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Rh created it? By his own mind? Alas, the poet's mind tells him only what is beautiful to him! It is by fame that he knows it—fame, the gratitude of men for the beauty he has revealed to them! What is so sweet, then, as the knowledge that fame has come to him already, or surely awaits him after he is dead?"

"We labor under some confusion of ideas, I fear," said Nicholas, "and, besides, are losing time. What kind of mon—"

"That I leave to you," interrupted the poet. "Only, I should like my monument to be beautiful. Ah, if you but knew how all through this poor life of mine I have loved the beautiful! Never, never have I drawn near it in any visible form without almost holding my breath as though I were looking deep, deep into God's opened eyes. But it was of the epitaph I wished to speak."

Hereupon, with a deeper flush, he drew from a large inside breast-pocket, that seemed to have been made for the purpose, a worn duodecimo volume, and fell to turning the much-fingered pages.

"This," he murmured fondly, without looking up, "is the complete collection of my poems."

"Indeed!" exclaimed Nicholas, with deep compassion.

"Yes, my complete collection. I have written a great deal more, and should have liked to publish all that I have written. But it was necessary to select, and I have included here only what it was intolerable to see wasted. There is nothing I value more than a group of elegiac poems, which every single member of my large family—who are fine critics—and all my friends, pronounce very beautiful. I think it would be a good idea to inscribe a selection from one on my monument, since


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286 those who read the selection would wish to read the entire poem, and those who read the entire poem would wish to read the entire collection. I shall now favor you with these elegies."

"I should be happy to hear them; but my time!" said Nicholas, courteously. "The living are too impatient to wait on me; the dead too patient to be defrauded."

"Surely you would not refuse to hear one of them," exclaimed the poet, his eyes flashing.

"Read one, by all means." Nicholas seated himself on a monumental lamb.

The poet passed one hand gently across his forehead, as though to brush away the stroke of rudeness; then, fixing upon Nicholas a look of infinite remoteness, he read as follows:

"If you ask but for the common lot," interrupted Nicholas, "you should rest content to be forgotten."

But before the poet could reply, a loud knock caused him to flap the leaves of the "Complete Collection" together with one hand, while with the other he gathered the tails of his long coat about him, as though preparing to pass through some difficult aperture. The exaltation of his mood, however, still showed itself in the look and tone of proud condescension with which he said to Nicholas:

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


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Rh "Permit me to retire at once by some private pass way."

Nicholas led him to a door in the rear of the shop, and there, with a smile and a tear, stood for a moment watching the precipitate figure of the retreating bard, who suddenly paused when disappearing and tore open the breast of his coat to assure himself that his beloved elegies were resting safe across his heart.

The second visitor was of another sort. He hobbled on a cork leg, but inexorably disciplined the fleshly one into old-time firmness and precision. A faded military cloak draped his stalwart figure. Part of one bushy gray eyebrow had been chipped away by the same sword-cut that left its scar across his battle-beaten face.

"I have come to speak with you about my monument," he said in a gruff voice that seemed to issue from the mouth of a rusty cannon. "Those of my old comrades that did not fall at my side are dead. My wife died long ago, and my little children. I am old and forgotten. It is a time of peace. There's not a boy who will now listen to me while I tell of my campaigns. I live alone. Were I to die to-morrow my grave might not have so much as a head-stone. It might be taken for that of a coward. Make me a monument for a true soldier."

"Your grateful country will do that," said Nicholas.

"Ha?" exclaimed the veteran, whom the shock of battle had made deaf long ago.

"Your country," shouted Nicholas, close to his ear, "your country—will erect a monument–to your memory."

"My country!" The words were shot out with a reverberating, melancholy boom. "My country will


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Page:Ruffhead - The Statutes at Large - vol 2.djvu/564

514. XLII. And that such Appeal as so hereafter shall be taken or pursued by the said Richard Chetwood and Agnes, or either of them, and the Sentence that herein or thereupon shall hereafter be given, shall be judged to be good and effectual in the Law to all Intents and Purposes; any Law, Custom, Usage, Canon, Constitution, or any other Matter or Cause to the contrary notwithstanding.

XLIII. Provided also, and be it enacted by the Authority aforesaid, That where there is the like Appeal now depending in the said Court of Rome between Robert Harcourt, Merchant of the Staple, and Elizabeth Harcourt, otherwise called Elizabeth Robins, of the one Party, and Anthony Fidell, Merchant-stranger, on the other Party; that the said Robert, Elizabeth and Anthony, and every of them, shall and may, for the prosecuting and trying of their said Appeal, have and enjoy the like Remedy, Benefit and Advantage, in like Manner and Form as the said Richard and Agnes, or any of them, hath, may or ought to have and enjoy; this Act or any Thing therein contained to the contrary in any wise notwithstanding. 23 Eliz. c. 1. ''And see farther 1 W. & M. stat. 1. c. 18.''

 P. II.

An Act for the Uniformity of Common Prayer and Service in the Church, and Adminiftration of the Sacraments.

HERE at the Death of our late Sovereign Lord King Edward the Sixth there remained one uniform Order of common Service and Prayer, and of the Administration of Sacraments, Rites and Ceremonies in the Church of England, which was set forth in one Book, intituled, The Book of Common Prayer, and Administration of Sacraments, and other Rites and Ceremonies in the Church of England, authorized by Act of Parliament holden in the fifth and sixth Years of our said late Sovereign Lord King Edward the Sixth, intituled, An Act for the Uniformity of Common Prayer, and Administration of the Sacraments; the which was repealed and taken away by Act of Parliament in the first Year of the Reign of our late Sovereign Lady Queen Mary, to the great Decay of the due Honour of God, and Discomfort to the Professors of the Truth of Christ's Religion:'

II. Be it therefore enacted by the Authority of this present Parliament, That the said Estatute of Repeal, and every Thing therein contained, only concerning the said Book, and the Service, Administration of the Sacraments, Rites and Ceremonies, contained or appointed in or by the said Book, shall be void and of none Effect, from and after the Feast of the Nativity of St. John Baptist next coming; (2) And that the said Book, with the Order of Service, and of the Administration of Sacraments, Rites and Ceremonies, with the Alterations and Additions therein added and appointed by this Estatute, shall stand and be, from and after the said Feast of the Nativity of St. John Baptist, in full Force and Effect, according to the Tenor and Effect of this Estatute; any Thing in the aforesaid Estatute of Repeal to the contrary notwithstanding.

III. And further be it enacted by the Queen's Highness, with the Assent of the Lords and Commons in this present Parliament assembled, and by the Authority of the same, That all and singular Ministers in any Cathedral or Parish Church, or other Place within this Realm of England, Wales, and the Marches of the same, or other the Queen's Dominions, shall from and after the Feast of the Nativity of St. John Baptist next coming, be bounden to say and use the Mattens, Even-song, Celebration of the Lord's Supper and Administration of each of the Sacraments, and all the common and open Prayer, in such Order and Form as is mentioned in the said Book, so authorised by Parliament in the said fifth and sixth Years of the Reign of King Edward the Sixth, with one Alteration or Addition of certain Lessons to be used on every Sunday in the Year, and the Form of the Litany altered and corrected, and two Sentences only added in the Delivery of the Sacrament to the Communicants, and none other or otherwise.

IV. And that if any Manner of Parson, Vicar or other whatsoever Minister, that ought or should sing or say Common Prayer mentioned in the said Book, or minister the Sacraments, from and after the Feast of the Nativity of St. John Baptist next coming, refuse to use the said Common Prayers, or to minister the Sacraments in such Cathedral or Parish Church, or other Places as he should use to minister the same, in such Order and Form as they be mentioned and set forth in the said Book; (2) or shall wilfully or obstinately, standing in the same, use any other Rite, Ceremony, Order, Form or Manner of Celebrating of the Lord's Supper, openly or privily, or Mattens, Even-song, Administration of the Sacraments, or other open Prayers, than is mentioned and set forth in the said Book. {3) (Open Prayer in and throughout this Act, is meant that Prayer which is for others to come unto, or hear, either in common Churches, or private Chapels or Oratories, commonly called, the Service of the Church.) (4) or shall preach, declare or speak any Thing in the Derogation or Depraving of the said Book, or any Thing therein contained, or of any Part thereof, (5} be thereof lawfully convicted, according to the Laws of this Realm, by Verdict of twelve Men, or by his own Confession, or by the notorious Evidence of the Fact, shall lose and forfeit to the Queen's Highness, her Heirs and Successors, for his first Offence, the Profit of all his Spiritual Benefices or Promotions coming or arising in one whole Year next after his Conviction: (6) And also that the Person so convicted shall for the same Offence suffer Imprisonment for the Space of six Months, without Bail or Mainprise.

V. And if any such Person once convict of any Offence concerning the Premisses, shall after his first Conviction eftsoons offend, and be thereof in Form aforesaid lawfully convict, that then the same Person shall for his second Offence suffer Imprisonment by the Space of one whole Year, (2) and also shall therefore be deprived, ipso facto, of all his Spiritual Promotions; (3) and that it shall be lawful to all Patrons or


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Executive Order 13607

By the authority vested in me as President by the Constitution and the laws of the United States of America, and in order to ensure that Federal military and veterans educational benefits programs are providing service members, veterans, spouses, and other family members with the information, support, and protections they deserve, it is hereby ordered as follows:

Barack Obama The White House, April 27, 2012. [FR Doc. 2012–10715 Filed 5–1–12; 8:45 am] Billing Code 3295–F2–P

title: Executive Order 13607


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288 do no such a thing. How many millions of soldiers have fallen on her battle-fields! Where are their monuments? They would make her one vast cemetery."

"But is it not enough for you to have been a true soldier? Why wish to be known and remembered for it?"

