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PETERSON’S MAGAZINE.

Vol. XXVII. EMILY WHARTON’S ACCOMPLISHMENTS.

BY FANRY SMITE.

At eighteen, sooording to the diploma of » fashionable boarding-school, Emily Martin was fully qualified to marry. Her music was of the most scientific description, far above the comprehension of the common herd; her voice in the highest state of cultivation; her French as Purim as Monsieur Gondon and a provincial French nursery-maid could make it; her Italian so extensive that she could sing it with but fow mistakes, and her embroidery and fancy work wey much better than her plain sewing.

8, as I said before, my friend Emily con- sxidered herself falty competent for the matrimo- sziisl state, and a certain Louis Wharton thought so too.

After the flatter of bridal finery and bridal wputies was over, the young wife was carried off © 8 distant village to make acquaintance with E-ser busband’s family, and she came home de- Lighted with everything and overybody she saw. Such housekeeping, such clock-work regularity, sack breakfasts, aud dinners, and suppers; these were the themes of Ewily’s conversation for many 4 day, and she had half mind to try to rival her mother-in-law and sister-inaw in that respect

Bat her old interesta and occupations soon superseded her new ones, the more readily, a3 Bid@y, her one servant, was 4 faitbfal, thorough- going creature, who preferred hnving the work entirely under own control.

Tt was four months after her marriage, and witha a gay heart and willing hands, Emily Whar- ton. waa patting her frilled pillow-cages on the bed of her spare room, for her mother-in-law was expected that day to make them s visit,

She was standing back to admire the effect of ber handy work, when Biddy put her head in at the open door.

“If you plase, mam,” said she, “I must go this minit to my sisther’s, Jemmy’s down stairs, and he esys the baby’s most desd iotirely. The Virgin save us!” and Biddy’s tears flowed copl- ously.

Poor Emily stood bewildered. It was a case in which she could not refuse to let her servant g0, bat what was she to do? her mother-in-low, the queen of housekeepers, coming, and dinner to get, Had it been # piece of intricate music to play at sight, she would have Isughed st the difficulty, but chickens to prepare, aud dessert to make, and old Mrs. Wharton to criticize! poor Emily felt as if ber sorrow was as great as Biady’s,

“But can’t you run down and see the child, Biddy, and then come back to get dinner? You know my mother-in-law is coming to-day. You shall go away again as soon as possible. I guess the baby ian’t so very sick,” said che, as coax- ingly as if her manner would have made it a she wished.

But Biddy shook her head.

“If it's ill jest, you see, mam, T must stay and help nurse it; and if it dies, Margary will want me to wake with it, But I'll come back, mam, as soon as iver I can,” and she left tha room to put on her things.

Emily seated herself on the foot of the bed which she had been at s0 much trouble to pre~ pare, and looked ag if stunned by some unex- peeted blow.

She could not collect her ideaa, and it was not till she heard the hall door olose, that she recol- lected how mach she might have learned from Biddy, had she but had hor wits about ber suffi- ciently to have asked.

There was @ mine of energy in Emily's cha- acter which had never been worked for want of necessity, 6o without stopping to bewail the unfortunate circumstance apy longer, she pro- ceeded at once to the kitchen. ‘There upon the large waiter, which Biddy always used for such purposes, lay » pair of fine chickens, with ampu- tated legs, and in the half prepared state in �


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 him; and just then Lvof's colleague, Makhotin, in his court-uniform, came into the room, and began a lively conversation about Herzegovina, the Princess Korzinsky, and the premature death of Madame Apraksin.

Levin forgot all about Kitty's message. He remembered it just as they reached the vestibule.

"Oh! Kitty commissioned me to speak with you about Oblonsky," said he, as Lvof went with them to the head of the staircase.

"Yes, yes! maman wants us, les beaux-frères, to attack him," said Lvof, turning red. "But how can I?"

"Then I'll undertake it," said the smiling Madame Lvof, who, wrapped in her white dogskin rotonda, was waiting till they should finish talking.

CHAPTER V

very interesting pieces were to be given at the matinee. One was a fantasia or symphonic poem called "The King Lear of the Steppes," the other was a quartette dedicated to the memory of Bach. Both pieces were new and of the new school, and Levin desired to form his own opinion in regard to them. So, after he had conducted his sister-in-law to her place, he took his stand near a column, and determined to listen as attentively and conscientiously as possible. He tried not to allow his attention to be distracted and his impressions spoiled by letting his eyes follow the white-cravatted kapellmeister's waving arms, which are always so disturbing to the musical attention, or by looking at the ladies in their hats, who for concerts take especial pains to tie ribbons round their ears, or at all those faces either occupied with nothing, or occupied with the most heterogeneous interests, music being the last. He tried to avoid meeting the connoisseurs and the chatterers, but he stood alone by himself, looking down and listening.

But the more he listened to the "King Lear" fantasia, the more he felt the impossibility of forming a clear and

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CRAPE BONNET. COLLARS.

BOY'S PARDESSUS. MANTELET.


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CHEMISETTE. BERTHE.

EVENING BASQUINE.


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 exact idea of it. The musical thought, at the moment of its development, was constantly interrupted by the introduction of new themes, or vanished, leaving only the impression of a complicated and laborious attempt at instrumentation. But these same new themes, beautiful as some of them were, gave an unpleasant impression, because they were not expected or prepared for. Gayety and sadness and despair and tenderness and triumph followed one another like the incoherent thoughts of a madman, to be themselves followed by others as wild.

During the whole performance, Levin experienced a feeling analogous to what a deaf man might have in looking at dancers. He was in a state of utter dubiety when the piece came to an end, and he felt a great weariness from the strain of intellectual intensity which was never rewarded.

On all sides were heard loud applause and clapping of hands. All got up and moved about, talking. Wishing to get some light on his doubts by the impressions of others. Levin began to walk about, seeking for the connoisseurs, and he was glad when at last he saw one of the best-known musical critics talking with his friend Pestsof.

