ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of Huntingtower, by John BuchanThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: HuntingtowerAuthor: John BuchanRelease Date: December 6, 2011 [EBook #3782]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECTGUTENBERG EBOOK HUNTINGTOWER ***Produced by Edward A. White, Robert F. Jaffe, KirstenTozer, Charlene Taylor, Cathy Maxam and the OnlineDistributedProofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (Thisbook was produced from scanned images of public domainmaterial from the Google Printproject.)TRANSCRIBER'S NOTE:In footnote number 1 (page 72) the author refers toa sketch on the frontispiece of the book.  At the time of posting thisbook toProject Gutenberg, it was verified by the content provider thatthere is no frontispiece in this particular edition of Huntingtower.In the plain-text version of thisebook italics are indicated by_underscores_.Obvious typographical errors have been corrected without comment. Oneexample of an obvious typographical error ison page 237 where the word"shamefaceedly" was changed to "shamefacedly". Other than obvioustypographical errors, the author's original spelling has beenleftintact. This includes the use of unconventional spelling and dialect.Inconsistencies in the author's use of hyphens and accent marks havebeen left unchanged,as in the original text.The following four changes were made to punctuation and spelling:     1. Page 96: An apostrophe was removed from the word "an'" inthe     phrase "I've found a ladder, an auld yin" (an old one).     2. Page 100: A question mark was changed to a period in the phrase     "... he realised that hewas in the presence of something the like     of which he had never met in his life before."     4. Page 187: An apostrophe was removed from the word "wing's"in     the phrase "... take the wings off a seagull."  HUNTINGTOWER  JOHN BUCHAN_By_ JOHN BUCHAN  HUNTINGTOWER  THE PATH OF THE KING  MR.STANDFAST  GREENMANTLE  THE WATCHERS BY THE THRESHOLD  SALUTE TO ADVENTURES  PRESTER JOHN  THE POWER HOUSE  THE THIRTY-NINESTEPS  THE BATTLE OF THE SOMMENEW YORK: GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY  HUNTINGTOWER  BY  JOHN BUCHAN  NEW [Illustration] YORK  GEORGE H.DORAN COMPANY  COPYRIGHT, 1922,  BY GEORGE H. DORAN COMPANY  [Illustration]  HUNTINGTOWER.  II  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OFAMERICATOW. P. KER_If the Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford has notforgotten the rock whence he was hewn, this simple story may give himanhour of entertainment. I offer it to you because I think you have met myfriend Dickson McCunn, and I dare to hope that you may even in your manysojourningsin the Westlands have encountered one or other of theGorbals Die-Hards. If you share my kindly feeling for Dickson, you willbe interested in some facts which Ihave lately ascertained about hisancestry. In his veins there flows a portion of the redoubtable blood ofthe Nicol Jarvies. When the Bailie, you remember,returned from hisjourney to Rob Roy beyond the Highland Line, he espoused his housekeeperMattie, "an honest man's daughter and a near cousin o' the Lairdo'Limmerfield." The union was blessed with a son, who succeeded to theBailie's business and in due course begat daughters, one of whom marrieda certainEbenezer McCunn, of whom there is record in the archives ofthe Hammermen of Glasgow. Ebenezer's grandson, Peter by name, wasProvost of Kirkintilloch, andhis second son was the father of my heroby his marriage with Robina Dickson, eldest daughter of one RobertDickson, a tenant-farmer in the Lennox. So there arecoloured threads inMr. McCunn's pedigree, and, like the Bailie, he can count kin, should hewish, with Rob Roy himself through "the auld wife ayont the fireatStuckavrallachan."__Such as it is, I dedicate to you the story, and ask for no betterverdict on it than that of that profound critic of life and literature,Mr.Huckleberry Finn, who observed of the_ Pilgrim's Progress, _that he"considered the statements interesting, but steep."_J.B.CONTENTS                                                    PAGE  PROLOGUE                                            11  CHAPTER     I HOW A RETIRED PROVISION MERCHANTFELT        THE IMPULSE OF SPRING                         17    II OF MR. JOHN HERITAGE AND THE DIFFERENCE        IN POINTS OF VIEW                             28   IIIHOW CHILDE ROLAND AND ANOTHER CAME TO        THE DARK TOWER                                46    IV DOUGAL                                         70     V OF THEPRINCESS IN THE TOWER                   85    VI HOW MR. McCUNN DEPARTED WITH RELIEF AND        RETURNED WITH RESOLUTION                     114   VIISUNDRY DOINGS IN THE MIRK                     135  VIII HOW A MIDDLE-AGED CRUSADER ACCEPTED A        CHALLENGE                                    154    IX THEFIRST BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES               171     X DEALS WITH AN ESCAPE AND A JOURNEY            189    XI GRAVITY OUT OF BED                            209   XIIHOW MR. McCUNN COMMITTED AN ASSAULT        UPON AN ALLY                                 225  XIII THE COMING OF THE DANISH BRIG                 244   XIV THESECOND BATTLE OF THE CRUIVES              257    XV THE GORBALS DIE-HARDS GO INTO ACTION          286   XVI IN WHICH A PRINCESS LEAVES A DARKTOWER        AND A PROVISION MERCHANT RETURNS TO        HIS FAMILY                                   306HUNTINGTOWERPROLOGUEThe girl came into the roomwith a darting movement like a swallow,looked round her with the same birdlike quickness, and then ran acrossthe polished floor to where a young man sat on asofa with one leg laidalong it."I have saved you this dance, Quentin," she said, pronouncing the namewith a pretty staccato. "You must be so lonely not dancing,so I willsit with you. What shall we talk about?"The young man did not answer at once, for his gaze was held by her face.He had never dreamed that the gawkyand rather plain little girl whom hehad romped with long ago in Paris would grow into such a being. Theclean delicate lines of her figure, the exquisite purecolouring of hairand skin, the charming young arrogance of the eyes--this was beauty, hereflected, a miracle, a revelation. Her virginal fineness and herdress,which was the tint of pale fire, gave her the air of a creature of iceand flame."About yourself, please, Saskia," he said. "Are you happy now that youare agrown-up lady?""Happy!" Her voice had a thrill in it like music, frosty music. "Thedays are far too short. I grudge the hours when I must sleep. They sayit is sadfor me to make my dÃ©but in a time of war. But the world isvery kind to me, and after all it is a victorious war for our Russia.And listen to this, Quentin.To-morrow I am to be allowed to beginnursing at the Alexander Hospital. What do you think of that?"The time was January, 1916, and the place a room in thegreat NirskiPalace. No hint of war, no breath from the snowy streets, entered thatcurious chamber where Prince Peter Nirski kept some of the chief of hisfamoustreasures. It was notable for its lack of drapery andupholstering--only a sofa or two and a few fine rugs on the cedar floor.The walls were of a green marbleveined like malachite, the ceiling wasof darker marble inlaid with white intaglios. Scattered everywhere weretables and cabinets laden with celadon china, andcarved jade, andivories, and shimmering Persian and Rhodian vessels. In all the roomthere was scarcely anything of metal and no touch of gilding or brightcolour.The light came from green alabaster censers, and the place swamin a cold green radiance like some cavern below the sea. The air waswarm and scented, andthough it was very quiet there, a hum of voicesand the strains of dance music drifted to it from the pillared corridorin which could be seen the glare of lights fromthe great ballroombeyond.The young man had a thin face with lines of suffering round the mouthand eyes. The warm room had given him a high colour, whichincreasedhis air of fragility. He felt a little choked by the place, which seemedto him for both body and mind a hot-house, though he knew very well thatthe NirskiPalace on this gala evening was in no way typical of the landor its masters. Only a week ago he had been eating black bread with itsowner in a hut on theVolhynian front."You have become amazing, Saskia," he said. "I won't pay my oldplayfellow compliments; besides, you must be tired of them. I wishyouhappiness all the day long like a fairy-tale Princess. But a crock likeme can't do much to help you to it. The service seems to be the wrongway round, for hereyou are wasting your time talking to me."She put her hand on his. "Poor Quentin! Is the leg very bad?"He laughed. "Oh, no. It's mending famously. I'll be able toget aboutwithout a stick in another month, and then you've got to teach me allthe new dances."The jigging music of a two-step floated down the corridor. Itmade theyoung man's brow contract, for it brought to him a vision of dead facesin the gloom of a November dusk. He had once had a friend who used towhistlethat air, and he had seen him die in the Hollebeke mud. Therewas something _macabre_ in the tune.... He was surely morbid thisevening, for there seemedsomething _macabre_ about the house, the room,the dancing, all Russia.... These last days he had suffered from a senseof calamity impending, of a dark curtaindrawing down upon a splendidworld. They didn't agree with him at the Embassy, but he could not getrid of the notion.The girl saw his sudden abstraction."Whatare you thinking about?" she asked. It had been her favouritequestion as a child."I was thinking that I rather wished you were still in Paris.""But why?""Because Ithink you would be safer.""Oh, what nonsense, Quentin dear! Where should I be safe if not in myown Russia, where I have friends--oh, so many, and tribes andtribes ofrelations? It is France and England that are unsafe with the German gunsgrumbling at their doors.... My complaint is that my life is toocosseted andpadded. I am too secure, and I do not want to be secure."The young man lifted a heavy casket from a table at his elbow. It was ofdark green imperial jade, with awonderfully carved lid. He took off thelid and picked up three small oddments of ivory--a priest with a beard,a tiny soldier and a draught-ox. Putting the three in atriangle, hebalanced the jade box on them."Look, Saskia! If you were living inside that box you would think itvery secure. You would note the thickness of thewalls and the hardnessof the stone, and you would dream away in a peaceful green dusk. But allthe time it would be held up by trifles--brittle trifles."She shookher head. "You do not understand. You cannot understand. Weare a very old and strong people with roots deep, deep in the earth.""Please God you are right," hesaid. "But, Saskia, you know that if Ican ever serve you, you have only to command me. Now I can do no morefor you than the mouse for the lion--at thebeginning of the story. Butthe story had an end, you remember, and some day it may be in my powerto help you. Promise to send for me."The girl laughed


