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RV 306 (BUDDENBROOKS) his soul from the beginning of time, and must one day sink under at last.

He had wound the alarm-clock and gone to sleep—and slept that dead and heavy sleep that comes when one wishes never to awake again. And now Monday was here, and he had not prepared a single lesson.

He sat up and lighted the bedside candle. But his arms and shoulders felt so cold that he lay down again and pulled up the covers.

The hand pointed to ten minutes after six. Oh, it was absurd to get up now! He should hardly have time to make a beginning, for there was preparation in nearly every lesson. And the time he had fixed was already past. Was it as certain, then, as it had seemed to him yesterday that he would he called up in Latin and Chemistry? It was certainly to be expected—in all human probability it would happen. The names at the end of the alphabet had lately been called in the Ovid class, and presumably they would begin again at the beginning. But, after all, it wasn’t so absolutely certain, beyond a peradventure—there were exceptions to every rule. Chance sometimes worked wonders, he knew. He sank deeper and deeper into these false and plausible speculations; his thoughts began to run in together—he was asleep.

The little schoolboy bedchamber, cold and bare, with the copper-plate of the Sistine Madonna over the bed, the extension-table in the middle, the untidy book-shelf, a stiff-legged mahogany desk, the harmonium, and the small wash-hand stand, lay silent in the flickering light of the candle. The window was covered with ice-crystals, and the blind was up in order that the light might come earlier. And Hanno slept, his cheek pressed into the pillow, his lips closed, the eyelashes lying close upon his cheek; he slept with an expression of the most utter abandonment to slumber, the soft, light-brown hair clustering about his temples. And slowly the candle-flame lost its reddish-yellow glow, as the

RV 306 (306)


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 "This kid's all right," said a man he recognized as Lieutenant Grady from the neighborhood station. "He's Ben Guarino's brother."

"That don't mean anything," retorted a burly, cold-eyed man whose hard-boiled demeanor identified him as from headquarters.

"Does to Tony!" snapped Grady. "We've never heard of him bein' outside the law yet, either in this ward or any other."

"Thanks, Lieutenant!" smiled Tony. "Can't I buy a cigar for you and the boys?"

They all laughed at that. Not a man of them but what was old enough to be his father, yet he called them "boys" and they liked it. With all the poise and self-possession of a judge on his own bench, Tony led the crowd of officers to the front of the pool-room and purchased cigars for them all. Then they exchanged cheery "Good-nights" with him and departed. Already Tony had learned the manifold advantage of having a good "rep" with the cops. Also he knew the great power that came from having people in one's debt, even for such little things as cigars. Tony seldom accepted a favor from any one, but if he did, he always tried to return one twice as big, thus removing his moral debt to them and making them indebted to him.

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

title: Page:Scarface.pdf/23


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RV 307 (BUDDENBROOKS) pale, dun-coloured dawn stole into the room through the icy coating on the window-pane.

At seven he woke once more, with a start of fear. He must get up and take upon himself the burden of the day. There was no way out of it. Only a short hour now remained before school would begin. Time pressed; there was no thought of preparation now. And yet he continued to lie, full of exasperation and rebellion against this brutal compulsion that was upon him to forsake his warm bed in the frosty dawning and go out into the world, into contact with harsh and unfriendly people. “Oh, only two little tiny minutes more,” he begged of his pillow, in overwhelming tenderness. And then he gave himself a full five minutes more, out of sheer bravado, and closed his eyes, opening one from time to time to stare despairingly at the clock, which went stupidly on in its insensate, accurate way.

Ten minutes after seven o’clock, he tore himself out of bed and began to move about the room with frantic haste. He let the candle burn, for the daylight was not enough by itself. He breathed upon a crystal and, looking out, saw a thick mist abroad.

He was unutterably cold, and a shiver sometimes shook his entire body. The ends of his fingers burned; they were so swollen that he could do nothing with the nail-brush. As he washed the upper parts of his body, his almost lifeless hand let fall the sponge, and he stood a moment stiff and helpless, steaming like a sweating horse.

At last he was dressed. Dull-eyed and breathless, he stood at the table, collected his despairing senses with a jerk, and began to put together the books he was likely to need to-day, murmuring in an anguished voice: “Religion, Latin, chemistry,” and shuffling together the wretched ink-spotted paper volumes.

Yes, he was already quite tall, was little Johann. He was more than fifteen years old, and no longer wore a sailor costume, hut a light-brown jacket suit with a blue-and-white

RV 307 (307)


text: Talk:Ballads of Battle/The Bullet

title: Talk:Ballads of Battle/The Bullet


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 He had the mind and soul of a master politician.

Tony suddenly realized that the stuffy, smoke-filled atmosphere of the pool-room had given him a headache, and decided to go home. Except for occasional oases like the pool-room, the neighborhood was a desert of gloom and deserted frowsiness. Street lights were infrequent and those that existed were of the old-fashioned, sputtering type that, like some people, made a lot of noise but accomplished little. It hadn't rained that night, yet there was an unhealthy dampness about. The dingy old buildings, with their ground-floor windows boarded up like blind eyes, seemed to hover malevolently over the narrow, dirty streets. One street that served as a push-cart market by day was littered with boxes and papers and heaps of reeking refuse. An occasional figure, either hunting or hunted, skulked along. Infrequently, a car raced past, awakening echoes that could be heard for blocks through the quiet streets. Over all hung a brooding stir of everpresent menace, an indefinable something that made sensitive strangers to the neighborhood suddenly look back over their shoulders for no good reason.

This was the setting of gangland, its spawning place, its lair and one of its principal hunting

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text:
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 The Circumstances attending the Murder in 1859, of the Botanist James Motley.

In Britten and Boulger's useful Biographical Index of British and Irish Botanists (London, 1893) the following is the entry regarding James Motley, its abbreviations expanded for clearness:—

, (fl. 1847-55). Murdered in Borneo by Mohammedan settlers. Of Aberafon, Glamorganshire, and afterwards of Labuan. Contrib.[utor] to Phyt.[ologist] ii. (1847) and Journ.[al of] Bot.[any], 1847 and [of] Carmar—then plants to Top.[ographical] Bot.[any], (551). Collected in Malaya, 1852-55. [Published "Contrib.[utions] to [the] Nat.[ural] Hist.[ory] of Labuan" (with L. L. Dillwyn), 1855. Plants [collected by him are] at Kew. [Vide] Linn.[ean Society's] "Trans.[actions], xxiii, 157; R.[oyal] S.[ociety's] C.[atalogue], iv, 495. [Commemorated in], Hook. f.

The statement that he was murdered by Mohammedan settlers is derived from the Transactions of the Linnean Society, loc. cit., where Sir Joseph Hooker in dedicating to him the jungle water-lily, Barclaya Motleyi, states that the examination of it was almost the last botanical work that he did. The implication that the murder was done in 1855 arises from want of evidence as to the date. But the events which led up to his death are recorded in the Singapore Free Press for 1859; and as apparently there appears to be only one file of the paper existing, it seems desirable to recall them. The word "settlers" disappears from the story.

James Motley was a Civil Engineer, who about 1852 went to Labuan in connection with coal-mining there, and became later the Superintendent of the coal-mining operations of a private company upon a concession in the territory of the Sultan of Banjermassin. This concession was along the Sungei Banyu Irang at two or three days journey to the south of Banjermassin town. There he was in 1850. In the very commencement of that year sinister whispers of sedition brewing in Banjermassin reached the Dutch Government in Batavia; but so badly was the Government served by their Resident at the Sultan's court that they were told in answer to their immediate enquiries that it was nothing. It was in fact a court-intrigue to replace the ruler by his brother, and, in doing so, to overthrow Dutch authority by which the reigning


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 grounds. It was also Tony's neighborhood, the only environment he had ever known. But he could not see that a great scheme of circumstances, a web much too intricate for him to understand, had gradually been shaping his destiny since the day of his birth, that it was as difficult for him to keep from being a gangster as it was for a Crown Prince to keep from becoming King.

Tony reached the little grocery store that his parents owned, and above which the family lived, passed to the door beyond, inserted his key and clattered up the dirty, uncarpeted steps. A light was on in the dining room, which also served as the parlor. Seated in an old rocker which had been patched with wire, sat Ben Guarino reading the paper, his blue uniformed legs and heavy, squaretoed black shoes resting on the dirty red and white checked tablecloth. His revolver, resting in its holster, hung suspended by the cartridge belt from the back of another rickety chair upon which rested his uniform coat and cap.

As Tony came in, Ben looked up. He was a stocky chap in the middle twenties with a brutal mouth and jaw and defiant dark eyes that usually held a baleful glitter. For a number of reasons, all of which he kept to himself, Tony felt that his

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RV 308 (BUDDENBROOKS) spotted cravat. Over his waistcoat he wore a long, thin gold chain that had belonged to his grandfather, and on the fourth finger of his broad but delicately articulated right hand was the old seal ring with the green stone. It was his now. He pulled on his heavy winter jacket, put on his hat, snatched his school-bag, extinguished the candle, and dashed down the stair to the ground floor, past the stuffed bear, and into the dining-room on the right.

Fräulein Clementine, his mother’s new factotum, a thin girl with curls on her forehead, a pointed nose, and short-sighted eyes, already sat at the breakfast-table.

“How late is it, really?” he asked between his teeth, though he already knew with great precision.

“A quarter before eight,” she answered, pointing with a thin, red, rheumatic-looking hand at the clock on the wall. “You must get along, Hanno.” She set a steaming cup of cocoa before him, and pushed the bread and butter, salt, and an egg-cup toward his place.

He said no more, clutched a roll, and began, standing, with his hat on and his bag under his arm, to swallow his cocoa. The hot drink hurt the back tooth which Herr Brecht had just been working at. He let half of it stand, pushed away the egg, and with a sound intended for an adieu ran out of the house.