"It's wonderful," said Pestsof, in his deep bass. "How are you, Konstantin Dmitritch? The passage that is the richest in color, the most statuesque, so to speak, is that where Cordelia appears, where woman, das ewig Weibliche, comes into conflict with fate. Don't you think so?"

"Why Cordelia?" asked Levin, with hesitation, for he had wholly forgotten that the symphonic poem had anything to do with King Lear.

"Cordelia appears here," said Pestsof, tapping with his finger on the satin program which he held in his hand. Then only did Levin notice the title of the symphonic poem, and he made haste to read the text of Shakespeare, translated into Russian and printed on the back of the program. "You can't follow it without that," said Pestsof, addressing Levin, now that his

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NAME FOR MARKING.

THE ROSITA. As made by Molyneux Bell, Mantilla and Cloak Importer and Manufacturer, New York, and drawn from the original garment in his store.


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 friend, the critic, had gone, and there was nothing more to talk with him about.

Levin and Pestsof spent the intermission in discussing the merits and defects of the Wagnerian tendencies in music. Levin maintained that the mistake of Wagner and all his followers consisted in transferring music to the domain of an alien art, that poetry made the mistake when it tried to depict the features of the human face, which it was the province of painting to do, and as a concrete example of this kind of a mistake he adduced the sculptor who should try to express in marble the shades of poetic imagery rising round the figure of the poet on the pedestal.

"These shades are so far from being shades in the case of the sculptor, that they even rest on the steps," said Levin. This phrase pleased him, but he had a lurking suspicion that he had once used this same phrase before, and to Pestsof himself, and he felt confused.

Pestsof argued that art is one, and that it can reach its loftiest manifestations only by combining all its forms.

Levin could not listen to the second number on the program. Pestsof, who was standing near him, kept talking to him most of the time, criticizing it for its excessive, mawkish, affected simplicity, and comparing it to the simplicity of the Pre-Raphaelites in painting.

On his way out, he met various acquaintances, with whom he exchanged remarks on politics, music, and other topics; among others he saw Count Bohl, and the call which he should have made on him came to mind.

"Well, go quickly," said Natalie, to whom he confided this. "Perhaps the countess is not receiving. If so, you will come and join me at the meeting. You will have plenty of time."

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 CHAPTER VI

" they are not receiving?" asked Levin, as he entered the vestibule of Count Bohl's house.

"Oh, yes! permit me!" answered the Swiss, resolutely taking the visitor's shuba.

"What a nuisance!" thought Levin, drawing off one of his gloves with a sigh, and turning his hat in his hands. "Now, why did I come? Now, what am I going to say to them?"

Passing through the first drawing-room, he met the Countess Bohl at the door, who, with a perplexed and severe face, was giving orders to a servant. When she saw Levin, she smiled, and invited him to walk into a small parlor, where voices were heard. In this room were sitting her two daughters and a Muscovite colonel whom Levin knew. Levin joined them, passed the usual compliments, and sat down near a divan, holding his hat on his knee.

"How is your wife? Have you been to the concert? We were not able to go. Mamma had to attend the requiem," said one of the young ladies.

"Yes, I heard about it—what a sudden death!"— said Levin.

The countess came in, sat down on the divan, and asked also about his wife and the concert.

Levin replied, and asked some questions about the sudden death of Madame Apraksin.

"But then, she was always in delicate health."

"Were you at the opera yesterday?"

"Yes, I was."

"Lucca was very good."

"Yes, very good," he said; and he began, seeing that it was entirely immaterial to him what they thought about him, to repeat what he had heard a hundred times about the singer's extraordinary talent. The Countess Bohl pretended that she was listening. Then, when he had said all he had to say, and relapsed into silence, the colonel, who had hitherto held his peace, began also to

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 the Prince expressed himself highly pleased with his intelligence, his prudence, and the liberal view which he seemed to take of the factions of his native country, their motives and their purposes.

"I would willingly," said William, "attach you to my own person, but that cannot be without giving offence in England. But I will do as much for you, as well out of respect for the sentiments you have expressed, as for the recommendations you have brought me. Here is a commission in a Swiss regiment at present in garrison in a distant province, where you will meet few or none of your countrymen. Continue to be Captain Melville, and let the name of Morton sleep.till better days."

"Thus began my fortune," continued Morton; "and my services have, on various occasions, been distinguished by his Royal Highness, until the moment that brought him to Britain as our political deliverer. His commands must excuse my silence to my few friends in Scotland; and


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 I wonder not at the report of my death, considering the wreck of the vessel, and that I found no occasion to use the letters of exchange with which I was furnished by the liberality of some of them, a circumstance which must have confirmed the belief that I had perished."

"But, dear hinny," asked Mrs Wilson, "did ye find nae Scotch body at the Prince of Oranger's court that kenn'd ye? I wad hae thought Morton o' Milnwood was kenn'd a' through the country."

"I was purposely engaged in distant service," said Morton, "until a period when few, without as deep and kind a motive of interest as yours, Ailie, would have known the stripling Morton in Major-General Melville."

"Malville was your mother's name," said Mrs Wilson; "but Morton sounds far bonnier in my auld lugs. And when ye tak up the lairdship, ye maun tak the auld name and designation again."

"I am like to be in no haste to do ei-


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 ately to the Hague, but forwarded his letters to the court of the Stadtholder.

"Our Prince," said the veteran, "must, as yet, keep terms with his father-in-law, and with your King Charles; and to approach him in the character of a Scottish malcontent would render it imprudent for him to distinguish you by his favour. Wait, therefore, his orders, without forcing yourself on his notice; observe the strictest prudence and retirement; assume for the present a different name; shun the company of the British exiles; and, depend upon it, you will not repent your prudence."

The old friend of Silas Morton argued justly. After a considerable time had elapsed, the Prince of Orange, in a progress through the United States, came to the town where Morton, impatient at his situation and the incognito which he was obliged to observe, still continued, nevertheless, to be a resident. He had an hour of private interview assigned, in which


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 cording to the invariable practice of the family, unless upon their most solemn festivals. In the matted room, therefore, they were settled, surrounded by picklepots and conserves of all kinds, which the ci-devant housekeeper continued to compound, out of mere habit, although neither she herself, nor any one else, ever partook of the comfits which she so regularly prepared.

