text:
One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 2

doors, in the warm kitchen, Mrs. Derring was getting supper. Aunt Jerusha's chair was drawn up to the stove. With her brown merino skirt turned safely back from the heat and her large feet resting comfortably in front of the oven door, she beamed over her gold-bowed spectacles, the picture of comfort. Uncle Eben, with knees drawn up and boot-heels on the round of a straight wooden chair, rubbed his fingers and chuckled into the conversation.

“Is that Edwards man going with Emily Hutton?” demanded Aunt Jerusha over her spectacles. “I saw his team hitched there as we came along.”

Mrs. Derring was stooping to put wood in the fire. She lifted a flushed face. “Well, I do' know” She hesitated. “He's been there once or twice, I believe.”

“I thought she was Dick's gal,” cackled Uncle Eben from his high seat.

Both women looked at him sternly—Aunt Jerusha on principle, Mrs. Derring from the mother-instinct to defend her young.

“I guess Dick didn't care much about her,” she said decisively. She began to mix the light biscuit for tea.

Uncle Eben dropped his boot-heels and rose with a crestfallen air. He limped towards the sitting-room and buried his ignominy behind the Ashton Weekly Press.

“He's a dreadful trial sometimes,” murmured Aunt Jerusha, with a glance towards the sitting-room door. “He's so affectionate, you know—wants to hold my hand in meeting sometimes, and such like. Of course, the neighbors think it's dreadful queer.” She had closed the oven door that the oven might be hot for the biscuit. She sat drawn well back in her chair, her merino skirt still tucked up and her feet planted firmly on the floor, looking inquiringly over her spectacles at Mrs. Derring.

“Yes, I know.” Mrs. Derring's nod was sympathetic. “Father was some that way too—dreadful affectionate. Only he was more masterful than Eben. Eben seems to give up pretty easy.”

“Well, he has to, because I have to have my own way,” answered Aunt Jerusha, settling herself more firmly in her chair.

The other woman seemed not to have heard her. Her dark eyes were looking wistfully through the window towards the barn. “Richard favors Father some, I think,” she said, as if following out her own thoughts, “and lately, it seems to me, he's grown more like him than ever. I don't seem to understand him.”

Aunt Jerusha nodded sagaciously. “Richard 'ud do well enough if only he'd give up writing poetry and get married and settle down. He needs a woman to look after him.”

Mrs. Derring's thin face flushed. This time it was not the heat of the fire. “I guess, Jerusha”

The door of the kitchen was flung wide. The young man appeared, a pail in each hand. “Well, well, Aunt Jerusha, aren't you thawed out yet?” He crossed the room with the brimming pails and deposited them on the pantry floor.

There was little of the heart-broken lover about him as he turned to the wide wooden sink and, dipping water into the big tin basin, began to wash his face and hands. He performed his public toilet with the unconscious ease of habit, dashing the water over his brown face and neck and running his fingers far back into the thick hair. He emerged from the folds of the heavy crash towel, his face glowing and his eyes shining.

His presence lighted the dim room. Mrs. Derring's face lost its tired look; Uncle Eben limped cheerfully back from the sitting-room; and as they seated themselves at the supper-table the boy's exuberant vitality gave a touch of unity that had been lacking before. Aunt Jerusha softened a little towards Uncle Eben, merely keeping a watchful eye on him, as one might on an irresponsible child.

“You needn't pass him the sweet pickles,” she said.

But it was too late. The dish was already in Uncle Eben's trembling fingers, and a brown drop had fallen on the spotless cloth.

“I knew he'd spill it.” She spoke in an impersonal, detached tone.

Uncle Eben hastily adjusted a glass to cover the spot.

Richard watched the by-play with dancing eyes. Uncle Eben and Aunt Jerusha were always irresistible. But to-night, as he watched them, the smile faded. A thought had flashed across it. Would he and Emily—in thirty years? Impossible. Emily's dimples deepened to heavy lines—her laughing eyes behind spectacles. Absurd! Yet Aunt Jerusha's manner to Uncle Eben was grotesquely like. It all passed in an undercurrent of thought, scarcely recognized as he laughed and talked and played the part of host.

Not until the good-byes had been said and the clumsy wagon had rattled down the road did he bring the thought to the light and face it. He was alone in his room, a small, bare room—like his life. No carpet on the floor, no curtain at the window, but spotlessly clean, from the blue and white homespun spread on the bed to the square stand beside it. He sat on the edge of the bed, one hand shading his eyes from the light of the small lamp, the other holding a picture on which his eyes rested eagerly. It was a small tintype,—the face of a young girl,—the eyes large, dark, and bright, the hair soft and curling, the forehead high, and the lips firmly closed.

It was like, yet curiously unlike, the face that was looking down at it with eager inquiry. These eyes too were large and dark, but they were dreamy instead of bright; the lips were full and flexible instead of thin and closely set; and the broad forehead, even when the shading hand pushed back the hair impatiently, could not be called high. In both dark faces was a certain sturdiness of character. But the girl's face bore the stamp of fully developed powers, and the other that of powers yet unformed.

Something was struggling in it. The youth was striving blindly to hold to a belief in his love for the face before him. That she was lost to him he had accepted without struggle. But that his love for her should go too, that he should not love her always,—his poet nature shrank from the thought. It was sacrilege. She had been so long enthroned in his heart—she belonged there. She might become the wife of another man, let Edwards win her, she was still his. His ideal of her should not be torn from him. He could not bear it. It should not be.

And over his idealism, and around and under it, ran a conviction, a strange certainty, that love was already dead.

title: One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 2


text:
One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 3

was deep in the heart of the woods. The sound of his axe rang sharp in the silence. Now and then a blue-jay, startled by a heavier blow or a falling limb, flew with a harsh cry to a more distant tree. Richard marked the blue and white flash, standing for a moment with axe suspended, then the blow fell again, always to the same bitter accompaniment. 'The sight of the bird only roused a new phase of the old thought. “Last year I shot a blue-jay and gave the wings to her. Edwards can give her store things prettier than that.” The blows fell again, faster and stronger.

Presently he dropped his axe. Walking to a little distance, he kneeled down and began brushing the snow lightly aside. Underneath lay the dark vines of partride-berry—the bright berries shining red among the green lines. Swiftly he passed his hands across them. The finger-tips seemed alive. They raised a slender vine and held it a moment, as if to pick it; they laid it reluctantly again in its place. “No,”—he was brushing back the snow with quick fingers,—“I can't carry them to her, and Mother wouldn't want them.”

He stood looking up through the network of branches into the clear sky of the winter's day. His eyes dropped; they noted the straight, dark trunks, the straggling underbrush, through which the sun fell softly, the whiteness of the snow, broken only by shadows. Long he looked, as if he were bidding it all good-by; then he turned away and, shouldering his axe, walked swiftly down the snowy wood-road.

For a month past the neighbors had been discussing the engagement of Emily and Edwards. They were to be married in the spring. Everyone said it was a good match for Emily. They felt sorry for Richard. He was a fine fellow—but too dreamy and fanciful. It was a good thing that Emily was off with him. He had queer notions. That poetry he wrote for the Lyceum meeting,—about “the red fingers of the woodbine at the throat of the dying year,”—it sounded pretty, but it was queer—too much like his Grandfather Crane. No, he would never get on.

He followed the wood-road for about half a mile. Then he left even this slight trail and struck into the unbroken wood, making his way through the underbrush and light snow with free, swinging step.

He had evidently a goal in view, and he emerged at last into a small clearing. A small, time-worn house stood a few rods away. Beyond the house a long, sloping hill rose to the horizon, and half-way up the hill an isolated pine lifted its branches against the sky. A barn stood a short distance from the house, a path connecting the two. If there was any way of approach except that by which Richard had come, it did not appear.

He struck across the open space, smiling as he looked up to the line of smoke rising from the chimney. “He's home, fast enough,” he said to himself. He scarcely waited to hear the response to his knock before he lifted the latch and stood in the low doorway.

An old man was standing by the stove. He had paused in the act of putting a stick of wood in the fire, and stood, with stove-lifter suspended, looking expectantly towards the door.

“Hallo, Dick,” he said, nodding as he saw his visitor. Turning once more to the stove, he rapped vigorously on the stick until it fell into place.

Richard seemed to expect no other welcome. He crossed the room and seated himself on a rough, home-made bench near the fire.

The old man looked at him keenly from under shaggy gray brows as he brushed the chips and dust from his hands. “Pretty cold,” he said at last.

Richard nodded. He knew from experience that the less he said himself the more Seth Kinney would say. He picked up a pine splinter from the floor and began whittling it as if unconscious of the shrewd look bent upon him from the other side of the stove.

The figure that stood there was a curious one. A rough gray beard and a shock of gray hair rose above the blue smock that reached to the tops of heavy cowhide boots. Short, square, solid, his feet well apart, he formed a striking contrast to the younger man, who sat leaning heavily forward, one elbow resting negligently on his knee, whittling the soft pine splinter.

Seth shook his head as he watched the listless figure. He seated himself by the western window and took up a book that was lying, face down, on the broad sill. “How are you feeling, Dick?” he asked abruptly.

“All right,” was the answer. Silence fell on the room. The old man ran his eye rapidly down the page, found the place where he had left off, settled himself comfortably in his chair, and was lost in the book. The fire blazed and crackled and shone through the chinks of the warped stove.

Richard watched the blaze and waited. The silence was broken by an inarticulate sound from the window. It might be assent or it might be the end of a train of thought.

“What is it?” asked Richard.

The old man looked up absently. “Oh—still there, Dick? Just listen to this.” He began to read from the brown book in his hand.

“Oh, bother!” said Richard impatiently. “Translate it, won't you, Seth? What is it, any way? I can't understand Greek.”

The old man waited a moment as if searching for fit words, and then read in a clear, full voice that contrasted oddly with his uncouth appearance:

""

“That's all bosh!” said Richard irritably. “The fellow that wrote it never had anything worse to bear than the toothache.”

He stopped a minute and then began again abruptly, the words tumbling out. “What can I do?—I can't stand it—I thought I'd stay home and fight it out. But I can't. It's killing me—but I don't want to go away,” he added.

He had sunk again into the listless attitude. “It isn't worth while—nothing is worth while.”

His companion said nothing. He was watching the listless figure keenly, as a physician might watch a restless patient. “Have you thought of killing yourself?” he said at last.

The young man started and flushed. “Yes,”—under his breath and half shamed,—“but somehow I don't dare. But I can't bear to live either,” he went on. “Perhaps if I could get away from folks the way you have, I could stand it.”

The other looked up quickly. He waited a minute. Then he spoke with slow emphasis. “You're not going to spoil your life. I've spoiled mine. That's enough.'

