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Author:Anthony Hope Hawkins

Fiction

 * Ruritania trilogy
 * 1) The Heart of Princess Osra, (1896; previously serialised in To-Day magazine 1895)  illus. H. C. Edwards
 * 2) The Prisoner of Zenda, 1899 (1894) illus. Charles Dana Gibson
 * 3) Rupert of Hentzau, 1898 illus. Charles Dana Gibson
 * The Indiscretion of the Duchess: being a story concerning two ladies, a nobleman, and a necklace. 1894.
 * The Dolly Dialogues, (Victoria House Printing Company, 1899) 1894.
 * The Dolly Dialogues (R H Russell, 1901). illus. Howard Chandler Christy
 * The King's Mirror, 1899. illus. Frank T. Merrill $PG$
 * Comedies of Courtship (1896) collection
 * The Wheel of Love novella
 * The Lady of the Pool novella
 * The Curate of Poltons ss
 * A Three-Volume Novel (1894 Short Stories) ss
 * The Philosopher in the Apple-Orchard (1894 Short Stories) ss
 * The Decree of Duke Deodonato (1895 English Illustrated) ss
 * Sophy of Kravonia, 1906.
 * Helena's Path, 1907 (sl, Windsor magazine, 1907 Jun–Oct) illus. Fred Pegram $PG$
 * Love's Logic and Other Stories, 1908
 * Mrs. Thistleton's Princess (1904 Windsor magazine)
 * The Necessary Resources
 * Miss Gladwin's Chance
 * The Prince Consort
 * What Was Expected of Miss Constantine (1906 Century magazine)
 * Slim-Fingered Jim (1904 Windsor magazine)
 * The Gray Frock
 * Foreordained (1904 Windsor magazine)
 * Prudence and the Bishop
 * The Opened Door
 * Love's Logic (play; first published 1905, Windsor magazine)
 * "La Mort à la Mode" (play)
 * The Riddle of Countess Runa (1904 Windsor magazine)
 * The Lady and the Flagon
 * The Duke's Allotment [#Duke of Belleville]
 * Sport Royal and Other Stories. 1893. IA $PG$
 * The Secret of the Tower. 1919 IA $PG$

 * A Man of Mark. 1890. IA $PG$
 * Father Stafford. 1891. IA $PG$
 * Mr Witt's Widow: A Frivolous Tale. 1892. IA $PG$
 * A Change of Air. 1893. IA $PG$
 * Half a Hero. 1893. IA $PG$
 * The God in the Car. 1894. IA$PG$
 * The Chronicles of Count Antonio. 1895. $PG$
 * Phroso: A Romance. 1897. IA $PG$
 * Simon Dale. 1898. IA $PG$
 * Quisanté. 1900. IA $PG$
 * Tristram of Blent: an episode in the story of an ancient house. 1901. IA $PG$
 * The Intrusions of Peggy. 1902. IA $PG$
 * Double Harness. 1904. IA $PG$
 * A Servant of the Public. 1905. IA $PG$
 * Tales of Two People. 1907. IA $PG$
 * The Great Miss Driver. 1908. IA $PG$
 * Pilkerton's Peerage: A Comedy in Four Acts, 1908 IA
 * Second String. 1910. IA $PG$
 * The Adventure of Lady Ursula; a comedy in four acts. 1910 IA
 * A Young Man's Year. 1915. IA $PG$
 * Captain Dieppe. 1918. $PG$
 * Beaumaroy Home from the Wars. 1919. IA $PG$
 * Lucinda. 1920. IA $PG$
 * Little Tiger. A Novel 1925.
 * Little Tiger. A Novel 1925.

Non-fiction

 * Dialogue. 1909.
 * The New (German) Testament: some texts and a commentary, 1914 IA
 * Militarism, German and British, 1915 IA
 * Why Italy is with the Allies, 1917 IA
 * Memories and Notes, 1927

Works from magazines

 * "The Adventure of Lady Ursula" (1899 English Illustrated) ss
 * "Aspirations—Explanations" (1896, McClure's) ss
 * "Aunt Loses" (1926-27, The Windsor Magazine) ss
 * "Celeste" (1897 Windsor) ss
 * "A Cut and a Kiss" (1894 English Illustrated) ss
 * "The Duchy of Deodonato" (1926 May, Ainslee's) ss
 * "An Embassy" (1894 Idler) ss
 * "Foreordained" (1904 Windsor) ss
 * "From the Collection of the Duke" (1914, Windsor) [#Duke of Belleville]  ss
 * "The Happiness of Stephen the Smith" (1895 To-day) ss
 * "Imagination" (1894 Idler) ss
 * "In Account with Mr. Peters" (1914, Windsor) play
 * "A Lesson in the Art" (1894 Idler) ss
 * "Love's Logic" (1905 Windsor) play
 * "Lucifera" (1894 Idler) ss
 * "A Man and His Model" (1895 English Illustrated)
 * "Mrs. Thistleton's Princess" (1904 Windsor) ss
 * "Not Practical" (1894 Idler) ss
 * "The Princess and the Republican" (1894 Short Stories) ss
 * "Promising" (1894 Idler) ss
 * "Pyrrha and Smugg" (1895, Cassell's Family Magazine) ss
 * "The Riddle of Countess Runa" (1904 Windsor) ss
 * "River and Ring" (1908, Windsor) ss
 * "Slim-Fingered Jim" (1904 Windsor) ss
 * "A Stage on the Road" (1914, Windsor) ss
 * "Uncle John and the Rubies" (1897 McClure's) ss
 * "The Vigil of Count Amadeo" (1896, Pearson's) ss
 * "What Was Expected of Miss Constantine" (1906 Century) ss
 * More Dolly Dialogues
 * "Ancient History" (1901 Windsor)
 * "The Curate's Bump" (1901 Windsor)
 * "A Life Subscription" (1901 Windsor)
 * "A Fatal Obstacle" (1901 Windsor)

 * Included in Comedies of Courtship (1896)
 * "A Three-Volume Novel" (1894 Short Stories) ss
 * "The Philosopher in the Apple-Orchard" (1894 Short Stories) ss
 * "The Decree of Duke Deodonato" (1895 English Illustrated)
 * Non-fiction
 * "Mr. C. D. Gibson on Love and Life" (1897, McClure's)

title: Author:Anthony Hope Hawkins


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User talk:128.186.245.16

Your edit has been removed, play nice or get blocked. Jeepday (talk) 23:33, 6 November 2012 (UTC)

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

title: User talk:128.186.245.16


text:
User talk:PatrickOfLondon

Jeepday (talk) 23:37, 6 November 2012 (UTC)

title: User talk:PatrickOfLondon


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 door, and I found myself standing before it; while through the skinned-over window, inches away, I heard noises.

Noises I call them, for at first I could not think they were voices. Several soft hummings or purrings came to my ears, from what source I knew not. Finally, though, actual words, high and raspy:

"We who keep the commandment love the law! Moloch, Lucifer, Bal-Tigh-Mor, Anector, Somiator, sleep ye not! Compel ye that the man approach!"

It had the sound of a prayer, and yet I recognized but one of the names called—Lucifer. Tutors, parsons, my late unhappy allies die Scots Covenentors, had used the name oft and fearfully. Prayer within that ugly lean house went up—or down, belike—to the fallen Son of the Morning. I stood against the door, pondering. My grandsire, King James, had believed and feared such folks' pretense. My father, who was King Charles before me, was pleased to doubt and be merciful, pardoning many accused witches and sorcerers. As for me, my short life had held scant leisure to decide such a matter. While I waited in the fine misty rain on the threshold, the high voice spoke again:

"Drive him to us! Drive him to us! Drive him to us!"

Silence within, and you may be sure silence without. A new voice, younger and thinner, made itself heard: "Naught comes to us."

"Respect the promises of our masters," replied the first. "What says the book?"

And yet a new voice, this time soft and a woman's: "Let the door be opened and the wayfarer be plucked in."

SWEAR that I had not the least impulse to retreat, even to step aside. 'Twas as if all my life depended on knowing more. As I stood, ears aprick like any cat's, the door creaked inward by three inches. An arm in a dark sleeve shot out, and fingers as lean and clutching as thorn-twigs fastened on the front of my jump-coat.

"I have him safe!" rasped the high voice that had prayed. A moment later I was drawn inside, before I could ask the reason.

There was one room to the house, and it stank of burning weeds. There were no chairs or other furniture, and no fireplace; but in the center of the tamped-clay floor burned an open fire, whose rank smoke climbed to a hole at the roof's peak. Around this fire was drawn a circle in white chalk, and around the circle a star in red. Close outside the star were the three whose voices I had heard.

Mine eyes lighted first on she who held the book—young she was and dainty. She sat on the floor, her feet drawn under her full skirt of black stuff. Above a white collar of Dutch style, her face was round and at the same time fine and fair, with a short red mouth and blue eyes like the clean sea.

Her hair, under a white cap, was as yellow as corn. She held in her slim white hands a thick book, whose cover looked to be grown over with dark hair, like the hide of a Galloway bull.

Her eyes held mine for two trices, then I looked beyond her to another seated person. He was small enough to be a child, but the narrow bright eyes in his thin face were older than the oldest I had seen, and the hands clasped around his bony knees were rough and sinewy, with large sore-seeming joints. His hair was scanty, and eke his eyebrows. His neck showed swollen painfully.

It is odd that my last look was for him who had drawn me in. He was tall, almost as myself, and grizzled hair fell on the shoulders of his velvet doublet. One claw still clapped hold of me and his face, a foot from mine, was as dark and bloodless as earth. Its lips were loose, its quivering nose broken. The eyes, cold and


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 wide as a frog's, were as steady as gun-muzzles.

