text:
The Job (Lewis)/The City/Chapter 8

IN novels and plays architects usually are delicate young men who wear silky Vandyke beards, play the piano, and do a good deal with pictures and rugs. They leap with desire to erect charming cottages for the poor, and to win prize contests for the Jackson County Courthouse. They always have good taste; they are perfectly mad about simplicity and gracefulness. But from the number of flat-faced houses and three-toned wooden churches still being erected, it may be deduced that somewhere there are architects who are not enervated by too much good taste.

Mr. Troy Wilkins, architect, with an office in the Septimus Building, was a commuter. He wore a derby and a clipped mustache, and took interest in cameras, player-pianos, phonographs, small motor-cars, speedometers, tires, patent nicotineless pipes, jolly tobacco for jimmy-pipes, tennis-rackets, correspondence courses, safety-razors, optimism, Theodore Roosevelt, pocket flashlights, rubber heels, and all other well-advertised wares. He was a conservative Republican and a Congregationalist, and on his desk he kept three silver-framed photographs—one of his wife and two children, one of his dog Rover, and one of his architectural masterpiece, the mansion of Peter B. Reardon, the copper king of Montana.

Mr. Troy Wilkins lamented the passing of the solid and expensive stone residences of the nineties, but he kept “up to date,” and he had added ideals about half-timbered villas, doorway settles, garages, and sleeping-porches to his repertoire. He didn’t, however, as he often said, “believe in bungalows any more than he believed in these labor unions.”

Una Golden had been the chief of Mr. Troy Wilkins’s two stenographers for seven months now—midsummer of 1907, when she was twenty-six. She had climbed to thirteen dollars a week. The few hundred dollars which she had received from Captain Golden’s insurance were gone, and her mother and she had to make a science of saving—economize on milk, on bread, on laundry, on tooth-paste. But that didn’t really matter, because Una never went out except for walks and moving-picture shows, with her mother. She had no need, no want of clothes to impress suitors.... She had four worn letters from Walter Babson which she re-read every week or two; she had her mother and, always, her job.

Una, an errand-boy, and a young East-Side Jewish stenographer named Bessie Kraker made up the office force of Troy Wilkins. The office was on the eighth floor of the Septimus Building, which is a lean, jerry-built, flashingly pretentious cement structure with cracking walls and dirty, tiled hallways.

The smeary, red-gold paint which hides the imperfect ironwork of its elevators does not hide the fact that they groan like lost souls, and tremble and jerk and threaten to fall. The Septimus Building is typical of at least one half of a large city. It was “run up” by a speculative builder for a “quick turn-over.” It is semi-fire-proof, but more semi than fire-proof. It stands on Nassau Street, between two portly stone buildings that try to squeeze this lanky impostor to death, but there is more cheerful whistling in its hallways than in the halls of its disapproving neighbors. Near it is City Hall Park and Newspaper Row, Wall Street and the lordly Stock Exchange, but, aside from a few dull and honest tenants like Mr. Troy Wilkins, the Septimus Building is filled with offices of fly-by-night companies—shifty promoters, mining-concerns, beauty-parlors for petty brokers, sample-shoe shops, discreet lawyers, and advertising dentists. Seven desks in one large room make up the entire headquarters of eleven international corporations, which possess, as capital, eleven hundred and thirty dollars, much embossed stationery—and the seven desks. These modest capitalists do not lease their quarters by the year. They are doing very well if they pay rent for each of four successive months. But also they do not complain about repairs; they are not fussy about demanding a certificate of moral perfection from the janitor. They speak cheerily to elevator-boys and slink off into saloons. Not all of them keep Yom Kippur; they all talk of being “broad-minded.”

Mr. Wilkins’s office was small and agitated. It consisted of two rooms and an insignificant entry-hall, in which last was a water-cooler, a postal scale, a pile of newspapers, and a morose office-boy who drew copies of Gibson girls all day long on stray pieces of wrapping-paper, and confided to Una, at least once a week, that he wanted to take a correspondence course in window-dressing. In one of the two rooms Mr. Wilkins cautiously made drawings at a long table, or looked surprised over correspondence at a small old-fashioned desk, or puffed and scratched as he planned form-letters to save his steadily waning business.

In the other room there were the correspondence-files, and the desks of Una, the chief stenographer, and of slangy East-Side Bessie Kraker, who conscientiously copied form-letters, including all errors in them, and couldn’t, as Wilkins complainingly pointed out, be trusted with dictation which included any words more difficult than “sincerely.”

From their window the two girls could see the windows of an office across the street. About once a month an interesting curly-haired youth leaned out of one of the windows opposite. Otherwise there was no view.

Twelve o’clock, the hour at which most of the offices closed on Saturday in summer, was excitedly approaching. The office-women throughout the Septimus Building, who had been showing off their holiday frocks all morning, were hastily finishing letters, or rushing to the women’s wash-rooms to discuss with one another the hang of new skirts. All morning Bessie Kraker had kept up a monologue, beginning, “Say, lis-ten, Miss Golden, say, gee! I was goin’ down to South Beach with my gentleman friend this afternoon, and, say, what d’you think the piker had to go and get stuck for? He’s got to work all afternoon. I don’t care—I don’t care! I’m going to Coney Island with Sadie, and I bet you we pick up some fellows and do the light fantastic till one G. M. Oh, you sad sea waves! I bet Sadie and me make’em sad!”

“But we’ll be straight,” said Bessie, half an hour later, apropos of nothing. “But gee! it’s fierce to not have any good times without you take a risk. But gee! my dad would kill me if I went wrong. He reads the Talmud all the time, and hates Goys. But gee! I can’t stand it all the time being a mollycoddle. I wisht I was a boy! I’d be a’ aviator.”

Bessie had a proud new blouse with a deep V, the edges of which gaped a bit and suggested that by ingenuity one could see more than was evident at first. Troy Wilkins, while pretending to be absent-mindedly fussing about a correspondence-file that morning, had forgotten that he was much married and had peered at the V. Una knew it, and the sordidness of that curiosity so embarrassed her that she stopped typing to clutch at the throat of her own high-necked blouse, her heart throbbing. She wanted to run away. She had a vague desire to “help” Bessie, who purred at poor, good Mr. Wilkins and winked at Una and chewed gum enjoyably, who was brave and hardy and perfectly able to care for herself—an organism modified by the Ghetto to the life which still bewildered Una.

Mr. Wilkins went home at 11.17, after giving them enough work to last till noon. The office-boy chattily disappeared two minutes later, while Bessie went two minutes after that. Her delay was due to the adjustment of her huge straw hat, piled with pink roses and tufts of blue malines.

Una stayed till twelve. Her ambition had solidified into an unreasoning conscientiousness.

With Bessie gone, the office was so quiet that she hesitated to typewrite lest They sneak up on her—They who dwell in silent offices as They dwell beneath a small boy’s bed at night. The hush was intimidating; her slightest movement echoed; she stopped the sharply tapping machine after every few words to listen.

At twelve she put on her hat with two jabs of the hat-pins, and hastened to the elevator, exulting in freedom. The elevator was crowded with girls in new white frocks, voluble about their afternoon’s plans. One of them carried a wicker suit-case. She was, she announced, starting on her two weeks’ vacation; there would be some boys, and she was going to have “a peach of a time.”

Una and her mother had again spent a week of June in Panama, and she now recalled the bright, free mornings and lingering, wonderful twilights.

She had no place to go this holiday afternoon, and she longed to join a noisy, excited party. Of Walter Babson she did not think. She stubbornly determined to snatch this time of freedom. Why, of course, she asserted, she could play by herself quite happily! With a spurious gaiety she patted her small black hand-bag. She skipped across to the Sixth Avenue Elevated and went up to the department-store district. She made elaborate plans for the great adventure of shopping. Bessie Kraker had insisted, with the nonchalant shrillness of eighteen, that Una “had ought to wear more color”; and Una had found, in the fashion section of a woman’s magazine, the suggestion for exactly the thing—“a modest, attractive frock of brown, with smart touches of orange”—and economical. She had the dress planned—ribbon-belt half brown and half orange, a collar edged with orange, cuffs slashed with it.

There were a score of mild matter-of-fact Unas on the same Elevated train with her, in their black hats and black jackets and black skirts and white waists, with one hint of coquetry in a white-lace jabot or a white-lace veil; faces slightly sallow or channeled with care, but eyes that longed to flare with love; women whom life didn’t want except to type its letters about invoices of rubber heels; women who would have given their salvation for the chance to sacrifice themselves for love.... And there was one man on that Elevated train, a well-bathed man with cynical eyes, who read a little book with a florid gold cover, all about Clytemnestra, because he was certain that modern cities have no fine romance, no high tragedy; that you must go back to the Greeks for real feeling. He often aphorized, “Frightfully hackneyed to say, ’woman’s place is in the home,’ but really, you know, these women going to offices, vulgarizing all their fine womanliness, and this shrieking sisterhood going in for suffrage and Lord knows what. Give me the reticences of the harem rather than one of these office-women with gum-chewing vacuities. None of them clever enough to be tragic!” He was ever so whimsical about the way in which the suffrage movement had cheated him of the chance to find a “grande amoureuse.” He sat opposite Una in the train and solemnly read his golden book. He did not see Una watch with shy desire every movement of a baby that was talking to its mother in some unknown dialect of baby-land. He was feeling deep sensations about Clytemnestra’s misfortunes—though he controlled his features in the most gentlemanly manner, and rose composedly at his station, letting a well-bred glance of pity fall upon the gum-chewers.

Una found a marvelously clean, new restaurant on Sixth Avenue, with lace curtains at the window and, between the curtains, a red geranium in a pot covered with red-crêpe paper tied with green ribbon. A new place! She was tired of the office, the Elevated, the flat on 148th Street, the restaurants where she tediously had her week-day lunches. She entered the new restaurant briskly, swinging her black bag. The place had Personality—the white enameled tables were set diagonally and clothed with strips of Japanese toweling. Una smiled at a lively photograph of two bunnies in a basket. With a sensation of freedom and novelty she ordered coffee, chicken patty, and cocoanut layer-cake.

But the patty and the cake were very much like the hundreds of other patties and cakes which she had consumed during the past two years, and the people about her were of the horde of lonely workers who make up half of New York. The holiday enchantment dissolved. She might as well be going back to the office grind after lunch! She brooded, while outside, in that seething summer street, the pageant of life passed by and no voice summoned her. Men and girls and motors, people who laughed and waged commerce for the reward of love—they passed her by, life passed her by, a spectator untouched by joy or noble tragedy, a woman desperately hungry for life.

