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178 State was entrusted by the Paramount Power to an officer, who was designated the "Superintendent." In 1872 A.D. this officer was displaced by a "Special Assistant to the Political Agent."

During all this period, the Thakor Saheb was studying at the Rajkumar College. Rajkot, with an assiduity and diligence, which earned him the golden opinions not only of his preceptors but of all those with whom he came in contact during his status pupilaris. With a view to give a finishing touch to his education, he undertook a tour in Europe under the guidance of Col. Hancock. He published his experiences and impressions in the form of a diary, which was favourably noticed by the press both here as well as in Europe. Bhagwat Singhji assumed charge of his State in 1884 A.D. He went to England on several occasions and made the best use of his sojourn to that country. During the Jubilee festivities he was present in England as one of the members of the deputation sent by the princes of Kathiawar and received the insignia of K. C. I. E. from Her Majesty ' the Queen-Empress Victoria. His Highness the Thakor Saheb studied medicine and gained the M. B. degree at the Edinburgh University, which, later on, conferred on him the degree of M. D. for a valuable thesis contributed by him to the medical science. In 1892 A.D. the University of Oxford honoured him with the degree of D. C. L., while the Cambridge University conferred on him the honorary degree of LL. D. The subjects of His Highness voted him a colossal bronze statue, the cost of which has been defrayed by public subscription. This is, perhaps, the only instance in the whole of India of such a tribute being paid to a ruler by his people.

The improvements done by Bhagwat Singhji in his State are too numerous and too varied to be fully recounted here; but they have been so well appreciated and recognised that Gondal was placed among the first class native States on account of "its importance and advanced administration" by the Paramount Power. The Chief has fully demonstrated by deeds that the words which he uttered at his installation speech were real, and that the ends of government, which the young Chief then defined, have been kept steadily in view by him. His Highness takes a keen and intelligent interest in his administration and in everything that concerns his subjects. He was created a G. C. I. E. in 1897 A.D. in recognition of his enlightened and progressive rule.

His Highness being himself accomplished and highly educated is naturally anxious to give the benefit of education to, his subjects as liberally as he can. He has not only opened a large number of schools in his Raj but has established a Girasia school at a cost of about a lac and a half of rupees for the benefit of the sons of petty landlords, of whom there are numbers in Kathiawar, and who are not able to take advantage of the Rajkumar College and similar institutions.

The area of the State is 1,024 square miles having a population of 1,62,859 souls and yielding an average revenue of about 15 lacs of Rupees per annum.

H. H. Thakor Saheb Sir Bhagwat Singhji G. C. I. E. is entitled to a salute of 11 guns.


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 Idar.

THE State of Idar, popularly known as 'Nam Marwar' is the principal Rajput State under the Mahikantha Agency, and the third Native State in the Bombay Presidency The present dynasty of the Sooryavanshi Rathor clan was founded in Idar by the two brothers, Anand Singhji and Rai Singhji, who came with a few followers from Jodhapur, and getting local adherents to their standard, gained an easy conquest and settled at Idar in 1729 A.D. Since then the territory of Idar has con* tinued under the sway of the Rathors, though from time to time certain portions of the country such as Prantij, Bijapur, « Harsole, and others, were snatched by the Peshwas. Anand Singh)i was the first Maharaja of Idar and his direct male descendants Maharajas ( 2 ) Shiv Singhji ( 3 ) Bhowani Singhji ( 4 ) Gambhir Singhji ( 5 ) Juwan Singhji ( 6 ) Kesan Singhji, succeeded to the gadi one after another. The infant son of Maharaja Kesan Singhji died shortly after his birth, and the line of direct male descendants having thus terminated, the right to the gadi devolved on H. H. Maharajadhiraj Major^General Sir Pratap Singhji Bahadur G. C. S. I., K. C. B., L. L. D. A. D. C. to H. M. the King-Emperor, as the eldest surviving son of Maharaja Takhta Singhji, who was the last chief of the Ahmednagar principality, which had reverted to Idar on his adoption at Jodhapur in 1843 A.D. Sir Pratap Singhji accordingly succeeded to the gadi of Idar in February 1902 A.D. and ruled for nine years. In May 1911 A.D. he abdicated the gadi of Idar to assume the charge as Maharaja-Regent of Jodhapur, consequent on the minority which followed the untimely demise of his nephew Maharaja Sardar Singhji of Jodhapur.

H. H Maharaja Dowlat Singhji, the adopted son of Major-General Sir Pratap Singh Bahadur, is the present ruler of the State, who was formally installed on the gadi on July 24th, 1911 A.D. He was educated at the Mayo College. He received military training in the Imperial Service Cavalry, Jodhapur; and subsequently worked in the same army as Squadron'Commandant and Adjutant for some years. He was also the Military Secretary and a Member of the State Council in Jodhapur. The Maharaja accompained his father Sir Pratap Singhji to England o be present at the coronation of His late Majesty King Edward VII, and it was then that he was made an A.D.C. to the present King-Emperor, then H. R. H. the Prince of Wales. He visited England a second time as Maharaja of Idar in June 1911 A.D. and was present at the coronation of His Majesty King George V.

The State has an area of 1,669 square miles with a population of 2,02,811 souls. The revenue of the State is about five lacs of rupees per annum.

His Highness Maharajadhiraj Maharaja Shri Dowlat Singhji Bahadur, who is styled the Maharaja of Idar, is entitled to a salute of 15 guns, and enjoys plenary jurisdiction in matters both civil and criminal.

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 Ichalkaranji.

THIS is a feudatory State under Kolhapur and derives its name from its capital situated on the banks of the Panchganga river. Naro Mahadeo, the founder of the State, was one of the pioneers of the Brahmin families that migrated from the Konkan in the latter half of the seventeenth century. They came from the village of Varavada in the Ratnagin district. Mahadeopant, the father of the founder of the Ichalkaranji State, gained the Kulkarni watan of Mhapan under the Sawantwadi state. On his death, his widow and little son walked on to Bahirwadi, the residence of the famous Mahratta general, Santaji Ghorpade, who was favourably impressed with the smartness of the boy and took him under his aegis.

Rajaram appointed Santaji as his Senapati, and Naro Mahadeo not only proved an able lieutenant to the gallant Mahratta general but won his golden opinion. Naro Mahadeo's original surname was "Joshi," but instead of that he assumed "Ghorpade," which was that of his master and benefactor, and it is borne by the chiefs of Ichalkaranji even to this day.

Santaji died in 1698 A.D. and Naro was left to his own resources. He had, however, risen to so much distinction that Anubai, the daughter of Balaji Vishwanath, was given in marriage to his son, Venkat Rao, in 1713 A.D. This alliance helped the future rise of the Ichalkaranji family. Naro died in 1728 A.D.

Venkat Rao succeeded Naro, but he did not remain satisfied with his adherence to the family of Senapati Ghorpade alone. He found independent sphere for his activity. He rendered great service to the Mahrattas in their wars with the Portuguese about the year 1739 A.D. It was he, who built the fort of Ichalkaranji and made the place his capital. Venkat Rao died in 1744 A.D. leaving behind him a daughter and a son.

Narayan Rao Tatya, the son and successor of Venkat Rao, was given a command in the Peshwa's army, and was present in all the campaigns in the South that were undertaken by Nana Saheb and* Bhau Saheb. Narayan Rao's signal services obtained for him the Subhaship of Dharwar, then an important position. He died in 1770 A.D. and was succeeded by his son, Venkat Rao Dada Saheb. He too figured very prominently in the military operations of the Peshwa at that period, especially in the campaign in Gujrath in 1774 A.D. under the leadership of Haripant Fadke. While Venkat Rao was thus employed in distant parts, his own territory was repeatedly attacked by the neighbouring Raja of Kolhapur. By the treaty of Purandhar between Kolhapur and the Peshwa in 1776 A.D., which was again ratified in 1778 A.D., the integrity of Ichalkaranji was preserved. Venkat Rao died in 1 795 A.D. without issue. His widow, Ramabai, solicited the Peshwa's permission for adoption, which was reluctantly granted.

Narayan Rao Baba Saheb succeeded to the Ichalkaranji ' State, which had about this time shrivelled into only two Thanas-that of Ichalkaranji proper and Ajra, owing to the constant aggressions of Kolhapur and the Peshwa. Like his forefathers


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Rh Narayan Rao was a good soldier. He was of great service to the Peshwa in the battle of Kharda in 1795 A.D.; and, in the campaign of Ramchandra Rao Patwardhan in 1800 A.D. he not only withstood the attacks of Kolhapur, but in 1827 A.D. he got Rs. 48,000 as compensation from that State through the British Government. Narayan Rao died in 1827 A.D.. leaving behind him two sons and five daughters, of whom the eldest, Venkat Rao Dadasaheb, succeeded to the gadi but died intestate in 1838 A.D. and was followed by his younger brother, Keshav Rao Tatyasaheb.

During Tatyasaheb's regime the status of Ichalkaranji was finally determined. The main bulk of the territory belonging to Ichalkaranji was received from the Maharaja of Satara. and some villages from the Peshwa. Moreover, they are free from the incidence of military service, which determines the tenure of the other Jahagirdars of the Southern Mahratta Country. In the year 1847 A.D., the British Government decided that the Chief of Ichalkaranji was to accept the sovereignty of Kolhapur. It was accepted on condition that Kolhapur was not to interfere in the internal administration and that all correspondence between the two states was to pass through the political officers of the British Government.

Keshav Rao Tatyasaheb died in 1852 A.D. without any male issue. Permission of adoption was granted by the Paramount Power, and Venkat Rao Raosaheb came to the gadi as adopted son. He died only within two years. A second adoption was allowed, and Govind Rao Abasaheb from the Huprikar Joshi family was adopted in 1864 A.D. He too died in 1876 A.D., only 18 months after he had assumed the reins of government. His widow adopted the present Chief, Narayan Rao Babasaheb, then a boy of only five years of age. He joined the Rajaram High School in 1879 A.D. and passed the Matriculation examination of the Bombay University in 1889 A.D. Later on, he utilised his time in study and took advantage of every opportunity of acquiring knowledge. He studied all the subjects up to the B.A. course excepting classics, and went through the course of law up to the LL.B. degree. He was invested with full powers in the year 1892 A.D.

