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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Christian Science

CHRISTIAN SCIENCE. The religion, or interpretation of the Christian religion, discovered and founded by Mary Baker Eddy (q.v.). Christian Scientists regard it as the restoration and divinely promised fulfilment of the religion taught and practised by Christ Jesus. It is defined by Mrs. Eddy as “the law of God, the law of good, interpreting and demonstrating the divine Principle and rule of universal harmony” (‘Rudimental Divine Science,’ p. 1).

To the question, What did Mrs. Eddy discover? Christian Scientists answer that she discovered the law of God, the law of Life, Truth and Love, as well as the rule, the systematic method or practice, for demonstrating the Principle of harmonious being. Besides this she added immeasurably to the world's knowledge of spiritual reality as distinguished from material belief. Anyone who would understand Christian Science “must begin,” says Mrs. Eddy, “by reckoning God as the divine Principle of all that really is” (‘Science and Health with Key to the Scriptures,’ p. 275). Whatever is the object or subject of thought, unless God made it, unless it expresses His being, it is illusive, destructible and unreal. This is the basis of Christian Science practice. On this basis the Christian Scientist works to purify human thought and to realize the truth of being.

The Christian Science definition of God is “incorporeal, divine, supreme, infinite Mind, Spirit, Soul, Principle, Life, Truth, Love” (‘Science and Health,’ p. 465). The word “Person” (spelled with a capital letter), is also used as a term for God, but Christian Science does not hold that God is like a human being. Of God it is said that “He is all-inclusive” (‘Science and Health,’ p. 331); which statement is to be regarded as consistent with the idea of imparted identify and individuality. Indeed, one of the leading points of Christian Science is that God is the Life, Mind and Soul of man, yet that man, as the reflection of God, possesses perfect identity and individuality. As understood in Christian Science, therefore, God creates man and the universe; He governs the individuality and continuity of each creature; and He maintains this infinite creation as the expression of His being.

Since Christian Science is based on the teaching and example of Jesus, it has a definite and emphatic view of him and his mission. To begin with, it distinguishes between Jesus and the Christ as between what is human and what is divine. In the authorized literature of Christian Science the word “Jesus” usually refers to the person whom Christian Scientists regard as Teacher and Way-shower. The word “Christ” may refer to him, to his spiritual selfhood, or to his office as the Messiah, Saviour or Christ. Usually, however, Christian

use the word “Christ” in an entirely impersonal manner, as Saint Paul sometimes used it. Thus Mrs. Eddy defines “Christ” as “the divine manifestation of God, which comes to the flesh to destroy incarnate error” (‘Science and Health,’ p. 583). As for the mission of Jesus, Christian Science finds the index to it in his description of himself as the Teacher and the Way, His teaching and example showed the way of salvation for all men and made him the Way-shower as well as the Teacher or Master. Accordingly, the system which he taught was called the Way by the early Christians. This fact appears frequently in the historical Book of Acts (ix, 2; xviii, 25-26; xix, 9, 23; xxii, 4; xxiv, 14, 22) and in some of the Epistles (Heb. x, 20; 2 Peter ii, 2). Originally, therefore, Christianity was, to quote modern translations of Hebrews and Second Peter, “the way which he (Jesus) dedicated for us, a new and living way,” “the way of the truth.” Christian Science, then, utterly rejects the doctrine that Jesus, by his death, paid a ransom to the devil and thus wrought the deliverance of those who believed on him. Christian Science likewise rejects the doctrine that the righteousness of Jesus was accepted by the Father as a substitute for the righteousness of mankind lost through the fall, and that the death of Jesus was accepted by the Father as an equivalent of the punishment justly incurred by mankind; men being consequently released from punishment, on condition of their acceptance through faith of his sacrifice. And of course Christian Science rejects the various refinements of these doctrines which have continued to the present day. Christian Science finds the supremely efficacious service of Jesus in his life, including his overcoming of death, as he himself said, “Because I live, ye shall live also.” The way which he showed or dedicated was new, as distinguished from the substitutional sacrifices of the Old Testament. It was also living, for he overcame death with the full proof of life and immortality. Furthermore, he dedicated it for us; hence it is available to us, even as it was to him. So the pertinent tenet of Christian Science reads, “We acknowledge Jesus' atonement as the evidence of divine, efficacious Love, unfolding man's unity with God through Christ Jesus the Way-shower; and we acknowledge that man is saved through Christ, through Truth, Life and Love as demonstrated by the Galilean Prophet in healing the sick and overcoming sin and death” (‘Science and Health,’ p. 497).

Christian Science defines man as the image, likeness or reflection of God. Of course this is not an uncommon description of man; but Christian Science, defining God as heretofore stated, reasons consistently from cause to effect as Jesus did when he said, “That which is born of the Spirit is spirit.” Christian Science does this in spite of all material evidence to the contrary, and declares with Saint John that “As he (God) is, so are we in this world.” Such a conclusion must mean either that God is like a human being, or that the human concept of man is erroneous. Christian Science declares that the human concept of man is erroneous; that the human need is spiritual consciousness; and that human life becomes more divine as the true conception of God and man is realized.

Christian Science, therefore, distinguishes completely between the real, ideal man and the human or mortal sense of man. For this purpose and for every purpose, it distinguishes between ultimate or absolute reality and mere appearance, semblance or illusion. Acknowledging God as the origin of all that really is. Christian Science does not find an origin for aught else, but consistently denies that anything which is not of God can have an origin or real existence. Says Mrs. Eddy, “The mirage, which makes trees and cities seem to be where they are not, illustrates the illusion of material man, who cannot be the image of God” (‘Science and Health’, p. 300). In this connection, Christian Science declares that Christianity was originally based on the truth or reality of being. Its basic requirement was the knowledge of the truth concerning God and man, “the truth” denoting absolute reality as opposed to which is merely apparent, seeming or false. Attention is drawn to sayings of the Master, such as the following: “For this cause came I into the world, that I should bear witness unto the truth.” “I came that they may have life, and may have it abundantly.” “This is life eternal, that they might know thee, the only true God and Jesus Christ, whom thou has sent.” “Ye shall know the truth, and the truth shall make you free.” Such sayings imply that the human or mortal sense of life is false, and they imply that abundant and eternal life is to be gained by finding and realizing the truth of being. The human situation was stated by Saint John in these words: “Beloved, now are we the sons of God, and it doth not yet appear what we shall be.” He did not mean that we shall ever be different from what we really are. He meant that we are the sons of God, though the reality of being doth not yet appear. He did not foresee a loss of identity; he discerned the realization of true identity. Mrs. Eddy has consistently said: “The real, ideal man appears in proportion as the false and material disappears.” “Mortals will disappear, and immortals, or the children of God, will appear as the only and eternal verities of man” (‘Science and Health,’ pp. 69, 476).

According to Christian Science, then, no form of evil possesses the nature of substance, but every phase of evil is only an aspect of error; truth or the understanding of reality being the universal remedy. For instance, take its teaching in regard to sin. Sin is primarily wrong thinking; it is always punished by the loss of harmony or the suffering which it entails; it is forgiven as it ceases, for goodness always receives its reward. The impulse to sin is always ignorant or deceitful; at worst it is a false sense of pleasure in sin. So Christian Science is spiritually educational; it makes much use of the truths that sin cannot confer genuine pleasure; that the consequences of conscious indulgence are cumulative; and that happiness must be sought and can be found in active goodness. This religion also emphasized the power of goodness — the ability which goodness carries to detect sinful motives, to unmask sinful inducements and to dispel sinful persuasions. In this manner the reformative work of Christian Science has been conspicuously successful

The prevention and cure of disease is within

the mission of Christian Science for the same reasons that it was within the mission of original Christianity. What are disease and health? In the last analysis not only disease and health but mortality and immortality are opposite mental states, resulting from contrary modes of thought. On one hand is material sense, which has no principle — no cause or substance — and is simply an illusion, a dream of pain and pleasure in matter that includes sin, disease and death. On the other hand is spiritual sense, which is created and sustained by God, the divine Principle of all true being. What Saint Paul wrote to the Romans on this subject was both Christian and scientific: “To be carnally minded is death, but to be spiritually minded is life and peace.” In these words he declared that life is a condition of mind or thought; he analyzed causation as wholly metaphysical. The mentality which sickens and dies is carnal; that is to say, material; while the thought which lives and enjoys the perfect attributes of life is spiritual; that is to say, emanating from Spirit or God. In other words, it is Spirit, God, the divine Mind, that gives life and health to man, and gives it through mentality or thought. Health, therefore, is primarily a mental and spiritual quality, and it is to be gained and preserved as such; that is, through the understanding of and obedience to the spiritual law which emanates from the divine Mind. Disease, on the other hand, even the most physical disorder is a palpable evidence of false belief. It is a condition incident to the supposition that man is a material selfhood and governed by a law of suffering disability and death — governed by laws which divine Life, Truth and Love could never make. Every lack of health, from beginning to end, is only a subjective condition of mortal thought; it is a particular result of the general supposition that life inhabits matter and is mortal. Christian and scientific treatment of disease, then, depends on the distinction between absolute or real being and the human or mortal concept of man. Freedom from disease follows the absolute knowing of the truth concerning God and man. To cope successfully with disease it must be resolved into false belief and dealt with on a mental plane, in accordance with the divine law by which Truth destroys error. Healing comes to pass when the supposed law of disease and death is broken by the actual law of Life, and the unity of being is such that one individual can help another to obtain this victory. In so far as hygiene and sanitation denote cleanliness and purity, Christian Science is in full accord; and it commends not only a clean body and clean surroundings, but a clean mentality; not only pure food, but pure thoughts. Jesus intimated to the Pharisees that for outward cleanness to be more than superficial it must be the result of inward cleanliness.

Christian Scientists usually conduct their own charities, and they contribute funds with an ease that is remarkable to observers. During the Great War, for instance, Christian Scientists have contributed and expended relatively Large sums for the relief of sufferers from the war, both before and since the United States entered it; and they have carried on a varied and systematic work for the welfare and comfort of soldiers and sailors in this and other countries.

The Church of Christ, Scientist, or Christian Science Church, was organized at Boston in 1879. It consists of The Mother Church, The First Church of Christ, Scientist, in Boston, and branches thereof throughout the world. The number of regularly organized congregations in April 1918 is 1,766, of which 1,582 are in the United States. The governing body of the denomination is the Christian Science Board of Directors; but each congregation has its own self-government.