She began—but not bitterly, she was a good little thing, you know—to make the old familiar summary. She had no lover, no friend, no future. Walter—he might be dead, or married. Her mother and the office, between them, left her no time to seek lover or friend or success. She was a prisoner of affection and conscience.

She rose and paid her check. She did not glance at the picture of the bunnies in a basket. She passed out heavily, a woman of sterile sorrow.

Una recovered her holiday by going shopping. An aisle-man in the dress-goods department, a magnificent creature in a braided morning-coat, directed her to the counter she asked for, spoke eloquently of woolen voiles, picked up her bag, and remarked, “Yes, we do manage to keep it cool here, even on the hottest days.” A shop-girl laughed with her. She stole into one of the elevators, and, though she really should have gone home to her mother, she went into the music department, where, among lattices wreathed with newly dusted roses, she listened to waltzes and two-steps played by a red-haired girl who was chewing gum and talking to a man while she played. The music roused Una to plan a wild dissipation. She would pretend that she had a sweetheart, that with him she was a-roving.

Una was not highly successful in her make-believe. She could not picture the imaginary man who walked beside her. She refused to permit him to resemble Walter Babson, and he refused to resemble anybody else. But she was throbbingly sure he was there as she entered a drug-store and bought a “Berline bonbon,” a confection guaranteed to increase the chronic nervous indigestion from which stenographers suffer. Her shadow lover tried to hold her hand. She snatched it away and blushed. She fancied that a matron at the next tiny table was watching her silly play, reflected in the enormous mirror behind the marble soda-counter. The lover vanished. As she left the drug-store Una was pretending that she was still pretending, but found it difficult to feel so very exhilarated.

She permitted herself to go to a motion-picture show. She looked over all the posters in front of the theater, and a train-wreck, a seaside love-scene, a detective drama, all invited her.

A man in the seat in front of her in the theater nestled toward his sweetheart and harshly muttered, “Oh you old honey!” In the red light from the globe marking an exit she saw his huge red hand, with its thicket of little golden hairs, creep toward the hand of the girl.

Una longed for a love-scene on the motion-picture screen.

The old, slow familiar pain of congestion in the back of her neck came back. But she forgot the pain when the love-scene did appear, in a picture of a lake shore with a hotel porch, the flat sheen of photographed water, rushing boats, and a young hero with wavy black hair, who dived for the lady and bore her out when she fell out of a reasonably safe boat. The actor’s wet, white flannels clung tight about his massive legs; he threw back his head with masculine arrogance, then kissed the lady. Una was dizzy with that kiss. She was shrinking before Walter’s lips again. She could feel her respectable, typewriter-hardened fingers stroke the actor’s swarthy, virile jaw. She gasped with the vividness of the feeling. She was shocked at herself; told herself she was not being “nice”; looked guiltily about; but passionately she called for the presence of her vague, imaginary lover.

“Oh, my dear, my dear, my dear!” she whispered, with a terrible cloistered sweetness—whispered to love itself.

Deliberately ignoring the mother who waited at home, she determined to spend a riotous evening going to a real theater, a real play. That is, if she could get a fifty-cent seat.

She could not.

“It’s been exciting, running away, even if I can’t go to the theater,” Una comforted herself. “I’ll go down to Lady Sessions’s this evening. I’ll pack mother off to bed. I’ll take the Sessionses up some ice-cream, and we’ll have a jolly time.... Mother won’t care if I go. Or maybe she’ll come with me”—knowing all the while that her mother would not come, and decidedly would care if Una deserted her.

However negligible her mother seemed from down-town, she loomed gigantic as Una approached their flat and assured herself that she was glad to be returning to the dear one.

The flat was on the fifth floor.

It was a dizzying climb—particularly on this hot afternoon.

As Una began to trudge up the flat-sounding slate treads she discovered that her head was aching as though some one were pinching the top of her eyeballs. Each time she moved her head the pain came in a perceptible wave. The hallway reeked with that smell of onions and fried fish which had arrived with the first tenants. Children were dragging noisy objects about the halls. As the throb grew sharper during the centuries it took her to climb the first three flights of stairs, Una realized how hot she was, how the clammy coolness of the hall was penetrated by stabs of street heat which entered through the sun-haloed windows at the stair landings.

Una knocked at the door of her flat with that light, cheery tapping of her nails, like a fairy tattoo, which usually brought her mother running to let her in. She was conscious, almost with a physical sensation, of her mother; wanted to hold her close and, in the ecstasy of that caress, squeeze the office weariness from her soul. The Little Mother Saint—she was coming now—she was hurrying—

But the little mother was not hurrying. There was no response to Una’s knock. As Una stooped in the dimness of the hallway to search in her bag for her latch-key, the pain pulsed through the top of her head again. She opened the door, and her longing for the embrace of her mother disappeared in healthy anger.

The living-room was in disorder. Her mother had not touched it all day—had gone off and left it.

“This is a little too much!” Una said, grimly.

The only signs of life were Mrs. Golden’s pack of cards for solitaire, her worn, brown Morris-chair, and accretions of the cheap magazines with pretty-girl covers which Mrs. Golden ransacked for love-stories. Mrs. Golden had been reading all the evening before, and pages of newspapers were crumpled in her chair, not one of them picked up. The couch, where Una had slept because it had been too hot for the two of them in a double bed, was still an eruption of bedclothes—the pillow wadded up, the sheets dragging out across the unswept floor.... The room represented discomfort, highly respectable poverty—and cleaning, which Una had to do before she could rest.

She sat down on the couch and groaned: “To have to come home to this! I simply can’t trust mother. She hasn’t done one—single—thing, not one single thing. And if it were only the first time—! But it’s every day, pretty nearly. She’s been asleep all day, and then gone for a walk. Oh yes, of course! She’ll come back and say she’d forgotten this was Saturday and I’d be home early! Oh, of course!”

From the bedroom came a cough, then another. Una tried to keep her soft little heart in its temporary state of hardness long enough to have some effect on household discipline. “Huh!” she grunted. “Got a cold again. If she’d only stay outdoors a little—”

She stalked to the door of the bedroom. The blind was down, the window closed, the room stifling and filled with a yellow, unwholesome glimmer. From the bed her mother’s voice, changed from its usual ring to a croak that was crepuscular as the creepy room, wheezed: “That—you—deary? I got—summer—cold—so sorry—leave work undone—”

“If you would only keep your windows open, my dear mother—”

Una marched to the window, snapped up the blind, banged up the sash, and left the room.

“I really can’t see why!” was all she added. She did not look at her mother.

She slapped the living-room into order as though the disordered bedclothes and newspapers were bad children. She put the potatoes on to boil. She loosened her tight collar and sat down to read the “comic strips,” the “Beauty Hints,” and the daily instalment of the husband-and-wife serial in her evening paper. Una had nibbled at Shakespeare, Tennyson, Longfellow, and Vanity Fair in her high-school days, but none of these had satisfied her so deeply as did the serial’s hint of sex and husband. She was absorbed by it. Yet all the while she was irritably conscious of her mother’s cough—hacking, sore-sounding, throat-catching. Una was certain that this was merely one of the frequent imaginary ailments of her mother, who was capable of believing that she had cancer every time she was bitten by a mosquito. But this incessant crackling made Una jumpily anxious.

She reached these words in the serial: “I cannot forget, Amy, that whatever I am, my good old mother made me, with her untiring care and the gentle words she spoke to me when worried and harassed with doubt.”

Una threw down the paper, rushed into the bedroom, crouched beside her mother, crying, “Oh, my mother sweetheart! You’re just everything to me,” and kissed her forehead.

The forehead was damp and cold, like a cellar wall. Una sat bolt up in horror. Her mother’s face had a dusky flush, her lips were livid as clotted blood. Her arms were stiff, hard to the touch. Her breathing, rapid and agitated, like a frightened panting, was interrupted just then by a cough like the rattling of stiff, heavy paper, which left on her purple lips a little colorless liquid.

“Mother! Mother! My little mother—you’re sick, you’re really sick, and I didn’t know and I spoke so harshly. Oh, what is it, what is it, mother dear?”

“Bad—cold,” Mrs. Golden whispered. “I started coughing last night—I closed the door—you didn’t hear me; you were in the other room—” Another cough wheezed dismally, shook her, gurgled in her yellow deep-lined neck. “C-could I have—window closed now?”

“No. I’m going to be your nurse. Just an awfully cranky old nurse, and so scientific. And you must have fresh air.” Her voice broke. “Oh, and me sleeping away from you! I’ll never do it again. I don’t know what I would do if anything happened to you.... Do you feel any headache, dear?”

“No—not—not so much as— Side pains me—here.”

Mrs. Golden’s words labored like a steamer in heavy seas; the throbbing of her heart shook them like the throb of the engines. She put her hand to her right side, shakily, with effort. It lay there, yellow against the white muslin of her nightgown, then fell heavily to the bed, like a dead thing. Una trembled with fear as her mother continued, “My pulse—it’s so fast—so hard breathing—side pain.”

“I’ll put on an ice compress and then I’ll go and get a doctor.”

Mrs. Golden tried to sit up. “Oh no, no, no! Not a doctor! Not a doctor!” she croaked. “Doctor Smyth will be busy.”

“Well, I’ll have him come when he’s through.”

“Oh no, no, can’t afford—”

“Why—”

“And—they scare you so—he’d pretend I had pneumonia, like Sam’s sister—he’d frighten me so—I just have a summer cold. I—I’ll be all right to-morrow, deary. Oh no, no, please don’t, please don’t get a doctor. Can’t afford it—can’t—”

Pneumonia! At the word, which brought the sterile bitterness of winter into this fetid August room, Una was in a rigor of fear, yet galvanized with belief in her mother’s bravery. “My brave, brave little mother!” she thought.

Not till Una had promised that she would not summon the doctor was her mother quieted, though Una made the promise with reservations. She relieved the pain in her mother’s side with ice compresses—the ice chipped from the pitiful little cake in their tiny ice-box. She freshened pillows, she smoothed sheets; she made hot broth and bathed her mother’s shoulders with tepid water and rubbed her temples with menthol. But the fever increased, and at times Mrs. Golden broke through her shallow slumber with meaningless sentences, like the beginning of delirium.

At midnight she was panting more and more rapidly—three times as fast as normal breathing. She was sunk in a stupor. And Una, brooding by the bed, a crouched figure of mute tragedy in the low light, grew more and more apprehensive as her mother seemed to be borne away from her. Una started up. She would risk her mother’s displeasure and bring the doctor. Just then, even Doctor Smyth of the neighborhood practice and obstetrical habits seemed a miracle-worker.

