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{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = The spider's most attenuated thread Is cord, is cable, to man's tender tie On earthly bliss; it breaks at every breeze. Young—Night Thoughts. Night 1. L. 178.

BLOOD

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = Le sang qui vient de se repandre, est-il done si pur? Was the blood which has been shed then so pure? Antoine Barnave, on hearing a criticism of the murder of Foulon and Bartier. (1790) | topic = | page = }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = Blut ist ein ganz besondrer Saft. Blood is a juice of rarest quality. Goethe—Faust. I. 4. 214. | note = | topic = | page = 73 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = Blud's thicker than water. Scott|Scott]]—Guy Mannering. Ch. XXXVIII. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 73 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = Hands across the sea Feet on English ground, The old blood is bold blood, the wide world round. Byron Webber—Hands across the Sea. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 73 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = Blood is thicker than water. Attributed to Commodore Tattnall. See Eleventh Ed. of Encyclopedia Britannica in notice of Tattnall. Vincent S. Lean stated in Notes and Queries. Seventh S. XIII. 114, he had found the proverb in the British Museum copy of the 1797 Ed. of Allan Ramsay's. Collection,. (First Ed,. 1737)

BLUEBELL ! s Campanula rotundifolia Hang-head Bluebell, Bending like Moses' sister over Moses, Full of a secret that thou dar'st not tell! George MacDonald—Wild Flowers. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 73 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = Oh! roses and lilies are fair to see; But the wild bluebell is the flower for me. Louisa A. Meredith—The Bluebell. L. 178. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 73 }}

BLUEBIRD

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = "So the Bluebirds have contracted, have they, for a house? And a next is under way for little Mr. Wren?" "Hush, dear, hush! Be quiet, dear! quiet as a mouse. These are weighty secrets, and we must whisper them." | author = Susan Coolidge | work = Secrets. | place = | note = | topic = | page = 73 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = In the thickets and the meadows Piped the bluebird, the Owaissa. On the summit of the lodges Sang the robin, the Opechee. | author = Longfellow | work = Hiawatha. Pt. XXI. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 73 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = Whither away, Bluebird, Whither away? The blast is chill, yet in the upper sky Thou still canst find the color of thy wing, The hue of May. Warbler, why speed thy southern flight? ah, why, Thou too, whose song first told us of the Spring? Whither away? E. C. Stedman—The Flight of the Birds. BLUSHES An Arab, by his earnest gaze, Has clothed a lovely maid with blushes; A smile within his eyelids plays And into words his longing gushes. Wm. R.Alger—Oriental Poetry. Love Sowing and Reaping Roses. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 73 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = Girls blush, sometimes, because they are alive, Half wishing they were dead to save the shame. The sudden blush devours them, neck and brow; They have drawn too near the fire of life, like gnats, And flare up bodily, wings and all. E. B. Browning—Aurora Leigh. | place = Bk. II. L. 732. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 73 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = So sweet the blush of bashfulness, E'en pity scarce can wish it less! Byron—Bride of Abydos. Canto 1. St. 8 Blushed like the waves of hell. | author = Byron | work = Devil's Drive. St. 5. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 73 }}

{{Hoyt quote | num = | text = 'Tis not on youth's smooth cheek the blush alone, which fades so fast, But the tender bloom of heart is gone, ere youth itself be past. | author = Byron | work = Stanzas for Music. | topic = | page = 73 }}


text: The Fables of Florian (tr. Phelps)/The Learned Collegians

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


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 EPITAPH EQUALITY Now when the number of my years Is all fulfilled and I From sedentary life Shall rouse me up to die, Bury me low and let me lie Under the wide and starry sky. Joying to lire, I joyed to die, Bury me low and let me lie. Stevenson. Poem written, 1879. Probably original of his Requiem. | author = | work = | place = | note = | topic = | page = 235 }}

) | topic = | page = }}


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Rh and from the east the small brook dances into Taw Marsh. Beside the latter, on the slopes, are numerous pounds and hut circles, and near its source is a stone circle, of which the best uprights have been carried off for gateposts. South of it is a menhir, the Whitmoor Stone, leaning, as the ground about it is marshy. Cosdon, or, as it is incorrectly called occasionally, Cawsand, is a huge rounded hill ascending to 1,785 feet, crowned with dilapidated cairns and ruined kistvaens. East of the summit, near the turf track from South Zeal, is a cairn that contained three kistvaens. One is perfect, one wrecked, and of the third only the space remained and indications whence the slabs had been torn. From these three kistvaens in one mound start three stone rows that are broken through by the track, but can be traced beyond it for some way; they have been robbed, as the householders of South Zeal have been of late freely inclosing large tracts of their common, and have taken the stones for the construction of walls about their fields. By ascending the Taw, Cranmere Pool may be reached, but is only so far worth the visit that the walk to and from it gives a good insight into the nature of the central bogs. The pool is hardly more than a puddle. Belstone church is not interesting; it was rebuilt, all but the tower, in 1881. Under Cosdon nestles Sticklepath. "Stickle" is the Devonshire for steep. Here is a holy well near an inscribed stone. A second inscribed stone is by the roadside to Okehampton. At Belstone are two more, but none of these bear names. They are

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150 monuments of the sixth, or at latest seventh, century. At Sticklepath was a curious old cob thatched chapel, but this has been unnecessarily destroyed, and a modern erection of no interest or

beauty has taken its place. South Zeal is an interesting little village, through which ran the old high-road, but which is now left on one side. For long it was a treasury of interesting old houses; many have disappeared recently, but the "Oxenham Arms," the seat of the Burgoyne family, remains, the fine old village cross, and the chapel, of granite.

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 THE BEACON BIOGRAPHIES

EDITED BY

JOHN JAMES AUDUBON

BY

JOHN BURROUGHS


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 96 "Death of a Pirate," and other sketches. Stopping at Charleston, South Carolina, on this southern trip, he made the acquaintance of the Reverend John Bachman, and a friendship between these two men was formed that lasted as long as they both lived. Subsequently, Audubon's sons, Victor and John, married Dr. Bachmans two eldest daughters.

In the summer of 1832, Audubon, accompanied by his wife and two sons, made a trip to Maine and New Brunswick, going very leisurely by private conveyance through these countries, studying the birds, the people, the scenery, and gathering new material for his work. His diaries give minute accounts of these journeyings. He was impressed by the sobriety of the people of Maine; they seem to have had a "Maine law" at that early date; "for on asking for brandy, rum, or whiskey, not a drop could I obtain." He saw much


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''The pioneer in American ornithology was Alexander Wilson, a Scotch weaver and poet, who emigrated to this country in 1794, and began the publication of his great work upon our birds in 1808. He figured and described three hundred and twenty species, fifty-six of them new to science. His death occurred in 1813, before the publication of his work had been completed.'' ''But the chief of American ornithologists was John James Audubon. Audubon did not begin where Wilson left off. He was also a pioneer, beginning his studies and drawings of the birds probably as early as Wilson did his, but he planned larger and lived longer. He spent the greater part of his long life in the pursuit of ornithology, and was of a more versatile, flexible, and artistic nature than was Wilson. He was collecting the material for his work at the same time that Wilson was collecting his,''


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x ''but he did not begin the publication of it till fourteen years after Wilson's death. Both men went directly to Nature and underwent incredible hardships in exploring the woods and marshes in quest of their material. Audubon's rambles were much wider, and extended over a much longer period of time. Wilson, too, contemplated a work upon our quadrupeds, but did not live to begin it. Audubon was blessed with good health, length of years, a devoted and self-sacrificing wife, and a buoyant, sanguine, and elastic disposition. He had the heavenly gift of enthusiasm—a passionate love for the work he set out to do. He was a natural hunter, roamer, woodsman; as unworldly as a child, and as simple and transparent. We have had better trained and more scientific ornithologists since his day, but none with his abandon and poetic fervour in the study of our birds.'' ''Both men were famous pedestrians and often walked hundreds of miles at a stretch. They were natural explorers and voyagers.''


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Rh ''They loved Nature at first hand, and not merely as she appears in books and pictures. They both kept extensive journals of their wanderings and observations. Several of Audubon's (recording his European experiences) seem to have been lost or destroyed, but what remain make up the greater part of two large volumes recently edited by his grand-daughter, Maria E. Audubon.'' ''I wish here to express my gratitude both to Miss Audubon, and to Messrs. Charles Scribner's Sons, for permitting me to draw freely from the "Life and Journals" just mentioned. The temptation is strong to let Audubon's graphic and glowing descriptions of American scenery, and of his tireless wanderings, speak for themselves.''

It is from these volumes, and from the life by his widow, published in 1868, that I have gathered the material for this brief biography.

Audubon's life naturally divides itself into three periods: his youth, which was on the whole a gay and happy one, and which


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


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xii lasted till the time of his marriage at the age of twenty-eight; his business career which followed, lasting ten or more years, and consisting mainly in getting rid of the fortune his father had left him; and his career as an ornithologist which, though attended with great hardships and privations, brought him much happiness and, long before the end, substantial pecuniary rewards. ''His ornithological tastes and studies really formed the main current of his life from his teens onward. During his business ventures in Kentucky and elsewhere this current comes to the surface more and more, absorbed more and more of his time and energies, and carried him further and further from the conditions of a successful business career.'' J. B.

January, 1902.


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 As a youth Audubon was an unwilling student of books; as a merchant and mill owner in Kentucky he was an unwilling man of business, but during his whole career, at all times and in all places, he was more than a willing student of ornithology—he was an eager and enthusiastic one. He brought to the pursuit of the birds, and to the study of open air life generally, the keen delight of the sportsman, united to the ardour of the artist moved by beautiful forms. He was not in the first instance a man of science, like Cuvier, or Agassiz, or Darwin—a man seeking exact knowledge; but he was an artist and a back-woodsman, seeking adventure, seeking the gratification of his tastes, and to put on record his love of the birds. He was the artist of the birds before he was their historian; the writing of their


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138 seems to have been only secondary with him. He had the lively mercurial temperament of the Latin races from which he sprang. He speaks of himself as "warm, irascible, and at times violent." His perceptive powers, of course, led his reflective. His sharpness and quickness of eye surprised even the Indians. He says: "My observatory nerves never gave way."

