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E had a fellow on board, an Irish-American, for all the world like a beggar in a print by Callot; one-eyed, with great, splay crow's-feet round the sockets; a knotty squab nose coming down over his mustache; a miraculous hat; a shirt that had been white, ay, ages long ago; an alpaca coat in its last sleeves; and, without hyperbole, no buttons to his trousers. Even in these rags and tatters, the man twinkled all over with impudence like a piece of sham jewellery; and I have heard him offer a situation to one of his fellow-passengers with the air of a lord. Nothing could overlie such a fellow; a kind of base success was written on his brow. He was then in his ill days; but I can imagine him in Congress with his mouth full of bombast and sawder. As we moved in the same circle, I was brought necessarily into his society. I do not think I ever heard him say anything that was true, kind, or interesting; but there was entertainment in the man's demeanour. You might call him a half-educated Irish Tigg.


text:
Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Johnson, Owen

JOHNSON, OWEN (McMAHON), an American author, born in New York in 1878, the son of Robert Underwood Johnson. He graduated from Yale University in 1900. His first work “Arrows of the Almighty” was published in 1901 and this was followed in rapid succession by others, including “The Eternal Boy” (1909); “The Humming Bird” (1910); “The Varmint” (1910); “The Salamander” (1913); “The Spirit of France,” (1915); “Virtuous Wives” (1917).

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


text: Confederate Military History/Volume 1/Part 2/Chapter 2


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Tremenheere, Hugh Seymour


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trench, Francis Chenevix


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trench, Frederick William


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trench, Melesina


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trench, Power Le Poer


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trench, Richard Chenevix


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trench, William Steuart


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trenchard, John (1640-1695)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trenchard, John (1662-1723)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trengrouse, Henry


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Tresham, Francis


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Tresham, Henry


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Tresham, Thomas (d.1471)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Tresham, Thomas (d.1559)


text:
Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Johnson, Robert Underwood

JOHNSON, ROBERT UNDERWOOD, an American poet and editor; born in Washington, D. C, Jan. 12, 1853; became associate editor of the “Century Magazine.” His efforts in behalf of the establishment of international copyright were recognized by the degree of M. A., conferred by Yale University in 1891. He edited, with C. C. Buel, the notable “Battles and Leaders of the Civil War” (1887-1888), and has published two volumes of poems: “The Winter Hour and Other Poems” (1892); and “Songs of Liberty” (1897), “Italian Rhapsody” (1917). Appointed U. S. Ambassador to Italy in 1920.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Tresham, William (d.1450)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Tresham, William (d.1569)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Tresilian, Robert


text:
Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Johnson, Rossiter

JOHNSON, ROSSITER, an American editor; born in Rochester, N. Y., Jan. 27, 1840; was educated there, and edited the Rochester “Democrat” jointly with Robert Carter. From 1869 to 1872 he edited the Concord (N. H.) “Statesman”; in 1873-1877 was associated with George Ripley and Charles A. Dana in editing the “American Cyclopædia”; in 1879-1880 aided Sydney Howard Gay in his “History of the United States.” In 1883 he became editor of the “Annual Cyclopædia.” He devised and edited the series of “Little Classics” (16 vols. 1874-1875; two additional vols. 1880). He was editor-in-chief of the “World's Great Books” (50 vols. 1898-1901). “ Life of Captain John Smith” (1916); “Episodes of Civil War” (1916).


text:
Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Johnson, Samuel

JOHNSON, SAMUEL, an English lexicographer; born in Litchfield, England, Sept. 18, 1709. He completed his education at Pembroke College, Oxford; and in 1732 taught school at Market Bosworth. In 1735 he married Mrs. Porter of Birmingham who possessed $4,000 and with this capital Johnson started a school at Edial, near Litchfield, obtaining only three scholars, one of whom was David Garrick. It was at this time that he began his tragedy “Irene.” In 1737 he set out for the metropolis, accompanied by Garrick. On fixing his residence in London he formed a connection with Cave, the publisher of the “Gentleman's Magazine,” his principal employment being the reports of the parliamentary debates. It was during this period that he formed a friendship for Richard Savage whom he immortalized in a biographical sketch. In 1749 appeared his “Vanity of Human Wishes,” an imitation of Juvenal's 10th satire. In 1750 he commenced his “Rambler,” a periodical paper, which was continued till 1752. About the period of his relinquishing the “Rambler,” he lost his wife, a circumstance which greatly affected him, as appears from his “Meditations,” and the sermon which he wrote on her death. In 1755 appeared his “Dictionary,” which, instead of three, had occupied eight years. Lord Chesterfield endeavored to assist it by writing t w o papers in its favor in the “World”; but, as he had hitherto neglected the author, Johnson treated him with contempt. In 1758 he began the “Idler,” which was published in a weekly newspaper. On the death of his mother, in 1759, he wrote the romance of “Rasselas,” to defray the expenses of her funeral, and to pay her debts. In 1762 George III. granted him a pension. In 1763, Boswell, his future biographer,

was introduced to him, a circumstance to which we owe the most minute account of a man's life and character that has ever been written. In 1773 he went on a tour with Boswell to the W. islands of Scotland, of which journey he shortly afterward published an account, which occasioned a difference between him and Macpherson, relative to the poems of Ossian. In 1779 he began his “Lives of the British Poets,” which was the last of his literary labors. He died in England, Dec. 13, 1784.


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Rh

MOURNING

MOUSE


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40 Our Russian made a remarkable contrast to this impossible fellow. Rumours and legends were current in the steerages about his antecedents. Some said he was a Nihilist escaping; others set him down for a harmless spendthrift, who had squandered fifty thousand roubles, and whose father had now despatched him to America by way of penance. Either tale might flourish in security; there was no contradiction to be feared, for the hero spoke not one word of English. I got on with him lumberingly enough in broken German, and learnt from his own lips that he had been an apothecary. He carried the photograph of his betrothed in a pocket-book, and remarked that it did not do her justice. The cut of his head stood out from among the passengers with an air of startling strangeness. The first natural instinct was to take him for a desperado; but although the features, to our Western eyes, had a barbaric and unhomely cast, the eye both reassured and touched. It was large and very dark and soft, with an expression of dumb endurance, as if it had often looked on desperate circumstances and never looked on them without resolution. He cried out when I used the word. "No, no," he said, "not resolution." "The resolution to endure," I explained. And then he shrugged his shoulders, and said,


text:
Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Johnson, Thomas Loftin

JOHNSON, THOMAS LOFTIN, better known as Tom L. Johnson, an American municipal reformer, born at Georgetown, Ky., in 1854. He received practically no early education. His first employment was with a street-railway company. He rapidly rose to positions of responsibility and acquired a large fortune, partly through inventions relating to street railways. He purchased in 1876 an interest in a street railway of Indianapolis and later acquired large holdings in street railways in Cleveland, Detroit, and Brooklyn. He made these lines profitable by the introduction of through fares and transfers. He disposed of his street-railway interests for a large sum and entered politics. He was defeated for Congress in 1898 but was elected in 1890 and 1892. He was an ardent advocator of the single-tax ideas of Henry George and also his theories of municipal ownership attracted national attention. In 1901 he was elected mayor of Cleveland and was three times re-elected. During his terms of office he introduced radical reforms and won a fight to secure three-cent fares on the street-car lines of the city. He was defeated for the governorship of Ohio in 1903. He retired from active participation of public affairs in 1910 and died in the following year.


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Rh "Ach, ja" with gusto, like a man who has been flattered in his favourite pretensions. Indeed, he was always hinting at some secret sorrow; and his life, he said, had been one of unusual trouble and anxiety; so the legends of the steerage may have represented at least some shadow of the truth. Once, and once only, he sang a song at our concerts; standing forth without embarrassment, his great stature somewhat humped, his long arms frequently extended, his Kalmuck head thrown backward. It was a suitable piece of music, as deep as a cow's bellow and wild like the White Sea. He was struck and charmed by the freedom and sociality of our manners. At home, he said, no one on a journey would speak to him, but those with whom he would not care to speak; thus unconsciously involving himself in the condemnation of his countrymen. But Russia was soon to be changed; the ice of the Neva was softening under the sun of civilisation; the new ideas, "wie eine feine Violine," were audible among the big empty drum notes of Imperial diplomacy; and he looked to see a great revival, though with a somewhat indistinct and childish hope.

We had a father and son who made a pair of Jacks-of-all-trades. It was the son who sang the "Death of Nelson" under such contrarious circumstances. He was by trade a shearer of ship


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42 plates; but he could touch the organ, had led two choirs, and played the flute and piccolo in a professional string band. His repertory of songs was, besides, inexhaustible, and ranged impartially from the very best to the very worst within his reach. Nor did he seem to make the least distinction between these extremes, but would cheerfully follow up "Tom Bowling" with "Around her splendid form."

The father, an old, cheery, small piece of manhood, could do everything connected with tinwork from one end of the process to the other, use almost every carpenter's tool, and make picture frames to boot. "I sat down with silver plate every Sunday," said he, "and pictures on the wall. I have made enough money to be rolling in my carriage. But, sir," looking at me unsteadily with his bright rheumy eyes, "I was troubled with a drunken wife." He took a hostile view of matrimony in consequence. "It's an old saying," he remarked: "God made 'em, and the devil he mixed 'em."

I think he was justified by his experience. It was a dreary story. He would bring home three pounds on Saturday, and on Monday all the clothes would be in pawn. Sick of the useless struggle, he gave up a paying contract, and contented himself with small and ill-paid jobs. "A bad job was as good as a good job for me," he said; "it all


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Rh went the same way." Once the wife showed signs of amendment; she kept steady for weeks on end; it was again worth while to labour and to do one's best. The husband found a good situation some distance from home, and, to make a little upon every hand, started the wife in a cook-shop; the children were here and there, busy as mice; savings began to grow together in the bank, and the golden age of hope had returned again to that unhappy family. But one week my old acquaintance, getting earlier through with his work, came home on the Friday instead of the Saturday, and there was his wife to receive him reeling drunk. He "took and gave her a pair o' black eyes," for which I pardoned him, nailed up the cook-shop door, gave up his situation, and resigned himself to a life of poverty, with the workhouse at the end. As the children came to their full age they fled the house, and established themselves in other countries; some did well, some not so well; but the father remained at home alone with his drunken wife, all his sound-hearted pluck and varied accomplishments depressed and negatived. Was she dead now? or, after all these years, had he broken the chain, and run from home like a schoolboy? I could not discover which; but here at least he was out on the adventure, and still one of the bravest and most youthful men on board.