He kicked the door shut, and let me go. "Name yourself," he rasped at me. "If you be not he whom we seek—"

"I am Will Jones, a poor woodcutter," I told him.

"Mmmm," murmured the wench with the book. "Belike the youngest of seven sons—sent forth by a cruel step-dame to seek fortune in the world. So runs the fairy tale, and we want none such. Your true name, sirrah."

I told her roundly that she was insolent, but she only smiled. And I never saw a fairer than she, not in all the courts of Europe—not even sweet Nell Gwyn. After many years I can see her eyes, a little slanting and a little hungry. Even when I was so young, women feared me, but this one did not.

"His word shall not need," spoke the thin young-old fellow by the fire. "Am I not here to make him prove himself?" He lifted his face so that the fire brightened it, and I saw hot red blotches thereon.

"True," agreed the grizzled man. "Sirrah, whether you be Will Jones the woodman or Charles Stuart the king, have you no mercy on poor Diccon yonder? If 'twould ease his ail, would you not touch him?"

That was a sneer, but I looked closer at the thin fellow called Diccon, and made sure that he was indeed sick and sorry. His face grew full of hope, turning up to me. I stepped closer to him.

"Why, with all my heart, if 'twill serve," I replied.

'"Ware the star and circle, step not within the star and circle," cautioned the wench, but I came not near those marks. Standing beside and above Diccon, I felt his brow, and felt that it was fevered. "A hot humor is in your blood, friend," I said to him, and touched the swelling on his neck.

But had there been a swelling there? I touched it, but 'twas suddenly gone, like a furtive mouse under my finger. Diccon's neck looked lean and healthy. His face smiled, and from it had fled the red blotches. He gave a cry and sprang to his feet

"'Tis past, 'tis past!" he howled. "I am whole again!"

But the eyes of his comrades were for me.

"Only a king could have done so," quote the older man. "Young sir, I do take you truly for Charles Stuart. At your touch Diccon was healed of the king's evil."

I folded my arms, as if I must keep my hands from doing more strangeness. I had heard, too, of that old legend of the Stuarts, without deeming myself concerned. Yet, here it had befallen. Diccon had suffered from the king's evil, which learned doctors call scrofula. My touch had driven it from his thin body. He danced and quivered with the joy of health. But his fellows looked at me as though I had betrayed myself by sin.

"It is indeed the king," said the girl, also rising to her feet.

"No," I made shift to say. "I am but poor Will Jones," and I wondered where I had let fall my axe. "Will Jones, a woodcutter."

"Yours to command, Will Jones," mocked the grizzled man. "My name is Valois Pembru, erst a schoolmaster. My daughter Regan," and he flourished one of his talons at the wench. "Diccon, our kinsman and servitor, you know already, well enough to heal him. For our profession, we are—are—"

E SEEMED to have said too much, and his daughter came to his rescue. "We are liers in wait," she said.

"True, liers in wait," repeated Pembru, glad of the words. "Quiet we bide our time, against what good things comes our


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 way. As yourself, Will Jones. Would you sit in sooth upon the throne of England? For that question we brought you hither."

I did not like his lofty air, like a man cozening puppies. "I came myself, of mine own good will," I told him. "It rains outside."

"True," muttered Diccon, his eyes on me. "All over Spring Coppice falls the rain, and not elsewhere. Not one, but eight charms in yonder book can bring rain—'twas to drive your honor to us, that you might heal—"

"Silence," barked Valois Pembru at him. And to me: "Young sir, we read and prayed and burnt," and he glanced at the dark-orange flames of the fire. "In that way we guided your footsteps to the Coppice, and the rain then made you see this shelter. 'Twas all planned, even before Noll Cromwell scotched you at Worcester—"

"Worcester!" T roared at him so loudly that he stepped back. "What know you of Worcester fight?"

He recovered, and said in his erst lofty fashion: "Worcester was our doing, too. We gave the victory to Noll Cromwell. At a price—from the book."

He pointed to the hairy tome in the hands of Regan, his daughter. "The flames showed us your pictured hosts and his, and what befell. You might have stood against him, even prevailed, but for the horsemen who would not right."

I remembered that bitter amazement over how Leslie's Scots had bode like statues. "You dare say you wrought that?"

Pembru nodded at Mistress Regan, who turned pages. "I will read it without the words of power," quoth she. "Thus: 'In meekness I begin my work. Stop rider! Stop footman! Three black flowers bloom, and under them ye must stand still as long as I will, not through me but through the name of—"

She broke off, staring at me with her slant blue eyes. I remembered all the tales of my grandfather James, who had fought and written against witchcraft. "Well, then, you have given the victory to Cromwell. You will give me to him also?"

Two of the three laughed—Diccon was still too mazed with his new health—and Pembru shook his grizzled head. "Not so, woodcutter. Cromwell asked not the favor from us—'twas one of his men, who paid well. We swore that old Noll should prevail from the moment of battle. But," and his eyes were like gimlets in mine, "we swore by the oaths set us—the names Cromwell's men worship, not the names we worship. We will keep the promise as long as we will, and no longer."

"When it pleases us we make," contributed Regan. "When it pleases us we break."

Now 'tis true that Cromwell perished on third September, 1658, seven year to the day from Worcester fight. But I half-believed Pembru even as he spoke, and so would you have done. He seemed to be what he called himself—a lier in wait, a bider for prey, myself or others. The rank smoke of the fire made my head throb, and I was weary of being played with. "Let be," I said. "I am no mouse to be played with, you gibbed cats. What is your will?"

"Ah," sighed Pembru silkily, as though he had waited for me to ask, "what but that our sovereign should find his fortune again, scatter the Ironsides of the Parliament in another battle and come to his throne at Whitehall?"

"It can be done," "Regan assured me. "Shall I find the words in the book, that when spoken will gather and make resolute your scattered, running friends?"

I put up a hand. "Read nothing. Tell me rather what you would gain thereby, since you seem to be governed by gains alone."

"Charles Second shall reign," breathed Pembru. "Wisely and well, with thoughtful distinction. He will thank his good


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 councillor the Earl—no, the Duke—of Pembru. He will be served well by Sir Diccon, his squire of the body."

"Served well, I swear," promised Diccon, with no mockery to his words.

"And," cooed Regan, "are there not ladies of the court? Will it not be said that Lady Regan Pembru is fairest and—most pleasing to the king's grace?"

Then they were all silent, waiting for me to speak. God pardon me my many sins! But among them has not been silence when words are needed. I laughed fiercely.

"You are three saucy lackeys, ripe to be flogged at the cart's tail," I told them. "By tricks you learned of my ill fortune, and seek to fatten thereon." I turned toward the door. "I sicken in your company, and I leave. Let him hinder me who dare."

"Diccon!" called Pembru, and moved as if to cross my path. Diccon obediently ranged alongside. I stepped up to them.

"If you dread me not as your ruler, dread me as a big man and a strong," I said. "Step from my way, or I will smash your shallow skulls together."

Then it was Regan, standing across the door.

"Would the king strike a woman?" she challenged. "Wait for two words to be spoken. Suppose we have the powers we claim?"

"Your talk is empty, without proof," I replied. "No. mistress, bar me not. I am going."

"Proof you shall have," she assured me hastily. "Diccon, stir the fire."

E DID so. Watching, I saw that in sooth he was but a lad—his disease, now banished by my touch, had put a false seeming of age upon him. Flames leaped up, and upon them Pembru cast a handful of herbs whose sort I did not know. The color of the fire changed as I gazed, white, then rosy red, then blue, then again white. The wench Regan was babbling words from the hair-bound book; but, though I had. learned most tongues in my youth, I could not guess what language she read.

"Ah, now," said Pembru. "Look, your gracious majesty. Have you wondered of your beaten followers?"

In the deep of the fire, like a picture that forebore burning and moved with life, I saw tiny figures—horsemen in a huddled knot riding in dejected wise. Though it was as if they rode at a distance, I fancied that I recognized young Straike—a cornet of Leslie's. I scowled, and the vision vanished.

"You have prepared puppets, or a shadow-show," I accused. "I am no country hodge to be tricked thus."

"Ask of the fire what it will mirror to you," bade Pembru, and I looked on him with disdain.

"What of Noll Cromwell?" I demanded, and on the trice he was there. I had seen the fellow once, years agone. He looked more gray and bloated and fierce now, but it was he—Cromwell, the king rebel, in back and breast of steel with buff sleeves. He stood with wide-planted feet and a hand on his sword. I took it that he was on a porch or platform, about to speak to a throng dimly seen.

"You knew that I would call for Cromwell," I charged Pembru, and the second image, too, winked out.

He smiled, as if my stubbornness was what he loved best on earth. "Who else, then? Name one I cannot have prepared for."

"Wilmot," I said, and quick anon I saw him. Poor nobleman! He was not young enough to tramp the byways in masquerade, like me. He rode a horse, and that a sorry one, with his pale face cast down. He mourned, perhaps for me. I felt like smiling at this image of my friend, and like weeping, too.

"Others? Your gentlemen?" suggested


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 Pembru, and witliuut my naming they sprang into view one after another, each in a breath's space. Their faces flashed among the shreds of flame—Buckingham, elegant and furtive; Lauderdale, drinking from a leather cup; Colonel Carlis, whom we called "Careless," though he was never that; the brothers Penderel, by a fireside with an old dame who may have been their mother; suddenly, as a finish to the show, Cromwell again, seen near with a bible in his hand.

The fire died, like a blown candle. The room was dim and gray, with a whisp of smoke across the hide-spread window.

"Well, sire? You believe?" said Pembru. He smiled now, and I saw teeth as lean and white as a hunting dog's.

"Faith, only a fool would refuse to believe," I said in all honesty.