His similes and metaphors were largely drawn from the animal world. Thus he says, "I am as dull as a beetle," during his enforced stay in London. While he was showing his drawings to Mr. Rathbone, he says: "I was panting like the wingèd pheasant." At a dinner in some noble house in England he said that the men servants "moved as quietly as killdeers." On another occasion, when the hostess failed to put him at his ease: "There I stood, motionless as a Heron."


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Rh With all his courage and buoyancy, Audubon was subject to fits of depression, probably the result largely of his enforced separation from his family. On one occasion in Edinburgh he speaks of these attacks, and refers pathetically to others he had had: "But that was in beloved America, where the ocean did not roll between me and my wife and sons."

Never was a more patriotic American. He loved his adopted country above all other lands in which he had journeyed. Never was a more devoted husband, and never did wife more richly deserve such devotion than did Mrs. Audubon. He says of her: "She felt the pangs of our misfortune perhaps more heavily than I, but never for an hour lost her courage; her brave and cheerful spirit accepted all, and no reproaches from her beloved lips ever wounded my heart. With her was I not always rich?" "The waiting time, my brother, is the hardest time of all."


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140 While Audubon was waiting for better luck, or for worse, he was always listening to the birds and studying them—storing up the knowledge that he turned to such good account later: but we can almost hear his neighbours and acquaintances calling him an "idle, worthless fellow." Not so his wife; she had even more faith in him than he had in himself. His was a lovable nature—he won affection and devotion easily, and he loved to be loved; he appreciated the least kindness shown him. He was always at ease and welcome in the squatter's cabin or in elegantly appointed homes, like that of his friends, the Rathbones, though he does complain of an awkwardness and shyness sometimes when in high places. This, however, seemed to result from the pomp and ceremony found there, and not because of the people themselves. "Chivalrous, generous, and courteous


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Rh to his heart's core," says his granddaughter, "he could not believe others less so, till painful experiences taught him; then he was grieved, hurt, but never imbittered; and, more marvellous yet, with his faith in his fellows as strong as ever, again and again he subjected himself to the same treatment."

On one occasion when his pictures were on exhibition in England, some one stole one of his paintings, and a warrant was issued against a deaf mute. "Gladly would I have painted a bird for the poor fellow," said Audubon, "and I certainly did not want him arrested." He was never, even in his most desperate financial straits, too poor to help others more poor than himself. He had a great deal of the old-fashioned piety of our fathers, which crops out abundantly in his pages. While he was visiting a Mr. Bently in Manchester, and after retiring to his room for the night, he was surprised by a knock at his


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142 door. It appeared that his host in passing thought he heard Audubon call to him to ask for something: "I told him I prayed aloud every night, as had been my habit from a child at my mother's knees in Nantes. He said nothing for a moment, then again wished me good night and was gone." Audubon belonged to the early history of the country, to the pioneer times, to the South and the West, and was, on the whole, one of the most winsome, interesting, and picturesque characters that have ever appeared in our annals.


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Rh of the lumbermen and was a deeply interested spectator of their ways and doings. Some of his best descriptive passages are contained in these diaries.

In October he is back in Boston planning a trip to Labrador, and intent on adding more material to his "Birds" by another year in his home country. That his interests abroad in the meantime might not suffer by being entirely in outside hands, he sent his son Victor, now a young man of considerable business experience, to England to represent him there. The winter of 1832 and 1833 Audubon seems to have spent mainly in Boston, drawing and re-drawing and there he had his first serious illness. In the spring of 1833, a schooner was chartered and, accompanied by five young men, his youngest son, John Woodhouse, among them, Audubon started on his Labrador trip, which lasted till the end of summer. It was


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98 an expensive and arduous trip, but was greatly enjoyed by all hands, and was fruitful in new material for his work. Seventy-three bird skins were prepared, many drawings made, and many new plants collected.

The weather in Labrador was for the most part rainy, foggy, cold, and windy, and his drawings were made in the cabin of his vessel, often under great difficulties. He makes this interesting observation upon the Eider duck: "In one nest of the Eider ten eggs were found; this is the most we have seen as yet in any one nest. The female draws the down from her abdomen as far toward her breast as her bill will allow her to do, but the feathers are not pulled, and on examination of several specimens, I found these well and regularly planted, and cleaned from their original down, as a forest of trees is cleared of its undergrowth. In this state the female is still well clothed, and little or no difference


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Rh can be seen in the plumage, unless examined."

He gives this realistic picture of salmon fishermen that his party saw in Labrador: "On going to a house on the shore, we found it a tolerably good cabin, floored, containing a good stove, a chimney, and an oven at the bottom of this, like the ovens of the French peasants, three beds, and a table whereon the breakfast of the family was served. This consisted of coffee in large bowls, good bread, and fried salmon. Three Labrador dogs came and sniffed about us, and then returned under the table whence they had issued, with no appearance of anger. Two men, two women, and a babe formed the group, which I addressed in French. They were French-Canadians and had been here several years, winter and summer, and are agents for the Fur and Fish Co., who give them food, clothes, and about $80 per annum. They have a cow and an


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100 ox, about an acre of potatoes planted in sand, seven feet of snow in winter, and two-thirds less salmon than was caught here ten years since. Then, three hundred barrels was a fair season; now one hundred is the maximum; this is because they will catch the fish both ascending and descending the river. During winter the men hunt Foxes, Martens, and Sables, and kill some bear of the black kind, but neither Deer nor other game is to be found without going a great distance in the interior, where Reindeer are now and then procured. One species of Grouse, and one of Ptarmigan, the latter white at all seasons; the former, I suppose to be, the Willow Grouse. The men would neither sell nor give us a single salmon, saying, that so strict were their orders that, should they sell one, the place might be taken from them. If this should prove the case everywhere, I shall not purchase many for my friends. The furs


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Rh which they collect are sent off to Quebec at the first opening of the waters in spring, and not a skin of any sort was here for us to look at."

He gives a vivid picture of the face of Nature in Labrador on a fine day, under date of July 2: "A beautiful day for Labrador. Drew another M. articus. Went on shore, and was most pleased with what I saw. The country, so wild and grand, is of itself enough to interest any one in its wonderful dreariness. Its mossy, grey-clothed rocks, heaped and thrown together as if by chance, in the most fantastical groups imaginable, huge masses hanging on minor ones as if about to roll themselves down from their doubtful-looking situations, into the depths of the sea beneath. Bays without end, sprinkled with rocky islands of all shapes and sizes, where in every fissure a Guillemot, a Cormorant, or some other wild bird retreats to secure its egg, and raise its young, or save itself


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8 deeds and fates of mankind during the ages which precede direct historical record. It enables us to determine, in the main, both the fact and the degree of relationship subsisting among the different divisions of mankind, and thus to group them together into families, the members of which must have once set forth from a common home, with a common character and a common culture, however widely separated, and however unlike in manners and institutions, we may find them to be, when they first come forth into the light of written history. Upon the study of language is mainly founded the science of ethnology, the science which investigates the genealogy of nations. I say, mainly founded, without wishing to depreciate the claims of physical science in this regard: the relation between linguistic and physical science, and their joint and respective value to ethnology, will be made the subject of discussion at a point further on in our inquiries. But language is also pregnant with information respecting races which lies quite beyond the reach of physical science: it bears within itself plain evidences of mental and moral character and capacity, of degree of culture attained, of the history of knowledge, philosophy, and religious opinion, of intercourse among peoples, and even of the physical circumstances by which those who speak it have been surrounded. It is, in brief, a volume of the most varied historical information to those who know how to read it and to derive the lessons it teaches.

To survey the whole vast field of linguistic science, taking even a rapid view of all the facts it embraces and the results derived from their examination, is obviously beyond our power in a brief series of lectures like the present. I shall not, accordingly, attempt a formally systematic presentation of the subject, laying out its different departments and defining their limits and mutual relations. It will, I am persuaded, be more for our profit to discuss in a somewhat general and familiar way the fundamental facts in the life of language, those which exhibit most clearly its character, and determine the method of its study. We shall thus gain an insight into the nature of linguistic evidence, see how it is elicited from the material containing it, and what and how


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102 from the hunter's pursuit. The peculiar cast of the sky, which never seems to be certain, butterflies flitting over snowbanks, probing beautiful dwarf flowerets of many hues, pushing their tender stems from the thick bed of moss which everywhere covers the granite rocks. Then the morasses, wherein you plunge up to your knees, or the walking over the stubborn, dwarfish shrubbery, making one think that as he goes he treads down the forests of Labrador. The unexpected Bunting, or perhaps Sylvia, which, perchance, and indeed as if by chance alone, you now and then see flying before you, or hear singing from the creeping plants on the ground. The beautiful freshwater lakes, on the rugged crests of greatly elevated islands, wherein the Red and Black-necked Divers swim as proudly as swans do in other latitudes, and where the fish appear to have been cast as strayed beings from the surplus food of the ocean. All—all is wonderfully


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I.] it has force to prove. We shall, in short, endeavour to arrive at an apprehension of the fundamental principles of the science. But we shall also find occasion to glance at the main results accomplished by its means, seeking to understand what language is and what is its value to man, and to recognize the great truths in human history which it has been instrumental in establishing.

