, Dathan, and Abiram,\ntook on themselves the office of the priesthood which belonged of right\nsolely to Aaron and his sons, or, in other words, to men ordained by the\nEnglish bishops. We must rather refer the passionate use of the Hebrew\nwritings to affinities of disposition between our own race and the\nJewish. Is it true that the arrogance of a Jew was so immeasurably\nbeyond that of a Calvinist? And the just sympathy and admiration which\nwe give to the ancestors who resisted the oppressive acts of our native\nkings, and by resisting rescued or won for us the best part of our civil\nand religious liberties--is it justly to be withheld from those brave\nand steadfast men of Jewish race who fought and died, or strove by wise\nadministration to resist, the oppression and corrupting influences of\nforeign tyrants, and by resisting rescued the nationality which was the\nvery hearth of our own religion? At any rate, seeing that the Jews were\nmore specifically than any other nation educated into a sense of their\nsupreme moral value, the chief matter of surprise is that any other\nnation is found to rival them in this form of self-confidence.\n\nMore exceptional--less like the course of our own history--has been\ntheir dispersion and their subsistence as a separate people through ages\nin which for the most part they were regarded and treated very much as\nbeasts hunted for the sake of their skins, or of a valuable secretion\npeculiar to their species. The Jews showed a talent for accumulating\nwhat was an object of more immediate desire to Christians than animal\noils or well-furred skins, and their cupidity and avarice were found at\nonce particularly hateful and particularly useful: hateful when seen as\na reason for punishing them by mulcting or robbery, useful when this\nretributive process could be successfully carried forward. Kings and\nemperors naturally were more alive to the usefulness of subjects who\ncould gather and yield money; but edicts issued to protect \"the King's\nJews\" equally with the King's game from being harassed and hunted by the\ncommonalty were only slight mitigations to the deplorable lot of a race\nheld to be under the divine curse, and had little force after the\nCrusades began. As the slave-holders in the United States counted the\ncurse on Ham a justification of slavery, so the curse on the Jews\nwas counted a justification for hindering them from pursuing agriculture\nand handicrafts; for marking them out as execrable figures by a peculiar\ndress; for torturing them to make them part with their gains, or for\nmore gratuitously spitting at them and pelting them; for taking it as\ncertain that they killed and ate babies, poisoned the wells, and took\npains to spread the plague; for putting it to them whether they would be\nbaptised or burned, and not failing to burn and massacre them when they\nwere obstinate; but also for suspecting them of disliking the baptism\nwhen they had got it, and then burning them in punishment of their\ninsincerity; finally, for hounding them by tens on tens of thousands\nfrom the homes where they had found shelter for centuries, and\ninflicting on them the horrors of a new exile and a new dispersion. All\nthis to avenge the Saviour of mankind, or else to compel these\nstiff-necked people to acknowledge a Master whose servants showed such\nbeneficent effects of His teaching.\n\nWith a people so treated one of two issues was possible: either from\nbeing of feebler nature than their persecutors, and caring more for ease\nthan for the sentiments and ideas which constituted their distinctive\ncharacter, they would everywhere give way to pressure and get rapidly\nmerged in the populations around them; or, being endowed with uncommon\ntenacity, physical and mental, feeling peculiarly the ties of\ninheritance both in blood and faith, remembering national glories,\ntrusting in their recovery, abhorring apostasy, able to bear all things\nand hope all things with the consciousness of being steadfast to\nspiritual obligations, the kernel of their number would harden into an\ninflexibility more and more insured by motive and habit. They would\ncherish all differences that marked them off from their hated\noppressors, all memories that consoled them with a sense of virtual\nthough unrecognised superiority; and the separateness which was made\ntheir badge of ignominy would be their inward pride, their source of\nfortifying defiance. Doubtless such a people would get confirmed in\nvices. An oppressive government and a persecuting religion, while\nbreeding vices in those who hold power, are well known to breed\nanswering vices in those who are powerless and suffering. What more\ndirect plan than the course presented by European history could have\nbeen pursued in order to give the Jews a spirit of bitter isolation, of\nscorn for the wolfish hypocrisy that made victims of them, of triumph in\nprospering at the expense of the blunderers who stoned them away from\nthe open paths of industry?--or, on the other hand, to encourage in the\nless defiant a lying conformity, a pretence of conversion for the sake\nof the social advantages attached to baptism, an outward renunciation of\ntheir hereditary ties with the lack of real love towards the society\nand creed which exacted this galling tribute?--or again, in the most\nunhappy specimens of the race, to rear transcendent examples of odious\nvice, reckless instruments of rich men with bad propensities,\nunscrupulous grinders of the alien people who wanted to grind _them_?\n\nNo wonder the Jews have their vices: no wonder if it were proved (which\nit has not hitherto appeared to be) that some of them have a bad\npre-eminence in evil, an unrivalled superfluity of naughtiness. It would\nbe more plausible to make a wonder of the virtues which have prospered\namong them under the shadow of oppression. But instead of dwelling on\nthese, or treating as admitted what any hardy or ignorant person may\ndeny, let us found simply on the loud assertions of the hostile. The\nJews, it is said, resisted the expansion of their own religion into\nChristianity; they were in the habit of spitting on the cross; they have\nheld the name of Christ to be _Anathema_. Who taught them that? The men\nwho made Christianity a curse to them: the men who made the name of\nChrist a symbol for the spirit of vengeance, and, what was worse, made\nthe execution of the vengeance a pretext for satisfying their own\nsavageness, greed, and envy: the men who sanctioned with the name of\nChrist a barbaric and blundering copy of pagan fatalism in taking the\nwords \"His blood be upon us and on our children\" as a divinely appointed\nverbal warrant for wreaking cruelty from generation to generation on the\npeople from whose sacred writings Christ drew His teaching. Strange\nretrogression in the professors of an expanded religion, boasting an\nillumination beyond the spiritual doctrine of Hebrew prophets! For\nHebrew prophets proclaimed a God who demanded mercy rather than\nsacrifices. The Christians also believed that God delighted not in the\nblood of rams and of bulls, but they apparently conceived Him as\nrequiring for His satisfaction the sighs and groans, the blood and\nroasted flesh of men whose forefathers had misunderstood the\nmetaphorical character of prophecies which spoke of spiritual\npre-eminence under the figure of a material kingdom. Was this the method\nby which Christ desired His title to the Messiahship to be commended to\nthe hearts and understandings of the nation in which He was born? Many\nof His sayings bear the stamp of that patriotism which places\nfellow-countrymen in the inner circle of affection and duty. And did the\nwords \"Father, forgive them, they know not what they do,\" refer only to\nthe centurion and his band, a tacit exception being made of every Hebrew\nthere present from the mercy of the Father and the compassion of the\nSon?--nay, more, of every Hebrew yet to come who remained unconverted\nafter hearing of His claim to the Messiahship, not from His own lips or\nthose of His native apostles, but from the lips of alien men whom cross,\ncreed, and baptism had left cruel, rapacious, and debauched? It is more\nreverent to Christ to believe that He must have approved the Jewish\nmartyrs who deliberately chose to be burned or massacred rather than be\nguilty of a blaspheming lie, more than He approved the rabble of\ncrusaders who robbed and murdered them in His name. But these\nremonstrances seem to have no direct application to personages who take\nup the attitude of philosophic thinkers and discriminating critics,\nprofessedly accepting Christianity from a rational point of view as a\nvehicle of the highest religious and moral truth, and condemning the\nJews on the ground that they are obstinate adherents of an outworn\ncreed, maintain themselves in moral alienation from the peoples with\nwhom they share citizenship, and are destitute of real interest in the\nwelfare of the community and state with which they are thus identified.\nThese anti-Judaic advocates usually belong to a party which has felt\nitself glorified in winning for Jews, as well as Dissenters and\nCatholics, the full privileges of citizenship, laying open to them every\npath to distinction. At one time the voice of this party urged that\ndifferences of creed were made dangerous only by the denial of\ncitizenship--that you must make a man a citizen before he could feel\nlike one. At present, apparently, this confidence has been succeeded by\na sense of mistake: there is a regret that no limiting clauses were\ninsisted on, such as would have hindered the Jews from coming too far\nand in too large proportion along those opened pathways; and the\nRoumanians are thought to have shown an enviable wisdom in giving them\nas little chance as possible. But then, the reflection occurring that\nsome of the most objectionable Jews are baptised Christians, it is\nobvious that such clauses would have been insufficient, and the doctrine\nthat you can turn a Jew into a good Christian is emphatically retracted.\nBut clearly, these liberal gentlemen, too late enlightened by\ndisagreeable events, must yield the palm of wise foresight to those who\nargued against them long ago; and it is a striking spectacle to witness\nminds so panting for advancement in some directions that they are ready\nto force it on an unwilling society, in this instance despairingly\nrecurring to mediaeval types of thinking--insisting that the Jews are\nmade viciously cosmopolitan by holding the world's money-bag, that for\nthem all national interests are resolved into the algebra of loans, that\nthey have suffered an inward degradation stamping them as morally\ninferior, and--\"serve them right,\" since they rejected Christianity. All\nwhich is mirrored in an analogy, namely, that of the Irish, also a\nservile race, who have rejected Protestantism though it has been\nrepeatedly urged on them by fire and sword and penal laws, and whose\nplace in the moral scale may be judged by our advertisements, where the\nclause, \"No Irish need apply,\" parallels the sentence which for many\npolite persons sums up the question of Judaism--\"I never _did_ like the\nJews.\"\n\nIt is certainly worth considering whether an expatriated, denationalised\nrace, used for ages to live among antipathetic populations, must not\ninevitably lack some conditions of nobleness. If they drop that\nseparateness which is made their reproach, they may be in danger of\nlapsing into a cosmopolitan indifference equivalent to cynicism, and of\nmissing that inward identification with the nationality immediately\naround them which might make some amends for their inherited privation.\nNo dispassionate observer can deny this danger. Why, our own countrymen\nwho take to living abroad without purpose or function to keep up their\nsense of fellowship in the affairs of their own land are rarely good\nspecimens of moral healthiness; still, the consciousness of having a\nnative country, the birthplace of common memories and habits of mind,\nexisting like a parental hearth quitted but beloved; the dignity of\nbeing included in a people which has a part in the comity of nations\nand the growing federation of the world; that sense of special belonging\nwhich is the root of human virtues, both public and private,--all these\nspiritual links may preserve migratory Englishmen from the worst\nconsequences of their voluntary dispersion. Unquestionably the Jews,\nhaving been more than any other race exposed to the adverse moral\ninfluences of alienism, must, both in individuals and in groups, have\nsuffered some corresponding moral degradation; but in fact they have\nescaped with less of abjectness and less of hard hostility towards the\nnations whose hand has been against them, than could have happened in\nthe case of a people who had neither their adhesion to a separate\nreligion founded on historic memories, nor their characteristic family\naffectionateness. Tortured, flogged, spit upon, the _corpus vile_ on\nwhich rage or wantonness vented themselves with impunity, their name\nflung at them as an opprobrium by superstition, hatred, and contempt,\nthey have remained proud of their origin. Does any one call this an evil\npride? Perhaps he belongs to that order of man who, while he has a\ndemocratic dislike to dukes and earls, wants to make believe that his\nfather was an idle gentleman, when in fact he was an honourable artisan,\nor who would feel flattered to be taken for other than an Englishman. It\nis possible to be too arrogant about our blood or our calling, but that\narrogance is virtue compared with such mean pretence. The pride which\nidentifies us with a great historic body is a humanising, elevating\nhabit of mind, inspiring sacrifices of individual comfort, gain, or\nother selfish ambition, for the sake of that ideal whole; and no man\nswayed by such a sentiment can become completely abject. That a Jew of\nSmyrna, where a whip is carried by passengers ready to flog off the too\nofficious specimens of his race, can still be proud to say, \"I am a\nJew,\" is surely a fact to awaken admiration in a mind capable of\nunderstanding what we may call the ideal forces in human history. And\nagain, a varied, impartial observation of the Jews in different\ncountries tends to the impression that they have a predominant\nkindliness which must have been deeply ingrained in the constitution of\ntheir race to have outlasted the ages of persecution and oppression.\nThe concentration of their joys in domestic life has kept up in them the\ncapacity of tenderness: the pity for the fatherless and the widow, the\ncare for the women and the little ones, blent intimately with their\nreligion, is a well of mercy that cannot long or widely be pent up by\nexclusiveness. And the kindliness of the Jew overflows the line of\ndivision between him and the Gentile. On the whole, one of the most\nremarkable phenomena in the history of this scattered people, made for\nages \"a scorn and a hissing\" is, that after being subjected to this\nprocess, which might have been expected to be in every sense\ndeteriorating and vitiating, they have come out of it (in any estimate\nwhich allows for numerical proportion) rivalling the nations of all\nEuropean countries in healthiness and beauty of _physique_, in practical\nability, in scientific and artistic aptitude, and in some forms of\nethical value. A significant indication of their natural rank is seen in\nthe fact that at this moment, the leader of the Liberal party in Germany\nis a Jew, the leader of the Republican party in France is a Jew, and the\nhead of the Conservative ministry in England is a Jew. And here it is\nthat we find the ground for the obvious jealousy which is now\nstimulating the revived expression of old antipathies. \"The Jews,\" it is\nfelt, \"have a dangerous tendency to get the uppermost places not only in\ncommerce but in political life. Their monetary hold on governments is\ntending to perpetuate in leading Jews a spirit of universal alienism\n(euphemistically called cosmopolitanism), even where the West has given\nthem a full share in civil and political rights. A people with oriental\nsunlight in their blood, yet capable of being everywhere acclimatised,\nthey have a force and toughness which enables them to carry off the best\nprizes; and their wealth is likely to put half the seats in Parliament\nat their disposal.\"\n\nThere is truth in these views of Jewish social and political relations.\nBut it is rather too late for liberal pleaders to urge them in a merely\nvituperative sense. Do they propose as a remedy for the impending danger\nof our healthier national influences getting overridden by Jewish\npredominance, that we should repeal our emancipatory laws? Not all the\nGermanic immigrants who have been settling among us for generations,\nand are still pouring in to settle, are Jews, but thoroughly Teutonic\nand more or less Christian craftsmen, mechanicians, or skilled and\nerudite functionaries; and the Semitic Christians who swarm among us are\ndangerously like their unconverted brethren in complexion, persistence,\nand wealth. Then there are the Greeks who, by the help of Phoenician\nblood or otherwise, are objectionably strong in the city. Some judges\nthink that the Scotch are more numerous and prosperous here in the South\nthan is quite for the good of us Southerners; and the early\ninconvenience felt under the Stuarts of being quartered upon by a\nhungry, hard-working people with a distinctive accent and form of\nreligion, and higher cheek-bones than English taste requires, has not\nyet been quite neutralised. As for the Irish, it is felt in high\nquarters that we have always been too lenient towards them;--at least,\nif they had been harried a little more there might not have been so many\nof them on the English press, of which they divide the power with the\nScotch, thus driving many Englishmen to honest and ineloquent labour.\n\nSo far shall we be carried if we go in search of devices to hinder\npeople of other blood than our own from getting the advantage of\ndwelling among us.\n\nLet it be admitted that it is a calamity to the English, as to any other\ngreat historic people, to undergo a premature fusion with immigrants of\nalien blood; that its distinctive national characteristics should be in\ndanger of obliteration by the predominating quality of foreign settlers.\nI not only admit this, I am ready to unite in groaning over the\nthreatened danger. To one who loves his native language, who would\ndelight to keep our rich and harmonious English undefiled by foreign\naccent, foreign intonation, and those foreign tinctures of verbal\nmeaning which tend to confuse all writing and discourse, it is an\naffliction as harassing as the climate, that on our stage, in our\nstudios, at our public and private gatherings, in our offices,\nwarehouses, and workshops, we must expect to hear our beloved English\nwith its words clipped, its vowels stretched and twisted, its phrases of\nacquiescence and politeness, of cordiality, dissidence or argument,\ndelivered always in the wrong tones, like ill-rendered melodies, marred\nbeyond recognition; that there should be a general ambition to speak\nevery language except our mother English, which persons \"of style\" are\nnot ashamed of corrupting with slang, false foreign equivalents, and a\npronunciation that crushes out all colour from the vowels and jams them\nbetween jostling consonants. An ancient Greek might not like to be\nresuscitated for the sake of hearing Homer read in our universities,\nstill he would at least find more instructive marvels in other\ndevelopments to be witnessed at those institutions; but a modern\nEnglishman is invited from his after-dinner repose to hear Shakspere\ndelivered under circumstances which offer no other novelty than some\nnovelty of false intonation, some new distribution of strong emphasis on\nprepositions, some new misconception of a familiar idiom. Well! it is\nour inertness that is in fault, our carelessness of excellence, our\nwilling ignorance of the treasures that lie in our national heritage,\nwhile we are agape after what is foreign, though it may be only a vile\nimitation of what is native.\n\nThis marring of our speech, however, is a minor evil compared with what\nmust follow from the predominance of wealth--acquiring immigrants, whose\nappreciation of our political and social life must often be as\napproximative or fatally erroneous as their delivery of our language.\nBut take the worst issues--what can we do to hinder them? Are we to\nadopt the exclusiveness for which we have punished the Chinese? Are we\nto tear the glorious flag of hospitality which has made our freedom the\nworld-wide blessing of the oppressed? It is not agreeable to find\nforeign accents and stumbling locutions passing from the piquant\nexception to the general rule of discourse. But to urge on that account\nthat we should spike away the peaceful foreigner, would be a view of\ninternational relations not in the long-run favourable to the interests\nof our fellow-countrymen; for we are at least equal to the races we call\nobtrusive in the disposition to settle wherever money is to be made and\ncheaply idle living to be found. In meeting the national evils which are\nbrought upon us by the onward course of the world, there is often no\nmore immediate hope or resource than that of striving after fuller\nnational excellence, which must consist in the moulding of more\nexcellent individual natives. The tendency of things is towards the\nquicker or slower fusion of races. It is impossible to arrest this\ntendency: all we can do is to moderate its course so as to hinder it\nfrom degrading the moral status of societies by a too rapid effacement\nof those national traditions and customs which are the language of the\nnational genius--the deep suckers of healthy sentiment. Such moderating\nand guidance of inevitable movement is worthy of all effort. And it is\nin this sense that the modern insistance on the idea of Nationalities\nhas value. That any people at once distinct and coherent enough to form\na state should be held in subjection by an alien antipathetic government\nhas been becoming more and more a ground of sympathetic indignation; and\nin virtue of this, at least one great State has been added to European\ncouncils. Nobody now complains of the result in this case, though\nfar-sighted persons see the need to limit analogy by discrimination. We\nhave to consider who are the stifled people and who the stiflers before\nwe can be sure of our ground.\n\nThe only point in this connection on which Englishmen are agreed is,\nthat England itself shall not be subject to foreign rule. The fiery\nresolve to resist invasion, though with an improvised array of\npitchforks, is felt to be virtuous, and to be worthy of a historic\npeople. Why? Because there is a national life in our veins. Because\nthere is something specifically English which we feel to be supremely\nworth striving for, worth dying for, rather than living to renounce it.\nBecause we too have our share--perhaps a principal share--in that spirit\nof separateness which has not yet done its work in the education of\nmankind, which has created the varying genius of nations, and, like the\nMuses, is the offspring of memory.\n\nHere, as everywhere else, the human task seems to be the discerning and\nadjustment of opposite claims. But the end can hardly be achieved by\nurging contradictory reproaches, and instead of labouring after\ndiscernment as a preliminary to intervention, letting our zeal burst\nforth according to a capricious selection, first determined accidentally\nand afterwards justified by personal predilection. Not only John Gilpin\nand his wife, or Edwin and Angelina, seem to be of opinion that their\npreference or dislike of Russians, Servians, or Greeks, consequent,\nperhaps, on hotel adventures, has something to do with the merits of the\nEastern Question; even in a higher range of intellect and enthusiasm we\nfind a distribution of sympathy or pity for sufferers of different blood\nor votaries of differing religions, strangely unaccountable on any other\nground than a fortuitous direction of study or trivial circumstances of\ntravel. With some even admirable persons, one is never quite sure of any\nparticular being included under a general term. A provincial physician,\nit is said, once ordering a lady patient not to eat salad, was asked\npleadingly by the affectionate husband whether she might eat lettuce, or\ncresses, or radishes. The physician had too rashly believed in the\ncomprehensiveness of the word \"salad,\" just as we, if not enlightened by\nexperience, might believe in the all-embracing breadth of \"sympathy with\nthe injured and oppressed.\" What mind can exhaust the grounds of\nexception which lie in each particular case? There is understood to be a\npeculiar odour from the body, and we know that some persons, too\nrationalistic to feel bound by the curse on Ham, used to hint very\nstrongly that this odour determined the question on the side of \nslavery.\n\nAnd this is the usual level of thinking in polite society concerning the\nJews. Apart from theological purposes, it seems to be held surprising\nthat anybody should take an interest in the history of a people whose\nliterature has furnished all our devotional language; and if any\nreference is made to their past or future destinies some hearer is sure\nto state as a relevant fact which may assist our judgment, that she, for\nher part, is not fond of them, having known a Mr Jacobson who was very\nunpleasant, or that he, for his part, thinks meanly of them as a race,\nthough on inquiry you find that he is so little acquainted with their\ncharacteristics that he is astonished to learn how many persons whom he\nhas blindly admired and applauded are Jews to the backbone. Again, men\nwho consider themselves in the very van of modern advancement, knowing\nhistory and the latest philosophies of history, indicate their\ncontemptuous surprise that any one should entertain the destiny of the\nJews as a worthy subject, by referring to Moloch and their own\nagreement with the theory that the religion of Jehovah was merely a\ntransformed Moloch-worship, while in the same breath they are glorifying\n\"civilisation\" as a transformed tribal existence of which some\nlineaments are traceable in grim marriage customs of the native\nAustralians. Are these erudite persons prepared to insist that the name\n\"Father\" should no longer have any sanctity for us, because in their\nview of likelihood our Aryan ancestors were mere improvers on a state of\nthings in which nobody knew his own father?\n\nFor less theoretic men, ambitious, to be regarded as practical\npoliticians, the value of the Hebrew race has been measured by their\nunfavourable opinion of a prime minister who is a Jew by lineage. But it\nis possible to form a very ugly opinion as to the scrupulousness of\nWalpole or of Chatham; and in any case I think Englishmen would refuse\nto accept the character and doings of those eighteenth century statesmen\nas the standard of value for the English people and the part they have\nto play in the fortunes of mankind.\n\nIf we are to consider the future of the Jews at all, it seems\nreasonable to take as a preliminary question: Are they destined to\ncomplete fusion with the peoples among whom they are dispersed, losing\nevery remnant of a distinctive consciousness as Jews; or, are there in\nthe breadth and intensity with which the feeling of separateness, or\nwhat we may call the organised memory of a national consciousness,\nactually exists in the world-wide Jewish communities--the seven millions\nscattered from east to west--and again, are there in the political\nrelations of the world, the conditions present or approaching for the\nrestoration of a Jewish state planted on the old ground as a centre of\nnational feeling, a source of dignifying protection, a special channel\nfor special energies which may contribute some added form of national\ngenius, and an added voice in the councils of the world?\n\nThey are among us everywhere: it is useless to say we are not fond of\nthem. Perhaps we are not fond of proletaries and their tendency to form\nUnions, but the world is not therefore to be rid of them. If we wish to\nfree ourselves from the inconveniences that we have to complain of,\nwhether in proletaries or in Jews, our best course is to encourage all\nmeans of improving these neighbours who elbow us in a thickening crowd,\nand of sending their incommodious energies into beneficent channels. Why\nare we so eager for the dignity of certain populations of whom perhaps\nwe have never seen a single specimen, and of whose history, legend, or\nliterature we have been contentedly ignorant for ages, while we sneer at\nthe notion of a renovated national dignity for the Jews, whose ways of\nthinking and whose very verbal forms are on our lips in every prayer\nwhich we end with an Amen? Some of us consider this question dismissed\nwhen they have said that the wealthiest Jews have no desire to forsake\ntheir European palaces, and go to live in Jerusalem. But in a return\nfrom exile, in the restoration of a people, the question is not whether\ncertain rich men will choose to remain behind, but whether there will be\nfound worthy men who will choose to lead the return. Plenty of\nprosperous Jews remained in Babylon when Ezra marshalled his band of\nforty thousand and began a new glorious epoch in the history of his\nrace, making the preparation for that epoch in the history of the world\nwhich has been held glorious enough to be dated from for evermore. The\nhinge of possibility is simply the existence of an adequate community of\nfeeling as well as widespread need in the Jewish race, and the hope that\namong its finer specimens there may arise some men of instruction and\nardent public spirit, some new Ezras, some modern Maccabees, who will\nknow how to use all favouring outward conditions, how to triumph by\nheroic example, over the indifference of their fellows and the scorn of\ntheir foes, and will steadfastly set their faces towards making their\npeople once more one among the nations.\n\nFormerly, evangelical orthodoxy was prone to dwell on the fulfilment of\nprophecy in the \"restoration of the Jews,\" Such interpretation of the\nprophets is less in vogue now. The dominant mode is to insist on a\nChristianity that disowns its origin, that is not a substantial growth\nhaving a genealogy, but is a vaporous reflex of modern notions. The\nChrist of Matthew had the heart of a Jew--\"Go ye first to the lost\nsheep of the house of Israel.\" The Apostle of the Gentiles had the heart\nof a Jew: \"For I could wish that myself were accursed from Christ for my\nbrethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh: who are Israelites; to whom\npertaineth the adoption, and the glory, and the covenants, and the\ngiving of the law, and the service of God, and the promises; whose are\nthe fathers, and of whom as concerning the flesh Christ came.\" Modern\napostles, extolling Christianity, are found using a different tone: they\nprefer the mediaeval cry translated into modern phrase. But the\nmediaeval cry too was in substance very ancient--more ancient than the\ndays of Augustus. Pagans in successive ages said, \"These people are\nunlike us, and refuse to be made like us: let us punish them.\" The Jews\nwere steadfast in their separateness, and through that separateness\nChristianity was born. A modern book on Liberty has maintained that from\nthe freedom of individual men to persist in idiosyncrasies the world may\nbe enriched. Why should we not apply this argument to the idiosyncrasy\nof a nation, and pause in our haste to hoot it down? There is still a\ngreat function for the steadfastness of the Jew: not that he should\nshut out the utmost illumination which knowledge can throw on his\nnational history, but that he should cherish the store of inheritance\nwhich that history has left him. Every Jew should be conscious that he\nis one of a multitude possessing common objects of piety in the immortal\nachievements and immortal sorrows of ancestors who have transmitted to\nthem a physical and mental type strong enough, eminent enough in\nfaculties, pregnant enough with peculiar promise, to constitute a new\nbeneficent individuality among the nations, and, by confuting the\ntraditions of scorn, nobly avenge the wrongs done to their Fathers.