Morton, adapting his narrative to the comprehension of his auditor, informed her briefly of the wreck of the vessel and the loss of all hands, excepting two or three common seamen, who had early secured the skiff, and were just putting off from the vessel when he leaped from the deck into their boat, and unexpectedly, as well as contrary to their inclination, made himself partner of their voyage and of their safety. Landed at Flushing, he was fortunate enough to meet with an old officer who had been in service with his father. By his advice, he shunned going immedi-


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scene of explanation was hastily removed from the little kitchen to Mrs Wilson's own matted room, the very same which she had occupied as housekeeper, and which she continued to retain. "It was," she said, "better secured against sifting winds than the hall, which she had found dangerous to her rheumatisms, and more fitting for her use than the late Milnwood's apartment, honest man, which gave her sad thoughts;" and as for the great oak parlour, it was never opened but to be aired, washed, and dusted, ac-


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Hastings, Charles


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Hastings, (Sir) Francis


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Hastings, Gabriel


text: Alumni Oxonienses: the Members of the University of Oxford, 1500-1714/Hastings, George


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 for compensating the damage arising from the management by the man or woman of his or her own property or business in expectation of the marriage.

In the event that the woman is the injured party, the engagement gift shall become subject to her rights, but the court may rule that such engagement gift constitutes sufficient compensation.

If either of the engaged persons dies prior to the marriage, the other cannot claim compensation. As regards the engagement gift, if the deceased is the woman, the gift shall be returned from her part to the man's part, but if the deceased is the man, the gift is not required to be returned, save where a different contract has been made.

If the man refuses to marry the woman he is engaged to due to a significant reason caused by the woman, the woman shall return the engagement gift to the man and the man and woman cannot claim compensation from each other.

If the woman refuses to marry the man she is engaged to due to a significant reason caused by the man, the woman is not required to return the engagement gift and the man and woman cannot claim compensation from each other.

The engaged man may claim compensation from another man who has sexually violated the engaged woman.

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 mechanical virtue, why not pursue the plan of the elder Pliny? Herr Liebert planes away at his door, and says it’s not in his orders to make scientific observations on volcanoes in a state of eruption. When it is he'll do so—until it is, he most decidedly will not. He adds Pliny was an admiral and sailors are always as curious as cats.

Buea seems a sporting place for weather even without volcanic eruptions, during the whole tornado season (there are two a year), over-charged tornadoes burst in the barrack yard. From the 14th of June till the 27th of August you never see the sun, because of the terrific and continuous wet season downpour. At the beginning and end of this cheerful period occurs a month’s tornado season, and the rest of the year is dry, hot by day and cold by night.

They are talking of making Buea into a sanatorium for the fever-stricken. I do not fancy somehow that it's a suitable place for a man who has got all the skin off his nerves with fever and quinine, and is very liable to chill; but all Governments on the Coast, English, German, or French, are stark mad on the subject of sanatoriums in high places, though the experience they have had of them has clearly pointed out that they are valueless in West Africa, and a man’s one chance is to get out to sea on a ship that will take him outside the three-mile-deep fever-belt of the coast. I hear grand accounts of other people who have gone up the peak, or tried to; I gather most of the failures have been on account of the porters. Herr Leist went up once from Babundi, and once this side. This side he failed because the three boys he had with him nearly died from the cold, and would have done so entirely if he and Herr Yost, who was with him, had not taken a world of trouble to wrap them in blankets, and rub them, and then, on the boys' account, return down. My Head man, Bum, was with Herr Leist when he tried the sea face side from Babundi and he says they turned back then because it was too steep. I am sure the boys collapsed on that side too, if the truth were known. The only point I congratulate myself on is having got my men up so high, and back again, undamaged; but, as they said, I was a Father and a Mother to them, and a very stern though kind set of parents I have been.


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Author:George Cecil Wilmshurst

As illustrator

 * Her Chance by E. R. Punshon

title: Author:George Cecil Wilmshurst


text: User:Toohool/Copyright renewals

title: User:Toohool/Copyright renewals


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of the smallest and weakest clans of Hottentots who had lost their cattle in war or by disease, or who were the poorest members of tribes suffering from want, and had to abandon the communities to which they belonged and seek for means of existence elsewhere, lived chiefly upon the produce of the sea. They adopted from necessity the same means of obtaining a scanty supply of food as the earlier inhabitants who raised such enormous shell mounds as the one recently removed at East London had resorted to. They had neither boats nor hooks, but they managed to catch fish by throwing light assagais with lines attached to them from rocks standing out in deep water, and by making weirs in favourable situations along the shore enclosing considerable spaces which were left nearly dry at low tide. Shellfish also formed a portion of their food, and occasionally a dead whale would drift ashore and furnish them with a feast. Further, they gathered all the edible plants in their neighbourhood, and captured as many wild animals as they could. Shell and ash heaps made by these people bearing signs of being quite modern, that is dating back only two or three hundred years, are found in several places along the coast from Walfish Bay to Natal.

The heaps contain ordinary Hottentot implements, in rare instances human skeletons, and bones of animals obtained in the chase, always broken in order that the marrow might be extracted. The perforated stone weights for digging-sticks found in them are usually of the shape of compressed spheres, nearly resembling in form those of Scotland referred to on a previous page. There is a good collection of specimens of various shapes


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Rh and sizes in the South African museum in Capetown. It is supposed that the stones perforated by Hottentots were always of a distinct type from those drilled by Bushmen, but this is not certain, though as far as is known only spherical weights are picked up in tracts of country that were exclusively occupied by the aborigines, and compressed spheres wherever the later intruders or people connected with them lived, where also a few stones have been found that have first been perforated and then chipped into a convenient shape for use.

