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 of the cause, but findeth no fault with the method of it; that is, denieth that there is any mutation to be seen in the altitude of the Pole, but doth not blame the inquisition, for not being adapted to the finding of what is sought, he thereby sheweth, that he also esteeemed the Polar altitude varied, or not varied every six moneths, to be a good testimony to disprove or inferre the annual motion of the Earth.

In truth, Salviatus, my opinion also tells me, that the same must necessarily ensue: for I do not think that you will deny me, but that if we walk only 60. miles towards the North, the Pole will rise unto us a degree higher, and that if we move 60. miles farther Northwards, the Pole will be elevated to us a degree more, &c. Now if the approaching or receding 60. miles onely, make so notable a change in the Polar altitudes, what alteration would follow, if the Earth and we with it, should be transported, I will not say 60. miles, but 60. thousand miles that way.

It would follow (if it should proceed in the same proportion) that the Pole shall be elevated a thousand degrees. See, Simplicius, what a long rooted opinion can do. Yea, by reason you have fixed it in your mind for so many years, that it is Heaven, that revolveth in twenty four hours, and not the Earth, and that consequently the Poles of that Revolution are in Heaven, and not in the Terrestrial Globe, cannot now, in an hours time shake off this habituated conceipt, and take up the contrary, fancying to your self, that the Earth is that which moveth, only for so long time as may suffice to conceive of what would follow, thereupon should that lye be a truth. If the Earth Simplicius, be that which moveth in its self in twenty four hours, in it are the Poles, in it is the Axis, in it is the Equinoctial, that is, the grand Circle, described by the point, equidistant from the Poles, in it are the infinite Parallels bigger and lesser described by the points of the superficies more and lesse distant from the Poles, in it are all these things, and not in the starry Sphere, which, as being immoveable, wants them all, and can only by the imagination be conceived to be therein, prolonging the Axis of the Earth so far, till that determining, it shall mark out two points placed right over our Poles, and the plane of the Equinoctial being extended, it shall describe in Heaven a circle like it self. Now if the true Axis, the true Poles, the true Equinoctial, do not change in the Earth so long as you continue in the same place of the Earth, and though the Earth be transported, as you do please, yet you shall not change your habitude either to the Poles, or to the circles, or to any other Earthly thing; and this because, that that transposition being common to you and to all Terrestrial


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74 His companion could none the less just wonder. "Hadn't Lady Grace told you?"

"That he was coming? Not that I remember." But Lord Theign, perceptibly preoccupied, made nothing of this. "We've had other fish to fry, and you know the freedom I allow her."

His friend had a vivid gesture. "My dear man, I only ask to profit by it!" With which there might well have been in Lord John's face a light of comment on the pretension in such a quarter to allow freedom.

Yet it was a pretension that Lord Theign sustained—as to show himself far from all bourgeois narrowness. "She has her friends by the score—at this time of day." There was clearly a claim here also—to know the time of day. "But in the matter of friends where, by the way, is your own—of whom I've but just heard?"

"Oh, off there among the pictures too; so they'll have met and taken care of each other." Accounting for this inquirer would be clearly the least of Lord John's difficulties. "I mustn't appear to Bender to have failed him; but I must at once let you know, before I join him,

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


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Rh that, seizing my opportunity, I have just very definitely, in fact very pressingly, spoken to Lady Grace. It hasn't been perhaps," he continued, "quite the pick of a chance; but that seemed never to come, and if I'm not too fondly mistaken, at any rate, she listened to me without abhorrence. Only I've led her to expect—for our case—that you'll be so good, without loss of time, as to say the clinching word to her yourself."

"Without loss, you mean, of—a—my daughter's time?" Lord Theign, confessedly and amiably interested, had accepted these intimations yet with the very blandness that was not accessible to hustling and was never forgetful of its standing privilege of criticism. He had come in from his public duty, a few minutes before, somewhat flushed and blown; but that had presently dropped—to the effect, we should have guessed, of his appearing to Lord John at least as cool as the occasion required. His appearance, we ourselves certainly should have felt, was in all respects charming—with the great note of it the beautiful restless, almost suspicious challenge to you, on the part of deep and mixed things in him,


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76 his pride and his shyness, his conscience, his taste and his temper, to deny that he was admirably simple. Obviously, at this rate, he had a passion for simplicity—simplicity, above all, of relation with you, and would show you, with the last subtlety of displeasure, his impatience of your attempting anything more with himself. With such an ideal of decent ease he would, confound you, "sink" a hundred other attributes—or the recognition at least and the formulation of them—that you might abjectly have taken for granted in him: just to show you that in a beastly vulgar age you had, and small wonder, a beastly vulgar imagination. He sank thus, surely, in defiance of insistent vulgarity, half his consciousness of his advantages, flattering himself that mere facility and amiability, a true effective, a positively ideal suppression of reference in any one to anything that might complicate, alone floated above. This would be quite his religion, you might infer—to cause his hands to ignore in whatever contact any opportunity, however convenient, for an unfair pull. Which habit it was that must have produced in him a sort of ripe and radiant fairness; if it be allowed


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Rh us, that is, to figure in so shining an air a nobleman of fifty-three, of an undecided rather than a certified frame or outline, of a head thinly though neatly covered and not measureably massive, of an almost trivial freshness, of a face marked but by a fine inwrought line or two and lighted by a merely charming expression. You might somehow have traced back the whole character so presented to an ideal privately invoked—that of his establishing in the formal garden of his suffered greatness such easy seats and short perspectives, such winding paths and natural-looking waters, as would mercifully break up the scale. You would perhaps indeed have reflected at the same time that the thought of so much mercy was almost more than anything else the thought of a great option and a great margin—in fine of fifty alternatives. Which remarks of ours, however, leave his lordship with his last immediate question on his hands.

"Well, yes—that, of course, in all propriety," his companion has meanwhile replied to it. "But I was thinking a little, you understand, of the importance of our own time."

Divinably Lord Theign put himself out less,


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78 as we may say, for the comparatively matter-of-course haunters of his garden than for interlopers even but slightly accredited. He seemed thus not at all to strain to "understand" in this particular connection—it would be his familiarly amusing friend Lord John, clearly, who must do most of the work for him. "'Our own' in the sense of yours and mine?"

"Of yours and mine and Lady Imber's, yes—and a good bit, last not least, in that of my watching and waiting mother's." This struck no prompt spark of apprehension from his listener, so that Lord John went on: "The last thing she did this morning was to remind me, with her fine old frankness, that she would like to learn without more delay where, on the whole question, she is, don't you know? What she put to me"—the younger man felt his ground a little, but proceeded further—"what she put to me, with her rather grand way of looking all questions straight in the face, you see, was: Do we or don't we, decidedly, take up practically her very handsome offer—'very handsome' being, I mean, what she calls it; though it strikes even me too, you know, as rather decent."


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Rh Lord Theign at this point resigned himself to know. "Kitty has of course rubbed into me how decent she herself finds it. She hurls herself again on me—successfully!—for everything, and it suits her down to the ground. She pays her beastly debt—that is, I mean to say," and he took himself up, though it was scarce more than perfunctory, "discharges her obligations—by her sister's fair hand; not to mention a few other trifles for which I naturally provide."

Lord John, a little unexpectedly to himself on the defensive, was yet but briefly at a loss. "Of course we take into account, don't we? not only the fact of my mother's desire (intended, I assure you, to be most flattering) that Lady Grace shall enter our family with all honours, but her expressed readiness to facilitate the thing by an understanding over and above"

"Over and above Kitty's release from her damnable payment?"—Lord Theign reached out to what his guest had left rather in the air. "Of course we take everything into account—or I shouldn't, my dear fellow, be discussing with you at all a business one or two of whose


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80 aspects so little appeal to me: especially as there's nothing, you easily conceive, that a daughter of mine can come in for by entering even your family, or any other (as a family) that she wouldn't be quite as sure of by just staying in her own. The Duchess's idea, at any rate, if I've followed you, is that if Grace does accept you she settles on you twelve thousand; with the condition"

Lord John was already all there. "Definitely, yes, of your settling the equivalent on Lady Grace."

"And what do you call the equivalent of twelve thousand?"

"Why, tacked on to a value so great and so charming as Lady Grace herself, I dare say such a sum as nine or ten would serve."

"And where the mischief, if you please, at this highly inconvenient time, am I to pick up nine or ten thousand?"

Lord John declined, with a smiling, a fairly irritating eye for his friend's general resources, to consider that question seriously. "Surely you can have no difficulty whatever!"

"Why not? when you can see for yourself that I've had this year to let poor dear old


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Mr.. Hough I have always thought, since we last came hither, that our proper Business is only to sit here, not to vote, unless it be at


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Rh Hill Street! Do you call it the moment for me to have liked to see myself all but cajoled into planking down even such a matter as the very much lower figure of Kitty's horrid incubus?"