It was ten minutes to eight when he left the garden and the little brick villa behind him and dashed along the wintry avenue. Ten, nine, eight minutes more. And it was a long way. He could scarcely see for the fog. He drew it in with his breath and breathed it out again, this thick, icy cold fog, with all the power of his narrow chest; he stopped his still throbbing tooth with his tongue, and did fearful violence to his leg muscles. He was bathed in perspiration; yet he felt frozen in every limb. He began to have a stitch in his side. The morsel of breakfast revolted in his stomach against this morning jaunt which it was taking; he felt nau-

RV 308 (308)


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 brother was going to be a big success as a policeman. To Tony, the only difference between a policeman and a gangster was a badge. They both came from the same sort of neighborhoods, had about the same education and ideas, usually knew each other before and after their paths diverged, and always got along well together if the gangsters had enough money.

"Where you been so late?" demanded Ben truculently.

"What the hell's it to you?" retorted Tony, then remembering the favor he was going to ask, became peaceable. "I didn't mean to be cross, Ben. But I got a nasty headache."

"Down to that O'Hara joint again, I s'pose?"

"Well, a fellow's got to have some place to go in the evening. And the only other place is some dance hall with a lot o' them cheap, silly broads."

"Gettin' choosy about your women, now, eh?"

"Yes,"

"Well, that's right," answered Ben with a grin. "There's nothin'll take a man to the top—or to the bottom—faster than a high-toned woman eggin' him on." Suddenly his feet struck the floor and he leaned forward, his eyes boring straight into those

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 20.—Hi wa kiyurédomo tō-shin wa kiyédzu.

Though the flame be put out, the wick remains.

21.—Hotoké mo motowa bonbu.

Even the Buddha was originally but a common man.

22.—Hotoké ni naru mo shami wo heru.

Even to become a Buddha one must first become a novice.

23.—Hotoké no kao mo sando.

Even a Buddha’s face,—only three times.

24.—Hotoké tanondé Jigoku é yuku.

Praying to Buddha one goes to hell.

25.—Hotoké tsukutté tamashii irédzu.

Making a Buddha without putting in the soul.


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RV 309 (BUDDENBROOKS) seated, and his heart fluttered and trembled so that it took away his breath.

The Castle Gate—only the Castle Gate—and it was four minutes to eight! As he panted on through the streets, in an extremity of mingled pain, perspiration, and nausea, he looked on all sides for his fellow pupils. No, there was no one else; they were all on the spot—and now it was beginning to strike eight. Bells were ringing all over the town, and the chimes of St. Mary’s were playing, in celebration of this moment, “now let us all thank God.” They played half the notes falsely; they had no idea of rhythm, and they were badly in want of tuning. Thus Hanno, in the madness of despair. But what was that to him? He was late; there was no longer any room for doubt. The school clock was usually a little behind, but not enough to help him this time. He stared hopelessly into people’s faces as they passed him. They were going to their offices or about their business; they were in no particular hurry; nothing was threatening them. Some of them looked at him and smiled at his distracted appearance and sulky looks. He was beside himself at these smiles. What were they smiling at, these comfortable, unhurried people? He wanted to shout after them and tell them their smiling was very uncivil. Perhaps they would just enjoy falling down dead in front of the closed entrance gate of the school!

The prolonged shrill ringing which was the signal for morning prayers struck on his ear while he was still twenty paces from the long red wall with the two cast-iron gates, which separated the court of the school-building from the street. He felt that his legs had no more power to advance: he simply let his body fall forward, the legs moved willy-nilly to prevent his stumbling, and thus he staggered on and arrived at the gate just as the bell had ceased ringing.

Herr Schlemiel, the porter, a heavy man with the face and rough beard of a labourer, was just about to close the gate.

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 of his brother. "Say, what's this I hear about you deliverin' packages for Smoky Joe?"

"Well?"

"Didn't you know there was dope in them packages?"

"No, I didn't. But now that I do, it's goin' to cost him more."

"You let that stuff alone."

"Oh, all right. I s'pose some cop belly-ached to you about it. Well, he can have that little graft, if he wants it. I got other things I can do."

"Yes, I guess you have," agreed Ben dryly, "from all I hear. So you been a lookout down at Mike Rafferty's gamblin' joint, too?"

"Yes. And why not? That's a decent way of makin' a few bucks. Would you rather have me out pullin' stick-ups like the rest of the guys in the neighborhood?"

"Of course not." He leaned forward and spoke seriously. "Don't ever get in no serious trouble, Tony; it would ruin me at headquarters."

"I won't. Don't worry about me. You got enough to do to watch your own step."

"What do you mean?"

"Nothin'," answered Tony casually with a smile, enjoying the sudden fear that had come into his

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 Sultan was maintained. The plotters played upon religious fanaticism, producing for their purpose a man who claimed to have come from heaven, and instigated the Dyaks to rise. They rose on April 28th, and attacked the mines at Pengaron which is on the east of Banjermassin, about as remote from it as the Sungei Banyu Irang is to the south. Though they were beaten off, they succeeded in arresting the messenger sent to Banjermassin to report, and killed him.

Three days later they attacked Motley's mines, killing Motley at a place called Bangkal, and Motley's wife and three children at a place called Kalangan; where also they murdered the rest of the company's stalf, their wives and children, all except a few infants. They murdered also about the same date in the same region a Dutch political officer and several missionaries. They all but got possession of the country, so that the fighting extended to Banjermassin itself, and it was not for two years that there was quiet again.


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 brother's face. "That's just a friendly tip from a fellow that knows more than you think he does."

"Who?" demanded Ben hoarsely.

"Me." Tony grinned again and flipped his cigarette ashes on the bare floor. "Say, Ben, can I have your car to-morrow night?"

"No. I'm usin' it myself. That's my night off."

"How about the next night?"

"No. You'd prob'ly get in trouble with it. Kids and cars don't go together."

"All right. I'll have one o' my own pretty soon and I'm goin' to get it as easy as you got that one."

With which parting shot, Tony went in to bed, slamming the door shut behind him. How a fellow making a hundred and fifty a month could acquire honestly a car that cost nearly three thousand dollars was too much for Tony. But then all policemen had big cars, and captains had strings of apartment buildings and sent their children to European finishing schools.

The strange quiet that momentarily descended over the Guarino household at this time of night was balm to Tony. It was the only period of the twenty-four hours that he could spend at home without feeling that he was about to go crazy. The

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RV 310 (BUDDENBROOKS) “Well!” he said, and let Buddenbrook slip through. Perhaps, perhaps, he might still be saved! What he had to do now was to slip unobserved into his classroom and wait there until the end of prayers, which were held in the drill-hall, and to act as if everything were in order. Panting, exhausted, in a cold perspiration, he slunk across the courtyard and through the folding doors with glass panes that divided it from the interior.

Everything in the establishment was now new, clean, and adequate. The time had been ripe; and the grey, crumbling walls of the ancient monastic school had been levelled to the ground to make room for the spacious, airy, and imposing new building. The style of the whole had been preserved, and corridors and cloisters were still spanned by the fine old Gothic vaulting. But the lighting and heating arrangements, the ventilation of the classrooms, the comfort of the masters’ rooms, the equipment of the halls for the teaching of chemistry, physics and design, all this had been carried out on the most modern lines with respect to comfort and sanitation.

The exhausted Hanno stuck close to the wall and kept his eyes open as he stole along. Heaven be praised, the corridors were empty. He heard distantly the hubbub made by the hosts of masters and pupils going into the drill-hall, to receive there a little spiritual strengthening for the labours of the week. But here everything was empty and still, and his road up the broad linoleum-covered stairs lay free. He stole up cautiously on his tip-toes, holding his breath, straining his ears for sounds from above. His classroom, the lower second of the Realschule, was in the first storey, opposite the stairs, and the door was open. Crouched on the top step, he peered down the long corridor, on both sides of which were the entrances to the various classrooms, with porcelain sigps above them. Three rapid, noiseless steps forward—and he was in his own room.

It was empty. The curtains of the three large windows were still drawn, and the gas was burning in the chandelier

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 rest of the time it was noise noise  noise He wondered if other people's homes were as uninviting and repellent; all those he had ever seen were.

He undressed quickly and climbed into the grimy bed which he and Ben shared. He wanted to sleep before Ben came in so that they couldn't argue any more. But his mind was racing and it kept swinging around to Vyvyan Lovejoy. Even to think about her made him alternately hot and cold all over and left him trembling with anticipation. He would have her; nobody could stop him—not even Al Spingola.

The fact that the woman he wanted belonged to another made not the slightest difference to Tony. All life was a battle and the strongest man got the gravy. Anyway, she had said she would talk to him if he had a car and some money. Well, he'd get 'em both, and be back at that stage door to-morrow night.

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text: Journal of the Straits Branch of the Royal Asiatic Society/Volume 79/The Circumstances Attending the Murder in 1859, of the Botanist James Motley


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at ten-thirty the next night Tony Guarino entered the dark alley that led to the sheet-iron stage door of the tawdry Gaiety Theatre. And he swaggered a little as he walked. He felt big and powerful and grand, an unnatural exultation due partly to his having visited three saloons on the way over—an unusual occurrence for him —but due mainly to the fact that he was ready for anything. At the curb stood a fast and expensive sport roadster that ordinarily saw service in more nefarious enterprises. He had rented it for the evening—just why he didn't know. According to the people who were in that racket, stealing a car was about the easiest of all crimes, both to commit and to get away with; it was the way ninety per cent of criminals started. But he didn't intend to be pinched the very first time that Vyvyan honored him with her company—because she was going to go with him to-night, even if she didn't know it yet—so he had rented the roadster for the night.

