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Rh If these observations upon society should appear to any, cynical or severe, or calculated to depress the natural ardour of youth, rather than direct it into safer and more wholesome channels; it must be remembered, that my design throughout this work, is to speak of the world as it is, not merely as it ought to be; and though I know there are circles of society, where aims, and motives, and laws of union exist, of a far higher order than to admit of the falsehood or the littleness to which I have alluded; yet such, it must be acknowledged, is the general tone of ordinary visiting or mixing in company, that the follies of unguarded youth meet with little candour, and still less kind correction, even amongst those who are associated with us as friends. I know that the voice of experience is an unwelcome one, when thus lifted up against that of the world, which speaks so smoothly in its first intercourse with the young and inexperienced; and far more delightful would it be, to send forth the joyous spirit into social life with all its native energies unchecked. There is one grateful and welcome thought, however, which reconciles the task I have imposed upon myself. It is, that none of these energies need therefore be destroyed, or deprived of natural and invigorating exercise. There are home-societies, and little chosen circles of tried and trusted friends; meetings, perhaps, but rarely occurring, or only accidental, amongst those who speak with different voices the warm familiar language of one heart; and here it is that the genuine feelings of unsophisticated nature may safely be poured forth; here it is that youth may live, and breathe, and be itself, alike without affectation, and without reserve; here it is, that the spirit of joy may bound and revel unrestrained, because all around it is the atmosphere of love, and the clear bright radiance of the sunshine of truth.

There is yet another flight of female ambition, another

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174 course which the love of distinction is apt to take, more productive of folly, and of disappointment, perhaps, than all the rest. It is the ambition of the female author who writes for fame. Could those young aspirants know how little real dignity there is. connected with the trade of authorship, their harps, would be exchanged for distaffs, their rose-tinted paper would be converted into ashes, and their Parnassus would dwindle to a molehill.

Still there is something which the young heart feels in being shut out from intellectual sympathies at home—something in burning and throbbing with unexpressed sensations, until their very weight and intensity become a burden not to be endured; something in the strong impulse of a social temperament, which longs to pour forth its testimony to the force of nature and of truth; something in those mysterious, but deep convictions, which belong to every child of earth, that somewhere on this peopled globe, beneath the glow of sunnier skies; or on the frozen plain, the desert, or the ocean; amidst the bowers- of beauty, or the halls of pride; within the hermit's cave, the woodman's cot, or wandering with the flocks upon the distant hills; there is—there must be, some human or spiritual intelligence, whose imaginations, powers, and feelings, operate in concert with our own. And thus we feel, and thus we write in youth, without any higher motive, because within our homes, tracing our daily walks, or mixing with the circle called society, we find no, chord of sympathy which answers to the natural music of our secret souls.

All this, however, is but juvenile romance. The same want of sympathy which so often inspires the first effort of female authorship, might often find a sweet and abundant interchange of kindness in many a faithful heart beside the homely hearth. And after all, there is more true poetry in the fire-side affections of early life, than in all, those

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Rh associations with unknown and untried developments of mind, which ever have existed either amongst the sons or the daughters of men.

Taking a more sober view of the case, there are, unquestionably, subjects of deep interest with which women have opportunities peculiar to themselves of becoming acquainted, and thus of benefiting their fellow-creatures through the medium of their writings. But, after all, literature is not the natural channel for a woman's feelings; and pity, not envy, ought to be the meed of her who writes for the public. How much of what with other women is reserved for the select and chosen intercourse of affection, with her must be laid bare to the coarse cavillings, and coarser commendations, of amateur or professional critics. How much of what no woman loves to say, except to the listening ear of domestic affection, by her must be told—nay, blazoned to the world. And then, in her seasons of depression, or of wounded feeling, when her spirit yearns to sit in solitude, or even in darkness, so that it may be still; to know and feel that the very essence of that spirit, now embodied in a palpable form, has become an article of sale and bargain, tossed over from the hands of one workman to another, free alike to the touch of the prince and the peasant, and no longer to be reclaimed at will by the original possessor, let the world receive it as it may.

Is such, I ask, an enviable distinction? I will offer no remarks of my own upon the unsatisfactory nature of literary fame. No man, or woman either, could write for the public, and not feel thankful for public approbation; thankful for having chosen a subject generally interesting to mankind, and thankful that their, own sentiments had met with sympathy from those for whose sake they had been expressed. But, on this subject, I will quote the eloquent

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176 language of one, who better knew what contradictory elements exist in a young, an ardent, and an affectionate heart, combined with an aspiring and commanding intellect.

"What is fame to woman, but a dazzling degradation. She is exposed to the pitiless gaze of admiration; but little respect, and no love, blends with it. However much as an individual she may have gained in name, in rank, in fortune, she has suffered as a woman. In the history of letters, she may be associated with men, but her own sweet life is lost; and though, in reality, she may flow through the ocean of the world, maintaining an unsullied current, she is nevertheless apparently absorbed, and become one with the elements of tumult and distraction. She is a reed shaken with the wind; a splendid exotic, nurtured for display; an ornament, only to be worn on birth-nights and festivities; the aloe, whose blossom is deemed fabulous, because few can be said to behold it; she is the Hebrew, whose songs are demanded in a 'strange land;' Ruth, standing amid the 'alien corn;' a flower, plunged beneath a petrifying spring; her affections are the dew that society exhales, but gives not back to her in rain; she is a jewelled captive, bright, and desolate, and sad !"

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the first Sunday in June, when Lettie knew she would keep her engagement with Leslie, and when she was having a day at home from Highclose, she got ready to go down to the mill. We were in mourning for an aunt, so she wore a dress of fine black voile, and a black hat with long feathers. Then, when I looked at her fair hands, and her arms closely covered in the long black cuffs of her sleeves, I felt keenly my old brother-love shielding, indulgent.

It was a windy, sunny day. In shelter the heat was passionate, but in the open the wind scattered its fire. Every now and then a white cloud broad based, blue shadowed, travelled slowly along the sky-road after the forerunner small in the distance, and trailing over us a chill shade, a gloom which we watched creep on over the water, over the wood and the hill. These royal, rounded clouds had sailed all day along the same route, from the harbour of the South to the wastes in the Northern sky, following the swift wild geese. The brook hurried along singing, only here and there lingering to whisper to the secret bushes, then setting off afresh with a new snatch of song.

The fowls pecked staidly in the farmyard, with Sabbath decorum. Occasionally a lost, sportive


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314 wind-puff would wander across the yard and ruffle them, and they resented it. The pigs were asleep in the sun, giving faint grunts now and then from sheer luxury. I saw a squirrel go darting down the mossy garden wall, up into the laburnum tree, where he lay flat along the bough, and listened. Suddenly away he went, chuckling to himself. Gyp all at once set off barking, but I soothed her down; it was the unusual sight of Lettie’s dark dress that startled her, I suppose.

We went quietly into the kitchen. Mrs. Saxton was just putting a chicken, wrapped in a piece of flannel, on the warm hob to coax it into life; it looked very feeble. George was asleep, with his head in his arms on the table; the father was asleep on the sofa, very comfortable and admirable; I heard Emily fleeing up stairs, presumably to dress.

“He stays out so late—up at the Ram Inn,” whispered the mother in a high whisper, looking at George, “and then he’s up at five—he doesn’t get his proper rest.” She turned to the chicks, and continued in her whisper—“the mother left them just before they hatched out, so we’ve been bringing them on here. This one’s a bit weak—I thought I’d hot him up a bit” she laughed with a quaint little frown of deprecation. Eight or nine yellow, fluffy little mites were cheeping and scuffling in the fender. Lettie bent over them to touch them; they were tame, and ran among her fingers.

Suddenly George’s mother gave a loud cry, and rushed to the fire. There was a smell of singed down. The chicken had toddled into the fire, and gasped its faint gasp among the red-hot cokes. The


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Rh father jumped from the sofa; George sat up with wide eyes; Lettie gave a little cry and a shudder; Trip rushed round and began to bark. There was a smell of cooked meat.

“There goes number one!” said the mother, with her queer little laugh. It made me laugh too.

“What’s a matter—what’s a matter?” asked the father excitedly.

“It’s a chicken been and walked into the fire—I put it on the hob to warm,” explained his wife.

“Goodness—I couldn’t think what was up!” he said, and dropped his head to trace gradually the border between sleeping and waking.

George sat and smiled at us faintly, he was too dazed to speak. His chest still leaned against the table, and his arms were spread out thereon, but he lifted his face, and looked at Lettie with his dazed, dark eyes, and smiled faintly at her. His hair was all ruffled, and his shirt collar unbuttoned. Then he got up slowly, pushing his chair back with a loud noise, and stretched himself, pressing his arms upwards with a long, heavy stretch.

“Oh—h—h!” he said, bending his arms and then letting them drop to his sides. “I never thought you’d come to-day.”

“I wanted to come and see you—I shan’t have many more chances,” said Lettie, turning from him and yet looking at him again.

“No, I suppose not,” he said, subsiding into quiet. Then there was silence for some time. The mother began to enquire after Leslie, and kept the conversation up till Emily came down, blushing and smiling and glad.