Narayan Rao is all in all a man of light and learning, and advocates steady reform. He is possessed of broad views and superior ideas. He is very simple in his private life and very economical in his habits. At the commencement of his rule, the State of Ichalkaranji had a debt of Rs. 45,000, and, in spite of famines and other adverse circumstances, he has not only liquidated all the debt, but has now a good balance on hand. For the last twelve years Narayan Rao Babasaheb has been a Member of the Bombay Legislative^ Council, where his opinions and views are entertained with no small esteem.

The area of Ichalkaranji State is 240 square miles, containing 60,000 inhabitants and yielding a revenue of Rs. 3,15,000 per annum.


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 Jamnagar.

JAMNAGAR or Nawanagar ranks as one of the first class states in Kathiawar. Its ruler is a Jadeja Rajput, and belongs to the same family as that of the Rao of Cutch. The four Jam brothers - Rawal, Hardholji, Ravaji and Modji - started from Cutch, crossed the Ran, and entered Kathiawar, about the middle of the sixteenth century. They gradually took possession of the territories on the banks of the river Aji, and subsequently established their independent authority over Nagna Bandar and the adjacent country, which they conquered from Khemaji, the Jethwa chief of Ranpur. The town of Nawanagar was founded in 1540 A.D. on the site of Nagna Bandar by Jam Rawal.

During the latter part of the eighteenth century, Meraman, generally known as Meru Khawas, was one of the prominent figures in Kathiawar. He died in the year 1800 A.D., and the state of affairs in Nawanagar was anything but satisfactory. About this time an Arab shot an English officer and he was given shelter by Jam Jasaji who was on the gadi. A combined army under Captain Carnac and Fatteh Singh Gaekwar marched upon Nawanagar, and in 1812 A.D. a treaty was concluded, by which the Jam was brought to realise his position. Jam Jasaji died in 1814 A.D. He was succeeded by his brother, Sataji. He, too, died without issue, and Achuba, the widow of Jasaji, adopted Ranamalji, a distant kinsman', who succeeded Sataji in 1820 A.D.

Jam Ranamalji erected the palace's of Kotha and Lakhota and excavated the tank near them to find employment for his subjects during the famines of 1834, 1839 and 1846 A.D. Ranamalji died in 1852 A.D. and was succeeded by his son, Vibhaji, who was a welUmeaning and liberal ruler. In appreciation of his liberal policy the Paramount Power granted him the sanad of adoption in 1862 A.D. and he was permitted to adopt without the payment of nazrana. He was created a K.C.S.l. in 1877 A.D.

Jam Vibhaji died in 1895 A.D., when Jaswant Singh, (who was recognised by the British Government as a successor in 1884 A.D.) came to the gadi. He in turn was succeeded by the present ruler, Ranjit Singh, in 190*7 A.D., who was adopted by Jam Vibhaji before the birth of Jaswant Singh. He was educated at the University of Cambridge and is one of the smartest cricketeers.

The Jam is looked upon as the head of the Jadeja chiefs in Hallar. It has been customary with the Jam of Nawanagar not to rise up to receive a chief of any rank whatsoever, who may happen to go to his court on a formal visit.

The State maintains a squadron of Imperial Service Lancers numbering 145, and a subordinate force of 211 men.

The area of the State is 3,791 square miles with a population of 3,36,780 inhabitants. The estimated gross revenue of the State is Rs. 25,00,000. A tribute of Rs. 1,20,093 is paid jointly to the British, the Gaekwar and the Nawab of Junagarh.

The present ruler. His Higness Shri Ranjit Singhji, is entitled to a salute of 11 guns.


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14 In any case it is time we got rid of all the cant about “politics” and “constitutional agitation” in general. For there is really no meaning whatever in those phrases.

Every public question is a political question. The men who tell us that Labor questions, for instance, have nothing to do with politics, understand neither the one nor the other. The Labor Question cannot be settled except by measures which necessitate a revision of the whole system of society, which, of course, implies a political warfare to secure the power to effect such revision.

If by politics we understand the fight between the outs and ins, or the contest for party leadership, then Labor is rightly supremely indifferent to such politics, but to the politics which center round the question of property and the administration thereof Labor is not, cannot be, indifferent.

To effect its emancipation Labor must reorganize society on the basis of labor; this cannot be done while the forces of government are in the hands of the rich, therefore the governing power must be wrested from the hands of the rich peaceably if possible, forcibly if necessary.

In the phraseology of the master class and its pressmen the trade unionist who is not a Socialist is more practical than he who is, and the worker who is neither one nor the other but can resign himself to the state of slavery in which he was born, is the most practical of all men.

The heroes and martyrs who in the past gave up their lives for the liberty of the race were not practical, but they were heroes all the same.

The slavish multitude who refused to second their ef-


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 Jamkhandi.

THIS is one of the estates evolved out of the Sangli Saranjam, in the year 1812 A. D. Although the several members of the Patwardhan family formed one undivided Hindu family, yet they had lived and worked independently of each other for some time. Naturally they yearned for formal separation. The Miraj branch had formally separated from the parent stock in 1808 A.D. The example, thus set, was followed by other members of the family. The sons of Parashuram Bhau divided their father's estate in 1811 A.D. into two portions, Jamkhandi being held by the elder son, Ramchandra Rao and Tasgaon by the younger. The latter lapsed to the British Government in 1848 A.D., as the last holder died without any male issue.

Thus Ramchandra Rao may be said to be the founder of the Jamkhandi house. He was succeeded by his son, Gopal Rao, who died in 1840 A.D. His son, Ramchandra Rao Appasaheb, was put in possession of the Estate. He ruled till 1 896 A.D. and introduced several administrative reforms in the State. He was succeeded by his son, Parashuram Rao alias Bhausaheb Patwardhan, who was entrusted with full powers on the 4th of June 1903 A.D.

The chiefs of the Patwardhan family, except the younger branch of Kurundwad, have received sanads from Lord Canning permitting them to adopt; and Jamkhandi has thus a recognised permisson to adopt.

The State of Jamkhandi is in alliance with the British Government by the treaty of 1819 A.D. and has to pay a tribute of Rs. 20>5 15 per annum.

The villages of Jamkhandi are situated mainly within the Belgaum, Bijapur, and Dharwar districts. The estimated area of the State is 524 square miles, with a total population of 1,05,357 souls. The estimated gross revenue is about eight lacs of rupees.

The Chief of Jamkhandi being a first class treaty Chief in Southern Mahratta country, is entitled to exercise full jurisdiction in civil as well as criminal matters.


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 Janjira.

THIS State' is. situated on the western .coast of India. It derives its name from the Arabic * jazirah' an island, because an Abyssinian in the service of the Kings* of Ahmednagar managed to secretly land a body of 300 armed men on the Island situated at the rjtouth of the river Rajapuri, take possession of it, and fix it as his place of residence arid, centre of operations of conquest.

Janjira originally formed part of the dominions of the Nizam-Shahi kings of Ahmednagar,- which was taken by the Moguls in 1600 A.D., and though the great Malik Ambar soon after -recovered most of the territory belonging to his king, local records seem to show that the governors of Janjira were Mogul officers, till 1618A.D. In -that year an" Abyssinian^ named Sidi Sirul Khan was appointed governor of Janjira by the King of Ahmednagar. In 1620 A.D. he was succeeded by Sidi Yakut Khan, and in the following year, by Sidi- Ambar who Was known as Sanak to distinguish him from the great Malik Ambar who ruled at Ahmednagar till his death in 1626 A.D. Sidi Ambar Sanak established his independence and became the founder of the present dynasty whose' kings are called Nawabs, a title which was conferred upon them by the Emperor Aurangzeb. Sidi Ambar Sanak reigned lill his death in 1642 A.D. and was followed ,by .sixteen rulers of whom the most powerful were Sidi Khairiyat and Sidi Yakub. During their reigns- .they considerably increased the -extent of their territory by theif bravery and courage.

The. I^ahrattasf and the Peshwas were constantly at war with the Sidi chiefs of Janjira„ anpl 'for .more than a Century they tried to deprive them of their possessions, but the latter were able to maintain their position in the. struggle. However, about the year 1776 A.D. one Sheikhji, who was then the chief subhedar of Janjira, treacherously entered into a secret treaty with the Peshwa, and not only joined him with a large army but managed to gain over to his side some of the other subhedars in the Janjira Fort. This weakened the power of the Sidi Chief to a great extent and eventualfy compelled, him to enter into a treaty with the Peshwa, by which he had to surrender to him five of his mahals viz: Tala Nizampur, Ghosala, Birwadi, Goregaum, and half the tappa c-f GoiL

A treaty of alliance was concluded between the State and the British Government in 1 833 A.D. It was made with the Hon'ble Mr,. . Robert Cowan, President and Governor for the Honourable East India Company.

Sidi Mahamad Khan, the grandfather of the present Nawab, after having ruled peaceably for twenty^two years, abdicated the throne in favour of his son Sidi 4 Ibrahim Khan in 1848 A.D. A few years after the accession of Sidi Ibrahim Khan quarrels arose between him and the Sidi Sirdars of Janjira. The Governor of Bombay, finding that there was disorder everywhere in the State, asked the Chief, in 1867 A.D., to establish an independent court to try serious offences. In 1869 A.D. owing to several complaints, the Nawab was deprived of his criminal powers, and a British Resident was appointed to exercise them, leaving only civil powers in the hands of the Nawab, In 1870 A.D. the Sidi Sirdars taking advantage of the Nawab's absence


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190 THE IMPERIAL DURBAR ALBUM. revolted against him, and having deposed h.m placed the present Nawab. who was then a minor, on the throne. They urged that they had a right to depose the chief and place any one else on the gadi. The Governor of Bombay deputed Mr. Havelock to enquire into these pretensions of the Sidi Sirdars, and it was decided that they were utterly groundless. The Nawab was accordingly re-instated on the throne on certain terms. The Collector of Kolaba was made Political Agent for the State and the Resident Officer was made his assistant, in 1873 A.D. the Sidi Sirdars submitted to the Nawab. They apologised for their conduct, and begged that their lands and allowances might be continued to them at the Nawab's pleasure. Nawab Sidi Ibrahim Khan died in 1879 A.D. after a reign of twenty-eight years. He left three sons -Sidi Ahmad Khan by his lawful wife Fatma Bibi, and two others, Sidi Mahamad Baksh and Sidi Abdur-Rahaman, by a nika wife named Saidabai.