In his pants pocket bulged a wad of bills that

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RV 311 (BUDDENBROOKS) with a soft hissing noise. Green shades diffused the light over the three rows of desks. These desks each had room for two pupils; they were made of light-coloured wood, and opposite them, in remote and edifying austerity, stood the master’s platform with a blackboard behind it. A yellow wainscoting ran round the lower part of the wall, and above it the bare white-washed surface was decorated with a few maps. A second blackboard stood on an easel by the master’s chair.

Hanno went to his place, which was nearly in the centre of the room. He stuffed his bag into the desk, sank upon the hard seat, laid his arms on the sloping lid, and rested his head upon them. He had a sensation of unspeakable relief. The room was bare, hard, hateful, and ugly; and the burden of the whole threatening forenoon, with its numerous perils, lay before him. But for the moment he was safe; he had saved his skin, and could take things as they came. The first lesson, Herr Ballerstedt’s class in religious instruction, was comparatively harmless. He could see, by the vibration of the little strips of paper over the ventilator next the ceiling, that warm air was streaming in, and the gas, too, did its share to heat the room. He could actually stretch out here and feel his stiffened limbs slowly thawing. The heat mounted to his head: it was very pleasant, but not quite healthful; it made his ears buzz and his eyes heavy.

A sudden noise behind him made him start and turn around. And behold, from behind the last bench rose the head and shoulders of Kai, Count Mölln. He crawled out, did this young man, got up, shook himself, slapped his hands together to get the dust off, and came up to Hanno with a beaming face.

“Oh, it’s you, Hanno,” he said. “And I crawled back there because I took you for a piece of the faculty when you came in.”

His voice cracked as he spoke, because it was changing, which Hanno’s had not yet begun to do. He had kept pace

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 26.—Ichi-ju no kagé, ichi-ga no nagaré, tashō no en.

Even [the experience of] a single shadow or a single flowing of water, is [made by] the karma-relations of a former life.

27.—Ichi-mō shū-mō wo hiku.

One blind man leads many blind men.

28.—Ingwa na ko.

A karma-chiid.


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 totaled two hundred dollars—all the money he had in the world. It was so arranged that a crisp new bill of $100 denomination served as "wrapper" on the outside. The inside, a few fives but mostly ones, expanded the $100 note until the roll looked to be worth ten times its real value.

Thus he had everything she had asked for. But he also had something else. In his right hand side coat pocket rested an ugly blue steel revolver he had bought that afternoon. He had never carried a gun before and he found in it a big thrill. It gave one a sense of security and power, of equality with all the world. Why, with this revolver in his pocket he was just as good as Al Spingola. Thus Tony argued himself into a state of exaltation and high courage. But deep in his own soul he wondered just how he would act if he should be forced into an actual life-and-death encounter with Spingola.

Vyvyan came prancing out a little early, glittering and fragrant as usual, an enormous picture hat framing her hard face.

"Well, fer Gawd's sake!" she exclaimed when she saw him. "Mary's little lamb is on the job again."

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text: Author:Isaac Henry Burkill

title: Author:Isaac Henry Burkill


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 "Betcher life," grinned Tony. "An' I got the car an' a flock o' dough, like you wanted."

"You have?" she said mockingly. "Well, that puts little Johnny at the head of the class."

Tony's grin faded suddenly and he grabbed her arm.

"Listen, sister, don't try to kid me!" he snarled. "You an' I are goin' steppin' to-night."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah! So you might as well make up your mind to it and come along."

"Well," she said wearily, "I'm not to see Al till to-morrow night so I s'pose I might as well take a chance on you now. But I don't want anybody to see us, so that he'll hear about it." She shivered slightly. "Al's dangerous, kid. So drive to the corner of Taylor and Sangamon and wait for me there. I'll take a taxi and be along within five minutes."

"You're not giving me the run-around?"

"Absolutely not. I'll be there."

"Well, you better," said Tony darkly. "Or I'll be back to-morrow night and shoot up the place."

He entered the roadster and roared away, feeling very important. At the appointed corner, he waited nervously, muttering dire threats to himself.

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 But she came, and hurriedly climbed in beside him. The narrow confines of the roadster caused their thighs to touch for their whole length and he felt a sudden thrill from the contact. When she looked up at him suddenly with a queer light in her greenish eyes, he knew she had felt his revolver.

"S'all right, baby," he grinned reassuringly. "I won't use it unless I have to."

He drove her to a North Side restaurant that was noted for its discretion. Seated opposite each other in a small private dining-room on the second floor, they consumed a fine and expensive meal, and two bottles of champagne. Those were the days when real champagne could be had at almost any restaurant.

The meal over, and with only another bottle and glasses on the table, Tony moved his chair around beside Vyvyan's. She had progressed nicely and by now had reached the stage where she occasionally blew a long breath upward along her face with a loud "Whoosh!", as if to blow her hair out of her eyes.

"Well, kid, how do you feel?" asked Tony, reaching for her hand.

"Kinda warm," she giggled.

"So do I."

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 29.—Ingwa wa, kuruma no wa.

Cause-and-effect is like a wheel.

30.—Innen ga fukai.

The karma-relation is deep.

31.—Inochi wa fū-zen no tomoshibi.

Life is a lamp-flame before a wind.

32.—Issun no mushi ni mo, gobu no tamashii.

Even a worm an inch long has a soul half-an-inch long.


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 When he took her home shortly before five in the morning, she kissed him good-night and climbed out of the roadster with a heavy sigh.

"Boy, you sure can love!" she said weakly and tottered into her cheap hotel.

Tony arose at noon that day. A close shave with plenty of powder at the end made him look a little less haggard. There was a curious sense of elation singing within him. At last he had mastered a real woman, a woman much older and more experienced than he. He had found, too, that it was the mastering of another that he enjoyed in love. The thirst for power was almost a mania with him. And the fact that circumstances and conditions made it so that he had no right to ever expect to have any made him want it all the more.

His sister, Rosie, a tall, pretty girl of sixteen, cooked a meal for him. The six other children were at school. He ate hurriedly and in silence. There was so much to do now.

Clattering down the stairs, his mother's raucous, commanding shout reached his ears. He hesitated a moment, then entered the store, looking sullen and defiant. Mrs. Guarino was a squat, wrinkled Italian woman of fifty, with a figure like a loosely packed sack tied tightly in the middle, dressed in a

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 shapeless, indescribable gray wrapper whose waistline was invisible from the front due to her breasts dripping over it. Her unbobbed gray hair was drawn up all around and screwed into a tight knot atop her head. Heavy plain gold ear-rings hung from holes punched through the lobes of her ears. Yet despite her ugliness and barbaric appearance, her features were good, indicating native intelligence and honesty. Carlotta Guarino was a good citizen. If only she could have made her children as good citizens as were she and their father—but then that was impossible, though she didn't see why, nor did they.

"Where were you so late?" she demanded in rapid-fire Italian. "It was after five when you came in."

"Aw, I was talkin' business with somebody," answered Tony in English.

"What kind of business could you talk at that time of the morning?" she demanded again in Italian. "You come home earlier. You be a good boy like Ben and don't get us into any trouble."

"All right," assented Tony and hurried out, relieved at escaping after so short a grilling.

That was the way it always went, reproaches, recriminations, cautions. She and his father could

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 think of more things he shouldn't do. It never occurred to him that they were endeavoring to implant in him their own code of ethics and honesty. Their crudeness of expression kept him from realizing that. Even if he had realized it, he wouldn't have accepted it. Because, while he loved his parents with the fierce, clan-love of the Latin, he did not respect their ideas. There were many logical reasons for that—their inability to learn English well, their inability to "keep step" with the times and country, their bewilderment—even after twenty years—at the great nation which they had chosen for their new home, the fact that even with his father working hard every day and his mother tending the little store they had been able to make only a bare living for the large family. So why should he accept their ideas on ethics? Where had those ideas gotten them? Tony didn't intend to live in squalor like this all his life; he meant to be a "big shot." Thus another decent home spawned another gangster, as inevitably as an oyster creates a pearl.

There were other factors, of course, that contributed strongly in making Tony a gangster. His attitude toward the law, for instance. His first contact with it had come at the age of six when,

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 hungry, he had snatched a pear off a push-cart and a policeman had chased him. Thus, from the first, he had known the law as an enemy instead of a protection, as something which stood between him and the fruition of his desires.

His affair with Vyvyan seemed to have crystallized all this within him, to make him think and act with a ruthlessness and lawlessness hitherto foreign to him.

From a booth in a corner drug store he telephoned her at her cheap hotel.

"Hello, darling!" he said. "How do you feel?"

"Not so hot," she answered wearily. She sounded as if she had just awakened.

"I'm kinda tired myself," he admitted. 'But it was a great night, so what's the difference Listen, Vyv, don't forget that we got a date again to-night?"

"I'm s'posed to see Al to-night."

"To hell with Al!" Tony burst out angrily. "You're not seein' Al any more. Get that, baby. An' if he gets rough, I'll take care of him. I can gather up just as many gorillas for a battle as he can. So don't worry about him. Leave as early as you can to-night—he never gets around till late—and meet me at the same corner where we met

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 last night. An' be there, baby, or there'll be hell to pay."

The rest of the day Tony spent in making an inventory of all his "rackets" or ways of making money, with a few calls putting into smooth running order those that he had neglected somewhat recently and with other calls starting brand-new ones which were not a bit popular with the unwilling customers but which were going to be profitable to him. From now on he could afford to be interested only in the most profitable ones because he had a hunch that Vyvyan was going to be a mighty expensive proposition.

Lounging early that evening in his usual poolroom hang-out, Tony looked up in surprise as an ugly wop slunk into the next chair and nudged him.

"Well?" said Tony coldly.

"You're Tony Guarino, ain't you?"

"Yeah. What of it?"

"Just this. If you go out with Al Spingola's moll again, you won't last a week. An dat's from de boss himself."

"What do you mean?" demanded Tony, though he knew well enough.