She had to go four blocks to the nearest drug-store that would be open at this time of night, and there telephone the doctor.

She was aware that it was raining, for the fire-escape outside shone wet in the light from a window across the narrow court. She discovered she had left mackintosh and umbrella at the office. Stopping only to set out a clean towel, a spoon, and a glass on the chair by the bed, Una put on the old sweater which she secretly wore under her cheap thin jacket in winter. She lumbered wearily down-stairs. She prayed confusedly that God would give her back her headache and in reward make her mother well.

She was down-stairs at the heavy, grilled door. Rain was pouring. A light six stories up in the apartment-house across the street seemed infinitely distant and lonely, curtained from her by the rain. Water splashed in the street and gurgled in the gutters. It did not belong to the city as it would have belonged to brown woods or prairie. It was violent here, shocking and terrible. It took distinct effort for Una to wade out into it.

The modern city! Subway, asphalt, a wireless message winging overhead, and Una Golden, an office-woman in eye-glasses. Yet sickness and rain and night were abroad; and it was a clumsily wrapped peasant woman, bent-shouldered and heavily breathing, who trudged unprotected through the dark side-streets as though she were creeping along moorland paths. Her thought was dulled to everything but physical discomfort and the illness which menaced the beloved. Woman’s eternal agony for the sick of her family had transformed the trim smoothness of the office-woman’s face into wrinkles that were tragic and ruggedly beautiful.

Again Una climbed the endless stairs to her flat. She unconsciously counted the beat of the weary, regular rhythm which her feet made on the slate treads and the landings—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, landing, turn and—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven—over and over. At the foot of the last flight she suddenly believed that her mother needed her this instant. She broke the regular thumping rhythm of her climb, dashed up, cried out at the seconds wasted in unlocking the door. She tiptoed into the bedroom—and found her mother just as she had left her. In Una’s low groan of gladness there was all the world’s self-sacrifice, all the fidelity to a cause or to a love. But as she sat unmoving she came to feel that her mother was not there; her being was not in this wreck upon the bed.

In an hour the doctor soothed his way into the flat. He “was afraid there might be just a little touch of pneumonia.” With breezy fatherliness which inspirited Una, he spoke of the possible presence of pneumococcus, of doing magic things with Romer’s serum, of trusting in God, of the rain, of cold baths and digitalin. He patted Una’s head and cheerily promised to return at dawn. He yawned and smiled at himself. He looked as roundly, fuzzily sleepy as a bunny rabbit, but in the quiet, forlorn room of night and illness he radiated trust in himself. Una said to herself, “He certainly must know what he is talking about.”

She was sure that the danger was over. She did not go to bed, however. She sat stiffly in the bedroom and planned amusements for her mother. She would work harder, earn more money. They would move to a cottage in the suburbs, where they would have chickens and roses and a kitten, and her mother would find neighborly people again.

Five days after, late on a bright, cool afternoon, when all the flats about them were thinking of dinner, her mother died.

There was a certain madness in Una’s grief. Her agony was a big, simple, uncontrollable emotion, like the fanaticism of a crusader—alarming, it was, not to be reckoned with, and beautiful as a storm. Yet it was no more morbid than the little fits of rage with which a school-teacher relieves her cramped spirit. For the first time she had the excuse to exercise her full power of emotion.

Una evoked an image of her mother as one who had been altogether good, understanding, clever, and unfortunate. She regretted every moment she had spent away from her—remembered with scorn that she had planned to go to the theater the preceding Saturday, instead of sanctifying the time in the Nirvana of the beloved’s presence; repented with writhing agony having spoken harshly about neglected household duties.

She even contrived to find it a virtue in her mother that she had so often forgotten the daily tasks—her mind had been too fine for such things.... Una retraced their life. But she remembered everything only as one remembers under the sway of music.

“If I could just have another hour, just one hour with her, and feel her hands on my eyes again—”

On the night before the funeral she refused to let even Mrs. Sessions stay with her. She did not want to share her mother’s shadowy presence with any one.

She lay on the floor beside the bed where her mother was stately in death. It was her last chance to talk to her:

“Mother ... Mother ... Don’t you hear me? It’s Una calling. Can’t you answer me this one last time? Oh, mother, think, mother dear, I can’t ever hear your voice again if you don’t speak to me now.... Don’t you remember how we went home to Panama, our last vacation? Don’t you remember how happy we were down at the lake? Little mother, you haven’t forgotten, have you? Even if you don’t answer, you know I’m watching by you, don’t you? See, I’m kissing your hand. Oh, you did want me to sleep near you again, this last night— Oh, my God! oh, my God! the last night I shall ever spend with her, the very last, last night.”

All night long the thin voice came from the little white-clad figure so insignificant in the dimness, now lying motionless on the comforter she had spread beside the bed, and talking in a tone of ordinary conversation that was uncanny in this room of invisible whisperers; now leaping up to kiss the dead hand in a panic, lest it should already be gone.

The funeral filled the house with intruders. The drive to the cemetery was irritating. She wanted to leap out of the carriage. At first she concentrated on the cushion beside her till she thought of nothing in the world but the faded bottle-green upholstery, and a ridiculous drift of dust in the tufting. But some one was talking to her. (It was awkward Mr. Sessions, for shrewd Mrs. Sessions had the genius to keep still.) He kept stammering the most absurd platitudes about how happy her mother must be in a heaven regarding which he did not seem to have very recent or definite knowledge. She was annoyed, not comforted. She wanted to break away, to find her mother’s presence again in that sacred place where she had so recently lived and spoken.

Yet, when Una returned to the flat, something was gone. She tried to concentrate on thought about immortality. She found that she had absolutely no facts upon which to base her thought. The hundreds of good, sound, orthodox sermons she had heard gave her nothing but vague pictures of an eternal church supper somewhere in the clouds—nothing, blankly and terribly nothing, that answered her bewildered wonder as to what had become of the spirit which had been there and now was gone.

In the midst of her mingling of longing and doubt she realized that she was hungry, and she rather regretted having refused Mrs. Sessions’s invitation to dinner. She moved slowly about the kitchen.

The rheumatic old canary hobbled along the floor of his cage and tried to sing. At that Una wept, “She never will hear poor Dickie sing again.”

Instantly she remembered—as clearly as though she were actually listening to the voice and words—that her mother had burst out, “Drat that bird, it does seem as if every time I try to take a nap he just tries to wake me up.” Una laughed grimly. Hastily she reproved herself, “Oh, but mother didn’t mean—”

But in memory of that healthily vexed voice, it seemed less wicked to take notice of food, and after a reasonable dinner she put on her kimono and bedroom slippers, carefully arranged the pillows on the couch, and lay among them, meditating on her future.

For half an hour she was afire with an eager thought: “Why can’t I really make a success of business, now that I can entirely devote myself to it? There’s women—in real estate, and lawyers and magazine editors—some of them make ten thousand a year.”

So Una Golden ceased to live a small-town life in New York; so she became a genuine part of the world of offices; took thought and tried to conquer this new way of city-dwelling.

“Maybe I can find out if there’s anything in life—now—besides working for T. W. till I’m scrapped like an old machine,” she pondered. “How I hate letters about two-family houses in Flatbush!”

She dug her knuckles into her forehead in the effort to visualize the problem of the hopeless women in industry.

She was an Average Young Woman on a Job; she thought in terms of money and offices; yet she was one with all the men and women, young and old, who were creating a new age. She was nothing in herself, yet as the molecule of water belongs to the ocean, so Una Golden humbly belonged to the leaven who, however confusedly, were beginning to demand, “Why, since we have machinery, science, courage, need we go on tolerating war and poverty and caste and uncouthness, and all that sheer clumsiness?”

title: The Job (Lewis)/The City/Chapter 8


text: Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology/Urania 2.

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


text: Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology/Urania 3.


text: Template:Missing math formula

title: Template:Missing math formula


text: Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology/Pandemos


text: Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology/Venus


text:
Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology/Anchises

ANCHI'SES, a son of Capys and Themis, the daughter of Ilus. His descent is traced by Aeneas, his son (Hom. Il. xx. 208, &c.), from Zeus himself. (Comp. Apollod. iii. 12. § 2; Tzetz. ad Lycoph. 1232.) Hyginus (Fab. 94) makes him a son of Assaracus and grandson of Capys. Anchises was related to the royal house of Troy and king of Dardanus on mount Ida. In beauty he equalled the immortal gods, and was beloved by Aphrodite, by whom he became the father of Aeneas. (Hom. Il. ii. 820; Hes. Theog. 1008; Apollod. Hygin. ll. cc.) According to the Homeric hymn on Aphrodite (45, &c.), the goddess had visited him in the disguise of a daughter of the Phrygian king Otreus. On parting from him, she made herself known, and announced to him that he would be the father of a son, Aeneas, but she commanded him to give out that the child was a son of a nymph, and added the threat that Zeus would destroy him with a flash of lightning if he should ever betray the real mother. When, therefore, on one occasion Anchises lost controul over his tongue and boasted of his intercourse with the goddess, he was struck by a flash of lightning, which according to some traditions killed, but according to others only blinded or lamed him. (Hygin. l.c.; Serv. ad Aen. ii. 648.) Virgil in his Aeneid makes Anchises survive the capture of Troy, and Aeneas carries his father oil his shoulders from the burning city, that he might be assisted by his wise counsel during the voyage, for Virgil, after the example of Ennius, attributes prophetic powers to Anchises. (Aen. ii. 687, with Serv. note.) According to Virgil, Anchises died soon after the first arrival of Aeneas in Sicily, and was buried on mount Eryx. (Aen. iii. 710, v. 759, &c.) This tradition seems to have been firmly believed in Sicily, and not to have been merely an invention of the poet, for Dionysius of Halicarnassus (i. 53) states, that Anchises had a sanctuary at Egesta, and the funeral games celebrated in Sicily in honour of Anchises seem to have continued down to a late period. (Ov. Fast. iii. 543.) According to other traditions Anchises died and was buried in Italy. (Dionys. i. 64; Strab. v. p. 229; Aurel. Vict. De Orig. Gent. Rom. 10, &c.) A tradition preserved in Pausanias (viii. 12. § 5) states, that Anchises died in Arcadia, and was buried there by his son at the foot of a hill, which received from him the name of Anchisia. There were, however, some other places besides which boasted of possessing the tomb of Anchises; for some said, that he was buried on mount Ida, in accordance with the tradition that he was killed there by Zeus (Eustath. ad Hom. p. 894), and others, that he was interred in a place on the gulf of Thermus near the Hellespont. (Conon 46.) According to Apollodorus (iii. 12. § 2), Anchises had by Aphrodite a second son, Lyrus or Lyrnus, and Homer (Hom. Il. xiii. 429) calls Hippodameia the eldest of the daughters of Anchises, but does not mention her mother's name. An Anchises of Sicyon occurs in Il. xxiii. 296.


