The Cloister and the Hearth: A Tale of the Middle Ages With Sixteen Color Illustrated and Active Table of Contents

Literary Collections > Ancient, Classical & Medieval

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by Charles Reade (Author), Evelyn Paul (Illustrator)

PREFACE

A small portion of this tale appeared in Once a Week, July—September, 1859, under the title of "A Good Fight."

After writing it, I took wider views of the subject, and also felt uneasy at having deviated unnecessarily from the historical outline of a true story. These two sentiments have cost me more than a year's very hard labour, which I venture to think has not been wasted. After this plain statement I trust all who comment on this work will see that, to describe it as a reprint, would be unfair to the public and to me. The English language is copious and, in any true man's hands, quite able to convey the truth; namely, that one fifth of the present work is a reprint, and four fifths of it a new composition.

CHAPTER I

NOT a day passes over the earth, but men and women of no note do great deeds, speak great words, and suffer noble sorrows. Of these obscure heroes, philosophers, and martyrs, the greater part will never be known till that hour, when many that are great shall be small, and the small great; but of others the world's knowledge may be said to sleep: their lives and characters lie hidden from nations in the annals that record them. The general reader cannot feel them, they are presented so curtly and coldly: they are not like breathing stories appealing to his heart, but little historic hailstones striking him but to glance off his bosom: nor can he understand them; for epitomes are not narratives, as skeletons are not human figures.

Thus records of prime truths remain a dead letter to plain folk; the writers have left so much to the imagination, and imagination is so rare a gift. Here, then, the writer of fiction may be of use to the public—as an interpreter.

  

There is a musty chronicle, written in tolerable Latin, and in it a chapter where every sentence holds a fact. Here is told, with harsh brevity, the strange history of a pair, who lived untrumpeted, and died unsung, four hundred years ago; and lie now, as unpitied, in that stern page, as fossils in a rock. Thus, living or dead, Fate is still unjust to them. For if I can but show you what lies below that dry chronicler's words, methinks you will correct the indifference of centuries, and give those two sore tried souls a place in your heart—for a day.

  

It was past the middle of the fifteenth century, Louis XI. was sovereign of France; Edward IV. was wrongful King of England; and Philip "the Good," having by force and cunning dispossessed his cousin Jacqueline, and broken her heart, reigned undisturbed this many years in Holland, where our tale begins.

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A Thousand Ways to Please a Husband: With Bettina's Best Recipes (Annotated)

Cooking > Methods > General
Literary Collections > General

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by Helen Cowles LeCron, Louise Bennett Weaver

CHAPTER I
HOME AT LAST

"HOME at last!" sighed Bettina happily as the hot and dusty travelers left the train.

"Why that contented sigh?" asked Bob. "Because our wedding trip is over? Well, anyhow, Bettina, it's after five. Shall we have dinner at the hotel?"

"Hotel? Why, Bob! with our house and our dishes and our silver just waiting for us? I'm ashamed of you! We'll take the first car for home—a street-car, not a taxi! Our extravagant days are over, and the time has come to show you that Bettina knows how to keep house. You think that you love me now, Bobby, but just wait till you sit down to a real strawberry shortcake made by a real cook in a real home!"

Half an hour later Bob was unlocking the door of the new brown bungalow. "Isn't it a dear?" cried Bettina proudly. "When we've had time to give it grass and shrubs and flowers and a vegetable garden, no place in town will equal it! And as for porch furniture, how I'd like to get at Mother's attic and transform some of her discarded things!"

"Just now I'd rather get at some of Mother's cooking!" grinned Bob.

"Oh, dear, I forgot! I'll have supper ready in ten minutes. Do you remember my emergency shelf? Why, Bob—Bob, they must have known we were coming! Here's ice—and milk—and cream—and butter—and bread—and rolls, and even a grape fruit! They knew, and didn't meet the train because they thought we would prefer to have our first meal alone! Wasn't that dear of them? And this will save you a trip to the corner grocery!"

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The Weird of the Wentworths Vol. 2: A Tale of George IV's Time

Literary Collections > General > Fiction > Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology

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by Johannes Scotus

CHAPTER I.

"Oh! Liberty, inspire me! And eagle strength supply! Thou, love almighty, fire me, I'll burst my prison—or die!" James Montgomery.