"Ah, but the inducement and the quid pro quo," Lord John brightly indicated, "are here much greater! In the case you speak of you will only have removed the incubus—which, I grant you, she must and you must feel as horrid. In this other you pacify Lady Imber and marry Lady Grace: marry her to a man who has set his heart on her and of whom she has just expressed—to himself—a very kind and very high opinion."

"She has expressed a very high opinion of you?"—Lord Theign scarce glowed with credulity.

But the younger man held his ground. "She has told me she thoroughly likes me and that—though a fellow feels an ass repeating such things—she thinks me perfectly charming."

"A tremendous creature, eh, all round? Then," said Lord Theign, "what does she want more?"


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82 "She very possibly wants nothing—but I'm to that beastly degree, you see," his visitor patiently explained, "in the cleft stick of my fearfully positive mother's wants. Those are her 'terms,' and I don't mind saying that they're most disagreeable to me—I quite hate 'em: there! Only I think it makes a jolly difference that I wouldn't touch 'em with a long pole if my personal feeling—in respect to Lady Grace—wasn't so immensely enlisted."

"I assure you I'd chuck 'em out of window, my boy, if I didn't believe you'd be really good to her," Lord Theign returned with the properest spirit.

It only encouraged his companion. "You will just tell her then, now and here, how good you honestly believe I shall be?"

This appeal required a moment—a longer look at him. "You truly hold that that friendly guarantee, backed by my parental weight, will do your job?"

"That's the conviction I entertain."

Lord Theign thought again. "Well, even if your conviction's just, that still doesn't tell me into which of my very empty pockets it will be of the least use for me to fumble."


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Rh "Oh," Lord John laughed, "when a man has such a tremendous assortment of breeches—!" He pulled up, however, as, in his motion, his eye caught the great vista of the open rooms. "If it's a question of pockets—and what's in 'em—here precisely is my man!" This personage had come back from his tour of observation and was now, on the threshold of the hall, exhibited to Lord Theign as well. Lord John's welcome was warm. "I've had awfully to fail you, Mr. Bender, but I was on the point of joining you. Let me, however, still better, introduce you to our host."

 VII

indeed, formidably advancing, scarce had use for this assistance. "Happy to meet you—especially in your beautiful home, Lord Theign." To which he added while the master of Dedborough stood good-humouredly passive to his approach: "I've been round, by your kind permission and the light of nature, and haven't required support; though if I had there's a gentleman there who seemed


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Rh also Chr. 1206–7:

dolg scēawian, wunde ond wīte.

Another such Cynewulfian word is þurhdrīfan. El. 707 has:

þēah ic ǣr mid dysige þurhdrifen wǣre;

and Chr. 1109:

swā him mid næglum þurhdrifan nrðhycgende.

With these compare Rood 46:

Þurhdrifan hī mē mid deorcan næglum.

b. Certain kennings are common to the Rood and the Cynewulfian poems. Thus (I add in brackets references omitted by Dietrich):

sigebēam, Rood 13, [127]: El. [420], 445, 665, 847, 861, 965, [1028].

wuldres trēow, Rood 14: El. [89], 828, 867, 1252.

wuldres beam, Rood 97: El. 217 (wuldres wynbēam, El. 844).

bēacna sēlest, Rood 118; wudu sēlesta, Rood 27: sēlest sigebēacna, El. 975; sēlest sigebēama, El. 1028.

feorgbold, Rood 73: selegescot, hūs, Chr. 1480, 1481.

hæfde his gāst onsended, Rood 49: his gast onsende, El. 480.

c. Other parallels are:

(1) Rood 4:

Þūhte mē þæt ic [ne] gesāwe syllicre trēow. Rh


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 second Hand the Resolution of other Mens Debates, and call them our own; or if we have free Liberty to argue what is already determined, it is no more than is usually practised at the Beginning of all Tyrannies, that are wont at first to give Men a shadow of Freedom to say what they please, when they have taken a Course, that they shall do nothing: yet I shall discharge my Duty to God and my Country, in speaking my Conscience freely, while I may, which I believe will not be long. For I perceive our Dissolution draws nigh, and that we have almost finish'd our Course, before we have finished the Work, for which we were pretended to come together, which was, as they that call'd us hither then told us, to settle Freedom and Liberty on the Nation; but we find by Experience, they meant nothing less. For how is it possible, we should confer Liberty on


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. a Colonel Willer—an excellent match. It has made us all happy." The next day we drove out, not in an open carriage as before, but in a chariot and with a pair ofhorses. "These are handsome horses," observed I. " Yes," replied he, " I am fond of good horses ; and, as I only keep a pair, I have the best. There is a certain degree of pretension in four horses, I do not much like it appears as if you wished to overtop your neighbors." I spent a few very pleasant days, and then quitted his hospitable roof. A severe cold, caught that winter, induced me to take the advice of the physicians, and proceed to the south of France, where I remained two years. On my return, I was informed that Willemott had speculated, and had been unlucky on the Stock Exchange ; that he had left Richmond, and was now living at Clapham. The next day I met him near the Exchange. "Reynolds, I am happy to see you. Thompson told me that you had come back. If not better engaged, come down to see me ; I will drive you down at four o'clock, if that will suit." It suited me very well ; and, at four o'clock, I met him, according to appointment, at a livery stable over the Iron Bridge. His vehicle was ordered out ; it was a phaeton drawn by two long-tailed ponies-altogether a very neat concern-we set off at a rapid pace. "They step out well, don't they ? We shall be down in plenty time to put on a pair of shoes by five o'clock, which is our dinner time. Late dinners don't agree

with me-they produce indigestion. Of course you know Louisa has a little boy." I did not ; but congratulated him. "Yes ; and has now gone out to India with her husband. Mary is also engaged to be married—a very good match-a Mr. Rivers, in the law. He has been called to the bar this year, and promises well. They will be a little pinched at first, but we must see what we can do for them." We stopped at a neat row of houses, I forget the name, and, as we drove up, the servant, the only man servant, came out, and took the ponies round to the stable, while the maid received my luggage, and one or two paper bags, containing a few extras for the occasion. I was met with the same warmth us usual by Mrs. Willemott. The house was small but very neat ; the remnants of former grandeur appeared here and there, in one or two little articles, favorites of the lady. We sat down at five o'clock to a plain dinner, and were attended by the footman, who had rubbed down the ponies and pulled on his livery. "A good, plain cook is the best thing after all," observed Willemott. " Your fine cooks won't condescend to roast and boil. Will you take some of this sirloin ?

23

the under-cut is excellent. My dear, give Mr. Reynolds some Yorkshire pudding." When we were left alone after dinner, Willemott told me, very unconcernedly of his losses. "It was my own fault," said he ; " I wished to make up a little sum for the girls, and, risking what they would have had, I left them almost pennyless. However, we can always command a bottle of port and a beefsteak, and what more in this world can you have ? Will you take port or white ? I have no claret to offer you." We finished our port, but I could perceive no difference in Willemott. He was just as happy and as cheerful as ever. He drove me to town the next day. During our drive, he observed, " I like ponies, they are so little trouble ; and I prefer them to driving one horse in this vehicle, as I can put my wife and daughters into it. It's selfish to keep a carriage for yourself alone, and one horse in a four-wheeled double chaise appears like an imposition upon the poor animal." I went to Scotland, and remained about a year. On my return, I found that my friend Willemott had again shifted his quarters. He was at Brighton ; and having nothing better to do, I put myself in the " Times,” and arrived at the Bedford Hotel. It was not until after some inquiry, that I could find out his address. At last I obtained it, in a respectable but not fashionable part of this overgrown town. Willemott received me just as before. " I have no spare bed to offer you, but you must breakfast and dine with us every day. Our house is small, but it's very comfortable, and Brighton is a very convenient place. You know Mary is married. A good place in the courts was for sale, and my wife and I agreed to purchase it for Rivers. It has reduced us a little, but they are very comfortable. I have retired from business altogether ; in fact, as my daughters are both married, and we have enough to live upon, what can we wish for more ? Brighton is very gay, and always healthy ; and, as for carriages and horses, they are of no use here ; they are to be had at every corner of the streets." I accepted his invitation to dinner. A parlour-maid waited, but every thing, although very plain, was clean and comfortable. " I have still a bottle of wine for a friend, Reynolds," said Willemott, after dinner, "but, for my part, I prefer whiskey-toddy. It agrees with me better. Here's to the health of my two girls, God bless them, and success to them in life." "My dear Willemott," said I, " I take the liberty of an old friend, but I am so astonished at your philosophy, that I cannot help it. When I call to mind Belem Castle, your large establishment, your luxuries, your French cook, and your stud of cattle, I wonder at your contented state of mind under such a change of circumstances."


