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


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Rh interview. The elder brother, believing there was no hope, was very solemn. He removed his heavily-beaded and embroidered buffalo robe, and replaced it with the plain one that Rain-in-the-face wore. He exchanged pipes also, giving him his highly-ornamented one that he might afterwards present it to the general. These pipes are valuable, as the material of which the bowls are made has to be brought from Kansas. Then finding that there was a prospect of Rain-in-the-face having his trial in Washington, he took off the medal that had been given to his father by a former president, whose likeness was in the medallion, and placed it over the neck of his brother, that it might be a silent argument in his favor when he confronted the "Great Father."

It was an impressive and melancholy scene. Iron Horse charged his brother not to attempt to escape, saying, that if he did get back to the reservation he would surely be recaptured. He believed that he would be kindly treated while a captive, and perhaps the white chief would intercede for him to obtain his pardon. After asking him not to lose courage, they smoked again, and silently withdrew. In about ten days Iron Horse returned, bringing a portion of his tribe with him.

The valley of the Missouri is wide, and slopes gradually back to the bluffs. Beyond are the plains, rolling away for hundreds of miles to another river. There was a level stretch of three miles below our post down the river. From this direction we were accustomed to watch the approach of the bands of Indians coming from the reservation. We could see their arms

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108 XV


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210 far down the valley long before we could distinguish who they were, except with a powerful field-glass. As they came nearer, the sun caught a bit of gaudy scarlet, or touched for a moment one of the feathers in a war-bonnet.

A New York Charity Ball could bring out no more antique heirlooms, nor take more time in preparations than the costumes of Indians prepared for council. The war-bonnets, shields, and necklaces of bear's claws are all handed down from far-away grandfathers, and only aired on grand occasions. Every available bit of metal that could catch the light reflected and shone in the morning sun. The belts were covered with brass nails, shining with many an hour's polishing. They had many weapons, all kept in a brilliant and glistening state. The tomahawk is one of the heirlooms of the collection of arms. It is not like the ones I used to see at Mackinac as a child. It looks more like a large ice-pick. The knife, pistol, and Henry rifle are very modern, and are always kept in the most perfect condition. Mrs. "Lo" is the Venus who prepares Mars for war, and many a long weary hour she spends in polishing the weapon and adorning the warrior.

The Indians with Iron Horse came directly to head-quarters and asked for a council. As many as could get into the general's room entered. There was time, while they were preparing, to send for the ladies, and a few of us were tucked away on the lounge, with injunctions not to move or whisper, for my husband treated these Indians with as much consideration as if they had been crowned heads. The Indians turned a surprised, rather

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Rh scornful glance into the "ladies' gallery," for their women are always kept in the background. In return for this we did not hesitate to criticise their toilets. They were gorgeous in full dress. Iron Horse wore an elaborately beaded and painted buckskin shirt, with masses of solid embroidery of porcupine quills. The sleeves and shoulders were ornamented with a fringe of scalp-locks; some of the hair, we saw with a shudder, was light and waving. I could not but picture the little head, "sunning over with curls," from which it had been taken, for all the Indian locks I have ever seen were straight and black. The chief wore on his shoulders a sort of cape, trimmed with a fringe of snowy ermine; his leggings and moccasins were a mass of bead-work. He wore a cap of otter, without a crown, though, for it is their custom to leave the top of the head uncovered. His hair was wound round and round with strips of otter that hung down his back; the scalp-lock was also tightly wound. Three eagle feathers, that denote the number of warriors killed, were so fastened to the lock that they stood erect. There were several perforations in each ear from which depended bead ear-rings. He had armlets of burnished brass; thrown around him was a beaded blanket. The red clay pipe had the wooden stem inlaid with silver, and was embellished with the breast feathers of brilliantly plumaged birds. The tobacco-bag, about two feet long, had not an inch that was not decorated. The costume was simply superb.

The next in rank had an immense buffalo robe as the distinguishing feature of his dress. The inside was

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Page:A Hebrew and English Lexicon (Brown-Driver-Briggs).djvu/983

in” Sin, “st letter (with W', :11).

win (Jot £011.; vb. unknown; cf. NH may, 1889-, JAram. lamp, all haven).

limp n.m.""“leaven ;—ahs. ’w Ex :37 (J), Di: 16‘ (1)), Ex 12"" LV 2“ (all P). nxgip v. m. :‘g v. w.

13‘!” (Jot £011.; iwtz'rwenve; NH 339, der. spec, hair-mt, em; Ar.  insert, WWW; Syr. ’5‘: rush in, adhere, embrace, be mixed wiui, 15$... vdum mmuJamm; cm. iabikd, headdress, D1 m A“).

1’ 'iv n.[m.] mtwcrk of houghs ;—cstr. Him ’9 2 S 18'.

Tnggip n.f. lattice-work, network ;—abs. "i 1 K7“+, p1. v“+, '3‘??? v‘7;—1. prob. window-[attics 2 Kx’. 2. net-ornament on pillars, 1 K 7'7-"(om. (an KitBenz),v‘“‘ (crpL, cf. Kit Benz), v‘"‘“’ 2 Ch 4mm 2 K 25‘7-‘7 || Je 52"”. 3. udwork,tails, for catching animals (65-) Jb '8‘ (Hm. "E. D‘s!)-

nnam v.

“Ill? nylon. Nu 32‘, v’B Jos 13" Is 1 6‘” e 48"; in Moab (Reuben), near Heshbon (cf. also Jerome" "' '); 2.3a,“

[larva] 3232;)“ VII. be mad, named, mn-feioad (NH (tier. spec.)=BH; so As. W, Ar. 7, Am. 1:39, ‘5», Palm. saw; the Eth. VI; of same meaning is 9.70:)3—911" Pf. 3 ms. val? I Ch 23', consec. DI. 31’"; 3 pl. iv??? Is 9", ’M consec. De :4” 25", em; Imyf. 3 ms. YEW: Priz"+, 3 mp1. F1130" 1: 104”, am; Inn/p.173? Pr 20"; Inf. abs. 233.“? Jo 2m 2011 31'“; catr. gala? Ex 16‘ La 5-, nyg‘yf) Hg r“;—1. be rated (with food), esp. human sub}: a. ma, after Eats, Ho 4'" Isg" Dts’“, Ex .66 (P),+1| s, of. 1344" (1| 5:25); exposing men to arrogance Dt 6" 8" 31’“, cf. Ho :3“ (Isr. under ﬁg. of mttle),Je50“ (id; c. :1 100.; || “2': graze); =liave (or get) enough to eat ‘1' 37“ 59“, enough to drink Am ‘5, ﬁg. of sword Je 46‘“, of wins Hb 2’. b. c. we. of food Je 44" La 5“ Ex 16"(P),+6 L, of. F1 39'“ (of beasts, in 135.), ofeaﬂh, sated with water (rain)l’r30",

so of trees (soc. Um.) \[I 104“, ﬁg. of requital P. 18’“. (no.1? of food Jb 193(k); ﬁg.oi earth having its ﬁll (of rain) 4' 104", and (ﬁg. of requital) Fr 18"“; good sense 12" (del. Jib. so Toy), bad sense ["14“; c. 11,3 of source In 66“ (ﬁg). 2. more gen., be rated, have desire satisﬁed : I. abs. Ex 16"“ (Le. with harlotry), Je 50‘”$with plunder), 1353" (with a given re: sult); 0 ayes Pr27‘", of She'él andAbmldén v”, cf. 30"; =have abundance Pr 30'(exposure to arrogance) b. it. man. be satisﬁed wilh, have om': of: Je 31", cf. #11“ 63', Pr 5'“Ec 5“, of: (eye aubj.) 4‘, non. of sons w [1" (si Vera 1., but text duh. v. Ol Du, cf. BaeWe), days of life, ie. reacll the mu limit (+ nag) 1 Ch 231 2 Ch :4". c. c. :i of goodness 1165‘, c. 1’? id. E0 6'. a. c. 5 ins, nun? m: virgth Ec :- (u 3. have in ma, be miﬁiled with : I. lit., with honey (um) Pr 25“. 'I1. fig—be weary of, c. ace. of offerings Is 1“ (subj. ")y tossing: Jb 7‘, poverty Pr 28", shame Hb z", contempt 4: 123“, c. ace. pen. Pr :8". 1:. id., 1:. 3 of troubles 4, 88‘, of repth La 3”. +Niph. Pt. vain: sated Jb 3:". iri. satisfy. E: 7" they shall not satisfy their appetite (we; ; u «59); Imu.masf.,subj.", '1  irgo“(z we. . TKiph.Pf 3 ms. _ 4,107“, «1; consec.Is58“; 2 fst‘ gram; Imyf: 3111s. af.‘!¥3l§t J by“, zms. $312451 Is 58'", x s. Je 57, . “HMS w 81” van d. 11., ﬁg‘ilé’! Baer Gi, etc.,‘ 17:15 am. r 29,551. 38‘7;Pt. _ 1:103‘"5“;—1.n.satiafy(esp. will: material blessings), subj.", c. ace. pars. Je 57(exposing men to arrogance), Is58“(iwc. of refreshment in drought, : loc. ﬁg. oi'belp and blessing . worm v22; 11 N. .). at my (: instr., on snowflﬂ); (Limo. of ground J l) 38‘7(i.e. with rain); human subj.,c.acc.!;§g Is58‘" b. c. we. of food + perm, '~ sub}, 4.8;" (u 5 ), 105‘“ 132“ 147“; mace. pers.+ D‘m 91“. c. " subj., ME. rei + 5 perm, Ill") “V9 4’ 145". d. " subj., c. ace. of beam+ﬂgp (of Pharaoh, in prophetic  Ez 32‘. 2. enrich, subj. Tyre, c. act. gent. E: 27"  'l I _. 3. auto, ylul (with the undesired), sub ‘, c. we. pers- +3 rei La 3", we. pers.+ rei Jh 9“.

n.[m.] satiety, abundance;-——abs. ’3'? Ex l6‘+, cstr. DEN]; i6“,’W’? Pr [3“; “XE-“v” Dt 23", Ru 2‘“;—1. misty. as to


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8 she came and sat dawn, and looked disconsolately at the underdone beef on her plate.

