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User talk:Danielmp1

Rabbi Michael Weisser
Michael Weisser has been the rabbi and spiritual leader of the Free Synagogue of Flushing (FSF) since September 2008. His focus on the Jewish value of “welcoming the stranger” continues Free Synagogue’s tradition of embracing freedom, diversity, and its surrounding community. Rabbi Weisser also has participated in the planning and execution of the Queens Unity Walk, which brings together people of various faiths for a day of learning. He is currently involved in the creation of an interfaith council that will serve the ethnically and religiously diverse borough of Queens. Recently, Rabbi Weisser was among those chosen to deliver an invocation at New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg’s Interfaith Breakfast. right|thumb|Rabbi Michael Weisser

Prior to his arrival at the FSF, upon his return from a rabbinic posting in New Zealand, Rabbi Weisser taught spirituality and meditation in Nebraska. In New Zealand, he served as Rabbi of Beth Shalom Synagogue in Auckland. Previously, he served the Congregation B’nai Jeshurun in Lincoln, Nebraska for many years, and he taught in the Philosophy and Religion Department of the Nebraska Wesleyan University for 11 years. One of his courses, entitled “Christian & Jewish Heritage,” was one of the most popular elective courses offered at Nebraska Wesleyan University.

When the rabbi was a cantor in Lincoln, Nebraska, Larry Trapp, the Grand Dragon of the White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan threatened him and his family. The rabbi’s response was to reach out to the one behind the threats. He ultimately befriended Trapp and was instrumental in his change from a life-long racist to renouncing hatred and speaking out publicly against bigotry. Three months before his death from diabetes-related kidney disease in 1992, Trapp converted to Judaism under Rabbi Weisser’s guidance, and in the very synagogue that he once plotted to blow up. The book, Not By the Sword: How a Cantor and His Family Transformed a Klansman was written about these events by Kathryn Watterson. The University of Nebraska Press is reissuing the book in 2012.

Rabbi Weisser studied at the Hebrew Union College—Jewish Institute of Religion and the Rabbinical Academy of America – both in New York City. He is ordained as a Rabbi and Cantor and certified as an educator. Rabbi Weisser has been actively involved in interfaith activities for many years and has received numerous awards for his work in this area. Among the many awards he has received are:

 * Person of the Year -- Lincoln Interfaith Council
 * Man of the Year – ACLU Nebraska
 * Ecumenical Person of the Year -- United Methodist Church, Nebraska Annual Conference
 * Person of the Year – NAACP Nebraska
 * Honorary Doctorate – Hebrew Union College in recognition of interfaith & interethnic work
 * The Government of New Zealand – Official delegate at the “Dialogue for Religious Harmony and Cooperation”
 * Yogyakarta, Indonesia Citation for Interfaith Understanding -- Consul General of Indonesia
 * National Peacemaker – Pax Christi (to be awarded 06/2012)

welcome, What Wikisource Includes
Hi Danielmp1,

I want to welcome you to Wikisource, and point your attention to What Wikisource includes. This is your talk page, where anyone is free to communicate with you. Feel free to contribute by adding or proofreading texts, and make sure that any new contributions have a source reference, or at the very least can be shown to be out of copyright. Again, welcome to the site! --Eliyak T · C 18:29, 22 April 2012 (UTC)

title: User talk:Danielmp1


text:
Author:Na Hye-sok

Books

 * Na Hye-sok Jeonjip (나혜석전집, 羅蕙錫全集)
 * Go on a honeymoon, the tomb of first love (첫사랑의 무덤으로 신혼여행을 가다)
 * Divorce testimony (이혼고백서, 離婚告白書)
 * Na Hye-sok Works Collection (나혜석 작품집)
 * Gyunghee (경희)
 * Jeongsun (정순)

title: Author:Na Hye-sok


text:
Page:Best Russian Short Stories.djvu/387

. . . and madness.

I felt it for the first time as we were marching along the road—marching incessantly for ten hours without stopping, never diminishing our step, never waiting to pick up those that had fallen, but leaving them to the enemy, that was moving behind us in a compact mass only three or four hours later effacing the marks of our feet by their own.

It was very sultry. I do not know how many degrees there were—120°, 140°, or more—I only know that the heat was incessant, hopelessly even and profound. The sun was so enormous, so fiery and terrible, that it seemed as if the earth had drawn nearer to it and would soon be burnt up altogether in its merciless rays. Our eyes had ceased to look. The small shrunk pupil, as small as a


text: Page:A Girl of the Limberlost.djvu/8

title: Page:A Girl of the Limberlost.djvu/8


text:
Page:The Corsair (Byron).djvu/76

 Descending fast the mountain shadows kiss Thy glorious gulph, unconquer'd Salamis! Their azure arches through the long expanse More deeply purpled meet his mellowing glance, And tenderest tints, along their summits driven, Mark his gay course and own the hues of heaven; Till, darkly shaded from the land and deep, Behind his Delphian cliff he sinks to sleep.

On such an eve, his palest beam he cast, When—Athens! here thy wisest look'd his last. How watched thy better sons his farewell ray, That closed their murder'd sage's11 latest day! Not yet—not yet—Sol pauses on the hill— The precious hour of parting lingers still; But sad his light to agonizing eyes, And dark the mountain's once delightful dyes: Gloom o'er the lovely land he seem'd to pour, The land, where Phœbus never frown'd before, But ere he sunk below Cithæron's head, The cup of woe was quaff'd—the spirit fled;

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Page:The Corsair (Byron).djvu/116

 From the Turkish.

1. chain I gave was fair to view, The lute I added sweet in sound, The heart that offered both was true, And ill deserv'd the fate it found.

2. These gifts were charm'd by secret spell Thy truth in absence to divine; And they have done their duty well, Alas! they could not teach thee thine.

3. That chain was firm in every link. But not to bear a stranger's touch; That lute was sweet—till thou could'st think In other hands ts notes were such.

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Page:The Corsair (Byron).djvu/117

 4. Let him, who from thy neck unbound The chain which shiver'd in his grasp, Who saw that lute refuse to sound, Restring the chords, renew the clasp.

5. When thou wert chang'd, they alter'd too; The chain is broke, the music mute: 'Tis past—to them and thee adieu— False heart, frail chain, and silent lute.

title: Page:The Corsair (Byron).djvu/117


text:
Page:Tracts for the Times Vol 1.djvu/177

 Dec. 23, 1833.]

are sometimes disappointed with the proofs offered in behalf of some important doctrines of our religion; such especially as the necessity of Episcopal Ordination, in order to constitute a Minister of Christ. They consider these proofs to be not so strong as they expected, or as they think desirable. Now such persons should be asked, whether these arguments they speak of are in their estimation weak as a guide to their own practice, or weak in controversy with hardheaded and subtle disputants. Surely, as Bishop Butler has convincingly shown, the faintest probabilities are strong enough to determine our conduct in a matter of duty. If there be but a reasonable likelihood of our pleasing Christ more by keeping than by not keeping to the fellowship of the Apostolic Ministry, this of course ought to be enough to lead those, who think themselves moved to undertake the Sacred Office, to seek for a licence to do so from it.

It is necessary to keep this truth distinctly in view, because of the great temptation, that exists among us, to put it out of sight. I do not mean the temptation, which results from pride,—hardness of heart,—a profane disregard of the details and lesser commandments of the Divine Law,—and other such like bad principles of our nature, which are in the way of our honestly confessing it. Besides these, there is a still more subtle temptation to slight it, which will bear insisting on here, arising from an over-desire to convince others, or, in other words, a desire to out-argue others, a fear of seeming inconclusive and confused in our own notions and arguments. Nothing, certainly, is more natural, when we hold a truth strongly, than to wish to persuade others to embrace it also. Nay, without reference to persuasion, nothing is more natural than


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Page:Tracts for the Times Vol 1.djvu/178

 to be dissatisfied in all cases with our own convictions of a principle or opinion, nay suspicious of it, till we are able to set it down clearly in words. We know, that, in all matters of thought, to write down our meaning is one important means of clearing our minds. Till we do so, we often do not know what we really hold and what we do not hold. And a cautious and accurate reasoner, when he has succeeded in bringing the truth of any subject home to his mind, next begins to look round about the view he has adopted, to consider what others will say to it, and to try to make it unexceptionable. At least we are led thus to fortify our opinion, when it is actually attacked; and if we find we cannot recommend it to the judgment of the assailant, at any rate we endeavour to make him feel that it is to be respected. It is painful to be thought a weak reasoner, even though we are sure in our minds that we are not such.

Now, observe how these feelings will affect us, as regards such arguments as were alluded to above; viz. such as are open to exception, though they are sufficiently strong to determine our conduct. A friend, who differs from us, asks for our reasons for our own view. We state them, and he sifts them. He observes, that our conclusions do not necessarily follow from our premisses. E.g. to take the argument for the Apostolical Succession derived from the ordination of St. Paul and St. Barnabas, (Acts xiii. 2, 3.), he will argue, that their ordination might have been an accidental rite, intended merely to commission them for their Missionary journey, which followed it, in Asia Minor; again, that St. Paul's direction to Timothy (1 Tim. v. 22.), to "lay hands suddenly on no man," may refer to confirmation, not ordination.