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 Nativity, and well affected to his Government; yet I could not imagine by what it was caus'd; for it was more loud and shrill than any Sound of Bells I had ever heard in Ireland. I was inform'd that they had no Bells in the Moon; and to supply that Defect, they, upon Days of Rejoicing, hir'd certain Persons, fit for nothing else, to foment Quarrels between Women, so as that they might scold: Those Women were immediately carried to the Tops of Steeples, where they were furnish'd with Liquors to enflame their Rage, and had those Fomenters standing by them, to take care that each mould return the ill Language she receiv'd, tho' they were ready enough of themselves to continue their loud Reproaches; and that thole scolding Women were what made such an horrible Din. Tckbrff further told me, that this Custom of putting the scolding Women upon the Tops of Steeples, had made them, for some Years, past keep their Tongues in more Subjection than they were wont to do, which oblig'd 'em to hire Persons to make them alarm the Kingdom. I could not but wish that all the loud-tongu'd Women in mine own Country were transported to the Moon, till I consider'd, that by that Means poor Ireland would find a great Scarcity of Wives, and perhaps in one Age be wholly uninhabited. I have since thought that Philosophers upon Earth might mistake this Noise in the Moon for Musick, which made them first talk of the Musick of the Spheres.

Before I had Time to reflect upon what I had heard, we met with a Company of Beasts, among whom we could not discover the least Remains of Humanity, except in one, who had preserv'd his Nose; but I believe that was owing to his not taking Snuff; for I did not see him take a Pinch during our Conference, as the rest did. Those were Persons, who to shew how ready they were to serve


text: User:Heyzeuss/Lua sandbox

title: User:Heyzeuss/Lua sandbox


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Rh ledge of the existing state of feeling and of mental cultivation in the principal towns was sufficiently accurate to enable us to proceed with confidence, as far as they were concerned; but more minute information was necessary before we could venture to extend our operations from town to country, from the few with whom the European society are in direct communication to the body of the people. Mr., a gentleman distinguished for his accurate and methodical habits of mind, and for his intimate acquaintance with the natives and their languages, was therefore appointed to make a searching inquiry into the existing state of native education in the interior. Mr. Adam has ever since been employed on his educational survey, and has visited many different districts, average specimens of which he has subjected to a strict analysis.

Meanwhile all the materials of a national system of education are fast accumulating; teachers are trained; books are multiplied; the interest felt in the subject is strengthening and spreading; and the upper class of natives in the towns are being prepared to aid by their influence and example in the enlightening of the lower classes in the country.


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 their King, had made themselves so drunk, that they forgot how to help themselves; they rail'd at all that did not stagger, and pronounced them disaffected Persons. A Swine that happen'd to be next to me, had like to have thrown me down with a Reel which he took, tho' I happily kept myself from falling: The rest seeing me run from him, thought I had assaulted him, and sent an Hero to beat me for it. He came up to me, and aim'd a furious Blow at my Cerebellum, I avoided it, and he fell into the Gutter; the Company shouted as if they had obtain'd a Victory, while we made what Haste we could from them. How much better, said Tckbrff, when we were got from them, would those Persons prove their Loyalty, if upon this Day each would apply with remarkable Industry to that which might make him useful in the Commonwealth, rather than, by wishing Health to our Sovereign, impair their own, and by utterly extinguishing their little Reason, if they had any left, render themselves so contemptible to all that are not in the same Condition?

He had just ended this Reflection when we enter'd the Temple. I had not, indeed, as yet enquir'd into the Belief of the Congregation I was now going to join with, which may seem a little strange at first Sight to any one who considers what a vast Number of Books a Man of my Parts might have devour'd since my Arrival; some of which ought to have taught me this Lesson, that when a Man willingly does he knows not what, he may be guilty of he knows not what: But this could not possibly be my Case; for I told you before, and you must take my Word for it, that I was a perfect Master of their Language; so that I could not be guilty of I know not what, in assenting to what I did not understand; besides, I was resolv'd for the present barely to observe what I saw, without any more Emotion


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Rh

Our village church is truly a venerable edifice, and I experience no small gratification in paying a daily visit to this ancient relic, to gaze upon its grey and crumbling turrets, or sit beneath its low and ivy covered porch, or wander among the tombs of the mouldering dead. I fancy I am somewhat singular in that respect, for—with the exception of one solitary instance—I seldom, if ever, meet with a companion actuated by a similar propensity.

The old sexton is acquainted with my peculiar disposition, and often joins me in my rambles through the churchyard. He is familiar with every inch of ground surrounding the church, and points with a degree of pride and importance to certain mounds, covered with thick grass, and sweet scented flowers, as being the spots where he performed the first melancholy duties of his office; and often sighs whilst with sorrowful accents he alludes to the approach of that day, when his own form shall mingle with the dust of those whom he has consigned to the bosom of the cold earth.

He is a reverend old man, and his locks are silvered by the frost of age; for seventy winters have passed over his head; yet he is hale and strong. I have conceived a pity and veneration for the old man, because I observe that he is shunned by many persons who are acquainted with his calling. Indeed a public executioner could not be treated with more contempt, or viewed with greater disgust, than this poor harmless and inoffensive creature both by the vulgar herd, and persons whose education and situation in life, should teach them to observe the respect due to honorable old age.

This kind hearted man frequently reverts to the disrespect he encounters from persons acquainted with his calling, and a tear will sometimes moisten his cold grey eye, and roll down his furrowed cheek. He has not a relation in the world to cheer him in his declining years, for Death has buried his kindred from a life of poverty and wretchedness, and they lie buried in that churchyard, where the old man has performed the office of sexton for the last half century.

We frequently visit the graves of his kindred. They are situated in a retired spot, rendered somewhat gloomy by certain dark cedar and yew trees, that cast a broad and deep shadow upon the green sward around; and he derives a melancholy satisfaction, from removing the weeds and briars from such spots of earth, as conceal the remains of those, whose smiles and affectionate assiduities, would have rendered his old age happy.

I believe that I am the only being to whom he is really attached, and I never approach the churchyard without beholding him leaning over the white painted palings, looking anxiously for my arrival; and no sooner does he recognise me, than a smile of satisfaction illumines his countenance, and he hastens to open the wicket, and welcome me.

There is an elm tree, beneath whose friendly shade we often sit, and hold our friendly converse. It is from beneath this tree, that I view the venerable church, and hear the deep and sombre tones of the old turret bell quiver upon the breeze, and gaze upon the green sward, dotted with memorials of the dead. How calm, how tranquil is that spot of earth! The awful stillness of death reigns there. So profound is the silence, that the very beatings of one’s heart fall perceptibly upon the ear; and should this silence be interrupted, it is only by the solemn voice of the old bell, or the wind moaning through the branches of the elm trees that shade the avenue. From the crevices of the mouldering tombs the lizard creeps forth to bask in the rays of the sun; leaving his damp unwholesome cavern, concealed amidst rank weeds to inhale the pure and refreshing breeze, and the genial warmth of the atmosphere, when the white frost of winter has disappeared, and the verdant carpet of Nature, enamelled with varied colored flowers, welcomes the approaching spring.

It is during my rambles with the old man among the tombs, that he relates certain anecdotes connected with the past lives of those persons whose names, ages, and days of their deaths are recorded upon the tablets erected to their memories.

It happened during one of our rambles, that we arrived at a mound covered with long and soft grass, A plain looking tablet of inferior workmanship placed at the head of the grave, informed us of the names and ages of these who slept below.

The inscription ran as follows:

Upon our arrival at this grave, the old sexton clasped his hands behind him, and contemplated the tablet with a sorrowful expression of countenance: he then sighed, and shaking his head mournfully, exclaimed,

“Alas sir! this mound conceals the remains of two persons whose sad history I am too well acquainted with; for the remembrance of that misery a fond and doting mother endured, when bereaved of her only child, who met with an untimely end, can never be obliterated from my memory. Come! let us return to the seat beneath

�


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 126

Here we have a confession as to the state of disorganization and the chief obstacles, namely, the revolts of the agricultural population—which Kalinin designates as a revolt of bandits and wealthy peasants, although the latter class, as recently stated by Lenin is now non-existent, and no bodies can better deserve the title of "bandits" than the expeditions sent out by the Soviets to plunder the countryside.

The Bolshevists give additional causes for the economic degeneration:

One of the best descriptions of the results of this sort of thing is given by Prince Kropotkin, the eminent philosophical anarchist, just deceased in Soviet Russia. In a letter to the British workers, very similar to that printed in the report of the British labor delegation, Kropotkin declares:


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A correspondent of a European socialist paper now living in Soviet Russia writes in a similar vein:


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 128 Another reason for the additional decay which the Soviets have superimposed upon the degenerated industry that they inherited has been their deplorable policy of exterminating the professional classes—a policy which is summed up in a letter written by the famous Bolshevist writer, Maxim Gorky, to Lenin and printed in the Volya Rossii on October 2, 1920. In this letter Gorky refers to "the extermination of the cultural resources of the country":

A fourth vice of the Soviet system which is burdening industrial administration is the passing of endless, impractical and unenforceable decrees. Lenin himself refers to certain agricultural decrees as intended primarily for propaganda. And at a meeting reported in Izvestia, Moscow, January 1, 1921, he declared:

In Smolny we have talked more than enough about general principles. Now after three years we have decrees on many points of this question [the trade union question] concerning many of its integral parts. But it is the sad fate of the decrees that they are signed in order to be forgotten and to go unfulfilled by us.

