text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Castell, Edmund


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

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


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


text:
Retrospect (Coates)

 * Coates, Florence Earle (1909), "Retrospect" in Lyrics of Life (1909).
 * Coates, Florence Earle (1916), "Retrospect" in Poems II.

title: Retrospect (Coates)


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


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Castle, Edmund


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


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


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


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Castro, Alfonso y


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


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Cat, Christopher


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


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Catchpole, Margaret


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Catcott, Alexander (1725-1779)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Catcott, Alexander Stopford


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


text:
Page:Whymper - Scrambles amongst the Alps.djvu/149

Rh requires action on our part to convert it into a positive one. A precipice is a negative danger, but it is a positive one to a man who falls over it: a steep snow-slope of new snow has dangerous qualities, but it is not positively dangerous until its equilibrium is disturbed, and it descends as an avalanche: the piled-up blocks on a shattered ridge may be dangerous, but they are not so until they are dislodged: and a concealed crevasse may be perilous to the last degree, but it is not so unless you tumble into it. This distinction is not hair-splitting, and it is essential to remember it, if one would come to a clear understanding about that which is right and wrong in mountaineering. If it were impossible to avoid tumbling into crevasses, or dislodging vast masses of débris, or starting avalanches, or falling over precipices, mountaineering, for the sake of sport, would be entirely unjustifiable; and, according to the principles already laid down, it is unjustifiable if, through incompetence or recklessness, any one converts these negative slumbering dangers into active and positive ones.

It may be remarked parenthetically that the term foolhardiness is frequently used rather loosely in regard to accidents which occur in the Alps. The mere fact that a man loses his life, or sustains injury, whether it be on the mountains or elsewhere, is no proof that he was foolhardy; and upon reviewing those accidents which have happened in late years, it seems to me that to the major part the word is inapplicable. If anything is undertaken for sport which there is good reason to suppose must fail, or will probably be fatal to life, that may be considered foolhardy. But if the unavoidable risks are almost inappreciable, and that which is undertaken is not clearly beyond the powers of those who undertake it, it seems to me that the use of this word is not advisable, even although a fatal accident should happen. A slip which arises from a momentary indiscretion, or an accident the consequence of exhaustion, should hardly be classed amongst those fatalities which are the direct results of imprudences that are entirely unjustifiable; and it cannot be denied that accidents have happened for which no excuses can be offered.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Catesby, Mark


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


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


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Cathcart, Charles (1721-1776)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Cathcart, David


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


text:
At the Barber's

MORNING. It is not yet seven o'clock, but Makar Kuzmitch Blyostken's shop is already open. The barber himself, an unwashed, greasy, but foppishly dressed youth of three and twenty, is busy clearing up; there is really nothing to be cleared away, but he is perspiring with his exertions. In one place he polishes with a rag, in another he scrapes with his finger or catches a bug and brushes it off the wall.

The barber's shop is small, narrow, and unclean. The log walls are hung with paper suggestive of a cabman's faded shirt. Between the two dingy, perspiring windows there is a thin, creaking, rickety door, above it, green from the damp, a bell which trembles and gives a sickly ring of itself without provocation. Glance into the looking-glass which hangs on one of the walls, and it distorts your countenance in all directions in the most merciless way! The shaving and haircutting is done before this looking-glass. On the little table, as greasy and unwashed as Makar Kuzmitch himself, there is everything: combs, scissors, razors, a ha'porth of wax for the moustache, a ha'porth of powder, a ha'porth of much watered eau de Cologne, and indeed the whole barber's shop is not worth more than fifteen kopecks.

There is a squeaking sound from the invalid bell and an elderly man in a tanned sheepskin and high felt over-boots walks into the shop. His head and neck are wrapped in a woman's shawl.

This is Erast Ivanitch Yagodov, Makar Kuzmitch's godfather. At one time he served as a watchman in the Consistory, now he lives near the Red Pond and works as a locksmith.

"Makarushka, good-day, dear boy!" he says to Makar Kuzmitch, who is absorbed in tidying up.

They kiss each other. Yagodov drags his shawl off his head, crosses himself, and sits down.

"What a long way it is!" he says, sighing and clearing his throat. "It's no joke! From the Red Pond to the Kaluga gate."

"How are you?"

"In a poor way, my boy. I've had a fever."

"You don't say so! Fever!"

"Yes, I have been in bed a month; I thought I should die. I had extreme unction. Now my hair's coming out. The doctor says I must be shaved. He says the hair will grow again strong. And so, I thought, I'll go to Makar. Better to a relation than to anyone else. He will do it better and he won't take anything for it. It's rather far, that's true, but what of it? It's a walk."

"I'll do it with pleasure. Please sit down."

With a scrape of his foot Makar Kuzmitch indicates a chair. Yagodov sits down and looks at himself in the glass and is apparently pleased with his reflection: the looking-glass displays a face awry, with Kalmuck lips, a broad, blunt nose, and eyes in the forehead. Makar Kuzmitch puts round his client's shoulders a white sheet with yellow spots on it, and begins snipping with the scissors.

"I'll shave you clean to the skin!" he says.

"To be sure. So that I may look like a Tartar, like a bomb. The hair will grow all the thicker."

"How's auntie?"

"Pretty middling. The other day she went as midwife to the major's lady. They gave her a rouble."

"Oh, indeed, a rouble. Hold your ear."

"I am holding it. . . . Mind you don't cut me. Oy, you hurt! You are pulling my hair."

"That doesn't matter. We can't help that in our work. And how is Anna Erastovna?"

"My daughter? She is all right, she's skipping about. Last week on the Wednesday we betrothed her to Sheikin. Why didn't you come?"

The scissors cease snipping. Makar Kuzmitch drops his hands and asks in a fright:

"Who is betrothed?"

"Anna."

"How's that? To whom?"

"To Sheikin. Prokofy Petrovitch. His aunt's a housekeeper in Zlatoustensky Lane. She is a nice woman. Naturally we are all delighted, thank God. The wedding will be in a week. Mind you come; we will have a good time."

"But how's this, Erast Ivanitch?" says Makar Kuzmitch, pale, astonished, and shrugging his shoulders. "It's . . . it's utterly impossible. Why, Anna Erastovna . . . why I . . . why, I cherished sentiments for her, I had intentions. How could it happen?"

"Why, we just went and betrothed her. He's a good fellow."

Cold drops of perspiration come on the face of Makar Kuzmitch. He puts the scissors down on the table and begins rubbing his nose with his fist.

"I had intentions," he says. "It's impossible, Erast Ivanitch. I . . . I am in love with her and have made her the offer of my heart . . . . And auntie promised. I have always respected you as though you were my father. . . . I always cut your hair for nothing. . . . I have always obliged you, and when my papa died you took the sofa and ten roubles in cash and have never given them back. Do you remember?"

"Remember! of course I do. Only, what sort of a match would you be, Makar? You are nothing of a match. You've neither money nor position, your trade's a paltry one."

"And is Sheikin rich?"

"Sheikin is a member of a union. He has a thousand and a half lent on mortgage. So my boy . . . . It's no good talking about it, the thing's done. There is no altering it, Makarushka. You must look out for another bride. . . . The world is not so small. Come, cut away. Why are you stopping?"

Makar Kuzmitch is silent and remains motionless, then he takes a handkerchief out of his pocket and begins to cry.

"Come, what is it?" Erast Ivanitch comforts him. "Give over. Fie, he is blubbering like a woman! You finish my head and then cry. Take up the scissors!"

Makar Kuzmitch takes up the scissors, stares vacantly at them for a minute, then drops them again on the table. His hands are shaking.

"I can't," he says. "I can't do it just now. I haven't the strength! I am a miserable man! And she is miserable! We loved each other, we had given each other our promise and we have been separated by unkind people without any pity. Go away, Erast Ivanitch! I can't bear the sight of you."

"So I'll come to-morrow, Makarushka. You will finish me to-morrow."

"Right."

"You calm yourself and I will come to you early in the morning."

Erast Ivanitch has half his head shaven to the skin and looks like a convict. It is awkward to be left with a head like that, but there is no help for it. He wraps his head in the shawl and walks out of the barber's shop. Left alone, Makar Kuzmitch sits down and goes on quietly weeping.

Early next morning Erast Ivanitch comes again.

"What do you want?" Makar Kuzmitch asks him coldly.

"Finish cutting my hair, Makarushka. There is half the head left to do."

"Kindly give me the money in advance. I won't cut it for nothing."

Without saying a word Erast Ivanitch goes out, and to this day his hair is long on one side of the head and short on the other. He regards it as extravagance to pay for having his hair cut and is waiting for the hair to grow of itself on the shaven side.

He danced at the wedding in that condition.

Parturilla U golibrody В цирульне (Чехов)

title: At the Barber's


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Cathcart, William Schaw


text:
Page:Whymper - Scrambles amongst the Alps.djvu/151

Rh Three possible causes of accidents have now been mentioned. From the first there is small risk, but unavoidable danger so long as mountaineering is practised; from the others there may be great risks, but they are easily avoided by the exercise of a little common sense. The largest part of the accidents, however, which occur in the Alps cannot be classed under these heads, but arise chiefly from momentary indiscretions, and from men trying to do that which is beyond their powers. It is not easy to find two cases exactly alike, although they principally come from the difficulty man experiences in keeping on his feet in slippery places. They come not from any dangers inherent to mountains, but from the frailties of the mountaineer. A volume might be filled with examples, and they would all be found to show that if this had been done, or that had not been done, the results would not have happened. In many cases some canon of mountaineering will be found to have been violated, and in all, the man rather than the mountain will be found to have been the offender.