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Woodlanders, by Thomas HardyThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: The WoodlandersAuthor: Thomas HardyPosting Date: August 30, 2008 [EBook #482]Release Date: April, 1996Language: English***START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WOODLANDERS ***THE WOODLANDERSbyThomas HardyCHAPTER I.The rambler who, for old association orother reasons, should trace theforsaken coach-road running almost in a meridional line from Bristol tothe south shore of England, would find himself during thelatter halfof his journey in the vicinity of some extensive woodlands,interspersed with apple-orchards.  Here the trees, timber orfruit-bearing, as the case may be,make the wayside hedges ragged bytheir drip and shade, stretching over the road with easefulhorizontality, as if they found the unsubstantial air anadequatesupport for their limbs.  At one place, where a hill is crossed, thelargest of the woods shows itself bisected by the high-way, as the headof thick hair isbisected by the white line of its parting.  The spotis lonely.The physiognomy of a deserted highway expresses solitude to a degreethat is not reached by meredales or downs, and bespeaks a tomb-likestillness more emphatic than that of glades and pools. The contrast ofwhat is with what might be probably accounts forthis.  To step, forinstance, at the place under notice, from the hedge of the plantationinto the adjoining pale thoroughfare, and pause amid its emptiness foramoment, was to exchange by the act of a single stride the simpleabsence of human companionship for an incubus of the forlorn.At this spot, on the loweringevening of a by-gone winter's day, therestood a man who had entered upon the scene much in the aforesaidmanner.  Alighting into the road from a stile hard by,he, though by nomeans a "chosen vessel" for impressions, was temporarily influenced bysome such feeling of being suddenly more alone than before hehademerged upon the highway.It could be seen by a glance at his rather finical style of dress thathe did not belong to the country proper; and from his air, afterawhile, that though there might be a sombre beauty in the scenery, musicin the breeze, and a wan procession of coaching ghosts in the sentimentof this oldturnpike-road, he was mainly puzzled about the way.  Thedead men's work that had been expended in climbing that hill, theblistered soles that had trodden it,and the tears that had wetted it,were not his concern; for fate had given him no time for any butpractical things.He looked north and south, and mechanicallyprodded the ground with hiswalking-stick.  A closer glance at his face corroborated the testimonyof his clothes.  It was self-complacent, yet there was smallapparentground for such complacence.  Nothing irradiated it; to the eye of themagician in character, if not to the ordinary observer, the expressionenthronedthere was absolute submission to and belief in a littleassortment of forms and habitudes.At first not a soul appeared who could enlighten him as he desired,orseemed likely to appear that night.  But presently a slight noise oflaboring wheels and the steady dig of a horse's shoe-tips becameaudible; and there loomed inthe notch of the hill and plantation thatthe road formed here at the summit a carrier's van drawn by a singlehorse.  When it got nearer, he said, with some reliefto himself, "'TisMrs. Dollery's--this will help me."The vehicle was half full of passengers, mostly women.  He held up hisstick at its approach, and the woman whowas driving drew rein."I've been trying to find a short way to Little Hintock this lasthalf-hour, Mrs. Dollery," he said.  "But though I've been to GreatHintock andHintock House half a dozen times I am at fault about thesmall village.  You can help me, I dare say?"She assured him that she could--that as she went to GreatHintock hervan passed near it--that it was only up the lane that branched out ofthe lane into which she was about to turn--just ahead. "Though,"continued Mrs.Dollery, "'tis such a little small place that, as a towngentleman, you'd need have a candle and lantern to find it if ye don'tknow where 'tis.  Bedad! I wouldn't livethere if they'd pay me to.Now at Great Hintock you do see the world a bit."He mounted and sat beside her, with his feet outside, where they wereever and anonbrushed over by the horse's tail.This van, driven and owned by Mrs. Dollery, was rather a movableattachment of the roadway than an extraneous object, to thosewho knewit well.  The old horse, whose hair was of the roughness and color ofheather, whose leg-joints, shoulders, and hoofs were distorted byharness anddrudgery from colthood--though if all had their rights, heought, symmetrical in outline, to have been picking the herbage of someEastern plain instead of tugginghere--had trodden this road almostdaily for twenty years.  Even his subjection was not made congruousthroughout, for the harness being too short, his tail wasnot drawnthrough the crupper, so that the breeching slipped awkwardly to oneside.  He knew every subtle incline of the seven or eight miles ofground betweenHintock and Sherton Abbas--the market-town to which hejourneyed--as accurately as any surveyor could have learned it by aDumpy level.The vehicle had asquare black tilt which nodded with the motion of thewheels, and at a point in it over the driver's head was a hook to whichthe reins were hitched at times, whenthey formed a catenary curve fromthe horse's shoulders.  Somewhere about the axles was a loose chain,whose only known purpose was to clink as it went.  Mrs.Dollery, havingto hop up and down many times in the service of her passengers, wore,especially in windy weather, short leggings under her gown formodesty'ssake, and instead of a bonnet a felt hat tied down with ahandkerchief, to guard against an earache to which she was frequentlysubject.  In the rear of the van wasa glass window, which she cleanedwith her pocket-handkerchief every market-day before starting.  Lookingat the van from the back, the spectator could thus seethrough itsinterior a square piece of the same sky and landscape that he sawwithout, but intruded on by the profiles of the seated passengers, who,as theyrumbled onward, their lips moving and heads nodding in animatedprivate converse, remained in happy unconsciousness that theirmannerisms and facialpeculiarities were sharply defined to the publiceye.This hour of coming home from market was the happy one, if not thehappiest, of the week for them.  Snuglyensconced under the tilt, theycould forget the sorrows of the world without, and survey life andrecapitulate the incidents of the day with placid smiles.Thepassengers in the back part formed a group to themselves, and whilethe new-comer spoke to the proprietress, they indulged in aconfidential chat about him asabout other people, which the noise ofthe van rendered inaudible to himself and Mrs. Dollery, sitting forward."'Tis Barber Percombe--he that's got the waxenwoman in his window atthe top of Abbey Street," said one.  "What business can bring him fromhis shop out here at this time and not a journeyman hair-cutter,but amaster-barber that's left off his pole because 'tis not genteel!"They listened to his conversation, but Mr. Percombe, though he hadnodded and spokengenially, seemed indisposed to gratify the curiositywhich he had aroused; and the unrestrained flow of ideas which hadanimated the inside of the van before hisarrival was checkedthenceforward.Thus they rode on till they turned into a half-invisible little lane,whence, as it reached the verge of an eminence, could bediscerned inthe dusk, about half a mile to the right, gardens and orchards sunk ina concave, and, as it were, snipped out of the woodland.  Fromthisself-contained place rose in stealthy silence tall stems of smoke,which the eye of imagination could trace downward to their root onquiet hearth-stonesfestooned overhead with hams and flitches.  It wasone of those sequestered spots outside the gates of the world where mayusually be found more meditationthan action, and more passivity thanmeditation; where reasoning proceeds on narrow premises, and results ininferences wildly imaginative; yet where, from timeto time, no lessthan in other places, dramas of a grandeur and unity truly Sophocleanare enacted in the real, by virtue of the concentrated passions andcloselyknit interdependence of the lives therein.This place was the Little Hintock of the master-barber's search. Thecoming night gradually obscured the smoke of thechimneys, but theposition of the sequestered little world could still be distinguishedby a few faint lights, winking more or less ineffectually through theleaflessboughs, and the undiscerned songsters they bore, in the formof balls of feathers, at roost among them.Out of the lane followed by the van branched a yet smallerlane, at thecorner of which the barber alighted, Mrs. Dollery's van going on to thelarger village, whose superiority to the despised smaller one as anexemplar ofthe world's movements was not particularly apparent in itsmeans of approach."A very clever and learned young doctor, who, they say, is in leaguewith the devil,lives in the place you be going to--not because there'sanybody for'n to cure there, but because 'tis the middle of hisdistrict."The observation was flung at thebarber by one of the women at parting,as a last attempt to get at his errand that way.But he made no reply, and without further pause the pedestrianplungedtowards the umbrageous nook, and paced cautiously over the dead leaveswhich nearly buried the road or street of the hamlet. As very fewpeople exceptthemselves passed this way after dark, a majority of thedenizens of Little Hintock deemed window-curtains unnecessary; and onthis account Mr. Percombe madeit his business to stop opposite thecasements of each cottage that he came to, with a demeanor which showedthat he was endeavoring to conjecture, from thepersons and things heobserved within, the whereabouts of somebody or other who resided here.Only the smaller dwellings interested him; one or two houses,whosesize, antiquity, and rambling appurtenances signified thatnotwithstanding their remoteness they must formerly have been, if theywere not still, inhabitedby people of a certain social standing, beingneglected by him entirely.  Smells of pomace, and the hiss offermenting cider, which reached him from the backquarters of othertenements, revealed the recent occupation of some of the inhabitants,and joined with the scent of decay from the perishing leaves underfoot.Halfa dozen dwellings were passed without result.  The next, whichstood opposite a tall tree, was in an exceptional state of radiance,the flickering brightness from theinside shining up the chimney andmaking a luminous mist of the emerging smoke.  The interior, as seenthrough the window, caused him to draw up with aterminative air andwatch.  The house was rather large for a cottage, and the door, whichopened immediately into the living-room, stood ajar, so that a ribbonoflight fell through the opening into the dark atmosphere without.Every now and then a moth, decrepit from the late season, would flitfor a moment across the


