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Page:Adam's reports on vernacular education in Bengal and Behar, submitted to Government in 1835, 1836 and 1838.djvu/244

184 Thus 54 teachers receive in all rupees 2,889-8, which averages to each teacher rupees 53-8-1 per annum. One of those who receive nothing supports himself and contributes to the support of his pupils by farming. One of those who accept invitations and presents adds to his income by the ceremonial recitation of the Puranas, another has the proceeds of a temple assigned to him by the officiating Brahman, and a third refuses to accept invitations and presents from all of the Sudra caste. One teacher, now dependent on occasional presents, formerly had an annual allowance of rupees 100 from the Rani Bhawani which has bean discontinued since her death; and in another case the inhabitants of the village subscribed to give the father of the present teacher an endowment of sixty bighas of land, for which they paid the zemindar rupees 24 a year; but since the death of the father, the zemindar has resumed the land although he still requires and receives the increased revenue from the villagers. The sole object of the endowment was the encouragement of learning. Three teachers are in the enjoyment of endowments of land consisting—two of 25 bighas each, and one of about 50 bighas. It is the medical teacher who receives rupees 108 mentioned above, which sum includes both presents and an annual allowance from his patron and also the proceeds of his general practice.

Among the learned teachers of this district, the following are the names of those who claim the distinction of being authors, and of the works they profess to have written:—

Jagaddurlabha Nyayalankara, dwelling at Nandur in the Sakalyapur thana, has written four works in Sanscrit,—first, Uddhava Chamatkar, containing 175 slokas, relating to an incident in the life of Krishna connected with his friend Uddhava; second, a commentary on the preceding; third, Pratinataka, a drama divided into seven parts, containing 532 slokas, on the history of Rama; and fourth, a commentary on the preceding.

Viseswar Siddhantavagis, dwelling at Tikuri in the Ketugram thana, has written a work in Sanscrit called Duti Sambad, containing 41 slokas, on the history of Krishna.

Viswambhar Vidyaratna, the medical teacher, dwelling at Sonarundi in the Ketugram thana, is now engaged in the composition of a work in Sanscrit in support and illustration of the doctrines of Susrusha Charaka, a medical text book; he purposes printing his own production.

Rukmini Kanta Vidyavagis, dwelling at Banwari Abad in the Ketugram thana, professes to have written the following works:—First, a commentary called Vichar Tarangini, containing 400 pages in prose, on Alankara Kaustubha,—a work on rhetoric; second, Rasa Tarangini, containing 80 pages in verse, on the amours


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the last day of November, 1620, on the confines of the Grand Bank of Newfoundland, lo! we behold one little solitary tempest-tost and weather-beaten ship; it is all that can be seen on the length and breadth of the vast intervening solitudes, from the melancholy wilds of Labrador and New England's iron-bound shores, to the western coasts of Ireland and the rock-defended Hebrides, but one lonely ship greets the eye of angels or of men, on this great thoroughfare of nations in our age. Next in moral grandeur, was this ship, to the great discoverer's: Columbus found a continent; the May-flower brought the seed-wheat of states and empire. That is the May-flower, with its servants of the living God, their wives and little ones, hastening to lay y the foundations of nations in the occidental lands of the setting-sun. Hear the voice of prayer to God for his protection, and the glorious music of praise as it breaks into the wild tempest of the mighty deep, upon the ear of God, Here in this, ship are great and good men. Justice, mercy, humanity respect for the rights of all; each man honoured, as he was useful to himself and others; labour respected, law-abiding men, constitution-making and inspecting men; men, whom no tyrant could conquer, or hardship overcome, with the high commission sealed by a Spirit divine, to

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

title: Page:Clotel (1853).djvu/193


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Page:A description of Greenland.djvu/75

Rh agree better together. Turnips and Cole are very good here, and of a weet Tate, epecially the Turnips, which are pretty large. I mut oberve to you, that all that has been aid of the Fruitfulnes of the Greenland Soil, is to be undertood of the Latitude of 60 to 65; and differs according to the different Degrees of Latitude. For in the mot Northern Parts you find neither Herbs nor Plants; o that the Inhabitants cannot gather Gras enough to put in their Shoes, to keep their Feet warm, but are obliged to buy it from the Southern Parts.

Of Greenland Metals or Minerals I have little or nothign to ay. 'Tis true, that about two Norway Miles to the South of the Colony of Good Hope, on a Promontory, there are here and there green Spots to be een, like Verdigreae, which hews there mut be ome And a certain Greenlander, once brought me ome Pieces not unlike  There is likewie a ort of Calamine, which has the Co- lour

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shall now return to Cincinnati, where we left Clotel preparing to go to Richmond in search of her daughter. Tired of the disguise in which she had escaped, she threw it off on her arrival at Cincinnati. But being assured that not a shadow of safety would attend her visit to a city in which she was well known, unless in some disguise, she again resumed men's apparel on leaving Cincinnati. This time she had more the appearance of an Italian or Spanish gentleman. In addition to the fine suit of black cloth, a splendid pair of dark false whiskers covered the sides of her face, while the curling moustache found its place upon the upper lip. From practice she had become accustomed to high-heeled boots, and could walk without creating any suspicion as regarded her sex. It was on a cold evening that Clotel arrived at Wheeling, and took a seat in the coach going to Richmond. She was already in the state of Virginia, yet a long distance from the place of her destination.

A ride in a stage-coach, over an American road, is unpleasant under the most favourable circumstances. But now that it was winter, and the roads unusually bad, the journey was still more dreary. However, there were eight passengers in the coach, and I need scarcely say that such a number of genuine Americans could not be together without whiling away the time somewhat pleasantly.