I have now endeavoured to discriminate between that which is merely difficult and that which is absolutely dangerous; secondly, to distinguish unavoidable from avoidable dangers; and thirdly, to make a rough classification of the causes of accidents. If that which has been said is true, it follows that the dangers from the Alps themselves have been ridiculously overrated, and that the thing to be wished for is, not that the mountains should become easier, but that men should become wiser and stronger. It is too much to expect, however, so long as tyros attempt to imitate the doings of skilled mountaineers, and middle-aged gentlemen, with stiff knees, essay the things which are adapted only to the young and active, that accidents in the Alps will cease, or even diminish in number; and, although these too daring persons should, perhaps, be pitied rather than censured, it is very much to be desired that they would pay a little more attention to the truth "That which is sport to one may be death to another," instead of applying to themselves the maxim "What man has done man can do."


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Catherine Parr


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Catley, Ann


text:
An Enigmatic Nature

ON the red velvet seat of a first-class railway carriage a pretty lady sits half reclining. An expensive fluffy fan trembles in her tightly closed fingers, a pince-nez keeps dropping off her pretty little nose, the brooch heaves and falls on her bosom, like a boat on the ocean. She is greatly agitated.

On the seat opposite sits the Provincial Secretary of Special Commissions, a budding young author, who from time to time publishes long stories of high life, or "Novelli" as he calls them, in the leading paper of the province. He is gazing into her face, gazing intently, with the eyes of a connoisseur. He is watching, studying, catching every shade of this exceptional, enigmatic nature. He understands it, he fathoms it. Her soul, her whole psychology lies open before him.

"Oh, I understand, I understand you to your inmost depths!" says the Secretary of Special Commissions, kissing her hand near the bracelet. "Your sensitive, responsive soul is seeking to escape from the maze of —— Yes, the struggle is terrific, titanic. But do not lose heart, you will be triumphant! Yes!"

"Write about me, Voldemar!" says the pretty lady, with a mournful smile. "My life has been so full, so varied, so chequered. Above all, I am unhappy. I am a suffering soul in some page of Dostoevsky. Reveal my soul to the world, Voldemar. Reveal that hapless soul. You are a psychologist. We have not been in the train an hour together, and you have already fathomed my heart."

"Tell me! I beseech you, tell me!"

"Listen. My father was a poor clerk in the Service. He had a good heart and was not without intelligence; but the spirit of the age —of his environment—vous comprenez?—I do not blame my poor father. He drank, gambled, took bribes. My mother—but why say more? Poverty, the struggle for daily bread, the consciousness of insignificance—ah, do not force me to recall it! I had to make my own way. You know the monstrous education at a boarding-school, foolish novel-reading, the errors of early youth, the first timid flutter of love. It was awful! The vacillation! And the agonies of losing faith in life, in oneself! Ah, you are an author. You know us women. You will understand. Unhappily I have an intense nature. I looked for happiness—and what happiness! I longed to set my soul free. Yes. In that I saw my happiness!"

"Exquisite creature!" murmured the author, kissing her hand close to the bracelet. "It's not you I am kissing, but the suffering of humanity. Do you remember Raskolnikov and his kiss?"

"Oh, Voldemar, I longed for glory, renown, success, like every— why affect modesty?—every nature above the commonplace. I yearned for something extraordinary, above the common lot of woman! And then—and then—there crossed my path—an old general—very well off. Understand me, Voldemar! It was self-sacrifice, renunciation! You must see that! I could do nothing else. I restored the family fortunes, was able to travel, to do good. Yet how I suffered, how revolting, how loathsome to me were his embraces—though I will be fair to him—he had fought nobly in his day. There were moments —terrible moments—but I was kept up by the thought that from day to day the old man might die, that then I would begin to live as I liked, to give myself to the man I adore—be happy. There is such a man, Voldemar, indeed there is!"

The pretty lady flutters her fan more violently. Her face takes a lachrymose expression. She goes on:

"But at last the old man died. He left me something. I was free as a bird of the air. Now is the moment for me to be happy, isn't it, Voldemar? Happiness comes tapping at my window, I had only to let it in—but—Voldemar, listen, I implore you! Now is the time for me to give myself to the man I love, to become the partner of his life, to help, to uphold his ideals, to be happy—to find rest—but—how ignoble, repulsive, and senseless all our life is! How mean it all is, Voldemar. I am wretched, wretched, wretched! Again there is an obstacle in my path! Again I feel that my happiness is far, far away! Ah, what anguish!—if only you knew what anguish!"

"But what—what stands in your way? I implore you tell me! What is it?"

"Another old general, very well off——"

The broken fan conceals the pretty little face. The author props on his fist his thought—heavy brow and ponders with the air of a master in psychology. The engine is whistling and hissing while the window curtains flush red with the glow of the setting sun.

Záhadná povaha Salaperäinen luonne Egy problematikus egyéniség Загадочная натура (Чехов)

title: An Enigmatic Nature


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


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


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


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


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Catton, Charles (1728-1798)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Catton, Charles (1756-1819)


text:
Page:Whymper - Scrambles amongst the Alps.djvu/155

Rh the central Pennine Alps to the Grand Combin, and to the chain of Mont Blanc. My neighbour, the Dent d'Herens, still rose above me, although but slightly, and the height which had been attained could be measured by its help. So far, I had no doubts about my capacity to descend that which had been ascended; but, in a short time, on looking ahead, I saw that the cliffs steepened, and I turned back (without pushing on to them, and getting into inextricable difficulties), exulting in the thought that they would be passed when we returned together, and that I had, without assistance, got nearly to the height of the Dent d'Herens, and considerably higher than any one had been before. My exultation was a little premature.

About 5 I left the tent again, and thought myself as good as at Breil. The friendly rope and claw had done good service, and had smoothened all the difficulties. I lowered myself through the Chimney, however, by making a fixture of the rope, which I then cut off, and left behind, as there was enough and to spare. My axe had proved a great nuisance in coming down, and I left it in the tent. It was not attached to the baton, but was a separate affair,—an old navy boarding-axe. While cutting up the different snow-beds on the ascent, the baton trailed behind fastened to the rope; and, when climbing, the axe was carried behind, run through the rope tied round my waist, and was sufficiently out of the way; but in descending, when coming down face outwards (as is always best where it is possible), the head or the handle of the weapon caught frequently against the rocks, and several times nearly upset me. So, out of laziness if you will, it was left in the tent. I paid dearly for the imprudence.

The Col du Lion was passed, and fifty yards more would have placed me on the "Great Staircase," down which one can run. But


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


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


text:
Mother-Love

 * Coates, Florence Earle (1909), "Mother-Love" in The Cosmopolitan (December 1909).
 * Coates, Florence Earle (1909), "Mother-Love" in Lyrics of Life (1909).
 * Coates, Florence Earle (1916), "Mother-Love" in Poems II.

title: Mother-Love


text:
Page:Whymper - Scrambles amongst the Alps.djvu/159

Rh the snow with motion arrested; my head fortunately came the right side up, and a few frantic catches brought me to a halt, in the neck of the gully, and on the verge of the precipice. Baton, hat, and veil skimmed by and disappeared, and the crash of the rocks—which I had started—as they fell on to the glacier, told how narrow had been the escape from utter destruction. As it was, I fell nearly 200 feet in seven or eight bounds. Ten feet more would have taken me in one gigantic leap of 800 feet on to the glacier below. Page 157 - Scrambles amongst the Alps - Whymper.jpg IN ATTEMPTING TO PASS THE CORNER I SLIPPED AND FELL. The situation was still sufficiently serious. The rocks could not be left go for a moment, and the blood was spirting out of more than twenty cuts. The most serious ones were in the head, and I vainly tried to close them with one hand, while holding on with the other. It was useless; the blood jerked out in blinding jets at each pulsation. At last, in a moment of inspiration, I kicked out a big lump of snow, and stuck it as a plaster on my head. The idea was a happy one, and the flow of blood diminished; then, scrambling up, I got, not a moment too soon, to a place of safety, and fainted away. The sun was setting when consciousness returned, and it was pitch dark before the Great Staircase was descended; but, by a combination of luck and care, the whole 4800 feet of descent to Breil was accomplished without a slip, or once missing the way. I slunk past the cabin of the cowherds, who were talking and laughing inside, utterly ashamed of the state to which I had been brought by my imbecility, and entered the inn stealthily, wishing to escape to my room unnoticed. But Favre met me in the passage, demanded "Who is it?" screamed with fright when he got a light, and aroused the household. Two dozen heads then held solemn council over mine, with more talk than action. The natives were unanimous in recommending that hot wine (syn. vinegar), mixed with salt, should be rubbed into the cuts. I protested, but they insisted. It was all the doctoring they received. Whether their rapid healing was to be attributed to that simple remedy, or to a good state of health,


text:
The Sense of Tears in Mortal Things

 * Coates, Florence Earle (1909), "The Sense of Tears in Mortal Things" in Lyrics of Life (1909).
 * Coates, Florence Earle (1916), "The Sense of Tears in Mortal Things" in Poems II.

title: The Sense of Tears in Mortal Things


text:
Page:Whymper - Scrambles amongst the Alps.djvu/161

Rh The news of the accident brought Jean-Antoine Carrel up to Breil, and, along with the haughty chasseur came one of his relatives, a strong and able young fellow named Cæsar. With these two men and Meynet I made another start on the 23d of July. We got to the tent without any trouble, and on the following day had ascended beyond the Tower, and were picking our way cautiously over the loose rocks behind (where my traces of the week before were well apparent) in lovely weather, when one of those abominable and almost instantaneous changes occurred, to which the Matterhorn is so liable on its southern side. Mists were created out of invisible vapours, and in a few minutes snow fell heavily. We stopped, as this part was of excessive difficulty, and, unwilling to retreat, remained on the spot several hours, in hopes that another change would occur; but, as it did not, we at length went down to the base of the Tower, and commenced to make a third platform, at the height of 12,992 feet above the sea. It still continued to snow, and we took refuge in the tent. Carrel argued that the weather had broken up, and that the mountain would become so glazed with ice as to render any attempt futile; and I, that the change was only temporary, and that the rocks were too hot to allow ice to form upon them. I wished to stay until the weather improved, but my leader would not endure contradiction, grew more positive, and insisted that we must go down. We went down, and when we got below the Col his opinion was found to be wrong; the cloud was confined to the upper 3000 feet, and outside it there was brilliant weather.