In order to these ends, we shall first take up one or two preliminary questions, the discussion of which will show us how language lives and grows, and how it is to be investigated, and will guide us to an understanding of the place which its study occupies among the sciences. We shall then go on to a more detailed examination and illustration of the processes of linguistic growth, and of the manner in which they produce the incessant changes of form and content which language is everywhere and always undergoing. We shall note, further, the various causes which affect the kind and rate of linguistic change. The result of these processes of growth, in bringing about the separation of languages into dialects, will next engage our attention. This will prepare us for a construction of the group of dialects, and the family of more distantly related languages, of which our own English speech is a member, and for an examination and estimate of the evidence which proves them related. The extent and importance, historical and linguistic, of this family will be set forth, and its course of development briefly sketched. We shall next pass in review the other great families into which the known forms of human speech are divided, noticing their most striking characteristics. Then will be taken up certain general questions, of prime interest and importance, suggested by such a review—as the relative value and authority of linguistic and of physical evidence of race, and the bearing of language upon the ultimate question of the unity or variety of the human species. Finally, we shall consider the origin of language, its relation to thought, and its value as an element in human progress. And a recognition of the aid which it receives in this last respect from written and recorded speech will lead us, by way of appendix, to take a cursory


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10 view of the historical development of the art of writing.

The method which we shall follow will be, as much as possible, the analytic rather than the synthetic, the inquiring rather than the dogmatic. We shall strive, above all things, after clearness, and shall proceed always from that which is well-known or obvious to that which is more recondite and obscure, establishing principles by induction from facts which lie within the cognizance of every well-educated person. For this reason, our examples, whether typical or illustrative, will be especially sought among the phenomena of our own familiar idiom; since every living and growing language has that within it which exemplifies the essential facts and principles belonging to all human speech. We shall also avoid, as far as is practicable, the use of figurative, metaphysical, or technical phraseology, endeavouring to talk the language of plain and homely fact. Not a little of the mystery and obscurity which, in the minds of many, invest the whole subject of language, is due to the common employment respecting it of terms founded on analogies instead of facts, and calling up the things they represent surrounded and dimmed by a halo of fancy, instead of presenting sharply cut outlines and distinct lineaments.

The whole subject of linguistic investigation may be conveniently summed up in the single inquiry, "Why do we speak as we do?" The essential character of the study of language, as distinguished from the study of languages, lies in this, that it seeks everywhere, not the facts, but the reasons of them; it asks, not how we speak, or should speak, but for what reason; pursuing its search for reasons back to the very ultimate facts of human history, and down into the very depths of human nature. To cover the whole ground of investigation by this inquiry, it needs to be proposed in more than one sense; as the most fitting introduction to our whole discussion, let us put it first in its plainest and most restricted meaning: namely, why do we ourselves speak the English as our mother-tongue, or native language, instead of any other of the thousand varying forms of speech current among men? It is indeed a simple question, but to


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I.] answer it distinctly and truly will lay the best possible foundation for our further progress, clearing our way of more than one of the imperfect apprehensions, or the misapprehensions, which are apt to encumber the steps of students of language.

The general answer is so obvious as hardly to require to be pointed out: we speak English because we were taught it by those who surrounded us in our infancy and growing age. It is our mother-tongue, because we got it from the lips of our mother; it is our native language, inasmuch as we were born, not indeed into the possession of it, but into the company of those who already spoke it, having learned it in the same way before us. We were not left to our own devices, to work out for ourselves the great problem of how to talk. In our case, there was no development of language out of our own internal resources, by the reflection of phenomena in consciousness, or however else we may choose to describe it; by the action of a natural impulse, shaping ideas, and creating suitable expression for them. No sooner were our minds so far matured as to be capable of intelligently associating an idea and its sign, than we learned, first to recognize the persons and things about us, the most familiar acts and phenomena of our little world, by the names which others applied to them, and then to apply to them the same names ourselves. Thus, most of us learned first of all to stammer the childish words for 'father' and 'mother,' put, for our convenience, in the accents easiest for unpractised lips to frame. Then, as we grew on, we acquired daily more and more, partly by direct instruction, partly by imitation: those who had the care of us contracted their ideas and simplified their speech to suit our weak capacities; they watched with interest every new vocable which we mastered, corrected our numberless errors, explained what we but half understood, checked us when we used longer words and more ambitious phrases than we could employ correctly or wield adroitly, and drilled us in the utterance of sounds which come hard to the beginner. The kind and degree of the training thus given, indeed, varied greatly in different cases, as did the provision made for the necessary wants of


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12 childhood in respect to other matters; as, for instance, the food, the dress, the moral nurture. Just as some have to rough their way by the hardest through the scenes of early life, beaten, half-starved, clad in scanty rags, while yet some care and provision were wholly indispensable, and no child could have lived through infancy without them—so, as concerns language, some get but the coarsest and most meagre instruction, and yet instruction enough to help them through the first stages of learning how to speak. In the least favourable circumstances, there must have been constantly about every one of us in our earliest years an amount and style of speech surpassing our acquirements and beyond our reach, and our acquisition of language consisted in our appropriating more and more of this, as we were able. In proportion as our minds grew in activity and power of comprehension, and our knowledge increased, our notions and conceptions were brought into shapes mainly agreeing with those which they wore in the minds of those around us, and received in our usage the appellations to which the latter were accustomed. On making acquaintance with certain liquids, colourless or white, we had not to go through a process of observation and study of their properties, in order to devise suitable titles for them; we were taught that these were water and milk. The one of them, when standing stagnant in patches, or rippling between green banks, we learned to call, according to circumstances and the preference of our instructors, pool or puddle, and brook or river. An elevation rising blue in the distance, or towering nearer above us, attracted our attention, and drew from us the staple inquiry "What is that?"—the answer, "A mountain," or "A hill," brought to our vocabulary one of the innumerable additions which it gained in a like way. Along with the names of external sensible objects, we thus learned also that practical classification of them which our language recognizes; we learned to distinguish brook and river; hill and mountain; tree, bush, vine, shrub, and plant; and so on, in cases without number. In like manner, among the various acts which we were capable of performing, we were taught to designate certain ones by specific titles: much reproof,


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I.] for instance, doubtless made us early understand what was meant by cry, strike, push, kick, bite, and other names for misdeeds incident to even the best-regulated childhood. How long our own mental states might have remained a confused and indistinct chaos to our unassisted reflection, we do not know; but we were soon helped to single out and recognize by appropriate appellations certain ones among them: for example, a warm feeling of gratification and attachment we were made to signify by the expression love; an inferior degree of the same feeling by like; and their opposite by hate. Long before any process of analysis and combination carried on within ourselves would have given us the distinct conceptions of true and false, of good and naughty, they were carefully set before us, and their due apprehension was enforced by faithful admonition, or by something yet more serious. And not only were we thus assisted to an intelligent recognition of ourselves and the world immediately about us, but knowledge began at once to be communicated to us respecting things beyond our reach. The appellations of hosts of objects, of places, of beings, which we had not seen, and perhaps have not even yet seen, we learned by hearing or by reading, and direct instruction enabled us to attach to them some characteristic idea, more or less complete and adequate. Thus, we had not to cross the ocean, and to coast about and traverse a certain island beyond it, in order to know that there is a country England, and to hold it apart, by specific attributes, from other countries of which we obtained like knowledge by like means.

But enough of this illustration. It is already sufficiently clear that the acquisition of language was one of the steps of our earliest education. We did not make our own tongue, or any part of it; we neither selected the objects, acts, mental states, relations, which should be separately designated, nor devised their distinctive designations. We simply received and appropriated, as well as we could, whatever our instructors were pleased to set before us. Independence of the general usages of speech was neither encouraged nor tolerated in us; nor did we feel tempted toward independence. Our object was to communicate with those among


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User:Ekspiulo/Books/Weird Tales of H.P. Lovecraft

The Complete Tales and Poems

 * Introduction
 * Notes on Writing Weird Fiction


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12 slide down to the bottom again. This would make the inside of my legs and arms feel mighty warm and good. I continued this till daylight in the morning, and how often I climbed up my tree and slid down I don't know, but I reckon at least a hundred times. In the morning I got my bear hung up so as to be safe, and then set out to hunt for my camp. I found it after a while, and McDaniel and my son were very much rejoiced to see me get back, for they were about to give me up for lost. We got our breakfasts, and then secured our meat by building a high scaffold and covering it over. We had no fear of its spoiling, for the weather was so cold that it couldn't. We now started after my other bear, which had caused me so much trouble and suffering; and before we got him we got a start after another, and took him also. We went on to the creek I had crossed the night before, and camped, and then went to where my bear was that I had killed in the crack. When we examined the place, McDaniel said he wouldn't have gone into it, as I did, for all the bears in the woods. We then took the meat down to our camp and salted it, and also the last one we had killed; intending in the morning to make a hunt in the harricane again. We prepared for resting that night, and I can assure the reader I was in need of it. We had laid down by our fire, and about ten o clock there came a most terrible earthquake, which shook the earth so that we rocked about like we had been in a cradle. We were very much alarmed; for though we were accustomed to feel earthquakes, we were now right in the region which had been torn to pieces by them in 1812, and we thought it might take a notion and swallow us up, like the big fish did Jonah. In the morning we packed up and moved to the harricane, where we made another camp, and turned out that evening


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14 whom our lot was cast, to understand them and be understood by them, to learn what their greater wisdom and experience could impart to us. In order to this, we had to think and talk as they did, and we were content to do so. Why such and such a combination of sounds was applied to designate such and such an idea was to us a matter of utter indifference; all we knew or cared to know was that others so applied it. Questions of etymology, of fitness of appellation, concerned us not. What was it to us, for instance, when the answer came back to one of our childish inquiries after names, that the word mountain was imported into our tongue out of the Latin, through the Norman French, and was originally an adjective, meaning 'hilly, mountainous,' while hill had once a g in it, indicating its relationship with the adjective high? We recognized no tie between any word and the idea represented by it excepting a mental association which we had ourselves formed, under the guidance, and in obedience to the example, of those about us. We do, indeed, when a little older, perhaps, begin to amuse ourselves with inquiring into the reasons why this word means that thing, and not otherwise: but it is only for the satisfaction of our curiosity; if we fail to find a reason, or if the reason be found trivial and insufficient, we do not on that account reject the word. Thus every vocable was to us an arbitrary and conventional sign; arbitrary, because any one of a thousand other vocables could have been just as easily learned by us and associated with the same idea; conventional, because the one we acquired had its sole ground and sanction in the consenting usage of the community of which we formed a part.