“It isn't spoiled. You are contented. You believe all that stuff about philosophy and your mind being an impregnable citadel. Perhaps I should, too, after awhile.”

“Resignation isn't living,” said the old man bitterly. “I had power, I tell you.” He was sitting erect and his eyes flashed. “I had a mind, and because a woman jilted me I threw it away. I buried myself. Don't do it, Dick,” his voice had dropped, “no woman is worth it. Be a man. Show that you are made of better stuff.” Again his voice rang out as if he were addressing a jury. He was transfigured.

Richard, watching, understood for the first time what his grandfather, Geoffrey Crane, had meant when he used to speak of Seth Kinney's power and of his spoiled life.

In a flash the young man, looking into the future, saw himself in the older man's place. His figure straightened and his hands clenched. The teeth behind the square jaw came together with even firmness.

“What shall I do?”

The older man paused a moment. “You'd better go to college,” he said at last. “You have Latin enough. I'll teach you Greek and you can work up the mathematics by yourself. Go to work. Work hard. Don't give yourself time to think. That's the way out.”

The young man rose, shutting his knife with a snap. “All right, Seth.”

“Wait a minute.” The old man mounted a chair and searched among the worn volumes on a high shelf. He selected one and, slapping the covers together, handed it to Dick. “Learn the first twenty pages,” he commanded. “When you are ready, come and recite.”

When Richard was outside the door he looked at the title-page in the fading light. It was “The Elements of Greek Grammar—taken chiefly from the Grammar of Casper Frederick Haschenberg, 1820.”

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

title: One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 3


text:
One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 4

must get a man to work the farm on shares. He will make it pay you better than I have. I am no farmer.” The tone had no note of discouragement; it had rather the ring of success.

Mrs. Derring looked up from her sewing. Richard had never said “must” to her before.

“What is the matter, Richard?” She looked at him searchingly.

“I want to go to college. I shall never do anything at farming, but I might at something else if I had the chance.” He spoke impersonally, as if they were talking of someone else.

“Well, perhaps it is the best thing to do.”

Mrs. Derring sewed on for a few minutes in silence; then she said slowly, as if the plan were forming itself, “I guess Tom Bishop would take the farm on shares and they could go to housekeeping in the L-part. The rent would bring in a little something. He and Mary have wanted to go to housekeeping ever since they were married.” She ended with a questioning inflection, submitting the plan.

She was not a “capable” woman. The queerness of Geoffrey Crane had descended to the daughter, and she was conscious that her plans were often impracticable. But twenty-four years of farming life had taught her to adjust herself to the inevitable. Almost without volition her mind had begun to turn over ways and means to meet this new emergency.

“I could let them have the south chamber and the back store-room. And perhaps we could pack up the things in father's room so they could have that.”

The young man listened in surprise. He had expected remonstrance, even refusal. He was not prepared for such rapid furthering of his project. He was almost inclined to make obstacles himself—so rapidly did she plan.

“Father Crane would be pleased, if he were alive, to know you wanted to go. He always wanted Eben to go to college. But he married Jerusha. They all said he ought to have been a scholar. He was bright at his books. But he was possessed to marry Jerusha. So father had to give it up. He always wanted me to go to school more, too. It was a disappointment to him that I married so young.”

She sat looking thoughtfully out of the narrow-paned window, lost in thought of that far-off time when she was courted and won by Marcus Derring.

Richard, the Greek grammar in his hand, stole softly out of the room and climbed the steep stairway. He went quickly down the long hall and opened a door at the end. The room thus disclosed was a curious one. Across one side ran a sloping shelf, broken at one end by a zinc-lined sink. The other sides of the room were filled with cabinets in which were arranged specimens of rock, chemicals, blowpipes, and many curious contrivances, the use of which Richard could not even guess. In this room Geoffrey Crane had lived and dreamed and died. Here, in the midst of his heritage, the boy sat down to begin the work that should make him what his grandfather would have wished.

But instead of opening the brown-covered book he sat with it in his hand, thinking of the new life its pages were to open up to him. Life crowded before him. College—new faces—new friends—study—success. And Emily would be—she would not know—or care. She would marry Edwards. She would not know whether he succeeded or failed. Was it worth while?

Something flashed upon him and startled him. If she had cared, he should not now be planning a new life.

“I should have been as happy as Uncle Eben,” he thought with a half smile.

To-day he did not resent the implied disloyalty to his idol. He was not thinking of her so much as of Love, the power that holds all men in its grasp and bends them to its will, till each soul longs for nothing so much as that Love shall take human shape and dwell beside him. Dimly it flitted before him,—luminous but indefinable,—filling him with wonder. Uncle Eben married the woman he loved and his life had been dwarfed. Seth Kinney lost the woman he loved, and his life was warped, distorted, and spoiled. Was it fate? Life without love was hard and cold. He opened the grammar and began to read. “Sixteen Greek letters—viz.:

were introduced into Phoenicia by Cadmus fifteen hundred years before Christ.”

title: One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 4


text:
Author:Edward Smith (fl. 1814)

Works

 * "On the Stream Works of Pentowan" (1814)

title: Author:Edward Smith (fl. 1814)


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Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/61

Rh On tree-leaves wet with evening dews, On gliding water and still canoes.

The trapper that night on Turee’s brook, And the weary fisher on Contoocook, Saw over the marshes, and through the pine, And down on the river, the dance-lights shine.

For the Sangus Sachem had come to woo The Bashaba’s daughter Weetamoo, And laid at her father’s feet that night His softest furs and wampum white.

From the Crystal Hills to the far southeast The river Sagamores came to the feast; And chiefs whose homes the sea-winds shook Sat down on the mats of Pennacook.

They came from Sunapee’s shore of rock, From the snowy sources of Snooganock, And from rough Coös whose thick woods shake Their pine-cones in Umbagog Lake.

From Ammonoosuc’s mountain pass, Wild as his home, came Chepewass; And the Keenomps of the hills which throw Their shade on the Smile of Manito.

With pipes of peace and bows unstrung, Glowing with paint came old and young, In wampum and furs and feathers arrayed, To the dance and feast the Bashaba made.

Bird of the air and beast of the field, All which the woods and the waters yield, On dishes of birch and hemlock piled, Garnished and graced that banquet wild.

Steaks of the brown bear fat and large From the rocky slopes of the Kearsarge; Delicate trout from Babboosuck brook, And salmon speared in the Contoocook;

Squirrels which fed where nuts fell thick In the gravelly bed of the Otternic; And small wild-hens in reed-snares caught From the banks of Sondagardee brought;

Pike and perch from the Suncook taken, Nuts from the trees of the Black Hills shaken, Cranberries picked in the Squamscot bog, And grapes from the vines of Piscataquog:

And, drawn from that great stone vase which stands In the river scooped by a spirit’s hands, Garnished with spoons of shell and horn, Stood the birchen dishes of smoking corn.

Thus bird of the air and beast of the field, All which the woods and the waters yield, Furnished in that olden day The bridal feast of the Bashaba.

And merrily when that feast was done On the fire-lit green the dance begun, With squaws’ shrill stave, and deeper hum Of old men beating the Indian drum.

Painted and plumed, with scalp-locks flowing, And red arms tossing and black eyes glowing, Now in the light and now in the shade Around the fires the dancers played.

The step was quicker, the song more shrill, And the beat of the small drums louder still Whenever within the circle drew The Saugus Sachem and Weetamoo.

The moons of forty winters had shed Their snow upon that chieftain’s head, And toil and care and battle’s chance Had seamed his hard, dark countenance.

A fawn beside the bison grim,— Why turns the bride’s fond eye on him, In whose cold look is naught beside The triumph of a sullen pride?

Ask why the graceful grape entwines The rough oak with her arm of vines; And why the gray rock’s rugged cheek The soft lips of the mosses seek:

Why, with wise instinct, Nature seems To harmonize her wide extremes, Linking the stronger with the weak, The haughty with the soft and meek!

A wild and broken landscape, spiked with firs,
 * Roughening the bleak horizon’s northern edge;


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Page:Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier (1895).djvu/62

30  Steep, cavernous hillsides, where black hemlock spurs
 * And sharp, gray splinters of the wind-swept ledge

Pierced the thin-glazed ice, or bristling rose, Where the cold rim of the sky sunk down upon the snows.

And eastward cold, wide marshes stretched away,
 * Dull, dreary flats without a bush or tree,

O’er-crossed by icy creeks, where twice a day
 * Gurgled the waters of the moon-struck sea;

And faint with distance came the stifled roar, The melancholy lapse of waves on that low shore.

No cheerful village with its mingling smokes,
 * No laugh of children wrestling in the snow,

No camp-fire blazing through the hillside oaks,
 * No fishers kneeling on the ice below;

Yet midst all desolate things of sound and view, Through the long winter moons smiled dark-eyed Weetamoo.

Her heart had found a home; and freshly all
 * Its beautiful affections overgrew

Their rugged prop. As o’er some granite wall
 * Soft vine-leaves open to the moistening dew

And warm bright sun, the love of that young wife Found on a hard cold breast the dew and warmth of life.

The steep, bleak hills, the melancholy shore,
 * The long, dead level of the marsh between,

A coloring of unreal beauty wore
 * Through the soft golden mist of young love seen.

For o’er those hills and from that dreary plain, Nightly she welcomed home her hunter chief again.

No warmth of heart, no passionate burst of feeling
 * Repaid her welcoming smile and parting kiss,

No fond and playful dalliance half concealing,
 * Under the guise of mirth, its tenderness;

But, in their stead, the warrior’s settled pride, And vanity’s pleased smile with homage satisfied.

Enough for Weetamoo, that she alone
 * Sat on his mat and slumbered at his side;

That he whose fame to her young ear had flown
 * Now looked upon her proudly as his bride;

That he whose name the Mohawk trembling heard Vouchsafed to her at times a kindly look or word.

For she had learned the maxims of her race,
 * Which teach the woman to become a slave,

And feel herself the pardonless disgrace
 * Of love’s fond weakness in the wise and brave,—

The scandal and the shame which they incur, Who give to woman all which man requires of her.

So passed the winter moons. The sun at last
 * Broke link by link the frost chain of the rills,

And the warm breathings of the southwest passed
 * Over the hoar rime of the Saugus hills;

The gray and desolate marsh grew green once more, And the birch-tree’s tremulous shade fell round the Sachem’s door.

Then from far Pennacook swift runners came,
 * With gift and greeting for the Saugus chief;

Beseeching him in the great Sachem’s name,
 * That, with the coming of the flower and leaf,


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Page:Works of Jules Verne - Parke - Vol 2.djvu/369

 "Except one, Bell, but the captain would never consent to it; and yet it may come to that," added Johnson, shaking his head, for he knew he had only fat enough to last a week.

