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CH. III immediate faces, and made him silent and preoccupied, and so careless in his bearing that the junior apprentice, sitting beside him, mocked at and parodied his enormous bites of bread and butter unreproved. He became conspicuously less popular on the "fancy" side, the "costumes" was chilly with him and the "millinery" cutting. But he did not care. An intermittent correspondent with Flo Bates, that had gone on since she left Mr. Shalford's desk for a position at Tunbridge "nearer home," and which had roused Kipps in its earlier stages to unparalleled heights of epistolatory effort, died out altogether by reason of his neglect. He heard with scarcely a pang that, as a consequence perhaps of his neglect, Flo was "carrying on with a chap who managed a farm."

Every Thursday he jabbed and gouged at his wood, jabbing and gouging intersecting circles and diamond traceries, and that laboured inane which our mad world calls ornament, and he watched Miss Walshingham furtively whenever she turned away. The circles in consequence were jabbed crooked; and his panels, losing their symmetry, became comparatively pleasing to the untrained eye—and once he jabbed his finger. He would cheerfully have jabbed all his fingers if he could have found some means of using the opening to express himself of the vague emotions that possessed him. But he shirked conversation just as earnestly as he desired it; he feared that profound general ignorance of his might appear.

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74

There came a time when she could not open one of the class-room windows. The man with the black beard pored over his chipping heedlessly.…

It did not take Kipps a moment to grasp his opportunity. He dropped his gouge and stepped forward. "Lem me," he said.…

He could not open the window either!

"Oh, please don't trouble," she said.

"'Sno trouble," he gasped.

Still the sash stuck. He felt his manhood was at stake. He gathered himself together for a tremendous effort, and the pane broke with a snap, and he thrust his hand into the void beyond.

"There!" said Miss Walshingham, and the glass fell ringing into the courtyard below.

Then Kipps made to bring his hand back, and felt the keen touch of the edge of the broken glass at his wrist. He turned dolefully. "I'm tremendously sorry," he said in answer to the accusation in Miss Walshingham's eyes. "I didn't think it would break like that,"—as if he had expected it to break in some quite different and entirely more satisfactory manner. The boy with the gift of wood-carving having stared at Kipps' face for a moment, became involved in a Laocoon struggle with a giggle.

"You've cut your wrist," said one of the girl friends, standing up and pointing. She was a pleasant-faced, greatly freckled girl, with a helpful

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CH. III, and she said "You've cut your wrist," as brightly as if she had been a trained nurse.

Kipps looked down, and saw a swift line of scarlet rush down his hand. He perceived the other man student regarding this with magnified eyes. "You have cut your wrist," said Miss Walshingham, and Kipps regarded his damage with greater interest.

"He's cut his wrist," said the maiden lady to the lodging-house keeper, and seemed in doubt what a lady should do. "It's" she hesitated at the word "bleeding," and nodded to the lodging-house keeper instead.

"Dreadfully," said the maiden lady, and tried to look and tried not to look at the same time.

"Of course he's cut his wrist," said the lodging-house keeper, momentarily quite annoyed at Kipps; and the other young lady, who thought Kipps rather common, went on quietly with her wood-cutting with an air of its being the proper thing to do—though nobody else seemed to know it.

"You must tie it up," said Miss Walshingham.

"We must tie it up," said the freckled girl.

"I 'adn't the slightest idea that window was going to break like that," said Kipps, with candour. "Nort the slightest."

He glanced again at the blood on his wrist, and it seemed to him that It was on the very point of dropping on the floor of that cultured class-room. So he very neatly licked it off, feeling at the same time for

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76 his handkerchief. "Oh, don't!" said Miss Walshingham as he did so, and the girl with the freckles made a movement of horror. The giggle got the better of the boy with the gift, and celebrated its triumph by unseemly noises; in spite of which it seemed to Kipps at the moment that the act that had made Miss Walshingham say "Oh, don't!" was rather a desperate and manly treatment of what was after all a creditable injury.

"It ought to be tied up," said the lodging-house keeper, holding her chisel upright in her hand. "It's a bad cut to bleed like that."

"We must tie it up," said the freckled girl, and hesitated in front of Kipps. "Have you got a handkerchief?" she said.

"I dunno 'ow I managed not to bring one," said Kipps. "I Not 'aving a cold I suppose some'ow didn't think"

He checked a further flow of blood.

The girl with the freckles caught Miss Walshingham's eye, and held it for a moment. Both glanced at Kipps' injury. The boy with the gift, who had reappeared with a chastened expression from some noisy pursuit beneath his desk, made the neglected motions of one who proffers shyly. Miss Walshingham under the spell of the freckled girl's eye produced a handkerchief. The voice of the maiden lady could be heard in the background. "I've been through all the technical education ambulance classes twice, and I know you go so if it's a vein, and so if it's an

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It is reported by the Associated Press that an agreement has been reached by the Russian Bolsheviki and Turkish Nationalists to liberate India from the British rule.

India undoubtedly will welcome such an agreement. It will inspire and encourage the people of India. Though they are fully prepared to attain independence, relying on their own resources, yet, the outside help will bring the result quicker. We want the people of India to study the forces of the world, remembering that they will render a signal service to the cause of humanity and freedom, if they succeed in destroying British imperial system.

The tragedy of Armenia is bound up with the tragedy of India, Ireland, Persia, and other countries. Armenia would have been free long ago, had she not been battered by the plottings of the imperialists. It is England which has conspired with Czarist Russia and Imperial Turkey to keep Armenia in the present stage so that she can be compelled to guard a gate to India.

After elimination of Czar from the arena of world-politics, the Near East recognises that the British imperialism stands in the way of solution of Near Eastern problems. Through mediation of the present Russian government, independence of Armenia was assured, and the Armenians were ready to shake hands with the Turks. But as England despises peace, she connived to upset the plan. She sees the red flag flying over her empire, and at once, Robert Cecil through the British-made League of Nations pleads for the case of Armenia.

Robert Cecil's move is very clear. The republics of Azerbaijan, Georgian, Persia, Mesopotamia, Turkey and other countries are hostile to the British. The only way England sees to maintain her imperial interests is to have Armenia as a base of operation against the revolutionaries of India and other Near Eastern countries. And as she is bankrupt, Cecil asks America to pay a bill of $20,000,000 so that England could free Armenia from the red peril.

We strongly advocate that Armenia should be free from all entanglements and establish her national independence. But as long as British imperialism remains intact, the success is very remote. Taking advantage of nominal freedom of Armenia, the cunning statesmanship will set the Armenians against the Persians, Mesopotamians and New Turkey, there by incurring displeasure of the people of those countries. The very thing the British are doing by using nearly 125,000 Indian troops to suppress the risings of the Near Eastern countries. It will be well for Armenia and peace of the world, that Armenia should cooperate with all those who are directing their forces against British imperialism, without invoking any aid from the people, Cecil represents.

India has passed the stage of Home Rule agitation. Yet, if there such a callous mind exists as not to conceive the reasons why India should not remain within the British empire, we ask them to acquaint themselves with the view of an English Missionary, Rev. C. F. Andrews. He was asked, would not the idea of Home Rule or self-government within the Empire be sufficient for India?

He emphatically says "No." "For the simple reason," he continued, "that it always breaks down in practice. It is a camouflage and nothing else. There is not a single self-governing dominion (such as South Africe, Canada, Australia, etc.) within the British Empire which does not repudiate in every action it takes the idea of equal partnership of Indians with themselves within one empire,—however much they may pass pious resolutions of reciprocity at Imperial Conferences. Look at South Africa from where I have just returned. The government of South Africa is now doing its best to induce not only Indentured Indians, but even South African born Indians to leave the country. There is an almost universal anti-Indian agitation, whose one object is to drive every Indian out of South Africa. Is there the very slightest idea of a common brotherhood within the empire, when this is the treatment of the Indians? Or take again East Africa,— hardly a single Englishman there is willing to admit that Indians can be politically and socially equals. The very idea is to them unthinkable. I tell you plainly and bluntly as far as my experience goes there is no part of Africa where Indians are less welcome than within the British Empire. I have seen with my own eyes the difference of treatment in Portuguese Africa and in British East Africa. I have lived in both places. In Portuguese East Africa, Indians are treated as gentlemen. In British East Africa, they are subjected every day to petty dailv insult. They are made to feel their own inferiority of position every moment of their lives."

Mr. A. B. Keith, in his book "Imperial Unity and the Dominions" (p. 27-8) corroborates the statement of Mr. Andrews. He says:

". . . it is true that in practice the self-governing dominion of the Union of South Africa treats British Indians worse than any foreign possession, and that they were less harassed in German possessions in Africa than in Natal, to the prosperity of which they have contributed so greatly."

In view of these conditions and for many other reasons, Mr. Andrews advocates complete independence for India. He says: "Most decidedly, I can imagine no other position which will give self-respect. I am a Christian and the golden rule which Christ himself gave was this: 'Whatever ye would wish that men should do unto you, even so do unto them.' Now let us take that rule. I am an Englishman. I value above anything else my English freedom and


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CH. III artery—at least you go so for one and so for the other, whichever it may be; but …"

"If you will give me your hand," said the freckled girl, and proceeded with Miss Walshingham's assistance to bandage Kipps in a most businesslike way. Yes, they actually bandaged Kipps. They pulled up his cuffs—happily they were not a very frayed pair—and held his wrist, and wrapped the soft handkerchief round it, and tightened the knot together. And Miss Walshingham's face, the face of that almost divine Over-human, came close to the face of Kipps.

"We're not hurting you, are we?" she said.

"Not a bit," said Kipps, as he would have said if they had been sawing his arm off.

"We're not experts, you know," said the freckled girl.

"I'm sure it's a dreadful cut," said Miss Walshingham.

"It ain't much reely," said Kipps; "and you're taking a lot of trouble. I'm sorry I broke that window. I can't think what I could have been doing.