Race and blood, it is equally evident, had nothing to do directly with determining our language. English descent would never have made us talk English. No matter who were our ancestors; if those about us had said wasser and milch, or eau and lait, or hūdōr and gala, instead of water and milk, we should have done the same. We could just as readily have accustomed ourselves to say lieben or aimer or philein, as love, wahrheit or vérité or alētheia, as truth. And so in every other case. An American or English mother,


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Rh I had laid down my gun in the dark, and I now began to hunt for it; and, while hunting, I got hold of a pole, and I concluded I would punch him awhile with that. I did so, and when I would punch him the dogs would jump in on him, when he would bite them badly, and they would jump out again. I concluded, as he would take punching so patiently, it might be that he would lie still enough for me to get down in the crack and feel slowly along till I could find the right place to give him a dig with my butcher. So I got down, and my dogs got in before him and kept his head towards them, till I got along easily up to him ; and placing my hand on his rump, felt for his shoulder, just behind where I intended to stick him. I made a lunge with my long knife, and fortunately struck him right through the heart, at which he just sank down, and I crawled out in a hurry. In a little time my dogs all come out too, and seemed satisfied, which was the way they always had of telling me that they had finished him. I suffered very much that night with cold, as my leather breeches and everything else I had on was wet and frozen. But I managed to get my bear out of this crack after several hard trials, and so I butchered him and laid down to try to sleep. But my fire was very bad, and I couldn't find anything that would burn well to make it any better; and so I concluded I should freeze if I didn't warm myself in some way by exercise. So I got up and hollered awhile, and then I would just jump up and down with all my might and throw myself into all sorts of motions. But all this wouldn't do; for my blood was now getting cold, and the chills coming all over me. I was so tired too that I could hardly walk; but I thought I would do the best I could to save my life, and then if I died, nobody would be to blame. So I went up to a tree about two feet through, and not a limb on it for thirty feet, and I would climb up to the limbs and then lock my arms together around it and


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10 my way, or anything else. When I got up the hill I found I had passed the dogs; and so I turned and went to them. I found, when I got there, they had treed the bear in a large forked poplar, and it was setting in the fork. I could see the lump, but not plain enough to shoot with any certainty, as there was no moonlight; and so set in to hunting for some dry brush to make me a light; but I could find none, though I could find that the ground was torn mightily to pieces by the cracks. At last I thought I could shoot by guess and kill him; so I pointed as near the lump as I could and fired away. But the bear didn't come; he only dumb up higher and got out on a limb, which helped me to see him better. I now loaded up again and fired, but this time he didn t move at all. I commenced loading for a third fire, but the first thing I knowed, the bear was down among my dogs, and they were fighting all around me. I had my big butcher in my belt, and I had a pair of dressed breeches on. So I took out my knife, and stood, determined, if he should get hold of me, to defend myself in the best way I could. I stood there for some time, and could now and then see a white dog I had, but the rest of them, and the bear, which were dark-colored, I couldn't see at all, it was so miserable dark. They still fought around me, and some times within three feet of me; but at last the bear got down into one of the cracks that the earthquakes had made in the ground, about four feet deep, and I could tell the biting end of him by the hollering of my dogs. So I took my gun and pushed the muzzle of it about, till I thought I had it against the main part of his body, and fired; but it happened to be only the fleshy part of his foreleg. With this he jumped out of the crack, and he and the dogs had another hard fight around me, as before. At last, however, they forced him back into the crack again, as he was when I had shot.


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Littell's Living Age/Volume 182

No. 2349. — July 6, 1889.
Contents.
 * 1) What the Revolution of 1789 did, by Frederic Harrison, Fortnightly Review
 * 2) The French Revolution and War, by Wolsely, Fortnightly Review
 * 3) In a Cleft Stick, Cornhill Magazine
 * 4) Elizabeth of Valois and the Tragedy of Don Carlos – Part II., by Lamington, Blackwood's Magazine
 * 5) The Last of the Southeys, Cornhill Magazine
 * 6) On the Riviera, Blackwood's Magazine
 * 7) England’s Climatic Phenomena, by Lymington, National Review
 * 8) Dr. Nansen’s Journey Across Greenland, Nature
 * 9) Visit to the Sultan, Paris Figaro

Poetry.
 * To One Dead, by E. Nesbit, Argosy
 * A "Discarded" Suit, Cornhill Magazine
 * In Vain!, by Lily Haynes, Academy
 * An Autumn Lyric, by Lebrecht Dreves, translated by Florence Henniker, Blackwood's Magazine

No. 2350. — July 13, 1889.
Contents.
 * 1) The Savage Club, by E. J. Goodman, Contemporary Review
 * 2) A Queer Patron, by R. Hayward, Belgravia
 * 3) The Roman Family, by E. Strachan Morgan, National Review
 * 4) George Crabbe, by George Saintsbury, Macmillan's Magazine
 * 5) Sardina and its Wild Sheep, by E. N. Buxton, Nineteenth Century
 * 6) Dr. Johnson and Charles Lamb, by P. W. Roose, Temple Bar
 * 7) Mount Athos in 1889, by J. P. Mahaffy, Murray's Magazine
 * 8) Not Quite Lost, Chamber's Magazine

Poetry.
 * Delos, by Rennell Rodd, Murray's Magazine
 * The Spectrum, by Cosmo Monkhouse, Academy
 * "Venite", by Arthur L. Salmon, Good Words
 * "There was intoxication in the air", Academy

No. 2352. — July 20, 1889.
Contents.
 * 1) Dr. Johnson as a Radical, by George Birbeck Hill, Contemporary Review
 * 2) A Fool's Task, Cornhill Magazine
 * 3) The Women of Spain, by Emilia Pardo Bazan, Fortnightly Review
 * 4) The "Rejected Address", by Percy Fitzgerald, Gentleman's Magazine
 * 5) An Italian Nun of the Seventeenth Century, by Alfred J. Alexander, National Review
 * 6) Bush Life in New Zealand, by J. Lawson, Gentleman's Magazine
 * 7) La Lisardiere, Spectator
 * 8) South-African Cannibals, Cape Times

Poetry.
 * June, by John Hutton, Sunday Magazine
 * The Old Love and the New, by A. Lang, Blackwood's Magazine
 * Song: to the Winds, by Sidney A. Alexander, English Illustrated Magazine

Miscellany.
 * A Speech of Emperor Nero

No. 2353. — July 27, 1889.
Contents.
 * 1) Sidney, Earl of Godolphin, Edinburgh Review
 * 2) A Few More Words on the Hawaiians and Father Damien, by Edward Clifford, Nineteenth Century
 * 3) Dicky Dawkins: or, The Bookmaker of the Outer Ring, by Jack the Shepherd, Blackwood's Magazine
 * 4) Holland and her Literature in the Seventeenth Century, by George Edmundson, Macmillan's Magazine
 * 5) Samuel Rogers, by John Dennis, Leisure Hour
 * 6) Recent Conversations in a Studio - Part II., by W. W. Story, Blackwood's Magazine
 * 7) The Wife of Moliere, by Gerald Moriarty, Gentleman's Magazine

Poetry.
 * The Cyclopean Eye, by H. Savile Clarke, St. James's Gazette
 * The Patition of the Earth, by Friedrich Schiller, translated by Theodore Martin, Blackwood's Magazine
 * Buried Treasures, by Marie Hedderwick Browne, Chamber's Journal

Miscellany.
 * Bismarck No. 2.

No. 2354. — August 3, 1889.
Contents.
 * 1) Felix Mendelssohn and his Music, London Quarterly Review
 * 2) The Madness of Father Filipe, by Wilfrank Hubbard, Macmillan's Magazine
 * 3) The Ruby Mines of Burma, by Robert Gordon, Asiatic Quarterly Review
 * 4) Sir Charles Danvers - Part III., by Mary Cholmondeley, the author of "The Danvers Jewels", Temple Bar
 * 5) Dr. Johnson on Modern Poetry, by William Watson, National Review
 * 6) The Potato's Place in History, Cornhill Magazine
 * 7) Int he Balkans with Prince Ferdinand, by J. D. Bouchier, Fortnightly Review

Poetry.
 * When the Children are at Rest, by Sarah Doudney, Sunday Magazine
 * Summer, All The Year Round
 * "Forsan et haec Olim Meminisse Juvabit", by John Jervis Beresford, M.A.
 * Triolets, All The Year Round

Miscellany.
 * Effect of Earthquackes on Animals, Nature
 * Opium in China

No. 2355. — August 10, 1889.
Contents.
 * 1) Edward Fitzgerald, by Edmund Gosse, Fortnightly Review
 * 2) Sir Charles Danvers - Part IV., by Mary Cholmondeley, the author of "The Danvers Jewels", Temple Bar
 * 3) The Primitive Home of the Aryans, by A. H. Sayce, Contemporary Review
 * 4) Mr. Dandelow: a Story Half Told, by Augustus Jessopp, Nineteenth Century
 * 5) Handel: his Early Years, by L. E., Temple Bar
 * 6) The Great Indian Desert, by Horace Bell, Asiatic Quarterly Review
 * 7) George Sand at an English School, by J. G. Alger, National Review
 * 8) Discovery of an Assyrian Library 3,500 Years Old, by Professor Sayce
 * 9) Fungi, Month

Poetry.
 * A Ballad of St. Swithun's Day, by Emily H. Hickley, Leisure Hour
 * O Wistful Eyes!, All The Year Round
 * In Secret Places, by Isabella Fyvie Mayo, Good Words