The old sailor was right. Several bears were seen to leeward, and the few men that remained well gave them chase. But these animals are endowed with such remarkable swiftness and such cunning, that they completely baffle their pursuers. It was found impossible to get near them, and not a single ball took effect, even fired by the best shots.

The crew of the brig were certainly in a serious plight. Forty-eight hours without fire in such a temperature would seal their doom.

At last, on the 20th of December, about 3, things came to a crisis. The fire burnt out, and the sailors stood around the stove gazing at each other with wild, haggard faces. Hatteras remained motionless in his corner. The Doctor paced up and down in an agitated manner, at his wits' end to devise some expedient, not knowing what to say or do.

But others acted for him now. Shandon, cool and determined, and Pen with flashing angry eyes, and two or three of their comrades who were still able to drag themselves along, went towards Hatteras.

"Captain," said Shandon.

But Hatteras, buried in thought, did not hear him.

"Captain!" he said again, touching his hand.

"Sir!" said Hatteras, starting up.

"Captain, we have no fire."

"Well," replied Hatteras.

"If it is your intention to let us perish with cold," said Shandon with terrible irony, "perhaps you will be kind enough to inform us."

"My intention," replied Hatteras in a grave tone, "is that each man shall do his duty to the end."

"There is something higher than duty, captain—the right of self-preservation. I tell you again we have no fire, and if we don't get one, not a man among us will be alive in two days' time."

"I have no wood," said Hatteras in a hollow voice.

"Very well," exclaimed Pen, passionately; "when people have no wood, they must go and cut it down where it grows."


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 Hatteras paled with rage, and said:

"Where may that be?"

"On deck," was the insolent reply.

"On deck!" repeated the captain, clenching his fist, his eyes sparkling with indignation.

"Certainly," returned Pen; "when the ship can't sail, burn her."

Hatteras lifted a hatchet when Pen began to speak, and swinging it over his head, would have killed him on the spot, had not the Doctor rushed forward and pulled him aside by main force. The hatchet fell on the ground, sticking fast in the planks.

Johnson, Bell, and Simpson gathered round Hatteras, determined to support his authority, but plaintive moans rose from the sick-beds, and feeble voices were heard imploring fire.

Hatteras had a struggle to command himself sufficiently to speak, but after a few minutes' silence, he said, in a calm tone:

"If we destroyed the ship, how could we get back to England?"

"Perhaps, sir, we might burn those parts that are not absolutely necessary, such as the gunwale," suggested Johnson. "We should always have the boats to fall back upon," said Shandon; "and, moreover, what is there to hinder us from building a smaller ship out of the remains of the old one?"

"Never!" replied Hatteras.

"But, sir" began several voices at once.

"We have a great quantity of spirits of wine on board," said Hatteras. "Burn it all to the last drop."

"Well, go and fetch the spirits of wine, my men," said Johnson.

By steeping large wicks in this inflammable liquid a pale flame was soon visible in the stove, and the temperature of the room was raised a little.

During the next few days the wind was south, and the thermometer rose a few degreedegrees [sic]. Some of the sailors ventured out again for a few hours, but ophthalmia and scurvy kept the greater part on board still close prisoners.

But the respite was of short duration, and on the 25th the mercury was again frozen in the tube.


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 produce that issue out of every wild path in these mountains, during the season of travelling, will hardly credit that no more than five years have elapsed, since the tenants of these woods were compelled to eat the scanty fruits of the forest to sustain life, and, with their unpractised skill, to hunt the beasts as food for their starving families."

"Ay!" cried Richard, who happened to overhear the last of this speech, between the notes of the wood-chopper's song, which he was endeavouring to breathe aloud; "that was the starving-time, cousin Bess. I grew as lank as a weasel that fall, and my face was as pale as one of your fever-and-ague visages. Monsieur Le Quoi, there, fell away like a pumpkin in drying; nor do I think you have got fairly over it yet, Monsieur. Benjamin, I thought, bore it with a worse grace than any of the family, for he swore it was harder to endure than a short allowance in the calm latitudes. Benjamin is a sad fellow to swear, if you starve him ever so little. I had half a mind to quit you then, 'duke, and go into Pennsylvania to fatten; but, damn it, thinks I, we are sisters' children, and I will live or die with him, after all."

"I do not forget thy kindness," said Marmaduke, "nor that we are of one blood."

"But, my dear father," cried the wondering Elizabeth, "was there actual suffering? where were the beautiful and fertile vales of the Mohawk? could they not furnish food for your wants?"

"It was a season of scarcity; the necessities of life commanded a high price in Europe, and were greedily sought after by the speculators. The emigrants, from the east to the west, invariably passed along the valley of the Mohawk, and swept away the means of subsistence, like a swarm of locusts. Nor were the people on the Flats in

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 By means of spirits of wine, however, the Doctor managed to thaw it, and discovered to his horror that the temperature was 66° below zero. He had not thought it possible that life could be sustained in such conditions.

The ice lay glittering on the flooring, and a thick fog filled the room, mingled with the snow caused by the condensation of the breath of the inmates. The men could hardly see one another; hands and feet had become almost dead and quite blue. The first symptoms of delirium appeared, and the tongue lost the power of articulation.

From the day that Pen had threatened to burn the ship, Hatteras had almost lived on deck, remaining on the bridge for long hours mounting guard over his treasure: for this wood was like his own flesh, and he would as soon have thought of cutting off a limb as cutting off an inch of it. There he stood, completely armed, and wholly insensible to cold and snow, though the frost had stiffened his clothes, and encased him in an icy covering. Duk always accompanied him, barking and howling.

On the 25th of December, however, he went below for a while, and the Doctor, summoning all his remaining strength, went up to him directly and said:

"Hatteras, we are dying for want of fire."

"Never!" said Hatteras, understanding the unuttered request that lay in his words.

"It must be done," replied the Doctor, gently.

"Never!" repeated Captain Hatteras even more vehemently; "never will I consent. Let them disobey if they choose!"

Johnson and Bell needed no further permission, but rushed on deck, hatchets in hand. Hatteras heard the wood falling beneath their strokes, and wept.

And this was Christmas Day, so dear to English hearts! the day of family gatherings, when children and children's children cluster so joyously about the fireside. What a bitter contrast this to those festive hours, ringing with the glad laugh of merry children round their Christmas tree! to those tables groaning with the abundance of roast beef and plum-pudding, and mince pies, and all the rich Christmas viands! Nothing here on all sides but pain, and misery, and despair; nothing of Christmas, save the "Yule log," and this—part of a lost ship, lost amid the ice and snow of the frigid zone.


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 However, the fire soon made its reanimating influence felt, and steaming bowls of tea and coffee lent their aid in restoring the benumbed men to some degree of physical comfort, and even revived the dying hope in their hearts.

The 1st of January was marked by an unexpected discovery. The weather was mild, and the Doctor had resumed his usual studies. He was reading Sir Edward Belcher's "Narrative of his Polar Expedition," when he came across a passage he had never noticed before. He read it over and over again, to satisfy himself it was no mistake.

Sir Edward stated that after reaching the end of the Queen's Channel, he met with traces of human habitation on the shore.

"'We found the remains,' he said, 'of dwellings far superior to any of those which would be inhabited by the wandering tribes of Esquimaux. The walls had good foundations, and there was a paved space, covered with fine gravel. We saw a great quantity of bones of reindeer, and walrus, and seals.

As the Doctor read these concluding words, an idea crossed his mind, which he determined to communicate to Hatteras forthwith, so, book in hand, he went in search of him.

"Coal, did you say!" exclaimed the captain, when he told him of his discovery.

"Yes, Hatteras, coal! that's to say, our means of salvation."

"But coal on this barren coast," returned Hatteras. No, that's not possible!"

"Why doubt it, Hatteras? Belcher would never have stated the fact if he had not seen it with his own eyes!"

"Well, granting it to be true, what then, Doctor?"

"We are not more than a hundred miles from the place where Belcher saw this coal; and what's an excursion of a hundred miles? Nothing. Much longer journeys have often been made over the ice in quite as cold weather as this. Let us set off, captain."

"We will!" exclaimed Hatteras, clutching eagerly at the forlorn hope.

Johnson was speedily informed of the project, which met his hearty approval. He communicated the news to the rest.

"Let them go," whispered Shandon, mysteriously.


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 a much better condition. They were in want themselves, but they spared the little excess of provisions, that nature did not absolutely require, with the justice of the German character. There was no grinding of the poor. The word speculator was then unknown to them. I have seen many a stout man, bending under the load of the bag of meal, which he was carrying from the mills of the Mohawk, through the rugged passes of these mountains, to feed his half-famished children, with a heart so light, as he approached his hut, that the thirty miles he had passed seemed nothing. Remember, my child, it was in our very infancy: we had neither mills, nor grain, nor roads, nor often clearings;—we had nothing of increase, but the mouths that were to be fed; for, even at that inauspicious moment, the restless spirit of emigration was not idle; nay, the general scarcity, which extended to the east, tended to increase the number of adventurers."

"And how, dearest father, didst thou encounter this dreadful evil?" said Elizabeth, unconsciously adopting the dialect of her parent, in the warmth of her sympathy. "Upon thee must have fallen all the responsibility, ii not the suffering."

"It did, Elizabeth," returned the Judge, pausing for a single moment, as if musing on his former feelings. "I had hundreds, at that dreadful time, daily looking up to me for bread. The sufferings of their families, and the gloomy prospect before them, had paralysed the enterprise and efforts of my settlers; hunger drove them to the woods for food, but despair sent them, at night, enfeebled and wan, to a sleepless pillow. It was not a moment for inaction. I purchased cargoes of wheat from the granaries of Pennsylvania; they were landed at Albany, and brought up the Mohawk in boats; from thence it was transported on

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text:
Author:William Patten (1868-1936)

Works

 * Among the Humorists and After Dinner Speakers (1909)
 * The Book of Sport (1911)
 * The Junior Classics (1905)
 * Great Short Stories
 * International Short Stories
 * Short Story Classics (Foreign) Volume 1: Russian
 * Short Story Classics (American)

title: Author:William Patten (1868-1936)


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 pack-horses into the wilderness, and distributed amongst my people. Seines were made, and the lakes and rivers were dragged for fish. Something like a miracle was wrought in our favour, for enormous shoals of herring were discovered to have wandered five hundred miles, through the windings of the impetuous Susquehanna, and the lake was alive with their numbers. These were at length caught, and dealt out to the people, with proper portions of salt; and from that moment, we again began to prosper."

"Yes," cried Richard, "and I was the man who served out both the fish and the salt. When the poor devils came to receive their rations. Benjamin, who was my deputy, was obliged to keep them off by stretching ropes around me, for they smelt so of garlic, from eating nothing but the wild onion, that the fumes put me out, often, in my measurement. You were a child then, and knew nothing of the matter, for great care was observed to keep both you and your mother from suffering. That year put me back, dreadfully, both in the breed of my hogs, and of my turkeys."