"It isn't so much the cut at the time, it's the poisoning afterwards," came the voice of the maiden lady.

"Of course I'm quite willing to pay for the window," panted Kipps opulently.

"We must make it just as tight as possible, to stop the bleeding." said the freckled girl.

"I don't think it's much reely," said Kipps. "I'm awful sorry I broke that window, though."

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78 "Put your finger on the knot, dear," said the freckled girl.

"Eh?" said Kipps; "I mean"

Both the young ladies became very intent on the knot, and Mr. Kipps was very red and very intent upon the two young ladies.

"Mortified, and had to be sawn off," said the maiden lady.

"Sawn off?" said the lodging-house keeper.

"Sawn right off," said the maiden lady, and jabbed at her mangled design.

"There," said the freckled girl, "I think that ought to do. You're sure it's not too tight?"

"Not a bit," said Kipps.

He met Miss Walshingham's eye, and smiled to show how little he cared for wounds and pain. "It's only a little cut," he added.

The maiden lady appeared as an addition to their group. "You should have washed the wound, dear," she said. "I was just telling Miss Collis." She peered through her glasses at the bandage. "That doesn't look quite right," she remarked critically. "You should have taken the ambulance classes. But I suppose it will have to do. Are you hurting?"

"Not a bit," said Kipps, and he smiled at them all with the air of a brave soldier in hospital.

"I'm sure it must hurt," said Miss Walshingham.

"Anyhow, you're a very good patient," said the girl with the freckles.

Mr. Kipps became quite pink. "I'm only sorry I

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CH. III broke the window—that's all," he said. "But who would have thought it was going to break like that?"

Pause.

"I'm afraid you won't be able to go on carving tonight," said Miss Walshingham.

"I'll try," said Kipps. "It reelly doesn't hurt—not anything to matter."

Presently Miss Walshingham came to him as he carved heroically with his hand bandaged in her handkerchief. There was a touch of a novel interest in her eyes. "I'm afraid you're not getting on very fast," she said.

The freckled girl looked up and regarded Miss Walshingham.

"I'm doing a little, anyhow," said Kipps. "I don't want to waste any time. A feller like me hasn't much time to spare."

It struck the girls that there was a quality of modest disavowal about that "feller like me." It gave them a light into this obscure person, and Miss Walshingham ventured to commend his work as "promising" and to ask whether he meant to follow it up. Kipps didn't "altogether know"—"things depended on so much," but if he was in Folkestone next winter he certainly should. It did not occur to Miss Walshingham at the time to ask why his progress in art depended upon his presence in Folkestone. There was some more questions and answers—they continued to talk to him for a little time, even when Mr. Chester Coote had come into the room—and when at

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80 last the conversation had died out it dawned upon Kipps just how much his cut wrist had done for him.…

He went to sleep that night revising that conversation for the twentieth time, treasuring this and expanding that, and inserting things he might have said to Miss Walshingham, things he might still say about himself—in relation more or less explicit to her. He wasn't quite sure if he wouldn't like his arm to mortify a bit, which would make him interesting, or to heal up absolutely, which would show the exceptional purity of his blood.

The affair of the broken window happened late in April, and the class came to an end in May. In that interval there were several small incidents and great developments of emotion. I have done Kipps no justice if I have made it seem that his face was unsightly. It was, as the freckled girl pointed out to Helen Walshingham, an "interesting" face, and that aspect of him which presented chiefly erratic hair and glowing ears ceased to prevail.

They talked him over, and the freckled girl discovered there was something "wistful" in his manner. They detected a "natural delicacy," and the freckled girl set herself to draw him out from that time forth. The freckled girl was nineteen, and very wise and motherly and benevolent, and really she greatly

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"With 3 full setts of keys and quarter notes.

"Sealed and delivered in the presence of Geo. Miniett, Tho. Griffin, Richard Cooke."

Without doubt, after the termination of this affair, considerable jealousy existed on the part of Harris towards his successful rival. The "quarter tones" in the Temple Organ, which gained Smith great reputation, appear to have been a sore subject with Harris. The following interesting advertisements, which are quite new features in the lives of these distinguished artists, are here reprinted for the first time. The first is from "The Post Boy," April 12, 1698:

"'Whereas the Division of half a Note (upon an Organ) into 50 Gradual and distinguishable parts has been declar'd by Mr. Smith, as also by the generality of Masters, to be impracticable: All Organists, Masters, and Artists of the"


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CH. III drawing out Kipps to wood-carving. It was quite evident to her that Kipps was in love with Helen Walshingham, and it struck her as a queer and romantic and pathetic and extremely interesting phenomenon. And as at that time she regarded Helen as "simply lovely," it seemed only right and proper that she should assist Kipps in his modest efforts to place himself in a state of absolute abandon upon her altar.

Under her sympathetic management the position of Kipps was presently defined quite clearly. He was unhappy in his position—misunderstood. He told her he "didn't seem to get on like" with customers, and she translated this for him as "too sensitive." The discontent with his fate in life, the dreadful feeling that education was slipping by him, troubles that time and usage were glazing over a little, revived to their old acuteness but not to their old hopelessness. As a basis for sympathy indeed they were even a source of pleasure.

And one day at dinner it happened that Carshot and Buggins fell talking of "these here writers," and how Dickens had been a labeller of blacking and Thackeray "an artist who couldn't sell a drawing," and how Samuel Johnson had walked to London without any boots, having thrown away his only pair "out of pride." "It's luck," said Buggins, "to a very large extent. They just happen to hit on something that catches on, and there you are!"

"Nice easy life they have of it, too," said Miss

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82 Mergle. "Write just an hour or so, and done for the day! Almost like gentlefolks."

"There's more work in it than you'd think," said Carshot, stooping to a mouthful.

"I wouldn't mind changing, for all that," said Buggins. "I'd like to see one of these here authors marking off with Jimmy."

"I think they copy from each other a good deal," said Miss Mergle.

"Even then (chup, chup, chup)," said Carshot, "there's writing it out in their own hands."

They proceeded to enlarge upon the literary life, on its ease and dignity, on the social recognition accorded to those who led it, and on the ample gratifications their vanity achieved, "Pictures everywhere—never get a new suit without being photographed—almost like Royalty," said Miss Mergle.

And all this talk impressed the imagination of Kipps very greatly. Here was a class that seemed to bridge the gulf. On the one hand essentially Low, but by factitious circumstances capable of entering upon those levels of social superiority to which all true Englishmen aspire, those levels from which one may tip a butler, scorn a tailor, and even commune with those who lead "men" into battle. "Almost like gentlefolks"—that was it! He brooded over these things in the afternoon, until they blossomed into daydreams. Suppose, for example, he had chanced to write a book, a well-known book, under an assumed name, and yet kept on being a draper all the time…

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 "Faculty, are together with the said Mr. Smith, invited to Mr. Harris's house in Wine Office Court, Fleet Street, on Easter Munday next at Two of the Clock in the Afternoon, to hear and see the same demonstrated.'"

Again, in the same paper, April 30, the following appeared:

"'Whereas the Division of half a note (upon an Organ in 50 Gradual and Distinguishable parts, was performed by Mr. Harris on Easter Munday to the full satisfaction of the Persons of Quality and Masters that were present: And Whereas the said. Mr. Harris intends a further Division of half a Note, viz. into One Hundred parts (and this, as before, not Mathematically, but purely by the Ear), all Masters and others of curious and Nice Ears, are invited to the said Mr. Harris's House in Wyne Office Court, Fleet Street, on the 10th of May at Three of the Clock in the Afternoon, to hear and see the Performance, and to be informed (if any doubt) of its Usefulness.'"

It would be interesting to know more of these trials, but nothing appears on record.

Harris had again cause to feel annoyed at the appointment of his rival to build the organ for St. Paul's Cathedral. The following highly interesting broadside, hitherto unknown, I discovered in the British Museum, and it is here reprinted for the first time. There can be little doubt that it emanated from Harris, or some of his partizans.


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CH. III Impossible, of course, but suppose—it made quite a long dream.

And at the next wood-carving class he let it be drawn from him that his real choice in life was to be a Nawther—"only one doesn't get a chance."

After that there were times when Kipps had that pleasant sense that comes of attracting interest. He was a mute, inglorious Dickens, or at any rate something of that sort, and they were all taking him at that. The discovery of this indefinable "something in" him, the development of which was now painfully restricted and impossible, did much to bridge the gulf between himself and Miss Walshingham. He was unfortunate, he was futile, but he was not "common." Even now with help …? The two girls, and the freckled girl in particular, tried to "stir him up" to some effort to do his imputed potentialities justice. They were still young enough to believe that to nice and niceish members of the male sex—more especially when under the stimulus of feminine encouragement—nothing is finally impossible.

The freckled girl was, I say, the stage manager of this affair, but Miss Walshingham was the presiding divinity. A touch of proprietorship came in her eyes at times when she looked at him. He was hers—unconditionally—and she knew it.

To her directly Kipps scarcely ever made a speech. The enterprising things that he was continually devising to say to her, he usually did not say, or he said them In a suitably modified form to the girl with the

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84 freckles. And one day the girl with the freckles smote him to the heart. She said to him, with the faintest indication of her head across the class-room to where her friend reached a cast from the shelf, "I do think Helen Walshingham is sometimes the most lovely person in the world. Look at her now!"

Kipps gasped for a moment. The moment lengthened, and she regarded him as an intelligent young surgeon might regard an operation without anæsthetics.

"You're right," he said, and then looked at her with an entire abandonment of visage.

She coloured under his glare of silent avowal, and he blushed brightly.

"I think so, too," he said hoarsely, cleared his throat, and after a meditative moment proceeded sacramentally with his wood-carving.

"You are wonderful," said the freckled girl to Miss Walshingham, apropos of nothing, as they went on their way home together. "He simply adores you."