On the death of Sidi Ibrahim Khan a dispute arose about the succession. The people in the fort of Janjira elected Sidi Mahamad Baksh and having placed him on the throne interred the body of the deceased Nawab. The then Assistant Pol. Agent, Mr. Fitzerald, strongly protested against this election, and Mr. Bosanquet, the Political Agent was specially deputed to Janjira by the Bombay Government, to make enquiries. He called together all the Sidi Sirdars and informed them that the rightful Nawab would be installed with the sanction from the Government of India, and till then the administration of the State would be in the hands of Mr. Fitzerald. The Government of India recognised Sidi Ahmad Khan as the rightful successor, and he was installed on the masnad. The young Nawab was sent for his education to the Rajkumar College at Rajkote where he remained till 1881 A.D. and completed his course. He spent some time in Poona studying civil and criminal laws. After his return to his Stale, the Nawab worked for some time in conjunction with the Assistant Pol. Agent, as joint administrator, and, when it was found that he had acquired an insight into the affairs of his State, he was invested with full powers of administration in 1883 A.D. He has been managing the State in a manner which has endeared him both to his Mahomedan as well as Hindu subjects.

The area of the State is 324 square miles, (excluding Jaffrabad in Kathiawar which is also subject to the Chief of Janjira) and contains 284 villages with 85,420 inhabitants. The average annual revenue of the State is 5 lacs of Rupees.

The present ruling Chief is His Highness Nawab Sidi Sir Ahmad Khan Sidi Ibrahim Khan, G.C.I.E., who is entitled to a salute of 11 guns.


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 Jasdan.

THE rulers of Jasdan are Kathis of the Khachar clan. In fact, the Kathis may be said to be the original inhabitants of the peninsula— from whom it derives its name— who are considered by the Rajputs to be inferior to themselves.

Prince Veraval, a Rajput, who ruled at Dhonk (now a village under the Gondal State), married the daughter of Visal Kathi. Three sons were born to this Kathi prince— Valo, Khuman, and Khachar— whose names became the patronymics of the three branches of the family. The present ruler of Jasdan is a descendant of Khachar.

Jasdan is a town of very ancient renown. It was originally named Chastan, from Swami Chastan. The Ghon Mahomedans of Junagarh built a strong fortress at Jasdan. It passed into the hands of the Khumans of Kherdi and was seized from Jasa Khuman by Vira Khachar in 1665 A.D. He died in 1685 A.D., and was succeeded by his son, Mansio, who was killed in a contest with the Khuman Kathis, and his setp'brother, Chelo, took up his place. Vajsur, the third in descent from Chelo, was the most renowned of the Khachars. He was so highly esteemed by his brother Kathis that they appointed him their Ghardera (head-man). Vajsur exacted pal or valava (a tax to desist from plundering the State which paid it) from several chiefs. As Harbhamji of Limbdi refused to pay this tax, Vajsur attacked him, and in 1791 A.D. compelled him to sue for peace and come to terms. Vajsur forced the Jam of Nawanagar to submit to his impositions by his ruthless raids in the State. He devoted the latter years of his life to peaceful avocations. He died in 1810 A.D., and was succeeded by Chelo Khachar II, who loved peace and quiet. He died in 1852 A.D. and his son, Ala Khachar, came to the gadi, after him.

The Kathis did not follow the rule of primogeniture, but divided their estates equally among the successors. The disastrous effects of this custom were observed by the British Government on its advent into Kathiawar, and they ruled that no estate was to be partitioned among the members of a family. Ala Khachar was the first, not only to acquiesce in this, but to impress upon his tribesmen the desirability of it. He was made a Companion of the Star 'of India during the time of Lord Sandhurst, Governor of Bombay.

Ala Khachar died in 1904 A.D. and was succeeded by his eldest son, Odha. He is a Chief of the old type and administers his State according to Hindu ideas of government, but his subjects seem to be happy and contented under his rule. The heir'apparent. Prince Vajsur, has completed his course at the Rajkumar College and has been taking a direct part in the administration of the State.

The area of the State is 283 square miles, containing a population of 29,000 souls, and yields a revenue of about rupees 2,50,000 during normal years.

Jasdan ranks as a third class State, and its ruler is, therefore, empowered to inflict rigorous imprisonment up to seven years and fine up to rupees 10,000. In civil matters he has the power to dispose of claims up to rupees 20,000.


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 Jath.

THE Chief of Jath is in treaty relations with the Bntish Government, and claims his descent from Lakhmojirao Yaldojirao Chavhan, headman of the village of Daflapur. Lakhmojirao had two sons, Satwajirao and Dhondjirao, both of whom were gallant soldiers. Their bravery attracted the notice of Sultan All Adilshah of Bijapur who at once took them into his service, and in 1680 A.D. conferred in perpetuity upon Satwajirao the deshmukhi of the four mahals of Jath, Karajgi. Bardol, and Vanwad, on payment of a nazarana of 3,000 Mohurs. Satwajirao continued to be one of the leading noblemen at the Bijapur court until its final over-throw by Emperor Aurangzeb in 1686 A.D. Satwajirao then ' assumed entire independence, and began to divest the territories of the Mogul Emperor, who ordered his generals to catch and bring him to Delhi. The Mogul generals were, however, unsuccessful; they captured Dhondjirao instead, and took him to Delhi. Satwajirao was surprised at this action of the Mogul generals; and, fearing lest any calamity befall his brother, he humbly offered his services to the Emperor, intimating his willingness to serve him if some grant were made to him in perpetuity. Aurangzeb readily accepted his proposal. He confirmed the watan already granted to him by the King of Bijapur, and in addition bestowed upon him the jahagir of Jath and Karajgi, and appointed him a "Commandant of 5,000 horse." On getting this jahagir, Satwajirao made the town of Jath his captial. Since that time, the Chavhan family came to be known as Dafles from "Daflapur" their original village.

Satwajirao had two sons, Bawajirao and Khanajirao, of whom the first was the rightful successor. He was killed at the siege of Satara in 1700 A.D. As he had no male issue, the jahagir devolved upon Yesubai, his widow, after the death of Satwajirao. She proved a just and kind ruler and was held in high esteem by her subjects. She died in 1754 A.D. and was succeeded by her nephew Yashwantrao, who was followed by his son Amntrao. He accompanied the Peshwa in his campaigns in the Karnatic and was present in almost all the battles fought there.

Amritrao was succeeded by his son Khanajirao. He fought under the Mahratta banner at the battle of Kharda in 1795 A.D He died in 1816 A.D. He had two wives; the senior widow, Renukabai, took charge of the management of the State after him. She entered into a treaty with the British Government as well as with the Raja of Satara in 1820 A.D. She died in 1823 A.D.

Thus, there being a failure of male heir, the jahagir lapsed to the Raja of Satara. In 1824 A.D., however, it was restored to one Ramrao, a collateral member of the Dafle family, who also died childless in 1 835 A.D., and the Raja of Satara again attached the jahagir; but restored it in 1841 A.D. to Ramrao's widow Bhagirthibai. This lady adopted Bhimrao alias Amritrao in 1841 A.D. He died in 1892 A.D. leaving no son, and his senior widow adopted the present Chief Ramrao alias Aba Saheb in 1893 A.D., who has since been invested with full powers of administration.

The area of the State is 884 square miles with a population of about seventy thousand inhabitants and a revenue of over 1| lacs of rupees.


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 Jawhar.

NO reliable account of the foundation of the Jawhar State is forthcoming prior to 1294 A.D. Up to that time Jawhar appears to have been held by a Varli chief. The first Koli Paupera, otherwise known as Jayaba, appears to have obtained a footing by an injenious stratagem. He asked for as much land as the hide of a bull would cover. When this was consented to, he cut the hide into strips and claimed as much area as was engirt by those strips.

Nemi Shah, the son of Jayaba, was conferred the title of 'Raja' by the king of Delhi in 1343 A.D. on the 5th of Jilne. So important was this event considered of Jawhar that the day, on which the title was received, has been made the beginning of a new era, and is still used in the public documents of the State.

Very little is heard of the Jawhar Kings for about two centuries after Nemi Shah. The Sultans of Ahmedabad, who held the sea^coast of Thana, interfered but little with the chief of Jawhar. The Portuguese, too, who held the coast of Northern Konkan, only took care to prevent the constant aggressions on the part of the Jawhar chief. Shiwaji and his successors left the Jawhar king to himself and it was not till the power of the Peshwas was welLestablished that they took any notice of the Koli chief. After they had wrested the coast of Northern Konkan from the Portuguese in 1739'40 A.D., they repeatedly encroached upon the territories of the Raja of Jawhar. Patang Shah II. entered into an agreement with the Peshwa in 1782 A.D., by which he was confirmed on the gadi on condition of his agreeing to be his tributary.

On the fall of the Peshwa and the establishment of British supremacy, the Raja transferred his allegiance to the latter. No treaty, properly so called, has been entered into between this State and the British Government, but a memorandum of settlement was drawn up by the first Collector of Northern Konkan in 1822 A.D. Except the nazrana or succession fee in case of adoption, the Raja pays no tribute to Government. On the death of Raja Vikram Shah in 1866 A.D., his widow adopted Malhar Rao alias Patang Shah, who was .vested with full powers in 1876 A.D. He was succeeded by his son, Krishna Shah, the present Chief, in 1905 A.D. A sanad allowing the right of adoption was granted to the Chief in 1890 A.D.

The area of the State is 534 square miles with a population of 48,556 inhabitants. The revenue of the State in normal years is about one lac and a half of rupees.

Jawhar is under the political control of the Collector of Thana. The Chief has powers to decide Sessions cases and hear appeals, and to try his own subjects for capital offences.


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 Junagarh.

THE present rulers of Junagarh are the descendants of Bahadur Khan, an Afgan, who migrated to Delhi in the beginning of the seventeenth century. He was a lord'in'waiting to the Emperor Shah Jahan, whose life he, on one occasion, saved at the risk of his own, and the honourable title of 'Babi' (trusted) was conferred on him. The greatest among his descendants were Jafar Khan, Salabat Khan and Sher Khan. Opinions are divided as to who gained the fief of Junagarh from the Emperor. According to Col. Walker and Col. Jacob, Babi Mahammad Bahadur alias Sher Khan gained possession of Sorath from Mir Daulat Ali Naib, the representative of the Moguls, firmly established himself in Junagarh in 1754 A.D., and assumed the title of 'Nawab.' Sher Khan died in 1758 A. D. and was succeeded by Salabat Khan during whose time the levy of the Zorialbi (compulsory exaction) tribute from the different chiefs of Kathiawar commenced. Salabat Khan died in 1731 A.D. His eldest son, Sher Khan II, was a valiant soldier and one of the defenders of the Mogul Empire against the attacks of the Mahrattas. He died in 1758 A.D. and his son, Mohabat Khan, succeeded to the throne of Junagarh. It was in the time of this Nawab and his successor that Amarji, a Nagar Brahman from Mangrol, who was endowed with military and diplomatic genius, gained large and valuable accesions of territory and wealth to Junagarh.