He stepped near. "Then you accept us?" he questioned hoarsely. On my other hand tiptoed the fair lass Regan.

"Charles!" she whispered. "Charles, my comely king!" and pushed herself close against me, like a cat seeking caresses.

"Your choice is wise," Pembroke said on. "Spells bemused and scattered your army—spells will bring it back afresh. You shall triumph, and salt England with the bones of the rebels. Noll Cromwell shall swing from a gallows, that all like rogues may take warning. And you, brought by our powers to your proper throne—"

"Hold," I said, and they looked upon me silently.

"I said only that I believe in your sorcery," I told them, "but I will have none of it."

You would have thought those words plain and round enough. But my three neighbors in that ill house stared mutely, as if I spoke strangely and foolishly. Finally: "Oh, brave and gay! Let me perish else!" quoth Pembru, and laughed.

My temper went, and with it my bemusement. "Perish you shall, dog, for your saucy ways," I promised. "What, you stare and grin? Am I your sovereign lord, or am I a penny show? I have humored you too long. Good-bye."

I made a step to leave, and Pembru slid across my path. His daughter Regan was opening the book and reciting hurriedly, but I minded her not a penny. Instead, I smote Pembru with my fist, hard and fair in the middle of his mocking face. And down he went, full-sprawl, rosy blood fountaining over mouth and chin.

"Cross me again," quoth I, "and I'll drive you into your native dirt like a tether-peg." With that, I stepped across his body where it quivered like a wounded snake, and put forth my hand to open the door.

There was no door. Not anywhere in the room.

I turned back, the while Regan finished reading and closed the book upon her slim finger.

"You see, Charles Stuart," she smiled, "you must bide here in despite of yourself."

"Sir, sir," pleaded Diccon, half-crouching like a cricket, "will you not mend your opinion of us?"

"I will mend naught," I said, "save the lack of a door." And I gave the wall a kick that shook the stout wattlings and brought down flakes of clay. My blistered foot quivered with pain, but another kick made some of the poles spring from their fastenings. In a moment I would open a way outward, would go forth.

EGAN shouted new words from the book. I remember a few, like uncouth names—Sator, Arepos, Janna. I have heard since that these are powerful matters with the Gnostics. In the midst of her outcry, I thought smoke drifted before me—smoke |hat stank like dead flesh, and thickened into globes and curves, as if it


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 would make a form. Two long streamers of it drifted out like snakes, to touch or seize me, I gave back, and Regan stood at my side.

"Would you choose those arms," asked she. "and not these?" She held out her own, fair and round and white. "Charles, I charmed away the door. I charmed that spirit to hold you. I will still do you good in despite of your will—you shall reign in England, and I—and I——"

Weariness was drowning me. I felt like a child, drowsy and drooping. "And you?" I said.

"You shall tell me," she whispered. "Charles."

She shimmered in my sight, and bells sang as if to signal her victory. I swear it was not I who spoke then stupidly—cunsult [sic] Jack Wilmot's doggerel to see if I am wont to be stupid. But the voice came from my mouth: "I shall be king in Whitehall."

She prompted me softly: "I shall be duchess, and next friend—"

"Duchess and next friend," I repeated.

"Of the king's self!" she finished, and I opened my mouth to say that, too. Valois Pembru, recovering from my buffet, sat up and listened.

But——

"STOP!" roared Diccon.

E all looked—Regan and I and Valois Pembru. Diccon rose from where he crouched. In his slim, strong hands was the foul hairy book that Regan had laid aside. His finger marked a place on the open page.

"The spells are mine, and I undo what they have wrought!" he thundered in his great new voice. "Stop and silence! Look upon me, ye sorcerers and arch-sorcerers! You who attack Charles Stuart, let that witchcraft recede from him into your marrow and bone, in this instant and hour—"

He read more, but I could not hear for the horrid cries of Pembru and his daughter.

The rawhide at the window split, like a drum-head made too hot. And cold air rushed in. The fire that had vanished leaped up, its flames bright red and natural now. Its flames scaled the roof-peak, caught there. Smoke, rank and foul, crammed the place. Through it rang more screams, and I heard Regan, pantingly:

"Hands—from—my—throat——!"

Whatever had seized her, it was not Diccon, for he was at my side, hand on my sleeve.

"Come, sire! This way!"

Whither the door had gone, thither it now came back. We found it open before us, scrambled through and into the open.

HE hut burnt behind us like a hayrick, and I heard no more cries therefrom. "Pembru!" I cried. "Regan! Are they slain?"

"Slain or no, it does, not signify," replied Diccon. "Their ill magic retorted upon them. They are gone with it from earth—forever." He hurled the hairy book into die midst of the flame. "Now, away."

We left the clearing, and walked the lane. There was no more rainfall, no more mist. Warm light came through the leaves as through clear green water.

"Sire," said Diccon, "I part from you. God bless your kind and gracious majesty! Bring you safe to your own place, and your people to their proper senses."

He caught my hand and kissed it, and would have knelt. But I held him on his feet.

"Diccon," I said, "I took you for one of those liers in wait. But you have been my friend this day, and I stand in your debt as long as I live."

"No, sire, no. Your touch drove from me the pain of the king's evil, which had


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 to put forth energy at any point of the entire activity, measures the hold which the activity, as one whole affair, has upon a person. It shows how much he really cares for it. We never (if we are sensible) take, in ourselves or in somebody else, the "will for the deed" unless there is evidence that there really was a will, a purpose; and the sole evidence is some striving to realize the purpose, the putting forth of effort. If conditions forbid all effort, it is not a question of "will" at all, but simply of a sympathetic wish.

This does not mean, of course, that effort is always desirable under such conditions. On the contrary, the game may not be worth the candle; the end to be reached may not be of sufficient importance to justify the expenditure of so much energy, or of running the risks of excessive strain. Judgment comes in to decide such matters, and speaking generally it is as much a sign of bad judgment to keep on at all costs in an activity once entered upon, as it is a sign of weakness to be turned from it at the first evidence of difficulties. The principle laid down shows that effort is significant not as bare effort, or


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 strain, but in connection with carrying forward an activity to its fulfillment: it all depends, as we say, upon the end.

Two considerations follow. (1) On the one hand, when an activity persists in spite of its temporary blocking by an obstacle, there is a situation of mental stress: a peculiar emotional condition of combined desire and aversion. The end continues to make an appeal, and to hold one to the activity in spite of its interruption by difficulties. This continued forward appeal gives desire. The obstacle, on the other hand, in the degree in which it arrests or thwarts progress ahead, inhibits action, and tends to divert it into some other channel—to avert action, in other words, from the original end. This gives aversion. Effort, as a mental experience, is precisely this peculiar combination of conflicting tendencies—tendencies away from and tendencies towards: dislike and longing.

(2) The other consideration is even more important, for it decides what happens. The emotion of effort, or of stress, is a warning to think,


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 to consider, to reflect, to inquire, to look into the matter. Is the end worth while under the circumstances? Is there not some other course which, under the circumstances, is better? So far as this reconsideration takes place, the situation is quite different from that of a person merely giving up as soon as an obstacle shows itself. Even if the final decision is to give up, the case is radically different from the case of giving up from mere instability of purpose. The giving up now involves an appeal to reason, and may be quite consistent with tenacity of purpose or "strength of will." However, reflection may take quite another course: it may lead not to reconsideration of ends, but to seeking for new means; in short, to discovery and invention also. The child who cannot carry the stone that he wishes may neither keep on in a fruitless struggle to achieve the impossible, nor yet surrender his purpose; he may be led to think of some other way of getting the stone into motion; he may try prying it along with a bar. "Necessity is the mother of invention."

In the latter case, the obstacle has, indeed,


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 diverted energy; but the significant thing is that energy is diverted into thinking; into an intelligent consideration of the situation and of available ways and means. The really important matter in the experience of effort concerns its connection with thought. The question is not the amount of sheer strain involved, but the way in which the thought of an end persists in spite of difficulties, and induces a person to reflect upon the nature of the obstacles and the available resources by which they may be dealt with.

A person, child or adult, comes, in the course of an activity, up against some obstacle or difficulty. This experience of resistance has a double effect;—though in a given case one effect may predominate and obscure the other. One effect is weakening of the impetus in the forward direction; the existing line of action becomes more or less uncongenial because of the strain required to overcome difficulties. As a consequence, the tendency is to give up this line of action and to divert energy into some other channel. On the other hand, meeting an obstacle may enhance a person's perception of an end; may make him


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 to the close connection between social and moral interests. In those cases where direct interest points one way and obligation another, no reinforcement of the demand of duty is as strong as that furnished by a realization of the interests of others that are bound up with it. The abstract idea of duty, like other abstract ideas, has naturally little motivating force. Social interests have a powerful hold, which, by association, is transferred to what is morally required. Thus a strong indirect interest resists the contrary pull of immediate inclination. The only other moral point that need be mentioned here is that the conception of interest as naturally a selfish or egoistic principle is wholly irreconcilable with the facts of the case. All interest is naturally in objects that carry an activity forward or in objects that mark its fulfillment; hence the character of the interest depends upon the nature of these objects. If they are low, or unworthy, or purely selfish, then so is the interest, but not otherwise. The strength of the interest in other persons and in their activities and aims is a


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 natural resource for making activities broad, generous, and enlightened in scope; while the physical, manual, and scientific interests in their identification with objects make for a broadening of the self.


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 realize more clearly than ever he did before how much it means to him; and accordingly may brace him, invigorate him in his effort to achieve the end. Within certain limits, resistance only arouses energy; it acts as a stimulus. Only a spoiled child or pampered adult is dismayed or discouraged and turned aside, instead of being aroused, by lions in the path—unless the lions are very fierce and threatening. It is not too much to say that a normal person demands a certain amount of difficulty to surmount in order that he may have a full and vivid sense of what he is about, and hence have a lively interest in what he is doing.