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Gambler, by Fyodor DostoyevskyThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.netTitle: The GamblerAuthor: Fyodor DostoyevskyPosting Date: March 1, 2009 [EBook #2197]Release Date: May, 2000[Last updated: July 24,2011]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE GAMBLER ***Produced by Martin Adamson.  HTML version by Al Haines.THEGAMBLERByFYODOR DOSTOYEVSKYTranslated by C. J. HogarthIAt length I returned from two weeks leave of absence to find that mypatrons had arrived threedays ago in Roulettenberg. I received fromthem a welcome quite different to that which I had expected. TheGeneral eyed me coldly, greeted me in ratherhaughty fashion, anddismissed me to pay my respects to his sister. It was clear that fromSOMEWHERE money had been acquired. I thought I could even detectacertain shamefacedness in the General's glance. Maria Philipovna, too,seemed distraught, and conversed with me with an air of detachment.Nevertheless, shetook the money which I handed to her, counted it, andlistened to what I had to tell. To luncheon there were expected thatday a Monsieur Mezentsov, a Frenchlady, and an Englishman; for,whenever money was in hand, a banquet in Muscovite style was alwaysgiven. Polina Alexandrovna, on seeing me, inquired why Ihad been solong away. Then, without waiting for an answer, she departed. Evidentlythis was not mere accident, and I felt that I must throw some lightuponmatters. It was high time that I did so.I was assigned a small room on the fourth floor of the hotel (for youmust know that I belonged to the General's suite). Sofar as I couldsee, the party had already gained some notoriety in the place, whichhad come to look upon the General as a Russian nobleman of greatwealth.Indeed, even before luncheon he charged me, among other things,to get two thousand-franc notes changed for him at the hotel counter,which put us in aposition to be thought millionaires at all events fora week! Later, I was about to take Mischa and Nadia for a walk when asummons reached me from the staircasethat I must attend the General.He began by deigning to inquire of me where I was going to take thechildren; and as he did so, I could see that he failed to lookme inthe eyes. He WANTED to do so, but each time was met by me with such afixed, disrespectful stare that he desisted in confusion. In pompouslanguage,however, which jumbled one sentence into another, and atlength grew disconnected, he gave me to understand that I was to leadthe children altogether awayfrom the Casino, and out into the park.Finally his anger exploded, and he added sharply:"I suppose you would like to take them to the Casino to playroulette?Well, excuse my speaking so plainly, but I know how addicted you are togambling. Though I am not your mentor, nor wish to be, at least I havea right torequire that you shall not actually compromise me.""I have no money for gambling," I quietly replied."But you will soon be in receipt of some," retorted theGeneral,reddening a little as he dived into his writing desk and appliedhimself to a memorandum book. From it he saw that he had 120 roubles ofmine in hiskeeping."Let us calculate," he went on. "We must translate these roubles intothalers. Here--take 100 thalers, as a round sum. The rest will be safein myhands."In silence I took the money."You must not be offended at what I say," he continued. "You are tootouchy about these things. What I have said I have saidmerely as awarning. To do so is no more than my right."When returning home with the children before luncheon, I met acavalcade of our party riding to viewsome ruins. Two splendidcarriages, magnificently horsed, with Mlle. Blanche, Maria Philipovna,and Polina Alexandrovna in one of them, and the Frenchman,theEnglishman, and the General in attendance on horseback! The passers-bystopped to stare at them, for the effect was splendid--the Generalcould not haveimproved upon it. I calculated that, with the 4000francs which I had brought with me, added to what my patrons seemedalready to have acquired, the party mustbe in possession of at least7000 or 8000 francs--though that would be none too much for Mlle.Blanche, who, with her mother and the Frenchman, was alsolodging inour hotel. The latter gentleman was called by the lacqueys "Monsieur leComte," and Mlle. Blanche's mother was dubbed "Madame la Comtesse."Perhapsin very truth they WERE "Comte et Comtesse."I knew that "Monsieur le Comte" would take no notice of me when we metat dinner, as also that the General wouldnot dream of introducing us,nor of recommending me to the "Comte." However, the latter had livedawhile in Russia, and knew that the person referred to as an"uchitel"is never looked upon as a bird of fine feather. Of course, strictlyspeaking, he knew me; but I was an uninvited guest at the luncheon--theGeneral hadforgotten to arrange otherwise, or I should have beendispatched to dine at the table d'hote. Nevertheless, I presentedmyself in such guise that the Generallooked at me with a touch ofapproval; and, though the good Maria Philipovna was for showing me myplace, the fact of my having previously met the Englishman,Mr. Astley,saved me, and thenceforward I figured as one of the company.This strange Englishman I had met first in Prussia, where we hadhappened to sitvis-a-vis in a railway train in which I was travellingto overtake our party; while, later, I had run across him in France,and again in Switzerland--twice within thespace of two weeks! Tothink, therefore, that I should suddenly encounter him again here, inRoulettenberg! Never in my life had I known a more retiring man, forhewas shy to the pitch of imbecility, yet well aware of the fact (for hewas no fool). At the same time, he was a gentle, amiable sort of anindividual, and, even onour first encounter in Prussia I had contrivedto draw him out, and he had told me that he had just been to the NorthCape, and was now anxious to visit the fair atNizhni Novgorod. How hehad come to make the General's acquaintance I do not know, but,apparently, he was much struck with Polina. Also, he was delightedthatI should sit next him at table, for he appeared to look upon me as hisbosom friend.During the meal the Frenchman was in great feather: he was discursiveandpompous to every one. In Moscow too, I remembered, he had blown agreat many bubbles. Interminably he discoursed on finance and Russianpolitics, andthough, at times, the General made feints to contradicthim, he did so humbly, and as though wishing not wholly to lose sightof his own dignity.For myself, I wasin a curious frame of mind. Even before luncheon washalf finished I had asked myself the old, eternal question: "WHY do Icontinue to dance attendance upon theGeneral, instead of having lefthim and his family long ago?" Every now and then I would glance atPolina Alexandrovna, but she paid me no attention; untileventually Ibecame so irritated that I decided to play the boor.First of all I suddenly, and for no reason whatever, plunged loudly andgratuitously into the generalconversation. Above everything I wantedto pick a quarrel with the Frenchman; and, with that end in view Iturned to the General, and exclaimed in an overbearingsort ofway--indeed, I think that I actually interrupted him--that that summerit had been almost impossible for a Russian to dine anywhere at tablesd'hote. TheGeneral bent upon me a glance of astonishment."If one is a man of self-respect," I went on, "one risks abuse by sodoing, and is forced to put up with insults ofevery kind. Both atParis and on the Rhine, and even in Switzerland--there are so manyPoles, with their sympathisers, the French, at these tables d'hote thatonecannot get a word in edgeways if one happens only to be a Russian."This I said in French. The General eyed me doubtfully, for he did notknow whether to beangry or merely to feel surprised that I should sofar forget myself."Of course, one always learns SOMETHING EVERYWHERE," said the Frenchmanin a careless,contemptuous sort of tone."In Paris, too, I had a dispute with a Pole," I continued, "and thenwith a French officer who supported him. After that a section oftheFrenchmen present took my part. They did so as soon as I told them thestory of how once I threatened to spit into Monsignor's coffee.""To spit into it?" theGeneral inquired with grave disapproval in histone, and a stare, of astonishment, while the Frenchman looked at meunbelievingly."Just so," I replied. "You mustknow that, on one occasion, when, fortwo days, I had felt certain that at any moment I might have to departfor Rome on business, I repaired to the Embassy ofthe Holy See inParis, to have my passport visaed. There I encountered a sacristan ofabout fifty, and a man dry and cold of mien. After listening politely,but withgreat reserve, to my account of myself, this sacristan askedme to wait a little. I was in a great hurry to depart, but of course Isat down, pulled out a copy ofL'Opinion Nationale, and fell to readingan extraordinary piece of invective against Russia which it happened tocontain. As I was thus engaged I heard some oneenter an adjoining roomand ask for Monsignor; after which I saw the sacristan make a low bowto the visitor, and then another bow as the visitor took his leave.Iventured to remind the good man of my own business also; whereupon,with an expression of, if anything, increased dryness, he again askedme to wait. Soon athird visitor arrived who, like myself, had come onbusiness (he was an Austrian of some sort); and as soon as ever he hadstated his errand he was conductedupstairs! This made me very angry. Irose, approached the sacristan, and told him that, since Monsignor wasreceiving callers, his lordship might just as well finishoff my affairas well. Upon this the sacristan shrunk back in astonishment. It simplypassed his understanding that any insignificant Russian should dare tocomparehimself with other visitors of Monsignor's! In a tone of theutmost effrontery, as though he were delighted to have a chance ofinsulting me, he looked me up anddown, and then said: "Do you supposethat Monsignor is going to put aside his coffee for YOU?" But I onlycried the louder: "Let me tell you that I am going to SPITinto thatcoffee! Yes, and if you do not get me my passport visaed this veryminute, I shall take it to Monsignor myself.""What? While he is engaged with aCardinal?" screeched the sacristan,again shrinking back in horror. Then, rushing to the door, he spreadout his arms as though he would rather die than let meenter.Thereupon I declared that I was a heretic and a barbarian--"Je suisheretique et barbare," I said, "and that these archbishops andcardinals and monsignors,and the rest of them, meant nothing at all tome. In a word, I showed him that I was not going to give way. He lookedat me with an air of infinite resentment.Then he snatched up mypassport, and departed with it upstairs. A minute later the passporthad been visaed! Here it is now, if you care to see it,"--and Ipulledout the document, and exhibited the Roman visa."But--" the General began."What really saved you was the fact that you proclaimed yourself aheretic and a