We should reply, (and most reasonably too,) that, considering the undeniable fact that ordination has ever been thought necessary in the Church for the Ministerial Commission, our interpretation is the most probable one, and therefore the safest to act upon; on which our friend will think awhile, then shake his head, and say, that "at all events this is an unsatisfactory mode of reasoning, that it does not convince him, that he is desirous of clearer light, &c."

Now what is the consequence of such a discussion as this on ourselves? not to make us give up the doctrine, but to make us


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Page:Tracts for the Times Vol 1.djvu/179

 afraid of urging it. We grow lukewarm about it; and, with an appearance of judgment and caution, (as the world will call it,) confess that "to rest the claims of our Clergy on an Apostolical Descent is an unsafe and inexpedient line of argument; that it will not convince men, the evidence not being sufficient; that it is not a practical way of acting to insist upon it, &c."—whereas the utmost that need be admitted, is, that it is out of place to make it the subject of a speculative dispute, and to argue about it on that abstract logical platform which virtually excludes a reference to conduct and duty. And indeed, it would be no unwise caution to bear about us, wherever we go, that our first business, as Christians, is to address men as responsible servants of, not as antagonists; and that it is but a secondary duty, (though a duty,) to "refute the gainsayers."

And, as on the one hand it continually happens, that those who are most skilled in debate are deficient in sound practical piety, so on the other it may be profitable to us to reflect, that doctrines, which we believe to be most true, and which are received as such by the most profound and enlarged intellects, and which rest upon the most irrefragable proofs, yet may be above our disputative powers, and can be treated by us only with reference to our conduct. And in this way, as in others, is fulfilled the saying of the Apostle, that "the preaching of the Cross is to them that perish foolishness; but unto us, who are saved, it is the power of ... Where is the wise? where is the scribe? where is the disputer of this world? hath not  made foolish the wisdom of this world? ... The foolishness of  is wiser than men; and the weakness of  is stronger than men."


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Page:Tracts for the Times Vol 1.djvu/180

If a Clergyman is quite convinced that the Apostolical Succession is lost, then of course he is at liberty to turn his mind from the subject. But if he is not quite sure of this, it surely is his duty seriously to examine the question, and to make up his mind carefully and deliberately. For if there be a chance of its being preserved to us, there is a chance of his having had a momentous talent committed to him, which he is burying in the earth.

It cannot be supposed that any serious man would treat the subject scoffingly. If any one is tempted to do so, let him remember the fearful words of the Apostle. "Esau, a profane person, who for one morsel of meat, sold his birthright."

If any are afraid, that to insist on their commission will bring upon them ridicule, and diminish their usefulness, let them ask themselves, whether it be not cowardice to refuse to leave the event to God. It was the reproach of the men of Ephraim that, though they were "harnessed and carried bows," they "turned themselves back in the day of battle."

And if any there be, who take upon them to contrast one doctrine of the Gospel with another, and preach those only which they consider the more essential, let them consider our words, "These things ought ye to have done, and not to leave the other undone."


text: Tracts for the Times/Tract 19

title: Tracts for the Times/Tract 19


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Page:Indiscretions of Archie.djvu/84

S the days went by and he settled down at the Hotel Cosmopolis, Archie, looking about him and revising earlier judgments, was inclined to think that of all his immediate circle he most admired Parker, the lean, grave valet of Mr. Daniel Brewster. Here was a man who, living in the closest contact with one of the most difficult persons in New York, contrived all the while to maintain an unbowed head, and, as far as one could gather from appearances, a tolerably cheerful disposition. A great man, judged him by what standard you pleased. Anxious as he was to earn an honest living, Archie would not have changed places with Parker for the salary of a movie-star.

It was Parker who first directed Archie's attention to the hidden merits of Pongo. Archie had drifted into his father-in-law's suite one morning, as he sometimes did in the effort to establish more amicable relations, and had found it occupied only by the valet, who was dusting the furniture and bric-à-brac with a feather broom rather in the style of a man-servant at the rise of the curtain of an old-fashioned farce. After a courteous exchange of greetings, Archie sat down and lit a cigarette. Parker went on dusting.

The guv'nor," said Parker, breaking the silence, "has some nice little objay dar, sir."

title: Page:Indiscretions of Archie.djvu/84


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Page:Indiscretions of Archie.djvu/85

Rh "Little what?"

"Objay dar, sir."

Light dawned upon Archie.

"Of course, yes. French for junk. I see what you mean now. Dare say you're right, old friend. Don't know much about these things myself."

Parker gave an appreciative flick at a vase on the mantelpiece.

"Very valuable, some of the guv'nor's things." He had picked up the small china figure of the warrior with the spear, and was grooming it with the ostentatious care of one brushing flies off a sleeping Venus. He regarded this figure with a look of affectionate esteem which seemed to Archie absolutely uncalled-for. Archie's taste in Art was not precious. To his untutored eye the thing was only one degree less foul than his father-in-law's Japanese prints, which he had always observed with silent loathing, "This one, now," continued Parker. "Worth a lot of money. Oh, a lot of money."

"What, Pongo?" said Archie incredulously.

"Sir?"

"I always call that rummy-looking what-not Pongo. Don't know what else you could call him, what!"

The valet seemed to disapprove of this levity. He shook his head and replaced the figure on the mantelpiece.

"Worth a lot of money," he repeated. "Not by itself, no."

"Oh, not by itself?"

"No, sir. Things like this come in pairs. Somewhere or other there's the companion-piece to this here, and if the guv'nor could get hold of it, he'd have something worth having. Something that connoozers would give a lot of

title: Page:Indiscretions of Archie.djvu/85


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Page:Indiscretions of Archie.djvu/86

82 money for. But one's no good without the other. You have to have both, if you understand my meaning, sir."

"I see. Like filling a straight flush, what?"

"Precisely, sir."

Archie gazed at Pongo again, with the dim hope of discovering virtues not immediately apparent to the casual observer. But without success. Pongo left him cold—even chilly. He would not have taken Pongo as a gift, to oblige a dying friend.

"How much would the pair be worth?" he asked. "Ten dollars?"

Parker smiled a gravely superior smile. "A leetle more than that, sir. Several thousand dollars, more like it."

"Do you mean to say," said Archie, with honest amazement, "that there are chumps going about loose—absolutely loose—who would pay that for a weird little object like Pongo?"

"Undoubtedly, sir. These antique china figures are in great demand among collectors."

Archie looked at Pongo once more, and shook his head.

"Well, well, well! It takes all sorts to make a world, what!"

What might be called the revival of Pongo, the restoration of Pongo to the ranks of the things that matter, took place several weeks later, when Archie was making holiday at the house which his father-in-law had taken for the summer at Brookport. The curtain of the second act may be said to rise on Archie strolling back from the golf-links in the cool of an August evening. From time to time he sang slightly, and wondered idly if Lucille

title: Page:Indiscretions of Archie.djvu/86


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Page:Indiscretions of Archie.djvu/87

Rh would put the finishing touch upon the all-rightness of everything by coming to meet him and sharing his homeward walk.

She came in view at this moment, a trim little figure in a white skirt and a pale blue sweater. She waved to Archie; and Archie, as always at the sight of her, was conscious of that jumpy, fluttering sensation about the heart, which, translated into words, would have formed the question, "What on earth could have made a girl like that fall in love with a chump like me?" It was a question which he was continually asking himself, and one which was perpetually in the mind also of Mr. Brewster, his father-in-law. The matter of Archie's unworthiness to be the husband of Lucille was practically the only one on which the two men saw eye to eye.

"Hallo-allo-allo!" said Archie. "Here we are, what! I was just hoping you would drift over the horizon."

Lucille kissed him.

"You're a darling," she said. "And you look like a Greek god in that suit."

"Glad you like it." Archie squinted with some complacency down his chests "I always say it doesn't matter what you pay for a suit, so long as it's right. I hope your jolly old father will feel that way when he settles up for it."

"Where is father? Why didn't he come back with you?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, he didn't seem any too keen on my company. I left him in the locker-room chewing a cigar. Gave me the impression of having something on his mind."

"Oh, Archie! You didn't beat him again?"

title: Page:Indiscretions of Archie.djvu/87


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Page:Indiscretions of Archie.djvu/88

 Archie looked uncomfortable. He gazed out to sea with something of embarrassment.

"Well, as a matter of fact, old thing, to be absolutely frank, I, as it were, did!"

"Not badly?"

"Well, yes! I rather fancy I put it across him with some vim and not a little emphasis. To be perfectly accurate, I licked him by ten and eight."

"But you promised me you would let him beat you to-day. You know how pleased it would have made him."

"I know. But, light of my soul, have you any idea how dashed difficult it is to get beaten by your festive parent at golf?"

"Oh, well!" Lucille sighed. "It can't be helped, I suppose." She felt in the pocket of her sweater. "Oh, there's a letter for you. I've just been to fetch the mail. I don't know who it can be from. The handwriting looks like a vampire's. Kind of scrawly."

Archie inspected the envelope. It provided no solution.

"That's rummy! Who could be writing to me?"

"Open it and see."

"Dashed bright scheme! I will. Herbert Parker. Who the deuce is Herbert Parker?"

"Parker? Father's valet's name was Parker. The one he dismissed when he found he was wearing his shirts."

"Do you mean to say any reasonable chappie would willingly wear the sort of shirts your father? I mean to say, there must have been some mistake."