Nawab Mohabat Khan died in 1775 A.D. and was followed by Hamid Khan. Till 1784 A.D., when Amarji was foully murdered, he not only kept down all the incursions of the neighbouring Chiefs, but proved himself a terror to them. Col. Walker who came to Kathiawar to settle the tribute payable by each Chief to the Gaekwar also determined the Zortalbi due by Junagarh. Hamid Khan died in 1811 A.D. and was succeeded by his son, Bahadur Khanji II, during whose time several vexed questions about territorial jurisdiction were settled. He died in 1840 A.D. leaving four sons of whom the elder two, Hamid Khan and Mohabat Khan K.C.S.I., succeeded to the gadi, one after another.

Nawab Bahadur Khan 111, on the death of his father in 1882 A.D., succeeded him. He had received a liberal education which he turned to good account in managing his State and introduced a variety of reforms according to modern requirements, in recognition of which he was created a K.C.I. E. He died in 1892 A.D. and a dispute arose about the succession between his son by the Radhanpur Begum and Prince Rasul Khanji. The latter was recognised by the Paramount Power and installed on the gadi. From his early days he was of a religious temperament and solicitous about the welfare of those whom Providence had put under him. He was created a K.C.I.E. in 1899 A.D. He died in January 1911 A.D. and has been succeeded by his son, Sher Zaman Khan.

The area of the State is 3,284 square miles containing a population of nearly four lacs of people and yielding a gross revenue of about 26 lacs of rupees.

The Nawab of Junagarh is entitled to a salute of 11 guns.


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Rh forts from a craven fear lest their skins might suffer were practical, but they were soulless serfs, nevertheless.

Revolution is never practical—until the hour of the Revolution strikes. Then it alone is practical, and all the efforts of the conservatives and compromisers become the most futile and visionary of human imaginings.

For that hour let us work, think and hope; for that hour let us pawn our present ease in hopes of a glorious redemption; for that hour let us prepare the hosts of Labor with intelligence sufficient to laugh at the nostrums dubbed practical by our slave-lords, practical for the perpetuation of our slavery; for that supreme crisis of human history let us watch, like sentinels, with weapons ever ready, remembering always that there can be no dignity in Labor until Labor knows no master.

Would you confiscate the property of the capitalist class and rob men of that which they have, perhaps, worked a whole lifetime to accumulate?

Yes, sir, and certainly not.

We would certainly confiscate the property of the capitalist class, but we do not propose to rob anyone. On the contrary, we propose to establish honesty once and forever as the basis of our social relations. This Socialist movement is indeed worthy to be entitled The Great Anti-Theft Movement of the Twentieth Century.

You see, confiscation is one great certainty of the future for every business man outside of the trust. It lies with him to say if it will be confiscation by the Trust in the interest of the Trust, or confiscation by Socialism in the interest of All.

If he resolves to continue to support the capitalist order of society he will surely have his property confis-


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Whereas it is found that the ordinary session of the House of People's Representatives which has been extended to the 31st day of March 2477 Buddhist Era by the royal decree dated the 14th day of March 2477 Buddhist Era is coming to an end on this 31st day of March;

Therefore, the Council of Regency, in His Majesty's name, orders that enacted shall be a royal decree for closing such ordinary session

title: Page:กม ร ๘ - ๒๔๗๗.pdf/140


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16 cated. After having, as you say, “worked for a whole lifetime to accumulate” a fortune, to establish a business on what he imagined would be a sound foundation, on some fine day the Trust will enter into competition with him, will invade his market, use their enormous capital to undersell him at ruinous prices, take his customers from him, ruin his business, and finally drive him into bankruptcy, and perhaps to end his days as a pauper.

That is capitalist confiscation! It is going on all around us, and every time the business man who is not a Trust Magnate votes for capitalism, he is working to prepare that fate for himself.

On the other hand, if he works for Socialism it also will confiscate his property. But it will only do so in order to acquire the industrial equipment necessary to establish a system of society in which the whole human race will be secured against the fear of want for all time, a system in which all men and women will be joint heirs and owners of all the intellectual and material conquests made possible by associated effort.

Socialism will confiscate the property of the capitalist and in return will secure the individual against poverty and oppression; it, in return for so confiscating, will assure to all men and women a free, happy and unanxious human life. And that is more than capitalism can assure anyone to-day.

So you see the average capitalist has to choose between two kinds of confiscation. One or the other he must certainly endure. Confiscation by the Trust and consequently bankruptcy, poverty and perhaps pauperism in his old age, or

Confiscation by Socialism and consequently security,


text:
One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 11

sought her the next day in the studio and found her occupied with a pupil. He had forgotten it was her day for pupils. She would be busy until four o'clock.

“I will come around and walk home with you—if I may.”

“Very well,” she assented.

They stood in the doorway, just out of sight of the pupil. He was watching her face anxiously. He fancied that she looked pale and worn, as if she had not slept.

“You are tired?” he questioned in a low tone.

She admitted that she was—“a little.”

“Perhaps I would better not come for you to-night.”

“No. Come. It will rest me to have someone to talk to.”

“But if I come, I shall speak,” he insisted.

She did not raise her eyes to his as he had half hoped. She hesitated for a moment, and then only said, as she turned towards the studio, “I will wait for you.”

He left the building, a tumult of joy and doubt in his heart. She had given him permission to speak, but she seemed to have refused his demand before it was made. He dared not hope. He hoped in spite of fear.

As the day wore on the fear subsided and the joy of love took possession of him. That, at least, she could not take away, no matter what she might refuse.

He found her alone, at work in the gray afternoon light.

“I am improving the last minutes,” she said, looking up as he entered and speaking lightly, as if eager to put their meeting on a commonplace footing.

He did not answer, but seated himself on the long couch opposite her. He watched her as she sketched in the outline of a still-life study. She was sitting as usual, with the light falling full upon her. Yes, he had been right. Her face was pale.

“What is it?” he asked abruptly, at last, in a low tone.

“I am afraid of it,” she answered quietly.

“Why?”

“Because things will never be the same again.”

“I hope not,” he responded quickly.

“I want them to be. I don't want them to change,” she replied as quickly.

“Then they shall not. I won't say anything more.”

A silence fell on the studio. The shadows in the corners grew darker and lengthened softly towards the centre of the room. The light suited the room, Derring thought, as he sat waiting for her to speak. The harmonious tones and subdued colors seemed to gather and centre in the quiet figure under the skylight. It was always so. She would always gather the light and life in everything and transmute it to something softened and human.

She was trying the colors on the edge of her block, making ready to wash in the sketch. She spoke slowly, without looking up. “But you know that I love you?”

Derring started suddenly. “No, I didn't know—you hadn't told me”

Their eyes met, and they broke into a laugh.

“You will marry me?” he said bluntly.

“No.”

“Why not?”

She had become absorbed in the edge of her sketch and was drawing futile, ineffective lines.

“Why not?” he repeated.

“It's so selfish”—after a pause.

“Selfish?”—blankly.

“Yes, two people fall in love and they forget everything else and marry. They seem to think that love justifies everything.”

“It does.”

“But there are other claims.”

He was looking at her intently.

“Grace must be sent to school and the boys are hardly able to take care of themselves; and there is mother. They all depend on me. Don't you see that it would be selfish?” She was leaning forward and looking at him, impersonally, with the old air of comradeship.

“But I would help.”

“I know. But you have no right to marry yet. There would be children, and the children of Bohemia are not always so happy as their parents. It is not fair that two people should be happy at the expense of so much. Probably marriage was meant to be right; but it is all wrong as things are now.”

Spoken with quiet conviction, rapidly. Whatever she decided must be right. But one phrase stirred his pulses.

“That two people should be happy,” he repeated. “You think”

“I think that most marriages are mistakes,” she replied, taking up her brush again and sketching rapidly. “People are madly in love. They marry. And then apparently the love dies. I should die myself,” she said quickly. “I could not bear that.”

He had risen and was standing, one. hand raised and resting on the easel, looking down:at her.

She lifted her face to his, smiling at him a little wistfully. “I had not hoped that you would understand. I thought there would be an explanation—and parting.”

“Not that—never!”

“But there are no promises,” she said quickly. “No,” holding up her hand as he would have interrupted her, “I am older than you, you know. You may outgrow me. You must not be bound even by a promise. If we are made for each other, we shall find it out, as time goes on, without them; and if we are not, we shall only drift farther apart and there will be no pain for what never really existed. But if we were bound by marriage” She broke off, looking straight before her.

“You have loved before.” He was looking down at her. “You would not reason so clearly”

“I thought once—that I loved.” Her eyes were on her work.

The question sprang to his lips, “And he is dead?”

“Thank God—yes.”

He stared at her blankly.

“I should not have found out in time. We should have been miserable. I thought I loved him. I mourned a long time. But lately—I have known” Her head bent lower over her work.

His face deepened. He started towards her. “Ah, you have learned”

“I have learned that I dare not trust myself,” she said. She began to gather up her materials and put them away.

Presently she stood beside him. She had put on the long gray cloak. “I am going now,” she said.

He looked about for his hat and found it still in his hand. He held it out with a whimsical gesture. “I have been eminently proper,” he said.

With a laugh of the old comradeship she held out her hand and he covered it with his own.

“It is a compact?” he said.

“That there are no promises,” she replied.

title: One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 11


text:
One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 12

if there were no promises, there was much happiness in the months that followed. After the talk in the studio their life assumed a new phase—something as far removed from the unrest of courtship on the one hand, as from the commonplaceness of married life on the other.

Derring had accepted her decision as final. There was to be no marriage—not even a promise of marriage at some distant day. His love for her must begin and end in itself. One less capable of love, or one who had longed less for love, might have fretted at the anomalous position in which he found himself—neither aspirant nor accepted lover. But to Derring it seemed that never since man was created had a love so unique been upon the earth.