"But, my dear, what have I done?" said Helen.

"That's just it," said the freckled girl. "What have you done?"

And then with a terrible swiftness came the last class of the course, to terminate this relationship altogether. Kipps was careless of dates, and the thing came upon him with an effect of abrupt surprise. Just as his petals were expanding so hopefully, "Finis," and the thing was at an end. But Kipps did not fully

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CH. III appreciate that the end was indeed and really and truly the end, until he was back in the Emporium after the end was over.

The end began practically in the middle of the last class, when the freckled girl broached the topic of terminations. She developed the question of just how he was going on after the class ended. She hoped he would stick to certain resolutions of self-improvement he had breathed. She said quite honestly that he owed it to himself to develop his possibilities. He expressed firm resolve, but dwelt on difficulties. He had no books. She instructed him how to get books from the public library. He was to get a form of application for a ticket signed by a ratepayer; and he said "of course," when she said Mr. Shalford would do that, though all the time he knew perfectly well it would "never do" to ask Mr. Shalford for anything of the sort. She explained that she was going to North Wales for the summer, information he received without immediate regret. At intervals he expressed his intention of going on with wood-carving when the summer was over, and once he added "If"

She considered herself extremely delicate not to press for the completion of that "if"

After that talk there was an interval of languid wood-carving and watching Miss Walshingham.

Then presently there came a bustle of packing, a great ceremony of hand-shaking all round by Miss Collis and the maiden lady of ripe years, and then

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86 Kipps found himself outside the class-room, on the landing with his two friends. It seemed to him he had only just learnt that this was the last class of all. There came a little pause, and the freckled girl suddenly went back into the class-room, and left Kipps and Miss Walshingham alone together for the first time. Kipps was instantly breathless. She looked at his face with a glance that mingled sympathy and curiosity, and held out her white hand.

"Well, good-bye, Mr. Kipps," she said.

He took her hand and held it. "I'd do anything," said Kipps, and had not the temerity to add, "for you." He stopped awkwardly. He shook her hand and said, "Good-bye."

There was a little pause.

"I hope you will have a pleasant holiday," she said.

"I shall come back to the class next year, anyhow," said Kipps valiantly, and turned abruptly to the stairs.

"I hope you will," said Miss Walshingham.

He turned back towards her. "Reelly?" he said.

"I hope everybody will come back."

"I will—anyhow," said Kipps. "You may count on that," and he tried to make his tones significant.

They looked at one another through a little pause.

"Good-bye," she said.

Kipps lifted his hat. She turned towards the classroom.

"Well?" said the freckled girl, coming back towards her.

"Nothing," said Helen. "At least—presently."

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CH. III And she became very energetic about some scattered tools on a desk.

The freckled girl went out and stood for a moment at the head of the stairs. When she came back she looked very hard at her friend. The incident struck her as important—wonderfully important. It was unassimilable, of course, and absurd, but there it was, the thing that is so cardinal to a girl, the emotion, the subservience, the crowning triumph of her sex. She could not help feeling that Helen took it, on the whole, a little too hardly.

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296 I was not uneasy, for they were neither certain of the hour of our return, nor of the way we might take. I expected, however, to find them in the colonnade—they were not there. I hastily entered the house; I called aloud, "Elizabeth! Francis! where are you?" No one answered. A mortal terror seized me—-and for a moment I could not move.

"They will be in the grotto," said Ernest.

"Or in the garden," said Fritz.

"Perhaps on the shore," cried Jack; "my mother likes to watch the waves, and Francis may be gathering shells."

These were possibilities. My sons flew in all directions in search of their mother and brother. I found it impossible to move, and was obliged to sit down. I trembled, and my heart beat till I could scarcely breathe. I did not venture to dwell on the extent of my fears, or, rather, I had no distinct notion of them. I tried to recover myself. I murmured, "Yes—at the grotto, or the garden—they will return directly." Still, I could not compose myself. I was overwhelmed with a sad presentiment of the misfortune which impended over me. It was but too soon realized. My sons returned in fear and consternation. They had no occasion to tell me the result of their search; I saw it at once, and, sinking down motionless, I cried, "Alas! they are not there!"

Jack returned the last, and in the most frightful state; he had been at the sea-shore, and, throwing himself into my arms, he sobbed out—

"The savages have been here and carried away my mother and Francis; perhaps they have


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Rh them; I have seen the marks of their horrible feet on the sands, and the print of dear Francis's boots."

This account at once recalled me to strength and action.

"Come, my children, let us fly to save them. God will pity our sorrow, and assist us. He will restore them. Come, come!"

They were ready in a moment. But a distracting thought seized me. Had they carried off the pinnace? if so, every hope was gone. Jack, in his distress, had never thought of remarking this but, the instant I named it, Fritz and he ran to ascertain the important circumstance, Ernest, in the mean time, supporting me, and endeavouring to calm me.

"Perhaps," said he, "they are still in the island. Perhaps they may have fled to hide themselves in some wood, or amongst the reeds. Even if the pinnace be left, it would be prudent to search the island from end to end before we leave it. Trust Fritz and me, we will do this; and, even if we find them in the hands of the enemy, we will recover them. Whilst we are off on this expedition, you can be preparing for our voyage, and we will search the world from one end to the other, every country and every sea, but we will find them. And we shall succeed. Let us put our whole trust in God. He is our Father he will not try us beyond our strength."

I embraced my child, and a flood of tears relieved my overcharged heart. My eyes and hands were raised to Heaven; my silent prayers winged their flight to the Almighty to him who tries us


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298 and consoles us. A ray of hope seemed to visit my mind, when I heard my boys cry out, as they approached—

"The pinnace is here! they have not carried that away!" I fervently thanked God—it was a kind of miracle for this pretty vessel was more tempting than the canoe. Perhaps, as it was hidden in a little creek between the rocks, it had escaped their observation perhaps they might not know how to manage it or they might not be numerous enough. No matter, it was there, and might be the means of our recovering the beloved objects those barbarians had torn from us. How gracious is God, to give us hope to sustain us in our afflictions! Without hope, we could not live it restores and revives us, and, even if never realized below, accompanies us to the end of our life, and beyond the grave!

I imparted to my eldest son the idea of his brother, that they might be concealed in some part of the island; but I dared not rely on this sweet hope. Finally, as we ought not to run the risk of abandoning them, if they were still here, and perhaps in the power of the savages, I consented that my two eldest sons should go to ascertain the fact. Besides, however impatient I was, I felt that a voyage such as we were undertaking into unknown seas might be of long duration, and it was necessary to make some preparations—I must think on food, water, arms, and many other things. There are situations in life which seize the heart and soul, rendering us insensible to the wants of the body—this we now experienced. We had just come from a painful journey, on foot, of twenty-four hours,


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Rh during which we had had little rest, and no sleep. Since morning we had eaten nothing but some morsels of the bread-fruit; it was natural that we should be overcome with fatigue and hunger. But we none of us had even thought of our own state—we were supported, if I may use the expression, by our despair. At the moment that my sons were going to set out, the remembrance of their need of refreshment suddenly occurred to me, and I besought them to rest a little, and take something; but they were too much agitated to consent. I gave Fritz a bottle of Canary, and some slices of roast mutton I met with, which he put in his pocket. They had each a loaded musket, and they set out, taking the road along the rocks, where the most hidden retreats and most impenetrable woods lay; they promised me to fire off their pieces frequently to let their mother know they were there, if she was hidden among the rocks—they took also one of the dogs. Flora we could not find, which made us conclude she had followed her mistress, to whom she was much attached.

As soon as my eldest sons had left us, I made Jack conduct me to the shore where he had seen the footmarks, that I might examine them, to judge of their number and direction. I found many very distinct, but so mingled, I could come to no positive conclusion. Some were near the sea, with the foot pointing to the shore; and amongst these Jack thought he could distinguish the boot-mark of Francis. My wife wore very light boots also, which I had made for her; they rendered stockings unnecessary, and strengthened her ankles. I could not find the trace of these; but


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300 I soon discovered that my poor Elizabeth had been here, from a piece torn from an apron she wore, made of her own cotton, and dyed red. I had now not the least doubt that she was in the canoe with her son. It was a sort of consolation to think they were together; but how many mortal fears accompanied this consolation! Oh! was I ever to see again these objects of my tenderest affection!

Certain now that they were not in the island, I was impatient for the return of my sons, and I made every preparation for our departure. The first thing I thought of was the wrecked chest, which would furnish me with means to conciliate the savages, and to ransom my loved ones. I added to it everything likely to tempt them; utensils, stuffs, trinkets; I even took with me gold and silver coin, which was thrown on one side as useless, but might be of service to us on this occasion. I wished my riches were three times as much as they were, that I might give all in change for the life and liberty of my wife and son. I then turned my thoughts on those remaining to me: I took, in bags and gourds, all that we had left of cassava-bread, manioc-roots, and potatoes; a barrel of salt-fish, two bottles of rum, and several jars of fresh water. Jack wept as he filled them at his fountain, which he perhaps might never see again, any more than his dear Valiant, whom I set at liberty, as well as the cow, ass, buffalo, and the beautiful onagra. These docile animals were accustomed to us and our attentions, and they remained in their places, surprised that they were neither harnessed nor mounted. We opened the poultry-yard and pigeon-cote. The flamingo would not leave us, it went and came


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Rh with us from the house to the pinnace. We took also oil, candles, fuel, and a large iron pot to cook our provisions in. For our defence, I took two more guns, and a small barrel of powder, all we had left. I added besides some changes of linen, not forgetting some for my dear wife, which I hoped might be needed. The time fled rapidly while we were thus employed; night came on, and my sons returned not. My grief was inconceivable; the island was so large and woody, that they might have lost themselves, or the savages might have returned and encountered them. After twenty hours of frightful terror, I heard the report of a gun—alas! only one report! it was the signal agreed on if they returned alone; two if they brought their mother; three if Francis also accompanied them; but I expected they would return alone, and I was still grateful. I ran to meet them; they were overoome with fatigue and vexation.