"No, Bess," cried the Judge, in a more cheerful tone, utterly disregarding the interruption of his cousin, "he who hears of the settlement of a country, knows but little of the actual toil and suffering by which it is accomplished. Unimproved and wild as this district now seems to your eyes, what was it when I first entered the hills! I left my party, the morning of my arrival, back near the farms of the Cherry Valley, and, following a deer-path, rode to the summit of the mountain, that I have since called Mount Vision; for the sight that there met my eyes seemed to me as the deceptions of a dream. The fire had run over the pinnacle, and, in a great measure, laid open

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Author talk:Hattie Belle Sprague

More information
See https://tellersofweirdtales.blogspot.com/2012/04/isa-belle-manzer-1872-or-1873-1944.html -- Beardo (talk) 18:23, 20 February 2024 (UTC)

title: Author talk:Hattie Belle Sprague


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 the view. The leaves were fallen, and I mounted a tree, and sat for an hour looking on the silent wilderness. Not an opening was to be seen in the boundless forest, except where the lake lay, like a mirror of glass. The water was covered by myriads of the wild-fowl that migrate with the changes in the season; and, while in my situation on the branch of the beech, I saw a bear, with her cubs, descend to the shore to drink. I had met many deer, gliding through the woods, in my journey; but not the vestige of a man could I trace, during my progress, nor from my elevated observatory. No clearing, no hut, none of the winding roads that are now to be seen, were there, nothing hut mountains rising behind mountains, and the valley, with its surface of branches, enlivened here and there with the faded foliage of some tree, that parted from its leaves with more than ordinary reluctance. Even the little Susquehanna was then hid, by the height and density of the forest."

"And were you there alone?" asked Elizabeth; "passed you the night in that solitary state?"

"Not so. my child," returned her father. "After musing on the scene for an hour, with a mingled feeling of pleasure and desolation, I left my perch, and descended the mountain. My horse was left to browse on the twigs that grew within his reach, while I explored the shores of the lake, and the spot where Templeton stands. A pine of more than ordinary growth stood where my dwelling is now placed; a wind-row had been opened through the trees from thence to the lake, and my view was but little impeded. Under the branches of that tree I made my solitary dinner; I had just finished my repast as I saw a smoke curling from under the mountain, near the eastern

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Rh The song of birds, the warm breeze and the rain, Young Weetamoo might greet her lonely sire again.

And Winnepurkit called his chiefs together,
 * And a grave council in his wigwam met,

Solemn and brief in words, considering whether
 * The rigid rules of forest etiquette

Permitted Weetamoo once more to look Upon her father’s face and green-banked Pennacook.

With interludes of pipe-smoke and strong water,
 * The forest sages pondered, and at length

Concluded in a body to escort her
 * Up to her father’s home of pride and strength.

Impressing thus on Pennacook a sense Of Winnepurkit’s power and regal consequence.

So through old woods which Aukeetamit’s hand
 * A soft and many-shaded greenness lent,

Over high breezy hills, and meadow land
 * Yellow with flowers, the wild procession went,

Till, rolling down its wooded banks between, A broad, clear, mountain stream, the Merrimac was seen.

The hunter leaning on his bow undrawn,
 * The fisher lounging on the pebbled shores,

Squaws in the clearing dropping the seed-corn,
 * Young children peering through the wigwam doors,

Saw with delight, surrounded by her train Of painted Saugus braves, their Weetamoo again.

The hills are dearest which our childish feet Have climbed the earliest; and the streams most sweet Are ever those at which our young lips drank Stooped to their waters o’er the grassy bank.

Midst the cold dreary sea-watch, Home’s hearth-light Shines round the helmsman plunging through the night; And still, with inward eye, the traveller sees In close, dark, stranger streets his native trees.

The home-sick dreamer’s brow is nightly fanned By breezes whispering of his native land, And on the stranger’s dim and dying eye The soft, sweet pictures of his childhood lie.

Joy then for Weetamoo, to sit once more A child upon her father’s wigwam floor! Once more with her old fondness to beguile From his cold eye the strange light of a smile.

The long, bright days of summer swiftly passed, The dry leaves whirled in autumn’s rising blast, And evening cloud and whitening sunrise rime Told of the coming of the winter-time.

But vainly looked, the while, young Weetamoo Down the dark river for her chief’s canoe; No dusky messenger from Saugus brought The grateful tidings which the young wife sought.

At length a runner from her father sent, To Winnepurkit’s sea-cooled wigwam went; “Eagle of Saugus,—in the woods the dove Mourns for the shelter of thy wings of love.”

But the dark chief of Saugus turned aside In the grim anger of hard-hearted pride; “I bore her as became a chieftain’s daughter, Up to her home beside the gliding water.

“If now no more a mat for her is found Of all which line her father’s wigwam round, Let Pennacook call out his warrior train, And send her back with wampum gifts again.”


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 But before ever commencing preparations for departure, Hatteras took the utmost pains to calculate the exact position of the Forward. This was a matter of the utmost importance, for otherwise it would be impossible to find the ship again after once leaving her. After much difficulty he succeeded in making an accurate reckoning, and went down again to compare it with his chart.

For a minute he looked as if stupefied, and then asked the Doctor if he knew the exact latitude when they had taken up winter quarters.

"Of course I do," was the reply. "It was 78° 15" latitude, and 95° 35" longitude."

"Well, then," returned Hatteras, in a low voice, our ice-field is drifting, we are two degrees farther north, and more to the west, and three hundred miles at least from your coal depot."

"And these poor fellows are not aware of it!" exclaimed the Doctor.

"Hush!" said Hatteras, laying his finger on his lips.

would not acquaint his men with the discovery he had made, and he was right, for there was no knowing into what excesses despair might have led them, had they felt themselves thus irresistibly dragged farther north.

To himself, however, the knowledge of the fact afforded the greatest joy. This was the first happy moment he had known for many long months; but not even to the Doctor did he speak of it, and he had such perfect self-control that his friend never suspected his hidden sentiments, though he sometimes wondered to himself what could make his eye so unusually bright.

By getting nearer the Pole, the Forward had got farther away from the coal-bed mentioned by Sir Edward Belcher, and instead of a hundred miles, it would be necessary to go back at least two hundred and fifty miles. However, after a short consultation with Clawbonny and Johnson, it was resolved to adhere to the project.


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 bank of the lake. It was the only indication of the vicinity of man that I had then seen. After much toil, I made my way to the spot, and found a rough cabin of logs, built against the foot of a rock, and bearing the marks of a tenant, though I found no one within it.—"

"It was the hut of Leather-stocking," said Edwards, quickly.

"It was; though I, at first, supposed it to be a habitation of the Indians. But while I was lingering around the spot, Natty made his appearance, staggering under the load of the carcass of a buck that he had slain. Our acquaintance commenced at that time; before, I had never heard that such a being tenanted the woods. He launched his bark canoe, and set me across the foot of the lake, to the place where I had fastened my horse, and pointed out a spot where he might get a scanty browsing until the morning; when I returned and passed the night in the cabin of the hunter."

Miss Temple was so much struck by the deep attention of young Edwards, during this speech, that she forgot to resume her interrogatories; but the youth himself continued the discourse, by asking, with a smile lurking around his features—

"And how did the Leather-stocking discharge the duties of a host, sir?"

"Why, simply but kindly, until late in the evening, when he discovered my name and object, and the cordiality of his manner very sensibly diminished, or, I might better say, disappeared. He considered the introduction of the settlers as an innovation on his rights, I believe; for he expressed much dissatisfaction at the measure, though it was in his confused and ambiguous manner. I hardly understood his objections myself, but

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Author:Rachel Scott

Works

 * Letters of Two Brides (translator)

title: Author:Rachel Scott


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 suppose they referred chiefly to an interruption of the hunting."

"Had you then purchased the estate, or were you examining it with an intent to buy?" asked Edwards, a little abruptly.

"It had been mine for several years. It was with a view to people the land that I visited the lake. Natty treated me hospitably, but coldly, I thought, after he learnt the nature of my journey. I slept on his own bear-skin, however, and in the morning joined my surveyors again."

"Said he nothing of the Indian rights, sir?" continued Edwards. "The Leather-stocking is much given to impeach the justice of the tenure by which the whites hold the country."

"I remember that he spoke of them, but I did not clearly comprehend him, and may have forgotten what he then said; for the Indian title was extinguished so far back as the close of the old war; and if it had not been at all, I hold under the patents of the Royal Governors, confirmed by an act of our own State Legislature, and no court in our country can affect my title."

"Doubtless, sir, your title is both legal and equitable," returned the youth, coldly, reining his horse back, and remaining silent till the subject was changed.

It was seldom that Mr. Jones suffered any conversation to continue, for a great length of time, without his participation. It seems that he was of the party that Judge Temple had designated as his surveyors; and he embraced the opportunity of the pause that succeeded the retreat of young Edwards, to take up the discourse, and with it a narration of their further proceedings, after his own manner. As it wanted, however, the interest that had accompanied the description of the Judge,

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 we must decline the task of committing his sentences to paper.

They soon reached the point where the promised view was to be seen. It was one of those picturesque and peculiar scenes, that belong to the Otsego, but which required the absence of the ice, and the softness of a summer's landscape, to be enjoyed in all its beauty. Marmaduke had early forewarned his daughter of the season, and of its effect on the prospect, and after casting a cursory glance at its Capabilities, the party returned homeward, perfectly satisfied that its beauties would repay them for the toil of a second ride, at a more propitious season.

"The spring is the gloomy time of the American year," said the Judge; and it is more peculiarly the case in these mountains. The winter seems to retreat to the fastnesses of the hills, as to the citadel of its dominion, and is only expelled, after a tedious siege, in which either party, at times, would seem to be gaining the victory."

"A very just and apposite figure, Judge Temple," observed the Sheriff; "and the garrison under the command of Jack Frost make formidable sorties—you understand what I mean by sorties, Monsieur; sallies, in English—and sometimes drive General Spring and his troops back again into the low countries."

"Yes, sair," returned the Frenchman, whose prominent eyes were watching the precarious footsteps of the beast he rode, as it picked its dangerous way among the roots of trees, holes, log-bridges, and sloughs, that formed the aggregate of the highway. "Je vous entend; de low countrie, it ees freeze up for half de year."

The error of Mr. Le Quoi was not noticed by the Sheriff; and the rest of the party were yielding to the influence of the changeful season, that

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32  The baffled runner turned upon his track, Bearing the words of Winnepurkit back. “Dog of the Marsh,” cried Pennacook, “no more Shall child of mine sit on his wigwam floor.