Hottentots, or it would be more correct to say mixed-breeds largely of Bushman blood who had been brought up at Hottentot kraals, who spoke the Hottentot language, and whose ideas and normal habits were those of Hottentots, were found living in the manner here indicated when Europeans first came to the country—one small band where Capetown now stands,—and on the coast of Namaqualand there were some existing in a similar state after the middle of the nineteenth century. As far as food, clothing, and lodging were concerned, they were in no better condition than the Bushmen who lived in a similar manner, though there was always the hope before them of acquiring cattle by a successful raid, in which case they would at once revert to the ordinary mode of living of the pastoral communities.

Only a few of the recent shell heaps on the South African coast, however, were made by Hottentot-speaking people. Much the greater number were made by Bushmen, as is proved by the articles found in them and by the paintings on rocks in their neighbourhood; and these may be taken as forming a connected series with the most ancient mounds. A painting is the most positive evidence of the locality having been occupied by Bushmen, as the Hottentots did not practise that art, and the captives of the wild race living with them, being females only, could not introduce it.

The Hottentots, as observed before, did not form a continuous line of settlement, but a series of dots, frequently far apart, and between these stations Bushmen still lived, though the enmity between the two races was so strong that they were constantly seeking to destroy each other. This will account for


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 I cannot help thinking how very perfectly Kipling’s observations on the 'Oont fit the African carrier, for like the commissariat camel

also

Volumes upon volumes all illustrated with instantancous photographs, and stiff with statistics, couldn't give you a truer account of him. For instance there are those two who strayed down that other path this afternoon, just coming down the slide in front of us, thank goodness! for I was making up my mind it was my pater-maternal duty to go and find them.

Herr Liebert gives me some interesting details about the first establishment of the station here and a bother he had with the plantations. Only a short time ago the soldiers brought him in some black wood spikes, which they had found with their feet, set into the path leading to the station’s koko plantations, to the end of laming the men. On further investigation there were also found pits, carefully concealed with sticks and leaves, and the bottoms lined with bad thorns, also with malicious intent. The local Bakwiri chiefs were called in and asked to explain these phenomena existing in a country where peace had been concluded, and the chiefs said it was quite a mistake, those things had not been put there to kill soldiers, but only to attract their attention, to kill and injure their own fellow-tribesmen who had been stealing from plantations latterly. That's the West African's way entirely all along the Coast; the "child-like" native will turn out and shoot you with a gun to attract your attention to the fact that a tribe you never heard of has been and stolen one of his ladies, whom you never saw. It’s the sweet infant's way of "rousing up popular opinion," but I do not admire or approve of it. If I


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106 shell mounds being formed by both people at the same time. But in point of fact those destitute Hottentots who lived as beachrangers, as the first European colonists termed them, in all probability had more Bushman than pure Khoikhoi blood in their veins, though they would have resented being termed Sana, just as a mulatto prides himself upon his descent from a white man, and resents being termed a negro. In a pastoral clan the children of captive Bushman girls would be regarded as illegitimate, and would not inherit cattle from their fathers. The daughters of the next generation by Khoikhoi fathers might, and most likely did, occupy a better position, but the sons would remain paupers and dependents of some wealthy man. When fresh captives were made, their blood would become mixed with that of the half-breeds, and thus there would be men and women of only one-fourth Khoikhoi descent, and yet Khoikhoi in language, ideas, and habits.

This process having gone on for many generations, there must have been a mixture of blood in various proportions in the individual members of a clan. A raid would be made on a neighbouring tribe, and a herd of cattle would be secured, of which some of the mixed-breeds would obtain a share, when they would at once assume the position of honourable men and acquire all the rights of the purest Khoikhoi. But in the vanquished tribe there would be a similar class of mixed-breeds, and now that meat and milk had become so scarce that there was not sufficient food to keep all alive, the poorest of them would be compelled to separate from the others, and to seek subsistence along the shore until such time as chance placed an opportunity in their way of obtaining horned cattle or sheep by plunder. Their condition was more abject than that of pure Bushmen, who greatly excelled them as hunters, but as far as wild plants went, there was as great a quantity and as large a variety along the ocean shore as anywhere inland.


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Author talk:Marguerite Gardiner

Conversations with Lord Byron
I think it wouldn't be a bad idea to start a transcription project of this book? But I'm new to editing Wikisource so I don't know how. Here is the link to the page scans: https://preserver.beic.it/delivery/DeliveryManagerServlet?dps_pid=IE4674342 Joannaszulcm (talk) 19:12, 23 November 2023 (UTC)

title: Author talk:Marguerite Gardiner


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Rh The Hottentots were a superstitious people who placed great faith in the efficacy of charms to ward off evil. They even besought favours from certain pieces of root so used, and if their wishes were successful, they praised and thanked the charms. This superstition might in time have developed into idolatry, but it was arrested before it reached that stage. They believed that certain occurrences foreboded good or ill luck, and were always on the watch for omens. Their veneration of the mantis, an insect that bears so close a resemblance either to a withered leaf or to a dry stalk of grass that its presence cannot be detected except when it is in motion, has been asserted by many writers, some of whom have even termed it the Hottentot God, but it has been called in question by others. The reason of this contradiction is that their notions regarding the insect were acquired from their Bushman female captives, who had been taught by their parents that it was endowed with the power of exchanging its form for that of any other animal, and that it could confer good or bad fortune upon human beings. Clans in which Bushman blood was strong would therefore venerate the mantis, and others would pay little or no regard to it.

They lived in dread of ghosts and evil spirits, but with no more conception of the nature of such shadowy beings, or of the mode of receiving harm, than little children have. They invoked blessings from the moon, the harbinger of their festivities, to whose praise they sang and danced when it appeared as new. In later times those who had come in contact with Bantu prayed for blessings from dead ancestors, to whose shades sacrifices were offered by priests on important occasions, but this was evidently a custom of foreign origin. Generally they implored protection and favour from a mythical hero named Tsuiǁgoab or Heitsi-eibib, who was believed by them to have lived on the earth and to have died and risen again many times, and whose worship consisted in throwing a branch of a tree, a bit of wood, or an additional stone upon a cairn at a place where he was supposed to have been once buried. Tales of the wonderful deeds of this Heitsi-eibib were commonly narrated by old men, and were implicitly believed by every one who heard them.