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 Rh this, but to study practical things, and to verify them, we are unable to do.

What is most amusing is that Lenin himself soon gave an illustration of the truth of his accusations. The all-important problem for the Soviets is to get the persecuted workers to work. The supposed means of accomplishing this at present are so-called disciplinary courts. Yet Lenin and other Bolshevist chiefs had apparently forgotten the very existence of these courts or of the decree promulgating them. In Pravda (January 13, 1921) in an account of the All-Russian Conference of Professional Unions he is quoted as follows:

As this decree had been on the statute books over a year no wonder Lenin had forgotten its existence in view of the numbers of the decrees issued since that time.

In this matter of paper decrees as in the matter of the issuance of paper money and of Bolshevist propaganda generally there is one hope. The paper supply is very short. The type is being rapidly used up. The production of type-making factories is one-twentieth that of peace times. Then the number of workmen in the printing industry, doubtless for reasons we have already pointed out, has been reduced to one-half.

We cannot better sum up the total failure of the


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 could do only through his death, and what death could it have been other than one that takes place in the air, that is, on the cross? For only he who is crucified dies in the air. And thus the Lord has not without cause suffered death on the cross: having been lifted on the cross, he purified the air from the snares of the devil.” (p. 144.)

Redemption, the church says, is a fundamental dogma, on which the whole doctrine is based. Where is it expressed? In the Gospels, that is in the words of Jesus Christ himself, who came to save men, and in the words of the evangelists who wrote down the words of Christ, there is not any mention of this dogma. The church asserts that the dogma is expressed in Christ’s words, “The Son of man must be lifted up;” in the spurious words, “The lamb which taketh upon himself the sins of the world;” in the words, “The Son of man has come to minister;” in the words, “I am a good shepherd who will not spare my life for my sheep;” then in the words, when, breaking the bread, he said, “This is my body, for you do I break it,” and, at last, in what Caiaphas said. That is, obviously, untrue, but, according to the teaching of the church, all this is expressed more clearly in the Epistles, that is, in the interpretations of Christ’s words, and more clearly still in the interpretations of the fathers. But the redemption is the fundamental dogma of our salvation,—how is it then that Christ, who came to save us, did not more clearly express the dogma, but left all this to the interpretation of Epiphanius, to the unknown Epistle to the Hebrews, and to others. If this dogma is not only so important that on the belief in it depends all our salvation, but also is simply necessary to men, and Christ came down upon earth out of love for men, he ought to have expressed it clearly and simply at least once, but as it is he did not even hint at it. And everything which I can find out about this great truth, which is necessary for my salvation, I must draw from the writings about


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 130 economic and industrial policy of the Soviets than in the words of Maxim Gorky in the Moscow Pravda:

Again if we wish a detailed picture of the working out of the system we cannot do better than to quote from another article of Gorky's in the same journal. The description of this master writer and Bolshevist is so able and conclusive that we quote it at some length:

In another place a car is being loaded. On one axle are piled heavy barrels of cement, cases of lead, pieces of machinery, &c. On the other, rocking chairs, household goods, a perambulator—things that are quite light. The overloaded axle will of course become heated and the car will not reach its destination. I have been a porter myself. I know that had I tried to load a wagon in that way my boss would have boxed my ears and told me to go to the devil. And I should have deserved it, for I should have been injuring the rolling stock.

In another place a mechanical saw is being used to cut rafters and planks from a house which has been torn down. The wood is full of nails and the saw groans painfully. It is quickly spoiled and its teeth broken, yet it is common knowledge that we have no saws and that the price is so high that for one saw we have to give many bushels of wheat, and wheat itself is scarce.

Houses are being destroyed in a most revolting fashion. The windows are all broken, though we have no glass,


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 Rh and it would be so easy to take out the panes without breaking them. In the barracks transparent paper takes the place of window glass, letting in no light and keeping in no heat, therefore more furniture is burnt to warm the barracks.

Metal roofing is allowed to lie for months in the midst of the wreckage of destroyed houses. It rusts and becomes absolutely useless. The roofs of the inhabited houses are also rusted and the rain comes through, but nothing is done to mend them. Walls and ceilings fall in and well built houses rapidly become uninhabitable.

And this is how by sheer stupidity, by lack of regard for their own labor, our people destroy the valuable assets of the nation and ruin the patrimony of the public.

Our streets are littered with pieces of iron and the moujik (peasant) in his village has nothing wherewith to repair his wheels and axles, and cannot even forge shoes or nails for his horses or teeth for his rakes. That is why he goes out to the railway bridges and tries to saw off a piece of iron, or to loosen the rivets of the sleepers, or attempts to steal from the station the piece of metal that he needs. For a carload of iron the moujik would gladly barter a carload of wheat. Yet the hundreds of thousands of old saucepans that are scattered among the ruins of the houses would suit him very well and he could put to good use the window sashes and doors that are burned in the cities for heating purposes.

Doubtless these are all very minor matters, and particularly unimportant to us whose object is to teach the whole world a new order of things and a new manner of life. But can one learn conscientiously from masters who themselves either do not know how to work or will not work, and who will soon have no clothes to put on their backs? I do not think the European workman can have any great respect for comrades who do not know how to organize their own labor. The politics of social revolution doubtless is very fine, but work comes first.


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 132 All these little things of which I have spoken are repeated by thousands, by tens of thousands, and they create an atmosphere of scandalous unrest, of laziness and of criminal carelessness, for all that goes to make up the patrimony of the public.

In lieu of a conclusion to the above we may quote the expression of that Socialistic progressive who is President of Czecho-Slovakia, Professor Masaryk—an ardent admirer of the Russian people and a life long student at first hand of Russian affairs. President Masaryk says:

The economic conditions are getting rapidly worse. The leading Soviet railway expert calculates that it will take 25 years to put the Russian railways back into shape. But to accomplish regeneration even in this period would require A1 credit abroad and a high degree of efficiency at home. As long as efficiency, according to Bolshevist reports, ranges from 20 to 70 per cent of the low pre-war level and credit approaches zero, regeneration is impossible and progressive degeneration—as Hughes and Hoover state—must continue. According to official Bolshevist reports mines are in a worse state than the railways and the basic iron and steel industries are in a still more complete condition of collapse. Under these conditions the few hundred foreign locomotives that can be paid for are but a drop in the bucket. The slight improvements reported amount to nothing in com-


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 and then laboured through sufficient specimens of the master singers, their degenerate successors; not however without occasional pleasure


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 Rh parison to the wholesale deterioration of 40,000 miles of roadbed and the rotting away of the machinery in thousands of mines.

It is obvious that all social reforms on a national scale are wholly impossible under economic conditions like these, where the industrial population has been reduced to a third or fourth of what it was and where the wage-earners that remain are wretchedly clothed and are happy when they have a starvation ration of black bread—to say nothing of any other food. Reforms of any substantial kind whatever for 100,000,000 people cost colossal sums of money, and occasional "model" institutions in a vast country are but a mockery serving to demonstrate the utter inadequacy and futility of what is being accomplished.

Far from moving forward we can be mathematically certain that every fundamental institution is falling back in Russia today—especially when we remember that the liberal Zemstvos, or provincial councils, under the old régime, had made a considerable beginning in certain directions.

Yet the Bolshevist propagandists and their "liberal" accomplices have the audacity to assert that vast and substantial reforms are being carried out in "art," "science," "education" and "culture." Though no foundation whatever for any of these assertions has been produced they have been so often repeated that the impression has become widespread that there must be "something" in them.

The most notorious of the mythical "reforms" being reported by the Bolshevists and their friends is the reform of the schools and the supposed good treatment


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 disappeared. I lay on in a kind of waking-slumber till Mrs. Carroll came in, bringing me my tea. When I had finished I once more fell into a doze, but opened my eyes in the dusk, when I heard the notes of Jim's flute under my window, in a slow melancholy tune, with an occasional pause, as if the musician was not very certain of his music. I recognised the air—the Lorelei. It had a curious effect in the gathering twilight, as if the music and the fading light were in some subtle way mingled. I knew that the unseen musician was Jim, yet none the less the mournful notes, coming slowly in a minor key, seemed the very soul of the deepening darkness, and called up before me a world of imaginary sorrows, a passionate regret for I knew not what, a kind of homesickness for my dream-land. Tears gathered in my eyes and ran down my cheeks. Fortunately nobody could see them, but I was ashamed of them myself, though I knew they were partly the result of my physical weakness. Still, it was ridiculous that I should cry over Jim's playing. Jim really couldn't play at all. It was stupid, idiotic; and the other day I had cried just in this same senseless fashion over a book I had been reading; I had wept my soul out in an ecstasy of love and misery.