Meeting obstacles makes a person project more definitely to himself the later and consummating period of his activity; it brings the end of his course of action to consciousness. He now thinks of what he is doing, instead of doing it blindly from instinct or habit. The result becomes a conscious aim, a guiding and inspiring purpose. In being an object of desire, it is also an object of endeavor.

This arousing and guiding function is


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 in two ways. Endeavor is steadied and made more persistent when its outcome is regarded as something to be achieved; and thought is stimulated to discover the best methods of dealing with the situation. The person who keeps on blindly pushing against an obstacle, trying to break through by main strength, is the one who acts unintelligently; the one who does not present to himself the nature of the end to be reached. He remains on the level of a struggling animal, who by mere quantity of brute strength tries to break down resistance and win to his goal. The true function of the conditions that call forth effort is, then, first, to make an individual more conscious of the end and purpose of his actions; secondly, to turn his energy from blind, or thoughtless, struggle into reflective judgment. These two phases of thought are interdependent. The thought of the result, the end as a conscious guiding purpose, leads to the search for means of achievement; it suggests appropriate courses of action to be tried. These means as considered and attempted supply a fuller content to the thought of the end. A boy starts somewhat


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 blindly to make a kite; in the course of his operations he comes across unexpected difficulties; his kite does n't hold together, or it won't balance. Unless his activity has a slight hold upon him, he is thereby made aware more definitely of just what he intends to make; he conceives the object and end of his actions more distinctly and fully. His end is now not just a kite, but some special kind of a kite. Then he inquires what is the matter, what is the trouble, with his existing construction, and searches for remedial measures. As he does this, his thought of the kite as a complete whole becomes more adequate; then he sees his way more clearly what to do to make the kite, and so on.

We are now in possession of a criterion for estimating the place in an educative development of difficulties and of effort. If one mean by a task simply an undertaking involving difficulties that have to be overcome, then children, youth, and adults alike require tasks in order that there may be continued development. But if one mean by a task something that has no interest, makes no appeal, that is wholly alien and hence uncongenial,


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 put to further use at once in some visible way, nor even demand evidence that the children have become morally improved in some respect: save as the growth of powers is itself a moral gain.


text: Wikisource:WikiProject Popular Science Monthly/Multiple part articles 3


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 the matter is quite different. Tasks in the former sense are educative because they supply an indispensable stimulus to thinking, to reflective inquiry. Tasks in the latter sense signify nothing but sheer strain, constraint, and the need of some external motivation for keeping at them. They are uneducative because they fail to introduce a clearer consciousness of ends and a search for proper means of realization. They are miseducative, because they deaden and stupefy; they lead to that confused and dulled state of mind that always attends an action carried on without a realizing sense of what it is all about. They are also miseducative because they lead to dependence upon external ends; the child works simply because of the pressure of the taskmaster, and diverts his energies just in the degree in which this pressure is relaxed; or he works because of some alien inducement—to get some reward that has no intrinsic connection with what he is doing.

The question to be borne in mind is, then, twofold: Is this person doing something too easy for him—something which has not a sufficient


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 element of resistance to arouse his energies, especially his energies of thinking? Or is the work assigned so difficult that he has not the resources required in order to cope with it—so alien to his experience and his acquired habits that he does not know where or how to take hold? Between these two questions lies the teacher's task—for the teacher has a problem as well as the pupil. How shall the activities of pupils be progressively complicated by the introduction of difficulties, and yet these difficulties be of a nature to stimulate instead of dulling and merely discouraging? The judgment, the tact, the intellectual sympathy of instructors is taxed to the uttermost in answering these questions in the concrete with respect to the various subjects of study.

When an activity is too easy and simple, a person either engages in it because of the immediate pleasurable excitement it awakens, or he puts just enough of his powers upon it—their purely mechanical and physical side—to perform what is required in a perfunctory way, while he lets his mind wander to other things where


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 there is at least enough novelty to keep his fancies going. Strange as it may seem to say it, one of the chief objections both to mechanical drill work and to the assigning of subject-matter too difficult for pupils is that the only activity to which they actually incite the pupils is in lines too easy for them. Only the powers already formed, the habits already fixed, are called into play; the mind—the power of thinking—is not called into action. Hence apathy in children naturally sluggish, or mind-wandering in children of a more imaginative nature. What happens when work too difficult, work beyond the limits of capacity, is insisted upon? If the teacher is professionally skilled, a pupil will not be able entirely to shirk or to escape. He must keep up the form of attentive study, and produce a result as evidence of having been occupied. Naturally he seeks short cuts; he does what he can do without recourse to processes of thinking that are beyond him. Any external and routine device is employed to "get the answer"—possibly surreptitious aid from others or downright cheating. Any way, he does what


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 is already easiest for him to do; he follows the line of least resistance. The sole alternative is the use of initiative in thinking out the conditions of the problem and the way to go at it. And this alternative is within his reach only when the work to be done is of a nature to make an appeal to him, or to enlist his powers; and when the difficulties are such as to stimulate instead of depressing.

Good teaching, in other words, is teaching that appeals to established powers while it includes such new material as will demand their redirection for a new end, this redirection requiring thought—intelligent effort. In every case, the educational significance of effort, its value for an educative growth, resides in its connection with a stimulation of greater thoughtfulness, not in the greater strain it imposes. Educative effort is a sign of the transformation of a comparatively blind activity (whether impulsive or habitual) into a more consciously reflective one.

For the sake of completeness of statement, we will say (what hardly should now require


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 statement on its own account) that such effort is in no sense a foe of interest. It is a part of the process of growth of activity from direct interest to indirect. In our previous section, we considered this development as meaning an increase of the complexity of an activity (that is, of the number of factors involved), and the increased importance of its outcome as a motive, in spite of contrary appeals, for devotion to intervening means. In this section, we have brought out more emphatically the fact that along with this increasing remoteness of the end (the longer period required for the consummation of an activity) goes a greater number of difficulties to be overcome, and the consequent need of effort. And our conclusion has been that the effort needed is secured when the activity in question is of such positive and abiding interest as to arouse the person to clearer recognition of purpose and to a more thoughtful consideration of means of accomplishment. The educator who associates difficulties and effort with increased depth and scope of thinking will never go far wrong. The one who associates it with sheer strain, sheer


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 dead lift of energy, will never understand either how to secure the needed effort when it is needed nor the best way to utilize the energy aroused.

It remains to apply what has been said to the question of motivation. "Motive" is the name for the end or aim in respect to its hold on action, its power to move. It is one thing to speculate idly upon possible results, to keep them before the mind in a purely theoretical way. It is another thing for the results contemplated or projected to be so desired that the thought of them stirs endeavor. "Motive" is a name for the end in its active or dynamic capacity. It would be mere repetition of our previous analysis to show that this moving power expresses the extent to which the end foreseen is bound up with an activity with which the self is identified. It is enough to note that the motive force of an end and the interest that the end possesses are equivalent expressions of the vitality and depth of a proposed course of activity.

A word of warning may be in place against taking the idea of motivation in too personal a


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 sense, in a sense too detached, that is, from the object or end in view. In the theory of instruction, as distinct from its practice, the need of motivation was for a long time overlooked or even denied. It was assumed that sheer force of will, arbitrary effort, was alone required. In practice this meant (as we have seen) appeal to extraneous sources of motivation: to reverence for the authority of teacher or text; to fear of punishment or the displeasure of others; to regard for success in adult life; to winning a prize; to standing higher than one's fellows; to fear of not being promoted, etc. The next step was taken when some educators recognized the ineffective hold of such motives upon many pupils—their lack of adequate motivating force in the concrete. They looked for motives which would have more weight with the average pupil. But too often they still conceived the motive as outside the subject-matter, something existing purely in the feelings, and giving a reason for attention to a matter that in itself would not provide a motive. They looked for a motive for the study or the lesson, instead of a motive in it. Some reason must be found in


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 the person, apart from the arithmetic or the geography or the manual activity, that might be attached to the lesson material so as to give it a leverage, or moving force.

One effect was to substitute a discussion of "motives" in the abstract for a consideration of subject-matter in the concrete. The tendency was to make out a list of motives or "interests" by which children in general or children of a given age are supposed to be actuated, and then to consider how these might be linked up with the various lessons so as to impart efficacy to the latter. The important question, however, is what specific subject-matter is so connected with the growth of the child's existing concrete capabilities as to give it a moving force. What is needed is not an inventory of personal motives which we suppose children to have, but a consideration of their powers, their tendencies in action, and the ways in which these can be carried forward by a given subject-matter.

If a child has, for example, an artistic capacity in the direction of music or drawing, it is not necessary to find a motive for its exercise. The


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1537.] the coast, and were held in readiness to assemble on any point at any moment.

Money was the chief difficulty. The change in the character of war created unforeseen expenses of many kinds. The cost of regular military and naval establishments, a new feature in the national system, was thrown suddenly on the Crown; and the revenue was unequal to so large a demand upon it. A fresh political arrangement was displacing the old; and the finances were necessarily long disordered before the country understood its condition, and had devised methods to meet its necessities.

At this conjuncture the abbey lands were a fortunate resource. They were disposed of rapidly—of course on easy terms to the purchasers. The insurrection as we saw had taught the necessity of filling the place of the monks with resident owners, who would maintain hospitality liberally, and on a scale to contrast favourably with the careless waste of their predecessors. Obligations to this effect were made a condition of the sales, and lowered naturally the market value of the properties. Considerable sums, however, were realized, adequate for immediate objects, though falling short of the ultimate cost of the defences of the country. At the same time the Government works found labour for the able-bodied beggars, those sturdy vagrants whose living had been gathered hitherto at the doors of the religious houses, varied only with intervals of the stocks and the cart's- tail.