text:
Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology/Adonis

ADO'NIS, according to Apollodorus (iii. 14. § 3) a son of Cinyras and Medarme, according to Hesiod (ap. Apollod. iii. 14. § 4) a son of Phoenix and Alphesiboea, and according to the cyclic poet Panyasis (ap. Apollod. l.c.) a son of Theias, king of Assyria, who begot him by his own daughter Smyrna. (Myrrha.) The ancient story ran thus: Smyrna had neglected the worship of Aphrodite, and was punished by the goddess with an unnatural love for her father. With the assistance of her nurse she contrived to share her father's bed without being known to him. When he discovered the crime he wished to kill her; but she fled, and on being nearly overtaken, prayed to the gods to make her invisible. They were moved to pity and changed her into a tree called 🇬🇷. After the lapse of nine months the tree burst, and Adonis was born. Aphrodite was so much charmed with the beauty of the infant, that she concealed it in a chest which she entrusted to Persephone; but when the latter discovered the treasure she had in her keeping, she refused to give it up. The case was brought before Zeus, who decided the dispute by declaring that during four months of every year Adonis should be left to himself, during four months he should belong to Persephone, and during the remaining four to Aphrodite. Adonis however preferring to live with Aphrodite, also spent with her the four months over which he had control. Afterwards Adonis died of a wound which he received from a boar during the chase. Thus far the story of Adonis was related by Panyasis. Later writers furnish various alterations and additions to it. According to Hyginus (Hyg. Fab. 58, 164, 251, 271), Smyrna was punished with the love for her father, because her mother Cenchreis had provoked the anger of Aphrodite by extolling the beauty of her daughter above that of the goddess. Smyrna after the discovery of her crime fled into a forest, where she was changed into a tree from which Adonis came forth, when her father split it with his sword. The dispute between Aphrodite and Persephone was according to some accounts settled by Calliope, whom Zeus appointed as mediator between them. (Hygin. Poet. Astron. ii. 7.) Ovid (Met x. 300, &c.) adds the following features: Myrrha's love of her father was excited by the furies; Lucina assisted her when she gave birth to Adonis, and the Naiads anointed him with the tears of his mother, i. e. with the fluid which trickled from the tree. Adonis grew up a most beautiful youth, and Venus loved him and shared with him the pleasures of the chase, though she always cautioned him against the wild beasts. At last he wounded a boar which killed him in its fury. According to some traditions Ares (Mars), or, according to others, Apollo assumed the form of a boar and thus killed Adonis. (Serv. ad Virg. Ecl. x. 18; Ptolem. Hephaest. i. p. 306, ed. Gale.) A third story related that Dionysus carried off Adonis. (Phanocles ap. Plut. Sympos. iv. 5.) When Aphrodite was informed of her beloved being wounded, she hastened to the spot and sprinkled nectar into his blood, from which immediately flowers sprang up. Various other modifications of the story may be read in Hyginus (Poet. Astron. ii. 7), Theocritus (Idyll. xv.), Bion (Idyll. i.), and in the scholiast on Lycophron. (839, &c.) From the double marriage of Aphrodite with Ares and Adonissprang Priapus. (Schol. ad Apollon. Rhod. i. 9, 32.) Besides him Golgos and Beroe are likewise called children of Adonis and Aphrodite. (Schol. ad Theocrit. xv. 100; Nonni Dionys. xli 155.) On his death Adonis was obliged to descend into the lower world, but he was allowed to spend six months out of every year with his beloved Aphrodite in the upper world. (Orph. hymn. 55. 10.)

The worship of Adonis, which in later times was spread over nearly all the countries round the Mediterranean, was, as the story itself sufficiently indicates, of Asiatic, or more especially of Phoenician origin. (Lucian, de dea Syr. c. 6.) Thence it was transferred to Assyria, Egypt, Greece, and even to Italy, though of course with various modifications. In the Homeric poems no trace of it occurs, and the later Greek poets changed the original symbolic account of Adonis into a poetical story. In the Asiatic religions Aphrodite was the fructifying principle of nature, and Adonis appears to have reference to the death of nature in winter and its revival in spring—hence he spends six months in the lower and six in the upper world. His death and his return to life were celebrated in annual festivals (🇬🇷) at Byblos, Alexandria in Egypt, Athens, and other places.


text:
Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology/Butes 1.

BUTES. 1. A son of Boreas, a Thracian, was hostile towards his step-brother Lycurgus, and therefore compelled by his father to emigrate. He accordingly went with a band of colonists to the island of Strongyle, afterwards called Naxos. But as he and his companions had no women, they made predatory excursions, and also came to Thessaly, where they carried off the women who were just celebrating a festival of Dionysus. Butes himself took Coronis; but she invoked Dionysus, who struck Butes with madness, so that he threw himself into a well. (Diod. v. 50.)


text:
Page:Lindigo.djvu/18

18 made on the heart of his noble cousin, but without avail. His lordship was resolved on making amends, and, if possible, at all risks, to gain her affections. Many suggestions were accordingly proposed by both on their way back to the castle, for its consummation, but the following one, which was proposed by the experienced and gallant captain, was resolved on shortly after their arrival at the castle, after having consulted a servant regarding the present inhabitants of Kinlochlinn.

This servant informed them that the occupant of the farm and mansion on the north side, was a comfortable tenant named McKay, who had one son, eighteen years old, and a daughter, Isabella, fifteen, and very beautiful. The farm and mansion on the south side was occupied by Mr. Stuart, the factor of the estate, who had one son, eighteen years old, and now at Edinburgh University.

It must be remarked that this servant was not aware that Charlie Stuart had arrived the day before on his annual visit to his home at the vacation, and also forgot to mention that George McKay was in England; thus relieving his lordship of all apprehension that the young Highlander who had chastised him was the young maid's lover; he, therefore, with his cousin, had no doubt but the rash young man must be her brother; consequently, the captain's plan of proceedings was as follows:—First, in case the young couple might have told their father: and in order to bring about a reconciliation, that his lordship should invite him to the castle, and receive him favourably; then, in order to pave the way towards his daughter's affections, to offer him the agency or factorship of the estate in place of Mr. Stuart. Secondly, that his lordship should give a grand entertainment to all the tenantry on the estate at an early day, when all athletic games and feats pleasing to the Highlanders should be introduced, with suitable prizes to be contested for. And, in addition to these, other prizes for which gentlemen would contend, such as a steeplechase and a rifle match. In these last, the gallant captain argued that

title: Page:Lindigo.djvu/18


text:
Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology/Butes 2.

2. A son of Teleon and Zeuxippe. Others call his father Pandion or Amycus. He is renowned as an Athenian shepherd, ploughman, warrior, and an Argonaut. (Apollod. i. 9. §§ 16, 25, iii. 14. § 8, 15. § 1.) After the death of Pandion, he obtained the office of priest of Athena and the Erechtheian Poseidon. The Attic family of the Butadae or Etcobutadae derived their origin from him, and in the Erechtheum on the Acropolis there was an altar dedicated to Butes, and the walls were decorated with paintings representing scenes from the history of the family of the Butadae. (Paus. i. 26. § 6; Harpocrat., Etym. M., Hesych. s.v.; Orph. Arg. 138; Val. Flacc. i. 394; Hygin. Fab. 14.) The Argonaut Butes is also called a son of Poseidon (Eustath. ad Hom. xiii. 43); and it is said, that when the Argonauts passed by the Sirens, Orpheus commenced a song to counteract the influence of the Sirens, but that Butes alone leaped into the sea. Aphrodite, however, saved him, and carried him to Lilybaeum, where she became by him the mother of Eryx. (Apollod. i. 9. § 25; Serv. ad Aen. i. 574, v. 24.) Diodorus (iv. 83), on the other hand, regards this Butes as one of the native kings of Sicily.

There are at least four more mythical persons of this name, respecting whom nothing of interest can be said. (Ov. Met. vii. 500; Diod. v. 59; Virg. Aen. xi. 690, &c., ix. 646. &c.)


text: Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/15

title: Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/15


text:
Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/17

"! Dan! Come quick and see what I brought down with the gun!"

"Why, Ralph, was that you I heard shooting? I thought it was father."

"No; I was out, down by the river bank, and I brought down the finest deer you ever set eyes on. He was under the bunch of pecan-trees, and I let him have it straight in the neck and brought him down the first crack. Now what do you think of that?"

Ralph Radbury's rather delicate face was all aglow with excitement and pardonable pride, as he spoke, leaning on his father's gun, a long, old-fashioned affair that had been in the family's possession for many years. Ralph was but a boy of eight, although years of life in the open air had given him the appearance of being older.

title: Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/17


text:
Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/18

12 "What do I think?" cried Dan, who was Ralph's senior by six years. "I think you'll become a second Davy Crockett or Dan'l Boone if you keep on. It's a wonder the deer let you come so close. The wind is blowing toward the stream."

"I trailed around to the rocks where we had the tumble last winter, and then I came up as silently as a Comanche after a scalp. I was just about ready to fire when the deer took alarm, but I caught him when he raised his head, and all he gave was one leap and it was all over. Where is father? I must tell him." And Ralph looked around impatiently.

"I don't know where father is, if he isn't down by the river. I thought he went off to look up those hogs that got away last Saturday. In these times, so he says, we can't afford to lose six fat porkers."

"Perhaps those rushers who were on their way to Bexar rounded them up on the sly."

"No; father put the crowd down for honest men, and he rarely makes a mistake in judging a man, Ralph. Either the hogs got away by themselves or else some of those sneaking Comanches have been around again."

"Oh, Dan, that puts me in mind,—when I was up at the rocks I was almost certain I saw one of the Indians farther up the river. As soon as I

title: Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/18


text:
Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/19

Rh looked that way he dodged out of sight, so I only caught one glimpse of him if he really was an Indian."

At his younger brother's words, Dan Radbury's face took on a look of deep concern. "You are not real sure it was an Indian?" he questioned, after a pause.

"No, but I'm pretty sure, too. But even if it was an Indian it might have been Choctaw Tom, you know."

