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Rh cannon-balls—a defense conducted, not by the aged and infirm general, but by a young officer named Moore—is one of the most heroic episodes in history. When at last the Nana found it impossible to conquer these starving men and women with powder and ball, he resorted to treachery, and that succeeded. He agreed to supply them with food and send them to Allahabad in boats. Their mud wall and their barracks were in ruins, their provisions were at the point of exhaustion, they had done all that the brave could do, they had conquered an honorable compromise, their forces had been fearfully reduced by casualties and by disease, they were not able to continue the contest longer. They came forth helpless but suspecting no treachery, the Nana's host closed around them, and at a signal from a trumpet the massacre began. About two hundred women and children were spared—for the present—but all the men except three or four were killed. Among the incidents of the massacre quoted by Sir G. O. Trevelyan, is this:

"When, after the lapse of some twenty minutes, the dead began to out-number the living;—when the fire slackened, as the marks grew few and far between; then the troopers who had been drawn up to the right of the temple plunged into the river, sabre between teeth, and pistol in hand. Thereupon two half-caste Christian women, the wives of musicians in the band of the Fifty-sixth, witnessed a scene which should not be related at second-hand. In the boat where I was to have gone,' says Mrs. Bradshaw, confirmed throughout by Mrs. Setts, 'was the school-mistress and twenty-two misses. General Wheeler came last in a palkee. They carried him into the water near the boat. I stood close by. He said, 'Carry me a little further towards the boat.' But a trooper said, 'No, get out here.' As the General got out of the palkee, headforemost, the trooper gave him a cut with his sword into the neck, and he fell into the water. My son was killed near him. I saw it; alas! alas! Some were stabbed with bayonets; others cut down. Little infants were torn in pieces. We saw it; we did; and tell you only what we saw. Other children were stabbed and thrown into the river. The schoolgirls were burnt to death. I saw their clothes and hair catch fire. In the water, a few paces off, by the next boat, we saw the youngest daughter of Colonel Williams. A sepoy was going to kill her with his bayonet. She said, 'My father was always kind to sepoys.' He turned away, and just then a villager struck her on the head with a club, and she fell into the water. These people likewise saw good Mr. Moncrieff, the clergyman, take a book


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Rh alive. A handful lingered along into age. In 1864 the last man died, in 1876 the last woman died, and the Spartans of Australasia were extinct.

The Whites always mean well when they take human fish out of the ocean and try to make them dry and warm and happy and comfortable in a chicken coop; but the kindest-hearted white man can always be depended on to prove himself inadequate when he deals with savages. He cannot turn the situation around and imagine how he would like it to have a well-meaning savage transfer him from his house and his church and his clothes and his books and his choice food to a hideous wilderness of sand and rocks and snow, and ice and sleet and storm and blistering sun, with no shelter, no bed, no covering for his and his family's naked bodies, and nothing to eat but snakes and grubs and offal. This would be a hell to him; and if he had any wisdom he would know that his own civilization is a hell to the savage—but he hasn't any, and has never had any; and for lack of it he shut up those poor natives in the unimaginable perdition of his civilization, committing his crime with the very best intentions, and saw those poor creatures waste away under his tortures; and gazed at it, vaguely troubled and sorrowful, and wondered what could be the matter with them. One is almost betrayed into respecting those criminals, they were so sincerely kind, and tender, and humane; and well-meaning.

They didn't know why those exiled savages faded away, and they did their honest best to reason it out. And one man, in a like case in New South Wales, did reason it out and arrive at a solution:

"It is from the wrath of God, which is revealed from heaven against cold ungodliness and unrighteousness of men."

That settles it.

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 CHAPTER XXVIII.

HE aphorism does really seem true: "Given the Circumstances, the Man will appear." But the man musn't appear ahead of time, or it will spoil everything. In Robinson's case the Moment had been approaching for a quarter of a century—and meantime the future Conciliator was tranquilly laying bricks in Hobart. When all other means had failed, the Moment had arrived, and the Bricklayer put down his trowel and came forward. Earlier he would have been jeered back to his trowel again. It reminds me of a tale that was told me by a Kentuckian on the train when we were crossing Montana. He said the tale was current in Louisville years ago. He thought it had been in print, but could not remember. At any rate, in substance it was this, as nearly as I can call it back to mind.

A few years before the outbreak of the Civil War it began to appear that Memphis, Tennessee, was going to be a great tobacco entrepot—the wise could see the signs of it. At that time Memphis had a wharf boat, of course. There was a paved sloping wharf, for the accommodation of freight, but the steamers landed on the outside of the wharfboat, and all loading and unloading was done across it, between steamer and shore. A number of wharfboat clerks were needed, and part of the time, every day, they were very busy, and part of the time tediously idle. They were boiling over with youth and spirits, and they had to make the intervals of idleness endurable (268)


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Rh works are not equal in depth and solidity to his other productions, still they are very attractive on account of their refined and pregnant diction, and on account of the sublime lyric vein pervading them.

We also have a number of poems and poetical tales from the pen of Paludan-Müller ("Zuleimas Flugt," "Slaven," "Vestalinden," etc.), the latter of which are distinguished more by the purity and elegance of their form, than by anything very striking in their contents. They remind one of similar compositions by Byron, with whom Paludan-Müller had much in common.

All the above mentioned works by Paludan-Müller are written in verse. He had a rare facility of versification and well understood how to adapt the poetical form in a most pleasing manner to the various requirements of the contents. He left behind him only two prose works and these date from his riper years. The one is an allegorical fairy tale "Ungdomskilden," (the well of youth), and the other a very discursive social novel, "Ivar Lykkes Historie," which forms a contrast to Adam Homo, inasmuch as in Ivar Lykke he represents the better aspect of his age, while in Adam Homo we have only the ugly features.

The most important female writer of this period is (1773-1856). When still very young she was married to Peder Andreas Heiberg, and Johan Ludvig was their son. When her husband was banished, she contracted a new marriage with the Swedish Baron Gyllembourg-Ehrensvärd, who, as a participator in the conspiracy against Gustaf III, had been exiled from Sweden, and resided in Denmark. In daily intercourse with the most intellectual men of the time, she acquired much culture and an unusually refined æsthetic taste, and being in possession of a remarkable poetical talent, a fact abundantly shown by her writings, it is rather strange that she did not


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Rh in some way; and as a rule, they did it by contriving practical jokes and playing them upon each other.

The favorite butt for the jokes was Ed Jackson, because he played none himself, and was easy game for other people's—for he always believed whatever was told him.

One day he told the others his scheme for his holiday. He was not going fishing or hunting this time—no, he had thought out a better plan. Out of his $40 a month he had saved enough for his purpose, in an economical way, and he was going to have a look at New York.

It was a great and surprising idea. It meant travel—immense travel—in those days it meant seeing the world; it was the equivalent of a voyage around it in ours. At first the other youths thought his mind was affected, but when they found that he was in earnest, the next thing to be thought of was, what sort of opportunity this venture might afford for a practical joke.

The young men studied over the matter, then held a secret consultation and made a plan. The idea was, that one of the conspirators should offer Ed a letter of introduction to Commodore Vanderbilt, and trick him into delivering it. It would be easy to do this. But what would Ed do when he got back to Memphis? That was a serious matter. He was good-hearted, and had always taken the jokes patiently; but they had been jokes which did not humiliate him, did not bring him to shame; whereas, this would be a cruel one in that way, and to play it was to meddle with fire; for with all his good nature, Ed was a Southerner—and the English of that was, that when he came back he would kill as many of the conspirators as he could before falling himself. However, the chances must be taken—it wouldn't do to waste such a joke as that.

So the letter was prepared with great care and elaboration. It was signed Alfred Fairchild, and was written in an easy


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Rh his private office. A servant asked for Ed's card, and got the letter instead. Ed was sent for a moment later, and found Mr. Vanderbilt alone, with the letter—open—in his hand.

"Pray sit down, Mr.—er—"

"Jackson."

"Ah—sit down, Mr. Jackson. By the opening sentences it seems to be a letter from an old friend. Allow me—I will run my eye through it. He says—he says—why, who is it?" He turned the sheet and found the signature. "Alfred Fairchild—hm—Fairchild—I don't recall the name. But that is nothing—a thousand names have gone from me. He says—he says—hm—hm—oh, dear, but it's good! Oh, it's rare! I don't quite remember it, but I seem to—it'll all come back to me presently. He says—he says—hm—hm—oh, but that was a game! Oh, spl–endid! How it carries me back! It's all dim, of course—it's a long time ago—and the names—some of the names are wavery and indistinct—but sho', I know it happened—I can feel it! and lord, how it warms my heart, and brings back my lost youth! Well, well, well, I've got to come back into this work-a-day world now—business presses and people are waiting—I'll keep the rest for bed to-night, and live my youth over again. And you'll thank Fairchild for me when you see him—I used to call him Alf, I think—and you'll give him my gratitude for what this letter has done for the tired spirit of a hard-worked man; and tell him there isn't anything that I can do for him or any friend of his that I won't do. And as for you, my lad, you are my guest; you can't stop at any hotel in New York. Sit where you are a little while, till I get through with these people, then we'll go home. I'll take care of you, my boy—make yourself easy as to that."

Ed stayed a week, and had an immense time—and never suspected that the Commodore's shrewd eye was on him, and


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 CHAPTER XVII.