"Do read the letter. I expect he wants to use your influence with father to have him taken back."

title: Page:Indiscretions of Archie.djvu/88


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Rh "My influence? With your father? Well, I'm dashed. Sanguine sort of Johnny, if he does. Well, here's what he says. Of course, I remember jolly old Parker now—great pal of mine."

"You know," said Archie, admiringly, "this bird is hot stuff! I mean to say he writes dashed well."

title: Page:Indiscretions of Archie.djvu/89


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Page:Indiscretions of Archie.djvu/90

Lucille clapped her hands.

"How splendid! Father will be pleased!"

"Yes. Friend Parker has certainly found a way to make the old dad fond of him. Wish I could!"

"But you can, silly! He'll be delighted when you show him that letter."

"Yes, with Parker. Old Herb. Parker's is the neck he'll fall on—not mine."

Lucille reflected.

"I wish" she began. She stopped. Her eyes lit up. "Oh, Archie, darling, I've got an idea!"

"Decant it."

"Why don't you slip up to New York to-morrow and buy the thing, and give it to father as a surprise?"

Archie patted her hand kindly. He hated to spoil her girlish day-dreams.

"Yes," he said. "But reflect, queen of my heart! I have at the moment of going to press just two dollars fifty in specie, which I took off your father this

title: Page:Indiscretions of Archie.djvu/90


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Rh. We were playing twenty-five cents a hole. He coughed it up without enthusiasm—in fact, with a nasty hacking sound—but I've got it. But that's all I have got."

"That's all right. You can pawn that ring and that bracelet of mine."

"Oh, I say, what! Pop the family jewels?"

"Only for a day or two. Of course, once you've got the thing, father will pay us back. He would give you all the money we asked him for, if he knew what it was for. But I want to surprise him. And if you were to go to him and ask him for a thousand dollars without telling him what it was for, he might refuse."

"He might!" said Archie. "He might!"

"It all works out splendidly. To-morrow's the Invitation Handicap, and father's been looking forward to it for weeks. He'd hate to have to go up to town himself and not play in it. But you can slip up and slip back without his knowing anything about it."

Archie pondered.

"It sounds a ripe scheme. Yes, it has all the ear-marks of a somewhat fruity wheeze! By Jove, it is a fruity wheeze! It's an egg!"

"An egg?"

"Good eggy you know. Halloa, here's a postscript. I didn't see it."

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88

"Who's Mr. William?" asked Archie.

"My brother Bill, of course. I've told you all about him."

"Oh yes, of course. Your brother Bill. Rummy to think I've got a brother-in-law I've never seen."

"You see, we married so suddenly. When we married, Bill was in Yale."

"Good God! What for?"

"Not jail, silly. Yale. The university."

"Oh, ah, yes."

"Then he went over to Europe for a trip to broaden his mind. You must look him up to-morrow when you get back to New York. He's sure to be at his club."

"I'll make a point of it. Well, vote of thanks to good old Parker! This really does begin to look like the point in my career where I start to have your forbidding old parent eating out of my hand."

"Yes, it's an egg, isn't it!"

"Queen of my soul," said Archie enthusiastically, "it's an omelette!"

The business negotiations in connection with the bracelet and the ring occupied Archie on his arrival in New York to an extent which made it impossible for him to call on Brother Bill before lunch. He decided to postpone the affecting meeting of brothers-in-law to a more convenient season, and made his way to his favourite table at the Cosmopolis grill-room for a bite of lunch preliminary to the fatigues of the sale. He found Salvatore

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Rh hovering about as usual, and instructed him to come to the rescue with a minute steak.

Salvatore was the dark, sinister-looking waiter who attended, among other tables, to the one at the far end of the grill-room at which Archie usually sat. For several weeks Archie's conversations with the other had dealt exclusively with the bill of fare and its contents; but gradually he had found himself becoming more personal. Even before the war and its democratising influences, Archie had always lacked that reserve which characterises many Britons; and since the war he had looked on nearly everyone he met as a brother. Long since, through the medium of a series of friendly chats, he had heard all about Salvatore's home in Italy, the little newspaper and tobacco shop which his mother owned down on Seventh Avenue, and a hundred other personal details. Archie had an insatiable curiosity about his fellow-man.

"Well done," said Archie.

"Sare?"

"The steak. Not too rare, you know."

"Very good, sare."

Archie looked at the waiter closely. His tone had been subdued and sad. Of course, you don't expect a waiter to beam all over his face and give three rousing cheers simply because you have asked him to bring you a minute steak, but still there was something about Salvatore's manner that disturbed Archie. The man appeared to have the pip. Whether he was merely homesick and brooding on the lost delights of his sunny native land, or whether his trouble was more definite, could only be ascertained by enquiry. So Archie enquired.

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90 "What's the matter, laddie?" he said sympathetically. "Something on your mind?"

"Sare?"

"I say, there seems to be something on your mind. What's the trouble?"

The waiter shrugged his shoulders, as if indicating an unwillingness to inflict his grievances on one of the tipping classes.

"Come on!" persisted Archie encouragingly. "All pals here. Barge alone, old thing, and let's have it."

Salvatore, thus admonished, proceeded in a hurried undertone—with one eye on the headwaiter—to lay bare his soul. What he said was not very coherent, but Archie could make out enough of it to gather that it was a sad story of excessive hours and insufficient pay. He mused awhile. The waiter's hard case touched him.

"I'll tell you what," he said at last. "When jolly old Brewster comes back to town—he's away just now—I'll take you along to him and we'll beard the old boy in his den. I'll introduce you, and you get that extract from Italian opera off your chest which you've just been singing to me, and you'll find it'll be all right. He isn't what you might call one of my greatest admirers, but everybody says he's a square sort of cove and he'll see you aren't snootered. And now, laddie, touching the matter of that steak."

The waiter disappeared, greatly cheered, and Archie, turning, perceived that his friend Reggie van Tuyl was entering the room. He waved to him to join his table. He liked Reggie, and it also occurred to him that a man of the world like the heir of the van Tuyls, who had been

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An Act for dividing and inclosing the Open and Common Fields, and Commons, or Waste Grounds, in the Parish of Chilver's Coton, in the County of Warwick. An Act for inclosing and dividing so much of the Moor or Common, called Badley Moor, as lies within the Manors of North Tuddenham, alias Saint Clares, Mattishall Tuddenham, on the Part of North Tuddenham, and Bell-house Hall, and in the Parish of North Tuddenham, in the County of Norfolk, and certain other Commons and Wastes within the said manors and Parish. An Act for dividing and inclosing the Open and Common Fields, Meadows, and Common Fen, in the Parish of Horbling, in the County of Lincoln, and for draining and improving the said Fen. An Act for dividing and inclosing the Open Fields and Commonable Places, of and in Billesdon, in the County of Leicester. An Act for establishing and confirming the Inclosure and Division of certain Lands in Sudcoats, in the Parish of Drypool, in the County of York, and for other Purposes. An Act for dividing and inclosing several Common and Open Fields and Meadows, in the Parish of Saint Margaret, near the Borough of Leicester, in the County of Leicester. An Act for dividing and inclosing the Open and Common Fields of Wartnaby, .in the County of Leicester, and all the Lands and Grounds within the same Fields. An Act for dividing and inclosing the Open and Common Fields, Meadows and Pastures of North Cave, in the East Riding of the County of York.

An Act for confirming Articles of Agreement for inclosing and dividing several Open Fields, and several Pieces or Parcels of Arable, Meadow and Pasture Ground, within the Township of Skipsea, in the County of York.

An Act for dividing and inclosing the Open and Common Fields and Grounds in the Township and Parish of Skeffling in Holderness, in the County of York.

An Act for extinguishing the Right of Common, in, over and upon, certain Commonable Lands and Grounds, within the Manor and Parish of Bromley, in the County of Kent.

An Act for exempting Batchacre Grange, in the Counties of Stafford and Salop, or one of them, from Payment of Tythes, and other Ecclesiastical Dues, and for settling other Tythes in lieu thereof.

An Act for draining certain Fen Lands and Wet Grounds, in the Parish of Helgay, in the County of Norfolk.

An Act for draining and preserving certain Marsh Lands and Low Grounds, within the Township of Thorngumbald, in the County of York.

An Act for establishing and carrying into Execution certain Articles of Agreement therein mentioned, for a Division of certain real Estates in the County of York, late of Sir Hungerford Bland, Baronet, deceased, and for other Purposes therein mentioned.

An Act for empowering the Committee or Committees, for the Time being, of the Estate of John Newport Esquire, a Lunatick, to make Leases of his Estates during his Lunacy.

An Act for carrying into Execution, an Agreement between the Governors and Guardians of the Hospital for the Maintenance and Education of exposed and deserted young Children, and Robert Nedham Esquire, deceased, relating to an Estate in the Island of Jamaica, devised by the Will of Henry Nedham Esquire, deceased.

An Act for annexing the Rectory of East Lockinge, in the County of Berks, to the Office of Warden of the College of the Souls of all Faithful People deceased, of Oxford.

An Act for Sale of the Freehold and Leasehold Estates of John Tregenna Clerk, deceased, in the County of Cornwal, given and devised by his Will, in Trust for his Children, and for paying and applying the Money to arise by such Sales, in Manner therein mentioned.

An Act to enable the Vicar of the Parish of Rochdale, in the County of Lancaster, to grant a Lease or Leases of the Glebe Lands belonging to the said Vicarage.