The Christian Science Publishing Society publishes Mrs. Eddy's writings (see bibliography at end of article under ) and issues the following periodicals: The Christian Science Quarterly Bible Lessons, a quarterly containing the “lesson-sermons” which are read in the Sunday services of this denomination; The Christian Science Journal, a monthly accompanied by directories of churches and practitioners; Der Herold der Christian Science, a monthly published with alternate pages in English and German; Le Heraut de Christian Science, a monthly published in English and French; The Christian Science Sentinel, a weekly; and The Christian Science Monitor, an international daily newspaper. This paper, founded in 1908 by Mrs. Eddy “to injure no man, but to bless all mankind,” has now become well known wherever the English language is spoken.


text: Author:Clifford Pabody Smith

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

title: Author:Clifford Pabody Smith


text: Category:Christian Scientist authors

title: Category:Christian Scientist authors


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The Encyclopedia Americana (1920)/Eddy, Henry Turner

EDDY, Henry Turner, American scientist: b. Stoughton, Mass., 9 June 1844. He was educated at Yale and later took a further scientific course in Berlin and Paris. After holding a professorship in mathematics, astronomy and civil engineering at the University of Cincinnati 1874-90, and acting as dean of the academic faculty of that institution (1874-77, 1884-89), he became its president in 1890. He was also president of the Rose Polytechnic Institute at Terra Haute, Ind., from 1891 to 1894, when he accepted the chair of engineering and mechanics at the University of Minnesota. He

became dean of the Graduate School of the latter university in 1906, and professor and dean emeritus in 1912. He published ‘Analytical Geometry’ (1874); ‘Researches in Graphical Statics’ (1878); ‘Thermodynamics’ {18?9); ‘Neue Constructionen aus der graphischen Statik’ (1880); ‘Maximum Stresses under Concentrated Loads’ (1890); ‘Theory of the Flexure and Strength of Rectangular Flat Plates Applied to Reinforced Concrete Floor Slabs’ (1913); ‘Concrete Steel Construction’ (1914); and numerous scientific and technical papers.


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334


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Appletons' Cyclopædia of American Biography/Weik, Jesse William

WEIK, Jesse William, b. in Greencastle, Ind., 23 Aug., 1857. His father emigrated from Germany to the United States in 1848; his mother was a native of Cincinnati. His education, begun in the public schools of his native town, was completed at Asbury — now De Pauw — university, from which institution he was graduated in 1875. After two years spent in business with his father, he began the study of law, and in 1880 he was admitted to practice. In 1882 he received an appointment as special examiner of the U. S. pension bureau, and was detailed to examine the merits of certain pension claims in the neighborhood of Springfield. While in the latter locality he began to familiarize himself with the life and history of Abraham Lincoln. He interviewed carefully and in detail all persons there and elsewhere who had been associated with or had known Lincoln in his lifetime. He also visited that section of Kentucky in which he was born, giving special attention to the questions of his birth and descent, and travelled through Southern Indiana amid the scenes of his obscure and humble boyhood. The results of these researches are embodied in a “Life of Lincoln,” which he, in company with Lincoln's law partner, Mr. William H. Herndon, produced in 1885-'9 (Chicago, 1889). A revised edition of this work, entitled “Herndon and Weik's Lincoln,” was issued in two volumes (New York, 1892). He has also been a frequent contributor to the newspapers in the west, his interesting articles being devoted to certain phases of President Lincoln's career and other contemporary historical subjects.


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Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/298

266 XIV.

"Corsair! thy doom is named—but I have power

To soothe the Pacha in his weaker hour.

Thee would I spare—nay more—would save thee now,

But this—Time—Hope—nor even thy strength allow;

But all I can,—I will—at least delay

The sentence that remits thee scarce a day.

More now were ruin—even thyself were loth

The vain attempt should bring but doom to both."

"Yes!—loth indeed:—my soul is nerved to all,

Or fall'n too low to fear a further fall:

Tempt not thyself with peril—me with hope

Of flight from foes with whom I could not cope:

Unfit to vanquish—shall I meanly fly,

The one of all my band that would not die?

Yet there is one—to whom my Memory clings,

Till to these eyes her own wild softness springs.

My sole resources in the path I trod

Were these—my bark—my sword—my love—my God!

The last I left in youth!—He leaves me now—

And Man but works his will to lay me low.

I have no thought to mock his throne with prayer

Wrung from the coward crouching of Despair;

It is enough—I breathe—and I can bear.

My sword is shaken from the worthless hand

That might have better kept so true a brand;

My bark is sunk or captive—but my Love—

For her in sooth my voice would mount above:

Oh! she is all that still to earth can bind—

And this will break a heart so more than kind,

And blight a form—till thine appeared, Gulnare!

Mine eye ne'er asked if others were as fair."


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Rubus.]

1. R. australis, Forst. Prodr. 224.—A tall climber, reaching the tops of the highest trees; stems stout, woody at the base; branches slender, drooping, armed with scattered recurved prickles. Leaves 3–5-foliolate or rarely pinnate with 2 pairs of leaflets and a terminal one; leaflets coriaceous, glabrous, very variable in size and shape, 2–5 in. long, ovate-oblong or ovate-lanceolate to linear-oblong or almost linear, acute or acuminate, truncate or cordate at the base, sharply serrate; petioles and midribs armed with recurved prickles. Panicles large, much branched, 6–24 in. long, leafy towards the base; pedicels short, glandular or pubescent. Flowers white, ⅓–½ in. diam., dioecious; males larger and more conspicuous than the females. Petals broadly ovate or oblong. Fruit ¼ in. diam., reddish-orange.—''A. Rich. Fl. Nouv. Zel. 340; A. Cunn. Precur. n. 567; Raoul, Choix, 49; Kirk, Students' Fl.'' 125. R. australis var. glaber, ''Hook. f. Fl. Nov. Zel. i. 53, t. 14; Handb. N.Z. Fl.'' 54.

2. R. cissoides, A. Cunn. Precur. n. 569.—A scrambling or climbing shrub; branchlets slender, unarmed, usually much and closely interlaced, forming a dense bush. Leaves 3–5-foliolate; leaflets 2–5 in. long, narrow-ovate to lanceolate or linear-lanceolate, acuminate, rounded or cuneate at the base, sharply and irregularly serrate or lobed; petioles varying much in length, furnished with fewer and softer prickles than in R. australis. Panicles 2–6 in. long, often reduced to racemes; pedicels pubescent or glabrate. Flowers yellowish-white, ⅓ in. diam., dioecious. Calyx-lobes broadly ovate, tomentose. Petals linear-oblong. Fruit orange-red, much as in R. australis.—Raoul, Choix, 49; Kirk, Students' Handb. 126. R. australis var. cissoides, ''Hook. f. Fl. Nov. Zel. i. 53; Handb. N.Z. Fl.'' 54.

3. R. schmidelioides, A. Cunn. Precur. n. 568.—A scrambling or climbing shrub; branchlets usually unarmed, often intertwined, forming a dense bush; young shoots pubescent or tomentose. Leaves 3–5-foliolate; leaflets 2–4 in. long, orbicular-ovate or ovate-oblong to ovate-lanceolate, coriaceous, acute, rounded or cordate at


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Geum.] {|
 * colspan=2|* Achenes villous. Flowers white except in 1.
 * Stem leafy, 2–3 ft. high. Flowers yellow|||1. G.urbanum.
 * Leaves chiefly radical, 3–5 in. long. Panicles few-flowered. Styles longer than the achenes|||2. G. parviflorum.
 * Leaves all radical, ¾–1½ in. Flowers small, in 3–5-flowered racemes. Styles shorter than the achenes|||3. G. sericeum.
 * Leaves all radical, 1–3 in. Flowers solitary, large, ¾ in. diam. Styles long|||4. G.uniflorum.
 * colspan=2|** Achenes glabrous. Flowers small, white.
 * 3–6 in. high. Flowers in cymose panicles|||5. G . leiospermum.
 * 1–2 in. high. Flowers solitary|||6. G. pusillum.
 * }
 * colspan=2|** Achenes glabrous. Flowers small, white.
 * 3–6 in. high. Flowers in cymose panicles|||5. G . leiospermum.
 * 1–2 in. high. Flowers solitary|||6. G. pusillum.
 * }
 * 1–2 in. high. Flowers solitary|||6. G. pusillum.
 * }
 * }

1. G. urbanum, ''Linn. Sp. Plant.'' n. 501, var. strictum.—An erect sparingly branched herb 1–3 ft. high, usually softly pubescent or villous in all its parts. Radical leaves very variable in size, 4–18 in. long including the petiole, pinnate; leaflets 3–5 pairs with much smaller ones intermixed, 1–3 in. long, ovate or obovate, cuneate at the base, sessile, variously toothed lobed or pinnatifid. Cauline leaves few, smaller, with fewer and more sharply toothed leaflets, sessile or nearly so; stipules leafy, coarsely toothed or lobed. Flowers ½–¾ in. diam., yellow, few together in a loose terminal panicle; peduncles slender, erect. Calyx-lobes ovate, acuminate, reflexed in fruit. Petals obovate, exceeding the calyx. Achenes very numerous, forming a dense oblong head, spreading and recurved, hispid with long silky hairs; awn long, hooked at the tip.—''Hook. f. Handb. N.Z. Fl. 55; Kirk, Students' Fl.'' 128. G. magellanicum, ''Comm. ex Pers. Syn.'' ii. 57; ''Hook. f. Fl. Nov. Zel.'' i. 55.

2. G. parviflorum, Sm. in Rees Cyclop. v. n. 12.—An erect or spreading perennial herb 4–18 in. high, everywhere clothed with silky or villous hairs, sometimes almost shaggy; rootstock stout, woody. Radical leaves 2–5 in. long, pinnate; terminal leaflet very large, ¾–2 in. diam., rouuded-reniform, obscurely 3–5-lobed, crenate, hairy on both surfaces; lateral leaflets 4–8 pairs, all minute, deeply cut and lobed. Cauline leaves or bracts few, small, deeply toothed. Panicles lax, few-flowered; pedicels long, slender. Flowers ½ in. diam., white. Calyx-lobes broadly ovate, obtuse or subacute. Petals broad, obtuse, longer than the calyx. Achenes very numerous, spreading, stipitate, clavate, villous; style slender,


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Acæna.] 5. A. Buchanani, ''Hook. f. Handb. N.Z. Fl.'' 57.—Stems and branches numerous, prostrate, closely appressed to the ground; young ones more or less villous with silky hairs. Leaves ½–1 in. long, hoary or silky, sometimes densely so; leaflets 3–6 pairs, broadly oblong-ovate or rounded, deeply minutely toothed. Heads small, 3–10-flowered, sessile. Calyx-tube broadly turbinate, 4-angled, densely villous; lobes 4, persistent. Stamens 2. Stigma fimbriate. Fruiting-calyx short and broad, 4-angled and ridged, pilose; bristles 4, stout, spreading, yellow, usually hairy above or barbed. Achenes 1 or 2, bony.—Kirk, Students' Fl. 134.