“I do hate this raw meat,” she said.

“Good for you,” replied her brother, who was eating industriously. “Give you some muscle to wallop the nippers.”

She pushed it aside, and began to eat the vegetables. Her brother re-charged his plate and continued to eat.

“Well, our George, I do think you might pass a body that gravy,” said Mollie, the younger sister, in injured tones.

“Certainly,” he replied. “Won’t you have the joint as well?”

“No!” retorted the young lady of twelve, “I don’t expect you’ve done with it yet.”

“Clever!” he exclaimed across a mouthful.

“Do you think so?” said the elder sister Emily, sarcastically.

“Yes,” he replied complacently, “you’ve made her as sharp as yourself, I see, since you’ve had her in Standard Six. I’ll try a potato, mother, if you can find one that’s done.”

“Well, George, they seem mixed, I’m sure that was done that I tried. There—they are mixed—look at this one, it’s soft enough. I’m sure they were boiling long enough.”

“Don’t explain and apologise to him,” said Emily irritably.

“Perhaps the kids were too much for her this morning,” he said calmly, to nobody in particular.

“No,” chimed in Mollie, “she knocked a lad across his nose and made it bleed.”


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Rh “Little wretch,” said Emily, swallowing with difficulty. “I’m glad I did! Some of my lads belong to—to——”

“To the devil,” suggested George, but she would not accept it from him.

Her father sat laughing; her mother with distress in her eyes, looked at her daughter, who hung her head and made patterns on the table-cloth with her finger.

“Are they worse than the last lot?” asked the mother, softly, fearfully.

“No—nothing extra,” was the curt answer.

“She merely felt like bashing ’em,” said George, calling, as he looked at the sugar bowl and at his pudding:

“Fetch some more sugar, Annie.”

The maid rose from her little table in the corner, and the mother also hurried to the cupboard. Emily trifled with her dinner and said bitterly to him:

“I only wish you had a taste of teaching, it would cure your self-satisfaction.”

“Pf!” he replied contemptuously, “I could easily bleed the noses of a handful of kids.”

“You wouldn’t sit there bleating like a fatted calf,” she continued.

This speech so tickled Mollie that she went off into a burst of laughter, much to the terror of her mother, who stood up in trembling apprehension lest she should choke.

“You made a joke, Emily,” he said, looking at his younger sister’s contortions.

Emily was too impatient to speak to him further, and left the table. Soon the two men went back to


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10 the fallow to the turnips, and I walked along the path with the girls as they were going to school.

“He irritates me in everything he does and says,” burst out Emily with much heat.

“He’s a pig sometimes,” said I.

“He is!” she insisted. “He irritates me past bearing, with his grand know-all way, and his heavy smartness—I can’t beat it. And the way mother humbles herself to him——!”

“It makes you wild,” said I.

“Wild!” she echoed, her voice vibrating with nervous passion. We walked on in silence, till she asked.

“Have you brought me those verses of yours?”

“No—I’m so sorry—I’ve forgotten them again. As a matter of fact, I’ve sent them away.”

“But you promised me.”

“You know what my promises are. I’m as irresponsible as a puff of wind.”

She frowned with impatience and her disappointment was greater than necessary. When I left her at the corner of the lane I felt a sting of her deep reproach in my mind. I always felt the reproach when she had gone.

I ran over the little bright brook that came from the weedy, bottom pond. The stepping-stones were white in the sun, and the water slid sleepily among them. One or two butterflies, indistinguishable against the blue sky, trifled from flower to flower and led me up the hill, across the field where the hot sunshine stood as in a bowl, and I was entering the caverns of the wood, where the oaks bowed over and saved us a grateful shade. Within, everything was


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Rh so still and cool that my steps hung heavily along the path. The bracken held out arms to me, and the bosom of the wood was full of sweetness, but I journeyed on, spurred by the attacks of an army of flies which kept up a guerrilla warfare round my head till I had passed the black rhododendron bushes in the garden, where they left me, scenting no doubt, Rebecca’s pots of vinegar and sugar.

The low red house, with its roof discoloured and sunken, dozed in sunlight, and slept profoundly in the shade thrown by the massive maples encroaching from the wood.

There was no one in the dining-room, but I could hear the whirr of a sewing-machine coming from the little study, a sound as of some great, vindictive insect buzzing about, now louder, now softer, now settling. Then came a jingling of four or five keys at the bottom of the keyboard of the drawing-room piano, continuing till the whole range had been covered in little leaps, as if some very fat frog had jumped from end to end.

“That must be mother dusting the drawing-room,” I thought. The unaccustomed sound of the old piano startled me. The vocal chords behind the green silk bosom,—you only discovered it was not a bronze silk bosom by poking a fold aside,—had become as thin and tuneless as a dried old woman’s. Age had yellowed the teeth of my mother’s little piano, and shrunken its spindle legs. Poor old thing, it could but screech in answer to Lettie’s fingers flying across it in scorn, so the prim, brown lips were always closed save to admit the duster.

Now, however, the little old maidish piano began


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12 to sing a tinkling Victorian melody, and I fancied it must be some demure little woman with curls like bunches of hops on either side of her face, who was touching it. The coy little tune teased me with old sensations, but my memory would give me no assistance. As I stood trying to fix my vague feelings, Rebecca came in to remove the cloth from the table.

“Who is playing, Beck?” I asked.

“Your mother, Cyril.”

“But she never plays. I thought she couldn’t.”

“Ah,” replied Rebecca, “you forget when you was a little thing sitting playing against her frock with the prayer-book, and she singing to you. You can’t remember her when her curls was long like a piece of brown silk. You can’t remember her when she used to play and sing, before Lettie came and your father was——”

Rebecca turned and left the room. I went and peeped in the drawing-room. Mother sat before the little brown piano, with her plump, rather stiff fingers moving across the keys, a faint smile on her lips. At that moment Lettie came flying past me, and flung her arms round mother’s neck, kissing her and saying:

“Oh, my Dear, fancy my Dear playing the piano! Oh, Little Woman, we never knew you could!”

“Nor can I,” replied mother laughing, disengaging herself. “I only wondered if I could just strum out this old tune; I learned it when I was quite a girl, on this piano. It was a cracked one then; the only one I had.”

“But play again, dearie, do play again. It was like the clinking of lustre glasses, and you look so


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Rh quaint at the piano. Do play, my dear!” pleaded Lettie.

“Nay,” said my mother, “the touch of the old keys on my fingers is making me sentimental—you wouldn’t like to see me reduced to the tears of old age?”

“Old age!” scolded Lettie, kissing her again. “You are young enough to play little romances. Tell us about it mother.”

“About what, child?”

“When you used to play.”

“Before my fingers were stiff with fifty odd years? Where have you been, Cyril, that you weren’t in to dinner?”

“Only down to Strelley Mill,” said I.

“Of course,” said mother coldly.

“Why ‘of course’?” I asked.

“And you came away as soon as Em went to school?” said Lettie.

“I did,” said I.

They were cross with me, these two women. After I had swallowed my little resentment I said:

“They would have me stay to dinner.”

My mother vouchsafed no reply.

“And has the great George found a girl yet?” asked Lettie.

“No,” I replied, “he never will at this rate. Nobody will ever be good enough for him.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you can find in any of them to take you there so much,” said my mother.

“Don’t be so mean, Mater,” I answered, nettled. “You know I like them.”

“I know you like her,” said my mother


text:
Terror Suspect Transferred To Guantanamo 2007-09-12

The Department of Defense announced today the transfer of a dangerous terror suspect to Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.

Inayatullah, an Afghan national, was captured as a result of ongoing DoD operations in the struggle against violent extremists in Afghanistan. He has admitted that he was the Al Qaeda Emir of Zahedan, Iran, and planned and directed Al Qaeda terrorist operations. Inayatullah collaborated with numerous Al Qaeda senior leaders, to include Abu Ubaydah al-Masri and Azzam, executing their instructions and personally supporting global terrorist efforts.

Inayatullah attests to facilitating the movement of foreign fighters, significantly contributing to trans-national terrorism across multiple borders. Inayatullah met with local operatives, developed travel routes and coordinated documentation, accommodation and vehicles for smuggling unlawful combatants throughout countries including Afghanistan, Iran, Pakistan and Iraq.

Due to the continuing threat this terror suspect represents and his high placement in Al Qaeda, he has been transferred to Guantanamo. The detainees being held at Guantanamo have provided information essential to our ability to better understand how Al Qaeda operates and thus to prevent future attacks.

As with all detainees in Guantanamo, Inayatullah will undergo a combatant status review tribunal, where he will be given the opportunity to review a summary of the evidence against him and contest his status. The International Committee of the Red Cross will be granted access to this detainee. With today’s transfer there are approximately 340 detainees at Guantanamo.