An Act to enable the Rector of the Parish and Paris}h Church of Bury, in the County of Lancaster, for the Time being, to grant Leases of the Glebe belonging the said Rectory.

An Act for making the Exemplification of the Will of Thomas King Esquire, deceased, Evidence in all Courts of Law and Equity, in Great Britain and Ireland.

An Act to enable Richard Symonds, an Infant (lately called Richard Peers) and the Heirs of his Body, to take and use the Sirname of Symons, pursuant to the Will of Richard Symons Esquire deceased.

An Act for Naturalizing William Dingman and John Reincke.

An Act for Naturalizing John Marteilhe of London, Merchant.

An Act for Naturalizing Egbert Nonnen.

An Act for dividing and inclosing the Common and open Fields, and Commonable Places of Sharnford, in the County of Leicester.

An Act for dividing and inclofing the open and Common Fields, Common Pastures, Common Meadows, and other Commonable Lands and Grounds, in Whetstone, in the County of Leicester.

An Act for dividing and inclosing the open and Common Fields, Common Meadows, Lammas Grounds, and other Commonable Lands and Grounds in the Parish of Fotherby, in the County of Lincoln.

An Act for dividing and inclosing the open Fields, and Commonable Places in the Parish of Stoney Stanton, in the County of Leicester, and the Lands, Meadows, and Commonable Places, in the Lordship of Potters Marston, in the said County, belonging to and used with the said Field, of Stoney Stanton.

An Act for dividing, allotting, and inclosing, the open Fields and Pasture Ground, in the Lordship of Aldborough, in Holdernesse, in the County of York.

An Act for dividing and inclofing the several open and Common Fields and Ings within the Township and Parish of Haughton in the Marsh, otherwise Holton in the Clay, in the County of Lincoln.

An Act for dividing and inclosing the open and Common Fields lying in the Manor and Parish of Stoke Albany, in the County of Northampton.

An Act for dividing and inclosing the Common Fields, Common Pastures, Common Meadows, Common Grounds, and Waste Grounds, of and in the Manor and Parish of Newnham, in the County of Northampton.

An Act for dividing and inclosing the Common Fields, Common Pastures, Common Meadows, Common Grounds, and Waste Grounds, of and in the Manor and

Parish


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Rh popping about New York for years, might be able to give him some much-needed information on the procedure at an auction sale, a matter on which he himself was profoundly ignorant.

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Rh "One day is so like another here," he replied, "that I don't know without casting it up. However, I come here some time since you left."

"I could have told you that, Orlick."

"Ah!" said he, drily. "But then you've got to be a scholar."

By this time we had come to the house, where I found his room to be one just within the side door, with a little window in it looking on the courtyard. In its small proportions, it was not unlike the kind of place usually assigned to a gate-porter in Paris. Certain keys were hanging on the wall, to which he now added the gate-key; and his patchwork-covered bed was in a little inner division or recess. The whole had a slovenly, confined and sleepy look, like a cage for a human dormouse: while he, looming dark and heavy in the shadow of a corner by the window, looked like the human dormouse for whom it was fitted up—as indeed he was.

"I never saw this room before," I remarked; "but there used to be no Porter here."

"No," said he; "not till it got about that there was no protection on the premises, and it come to be considered dangerous, with convicts and Tag and Bag and Bobtail going up and down. And then I was recommended to the place as a man who could give another man as good as he brought, and I took it. It's easier than bellowsing and hammering.—That's loaded, that is."

My eye had been caught by a gun with a brass-bound stock over the chimney-piece, and his eye had followed mine.

"Well," said I, not desirous of more conversation, "shall I go up to Miss Havisham?"

"Burn me, if I know!" he retorted, first stretching himself and then shaking himself; "my orders ends here, young master. I give this here bell a rap with this here hammer, and you go on along the passage till you meet somebody."

"I am expected, I believe?"

"Burn me twice over, if I can say!" said he.

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 Upon that I turned down the long passage which I had first trodden in my thick boots, and he made his bell sound. At the end of the passage, while the bell was still reverberating, I found Sarah Pocket: who appeared to have now become constitutionally green and yellow by reason of me.

"Oh!" said she. "You, is it, Mr. Pip?"

"It is, Miss Pocket. I am glad to tell you that Mr. Pocket and family are all well."

"Are they any wiser?" said Sarah, with a dismal shake of the head; "they had better be wiser than well. Ah, Matthew, Matthew! You know your way, sir?"

Tolerably, for I had gone up the staircase in the dark, many a time. I ascended it now, in lighter boots than of yore, and tapped in my old way at the door of Miss Havisham's room. "Pip's rap," I heard her say, immediately; "come in, Pip."

She was in her chair near the old table, in the old dress, with her two hands crossed on her stick, her chin resting on them, and her eyes on the fire. Sitting near her, with the white shoe, that had never been worn, in her hand, and her head bent as she looked at it, was an elegant lady whom I had never seen.

"Come in, Pip," Miss Havisham continued to mutter, without looking round or up; "come in, Pip; how do you do, Pip? so you kiss my hand as if I were a queen, eh?Well?"

She looked up at me suddenly, only moving her eyes, and repeated in a grimly playful manner,

"Well?"

"I heard, Miss Havisham," said I, rather at a loss, "that you were so kind as to wish me to come and see you, and I came directly."

"Well?"

The lady whom I had never seen before, lifted up her eyes and looked archly at me, and then I saw that the eyes were Estella's eyes. But she was so much changed, was so much more beautiful, so much more womanly, in all things winning admiration had made such wonderful advance, that I seemed to have made none. I fancied, as

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 I looked at her, that I slipped hopelessly back into the coarse and common boy again. O the sense of distance and disparity that came upon me, and the inaccessibility that came about her!

She gave me her hand. I stammered something about the pleasure I felt in seeing her again, and about my having looked forward to it for a long, long time.

"Do you find her much changed, Pip?" asked Miss Havisham, with her greedy look, and striking her stick upon a chair that stood between them, as a sign to me to sit down there.

"When I came in, Miss Havisham, I thought there was nothing of Estella in the face or figure; but now it all settles down so curiously into the old"

"What? You are not going to say into the old Estella?" Miss Havisham interrupted. "She was proud and insulting, and you wanted to go away from her. Don't you remember?"

I said confusedly that that was long ago, and that I knew no better then, and the like. Estella smiled with perfect composure, and said she had no doubt of my having been quite right, and of her having been very disagreeable.

"Is he changed?" Miss Havisham asked her.

"Very much," said Estella, looking at me.

"Less coarse and common?" said Miss Havisham, playing with Estella's hair.

Estella laughed, and looked at the shoe in her hand, and laughed again and looked at me, and put the shoe down. She treated me as a boy still, but she lured me on.

We sat in the dreamy room among the old strange influences which had so wrought upon me, and I learnt that she had but just come home from France, and that she was going to London. Proud and wilful as of old, she had brought those qualities into such subjection to her beauty that it was impossible and out of nature—or I thought so—to separate them from her beauty. Truly it was impossible to dissociate her presence from all those wretched

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246 hankerings after money and gentility that had disturbed my boyhood—from all those ill-regulated aspirations that had first made me ashamed of home and Joe—from all those visions that had raised her face in the glowing fire, struck it out of the iron on the anvil, extracted it from the darkness of night to look in at the wooden window of the forge and flit away. In a word, it was impossible for me to separate her, in the past or in the present, from the innermost life of my life.

It was settled that I should stay there all the rest of the day, and return to the hotel at night, and to London tomorrow. When we had conversed for a while, Miss Havisham sent us two out to walk in the neglected garden: on our coming in by-and-bye, she said I should wheel her about a little, as in times of yore.

So, Estella and I went out into the garden by the gate through which I had strayed to my encounter with the pale young gentleman, now Herbert; I, trembling in spirit and worshipping the very hem of her dress; she, quite composed and most decidedly not worshipping the hem of mine. As we drew near to the place of encounter, she stopped, and said:

"I must have been a singular little creature to hide and see that fight that day: but I did, and I enjoyed it very much."

"You rewarded me very much."

"Did I?" she replied, in an incidental and forgetful way. "I remember I entertained a great objection to your adversary, because I took it ill that he should be brought here to pester me with his company."

"He and I are great friends now."

"Are you? I think I recollect though, that you read with his father?"

"Yes."

I made the admission with reluctance, for it seemed to have a boyish look, and she already treated me more than enough like a boy.

"Since your change of fortune and prospects, you have changed your companions," said Estella.

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Rh "Naturally," said I.

"And necessarily," she added, in a haughty tone; "what was fit company for you once, would be quite unfit company for you now."

In my conscience, I doubt very much whether I had any lingering intention left of going to see Joe; but if I had, this observation put it to flight.

"You had no idea of your impending good fortune, in those times?" said Estella, with a slight wave of her hand, signifying the fighting times.

"Not the least."

The air of completeness and superiority with which she walked at my side, and the air of youthfulness and submission with which I walked at hers, made a contrast that I strongly felt. It would have rankled in me more than it did, if I had not regarded myself as eliciting it by being so set apart for her and assigned to her.