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Page:A description of Greenland.djvu/76

48 lour of yellow Bras. In my Expedition upon Dicoveries I found on a little Iland, where we touched, ome yellow Sand, mixed with Sinople red, or Vermilion Strokes, of which I ent a Quantity over to the Directors of the Greenland Company at Bergen, to make a Trial of it; upon which they wrote me an Anwer, that I hould endeavour to get as much as I could of the ame Same; but to theirs, as well as my own Diappointment, I never was able to find the aid Iland again, where I had got this Sand, as it was but a very mall and inignificant one, ituated among a great many others; and the Mark I had taken Care to put up, was by the Wind blown down. Nevertheles there has been enough of the ame Stuff found up and down in the Country, which when it is burnt, changes its former Colour for a reddih Hue, which it likewie does, if you keep it a while hut up cloe. Whether or no this be of the ame ort of Sand, as that which Sir Martin Forbiher is aid to have brought ome Hundred Tuns to England, and was pre-

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Page:New Peterson magazine 1859 Vol. XXXV.pdf/156

 crazy to be off. It was a double-seated sleigh, with plenty of buffalo robes, and two little foot- stoves in the bottom, that your grandma brought $ out to keep the gals’ feet warm.

“Out came the two gals in their long cloaks, trimmed with fur, and black velvet bonnets with ostrich plumes fluttering at the sides, each with her purty face buried in a muff.

“Hetty came down to the side of the sleigh first, while Sarah stood dancing up and down on the steps to keep her feet warm.

“Come, Hetty,’ says I, a holding out one hand, ‘you set with me and help drive.’ She seemed a little out of sorts, you know, and I saw her turn away from Mr. Bentley when he came up. This was the reason I asked her to set in front with me.

“She drew back behind her muff, and I saw her look suddenly up at Bentley.

“Oh, yes! get in, get in!’ he said, smiling. ‘Come, Miss Sarah.’

“Hetty caught hold of my hand and sprang into the sleigh without a word. I was busy holding in the team with one hand, and pulling up the buffalo skins around Hetty with the other, and scarcely noticed what the pair behind were doing till Bentley called out,

“‘Here we are, snug and comfortable; touch the horses up with a flourish, Hart; I feel like a bird tonight!’

“A bird of passage, or a bird of prey?’ said Sarah, mischievously; ‘one thing is certain, Dan, he is in the wrong nest. I would much rather have sister Hetty by me.’

“Hetty did not pretend to hear, but I felt her shiver as if with the sudden cold, and pulled the robe over her again, saying, softly, that ‘ Hetty belonged to me.’

“As I tightened the reins and shook out my  whip, it seemed to me that I heard a sob, but that minute the horses started, the bells gave a loud clash, and away we whirled around the house, and up the turnpike like a flash of lightning set to music.

“If you want to see rale downright fun, gal, try a genuine sleigh-ride on a night like that. Horses with their blood on fire—bells running over with music—roads beat down to marble— snow-balls rattling from the horses’ hoofs—clouds of steam pouring from their nostrils and freezing into little icicles on the under jaw—whip cracking on the frosty air, and all the naked trees, with every twig and bough pictured on the snow- crust that spreads and glitters miles and miles around you; with the moon smiling over head, and lots on lots of stars blinking and sparkling in its path. I tell you agin, gal, if there is genuine fun in the world, that’s it.”

‘Oh, how I should like to have one good ride like that,” said Gillian, sparkling all over with excitement.

‘You shall, gal—when snow comes you shall, or my name isn’t Daniel Hart,” said the farmer, heartily.

‘‘With such horses, plenty of bells, and you to drive, uncle?”

“Yes, yes, we'll have the old times over again; trust uncle Dan for the team. He’s up to a winter campaign yet.”

‘And we shall take the same road, and stop at the deacon’s?”

The farmer drew back in his chair.

“‘The same road, gal? Stop at the deacon’s? God help us, gal, the deacon, his wife, and that young creature, has been dead these ten years. The old house is torn down, and the grave-yard No, Gillian, you shall have the sleigh-ride, but we must go round the hill, not over it, as we did that night.”

“‘Well, you had a pleasant evening, then, uncle; and that is a great deal, because the  memory of one happy evening lives forever, you   know—forever and ever; so tell me of that one happy ride, and we will trust heaven for the next, which is sure to come—for I always find my wishes sooner or later, like fairy gifts, dear uncle.”

The old man looked down upon her with.a glance of hearty affection.

“Always chirk and full of hope, just as she was!”

“But I’m afraid—just the least bit afraid, you know, uncle—that my dear mamma was making a fool of Mrs. Bentley; you remember about the back seat, and all that?”

“It may be I don’t pretend to understand it up to this day. Your mother was a young critter that none of us could calculate upon; not even Hetty, who always says that we had no right to judge her, because she was so far above us all.”

“Then that pale little lady—aunt Hetty—how strange it seems that you should be telling of sleigh-rides which she enjoyed, just as I should now. That nice little lady remembers and loves my mother yet. Ill go and kiss her in the morning, hang back as she will—just see if I don’t.”

‘Yes, if ever one human being loved another, Hetty loved your mother; to this day, she never mentions her name without gt@wing pale and shivering, as if she was a-cold,”

‘Dear lady!”

“That night she seemed troubled about


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22 it in the exploration and colonization of the west. The story of the efforts in the more northerly States in the settlement of the country north of the Ohio has been frequently told. Though the southern emigration to Kentucky and Tennessee has been less ably dealt with, it has even more of interest attaching to it, and is enlivened by incidents full of the spirit of romance. In Kentucky, at the close of the war, the foundation had been laid, the country had been thoroughly explored, and the need was mainly of settlers to occupy and possess the land. Virginia encouraged emigration in every way. Her soldiers received large grants, and many occupied them in person. The North Carolinians, who had been so prominent in early days, having given among other eminent names, those of Boone, her typical pioneer, and of Shelby, her first governor, continued to pour in. Maryland, too, sent a large number of settlers. Except from these three States there were very few emigrants to this country, those from the more northerly States being more prominent than numerous. The growth was surprisingly rapid; in 1790 there were already more than 73,000 inhabitants, which number had grown to 220,955 in 1800; a wonderful exhibit for a period of twenty-six years. In 1798 the number of inhabitants must have approximated 200,000. These were collected in several little groups, not scattered broadcast throughout the land. The most important centres were in Fayette County, about Lexington, in Lincoln County, about Danville, and in Jefferson County, about Louisville.