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44 "Now, I suppose, I must put my old bones to work again," said he; "but I can do a turn yet." And the son to whom he was going, I asked, was he not able to support him? "Oh yes," he replied. "But I'm never happy without a job on hand. And I'm stout; I can eat a'most anything. You see no craze about me."

This tale of a drunken wife was paralleled on board by another of a drunken father. He was a capable man, with a good chance in life; but he had drunk up two thriving businesses like a bottle of sherry, and involved his sons along with him in ruin. Now they were on board with us, fleeing his disastrous neighbourhood. Total abstinence, like all ascetical conclusions, is unfriendly to the most generous, cheerful, and human parts of man; but it could have adduced many instances and arguments from among our ship's company. I was one day conversing with a kind and happy Scotsman, running to fat and perspiration in the physical, but with a taste for poetry and a genial sense of fun. I had asked him his hopes in emigrating. They were like those of so many others, vague and unfounded; times were bad at home; they were said to have a turn for the better in the States; and a man could get on anywhere, he thought. That was precisely the weak point of his position; for if he could get on


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trevelyan, Charles Edward


text:
Bells and Pomegranates, First Series/King Victor and King Charles/1730/I

FIRST YEAR 1730.—KING VICTOR.

Part I.

Charles. You think so? Well, I do not.

Polyxena. My beloved, All must clear up—we shall be happy yet: This cannot last forever. . oh, may change To-day, or any day!

Charles. —May change? Ah yes— May change!

Polyxena. Endure it, then.

Charles. No doubt, a life Like this drags on, now better and now worse; My father may. . . may take to loving me; And he may take, too, D'Ormea closer yet To counsel him;—may even cast off her —That bad Sebastian; but he also may . . Or, no, Polyxena, my only friend, He may not force you from me?

Polyxena. Now, force me From you!—me, close by you as if there gloomed No D'Ormeas, no Sebastians on our path— At Rivoli or Turin, still at hand, Arch-counsellor, prime confidant. . . force me!

Charles. Because I felt as sure, as I feel sure We clasp hands now, of being happy once. Young was I, quite neglected, nor concerned By the world's business that engrossed so much My father and my brother: if I peered From out my privacy,—amid the crash And blaze of nations, domineered those two; 'Twas war, peace—France our foe, now—England, friend— In love with Spain—at feud with Austria!—Well— I wondered—laughed a moment's laugh for pride In the chivalrous couple—then let drop My curtain—"I am out of it," I said— When. ..

Polyxena. You have told me, Charles.

Charles. Polyxena— When suddenly,—a warm March day, just that! Just so much sunshine as the cottager's child Basks in delighted, while the cottager Takes off his bonnet, as he ceases work, To catch the more of it—and it must fall Heavily on my brother. . . had you seen Philip—the lion-featured!—not like me!

Polyxena. I know—

Charles. And Philip's mouth yet fast to mine, His dead cheek on my cheek, his arm still round My neck,—they bade me rise, "for I was heir To the Duke," they said, "the right hand of the Duke;" Till then he was my father, not the Duke! So. . let me finish. . the whole intricate World's business their dead boy was born to, I Must conquer,—ay, the brilliant thing he was, I, of a sudden, must be: my faults, my follies, —All bitter truths were told me, all at once To end the sooner. What I simply styled Their overlooking me, had been contempt: How should the Duke employ himself, forsooth, With such an one while lordly Philip rode By him their Turin through? But he was punished, And must put up with—me! 'Twas sad enough To learn my future portion and submit— And then the wear and worry, blame on blame! —For, spring-sounds in my ears, spring-smells about, How could I but grow dizzy in their pent Dim palace-rooms at first? My mother's look As they discussed my insignificance— (She and my father, and I sitting by,)— I bore:—I knew how brave a son they missed: Philip had gayly passed state-papers o'er, While Charles was spelling at them painfully! But Victor was my father spite of that. "Duke Victor's entire life has been," I said, "Innumerable efforts to one end; "And, on the point now of that end's success, "Our Ducal turning to a Kingly crown, "Where's time to be reminded 'tis his child "He spurns?" And so I suffered. . yet scarce suffered, Since I had you at length!

Polyxena. To serve in place Of monarch, minister and mistress, Charles.

Charles. But, once that crown obtained, then was't not like Our lot would alter?—"When he rests, takes breath, "Glances around, and sees who's left to love— "Now that my mother's dead, sees I am left— "Is it not like he'll love me at the last?" Well: Savoy turns Sardinia—the Duke's King! Could I—precisely then—could you expect His harshness to redouble? These few months Have been . . . have been . . Polyxena, do you And God conduct me, or I lose myself! What would he have? What is't they want with me? Him with this mistress and this minister, —You see me and you hear me; judge us both! Pronounce what I should do, Polyxena!

Polyxena. Endure, endure, beloved! Say you not That he's your Father? All's so incident To novel sway! Beside, our life must change: Or you'll acquire his kingcraft, or he'll find Harshness a sorry way of teaching it. I bear this—not that there's so much to bear—

Charles. You bear it? don't I know that you, tho' bound To silence for my sake, are perishing Piecemeal beside me? and how otherwise? —When every creephole from the hideous Court Is stopt; the Minister to dog me, here— The Mistress posted to entrap you, there! And thus shall we grow old in such a life— Not careless,—never estranged,—but old: to alter Our life, there is so much to alter!

Polyxena. Come— Is it agreed that we forego complaints Even at Turin, yet complain we here At Rivoli? 'Twere wiser you announced Our presence to the king. What's now a-foot, I wonder?—Not that any more's to dread Than every day's embarrassment—but guess, For me, why train so fast succeeded train On the high-road, each gayer still than each; I noticed your Archbishop's pursuivant, The sable cloak and silver cross; such pomp Bodes. . what now, Charles? Can you conceive?

Charles. Not I,

Polyxena. A matter of some moment—

Charles. There's our life! Which of the group of loiterers that stared From the lime-avenue, divines that I— About to figure presently, he thinks, In face of all assembled—am the one Who knows precisely least about it?

Polyxena. Tush! D'Ormea's contrivance!

Charles. Ay—how otherwise Should the young Prince serve for the old King's foil? —So that the simplest courtier may remark, 'Twere idle raising parties for a Prince Content to linger D'Ormea's laughing-stock! Something, 'tis like, about that weary business [Pointing to papers he has laid down, and which Polyxena examines.] —Not that I comprehend three words, of course, After all last night's study.

Polyxena. The faint heart! Why, as we rode and you rehearsed just now Its substance. . (that's the folded speech I mean, Concerning the Reduction of the Fiefs . .) —What would you have?—I fancied while you spoke, Some tones were just your father's.

Charles. Flattery!

Polyxena. I fancied so:—and here lurks, sure enough, My note upon the Spanish Claims! You've mastered The fief-speech thoroughly—this other, mind, Is an opinion you deliver,—stay, Best read it slowly over once to me; Read—there's bare time; you read it firmly—loud —Rather loud—looking in his face,—don't sink Your eye once—ay, thus! "If Spain claims . . ." begin —Just as you look at me!

Charles. At you! Oh, truly, You have I seen, say, marshalling your troops— Dismissing councils—or, through doors ajar, Head sunk on hand, devoured by slow chagrins —Then radiant, for a crown had all at once Seemed possible again! I can behold Him, whose least whisper ties my spirit fast, In this sweet brow, nought could divert me from, Save objects like Sebastian's shameless lip, Or, worse, the dipt gray hair and dead white face, And dwindling eye as if it ached with guile, Which D'Ormea wears. . . [As he kisses her, enter from the King's apartment D'Ormea.] . . I said he would divert My kisses from your brow!

D'Ormea. [Aside.]             Here! So King Victor Spoke truth for once; and who's ordained, but I, To make that memorable? Both in call, As he declared! Were't better gnash the teeth, Or laugh outright now?

Charles. [to Polyxena.]         What's his visit for?

D'Ormea. [Aside.] I question if they'll even speak to me.

Polyxena. [to Charles.] Face D'Ormea, he'll suppose you fear him, else. [Aloud.] The Marquis bears the King's command, no doubt.

D'Ormea. [Aside.] Precisely!—If I threatened him, perhaps? Well, this at least is punishment enough! Men used to promise punishment would come.

Charles. Deliver the King's message, Marquis!

D'Ormea. [Aside.]                        Ah— So anxious for his fate? [Aloud.] A word, my Prince, Before you see your father—just one word Of counsel!

Charles. Oh, your counsel certainly— Polyxena, the Marquis counsels us! Well, sir? Be brief, however!

D'Ormea. What? you know As much as I?—preceded me, most like, In knowledge? So! ('Tis in his eye, beside— His voice—he knows it and his heart's on flame Already!) You surmise why you, myself, Del Borgo, Spava, fifty nobles more, Are summoned thus?

Charles. Is the Prince used to know, At any time, the pleasure of the King, Before his minister?—Polyxena, Stay here till I conclude my task—I feel Your presence—(smile not)—thro' the walls, and take Fresh heart. The King's within that chamber?

D'Ormea. [Passing the table whereon a paper lies, exclaims, as he glances at it,] "Spain!"

Polyxena. [Aside to Charles.] Tarry awhile: what ails the minister?

D'Ormea. Madam, I do not often trouble you. The Prince loathes, and you loathe me—let that pass; But since it touches him and you, not me, Bid the Prince listen!

Polyxena. [to Charles.] Surely you will listen! —Deceit?—Those fingers crumpling up his vest?

Charles. Deceitful to the very fingers' ends!

D'Ormea. [who has approached them, overlooks the other paper Charles continues to hold] My project for the Fiefs! As I supposed! Sir, I must give you light upon those measures —For this is mine, and that I spied of Spain, Mine too!

Charles. Release me! Do you gloze on me Who bear in the world's face (that is, the world You've made for me at Turin) your contempt? —Your measures?—When was any hateful task Not D'Ormea's imposition? Leave my robe! What post can I bestow, what grant concede? Or do you take me for the King?