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one who has been conducting an inexperienced traveller through an enemy's country, joyfully enters with him upon the territory of a well-known and familiar friend; so the writer, whose stern duty it has been to disclose the dangers and deceitfulness of the world to the unpractised eye of youth, delights to open to it that page of human life, which develops all that is most congenial to unsophisticated nature. And can anything be more so to woman, than gratitude and affection? How much of her experience—of the deepest well-springs of her feeling—of those joys peculiar to herself, and with which no stranger can intermeddle—are embodied in these two words!

If our sense of obligation in general bears any proportion to our need of kindness, then has woman, above all created beings, the greatest cause for gratitude. The spirit of man, even in early life, bears a widely different impress from that of woman. The high-spirited and reckless boy flings from him half the little grievances which hang about the girl, and check her infant playfulness, sending her home to tell her tale of sorrow, or to weep away her griefs upon her mother's bosom. There is scarcely a more affecting sight presented by the varied scenes of human life, than a motherless or neglected little girl; yet so strong is the feeling her situation inspires, that happily few are thus circumstanced, without some one being found to care for, and protect them. It is true, the lot of woman has trials enough peculiar to itself and the look of premature sedateness and anxiety,

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316 “Are you coming out?” said she, “there are two or three robins’ nests, and a spinkie’s——”

“I think I’ll leave my hat,” said Lettie, unpinning it as she spoke, and shaking her hair when she was free. Mrs. Saxton insisted on her taking a long white silk scarf; Emily also wrapped her hair in a gauze scarf, and looked beautiful.

George came out with us, coatless, hatless, his waistcoat all unbuttoned, as he was. We crossed the orchard, over the old bridge, and went to where the slopes ran down to the lower pond, a bank all covered with nettles, and scattered with a hazel bush or two. Among the nettles old pans were rusting, and old coarse pottery cropped up.

We came upon a kettle heavily coated with lime. Emily bent down and looked, and then we peeped in. There were the robin birds with their yellow beaks stretched so wide apart I feared they would never close them again. Among the naked little mites, that begged from us so blindly and confidently, were huddled three eggs.

“They are like Irish children peeping out of a cottage,” said Emily, with the family fondness for romantic similes.

We went on to where a tin lay with the lid pressed back, and inside it, snug and neat, was another nest, with six eggs, cheek to cheek.

“How warm they are,” said Lettie, touching them, “you can fairly feel the mother’s breast.”

He tried to put his hand into the tin, but the space was too small, and they looked into each other’s eyes and smiled. “You’d think the father’s breast had marked them with red,” said Emily.


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Rh As we went up the orchard side we saw three wide displays of coloured pieces of pots arranged at the foot of three trees.

“Look,” said Emily, “those are the children’s houses. You don’t know how our Mollie gets all Sam’s pretty bits—she is a cajoling hussy!”

The two looked at each other again, smiling. Up on the pond-side, in the full glitter of light, we looked round where the blades of clustering corn were softly healing the red bosom of the hill. The larks were overhead among the sunbeams. We straggled away across the grass. The field was all afroth with cowslips, a yellow, glittering, shaking froth on the still green of the grass. We trailed our shadows across the fields, extinguishing the sunshine on the flowers as we went. The air was tingling with the scent of blossoms.

“Look at the cowslips, all shaking with laughter,” said Emily, and she tossed back her head, and her dark eyes sparkled among the flow of gauze. Lettie was on in front, flitting darkly across the field, bending over the flowers, stooping to the earth like a sable Persephone come into freedom. George had left her at a little distance, hunting for something in the grass. He stopped, and remained standing in one place.

Gradually, as if unconsciously, she drew near to him, and when she lifted her head, after stooping to pick some chimney-sweeps, little grass flowers, she laughed with a slight surprise to see him so near.

“Ah!” she said. “I thought I was all alone in the world—such a splendid world—it was so nice.”


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318 “Like Eve in a meadow in Eden—and Adam’s shadow somewhere on the grass,” said I.

“No—no Adam,” she asserted, frowning slightly, and laughing.

“Who ever would want streets of gold,” Emily was saying to me, “when you can have a field of cowslips! Look at that hedgebottom that gets the South sun—one stream and glitter of buttercups.”

“Those Jews always had an eye to the filthy lucre—they even made Heaven out of it,” laughed Lettie, and, turning to him, she said, “Don’t you wish we were wild—hark, like wood-pigeons—or larks—or, look, like peewits? Shouldn’t you love flying and wheeling and sparkling and—courting in the wind?” She lifted her eyelids, and vibrated the question. He flushed, bending over the ground.

“Look,” he said, “here’s a larkie’s.”

Once a horse had left a hoofprint in the soft meadow; now the larks had rounded, softened the cup, and had laid there three dark-brown eggs. Lettie sat down and leaned over the nest; he leaned above her. The wind running over the flower heads, peeped in at the little brown buds, and bounded off again gladly. The big clouds sent messages to them down the shadows, and ran in raindrops to touch them.

“I wish,” she said, “I wish we were free like that. If we could put everything safely in a little place in the earth—couldn’t we have a good time as well as the larks?”

“I don’t see,” said he, “why we can’t.”

“Oh—but I can’t—you know we can’t”—and she looked at him fiercely.


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Rh “Why can’t you?” he asked.

“You know we can’t—you know as well as I do,” she replied, and her whole soul challenged him. “We have to consider things” she added. He dropped his head. He was afraid to make the struggle, to rouse himself to decide the question for her. She turned away, and went kicking through the flowers. He picked up the blossoms she had left by the nest—they were still warm from her hands—and followed her. She walked on towards the end of the field, the long strands of her white scarf running before her. Then she leaned back to the wind, while he caught her up.

“Don’t you want your flowers?” he asked humbly.

“No, thanks—they’d be dead before I got home—throw them away, you look absurd with a posy.”

He did as he was bidden. They came near the hedge. A crab-apple tree blossomed up among the blue.

“You may get me a bit of that blossom,” said she, and suddenly added—“no, I can reach it myself,” whereupon she stretched upward and pulled several sprigs of the pink and white, and put it in her dress.

“Isn’t it pretty?” she said, and she began to laugh ironically, pointing to the flowers—“pretty, pink-cheeked petals, and stamens like yellow hair, and buds like lips promising something nice”—she stopped, and looked at him, flickering with a smile. Then she pointed to the ovary beneath the flower, and said: “Result: Crab-apples!”

She continued to look at him, and to smile. He said nothing. So they went on to where they could climb the fence into the spinney. She climbed to


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320 the top rail, holding by an oak bough. Then she let him lift her down bodily.

“Ah!” she said, “you like to show me how strong you are—a veritable Samson!”—she mocked, although she had invited him with her eyes to take her in his arms.

We were entering the spinney of black poplar. In the hedge was an elm tree, with myriads of dark dots pointed against the bright sky, myriads of clusters of flaky green fruit.

“Look at that elm,” she said, “you’d think it was in full leaf, wouldn’t you? Do you know why it’s so prolific?”

“No,” he said, with a curious questioning drawl of the monosyllable.

“It’s casting it’s bread upon the winds—no, it is dying, so it puts out all its strength and loads its boughs with the last fruit. It’ll be dead next year. If you’re here then, come and see. Look at the ivy, the suave smooth ivy, with its fingers in the trees’ throat. Trees know how to die, you see—we don’t.”

With her whimsical moods she tormented him. She was at the bottom a seething confusion of emotion, and she wanted to make him likewise.

“If we were trees with ivy—instead of being fine humans with free active life—we should hug our thinning lives, shouldn’t we?”

“I suppose we should.”

“You, for instance—fancy your sacrificing yourself—for the next generation—that reminds you of Schopenhauer, doesn’t it?—for the next generation, or love, or anything!”

He did not answer her; she was too swift for him.


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Rh They passed on under the poplars, which were hanging strings of green beads above them. There was a little open space, with tufts of bluebells. Lettie stooped over a wood-pigeon that lay on the ground on its breast, its wings half spread. She took it up—its eyes were bursten and bloody; she felt its breast, ruffling the dimming iris on its throat.

“It’s been fighting,” he said.

“What for—a mate?” she asked, looking at him.

“I don’t know,” he answered.

“Cold—he’s quite cold, under the feathers! I think a wood-pigeon must enjoy being fought for—and being won; especially if the right one won. It would be a fine pleasure, to see them fighting—don’t you think?” she said, torturing him.

“The claws are spread—it fell dead off the perch,” he replied.

“Ah, poor thing—it was wounded—and sat and waited for death—when the other had won. Don’t you think life is very cruel, George—and love the cruellest of all?”

He laughed bitterly under the pain of her soft, sad tones.

“Let me bury him—and have done with the beaten lover. But we’ll make him a pretty grave.”

She scooped a hole in the dark soil, and snatching a handful of bluebells, threw them in on top of the dead bird. Then she smoothed the soil over all, and pressed her white hands on the black loam.

“There,” she said, knocking her hands one against the other to shake off the soil, “he’s done with. Come on.”