They begged to set out immediately, not to lose one precious moment; they were now sure the island did not contain those they lamented, and they hoped I would not return without discovering them, for what would the island be to us without our loved ones? Fritz, at that moment, saw his dear Lightfoot capering round him, and could not help sighing as he caressed him, and took leave of him.

"May I find thee here," said he, "where I leave thee in such sorrow; and I will bring back thy young master," added he, turning to the bull, who was also approaching him.

He then begged me again to set out, as the moon was just rising in all her majesty.


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Author:Benjamin Collins Brodie (1817-1880)

Scientific Papers

 * "Synthesis of the Chemical Elements," Proceedings of the Ashmolean Society. (1843)
 * "Investigations of the Chemical Nature of Wax," Philosophical Transactions. (1848)
 * "Observations on the Constitution of the Alcohol Radical and on the Formation of Ethyl," Chemical Society's Journal (1851)
 * "On the Allotropic Changes of certain Elements," Royal Instution Proceedings. (1851)
 * "On the Conditions of Certain Elements at the Moment of Chemical Change," Philosophical Transactions. (1850)
 * "Note sur un nouveau procédé pour la purification et la désagrégation du Graphite." Annales de Chimie. (1855)
 * "On the Atomic Weight of Graphite," Philosophical Transactions (1859)

Books

 * The Calculus of Chemical Operations (1866)


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Page:Voyages in the Northern Pacific - 1896.djvu/172

 o HONOLULU, H. I. PUBLISHER OF THE O O A handbook of information relating to the Ha- waiian Islands, original and selected, of its political, commercial, educational and social progress, issued reg- larly since 1875, and mailed to any address in the Postal Union for 85 cents per copy. AGENT FOR THE SALE OF Mrs. Sinclair's Indigenous Flowers of the Hawaiian Islands, witk Colored Plates, 1 vol. folio. Hilderbrand's Flora of the Hawaiian Islands, 1 vol. 8 vo. Pomander's Polynesian Race, 3 vols. 8 vo. Andrew's Hawaiian Dictionary, 8 vo. Andrew's Hawaiian Grammar, 8 vo. Alexander's Synopsis of Hawaiian Grammar, 12 nio. paper. Bailey's Hawaiian Ferns, 8 vo. paper. Baldwin's Land and Fresh Water Shells, 8 vo. paper.


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Rh

* Russian trading settlement, 4, 14, 30, 33.
 * Russians, 4, 30, 31, 34, 51, 52, 53, 71.
 * at Kauai, 88, driven off, 89.
 * expelled from Oahu, 72, 82.

 * Sandal wood collecting, 89.
 * purchasing, 47.
 * Sandwich Islanders 8, 9, 25, 27, 38, 41, 69.
 * dress of women, 110–111.
 * good fighters, 122.
 * human sacrifices abolished, 102.
 * superstitions, 103, 115, 117.
 * Sandwich Islands, 1, 2, 7, 96.
 * San Francisco, 17, 32
 * Santa Rosa, brig, account of mutiny, 93–94.
 * arrival at Hawaii, 92.
 * delivered up to Bouchard, 119.
 * sails for Kauai, 120, and Monterey, 121.
 * attack fort and sack the town, 122.
 * reach Valparaiso, 126.
 * Scheffer, Dr., (Shefham), 46, 48, 72, 73, 89.
 * Sea-Otters, 30, 54.
 * Selechel, 65.
 * Settlers landed, 10.
 * Ship towage into Honolulu, method of, 67–8.
 * Sir Francis Drake harbor, 32, 75$a$.
 * Slavery among Indians, 68.
 * Smith, Capt. 27.
 * Sole (or Soule), Capt., 14.
 * Soledada Island, 21.
 * Soosoonies, 42, 65.
 * Spaniards, 32, 33, 43, 80, 122.
 * Spanish crew massacred, 80.
 * Spear catching, 101.
 * Sperm whales seen, 42.
 * St. Barbara looted, 124.
 * Stevenson, Wm., escaped convict, 107.
 * St. Paul & St. George Islands, 14, 51.
 * Strange custom, 36.
 * Surf riding experience, 112.

 * Taboo or Kapu, 36, 86, 100.
 * Tackum, chief, 66.
 * Tameamea, see Kamehameha.
 * Tameameah, Am. schooner privateer, 39
 * Tamoree—see Kaumualii.
 * Tarrow—see Kalo.
 * Taxes, 83$a$, 102.
 * Tee (or Ki) root, 106.
 * Thorne, Captn. 7, 8, 9, 10, 11.
 * Tongue Point, 57.
 * Tonquin, leaves New York, 7.
 * off the Columbia, 8, in peril, 9.
 * lands cargo, 10.
 * messacre of crew, 11,
 * wrecked, 12.
 * Tour with Don Marin, 117.
 * Trade, articles of, 68.
 * between N. W. Coast Sand. Is. and China, 1.
 * Tres Marias, 126.
 * Trinidad bay, 75$a$.
 * Turner, Captn. 92, 93.
 * with officers put ashore, 94.

 * Vancouver's observatory, 32, 44.

 * Waialua, 100.
 * Waianae, 89, 100.
 * Waikiki, 97.
 * Waimea, 73, 88, 89.
 * Russian fort at, 88.
 * Wampoa, schr. Columbia, leaves 41.
 * War Canoes, Indian, 69.
 * West India trade, effect on, 2, 19.
 * Western Settlement's Communication, 3.
 * Wild Animals, variety of, 5.
 * Winship, Captn. 71.
 * Woahoo, see Oahu.
 * Woody Point, 10, 12.

 * Young John, 40, 72, 83$a$, 84$a$, 107.
 * Young's River, 77$a$.


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 * Adams, Capt., 71.
 * Point, 57, 66, 79$a$.
 * Aikanes, 48, 87, 101.
 * Alexander, Am. brig, 76.
 * Albatross, Am. ship, 68, 71.
 * Aleutian Islands, 14, 29, 46, 52, 54.
 * American Colony project, 5.
 * continent, rapid peopling of, 6.
 * government, object of the 3.
 * fleet of traders, 46.
 * Americans, plan of, 5.
 * Amusements of Hawaiians, 106.
 * Anderson, Peter, 7, 49.
 * Andromache, H. M. ship, 126.
 * Animals, variety of, 68–9.
 * Appendix—Bouchard Letters, 128–38.
 * Area of trading territory, 3, 4.
 * Argentina, Patriot ship, 119.
 * her motley crew, 121.
 * attack on Monterey, 122,
 * and along the coast, 123–126.
 * arrival at Valparaiso, 127.
 * Ashton, Jos., goes insane, 41.
 * Astor, John Jacob, 7, 8, 13, 15.
 * Atkins, (Col.) expedition, 3.
 * Attack on Monterey, 122.
 * Attempt (second) to settle on the Columbia, 13.
 * Awa. 104–5.
 * Ayers, Capt., 68.

 * Baker's Bay, 25, 57, 58.
 * Baranoff, Governor, 29, 30, 34, 37.
 * Barber's Point, 100.
 * Beaver (The), Astor's second ship, 13, 14.
 * Bethune, Mr., 28, 38, 49.
 * Bird Island, 73.
 * Blacksmith of the Tonquin, 9, 11, 12.
 * Black whale, 52, 54.
 * Boatswain of Forester shot, 40.
 * Bodago, 75$a$.
 * Bay, 81, harbor, 82.
 * Bodaree and Bodarkee, or skin boats, 29, 50, 53, 54.
 * Boki, 93.
 * Bordeaux Packet, brig, 83$a$.
 * Bouchard Hypolito, arrival of, at Hawaii, 119.
 * demands the Santa Rosa, 119.
 * letters, 130–38.
 * orders Griffith shot, 120.
 * plundering along the Coast, 123–26.
 * Brazil Coast, 20.
 * British-Canadian companies, 4.
 * Brutus, Am. brig, 73.

 * Calpo, chief, 58.
 * Canadian lakes, 4.
 * Canadians, 80$a$.
 * Canoe fur fleet, 47, 55.
 * voyages, 53.
 * Carpenter, John, 77$a$, 78$a$, 79$a$, 83$a$.
 * Cape Disappointment, 14, 19, 24, 25, 57, 58.
 * Edgecomb, 75.
 * Frio, 20.
 * Horn, 20, 22.
 * Mendocino, 81.
 * Orford, 24, 77-78.
 * St. Lucas, 11, 126.
 * St. Vincent, 22.
 * Casakas, or Cassacas, and Selechel, 27, 65.
 * Cattle shooting restricted, 109.


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 [In this year Renatus Harris entered into an agreement with the President and Fellows to keep their organ in tune for 8l yearly. Entries of those payments occur from year to year, the last being in 1715, the supposed year of Harris's death.]


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"This endenture made the yere of oure lorde god ml vo xix. and in the moneth of July xxix day. Witnesseth that Antony Duddyngton, Citezen of London, Organ-Maker, hath made a full bargayn, condycionally, with Maister Willm. Petenson, Doctour in Divinite, Vicar of Alhalowe Barkyng, Robt. Whytehed and John Churche, Wardeyns of the same Churche, and Maistere of the P'isshe of Alhalowe Barkyng, next ye Tower of London, to make an instrument, that ys to say a payer of organs for the foresed churche, of dowble Ce-fa-ut that ys to say, xxvij. playne keyes, and the pryncipale to conteyn the length of v foote, so folowing wt Bassys called Diapason to the same, conteyning length of x foot or more: And to be dowble pryncipalls thoroweout the seid instrument, so that the pyppes wt inforth shall be as fyne metall and stuff as tho utter parts, that is to say of pure Tyn, wt as fewe stoppes as may be convenient.