Thus the spoils of the Church furnished the arms


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72 by which the Pope and the Pope's friends could be held at bay; and by degrees in the healthier portion of the nation an English enthusiasm took the place of a superstitious panic. Loyalty towards England went along with the Reformation, when the Reformation was menaced by foreign enemies; and the wide disaffection which in 1536 had threatened a revolution, became concentrated in a vindictive minority, to whom the Papacy was dearer than their country, and whose persevering conspiracies taught England at no distant time to acquiesce with its whole heart in the wisdom which chained them down by penal laws as traitors and enemies to the commonwealth.

Meanwhile, the event to which the King, the whole of England and the Continent, friends and enemies, were looking so anxiously, was approaching near. The King's health was growing visibly weaker; his corpulency was increasing, through disease and weakness of system; an inveterate ulcer had settled in his leg; and the chances of his death in consequence of it were already calculated. The whole fortune of the future


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1537.] seemed to depend on the issue of the Queen's pregnancy. Yet, notwithstanding his infirmities, Henry was in high spirits. At the end of the summer he was with a hunting party at Guildford, and was described as being especially affable and good-humoured. In September he was at Hampton Court, where the confinement was expected at the close of the month, or at the beginning of October. Strange inquiries had been made by Pole, or by Pole's secretary, on the probable sex of the child. On the 12th of October the question was decided by the birth of a prince, so long and passionately hoped for. Only a most minute intimacy with the condition of the country


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74 can make intelligible the feelings with which the news were received. The Crown had an undoubted heir. The succession was sure. The King, who was supposed to be under a curse which refused him male posterity, was relieved from the ban. Providence had borne witness for him, and had rewarded his policy. No revolution need be looked for on his death. The Catholics could not hope for their 'jolly stirring.' The anti-Papal leaders need not dread the stake for their wages. The insurrection was crushed. A prince was born. England was saved. These were the terms which many a heart repeated to itself. The Marchioness of Dorset wrote to Henry that she had received the most joyful news that came to England these many years; for the which she and all his Grace's subjects gave thanks to Almighty God, for that He had remembered his Grace and all his subjects with a prince to the comfort, universal weal, and quietness of the realm. Latimer, in a letter to Cromwell, was still more emphatic. 'There is no less rejoicing,' he said, 'for the birth of our prince, whom we hungered for so long, than there was, I trow, inter vicinos, at the birth of John the Baptist. God give us grace to yield due thanks to our Lord God, the God of England. For verily He hath shewed Himself the God of England; or rather an English God, if we will consider and ponder his proceedings with us. He hath overcome our illness with His exceeding goodness, so that we are now more compelled to serve Him and


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1537.] his Word, if the Devil of all devils be not in us. We have now the stop of various trusts and the stay of vain expectations. Let us all pray for his preservation.'

In Latimer's words, the joy and the especial causes of it are alike transparent; but a disaster followed so closely as to show that the mysterious fatality which pursued the King in his domestic relations had not ceased to overshadow him, and to furnish food for fresh superstition and fresh intrigue. The birth took place on the 12th of October. The Queen continued to do well up to the 22nd or 23rd, when it seems that, through the carelessness of her attendants, she was allowed to indulge in some improper food for which she had expressed a wish. She caught a cold at the same time; and although on the evening of the 23rd she appeared still so well that the King intended to leave Hampton Court on the following day, she became in the night alarmingly worse, and was in evident danger. In the morning the symptoms had somewhat improved, and there were hopes that the attack would pass off; but the unfortunate appearances soon returned; a few more hours she was dead.

A worse calamity could scarcely have befallen the


text: Author:Theodor Blake Wirgman

title: Author:Theodor Blake Wirgman


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76 King (unless the loss of the child had been added to that of the mother) than the death of Jane Seymour. Although she makes no figure in history, though she took small part in State questions, and we know little either of her sympathies or opinions, her name is mentioned by both Protestant and Catholic with unreserved respect. She married the King under circumstances peculiarly agitating. Her uprightness of character and sweetness of disposition had earned her husband's esteem, and with his esteem an affection deeper than he had perhaps anticipated. At her side, at his own death, he desired that his body might be laid.

When he knew that she was gone, he held a single interview with the council, and then retired to the palace at Westminster, where 'he mourned and kept himself close a great while.'

In the country the rejoicings were turned to sorrow.


text:
Author:Thomas Wirgman

Works

 * Grundsätze der Kantischen oder Transcendental-Philosophie (Principles of the Kantesian or transcendental philosophy) (1824; Second edition 1832)
 * Divarication Du Nouveau Testament En Doctrine, Parole de Dieu, Histoire, Parole de L'Homme (Divarication of the New Testament into Doctrine and History) (1831?)

title: Author:Thomas Wirgman


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1537.] Owing to the preternatural excitement of the public imagination, groundless rumours instantly gained currency. It was said that, when the Queen was in labour, a lady had told the King that either the child must die or the mother; that the King had answered, Save the child, and therefore 'the child was cut out of his mother's womb.' Catherine's male children had all died in infancy. This child, it was soon believed, was dead also. Some said that the child, some that the King, some that both were dead. The Cæsarian [sic] birth passed for an established fact; while a prophecy was discovered, which said that 'He should be killed that never was born, and nature's hand or man's had brought it to pass, or soon would bring it to pass.'

These were the mere bubbles of credulity, blown by the general wind; but the interests which now depended upon the infant prince's life, caused to grave persons grave anxiety. He was but one—a single life—between the King's death and chaos, and the King was again a widower. The greater the importance


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 worthy to be remembered by remote descendants." This is true also of individuals.

Dr. Batcheller evidently is a Disciple of Research and a friend of the old college of William and Mary.

June 15, 1907. , LL.D., President

College of William and Mary, Virginia.
 * —I am just back from Denver, Colo., and I found on my desk yesterday morning, your telegram awaiting my arrival, dated June 8th, which reads as follows: "Doctor of Laws conferred on you by William and Mary. Congratulations."

Your letter of the 14th reached me this morning, confirming the action of the Faculty and Board of Visitors of the College of William and Mary in Virginia. Words can not express my deep appreciation of the highest honor that can be conferred upon an American. I also feel greatly honored by having the Degree conferred upon me at the same time as the distinguished Virginian, Hon. Phillip Alexander Bruce.

Now, as an Alumnæ of "William and Mary," it will bring this institution very close to my heart, feeling that I am fully identified with the cradle of learning, from which our most distinguished men of colonial times laid the foundation of what is now the foremost government on the face of the earth.

Again I beg to thank you for your felicitous remarks. With great respect, I am,

In the Baltimore you will find in the Heraldry column the perfected chain of lineage that gives you "a Virginia cousin" in Mrs. Moritz O. Kopperl, granddaughter of Thomas Matthews, who left the Old Dominion to found a branch of the family tree in Texas, is completed. Your cousin's daughter, Waldine, will meet the Daughters of the Founders and Patriots at Williamsburg, October 12, 1907, to attend the general communion

title: Page:Memories of Virginia.djvu/110


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78 of the child's preservation to one party, the greater the temptation to the other to destroy it; and the precautions with which the royal nursery was surrounded, betray most real alarm that an attempt might be ventured to make away with him.

Instructions to the grand chamberlain were drawn, by some one in high authority, with more than the solemnity of an Act of Parliament.

'Like as there is nothing in this world so noble, just, and perfect, but that there is something contrary, that evermore envieth it, and procureth the destruction of the same, insomuch as God Himself hath the Devil repugnant to Him, Christ hath his Antichrist and persecutor, and from the highest to the lowest after such proportion, so the Prince's Grace, for all his nobility and innocency (albeit he never offended any one), yet by all likelihood he lacketh not envy nor adversaries against his Grace, who, either for ambition of their own promotion, or otherwise to fulfil their malicious perverse mind, would, perchance, if they saw opportunity, which God forbid, procure to his Grace displeasure. And although his Majesty doubteth not, but like as God for the comfort of this whole realm hath given the said prince, so of his providence He will preserve and defend him; yet, nevertheless, heed and caution ought to be taken, to avoid the evil enterprises which might be devised against his Grace, or danger of his person.'

In pursuance of such caution, it was commanded that no person, of what rank soever, except the regular attendants in the nursery, should approach the cradle,


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  to be held in the old church October 13th. when the Chapter D. F. P. A., of which my sister is president, will attend in a body, to take the cup of remembrance. I hope you and your wife will be present, and "as ye do this in His name," give thanks to God for the life, work and character of Samuel Matthews, who is to me the pioneer hero of American History. There is another chieftain who stands only second in my hero worship, another Virginian, George Rogers Clark, "the Hannibal of the West."

In conclusion let me add, it is my hope that you may make one of your homes on some part of "the sacred soil" of the Denbigh Plantation, the American home of your ancestor, to stand an enduring memorial to the Matthews family, a family with a grand colonial background since Founding Days of Virginia, to attest "to soil brave men are ever true." And now, my friend of memories, I'll wake the echoes with refrain, The echoes known to every heart, "Never again! Never again." Echoes from the old Welsh mountains, Echoes from Great Britain's shore, Echoes from the land of Baldwin, The old time echo, "Never more." Echoes from Denbigh Plantation, Echoes from Point Comfort shore, Echoes from the Old James River, Echoes we seek to hear once more. Echoes from the Mississippi, Echoes from the Tappan Zee, Echoes from the Rappahannock, They call to you—they call to me.