He was at the studio daily, sometimes several times a day. He fell into the habit of going there to write up the articles for which he had been gathering material—an art lecture below stairs or a first view above. Often he read these articles to her as she sat at work. Her criticisms were frank and unsparing. Sometimes for days together, a stranger, overhearing them as they talked or jested, would not have guessed that they were more than good comrades. Only, now and then, a word, half-breathed, as he sat watching her move about the studio, would speak volumes and bridge over hours of commonplace. Then again there would be days when they would talk of their love as of any accepted fact of common interest.

Perhaps nowhere but in the art world could such a friendship have existed without danger of misunderstanding. At the boarding-house they had instinctively remained mere table acquaintances. But among the artists they came and went with Platonic freedom. No one criticised. No one watched with malicious eyes. Here, as wherever artists meet, life was too busy for petty spying. Or is it, after all, not indifference or preoccupation, but the inherent purity of an apparently careless life, that makes artists slow to think evil of each other? In any case, these two were safe among them from fear of misunderstanding; and Derring was in the studio whenever his work, or leisure, gave him opportunity.

“I always knew you must be somewhere,” he said one day. He had finished writing and sat leaning back, his hands clasped behind his head. It had been half an hour since he finished work and no word had broken the silence till he spoke.

“I never dared believe I should find you, though,” he continued.

She was turning her head to one side and leaning back, with half-closed eyes, to get a view of the last wash. “Yes, you were a good while finding it out.” She gave critical touches here and there with the extended brush.

He started suddenly forward to an upright position. “What do you mean? Did you know—or care?”

“That is another strange thing,” she said, smiling a little to him, “the woman always knows first. But she must wait patiently until the man's lumbering intelligence finds it out.”

“But I never dreamed,” he persisted, coming back to the concrete case. “You seemed so indifferent”

“Of course. It wouldn't have been modest not to. And, besides, I did not want you to find out. I didn't suppose any man could be generous enough to understand how a woman might feel.”

“It isn't that we don't understand. Anyone can see how unfair marriage is to a woman—that it compels her to give up everything and offers her nothing. We see it plainly enough. But what can we do? We love you, and most of us see no way out of it but marriage.”

“Now it is you who are hard,” she returned. “The fault cannot all lie on one side. Marriage, in itself, is no harder for a woman to-day, I suppose, than it has always been. The difference is that so many other ways of happiness are open to her; and when she finds her marriage a failure, she does not try to make the best of it, without protest, as the only thing open to her. She is more restive under her own mistake than when fate left her no choice. So everything gets into a nice tangle and they don't live happy forever afterwards,” she finished laughingly.

Gradually he came to understand that her determination not to marry him was influenced by something stronger than a mere personal shrinking from a false marriage. She would not marry, because she would not take a selfish happiness at the expense of her mother and those that depended on her; but more than that, and deeper, she would not by a rash promise add one more to the marriages that end in vain regret or divorce.

Gradually, too, he came to understand more fully what she had meant by saying that if they were made for each other they would find it out without promises, and if not, it were a thousand times better they should drift apart. And as he came to understand, an element of reverence mingled with his love for her, deepening and intensifying it.

He himself would not have questioned. He would gladly have married. To him it would not have been a test, but a consummation. But that they were not to marry did not trouble him. Why should he ask more of a love that was proving the fulfilment of all the longing of his boyhood and youth? It was transforming him—mind, body, and soul. His frame, which had been tall, spare, and loosely built, began to fill and settle into strength; his step became firm and quick; his head took a firmer poise above the square shoulders; even his eyes shared in the metamorphosis—they lost their dreamy, pleading look and became alert, laughing, and full of happiness and a strange power that seemed no longer to ask, but to command help and sympathy from all who met their glance.

Something of this change Derring himself recognized. He knew that he was alive, glowing in every fibre; but he was less analytic in his happiness than in his misery; he did not see that his overflowing vitality communicated itself to everyone with whom he came in contact. It was only when someone spoke of the change that he knew that it was being marked. He exulted in his heart that no one guessed the cause.

He was settled down and working with a vigor of which he had not dreamed himself capable. Everything bent before him. He felt within himself power to conquer the world should it stand in his way. Sometimes he clenched his hands and stretched his arms to their fullest to give outlet to the play impulse that could not exhaust itself in work.

In his inner life, too, a change, less perceptible, but no less real, was taking place. Sight and hearing were opened to new beauty. Music had become to him a medium of soul speech; and the sordid city streets, with their overhanging clouds of smoke, started to picturesque life and beauty.

A long archway with a slant of sunshine at the farther end—an Italian woman stealing into the shadow, a huge bundle on her back and colored kerchief about her head—would stir his pulses like an old painting. The unsightly process of building, with its débris of mortar, bricks, and lath, gained artistic value as his eyes took in the grouping of the men at work around the mortar-beds—the soft, gray-white of the mortar, the dull red, blue, or orange of the shirts upon the supple or stolid figures of the men, with the play of muscle beneath. Sometimes it was a single figure, that might have stepped from a Rembrandt canvas, appearing for a minute and disappearing in the shifting crowd. Always, everywhere, there was beauty—until Derring, seeing it all, longed at times to relieve his overcharged senses by a loud cry—so wonderful, so overpowering, had the beauty of the world become.

Undoubtedly much of this quickened insight was due to the thought of Helen, who was never for a moment absent from his mind. Whatever work was engaging his hand or brain, deep below it all was a consciousness of her existence, like a second ego, only a thousand times dearer and more inspiring than his own personality. It seemed to give him a sixth sense by which he perceived the beautiful—until Helen gave up in despair the attempt to transfer to canvas all that he brought to her notice.

It became a common sight for her sketching stool to be set up in some sheltered corner of the busiest part of the city. Derring, who had dreaded the experiment, saw, with a thrill, that the quiet power of her personality that so rested and soothed him was felt here. The crowd either passed her by or stopped for a moment to look with respectful curiosity as the work grew under her hand. Sometimes a mason filled her water-can or a carpenter paused for a moment in his work to adjust her umbrella. It was the Chicago spirit—laissez faire, and help when you can. Except for the dust and rattle of the street she was as unmolested as in her quiet studio.

title: One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 12


text:
One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 13

fall and early winter had been mild. In January it came on to snow and to blow; and with the snowing and blowing the thermometer dropped many degrees. Old inhabitants told each other it was real “Chicago weather;” and new inhabitants shivered in their sealskins, or, lacking these, put on extra flannels.

It was during the cold weather that Derring's work took him one afternoon to Lakeview to look over the work of the Amateur Art Club. As he left the house after finishing his task a dull roar fell on his ear. He started and listened eagerly—yes, it was the Lake. In a moment more his coat-collar was pulled up about his ears, his hat settled more firmly over his eyes, and he was on his way to the shore. The Lake had a peculiar fascination for him. He could never resist it, especially when it was roaring and thundering like this.

A few minutes' walk brought him in sight of the mounting, threatening, white-capped breakers. His heart leaped with exultation. The power of the storm was on him. He longed to run, to leap, to wrestle with it and scream himself hoarse against its tumult. It was like the ocean—that long stretch of lonely shore as yet unprotected by the breakwater.

Gradually, as he looked, he became conscious of something home-like and protected in the midst of the uproar. A thread of smoke rose from the chimney of a small, rude house, far down the shore, almost within reach of the threatening waves that ran up the sandy beach. All about the house boats lay stacked, evidently in winter quarters; and here and there remnants of fishing-tackle showed the occupation of fair weather. The house was sheathed in rough red boards and patched with artistic regularity. It was a sketch made to hand—a touch of nature within arm's reach of Chicago.

Helen was filled with enthusiasm and scoffed at his suggestion of waiting for warmer weather. “Half its charm is in the contrast,” she protested. “Don't you see?—Winter quarters in the midst of all that tumult.—I shall go up this afternoon.”

Derring consented unwillingly. He was obliged to go to Hyde Park for the day, and it was not till four o'clock that he was free to seek her on the North Shore.

She was seated near the point from which he had first seen the house, an old piece of sail-cloth, fastened between two stakes, sheltering her from the wind.

She looked up when he approached, as casually as if he had stood there all the afternoon. “I haven't caught that wind and it isn't cold enough—too much blue, isn't there?” she asked, holding her head back and surveying her work critically.

“Really, aren't you blue with too much cold?” he responded meekly.

“Don't be foolish. I am all right.”

He had taken off his overcoat and was fastening it around her shoulders.

“Oh, you mustn't do that. You'll take cold. Well, then, if you will—only you must go into the house and get warm. You'll find them highly entertaining, besides being good,” she added. “They made me some hot coffee and the man rigged up this sail-cloth to keep off the wind. And there's a pair of candlesticks in there I would give my eyes for. But they're not for sale. So you're not to raise my bid.”

“I couldn't raise it—if it were only a glance of your eyes—let alone the eyes themselves.”

“I hope you didn't come all the way up here in the cold just to be funny,” she responded severely. But she did not vouchsafe him the glance. She was absorbed in washing out the unsatisfactory sky for a second trial.

Derring did not go into the house. He walked rapidly up and down the beach, watching the angry sky and the isolated little house. He fancied that, as the early twilight settled down, it stood out more distinctly and vividly,—emphasizing its individuality—the work of man against the power of darkness.

At last he came and looked over her shoulder.

“Rather better, isn't it?” she asked complacently without looking up.

“You have caught the very demon of the storm in those clouds.”

It was true. She had done what the water-colorist seldom achieves—succeeded in washing out her first attempt and replacing it with the desired effect. The thorough wetting of the paper or a touch of genius had aided the second attempt, and the result was a wash—clean and fresh in color—and in the clouds what Derring had called the demon of the storm.

“Come,” he said decisively as she sat putting in the last few touches lingeringly. “Come. You must stop. It is too dark. You will be frozen.”

She began to collect her sketching materials.

“Leave those for me. Go on to the house and get warm. I'll bring your traps.”

She started obediently towards the house, breathing on her cold fingers to warm them. But—so fierce was the wind—she made slow progress, and before she reached the house he was at her side. He opened the door that ushered them into the low room.

The round-faced Dutchwoman who greeted them looked with kindly eyes on the young lady. She bustled about the room and placed an armchair near the fire. “You stayed out longer this time,” she said in a deep guttural voice. She gave a quick look of interest from Helen to Derring.