“Go, let him seek some meaner squaw to spread The stolen bear-skin of his beggar’s bed; Son of a fish-hawk! let him dig his clams For some vile daughter of the Agawams,

“Or coward Nipmucks! may his scalp dry black In Mohawk smoke, before I send her back.” He shook his clenched hand towards the ocean wave, While hoarse assent his listening council gave.

Alas, poor bride! can thy grim sire impart His iron hardness to thy woman’s heart? Or cold self-torturing pride like his atone For love denied and life’s warm beauty flown?

On Autumn’s gray and mournful grave the snow Hung its white wreaths; with stifled voice and low The river crept, by one vast bridge o’er-crossed, Built by the hoar-locked artisan of Frost.

And many a moon in beauty newly born Pierced the red sunset with her silver horn, Or, from the east, across her azure field Rolled the wide brightness of her full-orbed shield.

Yet Winnepurkit came not,—on the mat Of the scorned wife her dusky rival sat; And he, the while, in Western woods afar, Urged the long chase, or trod the path of war.

Dry up thy tears, young daughter of a chief! Waste not on him the sacredness of grief; Be the fierce spirit of thy sire thine own, His lips of scorning, and his heart of stone.

What heeds the warrior of a hundred fights, The storm-worn watcher through long hunting nights, Cold, crafty, proud of woman’s weak distress, Her home-bound grief and pining loneliness?

The wild March rains had fallen fast and long The snowy mountains of the North among, Making each vale a watercourse, each hill Bright with the cascade of some new-made rill.

Gnawed by the sunbeams, softened by the rain, Heaved underneath by the swollen current’s strain, The ice-bridge yielded, and the Merrimac Bore the huge ruin crashing down its track.

On that strong turbid water, a small boat Guided by one weak hand was seen to float; Evil the fate which loosed it from the shore, Too early voyager with too frail an oar!

Down the vexed centre of that rushing tide, The thick, huge ice-blocks threatening either side, The foam-white rocks of Amoskeag in view, With arrowy swiftness sped that light canoe.

The trapper, moistening his moose’s meat On the wet bank by Uncanoonuc’s feet, Saw the swift boat flash down the troubled stream; Slept he, or waked he? was it truth or dream?

The straining eye bent fearfully before, The small hand clenching on the useless oar, The bead-wrought blanket trailing o’er the water— He knew them all—woe for the Sachem’s daughter!

Sick and aweary of her lonely life, Heedless of peril, the still faithful wife Had left her mother’s grave, her father’s door, To seek the wigwam of her chief once more.

Down the white rapids like a sear leaf whirled,


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 was already teaching the equestrians that a continuance of its mildness was not to be expected for any length of time. Silence and thoughtfulness succeeded the gayety and conversation that had prevailed during the commencement of their ride, as clouds began to gather about the heavens, apparently collecting from every quarter, in quick motion, without the agency of a breath of air.

While riding over one of the cleared eminences that occurred in their route, the watchful eye of Judge Temple pointed out to his daughter the approach of a tempest. Flurries of snow already obscured the mountain that formed the northern boundary of the lake, and the genial sensation which had quickened the blood through their veins, was already succeeded by the deadening influence of an approaching north-wester.

All of the party were now busily engaged in making the best of their way to the village, though the badness of the roads frequently compelled them to check the impatience of their animals, which often carried them over places that would not admit of any gait faster than a walk.

Richard continued in advance, and was followed by Mr. Le Quoi; next to whom rode Elizabeth, who seemed to have imbibed the distance which pervaded the manner of young Edwards, since the termination of the discourse between the latter and her father. Marmaduke followed his daughter, giving her frequent and tender warnings, as to her safety, and the management of her horse. It was, possibly, the evident dependance that Louisa Grant placed on his assistance, which induced the youth to continue by her side, as they pursued their way through a dreary and dark wood, where the rays of the sun could but rarely penetrate, and where even the daylight was obscured and rendered gloomy by the deep forests

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 that surrounded them. No wind had yet reached the spot where the equestrians were in motion, but that dead stillness that often precedes a storm, contributed to render their situation more irksome than if they were already subjected to the fury of the tempest. Suddenly the voice of young Edwards was heard shouting, in those appalling tones that carry alarm to the very soul, and which curdle the blood of those who hear them—

"A tree! a tree!" whip—spur for your lives! a tree! a tree!"

"A tree! a tree!" echoed Richard, giving his horse a blow that caused the alarmed beast to jump nearly a rod, throwing the mud and water into the air, like a hurricane.

"Von tree! von tree!" shouted the Frenchman, bending his body on the neck of his charger, shutting his eyes, and playing on the ribs of his beast with his heels, at a rate that caused him to be conveyed, on the crupper of the Sheriff, with a marvellous speed.

Elizabeth checked her filly, and looked up, with an unconscious but alarmed air, at the very cause of their danger, while she listened to the crackling sounds that awoke the stillness of the forest; but, at the next instant, her bridle was seized by her father, who cried—

"God protect my child!" and she felt herself hurried onward, impelled by the vigour of his nervous arm.

Each one of the party bowed to their saddle bows, as the tearing of branches was succeeded by a sound like the rushing of the winds, which was followed by a thundering report, and a shock that caused the very earth to tremble, as one of the noblest ruins in the forest fell directly across their path.

One glance was enough to assure Judge Tem-

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234 (Arbäa Turim) of Jacob Asheri (1283–1340) was one of the main sources of Karo’s work. The “Four Rows.” again, owed everything to Jacob’s father, Asher, the son of Yechiel, who ungrated from Germany to Toledo at the very beginning of the fourteenth century. But besides the systematic codes of his predecessors. Karo was able to draw on a vast mass of literature on the Talmud and on Jewish Law, accumulated in the course of centuries.

There was, in the first place, a large collection of “Novelties” (Chiddushim), or Notes on the Talmud, by various authorities. More significant, however, were the “Responses” (Teshuboth), which resembled those of the Gaonim referred to in an earlier chapter. The Rabbinical Correspondence, in the form of Responses to Questions sent from far and near, covered the whole field of secular and religious knowledge. The style of these “Re-


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Rh On the sharp rocks and piled-up ices hurled, Empty and broken, circled the canoe In the vexed pool below—but where was Weetamoo?

 * The Spring-bird has flown;
 * On the pathway of spirits
 * She wanders alone.

The song of the wood-dove has died on our shore: Mat wonck kunna-monee! We hear it no more!

 * O dark water Spirit!
 * We cast on thy wave
 * These furs which may never
 * Hang over her grave;

Bear down to the lost one the robes that she wore: Mat wonck kunna-monee! We see her no more!

 * Of the strange land she walks in
 * No Powah has told:
 * It may burn with the sunshine,
 * Or freeze with the cold.

Let us give to our lost one the robes that she wore: Mat wonck kunna-monee! We see her no more!

 * The path she is treading
 * Shall soon be our own;
 * Each gliding in shadow
 * Unseen and alone!

In vain shall we call on the souls gone before: Mat wonck kunna-monee! They hear us no more!

 * O mighty Sowanna!
 * Thy gateways unfold,
 * From thy wigwam of sunset
 * Lift curtains of gold!

Take home the poor Spirit whose journey is o’er: Mat wonck kunna-monee! We see her no more!

So sang the Children of the Leaves beside The broad, dark river’s coldly flowing tide; Now low, now harsh, with sob-like pause and swell, On the high wind their voices rose and fell. Nature’s wild music,—sounds of wind-swept trees, The scream of birds, the wailing of the breeze, The roar of waters, steady, deep, and strong,— Mingled and murmured in that farewell song.

the streets of Aberdeen, By the kirk and college green,
 * Rode the Laird of Ury;

Close behind him, close beside, Foul of mouth and evil-eyed,
 * Pressed the mob in fury.

Flouted him the drunken churl, Jeered at him the serving-girl,
 * Prompt to please her master;

And the begging carlin, late Fed and clothed at Ury’s gate,
 * Cursed him as he passed her.

Yet, with calm and stately mien, Up the streets of Aberdeen
 * Came he slowly riding;

And, to all he saw and heard, Answering not with bitter word,
 * Turning not for chiding.


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 ple that his daughter, and those in front of him, were safe, and he turned his eyes, in dreadful anxiety, to learn the fate of the others. Young Edwards was on the opposite side of the tree, with his form thrown back in his saddle to its utmost distance, his left hand drawing up his bridle with its greatest force, while the right grasped that of Miss Grant, so as to draw the head of her horse under its body. Both the animals stood shaking in every joint with terror, and snorting fearfully. The maiden herself had relinquished her reins, and with her hands pressed on her face, sat bending forward in her saddle, in an attitude of despair mingled strangely with resignation.

"Are you safe?" cried the Judge, first breaking the awful silence of the moment.

"By God's blessing," returned the youth; "but if there had been branches to the tree we must have been lost"

He was interrupted by the figure of Louisa, slowly yielding in her saddle; and but for his arm, she would have sunken to the earth. Terror, however, was the only injury that the clergyman's daughter had sustained, and, with the aid of Elizabeth, she was soon restored to her senses. After some little time was lost in recovering her strength, the young lady was replaced in her saddle, and, supported on either side by Judge Temple and Mr. Edwards, she was enabled to follow the party in their slow progress.

"The sudden falling of the trees," said Marmaduke, "are the most dangerous of our accidents in the forest, for they are not to be foreseen, being impelled by no winds, nor any extraneous or visible cause, against which we can guard."

"The reason of their falling, Judge Temple, is very obvious," said the Sheriff. "The tree is

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236 Dismay hath seized upon my soul; how then Can food be sweet to me? When, O thou Law! | have beheld base men Destroying thee?

Ah? sweet ’twould be unto mine eyes alway Waters of tears to pour, To sob and drench thy sacred robes, till they Could hold no more.

Rut lo! my tears are dried, when, fast outpoured, They down my cheeks are shed, Scorched by the fire within, because thy Lord Hath turned and sped.

Yea, I am desolate and sore bereft, Lo! a forsaken one, Like a sole beacon on a mountain left, A tower alone.

I hear the voice of singers now no more, Silence their song hath bound, For broken are the strings on harps of yore, Viols of sweet sound,

I am astonied that the day’s fair light Yet shineth brilliantly On all things; but is ever dark as night To me and thee.

Even as when thy Rock afflicted thee, He will assuage thy woe, And turn again the tribes’ captivity, And raise the low.


text: The Complete Poetical Works of John Greenleaf Whittier/The Bridal of Pennacook


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Yet shalt thou wear thy scarlet raiment choice, And sound the timbrels high, And glad amid the dancers shalt rejoice, With joyful cry.

My heart shalt be uplifted on the day Thy Rock shall be thy light. When he shall make thy gloom to pass away, Thy darkness bright.