When Jim's serenade was ended I lay on in the darkness, my tears drying on my cheeks, and thought what a fool I was. Why should I have cried? What was the matter with me? It was not that I was unhappy; on the contrary, I was extremely happy. Yet somehow I felt dimly that there was a greater happiness than any I had ever experienced or probably ever should experience. The meaning of my emotions and desires never became quite clear, though I seemed on the verge of discovery. It was as if there were something stirring within me to which I could not give freedom, something which remained unsatisfied even in the midst of my keenest pleasures


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 134 of children by the Soviets. Yet it is precisely the rising generation that always suffers most from such moral and intellectual chaos and physical suffering as prevail for men, women and children in Russia today. Far from putting the children first, the Soviets have put them almost last. First comes the Red Army—used not only for defense but for aggression and to put down peasant attempts at self-government with sufficient bloodshed to terrorize the survivors. Then comes the propaganda, squandering millions of dollars from South America to China—and in every village of Russia. Next comes the Soviet bureaucracy—usually given food privileges on the plausible ground that they need them in the strenuous work of keeping their hold on the government. Besides these two classes the army of spies, food seizing detachments, etc., can obviously get and demand preferred treatment. After all these, no doubt, the children are given a preference over the remainder of the population. And our wretched sentimentalists call this "looking out for the children!"

The Communists always assert and never deny that they are deliberately sacrificing the entire population for the present—in the belief that they are thus introducing the form of future society that they prefer. They acknowledge they are largely responsible for the bureaucracy, disorganization, etc., that are among the chief causes of the suffering. Here is how this affects the children:

Frederick J. Libby, commissioner of the American Friends' Service Committee (Quakers), who recently returned from Reval, brought back information that many children are starving in Russia.


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. Master Joseph, and it was a delightful thing to behold the young mother, bending over her infant son, her dark ringlets shadowing that face upturned towards her own. And the glance of intelligence from the large expressive eyes of that child, as he received instruction from her lips or when listening to her gentle admonitions, can never be forgotten by me.

"If Mrs. Walterson possessed any one failing—and none of us are exempted from the frailties of humanity—it was a tincture of pride, approaching to a seeming haughtiness—probably the secluded life she led or the remembrance of the slights she had received from her family—that might have wrought some change upon her sensitive mind. God forgive me, if in thought I wronged the poor widow!—but I have often imagined that, had she been more familiar with her humble neighbors in her prosperity, nay, even in her poverty, many hours of wretchedness would have been spared her; but, notwithstanding all the misery and distress that fell heavily upon her, after the death of her husband, she still retained her wonted pride, so that her neighbors, who were really anxious to relieve her wants, were fearful of meeting with a repulse.

"I have already stated that Captain Walterson was absent from home for the greatest part of the year, and when he returned from sea, his wife appeared an altered creature, for she was then all life and gaiety, and I have seen her leaning upon his arm whilst walking around the neat little garden attached to the cottage and smiling upon him with looks of affection. And oft did it gladden my heart to behold the captain fondling his little son or contributing to his amusement by joining him in his youthful sports. Ah, sir! If there was ever an affectionate husband and doting father, Captain Walterson was that man.

"I shall now pass over the events of about twelve or fourteen years in order to narrate a sad domestic affliction that befell Mrs. Waterson. Intelligence arrived, and alas! it was but too well confirmed that Captain Walterson's vessel had foundered at sea, and every soul on board had perished. It was truly great to behold poor Miss Walterson when she first received the dreadful tidings. It was known in the village, and many an anxious eye was directed toward the cottage.

"I was in the habit of paying a daily visit to the cottage, where I used to trim the garden and keep the fences in order, and was frequently invited by the old housekeeper to enter and take refreshment. It happened on the same afternoon that Mrs. Walterson had received the dreadful intelligence. I was partaking of my usual refreshment and had an opportunity to see her, and never, no, never shall I forget her as she then appeared! " She was seated in the parlor; the letter containing the afflicting intelligence had fallen from her hand; her eyes were praised to Heaven, but not a tear flowed to relieve the deep anguish that assailed her heart. Her face was pale as marble; her lips trembled, and there appeared an expression of vacancy in her countenance that was painful to behold. Master Joseph (who was then about seventeen or eighteen years of age and a fine, tall youth) clasped her right hand while he endeavored to cheer her with words of comfort, and he imprinted a kiss upon her cold white forehead, but she heard him not, nor felt his tear of affection bedew her pallid cheek.

"The appearance of Master Joseph, for his age, was manly and noble in the extreme. His countenance was handsome and expressive, and it bore a great resemblance to that of his mother's. His eyes were black, piercing, and brilliant. His fine black and glossy hair hung in small ringlets upon his shoulders; his limbs were firm and well set, and he gave evident tokens of superior strength to be developed in riper years.

"It was many weeks before Mrs. Walterson recovered from the shock inflicted upon her sensitive nature by the disastrous occurrence already mentioned, and when she appeared abroad, leaning upon the arm of her son, it was difficult to recognize her for the same person. The bloom of health had deserted her cheek; her eyes were sunken and her lips bloodless, and traces of care and anxiety became more visible upon her countenance every day I beheld her.

"It happened, unfortunately, that Captain Walterson's vessel was not insured; and, as he had devoted a great portion of capital to the purchase of valuable freight, little remained for the support of Mrs. Walterson and Master Joseph, who had never been put to any trade or profession. However, by prudent management of the proceeds arising from the disposal of her stock of jewelry, Mrs. Walterson was enabled to invest a sum in the funds, the interest of which tended to support her and her son, so that they had nothing to apprehend from the miseries attending absolute poverty, and, as Captain Walterson had purchased the White Cottage, they were in the possession of a comfortable residence.

"I have already stated that Master Joseph was the idol of his parents, but alas! in their fondness, they had neglected to instill into his youthful mind those precepts of morality, which are so essential for our ultimate happiness through life. By their excessive indulgence, he had been taught to imagine that he could do no wrong; and as his education had been neglected, his mind was not prepared to resist the false impressions of those allurements, with which vice so often entangles her victims; and, although his behavior for the two years succeeding his father's untimely death was all that his fond mother could wish, and such as to merit the admiration of the whole village, at the end of that time, a perceptible change was observed in his conduct, which


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 from the rude, yet interesting strains of the cobler of Nuremberg. Of this man's genius five folio volumes with double columns are extant in print, and nearly an equal number in manuscript; yet the indefatigable bard takes care to inform his readers, that he never made a shoe the less, but had virtuously reared a large family by the labor of his hands.

In Pindar, Chaucer, Dante, Milton, &c. &c. we have instances of the close connection of poetic genius with the love of liberty and of genuine reformation. The moral sense at least will not be outraged, if I add to the list the name of this honest shoemaker (a trade by the bye remarkable for the production of philosophers and poets). His poem intitled the, was the very first publication that appeared in praise and support of ; and an excellent hymn of Hans Sachs, which has been deservedly translated into almost all the European languages, was commonly sung in the Protestant churches, whenever the heroic reformer visited them.

In Luther's own German writings, and eminently in his translation of the bible, the German language commenced. I mean the language as it is at present written; that which is called the, as contra-distinguished from the , the dialect of the flat or northern countries, and from the ,


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. evidently inebriated, she clasped her hands, and whilst The tears gushed from her eyes, exclaimed,

"Oh, Joseph! It was cruel of you to treat me with such harshness. If you knew how miserable I am been during your absence, and the anxiety I felt for your safety, you would indeed pity me, but thank heaven, You have returned, and I am happy!'

"Her son made no reply, but stretched forth his legs. thrust his hands into his pockets and regarded the widow and myself with a vacant stare. Good God! What an alteration! A few weeks of intemperance wrought upon him! His hair that was wont to curl luxuriantly, was now disheveled and matted. His eyes had lost their brilliance; his cheeks were hollow and sunken, and his lips were black and parched from the effects. of habitual intoxication. His dress was disordered, and bespattered with mire, and in fact, his whole appearance calculated to raise emotions of loathing and disgust in the bosom of the spectator. Ah, sir! it seems, but an occurrence of yesterday, that I beheld the widow in her faded mourning dress; her dark glossy hair parted into plain bands on each side of her white forehead, while She leaned upon the arm of her son, whose eyes beamed. with affection, and whose deportment, as he walked up yon shaded avenue, bespoke the pride and joy of his heart, in being thus chosen as the protector of his fond mother in her declining years. And many were the blessings bestowed upon that son as he entered the church on the Sabbath day, supporting his mother, and bearing a small clasp Bible in his hand. The village James smiled and nodded to each other with looks of admiration upon beholding them walk up the aisle, and The old squire of the manor would often greet them with friendly salutation as they advanced, and point them out. to his lady, as though he experienced gratification on Viewing the calm and happy countenance of the mother, and commendable bearing of the son; little did I then Imagine that he would become such a disobedient and wayward youth—but to proceed with my sad narrative: and it will soon be concluded.