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's The Story of a Bad Boy, by Thomas Bailey AldrichThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Story of a Bad BoyAuthor: Thomas Bailey AldrichRelease Date: February 25, 2006 [EBook #1948]Last Updated: June 5,2010Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE STORY OF A BAD BOY ***Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and DavidWidgerTHE STORY OF A BAD BOYby Thomas Bailey AldrichChapter One--In Which I Introduce MyselfThis is the story of a bad boy. Well, not such a very bad, buta prettybad boy; and I ought to know, for I am, or rather I was, that boymyself.Lest the title should mislead the reader, I hasten to assure him herethat I have nodark confessions to make. I call my story the story ofa bad boy, partly to distinguish myself from those faultless younggentlemen who generally figure innarratives of this kind, and partlybecause I really was not a cherub. I may truthfully say I was anamiable, impulsive lad, blessed with fine digestive powers, andnohypocrite. I didn't want to be an angel and with the angels stand; Ididn't think the missionary tracts presented to me by the Rev. WibirdHawkins were half sonice as Robinson Crusoe; and I didn't send mylittle pocket-money to the natives of the Feejee Islands, but spentit royally in peppermint-drops and taffy candy. Inshort, I was a realhuman boy, such as you may meet anywhere in New England, and no morelike the impossible boy in a storybook than a sound orange is likeonethat has been sucked dry. But let us begin at the beginning.Whenever a new scholar came to our school, I used to confront him atrecess with the followingwords: "My name's Tom Bailey; what's yourname?" If the name struck me favorably, I shook hands with the newpupil cordially; but if it didn't, I would turn onmy heel, for I wasparticular on this point. Such names as Higgins, Wiggins, and Sprigginswere deadly affronts to my ear; while Langdon, Wallace, Blake, andthelike, were passwords to my confidence and esteem.Ah me! some of those dear fellows are rather elderly boys by thistime--lawyers, merchants, sea-captains,soldiers, authors, what not? PhilAdams (a special good name that Adams) is consul at Shanghai, where Ipicture him to myself with his head closely shaved--henever had too muchhair--and a long pigtail banging down behind. He is married, I hear;and I hope he and she that was Miss Wang Wang are very happytogether,sitting cross-legged over their diminutive cups of tea in a skybluetower hung with bells. It is so I think of him; to me he is hencefortha jewelledmandarin, talking nothing but broken China. Whitcomb is ajudge, sedate and wise, with spectacles balanced on the bridge of thatremarkable nose which, informer days, was so plentifully sprinkled withfreckles that the boys christened him Pepper Whitcomb. Just to thinkof little Pepper Whitcomb being a judge! Whatwould he do to me now, Iwonder, if I were to sing out "Pepper!" some day in court? Fred Langdonis in California, in the native-wine business--he used to makethe bestlicorice-water I ever tasted! Binny Wallace sleeps in the Old SouthBurying-Ground; and Jack Harris, too, is dead--Harris, who commanded usboys, of old,in the famous snow-ball battles of Slatter's Hill. Was ityesterday I saw him at the head of his regiment on its way to join theshattered Army of the Potomac? Notyesterday, but six years ago. It wasat the battle of the Seven Pines. Gallant Jack Harris, that never drewrein until he had dashed into the Rebel battery! So theyfound him--lyingacross the enemy's guns.How we have parted, and wandered, and married, and died! I wonder whathas become of all the boys who went to theTemple Grammar School atRivermouth when I was a youngster? "All, all are gone, the old familiarfaces!"It is with no ungentle hand I summon them back, for amoment, from thatPast which has closed upon them and upon me. How pleasantly they liveagain in my memory! Happy, magical Past, in whose fairy atmosphereevenConway, mine ancient foe, stands forth transfigured, with a sort ofdreamy glory encircling his bright red hair!With the old school formula I commence thesesketches of my boyhood. Myname is Tom Bailey; what is yours, gentle reader? I take for grantedit is neither Wiggins nor Spriggins, and that we shall get onfamouslytogether, and be capital friends forever.Chapter Two--In Which I Entertain Peculiar ViewsI was born at Rivermouth, but, before I had a chance tobecome very wellacquainted with that pretty New England town, my parents removed to NewOrleans, where my father invested his money so securely in thebankingbusiness that he was never able to get any of it out again. But of thishereafter.I was only eighteen months old at the time of the removal, and itdidn'tmake much difference to me where I was, because I was so small; butseveral years later, when my father proposed to take me North to beeducated, I hadmy own peculiar views on the subject. I instantly kickedover the little Negro boy who happened to be standing by me at themoment, and, stamping my footviolently on the floor of the piazza,declared that I would not be taken away to live among a lot of Yankees!You see I was what is called "a Northern man withSouthern principles."I had no recollection of New England: my earliest memories wereconnected with the South, with Aunt Chloe, my old Negro nurse, andwiththe great ill-kept garden in the centre of which stood our house--awhitewashed stone house it was, with wide verandas--shut out from thestreet by lines oforange, fig, and magnolia trees. I knew I was bornat the North, but hoped nobody would find it out. I looked upon themisfortune as something so shrouded bytime and distance that maybenobody remembered it. I never told my schoolmates I was a Yankee,because they talked about the Yankees in such a scornful wayit mademe feel that it was quite a disgrace not to be born in Louisiana, or atleast in one of the Border States. And this impression was strengthenedby AuntChloe, who said, "dar wasn't no gentl'men in the Norf no way,"and on one occasion terrified me beyond measure by declaring that,"if any of dem mean whitestried to git her away from marster, she wasjes'gwine to knock 'em on de head wid a gourd!"The way this poor creature's eyes flashed, and the tragic air withwhichshe struck at an imaginary "mean white," are among the most vivid thingsin my memory of those days.To be frank, my idea of the North was about asaccurate as thatentertained by the well-educated Englishmen of the present dayconcerning America. I supposed the inhabitants were divided intotwoclasses--Indians and white people; that the Indians occasionally dasheddown on New York, and scalped any woman or child (giving the preferenceto children)whom they caught lingering in the outskirts afternightfall; that the white men were either hunters or schoolmasters, andthat it was winter pretty much all theyear round. The prevailing styleof architecture I took to be log-cabins.With this delightful picture of Northern civilization in my eye, thereader will easilyunderstand my terror at the bare thought of beingtransported to Rivermouth to school, and possibly will forgive me forkicking over little black Sam, and otherwisemisconducting myself, whenmy father announced his determination to me. As for kicking little Sam--Ialways did that, more or less gently, when anything wentwrong with me.My father was greatly perplexed and troubled by this unusually violentoutbreak, and especially by the real consternation which he saw writteninevery line of my countenance. As little black Sam picked himself up,my father took my hand in his and led me thoughtfully to the library.I can see him now as heleaned back in the bamboo chair and questionedme. He appeared strangely agitated on learning the nature of myobjections to going North, and proceeded atonce to knock down all mypine log houses, and scatter all the Indian tribes with which I hadpopulated the greater portion of the Eastern and Middle States."Whoon earth, Tom, has filled your brain with such silly stories?"asked my father, wiping the tears from his eyes."Aunt Chloe, sir; she told me.""And you really thoughtyour grandfather wore a blanket embroidered withbeads, and ornamented his leggins with the scalps of his enemies?""Well, sir, I didn't think that exactly.""Didn'tthink that exactly? Tom, you will be the death of me."He hid his face in his handkerchief, and, when he looked up, he seemedto have been suffering acutely. I wasdeeply moved myself, though I didnot clearly understand what I had said or done to cause him to feel sobadly. Perhaps I had hurt his feelings by thinking it evenpossible thatGrandfather Nutter was an Indian warrior.My father devoted that evening and several subsequent evenings to givingme a clear and succinct accountof New England; its early struggles, itsprogress, and its present condition--faint and confused glimmeringsof all which I had obtained at school, where history hadnever been afavorite pursuit of mine.I was no longer unwilling to go North; on the contrary, the proposedjourney to a new world full of wonders kept me awakenights. I promisedmyself all sorts of fun and adventures, though I was not entirely atrest in my mind touching the savages, and secretly resolved to go onboardthe ship--the journey was to be made by sea--with a certain littlebrass pistol in my trousers-pocket, in case of any difficulty with thetribes when we landed atBoston.I couldn't get the Indian out of my head. Only a short time previouslythe Cherokees--or was it the Camanches?--had been removed fromtheirhunting-grounds in Arkansas; and in the wilds of the Southwest the redmen were still a source of terror to the border settlers. "Troublewith the Indians" wasthe staple news from Florida published in the NewOrleans papers. We were constantly hearing of travellers being attackedand murdered in the interior of thatState. If these things were done inFlorida, why not in Massachusetts?Yet long before the sailing day arrived I was eager to be off. Myimpatience was increased bythe fact that my father had purchased for mea fine little Mustang pony, and shipped it to Rivermouth a fortnightprevious to the date set for our owndeparture--for both my parents wereto accompany me. The pony (which nearly kicked me out of bed one nightin a dream), and my father's promise that he andmy mother would come toRivermouth every other summer, completely resigned me to the situation.The pony's name was Gitana, which is the Spanish for gypsy;so I alwayscalled her--she was a lady pony--Gypsy.At length the time came to leave the vine-covered mansion among theorange-trees, to say goodby to littleblack Sam (I am convinced he washeartily glad to get rid of me), and to part with simple Aunt Chloe,who, in the confusion of her grief, kissed an eyelash into myeye, andthen buried her face in the bright bandana turban which she had mountedthat morning in honor of our departure.I fancy them standing by the opengarden gate; the tears are rollingdown Aunt Chloe's cheeks; Sam's six front teeth are glistening likepearls; I wave my hand to him manfully then I call out