"I know I do not wish to be forgotten," he replied, simply. "I know I take pleasure in the thought that long after I am forgotten there will be a tongue in my monument to cry out to every passing stranger, Here lies the body of a true soldier. It is a great thing to be brave!"

"Is, then, this monument to be erected in honor of bravery, or of yourself?"

"There is no difference," said the veteran, bluntly. "Bravery is myself."

"It is bravery," he continued, in husky tones, and with a mist gathering in his eyes that made him wink as though he were trying to see through the smoke of battle—"it is bravery that I see most clearly in the character of God. What would become of us if he were a coward? I serve him as my brave commander; and though I am stationed far from him and may be faint and sorely wounded, I know that he is somewhere on the battle-field, and that I shall see him at last, approaching me as he moves up and down among the ranks."

"But you say that your country does not notice you—that you have no friends; do you, then, feel no resentment?"

"None, none," he answered quickly, though his head dropped on his bosom.

"And you wish to be remembered by a world that is willing to forget you?"


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Rh He lifted his head proudly. "There are many true men in the world," he said, "and it has much to think of. I owe it all I can give, all I can bequeath; and I can bequeath it nothing but the memory of a true man."

One day, not long after this, there came into the workshop of Nicholas a venerable man of the gravest, sweetest, and most scholarly aspect, who spoke not a word until he had led Nicholas to the front window and pointed a trembling finger at a distant church-spire.

"You see yon spire?" he said. "It almost pierces the clouds. In the church beneath I have preached to men and women for nearly fifty years. Many that I have christened at the font I have married at the altar; many of these I have sprinkled with dust. What have I not done for them in sorrow and want! How have I not toiled to set them in the way of purer pleasures and to anchor their tempest-tossed hopes! And yet how soon they will forget me! Already many say I am too old to preach. Too old! I preach better than I ever did in my life. Yet it may be my lot to wander down into the deep valley, an idle shepherd with an idle crook. I have just come from the writing of my next sermon, in which I exhort my people to strive that their names be not written on earthly monuments or human hearts, but in the Book of Life. It is my sublimest theme. If I am ever eloquent, if I am ever persuasive, if I ever for one moment draw aside to spiritual eyes the veil that discloses the calm, enrapturing vistas of eternity, it is when I measure my finite strength against this mighty task. But why? Because they are the sermons of my own aspiration. I preach them to my own soul. Face to face with that naked soul I pen those


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290 sermons—pen them when all are asleep save the sleepless Eye that is upon me. Even in the light of that Eye do I recoil from the thought of being forgotten. How clearly I foresee it! Ashes to ashes, dust to dust! Where then will be my doctrines, my prayers, my sermons?"

"Is it not enough for you to have scattered your handful of good broadcast, to ripen as endlessly as the grass? What if they that gather know naught of him that sowed?"

"It is not enough. I should like the memory of me to live on and on in the world, inseparable from the good I may have done. What am I but the good that is in me? 'Tis this that links me to the infinite and the perfect. Does not the Perfect One wish his goodness to be associated with his name? No! No! I do not wish to be forgotten!"

"It is mere vanity."

"Not vanity," said the aged servitor, meekly. "Wait until you are old, till the grave is at your helpless feet: it is the love of life."

But some years later there befell Nicholas an event that transcended all past experiences, and left its impress on his whole subsequent life.

The hour had passed when any one was likely to enter his shop. A few rays of pale sunlight, straggling in through crevices of the door, rested like a dying halo on the heads of the monumental figures grouped around. Shadows, creeping upward from the ground, shrouded all else in thin, penetrable half-gloom, through which


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Rh the stark gray emblems of mortality sent forth more solemn suggestions. A sudden sense of the earthly tragedy overwhelmed him. The chisel and the hammer dropped from his hands and, resting his head on the block he had been carving, he gave himself up to that mood of dim, distant reverie in which the soul seems to soar and float far above the shock and din of the world's disturbing nearness. On his all but oblivious ear, like the faint washings of some remote sea, beat the waves of the city's tide-driven life in the streets outside. The room itself seemed hushed to the awful stillness of the high aerial spaces. Then all at once this stillness was broken by a voice, low, clear, and tremuluous, saying close to his ear:

"Are you the maker of gravestones?"

"That is my sad calling," he cried, bitterly, starting up with instinctive forebodings.

He saw before him a veiled figure. To support herself, she rested one hand on the block he had been carving, while she pressed the other against her heart, as though to stifle pain.

"Whose monument is this?"

"A neglected poet's who died not long ago. Soon, perhaps, I shall be making one for an old soldier, and one for a holy man, whose soul, I hear, is about to be dismissed."

"Are not some monuments sadder to make than others?"

"Aye, truly."

"What is the saddest you ever made?"

"The saddest monument I ever made was one for a poor mother who had lost her only son. One day a woman came in who had no sooner entered than she


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292 sat down and gave way to a passionate outburst of grief."

"'My good woman,' I said, 'why do you weep so bitterly?'

"'Do not call me good,' she moaned, and hid her face.

"I then perceived her fallen character. When she recovered self-control she drew from her sinful bosom an old purse filled with coins of different values.

"'Why do you give me this?' I asked.

"'It is to pay for a monument for my son,' she said, and the storm of her grief swept over her again.

"I learned that for years she had toiled and starved to hoard up a sum with which to build a monument to his memory, for he had never failed of his duty to her after all others had cast her out. Certainly he had his reward, not in the monument, but in the repentance which came to her after his death. I have never seen such sorrow for evil as the memory of his love wrought in her. For herself she desired only that the spot where she should be buried might be unknown. This longing to be forgotten has led me to believe that none desire to remembered for the evil that is in them, but only for some truth, or beauty, or goodness by which they have linked their individual lives to the general life of the race. Even the lying epitaphs in cemeteries prove how we would fain have the dead arrayed on the side of right in the thoughts of their survivors. This wretched mother and human outcast, believing herself to have lost everything that makes it well to be remembered, craved only the mercy of forgetfulness."

"And yet I think she died a Christian soul."

"You knew her, then?"


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Reber, Franz von

REBER, rā'bĕr, Franz von, German art-historian: b. Cham, Bavaria, 10 Nov. 1834. He studied in Munich, Berlin and Rome, became a lecturer at the University of Munich in 1858, was appointed professor at the Polytechnicum there in 1863 and in 1869 occupied the chair of history of art in that institution. In 1873 he became director of the Royal Gallery. He has translated Vitruvius' ‘Architecture’ (1865) and Rooses' ‘History of the Antwerp School of Painting’ (1880), and has written ‘Geschichte der Baukunst im Altertum’ (1864-67); ‘ Kunstgeschichte des Mittelalters’ (1886); ‘Geschichte der Malerei vom Anfang des 14. bis zum Ende des 18. Jahrhunderts’ (1894); ‘Die phrygischen Felsendenkmäler’ (1897), etc.


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Reber, Napoleon Henry

REBER, rā-bār, Napoleon Henry, French composer: b. Muhlhausen, Alsace, 21 Oct. 1807; d. Paris, 24 Nov. 1880. After studying with Reicha and Le Sueur, he wrote chamber music of remarkable merit and in 1851 was appointed professor in the Conservatory, and succeeded Halévy in the chair of composition 1862. Among his works are ‘Le Diable Amoureux’ (1840), a ballet; ‘Le Nuit de Noël’ (1848); ‘Le Père Gaillard’ (1852); ‘Les Papillotes de M. Benoist’ (1853), and ‘Les Dames Capitaines’ (1857), all four comic operas. He also produced some instrumental work of a high order — four symphonies, one overture, one series for the orchestra, three stringed quartets, one stringed quintet, one pianoforte quartet, seven pianoforte trios and miscellaneous pieces. His ‘Traité d'Harmonie’ (1862) is a standard work.


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Rebisso, Louis T.

REBISSO, Louis T., American sculptor: b. Italy, 1837; d. Norwood, near Cincinnati, Ohio, 3 May 1899. At 20 he joined in Mazzini's attempt to establish an Italian republic (see .), and was obliged to leave Italy. Taking refuge in the United States he settled in Boston, Mass., where he worked for several years in monumental yards. Subsequently he went to Cincinnati, Ohio, where his name as an artist developed. He had studied in Italy with the sculptor Rubalto and in the Art Academy under Professor Varni, and in Cincinnati he worked with T. D. Jones. His leading works are the equestrian statues of General McPherson in Washington, D. C.; of General Grant in Lincoln Park, Chicago, and of Gen. W. H. Harrison in Cincinnati.