HEN we consider the immensity of the British Empire in territory, population, and trade, it requires a stern exercise of faith to believe in the figures which represent Australasia's contribution to the Empire's commercial grandeur. As compared with the landed estate of the British Empire, the landed estate dominated by any other Power except one—Russia—is not very impressive for size. My authorities make the British Empire not much short of a fourth larger than the Russian Empire. Roughly proportioned, if you will allow your entire hand to represent the British Empire, you may then cut off the fingers a trifle above the middle joint of the middle finger, and what is left of the hand will represent Russia. The populations ruled by Great Britain and China are about the same—400,000,000 each. No other Power approaches these figures. Even Russia is left far behind.

The population of Australasia—4,000,000—sinks into nothingness, and is lost from sight in that British ocean of 400,000,000. Yet the statistics indicate that it rises again and shows up very conspicuously when its share of the Empire's commerce is the matter under consideration. The value of England's annual exports and imports is stated at three billions of dollars, and it is claimed that more than one-tenth of this great aggregate is represented by Australasia's exports (170)


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Rh angry. He came striding down toward me, and when he was come near he began to pour out a stream of indignant Italian; then suddenly took off his hat and made that beautiful bow and said—

"Oh, it is you! I beg a thousands pardons! This idiot here—" He turned to the exulting soldier and burst out with a flood of white-hot Italian lava, and the next moment he was bowing, and the soldier and I were moving in procession again—he in the lead and ashamed, this time, I with my chin up. And so we marched by the crowd of fascinated passengers, and I went forth to the train with the honors of war. Tobacco and all.


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 CHAPTER XXI.

EFORE I saw Australia I had never heard of the "weet-weet" at all. I met but few men who had seen it thrown—at least I met but few who mentioned having seen it thrown. Roughly described, it is a fat wooden cigar with its butt-end fastened to a flexible twig. The whole thing is only a couple of feet long, and weighs less than two ounces. This feather—so to call it—is not thrown through the air, but is flung with an underhanded throw and made to strike the ground a little way in front of the thrower; then it glances and makes a long skip; glances again, skips again, and again and again, like the flat stone which a boy sends skating over the water. The water is smooth, and the stone has a good chance; so a strong man may make it travel fifty or seventy-five yards; but the weet-weet has no such good chance, for it strikes sand, grass, and earth in its course. Yet an expert aboriginal has sent it a measured distance of two hundred and twenty yards. It would have gone even further but it encountered rank ferns and underwood on its passage and they damaged its speed. Two hundred and twenty yards; and so weightless a toy—a mouse on the end of a bit of wire, in effect; and not sailing through the accomodating air, but encountering grass and sand and stuff at every jump. It looks wholly impossible; but Mr. Brough Smyth saw the feat and did the measuring, and set down the facts in his book about aboriginal life, which he wrote by command of the Victorian Government. (206)


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Rh "What is the secret of the feat? No one explains. It cannot be physical strength, for that could not drive such a feather-weight any distance. It must be art. But no one explains what the art of it is; nor how it gets around that law of nature Avhich says you shall not throw any two-ounce thing 220 yards, either through the air or bumping along the ground. Rev. J. G. Woods says:

The Old Settler said that he had seen distances made by the weet-weet, in the early days, which almost convinced him that it was as extraordinary an instrument as the boomerang.

There must have been a large distribution of acuteness among those naked skinny aboriginals, or they couldn't have been such unapproachable trackers and boomerangers and weet-weeters. It mast have been race-aversion that put upon them a good deal of the low-rate intellectual reputation which they bear and have borne this long time in the world's estimate of them.

They were lazy—always lazy. Perhaps that was their trouble. It is a killing defect. Surely they could have invented and built a competent house, but they didn't. And they could have invented and developed the agricultural arts, but they didn't. They went naked and houseless, and lived on fish and grubs and worms and wild fruits, and were just plain savages, for all their smartness.

With a country as big as the United States to live and multiply in, and with no epidemic diseases among them till the


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Rh was told that natives of full blood are very scarce now. It is said that the aboriginals continue in some force in the huge territory called Queensland.

The early whites were not used to savages. They could not understand the primary law of savage life: that if a man do you a wrong, his whole tribe is responsible—each individual of it—and you may take your change out of any individual of it, without bothering to seek out the guilty one. When a white killed an aboriginal, the tribe applied the ancient law, and killed the first white they came across. To the whites this was a monstrous thing. Extermination seemed to be the proper medicine for such creatures as this. They did not kill all the blacks, but they promptly killed enough of them to make their own persons safe. From the dawn of civilization down to this day the white man has always used that very precaution. Mrs. Campbell Praed lived in Queensland, as a child, in the early days, and in her "Sketches of Australian life," we get informing pictures of the early struggles of the white and the black to reform each other.

Speaking of pioneer days in the mighty wilderness of Queensland, Mrs. Praed says:

"At first the natives retreated before the whites; and, except that they every now and then speared a beast in one of the herds, gave little cause for uneasiness. But, as the number of squatters increased, each one taking up miles of country and bringing two or three men in his train, so that shepherds' huts and stockmen's camps lay far apart, and defenseless in the midst of hostile tribes, the Blacks' depredations became more frequent and murder was no unusual event.

"The loneliness of the Australian bush can hardly be painted in words. Here extends mile after mile of primeval forest where perhaps foot of white man has never trod—interminable vistas where the eucalyptus trees rear their lofty trunks and spread forth their lanky limbs, from which the red gum oozes and hangs in fantastic pendants like crimson stalactites; ravines along the sides of which the long-bladed grass grows rankly; level untimbered plains alternating with undulating tracts of pasture, here and there broken by a stony ridge, steep gully, or dried-up creek. All wild, vast and desolate; all the same monotonous gray coloring, except where the wattle, when in


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Rh "Here is an instance. A squatter, whose station was surrounded by Blacks, whom he suspected to be hostile and from whom he feared an attack, parleyed with them from his house-door. He told them it was Christmas-time—a time at which all men, black or white, feasted; that there were flour, sugar-plums, good things in plenty in the store, and that he would make for them such a pudding as they had never dreamed of—a great pudding of which all might eat and be filled. The Blacks listened and were lost. The pudding was made and distributed. Next morning there was howling in the camp, for it had been sweetened with sugar and arsenic!"

The white man's spirit was right, but his method was wrong. His spirit was the spirit which the civilized white has always exhibited toward the savage, but the use of poison was a departure from custom. True, it was merely a technical departure, not a real one; still, it was a departure, and therefore a mistake, in my opinion. It was better, kinder, swifter,

and much more humane than a number of the methods which have been sanctified by custom, but that does not justify its employment. That is, it does not wholly justify it. Its unusual nature makes it stand out and attract an amount of attention which it is not entitled to. It takes hold upon morbid imaginations and they work it up into a sort of exhibition of cruelty, and this smirches the good name of our civilization, whereas one of the old harsher methods would have had


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268 In this poem the religious-ethical element is by far more prominent than in "Danserinden," in which it appeared for the first time. Later the poet frequently employed it again and it forms the basis of several of his best works, such as "Abels Död" (Abel's Death), "Benedikt fra Nursia," "Paradiset," "Ahasverus," and "Kalænus." The last named work is profoundly conceived and executed in a grander style than the most of his other works. The poet here represents the Greek intellectual life with its exclusive love of beauty, and contrasts it with the speculative Indian mysticism, with the latter's hazy yet far more ambitious ideals, and then he impersonates both these essentially different and utterly irreconcilable views of life, the Greek by the world-conquering Alexander, and the Indian by the sage Kalænus, who is solely in quest of God. The latter enthusiastically meets the Greek hero as the divinity whom he has so long been expecting, but by degrees he perceives that he has been taking appearances for reality, and he expiates his error by immolating himself on an altar to the God whom he has offended. The sage is really a sublime figure, and Alexander is also represented in a manner no less magnificent or charming. With matchless art and skill the poet has succeeded in drawing truthful and striking pictures from both the worlds which have come into conflict, and as both the principal figures are right from his stand-point, the effect is necessarily a very tragical one. A strikingly brilliant halo of beauty had been thrown around the heroic figure of Alexander and around the life of which it is the centre.

Of Paludan-Müller's works, that owe their origin to the other main tendency of his poetry, and which deal with ancient mythology, the best in addition to his "Amor and Psyche" are "Venus," "Tithon" and "Dryadens Bryllup" (the wedding of the dryad). All his works in this field are clothed in the dramatic form; the only exception being the small lyric epic "Adonis," which was written a short time before the author's death. Though this class of


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Rh to protect that heritage in every way he can; and the best way to do that is to attract attention elsewhere. The squatter's judgment was bad—that is plain; but his heart was right. He is almost the only pioneering representative of civilization in history who has risen above the prejudices of his caste and his heredity and tried to introduce the element of mercy into the superior race's dealings with the savage. His name is lost, and it is a pity; for it deserves to be handed down to posterity with homage and reverence.

This paragraph is from a London journal:

You observe the combination? It is robbery, humiliation, and slow, slow murder, through poverty and the white man's whisky. The savage's gentle friend, the savage's noble friend, the only magnanimous and unselfish friend the savage has ever had, was not there with the merciful swift release of his poisoned pudding.

There are many humorous things in the world; among them the white man's notion that he is less savage than the other savages.


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 CHAPTER XXII.