"You're wrong there, Ralph. All the Caddo Indians are friendly to the whites, and if it was Tom he wouldn't hide away after you had spotted him. More than likely it was a dirty Comanche, and if it was—well, we had better tell father about it, that's all."

"Why, you don't think—" Ralph paused, abruptly.

"I know a Comanche isn't to be trusted. Come, let us look at the deer, and let us try to find father at the same time. Is the gun loaded?"

"No." Ralph looked sheepish. "I—I was so pleased to bring down the deer I forgot all about loading again."

"Then you're not such a famous hunter, after all, Ralph. The wise man, especially in these parts, loads up before his gun-barrel has a chance to cool. Put in your load at once, and I'll bring along that Mexican escopeta father traded in for a

title: Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/19


text:
Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/20

14 mustang last week. I don't believe the old gun is of much account, but it will be better than nothing."

"Father wouldn't take it from the greaser if it wasn't all right. But why must we both be armed? Do you think the Indians are close by?"

"As I said before, I don't believe in trusting these bloodthirsty Comanches. Poke Stover knows them like a book, and he says they are just aching to go on the war-path, now the government is having so much trouble of its own."

"If the Indians are around it won't be safe to leave the cabin alone," was the younger boy's comment.

"I reckon we can leave it for awhile, Ralph. We won't be gone more than an hour, at the most," concluded Dan Radbury, as he disappeared into the cabin for the firearm he had mentioned.

The scene was that of a typical frontier home, in the heart of Texas, close to the Guadalupe River, and about ten miles from what was then the village of Gonzales. It was the year 1835, and the whole of northern and western Texas could truthfully be put down as a "howling wilderness," overrun with deer, bison, bears, and other wild animals, wild horses, and inhabited only by the savage and lawless Comanche, Apache, Cherokee, and numerous other tribes of Indians. As regards

title: Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/20


text:
Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/21

Rh the rest of the State, it may briefly be stated that this immense territory of thousands of square miles contained not over twenty-two thousand white and black people combined. How many Indians there were is not definitely known, but they have been estimated at fifteen to eighteen thousand. The main cities were San Antonio de Bexar, San Felipe de Austin, Nacogdoches, San Augustine, Columbia, and the seaport town of Velasco, but not one of these boasted of more than thirty-five hundred inhabitants.

To this territory had come, three years before, Amos Radbury, the father of the two lads introduced at the beginning of this chapter. The family were from Georgia, where Mr. Radbury had once owned a large interest in a tobacco plantation. But a disastrous flood had robbed him not only of the larger portion of his property, but also of his much beloved wife, and, almost broken-hearted, the planter had sold off his remaining interest in the plantation for five thousand dollars, and emigrated, first to New Orleans, and then to his present home. The trip from New Orleans had been made in a prairie wagon, drawn by a double yoke of oxen, and had consumed many weeks, and that trip over the prairies, through the almost trackless forests, and across numerous dangerous fords, was one which the boys were likely never to forget. On the way they had fallen in with a

title: Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/21


text:
Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/22

16 small band of treacherous Indians, but they had been saved by the timely arrival of some friendly Caddos, under the leadership of Canoma, a chief well known throughout the length and breadth of Texas.

On reaching the Guadalupe River, a stop of two weeks had been made at Gonzales, and then Mr. Radbury had obtained possession of a grant of land embracing over five hundred acres, the tract lying on both sides of the stream. The price paid for the land was ten cents per acre. This is not to be wondered at, since land in other portions of the State was sold as low as two cents per acre!

The three years spent in the wilderness had done wonders for all of the members of the family. The hard work of clearing off the timber, planting, and of building a cabin and a cattle shelter, had done much to make Mr. Radbury forget his grief over the loss of his wife and property, and the rough outdoor life had made Daniel Radbury "as tough as a pine-knot," as he was wont to say himself. It had likewise done much for little Ralph, who had been a thin and delicate lad of five when leaving the old home in the magnolia grove in far-off Georgia. Even yet Ralph was not as strong as Dan, but he was fast becoming so, much to his parent's satisfaction.

Amos Radbury's venture had prospered from the start. The land was rich and his crops were

title: Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/22


text:
Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/23

Rh consequently heavy, and no disease reached his cattle, which speedily grew to the number of several hundred heads. In addition to his beeves he had nearly a hundred hogs, and during the last year had taken to raising horses and mustangs, for the market at Bexar, as San Antonio was commonly called.

The raising of mustangs had been a source of much satisfaction to the boys, who speedily learned to ride so well that even the liveliest of the animals failed to shake one or the other off, although, of course, neither could do a thing when the beast got down and began to roll over.

"It's immense, to ride like the wind!" Dan would cry. "There is no better sport in the world! I don't wonder the Indians enjoy it so much."

"Yes, the Indians enjoy it, and they'll enjoy getting our mustangs, too, if we give them the chance," had been Mr. Radbury's reply. But so far only one mustang had been taken, and that by a Comanche half-breed named Hank Stiger. Stiger had been accused of the crime by Mr. Radbury, but had pleaded his innocence, and the pioneer had dropped the matter rather than have more trouble, since it was known that the half-breed and the Comanches in the neighbourhood were closely related in all their underhanded work. In those days it was no uncommon thing to hang

title: Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/23


text:
Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/24

18 a horse thief, but had this happened to Hank Stiger, it is likely that the Comanches under Bison Head, who had their hunting-grounds in the Cross Timbers, so-called, of the upper Colorado River, would have gone on the war-path immediately following.

title: Page:For the Liberty of Texas.djvu/24


text: For the Liberty of Texas

title: For the Liberty of Texas


text: For the Liberty of Texas/Chapter 1

title: For the Liberty of Texas/Chapter 1


text:
Page:Atharva-Veda samhita.djvu/398

v. 4-

5. Golden were the roads, the oars golden, the ships were golden by which they brought out the kúṣṭha.

6. This man of mine, O kúṣṭha—him bring, him relieve (nis-kṛ), him also make free from disease for me.

7. From the gods art thou born; of Soma art thou set as companion; do thou be gracious to my breath, out-breathing, sight here.

8. Born in the north from the snowy [mountain], thou art conducted to people (jána) in the eastern [quarter]; there have they shared out the highest names of the kúṣṭha.

9. Highest by name, O kúṣṭha, art thou; highest by name thy father; both do thou efface all yákṣma, and do thou make the fever sapless.

10. Head-disease, attack (? upahatyā́), evil of the eyes, of the body—all that may kúṣṭha relieve, verily a divine virility (vṛ́ṣṇya).

1. Night [is thy] mother, cloud (nábhas) [thy] father, Aryaman thy grandfather; silācī́, verily, by name art thou; thou art sister of the gods.

title: Page:Atharva-Veda samhita.djvu/398


text:
Page:Atharva-Veda samhita.djvu/399

229

2. He who drinketh thee liveth; thou rescuest a man (púruṣa); for thou art a sustainer (bhartrī́) of all, and a hiding-place (? nyáñcanī) of people.

3. Tree after tree thou climbest, like a lustful girl; conquering, standing by (? pratyā-sthā), winner (spáraṇī) verily by name art thou.

4. If (yát) by a staff, if by an arrow, or if by flame (? háras) a sore is made, of that thou art relief; relieve thou this man.

5. Out of the excellent plakṣá thou arisest, out of the açvatthá, the khadirá, the dhavá, the excellent banyan (nyagródha), the parṇá; do thou come to us, O arundhatī́.

6. Thou gold-colored, fortunate, sun-colored one, of most wondrous forms; mayest thou go to the hurt (? rutá), O relief; relief, verily, by name art thou.

7. Thou gold-colored, fortunate, vehement (? çúṣmā), hairy-bellied one—sister of the waters art thou, O lākṣā; the wind was thy soul.

8. Silācī́ by name—thy father, O goat-brown one, is a maid's son; Yama's horse that is dark brown (çyāvá)—with its mouth (? blood ?) art thou sprinkled.

9. Fallen from the horse's mouth, she invaded the trees; having become a winged brook (? sarā́), do thou come to us, O arundhatī́.

title: Page:Atharva-Veda samhita.djvu/399


text: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book V/Hymn 4

title: Atharva-Veda Samhita/Book V/Hymn 4


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Chambers, Ephraim


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


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Chambers, John (1780-1839)


text: User talk:41.215.85.62

title: User talk:41.215.85.62


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


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


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Chambers, Richard


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Chambers, Robert (1571-1624?)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Chambers, Robert (1737-1803)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Chambers, Robert (1802-1871)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Chambers, Sabine


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Chambers, William (1726-1796)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Chambers, William (1800-1883)


text:
Author:Julia Frankau

Works

 * The Story Behind the Verdict (1915; sl. in Harper's magazine 1914)
 * Twilight (1916)
 * cowrote The Fate of Fenella (1892)

 * Dr. Phillips: a Maida Vale Idyll (1887)
 * A Babe in Bohemia (1889)
 * The Copper Crash (1889)
 * Eighteenth Century Colour Prints: An Essay on Certain Stipple Engravers & Their Work in Colour (1900)
 * John Raphael Smith 1752-1812: His Life and Works (1902)
 * Pigs in Clover (1903)
 * Eighteenth Century Artists and Engravers: William Ward ARA, James Ward RA (1904) - published in her real name
 * Baccarat (1904)
 * The Sphinx's Lawyer (1906)
 * A Coquette in Crape (1907)
 * The Heart of a Child (1908)
 * An Incompleat Etonian (1909)
 * Sebastian (1909)
 * The Story of Emma, Lady Hamilton (1910)
 * Let the Roof Fall In (1910)
 * Joseph in Jeopardy (1912)
 * Full Swing (1914)
 * Mothers and Children (1918)

title: Author:Julia Frankau


text: Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology/Hermes 1.


text: Dictionary of Greek and Roman Biography and Mythology/Hermes 2.


text:
Executive Order 1299

By virtue of the power vested in me by the provisions of article 3 of the treaty of August 21, 1847 (9 Stat. L., 908), it is hereby ordered that the country ceded by the provisions of said treaty shall no longer be held by the United States as Indian land.

., February 16, 1911.

title: Executive Order 1299


text: Talk:Executive Order 1299

title: Talk:Executive Order 1299


text:
Executive Order 1300

By virtue of the power vested in me by the provisions of article 7 of the treaty of October 2, 1863 (13 Stat. L., 667), it is hereby ordered that the provisions of said article 7 of said treaty shall not hereafter apply to or be of any force or effect throughout the territory ceded to the United States by said treaty, except in that portion lying east of the 6th guide meridian; and said article 7 of said treaty shall continue to be in full force and effect throughout the territory excepted from the operations of this order until otherwise directed by Congress or the President of the United States.