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14. “As for him—he’s an unlicked cub. What can you expect when his mother has spoiled him as she has. But I wonder you are so interested in licking him.” My mother sniffed contemptuously.

“He is rather good lookingm” said Lettie with a smile.

“You could make a man of him, I am sure,” I said, bowing satirically to her.

“I am not interested,” she replied, also satirical.

Then she tossed her head, and all the fine hairs that were free from bonds made a mist of yellow light in the sun.

“What frock shall I wear Mater?” she asked.

“Nay, don’t ask me,” replied her mother.

“I think I‘ll wear the heliotrope—though this sun will fade it,” she said pensively. She was tall, nearly six feet in height, but slenderly formed. Her hair was yellow, tending towards a dun brown. She had beautiful eyes and brows, but not a nice nose. Her hands were very beautiful.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

She did not answer me.

“To Tempest’s!” I said. She did not reply.

“Well I don’t know what you can see in him,” I continued.

“Indeed!” said she. “He’s as good as most folk——” then we both began to laugh.

“Not,” she continued blushing, “that I think anything about him. I’m merely going for a game of tennis. Are you coming?”

“What shall you say if I agree?” I asked.

“Oh!” she tossed her head. “We shall all be very pleased I’m sure.”


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Rh these creatures of her own formation, but simply because of the pleasure she enjoyed while inventing them.

It is a subject of delightful reflection, and it ought to be a source of unfailing gratitude, that some of those natural propensities which afford us the greatest pleasure, are, in reality, capable of being made conducive to the greatest good. Thus, when the little quiet girl is so happy and so busy with her pencils, or her scissors, she is indulging that natural propensity of her mind, which is, in after life, to render her still happier, by enabling her to turn to the best account every means of increasing the happiness of those around her, of rendering assistance in any social or domestic calamity that may occur, of supply in every time of household need, and of comfort in every season of distress.

But if the value of invention, and the ready application of existing means, be overlooked under all other circumstances in a sick-room, none can doubt its efficacy. The visitations of sickness, however unlikely, or unlooked for, they may be to the young, are liable to all—the gay and the grave, the rich and the poor, the vigorous and the feeble; and we have only to visit some of those favourite spots of earth which have become the resort of invalids from every land, to see how often the most delicate females are plunged into all the solemn and sacred mysteries of the chamber of sickness and death.

It is under such circumstances that ingenuity, when connected with kindly feeling, and readiness to assist, is of the utmost possible value. There may be the same kind feeling without it; but how is such feeling to operate?—by teasing the invalid perpetually about what he would like, or not like? The querulous and fretful state of mind which suffering so often induces, is ill calculated to brook this minute investigation of its wants and wishes; and such is the capricious nature of a sickly appetite, that every

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text: Talk:Terror Suspect Transferred To Guantanamo 2007-09-12


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Page:The White Peacock, Lawrence, 1911.djvu/23

Rh “Ooray!” said I with fine irony.

She laughed at me, blushed, and ran upstairs.

Half an hour afterwards she popped her head in the study to bid me good-bye, wishing to see if I appreciated her. She was so charming in her fresh linen frock and flowered hat, that I could not but be proud of her. She expected me to follow her to the window, for from between the great purple rhododendrons she waved me a lace mitten, then glinted on like a flower moving brightly through the green hazels. Her path lay through the wood in the opposite direction from Strelley Mill, down the red drive across the tree-scattered space to the highroad. This road ran along the end of our lakelet, Nethermere, for about a quarter of a mile. Nethermere is the lowest in a chain of three ponds. The other two are the upper and lower mill ponds at Strelley: this is the largest and most charming piece of water, a mile long and about a quarter of a mile in width. Our wood runs down to the water’s edge. On the opposite side, on a hill beyond the farthest corner of the lake, stands Highclose. It looks across the water at us in Woodside with one eye as it were, while our cottage casts a side-long glance back again at the proud house, and peeps coyly through the trees.

I could see Lettie like a distant sail stealing along the water’s edge, her parasol flowing above. She turned through the wicket under the pine clump, climbed the steep field, and was enfolded again in the trees beside Highclose.

Leslie was sprawled on a camp chair, under a copper beech on the lawn, his cigar glowing. He


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16 watched the ash grow strange and grey in the warm daylight, and he felt sorry for poor Nell Wycherley, whom he had driven that morning to the station, for would she not be frightfully cut up as the train whirled her further and further away? These girls are so daft with a fellow! But she was a nice little thing—he’d get Marie to write to her.

At this point he caught sight of a parasol fluttering along the drive, and immediately he fell into a deep sleep, with just a tiny slit in his slumber to allow him to see Lettie approach. She, finding her watchman ungallantly asleep, and his cigar, instead of his lamp untrimmed, broke off a twig of syringa whose ivory buds had not yet burst with luscious scent. I know not how the end of his nose tickled in anticipation before she tickled him in reality, but he kept bravely still until the petals swept him. Then, starting from his sleep, he exclaimed:

“Lettie! I was dreaming of kisses!”

“On the bridge of your nose?” laughed she—“But whose were the kisses?”

“Who produced the sensation?” he smiled.

“Since I only tapped your nose you should dream of——”

“Go on!” said he, expectantly.

“Of Doctor Slop,” she replied, smiling to herself as she closed her parasol.

“I do not know the gentleman,” he said, afraid that she was laughing at him.

“No—your nose is quite classic,” she answered, giving him one of those brief intimate glances with which women flatter men so cleverly. He radiated with pleasure.


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46 anticipated relish is apt to pall, before the feeble desire can be gratified. We are therefore inflicting positive pain upon the sufferer—mental pain, in addition to that of the body, by compelling him to choose, and then to appear discontented, or ungrateful, in becoming dissatisfied with his own choice.

How thankful, then, ought women to be, that they possess, by nature, the faculty of invention; and how careful ought to be their cultivation of this precious gift, when it can enable them to relieve from pain and annoyance those who already feel that they have enough of both. How happy, in comparison, is that woman, who, by the habitual exercise of her ingenuity, is able so to make the most of the means within her power, as to supply, without its having to be solicited, the very thing which is most needed; and though her endeavours may possibly fail again and again, there will sometimes be a smile of grateful acknowledgement on the lips of the sufferer, that will richly repay her most anxious care; or, if not, she will still be happier, when occupied by a series of inventions for the benefit of one she loves, than those can be who think, and think again, and end by only wishing they could think of any thing that could accommodate, or relieve.

The faculty of invention, however, will fail of more than half its use, if the hand is not early accustomed to obey the head, in all those little niceties of management which female occupations require. There must be a facility in the application and movement of the hand, which can only be acquired in early life; and I would humbly suggest the importance of this in our public seminaries for young ladies, for I confess it has often seemed to me a little hard, that young women of the middle ranks of life, should be dismissed from these establishments, after having spent years with little more exercise of the hand than is required by

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Rh the music-master; yet are they no sooner plunged into active life, as women—I do not say, as ladies—than the readiest and best, nay, sometimes, even the cheapest, method of doing every thing which a woman can do, is expected of them. In all those cases of failure which must necessarily ensue, parents and brothers are equally dissatisfied; while they themselves, disappointed that their accomplishments are no longer valued as they were at school, and perplexed with the new, and apparently humbling, duties which present themselves, sink into a state of profitless despondency; and all this is owing to the simple fact of their not having been prepared, when young, for what is expected of them in after life.

Far be it from me, however, to advocate the old system of stitching, as the best kind of education for the daughters of England, of whom higher and nobler things are required. But why should we not choose the medium between two extremes? and while we reprobate the elaborate needlework of our grandmothers, why should we not be equally solicitous to avoid the evils arising from an entire disuse of the female hand, until the age of womanhood? Neither would I be supposed to advocate that entire absorption of the female mind in a world of worsted work, which is now so frequently the case immediately on leaving school, and which I am inclined to attribute, in a great measure, to a necessary reaction of the mind, after having been occupied during the whole term of scholastic discipline, in what is so foreign to its nature, that the first days—nay, months, and even years, of liberty, are spent in the busy idleness of assorting different shades of Berlin wool.

These, I must allow, are pleasant amusements in their way, and when the head and the heart are weary, may have their refreshment and their use; but even in these occupations, the beaten track of custom is too much followed. The

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48 hand is more exercised than the head. To imitate is more the object than to invent, while, if the same pains were taken to create a pattern as to borrow one, new ideas might be perpetually struck out, and the mind, even in this humble sphere of action, might find as much employment as the hand.

It is sometimes made the subject of regret by learned, well-informed, and highly-gifted women, that the occupations peculiar to our sex are so trifling; or, in other words, that they afford so little exercise for the mind. To say nothing here of the folly and the danger of allowing ourselves to despise such duties as God has set before us, I am disposed to question whether it is not in a great measure our own fault that these duties are invested with so little mind. Invention is surely no mean faculty, and I have shown how it may be exercised, even upon the most trifling affairs of woman's life. Economy is no mean principle, and this may be acted upon in the application of the humblest means to any particular end. Industry is no mean virtue, and we may be practising this, while filling up every spare moment with some occupation of the hand. Cheerfulness is no mean embellishment to the female character; and seldom is cheerfulness preserved, when the hand is allowed to be useless and idle.