D'Ormea. Not I! Not yet for King,—not for, as yet, thank God, One, who in. . shall I say a year—a month? Ay!—shall be wretcheder than e'er was slave In his Sardinia,—Europe's spectacle, And the world's byword! What? The Prince aggrieved That I've excluded him our counsels? Here [Touching the paper in Charles's hand.] Accept a method of extorting gold From Savoy's nobles, who must wring its worth In silver first from tillers of the soil, Whose hinds again have to contribute brass To make up the amount—there's counsel, sir! My counsel, one year old; and the fruit, this— Savoy's become a mass of misery And wrath, which one man has to meet—the King: You're not the King! Another counsel, sir! Spain entertains a project (here it lies) Which, guessed, makes Austria offer that same King Thus much to baffle Spain; he promises; Then comes Spain, breathless lest she be forestalled, Her offer follows; and he promises. ..

Charles. —Promises, sir, when he before agreed To Austria's offer?

D'Ormea. That's a counsel, Prince! But past our foresight, Spain and Austria (choosing To make their quarrel up between themselves Without the intervention of a friend) Produce both treaties, and both promises. ..

Charles. How?

D' O.    Prince, a counsel!—And the fruit of that? Both parties covenant afresh, to fall Together on their friend, blot out his name, Abolish him from Europe. So take note, Here's Austria and here's Spain to fight against, And what sustains the King but Savoy here, A miserable people mad with wrongs? You're not the King!

Charles. Polyxena, you said All would clear up—all does clear up to me!

D'Ormea. Clears up? "Tis no such thing to envy, then? You see the King's state in its length and breadth? You blame me, now, for keeping you aloof From counsels and the fruit of counsels?—Wait Till I've explained this morning's business!

Charles. [Aside.]                                No— Stoop to my father, yes,—to D'Ormea, no; —The King's son, not to the King's counsellor! I will do something,—but at least retain The credit of my deed! [Aloud.] Then, D'Ormea, this You now expressly come to tell me?

D'Ormea. This To tell! You apprehend me?

Charles. Perfectly. And further, D'Ormea, you have shown yourself, For the first time these many weeks and months, Disposed to do my bidding?

D'Ormea. From the heart!

Charles. Acquaint my father, first, I wait his pleasure: Next... or, I'll tell you at a fitter time. Acquaint the King!

D'Ormea. [Aside.]      If I 'scape Victor yet! First, to prevent this stroke at me—if not,— Then, to avenge it! [To Charles.] Gracious sir, I go. [Goes.]

Charles. God, I forbore! Which more offends—that man Or that man's master? Is it come to this? Have they supposed (the sharpest insult yet) I needed e'en his intervention? No! No—dull am I, conceded,—but so dull, Scarcely! Their step decides me.

Polyxena. How decides?

Charles. You would be free from D'Ormea's eye and hers? —Could fly the court with me and live content? So—this it is for which the knights assemble! The whispers and the closeting of late, The savageness and insolence of old, —For this!

Polyxena. What mean you?

Charles. How? you fail to catch Their clever plot? I missed it—but could you? These last two months of care to inculcate How dull I am,—with D'Ormea's present visit To prove that, being dull, I might be worse Were I a king—as wretched as now dull— You recognize in it no winding up Of a long plot?

Polyxena. Why should there be a plot?

Charles. The crown's secure now; I should shame the crown— An old complaint; the point is, how to gain My place for one more fit in Victor's eyes, His mistress', the Sebastian's child.

Polyxena. In truth?

Charles. They dare not quite dethrone Sardinia's Prince: But they may descant on my dulness till They sting me into even praying them For leave to hide my head, resign my state, And end the coil. Not see now? In a word, They'd have me tender them myself my rights As one incapable:—some cause for that, Since I delayed thus long to see their drift! I shall apprise the King he may resume My rights this moment.

Polyxena. Pause—I dare not think So ill of Victor.

Charles. Think no ill of him!

Polyxena. —Nor think him, then, so shallow as to suffer His purpose be divined thus easily. And yet—you are the last of a great line; There's a great heritage at stake; new days Seemed to await this newest of the realms Of Europe:—Charles, you must withstand this!

Charles. Ah— You dare not then renounce the splendid court For one whom all the world despises? Speak!

Polyxena. My gentle husband, speak I will, and truth. Were this as you believe, and I once sure Your duty lay in so renouncing rule, I could. . could? Oh, what happiness it were— To live, my Charles, and die alone with you!

Charles. I grieve I asked you. To the Presence, then! D'Ormea acquaints the King by this, no doubt, He fears I am too simple for mere hints, And that no less will serve than Victor's mouth Teaching me in full council what I am. —I have not breathed, I think, these many years!

Polyxena. Why—it may be!—if he desires to wed That woman and legitimate her child—

Charles. You see as much? Oh, let his will have way! You'll not repent confiding in me, love? There's many a brighter spot in Piedmont, far, Than Rivoli. I'll seek him—or, suppose You hear first how I mean to speak my mind? —Loudly and firmly both, this time, be sure! I yet may see your Rhine-land—who can tell? Once away, ever then away! I breathe.

Polyxena. And I too breathe!

Charles. Come, my Polyxena!


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Rh in America, why could he not do the same in Scotland? But I never had the courage to use that argument, though it was often on the tip of my tongue, and instead I agreed with him heartily, adding, with reckless originality, "If the man stuck to his work, and kept away from drink." "Ah!" said he slowly, "the drink! You see, that's just my trouble." He spoke with a simplicity that was touching, looking at me at the same time with something strange and timid in his eye, half ashamed, half sorry, like a good child who knows he should be beaten. You would have said he recognised a destiny to which he was born, and accepted the consequences mildly. Like the merchant Abudah, he was at the same time fleeing from his destiny and carrying it along with him, the whole at an expense of six guineas. As far as I saw, drink, idleness, and incompetency were the three great causes of emigration, and for all of them, and drink first and foremost, this trick of getting transported overseas appears to me the silliest means of cure. You cannot run away from a weakness; you must some time fight it out or perish; and if that be so, why not now, and where you stand? Cœlum non animam. Change Glenlivet for Bourbon, and it is still whisky, only not so good. A sea-voyage will not give a


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trevelyan, Raleigh


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 man the nerve to put aside cheap pleasure; emigration has to be done before we climb the vessel; an aim in life is the only fortune worth the finding; and it is not to be found in foreign lands, but in the heart itself. Speaking generally, there is no vice of this kind more contemptible than another; for each is but a result and outward sign of a soul tragically ship-wrecked. In the majority of cases, cheap pleasure is resorted to by way of anodyne. The pleasure-seeker sets forth upon life with high and difficult ambitions; he meant to be nobly good and nobly happy, though at as little pains as possible to himself; and it is because all has failed in his celestial enterprise that you now behold him rolling in the garbage. Hence the comparative success of the teetotal pledge; because to a man who had nothing it sets at least a negative aim in life. Somewhat as prisoners beguile their days by taming a spider, the reformed drunkard makes an interest out of abstaining from intoxicating drinks, and may live for that negation. There is something, at least, not to be done each day; and a cold triumph awaits him every evening. We had one on board with us, whom I have already referred to under the name of Mackay, who seemed to me not only a good instance of this failure in life of which we have been speaking, but


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Rh a good type of the intelligence which here surrounded me. Physically he was a small Scotsman, standing a little back as though he were already carrying the elements of a corporation, and his looks somewhat marred by the smallness of his eyes. Mentally, he was endowed above the average. There were but few subjects on which he could not converse with understanding and a dash of wit; delivering himself slowly and with gusto, like a man who enjoyed his own sententiousness. He was a dry, quick, pertinent debater, speaking with a small voice, and swinging on his heels to launch and emphasise an argument. When he began a discussion, he could not bear to leave it off, but would pick the subject to the bone, without once relinquishing a point. An engineer by trade, Mackay believed in the unlimited perfectibility of all machines except the human machine. The latter he gave up with ridicule for a compound of carrion and perverse gases. He had an appetite for disconnected facts which I can only compare to the savage taste for beads. What is called information was indeed a passion with the man, and he not only delighted to receive it, but could pay you back in kind.

With all these capabilities, here was Mackay, already no longer young, on his way to a new country, with no prospects, no money, and but little


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48 hope. He was almost tedious in the cynical disclosures of his despair. "The ship may go down for me," he would say, "now or to-morrow. I have nothing to lose and nothing to hope." And again: "I am sick of the whole damned performance." He was, like the kind little man already quoted, another so-called victim of the bottle. But Mackay was miles from publishing his weakness to the world; laid the blame of his failure on corrupt masters and a corrupt State policy; and after he had been one night overtaken and had played the buffoon in his cups, sternly, though not without tact, suppressed all reference to his escapade. It was a treat to see him manage this; the various jesters withered under his gaze, and you were forced to recognise in him a certain steely force, and a gift of command which might have ruled a senate. In truth it was not whisky that had ruined him; he was ruined long before for all good human purposes but conversation. His eyes were sealed by a cheap, school-book materialism. He could see nothing in the world but money and steam-engines. He did not know what you meant by the word happiness. He had forgotten the simple emotions of childhood, and perhaps never encountered the delights of youth. He believed in production, that useful figment of economy, as if it had been real like laughter; and production, without prejudice to


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trevelyan, Walter Calverley


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trevenen, James


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Treveris, Peter


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Rh liquor, was his god and guide. One day he took me to task—a novel cry to me—upon the over-payment of literature. Literary men, he said, were more highly paid than artisans; yet the artisan made threshing-machines and butter-churns, and the man of letters, except in the way of a few useful handbooks, made nothing worth the while. He produced a mere fancy article. Mackay's notion of a book was Hoppus's Measurer. Now in my time I have possessed and even studied that work; but if I were to be left to-morrow on Juan Fernandez, Hoppus's is not the book that I should choose for my companion volume.