\n\nThere is a sense in which the worthy child of a nation that has brought\nforth illustrious prophets, high and unique among the poets of the\nworld, is bound by their visions.\n\nIs bound?\n\nYes, for the effective bond of human action is feeling, and the worthy\nchild of a people owning the triple name of Hebrew, Israelite, and Jew,\nfeels his kinship with the glories and the sorrows, the degradation and\nthe possible renovation of his national family.\n\nWill any one teach the nullification of this feeling and call his\ndoctrine a philosophy? He will teach a blinding superstition--the\nsuperstition that a theory of human wellbeing can be constructed in\ndisregard of the influences which have made us human.\n\n\nTHE END.\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Impressions of Theophrastus Such, by George Eliot\n\n*** ", "source_language": "en", "target_language": "de_DE", "source_lang_name": "English", "target_lang_name": "German", "doc_id": "Impressions-of-Theophrastus-Such-by-George-Eliot", "seg_id": 1, "publication_date": 1879, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/10762"} -{"text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by David Widger\n\n\n\n\nODD CRAFT\n\nBy W.W. Jacobs\n\n\n\nBILL'S LAPSE\n\nStrength and good-nature--said the night-watchman, musingly, as he felt\nhis biceps--strength and good-nature always go together. Sometimes you\nfind a strong man who is not good-natured, but then, as everybody he\ncomes in contack with is, it comes to the same thing.\n\nThe strongest and kindest-'earted man I ever come across was a man o' the\nname of Bill Burton, a ship-mate of Ginger Dick's. For that matter 'e\nwas a shipmate o' Peter Russet's and old Sam Small's too. Not over and\nabove tall; just about my height, his arms was like another man's legs\nfor size, and 'is chest and his back and shoulders might ha' been made\nfor a giant. And with all that he'd got a soft blue eye like a gal's\n(blue's my favourite colour for gals' eyes), and a nice, soft, curly\nbrown beard. He was an A.B., too, and that showed 'ow good-natured he\nwas, to pick up with firemen.\n\nHe got so fond of 'em that when they was all paid off from the _Ocean\nKing_ he asked to be allowed to join them in taking a room ashore. It\npleased every-body, four coming cheaper than three, and Bill being that\ngood-tempered that 'e'd put up with anything, and when any of the three\nquarrelled he used to act the part of peacemaker.\n\n[Illustration: \"When any of the three quarrelled he used to act the part\nof peacemaker.\"]\n\nThe only thing about 'im that they didn't like was that 'e was a\nteetotaler. He'd go into public-'ouses with 'em, but he wouldn't drink;\nleastways, that is to say, he wouldn't drink beer, and Ginger used to say\nthat it made 'im feel uncomfortable to see Bill put away a bottle o'\nlemonade every time they 'ad a drink. One night arter 'e had 'ad\nseventeen bottles he could 'ardly got home, and Peter Russet, who knew a\nlot about pills and such-like, pointed out to 'im 'ow bad it was for his\nconstitushon. He proved that the lemonade would eat away the coats o'\nBill's stomach, and that if 'e kept on 'e might drop down dead at any\nmoment.\n\nThat frightened Bill a bit, and the next night, instead of 'aving\nlemonade, 'e had five bottles o' stone ginger-beer, six of different\nkinds of teetotal beer, three of soda-water, and two cups of coffee. I'm\nnot counting the drink he 'ad at the chemist's shop arterward, because he\ntook that as medicine, but he was so queer in 'is inside next morning\nthat 'e began to be afraid he'd 'ave to give up drink altogether.\n\nHe went without the next night, but 'e was such a generous man that 'e\nwould pay every fourth time, and there was no pleasure to the other chaps\nto see 'im pay and 'ave nothing out of it. It spoilt their evening, and\nowing to 'aving only about 'arf wot they was accustomed to they all got\nup very disagreeable next morning.\n\n\"Why not take just a little beer, Bill?\" asks Ginger.\n\nBill 'ung his 'ead and looked a bit silly. \"I'd rather not, mate,\" he\nses, at last. \"I've been teetotal for eleven months now.\"\n\n\"Think of your 'ealth, Bill,\" ses Peter Russet; \"your 'ealth is more\nimportant than the pledge. Wot made you take it?\"\n\nBill coughed. \"I 'ad reasons,\" he ses, slowly. \"A mate o' mine wished\nme to.\"\n\n\"He ought to ha' known better,\" ses Sam. \"He 'ad 'is reasons,\" ses Bill.\n\n\"Well, all I can say is, Bill,\" ses Ginger, \"all I can say is, it's very\ndisobligin' of you.\"\n\n\"Disobligin'?\" ses Bill, with a start; \"don't say that, mate.\"\n\n\"I must say it,\" ses Ginger, speaking very firm.\n\n\"You needn't take a lot, Bill,\" ses Sam; \"nobody wants you to do that.\nJust drink in moderation, same as wot we do.\"\n\n\"It gets into my 'ead,\" ses Bill, at last.\n\n\"Well, and wot of it?\" ses Ginger; \"it gets into everybody's 'ead\noccasionally. Why, one night old Sam 'ere went up behind a policeman and\ntickled 'im under the arms; didn't you, Sam?\"\n\n\"I did nothing o' the kind,\" ses Sam, firing up.\n\n\"Well, you was fined ten bob for it next morning, that's all I know,\" ses\nGinger.\n\n\"I was fined ten bob for punching 'im,\" ses old Sam, very wild. \"I never\ntickled a policeman in my life. I never thought o' such a thing. I'd no\nmore tickle a policeman than I'd fly. Anybody that ses I did is a liar.\nWhy should I? Where does the sense come in? Wot should I want to do it\nfor?\"\n\n\"All right, Sam,\" ses Ginger, sticking 'is fingers in 'is ears, \"you\ndidn't, then.\"\n\n\"No, I didn't,\" ses Sam, \"and don't you forget it. This ain't the fust\ntime you've told that lie about me. I can take a joke with any man; but\nanybody that goes and ses I tickled--\"\n\n\"All right,\" ses Ginger and Peter Russet together. \"You'll 'ave tickled\npoliceman on the brain if you ain't careful, Sam,\" ses Peter.\n\nOld Sam sat down growling, and Ginger Dick turned to Bill agin. \"It gets\ninto everybody's 'ead at times,\" he ses, \"and where's the 'arm? It's wot\nit was meant for.\"\n\nBill shook his 'ead, but when Ginger called 'im disobligin' agin he gave\nway and he broke the pledge that very evening with a pint o' six 'arf.\n\nGinger was surprised to see the way 'e took his liquor. Arter three or\nfour pints he'd expected to see 'im turn a bit silly, or sing, or do\nsomething o' the kind, but Bill kept on as if 'e was drinking water.\n\n\"Think of the 'armless pleasure you've been losing all these months,\nBill,\" ses Ginger, smiling at him.\n\nBill said it wouldn't bear thinking of, and, the next place they came to\nhe said some rather 'ard things of the man who'd persuaded 'im to take\nthe pledge. He 'ad two or three more there, and then they began to see\nthat it was beginning to have an effect on 'im. The first one that\nnoticed it was Ginger Dick. Bill 'ad just lit 'is pipe, and as he threw\nthe match down he ses: \"I don't like these 'ere safety matches,\" he ses.\n\n\"Don't you, Bill?\" ses Ginger. \"I do, rather.\"\n\n\"Oh, you do, do you?\" ses Bill, turning on 'im like lightning; \"well,\ntake that for contradictin',\" he ses, an' he gave Ginger a smack that\nnearly knocked his 'ead off.\n\nIt was so sudden that old Sam and Peter put their beer down and stared at\neach other as if they couldn't believe their eyes. Then they stooped\ndown and helped pore Ginger on to 'is legs agin and began to brush 'im\ndown.\n\n\"Never mind about 'im, mates,\" ses Bill, looking at Ginger very wicked.\n\"P'r'aps he won't be so ready to give me 'is lip next time. Let's come\nto another pub and enjoy ourselves.\"\n\nSam and Peter followed 'im out like lambs, 'ardly daring to look over\ntheir shoulder at Ginger, who was staggering arter them some distance\nbehind a 'olding a handerchief to 'is face.\n\n\"It's your turn to pay, Sam,\" ses Bill, when they'd got inside the next\nplace. \"Wot's it to be? Give it a name.\"\n\n\"Three 'arf pints o' four ale, miss,\" ses Sam, not because 'e was mean,\nbut because it wasn't 'is turn. \"Three wot?\" ses Bill, turning on 'im.\n\n\"Three pots o' six ale, miss,\" ses Sam, in a hurry.\n\n\"That wasn't wot you said afore,\" ses Bill. \"Take that,\" he ses, giving\npore old Sam a wipe in the mouth and knocking 'im over a stool; \"take\nthat for your sauce.\"\n\nPeter Russet stood staring at Sam and wondering wot Bill ud be like when\nhe'd 'ad a little more. Sam picked hisself up arter a time and went\noutside to talk to Ginger about it, and then Bill put 'is arm round\nPeter's neck and began to cry a bit and say 'e was the only pal he'd got\nleft in the world. It was very awkward for Peter, and more awkward still\nwhen the barman came up and told 'im to take Bill outside.\n\n\"Go on,\" he ses, \"out with 'im.\"\n\n\"He's all right,\" ses Peter, trembling; \"we's the truest-'arted gentleman\nin London. Ain't you, Bill?\"\n\nBill said he was, and 'e asked the barman to go and hide 'is face because\nit reminded 'im of a little dog 'e had 'ad once wot 'ad died.\n\n\"You get outside afore you're hurt,\" ses the bar-man.\n\nBill punched at 'im over the bar, and not being able to reach 'im threw\nPeter's pot o' beer at 'im. There was a fearful to-do then, and the\nlandlord jumped over the bar and stood in the doorway, whistling for the\npolice. Bill struck out right and left, and the men in the bar went down\nlike skittles, Peter among them. Then they got outside, and Bill, arter\ngiving the landlord a thump in the back wot nearly made him swallow the\nwhistle, jumped into a cab and pulled Peter Russet in arter 'im.\n\n[Illustration: \"Bill jumped into a cab and pulled Peter Russet in arter\n'im.\"]\n\n\"I'll talk to you by-and-by,\" he ses, as the cab drove off at a gallop;\n\"there ain't room in this cab. You wait, my lad, that's all. You just\nwait till we get out, and I'll knock you silly.\"\n\n\"Wot for, Bill?\" ses Peter, staring.\n\n\"Don't you talk to me,\" roars Bill. \"If I choose to knock you about\nthat's my business, ain't it? Besides, you know very well.\"\n\nHe wouldn't let Peter say another word, but coming to a quiet place near\nthe docks he stopped the cab and pulling 'im out gave 'im such a dressing\ndown that Peter thought 'is last hour 'ad arrived. He let 'im go at\nlast, and after first making him pay the cab-man took 'im along till they\ncame to a public-'ouse and made 'im pay for drinks.\n\nThey stayed there till nearly eleven o'clock, and then Bill set off home\n'olding the unfortunit Peter by the scruff o' the neck, and wondering out\nloud whether 'e ought to pay 'im a bit more or not. Afore 'e could make\nup 'is mind, however, he turned sleepy, and, throwing 'imself down on the\nbed which was meant for the two of 'em, fell into a peaceful sleep.\n\nSam and Ginger Dick came in a little while arterward, both badly marked\nwhere Bill 'ad hit them, and sat talking to Peter in whispers as to wot\nwas to be done. Ginger, who 'ad plenty of pluck, was for them all to set\non to 'im, but Sam wouldn't 'ear of it, and as for Peter he was so sore\nhe could 'ardly move.\n\nThey all turned in to the other bed at last, 'arf afraid to move for fear\nof disturbing Bill, and when they woke up in the morning and see 'im\nsitting up in 'is bed they lay as still as mice.\n\n\"Why, Ginger, old chap,\" ses Bill, with a 'earty smile, \"wot are you all\nthree in one bed for?\" \"We was a bit cold,\" ses Ginger.\n\n\"Cold?\" ses Bill. \"Wot, this weather? We 'ad a bit of a spree last\nnight, old man, didn't we? My throat's as dry as a cinder.\"\n\n\"It ain't my idea of a spree,\" ses Ginger, sitting up and looking at 'im.\n\n\"Good 'eavens, Ginger!\" ses Bill, starting back, \"wotever 'ave you been\na-doing to your face? Have you been tumbling off of a 'bus?\"\n\nGinger couldn't answer; and Sam Small and Peter sat up in bed alongside\nof 'im, and Bill, getting as far back on 'is bed as he could, sat staring\nat their pore faces as if 'e was having a 'orrible dream.\n\n\"And there's Sam,\" he ses. \"Where ever did you get that mouth, Sam?\"\n\n\"Same place as Ginger got 'is eye and pore Peter got 'is face,\" ses Sam,\ngrinding his teeth.\n\n\"You don't mean to tell me,\" ses Bill, in a sad voice--\"you don't mean to\ntell me that I did it?\"\n\n\"You know well enough,\" ses Ginger.\n\nBill looked at 'em, and 'is face got as long as a yard measure.\n\n\"I'd 'oped I'd growed out of it, mates,\" he ses, at last, \"but drink\nalways takes me like that. I can't keep a pal.\"\n\n\"You surprise me,\" ses Ginger, sarcastic-like. \"Don't talk like that,\nGinger,\" ses Bill, 'arf crying.\n\n\"It ain't my fault; it's my weakness. Wot did I do it for?\"\n\n\"I don't know,\" ses Ginger, \"but you won't get the chance of doing it\nagin, I'll tell you that much.\"\n\n\"I daresay I shall be better to-night, Ginger,\" ses Bill, very humble;\n\"it don't always take me that way.\n\n\"Well, we don't want you with us any more,\" ses old Sam, 'olding his 'ead\nvery high.\n\n\"You'll 'ave to go and get your beer by yourself, Bill,\" ses Peter\nRusset, feeling 'is bruises with the tips of 'is fingers.\n\n\"But then I should be worse,\" ses Bill. \"I want cheerful company when\nI'm like that. I should very likely come 'ome and 'arf kill you all in\nyour beds. You don't 'arf know what I'm like. Last night was nothing,\nelse I should 'ave remembered it.\"\n\n\"Cheerful company?\" ses old Sam. 'Ow do you think company's going to be\ncheerful when you're carrying on like that, Bill? Why don't you go away\nand leave us alone?\"\n\n\"Because I've got a 'art,\" ses Bill. \"I can't chuck up pals in that\nfree-and-easy way. Once I take a liking to anybody I'd do anything for\n'em, and I've never met three chaps I like better than wot I do you.\nThree nicer, straight-forrad, free-'anded mates I've never met afore.\"\n\n\"Why not take the pledge agin, Bill?\" ses Peter Russet.\n\n\"No, mate,\" ses Bill, with a kind smile; \"it's just a weakness, and I\nmust try and grow out of it. I'll tie a bit o' string round my little\nfinger to-night as a re-minder.\"\n\nHe got out of bed and began to wash 'is face, and Ginger Dick, who was\ndoing a bit o' thinking, gave a whisper to Sam and Peter Russet.\n\n\"All right, Bill, old man,\" he ses, getting out of bed and beginning to\nput his clothes on; \"but first of all we'll try and find out 'ow the\nlandlord is.\"\n\n\"Landlord?\" ses Bill, puffing and blowing in the basin. \"Wot landlord?\"\n\n\"Why, the one you bashed,\" ses Ginger, with a wink at the other two. \"He\n'adn't got 'is senses back when me and Sam came away.\"\n\nBill gave a groan and sat on the bed while 'e dried himself, and Ginger\ntold 'im 'ow he 'ad bent a quart pot on the landlord's 'ead, and 'ow the\nlandlord 'ad been carried upstairs and the doctor sent for. He began to\ntremble all over, and when Ginger said he'd go out and see 'ow the land\nlay 'e could 'ardly thank 'im enough.\n\nHe stayed in the bedroom all day, with the blinds down, and wouldn't eat\nanything, and when Ginger looked in about eight o'clock to find out\nwhether he 'ad gone, he found 'im sitting on the bed clean shaved, and\n'is face cut about all over where the razor 'ad slipped.\n\nGinger was gone about two hours, and when 'e came back he looked so\nsolemn that old Sam asked 'im whether he 'ad seen a ghost. Ginger didn't\nanswer 'im; he set down on the side o' the bed and sat thinking.\n\n\"I s'pose--I s'pose it's nice and fresh in the streets this morning?\"\nses Bill, at last, in a trembling voice.\n\nGinger started and looked at 'im. \"I didn't notice, mate,\" he ses. Then\n'e got up and patted Bill on the back, very gentle, and sat down again.\n\n[Illustration: \"Patted Bill on the back, very gentle.\"]\n\n\"Anything wrong, Ginger?\" asks Peter Russet, staring at 'im.\n\n\"It's that landlord,\" ses Ginger; \"there's straw down in the road\noutside, and they say that he's dying. Pore old Bill don't know 'is own\nstrength. The best thing you can do, old pal, is to go as far away as\nyou can, at once.\"\n\n\"I shouldn't wait a minnit if it was me,\" ses old Sam.\n\nBill groaned and hid 'is face in his 'ands, and then Peter Russet went\nand spoilt things by saying that the safest place for a murderer to 'ide\nin was London. Bill gave a dreadful groan when 'e said murderer, but 'e\nup and agreed with Peter, and all Sam and Ginger Dick could do wouldn't\nmake 'im alter his mind. He said that he would shave off 'is beard and\nmoustache, and when night came 'e would creep out and take a lodging\nsomewhere right the other end of London.\n\n\"It'll soon be dark,\" ses Ginger, \"and your own brother wouldn't know you\nnow, Bill. Where d'you think of going?\"\n\nBill shook his 'ead. \"Nobody must know that, mate,\" he ses. \"I must go\ninto hiding for as long as I can--as long as my money lasts; I've only\ngot six pounds left.\"\n\n\"That'll last a long time if you're careful,\" ses Ginger.\n\n\"I want a lot more,\" ses Bill. \"I want you to take this silver ring as a\nkeepsake, Ginger. If I 'ad another six pounds or so I should feel much\nsafer. 'Ow much 'ave you got, Ginger?\"\n\n\"Not much,\" ses Ginger, shaking his 'ead.\n\n\"Lend it to me, mate,\" ses Bill, stretching out his 'and. \"You can easy\nget another ship. Ah, I wish I was you; I'd be as 'appy as 'appy if I\nhadn't got a penny.\"\n\n\"I'm very sorry, Bill,\" ses Ginger, trying to smile, \"but I've already\npromised to lend it to a man wot we met this evening. A promise is a\npromise, else I'd lend it to you with pleasure.\"\n\n\"Would you let me be 'ung for the sake of a few pounds, Ginger?\" ses\nBill, looking at 'im reproach-fully. \"I'm a desprit man, Ginger, and I\nmust 'ave that money.\"\n\nAfore pore Ginger could move he suddenly clapped 'is hand over 'is mouth\nand flung 'im on the bed. Ginger was like a child in 'is hands, although\nhe struggled like a madman, and in five minutes 'e was laying there with\na towel tied round his mouth and 'is arms and legs tied up with the cord\noff of Sam's chest.\n\n\"I'm very sorry, Ginger,\" ses Bill, as 'e took a little over eight pounds\nout of Ginger's pocket. \"I'll pay you back one o' these days, if I can.\nIf you'd got a rope round your neck same as I 'ave you'd do the same as\nI've done.\"\n\nHe lifted up the bedclothes and put Ginger inside and tucked 'im up.\nGinger's face was red with passion and 'is eyes starting out of his 'ead.\n\n\"Eight and six is fifteen,\" ses Bill, and just then he 'eard somebody\ncoming up the stairs. Ginger 'eard it, too, and as Peter Russet came\ninto the room 'e tried all 'e could to attract 'is attention by rolling\n'is 'ead from side to side.\n\n\"Why, 'as Ginger gone to bed?\" ses Peter. \"Wot's up, Ginger?\"\n\n\"He's all right,\" ses Bill; \"just a bit of a 'eadache.\"\n\nPeter stood staring at the bed, and then 'e pulled the clothes off and\nsaw pore Ginger all tied up, and making awful eyes at 'im to undo him.\n\n\"I 'ad to do it, Peter,\" ses Bill. \"I wanted some more money to escape\nwith, and 'e wouldn't lend it to me. I 'aven't got as much as I want\nnow. You just came in in the nick of time. Another minute and you'd ha'\nmissed me. 'Ow much 'ave you got?\"\n\n\"Ah, I wish I could lend you some, Bill,\" ses Peter Russet, turning pale,\n\"but I've 'ad my pocket picked; that's wot I came back for, to get some\nfrom Ginger.\"\n\nBill didn't say a word.\n\n\"You see 'ow it is, Bill,\" ses Peter, edging back toward the door; \"three\nmen laid 'old of me and took every farthing I'd got.\"\n\n\"Well, I can't rob you, then,\" ses Bill, catching 'old of 'im.\n\"Whoever's money this is,\" he ses, pulling a handful out o' Peter's\npocket, \"it can't be yours. Now, if you make another sound I'll knock\nyour 'ead off afore I tie you up.\"\n\n\"Don't tie me up, Bill,\" ses Peter, struggling.\n\n\"I can't trust you,\" ses Bill, dragging 'im over to the washstand and\ntaking up the other towel; \"turn round.\"\n\nPeter was a much easier job than Ginger Dick, and arter Bill 'ad done 'im\n'e put 'im in alongside o' Ginger and covered 'em up, arter first tying\nboth the gags round with some string to prevent 'em slipping.\n\n\"Mind, I've only borrowed it,\" he ses, standing by the side o' the bed;\n\"but I must say, mates, I'm disappointed in both of you. If either of\nyou 'ad 'ad the misfortune wot I've 'ad, I'd have sold the clothes off my\nback to 'elp you. And I wouldn't 'ave waited to be asked neither.\"\n\nHe stood there for a minute very sorrowful, and then 'e patted both their\n'eads and went downstairs. Ginger and Peter lay listening for a bit, and\nthen they turned their pore bound-up faces to each other and tried to\ntalk with their eyes.\n\nThen Ginger began to wriggle and try and twist the cords off, but 'e\nmight as well 'ave tried to wriggle out of 'is skin. The worst of it was\nthey couldn't make known their intentions to each other, and when Peter\nRusset leaned over 'im and tried to work 'is gag off by rubbing it up\nagin 'is nose, Ginger pretty near went crazy with temper. He banged\nPeter with his 'ead, and Peter banged back, and they kept it up till\nthey'd both got splitting 'eadaches, and at last they gave up in despair\nand lay in the darkness waiting for Sam.\n\nAnd all this time Sam was sitting in the Red Lion, waiting for them. He\nsat there quite patient till twelve o'clock and then walked slowly 'ome,\nwondering wot 'ad happened and whether Bill had gone.\n\nGinger was the fust to 'ear 'is foot on the stairs, and as he came into\nthe room, in the darkness, him an' Peter Russet started shaking their bed\nin a way that scared old Sam nearly to death. He thought it was Bill\ncarrying on agin, and 'e was out o' that door and 'arf-way downstairs\nafore he stopped to take breath. He stood there trembling for about ten\nminutes, and then, as nothing 'appened, he walked slowly upstairs agin on\ntiptoe, and as soon as they heard the door creak Peter and Ginger made\nthat bed do everything but speak.\n\n\"Is that you, Bill?\" ses old Sam, in a shaky voice, and standing ready\nto dash downstairs agin.\n\nThere was no answer except for the bed, and Sam didn't know whether Bill\nwas dying or whether 'e 'ad got delirium trimmings. All 'e did know was\nthat 'e wasn't going to sleep in that room. He shut the door gently and\nwent downstairs agin, feeling in 'is pocket for a match, and, not finding\none, 'e picked out the softest stair 'e could find and, leaning his 'ead\nagin the banisters, went to sleep.\n\n[Illustration: \"Picked out the softest stair 'e could find.\"]\n\nIt was about six o'clock when 'e woke up, and broad daylight. He was\nstiff and sore all over, and feeling braver in the light 'e stepped\nsoftly upstairs and opened the door. Peter and Ginger was waiting for\n'im, and as he peeped in 'e saw two things sitting up in bed with their\n'air standing up all over like mops and their faces tied up with\nbandages. He was that startled 'e nearly screamed, and then 'e stepped\ninto the room and stared at 'em as if he couldn't believe 'is eyes.\n\n\"Is that you, Ginger?\" he ses. \"Wot d'ye mean by making sights of\nyourselves like that? 'Ave you took leave of your senses?\"\n\nGinger and Peter shook their 'eads and rolled their eyes, and then Sam\nsee wot was the matter with 'em. Fust thing 'e did was to pull out 'is\nknife and cut Ginger's gag off, and the fust thing Ginger did was to call\n'im every name 'e could lay his tongue to.\n\n\"You wait a moment,\" he screams, 'arf crying with rage. \"You wait till I\nget my 'ands loose and I'll pull you to pieces. The idea o' leaving us\nlike this all night, you old crocodile. I 'eard you come in. I'll pay\nyou.\"\n\nSam didn't answer 'im. He cut off Peter Russet's gag, and Peter Russet\ncalled 'im 'arf a score o' names without taking breath.\n\n\"And when Ginger's finished I'll 'ave a go at you,\" he ses. \"Cut off\nthese lines.\"\n\n\"At once, d'ye hear?\" ses Ginger. \"Oh, you wait till I get my 'ands on\nyou.\"\n\nSam didn't answer 'em; he shut up 'is knife with a click and then 'e sat\nat the foot o' the bed on Ginger's feet and looked at 'em. It wasn't the\nfust time they'd been rude to 'im, but as a rule he'd 'ad to put up with\nit. He sat and listened while Ginger swore 'imself faint.\n\n\"That'll do,\" he ses, at last; \"another word and I shall put the\nbedclothes over your 'ead. Afore I do anything more I want to know wot\nit's all about.\"\n\nPeter told 'im, arter fust calling 'im some more names, because Ginger\nwas past it, and when 'e'd finished old Sam said 'ow surprised he was\nat them for letting Bill do it, and told 'em how they ought to 'ave\nprevented it. He sat there talking as though 'e enjoyed the sound of 'is\nown voice, and he told Peter and Ginger all their faults and said wot\nsorrow it caused their friends. Twice he 'ad to throw the bedclothes\nover their 'eads because o' the noise they was making.\n\n[Illustration: \"Old Sam said 'ow surprised he was at them for letting\nBill do it.\"]\n\n\"_Are you going--to undo--us?_\" ses Ginger, at last.\n\n\"No, Ginger,\" ses old Sam; \"in justice to myself I couldn't do it. Arter\nwot you've said--and arter wot I've said--my life wouldn't be safe.\nBesides which, you'd want to go shares in my money.\"\n\nHe took up 'is chest and marched downstairs with it, and about 'arf an\nhour arterward the landlady's 'usband came up and set 'em free. As soon\nas they'd got the use of their legs back they started out to look for\nSam, but they didn't find 'im for nearly a year, and as for Bill, they\nnever set eyes on 'im again.\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bill's Lapse, by W.W. Jacobs\n\n*** ", "source_language": "en", "target_language": "de_DE", "source_lang_name": "English", "target_lang_name": "German", "doc_id": "Odd-Craft-Part-4-Bill's-Lapse-by-W.W.-Jacobs", "seg_id": 1, "publication_date": 1909, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/12204"} +{"text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at\nhttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images\ngenerously made available by The Internet Archive/American\nLibraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n LAST DAYS OF THE REBELLION.\n\n THE SECOND NEW YORK CAVALRY\n (HARRIS' LIGHT)\n AT APPOMATTOX STATION AND APPOMATTOX COURT\n HOUSE, APRIL 8 and 9, 1865.\n\n\n BY\n ALANSON M. RANDOL\n\n _Major First U. S. Artillery (late Colonel Second New York\n Cavalry), Bvt. Brig-General, U. S. Vols._\n\n\n ALCATRAZ ISLAND, CAL.,\n 1886.\n\n\n\n\nLAST DAYS OF THE REBELLION.\n\n\nDuring the winter of 1864-5 the Second New York (Harris' Light) Cavalry\nwas in winter quarters near Winchester, Va., on the Romney pike. Alanson\nM. Randol, Captain First United States Artillery, was colonel of the\nregiment, which, with the First Connecticut, Second Ohio, and Third New\nJersey, constituted the first brigade, third division, cavalry corps. The\ndivision was commanded by General George A. Custer; the brigade by A. C.\nM. Pennington, Captain Second United States Artillery, Colonel Third New\nJersey Cavalry. On the 27th of February, 1865, the divisions of Merritt\nand Custer, with the batteries of Miller (Fourth United States Artillery)\nand Woodruff (Second United States Artillery), all under command of\nGeneral Sheridan, left their winter quarters in and around Winchester,\nand, after a series of splendid victories, and unsurpassed marches and\nfortunes, joined the Army of the Potomac in front of Petersburg on the\n27th of March. The Second New York Cavalry shared largely in the glories\nand miseries of this great and successful raid. At Five Forks, Deep Creek,\nand Sailors Creek, it not only maintained its gallant and meritorious\nrecord, but added to its great renown. At the gentle and joyous passage\nof arms at Appomattox Station, on the 8th of April, it reached the climax\nof its glory, and, by its deeds of daring, touched the pinnacle of fame.\nOn that day it performed prodigies of valor, and achieved successes as\npregnant with good results as any single action of the war. By forcing a\npassage through the rebel lines and heading off Lee's army, it contributed\nlargely to the result that followed the next day--the surrender of the\nConfederate Army of Northern Virginia.\n\n * * * * *\n\nOn the night of the 7th of April we camped on Buffalo River. Moving at an\nearly hour on the 8th, we crossed the Lynchburg Railroad at Prospect\nStation, and headed for Appomattox Station, where it was expected we would\nstrike, if not intercept, Lee's retreating, disintegrating army. The trail\nwas fresh and the chase hot. Joy beamed in every eye, for all felt that\nthe end was drawing near, and we earnestly hoped that ours might be the\nglorious opportunity of striking the final blow. About noon the regiment\nwas detached to capture a force of the enemy said to be at one of the\ncrossings of the Appomattox. Some few hundreds, unarmed, half-starved,\nstragglers, with no fight in them, were found, and turned over to the\nProvost Marshall. Resuming its place in the column, I received orders to\nreport with the regiment to General Custer, who was at its head. Reporting\nin compliance with this order, General Custer informed me that his scouts\nhad reported three large trains of cars at Appomattox Station, loaded with\nsupplies for the rebel army; that he expected to have made a junction\nwith Merritt's division near this point; that his orders were to wait here\ntill Merritt joined him; that he had not heard from him since morning, and\nhad sent an officer to communicate with him, but if he did not hear from\nhim in half an hour, he wished me to take my regiment and capture the\ntrains of cars, and, if possible, reach and hold the pike to Lynchburg.\nWhile talking, the whistle of the locomotive was distinctly but faintly\nheard, and the column was at once moved forward, the Second New York in\nadvance. As we neared the station the whistles became more and more\ndistinct, and a scout reported the trains rapidly unloading, and that the\nadvance of the rebel army was passing through Appomattox Court House.\nAlthough Custer's orders were to make a junction with Merritt before\ncoming in contact with the enemy, here was a chance to strike a decisive\nblow, which, if successful, would add to his renown and glory, and if not,\nMerritt would soon be up to help him out of the scrape. Our excitement was\nintense, but subdued. All saw the vital importance of heading off the\nenemy. Another whistle, nearer and clearer, and another scout decided the\nquestion. I was ordered to move rapidly to Appomattox Station, seize the\ntrains there, and, if possible, get possession of the Lynchburg pike.\nGeneral Custer rode up alongside of me and, laying his hand on my\nshoulder, said, \"Go in, old fellow, don't let anything stop you; now is\nthe chance for your stars. Whoop 'em up; I'll be after you.\" The regiment\nleft the column at a slow trot, which became faster and faster until we\ncaught sight of the cars, which were preparing to move away, when, with a\ncheer, we charged down on the station, capturing in an instant the three\ntrains of cars, with the force guarding them. I called for engineers and\nfiremen to take charge of the trains, when at least a dozen of my men\naround me offered their services. I chose the number required, and ordered\nthe trains to be run to the rear, where I afterwards learned they were\nclaimed as captures by General Ord's corps. The cars were loaded with\ncommissary stores, a portion of which had been unloaded, on which the\nrebel advance were regaling themselves when we pounced so unexpectedly\ndown on them.