He followed her, speechless with his emotion. 21


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322 The spinney opened out; the ferns were serenely uncoiling, the bluebells stood grouped with blue curls mingled. In the freer spaces forget-me-nots flowered in nebulæ, and dog-violets gave an undertone of dark purple, with primroses for planets in the night. There was a slight drift of woodruff, sweet new-mown hay, scenting the air under the boughs. On a wet bank was the design of golden saxifrage, glistening unholily as if varnished by its minister, the snail. George and Lettie crushed the veined belles of wood-sorrel and broke the silken mosses. What did it matter to them what they broke or crushed.

Over the fence of the spinney was the hillside, scattered with old thorn trees. There the little grey lichens held up ruby balls to us unnoticed. What did it matter, when all the great red apples were being shaken from the Tree to be left to rot.

“If I were a man,” said Lettie, “I would go out west and be free. I should love it.”

She took the scarf from her head and let it wave out on the wind; the colour was warm in her face with climbing, and her curls were freed by the wind, sparkling and rippling.”

“Well—you’re not a man,” he said, looking at her, and speaking with timid bitterness.

“No,” she laughed, “if I were, I would shape things—oh, wouldn’t I have my own way!”

“And don’t you now?”

“Oh—I don’t want it particularly—when I’ve got it. When I’ve had my way, I do want somebody to take it back from me.”

She put her head back, and looked at him sideways, laughing through the glitter of her hair.


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 have heard them addressed in the following rhyme:

I leave the stories of the piskysled, of which this neighbourhood can furnish several authentic instances, for the following ancient legends, all careful copies of oral traditions.

Colman Grey.—A farmer, who formerly lived on an estate in our vicinity, was returning one evening from a distant part of the farm, when, in crossing a particular field, he saw, to his surprise, sitting on a stone in the middle of it, a miserable-looking little creature, human in appearance, though diminutive in size, and apparently starving with cold and hunger. Pitying its condition, and perhaps aware that it was of elfish origin, and that good luck would amply repay him for his kind treatment of it, he took it home, placed it by the warm hearth on a stool, and fed it with nice milk. The poor bantling soon recovered from the lumpish and only half-sensible state in which it was found, and, though it never spoke, became very lively and playful. From the amusement which its strange tricks excited, it became a general favourite in the family, and the good folk really felt very sorry when their strange guest quitted them, which he did in a very unceremonious manner. After the lapse of three or four days, as the little fellow was gamboling about the farm kitchen, a shrill voice from the town-place; or farm-yard, was heard to call three times, "Colman Grey!" at which he sprung up, and gaining voice, cried, "Ho! ho! ho! my daddy is come," flew through the key-hole, and was never afterwards heard of.

A Voyage with the Piskies.—About a mile to the eastward of us is a pretty bay, on the shores of which may be seen the picturesque church of Talland, the hamlet of Portallow, with its scattered farm-houses, and the green on which the children assemble at their sports. In old time, a lad in the employ of a farmer who occupied one of the homesteads was sent to our village to procure some little household necessaries from the shop. Dark night had set in by the time he had reached Sand-hill; on his way home, when half way down the steep road, the boy heard some one say, "I'm for Portallow-green." "As you are going my way," thought he, "I may as well have your company;" and he waited for a repetition of the voice, intending to hail it. "I'm for Portallow-green," was repeated after a short interval. "I'm for Portallow-green," shouted the boy. Quick as thought he found himself on the green, surrounded by a throng of little laughing piskies. They were, however, scarcely settled before the cry was heard from several tiny voices, "I'm for Seaton-beach,"—a fine expanse of sand on the coast between this place and Plymouth, at the distance of seven miles. Whether he was charmed by his brief taste of pisky society, or taken with their pleasant mode of travelling, is not stated; but, instead of turning his pockets inside out, as many would have done; he immediately rejoined, "I'm for Seaton-beach." Off he was whisked, and in a moment found himself on Seaton-beach. After they had for a while "danced their ringlets to the whistling winds," the cry was changed to "I'm for the king of France's cellar," and, strange to say, he offered no objection even to so long a journey. "I'm for the king of France's cellar," shouted the adventurous youth as he dropped his parcel on the beach not far from the edge of the tide. Immediately he found himself in a spacious cellar, engaged with his mysterious companions in tasting the richest of wines. Then they passed through grand rooms fitted up with a splendour which quite dazzled the lad. In one apartment the tables were covered with fine plate and rich viands, as if in expectation of a feast. Though in the main an honest lad, he could not resist the temptation to take away with him some memorial of his travels, and he pocketed one of the rich silver goblets which stood on the table. After a very short stay the word was raised, "I'm for Seaton-beach," which being repeated by the boy, he was taken back as quickly as he went, and luckily reached the beach in time to save his parcel from the flowing tide. The next destination was Portallow-green, where the piskies left our wondering traveller, who reached home, delivered his parcel of groceries, and received a compliment from the good wife for his dispatch. "You'd say so, if you only know'd where I've been," said he; "I've been wi' the piskies to Seaton-beach, and I've been to the king o' France's house, and all in five minutes." The farmer stared and expressed an opinion that the boy was mazed. "I thought you'd say I was mazed, so I brort (brought) away this mug to show vor et," he replied, producing the goblet. The farmer and his family examined it, wondered at it, and finished by giving a full belief to the boy's strange story. The goblet is unfortunately not now to be produced for the satisfaction of those who may still doubt; but we are assured that it remained the property of the lad's family for generations after.

The following extract from Monsieur Maimbourg's History of Arianism (translated in 1728 by the Rev. Wm. Webster, M. A., Curate of St. Dunstan's-in-the-West, and a copy of which work


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Bell, Hon. Sir Joshua Peter


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Belmore, Right Hon. Somerset Richard Lowry Corry, 4th Earl of


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Belstead, Charles Torrens


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Belstead, Francis


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Benjamin, Hon. Sir Benjamin


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Bennett, David


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Bennett, George


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Bennett, Samuel


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Bennett, William Christopher


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Bent, Hon. Thomas


text:
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 LONDON, SATURDAY, MAY

Notes.

Having pleasingly occupied my leisure in getting together all that is noteworthy respecting the past history and present condition of the place of my birth, I have thought that those chapters which treat of its folk lore might find an appropriate place in "N. & Q.," if abridged, and modified to suit its pages. Though the papers in another shape were read some time since before a provincial antiquarian society, they have never been published.

The place, whose popular antiquities are here to be recorded, is situated on the eminently romantic coast of the south-eastern part of Cornwall. The bold-bluff hills resting by the sea-line on a margin of craggy transition slate, alike attractive to the artist, and interesting to the geologist, have here, seemingly, suffered some disruption, and in the fissure is dropped the village, its houses resting on ledges in the hills, or skirting the inlets of the sea which forms its harbour. The inland country, for some distance, is a rapid succession of well-cultivated hill and "coomb," for that can scarcely be called valley which is but the acute junction of the bases of opposite hills. The population is part seafaring, part agricultural, and in reference to education as well off as such people generally are. In this quiet corner lurk many remnants of faded creeds, and ancient usages which have vanished from districts more subject to mutation with the circumstances which gave rise to them, as the side eddies of a stream retain those sticks and straws which the current would have swept off to the ocean. I begin with an account of our fairy mythology.

Though the piskies, in spite of the prognostications of the poets, have outlived the "grete charite and prayers" of the limitour, and the changes in politics and religion which took place when "Elizabeth and later James came in," it is scarcely to be expected that they will withstand that great exorcist, steam, when it shall make its appearance among us, and there is the greater need that "all the fairies' evidence" should be entrusted to your safe keeping.

The belief in the little folk is far from dead, though the people of the present generation hold it by a slighter tenure than their forefathers did, and are aware that piskies are now fair objects of ridicule, whatever they formerly were. One old woman in particular, to whose recital of some of the following tales I have listened in mute attention, was a firm believer in them; and I remember her pettish reply, when a young friend of mine ventured to hint a doubt: "What! not believe in 'em, when my poor mother had been pinched black and blue by 'em." The argument was conclusive, for we could not then see its fallacy, though we have since learnt that the poor soul in question had not the kindest of husbands.

