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I believe I saw the last of the tribe one day in Camden Town. In a dreary street there was a drearier public house, with the dreariest little triangle of a garden beside it. Two dusty trees, six dusty bushes, four metal tables, and twice as many chairs, a small pipe from which a small jet of water might sometimes issue, traces of fairy lamps. . . . Such was the last echo of gorgeous, gay Vauxhall.
One time we had a Christmas dinner and in some way got a chicken (I don’t want to remember how we got it) and we held council as to how it would be cooked and, of course, the old-timer came forward at once with his bacon idea. But we told him the chicken was old and tough and we would have to boil it. That didn’t make any difference to him, as he said any way a chicken was cooked it had to have bacon in it to be good and to give it tone. Anyway he won out and the bacon was put in. Really I think there was more bacon than chicken.
"His grace desires the seneschal to come to him."
'She didn't know they was in there; I bet yer they'd run and hid, and she was hunting 'em when she seen the smoke.'
"And I promise that every day you will be remembered in my Mass, Dan."
On the way to Winchester, whither our host accompanied us in the afternoon, my friends asked many questions respecting American landscape, forests, houses, — my house, for example. It is not easy to answer these queries well. There I thought, in America, lies nature sleeping, over-growing, almost conscious, too much by half for man in the picture, and so giving a certain tristesse, like the rank vegetation of swamps and forests seen at night, steeped in dews and rains, which it loves; and on it man seems not able to make much impression. There, in that great sloven continent, in high Alleghany pastures, in the sea-wide, sky-skirted prairie, still sleeps and murmurs and hides the great mother, long since driven away from the trim hedge-rows and over-cultivated garden of England. And, in England, I am quite too sensible of this. Every one is on his good behavior, and must be dressed for dinner at six. So I put off my friends with very inadequate details, as best I could.
It has been the persuasion of an immense majority of human beings in all ages and nations that we continue to live after death, — that apparent termination of all the functions of sensitive and intellectual existence. Nor has mankind been contented with supposing that species of existence which some philosophers have asserted; namely, the resolution of the component parts of the mechanism of a living being into its elements, and the impossibility of the minutest particle of these sustaining the smallest diminution. They have clung to the idea that sensibility and thought, which they have distinguished from the objects of it, under the several names of spirit and matter, is, in its own nature, less susceptible of division and decay, and that, when the body is resolved into its elements, the principle which animated it will remain perpetual and unchanged. Some philosophers-and those to whom we are indebted for the most stupendous discoveries in physical science, suppose, on the other hand, that intelligence is the mere result of certain combinations among the particles of its objects; and those among them who believe that we live after death, recur to the interposition of a supernatural power, which shall overcome the tendency inherent in all material combinations, to dissipate and be absorbed into other forms.
S. D. M. F. H. N. stated that Pancho was neither faithless nor stupid, but was waiting for them on the camping-ground, and that as the goods were already packed in his wood-cart he would follow them immediately. So the whole party started without more delay; Dr. and Mrs. Winship, Master Paul, Jack Howard, and the three girls riding in the wagon, while Geoffrey and Philip galloped ahead on horseback.
22d.— After much groaning and grumbling, I got the sick men on their legs by 7 A.M., and we marched eight miles to Senagongo, the boma25 (palisade) of Sultan Kanoni, Kurua’s second brother. These two younger brothers side together against the eldest. They are all by different mothers, and think the father’s property should fairly be divided among them. It is a glaring instance of the bad effects of a plurality of wives; and being contrary to our constitutional laws of marriage, I declined giving an opinion as to who was right or wrong.
“Yet the greatest love is not the whole of life,” he averred disputatiously.
“My dear Calliope,” says she, regal, “he was born in it. His father was minister of it——”
"Fleece as you please," was the hearty answer. "I can stand it, for that soft little hand of yours did work for this old man that he can never repay."