., February 16, 1911.

title: Executive Order 1300


text: Talk:Executive Order 1300

title: Talk:Executive Order 1300


text:
Executive Order 1301

By virtue of the power vested in me by the provisions of article 7 of the treaty of September 30, 1854 (10 Stat. L., 1109), it is hereby ordered that the provisions of article 7 of said treaty shall not hereafter apply to nor be of any force or effect throughout the territory ceded by said treaty to the United States except in that portion of said territory described as follows:

Beginning at a point where the line between townships 45 and 46 north intersects the line between ranges 15 and 16 west of the 4th principal meridian; thence north along said line to the northeast corner of township 53 north, range 16 west; thence west along the line between townships 53 and 54 north to the point where it intersects the western boundary established by said treaty of September 30, 1854; thence following the said treaty line in a southwesterly direction to the point where it intersects the line between townships 45 and 46 north; thence due east along said line to the point of beginning; and all that portion of the State of Minnesota which lies east of the 4th principal meridian; and the provisions of said article 7 of said treaty shall continue to be in full force and effect within the territory excepted from operation of this order until otherwise ordered by the President.

., February 16, 1911.

title: Executive Order 1301


text: Talk:Executive Order 1301

title: Talk:Executive Order 1301


text:
Executive Order 1302

By virtue of the power vested in me by the provisions of article 5 of the treaty of July 23, 1851 (10 Stat. L., 949), it is hereby ordered that the provisions of said article five of said treaty shall not hereafter apply to nor be of any force or effect throughout the territory ceded by said treaty to the United States and lying in the State of Minnesota with the exception of those portions of said territory described as follows:

Beginning at a point where the line between townships 129 and 130 north crosses the Boise de Sioux River; thence east along said line to the northeast corner of township 129 north, range 45 west; thence south along said range line to the northeast corner of township 122 north, range 45 west; thence east to the northeast corner of township 122 north, range 44 west; thence south along said range line to the point where it intersects the line established by said treaty of July 23, 1851; thence in a northwesterly direction along the said treaty line to the point where it touches Lake Traverse; thence north along said lake to the mouth of the Boise de Sioux River; thence up said river to the point of beginning;

And the provisions of said article five of said treaty shall continue to be in full force and effect in the territory above specified and excepted from the operation of this order until otherwise directed by Congress or the President of the United States.

., February 16, 1911.

title: Executive Order 1302


text: Talk:Executive Order 1302

title: Talk:Executive Order 1302


text:
Executive Order 1324½

It is hereby ordered that the following lands be, and the same are hereby, withdrawn from settlement, location, sale, or entry and reserved for public purposes, to wit, to enable Congress to consider legislation providing for the use of medicinal springs in the public lands in the district of Alaska, subject to all the provisions, limitations, exceptions, and conditions contained in the act of Congress entitled "An act to authorize the President of the United States to make withdrawals of public lands in certain cases," approved June 25, 1910.

All tracts of public lands in the District of Alaska upon which hot springs or other springs the waters of which possess curative properties are located to the extent of 160 acres surrounding each spring in rectangular form, with side and end lines equidistant, as near as may be, from such spring or group of springs.

., March 28, 1911.

title: Executive Order 1324½


text: Talk:Executive Order 1324½

title: Talk:Executive Order 1324½


text: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter I

title: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter I


text: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter II

title: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter II


text: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter III

title: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter III


text: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter IV

title: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter IV


text: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter V

title: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter V


text: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter VI

title: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter VI


text: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter VII

title: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter VII


text: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter VIII

title: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter VIII


text: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter IX

title: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter IX


text: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter X

title: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter X


text: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter XI

title: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter XI


text: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter XII

title: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter XII


text: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter XIII

title: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter XIII


text: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter XIV

title: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter XIV


text: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter XV

title: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter XV


text: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter XVI

title: Twilight (Frankau)/Chapter XVI


text:
Executive Order 1347

It is hereby ordered that the following-described tract of land situate at Valdez, on the easterly shore of Valdez Bay, District of Alaska, be reserved, subject to private rights, for a cable-landing reservation, at Valdez, Alaska, in connection with the operation and maintenance of the United States military telegraph and cable lines in Alaska.

Beginning at a point on the southwesterly side of cable reservation No. 2, as shown on blue print of a map prepared by Capt. B. O. Lenoir, Signal Corps, United States Army, February 25, 1911, said point being 50 feet 2.88 inches from the junction of said southwest side with Reservation Avenue and 25 feet from the west corner of said cable reservation No. 2; thence in a straight line to a point on the northeast side of the old Von Gunther Building, now occupied by Charles Crawford as a planing mill, 63 feet 6 inches from its junction with the dock, and 25 feet from the north corner of the extension appended to the rear of the planing mill; thence directly to extreme low tide in a line parallel with the dock and distant therefrom 75 feet; thence along the edge of extreme low water 90° to a point 75 feet distant; thence 90° returning parallel with the dock, at a distance therefrom of 150 feet, to a point 50 feet from the west corner of Crawford's planing mill, and in prolongation of the southwest side of this planing mill (said point being 138 feet 6 inches from the junction of the southwest side of this building with the dock; said west corner of building includes the extension on rear of building and as the extension would exist if continued uniformly across the rear of building); thence in a straight line to the west corner of cable reservation No. 2; thence along the southwest side of cable reservation No. 2 to the place or point of beginning. Said cable landing reservation being 25 feet wide at its northeast end, which abuts on cable reservation No. 2. The south boundary of cable landing reservation crosses the southwest line of Front Street, 77 feet 2 inches from the junction of the southwest line of Front Street with the dock. The north boundary of cable landing reservation crosses the southwest line of Front Street 48 feet 3 inches distant from the crossing of the south boundary. The width of the cable landing reservation at this point is 48 feet 3 inches. The width of the cable landing reservation at and from the southwest side of the old Von Gunther Building, or Crawford's planing mill, and its prolongation to extreme low water being 75 feet and parallel to the dock. Its southeast or nearest side being distant from the dock 75 feet.

., May 6, 1911.

title: Executive Order 1347


text: Talk:Executive Order 1347

title: Talk:Executive Order 1347


text: Twilight (Frankau)

title: Twilight (Frankau)


text: Translation:Constitution of the Kingdom of Thailand (Interim), 2549 Buddhist Era


text:
Executive Order 1361

It is hereby ordered that the following-described portion of the military reservation at Valdez, Alaska, known as cable reservation No. 2, lying southwesterly of McKinley Street and northwesterly of Reservation Avenue, being one of the reservations made for military purposes by Executive Order dated June 30, 1904 (G. O. No. 166, War Department, Washington, Oct. 20, 1904), be, and the same is hereby, withdrawn from reservation and placed under the control of the Secretary of the Interior, under the provisions of the act of July 5, 1884 (23 Stat L., 103), the same having become useless for military purposes, for disposition under said act or as may be otherwise provided by law, with a view to incorporating the same in the street system of the town of Valdez, Alaska, viz:

Beginning on the northwesterly side of Reservation Avenue, at a point 137 feet 7.92 Inches from the southwesterly side of McKinley Street; thence and 28° 33′ W., parallel with the southwesterly side of said McKinley Street, 75 feet 2.88 inches to the northwesterly side of the said reservation; thence S. 61° 27′ W., 44 feet 6 inches to the westerly comer of the said reservation; thence S. 28° 33′ E., with the southwesterly side of the reservation to Reservation Avenue; thence with reservation Avenue N. 61° 27′ E., 44 feet 6 inches, to the point of beginning.

., May 26, 1911.

title: Executive Order 1361


text: Talk:Executive Order 1361

title: Talk:Executive Order 1361


text: Translation talk:Constitution of the Kingdom of Thailand (Interim), 2549 Buddhist Era


text:
Executive Order 1423

It is hereby ordered that the military reservation established at Nulato, Alaska, approximately in latitude 64° 42′ N., and longitude 158° W., as reserved by Executive order dated May 4, 1908 (G. O. No. 90, War Department, May 23, 1908), be, and the same hereby is, enlarged so as to reserve from sale or other disposition, subject to private rights, if any there be, and set apart as a military reservation for the use of the Signal Corps, United States Army, in the matter of the maintenance of telegraphic communication in Alaska, all lands and those only included within metes and bounds described as follows:

Beginning at corner No. 1, marked by an iron-pipe monument about 2$3/8$ inches in diameter, being centered by a tack by means of a wooden plug, and placed at the intersection of the east line of the St. Peter Claver Mission and the bank of the Yukon River; thence N. 25° 30′ W. 1,780 feet, following the east boundary line of the said mission to corner No. 2, marked by a monument of the same description as said monument at corner No. 1; thence N. 64° 30′ E. 970 feet to corner No. 3, marked by a monument of the same description as said monument at corner No. 1; thence S. 25° 30′ E. 1,340 feet to corner No. 4, marked with a monument of the same description as said monument at corner No. 1; thence S. 64° 30′ W. 850 feet to corner No. 5, marked with a monument of the same description as said monument at corner No. 1; thence S. 25° 30′ E. 450 feet to corner No. 6, marked with a monument of the same description as said monument at corner No. 1; thence S. 64° 30′ W. 108 feet, following the meanderings of the bank of the Yukon River to corner No. 1, the point of beginning; containing an area of 30.7 acres, more or less. All courses are referred to the true meridian.

This reservation as herein made includes the whole reservation of Nulato, declared by said Executive order of May 4, 1908, as staked on the ground, the bearings of the several boundaries being erroneously described in said Executive order.

., October 24, 1911.

title: Executive Order 1423


text: Talk:Executive Order 1423

title: Talk:Executive Order 1423


text:
Executive Order 1438

Under authority of the act of Congress approved July 5, 1884, entitled "An act to provide for the disposal of abandoned and useless military reservations" (23 Stat. L., 103), that portion of the right of way for military telegraph lines in Alaska reserved by Executive order dated May 24, 1905 (G. O. No. 83. War Department, June 5, 1905), which is located between Hot Springs and Fort Gibbon, Alaska, is hereby placed under the control of the Secretary of the Interior for disposition under said act of Congress, or as may be otherwise provided by law.