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Magnificent Ambersons, by Booth TarkingtonThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost norestrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: The Magnificent AmbersonsAuthor: Booth TarkingtonRelease Date: September, 2005 [EBook #8867]Posting Date: August 2,2009Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE MAGNIFICENT AMBERSONS ***Produced by An Anonymous VolunteerTHEMAGNIFICENT AMBERSONSBy Booth TarkingtonChapter IMajor Amberson had "made a fortune" in 1873, when other people werelosing fortunes, and themagnificence of the Ambersons began then.Magnificence, like the size of a fortune, is always comparative, as evenMagnificent Lorenzo may now perceive, if hehas happened to haunt NewYork in 1916; and the Ambersons were magnificent in their day and place.Their splendour lasted throughout all the years that sawtheir Midlandtown spread and darken into a city, but reached its topmost during theperiod when every prosperous family with children kept a Newfoundlanddog.Inthat town, in those days, all the women who wore silk or velvet knewall the other women who wore silk or velvet, and when there was a newpurchase of sealskin,sick people were got to windows to see it go by.Trotters were out, in the winter afternoons, racing light sleighs onNational Avenue and Tennessee Street;everybody recognized boththe trotters and the drivers; and again knew them as well on summerevenings, when slim buggies whizzed by in renewals of thesnow-timerivalry. For that matter, everybody knew everybody else's familyhorse-and-carriage, could identify such a silhouette half a mile downthe street, andthereby was sure who was going to market, or to areception, or coming home from office or store to noon dinner or eveningsupper.During the earlier years of thisperiod, elegance of personal appearancewas believed to rest more upon the texture of garments than upon theirshaping. A silk dress needed no remodelling whenit was a year or soold; it remained distinguished by merely remaining silk. Old men andgovernors wore broadcloth; "full dress" was broadcloth with"doeskin"trousers; and there were seen men of all ages to whom a hat meant onlythat rigid, tall silk thing known to impudence as a "stove-pipe."In town andcountry these men would wear no other hat, and, withoutself-consciousness, they went rowing in such hats.Shifting fashions of shape replaced aristocracy oftexture: dressmakers,shoemakers, hatmakers, and tailors, increasing in cunning and in power,found means to make new clothes old. The long contagion of the"Derby"hat arrived: one season the crown of this hat would be a bucket; thenext it would be a spoon. Every house still kept its bootjack, buthigh-topped bootsgave way to shoes and "congress gaiters"; and thesewere played through fashions that shaped them now with toes likebox-ends and now with toes like the prowsof racing shells.Trousers with a crease were considered plebeian; the crease proved thatthe garment had lain upon a shelf, and hence was "ready-made";thesebetraying trousers were called "hand-me-downs," in allusion to theshelf. In the early 'eighties, while bangs and bustles were havingtheir way with women,that variation of dandy known as the "dude" wasinvented: he wore trousers as tight as stockings, dagger-pointed shoes,a spoon "Derby," a single-breasted coatcalled a "Chesterfield," withshort flaring skirts, a torturing cylindrical collar, laundered to apolish and three inches high, while his other neckgear might be aheavy,puffed cravat or a tiny bow fit for a doll's braids. With evening dresshe wore a tan overcoat so short that his black coat-tails hung visible,five inches belowthe over-coat; but after a season or two he lengthenedhis overcoat till it touched his heels, and he passed out of his tighttrousers into trousers like great bags.Then, presently, he was seenno more, though the word that had been coined for him remained in thevocabularies of the impertinent.It was a hairier day thanthis. Beards were to the wearers' fancy,and things as strange as the Kaiserliche boar-tusk moustache werecommonplace. "Side-burns" found nourishment uponchildlike profiles;great Dundreary whiskers blew like tippets over young shoulders;moustaches were trained as lambrequins over forgotten mouths; and itwaspossible for a Senator of the United States to wear a mist of whitewhisker upon his throat only, not a newspaper in the land finding theornament distinguishedenough to warrant a lampoon. Surely no more isneeded to prove that so short a time ago we were living in another age!At the beginning of the Ambersons' greatperiod most of the houses ofthe Midland town were of a pleasant architecture. They lacked style, butalso lacked pretentiousness, and whatever does not pretendat all hasstyle enough. They stood in commodious yards, well shaded by leftoverforest trees, elm and walnut and beech, with here and there a line oftallsycamores where the land had been made by filling bayous from thecreek. The house of a "prominent resident," facing Military Square, orNational Avenue, orTennessee Street, was built of brick upon a stonefoundation, or of wood upon a brick foundation. Usually it had a "frontporch" and a "back porch"; often a "sideporch," too. There was a "fronthall"; there was a "side hall"; and sometimes a "back hall." From the"front hall" opened three rooms, the "parlour," the "sittingroom," andthe "library"; and the library could show warrant to its title--for somereason these people bought books. Commonly, the family sat more inthe librarythan in the "sitting room," while callers, when they cameformally, were kept to the "parlour," a place of formidable polish anddiscomfort. The upholstery of thelibrary furniture was a little shabby;but the hostile chairs and sofa of the "parlour" always looked new. Forall the wear and tear they got they should have lasted athousand years.Upstairs were the bedrooms; "mother-and-father's room" the largest; asmaller room for one or two sons another for one or two daughters;eachof these rooms containing a double bed, a "washstand," a "bureau," awardrobe, a little table, a rocking-chair, and often a chair or two thathad been slightlydamaged downstairs, but not enough to justify eitherthe expense of repair or decisive abandonment in the attic. And therewas always a "spare-room," for visitors(where the sewing-machineusually was kept), and during the 'seventies there developed anappreciation of the necessity for a bathroom. Therefore thearchitectsplaced bathrooms in the new houses, and the older houses tore out acupboard or two, set up a boiler beside the kitchen stove, and soughta newgodliness, each with its own bathroom. The great American plumberjoke, that many-branched evergreen, was planted at this time.At the rear of the house,upstairs was a bleak little chamber, called"the girl's room," and in the stable there was another bedroom,adjoining the hayloft, and called "the hired man's room."House andstable cost seven or eight thousand dollars to build, and people withthat much money to invest in such comforts were classified as the Rich.They paidthe inhabitant of "the girl's room" two dollars a week, and,in the latter part of this period, two dollars and a half, and finallythree dollars a week. She was Irish,ordinarily, or German or it mightbe Scandinavian, but never native to the land unless she happened to bea person of colour. The man or youth who lived in thestable had likewages, and sometimes he, too, was lately a steerage voyager, but muchoftener he was coloured.After sunrise, on pleasant mornings, the alleysbehind the stables weregay; laughter and shouting went up and down their dusty lengths, witha lively accompaniment of curry-combs knocking against backfences andstable walls, for the darkies loved to curry their horses in the alley.Darkies always prefer to gossip in shouts instead of whispers; andthey feel thatprofanity, unless it be vociferous, is almost worthless.Horrible phrases were caught by early rising children and carried toolder people for definition, sometimes atinopportune moments; whileless investigative children would often merely repeat the phrases insome subsequent flurry of agitation, and yet bring aboutconsequences soemphatic as to be recalled with ease in middle life.They have passed, those darky hired-men of the Midland town; and theintrospective horsesthey curried and brushed and whacked and amiablycursed--those good old horses switch their tails at flies no more. Forall their seeming permanence they mightas well have been buffaloes--orthe buffalo laprobes that grew bald in patches and used to slide fromthe careless drivers' knees and hang unconcerned, half way totheground. The stables have been transformed into other likenesses, orswept away, like the woodsheds where were kept the stove-wood andkindling that the"girl" and the "hired-man" always quarrelled over: whoshould fetch it. Horse and stable and woodshed, and the whole tribe ofthe "hired-man," all are gone. Theywent quickly, yet so silently thatwe whom they served have not yet really noticed that they are vanished.So with other vanishings. There were the little buntystreet-cars on thelong, single track that went its troubled way among the cobblestones.At the rear door of the car there was no platform, but a stepwherepassengers clung in wet clumps when the weather was bad and the carcrowded. The patrons--if not too absent-minded--put their fares into aslot; and noconductor paced the heaving floor, but the driver would rapremindingly with his elbow upon the glass of the door to his little openplatform if the nickels and thepassengers did not appear to coincide innumber. A lone mule drew the car, and sometimes drew it off the track,when the passengers would get out and push it onagain. They really owedit courtesies like this, for the car was genially accommodating: a ladycould whistle to it from an upstairs window, and the car would haltatonce and wait for her while she shut the window, put on her hat andcloak, went downstairs, found an umbrella, told the "girl" what to havefor dinner, and cameforth from the house.The previous passengers made little objection to such gallantry on thepart of the car: they were wont to expect as much for themselves onlikeoccasion. In good weather the mule pulled the car a mile in a littleless than twenty minutes, unless the stops were too long; but when thetrolley-car came,doing its mile in five minutes and better, it wouldwait for nobody. Nor could its passengers have endured such a thing,because the faster they were carried theless time they had to spare! Inthe days before deathly contrivances hustled them through their lives,and when they had no telephones--another ancient vacancyprofoundlyresponsible for leisure--they had time for everything: time to think, totalk, time to read, time to wait for a lady!They even had time to dance "squaredances," quadrilles, and "lancers";they also danced the "racquette," and schottisches and polkas, andsuch whims as the "Portland Fancy." They pushed back thesliding doorsbetween the "parlour" and the "sitting room," tacked down crash overthe carpets, hired a few palms in green tubs, stationed three or fourItalian