Perhaps the noble aspirations contained in the lines that head this chapter are misapplied to a murderer flying his just punishment, but even to the felon-convict liberty is sweet. L'Estrange, as soon as he was left alone, began to think what he should decide on,—whether to escape or remain. There lay the rope, and the file to burst open the prison bars! All was prepared for his flight. Why did he hesitate? Why did he linger? Between the peals he heard the clock strike twelve; he thought too he heard the clatter of horse-hoofs, probably the Captain on his way home. Why did he stay? he felt an irresistible inclination to await his doom. Why? Because he would see Ellen once more! If he went—if he escaped—he would perhaps never see her—he would have to fly his country. He would stay. Come what might—it was death at the worst! But alas! the Captain, what would he think? he cared not for that. But what would he do? He who had gained admission to his cell could again do so; he who had offered means of flight could also force him to fly; it was useless then, after all he must go! Oh, that he had never come! that man was his evil genius! "Farewell, then, to Scotland, farewell, Ellen, I must go and hide on a foreign strand." He then began to think how he was to manage his escape. After all it was not so very easy. What if he should fail? he had already lost precious time! Bill would only wait till three—he must be up and doing.

We must leave him a few moments in order to follow the Captain home. When he had brought L'Estrange to see escape was after all not to be trifled with, slipping a cheque for a large sum into the turnkey's hand he was let out by a side door. It was raining torrents, and his only light were the rapid flashes that lit the Welkin, and disclosed for an instant Arthur's Seat, and then swallowed all in the jaws of darkness again. He strode along whistling; if he met a watchman made some casual remark, or damned the night, then walked on again, taking his soaking with the utmost coolness, till he came opposite the High School. There he turned to the right, and descending a steep pathway dived into the north back of the Canongate, threading his way through the murky dirty habitations till Holyrood rose dimly before him. Here he was challenged by a sentry, but as he had possessed himself of the password and countersign, was readily admitted. Passing through the courtyard he again sallied forth, again gave the password, and was at last clear of all buildings in the Park now called the Queen's Park. He walked on a dozen paces, and then gave a shrill whistle: another, echo like, answered him, and he quickened his pace to where Archy stood holding a horse.

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The Weird of the Wentworths Vol. 1: A Tale of George IV's Time

Literary Collections > General > Fiction > Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology

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by Johannes Scotus

PREFACE.

The objection may be raised that, as the major part of this Romance takes place during the Regency, such a title as:—"The Weird of the Wentworths; a Tale of George IV.'s Time,"—is inappropriate. When, however, it is considered that the Regent was king in all but name, and the manners, customs, and habits differed little after his accession, the inadvertency will be explained.

In case of exception being taken to the language and sentiments of some characters introduced into the tale, the Author thinks it sufficient to say he utterly repudiates them! Oaths and ribaldry are, unfortunately, the concomitants of a depraved mind; and, in delineating faithfully the darker side of human nature, the Author felt himself compelled to sketch much that has passed under his own observation, and much that he has gleaned from the treatment of such characters by many distinguished novelists, not omitting our northern luminary, Sir Walter Scott.

The moral of the Romance being the triumph of virtue over vice, and truth over falsehood, he trusts that those fair readers, who may indulge his work with a perusal, will avoid the dark, and embrace the bright traits of the other sex; and, marking the gradual development of rectitude in the character of his heroine, magnify their own by adhering fixedly to the path of duty and moral conduct, amid all temptations to swerve from it.

The Author trusts that those noble families, whose names he has chosen as his beaux idéals, will kindly dismiss all personal associations from their minds, and simply give to the synonyms (which his not unpardonable preference led him to select) that weight which will ever attach itself in the eyes of the world, to the great, when also good.

There is one more point which may give rise to discussion—the rapid and violent deaths occurring in one family. The WEIRD, which, though kept in the background, is the mainspring of the tale, might explain this; but that such catastrophes are not beyond the region of possibility, the Author begs to remind his readers that in more than one family of rank, whose names both his sympathy and delicacy forbid any allusion to, such misfortunes and fates have actually happened.

Some of the death-scenes, and very many of the traditions and incidents embodied in the work, are taken from real life, which often far surpasses fiction.

Portobello, near Edinburgh.

June 19th, 1862.

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Summer Cruising in the South Seas

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by Charles Warren Stoddard

PREFACE.

THE experiences recorded in this volume are the result of four summer cruises among the islands of the Pacific.

The simple and natural life of the islander beguiles me; I am at home with him; all the rites of savagedom find a responsive echo in my heart; it is as though I recollected something long forgotten; it is like a dream dimly remembered, and at last realized; it must be that the untamed spirit of some aboriginal ancestor quickens my blood.

I have sought to reproduce the atmosphere of a people who are wonderfully imaginative and emotional; they nourish the first symptoms of an affinity, and revel in the freshness of an affection as brief and blissful as a honeymoon.

With them "love is enough," and it is not necessarily one with the sexual passion: their life is sensuous and picturesque, and is incapable of a true interpretation unless viewed from their own standpoint.

To them our civilization is a cross, the blessed promises of which are scarcely sufficient to compensate for the pain of bearing it, and they are inclined to look upon our backslidings with a spirit of profound forbearance.