6. A. glabra, ''Buch. in Trans. N.Z. Inst.'' iv. (1872) 226, t. 14.—Everywhere perfectly glabrous. Stems much branched, prostrate, stout and woody at the base; branches erect or ascending, leafy. Leaves ¾–1¼ in. long; leaflets 3–4 pairs, $1⁄5$–$1⁄3$ in. long, obovate or oblong-obovate, cuneate at the base, deeply and coarsely toothed. Peduncles 2–5 in. long, stout; heads globose, ½–¾ in. diam., often unisexual. Calyx-tube much compressed, the lateral angles produced into a broad wing-like process on each side; lobes 4, broad, persistent. Male flowers with 20–40 stamens; females with 1 or 2; stigma fimbriate. Fruiting-calyx always unarmed, red. Achene narrow, tapering to both ends.—Kirk, Students' Fl. 134.

Trees, shrubs, or herbs. Leaves alternate or opposite, simple or compound, stipulate or exstipulate. Flowers usually regular and hermaphrodite. Calyx free or adnate to the ovary, lobes 4–5, imbricate or valvate. Petals 4–5, rarely wanting, imbricate or valvate. Stamens as many or twice as many as the petals, rarely more, perigynous or epigynous, very rarely hypogynous. Disc usually present between the stamens and the ovary, very various in shape. Ovary free or more or less adnate to the calyx-tube, usually 2–5-celled with 2–5 axile or parietal placentas; styles as many as the cells, free or more or less united; ovules numerous, anatropous, erect or pendulous. Fruit usually capsular, more rarely succulent and indehiscent. Seeds usually small, numerous; albumen generally copious, rarely absent; embryo terete, usually small.


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Page:The American review - a Whig journal of politics, literature, art, and science (1845).djvu/130

116 and the magical elevation of Mr. Polk,—a man entirely inconsiderable before this event, and whom his recent fortunes cannot be said to have rendered any thing more than notorious. Apply for a moment to this proceeding the discrimination which we have above attempted to draw between the distinctive features of a party and a faction, and say whether this quiet substitution of candidates was not the act of the latter. What principle of the genuine democracy was not outraged both in the act itself and in the mode of its accomplishment? Pledges were scattered to the wind—the will of the majority supplanted by concerted fraud—and the "martyr to Democratic principles" overwhelmed with contumely. Why was all this? If this band of politicians represented an honest party, having principles and proposing measures valuable to the commonwealth, who so fit an exponent of them, who so skillful an administrator of them, as Martin Van Buren? No, it was the vile work of a faction, which knew no motive and sought no end beyond its own triumph. The Ex-President had some political history, some political principles, some political responsibility hanging about him—there was bone and muscle, there were qualities and tendencies in him, and they might interfere with the scheme of running Democracy in the abstract. But that the whole cause and object of this management might not be left to argument or inference, that it might not be said that any repugnance was felt to Mr. Van Buren's principles, or his personal connections, Silas Wright, the mirror of the one and the most ultimate of the other, is immediately nominated for the Vice-Presidency. Does not, then, this transaction sustain the charge, that our opponents entered upon the campaign, with an entire abnegation of every thing but the success of the faction, and that they did this without caring to conceal the deformity of their designs with the thin veil of hypocrisy.

The foul marks of faction are not less deeply imprinted upon the management of all questions of public policy and of fundamental principle, by the Democrats, throughout the whole period of the late contest.

The Sub-Treasury, that shrewd project of finance, by which the "progress party" would throw our money system some several centuries backward; that golden-calf of Democracy, at whose shrine its selectest priesthood were wont to minister, and its haughtiest votaries to kneel; whose mystic name was erst the Shibboleth, and its "specie clause" the touchstone of the true, unadulterate faith; how, we say, did the scheme of Democracy in the absractabstract [sic] deal with this matter? The idol, like Dagon in the house of the Philistines, "had fallen upon his face to the ground," and the foot-prints of the pilgrims to its altar were all reversed, as if in hasty flight Throughout the length and breadth of the land its name was not heard; there was "none so poor to do it reverence"; there was not virtue enough left in it even to conjure with. Has, then, the infallible spirit of Democracy spoken false oracles? Has its wisdom become folly in its own eyes? Was this suppression of the Sub-Treasury, during the canvass, an honest renunciation of an error, and was its reinstatement as sincerely abandoned as its discussion was peremptorily forbidden? Here again we are saved the labor of argument, and spared the doubt of inference. They have made haste to enact, what they were slow to discuss, and in that branch of Congress in which they have the power, the re-establishment of this same Sub-Treasury is the sole result of its exercise, and the accredited "organ of concentrated Democratic sentiment" claims the late election decisive in its verdict of popular opinion upon this point alone, of prime importance,—a point not mooted in the trial. Is the course which this matter has taken, the upright action of a party, or the impudent juggle of a faction?

The adverse policies of a protective tariff and unrestricted freedom of trade are the most important which can divide a commercial people, and upon these, long before the actual collision of the parties in the contest, it had become manifest the fight, if an honest one, was mainly to be made. It was well known, too, that, however the independent militia of the hostile army might straggle, all the "Chivalry" on this point were united and puissant. The stupendous forces of the great kingdom of South Carolina could be drawn from their armed neutrality only by a most stringent covenant on this head. The noble leader of our own array had fought his way up from the ranks to his exalted post, mahily in the service of the American system. This warfare had been to him, what the Italian campaigns were to Napoleon—the


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Donatia.] appressed, ⅓ in. long, subacute, shining, veinless, very thick and coriaceous, villous at the base. Flowers ⅓ in. diam., sunk amongst the uppermost leaves. Calyx-lobes 5, ovate, acute. Petals 5, quite free, ovate-oblong, obtuse, thick and fleshy. Stamens 2. Styles 2, short and thick, recurved. Capsule $1⁄5$ in. long.—''Handb. N.Z. Fl. 58; Benth. Fl. Austral.'' ii. 450; ''F. Muell. Fragm.'' viii. 41.

Shrubs or trees. Leaves alternate, coriaceous, exstipulate. Flowers small, in axillary or terminal many -flowered racemes. Calyx -tube obconic, adnate to the ovary; teeth 5, persistent. Petals 5, imbricate, deciduous. Stamens 5, filaments subulate. Ovary inferior, 3–5-celled, the free summit broadly conical, narrowed into a persistent 3–5-grooved style; stigma capitate, 3–5-lobed; ovules numerous. Capsule small, inferior or half-superior, coriaceous, obovoid, 1- celled, 3–5-valved, the valves separating up the furrows of the style. Seeds numerous, ascending; testa loose, winged.

1. Q. serrata, A. Cunn. Precur. n. 515.—A small tree 15–30 ft. high; branchlets, leaves, and racemes covered with minute lepidote scales, viscid when young. Leaves coriaceous, yellow-brown or reddish-brown when dry, 2–6 in. long, linear-lanceolate or linearoblong or oblong, shortly petiolate, remotely and irregularly sinuate-serrate, acute or subacute, margins undulate. Racemes 2–4 in. long, erect, strict, axillary, many-flowered; pedicels short, $1⁄5$ in. Flowers pale-lilac, ¼ in. diam. Capsule woody, $1⁄5$ in. long.—''Hook. Ic. Plant. t. 558; Raoul, Choix, 47; Hook. f. Fl. Nov. Zel. i. 78; Handb. N.Z. Fl. 58; Kirk, Forest Fl. t. 125'; Students Fl.'' 137. Q. elliptica, ''Hook. f. Fl. Nov. Zel. i. 78; Handb. N.Z. Fl.'' 59.

2. Q. acutifolia, T. Kirk, Students' Fl. 137.—A small tree 20–40 ft. high, with a trunk 1–2 ft. diam. Branchlets, leaves, and racemes viscid and clothed with lepidote scales. Leaves much broader and thinner than in Q. serrata, 3–7 in. long, 1–2 in. broad,


text:
Page:The American review - a Whig journal of politics, literature, art, and science (1845).djvu/135

1845.] JACK LONG;

OR, LYNCH-LAW AND VENGEANCE.

the following relation of real occurrences there are several incidental matters it would be well to have understood. So much of exag^gerated romance is to be observed pervading the narrative spirit of the times, that, with a due respect for the good nature of our readers, it has become indispensable that the story-teller should be very sure of his ground—that is, sufficiently so, to feel that he can establish a sympathetic confidence between his readers and himself, that he is not attempting to impose upon their credulity by sheer and egregious fabrications of his own, when he undertakes to tell what is called a "hard story." To define in words what the process of establishing this sympathy consists in, is a difficult matter. The most that can be said of it is, that it forms itself. Mere assertions will not always answer. Where it is required that they alone should be taken, they must be accompanied by a nameless and inexpressible air, not of candor only, but of minute and piquant detail, such as personal familiarity with the incidents narrated can only give. It is easy enough to romance upon the ground work of a general knowledge of characteristics, but to the cool search of an accurate eye, there is a want of filling in, an absence of those finer touches which are better felt than described. A very unsatisfactory impression of doubt is the consequence, and the writer who establishes himself on so unfortunate terms with the reader, must altogether fail of producing the effect he aims at. Neither the careless use of round assertions, nor reiterations of one's own special claims to immaculacy in truth-telling will bring about that pleasant state of trustfulness so desirable in the mind of the hearer. There is another extreme—that of too much pretension to a bluff, straight-forward "I am not eloquent as Brutus is!" kind of manner! But the world is getting too old for this game. There is yet a medium which strikes me as the only true one. Make no protestations at all, one way or the other. If there is a story to to tell, tell it. Be carefully minute, and ask no favors:—the hard eyed public will rate what is said properly. A sensitive irritability at the idea of distrust is not a whit more persuasive than a narrative bullyism;—men like neither to be whined or bluffed out of their judgments.