The garden was too overgrown and rank for walking in with ease, and after we had made the round of it twice or thrice, we came out again into the brewery yard. I showed her to a nicety where I had seen her walking on the casks, that first old day, and she said with a cold and careless look in that direction, "Did I?" I reminded her where she had come out of the house and given me my meat and drink, and she said, "I don't remember." "Not remember that you made me cry?" said I. "No," said she, and shook her head and looked about her. I verily believe that her not remembering and not minding in the least, made me cry again, inwardly—and that is the sharpest crying of all.

"You must know," said Estella, condescending to me as a brilliant and beautiful woman might, "that I have no heart—if that has anything to do with my memory."

I got through some jargon to the effect that I took the liberty of doubting that. That I knew better. That there could be no such beauty without it.

"Oh! I have a heart to be stabbed in or shot in, I have no doubt," said Estella, "and, of course, if it ceased to beat I should cease to be. But you know what I mean. I

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248 have no softness there, no—sympathy—sentiment—nonsense."

What was it that was borne in upon my mind when she stood still and looked attentively at me? Anything that I had seen in Miss Havisham? No. In some of her looks and gestures there was that tinge of resemblance to Miss Havisham which may often be noticed to have been acquired by children, from grown persons with whom they have been much associated and secluded, and which, when childhood is past, will produce a remarkable occasional likeness of expression between faces that are otherwise quite different. And yet I could not trace this to Miss Havisham. I looked again, and though she was still looking at me, the suggestion was gone.

What was it?

"I am serious," said Estella, not so much with a frown (for her brow was smooth) as with a darkening of her face; "if we are to be thrown much together, you had better believe it at once. No!" imperiously stopping me as I opened my lips. "I have not bestowed my tenderness anywhere. I have never had any such thing."

In another moment we were in the brewery so long disused, and she pointed to the high gallery where I had seen her going out on that same first day, and told me she remembered to have been up there, and to have seen me standing scared below. As my eyes followed her white hand, again the same dim suggestion that I could not possibly grasp, crossed me. My involuntary start occasioned her to lay her hand upon my arm. Instantly the ghost passed once more and was gone.

What was it?

"What is the matter?" asked Estella. "Are you scared again?"

"I should be if I believed what you said just now," I replied, to turn it off.

"Then you don't? Very well. It is said, at any rate. Miss Havisham will soon be expecting you at your old post, though I think that might be laid aside now, with other old belongings. Let us make one more round of the

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Rh garden, and then go in. Come! You shall not shed tears for my cruelty to-day; you shall be my Page, and give me your shoulder."

Her handsome dress had trailed upon the ground. She held it in one hand now, and with the other lightly touched my shoulder as we walked.

We walked round the ruined garden twice or thrice more, and it was all in bloom for me. If the green and yellow growth of weed in the chinks of the old wall had been the most precious flowers that ever blew, it could not have been more cherished in my remembrance.

There was no discrepancy of years between us, to remove her far from me; we were of nearly the same age, though of course the age told for more in her case than in mine; but the air of inaccessibility which her beauty and her manner gave her, tormented me in the midst of my delight, and at the height of the assurance I felt that our patroness had chosen us for one another. Wretched boy!

At last we went back into the house, and there I heard, with surprise, that my guardian had come down to see Miss Havisham on business, and would come back to dinner. The old wintry branches of chandeliers in the room where the mouldering table was spread, had been lighted while we were out, and Miss Havisham was in her chair and waiting for me.

It was like pushing the chair itself back into the past, when we began the old slow circuit round about the ashes of the bridal feast. But, in the funereal room, with that figure of the grave fallen back in the chair fixing its eyes upon her, Estella looked more bright and beautiful than before, and I was under stronger enchantment.

The time so melted away, that our early dinner-hour drew close at hand, and Estella left us to prepare herself. We had stopped near the centre of the long table, and Miss Havisham, with one of her withered arms stretched out of the chair, rested that clenched hand upon the yellow cloth. As Estella looked back over her shoulder before going out at the door, Miss Havisham kissed that hand to her, with a ravenous intensity that was of its kind quite dreadful.

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250 Then, Estella being gone and we two left alone, she turned to me and said in a whisper:

"Is she beautiful, graceful, well-grown? Do you admire her?"

"Everybody must who sees her, Miss Havisham."

She drew an arm round my neck, and drew my head close down to hers as she sat in the chair. "Love her, love her, love her! How does she use you?"

Before I could answer (if I could have answered so difficult a question at all), she repeated, "Love her, love her, love her! If she favours you, love her. If she wounds you, love her. If she tears your heart to pieces—and as it gets older and stronger it will tear deeper—love her, love her, love her!"

Never had I seen such passionate eagerness as was joined to her utterance of these words. I could feel the muscles of the thin arm round my neck, swell with the vehemence that possessed her.

"Hear me, Pip! I adopted her to be loved. I bred her and educated her, to be loved. I developed her into what she is, that she might be loved. Love her!"

She said the word often enough, and there could be no doubt that she meant to say it; but if the often repeated word had been hate instead of love—despair—revenge—dire death—it could not have sounded from her lips more like a curse.

"I'll tell you," said she, in the same hurried passionate whisper, "what real love is. It is blind devotion, unquestioning self-humiliation, utter submission, trust and belief against yourself and against the whole world, giving up your whole heart and soul to the smiter—as I did!"

When she came to that, and to a wild cry that followed that, I caught her round the waist. For she rose up in the chair, in her shroud of a dress, and struck at the air as if she would as soon have struck herself against the wall and fallen dead.

All this passed in a few seconds. As I drew her down into her chair, I was conscious of a scent that I knew, and turning, saw my guardian in the room.

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Rh He always carried (I have not yet mentioned it, I think) a pocket-handkerchief of rich silk and of imposing proportions, which was of great value to him in his profession. I have seen him so terrify a client or a witness by ceremoniously unfolding this pocket-handkerchief as if he were immediately going to blow his nose, and then pausing, as if he knew he should not have time to do it, before such client or witness committed himself, that the self-committal has followed directly, quite as a matter of course. When I saw him in the room he had this expressive pocket-handkerchief in both hands, and was looking at us. On meeting my eye, he said plainly, by a momentary and silent pause in that attitude, "Indeed? Singular!" and then put the handkerchief to its right use with wonderful effect.

Miss Havisham had seen him as soon as I, and was (like everybody else) afraid of him. She made a strong attempt to compose herself, and stammered that he was as punctual as ever.

"As punctual as ever," he repeated, coming up to us. "(How do you do, Pip? Shall I give you a ride, Miss Havisham? Once round?) And so you are here, Pip?"

I told him when I had arrived, and how Miss Havisham wished me to come and see Estella. To which he replied,

"Ah! Very fine young lady!" Then he pushed Miss Havisham in her chair before him, with one of his large hands, and put the other in his trousers-pocket as if the pocket were full of secrets.

"Well, Pip! How often have you seen Miss Estella before?" said he, when he came to a stop.

"How often?"

"Ah! How many times? Ten thousand times?"

"Oh! Certainly not so many."

"Twice?"

"Jaggers," interposed Miss Havisham, much to my relief; "leave my Pip alone, and go with him to your dinner."

He complied, and we groped our way down the dark stairs together. While we were still on our way to those detached apartments across the paved yard at the back, he

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 asked me how often I had seen Miss Havisham eat and drink; offering me a breadth of choice, as usual, between a hundred times and once.

I considered, and said, "Never."

"And never will, Pip," he retorted, with a frowning smile. "She has never allowed herself to be seen doing either, since she lived this present life of hers. She wanders about in the night, and then lays hands on such food as she takes."

"Pray, sir," said I, "may I ask you a question?"

"You may," said he, "and I may decline to answer it. Put your question."

"Estella's name, is it Havisham or?" I had nothing to add.

"Or what?" said he.

"Is it Havisham?"

"It is Havisham."

This brought us to the dinner-table, where she and Sarah Pocket awaited us. Mr. Jaggers presided, Estella sat opposite to him, I faced my green and yellow friend. We dined very well, and were waited on by a maid-servant whom I had never seen in all my comings and goings, but who, for anything I know, had been in that mysterious house the whole time. After dinner a bottle of choice old port was placed before my guardian (he was evidently well acquainted with the vintage), and the two ladies left us.

Anything to equal the determined reticence of Mr. Jaggers under that roof I never saw elsewhere, even in him. He kept his very looks to himself, and scarcely directed his eyes to Estella's face once during dinner. When she spoke to him, he listened, and in due course, answered, but never looked at her that I could see. On the other hand, she often looked at him, with interest and curiosity, if not distrust, but his face never showed the least consciousness. Throughout dinner he took a dry delight in making Sarah Pocket greener and yellower, by often referring in conversation with me to my expectations: but here, again, he showed no consciousness, and even made it appear that he

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Rh extorted—and even did extort, though I don't know how—those references out of my innocent self.

And when he and I were left alone together, he sat with an air upon him of general lying by in consequence of information he possessed, that really was too much for me. He cross-examined his very wine when he had nothing else in hand. He held it between himself and the candle, tasted the port, rolled it in his mouth, swallowed it, looked at his glass again, smelt the port, tried it, drank it, filled again, and cross-examined the glass again, until I was as nervous as if I had known the wine to be telling him something to my disadvantage. Three or four times I feebly thought I would start conversation; but whenever he saw me going to ask him anything, he looked at me with his glass in his hand, and rolling his wine about in his mouth, as if requesting me to take notice that it was of no use, for he couldn't answer.