text:
Author:Victor James William Patrick Daley

Poetry collections

 * At Dawn and Dusk (1898)
 * Wine and Roses: A New Volume of Poems. (1911)
 * Creeve Roe (1947)

1882-1899

 * "The First of May" (1882)
 * "At the Opera" (1883)
 * "Dreams" (1883)
 * "On the River" (1885) (also known as "Years After")
 * "On the Shore" (1885) (also known as "Sunset")
 * "Brunette" (1886)
 * "Poppies" (1886)
 * "The Old Wife and the New" (1887)
 * "A Sunset Fantasy" (1888)
 * "Even So" (1890)
 * "Lachesis" (1891)
 * "A-Roving" (1892)
 * "Cares" (1892)
 * "A Vision of Youth" (1894)
 * "Day and Night" (1896)
 * "A Treat for the London Poor" (1897)
 * "Correggio Jones" (1898)
 * "Narcissus And Some Tadpoles" (1899)
 * "The Woods of Dandenong" (1899)

1900-

 * "Players" (1900)
 * "When London Calls" (1900)
 * "Anna" (1902)
 * "The Woman at the Washtub" (1902)
 * "Anacreon" (1904)
 * "Moderation" (1904)
 * "Over the Wine" (1904)
 * "The Parson and the Prelate" (1904)
 * "The Call of the City" (1905)
 * "The Great Secret" (1905)
 * "St. Francis II" (1905)
 * "The Night Ride" (1907)
 * "The Road of Roses" (1908)


text: Author talk:Victor James William Patrick Daley


text:
Page:Whymper - Scrambles amongst the Alps.djvu/163

Rh Meynet was ready and waiting, and he said that the two Carrels had gone off some time before, and had left word that they intended marmot-hnnting, as the day was favourable for that sport. My holiday had nearly expired, and these men clearly could not be relied upon; so, as a last resort, I proposed to the hunchback to accompany me alone, to see if we could not get higher than before, though of reaching the summit there was little or no hope. He did not hesitate, and in a few hours we stood—for the third time together—upon the Col du Lion; but it was the first time Meynet had seen the view unclouded. The poor little deformed peasant gazed upon it silently and reverently for a time, and then, unconsciously, fell on one knee in an attitude of adoration, and clasped his hands, exclaiming in ecstasy, "Oh, beautiful mountains!" His actions were as appropriate as his words were natural, and tears bore witness to the reality of his emotion.

Our power was too limited to advance the tent, so we slept at the old station, and starting very early the next morning, passed the place where we had turned back on the 24th, and, subsequently, my highest point on the 19th. We found the crest of the ridge so treacherous that we took to the cliffs on the right, although most unwillingly. Little by little we fought our way up, but at length we were both spread-eagled on the all but perpendicular face, unable to advance, and barely able to descend. We returned to the ridge. It was almost equally difficult, and infinitely more unstable; and at length, after having pushed our attempts as far as was prudent, I determined to return to Breil, and to have a light ladder made to assist us to overcome some of the steepest parts. I expected, too, that by this time Carrel would have had enough marmot-hunting, and would deign to accompany us again.


text:
Page:Whymper - Scrambles amongst the Alps.djvu/167

Rh no time to make another attempt, for I was due in a few days more in London. When this came home clearly to me, I resolved to leave Breil at once, but, when packing up, found that some necessaries had been left behind in the tent. So I went off about midday to recover them; caught the army of the Professor before it reached the Col, as they were going very slowly; left them there (stopping to take food), and went on to the tent. I was near to it when all at once I heard a noise aloft, and, on looking up, perceived a stone of at least a foot cube flying straight at my head. I ducked, and scrambled under the lee side of a friendly rock, while the stone went by with a loud buzz. It was the advanced guard of a perfect storm of stones, which descended with infernal clatter down the very edge of the ridge, leaving a trail of dust behind, with a strong smell of sulphur, that told who had sent them. The men below were on the look-out, but the stones did not come near them, and breaking away on one side went down to the glacier. Page 166 - Scrambles amongst the Alps - Whymper.jpg A CANNONADE ON THE MATTERHORN. (1862) I waited at the tent to welcome the Professor, and when he arrived went down to Breil. Early next morning some one ran to me saying that a flag was seen on the summit of the Matterhorn. It was not so, however, although I saw that they had passed the place where we had turned back on the 26th. I had now no doubt of their final success, for they had got beyond the point which Carrel, not less than myself, had always considered to be the most questionable place on the whole mountain. Up to it there was no choice of route,—I suppose that at no one point between it and the Col was it possible to diverge a dozen paces to the right or left,


text:
Page:First Voyage Round the World.djvu/24

 be supposed to be similar in substance to those renunciations which Osorio mentions and reproves.

Among those who disnaturalised themselves may be cited various Condes de Haro of Biscay, and Guzman, who gave his services to Marocco, and who bears the title of El Bueno. With regard to Count Diego de Haro, who in 1216 withdrew from Castile to Navarre, Mariana makes the following observations.

"Several great lords of Castile, irritated against their king, whose avarice they could not endure, had passed into the kingdoms of Navarre and Aragon, after having renounced their right of naturalisation by a public deed, a means formerly in use amongst those nations, in order not to be regarded as traitors and rebels when they quitted the states of their sovereign. . . Among the grandees who came to take refuge in Navarre, the most illustrious beyond dispute was Don Diego de Haro. This lord had excellent qualities: never were seen greater constancy, probity, or zeal for the public service than his; the slightest injustice irritated him. It was in order not to see his country and freedom oppressed, that he abandoned Castile."—Mariana, History of Spain, book xiii.

"In the year 1276, Alfonso the Wise had defeated Yussuf, the Emperor of Marocco, and made peace with him with the assistance of Guzman: a tournament was held in Seville in celebration of it, and King Alfonso having asked who had most distinguished himself, was told D. Alonzo Perez. He asked which of them, and. D. Juan Ramirez de Guzman replied: 'Alonzo Perez de Guzman, my brother of profit.' This answer seemed ill to all, and especially to Guzman, who saw that a slur was cast upon the illegitimacy of his birth, for at that time they named children of profit (gananciu), those who were born of unmarried women, and his mother had not been married. Guzman, irritated at being thus spoken of before the king and the court, then said:


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Rh notch, marked on the outlines, which might defeat one at the very last moment.

My knapsack was packed, and I had drunk a parting glass of wine with Favre, who was jubilant at the success which was to make the fortune of his inn; but I could not bring myself to leave until the result was heard, and lingered about, as a foolish lover hovers round the object of his affections, even after he has been contemptuously rejected. The sun had set before the men were descried coming over the pastures. There was no spring in their steps—they, too, were defeated. The Carrels hid their heads, but the others said, as men will do when they have been beaten, that the mountain was horrible, impossible, and so forth. Professor Tyndall told me they had arrived within a stone's throw of the summit, and admonished me to have nothing more to do with the mountain. I understood him to say that he should not try again, and ran down to the village of Val Tournanche, almost inclined to believe that the mountain was inaccessible; leaving the tent, ropes, and other matters in the hands of Favre, to be placed at the disposal of any person who wished to ascend it, more, I am afraid, out of irony than for generosity. There may have been those who believed that the Matterhorn could be ascended, but, anyhow, their faith did not bring forth works. No one tried again in 1862.

Business took me into Dauphiné before returning to London, and a week after Tyndall's defeat I lay one night, after a sultry day, half-asleep, tossing about in one of the abominations which serve for beds in the inn kept by the Deputy-Mayor of La Ville de Val Louise; looking at a strange ruddiness on the ceiling, which I thought might be some effect of electricity produced by the irritation of the myriads of fleas; when the great bell of the church, close at hand, pealed out with loud and hurried clangour. I jumped up, for the voices and movements of the people in the house made me think of fire. It was fire; and I saw from my window, on the other side of the river, great forked flames shooting high into the


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 'You speak truth, I am a brother of profit, but you are and will be one of loss; and were it not for the respect due to the presence in which we stand, I would teach you the manner in which you should treat me; but you are not to blame for it, but rather he who has brought you up and taught you so ill.' The king, against whom this complaint appeared to be directed, then said: 'Your brother does not speak ill, for so it is the custom in Castile to name those who are not children of women married to their husbands.' 'So also,' he replied, 'is it the custom of the nobles of Castile, when they are not well treated by their sovereigns, to go abroad to seek those who will treat them well; I will do likewise; and I swear not to return until with truth they may call me a man of profit. Grant me, therefore, the term which the privilege of the nobles of Castile gives, that I may go out of the kingdom, for from this day I disnaturalise myself, and take leave of being your vassal.' The king attempted to dissuade him, but his efforts being in vain, he had to grant him the term which he asked for; during which Guzman sold all that he had inherited from his father or acquired in the war, and went out from Castile, accompanied by thirty of his friends and servants."—Quintana, Vidas de Españoles Celebres.

There seems to be some inconsistency on the part of those who refuse to admit of disnaturalisation, yet at the same time maintain that rebellion can be justified. If there is a justification of rebellion, the right of expatriation, or of withdrawal from amongst those who provoke rebellion, must exist; and there can be no doubt that the peaceable withdrawal of those who are oppressed or injured is preferable in the interests of all to armed insurrection. Even Bishop Osorio and Mariana would probably admit that the disnaturalisation of Prim and Serrano would have been better than


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Author:John Farrell

Works

 * How He Died, and Other Poems (1887)
 * Australia to England (1897)
 * Progress and Poverty

Individual poems

 * "How He Died" (1883)
 * "The Last Bullet (1886)
 * "Australia to England" (1897)

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 WINE AND ROSES: A New Volume of Poems.

 * Most of his verse is tinged with sadness―as in most Irish poetry―but there is a fine imaginative quality that lifts it to a far higher plane than that of the conventional melancholy rhymer. There are poems in this book that recall the magic of Rossetti..,.… [sic]Victor Daley has left his mark in the beginnings of an Australian literature.