Before proceeding, it would not be amiss to give a more definite idea, than has generally obtained, of the social condition of the peculiar region in which these strange scenes were enacted. Every body knows that Texas has been the peculiar and favorite resort of restless, adventurous men, and not those of this stamp simply, but as well the vicious and unprincipled, of nearly all nations. A knowledge of this fact alone would naturally lead one to expect, that the commingling of so many passionate and opposite extremes would lead to many extravagances in the action of their antagonism—that excesses of all kinds, the unhesitating expression of unbridled impulses, would be ordinary" incidents of life here—that the quick wrath and bloody hand should be often simultaneous, where the most formidable weapons were openly worn, law and its restraints little regarded, and general sentiment favored a resort to them on trivial occasions. Though this much of a vague knowledge of the state of things there, might prepare the anticipation for a good deal—even though a visit to the principal cities of the country should still farther prepare it for a realization of what may properly come within the scope of such forces, still it would be difficult to understand how the monstrous exhibitions of frontier life, with which those who have lived amidst it are familiar, can possibly be credible. One must see with his own eyes and hear with his own ears, before he can readily conceive that many things occurring; there could be looked upon as matters of course. Yet outrages the most terrible succeed each other rapidly;—men are lynched and stabbed and shot with as little compunction as you would feel in spitting a goose I The law of bloody force is alone recognized; there is no medium between the insult and the desperate retahation. There is no interposition, of either general sentiment or civil organization, between the savagery of unreclaimed blood wreaking


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Page:Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances.djvu/53

 Tom was an overgrown, rawboned lad of some fifteen years, with stubby red hair, no eyebrows, large watery blue eyes, and a long neck with a big Adam's apple.

"I didn't mean to interrupt you, Tom," said David, in a tone of the deepest penitence. "You know that I'd rather hear you play than anything."

"Father got the thousand-dollar prize," said Tom coldly, accepting the apology for the sake of the compliment.

"Oh, Tom! I'm so glad! Hurrah!" shouted David, waving his old blue cap around his head, his face transfigured with joy, his heart leaping with a sudden hope, and now at last he would get the violin.

"What are you glad for?" said Tom, with dreadful severity. "He's my father; he's not your father;" and for the first time he bestowed a glance upon the little figure curled up on the nail keg, and bending eagerly towards him with clasped hands.

"I know he's your father, Tom, but—"

"Well, then, what are you glad for?" insisted Tom. "You're not going to get any of the money."

"I know that, Tom," said David, coloring deeply, "but—"

"Well, then, what are you glad for?"

"I don't think I'm so very glad, Tom," replied David, sorrowfully.

But Tom had taken up the bow and was rubbing the resin on it. He used a great deal of resin in his playing, and would often proudly call David's attention to how much of it would settle as a white dust under the bridge. David was too well used to Tom's rebuffs to mind them long, and as he now looked on at this resining process, the sunlight came back into his face.


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Page:FFC90.djvu/173

FFC 90 242; fortuneteller, 1535; Man says he has given birth to c, 1381 *A; marries, 243*; on tarred bridge, 2017; rebukes eagle for warning shepherds of wolf, *229.

Crows, Brothers enchanted as c, *453.

Crowing with closed eyes, 61.

Crown of serpent, 672.

Crucified body on door, 831 *A.

Cruel rich man as Devil's horse, 761.

Crying last year's laughter, 921.

Cuarto meaning 'coin' and 'fourth', 1940 G.

Cuckoo on tree a woman 1029; Whom did c address?, *1593.

Cuckoo's skin borrowed by jay, 235.

Cudgel, Magic c, 563.

Cuirass, Unpierceable c, 508 *A.

Cumulative 2000—2199.

Cupid and Psyche, 425 A.

Cure, See healing.

Curiosity of wife, 670; overcomes Teresa, 836 *F; punished, 836 *F.

Curly, Straightening c hair, 1175.

Cursed oxen, 154.

Cut, Nose c off, 1417.

Cutting, cheese as bride test, 1452; wood, 1001.

Damages, Cow or girl as d, 1655.

Dance, All must d to flageolet, *594, or fiddle or flute, 592, or guitar, 853 *A, or music, 1652.

Danced out shoes, 306.

Dancing wife sings cooking instructions to husband, 1831 *B.

Danger sign, 303.

Daughter nurses father, 927 *A; of Devil, 307, 313; Riddle of wife, d, and sister, *983; Witch kills own daughter by mistake, 327 *D.

Daughters, Brothers in bed with giant's d, 328 *A.

Days, See week.

Dead, Apparently d revives, 990; bridegroom, 365; Dog plays d, 56 B; Fox plays d, I, 33, 56 A; Man thinks he is d, 1313; Pretended dead and debtor share thieves' loot, *1716; Pretended d man sees unfaithfulness of his wife, 1350; Stingy d woman revives to correct account, *1482; Watcher or bridegroom found d each morning, 306 *A, 307, 507.

Dead, See grateful.

Deaf persons, 1698; Pretending d man gets fine lodgings, 1544.

Deafness cured by lion's milk, 301.

Death and doctor, 332; as godfather, 332; Fox shams d, 1, 33, 56; News of d

title: Page:FFC90.djvu/173


text:
Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/299

CANTO II.] "Thou lov'st another then?—but what to me

Is this—'tis nothing—nothing e'er can be:

But yet—thou lov'st—and—Oh! I envy those

Whose hearts on hearts as faithful can repose,

Who never feel the void—the wandering thought

That sighs o'er visions—such as mine hath wrought."

"Lady—methought thy love was his, for whom

This arm redeemed thee from a fiery tomb."

"My love stern Seyd's! Oh—No—No—not my love—

Yet much this heart, that strives no more, once strove

To meet his passion—but it would not be.

I felt—I feel—Love dwells with—with the free.

I am a slave, a favoured slave at best,

To share his splendour, and seem very blest!

Oft must my soul the question undergo,

Of—'Dost thou love?' and burn to answer, 'No!'

Oh! hard it is that fondness to sustain,

And struggle not to feel averse in vain;

But harder still the heart's recoil to bear,

And hide from one—perhaps another there.

He takes the hand I give not—nor withhold—

Its pulse nor checked—nor quickened—calmly cold:

And when resigned, it drops a lifeless weight

From one I never loved enough to hate.

No warmth these lips return by his imprest,

And chilled Remembrance shudders o'er the rest.

Yes—had I ever proved that Passion's zeal,

The change to hatred were at least to feel:

But still—he goes unmourned—returns unsought—

And oft when present—absent from my thought.

Or when Reflection comes—and come it must—

I fear that henceforth 'twill but bring disgust;


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Page:The American review - a Whig journal of politics, literature, art, and science (1845).djvu/131

1845.] of, and the preparation for, his eventual supremacy. Foreign nations looked upon the impending election as the decision of the question, whether our political independence was to be rendered complete and impregnable, or to be practically annulled by commercial and social subservience. This, whichever opinion had the right of it, was a question in our national condition not modal, but essential—not of health merely, but of life. It touched all domestic arrangements, it reached to all foreign relations; it was conversant with the subtlest speculative theories and with the commonest employments of men; it laid its hand upon the amassed treasure of the capitalist and the daily bread of the laborer. It was a question on which parties, if divided at all, must have been so by distinct and impassable lines of demarcation, on which the trumpets of mutual defiance should have uttered no doubtful note. Was the Democratic party true to its principles, and did it present a united front on this question? There is no pretence of it. It is conceded, that on the tariff policy the order was given to the bands of the faithful, to assume every local opinion, and court every sectional prejudice. Silence and obscurity were seen to be of no avail; loud and vehement clamor, sounding as many voices as there were popular opinions, was substituted. An ambuscade we were armed against, and they donned our colors and stole our standards. At the North, they were more protective than the protectionists; at the South, less restrictive than the free-traders; at the West, they would foster the interests of the farmer; at the East, of the manufacturer. Who disputes, then, that on the tariff, our opponents roamed throughout the land, a lying faction, seeking whom they might devour?

On Annexation, however, this newborn issue, produced for the crisis, making now its first appearance on any stage, the "lone star" of the play, which was to atone for all awkwardness, supply all deficiencies, reconcile all incongruities in the minor parts, and smooth all troubles in the plot—on this project, at least, we shall see unity and concord. This position, so firmly taken, and to hold which so much else has been given away, our foes are surely willing to abide by, and on it to stake the chances of defeat. The history of the canvass, on this topic also, shows the reverse. The progress of discussion educed the fact, that principles on this subject, too, must be accommodated to various shades of public sentiment, or an adhesion to them must cripple the force of the party and jeopard its success. The Catholicity of their political church is disturbed by a band of Protestants, and this dogma of "Immediate Annexation" is challenged. These heretics prefer, however, to protest in the church, and not to protest themselves out of it—they are very great patriots, but their ambition does not aspire to the crown of martyrdom for conscience' sake. Accordingly, they vote for the candidate, protesting against his opinions—they sustain the party, protesting against its measures—they entrust with power men sworn to a specific exercise of it, protesting against such exercise. There was even a large class of voters at the north who could be induced to lend their aid to the election of the Democratic candidates, only by the consideration that a Whig Senate would preclude the possibility of their mad schemes of Annexation being carried out! The depth of such poltroonery is unfathomable—

"The force of faction could no further go,"

and upon this as the climax of proof we rest the demonstration of our proposition.

We have thus portrayed, and we believe truthfully, the main elements of the late Presidential election, which distinguish it from all preceding popular contests, which controlled its character and produced its result;—we pass to a brief examination of the result itself, and a consideration of some of the particular modes in which the above influences manifested themselves, and of some less dignified agencies which co-operated with them. We cannot be expected to present calculations in extenso, nor to support the opinions which we have formed and may express by all the evidence by which we have arrived at them. This is the province of the newspapers; upon the information, which they supply to us, corrected and filtered in the fierce collisions between them, we are all mostly dependent for our political facts and statistics.

Figures, it is said, cannot lie, but a particular arrangement of them may speak the truth more forcibly than another. The following table compiled from the official returns, may, perhaps, exhibit some points in the nunierical result, not generally noticed.


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Page:FFC90.djvu/174

172 exprest indirectly, 925 *A; of good and bad man, 808**.

Death's messenger, 335.

Decapitation, See beheading.

Deceased rich man and devils in church, 815.

Deception of ogre into carrying captives home, 311.

Decision, Legal d, 1585—1594.

Deer, Boastful d slayer, 830; calls hunter "Slayer of your parents", 931 *A; Princess transformed into d, 401.