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Deserted Village, by Oliver GoldsmithThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and mostotherparts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms ofthe Project GutenbergLicense included with this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.org.  If you are not located in the United States, you'll haveto check the laws of the country whereyou are located before using this ebook.Title: The Deserted VillageAuthor: Oliver GoldsmithIllustrator: The Etching ClubRelease Date: November 19, 2015 [EBook#50500]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE DESERTED VILLAGE ***Produced by David Widger from page imagesgenerouslyprovided by Google BooksTHE DESERTED VILLAGEBy Oliver GoldsmithIllustrated by the Etching ClubNew York: D. Appleton And Co.BroadwayMDCCCLVII[Illustration: 0001][Illustration: 0008]The Illustrations in this Volume are copied, with permission,from a series of Etchings published someyears since by the"Etching Club." Only a few impressions of that work wereprinted, the copper-plates were destroyed, and the book, exceptin a very expensiveform, has long been unattainable. Greatcare has been taken to render the present Wood-blocks as likethe original Etchings as the different methods of engravingwillallow.ILLUSTRATIONS                                                                     Page    Sweet Auburn! loveliest milage of the plain...T. Creswick, R.A....007    Thenever-failing brook, the busy mill........T. Creswick, R.A....008    The hawthorn bush, with seals in shade........C. W. Cope, R.A.....009    The matron's glance thatwould reprove........H. J. Townsend......010    The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest...F. Tayler...........012    These, far departing, seek a kinder shore.....C.Stonhouse........014    Amidst the swains show my book-learn'd skill..J. C. Horsley.......015    And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue..F.Tayler...........016    To spurn imploring famine from the gale.......C. W. Cope, R.A.....017    While resignation gently slopes the way.......T. Creswick,R.A....018    The playful children let loose from school....T. Webster, R.A.....019    All but yon widow'd solitary thing............F. Tayler...........020    The villagepreacher's modest mansion rose....T. Creswick, R.A....021    He chid their wanderings; relieved pain.......C. W. Cope, R.A.....022    Shoulder'd his crutch, andshow'd fields won..C. W. Cope, R.A.....023    Beside the bed where parting life was laid....R. Redgrave, R.A....025    And pluck'd his gown, share the man'ssmile...J. C. Horsley.......026    The village master taught his little school...T. Webster, R.A.....027    Full well they laugh'd with glee..............T. Webster,R.A.....028    Convey'd the dismal tidings when he frown'd...T. Webster, R.A.....028    In arguing too the parson own'd his skill.....C. W. Cope, R.A.....029    Nearyonder thorn, that lifts its head high...T. Creswick, R.A....030    Where village statesmen with looks profound...F. Tayler...........031    But the long pomp, themidnight masquerade....J. C. Horsley.......033    Proud swells the tide with loads of ore.......T. Creswick, R.A....034    If to some common's fenceless limitstray'd...C. Stonhouse........036    Where the poor houseless female lies..........J. C. Horsley.......037    She left her wheel and robes of brown.........J. C.Horsley.......038    The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake....T. Creswick, R.A....040    The cooling brookt the grassy-vested green....T. Creswick,R.A....041    The good old sire the first prepared to go....C. W. Cope, R.A.....042    Whilst her husband strove to lend relief......R. Redgrave, R.A....043    Downwhere yon vessel spreads the sail........T. Creswick, R.A....044    Or winter wraps the polar world in snow.......T. Creswick, R.A....045    As rocks resist the billowsaNd the sky.......T. Creswick, R.A....046Drawn on wood, from the original Etchings, by E. K. Johnson, andengraved by Horace Harral, Thomas Bolton, and JamesCooper.{007}[Illustration: 0016]THE DESERTED VILLAGESweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain,Where health and plenty cheer'd the labouring swain,Wheresmiling spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delay'd.{008}[Illustration: 0017]Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease,Seats ofmy youth, when every sport could please,How often have I loiter'd o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endear'd each scene!How often have I paused onevery charm,The shelter'd cot, the cultivated farm,{009}[Illustration: 0020]The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent church that topt the neighbouringhill,The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whispering lovers made!How often have I blest the coming day,When toil remitting lentits turn to play,{010}And all the village train, from labour free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree;[Illustration: 0021]While many a pastime circled inthe shade,The young contending as the old survey'd;And many a gambol frolick'd o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round;{011}Andstill, as each repeated pleasure tired,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired:The dancing pair that simply sought renown,By holding out to tire each otherdown;The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter titter'd round the place;The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,The matron's glance thatwould those looks reprove;These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,With sweet succession, taught e'en toil to please;These round thy bowers theircheerful influence shed,These were thy charms--but all these charms are fled.Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn!Thy sports are fled, and all thy charmswithdrawn;Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,And desolation saddens all thy green:One only master grasps the whole domain,And half a tillage stintsthy smiling plain:No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,But choked with sedges works its weedy way;Along thy glades a solitary guest,The hollow-soundingbittern guards its nest;{012}Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies,And tires their echoes with unvaried cries.[Illustration: 0025]Sunk are thy bowers inshapeless ruin all,And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall;And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,Far, far away thy children leave theland.{013}Ill  fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:Princes and lords may flourish, or may fade;A breath can makethem, as a breath has made:But a bold peasantry, their country's pride,When once destroy'd, can never be supplied.A time there was, ere England's griefsbegan,When every rood of ground maintain'd its man;For him light labour spread her wholesome store,Just gave what life required, but gave no more:His bestcompanions, innocence and health;And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.But times are alter'd; trade's unfeeling trainUsurp the land, and dispossess theswain;Along the lawn, where scatter'd hamlets rose,Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose;And every want to luxury allied,And every pang that folly paysto pride.Those gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,Those calm desires that ask'd but little room,Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,Lived ineach look, and brighten'd all the green;{014}These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,And rural mirth and manners are no more.[Illustration: 0027]SweetAuburn! parent of the blissful hour,Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.Here, as I take my solitary roundsAmidst thy tangling walks and ruin'dgrounds,And, many a year elapsed, return to viewWhere once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew,Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,Swells at mybreast, and turns the past to pain.{015}In all my wanderings round this world of care,In all my griefs--and God has given my share--[Illustration: 0030]Tohusband out life's taper at the close,And keep the flame from wasting by repose:I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown,Amidst these humble bowers to layme down;I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,Amidst the swains to show my book-learn'd skill,{016}Around my fire an evening group to draw,And tell of allI felt, and all I saw;And, as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue,Pants to the place from whence at first he flew,[Illustration: 0031]I still had hopes, my longvexations past,Here to return--and die at home at last.O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,Retreats from care, that never must be mine:How blest is he whocrowns, in shades like these,A youth of labour with an age of ease;{017}Who quits a world where strong temptations try,And since 'tis hard to combat, learns tofly!For him no wretches, born to work and weep,Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;[Illustration: 0034]No surly porter stands, in guilty state,Tospurn imploring famine from the gate--But on he moves to meet his latter end,Angels around befriending virtue's friend;Sinks to the grave with unperceiveddecay,While resignation gently slopes the way;{018}And, all his prospects brightening to the last,His heaven commences ere the world be past.[Illustration:0035]Sweet was the sound, when oft, at evening's close,Up yonder hill the village murmur rose:There, as I pass'd with careless steps and slow,The minglingnotes came soften'd from below;The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,The sober herd that low'd to meet their young;The noisy geese that gabbled o'er thepool,The playful children just let loose from school;{019}The watch-dog's voice that bay'd the whispering wind,And the loud laugh that spoke the vacantmind;[Illustration: 0038]These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,And fill'd each pause the nightingale had made.But now the sounds of population fail:Nocheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread,But all the bloomy flush of life is fled;All but yon widow'd solitary thing,Thatfeebly bends beside the plashy spring:{020}She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread,To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread[Illustration: 0039]Topick her wintry faggot from the thorn,To seek her nightly shed and weep till morn;She only left of all the harmless train,The sad historian of the pensiveplain.{021}Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,And still where many a garden flower grows wild,[Illustration: 0042]There, where a few torn shrubsthe place disclose,The village preacher's modest mansion rose.A man he was to all the country dear,And passing rich with forty pounds a year;{022}Remote fromtowns he ran his godly race,Nor e'er had changed, nor wish'd to change his place[Illustration: 0043]Unskilful he to fawn, or seek for power,By doctrines fashion'dto the varying hour;Far other aims his heart had learn'd to prize,More bent to raise the wretched than to rise.{023}His house was known to all the vagranttrain;He chid their wanderings, but relieved their pain:[Illustration: 0046]The long remember'd beggar was his guest,Whose beard descending swept his agedbreast;The ruin'd spendthrift, now no longer proud,Claim'd kindred there, and had his claims allow'd;{024}The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay,Sate by hisfire, and talk'd the night away;Wept o'er his wounds, or, tales of sorrow done,Shoulder'd his crutch, and show'd how fields were won.Pleased with his guests, the