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 am to be shot for a crime, for goodness sake let me commit the crime first.

September 28th—Down to Victoria in one day, having no desire to renew and amplify my acquaintance with the mission station at Buana. It poured torrentially all the day through. I wonder what it is like here in the wet season; something rather like the climate of the bed of the Atlantic, I presume.

My boots are a dreadful nuisance to-day. I got them dried last night for the first time since I left Victoria, and they are like boards, Xenia brought them to me this morning and I congratulated him on being able to do without boots, but he proudly pointed to his distorted toe-joints, and informed me that once he always wore boots, better boots than mine, and boots that were "all shiny." I am sure Xenia has had a chequered past; he is from the Republic of Liberia. I wonder whether he is a fugitive president or a defaulting bank manager? They have copies of all the high points of American culture there, I am told.

The old chief at Buana was very nice to-day when we were coming through his territory. He came out to meet us with some of his wives. Both men and women among these Bakwiri are tattooed, or rather painted, on the body, face and arms, but as far as I have seen not on the legs. The patterns are handsome, and more elaborate than any such that I have seen. One man who came with the party had two figures of men tattooed on the region where his waistcoat should have been. I gave the chief some tobacco though he never begged for anything. He accepted it thankfully, and handing it to his wives preceded us on our path for about a mile and a half and then having reached the end of his district, we shook hands and parted.

After all the rain we have had, the road was of course worse than ever, and as we were going through the forest towards the war hedge, I noticed a strange sound, a dull roar which made the light friable earth quiver under our feet, and I remembered with alarm the accounts Herr Liebert has given me of the strange ways of rivers on this mountain; how by Buea, about 200 metres below where you cross it, the river goes bodily down a hole. How there is a waterfall on the south face of


text:
Page:กม ร ๘ - ๒๔๗๘ fixed.pdf/1267

 An action for compensation according to this Chapter can only be instituted by the injured party. No heir may institute or continue it, save where it is for the compensation under section 1439(2).

The action shall not be instituted upon the passage of six months from the day the engagement contract was breached.

A marriage may be entered into only when—

the man has attained full seven years of age and the woman has attained full fifteen years of age;

the man and woman are not related by blood as direct ascendants or descendants or as siblings of whole or half blood;

the man or woman is not being the spouse of another person;

the man and woman agree to be husband and wife;

neither the man nor the woman is insane.

A mai woman can remarry only when the previous marriage has ended for not less than three hundred and ten days, but this shall not apply when—

title: Page:กม ร ๘ - ๒๔๗๘ fixed.pdf/1267


text:
Page:George McCall Theal, Ethnography and condition of South Africa before A.D. 1505 (2nd ed, 1919).djvu/132

108 All the actions ascribed to him were those of a man, but of one endowed with supernatural power.

Thus he was said on one occasion to have been pursued by an enemy, and with his family and his followers to have come to a large river. He said, “my grandfather's father, separate thyself that we may pass through, and close thyself afterwards.” The river did so. Heitsi-eibib and his people passed through in safety, and when the enemy followed them, the river closed again and they were all drowned. This tale may seem to have had its origin in the teaching of missionaries, but it has been obtained from so many sources, some of which were never directly or indirectly under missionary influence, that it is beyond doubt original.

Another of the tales related of Heitsi-eibib is as follows: ǂGāǂgorib sat by a large hole in the ground, and when people passed by he told them to throw a stone at his forehead. When they did this, the stone rebounded and stunned them, and they fell into the hole and died. Heitsi-eibib heard of this, so he went to the place, and ǂGāǂgorib challenged him to throw a stone. He declined to do so, and they then began to chase each other round the hole, saying “Push Heitsi-eibib down! Push ǂGāǂgorib down! Push Heitsi-eibib down! Push ǂGāǂgorib down!” At last Heitsi-eibib was pushed down, but he said “my grandfather's father, raise up thy bottom and let me out.” The hole did so, and he came out. They began to chase each other round it again, saying “Push Heitsi-eibib down! Push ǂGāǂgorib down! Push Heitsi-eibib down! Push ǂGāǂgorib down!” and Heitsi-eibib was thrown in the second time. He said “my grandfather's father, raise up thy bottom and let me out.” The hole did so. This happened many times, but at last when ǂGāǂgorib was looking on one side, Heitsi-eibib struck him behind the ear and stunned him, so that he fell into the hole and could not get out again. From that time onward the people had rest, because ǂGāǂgorib was conquered.

Still another of these tales is given, as it records one of the deaths of Heitsi-eibib, and of his coming to life again. It is in the words of the reverend G. Krönlein, as translated by him from the Nama original.


text: Talk:The Paupers of Portman Square

title: Talk:The Paupers of Portman Square


text: Talk:Her Chance (Wylie)

title: Talk:Her Chance (Wylie)


text:
Her Chance (Wylie)

applause died away; the orchestra, wearied with six hours' almost unceasing toil, hastily packed up their instruments and disappeared into mysterious little rabbit-holes beneath the stage; and those singers who had not yet hurried away to change into more modern attire met and shook hands and congratulated each other on a successful evening. For it had been a successful evening—and an interesting one besides. At the last moment, owing to the sudden illness of Herr Edelbert, the part of Gunther had been taken over by a young member of the chorus, and the world had chosen to nod approval at his performance.

Even his more advanced professional brethren were condescendingly appreciative.

"Fine voice!" said the Siegfried of half-an-hour before drawing up the fur collar of his coat. "Has a future before him, that young man!"

And the gentleman with the bass voice grunted assent.

Neither of them noticed a young girl who stood a little on one side listening with eager ears. For she knew who this rising star was. He was her comrade, and they had stood shoulder to shoulder ever since that day, two years ago, when they had met as humble members of the chorus. There had been many sad hours since then—hours when hope and ready money were alike at a low ebb. But they had always helped and comforted each other. That very evening he had been despairing, and she had tried to cheer him with visions of future triumphs. And he had taken her hand unseen in his, and the hardness and bitterness had vanished from his features.