\n\nWhile the regiment was rallying after the charge, the enemy opened on it a\nfierce fire from all kinds of guns--field and siege--which, however, did\nbut little damage, as the regiment was screened from the enemy's sight by\na dense woods. I at once sent notification to General Custer and Colonel\nPennington of my success, moved forward--my advance busily\nskirmishing--and followed with the regiment in line of battle, mounted.\nThe advance was soon checked by the enemy formed behind hastily\nconstructed intrenchments in a dense wood of the second growth of pine.\nFlushed with success and eager to gain the Lynchburg pike, along which\nimmense wagon and siege trains were rapidly moving, the regiment was\nordered to charge. Three times did it try to break through the enemy's\nlines, but failed. Colonel Pennington arrived on the field with the rest\nof the brigade, when, altogether, a rush was made, but it failed. Then\nCuster, with the whole division, tried it, but he, too, failed. Charge and\ncharge again, was now the order, but it was done in driblets, without\norganization and in great disorder. General Custer was here, there, and\neverywhere, urging the men forward with cheers and oaths. The great prize\nwas so nearly in his grasp that it seemed a pity to lose it; but the rebel\ninfantry held on hard and fast, while his artillery belched out death and\ndestruction on every side of us. Merritt and night were fast coming on, so\nas soon as a force, however small, was organized, it was hurled forward,\nonly to recoil in confusion and loss. Confident that this mode of fighting\nwould not bring us success, and fearful lest the enemy should assume the\noffensive, which, in our disorganized state, must result in disaster, I\nwent to General Custer soon after dark, and said to him that if he would\nlet me get my regiment together, I could break through the rebel line. He\nexcitedly replied, \"Never mind your regiment; take anything and everything\nyou can find, horse-holders and all, and break through: we must get hold\nof the pike to-night.\" Acting on this order, a force was soon organized by\nme, composed chiefly of the Second New York, but in part of other\nregiments, undistinguishable in the darkness. With this I made a charge\ndown a narrow lane, which led to an open field where the rebel artillery\nwas posted. As the charging column debouched from the woods, six bright\nlights suddenly flashed directly before us. A toronado of canister-shot\nswept over our heads, and the next instant we were in the battery. The\nline was broken, and the enemy routed. Custer, with the whole division,\nnow pressed through the gap pell-mell, in hot pursuit, halting for neither\nprisoners nor guns, until the road to Lynchburg, crowded with wagons and\nartillery, was in our possession. We then turned short to the right and\nheaded for the Appomattox Court House; but just before reaching it we\ndiscovered the thousands of camp fires of the rebel army, and the pursuit\nwas checked. The enemy had gone into camp, in fancied security that his\nroute to Lynchburg was still open before him; and he little dreamed that\nour cavalry had planted itself directly across his path, until some of our\nmen dashed into Appomattox Court House, where, unfortunately, Lieutenant\nColonel Root, of the Fifteenth New York Cavalry, was instantly killed by a\npicket guard. After we had seized the road, we were joined by other\ndivisions of the cavalry corps which came to our assistance, but too late\nto take part in the fight.\n\nOwing to the night attack, our regiments were so mixed up that it took\nhours to reorganize them. When this was effected, we marched near to the\nrailroad station and bivouacked.\n\nThat night was passed in great anxiety. We threw ourselves on the ground\nto rest, but not to sleep. We knew that the infantry was hastening to our\nassistance, but unless they joined us before sunrise, our cavalry line\nwould be brushed away, and the rebels would escape after all our hard work\nto head them off from Lynchburg. About daybreak I was aroused by loud\nhurrahs, and was told that Ord's corps was coming up rapidly, and forming\nin rear of our cavalry. Soon after we were in the saddle and moving\ntowards the Appomattox Court House road, where the firing was growing\nlively; but suddenly our direction was changed, and the whole cavalry\ncorps rode at a gallop to the right of our line, passing between the\nposition of the rebels and the rapidly forming masses of our infantry, who\ngreeted us with cheers and shouts of joy as we galloped along their front.\nAt several places we had to \"run the gauntlet\" of fire from the enemy's\nguns posted around the Court House, but this only added to the interest\nof the scene, for we felt it to be the last expiring effort of the enemy\nto put on a bold front; we knew that we had them this time, and that at\nlast Lee's proud army of Northern Virginia was at our mercy. While moving\nat almost a charging gait we were suddenly brought to a halt by reports of\na surrender. General Sheridan and his staff rode up, and left in hot haste\nfor the Court House; but just after leaving us, they were fired into by a\nparty of rebel cavalry, who also opened fire on us, to which we promptly\nreplied, and soon put them to flight. Our lines were then formed for a\ncharge on the rebel infantry; but while the bugles were sounding the\ncharge, an officer with a white flag rode out from the rebel lines, and we\nhalted. It was fortunate for us that we halted when we did, for had we\ncharged we would have been swept into eternity, as directly in our front\nwas a creek, on the other side of which was a rebel brigade, entrenched,\nwith batteries in position, the guns double shotted with canister. To have\ncharged this formidable array, mounted, would have resulted in almost\ntotal annihilation. After we had halted, we were informed that\npreliminaries were being arranged for the surrender of Lee's whole army.\nAt this news, cheer after cheer rent the air for a few moments, when soon\nall became as quiet as if nothing unusual had occurred. I rode forward\nbetween the lines with Custer and Pennington, and met several old friends\namong the rebels, who came out to see us. Among them, I remember Lee\n(Gimlet), of Virginia, and Cowan, of North Carolina. I saw General Cadmus\nWilcox just across the creek, walking to and fro with his eyes on the\nground, just as was his wont when he was instructor at West Point. I\ncalled to him, but he paid no attention, except to glance at me in a\nhostile manner.\n\nWhile we were thus discussing the probable terms of the surrender, General\nLee, in full uniform, accompanied by one of his staff, and General\nBabcock, of General Grant's staff, rode from the Court House towards our\nlines. As he passed us, we all raised our caps in salute, which he\ngracefully returned.\n\nLater in the day loud and continuous cheering was heard among the rebels,\nwhich was taken up and echoed by our lines until the air was rent with\ncheers, when all as suddenly subsided. The surrender was a fixed fact, and\nthe rebels were overjoyed at the very liberal terms they had received. Our\nmen, without arms, approached the rebel lines, and divided their rations\nwith the half-starved foe, and engaged in quiet, friendly conversation.\nThere was no bluster nor braggadocia,--nothing but quiet contentment that\nthe rebellion was crushed, and the war ended. In fact, many of the rebels\nseemed as much pleased as we were. Now and then one would meet a surly,\ndissatisfied look; but, as a general thing, we met smiling faces and hands\neager and ready to grasp our own, especially if they contained anything to\neat or drink. After the surrender, I rode over to the Court House with\nColonel Pennington and others and visited the house in which the surrender\nhad taken place, in search of some memento of the occasion. We found that\neverything had been appropriated before our arrival. Mr. Wilmer McLean, in\nwhose house the surrender took place, informed us that on his farm at\nManassas the first battle of Bull Run was fought. I asked him to write his\nname in my diary, for which, much to his surprise. I gave him a dollar.\nOthers did the same, and I was told that he thus received quite a golden\nharvest.\n\nWhile all of the regiments of the division shared largely in the glories\nof these two days, none excelled the Second New York Cavalry in its record\nof great and glorious deeds. Well might its officers and men carry their\nheads high, and feel elated with pride as they received the\ncongratulations and commendations showered on them from all sides. They\nfelt they had done their duty, and given the \"tottering giant\" a blow that\nlaid him prostrate at their feet, never, it is to be hoped, to rise again.\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note:\n\nThe following misprints have been corrected:\n \"crowed\" corrected to \"crowded\" (page 7)\n \"on on\" corrected to \"on\" (page 9)\n \"unusal\" corrected to \"unusual\" (page 9)\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Last Days of the Rebellion, by Alanson M. Randol\n\n*** ", "source_language": "en", "target_language": "de_DE", "source_lang_name": "English", "target_lang_name": "German", "doc_id": "Last-Days-of-the-Rebellion-by-Alanson-M.-Randol", "seg_id": 1, "publication_date": 1886, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31974", "responses_create_params": {"input": [{"role": "user", "content": "You are a professional translator.\nYour task is to translate a long document from English to German.\nPreserve the paragraph structure and ordering of the source text and keep the translation approximately aligned at the sentence level.\nYou may merge, split, or slightly reorder sentences, but you must keep the translation structurally close to the source.\n\nOutput only the translation, using only German.\nDo not ask questions. \nDo not add a preamble.\nDo not add commentary.\nDo not stop until the whole document is translated.\n\nSource document:\n\n\n\n\nProduced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at\nhttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images\ngenerously made available by The Internet Archive/American\nLibraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n LAST DAYS OF THE REBELLION.\n\n THE SECOND NEW YORK CAVALRY\n (HARRIS' LIGHT)\n AT APPOMATTOX STATION AND APPOMATTOX COURT\n HOUSE, APRIL 8 and 9, 1865.\n\n\n BY\n ALANSON M. RANDOL\n\n _Major First U. S. Artillery (late Colonel Second New York\n Cavalry), Bvt. Brig-General, U. S. Vols._\n\n\n ALCATRAZ ISLAND, CAL.,\n 1886.\n\n\n\n\nLAST DAYS OF THE REBELLION.\n\n\nDuring the winter of 1864-5 the Second New York (Harris' Light) Cavalry\nwas in winter quarters near Winchester, Va., on the Romney pike. Alanson\nM. Randol, Captain First United States Artillery, was colonel of the\nregiment, which, with the First Connecticut, Second Ohio, and Third New\nJersey, constituted the first brigade, third division, cavalry corps. The\ndivision was commanded by General George A. Custer; the brigade by A. C.\nM. Pennington, Captain Second United States Artillery, Colonel Third New\nJersey Cavalry. On the 27th of February, 1865, the divisions of Merritt\nand Custer, with the batteries of Miller (Fourth United States Artillery)\nand Woodruff (Second United States Artillery), all under command of\nGeneral Sheridan, left their winter quarters in and around Winchester,\nand, after a series of splendid victories, and unsurpassed marches and\nfortunes, joined the Army of the Potomac in front of Petersburg on the\n27th of March. The Second New York Cavalry shared largely in the glories\nand miseries of this great and successful raid. At Five Forks, Deep Creek,\nand Sailors Creek, it not only maintained its gallant and meritorious\nrecord, but added to its great renown. At the gentle and joyous passage\nof arms at Appomattox Station, on the 8th of April, it reached the climax\nof its glory, and, by its deeds of daring, touched the pinnacle of fame.\nOn that day it performed prodigies of valor, and achieved successes as\npregnant with good results as any single action of the war. By forcing a\npassage through the rebel lines and heading off Lee's army, it contributed\nlargely to the result that followed the next day--the surrender of the\nConfederate Army of Northern Virginia.\n\n * * * * *\n\nOn the night of the 7th of April we camped on Buffalo River. Moving at an\nearly hour on the 8th, we crossed the Lynchburg Railroad at Prospect\nStation, and headed for Appomattox Station, where it was expected we would\nstrike, if not intercept, Lee's retreating, disintegrating army. The trail\nwas fresh and the chase hot. Joy beamed in every eye, for all felt that\nthe end was drawing near, and we earnestly hoped that ours might be the\nglorious opportunity of striking the final blow. About noon the regiment\nwas detached to capture a force of the enemy said to be at one of the\ncrossings of the Appomattox. Some few hundreds, unarmed, half-starved,\nstragglers, with no fight in them, were found, and turned over to the\nProvost Marshall. Resuming its place in the column, I received orders to\nreport with the regiment to General Custer, who was at its head. Reporting\nin compliance with this order, General Custer informed me that his scouts\nhad reported three large trains of cars at Appomattox Station, loaded with\nsupplies for the rebel army; that he expected to have made a junction\nwith Merritt's division near this point; that his orders were to wait here\ntill Merritt joined him; that he had not heard from him since morning, and\nhad sent an officer to communicate with him, but if he did not hear from\nhim in half an hour, he wished me to take my regiment and capture the\ntrains of cars, and, if possible, reach and hold the pike to Lynchburg.\nWhile talking, the whistle of the locomotive was distinctly but faintly\nheard, and the column was at once moved forward, the Second New York in\nadvance. As we neared the station the whistles became more and more\ndistinct, and a scout reported the trains rapidly unloading, and that the\nadvance of the rebel army was passing through Appomattox Court House.\nAlthough Custer's orders were to make a junction with Merritt before\ncoming in contact with the enemy, here was a chance to strike a decisive\nblow, which, if successful, would add to his renown and glory, and if not,\nMerritt would soon be up to help him out of the scrape. Our excitement was\nintense, but subdued. All saw the vital importance of heading off the\nenemy. Another whistle, nearer and clearer, and another scout decided the\nquestion. I was ordered to move rapidly to Appomattox Station, seize the\ntrains there, and, if possible, get possession of the Lynchburg pike.\nGeneral Custer rode up alongside of me and, laying his hand on my\nshoulder, said, \"Go in, old fellow, don't let anything stop you; now is\nthe chance for your stars. Whoop 'em up; I'll be after you.\" The regiment\nleft the column at a slow trot, which became faster and faster until we\ncaught sight of the cars, which were preparing to move away, when, with a\ncheer, we charged down on the station, capturing in an instant the three\ntrains of cars, with the force guarding them. I called for engineers and\nfiremen to take charge of the trains, when at least a dozen of my men\naround me offered their services. I chose the number required, and ordered\nthe trains to be run to the rear, where I afterwards learned they were\nclaimed as captures by General Ord's corps. The cars were loaded with\ncommissary stores, a portion of which had been unloaded, on which the\nrebel advance were regaling themselves when we pounced so unexpectedly\ndown on them.\n\nWhile the regiment was rallying after the charge, the enemy opened on it a\nfierce fire from all kinds of guns--field and siege--which, however, did\nbut little damage, as the regiment was screened from the enemy's sight by\na dense woods. I at once sent notification to General Custer and Colonel\nPennington of my success, moved forward--my advance busily\nskirmishing--and followed with the regiment in line of battle, mounted.\nThe advance was soon checked by the enemy formed behind hastily\nconstructed intrenchments in a dense wood of the second growth of pine.\nFlushed with success and eager to gain the Lynchburg pike, along which\nimmense wagon and siege trains were rapidly moving, the regiment was\nordered to charge. Three times did it try to break through the enemy's\nlines, but failed. Colonel Pennington arrived on the field with the rest\nof the brigade, when, altogether, a rush was made, but it failed. Then\nCuster, with the whole division, tried it, but he, too, failed. Charge and\ncharge again, was now the order, but it was done in driblets, without\norganization and in great disorder. General Custer was here, there, and\neverywhere, urging the men forward with cheers and oaths. The great prize\nwas so nearly in his grasp that it seemed a pity to lose it; but the rebel\ninfantry held on hard and fast, while his artillery belched out death and\ndestruction on every side of us. Merritt and night were fast coming on, so\nas soon as a force, however small, was organized, it was hurled forward,\nonly to recoil in confusion and loss. Confident that this mode of fighting\nwould not bring us success, and fearful lest the enemy should assume the\noffensive, which, in our disorganized state, must result in disaster, I\nwent to General Custer soon after dark, and said to him that if he would\nlet me get my regiment together, I could break through the rebel line. He\nexcitedly replied, \"Never mind your regiment; take anything and everything\nyou can find, horse-holders and all, and break through: we must get hold\nof the pike to-night.\" Acting on this order, a force was soon organized by\nme, composed chiefly of the Second New York, but in part of other\nregiments, undistinguishable in the darkness. With this I made a charge\ndown a narrow lane, which led to an open field where the rebel artillery\nwas posted. As the charging column debouched from the woods, six bright\nlights suddenly flashed directly before us. A toronado of canister-shot\nswept over our heads, and the next instant we were in the battery. The\nline was broken, and the enemy routed. Custer, with the whole division,\nnow pressed through the gap pell-mell, in hot pursuit, halting for neither\nprisoners nor guns, until the road to Lynchburg, crowded with wagons and\nartillery, was in our possession. We then turned short to the right and\nheaded for the Appomattox Court House; but just before reaching it we\ndiscovered the thousands of camp fires of the rebel army, and the pursuit\nwas checked. The enemy had gone into camp, in fancied security that his\nroute to Lynchburg was still open before him; and he little dreamed that\nour cavalry had planted itself directly across his path, until some of our\nmen dashed into Appomattox Court House, where, unfortunately, Lieutenant\nColonel Root, of the Fifteenth New York Cavalry, was instantly killed by a\npicket guard. After we had seized the road, we were joined by other\ndivisions of the cavalry corps which came to our assistance, but too late\nto take part in the fight.\n\nOwing to the night attack, our regiments were so mixed up that it took\nhours to reorganize them. When this was effected, we marched near to the\nrailroad station and bivouacked.\n\nThat night was passed in great anxiety. We threw ourselves on the ground\nto rest, but not to sleep. We knew that the infantry was hastening to our\nassistance, but unless they joined us before sunrise, our cavalry line\nwould be brushed away, and the rebels would escape after all our hard work\nto head them off from Lynchburg. About daybreak I was aroused by loud\nhurrahs, and was told that Ord's corps was coming up rapidly, and forming\nin rear of our cavalry. Soon after we were in the saddle and moving\ntowards the Appomattox Court House road, where the firing was growing\nlively; but suddenly our direction was changed, and the whole cavalry\ncorps rode at a gallop to the right of our line, passing between the\nposition of the rebels and the rapidly forming masses of our infantry, who\ngreeted us with cheers and shouts of joy as we galloped along their front.\nAt several places we had to \"run the gauntlet\" of fire from the enemy's\nguns posted around the Court House, but this only added to the interest\nof the scene, for we felt it to be the last expiring effort of the enemy\nto put on a bold front; we knew that we had them this time, and that at\nlast Lee's proud army of Northern Virginia was at our mercy. While moving\nat almost a charging gait we were suddenly brought to a halt by reports of\na surrender. General Sheridan and his staff rode up, and left in hot haste\nfor the Court House; but just after leaving us, they were fired into by a\nparty of rebel cavalry, who also opened fire on us, to which we promptly\nreplied, and soon put them to flight. Our lines were then formed for a\ncharge on the rebel infantry; but while the bugles were sounding the\ncharge, an officer with a white flag rode out from the rebel lines, and we\nhalted. It was fortunate for us that we halted when we did, for had we\ncharged we would have been swept into eternity, as directly in our front\nwas a creek, on the other side of which was a rebel brigade, entrenched,\nwith batteries in position, the guns double shotted with canister. To have\ncharged this formidable array, mounted, would have resulted in almost\ntotal annihilation. After we had halted, we were informed that\npreliminaries were being arranged for the surrender of Lee's whole army.\nAt this news, cheer after cheer rent the air for a few moments, when soon\nall became as quiet as if nothing unusual had occurred. I rode forward\nbetween the lines with Custer and Pennington, and met several old friends\namong the rebels, who came out to see us. Among them, I remember Lee\n(Gimlet), of Virginia, and Cowan, of North Carolina. I saw General Cadmus\nWilcox just across the creek, walking to and fro with his eyes on the\nground, just as was his wont when he was instructor at West Point. I\ncalled to him, but he paid no attention, except to glance at me in a\nhostile manner.\n\nWhile we were thus discussing the probable terms of the surrender, General\nLee, in full uniform, accompanied by one of his staff, and General\nBabcock, of General Grant's staff, rode from the Court House towards our\nlines. As he passed us, we all raised our caps in salute, which he\ngracefully returned.\n\nLater in the day loud and continuous cheering was heard among the rebels,\nwhich was taken up and echoed by our lines until the air was rent with\ncheers, when all as suddenly subsided. The surrender was a fixed fact, and\nthe rebels were overjoyed at the very liberal terms they had received. Our\nmen, without arms, approached the rebel lines, and divided their rations\nwith the half-starved foe, and engaged in quiet, friendly conversation.\nThere was no bluster nor braggadocia,--nothing but quiet contentment that\nthe rebellion was crushed, and the war ended. In fact, many of the rebels\nseemed as much pleased as we were. Now and then one would meet a surly,\ndissatisfied look; but, as a general thing, we met smiling faces and hands\neager and ready to grasp our own, especially if they contained anything to\neat or drink. After the surrender, I rode over to the Court House with\nColonel Pennington and others and visited the house in which the surrender\nhad taken place, in search of some memento of the occasion. We found that\neverything had been appropriated before our arrival. Mr. Wilmer McLean, in\nwhose house the surrender took place, informed us that on his farm at\nManassas the first battle of Bull Run was fought. I asked him to write his\nname in my diary, for which, much to his surprise. I gave him a dollar.\nOthers did the same, and I was told that he thus received quite a golden\nharvest.\n\nWhile all of the regiments of the division shared largely in the glories\nof these two days, none excelled the Second New York Cavalry in its record\nof great and glorious deeds. Well might its officers and men carry their\nheads high, and feel elated with pride as they received the\ncongratulations and commendations showered on them from all sides. They\nfelt they had done their duty, and given the \"tottering giant\" a blow that\nlaid him prostrate at their feet, never, it is to be hoped, to rise again.\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note:\n\nThe following misprints have been corrected:\n \"crowed\" corrected to \"crowded\" (page 7)\n \"on on\" corrected to \"on\" (page 9)\n \"unusal\" corrected to \"unusual\" (page 9)\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Last Days of the Rebellion, by Alanson M. Randol\n\n*** \n"}]}} +{"text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by David E. Brown and The Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by the\nLibrary of Congress)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n THE FASCINATING\n BOSTON\n\n How to Dance and How to Teach the\n Popular New Social Favorite\n\n _By_\n ALFONSO JOSEPHS SHEAFE\n Master of Dancing\n\n _Translator and Editor of\n Zorn's Grammar of the Art of Dancing_\n\n\n Boston, Mass.\n THE BOSTON MUSIC COMPANY\n New York: G. Schirmer, Incorporated\n\n Copyright, 1913, by\n THE BOSTON MUSIC CO.\n For all countries\n\n\n B. M. Co. 3366\n\n\n\n\nTable of Contents\n\n\n Page\n\nFOREWORD 1\n\nTHE BOSTON\n THE FUNDAMENTAL POSITIONS 5\n THE POSITION OF THE PARTNERS 8\n THE STEP OF THE BOSTON 12\n THE LONG BOSTON 22\n THE SHORT BOSTON 23\n THE OPEN BOSTON 24\n THE BOSTON DIP 25\n\nTHE TURKEY TROT 27\n\nTHE AEROPLANE GLIDE 28\n\nTHE TANGO 29\n\n\n\n\nTHE FASCINATING BOSTON\n\n\n\n\nFOREWORD\n\n\nSince the introduction of the waltz, more than a hundred years ago, it\nhas held the first place in the esteem of dancers throughout the\ncivilized world. There has appeared, however, a new claimant for the\nplace--one that possesses all the qualities that go to make a social\nfavorite, and has the additional advantages of greater ease of\nexecution, and wider possibilities of adaptation.\n\nThis is the BOSTON--not, as many persons suppose, a new creation nor\nindeed is it a novelty even to the American public, for it was\nintroduced here more than a generation ago; but the great popularity of\nthe Two-Step, which had just then come into vogue, and was fast gaining\nfavor under the influence of such brilliant compositions as the\nquick-step marches by Sousa, operated against its immediate acceptance.\n\nOne of the reasons why the Boston should prove today a more attractive\ndance than any other, is the fact that now there are more captivating\nairs written for this particular form of dance than for any other, and\nas the Two-Step, in its time, found its most powerful ally in the music\nto which it was adapted, the Boston has today the persuasive\nintercession of such languorous and haunting melodies as \"Love's\nAwakening\" and \"On the Wings of Dream,\" by Danglas; Sinibaldi's\n\"Thrill,\" and others.\n\nGeneral taste has gradually found out the superior charm of the Boston;\nthe pendulum of public favor has again swung in the direction of skilful\ndancing.\n\nThe recent revival of the Waltz in its proper form, has brought with it\na larger appreciation of the more worthy and graceful social dances,\nand the entire world now recognizes the wonderful beauty of the Boston,\nand has welcomed it as a real competitor.\n\nThe Boston is not a Waltz, yet it is the perfection of it. It is one of\nthose paradoxical things which, while it is impossible to be classified,\ncontains all that is to be found in almost any other dance. Even the\npersons who have so long and so loyally clung to other forms of dancing,\nand have abated none in their zeal for their favorites, have been\nunconsciously, and perhaps unwillingly, charmed by the seductiveness of\nthe Boston, until they now freely declare the new dance to be the\nsuperior of the Waltz. Therefore it is safe to say that the Boston will,\neventually, supersede the Waltz altogether.\n\nWe demand a dance which combines ease of execution with attractive\nmovement. That is just what the Boston does, and perhaps more. It is so\nsimple in construction that, when acquired, it becomes natural, and its\nperfect adaptability assures it lasting popularity.\n\nOwing to the urgent request of many of his pupils and colleagues, the\nauthor has undertaken this little book in the hope that it will meet the\nrequirements of both teachers and students, and help to assure the\nproper appreciation of what is in reality the most delightful and\nartistic social dance since the Minuet.\n\n\nTHE FIVE FUNDAMENTAL POSITIONS\n\nIn order that the reader may the more readily understand the\ndescriptions given in this book, we will explain the five fundamental\npositions upon which the art of dancing rests.\n\nIn the 1st position, the feet are together, heel against heel.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nIn the 2nd position, the heels are separated sidewise, and on the same\nline.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nIn the 3rd position, the heel of one foot touches the middle of the\nother.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nIn the 4th position, the feet are separated as in walking, either\ndirectly forward or directly backward.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nIn the 5th position, the heel of one foot touches the point of the\nother.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nIn all these positions the feet must be turned outward to form not less\nthan a right angle.\n\n\nTHE POSITIONS OF THE PARTNERS\n\nMuch, if not all, of the adverse criticism of the Boston which has been\noffered by educators, parents and other responsible objectors, has been\ndirected at the relative positions of the partners. This is, in fact, no\nmore than the general rule as regards the Social Round Dance, with the\npossible exception that the positions have been sometimes distorted by\nattempts to copy the freer forms of dancing that have been presented\nupon the stage.\n\nThe Round Dance demands that a certain fixed grouping of the partners be\nmaintained in order that the rotation around a common moving centre may\nbe accomplished, and it is here that the most serious problem is to be\nfound.\n\nThe dancing profession long ago undertook to settle upon arbitrary\ngroupings satisfactory to the needs of the dancers, and conforming to\nall the requirements of propriety and hygienic exercise.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nActing upon this basis, the reputable teachers of dancing throughout the\nworld have adopted and promulgated three fundamental groupings for the\nRound Dance which are so constructed as to provide the greatest ease of\nexecution and freedom of action. They are known as the Waltz Position,\nthe Open Position, and the Side Position of the Waltz. All round dances\nare executed in one or another of these groupings, which are not only\naccepted by all good teachers, but, with the exception of certain minor\nand unimportant variations, rigidly adhered to in all their work.\n\nIn the Waltz Position the partners stand facing one another, with\nshoulders parallel, and looking over one another's right shoulder.\nSpecial attention must be paid to the parallel position of the\nshoulders, in order to fit the individual movements of the partners\nalong the line of direction.\n\nThe gentleman places his right hand lightly upon the lady's back, at a\npoint about half-way across, between the waist-line and the\nshoulder-blades. The fingers are so rounded as to permit the free\ncirculation of air between the palm of the hand and the lady's back, and\nshould not be spread.\n\nThe lady places her left hand lightly upon the gentleman's arm, allowing\nher fore-arm to rest gently upon his arm. The partners stand at an easy\ndistance from one another, inclining toward the common centre very\nslightly. The free hands are lightly joined at the side. This is merely\nto provide occupation for the disengaged arms, and the gentleman holds\nthe tip of the lady's hand lightly in the bended fingers of his own.