Among them no laws are valid save Nature's own, but they abide faithfully by these.

His lordship's threadbare New Zealander sitting upon a crumbling arch of London Bridge, recently restored, and finding too late that he had forestalled his mission, would know my feelings as I offer this plea for his tribe; and any one who instinctively lags in the march of progress, and marks the decay of nature; any one to whom the highly educated grasshopper is a burden, must see that my case is critical.

Yet in imagination I may, at the shortest notice, return to the seagirt arena of my adventures, and restore my unregenerated soul.

Limited flagons cannot stay me, neither will small apples comfort me; I have eaten of the tree of life, my spirit is full-fledged, and when I take wing I feel the earth sinking beneath me; the mountains crumble, the clouds crouch under me, the waters rise and flow out to the horizon; across my breast the sunbeams brush, leaving half their gold behind them; seas upon seas fill up the hollow of the universe; I soar into eternity, blue wastes below me, blue wastes above me. The stars only to mark the upper strata of space.

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Library Notes: New Edition, Revised and Enlarged

Literary Collections › General

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by A. P. (Addison Peale) Russell

I.
INSUFFICIENCY.

It was well said by some one that "in every object there is an inexhaustible meaning; the eye sees in it what the eye brings means of seeing." "Each one sees what he carries in his heart," said Goethe. "You will find poetry nowhere," said Joubert, "unless you bring some with you." "Those who would see or feel the truth of the anatomy in the marble must bring their knowledge with them." "Don't you think that statue indecent?" said Boswell to Johnson. "No, sir," was the reply, "but your remark is." Once, we are told by Hazlitt, when a pedantic coxcomb was crying up Raphael to the skies, Northcote could not help saying, "If there was nothing in Raphael but what you can see in him, we should not now have been talking of him." Douglas Jerrold, it is said, disliked the theatre behind the scenes, and seldom went there save to witness a rehearsal. He would generally attend on the first night of the performance of his piece, but he seldom saw the same piece twice. His idea, as realized, generally disgusted him. He saw it with all the delicate touches rubbed away,—a shadow, or a vulgar caricature. His quarrels with actors were incessant, because they would take their idea and not his idea of a part. La Rochefoucauld, in his Maxims, gives us a picture, not of human nature, but of its selfishness. "He works," said Sterling, "like a painter who paints the profile, and chooses the side of the face in which the eye is blind and deformed, instead of the other, which is unblemished. Yet the picture may be a most accurate copy." So do we all. Those of us that see at all see but a small part of anything at a time. Only a line upon the column is distinctly visible; all the rest is hidden, or obscured in the glaring light or eclipsing shadow. A man, especially, must be looked at all around, within, by a fair light, and with a good eye, to be seen truly or judged justly. We put a narrow and fine sight upon him naturally, and can hardly avoid estimating him meanly. We have too much the habit of Fuseli, who preferred beginning his sketch of the human figure at the lowest point, and working from the foot upward. "The wisest amongst us," said the artist and critic, Richardson, "is a fool in some things, as the lowest amongst men has some just notions, and therein is as wise as Socrates; so that every man resembles a statue made to stand against a wall or in a niche; on one side it is a Plato, an Apollo, a Demosthenes; on the other, it is a rough, unformed piece of stone." "Both," said Dr. Johnson of the remarks of Lord Orrery and Delany on Swift, "were right,—only Delany had seen most of the good side, Lord Orrery most of the bad." There is a curious life of Tiberius, with two title-pages, both taken from historical authorities; two characters—one detestable, the other admirable—of one and the same person; made up, both, of recorded facts. "We ought not," said La Bruyère, "to judge of men as of a picture or statue, at the first sight; there is a mind and heart to be searched; the veil of modesty covers merit, and the mask of hypocrisy disguises malignity. There are but few judges that have knowledge to discern aright to pass sentence; 'tis but by little and little, and perhaps even by time and occasion, that complete virtue or perfect vice come at last to show themselves." "A man," said Emerson, "is like a bit of Labrador spar, which has no lustre as you turn it in your hand, until you come to a particular angle; then it shows deep and beautiful colors." What you think of him depends so much on how you look at him.

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Punch, or the London Charivari Vol. 107 July 7, 1894 by Various

Literary Collections > General

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by Various

PREFACE

Scene—Mr. Punch's Sanctum at "the Season of the Year." Enter Sir Roger de Coverley and Dr. Syntax.

"You may not recognise me, Mr. Punch?" quoth the old Knight, with stately modesty.

"Not recognise Sir Roger de Coverley?" rejoined Mr. Punch, urbanely. "Why, even disguised as a Saracen's Head—ha! ha! ha!—I should know those well-loved lineaments."