"A discovery was made that Master Joseph had joined a set of dissolute companions who had by the most artful strategies lured him to their toils, and by degrees had induced him to assist them in all their evil. practices. From the vices of gambling and inebriety, He had been led to commit the crime of theft, for, at the instigation of his wicked companions, he had broken open a bureau belonging to his mother and steal from then a sum of money together with a quantity of plate, and some few jewels, with which he had absconded; nor could the poor widow gain any intelligence. of him, until that sad adventure occurred, by which he met with an untimely end. It happened in the following manner:

"Those dissolute companions whom Master Joseph had joined, were known as a most desperate gang of ruffians. Orchards and hen roosts had been robbed. with impunity, for these depredators were said to be so strong in numbers, and so determined, that the villagers were afraid to attack them, so rewards were offered for their apprehension, they committed the most flagrant and daring acts of robbery unmolested; and perceiving that no one ventured to attack them. While pursuing their lawless deeds, they had become bold, and had now concerted a plan to rob the manor house, at the earliest and most favorable opportunity that should offer, in order to obtain the rich service of plate and jewels that the mansion was said to contain. For the purpose of carrying this plan into execution, Inquiries were made by certain members of the gang, and it was ascertained that the squire had gone to his town residence, in order to spend the winter there, and had left the manor house to the care of the old steward, who, with his wife, son, and servant girl, were the only people that inhabited it. This information inspired the desperadoes with great joy and a determination to effect their object without loss of time.

"It was a dark and gusty night in the month of February, that the burglars set out upon their expedition; and Master Joseph, who had been elected a sort of chief or captain of this desperate gang, undertook to conduct the enterprise.

"It was about two o'clock in the morning when they arrived at the gate of the manor house, and a trusty spy was sent forward to reconnoitre, who soon returned, and reported that everything was favorable for their plan of attack thereupon, the gang forced the gate, and moving along noiseless and upon tiptoe, concealed by the thick gloom that shrouded the earth, they proceeded along the path that led to the principal entrance, and when When they arrived there, Master Joseph beckoned to one of his companions, who carried a small canvas bag containing implements for house-breaking and taking from thence a center-bit, a screwdriver, and a pick-lock, he commenced operations upon the shutter, whilst his companions prepared their weapons of defense, in case of an attack. Master Joseph, having cut a hole in the shutter, large enough for him to thrust his arm into, retired to procure the dark lantern, held by one of his companions, in order to direct him where to find the bolt. At that moment, a window into the upper story was thrown suddenly open, and a blunderbuss discharged. upon the burglars. A cry of agony was heard, followed by by oaths and execrations, when the discharge of another deadly weapon from the same unseen hands, caused the gang to disperse with precipitation, for numerous lights appeared in the distance, hurrying towards the scene of action, where a great number of villagers soon arrived. bearing lanterns and weapons of defense. They proceeded to the manor house, at the door of which they


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. THE SISTER NUN.

It was in the year 18-, when the English army were encamped near Lisbon, that two British officers paid a visit to the Convent of St. Clara. It enclosed within its walls, at that period, two sisters, beautiful and unfortunate girls, who had taken the vows, which rendered them wretched for life, under circumstances of the most unprincipled deception. Their story interested the feelings, and their beauty gave rise to deeper impressions in the breasts of two romantic young men and repeated interviews ended in the young officers offering to carry off to England these victims of deception, and there to make them their own for life. The wretched state ofthe country-the storm of conventual persecution, of all others the most severe and most pitiless-induced the Nuns to give their enterprizing admirers a willing assent. Colonel Pierrepoint and Sir Harry Trelawney were both men of family and fortune; and Constance and Inez de Castro readily believed them men of honor. It was speedily arranged that Colonel Pierrepoint's brother, who commanded a man of war then lying under sailing orders in the bay, should receive the fugitives on board, and convey them to England. There, their lovers were to join them, immediately on obtaining leave of absence.

After almost insupportable delays, the signal that the Andromache would sail on the morrow, and that their lovers would be under the western wall at twelve that night, was perceived in the Convent. The hour, so important to some beating hearts, arrived. The bay of Lisbon lay clear and blue in the summer moonlight ; the man-of-war's boat, with muffled oars, was stationed at a little distance from the shore ; and the gray massy building in the Convent was distinctly visible through the bending foliage of the lines that surrounded it.

The hour had barely struck, when a female form appeared above the Convent wall. "She's mine," cried Pierrepoint, as the high-minded Constance, to inspire courage in her sister, and show her the example, first descended the rope-ladder. Inez attempted to follow her : but, from some accident never explained, the ladder slipped-she faltered-tottered-and, attempting to grasp one of the buttresses of the wall, fell over into the grounds of the Convent. The scream of agony which escaped her, and the frenzied exclamations of Trelawney, alarmed the sisterhood, who rushed in crowds to the spot, and, after a search, found the insensible Inez. Trelawney was dragged, by main force, from the spot, while Constance was hurried on board the Andromache, which conveyed her to England. There, her lover soon after joined her, but as a lover only. The sacred name of wife he faithlessly withheld from her ; and, to the agony of being betrayed by the man she loved, were added the most fearful apprehensions for her sister, and the unceasing reproaches of her own heart. Of Inez, or of Trelawney, she could obtain no tidings. Pierrepoint was ignorant, or pretended ignorance, as to what became of either ; and, hardly daring to reflect on the fate of her sister, yet hoping that it was happier than her own, she continued to live on. The past only furnished her with a subject of regret ; the future with a source of gloomy anticipation.

Three years of her life she had thus dragged on, a cold, deserted, joyless being, unloving and unloved, devouring her sorrows in wretched solitude, with every capacity for happiness turned inward on herself and converted into so many sources of the most exquisite misery-when Pierrepoint, coming, unexpectedly to a title, and feeling some little compunction towards the woman he had so cruelly deceived, determined on offering her all the reparation in his power, and made her his wife. It was a few weeks after this event, at the opera, blazing with jewels, and adorned as a bride, her personfaded indeed from its former loveliness, but still sufficiently beautiful to be the attraction of the evening-was recognised by Sir Harry Trelawney. An invitation brought him to her box. In a voice hardly articulate from emotion, she asked for her sister.

"Can you bear to hear the truth ?" said Trelawney, anxiously.

"Any thing-every thing"-she exclaimed- -"but suspense."

He then told her, cautiously, that, disregarding the agony which Inez endured from a limb fractured in two places, the superior, discovering she yet lived, had her instantly conveyed to the Refectory, where the nuns repaired in full assembly :-that thence, without her limb being set, or any relief afforded her, the hapless victim was hurried to the fatal cell, where, between four walls , with her loaf of bread and cruse of water, she underwent the lingering death entailed on broken vows.

"My agony," Trelawney added, " at discovering her fate, you may conceive, but I cannot describe. Her affection- her devotion- her reliance on my honor- all, at this moment, rise before me. In the last words she was heard to utter, she forgave her seducer-he never can forgive himself."

Constance uttered no scream- no shriek-not a sound escaped her-but she was never seen to smile again. With her, the season of hope was at an end. After an ineffectual struggle to stay in a world she could enjoy no longer,-without the ties of children to bind her to society, without affection to console her, without friendship to advise her, —she entreated Lord Pierrepoint to loosen his hold on his victim, and allow her to return into a convent. This request her husband-though a libertine in principle, and now without affection for her, yet pleased with the admiration she excited-alternately refused and derided. Perceiving her entreaties were renewed with increasing earnestness, and incensed at Trelawney's communication, in a moment of irritation he