I tried to fight the point with Mackay. I made him own that he had taken pleasure in reading books otherwise, to his view, insignificant; but he was too wary to advance a step beyond the admission. It was in vain for me to argue that here was pleasure ready-made and running from the spring, whereas his ploughs and butter-churns were but means and mechanisms to give men the necessary food and leisure before they start upon the search for pleasure; he jibbed and ran away from such conclusions. The thing was different, he declared, and nothing was serviceable but what had to do with food. "Eat, eat, eat!" he cried; "that's the bottom and the top." By an odd irony of circumstance, he grew so much interested in this


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trevisa, John de


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50 discussion that he let the hour slip by unnoticed and had to go without his tea. He had enough sense and humour, indeed he had no lack of either, to have chuckled over this himself in private; and even to me he referred to it with the shadow of a smile. Mackay was a hot bigot. He would not hear of religion. I have seen him waste hours of time in argument with all sort of poor human creatures who understood neither him nor themselves, and he had had the boyishness to dissect and criticise even so small a matter as the riddler's definition of mind. He snorted aloud with zealotry and the lust for intellectual battle. Anything, whatever it was, that seemed to him likely to discourage the continued passionate production of corn and steam-engines he resented like a conspiracy against the people. Thus, when I put in the plea for literature, that it was only in good books, or in the society of the good, that a man could get help in his conduct, he declared I was in a different world from him. "Damn my conduct!" said he. "I have given it up for a bad job. My question is, 'Can I drive a nail?' And he plainly looked upon me as one who was insidiously seeking to reduce the people's annual bellyful of corn and steam-engines.

It may be argued that these opinions spring from the defect of culture; that a narrow and pinching


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trevithick, Richard


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92 feeling to his face. "Well!" they would say: "still writing?" And the smile would widen into a laugh. The purser came one day into the cabin, and, touched to the heart by my misguided industry, offered me some other kind of writing, "for which," he added pointedly, "you will be paid." This was nothing else than to copy out the list of passengers. Another trick of mine which told against my reputation was my choice of roosting-place in an active draught upon the cabin floor. I was openly jeered and flouted for this eccentricity; and a considerable knot would sometimes gather at the door to see my last dispositions for the night. This was embarrassing, but I learned to support the trial with equanimity.

Indeed I may say that, upon the whole, my new position sat lightly and naturally upon my spirits. I accepted the consequences with readiness, and found them far from difficult to bear. The steerage conquered me; I conformed more and more to the type of the place, not only in manner but at heart, growing hostile to the officers and cabin passengers who looked down upon me, and day by day greedier for small delicacies. Such was the result, as I fancy, of a diet of bread and butter, soup and porridge. We think we have no sweet tooth as long as we are full to the brim of molasses; but a man


text:
Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Johnson, Sir William

JOHNSON, SIR WILLIAM, a British officer; born in Warrentown, County Meath, Ireland, in 1715. In 1738 Johnson established himself as the manager of the estates of his uncle (Admiral Sir Peter Warren), on the S. side of the Mohawk river, about 27 miles from Schenectady, N. Y. Here he speedily gained the confidence of the surrounding Indians, learned their language, and was adopted as a sachem by the Mohawks. In 1743 he was appointed by the British government chief superintendent of the Indians, and in 1750, a member of the provincial council. At the close of the war with the French, in 1753, Johnson threw up his commission, and retired to his fortified residence, called Fort Johnson. In 1755 he met and destroyed the French army under Baron Dieskau, at

Fort George. In recognition of his services, Johnson was presented by the English government with a grant of 100,000 acres of land in the valley of the Mohawk, where he built the village of Johnstown, which became in 1772 the capital of Tryon county. He died near Johnstown, N. Y., July 4, 1774.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trevor, Arthur Hill-


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Rh must have sojourned in the workhouse before he boasts himself indifferent to dainties. Every evening, for instance, I was more and more preoccupied about our doubtful fare at tea. If it was delicate my heart was much lightened; if it was but broken fish I was proportionally downcast. The offer of a little jelly from a fellow-passenger more provident than myself caused a marked elevation in my spirits. And I would have gone to the ship's end and back again for an oyster or a chipped fruit. In other ways I was content with my position. It seemed no disgrace to be confounded with my company; for I may as well declare at once I found their manners as gentle and becoming as those of any other class. I do not mean that my friends could have sat down without embarrassment and laughable disaster at the table of a duke. That does not imply an inferiority of breeding, but a difference of usage. Thus I flatter myself that I conducted myself well among my fellow-passengers; yet my most ambitious hope is not to have avoided faults, but to have committed as few as possible. I know too well that my tact is not the same as their tact, and that my habit of a different society constituted, not only no qualification, but a positive disability to move easily and becomingly in this. When Jones complimented me—because I "managed to behave very pleasantly" to my


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Trevor, George


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94, was how he put it—I could follow the thought in his mind, and knew his compliment to be such as we pay foreigners on their proficiency in English. I dare say this praise was given me immediately on the back of some unpardonable solecism, which had led him to review my conduct as a whole. We are all ready to laugh at the ploughman among lords; we should consider also the case of a lord among the ploughmen. I have seen a lawyer in the house of a Hebridean fisherman; and I know, but nothing will induce me to disclose, which of these two was the better gentleman. Some of our finest behaviour, though it looks well enough from the boxes, may seem even brutal to the gallery. We boast too often manners that are parochial rather than universal; that, like a country wine, will not bear transportation for a hundred miles, nor from the parlour to the kitchen. To be a gentleman is to be one all the world over, and in every relation and grade of society. It is a high calling, to which a man must first be born, and then devote himself for life. And, unhappily, the manners of a certain so-called upper grade have a kind of currency, and meet with a certain external acceptation throughout all the others, and this tends to keep us well satisfied with slight acquirements and the amateurish accomplishments of a clique. But manners, like art, should be human and central.


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 TO

HORACE HOWARD FURNESS


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Rh Some of my fellow-passengers, as I now moved among them in a relation of equality, seemed to me excellent gentlemen. They were not rough, nor hasty, nor disputatious; debated pleasantly, differed kindly; were helpful, gentle, patient, and placid. The type of manners was plain, and even heavy; there was little to please the eye, but nothing to shock; and I thought gentleness lay more nearly at the spring of behaviour than in many more ornate and delicate societies. I say delicate, where I cannot say refined; a thing may be fine, like ironwork, without being delicate, like lace. There was here less delicacy; the skin supported more callously the natural surface of events, the mind received more bravely the crude facts of human existence; but I do not think that there was less effective refinement, less consideration for others, less polite suppression of self. I speak of the best among my fellow-passengers; for in the steerage, as well as in the saloon, there is a mixture. Those, then, with whom I found myself in sympathy, and of whom I may therefore hope to write with a greater measure of truth, were not only as good in their manners, but endowed with very much the same natural capacities, and about as wise in deduction, as the bankers and barristers of what is called society. One and all were too much interested in disconnected facts, and loved information for its own sake with too rash


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96 a devotion; but people in all classes display the same appetite as they gorge themselves daily with the miscellaneous gossip of the newspaper. Newspaper reading, as far as I can make out, is often rather a sort of than an act of culture. I have myself palmed off yesterday's issue on a friend, and seen him re-peruse it for a continuance of minutes with an air at once refreshed and solemn. Workmen, perhaps, pay more attention; but though they may be eager listeners, they have rarely seemed to me either willing or careful thinkers. Culture is not measured by the greatness of the field which is covered by our knowledge, but by the nicety with which we can perceive relations in that field, whether great or small. Workmen, certainly those who were on board with me, I found wanting in this quality or habit of the mind. They did not perceive relations, but leaped to a so-called cause, and thought the problem settled. Thus the cause of everything in England was the form of government, and the cure for all evils was, by consequence, a revolution. It is surprising how many of them said this, and that none should have had a definite thought in his head as he said it. Some hated the Church because they disagreed with it; some hated Lord Beaconsfield because of war and taxes; all hated the masters, possibly with reason. But these feelings were not at the root of the matter; the true


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Rh reasoning of their souls ran thus—I have not got on; I ought to have got on; if there was a revolution I should get on. How? They had no idea. Why? Because—because—well, look at America!

To be politically blind is no distinction; we are all so, if you come to that. At bottom, as it seems to me, there is but one question in modern home politics, though it appears in many shapes, and that is the question of money; and but one political remedy, that the people should grow wiser and better. My workmen fellow-passengers were as impatient and dull of hearing on the second of these points as any member of Parliament; but they had some glimmerings of the first. They would not hear of improvement on their part, but wished the world made over again in a crack, so that they might remain improvident and idle and debauched, and yet enjoy the comfort and respect that should accompany the opposite virtues; and it was in this expectation, as far as I could see, that many of them were now on their way to America. But on the point of money they saw clearly enough that inland politics, so far as they were concerned, were reducible to the question of annual income; a question which should long ago have been settled by a revolution, they did not know how, and which they were now about to settle for themselves, once


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98 more they knew not how, by crossing the Atlantic in a steamship of considerable tonnage.

And yet it has been amply shown them that the second or income question is in itself nothing, and may as well be left undecided, if there be no wisdom and virtue to profit by the change. It is not by a man's purse, but by his character, that he is rich or poor. Barney will be poor, Alick will be poor, Mackay will be poor; let them go where they will, and wreck all the governments under heaven, they will be poor until they die. Nothing is perhaps more notable in the average workman than his surprising idleness, and the candour with which he confesses to the failing. It has to me been always something of a relief to find the poor, as a general rule, so little oppressed with work. I can in consequence enjoy my own more fortunate beginning with a better grace. The other day I was living with a farmer in America, an old frontiersman, who had worked and fought, hunted and farmed, from his childhood up. He excused himself for his defective education on the ground that he had been overworked from first to last. Even now, he said, anxious as he was, he had never the time to take up a book. In consequence of this, I observed him closely; he was occupied for four or, at the extreme outside, for five hours out of the twenty-four, and then principally in walking; and


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Rh the remainder of the day he passed in born idleness, either eating fruit or standing with his back against a door. I have known men do hard literary work all morning, and then undergo quite as much physical fatigue by way of relief as satisfied this powerful frontiersman for the day. He, at least, like all the educated class, did so much homage to industry as to persuade himself he was industrious. But the average mechanic recognises his idleness with effrontery; he has even, as I am told, organized it. I give the story as it was told me, and it was told me for a fact. A man fell from a housetop in the city of Aberdeen, and was brought into hospital with broken bones. He was asked what was his trade, and replied that he was a tapper. No one had ever heard of such a thing before; the officials were filled with curiosity; they besought an explanation. It appeared that when a party of slaters were engaged upon a roof, they would now and then be taken with a fancy for the public-house. Now a seamstress, for example, might slip away from her work and no one be the wiser; but if these fellows adjourned, the tapping of the mallets would cease, and thus the neighbourhood be advertised of their defection. Hence the career of the tapper. He has to do the tapping and keep up an industrious bustle on the housetop during the absence of the


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100 slaters. When he taps for only one or two, the thing is child's-play, but when he has to represent a whole troop, it is then that he earns his money in the sweat of his brow. Then must he bound from spot to spot, reduplicate, triplicate, sexduplicate [sic] his single personality, and swell and hasten his blows, until he produce a perfect illusion for the ear, and you would swear that a crowd of emulous masons were continuing merrily to roof the house. It must be a strange sight from an upper window.