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Byron.

certain seasons of the year, all tropical climates are subject to epidemics of a most destructive nature. The inhabitants of New Orleans look with as much certainty for the appearance of the yellow-fever, small-pox, or cholera, in the hot-season, as the Londoner does for fog in the month of November. In the summer of 1831, the people of New Orleans were visited with one of these epidemics. It appeared in a form unusually repulsive and deadly. It seized persons who were in health, without any premonition. Sometimes death was the immediate consequence. The disorder began in the brain, by an oppressive pain accompanied or followed by fever. The patient was devoured with burning thirst. The stomach, distracted,by pains, in vain sought relief in efforts to disburden itself. Fiery veins streaked the eye; the face was inflamed, and dyed of a dark dull red colour; the ears from time to time rang painfully. Now mucous secretions surcharged the tongue, and / took away the power of speech; now the sick one spoke, but in speaking had a foresight of death. When the violence of the disease approached the heart, the gums were blackened. The sleep, broken, troubled by convulsions, or by frightful visions, was

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Page:A description of Greenland.djvu/77

Rh pretended to contain a great deal of Gold; and again, (as we have above taken Notice of) of which ome of the Danih Greenland Company's Ships returned freighted to Copenhagen in the Year 1636, is a Quetion, which I have no Mind to decide. However thus much I can ay, that by the mall Experience I have acquired in the Art of Chymitry, I have tried both by Extraction and Precipitation, if it would yield and thing, but always lot my Labour. After all I declare, I never could find any other Sort of Sand, that contained either Gold or Silver. But as for bothred and white, you find it here; the red contains ome particular Solis, which can only be produced by the pagyrick Art. or what they call Abetus, is o common here, that you may ee whole Mountains of it; it has the Appearance of a common Stone, but can be plit or cloven like a Piece of Wood: it contains long Filaments, which when beaten and eparated from the Dros, you may twit and pin into a Thread. As long as it has its Rh

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Page:Kentucky Resolutions of 1798.djvu/39

Rh The population still retained the characteristics of a frontier people. Impatient of restraint, they were rash and adventurous. Placing an exalted value upon personal courage but too often according praise to recklessness rather than to calm, unpretentious heroism, they exaggerated personal privileges and repelled any breach of them with unnecessary violence. The love of adventure too often degenerated into a mere thirst for excitement, and the spirit of the backswoods hero into the love of horse-races, cock-fights and games of chance. But on the other side of their nature they were frank, manly, and generous, living with an easy and open-handed hospitality that was very attractive and has passed into a proverb. And in all things, in word and act, they were full of nature's own gift of an untrammelled love of liberty, crude and unformed beyond the nomad spirit sometimes, as when it drove the aged Boone to the wilds of Missouri because he could not find room to breathe in Kentucky, but rising with the temper of the times to an intelligent and not-to-be-denied demand of political independence. Whatever trespassed on it was jealously regarded. Where any thing, in whatever domain, has acquired a special sensitiveness, its guardians do not have to look long or seek far for an injury. And so it was that within ten years from the first settlement the cry was raised that injustice was being done by Virginia to her District beyond the mountains, that her laws were oppressive to its people and that their personal liberty was curtailed. It was not a groundless cry in some respects. But


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Page:Kentucky Resolutions of 1798.djvu/40

24 Virginia was always a cherishing mother to Kentucky. The complications did not grow out of conscious neglect and still less out of deliberate oppression. But the difficulties of communication were very great, the wave of immigration had overpassed the mountains and a great uninhabited interval was thus left to make intercourse slow and difficult, and as yet the road was exceedingly dangerous; while to delays and casualties growing out of bad roads and mountain passes, the uncertainties of travel through a country invested by roving bands of hostile savages had to be added. Virginia naturally sometimes lost sight of the peculiar needs of a part of the State so cut off, so badly represented, and so distinct in its needs, in her legislation. Thus little by little complaints arose affecting all branches of the government, judiciary, legislative, and executive, and at last these complaints grew to a demand for complete independence.

The first issue actually raised grew out of military affairs. Kentucky was singularly situated in respect to the Indians. Her territory was almost entirely without permanent settlements. It was a common hunting-ground, abounding in game, and attracting the various tribes from the bordering States to frequent expeditions. Naturally enough collisions were of constant occurrence, and it was almost as much a battle as a hunting-ground, justifying the Indian name which signifies "the dark and bloody ground." This circumstance made it easier to plant the first settlements, since they were made on unoccupied ground, but it made their maintenance


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Rh much more difficult, because the roving war-parties had not been in any wise dispossessed or reduced in numbers, and made their periodical returns as of old. The only difference, apparently, was that instead of tribe slaughtering tribe in their predatory incursions they all now fell upon the white man. It was an anomalous state of affairs, and it is probable that the Virginia authorities did not fully comprehend the situation. A somewhat analogous experience had fallen to the lot of the settlers in the region west of the mountains at the head-waters of the New, Holston, and other rivers, known collectively as "the Western Waters," which became the counties of Washington, Fincastle, Bottetourt, and so forth, during the war period, who were the victims of frequent raids from the Cherokee towns' just within the depths of the wilderness. But the Indians were then under the manipulation of British and Tory agents, and at other times rarely proved the aggressors. Here the Indians made dash after dash and harried the settlers sadly. The only remedy was to be found in retaliation, and the arrangement of the militia under Virginia's laws made this most difficult. The governors disapproved of it, and the federal war department made more than one complaint of these expeditions as stirring up trouble and violating treaties. The Kentuckians were in the grasp of a necessity that knew no law, and Colonel Benjamin Logan invited a number of militia officers to an informal conference at Danville in the summer of 1784. Those present