"Ah, if a chance would only come!" he had whispered; "if it would only come, Norah—little comrade. Then things would be so different. Then I shouldn't be gagged with poverty and failure. Then I could tell you everything that has been on my lips all these weary months!"

And now she stood and waited for him.

Her heart was beating violently, and her hands clasped and unclasped themselves in feverish excitement. For success had come to him—the success for which he had hungered, and whose tarrying had embittered his life. Now his foot was on the first hard-won rung of the long ladder—afterwards the climbing would be easier.

And she was glad, so glad that it seemed as though the dingy theatre had become the golden temple of her dreams, as though the reflection of his triumph had fallen upon her own life and filled her heart with a new warmth. And perhaps, as she was a simple woman, something else mingled itself with her unselfish joy, the hope that now things would indeed be different, and that he would come to her and tell her that which her love had seen already in his eyes.

The crowd dispersed slowly, and at last she saw him walking towards her. His head was uplifted, and his burning eyes fixed straight ahead. Success had swept away all signs of weariness and despair from his clear features. She made a quick step forward and held out her hands. She felt that in this moment they should be nearer and dearer to each other.

"I am so glad," she stammered, her glowing eyes raised to his, "so—very glad, comrade. It has come at last after all this waiting—and now all will be well."

He looked at her absently, as though his vision were fixed on something afar off. She felt that he hardly knew who she was or what she said.

Then he smiled and nodded.

"Thank you, thank you," he said vaguely, touched her hands, and went on.

She watched his retreating form. At the corner of the passage he met the chief singer, an incongruous figure enough, still in her Brunnhilde's costume, with a modern mantle flung over her broad shoulders.

Norah saw how she stopped Richard and condescendingly gave him her hand. He grew boyishly scarlet, and his lips moved as though in eager thanks.

Norah turned and slipped into the dressing-room. A few minutes before she would not have believed that happiness such as hers could have died so suddenly. Yet it was dead. She scarcely knew why. It was as though an icy, freezing hand had clasped her heart and checked the warm, pulsing flow of her blood. She took down her hat and coat and went out into the street. It was raining hard, but she did not care. She remembered only how tender and thoughtful he had always been, and how at such times he had wrapped her up like a delicate child.

"Think what would become of me if you were ill!" he had laughed.

And now she was going home alone, and a nameless desolation seized her.

"I am tired and foolish," she thought. "Women are weak creatures, after all. I'm crying—and I'm really glad, terribly glad."

She went bravely on, but the lights in the streets swam before her eyes, and the way seemed endless. Just before she turned into the narrow doorway which led to her dingy dwelling, she heard quick steps behind her, and, turning with a nervous start of alarm, found Richard at her side. By the flickering light of the lamp overhead she could see that he was drenched through, and that there were dark rings under his eyes.

"I thought you'd be surprised," he said gaily. "I saw you in the distance, and ran after you. I'm afraid I startled you, but I couldn't help it. I couldn't wait till to-morrow. I've grand news,—I had to come and tell you—now when it is all burning and hot, so to speak."

He brushed the dark hair from his forehead, and she saw that his hand trembled.

"You have good news?" she said.

He nodded, and a happy smile touched his lips.

"Splendid! Think of my luck! It just happened that the manager of the Grand Operatic Company was in the threatre [sic] to-night. He heard me, and of the circumstances in which I had sung, and afterwards he came round and spoke to me. He asked me dozens of questions: what parts I knew, where I had learnt; and then"—he looked at her eyes brimming over with almost boyish pride and pleasure—"he engaged me. Second heroic tenor, if you please, for his tour in America, starting in four weeks' time."

She put out her hand blindly, seeking support. The world had seemed brighter a moment before; now suddenly the darkness and loneliness returned.

"And—you are going?" she said indistinctly.

He looked at her again, this time with a touch of annoyance.

"Of course!" he said. "Would you have me fool away a chance? Aren't you glad?"

"Indeed I am—I told you so—very, very glad," she said, but her voice sounded lifeless. The first flood of her joy had been checked too roughly—it now rang forced and hollow.

Richard drew himself up. His manner had become cold and formal.

"I must be going," he said. "I ought not to have come. I thought it might interest you. Good-night."

"Good-night," she answered.

Richard raised his hat and walked stiffly away. For a monent [sic] he felt nothing but a wounded sense of desertion. He had expected sympathy, and she had given him indifference. Manlike, he had forgotten the warm and eager words which he in his excitement had pushed aside unheeded and unheard.

"She's jealous," he thought. "They say most women are. To-morrow it will be all right again. I suppose I should have felt it, too; and perhaps I was tactless. It's rough to be left behind; but then, she might have known—my luck is hers."

He stopped under a lamp, and pulling out a packet opened it. A thin gold ring twinkled in the yellow light, and he smiled at it almost tenderly. It had been bought only a few minutes before, and had cost all his hard-earned savings. But success had come at last, and she was to share it with him just as they had always shared.

"To-morrow I will show it her," he murmured. "I will ask her. And then" He broke off. He was, after all, very foolish and very young, and it was a good thing the street was deserted. He bent down and kissed the humble gold band in its cheap case.

Meanwhile Norah had turned and climbed up the dark stairs to her room. In spite of all her self-control she could not choke back a heavy sob from her lips.

"When we were down in the depths together we stood shoulder to shoulder," was her bitter thought. "We were comrades—as long as we suffered. A woman is good enough in trouble and misery. She is not needed when success comes."

Her supper stood on the table, but she did not touch it.

She flung herself down on the rickety little bed, and cried out her heart for misery and loneliness.

"I've had my eye on you a good time," the manager said, drawing on his coat. "You have a first-class voice—or will have; and, what's more, you have always been at your post. No silly excuses about headaches and colds, and what not. We managers appreciate that sort of stuff, and now this offer has come, and the season is running to an end, I'm blessed if, out of pure Christian gratitude, I don't give you the chance."

Norah stared at him with mingled doubt and hope. The manager drew out a letter from his pocket, and ran his finger down the lines.