This creed has received so many additions and modifications at one time, and has suffered so many abstractions at another, that it is impossible to make any arrangement of our fairies into classes.

are all now confounded under the generic name pisky. Some of the later interpolations are of a very obvious character, as will hereafter be pointed out. Our piskies are little beings standing midway between the purely spiritual, and the material, suffering a few at least of the ills incident to humanity. They have the power of making themselves seen, heard, and felt. They interest themselves in man's affairs, now doing him a good turn, and anon taking offence at a trifle, and leading him into all manner of mischief. The rude gratitude of the husbandman is construed into an insult, and the capricious sprites mislead him on the first opportunity, and laugh heartily at his misadventures. They are great enemies of sluttery, and great encouragers of good husbandry. When not singing and dancing, their chief nightly amusement is in riding the colts, and plaiting their manes, or tangling them with the seed-vessels of the burdock. Of a particular field in this neighbourhood it is reported that the farmer never puts his horses in it but he finds them in the morning in a state of great terror, panting, and covered with foam. Their form of government is monarchical, as frequent mention is made of the "king of the piskies." We have a few stories of pisky changelings, the only proof of whose parentage was, that "they didn't goodey" (thrive). It would seem that fairy children of some growth are occasionally entrusted to human care for a time, and recalled; and that mortals are now and then kidnapped, and carried off to fairy land; such, according to the nursery rhyme, was the end of Margery Daw:

A disposition to laughter is a striking trait in their character. I have been able to gather little about the personalities of these creatures. My old friend before mentioned used to describe them as about the height of a span, clad in green, and having straw hats, or little red caps on their heads. Two only are known by name, and I


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178 which sometimes hangs upon the brow of the little girl, might seem to be the shadowing forth of some vague apprehensions as to the nature of her future destiny. These trials, however, seldom arise out of unkindness or neglect in her childhood. The voice of humanity would be raised against such treatment; for what living creature is so helpless and inoffensive as a little girl? The voice of humanity, therefore, almost universally speaks kindly to her in early life. The father folds her tenderly in his arms, toils for her subsistence and comfort, and watches over her expanding beauty, that he may shield it from all blight. The mother's heart yearns fondly as she, too, watches with more intense anxiety, lest a shadow should fall, or a rude wind should blow, upon her opening flower. Thus, while the sons in a family may, perhaps, call forth more of the pride and the ambition of their parents, the daughters claim almost all the tenderness, and more than an equal portion of watchfulness and care.

And can the object of so much solicitude be otherwise than grateful? Oh, no. It may be more consonant with the nature and with the avocations of man, that he should go forth into the world forgetful of these things; but woman in the quiet brooding of her secret thoughts—can she forget, how, in the days of helpless infancy, she was accustomed toescape from the rude gaze, or harsh rebuke, to find a never-failing refuge on her father's knee; how every wish and want was whispered to her mother's ear, which never turned away; how all things appropriated to her use, were studiously made so safe, so easy, so suited to her taste—her couch of rest, her favourite meal, her fairy-world of toys—all these arranged according to her fancy, or her good; until, all helpless, and feeble, and dependant as she was, no fear could break the charm of her security, nor sorrow, save what originated

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text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Beor, Hon. Henry Rogers


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Berkeley, Hon. Henry Spencer Hardtman


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Bernays, Lewis Adolphus


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Berry, David


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Berry, Hon. Sir Graham


text: Notes and Queries/Series 1/Volume 11/The Folk Lore of a Cornish Village (pp. 397–398)


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Berry, Hon. John


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Page:Annotated Edition of the Authorised Daily Prayer Book.djvu/171

Rh guilty]). The worshipper in prayer rests his whole heart on God's mercy, and, indeed, the instinct to put out of sight the thought of retribution is a natural one. Nor is there any limit to God's forgiveness. There are no bounds to his loving-kindness, for though, in the words of Ps. cxlv. 20, the wicked are subject to the divine displeasure, yet as the ninth verse of the same Psalm assures us: The Lord is good unto all, and his tender mercies are over all his works. Lord of the Universe, fulfil the wishes of my heart for good. This prayer appears for the first time in the work above named, the Shaare Zion of Nathan Hannover, the first edition of which was printed in Prag in 1662. But the prayer, it has been urged, originated in a French-speaking country (Berliner, Randbemerkungen, i. p. 65). For towards the close occurs (P.B. p. 145) the petition: Guard us... from evil hours (מִשְּׁעוֺת רָעוֺת) that visit and afflict this world. This phrase, evil hour, it has been suggested, is the translation of the French malheure which, literally meaning evil hour, came to express the idea of unhappiness or misfortune. This phrase is also found in the prayer on P.B. p. 67 (also repeated on p. 146)—a prayer which is a good deal older than the seventeenth century (see note on P.B. p. 67). The phrase evil hours is in fact derived from the Palestinian Talmud (Ber. v.§I) where it occurs in a prayer of Abahu. Nevertheless the prayer before us first appears in the work of Nathan (Nata) ben Moses Hannover. He was a sufferer from the Cossack raids under Chmielnicki in 1648 that terrible experience which left so dark a mark on Jewish life, and the history of which Nathan wrote (Yeven Meṣulah, Venice, 1653). This work "certainly places Hannover among the best historians of the seventeenth century." After his escape from Russia, he settled for a time in Venice where he studied the Kabbala. His work Shaare Zion is a "collection of mystical prayers, religious customs, and ascetic reflections; it was chiefly taken from Kabbalistic works, and was very popular among the Eastern Jews" (M. Seligsohn,


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Best, Robert Wallace


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Beveridge, Peter


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Bews, Hon. David


text: Index:The Pathfinder of the Seas.djvu

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text:
Author:Peter Beveridge

Works

 * The Aborigines of Victoria and Riverina (1889)

title: Author:Peter Beveridge


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Bickerton, Alexander William


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title: Page:The Pathfinder of the Seas.djvu/9


text: Page:The Pathfinder of the Seas.djvu/10

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text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Bindon, Hon. Samuel Henry


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Bird, Hon. Bolton Stafford


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Birnie, Richard


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Black, Alexander


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Rh in her own bosom, could cast a shadow over the fire-side pleasures of her sunny home.

"No; woman is not—cannot be ungrateful," exclaim a thousand sweet voices at once! Gratitude forms a part of her nature, and without it she would be unworthy of a name amongst her sex! I freely grant that gratitude is a part of her nature, because there can be no generous or noble character, where gratitude is wanting. But I am not so sure that it is always directed to proper objects.

Young women are almost always grateful for the notice of ladies of distinction; they are grateful for being taken out in carriages, when they have none at home; they are grateful for presents of ornaments, or articles of fashionable clothing which they cannot afford to buy; they are grateful for being invited out to pleasant parties; and, indeed, for what may they not be said to be grateful—extremely grateful; but especially so, for acts of kindness from strangers, or from persons occupying a higher station than themselves.

There is a familiar saying, that charity begins at home; and if by home is meant the circle immediately surrounding ourselves, surely gratitude ought also most especially to begin at home, and for this simple reason—strangers may know, or imagine us to have great merits; but with our demerits, or perhaps I ought rather to say, with that part of our character which comes under the head of disagreeableness, they must necessarily be unacquainted, because no one chooses to be disagreeable to strangers. Against them, too, we have never offended, either by word or act, so that they can have nothing to forgive. But it is not so at home. All our evil tempers and dispositions have been exhibited there, and consequently the kindness received at home is the more generous. There is no one member of the family circle against whom we have not, at one time or another, offended, and consequently we owe them a double share of gratitude,

title: Page:The Daughters of England.djvu/190


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Black, Maurice Hume


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Page:A colonial autocracy, New South Wales under Governor Macquarie, 1810-1821.djvu/196

 that could be done was to hold an investigation into any charge brought against a ship's master or crew—a purely magisterial inquiry which was only effective if followed by committal and then the trial of the accused in England.

The case of Theodore Walker illustrates many of the evils of the South Sea trade, and shows how incurable they were while the scope of the colonial courts was so restricted.

Early in 1813 a small vessel, the Daphne, was trading in the South Sea Islands. At Otaheite the master added to his crew by carrying off four or five natives. These natives, joining with some coloured men of the ship's company, mutinied, killed the master, took possession of the vessel, and either killed the remainder of the crew or put them ashore without food or water on adjacent islands. Some of them, however, survived, and spread the story of the mutiny. The death of the master, said Macquarie, though lawless, was no more than fitting retribution, for he had been guilty of the most wanton and vicious crimes. On one occasion some friendly natives came on board his ship to trade with him, and looked with the greatest respect and curiosity at all it contained. The captain, wishing to get quickly away, ordered the crew to clear the visitors from the ship, and they were flogged and beaten off. Their canoes had meanwhile been swamped, and the natives, unable to get to them, were drowned in full view of the Daphne as she stood off to sea. The savagery to which her captain afterwards fell a victim could scarcely equal the cold cruelty of this episode.

The crime of mutiny did not go unavenged. A short time afterwards, when the Daphne was in the Bay of Islands, the brig Endeavour, Theodore Walker, master, came into harbour there. Walker at once attacked the mutineers, and after some shots had been exchanged the firing from the Daphne ceased, and word was brought that her crew had abandoned her. Walker boarded the ship immediately and ordered a search. One man, a Lascar, who had been one of the leaders of the mutiny, was found in hiding. Walker ordered him to be taken on board the Endeavour and hanged him at the yard-arm. Henry, one of the missionary magistrates, reported these events to Macquarie, November, 1813, and the story was known when Walker reached Sydney. The Governor ordered the magistrates to


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 hold an inquiry into the death of the Lascar, as a result of which Walker was committed to gaol until future proceedings might be decided upon. The evidence was sufficient to support a charge of murder, and, on the advice of the Judge-Advocate, Walker was admitted to bail, and the matter referred to the Secretary of State.

Lord Bathurst consulted the Home Office and the Law Officers, and in July, 1815, instructed Macquarie to send Walker and the necessary witnesses to England in order that he might be tried at the Admiralty Sessions under a special Commission.