I think Miss Pocket was conscious that the sight of me involved her in the danger of being goaded to madness, and perhaps tearing off her cap—which was a very hideous one, in the nature of a muslin mop—and strewing the ground with her hair—which assuredly had never grown on her head. She did not appear when we afterwards went up to Miss Havisham's room, and we four played at whist. In the interval, Miss Havisham, in a fantastic way, had put some of the most beautiful jewels from her dressing-table into Estella's hair, and about her bosom and arms; and I saw even my guardian look at her from under his thick eyebrows, and raise them a little when her loveliness was before him, with those rich flushes of glitter and colour in it.

Of the manner and extent to which he took our trumps into custody, and came out with mean little cards at the ends of hands, before which the glory of our Kings and Queens was utterly abased, I say nothing; nor, of the feeling that I had, respecting his looking upon us personally in the light of three very obvious and poor riddles that he had found out long ago. What I suffered from, was the incompatibility between his cold presence and my feelings

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254 towards Estella. It was not that I knew I could never bear to speak to him about her, that I knew I could never bear to hear him creak his boots at her, that I knew I could never bear to see him wash his hands of her; it was, that my admiration should be within a foot or two of him—it was, that my feelings should be in the same place with him—that, was the agonising circumstance.

We played until nine o'clock, and then it was arranged that when Estella came to London I should be forewarned of her coming and should meet her at the coach; and then I took leave of her, and touched her and left her.

My guardian lay at the Boar in the next room to mine. Far into the night, Miss Havisham's words, "Love her, love her, love her!" sounded in my ears. I adapted them for my own repetition, and said to my pillow, "I love her, I love her, I love her!" hundreds of times. Then, a burst of gratitude came upon me, that she should be destined for me, once the blacksmith's boy. Then, I thought if she were, as I feared, by no means rapturously grateful for that destiny yet, when would she begin to be interested in me? When should I awaken the heart within her, that was mute and sleeping now?

Ah me! I thought those were high and great emotions. But I never thought there was anything low and small in my keeping away from Joe, because I knew she would be contemptuous of him. It was but a day gone, and Joe had brought the tears into my eyes; they had soon dried, God forgive me! soon dried.

well considering the matter while I was dressing at the Blue Boar in the morning, I resolved to tell my guardian that I doubted Orlick's being the right sort of man to fill a post of trust at Miss Havisham's. "Why, of course he is not the right sort of man, Pip," said my guardian, comfortably satisfied beforehand on the general head,

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text: Flute and Violin and Other Kentucky Tales and Romances/King Solomon of Kentucky


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was near the middle of the afternoon of an autumnal day, on the wide, grassy plateau of Central Kentucky.

The Eternal Power seemed to have quitted the universe and left all nature folded in the calm of the Eternal Peace. Around the pale-blue dome of the heavens a few pearl-colored clouds hung motionless, as though the wind had been withdrawn to other skies. Not a crimson leaf floated downward through the soft, silvery light that filled the atmosphere and created the sense of lonely, unimaginable spaces. This light overhung the far-rolling landscape of field and meadow and wood, crowning with faint radiance the remoter low-swelling hill-tops and deepening into dreamy half-shadows on their eastern slopes. Nearer, it fell in a white flake on an unstirred sheet of water which lay along the edge of a mass of sombre-hued woodland, and nearer still it touched to spring-like brilliancy a level, green meadow on the hither edge of the water, where a group of Durham cattle stood with reversed flanks near the


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98 trunks of some leafless sycamores. Still nearer, it caught the top of the brown foliage of a little bent oak-tree and burned it into a silvery flame. It lit on the back and the wings of a crow flying heavily in the path of its rays, and made his blackness as white as the breast of a swan. In the immediate foreground, it sparkled in minute gleams along the stalks of the coarse, dead weeds that fell away from the legs and the flanks of a white horse, and slanted across the face of the rider and through the ends of his gray hair, which straggled from beneath his soft black hat.

The horse, old and patient and gentle, stood with low-stretched neck and closed eyes half asleep in the faint glow of the waning heat; and the rider, the sole human presence in all the field, sat looking across the silent autumnal landscape, sunk in reverie. Both horse and rider seemed but harmonious elements in the panorama of still-life, and completed the picture of a closing scene.

To the man it was a closing scene. From the rank, fallow field through which he had been riding he was now surveying, for the last time, the many features of a landscape that had been familiar to him from the be ginning of memory. In the afternoon and the autumn of his age he was about to rend the last ties that bound him to his former life, and, like one who had survived his own destiny, turn his face towards a future that was void of everything he held significant or dear.

The Civil War had only the year before reached its ever-memorable close. From where he sat there was not a home in sight, as there was not one beyond the reach of his vision, but had felt its influence. Some of his neighbors had come home from its camps and


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Rh, aged or altered as though by half a lifetime of years. The bones of some lay whitening on its battlefields. Families, reassembled around their hearth-stones, spoke in low tones unceasingly of defeat and victory, heroism and death. Suspicion and distrust and estrangement prevailed. Former friends met each other on the turnpikes without speaking; brothers avoided each other in the streets of the neighboring town. The rich had grown poor; the poor had become rich. Many of the latter were preparing to move West. The negroes were drifting blindly hither and thither, deserting the country and flocking to the towns. Even the once united church of his neighborhood was jarred by the unstrung and discordant spirit of the times. At affecting passages in the sermons men grew pale and set their teeth fiercely; women suddenly lowered their black veils and rocked to and fro in their pews; for it is always at the bar of Conscience and before the very altar of God that the human heart is most wrung by a sense of its losses and the memory of its wrongs. The war had divided the people of Kentucky as the false mother would have severed the child.

It had not left the old man unscathed. His younger brother had fallen early in the conflict, borne to the end of his brief warfare by his impetuous valor; his aged mother had sunk under the tidings of the death of her latest-born; his sister was estranged from him by his political differences with her husband; his old family servants, men and women, had left him, and grass and weeds had already grown over the door-steps of the shut, noiseless cabins. Nay, the whole vast social system of the old regime had fallen, and he was henceforth but a useless fragment of the ruins.


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100 All at once his mind turned from the cracked and smoky mirror of the times and dwelt fondly upon the scenes of the past. The silent fields around him seemed again alive with the negroes, singing as they followed the ploughs down the corn-rows or swung the cradles through the bearded wheat. Again, in a frenzy of merriment, the strains of the old fiddles issued from crevices of cabin-doors to the rhythmic beat of hands and feet that shook the rafters and the roof. Now he was sitting on his porch, and one little negro was blacking his shoes, another leading his saddle-horse to the stiles, a third bringing his hat, and a fourth handing him a glass of ice-cold sangaree; or now he lay under the locust-trees in his yard, falling asleep in the drowsy heat of the summer afternoon, while one waved over him a bough of pungent walnut leaves, until he lost consciousness and by-and-by awoke to find that they both had fallen asleep side by side on the grass and that the abandoned fly-brush lay full across his face.

From where he sat also were seen slopes on which picnics were danced under the broad shade of maples and elms in June by those whom death and war had scattered like the transitory leaves that once had sheltered them. In this direction lay the district schoolhouse where on Friday evenings there were wont to be speeches and debates; in that, lay the blacksmith's shop where of old he and his neighbors had met on horseback of Saturday afternoons to hear the news, get the mails, discuss elections, and pitch quoits. In the valley beyond stood the church at which all had assembled on calm Sunday mornings like the members of one united family. Along with these scenes went many a chastened reminiscence of bridal and funeral


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Rh and simpler events that had made up the annals of his country life.

The reader will have a clearer insight into the character and past career of Colonel Romulus Fields by remembering that he represented a fair type of that social order which had existed in rank perfection over the blue-grass plains of Kentucky during the final decades of the old régime. Perhaps of all agriculturists in the United States the inhabitants of that region had spent the most nearly idyllic life, on account of the beauty of the climate, the richness of the land, the spacious comfort of their homes, the efficiency of their negroes, and the characteristic contentedness of their dispositions. Thus nature and history combined to make them a peculiar class, a cross between the aristocratic and the bucolic, being as simple as shepherds and as proud askings, and not seldom exhibiting among both men and women types of character which were as remarkable for pure, tender, noble states of feeling as they were commonplace in powers and cultivation of mind.

It was upon this luxurious social growth that the war naturally fell as a killing frost, and upon no single specimen with more blighting power than upon Colonel Fields. For destiny had quarried and chiselled him, to serve as an ornament in the barbaric temple of human bondage. There were ornaments in that temple, and he was one. A slave-holder with Southern sympathies, a man educated not beyond the ideas of his generation, convinced that slavery was an evil, yet seeing no present way of removing it, he had of all things been a model master. As such he had gone on record in Kentucky, and no doubt in a Higher Court; and as such his


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102 efforts had been put forth to secure the passage of many of those milder laws for which his State was distinguished. Often, in those dark days, his face, anxious and sad, was to be seen amid the throng that surrounded the blocks on which slaves were sold at auction; and more than one poor wretch he had bought to save him from separation from his family or from being sold into the Southern plantations—afterwards riding far and near to find him a home on one of the neigh boring farms.

But all those days were over. He had but to place the whole picture of the present beside the whole picture of the past to realize what the contrast meant for him.