Helen sank into the chair with a grateful smile. “Yes, I stayed out to fin” She had slipped noiselessly from the armchair to the floor.

With a quick exclamation Derring dropped to his knees beside her.

“It's only the heat,” said the Dutchwoman practically. “Give her this.” She had prepared a draught of brandy.

Derring poured it between the white lips, around which a blue line was slowly settling.

They watched for the effect—Derring eagerly, the woman with close attention. There was no sign of returning life. Derring looked up in despair and the woman hurried away into an inner room for some other remedy.

He leaned over the motionless figure, listening. Slowly he gathered it in his arms. Tenderly, passionately, he drew her to him and pressed his lips on the white mouth with its shadow. She seemed to him already dead—removed from caresses. Slowly the lids fluttered, a breath trembled through the lips, and she lifted her eyes to his, faintly.

The good Dutchwoman appeared, bearing a large bottle of ammonia. She figured in Derring's eyes as a ministering angel and the bottle as a heaven-sent chalice. But it brought tears to Helen's eyes and she pushed it away with the assurance, half-laughing, half-tearful, that she should be all right in a minute.

Derring lifted her to an improvised couch and she lay, with eyes like stars, looking about the little room. He held one of the hands in his and chafed it gently now and then, under the pretence that it was still cold. Her brown hair had escaped from its fastening and was pushed carelessly back. Against the dark covering of the couch it formed a halo about her face. Derring had always fancied that the Madonna might have been at home in such a room as this. It was a Holbein face.

The old woman had lighted the candles on the low table and was spreading the table for supper. She entertained her guests by leaving them free. The two candles gave out a dull glow and completed the effect of an old Dutch interior.

Helen and Derring exchanged glances of appreciation.

“Think of finding it within five miles of Washington Street! I am going to sketch it some day. She has promised to sit for me and it will be nice and warm.” She shivered a little.

Derring suddenly held fast in both his hands the one he had been idly stroking. “You must never do such a foolhardy thing again.”

“Not even for a success?—But I am glad I did it. It is a success.” Her eyes rested lovingly on the sketch on the floor by the wall.

She was still looking at it when he left the house to telephone for a carriage. But when he returned, half an hour later, she was seated at the table, laughing and talking with her hostess. She declared she had never felt better in her life, and she started out bravely to walk to the carriage, which could not drive down to the beach, but was waiting on the road above. Before they had gone half the distance she found that she was very tired. With a sigh of relief she sank back in the corner of the carriage as the door was slammed after them.

Derring reached over promptly and drew her to him, placing her head against his shoulder and holding her close to protect her from the jar of the carriage.

“Rest here,” he said quietly, as she made a half protest. “I should care for my mother or a sister. Why not you—dear one?”

She did not protest again, but yielded to the protecting arms like a child. He watched her face as they whirled into the light of the street-lamps and out again into the shadow. It was still pale, but full of content. They flew through the Park and down the long avenue beyond. Never were two miles traversed so quickly. Not a word was spoken. It was as if the time were too precious for speech. Once she raised her face with a contented sigh and breathed his name softly, more as if to herself than to him.

As for Derring, he dared not realize his happiness. Underneath its pulsing was a half superstition. Fate would not allow a man to be so happy. But she had been given back to him from the dead. She rested close to him. That could not be taken from him. He held her closer—defying an unseen fate.

title: One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 13


text:
One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 14

winter continued cold and blustering. Helen sketched no more out-of-doors. But she did the interior of the Dutch house and both sketches were sold on the opening day of the spring exhibition. Whenever Derring chided her for careless disregard of her health, she would meekly call his attention to this very pleasant and tangible result of the North Shore expedition.

Derring gradually became conscious of another result—less palpable, but no less real. Since their first acquaintance he had known that her presence had a marked effect on him—soothing and quieting him if he were tired, and quickening his fancy and imagination if he were in good spirits. He was always conscious of her presence in a room, even before his eyes had testified to it. Soon he became aware that a new and more subtle communication had been established between them. He continued to feel an added sense of well-being in her presence; but he discovered that this power of her personality had escaped the bonds of space, and that wherever she might be, his spirit was conscious of her. The first sign of this was a vague restlessness and foreboding which came to him, now and then, without apparent cause.

Since she was always in his mind, it did not occur to him as strange that his thoughts of her should take a gloomy turn when this humor was on him. Nor did he guess the secret of the strange mood till a day when the feeling became too strong to be resisted, and he sought her in the studio. He found her sitting on the top of a tall step-ladder, a comical picture of despair.

Her face brightened as he appeared in the doorway. “Oh, I am so glad! Do you suppose you can get me down?”

“Of course. Come on.” He held out his hands.

“I can't. I have sprained my foot. It was silly to try to hang a heavy picture on this rickety old thing. I never dreamed I should slip, though. It hurts so that I can't bear my weight—oh!” She lifted it carefully. “And the ladder shakes so I don't dare hop down. I am sure I hope you have sense enough to know what to do—I haven't.”

He lifted her carefully from her insecure seat and placed her on the very hard divan that ran the length of the room.

“You have to spend most of your time rescuing me, don't you?” she said, laughing. “How did you happen to come over so early? I had made up my mind to sit there till six o'clock. Tom has to come for some pictures then.”

How had he happened to come?—In a flash he saw it all—and told her. She laughed a little at the explanation. But he recalled to her other times when he had unconsciously been warned of her danger or discomfort. They discussed the situation with analytic appreciation. At least, if not true, it was interesting.

A few experiments convinced them that it was true as well as interesting.

It was evidently an uncertain communication, however. Several times when he yielded to the feeling of disquiet and sought her out he found her working, serenely unconscious of danger and ready to laugh at his fears. Moreover, it was a one-sided communication. Helen, as he reproachfully pointed out to her, was never conscious of danger to him, while he had a headache if she so much as scratched her little finger.

But, although. Derring jested, he rejoiced in this new power. It deepened their relation. He might be disquieted without cause; but at least no harm would come to her without his knowing it.

But as the spring came on a new dread assailed him. Soon it would be summer. She would go home for the vacation. Would this power extend over the thousand miles? And would he have, as now, the prescience of danger without the power to go to her?

He grew to dread the summer.

But it was destined, that he should be the first to go away. Early in April a letter came from his mother. Seth Kinney was very ill and asked continually: for him.

As he packed his travelling-bag and prepared to go, he was conscious of mixed motives. He was fond of Seth. He would have gone to him in any case. But, with a little sense of shame, he found himself thinking that the trip would give him a chance to test the communication. He would be gone only a few days. Nothing could happen. But at least he should know what he had to expect during the long weeks of vacation. So anxious was he to make the experiment that he almost forgot the dread of separation.

“Be as happy as you can—for my sake,” he said laughingly as they parted. “Don't run any more risks than you can help.”

The morning train was full of the hum of life. People seemed to be letting off superabundant vitality. Behind Derring a child was humming contentedly to herself. Her mother. was talking in a loud voice to a man across the aisle. “You have to look after the seed, praise the Lord! If we don't gather a sheaf in this life, it's no matter.” Farther to the front of the car two business men were talking.

As the day wore on, each person in the car assumed for Derring a distinct individuality. The sense of isolation deepened. He entered into conversation with no one, but sat idly listening to the flow of talk.

At times he watched the changing landscape. Along the margin of each little stream the willows grew yellow in the sunshine. Across the plain a mass of low crimson marked where the sap crept up at the touch of spring. As they approached the woods, the crimson faded to a soft, feathery gray. Then they were among the trees themselves, and the sunshine, slanting across the great trunks, hung, caught in tangled underbrush, or rested lightly on some tuft of moss or dark, shining pool.

Derring was impressed with the incongruity of it all—his solitude in the midst of the life that pressed so close about him, the hum of busy talk and the shriek of the engine deep in the woods where one never goes except alone or with some congenial soul. With one glance he caught the freshness of the spring, and with the next, the commonplace face and striped trousers of the passenger across the aisle.

His thoughts went to Helen and their love, to the happiness of the past year and the days that were before them. The car and its occupants faded from sight. He brooded on the beauty and mystery of their relation—the foreboding of danger—the necessary accompaniment of love. Great happiness—deep suffering. Sunlight and shade. The capability of sin in man—at once the mark of the beast and the promise of a divinity within him. He had drifted far into metaphysical speculation before he reached the New England hills. But whatever foreboding the future might hold for him, he no longer dreaded its power. He saw deep into its nature. He who loves much will suffer much.

Throughout the journey the thought stayed with him; and when, once or twice, he felt the dread of danger near, he even rejoiced that distance could not mar the closeness of love. The longing for her safety that stole from his heart would, in another man, have been a prayer.

title: One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 14


text:
One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 15

found Seth watching for his coming, and saw at a glance that he was very ill. Even a less practised eye could not have mistaken the signs. The hands that lay outside the faded patchwork cover were yellow and wrinkled; the veins stood out, a network of cords, across the backs. They were the hands of an old man. Richard noted their feebleness as they closed eagerly around his own strong, firm fingers. Seth seemed to him to have aged twenty years since he saw him last.

“I am glad you have come, Dick. I was afraid you would not get here. I wanted to see you again. My life has been a failure. It's hard to say that when you come to die,” he rambled on. “Yours won't be a failure, Dick. And I helped to make it. I thought perhaps I should die easier if I could look at you again and see something that I had helped to do in the world.”

After this first greeting he said no more of the comfort of Richard's presence. But it was evident in the glance of his eyes as they followed the young man about the room and in his restlessness when Richard was absent for a time.

Richard saw that his place was here as long as Seth needed him, and he quietly made arrangements to stay for an indefinite time. He established himself as caretaker and nurse. Young as he was, his experience of life had been deep enough for him to understand that it is not often that one man can do for another what his mere presence did for Seth.

The old man did not speak again of himself or of approaching death. But he questioned Richard eagerly about his work and the life he led. Every detail of it interested him. It was as if he were listening to the story of what his own life might have been. And Richard, understanding by a subtle sympathy what it meant to him, gave a minute account of the office and the men, the hurry and rush of the city, and the haste and true hospitality of the social life.

A stranger looking into the room would not have guessed that it was soon to be the chamber of death. Laughter often interrupted the recital. Richard had often fancied that when he came to die he should not want the humor of life taken from him. And the account of his Chicago life was not dehumorized for a dying man. Seth, listening, seemed to gain a quiet strength of soul as his physical strength failed.