Miscellany.
 * A Rival to Delagoa Bay, Engineering

No. 2356. — August 17, 1889.
Contents.
 * 1) The Ethics of Punishment, by W. S. Lilly, Fortnightly Review
 * 2) Sir Charles Danvers - Part V., by Mary Cholmondeley, the author of "The Danvers Jewels", Temple Bar
 * 3) Isfan to Bushire, by Colonel Mark Sever Bell, V.C., A.D.C., Royal EngineersBlackwood's Magazine
 * 4) Giordano Bruno and New Italy, by Karl Blind, Nineteenth Century
 * 5) Strange Food, Cornhill Magazine
 * 6) Old Venice, by Carvarnon, Murray's Magazine
 * 7) The Marriage of the Chinese Emperor, by W. H. Wilkinson, Asiatic Quarterly Review
 * 8) Pilgrims to Mecca, Cornhill Magazine

Poetry.
 * Young Windebank, by Margaret L. Woods
 * July Dawn, Leisure Hour
 * To the Forgotten Dead, by Margaret L. Woods
 * To Nina (in June), by B. L. Tollemache, Academy

Miscellany.
 * Hidden Treasure in Allahabad

No. 2357. — August 24, 1889.
Contents.
 * 1) William Gifford, by Cyril A. Waters, National Review
 * 2) How H.M. the Shah Travels in Persia, by J. Theodore Bent, Fortnightly Review
 * 3) The Hill-Tribes of Chittagong, by C. T. Buckland, Macmillan's Magazine
 * 4) Mrs. Fenton; a Sketch - Part I., by W. E. Norris, Longman's Magazine
 * 5) Goethe and the French Revolution, by Edward Bowden, Fortnightly Review
 * 6) A House Beautiful, by Mary E. Palgrave, Leisure Hour
 * 7) Charles Kirkpatrick Sharpe, Temple Bar
 * 8) The National Sport of Virginia, by Horace Hutchinson, Longman's Magazine
 * 9) Concerning Cobwebs, Swiss Cross
 * 10) The Low Death-rate in London, Lancet

Poetry.
 * Meadow-Sweet, by Frances Wynne, Longman's Magazine
 * A Warning to New Worlds, by May Kendall, Longman's Magazine
 * "Love and the Maiden", by F. T. Marzials
 * Sunset, by George Morine

Miscellany.
 * Leprosy and the State, Lancet

No. 2358. — August 31, 1889.
Contents.
 * 1) Old Age, Quarterly Review
 * 2) Old Age, Spectator
 * 3) Sir Charles Danvers - Part VI., by Mary Cholmondeley, Temple Bar
 * 4) Phœnician Affinities of Ithaca, by Right Hon. W. E. Gladstone, Nineteenth Century
 * 5) A Frenchman's Impressions of London in the Seventeenth Century, by Arthur Irwin Dasent, National Review
 * 6) The Cruise of the Chrysalis (a Nine-ton Yawl) over the North Sea to Holland, and through Holland, Friesland, and on the Zuyder Zee, by G. Christopher Davies, Blackwood's Magazine
 * 7) Old College Days in Calcutta, by C. T. Buckland, Longman's Magazine
 * 8) Land League Ballads, by C. J. Hamilton, National Review
 * 9) Claret, Universal Review
 * 10) Sword-fish Fishing, Saturday Review

Poetry.
 * The Lime-blossom after Rain, by George Holmes, Spectator
 * The Ringed Dotterel, by E. S., Spectator
 * In Happy Days, by Sir Edwin Arnold,

Miscellany.
 * Chinese Zoological Myths

No. 2359. — September 7, 1889.
Contents.
 * 1) The Papacy: a Revelation and a Prophecy, Contemporary Review
 * 2) The Papacy, Spectator
 * 3) Sir Charles Danvers - Part VII., by Mary Cholmondeley, Temple Bar
 * 4) The French in Germany, by F. Heinr. Geffcken, Nineteenth Century
 * 5) In Macedonia, by D. G. Hogarth, Macmillan's Magazine
 * 6) Seen and Lost, by W. H. Hudson, Longman's Magazine
 * 7) A Modern Novelist, Macmillan's Magazine
 * 8) Giordano Bruno and New Italy, by Walter Pater, Fortnightly Review

Poetry.
 * After Victor Hugo, by C. E. Meetkerke, Belgravia
 * "Spring's messenger we hail", by Michael Field
 * Les Trois Hussards, by G. Nadaud
 * Vates, by Charles Sayle, Blackwood's Magazine

Miscellany.
 * London Fogs

No. 2360. — September 14, 1889.
Contents.
 * 1) Mr. Wallace on Darwinism, by George J. Romanes, F.R.S., Contemporary Review
 * 2) Patience, Cornhill Magazine
 * 3) William Cowper, by J. C. Bailey, Macmillan's Magazine
 * 4) In Praise of the Carnots, by M., Murray's Magazine
 * 5) Some Few Thackerayana, by D. D., National Review
 * 6) Hippolytus Veiled, by Walter Pater, Macmillan's Magazine
 * 7) The Civil List and Grants to the Royal Family, by Henry Dunckley, Contemporary Review
 * 8) Orlando Bridgman Hyman, by an old pupil, Macmillan's Magazine

Poetry.
 * Grudger's Clerk, by Ashton Clair
 * Dream Visions, by Francis Nicholson
 * On the Death of a Child, by Felicia Hemans
 * Song – a Memory, by Alexander Grant, Chamber's Journal
 * So Long Ago, by C. W. B., Blackwood's Magazine

Miscellany.
 * Lepers in Bombay, British Medical Journal
 * The Oxyden Rays in the Solar Spectrum, Science and Art

No. 2361. — September 21, 1889.
Contents.
 * 1) The Duke of Coburg's Memoirs, Quarterly Review
 * 2) Naomi, by Sheldon Clarke, Murray's Magazine
 * 3) The Works of Hendrik Ibsen, by Walter Frewen Lord, Nineteenth Century
 * 4) Apropos of Samuel Rogers, by G. B., Temple Bar
 * 5) The French Revolutionary Calender, by Francis Hitchman, National Review
 * 6) The Art of Conversation, by Ribblesdale, Nineteenth Century
 * 7) French and English, Blackwood's Magazine

Poetry.
 * A Poet's Eightieth Birthday, by Alfred Austin, Spectator
 * A Sibylline Leaf, by Helen Taylor, Children's Hymns
 * "We have no words with which to tell", by George Douglas, Academy

Miscellany.
 * Musical Overstrain, Lancet
 * The Adventages of the Conscription in France, by P. G. Hamerton, in "French and English", Macmillan's Magazine

No. 2362. — September 28, 1889.
Contents.
 * 1) Matthew Arnold, by Lord Chief Justice Coleridge, New Review
 * 2) Only a Joke, by Fabian Bland, Longman's Magazine
 * 3) Roger Bacon, by W. L. Courtney, Fortnightly Review
 * 4) The Minister of Kindrach - Part I., Murray's Magazine
 * 5) A Glimpse into a Jesuit Novitiate, by M. H. Dziewicki, Blackwood's Magazine
 * 6) The Cottager at Home, by Mary Cholmondeley, Murray's Magazine
 * 7) Emerson in Concord, Saturday Review
 * 8) The White Comyn: an Old Tragedy, Spectator

Poetry.
 * Angel Heralds of the Christ, by Felicia Hemans
 * Twilight, by Mary Groghegan, Chamber's Journal
 * A Day in June, All The Year Round
 * The Dial's Shadow, Chamber's Journal
 * The Hut of the Black Swamp, by Henry Kendall, Leaves from an Australian Forest

title: Littell's Living Age/Volume 182


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User talk:ButOnMethItIs

— billinghurst  sDrewth  21:33, 4 December 2010 (UTC)

title: User talk:ButOnMethItIs


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The New International Encyclopædia/Epistolæ Obscurorum Virorum

EPIS'TOLÆ OB'SCURO'RUM VIRO'RUM (Lat., ‘Letters of Obscure Men’). The title of a collection of satirical letters which appeared at Hagenau in 1515, professing to be issued by the Aldine Press at Venice. It purported to be the composition of certain ecclesiastics and professors in Cologne and other places in Rhenish Germany. The letters were directed against the scholastics and monks, and helped in no small degree to bring about the Reformation. The controversy of Reuchlin (q.v.) with the baptized Jew Pfefferkorn concerning the books of the Jews gave the first occasion to the Epistolæ, and probably their title was suggested by the letters to himself from distinguished men which Reuchlin published, under the title Virorum Epistolæ Clarorum ad Reuchlinum Phorcensem (1514), to show that his position in this controversy was approved by the learned. The Epistolæ Obscurorum were addressed to Ortuinus Gratius in Deventer, who had made himself odious to the liberal minds of the time by his arrogant pretension, his determined hostility to the spirit of the age, and his lax morality. On the first appearance of the work it was ascribed to Reuchlin, afterwards to Reuchlin, Erasmus, and Hutten. The first part contained 41 letters, a number which was increased in subsequent editions. It was probably mainly the composition of the distinguished humanist Erotus Rubeanus, who originated the idea. In the composition of the second part (1519) Ulrich von Hutten had much share, but others participated, including Erotus. The Epistolæ were placed in the catalogue of forbidden books by a Papal bull, and this circumstance contributed not a little to spread the work. The classical edition is that by Böcking, Supplementum Ulrici Hutteni Operum, vols. vi., vii. (Leipzig, 1864-70). There is a German translation by Binder (Stuttgart, 1876). Consult: Strauss, Ulrich von Hutten (6th ed., Leipzig, 1895), of which there is an English translation (London, 1874); and Pattison, Essays (Oxford, 1889).