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Page:Lorna Doone - a romance of Exmoor (IA lornadooneromanc691blac).pdf/84

 are plenty of fish all down this way, and the further you go the larger they get, having deeper grounds to feed in; and sometimes in the summer months, when mother could spare me off the farm, I came down here, with Annie to help (because it was so lonely), and caught well-nigh a basketful of little trout and minnows, with a hook and a bit of worm on it, or a fern-web, or a blowfly, hung from a hazel pulse-stick. For of all the things I learned at Blundell's, only two abode with me, and one of these was the knack of fishing, and the other the art of swimming. And indeed they have a very rude manner of teaching children to swim there; for the big boys take the little boys, and put them through a certain process, which they grimly call "sheep-washing." In the third meadow from the gate of the school, going up the river, there is a fine pool in the Lowman, where the Taunton brook comes in, and they call it the "Taunton pool." The water runs down with a strong, sharp stickle, and then has a sudden elbow in it, where the small brook trickles in; and on that side the bank is steep, four or it may be five feet high, overhanging loamily; but on the other side it is flat, pebbly, and fit to land upon. Now the large boys take the small boys, crying sadly for mercy, and thinking, mayhap, of their mothers; with hands laid well at the back of their necks, they bring them up to the crest of the bank upon the eastern side, and make them strip their clothes off. Then the little boys, falling on their naked knees, blubber upwards piteously; but the large boys know what is good for them, and will not be entreated. So they cast


text: Talk:The Golden Bessie

title: Talk:The Golden Bessie


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50 oily Moiture, it will burn, without being conumed to Ahes. Round about our Colony of Good Hope there is a Sort of coare batard Marble of different Colours, blue, green, red, and ome quite white, and again ome white with black Spots, which the Natives form into all Sorts of Veels and Utenils; as Lamps, Pots to boil in, and even Crucibles to melt Metals in, this Marble tanding Proof againt the Fire. Of this Marble there was brought a Quantity over to Drontheim in Norway, which they made Ue of in the adorning of the Cathedral of that City, as we have it from Peter Claudius Undalin. Amongt

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26 to call a convention in December to discuss the military situation. This convention was of the opinion that Virginia ought to be asked to grant a separation, as otherwise the good of the western counties would be prejudiced; but fearing a lack of authority, the question was referred to another convention to meet in May, 1785. This convention also found it expedient to refer the situation to another, called to meet almost immediately, in August. A request for autonomy was formally made to Virginia and addresesaddresses [sic] were made to the people setting forth the necessity of separation. During the course of these events a strong party had sprung up, so bent on separation as to be willing to go to the greatest lengths in order to obtain it. The talk even thus early was needlessly violent, and pointed to more vigorous measures than the necessity of the case seems to have demanded. To men of this stamp the news that Virginia, by an act passed in January, 1786, had acceded to the request for a separation was almost a disappointment. This act authorizing the people to erect themselves into a State is generally known as the first enabling act. Its full text was not received until some time after the rumor of its passage had arrived. When it was known, certain conditions contained therein came as a relief to the extreme party. They were simple and proper, but some of them were very unpopular. The principal conditions required, first, the adoption of a proper constitution, a participation in the debt of the old State, a recognition of old land-grants, and equal treatment to Virginia


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244 God filled the world. Manasseh ben Israel regained for the Jews admission to England; Spinoza reclaimed the right of a Jew to a voice in the philosophy of the world. Both were political thinkers who maintained the full rights of the individual conscience, and though the arguments used vary considerably, yet Manasseh ben Israel’s splendid Vindiciæ Judeorum and Spinoza’s “Tractate” alike insist on the natural right of men to think freely. They anticipated some of the greatest principles that won acceptance at the end of the eighteenth century.

Manasseh ben Israel was born in Lisbon of Marrano parents, who emigrated to Amsterdam a few years after their son’s birth. He displayed a youthful talent for oratory. and was a noted preacher in his teens. He started the first Hebrew printing-press established in Amsterdam, and from it issued many works still remarkable for the excellence of their type and general work-


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Carter. was late in the evening when the coach arrived at Richmond, and Clotel once more alighted in her native city. She had intended to seek lodgings somewhere in the outskirts of the town, but the lateness of the hour compelled her to stop at one of the principal hotels for the night. She had scercelyscarcely [sic] entered the inn, when she recognised among the numerous black servants one to whom she was well known; and her only hope was, that her disguise would keep her from being discovered. The imperturbable calm and entire forgetfulness of self which induced Clotel to visit a place from which she could scarcely hope to escape, to attempt the rescue of a beloved child, demonstrate that over-willingness of woman to carry out the promptings of the finer feelings of her heart. True to woman's nature, she had risked her own liberty for another.

She remained in the hotel during the night, and the next morning, under the plea of illness, she took her breakfast alone. That day the fugitive slave paid a visit to the suburbs of the town, and once more beheld the cottage in which she had spent so many happy hours. It was winter, and the clematis and passion flower were not there; but there were the same

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text:
Phoebe and the Heart of Toil

HOEBE was growing up. Mrs. Martin traced the process in a series of baffling reserves and of more baffling confidences. Phoebe was beginning to have pronounced views on the interior decoration of the house. Also she developed dissatisfaction with her mother's style of dressing and she wrote every evening in a diary which promised to be as long as the Congressional Record.

"Mother," she said abruptly one morning, "I do wish there was something I could do to be of more use in the world. Sometimes I think I'm not making the most of my opportunities. And nowadays everybody ought to do something special with their lives, don't you think so?"

Mrs. Martin's brow wrinkled. She always took her children seriously at first. Sometimes she laughed at them afterwards. Mr. Martin always laughed anyway. It depended on his mood whether he paid any further attention.

"Why don't you take a Sunday-school class?" Mrs. Martin asked after a considering pause.

"Oh mother!" Phoebe's tone throbbed through every gradation of injured pride. "I don't mean anything like that. I mean taking up nursing or singing at prison concerts, or lugging flowers to sick children's hospitals or visiting poor people in the slums. I'd like to do something seriously worth while." "I can't think of anything," Mrs. Martin said tranquilly, but in her firmest tone of conviction, "that would worry your father more than to have you working in the slums—unless it was visiting prisons."

"Oh don't worry about what father says—I'll take care of him," Phoebe declared airily. "Of course he makes a fuss at first, no matter what I do, but I always bring him round."

When Phoebe made statements like this, Mrs. Martin was vaguely troubled. She herself exercised a wise, wifely diplomacy, exoterically gentle, esoterically inflexible; but it never  occurred to her that Mr. Martin was not the head of his own house. And as for saying to herself that she would "bring him round"—sometimes she wondered if when Phoebe married, she would have the proper respect for her husband.

"Yes," Phoebe went on meditatively, "I've been thinking of this for a long time. I wonder—" She stopped as if with a dazzling inspiration. "I know what I'll do. I'll go over and see Mrs. Warburton. You know she does so much charity work."

With Phoebe to think was to act. Her impetuous exit from the house was only equaled in bustle and determination by her cyclonic return.