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title: Talk:The Clipper Ship Era


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302 "The queen of night," said Ernest; "will guide us to the queen of our island, who is perhaps now looking up to her, and calling on us to help her."

"Most assuredly," said I, "she is thinking on us; but it is on God she is calling for help. Let us join her in prayer, my dear children, for herself and our dear Francis."

They fell on their knees with me, and I uttered the most fervent and earnest prayer that ever human heart poured forth; and I rose with confidence that our prayers were heard. I proceeded with new courage to the creek that contained our pinnace, where Jack arranged all we had brought; we rowed out of the creek, and when we were in the bay, we held a council to consider on which side we were to commence our search. I thought of retuning to the great bay, from whence our canoe had been taken; my sons, on the contrary, thought that these islanders, content with their acquisition, had been returning homewards, coasting along the island, when an unhappy chance had led their mother and brother to the shore, where the savages had seen them, and carried them off. At the most, they could but be a day before us; but that was long enough to fill us with dreadful anticipations. I yielded to the opinion of m sons, which had a great deal of reason on its side, besides the wind was favourable in that direction; and, abandoning ourselves in full confidence to Almighty God, we spread our sails, and were soon in the open sea.


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 DARWIN ON THE ORIGIN OF SPECIES There is a growing immensity in the speculations of science to which no human thing or thought at this day is comparable. Apart from the results which science brings us home and securely harvests, there is an  expansive force and latitude in its tentative efforts, which lifts us  out of ourselves and transfigures our mortality. We may have a preference for moral themes, like the Homeric sage, who had seen and  known much:— "Cities of men "And manners, climates, councils, governments;"  yet we must end by confession that "The windy ways of men Are but dust which rises up "And is lightly laid again," in comparison with the work of nature, to which science testifies, but which has no boundaries in time or space to which science can  approximate. There is something altogether out of the reach of science, and yet the compass of science is practically illimitable. Hence it is that from time to time we are startled and perplexed by theories which have no  parallel in the contracted moral world; for the generalizations of  science sweep on in ever-widening circles, and more aspiring flights,  through a limitless creation. While astronomy, with its telescope, ranges beyond the known stars, and physiology, with its microscope, is  subdividing infinite minutiae, we may expect that our historic  centuries may be treated as inadequate counters in the history of the  planet on which we are placed. We must expect new conceptions of the nature and relations of its denizens, as science acquires the materials  for fresh generalizations; nor have we occasion for alarms if a highly  advanced knowledge, like that of the eminent Naturalist before us,  confronts us with an hypothesis as vast as it is novel. This hypothesis may or may not be sustainable hereafter; it may give way to  something else, and higher science may reverse what science has here  built up with so much skill and patience, but its sufficiency must be  tried by the tests of science alone, if we are to maintain our position  as the heirs of Bacon and the acquitters of Galileo. We must weigh this hypothesis strictly in the controversy which is coming, by the only  tests which are appropriate, and by no others whatsoever. The hypothesis to which we point, and of which the present work of Mr. Darwin is but the preliminary outline, may be stated in his own language as follows:—"Species originated by means of natural  selection, or through the preservation of the favoured races in the  struggle for life." To render this thesis intelligible, it is necessary to interpret its terms. In the first place, what is a species? The question is a simple one, but the right answer to it is hard to find, even if we appeal to those who should know most about  it. It is all those animals or plants which have descended from a single pair of parents; it is the smallest distinctly definable group  of living organisms; it is an eternal and immutable entity; it is a mere  abstraction of the human intellect having no existence in nature. Such are a few of the significations attached to this simple word which may  be culled from authoritative sources; and if, leaving terms and  theoretical subtleties aside, we turn to facts and endeavour to gather a  meaning for ourselves, by studying the things to which, in practice,  the name of species is applied, it profits us little. For practice varies as much as theory. Let the botanist or the zoologist examine and describe the productions of a country, and one will pretty certainly  disagree with the other as to the number, limits, and definitions of  the species into which he groups the very same things. In these islands, we are in the habit of regarding mankind as of one species, but  a fortnight's steam will land us in a country where divines and  savants, for once in agreement, vie with one another in loudness of  assertion, if not in cogency of proof, that men are of different  species; and, more particularly, that the species negro is so distinct  from our own that the Ten Commandments have actually no reference to  him. Even in the calm region of entomology, where, if anywhere in this sinful world, passion and prejudice should fail to stir the mind, one  learned coleopterist will fill ten attractive volumes with descriptions  of species of beetles, nine-tenths of which are immediately declared by  his brother beetle-mongers to be no species at all. The truth is that the number of distinguishable living creatures almost surpasses imagination. At least a hundred thousand such kinds of insects alone have been described and may be identified in collections,  and the number of separable kinds of living things is underestimated  at half a million. Seeing that most of these obvious kinds have their accidental varieties, and that they often shade into others by  imperceptible degrees, it may well be imagined that the task of  distinguishing between what is permanent and what fleeting, what is a  species and what a mere variety, is sufficiently formidable. But is it not possible to apply a test whereby a true species may be known from a mere variety? Is there no criterion of species? Great authorities affirm that there is—that the unions of members of the  same species are always fertile, while those of distinct species are  either sterile, or their offspring, called hybrids, are so. It is affirmed not only that this is an experimental fact, but that it is a  provision for the preservation of the purity of species. Such a criterion as this would be invaluable; but, unfortunately, not only is  it not obvious how to apply it in the great majority of cases in which  its aid is needed, but its general validity is stoutly denied. The Hon. and Rev. Mr. Herbert, a most trustworthy authority, not only  asserts as the result of his own observations and experiments that many  hybrids are quite as fertile as the parent species, but he goes so far  as to assert that the particular plant Crinum capense is much more  fertile when crossed by a distinct species than when fertilised by its  proper pollen! On the other hand, the famous Gaertner, though he took the greatest pains to cross the primrose and the cowslip, succeeded  only once or twice in several years; and yet it is a well-established  fact that the primrose and the cowslip are only varieties of the same  kind of plant. Again, such cases as the following are well established. The female of species A, if crossed with the male of species B, is fertile; but, if the female of B is crossed with the male  of A, she remains barren. Facts of this kind destroy the value of the supposed criterion. If, weary of the endless difficulties involved in the determination of species, the investigator, contenting himself with the rough practical  distinction of separable kinds, endeavours to study them as they occur  in nature—to ascertain their relations to the conditions which  surround them, their mutual harmonies and discordances of structure,  the bond of union of their parts and their past history, he finds  himself, according to the received notions, in a mighty maze, and with,  at most, the dimmest adumbration of a plan. If he starts with any one clear conviction, it is that every part of a living creature is  cunningly adapted to some special use in its life. Has not his Paley told him that that seemingly useless organ, the spleen, is beautifully  adjusted as so much packing between the other organs? And yet, at the outset of his studies, he finds that no adaptive reason whatsoever can  be given for one-half of the peculiarities of vegetable structure; he  also discovers rudimentary teeth, which are never used, in the gums of  the young calf and in those of the foetal whale; insects which never  bite have rudimental jaws, and others which never fly have rudimental  wings; naturally blind creatures have rudimental eyes; and the halt  have rudimentary limbs. So, again, no animal or plant puts on its perfect form at once, but all have to start from the same point,  however various the course which each has to pursue. Not only men and horses, and cats and dogs, lobsters and beetles, periwinkles and  mussels, but even the very sponges and animalcules commence their  existence under forms which are essentially undistinguishable; and this  is true of all the infinite variety of plants. Nay, more, all living beings march side by side along the high road of development, and  separate the later the more like they are; like people leaving church,  who all go down the aisle, but having reached the door some turn into  the parsonage, others go down the village, and others part only in the  next parish. A man in his development runs for a little while parallel with, though never passing through, the form of the meanest worm, then  travels for a space beside the fish, then journeys along with the bird  and the reptile for his fellow travellers; and only at last, after a  brief companionship with the highest of the four-footed and four-handed  world, rises into the dignity of pure man