"Don't be dumb. Dey'll find you in an alley some night wit' your t'roat cut."

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 33.—Iwashi no atama mo shinjin kara.

Even the head of an iwashi, by virtue of faith, [will have power to save, or heal].

34.—Jigō-jitoku.

The fruit of one’s own deeds [in a previous state of existence].

35.—Jigoku dé hotoké.

Like meeting with a Buddha in hell.


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RV 312 (BUDDENBROOKS) with Hanno in his growth, but his looks had not altered, and he still wore a dingy suit of no particular colour, with a button or so missing and a big patch in the seat. His hands, too, were not quite clean; narrow and aristocratic-looking though they were, with long, slender fingers and tapering nails. But his brow was still pure as alabaster beneath the carelessly parted reddish-yellow hair that fell over it, and the glance of the sparkling blue eyes was as keen and as profound as ever. In fact, the contrast was even more striking between his neglected toilette and the racial purity of his face, with its delicate bony structure, slightly aquiline nose, and short upper lip, upon which the down was beginning to show.

“Oh, Kai,” said Hanno, with a wry face, putting his hand to his heart. “How can you frighten me like that? What are you doing up here? Why are you hiding? Did you come late too?”

“Dear me, no,” Kai said. “I’ve been here a long time. Though one doesn’t much look forward to getting back to the old place, when Monday morning comes round. You must know that yourself, old fellow. No, I only stopped up here to have a little game. The deep one seems to be able to reconcile it with his religion to hunt people down to prayers. Well, I get behind him, and I manage to keep close behind his back whichever way he turns, the old mystic! So in the end he goes off, and I can stop up here. But what about you?” he said sympathetically, sitting down beside Hanno on the bench. “You had to run, didn’t you? Poor old chap! You look perfectly worn out. Your hair is sticking to your forehead.” He took a ruler from the table and carefully combed little Johann’s hair with it. “You overslept, didn’t you? Look,” he interrupted himself, “here I am sitting in the sacred seat of number one—Adolf Todtenhaupt’s place! Well, it won’t hurt me for once, I suppose. You overslept, didn’t you?”

Hanno had put his head down on his arms again. “I

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 afterwards conducted the concerts in Bath for twelve years. Ashe was an original member of the London Philharmonic Society, being their only flute in 1813, and played there in several Chamber pieces in 1815-16. He was nominated a Professor in the Royal Academy on its foundation in 1822; but returned to Dublin, where he was residing at the time of his death. Ashe was a remarkably healthy man, and used to boast that in his whole life he had only spent a single guinea in doctor's fees. He was one of the first to adopt the six-keyed flute, and is said to have possessed a full, rich tone and much taste and judgment.

Probably the most striking flautist that England ever produced was Charles Nicholson (1795-1837), born in Liverpool, the son of a flute-player. He was practically self-taught. A handsome man of commanding stature and endowed with great muscular power of chest and lip, Nicholson's popularity in England was absolutely unparalleled. He had more applicants for lessons at a guinea an hour than he could attend to. He played in the orchestra of Drury Lane, at the Italian opera, and the Philharmonic Concerts (1816-36). His style was the very antithesis of the French school, and he was by no means so highly thought of on the Continent. Fetis says he was inferior to Tulou in elegance and to Drouet in brilliant execution. He had a very peculiar, strong reedy tonesomething between the oboe and clarinetgrand, but so hard as to be almost metallic. His lower notes were specially powerful and "thick," and resembled


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RV 313 (BUDDENBROOKS) was at the opera last night,” he said, heaving a long sigh.

“Right—I’d forgot that. Well, was it beautiful?”

He got no answer.

You are a lucky fellow, after all,” went on Kai perseveringly. I’ve never been in the theatre, not a single time in my whole life, and there isn’t the smallest prospect of my going—at least, not for years.”

“If only one did not have to pay for it afterwards,” said Hanno gloomily.

“The headache next morning—well, I know how that feels, anyhow.” Kai stooped and picked up his friend’s coat and hat, which lay on the floor beside the bench, and carried them quietly out into the corridor.

“Then I take for granted you haven’t done the verses from the Metamorphoses?” he asked as he came back.

“No,” said Hanno.

“Have you prepared for the geography test?”

“I haven’t done anything, and I don’t know anything,” said Hanno.

“Not the chemistry nor the English, either? Benissimo! Then there’s a pair of us—brothers-in-arms,” said Kai, with obvious gratification. “I’m in exactly the same boat,” he announced jauntily. “I did no work Saturday, because the next day was Sunday; and I did no work on Sunday, because it was Sunday! No, nonsense, it was mostly because I’d something better to do.” He spoke with sudden earnestness, and a slight flush spread over his face. “Yes, perhaps it may he rather lively to-day, Hanno.”

“If I get only one more bad mark, I shan’t go up,” said Johann; “and I’m sure to get it when I’m called up for Latin. The letter B comes next, Kai, so there’s not much help for it.”

“We shall see: What does Caesar say? ‘Dangers may threaten me in the rear; but when they see the front of Caesar—’ ” But Kai did not finish. He was feeling rather out of sorts himself; he went to the platform and sat down

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 36.—Jigoku Gokuraku wa kokoro ni ari.

Hell and Heaven are in the hearts of men.

37.—Jigoku mo sumika.

Even Hell itself is a dwelling-place.

38.—Jigoku ni mo shiru hito.

Even in hell old acquaintances are welcome.

39.—Kagé no katachi ni shitagau gotoshi.

Even as the shadow follows the shape.

40.—Kané wa Amida yori hikaru.

Money shines even more brightly than Amida.


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 "I'll take my chances with him and his gorillas," bluffed Tony, and laughed. "A gun's better'n a knife any time and I can shoot better'n any of 'em. So run along, sonny, and tell your whole damn' gang to chew that on their back teeth."

Tony laughed outright at the expression of amazement on the henchman's ugly face, then with a sneering smile watched the fellow move away. In his side coat pocket that revolver still rested comfortably and reassuringly. It was amazing how much courage that weapon put into him. It bridged the difference between a David and a Goliath—it always does to a born gangster. Also that afternoon he had arranged for a friend of his who was a good shot to trail him everywhere he went at night now, and be ready to shoot down from behind anybody who tried to get Tony in the same way.

Vyvyan was nervous and shivery when she arrived at the appointed corner in a taxi and climbed into the roadster beside him.

"I'm scared, Tony," she said and gripped his arm while she looked back over her shoulder. Then half-screamed. "Oh there's another car starting up after us."

"Don't worry; that's my body guard."

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 "Oh! Well, just as I started into the theater to-night the meanest looking man I ever saw stepped right in front of me and jammed a note into my hand. I wouldn't have been surprised if he had started to murder me right there. But he went on. When I got into my dressing-room I read what he had given me. It was written in pencil, all scrawled and dirty, but plain enough. This is what it said: 'If you stand me up again, your life won't be worth a lead nickel. Remember that!' It was from Al, of course," she finished.

"Yeah, Another one o' his muggs tried to bluff me at the pool-room to-night but I told him I was able to take care of myself with Spingola or anybody else."

They drove to the same restaurant as the night before and were shown to the same little private dining room. Half an hour later the door was thrust open violently and Al Spingola stood framed in the opening. His swarthy face was a sort of ghastly gray, his eyes blazed with the fires of hell, and his brutal mouth was set in a nasty snarl. Most important of all, his right hand was plunged deep into his side coat pocket.

Tony had turned a strange greenish white and his eyes were glazed. The encounter between

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RV 314 (BUDDENBROOKS) in the master’s chair, where he began to rock back and forth, scowling. Hanno still sat with his forehead resting on his arms. So they remained for a while in silence.

Then, somewhere in the distance, a dull humming was heard, which quickly swelled to a tumult of voices, approaching, imminent.

“The mob,” said Kai, in an exasperated tone. “Goodness, how fast they got through. They haven’t taken up ten minutes of the period!”

He got down from the platform and went to the door to mingle with the incoming stream. Hanno, for his part, lifted up his head for a minute, screwed up his mouth, and remained seated.

Stamping, shuffling, with a confusion of masculine voices, treble and falsetto, they flooded up the steps and over the corridor. The classroom suddenly became full of noise and movement. This was the lower second form of the Realschule, some twenty-five strong, comrades of Hanno and Kai. They loitered to their places with their hands in their pockets or dangling their arms, sat down, and opened their Bibles. Some of the faces were pleasant, strong, and healthy; others were doubtful or suspicious-looking. Here were tall, stout, lusty rascals who would soon go to sea or else begin a mercantile career, and who had no further interest in their school life; and small, ambitious lads, far ahead of their age, who were brilliant in subjects that could be got by heart. Adolf Todtenhaupt was the head boy. He knew everything. In all his school career he had never failed to answer a question. Part of his reputation was due to his silent, impassioned industry; but part was also due to the fact that the masters were careful not to ask him anything he might not know. It would have pained and mortified them and shaken their faith in human perfectibility t© have Adolf Todtenhaupt fail to answer. He had a head full of remarkable bumps, to which his blond hair clung as smooth as glass; grey eyes with black rings beneath them, and long brown

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 those of a cornet or an organ. His double-tongueing was extremely effective, and a great feature in his performance was his whirlwind chromatic rush up the instrument from the lowest C to the very topmost notes in alt.; he himself compared it to the rush of a sky-rocket, whilst his descending scale has been likened to the torrent of a waterfall. He simply revelled in difficulties, using harmonics freely, and also the vibrato and the "glide." He adopted very large holes (Böhm, whose fingers were small and tapering could not cover them), and had various excavations made in the wood of his flutes to fit his fingers and joints. He frequently performed in public without any accompaniment, and is said to have excelled in an adagio, his playing abounding in contrast and variety. As a rule, he played his own compositionsmostly rubbishy airs with well-nigh impossible variations, embellishments, cadences, cadenzas, and shakes of inordinate length. His flute had at first six, and later seven keys. On one occasion a duel was arranged between him and Mr. James, the author of A Word or Two on the Flute, but it never came off. Nicholson's posing and tricks gave rise to many satires, in one of which he is called "Phunniwistl." After all his vast popularity, Nicholson, owing to his extravagant habits, died (of dropsy) in absolute penury. He was appointed professor of the flute at the Royal Academy of Music in 1822.