I confess there is a listless way of merely "getting through" with female occupations, in which little mind, and still less good feeling, is called into action: but when a lively invention is perpetually at work; when a careful economy is practised for the sake of making the most of all our materials, and sparing our money, it may be for the purpose of assisting the sorrowful or the destitute; where habits of industry are thus engrafted into the character; and where cheerfulness lights up every countenance in a family thus employed; especially where there is any considerable

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 struggle of life or the more deadening influence of success or ease—startle him to memories, at least, of a greater, nobler life than he was leading; to the weary and dejected it seemed to me they might point to the continuance in that great hereafter of all we seem to lose here, and all the while the words would be felt to be keeping watch over the dead, whose sudden silence is so hard to bear, but the harmony of whose grand, sweet song in that vast for-ever we catch now and again when we are doing noble things, and so tuning our hearts into more perfect sympathy with the music of God's universe.

I have spoken mainly of making open spaces, because I think the usefulness of the parks and the embankment is much more generally known. I am rather afraid of their being supposed to supersede the need of small open spaces quite near the homes of the poor, than of their value being underrated. The old and the very young cannot get to them often,


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 nor from all parts of London. But I ought hardly to pass them over in absolute silence; they certainly do meet a quite distinct want on the part of the stronger portion of the community, who can get some sense of power of expansion, can see the fair summer sun going down behind the towers of Westminster Abbey, a space of sky being visible, so rarely seen from the streets or courts. Let us be very thankful for them.

Also when I undertake to speak to you about open spaces, though I cannot to-day dwell on them at length, I dare not omit all reference to those which are perhaps most precious of any, and which are by no means secured to us as yet as the parks are—our commons—the only portion of the land of England which remains in a living sense of the birthright of the people of England, and which, bit by bit, gradually and insidiously is filched away, under this and that pretext, by one big landowner after another, quietly surrounded by


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 his effectual railing, and added to his park or field. Often is this done under shadow of law, often without any legal right, but just because no one is careful enough, or rich enough, or brave enough to oppose. My friends, there is a society which has done much good work, much unpopular work, which this session even saved you from encroachments on Mitcham and Barnes Commons; it is little known, it wants money support, and it deserves your full support of every kind—the Commons Preservation Society. Note down its address, I, Great College Street, Westminster, give it what support you can, but above all if ever you see a common threatened, or a piece of one inclosed, write and ask the Society whether it is legally done—what chance of redress there is. The Society has set itself to fortify local effort by advice, by parliamentary support, sometimes by money; it watches over the interests of Englishmen in the small amount of uninclosed land yet remaining to them.


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 While house is being added to house and field to field, while one small farm after another is being swallowed up in the big estate, there are yet left for the common inheritance of Englishmen who have small chance of ever owning even a little garden of their very own, some few moorland spaces, set with gorse and heather, fringed by solemn rank of guardian fir-trees, where in the sandy banks their children yet may hollow caves, where the heath-bell waves in the faint evening breeze, and from which—oh, wondrous joy to us Londoners—still the far blue distance may be seen, witness to us for ever, as it lies there still, and calm, and bright, that the near things which overshadow us, which seem so tremendous, like tall London houses, built by man, and covering so large a portion of our horizon and sky, hemming us in with terrible oppressive sense of dreariness, may fade back and back from us in distance, till they become even lovely in God's fair sunlight, little jagged peaks only against


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 His calm sky, and all softened into sweetest colour by the light He sheds over them.

Keep those fair, far, still places for your children, and your children's children, if you can: the more cities increase, the more precious they will be; for the more man's soul will long for the beauty, for the quiet, which the city does not, cannot give.


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Appletons' Cyclopædia of American Biography/Fuller, Melville Weston

FULLER, Melville Weston, jurist, b. in Augusta, Me., 11 Feb., 1833. He was graduated at Bowdoin in 1853, studied law in Bangor with his uncle, George M. Weston, and then at Harvard, and began to practise in 1855 in his native city. There he was an associate editor of the “Age,” served as president of the common council, and became city attorney in 1856; but he resigned in June of that year, and removed to Chicago, Ill., where he was in active practice for thirty-two years. He rose to the highest rank in his profession, and was concerned in many important cases, among which were the National bank tax cases, one of which was the first that was argued before Chief-Justice Waite, the Cheney ecclesiastical case, the South park commissioners' cases, and the Lake front case. He was a member of the state constitutional convention of 1862, and later of the lower house of the legislature, where

he was a leader of the Douglas branch of the Democratic party. He was a delegate to the Democratic national conventions of 1864, 1872, 1876, and 1880. On 30 April, 1888, he was nominated by President Cleveland to be chief justice of the United States, and on 20 July he was confirmed by the senate. On 8 Oct. he took the oath of office and entered on his duties. Justice Fuller is, with one exception, the youngest member of the supreme court. In 1899 he was a member of the arbitration commission, convened in Paris, to which was referred the case of the Anglo-Venezuelan boundary question. Among his addresses is one welcoming Stephen A. Douglas to Chicago in 1860, and another on Sidney Breese, which is prefixed to Judge Breese's “Early History of Illinois” (1884). The degree of LL. D. has been conferred on him by Harvard and other institutions.


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1896. extension of the time for the payment of instalments the term of years for which the possessions of the benefice are mortgaged to the said Governors shall be enlarged to the like extent.

The date of any such resolution, the term of extension, and the altered rate of payments, shall be endorsed on the respective mortgage deeds, free of charge to the incumbent.

2. The application of the provisions of this Act shall not, in any way, invalidate the instruments of security under which loans have been granted by Queen Anne's Bounty; the said provisions shall extend and apply to such instruments as if originally fully and expressly inserted therein.

3. This Act may be cited as the Incumbents of Benefices Loans Extension Act, 1896.

17 Geo. III., c. 53.; 21 Geo. III., c. 66.; 7 Geo. IV., c. 66.; 1 & 2 Vict., c. 23.; 1 & 2 Vict., c. 106.; 28 & 29 Vict., c. 69.; 34 & 35 Vict., c. 43.; 35 & 36 Vict., c. 96.; 44 & 45 Vict., c. 25.; 49 & 50 Vict., c. 34.; 50 & 51 Vict., c. 8.

E it enacted by the Queen's most Excellent Majesty, by and with the advice and consent of the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and Commons, in this present Parliament assembled, and by the authority of the same, as follows:

1. Each of the Acts mentioned in the First Schedule to this Act may, without prejudice to any other mode of citation, be cited by the short title therein mentioned in that behalf.

2.—(1.) Each of the groups of Acts mentioned in the Second Schedule to this Act may, without prejudice to any other mode of citation, be cited by the collective title therein mentioned in that behalf.

(2.) If it is provided that any Act passed after this Act may, as to the whole or any part thereof, be cited with any of the groups of Acts mentioned in the Second Schedule to this Act, or with any group of Acts to which a collective title has been given by any Act passed before this Act, that group shall be construed as including that Act or part, and, if the collective title of the group states the first and last years of the group, the year in which that Act is passed shall be substituted for the last year of the group, and so on as often as a subsequent Act or part is added to the group.


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User talk:VisitingPhilosopher

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14 3. Notwithstanding the repeal of an enactment giving a short title to an Act, the Act may, without prejudice to any other mode of citation, continue to be cited by that short title.

4. The Short Titles Act, 1892 is hereby repealed.

5. This Act may be cited as the Short Titles Act, 1896.

 * 25 Edw. 3. Stat. 5. c. 2.
 * Declaration what Offences shall be adjudged Treason.
 * 27 Hen. 8. c. 10.
 * An Acte connyng uses and wylles
 * 27 Hen. 8. c. 15.
 * An Act for punysshement of Pyrotes and Robbers of the See.
 * 5 & 6 Edw. 6. c. 16.
 * An Act against buyinge and sellinge of offices.
 * 43 Eliz. c. 2.
 * An Acte for the Releife of the Poore.
 * 21 Jas. 1. c. 16.
 * An Acte for lymytaon of acns and for avoyding of Suit in Lawe.
 * 1 Chas. 1. c. 1.
 * An Acte for punishing of divers abuses coitted on the Lord Day called Sunday.
 * 14 Chas. 2. c. 12.
 * An Acte for the better Releife of the Poore of this Kingdom.
 * 19 & 20 Chas. 2. c. 8.
 * An Act for the increase and preservation of timber within the Forest of Dean.
 * 22 & 23 Chas. 2. c. 10.
 * An Act for the better settling of intestates' estates.
 * 29 Chas. 2. c. 3.
 * An Act for prevention of Frauds and Perjuryes.
 * 29 Chas. 2. c. 7.
 * An Act for the better Observation of the Lords Day commonly called Sunday.
 * 31 Chas. 2. c. 2.
 * An Act for the better secureing the Liberty of the Subject and for Prevention of Imprisonments beyond the Seas.
 * 1686, c 26. (Scotland)
 * An Act concerning tailies
 * The Entail Act, 1685.
 * }
 * An Acte for the better Releife of the Poore of this Kingdom.
 * 19 & 20 Chas. 2. c. 8.
 * An Act for the increase and preservation of timber within the Forest of Dean.
 * 22 & 23 Chas. 2. c. 10.
 * An Act for the better settling of intestates' estates.
 * 29 Chas. 2. c. 3.
 * An Act for prevention of Frauds and Perjuryes.
 * 29 Chas. 2. c. 7.
 * An Act for the better Observation of the Lords Day commonly called Sunday.
 * 31 Chas. 2. c. 2.
 * An Act for the better secureing the Liberty of the Subject and for Prevention of Imprisonments beyond the Seas.
 * 1686, c 26. (Scotland)
 * An Act concerning tailies
 * The Entail Act, 1685.
 * }
 * 29 Chas. 2. c. 7.
 * An Act for the better Observation of the Lords Day commonly called Sunday.
 * 31 Chas. 2. c. 2.
 * An Act for the better secureing the Liberty of the Subject and for Prevention of Imprisonments beyond the Seas.
 * 1686, c 26. (Scotland)
 * An Act concerning tailies
 * The Entail Act, 1685.
 * }
 * 1686, c 26. (Scotland)
 * An Act concerning tailies
 * The Entail Act, 1685.
 * }


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248

 * }

An Act to Amend the Diseases of Animals Act, 1894. [20th July 1896.]