AT DAWN AND DUSK: POEMS.

 * These verses are full of poetic fancy musically expressed.

 * The indefinable charm is here, and the spell, and the music.…A distinct advance for Australian verse in ideality, in grace and polish, in the study of the rarer forms of verse, and in the true faculty of poetic feeling and expression.

 * Open this book where you will, you are caught at once into a land of dreams.

HOW HE DIED, AND OTHER POEMS.

 * "Farrell's contributions to the literature of this country were always distinguished by a fine, stirring optimism, a genuine sympathy, and an idealistic sentiment which in the book under notice find their fullest expression."

 * "Of the part of Mr. Farrell's work contained in this volume it is not necessary to say more than that it has long since received sincere commendation, not only from other Australian writers, but from men eminent in letters in England and America."


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was a hard case, but some said that Smith was harder. Steelman was big and good-looking, and good-natured in his way; he was a 'spieler,' pure and simple, but did things in humorous style. Smith was small and weedy, of the sneak variety; he had a whining tone and a cringing manner. He seemed to be always so afraid you were going to hit him that he would make you want to hit him on that account alone.

Steelman 'had' you in a fashion that would make your friends laugh. Smith would 'have' you in a way which made you feel mad at the bare recollection of having been taken in by so contemptible a little sneak.

They battled round together in the North Island of Maoriland for a couple of years.

One day Steelman said to Smith:

'Look here, Smithy, you don't know you're born yet. I'm going to take you in hand and teach you.'

And he did. If Smith wouldn't do as Steelman told him, or wasn't successful in cadging, or 'mugged' any game they had in hand, Steelman would threaten to 'stoush' him; and, if the warning proved ineffectual after the second or third time, he would stoush him.

181


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 saw here Nuno Ribeiro and other persons who spoke to me in a dissembling manner, and seeking to learn about me. I kiss the hands of your Highness. From Seville, the 18th of July, of 1519.

The long interval which elapsed before the example set by Magellan was followed by Drake and Van Noort (for the expedition of the Comendador Loaysa in 1527, and two others having failed, this voyage was not again attempted in those times by the Spaniards) is a proof that greater hardihood was displayed in Magellan's voyage than in those of Columbus and Gama; and the fortitude and constancy of Magellan appear strongly from the foregoing despatches, since in addition to the physical difficulties of his enterprise, he had to struggle against intrigues, jealousy, and the alternate upbraiding and cajolery of the King of Portugal's agents. The despatch of Sebastian Alvarez to Dom Manuel, though biassed as it naturally is, shows that whatever he and the Portuguese of that day thought of Magellan's design, he himself did not consider that he was doing anything injurious to his king or country, and Camoens, though he repeats the hackneyed accusation of disloyalty against Magellan, yet boasts of his achievements as a lasting honour to Portugal, in the following lines:

"Fired by thy fame, and with his king in ire, To match thy deeds shall Magalhaens aspire: In all but loyalty, of Lusian soul, No fear, no danger shall his toils controul. Along these regions from the burning zone To deepest south he dares the course unknown.


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 the hotel, at the expense of some 'mugs' whom Steelman was 'educating.' It was raining hard. When Smith was going home, he said:―

'Look here, Steely, old man. Listen to the rain! I'll get wringing wet going home. You might as well lend me your overcoat to-night. You won't want it, and I won't hurt it.'

And, Steelman's heart being warmed by his successes, he lent the overcoat.

Smith went and pawned it, got glorious on the proceeds, and took the pawn-ticket to Steelman next day.

Smith had reformed.

'And I taught him!' Steelman would say, proudly, in after years, in concluding his celebrated dog-yarn. 'Poor old Smith. He could battle round all right. I taught him.'


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 One day, on the track, they came to a place where an old Scottish couple kept a general store and shanty. They camped alongside the road, and Smith was just starting up to the house to beg supplies when Steelman cried:

'Here!―hold on. Now where do you think you're going to?'

'Why, I'm going to try and chew the old party's lug, of course. We'll be out of tucker in a couple of days,' said Smith.

Steelman sat down on a stump in a hopeless, discouraged sort of way.

'It's no use,' he said, regarding Smith with mingled reproach and disgust. 'It's no use. I might as well give it best. I can see that it's only waste of time trying to learn you anything. Will I ever be able to knock some gumption into your thick skull? After all the time and trouble and pains I've took with your education, you hain't got any more sense than to go and mug a business like that! When will you learn sense? Hey? After all, ISmith, you're a born mug!'

He always called Smith a 'mug' when he was particularly wild at him, for it hurt Smith more than anything else.

'There's only two classes in the world, spielers and mugs and you're a mug, Smith.'

'What have I done, anyway?' asked Smith helplessly. 'That's all I want to know.'

Steelman wearily rested his brow on his hand.

'That will do, Smith,' he said listlessly; 'don't say another word, old man; it'll only make my head


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 worse; don't talk. You might, at the very least, have a little consideration for my feelings―even if you haven't for your own interests.' He paused and regarded Smith sadly. 'Well, I'll give you another show. I'll stage the business for you.'

He made Smith doff his coat and get into his worst pair of trousers―and they were bad enough; they were hopelessly 'gone,' beyond the extreme limit of bush decency. He made Smith put on a rag of a felt hat and a pair of ''lastic sides' which had fallen off a tramp and lain baking and rotting by turns on a rubbish heap; they had to be tied on Smith with bits of rag and string. He drew dark shadows round Smith's eyes, and burning spots on his cheek-bones with some grease-paints he used when they travelled as 'The Great Steelman and Smith Combination Star Shakesperian Dramatic Co.' He damped Smith's hair to make it dark and lank and his face more corpse-like by comparison―in short, he 'made him up' to look like a man who had long passed the very last stage of consumption, and had been artificially kept alive in the interests of science.

'Now you're ready,' said Steelman to Smith, 'You left your the day before yesterday and started to walk to the hospital at Palmerston. An old mate picked you up dying on the road, brought you round, and carried you on his back most of the way here. You firmly believe that Providence had something to do with the sending of that old mate along at that time and place above all others. Your mate also was hard-up; he was going to a job―the first show for work he'd had in nine months―but he gave it up to


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 While to the kingdoms of the rising day, To rival thee he holds the western way, A land of giants shall his eyes behold, Of camel strength, surpassing human mould: And onward still, thy fame, his proud heart's guide, Haunting him unappeased, the dreary tide

Beneath the southern star's cold gleam he braves, And stems the whirls of land-surrounded waves.

Through these dread jaws of rock he presses on; Another ocean's breast, immense, unknown, Beneath the south's cold wings, unmeasured, wide, Receives his vessels; through the dreary tide In darkling shades where never man before Heard the waves howl, he dares the nameless shore. Thus far, favoured Lusians, bounteous heaven Your nation's glories to your view has given. What ensigns, blazing to the morn, pursue The path of heroes, opened first by you! Still be it your's the first in fame to shine: Thus shall your brides new chaplets still entwine, With laurels ever new your brows enfold, And braid your wavy locks with radiant gold."

The poet of the Lusiad, who had said that the Muses sang of Gama unwillingly, here concludes his praises of Magellan with a promise to the Portuguese of ever renewed praise—a promise which will be fulfilled by posterity whenever the character and enterprise of Magellan are compared with those of his contemporaries; for whilst the cruelty and violence of Gama, and the difficulty his companions had in restraining him, were very serious defects in his character, Magellan gave


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 when the captain answered them it was the same as that used by the ladies and gentlemen in the first cabin, an Irishman made the amusing retort that "it might do very well for the quality and the pigs, but it was not tit for poor people like him." During the voyage there was an outbreak of measles and low fever that caused some mortality amongst the infants. But, if there were some deaths, there were also births on board the "Erin-go-bragh."

One of those interesting domestic occurrences happened on St. Patrick's Night. When Father Dunne was called upon to baptise the child, the usual inquiries were made as to what name should be bestowed on the infant; and, in recognition of the happy coincidence that the child's natal day corresponded with the feast of Ireland's patron saint, Patrick was unanimously selected as a fit and proper title for the baby. Next morning the father of the child came to the priest in an awful state of trouble and anxiety. "Oh, your reverence," said he, "we made a great mistake last night." "How is that?" inquired the priest. "Oh, your reverence, it was all through that ape of a woman who attended my wife. Sure Paddy is a little girl!" Here was a truly perplexing state of things. A conference of all interested was held, and the priest eventually pacified all parties with the assurance that the little innocent victim of the baptismal blunder should be registered, as "Mary Patrick."

On arrival in Moreton Bay, a large inlet about 25 miles distant from Brisbane, the capital of the new colony of Queensland, the "Erin-go-bragh" was subjected to a short detention in quarantine. When the immigrants were permitted to land, they were taken up the river in a special steamer and heartily welcomed by the Right Rev. James Quinn, the first Bishop of Queensland, and the people

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 see you through; he'd give up his life rather than desert a mate in trouble. You only want a couple of shillings or a bit of tucker to help you on to Palmerston. You know you've got to die, and you only want to live long enough to get word to your poor old mother, and die on a bed.

'Remember, they're Scotch up at that house. You understand the Scotch barrack pretty well by now―if you don't it ain't my fault. You were born in Aberdeen, but came out too young to remember much about the town. Your father's dead. You ran away to sea and came out in the Bobbie Burns to Sydney. Your poor old mother's in Aberdeen now―Bruce or Wallace Wynd will do. Your mother might be dead now―poor old soul! any way, you'll never see her again. You wish you'd never run away from home. You wish you'd been a better son to your poor old mother; you wish you'd written to her and answered her last letter. You only want to live long enough to write home and ask for forgiveness and a blessing before you die. If you had a drop of spirits of some sort to brace you up you might get along the road better. (Put this delicately.) Get the whine out of your voice and breathe with a wheeze―like this; get up the nearest approach to a death-rattle that you can. Move as if you were badly hurt in your wind―like this. (If you don't do it better 'n that, I'll stoush you.) Make your face a bit longer and keep your lips dry―don't lick them, you damned fool!―breathe on them; make 'em dry as chips. That's the only decent pair of you've got, and the only "." You're a Presbyterian―not a U.P., the Auld Kirk. Your


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 mate would have come up to the house only―well, you'll have to use the stuffing in your head a bit; you can't expect me to do all the brain work. Remember it's consumption you've got―galloping consumption; you know all the symptoms―pain on top of your right lung, bad cough and night sweats. Something tells you that you won't see the new year―it's a week off Christmas now. And, if you come back without anything, I'll blessed soon put you out of your misery.'