"To start in a week, first-class touring company. Wanted, an heroic soprano as understudy. No pay at first, but all expenses guaranteed. If capable, eventual permanent engagement as first soprano. Can I recommend anyone? That's about the tone of it," the manager concluded. "What do you say—shall I recommend you?"

Norah took a deep breath, and for the first time for many days a smile played about her mouth.

"It's a chance!" she said almost to herself.

The manager chuckled and tapped her familiarly on the shoulder.

"It is a chance," he said. "Warring is a gool [sic] fellow and will push you if you are capable and worth it. So it's 'yes,' eh?"

"It's 'yes'!" she answered with a short, excited laugh.

For once the man's familiarity did not vex her. She felt above every trivial annoyance in the flood of thankfulness and hope which had burst upon her. She went into the corridor and stretched out her arms like one who had shaken off heavy, humiliating fetters.

Her chance had come, too, and henceforth she stood side by side with those who had fought and won. Her thoughts reverted to Richard, and a hard, more bitter line settled round her mouth. For a week he had not been near the theatre. Everything confirmed her first fears. The successful man had cut himself free for ever from the unsuccessful past.

"We are not comrades any more," she said to herself with uplifted head. "That's done with. But he shall know of this. He shall not think that he has had to free himself from a useless burden."

Later, as she went up the stairs leading to his dreary rooms, she tried to conquer the impulse which had brought her thither.

"Is anyone there?" she called.

A figure arose out of an arm-chair by the empty grate. It was Richard, though for an instant she hardly recognized him, so strong was the contrast between his present weary attitude and the restless, energetic movements of their last meeting.

"Is that you, Norah?" he asked, so quietly that his voice sounded little more than a whisper.

She came further into the room.

"Yes, it most certainly is!" she said with a loud, harsh gaiety. "I'm paying an unconventional visit. Do I bother?"

He had sunk back into his chair with his head in his hands, and made no answer. But her gaze was turned resolutely away from him.

"You see, we have been such staunch comrades," she said with veiled sarcasm. "We have always shared good and ill alike, and I had to tell you. You are interested, aren't you?"

"Yes, Norah, of course," he answered hoarsely.

"It seems as though Good Luck has been busy this week leaving his card on the broken-spirited," she went on. "Think, to-day the manager has made me an offer as understudy for the heroic soprano. Who knows, Brunnhilde may come after all!"

He raised his head.

"I'm glad," he said. "I'm glad the Good Luck you spoke of has been true to one of us."

"What do you mean?" she demanded.

He got up and began to pace restlessly up and down.

"I don't know why I should throw stones at my luck," he said. "It's my own fault—my own folly. That night—you know I was wild with happiness—well, I played the fool. I was drenched through. The next day I had a cold—a mere nothing. To-day my voice has gone.

Norah fell back a step.

"Gone!" she echoed.

"I've seen the doctor," he went on. "He orders me complete rest for a month. I must keep at home. I mustn't use my voice—and I must have every delicacy."

"Well?"

He began to laugh, and it was not a laugh pleasant to hear.

"My old work at the theatre is, of course, done with. If I'm not fit in a month's time the American engagement is cancelled—and the manager isn't the sort to help," he hesitated. "I can't hold out. I have nothing—not a penny."

"You have friends?"

He shook his head.

"No one to whom I could appeal. I can't take from beggars poorer than myself."

There was an instant's silence—an almost imperceptible silence. Then she leant forward so that her face was hidden.

"We have been comrades," she said, but her voice had lost its bitterness. "You will let me help you."

He stared at her incredulously, almost indignantly.

"Do you think I would live on a woman—and a poor woman? he demanded bluntly.

"I'm not poor. I have a good engagement. But that's not the point. If you won't accept money, there are other ways. I have influence with my manager, and perhaps through him I could gets yours to help you over this time—perhaps with an advance on your salary."

"I can't thank you" he began eagerly.

"There is no need."

"Norah," he stammered. He tried to take her hand, but she drew back angrily.

"There, it's nothing. Don't let us be silly over a business matter. Leave everything to me, and get better." She rose briskly to her feet. "I can't stay any longer. I have a rehearsal to-night. To-morrow I'll let you know what has happened. Good-bye!"

He tried to call her back, but she was already on the landing.

Just for a moment she wavered, and held her hand before her eyes. Then with a steady step she went down into the street.

At the entrance to the threatre [sic] she met the manager, and went up to him.

"By the way, Mr. Marks," she said, "I've changed my mind since this morning. I hope it doesn't matter." He stared down at her. Her eyes were a little red perhaps, but at that moment they were full of merriment. "You see," she went on, "I don't think the engagement you spoke of is quite good enough. I expected something better." She laughed tremulously. "A lady in my position needs money. And, besides, I quite like to lead the chorus. It has its attractions, and I'm afraid this theatre might not get on without me—we are such old friends. So I think—if you'll keep me—I'll just go on with my twenty shillings a week."

The manager stared dumfoundedly at the slight, retreating figure.

"Well, I'm!" he said under his breath.

Richard paced up and down the narrow room. Physically he was better and stronger than he had ever been. Morally, he felt that the swing of the pendulum from sorrow to joy and from joy to sorrow had been too sudden for him. It left him bewildered, not knowing what to hope and what to fear. True, in two weeks' time he was to take the first great step is his artistic career, but that no longer satisfied him. His mind wandered from thoughts of ambition to the old, oft-asked questions: "Norah, does she care, has she forgotten?" and the only answer which he found stifled down every other feeling of exaltation or happiness: "She has forgotten. Her whole soul is in her work and in her success."

He looked at his watch. It was already five o'clock. In a moment Norah would be here if she kept her promise.

"Whatever it costs I will know if there is any hope for me," he thought, with a tightening of the lips.

The room was in semi-darkness, and going to the cheap lamp he was about to light it when a quick step sounded on the stairs, and the next instant Norah herself entered. She saw him, and came quickly across the room.

"Leave the light," she said sharply. "It's pleasanter in the dark. My eyes are tired."