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 Vol.JS. NASHVILLE, TENN., JANUARY. 1900. No. L Qopfederate l/etera^. MlMBttRS Of TUi FR.WKI.IV, TKSS., CMAPrER I'MrHI) DAL'iiHI KRS OF THK CONFEDERACY. Mrs. V. II. (liUspu-. Miss Klizii Cliiybrocik. Mrs. K. P. Winston. Mrs. II. 1*. t'nchranc. Mrs. li. L. Cowan. Mrs. Grtcn Williinns. Mrs. Oenrgc Nichol. Mrs. U. N. Ricli;ir»lsr>n. Miss .Vnnir Cliiybronk. Mrs. T. F. Pi-rkins. Mrs. Xcwton Oinnnn. Mrs. Man Niclml Hritt. Mrs. Mary Cliffe. Miss Killir WhiU-. Mrs. Minnie Cliffi-. SAMIKI. fdOI'l-.K. Ailjutunt Guneral — in Confederate St Kanking' ates (fovt lieneral •rnmenl. GAME OF CONFEDERATE HEROES, The game or fludy of Confederate Heroos i> designecl to give in outline facts concerning some of the most promi- nent men and events in the history of llie Confederacy. It is ready for delivery. The game is pl.iycd with lifty-lwo cards, divided into thirteen books. These contain the names of the Confederate States, those of the President and 'ice President, the full cabinet from the rise to the fall of the Confederacy: all of the full generals, some of the lien- tenant generals and major generals; some distinguished naval commanders; most of the principal battles of the war, with some of the most daring and brilliant feats of the navy. The game is illustrated with llags, in colors, and portraits ^ ,,.",..,., 1 KiiM ULsr UK SAM I'.WIS. of the cabinet and general otbcers, which makes it a valu- able souvenir. The proceeds of the game are devoted to the Sam Davis monument fund. Its study will afford pleasant and prolitable_ent<!rtainment for old and young. P the game, fifty cen^s, or it will be sent free with orders for two subscribers and $J. of


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The New International Encyclopædia/Samaritan Pentateuch

SAMARITAN PENTATEUCH. A recension of the commonly received Hebrew text of the Pentateuch, used by the Samaritans, and their only canonical book of the Old Testament. None of the manuscripts that have reached Europe is older than the tenth century. The variants which it presents from the Masoretic text are mostly of a trifling nature, representing chiefly diflerent fashions of spelling. There are, however, more important differences, such as the occurrence of Gerizim. (See .) In the figures of Genesis v. and xi. are likewise discrepancies between the Masoretic and the Samaritan recension, which appear to be due to varying traditions. There is also one essential alteration respecting the Pentateuchal ordinances. Exodus xiii. 6, where the Samaritan Pentateuch has “six days shalt thou eat unleavened bread,” instead of “seven.” The Samaritan Pentateuch was printed in the Paris and London polyglots, and an edition in square Hebrew characters was published by Blayney (Oxford, 1790), but a critical edition is still a desideratum. In the absence of such an edition it is difficult to do more than to speculate on the age and origin of the work, but there is no reason to suppose that it is earlier than the fourth century B.C., and it may even belong to the third. The translation of the Samaritan Pentateuch into the Samaritan idiom above referred to (the Samaritan Targum) is ascribed by the Samaritans to their high priest Nathaniel, who died twenty years before Christ, but it can hardly be older than the fourth century A.D. It follows the Hebrew original very closely. A critical edition of it was published by Petermann and Vollers (Berlin, 1872-91). Consult: Gesenius, De Pentateuchi Samaritani Origine, Indole, et Auctoritate (Halle, 1815); Nutt, Fragments of a Samaritan Pentateuch (London, 1874).


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F course, in a way, the thing was simple. The wheeze was, in a sense, straightforward and uncomplicated. What he wanted to do was to point out to the injured girl all that hung on her. He wished to touch her heart, to plead with her, to desire her to restate her war-aims, and to persuade her—before three o'clock when that stricken gentleman would be stepping into the pitcher's box to loose off the first ball against the Pittsburg Pirates—to let bygones be bygones and forgive Augustus Biddle. But the blighted problem was, how the deuce to find the opportunity to start. He couldn't yell at the girl in a crowded street-car; and, if he let go of his strap and bent over her, somebody would step on his neck.

The Girl Friend, who for the first five minutes had remained entirely concealed beneath her hat, now sought diversion by looking up and examining the faces of the upper strata of passengers. Her eye caught Archie's in a glance of recognition, and he smiled feebly, endeavouring to register bonhomie and good-will. He was surprised to see a startled expression come into her brown eyes. Her face turned pink. At least, it was pink already, but it turned pinker. The next moment, the car having stopped to pick up more passengers, she jumped off and started to hurry across the street.

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Rh Archie was momentarily taken aback. When embarking on this business he had never intended it to become a blend of otter-hunting and a moving-picture chase. He followed her off the car with a sense that his grip on the affair was slipping. Preoccupied with these thoughts, he did not perceive that the long young man who had shared his strap had alighted too. His eyes were fixed on the vanishing figure of the Girl Friend, who, having buzzed at a smart pace into Sixth Avenue, was now legging it in the direction of the staircase leading to one of the stations of the Elevated Railroad. Dashing up the stairs after her, he shortly afterwards found himself suspended as before from a strap, gazing upon the now familiar flowers on top of her hat. From another strap farther down the carriage swayed the long young man in the grey suit.

The train rattled on. Once or twice, when it stopped, the girl seemed undecided whether to leave or remain. She half rose, then sank back again. Finally she walked resolutely out of the car, and Archie, following, found himself in a part of New York strange to him. The inhabitants of this district appeared to eke out a precarious existence, not by taking in one another's washing, but by selling one another second-hand clothes.

Archie glanced at his watch. He had lunched early, but so crowded with emotions had been the period following lunch that he was surprised to find that the hour was only just two. The discovery was a pleasant one. With a full hour before the scheduled start of the game, much might be achieved. He hurried after the girl, and came us [sic] with her just as she turned the corner into one of those forlorn New York side-streets which are populated

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 chiefly by children, cats, desultory loafers, and empty meat-tins.

The girl stopped and turned. Archie smiled a winning smile.

"I say, my dear sweet creature!" he said. "I say, my dear old thing, one moment!"

"Is that so?" said the Girl Friend.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Is that so?"

Archie began to feel certain tremors. Her eyes were gleaming, and her determined mouth had become a perfectly straight line of scarlet. It was going to be difficult to be chatty to this girl. She was going to be a hard audience. Would mere words be able to touch her heart? The thought suggested itself that, properly speaking, one would need to use a pick-axe.

"If you could spare me a couple of minutes of your valuable time"

"Say!" The lady drew herself up menacingly. "You tie a can to yourself and disappear! Fade away, or I'll call a cop!"

Archie was horrified at this misinterpretation of his motives. One or two children, playing close at hand, and a loafer who was trying to keep the wall from falling down, seemed pleased. Theirs was a colourless existence and to the rare purple moments which had enlivened it in the past the calling of a cop had been the unfailing preliminary. The loafer nudged a fellow-loafer, sunning himself against the same wall. The children, abondoning the meat-tin round which their game had centred, drew closer.

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Portal:Georgia General Assembly

Works

 * Georgia House Bill 76 (2015)
 * Georgia House Bill 275 (2012)

title: Portal:Georgia General Assembly


text:
Author:David Marshall Brooks

Works

 * The Necessity of Atheism (Brooks) - New York, Freethought press

title: Author:David Marshall Brooks


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 "My dear old soul!" said Archie. "You don't understand!"

"Don't I! I know your sort, you trailing arbutus!"

"No, no! My dear old thing, believe me! I wouldn't dream!"

"Are you going or aren't you?"

Eleven more children joined the ring of spectators. The loafers stared silently, like awakened crocodiles.

"But, I say, listen! I only wanted"

At this point another voice spoke.

"Say!"

The word "Say!" more almost than any word in the American language, is capable of a variety of shades of expression. It can be genial, it can be jovial, it can be appealing. It can also be truculent. The "Say!" which at this juncture smote upon Archie's ear-drum with a suddenness which made him leap in the air was truculent; and the two loafers and twenty-seven children who now formed the audience were well satisfied with the dramatic development of the performance. To their experienced ears the word had the right ring.

Archie spun round. At his elbow stood a long, strongly-built young man in a grey suit

"Well!" said the young man, nastily. And he extended a large, freckled face toward Archie's. It seemed to the latter, as he backed against the wall, that the young man's neck must be composed of india-rubber. It appeared to be growing longer every moment. His face, besides being freckled, was a dull brick-red in colour; his lips curled back in an unpleasant snarl, showing a gold tooth; and beside him, swaying in an ominous sort of

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 way, hung two clenched red hands about the size of two young legs of mutton. Archie eyed him with a growing apprehension. There are moments in life when, passing idly on our way, we see a strange face, look into strange eyes, and with a sudden glow of human warmth say to ourselves, "We have found a friend!" This was not one of those moments. The only person Archie had ever seen in his life who looked less friendly was the sergeant-major who had trained him in the early days of the war, before he had got his commission.

"I've had my eye on you!" said the young man.

He still had his eye on him. It was a hot, gimlet-like eye, and it pierced the recesses of Archie's soul. He backed a little farther against the wall.

Archie was frankly disturbed. He was no poltroon, and had proved the fact on many occasions during the days when the entire German army seemed to be picking on him personally, but he hated and shrank from anything in the nature of a bally public scene.

"What," enquired the young man, still bearing the burden of the conversation, and shifting his left hand a little farther behind his back, "do you mean by following this young lady?"

Archie was glad he had asked him. This was precisely what he wanted to explain.

"My dear old lad" he began.

In spite of the fact that he had asked a question and presumably desired a reply, the sound of Archie's voice seemed to be more than the young man could endure. It deprived him of the last vestige of restraint. With a rasping snarl he brought his left fist round in a sweeping semicircle in the direction of Archie's head.

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Author talk:David Marshall Brooks

So far have only found the one published work. Still looking for a djvu version. On PG in other formats at http://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/20248. Also not finding DOD or anything else significant about author. Jeepday (talk) 22:35, 27 April 2012 (UTC)

Found the djvu version http://archive.org/details/MN40077ucmf_0

I searched for references on the author, but am not finding enough to show notability so a Wikipedia page is not likely at this time. I found several minor mentions enough to create this author page, but not enough to defend against an AfD on Wikipedia. Jeepday (talk) 11:46, 28 April 2012 (UTC)

title: Author talk:David Marshall Brooks


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Rh Archie was no novice in the art of self-defence. Since his early days at school he had learned much from leather-faced professors of the science. He had been watching this unpleasant young man's eyes with close attention, and the latter could not have indicated his scheme of action more clearly if he had sent him a formal note. Archie saw the swing all the way. He stepped nimbly aside, and the fist crashed against the wall. The young man fell back with a yelp of anguish.

"Gus!" screamed the Girl Friend, bounding forward.

She flung her arms round the injured man, who was ruefully examining a hand which, always of an out-size, was now swelling to still further dimensions.