OU notice that Mrs. Praed knows her art. She can place a thing before you so that you can see it. She is not alone in that. Australia is fertile in writers whose books are faithful mirrors of the life of the country and of its history. The materials were surprisingly rich, both in quality and in mass, and Marcus Clarke, Ralph Boldrewood, Gordon, Kendall, and the others, have built out of them a brilliant and vigorous literature, and one which must endure. Materials—there is no end to them! Why, a literature might be made out of the aboriginal all by himself, his character and ways are so freckled with varieties—varieties not staled by familiarity, but new to us. You do not need to invent any picturesquenesses; whatever you want in that line he can furnish you; and they will not be fancies and doubtful, but realities and authentic. In his history, as preserved by the white man's official records, he is everything—everything that a human creature can be. He covers the entire ground. He is a coward—there are a thousand fact to prove it. He is brave—there are a thousand facts to prove it. He is treacherous—oh, beyond imagination! he is faithful, loyal, true—the white man's records supply you with a harvest of instances of it that are noble, worshipful, and pathetically beautiful. He kills the starving stranger who comes begging for food and shelter—there is proof of it. He succors, and feeds, and guides to safety, to-day, the lost stranger who fired on him only yester- (214)


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Rh day—there is proof of it. He takes his reluctant bride by force, he courts her with a club, then loves her faithfully through a long life—it is of record. He gathers to himself another wife by the same processes, beats and bangs her as a daily diversion, and by and by lays down his life in defending her from some outside harm—it is of record. He will face a hundred hostiles to rescue one of his children, and will kill another of his children because the family is large enough without it. His delicate stomach turns, at certain details of the white man's food; but he likes over-ripe fish, and brazed dog, and cat, and rat, and will eat his own uncle with relish. He is a sociable animal, yet he turns aside and hides behind his shield when his mother-in-law goes by. He is childishly afraid of ghosts and other trivialities that menace his soul, but dread of physical pain is a weakness which he is not acquainted with. He knows all the great and many of the little constellations, and has names for them; he has a symbol-writing by means of which he can convey messages far and wide among the tribes; he has a correct eye for form and expression, and draws a good picture; he can track a fugitive by delicate traces which the white man's eye cannot discern, and by methods which the finest white intelligence cannot master; he makes a missile which science itself cannot duplicate without the model—if with it; a missile whose secret baffled and defeated the searchings and theorizings of the white mathematicians for seventy years; and by an art all his own he performs miracles with it which the white man cannot approach untaught, nor parallel after teaching. Within certain limits this savage's intellect is the alertest and the brightest known to history or tradition; and yet the poor creature was never able to invent a counting system that would reach above five, nor a vessel that he could boil water in. He is the prize-curiosity of all the races. To all intents and purposes he is


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Rh Americans are not Englishmen, and American humor is not English humor; but both the American and his humor had their origin in England, and have merely undergone changes brought about by changed conditions and a new environment. About the best humorous speeches I have yet heard were a couple that were made in Australia at club suppers—one of them by an Englishman, the other by an Australian.


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N Sydney I had a large dream, and in the course of talk I told it to a missionary from India who was on his way to visit some relatives in New Zealand. I dreamed that the visible universe is the physical person of God; that the vast worlds that we see twinkling millions of miles apart in the fields of space are the blood corpuscles in His veins; and that we and the other creatures are the microbes that charge with multitudinous life the corpuscles.

Mr. X., the missionary, considered the dream awhile, then said:

"'It is not surpassable for magnitude, since its metes and bounds are the metes and bounds of the universe itself; and it seems to me that it almost accounts for a thing which is otherwise nearly unaccountable—the origin of the sacred legends of the Hindoos. Perhaps they dream them, and then honestly believe them to be divine revelations of fact. It looks like that, for the legends are built on so vast a scale that it does not seem reasonable that plodding priests would happen upon such colossal fancies when awake.'"

He told some of the legends, and said that they were implicitly believed by all classes of Hindoos, including those of high social position and intelligence; and he said that this universal credulity was a great hindrance to the missionary in his work. Then he said something like this:

"At home, people wonder why Christianity does not make faster progress in India. They hear that the Indians believe easily, and that they have a natural trust in miracles and give them a hospitable reception. Then they argue like this: since the Indian believes easily, place Christianity before them and they must believe; confirm its truths by the biblical miracles, and they will no longer doubt. The natural deduction is, that as Christianity makes (132)


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Rh but indifferent progress in India, the fault is with us: we are not fortunate in presenting the doctrines and the miracles.

"But the truth is, we are not by any means so well equipped as they think. We have not the easy task that they imagine. To use a military figure, we are sent against the enemy with good powder in our guns, but only wads for bullets; that is to say, our miracles are not effective; the Hindoos do not care for them; they have more extraordinary ones of their own. All the details of their own religion are proven and established by miracles; the details of ours must be proven in the same way. When I first began my work in India I greatly underestimated the difficulties thus put upon my task. A correction was not long in coming. I thought as our friends think at home—that to prepare my childlike wonder-lovers to listen with favor to my grave message I only needed to charm the way to it with wonders, marvels, miracles. With full confidence I told the wonders performed by Samson, the strongest man that had ever lived—for so I called him.

"At first I saw lively anticipation and strong interest in the faces of my people, but as I moved along from incident to incident of the great story, I was distressed to see that I was steadily losing the sympathy of my audience. I could not understand it. It was a surprise to me, and a disappointment. Before I was through, the fading sympathy had paled to indifference. Thence to the end the indifference remained; I was not able to make any impression upon it.

"A good old Hindoo gentleman told me where my trouble lay. He said 'We Hindoos recognize a god by the work of his hands—we accept no other testimony. Apparently, this is also the rule with you Christians. And we know when a man has his power from a god by the fact that he does things which he could not do, as a man, with the mere powers of a man. Plainly, this is the Christian's way also, of knowing when a man is working by a god's power and not by his own. You saw that there was a supernatural property in the hair of Samson; for you perceived that when his hair was gone he was as other men. It is our way, as I have said. There are many nations in the world, and each group of nations has its own gods, and will pay no worship to the gods of the others. Each group believes its own gods to be strongest, and it will not exchange them except for gods that shall be proven to be their superiors in power. Man is but a weak creature, and needs the help of gods—he cannot do without it. Shall he place his fate in the hands of weak gods when there may be stronger ones to be found? That would be foolish. No, if he hear of gods that are stronger than his own, he should not turn a deaf ear, for it is not a light matter that is at stake. How then shall he determine which gods are the stronger, his own or those that preside over the concerns of other nations? By comparing the known works of his own gods with the works of those others; there is no other way. Now, when we make this comparison, we are not drawn towards the gods of any other nation. Our gods are shown by their works to be the strongest, the most powerful. The Christians have but few gods, and they are new—new, and not strong, as it seems to us. They will increase in number, it is true, for this has happened with all gods, but that time is far away, many ages and decades of


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 CHAPTER XIII.

NE is sure to be struck by the liberal way in which Australasia spends money upon public works—such as legislative buildings, town halls, hospitals, asylums, parks, and botanical gardens. I should say that where minor towns in America spend a hundred dollars on the town hall and on public parks and gardens, the like towns in Australasia spend a thousand. And I think that this ratio will hold good in the matter of hospitals, also. I have seen a costly and well-equipped, and architecturally handsome hospital in an Australian village of fifteen hundred inhabitants. It was built by private funds furnished by the villagers and the neighboring planters, and its running expenses were drawn from the same sources. I suppose it would be hard to match this in any country. This village was about to close a contract for lighting its streets with the electric light, when I was there. That is ahead of London. London is still obscured by gas—gas pretty widely scattered, too, in some of the districts; so widely indeed, that except on moonlight nights it is difficult to find the gas lamps.

The botanical garden of Sydney covers thirty-eight acres, beautifully laid out and rich with the spoil of all the lands and all the climes of the world. The garden is on high ground in the middle of the town, overlooking the great harbor, and it adjoins the spacious grounds of Government House—fifty-six acres; and at hand also, is a recreation ground containing (137)


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Rh sentiment, polite life, religion; and by his example he propagates these, and they spread and flourish and bear good fruit. He creates the fashion, and leads it. His ball is the ball of balls, and his countenance makes the horse-race thrive.

He is usually a lord, and this is well; for his position compels him to lead an expensive life, and an English lord is generally well equipped for that.

Another of Sydney's social pleasures is the visit to the Admiralty House; which is nobly situated on high ground overlooking the water. The trim boats of the service convey the guests thither; and there, or on board the flag-ship, they have the duplicate of the hospitalities of Government House. The Admiral commanding a station in British waters is a magnate of the first degree, and he is sumptuously housed, as becomes the dignity of his office.

Third in the list of special pleasures is the tour of the harbor in a fine steam pleasure-launch. Your richer friends own boats of this kind, and they will invite you, and the joys of the trip will make a long day seem short.

And finally comes the shark-fishing. Sydney Harbor is populous with the finest breeds of man-eating sharks in the world. Some people make their living catching them; for the Government pays a cash bounty on them. The larger the shark the larger the bounty, and some of the sharks are twenty feet long. You not only get the bounty, but everything that is in the shark belongs to you. Sometimes the contents are quite valuable.