Smith came back with about four pounds of shortbread and as much various tucker as they could conveniently carry; a pretty good suit of cast-off tweeds; a new pair of 'lastic sides from the store stock; two bottles of patent medicine and a black bottle half-full of home-made consumption-cure; also a letter to a hospital-committee man, and three shillings to help him on his way to Palmerston. He also got about half a mile of sympathy, religious consolation, and medical advice which he didn't remember.

'Now,' he said, triumphantly, 'am I a mug or not?'

Steelman kindly ignored the question, 'I did have a better opinion of the Scotch,' he said, contemptuously.

Steelman got on at an hotel as billiard-marker and decoy, and in six months he managed that pub. Smith, who'd been away on his own account, turned up in the town one day clean-broke, and in a deplorable state. He heard of Steelman's luck, and thought he was 'all right,' so went to his old friend.

Cold type―or any other kind of type―couldn't do


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 justice to Steelman's disgust. To think that this was the reward of all the time and trouble he'd spent on Smith's education! However, when he cooled down, he said:

'Smith, you're a young man yet, and it's never too late to mend. There is still time for reformation. I can't help you now; it would only demoralise you altogether. To think, after the way I trained you, you can't battle round any better'n this! I always thought you were an irreclaimable mug, but I expected better things of you towards the end. I thought I'd make something of you. It's enough to dishearten any man and disgust him with the world. Why! you ought to be a rich man now with the chances and training you had! To think―but I won't talk of that; it has made me ill. I suppose I'll have to give you something, if it's only to get rid of the sight of you. Here's a quid, and I'm a mug for giving it to you. It'll do you more harm than good; and it ain't a friendly thing nor the right thing for me―who always had your welfare at heart―to give it to you under the circumstances. Now, get away out of my sight, and don't come near me till you've reformed. If you do, I'll have to stoush you out of regard for my own health and feelings.'

But Steelman came down in the world again and picked up Smith on the road, and they 'battled round' together for another year or so; and at last they were in Wellington―Steelman 'flush' and stopping at an hotel, and Smith stumped, as usual, and staying with a friend. One night they were drinking together at


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 of Brisbane. The brother of this energetic and patriotic prelate, the Rev. Dr. Matthew Quinn, of Dublin, afterwards Bishop of Bathurst in New South Wales, followed immediately in the footsteps of the pioneer. Father Dunne, and chartered the "Maryborough" to carry another batch of Irish immigrants to Queensland. The "Maryborough" made a fair passage, and reached Moreton Bay shortly after the "Erin-go-bragh." As soon as the system inaugurated by Father Dunne was found to work satisfactorily, and when it became known that the Queensland Government had decided to offer no positive opposition to the movement, ships conveying a most desirable class of immigrants for a young colony were despatched from Ireland to Queensland month after month in regular succession. Even Mr. Jordan, the government agent, who was so hostile to Father Dunne's scheme at the beginning, completely altered his views afterwards, and bore public testimony to the excellent results it had accomplished. Under the auspices of Dr. Quinn, he went over to Ireland, and lectured in Dublin and Cork on the advantages and prospects of Queensland as a field for emigration.

Having seen his first batch of immigrants comfortably settled on the soil. Father Dunne hastened back to Ireland and safely brought out a second contingent by the "Fiery Star." This vessel had the misfortune to be burned at sea on the return voyage, somewhere between the Auckland Islands and Cape Horn. The passengers and a portion of the ship's crew took to the boats and were never heard of again, whilst the few who remained on the burning hull were luckily rescued at the last moment by a passing barque. The indefatigable priest made still another trip to the old land, and returned to Queensland in the "Sunda," bringing with him a band of Irishmen as noble, as earnest, as

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 gent and a industrious as ever quitted the "green shores of holy Ireland," to aid in building up a new colony "by the long wash of Australasian seas." Thus in three short years, and with none of to-day's conveniences for ocean travelling, this intrepid Irish missionary accomplished six of the longest voyages that are possible on this planet for the benefit of his poor, sorely-tried countrymen and countrywomen, many of whom were saved by his splendid exertions from the fearful effects of famine or the dreaded degradation of the poorhouse. Altogether, about 6,000 people were successfully transplanted through his instrumentality from Ireland to Queensland, and it is highly gratifying to be in a position to state, without fear of contradiction, that all of them who permanently settled in the colony, and avoided the curse of their race, strong drink, have prospered to a remarkable degree, and enjoyed the esteem and good-will of their fellow-colonists of other nationalities. Many of them have risen to wealth and opulence, and are to-day familiar, respected figures in the commercial life of the colony; others have devoted themselves with conspicuous success to agricultural and pastoral pursuits, whilst not a few are to be found filling some of the highest positions in the government service. It was unquestionably the fixed intention of the first government of Queensland to exclude the Irish immigrant, and to make the place as far as possible of a Scotch and English complexion, but, thanks to the immigration scheme initiated by Father Dunne, and followed up by the late Bishop Quinn, that narrow-minded policy was wisely abandoned, and the young colony was allowed to assimilate its fair proportion of the Irish element. Before the arrival of the "Erin-go-bragh," one small church—40 feet by 25—sufficed to accommodate the Catholics of the city of Brisbane, and outside the capital

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 there was but one more in the whole of the vast diocese of Queensland, viz. at Ipswich. Not the least important of the good results of Father Dunne's immigration scheme was the planting in the young colony of a good stock of practical Catholics, whose presence soon became manifest in the number of Catholic churches that sprang up all over the country. It was an essential part of Father Dunne's system to make ample provision for the spiritual welfare of his immigrants, and, with that object, free passages for two priests were secured on each of his ships.

Father Dunne not only laboured most devotedly in the work of rescuing thousands of his unfortunate fellow countrymen and countrywomen from the horrors of famine, and of piloting them to "homes and homesteads in the land of plenty," but, with a kindly sympathetic interest in their future, he published for their benefit some weighty words of sterling advice as to the rule of life they ought to follow, and the special dangers they should try to avoid in starting on their colonial career. He warned the young immigrant to guard against allowing the first feelings of disappointment and dissatisfaction to gain upon him, but rather to look forward hopefully to the position he might gain after a few years of perseverance. On no account should he lose that energy which was so essential for the ultimate success of people starting in a new country. Some of the greatest men in Australia, both as regards their social position and their wealth, had to commence their career in the humble capacity of shepherds. The man most respected in Australia was the man who had raised himself to power and prosperity by his own honest exertions. To the young Irish girls who formed so large a percentage of his immigrants, Father Dunne addressed these words of wisdom:

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let down the heavy, awkward slip-rails, and the gaunt cattle stumbled through, with aggravating deliberation, and scattered slowly among the ragged native apple-trees along the siding. First there came an old easy-going red cow, then a dusty white cow; then two shaggy, half-grown calves―who seemed already to have lost all interest in existence―and after them a couple of 'babies,' sleek, glossy, and cheerful; then three more tired-looking cows, with ragged udders and hollow sides; then a lanky barren ―red, of course―with half-blind eyes and one crooked horn―she was noted for her great agility in jumping two-rail fences, and she was known to the selector as 'Queen Elizaberth [sic];' and behind her came a young cream-coloured milker―a mighty proud and contented young mother―painfully and patiently dragging her first calf, which was hanging obstinately to a teat, with its head beneath her hind legs. Last of all there came the inevitable 'red steer,' who scratched the dust and let a stupid 'bwoo-ur-r-rr' out of him as he snuffed at the rails.

Brook had shifted the rails there often before―fifteen years ago―perhaps the self-same rails, for 188


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9 uninjured, well-stoppered, and with its inhabitants none the worse for their trip back to their native element, was our lost one; this inspired us with fresh vigour, and not finding much that we cared for on the beach, we set to examining the huge Kelp roots, and they were well worthy of it, as the keener eyes of our fellow-labourer soon detected. We had but a moment since been recalling poor Forbes' amusing account of his suicidal Starfish, (Luidia), (see his "British Starfishes," page 138), and we had an illustration of it with an Ophiurus, also a Starfish, but so named from the lizard-like appearance of its arms, which we had turned out from one of those same densely-matted kelp-roots;—off went first the extremity of one arm, as it lay in our hand,—then, with an impudent twist, the smallest bit in life of another, whilst horror-stricken we called hastily for a collecting-box to receive him, or rather all that was left of him,—little enough indeed,—since all that was secured entire was his disk, and on a glass-jar on our mantel-piece he wandered for many weeks amidst his rejected members, which still maintained their vitality, frequently protruding their suckers. Sir John Dalyell mentions having picked up a single ray of a Starfish, which in a few days reproduced four additional ones, all smaller than the original, but this after a time dropped off, leaving the animal more perfectly symmetrical, and the renovated creature entered vigorously on its new career.

But let us examine these suckers more closely, since they seem to act pretty much in the same manner as the leather toy we, as school-boys, amused ourselves


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 "It is a fact which very few will dispute, that ninety-nine out of every hundred of the single females who emigrate to Australia, are more or less influenced by the hope of getting married as soon as possible after their arrival. I would by no means find fault with their motives, but I would warn them to be very cautious about the selection of a husband. It is on this point that girls should be particularly on their guard, as it is in this they generally make their first false step. They are too ready to accept the first proposal and to run off to get married to a man of whose religion, country, or character they know nothing. In the majority of such cases, the man perhaps has a wife in some other part of the world, or he is a drunkard, or a bad man, and will of course give his wife the worst of treatment as long as they live together, which is generally from six to twelve months, and then she is deserted or discarded, to pine away with a broken heart the remainder of her miserable existence."