At length he gathered the bridle reins from the neck of his old horse and turned his head homeward. As he rode slowly on, every spot gave up its memories. He dismounted when he came to the cattle and walked among them, stroking their soft flanks and feeling in the palm of his hand the rasp of their salt-loving tongues; on his sideboard at home was many a silver cup which told of premiums on cattle at the great fairs. It was in this very pond that as a boy he had learned to swim on a cherry rail. When he entered the woods, the sight of the walnut-trees and the hickory-nut trees, loaded on the topmost branches, gave him a sudden pang.

Beyond the woods he came upon the garden, which he had kept as his mother had left it an old-fashioned garden with an arbor in the centre, covered with Isabella grape-vines on one side and Catawba on the other; with walks branching thence in four directions, and along them beds of jump-up-johnnies,


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Rh, daffodils, sweet-peas, larkspur, and thyme, flags and the sensitive-plant, celestial and maiden's-blush roses. He stopped and looked over the fence at the very spot where he had found his mother on the day when the news of the battle came.

She had been kneeling, trowel in hand, driving away vigorously at the loamy earth, and, as she saw him coming, had risen and turned towards him her face with the ancient pink bloom on her clear cheeks and the light of a pure, strong soul in her gentle eyes. Overcome by his emotions, he had blindly faltered out the words, "Mother, John was among the killed!" For a moment she had looked at him as though stunned by a blow. Then a violent flush had overspread her features, and then an ashen pallor; after which, with a sudden proud dilating of her form as though with joy, she had sunk down like the tenderest of her lily-stalks, cut from its root.

Beyond the garden he came to the empty cabin and the great wood-pile. At this hour it used to be a scene of hilarious activity—the little negroes sitting perched in chattering groups on the topmost logs or playing leap-frog in the dust, while some picked up baskets of chips or dragged a back-log into the cabins.

At last he drew near the wooden stiles and saw the large house of which he was the solitary occupant. What darkened rooms and noiseless halls! What beds, all ready, that nobody now came to sleep in, and cushioned old chairs that nobody rocked! The house and the contents of its attic, presses, and drawers could have told much of the history of Kentucky from almost its beginning; for its foundations had been laid by his father near the beginning of the century, and through


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104 its doors had passed a long train of forms, from the veterans of the Revolution to the soldiers of the Civil War. Old coats hung up in closets; old dresses folded away in drawers; saddle-bags and buckskin-leggins; hunting-jackets, powder-horns, and militiamen hats; looms and knitting-needles; snuffboxes and reticules—what a treasure-house of the past it was! And now the only thing that had the springs of life within its bosom was the great, sweet-voiced clock, whose faithful face had kept unchanged amid all the swift pageantry of changes.

He dismounted at the stiles and handed the reins to a gray-haired negro, who had hobbled up to receive them with a smile and a gesture of the deepest respect.

"Peter," he said, very simply, "I am going to sell the place and move to town. I can't live here any longer."

With these words he passed through the yard-gate, walked slowly up the broad pavement, and entered the house.

On the disappearing form of the colonel was fixed an ancient pair of eyes that looked out at him from behind a still more ancient pair of silver-rimmed spectacles with an expression of indescribable solicitude and love.

These eyes were set in the head of an old gentleman—for such he was—named Peter Cotton, who was the only one of the colonel's former slaves that had remained inseparable from his person and his altered fortunes. In early manhood Peter had been a wood-chopper; but he had one day had his leg broken by the limb of a falling tree, and afterwards, out of consideration for his


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Rh limp, had been made supervisor of the wood-pile, gardener, and a sort of nondescript servitor of his master's luxurious needs.

Nay, in larger and deeper characters must his history be writ, he having been, in days gone by, one of those ministers of the gospel whom conscientious Kentucky masters often urged to the exercise of spiritual functions in behalf of their benighted people. In course of preparation for this august work, Peter had learned to read and had come to possess a well-chosen library of three several volumes—Webster's Spelling-Book, The Pilgrim's Progress, and the Bible. But even these unusual acquisitions he deemed not enough; for being touched with a spark of poetic fire from heaven, and fired by the African's fondness for all that is conspicuous in dress, he had conceived for himself the creation of a unique garment which should symbolize in perfection the claims and consolations of his apostolic office. This was nothing less than a sacred blue-jeans coat that he had had his old mistress make him, with very long and spacious tails, whereon, at his further direction, she embroidered sundry texts of Scripture which it pleased him to regard as the fit visible annunciations of his holy calling. And inasmuch as his mistress, who had had the coat woven on her own looms from the wool of her finest sheep, was, like other gentlewomen of her time, rarely skilled in the accomplishments of the needle, and was moreover in full sympathy with the piety of his intent, she wrought of these passages a border enriched with such intricate curves, marvellous flourishes, and harmonious letterings, that Solomon never reflected the glory in which Peter was arrayed whenever he put it on. For after much prayer


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78 "Mine too he threatens; but his dotage still "Would fain reserve me for his lordly will: "When wearier of these fleeting charms and me, "There yawns the sack—and yonder rolls the sea! "What, am I then a toy for dotard's play, "To wear but till the gilding frets away? "I saw thee—loved thee—owe thee all—would save, "If but to shew how grateful is a slave. "But had he not thus menaced fame and life, "(And well he keeps his oaths pronounced in strife) "I still had saved thee—but the Pacha spared. "Now I am all thine own—for all prepared— "Thou lov'st me not—nor know'st—or but the worst. "Alas! this love—that hatred are the first— "Oh! could'st thou prove my truth, thou would'st not start, "Nor fear the fire that lights an Eastern heart, " 'Tis now the beacon of thy safety—now "It points within the port a Mainote prow: "But in one chamber, where our path must lead, "There sleeps—he must not wake—the oppressor Seyd!" "Gulnare—Gulnare—I never felt till now "My abject fortune—withered fame so low:

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Rh 'Tis idle all—moons roll on moons away, And Conrad comes not—came not since that day— Nor trace, nor tidings of his doom declare Where lives his grief, or perish'd his despair! Long mourn'd his band whom none could mourn beside; And fair the monument they gave his bride: For him they raise not the recording stone— His death yet dubious, deeds too widely known; He left a Corsair's name to other times, Link'd with one virtue, and a thousand crimes.

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, daughter of a royal line, A Sire's disgrace, a realm's decay; Ah, happy! if each tear of thine Could wash a father's fault away! Weep—for thy tears are Virtue's tears— Auspicious to these suffering isles; And be each drop in future years Repaid thee by thy people's smiles! March, 1812.

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The time in this poem may seem too short for the occurrences, but the whole of the Ægean isles are within a few hours sail of the continent, and the reader must be kind enough to take the wind as I have often found it. Orlando, Canto 10.

By night, particularly in a warm latitude, every stroke of the oar, every motion of the boat or ship, is followed by a slight flash like sheet lightning from the water.

Coffee.

Pipe.

Dancing-girls.

It has been objected that Conrad's entering disguised as a spy is out of Nature.—Perhaps so. I find something not unlike it in history.

"Anxious to explore with his own eyes the state of the

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98 Vandals, Majorian ventured, after disguising the colour of his hair, to visit Carthage in the character of his own ambassador; and Genseric was afterwards mortified by the discovery, that he had entertained and dismissed the Emperor of the Romans. Such an anecdote may be rejected as an improbable fiction; but it is a fiction which would not have been imagined unless in the life of a hero." Gibbon, D. and F. Vol. VI. p. 180.

That Conrad is a character not altogether out of nature I shall attempt to prove by some historical coincidences which I have met with since writing "The Corsair."

" &c. &c. Jornandes de Rebus Getiusy, c. 33.

I beg leave to quote these gloomy realities to keep in countenance my Giaour and Corsair.

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  of Whitby, in the County of York; and for preventing Incroachments and Annoyances therein; and for regulating the Carriages, Cartmen and Porters there. An Act for amending and supplying the Deficiencies of an Act passed in the second Year of the Reign of his present Majesty King the Third, intituled, An Act to amend and render more effectual, several Acts made for cleansing and enlightening the Streets of the Town of Kingston upon Hull, and for preventing Annoyances therein. An Act for supplying the Borough and Town of Wigan, in the County of Lancaster, with fresh and wholsome Water. An Act for repairing and widening the Road from Beverley to Kexby Bridge, in the County of York. An Act for continuing and enlarging the Term and Powers of an Act made in the twenty-sixth Year of the Reign of his late Majesty, intituled, An Act for repairing and widening the Road leading from Piper's Inn, in the Parish of Ashcott, in the County of Somerset, to and through Glastonbury and Wells, to the White Post, in the great Wessern Road, to the City of Bath, and from Wells to Rush Hill, leading to the City of Bristol; and for repairing and widening several other Roads leading from the City of Wells  An Act for explaining and amending an Act made in the twenty-sixth Year of the Reign of his late Majesty King the Second, intituled, An Act for amending, widening and repairing the Road leading from Dover to Barham Downs, in the County of Kent; and also for amending, widening and repairing the Road leading from Cowgate and Archcliffe Fort, in Dover, through Folkstone, to the Town of Hythe in the said County. An Act to enlarge the Term and Powers of so much of an Act of the twenty-ninth Year of the Reign of his late Majesty, for repairing and widening several Roads therein described, leading from the Town of Tewkesbury, in the County of Gloucester, as relates to the first District of Roads therein mentioned; and for amending the Road from Comb Hill, to a Bridge near Norton Mill, in the County of Gloucester, and from Eckington Bridge, to join the Turnpike Road which leads from Upton on Severn to Pershore, in the County of Worcester.