The shark is the swiftest fish that swims. The speed of the fastest steamer afloat is poor compared to his. And he is a great gad-about, and roams far and wide in the oceans, and visits the shores of all of them, ultimately, in the course of his restless excursions. I have a tale to tell now, which has not as yet been in print. In 1870 a young stranger arrived in


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Rh "Oh, it wouldn't matter; don't worry about that. Get your bait. I'll rob him."

When the fisherman got back the young man had just finished washing his hands in the bay, and was starting away.

"What, you are not going?"

"Yes. Good-bye."

"But what about your shark?"

"The shark? Why, what use is he to me?"

"What use is he? I like that. Don't you know that we can go and report him to Government, and you'll get a clean solid eighty shillings bounty? Hard cash, you know. What do you think about it now?"

"Oh, well, you can collect it."

"And keep it? Is that what you mean?"

"Yes."

"Well, this is odd. You're one of those sort they call eccentrics, I judge. The saying is, you mustn't judge a man by his clothes, and I'm believing it now. Why yours are looking just ratty, don't you know; and yet you must be rich."

"I am."

The young man walked slowly back to the town, deeply musing as he went. He halted a moment in front of the best restaurant, then glanced at his clothes and passed on, and got his breakfast at a "stand-up." There was a good deal of it, and it cost five shillings. He tendered a sovereign, got his change, glanced at his silver, muttered to himself, "There isn't enough to buy clothes with," and went his way.

At half-past nine the richest wool-broker in Sydney was sitting in his morning-room at home, settling his breakfast with the morning paper. A servant put his head in and said:

"There's a sundowner at the door wants to see you, sir."

"What do you bring that kind of a message here for? Send him about his business."


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Rh just for curiosity's sake again, nothing more: as I understand it, it is your desire to bor—"

"I said intention."

"Pardon, so you did. I thought it was an unheedful use of the word—an unheedful valuing of its strength, you know."

"I knew its strength."

"Well, I must say—but look here, let me walk the floor a little, my mind is getting into a sort of whirl, though you don't seem disturbed any. (Plainly this young fellow isn't crazy; but as to his being remarkable—well, really he amounts to that, and something over.) Now then, I believe I am beyond the reach of further astonishment. Strike, and spare not. What is your scheme?"

"To buy the wool crop—deliverable in sixty days."

"What, the whole of it?"

"The whole of it."

"No, I was not quite out of the reach of surprises, after all. Why, how you talk! Do you know what our crop is going to foot up?"

"Two and a half million sterling—maybe a little more."

"Well, you've got your statistics right, any way. Now, then, do you know what the margins would foot up, to buy it at sixty days?"

"The hundred thousand pounds I came here to get."

"Right, once more. Well, dear me, just to see what would happen, I wish you had the money. And if you had it, what would you do with it?"

"I shall make two hundred thousand pounds out of it in sixty days."

"You mean, of course, that you might make it if—"

"I said 'shall'."

"Yes, by George, you did say 'shall'! You are the most definite devil I ever saw, in the matter of language. Dear,


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270 make her literary début before she was fifty-three years old. It was the novel "Familien Polonius," which half for sport and anonymously she permitted to be printed in the journal edited by her son, "Flyvende Post," but her work met with such signal success that the author was encouraged to continue to write. She at the same time continued to write anonymously and assumed the nom de plume, "Forf. af en Hverdagshistorie" (the author of an every-day story), from the title of one of her most successful works. The subjects of her numerous novels have been taken almost exclusively from everyday life, the various doings of which, in all classes of society, she had had excellent opportunities to observe through a long life rich in personal experiences. Her refined intellectual culture, her natural amiability, her harmonious and humane view of life, which in many respects probably bears the stamp of the close of the eighteenth century, the time when she attained her intellectual maturity,—all impart to these pictures of life a strange charm. If to this we add her masterly style and careful and striking delineation of character, we easily understand why her works attained such wide popularity. To her best tales in addition to "En Hverdagshistorie" belong also "Dröm og Virkelighed" (dream and reality), "To Tidsaldre" (two generations), and "Extremerne." The author attempted several times to put her materials in a dramatic dress, but did not succeed.

(1798-1865), known as author only by the pseudonym Carl Bernhard, was a nephew of Baroness Gyllembourg and thus a cousin of Heiberg. He, too, made his first modest attempt in the "Flyvende Post," and succeeding beyond all expectation, he henceforth devoted himself with great ardor to literary work. He did not possess the great talents which belonged to his aunt, and his work does not come up to her standard of excellence. Still, we always find in his tales a skilfully selected plot, developed in an easy


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Rh "Sit down! And collect yourself. Where is the use in getting excited? Am I excited? There is nothing to get excited about. When I make a statement which I cannot prove, it will be time enough for you to begin to oifer hospitality to damaging fancies about me and my sanity."

"Oh, a thousand, thousand pardons! I ought to be ashamed of myself, and I am ashamed of myself for thinking that a little bit of a circumstance like sending a shark to England to fetch back a market report— "

"What does your middle initial stand for, sir?"

"Andrew. What are you writing?"

"Wait a moment. Proof about the shark—and another matter. Only ten lines. There—now it is done. Sign it."

"Many thanks—many. Let me see; it says—it says— oh, come, this is interesting! Why—why—look here! prove what you say here, and I'll put up the money, and double as much, if necessary, and divide the winnings with you, half and half. There, now—I've signed; make your promise good if you can. Show me a copy of the London Times only ten days old."

"Here it is—and with it these buttons and a memorandum book that belonged to the man the shark swallowed. Swallowed him in the Thames, without a doubt; for you will notice that the last entry in the book is dated 'London,' and is of the same date as the Times, and says, —as clean native German as anybody can put upon paper, and means that in consequence of the declaration of war, this loyal soul is leaving for home to-day, to fight. And he did leave, too, but the shark had him before the day was done, poor fellow."

"And a pity, too. But there are times for mourning, and we will attend to this case further on; other matters are


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 CHAPTER XIV.

Y health had broken down in New York in May; it I had remained in a doubtful but fairish condition during a succeeding period of 82 days; it broke again on the Pacific. It broke again in Sydney, but not until after I had had a good outing, and had also filled my lecture engagements. This latest break lost me the chance of seeing Queensland. In the circumstances, to go north toward hotter weather was not advisable.

So we moved south with a westward slant, 17 hours by rail to the capital of the colony of Victoria, Melbourne—that juvenile city of sixty years, and half a million inhabitants. On the map the distance looked small ; but that is a trouble with all divisions of distance in such a vast country as Australia. The colony of Victoria itself looks small on the map—looks like a county, in fact—yet it is about as large as England, Scotland, and Wales combined. Or, to get another focus upon it, it is just 80 times as large as the state of Rhode Island, and one-third as large as the State of Texas.

Outside of Melbourne, Victoria seems to be owned by a handful of squatters, each with a Rhode Island for a sheep farm. That is the impression which one gathers from common talk, yet the wool industry of Victoria is by no means so great as that of New South Wales. The climate of Victoria is favorable to other great industries—among others, wheat-growing and the making of wine. (151)


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Rh cold of a high altitude to change cars on a road that has no break in it from Sydney to Melbourne! Think of the paralysis of intellect that gave that idea birth; imagine the boulder it emerged from on some petrified legislator's shoulders.

It is a narrow-gauge road to the frontier, and a broader gauge thence to Melbourne. The two governments were the builders of the road and are the owners of it. One or two reasons are given for this curious state of things. One is, that it represents the jealousy existing between the colonies—the two most important colonies of Australasia. What the other one is, I have forgotten. But it is of no consequence. It could be but another effort to explain the inexplicable.

All passengers fret at the double-gauge; all shippers of freight must of course fret at it; unnecessary expense, delay, and annoyance are imposed upon everybody concerned, and no one is benefited.

Each Australian colony fences itself off from its neighbor with a custom-house. Personally, I have no objection, but it must be a good deal of inconvenience to the people. We have something resembling it here and there in America, but it goes by another name. The large empire of the Pacific coast requires a world of iron machinery, and could manufacture it economically on the spot if the imposts on foreign iron were removed. But they are not. Protection to Pennsylvania and Alabama forbids it. The result to the Pacific coast is the same as if there were several rows of custom-fences between the coast and the East. Iron carted across the American continent at luxurious railway rates would be valuable enough to be coined when it arrived.

We changed cars. This was at Albury. And it was there, I think, that the growing day and the early sun exposed the distant range called the Blue Mountains. Accurately named. "My word!" as the Australians say, but it was a stunning


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Rh And there were little villages, with neat stations well placarded with showy advertisements—mainly of almost too self-righteous brands of "sheep-dip." If that is the name—and I think it is. It is a stuff like tar, and is dabbed on to places where the shearer clips a piece out of the sheep. It bars out the flies, and has healing properties, and a nip to it which makes the sheep skip like the cattle on a thousand hills. It is not good to eat. That is, it is not good to eat except when mixed with railroad coffee. It improves railroad coffee. Without it railroad coffee is too vague. But with it, it is quite assertive and enthusiastic. By itself, railroad coffee is too passive; but sheep-dip makes it wake up and get down to business. I wonder where they get railroad coffee?

We saw birds, but not a kangaroo, not an emu, not an ornithorhyncus, not a lecturer, not a native. Indeed, the land seemed quite destitute of game. But I have misused the word native. In Australia it is applied to Australian-born whites only. I should have said that we saw no Aboriginals—no "blackfellows." And to this day I have never seen one. In the great museums you will find all the other curiosities, but in the curio of chiefest interest to the stranger all of them are lacking. We have at home an abundance of museums, and not an American Indian in them. It is clearly an absurdity, but it never struck me before.