"Gus, darling!"

A sudden chill gripped Archie. So engrossed had he been with his mission that it had never occurred to him that the love-lorn pitcher might have taken it into his head to follow the girl as well in the hope of putting in a word for himself. Yet such apparently had been the case. Well, this had definitely torn it. Two loving hearts were united again in complete reconciliation, but a fat lot of good that was. It would be days before the misguided Looney Biddle would be able to pitch with a hand like that. It looked like a ham already, and was still swelling. Probably the wrist was sprained. For at least a week the greatest left-handed pitcher of his time would be about as much use to the Giants in any professional capacity as a cold in the head. And on that crippled hand depended the fate of all the money Archie had in the world. He wished now that he had not thwarted the fellow's simple enthusiasm. To have had his head

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160 knocked forcibly through a brick wall would not have been pleasant, but the ultimate outcome would not have been as unpleasant as this. With a heavy heart Archie prepared to withdraw, to be alone with his sorrow.

At this moment, however, the Girl Friend, releasing her wounded lover, made a sudden dash for him, with the plainest intention of blotting him from the earth.

"No, I say! Really!" said Archie, bounding backwards. "I mean to say!"

In a series of events, all of which had been a bit thick, this, in his opinion, achieved the maximum of thickness. It was the extreme ragged, outside edge of the limit. To brawl with a fellow-man in a public street had been bad, but to be brawled with by a girl—the shot was not on the board. Absolutely not on the board. There was only one thing to be done. It was dashed undignified, no doubt, for a fellow to pick up the old waukeesis and leg it in the face of the enemy, but there was no other course. Archie started to run; and, as he did so, one of the loafers made the mistake of gripping him by the collar of his coat.

"I got him!" observed the loafer.

There is a time for all things. This was essentially not the time for anyone of the male sex to grip the collar of Archie's coat. If a syndicate of Dempsey, Carpentier, and one of the Zoo gorillas had endeavoured to stay his progress at that moment, they would have had reason to consider it a rash move. Archie wanted to be elsewhere, and the blood of generations of Moffams, many of whom had swung a wicked axe in the free-for-all mix-ups of the Middle Ages, boiled within him at any attempt

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Page:Confederate Veteran volume 01.djvu/7

greets you! It is not sent to any one at random, but addresses you through friendship, personal obligation, or because you have been commended as one who might take an active interest in the cause for which it is published.

Please read it carefully. Although the first issue has been edited from a sick room, and there is defect in the arrangement, you will find its contents useful and interesting. Read every article.

Please consider this: If each person addressed would send two subscriptions with $1, the publication would lie assured as a perpetuity. Get a friend to join yon in it, please. If you cannot send a single subscription, please read it carefully and persuade others, as you think it deserving.

The is intended as an organ of communication between Confederate soldiers and those who are interested in them and their affairs, and its purpose is to furnish a volume of information which will be acceptable to the public, even to those who fought on the other side. It will at once he sent to every Confederate Veteran organization in existence and the patronage of such bodies is earnestly sought.

The commendation of the from extremes of the South and from our friends at the North gives an immediate promise of usefulness and influence which should enlist the pride of every Southerner and the respect of all others.

It is designed to publish advertisements in the, but the illness referred to prevented that feature in this issue. No other publication of equal circulation is as good a medium for notice of Southern literature. The next issue will contain a list of books as premiums.

Whatever may he desirable to put before representative people of the entire South and Southerner elsewhere may be printed advantageously in the. Put the thought in your pipe and smoke it. Smokers read the Confederate Veteran. A hint to the wise!

next issue may be expected earlier in the month (February).

, of Macon, in sending subscription says: "I wish you success in your enterprise, and stand ready to help you in any way that I can."

, who is spending the winter in Washington, is zealous for the Confederate Veteran, and offers to be agent and correspondent gratis.

, Atlanta: "The prospectus is all right unless, indeed, it is too modest. Put me down as a subscriber and count on me to do all in my power to promote its circulation. I'll write for you occasionally."

, the place selected by a committee of, is a very happy one. It is about a mile west from the old Confederate capital, and promises ere long to be a very central point Now the entire Southern people are to build ibis monument. Who will be slow to do his part?

Old South, published at Coleman, Texas, has a very kind article in behalf of the, which concludes as follows: "We expect that every Confederate and every son of a Confederate will become a subscriber at least to the . They can use their judgment about the Old South."

Your prospectus of the Confederate Veteran, to be published monthly "in the interest of the Davis Monument Fund and Veterans in general," promises to supply a very useful place. It will enable the Southern people to see from what sections the money is given, and also by whom. It will enable Veteran organizations to know of each other, whether of the U. C. V. organization or not, and it will create renewed zeal generally in behalf of those who stood together throughout the South's great struggle for separate independence. It will give me pleasure to supply you with data from this office as frequently as desired.


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Rh to revise his plans. There was a good deal of the loafer, but it was all soft. Releasing his hold when Archie's heel took him shrewdly on the shin, he received a nasty punch in what would have been the middle of his waistcoat if he had worn one, uttered a gurgling bleat like a wounded sheep, and collapsed against the wall. Archie, with a torn coat, rounded the corner, and sprinted down Ninth Avenue.

The suddenness of the move gave him an initial advantage. He was half-way down the first block before the vanguard of the pursuit poured out of the side street Continuing to travel well, he skimmed past a large dray which had pulled up across the road, and moved on. The noise of those who pursued was loud and clamorous in the rear, but the dray hid him momentarily from their sight, and it was this fact which led Archie, the old campaigner, to take his next step.

It was perfectly obvious—he was aware of this even in the novel excitement of the chase—that a chappie couldn't hoof it at twenty-five miles an hour indefinitely along a main thoroughfare of a great city without exciting remark. He must take cover. Cover! That was the wheeze. He looked about him for cover.

"You want a nice suit?"

It takes a great deal to startle your commercial New Yorker. The small tailor, standing in his doorway, seemed in no way surprised at the spectacle of Archie, whom he had seen pass at a conventional walk some five minutes before, returning like this at top speed. He assumed that Archie had suddenly remembered that he wanted to buy something.

This was exactly what Archie had done. More than

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162 anything else in the world, what he wanted to do now was to get into that shop and have a long talk about gents' clothing. Pulling himself up abruptly, he shot past the small tailor into the dim interior. A confused aroma of cheap clothing greeted him. Except for a small oasis behind a grubby counter, practically all the available space was occupied by suits. Stiff suits, looking like the body when discovered by the police, hung from hooks. Limp suits, with the appearance of having swooned from exhaustion, lay about on chairs and boxes. The place was a cloth morgue, a Sargasso Sea of serge.

Archie would not have had it otherwise. In these quiet groves of clothing a regiment could have lain hid.

"Something nifty in tweeds?" enquired the business-like proprietor of this haven, following him amiably into the shop. "Or, maybe, yes, a nice serge? Say, mister, I got a sweet thing in blue serge that'll fit you like the paper on the wall!"

Archie wanted to talk about clothes, but not yet.

"I say, laddie," he said, hurriedly. "Lend me your ear for half a jiffy!" Outside the baying of the pack had become imminent. "Stow me away for a moment in the undergrowth, and I'll buy anything you want."

He withdrew into the jungle. The noise outside grew in volume. The pursuit had been delayed for a priceless few instants by the arrival of another dray, moving northwards, which had drawn level with the first dray and dexterously bottled up the fairway. This obstacle had now been overcome, and the original searchers, their ranks swelled by a few dozen more of the leisured classes, were hot on the trail again.

"You done a murder?" enquired the voice of the

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164 There was a silence.

"Well, I guess he's got away," said the voice, regretfully.

"The way he was travelling," agreed the proprietor, "I wouldn't be surprised if he was in Europe by this. You want a nice suit?"

The other, curtly expressing a wish that the proprietor would go to eternal perdition and take his entire stock with him, stumped out.

"This," said the proprietor, tranquilly, burrowing his way to where Archie stood and exhibiting a saffron-coloured outrage, which appeared to be a poor relation of the flannel family, "would put you back fifty dollars. And cheap!"

"Fifty dollars!"

"Sixty, I said. I don't speak always distinct."

Archie regarded the distressing garment with a shuddering horror. A young man with an educated taste in clothes, it got right in among his nerve centres.

"But, honestly, old soul, I don't want to hurt your feelings, but that isn't a suit, it's just a regrettable incident!"

The proprietor turned to the door in a listening attitude.

"I believe I hear that feller coming beck," he said.

Archie gulped.

"How about trying it on?" he said. "I'm not sure, after all, it isn't fairly ripe."

"That's the way to talk," said the proprietor, cordially. "You try it on. You can't judge a suit, not a real nice suit like this, by looking at it. You want to put it on. There!" He led the way to a dusty mirror at the back

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165 of the shop. "Isn't that a bargain at seventy dollars? … Why, say, your mother would be proud if she could see her boy now!"

A quarter of an hour later, the proprietor, lovingly kneading a little sheaf of currency bills, eyed with a fond look the heap of clothes which lay on the counter.

"As nice a little lot as I've ever had in my shop!" Archie did not deny this. It was, he thought, probably only too true.

"I only wish I could see you walking up Fifth Avenue in them!" rhapsodised the proprietor. "You'll give 'em a treat! What you going to do with 'em? Carry 'em under your arm?" Archie shuddered strongly. "Well, then, I can send 'em for you anywhere you like. It's all the same to me. Where'll I send 'em?"

Archie meditated. The future was black enough as it was. He shrank from the prospect of being confronted next day, at the height of his misery, with these appalling reach-me-downs.

An idea struck him.

"Yes, send 'em," he said.

"What's the name and address?"

"Daniel Brewster," said Archie, "Hotel Cosmopolis."

It was a long time since he had given his father-in-law a present.