"I perceive, indeed," said the Knight, with scarcely-veiled complacency, "that you have perused my friend Atticus-Addison's all-too flattering account of me and my several adventures."

"I know my Spectator by heart," replied Mr. Punch. "Nor," added he, turning to the quaint, black-vestured, bob-wigged figure at Sir Roger's elbow, "are Dr. Syntax's Tours unfamiliar to my memory. Like yourself, I can say—

'You well know what my pen can do,

And I employ my pencil too.

I ride, and write, and sketch, and print,

And thus create a real mint;

I prose it here, I verse it there,

And picturesque it everywhere.'"

"Marvellous man!" cried Dr. Syntax, lifting his eyebrows until they almost met the downward curve of his tilted wig.

"Toby," cried Mr. Punch, "call for clean pipes, a roll of the best Virginia, a dish of coffee, wax candles, and the Supplement (otherwise my Christmas Number). Tell them, Tobias, to follow with a bowl of steaming punch—my own particular merum nectar—and Sir Roger shall see what I have forgotten of his story, his tastes, and the duties of Amphitryon!"

In two minutes the Illustrious Trio were "making the centuries meet" under the benignly blending influences of Good Tobacco, Sound Tipple, and Cheery Talk.

"And how fares 'Our Village' (to quote Miss Mitford) in these revolutionary days?" queried Dr. Syntax.

Mr. Punch smiled, and promptly quoted:—

"'And liquor that was brew'd at home

Among the rest was seen to foam.

The Doctor drank, the Doctor ate,

Well pleased to find so fair a treat.

Then to his pipe he kindly took,

And, with a condescending look,

Call'd on his good Host to relate

What was the Village's new state.'"

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Caper-Sauce: A Volume of Chit-Chat about Men, Women, and Things

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by Fanny Fern

EDITORS.
I

I am not disposed to pity Editors. On the whole, I think they have a very good time. That national sugar-plum for American boys, "Maybe, my son, you will be one day President," might be changed advantageously for "My son, you may live some day to be an Editor." As for the present President, if he can sleep o' nights, he can live through anything! I repeat it, Editors have a good time, no matter what they say to the contrary. In the first place, I know that the position of an editor, if honorably filled, is second to none in this country. He need envy no one his influential power; would that in many cases it were more conscientiously wielded. If an Editor is an ignorant man, it is his own fault, no matter from what small beginnings he may have risen. Coming in contact, as he does, with information every instant, on all the absorbing topics of the day, it is next to impossible he should not be well informed. Read he must, whether he will or not. Think on[Pg 10] what he has read he must; tell his subscribers, in words, what he thinks about it, and reflect and decide upon the submitted thoughts of others for his columns, he must. Hence the mind of an Editor is, or may be, a perfect Encyclopedia of information.

Of course he has his peculiar botherations; it would be a blessing if his subscription list were large enough for him to say just what he pleases right and left, without fear or favor. It would be a blessing if his subscribers would always pay punctually, without dunning. It would be a blessing, when he uses superhuman efforts to please them, if they never would find fault or grumble, for the sake of grumbling. It would be a blessing if they wouldn't stay so long when they come in to see him "just a minute," and he is in a frenzied hurry to say do go, and can't. It would be a blessing (to those who apply) if he could publish and pay for, at the valuation of the writers, all the immortal trash that is offered. It would be a blessing if other editors, "who can see nothing in his paper," wouldn't steal his articles constantly—editorial and contributed—without credit.

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Traditions, Superstitions and Folk-lore (Chiefly Lancashire and the North of England): Their affinity to others in widely-distributed localities; Their Eastern Origin and Mythical Significance.

Literary Collections > General

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by Charles Hardwick

PREFACE.

Our nursery legends and popular superstitions are fast becoming matters of history, except in the more remote and secluded portions of the country. The age of the steam engine, and the electric battery, and the many other practical adaptations of the triumphs of physical science, is apparently not the one in which such "waifs and strays" from the mythical lore of the dim and distant Past are very likely to be much sought after or honoured. But now that the light of modern investigation, and especially that ray furnished by recent discoveries in philological science, has been directed towards their deeper and more hidden mysteries, profound philosophical historians have begun to discover that from this apparently desolate literary region much reliable knowledge may be extracted, leading to conclusions of the most interesting and important kind, with reference to the early history of our race. The labours of the brothers Grimm, Dr. Adalbert Kuhn, Professor Max Müller, the Rev. G. W. Cox, and others, have recently received considerable attention from philosophic enquirers into the origin and early development of the people from whom nearly all of the European, and some of the Asiatic, modern nationalities have sprung.