I heard nothing on board of the tapper; but I was astonished at the stories told by my companions. Skulking, shirking, malingering, were all established tactics, it appeared. They could see no dishonesty where a man who is paid for an hour's work gives half an hour's consistent idling in its place. Thus the tapper would refuse to watch for the police during a burglary, and call himself an honest man. It is not sufficiently recognised that our race detests to work. If I thought that I should have to work every day of my life as hard as I am working now, I should be tempted to give up the struggle. And the workman early begins on his career of toil. He has never had his fill of holidays in the past, and his prospect of holidays in the future is both distant and uncertain. In the circumstances, it would require a high


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Greathed, William Wilberforce Harris


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Greatheed, Bertie


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Rh degree of virtue not to snatch alleviations for the moment. There were many good talkers on the ship; and I believe good talking of a certain sort is a common accomplishment among working men. Where books are comparatively scarce, a greater amount of information will be given and received by word of mouth; and this tends to produce good talkers, and, what is no less needful for conversation, good listeners. They could all tell a story with effect. I am sometimes tempted to think that the less literary class show always better in narration; they have so much more patience with detail, are so much less hurried to reach the points, and preserve so much juster a proportion among the facts. At the same time their talk is dry; they pursue a topic ploddingly, have not an agile fancy, do not throw sudden lights from unexpected quarters, and when the talk is over they often leave the matter where it was. They mark time instead of marching. They think only to argue, not to reach new conclusions, and use their reason rather as a weapon of offence than as a tool for self-improvement. Hence the talk of some of the cleverest was unprofitable in result, because there was no give and take; they would grant you as little as possible for premise, and begin to dispute under an oath to conquer or to die.

But the talk of a workman is apt to be more


text:
Author:Joseph Shield Nicholson

Works

 * Effects of Machinery on Wages (1878)
 * Tenant's Gain not Landlord's Loss (1883)
 * The Silver Question (1886)
 * Money and Monetary Problems (1888)
 * 1891: 'The Living Capital of the United Kingdom'. In: The Economic Journal, Vol. 1, p. 95 - 107
 * Historical Progress and Ideal Socialism (1894)
 * Strikes and Social Problems (1896)
 * Elements of Political Economy (1903)
 * History of the English Corn Laws (1904)
 * Rates and Taxes (1905)
 * Rents, Wages, and Profits in Agriculture and Rural Depopulation (1906)
 * A Project of Empire (1909)
 * Tales from Ariosto (1913)
 * Life and Genius of Ariosto (1914)
 * War finance (1917)

Novels

 * A Dreamer of Dreams (1889)
 * Thoth: A Romance (1888)
 * Toxar (1890)

title: Author:Joseph Shield Nicholson


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102 than that of a wealthy merchant, because the thoughts, hopes, and fears of which the workman's life is built lie nearer to necessity and nature. They are more immediate to human life. An income calculated by the week is a far more human thing than one calculated by the year, and a small income, simply from its smallness, than a large one. I never wearied listening to the details of a workman's economy, because every item stood for some real pleasure. If he could afford pudding twice a week, you knew that twice a week the man ate with genuine gusto and was physically happy; while if you learn that a rich man has seven courses a day, ten to one the half of them remain untasted, and the whole is but misspent money and a weariness to the flesh.

The difference between England and America to a working man was thus most humanly put to me by a fellow-passenger: "In America," said he, "you get pies and puddings." I do not hear enough, in economy books, of pies and pudding. A man lives in and for the delicacies, adornments, and accidental attributes of life, such as pudding to eat and pleasant books and theatres to occupy his leisure. The bare terms of existence would be rejected with contempt by all. If a man feeds on bread and butter, soup and porridge, his appetite grows wolfish after dainties. And the workman


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Greatorex, Ralph


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Greatorex, Thomas


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Rh dwells in a borderland, and is always within sight of those cheerless regions where life is more difficult to sustain than worth sustaining. Every detail of our existence, where it is worth while to cross the ocean after pie and pudding, is made alive and enthralling by the presence of genuine desire; but it is all one to me whether Crœsus has a hundred or a thousand thousands in the bank. There is more adventure in the life of the working man who descends as a common soldier into the battle of life, than in that of the millionaire who sits apart in an office, like Von Moltke, and only directs the manœuvres by telegraph. Give me to hear about the career of him who is in the thick of the business; to whom one change of market means an empty belly, and another a copious and savoury meal. This is not the philosophical, but the human side of economics; it interests like a story; and the life of all who are thus situated partakes in a small way of the charm of Robinson Crusoe; for every step is critical, and human life is presented to you naked and verging to its lowest terms.


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 S we drew near to New York I was at first amused, and then somewhat staggered, by the cautious and the grisly tales that went the round. You would have thought we were to land upon a cannibal island. You must speak to no one in the streets, as they would not leave you till you were rooked and beaten. You must enter a hotel with military precautions; for the least you had to apprehend was to awake next morning without money or baggage, or necessary raiment, a lone forked radish in a bed; and if the worst befell, you would instantly and mysteriously disappear from the ranks of mankind.

I have usually found such stories correspond to the least modicum of fact. Thus I was warned, I remember, against the roadside inns of the Cévennes, and that by a learned professor; and when I reached Pradelles the warning was explained—it was but the far-away rumour and reduplication of a single terrifying story already half a century old, and half forgotten in the theatre of the events. So I was tempted to make light of these reports against America. But we


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Rh had on board with us a man whose evidence it would not do to put aside. He had come near these perils in the body; he had visited a robber inn. The public has an old and well-grounded favour for this class of incident, and shall be gratified to the best of my power. My fellow-passenger, whom we shall call M'Naughten, had come from New York to Boston with a comrade, seeking work. They were a pair of rattling blades; and, leaving their baggage at the station, passed the day in beer-saloons, and with congenial spirits, until midnight struck. Then they applied themselves to find a lodging, and walked the streets till two, knocking at houses of entertainment and being refused admittance, or themselves declining the terms. By two the inspiration of their liquor had begun to wear off; they were weary and humble, and after a great circuit found themselves in the same street where they had begun their search, and in front of a French hotel where they had already sought accommodation. Seeing the house still open, they returned to the charge. A man in a white cap sat in an office by the door. He seemed to welcome them more warmly than when they had first presented themselves, and the charge for the night had somewhat unaccountably fallen from a dollar to a quarter. They thought him ill-looking, but paid


text:
Bells and Pomegranates, First Series/King Victor and King Charles/1730/II

FIRST YEAR 1730.—KING VICTOR.

Part II.

Enter, ''bearing the regalia on a cushion from his apartment. He calls loudly.''

Victor. D'Ormea!—for patience fails me, treading thus Among the trains that I have laid,—my knights, Safe in the hall here—in that anteroom, My son,—and D'Ormea where? Of this, one touch— [Laying down the crown.] This fire-ball to these mute, black, cold trains—then! Outbreak enough! [Contemplating it.] To lose all, after all! This—glancing o'er my house for ages—shaped, Brave meteor, like the Crown of Cyprus now— Jerusalem, Spain, England—every change The braver,—and when I have clutched a prize My ancestry died wan with watching for, To lose it!—by a slip—a fault—a trick Learnt to advantage once, and not unlearnt When past the use,—"just this once more" (I thought) "Use it with Spain and Austria happily, "And then away with trick!"—An oversight I'd have repaired thrice over, any time These fifty years, must happen now! There's peace At length; and I, to make the most of peace, Ventured my project on our people here, As needing not their help—which Europe knows, And means, cold-blooded, to dispose herself (Apart from plausibilities of war) To crush the new-made King—who ne'er till now Feared her. As Duke, I lost each foot of earth And laughed at her: my name was left, my sword Left, all was left! But she can take, she knows, This crown, herself conceded . . .                                  That's to try, Kind Europe! My career's not closed as yet! This boy was ever subject to my will— Timid and tame—the fitter! D'Orinea, too— What if the sovereign's also rid of thee, His prime of parasites?—Yet I delay! D'Ormea! [As D'Ormea enters, the King seats himself.] My son, the Prince—attends he?

D'Ormea. Sire, He does attend. The crown prepared!—it seems That you persist in your resolve.

Victor. Who's come? The chancellor and the chamberlain? My knights?

D'Ormea. The whole Annunciata.—If, my liege, Your fortunes had not tottered worse than now. ..

Victor. Del Borgo has drawn up the schedules? mine— My son's too? Excellent! Only, beware Of the least blunder, or we look but fools. First, you read the Annulment of the Oaths; Del Borgo follows. . no, the Prince shall sign; Then let Del Borgo read the Instrument— On which, I enter.—

D'Ormea. Sire, this may be truth; You, sire, may do as you affect—may break Your engine, me, to pieces: try at least If not a spring remains worth saving! Take My counsel as I've counselled many times! What if the Spaniard and the Austrian threat? There's England, Holland, Venice—which ally Select you?

Victor. Aha! Come, my D'Ormea,—"truth" Was on your lip a minute since. Allies? I've broken faith with Venice, Holland, England. —As who knows if not you?

D'Ormea. But why with me Break faith—with one ally, your best, break faith?

Victor. When first I stumbled on you, Marquis—('twas At Mondovi—a little lawyer's clerk . . .)

D'Ormea. . . . Therefore your soul's ally!—who brought you through Your quarrel with the Pope, at pains enough— Who've simply echoed you in these affairs— On whom you cannot, therefore, visit these Affairs' ill fortune—whom you'll trust to guide You safe (yes, on my soul) in these affairs!