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 CHAPTER XV.

HE air was balmy and delicious, the sunshine radiant; it was a charming excursion. In the course of it we came to a town whose odd name was famous all over the world a quarter of a century ago—Wagga-Wagga. This was because the Tichborne Claimant had kept a butcher-shop there. It was, out of the midst of his humble collection of sausages and tripe that he soared up into the zenith of notoriety and hung there in the wastes of space a time, with the telescopes of all nations leveled at him in unappeasable curiosity—curiosity as to which of the two long-missing persons he was: Arthur Orton, the mislaid roustabout of Wapping, or Sir Roger Tichborne, the lost heir of a name and estates as old as English history. We all know now, but not a dozen people knew then; and the dozen kept the mystery to themselves and allowed the most intricate and fascinating and marvelous real-life romance that has ever been played upon the world's stage to unfold itself serenely, act by act, in a British court by the long and laborious processes of judicial development.

When we recall the details of that great romance we marvel to see what daring chances truth may freely take in constructing a tale, as compared with the poor little conservative risks permitted to fiction. The fiction-artist could achieve no success with the materials of this splendid Tichborne romance. (156)


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Rh He would have to drop out the chief characters; the public would say such people are impossible. He would have to drop out a number of the most picturesque incidents; the public would say such things could never happen. And yet the chief characters did exist, and the incidents did happen.

It cost the Tichborne estates $400,000 to unmask the Claimant and drive him out; and even after the exposure multitudes of Englishmen still believed in him. It cost the British Government another $400,000 to convict him of perjury; and after the conviction the same old multitudes still believed in him; and among these believers were many educated and intelligent men; and some of them had personally known the real Sir Koger. The Claimant was sentenced to 14 years' imprisonment. When he got out of prison he went to New York and kept a whisky saloon in the Bowery for a time, then disappeared from view.

He always claimed to be Sir Roger Tichborne until death called for him. This was but a few months ago—not very much short of a generation since he left Wagga-Wagga to go and possess himself of his estates. On his death-bed he yielded up his secret, and confessed in writing that he was only Arthur Orton of Wapping, able seaman and butcher—that and nothing more. But it is scarcely to be doubted that there are people whom even his dying confession will not convince. The old habit of assimilating incredibilities must have made strong food a necessity in their case; a weaker article would probably disagree with them.

I was in London when the Claimant stood his trial for perjury. I attended one of his showy evenings in the sumptuous quarters provided for him from the purses of his adherents and well-wishers. He was in evening dress, and I thought him a rather fine and stately creature. There were about twenty-five gentlemen present; educated men, men moving in good society, none of them commonplace; some of them were men


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that the insurgent troops, with ʿĀisha, Az-Zubeir, and Ṭalḥa had already passed, ʿAlī, as we have seen, halted for a while on the road to Al-Baṣra, with the view of strengthening his army; for, although joined on his march by certain loyal tribes, he still felt too weak for immediate action. To AI-Kūfa he addressed a special summons, inhabited as it was by many veterans on whose loyalty he might reasonably depend; and he added force to the call by promising that Al-Kūfa should be his seat of government. "See," he wrote, "have not I chosen your city before all other cities for my own? Unto you do I look for succour, if haply peace and unity should again prevail as it behoveth, among brethren in the faith." But the summons was at the first unheeded. The overgrown City was made up of many factions; and from some of these the message of ʿĀisha, demanding revenge for ʿOthmān's blood, had already found response. Abu Mūsa, its governor, was unequal to the emergency. Loyal to the memory of the murdered Caliph, he yet sought to allay the ferment by a neutral course, and urged the citizens to join neither party, but remain at home. A second deputation meeting with no better success, ʿAlī bethought him of sending his elder son Al-Ḥasan, in company with ʿAmmār, the former governor of Al-Kūfa, to urge his cause. The appeal of Al-Ḥasan, grandson of the Prophet had at last the desired effect. The chord of loyalty in the fickle city’s heart was touched; a tumult arose, and Abu Mūsa, unable to maintain his weak neutrality, was deposed. The Arab tribes rallied, and for the moment heartily, around 246


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 656] the loyalists. Soon 10,000 men, partly by land, partly by river, set out to join the Caliph, who, advancing slowly, awaited their arrival. Thus reinforced, ʿAlī was able at last to take the field effectively, and march on the rebellious city.

Al-Baṣra itself was not wholly hostile, and numbers of the citizens came out to join the camp of ʿAlī. The insurgent army, which still nearly equalled that of the Caliph, now marched forth with Ṭalḥa and Az-Zubeir at their head, and ʿĀisha herself seated in a well-fenced litter. But ʿAlī's thoughts were for peace if possible. He was a man of compromise; and here he was ready, in the interests of Islām, magnanimously to forget the insult offered him. Apart, indeed, from personal jealousies, there was no disagreement sufficient to bar the hope of reconciliation. The cry of Ṭalḥa and Az-Zubeir was for vengeance against the murderers of ʿOthmān; and against these, ʿAlī as yet did not deny that justice should be dealt. But he was obliged to temporise. He had in his army great numbers of the very men who had risen against ʿOthmān; and he felt that to inflict punishment on them, as his adversaries required, would for the present be impossible. Holding these views, he halted, still some little way from Al-Baṣra, and sent forward Al-Ḳaʿḳāʿ (who with other leaders of renown had joined him from Al-Kūfa) to expostulate with Ṭalḥa and Az-Zubeir. "Ye have slain 600 men of Al-Baṣra," said Al-Ḳaʿḳāʿ to them, "for the blood of ʿOthmān; and lo! to avenge their blood, 6000 more have started up. Where is this internecine war to stop? It is peace and repose that Islām needeth now. Give that, and again the majesty of law shall be set up, and the guilty brought to justice." As he spoke, the truth flashed on the minds of Az-Zubeir and Ṭalḥa, and even of ʿĀisha; and they returned word that if these really were the sentiments of ʿAlī, they were ready to submit. After several days spent in such negotiations, ʿAlī, glad at the prospect of a bloodless compromise, advanced.

But, as we have seen, ʿAlī's army, recruited at random from the Bedawi settlements, comprised a great number of notorious regicides. Afraid of bringing these into contact with the heated army of his opponents, still breathing out fire and slaughter against them, ʿAlī gave command that none who had shared in the attack on ʿOthmān should for


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The formulation of plans for the reshaping of British Railways has been foreshadowed by numerous references in Parliament, and in other places, ever since the Prime Minister, speaking in the House on 10th March, 1960, said:—

‘First the industry must be of a size and pattern suited to modern conditions and prospects. In particular, the railway system must be remodelled to meet current needs, and the modernisation plan must be adapted to this new shape.’

It may appear that the lapse of three years between the date when the original reference was mate to the necessity for reshaping the railways and the emergence of a plan is excessive, but there are two reasons why it took so long.

Io the first place, attention was devoted to the reorganisation of the British Transport Commission structure. As a result, it was not until the latter part of 1961, after the first steps had been taken to give effect to the structural reorganisation described in the White Paper on Reorganisation of the Nationalised Transport Undertaking (Cmnd. 1248), that positive steps were taken towards planning the future shape of the railways.

Secondly, there had never before been any seem assembly of a basis of information upon which planning could be founded; and without which the proper role of the railways in the transport system as a whole could not be determined. The collection of this information was itself a massive task and it is, perhaps, more surprising that it was brought to a useful stage in just over a year than that it should have taken so long.

Throughout these investigations and the preparation of this report the British Railways Board has had it in mind that its duty is to employ the assets vested in it, and develop or modify them, to the best advantage of the nation. Also, because the ultimate choice of what is considered most advantageous must be made by the nation, it is a basic responsibility of the Board to provide, as objectively and comprehensively as possible, information which makes clear the range and mature of the choice.

In general, people will wish to base a choice between alternative modes of transport upon consideration of quality of service and the cost of obtaining it. It must be recognised, however, that, in the transport field more than in many others, the judgment of some quality factors is largely subjective, that individual convenience and total social benefit are not necessarily compatible, and that competing forms of transport cannot be costed on strictly comparable bases. For these reasons, none of the major proposals for reshaping the railway system which are made in this report is based upon attempted close judgments between ratios of quality to cost for competing systems of transport. Proposals have,


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248 the present accompany him in his advance. These in their turn, with Al-Ashtar at their head, became alarmed. Ṭalḥa's troops, sworn to their destruction, were double their number; if peace were patched up, no hope remained, Reasoning thus, they held a secret conclave, and came to the conclusion that their only safety lay in precipitating hostilities, and thus forcing ʿAlī's hand to crush their enemies. Accordingly they remained behind, but with the resolve that at the right moment they would advance and throw themselves upon the enemy.