It is found that many of these imperfect, and sometimes grotesque, traditions, legends, and superstitions are, in reality, not the "despicable rubbish" which the "learned" have been in the habit of regarding them, but rather the crude ore, which, when skilfully smelted down, yields, abundantly, pure metal well worthy of the literary hammer of the most profound student in general history, ethnology, or the phenomena attendant upon psychological development.

Professor Henry Morley, in the chapter on Ethnology, in his "English Writers," after noticing "how immediately and easily particular words, common in their application, would become available for common use," and "how often images of the seen would become symbols of the unseen," truly says, "The world about us is not simply mirrored, but informed with a true soul, by all the tongues that syllable man's knowledge and his wants. The subtlest harmonies of life and nature may lie hidden in the very letters of the alphabet."

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A Dialogue upon the Gardens of the Right Honorouble the Lord Viscount Cobham at Stow in Buckinghamshire

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by William Gilpin

INTRODUCTION

Stowe is certainly the most documented of all English Augustan gardens, and William Gilpin's Dialogue probably one of the most important accounts of it. He was at Stowe in 1747 and published his record of that visit anonymously the following year. The Dialogue reached a second edition, with some slight alterations in the text, in 1749 and a third in 1751, when the dialogue was transformed into narrative.

The Dialogue recommends itself both to the historian of the English landscape movement, in which Stowe was a prime exhibit, and to the student of the later vogue for the picturesque, in which Gilpin was a major participant. His account of Cobham's gardens illuminates some of the connections between the cult of the picturesque that Gilpin fostered with his publications of the 1780s and the earlier eighteenth-century invocation of pictures in gardens.

Perhaps in no other art form were the tensions and transformations in the arts more conspicuous than in landscape gardening. Gilpin is especially rewarding in his instinctive attention to these shifting patterns; although the dialogue form is not very skillfully handled, it yet allows some play between the rival attitudes. Thus his characters attend to both the emblematic and the expressive garden; to both its celebration of public worth and its commendation of private virtue. While Gilpin seems sufficiently and indeed sharply aware of set-piece views in the gardens, the three-dimensional pictures contrived among the natural and architectural features, he also reveals himself as sensitive towards the more fluid psychological patterns, what one might term the kinema of landscape response. Above all, his obvious delight in the landscape garden and appreciation of it vie with an equally strong admiration for scenery outside gardens altogether.

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'Puffing Billy' and the Prize 'Rocket': or the story of the Stephensons and our Railways

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by Helen Cross Knight

PREFACE.

A brief book for the boys. God gives you work to do in the world. He gives you honourable work. There is much done that is mean and dishonourable. Depend upon it, that is not His. In the beginning of your work, character grows out of it; as you go on, your character goes into it. Therefore the Bible declares that "God, without respect of persons, judgeth according to every man's work." We judge in the same way. This little book will show you how much the practice of the virtues—the humbler virtues—has to do with making good work. A superior article cannot be produced without them.

But keep ever in mind that these virtues, however useful and important for your work in this world, have no saving power in them; they form no plea for the favour of God; the key which unlocks the door of heaven is not found among them. Like the young man in the Gospel, you may have the loveliness of every natural virtue, and yet be lost.

As sinners in the sight of God, you need the atoning blood of the Redeemer; you need repentance and faith in that blood. Make Jesus Christ, therefore, the cornerstone of your character; on that foundation build your character. Cultivate the graces of the Gospel. Baptize the virtues with your Saviour's love. A noble Christian manhood can only be attained by the steady endeavours of a heart fixed on God, and a hand diligent, and delighting in the work He has given it to do.

h. c. k.

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Reports on the Maya Indians of Yucatan: Indian Notes and Monographs; A Series of Publications Relating to the American Aborigines

Literary Collections > Native American

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by Pedro Sanchez de Aguilar (Author), Francisco Hernandez (Author), Antonio García y Cubas (Author), Santiago Mendez (Author), Marshall H. Saville (Editor) 

This series of Indian Notes and Monographs is devoted primarily to the publication of the results of studies by members of the staff of the Museum of the American Indian, Heye Foundation, and is uniform with Hispanic Notes and Monographs, published by the Hispanic Society of America, with which organization this Museum is in cordial coöperation.

Only the first ten volumes of Indian Notes and Monographs are numbered. The unnumbered parts may readily be determined by consulting the List of Publications issued as one of the series.