E it enacted by the Queen's most Excellent Majesty, by and with the advice and consent of the Lords Spiritual and Temporal, and Commons, in this present Parliament assembled, and by the authority of the same, as follows:

1.-(1.) For section twenty-four of the shall be substituted the following section, namely

"The provisions set forth in Part I. (slaughter at port of landing) of the Third Schedule to this Act shall apply to all foreign animals other than—

(a) foreign animals the landing of which is for the time being prohibited by order of the Board of Agriculture; and

(b) foreign animals intended for exhibition or other exceptional purposes, and the landing of which is allowed for the time being by the Board, subject to the provisions of Part II. (quarantine) of the Third Schedule to this Act."

(2.) Section twenty-six of the is hereby repealed.

2. This Act shall come into operation on the first day of January next after the passing thereof.


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1896.
 * 1 Will. & Mary, Sess. 2. c. 2.
 * An Act declaring the rights and liberties of the Subject and seteling the Succession to the Crowne.
 * 2 Will. & Mar., Sess. 2. c. 2.
 * An Act concerning the Commissioners of the Admiralty.
 * 3 Will. & Mar. c. 11.
 * An Act for the better explanation and supplying the defects of the former laws for the settlement of the poor.
 * 5 & 6 Will. & Mar. c. 20.
 * An Act for granting to theire Majesties severall Rates and Duties upon Tunnage of Shipps and Vessells and upon Beere Ale and other Liquors for secureing certaine Recompenses and Advantages in the said Act mentioned to such Persons as shall voluntarily advance the sme of Fifteene hundred thousand pound toward the carrying on the Warr against France.
 * 7 & 8 Will. 3. c. 3.
 * An Act for regulateing of Tryals in Cases of Treason and Misprision of Treason.
 * 8 & 9 Will. 3. c. 20.
 * An Act for making good the Deficiencies of several Fund therein mentioned and for enlargeing the Capital Stock of the Bank of England and for raising the Publick Creditt.
 * 9 Will. 3. c. 33.
 * An Act for the increase and preservation of timber in the New Forest in the County of Southampton.
 * 12 & 13 Will. 3. c. 2.
 * An Act for the further limitation of the Crown and better securing the rights and liberties of the Subject.
 * 1 Anne, c. 1.
 * An Act for the better Support of Her Majesty's Household and of the honour and dignity of the Crown.
 * 6 Anne, c. 11.
 * An Act for an Union of the Two Kingdoms of England and Scotland.
 * 8 & 9 Will. 3. c. 20.
 * An Act for making good the Deficiencies of several Fund therein mentioned and for enlargeing the Capital Stock of the Bank of England and for raising the Publick Creditt.
 * 9 Will. 3. c. 33.
 * An Act for the increase and preservation of timber in the New Forest in the County of Southampton.
 * 12 & 13 Will. 3. c. 2.
 * An Act for the further limitation of the Crown and better securing the rights and liberties of the Subject.
 * 1 Anne, c. 1.
 * An Act for the better Support of Her Majesty's Household and of the honour and dignity of the Crown.
 * 6 Anne, c. 11.
 * An Act for an Union of the Two Kingdoms of England and Scotland.
 * An Act for the further limitation of the Crown and better securing the rights and liberties of the Subject.
 * 1 Anne, c. 1.
 * An Act for the better Support of Her Majesty's Household and of the honour and dignity of the Crown.
 * 6 Anne, c. 11.
 * An Act for an Union of the Two Kingdoms of England and Scotland.
 * 6 Anne, c. 11.
 * An Act for an Union of the Two Kingdoms of England and Scotland.
 * 6 Anne, c. 11.
 * An Act for an Union of the Two Kingdoms of England and Scotland.
 * }


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 flatter ourselves that it has been productive of a satisfactory state of things? We have taught our poor to live in uncertainty as to their resources, which is producing among them a reckless want of forethought, which is quite appalling. The most ordinary occurrences of their lives—the regular winter frost which stops the work of some men year by year; the changes in the labour market, caused by the London season; the expenses attending illness; the gradual approach of old age—are not dwelt on now usually among the poor as reasons for trying to provide a fund to meet them. Thus there are hundreds of our people living on the extremest brink of pauperism or starvation, learning more and more to be dependent on the chance coal-ticket, or half-crown, or blanket; and if it does not happen to be given at the moment when it is wanted, how forlorn is the position of the improvident man? But look also on the even more important question of their spirit, and of their


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 relation to those above them in class. Can there be energy, independence, vigour, healthy activity among them? Can there be between them and the donors any of that happy manly interchange of thought, by which the possessors of education, refinement, leisure, might help, or be helped by, the active, self-reliant working-man, with his large capacity for fresh vigorous joy, and his store of power accumulated during a long period of endurance and patient effort? If different classes, like different people, have separate characters which are meant to act and react one, on the other, are we not, by allowing the help to be one of a dole of money, destroying the possibility of the better help that might have been?

And is our money doing any good? Did you ever see the district—the family—the individual that was richer for this repeated alms-giving? Has it ever been powerful, even for outside good, to be recipients? Is the bed better covered in the long run for the lent


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 Rh to his three children—John, Thomas and Anna—and in 1712 the will was presented in Northumberland county court by his "brother-in-law," Captain John Cralle. Robert Walton, in his will proved in Northumberland. July 19, 1671 mentions his sister, Frissie Mathew, and brother-in-law, Thomas Mathew, and there is a power of attorney dated January 3, 1737, and on record in Northumberland, from Thomas Mathew. of Sherbon Lane. London, gent., and Mr. John Mathew of London, merchant, and Anna, his wife, which Thomas and Anna were the surviving children of Thomas Mathew. formerly of Cherry Point, in Virginia. to Thomas Crompton. of Maryland, to sell his lands in Virginia.

Matthews, George, son of John Matthews, who came to Virginia about 1737 and was one of the first settlers on the great tract of land granted to Benjamin Borden, was born in 1739; was first a merchant in Staunton; in 1774 a captain of a company in the battle of Point Pleasant; in June, 1775, a burgess for Augusta in the assembly; soon after appointed lieutenant-colonel of the Ninth Virginia Regiment; captured with his regiment at Germantown; exchanged in 1781 and commanded the Third Virginia Regiment under General Green in the south; removed to Georgia in 1785, where he was elected to the first congress, 1789-1791, and made governor. 1793-1796; brigadier general in the expedition for the capture of West Florida in 1811. He died in Augusta, Georgia. August 30, 1812.

Maury, James, son of Matthew Maury and Mary Anne Fontaine, was born April 8, 1718; was educated at William and Mary College; ordained a minister in 1742; then was a minister one year in King William county, and afterwards was minister of Fredericksville parish, Hanover and Louisa counties; plaintiff in the famous parson's cause, 1763; and died June 9, 1769. He married Mary Walker, daughter of James Walker, and was father of Rev. Matthew Maury. who succeeded him in the parish, and of Rev. Walker Maury ( q. v.).

 Maury, Matthew, was of Castle Mauran, Gascony, France, came to Virginia in 1708. He married, in 1716, Mary Anne Fontaine, sister of Revs. Francis and Peter Fontaine ( q. v.). He was ancestor of the Maurys of Virginia.

 Maury, Walker, son of Rev. James and Mary (Walker) Maury, was born July 21, 1752; educated at William and Mary College, 1770-1774, where in the latter year he obtained the Botetourt gold prize for classical learning; had a grammar school in Williamsburg, and in 1786 was made principal of the Norfolk Academy. He died of the yellow fever, October 11, 1788. He married Mary Grymes.

Mayo, John, son of Major William Mayo and Anne Perratt. His wife, was born in Virginia about 1737; was burgess from Cumberland county in the place of John Fleming, deceased, at the session of March 31, 1768, till the close of the assembly, 1769; then burgess for Cumberland in 1769-1771, 1772-1774, 1775-1776; member of the conventions of 1774, 1775. 1776; he was colonel of militia; died at his seat "Powhatan," in Henrico county, June 17, 1780. He married Mary Tabb. of Gloucester county and left issue.

Mayo, William, a noted surveyor, was son


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 blankets, or the children better fed for the free distribution of soup? Or is it consistent with our ideal that there should be this body of people dependent for the most ordinary necessities of life on the gifts of another class? Rely upon it, if we foster this state of things it will continue to increase.

Here we are, however, in the midst of this alms-giving, aimless, thoughtless, ineffectual to achieve any object its donors had in view. It is a gigantic system, or rather no system, which has grown up around us. What is our duty with regard to it? Specially what is the duty of those of us who are, in any sense of the word, trustees of charitable funds?

There is a society which you all know well enough by name—the Charity Organisation Society—which has set itself to help distributors of alms in two important ways. First, it has offered to examine, free of all charge, carefully, for anyone who wants to learn about them, the circumstances and character of


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 for relief. Donors cannot decide what help it is wise to give until they know all about an applicant; the Society can learn such facts in a far more complete way than donors possibly can. Clearly then, to my mind, donors or distributors of gifts ought to accept this proffered help.