Defeat of supernatural adversary, 300—359.

Defense, Trespasser's d, 1590.

Demi-coq, 715.

Demon, See devil.

Depositors, Joint d, 1591.

Descent in one bucket permits escape in other, 32; on moonbeam, 852 *A.

Devil, 300—359; afraid of his wife, 332, 400 *A, or his motherinlaw, *340; and doctor 332, *340; and gambler, 313, 408 *A; and his grandmother, 812; as advocate, 821; as girl questions bishop, 922; as grayhound, *773 A; as horse or ass, *762; as horseman, *817; as laborer, 820; as rabbit or horse, 508 *A; Boy who has never seen woman (D), 1678; buys baby, 314; carries off judge, 821, 1186; Cat obtains dresses from D, 510; catches man's shadow, 325 *A; chained in Hell, 803; Children more mischievous than D, 1149 *A; Corpse on horseback thought to be D, 1537 *B; eats children, 706 *B; guards woman's chastity, 1352; helps knight in tournament, 508 *A; in bottle, 331, *340, in Noah's ark, 825; intercepts letter 707; Iron man and D, 1162; loses soul in card game, *345; Man promised to D, 810—814; Man sells soul to D, See soul; nailed by shoemaker, 815; rewards his supporters, 821 *C; shears pig, 1037; Smith outwits D, 330; stabs wineskins, 313; substitutes at mowing, 820; threatens to take pauper if he cannot say the twelve words, *2045; Trade of three brothers with D, 330.

Devil, See ogre.

Devils fight over magic objects, 518.

Devil's contract, 756 B; daughter, 307, 313; ear, 301; Hairs from D beard, 461; kindness, 362*; motherinlaw, *340; Name of D companion, 812, or D crop, 1091; riddle, 812.

Devours, Wolf d goat, *127.

Devout, Who is more d than I?, 756 *D, *E.

Diamonds buy back eyes, 711 *A.

title: Page:FFC90.djvu/174


text:
Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/301

CANTO II.] What lost a world, and bade a hero fly?

The timid tear in Cleopatra's eye.

Yet be the soft Triumvir's fault forgiven;

By this—how many lose not earth—but Heaven!

Consign their souls to Man's eternal foe,

And seal their own to spare some Wanton's woe!

XVI.

'Tis Morn—and o'er his altered features play

The beams—without the Hope of yesterday.

What shall he be ere night? perchance a thing

O'er which the raven flaps her funeral wing,

By his closed eye unheeded and unfelt;

While sets that Sun, and dews of Evening melt,

Chill, wet, and misty round each stiffened limb,

Refreshing earth—reviving all but him!


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Page:FFC90.djvu/175

FFC 90 Direction of wind asked to deceive captor, 6.

Disappointed fisher, 832.

Disaster of boy, 1681.

Discovered treasure and talkative wife, 1381.

Disguise, Barber and girl disguise in each other's clothes, *857.

Disguised as nursemaid, 37; as strange bird, 311, 1091; as woman lover carries off princess, 516; boy avenges self of thieves, 1538; fox violates female bear, 36; Girl d as doctor, 434, *515; Girl d as doctor and barber tortures thief, *970; Girl d as man, 425, 883 A, 884; Girl d as soldier replaces her brother, 514; king and thief, 951 A; lover buys looks at parts of girl's body, 900 *A; lover marries girl, 885, 900; Thief d as old woman, *970, *973; wife becomes emperor, 881; Wife d as judge, 890; wife reveals self, 888, *896; wife saves boastful husband, 880.

Dishes replace wolf in bag, *166.

Dishonest priest, 831.

Disobedience, Stone becomes red as sign of d, 311.

Disrespect punished 836 *B.

Distance from Heaven to Hell, or earth to sun, 922.

Diver and princess, 434*.

Dividing wife with dead helper, 506, 507.

Diving for cheese, 34.

Division of crop, 9 B, *278, 1030; of presents and strokes, 1610.

Do as you are told, 910 B.

Doctor and Death (Devil), 332, *340; Girl disguised as d, 434, *515, *970; Knowall, 1641.

Doctor's substitute members, 660.

Dog, Angel as d helper, 560; as wolf's shoemaker, 102; Hero as d, 652; in sea, 540*, Lean dog prefers liberty to food and chain, 201; Old d restored to favor, 101; picks up string (Cumulative), 2030 *D; receives blows, 200*; reveals wrong bride, 510; samples food, *453; substituted for newborn child, 707; Wolf sings despite dog's objections, 100.

Dogs chase fox from chicken-coop, *135; Helpful d, 300, 327, *340 A; in bag, 154; punish woman for cheating at mill, 831 *C; with extraordinary names, 1940 *D, *E.

Dog's certificate, 200, death avenged by sparrow, 248.

Doll stabbed and honey runs out, *970.

Don Juan, *835.

Donkey, Flies attracted by dead d, 875.

Door closed tightly, 1014; falls on thieves, 1653; guarded, 1009.

title: Page:FFC90.djvu/175


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Cristall, Joshua


text:
Page:FFC90.djvu/176

174 Dove and magpie exchange eggs, 240; girl, 400 *B, 408 *A; Magician's pupil as d warns parents, 325; Pin in head transforms lover into d, 408, 425; revives lovers, *445 A; to fly into church, 1837.

Doves called with whistle, 300; sent with call for help, 311.

Dove's eggs, 240; keen sight, 238; small nest, 236.

Dowery, Suitor asks for girl and d (Repetition), *2228.

Dragon, See ogre.

Dragon, 300—359; persecutes innocent wife, 706 *A.

Dragon's heartblood as remedy, 305*.

Dream, 725; Adventure told as d, 1364; bread, 1626; of parsons in Hell, 1738; of treasure on bridge, 1645; Picture painted of d girl, 516; Strong John born of d, 650.

Dress of gold, silver, and stars, 510 B.

Drink, Must not d, 400.

Drinking from skull, 326; lake dry for reflection of girl, 1141*; pond dry, 327; well dry to get reflected moon, 34, *64.

Driver, Mute d and deaf women, *1587.

Dropped figs eaten by sister, 327; food and scorned lover, 900.

Drowning crayfish, 1310; fox, *66 B; sickle, 1202.

Drowns, Fool d corpses, 1536 B.

Drum, Boy in d, 700.

Drunkard kills wife, 1537 *B.

Drying the candle, 1270.

Duck and others gain possession of house, 210; bride, 403 A; helper, 554; persuades cock to cut off crest and spurs, *208; sheep and cock at sea, 204.

Duel with long poles, 1083.

Duelers, Cowardly d, 104.

Dungbeetle, 559.

Dungheap, Swords grow in d, 303.

Dwarfs, Gifts of d, 503, 611; Helpful d, 301, 403 B.

Dying, Conversation with d husband, *805.

Eagle as judge, 220; carries hero, 313, 408 *A, 425, 551; drops man, 327 *F; helper, 554; not invited to wedding, 224; warns shepherds of wolf, *229.

Ear, Brother gives e for lion's milk, 301; of Devil, 301; Pins stuck behind princess' e, 306 *A.

Earth, Distance from Heaven to Hell or earth to sun, 922; Man in Heaven who wishes to return to e, *808.

Eat, Must not e, 400; only onions, garlic, bread and water, *1516.

Eaten, Egg e off ground, 900; moon, 34, *64, 1335.

Eating, Animals e man in trap, 20 B; Animals e one

title: Page:FFC90.djvu/176


text:
Page:FFC90.djvu/177

FFC 90 another, 20; black hand, 311; contest, 203*, 1088; own entrails, 21; Stop e when kicked, 1363 *A.

Eating, See children.

Eats, Father e son whom stepmother secretly killed, 720; Fox as nursemaid e young, 37; Fox e fellow lodgers, 170; Fox e lost eye, *135 B; Monster e people and animals, 333; Pig e money, *891; Wife e guest's fish, 1741.

Egg becomes bloody as sign of guilt, 311; contest, *1942; eaten off ground, 900; Hiding in raven's e, 329; Ogre's heart in e, 302; Strong John born from e, 650.

Eggs, Birds exchange e, 240; Bird's e shot and sewed up, 653; Dispute over e, 1365 *D; Fool sits on e, *1693, 1696; Inexhaustible basket of e, 594; Lawsuit over accumulated e bill, 821 B; Tailor, e, and sausage, *1715.

Election of birdking, 221.

Elf in new habit, Misc *1.

Elf's ear, 301.

Elfking, 367*.

Elk's, Needle in e belly, 90.

Eloping with wrong man, 306 *A.

Elsie, Clever E, 1450.

Elves' gifts, 503.

Enchanted pear tree, 1423; relative, 400—459.

Enchantment broken by destroying external soul, 302, or by murder, 400 *A, or by prayer, 307.

Endless tales, 2300.

Enmity betveen cats and dogs, 200.

Enticing frog from hole, 242.

Entrails of corpse stolen, 366; Wolf eats his own e, 21.

Entry into princess' chamber inside ram, 854.

Equivocal names, 1940; oath, 1418.

Escape by asking respite for prayer, 227; by blinding guard, 73; by false plea, 122; by giving three counsels, 150; by sham death, 33; through help of ogre's daughter, 313; under ram's belly, 1137.

Eulenspiegel, 875.

Euphuisms, *925, 1940.

Eustacius, 938.

Everyone to his own duties, 85.

Eve's children classified by God, *758.

Evil, Snares of the E One, 810; woman in glass coffin, 1170; woman thrown into pit, 1164.

Exchange, Birds e eggs, 240; Profitable e, 1655.

Exchanged children, 920, 975*; duties bring misfortune, 85; nightcaps, 1119.

Experience, Wise through e, 910 A.

title: Page:FFC90.djvu/177


text:
Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/295

CANTO II.] "And now come Torture when it will, or may—

More need of rest to nerve me for the day!"

This said, with langour to his mat he crept,

And, whatso'er his visions, quickly slept.

'Twas hardly midnight when that fray begun,

For Conrad's plans matured, at once were done,

And Havoc loathes so much the waste of time,

She scarce had left an uncommitted crime.

One hour beheld him since the tide he stemmed—

Disguised—discovered—conquering—ta'en—condemned—

A Chief on land—an outlaw on the deep—

Destroying—saving—prisoned—and asleep!

XII.

He slept in calmest seeming, for his breath

Was hushed so deep—Ah! happy if in death!

He slept—Who o'er his placid slumber bends?