On Nicholson's death he was succeeded by his pupil Joseph Richardson (1814-62), popularly termed "The Ambidextrous," or "The English Drouet," in


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 himself and Spingola had come at last and that it was a life-and-death fight was obvious.

"Al!" gasped Vyvyan. "Don't do—" Her voice trailed off.

Tony and Spingola were staring straight into each other's eyes. The younger man looked nervous; it isn't easy to kill your first man.

"So you couldn't take a warning, eh, you two punks; you thought you could get away with giving me the run-around."

"Who are you?" asked Tony, knowing that to be the most disconcerting thing he could say.

"Who'm I?" spluttered Spingola. "I'll show you—"

And at that instant Tony fired through his coat pocket. He had been reaching for his napkin when Spingola came in. Immeditely but without perceptible movement, his hand had shifted to his gun. He had had the drop on Spingola the whole time and had merely created a little diversion to make absolutely sure of winning his first gun battle.

Spingola looked surprised, then sagged to the floor. With a handkerchief Tony quickly rubbed his gun free of fingerprints, then threw the weapon out the window into the alley below.

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 "Come, dear," he said coldly, reaching for the shaking Vyvyan's arm. Now that the deed was over, he felt strangely calm and strong, ready for anything.

He dropped a fifty dollar bill on the table and rushed the girl down the back stairs. Through the alley they hurried, to where their roadster was parked. They raced away down an impenetrably dark street just as two uniformed policemen hurried in through the café's front door. Tony wasn't worried. He knew that the owner and waiters would give a description of the people who had occupied that private dining room but it would be so vague, in case it were not actually false, that it would be absolutely valueless to the police.

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killing of Al Spingola created a sensation. It happened just before America entered the World War, long before gangdom had achieved anything like its present power or affluence or willingness to murder in unique fashion. Fights were plentiful, of course, and an occasional stabbing did not arouse great excitement but actual gunplay was rare. Spingola had been about the first of the city's gang leaders to enforce his power with a gun and his being "dropped off" so sudden was most disconcerting to the other leaders who had been about ready to use the same methods. But now they couldn't decide whether a gun was the best source of power or not.

The morning after the affray, Tony rose early, feeling a little rocky, and immediately induced his mother to sew the small burned hole in his coat, explaining that he had done it with a cigarette. Then he wisely decided not to wear that suit on the street again.

He went first to Klondike O'Hara's saloon.

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RV 315 (BUDDENBROOKS) hands that stuck out beneath the too short sleeves of his neatly brushed jacket. He sat down next Hanno Buddenbrook with a mild, rather sly smile, and bade his neighbour good morning in the customary jargon, which reduced the greeting to a single careless monosyllable. Then he began to employ himself silently with the class register, holding his pen in a way that was incomparably correct, with the slender fingers outstretched; while about him people yawned, laughed, conned their lessons, and chattered half aloud.

After two minutes there were steps outside. The front rows of pupils rose, and some of those seated farther back followed their example. The rest scarcely interrupted what they were doing as Herr Ballerstedt came into the room, hung his hat on the door, and betook himself to the platform.

He was a man in the forties, with a pleasant embonpoint, a large bald spot, a short beard, a rosy complexion, and a mingled expression of unctuousness and sensuality on his humid lips. He took out his notebook and turned over the leaves in silence; but as the order in the classroom left much to he desired, he lifted his head, stretched out his arm over the desk, and waved his flabby white fist a few times powerlessly in the air. His face grew slowly red—such a dark red that his beard looked pale-yellow by contrast. He moved his lips and struggled spasmodically and fruitlessly for half a minute to speak, and finally brought out a single syllable, a short, suppressed grunt that sounded like “Well!” He still struggled after further expression, but in the end gave it up, returned to his notebook, calmed down, and became quite composed once more. This was Herr Ballerstedt’s way.

He had intended to be a priest; but on account of his tendency to stutter and his leaning toward the good things of life he had become a pedagogue instead. He was a bachelor of some means, wore a small diamond on his finger, and was much given to eating and drinking. He was the head master who associated with his fellow masters only in working hours; and outside them he spent his time chiefly with

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 of his rapid enunciation and tours de force. He was physically a great contrast to Nicholson, being a remarkably small man. For many years he was solo flautist in Jullien's band, and afterwards in Queen Victoria's private orchestra. He played at the Philharmonic Concerts in 1839 and 1842. Richardson is said to have practised all day and almost all night, and acquired a marvellous dexterity. He had an exceptionally fine embouchure, but his tone, though brilliant and very "intense," was hard, small, and thin. He is said to have been "cold" in slow movements. On one occasion Richardson and Nicholson played the same soloDrouet's "God Save the King "at two rival concerts on the same evening in Dublin.

Richardson was succeeded at the Academy by John Clinton (1810-64), an Irishman, who was one of the first to teach the Böhm flute in England. Though his tone was coarse and his tune defective, he was for many years first flute in the London Italian Opera, where he was succeeded in 1850 by Robert Sydney Pratten (1824-68), who also took Richardson's place in Jullien's band when the latter retired. Pratten, who was self-taught, played all over Europe with applause. He had a great objection to extra shake-keys, and would not have the one to shake C♯ D♯ on his flute. Sir Julius Benedict was once conducting a rehearsal of an overture of his own which contained this shake as a rather prominent feature. Pratten shook C♯ D♯ very rapidly, and Sir


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Rh A Note upon the Way in which Bees settle on Flowers of Derris thyrsiflora, and the Injury resulting from their Search for Honey.

In the Botanic Gardens, Singapore, there is a large plant of Derris thyrsiflora, Benth., climbing over a tree of Cyrtophyllum fragrans, DC., near to the Director's house. Its stem has a circumference at the base of eighty centimetres; and it ascends to nearly 20 metres. When in flower it is very conspicuous, and attracts enormous numbers of bees, whose hum on the flowers is heard all day. Among the bees are Apis dorsata, L., Apis indica, F. Xylocopa lalipes, F. rarely X. aestuans, L., Anthophora zonata, L., and Melipona sp. Occassionally [sic] a butterfly visits also.

Owing to the height at which the flowers stand, it has been extremely difficult to take the insects; and the list is consequently imperfect.

The flower of Derris thyrsiflora in face and in side view × 2: the standard and right ala showing the places most injured by the bees.

The flowers are white with an undefined line of green down the centre of the standard. Their form is seen in the figures above.

In all their parts oxidation develops a black pigment: and by means of this it has been interesting to observe the injury which visitors do to the flowers; for injury results in oxidation.

The mechanism of the flower is typically papilionaceous. There is abundant honey within the staminal tube: the approach to it is by a wide opening upon either side of the free upper filament allowing easy access to those insects which can force apart the standard and the interlocked wings and keel sufficiently. The one


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 Klondike himself was behind the bar. A burly, red-faced young Irishman, he cut quite a dash in his own neighborhood as a gang leader and had been one of Spingola's most faithful enemies.

"I'm Tony Guarino," announced the boy, "from over on Taylor street."

"Yeah?"

"I s'pose you read about Al Spingola gettin' his last night."

"Yeah," assented O'Hara cautiously, chewing on a black cigar.

"Well, I know you and him were enemies so I thought if they took me up for his death you'd see that I had a good lawyer and so on."

"You? Did you get that rat—a punk like you?"

"I didn't say so," retorted Tony doggedly. "I just wanted to know if they picked me up if you'd get me a lawyer."

"Betcher life. An' from now on you're welcome around here any time. I can always use another kid with guts."

"Thanks."

From O'Hara's saloon, Tony went to see Vyvyan at her cheap little hotel. She was nervous and tearful but back of the nervousness he could detect a new attitude of overbearing hardness, and

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 effect of the forcing of these apart is injury to the claws of the petals which serve as springs, so that after visits they are suffused with the black pigment in consequence of rupture of the epidermal laver. The other effect is due to the feet and head of the visitors which they use in their effort to prise the flower open. Invariably as a consequence of this two dark spots develop at the base of the standard one on either side near the brow over the way to the honey. It is to be noted that this injury is invariable. And often these two areas can be seen to be made up of three or four confluent injuries, each resulting in a complete perforation of the limb. Corresponding with them may be seen perforations of the wings, which are less commonly confluent from being more dispersed. But of the wings still there is invariably damage about f., and also especially at the corner j. These places are close to the folds whereby the wings and keel are interlocked, but beyond them. Presumedly the are at the points where the visitors get the best purchase.

In other parts of the standard and the wings there is but inconstant and slight damage done: and the keel which has the function of protecting the pollen rarely is marked except in its claws and sometimes at the very tip.

In about 5% of the falling flowers injury to the standard had occurred near b., and in less than 5% at c. In a greater percentage some injury occurred right at the tip. The wings are rarely damaged at k.

The evidence is very clear that every flower gets repeatedly visited. But only a small percentage set seed as over 90% fall entire. The remainder however are sufficient to supply what may be regarded as quite an abundant seed-crop.


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 the tears her green eyes held a glitter that did not reassure him. He wondered if she knew how much her silence meant to him—and decided that she probably did.

"You've taken Al away from me," she sobbed. "So now you'll have to take care of me the way he did."

"Shut up!" snapped Tony. "I'm going to. Let's rent a nice little flat to-day."

Thus within the space of twenty-four hours, Tony Guarino killed his first man, joined a regular gang and took unto himself a common law wife. Events move rapidly in underworld neighborhoods.