text: The Fables of Florian (tr. Phelps)/The Juggler


text: The Fables of Florian (tr. Phelps)/The Grasshopper


text: The Fables of Florian (tr. Phelps)/The Hedgehog and the Rabbits


text: The Fables of Florian (tr. Phelps)/The White Elephant


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Epistolæ Obscurorum Virorum

EPISTOLÆ OBSCURORUM VIRORUM, ē-pĭs'tō-lē ŏb-skŭ-rō'rŭm vĭrō'rŭm (Lat. “Letters of obscure men”), a collection of satirical letters which appeared in Hagenau, Germany, in 1515-19, and professed to be the composition of certain ecclesiastics and professors in Cologne and other German towns. They were addressed to Ortunius Gatius at Deventer, who had gained the ill will of the liberals on account of his open hostility to them. They are considered one of the most masterly sarcasms in the history of literature, and their importance is enhanced by the effect they had in promoting the cause of the Reformation through their attacks upon scholastics and monks. The first issue consisted of 41 letters; but others were subsequently added. The authorship of this satire has been a fertile subject of controversy, but the major portion has been attributed to Reuchlin, Ulrich von Hutten and Erasmus, and also to Crotius Rubianus, the great humanist, who is said to have originated the idea of the letters and the title. The best edition is that of Böcking, supplementing his edition of the works of von Hutten (Leipzig 1864-70).


text: The Fables of Florian (tr. Phelps)/The Guilty Dog


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Author:William Wetmore Story

Works

 * Treatise on the Law of Contracts not under Seal, 2 vols. (1844)
 * Treatise on the Law of Sales of Personal Property (1847)
 * Life and Letters of Joseph Story (1851)
 * The American Question (1862)
 * Roba di Roma (1863)
 * Proportions of the Human Figure (1864)
 * The Tragedy of Nero (1875)
 * The Castle of St. Angelo (1877)
 * He and She (1883)
 * Fiammetta (1885)
 * In a Studio (published in Littell's Living Age)
 * Recent Conversations in a Studio (published in Blackwood's Magazine)
 * Recent Conversations in a Studio (published in Littell's Living Age)
 * Conversations in a Studio (1890)
 * Excursions in Art and Letters (1891)
 * Recent Conversations in a Studio (published in Blackwood's Magazine)
 * Recent Conversations in a Studio (published in Littell's Living Age)
 * Conversations in a Studio (1890)
 * Excursions in Art and Letters (1891)
 * Recent Conversations in a Studio (published in Blackwood's Magazine)
 * Recent Conversations in a Studio (published in Littell's Living Age)
 * Conversations in a Studio (1890)
 * Excursions in Art and Letters (1891)
 * Recent Conversations in a Studio (published in Littell's Living Age)
 * Conversations in a Studio (1890)
 * Excursions in Art and Letters (1891)
 * Conversations in a Studio (1890)
 * Excursions in Art and Letters (1891)
 * Excursions in Art and Letters (1891)

Poetry

 * Graffiti d'Italia (1869)
 * A Roman Lawyer in Jerusalem: First Century

Translation

 * "The Fir-Tree and the Palm" by Heinrich Heine. An argosy of fables, 1921.

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8 It is related in the Gospel that the Sadducees challenged our Lord on that question of what is called Levirate marriage, that is, the marriage of a childless brother’s widow by his next brother. This marriage, illustrated by a repulsive narrative in the book of Genesis, and formally ordered in the book of Deuteronomy, appears to have been theoretically part of the current Jewish law in the time of Christ. The Sadducees professed, perhaps with truth, to adduce an actual case. "There were with us seven brethren." Yet the Levirate law ran so counter to civilised sentiment that even the Rabbis appear to have disputed as to the obligation of the Mosaic rule. It was long the practice of Christian divines to attempt to explain away what they supposed to be a peculiarity of Hebrew law by some special hypothesis. Even writers who, like the present Dean of Lichfield, are aware of the widely-extended character of the practice, yet deem it necessary to argue that "God, Who made the law, might suspend the incestuous

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10 light of the ideas which determined it. Dr. Driver writes:

The Hebrew institution, then is not to be separated from its place in the general history of human civilisation; nor are we under any reasonable necessity to read into it any other notions than those which that place suggests. It emerges in the Old Testament like a piece

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User:Ekspiulo/Books/Novellas

The Complete Tales and Poems

 * Introduction
 * Notes on Writing Weird Fiction

 * Novellas
 * At the Mountains of Madness
 * At the Mountains of Madness/full
 * The Case of Charles Dexter Ward
 * The Case of Charles Dexter Ward/full
 * The Colour Out of Space
 * The Dreams in the Witch-House
 * The Dunwich Horror
 * The Dunwich Horror/full
 * Herbert West: Reanimator
 * Herbert West: Reanimator/full
 * The Horror at Red Hook
 * The Horror at Red Hook/full
 * The Shadow Out of Time
 * The Shadow Out of Time/full
 * The Shadow Over Innsmouth
 * The Shadow Over Innsmouth/full
 * The Shunned House
 * The Shunned House/full
 * The Whisperer in Darkness
 * The Whisperer in Darkness/full

 * Short Stories
 * Poems

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The New International Encyclopædia/Retzius, Magnus Gustav

RET'ZIUS, (1842—). A Swedish histologist, born in Stockholm. He was for some time professor of histology and anatomy in the Caroline Institute. His printed works on anthropology include: Finska Kranier (“Finnish Skulls,” 1872); Biologische Untersuchungen (1880-81); and Gehörorgane der Wirbelthiere (1881-84). With Prof. Axel Key he published Studien in der Anatomie des Nervensystems und des Bindegewebes (1875). In 1890 he became editor of the Biologische Untersuchungen.


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Littell's Living Age/Volume 154/Issue 1985/Baron Fisco at Home

, my old friend! so, you've come back again! Sit down, sit down! — 'tis years since we have met. How goes the world with you? — You shake your head Not well? Indeed! Im sorry. So your plan Did not succeed. You see 'twas as I feared. You would not heed me, thought my counsel bad; Would go your own way; had your notions high Of honesty and honor, and all that, Straightforwardness, uprightness, these at last Would, must succeed; what think you of it now? Was it not as I told you? Honesty Is simply the worst policy on earth: As for the other world, the future world, If any such there be, it may be best; But for this world, made as it is, 'tis worst — A mean low proverb, and what's more, a lie. “Virtues its own reward,” exactly so — Its own reward, whatever that may be, But not the world's success. No, no, my friend!

You look surprised to find me titled, rich, Housed in a palace, playing the great man — It must be laughable to you who know How we began in life. So let us laugh — Laugh inextinguishable laughter, just As the old augurs did upon the sly When no one saw them. Faith, this serious load Of dignity is sometimes hard to bear! And pleasant 'tis to meet a friend with whom One may throw off ones livery of pretence, Relax, laugh, lie no more, be natural.

So now, a truce to lying and pretence, — I do so suffocate beneath my mask, I am so sick of my falsetto voice, Almost I'd like to cry out to the world I am a scoundrel, though a prosperous one — Only it would not do; and then so long To Christian jargon I have schooled my tongue And virtuous slang, that it comes hard at last Even to myself to own the very truth, And wholly cease to be a hypocrite — Nay, sometimes I impose upon myself, And almost think I am what I pretend.

You bring the old times back, how vividly! We started from the self-same path in life, You one way, I the other. Both of us When we were young and poor, ay, very poor, Hawked through the streets our little stock of wares Spread on a tray, and swinging from our necks, Pens, pencils, trinkets, brooches, — all mere sham; Mine were, at least, — what yours were, you know best; And so, mere boys, we bore along the streets Our tawdry store, and cried: “Who'll buy? Who'll buy?” Well, passers bought of me more than of you Simply because I lied with glib, false tongue, Vaunted my goods as real, — in a word, Cheated; of course I cheated, if I could. What's any trade but cheating? All the world Strove to cheat me, and I strove to cheat them. And thus at first we earned enough to live — Badly, of course, but still we lived and saved; Went to bed hungry many a night to dream Of coming fortune, that was slow to come.

So daily turning over our small gains, We by degrees laid by a pretty sum, — Paltry enough indeed, but still enough At least to start upon — to place our feet Upon the ladders lowest rung of trade; And then we parted, what long years ago! How many is it? Forty at the least. And now we meet again. Ah well, my friend! You have not prospered; you are poor, I see, — Still poor hungry perhaps. Stop! let me ring, — A glass of good old wine will do you good. Wine? You shall breakfast with me — we will talk Over old times. Perhaps 'tis not too late Even now to put you on the prosperous road. We'll see — we'll see! John, set the table here — Set it for two — my friend will lunch with me; And bring two bottles of that old red seal Out of the right bin, A I — upper shelf. And your champagne? You like it sweet or dry? Dry? I agree with you. The best dry, John — You know my brand; and quick too, don't delay.

Ah, you are looking at my pictures! Well, What say you of them? That's Meissonier — A drinking-bout. Fine, I am told — I know It stood me in a hundred thousand francs, And cheap at that. There's a Fortuny there. Bright, isnt it? And that? Oh, that's a nymph! By — faith, I've quite forgot who painted it! Nude — yes, I think so — very nude, but then That's all the vogue now. Living, is it not? Live, palpitating flesh! To balance it There's a Madonna pale and pure enough, Painted by — what's his name? Enough of these — You'll come and look at them another time. Now for our breakfast, lunch, or what you will.

You need not wait, John! Come, sit down, my friend!