His foes are gone—and here he hath no friends;

Is it some Seraph sent to grant him grace?

No, 'tis an earthly form with heavenly face!

Its white arm raised a lamp—yet gently hid,

Lest the ray flash abruptly on the lid,

Of that closed eye, which opens but to pain,

And once unclosed—but once may close again.

That form, with eye so dark, and cheek so fair,

And auburn waves of gemmed and braided hair;


text:
Appletons' Cyclopædia of American Biography/Welsh, Herbert

WELSH, Herbert, reformer, b. in Philadelphia, 4 Dec., 1851, is a son of the philanthropist John Welsh (q. v.), who was American minister to Great Britain, and was graduated at the University of Pennsylvania in 1871. He studied art in his native city and in the studio of Bonnat, of Paris, and for a period practised his profession in Philadelphia. He was one of the organizers, in 1882, and has ever since been the secretary of the Indian rights association; one of the leaders of the movement in 1890 against political corruption and boss-rule in Pennsylvania, resulting in the defeat of Delamater and the election of Pattison for governor; president of the Civil reform association of Pennsylvania, and a member of the executive committee National civil service reform league. Since 1895 Mr. Welsh has been the editor and publisher of the “City and State,” a weekly devoted to good government, and is well known as a lecturer on the Indian question, civil service reform, and municipal government, and as contributor to the magazines of articles on those topics. He is the author of “Degradation in Pennsylvania Politics,” “Civilization among the Sioux Indians,” “Four Weeks among some of the Sioux Tribes,” “A Visit to the Navajo, Pueblo, and Hualpais Indians,” and many other pamphlets.


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Page:The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero) - Volume 3.djvu/297

CANTO II.] "Pirate! thou know'st me not, but I am one,

Grateful for deeds thou hast too rarely done;

Look on me—and remember her, thy hand

Snatched from the flames, and thy more fearful band.

I come through darkness—and I scarce know why—

Yet not to hurt—I would not see thee die."

"If so, kind lady! thine the only eye

That would not here in that gay hope delight:

Theirs is the chance—and let them use their right.

But still I thank their courtesy or thine,

That would confess me at so fair a shrine!"

Strange though it seem—yet with extremest grief

Is linked a mirth—it doth not bring relief—

That playfulness of Sorrow ne'er beguiles,

And smiles in bitterness—but still it smiles;

And sometimes with the wisest and the best,

Till even the scaffold echoes with their jest!

Yet not the joy to which it seems akin—

It may deceive all hearts, save that within.

Whate'er it was that flashed on Conrad, now

A laughing wildness half unbent his brow:

And these his accents had a sound of mirth,

As if the last he could enjoy on earth;

Yet 'gainst his nature—for through that short life,

Few thoughts had he to spare from gloom and strife.


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NOTES  (page 364). Born at Asti. Studied (very little) at the Academy of Turin. Entered the army, travelled over most of Europe. Returned to Tuscany to learn Italian; was at Siena, and at Florence where he met the Countess of Albany, wife of Charles Edward Stuart. Was in Rome with her, 1781-3. Made over all his property to his sister in order to free himself from allegiance to Piedmont. Went to Paris, Flanders, and Germany. Returned to Florence in 1792 and died there. Buried in Santa Croce. Chief works: tragedies—Polinice, Antigone, Virginia, Agamennone, Oreste, Ottavia, Timoleone, Merope, Agide, Sofonisba, Bruto Primo, Mirra, Bruto Secondo, Filippo, Rosamunda, Maria Stuarda, Congiura de' Pazzi, Don Garzia, Saul; comedies—La Finestrina, Il Divorzio, L'Uno, I Pochi, I Troppi, L'Antidoto. His Vita is extremely interesting. Il Misogallo is a collection of furious polemics against the French. [Opere, 22 vols., Pisa, 1815.]

272. Canto di David. Saul: att. , sc. 4.

 (page 378). Born at Verona. Studied at Modena; went to Paris, London, Berlin, and Vienna. A patriot. Wrote tragedies, and a romantic novel in rime (Antonio Foscarini e Teresa Contarini). Translated Greek, Latin, and English. Died at Verona. [Poesie originali, ed. Torri, Firenze, 1858.]

 (page 381). Born near Fusignano. Studied at Faenza and Ferrara. Went to Rome in 1778; secretary to Braschi, Pius VI's nephew. An Arcadian. Wrote the Bassvilliana, an attack on France, 1793; was suspected by the Sacred College on account of his liberal opinions. Became a friend of Marmont, Napoleon's aide-de-camp, and went to Florence with him, resigning his appointment in Rome. His Bassvilliana was solemnly burnt in the Piazza del Duomo at Milan. He became Secretary for Foreign Affairs at Milan in spite of his unpopularity, and 560


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268 I am his slave—but, in despite of pride,

'Twere worse than bondage to become his bride.

Oh! that this dotage of his breast would cease!

Or seek another and give mine release,

But yesterday—I could have said, to peace!

Yes, if unwonted fondness now I feign,

Remember—Captive! 'tis to break thy chain;

Repay the life that to thy hand I owe;

To give thee back to all endeared below,

Who share such love as I can never know.

Farewell—Morn breaks—and I must now away:

'Twill cost me dear—but dread no death to-day!"

XV.

She pressed his fettered fingers to her heart,

And bowed her head, and turned her to depart,

And noiseless as a lovely dream is gone.

And was she here? and is he now alone?

What gem hath dropped and sparkles o'er his chain?

The tear most sacred, shed for others' pain,

That starts at once—bright—pure—from Pity's mine,

Already polished by the hand divine!

Oh! too convincing—dangerously dear—

In Woman's eye the unanswerable tear!

That weapon of her weakness she can wield,

To save, subdue—at once her spear and shield:

Avoid it—Virtue ebbs and Wisdom errs,

Too fondly gazing on that grief of hers


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 "Please let me try it once, Tom—just once." Experience had long ago taught him that this was asking too much of Tom; but with the new hope that the violin might now soon become his, his desire to handle it was ungovernable.

"Now look here, David," replied Tom, with a great show of kindness in his manner, "I'd let you try it once, but you'd spoil the tone. It's taken me a long time to get a good tone into this fiddle, and you'd take it all out the very first whack. As soon as you learn to get a good tone out of it, I'll let you play on it. Don't you know you'd spoil it, if I was to let you try it now?" he added, suddenly wheeling with tremendous energy upon his timid petitioner.

"I'm afraid I would, Tom," replied David, with a voice full of anguish.

"But just listen to me," said Tom; and taking up the violin, he rendered the opening passage of "O Thou Fount of every Blessing!" Scarcely had he finished when a customer entered the shop, and he hurried to the front, leaving the violin and the bow on the chair that he had quitted.

No sooner was he gone than the little figure slipped noiselessly from its perch, and hobbling quickly to the chair on which the violin lay, stood beside it in silent love. Touch it he durst not; but his sensitive, delicate hands passed tremblingly over it, and his eyes dwelt upon it with unspeakable longing. Then, with a sigh, he turned away, and hastened to the front of the shop. Tom had already dismissed his customer, and was standing in the door, looking down the street in the direction of the Kentucky Hotel, where a small crowd had collected around the entrance of the museum.


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 As David stepped out upon the sidewalk, it was the sight of this crowd that recalled him to a new sorrow.

"Tom," he cried, with longing, "are you going to see the wax figures?"

"Of course I'm going," he replied, carelessly. "We're all going."

"When, Tom?" asked David, with breathless interest.

"Whenever we want to, of course," replied Tom. "I'm not going just once; I'm going as often as I like."

"Why don't you go now, Tom? It's so hot—they might melt."

This startling view of the case was not without its effect on Tom, although a suggestion from such a source was not to be respected. He merely threw his eyes up towards the heavens and said, sturdily: "You ninny! they'll not melt. Don't you see it's going to rain and turn cooler?"

"I'll bet you I'd not wait for it to turn cooler. I'll bet you I'd be in there before you could say Jack Roberson, if I had a quarter," said David, with resolution.

All that long afternoon he hung in feverish excitement around the door of the museum. There was scarce a travelling show in Kentucky in those days. It was not strange if to this idler of the streets, in whom imagination was all-powerful, and in whose heart quivered ungovernable yearnings for the heroic, the poetic, and the beautiful, this day of the first exhibition of wax figures was the most memorable of his life.

It was so easy for everybody to go in who wished; so


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 impossible for him. Groups of gay ladies slipped their silver half-dollars through the variegated meshes of their silken purses. The men came in jolly twos and threes, and would sometimes draw out great rolls of bills. Now a kind-faced farmer passed in, dropping into the hands of the door-keeper a half-dollar for himself, and three quarters for three sleek negroes that followed at his heels; and now a manufacturer with a couple of apprentices—lads of David's age and friends of his. Poor little fellow! at many a shop of the town he had begged to be taken as an apprentice himself, but no one would have him because he was lame.

And now the people were beginning to pour out, and he hovered about them, hoping in this way to get some idea of what was going on inside. Once, with the courage of despair, he seized the arm of a lad as he came out.

"Oh, Bobby, tell me all about it!"

But Bobby shook him off, and skipped away to tell somebody else who didn't want to hear.

After a while two sweet-faced ladies dressed in mourning appeared. As they passed down the street he was standing on the sidewalk, and there must have been something in his face to attract the attention of one of them, for she paused, and in the gentlest manner said:

"My little man, how did you like the wax figures and the picture?"

"Oh, madam," he replied, his eyes filling, "I have not seen them!"

"But you will see them, I hope," she said, moving away, but bestowing on him the lingering smile of bereft motherhood.


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 The twilight fell, and still he lingered, until, with a sudden remorseful thought of his mother, he turned away and passed up the dark street. His tongue was parched, there was a lump in his throat, and a numb pain about his heart. Far up the street he paused and looked back. A lantern had been swung out over the entrance of the museum, and the people were still passing in.

A happy man was the Reverend James Moore the next morning. The lottery had been a complete success, and he would henceforth have a comfortable church, in which the better to save the souls of his fellow-creatures. The leading vestry-man had drawn the capital prize, and while the other members who had drawn blanks were not exactly satisfied, on the whole the result seemed as good as providential. As he walked down town at an early hour, he was conscious of suffering from a dangerous elation of spirit; and more than once his silent prayer had been: "Lord, let me not be puffed up this day! Let me not be blinded with happiness! Keep the eyes of my soul clear, that I overlook no duty! What have I, unworthy servant, done that I should be so fortunate?"