It was not easy for the Governor, when he received these instructions at the end of 1815, to get together the witnesses who had been examined by the magistrates in 1813, nor could they be compelled to go to England. In the end he sent Walker home with as many witnesses as he could. Nothing further appears of the case in any Colonial Office Documents. It seems that Walker was never tried, and the only result of Macquarie's labours was the ineffective Act of 57 Geo. III., cap. 53.

By this Act "murders and manslaughters committed on land at the settlement of Honduras by any person within the settlement, or committed on the islands of New Zealand or Otaheite or within any other islands or places not within the British dominions, nor subject to any European state or power, nor within the territory of the United States of America, or any person sailing in or belonging to a British ship, or who had sailed in or belonged to and had quitted any British ship to live in any such island or place, might be tried and punished in any


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 Tentative Model of the Maury Monument Soon to be erected in Richmond, Virginia. The monument will be 28 feet high; diameter of globe, 9 feet; height of Maury, 7 feet (l3^ life size); figures of group, life size. Through the efforts of the Matthew Fontaine Maury Association a sum of over $60,000 was raised for this beautiful memo- rial. Sculptor F. William Sievers. See page 251.

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Page:The White Peacock, Lawrence, 1911.djvu/331

Rh They came to the kennels. She sat down on the edge of the great stone water trough, and put her hands in the water, moving them gently like submerged flowers through the clear pool.

“I love to see myself in the water,” she said, “I don’t mean on the water, Narcissus—but that’s how I should like to be out west, to have a little lake of my own, and swim with my limbs quite free in the water.”

“Do you swim well?” he asked.

“Fairly.”

“I would race you—in your little lake.”

She laughed, took her hands out of the water, and watched the clear drops trickle off. Then she lifted her head suddenly, at some thought or other. She looked across the valley, and saw the red roofs of the Mill. “What’s that?” he said.

“Nothing.”

“That’s a private trough,” exclaimed a thin voice, high like a peewit’s cry. We started in surprise to see a tall, black-bearded man looking at us and away from us nervously, fidgeting uneasily some ten yards off.

“Is it?” said Lettie, looking at her wet hands, which she proceeded to dry on a fragment of a handkerchief.

“You mustn’t meddle with it,” said the man, in the same reedy, oboe voice. Then he turned his head


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180 for having kindly overlooked the past, and for receiving us as cordially to their favour as if we had never cost them an uneasy thought. It is nothing in comparison, to win the good-will of strangers. The bare thought of how soon that good-will might be withdrawn, did they know us better, is sufficient of itself to pain a generous mind. But it is much to continue daily and hourly to receive the kind attentions, the forbearance and the love of those who know our meanest faults, who see us as we really are, who have borne with us in all our different moods for months and years, whom our unkindness could not estrange, whom our indifference could not alienate, whom our unworthiness could not repel—it is, indeed, much to be still followed by their affection, to be protected by their anxious care, and to be supported by their unremitting industry and toil. Yes, and there may come a day when the young in their turn will feel

when they will see the smile of gratitude which ought to be their own, worn only for strangers, they will think then of the days of unmurmuring labour—the nights of untiring watchfulness—the ages of thought and feeling they have lived through, and would willingly experience again—the suffering and the shame they would endure if that were necessary, for the sake of the beloved of their souls; and they will wonder—for to blame, they will scarce know how—why nature should have left the heart of their child so void, that for all they have so lavishly bestowed they should receive nothing in return.

If gratitude were looked upon more than it is, as a distinct duty—a debt to be discharged without involving any other payment, I am inclined to think its claims would be more frequently attended to, than they now are. But few young

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324 away, and his pale grey eyes roved the countryside—when he had courage, he turned his back to us, shading his eyes to continue his scrutiny. He walked hurriedly, a few steps, then craned his neck, peering into the valley, and hastened a dozen yards in another direction, again stretching and peering about. Then he went indoors.

“He is pretending to look for somebody,” said Lettie, “but it’s only because he’s afraid we shall think he came out just to look at us”—and they laughed.

Suddenly a woman appeared at the gate; she had pale eyes like the mouse-voiced man.

“You’ll get Bright’s disease sitting on that there damp stone,” she said to Lettie, who at once rose apologetically.

“I ought to know,” continued the mouse-voiced woman, “my own mother died of it.”

“Indeed,” murmured Lettie, “I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” continued the woman, “it behooves you to be careful. Do you come from Strelley Mill Farm?” she asked suddenly of George, surveying his shameful déshabille with bitter reproof.

He admitted the imputation.

“And you’re going to leave, aren’t you?”

Which also he admitted.

“Humph!—we s’ll ’appen get some neighbours. It’s a dog’s life for loneliness. I suppose you knew the last lot that was here.”

Another brief admission.

“A dirty lot—a dirty beagle she must have been. You should just ha’ seen these grates.”

“Yes,” said Lettie, “I have seen them.”


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Rh persons are in the habit of sufficiently separating gratitude from admiration, and thus they hold themselves above being grateful in due proportion, to the aged, the unenlightened, or the insignificant; because they do not often feel disposed to offer to such persons the tribute of their praise. Perhaps they are a little ashamed to have owed anything to so inferior a source; while, on the other hand, they are but too proud to acknowledge that they are deeply indebted to those whom they admire.

Now, it is against such encroachments of vanity and selfishness, that the amiable and the high-principled are perpetually on their guard. That gratitude will not grow up with us without culture, is sufficiently evident from the indifference with which all young children treat the donors of their little gifts; receiving them rather as their right, than as a favour. It is, therefore, an excellent habit, for young people, to bear perpetually in mind a sort of memorial, or catalogue, of the names of those by whom every article of their own personal property was given, so that even the most insignificant individual to whom they have been thus indebted, may not be forgotten.

"I am naturally," says a celebrated German writer, "as little inclined to gratitude as any one; and it would even be easy for the lively sense of a present dissatisfaction to lead me first to forget a benefit, and next to ingratitude. In order to avoid falling into this error, I early accustomed myself to take pleasure in reckoning up all I possessed, and ascertaining by whose means I acquired it. I think on the persons to whom I am indebted for the different articles in my collections; I reflect on the circumstances, chances, and most remote causes, owing to which I have obtained the various things I prize, in order to pay my tribute of gratitude to whomsoever it is owing. All that surrounds me is thus animated in my sight, and

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182 connected with affectionate remembrances. It is with still greater pleasure that I dwell on the objects, the possession of which does not fall within the dominion of the senses; such as the sentiments I have imbibed, and the instruction I have received. Thus my present existence is exalted and enriched by the memory of the past; my imagination recalls to my heart the authors of the good I enjoy; a sweet reminiscence attends the recollection, and I am rendered incapable of ingratitude."

How beautiful is the simplicity of this confession, from one whose mind was capacious beyond the ordinary extent of man's understanding, and to whose genius the literary and the distinguished of all nations were proud to offer the tribute of their praise. How completely does this passage prove to us, that he who knew so many of the secrets of human nature, knew also that it is not possible to begin too humbly with the exercise of gratitude. The nurse who bore the burden of our childhood, the old servant fallen into poverty and want, the neighbouring cottager who used to let us share her orchard's scanty produce, the poor relations who took us to their lowly home when rich ones were less kind, the maiden aunt who patiently instructed us in all her curious arts, the bachelor uncle who kindly permitted us to derange the order of his house, above all, the venerable grandfather, and his aged helpmate, who used to tell us of the good old ways, and warn us against breaking down the ancient landmarks—all these are pleasant household memories, which ought to cling about the heart until they grow into our very being, and become identified with the elements of thought, and feeling, which constitute our life. There is in fact a species of cruelty, as well as injustice, in disentangling the memory from these early associations. To have received our very nature, our principles, the bias of our sentiments, all that which is understood by

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Rh “Faugh—the state! But come in—come in, you’ll see a difference.”

They entered, out of curiosity.

The kitchen was indeed different. It was clean and sparkling, warm with bright red chintzes on the sofa and on every chair cushion. Unfortunately the effect was spoiled by green and yellow antimaccassars, and by a profusion of paper and woollen flowers. There were three cases of woollen flowers, and on the wall, four fans stitched over with ruffled green and yellow paper, adorned with yellow paper roses, carnations, arum lilies, and poppies; there were also wall pockets full of paper flowers; while the wood outside was loaded with blossom.

“Yes,” said Lettie, “there is a difference.”

The woman swelled, and looked round. The black-bearded man peeped from behind the Christian Herald—those long blaring trumpets!—and shrank again. The woman darted at his pipe, which he had put on a piece of newspaper on the hob, and blew some imaginary ash from it. Then she caught sight of something—perhaps some dust—on the fireplace.

“There!” she cried, “I knew it; I couldn’t leave him one second! I haven’t work enough burning wood, but he must be poke——poke——”

“I only pushed a piece in between the bars,” complained the mouse-voice from behind the paper.

“Pushed a piece in!” she re-echoed, with awful scorn, seizing the poker and thrusting it over his paper. “What do you call that, sitting there telling your stories before folks——”

They crept out and hurried away. Glancing round, Lettie saw the woman mopping the doorstep


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326 after them, and she laughed. He pulled his watch out of his breeches’ pocket; it was half-past three.