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 principle. In the form of the idea of "self-activity" in particular, it has long been a name for the ultimate educational ideal. But activity has often been interpreted in too formal and too internal a sense, and hence has remained a barren ideal without influence on practice; sometimes it becomes a mere phrase, receiving the homage of the lips only. To make the idea of activity effective, we must take it broadly enough to cover all the doings that involve growth of power—especially of power to realize the meaning of what is done. This excludes action done under external constraint or dictation, for this has no significance for the mind of him who performs it. It excludes also mere random reaction to an excitation that is finished when the momentary act has ceased—which does not, in other words, carry the person acting into future broader fields. It also excludes action so habitual that it has become routine or mechanical. Unfortunately action from external constraint, for mere love of excitement and from mechanical force of habit are so common that these exceptions cover much ground. But the ground lying within these


text:
Author:William Taylor (1765-1836)

Works

 * English Synonyms Descriminated (1813)
 * Historic survey of German poetry: interspersed with various translations (1828-1830)
 * A Memoir of the late Philip Meadows Martineau, surgeon (1831)

As translator

 * Iphigenia in Tauris (1793) by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
 * Dialogues of the Gods (1795) by Christoph Martin Wieland
 * Lenora (1796), by Gottfried August Bürger
 * Nathan the Wise (1805) by Gotthold Ephraim Lessing
 * Tales of Yore (1810) in 3 vols. [prose translations from French and German]

As editor

 * A Voyage To The Demerary (1807), by Henry Bolingbroke

title: Author:William Taylor (1765-1836)


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 fields is the ground where an educative process is not going on.

The kinds of activity remaining as true educative interests vary indefinitely with age, with individual native endowments, with prior experience, with social opportunities. It is out of the question to try to catalogue them. But we may discriminate some of their more general aspects, and thereby, perhaps, make the connection of interest with educational practice somewhat more concretely obvious. Since one of the main reasons for taking self-activity in a formal sense was ignoring the importance of the body and of bodily instinct, we may well begin with interest in activity in this most direct and literal sense.

1. It is an old story that the human young have to learn most of the things that the young of other animals do instinctively or else with a slight amount of trying. Reflection on this fact shows that in learning these things human offspring are brought to the need of learning other things, and also to acquiring a habit of learning—a love of learning. While these considerations are fairly familiar, we often overlook their


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 upon the fact of physical activities. It follows from them at once that in so far as a physical activity has to be learned, it is not merely physical, but is mental, intellectual, in quality. The first problem set the human young is learning to use the organs of sense—the eye, ear, touch, etc.—and of movement—the muscles—in connection with one another. Of course, some of the mastery achieved does not involve much mental experimentation, but is due to the ripening of physiological connections. But nevertheless there is a genuinely intellectual factor when the child learns that one kind of eye-activity means a certain kind of moving of the arm, clasping of the fingers, etc., and that this in turn entails a certain kind of exploring with the fingers, resulting in experience of smoothness, etc. In such cases, there is not simply an acquisition of a new physical capacity; there is also learning in the mental sense; something has been found out. The rapidity of mental development in the first year and a half of infancy, the whole-hearted intentness and absorption of the growing baby in his activities, the joy that accompanies his increase of ability to


text:
Author:Basil Montagu

Works

 * The Opinions of Different Authors Upon the Punishment of Death (1809) (2nd ed. 1816)

Translations

 * Novum Organum

title: Author:Basil Montagu


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1537.] without an order under the King's hand. The food supplied for the child's use was to be largely 'assayed.' His clothes were to be washed by his own servants, and no other hand might touch them. The material was to be submitted to all tests of poison. The chamberlain or vice-chamberlain must be present morning and evening, when the prince was washed and dressed; and nothing, of any kind, bought for the use of the nursery, might be introduced till it had been aired and perfumed. No person—not even the domestics of the palace—might have access to the prince's rooms, except those who were specially appointed to them; nor might any member of the household approach London during the unhealthy season, for fear of their catching and conveying infection. Finally, during the infancy, the officers in the establishment were obliged to dispense with the attendance of pages or boys of any kind, for fear of inconvenience from their thoughtlessness.

Regulations so suspicious and minute, betray more than the exaggeration of ordinary anxiety. Fears were evidently entertained of something worse than natural infection; and we can hope only, for the credit of the Catholics, who expected to profit by the prince's death, that they were clear of the intentions which were certainly attributed to them.

Other steps were also taken, in which precaution was mixed with compliment. Should the King die within a few years, the natural protectors of the prince


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80 in his minority would be his mother's family. Sir Edward Seymour, her brother, was now created Earl of Hertford, to give him the necessary rank; and for additional security, peerages were bestowed upon three others of the council whose loyalty could be depended upon. Sir William Fitzwilliam, now lord high admiral, was created Earl of Southampton; Sir William Paulet became Lord St John; and Sir John Russell as Lord Russell, commenced a line of nobles, whose services to England wind like a silver cord through later history.

But inasmuch as, if the danger to the prince was real, the chief cause of it lay in his being an only child, as the temptation to a crime would cease when, by other sons or daughters, of unquestioned legitimacy, the success of the attempt would produce no change, and as all other interests depending now on a single life would be additionally secured, so on the very day of the Queen's death, as on the day which followed it, the privy council represented to the King the necessity of his undertaking a fresh marriage while the state of his health left a hope that he might be again a father. Henry, suffering deeply from his loss, desired at first to evade a duty in which he had little interest at any time, and which his present sorrow rendered merely distressing. The complicated treasons of Anne Boleyn had justified the precipitancy with which he had filled the place left vacant by her execution. The political obligation was now less considerable, and he hoped to be spared.

The council, however, continued to urge what his own judgment united to recommend. He saw that it


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1537.] must be so; and he resigned himself. 'Although his Highness is not disposed to marry again,' wrote Cromwell, in the despatch which communicated to the ambassador in France the death of Queen Jane, 'yet his tender zeal to his subjects hath already overcome his Grace's said disposition, and framed his mind both to be indifferent to the thing, and to the election of any person, from any part, that with deliberation shall be thought meet for him.'

Persons who are acquainted with the true history of Henry's later marriages, while not surprised at their unfortunate consequences, yet smile at the interpretation which popular tradition has assigned to his conduct. Popular tradition is a less safe guide through difficult passages in history than the word of statesmen who were actors upon the stage, and were concerned personally in the conduct of the events which they describe.


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text: History of England (Froude)/Chapter 14

title: History of England (Froude)/Chapter 14


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Rh

stream of our narrative now conducts us back to William Brandon. The law-promotions previously intended were completed; and to the surprise of the public, the envied barrister, undergoing the degradation of knighthood, had, at the time we return to him, just changed his toilsome occupations for the serene dignity of the Bench. Whatever regret this wily and

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312 schemer might otherwise have felt at an elevation considerably less distinguished than he might reasonably have expected, was entirely removed by the hopes afforded to him by the Administration of a speedy translation to a more brilliant office; and it was whispered among those not unlikely to foresee such events, that Sir William Brandon might even look beyond the rank of a Chief Justice and a Peer, and that the Woolsack itself was scarcely too high a station for the hopes of one possessed of such interest, such abilities; and the democrats added, such accommodating principles. Just at this moment too, the fell disease, whose ravages Brandon endeavoured, as jealously as possible, to hide from the public, had appeared suddenly to yield to the skill of a new physician; and by the administration of medicines, which a man less stern or resolute might have trembled to adopt, (so powerful and for the most part deadly was their nature,) he passed from a state of almost insufferable torture to an elysium of tranquillity and ease: perhaps, however, the medicines which altered, also decayed his constitution; and it was observable, that in two cases where the physician had attained

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Rh a like success by the same means, the patients had died suddenly, exactly at the time when their cure seemed to be finally completed. However, Sir William Brandon appeared very little anticipative of danger. His manner became more cheerful and even than it had ever been before; there was a certain lightness in his gait, a certain exhilaration in his voice and eye, which looked the tokens of one from whom a heavy burden had been suddenly raised, and who was no longer prevented from the eagerness of hope by the engrossing claims of a bodily pain. He had always been bland in society, but now his courtesy breathed less of artifice,—it took a more hearty tone. Another alteration was discernible in him, and that was precisely the reverse of what might have been expected. He became more thrifty—more attentive to the expenses of life, than he had been. Though a despiser of show and ostentation, and far too hard to be luxurious, he was too scientific an architect of the weaknesses of others, not to have maintained during his public career an opulent appearance, and a hospitable table. The profession he had adopted requires, perhaps, less of

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314 externals to aid it than any other; still Brandon had affected to preserve parliamentary as well as legal importance; and, though his house was situated in a quarter entirely professional, he had been accustomed to assemble around his hospitable board whosoever were eminent, in his political party, for rank or for talent. Now, however, when hospitality, and a certain largeness of expenses, better became his station, he grew closer and more exact in his economy. Brandon never could have degenerated into a miser; money to one so habitually wise as he was, could never have passed from means into an object; but he had, evidently for some cause or another, formed the resolution to save. Some said it was the result of returning health, and the hope of a prolonged life, to which many objects, for which wealth is desirable, might occur. But when it was accidentally ascertained that Brandon had been making several inquiries respecting a large estate in the neighbourhood of Warlock, formerly in the possession of his family, the gossips—(for Brandon was a man to be gossiped about,)—were no longer in want of a motive false or real, for the Judge's thrift.

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Rh It was shortly after his elevation to the Bench, and before these signs of change had become noticeable, that the same strange raggamuffin whom we have mentioned before, as introduced by Mr. Swoppem to a private conference with Brandon, was admitted to the Judge's presence.

"Well," said Brandon impatiently, the moment the door was closed, "your news?"

"Vy, your Onor," said the man bashfully, twirling a thing that stood proxy for a hat, "I thinks as ow I shall be hable to satisfy your vorship's onor." Then approaching the Judge, and assuming an important air, he whispered—

"'Tis as ow I thought!"