1.Before the spring breakup Hazen Lewis rode down to the Rathbun Timber Company headquarters. He demonstrated his talent, moving a log into precisely the location he said it would go, exploding a half-ton of shale, and was hired along with the river drivers. He had secured a role for himself in the industry that took place along the Depot Lakes and the Napanee River. When the company closed down some years later he moved over and worked as a dynamiter in the feldspar mine excavations around Verona and Godfrey, hired by the Richardson Mines. In all his life the longest speech was the one made to the Rathbun staff when he told them what he could do and that as far as he was concerned there were only two sensible jobs in logging - being a dynamiter and being a cook. *** Along the chain of Depot Lakes - from First Depot to Fifth Depot - the loggers arrived in winter and disappeared into shanty camps, walking twenty miles into land they did not know. All February and March at the centre of the lakes the pyramids of logs grew, hauled there by sleds. Before daybreak the men were working - through the worst storms, in weather far below zero - and they finished at six. The double-handed crosscut saw brought down the pines. The pulp cutters, bent double, had to saw the stumps just above the ground. This was the worst job. Some used the swede saw. It cut spruce at twice the speed of the crosscut, and when they moved to, the next camp they rolled up the narrow blade, making new handles in whatever forest they arrived at. In April, with the melting of the lake ice, the river drives began. This was the easiest and most dangerous work. From Bellrock to Napanee men were stationed wherever the river narrowed. Bridges or split rocks had two or three men always there in case of a jam. If a jammed log did not get fished out in time the weight of others would pile up behind it and the whole length of the river would be padlocked. At this point the river drivers could do nothing and a dispatcher was sent on horseback for the dynamiter. A twenty-foot log suddenly leaping out of the water and side-swiping a man, breaking his chest. Hazen Lewis and his son rode up to the split rock. The large man walked around the logjam. He drilled in a plug of dynamite and lit the fuse. He got the boy to shout the warning and the logs went up into the air, onto the bank, and the river was free. In difficult cases Patrick would remove his clothes and grease himself down with oil from the crankcase of the steam donkey. He dove into the ribbed water and swam among the logs. Every half-minute wherever he was he had to raise his hand to assure his father. Eventually the boy located the log his father had pointed to. He caught the charge thrown out to him, crimped the blasting cap onto, the fuse with his teeth, and lit the powder. He re-emerged from the water, walked back to the horses and dried himself with the towels from the packsack, like his father not even turning around to watch. A river exploded behind him, the crows leafing up. The drives lasted a month and he watched the men float by, riding the sawlogs with their large poles towards Yarker down to Napanee where the corralled logs were towed to the mills. He was always beside his father. Patrick lazed in a patch of sun by the bridge and they waited.
The dialogue in "The Battle at the Ford" shows us plainly how great the Irish dramatic gift has always been. They were born makers of plays. Just see how the Irish genius makes Ferdiad and Cuchulain talk, and how lifelike they are! The story is there, not much changed from what it was two thousand years ago, and shows all the Irish sense of form. By sense of form is meant simply the story's way of expressing itself. You see, a story or poem is like a human being. It has not only thoughts, but also a body to hold these thoughts. It is because of these two golden doors, over which are written the words, Welsh, Irish,[Pg 20] that English Literature is likely to produce most of the great plays which will be acted, and most of the great novels.
Such was the actual Age of Chivalry. A little on the practical side, perhaps. Don Quixote would have been disgusted by the document which I have quoted; and, indeed, when Sancho Panza asked for a fixed salary — Teresa urging him — the Knight said there was no precedent in the books for such an arrangement. Not in Amadis of Gaul or in Tirante lo Blanch, perhaps, but we see how it was in actual life.
Regarding now the individual rather than the community, we see in modern education a very serious force acting against that diversity which is needful for progress. So far as it is a social force, owing to the herding together of large masses of children, and so destroying family types, it is mainly deleterious. The enforcement of trivial and senseless regulations by boys themselves is entirely a detriment to character, as destroying a habit of dealing with matters on their own merits, and creating a terrible bogey of senseless public opinion. The compulsory games and the ordering of the use of personal time, is another detriment, for it certainly destroys some ability which might find its footing in the character permanently. But beside the detriment of the system of herding, there is the more direct question of the influence of the teaching. Most children begin with a great curiosity concerning the world and their74 experience of it, a curiosity which when unguided leads to many unpleasant and inconvenient results. Hence, instead of guiding it aright, and encouraging the benefits of it, the selfish and lazy plan of elders is to destroy and obliterate the reasoning interest in things, and try to enforce in its place a knowledge of matters, which are generally less useful, and certainly less interesting, than those which a child wants to know about. The leading factor of character, the acquisition of knowledge of benefits and injuries, of good and of evil, is mainly rooted out; and the new plants of abstract ideas and bookwork require generally many years to take good root, if they do so at all. This system lies at the base of the unintellectual character of the average educated Englishman, who takes no useful interest in anything. As an example of this, there is a foreign land full of interest, scientific, historical, and social; for a quarter of a century hundreds of Englishmen have been there in comfortable official positions with reasonable leisure. Yet there is not a single good memoir produced, not even a hundred pages of original matter, outside of official work, by all this mass of educated minds during nearly a generation. The possibility of what might have been done in such grand opportunities has been stamped out by the education which they have suffered. They are all of regulation pattern, with as little variation as is possible between different temperaments—amiable upright men, who will leave no trace of anyone being the wiser in future for their existence. Such is the product of the numbing chill of uniformity, and the weeding out of the advancing power of diversity.
I first broached this idea in a book called “Anticipations,” wherein I described a possible development of thought and concerted action which I called the New Republicanism, and afterwards I redrew the thing rather more elaborately in my “Modern Utopia.” I had been struck by the apparently chaotic and wasteful character of most contemporary reform movements, and it seemed reasonable to suppose that those who aimed at organizing society and replacing chaos and waste by wise arrangements, might very well begin by producing a more effective organization for their own efforts. These complexities of good intention made me impatient, and I sought industriously in my mind for a short cut through them. In doing so I think I overlooked altogether too much how heterogeneous all progressive thought and progressive people must be.