The story of Helen and his love for her was too closely interwoven with the life of the year to be omitted, even had Richard cared to do so. Little by little he had told it all. Seth listened eagerly and questioned Dick closely. He made him describe her minutely—her personal appearance, her characteristics, her likes and dislikes, her work—everything that concerned her. As Richard talked of her, the older man would watch his face—seeking something. Then a smile of content would cross his face and he would close his eyes as if asleep. But when Richard stopped he would say, “I'm listening.”

One day when they had been talking of her he asked Richard to open a leather trunk that stood at the foot of the bed and hand him a box that he would find there.

As he lifted the lid of the trunk the young man knew that he was looking into the grave of Seth's love. It was filled with letters and old-fashioned trifles, evidently keep-sakes. A long-wristed glove and a riding-whip lay across the top of a small box. Carefully Richard lifted it from its place and put it in Seth's hands. Then he turned away to the window and stood looking out while the old man opened it. Richard's eyes were full of tears for a love dead fifty years. But Seth's were clear and tender as he called him to his side.

“Here, Dick, I want her to have this. You must put it on her finger. Tell her it does not bind her to any promise”—for Richard had told him. “It is from me. She is a woman. She will understand that I should like her to wear it,” he mused.

It was a diamond in an old-fashioned setting, the stone large and beautifully cut. Richard held it in his hand, surprised by its beauty.

“How dared you keep anything so valuable here?”

“There was no danger. No one would look for brilliants in such a setting.” The words were marked by a quiet smile of irony and a glance at the room.

Richard's glance followed his. The bare pine floor with its one strip of carpeting, the few rough chairs, the kitchen stove at one end of the room, and the bed, with its faded quilt, at the other. No, there had been no danger. Only the rows of books, piled two and three deep on the shelves, told that the occupant of the room was other than a rough farmer. A bowl of trailing partridge-berries that Richard had brought from the woods yesterday stood on the western sill. The setting sun fell across them and they lightened the room, giving it a touch of refinement. Otherwise it was unchanged from the room in which Richard had received the Greek grammar six years ago.

Then it had been to him a plain, rough room with a certain homely comfort. Now it was the picturesque setting of a lonely life. The furniture was rough; but the roughness had artistic charm. Seth must have had, consciously or unconsciously, an artist's appreciation of the beautiful. As Richard looked about the room, his sense of the pathos of the life that was passing away here deepened to a feeling of kinship and sympathy. The long years of loneliness that were drawing to a close were his own.

It was Seth who broke the silence—low and half-musingly. “You do well to love her, Dick. And she will be worthy of it. But if she is not—you must not stop loving. Love something—someone—any- one. Never stop loving—for your soul's sake. That was my mistake. One woman refused to love me. I shut myself off from all love. That was my mistake. Mistake?” he said slowly. “I wonder if there are such things? Well, it spoiled my life. I didn't know then that the human heart must love—or die. He that would save his life must lose it—in loving.”

The twilight settled down upon the room. The old man did not speak again. He lay with half-closed eyes looking across the shining red berries to the western sky.

Richard sat quietly by his side. He did not undress or lie down. He knew, by a subtle intuition, that a guest would come before the morning, and he waited for his coming. But so gentle was his step when he came across the floor in the early dawn, that Richard only knew by a slight tremble of the thin fingers resting in his that he had come and gone, bearing with him an immortal soul.

Was it immortal? He stepped out into the cold light of the early morning. He turned to the east, where a faint flush of red was touching the gray sky. “He that would save his life must lose it—in loving,” he repeated softly.

title: One Way of Love (Lee)/Chapter 15


text:
An Idyl of the 'HT'

It is sunset at the HT ranch.

Four or five cowboys sit gloomily about, outside the ranch house, awaiting supper.

The Mexican cook has just begun his fragrant task, so a half-hour must elapse before these Arabs are fed.

Their ponies are turned into the wire pasture, their big Colorado saddles repose astride the low pale fence which surrounds the house, and it is evident that their riding is over for the day.

Why are they gloomy? Not a boy of them can tell. One is from Princeton, too. They have been partners and companeros and “worked” the HT cattle together for months, and nothing ever came in misunderstanding or cloud. The ranch house is their home, and theirs has been the unity of brothers.

A week ago a pretty girl, the daughter of one of the owners, came to the ranch from the East. She was protected in this venture by an old and gnarled aunt, watchful as a ferret; sour as a lime. Not that the pretty girl needs watching; she is indeed in every move propriety's climax. No soft or dulcet reason woos her to the West; she comes on no love errand. She is elegantly and profoundly tired of the East, that is all, and longs for western air and western sights. She has been at the HT ranch a week and the boys have met her, every one. The meeting or meetings were marked by awkwardness as to the boys, utter indifference as to the pretty girl. She met them as she met the ponies, cows, horned toads, and others animals, domestic and indigenous to Eastern New Mexico. While every cowboy was blushingly conscious of her, she was purely and serenely guiltless of giving him a thought.

Before this pretty girl came the boys were friends and the calm tenor of their relations with each other had never a ripple. She was not there a day before each drew himself insensibly from the others, and a vague hostility shone dimly in their eyes. It was the instinct of the fighting male animal aroused by the presence of the pretty girl. She, however, proceeded on her daily way, sweetly unconscious of the sentiments she awakened.

Men are mere animals; women are, too, for that matter, but they are very different animals from men. The effort the race makes to be other, better, or different than beasts fails. It always failed; it will always fail. Civilization—culture—is the veriest veneer and famously thin. A year on the plains cracks this veneer—this shell—and leaves the animal exposed. This is by the expanding growth of all that is animal in a man; these attributes of the physical being fed and pampered by a plains existence.

The dark, vague, impalpable differences which cut off each of these creatures from his fellows and inspired him with an unreasoning and unmeasurable hate had grown with the brief week of their existence. A philosopher would look for trouble soon on the HT.

“What did you go take my saddle for, yesterday, Bill?” said Jack Moore to a boy by the name of Bill Watkins.

“'Cause I allows I'll ride it some,” said Watkins. “Thought it might like to carry a high-grade cow-puncher, once.”

“Well, don't take it no more,” said Moore, moodily, ignoring the gay insolence in the reply. “Leastwise, don't come a-takin' of it an' sayin' nothin'. You can palaver Americano, can't you? When you aims to ride my saddle agin, ask for it; if you can't talk, make signs, an' if you can't make signs, shake a bush, but don't go to Injunin' off no saddle of mine no more.”

“Whatever do you allow is liable to happen if I takes it agin to-morry?” inquired Bill in high scorn.

Bill was of a more vivacious temper than Moore.

“You takes it agin an' I mingles with you a whole lot. mighty prompt,” replied Moore in a tone of obstinate injury.

These boys were brothers in affection before that pretty girl came, and either would have gone afoot all day to lend his saddle to the other. Going afoot, too, is the last thing, let me assure you, a cowboy will do.

“Well, don't you fail to mingle none,” said Bill, with cheerful ferocity, “on account of its being me. I crosses the trail of the short-horn like you, over on the Panhandle onct, an' puts him in the fire an' has' plenty of fun with him.”

“Stop the play now, right yere,” said Tom Rawlins, the HT range boss, who was sitting close at hand. “You all spring trouble 'round yere an' I'll be in it. Whatever's the matter with all you people, anyway? You're like a passel of sore-'head' dogs for more'n a week now. You're shorely too many for me to sabe, an' I cl'ar gives you up.”

The boys started some grumbling reply, but the cook called them to supper just then, and, one animalism becoming overshadowed by another, they forgot their rancor and vague animosities in thoughts of supplying their hunger. Toward the last of the repast Rawlins arose, and going to another room began overlooking some entries in the ranch books.

The pretty girl did not eat at the ranch table. She had little banquets in her own room. Just then, she was in her room and began singing in a low tone some tender little love song that seemed born of a sigh and a tear. The boys at supper heard her, and their resentment of each other's existence began again to flame in their breasts and burn deeply in their eyes. None of these savages was in the least degree in love with the pretty girl, either. They might have become so, all or any of them.

The singing went on in a cooing, soft way that did not bring you the words—only the music.

“What I says about my saddle awhile back, I means,” said Moore, finally, turning a dark look on Watkins.

“See yere!” said Watkins in an exasperated tone—he was as vicious as Moore—“if you're p'intin' out for a war jig with me, don't fool 'round none for reasons, but jest let 'er roll. Come a-runnin', an' don't bother none with ceremony.”

“A man don't have to have no reasons for crawlin' you none,” said Moore. “You're fair game, you are. Any one's licensed to chase you 'round jest for fun an' exercise.”

“You can gamble,” said Watkins, confidently, “any man as chases me 'round much will regard it as a thrillin' pastime. He won't get fat at it, none whatever.”

“As you all seems to feel that a-way,” said Moore, “I'll step out an' shoot with you right now.”

“Well, I'll shore go you,” said Watkins.

They arose and stepped out at the door. It was gathering dark, but it was light enough to shoot by.

The other cowboys followed in silence. Not one said a word in comment or interference. They were grave and serious, but passive. It is not good form to interfere with other people's duels in the Southwest. The pretty girl was still singing, and the strains fell softly on the ears of the cowboys. Every one, whether onlooker or principal, felt inspired with a licking pleased anticipation of the blood to be soon set flowing. Nothing was said of distance. They separated to about forty paces and turned to face each other. Each wore his “Colt's 45,” the loosely-buckled belt letting it rest low down on the right hip. Each threw down his big hat and stood at apparent ease, with his thumbs caught in the pistol belt.

“Shall you give the word, or me?” said Moore.

“You give it,” said Watkins. “It'll be a funny passage in American history if you get your artillery to the front any sooner than I do, then.”

“Be you ready?” asked Jack.

“Shore.”

“Then—go!”

“Bang! bang! bang! bang!” went both pistols together, and with a rapidity not to be counted. Moore got a crease in his left shoulder—a mere wound to the flesh—and Watkins fell with a bullet in his side. Rawlins, the range boss, came running out. He understood all at a look. Hastily examining Moore, he discovered that his hurt was nothing serious. The others carried Watkins into the house.

“Take my pony, saddled at the fence, Jack,” said Rawlins, “and pull your freight. This yere man's goin' to die.”

“Which I shorely hopes he does,” said Jack, bitterly. “I'll go, though. I ain't got no use for none of these yere he-shorthorns around the HT.”