PREFACE

So little has been written in regard to the ethnology of the Maya Indians of Yucatan, and especially concerning their beliefs, which persist to the present time, that we publish here a translation of an important and practically unknown account of this subject. This report was printed in Mexico in 1870, but it is buried in a study by Antonio García y Cubas entitled "Materiales para formar la Estadistica General de la Republica Mexicana," in Boletin de la Sociedad Mexicana de Geografia y Estadistica, segunda epoca, tomo II, pp. 352-388. It is on pages 374-387, bears the date Mérida, October 24, 1861, and was written by Santiago Mendez, who states that he was governor of Yucatan during the years 1841-42. In connection with a study of this report, so far as it relates to the beliefs of the Maya, it will be profitable to consult the paper by Dr Daniel G. Brinton on The Folk-lore of Yucatan, printed in the Folk-Lore Journal, London, vol. I, part viii, 13 pp., August, 1883.

We have also had translated the notes on the superstitions of the Indians of Yucatan contained in the work of Pedro Sanchez de Aguilar, 1639, published by the Museo Nacional of Mexico in 1892 (pp. 83-84), and the report of Francisco Hernandez on the religious beliefs of the Yucatan Indians, which was sent to Bartolomé de las Casas, evidently while Bishop of Yucatan in 1545, and is given by him in chapter cxxiii (pp. 328-330) of his Apologetica Historia de las Indias, a work which did not appear in print until 1875-76, the first complete edition of which was edited by M. Serrano y Sanz, and printed at Madrid in 1909.

The information contained in the Mendez report is strikingly similar to that given by Bartolomé José Granado Baeza on Los Indios de Yucatan, an account written in 1813 but not published until 1845, when it appeared in the Registro Yucateco, tomo I, pp. 165-178. This report of Baeza is one of the principal sources used by Brinton in his study.

The editor has incorporated a few brief notes, and has prepared a glossary of the Indian words and a short bibliography of the subject.

Marshall H. Saville.

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War's Brighter Side: The Story of The Friend Newspaper Edited by the Correspondents with Lord Roberts's Forces, March-April, 1900

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by Julian Ralph

PREFACE

Lord Roberts is the first General of whom I have heard who ever recognised and acknowledged the Value and Power of the Press by establishing a Newspaper as a source of Entertainment and Information for an Army in the Field, and as a Medium for conveying such Arguments and Appeals as he wished to make to the Enemy. This he did, as one might say, the instant he conquered the first of the Boer Capitals, almost simultaneously with his appointment of a Military Governor and a Provost Marshal, and the establishment of a Police Force.

The story of Lord Roberts's experiment and the Experiences of the Men he selected for his Editors must be especially attractive to all Journalists, and they will find here set forth whatever is of purely professional interest to them. To those details I have added the most Notable Contributions with which each of the twenty-seven Numbers of The Friend was made up, and here this narrow limitation of the interest in the book is broken wide asunder. These newspaper articles are mainly the Works of Fighting Men, at rest between Battles, and of others who were at the moment going to or coming from Engagements. They hold the Mirror up to the Life of an Army, in Camp, on the March, in Battle, and in a Conquered Capital.

In these Letters, Sketches, and Verses the Reader lives with the Soldiers in camp. He sees what they work and play at. He hears of their Deeds of Daring, Mishaps and Adventures. He catches their strange Lingo. He observes what they Eat—(and what they do not get to Drink). He notes how they speak of their Faring in Battle. In all the Wealth of English Literature I know of no such a Mirror-reflection and a Phonograph-echoing of Soldier Life as is here.

Generals, Colonels—in fact, men of every rank and grade contributed their shares; of every rank down to "Tommy Atkins," who, in general, sings his Songs in the background, in verse, like the Chorus in an Ancient Drama.

To these features I have added many Personal Recollections, as well as Anecdotes and Stories told by or about the men around me in camp, and in the conquered Capital of the Free State, with Notes and Comments upon a wide variety of subjects suggested during the editing of the other Matter here collated.

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The Toy Shop: A Romantic Story of Lincoln the Man

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by Margarita Spalding Gerry

"The child is eternal, and so are toys and tears and laughter. When the house is put in order by strange men, when the clothes that were worn and the tools that were used are put away, there will be found an upper room full of toys. These remain."

THE TOY-SHOP

THE Man was leaving his own front door. On the steps he paused and looked sombrely back. The white pillars of the facade rose before him in stately fashion. They reminded him of the care he was evading for the moment, and he sighed. Though he shut his eyes determinedly, he knew that another grim building just beyond, the usual end of his journeying, demanded him, and he sighed again. This time there was something more than weariness in the sound.

From around the corner of the house, which almost hid from view the white tents of the Home Guard, ran a child. He was bright-faced, and magnificent in a miniature officer's uniform.

"Oh, papa-day!" he cried. "Never mind the curtains for my stage. You are always too busy now to see my plays, anyway—!" He interrupted himself to fling this in petulantly: "But get lots of soldiers—and one company of cavalry. I can't get him surrounded without two more companies—and six cannon!"