., November 23, 1911.

title: Executive Order 1438


text: Talk:Executive Order 1438

title: Talk:Executive Order 1438


text: Page:Schools of Charles the Great.djvu/18


text:
Page:Dictionary of National Biography volume 33.djvu/386

 and gave lessons in drawing to some of the royal children. While at Windsor he was much employed in painting portraits of young Etonians, generally small whole-lengths, and an interesting picture by him of ‘Eton Boys going to Montem’ is in the possession of the college, to which it was presented by the Duke of Newcastle in 1891. In 1796, having been appointed drawing-master to the Royal Naval College at Portsmouth, Livesay removed to Portsea; there he painted some of the English warships and their French prizes, and in 1800 published a set of four plates of the reviews of the Isle of Wight volunteers, aquatinted by Wells. On an address card which he issued at that time he described himself as ‘Portrait, Landscape, and Marine Painter, Drawing-Master to the Royal Academy, Portsmouth, 61 Hanover Street, Portsea.’ Livesay painted a large picture of the review of the Hertfordshire volunteers by the king in Hatfield Park, 13 June 1800, which was engraved by J. C. Stadler, and now hangs in Lord Salisbury's town house, 20 Arlington Street. Livesay was an exhibitor at the Royal Academy of portraits and domestic subjects up to 1821; his ‘Genius and Industry,’ ‘Cottage Spinsters,’ and ‘Young Foresters’ were mezzotinted by G. Dawe and J. Murphy, and his portraits of Queen Charlotte, Dr. Willis, George Byng, M.P., Dr. Fothergill, Sir Thomas Louis, bart., and others, have been engraved. His portrait of the Earl of Charlemont is in the National Portrait Gallery. Livesay is said to have died at Southsea about 1823, but the fact is not recorded in the burial registers of Portsmouth or Portsea.

LIVESEY, JAMES (1625?–1682), divine, was born about 1625 (he describes himself as having completed his fifty-second year on 6 April 1677). He was appointed minister of Turton, near Bolton in Lancashire, in 1650, but in 1651 removed to Atherton or Chowbent in the adjoining parish of Leigh. He remained there till 1657, when he was presented by the dean and chapter of Christ Church, Oxford, to the vicarage of Great Budworth, Cheshire. His name is omitted from the list of the vicars of Great Budworth, given in Ormerod's ‘History of Cheshire,’ both old and new editions, and he is also said in other publications to have been ejected thence in 1662, but to have continued to live in the parish. This is inaccurate, as he held that important vicarage till his death in February 1681–2. He married, about 1652, Elizabeth, daughter of George Chetham of Turton Tower (brother of Humphrey Chetham [q. v.] of Manchester), by whom he had a large family. His works, three in number, now all of great rarity, show him to have been a man of good scholastic attainments, thoroughly familiar with Latin and Greek writers, whom he quotes freely. He is described as A.M. on the title of his last work, but not on the earlier ones. His name, however, is not to be found either at Oxford or Cambridge, although he held a Christ Church living.

His publications are: 1. ‘Enchiridion Judicum … a Sermon before the Judges … at Lancaster, March 26, 1655, together with Catastrophe Magnatum … a Sermon … at the Funeral of … John Atherton of Atherton, Esq. …,’ London, 1657. At the end of this volume are a number of verses on John Atherton's death in English and Latin, by him and others, and a short treatise by him in Latin, ‘Series Decretorum Dei,’ &c., dedicated to two well-known Lancashire clergymen. 2. ‘Ψυχησήμια, or The greatest Loss … a short Discourse occasioned by the … loss of … Mr. Humphrey Chetham, who died at Turton Tower, Feb. 13 1658–9 …,’ London, 1660. 3. ‘Πνευματοπολογία, or an Apology for the Power and Liberty of the Spirit … in three Sermons preacht at Great Budworth …,’ London, 1674.

[Martindale's Autobiog. (Chetham Soc.), p. 220 n.; Nonconformity in Cheshire, p. 401 (both inaccurate); Great Budworth registers, wills, copies of his works, &c.]  LIVESEY, JOSEPH (1794–1884), temperance advocate and philanthropist, born on 5 March 1794 at Walton, near Preston, Lancashire, lost both his parents at the age of seven, and was brought up as a weaver by his grandfather, Joseph Livesey. The hardships of his early life continued till after his marriage in 1815 with Jane Williams, when he removed to Preston, and abandoned his trade of weaving for the business of a cheese-factor. This calling he pursued successfully in Preston until his death. He engaged energetically in municipal politics, filled many public posts, and was a leader in every kind of philanthropic effort, specially identifying himself with the teetotal movement. He died on 2 Sept. 1884, leaving a large family.

From January 1831 to December 1833 Livesey brought out ‘The Moral Reformer,’ a monthly magazine, price 6d., in which he


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Livesey, James


text:
Page talk:Kohs-Block-Design tests-1920.pdf/16

What was the "problem" associated with proofreading this page? -- Thekohser (talk) 17:22, 1 June 2012 (UTC)
 * The table columns need aligning. Beeswaxcandle (talk) 21:04, 1 June 2012 (UTC)


text:
Page:Lindigo.djvu/19

Rh his lordship would signalize himself, (being one of the most accomplished in England), that his name would be raised in the estimation of all present, particularly the fair sex, and the coy Miss McKay above all. The whole to conclude with a grand ball, when all the beauty and youth on the estate would attend.

This grand and elaborate programme put forth by the honorable and gallant captain, found favour in his lordship's eyes, although they were principally suggested or framed to satisfy the appetite of the proposer, who, himself, was a great celebrity in these sports and amusements; especially where the fair ones were concerned.

According to the above arrangements, John Brown, his lordship's valet, was dispatched next day to Kinlochlinn, with a note to Mr. McKay.

As this messenger will figure on several occasions through our tale, we will give the reader a glimpse of his character.

Mr. Brown was a thorough cockney, and passionately fond of fine clothes and airs, and above all to make a himpression on wirgins (as he termed them). When not in his noble master's presence, he affected more airs than that distinguished personage, and was often mistaken for him by strangers, a circumstance which greatly flattered the valet's vanity. Being now for the first time among the hignorant Eelanders, he resolved on creating a sensation among them, or, in his own words, hastonish the natives, and captivate the hearts of the lassies. While he is, however, riding towards his destination, we shall introduce another couple, who will be useful to our tale hereafter.

The first of these is Donald Munroe, Charlie Stuart's body servant and foster-brother. His father, old Munroe, had been a piper in Mr. Stuart's family, until his son grew up, and was initiated in that accomplishment. Donald was only six months older than Charlie, and a very active and good-looking young man.

Having very little to do, especially when his young master was in college, Donald passed most of his time in shooting, fishing, and looking after the game and forests with his father, and occasionally playing pibroch.

title: Page:Lindigo.djvu/19


text:
Page:Lindigo.djvu/20

20 Being of a very lively and amusing disposition, he took great pleasure in inventing tales and fabricating innocent anecdotes, to gull the most simple and ignorant among the small cotters on the Lochlinn estate.

Among the most conspicuous of his victims and dupes were some half-dozen small cotters, living in a wild and unfrequented point, or rue, at the south entrance of Lochlinn. This solitary spot was rendered almost inaccessible by land, by a barrier of cliffs which separated it from the main, and through facing the Atlantic was liable to strong westerly gales, from which it derived the singular name in Gaelic of Ton-ghaoi (or Windy-Bottom). The inhabitants of this sequestered point were, as already mentioned, owing to their seldom mixing or associating with the outer world, yet ignorant of many enlightened and modern facts regarding the construction of the globe and firmament. In short, they believed the earth to be a flat or plainplane [sic] surface, bordered or capped over with the firmament, which was composed of some clear substance, through which the sun, moon, and stars travelled.

The winter before the opening of our tale having been unusually wet and stormy, Donald Munroe had little to occupy him, he therefore bethought himself of visiting Ton Ghaoi for Otter-hunting, and also to give these simple people a taste of his pibroch, of which they were passionately fond.

On leaving, his father commissioned him to tell the Ton Ghaoi people that the factor's (Mr. Stuart's) boats were in need of repair for conveying seaweed for manure in the spring; they required oakum for that purpose, and as these people were always supplied with that article from pieces of cable cast on their wild coast from wrecks, that he (the factor) would thank them for sending him some.

On arriving among these simple people, Donald gave them a hearty taste of his music (all having gathered round him in the house he lodged at for the night), and danced to their hearts' content to the sound of his lively reels.

After this the piper was besieged and pressed on to open his budget of news concerning the outer world, and

title: Page:Lindigo.djvu/20


text: Translation:Interim Constitution for National Administration of Siam Act, 2475 Buddhist Era


text: Translation talk:Interim Constitution for National Administration of Siam Act, 2475 Buddhist Era


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Cabanel, Rudolph


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Cabbell, Benjamin Bond


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Cabot, Sebastian


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Caddick, Richard


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Cade, John (d.1450)


text:
Page:Elementary Chinese - San Tzu Ching (1900).djvu/68

 Mêng is composed of 艸 ts'ao vegetation and an important phonetic. It was originally defined as 王女 wang nü prince's daughter, a name for wistaria, and came to mean in the dark, dull, stupid, the young, and then to teach. [Père Zottoli wrongly renders by "Quicumque instruit rudes." For Eitel, see .]

Hsü is composed of 頁 yeh head as radical and 彡 shan hair, feathers. It was formerly a radical and a picture of whiskers or beard, which was its original meaning; hence the modern 鬚 hsü a beard. It appears to have been phonetically borrowed to express a word hsü to want, need, etc., and has now given up its sense of hair on the face to the more complicated modern character. Is often incorrectly written 湏.

Chiang is composed of 言 yen words with a phonetic which governs a larger group of characters pronounced like itself kou.

Chiu is composed of 穴 hsüeh a cave as radical with 九 chiu nine as phonetic. It is also used in the sense of judicial examination. [The phrase chiang chiu further means to analyse; to reject the coarse and take the fine; to be particular about, etc.]

Hsiang is composed of 言 yen words as radical and 羊 yang sheep as phonetic. It means to go into small details, to describe.

Hsün see.

Ku is composed of 言 yen words as radical and 古 ku ancient (see ) as phonetic. It means to trace out original sources; hence, to adduce evidence in support of an interpretation, etc.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Cade, John (1734-1806)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Cade, Laurence


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Cade, Salusbury


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Cadell (d.909)


text:
Page:Elementary Chinese - San Tzu Ching (1900).djvu/69

Ming is an ideogram formed by juxtaposition of 日 jih the sun, its modern radical, and 月 yüeh the moon, and means bright.