Tony didn't intend to move away from home himself just yet; it wouldn't look right to his folks.

Again he crossed the deadline between the domains governed by the Irish and those governed by the Wops, and started for O'Hara's saloon. A heavy car drew up to the curb and stopped with a screeching of brakes.

"Hey, Kid!" shouted a raucous voice. "C'mere."

Tony's first impulse was to run, but having recognized the car as one of those from the Detective Bureau, he realized that to do so would mean being shot. So he walked over to them.

"Get in!" commanded a burly brute.

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 Julius in delight exclaimed that he had never before heard that shake properly made, whereupon the entire orchestra burst out laughing. Pratten became suddenly very seriously ill whilst playing the obligato to "O rest in the Lord," in the Elijah at Exeter Hall in November, 1867. He played on to the end of the item, but had then to leave the orchestra, never to play again in public.

Pratten's great English contemporary flautist, Benjamin Wells (1826-99), a pupil of Richardson and Clinton, was at the age of nineteen appointed first flute at the Royal Academy concerts, and was congratulated on his performance by the Duke of Wellington, in company with Mendelssohn. He was an intimate friend of Balfe, and played in the orchestra on the first performance of The Bohemian Girl at Drury Lane in 1843. Wells once performed a fresh solo from memory every evening for fifty consecutive nights. He played in Jullien's band, and was for some time president of the London Flute Society, and also Professor at the Academy. He was the representative of the Böhm flute at the great Exhibition of 1851, where Richardson performed on Siccama's model.

"Seventy years a flautist!" Such was the proud boast of old Henry Nicholson (1825-1907), the most prominent figure in the musical world of Leicester for over half a century, and probably the last survivor of the orchestra that played at the first performance of the Elijah (1846),


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 He practically dragged Tony into the tonneau and the car raced away. Arrived at the bureau, the whole party, with Tony in the center, ascended to one of the "conference rooms" on the second floor.

"I s'pose you heard about Al Spingola bein' bumped off last night," said the man who appeared to be the leader of the party.

"Yes," assented Tony, not to be outdone. "I read it in the morning paper."

The half dozen men laughed nastily.

"The hell you did!" said the first one. "You knew all about it a long time before that. Because you killed Al Spingola."

"Has the heat gone to your head?" demanded Tony coolly.

"Don't try to stall or it'll go hard with you. We know all about it. C'mon now and spill it."

"I don't know what you're talking about," retorted Tony as if greatly bored by the proceedings.

"Oh, you're goin' to be tough, eh?"

"No. Just truthful."

"Where were you last night from twelve to three o'clock?"

"Home in bed."

"Can you prove it?"

title: Page:Scarface.pdf/46


text:
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 "My whole family would swear to it."

"Where'd you get that?" demanded another detective suddenly, and thrust before Tony's astonished eyes the revolver with which the Spingola killing had been committed.

The boy gulped but with a terrific effort retained his outward calm.

"I never saw it before," he retorted doggedly. He wondered just how much they did know. It looked bad. For those were the days when the police took the same interest in a gang killing as in any other murder and made just as eager and earnest an effort to solve it. Well, the only thing to do was bluff it out.

"I never saw it before," he repeated, straightening up defiantly.

The leader of the party suddenly struck him a hard back hand slap across the mouth.

"Quit stallin'," he snarled. "C'mon an' tell us the truth."

"Cut the rough stuff!" snapped Tony coldly but his eyes were blazing. "I've got a brother that's a cop and I know all about the way you do people. Furthermore, I got a lot of powerful friends and I'm goin' to be a 'big shot' in this town myself

title: Page:Scarface.pdf/47


text:
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 conducted by Mendelssohn himself. On that occasion the great composer inscribed his autograph in Mr. Nicholson's flute case, which also contained the autographs of numbers of other leading musicians of the past and present. This veteran flautist also played (in 1847) under the bâton of Berlioz, on the occasion of the dèbut of Sims Reeves, with whom he formed a life-long friendship. Mr. Nicholson began his musical career at the age of nine, but never received any regular musical tuition. At the age of thirteen he played flute solos in public. When twenty-two he became a member of Jullien's famous orchestra. He subsequently played at the opening of the great Exhibition of 1851, at the Covent Garden Opera, and at the first Handel Festival in 1857; he continued a member of the Festival orchestra till 1890. Mr. Nicholson organized a long series of concerts in his native town; he also acted as musical conductor at the Dublin Exhibition of 1872. When in 1882 he appeared at St. James's Hall along with Mme. Marie Roze, Punch described the performance:"A mocking-bird, perched on his own flute, and hopping from note to note in the most delightfully impudent and irritating manner. Shut your eyes and there was the mocking-bird, open them and there was Mr. Nicholson. What a pity he couldn't appear in full plumage with a false head and tootle on the flootle through his beak!" As a player, Henry Nicholson was remarkable for his pure ringing tone and his extraordinary facility of execution. He played in public till very shortly before his death. In his younger days he


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 nobler aspirations than the accumulation of wealth. He was a true gentleman in manners and sentiment; brave, honourable, generous; easily led, yet capable of leading; easily persuaded, yet himself persuasive; a most patient, resolute and energetic man. At the age of twenty-two he was earning his living as a public teacher of philosophy at the University of Paris. There Xavier became the intimate friend and associate of Loyola, and shortly afterwards he conducted the pilgrimage of the first little band of proselytes to Rome.

When John III. of Portugal resolved to plant Christianity in the Indian territories subject to his influence, Bobadilla was first selected as his missionary; but being disabled by illness, it was found necessary to make another selection, and Xavier was chosen. Repairing his tattered cassock, and with no other baggage than his breviary, he at once started for Lisbon and embarked for the East. The ship in which he set sail for Goa had the Governor on board, with a reinforcement of a thousand men for the garrison of the place. Though a cabin was placed at his disposal, Xavier slept on deck throughout the voyage with his head on a coil of ropes, messing with the sailors. By ministering to their wants, inventing innocent sports for their amusement, and attending them in their sickness, he wholly won their hearts, and they regarded him with veneration.

Arrived at Goa, Xavier was shocked at the depravity of the people, settlers as well as natives; for the former had imported the vices without the restraints of civilization, and the latter had only been too apt to imitate their bad example. Passing along the streets of the city, sounding his handbell


text: Interrogation of Wolfram Sievers

title: Interrogation of Wolfram Sievers


text:
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 some day. So treat me decent an' it'll be better for all of us."

"Well, would you listen to that?" jeered one of the dicks. "Of all the big-mouthed punks I ever seen—"

"I hear you been goin' around with one of Spingola's girls," said the leader.

Tony smiled. "From all I've heard, he had so many that half the girls in town were his."

"Naw, I mean his particular steady girl—his moll. You know the one I mean—that tall, spindly-legged blonde down at the Gaiety Theatre."

"Don't know her."

"There's been talk about you an' her goin' around among the wise-guys in your neighborhood the last two, three days. Everybody's been lookin' for trouble over it. An' now Al's dead."

"Well, that don't prove nothin' against me," argued Tony. "Even if all you say was true, it would be him that had a motive for bumpin' me off. And anyway, do you think as good a gunman as Spingola would ever let a kid like me get the drop on him?"

"T'ain't likely," admitted the leader of the squad.

There was a sudden commotion outside the door

title: Page:Scarface.pdf/48


text:
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 was an excellent cricketer, and scored against crack elevens.

Oluf Svendsen (1832-88), a native of Christiania, was the son of a military bandmaster, and played first flute in the theatre there at the age of fourteen. He had two years before joined the Guards band as first flute. He first learned from Niels Petersen, of Copenhagen, and subsequently from Reichert at the Brussels Conservatoire. In 1855 he came to London to play for Jullien at the Covent Garden promenade concerts, and settled in England. Svendsen held the post of Professor at the Royal Academy of Music for twenty years, was first flute at the Crystal Palace for some time, and for many years played at all the principal concerts in and about London, joining Queen Victoria's private band in 1860, a post which he retained till his death. He played in the Royal Italian Opera from 1862 till 1872, and frequently appeared at the Philharmonic (1861-85). His wife was a daughter of Clinton and a fine pianist. Personally, Svendsen was a quiet, modest man, with agreeable manners. He was very fond of his native land, and often visited it. He produced a beautiful tone from his silver flute, and was not only a fine orchestral player, but also excelled as a soloist. The great features in his playing were his exquisite, artistic phrasing and the singing effects he produced, like those of Ciardi and Briccialdi, I shall never forget the way in which, a few months before his death, he led a performance of one of Gabrielsky's quartetts for four


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RV 316 (BUDDENBROOKS) the bachelor society of the town—yes, even with the officers of the garrison. He ate twice a day in the best hotel and was a member of the club. If he met any of his elder pupils in the streets, late at night or at two or three o’clock in the morning, he would puff up the way he did in the classroom, fetch out a “Good morning,” and let the matter rest there, on both sides. From this master Hanno Buddenbrook had nothing to fear and was almost never called up by him. Herr Ballerstedt had been too often associated with Hanno’s Uncle Christian in all too purely human affairs, to make him inclined to conflict with Johann in an official capacity.

“Well,” he said, looked about him once more, waved his flabby fist with the diamond upon it, and glanced into his notebook. “Perlemann, the synopsis.”

Somewhere in the class, up rose Perlemann. One could hardly see that he had risen; he was one of the small and forward ones. “The synopsis,” he said, softly and politely, craning his neck forward with a nervous smile. “The Book of Job falls into three sections. First, the condition of Job before he fell under the chastening of the Lord: Chapter One, Verses one to six: second, the chastening itself, and its consequences, Chapter—”

“Right, Perlemann,” interrupted Herr Ballerstedt, touched by so much modesty and obligingness. He put down a good mark in his book. “Continue, Heinricy.”