He laughed and led her to the patched arm-chair by the fire.

"I don't wonder!" he said. "I expect you are blinded."

"With what, pray?"

"They say success blinds people. You see, I know about last night."

She remained silent, and he went on.

"A friend came to me this morning and told me that the night before he had heard the Walkure, and that owing to illness the understudy was obliged to sing Sieglinde. My friend didn't know the name—but then you told me you were understudying the part, so I knew."

Still there was no answer. He looked up, but she drew back out of the blaze of the fire, and her face was deep in shadow.

"It was a great success?" he said gently.

"Yes, a great success."

He leant a little forward.

"I'm glad—tremendously glad. To make one's first big step in London is worth something."

She heard the pain in his voice. She thought it was the ambitious artist in him which she had wounded, and a measureless, comprehending pity seized her.

"You will do greater things than that," she said.

He shook his head.

"Tell me all about it—everything," he begged.

She hesitated. If his whole being had not been strained beneath conflicting emotions, he would have heard how her breath came quickly and unevenly.

"Tell me!" he repeated.

Then suddenly she laughed, a sharp, hysterical laugh, and a flood of words poured from her lips. She described widly [sic] the applause, the congratulations of her friends, the approbation of the manager, a thousand and one details. She spoke gaily, almost flippantly. In the end she hesitated, and her voice trailed off into silence. She sprang to her feet.

"I am tired," she said curtly. "Let me go."

He stood up beside her. He had grown very white, as though with suppressed emotion.

"It was you who got the manager to send me all the money," he said, "and I have never thanked you. You stood by me in a bad hour. You saved my career." He broke off, and then held out his hands. "Yet you have changed towards me. It's as though a barrier had sprung up between us. Can't we go back and be as we were"

"No, no. That was all folly. Necessity threw us together—but that necessity has gone. We don't need each other now; we stand alone, and our paths have divided. You showed me that, and it is better so, much better."

"Then—it's all over?"

"Yes."

She pushed past him, and he stood like one stunned, and listened to her departing footsteps.

Then he turned, and leaning his elbows on the mantelpiece buried his face in his hands.

During the next week he fought with himself, striving to forget. But it was a vain battle. At the bottom of his heart was the knowledge that he would never forget, and a sullen despair settled on him. Until then he had hoped against hope, but now it was folly to deny the truth so pitilessly laid before his eyes. She did not love him. She loved her art, and her success, and what she had done for him was out of pity for a fallen comrade. Such thoughts as these tormented him night and day. They were with him as, three nights before his departure with the operatic company, he drew up his chair by the fire and tried to tell himself that now his voice had returned he cared for nothing else. But the flickering gleams of the flames fell on a face where lines of pain and hopelessness were deeply engraved.

He raised his head. The door had opened, hesitatingly, softly. He knew instinctively who it was that had entered, yet he did not move, held back by a great and overmastering sense of bitterness and pride. She did not care, and he was no beggar. He would plead no longer for that which she would—could not give him. It may be that in that short moment he realized for the first time all that her loss meant to him, but he set his teeth, preparing to rise and show her a face as cold and indifferent as her own. And ye he did not move, but sat on, listening with a. strange fear in his heart to the slow, trailing footsteps a they drew nearer.

He knew that she stood behind his chair. He could hear her breathing quickly and jerkily as though after a stiff climb. The silence was unbearable, and with an effort Richard shook off the stupor which had held him paralyzed.

"Norah!"

"Yes."

"Have you come to say good-bye?"

"Yes."

A hand was placed on his chair. With a sudden resolution he turned and took it in his own, and felt with a strange tightening of the heart that it was like the hand of the dead, cold, damp, almost fleshless. He drew her round to his side, but she stood upright, her face turned away from his.

"What is the matter?" he said.

"Nothing. I have come to wish you good-bye and—good luck!"

He laughed out bitterly.

"What good luck can come to me now?" he said. "I have lost all that I care to have."

The hand in his shook.

"What is that?"

"That which I meant to come and ask for three weeks ago. But I was bowled over—a wreck—I had no right to ask any woman—and now, when perhaps I have the right, now I cannot"—he hesitated—"You have your success—you do not care"

This time it was she who laughed, and there was something in the hoarse, trembling sound which startled him from his thoughts.

Heedless of her resistance, he pulled her down beside him, so that the firelight shone upon her face. Then he sat very still, stricken to the soul with the dumb suffering of that haggard, pallid countenance.

"My God—Norah—what has happened—you are ill—what is it?"

She tried to cover her face with one thin, almost transparent hand.

"Nothing, nothing—1 ought never to have come; but I was lonely—and wanted to see you. Oh, Dicky, I have played my part so brilliantly. I have played and played—to you and to myself, but to-night—to-night the curtain is going down, that's all"

"Then it's not true? There is no splendid engagement. You mean that"

"Yes, that's it"

"My God—why did you do it?"

"Why? Oh, Dicky, you don't understand. We women are so envious, so jealous. I couldn't be left behind—a miserable failure. Just for an hour I wanted to be successful, too. I wanted you to respect me—and so I lied. It was wicked and cruel—and I want you to forgive me"

He took her face between his hands, and his own voice shook as he answered her.

"Norah—Norah—won't you tell me the truth now? Do you think me so dull—do you think I don't know? It has come to me like a flash of light in the darkness. It was your money the manager sent me—you have starved yourself for me!"

She tried to answer, but he drew her to him, and her head fell back upon his shoulder. A great weakness stole over her. She felt herself drifting away into a great and peaceful oblivion, through which his broken voice still reached her:

"Then you cared, little comrade? You cared always? Oh, Norah, my wife!"

The ladder of fame is a long and dangerous one, but Richard has scaled it to the end. And all the weary way his wife has stood by him—a comrade in the highest, noblest sense. He knows, and he has told the world, to whom he owes his greatness. But one thing is still hidden from him. He does not know that she might well have stood upon the pinnacle which now is his. He does not know that for him she sacrificed the great chance of her life. And, moreover, he will never know.

title: Her Chance (Wylie)