"My God!" cried Brandon with vehemence. "And, he is alive?—and where?"

"I believes," answered the seemly confidant of Sir William Brandon, "that he be's alive, and if he be's alive, may I flash my ivories in a glass case, if I does not ferret him out; but as to saying vhere he be at this nick o' the moment, smash me if I can!"

"Is he in this country?" said Brandon; "or do you believe that he has gone abroad?"

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316 "Vy, much of one and not a little of the other!" said the euphonious confidant.

"How! speak plain, man—what do you mean?"

"Vy, I means, your Onor, that I can't say vhere he is."

"And this," said Brandon with a muttered oath,—"this is your boasted news, is it? Dog, damned, damned dog, if you trifle with me, or play me false, I will hang you,—by the living God, I will!"

The man shrank back involuntarily from Brandon's vindictive forehead and kindled eyes; but with the cunning peculiar to low vice answered, though in a humbler tone—

"And vot good vill that do your Onor? if so be as ow you scrags I, vill that put your Vorship in the vay of finding he?"

Never was there an obstacle in grammar through which a sturdy truth could not break; and Brandon, after a moody pause, said in a milder voice,—"I did not mean to frighten you! never mind what I said; but you can surely guess whereabouts he is, or what means of life he pursues,

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Rh perhaps?"—and a momentary paleness crossed Brandon's swarthy visage:—"perhaps he may have been driven into dishonesty, in order to maintain himself!"

The informant replied with great naïveté, that "such a thing was not umpossible!" and Brandon then entered into a series of seemingly careless but artful cross-questionings, which either the ignorance or the craft of the man enabled him to baffle. After some time, Brandon, disappointed and dissatisfied, gave up his professional task, and bestowing on the man many sagacious and minute instructions, as well as a very liberal donation, he was forced to dismiss his mysterious visitor, and to content himself with an assured assertion, that, if the object of his inquiries should not already be gone to the devil, the strange gentleman employed to discover him, would certainly, sooner or later, bring him to the judge.

This assertion, and the interview preceding it, certainly inspired Sir William Brandon with a feeling like complacency, although it was mingled with a considerable alloy.

"I do not," thought he, in concluding his

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318 when he was left alone,—"I do not see what else I can do! Since it appears that the boy had not even a name when he set out alone from his wretched abode, I fear that an advertisement would have but little chance of even designating, much less of finding him, after so long an absence. Besides, it might make me the prey to impostors, and in all probability he has either left the country, or adopted some mode of living which would prevent his daring to disclose himself!" This thought plunged the soliloquist into a gloomy abstraction, which lasted several minutes, and from which he started, muttering aloud—

"Yes, yes! I dare to believe, to hope it.—Now for the Minister, and the Peerage!" And from that time the root of Sir William Brandon's ambition spread with a firmer and more extended grasp over his mind.

We grieve very much that the course of our story should now oblige us to record an event which we would willingly have spared ourselves the pain of narrating. The good old Squire of Warlock Manor-house had scarcely reached his

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text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Jack, Robert Logan


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Jackson, John Alexander


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


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Jacob, Hon. Archibald Hamilton


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Rh home on his return from Bath, before William Brandon received the following letter from his brother's grey-headed butler.

",

" this with all speede, thof with a hevy hart, to axquainte you with the sudden (and as it is feered by his loving friends and well wishers, which latter, to be sur, is all as knows him) dangeros ilness of the Squire. He was seezed, poor deer gentleman, (for God never made a better, no offence to your Honnur,) the moment he set footing in his Own hall, and what has hung rond me like a mill-ston ever sin, is that instead of his saying—'How do you do, Sampson?' as was his wont, whenever he returned from forren parts, sich as Bath, Lunnun, and the like; he said, 'God bless you, Sampson!' which makes me think sumhow that it will be his last wurds;

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 2.djvu/327


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Jacobs, Very Rev. Henry


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/James, John Charles Horsey


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


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Jarvis, Arthur Harwood


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320 for he has never spoke sin, for all Miss Lucy be by his bedside continual. She, poor deer, don't take on at all, in regard of crying and such woman's wurk, but looks nevertheless, for all the wurld, just like a copse. I sends Tom the postilion with this hexpress, nowing he is a good hand at a gallop, having, not sixteen year ago, beat some o' the best on un at a raceng. Hopng as yer Honnur will lose no time in coming to this 'hous of mourning,'

"I remane, with all respect, "Your Honnur's humble sarvant to command, "."

Sir William Brandon did not give himself time to re-read this letter, in order to make it more intelligible, before he wrote to one of his professional compeers, requesting him to fill his place during his unavoidable absence, on the melancholy occasion of his brother's expected death; and having so done he immediately set off for Warlock. Inexplicable even to himself was that feeling, so nearly approaching to real sorrow, which the worldly lawyer felt at the prospect of losing his

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 2.djvu/328


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Jefferis, Rev. James


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Jenkins, John Greeley


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Jenks, Professor Edward


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Rh guileless and unspeculating brother. Whether it be that turbulent and ambitious minds, in choosing for their wavering affections the very opposites of themselves, feel (on losing the fellowship of those calm, fair characters, that have never crossed their own rugged path,) as if they lost, in losing them, a kind of haven for their own restless thoughts and tempest-worn designs!—be this as it may, certain it is, that when William Brandon arrived at his brother's door, and was informed by the old butler, who, for the first time, was slow to greet him, that the Squire had just breathed his last, his austere nature forsook him at once, and he felt the shock with a severity perhaps still keener than that which a more genial and affectionate heart would have experienced.

As soon as he had recovered his self-possession, Sir William made question of his niece, and finding that, after an unrelaxing watch during the whole of the Squire's brief illness, nature had failed her at his death, and she had been borne senseless from his chamber to her own, Brandon walked with a step far different from his usual stately gait, to the room where his brother lay.

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 2.djvu/329


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Jenner, Hon. Caleb Joshua


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Jennings, Hon. Sir Patrick Alfred


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322 It was one of the oldest apartments in the house, and much of the ancient splendour that belonged to the mansion ere its size had been reduced, with the fortunes of its successive owners, still distinguished the chamber. The huge mantel-piece ascending to the carved ceiling in grotesque pilasters, and scroll-work of the blackest oak, with the quartered arms of Brandon and Saville escutcheoned in the centre,—the panelled walls of the same dark wainscot,—the armoire of ebony,—the high-backed chairs, with their tapestried seats,—the lofty bed, with its hearse-like plumes and draperies of a crimson damask that seemed, so massy was the substance, and so prominent the flowers, as if it were rather a carving than a silk, all conspired, with the size of the room, to give it a feudal solemnity, not perhaps suited to the rest of the house, but well calculated to strike a gloomy awe into the breast of the worldly and proud man who now entered the death-chamber of his brother.

Silently, William Brandon motioned away the attendants, and, silently, he seated himself by the bed, and looked long and wistfully upon the calm

title: Page:Paul Clifford Vol 2.djvu/330


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Jenyns, Essie


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Jersey, His Excellency the Right Hon. Victor Albert George Child Villiers


text: The Dictionary of Australasian Biography/Jervois, Lieut.-General Sir William Francis Drummond


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Rh and placid face of the deceased. It is difficult to guess at what passed within him during the space of time in which he remained alone in that room. The apartment itself he could not, at another period, have tenanted without secret emotion. It was that in which, as a boy, he had himself been accustomed to sleep; and, even then a schemer and an aspirant, the very sight of the room sufficed to call back all the hopes and visions, the restless projects, and the feverish desires which had now brought him to the envied state of an acknowledged celebrity and a shattered frame. There must have been something awful in the combination of those active remembrances with the cause which had led him to that apartment; and there was a homily in the serene countenance of the dead, which preached more effectually to the heart of the living, than William Brandon would ever have cared to own. He had been more than an hour in the room, and the evening had already begun to cast deep shadows through the small panes of the half-closed window, when Brandon was startled by a slight noise. He looked up, and beheld Lucy

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324 opposite to him. She did not see him; but, throwing herself upon the bed, she took the cold hand of the deceased, and, after a long silence, burst into a passion of tears.

"My father!" she sobbed,—"my kind, good father, who will love me now?"

"I!" said Brandon, deeply affected; and, passing round the bed, he took his niece in his arms: "I will be your father, Lucy, and you—the last of our race—shall be to me as a daughter!"

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text: Paul Clifford/Volume 2/Chapter 12

title: Paul Clifford/Volume 2/Chapter 12


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Rh

taking of Pekin was as picturesque as it was daring. This immense city has a high stone wall around it, the building of which dates back many centuries. The wall is broad at the top, and at various points there are watch-towers or forts. Both walls and forts were guarded by thousands of Boxers, as were also the huge gateways leading into the city.

The majority of the Allies had come up by way of Peitsang and Tung-Chow, but others, including the Japanese, had taken a different route. While the sturdy Japanese soldiers attacked at one point, the Americans, English, and Germans attacked at another. There was heavy firing at various points, lasting several hours. Then the Russians joined the Japanese, and


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272 beyond the grand canal. The artillery fire was terrific, lasting from three in the morning until five in the afternoon. The eastern gate of the city was completely demolished, and the soldiers rushed through, planting the flags of Russia and Japan upon the top of the great wall.

The entrance to the great city was made by the Americans and the English at the southeast gate. As soon as these troops were inside, they fought their way toward the legations, where the foreigners had now been besieged for fifty-six days. An entrance into the compound, or grounds, of the English legation was effected through the water gate of the canal, and here those wdthin, including many Americans, were found safe and sound, although suffering somewhat from their long confinement.