\nGuiding is accomplished by the gentleman through a slight lifting of his\nright elbow.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\nTHE OPEN POSITION\n\nThe Open Position needs no explanation, and can be readily understood\nfrom the illustration facing page 8.\n\n\nTHE SIDE POSITION OF THE WALTZ\n\nThe side position of the Waltz differs from the Waltz Position only in\nthe fact that the partners stand side by side and with the engaged arms\nmore widely extended. The free arms are held as in the frontispiece. In\nthe actual rotation this position naturally resolves itself into the\nregular Waltz Position.\n\n\nTHE STEP OF THE BOSTON\n\nThe preparatory step of the Boston differs materially from that of any\nother Social Dance. There is _only one position_ of the feet in the\nBoston--the 4th. That is to say, the feet are separated one from the\nother as in walking.\n\nOn the first count of the measure the whole leg swings freely, and as a\nunit, from the hip, and the foot is put down practically flat upon the\nfloor, where it immediately receives the entire weight of the body\n_perpendicularly_. The weight is held entirely upon this foot during the\nremainder of the measure, whether it be in 3/4 or 2/4 time.\n\nThe following preparatory exercises must be practiced forward and\nbackward until the movements become natural, before proceeding.\n\nIn going backward, the foot must be carried to the rear as far as\npossible, and the weight must always be perpendicular to the supporting\nfoot.\n\nThese movements are identical with walking, and except the particular\ncare which must be bestowed upon the placing of the foot on the first\ncount of the measure, they require no special degree of attention.\n\nOn the second count the free leg swings forward until the knee has\nbecome entirely straightened, and is held, suspended, during the third\ncount of the measure. This should be practiced, first with the weight\nresting upon the entire sole of the supporting foot, and then, when this\nhas been perfectly accomplished, the same exercise may be supplemented\nby raising the heel (of the supporting foot) on the second count and\nlowering it on the third count. _Great care must be taken not to divide\nthe weight._\n\nFor the purpose of instruction, it is well to practice these steps to\nMazurka music, because of the clearness of the count.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nWhen the foregoing exercises have been so fully mastered as to become,\nin a sense, muscular habits, we may, with safety, add the next feature.\nThis consists in touching the floor with the point of the free foot, at\na point as far forward or backward as can be done without dividing the\nweight, on the second count of the measure. Thus, we have accomplished,\nas it were, an interrupted, or, at least, an arrested step, and this is\nthe true essence of the Boston.\n\nToo great care cannot be expended upon this phase of the step, and it\nmust be practiced over and over again, both forward and backward, until\nthe movement has become second nature. All this must precede any attempt\nto turn.\n\nThe turning of the Boston is simplicity itself, but it is, nevertheless,\nthe one point in the instruction which is most bothersome to\nlearners. The turn is executed upon the ball of _the supporting foot_,\nand consists in twisting half round without lifting either foot from the\nground. In this, the weight is held altogether upon the supporting foot,\nand there is no crossing.\n\nIn carrying the foot forward for the second movement, the knees must\npass close to one another, and care must be taken that _the entire half\nturn comes upon the last count of the measure_.\n\nTo sum up:--\n\nStarting with the weight upon the left foot, step forward, placing the\nentire weight upon the right foot, as in the illustration facing page 14\n(count 1); swing left leg quickly forward, straightening the left knee\nand raising the right heel, and touch the floor with the extended left\nfoot as in the illustration facing page 16, but without placing any\nweight upon that foot (count 2); execute a half-turn to the left,\nbackward, upon the ball of the supporting (right) foot, at the same time\nlowering the right heel, and finish as in the illustration opposite page\n18 (count 3). One measure.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nStarting again, this time with the weight wholly upon the right foot,\nand with the left leg extended backward, and the point of the left foot\nlightly touching the floor, step backward, throwing the weight entirely\nupon the left foot which sinks to a position flat upon the floor, as\nshown in the illustration facing page 21, (count 4); carry the right\nfoot quickly backward, and touch with the point as far back as possible\nupon the line of direction without dividing the weight, at the same time\nraising the left heel as in the illustration facing page 22, (count 5);\nand complete the rotation by executing a half-turn to the right,\nforward, upon the ball of the left foot, simultaneously lowering the\nleft heel, and finishing as in the illustration facing page 24, (count\n6).\n\n\nTHE REVERSE\n\nThe reverse of the step should be acquired at the same time as the\nrotation to the right, and it is, therefore, of great importance to\nalternate from the right to the left rotation from the beginning of the\nturning exercise. The reverse itself, that is to say, the act of\nalternating is effected in a single measure without turning (see\npreparatory exercise, page 13) which may be taken backward by the\ngentleman and forward by the lady, whenever they have completed a whole\nturn.\n\nThe mechanism of the reverse turn is exactly the same as that of the\nturn to the right, except that it is accomplished with the other foot,\nand in the opposite direction.\n\nThere is no better or more efficacious exercise to perfect the Boston,\nthan that which is made up of one complete turn to the right, a measure\nto reverse, and a complete turn to the left. This should be practised\nuntil one has entirely mastered the motion and rhythm of the dance. The\nwriter has used this exercise in all his work, and finds it not only\nhelpful and interesting to the pupil, but of special advantage in\nobviating the possibility of dizziness, and the consequent\nunpleasantness and loss of time.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nAfter acquiring a degree of ease in the execution of these movements to\nMazurka music, it is advisable to vary the rhythm by the introduction of\nSpanish or other clearly accented Waltz music, before using the more\nliquid compositions of Strauss or such modern song waltzes as those of\nDanglas, Sinibaldi, etc.\n\nIt is one of the remarkable features of the Boston that the weight is\nalways opposite the line of direction--that is to say, in going forward,\nthe weight is retained upon the rear foot, and in going backward, the\nweight is always upon the front foot (direction always radiates from the\ndancer). Thus, in proceeding around the room, the weight must always be\nheld back, instead of inclining slightly forward as in the other round\ndances. This seeming contradiction of forces lends to the Boston a\nunique charm which is to be found in no other dance.\n\nAs the dancer becomes more familiar with the Boston, the movement\nbecomes so natural that little or no thought need be paid to technique,\nin order to develop the peculiar grace of it.\n\nThe fact of its being a dance altogether in one position calls for\ngreater skill in the execution of the Boston, than would be the case if\nthere were other changes and contrasts possible, just as it is more\ndifficult to play a melody upon a violin of only one string.\n\nThe Boston, in its completed form, resolves itself into a sort of\nwalking movement, so natural and easy that it may be enjoyed for a\nwhole evening without more fatigue than would be the result of a single\nhour of the Waltz and Two-Step.\n\nAside from the attractiveness of the Boston as a social dance, its\nphysical benefits are more positive than those of any other Round Dance\nthat we have ever had. The action is so adjusted as to provide the\nmaximum of muscular exercise and the minimum of physical effort. This\ntends towards the conservation of energy, and produces and maintains, at\nthe same time an evenness of blood pressure and circulation. The\nmovements also necessitate a constant exercise of the ankles and insteps\nwhich is very strengthening to those parts, and cannot fail to raise and\nsupport the arch of the foot.\n\nTaken from any standpoint, the Boston is one of the most worthy forms of\nthe social dance ever devised, and the distortions of position which\nare now occasionally practiced must soon give way to the genuinely\nrefining influence of the action.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nOf the various forms of the Boston, there is little to be said beyond\nthe description of the manner of their execution, which will be treated\nin the following pages.\n\nIt is hoped that this book will help toward a more complete\nunderstanding of the beauties and attractions of the Boston, and further\nthe proper appreciation of it.\n\n\n_All descriptions of dances given in this book relate to the lady's\npart. The gentleman's is exactly the same, but in the countermotion._\n\n\nTHE LONG BOSTON\n\nThe ordinary form of the Boston as described in the foregoing pages is\ncommonly known as the \"Long\" Boston to distinguish it from other forms\nand variations. It is danced in 3/4 time, either Waltz or Mazurka, and\nat any tempo desired. As this is the fundamental form of the Boston, it\nshould be thoroughly acquired before undertaking any other.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\nTHE SHORT BOSTON\n\nThe \"Short\" Boston differs from the \"Long\" Boston only in measure. It is\ndanced in either 2/4 or 6/8 time, and the first movement (in 2/4 time)\noccupies the duration of a quarter-note. The second and third movements\neach occupy the duration of an eighth-note. Thus, there exists between\nthe \"Long\" and the \"Short\" Boston the same difference as between the\nWaltz and the Galop. In the more rapid forms of the \"Short\" Boston, the\nrising and sinking upon the second and third movements naturally take\nthe form of a hop or skip. The dance is more enjoyable and less\nfatiguing in moderate tempo.\n\n\nTHE OPEN BOSTON\n\nThe \"Open\" Boston contains two parts of eight measures each. The first\npart is danced in the positions shown in the illustrations facing pages\n8 and 10, and the second part consists of 8 measures of the \"Long\"\nBoston.\n\nIn the first part, the dancers execute three Boston steps forward,\nwithout turning, and one Boston step turning (towards the partner) to\nface directly backward (1/2 turn). 4 measures.\n\nThis is followed by three Boston steps backward (without turning) in the\nposition shown in the illustration facing page 10, followed by one\nBoston step turning (toward the partner) and finishing in regular Waltz\nPosition for the execution of the second part.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\nTHE BOSTON DIP\n\nThe \"Dip\" is a combination dance in 3/4 or 3/8 time, and contains 4\nmeasures of the \"Long\" Boston, preceded by 4 measures, as follows:\n\nStanding upon the left foot, step directly to the side, and transfer the\nweight to the right foot (count 1); swing the left leg to the right in\nfront of the right, at the same time raising the right heel (count 2);\nlower the right heel (count 3); return the left foot to its original\nplace where it receives the weight (count 4); swing the right leg across\nin front of the left, raising the left heel (count 5); and lower the\nleft heel (count 6). 2 measures.\n\nSwing the right foot to the right, and put it down directly at the side\nof the left (count 1); hop on the right foot and swing the left across\nin front (count 2); fall back upon the right foot (count 3); put down\nthe left foot, crossing in front of the right, and transfer weight to it\n(count 4); with right foot step a whole step to the right (count 5); and\nfinish by bringing the left foot against the right, where it receives\nthe weight (count 6). 2 measures.\n\nIn executing the hop upon counts 2 and 3 of the third measure, the\nmovement must be so far delayed that the falling back will exactly\ncoincide with the third count of the music.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE TURKEY TROT\n\n_Preparation:--Side Position of the Waltz._\n\n\nDuring the first four measures take four Boston steps without turning\n(lady forward, gentleman backward), and bending the supporting knee,\nstretch the free foot backward, (lady's left, gentleman's right) as\nshown in the illustration opposite. 4 meas.\n\nRepeat in opposite direction. 4 meas.\n\nExecute four drawing steps to the side (lady's right, gentleman's left)\nswaying the shoulders and body in the direction of the drawn foot, and\npointing with the free foot upon the fourth, as shown in figure.\n4 meas.\n\nRepeat in opposite direction. 4 meas.\n\nEight whole turns, Short Boston or Two-Step. 16 meas.\n\nRepeat at will.\n\n * * * * *\n\n A splendid specimen for this dance will be found in \"The Gobbler\" by\n J. Monroe.\n\n\n\n\nTHE AEROPLANE GLIDE\n\n\nThe \"Aeroplane Glide\" is very similar to the Boston Dip. It is supposed\nto represent the start of the flight of an aeroplane, and derives its\nname from that fact.\n\nThe sole difference between the \"Dip\" and \"Aeroplane\" consists in the\nsix running steps which make up the first two measures. Of these running\nsteps, which are executed sidewise and with alternate crossings, before\nand behind, only the fourth, at the beginning of the second measure\nrequires special description. Upon this step, the supporting knee is\nnoticeably bended to coincide with the accent of the music.\n\nThe rest of the dance is identical with the \"Dip\". (See page 25.)\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE TANGO\n\n\nThe Tango is a Spanish American dance which contains much of the\npeculiar charm of the other Spanish dances, and its execution depends\nlargely upon the ability of the dancers so to grasp the rhythm of the\nmusic as to interpret it by their movements. The steps are all simple,\nand the dancers are permitted to vary or improvise the figures at will.\n\nOf these figures the two which follow are most common, and lend\nthemselves most readily to verbal description.\n\n\nTANGO No. 1\n\nThe partners face one another as in Waltz Position. The gentleman takes\nthe lady's right hand in his left, and, stretching the arms to the full\nextent, holding them at the shoulder height, he places her right hand\nupon his left shoulder, and holds it there, as in the illustration\nopposite page 30.\n\nIn starting, the gentleman throws his right shoulder slightly back and\nsteps directly backward with his left foot, while the lady follows\nforward with her right. In this manner both continue two steps, crossing\none foot over the other and then execute a half-turn in the same\ndirection. This is followed by four measures of the Two-Step and the\nwhole is repeated at will. 8 measures.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\nTANGO No. 2\n\nThis variant starts from the same position as Tango No. 1. The gentleman\ntakes two steps backward with the lady following forward, and then two\nsteps to the side (the lady's right and the gentleman's left) and two\nsteps in the opposite direction to the original position.\n8 measures.\n\nThese steps to the side should be marked by the swaying of the bodies as\nthe feet are drawn together on the second count of the measure, and the\nwhole is followed by 8 measures of the Two-Step. Repeat all as desired.\n\n\n\n\nIDEAL MUSIC FOR THE \"BOSTON\"\n\n\nPIANO SOLO\n\n(_Also to be had for Full or Small Orchestra_)\n\nLOVE'S AWAKENING _J. Danglas_ .60\nON THE WINGS OF DREAM _J. Danglas_ .60\nFRISSON (Thrill!) _S. Sinibaldi_ .50\nLOVE'S TRIUMPH _A. Daniele_ .60\nDOUCEMENT _G. Robert_ .60\nVIENNOISE _A. Duval_ .60\n\nThese selected numbers have attained success, not alone for their\nattractions of melody and rich harmony, but for their rhythmical\nflexibility and perfect adaptedness to the \"Boston.\"\n\n\nFOR THE TURKEY TROT\n\nEspecially recommended\n\nTHE GOBBLER _J. Monroe_ .50\n\n\nAny of the foregoing compositions will be supplied on receipt of\none-half the list price. Postage two cents extra for each copy.\n\n\nPUBLISHED BY\n\nTHE BOSTON MUSIC COMPANY 26 & 28 WEST ST., BOSTON, MASS.\n\n\n\n\nTRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:\n\n\n Text in italics is surrounded with underscores: _italics_.\n\n Punctuation has been corrected without note.\n\n Obvious typographical errors have been corrected as follows:\n Page 8: duplicate word \"the\" removed\n Page 23: duplicate word \"and\" removed\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Fascinating Boston, by Alfonso Josephs Sheafe\n\n*** ", "source_language": "en", "target_language": "es_MX", "source_lang_name": "English", "target_lang_name": "Spanish", "doc_id": "The-Fascinating-Boston-by-Alfonso-Josephs-Sheafe", "seg_id": 1, "publication_date": 1913, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/37443", "responses_create_params": {"input": [{"role": "user", "content": "You are a professional translator.\nYour task is to translate a long document from English to Spanish.\nPreserve the paragraph structure and ordering of the source text and keep the translation approximately aligned at the sentence level.\nYou may merge, split, or slightly reorder sentences, but you must keep the translation structurally close to the source.\n\nOutput only the translation, using only Spanish.\nDo not ask questions. \nDo not add a preamble.\nDo not add commentary.\nDo not stop until the whole document is translated.\n\nSource document:\n\n\n\n\nProduced by David E. Brown and The Online Distributed\nProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was\nproduced from images generously made available by the\nLibrary of Congress)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\n THE FASCINATING\n BOSTON\n\n How to Dance and How to Teach the\n Popular New Social Favorite\n\n _By_\n ALFONSO JOSEPHS SHEAFE\n Master of Dancing\n\n _Translator and Editor of\n Zorn's Grammar of the Art of Dancing_\n\n\n Boston, Mass.\n THE BOSTON MUSIC COMPANY\n New York: G. Schirmer, Incorporated\n\n Copyright, 1913, by\n THE BOSTON MUSIC CO.\n For all countries\n\n\n B. M. Co. 3366\n\n\n\n\nTable of Contents\n\n\n Page\n\nFOREWORD 1\n\nTHE BOSTON\n THE FUNDAMENTAL POSITIONS 5\n THE POSITION OF THE PARTNERS 8\n THE STEP OF THE BOSTON 12\n THE LONG BOSTON 22\n THE SHORT BOSTON 23\n THE OPEN BOSTON 24\n THE BOSTON DIP 25\n\nTHE TURKEY TROT 27\n\nTHE AEROPLANE GLIDE 28\n\nTHE TANGO 29\n\n\n\n\nTHE FASCINATING BOSTON\n\n\n\n\nFOREWORD\n\n\nSince the introduction of the waltz, more than a hundred years ago, it\nhas held the first place in the esteem of dancers throughout the\ncivilized world. There has appeared, however, a new claimant for the\nplace--one that possesses all the qualities that go to make a social\nfavorite, and has the additional advantages of greater ease of\nexecution, and wider possibilities of adaptation.\n\nThis is the BOSTON--not, as many persons suppose, a new creation nor\nindeed is it a novelty even to the American public, for it was\nintroduced here more than a generation ago; but the great popularity of\nthe Two-Step, which had just then come into vogue, and was fast gaining\nfavor under the influence of such brilliant compositions as the\nquick-step marches by Sousa, operated against its immediate acceptance.\n\nOne of the reasons why the Boston should prove today a more attractive\ndance than any other, is the fact that now there are more captivating\nairs written for this particular form of dance than for any other, and\nas the Two-Step, in its time, found its most powerful ally in the music\nto which it was adapted, the Boston has today the persuasive\nintercession of such languorous and haunting melodies as \"Love's\nAwakening\" and \"On the Wings of Dream,\" by Danglas; Sinibaldi's\n\"Thrill,\" and others.\n\nGeneral taste has gradually found out the superior charm of the Boston;\nthe pendulum of public favor has again swung in the direction of skilful\ndancing.\n\nThe recent revival of the Waltz in its proper form, has brought with it\na larger appreciation of the more worthy and graceful social dances,\nand the entire world now recognizes the wonderful beauty of the Boston,\nand has welcomed it as a real competitor.\n\nThe Boston is not a Waltz, yet it is the perfection of it. It is one of\nthose paradoxical things which, while it is impossible to be classified,\ncontains all that is to be found in almost any other dance. Even the\npersons who have so long and so loyally clung to other forms of dancing,\nand have abated none in their zeal for their favorites, have been\nunconsciously, and perhaps unwillingly, charmed by the seductiveness of\nthe Boston, until they now freely declare the new dance to be the\nsuperior of the Waltz. Therefore it is safe to say that the Boston will,\neventually, supersede the Waltz altogether.\n\nWe demand a dance which combines ease of execution with attractive\nmovement. That is just what the Boston does, and perhaps more. It is so\nsimple in construction that, when acquired, it becomes natural, and its\nperfect adaptability assures it lasting popularity.\n\nOwing to the urgent request of many of his pupils and colleagues, the\nauthor has undertaken this little book in the hope that it will meet the\nrequirements of both teachers and students, and help to assure the\nproper appreciation of what is in reality the most delightful and\nartistic social dance since the Minuet.\n\n\nTHE FIVE FUNDAMENTAL POSITIONS\n\nIn order that the reader may the more readily understand the\ndescriptions given in this book, we will explain the five fundamental\npositions upon which the art of dancing rests.\n\nIn the 1st position, the feet are together, heel against heel.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nIn the 2nd position, the heels are separated sidewise, and on the same\nline.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nIn the 3rd position, the heel of one foot touches the middle of the\nother.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nIn the 4th position, the feet are separated as in walking, either\ndirectly forward or directly backward.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nIn the 5th position, the heel of one foot touches the point of the\nother.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nIn all these positions the feet must be turned outward to form not less\nthan a right angle.\n\n\nTHE POSITIONS OF THE PARTNERS\n\nMuch, if not all, of the adverse criticism of the Boston which has been\noffered by educators, parents and other responsible objectors, has been\ndirected at the relative positions of the partners. This is, in fact, no\nmore than the general rule as regards the Social Round Dance, with the\npossible exception that the positions have been sometimes distorted by\nattempts to copy the freer forms of dancing that have been presented\nupon the stage.\n\nThe Round Dance demands that a certain fixed grouping of the partners be\nmaintained in order that the rotation around a common moving centre may\nbe accomplished, and it is here that the most serious problem is to be\nfound.\n\nThe dancing profession long ago undertook to settle upon arbitrary\ngroupings satisfactory to the needs of the dancers, and conforming to\nall the requirements of propriety and hygienic exercise.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nActing upon this basis, the reputable teachers of dancing throughout the\nworld have adopted and promulgated three fundamental groupings for the\nRound Dance which are so constructed as to provide the greatest ease of\nexecution and freedom of action. They are known as the Waltz Position,\nthe Open Position, and the Side Position of the Waltz. All round dances\nare executed in one or another of these groupings, which are not only\naccepted by all good teachers, but, with the exception of certain minor\nand unimportant variations, rigidly adhered to in all their work.\n\nIn the Waltz Position the partners stand facing one another, with\nshoulders parallel, and looking over one another's right shoulder.\nSpecial attention must be paid to the parallel position of the\nshoulders, in order to fit the individual movements of the partners\nalong the line of direction.\n\nThe gentleman places his right hand lightly upon the lady's back, at a\npoint about half-way across, between the waist-line and the\nshoulder-blades. The fingers are so rounded as to permit the free\ncirculation of air between the palm of the hand and the lady's back, and\nshould not be spread.\n\nThe lady places her left hand lightly upon the gentleman's arm, allowing\nher fore-arm to rest gently upon his arm. The partners stand at an easy\ndistance from one another, inclining toward the common centre very\nslightly. The free hands are lightly joined at the side. This is merely\nto provide occupation for the disengaged arms, and the gentleman holds\nthe tip of the lady's hand lightly in the bended fingers of his own.\nGuiding is accomplished by the gentleman through a slight lifting of his\nright elbow.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\nTHE OPEN POSITION\n\nThe Open Position needs no explanation, and can be readily understood\nfrom the illustration facing page 8.\n\n\nTHE SIDE POSITION OF THE WALTZ\n\nThe side position of the Waltz differs from the Waltz Position only in\nthe fact that the partners stand side by side and with the engaged arms\nmore widely extended. The free arms are held as in the frontispiece. In\nthe actual rotation this position naturally resolves itself into the\nregular Waltz Position.\n\n\nTHE STEP OF THE BOSTON\n\nThe preparatory step of the Boston differs materially from that of any\nother Social Dance. There is _only one position_ of the feet in the\nBoston--the 4th. That is to say, the feet are separated one from the\nother as in walking.\n\nOn the first count of the measure the whole leg swings freely, and as a\nunit, from the hip, and the foot is put down practically flat upon the\nfloor, where it immediately receives the entire weight of the body\n_perpendicularly_. The weight is held entirely upon this foot during the\nremainder of the measure, whether it be in 3/4 or 2/4 time.\n\nThe following preparatory exercises must be practiced forward and\nbackward until the movements become natural, before proceeding.\n\nIn going backward, the foot must be carried to the rear as far as\npossible, and the weight must always be perpendicular to the supporting\nfoot.\n\nThese movements are identical with walking, and except the particular\ncare which must be bestowed upon the placing of the foot on the first\ncount of the measure, they require no special degree of attention.\n\nOn the second count the free leg swings forward until the knee has\nbecome entirely straightened, and is held, suspended, during the third\ncount of the measure. This should be practiced, first with the weight\nresting upon the entire sole of the supporting foot, and then, when this\nhas been perfectly accomplished, the same exercise may be supplemented\nby raising the heel (of the supporting foot) on the second count and\nlowering it on the third count. _Great care must be taken not to divide\nthe weight._\n\nFor the purpose of instruction, it is well to practice these steps to\nMazurka music, because of the clearness of the count.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nWhen the foregoing exercises have been so fully mastered as to become,\nin a sense, muscular habits, we may, with safety, add the next feature.\nThis consists in touching the floor with the point of the free foot, at\na point as far forward or backward as can be done without dividing the\nweight, on the second count of the measure. Thus, we have accomplished,\nas it were, an interrupted, or, at least, an arrested step, and this is\nthe true essence of the Boston.\n\nToo great care cannot be expended upon this phase of the step, and it\nmust be practiced over and over again, both forward and backward, until\nthe movement has become second nature. All this must precede any attempt\nto turn.\n\nThe turning of the Boston is simplicity itself, but it is, nevertheless,\nthe one point in the instruction which is most bothersome to\nlearners. The turn is executed upon the ball of _the supporting foot_,\nand consists in twisting half round without lifting either foot from the\nground. In this, the weight is held altogether upon the supporting foot,\nand there is no crossing.\n\nIn carrying the foot forward for the second movement, the knees must\npass close to one another, and care must be taken that _the entire half\nturn comes upon the last count of the measure_.\n\nTo sum up:--\n\nStarting with the weight upon the left foot, step forward, placing the\nentire weight upon the right foot, as in the illustration facing page 14\n(count 1); swing left leg quickly forward, straightening the left knee\nand raising the right heel, and touch the floor with the extended left\nfoot as in the illustration facing page 16, but without placing any\nweight upon that foot (count 2); execute a half-turn to the left,\nbackward, upon the ball of the supporting (right) foot, at the same time\nlowering the right heel, and finish as in the illustration opposite page\n18 (count 3). One measure.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nStarting again, this time with the weight wholly upon the right foot,\nand with the left leg extended backward, and the point of the left foot\nlightly touching the floor, step backward, throwing the weight entirely\nupon the left foot which sinks to a position flat upon the floor, as\nshown in the illustration facing page 21, (count 4); carry the right\nfoot quickly backward, and touch with the point as far back as possible\nupon the line of direction without dividing the weight, at the same time\nraising the left heel as in the illustration facing page 22, (count 5);\nand complete the rotation by executing a half-turn to the right,\nforward, upon the ball of the left foot, simultaneously lowering the\nleft heel, and finishing as in the illustration facing page 24, (count\n6).\n\n\nTHE REVERSE\n\nThe reverse of the step should be acquired at the same time as the\nrotation to the right, and it is, therefore, of great importance to\nalternate from the right to the left rotation from the beginning of the\nturning exercise. The reverse itself, that is to say, the act of\nalternating is effected in a single measure without turning (see\npreparatory exercise, page 13) which may be taken backward by the\ngentleman and forward by the lady, whenever they have completed a whole\nturn.\n\nThe mechanism of the reverse turn is exactly the same as that of the\nturn to the right, except that it is accomplished with the other foot,\nand in the opposite direction.\n\nThere is no better or more efficacious exercise to perfect the Boston,\nthan that which is made up of one complete turn to the right, a measure\nto reverse, and a complete turn to the left. This should be practised\nuntil one has entirely mastered the motion and rhythm of the dance. The\nwriter has used this exercise in all his work, and finds it not only\nhelpful and interesting to the pupil, but of special advantage in\nobviating the possibility of dizziness, and the consequent\nunpleasantness and loss of time.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nAfter acquiring a degree of ease in the execution of these movements to\nMazurka music, it is advisable to vary the rhythm by the introduction of\nSpanish or other clearly accented Waltz music, before using the more\nliquid compositions of Strauss or such modern song waltzes as those of\nDanglas, Sinibaldi, etc.