Chü was originally composed of 口 k'ou mouth and 丩 chiu to connect as phonetic, and meant crooked. It was pronounced chü and kou, for the latter sound 勾 being substituted later on, with diverging meanings. It is now classed under radical 勹.

Tou is more commonly to read, to study. See. [To mark off the proper paragraphs and sentences is one of the functions of a teacher in China, all punctuation being usually omitted from classical works such as the Canon. Eitel has a strange rendering of the above four lines. "Now in all cases, when instruction is given to the ignorant, Although it is well to explain characters orally and exhaustively, Yet, detailed moral instruction in the sayings of the ancients is just as necessary as precision regarding syntactic punctuation."]

Wei see.

Hsüeh see.

Chê see.

Pi is composed of 八 pa to divide, its old radical, and 弋 i a sharpened stake, to shoot with a bow, as phonetic. It


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Cadell (d.943)


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Cadell (d.1175)


text:
Page:EB1911 - Volume 01.djvu/1007

 ANDALUSIA, or, a captaincy-general, and formerly a province, of southern Spain; bounded on the N. by Estremadura and New Castile, E. by Murcia and the Mediterranean Sea, S. by the Mediterranean and Atlantic, and W. by Portugal. Pop. (1900) 3,563,606; area, 33,777 sq. m. Andalusia was divided in 1833 into the eight provinces of Almería, Cadiz, Cordova, Granada, Jaén, Huelva, Malaga and Seville, which are described in separate articles. Its ancient name, though no longer used officially, except to designate a military district, has not been superseded in popular speech by the names of the eight modern divisions.

Andalusia consists of a great plain, the valley of the Guadalquivir, shut in by mountain ranges on every side except the S.W., where it descends to the Atlantic. This lowland, which is known as Andalucia Baja, or Lower Andalusia, resembles the valley of the Ebro in its slight elevation above sea-level (300-400 ft.), and in the number of brackish lakes or fens, and waste lands (despoblados) impregnated with salt, which seem to indicate that the whole surface was covered by the sea at no distant geological date. The barren tracts are, however, exceptional and a far larger area is richly fertile. Some districts, indeed, such as the Vega of Granada, are famous for the luxuriance of their vegetation. The (q.v.) rises among the mountains of Jaén and flows in a south-westerly direction to the Gulf of Cadiz, receiving many considerable tributaries on its way. On the north, its valley is bounded by the wild Sierra Morena; on the south, by the mountains of the Mediterranean littoral, among which the (q.v.), with its peaks of Mulhacen (11,421 ft.) and Veleta (11,148 ft.), is the most conspicuous. These highlands, with the mountains of Jaén and Almería on the east, constitute Andalucia Alta or Upper Andalusia.

No part of Spain has greater natural riches. The sherry produced near Jeréz de la Frontera, the copper of the Rio Tinto mines and the lead of Almería are famous. But the most noteworthy characteristics of the province are, perhaps, the brilliancy of its climate, the beauty of its scenery (which ranges in character from the alpine to the tropical), and the interest of its art and antiquities. The climate necessarily varies widely with the altitude. Some of the higher mountains are covered with perpetual snow, a luxury which is highly prized by the inhabitants of the valleys, where the summer is usually extremely hot, and in winter the snow falls only to melt when it reaches the ground. Here the more common European plants and trees give place to the wild olive, the caper bush, the aloe, the cactus, the evergreen oak, the orange, the lemon, the palm and other productions of a tropical climate. On the coasts of the Mediterranean about Marbella and Malaga, the sugar-cane is successfully cultivated. Silk is produced in the same region. Agriculture is in a very backward state and the implements used are most primitive. The chief towns are Seville (pop. 1900, 148,315), which may be regarded as the capital, Malaga (130,109), Granada (75,900), Cadiz (69,382), Jeréz de la Frontera (63,473), Cordova (58,275) and Almería (47,326).

Andalusia has never been, like Castile or Aragon, a separate kingdom. Its history is largely a record of commercial and artistic development. The Guadalquivir valley is often, in part at least, identified with the biblical Tarshish and the classical Tartessus, a famous Phoenician mart. The port of Agadir or Gaddir, now Cadiz, was founded as early as 1100 Later Carthaginian invaders came from their advanced settlements in the Balearic Islands, about 516  Greek merchants also visited the coasts. The products of the interior were conveyed by the native Iberians to the maritime colonies, such as Abdera (Adra), Calpe (Gibraltar) or Malaca (Malaga), founded by the foreign merchants. The Punic wars transferred the supreme power from Carthage to Rome, and Latin civilization was established firmly when, in 27, Andalusia became the Roman province of Baetica—so called after its great waterway, the Baetis (Guadalquivir). In the 5th century the province was overrun by successive invaders—Vandals, Suevi and Visigoths—from the first of whom it may possibly derive its name. The forms Vandalusia and Vandalitia are undoubtedly ancient; many authorities, however, maintain that the name is derived from the Moorish Andalus or Andalosh, “Land of the West”. The Moors first entered the province in 711, and only in 1492 was their power finally broken by the capture of Granada. Their four Andalusian kingdoms, Seville, Jaén, Cordova and Granada, developed a civilization unsurpassed at the time in Europe. An extensive literature, scientific, philosophical and historical, with four world-famous buildings—the Giralda and Alcázar of Seville, the Mezquita or cathedral of Cordova and the Alhambra at Granada—are its chief monuments. In the 16th and 17th centuries, painting replaced architecture as the distinctive art of Andalusia; and many of the foremost Spanish painters, including Velazquez and Murillo, were natives of this province.

Centuries of alien domination have left their mark upon the character and appearance of the Andalusians, a mixed race, who contrast strongly with the true Spaniards and possess many oriental traits. It is impossible to estimate the influence of the elder conquerors, Greek, Carthaginian and Roman; but there are clear traces of Moorish blood, with a less well-defined Jewish and gipsy strain. The men are tall, handsome and well-made, and the women are among the most beautiful in Spain; while the dark complexion and hair of both sexes, and their peculiar dialect of Spanish, so distasteful to pure Castilians, are indisputable evidence of Moorish descent. Their music, dances and many customs, come from the East. In general, the people are lively, good-humoured and ready-witted, fond of pleasure, lazy and extremely superstitious. In the literature and drama of his country, the Andalusian is traditionally represented as the Gascon of Spain, ever boastful and mercurial; or else as a picaresque hero, bull-fighter, brigand or smuggler. Andalusia is still famous for its bull-fighters; and every outlying hamlet has its legends of highwaymen and contraband.

ANDALUSITE, a mineral with the same chemical composition as cyanite and sillimanite, being a basic aluminium silicate, Al2SiO5. As in sillimanite, its crystalline form is referable to the orthorhombic system. Crystals of andalusite have the form of almost square prisms, the prism-angle being 89° 12′; they are terminated by a basal plane and sometimes by small dome-faces. As a rule the crystals are roughly developed and rude columnar masses are common, these being frequently altered partially to kaolin or mica. Such crystals, opaque, and of a greyish or brownish colour, occur abundantly in the mica-schist of the Lisens Alp near Innsbruck in Tirol, while the first noted of the many localities of the mineral is in Andalusia, from which place the mineral derives its name. The unaltered mineral is found as transparent pebbles with topaz in the gem-gravels of the Minas Novas district, in Minas Geraes, Brazil. These pebbles are usually green but sometimes reddish-brown in colour, and are remarkable for their very strong dichroism, the same pebble appearing green or reddish-brown according to the direction in which it is viewed. Such specimens make very effective gem-stones, the degree of hardness of the mineral (H.＝7) being quite sufficient for this purpose. Its specific gravity is 3·18; it is unattacked by acids and is infusible before the blowpipe. Andalusite is typically a mineral of metamorphic origin, occurring most frequently in altered clay-slates and crystalline schists, near the junction of these with masses of intrusive igneous rocks such as

title: Page:EB1911 - Volume 01.djvu/1007


text:
Page:Elementary Chinese - San Tzu Ching (1900).djvu/70

 originally meant division to the uttermost limit, from which it is possible to obtain a glimmering of the modern sense of necessity.

Yu see.

Ch'u see.

Hsiao is said to be composed of 八 pa to divide, with a vertical line in the middle representing unity ; hence, minute.

Hsüeh see.

Chung is composed of 系 ssŭ silk as radical and 冬 tung winter (lines, ) as phonetic. It was originally written without the radical silk; in other words, tung winter, the end of the year, was made to do duty for chung end. The latter character, as it stands, is explained in the Shuo Wên as 絿絲, and the point is further obscured by the definition of 絿 in the same work, namely = 急 chi flurried, wrongly rendered "remiss" by Dr. Legge in his translation of the Odes, p. 641. [The Little Learning is the name of an elementary treatise compiled by the famous classical commentator 朱熙 Chu Hsi, A.D. 1130—1200. Eitel has here the "Filial Piety Classic" instead of the Little Learning, as given in the best editions. The latter title is now in general use among foreigners, though the Chinese really means "Learning for the Young."]

Chih see.

Ssŭ see and.


text: Dictionary of National Biography, 1885-1900/Montfichet, Richard de


text:
User talk:46.76.203.62

A from this account or IP address, which appeared to be a test edit, was removed or reverted. Please use the sandbox for this purpose. The community portal has information on contributing to this library. Beeswaxcandle (talk) 21:02, 1 June 2012 (UTC)

title: User talk:46.76.203.62


text:
Page:Elementary Chinese - San Tzu Ching (1900).djvu/71

 Shu was originally composed of 聿 lü or yü a stylus, with 者 chê as phonetic, and meant to make known. This was subsequently contracted to the modern character and classed under 曰 yüeh to speak as radical. [The Four Books form the first portion of the Confucian Canon and are learnt by heart by all candidates who hope to do anything at the public examinations. They are enumerated in lines —. See also .]

Lun is composed of 言 yen words and an important phonetic (lines, ).

Yü is composed of 言 yen words as radical, and 吾 wu I (吾 wu five and 口 k'ou mouth) as phonetic, and means talk.

Chê see. [The Lun Yü, Discourses or Analects, contains practically all we really know of the sayings and doings of Confucius. It is ascribed by the Chinese to the immediate disciples of the Sage.]

Erh is the number of earth, though in 五 wu five it is made to do duty for heaven and earth. It is the first of the female numbers, and represents the mating of 一 i one. See and.

Shih see.

P'ien is composed of 竹 chu bamboo as radical, with 扁 pien flat as phonetic. It means the flat bamboo tablet on which books were written with a stylus before the