The child lisped so in his eagerness that no one but his father could have understood him, and his father was so lost in his gloomy thought that he did not know the child had spoken. When the expected reply did not come, the boy looked his wonder.

"Papa-day—papa-day!" he cried, giving the man a little push. "I want some soldiers!"

Startled out of his sadness, the father looked at the child.

"Soldiers? All right, son; I'm off for a walk now. I saw a shop the other day."

He walked off. It was not a beautiful street down which he turned. Even the fine width of it suggested an inflated sense of its own importance. There were some good lines in the structure at the first corner, but the building was unfinished, and drooped sadly, like an eagle without its wings. Beyond that corner the paving of the street ended. Looking at the mud, the Man wished vaguely that he had worn his boots.

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Wit and Wisdom of Lord Tredegar

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by Godfrey Charles Morgan

FOREWORD.

There are a few observations which may be deemed appropriate in presenting to the public this collection of extracts from the speeches of Godfrey Charles Morgan, first Viscount Tredegar; but it is inconceivable that any should be necessary by way of apology. During the course of an active and a well-spent life, happily extended beyond the allotted span, Lord Tredegar has made hundreds of public utterances. Innumerable are the functions he has attended during half-a-century and over; and at most of them he has been the central figure. But while his high station would always have secured attention and respect for his words, this volume may serve to prove to future generations what this generation well knows, that Lord Tredegar has held his listeners by his humour or by his earnestness, according to the occasion, and that, in the homely phrase, he has always had "something to say." It is my hope, however, that this little book may have a still worthier mission. For I think it will be found to reveal a noble mind. The simple words of Lord Tredegar have time and again struck deep to the hearts of his audience. Collected here, they reveal the gentleness of his disposition and the purity of his motives. They show the consistency of his life. But they do much more. They appear to constitute a great moral force. Not that his lordship ever posed as preacher, or constituted himself a Court of Judgment on any class of his fellows. There is no trace of a superior tone in his speeches. His words show sympathetic insight into the trials and difficulties that beset the path of every one of us, and his desire was never to censure, but ever to encourage and assist with kindly suggestion and cheering thought.

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The Doctor in History, Literature, Folk-Lore, Etc.

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by William Andrews (and Others) (Author), William Andrews (Editor)

Preface.

In the following pages I have attempted to bring together from the pens of several authors who have written expressly for this book, the more interesting phases of the history, literature, folk-lore, etc., of the medical profession.

If the same welcome be given to this work as was accorded to those I have previously produced, my labours will not have been in vain.

William Andrews.

The Hull Press,
Hull, November 11th, 1895.

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Barber-Surgeons.

By William Andrews, F.R.H.S..

The calling of the barber is of great antiquity. We find in the Book of the Prophet Ezekiel (v. 1) allusions to the Jewish custom of the barber shaving the head as a sign of mourning.

In the remote past the art of surgery and the trade of barber were combined. It is clear that in all parts of the civilized world, in bygone times, the barber acted as a kind of surgeon, or to state his position more precisely, he practised phlebotomy.

Barbers appear to have gained their experience from the monks whom they assisted in surgical operations. The clergy up to about the twelfth century had the care of men’s bodies as well as of their souls, and practised surgery and medicine. The operations of surgery involved the shedding of blood, and it was felt that this was incompatible with the functions of the clergy. After much consideration and discussion, in 1163 the council of Tours, under Pope Alexander III., forbade the clergy to act as surgeons, but they were permitted to dispense medicine.

The edict of Tours must have given satisfaction to the barbers, and they were not slow to avail themselves of the opportunities the change afforded them. In London, and we presume in other places, the barbers advertised their blood-letting in a most objectionable manner. It was customary to put blood in their windows to attract the attention of the public. An ordinance was passed in 1307, directing the barbers to have the blood “privily carried into the Thames under pain of paying two shillings to the use of the Sheriffs.”

At an early period in London the barbers were banded together, and a gild was formed. In the first instance it seems that the chief object was the bringing together of the members at religious observances. They attended the funerals and obits of deceased members and their wives. Eventually it was transformed into a semi-social and religious gild, and subsequently became a trade gild.

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Mushroom Town

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by Oliver Onions

DEDICATION

In the following pages I have permitted myself to take a number of liberties—geographical, historical, etymological, and even geological—with a country for which I have conceived a strong affection; I trust I have taken none with its beauty nor with its hospitality. It will be useless to search for Llanyglo on any map. It is neither in North Carnarvonshire, in Merioneth, nor in Lleyn. Of certain features of existing places I have made a composite, which is the "Mushroom Town" of this book.