Now and then, as he passed along, a church member would wring his hand and offer congratulations. After about fifteen years of a more or less stranded condition a magnificent incoming tide of prosperity now seemed to lift him off his very feet.

From wandering rather blindly about the streets for a while, he started for the new church, remembering


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 that he had an engagement with a committee of ladies, who had taken in charge the furnishing of it. But when he reached there, no one had arrived but the widow Babcock. She was very beautiful; and looking at womankind from behind his veil of unfamiliarity, the parson, despite his logic, had always felt a desire to lift that veil when standing in her presence. The intoxication of his mood was not now lessened by coming upon her so unexpectedly alone.

"My dear Mrs. Babcock," he said, offering her his hand in his beautiful manner, "it seems peculiarly fitting that you should be the first of the ladies to reach the spot; for it would have pained me to think you less zealous than the others. The vestry needs not only your taste in furniture, but the influence of your presence."

The widow dropped her eyes, the gallantry of the speech being so unusual. "I came early on purpose," she replied, in a voice singularly low and tremulous. "I wanted to see you alone. Oh, Mr. Moore, the ladies of this town owe you such a debt of gratitude! You have been such a comfort to those who are sad, such a support to those who needed strengthening! And who has needed these things as much as I?"

As she spoke, the parson, with a slight look of apprehension, had put his back against the wall, as was apt to be his way when talking with ladies.

"Who has needed these things as I have?" continued the widow, taking a step forward, and with increasing agitation. "Oh, Mr. Moore, I should be an ungrateful woman if I did not mingle my congratulations with the others. And I want to do this now with my whole soul. May God bless you, and crown the labors of


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 your life with every desire of your heart!" And saying this, the widow laid the soft tips of one hand on one of the parson's shoulders, and raising herself slightly on tiptoe, kissed him.

"Oh, Mrs. Babcock!" cried the dismayed logician, "what have you done?" But the next moment, the logician giving place to the man, he grasped one of her hands, and murmuring, "May God bless you for that!" seized his hat, and hurried out into the street.

The most careless observer might have been interested in watching his movements as he walked away.

He carried his hat in his hand, forgetting to put it on. Several persons spoke to him on the street, but he did not hear them. He strode a block or two in one direction, and then a block or two in another.

"If she does it again," he muttered to himself—"if she does it again, I'll marry her! . . . Old? . . . I could run a mile in a minute!"

As he was passing the music-store, the dealer called out to him:

"Come in, parson. I've got a present for you."

"A—present—for—me?" repeated the parson, blank with amazement. In his life the little music-dealer had never made him a present.

"Yes, a present," repeated the fortunate vestry-man, whose dry heart, like a small seed-pod, the wind of good-fortune had opened, so that a few rattling germs of generosity dropped out. Opening a drawer behind his counter, he now took out a roll of music. "Here's some new music for your flute," he said. "Accept it with my compliments."

New music for his flute! The parson turned it over


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 dreamily, and it seemed that the last element of disorder had come to derange his faculties.

"And Mrs. Leuba sends her compliments, and would like to have you to dinner," added the shopkeeper, looking across the counter with some amusement at the expression of the parson, who now appeared as much shocked as though his whole nervous system had been suddenly put in connection with a galvanic battery of politeness.

It was a very gay dinner, having been gotten up to celebrate the drawing of the prize. The entire company were to go in the afternoon to see the waxworks, and some of the ladies wore especial toilets, with a view to having their profiles taken.

"Have you been to see the waxworks, Mr. Moore?" inquired a spinster roguishly, wiping a drop of soup from her underlip.

The unusual dinner, the merriment, the sense of many ladies present, mellowed the parson like old wine.

"No, madam," he replied, giddily; "but I shall go this very afternoon. I find it impossible any longer to deny myself the pleasure of beholding the great American Coquette and the Sleeping Beauty. I must take my black sheep," he continued, with expanding warmth. "I must drive my entire flock of soiled lambs into the favored and refining presence of Miss Julia Granby."

Keeping to this resolution, as soon as dinner was over he made his excuses to the company, and set off to collect a certain class of boys which he had scraped together by hook and crook from the by-ways of the town, and about an hour later he might have been seen driving them before him towards the entrance of the museum. There he shouldered his way cheerfully up


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 to the door, and shoved each of the lads good-naturedly in, finally passing in himself, with a general glance at the by-standers, as if to say, "Was there ever another man as happy in this world?"

But he soon came out, leaving his wild lambs to browse at will in those fresh pastures, and took his way up street homeward. He seemed to be under some necessity of shaking them off in order to enjoy the solitude of his thoughts.

"If she does it again! . . . If she does it again! . . . Whee! whee! whee!—whee! whee! whee!" and he began to whistle for his flute with a nameless longing.

It was soon after this that the two women heard him playing the reel, and watched him perform certain later incredible evolutions. For whether one event, or all events combined, had betrayed him into this outbreak, henceforth he was quite beside himself.

Is it possible that on this day the Reverend James Moore had driven the ancient, rusty, creaky chariot of his faculties too near the sun of love?

A sad day it had been meantime for the poor lad.

He had gotten up in the morning listless and dull and sick at the sight of his breakfast. But he had feigned to be quite well that he might have permission to set off down-town. There was no chance of his being able to get into the museum, but he was drawn irresistibly thither for the mere pleasure of standing around and watching the people, and hoping that something—something would turn up. He was still there


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 when his dinner-hour came, but he never thought of this. Once, when the door-keeper was at leisure, he had hobbled up and said to him, with a desperate effort to smile, "Sir, if I were rich, I'd live in your museum for about five years."

But the door-keeper had pushed him rudely back, telling him to be off and not obstruct the sidewalk.

He was still standing near the entrance when the parson came down the street driving his flock of boys. Ah, if he had only joined that class, as time after time he had been asked to do!

All at once his face lit up with a fortunate inspiration, and pushing his way to the very side of the door-keeper, he placed himself there that the parson might see him and take him with the


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 ; for had he not said that he must be sure to go? But when the parson came up, this purpose had failed him, and he had apparently shrunk to half his size behind the bulk of the door-keeper, fearing most of all things that the parson would discover him and know why he was there.

He was still lingering outside when the parson reappeared and started homeward; and he sat down and watched him out of sight. He seemed cruelly hurt, and his eyes filled with tears.

"I'd have taken him in the very first one," he said, choking down a sob; and then, as if he felt this to be unjust, he murmured over and over: "Maybe he forgot me; maybe he didn't mean it; maybe he forgot me."

Perhaps an hour later, slowly and with many pauses, he drew near the door of the parson's home. There he lifted his hand three times before he could knock.

"The parson's not at home," the widow Spurlock had called sharply down to him.

With this the last hope had died out of his bosom; for having dwelt long on the parson's kindness to him—upon all the parson's tireless efforts to befriend him—he had summoned the courage at last to go and ask him to lend him a quarter.

With little thought of whither he went, he now turned back down-town, but some time later he was still standing at the entrance of the museum.

He looked up the street again. All the Leubas were coming, Tom walking, with a very haughty air, a few feet ahead.

"Why don't you go in?" he said, loudly, walking up to David and jingling the silver in his pockets. "What


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 are you standing out here for? If you want to go in, why don't you go in?"

"Oh, Tom!" cried David, in a whisper of eager confidence, his utterance choked with a sob, "I haven't got any money."

"I'd hate to be as poor as you are," said Tom, contemptuously. "I'm going this evening, and to-night, and as often as I want," and he turned gayly away to join the others.

He was left alone again, and his cup of bitterness, which had been filling drop by drop, now ran over.

Several groups came up just at that moment. There was a pressure and a jostling of the throng. As Mr. Leuba, who had made his way up to the door-keeper, drew a handful of silver from his pocket, some one accidentally struck his elbow, and several pieces fell to the pavement. Then there was laughter and a scrambling as these were picked up and returned. But out through the legs of the crowd one bright silver quarter rolled unseen down the sloping sidewalk towards the spot where David was standing.

It was all done in an instant. He saw it coming; the little crutch was set forward a pace, the little body was swung silently forward, and as the quarter fell over on its shining side, the dirty sole of a brown foot covered it.

The next minute, with a sense of triumph and bounding joy, the poverty-tortured, friendless little thief had crossed the threshold of the museum, and stood face to face with the Redeemer of the world; for the picture was so hung as to catch the eye upon entering, and it arrested his quick, roving glance and held it in awestricken fascination. Unconscious of his own


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, he drew nearer and nearer, until he stood a few feet in front of the arc of spectators, with his breathing all but suspended, and one hand crushing the old blue cloth cap against his naked bosom.

It was a strange meeting. The large rude painting possessed no claim to art. But to him it was an overwhelming revelation, for he had never seen any pictures, and he was gifted with an untutored love of painting. Over him, therefore, it exercised an inthralling influence, and it was as though he stood in the visible presence of One whom he knew that the parson preached of and his mother worshipped.

Forgetful of his surroundings, long he stood and gazed. Whether it may have been the thought of the stolen quarter that brought him to himself, at length he drew a deep breath, and looked quickly around with a frightened air. From across the room he saw Mr. Leuba watching him gravely, as it seemed to his guilty conscience, with fearful sternness. A burning flush dyed his face, and he shrank back, concealing himself among the crowd. The next moment, without ever having seen or so much as thought of anything else in the museum, he slipped out into the street.

There the eyes of everybody seemed turned upon him. Where should he go? Not home. Not to Mr. Leuba's music-store. No; he could never look into Mr. Leuba's face again. And Tom? He could hear Tom crying out, wherever he should meet him, "You stole a quarter from father."

In utter terror and shame, he hurried away out to the southern end of the town, where there was an abandoned rope-walk.

It was a neglected place, damp and unhealthy. In


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 the farthest corner of it he lay down and hid himself in a clump of iron-weeds. Slowly the moments dragged themselves along. Of what was he thinking? Of his mother? Of the parson? Of the violin that would now never be his? Of that wonderful sorrowful face which he had seen in the painting? The few noises of the little town grew very faint, the droning of the bumblebee on the purple tufts of the weed overhead very loud, and louder still the beating of his heart against the green grass as he lay on his side, with his head on his blue cap and his cheek in his hand. And then he fell asleep.

When he awoke he started up bewildered. The sun had set, and the heavy dews of twilight were falling. A chill ran through him; and then the recollection of what had happened came over him with a feeling of desolation. When it was quite dark he left his hiding-place and started back up-town.