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 hood. No competent thinker of the present day dreams of explaining these indubitable facts by the  notion of the existence of unknown and undiscoverable adaptations to  purpose. And we would remind those who, ignorant of the facts, must be moved by authority, that no one has asserted the incompetence of the  doctrine of final causes, in its application to physiology and anatomy,  more strongly than our own eminent anatomist, Professor Owen, who,  speaking of such cases, says (On the Nature of Limbs, pp. 39, 40),—"I  think it will be obvious that the principle of final adaptations fails  to satisfy all the conditions of the problem." But, if the doctrine of final causes will not help us to comprehend the anomalies of living structure, the principle of adaptation must surely  lead us to understand why certain living beings are found in certain  regions of the world and not in others. The palm, as we know, will not grow in our climate, nor the oak in Greenland. The white bear cannot live where the tiger thrives, nor vice versa, and the more the  natural habits of animal and vegetable species are examined, the more  do they seem, on the whole, limited to particular provinces. But when we look into the facts established by the study of the geographical  distribution of animals and plants it seems utterly hopeless to attempt  to understand the strange and apparently capricious relations which  they exhibit. One would be inclined to suppose a priori that every country must be naturally peopled by those animals that are fittest to  live and thrive in it. And yet how, on this hypothesis, are we to account for the absence of cattle in the Pampas of South America, when  those parts of the New World were discovered? It is not that they were unfit for cattle, for millions of cattle now run wild there; and the  like holds good of Australia and New Zealand. It is a curious circumstance, in fact, that the animals and plants of the Northern  Hemisphere are not only as well adapted to live in the Southern  Hemisphere as its own autochthones, but are in many cases absolutely  better adapted, and so overrun and extirpate the aborigines. Clearly, therefore, the species which naturally inhabit a country are not  necessarily the best adapted to its climate and other conditions. The inhabitants of islands are often distinct from any other known species  of animal or plants (witness our recent examples from the work of Sir  Emerson Tennent, on Ceylon), and yet they have almost always a sort of  general family resemblance to the animals and plants of the nearest  mainland. On the other hand, there is hardly a species of fish, shell, or crab common to the opposite sides of the narrow isthmus of Panama. Wherever we look, then, living nature offers us riddles of difficult solution, if we suppose that what we see is all that can be known of it. But our knowledge of life is not confined to the existing world. Whatever their minor differences, geologists are agreed as to the vast thickness of the accumulated strata which compose the visible part of  our earth, and the inconceivable immensity of the time of whose lapse  they are the imperfect, but the only accessible witnesses. Now, throughout the greater part of this long series of stratified rocks are  scattered, sometimes very abundantly, multitudes of organic remains,  the fossilized exuviae of animals and plants which lived and died while  the mud of which the rocks are formed was yet soft ooze, and could  receive and bury them. It would be a great error to suppose that these organic remains were fragmentary relics. Our museums exhibit fossil shells of immeasurable antiquity, as perfect as the day they were  formed, whole skeletons without a limb disturbed—nay, the changed  flesh, the developing embryos, and even the very footsteps of primeval  organisms. Thus the naturalist finds in the bowels of the earth species as well defined as, and in some groups of animals more numerous  than, those that breathe the upper air. But, singularly enough, the majority of these entombed species are wholly distinct from those that  now live. Nor is this unlikeness without its rule and order. As a broad fact, the further we go back in time the less the buried species  are like existing forms; and the further apart the sets of extinct  creatures are the less they are like one another. In other words, there has been a regular succession of living beings, each younger set  being in a very broad and general sense somewhat more like those which  now live. It was once supposed that this succession had been the result of vast successive catastrophes, destructions, and re-creations en masse; but  catastrophes are now almost eliminated from geological, or at least  palaeontological speculation; and it is admitted on all hands that the  seeming breaks in the chain of being are not absolute, but only relative  to our imperfect knowledge; that species have replaced species, not in  assemblages, but one by one; and that, if it were possible to have all  the phenomena of the past presented to us, the convenient epochs and  formations of the geologist, though having a certain distinctness, would  fade into one another with limits as undefinable as those of the  distinct and yet separable colours of the solar spectrum. Such is a brief summary of the main truths which have been established concerning species. Are these truths ultimate and irresolvable facts, or are their complexities and perplexities the mere expressions of a  higher law? A large number of persons practically assume the former position to be correct. They believe that the writer of the Pentateuch was empowered and commissioned to teach us scientific as well as other truth, that  the account we find there of the creation of living things is simply  and literally correct, and that anything which seems to contradict it  is, by the nature of the case, false. All the phenomena which have been detailed are, on this view, the immediate product of a creative  fiat and consequently are out of the domain of science altogether. Whether this view prove ultimately to be true or false, it is, at any rate, not at present supported by what is commonly regarded as logical  proof, even if it be capable of discussion by reason; and hence we  consider ourselves at liberty to pass it by, and to turn to those views  which profess to rest on a scientific basis only, and therefore admit of  being argued to their consequences. And we do this with the less hesitation as it so happens that those persons who are practically  conversant with the facts of the case (plainly a considerable advantage)  have always thought fit to range themselves under the latter category. The majority of these competent persons have up to the present time maintained two positions,—the first, that every species is, within  certain defined or definable limits, fixed and incapable of  modification; the second, that every species was originally produced by  a distinct creative act. The second position is obviously incapable of proof or disproof, the direct operations of the Creator not being  subjects of science; and it must therefore be regarded as a corollary  from the first, the truth or falsehood of which is a matter of evidence. Most persons imagine that the arguments in favour of it are overwhelming; but to some few minds, and these, it must be confessed,  intellects of no small power and grasp of knowledge, they have not  brought conviction. Among these minds, that of the famous naturalist Lamarck, who possessed a greater acquaintance with the lower forms of  life than any man of his day, Cuvier not excepted, and was a good  botanist to boot, occupies a prominent place. Two facts appear to have strongly affected the course of thought of this remarkable man—the one, that finer or stronger links of affinity  connect all living beings with one another, and that thus the highest  creature grades by multitudinous steps into the lowest; the other, that  an organ may be developed in particular directions by exerting itself  in particular ways, and that modifications once induced may be  transmitted and become hereditary. Putting these facts together, Lamarck endeavoured to account for the first by the operation of the  second. Place an animal in new circumstances, says he, and its needs will be altered; the new needs will create new desires, and the attempt  to gratify such desires will result in an appropriate modification of  the organs exerted. Make a man a blacksmith, and his brachial muscles will develop in accordance with the demands made upon them, and in like  manner, says Lamarck, "the efforts of some short-necked bird to catch  fish without wetting himself have, with time and perseverance, given  rise to all our herons and long-necked waders." The Lamarckian hypothesis has long since been justly condemned, and it is the established practice for every tyro to raise his heel against  the carcass of the dead lion. But it is rarely either wise or instructive to treat even the errors of a really great man with mere  ridicule, and in the present case the logical form of the doctrine  stands on a very different footing from its substance. If species have really arisen by the operation of natural conditions, we ought to be able to find those conditions now at work; we ought to be  able to discover in nature some power adequate to


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 modify any given kind of animal or plant in such a manner as to give rise to another kind,  which would be admitted by naturalists as a distinct species. Lamarck imagined that he had discovered this vera causa in the admitted facts  that some organs may be modified by exercise; and that modifications,  once produced, are capable of hereditary transmission. It does not seem to have occurred to him to inquire whether there is any reason to  believe that there are any limits to the amount of modification  producible, or to ask how long an animal is likely to endeavour to  gratify an impossible desire. The bird, in our example, would surely have renounced fish dinners long before it had produced the least effect  on leg or neck. Since Lamarck's time, almost all competent naturalists have left speculations on the origin of species to such dreamers as the author of  the "Vestiges," by whose well-intentioned efforts the Lamarckian theory  received its final condemnation in the minds of all sound thinkers. Notwithstanding this silence, however, the transmutation theory, as it has been called, has been a "skeleton in the closet" to many an honest  zoologist and botanist who had a soul above the mere naming of dried  plants and skins. Surely, has such an one thought, nature is a mighty and consistent whole, and the providential order established in the  world of life must, if we could only see it rightly, be consistent with  that dominant over the multiform shapes of brute matter. But what is the history of astronomy, of all the branches of physics, of chemistry,  of medicine, but a narration of the steps by which the human mind has  been compelled, often sorely against its will, to recognize the  operation of secondary causes in events where ignorance beheld an  immediate intervention of a higher power? And when we know that living things are formed of the same elements as the inorganic world, that they  act and react upon it, bound by a thousand ties of natural piety, is it  probable, nay is it possible, that they, and they alone, should have no  order in their seeming disorder, no unity in their seeming  multiplicity, should suffer no explanation by the discovery of some  central and sublime law of mutual connexion? Questions of this kind have assuredly often arisen, but it might have been long before they received such expression as would have commanded  the respect and attention of the scientific world, had it not been for  the publication of the work which prompted this article. Its author, Mr. Darwin, inheritor of a once celebrated name, won his spurs in  science when most of those now distinguished were young men, and has  for the last 20 years held a place in the front ranks of British  philosophers. After a circumnavigatory voyage, undertaken solely for the love of his science, Mr. Darwin published a series of researches  which at once arrested the attention of naturalists and geologists; his  generalizations have since received ample confirmation, and now command  universal assent, nor is it questionable that they have had the most  important influence on the progress of science. More recently Mr. Darwin, with a versatility which is among the rarest of gifts, turned his attention to a most difficult question of zoology and minute  anatomy; and no living naturalist and anatomist has published a better  monograph than that which resulted from his labours. Such a man, at all events, has not entered the sanctuary with unwashed hands, and when  he lays before us the results of 20 years' investigation and reflection  we must listen even though we be disposed to strike. But, in reading his work it must be confessed that the attention which might at first  be dutifully, soon becomes willingly, given, so clear is the author's  thought, so outspoken his conviction, so honest and fair the candid  expression of his doubts. Those who would judge the book must read it; we shall endeavour only to make its line of argument and its  philosophical position intelligible to the general reader in our own  way. The Baker-street Bazaar has just been exhibiting its familiar annual spectacle. Straight-backed, small-headed, big-barrelled oxen, as dissimilar from any wild species as can well be imagined, contended for  attention and praise with sheep of half-a-dozen different breeds and  styes of bloated preposterous pigs, no more like a wild boar or sow than  a city alderman is like an ourang-outang. The cattle show has been, and perhaps may again be, succeeded by a poultry show, of whose crowing  and clucking prodigies it can only be certainly predicated that they  will be very unlike the aboriginal Phasianus gallus. If the seeker after animal anomalies is not satisfied, a turn or two in Seven Dials  will convince him that the breeds of pigeons are quite as extraordinary  and unlike one another and their parent stock, while the Horticultural  Society will provide him with any number of corresponding vegetable  aberrations from nature's types. He will learn with no little surprise, too, in the course of his travels, that the proprietors and producers  of these animal and vegetable anomalies regard them as distinct  species, with a firm belief, the strength of which is exactly  proportioned to their ignorance of scientific biology, and which is the  more remarkable as they are all proud of their skill in originating such "species." On careful inquiry it is found that all these, and the many other artificial breeds or races of animals and plants, have been produced by  one method. The breeder—and a skilful one must be a person of much sagacity and natural or acquired perceptive faculty—notes some slight  difference, arising he knows not how, in some individuals of his stock. If he wish to perpetuate the difference, to form a breed with the peculiarity in question strongly marked, he selects such male and  female individuals as exhibit the desired character, and breeds from  them. Their offspring are then carefully examined, and those which exhibit the peculiarity the most distinctly are selected for breeding,  and this operation is repeated until the desired amount of divergence  from the primitive stock is reached. It is then found that by continuing the process of selection—always breeding, that is, from  well-marked forms, and allowing no impure crosses to interfere,—a race  may be formed, the tendency of which to reproduce itself is exceedingly  strong; nor is the limit to the amount of divergence which may be thus  produced known, but one thing is certain, that, if certain breeds of  dogs, or of pigeons, or of horses, were known only in a fossil state,  no naturalist would hesitate in regarding them as distinct species. But, in all these cases we have human interference. Without the breeder there would be no selection, and without the selection no  race. Before admitting the possibility of natural species having originated in any similar way, it must be proved that there is in nature  some power which takes the place of man, and performs a selection sua  sponte. It is the claim of Mr. Darwin that he professes to have discovered the existence and the modus operandi of this natural  selection, as he terms it; and, if he be right, the process is perfectly  simple and comprehensible, and irresistibly deducible from very  familiar but well nigh forgotten facts. Who, for instance, has duly reflected upon all the consequences of the marvellous struggle for existence which is daily and hourly going on  among living beings? Not only does every animal live at the expense of some other animal or plant, but the very plants are at war. The ground is full of seeds that cannot rise into seedlings; the seedlings rob one  another of air, light and water, the strongest robber winning the day,  and extinguishing his competitors. Year after year, the wild animals with which man never interferes are, on the average, neither more nor  less numerous than they were; and yet we know that the annual produce of  every pair is from one to perhaps a million young,—so that it is  mathematically certain that, on the average, as many are killed by  natural causes as are born every year, and those only escape which  happen to be a little better fitted to resist destruction than those  which die. The individuals of a species are like the crew of a foundered ship, and none but good swimmers have a chance of reaching  the land. Such being unquestionably the necessary conditions under which living creatures exist, Mr. Darwin discovers in them the instrument of natural selection. Suppose that in the midst of this incessant competition some individuals of a species (A) present accidental  variations which happen to fit them a little better than their fellows  for the struggle in which they are engaged, then the chances are in  favour, not only of these individuals being better nourished than the  others, but of their predominating over their fellows in other ways, and  of having a better chance of leaving offspring, which will of course  tend to reproduce the peculiarities of their parents. Their offspring will, by a parity of reasoning, tend to predominate over their  contemporaries, and there being (suppose) no room for more than one  species such as A, the weaker variety will eventually be destroyed by  the new destructive influence which is thrown into the scale, and the  stronger will take its place. Sur-