This combination of the poetical with the legal mind was parallelled by other combinations in such masters of “Responses” as the Sheshet and Duran families in Algiers in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. In these men depth of learning was associated with width of culture. Others, such as Moses and Judah Minz, Jacob Weil, and Israel Isserlein, whose influence was paramount in Germany in the fifteenth century, were less cultivated, but their learning was associated with a geniality and sense of humor that make their “Responses” very human and very entertaining. There is the same homely, affectionate air in the collection


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 old and decayed, and it is gradually weakened by the frosts, until a line drawn from the centre of gravity falls without its base, and then the tree comes of a certainty; and I should like to know, what greater compulsion there can be for any thing, than a mathematical certainty. I studied mathe"

"Very true, Richard," interrupted Marmaduke; "thy reasoning is true, and if my memory be not over treacherous, was furnished by my self on a former occasion. But how is one to guard against the danger? canst thou go through the forests, measuring the bases, and calculating the centres of the oaks? answer me that, friend Jones, and I will say thou wilt do the country a service."

"Answer thee that, friend Temple!" returned Richard; "a well-educated man can answer thee any thing, sir. Do any trees fall in this manner, but such as are decayed? Take care not to approach the roots of any rotten trees, and you will be safe enough."

"That would be excluding us entirely from the forests," said Marmaduke. "But, happily, the winds usually force down most of these dangerous ruins, as their currents are admitted into the woods by the surrounding clearings, and such a fall as this has been is very rare."

Louisa, by this time, had recovered so much of her strength, as to allow the party to proceed at a quicker pace; but long before they were safely housed, they were overtaken by the storm; and when they dismounted at the door of the Mansion-house, the black plumes in Miss Temple's hat were drooping with the weight of a load of damp snow, and the coats of the gentlemen were powdered with the same material.

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 Hour by hour I lay awake, and then I could n't stand it no more, and I got up and pulled a bit of candle I had from my pack, fixed up a candlestick, and looked in my Bible for guidance. And the words I lit on were: "Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron.' That was the gun clear enough. Then I blew out the light, and I think I slep', for I dreamed.

"Next morning Lyon was up early. He had two or three green skins that he'd took off the day before, and he said he was going straight home to smash Janey. I lay there and I said nothing, black nor white. His judgment was set. I knew he could n't make all the distance in one day, and I was pretty sure he'd camp at Big Tree. I arrived there just after him, as I could travel faster by canoe than him walking, and so kep' near him all day. It was nigh sunset, and I bent down under the bank so he could n't see me. He went into the old shack. I called out his name. I heard him cursing at my voice, and when he showed his face I shot him dead. I never landed, I never left no tracks, I thought I was safe, sure. You've took me; yet only for Janey's sake I would n't care. I did right, but

title: Page:November Joe.pdf/65


text: Chapters on Jewish Literature/Chapter 23


text:
Author:Ken Knabb

Works

 * The Society of the Spectacle (2002)

title: Author:Ken Knabb


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 she won't like them to say her father's a murderer. That's all."

November sat on the edge of the table. His handsome face was grave. Nothing more was said for a good while. Then Highamson stood up.

"I'm ready, November, but you'll let me see Janey again before you give me over to the police."

November looked him in the eyes. "Expect you'll see a good deal of Janey yet. She'll be lonesome over there now that her brute husband's gone. She'll want you to live with her," he said.

"D'ye mean "

November nodded.

"If the police can catch you for themselves, let 'em. And you'd lessen the chance of that a wonderful deal if you was to burn them moose-shank moccasins you're wearing. When did you kill your moose?"

"Tuesday's a week. And my moccasins was wore out, so I fixed 'em up woods fashion."

"I know. The hair on 'em is slipping. I found some of it in your tracks in the camp, away above Big Tree. That's how I knew you'd

title: Page:November Joe.pdf/66


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240 edge” (Yoreh Deah), “Breastplate of Judgment” (Choshen ha-Mishpat), and “Stone of Tel” (Eben ha-Ezer). The first part is mainly occupied with the subject of prayer, benedictions, the Sabbath, the festivals, and the observances proper to each. The second part deals with food and its preparation, Shechitah, or slaughtering of animals for food, the relations between Jews and non-Jews, vows, respect to parents, charity, and religious observances connected with agriculture, such as the payment of tithes, and, finally, the rites of mourning. This section of the Shulchan Aruch is the most miscellaneous of the four; in the other three the association of subjects is more logical. The Eben ha-Ezer treats of the laws of marriage and divorce from their civil and religious aspects. The Choshen ha-Mishpat deals with legal procedure, the laws regulating business transactions and the relations between man and man in the conduct of


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Rh worldly affairs. A great number of commentaries on Karo’s Code were written by and for the Acharonim (later scholars). It fully deserved this attention, for on its own lines the Shulchan Aruch was a masterly production. It brought system into the discordant opinions of the Rabbinical authorities of the Middle Ages, and its publication in the sixteenth century was itself a stroke of genius. Never before had such a work been so necessary as then. The Jews were in sight of what was to them the darkest age, the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Though the Shulchan Aruch had an evil effect in stereotyping Jewish religious thought and in preventing the rapid spread of the critical spirit, yet it was a rallying point for the disorganized Jews, and saved them from the disintegration which threatened them. The Shulchan Aruch was the last great bulwark of the Rabbinical conception of lie. Alike in its form and contents it was a not unworthy


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242 close to the series of codes which began with the Mishnah, and in which life itself was codified.

Steinschneider.—Jewish Literature, p. 213 seq.

J. H. Weiss.—On Codes, J. Q. R., I, p. 289.

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 * Graetz.—IV. p. 34 [37].

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 * Graetz.—IV. p. 88 [95].

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 * Graetz.—III. p. 618 [639].

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 * Graetz.—III. p. 625, 638 [646].

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 * Graetz.—IV. p. 394 [317].

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 * S. Schechter.—Studies in Judaism, p. 142 [173].

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 * Graetz.—IV. p. 393 [420].

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 * D. Kaufmann, J. Q. R., III p. 292, etc.

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 * Graetz.—IV. p. 537 [571].

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 * Graetz.—IV. p. 637 [677].

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 * Graetz.—IV. p. 641 [682].


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text: The Works of Abraham Cowley/Volume 2/The Thirty-fourth Chapter of the Prophet Isaiah


text: Index:Rambam-Helek-Abelson (English).pdf


text: Works of Jules Verne/Adventures of Captain Hatteras


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passage from the tenth, or in some versions eleventh, chapter of the Mishna Tractate Sanhedrin on which this essay of Maimonides is a commentary is the "locus classicus" for the dogma question in Judaism. It is noteworthy that the formulation of dogmas in Jewish theological literature had a comparatively late origin. It was not the habit of the Rabbins of the Talmud to dogmatize on conduct and life. Whereverthey are found doing so we must seek the reasons in historical causes. The Rabbins were often called upon to defend their own views and expositions of Scripture from the attacks of heretics and apostates. And one can clearly see from the tone and contents of this Mishna of Sanhedrin that it is in substance an answer to several points of contemporary controversy. Such words and phrases as unmistakably savour of dispute within the Jewish Camp. It is not the purpose of this article, however, to discuss the exact meaning of these terms. In general it may be said that they refer to individual men or sects among the Jews whose theological opinions were both in theory and practice at variance with the accredited views of the day, and called forth their protests. It was not until the time of the rise of the philosophical schools that the Jews withdrew from their hitherto exclusive devotion to the Talmud, and began that philosophical investigation into the fundamental principles of Judaism which gave birth to such a large crop of Jewish dogmatists for several successive centuries. The first dogmatists were the Karaites. The Karaite scholar


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 Jehuda Hadassi, in the middle of the twelfth century, following previous views among his sect, laid down twelve fundamental articles of the Jewish faith. The first Rabbanite to oppose the doctrines of these predecessors of Jehuda Hadassi, and to show in general the untenable and selfcontradictory doctrines of Karaism,was the famous R. Sa'adia Gaon in the tenth century. Sa'adia at the same time subjected Rabbinical Judaism to philosophical tests, and thereby gave his successors the twofold impetus to philosophical studies and the formulation of dogma in Jewish theology. The most eminent successors of Sa'adia were Jehuda Halevi (in his Cusari), and Abraham ben David (Rabad) (in his Equna Ramza). All three may be said to have been the most distinguished predecessors of Maimonides in this field.

Maimonides went further than his predecessors. The latter did not particularize. Their object consisted in justifying and expounding Judaism in general on philosophical and historical grounds. Maimonides set himself a more practical object. He wanted every Israelite to know exactly what were the things he was expected to believe, so as to be entitled to call himself a Jew, and expect others to do so. With this matter-of-fact motive in his mind he tabulated his views on the Jewish faith, wrote them down in concise language free from ambiguity, and called them the thirteen fundamental Articles. Henceforward Maimonides became the fountain-head of all the dogmatic literature produced by the Jews down to the end of the fifteenth century. Everything in this particular sphere of Jewish theology revolved round his name. "A century had hardly elapsed," says Professor Schechter, "before the Thirteen Articles had become a theme for the poets of the synagogue. And almost every country where Jews lived can show a poem or a prayer founded on these Articles. R. Jacob Molin (1420) of Germany speaks of metrical and rhymed songs in the German language, the burden of which was the Thirteen Articles, and which were


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 Variants Notes


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 read by the common people with great devotion. The numerous commentaries and homilies written on the same topic would form a small library in themselves" (Studies in Judaism, p. 2oo).

Briefly summarized, the following would seem to be the most noteworthy features of this essay of Maimonides:

(a) The five different classes of people who erroneously entertain material notions of future Reward and Punishment, basing their ideas on a literal interpretation of Scripture and the Rabbinical writings.

(b) Maimonides' exposition of the Jew's duty to study the Law for its own sake, and not for any ulterior material end. He must seek truth for truth's sake, so as to be enabled to know and practise all the ordinances of the Torah, which is the highest and holiest form of truth.

(c) The author's illustration of the foregoing by the metaphor of the young pupil, who, at the commencement of his studies has to be coaxed by the promise of all kinds of childish gifts, but who, with advancing years, gradually comes to understand that the main object of his studies is not the obtaining of these gifts, but the attainment of knowledge.

(d) Maimonides' theory that Rewards and Punishments are only a concession to the average man's inability to devote himself to the highest pursuit of truth, or to refrain from the path of evil, unless he is in the former case spurred on by the thought and expectation of ulterior material gain, or in the latter case deterred by the threat of physical punishment and loss. After long-continued exercise these material aids to devotion, to uprightness, and to the avoidance of evil-doing become unnecessary. Man becomes spontaneously led on to righteousness. He becomes an,n;rs nnly, serving God for the pure love of God.