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. quaintances in the city, while her story was yet a new one. It was therefore decided she should go, and an acceptance was written, appointing an early day for her departure by the line of stages indicated for her. Mrs. Wiley disposed of some of her evening dresses and ornaments, for her, and obtained funds which enabled her to retain the dear harp and piano, which were left in Mrs. Wiley's care. The loneliness of that journey to the beautiful young girl, who had never travelled before but with all the accompaniments of wealth and fashion, can better be imagined than described, and yet she lost no real comfort, wanted no necessary attention, for the roughest of her fellow passengers offered the most comfortable seat in the stage and the choicest dish on the table to the unprotected stranger. And thus it is generally in the United States : to be a woman and unprotected, is to insure every needful attention. At length the journey drew to aclose. From the brow of the hill Emma beheld her future home. She had been delighted with the appearance and situation of many of the numerous villages which render western New York beautiful, but this surpassed them all. Situated at the junction of two fine rivers, within a day's ride of one of that cluster of lakes, which has obtained for that section of country, the name of Lake County, it is the depot for the produce of a rich neighborhood, and wore the thriving, onward look, so peculiarly American. Every thing looked new. Every thing in good order. The snow-white houses gleamed among luxuriant trees, which seemed striving their utmost to keep pace with the fortunes of their owners. Four or five steeples pierced the air, and as many bells when occasion required, rang out their peals, for when the first steeple was reared, a spirit of emulation was excited, which waxed hotter and hotter, till each congregation boasted its own spire, the last always a little higher, or more ornamented than its predecessor ; and when it whispered abroad that a certain vestry meditated procuring a bell, not one of the active members, as they are termed, of the other churches, had a moment's rest till affairs were in train to procure one for their own. The ladies, too, in the meanwhile, got up fairs for carpetting the aisles, and ornamenting the pulpits. As it was with their churches, so with their dwellings, the education of their children, their very clothing. When Emma beheld with admiring eyes, the lovely landscape below her, so well calculated to fill the mind with sweet peaceful feelings, and lead the thoughts to the Giver of all good, the Creator of all beauty, she had little idea of the unainiable feelings which had had so great an influence in beautifying the lovely village which made the most prominent feature in the scene. All was fair on the outside, and she knew nothing of the spirit of gossipping and often of wilful detraction, which had so great sway with its inhabitants. Her admiration was soon swallowed up by the thoughts of the approaching interview with the Oldens, and as the coach whirled rapidly through the streets, it required all her self-command to maintain outward composure. Her heart beat so fast as to check her breath, and she was barely conscious of surrounding objects. At last the stop, the opening of the door, the driver's request she would hand him her basket, roused her, and bidding adieu to her fellow-passengers, she was soon on the pavement, her trunk beside her, and the stage was gone. It required some courage to mount the steps of the large house on which she saw the name of Olden, and ring the bell ; but it was at last done, and the summons answered by so showily dressed a young woman, that Emma at first thought it must be one of the family, but the girl, having first examined the trunks answered the question as to Mrs. Olden's being at home, with,

“ I suppose you are the young woman that's going to be governess ; Miss Olden is in the parlor, you can go in and see her," and showing her the door, she left her to open it and announce herself. Mrs. Olden was sitting alone in a gaudily and somewhat richly furnished room. Her dress consisted of a common calico, with an apron covered with gay embroidery, and a cap, whose ribbons and flowers outshone the rainbow. Her appearance corresponded with her dress and furniture ; and Emma shrank from the mingled curiosity and ill-nature of the vulgar stare she encountered ; for to tell the truth Mrs. Olden was far from pleased with the remarkable beauty of her new inmate, having two grown daughters, beside the three who were to be Emma's pupils ; and one son, toward whom her thoughts glanced somewhat uneasily, as the stranger moved gracefully across the room to the chair she was tardily requested to take. After a few common place remarks, Mrs. Olden went into the hall, and standing at the foot of the stairs, in a shrill voice summoned her grown daughters by the names of Sary Rosalindy and Letheresy Ann, so she pronounced them. The younger ones, she informed Emma, were absent for the day. As she returned to her seat, her eye caught the figure of a tall man examining Miss Benson's baggage, and she looked very much vexed when she saw him ascend the steps, he being no other than Mr. Busby, who, having nothing to do and little to think of, being, moreover, a bachelor, and very good natured, devoted himself to the acquisition and retailing of news, whether private or public, and Mrs. Olden knew that within an hour after he had seen Emma, the whole village would be ringing with exaggerated accounts of her beauty and accomplishments, and stylish travelling appointments. Anxious as she felt to keep her in the back ground, nothing could be more mal-a-propos than that Mr. Busby should see and announce her.

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. was all Emma knew of the nominal head of the house. Her monotonous course of life was only broken by an occasional letter from Mrs. Wiley; and Emma's heart sometimes throbbed almost to bursting, from the utter destitution of companionship, but she felt self-dependent. Dence was an important part of the lesson that was set. her, favored child of fortune that she had been, and she tried to be not merely submissive but cheerful. She had no acquaintance that went beyond a passing salutation; for so well had her conduct fallen in with Mrs. Olden's policy, that few had called upon her, and a mere interchange of visits had taken place with them. Many of The young men had made attempts to be introduced to the beautiful stranger, and some had succeeded, but she was never to be seen in the Olden's parlor, seldom in the street, so that finally they began to regard her as something to be wondered at but not approached. Thus Time rolled on till autumn deepened into winter. softened into spring, and the richness of summer mellowed into early fall. Emma had been more than a year with the Olden's, and had become nearly reconciled. to her mode of life, when a little accident occurred, which, as trifling as it would have appeared at another time, seemed now of consequence from its novelty.

The ladies of the place had for some time been talking of a picnic in a neighboring wood, and the lovely The weather in September determined them to put their project into execution. Emma heard the party discussed. as a thing in which she had no concern, and, as usual, aided the young ladies in planning their dresses, but Her consternation was great when the day before the party, Letheresa insisted on her going, that she might sing a certain duet with her. Mrs. Olden was unwilling and thought some other song would answer, but The young lady was obstinate, and as Emma had proved herself so harmless, Mama withdrew her objections. Emma's feelings were, of course, not respected. Her appearance created much surprise, and a number of Her would-be admirers made her agreeable assiduously. Emma, having gone, thought it ridiculous to appear. otherwise than cheerful, and allowed the balmy air and lovely scenery to have their full influence on her feelings, and though she declined dancing, Mrs. Olden had the mortification to see she was decidedly the belle of the party, and feared the year's work was undone by that. single afternoon. Her manners became exceedingly harsh and even insulting; Emma began to suspect the cause, and unwilling to cause displeasure or subject herself to mortification, told one of the young ladies she would wait for them to take her up at a farm house in the vicinity, as she did not feel inclined to remain longer. As the duet had been sung, her absence was a matter of indifference, and separating herself from the group, she strolled through a little screen of wood, reaching the farmhouse, requested permission to sit in a little garden bower till she was called for. She soon recovered the serenity of her feelings, somewhat ruffled by Mrs. Olden's speeches, but found her thoughts would not be forced from a mournful, though not repining contemplation of the past. Thus, an hour or two passed. by, and as the sun touched the horizon, the carriages of The returning villagers began to roll past. At length that of the Olden's came in sight, and Emma went to the roadside that she might cause no delay. As it drew near, she perceived her corner of the front seat occupied by a gentleman, who, with his back toward She was talking to Rosalinda. Mrs. Olden called out,

"Miss Benson, you must walk home; I have no room. for you. Drive on."

Emma felt nervous and excitable from the long, sad musing she had been indulging, and while her cheek flushed, a tear trembled in her eye. The fear that the A vulgar-minded woman should observe her agitation. absorbed all other feelings, and bending her head to arrange her shawl, she made no reply. But the gentleman in the carriage, on hearing the speech, sprang forward, saying, "Is it possible I am depriving a lady of her seat. Excuse me, Mrs. Olden, I cannot think of availing myself of your politeness,” bade the man stop, and springing out was by Emma's side in a moment. How can we describe her astonishment when she beheld Charles Delancey. His agitation equaled hers. When he saw one, he thought it was lost to him forever. once more before him. Mrs. Olden finds that Emma was an acquaintance of the elegant stranger. now urged her to get in, as they could make room for both, but Delancey protested that he could not think of so greatly inconveniencing them, and as the evening was so lovely, if Miss Benson would permit him to escort her home, he would take the opportunity to give her the latest news of her friends, and avail himself of Mrs. Olden's polite invitation to spend the evening with them. Mrs. Olden bit her lip but could make no objection, and Emma, having seen that several of the party had been tempted to walk, as the distance was not much over a mile, made none either, and Charles Delancey drew her arm within his with feelings, not the less happy that he had heard Letheresa's malicious loud whisper, "So this is the Charles Delancey whose card you keep." He stole a glance at Emma, but her deeply dyed cheeks made him instantly avert his eyes. and endeavor to appear unconscious of the whisper.

We will not describe that lingering walk, nor the modes adopted by Delancey to secure interviews with Emma, whose position in the family he soon comprehended, but we will claim our privilege as biographers, and give an excerpt from a confidential letter written to his sister, a lovely woman residing on the Hudson River.

"And now, dear Julia, that I have given you a history of my adventure up to my arrival at this beautiful, but


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 {| style="border-collapse:collapse; border: 1px solid black; margin: auto;" BY MAJOR CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS
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HE icy rain of a belated Northern spring drove down steadily through the dark branches of the fir thicket, and the litter of young "snowshoe rabbits," shivering beneath the insufficient shelter, huddled themselves together, for warmth, into a reddish-brown ball of the same color as the dead fir needles which formed their bed. Their long-eared mother, after nursing them all through the harsh daylight and shielding them as best she could with her furry body, had slipped away to forage for her evening meal under cover of the gathering dusk, leaving her litter, perforce, to the chances of the wild.