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 rounding conditions remaining unchanged, the new variety (which we may call B)—supposed, for  argument's sake, to be the best adapted for these conditions which can  be got out of the original stock—will remain unchanged, all accidental  deviations from the type becoming at once extinguished, as less fit for  their post than B itself. The tendency of B to persist will grow with its persistence through successive generations, and it will acquire all  the characters of a new species. But, on the other hand, if the conditions of life change in any degree, however slight, B may no longer be that form which is best adapted to  withstand their destructive, and profit by their sustaining, influence;  in which case if it should give rise to a more competent variety (C),  this will take its place and become a new species; and thus, by natural selection, the species B and C will be successively derived  from A.  That this most ingenious hypothesis enables us to give a reason for many  apparent anomalies in the distribution of living beings in time and  space, and that it is not contradicted by the main phenomena of life  and organization appear to us to be unquestionable; and so far it must  be admitted to have an immense advantage over any of its predecessors. But it is quite another matter to affirm absolutely either the truth or falsehood of Mr. Darwin's views at the present stage of the inquiry. Goethe has an excellent aphorism defining that state of mind which he calls "Thätige Skepsis"—active doubt. It is doubt which so loves truth that it neither dares rest in doubting, nor extinguish itself by  unjustified belief; and we commend this state of mind to students of  species, with respect to Mr. Darwin's or any other hypothesis, as to  their origin. The combined investigations of another 20 years may, perhaps, enable naturalists to say whether the modifying causes and the  selective power, which Mr. Darwin has satisfactorily shown to exist in  nature, are competent to produce all the effects he ascribes to them,  or whether, on the other hand, he has been led to over-estimate the  value of his principle of natural selection, as greatly as Lamarck  overestimated his vera causa of modification by exercise. But there is, at all events, one advantage possessed by the more recent writer over his predecessor. Mr. Darwin abhors mere speculation as nature abhors a vacuum. He is as greedy of cases and precedents as any constitutional lawyer, and all the principles he lays down are capable  of being brought to the test of observation and experiment. The path he bids us follow professes to be, not a mere airy track, fabricated of  ideal cobwebs, but a solid and broad bridge of facts. If it be so, it will carry us safely over many a chasm in our knowledge, and lead us to  a region free from the snares of those fascinating but barren Virgins,  the Final Causes, against whom a high authority has so justly warned us. "My sons, dig in the vineyard," were the last words of the old man in the fable; and, though the sons found no treasure, they made their  fortunes by the grapes.


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184

HE main purpose of this paper is to show that there is no such thing possible as an ethical philosophy dogmatically made up in advance. We all help to determine the content of ethical philosophy so far as we contribute to the race's moral life. In other words, there can be no final truth in ethics any more than in physics, until the last man has had his experience and said his say. In the one case as in the other, however, the hypotheses which we now make while waiting, and the acts to which they prompt us, are among the indispensable conditions which determine what that 'say' shall be.

First of all, what is the position of him who seeks an ethical philosophy? To begin with, he must be distinguished from all those who are satisfied to be ethical sceptics. He will not be a sceptic; therefore so far from ethical scepticism being one possible fruit of ethical philosophizing, it can only be regarded as that residual alternative to all philosophy which from the outset menaces every would-be philosopher who may give up the quest discouraged, and renounce his original aim. That aim is to find an account of the moral relations that obtain among things, which


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Translation talk:Ayil Meshulash/Discourse 1

First off, I want to highly commend the creator of this translation. What an amazing accomplishment!

That having been said I think it's important to point out that, in any body of translation work in general and in regard to that of the Vilna Gaon specifically, you're apt to have losses in translation and as such lose intent or meaning. In my personal opinion, איל משולש is in large part related to kabbalistic concepts and references. As such the reader should be aware that reading from a translation is "half of the story".

Examples:

1. D1.S1 - "The cube has length, width and height" -- הגשם יש לו אורך ורוחב וגובה. The reference to גשם as having 3 dimensions is specifically because the word )גשם (343 is the cube of the number 7. i.e. 7 x 7 x 7 = 343.

2. Ibid.S3 - "The lines on the sides of a plane are called edges, and the point at which they meet is called a vertex (lit. corner)." הקוין של קצה השטח יקראו צלעות והנקודה במקום שמחוברין שני צלעות יקראו זויות. I'm not much of a kabbalist but the hebrew words of צלעות וזויות are a clear reference to the parasha of the Mishkan and are meant to be then understood together with that parasha, as well as other places where those specific hebrew terms appear (most prominently the creation of Eve -- ויקח אחת מצלעותיו. The נקודה in kabbalistic writings appears very often as a reference to the letter yud and the Gaon is pointing out that the the concept of צלע comprises at it's fundamental level, the point (נקודה, yud, etc).

3.Ibid. S17-18 "The completion of an angle is the amount needed over a smaller angle to reach 90 degrees. The remainder of an angle is amount needed over an angle to reach 180 degrees." -- תשלום הזוית הוא המותר מזוית צרה עד צ' מעלות. שארית הזוית הוא המותר מזוית איזה שיהיה עד ק"פ מעלות. I don't understand the exact reference but the assumption is that a זוית שלמה is one of 90 degrees (relating possibly to the אות צ in the word צלם). Hence the תשלום of an angle is what it takes to get it to 90. as opposed to a זוית approaching that of becoming a קו (a kabbalistic concept in reference to Yaakov/Yisrael -- there it's called a שארית -- as in שארית ישראל לא יעשו עולה וכולי

My suggestion would be to place the original hebrew term alongside the english terms when possible. I'd do it myself but don't wish to intrude on the author's sense of styling or wishes.

congratulations and blessings again on this work! --Dmokhtar (talk) 07:59, 6 January 2013 (UTC)

 * Hi Dmokhtar,

 * Thank you for your kind words. For the purpose of this translation I am following the approach of the Hebrew commentary, who translates this work in a very straightforward mathematical sense. There may be Kabbalistic allusions in here, but they're keeping a very low profile. Though the Hebrew terms provide keyword segues into Midrash and Kabbalah they are the vocabulary you would expect from someone speaking to his audience in the vernacular of rabbinic Hebrew. I don't think their usage is odd even in a purely mathematical sense. I agree with you that the Hebrew terms should be along side, I'm just focusing on the English for now. If you would like to add the Hebrew terms you are welcome to do so. Thanks again! Shemindex (talk) 14:39, 8 January 2013 (UTC)


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User:Dmokhtar

mainly active on the wikisource hebrew site.

title: User:Dmokhtar


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Rh will weave them into the unity of a stable system, and make of the world what one may call a genuine universe from the ethical point of view. So far as the world resists reduction to the form of unity, so far as ethical propositions seem unstable, so far does the philosopher fail of his ideal. The subject-matter of his study is the ideals he finds existing in the world; the purpose which guides him is this ideal of his own, of getting them into a certain form. This ideal is thus a faction in ethical philosophy whose legitimate presence must never be overlooked; it is a positive contribution which the philosopher himself necessarily makes to the problem. But it is his only position contribution. At the outset of his inquiry he ought to have no other ideals. Were he interested peculiarly in the triumph of any one kind of good, he would pro tanto cease to be a judicial investigator, and become an advocate for some limited element of the case.