Not a few Irish girls, unfortunately, have come to grief in the colonies from the over hasty desire to change their condition in life, and these warning words of a veteran Irish priest will continue to have their full force and application for many years to come. A generous, unthinking impulsiveness of thought and action may be one of the strongest and most characteristic points of the Irish character, but there are occasions when, if not checked in time, it becomes an element of weakness and disaster. It is a quality that has made Irishmen the very best of soldiers, and Irishwomen the most self-sacrificing of heroines, but, on the lower fields of life, and under less heroic conditions, its exercise is calculated to become a source of sorrow and ruin.

After his impressive admonition to young female immigrants, Father Dunne proceeds:

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 'stringy bark' lasts long; and the action brought the past near to him―nearer than he wished. He did not like to think of that hungry, wretched selection existence; he felt more contempt than pity for the old-fashioned, unhappy boy, who used to let down the rails there, and drive the cattle through.

He had spent those fifteen years in cities, and was come here, prompted more by curiosity than anything else, to have a quiet holiday. His father was dead; his other relations had moved away, leaving a tenant on the old selection.

Brook rested his elbow on the top rail of an adjacent panel and watched the cattle pass, and thought until Lizzie―the tenant's niece―shoved the red steer through and stood gravely regarding him (Brook, and not the steer); then he shifted his back to the fence and looked at her. He had not much to look at: a short, plain, thin girl of nineteen, with rather vacant grey eyes, dark ringlets, and freckles; she had no complexion to speak of; she wore an ill-fitting print frock, and a pair of men's 'lastic sides several sizes too large for her. She was ' studying for a school-teacher;' that was the height of the ambition of local youth. Brook was studying her.

He turned away to put up the rails. The lower rail went into its place alright, but the top one had got jambedjammed [sic], and it stuck as though it was spiked. He worked the rail up and down and to and fro, took it undiT his arm and tugged it; but he might as well have pulled at one of the posts. Then he lifted the loose end as high as he could, and let it fall―jumping back out of the way at the same time; this loosened it,


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10 with, and by them there can be little doubt that progression is effected. Their mechanism, we learn from Gosse, is very simple. At the bottom of a furrow in each ray are rows of minute pores, through which the suckers are protruded, the base of each sucker being expanded into a little globular vesicle, which lies above the pore in the interior of the ray; the walls of this vesicle are muscular, and therefore contractile, and it is filled with a fluid. When an animal wishes to protrude and extend any given sucker, it contracts the vesicle at its base by an effort of the will; the fluid is thus forced into the tubular stem which is therefore compelled to elongate, and on the removal of this contractile force, the fluid returns to the bladder, either by the elasticity of the tube, or probably by its muscular action, and the sucker is gradually withdrawn.

We are treading shells under our feet at every step, and as yet have said nothing of them, beautiful as they are, and must reserve it now for another chapter, since we cannot dismiss forms varied as they are graceful, with any hurried remarks.


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 "I will now offer a few words of sincere advice to the young men. In the first place and before all, I would warn them to be careful to shun and repel the snares and allurements of intoxication. Let temperance be their watchword and their guide. If, after having been preserved from the dangers of the sea, the first act, when they have put their foot on shore, is to go to the public-house and get drunk, how can they expect that God will bless their efforts in their adopted country? Such conduct is invariably the starting on the road to temporal and eternal destruction, and Irishmen are, unfortunately, too easily led into the snare. To ensure success, the young man must add energy and perseverance to sobriety. Let him, under every circumstance, pursue an honest and straightforward course, and he need not fear for the result: success, plenty and comfort will crown his career. Those who now hold the highest places of distinction in Australia, to their praise be it said, landed, as most emigrants do, without money or interest. They had to battle against the most adverse circumstances through many anxious years; but they had energy and perseverance, they were sober and honest, and they now enjoy the rewards of their labour."

The motives that actuated Father Dunne in undertaking his philanthropic immigration enterprise have been thus clearly stated by himself:

"In taking the part which I have during the last few years in directing emigration to Australia, let me not be misunderstood. I have neither promoted nor encouraged it. On the contrary, if our poor people had protection and could live at home, I would say, 'Let them remain by all means.' But when they must leave, when there is no other alternative except the poor-house or emigration, I am persuaded I could

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 years in cities.) They had scarcely looked at each other that morning―and scarcely spoken.

He looked back as the coach started and saw her sitting inside the big kitchen window. She waved her hand―hopelessly it seemed. She had rolled up her sleeve, and to Brook the arm seemed strangely white and fair above the line of sunburn round the wrist. He hadn't noticed it before. Her face seemed fairer too, but, perhaps, it was only the effect of light and shade round that window.

He looked back again, as the coach turned the corner of the fence, and was just in time to see her bury her face in her hands with a passionate gesture which did not seem natural to her.

Brook reached the city next evening, and, 'after hours,' he staggered in through a side entrance to the lighted parlour of a private bar.

They say that Lizzie broke her heart that year, but, then, the world does not believe in such things nowadays.


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viii of the movement rather inclines me to wonder why, during its continuance, I did not feel a higher admiration of the bravery, the knowledge, the prudence, and the patriotism of its leaders.

For any sins of commission or omission in this work I alone am responsible. I have consulted no one as to what I should put in or leave out, and no one has seen my manuscript but the printer. I have thus preserved the freedom which an author ought to enjoy when he is recording the actions of men, many of whom are his associates and personal friends, while they are freed from any suspicion of having assisted in the record of their own doings.

Manchester, 15th December, 1852


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The first election for Manchester, in 1832, an emphatic assertion of free-trade principles—Mr. Cobbett and anti-slavery—Mr Mark. Phillips, Mr John Thomas Hope, and Mr. Samuel Jones Loyd—their cross examinations.p.1

Another free-trade candidate wanted—Mr. C. P. Thomson—the contest—return of two free traders—results of general election—opening of Parliament.p. 18.

The new House of Commons—not-the time plea—apathy of 1834—the Wellington Peel administration—agricultural distress—the abundance and prosperity of 1835—Richard Cobden.p. 34.

An Anti-Corn-Law Association 1836—symptoms of coming distress—state of trade in 1837—failures—death of William IV.—general election—Mr. Villers' motion 1838—wheat doubled in price.p. 49.

Origin of the Manchester Anti-Corn-Law Association, September, 1838—Dr. Bowring's speech—Mr. G. Hadfield—the seven members, and the Provisional Committee—Mr. Paulton's lectures.p. 64.

Protracted discussions in the Chamber of Commons—Mr. J.B. Smith—Mr. R. Cobden—repeal of all protective duties demanded.p. 78.


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 but when he lifted it again it slid so easily and far into its socket that the other end came out, and fell, barking Brook's knee. He swore a little, then tackled the rail again; he had the same trouble as before with the other end, but succeeded at last. Then he turned away, rubbing his knee.

Lizzie hadn't smiled, not once; she watched him gravely all the while.

'Did you hurt your knee?' she asked, without emotion.

'No. The rail did.'

She reflected solemnly for a while, and then asked him if it felt sore.

He replied rather briefly in the negative.

'They were always nasty, awkward rails to put up,' she remarked, after some more reflection.

Brook agreed, and then they turned their faces towards the homestead. Half-way down the siding was a clump of saplings, with a big log lying amongst them. Here Brook paused. 'We'll sit down for awhile and have a rest,' said he. 'Sit down, Lizzie.'

She obeyed with the greatest of gravity. Nothing was said for awhile. She sat with her hands folded in her lap, gazing thoughtfully at the ridge, which was growing dim. It looked better when it was dim, and so did the rest of the scenery. There was no beauty lost when darkness hid the scenery altogether. Brook wondered what the girl was thinking about. The silence between them did not seem awkward, somehow; but it didn't suit him just then, and so presently he broke it.

'Well, I must go to-morrow.'


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There was no great town in the United Kingdom, throwing a powerful influence upon the agitation in favour of the Reform Bill which more than Manchester, kept steadily in view the practical measure that might be expected as the result of an amendment of representative system. In other places there was a laudable impatience of the absurdity, apparent to all who possessed a portion of common sense, of permitting a mound of earth to send two members to Parliament, while great manufacturing or commercial towns, each the centre and market of important districts, sent none; but nowhere more than in Manchester—perhaps nowhere so much—was the attention placed upon the end while endeavouring to obtain the means. From 1815, to the period when some considerable parliamentary reform was seen to be inevitable, its necessity was mainly argued from the impolicy and injustice of the corn laws; and the strong conviction of the impoverishing effects of the landowners' monopoly gave concentration to the energy which was put forth to obtain such a representation as would guarantee the adoption of free trade. Free Trade, then, in the first


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Talk:The Mikado/A more humane Mikado

I notice that a "politically correct alternative" is included within brackets on the text page. I would suggest that this alternative lyric be moved to this talk page, and that there be included with it several other "politically correct alternatives" that have been recorded and performed over the past several decades, rather than having them, or the one that's currently protruding there, inserted (albeit in brackets) into the text itself. Unless there's some debate or other rational reason why this should not be done, I will perform this sometime near January 2013. StavinChain (talk) 01:21, 6 October 2012 (UTC)
 * You need to check against the source text. If the particular source from which this text was taken includes the alternative lyrics, then they need to be kept in order to be faithful to the publication.  The issue is not what the original lyrics were, but rather what lyrics were published in the particular source from which this text was found. --EncycloPetey (talk) 01:59, 6 October 2012 (UTC)

title: Talk:The Mikado/A more humane Mikado


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2 place, peace, non-intervention in the Affairs of other states, retrenchment, full religious liberty, the abolition of slavery in our colonies, wide constituencies in municipal elections, protection to the voter, and parliaments more frequently accountable to the people, were the objects sought to be obtained ; and, these kept always in view, an earnest and effective effort was made for the Reform Bill, as the instrument by which they were to be accomplished. To this constant forward look to the practical, may be attributed the lead which Manchester took in the anti-corn-law movement. The first election was to be a protest against monopoly, and the strongest that could be made, as it was believed that the representatives of great constituencies would have an influence in the newly constituted House of Commons proportionate to the number of voters represented.