\n\nIt is one of the remarkable features of the Boston that the weight is\nalways opposite the line of direction--that is to say, in going forward,\nthe weight is retained upon the rear foot, and in going backward, the\nweight is always upon the front foot (direction always radiates from the\ndancer). Thus, in proceeding around the room, the weight must always be\nheld back, instead of inclining slightly forward as in the other round\ndances. This seeming contradiction of forces lends to the Boston a\nunique charm which is to be found in no other dance.\n\nAs the dancer becomes more familiar with the Boston, the movement\nbecomes so natural that little or no thought need be paid to technique,\nin order to develop the peculiar grace of it.\n\nThe fact of its being a dance altogether in one position calls for\ngreater skill in the execution of the Boston, than would be the case if\nthere were other changes and contrasts possible, just as it is more\ndifficult to play a melody upon a violin of only one string.\n\nThe Boston, in its completed form, resolves itself into a sort of\nwalking movement, so natural and easy that it may be enjoyed for a\nwhole evening without more fatigue than would be the result of a single\nhour of the Waltz and Two-Step.\n\nAside from the attractiveness of the Boston as a social dance, its\nphysical benefits are more positive than those of any other Round Dance\nthat we have ever had. The action is so adjusted as to provide the\nmaximum of muscular exercise and the minimum of physical effort. This\ntends towards the conservation of energy, and produces and maintains, at\nthe same time an evenness of blood pressure and circulation. The\nmovements also necessitate a constant exercise of the ankles and insteps\nwhich is very strengthening to those parts, and cannot fail to raise and\nsupport the arch of the foot.\n\nTaken from any standpoint, the Boston is one of the most worthy forms of\nthe social dance ever devised, and the distortions of position which\nare now occasionally practiced must soon give way to the genuinely\nrefining influence of the action.\n\n [Illustration]\n\nOf the various forms of the Boston, there is little to be said beyond\nthe description of the manner of their execution, which will be treated\nin the following pages.\n\nIt is hoped that this book will help toward a more complete\nunderstanding of the beauties and attractions of the Boston, and further\nthe proper appreciation of it.\n\n\n_All descriptions of dances given in this book relate to the lady's\npart. The gentleman's is exactly the same, but in the countermotion._\n\n\nTHE LONG BOSTON\n\nThe ordinary form of the Boston as described in the foregoing pages is\ncommonly known as the \"Long\" Boston to distinguish it from other forms\nand variations. It is danced in 3/4 time, either Waltz or Mazurka, and\nat any tempo desired. As this is the fundamental form of the Boston, it\nshould be thoroughly acquired before undertaking any other.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\nTHE SHORT BOSTON\n\nThe \"Short\" Boston differs from the \"Long\" Boston only in measure. It is\ndanced in either 2/4 or 6/8 time, and the first movement (in 2/4 time)\noccupies the duration of a quarter-note. The second and third movements\neach occupy the duration of an eighth-note. Thus, there exists between\nthe \"Long\" and the \"Short\" Boston the same difference as between the\nWaltz and the Galop. In the more rapid forms of the \"Short\" Boston, the\nrising and sinking upon the second and third movements naturally take\nthe form of a hop or skip. The dance is more enjoyable and less\nfatiguing in moderate tempo.\n\n\nTHE OPEN BOSTON\n\nThe \"Open\" Boston contains two parts of eight measures each. The first\npart is danced in the positions shown in the illustrations facing pages\n8 and 10, and the second part consists of 8 measures of the \"Long\"\nBoston.\n\nIn the first part, the dancers execute three Boston steps forward,\nwithout turning, and one Boston step turning (towards the partner) to\nface directly backward (1/2 turn). 4 measures.\n\nThis is followed by three Boston steps backward (without turning) in the\nposition shown in the illustration facing page 10, followed by one\nBoston step turning (toward the partner) and finishing in regular Waltz\nPosition for the execution of the second part.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\nTHE BOSTON DIP\n\nThe \"Dip\" is a combination dance in 3/4 or 3/8 time, and contains 4\nmeasures of the \"Long\" Boston, preceded by 4 measures, as follows:\n\nStanding upon the left foot, step directly to the side, and transfer the\nweight to the right foot (count 1); swing the left leg to the right in\nfront of the right, at the same time raising the right heel (count 2);\nlower the right heel (count 3); return the left foot to its original\nplace where it receives the weight (count 4); swing the right leg across\nin front of the left, raising the left heel (count 5); and lower the\nleft heel (count 6). 2 measures.\n\nSwing the right foot to the right, and put it down directly at the side\nof the left (count 1); hop on the right foot and swing the left across\nin front (count 2); fall back upon the right foot (count 3); put down\nthe left foot, crossing in front of the right, and transfer weight to it\n(count 4); with right foot step a whole step to the right (count 5); and\nfinish by bringing the left foot against the right, where it receives\nthe weight (count 6). 2 measures.\n\nIn executing the hop upon counts 2 and 3 of the third measure, the\nmovement must be so far delayed that the falling back will exactly\ncoincide with the third count of the music.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE TURKEY TROT\n\n_Preparation:--Side Position of the Waltz._\n\n\nDuring the first four measures take four Boston steps without turning\n(lady forward, gentleman backward), and bending the supporting knee,\nstretch the free foot backward, (lady's left, gentleman's right) as\nshown in the illustration opposite. 4 meas.\n\nRepeat in opposite direction. 4 meas.\n\nExecute four drawing steps to the side (lady's right, gentleman's left)\nswaying the shoulders and body in the direction of the drawn foot, and\npointing with the free foot upon the fourth, as shown in figure.\n4 meas.\n\nRepeat in opposite direction. 4 meas.\n\nEight whole turns, Short Boston or Two-Step. 16 meas.\n\nRepeat at will.\n\n * * * * *\n\n A splendid specimen for this dance will be found in \"The Gobbler\" by\n J. Monroe.\n\n\n\n\nTHE AEROPLANE GLIDE\n\n\nThe \"Aeroplane Glide\" is very similar to the Boston Dip. It is supposed\nto represent the start of the flight of an aeroplane, and derives its\nname from that fact.\n\nThe sole difference between the \"Dip\" and \"Aeroplane\" consists in the\nsix running steps which make up the first two measures. Of these running\nsteps, which are executed sidewise and with alternate crossings, before\nand behind, only the fourth, at the beginning of the second measure\nrequires special description. Upon this step, the supporting knee is\nnoticeably bended to coincide with the accent of the music.\n\nThe rest of the dance is identical with the \"Dip\". (See page 25.)\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\n\n\nTHE TANGO\n\n\nThe Tango is a Spanish American dance which contains much of the\npeculiar charm of the other Spanish dances, and its execution depends\nlargely upon the ability of the dancers so to grasp the rhythm of the\nmusic as to interpret it by their movements. The steps are all simple,\nand the dancers are permitted to vary or improvise the figures at will.\n\nOf these figures the two which follow are most common, and lend\nthemselves most readily to verbal description.\n\n\nTANGO No. 1\n\nThe partners face one another as in Waltz Position. The gentleman takes\nthe lady's right hand in his left, and, stretching the arms to the full\nextent, holding them at the shoulder height, he places her right hand\nupon his left shoulder, and holds it there, as in the illustration\nopposite page 30.\n\nIn starting, the gentleman throws his right shoulder slightly back and\nsteps directly backward with his left foot, while the lady follows\nforward with her right. In this manner both continue two steps, crossing\none foot over the other and then execute a half-turn in the same\ndirection. This is followed by four measures of the Two-Step and the\nwhole is repeated at will. 8 measures.\n\n [Illustration]\n\n\nTANGO No. 2\n\nThis variant starts from the same position as Tango No. 1. The gentleman\ntakes two steps backward with the lady following forward, and then two\nsteps to the side (the lady's right and the gentleman's left) and two\nsteps in the opposite direction to the original position.\n8 measures.\n\nThese steps to the side should be marked by the swaying of the bodies as\nthe feet are drawn together on the second count of the measure, and the\nwhole is followed by 8 measures of the Two-Step. Repeat all as desired.\n\n\n\n\nIDEAL MUSIC FOR THE \"BOSTON\"\n\n\nPIANO SOLO\n\n(_Also to be had for Full or Small Orchestra_)\n\nLOVE'S AWAKENING _J. Danglas_ .60\nON THE WINGS OF DREAM _J. Danglas_ .60\nFRISSON (Thrill!) _S. Sinibaldi_ .50\nLOVE'S TRIUMPH _A. Daniele_ .60\nDOUCEMENT _G. Robert_ .60\nVIENNOISE _A. Duval_ .60\n\nThese selected numbers have attained success, not alone for their\nattractions of melody and rich harmony, but for their rhythmical\nflexibility and perfect adaptedness to the \"Boston.\"\n\n\nFOR THE TURKEY TROT\n\nEspecially recommended\n\nTHE GOBBLER _J. Monroe_ .50\n\n\nAny of the foregoing compositions will be supplied on receipt of\none-half the list price. Postage two cents extra for each copy.\n\n\nPUBLISHED BY\n\nTHE BOSTON MUSIC COMPANY 26 & 28 WEST ST., BOSTON, MASS.\n\n\n\n\nTRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:\n\n\n Text in italics is surrounded with underscores: _italics_.\n\n Punctuation has been corrected without note.\n\n Obvious typographical errors have been corrected as follows:\n Page 8: duplicate word \"the\" removed\n Page 23: duplicate word \"and\" removed\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Fascinating Boston, by Alfonso Josephs Sheafe\n\n*** \n"}]}} +{"text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at\nhttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images\ngenerously made available by The Internet Archive/American\nLibraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n LAST DAYS OF THE REBELLION.\n\n THE SECOND NEW YORK CAVALRY\n (HARRIS' LIGHT)\n AT APPOMATTOX STATION AND APPOMATTOX COURT\n HOUSE, APRIL 8 and 9, 1865.\n\n\n BY\n ALANSON M. RANDOL\n\n _Major First U. S. Artillery (late Colonel Second New York\n Cavalry), Bvt. Brig-General, U. S. Vols._\n\n\n ALCATRAZ ISLAND, CAL.,\n 1886.\n\n\n\n\nLAST DAYS OF THE REBELLION.\n\n\nDuring the winter of 1864-5 the Second New York (Harris' Light) Cavalry\nwas in winter quarters near Winchester, Va., on the Romney pike. Alanson\nM. Randol, Captain First United States Artillery, was colonel of the\nregiment, which, with the First Connecticut, Second Ohio, and Third New\nJersey, constituted the first brigade, third division, cavalry corps. The\ndivision was commanded by General George A. Custer; the brigade by A. C.\nM. Pennington, Captain Second United States Artillery, Colonel Third New\nJersey Cavalry. On the 27th of February, 1865, the divisions of Merritt\nand Custer, with the batteries of Miller (Fourth United States Artillery)\nand Woodruff (Second United States Artillery), all under command of\nGeneral Sheridan, left their winter quarters in and around Winchester,\nand, after a series of splendid victories, and unsurpassed marches and\nfortunes, joined the Army of the Potomac in front of Petersburg on the\n27th of March. The Second New York Cavalry shared largely in the glories\nand miseries of this great and successful raid. At Five Forks, Deep Creek,\nand Sailors Creek, it not only maintained its gallant and meritorious\nrecord, but added to its great renown. At the gentle and joyous passage\nof arms at Appomattox Station, on the 8th of April, it reached the climax\nof its glory, and, by its deeds of daring, touched the pinnacle of fame.\nOn that day it performed prodigies of valor, and achieved successes as\npregnant with good results as any single action of the war. By forcing a\npassage through the rebel lines and heading off Lee's army, it contributed\nlargely to the result that followed the next day--the surrender of the\nConfederate Army of Northern Virginia.\n\n * * * * *\n\nOn the night of the 7th of April we camped on Buffalo River. Moving at an\nearly hour on the 8th, we crossed the Lynchburg Railroad at Prospect\nStation, and headed for Appomattox Station, where it was expected we would\nstrike, if not intercept, Lee's retreating, disintegrating army. The trail\nwas fresh and the chase hot. Joy beamed in every eye, for all felt that\nthe end was drawing near, and we earnestly hoped that ours might be the\nglorious opportunity of striking the final blow. About noon the regiment\nwas detached to capture a force of the enemy said to be at one of the\ncrossings of the Appomattox. Some few hundreds, unarmed, half-starved,\nstragglers, with no fight in them, were found, and turned over to the\nProvost Marshall. Resuming its place in the column, I received orders to\nreport with the regiment to General Custer, who was at its head. Reporting\nin compliance with this order, General Custer informed me that his scouts\nhad reported three large trains of cars at Appomattox Station, loaded with\nsupplies for the rebel army; that he expected to have made a junction\nwith Merritt's division near this point; that his orders were to wait here\ntill Merritt joined him; that he had not heard from him since morning, and\nhad sent an officer to communicate with him, but if he did not hear from\nhim in half an hour, he wished me to take my regiment and capture the\ntrains of cars, and, if possible, reach and hold the pike to Lynchburg.\nWhile talking, the whistle of the locomotive was distinctly but faintly\nheard, and the column was at once moved forward, the Second New York in\nadvance. As we neared the station the whistles became more and more\ndistinct, and a scout reported the trains rapidly unloading, and that the\nadvance of the rebel army was passing through Appomattox Court House.\nAlthough Custer's orders were to make a junction with Merritt before\ncoming in contact with the enemy, here was a chance to strike a decisive\nblow, which, if successful, would add to his renown and glory, and if not,\nMerritt would soon be up to help him out of the scrape. Our excitement was\nintense, but subdued. All saw the vital importance of heading off the\nenemy. Another whistle, nearer and clearer, and another scout decided the\nquestion. I was ordered to move rapidly to Appomattox Station, seize the\ntrains there, and, if possible, get possession of the Lynchburg pike.\nGeneral Custer rode up alongside of me and, laying his hand on my\nshoulder, said, \"Go in, old fellow, don't let anything stop you; now is\nthe chance for your stars. Whoop 'em up; I'll be after you.\" The regiment\nleft the column at a slow trot, which became faster and faster until we\ncaught sight of the cars, which were preparing to move away, when, with a\ncheer, we charged down on the station, capturing in an instant the three\ntrains of cars, with the force guarding them. I called for engineers and\nfiremen to take charge of the trains, when at least a dozen of my men\naround me offered their services. I chose the number required, and ordered\nthe trains to be run to the rear, where I afterwards learned they were\nclaimed as captures by General Ord's corps. The cars were loaded with\ncommissary stores, a portion of which had been unloaded, on which the\nrebel advance were regaling themselves when we pounced so unexpectedly\ndown on them.\n\nWhile the regiment was rallying after the charge, the enemy opened on it a\nfierce fire from all kinds of guns--field and siege--which, however, did\nbut little damage, as the regiment was screened from the enemy's sight by\na dense woods. I at once sent notification to General Custer and Colonel\nPennington of my success, moved forward--my advance busily\nskirmishing--and followed with the regiment in line of battle, mounted.\nThe advance was soon checked by the enemy formed behind hastily\nconstructed intrenchments in a dense wood of the second growth of pine.\nFlushed with success and eager to gain the Lynchburg pike, along which\nimmense wagon and siege trains were rapidly moving, the regiment was\nordered to charge. Three times did it try to break through the enemy's\nlines, but failed. Colonel Pennington arrived on the field with the rest\nof the brigade, when, altogether, a rush was made, but it failed. Then\nCuster, with the whole division, tried it, but he, too, failed. Charge and\ncharge again, was now the order, but it was done in driblets, without\norganization and in great disorder. General Custer was here, there, and\neverywhere, urging the men forward with cheers and oaths. The great prize\nwas so nearly in his grasp that it seemed a pity to lose it; but the rebel\ninfantry held on hard and fast, while his artillery belched out death and\ndestruction on every side of us. Merritt and night were fast coming on, so\nas soon as a force, however small, was organized, it was hurled forward,\nonly to recoil in confusion and loss. Confident that this mode of fighting\nwould not bring us success, and fearful lest the enemy should assume the\noffensive, which, in our disorganized state, must result in disaster, I\nwent to General Custer soon after dark, and said to him that if he would\nlet me get my regiment together, I could break through the rebel line. He\nexcitedly replied, \"Never mind your regiment; take anything and everything\nyou can find, horse-holders and all, and break through: we must get hold\nof the pike to-night.\" Acting on this order, a force was soon organized by\nme, composed chiefly of the Second New York, but in part of other\nregiments, undistinguishable in the darkness. With this I made a charge\ndown a narrow lane, which led to an open field where the rebel artillery\nwas posted. As the charging column debouched from the woods, six bright\nlights suddenly flashed directly before us. A toronado of canister-shot\nswept over our heads, and the next instant we were in the battery. The\nline was broken, and the enemy routed. Custer, with the whole division,\nnow pressed through the gap pell-mell, in hot pursuit, halting for neither\nprisoners nor guns, until the road to Lynchburg, crowded with wagons and\nartillery, was in our possession. We then turned short to the right and\nheaded for the Appomattox Court House; but just before reaching it we\ndiscovered the thousands of camp fires of the rebel army, and the pursuit\nwas checked. The enemy had gone into camp, in fancied security that his\nroute to Lynchburg was still open before him; and he little dreamed that\nour cavalry had planted itself directly across his path, until some of our\nmen dashed into Appomattox Court House, where, unfortunately, Lieutenant\nColonel Root, of the Fifteenth New York Cavalry, was instantly killed by a\npicket guard. After we had seized the road, we were joined by other\ndivisions of the cavalry corps which came to our assistance, but too late\nto take part in the fight.\n\nOwing to the night attack, our regiments were so mixed up that it took\nhours to reorganize them. When this was effected, we marched near to the\nrailroad station and bivouacked.\n\nThat night was passed in great anxiety. We threw ourselves on the ground\nto rest, but not to sleep. We knew that the infantry was hastening to our\nassistance, but unless they joined us before sunrise, our cavalry line\nwould be brushed away, and the rebels would escape after all our hard work\nto head them off from Lynchburg. About daybreak I was aroused by loud\nhurrahs, and was told that Ord's corps was coming up rapidly, and forming\nin rear of our cavalry. Soon after we were in the saddle and moving\ntowards the Appomattox Court House road, where the firing was growing\nlively; but suddenly our direction was changed, and the whole cavalry\ncorps rode at a gallop to the right of our line, passing between the\nposition of the rebels and the rapidly forming masses of our infantry, who\ngreeted us with cheers and shouts of joy as we galloped along their front.\nAt several places we had to \"run the gauntlet\" of fire from the enemy's\nguns posted around the Court House, but this only added to the interest\nof the scene, for we felt it to be the last expiring effort of the enemy\nto put on a bold front; we knew that we had them this time, and that at\nlast Lee's proud army of Northern Virginia was at our mercy. While moving\nat almost a charging gait we were suddenly brought to a halt by reports of\na surrender. General Sheridan and his staff rode up, and left in hot haste\nfor the Court House; but just after leaving us, they were fired into by a\nparty of rebel cavalry, who also opened fire on us, to which we promptly\nreplied, and soon put them to flight. Our lines were then formed for a\ncharge on the rebel infantry; but while the bugles were sounding the\ncharge, an officer with a white flag rode out from the rebel lines, and we\nhalted. It was fortunate for us that we halted when we did, for had we\ncharged we would have been swept into eternity, as directly in our front\nwas a creek, on the other side of which was a rebel brigade, entrenched,\nwith batteries in position, the guns double shotted with canister. To have\ncharged this formidable array, mounted, would have resulted in almost\ntotal annihilation. After we had halted, we were informed that\npreliminaries were being arranged for the surrender of Lee's whole army.\nAt this news, cheer after cheer rent the air for a few moments, when soon\nall became as quiet as if nothing unusual had occurred. I rode forward\nbetween the lines with Custer and Pennington, and met several old friends\namong the rebels, who came out to see us. Among them, I remember Lee\n(Gimlet), of Virginia, and Cowan, of North Carolina. I saw General Cadmus\nWilcox just across the creek, walking to and fro with his eyes on the\nground, just as was his wont when he was instructor at West Point. I\ncalled to him, but he paid no attention, except to glance at me in a\nhostile manner.\n\nWhile we were thus discussing the probable terms of the surrender, General\nLee, in full uniform, accompanied by one of his staff, and General\nBabcock, of General Grant's staff, rode from the Court House towards our\nlines. As he passed us, we all raised our caps in salute, which he\ngracefully returned.\n\nLater in the day loud and continuous cheering was heard among the rebels,\nwhich was taken up and echoed by our lines until the air was rent with\ncheers, when all as suddenly subsided. The surrender was a fixed fact, and\nthe rebels were overjoyed at the very liberal terms they had received. Our\nmen, without arms, approached the rebel lines, and divided their rations\nwith the half-starved foe, and engaged in quiet, friendly conversation.\nThere was no bluster nor braggadocia,--nothing but quiet contentment that\nthe rebellion was crushed, and the war ended. In fact, many of the rebels\nseemed as much pleased as we were. Now and then one would meet a surly,\ndissatisfied look; but, as a general thing, we met smiling faces and hands\neager and ready to grasp our own, especially if they contained anything to\neat or drink. After the surrender, I rode over to the Court House with\nColonel Pennington and others and visited the house in which the surrender\nhad taken place, in search of some memento of the occasion. We found that\neverything had been appropriated before our arrival. Mr. Wilmer McLean, in\nwhose house the surrender took place, informed us that on his farm at\nManassas the first battle of Bull Run was fought. I asked him to write his\nname in my diary, for which, much to his surprise. I gave him a dollar.\nOthers did the same, and I was told that he thus received quite a golden\nharvest.\n\nWhile all of the regiments of the division shared largely in the glories\nof these two days, none excelled the Second New York Cavalry in its record\nof great and glorious deeds. Well might its officers and men carry their\nheads high, and feel elated with pride as they received the\ncongratulations and commendations showered on them from all sides. They\nfelt they had done their duty, and given the \"tottering giant\" a blow that\nlaid him prostrate at their feet, never, it is to be hoped, to rise again.\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note:\n\nThe following misprints have been corrected:\n \"crowed\" corrected to \"crowded\" (page 7)\n \"on on\" corrected to \"on\" (page 9)\n \"unusal\" corrected to \"unusual\" (page 9)\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Last Days of the Rebellion, by Alanson M. Randol\n\n*** ", "source_language": "en", "target_language": "zh_CN", "source_lang_name": "English", "target_lang_name": "Chinese", "doc_id": "Last-Days-of-the-Rebellion-by-Alanson-M.-Randol", "seg_id": 1, "publication_date": 1886, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/31974", "responses_create_params": {"input": [{"role": "user", "content": "You are a professional translator.\nYour task is to translate a long document from English to Chinese.\nPreserve the paragraph structure and ordering of the source text and keep the translation approximately aligned at the sentence level.\nYou may merge, split, or slightly reorder sentences, but you must keep the translation structurally close to the source.\n\nOutput only the translation, using only Chinese.\nDo not ask questions. \nDo not add a preamble.\nDo not add commentary.\nDo not stop until the whole document is translated.\n\nSource document:\n\n\n\n\nProduced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at\nhttp://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images\ngenerously made available by The Internet Archive/American\nLibraries.)\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n LAST DAYS OF THE REBELLION.\n\n THE SECOND NEW YORK CAVALRY\n (HARRIS' LIGHT)\n AT APPOMATTOX STATION AND APPOMATTOX COURT\n HOUSE, APRIL 8 and 9, 1865.\n\n\n BY\n ALANSON M. RANDOL\n\n _Major First U. S. Artillery (late Colonel Second New York\n Cavalry), Bvt. Brig-General, U. S. Vols._\n\n\n ALCATRAZ ISLAND, CAL.,\n 1886.\n\n\n\n\nLAST DAYS OF THE REBELLION.\n\n\nDuring the winter of 1864-5 the Second New York (Harris' Light) Cavalry\nwas in winter quarters near Winchester, Va., on the Romney pike. Alanson\nM. Randol, Captain First United States Artillery, was colonel of the\nregiment, which, with the First Connecticut, Second Ohio, and Third New\nJersey, constituted the first brigade, third division, cavalry corps. The\ndivision was commanded by General George A. Custer; the brigade by A. C.\nM. Pennington, Captain Second United States Artillery, Colonel Third New\nJersey Cavalry. On the 27th of February, 1865, the divisions of Merritt\nand Custer, with the batteries of Miller (Fourth United States Artillery)\nand Woodruff (Second United States Artillery), all under command of\nGeneral Sheridan, left their winter quarters in and around Winchester,\nand, after a series of splendid victories, and unsurpassed marches and\nfortunes, joined the Army of the Potomac in front of Petersburg on the\n27th of March. The Second New York Cavalry shared largely in the glories\nand miseries of this great and successful raid. At Five Forks, Deep Creek,\nand Sailors Creek, it not only maintained its gallant and meritorious\nrecord, but added to its great renown. At the gentle and joyous passage\nof arms at Appomattox Station, on the 8th of April, it reached the climax\nof its glory, and, by its deeds of daring, touched the pinnacle of fame.\nOn that day it performed prodigies of valor, and achieved successes as\npregnant with good results as any single action of the war. By forcing a\npassage through the rebel lines and heading off Lee's army, it contributed\nlargely to the result that followed the next day--the surrender of the\nConfederate Army of Northern Virginia.\n\n * * * * *\n\nOn the night of the 7th of April we camped on Buffalo River. Moving at an\nearly hour on the 8th, we crossed the Lynchburg Railroad at Prospect\nStation, and headed for Appomattox Station, where it was expected we would\nstrike, if not intercept, Lee's retreating, disintegrating army. The trail\nwas fresh and the chase hot. Joy beamed in every eye, for all felt that\nthe end was drawing near, and we earnestly hoped that ours might be the\nglorious opportunity of striking the final blow. About noon the regiment\nwas detached to capture a force of the enemy said to be at one of the\ncrossings of the Appomattox. Some few hundreds, unarmed, half-starved,\nstragglers, with no fight in them, were found, and turned over to the\nProvost Marshall. Resuming its place in the column, I received orders to\nreport with the regiment to General Custer, who was at its head. Reporting\nin compliance with this order, General Custer informed me that his scouts\nhad reported three large trains of cars at Appomattox Station, loaded with\nsupplies for the rebel army; that he expected to have made a junction\nwith Merritt's division near this point; that his orders were to wait here\ntill Merritt joined him; that he had not heard from him since morning, and\nhad sent an officer to communicate with him, but if he did not hear from\nhim in half an hour, he wished me to take my regiment and capture the\ntrains of cars, and, if possible, reach and hold the pike to Lynchburg.\nWhile talking, the whistle of the locomotive was distinctly but faintly\nheard, and the column was at once moved forward, the Second New York in\nadvance. As we neared the station the whistles became more and more\ndistinct, and a scout reported the trains rapidly unloading, and that the\nadvance of the rebel army was passing through Appomattox Court House.\nAlthough Custer's orders were to make a junction with Merritt before\ncoming in contact with the enemy, here was a chance to strike a decisive\nblow, which, if successful, would add to his renown and glory, and if not,\nMerritt would soon be up to help him out of the scrape. Our excitement was\nintense, but subdued. All saw the vital importance of heading off the\nenemy. Another whistle, nearer and clearer, and another scout decided the\nquestion. I was ordered to move rapidly to Appomattox Station, seize the\ntrains there, and, if possible, get possession of the Lynchburg pike.\nGeneral Custer rode up alongside of me and, laying his hand on my\nshoulder, said, \"Go in, old fellow, don't let anything stop you; now is\nthe chance for your stars. Whoop 'em up; I'll be after you.\" The regiment\nleft the column at a slow trot, which became faster and faster until we\ncaught sight of the cars, which were preparing to move away, when, with a\ncheer, we charged down on the station, capturing in an instant the three\ntrains of cars, with the force guarding them. I called for engineers and\nfiremen to take charge of the trains, when at least a dozen of my men\naround me offered their services. I chose the number required, and ordered\nthe trains to be run to the rear, where I afterwards learned they were\nclaimed as captures by General Ord's corps. The cars were loaded with\ncommissary stores, a portion of which had been unloaded, on which the\nrebel advance were regaling themselves when we pounced so unexpectedly\ndown on them.\n\nWhile the regiment was rallying after the charge, the enemy opened on it a\nfierce fire from all kinds of guns--field and siege--which, however, did\nbut little damage, as the regiment was screened from the enemy's sight by\na dense woods. I at once sent notification to General Custer and Colonel\nPennington of my success, moved forward--my advance busily\nskirmishing--and followed with the regiment in line of battle, mounted.