ï»¿Project Gutenberg's Mrs. Warren's Profession, by George Bernard ShawThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: Mrs. Warren's ProfessionAuthor: George Bernard ShawRelease Date: February 11, 2006 [EBook #1097][Last updated: July 6,2011]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MRS. WARREN'S PROFESSION ***Produced by An Anonymous Volunteer and DavidWidgerMRS WARREN'S PROFESSIONby George Bernard Shaw1894With The Author's Apology (1902)THE AUTHOR'S APOLOGYMrs Warren's Profession has beenperformed at last, after a delay ofonly eight years; and I have once more shared with Ibsen the triumphantamusement of startling all but the strongest-headed ofthe Londontheatre critics clean out of the practice of their profession. Noauthor who has ever known the exultation of sending the Press into anhysterical tumult ofprotest, of moral panic, of involuntary and franticconfession of sin, of a horror of conscience in which the power ofdistinguishing between the work of art on thestage and the real lifeof the spectator is confused and overwhelmed, will ever care for thestereotyped compliments which every successful farce ormelodramaelicits from the newspapers. Give me that critic who rushed from my playto declare furiously that Sir George Crofts ought to be kicked. What atriumphfor the actor, thus to reduce a jaded London journalist tothe condition of the simple sailor in the Wapping gallery, who shoutsexecrations at Iago and warnings toOthello not to believe him! Butdearer still than such simplicity is that sense of the sudden earthquakeshock to the foundations of morality which sends a pallidcrowd ofcritics into the street shrieking that the pillars of society arecracking and the ruin of the State is at hand. Even the Ibsen championsof ten years agoremonstrate with me just as the veterans of those bravedays remonstrated with them. Mr Grein, the hardy iconoclast who firstlaunched my plays on the stagealongside Ghosts and The Wild Duck,exclaimed that I have shattered his ideals. Actually his ideals! Whatwould Dr Relling say? And Mr William Archer himselfdisowns me because I"cannot touch pitch without wallowing in it". Truly my play must be moreneeded than I knew; and yet I thought I knew how little the othersknow.Do not suppose, however, that the consternation of the Press reflectsany consternation among the general public. Anybody can upset thetheatre critics, in aturn of the wrist, by substituting for theromantic commonplaces of the stage the moral commonplaces of the pulpit,platform, or the library. Play Mrs Warren'sProfession to an audienceof clerical members of the Christian Social Union and of women wellexperienced in Rescue, Temperance, and Girls' Club work, and nomoralpanic will arise; every man and woman present will know that as longas poverty makes virtue hideous and the spare pocket-money of richbachelordommakes vice dazzling, their daily hand-to-hand fight againstprostitution with prayer and persuasion, shelters and scanty alms,will be a losing one. There was a timewhen they were able to urge thatthough "the white-lead factory where Anne Jane was poisoned" may be afar more terrible place than Mrs Warren's house, yethell is still moredreadful. Nowadays they no longer believe in hell; and the girls amongwhom they are working know that they do not believe in it, and wouldlaughat them if they did. So well have the rescuers learnt that MrsWarren's defence of herself and indictment of society is the thing thatmost needs saying, that thosewho know me personally reproach me, notfor writing this play, but for wasting my energies on "pleasantplays" for the amusement of frivolous people, when I canbuild up suchexcellent stage sermons on their own work. Mrs Warren's Profession isthe one play of mine which I could submit to a censorship without doubtof theresult; only, it must not be the censorship of the minor theatrecritic, nor of an innocent court official like the Lord Chamberlain'sExaminer, much less of peoplewho consciously profit by Mrs Warren'sprofession, or who personally make use of it, or who hold the widelywhispered view that it is an indispensable safety-valvefor theprotection of domestic virtue, or, above all, who are smitten with asentimental affection for our fallen sister, and would "take her uptenderly, lift her withcare, fashioned so slenderly, young, and SOfair." Nor am I prepared to accept the verdict of the medical gentlemenwho would compulsorily sanitate and registerMrs Warren, whilst leavingMrs Warren's patrons, especially her military patrons, free to destroyher health and anybody else's without fear of reprisals. But Ishould bequite content to have my play judged by, say, a joint committee ofthe Central Vigilance Society and the Salvation Army. And the sternermoralists themembers of the committee were, the better.Some of the journalists I have shocked reason so unripely that they willgather nothing from this but a confusednotion that I am accusing theNational Vigilance Association and the Salvation Army of complicity inmy own scandalous immorality. It will seem to them thatpeople who wouldstand this play would stand anything. They are quite mistaken. Suchan audience as I have described would be revolted by many ofourfashionable plays. They would leave the theatre convinced that thePlymouth Brother who still regards the playhouse as one of the gates ofhell is perhaps thesafest adviser on the subject of which he knows solittle. If I do not draw the same conclusion, it is not because I am oneof those who claim that art is exemptfrom moral obligations, and denythat the writing or performance of a play is a moral act, to be treatedon exactly the same footing as theft or murder if itproduces equallymischievous consequences. I am convinced that fine art is the subtlest,the most seductive, the most effective instrument of moral propagandainthe world, excepting only the example of personal conduct; and I waiveeven this exception in favor of the art of the stage, because it worksby exhibitingexamples of personal conduct made intelligible and movingto crowds of unobservant, unreflecting people to whom real life meansnothing. I have pointed outagain and again that the influence of thetheatre in England is growing so great that whilst private conduct,religion, law, science, politics, and morals are becomingmore andmore theatrical, the theatre itself remains impervious to commonsense, religion, science, politics, and morals. That is why I fight thetheatre, not withpamphlets and sermons and treatises, but with plays;and so effective do I find the dramatic method that I have no doubt Ishall at last persuade even London totake its conscience and its brainswith it when it goes to the theatre, instead of leaving them at homewith its prayer-book as it does at present. Consequently, Iam thelast man in the world to deny that if the net effect of performing MrsWarren's Profession were an increase in the number of persons enteringthatprofession, its performance should be dealt with accordingly.Now let us consider how such recruiting can be encouraged by thetheatre. Nothing is easier. Let theKing's Reader of Plays, backed bythe Press, make an unwritten but perfectly well understood regulationthat members of Mrs Warren's profession shall betolerated on the stageonly when they are beautiful, exquisitely dressed, and sumptuouslylodged and fed; also that they shall, at the end of the play, dieofconsumption to the sympathetic tears of the whole audience, or stepinto the next room to commit suicide, or at least be turned out by theirprotectors andpassed on to be "redeemed" by old and faithful lovers whohave adored them in spite of their levities. Naturally, the poorer girlsin the gallery will believe in thebeauty, in the exquisite dresses, andthe luxurious living, and will see that there is no real necessity forthe consumption, the suicide, or the ejectment: mere piousforms, allof them, to save the Censor's face. Even if these purely officialcatastrophes carried any conviction, the majority of English girlsremain so poor, sodependent, so well aware that the drudgeries of suchhonest work as is within their reach are likely enough to lead themeventually to lung disease, prematuredeath, and domestic desertion orbrutality, that they would still see reason to prefer the primrose pathto the strait path of virtue, since both, vice at worst andvirtue atbest, lead to the same end in poverty and overwork. It is true that theBoard School mistress will tell you that only girls of a certain kindwill reason in thisway. But alas! that certain kind turns out oninquiry to be simply the pretty, dainty kind: that is, the only kindthat gets the chance of acting on such reasoning.Read the first reportof the Commission on the Housing of the Working Classes [Bluebook C4402, 8d., 1889]; read the Report on Home Industries (sacredword,Home!) issued by the Women's Industrial Council [Home Industries ofWomen in London, 1897, 1s., 12 Buckingham Street, W. C.]; and askyourselfwhether, if the lot in life therein described were your lotin life, you would not prefer the lot of Cleopatra, of Theodora, of theLady of the Camellias, of MrsTanqueray, of Zaza, of Iris. If you cango deep enough into things to be able to say no, how many ignoranthalf-starved girls will believe you are speakingsincerely? To them thelot of Iris is heavenly in comparison with their own. Yet our King, likehis predecessors, says to the dramatist, "Thus, and thus only, shallyoupresent Mrs Warren's profession on the stage, or you shall starve.Witness Shaw, who told the untempting truth about it, and whom We, bythe Grace of God,accordingly disallow and suppress, and do what in Uslies to silence." Fortunately, Shaw cannot be silenced. "The harlot'scry from street to street" is louder thanthe voices of all the kings.I am not dependent on the theatre, and cannot be starved into makingmy play a standing advertisement of the attractive side of MrsWarren'sbusiness.Here I must guard myself against a misunderstanding. It is not the faultof their authors that the long string of wanton's tragedies, fromAntonyand Cleopatra to Iris, are snares to poor girls, and are objected toon that account by many earnest men and women who consider Mrs Warren'sProfessionan excellent sermon. Mr Pinero is in no way bound to suppressthe fact that his Iris is a person to be envied by millions of betterwomen. If he made his play falseto life by inventing fictitiousdisadvantages for her, he would be acting as unscrupulously as any tractwriter. If society chooses to provide for its Irises better thanforits working women, it must not expect honest playwrights to manufacturespurious evidence to save its credit. The mischief lies in thedeliberate suppression ofthe other side of the case: the refusal toallow Mrs Warren to expose the drudgery and repulsiveness of plying forhire among coarse, tedious drunkards; thedetermination not to let theParisian girl in Brieux's Les Avaries come on the stage and drive intopeople's minds what her diseases mean for her and forthemselves. Allthat, says the King's Reader in effect, is horrifying, loathsome.Precisely: what does he expect it to be? would he have us represent itas beautiful


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                            THE FAULT IN OUR STARS                                                           Written by                      Scott Neustadter & Michael H.Weber                                                                               Based on the novel by                                  JohnGreen                                                                                May 1, 2012                                                          FIRSTDRAFT          HAZEL GRACE LANCASTER (16) lies in the grass, staring up at          the stars. We're CLOSE ON her FACE and we hear:           HAZEL(V.O.)           You have a choice in this world, I           believe, about how to tell sad           stories.          CUT TO a SERIES OF QUICK IMAGES:          -Hazel and the BOY we will come to know as AUGUSTUS "GUS"          WATERS (17) at an outdoor restaurant in some magical place.          [They look very muchlike the perfect Hollywood couple.]           HAZEL (V.O.)           On the one hand, you can sugar coat           - the way they do in moviesand           romance novels.          - "Perfect" Hazel and "Perfect" Gus sit on a BENCH          overlooking an incredible seascape in some foreigncountry.          She rests her head on his shoulder.           HAZEL (V.O.)           Where villains are vanquished           and... heroes are bornand...          - "Perfect" Hazel and "Perfect" Gus kiss in a dark room.           HAZEL (V.O.)           ... beautiful people learn           beautiful