Archie went out into the street, and began to walk pensively down a now peaceful Ninth Avenue. Out of the depths that covered him, black as the pit from pole to pole, no single ray of hope came to cheer him. He could not, like the poet, thank whatever gods there be for his unconquerable soul, for his soul was licked to a

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166 splinter. He felt alone and friendless in a rotten world. With the best intentions, he had succeeded only in landing himself squarely amongst the ribstons. Why had he not been content with his wealth, instead of risking it on that blighted bet with Reggie? Why had he trailed the Girl Friend, dash her! He might have known that he would only make an ass of himself. And, because he had done so, Looney Biddle's left hand, that priceless left hand before which opposing batters quailed and wilted, was out of action, resting in a sling, careened like a damaged battleship; and any chance the Giants might have had of beating the Pirates was gone—gone—as surely as that thousand dollars which should have bought a birthday present for Lucille.

A birthday present for Lucille! He groaned in bitterness of spirit. She would be coming back to-night, dear girl, all smiles and happiness, wondering what he was going to give her to-morrow. And when to-morrow dawned, all he would be able to give her would be a kind smile. A nice state of things! A jolly situation! A thoroughly good egg, he did not think!

It seemed to Archie that Nature, contrary to her usual custom of indifference to human suffering, was mourning with him. The sky was overcast, and the sun had ceased to shine. There was a sort of sombreness in the afternoon which fitted in with his mood. And then something splashed on his face.

It says much for Archie's pre-occupation that his first thought, as, after a few scattered drops, as though the clouds were submitting samples for approval, the whole sky suddenly began to stream like a shower-bath, was that this was simply an additional infliction which he was

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Rh called upon to bear. On top of all his other troubles he would get soaked to the skin or have to hang about in some doorway. He cursed richly, and sped for shelter.

The rain was setting about its work in earnest. The world was full of that rending, swishing sound which accompanies the more violent summer storms. Thunder crashed, and lightning flicked out of the grey heavens. Out in the street the raindrops bounded up off the stones like fairy fountains. Archie surveyed them morosely from his refuge in the entrance of a shop.

And then, suddenly, like one of those flashes which were lighting up the gloomy sky, a thought lit up his mind.

"By Jove! If this keeps up, there won't be a ball-game to-day!"

With trembling fingers he pulled out his watch. The hands pointed to five minutes to three. A blessed vision came to him of a moist and disappointed crowd receiving rain-checks up at the Polo Grounds.

"Switch it on, you blighters!" he cried, addressing the leaden clouds. "Switch it on more and more!"

It was shortly before five o'clock that a young man bounded into a jeweller's shop near the Hotel Cosmopolis—a young man who, in spite of the fact that his coat was torn near the collar and that he oozed water from every inch of his drenched clothes, appeared in the highest spirits. It was only when he spoke that the jeweller recognised in the human sponge the immaculate youth who had looked in that morning to order a bracelet.

"I say, old lad," said this young man, "you remember that jolly little what-not you showed me before lunch?"

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168 "The bracelet, sir?"

"As you observe with a manly candour which does you credit, my dear old jeweller, the bracelet. Well, produce, exhibit, and bring it forth, would you mind? Trot it out! Slip it across on a lordly dish!"

"You wished me, surely, to put it aside and send it to the Cosmopolis to-morrow?"

The young man tapped the jeweller earnestly on his substantial chest.

"What I wished and what I wish now are two bally separate and dashed distinct things, friend of my college days! Never put off till to-morrow what you can do to-day, and all that! I'm not taking any more chances. Not for me! For others, yes, but not for Archibald! Here are the doubloons, produce the jolly bracelet. Thanks!"

The jeweller counted the notes with the same unction which Archie had observed earlier in the day in the proprietor of the second-hand clothes-shop. The process made him genial.

"A nasty, wet day, sir, it's been," he observed, chattily.

Archie shook his head.

"Old friend," he said, "you're all wrong. Far otherwise, and not a bit like it, my dear old trafficker in gems! You've put your finger on the one aspect of this blighted p.m. that really deserves credit and respect. Rarely in the experience of a lifetime have I encountered a day so absolutely bally in nearly every shape and form, but there was one thing that saved it, and that was its merry old wetness! Toodle-oo, laddie!"

"Good evening, sir," said the jeweller.

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title: Indiscretions of Archie/Chapter 15


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Rh, mildly interested, filtering through a wall of cloth. "Well, boys will be boys!" he said, philosophically. "See anything there that you like? There some sweet things there!"

"I'm inspecting them narrowly," replied Archie. "If you don't let those chappies find me, I shouldn't be surprised if I bought one."

"One?" said the proprietor, with a touch of austerity.

"Two," said Archie, quickly. "Or possibly three or six."

The proprietor's cordiality returned.

"You can't have too many nice suits," he said, approvingly, "not a young feller like you that wants to look nice. All the nice girls like a young feller that dresses nice. When you go out of here in a suit I got hanging up there at the back, the girls'll be all over you like flies round a honey-pot."

"Would you mind," said Archie, "would you mind, as a personal favour to me, old companion, not mentioning that word 'girls'?"

He broke off. A heavy foot had crossed the threshold of the shop.

"Say, uncle," said a deep voice, one of those beastly voices that only the most poisonous blighters have, "you seen a young feller run past here?"

"Young feller?" The proprietor appeared to reflect. "Do you mean a young feller in blue, with a Homburg hat?"

"That's the duck! We lost him. Where did he go?"

"Him! Why, he come running past, quick as he could go. I wondered what he was running for, a hot day like this. He went round the corner at the bottom of the block."

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The New International Encyclopædia/Reber, Franz von

REBER, rā'bẽr, (1834—). A German art-historian, born at Cham, Bavaria. After studying in Munich and Berlin he went to Rome, and in 1858 established himself as lecturer at the University of Munich, was appointed professor at the Polytechnieum there in 1863 and director of the Royal Gallery in 1875. His writings include: Die Ruinen Roms und der Campagna (2d ed. 1879); Geschichte der Baukunst im Altertums (1864-67); Kunstgeschichte des Altertums (1871; trans. and supplemented by Clarke, New York, 1882); Geschichte der neueren deutschen Kunst (2d ed. 1884); Kunstgeschichte des Mittelalters (1886; trans. 1887); Geschichte der Malerei vom Anfang ''des 14. bis zum Ende des 18. Jahrhunderts'' (1894); and Die phrygischen Felsendenkmäler (1897). He translated the ten books of Vitruvius on Architecture (1865) and the History of the Antwerp School of Painting by Rooses (1880).


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{{Statute table/anchored|Anchor=4Hen5-2}|Override Chapter=4 Hen. 5. [St. 2.] { ) (1416).|Topic=Sheriffs, pattens, wages, merchant strangers, &c.|Repeal=Rep. in part — Ja. I. c. 1. 3 Geo. 4. c. 41. s. 1. 19 & 20 Vict. c. 64. Rep. as to E., except c. 1 ., Stat. Law Rev. Act, 1863.}}


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 INDEX Confederate Veteran PUBLISHED MONTHLY IN THE INTEREST OF CONFEDERATE VETERANS AND KINDRED TOPICS VOLUME XVI S. A. CUNNINGHAM, EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR Nashville, Tenn. 1908


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 MRS VIRGINIA FAULKNER McSHERRY, PRESIDENT GENERAL U. D. C.


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 INDEX Confederate Veteran PUBLISHED MONTHLY IN THE INTEREST OF CONFEDERATE VETERANS AND KINDRED TOPICS VOLUME XVIII. S. A. CUNNINGHAM, EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR Nashville, Tenn. 1910.