The army of Al-Baṣra, numbering some 20,000 men, remained encamped on the outskirts of the city. ʿAlī's force, advancing unopposed, halted within sight; and negotiations for peace went on, evidently substantial and sincere. ʿAlī himself approached on horseback, and Ṭalḥa with Az-Zubeir rode forth to confer with him. "Wherefore have ye risen against me," said ʿAlī; "did ye not swear homage to me?" "Yea," replied Ṭalḥa "but with the sword over our necks; and now our demand is that justice be executed against the murderers of ʿOthmān." ʿAlī replied that he no less than they held the regicides to be guilty; he even cursed them in no measured terms, but added that for their punishment they must bide their time. Az-Zubeir on his side was softened by certain words of the Prophet towards him which ʿAlī recalled to his mind, and bound himself by an oath that he would not fight. Then they all retired. Both armies, understanding that negotiations were in progress, went to rest that night in security such as they had not felt for many weeks,

But anon the spell was rudely broken, Towards morning, a sudden shock changed the scene. The regicides, during the night, carried their design into execution. Led by them, squadrons of Bedawi lances bore down, while yet dark, upon the Al-Baṣra tents. In a moment all was confusion. Each camp believed that it had been attacked by the other; and the dawn found both armies drawn up, as the conspirators desired, in mortal combat against each other. In vain ʿAlī endeavoured to hold back his men. The sense of treachery embittered the conflict. It was a strange engagement,—the first in which Muslims had crossed swords with Muslims. It resembled a battle of the old Arab times, only that for tribal


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 on the other hand, been influenced by major differences in the more measurable aspects of service quality, such as speed and reliability. They have also been influenced by major disparities in cost arising from the inherent characteristics of the various forms of transport, and by major disparities between the value of the service provided, measured in terms of what people are prepared to pay for it, and the cost of providing it.

It is, of course, the responsibility of the British Railways Board so to shape and operate the railways as to make them pay, but, if it is not already apparent from the preceding paragraphs, it must be clearly stated that the proposals now made are not directed towards achieving that result by the simple and unsatisfactory method of rejecting all those parts of the system which do not pay already or which cannot be made to pay easily. On the contrary, the changes proposed are intended to shape the railways to meet present day requirements by enabling them to provide as much of the total transport of the country as they can provide well. To this end, proposals are directed towards developing to the full those parts of the system and those services which can be made to meet traffic requirements more efficiently and satisfactorily than any available alternative form of transport, and towards eliminating only those services which, by their very nature, railways are ill-suited to provide.

The point at issue here is so important that it is worthwhile to emphasise it by expressing the underlying thought in a different way.

The profitability or otherwise of a railway system is dependent on a number of external influences which may change markedly from time to time, important among them being decisions affecting the freedom of use, cost of use, and availability of roads. For this and other reasons, it is impossible to plan the maximum use of railways consistent with profitability, for years ahead, without some risk that it will prove, in the event, that services have been over-provided and that overall profitability is not achieved. On the other hand, to retain only those parts of the existing system which are virtually certain to be self-supporting under any reasonably probable future conditions would lead to grave risk of destroying assets which, in the event, might have proved to be valuable.

Confronted with this dilemma, arising from the impossibility of assessing future conditions and future profitability very reliably, the Railways Board have put forward proposals for reshaping the system which are conservative with regard to closures and restrainedly speculative with regard to new developments, but which are all directed towards shaping the system to provide rail transport for only that part of the total national traffic pattern which costing and commonsensecommon sense [sic] consideration show to have characteristics favourable to rail transport.

The plan is not carried to the stage where it purports to answer the question, ‘How much of the railway can ultimately be made to pay?’ This answer will emerge only after experience has shown how much benefit springs from elimination of those parts of the system which are obviously unsound, and the extent to which the good parts of the railways’ system and traffic can be improved by: cost savings, better quality of service, better operating methods, and attraction of favourable traffic. Nevertheless, the firm proposals included in the plan are expected to lead to substantial improvements in the financial position. Perhaps even more important, they set a clear course for the railways, in a general


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 656] rivalry were now substituted other passions. Clans were broken up, and it became in some measure a contest between the two rival cities; "The Beni Ar-Rabīʿa of Al-Kūfa fought against the Beni Ar-Rabīʿa of Al-Baṣra, the Beni Moḍar of the one against the Beni Moḍar of the other;" and so on, with the various tribes, and even with families, one part arrayed against the other. The Al-Kūfa ranks were urged on by the regicides, who felt that, unless ʿAlī conquered, they were all doomed men. The fierceness and obstinacy of the battle can be only thus accounted for. One of the combatants tells us that "when the opposing sides came together breast to breast, with a furious shock, the noise was like that of washermen at the riverside." The attitude of the leaders was in marked contrast with the bitter struggle of the ranks. Az-Zubeir, half-hearted since his interview with ʿAlī, left the battlefield according to his promise, and was killed in an adjoining valley. Ṭalḥa, disabled by an arrow in the leg, was carried into Al-Baṣra, where he died. Bereft of their leaders, the insurgent troops gave way. They were falling back upon the city, when they passed by the camel of ʿĀisha. Attacked fiercely all around, she from within her litter kept crying out with fruitless energy,—"Slay the murderers of ʿOthmān." The word ran through the retiring ranks, that "the Mother of the Faithful was in peril," and they gallantly stayed their flight to rescue her. Long and cruelly the conflict raged around the fated camel. One after another brave warriors rushed to seize her standard; one after another they were cut down. Of Ḳoreish seventy perished by the bridle. At last, ʿAlī, perceiving that her camel was the rallying-point of the enemy, sent one of his captains to hamstring, and thus disable it. With aloud cry the animal fell to the ground. The struggle ceased and the insurgents retired into the city. The litter, bristling with arrows like a hedgehog, was taken down, and, by desire of ʿAlī, placed in a retired spot, where ʿĀisha's brother Moḥammad pitched a tent for her. As he drew aside the curtain, she screamed at the unknown intrusion;—"Are thine own people, then," he said, "become strange unto thee?" "It is my brother!" she exclaimed, and suffered herself to be led into the tent. The brave but wayward lady had escaped without a wound.


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 250 The carnage in the ill-starred Battle of the Camel (for so it came to be called) was very great. The field was covered with 10,000 bodies in equal proportion on either side; and this, notwithstanding that the victory was not followed up. For ʿAlī had given orders that no fugitive should be pursued, nor any wounded soldier slain, nor plunder seized, nor the privacy of any house invaded. A great trench was dug, and into it the dead were lowered, friends and foes alike. ʿAlī, encamped for three days without the city, himself performed the funeral service. It was a new experience to bury the dead slain in battle not against the infidel, but believer fighting against believer. Instead of cursing the memory of his enemies (too soon the fashion in these civil wars), ʿAlī spoke hopefully of the future state of such as had entered the field, on whatever side, with an honest heart. When they brought him the sword of Az-Zubeir, he cursed the man who took his life; and, calling to mind the feats displayed by the brave man that wielded it in the early battles of Islām, exclaimed:—"Many a time hath this sword driven care and sorrow from the Prophet's brow." The Muslims might well mourn the memory both of Ṭalḥa and Az-Zubeir, remembering how on the field of Oḥod the former had saved the life of Moḥammad at the peril of his own; and how often the latter had carried confusion into the ranks of the idolaters of Mecca. Their fall, and that of many of the Companions, was a loss to the Empire itself, because seriously weakening Ḳoreish in the struggle yet to be fought out betwixt them and the Arab tribes. In fact, this victory of ʿAlī was virtually the victory of the regicides, supported by the factious citizens of Al-Kūfa. Thenceforward ʿAlī was wholly dependent upon them. If, instead, he had effected a compromise with Ṭalḥa and Az-Zubeir, his position would have been incomparably stronger.

The bearing of ʿAlī was generous towards his fallen foe. Having entered the city, he divided the contents of the treasury amongst the troops which had fought on his side, promising them a still larger reward "when the Lord should have delivered Syria into his hands." But otherwise he treated friends and foes alike, and buried in oblivion animosities of the past. Merwān and the adherents of the house of Umeiya fled to their homes, or else found refuge


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 direction which must be right and which can be followed with vigour without any danger of eliminating too much or of incurring grossly wasteful expenditure before the position can be reviewed.

The changes proposed, and their phasing, are certainly not too drastic if regarded as a means of correcting the present departure of the railways from their proper role in the transport system as a whole. It is recognised, however, that changes of the magnitude of those proposed will inevitably give rise to many difficulties affecting railway staff, the travelling public, and industry. The Railways Board will do all that it can to ameliorate these difficulties, consistent with its responsibility for making railways an efficient and economic component in the transport system, but the Board knows that it will not be able to solve all problems unaided.

The railways emerged from the war at a fairly high level of activity, but in a poor physical state, They were able to pay their way, because road transport facilities were still limited, and they continued to do so until 1952. From then onwards, however, the surplus on operating account declined progressively. After 1953 it became too small to meet capital charges, after 1955 it disappeared, and by 1960 the annual loss on operating account had risen to £67·7 m. This rose further to £86·9 m. in 1961.

In 1955, a modernisation plan was embarked upon. It was a plan to modernise equipment, but it did not envisage any basic changes in the scope of railway services or in the general mode of operation of the railway system. It was expected that the substitution of electric and diesel haulage for steam, concentration of marshalling yards, reduction in number and increased mechanisation of goods depots, re-signalling, and the introduction of other modern equipment, would make the railways pay by reducing costs and attracting more traffic.

By 1960, however, it had become apparent that the effects of modernisation were neither so rapid nor so pronounced as had been forecast, that the downward trend in some railway traffics would persist, and the operating losses were likely to go on increasing unless radical changes were made.