“What are you looking at the time for?” she asked.

“Meg’s coming to tea,” he replied.

She said no more, and they walked slowly on.

When they came on to the shoulder of the hill, and looked down on to the mill, and the mill-pond, she said:

“I will not come down with you—I will go home.”

“Not come down to tea!” he exclaimed, full of reproach and amazement. “Why, what will they say?”

“No, I won’t come down—let me say farewell—’jamque Vale! Do you remember how Eurydice sank back into Hell?”

“But”—he stammered, “you must come down to tea—how can I tell them? Why won’t you come?”

She answered him in Latin, with two lines from Virgil. As she watched him, she pitied his helplessness, and gave him a last cut as she said, very softly and tenderly:

“It wouldn’t be fair to Meg.”

He stood looking at her; his face was coloured only by the grey-brown tan; his eyes, the dark, self-mistrustful eyes of the family, were darker than ever, dilated with misery of helplessness; and she was infinitely pitiful. She wanted to cry in her yearning.

“Shall we go into the wood for a few minutes?” she said, in a low, tremulous voice, as they turned aside.


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Cadell, Francis


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Rh The wood was high and warm. Along the ridings the forget-me-nots were knee deep, stretching, glimmering into the distance like the Milky Way through the night. They left the tall, flower-tangled paths to go in among the bluebells, breaking through the close-pressed flowers and ferns till they came to an oak which had fallen across the hazels, where they sat half screened. The hyacinths drooped magnificently with an overweight of purple, or they stood pale and erect, like unripe ears of purple corn. Heavy bees swung down in a blunder of extravagance among the purple flowers. They were intoxicated even with the sight of so much blue. The sound of their hearty, wanton humming came clear upon the solemn boom of the wind overhead. The sight of their clinging, clambering riot gave satisfaction to the soul. A rosy campion flower caught the sun and shone out. An elm sent down a shower of flesh-tinted sheaths upon them.

“If there were fauns and hamadryads!” she said softly, turning to him to soothe his misery. She took his cap from his head, ruffled his hair, saying:

“If you were a faun, I would put guelder roses round your hair, and make you look Bacchanalian.” She left her hand lying on his knee, and looked up at the sky. Its blue looked pale and green in comparison with the purple tide ebbing about the wood. The clouds rose up like towers, and something had touched them into beauty, and poised them up among the winds. The clouds passed on, and the pool of sky was clear.

“Look,” she said, “how we are netted down—boughs with knots of green buds. If we were free


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Cadman, Hon. Alfred Jerome


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Caffyn, Stephen Mannington


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Cairns, Rev. Adam


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328 on the winds!—But I’m glad we’re not.” She turned suddenly to him, and with the same movement, she gave him her hand, and he clasped it in both his. “I’m glad we’re netted down here; if we were free in the winds—Ah!”

She laughed a peculiar little laugh, catching her breath.

“Look!” she said, “it’s a palace, with the ash-trunks smooth like a girl’s arm, and the elm-columns, ribbed and bossed and fretted, with the great steel shafts of beech, all rising up to hold an embroidered care-cloth over us; and every thread of the care-cloth vibrates with music for us, and the little broidered birds sing; and the hazel-bushes fling green spray round us, and the honeysuckle leans down to pour out scent over us. Look at the harvest of bluebells—ripened for us! Listen to the bee, sounding among all the organ-play—if he sounded exultant for us!” She looked at him, with tears coming up into her eyes, and a little, winsome, wistful smile hovering round her mouth. He was very pale, and dared not look at her. She put her hand in his, leaning softly against him. He watched, as if fascinated, a young thrush with full pale breast who hopped near to look at them—glancing with quick, shining eyes.

“The clouds are going on again,” said Lettie.

“Look at that cloud face—see—gazing right up into the sky. The lips are opening—he is telling us something.—now the form is slipping away—it’s gone—come, we must go too.”

“No,” he cried, “don’t go—don’t go away.”

Her tenderness made her calm. She replied in


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Rh a voice perfect in restrained sadness and resignation.

“No, my dear, no. The threads of my life were untwined; they drifted about like floating threads of gossamer; and you didn’t put out your hand to take them and twist them up into the chord with yours. Now another has caught them up, and the chord of my life is being twisted, and I cannot wrench it free and untwine it again—I can’t. I am not strong enough. Besides, you have twisted another thread far and tight into your chord; could you get free?”

“Tell me what to do—yes, if you tell me.”

“I can’t tell you—so let me go.”

“No, Lettie,” he pleaded, with terror and humility. “No, Lettie; don’t go. What should I do with my life? Nobody would love you like I do—and what should I do with my love for you?—hate it and fear it, because it’s too much for me?”

She turned and kissed him gratefully. He then took her in a long, passionate embrace, mouth to mouth. In the end it had so wearied her, that she could only wait in his arms till he was too tired to hold her. He was trembling already.

“Poor Meg!” she murmured to herself dully, her sensations having become vague.

He winced, and the pressure of his arms slackened. She loosened his hands, and rose half dazed from her seat by him. She left him, while he sat dejected, raising no protest.

When I went out to look for them, when tea had already been waiting on the table half an hour or more, I found him leaning against the gatepost at


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330 the bottom of the hill. There was no blood in his face, and his tan showed livid; he was haggard as if he had been ill for some weeks.

“Whatever’s the matter?” I said. “Where’s Lettie?”

“She’s gone home,” he answered, and the sound of his own voice, and the meaning of his own words made him heave.

“Why?” I asked in alarm.

He looked at me as if to say “What are you talking about? I cannot listen!”

“Why?” I insisted.

“I don’t know,” he replied.

“They are waiting tea for you,” I said.

He heard me, but took no notice.

“Come on,” I repeated, “there’s Meg and everybody waiting tea for you.”

“I don’t want any,” he said.

I waited a minute or two. He was violently sick.

I thought to myself.

When the sickness passed over, he stood up away from the post, trembling, and lugubrious. His eyelids drooped heavily over his eyes, and he looked at me, and smiled a faint, sick smile.

“Come and lie down in the loft.” I said, “and I’ll tell them you’ve got a bilious bout.”

He obeyed me, not having energy to question; his strength had gone, and his splendid physique seemed shrunken; he walked weakly. I looked away from him, for in his feebleness he was already beginning to feel ludicrous.


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Rh We got into the barn unperceived, and I watched him climb the ladder to the loft. Then I went indoors to tell them.

I told them Lettie had promised to be at Highclose for tea, that George had a bilious attack, and was mooning about the barn till it was over; he had been badly sick. We ate tea without zest or enjoyment. Meg was wistful and ill at ease; the father talked to her and made much of her; the mother did not care for her much.

“I can’t understand it,” said the mother, “he so rarely has anything the matter with him—why, I’ve hardly known the day! Are you sure it’s nothing serious, Cyril? It seems such a thing—and just when Meg happened to be down—just when Meg was coming!”

About half-past six I had again to go and look for him, to satisfy the anxiety of his mother and his sweetheart. I went whistling to let him know I was coming. He lay on a pile of hay in a corner, asleep. He had put his cap under his head to stop the tickling of the hay, and he lay half curled up, sleeping soundly. He was still very pale, and there was on his face the repose and pathos that a sorrow always leaves. As he wore no coat I was afraid he might be chilly, so I covered him up with a couple of sacks, and I left him. I would not have him disturbed—I helped the father about the cowsheds, and with the pigs.

Meg had to go at half-past seven. She was so disappointed that I said:

“Come and have a look at him—I’ll tell him you did.”


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332 He had thrown off the sacks, and spread out his limbs. As he lay on his back, flung out on the hay, he looked big again, and manly. His mouth had relaxed, and taken its old, easy lines. One felt for him now the warmth one feels for anyone who sleeps in an attitude of abandon. She leaned over him, and looked at him with a little rapture of love and tenderness; she longed to caress him. Then he stretched himself, and his eyes opened. Their sudden unclosing gave her a thrill. He smiled sleepily, and murmured, “Allo, Meg!” Then I saw him awake. As he remembered, he turned with a great sighing yawn, hid his face again, and lay still.

“Come along, Meg,” I whispered, “he’ll be best asleep.”

“I’d better cover him up,” she said, taking the sack and laying it very gently over his shoulders. He kept perfectly still, while I drew her away.


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Rh distinctiveness of character, from the hands of these old friends, and not to look back and acknowledge it with thankfulness, though the casual notice of a passing stranger furnishes food for gratitude—the fact is scarcely to be thought of, still less believed; and we look to the daughters of England to show us that they know better how to bestow their gratitude.

When the nature of gratitude is considered in its proper light, as a debt which we have contracted, and which consequently must be discharged, we see at once that the merit or demerit of the individual to whom we owe this debt, has nothing whatever to do with our payment of it. A generous mind would perhaps feel more bound to discharge it to an unworthy object, simply because where respect or love was wanting, grateful feeling would be all that could with propriety be offered. But, as in all such cases, the debt, though just, must still be painful and humiliating, it is of the utmost importance, both to young and old, that they should be careful never to be the willing recipients of obligations from persons whom they neither love nor esteem. The young need great watchfulness in this respect, and sometimes, from their over-willingness to incur obligations, involve themselves in connections and associations highly disadvantageous.