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 INDEX— VOLUME XX, Abulilion t'rusadc and lis Consequences IMS. IMT About Murfreesboro and Lebanon:!T:i A Hoy ("onfi-derate •i'> 1 Arlion of Missouri Comrades 5B7 Adams. Cid. James T.. and Wife fiUit Address at Cave Hill »"2 After McCook'.s Raid below Atlanta 115 Alex Poston — A Hero of Fort Donelson 392 An Almost Forgotten Shrine 59 Andeison. Capt. Joseph M 42 1 Anderson. .Maj. Joseph W.. How Killed ICG An Old Confederate in East Tennessee ITii A Pair of Blankets s;i Apple Tree at Appomattox 4J:> Arkansas Soldiers in Virginia Jfi* Arlington Monument . 62. 118. 153. 210. 2G.->.:ni. 365. 455. 501. 5,S1 Arm.v of Northern Virginia 52U Army of Tennessee. Injustice to 469. 55S Asbury, Col. A. E 242 Atlanta in War Times 375 Attack at (>ld Harbor 511 A Veteran I'oet 18 A Virginia Hoy in the GU's 105 lianjoist of the Arin.' of Northern N'irginia 112 Barbara Krietchie .Myth. The 3os. 556 Battle Field Map of Georgia 369 Battle of Hilton Uouge. What Happened in 469 Battle of Franklin, I'iftieth Anni-ersar>" 551 Battle of Gettysburg. Blunder in 417 Battle of Lexington [f2:',. 467 Battle of .Murfreesboro, Sketch of 519 rjattle of New Market. Va 71 Battle of Oak Hill. Survivors of 525 Battle of Baymond. Miss.. After the 87 Battle of Williamsburg 271 Bell. Conductor J. L. 431 Bells from South Sold in Boston 14 Berry. Dr. T. F. — Error:;21 Birthday Visions 515 Black Flag. Favoring the 563 Blue with Gray to Mingle 158 Board of Cliarity 310 Bocock. Mrs. Thomas S 261 Books Commendeii and Coiulenined at Macon Reunion.... 443 Border Warfare in Old Kentucky 3!tl Boston G. A. R. to New Orleans Camp. U. C. V 46 Bowie Brothers, The 254 Boy Confederate. A 36 4 Brackin. M rs. May Belle Gregor.' 4 2 Burning of Columbia 117 Butler, General, and Mrs. .Muniford 559 Cadets at New Market 361 Camp Beauregard. Reminiscences of 523 Camp Chase, Help for 16 (7amp (7hase Memorial Exercises 3 15 Camp Jackson. Mo 27 Camp Morton. Contrast of Commanders 52 1 (Vaptain Cai-nes at Chickamauga 1:, Captui-es Coloi-s of a Kegiiiieiit 3S1 Care of Wounded Prisonei-s at Haltinmre 421 Casualties among Generals of Both .-rmies 511 Caveat Scriptor 1 00 Chapter Flag, Beautifiil 11 C'hattanooga and the .exl Ucuiiion 2 47 Children of the Confederacy, Atlanta 348 Christian. Julia Jackson 184 "Civil War" Phrase. The 347 Cleburne's, Genei'al, Boots 358 Comma niler of Pnint Lookout Prison 524 Commands in Hoods Texas Brigade 281 Commenilation of the Veteran 27:i Comments b.v Comrades 21. 405 Compan>- IJ. First I-'Iorida Infantr.v 156 Compliment to a Georgia Comra<le 201 Condemnation of "The South in the Building of the Na- tion" .' 23 Confederate Armies. The 275 Confederate Brothers 308. 41 4 Confederate Choirs 192-viii. Confederate from Colorado 4 GO Confederate Generals — Statistics 277 Confederate Girls' Home for Tennessee 512 Confederate Gray Uniforms 157 Confederate Home of Kentucky 152 Confederate Home of Louisiana 20 Confederate Home of Texas G 1 Confederate Monuments by States 43 Confederate Officers (General) from Texas 391 Confederate Prisoners near Gettj'sburg 217 Confederate Relics in Maine 8S Confederate Reunion Balls 149. 346 Confederate Soldier's Experience 113 Confederate Woman's Home 51" Confederates in Colorado 61 Confederates Should Remain United 358 Confederated Southern Memorial Association. .316. 368. 406. 508 Congratulations to President-Elect Wilson 582 Crane. J. J IS t^redit to Wheeler Claimed by Others 82 Criticism of "The Long Roll" 4 2 Cotton Tax. The 57. 120, 152, 209 Courage of a ^lississippi Ensign 416 Daniel's. Senator. Oratittns 298 Date for Chattanooga Reunion 556 Davis Home Association 366. 393. 455 Davis's. Jefferson. Birthplace 417 Davis. Jefferson, and Robert Toombs 170 Davis's. President. Last Address ^'. 215. 567 Davis. Capt. N. C 4 52 Davis. Sam. ^Memorial A'iniln- iii Confcdei-atc Museum. Richmond 580 Death of Gen. J. E. B. Stiart 120 DeBray. Gen. X. B 468 Depps, Thomas 17 Diana Smith, One of the Soutli's Heroines 395 Distinguislied Men, Two 355 Dixie Book of Days ill Dixie Flyer. The, 246 Doxey. W. M 36! Dunlap, Mrs. Samuel Car>* 480 l^aster Gi-eeting 212 Editorial 10. 56. 104, 152, 200, 264. 312. 360. 408. 456. 504. 552 Edwards, Mrs. J. G 1 92-viii. ICdwards. Richard Vomers 196 Elson's History 1 o:; lOmergency Commissions III. 2 43 Emergency I'^unds. Importance of 4 41 Enforcing the Law in Virginia 409 Enlistments in Confederate Armies 275 Errors Corrected 555 Escapades near Close of the War 362 E.xecution of William B. Mumford 415 Experiences as a Spy 370 Experiences of a Boy Soldier 440 Inexperiences of a Missouri Woman 211 Experiences of the Tenth Tennessee Regiment 274


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 be laid down. If, then, a person does not admit when he has neither an objection nor a contrary argument, he is evidently perverse, for perversity in argument is a responsion contrary to the stated modes, destructive of syllogism.

Chapter 9
ought so to maintain both the thesis and the definition, that he (the respondent) may previously argue against himself; for from what the questionists subvert the position, it is clear that to these, opposition must be made.

Still we must beware of maintaining an improbable hypothesis, and it may be improbable in two ways, for both (that is improbable) from which absurdities happen to be enunciated; as if some one should say that all things are moved, or that nothing is; and also whatever things are chosen by the more depraved disposition, and which are contrary to the will; as that pleasure is the good, and that to injure, is better than to be injured. For men hate a person who makes these assertions, not as maintaining them for the sake of argument, but as what approve themselves (to him).

Chapter 10
arguments collect the false, must be solved, by subverting that, from which the falsity


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Author:Sumner Archibald Cunningham

Works

 * Confederate Veteran 40 volumes of Southern history and genealogies

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 arises; for the solution is not effected by subverting any thing whatever, even if what is subverted be false. For an argument may contain many falsities, as if some one assumed that he who sits writes, but that Socrates sits, since it follows from these that Socrates writes, when then, it is subverted that Socrates sits, the argument is not the more solved, though the axiom is false. Still, not on this account is the argument false, for if any one happen to be sitting indeed, but not writing, the same solution would no longer be suitable to such an one, so that this is not to be subverted, but that he who sits, writes, since not every one who sits, writes. He then, altogether solves (the argument) who subverts that, from which the falsity arises, but he understands the solution who knows that the argument depends on this, as (happens) in the case of false descriptions, since it is not sufficient to object, not even if what is subverted be false, but we must show why it is false, for thus it will be evident whether a person makes the objection from foreseeing something or not.

It is possible, notwithstanding, to prevent an argument being conclusive in four ways; either by the subversion ot that whence the falsity proceeds; or by urging an objection against the questionist, (for frequently when no solution is given (by the respondent), yet the querist can proceed no further); thirdly, (by objecting) against the interrogations made, (for it may happen what we wish may not arise from the questions, because they are improperly made, yet when something is added that a conclusion may result; if, then, the querist can proceed no further, the objection would lie against the querist, but if he can, against the questions asked); the fourth and worst objection is that which relates to time, for some object such things as require more time for discussion, than the present exercise (admits).

Objections, then, as we have said, arise in four ways, but of the particulars mentioned, the first


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Science and Citizenship paper that the ideals of science, always implicit, are now actually in process of being explicitly formulated, and that these ideals give promise of a policy of city development. And once to see and feel this movement of science is to participate in it, to forward and direct it.

II In a first rough approximation it may be taken that the middle term between Science and Policy is Potency. The conception of Potency presents itself to us with a reality and a force proportional to the frequency and intensity of our first-hand immediate and direct contacts with nature. The conception doubtless reaches a vanishing point in the minds of that urban breed of domesticated animals which are cut off from nature by continuous confinement in the cages called town houses; this variety of animal degenerates into a sort of subnatural species, with supernatural cravings. The city in its evolution is of course a natural phenomenon; but within the city, the barriers between man and nature are numerous and formidable. Amongst the dwellers in cities, it is probable that the only persons who are in habitual contact with nature are mothers and poets. To the mother the infant is an embodiment and epitome of all the potencies of nature. The baby, as has been well said, is a bundle of potencies. Its development through adolescence to maturity is the realisation of its potency for evolution or 4

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 6

Sumner A Cunningham, soldier and journalist, so widely known as editor of the died at Nashville, Tenn., on December 20, 1913, after a brief illness. Death was due to a series of hemorrhages of the nose which sapped his vitality. Seemingly in the best of health, on December 17 the first hemorrhages came on as he was seated at his desk: and thoughhe was given medical attention at once, he was much weakened by the loss of blood. However, he rested well that night and through Thursday, and friends expected that he would soon be well again; but a recurrence of the hemorrhages on Thursday night so reduced his strength that he could not recuperate, and he passed into unconsciousness, gently drifting over the dark river to join his comrades waiting on the other shore.

A devoted friend of many years, Mrs. Felix DeMoville, requested that his body should rest in her home until the funeral, and there it was taken on Saturday night. On Sunday morning a detail from Troop A, Forrest's Cavalry, acted as guard of honor, their colors drooping over him. On the casket was spread the worn old battle flag of the 12th Tennessee, Day's Battalion.

The funeral was held at the First Presbyterian Church on Sunday afternoon. Members of Frank Cheatham Bivouac, most of them in uniform, and unattached Confederate veterans met at the courthouse and marched in a body to the church. The Daughters of the Confederacy also attended in a body, and many friends and relatives from out of town were present. The honorary pallbearers were of his closest friends, men for whom he felt the ties of brotherhood. They were: Gen. Bennett H. Young, of Louisville, Commander in Chief U.C.V.; Gen V. Y. Cook, of Batesville, Ark.; Gen. John P. Hickman, Commander Tennessee Division, U.C.V.; Rev. H. M. Hamill, Chaplain Tennessee Division, U.C.V.; Rev. R.Lin Cave, Chaplain Tennessee Division, U.C.V.; Major W. L. Danley, Maj. E. C. Lewis, Capt. Thomas Gibson, Capt. Joseph Phillips, Maj. J. L. McCollum, of Atlanta, and Hon. Lewis Tillman, of Knoxville, Tenn. The active pallbearers were all young friends and business associates of Nashville: John H. De Witt, Thomas J. Nance, Robert L. Burch, D. M. Smith, Walter H. Clarke, Everett Philpot, Leland Hume, and M. R. Morton Services were conducted by Dr. H. K. Yates, pastor of the First Cumberland Presbyterian Church, of which Mr. Cunningham had been a lifelong member. After the Scripture lesson was read by Dr. Yates, the following was read by Dr. Vance to the memory of his friend:

"We are met, my friends, to-day to honor the memory of a man of whom too much cannot be said. After we have said the best about him, there remains still much to be said. I know of no one who is to take his place, for he lived a unique kind of life. As a friend remarked to me awhile ago, he was a Nathanael indeed.