There is a considerable scope for cost reduction by a multiplicity of economies over the whole field of railway operations, and vigorous efforts are being made to achieve them. Nevertheless, it was obvious, even before detailed investigation started, that neither modernisation nor more economical working could make the railways viable in their existing form, and that a reshaping of the whole pattern of the business would be necessary as well.

Ever since major amalgamations started, the business of the railways has been, from a financial point of view, a mixture of good, bad, and indifferent routes, services and traffics. Nevertheless, the circumstances which obtained throughout the major period of railway history in Britain—conditions of near monopoly, obligation to carry, and statutory fixing of rates without relationship to costs—all tended to cause accountancy to be limited to global accounts for each of the independent railway companies. As the companies merged, the accounting units became larger without an offsetting increase in detail, and this continued to be the position when all the railways were combined by nationalisation.


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Index talk:The Reshaping of British Railways (Beeching Report).pdf

Formatting
DraftSaturn15 (talk) 03:36, 6 January 2024 (UTC)
 * For numbers in the millions, an interpunct  is used. For example: £67·7m.


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As the Representative of California’s 21$st$ Congressional District, I am proud to represent the city of Reedley. Located southeast of Fresno in the San Joaquin Valley, Reedley is a rural community of about 26,000 people, known as the Fruit Basket of the World due to its prosperous agricultural industry. With a bustling and historic downtown, this is the last place you would expect to find a case like this.

In March 2023, I was made aware of the warehouse, which housed a biolab that did not appear to be in compliance with the law. Within a day of having been alerted, my staff and I mobilized officials from Fresno County, the State of California, and Federal agencies to assist Reedley in the investigation and abatement of the unregulated laboratory that contained 1,000 transgenic mice and infectious diseases, among other concerning findings. I have stayed in contact with local and federal officials—including sharing information, encouraging cross-agency collaboration, and working with the Select Committee on the Chinese Communist Party during its investigation.

My top priority is health and public safety. The presence of infectious diseases that were poorly stored in a populated area of town without anyone’s knowledge is of major concern. That is why the Select Committee on the Chinese Communist Party coordinated a bipartisan Congressional report that is succinct, thorough, and impactful while maintaining the trust of the American public. I appreciate the Select Committee’s efforts on this matter.

This report outlines troublesome gaps that exist in federal law that allow bad actors to take advantage of the system. I look forward to continuing our work to address the existing gaps that allowed an illegal biolab like this to threaten the health and safety of the people in Reedley. It is my hope no other town in any Congressional district will endure what my constituents have through this experience.

I did not come to Congress expecting to handle a situation like the one outlined in this report. But my job is to advocate for my constituents and to ensure that the federal government is working for them in partnership with their other elected officials at all levels of government.

Thank you to the local first responders and officials for your collaboration during this investigation. I look forward to continuing this important partnership to protect the health and safety of our neighbors in Reedley and nationwide.

title: Page:Scc-reedley-report-11.15.pdf/3


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 656] in Syria. All that remained in the city swore fealty to ʿAlī. The only class dissatisfied was that of the slaves and rabble, who murmured at having no share in the treasure, nor any chance of plunder. These, gathering into marauding bands, occasioned much disquietude to the Caliph, and hastened his departure from the city, with the view of checking the mischief they were bent on.

ʿĀisha was treated by ʿAlī with the reverence due to one who bore the title of "the Prophet's Spouse in this life and also in the life to come." She was now five-and-forty years of age, but had lost little of the fire and vivacity of youth. After the battle, the Caliph visited her tent, and expressed his satisfaction at finding her unhurt; adding mildly, but half reproachfully:—"The Lord pardon thee for what hath passed, and have mercy upon thee." "And upon thee also!" was the pert and ready answer. The best house in Al-Baṣra was given up to her; and there she was waited on by her own adherents. Not long after, she left with a retinue of forty handmaids, attended by her brother. ʿAlī himself accompanied her a short distance on foot; and a large party went as far as the first stage to bid her farewell. Proceeding to Mecca, she performed the lesser Pilgrimage; and then retiring to Medīna, no more attempted to interfere with the affairs of State. Her nephew ʿAbdallah son of Az-Zubeir, retired with her. He became famous in the subsequent history of the Caliphate; but that was not till ʿĀisha had passed away. She spent the remainder of her days at Medīna. There crowds of pilgrims visiting the Prophet's grave (her own apartment) gazed wonderingly at the once beautiful and favourite wife of Mohammad; while she, garrulous in old age, became the fertile source of tradition and the narrator of incidents in the Prophet's life beginning with her earliest childhood. She died in the 58th year of the Hijra, aged sixty-six, having passed forty-seven years in widowhood.


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 252 ʿAlī did not stay long in Al-Baṣra. Having appointed his cousin, ʿAbdallah son of Al-ʿAbbās, governor of the city, with Ziyād, the able administrator, to aid him in charge of the treasury, he set out for Al-Kūfa.


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ʿAlī rode forth from Medīna in pursuit of the insurgent army, a citizen seized his bridle; "Stay!" he cried earnestly;—"if thou goest forth from hence, the government will depart from this City never more to return." He was pushed aside, as one having lost his wits; but his words were long remembered, and the prophecy was true. Medīna was to be the seat of Empire no more.

In the 36th year of the Hijra, seven months after the death of ʿOthmān, ʿAlī entered Al-Kūfa. The first four of these had been spent at Medīna; the other three in the campaign of "the Camel" and a short stay at Al-Baṣra. No Caliph had as yet visited Al-Kūfa. It was now to be the seat of ʿAlī's government. The inhabitants were flattered by the honour thus put upon them. The city had certain advantages; for in it were many leading men, able, and some of them willing, to support the Caliph. Moreover, ʿAlī might calculate on the jealousy of Al-ʿIrāḳ towards Syria in the approaching struggle with Muʿāwiya. But these advantages were all more than counterbalanced by the factious humour of the populace. It was the focus of Bedawi democracy; and the spirit of the Bedawīn was yet untamed. What had they gained, the men of Al-Kūfa asked, by the insurrection against ʿOthmān? The cry of vengeance on the regicides was for the moment silenced; but things, they said, were drifting back into the old Ḳoreishite groove. The charge was, in fact, the same as the Sons of the Desert were making all round. "ʿAlī hath set up his cousins, 253


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 While these conditions existed, and while the railways were able to make a profit on their business as a whole, the unknown degree of cross-subsidisation involved in carrying bad traffic on the back of financially good traffic was very largely ignored. Now, however, after the post-war growth of competition from road transport, it is no longer socially necessary for the railways to cover such a preponderant part of the total variety of internal transport services as they did in the past, and it is certainly not possible for them to operate profitably if they do so.

Road competition has forced down rates on good railway traffics to the point where they are quite incapable of subsidising the very costly provision of services to handle poor rail traffics. Even worse, the burdening of good traffics with costs arising from bad ones has led to the transfer to road of a considerable volume of traffic which railways are better able to handle, in order to preserve on rail traffics which could be handled better by road.

It is this situation which necessitates a much more analytical examination of the Railways' business with a view to reshaping their system, their mode of operation, and their pattern of services and traffics.

The logical approach to the problem of shaping, or reshaping a railway system is:—

 * (i) to determine the basic characteristics which distinguish railways as a mode of transport;

 * (ii) to determine under what conditions these characteristics enable railways to be the best available form of transport;

 * (iii) to determine to which parts of the total national pattern of transport requirements these conditions apply;

 * (iv) to shape the railway route system and services so as to take advantage of favourable circumstances wherever they exist.

Unfortunately, simple as this sequence appears, there is no single or simple way of accumulating and presenting information which enables it to be followed in quantitative terms. It is, nevertheless, a very useful beginning to consider, even in general terms, what are the basic characteristics of railways and under what circumstances these characteristics are likely to make railways the best available form of transport.

Railways are distinguished by the provision and maintenance of a specialised route system for their own exclusive use. This gives rise to high ked costs. On the other hand, the benefits which can be derived from possession of this high cost route system are very great.

Firstly, it permits the running of high capacity trains, which themselves have very low movement costs per unit carried. Secondly, it permits dense flows of traffic and, provided the flows are dense, the fixed costs per unit moved are also low. Thirdly, it permits safe, reliable, scheduled movements at high speed.

In a national system of transport we should, therefore, expect to find railways concentrating upon those parts of the traffic pattern which enable them to derive sufficient benefit from these three advantages to offset their unavoidable burden of high system cost. In other words, we should expect the provision of railways to be limited to routes over which it is possible to develop dense flows of traffic, of the kinds which lend themselves to movement in trainload quantities


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 and which, in part at least, benefit from the speed and reliability which the railways are capable of achieving. Moreover, we should expect that, having been concentrated upon traffics matched to the advantageous features of rail transport, the system would then be operated so as to develop those features to the full. In all that follows, we shall seek to shows as quantitatively as possible, how far the system departs from this condition at present, and to decide what changes are necessary to put matters right. To this end, a first step is a detailed examination of the existing rail system, its pattern of traffic, and its mode of operation.

The most obvious ways of subdividing the railway business as a whole, for the purpose of detailed examination, are in relation to:

 * (a) units and sub-units of general managerial responsibility;

 * (b) functional subdivision;

 * (c) types of traffic;

 * (d) parts of the physical system.