ï»¿The Project Gutenberg EBook of War and the Future, by H. G. WellsThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictionswhatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online atwww.gutenberg.orgTitle: War and the FutureAuthor: H. G. WellsRelease Date: March 21, 2006 [EBook #1804]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECTGUTENBERG EBOOK WAR AND THE FUTURE ***Produced by Morgan L. Owens and David WidgerWAR AND THE FUTUREItaly, France and Britain at Warby H. G.WellsContents     The Passing of the Effigy     The War in Italy (August, 1916)     I. The Isonzo Front     II. The Mountain War     III. Behind the Front     TheWestern War (September, 1916)     I. Ruins     II. The Grades of War     III. The War Landscape     IV. New Arms for Old Ones     V. Tanks     How People ThinkAbout the War     I. Do they Really Think at all?     II. The Yielding Pacifist and the Conscientious Objector     III. The Religious Revival     IV. The Riddle of theBritish     V. The Social Changes in Progress     VI. The Ending of the WarTHE PASSING OF THE EFFIGY1One of the minor peculiarities of this unprecedented war isthe Tour ofthe Front. After some months of suppressed information--in which eventhe war correspondent was discouraged to the point of elimination--itwasdiscovered on both sides that this was a struggle in which Opinionwas playing a larger and more important part than it had ever donebefore. This wild spreadingweed was perhaps of decisive importance;the Germans at any rate were attempting to make it a cultivated flower.There was Opinion flowering away at home,feeding rankly on rumour;Opinion in neutral countries; Opinion getting into great tanglesof misunderstanding and incorrect valuation between the Allies.Theconfidence and courage of the enemy; the amiability and assistance ofthe neutral; the zeal, sacrifice, and serenity of the home population;all were affected.The German cultivation of opinion began longbefore the war; it is still the most systematic and, because of thepsychological ineptitude of the Germans, it isprobably the clumsiest.The French _Maison de la Presse_ is certainly the best organisation inexistence for making things clear, counteracting hostile suggestion,theBritish official organisations are comparatively ineffective; but whatis lacking officially is very largely made up for by the good willand generous efforts of theEnglish and American press. An interestingmonograph might be written upon these various attempts of thebelligerents to get themselves and their proceedingsexplained.Because there is perceptible in these developments, quite over andabove the desire to influence opinion, a very real effort to get thingsexplained. It isthe most interesting and curious--one might almostwrite touching--feature of these organisations that they do notconstitute a positive and defined propagandasuch as the Germansmaintain. The German propaganda is simple, because its ends are simple;assertions of the moral elevation and loveliness of Germany; oftheinsuperable excellences of German Kultur, the Kaiser, and Crown Prince,and so forth; abuse of the "treacherous" English who allied themselveswith the"degenerate" French and the "barbaric" Russians; nonsense about"the freedom of the seas"--the emptiest phrase in history--childishattempts to sow suspicionbetween the Allies, and still more childishattempts to induce neutrals and simple-minded pacifists of alliednationality to save the face of Germany by initiatingpeacenegotiations. But apart from their steady record and reminder of Germanbrutalities and German aggression, the press organisations of the Allieshave noneof this definiteness in their task. The aim of the nationalintelligence in each of the allied countries is not to exalt one's ownnation and confuse and divide theenemy, but to get a real understandingwith the peoples and spirits of a number of different nations, anunderstanding that will increase and become a fruitful andpermanentunderstanding between the allied peoples. Neither the English, theRussians, the Italians, nor the French, to name only the bigger Europeanallies, areconcerned in setting up a legend, as the Germans areconcerned in setting up a legend of themselves to impose upon mankind.They are reality dealers in this war,and the Germans are effigymongers. Practically the Allies are saying each to one another, "Praycome to me and see for yourself that I am very much the humanstuff thatyou are. Come and see that I am doing my best--and I think that isnot so very bad a best...." And with that is something else still moresubtle,something rather in the form of, "And please tell me what youthink of me--and all this."So we have this curious byplay of the war, and one day I find Mr.Nabokoff,the editor of the _Retch_, and Count Alexy Tolstoy, thatwriter of delicate short stories, and Mr. Chukovsky, the subtle critic,calling in upon me after braving thewintry seas to see the Britishfleet; M. Joseph Reinach follows them presently upon the same errand;and then appear photographs of Mr. Arnold Bennett wading inthe trenchesof Flanders, Mr. Noyes becomes discreetly indiscreet about what he hasseen among the submarines, and Mr. Hugh Walpole catches things fromMr.Stephen Graham in the Dark Forest of Russia. All this is quite over andabove such writing of facts at first hand as Mr. Patrick McGill and adozen other realexperiencing soldiers--not to mention the soldiers'letters Mr. James Milne has collected, or the unforgettable andimmortal _Prisoner of War_ of Mr. ArthurGreen--or such admirable warcorrespondents' work as Mr. Philip Gibbs or Mr. Washburne has done. Someof us writers--I can answer for one--have made ourTour of the Frontswith a very understandable diffidence. For my own part I did not wantto go. I evaded a suggestion that I should go in 1915. I travel badly,Ispeak French and Italian with incredible atrocity, and am an extremePacifist. I hate soldiering. And also I did not want to write anything"under instruction". It islargely owing to a certain stiffness in thecomposition of General Delme-Radcliffe is resolved that Italy shall notfeel neglected by the refusal of the invitation fromthe ComandoSupremo by anyone who from the perspective of Italy may seem to be arepresentative of British opinion. If Herbert Spencer had beenalive GeneralRadcliffe would have certainly made him come,travelling-hammock, ear clips and all--and I am not above confessingthat I wish that Herbert Spencer wasalive--for this purpose. I foundUdine warm and gay with memories of Mr. Belloc, Lord Northcliffe, Mr.Sidney Low, Colonel Repington and Dr. Conan Doyle, andanticipating thearrival of Mr. Harold Cox. So we pass, mostly in automobiles that bumptremendously over war roads, a cloud of witnesses each testifying afterhismanner. Whatever else has happened, we have all been photographedwith invincible patience and resolution under the direction of ColonelBarberich in a sunnylittle court in Udine.My own manner of testifying must be to tell what I have seen and whatI have thought during this extraordinary experience. It has beenmynatural disposition to see this war as something purposeful and epic,as it is great, as an epoch, as "the War that will end War"--but ofthat last, more anon. I donot think I am alone in this inclination to adramatic and logical interpretation. The caricatures in the French shopsshow civilisation (and particularly Marianne) inconflict with a hugeand hugely wicked Hindenburg Ogre. Well, I come back from this tour withsomething not so simple as that. If I were to be tied down to onewordfor my impression of this war, I should say that this war is _Queer._ Itis not like anything in a really waking world, but like something in adream. It hasn'texactly that clearness of light against darkness orof good against ill. But it has the quality of wholesome instinctstruggling under a nightmare. The world is notreally awake. This vagueappeal for explanations to all sorts of people, this desire to exhibitthe business, to get something in the way of elucidation atpresentmissing, is extraordinarily suggestive of the efforts of the mind towake up that will sometimes occur at a deep crisis. My memory of thistour I have justmade is full of puzzled-looking men. I have seenthousands of _poilus_ sitting about in cafes, by the roadside, intents, in trenches, thoughtful. I have seen Alpinisitting restfully andstaring with speculative eyes across the mountain gulfs towards unseenand unaccountable enemies. I have seen trainloads of woundedstaringout of the ambulance train windows as we passed. I have seen these dimintimations of questioning reflection in the strangest juxtapositions;in Malagasysoldiers resting for a spell among the big shells they werehoisting into trucks for the front, in a couple of khaki-clad Maorissitting upon the step of a horse-van inAmiens station. It is always thesame expression one catches, rather weary, rather sullen, inturned. Theshoulders droop. The very outline is a note ofinterrogation. They lookup as the privileged tourist of the front, in the big automobile orthe reserved compartment, with his officer or so incharge,passes--importantly. One meets a pair of eyes that seems to say:"Perhaps _you_ understand...."In which case---...?"It is a part, I think, of this dispositionto investigate what makeseveryone collect "specimens" of the war. Everywhere the souvenir forcesitself upon the attention. The homecoming permissionairebrings withhim invariably a considerable weight of broken objects, bits of shell,cartridge clips, helmets; it is a peripatetic museum. It is as if hehoped for a clue. Itis almost impossible, I have found, to escape thesepieces in evidence. I am the least collecting of men, but I have broughthome Italian cartridges, Austriancartridges, the fuse of an Austrianshell, a broken Italian bayonet, and a note that is worth half a francwithin the confines of Amiens. But a large heavy piece ofexploded shellthat had been thrust very urgently upon my attention upon the Carso Icontrived to lose during the temporary confusion of our party by thearrivaland explosion of another prospective souvenir in our closeproximity. And two really very large and almost complete specimens ofsome species of _Ammonites_unknown to me, from the hills to the eastof the Adige, partially wrapped in a back number of the _Corrieredella Sera_, that were pressed upon me by a friendlyofficer, wereunfortunately lost on the line between Verona and Milan through thegross negligence of a railway porter. But I doubt if they would havethrown anyvery conclusive light upon the war.2I avow myself an extreme Pacifist. I am against the man who first takesup the weapon. I carry my pacifism far beyond theambiguous little groupof British and foreign sentimentalists who pretend so amusingly to besocialists in the _Labour Leader_, whose conception of foreign policyisto give Germany now a peace that would be no more than a breathing timefor a fresh outrage upon civilisation, and who would even make heroes ofthe crazyyoung assassins of the Dublin crime. I do not understand thosepeople. I do not merely want to stop this war. I want to nail down warin its coffin. Modern war isan intolerable thing. It is not a thingto trifle with in this Urban District Council way, it is a thing toend forever. I have always hated it, so far that is as my