"In the opening of my remarks I am going to read a little poem with which some of you are familiar, which I regard as one of the greatest ever written, not because of its literary merit, but because of the sentiment it embodies, and which it seems to me, more faithfully paints the portrait of our dear friend Mr. Cunningham than anything I can say. I refer to Sam Walter Foss's poem about the man who lived by the side of the road and was a friend to man:

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn In the place of their self-content; There are souls like stars, that dwell apart, In a fellowless firmament; There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths Where highways never ran- But let me live by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road Where the race of men go by- The men who are good and the men who are bad, As good and as bad as I. I would not sit in the scorner's seat Nor hurl the cynic's ban- Let me live in a house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road By the side of the highway of life, The men who press with the ardor of hope, The men who are faint with the strife, But I turn not away from their smiles and tears, Both parts of an infinite plan- Let me live in a house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead, And mountains of wearisome height; That the road passes on through the long afternoon And stretches away to the night. And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice And weep with the strangers that moan, Nor live in my house by the side of the road Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road, Where the race of men go by- They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, Wise, foolish - so am I. Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat, Or hurl the cynic's ban? Let me live in my house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.

"Don't you think that paints his portrait? In a sense he was by himself. Mis wife died years ago, and then one of the young children, and then twelve years ago his splendid young son Paul was drowned in the Rio Grande River, where as an engineer he was engaged in running a line between the United State and Mexico; and this left him alone, so far as his immediate family was concerned. And he found his family in the people of the world. I have heard of a school teacher in Chicago who lost his only son, a little lad, and who used to go to the gates of the public schools and watch the boys as they passed out to see if he could find one who looked like the little lad he had lost. Of course he could not. But by and by he gave his life to a service for boys, finding in the composite boy life of the city in which he lived the life of the lad he had lost.


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Rh "I was with her in her last hours. She told me her story. She told me also of you, and that you would accept nothing for the monument you were at such care to make. It is perhaps for this reason that I have felt some desire to see you, and that I am here now to speak with you of—"

A shudder passed over her.

"After all, that was not a sad, but a joyous monument to fashion," she added, abruptly.

"Aye, it was joyous. But to me the joyous and the sad are much allied in the things of this life."

"And yet there might be one monument wholly sad, might there not?"

"There might be, but I know not whose it would be."

"If she you love should die, would not hers be so?"

"Until I love, and she I love is dead, I cannot know," said Nicholas, smiling.

"What builds the most monuments?" she asked, quickly, as though to retreat from her levity.

"Pride builds many—splendid ones. Gratitude builds some, forgiveness some, and pity some. But faith builds more than these, though often poor, humble ones; and love!—love builds more than all things else together."

"And what, of all things that monuments are built in memory of, is most loved and soonest forgotten?" she asked, with intensity.

"Nay, I cannot tell that."

"Is it not a beautiful woman? This, you say, is the monument of a poet. After the poet grows old, men love him for the songs he sang; they love the old soldier for the battles he fought, and the preacher for his remembered prayers. But a woman! Who loves her


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294 for the beauty she once possessed, or rather regards her not with the more distaste? Is there in history a figure so lonely and despised as that of the woman who, once the most beautiful in the world, crept back into her native land a withered hag? Or, if a woman die while she is yet beautiful, how long is she remembered? Her beauty is like heat and light—powerful only for those who feel and see it."

But Nicholas had scarcely heard her. His eyes had become riveted upon her hand, which rested on the marble, as white as though grown out of it under the labors of his chisel.

"My lady," he said, with the deepest respect, "will you permit me to look at your hand? I have carved many a one in marble, and studied many a one in life; but never have I seen anything so beautiful as yours."

He took it with an artist's impetuosity and bent over it, laying its palm against one of his own and stroking it softly with the other. The blood leaped through his heart, and he suddenly lifted it to his lips.

"God only can make the hand beautiful," he said.

Displaced by her arm which he had upraised, the light fabric that had concealed her figure parted on her bosom and slipped to the ground. His eyes swept over the perfect shape that stood revealed. The veil still concealed her face. The strangely mingled emotions that had been deepening within him all this time now blended themselves in one irrepressible wish.

"Will you permit me to see your face?"

She drew quickly back. A subtle pain was in his voice as he cried:

"Oh, my lady? I ask it as one who has pure eyes for the beautiful."


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Rh "My face belongs to my past. It has been my sorrow; it is nothing now."

"Only permit me to see it!"

"Is there no other face you would rather see?"

Who can fathom the motive of a woman's questions?

"None, none!"

She drew aside her veil, and her eyes rested quietly on his like a revelation. So young she was as hardly yet to be a woman, and her beauty had in it that seraphic purity and mysterious pathos which is never seen in a woman's face until the touch of another world has chastened her spirit into the resignation of a saint. The heart of Nicholas was wrung by the sight of it with a sudden sense of inconsolable loss and longing.

"Oh, my lady!" he cried, sinking on one knee and touching his lips to her hand with greater gentleness. "Do you indeed think the beauty of a woman so soon forgotten? As long as I live, yours will be as fresh in my memory as it was the moment after I first saw it in its perfection and felt its power."

"Do not recall to me the sorrow of such thoughts." She touched her heart. "My heart is a tired hour-glass. Already the sands are wellnigh run through. Any hour it may stop, and then out—like a light! Shapeless ashes! I have loved life well, but not so well that I have not been able to prepare to leave it."

She spoke with the utmost simplicity and calmness, yet her eyes were turned with unspeakable sadness towards the shadowy recesses of the room, where from their pedestals the monumental figures looked down upon her as though they would have opened their marble lips and said, "Poor child! Poor child!"

"I have had my wish to see you and to see this place.


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296 Before long some one will come here to have you carve a monument to the most perishable of all things. Like the poor mother who had no wish to be remembered—"

Nicholas was moved to the deepest.

"I have but little skill," he said. "The great God did not bestow on me the genius of his favorite children of sculpture. But if so sad and sacred a charge should ever become mine, with his help I will rear such a monument to your memory that as long as it stands none who see it will ever be able to forget you. Year after year your memory shall grow as a legend of the beautiful."

When she was gone he sat self-forgetful until the darkness grew impenetrable. As he groped his way out at last along the thick guide-posts of death, her voice seemed to float towards him from every head stone, her name to be written in every epitaph.

The next day a shadow brooded over the place. Day by day it deepened. He went out to seek intelligence of her. In the quarter of the city where she lived he discovered that her name had already become a nucleus around which were beginning to cluster many little legends of the beautiful. He had but to hear recitals of her deeds of kindness and mercy. For the chance of seeing her again he began to haunt the neighborhood; then, having seen her, he would return to his shop the victim of more unavailing desire. All things combined to awake in him that passion of love whose roots are nourished in the soul's finest soil of pity and hopelessness. Once or twice, under some pretext, he made bold to accost her; and once, under the stress of his passion, he mutely lifted his eyes, confessing his love; but hers were turned aside.


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Rh Meantime he began to dream of the monument he chose to consider she had committed to his making. It should be the triumph of his art; but more, it would represent in stone the indissoluble union of his love with her memory. Through him alone would she enter upon her long after-life of saint-like reminiscence.

When the tidings of her death came, he soon sprang up from the prostration of his grief with a burning desire to consummate his beloved work.

"Year after year your memory shall grow as a legend of the beautiful."

These words now became the inspiration of his masterpiece. Day and night it took shape in the rolling chaos of his sorrow. What sculptor in the world ever espoused the execution of a work that lured more irresistibly from their hiding-places the shy and tender ministers of his genius? What one ever explored with greater boldness the utmost limits of artistic expression, or wrought in sterner defiance of the laws of our common forgetfulness?

One afternoon, when people thronged the great cemetery of the city, a strolling group were held fascinated by the unique loveliness of a newly erected monument.

"Never," they exclaimed, "have we seen so exquisite a masterpiece. In whose honor is it erected?"

But when they drew nearer, they found carved on it simply a woman's name.

"Who was she?" they asked, puzzled and disappointed. "Is there no epitaph?"

"Aye," spoke up a young man lying on the grass


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Science and Citizenship for degeneration. The process of growth is, in the proper sense of the word, the education of the child, that is to say, the drawing out of its potencies. In its training and education the primary factors are three. These are the hereditary predispositions of the child, the resources available for its education, and finally, the ideals of the mother. It is the last which is perhaps the most important for the progress of culture, for of the three factors the ideal of the mother is the most variable, the most modifiable, and therefore the most subject to control and guidance. The mother's ideal is a compound of the types of humanity that have most appealed to her in actual life, in romance, and in history. In other words, it is, whether she knows it or not, the historical or racial imagination of the mother that determines her ideals. She directs the education of her child towards her personal ideals of strength, of health, and of wealth, towards her personal ideals of beauty in person, of wisdom in thought, of goodness in deed. And in proportion as these different aspects of the mother's ideal of manhood and womanhood harmonise into an imaginative unity, a synthetic reality, in that proportion she has an educational policy for her child. For a policy is but a name for a system of dealing with one's resources for a definite purpose. In short, a policy is a scheme for the development of potencies in the direction of an ideal realisation.

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 Jan. 6, 1834.]

" .... Alhanasius's Creed ..... ought thoroughly to be received and believed; for [it] may be proved by most certain warrants of holy Scripture."—Article.

I back with much pleasure to the visit I had from my friend Mr. Woodnot, the Bristol Merchant I before spoke of.

He staid with me some days, and we had many agreeable rambles and discussions together, which were to me peculiarly interesting, from the wide experience he had had of men and things, and of places too, as he had been often abroad, in Switzerland, in Turkey, and on different parts of the American Continent, where he had spent some years.