The rescuing of the foreigners from the clutches of the bloodthirsty Boxers was a grand event, and when the soldiers came pouring in, many cheered and not a few wept for joy. The band played, camp-fires were lit, and, led by an elderly minister, Americans and English joined fervidly in singing the Doxology, praising God for


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Rh leading them through their great peril in safety.

If President McKinley had shown a high degree of statesmanship in his dealings with affairs in Cuba, Porto Rico, and the Philippines, he now showed equal sagacity in dealing wdth the Chinese question. The Chinese government professed to have nothing in common with the Boxer movement, nevertheless the nations of Europe w^ished China to suffer heavily for what had occurred, and for a time it looked as if the whole Chinese Empire must be broken up and divided among the other nations of the world.

"This must not be," said the President. "While we must compel China to do her duty, we must also help her to hold her own." And working along these lines he soon gave the world to understand that the United States did not favor the dismemberment of the Celestial Empire, and so strong was our influence in that direction that in the end the most of the foreign soldiers were withdrawn from China, and the Emperor was asked to settle the difficulty by a money consideration.


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274 The second inauguration of President McKinley was a grand spectacle, the like of which had never before been seen in this country. In the review were representatives from Hawaii; Port Rico, and the Philippines, and each of these new territories vied with the others in doing him honor.

A Peace Commission was already at work, under the directions of the President, endeavoring to settle the Chinese and other troublesome questions. Soon after the President went into office a second time civil government was established in Porto Rico and in certain parts of the Philippines. But in the latter islands General Aguinaldo was still at large, and until he was caught it was felt that the rebellion would go on there, although it was now carried on solely in guerilla fashion.

At last General Frederick Funston, who had already made, by dash and daring, a well-known name for himself, resolved, by hook or by crook, to capture the wily Filipino chief. Some Insurgents had surrendered, and from these he learned that Aguinaldo was in a distant part of the


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Rh island, waiting for another Filipino leader to send him reënforcements.

General Funston's plan was to take some of the native troops then in the service of the United States and disguise them as the awaited reënforcements. With this body were to go a number of American officers and soldiers, who were supposed to be prisoners taken on the way.

To reach the district where Aguinaldo was in hiding was by no means easy, and several times the expedition came close to falling into a trap and being slaughtered by the savage tribe which lived there, and which knew little or nothing of civilization, Malayan or otherwise.

But with his accustomed bravery and pluck General Funston pushed forward, and at last, by means of decoy letters, reached the spot where Aguinaldo and his staff, with a handful of soldiers, awaited the supposed reënforcements. The surprise was complete, and though some resistance was offered, it was of no avail, and soon the Dictator, who had eluded capture for two years, found himself a prisoner. He was taken, under a strong guard, to Manila, and


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276 there, on April 9, 1901, he signed a peace manifesto which virtually brought the war in the Philippines to an end, although it is probable that isolated attacks on United States authority in out-of-the-way places are likely to occur for several years to come. Many of the natives are very ignorant and savage, and they will have to be dealt with very much as our country was compelled to deal with the bloodthirsty Apaches and Modocs of our own West.

As said before, the President had always been a good speechmaker, and I cannot refrain from introducing extracts of two of his addresses delivered at this time. While speaking of the war with Spain, he said:—

"Our glorious old flag, the symbol of liberty, floats to-day over two hemispheres. During the recent war we had exhibitions of unprecedented patriotism on the part of the people, and unmatched heroism on the part of our soldiers and sailors. Our second great triumph is the triumph of prosperity. The busy mills, the active industries, the general prosperity, have scattered plenty o'er a smiling country. Our third great triumph is the triumph we have had over


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Rh sectionalism. We are no longer a divided people, and he who would stir up animosities between North and South is denied a hearing in both sections. The boys of the South and the boys of the North fought triumphantly on land and sea in every engagement during our war."

This address was delivered at Canton, Ohio. Several days later he spoke in Chicago, to an audience numbering thousands, as follows:—

"The United States never struck a blow except for civilization and never struck its colors. Has the pyramid lost any of its strength? Has the Republic lost any of its virility? Has the self-governing principle been weakened? Is there any present menace to our stability and duration? These questions bring but one answer. The Republic is sturdier and stronger than ever before. Government by the people has been advanced. Freedom under the flag is more universal than when the Union was formed. Our steps have been forward, not backward. From Plymouth Rock to the Philippines, the grand triumphant march of human liberty has never paused.


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278 "Has patriotism died out in the hearts of the people? Witness the 250,000 men springing to arms and in thirty days organized into regiments for the Spanish war, and a million more ready to respond, and the more recent enlistment of 70,000 men, with many other thousands anxious to enlist, but whose services were not needed.

"Has American heroism declined? The shattered and sinking fleets of the Spanish navy at Manila and at Santiago, the charges of San Juan and El Caney, and the intrepid valor and determination of our gallant troops in more than forty engagements in Luzon, attest the fact that the American soldier and sailor have lost none of the qualities which made our early army and navy illustrious and invincible.

"May we not feel assured that if we do our duty, the Providence which favored the undertakings of the fathers, and every step of our progress since, will continue His watchful care and guidance over us, and that the hand that led us to our present place will not relax His grasp until we have reached the glorious goal He has fixed for us in the achievement of His end?"


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Rh As our country was now once again at peace with the whole world, President McKinley was urged by many of his friends and admirers to make a trip to the West, and he started on April 29, taking Mrs. McKinley with him. In the past he had visited the South and the Northeast, and his reception had been a right royal one. Now, from Washington to San Francisco he received a perfect ovation, thousands upon thousands of citizens gathering to do him honor, as he passed from town to town and city to city.

But Mrs. McKinley's health was not good, and at the height of its success, the trip had to be abandoned, much to the regret of all who had thus far failed to see their beloved leader. The sympathy of the whole nation was with Mrs. McKinley in her suffering, and all wished her a speedy recovery. The President and his wife returned to Washington, and here our chief magistrate lingered fondly over the sick-bed of his life companion until she recovered as fully as her delicate constitution permitted. The President's intense devotion to his wife at this time showed fully the breadth and


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280 depth of his loving nature. For her he gave up his triumphal trip without a moment's hesitation, his one thought being for her welfare and comfort. In this there is a lesson in unselfishness which all may learn with profit.


text: American Boys' Life of William McKinley/Chapter 28


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Rh

the spring of 1901 the Pan-American Exhibition at Buffalo, New York, was opened with great enthusiasm and in the presence of a vast multitude of people. The grounds, lying on the outskirts of the city, were tastefully laid out and contained some of the finest buildings ever seen at any exposition. The electric display was largely in the line of a novelty, rendering the grounds at night almost as light as during the day.

At this exposition the United States government had a large exhibit, embracing different branches of the public service, including the army and navy, the post-office, mint, lighthouses, state and interior departments, and many others, all housed


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282 in a large building which speedily became one of the most popular places on the fair grounds. Other governments from Central and South America also had buildings and exhibits there, and Mexico, Canada, and the great Northwest Territory were not absent.

The Exposition speedily attracted visitors by the thousands, and it was peculiarly fitting that our worthy President should also visit the grounds and should there address the multitudes who would gather to hear him. It was a fair for all the Americas, North, Central, and South, and it was felt that nothing should be left undone to bring in closer communion and interest the various nations of the New World.

During the summer it was found that Mrs. McKinley had sufficiently recovered to undertake the journey, and all arrangements were made to entertain the President and his wife in Buffalo for a week or longer, during which they might not only visit the fair, but also make a trip to Niagara Falls, which is but a short distance away.


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Rh The coming of the President was hailed with delight by all the people of Buffalo, and every arrangement was made which might add to the comfort and pleasure of himself and his wife. The party became the guests of Mr. Milburn, the president of the Exposition, and several days were spent by President McKinley, both at the fair grounds and in a last visit to Niagara Falls. Both the President and his wife greatly enjoyed all they saw, although Mrs. McKinley was much fatigued by the travelling.

On September 5 the President delivered an address at the Exposition grounds which aroused great interest everywhere. Among the notable things said at that time were the following:—

"Expositions are the timekeepers of progress."

"Comparison of ideas is always educational."

"The period of exclusiveness is past. The expansion of our trade and commerce is the pressing problem."

"Let us ever remember that our interest is in concord, not conflict; and that our real


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284 eminence rests in the victories of peace, not those of war."

"Our earnest prayer is that God will graciously vouchsafe prosperity, happiness, and peace to all our neighbors, and like blessings to all the peoples and powers of earth."

Alas! although no one knew it, this was to be his last public address. It was full of hope and confidence, and gave a large promise for the future. It should be read in its entirety by everybody, for it shows the real man as few other public addresses have done.

It was arranged that the President should hold a public reception on the following day on the fair grounds, and the Temple of Music was chosen for that purpose. This was a handsome structure, fronting upon an artificial lake, with fountains and beautiful statuary. The Temple was capable of holding several thousand people, and had at one end a platform for vocal and instrumental concerts, and at one side a large church organ, upon which recitals were


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Rh given. For the occasion the building was decorated with pahns and potted plants, and flags were everywhere.

Long before the time appointed for the reception a great crowd gathered in the vicinity of the Temple of Music, all bright, cheerful, and expectant, never dreaming of the horrible tragedy so close at hand. Guards were upon all sides, but it was not thought necessary to caution them to extra watchfulness, for the President was so much beloved it was imagined he had not an enemy in all this broad land.

At last the President and his party arrived. Just before the Temple of Music was reached there was a delay, because the carriage could not get through the assembled multitude. During this delay one of the boys selling programmes on the grounds pushed his way to the President's turnout.

"Here's a present for you, Mr. President," he cried, and handed the chief magistrate three programmes.

"Thank you, my boy," returned President McKinley, and putting his hand into his pocket he drew out a dollar. "Here is something for you," he added.