(e) Maimonides' further development of this theory. Virtue leads on to virtue; vice inevitably brings vice in its train. God helps the doer of righteousness to higher


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 and higher flights of righteousness. He fills the way of the wrong-doer with all kinds of obstacles to the Good and the True. In this way the true performer of the precepts of the Torah (which is the highest kind of virtue) attains the highest state of perfection. He reaches the type of the perfect man. When man is thus perfected he does right and eschews wrong, not because he entertains any hopes or fears about Paradise or Gehinnom, or the Days of the Messiah or the World to come, but simply because he is MAN. It is his perfected manhood that of itself leads him on to the complete understanding and performance of the word of God. His soul, after the death of the body, can then enter the state that befits it, viz. the world to come. In the Maimonidean conception, then, the "'world to come" is a synonym for the highest-developed state of the soul of the self-perfected man.

(f) Maimonides' view of the Immortality of the Soul. According to him, it is only the intellectual element in the soul that can secure immortality. It follows from this that the simple-minded man, be he ever so virtuous, is excluded from future existence, which will only be the lot of the thinkers whose acquired intelligence, according to the Aristotelians, becomes part of the "active divine intelligence" and thus attains perfection and permanence. This view met with strong opposition-notably by Chisdai Crescas in his Or Adonoi who also had much fault to find with Maimonides' Thirteen Articles of Faith.

(g) The interesting fulness with which Maimonides in his seventh Article of Faith speaks of the prophetic faculty possessed by Moses, and the four ways in which the nature of his prophecy differed from and ranked higher than that of all other prophets.

I have based my translation upon the edition (Arabic and Hebrew in parallel columns) of J. Holzer's Mose Mairnuni's Einleitung zw Chelek,Berlin, 190o.


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All Israel have a portion in the world to come, as it is said (Isa. lx. 21), "And thy people shall be all righteous; they shall inherit the land for ever." The following have no portion in the world to come:—

(a) He who denies the resurrection of the dead.

(b) He who denies the divine origin of the Torah.

(c) The unbeliever.

Rabbi Akiba would include among these the following two:—

(a) He who reads heretical books.

(b) He who whispers a charm over a wound.


text:
Author:Joshua Abelson

Works

 * "Maimonides on the Jewish Creed"

title: Author:Joshua Abelson


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 As it is said, "I will put none of those diseases upon thee which I have brought upon the Egyptians; for I am the Lord that healeth thee" (Exod. xv. 26).

Abba Saul would include also:

(a) He who utters the letters of the Tetragrammaton.

I have thought fit to speak here concerning many principles belonging to fundamental articles of faith which are of very great importance. Know that the theologians are divided in opinion as to the good which man reaps from the performance of those precepts which God enjoined upon us by the hand of Moses our teacher; and that they also differ among themselves with regard to the evil which will overtake us if we transgress them. Their differences on these questions are very great and in proportion to the differences between their respective intellects. As a consequence, people's opinions have fallen into such great confusion that you can scarcely in any way find any one possessing clear and certain ideas on this subject; neither can you alight upon any portion of it which has been transmitted to any person without abundant error.

One class of thinkers holds that the hoped-for good will be the Garden of Eden, a place where people eat and drink without bodily toil or faintness. Houses of costly stones are there, couches of silk and rivers flowing with wine and perfumed oils, and many other things of this kind. But the evil, they think, will be Gehinnom, a place flaming with fire where bodies are burned, and where human beings suffer varied tortures which it would take too long to describe. This set of thinkers on this principle of faith bring their proofs from many statements of the Sages (peace to them) whose literal interpretation forsooth accords with their contention, or with the greater part of it.

The second class of thinkers firmly believes and imagines that the hoped-for good will be the Days of the Messiah (may he soon appear!). They think that when that time comes all men will be kings for ever. Their bodily frames will be mighty and they will inhabit the whole earth unto eternity. According to their imagination that Messiah will live as long as the Creator (greatly be he praised!), and at that epoch the earth will bring forth garments ready woven, and bread ready baked, and many other impossible things like these. But the evil will consist in the fact that mankind will not exist at that epoch and will be unworthy to witness it. They also bring proofs for their statements from many remarks of


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 —I believe not, replied my uncle Toby, after some pause—for being inland, as I said, and having Silesia and Moravia to the east; Lusatia and Upper Saxony to the north; Franconia to the west; and Bavaria to the south: Bohemia could not have been propell'd to the sea, without ceasing to be Bohemia—nor could the sea, on the other hand, have come up to Bohemia, without overflowing a great part of Germany, and destroying millions of unfortunate inhabitants who could make no defence against it—Scandalous! cried Trim—Which would bespeak, added my uncle Toby, mildly, such a want of compassion in him who is the father of it—that, I think, Trim—the thing could have happen'd no way.


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 the Sages, and from scriptural texts which in their outward interpretation agree with their claim, or a portion of it.

The third class is of opinion that the desired good will consist in the resurrection of the dead. This implies that man will live after his death; that in the company of his family and relatives he will once again eat and drink, and never more die. But the evil will mean that he will not again come to life. These thinkers also point for proof to the remarks of the Sages, and to certain verses of the Bible, whose literal sense tallies with their view.

The fourth class is of opinion that the good which we shall reap from obedience to the Law will consist in the repose of the body and the attainment in this world of all worldly wishes, as, for example, the fertility of lands, abundant wealth, abundance of children, long life, bodily health and security, enjoying the sway of a king, and prevailing over the oppressor. The evil which will overtake us when we act in opposition [to the Torah] will mean the reversalof the afore-mentionedconditions, a state of things such as we now have in this the time of our exile. The holders of this view point for proof to all the texts of Scripture which speak of blessings and curses and other matters, and to the whole body of narratives existing in Holy Writ.

The fifth set of thinkers is the largest. Its members combine all the afore-gone opinions, and declare the objects hoped for are the coming of the Messiah,the resurrection of the dead, their entry into the Garden of Eden, their eating and drinking and living in health there so long as heaven and earth endure.

But with regard to this strange point—I mean the world to come—you will find very few who will in any way take the matter to heart, or meditate on it, or adopt this or that principle, or ask to what these names (the world to come) refer, whether the last-mentioned view constitutes the object to be aimed after, or whether one of the preceding opinions rightly expresses it. And you will rarely come across any one who will distinguish between the end desired and the means which lead to it. You will not by any means find any one to ask about this, or speak of it. What, however, all people ask, both the common folk and the educated classes is this:—In what condition will the dead rise to life, naked or clothed? Will they stand up in those very garments in which they were buried,


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 The corporal made the bow of unfeigned conviction; and went on.

Now the King of Bohemia with his queen and courtiers happening one fine summer's evening to walk out—Aye! there the word happening is right, Trim, cried my uncle Toby; for the King of Bohemia and his queen might have walk'd out, or let it alone;—'twas a matter of contingency, which might happen, or not, just as chance ordered it.

King William was of an opinion, an' please your honour, quoth Trim, that every thing was predestined for us in this world; insomuch, that he would often say to his soldiers, that "every ball had it's billet." He was a great man, said my uncle TobyAnd I believe, con-


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 tinued Trim, to this day, that the shot which disabled me at the battle of Landen, was pointed at my knee for no other purpose, but to take me out of his service, and place me in your honour's, where I should be taken so much better care of in my old age—It shall never, Trim, be construed otherwise, said my uncle Toby.

The heart, both of the master and the man, were alike subject to sudden overflowings;a short silence ensued.

Besides, said the corporal, resuming the discourse—but in a gayer accent—if it had not been for that single shot, I had never, an' please your honour, been in love


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 in their embroideries and brocades, and beautiful needlework, or in a robe that will merely cover the body? And when the Messiah comes will rich and poor be alike, or will the distinctions between weak and strong still exist-and many similar questions from time to time.

Now, O reader, understand the following simile of mine, and then you will make it your aim to grasp my meaning throughout. Figure to yourself a child young in years brought to a teacher to be instructed by him in the Torah. This is the greatest good he can derive in respect of his attainment of perfection. But the child, on account of the fewness of his years and the weakness of his intellect, does not grasp the measure of that benefit, or the extent to which it leads him towards the attainment of perfection. The teacher (who is nearerperfection than the pupil) must therefore necessarily stimulate him to learning by means of things in which he delights by reason of his youth. Thus he says to him, "Read, and I shall give you nuts or figs, or a bit of sugar." The child yields to this. He learns diligently, not indeed for the sake of the knowledge itself, as he does not know the importance of it, but merely to obtain that particular dainty (the eating of that dainty being more relished by him than study, and regarded as an unquestionably greater boon). And consequently he considers learning as a labour and a weariness to which he gives himself up in order by its means to gain his desired object, which consists of a nut, or a piece of sugar. When he grows older and his intelligence strengthens, he thinks lightly of the trifle in which he formerly found joy and begins to desire something new. He longs for this newly-chosen object of his, and his teacher now says to him, " Read, and I shall buy you pretty shoes, or a coat of this kind!" Accordingly he again exerts himself to learn, not for the sake of the knowledge, but to acquire that coat; for the garment ranks higher in his estimation than the learning and constitutes the final aim of his studies. When, however, he reaches a higher stage of mental perfection, this prize also ranks little with him, and he sets his heart upon something of greater moment. So that when his teacher bids him "learn this 'section,' or that  'chapter,' and I shall give you a dinar or two," he learns with zest in order to


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text: The Earth Turns South/God in the Road

title: The Earth Turns South/God in the Road


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text: The Earth Turns South/Black Night

title: The Earth Turns South/Black Night


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Author:Charles Edward Moberley

Works

 * (1887)

title: Author:Charles Edward Moberley


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 A FEW OF THE MODERN BOOKS ON THE SUBJECT OF COLOR WHICH THE AUTHOR OF THIS WORK HAS FOUND MOST USEFUL

Bradley, Milton, author of "" and "." — . With an Introduction by Henry Lafavour, Ph. D., Professor of Physics, Williams College. Milton Bradley and Co., Springfield, Mass. [1895]. Small 8vo., pp. [i] - iv, [1] - 128; colored frontispiece ("miniature color charts made from the Bradley educational colored papers," showing 126 unnamed colors) and numerous figures in text.

The present writer frankly and gratefully acknowledges that he has learned more, and learned it more easily, from this little book, which is a model of conciseness and perspicuity, than from careful study of more elaborate and authoritative works on the subject. It is therefore most heartily recommended to the student as a preliminary, at least, to the study of more technical works on color.

Bradley, Milton.—The Evolution of a Practical System of Color Education based on Spectrum Standards. Milton Bradley Co., Springfield, Mass. Pamphlet, 8vo., pp. 8.

Bradley, Milton.—A Few Practical Suggestions relating to Color Standards and the Present Status of Elementary Color Instruction in the United States. Milton Bradley Co., Springfield, Mass. Pamphlet, small 8vo., pp. 16.