Two or three days after our meeting with Richard Nelson, as stated before, we took our walk, (it being a pleasant evening towards the end of August,) along the side of a little stream, which we traced for a mile or two down the valley, returning by a kind of natural terrace, which terminated in my favourite beech-walk. The sun was low when we got here; and we stood still, {it was not far from Nelson's garden hedge,) to admire its rich glow on the opposite side of the valley. I was pointing out to my friend a bold and almost mountainous outhne of hills rising in the distance, far to the west in Lancashire, Pendle-hill, as I fancied, and other lofty tracts in the neighbourhood of Clitheroe; and we were speculating on the distance they might be from us.

"Sir," said a voice, which startled me, from my not observing that any one was near; "Pendle-hill must be full fifty miles off; what you see is most likely some of the high ground beyond Halifax."


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 "Why, Richard," said I, "What are you doing down there?" for I could scarcely see more than his head—"You seem to be making a strong entrenchment round your castle."

"I dare say, Sir," he answered, "you may wonder what I am about; but at this time of year, when the springs are low, I generally spend an hour, when I have leisure in an evening, in repairing the garden-mound, that it may be fit to stand against the assaults of what I call my two winter enemies."

"What can they be?" I asked; "I did not know that you had any enemies."

"Yes, Sir, I have," he replied; "at least my garden had two, land-floods, and Scotch ponies. Almost every winter, once, if not twice, there is a violent land-flood from the high ground behind the house; and if this ditch were not kept clear, to take the water off immediately, the garden would not recover the damage all the next year. To be sure, this kind of flood does not commonly last many hours; but that is long enough, you know, Sir, to spoil the labour of weeks and months."

"That I can understand," I answered; "but how you can be in any alarm about Highland ponies, I cannot imagine."

"Why," said he, "you know, Sir, that there is a fair at the town every year, early in the Spring, where a great many of these ponies are bought and sold; and for many years past, Mr. Saveall, the owner of this field, has let it for one day and night to the horsedealer, (a well-known man out of Lincolnshire,) to turn those ponies into, as well as other horses he may have purchased at the fair. The first year I was here, I was not aware of this custom, and had taken no precaution against it; so these little mountaineers got in at a weak place in the hedge during the night, and trod the garden, as one may say, to a mummy. So, to protect myself for the future against such mischievous visitors, I put this fence along, which I was now repairing. And if you will please to look at it, I think you, Sir, will allow that it was not badly contrived, though I say it, who should not say it."

All along the whole length of the garden, (which might be perhaps nearly one hundred yards,) on that side which was next the foot-path, he had fixed very neatly, about half way up the slope of the ditch on the opposite side, a double indented line of


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 sharp strong stakes, pointing upwards, presenting a sort of chevaux de frise; an impenetrable barrier, which no pony, highland or lowland, could possibly get through or over.

We said something in commendation of his skill and precaution: on which he observed; "I am glad, Sir, you approve of what I have done; for it has cost me a good deal of labour. And my neighbour, Farmer Yawn, who has been standing by me for the last three quarters of an hour, and went away just as you came up, he says, I am taking a deal of trouble, and very likely for nothing; how can I be sure there will be a land-flood, or that the man will turn in the ponies? and besides, (says he,) neither land-flood nor ponies would stay twelve hours. But I know better, Sir, than to take Mr. Yawn's advice; for if my bit of garden should be ruined for a twelvemonth, it would be no comfort afterwards to think, that perhaps it might not have happened, or that the mischief was quickly done, or that with timely caution it might have been prevented."

After a few more words we wished him a good evening, and walked on for some little way in silence, which my companion put an end to by saying, "It must be confessed that our friend Nelson is a sensible man; and not the less so, (added he, with a smile,) because I am sure he will agree with me in opinion."

For in the course of our walk we had been discussing rather earnestly the subject of the Athanasian Creed; the question between us not being as to the doctrines contained in it, but as to the expediency of retaining it in the Liturgy, supposing any changes should take place in that also, as in every thing else. Not that there was any real difference of opinion between us on that point either; but wishing to know his views on the subject, I had been urging the various objections, such of them at least as are most plausible, and had been gratified with observing how little weight he attached to them; and my satisfaction was the greater, because, from his education and profession, as a layman and a merchant, he could not be accused of what have been scornfully designated as "academical and clerical prejudices."

In the course of our conversation he had expressed himself most earnestly in favour of the Athanasian Creed; alleging, for this his opinion, various reasons, and among others the following;


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 "that he regarded this Creed in the light of a fence or bulwark set up to protect the Truth against all innovations and encroachments; and that to take it away, particularly in times when popular opinion, or rather feeling, was against it, would be almost high treason against : (that was his Word:) would be, so far as in us lies, wilfully to expose the Truth to be trodden down by its enemies."

"Now," said he, "whilst you were talking to our friend Nelson, it struck me that his care about his garden very aptly expresses our duty in respect of this very subject. For why is this Creed so obnoxious? simply because it is so strongly and sharply worded; because it leaves no opening for a semi-socinian or a five-quarter latitudinarian to creep in at; because it presents an insurmountable obstacle to every intruder who would trample under foot the vineyard.

"And even if the aspect of things were more favourable, even if there were no sign of danger at hand, I should much rather advise that, like Nelson, we should look forward to probable or possible inroads, than venture to neglect, much less to remove, our fences.

"But," he continued, "in the present condition of what is by courtesy, (or one might almost say, facetiously,) called the Christian world, it were in my judgment little less than madness to yield so strong a position,—one too, which if once lost can never be recovered."

And then he referred to what he had before been insisting on, the great mistake made by the American Church in rejecting the Athanasian Creed from her Liturgy; and how, from personal observation during his residence first at New York, and afterwards at Charleston, he was sure the time would come when its loss would be felt and acknowledged by the true sons of that Church. "And I wish," added he, as we concluded our walk and our discussion together, "you would endeavour to ascertain what are the sentiments of our friend Nelson on this subject, for I have no doubt he has turned it over in his mind; and his opinion must certainly be of value, because happily for himself he has not been, I suppose, in the way of hearing the profane absurdities that are daily written and spoken against this inestimable Creed."

"Yes," said I, "whatever his opinions are, I doubt not they


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 will be found candid, and free from unreasonable prejudice; and I will take an early opportunity of ascertaining them."

Soon after this my friend left me, and I promised to communicate to him the result of my enquiries. The Sunday following, it being a serene autumnal morning, according to the description of the Divine Poet—" most calm, most bright"—I proceeded earlier than usual towards the school.

When I came up to Richard's cottage, he was standing at the gate, with his infant child in his arms, looking as if he could envy no man; as if Sunday were to him what it should be to us all, "the couch of time, care's balm and bay."

"You are rather earlier, Sir, than usual," he said.

"Yes," I answered, "the morning is so lovely, so Sunday-like, I could not endure to stay any longer within doors."

After some few observations had passed between us,—in which he expressed with an unaffected solemnity of manner peculiar to himself, his sense of the value of each returning day, calling it, (and I think he used, though unconsciously, Isaac Walton's very words,) "a step towards a blessed eternity,"—I asked him if he would have any objection to take two or three turns with me in the beech-walk, as it still wanted a considerable time to school.

He answered that he would gladly accompany me, especially as it might be better for the child to be taken under the shade of the trees.

"Richard," said I, "my friend Mr. Woodnot, and I may call him your friend too, was much amused with your plan for keeping off the enemies of your garden. He commended it highly, and thinks you therein set a good example to all true Churchmen, and especially to us of the Clergy."

"In what respect, Sir?" he asked. "Why," I replied, "in keeping your fences strong and sharp, and contrived in the best possible way to serve the purpose of fences; namely, to preserve one's property from injury. For we understood you to say, that, were it not for a little observation and foresight, however well all might be for three hundred and sixty-four days in the year, in one twenty-four hours all might be laid waste, either by the torrent from the high ground above you, or by the cattle from your neighbour's field."

"Indeed, Sir," he answered, "that is no more than the truth.


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 But I confess I do not exactly see how in acting thus I have set any particularly good example. No person of common sense could do otherwise."

"As to that," I replied, "perhaps what some witty man said of common honesty, he might too have said of common sense, that it is a very uncommon thing. But be that as it may, it certainly would appear to me to be no mark of sense nor of honesty either, if we Christians who are "put in trust (as St. Paul speaks) with the Gospel," were to draw back from our strong advanced positions, in the vain hope that the Enemy would be content with this success, and encroach no further."

"May I ask, Sir," he said, "what it is you refer to?"

"Why, Richard," I replied, "of course you have heard that a great many people think the Church Prayer Book ought to be altered; and that first and foremost the Athanasian Creed ought to be put out of it."

"Sir," said he, "I have heard more than one person make this observation, but I never took much account of it till about a year or eighteen months ago, when a brother-in-law of mine, who is fond of poring over the newspapers, told me he had been reading extracts from the works of a famous preacher, one Dr. Hoadley, which I am sorry to say he was inclined to admire. For in these extracts there were objections made to other parts of the Church Service, and particularly to the Athanasian Creed, which (the Dr. said) was a great blot in the Prayer Book, and that he wished we were well rid of it, with other such disrespectful expressions. Now, Sir, it seemed to me such a thing, for a Clergyman who had signed the Articles and the Prayer Book, and had his maintenance from the Church, and had taken an oath before and man to teach the truth to his flock, according to the Prayer Book; that a Church Minister should take upon him to omit so remarkable a portion of the Church Service; nay more, should speak so slightingly of what he had solemnly assented to, and was even sworn to; this seemed to me to be astonishing; and, I must confess to you, even shocking. And, Sir, I thought of what my mother had said to me in her last illness, about the danger of trifling with. I thought too, if there should be many such Clergymen as this Dr. Hoadley, what confusion and perplexity they would throw people's