Well, yes! I have succeeded as you say; You find me rich — ay, and I mean to be Much richer. 'tis the first step costs. To gain The first ten thousand costs pains, toil, care, skill, Great self-denial; after that it grows Easier and easier, — and at last your pile Breeds almost of itself left quite alone. But then I never let it quite alone. How did I make the first ten thousand? Well, Simply by following out my principles — Not yours. Oh no! Your principles were fine, High, noble, anything you will, but then Purely unpractical. I took the world Just as I found it; strove not to amend Its many faults, but profit by them all, — Made large professions, crouched and crept and crawled, Put in my pocket all my pride, — picked up Out of the dirtiest gutter, so to speak, The dirtiest penny, not too proud for that, — Bore all reviling patiently, bent low To kiss the hand that struck me; what I felt Within me I concealed, never gave voice To bitterness in empty words. Ah no! Not such a fool; bided my time — talked soft — Was simply sad to be misunderstood — Meant to do right but was deceived by knaves Who took advantage of my ignorance. Ah me! ah me! ah, what a wicked world! And then your splendid counters, too, I used, — Had always in my mouth those sounding words, Truth, honor, justice, duty, honesty. Reproved false dealing, speaking; went to church, Prayed loudly, openly declared myself A miserable sinner; dropped my mite Into the poor-box in the face of all; Let all my good deeds shine out before men, And wore a face of pure simplicity.

A cloak, you say! Well, yes! I wore a cloak. One must not go quite naked in this world. We must use phrases — only they are fools Who think them more than phrases. Everywhere Men use them — in the pulpit, in the mart. But who does more than use them as a cloak, If there be any such, they are rank fools. Dishonest was I? Fie! Beyond the verge Of law — and that, as I suppose, is right — I never put my foot, or not both feet; One foot within the law I always kept. Of course I used the law, and studied it, Availed myselt of all its shifts and turns, — And in its limits planted, flung my nets Beyond, to haul my hooked fish safely in.

With even little means one may do much Through knowledge of the law and pains and skill. My little businQss at the first I did, Only from hand to hand, from mouth to mouth, — Never with writings, contracts, signatures — That is on my part, never put my name To obligations. Promises in words, Of course, I gave; but promises are air — One may forget, deny, misapprehend.

Shaved notes? Of course. Lent money? Yes, of course. Upon usurious interest? Stop, my friend! What is usurious interest? If I own A little sum, and some poor man has need Of just that sum, I should of course be glad To give it him, not lend it; but indeed I am too poor, have other duties too, I dare not run even temporary risk. But for your note, say, for a hundred francs, You must at once have money. Ah, good sir, I have but fifty; and your simple note, What is it worth? Out of pure friendliness I offer this; but pray don't take me up — This is a friends act, who can call it wrong?

There have been times, I will confess to you, That I have sheered too closely to the law, And made mistakes — but they were mere mistakes. I once forgot some money that was placed For my safe keeping in my hands, forgot Most absolutely — and, in fact, forgot To make a memorandum. Being thus, I naturally used it for my own. But somehow it was proved that I was wrong, And I repaid it — certainly — at once, When it was proved; but the censorious world Would not admit this was a mere mistake. Ah me! what evil minds and thoughts there are!

There have been several mistakes like this; But who among us does not make mistakes? There were some notes that once passed through my hands With altered numbers, — in one case, indeed, With awkward signatures, — mere carelessness. I should have been more careful, — I admit, And even now I scarce forgive myself.

Well, this is all, I think: you see, my friend, How I have prospered. Spite of my mistakes I have my palace here, who used to climb To the fifth story of my garret mean; I have rich meats and wines (this wine, I think, You will acknowledge good), French cook, and all That luxury asks, who once was well content With my stale crust, and once a week, at most, A scrap of meat, not always sure of that. Around my neck I carried once my tray, And now my brougham and horses carry me — Nor finer horses will you see in town. My playhouse was the street once, — now I own My opera-box, and sitting there at night I take some pride that I am gazed at there And pointed out as one to be observed, The Baron Fisco —that is he. Ah, well! Little we thought, we two poor ragged boys, Of anything like this; but now I am Wealthy, respected, — and ennobled too, — Have been a deputy, and should be still But for an unexplained mistake, that now Is scarce worth mentioning since it is past.

To me obsequious many a hat is raised Despite it all; and on my breast I wear Stars, crosses, ribbons, when I go to court, — And smiling, I shake hands with some like you — Having such principles as yours, I mean — Upon whose breast I see no simplest cross To hide the well.worn coat with its white seams. It pays, you see — it pays, say what we will.

Success, my friend, covers all kinds of sins. Never be found out, thats my rule of life. Truth, honor, honesty, are excellent To talk about, but as strict rules of life Are, let us say, most serious obstacles. You've found them such, I think— so have not I. Little by little small things grow to great. One must be patient — never force ones card, But wait the time to play. Riches are power, And having won them, if we bide our time, We can buy anything we will. All things Are purchasable — if we only knew Just how and when to buy them. That needs skill. Honors and titles? Ah, well — well — a loan Is sometimes needed, privately, you know, For persons high in power and influence; And then, of course, one lends it as a friend, With no advantage asked or dreamed. Ah no! Glad of the honor to be borrowed from, — Only too proud to be of the least use, — Even as a carpet to be trod upon, — Such generosity brings its reward. —

And then, again, with riches at command, Things take a different aspect, better name. What looks like swindling with a petty sum, Is on a grand and speculative scale Honest enough, so it be large enough. The difference 'twixt a million and a franc, Makes such a difference in so many ways.

Come, fill your glass again — we are old friends; You see I nought conceal, speak openly. We began life together. I am rich, You poor. You see my principles were best. If you object to the word principles, I'll say my practices. We'll not discuss The word — that's nothing. Now I say to you, Join me, Im getting old and tired too; Be my first clerk, first confidential man — I'll pay you well; and having gone thus far, Made enough money, if indeed one has Ever enough, quite, — I can now afford To let you have your way, since I can trust Your honesty, and that, I must confess, Is of all things the rarest on the earth. I have been seeking for an honest man, God knows how long! I find him here at last.

You smile as if to say, “So at the last, Even honesty succeeds.” — Well, — yes, — sometimes. Not of itself, though, save by happy chance, When it can lend itself to abler hands. We all like honesty in those we use — That is, as far as what concerns ourselves.


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The doctor’s father-in-law, the famous harpsichord player and instrument maker, Valentine Mirouët, one of our most celebrated organists, died in 1785, leaving a natural son, the child of his old age, acknowledged and bearing his name, but an exceedingly worthless fellow. Upon his deathbed, he was denied the consolation of seeing this spoilt child. Joseph Mirouët, singer and composer, after having come out at the Italiens under an assumed name, had eloped to Germany with a young girl. The old manufacturer commended this really talented boy to his son-in-law, reminding him that he had refused to marry the mother so as not to wrong Madame Minoret. The doctor promised that he would give half the inheritance of the manufacturer, whose business had been bought by Erard, to this wretched man. He made diplomatic inquiries about his natural brother-in-law, Joseph Mirouët; but Grimm told him one night that after having enlisted in a Prussian regiment the artist had deserted, taking a false name, and had baffled all pursuit. For fifteen years Joseph Mirouët, gifted by nature with a seductive voice, a desirable figure, a handsome face, besides being a composer full of taste and spirit, led that bohemian life which has been so well described by the Berlinese Hoffmann. And so, when about forty years old, he was the victim of


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 such terrible poverty, that in 1806, he snatched at the chance of becoming a Frenchman once more. He then settled at Hamburg, where he married the daughter of a worthy bourgeois, mad about music, who fell in love with the artist, whose success was always in perspective and to which she wished to devote herself. But, after fifteen years of destitution, Joseph Mirouët could not withstand the intoxication of wealth; his natural extravagance reappeared; and, though he made his wife happy, he spent her fortune in a very few years. Poverty returned. The household must have led the most horrible existence for Joseph Mirouët to have come to engaging himself as a musician in a French regiment. In 1813, by the merest chance, the surgeon-major of this regiment, struck by the name of Mirouët, wrote to Doctor Minoret, to whom he owed obligations. The answer was not long in coming. In 1814, before the capitulation of Paris, Joseph Mirouët had a refuge in Paris, where his wife died in giving birth to a little girl whom the doctor wished to call Ursule, after his wife. The band captain did not survive the mother, exhausted as she too had been by fatigue and misery. When dying, the unfortunate musician left his daughter to the doctor, who stood as her godfather, in spite of his repugnance for what he called the mummeries of the church.

After having seen all his children perish successively through miscarriages, in painful confinements or during their first year, the doctor had awaited the


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 result of the last experience. When a sickly, nervous, delicate woman begins with a miscarriage, it is no uncommon thing to see her behaving during pregnancy and in her confinements as Ursule Minoret did, in spite of her husband’s care, attentions and science. The poor man often reproached himself for their mutual persistence in wishing for children. The last one, conceived after an interval of two years, died during the year 1792, the victim of the mother’s nervous condition, if those physiologists are to be believed who think that, in the unaccountable phenomena of generation, the child takes after the father in blood, and after the mother in its nervous system. Forced to renounce the enjoyment of his strongest feeling, the doctor’s benevolence was doubtless in revenge of his disappointed paternity. During his conjugal life, so cruelly disturbed, the doctor had, above all, longed for a little fair-haired girl, one of those flowers which gladden a whole house; so he joyfully accepted the legacy left him by Joseph Mirouët, and over the orphan revived the expectations of his vanished dreams. For two years, he superintended, as Cato once did for Pompey, the minutest details of Ursule’s life; he would not let the wet-nurse suckle her, dress her, or put her to bed without him. His experience and his science were all at this child’s disposal. After having felt all the sorrows, the alternations of fear and hope, the labors and joys of a mother, he had the happiness of seeing this daughter of the blonde German woman and the French artist develop a