"Oh I'm so glad I went over," she said breathlessly. "Mrs. Warburton says she's going to have a tea next week that she says will help me a lot. There's a Mr. Witherspoon going to speak on Applied Socialism. Mr. Witherspoon is a young man and just think, mother, he gives up his whole life to the poor. He lives in a little room in the slums and does things to help people. He doesn't exactly give them money, you understand—he helps them to help themselves. He's especially successful in his work with women. Mrs. Warburton says she doesn't know another young man who's assisted so many high-minded girls to find themselves. She said that was what the trouble with me was—I hadn't found myself. She showed me his picture—she's got a lot of them—mostly profiles. He's awfully interesting-looking. Then she wrote off a long list of books that he'd given her to read. She hasn't had any time to read them herself yet, but I'm going to look them all through for her and pick out what would be most likely to interest her."

All that afternoon, Phoebe pored over a pile of undusted-looking books from the Public Library.

"Phoebe's got an idea she'd like to do some charity work," Mrs. Martin said cautiously to her husband that night. Mrs. Martin was always feeling a tentative way ahead for her iconoclastic children—always blazing a new trail through the pathless forests of paternal conservatism. "I don't know exactly what it is she wants. I guess she doesn't know herself. She's going to a tea at Mrs. Warburton's next week. A socialist man's going to speak.  Phoebe says she wants to be of some use in the world."

"Set her to cleaning up the attic," Mr. Martin growled, his eye riveted to his paper.

"No, it isn't anything like that she wants," Mrs. Martin said placidly. "She says she's had unusual opportunities and she feels she isn't being fair if she doesn't share them with those that haven't had them. You can't imagine how grown-up she seemed to me Edward, talking like that. I do hope that she isn't going to be a strong-minded woman. If she  turned out to be one of those suffragettes, it would be a dreadful disappointment to me."

"She'll be strong-handed if she keeps on," Mr. Martin said. "When I came down to-night, she and Ernest were boxing in the Playroom."

"Boxing!" Mrs. Martin repeated in a horrified tone. "Boxing! Edward Martin what do you mean?"

"I mean boxing." Mr. Martin said with emphasis. "She had Tug's gloves on and Ernest had his own gloves on and they were going at each other like a pair of tiger cubs. Phoebe's remarkably active. You see she's taller than Ernest and quick as a cat. Ernest's stronger of course but they're pretty well matched."

"Boxing!" Mrs. Martin said for the third time. "Well, I do think I have the strangest children any woman ever had."

"Listen to that racket!" Mr. Martin said, smiling broadly. "Tug Warburton must be up there now."

On the day of the tea, Phoebe appeared before her mother—a vision of shining girlhood, a little touched with wistfulness. But what she surveyed in the hall-mirror, was a carefully managed effect in brown—severe brown suit, feathered brown hat, soft brown furs.

"How do I look, mother? " she asked complacently.

"Very well." Mrs. Martin spoke without apparent enthusiasm but inwardly she was proud. "She's a stylish-looking girl," she said to herself. "She's what people call chic. I never was stylish. I guess I'd rather she'd have that air than a Grecian nose."

But Phoebe did not need a Grecian nose, Her own was small, spirited, piquant. Perhaps its outline was only pretty but the brows above it were beautiful and the lips below a deep red and delicately curved. And her chin gave a flower-petal finish to the soft oval of her face. Gray eyes that alternately dreamed and sparkled, an amber-olive skin which glowed with soft flushes of color when she spoke or laughed, hair that rippled and shone, a tall, lithe, strong-looking girl-figure—that was Phoebe,

It is possible that Mr. Witherspoon noticed some of this. Certainly at the close of his "causerie," he talked with Phoebe at least fifteen minutes longer than with anybody else.

"Say, Phoeb, ain't that long-haired stiff they've got over to Warburton's the limit?" Ernest asked that night at dinner. "Tug says he's the worst bug they've had yet—long hair, flossy clothes—Tug says he's even caught him shining his finger-nails."

"I suppose you mean Mr. Witherspoon," Phoebe said with that elaborate stateliness which always preceded a squabble with Ernest. "Mr. Witherspoon has the most lovely hair I ever saw. Mrs. Warburton says he has to wear it long because his head is so small that he looks queer with short hair. Besides it falls forward and makes a kind of background for his profile just like the pictures of Daudet. The effect is very artistic in a photograph. And as for his hands— well, Em Martin, how you've got the nerve to even say the word hands"

Ernest, rapidly concealing his hands in his napkin, dropped almost with a thump from the conversation.

"Mr. Witherspoon is one of the most delightful men I ever met." Phoebe turned an eclipsing shoulder on her brother, concentrating thereby the full light of her countenance on her mother. She was still stately.

Mrs. Martin had an uncomfortable feeling that her girl had suddenly become thirty. "He believes just the things I do," Phoebe went on. "He says that nobody in the world ought to work all the time or play all the time. He says it is just as much privilege to work as to play. He says as things are now the proportion must be left to the individual conscience, although the universal conscience is being developed slowly. He says everybody owes some service to his race and generation."

The family had a chance that night to see Mr. Witherspoon at closer range. After dinner Mrs. Warburton telephoned that she was going to bring her guest for a call. From the standpoint of the many, it was not a successful social event. Early in the evening, Ernest and Tug, first exchanging signals as obvious as elaborate, disappeared upstairs. After the generalities of greeting, Mr. Martin relapsed into a yes-and-no civility. At Phoebe's first move towards the tea-table, he slipped out of the conversation and into the back library.

Mr. Witherspoon did not seem to mind this masculine defection. He sat in the becoming glow of the yellow piano-lamp, manipulating his chocolate-cup with a charming grace. At one side sat handsome, fussy Mrs. Warburton, beaming with the pride of ownership and panting mentally in the wake of his phrases. At the other side sat Mrs. Martin  her hand shading her brow, her sweet, faded face, soft with sympathy. In front, wide-eyed, her lips parted as if she drank from the Pierian Spring, sat Phoebe. Mr. Witherspoon shone.

The next day was Saturday. Phoebe appeared at breakfast in her simplest gown and with linen collars and cuffs, severely plain. She had wet her hair, parted it in the middle and brought it down in ugly smoothness over her ears. To her mother's great relief, it dried before breakfast was over. Soon all kinds of little claw-like curls had pulled loose from the pins and hung in a golden-brown fringe over her forehead and in her neck. This minimized the effect of the collars and cuffs surprisingly.