So he took Rawlins's pony, and when he stopped riding in the morning it was no marvel that the poor pony hung his head dejectedly, while his flanks steamed and quivered. He was almost one hundred miles from his last corn, and cooled his nervous muzzle as he took his morning drink in the Rio Pecos, a stream far to the west of the HT.

“Some shooting scrape about their saddles, miss; that's all.” So reported Rawlins to the pretty girl.

“Isn't it horrible!” shuddered the pretty girl in reply.

The next morning the pretty girl and her gnarled and twisted aunt paid the injured Watkins a visit. This sight so affected the other three cowboys that they at once saddled, and rode away to the northwest to work some cattle over on the Ocate Mesa. They intended to be gone three months. They looked black and forbidding as they galloped away.

“It's a pity Jack Moore ain't no better pistol shot,” said one, as the picture of the pretty girl visiting the wounded Watkins arose in his mind.

“That's whatever,” assented the others.

The pretty girl was full of sympathy for the stricken Watkins. It occurred to her, too, that his profile was clear and handsome. He was certainly very pale, and this stirred the depths of her feminine nature. She and her aunt came to see the invalid every day. Once the pretty girl said she would bring him a book to read and while away the hours, which seemed shod with lead.

“I can't read,” said Watkins, in a tone of deepest shame. “I never learned. I should like to read, too, but there's no one to teach me. So that settles that,” and the rascal expressed a deep sigh.

Watkins lied. It was he who was the Princeton man. He said afterward that this lie was the only real good work he ever did in his life.

So the pretty girl came every day and gave Watkins a reading lesson, while the gnarled aunt read a book and watched them through the open door.

“By the way,” said Watkins one day, “where's Moore?”

“Why?” asked the range boss,to whom the question was put.

“You tell him,” said Watkins, his eyes beginning to gather rage, “that when I get out I'll be lookin' for him with something besides a field glass.”

“Oh, no!” said the pretty girl, rising and coming toward his couch. Her tone showed great disturbance and fear at the thought

As he gazed at her, the look changed in his eyes. Hate for Moore gave place to something else.

“No,” he said at last. “Tell him it's all right, Rawlins.”

The pretty girl thought him very noble.

Watkins was out in five weeks and could go about the ranch. One night Rawlins thought he heard a pony in the yard and arose to remedy the matter. As he stepped out a couple passed him in the moonlight. It was Watkins and the pretty girl. The caitiff's arm was around her.

title: An Idyl of the 'HT'


text: Talk:An Idyl of the 'HT'

title: Talk:An Idyl of the 'HT'


text:
Found (Lewis)

Chuck! Crash! Rattle!

The Cinnabar mail comes swinging down the canyon. The six horses—wheel, swing, and lead—wear the air of thought common to old stagers. Only one passenger; a slender girl.

Very beautiful she has been in a happier time. To-day her sweet face is sorrow-bitten. In the wistful depths of her eyes one sees the look of hunger which comes when hope lies starving. Eight years and no word. The canyon seems the home of gloom. At long intervals some stout sunbeam writes its shifting signature on the floor. The stage labors and creaks over the shelvy rocks. The driver whistles as he fumbles his six reins. The trace-chains rattle and the straps strain as the horses surge in the six collars.

“Throw up your hands!”

Two faces appear in the bushes at the side—one unmasked and reckless. Their eyes are as bright and accurate as the cold barrels of the Winchesters along which they glance.

At the voice the girl gives a little startled cry of joy.

“Chrish—sh—sh—sh!”

The brake is set to the wheels by the foot of the driver and the coach stops. Without a word or look he clasps his hands above his head. He is old and wise. Drivers who fight or bear witness never live out half their days. Not so the two Wells-Fargo guards. They glide to the ground and open fire. The undaunted hold-ups are no whit behind.

“Bangity! Bang! Bang! Bang!”

The canyon is a cloud of smoke, through the deep folds of which flashes and leaps the incessant Winchester. Now the excited girl springs from the stage in the very course of the bullets. A half sob, and she crushes forward like a flower. The misguided lead of the reckless one has torn through her tender, faithful breast. The smoke still gathers and the bullets whiz. The sanguine rifles still speak cheerfully.

At last it is over—the outlaws win. A wind comes down from the sighing pines and drives away the smoke. It shows the reckless one gazing dumbly at the pulseless form of the girl.

“Alice!” he whispers, “Alice!” and bending gathers her to his breast and kisses her face, now white and cold as snow.

title: Found (Lewis)


text: Talk:Found (Lewis)

title: Talk:Found (Lewis)


text:
Page:กม ร ๘ - ๒๔๗๗.pdf/141

 of the House of People's Representatives on the 31st day of March 2477 Buddhist Era in accordance with the dispositions of section 30 of the Constitution.

title: Page:กม ร ๘ - ๒๔๗๗.pdf/141


text:
Page:James Connolly - Socialism Made Easy (1909).djvu/19

Rh plenty and a Care-Free Life to him and his to the remotest generation.

Which will it be?

''But it is their property. Why should Socialists confiscate it?''

Their property, eh? Let us see: Here is a cutting from the New York World giving a synopsis of the Annual Report of the Coats Thread Company of Pawtucket, Rhode Island, for 1907. Now, let us examine it, and bear in mind that this company is the basis of the Thread Trust, with branches in Paisley, Scotland, and on the continent of Europe.

Also bear in mind that it is not a “horrible example,” but simply a normal type of a normally conducted industry, and therefore what applies to it will apply in a greater or less degree to all others.

This report gives the dividend for the year at 20 per cent per annum. Twenty per cent dividend means 20 cents on the dollar profit. Now, what is a profit?

According to Socialists, profit only exists when all other items of production are paid for. The workers by their labor must create enough wealth to pay for certain items before profit appears. They must pay for the cost of raw material, the wear and tear of machinery, buildings, etc. (the depreciation of capital), the wages of superintendence, their own wages, and a certain amount to be left aside as a reserve fund to meet all possible contingencies. After, and only after, all these items have been paid for by their labor, all that is left is profit.

With this company the profit amounted to 20 cents on every dollar invested.

What does this mean? It means that in the course of


text:
Page:James Connolly - Socialism Made Easy (1909).djvu/20

18 five years—five times 20 cents equals one dollar—the workers in the industry had created enough profit to buy the whole industry from its present owners. It means that after paying all the expenses of the factory, including their own wages, they created enough profit to buy the whole building, from the roof to the basement, all the offices and agencies, and everything in the shape of capital. All this in five years.

And after they had so bought it from the capitalists it still belonged to the capitalists.

It means that if a capitalist had invested $1,000 in that industry, in the course of five years he would draw out a thousand dollars, and still have a thousand dollars lying there untouched; in the course of ten years, he would draw two thousand dollars, in fifteen years he would draw three thousand dollars. And still his first thousand dollars would be as virgin as ever.

You understand that this has been going on ever since the capitalist system came into being; all the capital in the world has been paid for by the working class over and over again, and we are still creating it, and recreating it. And the oftener we buy it the less it belongs to us.

The capital of the master class is not their property; it is the unpaid labor of the working class—“the hire of the laborer kept back by fraud.”

''Oh, the capitalist has his anxieties, too. And the worker has often a good time.''

Sure: Say, where were you for the holidays?

Were you tempted to go abroad? Did you visit Europe? Did you riot, in all the abandonment of a wage slave let loose, among the pleasure haunts of the world?


text:
Page:Sophocles (Storr 1912) v1.djvu/203

 In drenching rains and under scorching suns,

Careless herself of home and ease, if so

Her sire might have her tender ministry.

And thou, my child, whilom thou wentest forth,

Eluding the Cadmeians’ vigilance,

To bring thy father all the oracles

Concerning Oedipus, and didst make thyself

My faithful lieger, when they banished me.

And now what mission summons thee from home,

What news, Ismene, hast thou for thy father?

This much I know, thou com’st not empty-handed,

Without a warning of some new alarm.

The toil and trouble, father, that I bore

To find thy lodging-place and how thou faredst,

I spare thee; surely ’twere a double pain

To suffer, first in act and then in telling;

’Tis the misfortune of thine ill-starred sons

I come to tell thee. At the first they willed

To leave the throne to Creon, minded well

Thus to remove the inveterate curse of old,

A canker that infected all thy race.

But now some god and an infatuate soul

Have stirred betwixt them a mad rivalry

To grasp at sovereignty and kingly power.

To-day the hot-brained youth, the younger born,

Is keeping Polyneices from the throne,

His elder, and has thrust him from the land.

The banished brother (so all Thebes reports)

Fled to the vale of Argos, and by help

Of new alliance there and friends in arms, 181

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 Swears he will stablish Argos straight as lord

Of the Cadmeian land, or, if he fail,

Exalt the victor to the stars of heaven.

This is no empty tale, but deadly truth,

My father; and how long thy agony,

Ere the gods pity thee, I cannot tell.

Hast thou indeed then entertained a hope

The gods at last will turn and rescue me?

Yea, so I read these latest oracles.

What oracles? What hath been uttered, child?

Thy country (so it runs) shall yearn in time

To have thee for their weal alive or dead.

And who could gain by such a one as I?

On thee, ’tis said, their sovereignty depends.

So, when I cease to be, my worth begins.

The gods, who once abased, uplift thee now.

Poor help to raise an old man fallen in youth.

Howe’er that be, ’tis for this cause alone

That Creon comes to thee—and comes anon. 183

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Flatey Book [Flateyjarbók] is the most extensive and most perfect of Icelandic manuscripts. It is in itself a comprehensive historical library of the era with which it deals, and so considerable are its contents, that they fill upwards of 1700 large octavo pages of printed text. On the title-page of the manuscript we are informed, that it belonged originally to John Haconsson [Jon Hákonarson], for whom it was written by the priests John Thordsson [Jon Þóri^arson] and Magnus Thorhallsson [Magnus Þórhallsson]. We have no information concerning the date when the book was commenced by John Thordsson; but the most important portion of the work appears to have been completed in the year 1387, although additions were made to the body of the work by one of the original scribes , and the annals, appended to the book, brought down to the year 1394. Toward the close of the fifteenth century, the then owner of the book, whose name is unknown, inserted three quaternions of additional historical matter in the manuscript, to fill a hiatus in the historical sequence of the work, not, however, in that part of the manuscript which treats of Wineland.

It has been conjectured that the manuscript was written in the north of Iceland ,