But the Society offers a second advantage; it will give an opinion on the case of an applicant. When the facts respecting his condition and character are ascertained, the problem is simply this. How can he be so helped that the help may soon be needed no longer; how placed speedily out of the reach of want, in an honourable useful place where he can help himself? Or if his need be necessarily chronic, how can he be provided for adequately and regularly—so regularly that he shall be tempted neither to begging nor extravagance? It is very difficult to set a man up again in the world; and the main hope of doing it is to pause deliberately over his case, to bring to


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 bear upon it all the collected information, all the practised experience, and intelligent thought of men and women accustomed to think out such problems, and to watch the results of many attempts to solve them. The ordinary district visitor has no qualifications for forming an opinion on the best way of meeting the difficulties of the case, nor usually has the busy clergyman much more. The visitor has very rarely even a glimmering notion that there is such a way of dealing with the poverty she pities, she hardly dreams that it is possible to attack it at its roots, and so she gives the ticket or the shilling. The clergyman usually feels that this is an unsatisfactory way of treating the matter; but he knows probably no more than the visitor, in what part of the country there may be an opening for work for the man whose trade is slack in London; nor what training would enable the invalid girl who can only use her hands, and lies bedridden and helpless, to contribute something


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 Rh Thomas Walker, believed to have been brothers, who came from Middlesex, England, probably between 1650 and 1660.

The will of Joseph Walker, of St. Margarets parish, Westminster, London, county Middlesex, probated in 1666, devised his property to his kinsman, "John Walker, now living in Virginia." This John Walker was a very prominent man, known as Colonel John Walker. He died about 1671, leaving six daughters. Colonel Thomas Walker, said to have been his brother, also a very prominent man, left sons. One of these sons was John Walker, who was the father of Dr. Thomas Walker, born in 1715, a noted explorer who saw Kentucky in 1750, and is said to have been the first white man who ever saw that section. Dr. Thomas Walker settled, certainly prior to 1742, in a section of country out of which has been carved the counties of Orange, Louisa and Albemarle. When the old Fredericksville parish was organized, in 1742, Dr. Thomas Walker was one of the first vestrymen, and in later years was succeeded in the vestry by three of his sons: Thomas, Jr., John and Francis.

Colonel John Walker, son of Dr. Thomas Walker, served in the revolutionary war on Washington's staff, and a younger son, Francis, also attained the rank of colonel.

Rev. James Maury married a Miss Walker, of this family, and named one of his sons Walker Maury. Matthew Maury also named one of his sons Walker Maury.

This old Walker family lived at Belvoir, and Walker's Church (named for them) was on the road from Orange Court House to Charlottesville.

On May 8, 1775, on a list of the committee of safety for Louisa county, appears as first man. Thomas Walker. Whether this was Dr. Walker, or his son, Thomas, who was then probably a man of thirty, cannot be definitely stated.

Dr. Thomas Walker is believed to have been the progenitor of all the Walker families of the section from which C. H. Walker comes, and the probabilities are that Charles H. Walker is in the fifth generation from him. In the absence, however, of recorded evidence this statement cannot be made as a definite fact. The coat-of-arms of the Walker family of county Middlesex is thus described by Burke:

""

A peculiar feature of the Walker coats-of-arms in Great Britain is that a very great number of them show in their crests a grey-hound. The only way that one can account for this is that a majority of the families evidently claimed (or rather looked back to) a common ancestry.

The coat-of-arms of the Hughson family, Mr. Walker's maternal line, is thus described: "Parted per cross, gules and ermine, in the first quarter a lion rampant or, over all an eagle displayed of the last."

Charles H. Walker, "of Charlottesville, will not suffer by comparison with the distinguished members of the Walker family, because he has filled with fidelity every duty in life, and won for himself the respect and good will of the people among whom his life has been spent.

He was born at Louisa Court House, July 29, 1845, son of John W. and Martha (Hughson) Walker. His father was a railroad contractor of the firm of Mason & Walker. His maternal grandfather was Samuel Hughson, of the Green Springs section of Louisa county. His paternal grandfather, Austin Walker, lived in Piedmont, Virginia, and was the father of a numerous family. Somewhere between 1825 and 1830 he moved with his entire family to the west, with the exception of his two sons and one daughter, who remained in Virginia. During the war period 1861-1865, communication having become interrupted, Mr. Walker's people in Vrginia lost track of their relatives in the west.

Charles H. Walker attended John P. Thompson's Private School at Louisa, later he went to the Dinwiddle School at Greenwood, Virginia, and was a student at the Crenshaw School in Amelia county in 1863, when he quit school finally to enter the Confederate army. He became a member of that famous corps commanded by Colonel John S. Mosby, the great partisan officer of the war whose command won fame under the name of "Mosby's Battalion." On August 13, 1864 while taking his part in the capture of a wagon train at Berryville. Mr. Walker was severely wounded, but was fully recovered before the end of the war. The young man was not quite twenty-one at the close of that great struggle. He was


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 to the common income; nor what institution would receive, and how the guardians might pay for, the cripple who is made an excuse for begging for the whole family, and how he might learn a trade, and in the future honourably support himself. It is only a body accustomed to deal with many such cases, to devote attention to practical questions mainly, that acquires the knowledge of what measures can be taken under different circumstances, and knows the latest news as to the labour market, and the opportunities open to the needy.

I am far from saying that the Charity Organisation Society has, as yet, in each of the thirty-eight divisions of London, a committee capable of giving a valuable opinion on a case; nor even that in every district the committee has realised that to give such an opinion is its real end and aim. But I do say that this is the intention of the Society, and that on the committee, if anywhere, you will in each neighbourhood find the men and women most


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 alive to the importance of fulfilling this duty; for more and more of the district committees are finding members who set before themselves the necessity of learning to execute it.

I know little of your own Charity Organisation Committee, but I would ask you to remember that it is not a separate society coming from afar and settling down among you. It is what you workers among the poor make it; it is you who ought to form it. And that which I said above you separately were not able to do, collectively you, and none but you, can do—decide what help it is wise to give to every poor man or woman who comes before you at a crisis in life. A representative from every local charity, a few men conversant with the work of every great metropolitan charity, two or three active guardians, the clergy and ministers of all denominations, or some leading member of their staff or congregations, these should form your district committee. After careful investigation


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 by a skilled paid officer, the case of an applicant for charity, when it comes before such a committee as that, has a fair chance of really effectual treatment. Either someone present will know of work that needs to be done; or, if the applicant's wants can only be met by distinct gift, then, all the givers or their representatives being present, the gift can after due deliberation be made without chance of overlapping, with certainty that it is sufficient and its object well thought out.

District visitors will find it valuable to study with the district committee many questions respecting relief. The work of visitors is one in which I have long taken the deepest interest; their gentle influence in their informal visits is just what is wanted to bridge over the great chasm which lies open between classes. Rich and poor should know one another simply and naturally as friends, and the more visitors can enter into such real friendship the better. When, however, they attempt to deal


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 with cases of relief, I feel that they possess few of the qualifications requisite for doing it wisely, and I would most seriously urge them, either to leave this branch of help entirely to others, or with deliberate purpose to set themselves to learn all that it is essential to them to know before they can do it well. For there is more at stake, a great deal more, than the wasting of their own or their friends' money: that would matter comparatively little if the effect of mistake in its use were not positively disastrous to the poor. But it is disastrous. We go into the house of a young working-man; we meet with ready gift the first need as it arises; we do not pause to remember how the effort to meet that need was a duty for the young husband and father. We discourage the quiet confidence, the careful forethought which would have made a man of him; we diminish his sense of responsibility; the way he spends his earnings begins to appear to him a matter of smaller


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 dissipates them in the public-house; he gets into the habit of doing so; we, or succeeding visitors, feel the hopelessness of help increase; not only does the drag upon our purse become heavier and heavier, but it becomes clearer to us that the money we give does not adequately feed the wife and children, while it does lead the husband to hope that if he yields to the strongly increased temptation to drink, some lady will help, some charity interpose, the children won't quite starve. We have weakened the natural ties, broken the appointed order, and the neat, tidy little home has sunk into the drunkard's desolate room.

Or we take up the case of a widow, and instead of once for all considering how much she can do for her own and her children's support, and deliberately uniting our forces to relieve her once for all of that part of the cost which she cannot meet, we let her come up to our house whenever she cannot fulfil


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June 25, 189— Dear Pierrepont: Your letter of the seventh twists around the point a good deal like a setter pup chasing his tail. But I gather from it that you want to spend a couple of months in Europe before coming on here and getting your nose in the bullring. Of course, you are your own boss now and you ought to be able to judge better than any one else how much time you have to waste, but it seems to me, on general principles, that a young man of twenty-two, who is physically and mentally sound, and who hasn't got a dollar and has never earned one, can't be getting on somebody's pay-roll too quick. And in this connection it is only fair to tell you that I have instructed the cashier to discontinue your allowance after July 15. That gives you two weeks for a vacation—enough to make a sick boy well, or a lazy one lazier.


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Rh consistency which the critics have observed would thus be due to interpolation. The alternative hypothesis is, that the author of 26–1631 used as the basis of his work an older collection of tales of the Israelite heroes, in which the varying fortunes of Israel in those troublous times were already made to point the moral that unfaithfulness to Yahweh was the prime cause of all the evils that befell the people,—a pre-Deuteronomic Book of the Histories of the Judges.