It is an excellent plan for young women, always to put this question to themselves before they accept an offered kindness. "Is the person who offers it, one whom I should like to feel indebted to? or am I prepared to make all the return of gratitude to that person, which would, under similar circumstances, be due to the most praiseworthy and distinguished individual of my acquaintance?" If the answer be in the negative, nothing but a meanness of spirit, of which I cannot believe the daughters of England to be

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184 capable, could lead to the acceptance of such an obligation.

In this, therefore, as well as in all other cases, it is of the utmost importance that gratitude should be considered as a distinct feeling, in no way involving any other. It sometimes happens, however, and especially during the present rapid march of intellect, that the junior members of a family are far in advance of their parents in the cultivation of their intellectual powers, and this difference occasionally leads to a want of respect towards the heads of the family, which is alike distressing and disgraceful. On the other hand, there are young women—and happy would it be for our nation, if all the daughters of England were such—who, remembering that their parents, however humble and unenlightened, are their parents still; that by their self-denial, and their toil, and as the highest proof of their regard, they have received the education which makes them so much to differ, make it their constant study to offer to them tokens of respect and regard of such a nature as not to draw forth their intellectual deficiences, but to place them on the higher ground of moral excellence. How beautiful, how touching is the solicitude of such young persons, to guard the venerated brow from shame; and to sacrifice even something of the display of their own endowments, rather than outshine those, who, with all their deficiences, still were the oracles of their infant years; and who unquestionably did more during the season of childhood, towards the formation of their real character, than has since been done by the merely intellectual discipline of schools. Yes, we may owe our grammar, our geography, our music, and our painting, to what are called the instructors of our youth; but the seeds of moral character are sown by those who surround us in infancy; and how much soever we may despise the hand by which that seed is scattered, the bias of

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Rh our moral being is derived from that agent more than from any other.

How just then, and how true is that development of youthful gratitude which looks back to these early days, and seeks to return into the bosom of parental love, the treasures of that harvest which parental love has sown!

And it is meet that youth should do this—youth, whose very nature it is to be redundant with the rills of life, and fruitful in joy, and redolent in bloom, from the perpetual flowing forth of its own glad waters—youth, which is so rich in all that gladdens, and exhilarates; how can it be penurious and niggardly in giving out? No, nature has been so munificent to youth, it cannot yet have learned the art of grudging; and gratitude, the most liberal, the most blessed of all human feelings, was first required of us as a debt, that we might go on paying according to our measure, through all the different stages of existence; and though we may never have had money or rich gifts, the poorest amongst us has been able to pay in kindness, and sometimes in love.

In the cultivation and exercise of the benevolent feelings of our nature, there is this beautiful feature to be observed in the order of divine providence—that expenditure never exhausts. Thus the indulgence of gratitude, and the bestowment of affection, instead of impoverishing, render more rich the fountain whence both are derived; while, on the other hand, the habit of withholding our generous affections, produces the certain effect of checking their growth, and diminishing the spontaneous effusion of kindness.

The habit of encouraging feelings of gratitude towards our fellow-creatures, of recalling their friendly and benevolent offices towards ourselves, of thinking what would have been our situation without them, and, in short, of reckoning up the items of the great debt we all have incurred,

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Page:A colonial autocracy, New South Wales under Governor Macquarie, 1810-1821.djvu/198

 part of the dominions of the Crown under the Act". But the scope of the Act was restricted and no Commission issued for the trial of such offences nearer than Ceylon. Bigge reported that it might be efficacious if extended so as to cover all offences committed by British subjects on the high seas, and if a Commission were issued for their trial in New South Wales. But up to 1822, at any rate, the Act had never been enforced.

There was, however, in the transportation of the convicts, a whole chapter of events taking place on the high seas which had a peculiarly strong interest for New South Wales. It was practically impossible between the Colonial Government, with its limited jurisdiction, and the Home Government, so remote from the point of disembarkation, to enforce efficient safeguards for the good treatment of the convicts. The statistics in themselves suggest that, due consideration being had to the sentiments and appliances of the period, the service was not badly carried out. From 1810 to the end of 1819, 18,761 convicts were despatched to Sydney, and only 236 died on the voyage. But now and again this favourable picture was obliterated, and in the light of judicial inquiry horrors such as those on board the Chapman, or hideous depravity such as that on the Friendship, took its place. These inquiries made only too clear the helplessness of the Government adequately to punish or prevent.

Between 1810 and 1820 many improvements were made in the organisation of the transport service. In 1812 it was carried out by a Transport Board under the orders of the Treasury and Home Office. The Treasury sent an order to the Board to take up vessels which were engaged through the underwriters at so much a ton for the voyage. Provisions were supplied for the convicts for the voyage and for nine months after their arrival by the Victualling Board. The convicts and their services were assigned to the master of the ship, who had


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Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Hurons

HURONS, a once powerful tribe of American Indians, belonging to the Huron-Iroquois family. In the early part of the 17th century the Hurons numbered about 30,000 persons, living in 25 villages within a small territory near Georgian Bay. By the end of the century the tribe had been nearly destroyed by the Iroquois, famine, and disease; and in 1693 the few survivors were removed by the French to Jeune Lorette,

near Quebec. Here 200 or 300 descendants still live.


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Index talk:Notes and Queries - Series 1 - Volume 11.djvu

Just a note that Notes and Queries/Series 1/Volume 11/The Folk Lore of a Cornish Village (pp. 397–398) has already been created for when someone gets around to proofing & making the other articles. Xensyria (talk) 15:11, 17 July 2012 (UTC)


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212 tanned almost white, and his history was painted on the surface. Whoever ran might read, for it represented only two scenes, oft repeated—the killing and scalping of warriors and the capture of ponies.

The general's patience with Indians always surprised me. He was of such an active temperament and despatched his own work so rapidly that I have often wondered how he contained himself waiting an hour or more for them to get at the object of their visit. They took their places according to rank in a semicircle about the general. The pipe was filled and a match lighted by one of their number of inferior grade, and then handed to Iron Horse, who took a few leisurely whiffs. Though we were so shut in, the smoke was not oppressive. Their tobacco is killikinick, prepared by drying the bark of the ozier and mixing it with sumach. They inhale the smoke and exhale it from their nostrils. After all in the first circle had smoked a little, the general included, they observed the Indian etiquette and passed the pipe back through each warrior's hand to the chief. It was then relighted, and he began again. It seemed to us that it went back and forth an endless number of times. No matter how pressing the emergency, every council begins in this manner.

Iron Horse tired us out, but he was collecting himself and rehearsing his speech. We found afterwards that it was prepared in advance, for during its recital he forgot, and was prompted by one of the Indians in the outer circle.

When the pipe was finally put away, they asked to have Rain-in-the-face present. He came into the room,

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Note to whoever gets around to proofing & making the articles for this volume: Notes and Queries/Series 2/Volume 11/Doldrum, King of the Cats has already been made. If you would rather organise it as part of a larger subsection, or rename it to something like /Volume 11/Folk-Lore/Doldrum, King of the Cats or whatnot, then please also make the same corrections to Notes and Queries/Series 1/Volume 6/Northumberland Tradition and Notes and Queries/Series 2/Volume 10/Dildrum, King of the Cats. Thanks Xensyria (talk) 15:19, 17 July 2012 (UTC)


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Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Hurst, Fannie

HURST, FANNIE, an American writer; born in St. Louis, in 1889. She graduated from Washington University in 1909 and carried on post-graduate studies at Columbia. She made a special study of the stage and shop girl and other women workers, and her stories of life in these circles won her quick and wide reputation. Her published writings include: “Just Around the Corner” (1914); “Gaslight Sonatas” (1916). She also wrote several plays, including “The Land of the Free” (1917); “The Good Provider” (1917). She contributed much to magazines.


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Rh trying to hide his pleasure at seeing his friends and his grief at his imprisonment. In an instant the imperturbable expression settled down on his face like a curtain. The officers present could scarcely believe their eyes when they saw his brother approach and kiss him. Only once before, among all the tribes they had been with, had they seen such an occurrence. The Indian kiss is not demonstrative; the lips are laid softly on the cheek, and no sound is heard or motion made. It was only this grave occasion that induced the chief to show such feeling. Several of the ranking Indians followed his example; then an old man among them stepped in front of Rain-in-the-face, lifted his hands, and raising his eyes reverentially said a few words of prayer to the Great Spirit in behalf of their unfortunate brother. The prisoner dropped his head to hide the look in his eyes that he thought ill became a warrior as brave as he really was. The bitter, revengeful thoughts with which I had entered the room were for a moment forgotten, and I almost wished that he might be pardoned. The vision of the hearth-stones he had desolated came back to me directly, and I could not forget.