Heinricy was one of the tall rascals who gave themselves no trouble over anything. He shoved the knife he had been playing with into his pocket, and got up noisily, with his lower lip hanging, and coughing in a gruff voice. Nobody was pleased to have him called up after the gentle Perlemann. The pupils sat drowsing in the warm room, some of them half asleep, soothed by the purring sound of the gas. They were all tired after the holiday; they had all crawled out of warm beds that morning with their teeth chattering, groaning in spirit. And they would have preferred to have the gentle

RV 316 (316)


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RV 317 (BUDDENBROOKS) Perlemann drone on for the remainder of the period. Heinricy was almost sure to make trouble.

“I wasn’t here when we had this,” he said, none too respectfully.

Herr Ballerstedt puffed himself up, waved his fist, struggled to speak, and stared young Heinricy in the face with his eyebrows raised. His head shook with the effort he made; hut he finally managed to bring out a “Well!” and the spell was broken. He went on with perfect fluency. “There is never any work to be got out of you, and you always have an excuse ready, Heinricy. If you were ill the last time, you could have had help in that part; besides, if the first part dealt with the condition before the tribulation, and the second part with the tribulation itself, you could have told by counting on your fingers that the third part must deal with the condition after the tribulation! But you have no application or interest whatever; you are not only a poor creature, but you are always ready to excuse and defend your mistakes. But so long as this is the case, Heinricy, you cannot expect to make any improvement, and so I warn you. Sit down, Heinricy. Go on, Wasservogel.”

Heinricy, thick-skinned and defiant, sat down with much shuffling and scraping, whispered some sort of saucy comment in his neighbour’s ear, and took out his jack-knife again. Wasservogel stood up: a boy with inflamed eyes, a snub nose, prominent ears, and bitten finger-nails. He finished the summary in a rather whining voice, and began to relate the story of Job, the man from the land of Uz, and what happened to him. He had simply opened his Bible, behind the back of the pupil ahead of him; and he read from it with an air of utter innocence and concentration, staring then at a point on the wall and translated what he read, coughing the while, into awkward and hesitating modern German. There was something positively repulsive about Wasservogel; but Herr Ballerstedt gave him a large meed of praise. Wasservogel had the knack of making the masters like him; and they praised him

RV 317 (317)


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 Malayan Fishes.

PART II.

ALPHABETICAL LIST OF MALAYAN FISHES.

the Malay name of each fish, refer to authorities for both the Malay and scientific synonyms.
 * The letters and abbreviations inserted in brackets after

Where no authority is given the writer accepts responsibility for the identity of those species.

C. = Cantor. D. = Dennys. R. = Rowell. R. M. = Raffles Museum. Dun.= Duncker. Blkr. Bleeker. M. W. and de B. = Max Weber and de Beaufort. S. = Sauvage. Wilk. = Wil- kinson. C. and S. = Clifford and Swettenham. S. M. = Selangor Museum. Blgr. = Boulenge.


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 flutes, in which I had the honour of taking part. Svendsen's principal pupil was A. P. Vivian (1855-1903), who inherited much of the manner of his master, and became Professor at the Royal Academy and principal flute at many leading concerts in London.

There are in England to-day many fine flautists. The first name that will occur to every flute-player is that of John R. Radcliff (b. 1842), who began his career, at the early age of seven, on a penny whistle, having stopped up the top end with a cork and improvised a mouth-hole at the side. He played in public when twelve years old. Mr. Radcliff mastered the Böhm system in a fortnight. His tone is remarkably powerful, recalling that of Charles Nicholson. Next in seniority stands Edward de Jong (b. 1837), a Hollander who has made England his home for very many years past. He arrived at our shores with the magnificent sum of 1s. 6d. in Dutch money in his pocket! After playing in Jullien's band he joined the Hallé orchestra, of which he remained a distinguished member for fifteen years. Mr. E. de Jong is eminently successful as an orchestral conductor. In his hands the flute almost becomes articulate; it literally sings, especially on the lower register. Other players of the older generation still happily with us are Jean Firmin Brossa, born in Geneva in 1839, for many years first flute of the Hallé orchestra and possessed of wonderfully pure, delicate tone and a marvellous pianissimo; and William L. Barrett. On


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 as he went, he implored the people to send him their children to be instructed. He shortly succeeded in collecting a large number of scholars, whom he carefully taught day by day, at the same time visiting the sick, the lepers, and the wretched of all classes, with the object of assuaging their miseries, and bringing them to the Truth. No cry of human suffering which reached him was disregarded. Hearing of the degradation and misery of the pearl-fishers of Manaar, he set out to visit them, and his bell again rang out the invitation of mercy. He baptized and he taught, but the latter he could only do through interpreters. His most eloquent teaching was his ministration to the wants and the sufferings of the wretched.

On he went, his handbell sounding along the coast of Comorin, among the towns and villages, the temples and the bazaars, summoning the natives to gather about him and be instructed. He had translations made of the Catechism, the Apostles' Creed, the Commandments, the Lord's Prayer, and some of the devotional offices of the Church. Committing these to memory in their own tongue he recited them to the children, until they had them by heart; after which he sent them forth to teach the words to their parents and neighbours. At Cape Comorin he appointed thirty teachers, who, under himself, presided over thirty Christian Churches, though the Churches were but humble, in most cases consisting only of a cottage surmounted by a cross. Thence he passed to Travancore, sounding his way from village to village, baptizing until his hands dropped with weariness, and repeating his formulas until his voice became almost inaudible. According to his own account,


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RV 318 (BUDDENBROOKS) in order to show that they were incapable of being led away by his ugliness to blame him unjustly.

The lesson continued. Various pupils were called up to display their knowledge touching Job, the man irom the land of Uz. Gottlob Kassbaum, son of the unfortunate merchant P. Phillipp Kassbaum, got an excellent mark, despite the late distressing circumstances of his family, because he knew that Job had seven thousand sheep, three thousand camels, five hundred yoke of oxen, five hundred asses, and a large number of servants.

Then the Bibles, which were already open, were permitted to be opened, and they went on reading. Wherever Herr Ballerstedt thought explanation necessary, he puffed himself up, said “Well!” and after these customary preliminaries made a little speech upon the point in question, interspersed with abstract moral observations. Not a soul listened. A slumberous peace reigned in the room. The heat, with the continuous influx of warm air and the still lighted gas burners, had become oppressive, and the air was well-nigh exhausted by these twenty-five breathing and steaming organisms. The warmth, the purring of the gas, and the drone of the reader’s voice lulled them all to a point where they were more asleep than awake. Kai, Count Mölln, however, had a volume of Edgar Allan Poe’s Tales inside his Bible, and read in it, supporting his head on his hand. Hanno Buddenbrook leaned back, sank down in his seat, and looked with relaxed mouth and hot, swimming eyes at the Book of Job, in which all the lines ran together into a black haze. Now and then, as the Grail motif or the Wedding March came into his mind, his lids drooped and he felt an inward soothing; and then he would wish that this safe and peaceful morning hour might go on for ever.

Yet it ended, as all things must end. The shrill sound of the bell, clanging and echoing through the corridor, shook the twenty-five brains out of their slumberous calm.

“That is all,” said Herr Ballerstedt. The register was

RV 318 (318)


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 one occasion, when the Royal Italian Opera Company was about to perform Lucia de Lammermoor for the début of Mdlle. Fohstrom, the mad scene had not been rehearsed. What was to be done? Barrett was equal to the emergency. Standing outside the prima donna's doubly-locked door during the entre-act he modestly tootled the obligato through the key-hole, whilst the lady warbled the voice part as she dressed!

The principal players of the younger generation are Albert Fransella (b. 1866 in Amsterdam), the well-known soloist of the Queen's Hall orchestra, a virtuoso to his finger-tips, who when quite a lad attracted the attention of Brahms; Eli Hudson, who began the piccolo when aged five and performed in public at seven! a remarkable soloist, gifted with marvellously fluent, clean execution, and extremely powerful, even tone; Vincent L. Needham, the present first flute of the Hallé orchestra, whose rapid double-tongueing once caused a gentleman at a concert to get up out of his seat and walk round the stage to see if there were not another flute-player hid behind the scenes; Frederick Griffith, probably the greatest flautist Wales has ever produced, who by practising always pianissimo attained exquisite delicacy of tone; E. Stanley Redfern, who possesses a rich, smooth tone and remarkable technique; and Daniel S. Wood, of the London Symphony orchestra. Space forbids my mentioning even the names of many other fine players now before the British public.


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 the success of his mission surpassed his highest expectations. His pure, earnest, and beautiful life, and the irresistible eloquence of his deeds, made converts wherever he went; and by sheer force of sympathy, those who saw him and listened to him insensibly caught a portion of his ardour.

Burdened with the thought that "the harvest is great and the labourers are few," Xavier next sailed to Malacca and Japan, where he found himself amongst entirely new races speaking other tongues. The most that he could do here was to weep and pray, to smooth the pillow and watch by the sick-bed, sometimes soaking the sleeve of his surplice in water, from which to squeeze out a few drops and baptize the dying. Hoping all things, and fearing nothing, this valiant soldier of the truth was borne onward throughout by faith and energy. "Whatever form of death or torture," said he, "awaits me, I am ready to suffer it ten thousand times for the salvation of a single soul." He battled with hunger, thirst, privations and dangers of all kinds, still pursuing his mission of love, unresting and unwearying. At length, after eleven years' labour, this great good man, while striving to find a way into China, was stricken with fever in the Island of Sanchian, and there received his crown of glory. A hero of nobler mould, more pure, self-denying, and courageous, has probably never trod this earth.