At nine, Mrs. Martin heard her at the telephone.

"No, Tug," she said with the gentle firmness of those who are consecrated to high ideals. I don't feel like canoeing today. I have a great deal of important reading that I must do. No, I don't know when I can go. I expect to be very busy—yes, even during the vacation. No, I can't tell you about it. It's a secret—I haven't even spoken to my father and mother yet. But I doubt if I have any leisure from now on."

Mrs. Martin continued to wonder, but she did not question. Phoebe spent the entire bright day indoors, reading John Stuart Mill on "The Subjection of Women."

As they were arising from dinner that evening, Phoebe addressed her father with sombre dignity. "I would like to speak with you alone."

"What about?" Mr. Martin asked with the tact of fathers.

"It's a secret, father," Phoebe said with a proud, pale patience.

"I bet she's going to brace him for that new tennis-racket," Ernest grumbled. "And she'll get it too," he added grimly.

Only Mrs. Martin knew that the hour had struck.

Phoebe was closeted with her father for twenty minutes. She emerged with an air of gentle meekness, much belied by a triumphant sparkle in her eye. She went immediately to her room.

Mr. Martin came out of the star-conference, a red, a wrathful, a palpably beaten man.

"What do you suppose she's up to now, mother?" he groaned. The pronoun "she" on Mr. Martin's lips never meant anybody but Phoebe.

"Of course it's something about this socialist business," Mrs. Martin said. She was as undisturbed as Mr. Martin was crestfallen. "She wants to come in and work in the office during her spring vacation," Mr. Martin jerked out.

Mrs. Martin's embroidery-needle stopped in mid-air. "Work in the—her spring vacation—well, of all—if that isn't—" She stopped short and impaled her husband on a look of withering inquiry. "Of course you refused her?" she demanded.

"No, not exactly," he faltered. "But I didn't say she could, either."

"That means she'll do it. Edward Martin, you are wax in that child's hands." Mrs. Martin spoke with an air of detachment as though neither of the two people were related to her.

Mr. Martin sprang to his own defense. "Well, she said she would cry her eyes out if I didn't let her, and she cried some as it was. And if I didn't want her in my office, couldn't I get her in some other office? Would I give her a recommendation? And when I thought how she might have to work and how they might treat her—well, the long and the short of it was—I—I— well, I didn't say no. But will you tell me—" All the heat went out of Mr. Martin's voice. He was being patient with the whole world, as one for whom all cause and effect had become an inextricable tangle—"—will you tell me why she wants to do it?"

"Oh a lot of things," Mrs. Martin answered vaguely, feeling a timid way through a problem in psychology too subtle for her. "She wants to be of some use in the world—and all those dusty books she's been reading—and that socialist man, Mr. Witherspoon."

"That puppy!" Mr. Martin muttered.

"Oh Edward," Mrs. Martin remonstrated. "I think you're very unjust there. He seems to have a much higher aim in life than most young men. I'd like you to hear him talk of the suffering in the slums—women whose husbands beat them and little babies left alone all day in garrets."

"I'd like to see him go to work for a week."

"What people are in the office now?" Mrs. Martin asked.

Mr. Martin looked at her in silence. So night a man appear who sees his strongest ally deserting him at his moment of greatest need. "You don't think she'll really put it through," he said hopelessly.

Mrs. Martin made a little "tchk!" "That shows how much you know Phoebe."

"Oh I guess 1 know her as well as anybody," Mr. Martin answered. "There's Brackett, of course, and the two stenographers, Miss McCarthy and Miss Nelson. Ford, Morris and McIntyre come in to make reports. And there's the new office-boy—Mullaney—who's about the toughest-talking specimen I ever saw. I haven't discharged him yet because I haven't got the nerve. But the last two or three days, he certainly has been the limit—smart as a whip too."

"But he wouldn't say anything—unpleasant—to his employer's daughter, would he?" Mrs. Martin asked in instant alarm.

"That's it. Phoebe doesn't want to be known as my daughter. She wants to go anonymously. She wants to go as—what was that name—Jane Jones. She says she doesn't want to be deferred to—or favored—she says she just wants a chance to feel the beat of the great heart of toil."

"That's one of Mr. Witherspoon's phrases," Mrs. Martin said casually.

"Mutt!" Mr. Martin ejaculated.

Mrs. Martin sighed. "I was counting on getting Phoebe's spring dress-making done this vacation. As it is, I've engaged Miss Symonds for a week. She'll have to come just the same. I don't dare put her off again—with all the demand there is for her. We'll have to try on evenings."

But Mr. Martin was not listening. "Who does she take it from?" he asked in a stony voice.

"You!" Mrs. Martin retorted. "I guess you'll have to let her try it now, Ed. With Phoebe, things must run their course. Once she's made up her mind, nothing short of death itself will stop her—and she doesn't get that from the Brookses either. Make it hard for her, and she'll stay till the last gun's fired. Make it easy for her to start in, and there's some hope she'll quit. But don't be too easy when she goes to work."

Mr. Martin took hope. "I'll crowd all I can on her. If she stays it won't be because she likes it."

There followed a period of domestic upheaval in the Martin family.

For a week before her vacation, Phoebe spent all her leisure toiling on two dresses which represented her idea—gathered from the women's magazines—of the uniform appropriate to the woman in industry.

Then vacation began and Phoebe went to work.

Every morning, she caught the eight o'clock local to Boston, provisioned always with one lunch-basket, one badly printed socialistic pamphlet, one dusty socialistic book. She always returned at half-past six with the lunch-basket conspicuously empty, the pamphlet noticeably dog-eared and the book-mark, without which she apparently floated anchorless and uncharted on a sea of phrases, advanced one chapter in the dusty book. Sometimes she met Mr. Witherspoon going or coming, and it was obvious that her resolution gained fresh impetus from the contact.

Mrs. Martin was preoccupied and irritated. She missed her daughter, and the dress-making was progressing but slowly. Phoebe read a dusty book even while Miss Symonds squatted on the floor to hang her skirts.

Mr. Martin simmered in that state of general depression which manifests itself with men whenever things go wrong, "in the office."