Victor. I was about to notice, had you not Prevented me, that since that great town kept With its chicane my D'Ormea's satchel stuffed, And D'Ormea's self sufficiently recluse, He missed a sight,—my naval armament When I burnt Toulon. How the skiff exults Upon the galliot's wave!—rises its height, O'ertops it even; but the great wave bursts— And hell-deep in the horrible profound Buries itself the galliot:—shall the skiff Think to escape the sea's black trough in turn? Apply this: you have been my minister —Next me—above me, possibly;—sad post, Huge care, abundant lack of peace of mind; Who would desiderate the eminence? You gave your soul to get it—you'd yet give Your soul to keep it, as I mean you shall, My D'Ormea! What if the wave ebbed with me? Whereas it cants you to another's crest— I toss you to my son; ride out your ride!

D'Ormea. Ah, you so much despise me then?

Victor. You, D'Ormea? Nowise: and I'll inform you why. A king Must in his time have many ministers, And I've been rash enough to part with mine When I thought proper. Of the tribe, not one ( . . Or wait, did Pianezze? . . ah, just the same!) Not one of them, ere his remonstrance reached The length of yours, but has assured me (commonly, Standing much as you stand,—or nearer, say, The door to make his exit on his speech) —I should repent of what I did: now, D'Ormea, (Be candid—you approached it when I bade you Prepare the schedules! But you stopped in time) —You have not so assured me: how should I Despise you, then?

[Enter Charles.]

Victor. [changing his tone] Are you instructed? Do My order, point by point! About it, sir!

D'Ormea. You so despise me? [Aside.] One last stay remains— The boy's discretion there, [to Charles.] For your sake, Prince, I pleaded—wholly in your interest— To save you from this fate!

Charles. [Aside.]               Must I be told The Prince was supplicated for—by him?

Victor. [to D'Ormea.] Apprise Del Borgo, Spava, and the rest, Our son attends them; then return.

D'Ormea. One word.

Charles. [Aside.] A moment's pause and they would drive me hence, I do believe!

D'Ormea. [Aside.] Let but the boy be firm!

Victor. You disobey?

Charles. [to D'Ormeo.]                                 You do not disobey Me, D'Ormea? Did you promise that or no?

D'Ormea. Sir, I am yours—what would you? Yours am I!

Charles. When I have said what I shall say, 'tis like Your face will ne'er again disgust me. Go! Through you, as through a breast of glass, I see. And for your conduct, from my youth till now, Take my contempt! You might have spared me much, Secured me somewhat, nor so harmed yourself— That's over now. Go—ne'er to come again!

D'Ormea. As son, the father—father as, the son! My wits! My wits! [Goes.]

Victor. [Seated.]    And you, what meant you, pray, By speaking thus to D'Ormea?

Charles. Let us not Weary ourselves with D'Ormea! Those few words Have half unsettled what I came to say. His presence vexes to my very soul.

Victor. One called to manage kingdoms, Charles, needs heart To bear up under worse annoyances Than D'Ormea seems—to me, at least.

Charles. [Aside.]                       Ah, good! He keeps me to the point! Then be it so. [Aloud.] Last night, Sire, brought me certain papers—these— To be reported on,—your way of late. Is it last night's result that you demand?

Victor. For God's sake, what has night brought forth? Pronounce The. . what's your word?—result!

Charles. Sire, that had proved, Quite worthy of your sneers, no doubt:—a few Lame thoughts, regard for you alone could wring, Lame as they are, from brains, like mine, believe! As 'tis, sire, I am spared both toil and sneer. There are the papers.

Victor. Well, sir? I suppose You hardly burned them. Now for your result!

Charles. I never should have done great things of course, But. . oh, my father, had you loved me more. ..

Victor. Loved you? [Aside.] Has D'Ormea played me false, I wonder? [Aloud.] Why, Charles, a king's love is diffused—yourself May overlook, perchance, your part in it. Our monarchy is absolutest now In Europe, or my trouble's thrown away: I love, my mode, that subjects each and all May have the power of loving, all and each, Their mode: I doubt not, many have their sons To trifle with, talk soft to, all day long— I have that crown, this chair, and D'Ormea, Charles!

Charles. 'Tis well I am a subject then, not you.

Victor. [Aside.] D'Ormea has told him every thing. [Aloud.] Aha I apprehend you: when all's said, you take Your private station to be prized beyond My own, for instance?

Charles. —Do and ever did So take it: 'tis the method you pursue That grieves. ..

Victor. These words! Let me express, my friend, Your thought. You penetrate what I supposed A secret. D'Ormea plies his trade betimes! I purpose to resign my crown to you.

Charles. To me?

Victor. Now—in that chamber.

Victor. You resign The crown to me?

Victor. And time enough, Charles, sure? Confess with me, at four-and-sixty years A crown's a load. I covet quiet once Before I die, and summoned you for that.

Charles. 'Tis I will speak: you ever hated me, I bore it,—have insulted me, borne too— Now you insult yourself, and I remember What I believed you, what you really are, And cannot bear it. What! My life has passed Under your eye, tormented as you know,— Your whole sagacities, one after one, At leisure brought to play on me—to prove me A fool, I thought, and I submitted; now You'd prove. . . what would you prove me?

Victor. This to me? I hardly know you!

Charles. Know me? Oh, indeed You do not! Wait till I complain next time Of my simplicity!—for here's a sage— Knows the world well—is not to be deceived— And his experience, and his Macchiavels, His D'Ormeas, teach him—what?—that I, this while, Have envied him his crown! He has not smiled, I warrant,—has not eaten, drunk, nor slept, For I was plotting with my Princess yonder! Who knows what we might do, or might not do? Go, now—be politic—astound the world!— That sentry in the antechamber. . nay, The varlet who disposed this precious trap [Pointing to the crown] That was to take me—ask them if they think Their own sons envy them their posts!—Know me!

Victor. But you know me, it seems; so learn in brief My pleasure. This assembly is convened. ..

Charles. Tell me, that women put it in your head— You were not sole contriver of the scheme, My father!

Victor. Now observe me, sir! I jest Seldom—on these points, never. Here, I say, The Knights assemble to see me concede, And you accept, Sardinia's crown.

Charles. Farewell! 'Twere vain to hope to change this—I can end it. Not that I cease from being yours, when sunk Into obscurity. I'll die for you, But not annoy you with my presence—Sire, Farewell! Farewell!

[Enter D'Ormea.]

D'Ormea. [Aside.]       Ha, sure he's changed again— Means not to fall into the cunning trap— Then, Victor, I shall yet escape you, Victor!

Victor. [Suddenly placing the crown upon the head of Charles.] D'Ormea, your King! [To Charles.]  My son, obey me. Charles, Your father, clearer-sighted than yourself, Decides it must be so. 'Faith, this looks real! My reasons after—reason upon reason After—but now, obey me! Trust in me! By this, you save Sardinia, you save me! Why the boy swoons! [To D'Ormea.] Come this side!

D'Ormea. [as Charles turns from him to Victor.] You persist?

Victor. Yes—I conceive the gesture's meaning. 'Faith, He almost seems to hate you—how is that? Be reassured, my Charles! Is't over now? Then, Marquis, tell the new King what remains To do! A moment's work. Del Borgo reads The Act of Abdication out, you sign it, Then I sign; after that, come back to me.

D'Ormea. Sire, for the last time, pause!

Victor. Five minutes longer I am your sovereign, Marquis. Hesitate— And I'll so turn those minutes to account That. . . Ay, you recollect me! [Aside.] Could I bring My foolish mind to undergo the reading That Act of Abdication! [As Charles motions D'ormea to precede him.] Thanks, dear Charles!

[Charles and D'Ormea retire.]

Victor. A novel feature in the boy,—indeed Just what I feared he wanted most. Quite right, This earnest tone—your truth, now, for effect! It answers every purpose: with that look, That voice,—I hear him: "I began no treaty," (He speaks to Spain,) "Nor ever dreamed of this "You show me; this I from my soul regret; "But if my father signed it, bid not me "Dishonour him—who gave me all, beside." And, "truth," says Spain, "'twere harsh to visit that "Upon the Prince." Then come the nobles trooping: "I grieve at these exactions—I had cut "This hand off ere impose them; but shall I "Undo my father's deed?"—And they confer: "Doubtless he was no party, after all; "Give the Prince time!"—                       Ay, give us time—but time! Only, he must not, when the dark day comes, Refer our friends to me and frustrate all. We'll have no child's play, no desponding-fits, No Charles at each cross turn entreating Victor To take his crown again. Guard against that!

[Enter D'Ormea.]

Long live King Charles!— No—Charles's counsellor! Well, is it over, Marquis? Did I jest?

D'Ormea. "King Charles!" What then may you be?

Victor. Any thing! A country gentleman that's cured of bustle, And beats a quick retreat toward Chambery To hunt and hawk, and leave you noisy folk To drive your trade without him. I'm Count Remont— Count Tende—any little place's Count!

D'Ormea. Then, Victor, Captain against Catinat, At Staffarde, where the French beat you; and Duke At Turin, where you beat the French; King, late, Of Savoy, Piedmont, Montferrat, Sardinia, —Now, "any little place's Count"—

Victor. Proceed!

D'Ormea. Breaker of vows to God, who crowned you first; Breaker of vows to Man, who kept you since; Most profligate to me, who outraged God And Man to serve you, and am made pay crimes I was but privy to, by passing thus To your imbecile son—who, well you know, Must, (when the people here, and nations there, Clamour for you, the main delinquent, slipt From King to—Count of any little place) —Surrender me, all left within his reach,— I, sir, forgive you: for I see the end— See you on your return (you will return) To him you trust in for the moment. ..

Victor. How? Trust in him? (merely a prime-minister This D'Ormea!) How trust in him?

D'Ormea. In his fear— His love,—but pray discover for yourself What you are weakest, trusting in!

Victor. Aha, My D'Ormea, not a shrewder scheme than this In your repertory? You know old Victor— Vain, choleric, inconstant, rash—(I've heard Talkers who little thought the King so close) Felicitous, now, were't not, to provoke him To clean forget, one minute afterward, His solemn act—to call the nobles back And pray them give again the very power He has abjured!—for the dear sake of—what? Vengeance on you! No, D'Ormea: such am I, Count Tende or Count any thing you please, —Only, the same that did the things you say, And, among other things you say not, used Your finest fibre, meanest muscle,—you I used, and now, since you will have it so, Leave to your fate—mere lumber in the midst, You and your works—Why, what on earth beside Are you made for, you sort of ministers?