The considerations which incline the balance of probability to the second of these hypotheses are the following: (a) The elements which are admitted by all not to belong to the principal Deuteronomic stratum in the book do not seem to be superimposed upon it, but embedded in it; and they are more intimately united with their context than the additions by which later editors often try to heighten the effect of their text are wont to be. (b) If the author or editor of the present Book of Judges made all these additions in 26–1631, we should expect to find his mark upon ch. 17, 18, 19–21 also, which certainly invited a moral comment and application quite as much as some of the stories in the body of the work; but no trace of such an improvement is to be discovered in those chapters. (c) The language of the parts of the book in question is distinguished from that of the Deuteronomic writers and editors generally by a more marked affinity to one of the older sources of the Hexateuch (E). (d) Some of the tales, e.g. that of Gideon (ch. 6–8), are composite; two somewhat different versions of the story have been united by a third hand, which does not appear to be that of the author of the book, but of an earlier redactor. It is not a remote conjecture that this redactor is also the author of the non-Deuteronomic element in the introduction (26–36) and other parts of the book, (e) The Deuteronomic Book of Judges did not include ch. 17, 18, 19–21; the closing formula, 1520, may perhaps be taken as evidence that it did not contain ch. 16; 833–35 is an editorial substitute for


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Rh I hear a good deal about men who won't take vacations, and who kill themselves by overwork, but it's usually worry or whiskey. It's not what a man does during working-hours, but after them, that breaks down his health. A fellow and his business should be bosom friends in the office and sworn enemies out of it. A clear mind is one that is swept clean of business at six o'clock every night and isn't opened up for it again until after the shutters are taken down next morning.

Some fellows leave the office at night and start out to whoop it up with the boys, and some go home to sit up with their troubles—they're both in bad company. They're the men who are always needing vacations, and never getting any good out of them. What every man does need once a year is a change of work—that is, if he has been curved up over a desk for fifty weeks and subsisting on birds and burgundy, he ought to take to fishing for a living and try bacon and


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Rh eggs, with a little spring water, for dinner. But coming from Harvard to the packinghouse will give you change enough this year to keep you in good trim, even if you didn't have a fortnight's leeway to run loose.

You will always find it a safe rule to take a thing just as quick as it is offered—especially a job. It is never easy to get one except when you don't want it; but when you have to get work, and go after it with a gun, you'll find it as shy as an old crow that every farmer in the county has had a shot at.

When I was a young fellow and out of a place, I always made it a rule to take the first job that offered, and to use it for bait. You can catch a minnow with a worm, and a bass will take your minnow. A good fat bass will tempt an otter, and then you've got something worth skinning. Of course, there's no danger of your not being able to get a job with the house—in fact, there is no real way in which you can escape getting


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Rh one; but I don't like to see you shy off every time the old man gets close to you with the halter.

I want you to learn right at the outset not to play with the spoon before you take the medicine. Putting off an easy thing makes it hard, and putting off a hard one makes it impossible. Procrastination is the longest word in the language, but there's only one letter between its ends when they occupy their proper places in the alphabet.

Old Dick Stover, for whom I once clerked in Indiana, was the worst hand at procrastinating that I ever saw. Dick was a powerful hearty eater, and no one ever loved meal-time better, but he used to keep turning over in bed mornings for just another wink and staving off getting up, until finally his wife combined breakfast and dinner on him, and he only got two meals a day. He was a mighty religious man, too, but he got to putting off saying his prayers until after he was in bed, and then he would


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Rh keep passing them along until his mind was clear of worldly things, and in the end he would drop off to sleep without saying them at all. What between missing the Sunday morning service and never being seen on his knees, the first thing Dick knew he was turned out of the church. He had a pretty good business when I first went with him, but he would keep putting off firing his bad clerks until they had lit out with the petty cash; and he would keep putting off raising the salaries of his good ones until his competitor had hired them away. Finally, he got so that he wouldn't discount his bills, even when he had the money; and when they came due he would give notes so as to keep from paying out his cash a little longer. Running a business on those lines is, of course, equivalent to making a will in favor of the sheriff and committing suicide so that he can inherit. The last I heard of Dick he was ninety-three years old and just about to die. That was ten years


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xxii ch. 9, which has obviously not passed through the hands of the Deuteronomic author. But ch. 17, 18, and the primary version of the story in ch. 19–21 are akin to the older narratives in 26–1631; ch. 16, the death of Samson, is unquestionably from the same source as ch. 13–15; ch. 9, itself composite, is too closely connected with ch. 6–8 to be of different origin. The simplest hypothesis is, that these chapters were contained in the earlier collection, but were omitted by the Deuteronomic author from his book, as unsuitable to his purpose.

The older book seems to have contained the histories of Ehud, Deborah and Barak, Gideon, Abimelech, Jephthah, and Samson; not improbably also the story of Micah's idols and the migration of the Danites, and the original form of that of the Levite and his concubine. In what order these stories stood, we cannot make out. Chapters 17, 18, and 19–21, if included in the book, would have their natural place near its beginning; they certainly cannot have stood where they now do, in the midst of the history of the "days of the Philistines," between Samson and Eli. Chapter 106–16, a formal and extended introduction resembling 26–21, can hardly have been designed to occupy its present position.

It is a question of more importance whether the pre-Deuteronomic Judges (to use this name for brevity) contained other histories not included in the canonical Book of Judges.

The death of Samson (1631) is not the end of a period or a turning point in the history, such as an author would naturally choose for the end of a book; nor is it at all probable that a writer who begins with an introduction of some length, setting forth in advance the moral of the history, would bring his work to so abrupt a conclusion without a word of retrospective comment. It has long been noticed that in 1 Sam. the account of the death of Eli (418) is followed by the words, "Now he had judged Israel


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Rh ago, and I'll bet he's living yet. I simply mention Dick in passing as an instance of how habits rule a man's life.

There is one excuse for every mistake a man can make, but only one. When a fellow makes the same mistake twice he's got to throw up both hands and own up to carelessness or cussedness. Of course, I knew that you would make a fool of yourself pretty often when I sent you to college, and I haven't been disappointed. But I expected you to narrow down the number of combinations possible by making a different sort of a fool of yourself every time. That is the important thing, unless a fellow has too lively an imagination, or has none at all. You are bound to try this European foolishness sooner or later, but if you will wait a few years, you will approach it in an entirely different spirit—and you will come back with a good deal of respect for the people who have sense enough to stay at home.


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Rh I piece out from your letter that you expect a few months on the other side will sort of put a polish on you. I don't want to seem pessimistic, but I have seen hundreds of boys graduate from college and go over with the same idea, and they didn't bring back a great deal except a few trunks of badly fitting clothes. Seeing the world is like charity—it covers a multitude of sins, and, like charity, it ought to begin at home.

Culture is not a matter of a change of climate. You'll hear more about Browning to the square foot in the Mississippi Valley than you will in England. And there's as much Art talk on the Lake front as in the Latin Quarter. It may be a little different, but it's there.

I went to Europe once myself. I was pretty raw when I left Chicago, and I was pretty sore when I got back. Coming and going I was simply sick. In London, for the first time in my life, I was taken for an


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Rh easy thing. Every time I went into a store there was a bull movement. The clerks all knocked off their regular work and started in to mark up prices.

They used to tell me that they didn't have any gold-brick men over there. So they don't. They deal in pictures—old masters, they call them. I bought two—you know the ones—those hanging in the waiting-room at the stock yards; and when I got back I found out that they had been painted by a measly little fellow who went to Paris to study art, after Bill Harris had found out that he was no good as a settling clerk. I keep 'em to remind myself that there's no fool like an old American fool when he gets this picture paresis.

The fellow who tried to fit me out with a coat-of-arms didn't find me so easy. I picked mine when I first went into business for myself—a charging steer—and it's registered at Washington. It's my


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Rh, of course, and that's the only coat-of-arms an American merchant has any business with. It's penetrated to every quarter of the globe in the last twenty years, and every soldier in the world has carried it—in his knapsack.

I take just as much pride in it as the fellow who inherits his and can't find any place to put it, except on his carriage door and his letter-head—and it's a heap more profitable. It's got so now that every jobber in the trade knows that it stands for good quality, and that's all any Englishman's coat-of-arms can stand for. Of course, an American's can't stand for anything much—generally it's the burned-in-the skin brand of a snob.

After the way some of the descendants of the old New York Dutchmen with the hoe and the English general storekeepers have turned out, I sometimes feel a little uneasy about what my great-grandchildren may


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Rh do, but we'll just stick to the trade-mark and try to live up to it while the old man's in the saddle.

I simply mention these things in a general way. I have no fears for you after you've been at work for a few years, and have struck an average between the packinghouse and Harvard; then if you want to graze over a wider range it can't hurt you. But for the present you will find yourself pretty busy trying to get into the winning class. Your affectionate father, 4em


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July 7, 189— Dear Pierrepont: Yours of the fourth has the right ring, and it says more to the number of words used than any letter that I have ever received from you. I remember reading once that some fellows use language to conceal thought; but it's been my experience that a good many more use it instead of thought.

A business man's conversation should be regulated by fewer and simpler rules than any other function of the human animal. They are:

Have something to say.

Say it.

Stop talking.

Beginning before you know what you want to say and keeping on after you have said it lands a merchant in a lawsuit or the poorhouse, and the first is a short cut to the second. I maintain a legal department here,


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Rh and it costs a lot of money, but it's to keep me from going to law.