He could reach home in several ways, but a certain fear drew him into the street which led past the music-store. If he could only see Mr. Leuba, he felt sure that he could tell by the expression of his face whether he had missed the quarter. At some distance off he saw by the light of the windows Mr. Leuba standing in front of his shop talking to a group of men. Noiselessly he drew near, noiselessly he was passing without the courage to look up.

"Stop, David. Come in here a moment. I want to talk to you."

As Mr. Leuba spoke, he apologized to the gentlemen for leaving, and turned back into the rear of the shop. Faint, and trembling so that he could scarcely stand, his face of a deadly whiteness, the boy followed.


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 "David," said Mr. Leuba—in his whole life he had never spoken so kindly; perhaps his heart had been touched by some belated feeling, as he had studied the boy's face before the picture in the museum, and certainly it had been singularly opened by his good-fortune—"David," he said, "I promised when I got rich enough I'd give Tom a new violin, and give you his old one. Well, I gave him a new one to-day; so here's yours," and going to a corner of the room, he took up the box, brought it back, and would have laid it on the boy's arm, only there was no arm extended to receive it.

"Take it! It's yours!"

"Oh, Mr. Leuba!"

It was all he could say. He had expected to be charged with stealing the quarter, and instead there was held out to him the one treasure in the world—the violin of which he had dreamed so long, for which he had served so faithfully.

"Oh, Mr. Leuba!"

There was a pitiful note in the cry, but the dealer was not the man to hear it, or to notice the look of angelic contrition on the upturned face. He merely took the lad's arm, bent it around the violin, patted the ragged cap, and said, a little impatiently:

"Come, come! they're waiting for me at the door. To-morrow you can come down and run some more errands for me," and he led the way to the front of the shop and resumed his conversation.

Slowly along the dark street the lad toiled homeward with his treasure. At any other time he would have sat down on the first curb-stone, opened the box, and in ecstatic joy have lifted out that peerless instrument;


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 or he would have sped home with it to his mother, flying along on his one crutch as if on the winds of heaven. But now he could not look at it, and something clogged his gait so that he loitered and faltered and sometimes stood still irresolute.

But at last he approached the log-cabin which was his home. A rude fence enclosed the yard, and in side this fence there grew a hedge of lilacs. When he was within a few feet of the gate he paused, and did what he had never done before—he put his face close to the panels of the fence, and with a look of guilt and sorrow peeped through the lilacs at the face of his mother, who was sitting in the light of the open door-way.

She was thinking of him. He knew that by the patient sweetness of her smile. All the heart went out of him at the sight, and hurrying forward, he put the violin down at her feet, and threw his arms around her neck, and buried his head on her bosom.

After he had made his confession, a restless and feverish night he had of it, often springing up from his troubled dreams and calling to her in the darkness. But the next morning he insisted upon getting up for a while.

Towards the afternoon he grew worse again, and took to his bed, the yellow head tossing to and fro, the eyes bright and restless, and his face burning. At length he looked up and said to his mother, in the manner of one who forms a difficult resolution: "Send


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 for the parson. Tell him I am sick and want to see him."

It was this summons that the widow Spurlock had delivered on the Sunday afternoon when the parson

had quitted the house with such a cry of distress. He had not so much as thought of the boy since the Friday morning previous.

"How is it possible," he exclaimed, as he hurried


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 on—"how is it possible that I could have forgotten him?"

The boy's mother met him outside the house and drew him into an adjoining room, silently, for her tears were falling. He sank into the first chair.

"Is he so ill?" he asked, under his trembling breath.

"I'm afraid he's going to be very ill. And to see him in so much trouble—"

"What is the matter? In God's name, has any thing happened to him?"

She turned her face away to hide her grief. "He said he would tell you himself. Oh, if I've been too hard with him! But I did it for the best. I didn't know until the doctor came that he was going to be ill, or I would have waited. Do anything you can to quiet him—anything he should ask you to do," she implored, and pointed towards the door of the room in which the boy lay.

Conscience-stricken and speechless, the parson opened it and entered.

The small white bed stood against the wall beneath an open window, and one bright-headed sunflower, growing against the house outside, leaned in and fixed its kind face anxiously upon the sufferer's.

The figure of the boy was stretched along the edge of the bed, his cheek on one hand and his eyes turned steadfastly towards the middle of the room, where, on a table, the violin lay exposed to view

He looked quickly towards the door as the parson entered, and an expression of relief passed over his face.

"Why, David," said the parson, chidingly, and crossing to the bed with a bright smile. "Sick? This will


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 never do;" and he sat down, imprisoning one of the burning palms in his own.

The boy said nothing, but looked at him searchingly, as though needing to lay aside masks and disguises and penetrate at once to the bottom truth. Then he asked, "Are you mad at me?"

"My poor boy!" said the parson, his lips trembling a little as he tightened his pressure—"my poor boy! why should I be mad at you?"

"You never could do anything with me."

"Never mind that now," said the parson, soothingly, but adding, with bitterness, "it was all my fault—all my fault."

"It wasn't your fault," said the boy. "It was mine."

A change had come over him in his treatment of the parson. Shyness had disappeared, as is apt to be the case with the sick.

"I want to ask you something," he added, confidentially.

"Anything—anything! Ask me anything!"

"Do you remember the wax figures?"

"Oh yes, I remember them very well," said the parson, quickly, uneasily.

"I wanted to see 'em, and I didn't have any money, and I stole a quarter from Mr. Leuba."

Despite himself a cry escaped the parson's lips, and dropping the boy's hand, he started from his chair and walked rapidly to and fro across the room, with the fangs of remorse fixed deep in his conscience.

"Why didn't you come to me?" he asked at length, in a tone of helpless entreaty. "Why didn't you come to me? Oh, if you had only come to me!"

"I did come to you," replied the boy.


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 "When?" asked the parson, coming back to the bed side.

"About three o'clock yesterday."

About three o'clock yesterday! And what was he doing at that time? He bent his head over to his very knees, hiding his face in his hands.

"But why didn't you let me know it? Why didn't you come in?"

"Mrs. Spurlock told me you were at work on a sermon."

"God forgive me!" murmured the parson, with a groan.


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 "I thought you'd lend me a quarter," said the boy, simply. "You took the other boys, and you told me I must be certain to go. I thought you'd lend me a quarter till I could pay you back."

"Oh, David!" cried the parson, getting down on his knees by the bedside, and putting his arms around the boy's neck, "I would have lent you—I would have given you—anything I have in this poor world!"

The boy threw his arms around the parson's neck and clasped him close. "Forgive me!"

"Oh, boy! boy! can you forgive me?" Sobs stifled the parson's utterance, and he went to a window on the opposite side of the room.

When he turned his face inward again, he saw the boy's gaze fixed once more intently upon the violin.

"There's something I want you to do for me," he said. "Mr. Leuba gave me a violin last night, and mamma says I ought to sell it and pay him back. Mamma says it will be a good lesson for me." The words seemed wrung from his heart's core. "I thought I'd ask you to sell it for me. The doctor says I may be sick a long time, and it worries me." He began to grow excited, and tossed from side to side.

"Don't worry," said the parson, "I'll sell it for you."

The boy looked at the violin again. To him it was priceless, and his eyes grew heavy with love for it. Then he said, cautiously: "I thought you'd get a good price for it. I don't think I could take less than a hundred dollars. It's worth more than that, but if I have to sell it, I don't think I could take less than a hundred dollars," and he fixed his burning eyes on the parson's.

"Don't worry! I'll sell it for you. Oh yes, you can


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 easily get a hundred dollars for it. I'll bring you a hundred dollars for it by to-morrow morning."

As the parson was on the point of leaving the room, with the violin under his arm, he paused with his hand on the latch, an anxious look gathering in his face. Then he came back, laid the violin on the table, and going to the bedside, took the boy's hands in both of his own.

"David," said the moral philosopher, wrestling in his consciousness with the problem of evil—"David, was it the face of the Saviour that you wished to see? Was it this that tempted you to—" and he bent over the boy breathless.

"I wanted to see the Sleeping Beauty."

The parson turned away with a sigh of acute disappointment.

It was on this night that he was seen to enter his room with a boy's violin under his arm, and later to hang it, and hang his beloved flute, tied with a blue ribbon, above the meagre top shelf of books—Fuller's Gospel, Petrarch, Volney's Ruins, Zollicoffer's Sermons, and the Horrors of San Domingo. After that he remained motionless at his table, with his head bowed on his folded arms, until the candle went out, leaving him in inner and outer darkness. Moralist, logician, philosopher, he studied the transgression, laying it at last solely to his own charge.

At daybreak he stood outside the house with the physician who had been with the boy during the night. "Will he die?" he asked.

The physician tapped his forehead with his forefinger. "The chances are against him. The case has peculiar complications. All night it has been nothing


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 but the wax figures and the stolen quarter and the violin. His mother has tried to persuade him not to sell it. But he won't bear the sight of it now, although he is wild at the thought of selling it."

"David," said the parson, kneeling by the bedside, and speaking in a tone pitiful enough to have recalled a soul from the other world—"David, here's the money for the violin; here's the hundred dollars," and he pressed it into one of the boy's palms. The hand closed upon it, but there was no recognition. It was half a year's salary.

The first sermon that the parson preached in the new church was on the Sunday after the boy's death. It was expected that he would rise to the occasion and surpass himself, which, indeed, he did, drawing tears even from the eyes of those who knew not that they could shed them, and all through making the greatest effort to keep back his own. The subject of the sermon was "The Temptations of the Poor." The sermon of the following fortnight was on the "Besetting Sin," the drift of it going to show that the besetting sin may be the one pure and exquisite pleasure of life, involving only the exercise of the loftiest faculty. And this was followed by a third sermon on "The Kiss that Betrayeth," in which the parson ransacked history for illustrations to show that every species of man—ancient, mediæval, and modern—had been betrayed in this way. During the delivery of this sermon the parson looked so cold and even severe that it was not understood why the emotions of any one should have been touched, or why the widow Babcock should have lowered her veil and wept bitterly.

And thus being ever the more loved and revered as


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 he grew ever the more lovable and saint-like, he passed onward to the close. But not until the end came did he once stretch forth a hand to touch his flute; and it was only in imagination then that he grasped it, to sound the final roll-call of his wandering faculties, and to blow a last good-night to his tired spirit.


text: The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 3/The Corsair


text: The Works of Lord Byron (ed. Coleridge, Prothero)/Poetry/Volume 3/The Corsair/Canto I