Concealment being their only defense against their many prowling and hungry foes, the compact cluster of long-eared babies made no tiniest whimper of protest against their discomfort, lest the sound should betray them to some hunting fox or weasel. Had they kept still, as they should have done, they would have been invisible to the keenest passing eye; but just for the moment the cluster was convulsed by a silent strug-


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 gle. One of the litter, chancing to have been left on the outer surface of the bunch, came to the conclusion that he would be more comfortable at the center, and set himself to force his way in. Being the biggest and strongest of the litter he presently succeeded, in spite of the resistance of his weaker brothers and sisters. And so, since he was the one least in need of warmth, he managed to get the most of it. For it is written in the Law of the Wilderness that to him that hath shall be given.

Fortunately for the defenseless litter no hungry prowler came by during the commotion, and the struggle was soon over. The ousted ones resigned themselves to the inevitable and settled themselves quietly on the cold exterior of the bunch. Some fifteen or twenty minutes later the mother returned, well stuffed with sprouting grasses and the aromatic leaf buds of the birch saplings. Through the gathering dark and the rain she came hopping in soundlessly on her broad furry pads. She slipped under the low-hanging branches of the thicket, curled herself about the shivering cluster of her little ones, and drew them close against her warm, wet body, where at once they fell to nursing greedily.

Soon the whole litter was sound asleep, so well warmed by their mother's abundant milk


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 that the bitter rain lashing down upon them through the branches disturbed them not at all. The night was black and full of strange, subdued noises, the swish of sudden rain gusts, the occasional scraping of great branches against each other, and always, high overhead the sealike rush and muffled roar of the wind in the straining tops of the firs and hemlocks. While the little ones slept soundly, careless of the storm and unconscious of all danger, the mother's sleep was hardly sleep at all. While her eyes closed drowsily in the darkness, some portion of her senses was always on the alert, always standing sentry, ready to arouse her to instant and complete wakefulness. Her ears, attuned to catch the faintest doubtful sound, were never asleep, never quite at rest; her sensitive nostrils were always quiveringly attentive. If a twig snapped and was blown to earth her eyes opened wide at once, and both ears stood up in anxious interrogation. Once, through the hushed tumult, those vigilant ears caught a sound of light feet stealing past the edge of the thicket. Instantly they stiffened to a rigid stillness, as if frozen. But the menacing sound—so faint that few ears save hers could have detected it—passed on. The rigid ears relaxed; the round, bulging, anxious eyes of the furry mother closed again.


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 That night of rain and cold few of the hungry hunting beasts were on the prowl, and no further peril came near the shelterless family in the fir thicket. But had a fox or a weasel chanced upon them, the timorous mother would have been no protection to her young. With no defense against her swarming foes except her obscure coloring and her speed in flight, she would have had to choose between staying to die with the helpless litter or leaving them to their fate and escaping, if she could, to bear another litter in their place. And there is no doubt as to which course she would have chosen. She loved her young ones; but she loved life better. She had but one life; and she had had, and with luck could go on having, many young. She would have run away, careering with mighty bounds through the stormy darkness to hide at last, with pounding heart and panting lungs in some other thicket.

And the nurslings would have made a succulent meal for the lucky prowler.

Fortunately, however, for this little story, the timorous mother was not to be faced by any such harsh alternative. For in this particular litter of hers, as we have seen, there was one youngster so much stronger than his fellows as to have been singled out, apparently, for the special favor of


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 the Unseen Powers of the Wilderness. To him fell more than his due share of the family warmth, the family nourishment, to the end that he should grow up a peculiarly fine, vigorous, and prepotent specimen of his race, and reproduce himself abundantly, to the advantage, not only of the whole tribe of the snowshoe rabbits, but of all the hunting beasts and birds of the wilderness, who chiefly depend upon that prolific and defenseless tribe for their prey. Hence it came about that, though death in many furred and feathered forms prowled about them or hovered over them by night and by day, this particular mother and her young escaped discovery. No dreadful, peering eyes chanced to penetrate their screen of drooping fir branches. And the mother, on her perilous foragings in the twilight or the rose-grey dawn, was never pounced upon or trailed. For that one sturdy youngling's sake, it would seem, the spirits of the wild had decreed it so.

Presently, the harsh season relented. The rain ceased except for an occasional warm, vitalizing shower; the wilderness was steeped in caressing sunshine; the leaf buds of the birch and poplar burst into a flood of tenderest green; and in every open glade the Painted Trillium unfolded its fairy blooms of white and carmine.


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 Spring, in haste to make up for lost time, rushed forward glowing to meet the summer. The litter of young "snowshoes" had been, for a week or more, browsing upon the tender herbage on the skirts of the thicket, and depending daily less and less upon their mother's milk for their subsistence. Suddenly, on one of those rich days, warm yet tonic, when life runs sweetly in the veins of all the wilderness, the hitherto devoted mother looked coldly on her young and refused them her breasts. Her biggest and most favored son, unused to rebuffs, persisted obstinately. She fetched him a kick from her powerful hinder paws which sent him rolling over and over on the brown carpet of fir needles, whisked about impatiently, and went hopping off through the bushes to seek other interests and make ready to rear another family. The kicked one, recovering from his astonishment, scratched the needles from his ears with his hind paws, stared indignantly at his brothers and sisters as if he thought that they had done it, and hopped away, in the opposite direction to that which his unsympathetic mother had taken. He browsed upon the young grasses till his appetite was satisfied, then took cover beneath a thick low juniper bush and settled himself to sleep, his independent spirit refusing to be daunted by the unaccustomed loneli-


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 * WikiProject NLS
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 * Poems of Emily Dickinson
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 *  ed. by Arthur Quiller-Couch
 *  ed. by Arthur Quiller-Couch

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 * Osborne's Collection of Early Children's Books
 * commons:Category:Books about Ottawa
 * Ottawa: The Picturesque City
 * Souvenir of Ottawa and Vicinity
 * Songs of French Canada
 * Common Prayers
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 * Index:"Oranges and lemons", an old ditty of London citie (IA orangeslemonsold00mitcrich).pdf
 * Index:The courtship, marriage, and pic nic dinner of Cock Robin and Jenny Wren (IA courtshipmarriag00yorkiala).pdf
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 * Index:The tragi-comic history of the burial of Cock Robin, 1811 (IA tragicomichistor00chariala).pdf
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 * Index:The happy courtship, merry marriage, and pic nic dinner of Cock Robin and Jenny Wren - to which is added, alas! the doleful death of the bridegroom (IA happycourtshipme01londiala).pdf
 * Index:The happy courtship, merry marriage, and pic nic dinner of Cock Robin and Jenny Wren - to which is added, alas! the doleful death of the bridegroom (IA happycourtshipme02londiala).pdf
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Incomplete

 * Anglo-Saxon Riddles of the Exeter Book
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 *  by Leo XIII
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 * , 1854 ed., by and the, tr. , 1857
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 ness. The rest of the litter, less venturesome, peered forth timorously from the edge of their shelter, nibbled the herbage that was within easy reach, and finally huddled down together, for comfort, on the old nest. That same night, while they slept in a furry bunch, a weasel came that way and took it into his triangular head to explore the thicket. He was not hungry, but after the manner of his bloodthirsty tribe he loved killing for its own sake—which most of the other hunting folk of the wilderness do not. He savagely dispatched the whole litter, drank the blood of a couple, devoured the brains of another, tossed the mangled carcases wantonly about, and left them to the next prowler that might come by. A few minutes later a big "fisher" arrived, maliciously pursuing the weasel's trail, and did not disdain the easy repast that had been left for him.

During the sunlit, spring-scented weeks that followed, while the young snowshoe rabbit was growing swiftly to maturity, the favor of the Fates continued to shield him. If a prowling fox chanced to peer, sniffing hungrily, beneath the bush which formed his bivouac (for he knew no home, no specially preferred abiding place), it always happened that some caprice, perhaps some


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 dim premonition of peril, would arouse him from his half slumber and send him off noiselessly through the shadows a few moments before the arrival of the foe, who would be left to smell angrily at the still warm couch. If, as he hopped buoyantly across some moonlit glade, the terrible horned owl, that scourge of the wilderness night, dropped down on him on soundless wings, it always happened that some great branch would magically interpose itself, just in time, and the clutching talons would be diverted from their aim. Such experiences—and they were many—served only to sharpen his vigilance and drive home upon his narrow brain the lesson, more vital to a snowshoe rabbit than all others put together, that destruction lay in wait for him every hour.

Thus well schooled by that rough but most efficient teacher, the wilderness, and well nourished by the abundance of the growing season, young Snowshoe came swiftly to his full stature. Though universally called a rabbit, and, more definitely, a "snowshoe" rabbit by reason of his great, spreading, furry feet, he was in reality a true hare, larger than the rabbits, much longer and more powerful in the hind legs, incomparably swifter in flight, but quite incapable of making himself a home by burrowing in the earth.