Bradley, Milton.—Some Criticisms of Popular Color Definitions, and Suggestions for a Better Color Nomenclature. Milton Bradley Co., Springfield, Mass., 1898. Pamphlet, 12mo., pp. 15.

Bradley, Milton.—The Bradley Color Scheme, with Suggestions to Teachers. Milton Bradley Co., Springfield, Mass. Pamphlet, 12mo., pp. 45.

Church, A. H., F. R. S., etc., Professor of Chemistry in the Royal Academy of Arts in London.—. Third edition, revised and enlarged. London: Seeley and Co. Small 8vo., pp. [i-vii] viii-xx, 1-355. An invaluable work which should be consulted by every painter.

Hurst, George H.,F. C. S., etc.—. London: Scott, Greenwood & Co., 1900., 8vo., 160 pp.


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 ct)v 0VV6K eK^o(3el fie' tovt eyco /caXw? e^oiha. KaiTOL ttw? iyco KaKo<; (f>vaiv, 270 6aTL<^ TraOcov fiev dvrehpaiu, coar eo (ppovMV eirpaaaov, ovh^ av wS' i'yfyvofji'qv Katco'^; vvv ovoev 6ioa)<; lko/jltjv lv iKOfJur^v, v^ MV 8' eiTacr')(^ov, elhorcov aTrcoWvfirjv. avO" o)V LKVOVfjiai vrpo? Oecov u/xa?, ^evot, Mcnrep fie K.ave(TTrjaaO wSe acoaare, KoX fir) Oeov*; rtfjuayvre^ eira Tov<i Oeov^ fioipa^ ^ TTOtetade firi^afi6)<^' rjyetaOe 8e PXeireiv fiev avTov<; tt/oo? tov evae/Si] /Sporcov, ^Xeireiv he irpo'^ tou? Sva(Te^ec<;, (f)v<yr)v Be tov 280 firjirco yeveaOaL c^wto? avoaiov ^porcov. ^vv ol? av fit) KoXvirre ra? evSaifiova<; epyoLf; ^AOijva^; avoaiOi<; virrjpeTMV, aX}C wairep ea/5e9 tov liceT7]v e^eyyvov, pvov fie KaK^vXaaae' firjBe fiov fccipa TO SvcTTrpoaoTTTOv elaopMV ciTifidaij^;, YfKw yap lepo^ evae^r)^ re Kai (f)epo)V ovrjatv daTol<; Tolcrh^' OTav 5' o Kvpio<i Trapf] Tt9, vfiojv 6aTi<^ icTTLV TjyefKov, TOT elaaKovfov irdvT eTrcaTijo-ec ra Be 290 fieTa^v TOVTov firjBafiM^; yiyvov KaKo^.

X0P02 Tap/Selv fiev, m yepate, TavOvfi/jfiaTa TToWr] CT dvdyKrj tcitto aov' XoyoLcrt yap ovK (ovofiaaTai /3pa')^eo-r toi'9 Be T7]aBe 7?}? dvaicTa<; dpKel TavTd fioi BieiBevai.

OIAinOT2

KoX TTOV ^<T0* 6 fcpaivcov TifaBe r?}? p^w/oa?, ^evot; ^ L. A, fioipais, F, R''^ ^loipas.

172

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 OIAinOT2

?} TTjaBe Ka/jLOv;

I2MHNH Bva/jLopov T i/jLov TpLTrj<;.

OIAinOYS

T6KV0V, Ti 8' ^d€<;;

I2MHNH

afj, Trdrep, irpopLrjdla.

oiAinoTS TTorepa iroOoiai;

I2MHNH

KoX Xoycov 7' avrdyyeXo^i, ^vv (pirep el^ov olKercjv TriarS) fjbovw.

oiAinoTS ol S^ av66fjLai/jiOi TTOv veaviac irovelv;

I2MHNH ela ovirep etVt* heiva rdv K€ivoi<; ravvv.

OIAinOT2

w iTcivT eKeivM Toh ev KlyvTrrcp vopLOi^ cj)vaLV KareiKaaOevre fcal fiiov Tpo(f>d<;' €KeL yap ol fjuev dpaeve^; Kara areya^; OaKovatv [(TTovpyovvTe^, at 3e avvvvop.01 340 rafo) ^Lov Tpoc^ela iropavvova dei. a(f)U)v S 0) reKV, ov<; fxev el/cb^ rjv irovelv rdSe, fcar oIkov oiKovpovacv Mare irapOevoc, a(j)0) S' dvT €KeLVO)v rd/jid Sv(tt7]V0V /caKa VTrepTTOvelrov. r) jxev ef orov vea^; Tpo(pi]<; €r)^e Kal Karia^vaev 8eyLta9, del aed^ riacov Svcruopo<; irXavoifievi] yepovraycoyet, iroWa fiev Kar aypiav vXrjV datro^i z^r/XtVof 9 r' dXcofievy,

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 iroWolai 8' Ofju^poi<; rjXiov re Kavfiaaiv 350 jJLO^Oovaa TXr]/jLa)p Sevrep' rjyelraL ra rfj'^ oIkol ScaLrr)<;, el Trarrjp rpocprjv e')(^oi. av S*, CO TeKvov, irpoaOev [xev e^iKov Trarpl fjuavTet obfyovaa Trdvra, l^aS/jLeucov d6pa, a TOvS^ iy^prjaOr] aoofiaTO^, cjyvXa^ re jxov TTiarr) KarecTTrji;, yijf; or e^rjXavvo/jirjv' vvv S* av rlv rjKet^ jJbvOov, ^lcr/jL7]vr), Trarpl ^epovcra; Tt? a^ e^rjpev olKoOev (tt6Xo<;; 't]K€i^ yap ov Kevrj ye, tovt iyco cra<pa)<i e^ocBa, fiT) ov)(l Sel/ii e/juol cpepovo-d n. 360

I2MHNH

iyo) ra puev iraOrjixaO^ CLTraOov, irdrep, ^rjTOvaa rrjv crrjv irov KaT0tK0i7](Tpo(f)7]v, irapela edaay 8t9 yap ov-^l /SovXojjiaL TTOvovad T dXyelv Kal Xeyova^ avdi^ ttoXlv. a 8' dfjic^l Tolv aolv Svcrfiopoiv waiSoLV KaKa vvv eari, ravra ari/xavova eXr^Xvda. TTplv fiev yap avTOi^ rjv e/ato? ^ YipeovTi re 6p6vov<; idaOat iirjhe ')(^paivea6ai ttoXlv, Xoycp aKOTTOVcrc rrjv irdXat yevov^ (f)0opdv, oia Kareaye rbv abv dOXiov So/jLOv 3' vvv 3' eK 0eo)v rov /cdXLrrjpiov - (ppevcs elarjXOe toIv rpU dOXioiv 6pi<i fcaKij, dp')(rj<; Xa^eaOai Kal Kpdrov; rvpavvcfcov. p^ct) /juev ved^cov Kal ')(^p6v(p fMeicov yeyco<; Tov irpoaOe yevvrjOevra TLoXweiKT] Opovcov dTToarepiaKeL, Ka^eXrjXaKev Trdrpa^. o h ft)9 KaO^ 7)ixd^ eaO^ o 7ri)6v(t)v Xoyo<i, TO KolXov ^' Kpyo^ ^d's (f)vyd<; wpoaXa/JL/Sdvei

^ ipis MSS., Tyiwhilt corr. - L. Ka^aiTTfjf)ov, Toup corr.

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 fCJjSo^ T€ fcatvov /cal ^vva(T7nara<; ^iXou?, ft)? avTLK ' Apyo<; rj to l^aS/jueicov irehov 339 TLfJifi KaOe^ov Tj 7rpo<; ovpavov /Stffojv. ravT ov/c apiOixo^ iariv, w irdrep, ycov, aW epya oeLVci' tov<; be (tov<; ottov '■ ueoi TTovov<; KaroLKTiovdiv ovK €)(^co fJLaOelv.

OIAinOT5 7)07] yap €(T^e<^ eXirio &)? epbov ueov^ Mpav TLV e^eLVy Mare acoOrjvab Trore;

I2MHNH

€70)76 T0t9 vvv y, ft) TTCLTep, /juavTevfiaaiv.

OIAinOYS

TToioicTi TOVTOL^; TL Be TedeaTTtaTaL, t€Kvov;

I2MHNH

ere T0t9 €K€L ^7)r7jTov av0pco7roL<; irore

OavovT eaeadai ^Mvrd t evaoia^ ^ yapiv, 390

OIAinOT5 Ti9 o av TOLovo vir avopo<; ev irpa^eiev av;

I2MHNH

iv crol TCi Keivcav ^aal ylyveaOai KpaTT],

OIAinOTS

or 0VK6T €L/jii, TTjviKavr ap ec/j, avrjp;

I2MHNH

vvv yap 6eoi a opdovai, irpoaOe 8' coWvaav.

OIAinOTS

yepovTa h'' opOovv (pXavpov 69 ^'€09 Trearj.

I2MHNH /fal /JLTjv Kpeovrd y taOi aoi tovtcov X^P^^ Tj^ovra IBaiov /covxl /-^vplov xpovov.

^ (iiToi MSS., Elmsley corr. '^ evvoias MSS., Schol. corr.

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 oiAinoTS OTTW? T6 BpdcT}, Ovyarep; €pfi7]V€ve fiot.

I2MHNH

W9 a dy^t 7779 aT7](7(ocn, Ka^/^eta?, ottg)? Kparcoao puev aov, 7% 8e ftr/ '/jb^aivrji; opwv. 400

OIAinOTS

77 8' ax^eXrjcrt'^ Tt9 dvpaat KSifxevov;

I2MHNH

K€ivoi<; 6 Tv/jb0o<; hvarvX'^^ cro9 /3apv(,

OIAinOT2

icdvev 6eov t/? toOto 7' ai^ yvcop^i] /naOoi.

I2MHNH

TOVTOV X^P^^ TOivvv (T€ TTpocrOecrOaL TreXa? Xdipa'i deXovai, firjS' Iv dv aavrov Kparoif;.

OIAinOT5

T) KOi /caraaKLOjao Srj^aia Kovei;

I5MHNH

aXX' 01)^: ea tov[X(^vov alfxd a, d) TraTep.

OIAinOT2

ov/c dp' i/jbov ye firj Kpar'^acoaiv irore.

I2MHNH

earai ttot dpa tovto Ka^/xetot? ^dpo<;.

OIAinOT2

TTOta? (j)av€iarj<;, w reKvov, avvaWayr]<; ; 410

I2MHNH Ti}9 cr?79 l'Tt' opyrj'^, crot^ orav ajwaiv rdcpoi^^. 184

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