Iron Horse began his speech in the usual high-pitched, unchangeable key. He thanked the general for his care of his brother, and the whole tenor of the rest was repeated petitions to ask the Great Father in Washington to spare his life. He then slowly took off his elaborate buckskin shirt and presented it to my husband. He ended by making a singular request, which was worthy of Damon and Pythias: two shy young braves in the outer circle of the untitled asked permission through

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Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Hurst, John Fletcher

HURST, JOHN FLETCHER, an American Methodist clergyman; born near Salem, Md., Aug. 17, 1834. He studied theology in Halle and Heidelberg, Germany, and became bishop in the Methodist Episcopal Church in 1880, and chancellor of the American University in 1891. He wrote: “Literature of Theology”; “History of Rationalism”; “Martyrs to the Tract Cause”; “Life and Literature in the Fatherland”; “Outline of Church History”; “Bibliotheca Theologica”; “Short History of the Christian Church”; “Indika”; “History of the Christian Church” (1897); etc. He died in Washington, May 4, 1903.


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214 their chief to share the captivity of Rain-in-the-face. I could not help recalling what some one had told me in the East, that women sometimes go to the State prison at Sing Sing and importune to be allowed to share the imprisonment of their husbands or brothers; but no instance is found in the history of that great institution where a man has asked to divide with a friend or relative the sufferings of his sentence.

Consent was given to the comrades to return to the guard-house, but they were required to remain in confinement as he did until they were ready to return to the reservation. After all the ranking Indians had followed Iron Horse in speeches, with long, maundering, slowly-delivered sentences, each like the other, the pipe was again produced. When it was smoked, the whole band filed out to eat the presents of food the general had given them, and soon afterwards disappeared down the valley on their way home.

After his two friends had left him, Rain-in-the-face occupied a part of the guard-house with a citizen who had been caught stealing grain from the storehouse. For several months they had been chained together, and used to walk in front of the little prison for exercise and air. The guard-house was a poorly-built, insecure wooden building. After a time the sentinels became less vigilant, and the citizen, with help from his friends outside, who were working in the same way, cut a hole in the wall at night and escaped. He broke the chain attaching him to the Indian, who was left free to follow. We found afterwards that Rain-in-the-face did not dare to return to the reservation, but made his way to the

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Rh hostile camp. In the spring of 1874 he sent word from there by an Agency Indian that he had joined Sitting Bull, and was awaiting his revenge for his imprisonment.

As will be seen further on, the stained waters of the Little Big Horn, on June 25, 1876, told how deadly and fatal that was. The vengeance of that incarnate fiend was concentrated on the man who had effected his capture. It was found on the battle-field that he had cut out the brave heart of that gallant, loyal, and lovable man, our brother Tom.

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Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Hurt

HURT, or HEURT, in heraldry, an azure or blue rondle; supposed by some to represent a hurt or wound, by others the hurtle-berry, whence the name is derived.

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Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Husbandry, Patrons of

HUSBANDRY, PATRONS OF, a combination, society, or association of farmers for the promotion of the interests of agriculture, by abolishing the restraints and burdens imposed on it by railway and other companies, and by getting rid of the systems of middlemen or agents between the producer and consumer. It was founded just after the Civil War, reputedly by O. H. Kelley, of Boston, Mass., and was especially designed to redress the grievances of the farmers in the West. The popular name of its members is Grangers.


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Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Huso

HUSO, Acipenser huso, the Beluga or isinglass sturgeon. It is sometimes 12 or 15 feet long, and weighs 1,200 pounds. One mentioned by Cuvier reached 3,000 pounds. It inhabits the great rivers falling into the Black and Caspian seas. The best isinglass is made from its air-bladder.

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186 in infancy and youth, has a most beneficial effect upon the mind, in the bias it gives towards the feeling and expression of gratitude in general, not only as confined to the intercourse of social life, or the interchange of kindness amongst our fellow-creatures; but with regard to the higher obligations of gratitude, which every child of sin and sorrow must feel, on being admitted to participation in the promises of the gospel, and the glorious hopes which the gospel was sent to inspire.

I have said, that women, above all created beings, have cause for gratitude. Deprived of the benefits of the Christian dispensation, woman has ever been, and will be ever the most abject, and the most degraded of creatures, oppressed in proportion to her weakness, and miserable in proportion to her capability of suffering. Yet, under the Christian dispensation, she who was the first in sin, is raised to an equality with man, and made his fellow-heir in the blessings of eternal life. Nor is this all, A dispensation which had permitted her merely to creep, and grovel through this life, so as to purchase by her patient sufferings a title to the next, would have been unworthy of that law of love by which pardon was offered to a guilty world. In accordance with the ineffable beneficence of this law, woman was therefore raised to a moral, as well as a spiritual equality with man; and from being first his tempter, and then his slave, she has become his helpmate, his counsellor, his friend, the object of his most affectionate solicitude, the sharer of his dignity, and the partaker in his highest enjoyments.

When we compare the situation of woman, too, in our privileged land, with what it is even now in countries where the Christian religion less universally prevails, we cannot help exclaiming, that of all women upon earth, those who live under the salutary influence of British laws and

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Rh British institutions, have the deepest cause for gratitude. And can the daughters of Britain be regardless of these considerations? Will they not rather study how to pay back to their country, in the cultivation and exercise of their best feelings, the innumerable advantages they are thus deriving. And what is the sacrifice? Oh! blessed dispensation of love—that we are never so happy as when feeling grateful; and never so well employed, as when acting upon this feeling !

While, then, they begin first by retracing all the little rills of kindness by which their cup of benefit has been filled, let them not pause in thought, until they have counted up every item of that vast catalogue of blessings which extend from human instrumentality, to divine; nor let them pause in action, until they have rendered every return which it is possible for a finite being, aided by watchfulness and prayer, to make.

What a subject for contemplation does this view of gratitude afford, to those who say they find nothing to interest them in human life! What a field of exercise for those who complain that they find nothing to do!

Affection, too, is a subject in which the interests of woman are deeply involved, because affection in a peculiar manner constitutes her wealth. Beyond the sphere of her affections, she has nothing, and is nothing. Let her talents be what they may, without affection they can only be compared to a splendid casket, where the gem is wanting. Affection, like gratitude, must begin at home. Let no man choose for the wife of his bosom, a woman whose affections are not warm, and cordial, and ever flowing forth at her own fire-side. Yet there are young women whose behaviour in society, and amongst those whom they call their friends, exhibits every sign of genuine affection, who are yet cold, indifferent, and inconsiderate to their brothers,

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Collier's New Encyclopedia (1921)/Huss, John

HUSS, JOHN (hös), a famous Bohemian protestant in religion; born of humble parents in Husinetz, near

Bohemia, July 6, 1369. He became a priest in 1400. Huss was a realist in philosophy, and adopted the views of (q. v.), whose works he translated and whose doctrines he preached, giving great offense to the Archbishop of Prague. Huss appeared by citation before the Council of Constance, and, though provided with a safe-conduct from the Emperor Siegmund, or Sigismund, he was adjudged a heretic, and burned alive July 6, 1415, as was his disciple Jerome of Prague, on May 30, 1416. By the decision of the Council of Constance, in 1414, the request of the Bohemian laity to communicate under two kinds was refused. The treatment of Huss exasperated his followers, and led to a religious war in which great ferocity and cruelty were manifested on both sides. The Hussite leaders were John Ziska, and after his death Procopius. Sigismund commanded the imperial forces. The Hussites fortified a mountain near Prague, which they called Mount Tabor. Before Ziska's death, Oct. 12, 1424, after obtaining religious liberty for Bohemia, the Hussites had begun to split into minor sects, as the Orebites, or Horebits, the Orphanites, and the Calixtines. In 1433, the Calixtines were conciliated by the concession of the cup of the laity. By the treaty of 1435, Siegmund was acknowledged King of Bohemia, which, however, remained in an uneasy state. The Hussite troubles prepared the way for the Lutheran Reformation.


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User:Mazta

Please see: User:Mazta for my profile and interwiki links to other languages.

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User talk:Mazta

Hello, Mazta, welcome to Wikisource! Thanks for your interest in the project; we hope you'll enjoy the community and your work here.

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but rational inquiry into the progress and establishment of Christianity may be considered as a very essential part of the history of the Roman empire. While that great body was invaded by open violence, or undermined by slow decay a pure and humble religion gently insinuated itself into the minds of men, grew up in silence and obscurity, derived new vigour from opposition and finally erected the triumphant banner of the cross on the ruins of the Capitol. Nor was the influence of Christianity confined to the period or to the limits of the Roman empire. After a revolution of thirteen or fourteen centuries, that religion is still professed by the nations of Europe, the most distinguished portion of human kind in arts and learning as well as in arms. By the industry and zeal of the Europeans it has been widely diffused to the most distant shores of Asia and Africa; and by the means of their colonies has been firmly established from Canada to Chili, in a world unknown to the ancients.

But this inquiry, however useful or entertaining, is attended with two peculiar difficulties. The scanty and suspicious materials of ecclesiastical history seldom enable us to dispel the black cloud that hangs over the first age of the church. The great law of impartiality too often obliges us to reveal the imperfections of the uninspired teachers and believers of the gospel; and, to a careless observer their faults may seem to cast a shade on the faith which they professed. But the scandal of the pious Christian, and the fallacious triumph VOL. II.