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 vigorous life, and a profound sensitiveness. The happy old man followed with a maternal solicitude the growth of this fair hair, first down, then silk, then light and fine hair, so endearing to the fingers that stroke it. He often kissed the naked little feet, the toes of which, covered with film, showing the blood beneath, were like rose buds. He was mad about this little girl. When she tried to speak, or when she fixed her beautiful soft blue eyes on all objects, with that reflective look which seems to be the dawning of thought and which she ended in a laugh, he would remain beside her for hours together, seeking, with Jordy, the reasons, which so many other people call caprices, hidden under the slightest phenomena of this delicious phase of life when the child is at once blossom and fruit, a confused intelligence, a perpetual movement, and a passionate longing. Ursule’s beauty and gentleness endeared her so much to the doctor, that he would have liked to change all the laws of Nature for her; he sometimes told old Jordy that his teeth ached when Ursule was cutting hers. When old men love children, they place no bounds upon their passion, but adore them. For the sake of these little beings, they suppress their hobbies, and for them call to mind their own past. Their experience, indulgence and patience, all the acquisitions of life, so painfully hoarded a treasure, they give up to the young life through which they grow young again, and so supply the place of maternity by intelligence. Their ever-watchful


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 wisdom is as good as the mother’s intuition; they recollect the niceties which with her are divination, and they show them in the exercise of a compassion whose strength doubtless develops in proportion to this great tenderness. The slowness of their movements supplies the place of the maternal gentleness. In short, with them as with children, life is reduced to simplicity; and if sentiment makes a slave of the mother, the detachment of all passion and the absence of all self-interest permits an old man to give himself up entirely. It is also no uncommon thing to see children on good terms with old people. The old soldier, the old curé and the old doctor, happy in Ursule’s caresses and coquetries, never tired of answering her or playing with her. Far from fretting them, this child’s petulance delighted them, and they gratified all her wishes whilst making everything a subject for instruction. And so this little girl grew surrounded by old people who smiled upon her and were like so many mothers around her, equally attentive and prudent. Thanks to this learned education, Ursule’s mind developed in the sphere most congenial to it. This rare plant lit upon its particular soil, inhaled the elements of its true life and assimilated the floods of light from its sun.

“In what religion will you bring up this little one?” asked the Abbé Chaperon of Minoret when Ursule was six years old.

“In yours,” replied the physician.

An atheist like Monsieur de Wolmar in La Nouvelle


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 Héloïse, he did not consider he had the right to deprive Ursule of the benefits offered by the Catholic religion. The doctor, seated on a bench below the window of the Chinese study, then felt the curé press his hand.

“Yes, curé, every time that she speaks to me of God, I shall send her to her friend Sapron,” he said, imitating Ursule’s childish way of speaking. “I want to see if religious feeling is innate. And so I have done nothing for or against the tendencies of this young mind; but I have already appointed you in my heart as her spiritual father.”

“God will count this to you, I hope,” replied the Abbé Chaperon, gently striking his hands together and lifting them towards the sky as if in brief mental prayer.

And so, from the age of six, the little orphan fell under the curé’s religious influence, as she had already fallen under that of her old friend Jordy.

The captain, formerly a professor in one of the old military colleges, and applying himself by choice to grammar and the differences between the European tongues, had studied the problem of a universal language. This learned man, patient like all old masters, made it his delight to teach Ursule to read and write, whilst teaching her the French language and all that she had to know of arithmetic. The doctor’s vast library permitted the choice of books suitable for a child, and which might amuse as well as instruct it. The soldier and the curé left this intelligence to thrive upon the ease and


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 liberty that the doctor allowed the body. Ursule learnt whilst she was playing. Religion restrained reflection. Given up to the divine culture of a disposition led into pure regions by these three prudent instructors, Ursule was more inclined to sentiment than duty, and took the voice of Conscience rather than the social law as her rule of conduct. With her, whatever was beautiful in feelings or actions had to be spontaneous; her judgment would confirm the impulse of the heart. She was meant to do good as a pleasure before doing it as an obligation. This distinction is the characteristic of the Christian religion. These principles, more than any others made for mankind, become a woman, the genius and conscience of the family, the secret refinement of domestic life, in fact, almost a queen in the bosom of the household. All three proceeded in the same way with the child. Far from shrinking from the audacity of innocence, they would explain to Ursule the purpose of things and all known means whilst never formulating any but the most accurate ideas for her. When, in regard to a plant, a flower or a star she would make direct inquiries about God, the professor and the doctor would tell her that the priest alone could answer her. None of them ever encroached on the others’ territory. The godfather undertook all material well-being and things of this life; the education concerned Jordy; the morals, metaphysics and higher questions belonged to the curé. This splendid education was not thwarted by injudicious servants, as so often happens in the


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 wealthiest households. La Bougival, who had been lectured on the subject, and who was besides much too simple in mind and character to interfere, never disturbed the work of these noble men. Ursule, who was a privileged being, was in this surrounded by three good genii, and by her beautiful disposition rendered their tasks both easy and light. This virile tenderness, this gravity tempered by smiles, this liberty without danger, and this perpetual care of soul and body, made her, at nine years of age, an accomplished and charming child. Unhappily, this paternal trinity dissolved. In the following year the old captain died, leaving his work to be continued by the doctor and the curé, after having accomplished the most difficult part. Flowers ought to grow of themselves in so well prepared a soil. For nine years the old gentleman had saved up a thousand francs a year, in order to leave ten thousand francs to his little Ursule so that she might keep some souvenir of him all through her life. In a will, the contents of which were touching, he begged his legatee to use the four or five hundred francs income returned by this little capital entirely for her dress. When the justice of the peace affixed the seals at his old friend’s house, they found in a cabinet which he had never allowed anybody to look into, a great quantity of toys, many of which were broken, and which all had used, toys of days gone by, religiously preserved, and that the poor captain requested Monsieur Bongrand himself should burn.


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About this time, Ursule was to take her first communion. The Abbé Chaperon spent a whole year preparing this young girl, whose heart and intelligence, both so developed, but so discreetly kept in check by each other, required a particular spiritual nurture. Such was this initiation into the knowledge of things divine, that, from the time the soul takes its religious shape, Ursule became the pious, mystic young girl whose character always rose above events, and whose heart dominated all adversity. It was then that a struggle secretly began between incredulous old age and believing childhood, for a long time unknown to her who provoked it, the issue of which was occupying the whole town, and was to have so great an influence over Ursule’s future by exciting the doctor’s collateral heirs against her.

During the first six months of the year 1824, Ursule spent nearly all her mornings at the presbytery. The old doctor guessed the curé’s intentions. The priest wanted to make Ursule an invincible argument. The unbeliever, loved by his godchild as if she had been his own daughter, would believe in this ingenuousness, would be won by the moving results of religion in the soul of a child whose love resembled those trees in Indian climates that are always laden with flowers and fruit, always green (81)


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 and always perfumed. A beautiful life is always more forcible than the most vigorous reasoning. One cannot resist the charms of certain pictures. And so the doctor’s eyes insensibly filled with tears when he saw the daughter of his heart going to church, dressed in white crêpe, shod in white satin shoes, adorned with white ribbons, her head encircled by a royal fillet fastened at the side with a big bow, the thousand curls streaming over her beautiful white shoulders, the bodice edged with a ruche trimmed with narrow ribbon, her eyes starry with a first hope, flying high and happy to a first union, loving her godfather more since she had soared up to God. When he saw the thought of eternity feeding this soul which had been till lately in the limbo of childhood, as after the night the sun gives life to the earth, still without knowing why, he felt angry at remaining alone at home. Seated on his flight of steps, he kept his eyes a long time fixed on their own gate through the bars of which his ward had vanished, saying: “Godfather, why do you not come? How can I be happy without you?” Although shaken to its very roots, the encyclopedist’s pride would not yet give way. Still he walked out so that he could see the procession of communicants, and distinguished his little Ursule shining with exaltation under her veil. She gave him an inspired look which moved, in the stony portion of his heart, the corner that was closed to God. But the deist held out, and he said to himself:

“Mummeries! To imagine, that, if there does


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 exist a creator of the world, the organizer of the infinite pays any attention to this foolery!”

He laughed and continued his walk on the heights that overlook the road to Gâtinais, where the full pealing of the bells spread afar the joy of families.

The sound of backgammon is unbearable to people who do not know this game, one of the most difficult that exist. To avoid worrying his ward, whose delicacy of organs and nerves prevented her from listening with impunity to these movements and to this apparently senseless chatter, the curé, old Jordy, when he was alive, and the doctor, would always wait until their child had gone to bed or for a walk. It often happened that the game was still going on when Ursule came in; she would then resign herself with infinite grace and seat herself near the window to work. She disliked this game, the beginning of which is in fact dull and difficult to many minds, and which is so difficult to master, that, if one does not get into the habit of playing this game during youth, it is almost impossible to learn it later. Now, the night of her first communion, when Ursule returned to her guardian, who was alone that evening, she placed the backgammon in front of the old man.

“Now then! whose turn is it to play?” she said.

“Ursule,” replied the doctor, “is it not a sin to mock your godfather on the day of your first communion?”

“I am not mocking you at all,” she said, sitting down, “I belong to your pleasures, you who take


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 care of all mine. When Monsieur Chaperon was pleased, he used to give me a lesson in backgammon, and he has given me so many lessons, that I am now quite able to win—You shall no longer put yourself out for me. So as not to hinder your pleasures, I have conquered all the difficulties, and I like the noise of backgammon.”

Ursule won. The curé came and surprised the players and rejoiced in her triumph. The next day, Minoret, who had hitherto refused to have his ward taught music, went to Paris, bought a piano, made arrangements at Fontainebleau with a mistress and resigned himself to the annoyance that his ward’s continual practice was bound to cause him. One of the prophecies of the late Jordy the phrenologist was realized; the little girl became an excellent musician. The guardian, proud of his godchild, then engaged an old German called Schmucke, a learned professor of music, to come from Paris once a week, and provided for the expenses of this art, which he had first thought perfectly useless in a household. Unbelievers do not like music, a celestial language developed by Catholicism, which has borrowed the names of the seven notes in one of its hymns; every note is the first syllable of the first seven verses of the hymn to St. John. Although vivid, the impression produced upon the old man by Ursule’s first communion was only temporary. The calmness and content diffused throughout this young mind by works of charity and prayer were also meaningless examples to him. Without any