No one of these modes of subdivision is, alone, sufficient to lead to understanding of such a large and complex business as that of British Railways, nor can any one of them be pursued in a manner which is completely accurate and reliable. For those reasons, some use has been made of all of them, so as to create a more detailed and reliable picture by the combination of several modes of study.

Subdivisions along the lines of (a) and (b) fall within the scope of normal accountancy. As has already been mentioned, however, railway accountancy has been limited, very largely, to global accounts for the railways as a whole. In consequence, very little information of the kind which could be derived by a thoroughgoing breakdown along the lines (a) and (b) was available, Moreover, because an accountancy system cannot be modified and extended so as to produce much more detailed results quickly, in an organisation of the size of the railways, the main attack on the problem was by subdivision along lines (c) and (d). To build the picture, however, it is convenient to start with the British Railways' accounts.

The figures presented are those for 1961 and, with minor exæptions, cost figures used throughout the Report relate to that year. The reason is that this was the latest year for which fully detailed cost data could be made available during the course of the investigation, and it was also the year in which tbethe [sic] special traffic studies were made.

In a situation as changeable as that of the railways, no year can be described as typical. The year 1961 was not a good one from the traffoc point of view, because the recession in the steel industry affected the latter part of it. In this respect, therefore, it was worse than 1963 but it was better than 1962, and it is not yet known whether 1963 will be better or worse. Also, although substantial economies were made in 1962, there were two increases in wage rates during tbatthat [sic] year which amounted to just over 9 per cent. and the working week was reduced.

It is known that the conclusions reached would all have been substantially the same had they been based upon figures for 1960, and there is no reason to think that they would be different were it possible to use figures for 1962 or the early part of 1963. Therefore, the Railways Board is satisfied that although the figures used throughout the Report are not, and could not be, completely up-to-date, they form sound basis for decision making.


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User talk:Давид земун

User space
Please do not create User pages for other users. --EncycloPetey (talk) 04:24, 6 January 2024 (UTC)

title: User talk:Давид земун


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 a very pleasant connection. But a woman could yield to a man without yielding her inner, free self. That the poets and talkers about sex did not seem to have taken sufficiently into account. A woman could take a man without really giving herself away. Certainly she could take him without giving herself into his power. Rather she could use this sex thing to have power over him. For she only had to hold herself back in sexual intercourse, and let him finish and expend himself without herself coming to the crisis: and then she could prolong the connection and achieve her orgasm and her crisis while he was merely her tool.

Both sisters had had their love experience by the time the war came, and they were hurried home. Neither was ever in love with a young man unless he and she were verbally very near: that is unless they were profoundly interested, to one another. The amazing, the profound, the unbelievable thrill there was in passionately talking to some really clever young man by the hour, resuming day after day for months... this they had never realised till it happened! The paradisal promise: Thou shalt have men to talk to!—had never been uttered. It was fulfilled before they knew what a promise it was.

And if after the roused intimacy of these vivid and soul-enlightened discussions the sex thing became more or less inevitable, then let it. It marked the end of a chapter. It had a thrill of its own too: a queer vibrating thrill inside the body, a final spasm of self-assertion, like the last word, exciting, and very like the row of asterisks that can be put to show the end of a paragraph, and a break in the theme.

When the girls came home for the summer holidays of 1913, when Hilda was twenty and Connie eighteen, their father could see plainly that they had had the love experience.

L'amour avait passé par là, as somebody puts it. But he was a man of experience himself, and let life take its course. As for the mother, a nervous invalid in the last few months of her life, she only wanted her girls to be "free," and to "fulfil themselves." She herself had never been able to be altogether herself: it had been denied her. Heaven knows why, for she was a woman who had her own income and her own way. She blamed her husband. But as a matter of fact, it was some old impression of authority on her own mind or soul that she could not get rid of. It had nothing to do with


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 Sir Malcolm, who left his nervously hostile, high-spirited wife to rule her own roost, while he went his own way.

So the girls were "free," and went back to Dresden, and their music, and the university and the young men. They loved their respective young men, and their respective young men loved them with all the passion of mental attraction. All the wonderful things the young men thought and expressed and wrote, they thought and expressed and wrote for the young women. Connie's young man was musical, Hilda's was technical. But they simply lived for their young women. In their minds and their mental excitements, that is. Somewhere else they were a little rebuffed, though they did not know it.

It was obvious in them too that love had gone through them: that is, the physical experience. It is curious what a subtle but unmistakable transmutation it makes, both in the body of men and women: the woman more blooming, more subtly rounded, her young angularities softened, and her expression either anxious or triumphant: the man much quieter, more inward, the very shapes of his shoulders and his buttocks less assertive, more hesitant.

In the actual sex-thrill within the body, the sisters nearly succumbed to the strange male power. But quickly they recovered themselves, took the sex-thrill as a sensation, and remained free. Whereas the men, in gratitude to the women for the sex experience, let their souls go out to her. And afterwards looked rather as if they had lost a shilling and found sixpence. Connie's man could be a bit sulky, and Hilda's a bit jeering. But that is how men are! Ungrateful and never satisfied. When you don't have them they hate you because you won't; and when you do have them they hate you again, for some other reason. Or for no reason at all, except that they are discontented children, and can't be satisfied whatever they get, let a woman do what she may.

However, came the war, Hilda and Connie were rushed home again after having been home already in May, to their mother's funeral. Before Christmas of 1914 both their German young men were dead: whereupon the sisters wept, and loved the young men passionately, but underneath forgot them. They didn't exist any more.

Both sisters lived in their father's, really their mother's Kensington house, and mixed with the young Cambridge group, the group


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 that stood for "freedom" and flannel trousers, and flannel shirts open at the neck, and a well-bred sort of emotional anarchy, and a whispering, murmuring sort of voice, and an ultra-sensitive sort of manner. Hilda, however, suddenly married a man ten years older than herself, an elder member of the same Cambridge group, a man with a fair amount of money, and a comfortable family job in the government: he also wrote philosophical essays. She lived with him in a smallish house in Westminster, and moved in that good sort of society of people in the government who are not tip-toppers, but who are, or would be, the real intelligent power in the nation: people who know what they're talking about, or talk as if they did.

Connie did a mild form of war-work, and consorted with the flannel-trousers Cambridge intransigeants, who gently mocked at everything, so far. Her "friend" was a Clifford Chatterley, a young man of twenty-two, who had hurried home from Bonn, where he was studying the technicalities of coal-mining. He had previously spent two years at Cambridge. Now he had become a first lieutenant in a smart regiment, so he could mock at everything more becomingly in uniform.

Clifford Chatterley was more upper-class than Connie. Connie was well-to-do intelligentsia, but he was aristocracy. Not the big sort, but still it. His father was a baronet, and his mother had been a viscount's daughter.

But Clifford, while he was better bred than Connie, and more "society," was in his own way more provincial and more timid. He was at his ease in the narrow "great world," that is, landed aristocracy society, but he was shy and nervous of all that other big world which consists of the vast hordes of the middle and lower classes, and foreigners. If the truth must be told, he was just a little bit frightened of middle and lower class humanity, and of foreigners not of his own class. He was, in some paralysing way, conscious of his own defencelessness, though he had all the defence of privilege. Which is curious, but a phenomenon of our day.

Therefore the peculiar soft assurance of a girl like Constance Reid fascinated him. She was so much more mistress of herself in that outer world of chaos than he was master of himself.

Nevertheless he too was a rebel: rebelling even against his class. Or perhaps rebel is too strong a word; far too strong. He was only caught in the general, popular recoil of the young against conven-


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 tion and against any sort of real authority. Fathers were ridiculous: his own obstinate one supremely so. And governments were ridiculous: our own wait-and-see sort especially so. And armies were ridiculous, and old duffers of generals altogether, the red-faced Kitchener supremely. Even the war was ridiculous, though it did kill rather a lot of people.

In fact everything was a little ridiculous, or very ridiculous: certainly everything connected with authority, whether it were in the army or the government or the universities, was ridiculous to a degree. And as far as the governing class made any pretensions to govern, they were ridiculous too. Sir Geoffrey, Clifford's father, was intensely ridiculous, chopping down his trees, and weeding men out of his colliery to shove them into the war; and himself being so safe and patriotic; but also, spending more money on his country than he'd got.

When Miss Chatterley—Emma—came down to London from the Midlands to do some nursing work, she was very witty in a quiet way about Sir Geoffrey and his determined patriotism. Herbert, the elder brother and heir, laughed outright, though it was his trees that were falling for trench props. But Clifford only smiled a little uneasily. Everything was ridiculous, quite true. But when it came too close and oneself became ridiculous too...? At least people of a different class, like Connie, were earnest about something. They believed in something.

They were rather earnest about the Tommies, and the threat of conscription, and the shortage of sugar and toffee for the children. In all these things, of course, the authorities were ridiculously at fault. But Clifford could not take it to heart. To him the authorities were ridiculous ab ovo, not because of toffee or Tommies.

And the authorities felt ridiculous, and behaved in a rather ridiculous fashion, and it was all a mad hatter's tea party for a while. Till things developed over there, and Lloyd George came to save the situation over here. And this surpassed even ridicule, the flippant young laughed no more.

In 1916 Herbert Chatterley was killed, so Clifford became heir. He was terrified even of this. His importance as son of Sir Geoffrey and child of Wragby was so ingrained in him, he could never escape it. And yet he knew that this too, in the eyes of the vast seething world, was ridiculous. Now he was heir and responsible for