\nThe advance was soon checked by the enemy formed behind hastily\nconstructed intrenchments in a dense wood of the second growth of pine.\nFlushed with success and eager to gain the Lynchburg pike, along which\nimmense wagon and siege trains were rapidly moving, the regiment was\nordered to charge. Three times did it try to break through the enemy's\nlines, but failed. Colonel Pennington arrived on the field with the rest\nof the brigade, when, altogether, a rush was made, but it failed. Then\nCuster, with the whole division, tried it, but he, too, failed. Charge and\ncharge again, was now the order, but it was done in driblets, without\norganization and in great disorder. General Custer was here, there, and\neverywhere, urging the men forward with cheers and oaths. The great prize\nwas so nearly in his grasp that it seemed a pity to lose it; but the rebel\ninfantry held on hard and fast, while his artillery belched out death and\ndestruction on every side of us. Merritt and night were fast coming on, so\nas soon as a force, however small, was organized, it was hurled forward,\nonly to recoil in confusion and loss. Confident that this mode of fighting\nwould not bring us success, and fearful lest the enemy should assume the\noffensive, which, in our disorganized state, must result in disaster, I\nwent to General Custer soon after dark, and said to him that if he would\nlet me get my regiment together, I could break through the rebel line. He\nexcitedly replied, \"Never mind your regiment; take anything and everything\nyou can find, horse-holders and all, and break through: we must get hold\nof the pike to-night.\" Acting on this order, a force was soon organized by\nme, composed chiefly of the Second New York, but in part of other\nregiments, undistinguishable in the darkness. With this I made a charge\ndown a narrow lane, which led to an open field where the rebel artillery\nwas posted. As the charging column debouched from the woods, six bright\nlights suddenly flashed directly before us. A toronado of canister-shot\nswept over our heads, and the next instant we were in the battery. The\nline was broken, and the enemy routed. Custer, with the whole division,\nnow pressed through the gap pell-mell, in hot pursuit, halting for neither\nprisoners nor guns, until the road to Lynchburg, crowded with wagons and\nartillery, was in our possession. We then turned short to the right and\nheaded for the Appomattox Court House; but just before reaching it we\ndiscovered the thousands of camp fires of the rebel army, and the pursuit\nwas checked. The enemy had gone into camp, in fancied security that his\nroute to Lynchburg was still open before him; and he little dreamed that\nour cavalry had planted itself directly across his path, until some of our\nmen dashed into Appomattox Court House, where, unfortunately, Lieutenant\nColonel Root, of the Fifteenth New York Cavalry, was instantly killed by a\npicket guard. After we had seized the road, we were joined by other\ndivisions of the cavalry corps which came to our assistance, but too late\nto take part in the fight.\n\nOwing to the night attack, our regiments were so mixed up that it took\nhours to reorganize them. When this was effected, we marched near to the\nrailroad station and bivouacked.\n\nThat night was passed in great anxiety. We threw ourselves on the ground\nto rest, but not to sleep. We knew that the infantry was hastening to our\nassistance, but unless they joined us before sunrise, our cavalry line\nwould be brushed away, and the rebels would escape after all our hard work\nto head them off from Lynchburg. About daybreak I was aroused by loud\nhurrahs, and was told that Ord's corps was coming up rapidly, and forming\nin rear of our cavalry. Soon after we were in the saddle and moving\ntowards the Appomattox Court House road, where the firing was growing\nlively; but suddenly our direction was changed, and the whole cavalry\ncorps rode at a gallop to the right of our line, passing between the\nposition of the rebels and the rapidly forming masses of our infantry, who\ngreeted us with cheers and shouts of joy as we galloped along their front.\nAt several places we had to \"run the gauntlet\" of fire from the enemy's\nguns posted around the Court House, but this only added to the interest\nof the scene, for we felt it to be the last expiring effort of the enemy\nto put on a bold front; we knew that we had them this time, and that at\nlast Lee's proud army of Northern Virginia was at our mercy. While moving\nat almost a charging gait we were suddenly brought to a halt by reports of\na surrender. General Sheridan and his staff rode up, and left in hot haste\nfor the Court House; but just after leaving us, they were fired into by a\nparty of rebel cavalry, who also opened fire on us, to which we promptly\nreplied, and soon put them to flight. Our lines were then formed for a\ncharge on the rebel infantry; but while the bugles were sounding the\ncharge, an officer with a white flag rode out from the rebel lines, and we\nhalted. It was fortunate for us that we halted when we did, for had we\ncharged we would have been swept into eternity, as directly in our front\nwas a creek, on the other side of which was a rebel brigade, entrenched,\nwith batteries in position, the guns double shotted with canister. To have\ncharged this formidable array, mounted, would have resulted in almost\ntotal annihilation. After we had halted, we were informed that\npreliminaries were being arranged for the surrender of Lee's whole army.\nAt this news, cheer after cheer rent the air for a few moments, when soon\nall became as quiet as if nothing unusual had occurred. I rode forward\nbetween the lines with Custer and Pennington, and met several old friends\namong the rebels, who came out to see us. Among them, I remember Lee\n(Gimlet), of Virginia, and Cowan, of North Carolina. I saw General Cadmus\nWilcox just across the creek, walking to and fro with his eyes on the\nground, just as was his wont when he was instructor at West Point. I\ncalled to him, but he paid no attention, except to glance at me in a\nhostile manner.\n\nWhile we were thus discussing the probable terms of the surrender, General\nLee, in full uniform, accompanied by one of his staff, and General\nBabcock, of General Grant's staff, rode from the Court House towards our\nlines. As he passed us, we all raised our caps in salute, which he\ngracefully returned.\n\nLater in the day loud and continuous cheering was heard among the rebels,\nwhich was taken up and echoed by our lines until the air was rent with\ncheers, when all as suddenly subsided. The surrender was a fixed fact, and\nthe rebels were overjoyed at the very liberal terms they had received. Our\nmen, without arms, approached the rebel lines, and divided their rations\nwith the half-starved foe, and engaged in quiet, friendly conversation.\nThere was no bluster nor braggadocia,--nothing but quiet contentment that\nthe rebellion was crushed, and the war ended. In fact, many of the rebels\nseemed as much pleased as we were. Now and then one would meet a surly,\ndissatisfied look; but, as a general thing, we met smiling faces and hands\neager and ready to grasp our own, especially if they contained anything to\neat or drink. After the surrender, I rode over to the Court House with\nColonel Pennington and others and visited the house in which the surrender\nhad taken place, in search of some memento of the occasion. We found that\neverything had been appropriated before our arrival. Mr. Wilmer McLean, in\nwhose house the surrender took place, informed us that on his farm at\nManassas the first battle of Bull Run was fought. I asked him to write his\nname in my diary, for which, much to his surprise. I gave him a dollar.\nOthers did the same, and I was told that he thus received quite a golden\nharvest.\n\nWhile all of the regiments of the division shared largely in the glories\nof these two days, none excelled the Second New York Cavalry in its record\nof great and glorious deeds. Well might its officers and men carry their\nheads high, and feel elated with pride as they received the\ncongratulations and commendations showered on them from all sides. They\nfelt they had done their duty, and given the \"tottering giant\" a blow that\nlaid him prostrate at their feet, never, it is to be hoped, to rise again.\n\n\n\n\nTranscriber's Note:\n\nThe following misprints have been corrected:\n \"crowed\" corrected to \"crowded\" (page 7)\n \"on on\" corrected to \"on\" (page 9)\n \"unusal\" corrected to \"unusual\" (page 9)\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's Last Days of the Rebellion, by Alanson M. Randol\n\n*** \n"}]}} +{"text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by David Widger\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE VISION\n\nOF\n\nHELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE\n\n\n\n\n\nBY\n\nDANTE ALIGHIERI\n\n\n\nTRANSLATED BY\n\nTHE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A.\n\n\n\nHELL\n\nOR THE INFERNO\n\n\nPart 10\n\n\nCantos 32 - 34\n\n\n\n\nCANTO XXXII\n\nCOULD I command rough rhimes and hoarse, to suit\nThat hole of sorrow, o'er which ev'ry rock\nHis firm abutment rears, then might the vein\nOf fancy rise full springing: but not mine\nSuch measures, and with falt'ring awe I touch\nThe mighty theme; for to describe the depth\nOf all the universe, is no emprize\nTo jest with, and demands a tongue not us'd\nTo infant babbling. But let them assist\nMy song, the tuneful maidens, by whose aid\nAmphion wall'd in Thebes, so with the truth\nMy speech shall best accord. Oh ill-starr'd folk,\nBeyond all others wretched! who abide\nIn such a mansion, as scarce thought finds words\nTo speak of, better had ye here on earth\nBeen flocks or mountain goats. As down we stood\nIn the dark pit beneath the giants' feet,\nBut lower far than they, and I did gaze\nStill on the lofty battlement, a voice\nBespoke me thus: \"Look how thou walkest. Take\nGood heed, thy soles do tread not on the heads\nOf thy poor brethren.\" Thereupon I turn'd,\nAnd saw before and underneath my feet\nA lake, whose frozen surface liker seem'd\nTo glass than water. Not so thick a veil\nIn winter e'er hath Austrian Danube spread\nO'er his still course, nor Tanais far remote\nUnder the chilling sky. Roll'd o'er that mass\nHad Tabernich or Pietrapana fall'n,\n\nNot e'en its rim had creak'd. As peeps the frog\nCroaking above the wave, what time in dreams\nThe village gleaner oft pursues her toil,\nSo, to where modest shame appears, thus low\nBlue pinch'd and shrin'd in ice the spirits stood,\nMoving their teeth in shrill note like the stork.\nHis face each downward held; their mouth the cold,\nTheir eyes express'd the dolour of their heart.\n\nA space I look'd around, then at my feet\nSaw two so strictly join'd, that of their head\nThe very hairs were mingled. \"Tell me ye,\nWhose bosoms thus together press,\" said I,\n\"Who are ye?\" At that sound their necks they bent,\nAnd when their looks were lifted up to me,\nStraightway their eyes, before all moist within,\nDistill'd upon their lips, and the frost bound\nThe tears betwixt those orbs and held them there.\nPlank unto plank hath never cramp clos'd up\nSo stoutly. Whence like two enraged goats\nThey clash'd together; them such fury seiz'd.\n\nAnd one, from whom the cold both ears had reft,\nExclaim'd, still looking downward: \"Why on us\nDost speculate so long? If thou wouldst know\nWho are these two, the valley, whence his wave\nBisenzio s, did for its master own\nTheir sire Alberto, and next him themselves.\nThey from one body issued; and throughout\nCaina thou mayst search, nor find a shade\nMore worthy in congealment to be fix'd,\nNot him, whose breast and shadow Arthur's land\nAt that one blow dissever'd, not Focaccia,\nNo not this spirit, whose o'erjutting head\nObstructs my onward view: he bore the name\nOf Mascheroni: Tuscan if thou be,\nWell knowest who he was: and to cut short\nAll further question, in my form behold\nWhat once was Camiccione. I await\nCarlino here my kinsman, whose deep guilt\nShall wash out mine.\" A thousand visages\nThen mark'd I, which the keen and eager cold\nHad shap'd into a doggish grin; whence creeps\nA shiv'ring horror o'er me, at the thought\nOf those frore shallows. While we journey'd on\nToward the middle, at whose point unites\nAll heavy substance, and I trembling went\nThrough that eternal chillness, I know not\nIf will it were or destiny, or chance,\nBut, passing 'midst the heads, my foot did strike\nWith violent blow against the face of one.\n\n\"Wherefore dost bruise me?\" weeping, he exclaim'd,\n\"Unless thy errand be some fresh revenge\nFor Montaperto, wherefore troublest me?\"\n\nI thus: \"Instructor, now await me here,\nThat I through him may rid me of my doubt.\nThenceforth what haste thou wilt.\" The teacher paus'd,\nAnd to that shade I spake, who bitterly\nStill curs'd me in his wrath. \"What art thou, speak,\nThat railest thus on others?\" He replied:\n\"Now who art thou, that smiting others' cheeks\nThrough Antenora roamest, with such force\nAs were past suff'rance, wert thou living still?\"\n\n\"And I am living, to thy joy perchance,\"\nWas my reply, \"if fame be dear to thee,\nThat with the rest I may thy name enrol.\"\n\n\"The contrary of what I covet most,\"\nSaid he, \"thou tender'st: hence; nor vex me more.\nIll knowest thou to flatter in this vale.\"\n\nThen seizing on his hinder scalp, I cried:\n\"Name thee, or not a hair shall tarry here.\"\n\n\"Rend all away,\" he answer'd, \"yet for that\nI will not tell nor show thee who I am,\nThough at my head thou pluck a thousand times.\"\n\nNow I had grasp'd his tresses, and stript off\nMore than one tuft, he barking, with his eyes\nDrawn in and downward, when another cried,\n\"What ails thee, Bocca? Sound not loud enough\nThy chatt'ring teeth, but thou must bark outright?\nWhat devil wrings thee?\"--\"Now,\" said I, \"be dumb,\nAccursed traitor! to thy shame of thee\nTrue tidings will I bear.\"--\"Off,\" he replied,\n\"Tell what thou list; but as thou escape from hence\nTo speak of him whose tongue hath been so glib,\nForget not: here he wails the Frenchman's gold.\n'Him of Duera,' thou canst say, 'I mark'd,\nWhere the starv'd sinners pine.' If thou be ask'd\nWhat other shade was with them, at thy side\nIs Beccaria, whose red gorge distain'd\nThe biting axe of Florence. Farther on,\nIf I misdeem not, Soldanieri bides,\nWith Ganellon, and Tribaldello, him\nWho op'd Faenza when the people slept.\"\n\nWe now had left him, passing on our way,\nWhen I beheld two spirits by the ice\nPent in one hollow, that the head of one\nWas cowl unto the other; and as bread\nIs raven'd up through hunger, th' uppermost\nDid so apply his fangs to th' other's brain,\nWhere the spine joins it. Not more furiously\nOn Menalippus' temples Tydeus gnaw'd,\nThan on that skull and on its garbage he.\n\n\"O thou who show'st so beastly sign of hate\n'Gainst him thou prey'st on, let me hear,\" said I\n\"The cause, on such condition, that if right\nWarrant thy grievance, knowing who ye are,\nAnd what the colour of his sinning was,\nI may repay thee in the world above,\nIf that, wherewith I speak be moist so long.\"\n\n\n\n\nCANTO XXXIII\n\nHIS jaws uplifting from their fell repast,\nThat sinner wip'd them on the hairs o' th' head,\nWhich he behind had mangled, then began:\n\"Thy will obeying, I call up afresh\nSorrow past cure, which but to think of wrings\nMy heart, or ere I tell on't. But if words,\nThat I may utter, shall prove seed to bear\nFruit of eternal infamy to him,\nThe traitor whom I gnaw at, thou at once\nShalt see me speak and weep. Who thou mayst be\nI know not, nor how here below art come:\nBut Florentine thou seemest of a truth,\nWhen I do hear thee. Know I was on earth\nCount Ugolino, and th' Archbishop he\nRuggieri. Why I neighbour him so close,\nNow list. That through effect of his ill thoughts\nIn him my trust reposing, I was ta'en\nAnd after murder'd, need is not I tell.\nWhat therefore thou canst not have heard, that is,\nHow cruel was the murder, shalt thou hear,\nAnd know if he have wrong'd me. A small grate\nWithin that mew, which for my sake the name\nOf famine bears, where others yet must pine,\nAlready through its opening sev'ral moons\nHad shown me, when I slept the evil sleep,\nThat from the future tore the curtain off.\nThis one, methought, as master of the sport,\nRode forth to chase the gaunt wolf and his whelps\nUnto the mountain, which forbids the sight\nOf Lucca to the Pisan. With lean brachs\nInquisitive and keen, before him rang'd\nLanfranchi with Sismondi and Gualandi.\nAfter short course the father and the sons\nSeem'd tir'd and lagging, and methought I saw\nThe sharp tusks gore their sides. When I awoke\nBefore the dawn, amid their sleep I heard\nMy sons (for they were with me) weep and ask\nFor bread. Right cruel art thou, if no pang\nThou feel at thinking what my heart foretold;\nAnd if not now, why use thy tears to flow?\nNow had they waken'd; and the hour drew near\nWhen they were wont to bring us food; the mind\nOf each misgave him through his dream, and I\nHeard, at its outlet underneath lock'd up\nThe' horrible tower: whence uttering not a word\nI look'd upon the visage of my sons.\nI wept not: so all stone I felt within.\nThey wept: and one, my little Anslem, cried:\n\"Thou lookest so! Father what ails thee?\" Yet\nI shed no tear, nor answer'd all that day\nNor the next night, until another sun\nCame out upon the world. When a faint beam\nHad to our doleful prison made its way,\nAnd in four countenances I descry'd\nThe image of my own, on either hand\nThrough agony I bit, and they who thought\nI did it through desire of feeding, rose\nO' th' sudden, and cried, 'Father, we should grieve\nFar less, if thou wouldst eat of us: thou gav'st\nThese weeds of miserable flesh we wear,\n\n'And do thou strip them off from us again.'\nThen, not to make them sadder, I kept down\nMy spirit in stillness. That day and the next\nWe all were silent. Ah, obdurate earth!\nWhy open'dst not upon us? When we came\nTo the fourth day, then Geddo at my feet\nOutstretch'd did fling him, crying, 'Hast no help\nFor me, my father!' There he died, and e'en\nPlainly as thou seest me, saw I the three\nFall one by one 'twixt the fifth day and sixth:\n\n\"Whence I betook me now grown blind to grope\nOver them all, and for three days aloud\nCall'd on them who were dead. Then fasting got\nThe mastery of grief.\" Thus having spoke,\n\nOnce more upon the wretched skull his teeth\nHe fasten'd, like a mastiff's 'gainst the bone\nFirm and unyielding. Oh thou Pisa! shame\nOf all the people, who their dwelling make\nIn that fair region, where th' Italian voice\nIs heard, since that thy neighbours are so slack\nTo punish, from their deep foundations rise\nCapraia and Gorgona, and dam up\nThe mouth of Arno, that each soul in thee\nMay perish in the waters! What if fame\nReported that thy castles were betray'd\nBy Ugolino, yet no right hadst thou\nTo stretch his children on the rack. For them,\nBrigata, Ugaccione, and the pair\nOf gentle ones, of whom my song hath told,\nTheir tender years, thou modern Thebes! did make\nUncapable of guilt. Onward we pass'd,\nWhere others skarf'd in rugged folds of ice\nNot on their feet were turn'd, but each revers'd.\n\nThere very weeping suffers not to weep;\nFor at their eyes grief seeking passage finds\nImpediment, and rolling inward turns\nFor increase of sharp anguish: the first tears\nHang cluster'd, and like crystal vizors show,\nUnder the socket brimming all the cup.\n\nNow though the cold had from my face dislodg'd\nEach feeling, as 't were callous, yet me seem'd\nSome breath of wind I felt. \"Whence cometh this,\"\nSaid I, \"my master? Is not here below\nAll vapour quench'd?\"--\"'Thou shalt be speedily,\"\nHe answer'd, \"where thine eye shall tell thee whence\nThe cause descrying of this airy shower.\"\n\nThen cried out one in the chill crust who mourn'd:\n\"O souls so cruel! that the farthest post\nHath been assign'd you, from this face remove\nThe harden'd veil, that I may vent the grief\nImpregnate at my heart, some little space\nEre it congeal again!\" I thus replied:\n\"Say who thou wast, if thou wouldst have mine aid;\nAnd if I extricate thee not, far down\nAs to the lowest ice may I descend!\"\n\n\"The friar Alberigo,\" answered he,\n\"Am I, who from the evil garden pluck'd\nIts fruitage, and am here repaid, the date\nMore luscious for my fig.\"--\"Hah!\" I exclaim'd,\n\"Art thou too dead!\"--\"How in the world aloft\nIt fareth with my body,\" answer'd he,\n\"I am right ignorant. Such privilege\nHath Ptolomea, that ofttimes the soul\nDrops hither, ere by Atropos divorc'd.\nAnd that thou mayst wipe out more willingly\nThe glazed tear-drops that o'erlay mine eyes,\nKnow that the soul, that moment she betrays,\nAs I did, yields her body to a fiend\nWho after moves and governs it at will,\nTill all its time be rounded; headlong she\nFalls to this cistern. And perchance above\nDoth yet appear the body of a ghost,\nWho here behind me winters. Him thou know'st,\nIf thou but newly art arriv'd below.\nThe years are many that have pass'd away,\nSince to this fastness Branca Doria came.\"\n\n\"Now,\" answer'd I, \"methinks thou mockest me,\nFor Branca Doria never yet hath died,\nBut doth all natural functions of a man,\nEats, drinks, and sleeps, and putteth raiment on.\"\n\nHe thus: \"Not yet unto that upper foss\nBy th' evil talons guarded, where the pitch\nTenacious boils, had Michael Zanche reach'd,\nWhen this one left a demon in his stead\nIn his own body, and of one his kin,\nWho with him treachery wrought. But now put forth\nThy hand, and ope mine eyes.\" I op'd them not.\nIll manners were best courtesy to him.\n\nAh Genoese! men perverse in every way,\nWith every foulness stain'd, why from the earth\nAre ye not cancel'd? Such an one of yours\nI with Romagna's darkest spirit found,\nAs for his doings even now in soul\nIs in Cocytus plung'd, and yet doth seem\nIn body still alive upon the earth.\n\n\n\n\nCANTO XXXIV\n\n\"THE banners of Hell's Monarch do come forth\nTowards us; therefore look,\" so spake my guide,\n\"If thou discern him.\" As, when breathes a cloud\nHeavy and dense, or when the shades of night\nFall on our hemisphere, seems view'd from far\nA windmill, which the blast stirs briskly round,\nSuch was the fabric then methought I saw,\n\nTo shield me from the wind, forthwith I drew\nBehind my guide: no covert else was there.\n\nNow came I (and with fear I bid my strain\nRecord the marvel) where the souls were all\nWhelm'd underneath, transparent, as through glass\nPellucid the frail stem. Some prone were laid,\nOthers stood upright, this upon the soles,\nThat on his head, a third with face to feet\nArch'd like a bow. When to the point we came,\nWhereat my guide was pleas'd that I should see\nThe creature eminent in beauty once,\nHe from before me stepp'd and made me pause.\n\n\"Lo!\" he exclaim'd, \"lo Dis! and lo the place,\nWhere thou hast need to arm thy heart with strength.\"\n\nHow frozen and how faint I then became,\nAsk me not, reader! for I write it not,\nSince words would fail to tell thee of my state.\nI was not dead nor living. Think thyself\nIf quick conception work in thee at all,\nHow I did feel. That emperor, who sways\nThe realm of sorrow, at mid breast from th' ice\nStood forth; and I in stature am more like\nA giant, than the giants are in his arms.\nMark now how great that whole must be, which suits\nWith such a part. If he were beautiful\nAs he is hideous now, and yet did dare\nTo scowl upon his Maker, well from him\nMay all our mis'ry flow. Oh what a sight!\nHow passing strange it seem'd, when I did spy\nUpon his head three faces: one in front\nOf hue vermilion, th' other two with this\nMidway each shoulder join'd and at the crest;\nThe right 'twixt wan and yellow seem'd: the left\nTo look on, such as come from whence old Nile\nStoops to the lowlands. Under each shot forth\nTwo mighty wings, enormous as became\nA bird so vast. Sails never such I saw\nOutstretch'd on the wide sea. No plumes had they,\nBut were in texture like a bat, and these\nHe flapp'd i' th' air, that from him issued still\nThree winds, wherewith Cocytus to its depth\nWas frozen. At six eyes he wept: the tears\nAdown three chins distill'd with bloody foam.\nAt every mouth his teeth a sinner champ'd\nBruis'd as with pond'rous engine, so that three\nWere in this guise tormented. But far more\nThan from that gnawing, was the foremost pang'd\nBy the fierce rending, whence ofttimes the back\nWas stript of all its skin. \"That upper spirit,\nWho hath worse punishment,\" so spake my guide,\n\"Is Judas, he that hath his head within\nAnd plies the feet without. Of th' other two,\nWhose heads are under, from the murky jaw\nWho hangs, is Brutus: lo! how he doth writhe\nAnd speaks not! Th' other Cassius, that appears\nSo large of limb. But night now re-ascends,\nAnd it is time for parting. All is seen.\"\n\nI clipp'd him round the neck, for so he bade;\nAnd noting time and place, he, when the wings\nEnough were op'd, caught fast the shaggy sides,\nAnd down from pile to pile descending stepp'd\nBetween the thick fell and the jagged ice.\n\nSoon as he reach'd the point, whereat the thigh\nUpon the swelling of the haunches turns,\nMy leader there with pain and struggling hard\nTurn'd round his head, where his feet stood before,\nAnd grappled at the fell, as one who mounts,\nThat into hell methought we turn'd again.\n\n\"Expect that by such stairs as these,\" thus spake\nThe teacher, panting like a man forespent,\n\"We must depart from evil so extreme.\"\nThen at a rocky opening issued forth,\nAnd plac'd me on a brink to sit, next join'd\nWith wary step my side. I rais'd mine eyes,\nBelieving that I Lucifer should see\nWhere he was lately left, but saw him now\nWith legs held upward. Let the grosser sort,\nWho see not what the point was I had pass'd,\nBethink them if sore toil oppress'd me then.\n\n\"Arise,\" my master cried, \"upon thy feet.\nThe way is long, and much uncouth the road;\nAnd now within one hour and half of noon\nThe sun returns.\" It was no palace-hall\nLofty and luminous wherein we stood,\nBut natural dungeon where ill footing was\nAnd scant supply of light. \"Ere from th' abyss\nI sep'rate,\" thus when risen I began,\n\"My guide! vouchsafe few words to set me free\nFrom error's thralldom. Where is now the ice?\nHow standeth he in posture thus revers'd?\nAnd how from eve to morn in space so brief\nHath the sun made his transit?\" He in few\nThus answering spake: \"Thou deemest thou art still\nOn th' other side the centre, where I grasp'd\nTh' abhorred worm, that boreth through the world.\nThou wast on th' other side, so long as I\nDescended; when I turn'd, thou didst o'erpass\nThat point, to which from ev'ry part is dragg'd\nAll heavy substance. Thou art now arriv'd\nUnder the hemisphere opposed to that,\nWhich the great continent doth overspread,\nAnd underneath whose canopy expir'd\nThe Man, that was born sinless, and so liv'd.\nThy feet are planted on the smallest sphere,\nWhose other aspect is Judecca. Morn\nHere rises, when there evening sets: and he,\nWhose shaggy pile was scal'd, yet standeth fix'd,\nAs at the first. On this part he fell down\nFrom heav'n; and th' earth, here prominent before,\nThrough fear of him did veil her with the sea,\nAnd to our hemisphere retir'd. Perchance\nTo shun him was the vacant space left here\nBy what of firm land on this side appears,\nThat sprang aloof.\" There is a place beneath,\nFrom Belzebub as distant, as extends\nThe vaulted tomb, discover'd not by sight,\nBut by the sound of brooklet, that descends\nThis way along the hollow of a rock,\nWhich, as it winds with no precipitous course,\nThe wave hath eaten. By that hidden way\nMy guide and I did enter, to return\nTo the fair world: and heedless of repose\nWe climbed, he first, I following his steps,\nTill on our view the beautiful lights of heav'n\nDawn'd through a circular opening in the cave:\nThus issuing we again beheld the stars.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Vision of Hell, Part 10, by Dante Alighieri\n\n*** ", "source_language": "en", "target_language": "zh_CN", "source_lang_name": "English", "target_lang_name": "Chinese", "doc_id": "The-Vision-of-Hell-Part-10-by-Dante-Alighieri", "seg_id": 1, "publication_date": 1892, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/8788", "responses_create_params": {"input": [{"role": "user", "content": "You are a professional translator.\nYour task is to translate a long document from English to Chinese.\nPreserve the paragraph structure and ordering of the source text and keep the translation approximately aligned at the sentence level.\nYou may merge, split, or slightly reorder sentences, but you must keep the translation structurally close to the source.\n\nOutput only the translation, using only Chinese.\nDo not ask questions. \nDo not add a preamble.\nDo not add commentary.\nDo not stop until the whole document is translated.\n\nSource document:\n\n\n\n\nProduced by David Widger\n\n\n\n\n\nTHE VISION\n\nOF\n\nHELL, PURGATORY, AND PARADISE\n\n\n\n\n\nBY\n\nDANTE ALIGHIERI\n\n\n\nTRANSLATED BY\n\nTHE REV. H. F. CARY, M.A.\n\n\n\nHELL\n\nOR THE INFERNO\n\n\nPart 10\n\n\nCantos 32 - 34\n\n\n\n\nCANTO XXXII\n\nCOULD I command rough rhimes and hoarse, to suit\nThat hole of sorrow, o'er which ev'ry rock\nHis firm abutment rears, then might the vein\nOf fancy rise full springing: but not mine\nSuch measures, and with falt'ring awe I touch\nThe mighty theme; for to describe the depth\nOf all the universe, is no emprize\nTo jest with, and demands a tongue not us'd\nTo infant babbling. But let them assist\nMy song, the tuneful maidens, by whose aid\nAmphion wall'd in Thebes, so with the truth\nMy speech shall best accord. Oh ill-starr'd folk,\nBeyond all others wretched! who abide\nIn such a mansion, as scarce thought finds words\nTo speak of, better had ye here on earth\nBeen flocks or mountain goats. As down we stood\nIn the dark pit beneath the giants' feet,\nBut lower far than they, and I did gaze\nStill on the lofty battlement, a voice\nBespoke me thus: \"Look how thou walkest. Take\nGood heed, thy soles do tread not on the heads\nOf thy poor brethren.\" Thereupon I turn'd,\nAnd saw before and underneath my feet\nA lake, whose frozen surface liker seem'd\nTo glass than water. Not so thick a veil\nIn winter e'er hath Austrian Danube spread\nO'er his still course, nor Tanais far remote\nUnder the chilling sky. Roll'd o'er that mass\nHad Tabernich or Pietrapana fall'n,\n\nNot e'en its rim had creak'd. As peeps the frog\nCroaking above the wave, what time in dreams\nThe village gleaner oft pursues her toil,\nSo, to where modest shame appears, thus low\nBlue pinch'd and shrin'd in ice the spirits stood,\nMoving their teeth in shrill note like the stork.\nHis face each downward held; their mouth the cold,\nTheir eyes express'd the dolour of their heart.\n\nA space I look'd around, then at my feet\nSaw two so strictly join'd, that of their head\nThe very hairs were mingled. \"Tell me ye,\nWhose bosoms thus together press,\" said I,\n\"Who are ye?\" At that sound their necks they bent,\nAnd when their looks were lifted up to me,\nStraightway their eyes, before all moist within,\nDistill'd upon their lips, and the frost bound\nThe tears betwixt those orbs and held them there.\nPlank unto plank hath never cramp clos'd up\nSo stoutly. Whence like two enraged goats\nThey clash'd together; them such fury seiz'd.\n\nAnd one, from whom the cold both ears had reft,\nExclaim'd, still looking downward: \"Why on us\nDost speculate so long? If thou wouldst know\nWho are these two, the valley, whence his wave\nBisenzio s, did for its master own\nTheir sire Alberto, and next him themselves.