D'Ormea. Not left, though, to my fate! Your witless son Has more wit than to load himself with lumber: He foils you that way, and I follow you.

Victor. Stay with my son—protect the weaker side!

D'Ormea. Ay, be tossed to the people like a rag, And flung by them to Spain and Austria—so Abolishing the record of your part In all this perfidy!

Victor. Prevent, beside, My own return!

D'Ormea. That's half prevented now! 'Twill go hard but you'll find a wondrous charm In exile to discredit me. The Alps— Silk-mills to watch—vines asking vigilance— Hounds open for the stag—your hawk's a-wing— Brave days that wait the Louis of the South, Italy's Janus!

Victor. So, the lawyer's clerk Won't tell me that I shall repent!

D'Ormea. You give me Full leave to ask if you repent?

Victor. Whene'er, Sufficient time's elapsed for that, you judge!

[Shouts inside: "King Charles."]

D'Ormea. Do you repent?

Victor. [After a slight pause.] . . . I've kept them waiting? Yes! Come in—complete the Abdication, sir!

[''They go out. Enter Polyxena.'']

Polyxena. A shout? The sycophants are free of Charles! Oh, is not this like Italy? No fruit Of his or my distempered fancy, this— But just an ordinary fact! Beside, Here they've set forms for such proceedings—Victor Imprisoned his own mother—he should know, If any, how a son's to be deprived Of a son's right. Our duty's palpable. Ne'er was my husband for the wily king And the unworthy subjects—be it so! Come you safe out of them, my Charles! Our life Grows not the broad and dazzling life, I dreamed Might prove your lot—for strength was shut in you None guessed but I—strength which, untrammelled once, Had little shamed your vaunted ancestry— Patience and self-devotion, fortitude, Simplicity and utter truthfulness —All which, they shout to lose! So, now my work Begins—to save him from regret. Save Charles Regret?—the noble nature! He's not made Like the Italians: 'tis a German soul.

[Charles enters crowned.]

Oh, where's the King's heir? Gone:—the Crown-prince? Gone— Where's Savoy? Gone:—Sardinia? Gone'!—But Charles Is left! And when my Rhine-land bowers arrive, If he looked almost handsome yester-twilight As his gray eyes seemed widening into black Because I praised him, then how will he look? Farewell, you stripped and whited mulberry-trees Bound each to each by lazy ropes of vine! Now I'll teach you my language—I'm not forced To speak Italian now, Charles? [She sees the crown.]     What is this? Answer me—who has done this? Answer!

Charles. He! I am King now.

Polyxena. Oh worst, worst, worst of all! Tell me—what, Victor? He has made you King? What's he then? What's to follow this? You, King?

Charles. Have I done wrong? Yes—for you were not by!

Polyxena. Tell me from first to last.

Charles. Hush—a new world Brightens before me; he is moved away —The dark form that eclipsed it, he subsides Into a shape supporting me like you, And I, alone, tend upward, more and more Tend upward: I am grown Sardinia's King.

Polyxena. Now stop: was not this Victor, Duke of Savoy At ten years old?

Charles. He was.

Polyxena. And the Duke spent Since then, just four-and-fifty years in toil To be—what?

Charles. King.

Polyxena. Then why unking himself?

Charles. Those years are cause enough.

Polyxena. The only cause?

Charles. Some new perplexities.

Polyxena. Which you can solve, Although he cannot?

Charles. He assures me so.

Polyxena. And this he means shall last—how long?

Charles. How long? Think you I fear the perils I confront? He's praising me before the people's face— My people!

Polyxena. Then he's changed—grown kind, the King? (Where can the trap be?)

Charles. Heart and soul I pledge! My father, could I guard the Crown you gained, Transmit as I received it,—all good else Would I surrender!

Polyxena. Ah, it opens then Before you—all you dreaded formerly? You are rejoiced to be a king, my Charles?

Charles. So much to dare? The better;—much to dread? The better. I'll adventure tho' alone. Triumph or die, there's Victor still to witness Who dies or triumphs—either way, alone!

Polyxena. Once I had found my share in triumph, Charles, Or death.

Charles. But you are I! But you I call To take, Heaven's proxy, vows I tendered Heaven A moment since. I will deserve the crown!

Polyxena. You will. [Aside.] No doubt it were a glorious thing For any people, if a heart like his Ruled over it. I would I saw the trap!

[Enter Victor.]

'Tis he must show me.

Victor. So the mask falls off An old man's foolish love at last! Spare thanks— I know you, and Polyxena I know. Here's Charles—I am his guest now—does he bid me Be seated? And my light-haired, blue-eyed child Must not forget the old man far away At Chambery, who dozes while she reigns.

Polyxena. Most grateful shall we now be, talking least. Of gratitude—indeed of any thing That hinders what yourself must have to say To Charles.

Charles. Pray speak, Sire!

Victor. 'Faith, not much to say— Only what shows itself, once in the point Of sight. You are now the King: you'll comprehend Much you may oft have wondered at—the shifts, Dissimulation, willingness I showed. For what's our post? Here's Savoy and here's Piedmont, Here's Montferrat—a breadth here, a space there— To o'ersweep all these, what's one weapon worth? I often think of how they fought in Greece (Or Rome, which was it? You're the scholar, Charles!) You made a front-thrust? But if your shield, too, Were not adroitly planted—some shrewd knave Reached you behind; and, him foiled, straight if thong And handle of that shield were not cast loose, And you enabled to outstrip the wind, Fresh foes assailed you, either side; 'scape these, And reach your place of refuge—e'en then, odds If the gate opened unless breath enough Was left in you to make its lord a speech. Oh, you will see!

Charles. No: straight on shall I go, Truth helping; win with it or die with it.

Victor. 'Faith, Charles, you're not made Europe's fighting-man! Its barrier-guarder, if you please. You hold, Not take—consolidate, with envious French This side, with Austrians that, these territories I held—ay, and will hold. . . which you shall hold Despite the couple! But I've surely earned Exemption from these weary politics, —The privilege to prattle with my son And daughter here, tho' Europe waits the while.

Polyxena. Nay, Sire,—at Chambery, away forever, As soon you'll be, 'tis a farewell we bid you! Turn these few fleeting moments to account! 'Tis just as though it were a death.

Victor. Indeed!

Polyxena. [Aside.] Is the trap there?

Charles. Ay, call this parting—death! The sacreder your memory becomes. If I misrule Sardinia, how bring back My father? No—that thought shall ever urge me.

Victor. I do not mean. ..

Polyxena. [who watches Victor narrowly this while.] Your father does not mean That you are ruling for your father's sake: It is your people must concern you wholly Instead of him. You meant this, Sire? (He drops My hand!)

Charles. That People is now part of me.

Victor. About the People! I took certain measures Some short time since. . Oh, I'm aware you know But little of my measures—these affect The nobles—we've resumed some grants, imposed A tax or two; prepare yourself, in short, For clamours on that score: mark me: you yield No jot of what's intrusted you!

Polyxena. No jot You yield!

Charles. My father, when I took the oath, Although my eye might stray in search of yours, I heard it, understood it, promised God What you require. Till from this eminence He moves me, here I keep, nor shall concede The meanest of my rights.

Victor. [Aside.]             The boy's a fool! —Or rather, I'm a fool: for, what's wrong here? To-day the sweets of reigning—let to-morrow Be ready with its bitters.

[Enter D'Ormea.]

There's beside Somewhat to press upon your notice first.

Charles. Then why delay it for an instant, Sire? That Spanish claim, perchance? And, now you speak, —This morning, my opinion was mature— Which, boy-like, I was bashful in producing To one, I ne'er am like to fear, in future! My thought is formed upon that Spanish claim.

Victor. (Betimes, indeed.) Not now, Charles. You require A host of papers on it—

D'Ormea. [coming forward.]  Here they are. [To Charles.] I was the minister and much beside— Of the late monarch: to say little, him I served; on you I have, to say e'en less, No claim. This case contains those papers: with them I tender you my office.

Victor. [hastily.] Keep him, Charles! There's reason for it—many reasons: you Distrust him, nor are so far wrong there,—but He's mixed up in this matter—he'll desire To quit you, for occasions known to me: Do not accept those, reasons—have him stay!

Polyxena. [Aside.] His minister thrust on us!

Charles. [to D'Ormea.]                      Sir, believe, In justice to myself, you do not need E'en this commending: whatso'er might be My feelings toward you as a private man, They quit me in the vast and untried field Of action. Though I shall, myself, (as late In your own hearing I engaged to do) Preside o'er my Sardinia, yet your help Is necessary. Think the past forgotten, And serve me now!

D'Ormea. I did not offer you My services—would I could serve you, Sire! As for the Spanish matter. ..

Victor. But despatch At least the dead, in my good daughter's phrase, Before the living! Help to house me safe Ere you and D'Ormea set the world a-gape! Here is a paper—will you overlook What I propose reserving for my needs? I get as far from you as possible. There's what I reckon my expenditure.

Charles. [reading.] A miserable fifty thousand crowns!

Victor. Oh, quite enough for country gentlemen! Beside the exchequer happens. . . but find out All that, yourself!

Charles. [still reading.]   "Count Tende"—what means this?

Victor. Me: you were but an infant when I burst Through the defile of Tende upon France. Had only my allies kept true to me! No matter. Tende's then, a name I take Just as. . ,

D'Ormea. —The Marchioness Sebastian takes The name of Spigno.

Charles. How, sir?

Victor. [to D'Ormea.] Fool! All that Was for my own detailing. [To Charles.] That anon!

Charles. [to D'Ormea.] Explain what you have said, sir!

D'Ormea. I supposed The marriage of the King to her I named, Profoundly kept a secret these few weeks, Was not to be one, now he's Count.

Polyxena. [Aside.]                       With us The minister—with him the mistress!

Charles. [to Victor.]                   No— Tell me you have not taken her—that woman To live with, past recall!

Victor, And where's the crime. ..

Polyxena. [to Charles.] True, sir, this is a matter past recall, And past your cognizance. A day before, And you had been compelled to note this—now Why note it? The King saved his House from shame: What the Count does, is no concern of yours.

Charles. [after a pause.] The Spanish business, D'Ormea!

Victor. Why, my son, I took some ill-advised. . . one's age, in fact, Spoils every thing: though I was overreached, A younger brain, we'll trust, may extricate Sardinia readily. To-morrow, D'Ormea, Inform the King!