Tug Warburton had disappeared. Ernest, alone, adapted himself philosophically to the situation. He was not an atom interested in his sister's experiment. That was why, perhaps, Phoebe's characteristic perversity took the form of confiding her experiences exclusively to him. She spent her evenings with him in the big room at the top of the house, formerly called the Playroom, now invariably termed the Gym.

Time had been when both Phoebe's and Ernest's toys cluttered it in an equal disorder, But since Phoebe grew to the acquisition of girlish Lares,, mysterious and carefully prized, she had retreated with them to the secret fastness of a big chamber on the floor below.

Ernest had reached that stage when his sole object in life was to cultivate every muscle in his body. To himself, Ernest confessed a motto—"the healthy mind in the healthy body." The sporting page in the paper had become the most enthralling of printed documents to him, and his mother was always coming across stray numbers of magazines devoted to the cause of physical culture. All kinds of muscle-distending apparatus littered the Gym. Chest-weights ornamented one expanse of wall and a punching-bag another. Dumb-bells of varying weights tripped the unsuspecting visitor. Indian clubs, fencing foils, boxing-gloves decorated the mantel. Ernest could be found at almost any hour of his leisure in the midst of all this, exercising. Sometimes, nowadays, it crossed Phoebe's mind that Ernest might turn out good-looking after all.

"I like it ever so much, Ern," she said abruptly the second night, "though I have to work awfully hard. Everybody is so kind to me in the office—especially the men. Not that the girls aren't—Miss Nelson is simply dandy—only they seem a little curious about me. That nice old Mr. Brackett is a perfect dear, And every one of them will stop their work any time to show me about things. But there's an office-boy there named Joe Mullaney and if he isn't tough. Why tough's no name for him. He's taken the greatest dislike to me. He just loathes and abominates me—I don't know why. Now Ern Martin, if you ever breathe a word of I to father or mother"

Ernest was busy smashing vigorous arcs in the atmosphere with a pair of five-pound dumb-bells. He did not speak for a moment and Phoebe saw from his fixed expression that he was counting.

"Aw cut it out!" he gasped, changing to the Indian clubs. "What would I be saying anything about it for?"

Downstairs Mr. Martin was saying, "Oh yes, she got along pretty well today.She put only one typewriter out of commission and I guess she didn't ask Brackett to sharpen her pencil more than twenty-five times."

"That boy Joe Mullaney is the meanest, hatefullest horridest thing I ever saw, Ern," was Phoebe's next confidence. "You see it occurred to me today to ask some questions of the proletariat and put the answers down in a note-book. Mr. Witherspoon says that a human document is always the most valuable kind of contribution to sociology and besides he says—well, anyway, I asked Miss Nelson and Miss McCarthy and Mr. Brackett everything that occurred to me about the business world and they were just as nice as they could be. Then I started on Joe. But he wouldn't give me a straight answer to anything. And after I got through, he looked at me in the most insulting way and said, 'Say, when did you escape from the College Settlement?' Isn't that disgusting?"

But Ernest's answer was lost in the noise of a whirlwind encounter with the punching-bag.

"She's taking to asking questions," Mr. Martin reported that night. "Brackett said that she asked him no less than two hundred.  And she puts the answers down in a little book. I should think they'd all hate her. Queer though everybody seems to enjoy having her there. Well of course Phoebe has—" For a moment his mood of constant disapproval seemed to struggle with his natural pride as father. "Of course Phoebe has a way with her. Brackett stays a half hour every night and corrects all her mistakes."

"What do you think that boy Joe did today, Ern?" Phoebe asked a few evenings later. "You see it occurred to me that I'd make my investigations more scientific by writing out a series of questions all alike for everybody on the force to answer. Then I could cognate—cognate—" Phoebe's eye had the uncertain look of one who is not sure she had succeeded in a daring mental verbal flight, "—no,—collate—anyway, I mean compare them. I spent my whole lunch-hour typewriting lists and everybody was just lovely about answering them—except Joe. One question was, 'What was your object in embarking in a mercantile career?' And he wrote, 'To buy silk stockings for our little pet-elephant, Gussie.' Now wouldn't that make your blood boil?"

"Sure," Ernest agreed unenthusiastically, "Say, Phoebe, want to put on the gloves with me?"

Mr. and Mrs. Martin, sitting in domestic dejection, smiled in spite of themselves as cheerful sounds of punches and scrambles, of yells of triumph and shrieks of derision came floating down to them.

"If she'll only keep that up," Mr. Martin said once, "we may be able to keep her out of a sanatorium."

Mrs. Martin, depending much on her husband for courage in these Phoebeless days, took heart of grace from the fact that Phoebe certainly did keep it up. Regularly every night the sound of a bout came to them. But Phoebe showed no signs of giving up her work. A week went by, eight days, nine days, ten.

On the eleventh day, something broke. Phoebe left as usual at a quarter to eight. At half-past nine, she came marching into the house, head erect, cheeks flaming. Mrs. Martin looked up, too startled to speak.

"I've resigned my job, mother," Phoebe said crisply, "Where's Ern?"

Mrs. Martin crushed back her, "What under the canopy—" and answered, "Upstairs."

Phoebe ran up to the Gym, two steps at a time. Mrs. Martin heard her eager voice in an endless recital. It deepened sometimes—Mrs. Martin knew then that she was indignant. It broke into little sparkles of laughter. And by that token, Mrs. Martin knew that the took situation was not too serious.

Upstairs, Phoebe was going full-tilt. "Don't you ever tell anybody what I'm going to tell you now, Ern Martin, as long as you live. If you ever breathe a word to Tug Warburton— It's about that boy, Joe Mullaney. Just after I got into the office today, I was left all alone with him. Father had gone out. Mr. Brackett was upstairs. Miss Nelson was sick and didn't come in anyway and Miss McCarthy had a visitor in the outer office. I said to him, 'Joe, I want you to post this letter, please.' He didn't say anything but he came over as if to take the letter. But when he got up close to me, he said, 'I don't take no orders from you, nor nobody like you—see!' Now it wasn't so much what he said as the perfectly insulting way he said it. After a week of what I'd stood from him, too. Even then I don't see how I ever came to do it. But he bent straight toward me with his chin out and—and—and I was so hopping mad that before I knew what I was doing—what do you think I did?"