\nThey from one body issued; and throughout\nCaina thou mayst search, nor find a shade\nMore worthy in congealment to be fix'd,\nNot him, whose breast and shadow Arthur's land\nAt that one blow dissever'd, not Focaccia,\nNo not this spirit, whose o'erjutting head\nObstructs my onward view: he bore the name\nOf Mascheroni: Tuscan if thou be,\nWell knowest who he was: and to cut short\nAll further question, in my form behold\nWhat once was Camiccione. I await\nCarlino here my kinsman, whose deep guilt\nShall wash out mine.\" A thousand visages\nThen mark'd I, which the keen and eager cold\nHad shap'd into a doggish grin; whence creeps\nA shiv'ring horror o'er me, at the thought\nOf those frore shallows. While we journey'd on\nToward the middle, at whose point unites\nAll heavy substance, and I trembling went\nThrough that eternal chillness, I know not\nIf will it were or destiny, or chance,\nBut, passing 'midst the heads, my foot did strike\nWith violent blow against the face of one.\n\n\"Wherefore dost bruise me?\" weeping, he exclaim'd,\n\"Unless thy errand be some fresh revenge\nFor Montaperto, wherefore troublest me?\"\n\nI thus: \"Instructor, now await me here,\nThat I through him may rid me of my doubt.\nThenceforth what haste thou wilt.\" The teacher paus'd,\nAnd to that shade I spake, who bitterly\nStill curs'd me in his wrath. \"What art thou, speak,\nThat railest thus on others?\" He replied:\n\"Now who art thou, that smiting others' cheeks\nThrough Antenora roamest, with such force\nAs were past suff'rance, wert thou living still?\"\n\n\"And I am living, to thy joy perchance,\"\nWas my reply, \"if fame be dear to thee,\nThat with the rest I may thy name enrol.\"\n\n\"The contrary of what I covet most,\"\nSaid he, \"thou tender'st: hence; nor vex me more.\nIll knowest thou to flatter in this vale.\"\n\nThen seizing on his hinder scalp, I cried:\n\"Name thee, or not a hair shall tarry here.\"\n\n\"Rend all away,\" he answer'd, \"yet for that\nI will not tell nor show thee who I am,\nThough at my head thou pluck a thousand times.\"\n\nNow I had grasp'd his tresses, and stript off\nMore than one tuft, he barking, with his eyes\nDrawn in and downward, when another cried,\n\"What ails thee, Bocca? Sound not loud enough\nThy chatt'ring teeth, but thou must bark outright?\nWhat devil wrings thee?\"--\"Now,\" said I, \"be dumb,\nAccursed traitor! to thy shame of thee\nTrue tidings will I bear.\"--\"Off,\" he replied,\n\"Tell what thou list; but as thou escape from hence\nTo speak of him whose tongue hath been so glib,\nForget not: here he wails the Frenchman's gold.\n'Him of Duera,' thou canst say, 'I mark'd,\nWhere the starv'd sinners pine.' If thou be ask'd\nWhat other shade was with them, at thy side\nIs Beccaria, whose red gorge distain'd\nThe biting axe of Florence. Farther on,\nIf I misdeem not, Soldanieri bides,\nWith Ganellon, and Tribaldello, him\nWho op'd Faenza when the people slept.\"\n\nWe now had left him, passing on our way,\nWhen I beheld two spirits by the ice\nPent in one hollow, that the head of one\nWas cowl unto the other; and as bread\nIs raven'd up through hunger, th' uppermost\nDid so apply his fangs to th' other's brain,\nWhere the spine joins it. Not more furiously\nOn Menalippus' temples Tydeus gnaw'd,\nThan on that skull and on its garbage he.\n\n\"O thou who show'st so beastly sign of hate\n'Gainst him thou prey'st on, let me hear,\" said I\n\"The cause, on such condition, that if right\nWarrant thy grievance, knowing who ye are,\nAnd what the colour of his sinning was,\nI may repay thee in the world above,\nIf that, wherewith I speak be moist so long.\"\n\n\n\n\nCANTO XXXIII\n\nHIS jaws uplifting from their fell repast,\nThat sinner wip'd them on the hairs o' th' head,\nWhich he behind had mangled, then began:\n\"Thy will obeying, I call up afresh\nSorrow past cure, which but to think of wrings\nMy heart, or ere I tell on't. But if words,\nThat I may utter, shall prove seed to bear\nFruit of eternal infamy to him,\nThe traitor whom I gnaw at, thou at once\nShalt see me speak and weep. Who thou mayst be\nI know not, nor how here below art come:\nBut Florentine thou seemest of a truth,\nWhen I do hear thee. Know I was on earth\nCount Ugolino, and th' Archbishop he\nRuggieri. Why I neighbour him so close,\nNow list. That through effect of his ill thoughts\nIn him my trust reposing, I was ta'en\nAnd after murder'd, need is not I tell.\nWhat therefore thou canst not have heard, that is,\nHow cruel was the murder, shalt thou hear,\nAnd know if he have wrong'd me. A small grate\nWithin that mew, which for my sake the name\nOf famine bears, where others yet must pine,\nAlready through its opening sev'ral moons\nHad shown me, when I slept the evil sleep,\nThat from the future tore the curtain off.\nThis one, methought, as master of the sport,\nRode forth to chase the gaunt wolf and his whelps\nUnto the mountain, which forbids the sight\nOf Lucca to the Pisan. With lean brachs\nInquisitive and keen, before him rang'd\nLanfranchi with Sismondi and Gualandi.\nAfter short course the father and the sons\nSeem'd tir'd and lagging, and methought I saw\nThe sharp tusks gore their sides. When I awoke\nBefore the dawn, amid their sleep I heard\nMy sons (for they were with me) weep and ask\nFor bread. Right cruel art thou, if no pang\nThou feel at thinking what my heart foretold;\nAnd if not now, why use thy tears to flow?\nNow had they waken'd; and the hour drew near\nWhen they were wont to bring us food; the mind\nOf each misgave him through his dream, and I\nHeard, at its outlet underneath lock'd up\nThe' horrible tower: whence uttering not a word\nI look'd upon the visage of my sons.\nI wept not: so all stone I felt within.\nThey wept: and one, my little Anslem, cried:\n\"Thou lookest so! Father what ails thee?\" Yet\nI shed no tear, nor answer'd all that day\nNor the next night, until another sun\nCame out upon the world. When a faint beam\nHad to our doleful prison made its way,\nAnd in four countenances I descry'd\nThe image of my own, on either hand\nThrough agony I bit, and they who thought\nI did it through desire of feeding, rose\nO' th' sudden, and cried, 'Father, we should grieve\nFar less, if thou wouldst eat of us: thou gav'st\nThese weeds of miserable flesh we wear,\n\n'And do thou strip them off from us again.'\nThen, not to make them sadder, I kept down\nMy spirit in stillness. That day and the next\nWe all were silent. Ah, obdurate earth!\nWhy open'dst not upon us? When we came\nTo the fourth day, then Geddo at my feet\nOutstretch'd did fling him, crying, 'Hast no help\nFor me, my father!' There he died, and e'en\nPlainly as thou seest me, saw I the three\nFall one by one 'twixt the fifth day and sixth:\n\n\"Whence I betook me now grown blind to grope\nOver them all, and for three days aloud\nCall'd on them who were dead. Then fasting got\nThe mastery of grief.\" Thus having spoke,\n\nOnce more upon the wretched skull his teeth\nHe fasten'd, like a mastiff's 'gainst the bone\nFirm and unyielding. Oh thou Pisa! shame\nOf all the people, who their dwelling make\nIn that fair region, where th' Italian voice\nIs heard, since that thy neighbours are so slack\nTo punish, from their deep foundations rise\nCapraia and Gorgona, and dam up\nThe mouth of Arno, that each soul in thee\nMay perish in the waters! What if fame\nReported that thy castles were betray'd\nBy Ugolino, yet no right hadst thou\nTo stretch his children on the rack. For them,\nBrigata, Ugaccione, and the pair\nOf gentle ones, of whom my song hath told,\nTheir tender years, thou modern Thebes! did make\nUncapable of guilt. Onward we pass'd,\nWhere others skarf'd in rugged folds of ice\nNot on their feet were turn'd, but each revers'd.\n\nThere very weeping suffers not to weep;\nFor at their eyes grief seeking passage finds\nImpediment, and rolling inward turns\nFor increase of sharp anguish: the first tears\nHang cluster'd, and like crystal vizors show,\nUnder the socket brimming all the cup.\n\nNow though the cold had from my face dislodg'd\nEach feeling, as 't were callous, yet me seem'd\nSome breath of wind I felt. \"Whence cometh this,\"\nSaid I, \"my master? Is not here below\nAll vapour quench'd?\"--\"'Thou shalt be speedily,\"\nHe answer'd, \"where thine eye shall tell thee whence\nThe cause descrying of this airy shower.\"\n\nThen cried out one in the chill crust who mourn'd:\n\"O souls so cruel! that the farthest post\nHath been assign'd you, from this face remove\nThe harden'd veil, that I may vent the grief\nImpregnate at my heart, some little space\nEre it congeal again!\" I thus replied:\n\"Say who thou wast, if thou wouldst have mine aid;\nAnd if I extricate thee not, far down\nAs to the lowest ice may I descend!\"\n\n\"The friar Alberigo,\" answered he,\n\"Am I, who from the evil garden pluck'd\nIts fruitage, and am here repaid, the date\nMore luscious for my fig.\"--\"Hah!\" I exclaim'd,\n\"Art thou too dead!\"--\"How in the world aloft\nIt fareth with my body,\" answer'd he,\n\"I am right ignorant. Such privilege\nHath Ptolomea, that ofttimes the soul\nDrops hither, ere by Atropos divorc'd.\nAnd that thou mayst wipe out more willingly\nThe glazed tear-drops that o'erlay mine eyes,\nKnow that the soul, that moment she betrays,\nAs I did, yields her body to a fiend\nWho after moves and governs it at will,\nTill all its time be rounded; headlong she\nFalls to this cistern. And perchance above\nDoth yet appear the body of a ghost,\nWho here behind me winters. Him thou know'st,\nIf thou but newly art arriv'd below.\nThe years are many that have pass'd away,\nSince to this fastness Branca Doria came.\"\n\n\"Now,\" answer'd I, \"methinks thou mockest me,\nFor Branca Doria never yet hath died,\nBut doth all natural functions of a man,\nEats, drinks, and sleeps, and putteth raiment on.\"\n\nHe thus: \"Not yet unto that upper foss\nBy th' evil talons guarded, where the pitch\nTenacious boils, had Michael Zanche reach'd,\nWhen this one left a demon in his stead\nIn his own body, and of one his kin,\nWho with him treachery wrought. But now put forth\nThy hand, and ope mine eyes.\" I op'd them not.\nIll manners were best courtesy to him.\n\nAh Genoese! men perverse in every way,\nWith every foulness stain'd, why from the earth\nAre ye not cancel'd? Such an one of yours\nI with Romagna's darkest spirit found,\nAs for his doings even now in soul\nIs in Cocytus plung'd, and yet doth seem\nIn body still alive upon the earth.\n\n\n\n\nCANTO XXXIV\n\n\"THE banners of Hell's Monarch do come forth\nTowards us; therefore look,\" so spake my guide,\n\"If thou discern him.\" As, when breathes a cloud\nHeavy and dense, or when the shades of night\nFall on our hemisphere, seems view'd from far\nA windmill, which the blast stirs briskly round,\nSuch was the fabric then methought I saw,\n\nTo shield me from the wind, forthwith I drew\nBehind my guide: no covert else was there.\n\nNow came I (and with fear I bid my strain\nRecord the marvel) where the souls were all\nWhelm'd underneath, transparent, as through glass\nPellucid the frail stem. Some prone were laid,\nOthers stood upright, this upon the soles,\nThat on his head, a third with face to feet\nArch'd like a bow. When to the point we came,\nWhereat my guide was pleas'd that I should see\nThe creature eminent in beauty once,\nHe from before me stepp'd and made me pause.\n\n\"Lo!\" he exclaim'd, \"lo Dis! and lo the place,\nWhere thou hast need to arm thy heart with strength.\"\n\nHow frozen and how faint I then became,\nAsk me not, reader! for I write it not,\nSince words would fail to tell thee of my state.\nI was not dead nor living. Think thyself\nIf quick conception work in thee at all,\nHow I did feel. That emperor, who sways\nThe realm of sorrow, at mid breast from th' ice\nStood forth; and I in stature am more like\nA giant, than the giants are in his arms.\nMark now how great that whole must be, which suits\nWith such a part. If he were beautiful\nAs he is hideous now, and yet did dare\nTo scowl upon his Maker, well from him\nMay all our mis'ry flow. Oh what a sight!\nHow passing strange it seem'd, when I did spy\nUpon his head three faces: one in front\nOf hue vermilion, th' other two with this\nMidway each shoulder join'd and at the crest;\nThe right 'twixt wan and yellow seem'd: the left\nTo look on, such as come from whence old Nile\nStoops to the lowlands. Under each shot forth\nTwo mighty wings, enormous as became\nA bird so vast. Sails never such I saw\nOutstretch'd on the wide sea. No plumes had they,\nBut were in texture like a bat, and these\nHe flapp'd i' th' air, that from him issued still\nThree winds, wherewith Cocytus to its depth\nWas frozen. At six eyes he wept: the tears\nAdown three chins distill'd with bloody foam.\nAt every mouth his teeth a sinner champ'd\nBruis'd as with pond'rous engine, so that three\nWere in this guise tormented. But far more\nThan from that gnawing, was the foremost pang'd\nBy the fierce rending, whence ofttimes the back\nWas stript of all its skin. \"That upper spirit,\nWho hath worse punishment,\" so spake my guide,\n\"Is Judas, he that hath his head within\nAnd plies the feet without. Of th' other two,\nWhose heads are under, from the murky jaw\nWho hangs, is Brutus: lo! how he doth writhe\nAnd speaks not! Th' other Cassius, that appears\nSo large of limb. But night now re-ascends,\nAnd it is time for parting. All is seen.\"\n\nI clipp'd him round the neck, for so he bade;\nAnd noting time and place, he, when the wings\nEnough were op'd, caught fast the shaggy sides,\nAnd down from pile to pile descending stepp'd\nBetween the thick fell and the jagged ice.\n\nSoon as he reach'd the point, whereat the thigh\nUpon the swelling of the haunches turns,\nMy leader there with pain and struggling hard\nTurn'd round his head, where his feet stood before,\nAnd grappled at the fell, as one who mounts,\nThat into hell methought we turn'd again.\n\n\"Expect that by such stairs as these,\" thus spake\nThe teacher, panting like a man forespent,\n\"We must depart from evil so extreme.\"\nThen at a rocky opening issued forth,\nAnd plac'd me on a brink to sit, next join'd\nWith wary step my side. I rais'd mine eyes,\nBelieving that I Lucifer should see\nWhere he was lately left, but saw him now\nWith legs held upward. Let the grosser sort,\nWho see not what the point was I had pass'd,\nBethink them if sore toil oppress'd me then.\n\n\"Arise,\" my master cried, \"upon thy feet.\nThe way is long, and much uncouth the road;\nAnd now within one hour and half of noon\nThe sun returns.\" It was no palace-hall\nLofty and luminous wherein we stood,\nBut natural dungeon where ill footing was\nAnd scant supply of light. \"Ere from th' abyss\nI sep'rate,\" thus when risen I began,\n\"My guide! vouchsafe few words to set me free\nFrom error's thralldom. Where is now the ice?\nHow standeth he in posture thus revers'd?\nAnd how from eve to morn in space so brief\nHath the sun made his transit?\" He in few\nThus answering spake: \"Thou deemest thou art still\nOn th' other side the centre, where I grasp'd\nTh' abhorred worm, that boreth through the world.\nThou wast on th' other side, so long as I\nDescended; when I turn'd, thou didst o'erpass\nThat point, to which from ev'ry part is dragg'd\nAll heavy substance. Thou art now arriv'd\nUnder the hemisphere opposed to that,\nWhich the great continent doth overspread,\nAnd underneath whose canopy expir'd\nThe Man, that was born sinless, and so liv'd.\nThy feet are planted on the smallest sphere,\nWhose other aspect is Judecca. Morn\nHere rises, when there evening sets: and he,\nWhose shaggy pile was scal'd, yet standeth fix'd,\nAs at the first. On this part he fell down\nFrom heav'n; and th' earth, here prominent before,\nThrough fear of him did veil her with the sea,\nAnd to our hemisphere retir'd. Perchance\nTo shun him was the vacant space left here\nBy what of firm land on this side appears,\nThat sprang aloof.\" There is a place beneath,\nFrom Belzebub as distant, as extends\nThe vaulted tomb, discover'd not by sight,\nBut by the sound of brooklet, that descends\nThis way along the hollow of a rock,\nWhich, as it winds with no precipitous course,\nThe wave hath eaten. By that hidden way\nMy guide and I did enter, to return\nTo the fair world: and heedless of repose\nWe climbed, he first, I following his steps,\nTill on our view the beautiful lights of heav'n\nDawn'd through a circular opening in the cave:\nThus issuing we again beheld the stars.\n\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's The Vision of Hell, Part 10, by Dante Alighieri\n\n*** \n"}]}} +{"text": "\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland, David Widger and PG Distributed\nProofreaders\n\n\n\n\n\n A DOCTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL\n\n by Ian Maclaren\n\n A GENERAL PRACTITIONER\n\n Book I.\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\nIt is with great good will that I write this short preface to the\nedition of \"A Doctor of the Old School\" (which has been illustrated by\nMr. Gordon after an admirable and understanding fashion) because there\nare two things that I should like to say to my readers, being also my\nfriends.\n\nOne, is to answer a question that has been often and fairly asked. Was\nthere ever any doctor so self-forgetful and so utterly Christian as\nWilliam MacLure? To which I am proud to reply, on my conscience: Not one\nman, but many in Scotland and in the South country. I will dare prophecy\nalso across the sea.\n\nIt has been one man's good fortune to know four country doctors, not one\nof whom was without his faults--Weelum was not perfect--but who, each\none, might have sat for my hero. Three are now resting from their\nlabors, and the fourth, if he ever should see these lines, would never\nidentify himself.\n\nThen I desire to thank my readers, and chiefly the medical profession\nfor the reception given to the Doctor of Drumtochty.\n\nFor many years I have desired to pay some tribute to a class whose\nservice to the community was known to every countryman, but after the\ntale had gone forth my heart failed. For it might have been despised\nfor the little grace of letters in the style and because of the outward\nroughness of the man. But neither his biographer nor his circumstances\nhave been able to obscure MacLure who has himself won all honest hearts,\nand received afresh the recognition of his more distinguished brethren.\nFrom all parts of the English-speaking world letters have come in\ncommendation of Weelum MacLure, and many were from doctors who had\nreceived new courage. It is surely more honor than a new writer could\never have deserved to receive the approbation of a profession whose\ncharity puts us all to shame.\n\nMay I take this first opportunity to declare how deeply my heart has\nbeen touched by the favor shown to a simple book by the American people,\nand to express my hope that one day it may be given me to see you face\nto face.\n\nIAN MACLAREN. Liverpool, Oct. 4, 1895.\n\n\n\n\n A GENERAL PRACTITIONER\n\n\n\nI\n\nA GENERAL PRACTITIONER\n\nDrumtochty was accustomed to break every law of health, except wholesome\nfood and fresh air, and yet had reduced the Psalmist's farthest limit to\nan average life-rate. Our men made no difference in their clothes for\nsummer or winter, Drumsheugh and one or two of the larger farmers\ncondescending to a topcoat on Sabbath, as a penalty of their position,\nand without regard to temperature. They wore their blacks at a funeral,\nrefusing to cover them with anything, out of respect to the deceased,\nand standing longest in the kirkyard when the north wind was blowing\nacross a hundred miles of snow. If the rain was pouring at the Junction,\nthen Drumtochty stood two minutes longer through sheer native dourness\ntill each man had a cascade from the tail of his coat, and hazarded the\nsuggestion, halfway to Kildrummie, that it had been \"a bit scrowie,\"\na \"scrowie\" being as far short of a \"shoor\" as a \"shoor\" fell below\n\"weet.\"\n\n[Illustration: SANDY STEWART \"NAPPED\" STONES]\n\nThis sustained defiance of the elements provoked occasional judgments in\nthe shape of a \"hoast\" (cough), and the head of the house was then\nexhorted by his women folk to \"change his feet\" if he had happened to\nwalk through a burn on his way home, and was pestered generally with\nsanitary precautions. It is right to add that the gudeman treated such\nadvice with contempt, regarding it as suitable for the effeminacy of\ntowns, but not seriously intended for Drumtochty. Sandy Stewart \"napped\"\nstones on the road in his shirt sleeves, wet or fair, summer and winter,\ntill he was persuaded to retire from active duty at eighty-five, and he\nspent ten years more in regretting his hastiness and criticising his\nsuccessor. The ordinary course of life, with fine air and contented\nminds, was to do a full share of work till seventy, and then to look\nafter \"orra\" jobs well into the eighties, and to \"slip awa\" within sight\nof ninety. Persons above ninety were understood to be acquitting\nthemselves with credit, and assumed airs of authority, brushing aside\nthe opinions of seventy as immature, and confirming their conclusions\nwith illustrations drawn from the end of last century.\n\nWhen Hillocks' brother so far forgot himself as to \"slip awa\"\nat sixty, that worthy man was scandalized, and offered laboured\nexplanations at the \"beerial.\"\n\n\"It's an awfu' business ony wy ye look at it, an' a sair trial tae us\na'. A' never heard tell o' sic a thing in oor family afore, an' it's no\neasy accoontin' for't.\n\n\"The gudewife was sayin' he wes never the same sin' a weet nicht he lost\nhimsel on the muir and slept below a bush; but that's neither here nor\nthere. A'm thinkin' he sappit his constitution thae twa years he wes\ngrieve aboot England. That wes thirty years syne, but ye're never the\nsame aifter thae foreign climates.\"\n\nDrumtochty listened patiently to Hillocks' apology, but was not\nsatisfied.\n\n\"It's clean havers about the muir. Losh keep's, we've a' sleepit oot and\nnever been a hair the waur.\n\n\"A' admit that England micht hae dune the job; it's no cannie stravagin'\nyon wy frae place tae place, but Drums never complained tae me if he hed\nbeen nippit in the Sooth.\"\n\nThe parish had, in fact, lost confidence in Drums after his wayward\nexperiment with a potato-digging machine, which turned out a lamentable\nfailure, and his premature departure confirmed our vague impression of\nhis character.\n\n\"He's awa noo,\" Drumsheugh summed up, after opinion had time to form;\n\"an' there were waur fouk than Drums, but there's nae doot he was a wee\nflichty.\"\n\nWhen illness had the audacity to attack a Drumtochty man, it was\ndescribed as a \"whup,\" and was treated by the men with a fine\nnegligence. Hillocks was sitting in the post-office one afternoon when\nI looked in for my letters, and the right side of his face was blazing\nred. His subject of discourse was the prospects of the turnip \"breer,\"\nbut he casually explained that he was waiting for medical advice.\n\n\"The gudewife is keepin' up a ding-dong frae mornin' till nicht aboot ma\nface, and a'm fair deaved (deafened), so a'm watchin' for MacLure tae\nget a bottle as he comes wast; yon's him noo.\"\n\nThe doctor made his diagnosis from horseback on sight, and stated the\nresult with that admirable clearness which endeared him to Drumtochty.\n\n\"Confoond ye, Hillocks, what are ye ploiterin' aboot here for in the\nweet wi' a face like a boiled beet? ye no ken that ye've a titch o'\nthe rose (erysipelas), and ocht tae be in the hoose? Gae hame wi' ye\nafore a' leave the bit, and send a haflin for some medicine. Ye donnerd\nidiot, are ye ettlin tae follow Drums afore yir time?\" And the medical\nattendant of Drumtochty continued his invective till Hillocks started,\nand still pursued his retreating figure with medical directions of a\nsimple and practical character.\n\n[Illustration: \"THE GUDEWIFE IS KEEPIN' UP A DING-DONG\"]\n\n\"A'm watchin', an' peety ye if ye pit aff time. Keep yir bed the\nmornin', and dinna show yir face in the fields till a' see ye. A'll gie\nye a cry on Monday--sic an auld fule--but there's no are o' them tae\nmind anither in the hale pairish.\"\n\nHillocks' wife informed the kirkyaird that the doctor \"gied the gudeman\nan awfu' clear-in',\" and that Hillocks \"wes keepin' the hoose,\" which\nmeant that the patient had tea breakfast, and at that time was wandering\nabout the farm buildings in an easy undress with his head in a plaid.\n\nIt was impossible for a doctor to earn even the most modest competence\nfrom a people of such scandalous health, and so MacLure had annexed\nneighbouring parishes. His house--little more than a cottage--stood on\nthe roadside among the pines towards the head of our Glen, and from this\nbase of operations he dominated the wild glen that broke the wall of the\nGrampians above Drumtochty--where the snow drifts were twelve feet deep\nin winter, and the only way of passage at times was the channel of the\nriver--and the moorland district westwards till he came to the Dunleith\nsphere of influence, where there were four doctors and a hydropathic.\nDrumtochty in its length, which was eight miles, and its breadth, which\nwas four, lay in his hand; besides a glen behind, unknown to the world,\nwhich in the night time he visited at the risk of life, for the way\nthereto was across the big moor with its peat holes and treacherous\nbogs. And he held the land eastwards towards Muirtown so far as Geordie,\nthe Drumtochty post, travelled every day, and could carry word that the\ndoctor was wanted. He did his best for the need of every man, woman and\nchild in this wild, straggling district, year in, year out, in the snow\nand in the heat, in the dark and in the light, without rest, and without\nholiday for forty years.\n\nOne horse could not do the work of this man, but we liked best to see\nhim on his old white mare, who died the week after her master, and the\npassing of the two did our hearts good. It was not that he rode\nbeautifully, for he broke every canon of art, flying with his arms,\nstooping till he seemed to be speaking into Jess's ears, and rising in\nthe saddle beyond all necessity. But he could rise faster, stay longer\nin the saddle, and had a firmer grip with his knees than any one I ever\nmet, and it was all for mercy's sake. When the reapers in harvest time\nsaw a figure whirling past in a cloud of dust, or the family at the foot\nof Glen Urtach, gathered round the fire on a winter's night, heard the\nrattle of a horse's hoofs on the road, or the shepherds, out after the\nsheep, traced a black speck moving across the snow to the upper glen,\nthey knew it was the doctor, and, without being conscious of it, wished\nhim God speed.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nBefore and behind his saddle were strapped the instruments and medicines\nthe doctor might want, for he never knew what was before him. There were\nno specialists in Drumtochty, so this man had to do everything as best\nhe could, and as quickly. He was chest doctor and doctor for every other\norgan as well; he was accoucheur and surgeon; he was oculist and aurist;\nhe was dentist and chloroformist, besides being chemist and druggist.\nIt was often told how he was far up Glen Urtach when the feeders of the\nthreshing mill caught young Burnbrae, and how he only stopped to change\nhorses at his house, and galloped all the way to Burnbrae, and flung\nhimself off his horse and amputated the arm, and saved the lad's life.\n\n\"You wud hae thocht that every meenut was an hour,\" said Jamie Soutar,\nwho had been at the threshing, \"an' a'll never forget the puir lad lying\nas white as deith on the floor o' the loft, wi' his head on a sheaf, an'\nBurnbrae haudin' the bandage ticht an' prayin' a' the while, and the\nmither greetin' in the corner.\n\n\"'Will he never come?' she cries, an' a' heard the soond o' the horse's\nfeet on the road a mile awa in the frosty air.\n\n\"'The Lord be praised!' said Burnbrae, and a' slippit doon the ladder\nas the doctor came skelpin' intae the close, the foam fleein' frae his\nhorse's mooth.\n\n\"Whar is he?' wes a' that passed his lips, an' in five meenuts he hed\nhim on the feedin' board, and wes at his wark--sic wark, neeburs--but he\ndid it weel. An' ae thing a' thocht rael thochtfu' o' him: he first sent\naff the laddie's mither tae get a bed ready.\n\n\"Noo that's feenished, and his constitution 'ill dae the rest,\" and he\ncarried the lad doon the ladder in his airms like a bairn, and laid him\nin his bed, and waits aside him till he wes sleepin', and then says he:\n'Burnbrae, yir gey lad never tae say 'Collie, will yelick?' for a' hevna\ntasted meat for saxteen hoors.'\n\n\"It was michty tae see him come intae the yaird that day, neeburs; the\nverra look o' him wes victory.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"THE VERRA LOOK O' HIM WES VICTORY\"]\n\nJamie's cynicism slipped off in the enthusiasm of this reminiscence, and\nhe expressed the feeling of Drumtochty. No one sent for MacLure save in\ngreat straits, and the sight of him put courage in sinking hearts. But\nthis was not by the grace of his appearance, or the advantage of a good\nbedside manner. A tall, gaunt, loosely made man, without an ounce of\nsuperfluous flesh on his body, his face burned a dark brick color by\nconstant exposure to the weather, red hair and beard turning grey,\nhonest blue eyes that look you ever in the face, huge hands with wrist\nbones like the shank of a ham, and a voice that hurled his salutations\nacross two fields, he suggested the moor rather than the drawing-room.\nBut what a clever hand it was in an operation, as delicate as a woman's,\nand what a kindly voice it was in the humble room where the shepherd's\nwife was weeping by her man's bedside. He was \"ill pitten the gither\" to\nbegin with, but many of his physical defects were the penalties of his\nwork, and endeared him to the Glen. That ugly scar that cut into his\nright eyebrow and gave him such a sinister expression, was got one night\nJess slipped on the ice and laid him insensible eight miles from home.\nHis limp marked the big snowstorm in the fifties, when his horse missed\nthe road in Glen Urtach, and they rolled together in a drift. MacLure\nescaped with a broken leg and the fracture of three ribs, but he never\nwalked like other men again. He could not swing himself into the saddle\nwithout making two attempts and holding Jess's mane. Neither can you\n\"warstle\" through the peat bogs and snow drifts for forty winters\nwithout a touch of rheumatism. But they were honorable scars, and for\nsuch risks of life men get the Victoria Cross in other fields.\n\n[Illustration: \"FOR SUCH RISKS OF LIFE MEN GET THE VICTORIA CROSS IN\nOTHER FIELDS\"]\n\nMacLure got nothing but the secret affection of the Glen, which knew\nthat none had ever done one-tenth as much for it as this ungainly,\ntwisted, battered figure, and I have seen a Drumtochty face\nsoften at the sight of MacLure limping to his horse.\n\nMr. Hopps earned the ill-will of the Glen for ever by criticising\nthe doctor's dress, but indeed it would have filled any townsman with\namazement. Black he wore once a year, on Sacrament Sunday, and, if\npossible, at a funeral; topcoat or waterproof never. His jacket and\nwaistcoat were rough homespun of Glen Urtach wool, which threw off the\nwet like a duck's back, and below he was clad in shepherd's tartan\ntrousers, which disappeared into unpolished riding boots. His shirt was\ngrey flannel, and he was uncertain about a collar, but certain as to a\ntie which he never had, his beard doing instead, and his hat was soft\nfelt of four colors and seven different shapes. His point of distinction\nin dress was the trousers, and they were the subject of unending\nspeculation.\n\n\"Some threep that he's worn thae eedentical pair the last twenty year,\nan' a' mind masel him gettin' a tear ahint, when he was crossin' oor\npalin', and the mend's still veesible.