It's all right when you are calling on a girl or talking with friends after dinner to run a conversation like a Sunday-school excursion, with stops to pick flowers; but in the office your sentences should be the shortest distance possible between periods. Cut out the introduction and the peroration, and stop before you get to secondly. You've got to preach short sermons to catch sinners; and deacons won't believe they need long ones themselves. Give fools the first and women the last word. The meat's always in the middle of the sandwich. Of course, a little butter on either side of it doesn't do any harm if it's intended for a man who likes butter.

Remember, too, that it's easier to look wise than to talk wisdom. Say less than the other fellow and listen more than you talk; for when a man's listening he isn't telling on himself and he's flattering the


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Rh who is. Give most men a good listener and most women enough note-paper and they'll tell all they know. Money talks—but not unless its owner has a loose tongue, and then its remarks are always offensive. Poverty talks, too, but nobody wants to hear what it has to say.

I simply mention these things in passing because I'm afraid you're apt to be the fellow who's doing the talking; just as I'm a little afraid that you're sometimes like the hungry drummer at the dollar-a-day house—inclined to kill your appetite by eating the cake in the centre of the table before the soup comes on.

Of course, I'm glad to see you swing into line and show the proper spirit about coming on here and going to work; but you mustn't get yourself all "het up" before you take the plunge, because you're bound to find the water pretty cold at first. I've seen a good many young fellows pass through and out of this office. The first


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Rh forty years"; precisely the same formula as in Jud. 1631, cf. 127 102, 3 129, 11, 14. Of Samuel also we read that "he judged Israel as long as he lived" (1 S. 715); and that the words were not originally meant in a justiciary sense, as might seem from v.16, 17, which describe his judicial circuit, is manifest from the preceding verses, which tell how he delivered Israel from the Philistines by the great victory at Mizpah, concluding in the same way as the accounts of the deliverances wrought by the judges before him: "And the Philistines were subdued, and did not again come into the territory of Israel; and the hand of Yahweh was against the Philistines as long as Samuel lived" (713). Samuel was thus, in this narrative, the judge who delivered Israel from the Philistines. In 1 S. 12 also, Samuel is represented, not merely as a prophet or as a justice, but as one who for many years had borne rule over Israel. This speech of Samuel, which contains a retrospect of the period of the judges (v.7–11), and solemn words of warning for the future under the newly established kingdom, is precisely the conclusion which we desire for the Book of the Histories of the Judges, corresponding admirably to the parting discourse of Joshua (Jos. 24) at the close of the period of the conquest. There is, therefore, great probability in the opinion of Graf and others that the pre-Deuteronomic Judges included the times of Eli and Samuel, and ended with 1 S. 12. If this be true, Jud. 106–16 may originally have been the introduction to the period of Philistine oppression in the same work. These wars were, in fact, and in the historical traditions of Israel, the beginning of a new epoch; and the author may have recognized their importance


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Rh week a lot of them go to work they're in a sweat for fear they'll be fired; and the second week for fear they won't be. By the third, a boy that's no good has learned just how little work he can do and keep his job; while the fellow who's got the right stuff in him is holding down his own place with one hand and beginning to reach for the job just ahead of him with the other. I don't mean that he's neglecting his work; but he's beginning to take notice, and that's a mighty hopeful sign in either a young clerk or a young widow.

You've got to handle the first year of your business life about the way you would a trotting horse. Warm up a little before going to the post—not enough to be in a sweat, but just enough to be limber and eager. Never start off at a gait that you can't improve on, but move along strong and well in hand to the quarter. Let out a notch there, but take it calm enough up to the half not to break, and hard enough not


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Rh to fall back into the ruck. At the three-quarters you ought to be going fast enough to poke your nose out of the other fellow's dust, and running like the Limited in the stretch. Keep your eyes to the front all the time, and you won't be so apt to shy at the little things by the side of the track. Head up, tail over the dashboard—that's the way the winners look in the old pictures of Maud S. and Dexter and Jay-Eye-See. And that's the way I want to see you swing by the old man at the end of the year, when we hoist the numbers of the fellows who are good enough to promote and pick out the salaries which need a little sweetening.

I've always taken a good deal of stock in what you call "Blood-will-tell" if you're a Methodist, or "Heredity" if you're a Unitarian; and I don't want you to come along at this late day and disturb my religious beliefs. A man's love for his children and his pride are pretty badly snarled up in this world, and he can't always pick them


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Rh apart. I think a heap of you and a heap of the house, and I want to see you get along well together. To do that you must start right. It's just as necessary to make a good first impression in business as in courting. You'll read a good deal about "love at first sight" in novels, and there may be something in it for all I know; but I'm dead certain there's no such thing as love at first sight in business. A man's got to keep company a long time, and come early and stay late and sit close, before he can get a girl or a job worth having. There's nothing comes without calling in this world, and after you've called you've generally got to go and fetch it yourself.

Our bright young men have discovered how to make a pretty good article of potted chicken, and they don't need any help from hens, either; and you can smell the clover in our butterine if you've developed the poetic side of your nose; but none of the boys have been able to discover anything


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Rh that will pass as a substitute for work, even in a boarding-house, though I'll give some of them credit for having tried pretty hard.

I remember when I was selling goods for old Josh Jennings, back in the sixties, and had rounded up about a thousand in a savings-bank—a mighty hard thousand, that came a dollar or so at a time, and every dollar with a little bright mark where I had bit it—I roomed with a dry-goods clerk named Charlie Chase. Charlie had a hankering to be a rich man; but somehow he could never see any connection between that hankering and his counter, except that he'd hint to me sometimes about an heiress who used to squander her father's money shamefully for the sake of having Charlie wait on her. But when it came to getting rich outside the dry-goods business and getting rich in a hurry, Charlie was the man.

Along about Tuesday night—he was paid on Saturday—he'd stay at home and begin to scheme. He'd commence at eight o'clock


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Rh and start a magazine, maybe, and before midnight he'd be turning away subscribers because his preses couldn't print a big enough edition. Or perhaps he wouldn't feel literary that night, and so he'd invent a system for speculating in wheat and go on pyramiding his purchases till he'd made the best that Cheops did look like a five-cent plate of ice cream. All he ever needed was a few hundred for a starter, and to get that he'd decide to let me in on the ground floor. I want to say right here that whenever any one offers to let you in on the ground floor it's a pretty safe rule to take the elevator to the roof garden. I never exactly refused to lend Charlie the capital he needed, but we generally compromised on half a dollar next morning, when he was in a hurry to make the store to keep from getting docked.

He dropped by the office last week, a little bent and seedy, but all in a glow and trembling with excitement in the old way. Told me he was President of the Klondike


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Rh Exploring, Gold Prospecting and Immigration Company, with a capital of ten millions. I guessed that he was the board of directors and the capital stock and the exploring and the prospecting and the immigrating, too—everything, in fact, except the business card he'd sent in; for Charlie always had a gift for nosing out printers who'd trust him. Said that for the sake of old times he'd let me have a few thousand shares at fifty cents, though they would go to par in a year. In the end we compromised on a loan of ten dollars, and Charlie went away happy.

The swamps are full of razor-backs like Charlie, fellows who'd rather make a million a night in their heads than five dollars a day in cash. I have always found it cheaper to lend a man of that build a little money than to hire him. As a matter of fact, I have never known a fellow who was smart enough to think for the house days and for himself nights. A man who tries that is usually a pretty poor thinker, and he isn't


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Rh much good to either; but if there's any choice the house gets the worst of it.

I simply mention these little things in a general way. If you can take my word for some of them you are going to save yourself a whole lot of trouble. There are others which I don't speak of because life is too short and because it seems to afford a fellow a heap of satisfaction to pull the trigger for himself to see if it is loaded; and a lesson learned at the muzzle has the virtue of never being forgotten.

You report to Milligan at the yards at eight sharp on the fifteenth. You'd better figure on being here on the fourteenth, because Milligan's a pretty touchy Irishman, and I may be able to give you a point or two that will help you to keep on his mellow side. He's apt to feel a little sore at taking on in his department a man whom he hasn't passed on. Your affectionate father, 4em


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 her engagements, and we give her, when her story or tears move us, a few shillings. We ease our own feelings by doing this, but what besides have we done. We have not fortified her for the battle of life; we have not cultivated in her the habit of deliberate arrangement as to the best expenditure of her scanty means. We have done something to teach her how easy it is, if she gets into debt and the brokers are put in, to go round to one house after another and get a few shillings from each, and having met the difficulty for the moment to begin involving herself in another. Look at her a few years later. The sincere grief of the widowed mother has been degraded into a means of begging; the ready tears come, or appear to come, at call; the sacred grief is for everyone to see in hopes someone may alleviate it with half-a-crown. The sense of a right to be helped has grown, the sense of her own duty has diminished. Work has not paid so well that it has been steadily


text: Letters from a Self-Made Merchant to His Son/Letter 5


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 in. The easily begged money has been easily spent; the powers of endurance, the habits of industry are gone; grief is her stock-in-trade; its frequent use has diminished the power of feeling strongly and sincerely. Perhaps she has discovered that professions of piety are rewarded with half-crowns, and expressions, once sincere, have become cant phrases. We are shocked at her; we say we were glad enough to help her when she was working, and was feeling simply and strongly, but now it is different. My friends, who made it different? God gave her the sacred sorrow and the difficulties of her life to soften and to train her. It might have been well that we should like true friends have stood by her, and so far diminished her difficulty as to make it just within her power to meet it; it might have been well for us to support one child, to pay school-fees, or to help in some other way by some one distinct payment, so regular as to become very natural to her, but