D'Ormea. [without regarding Victor, and leisurely.] Thus stands the case with Spain: "When first the Infant Carlos claimed his proper Succession to the throne of Tuscany . ..

Victor. I tell you, that stands over! Let that rest! There is the policy!

Charles. [to D'Ormea.]   Thus much I know, And more—too much: the remedy?

D'Ormea. Of course! No glimpse of one—

Victor. No remedy at all! It makes the remedy itself—time makes it.

D'Ormea. [to Charles.] But if...

Victor. [still more hastily.] In fine, I shall take care of that— And, with another project that I have. ..

D'Ormea. [turning on him.] Oh, since Count Tende means to take again King Victor's crown!—

Polyxena. [throwing herself at Victor's feet.] E'en now retake it, Sire! Oh, speak! We are your subjects both, once more! Say it—a word effects it! You meant not, Nor do mean now, to take it—but you must! 'Tis in you—in your nature—and the shame's Not half the shame 'twould grow to afterward!

Charles. Polyxena!

Polyxena. A word recalls the Knights— Say it!—What's promising and what's the past? Say you are still King Victor!

D'Ormea. Better say The Count repents, in brief!

[Victor rises.]

Charles. With such a crime I have not charged you, Sire!

Polyxena. Charles turns from me!


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106 their quarter apiece, and were shown up-stairs to the top of the house. There, in a small room, the man in the white cap wished them pleasant slumbers. It was furnished with a bed, a chair, and some conveniences. The door did not lock on the inside; and the only sign of adornment was a couple of framed pictures, one close above the head of the bed, and the other opposite the foot, and both curtained, as we may sometimes see valuable water-colours, or the portraits of the dead, or works of art more than usually skittish in the subject. It was perhaps in the hope of finding something of this last description that M'Naughten's comrade pulled aside the curtain of the first. He was startlingly disappointed. There was no picture. The frame surrounded, and the curtain was designed to hide, an oblong aperture in the partition, through which they looked forth into the dark corridor. A person standing without could easily take a purse from under the pillow, or even strangle a sleeper as he lay abed. M'Naughten and his comrade stared at each other like Vasco's seamen, "with a wild surmise"; and then the latter, catching up the lamp, ran to the other frame and roughly raised the curtain. There he stood, petrified; and M'Naughten, who had followed, grasped him by the wrist in terror. They could see into another


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 Rh room, larger in size than that which they occupied, where three men sat crouching and silent in the dark. For a second or so these five persons looked each other in the eyes, then the curtain was dropped, and M'Naughten and his friend made but one bolt of it out of the room and down-stairs. The man in the white cap said nothing as they passed him; and they were so pleased to be once more in the open night that they gave up all notion of a bed, and walked the streets of Boston till the morning.

No one seemed much cast down by these stories, but all inquired after the address of a respectable hotel; and I, for my part, put myself under the conduct of Mr. Jones. Before noon of the second Sunday we sighted the low shores outside of New York harbour; the steerage passengers must remain on board to pass through Castle Garden on the following morning; but we of the second cabin made our escape along with the lords of the saloon; and by six o'clock Jones and I issued into West Street, sitting on some straw in the bottom of an open baggage-wagon. It rained miraculously; and from that moment till on the following night I left New York, there was scarce a lull, and no cessation of the downpour. The roadways were flooded; a loud strident noise of falling water filled the air; the restaurants smelt heavily of wet people and wet clothing.


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108 It took us but a few minutes, though it cost us a good deal of money, to be rattled along West Street to our destination: "Reunion House, No. 10 West Street, one minute's walk from Castle Garden; convenient to Castle Garden, the Steamboat Landings, California Steamers and Liverpool Ships; Board and Lodging per day 1 dollar, single meals 25 cents, lodging per night 25 cents; private rooms for families; no charge for storage or baggage; satisfaction guaranteed to all persons; Michael Mitchell, Proprietor." Reunion House was, I may go the length of saying, a humble hostelry. You entered through a long bar-room, thence passed into a little dining-room, and thence into a still smaller kitchen. The furniture was of the plainest; but the bar was hung in the American taste, with encouraging and hospitable mottoes.

Jones was well known; we were received warmly; and two minutes afterwards I had refused a drink from the proprietor, and was going on, in my plain European fashion, to refuse a cigar, when Mr. Mitchell sternly interposed, and explained the situation. He was offering to treat me, it appeared; whenever an American bar-keeper proposes anything, it must be borne in mind that he is offering to treat; and if I did not want a drink, I must at least take the cigar. I took it bashfully, feeling I had begun my American career on the wrong foot.


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 Rh I did not enjoy that cigar; but this may have been from a variety of reasons, even the best cigar often failing to please if you smoke three-quarters of it in a drenching rain. For many years America was to me a sort of promised land; "westward the march of empire holds its way"; the race is for the moment to the young; what has been and what is we imperfectly and obscurely know; what is to be yet lies beyond the flight of our imaginations. Greece, Rome, and Judæa are gone by for ever, leaving to generations the legacy of their accomplished work; China still endures, an old-inhabited house in the brand-new city of nations; England has already declined, since she has lost the States; and to these States, therefore, yet undeveloped, full of dark possibilities, and grown, like another Eve, from one rib out of the side of their own old land, the minds of young men in England turn naturally at a certain hopeful period of their age. It will be hard for an American to understand the spirit. But let him imagine a young man, who shall have grown up in an old and rigid circle, following by-gone fashions and taught to distrust his own fresh instincts, and who now suddenly hears of a family of cousins, all about his own age, who keep house together by themselves and live far from restraint and tradition; let him imagine this, and he will have some imperfect notion


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Author:Edward Williams Byron Nicholson

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title: Author:Edward Williams Byron Nicholson


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Page:The Amateur Emigrant-The Silverado Squatters.djvu/130

110 of the sentiment with which spirited English youths turn to the thought of the American Republic. It seems to them as if, out west, the war of life was still conducted in the open air, and on free barbaric terms; as if it had not yet been narrowed into parlours, nor begun to be conducted, like some unjust and dreary arbitration, by compromise, costume, forms of procedure, and sad, senseless self-denial. Which of these two he prefers, a man with any youth still left in him will decide rightly for himself. He would rather be houseless than denied a pass-key; rather go without food than partake of a stalled ox in stiff, respectable society; rather be shot out of hand than direct his life according to the dictates of the world. He knows or thinks nothing of the Maine Laws, the Puritan sourness, the fierce, sordid appetite for dollars, or the dreary existence of country towns. A few wild story-books which delighted his childhood form the imaginative basis of his picture of America. In course of time, there is added to this a great crowd of stimulating details—vast cities that grow up as by enchantment; the birds, that have gone south in autumn, returning with the spring to find thousands camped upon their marshes, and the lamps burning far and near along populous streets; forests that disappear like snow; countries larger than Britain that are cleared and settled, one


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118 Old Goodman's farm is rank sea sand,

And was this thousand year;

But it shall turn to rich plough land

Before I change my dear!

Oh! Fairfield Church is water-bound

From autumn to the spring;

But it shall turn to high hill ground

Before my bells do ring!

Oh! leave me walk on the Brookland Road,

In the thunder and warm rain—

Oh! leave me look where my love goed,

And p'raps I'll see her again!

Low down—low down!

Where the liddle green lanterns shine—

O maids, I've done with 'ee all but one,

And she can never be mine!


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Rh man running forth with his household gods before another, while the bear and the Indian are yet scarce aware of their approach; oil that gushes from the earth; gold that is washed or quarried in the brooks or glens of the Sierras; and all that bustle, courage, action, and constant kaleidoscopic change that Walt Whitman has seized and set forth in his vigorous, cheerful, and loquacious verses. Here I was at last in America, and was soon out upon New York streets, spying for things foreign. The place had to me an air of Liverpool; but such was the rain that not Paradise itself would have looked inviting. We were a party of four, under two umbrellas; Jones and I and two Scots lads, recent immigrants, and not indisposed to welcome a compatriot. They had been six weeks in New York, and neither of them had yet found a single job or earned a single halfpenny. Up to the present they were exactly out of pocket by the amount of the fare. The lads soon left us. Now I had sworn by all my gods to have such a dinner as would rouse the dead; there was scarce any expense at which I should have hesitated; the devil was in it but Jones and I should dine like heathen emperors. I set to work, asking after a restaurant; and I chose the wealthiest and most gastronomical-looking passers-by to ask from. Yet, although I had told


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The New International Encyclopædia/Johnson, Robert Underwood

JOHNSON, (1853—). An American poet and editor, born at Washington, D. C., January 12, 1853. He joined the staff of the Century Magazine in 1873 and became associate editor in 1881. He early became noted for his services in behalf of international copyright, as secretary of the American Copyright League doing much to secure the passage of the law of 1891, for which he was decorated by the French and Italian governments. His writings include much occasional verse and three volumes: The Winter Hare and Other Poems (1891), and Songs of Liberty and Other Poems (1897). With C. C. Buel he edited the well-known Century articles relating to the Civil War afterwards published as Battles and Leaders of the Civil War (1887-88) — one of the most valuable compilations dealing with the subject.


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112 them I was willing to pay anything in reason, one and all sent me off to cheap, fixed-price houses, where I would not have eaten that night for the cost of twenty dinners. I do not know if this were characteristic of New York, or whether it was only Jones and I who looked un-dinerly and discouraged enterprising suggestions. But at length, by our own sagacity, we found a French restaurant, where there was a French waiter, some fair French cooking, some so-called French wine, and French coffee to conclude the whole. I never entered into the feelings of Jack on land so completely as when I tasted that coffee.

I suppose we had one of the "private rooms for families" at Reunion House. It was very small, furnished with a bed, a chair, and some clothes-pegs; and it derived all that was necessary for the life of the human animal through two borrowed lights; one looking into the passage, and the second opening without sash, into another apartment, where three men fitfully snored, or in intervals of wakefulness, drearily mumbled to each other all night long. It will be observed that this was almost exactly the disposition of the room in M'Naughten's story. Jones had the bed; I pitched my camp upon the floor; he did not sleep until near morning, and I, for my part, never closed an eye. At sunrise I heard a cannon fired; and shortly


text: Rewards and Fairies/Brookland Road

title: Rewards and Fairies/Brookland Road