Strangely enough, the first candidate for the representation of the new borough was one who seemed to be perfectly indifferent about free trade, and, until the eve of the first election, strenuously opposed to any change that would interfere with the interests of the West India planters, all monopolists, and, to prevent innovation, the supporters of every monopoly. In the First week of 1830 William Cobbett had delivered four lectures in Manchester to crowded audiences. His leading propositions were, that lessening the amount of the currency had increased its value; that the increase had added to the claims of all creditors, and especially of the public creditors; and that the consequent fall in the price of every commodity, without a correspondent reduction of taxes, had occasioned intolerable distress. Two omissions, however, were remarked upon by even his most ardent admirers,—the monopoly of the corn growers, and the want of such representation in the House of Commons as would counteract the predominant influence of the landowners. But from the period at which speculation commenced as to


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xxviii not fit them. If therefore the reader finds some of these translations rather rugged, if he meets with expressions which sound foreign, with combinations of nouns and adjectives such as he has never seen before, with sentences that seem too long or too abrupt, let him feel sure that the translator has had to deal with a choice of evils, and that when the choice lay between sacrificing idiom or truth, he has chosen the smaller evil of the two. I do not claim, of course, either for myself or for my fellow-workers, that we have always sacrificed as little as was possible of truth or idiom, and that here and there a happier rendering of certain passages may not be suggested by those who come after us. I only wish to warn the reader once more not to expect too much from a translation, and to bear in mind that, easy as it might be to render word by word, it is difficult, aye, sometimes impossible, to render thought by thought.

I shall give one instance only from my own translation of the Upanishads. One of the most important words in the ancient philosophy of the Brahmans is Âtman, nom. sing. Âtmâ. It is rendered in our dictionaries by 'breath, soul, the principle of life and sensation, the individual soul, the self, the abstract individual, self, one's self, the reflexive pronoun, the natural temperament or disposition, essence, nature, character, peculiarity, the person or the whole body, the body, the understanding, intellect, the mind, the faculty of thought and reason, the thinking faculty, the highest principle of life, Brahma, the supreme deity or soul of the universe, care, effort, pains, firmness, the sun, fire, wind, air, a son.'


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Rh This will give classical scholars an idea of the chaotic state from which, thanks to the excellent work done by Boehtlingk, Roth, and others, Sanskrit lexicology is only just emerging. Some of the meanings here mentioned ought certainly not to be ascribed to âtman. It never means, for instance, the understanding, nor could it ever by itself be translated by sun, fire, wind, air, pains or firmness. But after deducting such surplusage, there still remains a large variety of meanings which may, under certain circumstances, be ascribed to âtman.

When âtman occurs in philosophical treatises, such as the Upanishads and the Vedânta system which is based on them, it has generally been translated by soul, mind, or spirit. I tried myself to use one or other of these words, but the oftener I employed them, the more I felt their inadequacy, and was driven at last to adopt self and Self as the least liable to misunderstanding.

No doubt in many passages it sounds strange in English to use self, and in the plural selfs instead of selves; but that very strangeness is useful, for while such words as soul and mind and spirit pass over us unrealised, self and selfs will always ruffle the surface of the mind, and stir up some reflection in the reader. In English to speak even of the I and the Non-I, was till lately considered harsh; it may still be called a foreign philosophical idiom. In German the Ich and Nicht-ich have, since the time of Fichte, become recognised and almost familiar, not only as philosophical terms, but as legitimate expressions in the literary language of the day. But while the Ich with Fichte expressed the highest abstraction of personal existence, the


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 'Must you?'

'Yes.'

She thought awhile, and then she asked him if he was glad to go.

'Well, I don't know. Are you sorry, Lizzie?'

She thought a good long while, and then she said she was.

He moved closer to the girl, and suddenly slipped his arm round her waist. She did not seem agitated; she still gazed dreamily at the line of ridges, but her head inclined slightly towards him.

'Lizzie, did you ever love anyone?'―then anticipating the usual reply―'except, of course, your father and mother, and all that sort of thing.' Then, abruptly: 'I mean did you ever have a sweetheart?'

She reflected, so as to be sure; then she said she hadn't.

Long pause, and he, the city man, breathed hard―not the girl. Suddenly he moved nervously, and said:

'Lizzie―Lizzie! Do you know what love means?'

She pondered over this for some minutes, as a result of which she said she thought that she did.

'Lizzie! Do you think you can love me?'

She didn't seem able to find an answer to that. So he caught her to him in both arms, and kissed her hard and long on the mouth. She was agitated now―she had some complexion now; she struggled to her feet, trembling.

'We must go now,' she said quickly. 'They will be waiting for tea.'

He stood up before her, and held her there by both hands


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 for which last the emperor Aurelian substituted a handkerchief (orarium), distributed to all Roman citizens (see ). In the theatre, at the close of the play, the chief actor called out “Valete et plaudite!”, and the audience, guided by an unofficial choregus, chaunted their applause antiphonally. This was often organized and paid for (Böttiger, Über das Applaudieren im Theater bei den Alten, Leipz., 1822). When Christianity became fashionable the customs of the theatre were transferred to the churches. Eusebius (Hist. Eccl. vii. 30) says that Paul of Samosata encouraged the congregation to applaud his preaching by waving linen cloths ( ), and in the 4th and 5th centuries applause of the rhetoric of popular preachers had become an established custom. Though, however, applause may provide a healthy stimulus, its abuse has led to attempts at abolishing or restricting it even in theatres. The institution of the claque, people hired by performers to applaud them, has largely discredited the custom, and indiscriminate applause has been felt as an intolerable interruption to serious performances. The reverential spirit which abolished applause in church has tended to spread to the theatre and the concert-room, largely under the influence of the quasi-religious atmosphere of the Wagner performances at Baireuth. In Germany (e.g. the court theatres at Berlin) applause during the performance and “calling before the curtain” have been officially forbidden, but even in Germany this is felt to be in advance of public opinion. (See also and .) APPLE (a common Teut. word, A.S. aepl, aeppel, O.H.G. aphul, aphal, apfal, mod. Ger. Apfel), the fruit of Pyrus Malus, belonging to the sub-order Pomaceae, of the natural order Rosaceae. It is one of the most widely cultivated and best-known and appreciated of fruits belonging to temperate climates. In its wild state it is known as the crab-apple, and is found generally distributed throughout Europe and western Asia, growing in as high a latitude as Trondhjem in Norway. The crabs of Siberia belong to different species of Pyrus. The apple-tree as cultivated is a moderate-sized tree with spreading branches, ovate, acutely serrated or crenated leaves, and flowers in corymbs. The fruit is too well known to need any description of its external characteristics. The apple is successfully cultivated in higher latitudes than any other fruit tree, growing up to 65° N., but notwithstanding this, its blossoms are more susceptible of injury from frost than the flowers of the peach or apricot. It comes into flower much later than these trees, and so avoids the night frost which would be fatal to its fruit-bearing. The apples which are grown in northern regions are, however, small, hard, and crabbed, the best fruit being produced in hot summer climates, such as Canada and the United States. Besides in Europe and America, the fruit is now cultivated at the Cape of Good Hope, in northern India and China, and in Australia and New Zealand.

Apples have been cultivated in Great Britain probably since the period of the Roman occupation, but the names of many varieties indicate a French or Dutch origin of much later date. In 1688 Ray enumerated seventy-eight varieties in cultivation in the neighbourhood of London, and now it is calculated that about 2000 kinds can be distinguished. According to the purposes for which they are suitable, they can be classed as—1st, dessert; 2nd, culinary; and 3rd, cider apples. The principal dessert apples are the Pippins (pepins, seedlings), of which there are numerous varieties. As culinary apples, besides Rennets and other dessert kinds, Codlins and Biffins are cultivated. In England, Herefordshire and Devonshire are famous for the cultivation of apples, and in these counties the manufacture of (q.v.) is an important industry. Cider is also extensively prepared in Normandy and in Holland. Verjuice is the fermented juice of crab apples.

A large trade in the importation of apples is carried on in Britain, imports coming chiefly from French, Belgian and Dutch growers, and from the United States and British North America. Dried and pressed apples are imported from France for stewing, under the name of Normandy Pippins, and similarly prepared fruits come also from America.

The apple may be propagated by seeds to obtain stocks for grafting, and also for the production of new varieties. The established sorts are usually increased by grafting, the method called whip-grafting being preferred. The stocks should be at least as thick as the finger; and should be headed back to where the graft is to be fixed in January, unless the weather is frosty, but in any case before vegetation becomes active. The scions should be cut about the same time, and laid in firmly in a trench, in contact with the moist soil, until required.

The tree will thrive in any good well-drained soil, the best being a good mellow calcareous loam, while the less iron there is in the subsoil the better. The addition of marl to soils that are not naturally calcareous very much improves them. The trees are liable to canker in undrained soils or those of a hot sandy nature. Where the soil is not naturally rich enough, it should be well manured, but not to the extent of encouraging over-luxuriance. It is better to apply manure in the form of a compost than to use it in a fresh state or unmixed.

To form an orchard, standard trees should be planted at from 25 to 40 ft. between the rows, according to the fertility of the soil and other considerations. The trees should be selected with clean, straight, self-supporting stems, and the head should be shapely and symmetrical, with the main branches well balanced. In order to obtain such a stem, all the leaves on the first shoot from the graft or bud should be encouraged to grow, and in the second season the terminal bud should be allowed to develop a further leading shoot, while the lateral shoots should be allowed to grow, but so that they do not compete with the leader, on which the growth of leaves should be encouraged in order that they may give additional strength to the stem below them. The side shoots should be removed gradually, so that the diminution of foliage in this direction may not exceed the increase made by the new branches and shoots of the upper portion. Dwarf pyramids, which occupy less space than open dwarfs, if not allowed to grow tall, may be planted at from 10 to 12 ft. apart. Dwarf bush trees may be planted from 10 to 15 ft. apart, according to the variety and the soil. Dwarf bushes on the Paradise stock are both ornamental and useful in small gardens, the trees being always conveniently under control. These bush trees, which must be on the proper stock—the French Paradise—may be planted at first 6 ft. apart, with the same distance between the rows, the space being afterwards increased, if desired, to 12 ft. apart, by removing every alternate row.