An Act for repairing and widening the Roads from Spalding High Bridge, to the Market Place in Donington, and from the tenth Mile Stone, in the Parish of Gasbertown, to the eighth Mile Stone, in the Parish of Wigtoft, in the County of Lincoln.

An Act for amending, widening and keeping in Repair, several Roads leading from the Buck's Head at Watling Street, to Beckbury and the New Inn; and from the Birches Brook, to the Hand Post, in the Parish of Kemberton, in the County of Salop.

An Act for widening and repairing the Road leading from Ashborne, in the County of Derby, over Belpar Bridge, to the present Turnpike Road from Sheffield and Chesterfield to Derby, at or near a Place called Openwood Gate, and from Belpar Bridge to Ripley, in the County of Derby.

An Act for repairing and widening the Road from Bramcott Odd House, in the County of Nottingham, to the Cross Post upon Smalley Common, in the County of Derby, and from Ilkeston, to the Towns of Heanor and Shipley, in the said County of Derby, and from Trowell, in the County of Nottingham to the Town of Nottingham.

An Act for repairing and widening the Roads from Melton Mowbray, in the County of Leicester, to the Guide Post in Saint Margaret's Field, Leicester, and from the Town of Leicester, to the Town of Lutterworth, in the said County, and other Roads therein mentioned.

An Act for repairing and widening the Road from, Scots Dyke, in the County of Dumfries, by or through the Villages of Langholm and Hawick to Haremoss, in the County of Roxburgh.

An Act to amend and render more effectual two several Acts passed in the twenty-fourth and twenty-eighth Years of the Reign of his late Majesty, for repairing the high Roads in the County of Edinburgh, to and from the City of Edinburgh, and from Crarmnd Bridge to the Town of Queensferry, in the County of Linlithgow.

An Act for repairing several Roads leading from the Town of Bideford, in the County of Devon.

An Act for amending, widening and keeping in Repair, several Roads leading from the Town of Cardiff, and several other Towns and Places in the County of Glamorgan.

An Act for the better Relief and Employment of the Poor, in the Hundred of Mutford and Lothingland, in the County of Suffolk.

An Act for the better Relief and Employment of the Poor in the Hundreds of Loddon and Clavering, in the County of Norfolk.

An Act for the better Relief and Employment of the Poor in the Hundred of Wangford, in the County of Suffolk.

An Act for the better paving of the Streets and Lanes, and for preventing Nuisances and other Annoyances, in that Part of the Parish of Portsea, in the County of Southampton, commonly called Portsmouth Common.

An Act for the better supplying the Town of Knaresborough, and that Part of the Township of Scriven with Tenter Gate adjoining upon the said Town, with Water.

N Act for naturalizing Govert Cassau.

An Act for naturalizing Andrew Solinus.

An Act for naturalizing Peter Hasenclever, Johann Peter Rucker, John Francis Blache, Andrew Vezian, James Charles Granges, and Jacob Muller.

An Act for naturalizing William Dunant, John Christian Schrieber, Jonas Dael, and Charles Henry Thalbitzer.

An Act for dividing and inclosing the Open Common Fields, Common Meadows, and other Commonable Lands, in the Parish of Heckington, in the County of Lincoln.

An Act for dividing and inclosing the Open and Common Fields, Common Meadows, Common Grounds, Heath Grounds, Lanes and Waste Ground, within Guilsborough, Coton and Nortoft, in the County of Northampton.

An Act for dividing and inclosing certain Open Common Fields and Grounds, in the Manor and Parish of Stainton in the Hole, in the County of Lincoln.

An Act for dividing and inclosing the Common Fields, Common and Waste Grounds, in the Parish of Searby, in the County of Lincoln.

9. An


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Rh Youth is the season for regulating these emotions as we ought, because it is comparatively easy to govern our affections when first awakened; after they have been allowed for some time to flow in any particular channel, it requires a painful and determined effort to restrain or divert their course; nor does the constitution of the human mind endure this revulsion of feeling unharmed. As the country over whose surface an impetuous river has poured its waters, retains, after those waters are gone, the sterile track they once pursued, marring the picture as with a scar—a seamy track of barrenness and drought; so the course of misplaced affection leaves its indelible trace upon the character, breaking the harmony of what might otherwise have been most attractive in its beauty and repose.

There is, perhaps, no subject on which young women are apt to make so many and such fatal mistakes as in the regulation of their emotions of attraction and repulsion; and chiefly for this reason—because there is a popular notion prevailing amongst them, that it is exceedingly becoming to act from the impulse of the moment, to be, what they call, "the creatures of feeling," or, in other words, to exclude the high attribute of reason from those very emotions which are given them, especially, to serve the most exalted purposes. "It is a cold philosophy," they say, "to calculate before you feel;" and thus they choose to act from impulse rather than from principle.

The unnatural mother does this when she singles out a favourite child as the recipient of all her endearments, leaving the neglected one to pine away its little life. The foolish mother does this, when she withholds, from imagined tenderness, the wholesome discipline which infancy requires—choosing for her unconscious offspring a succession of momentary indulgences which are sure to entail upon them years of suffering in after life. The fickle friend does

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 N Act for continuing and granting to his Majesty certain Duties upon Malt, Mum, Cyder and Perry, for the Service of the Year one thousand seven hundred and sixty-three. An Act for granting an Aid to his Majesty by a Land Tax to be raised in Great Britan for the Service of the Year one thousand seven hundred and sixty-three. An Act for the Regulation of his Majesty's Marine Forces while on Shore. An Act for rectifying Mistakes in the Names of several of the Commissioners appointed by an Act made in the last Session of Parliament, to put in Execution an Act made in the same Session, intituled, An Act for granting an Aid to his Majesty by a Land Tax, to be raised in Great Britain for the Service of the Tear one thousand seven hundred and sixty-two; and for appointing other Commissioners, together with those named in the first mentioned Act, to put in Execution an Act of this Session of Parliament, for granting an Aid to his Majesty by a Land Tax, to be raised in Great Britain, for the Service of the Year one thousand seven hundred and sixty-three. An Act to indemnify such as have omitted to qualify themselves for Offices and Employments, and to indemnify justices of the Peace, Deputy Lieutenants, and Officers of the Militia, or others, who have omitted to register or deliver in their Qualifications within the Time limited by Law, and for giving further Time for those Purposes; and for the making and filing of Affidavits of Articles of Clerkship. An Act for explaining and amending an Act made in the thirty-first Year of the Reign of his late Majesty King the Second, intituled, An Act for the due making of Bread, and to regulate the Price and Assize thereof, and to punish Persons who shall adulterate Meal, Flour or Bread; so far as the fame relates to that Part of Great Britain called Scotland; and for rendering the said Act more effectual in that Part of the United Kingdom. An Act for punishing Mutiny and Desertion; and for the better Payment of the Army and their Quarters.
An Act to enable such Officers, Marines and Soldiers, as have been in the Land or Sea Service, or in the Marines, since the twenty-second Year of his late Majesty King the Second, to exercise Trades.

An Act for granting Annuities to satisfy certain Navy, Victualling and Transport Bills, and Ordnance Debentures; and for charging the Payment of such Annuities on the Sinking Fund; and making good the same to the said Fund, in Manner therein mentioned.

An Act for applying the Money granted in this Session of Parliament, for defraying the Charge of the Pay and Cloathing of the Militia of that Part of Great Britain called England, for one Year, beginning the twenty-fifth Day of March one thousand seven hundred and sixty-three, and for appointing a Time and Place for exercising the Militia in the said Year.

An Act for explaining and amending an Act made in the thirty-first Year of the Reign of his late Majesty King the Second, intituled. An Act for the due making of Bread, and to regulate the Price and Assize thereof; and to punish Persons who shall adulterate Meal, Flour or Bread.

12. An


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Rh The Dervises are in colleges, and of different orders, as the monks.

Satan.

A common and not very novel effect of Mussulman anger. See Prince Eugene's Memoirs, page 24. "The Seraskier received a wound in the thigh; he plucked up his beard by the roots, because he was obliged to quit the field."

Gulnare, a female name; it means, literally, the flower of the Pomegranate.

In Sir Thomas More, for instance, on the scaffold, and Anne Boleyn in the Tower, when grasping her neck, she remarked, that it "was too slender to trouble the headsman much." During one part of the French Revolution, it became a fashion to leave some "mot" as a legacy; and the quantity of facetious last words spoken during that period would form a melancholy jest-book of a considerable size.

Socrates drank the hemlock a short time before sunset (the

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100 hour of execution), notwithstanding the entreaties of his disciples to wait till the sun went down.

The twilight in Greece is much shorter than in our own country; the days in winter are longer, but in summer of shorter duration.

The Kiosk is a Turkish summer-house; the palm is without the present walls of Athens, not far from the temple of Theseus, between which and the tree the wall intervenes.—Cephisus' stream is indeed scanty, and Ilissus has no stream at all.

The opening lines as far as section II. have, perhaps, little business here, and were annexed to an unpublished (though printed) poem; but they were written on the spot in the Spring of 1811, and—I scarce know why—the reader must excuse their appearance here if he can.

The Comboloio, or Mahometan rosary; the beads are in number ninety-nine.

In the Levant it is the custom to strew flowers on the bodies of the dead, and in the hands of young persons to place a nosegay.

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