Ernest grunted.

"I hit him. How I could do such a thing will always—but of course it's because I've been boxing so much nights with you. You see I've sort of got into the habit. I never was so ashamed—but it knocked him down."

"Gee!" said Ernest. He came over and sat down by his sister, his eyes lighted with interest. "Did you really knock him down?"

"Yes," Phoebe faltered, "you see coming like that when he wasn't prepared"

"Good girl!" Ernest applauded. "What did he do?"

"He jumped up and came toward me like a—like a—a I don't know what. I was awfully frightened. But I didn't run. I stood and waited for him. And just before he got up to me, he stopped and glared at me as if he'd like to kill me. Then he turned and walked out of the office without looking at me. Well, I felt awful. In the first place my hand hurt—it's a very different thing with the gloves off, Ern Martin. And in the second place, I was afraid I'd hurt him. And then I was ashamed. Think of a girl hitting a person she doesn't know"

"Was it right on the jaw?" Ernest interrupted with a growing excitement.

"Right on the point."

"What kind of a punch was it?" Ernest asked in the severe tone of the pedagogue.

"I don't know whether it was an upper cut or a left hook," Phoebe said impatiently.

"Did he come back?"

"Well, listen to me—I'm telling it as fast as I can. In a few moments I heard the door open. I was so mad that I wouldn't look up. I heard him coming over toward my desk but I wouldn't have taken any notice of him for a farm down East. Oh, but I was nervous. I could feel him coming all up and down my spine. Well, he walked round in front of my desk. I could see that he was carrying something in the hand back of him. I thought it was a knife or a revolver and, oh mercy, wasn't I scared! But I didn't budge or look up. Suddenly he reached over and dropped what he had on my desk. What do you think it was?"

"What?"

"An orange. And he said, 'Gee, I din't know you had a punch like that up your sleeve. Pretty good for a girl!' And he looked at me —well, Ern, he looked at me as if he'd never seen a girl like me in his life. And then we sat down and had a talk and I asked him why he hated me so. And he said it was because I looked so much like society girls who go down into the slums during Lent to make people do things they don't want to do. He said he'd seen all kinds of—'uplifters,' he called them, and nobody knows what he'd suffered from the wrong kind making him plant window boxes and go to the Art Museum on free days. And he said that he wanted to get my job for his sister and it made him perfectly sick when he heard somebody else had  it. He said that he determined to make it just as hard for me as he could."

"The son of a gun!" said Ernest, entirely without elegance but with considerable force, "I'll lay for him tomorrow and punch the head off him."

"Now you keep quiet, Ern. I like that boy. He's all right. He works days and goes to a gym nights. I wouldn't have you hurt him for the world. Besides he is the champion bantam-weight of the Michael P. Larrigan Association."

"I bet I could lick him," Ernest boasted.

"You do and I'll tell father. I told him what my real name was and how interested I was to hear the beat of the great heart of toil. And I told him that I'd see that his sister got some position in the place. And then I thought it all over and I made up my mind that the best thing for me to do was to quit. So I went in to father, got him to give Joe's sister a chance, resigned my job and came home. And now all I'm wondering is if they'll ever be able to teach that girl how to do my work."

"Mother," Phoebe said that day at lunch, "I don't think that a girl who has a good home and doesn't have to support herself should take the bread out of the mouth of a poor girl who does—do you?"

"No," was all Mrs. Martin said. But the question explained much to her.

Mrs. Martin went out early in the afternoon. On her return, she peeped into her daughter's room. Phoebe, wearing a long, rose-figured, blue-banded kimono, sat, one foot buried under her, in the midst of a pile of couch-cushions. From the cover of her book, a female of a winning blonde pulchritude smiled archly at the world at large. Mrs. Martin recognized one of the month's best sellers.

Later, Mrs. Martin heard Phoebe at the telephone. "Is that you, Tug? I was just thinking how I'd like to go out canoeing this afternoon. Mr. Witherspoon engaged! My goodness! An heiress. He has money, too, hasn't he? Oh, he hasn't. Oh, I see—if somebody had made the right will. Well, I'm sure I congratulate him with all my heart. All right—at four. I'll be ready."

Mrs. Martin sighed a long sigh of relief. The zeit-geist [sic] had finished with Phoebe. "What next I wonder?" Mrs. Martin said to Mr. Martin.

"She certainly had a very refining influence on that tough office-boy, Mullaney," Mr. Martin said to Mrs. Martin.

"Gee, but I'd like to have given that office-boy his!" Ernest said to himself. "Say, don't get another bug like that for a while, will you?" Tug Warburton said to Phoebe.

title: Phoebe and the Heart of Toil


text: Talk:Phoebe and the Heart of Toil

title: Talk:Phoebe and the Heart of Toil


text:
Page:A description of Greenland.djvu/79

Rh Amongt the Produce of the Sea, beides different Shells, Mucles, and Periwinkles, there are alo Coral Trees, of which I have een one, of a fine Form and Size.

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title: Page:A description of Greenland.djvu/79


text:
Page:Kentucky Resolutions of 1798.djvu/43

Rh, and that the consent of the Federal Congress be obtained before June 1, 1787, to receive the new State into the Federation; and then the separation was to be made perfect upon a day to be named subsequent to September 1, 1787. The delay necessitated by the last clause was eminently unsatisfactory to the impatient. They chafed under it, but the temper of the people showed itself as fully en rapport with the Virginia programme, and the situation was quietly accepted. Misunderstandings, however, arose, and Virginia in October of the same year passed another act delaying the separation till January 1, 1789, and fixing July 4, 1788, as the date prior to which Congress should consent to receive the new State into the Federation. This was very much more unpopular than the former act, but was complied with at the time by quietly recognizing it as final.

Meanwhile the military affairs were growing less important, and the two meetings held in Danville, in 1787, the one in May and the other in September, brought another question into prominence. As the country grew the difficulties that were felt in transactions beyond the mountains were greatly increased by the advent of commerce. Transportation of large quantities of goods was both expensive and difficult. And the products of the State were all agricultural, and the imports were all the necessaries of life, except their food. The imports would come to them, but at a high price; their exports, on the other hand, could with difficulty find a market at any price. At such a time it was only natural that