“Cordons” are trees trained to a single shoot, the laterals of which are kept spurred. They are usually trained horizontally, at about 1½ ft. from the ground, and may consist of one stem or of two, the stems in the latter case being trained in opposite directions. In cold districts the finer sorts of apples may be grown against walls as upright or oblique cordons. From these cordon trees very fine fruit may often be obtained. The apple may also be grown as an espalier tree, a form which does not require much lateral space. The ordinary trained trees for espaliers and walls should be planted 20 ft. apart.

The fruit of the apple is produced on spurs which form on the branchlets of two years old and upwards, and continue fertile for a series of years. The principal pruning should be performed in summer, the young shoots if crowded being thinned out, and the superabundant laterals shortened by breaking them half through. The general winter pruning of the trees may take place any time from the beginning of November to the beginning of March, in open weather. The trees are rather subject to the attacks of the American blight, the white cottony substance found on the bark and developed by an insect (Eriosoma mali), somewhat similar to the green-fly of the garden, but not a true aphis. It may be removed by scrubbing with a hard brush, by painting the affected spots with any bland oil, or by washing them with dilute paraffin and soft soap.

The apple-blossom weevil (Anthonomus pomorum), a small reddish-brown beetle, often causes serious damage to the flowers. The female bores and lays an egg in the unopened bud, and the maggot feeds on the stamens and pistil. The weevil hibernates in the crannies of the bark or in the soil at the base of the trees,

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 corresponding word in Sanskrit, the Aham or Ahaṅkâra, was always looked upon as a secondary development only, and as by no means free from all purely phenomenal ingredients. Beyond the Aham or Ego, with all its accidents and limitations, such as sex, sense, language, country, and religion, the ancient sages of India perceived, from a very early time, the Âtman or the self, independent of all such accidents.

The individual âtman or self, however, was with the Brahmans a phase or phenomenal modification only of the Highest Self, and that Highest Self was to them the last point which could be reached by philosophical speculation. It was to them what in other systems of philosophy has been called by various names, τò όν, the Divine, the Absolute. The highest aim of all thought and study with the Brahman of the Upanishads was to recognise his own self as a mere limited reflection of the Highest Self, to know his self in the Highest Self, and through that knowledge to return to it, and regain his identity with it. Here to know was to be, to know the Âtman was to be the Âtman, and the reward of that highest knowledge after death was freedom from new births, or immortality.

That Highest Self which had become to the ancient Brahmans the goal of all their mental efforts, was looked upon at the same time as the starting-point of all phenomenal existence, the root of the world, the only thing that could truly be said to be, to be real and true. As the root of all that exists, the Âtman was identified with the Brahman, which in Sanskrit is both masculine and neuter, and with the Sat, which is neuter only, that which is,


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 'There is plenty of time. Lizzie'

'Mis-ter Br-o-o-k-er! Li-i-z-zee-e-e! Come ter yer tea-e-e!' yelled a boy from the house.

'We must really go now.'

'Oh, they can wait a minute. Lizzie, don't be frightened'―bending his head―'Lizzie, put your arms round my neck and kiss me―now. Do as I tell you, Lizzie―they cannot see us,'' and he drew her behind a bush. 'Now, Lizzie.'

She obeyed just as a frightened child might.

'We must go now,' she panted, breathless from such an embrace.

'Lizzie, you will come for a walk with me after tea?'

'I don't know―I can't promise. I don't think it would be right. Aunt mightn't like me to.'

'Never mind aunt. I'll fix her. We'11 go for a walk over to the school-teacher's place. It will be bright moonlight.'

'I don't like to promise. My father and mother might not'

'Why, what are you frightened of? What harm is there in it?' Then softly, 'Promise, Lizzie.'

'Promise, Lizzie.'

She was hesitating.

'Promise, Lizzie. I'm going away to-morrow―might never see you again. You will come, Lizzie? It will be our last talk together. Promise, Lizzie.…Oh, then, if you don't like to, I won't press you.…Will you come, or no?

'Ye-es.'

'One more, and I'll take you home.'


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 It was nearly dark.

Brook was moved to get up early next morning and give the girl a hand with the cows. There were two rickety bails in the yard. He had not forgotten how to milk, but the occupation gave him no pleasure it―brought the past near again.

Now and then he would turn his face, rest his head against the side of the cow, and watch Lizzie at her work; and each time she would, as though in obedience to an influence she could not resist, turn her face to him―having noted the pause in his milking. There was a wonder in her expression―as if something had come into her life which she could not realize―curiosity in his.

When the spare pail was full, he would follow her with it to the little bark dairy; and she held out the cloth which served as a strainer whilst he poured the milk in, and, as the last drops went through, their mouths would come together.

He carried the slop-buckets to the pigsty for her, and helped to a young calf. The calf butted at times, splashing sour milk over Brook, and barking his wrist against the sharp edge of the drum. Then he would swear a little, and Lizzie would smile sadly and gravely.

Brook did not go away that day, nor the next, but he took the coach on the third day thereafter. He and Lizzie found a quiet corner to say good-bye in. She showed some emotion for the first time, or, perhaps, the second―maybe the third time―in that week of her life. They had been out together in the moonlight every evening. (Brook had been fifteen


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o'clock on Saturday. The unemployed's one o'clock on Saturday! Nothing more can be done this week, so you drag yourself wearily and despairingly 'home,' with the cheerful prospect of a penniless Saturday afternoon and evening and the long horrible Australian-city Sunday to drag through. One of the landlady's clutch―and she is an old hen―opens the door, exclaims 'Oh, Mr. Careless!' and grins. You wait an anxious minute, to postpone the disappointment which you feel by instinct is coming, and then ask hopelessly whether there are any letters for you.

'No, there's nothing for you, Mr. Careless.' Then in answer to the unspoken question, 'The postman's been, but there's nothing for you.'

You hang up your hat in the stuffy little passage, and start upstairs when: 'Oh, Mr. Careless, mother wants to know if you've had yer dinner.'

You haven't, but you say you have. You are empty enough inside, but the emptiness is filled up, as it were, with the wrong sort of hungry vacancy―gnawing anxiety. You haven't any stomach for the warm, tasteless mess which has been 'kep 'ot' for you in a cold stove. You feel just physically tired enough to 195


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 of course.…You know I always try.…Don't forget to drop in sometimes.…Well, anyway, if you ever do happen to hear of a decent young fellow who wants a good, clean, comfortable home, you'll be sure to send him to me, will you?' (He says he will). 'Well, of course, Mr. Sampson, &c., &c., &c., &c., and-so-on, and-so-on, and-so-on, and-so-on,…' It's enough to give a man rats.

He escapes, and we regard his departure very much as a gang of hopeless convicts might regard the unexpected liberation of one of their number.

This is the sort of life that gives a man a God Almighty longing to break away and take to the bush.


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 go to your room, lie down on the bed, and snatch twenty minutes' rest from that terrible unemployed restlessness which, you know, is sure to drag you to your feet to pace the room or tramp the pavement even before your bodily weariness has nearly left you. So you start up the narrow, stuffy little flight of steps called the 'stairs.' Three small doors open from the landing―a square place of about four feet by four. The first door is yours; it is open, and

Decided odour of bedroom dust and 'fluff,' damped and kneaded with cold soapsuds. Rear view of a girl covered with a damp, draggled, dirt-coloured skirt, which gapes at the waistband from the 'body,' disclosing a good glimpse of soiled stays (ribs burst), and yawns behind over a decidedly dirty white petticoat, the slit of which last, as she reaches forward and backs out convulsively, half opens and then comes together in an unsatisfactory, startling, tantalising way, and allows a hint of a red flannel under-something. The frayed ends of the skirt lie across a hopelessly-burst pair of elastic sides which rest on their inner edges―toes out―and jerk about in a seemingly undecided manner. She is damping and working up the natural layer on the floor with a piece of old flannel petticoat dipped occasionally in a bucket which stands by her side, containing about a quart of muddy water. She looks round and exclaims, 'Oh, did you want to come in, Mr. Careless?' Then she says she'll be done in a minute; furthermore she remarks that if you want to come in you won't be in her road. You don't;―you go down to the dining-room―parlour―sitting-room―nursery and stretch


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 yourself on the sofa in the face of the painfully-evident disapproval of the landlady.

You have been here, say, three months, and are only about two weeks behind. The landlady still says, 'Good morning, Mr. Careless,' or 'Good evening, Mr. Careless,' but there is an unpleasant accent on the 'Mr.' and a still more unpleasantly pronounced stress on the 'morning' or 'evening.' While your money lasted you paid up well and regularly―sometimes in advance―and dined out most of the time; but that doesn't count now.

Ten minutes pass, and then the landlady's disapproval becomes manifest and aggressive. One of the little girls, a sharp-faced little larrikiness, who always wears a furtive grin of cunning―it seems as though it were born with her, and is perhaps more a misfortune than a fault―comes in and says please she wants to tidy up.

So you get up and take your hat and go out again to look for a place to rest in―to try not to think.

You wish you could get away up country. You also wish you were dead.

The landlady, Mrs. Jones, is a widow, or grass-widow, Welsh, of course, and clannish; flat face, watery grey eyes, shallow, selfish, ignorant, and a hypocrite unconsciously―by instinct.

But the worst of it is that Mrs. Jones takes advantage of the situation to corner you in the passage when you want to get out, or when you come in tired, and talk. It amounts to about this: She has


text: Talk:Our Sister Republic

title: Talk:Our Sister Republic