The kindnesses I have received in Wales during the past six years have been innumerable; indeed, much of my work has consisted of writing down (and not always improving) things told me by one of my hosts. For this and other reasons I should like to render him such acknowledgment as a Dedication may express. "Mushroom Town" is therefore inscribed, in gratitude and affection, to

ARTHUR ASHLEY RUCK

Hampstead, 1914

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THE INVITATION

"We'll take the little cable-tram, if you like, but it's not far to walk—twenty minutes or so—the Trwyn's seven hundred feet high. You'll see the whole of the town from the top. The sun will have made the grass a little slippery, but there are paths everywhere; the sheep began them, and then the visitors wore them bare. And we shall get the breeze....

"There you are: Llanyglo. You see it from up here almost as the gulls and razorbills see it. The bay's a fine curve, isn't it?—rather like a strongly blown kite-string; and the Promenade's nearly two miles long. But as you see, the town doesn't go very far back. From the Imperial there to the railway station and the gasometers at the back isn't much more than half a mile; the town seems to press down to the front just as the horses draw the bathing-vans down to the tide. Shall we sit down? Here's a boulder. It's chipped all over with initials, of course; so are the benches, and even the turf; but you'd wonder that there was a bit of wood or stone or turf left at all if you saw the crowds that come here when the Wakes are on. It's odd that you should never see anybody actually cutting them. Some of them must have taken an hour or two with a hammer and chisel, but I've been up here countless times and never seen anybody at it yet.

"Yes, that's Llanyglo; but look at the mountains first. This isn't the best time of the day for seeing them; the morning or the evening's the best time; the sun isn't far enough round yet. But sometimes, when the light's just right, they start out into folds and wrinkles almost as quickly as you could snap your fingers—it's quite dramatic. Foels and Moels and Pens and Mynedds, look—half the North Cambrian Range. You couldn't have a better centre for motor-cycle and char-à-banc tours than Llanyglo.... Then on the other side's the sea. That's only a tinny sort of glitter just now, but you should see the moon rise over it. People come out from the concerts on the pier-head just to have a look....

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I've Been Thinking; or, the Secret of Success

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by Azel Stevens Roe

CHAPTER I.

'Where is the use, Jim, of our working and working to raise so many vegetables? we never can use them all. Mother said last year there was no necessity for raising more than we could eat, and now this potato patch is larger than ever.' And as he said this, the little speaker threw himself upon the soft ground, struck his hoe into the soil, and looked up at his brother to see how he would take it.

Jim, as he was called, rested a moment on his hoe, eyed his brother closely, and then, with something of a smile, replied:

'Come, Ned, don't give up to lazy feelings; the things will do somebody good; and you know my father always told us, that it was better to be at work, even if we got no pay for it: and besides, I have been thinking of a plan by which we may do something with what we raise, if we have more than we can use.'

'What plan, Jim?' and Ned raised himself from his prostrate position, and sitting with both hands resting on the ground, looked very inquiringly at his brother.

'Why, suppose we should try to sell some of the things we raise?'

'Try to sell, Jim? ha, ha, ha!' and the little fellow threw himself upon the ground, and indulged in a hearty fit of laughter. Jim laughed a little himself, resuming his work, and hauling the dirt up faster around the potatoes he was hilling.

'Come, Ned, you had better go to work; the sun will soon be down, and we shall not get our task done.'

'Well, tell me then where you are going to sell the things; that's all.'

'I shall say no more about it now, at any rate; you will only laugh at it. So come, take up your row.'

Ned, perceiving that Jim was working upon both rows, was ashamed to waste any more time, and inspirited by his brother's kindness, sprang to his feet, and the two boys worked away with alacrity.

The sun had gone down, the cow had been milked and the pigs fed, the hens had all gone to roost, and the two brothers had sauntered towards the river which ran before their dwelling, and taken a seat together on a rock under the branches of a huge oak, of which there were several around the premises. Before them lay, first; a gentle slope of short greensward, part of what was known as the town commons, where every body's cow, or pig, or goose, could roam unmolested; beyond this lay a smooth sandy shore, washed by a river, whose waters had not far to go before they mingled with the ocean, or with a large arm of the ocean; along the shore, as far as the eye could reach, was the same, or nearly the same, strip of green commons, dotted here and there with small rude dwellings, the abodes of a few fishermen, who existed on the products of the river that rolled before them; a few small boats lay drawn up on the shore, and occasionally a row of stakes running out into the water, told where the fishermen had planted their nets. The only house in sight that had any appearance of comfort was the one these brothers called their home—a plain one-story building, with a little wing to it; a paling ran in front and around three sides, enclosing the patch of ground used as their garden; a few fine old trees threw their shadows over and around the premises, adding much to the domestic aspect of the place; a pleasant country spread back from the river, and in the distance could be seen here and there the chimney top, or the peaked roof of some obscure dwelling, making no greater pretensions than those described.

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