\n\n\"Ithers declare 'at he's got a wab o' claith, and hes a new pair made in\nMuirtown aince in the twa year maybe, and keeps them in the garden till\nthe new look wears aff.\n\n\"For ma ain pairt,\" Soutar used to declare, \"a' canna mak up my mind,\nbut there's ae thing sure, the Glen wud not like tae see him withoot\nthem: it wud be a shock tae confidence. There's no muckle o' the check\nleft, but ye can aye tell it, and when ye see thae breeks comin' in ye\nken that if human pooer can save yir bairn's life it 'ill be dune.\"\n\nThe confidence of the Glen--and tributary states--was unbounded, and\nrested partly on long experience of the doctor's resources, and partly\non his hereditary connection.\n\n\"His father was here afore him,\" Mrs. Macfadyen used to explain; \"atween\nthem they've hed the countyside for weel on tae a century; if MacLure\ndisna understand oor constitution, wha dis, a' wud like tae ask?\"\n\nFor Drumtochty had its own constitution and a special throat disease, as\nbecame a parish which was quite self-contained between the woods and the\nhills, and not dependent on the lowlands either for its diseases or its\ndoctors.\n\n\"He's a skilly man, Doctor MacLure,\" continued my friend Mrs. Macfayden,\nwhose judgment on sermons or anything else was seldom at fault; \"an'\na kind-hearted, though o' coorse he hes his faults like us a', an' he\ndisna tribble the Kirk often.\n\n\"He aye can tell what's wrang wi' a body, an' maistly he can put ye\nricht, and there's nae new-fangled wys wi' him: a blister for the\nootside an' Epsom salts for the inside dis his wark, an' they say\nthere's no an herb on the hills he disna ken.\n\n\"If we're tae dee, we're tae dee; an' if we're tae live, we're tae live,\"\nconcluded Elspeth, with sound Calvinistic logic; \"but a'll say this\nfor the doctor, that whether yir tae live or dee, he can aye keep up a\nsharp meisture on the skin.\"\n\n\"But he's no veera ceevil gin ye bring him when there's naethin' wrang,\"\nand Mrs. Macfayden's face reflected another of Mr. Hopps' misadventures\nof which Hillocks held the copyright.\n\n\"Hopps' laddie ate grosarts (gooseberries) till they hed to sit up a'\nnicht wi' him, an' naethin' wud do but they maun hae the doctor, an' he\nwrites 'immediately' on a slip o' paper.\n\n\"Weel, MacLure had been awa a' nicht wi' a shepherd's wife Dunleith wy,\nand he comes here withoot drawin' bridle, mud up tae the cen.\n\n\"'What's a dae here, Hillocks?\" he cries; 'it's no an accident, is't?'\nand when he got aff his horse he cud hardly stand wi' stiffness and\ntire.\n\n\"'It's nane o' us, doctor; it's Hopps' laddie; he's been eatin' ower\nmony berries.'\n\n[Illustration: \"HOPPS' LADDIE ATE GROSARTS\"]\n\n\"If he didna turn on me like a tiger.\n\n\" ye mean tae say----'\n\n\"'Weesht, weesht,' an' I tried tae quiet him, for Hopps wes comin' oot.\n\n\"'Well, doctor,' begins he, as brisk as a magpie, 'you're here at last;\nthere's no hurry with you Scotchmen. My boy has been sick all night, and\nI've never had one wink of sleep. You might have come a little quicker,\nthat's all I've got to say.'\n\n\"We've mair tae dae in Drumtochty than attend tae every bairn that hes a\nsair stomach,' and a' saw MacLure wes roosed.\n\n\"'I'm astonished to hear you speak. Our doctor at home always says to\nMrs. 'Opps \"Look on me as a family friend, Mrs. 'Opps, and send for me\nthough it be only a headache.\"'\n\n\"'He'd be mair sparin' o' his offers if he hed four and twenty mile tae\nlook aifter. There's naethin' wrang wi' yir laddie but greed. Gie him a\ngude dose o' castor oil and stop his meat for a day, an' he 'ill be a'\nricht the morn.'\n\n\"'He 'ill not take castor oil, doctor. We have given up those barbarous\nmedicines.'\n\n\"'Whatna kind o' medicines hae ye noo in the Sooth?'\n\n\"'Well, you see, Dr. MacLure, we're homoeopathists, and I've my little\nchest here,' and oot Hopps comes wi' his boxy.\n\n\"'Let's see't,' an' MacLure sits doon and taks oot the bit bottles, and\nhe reads the names wi' a lauch every time.\n\n\"'Belladonna; did ye ever hear the like? Aconite; it cowes a'. Nux\nVomica. What next? Weel, ma mannie,' he says tae Hopps, 'it's a fine\nploy, and ye 'ill better gang on wi' the Nux till it's dune, and gie him\nony ither o' the sweeties he fancies.\n\n\"'Noo, Hillocks, a' maun be aff tae see Drumsheugh's grieve, for he's\ndoon wi' the fever, and it's tae be a teuch fecht. A' hinna time tae\nwait for dinner; gie me some cheese an' cake in ma haund, and Jess 'ill\ntak a pail o' meal an' water.\n\n\"'Fee; a'm no wantin' yir fees, man; wi' that boxy ye dinna need a\ndoctor; na, na, gie yir siller tae some puir body, Maister Hopps,' an'\nhe was doon the road as hard as he cud lick.\"\n\nHis fees were pretty much what the folk chose to give him, and he\ncollected them once a year at Kildrummie fair.\n\n\"Well, doctor, what am a' awin' ye for the wife and bairn? Ye 'ill need\nthree notes for that nicht ye stayed in the hoose an' a' the veesits.\"\n\n\"Havers,\" MacLure would answer, \"prices are low, a'm hearing; gie's\nthirty shillings.\"\n\n\"No, a'll no, or the wife 'ill tak ma ears off,\" and it was settled for\ntwo pounds. Lord Kilspindie gave him a free house and fields, and one\nway or other, Drumsheugh told me, the doctor might get in about L150.\na year, out of which he had to pay his old housekeeper's wages and a\nboy's, and keep two horses, besides the cost of instruments and books,\nwhich he bought through a friend in Edinburgh with much judgment.\n\nThere was only one man who ever complained of the doctor's charges, and\nthat was the new farmer of Milton, who was so good that he was above\nboth churches, and held a meeting in his barn. (It was Milton the Glen\nsupposed at first to be a Mormon, but I can't go into that now.) He\noffered MacLure a pound less than he asked, and two tracts, whereupon\nMacLure expressed his opinion of Milton, both from a theological and\nsocial standpoint, with such vigor and frankness that an attentive\naudience of Drumtochty men could hardly contain themselves. Jamie Soutar\nwas selling his pig at the time, and missed the meeting, but he hastened\nto condole with Milton, who was complaining everywhere of the doctor's\nlanguage.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"Ye did richt tae resist him; it 'ill maybe roose the Glen tae mak a\nstand; he fair hands them in bondage.\n\n\"Thirty shillings for twal veesits, and him no mair than seeven mile\nawa, an' a'm telt there werena mair than four at nicht.\n\n\"Ye 'ill hae the sympathy o' the Glen, for a' body kens yir as free wi'\nyir siller as yir tracts.\n\n\"Wes't 'Beware o' gude warks' ye offered him? Man, ye choose it weel,\nfor he's been colleckin' sae mony thae forty years, a'm feared for him.\n\n\"A've often thocht oor doctor's little better than the Gude Samaritan,\nan' the Pharisees didna think muckle o' his chance aither in this warld\nor that which is tae come.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's A Doctor of the Old School, Part 1, by Ian Maclaren\n\n*** ", "source_language": "en", "target_language": "zh_CN", "source_lang_name": "English", "target_lang_name": "Chinese", "doc_id": "A-Doctor-of-the-Old-School-Part-1-by-Ian-Maclaren", "seg_id": 1, "publication_date": 1895, "url": "http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/9315", "responses_create_params": {"input": [{"role": "user", "content": "You are a professional translator.\nYour task is to translate a long document from English to Chinese.\nPreserve the paragraph structure and ordering of the source text and keep the translation approximately aligned at the sentence level.\nYou may merge, split, or slightly reorder sentences, but you must keep the translation structurally close to the source.\n\nOutput only the translation, using only Chinese.\nDo not ask questions. \nDo not add a preamble.\nDo not add commentary.\nDo not stop until the whole document is translated.\n\nSource document:\n\n\n\n\nProduced by Juliet Sutherland, David Widger and PG Distributed\nProofreaders\n\n\n\n\n\n A DOCTOR OF THE OLD SCHOOL\n\n by Ian Maclaren\n\n A GENERAL PRACTITIONER\n\n Book I.\n\n\n\nPREFACE\n\nIt is with great good will that I write this short preface to the\nedition of \"A Doctor of the Old School\" (which has been illustrated by\nMr. Gordon after an admirable and understanding fashion) because there\nare two things that I should like to say to my readers, being also my\nfriends.\n\nOne, is to answer a question that has been often and fairly asked. Was\nthere ever any doctor so self-forgetful and so utterly Christian as\nWilliam MacLure? To which I am proud to reply, on my conscience: Not one\nman, but many in Scotland and in the South country. I will dare prophecy\nalso across the sea.\n\nIt has been one man's good fortune to know four country doctors, not one\nof whom was without his faults--Weelum was not perfect--but who, each\none, might have sat for my hero. Three are now resting from their\nlabors, and the fourth, if he ever should see these lines, would never\nidentify himself.\n\nThen I desire to thank my readers, and chiefly the medical profession\nfor the reception given to the Doctor of Drumtochty.\n\nFor many years I have desired to pay some tribute to a class whose\nservice to the community was known to every countryman, but after the\ntale had gone forth my heart failed. For it might have been despised\nfor the little grace of letters in the style and because of the outward\nroughness of the man. But neither his biographer nor his circumstances\nhave been able to obscure MacLure who has himself won all honest hearts,\nand received afresh the recognition of his more distinguished brethren.\nFrom all parts of the English-speaking world letters have come in\ncommendation of Weelum MacLure, and many were from doctors who had\nreceived new courage. It is surely more honor than a new writer could\never have deserved to receive the approbation of a profession whose\ncharity puts us all to shame.\n\nMay I take this first opportunity to declare how deeply my heart has\nbeen touched by the favor shown to a simple book by the American people,\nand to express my hope that one day it may be given me to see you face\nto face.\n\nIAN MACLAREN. Liverpool, Oct. 4, 1895.\n\n\n\n\n A GENERAL PRACTITIONER\n\n\n\nI\n\nA GENERAL PRACTITIONER\n\nDrumtochty was accustomed to break every law of health, except wholesome\nfood and fresh air, and yet had reduced the Psalmist's farthest limit to\nan average life-rate. Our men made no difference in their clothes for\nsummer or winter, Drumsheugh and one or two of the larger farmers\ncondescending to a topcoat on Sabbath, as a penalty of their position,\nand without regard to temperature. They wore their blacks at a funeral,\nrefusing to cover them with anything, out of respect to the deceased,\nand standing longest in the kirkyard when the north wind was blowing\nacross a hundred miles of snow. If the rain was pouring at the Junction,\nthen Drumtochty stood two minutes longer through sheer native dourness\ntill each man had a cascade from the tail of his coat, and hazarded the\nsuggestion, halfway to Kildrummie, that it had been \"a bit scrowie,\"\na \"scrowie\" being as far short of a \"shoor\" as a \"shoor\" fell below\n\"weet.\"\n\n[Illustration: SANDY STEWART \"NAPPED\" STONES]\n\nThis sustained defiance of the elements provoked occasional judgments in\nthe shape of a \"hoast\" (cough), and the head of the house was then\nexhorted by his women folk to \"change his feet\" if he had happened to\nwalk through a burn on his way home, and was pestered generally with\nsanitary precautions. It is right to add that the gudeman treated such\nadvice with contempt, regarding it as suitable for the effeminacy of\ntowns, but not seriously intended for Drumtochty. Sandy Stewart \"napped\"\nstones on the road in his shirt sleeves, wet or fair, summer and winter,\ntill he was persuaded to retire from active duty at eighty-five, and he\nspent ten years more in regretting his hastiness and criticising his\nsuccessor. The ordinary course of life, with fine air and contented\nminds, was to do a full share of work till seventy, and then to look\nafter \"orra\" jobs well into the eighties, and to \"slip awa\" within sight\nof ninety. Persons above ninety were understood to be acquitting\nthemselves with credit, and assumed airs of authority, brushing aside\nthe opinions of seventy as immature, and confirming their conclusions\nwith illustrations drawn from the end of last century.\n\nWhen Hillocks' brother so far forgot himself as to \"slip awa\"\nat sixty, that worthy man was scandalized, and offered laboured\nexplanations at the \"beerial.\"\n\n\"It's an awfu' business ony wy ye look at it, an' a sair trial tae us\na'. A' never heard tell o' sic a thing in oor family afore, an' it's no\neasy accoontin' for't.\n\n\"The gudewife was sayin' he wes never the same sin' a weet nicht he lost\nhimsel on the muir and slept below a bush; but that's neither here nor\nthere. A'm thinkin' he sappit his constitution thae twa years he wes\ngrieve aboot England. That wes thirty years syne, but ye're never the\nsame aifter thae foreign climates.\"\n\nDrumtochty listened patiently to Hillocks' apology, but was not\nsatisfied.\n\n\"It's clean havers about the muir. Losh keep's, we've a' sleepit oot and\nnever been a hair the waur.\n\n\"A' admit that England micht hae dune the job; it's no cannie stravagin'\nyon wy frae place tae place, but Drums never complained tae me if he hed\nbeen nippit in the Sooth.\"\n\nThe parish had, in fact, lost confidence in Drums after his wayward\nexperiment with a potato-digging machine, which turned out a lamentable\nfailure, and his premature departure confirmed our vague impression of\nhis character.\n\n\"He's awa noo,\" Drumsheugh summed up, after opinion had time to form;\n\"an' there were waur fouk than Drums, but there's nae doot he was a wee\nflichty.\"\n\nWhen illness had the audacity to attack a Drumtochty man, it was\ndescribed as a \"whup,\" and was treated by the men with a fine\nnegligence. Hillocks was sitting in the post-office one afternoon when\nI looked in for my letters, and the right side of his face was blazing\nred. His subject of discourse was the prospects of the turnip \"breer,\"\nbut he casually explained that he was waiting for medical advice.\n\n\"The gudewife is keepin' up a ding-dong frae mornin' till nicht aboot ma\nface, and a'm fair deaved (deafened), so a'm watchin' for MacLure tae\nget a bottle as he comes wast; yon's him noo.\"\n\nThe doctor made his diagnosis from horseback on sight, and stated the\nresult with that admirable clearness which endeared him to Drumtochty.\n\n\"Confoond ye, Hillocks, what are ye ploiterin' aboot here for in the\nweet wi' a face like a boiled beet? ye no ken that ye've a titch o'\nthe rose (erysipelas), and ocht tae be in the hoose? Gae hame wi' ye\nafore a' leave the bit, and send a haflin for some medicine. Ye donnerd\nidiot, are ye ettlin tae follow Drums afore yir time?\" And the medical\nattendant of Drumtochty continued his invective till Hillocks started,\nand still pursued his retreating figure with medical directions of a\nsimple and practical character.\n\n[Illustration: \"THE GUDEWIFE IS KEEPIN' UP A DING-DONG\"]\n\n\"A'm watchin', an' peety ye if ye pit aff time. Keep yir bed the\nmornin', and dinna show yir face in the fields till a' see ye. A'll gie\nye a cry on Monday--sic an auld fule--but there's no are o' them tae\nmind anither in the hale pairish.\"\n\nHillocks' wife informed the kirkyaird that the doctor \"gied the gudeman\nan awfu' clear-in',\" and that Hillocks \"wes keepin' the hoose,\" which\nmeant that the patient had tea breakfast, and at that time was wandering\nabout the farm buildings in an easy undress with his head in a plaid.\n\nIt was impossible for a doctor to earn even the most modest competence\nfrom a people of such scandalous health, and so MacLure had annexed\nneighbouring parishes. His house--little more than a cottage--stood on\nthe roadside among the pines towards the head of our Glen, and from this\nbase of operations he dominated the wild glen that broke the wall of the\nGrampians above Drumtochty--where the snow drifts were twelve feet deep\nin winter, and the only way of passage at times was the channel of the\nriver--and the moorland district westwards till he came to the Dunleith\nsphere of influence, where there were four doctors and a hydropathic.\nDrumtochty in its length, which was eight miles, and its breadth, which\nwas four, lay in his hand; besides a glen behind, unknown to the world,\nwhich in the night time he visited at the risk of life, for the way\nthereto was across the big moor with its peat holes and treacherous\nbogs. And he held the land eastwards towards Muirtown so far as Geordie,\nthe Drumtochty post, travelled every day, and could carry word that the\ndoctor was wanted. He did his best for the need of every man, woman and\nchild in this wild, straggling district, year in, year out, in the snow\nand in the heat, in the dark and in the light, without rest, and without\nholiday for forty years.\n\nOne horse could not do the work of this man, but we liked best to see\nhim on his old white mare, who died the week after her master, and the\npassing of the two did our hearts good. It was not that he rode\nbeautifully, for he broke every canon of art, flying with his arms,\nstooping till he seemed to be speaking into Jess's ears, and rising in\nthe saddle beyond all necessity. But he could rise faster, stay longer\nin the saddle, and had a firmer grip with his knees than any one I ever\nmet, and it was all for mercy's sake. When the reapers in harvest time\nsaw a figure whirling past in a cloud of dust, or the family at the foot\nof Glen Urtach, gathered round the fire on a winter's night, heard the\nrattle of a horse's hoofs on the road, or the shepherds, out after the\nsheep, traced a black speck moving across the snow to the upper glen,\nthey knew it was the doctor, and, without being conscious of it, wished\nhim God speed.\n\n[Illustration]\n\nBefore and behind his saddle were strapped the instruments and medicines\nthe doctor might want, for he never knew what was before him. There were\nno specialists in Drumtochty, so this man had to do everything as best\nhe could, and as quickly. He was chest doctor and doctor for every other\norgan as well; he was accoucheur and surgeon; he was oculist and aurist;\nhe was dentist and chloroformist, besides being chemist and druggist.\nIt was often told how he was far up Glen Urtach when the feeders of the\nthreshing mill caught young Burnbrae, and how he only stopped to change\nhorses at his house, and galloped all the way to Burnbrae, and flung\nhimself off his horse and amputated the arm, and saved the lad's life.\n\n\"You wud hae thocht that every meenut was an hour,\" said Jamie Soutar,\nwho had been at the threshing, \"an' a'll never forget the puir lad lying\nas white as deith on the floor o' the loft, wi' his head on a sheaf, an'\nBurnbrae haudin' the bandage ticht an' prayin' a' the while, and the\nmither greetin' in the corner.\n\n\"'Will he never come?' she cries, an' a' heard the soond o' the horse's\nfeet on the road a mile awa in the frosty air.\n\n\"'The Lord be praised!' said Burnbrae, and a' slippit doon the ladder\nas the doctor came skelpin' intae the close, the foam fleein' frae his\nhorse's mooth.\n\n\"Whar is he?' wes a' that passed his lips, an' in five meenuts he hed\nhim on the feedin' board, and wes at his wark--sic wark, neeburs--but he\ndid it weel. An' ae thing a' thocht rael thochtfu' o' him: he first sent\naff the laddie's mither tae get a bed ready.\n\n\"Noo that's feenished, and his constitution 'ill dae the rest,\" and he\ncarried the lad doon the ladder in his airms like a bairn, and laid him\nin his bed, and waits aside him till he wes sleepin', and then says he:\n'Burnbrae, yir gey lad never tae say 'Collie, will yelick?' for a' hevna\ntasted meat for saxteen hoors.'\n\n\"It was michty tae see him come intae the yaird that day, neeburs; the\nverra look o' him wes victory.\"\n\n[Illustration: \"THE VERRA LOOK O' HIM WES VICTORY\"]\n\nJamie's cynicism slipped off in the enthusiasm of this reminiscence, and\nhe expressed the feeling of Drumtochty. No one sent for MacLure save in\ngreat straits, and the sight of him put courage in sinking hearts. But\nthis was not by the grace of his appearance, or the advantage of a good\nbedside manner. A tall, gaunt, loosely made man, without an ounce of\nsuperfluous flesh on his body, his face burned a dark brick color by\nconstant exposure to the weather, red hair and beard turning grey,\nhonest blue eyes that look you ever in the face, huge hands with wrist\nbones like the shank of a ham, and a voice that hurled his salutations\nacross two fields, he suggested the moor rather than the drawing-room.\nBut what a clever hand it was in an operation, as delicate as a woman's,\nand what a kindly voice it was in the humble room where the shepherd's\nwife was weeping by her man's bedside. He was \"ill pitten the gither\" to\nbegin with, but many of his physical defects were the penalties of his\nwork, and endeared him to the Glen. That ugly scar that cut into his\nright eyebrow and gave him such a sinister expression, was got one night\nJess slipped on the ice and laid him insensible eight miles from home.\nHis limp marked the big snowstorm in the fifties, when his horse missed\nthe road in Glen Urtach, and they rolled together in a drift. MacLure\nescaped with a broken leg and the fracture of three ribs, but he never\nwalked like other men again. He could not swing himself into the saddle\nwithout making two attempts and holding Jess's mane. Neither can you\n\"warstle\" through the peat bogs and snow drifts for forty winters\nwithout a touch of rheumatism. But they were honorable scars, and for\nsuch risks of life men get the Victoria Cross in other fields.\n\n[Illustration: \"FOR SUCH RISKS OF LIFE MEN GET THE VICTORIA CROSS IN\nOTHER FIELDS\"]\n\nMacLure got nothing but the secret affection of the Glen, which knew\nthat none had ever done one-tenth as much for it as this ungainly,\ntwisted, battered figure, and I have seen a Drumtochty face\nsoften at the sight of MacLure limping to his horse.\n\nMr. Hopps earned the ill-will of the Glen for ever by criticising\nthe doctor's dress, but indeed it would have filled any townsman with\namazement. Black he wore once a year, on Sacrament Sunday, and, if\npossible, at a funeral; topcoat or waterproof never. His jacket and\nwaistcoat were rough homespun of Glen Urtach wool, which threw off the\nwet like a duck's back, and below he was clad in shepherd's tartan\ntrousers, which disappeared into unpolished riding boots. His shirt was\ngrey flannel, and he was uncertain about a collar, but certain as to a\ntie which he never had, his beard doing instead, and his hat was soft\nfelt of four colors and seven different shapes. His point of distinction\nin dress was the trousers, and they were the subject of unending\nspeculation.\n\n\"Some threep that he's worn thae eedentical pair the last twenty year,\nan' a' mind masel him gettin' a tear ahint, when he was crossin' oor\npalin', and the mend's still veesible.\n\n\"Ithers declare 'at he's got a wab o' claith, and hes a new pair made in\nMuirtown aince in the twa year maybe, and keeps them in the garden till\nthe new look wears aff.\n\n\"For ma ain pairt,\" Soutar used to declare, \"a' canna mak up my mind,\nbut there's ae thing sure, the Glen wud not like tae see him withoot\nthem: it wud be a shock tae confidence. There's no muckle o' the check\nleft, but ye can aye tell it, and when ye see thae breeks comin' in ye\nken that if human pooer can save yir bairn's life it 'ill be dune.\"\n\nThe confidence of the Glen--and tributary states--was unbounded, and\nrested partly on long experience of the doctor's resources, and partly\non his hereditary connection.\n\n\"His father was here afore him,\" Mrs. Macfadyen used to explain; \"atween\nthem they've hed the countyside for weel on tae a century; if MacLure\ndisna understand oor constitution, wha dis, a' wud like tae ask?\"\n\nFor Drumtochty had its own constitution and a special throat disease, as\nbecame a parish which was quite self-contained between the woods and the\nhills, and not dependent on the lowlands either for its diseases or its\ndoctors.\n\n\"He's a skilly man, Doctor MacLure,\" continued my friend Mrs. Macfayden,\nwhose judgment on sermons or anything else was seldom at fault; \"an'\na kind-hearted, though o' coorse he hes his faults like us a', an' he\ndisna tribble the Kirk often.\n\n\"He aye can tell what's wrang wi' a body, an' maistly he can put ye\nricht, and there's nae new-fangled wys wi' him: a blister for the\nootside an' Epsom salts for the inside dis his wark, an' they say\nthere's no an herb on the hills he disna ken.\n\n\"If we're tae dee, we're tae dee; an' if we're tae live, we're tae live,\"\nconcluded Elspeth, with sound Calvinistic logic; \"but a'll say this\nfor the doctor, that whether yir tae live or dee, he can aye keep up a\nsharp meisture on the skin.\"\n\n\"But he's no veera ceevil gin ye bring him when there's naethin' wrang,\"\nand Mrs. Macfayden's face reflected another of Mr. Hopps' misadventures\nof which Hillocks held the copyright.\n\n\"Hopps' laddie ate grosarts (gooseberries) till they hed to sit up a'\nnicht wi' him, an' naethin' wud do but they maun hae the doctor, an' he\nwrites 'immediately' on a slip o' paper.\n\n\"Weel, MacLure had been awa a' nicht wi' a shepherd's wife Dunleith wy,\nand he comes here withoot drawin' bridle, mud up tae the cen.\n\n\"'What's a dae here, Hillocks?\" he cries; 'it's no an accident, is't?'\nand when he got aff his horse he cud hardly stand wi' stiffness and\ntire.\n\n\"'It's nane o' us, doctor; it's Hopps' laddie; he's been eatin' ower\nmony berries.'\n\n[Illustration: \"HOPPS' LADDIE ATE GROSARTS\"]\n\n\"If he didna turn on me like a tiger.\n\n\" ye mean tae say----'\n\n\"'Weesht, weesht,' an' I tried tae quiet him, for Hopps wes comin' oot.\n\n\"'Well, doctor,' begins he, as brisk as a magpie, 'you're here at last;\nthere's no hurry with you Scotchmen. My boy has been sick all night, and\nI've never had one wink of sleep. You might have come a little quicker,\nthat's all I've got to say.'\n\n\"We've mair tae dae in Drumtochty than attend tae every bairn that hes a\nsair stomach,' and a' saw MacLure wes roosed.\n\n\"'I'm astonished to hear you speak. Our doctor at home always says to\nMrs. 'Opps \"Look on me as a family friend, Mrs. 'Opps, and send for me\nthough it be only a headache.\"'\n\n\"'He'd be mair sparin' o' his offers if he hed four and twenty mile tae\nlook aifter. There's naethin' wrang wi' yir laddie but greed. Gie him a\ngude dose o' castor oil and stop his meat for a day, an' he 'ill be a'\nricht the morn.'\n\n\"'He 'ill not take castor oil, doctor. We have given up those barbarous\nmedicines.'\n\n\"'Whatna kind o' medicines hae ye noo in the Sooth?'\n\n\"'Well, you see, Dr. MacLure, we're homoeopathists, and I've my little\nchest here,' and oot Hopps comes wi' his boxy.\n\n\"'Let's see't,' an' MacLure sits doon and taks oot the bit bottles, and\nhe reads the names wi' a lauch every time.\n\n\"'Belladonna; did ye ever hear the like? Aconite; it cowes a'. Nux\nVomica. What next? Weel, ma mannie,' he says tae Hopps, 'it's a fine\nploy, and ye 'ill better gang on wi' the Nux till it's dune, and gie him\nony ither o' the sweeties he fancies.\n\n\"'Noo, Hillocks, a' maun be aff tae see Drumsheugh's grieve, for he's\ndoon wi' the fever, and it's tae be a teuch fecht. A' hinna time tae\nwait for dinner; gie me some cheese an' cake in ma haund, and Jess 'ill\ntak a pail o' meal an' water.\n\n\"'Fee; a'm no wantin' yir fees, man; wi' that boxy ye dinna need a\ndoctor; na, na, gie yir siller tae some puir body, Maister Hopps,' an'\nhe was doon the road as hard as he cud lick.\"\n\nHis fees were pretty much what the folk chose to give him, and he\ncollected them once a year at Kildrummie fair.\n\n\"Well, doctor, what am a' awin' ye for the wife and bairn? Ye 'ill need\nthree notes for that nicht ye stayed in the hoose an' a' the veesits.\"\n\n\"Havers,\" MacLure would answer, \"prices are low, a'm hearing; gie's\nthirty shillings.\"\n\n\"No, a'll no, or the wife 'ill tak ma ears off,\" and it was settled for\ntwo pounds. Lord Kilspindie gave him a free house and fields, and one\nway or other, Drumsheugh told me, the doctor might get in about L150.\na year, out of which he had to pay his old housekeeper's wages and a\nboy's, and keep two horses, besides the cost of instruments and books,\nwhich he bought through a friend in Edinburgh with much judgment.\n\nThere was only one man who ever complained of the doctor's charges, and\nthat was the new farmer of Milton, who was so good that he was above\nboth churches, and held a meeting in his barn. (It was Milton the Glen\nsupposed at first to be a Mormon, but I can't go into that now.) He\noffered MacLure a pound less than he asked, and two tracts, whereupon\nMacLure expressed his opinion of Milton, both from a theological and\nsocial standpoint, with such vigor and frankness that an attentive\naudience of Drumtochty men could hardly contain themselves. Jamie Soutar\nwas selling his pig at the time, and missed the meeting, but he hastened\nto condole with Milton, who was complaining everywhere of the doctor's\nlanguage.\n\n[Illustration]\n\n\"Ye did richt tae resist him; it 'ill maybe roose the Glen tae mak a\nstand; he fair hands them in bondage.\n\n\"Thirty shillings for twal veesits, and him no mair than seeven mile\nawa, an' a'm telt there werena mair than four at nicht.\n\n\"Ye 'ill hae the sympathy o' the Glen, for a' body kens yir as free wi'\nyir siller as yir tracts.\n\n\"Wes't 'Beware o' gude warks' ye offered him? Man, ye choose it weel,\nfor he's been colleckin' sae mony thae forty years, a'm feared for him.\n\n\"A've often thocht oor doctor's little better than the Gude Samaritan,\nan' the Pharisees didna think muckle o' his chance aither in this warld\nor that which is tae come.\"\n\n\n\n\n\nEnd of Project Gutenberg's A Doctor of the Old School, Part 1, by Ian Maclaren\n\n*** \n"}]}} diff --git a/resources_servers/longmt_eval/data/example_metrics.json b/resources_servers/longmt_eval/data/example_metrics.json new file mode 100644 index 0000000000..0086b84317 --- /dev/null +++ b/resources_servers/longmt_eval/data/example_metrics.json @@ -0,0 +1,80 @@ +{ + "name": "example", + "type": "example", + "jsonl_fpath": "resources_servers/longmt_eval/data/example.jsonl", + "num_repeats": 1, + "gitlab_identifier": null, + "huggingface_identifier": null, + "license": "Apache 2.0", + "Number of examples": 5, + "Number of tools": { + "Total # non-null values": 0, + "Average": 0.0, + "Min": 0.0, + "Max": 0.0, + "Standard deviation": 0.0 + }, + "Json-dumped number of words (proxy for token count)": { + "Total # non-null values": 5, + "Average": 3066.8, + "Min": 2423.0, + "Max": 3691.0, + "Standard deviation": 634.38 + }, + "Number of turns": { + "Total # non-null values": 5, + "Average": 1.0, + "Min": 1.0, + "Max": 1.0, + "Standard deviation": 0.0 + }, + "Temperature": { + "Total # non-null values": 0, + "Average": 0.0, + "Min": 0.0, + "Max": 0.0, + "Standard deviation": 0.0 + }, + "text": { + "unique_count": 4, + "total_count": 5 + }, + "source_language": { + "unique_count": 1, + "total_count": 5 + }, + "target_language": { + "unique_count": 3, + "total_count": 5 + }, + "source_lang_name": { + "unique_count": 1, + "total_count": 5 + }, + "target_lang_name": { + "unique_count": 3, + "total_count": 5 + }, + "doc_id": { + "unique_count": 4, + "total_count": 5 + }, + "seg_id": { + "Total # non-null values": 5, + "Average": 1.0, + "Min": 1.0, + "Max": 1.0, + "Standard deviation": 0.0 + }, + "publication_date": { + "Total # non-null values": 5, + "Average": 1894.4, + "Min": 1886.0, + "Max": 1913.0, + "Standard deviation": 11.1 + }, + "url": { + "unique_count": 4, + "total_count": 5 + } +} \ No newline at end of file