There are three questions in ethics which must be kept apart. Let them be called respectively the psychological question, the metaphysical question, and the casuistic question. The psychological question asks after the historical origin of our moral ideas and judgements; the metaphysical question asks what the very meaning of the words 'good,' 'ill,' and 'obligation' are; the casuistic question asks what is the measure of the various goods and ills which men recognize, so that the philosopher may settle the true order of human obligations.

The psychological question is for most disputants the only question. When your ordinary doctor of


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


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


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Ordericus Vitalis


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 And the seid Antony to have ernest vili xiiis iiijd. Also the foresaid Antony askyth v quarters of respytt, that ys to say, from the fest of Seynt Mighell the Archaungell, next following to the fest of Seynt Mighell the day twelvemonth following. And also undernethe this condicion, that the foresaid Antony shall convey the belowes in the loft abowf in the seid Quere of Alhalowes, wt a pype to the sond boarde. Also this p'mysed by the said Antony, that yf the foresaid Maister, Doctour, Vicare, Churche Wardeyns, Maisters of the p'isshe, be not content nor lyke not the seid instrument, that then they shall allowe him for convaying of the belows xls. for his cost of them, and to restore the rest of the Truest agayn to the seid Maisters. And yf the seid Antony decesse and depart his naturall lyf wtin the forseid v quarters, that then hys wyff or hys executours or his assignes shall fully content the foresaid some of iijli. xiijs. iiijd. to the seid Vicare, and Churche Wardeyns, and Maisters of the p'isshe wt out any delay. And yf they be content wt the seid instrument, to pay to the seid Antony fyfty poundes sterlinge. In Wittnesse whereof the seid p'ties to these endentures chaungeably have set their sealls. Geven the day and yere abovesaid."


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"Md yt I Anthony Duddyngtonne have Reecd of Harry Goderyk, Churche Wardeyn of Barkyng, the som of xxxli st., in pt of paymt of lli st., the wiche I shold have for a payre of organs. In Wytnesse heyrof, I the forsayd Antony have subscrybed my name the xxij day of M'che, Ao xve xx.

Be me ."


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Ordish, Rowland Mason


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/O'Reilly, Alexander


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/O'Reilly, Andrew


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/O'Reilly, Edmund (1606-1669)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/O'Reilly, Edmund Joseph


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/O'Reilly, Edward


text: Author talk:Octavian Blewitt

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Rh Miriam, peeping through the kitchen window, saw the horse walk through the big white gate into the farmyard that was backed by the oak-wood, still bare. Then a youth in a heavy overcoat climbed down. He put up his hands for the whip and the rug that the good-looking, ruddy farmer handed down to him.

Miriam appeared in the doorway. She was nearly sixteen, very beautiful, with her warm colouring, her gravity, her eyes dilating suddenly like an ecstasy.

“I say,” said Paul, turning shyly aside, “your daffodils are nearly out. Isn’t it early? But don’t they look cold?”

“Cold!” said Miriam, in her musical, caressing voice.

“The green on their buds——” and he faltered into silence timidly.

“Let me take the rug,” said Miriam over-gently.

“I can carry it,” he answered, rather injured. But he yielded it to her.

Then Mrs. Leivers appeared.

“I’m sure you’re tired and cold,” she said. “Let me take your coat. It is heavy. You mustn’t walk far in it.”

She helped him off with his coat. He was quite unused to such attention. She was almost smothered under its weight.

“Why, mother,” laughed the farmer as he passed through the kitchen, swinging the great milk-churns, “you’ve got almost more than you can manage there.”

She beat up the sofa cushions for the youth.

The kitchen was very small and irregular. The farm had been originally a labourer’s cottage. And the furniture was old and battered. But Paul loved it—loved the sack-bag that formed the hearthrug, and the funny little corner under the stairs, and the small window deep in the corner, through which, bending a little, he could see the plum-trees in the back-garden and the lovely round hills beyond.

“Won’t you lie down?” said Mrs. Leivers.

“Oh no; I’m not tired,” he said. “Isn’t it lovely coming out, don’t you think? I saw a sloe-bush in blossom and a lot of celandines. I’m glad it’s sunny.”

“Can I give you anything to eat or to drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“How’s your mother?”

“I think she’s tired now. I think she’s had too much to 10


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146 do. Perhaps in a little while she’ll go to Skegness with me. Then she’ll be able to rest. I s’ll be glad if she can.”

“Yes,” replied Mrs. Leivers. “It’s a wonder she isn’t ill herself.”

Miriam was moving about preparing dinner. Paul watched everything that happened. His face was pale and thin, but his eyes were quick and bright with life as ever. He watched the strange, almost rhapsodic way in which the girl moved about, carrying a great stew-jar to the oven, or looking in the saucepan. The atmosphere was different from that of his own home, where everything seemed so ordinary. When Mr. Leivers called loudly outside to the horse, that was reaching over to feed on the rose-bushes in the garden, the girl started, looked round with dark eyes, as if something had come breaking in on her world. There was a sense of silence inside the house and out. Miriam seemed as in some dreamy tale, a maiden in bondage, her spirit dreaming in a land far away and magical. And her discoloured, old blue frock and her broken boots seemed only like the romantic rags of King Cophetua’s beggar-maid.

She suddenly became aware of his keen blue eyes upon her, taking her all in. Instantly her broken boots and her frayed old frock hurt her. She resented his seeing everything. Even he knew that her stocking was not pulled up. She went into the scullery, blushing deeply. And afterwards her hands trembled slightly at her work. She nearly dropped all she handled. When her inside dream was shaken, her body quivered with trepidation. She resented that he saw so much.

Mrs. Leivers sat for some time talking to the boy, although she was needed at her work. She was too polite to leave him. Presently she excused herself and rose. After a while she looked into the tin saucepan.

“Oh dear, Miriam,” she cried, “these potatoes have boiled dry!”

Miriam started as if she had been stung.

“Have they, mother?” she cried.

“I shouldn’t care, Miriam,” said the mother, “if I hadn’t trusted them to you.” She peered into the pan.

The girl stiffened as if from a blow. Her dark eyes dilated; she remained standing in the same spot.

“Well,” she answered, gripped tight in self-conscious shame, “I’m sure I looked at them five minutes since.”

“Yes,” said the mother, “I know it’s easily done.”


text:
Page:Sons and Lovers, 1913, Lawrence.djvu/159

Rh “They’re not much burned,” said Paul. “It doesn’t matter, does it?”

Mrs. Leivers looked at the youth with her brown, hurt eyes.

“It wouldn’t matter but for the boys,” she said to him. “Only Miriam knows what a trouble they make if the potatoes are ‘caught.’ ”

“Then,” thought Paul to himself, “you shouldn’t let them make a trouble.”

After a while Edgar came in. He wore leggings, and his boots were covered with earth. He was rather small, rather formal, for a farmer. He glanced at Paul, nodded to him distantly, and said:

“Dinner ready?”

“Nearly, Edgar,” replied the mother apologetically.

“I’m ready for mine,” said the young man, taking up the newspaper and reading. Presently the rest of the family trooped in. Dinner was served. The meal went rather brutally. The over-gentleness and apologetic tone of the mother brought out all the brutality of manners in the sons. Edgar tasted the potatoes, moved his mouth quickly like a rabbit, looked indignantly at his mother, and said:

“These potatoes are burnt, mother.”

“Yes, Edgar. I forgot them for a minute. Perhaps you’ll have bread if you can’t eat them.”

Edgar looked in anger across at Miriam.

“What was Miriam doing that she couldn’t attend to them?” he said.

Miriam looked up. Her mouth opened, her dark eyes blazed and winced, but she said nothing. She swallowed her anger and her shame, bowing her dark head.

“I’m sure she was trying hard,” said the mother.

“She hasn’t got sense even to boil the potatoes,” said Edgar. “What is she kept at home for?”

“On’y for eating everything that’s left in th’ pantry,” said Maurice.

“They don’t forget that potato-pie against our Miriam,” laughed the father.

She was utterly humiliated. The mother sat in silence, suffering, like some saint out of place at the brutal board.

It puzzled Paul. He wondered vaguely why all this intense feeling went running because of a few burnt potatoes. The mother exalted everything—even a bit of housework—to the plane of a religious trust. The sons resented this; they


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/O'Higgin, Teague


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/O'Higgins, Ambrosio


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Ohthere


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/O'Hurley, Dermot


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/O'Hussey, Eochaidh


text:
Wikisource talk:Maintenance of the Month/Sister-project link standardization

Good Intentions
I know everyone involved has good intentions, and I hope you will not be offended by the community discussions I have or will be beginning soon. Maintenance of the Month is a wonderful project, and you all do great work. This month I believe you just made some decisions that are not in accord with the greater community consensus. Jeepday (talk) 10:59, 6 January 2013 (UTC)

Deletion Discussion
Generally Deletions are discussed at Proposed deletions before being performed. An example would be the recent discussion on sister links where it was depreciated.) Depreciated DOES NOT EQUAL Delete. After the discussion at Scriptorium slows down, I plan to start a discussion at Proposed deletions on the templates recently deleted by this project. Jeepday (talk) 10:59, 6 January 2013 (UTC)

 * I agree with the above statement of user Jeepday, that your project has "good intentions", but in my opinion this needs more discussion of unforeseen/unintended consequences. Especially how it might affect and . For example, this is a highly used template in wikipedia and may have unexpected consequences as i outlined here []. IMO, this is a fascinating topic and worthy of discussion especially by someone fluent in | wikicode. --206.248.165.102 22:36, 11 January 2013 (UTC) | talk

Deletion discussion started Proposed_deletions. JeepdaySock (AKA, Jeepday) 11:53, 10 January 2013 (UTC)

 * I see that Wikipedia excerpt has been un-deleted, is additional organization required to restore the templates and content that were deleted? JeepdaySock (AKA, Jeepday) 15:40, 15 January 2013 (UTC)


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


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/O'Keefe, Eoghan


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/O'Keeffe, John


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/O'Kelly, Charles