Other missionaries have followed Xavier in the same field of work, such as Schwartz, Carey, and Marshman in India; Gutzlaff and Morrison in China; Williams in the South Seas; Campbell, Moffatt, and Livingstone in Africa. John Williams, the martyr of Erromanga, was originally apprenticed


text: A Chinese Biographical Dictionary/Fu Chieh-tzŭ


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 to a furnishing ironmonger. Though considered a dull boy, he was handy at his trade, in which he acquired so much skill that his master usually entrusted him with any blacksmith's work that required the exercise of more than ordinary care. He was also fond of bell-hanging and other employments which took him away from the shop. A casual sermon which he heard gave his mind a serious bias, and he became a Sunday-school teacher. The cause of missions having been brought under his notice at some of his society's meetings, he determined to devote himself to this work. His services were accepted by the London Missionary Society; and his master allowed him to leave the ironmonger's shop before the expiry of his indentures. The islands of the Pacific Ocean were the principal scene of his labours—more particularly Huahine in Tahiti, Raiatea, and Rarotonga. Like the Apostles, he worked with his hands,—at blacksmith work, gardening, shipbuilding; and he endeavoured to teach the islanders the art of civilized life, at the same time that he instructed them in the truths of religion. It was in the course of his indefatigable labours that he was massacred by savages on the shore of Erromanga—none worthier than he to wear the martyr's crown.

The career of Dr. Livingstone is one of the most interesting of all. He has told the story of his life in that modest and unassuming manner which is so characteristic of the man himself. His ancestors were poor but honest Highlanders, and it is related of one of them, renowned in his district for wisdom and prudence, that when on his deathbed he called his children round him and left them these words, the only legacy he had to bequeath—


text:
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10 male employee for no reason other than the fact he is attracted to men, the employer discriminates against him for traits or actions it tolerates in his female colleague. Put differently, the employer intentionally singles out an employee to fire based in part on the employee’s sex, and the affected employee’s sex is a but-for cause of his discharge. Or take an employer who fires a transgender person who was identified as a male at birth but who now identifies as a female. If the employer retains an otherwise identical employee who was identified as female at birth, the employer intentionally penalizes a person identified as male at birth for traits or actions that it tolerates in an employee identified as female at birth. Again, the individual employee’s sex plays an unmistakable and impermissible role in the discharge decision.

That distinguishes these cases from countless others where Title VII has nothing to say. Take an employer who fires a female employee for tardiness or incompetence or simply supporting the wrong sports team. Assuming the employer would not have tolerated the same trait in a man, Title VII stands silent. But unlike any of these other traits or actions, homosexuality and transgender status are inextricably bound up with sex. Not because homosexuality or transgender status are related to sex in some vague sense or because discrimination on these bases has some disparate impact on one sex or another, but because to discriminate on these grounds requires an employer to intentionally treat individual employees differently because of their sex.

Nor does it matter that, when an employer treats one employee worse because of that individual’s sex, other factors may contribute to the decision. Consider an employer with a policy of firing any woman he discovers to be a Yankees fan. Carrying out that rule because an employee is a woman and a fan of the Yankees is a firing “because of sex” if the employer would have tolerated the same allegiance in a male employee. Likewise here.


text: A Chinese Biographical Dictionary/Fu Ch'ai


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 was enabled to descend. The first indications observable, when a certain class of natural clouds is about to be dispersed, are the flash of the lightning, the roll of the thunder, the descent of the rain, and other attendants of a tempest, by which life is endangered and property destroyed. After a while, however, the storm subsides, a calm sets in, the blue sky appears, and the sun once more shines forth with brilliancy and beauty. Something similar to this occurs in connection with the last judgment and the second coming of the Lord. The earliest evidences given to the world that these clouds of spiritual darkness, which had been so long overshadowing the Church, were being removed, are to be found in those unhappy commotions which distressed every nation in which Christianity was professed. Wars, with their attendant calamities, inflicted great suffering upon the people. But in the process of time these disasters subsided, and then a new era began to dawn upon the world, fraught with advantages to mankind, unparalleled in the history of our race. The first part of this marvellous drama revealed to us the judgment by which wicked spirits had been consigned to their dire abodes: The second part disclosed the judgment by which good spirits had been elevated into heaven; and by those two judgments the way was prepared for the second coming of the Lord. This coming, however, is not to be understood as a personal advent upon the earth, but as a Divine influence proceeding from the Lord through His Word, and operating beneficially upon the minds of men. It was by means of His Word that He effected His judgment in the world of spirits, and it is by means of His Word that He is to come with power and great glory to


text: A Chinese Biographical Dictionary/Fu An

title: A Chinese Biographical Dictionary/Fu An


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 "In my lifetime," said he, "I have searched most carefully through all the traditions I could find of our family, and I never could discover that there was a dishonest man among our forefathers: if, therefore, any of you or any of your children should take to dishonest ways, it will not be because it runs in our blood; it does not belong to you: I leave this precept with you—Be honest." At the age of ten Livingstone was sent to work in a cotton factory near Glasgow as a "piecer." With part of his first week's wages he bought a Latin grammar, and began to learn that language, pursuing the study for years at a night school. He would sit up conning his lessons till twelve or later, when not sent to bed by his mother, for he had to be up and at work in the factory every morning by six. In this way he plodded through Virgil and Horace, also reading extensively all books, excepting novels, that came in his way, but more especially scientific works and books of travels. He occupied his spare hours, which were but few, in the pursuit of botany, scouring the neighbourhood to collect plants. He even carried on his reading amidst the roar of the factory machinery, so placing the book upon the spinning jenny which he worked that he could catch sentence after sentence as he passed it. In this way the persevering youth acquired much useful knowledge; and as he grew older, the desire possessed him of becoming a missionary to the heathen. With this object he set himself to obtain a medical education, in order the better to be qualified for the work. He accordingly economized his earnings, and saved as much money as enabled him to support himself while attending the medical and Greek classes,


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 as well as the Divinity Lectures, at Glasgow, for several winters, working as a cotton spinner during the remainder of each year. He thus supported himself, during his college career, entirely by his own earnings as a factory workman, never having received a farthing of help from any other source. "Looking back now," he honestly says, "at that life of toil, I cannot but feel thankful that it formed such a material part of my early education; and, were it possible, I should like to begin life over again in the same lowly style, and to pass through the same hardy training." At length he finished his medical curriculum, wrote his Latin thesis, passed his examinations, and was admitted a licentiate of the Faculty of Physicians and Surgeons. At first he thought of going to China, but the war then waging with that country prevented his following out the idea; and having offered his services to the London Missionary Society, he was by them sent out to Africa, which he reached in 1840. He had intended to proceed to China by his own efforts; and he says the only pang he had in going to Africa at the charge of the London Missionary Society was, because "it was not quite agreeable to one accustomed to work his own way to become, in a manner, dependent upon others." Arrived in Africa he set to work with great zeal. He could not brook the idea of merely entering upon the labours of others, but cut out a large sphere of independent work, preparing himself for it by undertaking manual labour in building and other handicraft employment, in addition to teaching, which, he says, "made me generally as much exhausted and unfit for study in the evenings as ever I had been when a cotton-spinner." Whilst


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Rh When an employer fires an employee because she is homosexual or transgender, two causal factors may be in play—both the individual’s sex and something else (the sex to which the individual is attracted or with which the individual identifies). But Title VII doesn’t care. If an employer would not have discharged an employee but for that individual’s sex, the statute’s causation standard is met, and liability may attach.

Reframing the additional causes in today’s cases as additional intentions can do no more to insulate the employers from liability. Intentionally burning down a neighbor’s house is arson, even if the perpetrator’s ultimate intention (or motivation) is only to improve the view. No less, intentional discrimination based on sex violates Title VII, even if it is intended only as a means to achieving the employer’s ultimate goal of discriminating against homosexual or transgender employees. There is simply no escaping the role intent plays here: Just as sex is necessarily a but-for cause when an employer discriminates against homosexual or transgender employees, an employer who discriminates on these grounds inescapably intends to rely on sex in its decisionmaking. Imagine an employer who has a policy of firing any employee known to be homosexual. The employer hosts an office holiday party and invites employees to bring their spouses. A model employee arrives and introduces a manager to Susan, the employee’s wife. Will that employee be fired? If the policy works as the employer intends, the answer depends entirely on whether the model employee is a man or a woman. To be sure, that employer’s ultimate goal might be to discriminate on the basis of sexual orientation. But to achieve that purpose the employer must, along the way, intentionally treat an employee worse based in part on that individual’s sex.

An employer musters no better a defense by responding that it is equally happy to fire male and female employees who are homosexual or transgender. Title VII liability is


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 the world of men. These are some of the points to which we will now direct our attention.

The Lord Jesus Christ plainly said, "I will come again." In other portions of the Gospels, besides John, the same fact is spoken of with much precision, and the expectation of its fulfilment has been cherished in all ages of the Christian Church; but the way in which this promise is to be accomplished is not so clearly expressed: hence much obscurity has prevailed concerning it. The Lord's words upon the subject are, "Then shall appear the sign of the Son of man in heaven: and then shall all the tribes of the earth mourn, and they shall see the Son of man coming in the clouds of heaven with power and great glory." No one who thinks upon the term of this prediction with any exactness, can suppose that by "the sign of the Son of man in heaven," is meant some remarkable appearance in the sky, or that by His coming in the clouds of heaven is signified His descending in the vapours of the earth; and surely His "power" will not be exhibited in the production of disaster, nor His "glory"'


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 41.—Karu-toki no Jizō-gao; nasu-toki no Emma-gao.

Borrowing-time, the face of Jizō; repaying-time, the face of Emma.

42.—Kiité Gokuraku, mité Jigoku.

Heard of only, it is Paradise; seen, it is Hell.

43.—Kōji mon wo idézu: akuji sen ri wo hashiru.

Good actions go not outside of the gate: bad deeds travel a thousand ri.

44.—Kokoro no koma ni tadzuna wo yurusuna.

Never let go the reins of the wild colt of the heart.

45.—Kokoro no oni ga mi wo séméru.

The body is tortured only by the demon of the heart.